“You’re sure you want to do this?” Andrew asked.
“Yes.”
“Stretch out on this, then.” He pulled over the old blanket they had brought up earlier. Sara made herself comfortable, folding one end of the blanket over as a pillow while Andrew sat down next to the window.
“You didn’t see anything at all during your watch?”
“Nothing important. A man came by and gave Beasley a cup of coffee or tea.”
“Sean?”
“No. A small man wearing a bowler. He went on up the street.”
“He probably lives somewhere around here.”
“Probably. Do you think something’s going to happen, Andrew?”
“I don’t know. Wyatt must think so or he wouldn’t have asked Beasley to keep an eye out. But that doesn’t mean it’ll happen tonight.”
“I know.” She was quiet for several minutes. “Do you remember that book you read to me when you first stayed with us at Dingell’s Court—Sam’s book?”
“That penny-dreadful, The Boy Detective?”
“Yes. Well, in a way, that’s what we are now, isn’t it?”
He smiled. “You mean the boy and the girl detective?”
“Are there such things as girl detectives—lady detectives?”
“I’ve never heard of any, but I’m sure there will be some day—if any ladies want to be detectives.”
“I’d rather be an actress like your mother. But I’d like to help Peter Wyatt become one. And I’d like to do Finch in the eye by finding that body he says we didn’t see. And most of all, I’d like to get back those diamonds that were taken from your mum.”
“I’d like all that too, particularly helping Wyatt. It doesn’t seem right that he shouldn’t be able to become a detective when it’s what he wants to do.”
“Especially when we know he’d be a very good one. Because I think he would be, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.”
He thought about that; about what made people decide what they wanted to do or be. In most cases there wasn’t much choice. Take the two boys he’d travelled down from school with. Bragaw was going to be a barrister because that’s what his father was. And Chadwick thought he’d go into the diplomatic service because his father was in the Foreign Office. Which made Andrew admire Wyatt all the more for refusing to go into the army like his father and brothers, partly because he wanted to be a detective and partly because he was determined to be his own man.
He started to say something about this to Sara, noticed that her eyes were closing. She forced them open, looked at him without really seeing him, then turned on her side and fell fast asleep. Andrew looked at her thoughtfully, decided it was better to let her sleep where she was than wake her and get her down to her own room. Making himself comfortable, he settled down to his watch.
There was, he discovered, a big difference between what he had been able to see that morning and what he could see now. That morning he had not only been able to see all of Three Oaks from the house to the surrounding wall, he had been able to distinguish most of its physical features; tell the fruit trees from the shade trees, the formal flower beds from the rock garden. Now all he could see were darker or less dark masses, with the house, faintly visible against the sky, the darkest mass of all. Rysdale Road was a little better; the streetlight just beyond Beasley’s shelter on the far side of the street and another one farther up the road on the near side helped illuminate it. This could well be important, but at the moment, it didn’t matter very much because there was no sign of movement in the part he could see: no hansom or four-wheeler went either up it or down it nor were there any belated pedestrians.
Andrew tried to divide his time equally between the grounds and the street outside, watching one for a while, then switching to the other. The night was still as well as dark. Not a leaf stirred either inside or outside Three Oaks and the only sound was Sara’s regular, quiet breathing. Time passed. And suddenly he realized he had been looking at one tree for some time—looking at it but not really seeing it—and he also realized that his eyes were starting to close as Sara’s had. He shook his head to clear it. He mustn’t fall asleep now—he couldn’t! He started reciting poetry to himself—all the poems he could remember—to help keep awake. He ran through several ballads and was on Kubla Khan, one of his favorites, when his eyes closed again.
He did not know how long he slept or what woke him—possibly the chime on the church clock because, as he opened his eyes, he heard the grandfather clock, which was a minute or two slow, striking on the landing two floors below him. It seemed to have struck only once. Did that mean it was one o’clock? Or was it a quarter after one or two or even three?
He turned to look at Sara. She had not moved, was lying on her side, eyes closed, breathing softly and regularly. He looked out the window again—at Three Oaks first—and stiffened. There was a change here, possibly a significant one. A light was on now in one of the bedrooms. Of course, he did not know how long it had been on or what it meant. Possibly someone had awakened and, unable to fall asleep again, had lit one of the gas jets. On the other hand …
No! It was more than that—it had to be—for there were now two more lights! They were rather faint and while one of them was stationary, the other was moving slowly down through the grounds toward it. Andrew watched them for a moment, then shook Sara gently. Her eyes opened. She looked at him, around the dark attic, then sat up.
“What is it?” she whispered.
He nodded toward the window, and she moved closer to him and looked out.
“Lights,” she said. “I don’t know where that one is, but the other’s coming down from the house.”
“I think the first one’s somewhere near the greenhouse,” said Andrew.
She studied the stationary light. “I think you’re right. But who can they be and what are they doing?”
“I don’t know who, but they’re obviously meeting. There!”
The moving light reached the other, then they both went out.
“Now what?” asked Sara.
“They’re together.”
“I know. I meant, what do we do?”
“There’s nothing we can do except wait, see if we can find out who it is and what they’re up to.”
