It was the morning on which she usually prepared the laundry for collection, and she had checked the linen basket when she decided to take a final look round her father’s bedroom. He had a habit of leaving handkerchiefs and oddments strewn about, forgetting to deposit them in the receptacle designed for that purpose. As she had half expected, there was a pair of socks and several handkerchiefs thrown in a corner. She was adding these to the collection of dirty linen when she saw that one of the handkerchiefs was stiff with dried blood. Apparently her father had met with an accident and had said nothing about it, and a little anxiously she carried her find down to the study.
‘Have you hurt yourself —’ she began, holding out the handkerchief, but before she could get any further he snatched it from her with an oath.
‘No!’ he snapped. ‘My — my nose started bleeding rather badly yesterday.’ He stuffed the stained handkerchief into his pocket. ‘You can’t send that to the laundry,’ he said. ‘It’s not in a fit state.’
‘They’ll be able to wash it,’ she said. ‘It’s one of your best handkerchiefs —’
‘I won’t have it sent!’ he said violently. ‘Don’t interrupt me now, Pamela. I’m busy.’
She left him, puzzled and a little worried. It seemed foolish to make such a fuss about nothing, and there had been a look in his eyes when he had snatched the handkerchief from her hand that was almost fear.
She sighed. Something had happened to change her father. Something that she didn’t understand. Ever since the murder of Clifford Feldon he had been a different man. He had always been a little abrupt and absent-minded, as though some secret worry was bothering him, but recently his irritability had increased to such an extent that it had become almost unbearable. It was silly to be so vehement over the sending of that blood-stained handkerchief to the laundry, as if they weren’t used to that sort of thing; and this ridiculous idea of her marrying Mr. Blessington. It was all very difficult and upsetting,
A sudden thought occurred to her, a thought so startling that she felt the blood drain from her face, and was thankful that she was alone. Could that blood-stained handkerchief have anything to do with the attack on the stout man? Was it her father who had been responsible for that?
She put the thought away from her as absurd, almost before it had entered her mind. Of course, it was ridiculous. It was unlikely that he would plead the cause of a man one day and half-kill him the next. No sane person would dream of such a thing. No sane person. The word ‘sane’ stood out from the others like a single title flashed on a cinema screen. Was her father sane? Was this sudden change in his demeanour the sign of an unbalanced mind?
She gave herself a little shake. This was nonsense, unutterable nonsense. She was letting her imagination run away with her entirely. Her father was as sane as anyone she knew. A little eccentric perhaps, but that was all. No doubt, like many parents, his reason for wishing her to marry Blessington was because of the material benefit such a partnership would give her. In the eyes of the world Mr. Blessington would be a good match. He was rich and in the prime of life. It was only she herself who regarded such a union with repulsion. Like most girls of her age, she had her dreams of the man she would eventually marry. At present he was a shadowy figure without any coherent form, but Mr. Blessington complied with none of the essential qualities which she considered necessary for the man of her choice. Rather would she have considered marriage with one of the scatter-brained youths with whom she played tennis.
She was giving the cook some instructions concerning lunch when a sharp rat-tat-tat came at the door and she went to answer the summons, the maid having gone down to the village in search of some commodities for the kitchen.
Of the three men who stood on the step she recognised two, Inspector Blagdon and the Scotland Yard man, who had been to the house before. The pleasant-faced, rather untidily dressed young man and the other, who sat at the wheel of the car which had been drawn up near the porch, were strangers to her.
‘Is Mr. Earnshaw in?’ asked Inspector Blagdon, and she nodded. ‘We should just like to have a word with him, Miss,’ the inspector went on. ‘Would you tell him it’s Inspector Blagdon and Inspector Hallick.’
‘Will you come in?’ she said, and her voice was remarkably steady considering the state of her feelings, for the appearance of the two detectives to see Earnshaw had brought all her vague fears to life again.
The three visitors stepped into the hall and she closed the door. She was turning towards the study when the door opened and her father came out.
