Wyatt had appeared at the window again with something in his hand. He opened the window, glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then tossed it out. Andrew caught it one-handed and saw that it was a cake of Pears Soap with a note wrapped around it. The note was addressed to Beasley, and Andrew gave it to him, looked up at the window again. Wyatt nodded his approval, shook a clenched fist, which probably indicated urgency, then closed the window and disappeared.
Meanwhile Beasley had unfolded the note. Both sides of the paper were covered with small, meticulous writing and as Beasley read it, he groaned.
“What is it?” asked Sara. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” said Beasley, still reading. “Except that I wish I’d never gotten mixed-up with him. What does he think I am, anyway?”
“A friend,” said Andrew.
“If I were half a dozen friends, I don’t know how I’d be able to do all this,” said Beasley, turning the note over.
“Anything we can do to help?” asked Sara.
“No,” said Beasley. He turned back to the beginning of the note, then looked at them. “Are you far from home?”
“About a ten minute walk,” said Andrew.
“Then I’ll leave you here. I’d better get cracking.” And he hurried to the waiting four-wheeler. “The nearest post office,” he said, opening the door. “As quick as you can.” He slammed the door, and the growler moved off into the traffic of Wellington Road.
Andrew and Sara watched him go.
“At least he might have told us what was in the note,” said Sara.
“It was a pretty long one,” said Andrew. “He must have had a lot of things to do.”
“I know. Do you think we’ll ever find out what was in it?”
“I expect so. Some day.”
They walked home feeling, not just let down, but very much out of things. Verna was in her room, but when she heard them come in, she came down.
“You’ve been gone for quite a while,” she said. “Were you over at Three Oaks all this time?”
“No,” said Andrew. “We went to Portobello Road and then the police station on Wellington Road.”
“Oh? What happened?”
They told her, not just what had happened at Three Oaks—the conflict between Wyatt and Finch and its result—but everything that had happened since. She was as good an audience as she was a performer and she listened intently but did not interrupt.
“You’ve no idea what Wyatt wanted this Beasley chap to do?” she asked.
“No. Though one of them was probably to send a telegram. That’s why he went to the post office.”
“Do you think it’s concerned with the robberies and the murder, or the predicament he’s in?”
“The robberies and the murder,” said Sara. “I think he knows or has figured out a lot more than he’s told anyone, and the chief reason he’s upset at what’s happened to him is that it’s keeping him from working on the case.”
“And that’s why you’re upset too, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” asked Andrew.
“He gave Beasley things to do, but not you. At least, not after you brought Beasley over there. However, I think that was very responsible of him. After all, it’s not a game anymore. It’s a very serious business, and you shouldn’t be involved. As for those so-called charges against Wyatt, let’s wait a few days and see what develops. If Finch has any sense, he’ll forget about them. But if he doesn’t, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Do you really think you can do something?” asked Andrew.
Verna shrugged. “One never knows till one tries. But since you won’t be able to play detective, what are your plans for the afternoon?”
“I said something about taking Sara boating in Regent’s Park.”
“Splendid idea. It’ll not only keep you out in the air, it’ll keep your mind off other things.”
Sara and Andrew looked at her to see if she was teasing them—which they wouldn’t have liked—but, as was often the case with her, it was impossible to tell.
As was also often the case, there was a good deal in what Verna said. They did go to Regent’s Park, and since Andrew handled a boat well and it was a beautiful day, they had a very good time. That, however, did not keep them from talking about Wyatt and wondering if they’d hear from him or Beasley. But there was no word from either of them that afternoon or that night.
Andrew first heard the sound of digging during breakfast the next morning, but he paid no attention to it. The streets of London were always being dug up for drains, gas mains, sewers, water pipes or, on a larger scale, for the Underground. But when he and Sara left the house later that morning they saw that the excavation was just up the road from their house and across the street from Three Oaks. That still meant nothing to them. They had decided that they would walk over to the section-house and see if they could catch a glimpse of Wyatt. perhaps even talk to him. But though they waited outside for some time, there was no sign of him. When they returned to the house, they saw that some drain pipes had been delivered to the site of the excavation and that the two men who had been working there were putting up a fairly elaborate shelter with wooden sides and a canvas roof. Even this did not strike Andrew as strange, for though the excavation was still small, if it became large enough to require a watchman, why shouldn’t he be protected from the weather?
Suddenly Andrew paused, and at that same moment, Sara, who was walking next to him, stopped also. One of the two men was of medium height but powerfully built, a typical navvy. The other was taller, slim and had red hair. Andrew and Sara looked at one another. They had both recognized him at the same time. He was Beasley’s young shop assistant, Sean.
They walked toward him slowly. The navvy had picked up his shovel and was beginning to dig again. Sean drove a last nail into the shelter, then he saw them. His eyes widened, and he glanced at his companion. Then, looking at them again, he frowned and shook his head. The message was clear: go away, don’t talk to me. Without a word they crossed the street and walked back toward the house.
“What’s that all about?” asked Sara.
“I don’t know,” said Andrew. “At least, I’m not sure.”
