The Case of the Somerville Secret

by Robert Newman

  The doctor, sitting again, with Tucker standing immediately behind him, looked up with hooded eyes but did not answer.

  “While our friend here must have been surprised to hear that Lord Somerville had an heir, he undoubtedly guessed the truth; but I doubt that he told Severn that the creature was his son, not yours, my lord. My guess is that he helped plan the various steps that followed: the first blackmail letter, the kidnapping of Alfred, and the final arrangement for payment that we blocked. When he came to the barge, and discovered that the plan had not only failed but that Severn by hurting the creature had driven it to escape, he picked up the hatchet and killed Severn. He did this, not in anger—though he undoubtedly was angry—but because if he could find Alfred and continue with the blackmail scheme, he would not have to share the proceeds with Severn. And if he could not find Alfred again and had to abandon the scheme, he had silenced the only possible witness to his involvement. And, of course, he could blame the death on Alfred. Again I ask you, is that correct, Doctor?”

  “Do you really expect me to answer that?”

  “No, Doctor. I don’t expect you to say anything. And since that’s so, there’s no need to keep you here. Sergeant, will you take him to the station house? I’ll be along shortly to make out the charge.”

  “Yes, Inspector,” said Tucker. “Come along, Doctor.” And holding him firmly by the arm, he led him from the room.

  “I’m overwhelmed,” said Somerville. “Too many things have been happening too quickly for me to even begin to understand them. The poor creature I had thought of as my son turns out not to be—and Dr. Roberts, whom I had begun to feel was as much a victim as I was, turns out to be even more of a monster than Severn. But when did you first suspect him?”

  “When I first met him. Because I was convinced that Severn had a great deal to do with Polk’s death, and it seemed very strange that he had such a perfect alibi. But apparently I wasn’t the only one who suspected him. You were on him like a pouncing hawk when you grabbed his cane,” he said to Andrew. “Did you suspect him, too?”

  “No,” said Andrew.

  “Then what made you react so quickly?”

  “I don’t know.” He thought a minute. “Yes, I do. I knew you must have had some reason for asking him to let you see his bag, but I didn’t know what it was until you started talking about Severn’s wound—and then I suddenly realized that when he handed you the bag, it was with his left hand.”

  “Good for you!” said Wyatt. “I seemed to remember that he was left-handed from our visit to his nursing home, but I wanted to make sure.”

  “What will happen to him?” asked Sara.

  “I’ve little doubt that he’ll be found guilty. As to what his sentence will be, that’s something else and, in a sense, no concern of mine.”

  “And Alfred?” asked Mrs. Severn. “What will become of him now?”

  “I think, in the light of what’s happened,” said Somerville, “that you should no longer try to take care of him yourself.”

  “I know,” she said. “I’ve been fair sick these last days when he was gone, thinking of what he might do or what might happen to him. But … what kind of a place will they put him in?”

  “It need not be a public institution,” said Somerville. “Though I understand that some of them are quite good. We will find the best possible place for him, and I will take care of the expense.”

  She stared at him. “But why should you do that after what I did—the way I deceived you?”

  “Perhaps because, after having felt responsible for him all these years, I find it difficult to stop. Perhaps because I believed you when you said you did what you did out of love, concern for the poor creature. But mostly because—terrible, difficult and lonely as these years have been—they are over now, and I am not too old to think of the future; a future I don’t think my dear Louise would have resented.”

  “I take it there is someone in whom you are interested,” said Wyatt.

  “Yes. I met her in Paris, have loved her for years. With my dark and awful secret always on my mind, I could not speak to her—for how could I be sure that if I had another child he would not turn out like Alfred? But now … I shall leave for Paris as soon as possible—probably tomorrow, and …” He broke off as Sara leaned over and whispered in Andrew’s ear, and Andrew frowned at her, shaking his head. “Is anything wrong?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” said Andrew.

  “Are you sure? I’m greatly in your debt—Miss Wiggins’s especially—for everything you did, the way you helped resolve all this. And if there’s anything I can do to show my gratitude and appreciation …”

  “There’s no need for you to do that, sir.”

  “I agree,” said Wyatt. “We can handle this particular matter by ourselves without troubling you.”

  “You mean you know what Miss Wiggins was talking to our young friend about?”

  “I believe so. I know that she’s been quite concerned about Pierre, the young French boy, anxious to help him find his brother. And since you were going to France anyway, she thought …”

  “How did you know that?” asked Sara, staring.

  “If a detective is to be successful, he must understand how a criminal’s mind works. And if he can do that, he should certainly know how a colleague’s mind works. Especially,” and he bowed, “a colleague with whom he has had such a long and rewarding association.”

  “Oh, coo!” she muttered, coloring. “If you’re not a blarneying barney I don’t know who is!”

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt series

  1

  The Meetings at Lord’s

  It was, admittedly, a strange sight. Instead of the white-flanneled figures one usually saw poised on the smooth turf of Lord’s, home of the Marylebone Cricket club, there were nine men in the knickerbockers shirts with the team name on the front and colored stockings that Wyatt assured them was the accepted uniform of American baseball players.

