The Case of the Somerville Secret

by Robert Newman

  “Well, sit down then. Mrs. Severn said you wanted to talk to me.”

  “Yes, we do,” said Wyatt. He sat down at the table facing Somerville. Tucker crossed the room and sat in a chair against the wall where he could watch Somerville from the side.

  “Does it have anything to do with what you were last here about?” asked Somerville. “Sergeant Polk’s murder or the things that were stolen?”

  “Yes,” said Wyatt. “We think so.”

  “There’s been some new development?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you tell me what it is?”

  “Yes. But before I do, may I ask you a few questions?”

  “Of course.”

  “Will you tell us where you were last night?”

  “Last night?”

  “Yes. Let’s say from about nine o’clock on.”

  Somerville looked at him, at Tucker who sat with a pencil in his hand and his notebook open, then back to Wyatt again.

  “Why, I was here.”

  “Here in the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “You never went out at all?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because there was another murder last night, probably around midnight.”

  Somerville’s face, pale before, became ashen.

  “Another murder?” he whispered.

  “Yes. Polk’s death was murder. This was a second murder.”

  “Who … who was it? I mean …”

  “A woman. Not a young woman and probably not a very nice one. But still murder is murder.”

  “Yes, of course. But why did you ask me where I was?”

  “Because of this.” Wyatt took something out of his pocket, put it on the table in front of Somerville. “Does it mean anything to you?”

  Somerville picked it up and looked at it. His face could not have become paler or more bloodless, but he suddenly seemed to age, to look as he might in twenty years. For what he was holding was a shield-shaped gold cuff link with three acorns and two circles on it.

  “It’s my coat of arms,” he said. “Where did you get it?”

  “The woman’s body was found in an alley off Pentonville Road. The cuff link was in her hand.”

  “I see,” said Somerville. Wyatt had carefully avoided looking at the man’s wrists, but now Somerville held them out. He was wearing a pair of cuff links that were similar to the one Wyatt had given him, except that they were older and more worn.

  “Yes,” said Wyatt. “But, as you can see, this one carries your coat of arms also. Can you tell me anything about it?”

  “The ones I am wearing were my father’s,” said Somerville. “When I became twenty-one, he had another pair made and gave them to me. When he died, I put away the pair that he had given me and began wearing his links.”

  “Where did you put this other pair?”

  “In a collar box with a few other personal things. The collar box was in the coach when it was stolen the night Polk was killed.”

  “I see,” said Wyatt.

  “Of course you only have my word for that as you have for my statement that I was here last night. But … Mrs. Severn,” he called. He waited a moment, then called again, “Mrs. Severn.”

  The door opened and she came in.

  “Yes, m’lord?”

  “Where was I last night?”

  “Here, m’lord.”

  “Here in the house?”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  “Did I leave it at any time?”

  “No, m’lord. Not to my knowledge.”

  Wyatt nodded. “May I have that cuff link?” he said. “It’s evidence. Thank you.” He put it in his pocket and rose. “Good day. And a good day to you too, Mrs. Severn.”

  Tucker had risen, too. They both bowed to Somerville and Mrs. Severn and went out.

  “Well, Sergeant?” said Wyatt as they walked up the street. “What do you think?”

  “He was very upset, there’s no doubt about that. He was upset when we got there, and even more so when you told him about the murder. But I don’t think he was lying. I don’t think he did it On the other hand, how do you explain the cuff link?”

  “There’s no great problem about that.” He stopped and faced Tucker. “I’m going to attack you with a knife. Grab my wrist to stop me.” Tucker seized his wrist. “Now, as I pull away, what happens?”

  “I’m holding your shirt sleeve, your cuff link.”

  “How are you holding it?”

  “With my thumb and forefinger.”

  “And how was the dead woman holding it?”

  “She wasn’t holding it. It was in the palm of her hand.”

  “Where in her palm?”

  “On the other side, near her little finger. But that might have happened—it might have moved there—when she fell.”

