by John Creasey
Copyright & Information
A Rope for the Baron
First published in 1948
© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1948-2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
EAN ISBN Edition
0755131711 9780755131716 Print
0755133994 9780755133994 Kindle
0755134397 9780755134397 Epub
0755145984 9780755145980 Epdf
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
www.houseofstratus.com
About the Author
John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.
Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the ‘C’ section in stores. They included:
Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.
Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.
He also founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey’s stories are as compelling today as ever.
Chapter One
Warning
The narrow road wound over the bleak countryside, dark and forbidding in the autumn evening. Here and there lonely trees, bent from the constant lashing of wind off the rocky coast nearby, stood forlorn and frail. Great rocks of yellow sandstone rose out of the ashy soil, and nothing grew between their cracks and crevices. To the west, the sun was sinking, half hidden by heavy grey clouds which spread slowly and menacingly over the sky. Premature darkness fell upon the moor, but the winding, sandy road stood out clearly against the dark earth. The driver of the powerful car moving along it did not slacken speed.
The wild country was undulating, the road uneven; the car rode uneasily. Now it went uphill, now down into a shallow valley; here a tiny stream flowed across the road. The car splashed through it, and brown-coloured water speckled the windshield, planting a blotch of mud immediately in front of the driver’s eyes, blocking his view.
He slowed down.
‘Freakish thing,’ he murmured to himself.
The windshield wiper smeared the mud so that he could not see out at all. He turned off the wiper and stopped the car. Taking a cloth from the dashboard pocket, he got out to clean the windshield.
Wind rustled the fawn-coloured raincoat which hung straight from broad, square shoulders; he was tall and lean, and his clear, hazel eyes were narrowed with the strain of driving. His face was striking; in repose it might have been chiselled out of the native rock, handsome yet rugged. He moved without haste, yet each movement hinted at great physical strength.
His calm eyes took in every part of the scene – and stopped roving when he saw a man standing by some rocks; standing and staring.
It was a little man, brown and wizened, who did not move. He was dressed in brown, and only just discernible against the rocks.
The driver pretended not to notice him, and wiped the glass; the mud was thick and clayey; surely the wheels hadn’t thrown that up. As he worked, he glanced casually towards the rocks which were ten or twelve feet high. Beyond them, the turbulent clouds were fringed with purple and red, but in the centre black and ominous. Northwards, rain was falling in dark, wide streaks.
As he finished with the cloth, the man raised his arm and beckoned.
The motorist glanced around. No one else was in sight, there seemed no reason why the man should not come forward. As he made no move, however, the driver went slowly towards him, stepping off the road on to dark, ashy soil sparsely covered with coarse grass and tough, straggly heather. The ground sloped sharply downwards towards the rocks, between which the stream flowed silently, reflecting the sullen sky.
The motorist paused.
‘Come—please,’ called the stranger.
His voice was frail, sighing as the wind might sigh, and he beckoned again.
The motorist leapt over the stream, and his heels sank in the brown mud, probably the same as that which had struck the windshield.
Now the wizened man took a few steps forward.
‘Good evening,’ said the driver dryly. ‘Did you throw that mud?’
‘I wanted—to stop you.’
‘Well, you succeeded. What do you want?’
A few grey hairs curled beneath a cloth cap. The man was cleanshaven, but a day’s stubble made a grey mist on his tanned cheeks. He looked hardy and weather-beaten, but his eyes were moist and bloodshot; he was tired, ill. His features were small; a little button of a nose made him look comical, but it was tragicomedy; he was like a man yearning for sleep.
‘Well, what did you want me for?’ the motorist asked patiently.
The little man seemed to find it an effort to speak. He opened his lips, paused, opened them again, and said in the sighing voice: ‘You are going to Hallen House?’
‘Yes.’
Ah—h!’ The bloodshot eyes widened. ‘So I was right. I warn you—don’t go.’
‘I must go.’
‘Don’t go,’ repeated the little man. ‘You mustn’t go; there is evil at that house. Men wait there to strike all visitors down. There is evil and death at Hallen House.’
A gust of wind blew down from the north, whistling and whining, stirring the surface of the stream and the grass and heather, blowing sand over the rocks, tipping the cap from the little man’s head and revealing his bald pate. It died away, and stillness reigned, but in the distance the wind was whining as if carrying an echo: death at Hallen House!’
If this ruffled the driver’s composure, there was no sign of it in his voice.
‘Do you mean someone has died there recently?’
‘There is death—’ began the stranger.
