5

The Barred Windows

“Well?” asked Andrew.

It was the next morning, and he and Sara were standing under a large beech tree and looking at the Somerville house from the open ground across the street.

“There is something funny about it,” said Sara. She frowned as she studied it. “I know! It’s the wall!”

“What about it?”

“Well, the house isn’t very big—it’s about the same size as most of the villas around here. And the grounds aren’t very big either. But the wall around it is higher than the one around Three Oaks, and the grounds there are as big as a park with a lake and greenhouses and all.”

Three Oaks, home of the Marchioness of Medford and one of the largest estates in St. John’s Wood, was next door to the Tillett house. Sara had said exactly what Andrew had thought himself, but he played the devil’s advocate.

“Maybe the wall around Three Oaks isn’t as high because it goes on forever and it would cost a mint to make it higher.”

“The wall around Three Oaks is high enough to keep anyone from looking in or getting in unless they use a ladder. No, I say there’s something funny about this wall. Look at the spikes on top of it. And the broken glass.”

“Well, according to Wyatt, Somerville did have some things he was worried about—jewelry and things he’d dug up in Mesopotamia.”

“But he’d keep those in the house, wouldn’t he? And the wall doesn’t go round the house, just around the grounds.” The wind tugged at her hat, and she clutched it as she looked at him sharply. “You’re just trying it on with me, aren’t you? Because you think there’s something funny about it, too.”

“Yes, I do. I’d like to get inside and see what’s there. Or even just look inside.”

“That’s what somebody else wanted. At least, that’s what Wyatt thinks—why the watchdog was killed.”

“I know.”

“Well, if we think there’s something funny about it, Wyatt certainly must. Why doesn’t he go back in and look around?”

“Perhaps he will. But it’s not going to be easy for him. Because the murder didn’t take place inside the house or the grounds but outside, here in the street. And Lord Somerville didn’t ask him if he wanted to look around when he was in there.”

“But he can still get in if he wants to, can’t he? Even if he has to get a search warrant.”

“Yes, but I don’t think he’ll do that. As he said, he doesn’t want to get into a row with Lord Somerville. He’ll probably think of some very clever way of getting in.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” He had been looking around as he talked. Then, as another gust of wind shook the branches over their head, a strange expression came over his face. “Do you like kite flying?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve never done any.”

“Well, this is a good day for it. Where can we buy a kite?”

“You’re up to something, aren’t you?”

Andrew grinned.

“I can see you are. I shouldn’t help you till you tell me what it is, but … there’s a shop on the Wellington Road that probably has kites.”

“Let’s go see.”

The shop did have kites. Andrew bought one and a ball of twine, and they took them both back to Alder Road. The wind was rather erratic and not too strong, but he thought he could get the kite up. As Sara watched, he went to the downwind end of the open ground and, balancing the kite on the palm of his right hand, he began to run. When the kite lifted, he let it go, paying out twine. Several times the kite wavered, hesitated, but each time he was able to steady it, keep it in the air, by jerking on the line, and finally it had mounted to well above the trees and was flying steadily and pulling strongly.

“Coo! That’s lovely!” said Sara. “Can I try it?”

“Of course. Here.” He gave her the ball of twine.

“What do I do?”

“Let out more line if you want it to go higher. Jerk on the line if it starts to wobble or fall.”

She played the kite for some time, letting out more and more line until there was almost none left on the ball.

“It’s not half pulling,” she said, looking up to where it flew much higher than the steeple of St. John’s. “Maybe you’d better take it.”

“Right.” Andrew had picked up a short piece of stick and, tying the end of the twine to it, he began winding the line on to it.

“Are you bringing it down?” Sara asked.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer but began moving slowly out toward the street on the upwind side of the large beech tree. Sara watched, a little puzzled.

“Look out!” she said finally. “If you’re not careful it’ll land in the tree.”

Andrew jerked hard on the string, the kite swooped, then as she had predicted, dived into the topmost branches of the tree.

“Well, that did it,” said Sara. “What are you going to do now?”

“I don’t want to lose it,” said Andrew, his face expressionless. “If Fred gave me a hand with a ladder, I think I could climb up and get it.”