‘What is it?’ he demanded, and then, as he recognised the two inspectors: ‘Hello, you here again? What do you want?’
‘We’d just like to have a word with you, Mr. Earnshaw,’ said Hallick smoothly.
The man’s eyes darted uneasily from one to the other. ‘You’d better come in,’ he said, grudgingly, and led the way into the study. ‘Now,’ he said, seating himself at his desk but making no attempt to offer them chairs, ‘what do you want with me?’
Inspector Blagdon cleared his throat. ‘Information has reached us, sir,’ he began, ‘that on the night Mr. Blessington was attacked a man was seen climbing the wall of your garden —’
‘A man? Who saw him?’ demanded Earnshaw.
‘One of the estate gardeners,’ said Hallick. ‘A man called Feener. He was on his way home when he says he saw this man come from the direction of the golf links and climb the wall dividing your grounds from the rest of the estate. Have you any idea who this man could have been?
‘None at all,’ said Earnshaw curtly. ‘I should think your informant was either drunk or possessed of a vivid imagination.’ He had his voice well under control and his eyes met theirs steadily, but Farringdon noticed that the hand that was playing with a pencil on his blotting-pad was unsteady.
‘Feener is a very steady old fellow,’ said Inspector Blagdon, ‘so I don’t think the first is a reasonable explanation, sir. You’re sure that none of your servants had been down to the village and —’
‘My servants do not climb the wall to get into the house,’ snapped Earnshaw. ‘They come up the drive and go round by the servants’ entrance. Besides, none of my male servants was out.’
‘I suppose,’ said Inspector Hallick thoughtfully, ‘it wasn’t you, Mr. Earnshaw?’
A frown crossed the heavy face of the man at the desk. ‘I am not in the habit of entering my house that way either,’ he said shortly. ‘Apart from which, I was at home all the evening.’ He uttered the lie convincingly and except for the tell-tale hand there was no outward trace of his apprehension, and yet inwardly he was quaking and cursed the sharp eyes of the old man who had seen him return from his expedition.
‘I’m pretty sure Feener did see someone, sir,’ said Hallick. ‘Perhaps Mr. Blessington’s assailant hid in your grounds until the search for him had died down.’
‘It doesn’t sound likely to me,’ said Earnshaw, ‘but it may be possible.’
‘Have you any objection,’ continued the inspector, ‘to our having a look round?’
For a moment it seemed as though Earnshaw was going to refuse, and the thought certainly did cross his mind. Realising, however, that it would be a foolish move, he grudgingly gave his consent. ‘Come out this way,’ he said, and rising to his feet he went over and unlatched the French windows.
They followed him out onto the terrace and down the shallow steps that led to the lawn. Crossing this, they came to a paved path that passed under a pergola to a portion of the garden that was a mass of shrubs and trees. Following a winding gravel path that led through the shrubbery, they came eventually to the boundary wall, a low barrier of ivy-covered bricks.
‘There’s no doubt that somebody did climb here,’ said Hallick suddenly, and he pointed to a place where the ivy was torn and broken. Immediately beneath in the soft mould were several clearly marked footprints. The inspector peered at them and followed their direction with his eyes. They led through a tangle of bushes to the narrow pat
h and here they were lost on the hard gravel.
‘That bears out Feener’s story,’ said Blagdon, ‘and if these marks weren’t made by any member of your household, Mr. Earnshaw, it looks very much to me as if the man who attacked Mr. Blessington escaped through your garden.’
Earnshaw nodded, the frown still on his face. Why in heaven’s name hadn’t he taken the precaution to obliterate those prints? He thought of the blood-stained suit which he had so carefully destroyed, and felt thankful that that at least was beyond reach of discovery.
‘Well, I assure you it was no member of my household,’ he declared. ‘You can see the servants if you like.’
‘I think I’ll just have a word with them, if you don’t mind,’ said Hallick politely, and without a word Earnshaw led the way back to the house.
