A Rope For the Baron

by John Creasey

  Mannering closed and locked his door.

  He crossed to the glowing fire and looked at himself in a huge overmantel mirror. Lorna knew that expression, had been the first to point it out. About his eyes and mouth there was a difference, a hint of the excitement he felt stealing over him.

  He laughed.

  What would Harrison say if he knew what tools were in the case? What would Lark say if he saw equipment with which he could break open any lock?

  Mannering put the case in the wardrobe, then went to the door, unlocked it and left it ajar. He must miss nothing. As he undressed, he listened intently for any sound. He was in dressing-gown and slippers when he heard footsteps approaching. He reached the door in a flash, and peered into the passage.

  Harrison was opening Stella’s door; he disappeared.

  He came out again after a few moments, turned the key in the lock and dropped the key into his pocket. He glanced towards Mannering’s door, noticed nothing amiss, and went to his own room.

  So Stella was locked in.

  Mannering went to the big window and pulled the heavy red velvet curtains aside. They ran smoothly on their runners. He could hear the wind howling more clearly now. It was pitch-dark, but as he stood staring into the night, a light appeared not far away. It showed the face of a man who was lighting a cigarette in a little shed. The light went out; above the howl of the wind, Mannering heard footsteps below him.

  Would they take such precautions to keep him in the house?

  Silas Bellamy’s bedroom was a small room for that sized house. It was on the ground floor, off a passage which led from the hall, and Holmes was helping him to undress when Harrison came in. Harrison lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the fire, as Holmes murmured: ‘Is there anything else, sir?’

  ‘No – good night, Holmes.’

  ‘Good night, sir. Good night, Mr. Harrison.’

  Harrison nodded, and watched the butler closely as he went out. Bellamy sat in an easy chair in front of the fire, with the black rug over his knees, a glass of brandy by his side, the stub of a cigar between his lips.

  Harrison smoothed down his hair.

  ‘And what do you make of Mr. Mannering?’ asked Bellamy softly.

  ‘He won’t give us any trouble.’

  ‘I wonder if you’ve underestimated him,’ murmured Bellamy. ‘He has been very quiet – but very watchful. Are you sure Stella didn’t say anything to warn him?’

  ‘She didn’t say enough.’

  ‘A little might be enough for some men,’ Bellamy said. ‘Have you seen Stella?’

  ‘She’s asleep.’

  ‘You’ve locked her in, I hope.’

  Harrison tapped his pocket. ‘Yes, and the key’s here. We needn’t worry about Mannering, he’ll crack once we put on the pressure. I wish we’d started right away.’

  ‘But we aren’t quite ready, my friend. Lark is still down here. I’d rather he was in London before we do very much. And we want Mannering to help us willingly at first. He will be easily persuaded to stay over tomorrow night, I think. If he refuses, we can show our hand. But I think he is pretty astute, Jim; and senses that something is the matter. You’re quite sure that Stella—’

  ‘If she’d said much, I’d have got it out of her,’ boasted Harrison, ‘and if I hadn’t, Mrs. Dent would have. She might have caught up with Mannering if it hadn’t been for the storm, mind you. But—she might give us trouble. I wouldn’t put it past her to go to the police if she could get far enough.’

  ‘Oh, come now,’ said Bellamy gently, ‘Stella wouldn’t do that. She is far too fond of her uncle, don’t forget her devotion to him. And I feel sure that Rundle won’t be silly – but I wish we could catch Rundle.’

  ‘He’ll die out on the moor,’ Harrison said callously. ‘One night of it in his condition will finish him. But I’d like to wring his neck! If it hadn’t been for him, Stella wouldn’t have got out.’ He kicked at a piece of coal in the fireplace, and sparks showered upwards. ‘It would happen today. Think they knew Mannering was coming, and went to warn him?’

  ‘You know I think that’s possible. But the storm was a godsend! All the doors are being closely watched, aren’t they?’

  ‘And the main windows, you needn’t worry about Mannering getting away. Not that I think he’ll try,’ Harrison added, tossing the end of the cigarette into the fire. ‘He’s just a dumb wit.’