Frowning, Sara looked at him, at the tree, then across the road at the Somerville house.

“Well, aren’t you Roger, the artful dodger,” she said admiringly.

“It’s worth a try, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Will Fred give us any trouble?”

“If he does, I’ll give him some. Come on.” But, as Andrew dropped the ball of twine at the foot of the tree. “Wait a bit. Maybe we won’t need Fred.”

He turned. Wyatt, not looking very happy, was coming down Alder Road toward them. Sergeant Tucker was with him.

“Hello, you two,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“We were flying a kite,” said Sara, “and it dived into the top of that tree.” She looked at him with a significant eye. “Do you think the sergeant could give Andrew a leg up? If he did, Andrew thinks he could probably climb the tree and get it.”

Wyatt frowned, not in puzzlement as Sara had, but with impatience.

“Now look,” he said, “fun’s fun, but …” The steadiness of her gaze made him break off. He looked from her to the tree, across the street at the Somerville property, then back to the tree again. “Well, well,” he said. “We were just going to see Somerville. There were some questions we wanted to ask him, but I think we could take a few minutes to help a chap get his kite, don’t you, Sergeant?”

Tucker may have been large and slow-moving, but he was not slow-witted.

“I think so too. Come on, young ’un.”

He walked over to the beech tree with Andrew, picked him up, and lifted him to the full stretch of his arms. This was high enough for Andrew to grasp the tree’s lowest branches and, pulling himself up, he began climbing. Sara, Wyatt, and the sergeant moved back and, since the buds were only beginning to show and the tree had no leaves yet, they were able to follow his progress until he was more than halfway to the top.

“He’s a good climber,” said Tucker. “He’s going up like a naval cadet.”

“Yes,” said Sara. “Any news?”

“About what?” asked Wyatt.

“The Somerville case. Or the Polk murder case, if that’s what you’re calling it.”

“We’re calling it the Somerville case, and … yes, there is some news. We found the carriage Polk rented.”

“Where?”

“Hampstead.”

“Were there any clues, anything that could tell you who had stolen it?”

“No. The horses had been driven hard—they were all lathered—but they hadn’t been hurt and the brougham was undamaged. And of course the chest Somerville talked about and all the luggage was gone.”

“Then you’ve still got no lead.”

“Not really, no.”

“Too bad.” She stepped back, peering upward. “I’ve lost Andrew. Can you see him?”

“Yes,” said Tucker. “He’s almost at the top of the tree, but he’s not climbing at the moment. He’s looking off that way.” And he pointed toward the Somerville house.

“I wonder why,” said Sara.

“I can’t imagine,” said Wyatt.

“He’s going on again,” said Tucker. “There, he’s got the kite.”

Andrew had come around to their side of the tree now, and they watched as he pulled the kite free and tossed it wide so that it dangled from the lower branches of the tree by its string. Tucker pulled it down and began winding up the line. By the time he had finished, Andrew had reached the lowest large branch, hung from it for a moment, then dropped to the ground.

“There you are,” said Tucker, giving him the kite. “A few holes in it that you can patch, but outside of that as good as new.”

“Thank you,” said Andrew. Then, conversationally, “You know, while I was up there, I found I could look over the wall of the Somerville property.”

“Did you?” said Wyatt in the same offhanded manner.

“Yes. And it was quite interesting.”

“In what way?”

“Well, the wall encloses a fairly good sized bit of land, large enough to make a very nice garden. But while there are a few trees and some grass and flower beds, the most important thing there, right in the center, is a small house.”

“A summer house?”

“No. It’s a very solid house, built of brick. It has a heavy wooden door and there are bars on the windows.”

“Oh?” said Wyatt.

“Maybe that’s where Lord Somerville used to keep his valuables,” said Sara. “The things he was worried about. They’d be pretty safe there, especially if he had a watchdog wandering around loose at night.”

“That’s what I thought at first. And that may be the reason for the house. But there was something else that was a little strange.” Andrew pointed toward the wall. “You see those spikes on top of the wall that curve out so that no one can climb in from the outside?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there’s another set just like them on the inside that are curved in. And that made me wonder if Lord Somerville or whoever built the wall wasn’t just as concerned about keeping someone or something in as keeping people out.”

