The Case of the Indian Curse (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 8)

by Robert Newman

  “I don’t know why I should have been. If I was, I don’t remember why.”

  “I see.” Dr. Reeves looked at him thoughtfully, then turned to Sara and Andrew. “Would one of you tell Mr. Beasley what you told me last night—about his state generally, and especially what happened just before I arrived.”

  They did it together, Sara starting and Andrew finishing, recalling Beasley’s very evident fear, then his irrationality, and finally describing, as well as they could, the strange happenings in the garden: the eerie lights, the voices calling, and Beasley’s attempt to go out there.

  Beasley fidgeted through the recital, arranging the pillows behind his head, pushing his blanket away, but Andrew had the feeling that he was listening intently to everything that was said.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t remember any of that.”

  “You don’t remember any part of it?”

  “No. And I’m getting very tired and sleepy. Would you mind if I took a nap?”

  “No, Mr. Beasley. I think that’s a good idea.”

  They said good-bye and left. Dr. Reeves led them up the corridor until they were out of earshot of the room.

  “Well?” he said. “What do you think?”

  “He seems much better,” said Sean. “Much more his old self and much less anxious.”

  “I thought so, too,” said Sara. “I also think he remembered more of what happened than he let on.”

  “I agree,” said Andrew. “Now will you tell us what’s wrong with him? I gather you don’t think its influenza or anything like that.”

  “No,” said Dr. Reeves. “I think he was drugged.”

  “Why?” said Sara. “How and by whom?”

  “I certainly don’t know why or by whom. And it would take a good deal of investigating to determine how it was administered. But I suspect he’s been given some kind of drug that induces hallucinations.”

  “Well, whatever it was,” said Sean, “I’ll bet it had something to do with that heathen statue!”

  “Would you care to comment on any of this, Mr. Bannerji?” said Dr. Reeves.

  “If you would not consider it presumptuous, there are a few things I might say. The statue, as you must have gathered, was that of Kali, also known as Bhowani, the consort of Shiva and a very revered and powerful goddess. Now one of the things that puzzled and worried me from the beginning—that is, from the moment I first saw it in Mr. Beasley’s shop window—was that he would not say where he had gotten it, just as he would not tell us now what he had done with it.”

  “Was it valuable?” asked Dr. Reeves.

  “Yes and no. It is not like these ridiculous and romantic tales one has read where the idol has an eye that is a fabulous diamond or ruby. But the statue was fairly old—I should say sixteenth century—and authentic. I told this to Mr. Beasley, and I also told him I did not think it was wise to keep it in his window where a devotee of Kali might be tempted to steal it. I think, from the young people’s description of what happened last night, that something like that might have been going on there.”

  “That’s one of the things that occurred to me,” said Sean.

  “As to drugs, we have almost as many as we have religious sects. I am not just talking about opium, which is very common. I am talking about bhang, which is also known as hashish, and which, as I’m sure you know, can cause either pleasurable or terrifying hallucinations.”

  “Yes, I know about opium and hashish and their effects, but I don’t believe Mr. Beasley was given either of those. I think he was given something else—something I have not been able to identify yet.”

  “That may well be. However, he is better?”

  “Yes. He’s considerably better.”

  “That brings me to the point I wanted to make. To a suggestion that I hope you and his friends here will consider. Without knowing all the facts, we seem to be in general agreement that compatriots of mine—that is to say, Indians—might well be behind what has happened to Mr. Beasley. Is this true?” He glanced around at them, and they all nodded. “If this is so—if they want something from Mr. Beasley that they still have not gotten—isn’t it possible that he is still in danger?”

  “You mean, even here in hospital?” said Sara.

  “Don’t you think that is possible?”

  “I suppose it would be if they knew where he was,” said Sean. “But how would they know that?”

  “From what you have said, it’s clear that they were keeping a close watch on Mr. Beasley’s house. Don’t you think they would have followed Dr. Reeves’ carriage when he brought him here?”

