The Case of the Somerville Secret

by Robert Newman

  “Now where?” Fred asked.

  “Par lá,” said Pierre, pointing.

  Fred turned left and began working his way through a maze of streets that were lined with storehouses, brick yards and lumber yards, with iron railroad bridges arching overhead like the webs of giant spiders.

  “Attendez,” said Pierre finally. Then, as Fred slowed up, “Oui. C’est lá” he said, pointing to a narrow alley between two tumbledown and abandoned warehouses.

  “Bon,” said Wyatt, getting out of the landau.

  “Shall I wait to make sure this is the right place?” asked Fred.

  “You can if you want to,” said Wyatt. “But …” He broke off as a scream—shrill, high, and in some curious way inhuman—sounded somewhere far off to their right. For a moment they all stood there frozen. Then, turning, Wyatt said, “Come on!” and went running up the alley, followed by Tucker and the two constables.

  “Wait a minute,” said Fred as Andrew jumped down off the box. “Where are you going?”

  “After them,” said Andrew. “You watch Pierre.” And he and Sara went running up the alley after Wyatt and the policemen. The fog was thicker near the canal, the cobblestones underfoot were slippery and uneven, and twice, when the alley went off at an angle, they blundered into one of the walls. But finally they saw a faint gleam of light ahead of them, and a moment later they came out of the alley and into a very strange scene.

  They were on the bank of a stagnant backwater of the Regent’s canal. By the light of the bull’s-eye lanterns that Tucker and the two constables carried, they could see the barge that Pierre had described, derelict and half sunk, with a ramshackle cabin at the stern. There was someone—a man—standing near the open door of the cabin. He turned as Wyatt and the constables approached the barge, and when he did, Sara and Andrew recognized him. It was the man many people near the Portobello Road called a saint.

  “Is that you, Dr. Owen?” asked Wyatt, approaching the barge.

  “Yes,” said the doctor, leaning on his stick. He raised one hand to shield his eyes from the light of the lanterns. “Inspector Wyatt?”

  “Yes.”

  “My compliments to you for finding your way here, but I’m afraid you’re too late.”

  “Too late for what?” Then, seeing the body stretched out on the deck of the barge, “Who’s that?”

  “The man you were so interested in when you came to see me—Tom Severn.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Very.”

  By now Sara and Andrew were close enough to the barge so that they could see, not just the body, but the bloodstained hatchet that lay near it.

  “Who killed him?” asked Wyatt.

  The doctor looked at him thoughtfully. “How much do you know?” he asked.

  “About what?”

  “What Severn was up to. Who … or what he was keeping hidden here.”

  “If you mean Lord Somerville’s son … Was that who killed him?”

  “Yes.”

  “How? And why?”

  Owen pointed to the bloodstained hatchet with his stick.

  “There’s the how. As to why … I only got here a minute or so ago, and by then it was all over—Severn was dead, and the poor mindless creature was gone; but … I think he killed Severn because Severn attacked him, hurt him in some way.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Again the doctor pointed, and by the light of the lanterns they saw a set of bloody footprints—the prints of large, bare feet—leading away into the darkness.

  “Those prints were made with his own blood, not Severn’s.”

  “How badly is he hurt?”

  “I don’t know. I told you he was gone by the time I got here.”

  “I have quite a few other questions to ask you, Doctor,” said Wyatt coldly. “For instance, how a man with a broken leg—Severn—could have gotten about so spryly. How you got here, and how you know so much about what was going on. But in the meantime we’re faced with a very dangerous situation.”

  “I agree. There’s no telling what the creature may do next, whether he’ll kill again.”

  “Exactly. My first task must be to go after him, capture him. But until then … can I have your word that you will remain here?”

  “You cannot. I’m going with you.”

  “What?”

  “I said I’m going with you. If you find the creature, he’ll need treatment. He’ll also need to be quieted down. I have the drugs to do that here.” He held up his black bag.

