by John Creasey
Mrs. Dent
Mannering drew swiftly away and backed to the wall. As the door opened, a dim light from the passage filtered in. Whoever it was came hurrying in, and crossed to the bed. It was a woman; Mrs. Dent. He could just see the wardrobe, and, heart in his mouth, he edged towards it. He could have slipped out of the room, but—he might learn much by staying. He reached the wardrobe and squeezed himself in the angle which it made with the wall.
‘Stella, are you awake?’ called Mrs. Dent. ‘Stella!’
There was a sound, rustling, rattling; the woman was shaking the girl and making the bed creak. ‘Stella!’ Stella stirred, and Mannering could imagine her opening her eyes and blinking in the gloom.
‘Who—who’s that? What is it?’
‘Get up, I need you.’
‘But—’
‘I thought you wanted to see your precious sister!’
‘Kathleen!’ gasped Stella. Mannering could see every movement as she flung back the bedclothes and jumped out of bed. She would have rushed straight to the door, but the housekeeper pulled her back roughly, and made her put on a dressing-gown and slippers. Stella’s eyes glistened, she looked distraught, her breathing was quick and laboured as she ran towards the door with the housekeeper padding after her.
She went out.
And screamed! A wild, piercing cry which brought Mannering forward, ready for any horror.
‘What the hell’s all this about?’ demanded Harrison harshly.
So Stella had seen him loom out of the doorway, after being disturbed by Mrs. Dent’s call, and it had been too much for the girl’s taut nerves. Now she sobbed, but made little sound.
‘I can’t do anything with the other brat,’ Mrs. Dent said.
‘He said—’ began Harrison.
‘Just this once, I can’t help what he says,’ snapped Mrs. Dent, ‘we’ve got to get the brat quiet. Come on, Stella.’ Stella was quiet now.
‘I’d better come with you,’ Harrison grumbled.
‘Please yourself.’
The housekeeper had not troubled to close the door, and Mannering crossed to the passage and peered along, in time to see Harrison going down the stairs behind the others. All three walked noisily, especially when they reached the bottom of the stairs. Mannering reached the landing as Harrison disappeared into the passage which led to the garage.
The guard stood in the middle of the hall, looking doubtfully at Harrison’s back.
The temptation to go down, overpower the guard and find out more about Kathleen was almost overwhelming. But Mannering went back as far as Harrison’s room. A bedside lamp showed Harrison’s clothes strewn carelessly about the room. He must have slept soundly, for the bed was hardly disturbed. Mannering picked up the coat and weighed it in his hand. He wanted to find out whether Harrison kept a gun, but there was nothing heavy in the coat. He crossed to the bed – and, on the bedside table saw a small Luger automatic. He stretched out his hand towards it, then drew back. He mustn’t let his need of a gun betray him. Harrison would miss it immediately he came back, and guess the truth – or else suspect Stella.
There might be other weapons.
He rummaged unsuccessfully through the wardrobe and the dressing-table, then went to a chest of drawers in the corner near the window. The top drawers were filled with clothes; the bottom one was locked.
He took out the skeleton key again.
The drawer was open a moment later.
Underneath some folded clothes was a wooden box. Mannering drew it out and found the companion to the Luger, with some spare clips of ammunition. He examined the automatic quickly; it was empty. He slipped a clip of cartridges into his pocket with the gun, pushed the drawer to and relocked it, then went out of the room.
He had taken enough chances for one night. And something was on his mind, worrying him; something he couldn’t place, but which made him feel that the others might know he had been about.
It wasn’t Stella.
He put the gun and ammunition under his pillow, and got into bed, but could not sleep. His ears were strained to catch the sound of the others returning. The waiting seemed endless, but it was only a little after four o’clock when he heard them return – Harrison and Stella, without Mrs. Dent.
Harrison growled: ‘Now go to sleep; she’ll be all right.’ He locked the door on Stella again.
Ah! That was it. Had the housekeeper noticed that her door had not been locked?
So much depended on the answer. The woman had been in a hurry, and alarmed by an emergency downstairs. She had pushed her key into the lock without thinking; turned the handle without thinking. If she had noticed anything amiss, surely she would have spoken of it to Stella immediately.