The telephone began to ring as they crossed the threshold of the French windows and Earnshaw picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’ he called, and then, after a pause, ‘Hold on a minute, will you?’ He turned to Inspector Blagdon. ‘They’re calling you from the police station,’ he said.
The inspector took the receiver from his hand and listened. ‘Just a minute,’ he said, looking up at Farringdon. ‘Your paper wants you.’
The reporter crossed to his side, and as he put the receiver to his ear the metallic voice of Mr. Ebbs came over the wire. ‘That you, Street?’ said the news editor. ‘I’ve got a man named Williams in the office looking for you. He seems to be worried about that girl.’
Farringdon Street’s heart sank. ‘Miss Thane? What’s happened?’ he demanded quickly.
‘That’s what we want to know,’ grunted the news editor. ‘Williams says she wasn’t in her room this morning. You’d better come back as soon as you can. He seems to think the girl has been kidnapped!’
Chapter Seventeen – The Night Terror
Lesley Thane remained at home for the rest of the day after Farringdon Street had brought her back from lunch. The excitement of her interview with the lawyer had brought on a slight headache, and this increased as the afternoon wore on and refused to succumb to any of her efforts to banish it. She managed to eat part of the tasty dinner which Mrs. Williams provided, and decided to go to bed early. A long sleep would do her good. Probably this was the result of all the excitement of the last few days. She undressed slowly, swallowed some aspirins and milk which the landlady brought her, and asking that he should not be disturbed in the morning until she rang, turned out the light, and snuggling her head in the pillow, composed herself for sleep.
But sleep was not so easy to woo as she had hoped. A confused medley of thoughts ran riotously through her brain, in spite of all her efforts to make her mind a blank, which she had read was the best prelude to slumber, she found her thoughts constantly recurring to Farringdon Street. He was unlike anyone she had ever met before, and she found herself speculating as to how he spent his spare time, what hobbies interested him, and what sort of home life he had.
At which precise moment conscious thought merged into dreams, she never knew. One minute she was thinking of Farringdon Street and the next, without any feeling of astonishment, she found herself fully clothed and walking along a dark lane talking to Stanley Holt. The young American was impressing upon her the urgent necessity of converting all the money which her uncle had left her into sixpences. In the midst of her argument against this proceeding she discovered that it was not Stanley Holt at all, but her uncle himself who was so vehemently upholding this sixpenny policy. She experienced no surprise that it should be Felix Dexon. It seemed to her the most natural thing in the world that he should be with her.
‘If you pile all these sixpences one on the top of the other,’ he said, ‘you will find that they will reach the moon, and then everything will be all right.’
Even as he spoke he was no longer Felix Dexon but a stranger, and before she could answer he suddenly turned and caught her in his arms. She felt a sudden panic seize her and fought him off, but he only held her the more tightly. Something pricked her arm and dimly she heard a voice say, ‘She’ll be quiet in a moment.’ And then utter blackness flooded her brain.
In the half-darkness of her room a man straightened up from the bed and turned to another who lurked near the open window. ‘It’s all right,’ he whispered, ‘she’s well away. Show a light, will you?’
The faint illumination of a torch, over the lens of which had been pasted a scrap of tissue-paper, dispersed the gloom. The man by the bed moved over to the door, listened, assured himself that the house was silent, and glanced quickly round the room. His eyes, through the holes in the mask which concealed his face, lighted on the girl’s clothes piled on a chair just as she had taken them off.
‘Give me a hand, will you?’ he said, and working swiftly the two of them proceeded to dress her.
‘Have you got the rope?’ said the first man when this task had been completed.
The other nodded. From under the long coat he was wearing he produced a coil of thin but strong silk line. With practised fingers the other knotted a loop, made a noose, and slipping it round Lesley’s unconscious body, drew it tight under her arms. Going over to the open window, he looked down. A light ladder had been reared against the sill and a third man was dimly visible standing at the foot in the little square of garden at the back of the house.
The man at the window tapped the ladder gently and he looked up. Apparently he understood, for no word was spoken. The man above withdrew his head and came back to the bed. Between them they lifted the limp figure of the girl and carried her over to the window, resting her unconscious form across the sill.