  Wyatt hesitated for only a minute. “All right,” he said. Then he turned. “You!” he said to Sara and Andrew. “Back to the carriage, and have Fred take you home.”

  “But …” Sara began.

  “Will you for once,” said Wyatt angrily, “do what I say without an argument?”

  “Yes, Inspector,” said Andrew. Wyatt had never talked to them that way before, but then he had never been under such tension, never had so much reason to be anxious. “Come on, Sara.”

  They started toward the alley. When they reached it, they glanced back. Wyatt had taken one of the bull’s-eye lanterns and, moving quickly, was following the trail of bloody footprints north towards the canal proper, followed by Tucker, the constables and the doctor.

  “I don’t think he should have talked to us that way,” said Sara.

  “He’s worried, terribly anxious about what the creature might do.”

  “I know. And I don’t really blame him. It’s just … Well, you know how it is.”

  “Yes. You wanted to go along. So did I. But we can’t always be in on everything.”

  “I suppose not.”

  They went back along the alley, stumbling on the slippery cobbles and feeling their way along the crumbling walls. When they came out into the narrow street, Fred was standing at the horses’ heads and peering up the alley toward them.

  “Well, that was a fine thing, going off like that,” he said, trying to hide his relief. “What happened?”

  “That shriek we heard was the monster,” said Sara. “Severn hurt it; it killed him and went running off. Wyatt and the policemen have gone after it.”

  “What are we supposed to do in the meantime?”

  “Go home.”

  “And about time too. Your poor friend here is shaking like he’s got the ague.” He lifted Pierre out of the box, wrapped the blanket more closely around him, and sat him in the back of the landau. “Sit there with him and try to keep him warm.”

  “Poor Pierre,” said Sara, getting in and sitting down next to him. “But I don’t think he’s cold. I think he’s frightened.”

  “You are right,” said Pierre. “I am frighten. Le monstre est disparu?”

  “Oui” said Andrew. “ll a êté blessé et I’inspecteur le suive.”

  “Ah, bon. If he catch him, I feel better.”

  “The one good thing about all this,” said Fred, turning the carriage, “is that your mother’s away. Heaven only knows what she’d say about it if she were here with the two of you stravaiging about at all hours of the night like this!”

  “You know very well what she’d say,” said Andrew. “She likes the inspector, and she’d probably say, ‘Good show!’”

  “I shouldn’t admit it,” muttered Fred, “but you’re probably right.”

  They were driving through the narrow streets behind St. Pancras station, under the stone arches and iron railroad bridges, and in spite of the fog that made it difficult to see more than ten or twelve feet ahead, Fred was guiding the horses with absolute assurance.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” asked Andrew.

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “I just don’t know how you can.”

  “Well, there’s a lot you don’t know. I’ll lay you a bob I can tell you exactly where we’ll be after we go under that next bridge there.”

  “Where?”

  “St. Pancras Road.”

  “Done.”

  They went und
er the bridge, came out into a street that was much wider than the ones they’d been driving through.

  “Well?” said Fred.

  “I’m still not sure,” began Andrew. He broke off as something flitted by under the horses’ noses; they reared, whinnied and tried to bolt.

  “Whoa there! Whoa!” said Fred, pulling them up. “What the devil was that?”

  “I don’t know, but it certainly scared them,” said Andrew.

  “Scared them? It gave them fits!” said Fred, trying to quiet the horses, which were still plunging and showing the whites of their eyes. “Do you think …?”

  “Oui, oui, oui!” said Pierre in a high, frightened voice. “C’est le monstre!”

  Even as he said it, a whistle shrilled behind them, there was the sound of running footsteps and out of one of the narrow streets that they’d just left burst a group of men carrying bull’s-eye lanterns.

  “Blimey, but I think he’s right!” said Fred. “There’s the inspector and the coppers. Hoi!” he shouted, pointing to the left. “Tally-ho!”

  “All right,” panted Wyatt, running across the street toward them. “Hook it now! Off you go!”

