by John Creasey
Mannering smiled. ‘It is me,’ he announced.
‘Eh?’ Jenkins’s gaze darted up and down, up and down.
‘It is me—the portrait is of me.’
Jenkins’s mouth opened wide.
‘You mean—’ He was baffled.
‘I’m in fancy dress,’ explained Mannering. ‘My wife thought it a great joke.’
‘Wife?’ echoed Jenkins, as if the introduction of this new element was too much for him. His gaze swivelled round again and he caught sight of the portrait of Lorna.
It was time to get the situation completely under control, Mannering decided. He sat upright and his voice deepened.
‘My wife is a portrait painter and she painted me as a cavalier. The portrait you’re looking at now is a self-portrait of my wife. Now! How can I help you, Mr. Jenkins?’
Jenkins turned back, gulped, and said: ‘It’s very kind of you to see me, I’m sure.’
‘If it’s a personal matter—’ Mannering began, belatedly wondering if this man was a particularly clever confidence trickster, or even a beggar who found that this ingenuous manner paid dividends.
‘Oh, no, Mr. Mannering, it’s business. You see, I—I’m in the trade. I’m a runner, so to speak—you know what a runner is, sir, don’t you?’
‘You mean you go from gallery to gallery offering paintings for sale, or take pictures to the framers and restorers.’
Jenkins’s expression cleared.
‘That’s it, sir, right on the nose! I don’t work in London, mind you, only in the provinces, south-west mostly, that’s how I came to take over The Kettle. You know The Kettle, in Salisbury, don’t you?’
‘Slightly,’ Mannering said.
‘It’s a very nice shop, a very nice shop indeed, but the gentleman who had it before me wasn’t very knowledgeable about the trade, sir, if you know what I mean. He had favourites, and it’s never any good to hold on to pieces just because you like them, is it? The business went down and down, as a matter of fact, and I bought it, wanting a place of my own, as you might say.’
‘You were tired of acting as a runner,’ said Mannering, patiently.
‘That’s it, sir—right on the nose. I’d just met Miss Right, too, and she had a little bit saved so we took over The Kettle. You should see it now, sir—a shop to be proud of, even though I say it myself.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ murmured Mannering.
‘And I know the district well, know all the big houses and all the little ones, sir—I know the business though I do say it myself. But to cut a long story short, sir, I came across some real beauties last week, absolute beauties—but I’m not sure what they’re worth. What I was wondering, sir, was whether a gentleman like you would come and have a look at them?’
‘In Salisbury?’ asked Mannering, unbelieving.
‘I’d pay your expenses, sir, it wouldn’t cost you anything except a bit of time and it would be in the way of business. I’ve also picked up some fifteenth-century pewter—I know my pewter, Mr. Mannering, don’t make any mistake about that. You buy pewter, don’t you?’
‘Sometimes,’ said Mannering. ‘Are these paintings in your shop?’
‘Oh, no, they belong to an old crone—an old lady in a village outside Salisbury, sir. As a matter of fact, it’s a grand-daughter of the old lady who knows my wife Dora, and Dora put me on to these paintings so I went and had a look. She doesn’t live far out—a village called Nether Wylie; I don’t know whether you’ve heard of it?’
Mannering did not speak.
‘And I’d run you out there in my car,’ offered Mr. Jenkins. ‘The old lady doesn’t trust dealers, and she wouldn’t take my offer, so before I make a bigger one I want to be sure I’m on the right track.’
‘Yes,’ said Mannering drily, ‘I’m sure you do. My fee for a valuation is fairly high, Mr. Jenkins.’
‘Oh, I don’t want a valuation,’ Jenkins almost squealed. ‘My idea was, that if you think they’re worth a gamble, we would go into it together. There’s no doubt about it, Mr. Mannering; if a man like me is on to a good thing the trade beats him down, but a man with your reputation and your knowledge of the market—you’d get twice, three times the amount I would. It isn’t far, Mr. Mannering, and I think these are worth a look, really I do.’
‘Can you bring one to show me?’ asked Mannering.