  “Yes, they could very well have done that,” said Dr. Reeves. “And while I think that, on the whole, he is quite safe here, I would like to know what you’re leading up to—what you’re suggesting.”

  “I grant you that he is fairly safe here,” said Bannerji. “But wouldn’t he be even safer if he was moved to a place that our Indian friends didn’t know about?”

  “Where, for instance?” asked Dr. Reeves.

  “I don’t know. A nursing home to which he would be transported at night so that no one would know he was being moved. Or even a private home if the right one could be found.”

  “What about our place?” asked Andrew.

  “Yours?” said Dr. Reeves.

  “Yes. It’s in St. John’s Wood, which is very respectable and well protected. We have a large house, so we have plenty of room. And we also have quite a few people there to help take care of him.”

  “It’s an idea,” said Sean. “If you don’t mind, it has many advantages.”

  “I not only don’t mind, I’d like it very much,” said Andrew. “And I’m sure that my mother and Sara’s mother and Peter Wyatt would approve, too.”

  “Well, I have no objections,” said Dr. Reeves. “In fact, I can see some advantages to it, too. But I think that if we’re going to do it, we should do it in the manner that Mr. Bannerji suggested—quietly and secretly, at night.”

  “Can that be arranged?” asked Bannerji.

  “It can. We’ll bundle him up, and I’ll take him there myself in my own carriage when I leave here tonight.”

  6

  The Secret Name

  Beasley’s move to the house in St. John’s Wood took place that night in exactly the way that Dr. Reeves had suggested. Mrs. Wiggins had not only approved of the idea, but was enthusiastic about it. There had been little enough for her to do with Andrew’s mother away, and there were few things she liked better than being able to nurse someone and fuss over them. Though she had not met Beasley before, she had of course heard a good deal about him from Sara and Andrew, and you would never have known that they weren’t old friends from the reception she gave him when Dr. Reeves brought him to the house at about ten o’clock that night. A bed in one of the guest rooms had been made ready for him. Mrs. Wiggins stood by while Dr. Reeves and his coachman helped Beasley up the stairs and got him into bed. Then she took over, listened gravely to Dr. Reeves’ instructions and, shooing everyone else out, remained with Beasley until he fell asleep.

  Sean came to the house just as Sara and Andrew were finishing breakfast the next morning. Mrs. Wiggins reported that their patient had had a very good night, was feeling much better, and would be delighted to see all of them. They went up and found that her report had been accurate. Beasley not only looked better, he insisted that he felt that way, said he was going to ask Dr. Reeves if he couldn’t get up that afternoon. When Sean suggested that he shouldn’t rush his fences that way, he pretended to get angry, said that Sean had been loafing and ordered him to go back to the shop where he might—just possibly—be able to earn what he was being paid. Sean told him that he was an ungrateful hypochondriac, said he’d be glad to go back to the shop—glad to do anything that would get him away from Beasley’s bad temper and left. He winked, however, at Sara and Andrew as he did so and told them under his breath that he’d be back that afternoon.

  Dr. Reeves came to the h
ouse at about noon and was very pleased with Beasley’s progress. In addition to the medicine that Beasley had been taking at the hospital, which he had brought with him, Dr. Reeves now gave him a sleeping draught and left instructions on when and how it was to be taken. Just as he was leaving, Mr. Bannerji arrived and was as delighted as everyone at Beasley’s progress.

  “Then this comes at an auspicious time,” he said, giving Beasley a small package. “In fact, it may even speed your recovery.”

  “What is it?” asked Beasley.

  “Open it and see.”

  Beasley tore off the paper, revealing a small painting in a simple black frame.

  “It’s Mogul, isn’t it?” said Beasley.

  “Yes, late 18th century, near the end of the Mogul dynasty. Considering the uncertain nature of your illness, I feared to bring you any food—even a sweet. And I was not sure that flowers would be appropriate. But no one could object to flowers of this sort.”