  “If she hadn’t been holding it firmly, would it have remained in her hand at all? I doubt it. And if we had found it on the ground nearby, we might not have been suspicious. But finding it where we did, did make me suspicious. But of something else.”

  “You think someone put it in her hand, planted it there deliberately.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Standing at the window, Mrs. Severn watched until Wyatt and Tucker were well up the street. Then she turned.

  “They’ve gone,” she said.

  Somerville raised his head and looked at her bleakly.

  “Did you hear?” he asked.

  “Yes. What are you going to do?”

  “There’s nothing I can do. Or rather, only one thing.”

  9

  The Encounter on the Bridge

  Inspector Wyatt glanced at his watch as the church clock struck. Five o’clock. It seemed later than that, possibly because it was darker than it usually was at that hour. Getting up from his desk, he went to the window, looked out and saw why. A fog was settling down on the city. At the moment it was not too bad—he could still see the shops on the other side of Wellington Road—but, if he read the signs correctly, in an hour or so it would be really thick, a London particular.

  A hansom drew up in front of the police station and Sergeant Tucker got out. He said something to the cabby who nodded, climbed down from his box in the rear, and began to walk up and down, clearly prepared to wait.

  A moment later there was a knock on the office door.

  “Come in, Sergeant,” said Wyatt.

  “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Have you had tea?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Neither have I. Why don’t you give me your report, and we’ll have the desk sergeant send some in for both of us?”

  “Very good, sir.” Taking out his notebook, he opened it and began to read, “Report on movements of occupants of sixty-two Alder Road.”

  “Never mind that. Just give me the highlights verbally.”

  “Right, sir. Mrs. Severn went out around nine-thirty, did some marketing and was back by ten-thirty. Lord Somerville went out a little after twelve, went to his club.”

  “The Travellers?”

  “Yes. He was carrying a rather worn bag, a Gladstone, and at first I thought he might be leaving town and possibly the country, but he didn’t. At about two o’clock he went to Lombard Street.”

  “To his bankers.”

  “Yes, sir. He was there until after three, and when he came out, he was still carrying the bag.”

  “Now what do you think he had in the bag, Sergeant?”

  “I don’t think it was Caerphilly cheese, sir.”

  “Nor do I. Then what?”

  “He went home, back to Alder Road; and when I left, he was still there.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes, something rather interesting. Just before I left, someone closed one of the parlor shutters and left the other one open. At the same time, a lit lamp was placed on the table near the window.”

  “A signal that he had the money.”

  “That would be my guess.”


  “You’ve got a good man covering the place now?”

  “Yes. Wilkins.”

  “Good. Let’s have our tea and we’ll go over our plans for the next step.”

  Alone in his study, Lord Somerville was reading Bourdonne’s monograph on cuneiform inscriptions when he heard someone walking rather quickly down Alder Road. Because of the fog, there had been few pedestrians abroad since he had had his solitary supper; but each time he heard footsteps, he waited tensely and, in every case so far, the walker had gone by without stopping. This time, however, the footsteps paused briefly, there was a light tap on the front door, then the footsteps went on again, more hurriedly than before. Putting down the monograph, Somerville took out his watch. It was five minutes after ten. He got up and was just starting for the door when it opened and Mrs. Severn came in.

  He looked at her inquiringly, and she nodded and handed him a grimy, unstamped envelope, remained there, watching him while he opened it, took out a note and read it.

  “Is it …?” she asked.

  “Yes. There are full instructions. I’ll leave at midnight.”

  At about the same time, Andrew was opening the door of the guest room in the house on Rysdale Road. Mrs. Wiggins and Sara were both there; Mrs. Wiggins in an armchair near the head of the bed, Sara in a straight chair near its foot. Mrs. Wiggins’s eyes were closed, her head had fallen forward, and she was snoring faintly. Andrew glanced at her, then at Sara. Wide awake, she smiled at him, and when he looked at Pierre and raised his eyebrows, she shook her head, indicating that he had not moved or regained consciousness since the doctor had left at about five o’clock.