‘I suppose I could try,’ said Jenkins dubiously, ‘but she won’t part with them easy, I know that. Wouldn’t you consider coming down and taking a look yourself, Mr. Mannering?’
Mannering said musingly: ‘I may be near Salisbury this week.’
Jenkins’s eyes lit up.
‘Then that’s wonderful, sir! I can arrange for you to see them any time on Sunday morning, between half-past ten and half-past twelve, the old bit—the old lady goes to church then and the grand-daughter would let us in. Just between you and me,’ went on Jenkins, leaning forward intently, ‘we could get the lot for a hundred pounds and if I’m right we’d make a fortune. I think one of them’s a Vermeer. A rare bargain,’ he added, as if the word turned to nectar on his lips.
At first Mannering had felt sorry for Mr. Jenkins, but gradually he had grown to dislike him, and now his dislike was acute indeed. Mr. Jenkins was quite prepared to buy the paintings for a song and make a fortune out of them, leaving Eliza Doze – for Eliza Doze it must be, reflected Mannering – with all her old distrust of dealers strengthened to bitterness. Yet Mannering did not show what he felt. Had he any doubt before, this would have decided him to go to Salisbury. If the paintings were by a freak of chance genuine, this man was the last one, in his opinion, worthy of getting his hands on them. Even if they were good copies they would be comparatively valuable.
‘Where can I get in touch with you?’ he asked.
‘Oh, at The Kettle, sir, at The Kettle. There’s living accommodation over the shop. Real old place it is, sixteenth century. I will say the previous owner made a real good job of it when he took it over. Put in a bathroom and all the mod cons—it couldn’t be more up to date. Dora thinks it’s lovely. I’ll see you down there, then.’
‘Yes,’ said Mannering.
Mr. Jenkins held out a moist hand.
‘That’s splendid, Mr. Mannering, couldn’t suit me better. I’ve a few old pals in London I ought to see, and Dora’s looking after the shop. Not that she knows the trade at all but everything’s marked clearly. Fair dealing’s my motto, Mr. Mannering. So I’ll just pop along to find out what my pals are looking for; never know when I mightn’t come across the very thing.’
Mannering ushered him out of the office, then out of the front door. He went off, obviously jubilant. Mannering turned, to see Larraby snapping the fastening of a small display case filled with Napoleonic miniatures – Bonaparte on horseback, on foot, sitting, drinking, eating, even sleeping, the colours having strangely retained their depth throughout the years.
‘Excuse me, sir.’
‘Yes, Josh?’
‘Did you recognise that visitor?’
‘Jenkins?’ asked Mannering.
‘Oliver Jenks is the name,’ said Larraby. ‘Or it used to be. Your own kindness to me after I came out of prison will always be an object lesson in human charity, sir, and I wouldn’t hold a prison sentence against any man. But Oliver Jenks is notorious.’
Mannering frowned. ‘In what particular way?’ he asked.
‘For dealing in forged and stolen paintings, sir. He served his sentence for conspiracy with two other men to break into a gallery and steal a collection of Flemish masters. And he betrayed his accomplices, sir, in the hope of getting a lighter sentence.’
‘And did he?’
‘If my memory serves me he was sentenced to five years in prison and if he behaved himself he no doubt came out after three and a half,’ Larr
aby answered. ‘I really don’t want to victimise the man for his past, but he looked so pleased with himself when he left that—’
Larraby broke off.
‘You were afraid he’d fooled me,’ Mannering said drily.
‘I’m very glad that he didn’t,’ Larraby said.
‘I suppose I can’t really be sure what he’s after. Come into the office, Josh.’ Mannering told Larraby exactly what had passed between him and the runner, and while Larraby was reading Eliza Doze’s letter, looked up the Railway ABC.
As Larraby glanced up, Mannering closed the book.
‘It is very peculiar indeed,’ Larraby remarked. ‘What do you think of it, sir?’
‘Either Jenkins alias Jenks thinks he’s on to a good thing,’ Mannering said, ‘or Eliza Doze has told this grand-daughter of hers that she’s approached me, and Jenkins, having heard of this, has come to stake a claim. He’s going to be in London overnight at least, and there’s a train to Salisbury at five o’clock this afternoon. I’ll need a taxi while I’m there—ring through and reserve one for me, will you?’
