by Helen Wells
“I hope you’ll forgive my unsightliness, Mr. Carewe, if I keep my mackintosh over my shoulders,” the Shah said.
The lightweight waterproof topcoat flapped around his short, round figure like the slack sails of a ship, and Cherry held back a smile.
Then Mr. Carewe ushered them into the first room where Cherry and Martha stood. Cherry realized she was staring. She turned away to study the paintings, as Martha Logan did. But she could not resist stealing glances at the short, rotund Shah with the perfect rose in his buttonhole. His young wife hovered nearby, quiet and self-effacing. He riffled through the catalogue, using his left hand, and remarked—arrogantly, Cherry thought—that the hanging of the paintings was “rather well done.”
Mr. Carewe said, “I asked the advice of the curator of the National Gallery. He helped me work out how to display the collection.” It was said modestly, and was not lost on the Shah who launched into an informed comparison of the collections at London’s National and Tate galleries with this collection.
John Carewe was impressed. He asked the Shah about his own collection of paintings. The Shah charmingly declined to talk about his own treasures. “Not here, my dear Mr. Carewe, where one is in such close touch with so many masterpieces! Just let me enjoy your treasures.”
“I see you will not need my services as a guide,” Mr. Carewe said to the Shah. “Please feel free to look around by yourselves. I shall be interested to learn what you and Lady Liddy think.”
As he had told the Americans, he told the Shah and his wife that there were ten rooms, two floors. He did not introduce the two sets of visitors, since there was no reason to. They politely ignored one another as Mr. Carewe left the four of them alone together.
Martha Logan had finished viewing the first room, and now moved into the second room. Cherry followed her. For a while they took notes on the paintings of the famous Henry and the two sisters. Lady Mary did wear the fabled ring for her portrait, Mrs. Logan was glad to see. The Shah came in, gave the Americans a pleasant glance, and planted himself before a great canvas with his back to them. Young Lady Liddy drifted through the second room, and went into the third by herself. The minutes slowly went by as the visitors sometimes passed one another, sometimes missed one another in various rooms. The mansion, though relatively small, had a number of stairways, landings, and passageways in which it was easy to lose sight of one another. For a few minutes during their tour of the rooms Cherry “lost” Martha. She hunted up one of the two indoor guards who directed her to her patient.
By the time Cherry and Martha Logan had seen most of the paintings on the second floor, Cherry felt concerned that her patient was growing overtired. Standing and walking in a gallery was very tiring, and Martha drooped.
“Don’t you think you’ve done enough?” Cherry asked. “You mustn’t let yourself become exhausted.”
“I am tired, but it’s only a little after eleven,” Martha protested. “I don’t want to cut our visit short.”
“Well, if you’d sit down and rest for a few minutes—”
A guard hurried in, “Is one of you ladies a nurse?” he asked.
“I’m a nurse,” said Cherry. “What happened?”
“If you could come downstairs directly, miss—” the guard said. “Lady Liddy has been taken bad. She’s having an attack, miss. I don’t know exactly what—If you could come quickly—”
“Coming,” said Cherry.
Martha Logan said, “I’m coming with you.”
They went downstairs, the guard leading the way, explaining. Lady Liddy had come downstairs to ask Mr. Carewe a question, and to answer it, he had escorted her to the library. While consulting some books together, Lady Liddy had had a dizzy spell, grown faint, and collapsed, the guard said. “We all rushed to help her, miss, but we can’t bring her around—”
He led them to the library. There the other guard, on his knees, was supporting the woman who was sitting, slumped forward, in a chair. Mr. Carewe was awkwardly holding a glass half filled with brandy, while the secretary rubbed the young woman’s wrists. The librarian was pressing a dampened handkerchief to the back of the young woman’s neck. Someone had removed her hat, exposing her frightened face.
“Eh, nurse?” Mr. Carewe said. “Will you see what you can do for her? We have telephoned a doctor, but he is many miles from here.”
“I’ll try, Mr. Carewe,” said Cherry. She signaled Martha to sit down.
