“Grazie, signorina,” said the organ grinder, bowing. “Grazie, signor.”
He pulled on the cord that was fastened to the monkey’s belt, and the monkey bowed too, taking off it’s hat, then leaped back to the organ and from there to the man’s shoulder again.
“Will you play something for us?” asked Sara.
“Con piacere,” said the musician. He began turning the crank of the organ and the strains of “Funiculi, funicula” echoed along the quiet street. Her face rapt, Sara closed her eyes and began dancing as she must have danced dozens of times before when she was a dirty-faced street urchin living in Dingell’s Court. Andrew watched her, admiring—not just her grace—but the way she forgot where she was and how she was dressed, everything but the music and what she was doing. He had a feeling that when his mother was Sara’s age she had danced in the streets of Lambeth just as Sara was doing now.
But this wasn’t Dingell’s Court or Lambeth. It was Rysdale Road in St. John’s Wood.
Heavy footsteps sounded on the pavement.
“Now then,” said an official voice. “That’ll be all of that. Pack it up and move along there.”
The music stopped in the middle of a phrase, Sara opened her eyes, and she and Andrew looked up at the policeman.
“Si signor,” said the organ grinder. “Si, si.”
“Oh, no!” said Sara.
“Why does he have to move along?” asked Andrew. “He’s not bothering anyone.”
“I assume you can read,” said the policeman, pointing to the notice on the wall of Three Oaks that said, “Hawkers, Circulars, Barrel-Organs and Street Cries of any Description Strictly Prohibited.”
“Yes, I can read,” said Andrew. “But I think it’s jolly unfair to tell people what they can do and what they can’t do out in the street!”
“For a slow bowler,” said the policeman, “you’re certainly quick to challenge the status quo.”
“What?” said Andrew. “How do you know I’m a slow bowler?”
“How do I know that you’re just home from school and that the young lady has lived elsewhere most of her life, probably near Edgeware Road? Elementary, my dear friends.” And he started to walk on.
“Wait a minute!” said Andrew, hurrying after him. “That’s what he used to say!”
“He?”
“Sherlock Holmes,” said Andrew. He stopped in front of the policeman and looked up at him. “Who are you?”
“Constable Wyatt.”
“Are you sure?” asked Andrew. Among other things, Holmes had been famous for his disguises. But there was no chance that this was Holmes. The policeman’s eyes were blue, not grey. He was fair, not dark. And though he was as tall as Holmes, he was heavier and several years younger.
“Quite sure,” said the policeman. “I’m sorry.” When he smiled he looked younger than ever and less like a policeman.
“Are you really a policeman?” asked Sara.
“Really. Presently attached to B division, Wellington Road Police Station.”
“Well, you don’t look like a copper and you don’t talk like one,” said Sara flatly.
“That, my dear, is one of my crosses,” said Constable Wyatt. He looked over his shoulder. “Our musician seems to have scarpered.”
They looked too and saw the little Italian and his monkey disappearing around the corner.
“I don’t care about that anymore,” said Andrew. “But I do care about this. There’s something strange about it.” He frowned at Wyatt, then it came to him. “You know Holmes!”
Wyatt’s smile became even broader. “Deduced like a true Holmesian disciple. Yes, I do know him, had the pleasure of talking to him on quite a few occasions.”
“And he told you about us?” said Sara.
“He pointed you out from his window one day, said the two of you had been very helpful to him on one of his cases. The rest I deduced myself or got from talking to your coachman, Fred.”
“What were you talking to Fred about?” asked Andrew.
“A case I’m on.”
“Then you’re a detective too,” said Sara.
“Unfortunately, no. I’m just doing some legwork for Inspector Finch.”
“What’s the case?” asked Andrew.
“The disappearance of a young woman named Lily Snyder some four days ago.”
“Around here?”
“Yes. We found a cabby who took her to Wellington Place at about six in the afternoon on Monday. You weren’t here so you couldn’t have seen her,” he said to Andrew. “But did you, by any chance?” he asked Sara. “An attractive girl in her early twenties, brown hair, wearing a white shirtwaist, navy blue jacket and skirt and a black hat?”
“No,” said Sara. “She’s been gone since Monday?”
“Yes. And I’m afraid—”
“Wyatt!” said a sharp, authoritative voice. They turned. A short, aggressive-looking man in a bowler stood under one of the streetlights on the other side of Rysdale Road. He beckoned peremptorily.
“Finch,” said Wyatt under his breath. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll see you again.” And he crossed the street, saluting as he approached the inspector.
“I wanted to ask him about Mr. Holmes,” said Andrew. “I’d like to see him while I’m in London.”
“He said we’d see him again,” said Sara. “Constable Wyatt, I mean. I liked him.”
“So did I.”
2
Verna
Andrew changed his clothes, and a little after five he walked around to the stable, which was behind the house. Fred was just bringing the landau out.
“Why’d you come back here?” he asked.
“I didn’t know what time we were going to leave.”
“I would have come round when it was time. Why don’t you try acting like a gentleman instead of a schoolboy?”
“Why don’t you try acting like a coachman instead of the Earl Marshall?”
