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

by Robert Newman

  “All right. Go on. I gather you talked to her.”

  “Yes. She seemed surprised to see me there, asked me if I lived nearby. I told her about the school and she seemed surprised at that, too—said she hadn’t known it was there. Then I said good-bye and left.”

  “That’s all you said to one another?”

  “That’s all we said then. I went on toward the old camp and I kept thinking about her, wondering who she was and what she was doing there. I had a feeling that she was worried and upset about something, and I wondered what it was. Finally I turned around and went back, thinking I’d see if she was still there.”

  “Was she?”

  “Yes. And she seemed very glad to see me again. She said she’d been thinking of going after me because she was in desperate straits and I looked as if I could be trusted, and she wanted to know if she could tell me about it.”

  “And of course you said yes.”

  “Yes, I did. Do you think I shouldn’t have?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s hear what those desperate straits were.”

  “First of all, she said she wasn’t going to tell me her real name because it would be better if I didn’t know it, but I could call her Mrs. Grey.”

  “Lady Jane Grey?” said Andrew with a smile.

  “You mean the one who was queen for nine days? I don’t think so. I think it was because of the color of her dress. Anyway, that was when she told me she was from London and what the difficulty was.”

  “And what was it?”

  “She had been married for several years to a man she had met at the house of a friend. He was quite a bit older than she was, but very wealthy, and for the first few weeks the marriage went well, then it became somewhat stormy.”

  “Stormy how?”

  “It turned out her husband drank a good deal, had a violent temper, and carried on with other women. The friend at whose house she had met him admitted that she had been worried about the marriage but had decided not to say anything to her. Then, a little over three years ago, she had a child—a boy she named Michael—whom she loved very much. So much that from then on she didn’t care what her husband did because she had her son and that was all that mattered to her. Then, a few months ago, things suddenly took a turn for the worse.”

  “In what way?”

  “Something happened to her husband mentally. She wasn’t sure whether he had always been slightly mad and no one had really been aware of it or whether this was something new, but he suddenly began accusing her of being interested in other men and claimed she was planning to leave him.”

  “And this wasn’t true?”

  “Oh, no. Absolutely not. She said her only real interest was her boy. Well, her husband knew that, and the next thing she knew he had taken the boy when she was out visiting a sick friend, hidden him somewhere, and refused to tell her where.”

  “That, I suppose, was to keep her from leaving him.”

  “Exactly. He said that he knew that as long as he had the boy she wouldn’t leave and that, in any case, she was making a sissy of him and it was time someone else had a hand in bringing him up.”

  “What did she do about it?”

  “She went to see a solicitor who told her that although what her husband had done was beastly, it wasn’t illegal. That since he was the boy’s father, he had a perfect right to keep the boy wherever he wanted. When she asked what would happen if she brought suit against her husband to force him to let her have custody of the child, he said she would lose.”

  “It sounds quite stupid and very unfair, but I think I’ve heard of cases like that. What did she do?”

  “She hired a private detective to try to find out where the boy was hidden.”

  “And did he find him?”

  “Yes. It took some time and cost her quite a good deal of money, but the detective finally found that the husband was keeping the boy in that house over there, the one in the combe.”

  “I thought it might be something like that. Then what? What did she want you to do?”

  “How do you know she wanted me to do something?”

  “It’s logical to think that she would. She wouldn’t have told you her problem for no reason.”

  “No, I suppose not. And she did ask me to do something for her. She was fairly sure the boy was in the house there—the detective had said he was. But she wanted to know who else was there, taking care of him. So she asked me if I’d watch the house, let her know.”

  “So that’s what you’ve been up to.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it she who gave you the field glasses?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why does she want to know who else is in the house?”

  Markham sat up, looked away, then looked at Andrew.

  “She didn’t say, but I think she’s planning to steal the child back again.”

  “That would be my guess. How do you feel about it?”

  “I don’t know.” He paused. “Yes, I do. I think it’s terrible that she shouldn’t be allowed to have her own child! Her husband doesn’t really care about the boy. He only took him to hurt her, so … well, I’ve not only been watching the house at all different hours but, if she’d like me to, I’ll help her get the child back again.”

  “Yes,” said Andrew. “That was something else I rather expected.”

  “Well, what do you think about it? I know some people would say it was wrong, but why is it any more wrong for a wife to take a child away from a husband than for a husband to take him away from his wife, the child’s mother?”

  Andrew sighed. He knew it was more complicated than Markham realized or would be willing to admit. For with his mother dead, it would be strange if he didn’t want to play the brave knight, didn’t want to help a damsel in distress.

  “I know how you feel,” he said. “But before I tell you what I think, I’d like to meet your Mrs. Grey.”

  “Well, you can,” said Markham. “And very soon, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s coming back today at about four-thirty.”

  “That is soon. All right. I’ll wait.”

  “Good,” said Markham, pleased. He picked up the field glasses, looked through them at the house down in the shallow valley, and said, “Would you like to see the boy?”

  “Yes,” said Andrew.

