The Case of the Baker Street Irregular (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 1)

by Robert Newman

  “Good afternoon, sir,” said Wyatt.

  “You!” said the elderly man. He drew himself up, and his face flushed crimson. “How dare you address me?”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Wyatt, his face wooden. He stepped back, and the elderly man and the officer walked past him, but the woman paused.

  “I don’t know what to say, Peter,” she said. “I wish—”

  “Harriet!” said the officer.

  “Yes, Francis,” she said. She touched Wyatt lightly on the arm, then went after the two men.

  Andrew followed them in. He found himself in an entrance hall with marble statues on two sides of it. At the far end was another footman, and standing next to him and waiting for Andrew were Verna and Sara. Murmuring an apology, Andrew brushed past the two men and the lady and joined Verna and Sara. To their left, at the entrance to a large salon, were two middle-aged and quite dissimilar ladies; one, in a long purple dress, was rather thin and blonde and had clearly been quite pretty once. The other was dark, taller and more vigorous looking.

  “Miss Verna Tillett,” announced the footman. “Miss Sara Wiggins. Master Andrew Tillett.”

  “You’re my neighbor, are you not?” said the blonde lady, apparently the marchioness. “How nice of you to come. I’ve been most anxious to meet you.”

  “And I to meet you,” said Verna.

  “May I present my friend and house guest, Mrs. Van Gelder?” Then, to the tall, dark lady, “Miss Tillett is my nearest neighbor, and is also quite a well-known actress.”

  “Verna Tillett? I should say she is,” said Mrs. Van Gelder with a decided American accent. “Weren’t you in New York until about a year ago?”

  “Yes, I was,” said Verna.

  “I remember seeing you in The Dark Street. I thought you were splendid.”

  “Thank you,” said Verna.

  The white-mustached, elderly man, the army officer and the attractive young woman were now approaching.

  “General Wyatt,” announced the footman. “Colonel and Mrs. Francis Wyatt.”

  “General,” said the marchioness, extending a hand to the elderly man. “Delighted to see you again. You too, Colonel, and your lovely wife. May I present my friend and house guest, Mrs. Van Gelder, and my neighbor, Miss Verna Tillett?”

  “How d’ya do?” said the general, nodding to Mrs. Van Gelder. Then, looking appreciatively at Verna, “Tillett. Familiar name. Related to Bobo Tillett of the Fusiliers?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Verna with a smile. She introduced Sara and Andrew, and the general nodded to them, then turned his attention back to Verna.

  “Hear there’s champagne,” he said. “Can I get you some?”

  “That would be very kind of you,” she said. Sara had curtsied to the marchioness, Mrs. Van Gelder, and then the general—another recently acquired social grace—and was now looking at the general with considerable interest. As she did, she tugged sharply at Andrew’s jacket. Andrew looked at his mother and raised an inquiring eyebrow. She knew what he meant as he had known what Sara meant.

  “Why don’t the two of you look about by yourselves for a bit?” she said.

  “If you don’t mind, we will,” said Andrew. He bowed to the marchioness, to the others, and he and Sara moved off into the salon.

  “Did you get the general’s name?” asked Sara.

  “Wyatt. The same as the policeman’s.”

  “Yes. They couldn’t be related, could they?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because one’s a general and the other’s an ordinary bobby.”

  “It’s still possible. They certainly know one another.”

  “How do you know?”

  Andrew told her what had happened when the general arrived.

  “Oh,” said Sara. “Let’s go find him—Constable Wyatt, I mean. You wanted to talk to him anyway, didn’t you?”

  They went out through one of the french doors and back to the porte-cochere. Carriages were still arriving, and though the footman was still there, Wyatt wasn’t. They asked the footman where he was, and he told them Wyatt had gone down to relieve the constable at the gate.

  “What do you want to do?” asked Andrew.

  “See what’s happening in those big tents,” said Sara. “They’re probably serving things in there. Then, after that, we can walk down through the grounds.”