Then Cherry knelt, replacing the second guard. She held the young woman’s thin wrist between her own thumb and forefinger. Her pulse count was normal—a little rapid, but normal. Her hands felt warm, which was normal. Cherry watched her breathing and counted her respiration rate—a little quickened, but not much and not shallow. Cherry placed her hand on Lady Liddy’s forehead for a guess at her temperature. Her forehead was cool and dry—normal.
Cherry felt puzzled. If this were a fainting spell or a mild attack of some kind, where were the symptoms? The woman was trembling, but that could be from nervousness or fright, as much as from any faintness. “Careful,” she thought, “I’m not a doctor. Perhaps I’m overlooking some symptoms.”
“Lady Liddy,” she said softly, “do you feel nauseated? Or are you in pain?”
The young woman shook her blond head, but murmured, “Headache.”
Migraine? No, she showed no tension. Was she weak from hunger? Cherry asked, “Did you have an adequate breakfast this morning?” Lady Liddy nodded.
Miss Hayden asked, “Could it possibly be food poisoning?” But that would have produced a cold sweat and nausea, as well as faintness, Cherry explained. She bent and looked closely into the young woman’s face and clear eyes. Lady Liddy self-consciously averted her head.
John Carewe said irritably, “Why don’t you give her first aid?”
“I see nothing to give her first aid for, Mr. Carewe,” Cherry said. She glanced at Martha Logan, who was looking as puzzled as Cherry felt.
“The best I can suggest, Mr. Carewe,” Cherry said, “is that Lady Liddy see a doctor as soon as possible.”
“Here, give her this.” John Carewe thrust out the glass of brandy. “Revive her. Do her good.”
The young woman refused the brandy. “I’m terribly sorry to be a nuisance.” She sighed. “I often have these fainting spells. I’m—I’m simply not very strong, you see. It’s nothing, really.”
“Too much walking here this morning,” Mrs. Ogilvie suggested soothingly.
“That’s it,” Lady Liddy murmured. “Thank you anyway, all of you kind people.” She closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. Cherry wondered whether she was concealing some malady.
Martha Logan said, “Where is the Shah? Have we all forgotten to notify him that his wife is sick?”
“I’m afraid we did forget,” said Miss Hayden. “Munro”—she addressed the guard who had summoned Cherry—“weren’t you to bring the Shah when you went to bring the nurse?”
“I was unable to find the Shah, Miss Hayden,” the guard apologized. “I did look around for him a bit, but in view of this lady’s needing the nurse quickly—”
“You did the right thing, Munro,” said Mr. Carewe. “Go fetch the Shah now, please.”
The guard left the library. They all returned their attention to Lady Liddy, who swayed weakly in her chair. Cherry asked if there were some place where she could lie down, but Mr. Carewe said there was not—unless Lady Liddy wished to undertake traveling to his house.
“Oh, no, no,” the young woman said almost in panic. “Thanks awfully, but I—No, really that’s not necessary.”
The old collector did not seem any too eager, either. Cherry glanced at Martha Logan. To Cherry’s practiced eye, her patient appeared more drawn—and “keeping going on her will power”—than Lady Liddy. “I’d better pay first attention to Mrs. Logan,” Cherry thought.
The Shah walked in, his mackintosh flapping and hanging bulkily around him, followed by Munro, the guard. When the Shah saw his wife,
he gave a cry and ran to her as fast as his portliness would allow.
“My poor dear, not another attack?” He bent over her, his white beard brushing against her face. “My poor darling—I must take you to the doctor at once!”
“We’ve telephoned for the nearest doctor,” Mr. Carewe said, “not very near, I am afraid—”
“No, no, we can’t wait for the doctor to come here! Thank you, Mr. Carewe, you are most kind,” the Shah said, and his voice rang out imperiously, “but I will take her to our friends’ doctor, who knows her condition.” He brushed aside reminders that the local physician was on his way. “Thank you, thank you, but no—My dear, can you stand if I support you?”
Cherry stepped forward to help, so did their host and both guards, but the Shah insisted he could manage unassisted. He did not even wish his chauffeur to be called.
