“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.
“Mother, what is it?” he asked.
She pointed to the jewel box, which was open and empty.
“The diamonds,” she said. “The Denham diamonds. I left them here when I took them off—and now they’re gone!”
4
Inspector Finch
Andrew’s problem the next morning was not to see that his mother was not disturbed, but to persuade her to get some rest. Immediately after they discovered that the diamonds were missing, they sent Fred for the police. When he returned, he told them that there was only a sergeant on duty at the Wellington Road police station, but that a detective would be around to the house the first thing in the morning.
The detective turned out to be Inspector Finch, and he arrived, not the first thing in the morning, but about ten o’clock. On the positive side, however—at least as far as Andrew was concerned—the constable with him was Wyatt. Matson had shown them into the front sitting room, and Finch frowned slightly as Andrew came in.
“Good morning,” he said. “You’re Andrew Tillett?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Inspector Finch. I understand your mother’s still asleep.”
“Not asleep, resting. She only got to bed about five thirty. But she’s been told that you’re here, and she should be down shortly.”
“Good. She’s Verna Tillett, the actress?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t suppose you can tell me the circumstances of the robbery.”
“Yes, I can. She was with me when it took place.”
“And you know what was stolen?”
“Yes.”
“Well, perhaps it might save time if you told us about it while we’re waiting for her. Constable, take notes.”
“Yes, I
nspector,” said Wyatt. Standing behind the inspector, he produced a notebook and pencil.
“Wouldn’t it be easier if you sat down, Constable?” asked Andrew.
“Thank you, sir. I’m all right.”
“Of course, he’s all right,” said Finch. “Let’s get on with it.”
As succinctly as he could, Andrew told him everything he knew about the robbery.
“You’re sure about the time?” asked Finch.
“Yes, Inspector. I told you I looked at the clock when I heard my mother come home.”
“And she was with you for how long?”
“You mean before she discovered that the jewels were gone? Not more than ten minutes.”
“Hmm. Will you come outside with us, show us just where her room is?”
“Yes, Inspector.”
Sara had waited outside when Andrew went in to talk to the inspector. Now, seeing her sitting at the foot of the stairs, Finch said, “Who’s this?”
“Sara Wiggins,” said Andrew.
“She lives here?”
“Of course,” said Andrew. More and more irritated by Finch’s manner, he said to Sara, “We’re going outside so I can show the inspector where mother’s room is. Come on along with us.”
Sara stood up. Finch looked as if he were trying to think of some reason why she shouldn’t come, but apparently he wasn’t able to. Matson opened the door, and they went out, down the two steps from the porte-cochere and across the driveway to the front lawn. They turned, looking back at the house, and Andrew pointed up to a corner window.
“That’s one of the windows of her dressing room,” he said. “There’s another just around the corner. The other windows on the front are her bedroom.”
Finch and Wyatt studied the facade of the house. The windows were between twenty and twenty-five feet from the ground. There was nothing near them up which anyone could have climbed—a drain pipe, wisteria or even ivy—and the freshly painted stucco offered no hand or footholds. Above the front windows—and just under those on the third floor—were a pair of small, ornamental iron balconies.
“Whose room is that?” asked Finch, pointing to the third floor.
“I’m not sure,” said Andrew. He looked at Sara. “Matson’s?”
She nodded.
“That’s the butler?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go back in.”
He led the way, Sara and Andrew followed him and Wyatt came last. As Finch started up the steps, he glanced back. Wyatt, lagging behind, was studying the ground near the corner of the house.
“What are you doing, Wyatt?” he asked.
“Nothing, sir.”
“No? Then come along.”
“Yes, sir,” said Wyatt, his face expressionless.
As they entered the house, Matson was coming down the stairs.
“Miss Tillett thought you would like to see the room from which the jewels were stolen,” he said. “She suggested, therefore, that I bring you upstairs.”
“Very good,” said Finch. “Very intelligent of her.”
Gravely, Matson went back upstairs, knocked at the door of Verna’s dressing room and, when she responded, opened it and announced Finch. Verna, wearing a blouse and skirt and looking pale and upset, held out her hand.
“Sorry that it is under such unfortunate circumstances,” said Finch bowing over it, “but still delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“You’re very kind,” she said. She looked at Wyatt, who had taken off his helmet and was standing at the door with it under his arm. “And who is your colleague?”
“Hmm? Oh, he’s not my colleague. That’s just Constable Wyatt. May I look around?”
“That’s why I suggested you come up here.”
She watched as he went to the window, looked out, then examined the jewel case on the dressing table.
“The diamonds were in here?”
“Yes.”
“Was it locked?”
“No. I merely dropped the diamonds into it when I went into my son’s room. I wasn’t in there more than ten minutes.”
“So your son said. He also said that the diamonds were not yours.”
“No. They were lent to me by Hunt and Roskell, who had made the copies of them for me to wear in the play.”
