2

The First Disappearance

That Sunday, Wyatt came to the house on Rysdale Road for tea at the express invitation of Andrew’s mother. It was not, Verna explained in her note, a quid pro quo—how could you compare even the highest of high teas to an afternoon at Lord’s? But she didn’t see why she should be denied the pleasure of his company merely because she had been busy when he had extended his invitation to Sara and Andrew.

Wyatt had accepted immediately. “I accept with Alacrity,” he wrote, “which happens to be my cousin’s name. However he has a bad cold, and I am not sure he can come.” And Andrew knew the reason Verna had invited him—and the reason Wyatt had accepted so quickly—was that Sunday was the day when he felt most cut-off from his family and friends and therefore most lonesome.

His reception at the house could not have been warmer, for Andrew’s mother was almost as fond of him as the two young people, but in addition he was greatly admired by everyone else there: Sara’s mother, Fred the coachman, and even that pillar of propriety, Matson, the butler.

It was Matson who sounded the afternoon’s first discordant note. Since it was a warm, sunny day, they were having tea in the garden. The talk had come round to the baseball game they had seen several days before and, leaving the table briefly, Wyatt was demonstrating the complicated contortions of the Chicago pitcher during his windup, when Matson came out of the house.

“I beg your pardon, madam,” he said. “General Wyatt is here.”

Frowning, Verna looked from him to Wyatt, who had become very still, then back to Matson again.

“General Wyatt?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Does he want me or Inspector Wyatt?”

“I believe he’d like to speak to the inspector. The first thing he asked me was whether he was here.”

“Ask him to come out here.”

Bowing, Matson went back into the house. Again Verna glanced at Wyatt, who had dropped the croquet ball he was holding. Though his face was expressionless, it was clear that he was surprised—which was no surprise to Sara and Andrew, for they had long been aware of the strained relations between him and his father. As a matter of fact, they had been present at another encounter between the two some time before when Wyatt was still a constable. He had, at that time, explained the reasons for his father’s attitude; the general was outraged because Wyatt had become an ordinary policeman instead of going into the army as his two older brothers had done. And apparently the fact that he was no longer a constable but an inspector in the C.I.D. made no difference to the general.

When Matson returned, it was clear that the general was under considerable strain. Though as carefully dressed as he had been at Lord’s, his face had lost a good deal of its color and his eyes much of their challenge.

“I apologize for this intrusion, Miss Tillett,” he said, bowing to Verna. “I’m not sure if you remember me …”

“Of course I do,” said Verna. “We met at the Marchioness of Medford’s about a year ago. Miss Wiggins here and my son Andrew were with me at the time.”

“I remember them,” said the general. “And I believe I saw them again the other day with my son Peter at Lord’s.”

“You did. Can I offer you some tea?”

“You’re very kind, but no thank you. The fact is that I would like to talk to Peter about a matter of some urgency.”

“By all means,” said Verna. “Inspector, why don’t you take the general to the sitting room? Matson will see that you’re not disturbed.”

“Thank you,” said Wyatt. “This way, sir.”

He led the general into the house, held the door of the sitting room open for him, followed him in and shut the door after them.

“First of all, how did you know where I was?” he asked.

“I stopped by at your rooms. Your landlady told me you were here.”

Wyatt nodded. “I always leave word where I can be reached in case the Yard wants me. You said you wanted to see me about something urgent?”

“If it weren’t urgent, you know very well I wouldn’t have approached you—especially on a Sunday. It’s your sister-in-law, Harriet. She’s disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“Yes.”

“When was this?”

“I’m not sure whether she left late last night or early this morning. She’s been staying with me since Francis went to India. She went to the opera last night with a friend, said good night to me when she got home and went into her room. When she didn’t appear at breakfast this morning, I thought she must be tired or not feeling well. By noon I became a little concerned, knocked at her door. When there was no answer, I went in and found this.”

He gave Wyatt an envelope. Wyatt opened it, took out the note inside and read it.

Dear General, (it said)

The fact that I call you that and not Father should tell you something about the way I feel. If it does not, perhaps the fact that I am going away will. Don’t try to find me, for you won’t be able to; I doubt if all of Scotland Yard could. As to what you should tell Francis or anyone else who might be interested, say merely that I became tired of sitting like Patience on a monument, smiling at grief.