His words had become a refrain, uttered without feeling. He looked dazedly at the motorist, pressing his hand to his forehead, pressing hard, as if the effort of speaking had sapped what little strength he had.
All was quiet except for a distant sound, quick and regular. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap!—the rhythm of a horse and rider approaching along the road which led t
o Hallen House.
‘You—hear that?’ The little man’s voice was tense; a new light sprang into his eyes. Fear?
‘Yes, it’s—’
‘Don’t go,’ whispered the other urgently, ‘don’t go on; I have warned you.’
He turned round swiftly, evaded the motorist’s grasp, and slipped through a narrow fissure in the rocks, quickly lost to sight in the brooding gloom.
Another gust of wind shrieked over the moor, drowning all other sound. As it died away, leaving an uncanny silence, the driver turned towards his car. He heard the clip-clop of hooves plainly now, but could not see the rider. He climbed up to the road and peered along it; even the Sunbeam-Talbot was enveloped in the gloom; the black clouds were almost overhead.
He stood by the open door, and in the distance saw a wall of rain approaching. The hoofbeats drew nearer, as if the rider was making a desperate attempt to reach cover before the storm.
Clippety, clippety; but still he could not see the rider, although the breakneck pace passed on to him a sense of urgency.
The wall of rain drew nearer.
The black heavens were split in a vivid white flash! Lightning clove the clouds in two and lit up the moors in its lurid glare. Not far away, a woman was bending forward over the neck of a galloping horse, but thunder rolled and belched over the earth, drowning the sound of hoofbeats.
The driver reached inside the car and switched on the headlights. The beams caught the horse and rider, who were now only fifty yards away, and the woman straightened up in the saddle. Another flash of lightning was followed by a great roll of thunder; horse and rider alike would be afraid and glad of company. Yes, the woman was pulling at the reins.
Would the horse obey? Or would it gallop past in fright?
No, it was still under control, slowing down with graceful strides, its head well up.
The woman was young and hatless, and her face showed vividly in the bright headlights. Her fair hair was streaming back in the wind, making her Diana, hunted and not hunting; beautiful in a stormy way; at one with the elements.
The driver went forward as she slowed to walking pace. Lighting dimmed the headlights and threw her beauty into sharp relief. As she opened her lips a deafening roll of thunder drowned her words. She did not look scared, but aloof from the fury of the storm as she pulled up the horse only a yard or so away from the car.
The rain would smash upon them at any moment now.
The motorist smiled up at her.
‘You’d better take shelter.’
She made no attempt to dismount, but sat there staring at him, her eyes bright and tense, her lovely body rigid. ‘Are you—John Mannering?’
‘Yes.’ Only a slight narrowing of his eyes showed his surprise.
‘Don’t go on,’ she said fiercely. ‘Don’t go to Hallen House; you may never come back alive.’
Across Mannering’s mind flashed a picture of the weary, wizened, little man on the rocks. This woman wasn’t tired, and she spoke with passion. Her voice carried clearly until it was swallowed up by thunder.
As it roared and crackled overhead, man and girl stared at each other, made dumb by the cacophony overhead.
Out of the dying rumbles came the girl’s voice. ‘Did you hear me?’
‘I’ve travelled two hundred miles to visit Hallen House.’
‘If you’d travelled a thousand I would still tell you to go back. You may never return alive; you’ll certainly be in grave danger. You mustn’t go.’
‘I’m going,’ said Mannering quietly.
She sat glaring, as if furiously angry, and trying to will him to change his mind. Yet in increasing darkness, blotting out the day, he saw something in her eyes which matched the fear in the little man’s. She was fighting that fear and holding hard on to her courage.
The thunder boomed; she raised her voice to make herself heard: ‘You’ll be a fool if you go, I’ve warned you, you may never come back.’
‘At least tell me why.’
‘I’ve no time to explain. Don’t go!’ Her haste wasn’t all due to the storm.
Some way behind her was a lighter misty patch, which crept nearer. The girl either sensed it or saw Mannering looking past her, and guessed why. She glanced round quickly. A car was approaching with its headlights on, but it was still some way off.
She leaned down and touched his arm.
‘Your death will be on your own head. Don’t go.’
She straightened up, pressed her heels into the horse’s flanks and made it rear. A lull made her voice seem loud and strident.
‘Don’t be a fool, stay away from Hallen House. But if you do go on—’
She knew that he would.
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t say you’ve seen me. Please!’
The thunder swallowed the last word as she rode away.
Lightning dimmed the glow from the oncoming car, but when the flash faded, Mannering saw the headlights clearly – bright twin orbs and the dark shape of the car beyond. The clip-clop-clip-clop of the disappearing rider faded slowly.
