“I think I see what you’re getting at,” said Wyatt thoughtfully.
“Well, please don’t say anything about it and don’t interrupt,” said Verna. “Andrew, would you say it was an appropriate dress to wear up here in the country?”
“I hadn’t thought about it before, but … no. No, it wasn’t really appropriate at all.”
“Yet she wore it—not just the first time Markham saw her, but the two times you saw her also.”
“Yes.”
Verna thought a moment. “You’re very observant, Andrew, and you have a good memory. You stood close to her at least twice, didn’t you?”
“Yes. When I first met her, I shook hands with her, and just before she got into the carriage and went off with the boy, she kissed me.”
“Yes. Now close your eyes and think back to that moment—the moment she kissed you. Do you remember it?”
“Yes.”
“Was there anything about it that seemed familiar—that reminded you of anything?”
“Yes. It’s interesting that you brought it up. I had a feeling about it at the time, wasn’t sure what it was, but … it was a smell!”
“The scent she had on?”
“No, it wasn’t a scent. It was something else—something that was familiar, but that I couldn’t place.”
“Well, keep your eyes closed and be patient. She has just kissed you and you smell something familiar. Perhaps you can’t place it, identify it, but does it remind you of anything?”
Eyes closed, he tried to recapture the moment. “Yes.” It was ridiculous, but he said it anyway. “It reminds me of you.”
“How?”
“I’m not sure. Not of you yourself, but of something connected with you. Some place you’ve been? Some place where I’ve visited you?” Then it came to him. “Your dressing room at the theater!”
“In other words, the smell was the smell of greasepaint.”
“Yes! Yes, exactly!”
“Oh, well done, darling!” said Wyatt. “Well done indeed!”
“In other words,” said Inspector Gillian, “you think that the woman who said she was Mrs. Grey was an actress.”
“Yes,” said Verna. “I thought so from the beginning—from the time Markham said that she told him she was in desperate straits. People just don’t talk that way outside of bad plays and bad books. And of course it would make sense to get an actress to play the distraught mother—then you could be sure of getting a convincing performance. And of course if she was an actress, you would expect her to wear a costume—a dress that was right for the part she was playing—young, innocent, helpless and bereft—rather than one that was suitable for the place she was going. And finally, of course, besides a wig, she would be made up to look pale and distraught—hence the heavy makeup.”
“Yes, I can see all that. And I think it’s wonderful that you’ve been able to determine that she was an actress,” said Mrs. Vickery. “But does that really help us very much?”
“It narrows the field down somewhat,” said Wyatt. “And it gives us a place to begin.”
“Perhaps we can do even better than we have so far,” said Verna. “I’d like both of you to think about that woman, Mrs. Grey, again,” she said turning to Andrew and Markham. “You’ve described her general appearance, what she was wearing. Can you tell us anything a little more specific about her that might help us to identify her? A scar? A birthmark?”
“No,” said Andrew slowly. “I don’t remember anything.”
“What about jewelry? Was she wearing any jewelry?”
“I think …,” said Markham. “Yes, she was! She was wearing a fairly large pin. A brooch. As I recall, it was pink.”
“You’re right!” said Andrew. “It was a heart carved out of coral!”
“What about earrings?”
“Yes,” said Andrew. “She wore coral earrings, too!”
“And a coral bracelet,” said Verna. “A wide one, strings of coral fastened together.”
“Yes!” said Markham with excitement. “That’s right. She did!”
“That’s that, then,” said Verna with a sigh of satisfaction. “It was Coral Lurnden,” she said, turning to Wyatt.
“You know her?”
“Slightly. She’s tried out for some of Harrison’s productions. I believe her real name is Carol, but when an admirer gave her that coral set, she began wearing it all the time and changed her name to Coral. She thought it would make it easier for managers and directors to remember her.”
“Do you know where we can find her?”
“No, but there’ll be no trouble about that. If Larry Harrison doesn’t know, he can find out.”
“Well, I must say I’m bowled over, inspector,” said Gillian. “When I heard you were coming up here, I was prepared to be impressed by the way you went about a case. But I never expected to be even more impressed by what your wife did.”
“I know. She’s a constant revelation even to me.”
“You’re off to London, then?”
“Yes.” Wyatt turned to Mrs. Vickery. “You’ll come with us, won’t you?”
“If you think that’s where my boy is, yes, of course.”
“You’ll stay with us,” said Verna. “We’ve plenty of room.”
“You’d better come with us too, Andrew,” said Wyatt. “I’ll speak to your headmaster and get permission. You should be there to identify Coral Lumden when we talk to her.”
“And may I come too, sir?” said Markham. “Please? After all, what’s happened is more my fault than anyone else’s, and if there’s anything I can do to help find the boy and get him back—anything at all.…”
Wyatt exchanged a quick glance with Verna and Andrew, then nodded. “All right, Markham. There’s plenty of room for you too. I’ll ask Dr. Bartram for permission to take you with us as well as Andrew.”
6
The Gypsies
“Put your bags down there,” said Inspector Gillian, leading the way into the police station. He had driven them there in his dogcart while Verna went to the house in the combe to keep Mrs. Vickery company while she packed.