Harriet

Wyatt read it through a second time, then asked, “What did she mean about the way she felt? How did she feel?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“She never discussed it with you, told you that she was unhappy and why?”

“No.”

“How did she feel about going to India?”

The general’s face became even more bleak. “I don’t know. I always believed that she loved Francis, that they had a good marriage and that she was anxious to go out and join him, but … You think that’s why she disappeared, because she didn’t want to go?”

“I’m not sure. I’d like to see her room, see if there’s anything there that tells me anything.”

“My carriage is outside.”

Matson opened the front door for them. Wyatt asked him to tell Miss Tillett that he was leaving and convey his regrets to her, then he joined the general in the double victoria. They sat there, side by side, in silence as the carriage went down the driveway and over toward Regent’s Park. But though they said nothing, Wyatt thought about many things, most of them dealing with the past rather than the present; of the times when his father had seemed like the most wonderful man in the world to him and the times when he had seemed like a stubborn, bigoted monster. And from the expression on the general’s face, it’s probable that his thoughts paralleled those of his son.

Wyatt knew that the general had rented two floors of a small house near Robert Street on the east side of Regent’s Park, but he had done so after their breach, and Wyatt had never been there. He looked at the house with some interest now as they drew up in front of it. The steps that led up to the door were scrubbed and the brass bellpull gleamed like a sergeant-major’s buttons. The general opened the door with a latch key, led the way down a hall past a sitting room and opened another door.

“This is her room,” he said.

Wyatt went in and looked around. The room, large and high-ceilinged, overlooked a small garden and was light and pleasant. There was a bed and chest of drawers against one wall. Facing it was a fireplace with an ornate marble mantel. There was a desk between the two windows that looked out onto the garden, and nearby was a large, open steamer trunk.

“Where did you find the note?” asked Wyatt.

“Here,” said the general, indicating the mantel. “It was leaning against the clock.”

Wyatt nodded, walked over to the desk. Besides a pen, ink and several sheets of the same paper on which the note had been written, there was a book with a bookmark in it. He picked it up. It was a well-worn copy of William Blake’s poems and the bookmark was inserted between two pages in the Songs of Innocence.

“Did she like Blake?” he asked.

“You mean the poet? I’ve no idea. I know she read a good deal, but I don’t know what.”

Wyatt now went over to the trunk. “Do you know what clothes she took with her.”

“No. I believe she took only one bag with her, a not very large portmanteau.”

“She probably took that because she could carry it herself.” He was still studying the trunk. “She seems to have left all her tropical, Indian things here.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure yet.” He turned to face the general. “How long have she and Francis been married?”

“A little over three years.”

“As I recall, they met at a house party in Gloucestershire.”

“Yes.”

“What was her maiden name?”

“Darrell. Harriet Darrell.”

“What family does she have?”

“None anymore. When she met Francis, she was an orphan, living with an aunt in Bath. The aunt died about a year ago.”

“She and Francis were married here in London, weren’t they?”

“Yes. At St. George’s.”

“Where did she stay before the wedding? At a hotel?”

“No. I believe she stayed at some club or other.” The general had been exhibiting more and more impatience with Wyatt’s questions. “Does any of this have anything to do with her disappearance?”

“I’m not sure. The fact is, sir, that we’re faced with a bit of a problem here.”

“What sort of problem?”

“Well, from the note she left and the look of the room, it’s clear that she’s gone away of her own accord. That means there’s no legal reason for the police to come in on the case. After all, one should be able to go where one wants.”

“Even though it means the end of a marriage and perhaps the end of a career? Because you know what it will do to Francis if she’s not on that boat when it arrives in India, don’t you?

“I think so.”

“And you still say you’re not going to do anything about it?”

Wyatt looked at him thoughtfully, at the new signs of age that had appeared on the general’s face, and knew what it had cost the man to come to him of all people for help.

“I never said I wasn’t going to do anything about it, Father. I was merely explaining the official, police position to you. Let me look into it, and I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I’ve something to tell you.”