Tired old man and handsome girl, both appearing out of the blue on the wild moor, saying ‘don’t go,’ but refusing a word of explanation; and both undoubtedly frightened.
Fear had driven the girl away – fear of someone in the oncoming car, and of being seen talking to him.
He leaned inside the car and dipped his headlights; the lights on the other car dipped in response. The thunder was shifting noisily south, and the lightning was less vivid; but he fancied he could still hear the galloping hooves. Clippety – don’t go. Clippety – don’t go.
The rain hadn’t reached him yet.
The other car drew up, and a tall, loose-limbed young man jumped out. There was nothing sinister about him as he smiled and called: ‘Hell’s bells, what a day! I’m from Hallen House. You Mr. Mannering?’
‘Yes.’
‘Glad I’ve caught you here,’ bellowed the young man. ‘Easily miss the way in the dark. Going to be a big storm. May last all night. You okay?’
Mannering nodded.
‘Nothing wrong, is there?’ asked the stranger. ‘Holding you up, I mean.’
‘No, I stopped to wipe my windshield.’
‘Better than a broken big-end! Well, we’d better get on. Just follow me, then. I won’t be a brace of shakes.’
The young man grinned; lightning lit up his white teeth and blue eyes, his fair hair and fresh complexion; he was handsome and powerful, with a swashbuckling air. In his car he reversed for a few yards and swung on to the moor. Mannering slid into his seat, waited until the other was moving along the road again, then he let in the clutch and followed.
They were a mile along a rough road when the rain swept down on them, and he saw the red light of the leading car through a blur. Soon, water was splashing up from large puddles, streaking his windshield, but he continued to drive on to Hallen House.
Chapter Two
Hallen House
The rain had passed when they reached the gates of the house, and the centre of the storm had moved south. A faint tinge of daylight from the west spread over the countryside, casting an eerie glow upon the trees which lined the steep drive and upon the house, which was on the brow of a hill, its battlemented roof stark against the leaden sky. He had a glimpse of grey stone walls, arched, narrow windows and the massive, pillared doorway. At the front was a circular drive, dotted with puddles; in the middle of the drive was a single cedar tree which spread out long, furry arms as if to clutch anyone who passed.
The young man pulled up beyond the entrance, enabling Mannering to stop immediately outside the front door. As Mannering got out, the young man hurried to him, giving another broad grin.
‘All quiet and serene,’ he declared heartily. ‘You okay?’
‘I’m all right.’
Was the heartiness forced?
‘That’s what the doctor ordered!’ boomed the young man, and continued, ‘One of the men will bring in your
bag and take your car round. Won’t keep you two shakes of a lamb’s tail!’ He dug his hand into his pocket and took out a ring of keys, selected one and inserted it in the lock of the door. He pushed the door open and stood aside with a flourish.
‘Welcome to Hallen House, sir!’
‘Thanks,’ murmured Mannering, stepping inside a vast hall.
Two electric lights shone dimly from the great height of the ceiling. A huge circular staircase led up to a gallery and spacious landing. Downstairs, several heavy, arched doors were closed.
‘Let’s have some more light on,’ said the young man. He pressed switches, and lights blazed on the walls from flame-shaped lamps tipped with red, which made a reddish glow on the ceiling. ‘Brrr, it’s cold! You certainly chose a nasty day to come, Mr. Mannering.’
‘Yes, didn’t I?’
‘But now you’re here it’s all right,’ said the young man. ‘Mr. Bellamy’s bursting to see you. I’m his secretary, Harrison.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Mannering, politely. ‘You wrote to me.’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Harrison. ‘I’m the amanuensis. Let’s go into the warm.’
He gave Mannering a sharp, piercing look before leading the way to one of the doors. It opened into a large, panelled room, where a coal fire blazed, spreading a pleasant warmth. Several huge leather armchairs were drawn up by the fire, and on a small table, bottles and glasses sparkled in the firelight. Harrison pressed a switch, and concealed lighting spread a friendly radiance about the room.
‘Whisky?’
‘Thanks,’ said Mannering.
‘Good!’ Harrison rubbed his hands together, then clapped them and looked at Mannering in consternation. ‘What an oaf I am! I forgot to take your hat and coat. Sorry, old chap. Hand over.’ He took the hat and coat hastily. ‘Help yourself, I’ll be back in a jiffy,’ he boomed, and hurried out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Mannering stepped swiftly in his wake, opened the door an inch, and backed away. Now he could hear anything said in the hall.