  “Right.”

  They went down the steps of the terraces to one of the marquees and found that they were indeed serving things there. They had some tea sandwiches and small cakes, and though Sara looked longingly at the buffet, where liveried attendants were pouring champagne, Andrew said she was too young for it and she could have either tea or lemonade, and she settled for lemonade.

  Afterwards they continued on down through the grounds, walking past the formal gardens and the lake. Near the lake was a grove of trees. In the middle of the grove, cut into the side of the hill and carefully landscaped, was a dark and rocky opening. Andrew had seen grottoes before, but they were usually ornamental and shallow. This one, however, seemed quite deep and had a door closing it off. As he and Sara paused, looking at it, a sibilant voice said, “Sorry. No.”

  They turned and saw a strange-looking man sitting cross-legged in the shadow of a large oak. He was quite thin and dark. His head was shaved, and he wore a long, loose white robe.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Andrew.

  “This private, not open to public,” he said with a curious, slurring accent.

  “Oh. Sorry,” said Andrew. To the left of the grove was a small, whitewashed cottage with a shingled roof.

  “That private, too,” said the man. “It where I live.”

  “I see,” said Andrew. “Sorry if we disturbed you.”

  “Salaam,” said the man. “The peace of Isis be with you.”

  “I wonder who he is,” said Andrew as they walked away from him and down toward the gate.

  “He has a funny name,” said Sara. “Not Abraham. Ibrahim?”

  “How do you know?”

  “The marchioness’s groom told Fred about him. About someone the marchioness brought back here from somewhere in the east. Could it be Egypt?”

  “Isis was an Egyptian goddess,” said Andrew. “But that was a long time ago. I didn’t think anyone talked about her anymore.” Then looking ahead, “There’s Constable Wyatt.”

  He was standing just outside the gates, stopping pedestrians and traffic when a carriage arrived or left.

  “Hello,” he said. “Leaving already?”

  “No,” said Andrew. “Looking for you. Why are you down here instead of up at the house?”

  “Finch pulled the other man off, so I had to take over on point duty.”

  “I see.”

  “Are you related to General Wyatt?” asked Sara.

  Wyatt looked sharply at her, then at Andrew, and Andrew dropped his eyes. Though he had wondered about it too, having witnessed the exchange between the constable and the elderly man, he would never have asked that question.

  “How do you know about General Wyatt?” he asked.

  “He came in right after we did and we were introduced,” said Sara.

  “Oh. Yes, I’m related to him. He’s my father.”

  “I knew you were a toff,” said Sara. “But then why are you a copper?”

  “That,” said Wyatt, “seems to be a universal question, and one I’ve gotten a bit tired of answering.”

  “I guess I shouldn’t have asked it then.”

  “I don’t mind giving it another whirl. If your family had been Army for generations—if your father was a general, one brother a colonel and another a captain—wouldn’t you be tempted to try something else?”

  “Maybe. But why the police?”

  “Why not? Is it more important—and more honorable—to fight Afghans, Abyssinians, Zulus and other spear-carrying natives than to fight against criminals here in London?”

  “Well, no. But doesn’t your family hate it
?”

  “Of course they do,” said Andrew. “And that’s the real reason he did it.”

  “What?” said Wyatt, turning toward him. “Why do you say that?”

  “Sorry,” said Andrew uncomfortably. “I shouldn’t have.”

  “But you did. Now tell me why.”

  “I was there when your father and brother arrived and I saw how you looked at them and they looked at you.”

  “I see,” said Wyatt. “I’m beginning to understand why Holmes said the things he did about you. It took me a little while to realize why I had done it myself.”

  “Become a policeman?”

  “Yes. My father and I haven’t always seen eye-to-eye, but I admire him. My brothers, on the other hand, are a pair of appalling snobs. They looked down their respective noses at me when I went to Cambridge instead of Sandhurst. And when they heard I was joining the Metropolitan Police, they became absolutely apoplectic. Which, as Holmes pointed out to me, was exactly what I wanted.”