“I see,” said Wyatt soberly. “Curiouser and curiouser as a certain young person remarked ungrammatically.”

“Yes, it is,” said Tucker. “Do you think Lord Somerville might explain it if we asked him about it?”

“No, I don’t,” said Wyatt. “As a matter of fact, I think we’ll forget about talking to him right now. Because I’ve a feeling we might find out a good deal more from him if we knew a bit more.”

“About what?” asked Sara.

“About several things. Thank you, Andrew. As usual, you’ve been both ingenious and helpful. Come on, Sergeant. Let’s go back to the station house.”

“Wait a minute,” said Sara. “You mean you’re not going to tell us … Inspector!”

If Wyatt heard her, he gave no sign of it, but walked back toward Wellington Road with Tucker.

“Well, I like that!” said Sara. “Do you know what he was talking about? What he wants to find out?”

“No,” said Andrew. “At least … no.”

He may not have known then, but an idea must have come to him soon afterward, for when Sara went looking for him later that afternoon, she found him in the library-studying a thick book.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

“Bradshaw.”

“What’s Bradshaw?”

“The railway guide. It gives timetables for all the railways in England.”

“Are you going somewhere?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Where?”

“Ansley Cross.”

Her eyes widened. “That’s where Lord Somerville’s country place is—where he lived before he came to London.”

“That’s right.”

“Does this have anything to do with what Wyatt was interested in? What he wanted to find out about?”

“It’s possible.”

“Of course it is. When are we going?”

“We?”

“You go without me and see what happens!”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he said smiling. “I thought we might go tomorrow. There’s a train out of Paddington at three minutes after nine.”

“I’ll tell Mum.”

“What will you tell her?”

“That we’re going down to the country for the day.”

“Will that be all right with her?”

“If I’m going with you, it will.”

“What have I done to deserve such trust?”

“I don’t know, but it does come in handy at times.”

As Sara had expected, Mrs. Wiggins raised no objection to the trip. They caught the 9:03 from Paddington, and all went well until the train stopped at Reading where they had to change. Andrew opened the door of the compartment, then paused.

“What is it?” asked Sara.

“Look up there, at the other end of the platform.”

“Wyatt!” she said, peering out. “He must be going to Ansley Cross, too.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think he’ll be angry if he sees us?”

“He might be.”

“What’ll we do?”

“Well, if he is angry, he might insist that we go home. Theres’ a train back to London in about a half hour. But if he doesn’t see us till we get to Ansley Cross, there won’t be anything he can do about it because the only train from there back here is at three-thirty.”

“Behind that baggage cart?”

“Yes.” He peered out again, then, since Wyatt had his back turned, walking up the platform, he said, “Now!”

They jumped out of the compartment, ran around behind the baggage cart, which was piled high with crates and trunks, and waited there. When the branch line train came in, they waited to see which car Wyatt got in and got in the one behind it.

It took about twenty minutes to get to their station, and though they had started out feeling quite pleased with themselves, by the time the train stopped, they weren’t so sure that what they’d done was a good idea. Wyatt got out, walked to the end of the platform and stood there looking up the road. They got out more tentatively, hesitated for a moment, uncertain as to how to approach him.

“Well, come on,” he said, his back to them. “The trap’ll be here any minute.”

“How did you know we were here?” asked Sara.

“Next time you’re trying to hide from someone, remember that it’s very easy to see underneath a baggage cart. Your two pairs of legs, taken in conjunction, are quite unmistakeable.”

“Oh,” said Andrew. “Then you’re not angry?”

“If I was, I’ve had twenty minutes to get over it. I take it that you didn’t follow me—that you thought of coming down here by yourselves.”

“Yes.”

“Dr. Owen thought that I took you around with me to distract people, make them forget who I am and what I’m after. But you know that’s not true. You distract me more than you do anyone else.”

“But you’ve got to admit that we’ve helped you,” said Sara.

“Yes. That’s why I’m not sending you packing.” Then, as a trap appeared around a curve in the road and approached the station. “This should be our transportation.”