  ‘Well, we won’t talk about it anymore tonight,’ decided Bellamy. ‘Help me into bed, Jim, will you?’

  Half an hour later, restless because of Bellamy’s opinion of Mannering, Harrison went quietly along the passage and stopped outside the visitor’s room. He could hear nothing. He tried the handle; the door was not locked, so he peered inside. In the red glow from the dying fire he could see Mannering lying in bed, and could hear his steady, regular breathing. He tiptoed into the room and stood looking down. Mannering did not stir.

  Harrison grinned in the darkness, and went out, closing the door softly.

  A clock struck three; its sonorous notes boomed loudly through the quiet house. Downstairs in the hall a guard lit another cigarette and took a drink from a whisky flask. In the back hall, the guard paced to and fro. Outside, three men, muffled in heavy sheepskin coats and thick scarves, walked round the house, watching doors and windows. They smoked continuously and occasionally stopped for a drink or to exchange a joke with one another.

  Upstairs, Mannering opened his eyes, and wondered why he was awake.

  Memory seeped back, and with it, that feeling of excitement. He had much to do.

  He threw back the bedclothes and got out of bed. He put on his dressing-gown, tying the sash tightly, pushed his feet into slippers which lay near the hearth and were still warm, and went to the wardrobe. Everything in the room was visible in the last flickers of firelight.

  The wardrobe door squeaked.

  He took out the tool-case, and carried it to the bed. Then he switched on a flashlight, and a pool of pale light revealed the assortment of tools. He selected three – a skeleton key, a small screwdriver, and a sharp knife – slipped them into his pocket, closed the case and put it under the bed.

  There was no sound in the house.

  He went into the passage and waited outside the door with his hand on the handle. The faint tick-tock of the clock downstairs murmured through the quiet. A man coughed. Mannering moved along to the middle of the passage, where it was carpeted, and reached the landing. In the hall, a lamp burned on a table near a guard who was sitting in front of the main door.

  Beside the lamp lay a revolver.

  Mannering turned back, passed Harrison’s room, and stopped at Stella’s door. It was light enough for his trained eyes to see all he wanted. As he touched the lock, a surge of excitement made his heart beat faster. When that calmed down, he examined the lock more closely. It was exactly the same type as that on his own door, and should not be difficult to open. He inserted the skeleton key; the click of metal on metal was very faint, yet sounded loud to his strained ears.

  He twisted cautiously.

  The years rolled away. Here was the Baron, standing in the darkness, deft hands working at the lock, every nerve taut. The work itself was almost mechanical, years of intensive practice had served him well, and he had never lost the touch. The tension came from listening for the man in the hall, and the regular, irritating beat of the clock. Now and again the guard stirred or coughed. Mannering worked through that, twisting and turning the key.

  The man stood up and walked across the hall.

  One moment his footsteps rang out clearly; the next they were muffled by the carpet. Had he heard a sound? Was he coming up here? Mannering paused in his work, waiting for the reassuring clatter of boots on the stone floor at the foot of the stairs. The footsteps were audible enough, but still muffled.

  A sharper noise came.

  Mannering drew back from the door and peered towards the landing.

  No, all was safe; a chair cr
eaked as the guard sat down again. Another match flared.

  So he had only wanted to stretch his legs; he would probably settle for a while now. Mannering turned back to the door.

  He hadn’t oiled the key because traces of oil might show on the door. But little squeaking noises as metal scraped on metal still sounded very loud. Was it audible in Harrison’s room?

  Nonsense!

  Ah! The lock was turning.

  The pressure on the key nearly made it slip in his fingers, but he kept his grip. He must not let the lock click back sharply, or it would be heard downstairs.

  A gentle click came as the lock turned.

  He withdrew the key and slipped it into his pocket, peering towards the landing. Satisfied that he had not been heard, he opened the door silently. He stepped into the dark room, closed the door softly behind him, and stood waiting until his eyes became accustomed to the deeper darkness here. Soon, he could make out the bed against the left wall – against Harrison’s wall; that was a pity. He could not make out the figure of the girl, but could see the huge wardrobe opposite the bed, the dressing-table, the dark curtains, still partly drawn.