Fred threw a punch at him, Andrew blocked it, and they sparred for a minute, then quit, grinning at one another. However Fred would not let Andrew sit in the box with him and handle the ribbons as he did sometimes when they were alone, insisting that it was not proper when they were going to call for his mother. So Andrew sat in back and they talked as Fred drove over to Regent’s Park, around it and down Baker Street. The curtains were drawn on the windows of Sherlock Holmes’s rooms but that didn’t mean anything; Holmes often kept them drawn when he was talking to a client or thinking about a particularly puzzling case.
Fred told him that they had a new horse—a three-year-old hunter that Fred had picked out himself—which Andrew’s mother rode several mornings a week. Andrew could ride it when she didn’t and, if they wanted to ride together, Fred had arranged to borrow a gelding from the marchioness’s groom who, like almost everyone in the area, seemed to be a pal of Fred’s.
They arrived at the theatre, which was on the Strand, at a few minutes before six. The marquee already said: Verna Tillett in THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER. This gave Andrew a queer feeling but did not affect him as much as the posters on either side of the theatre entrance that carried large pictures of his mother. Fred took him around to the stage door and introduced him to the watchman, who touched his cap and conducted him along the dusty corridor that smelled of paint to his mother’s dressing room. He knocked and when she responded, he opened the door and went in.
She was sitting at her dressing table with her back to him, but she was looking up, waiting, and their eyes met in the mirror. Before this she had always been rather tentative, studying him to determine whether he would object before she kissed him. But their separation since the Christmas holidays had been the longest they’d had since they had found one another and this time she did not wait. She rose, turned and embraced him.
“It’s good to see you again,” she said.
“It’s good to see you.”
She held him at arm’s length. “How are you?”
“Fine. And you?”
“Fine too. You’ve grown since I last saw you. You’re as tall as I am now.”
“I think I am.”
There was a discreet cough and they both looked at the man who stood in the corner of the room. He was grey-haired, but his face was young and he was slim and very elegant in his cape and evening clothes.
“I’m sorry,” said Verna. “Darling, I don’t think you know Mr. Harrison, the theatre manager. My son, Andrew.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Andrew.”
“It’s nice to meet you, sir.”
“I’ve heard a great deal about you, and I’m delighted that you’ll be here for your mother’s opening.”
“He’s not coming to the opening!” said Verna.
“He’s not?”
“Certainly not. He’s never seen me on stage and I’m going to be nervous enough tomorrow night without having him here. He and Sara can come some night next week if the play’s still running then.”
“It’ll be running, not just next week and next month, but next year. Your mother’s absolutely splendid,” he said to Andrew. “I’m very proud to be presenting her.”
“You can see why Lawrence is so successful,” said Verna to Andrew. Then to Harrison, “You’re sure about tonight?”
“Positive. The few places I wasn’t entirely happy about involved Fanny and Rupert, but not you. I’m going in to talk to them now. You have your supper with Andrew, then go home and I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
“One usually works until very late before an opening,” she explained to Andrew. “And I was determined to see you even if we had to have supper sent in. But the dress went well enough so that we can go out.”
“It went so well that I’m worried,” said Harrison. “You know that a bad dress means a good performance and vice versa.”
“Don’t be so superstitious,” said Verna.
“Can’t help it. Where are you eating, by the way?”
“I think Rule’s.”
“Oh. I have an appointment at the Savoy. But then you probably want to be alone with Andrew.”
“I certainly do.”
“Until tomorrow then.”
He said good night to them both and left. Verna glanced in the mirror, wiped a last trace of powder from her face and said, “Did you have tea?”
“No.”
“You must be starved. We’ll go right out.”
Andrew helped her on with her cloak and they went out, saying good night to the watchman who opened the door for them. Fred saluted Verna as if she were royalty, drove them the short distance to the restaurant.
Though Andrew had never been to Rule’s before, he knew it was the oldest theatrical restaurant in London, and it was obvious that Verna was known there, for the head waiter greeted her as deferentially as Fred had and showed them to a booth under a portrait of Mrs. Siddons as Lady Macbeth. They ordered prawns and grilled mutton chops with fresh strawberries to follow, then Verna said, “Now tell me everything that’s happened since I saw you last.”
“Nothing very much happened. I’d rather hear about you.”
“There’s plenty of time for that. Why do you say nothing happened? You had a good cricket season, didn’t you?”
“Fairly good. We won five out of six matches.”
Andrew had meant what he said: he did not feel that anything particularly interesting had happened during the time that he had been away and he had not intended to talk about either cricket or school. But Verna’s questions were so pertinent and her responses so genuine that before he knew it he was telling her about both and a great many other things beside. They had just finished their chops and Verna was smiling at his account of a Latin class for which no one was prepared, when a striking-looking man entered the restaurant. He was tall and thin, with reddish hair and a short red beard, and he was wearing a tweed Norfolk jacket. He started toward the rear of the restaurant, saw Verna and paused at their table.
“Miss Tillett,” he said with a slight Irish accent.
“Good evening, Mr. Shaw.”
“And who is my rival?” he asked, fixing Andrew with a bright blue eye.
“My son, Andrew.”
“Oh? Good evening, Andrew.”