“We’ve been through this ordeal before,” the Shah said. “I have some medication in the car, to give Lady Liddy temporary relief. Now—up with you—very good!” He lifted the young woman to her feet. “Mr. Carewe, I am extremely sorry this depressing incident has happened in your house and that there is not time to discuss your magnificent collection—I owe you a thousand thanks—perhaps another time—”
With his arm around his wife, puffing from exertion and still talking, the Shah guided her from the library, through the foyer, and out the main door—quite rapidly. Miss Hayden had to hurry after them with Lady Liddy’s handbag, which she had forgotten.
Their uniformed chauffeur, standing beside the imposing black car, sprang to open the car door for them and get Lady Liddy seated. He looked shocked—and something else. Cherry was struck by an unsuitable gleam in his expression, and then by the man himself. The chauffeur was stocky, powerfully built, dark-haired, and moved with vigor, as he jumped into the driver’s seat. Not at all the well-trained chauffeur, who should have helped the Shah in, too. The chauffeur looked more like a man used to working with his hands, or perhaps he was the Shah’s bodyguard. “Funny,” Cherry thought, “I could swear I’ve seen this man somewhere before.”
“You’ve forgotten your catalogues!” Mr. Carewe called, waving the two booklets.
“My dear Carewe, you must think me ungrateful,” the Shah said, impatiently turning back for the catalogues. “I assure you I shall be profoundly in your debt—You have enriched us. Come and see us. My thanks to all—”
In haste the Shah trotted to his car, in such haste that he turned his ankle sharply. His left ankle, Cherry noted, as he caught his breath in pain. The Shah drew his coat around him and clumsily climbed into the car, slamming the door after him. Instantly the chauffeur started off, and the car streaked down the short driveway. The gate guard barely had time to open the entrance gate. The black car drove through and disappeared on the other side of the wall. They could tell from the motor’s noise that the car was speeding along the road.
“Poor Lady Liddy must be dreadfully sick,” said the librarian, “if they’re obliged to rush her to a doctor at that speed.” She shook her head in sympathy.
“Turned his ankle. Well,” John Carewe said dryly, “now the doctor will have to have a look at both of them.”
They all went back into the mansion. Cherry whispered to Martha that she would be wise to leave now, too. Martha whispered back that it was only eleven fifteen, they had forty-five more minutes left, and still a great deal to see. Mr. Carewe did not seem to expect them to leave, so she and Cherry started back upstairs. They climbed slowly, resting every few steps.
“Isn’t the Shah fantastic?” Martha Logan said with a smile. “I’d hardly believe he’s real, if I hadn’t seen him on television.”
“That beard!” Cherry said. “But what’s on my mind is—what caused his wife to collapse. I couldn’t say so, but I wonder if she was faking.”
“Faking? Whatever for?”
“I can’t imagine. Unless she was bored here and wanted to leave. Of course,” Cherry said uncertainly, “I don’t know how she feels—”
“Well—” Martha Logan started up the staircase again. “Out with the notebook. Back to work.”
At a landing she paused. “Oh, look at these miniatures! We overlooked them before.” She and Cherry studied the unbelievably detailed little portraits for several minutes, and made notes.
As they continued up to the second floor, the guard Munro came rushing down the stairs past them, crying out:
“Mr. Carewe! The Gainsborough in the Blue Room is gone—cut out of its frame! Mr. Carewe, sir! Four major paintings have been stolen from the second floor!”
Cherry and Martha stood aside as the white-faced guard ran past them. They stared at each other. Martha Logan said:
“This is terrible. I hope they don’t suspect us. We’d better go right back to the library and tell Mr. Carewe we’re willing to be searched.”
“That bulky topcoat the Shah wore slung over his shoulders—” Cherry said. “He was alone on the second floor while we all were taking care of his wife—”
“Yes, I’m afraid the Shah had time to steal the paintings,” Martha Logan said. “He must have carried a sharp knife and worked fast—”
“—and probably his topcoat has a false lining, so he was able to smuggle the paintings out of here,” Cherry said. “Well, his wife was faking.”
“At the speed their car was traveling,” Martha Logan said, “they must be miles from here.”
“What time is it?” Cherry glanced at her wristwatch. “Eleven thirty. Fifteen minutes since they left.”
When they reached the office, Mr. Carewe was talking on the telephone to the police. He looked stunned; his veined hand holding the telephone shook, though his voice was calm.