  He took out the flashlight, wrapped a handkerchief over it, to dim the light, and switched it on.

  The faint glow showed the thick carpet, a chair which stood between him and the bed, and Stella Bellamy, who lay on her side, facing him, one arm over the bedclothes. He stepped nearer. She was wearing a nightdress or pyjamas with long, muslin sleeves, fastened at the wrist. She did not appear to have touched her hair since he had seen her; it was dry and fluffy and spread over the white pillow like pale gold. He could see her features clearly. In repose, she had lost her fear but none of her loveliness. She looked young – much younger than he had thought. She was breathing evenly, and her lips moved only slightly.

  Her arm moved across the bedclothes and came to rest a few inches nearer to him.

  He went closer to the bed. If she cried out when he touched her, it might bring disaster; one of the risks. He must hear her story. He rested his right hand lightly on her shoulder. She did not stir. He pressed gently, and whispered: ‘Wake up.’

  She started, flinging her arm across the bedclothes, but she did not wake. He patted her cheek gently. ‘Wake up, Stella, wake up!’

  She drew in a sharp breath; her eyes flickered but did not open. He could see the way the muscles in her throat and cheeks tensed. She was awake, but had made no sound.

  ‘It’s Mannering. Don’t worry, just wake up.’

  She opened her eyes and stared at him, without blinking. The peacefulness of repose had gone; fear had taken possession again. He shone the torch on his own face, and she eased herself up on her pillows, without speaking, staring at him.

  ‘Can Harrison hear?’ Mannering asked softly.

  ‘I—don’t—think so.’

  Her voice was so faint that he only just caught the words. He turned the torch back, so that he could see her; she was moistening her lips. Her eyes were calmer; alarm had gone, and her presence of mind was welcome but not unexpected. He remembered Harrison’s careless gesture when he had touched his forehead, suggesting that she wasn’t quite normal; Harrison wanted to discredit her.

  She shivered suddenly.

  Mannering saw a woollen bed-jacket on the bed, and handed it to her. She put it round her shoulders, every movement easy and graceful.

  ‘Why have you come?’

  ‘We couldn’t talk downstairs.’

  ‘What—do you want?’

  ‘Why did you warn me, and what’s happening here?’

  ‘I—I told you not to come.’

  ‘We haven’t much time and we may not get another chance to talk. Don’t waste it. Why didn’t you want me to come?’

  She hesitated for what seemed a long time. Then: ‘They are going to keep you here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I—I don’t know.’

  She wasn’t being evasive; he felt sure that she didn’t know. Disappointment came, sharp and dismaying. ‘What do you know?’

  ‘They said they wanted you to come and they wouldn’t let you get away. That happened—once before. A man was killed. They said it was an accident, said he fell out of a window and broke his neck. It wasn’t true; they pushed him out; I’m sure they pushed him out.’

  ‘Can you be sure?’

  ‘Of course, I—’

  ‘Hush!’ urged Mannering. Her voice had risen in her indignation, but she stopped at his warning, and looked past him towards the door, moistening her lips again.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered, ‘I’m quite sure. Rundle saw them.’

  ‘Who is Rundle?’

  An old servant.’

  ‘Did he escape today?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and caught her breath. ‘He saw what they did, and they locked him in a room and wouldn’t let him leave. It made him ill. Later, they let him move—move about the house. He managed to get a key to the back door and slipped out this afternoon; he was going to warn you – although he was too sick to go out. I followed him. They didn’t know I was going, didn’t know I knew that you were coming. I went on Glim.’

  ‘Glim?’

  ‘Harrison’s horse,’ she explained, and caught her breath again. ‘You shouldn’t have come; you can’t escape. The doors are guarded by night, and you can be seen from the house for miles by day. You shouldn’t have come!’

  ‘I’m going to get away,’ Mannering said with quiet assurance.

  She shook her head, and her voice rose again.