Sara sighed. “I wish it weren’t so dark—that the moon was out—then we’d be able to see something.”
Andrew didn’t answer. They waited, they could not tell for how long—ten minutes, fifteen?
“I’m afraid …” began Andrew.
“Sssh!” said Sara.
Then he heard it too—the clop of a horse’s hoofs. They looked toward the street. A dray was moving slowly up it from Wellington Road. The driver was a small man wearing a broken peaked cap, and sitting next to him was a woman wrapped in a shawl, who appeared to be elderly and grey-haired. They only caught a glimpse of them, then the dray had gone by and all they could see was the canvas top that covered its back, the lantern and feed bag that hung from the rear axle.
“Strange,” said Andrew, frowning. “I’ve a feeling I’ve seen that woman before, but I don’t know where.”
“That’s not all that’s strange,” said Sara. “What’s she doing riding on a dray at this time of night? And what’s a dray doing around here anyway?”
“You’re right,” said Andrew.
They stared after the dray. They could no longer see it, but they could hear the slow plod of the horse’s hoofs, the squeak of one ungreased wheel. Then suddenly there was silence.
“It stopped,” said Sara. Her eyes widened. “Andrew, do you think it can have anything to do with what’s going on inside there?”
“Maybe. It stopped somewhere this side of the gate.”
They looked back inside Three Oaks. They could still see nothing, but suddenly, for the first time, they heard something; the sound of footsteps on gravel. The two, whoever they were, had come down to the walk just inside the wall. Then, with no warning, a light flashed
, moved over the shrubbery to the wall, then disappeared again. (They realized later that the two night-walkers must have been carrying bull’s-eye lanterns, opened, then closed the shutters.) In that momentary gleam of light they could not see the mysterious two, but they could see why they had been moving so slowly and carefully. They were carrying something; a rectangular black wooden box more than six feet long.
“A coffin!” said Andrew. “I think … Brother Ibrahim’s coffin!”
“You know what’s in it, don’t you?” said Sara. “A China orange to all of Lombard Street it’s the stiff that disappeared!”
“Probably. And now they’re going to get rid of it. That’s what the dray’s waiting for!”
“Do you think Beasley knows?”
“He must!”
“Then where is he?”
“In the shelter. That’s why they put it up, so he could keep out of sight. What do you expect him to do, dance a war dance in the middle of Rysdale Road?”
“No, but … suppose he fell asleep?”
“I guess he could. I did myself a little while ago. Perhaps we should go see.”
Sara nodded, and they lifted the trapdoor, hurried down the ladder and the stairs. When they were on the floor below, Andrew, remembering how he’d gone looking for a policeman in his slippers, said, “This time I’m going to get dressed.”
“Is there time?”
“They still have to get the coffin over the wall.”
“Then I’ll get dressed, too. Meet you downstairs.”
Andrew ran into his room, pulled his shirt and trousers on over his pajamas, stepped into his boots, and then was on his way downstairs. He had just opened the front door when Sara came down. They ran down the driveway together, paused when they came to the street, looking to the left. The dray was still there, just past the streetlight. They ran across the street on tiptoe, pulled aside the tarpaulin that covered the entrance and froze. Beasley was leaning back in his chair, mouth open and eyes closed, snoring like a laboring locomotive.
“He is asleep!” said Sara. She took him by the arm and shook him violently. “Baron, wake up!”
Beasley didn’t move. His eyes didn’t open, and there was no change in the timbre of his snoring.
“Baron!” said Sara, shaking him even harder. Eyes still closed, Beasley slid off the chair to the floor, continued snoring. Sara looked down at him with shocked amazement, then looked at Andrew. “What’s wrong with him?”
Andrew picked up a thick china mug from the crate next to the chair, looked into it, smelled it and grimaced.
“He’s not asleep,” he said. “He’s been drugged.”
10
The Chase
“Who drugged him?” asked Sara.
“Someone who didn’t want him to see what we saw—what’s going on now. Didn’t you say a man in a bowler brought him a cup of coffee or tea?”
“Yes. What shall we do? Get the police?”
“We don’t have the time. Besides, even if we found a constable right away, he probably wouldn’t believe us.”
“No. Wyatt’s the only one who would, and …”
“I’m going to get him.”
“Wyatt? He’s not supposed to leave the section-house.”
“When he hears what’s happening, he will.”
“But you said yourself we don’t have much time, and he’s all the way over on Wellington Road.”
“I said I’d get him, and I will. Can you see the dray from here?”
Sara found a crack in the wooden sides of the shelter and peered out.
“Yes.”
“Good. Then stay here and keep your eye on it. If we’re not back in time, see which way it goes. But don’t do anything foolish!”
“I won’t.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He squeezed her arm, lifted the tarpaulin and peered out. The dray was some distance up the street and the man and woman on the box could not see him, but he was still careful. He crouched low as he ran across the road to the driveway, kept to the grass as he went up toward the house, then cut around behind it to the stable. He slid the stable door open as quietly as he could. A lantern hung from an overhead beam, and he knew where Fred kept the matches. He struck one, lit the lantern. The bay carriage horses were in the first two stalls, the grey hunter in the third. All three of them looked at him. He ran back to the hunter, untied his halter and backed him out. The grey nuzzled him, looking for the carrot or apple that Andrew usually gave him.