“How many people knew that the diamonds you wore last night were real, not copies?”
“Well, Mr. Jenkins of Hunt and Roskell. And Mr. Harrison, the theatre manager, who had arranged for it …”
“I meant, how many people here in the house?”
“Only my son and Sara.”
“Sara?”
“Sara Wiggins, my housekeeper’s daughter.”
“Oh,” Finch turned and looked at Sara, who stood in the doorway next to Andrew. “Your son said she lived here, but he didn’t say who she was. Your butler didn’t know?”
“No. I told you, only Sara and my son. I didn’t even want Mrs. Wiggins to know because I was afraid it would worry her.”
“Why would it worry her?”
“Because she’s that kind of person. She worries about anything that concerns me or the house.”
“I see. I’d like to talk to her, to the other members of your staff. May I?”
“I suppose so. But why?”
“They may have seen or heard something.”
“If they had, they would have told me, but go ahead.”
“Thank you.” He bowed to her, jerked his head at Wyatt and went out. Wyatt followed, and, after a glance at Andrew, Sara followed Wyatt.
“I wish you weren’t so upset about this,” said Andrew.
“So do I.”
“But you said you weren’t going to worry about the stupid diamonds. You said you didn’t want to wear them or even have them here.”
“I know. But once I agreed to, it seems to me I accepted responsibility for them. I shouldn’t have left them alone.”
“For ten minutes in your own home?”
“It does seem odd, doesn’t it?”
“Very.” He looked at the chair next to her dressing table. “Is that today’s paper?”
“Yes. Matson brought it up just a few minutes ago.”
“Is there a review of the play in it?”
“Yes.”
“Good?”
“Quite good.” She handed him the paper. It was open to the review, and he read it quickly. To say it was good was an understatement. It was extremely enthusiastic, particularly about her performance.
The play is well made and would probably be dramatic and moving no matter how it was cast,” said the last paragraph. “But with Miss Verna Tillett playing the squire’s daughter it becomes an unforgettable experience. We are, of course, familiar with Miss Tillett’s comic gifts, but we are in Mr. Harrison’s debt for giving us an opportunity to see her in a dramatic role in which she gives one of the most brilliant performances it has been our pleasure to witness in many years.
“But that’s wonderful, mother!”
“I’m pleased with it. Now if the others are anything like that …”
“They will be, won’t they?”
“I suspect so. Walker is the most austere critic in London, and if he liked it, I’m fairly sure the others will.”
“I’m glad. I know you’ve been anxious about it.”
“Yes, I was. And I’d be very happy today if it wasn’t for this other thing—the robbery.”
“I know. Are you coming downstairs?”
“You mean while the inspector questions the staff? No. He’s wasting his time and theirs. I spoke to them myself, and none of them knows anything about what happened. They were all asleep except Matson, and he had just gone up to his room.”
“I imagine the inspector has got to question everyone. Do you mind if I go down?”
“No. But I can’t think why …” Then, with a smile, “How silly of me. Of course you’d be interested. Not that the inspector is a Sherlock Holmes.”
“No, he isn�
�t. But I’d still like to see how he goes about things.”
“Naturally. Well, run along, darling, and perhaps I’ll come down later.”
What Verna didn’t seem to realize was that even though Holmes had nothing to do with the case, it was just as interesting to Andrew as the previous one, since the crime had not only taken place in his own house but had involved jewels for which his mother felt responsible.
When Andrew got downstairs, he found Sara on the bench outside the sitting room. Finch had left the door open and glancing inside, Andrew saw Wyatt sitting at a boule table, taking notes.
“Matson’s in there with him,” whispered Sara, making room for him. “He’s just started talking to him.”
“How long have you been here?” asked Finch.
“About eight months,” said Matson.
“And where were you before that?”
“Lord Gower’s in Montrose Place. I was his butler for fourteen years—until he died last September.”
“Was this the Lord Gower whose horse won the Derby two years ago?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, well,” said Finch as if that settled that. “Will you tell me again what you remember of last night?”
“Yes, Inspector. As I told you, Miss Tillett came home at a little after three. I let her in, and she went up to her room …”
“She was wearing the jewels at the time?”
“Yes, inspector. A tiara, diamond necklace and earrings. I locked up—”
“When you say you locked up, you mean you locked the front door, don’t you?”
“Yes, Inspector. I had already locked the rear door and made certain of the windows. Then I went up to my room. As I went past Mr. Andrew’s room, I saw that the light was on and heard voices so I knew Miss Tillett was in there, talking to him. I reached my room and had just taken off my jacket when I heard Miss Tillett cry out. I hurried down to her room, and she told me that the jewels had been stolen.”
“You saw or heard nothing else between the time Miss Tillett went upstairs and the time she cried out?”
“No, Inspector.”
“Well, that’s all very clear. Thank you. Now will you send in the housekeeper … What’s her name—Wiggins?”
The Case of the Vanishing Corpse Page 4