  ‘You can’t; you’re helpless now.’

  ‘I shall get away, and I want you to come with me, Stella.’

  ‘No,’ she gasped. ‘I can’t!’

  He knew something of the reason for her dread now. He could understand the little man by the stream. He could imagine how both man and girl had felt that fear of Bellamy and Harrison, and perhaps of others, which had robbed them of logic, making them utter their vague warnings without a word of explanation. Poor Rundle, who was so tired and ill and frightened, and was now alone on the wild, bleak moor.

  ‘I want you to come with me,’ Mannering repeated.

  ‘Even if you could escape, I couldn’t—come with you.’

  ‘You must listen to me,’ insisted Mannering. ‘You’re terrified of them, and you’re in danger yourself, in as much danger as I am. We must get away together, and—’

  ‘I can’t leave here!’

  Would any sane woman refuse to try and escape? Would anyone willingly stay in this house, subjected to such indignities, possessed by such fear? He watched her closely, her tension making him forget the hovering dangers. He had almost forgotten the guard in the hall, the possibility that Stella’s room might be inspected; that Harrison might have been disturbed.

  ‘Well, I’m going,’ Mannering said.

  ‘You’ll never escape.’

  What made her so sure?

  She began to speak, in swift, urgent tones, contradicting what she had just said.

  ‘Listen to me, you must listen. I can’t leave here, but if you can escape, go now. Don’t wait here another minute. I don’t know what they want from you, but it’s something—something evil. They’ll kill you rather than let you go. He threatened to give them away, that’s why they killed him. No one would ever believe it; the police came, and thought it was an accident. Both Bellamy and Harrison lied, the servants lied; the servants know the truth about this house, but they’re cowed into submission. Do you understand me? They’re frightened, too.’

  ‘Yes, Holmes looked scared. Mrs. Dent didn’t seem—’

  ‘She’s a bitch!’

  ‘And as dangerous as your uncle and Harrison?’

  ‘In some ways—she’s worse. Oh, God! Don’t stay here any longer. I can’t leave, but if you think you can – go now. Only be careful! They’ll shoot you rather than let you escape.’

  Mannering sat on the edge of the bed, taking her hand.

  ‘Listen to me, Stella. I�
��m not going out of the room until I know why you can’t come with me. I mean that.’

  Obviously she knew that he was serious.

  ‘Well?’ he whispered.

  ‘I can’t—leave—my sister,’ Stella said.

  Five words, ordinary words, which conjured up a vision in Mannering’s mind, gave him a glimpse of the horror which possessed her. She was not the only one kept here against her will, she was not thinking only of herself. ‘I can’t—leave—my sister.’ It would have been easy to retort: ‘Then we’ll take her, too,’ but he sensed there was something deep and frightening here.

  ‘I haven’t seen her,’ he said.

  ‘She’s in—her room. She isn’t well. They never let me see her, but while she’s here, I must stay. If I do anything – if I tell the police – they’ll kill my Kathleen. I shouldn’t have told you, but you wouldn’t take my warning. If you can get away, for God’s sake, go!’ she cried, then caught her breath, for the words echoed loud and clear about the room.

  Mannering went swiftly to the door and waited.

  No sound.

  He turned back to the bed, undecided what to do. As she was not frightened only for herself, she would be very stubborn. He was sure that she would not willingly leave this house without her sister. But she might be able to tell him more about her uncle and Harrison, and what they were doing.

  ‘Please go,’ she begged. ‘If they find you here they might—’

  She broke off, and closed her eyes.

  Mannering said: ‘Stella, believe it or not, I can get away from here whenever I choose. I shall stay tomorrow, and I’ll talk to you again. You and your sister will be safe enough; I’ll see to that. Don’t think it’s hopeless.’ He found himself gripping her hand tightly, felt the vice-like tension of her fingers. ‘Do you understand, it isn’t—’

  Footsteps came along the passage!

  The girl’s face blanched. Mannering switched off the flashlight and swung round, crossing to the door. The footsteps stopped, and a key was pushed into the lock.

  Chapter Five