“You’ve no idea where she might have gone?” asked Wyatt.
“No. She promised she’d stay here, wouldn’t do anything foolish.”
“Well, it’s my impression that she’s a pretty levelheaded girl. Do you think she might have gone back to the house?”
“It’s possible, but I don’t think so. I think she’d rather wait here for us than wake anyone in the house.”
Wyatt nodded. “Show me where the dray was waiting.”
Leading the hunter, Andrew went up the street almost to the streetlight.
“It was just about here,” he said. “It—” He broke off. There was a small pile of oats a few feet from the curb and, leading away from it and up the street was a faint, but regular trail.
“Did you happen to notice if there was a bag of oats on the dray?” asked Wyatt.
“Yes. There was a feed bag hanging from the rear axle.”
“Then she either made a hole in it or …” He hesitated.
“Or she climbed on the back and is dropping the oats. And if I know her, that’s what she did. Come on.”
He pulled on the hunter’s reins, but before he could mount there was the sound of horses’ hoofs and wheels on gravel and the landau came rattling down the driveway and out into the road with Fred in the box.
“So there you are,” he said to Andrew as he pulled up. “I wasn’t sure how far I’d have to chase you or what your game was. But now that I see you here …” he said to Wyatt. “What’s up?”
“A very rum go at Three Oaks. A man I think is a murderer came over the wall and went off in a dray. Sara was watching, and we’re fairly sure she hooked a ride on it and is leaving that trail of oats for us.”
“Well, what are you waiting for?” said Fred. “Come on up, then.”
“Right,” said Wyatt, climbing up next to him.
“I’ll ride,” said Andrew, swinging up on to the grey’s back. “I’ll be able to see better that way.” And leaning down as far as he dared, he sent the hunter trotting up the road. Luckily there was still no wind, and even though the streetlights were widely separated, the trail of oats was undisturbed and fairly easy to follow. It turned south at the corner and following it, Andrew looked back and saw the landau coming after him. Since the trail seemed to be going straight ahead, he sat up, putting the hunter into a canter. A few minutes later they reached Prince Albert Road, crossed the Regent’s Canal and turned east on the Outer Circle of Regent’s Park. The streetlights were spaced further apart here and the trail harder to see and follow. Then suddenly it stopped. Andrew reined in the hunter, bent down again, peering through the darkness. He still couldn’t find the trail of oats, and he was about to dismount and search for it on foot when the landau pulled up beside him.
“There it is,” said Wyatt, pointing. “At least … Isn’t that it?”
Andrew looked where he was pointing. There, on the lawn between the Outer Circle and the canal, faintly visible against the gaslights of Prince Albert Road, was the dray. The horse that had pulled it was tied to a bush near the canal and, head down, was grazing peacefully.
“Yes!” said Andrew.
“Wait a minute,” said Wyatt as Andrew turned the hunter. But he didn’t wait, galloped across the lawn to the dray. The dray horse lifted his head and whinnied as Andrew dismounted, then went on grazing.
Holding the hunter’s reins, Andrew saw that his fears were justified. There was no sign of the man who had been driving the dray, of the old woman who had been with him, or—most important—of Sara. He looked into the canvas-covered back of the dray. Nothing. He had been concerned enough, anxious enough before. Now he was really frightened. As he started to walk around to the front of the dray, Wyatt came running up.
“Where’s Sara?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Do you think they found her and took her off someplace?”
“No. We agreed that she was a sensible girl and you say that she promised you that she wouldn’t do anything foolish …”
“And what do you call what she did, hooking a ride on the back of the dray?”
“I’ll admit I’m not too happy about it,” said Wyatt—and Andrew suddenly realized that he was just as worried as Andrew was. “But—”
He broke off as Fred, still sitting in the box of the landau, whistled shrilly and pointed. They turned—and trudging slowly toward them along the edge of the canal, was Sara.
They hurried toward her.
“Are you all right?” asked Andrew.
“What?” said Sara unhappily. “Yes, of course I’m all right. But we lost them. They got away.”