  The painting, stylized and brightly colored, was of an Indian garden with a fountain playing in the midst of ornate flower beds.

  “It’s very nice indeed,” said Beasley. “Thank you very much.”

  “Careful,” said Sean, as Bannerji backed into the small night table.

  “Sorry,” said Bannerji, catching the table as it rocked and the bottles on it clinked together. “I am, I fear, a rather clumsy man. You really do like it?” he said to Beasley. “If you do not care for the subject and would prefer something else—a portrait, perhaps.…”

  “No,” said Beasley. “It’s very thoughtful of you, and I like it very much, prefer it by far to real flowers.”

  He gave it to Sean, who put it on the bureau, and they all looked at it appreciatively.

  It was about this time that Matson made his contribution to the comfort of the house’s guest and patient, suggesting that he might like to have a barber come in and shave him. Feeling the grizzled stubble on his face, Beasley said that he would, and Matson said he would arrange to have one there in the morning.

  By late afternoon, a change had come over Beasley. He seemed listless, uncomfortable, and his eyes not only lost their sparkle, but began to look troubled and anxious. He seemed withdrawn, snapped at Sean when he came to see him at about six o’clock and, to Mrs. Wiggins’ distress, ate very little of his supper.

  Sean stayed for supper, and they had a conference afterward. Mrs. Wiggins attended as well as Sean, Sara, and Andrew. They decided that though Beasley was clearly not as well as he had been in the morning, the change was not serious enough to warrant calling Dr. Reeves. Mrs. Wiggins gave Beasley the sleeping draught that Dr. Reeves had left, and he fell asleep almost immediately and slept fitfully through most of the night.

  Andrew, however, did not sleep particularly well. He woke up three or four times without knowing why, and each time went into Beasley’s room. The last time, at about two in the morning, he found Sara there. They listened to Beasley’s heavy breathing. Sara pulled the blanket up to cover him, then they went outside.

  “Why aren’t you asleep?” asked Andrew.

  “Why aren’t you?”

  “I was, but I woke up.”

  “So did I.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “Andrew, I’m worried.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything to be worried about. He’s not that much worse than he was.”

  “I’m not sure about that. But that’s not the only thing I’m worried about. I have a feeling something’s going on outside, something bad.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I looked out the window when I woke up a little while ago, and I thought I saw someone or something out in the garden.”

  Andrew knew her too well to scoff at the idea.

  “Show me where.”

  They went into her room without putting on the light and stood near the window; there she pointed to the dark mass of shrubbery near the kitchen. He studied it carefully.

  “There doesn’t seem to be anyone there now. You couldn’t tell who it was?”

  “No. Except … well, he seemed to be wearing a long robe and a turban.”

  “In other words, an Indian.”

  “Yes. I admit I don’t know how anyone could know that Beasley is here. The whole point of moving him from hospital at night was so that nobody would know, but.…” She paused, frowning. “You kept looking back when we were on our way here, and when I asked you what you were looking at, you said nothing. Were you telling the truth?”

  “I don’t know. When we first left the hospital, I thought a four-wheeler was following us. But by the time we got to Marylebone Road it was gone.”

  “By that time whoever it was may have guessed where we were going.” Then, as he started for the door, “Wait a minute. You’re not going out there, out into the garden, are you?”

  “Well, if you’re worried because you think someone’s out there.…”

  “I’d be much more worried if you went out to see! Will you promise me that you won’t go out?”

  He hesitated, then said, “All right. I think it was probably just your imagination. We’re all a bit nervy. We’ll see in the morning.”

  And in the morning they did see. They were just finishing breakfast when Matson came in carrying Andrew’s mother’s trug, the flat basket she used when she was gardening. On the surface he was as imperturbable as a good butler always is, but by now Andrew had learned to read shadings in his expression.

  “Good morning, Matson,” he said. “Anything wrong?”