  Markham gave him the glasses, and he looked through them at the boy who had just come out of the house accompanied by a gray-haired woman who must have been his nurse. Andrew only had a chance to catch a glimpse of him, see that he was a good-looking, golden-haired child and that he did not look at all happy, when the two of them moved toward the rear of the garden and were hidden by the brick wall that enclosed it.

  He continued to look at the house, particularly at the gate that led into the garden. If it wasn’t locked—and it seemed to have only a latch—that would be the best way in to get the boy. Someone would have to create a diversion, of course, get the nurse and anyone else who might be there away from the garden. But if that were done, then seizing the boy should be fairly easy.

  “May I have the glasses?” said Markham.

  Raising them, he looked toward the road beyond the house.

  “I think.…” he said. “Yes, here she comes.”

  Andrew turned. A brougham had come over the crest of the hill and was moving toward them.

  “Where are you supposed to meet her?”

  “Near those oaks,” said Markham, nodding toward a grove of scrub oaks that grew just off the road. “We’d better go down there.”

  Hanging the glasses around his neck, he led the way down off the tor and across the rolling terrain of the Downs, over the tough, wiry grass, past patches of heather and broad expanses of wild flowers: buttercups and Queen Anne’s lace, bird’s-eye, hawkweed, and wandering sailor.

  “What will you tell her about me?” asked Andrew.

  “I’ll tell her that you’re a friend of mine,” said Markham. “Can
I say that?” he asked with a touch of shyness.

  “Of course. She’s going to assume then that you’ve told me what she’s planning to do.”

  “And of course I have.”

  Yes, you have, thought Andrew. But that doesn’t mean I approve of it.

  They trotted on, past a bank of golden broom. Then, coming around the stand of oaks, they saw the carriage. It had drawn up just off the dusty road, the coachman standing at the horses’ heads. He was a small man with a narrow face and dark eyes. He was wearing a squarish bowler and a brown whipcord jacket with matching breeches tucked into Newmarket boots. He looked less like a coachman than a groom, but that may have been what he was.

  At first Andrew did not see the woman who called herself Mrs. Grey, but then she stepped out from under the trees and he saw that she was very much as Markham had described her: a large straw hat and a gray dress with a wide sash and ruffles at her throat, not very tall but quite pretty. Her eyes widened when she saw Andrew.

  “Hello,” she said to Markham. “I was afraid something had happened when I found you weren’t here.”

  “We were up on the tor,” he said. “We waited there till we saw you come over the hill. This is my friend Tillett.”

  “How do you do?” she said, giving him her hand. “I take it you know why I’m here.”

  “Yes. Markham told me.”

  “I won’t ask if I can trust you. If you’re his friend, I know I can.” Her hand was soft, her eyes dark and warm. “What have you found out?” she asked Markham.

  “Well, besides the woman you told me about—either your husband’s woman friend or someone he’s engaged to be in charge of the place—there’s a nanny who does nothing but take care of the boy. There’s also a cook and a gardener. They both sleep there, and I think they’re husband and wife.”

  “I think so, too,” said Mrs. Grey. “At least, that’s what I was told. But I’ve found out something much more important than that. Tomorrow morning the woman will be going away, into London, and she will be gone all day. So tomorrow will be the ideal day to do what I’m planning to do.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Andrew. “That she won’t be there?”

  “I’d rather not tell you. I think the less you know, the better.”

  He nodded. It was of course true that if they were ever questioned about what was going on, it would be better if they could say they didn’t know.

  “Do you know when and how you’re going to do it?” asked Markham.

  “I know how. The when will depend on the two of you.”

  “On us?” said Andrew.

  “Yes. On when you can get away from school—so I suppose it will be about this same time. As to how, that depends on the two of you also—on how much you’ll be willing to help me.”

  “We’ll do anything!” said Markham impulsively. “Anything at all! At least—” He broke off. “What do you think, Tillett?”

  “I don’t know,” said Andrew.

  It was all happening much more quickly than he had thought and not at all in the way he had expected it would. He had been very smug in thinking he understood how and why Markham had become involved, and now here he was wanting to be a part of it too. Why? Because Mrs. Grey was pretty? Because it would make him feel manly to be able to help her? Perhaps. But, at the same time, if his mother were in similar difficulties, what would he think of anyone she asked to help her who wouldn’t?

  “I don’t know,” said Andrew again. “I’d like to know just how you’re planning to do it.”

  Mrs. Grey had been looking at him, studying him.

  “I’ll tell you,” she said simply, quietly.

  Andrew was silent after she had finished. He walked over to the road and looked up to where he knew the house was hidden in the shallow valley. He studied the Downs between there and where they stood, noting that it was mostly downhill. Then he came back to where Markham and Mrs. Grey were waiting, watching him.

  “It certainly sounds as if it should work,” he said. “All right. I’ll do it. We’ll do it.”

  3

  The Knights Errant

  “What time is it?” asked Markham.

  “Twenty minutes after four,” said Andrew.

  “They should be here soon, then.”

  “If they’re on time, yes.”