He couldn’t be sure.
He was awakened by a touch on the shoulder, and blinked at Holmes, who stood impassively by the side of the bed. Sun was streaming in at the window. Holmes touched a tray which stood on the bedside table, and said softly: ‘Your tea, sir, and the bath will be ready in a quarter of an hour.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ said Mannering, sitting up. ‘The morning looks brighter.’
‘It often does after a storm, sir. Is there anything else you require?’
‘No, thanks.’
Holmes went out, silent as always; almost furtive. Mannering poured out the tea and drank it, then lit a cigarette. As he smoked and drank a second cup, he went over the events of the previous night. If he had slept right through, had his suspicions not been aroused, he would have regarded this as the most normal household. Holmes’s manner was perfect; but why did the butler bring morning tea to the guest? There must be plenty of maids.
Weren’t they trustworthy?
Come to think, the only women he’d seen were Stella and Mrs. Dent.
He got up, took the automatic and clip from beneath the pillow and dropped them into his dressing-gown pocket before going into the bathroom. The huge, old-fashioned bath was half-filled with hot water; soap, face cloth, and a large bath-towel were there. He splashed cheerfully, then shaved and went back to his room to dress. Ready, he loaded the gun, slipped it into his pocket, hid the rest of the ammunition with his tools, and went downstairs. The ticking of the clock was hardly audible because of the sounds about the house. By day, the place lost something of the sense of vastness, and the sinister touch it had possessed by night. Everything looked a little smaller and less imposing. The banisters were beautifully carved and polished; several oil paintings on the walls of the Great Hall were by a master.
Every piece of furniture was old; some pieces were extremely valuable.
No one was in the room where they had first met on the previous night, but a refectory table was set for breakfast for three. Would Bellamy be down? Or was the third place for Stella?
The window faced west, and although there was no cloud in the sky, and the sun was warm, the moor looked bleak and desolate. Dotted here and there were great pools of water, a reminder of yesterday’s downpour. But there was a cheering freshness over the grounds and the house.
He went into the hall and opened the front door. A man was hoeing a flower-bed which lay along the side of the house. By the wall was a rifle. He was a short, thick-set fellow, whose rhythmic movements suggested that he was used to gardening.
‘Good morning,’ said Mannering brightly. ‘Much better, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, it’ll be a fine day,’ said the gardener, stopping at once and leaning on his hoe. He was a round-faced fellow with a bovine expression, and Mannering wondered what he would do if the guest left the porch. ‘Do with it, sir, can’t we?’
‘We can!’ Mannering strolled towards him, lighting a cigarette. He affected surprise when he caught sight of the rifle. ‘Good Lord, that looks like business!’
‘Have some trouble with foxes hereabouts,’ explained the gardener, glancing at the gun. ‘Very bold they get at times. And the gun comes in useful to frighten some folk away. Very valuable things in this house, sir; some queer people come near. Don’t do n
o harm to let them see we’re prepared for trouble.’
Again that undertone and menace and threats.
‘Like that, is it?’ asked Mannering.
‘Just like that, sir,’ said the gardener, with faint emphasis. ‘That frightens people off if they’re not wanted.’
‘I’ll bet it does!’
Harrison came round the corner of the house, scowling. Mannering was seized with a sudden impulse to scare the man, to find out how he would behave in a crisis – to blast a way through his indifference. Before the gardener realised what he was doing, he picked up the rifle.
‘Here, sir!’
‘Nicely balanced, isn’t it?’ remarked Mannering, and put it to his shoulder and trained it on Harrison. ‘’Morning, Harrison!’ Harrison stood stock-still, except for his right hand. He dropped that to his pocket; doubtless the Luger was there.
‘Don’t do that, sir, it’s loaded!’ gasped the gardener.
‘Is it, by George!’ exclaimed Mannering, while Harrison, who had gone deathly pale, slowly pushed his hand into his pocket.
A pigeon flew out of the cedar tree.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Mannering. He slewed the gun round and fired, and the bird dropped like a stone.
‘What a gun! Absolutely true – that was a lucky shot though, wasn’t it?’