  “No, wait,” said Sara as Fred lifted the reins and prepared to drive off.

  “What?”

  “I said, wait. Can’t we wait just a minute and see what happens?”

  “He said to hook it,” said Fred. “And I think we should. But …”

  He paused as Tucker and the two constables who had joined Wyatt all raised their bull’s-eye lanterns and pointed them in the direction Fred had indicated. They were standing at the edge of an old cemetery, and the lantern beams moved slowly over the low white tombstones and occasional monuments. Suddenly one of the beams picked up a shape crouching in front of a white marble plinth. A second beam joined it, then the third—and all at once they could see him—or it. For by some trick of light, the three beams, meeting at one spot from three different angles, were reflected by the fog as if by a screen, and illuminated the hulking figure as if he had been standing on a stage.

  Pierre moaned softly, Sara stiffened, and Andrew felt his blood run cold. It was not that he was huge—he was probably no taller than a tall man when he stood erect. And it was not that he was naked or hairy or oddly dressed for, though his feet were bare, he was wearing a white shirt and dark trousers. But it was precisely these quite ordinary elements, combined with his appearance and attitude—crouching there with his hands hanging well below his knees, low brow beetling, massive jaw projecting and deep-set eyes gleaming—that made him seem extraordinary … and frightening.

  “Well, you wanted to see him,” whispered Fred. “Now I hope you can forget him. I don’t know if I can.”

  “He’s a sight all right,” said Tucker. “And he looks like he’s ready for us, so what’s the drill, Inspector?”

  “I don’t know,” said Wyatt. “In spite of what happened, I don’t know how dangerous he is. Can you tell us, Doctor?” he asked as, stick in one hand and black bag in the other, Dr. Owen came limping up to them.

  “No,” said Owen, breathing heavily. “I’m afraid I can’t.”

  “Well, I can,” said Sara in her clear, childish voice. “He’s not dangerous at all. He’s scared to death.”

  “Yes, he might very well be,” said Wyatt. “But that’s why …”

  “That’s why my eye!” said Sara, and before Andrew or anyone else realized what she was up to, she had jumped out of the carriage, brushed past Wyatt and the policemen and entered the cemetery, walking up through the gravestones toward the monster.

  “Sara!” called Andrew.

  “Come back!” ordered Wyatt.

  Ignoring them, she went on. In the dead silence that followed—the only sound the shuffle of Sara’s feet—Andrew suddenly realized that the creature was making faint mewing noises. And even as he identified the sound, he became aware that Sara, with her uncanny ear, was answering him—answering him with the same tone and in the same pitch as if they were both speaking the same language. Again the creature made a soft, mewing sound that was both plaintive and frightening—and again Sara responded, making soothing, repetitive sounds, much as a groom does when he’s trying to soothe a fractious horse.

  She had reached him now, and Andrew stopped breathing as she paused in front of the creature, small and slight in front of his crouching bulk. She looked down at his bare feet, one of which was covered with blood, and now she made another noise—still a noise, not words—but full of sorrow and sympathy. And now the creature answered her, repeating the sound that she had made, as if to say, “Yes. I hurt.”

  She reached up, took one of his hands; and then, with Sara leading him, they were walking together—the child and the creature—back through the graveyard to where Andrew and the others stood.

  “All right,” said Fred, speaking for all of them. “She’s done it. And now I’ve seen everything.”

  13

  The Truth at Last

  It was a little before eight, not quite two hours later, when Wyatt rang the bell of the house on Alder Road. Lord Somerville, wearing the same tweeds he had been wearing the night before, opened the door.

  “Oh, Inspector. You said you’d be back, but I didn’t know when.”

  “Neither did I. My young friends are still here?”

  “Yes. And the sergeant. In here.” He led the way into the parlor. “We’ve been having some breakfast.”

  “Good.” Wyatt looked at Tucker, who was sitting next to the door, then at Sara and Andrew on the far side of the room with a tray between them. “Where are Mrs. Severn and the doctor?” he asked Somerville.