The trap drew up at the station, and the driver—an alert, grey-haired man in uniform—said, “Inspector Wyatt?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Constable Lowrie. Sorry if I kept you waiting, but we only got your telegram late this morning.”

“It doesn’t matter. These are colleagues of mine, unofficial plainclothes agents, Sara Wiggins and Andrew Tillett.”

“Unofficial? They look quite official to me,” said Lowrie gravely. “I think there’s room for all of you.” He waited till they had all climbed into the trap, Wyatt sitting beside him and Sara and Andrew behind them. Then, shaking the reins, he sent the horse trotting down the road. “You said in your wire that you were on a case that involved Lord Somerville.”

“That’s correct. He was robbed, and the caretaker of his London house was killed.”

“I read about that. He wasn’t hurt himself?”

“No. But although he told us a good deal about himself and his background, there were some things I thought I’d like to look into myself down here.”

“Naturally, I’ll be happy to do anything I can to help. Have you any idea of where you’d like to begin?”

“I think at the Somerville estate.”

“Greyhurst? We may have a little trouble there. The house has been closed up for years, and I doubt if old Duncan, who looks after it, would let even you in without specific instructions from his lordship.”

“I’m afraid it never occurred to me to discuss that with him. What about the grounds?”

“Duncan knows me, so I think we can manage that.”

“Good. I take it you know Somerville.”

“Yes, I do. Not well, of course, but better than most folks in these parts. My father was gamekeeper, first for his father and then for him.”

“I see. Do you know why he closed Greyhurst and moved in to London?”

“I think I have some idea. It’s a sad story. And what makes it worse is that we always thought of the Randalls as a lucky family.”

“The Randalls?” said Sara.

“Randall is the family name,” explained Wyatt. “Somerville is the title.”

“It’s Lord Somerville of Greyhurst,” said Lowrie. “As I said, we always thought of them as lucky. The present Lord Somerville’s father died peacefully at a good age, and he himself had a very good marriage. Then suddenly everything changed.”

“How?”

“He married Lord Barham’s daughter. After the marriage, he made only one trip to Mesopotamia or wherever he goes and her ladyship went with him. When they came back, it was clear that she was going to have a child.”

“When was this?”

“Oh, fifteen, sixteen years ago, the year we had that terrible winter. In February, during the worst storm of the year, she had the child. By all reports, she had a very hard time of it. His Lordship had gone into London, couldn’t get back, and Dr. Roberts, who had been taking care of her, had a great deal of trouble getting to Greyhurst. By the time he did, the child had been born, and shortly after that, right after Lord Somerville got home, her ladyship died.”

“I see. That is sad. Was the child all right?”

“Why, yes. So far as I know. It was a boy, and they named him Alfred, his grandfather’s name. Abby Severn took care of him.”

“Is that Mrs. Severn?”

“Yes. She was a local girl, Abby Diggs she was till she got married. She’d come to Greyhurst early on to help out because she was having a child, too. But her child died, and so she stayed on and nursed the boy, Alfred.”

“She must have done more than act as nurse,” said Wyatt. “She’s still with Somerville in London, acting as his housekeeper.”

“I’m not surprised. His lordship thought a great deal of her, pretty well left her in charge when he went away. And he was away most of the time from then on.”

“Where’s the boy now?” asked Andrew. “Somerville’s son?”

“At a school in Switzerland. At least, that’s what I heard. And I believe that’s why he closed Greyhurst. He got rid of most of the staff here after her ladyship died—I guess he couldn’t bear to stay here—or even in England, for that matter. And then, about five years ago, when the boy went to Switzerland, he took a place in London.”

“And now he’s about to move to Paris,” said Wyatt.

“Well, he would be closer to Switzerland there than in London,” said Andrew.

“That’s true,” said Wyatt. “And he also claimed he had been doing a good deal of work with a French Assyriologist. But …”

They had been driving along a lane since shortly after they left the station, a narrow lane lined with hedges that were just beginning to bud. Now they came out of the lane, and there was a wall to their right, meadows to their left. Sara had been strangely silent during the drive and, looking at her, Andrew realized that though she may have been listening to everything that was said—city girl that she was—she had also been fascinated by her surroundings; the hedges alive with nesting birds and now the green fields with the cattle in them. Then, as a lark flew up and burst into song, “Coo!” she said. “What’s that?”