He grounded the rifle.
‘Lucky!’ gasped the gardener.
‘What the devil do you think you’re doing?’ roared Harrison, rushing forward with his right hand clenched inside his pocket. The colour flooded back to his cheeks, his eyes were bright with rage. ‘If you do that again, I’ll—’
Mannering changed his mood, and snapped: ‘You’re forgetting yourself!’
‘Forgetting—’ Harrison was almost speechless.
‘You’re too damned insolent. Why have you got armed men in the garden?’
It was good to attack; good, if dangerous.
‘Mind your own damned business!’
‘Talk like that just once more, and I’ll break your neck!’ Mannering’s anger was assumed, he felt calm and exultant, for this was proof of Harrison’s taut nerves – and he’d an excuse for goading him.
‘You—’ Harrison’s voice was strangled.
‘Jim!’ That was Bellamy’s voice. ‘Jim!’
All three looked towards the front door. Bellamy was perilously near the edge of the top step. The sun shone on his grey hair; he looked very bluff and handsome. ‘Jim, didn’t I hear a shot?’
‘Mannering was playing the fool,’ growled Harrison thickly. His face was scarlet. ‘Mannering—’
‘I borrowed a rifle and shot a pigeon,’ said Mannering in an angry voice. ‘Harrison’s behaviour is—’
‘Now, now, gentlemen, you don’t want to quarrel over a thing like that. Jim’s a bit on edge, Mr. Mannering; we don’t often hear a gun fired; they’re kept as a precautionary measure, that’s all. It must have startled him. Jim, how’s your headache? Any easier?’
He was quick; and clever to blame a headache.
Harrison growled: ‘Not much.’
‘You really ought to rest this morning, my boy. I did advise you to earlier. Nasty thing, a bad headache, isn’t it?’ Bellamy asked suavely. ‘One’s naturally a bit sharp-tempered with a nagging pain all the time. I should certainly rest, Jim – have breakfast later. Mr. Mannering won’t mind having only my company, I’m sure.’
Mannering put the gun against the wall.
‘Of course not.’
He still sounded ruffled, but Bellamy nodded cheerfully, and Mannering went towards him. Harrison walked ahead, stalked up the steps, pushed past Bellamy and into the hall. Mannering followed more slowly as Bellamy wheeled his chair back.
They went into the breakfast-room without exchanging a word. Holmes was at the sideboard.
‘We’re ready, Holmes.’ Bellamy pointed to a chair. ‘Do sit down, Mannering.’
Holmes hovered about them.
‘Tea or coffee, sir?’
‘Tea, please,’ said Mannering shortly.
There was grapefruit, followed by eggs and bacon; beautifully fried eggs with a covering of pale white, and three thick rashers of bacon, crisp and appetising. There were fresh rolls and toast, and butter – plenty to put a man in a good temper. He relaxed slowly, and looked into Bellamy’s smiling eyes.
‘Harrison annoyed me.’
‘Between you and me, I’m not surprised,’ said Bellamy, glancing round as if to make sure that Holmes had left the room. ‘He’s a sharp-tempered fellow, and when he gets a headache – a migraine – there’s no holding him. If it weren’t for his exceptional qualifications, I shouldn’t employ him. I do hope you won’t let it spoil your visit, Mannering.’
Beautifully said; so suave.
‘I hope there’s an improvement in his manner,’ said Mannering.
‘I think you can rely on it,’ said Bellamy. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Like a log. I was tired out.’
‘People do get tired when they come here, but I don’t find it enervating myself.’
The vision of a man being thrown out of one of the top windows sprang into Mannering’s mind.
‘Do you have many visitors?’
‘Comparatively few, we don’t encourage them – as you’ve seen from the men outside. With so much valuable property here – real as well as of antiquarian value, you understand – I believe in taking extreme precautions.’ Bellamy speared egg and bacon, and ate with relish. ‘Yes, sir, extreme precautions. We are five miles from the nearest village, fourteen from a police station, and in desolate country like this, we should be fools if we didn’t take care.’
‘I suppose so,’ agreed Mannering. ‘Did the previous owner have a guard like yours?’