  “But why aren’t you at least a detective?” asked Sara.

  “I must say you make a rare team,” said Wyatt, smiling. “You ask the questions that Andrew is too much of a gentleman to ask—and he supplies the insights. Do you know how one becomes a detective in our Police Department as presently constituted?”

  “No.”

  “After serving in the uniformed branch for two years—which I have done—a Divisional Detective Inspector can recommend that you be transferred to the C.I.D.”

  “Well?” said Sara.

  “You mean, why haven’t I been recommended?” asked Wyatt, still smiling. “I suppose you could say I haven’t impressed anyone sufficiently with my intelligence, probity and reliability. But I’m not sure that’s true because I’ve been noted and commended several times. I suspect that what I’m facing is the reverse of the attitude I face with my family. They’re furious at me, consider me a traitor to my class because I’m a policeman … and the police dislike, distrust and resent me because I’m what you call a toff.”

  “Then you’d like to become a detective?” asked Andrew.

  “Of course. Because, while I admit I liked the idea of thumbing my nose at my family, showing them up for a pack of snobs, that’s the real reason I joined the police; because I wanted to become a detective.”

  “But you don’t have to stay in the police to become one, do you?” asked Sara. “Mr. Holmes isn’t in the police, doesn’t even like them.”

  “That’s true. And that’s something he suggested too when I discussed the matter with him: that I quit and set up as a private investigator or consultant like him. However, there’s a major difference between us: Holmes is a genius, and I’m not. And although I studied a great many things at Cambridge and after that I thought might be useful, I still felt I had a great deal to learn. And the place to learn was with the police.”

  “Well, maybe you’ll still get your recommendation,” said Andrew.

  “Maybe. But I doubt it.”

  “How is Mr. Holmes, by the way?”

  “He was quite well when I last saw him. But that was about a month ago. And of course, he’s away now.”

  “Away?”

  “Yes. He’s on the continent somewhere. Even his friend, Dr. Watson, isn’t sure where or how long he’ll be gone.”

  “That’s too bad. I was hoping to see him while I was in London and—”

  He broke off as a four-wheeler came slowly down Rysdale Road. Inspector Finch, bowler hat tipped well forward, sat in the rear seat. Next to him was an elderly lady whose shawl was pulled up over her head so that you could barely see her tired, careworn face.

  “Who’s that in the carriage with Finch?” asked Sara.

  “Mrs. Snyder, the mother of the girl who disappeared,” said Wyatt. “She’s been kicking up an awful row, claiming that if she had been West End instead of working class, the police would have done a lot more to find her daughter. So Finch has been taking her around himself to prove he’s really working on the case.”

  “And hating it,” said Andrew.

  “Yes,” said Wyatt. “Talk about snobs, he’s one of the worst I’ve ever known, and … Here we go again,” he said as the four-wheeler stopped and Finch beckoned to him. “Good-bye.”

  He went over to the four-wheeler, saluted Finch, took out his notebook and made some kind of report to him. Sara and Andrew watched him for a few minutes, then went back up through the grounds again to the house. When they arrived there, Fred was waiting and said he’d been about to come look for them because Miss Tillett wanted to leave. Then Verna came out and they went home together. Finch was gone, but Wyatt was still at the gate and he saluted them as they went by.

  It was a little after five when they got to the house. Admitting that she was starting to feel tense, as she always did before an opening, Verna went up to her room to rest for a while. She came down again a little after six with Annie following her and carrying the Hunt and Roskell jewel case. The entire staff—the cook and kitchen maid as well as Matson, Mrs. Wiggins, Sara and Annie—lined up outside to say good-bye to her as she got into the landau. They were all too aware of theatre tradition to wish her good luck—which could be almost as disastrous as whistling in the dressing room—but they listened attentively as Andrew asked her what time she thought she’d be home.