“Skylark,” said Andrew. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Lowrie. “Some think they’ve got the prettiest song of any bird. Myself, I’ve always been partial to blackbirds.”

He drew up in front of a pair of closed iron gates. There was a stone lodge just inside them.

“If you don’t mind waiting a minute, I’ll go have a word with old Duncan.”

He handed Wyatt the reins, got down from the trap and went over to the gate. A white-haired man with chin whiskers came out of the lodge and nodded to Lowrie.

“What’s that?” asked Sara, pointing to a shield-shaped carving cut into the wall to the right of the gate.

“The Somerville coat of arms,” said Wyatt. “Azure, three acorns gold and two rondels in the chief.”

“But azure’s blue, isn’t it?”

“Yes. A coat of arms is meant to be painted on a shield. If it were painted, the background would be blue and the three acorns below and the two circles above would be gold.”

“You do know a lot, don’t you?”

“Not really. I’ve just been doing a little research on the Randalls. They’re an old and quite famous family.”

The white-haired man had been looking at them through the fretted ironwork of the gates. Finally he nodded, took a large key out of his pocket, unlocked the gates and pulled them open.

“I was right,” said Lowrie, climbing back into the trap. “He says he can’t let us into the house without instructions from his lordship, but that it’s all right if we drive around the grounds. Will that be of any help?”

“It’s better than nothing,” said Wyatt. “If I feel it’s necessary, I’ll come back with a letter from Somerville.”

Lowrie shook the reins and sent the horse trotting past the gate house and up the drive, which was lined with huge trees—elms and oaks and beeches. Though there was no longer any resident staff, arrangements must have been made for workmen to come in and tend the grounds, for the underbrush had been cut and in general what they could see looked cared for. This was not true of the house when they finally reached it. It was a huge building, built of grey stone with deep-set windows and a heavy wooden door studded and reinforced with iron bands. Its shutters were closed, and the ivy that covered most of the walls was beginning to spread over the windows. The grounds that they had come through had not only been cared for but were very much alive; rabbits had run across the drive in front of them, squirrels chattered in the trees and birds flew overhead. But there was no sound or sense of life in the house. Still and brooding, it was like a place under a spell.

“I’m glad we can’t get in,” said Sara. “It would scare the wits out of me.”

“I’m not sure I’d like it much myself,” said Lowrie.

Wyatt got out of the trap and walked away from the building, looking up at the facade from the far side of the driveway.

“Do you know the place well?” he asked Lowrie.

“Well, no. I’ve only been in it a few times, and I’ve never been all through it. Why?”

“What are those rooms up there?” he asked, pointing to some windows at the left-hand side of an upper story.

“Let’s see,” said Lowrie. “The kitchen’s on that side, in the back. The next floor’s bedrooms. I think those were Master Alfred’s quarters, the nursery and school room.”

“Then why are there bars on the windows?”

“Bars? Where?” Lowrie joined Wyatt on the far side of the driveway. “Strange. I never noticed them before. They were probably put there to keep the children from falling out. After all, the windows are up pretty high.”

“Yes, they are,” said Wyatt. He looked at the building again, then said, “I think I’ve seen enough for the time being. If there’s anything else I want to look at, I’ll come back.”

“Righto,” said Lowrie.

They got back into the trap, Lowrie shook the reins and the horse trotted on along the driveway, circling around and going out toward the gate.

“You said Mrs. Severn was a local woman,” said Wyatt. “Was her husband local, too?”

“Sixty? Yes, he was.”

“Was that his name, Sixty? I thought it was Tom.”

“His proper name was Tom, but he was known as Sixty—don’t ask me why, because I don’t know.”

“What kind of person was he?”

“What kind? The kind we can do without!”

“You knew him well?”

“The only ones who knew him better were our magistrates and the wardens at various clinks. My father had him up for poaching when he was sixteen. He was sent away twice after that, and of course he ended up at Dartmoor after he’d been found guilty of robbery and assault.”