  “Not necessarily wrong, Master Andrew, but something rather curious. When I unlocked the door this morning, I found this hanging over the knob.” He took some flowers out of the basket, a string of red poppies whose stems had been braided together to make a long chain. “There was another one, just like it, over the knob of the kitchen door.”

  Sara sat up straighter, and she paled.

  “That is strange,” said Andrew. “There was no note with them?”

  “No, Master Andrew.”

  “I wonder how they got there.”

  “They were undoubtedly put there sometime during the night.”

  “Yes. Well, I don’t think it’s anything to worry about.”

  “No, Mr. Andrew. Do you wish to examine them or shall I remove them.”

  “You can get rid of them, Matson.”

  “Yes, Master Andrew.”

  “Well,” said Andrew as Matson took the flowers out, “you were right; there must have been someone outside the house last night. But I still don’t think it’s anything to worry about.”

  “You don’t? What was the purpose of bringing him here rather than letting him stay in hospital?”

  “To protect him.”

  “Right. That’s why Dr. Reeves brought him here at night. So that no one would know where he was. But the flowers prove that, whoever the men are who are after him, they know where he is.”

  “It may not be the same people,” he said unconvincingly.

  “No? Who did leave them, then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He didn’t want to say so, but he knew that she was right. He also knew that she was probably thinking the same thing he was: that the string of scarlet poppies hanging over the knob must have made the door look as if it had been splashed with blood.

  They finished their breakfast in silence and were just leaving the table when the barber Matson had ordered arrived. Andrew went upstairs with him to Beasley’s room. Mrs. Wiggins had said that Beasley was up but didn’t want any breakfast yet. That was all she said, and perhaps she wasn’t aware of it, but Andrew saw at once that their friend was not at all well; that he was, in fact, worse than yesterday.

  The barber had brought a gladstone bag in which he carried the various things he was going to need: a large brass basin, a smaller crescent-shaped one that he held under the chin of the man he was shaving to catch the lather, his razors, strop, brush, and soap. Annie, the upstairs maid, came in with a pitcher of hot water and, tu
cking a towel around Beasley’s neck, the barber set to work.

  Either the barber was a naturally silent man or he was used to shaving invalids who preferred silence to talk, for—after saying good morning to Beasley—he said nothing more until he was finished and drying Beasley’s face. Then he spoke to Andrew rather than Beasley and asked whether he’d like him to come again the next morning. When Andrew said he would, he said that in that case—if Andrew did not object—he would leave his bag and the things that were in it so he would not have to bring them in the morning. Andrew said he didn’t object and, bowing to him and Beasley, the barber left.

  There was no need for Andrew to ask his friend how he was. Besides his pallor, the dew of perspiration on his forehead and upper lip, his eyes told the story: they were not merely dull and lackluster, they were haunted again, filled with anxiety that was almost as acute as the terror Andrew and Sara had found in them the afternoon before they had taken him to the hospital.

  There was a perfunctory knock, and Dr. Reeves came in. He nodded to Andrew, then, looking at Beasley, frowned. Taking out his stethoscope, he told Andrew to wait outside while he examined his patient. Sara and Mrs. Wiggins had come upstairs with him, and they were waiting in the hall outside the door.

  “He’s not doing well at all, is he, the poor man?” said Mrs. Wiggins when Andrew joined them.

  “I’m afraid not,” said Andrew.

  “I can’t understand it,” said Mrs. Wiggins. “He seemed much better yesterday morning. Then, all of a sudden, he’s worse.”

  Dr. Reeves came out of the room about ten minutes later.

  “He’s bad again, isn’t he, doctor?” said Mrs. Wiggins.

  “Yes, he is,” said Reeves. He paused as Matson came up the stairs with a note on a silver salver. “Is that for me?”

  “No, doctor. For Mr. Beasley,” said Matson. He tapped on the door and went in. Andrew wondered who the note was from, but Sara was only interested in what they had been discussing.

  “Have you any idea why this happened?” she asked.