‘All right, lower away,’ muttered the first man, and with great care they began to pay out the rope, letting the girl slide gently down the ladder to the waiting man below.
When by the slackening of the rope they knew she had reached the ground, they threw the end out of the window and prepared to follow down the ladder.
‘No trouble?’ muttered the third man as they joined him.
‘No trouble at all,’ said the man in the mask. ‘Easy as kiss your hand. You take the ladder back to the wood-yard and we’ll take the girl to the car.’
Lesley Thane felt the sensation of motion. It was a peculiar, soothing sensation, rather pleasant than otherwise, and she gave herself up to it for some time before she realised that it was not conjured up in her dreams but a reality. She was no longer in her bed, and no longer asleep, but semi-wakeful and propped up in the corner of some vehicle which was moving swiftly over bumpy roads.
But although she was conscious of this, her mind was still too bemused to worry. She was only aware of a vague curiosity concerning where she was and how she’d got there. It was very strange. She had gone to bed, and presumably gone to sleep. She remembered hazily the stupid and ridiculous dream concerning her uncle and the sixpences. Perhaps this was but an extension of that dream. Perhaps she wasn’t really awake after all, but merely dreaming that she was awake. She had had such an experience once before when she had dreamed that she had got up, dressed, and taken a train journey to see a friend, only to wake later to find herself comfortably tucked up in her bed. This must be something of the sort. Really, she was still in her little room at the Williams’ house, and would presently wake up to discover that this sense of motion had no reality in fact. All the same, it was a very vivid dream. She could even hear the swish of the tyres and the faint throb of an engine.
She opened her eyes, and as she saw the dim interior of the car and the reflection of the white headlights in front spraying the hedges of the road along which they were travelling, she knew that her first impression had been correct. This was no dream. This was actual fact! By some extraordinary means or other she had been spirited away from her bedroom on this midnight journey.
The combined mists of sleep and the drug which had been administered to her lifted from her brain, and catching a glimpse of the two shadowy figures that sat one on either side of her, she screamed. Instantly a la
rge hand was clapped over her mouth.
‘Here, stop that!’ said a voice roughly. ‘She’s come to, Bill.’
‘Well, she can’t do no harm,’ grunted another voice. ‘What are you afraid of? We’re strong enough to tackle her, aren’t we?’
Lesley twisted her head away from the hand over her mouth, a chill fear at her heart. ‘What —’ she began huskily, but the man on her right interrupted her.
‘Don’t you ask no questions, an’ keep quiet,’ he said harshly, ‘an’ no harm’ll come to you. If you start anything or make a row, you’re for it. See?’
‘How did I get here?’ she muttered.
‘I told you not to ask any questions!’ he retorted. ‘You’re here, and that’s all that matters. Now shut up an’ go to sleep again.’
She decided to keep silent. Her head was aching and she felt a little sick, but her brain was quite clear now and she understood the situation. By some means or other she had been kidnapped while she slept, and these men were the people who had held her uncle prisoner for so long. It was only by a supreme effort that she mastered the fear that welled up within her. Farringdon Street had warned her of her danger, and his warning had proved to be less shadowy than she had imagined. Never for a moment had she dreamed that such an attempt would be made upon her. She had put Street’s fears down to undue concern for her safety, to an exaggerated imagination. His repeated warnings that she should not go out alone or after nightfall she had regarded more to please him than because she imagined that there was any real danger, and now the blow had fallen. She was in the hands of the people who had been responsible for her uncle’s death.
It was an alarming thought, and it needed all her self-control to face the situation calmly. But she realised that giving way to panic would do no good; might, in fact, precipitate whatever fate lay in store for her.
She glanced sideways through the window but all she could see was flying hedges. They were passing through open country and travelling at a high speed. She would have liked to have questioned the men with her as to their destination, but she concluded that it would be a waste of breath, and sensibly curbed her curiosity.
The Hand of Fear Page 10