Andrew and Markham dropped their bags near the door and joined Gillian and Wyatt at the desk.
“You brought the Gypsies in?” Gillian asked.
“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant. “They’re in the charge room. But before you go in, there’s something here you ought to see.” He handed the inspector a report.
Gillian read it quickly, glanced at Andrew, and handed the report to Wyatt.
“You’ll be interested in this, too,” he said. “When I first spoke to young Tillett yesterday, he suggested that we inquire at livery stables in the neighborhood, particularly in the Bath area, to see if we could find out who had hired a brougham drawn by a pair of horses that he described. Well, the constable I put on it found the livery stable near the railroad station in Bath.”
“Who had hired it?” asked Andrew.
“The man you saw driving it,” said Gillian. “The man in the Newmarket boots who looked like a groom. But that’s not all. While he was there, the constable made some inquiries at the railroad station. And the same man, another man, and a nurse carrying a small boy all took the 6:04 train to London.”
“What about the woman in the gray dress?”
“No one mentioned seeing her.”
“That’s interesting,” said Wyatt. “She was probably trying to separate herself from the others. Good for you for making that suggestion, Andrew. And good marks for your constable, too,” he said to Gillian. “That confirms what we suspected—that they took the boy to London.”
“Right. Do you still want to talk to the Gypsies?”
“Perhaps we’d better. It’s probably just a coincidence that they appeared near the house at about the time the boy was taken, but it might be best to make sure.”
“I agree,” said Gillian.
He opened the door of the charge room and went in. Wyatt went with him and, sinc
e no one said anything to the contrary, Andrew and Markham followed.
There were two desks in the room and several straight chairs. The shorter of the two Gypsies was sitting in one of the chairs, but the taller one, who had apparently been pacing the floor impatiently, stood near the far wall looking at them hostilely. He was even more impressive in person than he had been when Andrew had seen him through the field glasses. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and sunburned and wore a white shirt, open at the throat, and dark trousers tucked into the tops of short boots. Someone else dressed as he was, with gold rings in his ears, a red bandanna around his head, and long mustachios, would have looked theatrical, but he did not. He looked completely natural.
“Good afternoon,” said Gillian. “I’m Detective Inspector Gillian of the Somerset Police. And this is Inspector Wyatt of the London Metropolitan Police.”
“Well, well,” said the tall Gypsy. “Scotland Yard. We’re honored.”
He had a deep voice, and though there was a faint touch of mockery in it, there was no trace of an accent. Wyatt bowed politely to him, and he bowed in return.
“We’d like to ask you some questions,” said Gillian.
“Before you begin,” said the Gypsy, “I’d like to know if we’re charged with anything.”
“No,” said Gillian. “As I said, we’d just like to ask you some questions.”
“All right. Ask them. If we’re not charged with anything, maybe we’ll answer, and maybe we won’t.”
“First of all, I’d like to know your name.”
“Jasper Lee.”
“That’s not a very Gypsy name.”
“But it is,” said Wyatt. “The two most common Romany surnames in England are Lee and Herne.”
“Is that true?” Gillian asked Jasper.
“Your friend from Scotland Yard said so. Don’t you believe him?”
“Yes. All right. And what’s your friend’s name?”
“Daniel,” said the shorter Gypsy. He did have an accent, quite a decided one. “Daniel Lee.”
“Are the two of you related?”
“All the Romanies in England are related,” said Jasper. “Even the Lees with the Hernes.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a gry-coper.”
“What’s that?”
“A horse trader,” said Wyatt.
“Yes,” said Jasper, looking at him with increased interest. “You rokra Romany?”
“No,” said Wyatt. “I don’t speak it. I just know a few words of it.”
“What are you doing around here?” asked Gillian. “They don’t raise horses in these parts.”
“There’s no place in England where they don’t raise horses. And anyone who has a horse is willing to at least talk about trading him. But you’re right. We’re on our way to Exmoor to buy ponies.”
“What do you do with them?”
“Drive them to Bristol where we put them on a ship and sell them to the Rumanian Zingari. They’re a good market for Exmoor ponies.”
“Is that where you came from?” asked Wyatt. “Bristol?”
“Yes. You’ve asked me quite a few questions. Can I ask you one?”
“Yes.”
“Have you found the boy yet?”
“What boy?”
“The one who was stolen yesterday afternoon.”
“How do you know about that?” asked Gillian sharply.
“My mother was a chovihani, a witch.” His companion said something to him, speaking firmly in what may have been Romany, but certainly wasn’t English. Jasper nodded. “My chal here doesn’t like the way I answered that. And he’s right. We know about the boy because one of your constables came around last night and asked if we’d seen him. We said we hadn’t; and even though he didn’t have the proper papers—a warrant—we let him search the vardo, our caravan.”
“No,” said Gillian. “We haven’t found him yet.”
“Do you have any idea where he might be?”
“Perhaps.”
“Where?”
“Before we answer that, can I ask you another question?” said Wyatt. “Why are you so angry?”