  “With Alfred. The poor creature was hurt, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. Would you get them, please?”

  Somerville nodded and went out.

  “All’s well here,” said Tucker when Wyatt looked at him inquiringly.

  “Where were you?” asked Sara.

  “Here and there,” said Wyatt. “You shouldn’t ask questions like that.”

  “I know that if you don’t want to answer, you won’t.”

  “Thanks for letting us stay here,” said Andrew.

  “It seemed only fair after what the two of you did. Fred took Pierre back to your house?”

  “Yes,” said Sara. “We told him to tell Mum we’d be home soon.”

  “You can go right now,” said Wyatt, smiling faintly.

  “Before we find out what we want to know? Thanks!”

  The door opened, and Mrs. Severn came in, followed by Dr. Owen and Lord Somerville.

  “How is he?” asked Wyatt.

  “All right,” said the doctor, setting down his bag. “I bandaged his foot and was prepared to give him some laudanum to quiet him down, but it wasn’t necessary. He’s asleep.” He turned to Sara. “May I say that what you did there in the cemetery was one of the most remarkable things I’ve ever seen?”

  “It was nothing,” said Sara, blushing a little.

  “I don’t agree.”

  “Neither do I,” said Somerville. “I’ve thanked our young friend once already and shall do so again—more concretely—when we’ve finished our business here.”

  “I suppose we’d better get on to that,” said the doctor straightforwardly. “You had some questions you wanted to ask me, didn’t you?” he said to Wyatt.

  “I did. But there’s something I’d like to ask Lord Somerville first. When we first arrived back here with your son, you looked at Dr. Owen rather strangely. Would you tell me why?”

  “Because … Of course it’s a good many years now and he doesn’t look the same, but … he reminded me of someone.”

  “Of whom?”

  “Of Dr. Roberts.”

  “Who is Dr. Roberts?”

  “A doctor down at Ansley Cross, the doctor who took care of my wife, delivered my son.”

  “Did he remind you of Dr. Roberts too, Mrs. Severn?” asked Wyatt, turning to Somerville’s housekeeper.

&nbs
p; “There’s no need for her to answer that,” said the doctor. “I am Roberts.”

  “Would you mind telling us why you’ve been practicing medicine here in London under the name of Owen?”

  “I’ll try. My reasons were complicated and perhaps not entirely estimable. Do you know anything about my background, what happened at Ansley Cross?”

  “I know a little.”

  “I thought you did. A few months before Lord Somerville’s son was born, my wife left me. It was a bad blow, and I’m afraid I didn’t take it very well. I began to drink. Lord Somerville wasn’t aware of it. He and his wife were my most important patients, and I was particularly careful to be discreet when I was to see either one of them. But other people became aware of it, and my practice began to suffer. Then, shortly after the Somerville child was born, I had an accident. My carriage turned over, and both my legs were broken. I was told that they were never going to heal properly and, as you can see, they never did. I knew it was going to be difficult for me to practice in the country, so I sold out and came to London.”

  “Why did you take the name of Owen?”

  “Because I had a great many debts I was afraid I would not be able to pay,” said the doctor somewhat shamefacedly. “So I thought I would just drop out of sight.”

  “By spreading the story that you were leaving the country.”

  “Yes.”

  “Instead, you came here to London, opened an office and infirmary.”

  “Not right away. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to practice medicine anymore at first. I took rooms near Portobello Road. Then, when I saw the need of the people in the area, I opened an office under the name of a friend with whom I’d been to medical school and who had died. Then, a few years later, I opened the dispensary and infirmary.”

  “After I saw you the other day, I asked Sergeant Tucker to do some investigating. Would you repeat what you told me, Sergeant?” he said.

  “Yes, Inspector,” said Tucker. “The report was rather mixed. There’s no question but that the doctor is highly regarded in the area and has done a great deal of good work, often without a fee. At the same time I got the impression that he has sometimes performed illegal operations and treated suspicious wounds without informing the police as he is required to do.”