“Who, Sara?” asked Wyatt. “Could you tell?”
“Yes. A small man—the man who gave Beasley the cup of coffee. I didn’t recognize him at first because he wore a bowler then, and a cap when he was driving the dray. And an old woman that Andrew and I both thought looked familiar. And someone else, a man in a cape.”
“You don’t know who he was?”
“No. He had his collar up and a hat pulled down so I couldn’t see his face.”
“Did he come from Three Oaks?”
“Yes. The man on the dray threw a rope over the wall. That’s how they got the coffin out.”
“Brother Ibrahim’s coffin?”
“Yes. Then the man in the cape came over the wall, the three of them put the coffin in the back of the dray, they all got in front and drove off.”
“And you went with them,” said Andrew sternly.
“Well, yes. I kept looking up the street for some sign of you, but there wasn’t any so, when they started, I ran after them and got on behind—I used to do that lots when we lived at Dingell’s Court. At the same time, I grabbed the feed bag and kept dropping handfuls of oats. That’s how you followed us, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Wyatt. “That was very clever of you.”
“Even if it was, what good did it do? I told you, they got away.”
“How, Sara?” asked Andrew.
“There was a tugboat waiting there.” She pointed at the canal. “I jumped off and hid in the bushes when they stopped. They carried the coffin to the tug, got on and went off.”
“Which way?” asked Wyatt.
“That way,” she said, pointing east.
“Did you see the name of the tug, by any chance?”
“Yes. The Harrier of Greenwich.”
“Good work. Come on.” He started back toward the landau. “If we’re lucky, we can still catch them.”
“You really think so?”
“Yes. This was all carefully planned. They’ve undoubtedly made arrangements to board a ship somewhere in the lower Thames—Gravesend or Tilbury. But first they’ve got to get there. We’ll see if we can’t cut them off.”
“Somewhere on the canal?” asked Andrew.
“No. It goes into a tunnel just this side of Islington and we couldn’t get to them. But they’ll come out into the Thames at Limehouse, and we’ll try and catch them somewhere between there and their ship.”
“We’ll need a fast boat for that,” said Sara. “The tug went off like a scalded cat.”
“There aren’t many faster boats on the Thames than a river police launch.”
They were back at the landau, and hearing that, Fred didn’t have to hear any more.
“Is that what we want now?” he asked. “The river police?”
“Yes. Their headquarters is on High Street in Wapping. Do you know where that is?”
“Can a fish swim? Get in.” He looked at Andrew as Sara and Wyatt climbed up into the box with him. “Do you want to tie the hunter on in back and get in too?”
“No. I’ll ride and follow you.”
“That’s what you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it? To ride bareback through London like a naked red Indian. Well, I hope you can stick it because I’m going to be clipping.”
It may or may not have been what Andrew wanted, but it was clear that after having driven the bays sedately for so long, Fred was delighted to have
an excuse to let them out. He cracked his whip over their heads, putting them first into a trot and then into a gallop. Andrew followed, and it was a ride he would never forget, for with half of London to cross, Fred kept up the pace he had set and Andrew was hard-pressed to stay with him.
They went round the Outer Circle, leaving the park after they’d passed St. Katherine’s Hospital and from that point on going always east and south, first heading toward the river along Tottenham Court Road, then going east along High Holborn, clattering over the Holborn Viaduct and along Newgate Street. It was almost five o’clock when they reached St. Paul’s, and in the early morning light Andrew could see the domed bulk of the cathedral to his right as they went by. From Cheapside, Fred cut over to Cannon Street, around the Monument and up Eastcheap and Great Tower Street to Tower Hill, thus avoiding Lower Thames Street and the Billingsgate Market. However, they were close enough to it so that now, for the first time, they began to run into traffic and had to cut around drays, carts and vans, whose drivers looked after them in surprise, hailing them and shouting questions after them, for it was not a common thing to see a landau driven hell-for-leather through the narrow streets of the City at that hour of the morning, especially when it was closely followed by a boy riding bareback.