  “Probably not until quite late,” she said. “I don’t expect to stay at the party for very long, but even then I don’t imagine I’ll be home before two or two thirty.”

  “I’ll wait up for you,” said Andrew.

  “That’s silly, darling.”

  “No, it’s not. I want to hear all about it. If I’m not up, will you wake me?”

  “Well, all right.” She kissed him, waved to the others, then Fred shook the reins and they were off.

  Not surprisingly, Verna came home later than she had expected. Andrew tried to wait up for her, as he had said he would, but he fell asleep around eleven o’clock, woke with a start when he heard carriage wheels on the gravel of the driveway. The book he had been reading had fallen to the floor, the gaslight over his head was still on, but he had no idea what time it was. He heard Matson open the downstairs door, and he got up, stepped into his slippers and went out into the hall. He glanced at the grandfather clock as he went by—it was ten after three—and he was standing at the top of the stairs when Verna came up them. She was wearing a long white evening gown and the Denham diamonds, and she looked magnificent; as regal as a duchess, but far more beautiful than any duchess had any need or right to look.

  “Hello,” said Andrew.

  “Darling! You did wait up.”

  “Not really. I fell asleep, only woke up when you came home. How did it go?”

  “Quite well.”

  “Just quite well?”

  “Well, perhaps a bit better than that.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Get back into bed, and I’ll come in. This tiara’s starting to give a headache, and I want to take it off.”

  “Right.”

  He went back into his room, turned the light down slightly and got into bed. When Verna came in, he saw that she had taken off the earrings and necklace as well as the tiara, and he also saw that her eyes were bright with excitement.

  “Well?” he said.

  “It really did go quite well. There were two scenes Harrison was worried about—one with Fanny Farrell, who plays my mother, and the other with Rupert Trent, who plays the marquis. Well, Fanny was marvellous, had me in tears. As for Rupert, I thought he was still too extravagant, but he was definitely better.”

  “What about you? What did they think of you?”

  She shrugged. “How can you tell? I had six curtain calls, but I don’t think that meant anything. This was opening night, I haven’t played a dramatic role here in years and I think everyone was determined to be kind.”

  “But didn’t anyone say anything?”

  “Well, Harrison did—he said I was splendid. And so did William
Archer and most of the theatre people who were at the Claridge. But there again, it was an opening night party and one’s expected to be enthusiastic. Let’s wait and see what the critics say tomorrow.”

  “Isn’t Mr. Archer a critic?”

  “Yes. But what he said to me and what he’ll say in the paper can be two very different things.”

  “What about Mr. Shaw? Was he at the party?”

  “Yes, he was. He didn’t stay very long, but … All right. He said he wasn’t going to spend much time discussing the play—which was just about what he had thought it would be—but that, while he had expected a great deal of my performance, he found he had grossly underestimated me.”

  “Well, there you are, then.”

  “Oh, I admit that I was pleased—by that and by what everyone else said—and I suspect that the play will do very well.”

  “I’m sure it will. And so is Fred.”

  “Fred?”

  “He said he’s talked to the stagehands and the man at the stage door and they think you’re wonderful and that the play’s going to be a tremendous hit.”

  “Then I certainly needn’t worry,” she said laughing. She stifled a yawn. “I’m suddenly very tired. Will you tell Mrs. Wiggins to see that no one wakes me tomorrow? I’ll get up when I get up.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Good night, darling. It’s very nice to have you here to talk to when I get home.”

  “I like it too.”

  “Good.” She bent down and kissed him. “See you in the morning.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  She turned out the light and went out, closing the door behind her. Smiling, he closed his eyes, preparing to go back to sleep, then sat up as his mother cried out. Throwing off the covers, he ran across the hall. The door of Verna’s dressing room was open and she was standing just inside it, staring at her dressing table.