“It must have something to do with Wyatt’s message to Beasley. I mean, Sean does work with him.”
“Yes, he does.”
That afternoon Verna took them to see Maskelyne and Cooke’s Magic Show, which included some splendid conjuring and illusions like The Talking Head and The Disappearing Woman. Sara was one of those who accepted Maskelyne’s invitation to come up on to the stage and see for themselves that there was no trickery involved when he levitated his female assistant and made her float in midair. And that, of course, made it an even more memorable occasion for Sara.
Verna was having dinner with Mr. Harrison, the theatre manager, and she sent Sara and Andrew home with Fred. After supper they played some parcheesi, but about eight thirty Andrew said, “I’d like some air. Do you feel like a walk?”
Sara looked at him, at her mother who was doing some mending while she watched them play, and said, “Yes, I would.”
“It’ll be dark soon,” said Mrs. Wiggins. “Don’t stay out too long.”
“We won’t, Mum,” said Sara.
They went down the driveway, paused when they reached Rysdale Road.
“Where would you like to walk?” asked Andrew.
“Stop that,” said Sara. “You know very well where.”
He grinned, and together they crossed the street and walked toward the excavation. There had been no sign of activity there when they came home, and though all was still quiet now, there was a strong smell of tobacco in the air. Andrew lifted one side of the tarpaulin that served as a door for the shelter and there, sitting back in a comfortable chair and smoking a large cigar, was Beasley. Instead of his green velvet jacket, he now wore an old and ragged suit, a collarless shirt and a battered, broken-brimmed billycock hat.
“We though
t we’d find you here,” said Andrew.
“Did you?”
“Yes,” said Sara. “What’s the game?”
“Go away,” said Beasley.
“That’s what Sean wanted us to do this morning,” said Andrew. “Go away and not ask questions. Well, we’re not going until you tell us what you’re doing.”
“I’m not doing anything,” said Beasley. “Business at the shop’s been bad. That’s why I took this job here.”
“What job?” asked Sara.
“Night watchman. Nothing wrong with that, is there? Or strange or mysterious?”
“No,” said Andrew. “Though I’d like to know what you’re watching.”
Beasley, who had been lounging back in his chair, leaned forward.
“Is Wyatt a friend of yours?” he asked. “Do you want to help him?”
“Yes,” said Andrew.
“Then go away and stay away! Don’t come back here and stop asking questions!”
“Righto, mate,” said Sara. “You’ve told us what we wanted to know.” And she and Andrew backed out and let the tarpaulin fall back into place again.
“It’s Three Oaks he’s watching, isn’t it?” asked Sara.
“It must be,” said Andrew. “No matter what Finch thought, Wyatt thinks there’s something funny going on there, so he asked Beasley to keep an eye on it for him.”
“I wonder what he expects to happen.”
“I don’t know, but it means he hasn’t given up. That even though he can’t leave the section-house, he’s still thinking about the case, trying to do something about it.”
“I wish we could help him.”
“So do I, but you heard what Beasley said. That if we did want to help we should stay away.”
“Yes,” said Sara without much enthusiasm or conviction.
Andrew had a strange dream that night. He dreamed that he and Sara were at the Olympia again; not with Wyatt but alone, and not in the amphitheatre but in one of the corridors outside. A performance was in progress—they could hear the music of the band, the thunder of galloping hoofs and the applause of the crowd—but they couldn’t go in. Instead they kept wandering unhappily up one dismal corridor and down another with the conviction that there was something they should be doing—something very important—but with no idea of what it was.
It was while he was dressing the next morning that the answer came to him. He hurried downstairs, found that early as it was Sara had already had breakfast with her mother. She followed him into the breakfast room, however, and when they were alone and the door was carefully closed, Andrew said, “I’ve been thinking. We’re pretty sure that the reason Sean and Beasley are up the street, posing as a navvy and a night watchman, is that they want to watch Three Oaks.” Sara nodded. “Beasley told us if we want to help we should stay away, so we will. But there’s no reason why we shouldn’t watch too—from here. I can see part of the grounds from my room, so if we go up higher, we should be able to see even more.”
Sara’s face lit up. “I know just the place.”
“Where?”
“Finish your breakfast and I’ll show you.”
He ate quickly, followed her out and up the stairs. The servants’ rooms were on the top floor but that couldn’t be what she had in mind because they couldn’t watch from one of them without having all sorts of questions asked. And it couldn’t be the box room, which took up the rear half of the top floor, because its only window faced the wrong way, away from Three Oaks.
When they reached the top floor, however, Sara opened a door next to the box room, one that Andrew had always thought led to a closet because Annie kept some of her mops and pails there. Andrew followed her inside, she closed the door, and now he saw that behind the door there was a ladder that led up to a trapdoor in the ceiling.
“What’s up there?” he asked.
“Go up and see.”
He climbed the ladder, lifted the trapdoor and found himself in the space between the ceilings of the servants rooms and the box room and the roof beams. It ran the length of the house from front to back, was about four feet high in the center and lower on the sides where the roof sloped down. The reason Sara had led him there was right in front of him; a dormer window that faced Three Oaks.