  Mrs. Wiggins sat up with a start and opened her eyes.

  “Oh!” she said. “What time is it?”

  “A quarter after ten,” said Andrew. “The two of you go to bed, and I’ll take over.”

  “Do you really think that’s necessary?”

  “I do. We agreed that if he should come to and find himself alone in a strange place, it would be a great shock to him. So run along.”

  “You’ll call me at midnight?” said Sara.

  “Midnight or a little later, whenever I feel sleepy.”

  “And I’ll take over again after Sara,” said Mrs. Wiggins. She got up, stood there for a moment looking down at Pierre. “Poor lamb. I’m worried about him.”

  “The doctor said there was no reason to be. Not yet.”

  “I know. But still … would you like us to bring you something—some milk or biscuits?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “I’ll see you later, then,” said Sara.

  She and her mother left, and Andrew sat down in the straight chair where he could watch Pierre. He looked better than he had when they first found him. His face had been washed, his head bandaged and besides the medicine the doctor had given him, they had been able to get him to swallow some hot soup. But he still had not opened his eyes, had shown no signs of regaining consciousness. Suppose he never did? The doctor had assured them that that was very unlikely but, in the meantime, every hour that he remained unconscious was an hour lost; for Andrew and Sara were convinced—and Wyatt agreed—that he could tell them things that would help immeasurably in solving the several mysteries in the Somerville case.

  At exactly midnight Lord Somerville left the house carrying the old Gladstone bag. Her face expressionless but strained, Mrs. Severn let him out, watched him start walking toward Wellington Road, then closed and locked the door.

  Because of the hour and because of the fog, Somerville was not sure how long it would take him to find a cab. Left to his own devices, he would have started considerably earlier, but the instructions in the note had been very precise; he was to start out at midnight and not before. As it turned out, he was in luck. Before he reached Wellington Road, he heard the slow plod of hoofs and a hansom loomed up out of the murky darkness.

  “Cab!” he called, stepping out into the street.

  The hansom drew up. Though its side lights were lit, it was hard to see the driver who sat well above them. What Somerville did see, however, was not particularly reassuring, for the cabbie seemed to be a bleary-eyed, elderly man who sat huddled in the high seat with his hat tipped forward and a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face. The reason for the scarf was quickly apparent for, as soon as he stopped the cab, he began coughing—a deep, racking asthmatic cough.

  “I’ve a long way to go,” said Somerville dubiously. “Are you up to it?”

  “Not to worry, guv’ner,” wheezed the cabby. “This cough’s nothing. And I just come on duty so the old nag is fresh as a daisy.”

  The horse did look in better shape than most cab horses, so Somerville climbed into the hansom.

  “Very well. Blackfriars Bridge.”

  “Righto, guv’ner.”

  Closing the door, the cabby turned the hansom, went back to Wellington Road and began the trip to Blackfriars. It was a long trip under any circumstances, and it took longer than usual on this particular night because of the fog, which meant that it was only at rare intervals that they could proceed faster than a walk. They went down Wellington Road, past the lower part of Regent’s Park, down Baker Street, east on Oxford Street and Holborn, then south to the river on Farrington and New Bridge Streets. Between the fog and the lateness of the hour, they didn’t pass more than three or four cabs on their whole journey nor more than half a dozen pedestrians.

  “Blackfriars,” said the cabby, pulling up and opening the trap over his passenger’s head. “Did you want the bridge or the station?”

  “Neither. Now take me to Charing Cross.”

  “What?” The cabby hesitated, and it was obvious that he wanted to know why his fare hadn’t told him to go there in the first place, but all he said was, “Yes, guv’ner.”