  Leaning forward with his eyes on the wicket keeper, the Chicago bowler shook his head. After nine innings Andrew knew that he was called the pitcher, not the bowler, and that the player who crouched behind the batsman was called the catcher, not the wicket keeper, but he found it easier to follow and appreciate the game if he used cricket terminology.

  And, of course, he was not alone in this. There were probably not more than a dozen spectators in the large crowd who had ever seen a baseball game before, which was why—in spite of the description printed in the program—he heard people all around him speaking of the mid-on, rather than the shortstop, and of a point rather than a fielder. It was also why, when Wyatt—who had been to America and did understand the game—explained one of the plays, everyone within earshot listened.

  Now the pitcher nodded, raised his arms in the complicated maneuver that Wyatt had called his windup, and threw the ball. It came at the All-American batter with tremendous speed. The batter swung, there was a loud crack as he lined the ball in a long, hard drive well over the pitcher’s head. Almost as if he had expected it, the left fielder turned and raced for the boundary.

  It’s a good try, thought Andrew, who had always accounted himself a fairly good fielder, but he’ll never make it. He can’t possibly make it.

  But at the last moment, still at a dead run, the Chicago left fielder glanced over his shoulder, threw up his gloved hand and made the catch.

  There was a roar from the crowd, and a thunder of applause.

  “Oh, well played, sir! Well played indeed!” shouted someone behind Andrew. He turned to smile at the man, who looked like a retired stockbroker, then exchanged delighted glances with Wyatt and with Sara, who sat on the other side of Wyatt.

  “And that,” said Wyatt, rising, “as our American friends themselves say, is the ball game.”

  “Is it over?” asked Sara.

  Wyatt nodded. “That was the third out in the last half of the ninth inning. Chicago
wins four to three. Did you enjoy it?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “Andrew?”

  “Of course. They really are as keen as mustard, aren’t they? I’ve never seen such running, such smart throws or such brilliant catching.”

  “They are good; probably the two best teams in America,” said Wyatt. “I must say I was a little surprised at the size of the crowd here, but I suspect what the papers had to say about them when they played at the Kennington Oval had something to do with it.”

  “Tillett! Is that you, Tillett?”

  Andrew turned. A boy on the far side of the clubhouse terrace was looking at him.

  “Oh, hello, Chadwick,” he said.

  “I wasn’t sure it was you,” said Chadwick, threading his way toward him. “If it had been any pair of elevens in the empire, yes. But to come here to see two American baseball teams …”

  “I know. But you’ve got to admit that they were something to see.”

  “Oh, I do. The game’s nothing like cricket, but I must say they played jolly well.”

  “Yes, they did.” Sara and Wyatt had paused and were waiting for him. “This is Chadwick,” said Andrew. “He’s at school with me. Miss Sara Wiggins and Inspector Wyatt.”

  “How d’ya do?” said Chadwick, bowing to Sara. But his bow was as perfunctory as his glance, for his eyes had gone almost immediately to Wyatt. “Inspector Wyatt of the Yard?” he asked, his voice rising slightly.

  “I don’t know that it warrants the reading you’ve given it,” said Wyatt pleasantly, “but I am at Scotland Yard.”

  “Oh, I say! I know all about you. I mean … Well, it’s not as if Tillett talks about you—he won’t, even though several of us have asked him, but … Just a second. Father!” he called. “Would you come here a moment?”

  An almost too-elegantly dressed man, who had been sauntering toward the clubhouse with an older man, hesitated, excused himself, and then came toward them as young Chadwick had done.

  “This is Andrew Tillet,” said Chadwick. “The chap at school I told you about. This is Miss Wiggins, and this is Inspector Wyatt of Scotland Yard.”

  Chadwick senior nodded politely to each of them. But when he came to Wyatt, his expression changed somewhat.

  “Wyatt,” he said. “Didn’t you play for Trinity some years ago?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “It was a bit after my time,” said Chadwick, “but a cousin of mine was on the eleven with you. Geoffrey Lovell.”

  “Yes, of course. A very aggressive batsman.”

  “Yes, he was. Hit a very long ball when he was in form. Trouble was, he wasn’t in form very often.” Then as Wyatt smiled, “You’re at the Yard?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t know there were any university men in the Metropolitan Police.”

  “I don’t think there are any others at the moment, but I’m sure there will be in the future.”

  “I hope so. It would be a very good thing.” He looked thoughtfully at Wyatt. “I know that London is your chief bailiwick, but do you ever go outside it? To France, say?”

  “A C.I.D. man might go there to pick up a prisoner who was being extradited, but he couldn’t do anything else, become involved in a case, for instance. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m attached to the embassy in Paris, was called back here for consultation with Sir Roger. But we just got word of something very disturbing that happened there. A shooting.”

  “At the embassy?”

  “Yes.”

  “One of our people?”

  “No.”

  “Well, the French Sûreté is very good. I’m sure they can handle it.”