‘He was an old fool,’ said Bellamy contemptuously. ‘I am told there were several robberies in the last year of his residence. I bought the house when he died – from his heir – a nephew called Morton Galliard. The Galliards are a bad family.’ He broke off, and looked out of the window.
Into his eyes there sprang a gleam which drove all thought of personal danger out of Mannering’s mind; it was a gleam of unadulterated hatred, and changed Bellamy’s countenance completely. Mannering could understand this man inciting others to murder; watching with callous indifference as a man fell screaming to his death. The mask of genial bonhomie was torn away.
Mannering was calmly spreading butter on a little square of toast when Bellamy turned towards him; the man’s expression was normal again.
‘Galliard,’ Mannering mused. ‘It’s an unusual name. I seem to have heard it before. Galliard—’
‘You probably heard it during the war. Very brave young man, Victor Galliard. He quarrelled with his father, so this place was left to a nephew. Like all people who don’t know what physical fear is, he has little sense. I was perhaps harsh on him, but I do not like men who have no intelligence, only a certain limited human understanding allied to a rude courage which makes them akin to the animals. Galliard won the V.C. during the war.’
‘Oh, I remember. R.A.F. type.’
‘Squadron-Leader Victor Galliard.’ Bellamy made sure Mannering knew all there was to know. ‘But I don’t think he will give us any trouble; he’s not interested in the house.’ He did not enlarge on that, but pressed more butter and marmalade on Mannering. ‘And more tea. I’m not looking after you at all well! Now, Mannering, I hope you will stay another night. It is impossible to look at everything here in a few hours.’
Mannering hesitated. Bellamy’s gaze was impudent and challenging – as if he were telling Mannering he really had no choice. The familiar indifference, the implication that whatever Mannering said really didn’t matter, was there again.
Better to avoid a crisis; just to take precautions.
‘I’d like to,’ Mannering said, ‘but there’s a snag. My wife expects me back tonight, and I’ve an appointment for tomorrow morning.’
‘The appointment can surely w
ait,’ said Bellamy, ‘and I’ll send a message to your wife.’
‘If I can telephone—’
‘There is no telephone here. Your thanks to Mr. Galliard for that. Since I took up residence, the Post Office has not had the facilities to install one. But I will send a man into the village with a telegram. Just a simple message, I suppose – to set your wife’s mind at rest?’
And everything he said was calculated to cause Mannering disquiet.
‘Thanks,’ said Mannering.
No telephone; a message to be sent by one of Bellamy’s men; no chance at all of communicating freely with the outside world. Harrison in a bitter, surly mood, and Bellamy caught out in that revealing flash of vicious hatred. Stella, upstairs, perhaps still locked in her room; and Kathleen – and, somewhere out on the moor, Rundle.
Rundle could prove his salvation; the old man might get through to a village, and, knowing Mannering was at the house, give another warning.
‘I suggest that we look at the jewels first,’ said Bellamy. ‘You’ll find them of absorbing interest, I’m sure. Have you finished? Good, then we’ll go there right away, I always like the jewel-room in the morning sun. Man can’t touch God when it comes to lighting!’ Bellamy chuckled and swung his chair round skilfully. ‘If you will just open the door.’
As Mannering went to do so, he heard someone crossing the hall. The door was thrust open and Harrison strode in.
Bellamy snapped: ‘I thought—’
‘They’ve found Rundle,’ Harrison said in a gloating voice. ‘He’s been dead all night from the look of him – stiff as a poker.’
Chapter Six
Mannering Composes a Message
Bellamy raised his hands.
‘My dear fellow! Rundle dead. Oh, I am sorry!’
Harrison took the cue in a flash; the smirk faded, he scowled and looked down at his feet.
‘We told him not to go out.’
‘Yes, yes. Rundle was an old servant of mine, a most faithful servant,’ Bellamy explained to Mannering. ‘If we had always lived here, I should have called him a retainer. Although he’s had an illness lately, he wanted to go to the village yesterday; we warned him the storm was coming, but—poor, poor fellow. He must have died of exposure – pneumonia, perhaps, his chest wasn’t strong. Where is the body, Jim?’