  Closing the trap, he turned right and went west again, this time along the Embankment. The fog was thicker than ever here, so thick that they could barely make out the river to their left or the extended mass of the Temple on their right. Despite the lateness of the hour, there were enough lights on in the Savoy Hotel that they could see it as they went by. After they passed the Egyptian obelisk, which was called Cleopatra’s Needle, the cabby again drew up and opened the overhead trap.

  “Charing Cross,” he said. This time he did not ask if his passenger wanted the railway station or the hotel, and he was not entirely surprised when Somerville said, “All right. Now take me to Westminster Bridge.”

  The note had given no reason for the complicated route he was to follow, but no explanation was needed. It was clear that somewhere along the way—perhaps in more than one place—someone was watching to make sure that he wasn’t being followed.

  The hansom went on up the Embankment, the subdued, yellow glow of the gaslights overhead marking the edge of the roadway, the place where the muddy waters of the river lapped against the granite retaining wall, and Somerville suddenly realized exactly where they were and wondered if there was any significance to it. For the stone and brick building to their right was one that had been much on his mind of late: Scotland Yard.

  For the third time the cabby drew up.

  “Westminster Bridge, guv’ner,” he said. “Now what?”

  “Go over it.”

  “Over the bridge?”

  “Yes.”

  “I take it you know what you’re about.”

  “I do.”

  “Righty-ho.”

  He turned the hansom and started across the bridge, the clop of the horse’s hoofs sounding slightly hollow. Somerville leaned forward, peering through the thick grey fog. Something was looming up ahead of them. As it came closer, he saw that it was what he had been looking for—a four-wheeler with one side light lit and one out. He immediately tapped on the overhead trapdoor.

  “Driver, what time is it?”

  “Dunno, guv’ner. Don’t have no watch.”

  “Well, you should be able to see Big Ben from here.”

  “Strewth, y
ou’re right. Let’s see.” As soon as Somerville sensed that the cabby had turned to look up at the clock in the tower above the House of Parliament, he threw the Gladstone bag out so that it landed on the roadway near the opposite parapet.

  “Looks like ten after one, guv’ner,” said the cabby.

  “Thank you,” said Somerville.

  He leaned out, looking back as the four-wheeler, which was going the other way, passed them by. It pulled up close to where the bag lay, and he saw the driver turn and stare after them, making sure that they were continuing on. Then, as the driver started to climb down from the box, a whip cracked over Somerville’s head, the hansom swung around, and a police whistle shrilled piercingly once, twice, three times.

  Climbing back into the box, the driver of the four-wheeler lashed his horse and sent it galloping toward the Parliament end of the bridge. The hansom drew up long enough for Somerville’s cabby to jump down and pick up the Gladstone bag, then it went on again.

  Dazed by what was happening, Somerville looked ahead. As the four-wheeler, going at a full gallop, reached the end of the bridge another four-wheeler appeared out of the fog and turned sideways, blocking the roadway. Instead of trying to stop, the driver of the galloping four-wheeler pulled on the reins and sent the growler up on to the sidewalk. There was a ripping, scraping sound as one side of it struck the back of the blocking four-wheeler, then it had brushed by and disappeared into the darkness.

  The driver of the hansom swore softly overhead, then pulled up in front of the growler. A very large man in a helmet and cape stepped forward.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector,” he said. “He got away.”

  “Yes, I know, Sergeant. Not your fault.”

  Somerville got out of the hansom as the driver climbed down from his high seat, the Gladstone bag in his hand.

  “Is that you, Inspector?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Wyatt, unwinding the scarf from around his face. “I’m afraid we mucked it. I’m sorry.”

  “You should be,” said Somerville in a flat, hopeless voice. “For by interfering as you did, you have ruined me and loosed something on London that is as bloody and dangerous as the Smithfield Slasher!”

  At about that same moment Andrew sat up with a start. He had dozed off and was awakened by a low moaning. Pierre was twisting and turning, throwing himself from side to side. As Andrew put a hand on his forehead to quiet him, the door opened and Sara came in.