“—two Romneys, a Reynolds, and the Gainsborough. That connoisseur took our very finest paintings! Pardon? … Of course I am certain it was Shah Liddy! Hasn’t all England been flooded with newspaper photographs of the Shah? Eh? …” John Carewe listened to the police at the other end. “No, I had not met the Shah before today. … Very well, I shall not expect you to send out a nationwide alarm until you check. … Yes. I understand. … As I said, a rented car, a black Bentley. Its license number? … My guard at the gate and my other guests’ driver believe its license number was—” He gave the number. “Yes, I shall ask the American ladies to stay here. … Then I shall expect you very soon.”
Mr. Carewe hung up. He did not repeat what the police had said to him. None of his subdued staff, much less his two American visitors, ventured to ask. The elderly collector buried his head in his hands for a moment. Then he recovered himself and gulped down the brandy he had poured for Lady Liddy. Cherry felt very sorry for the old man; they all did. They talked only a little, in low, shaken voices.
Within fifteen minutes, several detectives arrived. One detective, who said his name was Spencer, took Martha Logan and Cherry aside in the library, and quietly questioned them. He appreciated their willingness to be searched, he said, but it was unnecessary; obviously they were not the thieves. They answered all his questions—preliminary questions—to his satisfaction. They volunteered what information they could. The detective picked up Cherry’s remark that she may have seen the Shah’s chauffeur somewhere before.
“Would you think about that, Miss Ames?” the detective said. “We shall want to talk with both of you again today, after we’ve obtained more information. Will you stay here? Or where shall we find you?”
“At Wayside Inn near Windermere,” Martha Logan said. “We’re returning there as soon as you tell us we may leave. …”
“Just a moment,” Cherry interrupted. She saw with concern that Martha Logan all at once looked exhausted. The excitement of the theft and of being questioned by the police, on top of an hour and a half’s close study of the collection, had been a great strain.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Logan,” Cherry said earnestly, “but I don’t think it’s advisable for you to undertake the drive back to the Wayside Inn just yet. You’d better rest as soon a
s possible—no, not here. I know you don’t want to impose on Mr. Carewe, as upset as he is. Anyway, I mean somewhere quiet where you can lie down.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Martha Logan admitted.
“Somewhere where you can have a quiet lunch, too.” It was noon now. Cherry turned to the detective. “Mr. Spencer, is there any place nearby where we could go?”
The detective thought. “There is a modest inn about five minutes’ drive from here. The Cat and Fiddle. Would that do?”
Cherry said that would be a great help. The detective offered to tell their taxi driver the route. He waited while they said brief thanks and goodbye to Mr. Carewe and his staff. The collector, between his distress and the presence of the police, scarcely heard them.
Then Mr. Spencer accompanied Martha Logan and Cherry out to their taxi. Edwin, their driver, was being questioned by a stout detective.
“All clear with this man,” said the stout detective to Mr. Spencer.
“Very good, Geoff. I think the sergeant needs you in the house.” Mr. Spencer turned to Edwin, and gave him directions for reaching The Cat and Fiddle. The driver soberly nodded and helped Martha, then Cherry, into the old sedan. The detective said to them:
“Wait for me at The Cat and Fiddle, will you please? I’ll be along as soon as I can.”
CHAPTER VII
At The Cat and Fiddle
AS THEIR TAXI PULLED OUT, THEY SLOWED AT THE GATE to let another car enter. Cherry heard the gate guard speak to the man driving. He was the doctor who had come to treat Lady Liddy. Cherry and Martha Logan exchanged wry smiles.
“Martha—just an idea—” Cherry said. “Would you like to have that doctor treat you?”
“So the poor man won’t have come this distance for nothing?” Martha Logan joked. “Thanks, but all I need is what my nurse prescribed.”
She leaned back against the seat and half closed her eyes. “How could a man of the Shah’s eminence and wealth stoop to stealing? Trading on his famous name to gain entry to the museum—getting in past the guards—flattering Mr. Carewe into admitting him and his wife!” Martha shook her head. “I’ve heard about collectors with such a consuming desire to possess fine paintings—or the money the art will bring—that they’ll resort to underhanded methods. Bribery, trickery, shameless deals, a few even hire thieves. But what happened today—I can’t believe it!”