The horses were laboring a bit when they got to the top of Tower Hill, and Fred eased up a little. By now it was light enough so that Andrew could see the high, crenellated walls of the Tower to his right.
They went around it, past the Royal Mint and then plunged down into a world of docks that was completely strange to Andrew, and through which he could never have found his way, past the vast basin of St. Katherine’s Docks, the wharfs, warehouses and sheds that surrounded it, over to Wapping High Street, which ran alongside the river, finally stopping before a brick building with a green light on each side of the door and a sign over it that said, Headquarters, Thames Police.
“Here y’are,” said Fred, clearly pleased with himself.
“Well done,” said Wyatt, jumping down. “I hope I do half as well.” Then, misquoting slightly, “If you have prayers, prepare to say them now.”
“Why?” asked Sara. “Do you expect to have trouble in there?”
“Yes. The Thames Police are pretty independent anyway, and I’m only a constable. It usually takes an order direct from Scotland Yard to get them to do anything. But we’ll see.” And he hurried into the building.
Andrew, stiff and a little sore from his ride, slipped down off the hunter and stood there for a moment, trying to relax his aching muscles.
“Well, Buffalo Bill, how’s your back?” asked Fred.
“Not too bad.”
“You did pretty well. I wasn’t sure you could stay on, much less keep up with us all that road.”
“Neither was I,” said Andrew. Then to Sara, “Shall we go in too?”
“He didn’t say we shouldn’t.”
“Go ahead,” said Fred. “I’ll watch the horses.”
“Thanks, Fred,” said Andrew, and helping Sara down, they went into the building.
Wyatt was standing in front of the desk, talking to a burly grey-haired man with a walrus mustache, who was looking anything but sympathetic and responsive.
“Who are these two?” he asked when Sara and Andrew came in.
“Friends of mine,” said Wyatt. “They kept watch on the gang we’re after, sent me word when they scarpered.”
“And what are you after this gang for?”
“Robbery and murder.”
“Well, that’s serious enough, but you’re going about it all vicey-versy. You say Inspector Finch is in charge of the case?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the request should come from him. I’ll tell you what. I’ll telegraph the Yard and leave word for him. And when he comes in, he can get back to me, and—”
“But don’t you understand that there’s no time for that?” said Wyatt. “There’s no telling when he’ll get to the Yard, and in the meantime the people we want are on a tug coming down the canal. Once they reach the Thames, we’ll never catch them!”
“I wouldn’t say that. There aren’t many boats on the river that can show their heels to our launches.” It was clear that, in spite of himself, he was becoming intrigued. “Wanted for murder, eh?”
“Yes. And some of the most important robberies we’ve had in years. The Denham diamonds among other things.”
“Oh? We got a flyer on that the other day. Stolen from an actress, weren’t they?”
“Yes. His mother, Verna Tillett,” said Sara, indicating Andrew. “Will you tell me something. Do you think Constable Wyatt’s lying? That there is no gang?”
“Well, no. There’d be no point in his lying about it. But there’s a right and a wrong way to go about these things.”
“And is it the right way to let them get away because we can’t get hold of Finch? I wonder what Superintendent Wendell’s going to say about that.”
“Superintendent Wendell? Is he in on the case, too?”
“He’s very interested in it,” said Wyatt.
The grey-haired man grunted, looked sharply at Wyatt, at Sara and Andrew, then called, “Robbie!”
A younger man, wearing the shiny black boater that was the official headgear of the Thames police, came in and saluted.
“Is there steam up in the launch?” asked the grey-haired man.
“Yes, Inspector.”
“Good. We’re going out. You go ahead with Robbie,” he said to Wyatt. “We won’t wait for Finch, but I think we should notify him.”
“Of course,” said Wyatt. He glanced at Sara and Andrew and said, “Can they come with us? Sara was the one who saw them board the tug, and she’ll be able to recognize it.”
“If you know the name, there shouldn’t be any trick to that, but … since we’re not doing any of this according to Cocker, why not?” and he went off to put a message on the A.B.C. of the official circuit.