  “I think they will be. They were very prompt yesterday.”

  “They?”

  “Well, she—Mrs. Grey. Do you think we’ll ever find out what her real name is?”

  “We may.”

  “How?”

  “If it all comes off and there’s something about it in the newspapers.”

  “I never thought of that. I suspect there are lots of things I never thought of.” They were lying out on the tor again, the glasses between them. Andrew picked them up and looked toward the slate-roofed house in the combe.

  “Is the boy still in the garden?” asked Markham.

  “Yes,” said Andrew, trying to see exactly where he was. He could see the nanny, but not the boy. However, she was saying something to someone, so he must be there.

  “Hello,” said Markham. “Who’s that?”

  “Where?”

  Markham pointed to some figures that had come over the ridge that ran across the Downs just north of the valley. It took Andrew a moment to adjust the focus of the glasses, and by that time the figures had stopped moving.

  “They look like Gypsies,” said Markham.

  “They are,” said Andrew.

  There were two of them: one tall and dark with long mustachios, gold rings in his ears, and a red bandanna tied around his head, and the other shorter and wearing a high-crowned, wide-brimmed hat. They had been walking next to a brightly painted caravan, drawn by a dappled Clydesdale.

  “I wonder what they’re doing,” said Markham.

  “Looks as if they’re getting ready to set up camp,” said Andrew. For now the shorter of the Gypsies was unhitching the horse, while the taller, mustached one had strolled around to the rear of the caravan and was taking a black iron pot from a hook near the rear wheels. “Here,” he said, handing the glasses to Markham.

  “Yes, they do seem to be setting up camp,” said Markham. “Do you think there’ll be more of them?”

  “Hard to say. I don’t see any others, so they’re probably alone. Poor chaps. They may be in for a rather rough time.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Don’t people always suspect Gypsies of kidnapping children?”

  “Oh. Yes.” He swung the glasses toward the road. “There they are.” Even without the glasses, Andrew could see that the brougham had come over the crest of the hill and stopped there. Markham glanced at the long, striped muffler they had tied to a bush next to them. “Do you think they’ve seen our signal?”

  “We’ll know in a minute.” Then, as the brougham’s driver took out a handkerchief and blew his nose, “Yes, they have.”

  The agreement had been that when they arrived at the tor they would tie a scarf or muffler to the bush to show that they were in place and that, when the driver saw it, he would take out his handkerchief and use it to indicate that he had.

  “All right,” said Andrew, jumping to his feet, pulling off the muffler, and tying it around his throat. “That’s it. We’ll have to move fast now.”

  He slid down the steep top part of the tor, then began running over the springy turf of the Downs toward the house. He paused when he came to the edge of the shallow combe in which the house was set and glanced around. Markham was close behind him, holding the glasses, so that they would not swing wildly as he ran.

  “All right?” asked Andrew.

  Looking a little worried, Markham nodded. Moving more carefully and quietly now, they worked their way down the side of the combe to the rear of the house. There they stopped again, hiding behind a hawthorn about ten feet from the gate that led into the walled garden. Andrew would have liked to crawl up to the gate and see if it was open,
but he knew that was dangerous. He would wait, as they had agreed, for the diversion. If it was locked, he was sure that with a leg up from Markham, he could climb over it.

  Crouching there behind the hawthorn, they heard the carriage come in from the road and stop at the front door of the house. The knocker rattled, then the front door opened. They could hear voices, but not what was being said. The driver was supposedly asking directions. Then Mrs. Grey was to get out and join in the conversation and either say she felt faint or fall as if she had fainted.

  There was an exclamation from the front of the house, voices were raised, then a woman—probably the cook who had opened the door—called, “Mrs. Woolsey! Mrs. Woolsey, come quickly! The poor woman’s fainted!”

  A door closer at hand—the door that led from the garden into the house—opened and closed suddenly and vigorously.

  “Now!” said Andrew, jumping to his feet. He ran to the garden door and tried the latch. It lifted, and he opened the door. “You stand cavey,” he said quietly and urgently to Markham. “I’ll get the boy.”

  Nodding, Markham brushed past the rosebushes that edged the garden, hurried to the door that led into the house, and stood there listening to what was going on at the front door. Andrew, meanwhile, had gone the other way to where the little boy was standing, holding a stuffed woolly lamb.

  “Hello,” said Andrew. “You’re Michael, aren’t you?”

  Staring at him with eyes that were wide with attention but with no surprise, the boy nodded.

  “I’m Andrew. Your mother sent me. Would you like me to take you to her?”

  His face lighting up, the boy nodded again, more enthusiastically this time.

  “Good. Here we go, then.” Swinging the boy, still clutching the lamb, onto his back, he called to Markham. “We’re off. Get the garden door,” and he ran out through the door and along the combe to the point where the sides were the least steep and it was the easiest to climb back up to the Downs. Behind him he heard Markham close the door that led into the garden, then he was running alongside him.

  “Well done,” he said. “Need any help?”

  “No,” said Andrew. “We’re fine.”