‘I will, sir!’ Larraby was delighted.
‘And put off any appointments for tomorrow,’ Mannering ordered. ‘I’ll telephone you in the morning.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve an hour yet. Tell Audrey to get the longer letters done first.’
Picking up an overnight case which he always kept at the shop, he unpacked it, pressed a spot at one side, then pulled up a false panel. Beneath this was a set of tools, some thin but very strong nylon rope, and a small gas pistol with its supply of tear-gas pellets. He checked these contents and made sure the pistol was loaded, then put it back in the case. When the false panel was again in position, he replaced the spare shirts, ties, collars, handkerchiefs, a light-weight dressing-gown, slippers, shaving gear and a paperback copy of Byron’s poems; everything in fact designed to give pleasure and comfort if he were away from home for a night or two.
Exactly an hour later he was sitting in a corner seat of a crowded train. And at five minutes to seven he was standing on the platform of Salisbury station.
‘Where will I find a taxi which should be waiting for me?’ he asked a porter.
‘Just outside, sir, and round to the right.’ The porter waved towards the station entrance.
The taxi was a Ford, the driver a youthful-looking but nearly bald man with a pleasant manner and a rather husky voice. Mannering got in at the back and, out of habit, looked round to make sure that no one followed him; except for two taxis which turned off near the station yard, no one did.
‘First stop Nether Wylie, sir, isn’t it?’ the driver asked.
‘Please,’ Mannering said.
‘Best go Wilton way from here,’ advised the driver. ‘Any particular house, sir?’
‘I’m looking for somewhere to do some fishing later in the month,’ Mannering replied. ‘I’m told this is a good area.’
‘Very good, sir, you won’t find a better in this part of the world for trout. Get a few salmon, too. But you won’t find anywhere to stay overnight at Nether Wylie, it’s only a few cottages, and the Manor, the church and a pub. There’s no hotel, sir.’
‘I’ll look round when I’m there,’ said Mannering.
The journey took longer than he had expected, winding through country lanes already showing the first signs of autumn, and alongside a narrow stream rippling under the bowed branches of bankside trees. Here and there were cottages, a village, a rose-coloured wall with eaves over it; everywhere the quiet of evening was settling. Only now and again did they pass a car, only once a man on a bicycle. At last, a grey stone building with a thatched roof loomed up, and a swinging inn sign bearing the words Nether Inn. The windows, Mannering noticed, were leaded and the doorway narrow. Beyond a small car park were two pairs of cottages, and a by-road flanked by beech trees through which more roofs and chimneys could be seen. Right at the end of the village, standing on its own, was a cottage with a slate roof, plain, even ugly, with an overgrown yew hedge about it and a tangle of ramblers which had obviously not been pruned for some years.
At the door was a policeman, talking to a girl who appeared to be both pretty and agitated. As the taxi stopped, Mannering heard her say: ‘But there’s nothing here worth stealing, that’s the puzzling thing, nothing at all.’ After a pause, she added: ‘She will be all right, won’t she? They’ll look after her at the hospital, won’t they?’
Judging from the tone of her voice she was near despair.
Mannering thought: Nothing to steal! And then he pictured the shaky handwriting of the old woman’s written plea. He had lost no time – but even so he might have arrived too late.
Chapter Three
The Attic
The policeman, young and sturdy, and the girl, who lost some of her prettiness as Mannering drew nearer along the path leading to the cottage, both turned to stare at him.
‘Good evening, sir,’ said the policeman.
‘Good evening. Is Mrs. Eliza Doze at home?’ Mannering asked.
‘I’m afraid not, sir. She’s met with an accident.’
‘Accident!’ cried the girl. ‘She was attacked, brutally attacked!’
‘May I ask what your business is, sir?’ the policeman asked.