“Thanks,” said Andrew to Wyatt.
“You’re a wonder!” said Sara, her eyes bright.
“No, you are,” said Wyatt. “You’re the one who got him to do it. But we’d better tell Fred what’s on.”
They found him tying the hunter to the back of the landau. He listened to what they had to say and nodded.
“I was sure you’d work it somehow. Don’t worry about the hunter. I’ll lead him back. And of course, I’ll tell your two mums where you are and what you’re up to.” He climbed up into the box. “And tally-blooming-ho! Good hunting!”
They went back into headquarters, out a door on the far side and down the slippery wooden steps to the floating dock. The rakish black steam launch with her single tall smokestack was tied there, her engine already throbbing. The constable, Robbie, was forward at the lines, and there was a man below, tending the engine. As they boarded the launch, the grey-haired man with the mustache, Inspector Thatcher, came nimbly down the steps. He was wearing a shiny black hat now too.
“If this is as big a thing as you say,” he said, jumping aboard, “I want to be in on it. All right, Robbie. Cast off.” He took the tiller, and as Robbie cast off the lines he guided the launch away from the dock and out into the stream. “What time did the tug start down the canal?”
“A little before four,” said Wyatt.
“She won’t have reached the river yet, and we haven’t far to go. We’ll be waiting for them when they come out of the basin.”
The sun was rising dead ahead of them, showing the cranes of the West India Docks and the masts and spars of the ships that were tied up there in stark silhouette. Keeping to the middle of the river to take advantage of the current, Thatcher talked to them about what they were seeing. The part of the river they were in now—the section between London Bridge and Limehouse Reach, where the river curves south and then north again around the Isle of Dogs—was called The Pool. Directly below them, deep under the brown, fast-moving water, was the Thames Tunnel that connected Wapping on the east ban
k with Rotherhithe on the south.
He continued with his description as they went downstream, finally pointing to a series of quays to their left and saying, “There we are.”
“Is that the entrance to the canal?” asked Wyatt.
“To the Limehouse Basin, which leads into both the Regent’s Canal and the Limehouse Cut, which connects with the River Lea.”
“Is this the only place the tug can come out then?” asked Sara.
“Well, no,” said the inspector slowly. “They could take the Cut to the Lea and then come down Bow Creek. That would take them out into the river farther down, on the other side of the East India Docks. But this is the easiest, the most direct way.”
“So what it comes down to is whether they knew—or suspected—that anyone was following them. What do you think?” Wyatt asked Sara and Andrew.
They looked at one another. “There was no way they could have known up to the time I left to get you,” said Andrew slowly. “After that … What do you think, Sara?”
She thought about it even more carefully than Andrew had. Finally she shook her head.
“No. I don’t think they knew.”
“All right,” said Wyatt. “I’ll say that it’s a good bet that they don’t know and that they’ll come out here. What do we do?”
“Wait,” said Thatcher.
Putting up the tiller, he eased the launch alongside a pile a few hundred yards upstream from the entrance to the basin. Robbie tied her there, and in silence and with some uneasiness—for how could they be sure that they were not mistaken?—they settled down to wait.
It was still very early, probably not yet six o’clock, but there was already a good deal of activity on the river. A Thames barge, brown topsail and mainsail spread wide, came down the river. A paddlewheel steamer, coming up, blew a single blast on its whistle and gave it right of way. A huge, black, gaff-rigged sail appeared above the stone quays at the entrance to the basin, and a wherry came sailing out and crossed the river toward Rotherhithe. The funnel of a tugboat, clearly laboring, appeared at the entrance to the basin. When it came out into the stream they saw that it was towing four barges. It swung around, started moving slowly upstream against the current, passing so close to them that they could almost count the bricks with which the barges were laden. One barge went by, two. Andrew looked back toward the basin, thought he saw something moving there, but his vision was cut off by the third barge. Sara was looking that way too, frowning. The third barge went by and there, well out of the basin, was another tug. It had been concealed by the barges and was now travelling fast downstream.
The Case of the Vanishing Corpse Page 13