  “Probably. But it’s not the same thing as working with someone who speaks your language.”

  “I take it you don’t mean that literally.”

  “No. The fact is that there’s a good deal involved. Politically, I mean. And while the French are on our side in it …”

  “I understand.”

  “Well, we’d better run along. Nice to meet you, Wyatt. You too, Tillett. And of course you most of all, Miss Wiggins.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said young Chadwick. “Goodbye, sir … Miss Wiggins. See you in a few weeks, back at school,” he said to Andrew.

  “So that’s Chadwick,” said Sara as he and his father went off.

  “Yes,” said Andrew. “What did you think of him?”

  “He’s very nice-looking and has lovely manners, just like his father, but …”

  “But what?”

  “I wonder who was shot?” she said.

  “I imagine we’ll read about it in the papers tomorrow,” said Andrew.

  Sara nodded thoughtfully.

  Though they had spent some time talking to the Chadwicks, when they left the pavilion they found that there was still a fairly large crowd waiting for their carriages or for hansoms.

  “If you don’t mind the walk,” said Wyatt, “I think we’d have a better chance of picking up a cab on the Wellington Road.”

  “Of course we don’t mind,” said Sara. “In fact, I don’t know why we need a cab. We can walk home in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Well,” began Wyatt.

  “Peter!” said a warm and pleasant voice behind them.

  Wyatt turned to face an attractive young woman in a large straw hat who was advancing through the crowd toward them.

  “Oh, Harriet. Hello.”

  “I thought it was you,” she said, holding out her hands to him, “but I couldn’t be sure until … Is that all the greeting I get?” she asked as he took her hands.

  “No, of course not,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks.

  “That’s better.” She glanced at Sara and Andrew. “Do I know your young friends?”

  “I’m not sure. Sara Wiggins and Andrew Tillett. My sister-in-law, Mrs. Francis Wyatt.”

  “How do you do, ma’am?” said Andrew, as Sara dipped in a curtsey.

  “How do you do?” Then, frowning, “Tillett. Aren’t you Verna Tillett’s son?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then we did meet about a year ago at that charity thing of the Marchioness of Medford’s. I remember your mother. And I remember Miss Wiggins looking as if she’d stepped out of a Gainsborough.”

  “And I remember you,” said Sara. “You were wearing a fuchsia dress and one of the most beautiful hats I’ve ever seen.”

  “Why, thank you, my dear. You’re quite right. I still have the dress and hat—they’re among my favorites.” She turned to Wyatt. “How are you, Peter?”

  “Quite well.”

  “You look well. I heard you’d come up in the world. Or at least in the police hierarchy. Is it true that you’re now an inspector at Scotland Yard?”

  “Quite true.”

  “I’m glad. And I must say I like you better in mufti than I did in uniform.”

  “But not as much as you might in another kind of uniform.”

  “Now, now! Don’t confuse me with certain people who shall be nameless!”

  “All right,” he said, smiling. “How is Francis?”

  “Fine. At least, he says he is. You know he’s in India?”

  “Yes. I saw it in the Gazette. He was posted to the Twelfth Lancers, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “When will you be joining him?”

  “In about three weeks. I have some things to take care of here.”

  “I’m sure you have.” He hesitated. “And father, how’s he?”

  “Fair.”

  “Only fair? Is he ill?”

  “No, no. He’s fine physically. It’s just … Well, I’ve been staying with him till I leave. And while he’s very pleased about Francis. And about Hal too—he’s in Belfast with the Fusiliers, you know—I think he realizes he’s going to be quite lonesome after I go.”

  “I see.” He smiled wryly. “Well, c’est la vie or la guerre or some similar phrase that doesn’t sound quite as trite in French as it does in English.”r />
  “I know.” She sighed. “I wish …”

  “Don’t. Nothing can be done about it.”

  “I’m not absolutely certain about that. In fact …”

  She broke off as a shiny black double victoria drew up next to them. The door opened, and a square-shouldered, elderly man with a close-cropped mustache got out.

  “All right, my dear,” he said to Harriet. “Come along.” Then, seeing Wyatt, “You!”

  “Hello, father.”

  “Don’t you dare call me that!”

  “I’m afraid we’re dealing with a biological fact that even an order from you won’t change.”

  “It’s a fact I refuse to recognize!”

  “Father, this is ridiculous!” said Harriet. “As I tried to point out the other day …”

  “I told you that it had nothing to do with you. That it was a family affair!”

  “Are you saying that though I’m married to your son, your family is not mine?” she asked quietly but firmly.

  “I’m saying that I don’t want you to interfere in this particular matter.” Then, opening the carriage door, “Now are you coming?”

  “Go ahead, Harriet,” said Wyatt.

  “Very well.” She kissed him deliberately on the cheek. “It was wonderful to see you again, Peter. I was delighted to hear about your promotion, and now to find you looking so well. Perhaps I’ll see you again before I leave for India.”

  “A nice thought. But under the circumstances …”

  “Circumstances change.” She looked at him levelly and intently for a moment, then smiled. “Goodbye.”