‘Mrs. Doze asked me to come and see her,’ Mannering answered. ‘My name is—’
‘Baron!’ exclaimed the girl, the name bursting out of her. ‘You’ve come already!’ She pushed the policeman aside, and turned an agitated face to Mannering. ‘Oh, if only you’d come an hour ago!’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the policeman doggedly, ‘but I need to get the situation clear for my report. Mrs. Doze asked you to come and see her?’
‘Yes, she—’
‘It’s Baron Mannering!’ exclaimed the girl.
‘Just Mr. Mannering,’ Mannering corrected, ‘but sometimes I’ve been called the Baron. Mrs. Doze told me she had come across some old pictures in her attic, and wanted me to have a look at them.’
‘They weren’t any good,’ the girl declared, ‘I told her they were a lot of old rubbish, but it was never any use talking to Granny. She—oh, I don’t know what to do. I’m so worried.’
‘Are you planning to stay, sir?’ inquired the policeman.
‘As I’m here I’d like to look at the pictures—but can I help Mrs. Doze?’
‘No, sir, she’s in the Infirmary, and as well as can be expected. I’ll go and make my report if you’ll wait with Miss Doze until I’m back.’
‘I simply can’t stay by myself tonight!’ the girl said, with a catch in her breath.
‘Don’t you worry, lass, we’ll fix something,’ the policeman assured her. He turned and swung a leg over his bicycle, which had been leaning against the inside of the overgrown hedge. The girl watched him pedal off, saw him raise a hand in greeting to the taxi driver, and then turned to Mannering. She clutched his arm.
‘You won’t go away, will you?’
‘Certainly not until you’re looked after,’ Mannering assured her. ‘May I see the paintings?’
‘Well, yes, if you don’t mind climbing into the attic’ She led the way into a small square parlour, sparsely furnished, but much better kept than the outside of the cottage. A narrow staircase led upwards, and from a landing at the top rose a ladder which stood vertically against the wall. ‘I don’t know how Granny ever got up there.’
‘What exactly happened to your grandmother?’ Mannering asked.
‘Well, I don’t rightly know, sir. She hasn’t been very well lately, and my mum having gone away for a few days, I was staying with Gran. I’d been in to Salisbury on the bus and as I was walking along die lane I heard a scream. So I came running. I could hardly believe my eyes! There was a man in the doorway, and Granny on the floor with blood all over her head.’
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‘What happened to the man?’
‘He must have run away,’ the girl answered. ‘I screamed and screamed, and two telephone men happened to be passing. If it hadn’t been for them I don’t know what would have happened. One of them phoned for the ambulance and the police and the other one came in with me, I felt so scared.’
‘I should think so,’ Mannering said. ‘Did the man have anything with him?’
‘Nothing big, if that’s what you mean. It couldn’t be those pictures that are worth stealing, could it?’
‘It’s obviously possible,’ said Mannering.
‘Oh, they can’t be! I—I told Granny they weren’t worth ten bob apiece. I—I’ve a friend in Salisbury, you see, and her husband said he’d buy them on spec; he offered twenty-five pounds for the lot. Imagine, twenty-five pounds!’ She caught her breath. ‘But supposing they are valuable? You must think they are, or you wouldn’t have come!’
‘I happened to be near,’ lied Mannering soothingly, ‘and your grandmother wrote such a charming letter.’
The girl paused at the foot of the staircase. ‘And you really want to see them?’ she asked.
‘I do indeed.’
‘It’s dark up there. You’d need a candle.’
‘I’ve a torch,’ Mannering said. ‘Will you come up?’
The girl shivered, with an exaggerated shake of her head.
‘Then go and talk to the taxi driver,’ Mannering advised. ‘I won’t be more than five minutes.’
He waited for the girl to start walking along the path, then went up the stairs, his shoulders touching the walls on either side. There was a fusty smell as he neared the landing. Above it was a closed hatch into the attic. Pushing the ladder into position, Mannering climbed halfway up, then raised the hatch cover, which fell back with the groaning of rusty hinges. He went up two more rungs, marvelling that any old person could make such a climb.
Then he saw the eyes.
There, in the attic, was a man, glaring down at him, a man with his hand raised and a heavy stick in it.