“Yes, I know about that. But then why did Abby Diggs marry him?”

“Well, he was a good looking man in his own gypsy way and, in the beginning, she must have thought he was just wild, not bad. Like most women, she must have thought she could get him to change, reform. By the time she found out the truth, she had to marry him. Not that he ever saw his child. It was born after Sixty was sent away.”

“What happened to the child?”

“He died just before the Somerville child was born. That was one of the reasons Abby was able to nurse young Alfred. Not that she wouldn’t have been able to nurse both of them if her own child had lived. A strong young woman she was.”

“And still is.”

“Has any of this been of any help to you?”

“I’m not sure, but I think perhaps it has. There’s one more thing I’d like to do while I’m down here and that’s talk to the doctor who attended Lady Somerville. You said his name was Roberts?”

“Yes. But I’m afraid you won’t be able to. He’s not here anymore.”

“Oh? Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I said it was a sad story as far as the Randalls were concerned. But I’m afraid it was sad for the doctor, too. Not that he hadn’t been having a certain amount of trouble anyway. His wife ran off and left him—they say she found the life out here too lonely—and that was a bad blow to him. He was a bit queer after that, and people thought maybe he was taking laudanum—not that there was ever a sign of it in his work: he was still a very good doctor, the best around here. But right after the Randall baby was born, he had a bad accident—as I said, it was one of the worst winters anyone remembers, lots of snow and ice. His carriage turned over and hurt his legs so that he could hardly walk after that. That made it difficult for him to carry on a country practice, so he sold out and left.”

“And went where?”

“I’m not really sure—either Canada or South Africa. Out of the country anyway.”

“I see. Too bad. Then I guess that’s that. The next item on the agenda is lunch. Is there any place near here that you’d recommend?”

“Well, The Barley Mow near the station does one pretty well.”

“Good. You’ll join us of course.”

“That’s kind of you, Inspector. Thank you.”

Lowrie drove them to the inn, which was just a short distance from the station, and had lunch with them. It was a very good lunch; veal and ham pies all around, with ale for Wyatt and Lowrie and ginger beer for Sara and Andrew. Wyatt kept Lowrie talking all through lunch—about the Randalls and the area around Ansley Cross in general—and Sara and Andrew kept discreetly silent. It was only after Lowrie had driven them to the station, had been thanked and left, that Wyatt turned to them and said, “Well, chums, any thoughts?”

“A few,” said Sara.

“For instance?”

“Those bars on the windows of young Alfred’s rooms. When you want to make sure that a child won’t fall out, don’t you run the bars across—and then only part way up—instead of all the way up and down?”

“Usually. There’s a curious parallel between those windows and the ones Andrew reported seeing in the small house inside the grounds on Alder Road.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Andrew. “Does all that make things any clearer to you?”

“Let’s say it’s given me a good deal more to think about—which is sometimes a help. I think I should have another talk with Mrs. Severn. And perhaps with the injured Sixty, too.”

“It just occurred to me that someone else it might be interesting to talk to is Pierre.”

“Who’s Pierre?”

Andrew told him. Wyatt vaguely remembered seeing a chimney sweep and his boy when they left the pub after their meeting with Polk, but he had not seen them join Severn. He was quite interested in that, and even more interested in what had happened the next morning, the fact that the chimney sweep had been in the crowd when Polk had talked to the constable about the dog that had been killed.

“How do you know that the boy’s name is Pierre?” he asked.

Sara told that part of it; of how the butcher’s boy and the others had been baiting Pierre and Andrew had intervened, talked to him and learned that he was French.

“What’s he doing here?” asked Wyatt. “How did he get here?”

“We don’t know,” said Andrew. “The sweep came along and took him away before he could tell us.”

“I see. Yes, it would be interesting to talk to him. I don’t suppose you know where we can get hold of him.”

“No. He knows where we live, but …”

“How does he know that?”

Sara told him about the stable boy who had recognized them, mentioned where they lived, and how Pierre had repeated it as he was leaving.

“Well, it’s not likely that he’ll come looking for you,” said Wyatt. “But after what you’ve told me about him, it might be worth while trying to find him.”