“Why?” said Jasper, his eyes flashing. “You’re an intelligent man. You even know some Romany. Well, if you’re as intelligent as you seem, you shouldn’t have to ask that. If you’re a Romany, you’re an Ishmael, an outcast. And if anything happens, whether its poaching, pilfering, petty thievery, or breaking and entering, you’re the first one to be suspected. Isn’t that true?”
“Not necessarily,” said Wyatt mildly.
“Of course it is! And it’s particularly true about something like this! Because aren’t Gypsies suspected of child stealing more often than anyone else? When you were a boy weren’t you told that if you weren’t careful the Gypsies would steal you?”
Again his companion said something to him, and after a moment Jasper nodded. “Again my friend doesn’t like the way I’ve been talking to you. And again he is right. I apologize. Now will you tell us who you think may have taken the boy and where they have taken him?”
“We don’t know who took him or why,” said Wyatt. “But we think he was taken to London.”
“Ah, yes. The Big Smoke. That could well be. Do you have any more questions, Inspector?”
“No,” said Gillian. “I think you can understand why we wanted to talk to you. You came here just before the boy was taken, set up camp almost within sight of his house. We thought you might have seen something that would help us find him.”
“We didn’t. We saw nothing. Since we’re Gypsies, you don’t have to believe us, but it’s true. Anything else?”
“Not right now. What are your plans?”
“Gypsies don’t like to make plans.”
“Well, if you should make any and they include leaving this area, will you let me know? In other words, we’d like to know where you are in case we want to talk to you again.”
“Of course, Inspector. We’ll keep in touch with the police.”
And bowing to Gillian, to Wyatt and the two boys, to whom he had not said a word, he and the second Gypsy left.
“A strange fellow,” said Gillian.
“Very,” said Wyatt.
“I have a feeling he was telling the truth about the boy. I don’t think he did see anything, and I don’t think he did have anything to do with the kidnapping. At the same time, I think he knows a good deal more about the whole affair than he was willing to tell us.”
“I agree with you. In fact, if I were a betting man, I’d put a few bob down on it. Though how we’re ever going to find out if it’s true is more than I can say.”
7
Coral
They took an early afternoon train from Bath and were in London a little before six. Wyatt went directly to the Yard to deal with anything that needed his immediate attention, and Verna and Andrew took Mrs. Vickery and Markham home to the house in St. John’s Wood. Mrs. Vickery was given one of the guest rooms, and though Markham could have had one too, Andrew thought he might be more comfortable sharing his own room.
Matson had just brought up their bags when, with the most perfunctory of knocks, the door opened and Sara came in. Andrew had tried to tell Markham about her on the way down, but he hadn’t found it easy. Could he say she was a friend? She was, of course, and a very good friend. But she was a great deal more than that, just as her mother was a good deal more than the Tilletts’ housekeeper. Because a few years before, when Andrew was all alone in London, Mrs. Wiggins had taken him in and acted almost as a foster mother—something Andrew and his mother had never forgotten. But that, of course, was only part of what there was to say about Sara. There were her personal qualities: her enthusiasm, directness, and intelligence among other things. But Andrew had a feeling that Markham would find out about them himself—and very soon.
“I suppose I should have waited till you’d washed and changed,” said Sara. “But I couldn’t wait any longer.”
“I know,”
said Andrew. “This is Markham. And this is Sara Wiggins.”
“Hello,” said Sara. “I gather you’re at school with Andrew.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Then, continuing with my deductive reasoning—which is the envy of Scotland Yard—I would guess that whatever happened, you’re in on it, too.”
“Yes, I certainly am.”
“Well, then,” she said, turning back to Andrew, “are you going to tell me about it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh.” She looked at Andrew more closely, at Markham, and then back to Andrew. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was that serious.”
“It is, Sara. About as serious as it could be.”
“Then I apologize. I never thought it was exactly a joke. I mean, I knew you must have had a very good reason for sending that wire. But it never occurred to me that it might be something you wouldn’t want to talk about.”
“The trouble is, it’s not just me. As you gathered, Markham’s in on it, too, and I don’t know how he feels about it.”
“And of course he doesn’t know anything about me, who I am, whether I can be trusted, or anything like that.”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” said Markham, looking at her with undisguised interest. “Tillett told me a good deal about you. And besides, there’s been a certain amount of talk at school about a friend of his—a girl—who’s been involved in several cases with him and his stepfather. So, if you want to tell her about it,” he said to Andrew, “it’s all right with me.”
Which is just what Andrew did. When he had finished, Sara, who was usually very quick and impulsive, was silent for a long moment.
“Yes,” she said finally. “I can see why you didn’t feel like talking about it. Poor Mrs. Vickery.”
“We were idiots,” said Markham. “I especially. If we don’t get the boy back—and soon—I’ll never forgive myself.”
“Why are you especially an idiot?” said Andrew. “I’m a year older than you, and I’ve had a lot more experience with things of this sort.”
“Stop arguing about who was most to blame,” said Sara. “From what you’ve told me, anyone would have been taken in. What’s the next step?”
The Case of the Watching Boy (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 9) Page 4