“Later,” said Andrew softly.
He took down the bridle, took off the halter, slipped the bit into the grey’s mouth and buckled it. His first thought had been to have Fred take him over to the section-house. But when he thought of having to wake him, explain where he wanted to go and why, he knew it was impossible. The one thing he wasn’t sure about was whether he’d have trouble putting a bridle on the hunter. He didn’t—and he wasn’t going to bother with a saddle—so that was that.
He turned the horse, but as he started to lead him out, there was a sudden thump in the room above the stable where Fred slept and the door at the top of the stairs opened.
“Wazzat?” asked Fred, still half-asleep. “Who’s that down there?”
“It’s all right, Fred. It’s me, Andrew. I’m taking the hunter.”
“You’re what?”
“Taking the hunter.” He climbed on to a box and from there onto the hunter’s back. “I’ll explain later.”
“Are you off your everlasting chump?” Fred, in night cap and night shirt, started down the stairs. Then as Andrew shook the reins and cantered out of the stable, “Hi! Come back here!”
Anxious to make as little noise as possible, Andrew held the grey in and rode across the lawn instead of down the driveway. Reaching Rysdale Road, he turned right and continued to hold him in until he was some distance up the street. Then, leaning forward, he gave the horse his head, urging him on. The grey, always eager for a run, went into a long-striding canter and then into a gallop. Andrew found that there was a big difference between riding bareback when the horse was walking in the yard and when he was galloping up the street. But gripping with his knees, he not only stayed on but began to enjoy himself. It was very exciting to be racing up Rysdale Road at night like one of the Indians in the Wild West Show, especially when it was on such an important mission.
Reaching Wellington Road, he turned right. He had seen no one so far, saw no one now as he rode north on Wellington Road; no pedestrians, hansoms, growlers or carriages. There were no lights on in either the police station or the section-house. Riding into the garden next to the section-house, Andrew pulled up, slipped off the hunter’s back and, tying him to the bird bath, picked up a handful of gravel and threw it at the middle, second-floor window; the one at which he and Sara had seen Wyatt.
For a moment nothing happened. He had thought ahead this far, but no farther. What would he do if he couldn’t wake Wyatt or if he had been sent somewhere else and was no longer there? Should he go into the section-house and wake someone else? If he felt he didn’t have time enough to tell Fred where he wanted to go and why, what chance did he have of getting a suddenly awakened policeman to come back to Rysdale Road with him before the dray left? Then the window opened, and Wyatt was looking out.
“You!” he said, surprised. “What’s up?”
“Something going on at Three Oaks.”
“Oh?” Though he had been surprised to see Andrew there, he did not seem surprised at that. “Be with you in a minute.”
He left the window open, disappeared. He had apparently been sleeping in his shirt and trousers. A moment later a rope came flying out, and Wyatt, fully dressed, followed it and slid down the rope to the ground.
“Will your horse carry double?” he asked.
“I think so.”
“All right. Up you get.” He lifted Andrew on to the grey’s back, swung up behind him. “Keep to a canter—I don’t know if
I can stay on in a gallop—and tell me about it as we go.”
Andrew turned the hunter, shook the reins and as he went back down Wellington Road at a slow, rocking canter, he told Wyatt everything that had happened, everything he and Sara had seen. Holding onto him, Wyatt listened quietly, asked only one question.
“You’re sure that Beasley was drugged? That he wasn’t hurt?”
“Fairly sure. There was some white powder left in his cup, and he seemed to be in a deep, heavy sleep.”
“Good. Poor Baron. None of this was his dish. But it certainly seems to be yours. I don’t know what I’d have done without you and Sara.”
Andrew flushed with pleasure. “We haven’t gotten anybody yet, either the murderer or the thief who stole all the jewels.”
“No, we haven’t. But if we do, it will be in large part because of the two of you.”
“Is it the same person—the murderer and the thief?”
“In a way, yes. And in a way, no. One man—the man who committed the murder—is responsible for everything that happened even though he didn’t do all the stealing.”
“And you know who he is?”
“I’m not sure I can prove it, but I think so.” They had turned into Rysdale Road now, were cantering up it. “Easy now. Where’s the dray?”
“Up ahead there.”
“Where?”
Andrew peered through the darkness towards the distant streetlight.
“It’s gone!” he said. “We’re too late.”
“I was afraid of that,” said Wyatt. “I’m sure no one could have been quicker than you, but you not only had to get the horse, you had a long way to go after that. But Sara should at least be able to tell us which way they went. She’s in the shelter?”
“Yes,” said Andrew unhappily.
Wyatt dismounted, lifted the tarpaulin and looked into the shelter.
“No, she’s not. She’s gone too.”
“What?” Andrew jumped off the hunter and looked into the shelter also. Beasley, breathing heavily, lay on the ground where Andrew had last seen him, but there was no sign of Sara.
The Case of the Vanishing Corpse Page 12