“Good evening, sir.”
“I didn’t realize that you were married,” he said to Verna.
“I’m not.”
“Sorry. If you insist on being a purist, I didn’t realize that you had been married.”
“I wasn’t being a purist. I was stating a fact—which is that I am neither a widow nor a divorcée.”
The bearded man looked at her with quiet admiration, then turned to Andrew.
“Are you aware, Andrew,” he said, “that your mother is one of the most interesting women in London?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good for you. It’s the kind of perception I would expect from her son. As for you, Miss Tillett, may I inform you that though the theatre is not my usual sphere of activity, I have asked to be allowed to review your play tomorrow night.”
“I’m flattered, though I’m afraid your talent will be wasted. Mr. Howard, the playwright, is not exactly Ibsen.”
“My talents will not be wasted because I expect yours to be conspicuous. As for the play, I doubt that you will find one worthy of you till I write it myself.”
“And will that be soon?”
“Now that I have found my heroine, a true ‘new woman,’ it may be. Good night—and good luck tomorrow night.” Bowing, he went on.
“Do you have a good memory, Andrew?” asked Verna.
“Fairly good.”
“Then remember this moment. For you have just met the cleverest man in London, probably in England.”
“Mr. Shaw?”
“George Bernard Shaw.”
“And he writes about the theatre?”
“He hasn’t so far. He has written brilliant art and music criticism for the Star and the World, but we’ve talked about the theatre several times and I’m fascinated by the thought that he’s going to review my play. Because I’m convinced that it’s in the theatre that he’s going to make his name.”
Andrew nodded. He had liked Mr. Shaw, who had treated him like an adult. But what he had liked most about him was his obvious and sincere admiration of Verna; admiration that Andrew shared. For how many women were there who, without explanation or embarrassment, would insist on making it clear that they were not and never had been married?
Not that Andrew had always been so understanding. When he had first heard the story of his father’s death, it had created serious problems for him and he had had even more serious difficulties in accepting the fact of his illegitimacy. But, in the end, he had accepted it, and that was one of the reasons he and his mother were now so close. However, that was also the reason he had no close friends at school. He not only felt he was different from most boys his age, he found that many of his ideas were different from theirs. For instance, he did not mind espousing unpopular causes and on most issues he sided with the underdog. If he had been less secure, less bright in his studies and less of a cricket player, all this would have made him seem like a very odd fish indeed. But, as it was, it made him all the more interesting to the other boys and to the masters.
By the time they had finished their strawberries, the excitement and fatigue of the long day had begun to catch up with Andrew. Verna noticed it, called for the bill, and they left. Fred, waiting outside in Maiden Lane, drove them home, and Matson let them in. By that time Andrew had recovered somewhat and insisted that he would like to stay up and talk, but now Verna claimed that she was tired—she had a long and difficult day ahead of her—and so they said good night. Andrew fell asleep almost immediately. He woke once during the night, wondering what time it was, heard the grandfather clock out on the landing strike two and prepared to go to sleep again when he heard something else: a faint but clear whistle somewhere outside, probably near where the wall of Three Oaks abutted on their garden. He had a
feeling that perhaps he should get up, see who was whistling and why, but before he could do so he fell asleep again.
3
The Denham Diamonds
Andrew had breakfast alone the next morning, helping himself to bacon and eggs from the silver dishes on the buffet and eating at the round table that overlooked the garden. He was feeling very adult and worldly, for the morning paper, neatly folded, had been put next to his place, and though he never looked at it at other times, he was reading it when Sara came in.
“Good morning,” he said. “Had breakfast?”
“Hours ago with mum.” She didn’t come any closer, stood just inside the doorway, looking at him oddly.
“Anything wrong?”
“No. It’s just that I’ve only seen grown-ups read the paper before this. My father used to when he was still alive. And Matson and Fred do here.”
“If Fred reads anything, it’s the racing results. But I’m sure my mother reads it, too.”
“I guess she does. Mum puts The Times on the tray when Annie takes it up to her. But since she always has breakfast in her room”… She edged closer to the table. “Is there anything in it?”
“Lot’s of things. But,” he nodded toward the article he had been reading, “this is particularly interesting.”
“What is it?”
“A story about that missing girl Constable Wyatt told us about yesterday.”
“Read it to me.”
“Come on, Sara. You can read it yourself. Mother tells me you’re doing very well in school.”
“All right. Let’s see.”
She took the paper and looked at the story he had indicated. It was captioned Missing Girl Traced to St. John’s Wood.
“A spokesman for the Metropolitan Police has announced that Lily Snyder, missing since Monday, has been traced to St. John’s Wood. A cabman has been found who remembers taking her to Wellington Road and St. John’s Wood High Street at about six o’clock in the evening. It is possible that she made other visits to the vicinity for another cab driver has informed the police that he took a woman answering to her description to the same area about a week before. Miss Snyder, twenty-one years old, brown-haired and attractive, worked as a waitress at the Cafe de Paris in Leicester Square and also occasionally posed for artists as a model. Though most of London’s best known painters and sculptors live in Chelsea, a few live in St. John’s Wood.
The Case of the Vanishing Corpse Page 2