“How did you find it?” he asked Sara, who had come up the ladder behind him.
She shrugged. “I had lots of time to explore while you were away at school. What do you think?”
He kneeled down and looked out of the window. From it he could see not only most of the grounds and the house itself but the shelter next to the excavation across the road.
“It’s perfect. We can not only watch Three Oaks, but Beasley too.”
“That’s what I thought. When shall we start?”
“There’s not much point in watching during the day. I don’t think anything will happen then, and besides someone might see us and ask what we’re doing. But we can start tonight.”
“And watch all night?”
“Don’t you think we could if we took turns?”
“Yes. Let’s try anyway.”
They had gone somewhere or done something every day since Andrew had come home—it’s what people expected you to do during a holiday—and they felt they should continue the pattern. After some discussion they went to the British Museum, and even though they had things on their mind, they enjoyed the afternoon; Andrew because he’d only been there once before, and Sara because she’d been there several times with Miss Poole and the girls from her class at school and she liked the idea of going to a place she was more familiar with than he. They spent some time in the Greek Rooms, particularly the one containing the Elgin Marbles, and the rest of the time in the Egyptian Rooms, where they came on a guide who was explaining the importance of the Rosetta Stone to a mixed group of tourists. They had tea in the Refreshment Room opposite the Central Egyptian Saloon and took a bus home.
Beasley took out a cigar, looked at it regretfully, then put it away. Sean had insisted that it was out of character; that if a night watchman smoked anything, it would be an old pipe and had given him the dudeen he’d been smoking during the day. It was next to him now, lying on the crate Beasley used as a table, with a package of cheap shag, but remembering the way it smelled, he decided not to smoke at all for the moment. He got up, pushed aside the tarpaulin and stepped outside.
It was a warm night, overcast and therefore quite dark. The clock on the church on Wellington Road chimed once. That made it a quarter after nine—which meant that most of the night was still ahead of him. He groaned softly, wishing he’d never met Peter Wyatt. There were footsteps behind him. He turned, and by the yellow glow of the gaslight further up the street, he saw a small, clean-shaven, neatly dressed man in a bowler coming towards him.
“Good evening,” said the man.
“Evening.”
“Nice night.”
“Nice enough. But warm.”
“It is that. My name’s Potter. I’m Mr. Fulton’s man.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Fulton.” He nodded towards the villa just up the street. “It’s our drain you’re replacing. At least … isn’t it?”
“I’d be the last to know, mate.”
“How’s that?”
“Because that’s the way it is. Young Alf, who took my niece Maggie for better or worse, he’s the contractor, see? He stops by and says, ‘Unk, I got a job for you. Be at Rysdale Road at seven tonight.’ So up I toddle and there’s the job and I know what I gotta do—keep an eye on things—but who it’s for I never know.”
“I see. I wondered because it all seemed very casual. I’m on my way to The Red Lion, our local. This is a very safe neighborhood and I’m sure if you were to slip away, come there with me for a while …”
“Couldn’t,” said Beasley. “Thanks, but t’wouldn’t be right.”
“I must say that’s very responsible of you. I don’t expect to stay very long—I’ll just have a pint or two. Can I b
ring you anything on my way back?”
A pint. Beasley was always as thirsty as he was hungry, and his adam’s apple did a quick up and down at the thought of a cool pint. But …
“Much obleeged,” he said. “But I’d better not. I have enough trouble staying awake as it is. And since this is only my second night here and Alfie could stop by to check up on me …”
“I understand,” said Potter. “But that’s easy. There’s a coffee stall just across the street from the pub. I’d be glad to bring you a cup on my way home.”
“That’s something I wouldn’t say no to.”
“I’ll see you later, then, a little before closing time.” And with a nod and a smile he walked off toward Wellington Road.
Sara woke Andrew at about twelve thirty. Since Verna usually looked in on Andrew when she came home from the theatre, sat and talked to him for a few minutes if he was awake, they thought it would be best if Sara took the first watch. Andrew had gone up with her, stayed until a little after ten, then gone down again so as to be certain he was in his room when Verna came home. He was sure he wouldn’t sleep—he was much too excited—just thought it would look better if he were in bed … and the next thing he knew Sara was shaking him.
He sat up with a start, and Sara put her hand over his mouth to keep him from saying anything. When she was sure he was awake, she removed it.
“Is she home?” he whispered.
“She came home about a half-hour ago.”
He got out of bed, put on his robe and slippers, tiptoed to the door and opened it slightly. There was no sign of a light in Verna’s room.
“All right,” he whispered. “I’ll go up. You go to bed.” He started up the stairs, paused when he saw that she was following him. “Where are you going?”
“With you. I’m not sleepy. I’ll stay with you for a while the way you did with me.”
He hesitated, then shrugged and continued up the stairs. Matson’s room was dark also—he must have gone to bed right after he let Verna in—but they were quiet anyway as they crept past it. Andrew had oiled the hinges of the closet door so it opened noiselessly. They went in, up the ladder, and then they were in their eyrie.
The Case of the Vanishing Corpse Page 11