The Missing Old Masters

by John Creasey

  Mannering, poised on the ladder, one hand on the side of the hatch, felt his heart turn over. He made a desperate effort to grab the ladder with both hands, then felt the stick crack down on his fingers. The pain was agonising. He let go. The drop was only a few feet but he landed awkwardly, banging his head so heavily on the wall that he felt everything go hazy and dark. As he staggered, clinging desperately to consciousness, he saw something fall, a loose roll, awkward in shape. Another and another followed and he realised that they were canvases.

  The shock of the realisation partially brought him round.

  Four more canvases fell before he saw first the feet, then the legs of the man in the attic. One moment he seemed to be above Mannering’s head, the next he landed heavily on the floor, keeping his balance without any sign of fear.

  Mannering crouched low as the other picked up the canvases and tried to roll them inside one another. The last one foiled him in its stiffness and he tossed it impatiently down the stairs, and started after it.

  Mannering threw himself forward, arms outstretched, and grabbed his assailant by the leg, just below the knee. The man twisted round in a desperate effort to save himself from falling, but lost his footing and went tumbling down the stairs, the canvases after him as the roll unfurled. Mannering, still dazed and in pain, stood up slowly and leaned against the wall. The man lay still. Was it Mannering’s imagination, or was his head bent at an awkward angle – as if the neck were broken?

  Drawing in a dozen long, deep breaths, Mannering began to go down the stairs, still leaning against the wall as he did so. He stepped over the other, carefully, but kicked one of the canvases; it gave a crunching sound. If it were really old, such treatment was sacrilege. Gradually, painfully, he manoeuvred himself into a position in which he could feel his assailant’s pulse.

  At first, he felt no beating.

  He stared into the pale, round turnip of a face, the bulging eyes protuberant even beneath the lids: those glaring eyes which had been so frightening. There was slight movement of the full lips – ah! The pulse was beating. Carefully, Mannering felt all over the man’s body; no bones seemed to be broken. He eased him down the last few stairs, carried him into the parlour and stretched him out on an old saddleback sofa which had its back to the window.

  The man seemed dead to the world, but Mannering hesitated, then went into the kitchen. In a drawer he found a tangled ball of string, and with this he bound the man’s hands and ankles; then he ran through his pockets. They contained only a wallet with a few pounds in it, a driving licence in the name of Harry Anstiss, with an address in Shepherd’s Bush, W.12, some stamps and a Drivers’ Club credit card also in the name of Anstiss and with the same address.

  Mannering stood upright.

  Through the diamond-shaped panes of the window he saw the girl and the taxi driver animatedly talking. He heard her laugh, happy in her chance of relating the tale of drama yet again. Going into the lobby at the foot of the stairs, he picked up the canvases.

  There were seven in all. He straightened them out carefully and took them to the kitchen, which faced north; the evening light was better here than from any other point of the compass, but the kitchen window was too small to allow much in. Mannering opened the door and stepped outside with three of the paintings under his arm.

  He began to feel the quickening of his heartbeat, and a tension he had not known for some time. If these pictures were genuine discoveries he was holding something priceless in his hands – not priceless simply in terms of money, but in terms of art.

  If only the light were better!

  He spread one picture out over a covered water-butt. The picture was old-looking, with subdued colours and in the Dutch school of the seventeenth century. This was a family scene; a mother and a child, a man and two younger men in the background, light streaming through a window of a cottage in the way which Vermeer had mastered so completely.

  It could be!

  Mannering felt a choking kind of excitement at the very possibility, then placed another canvas over the first. This was an outdoor scene, with many tiny figures conveying a controlled sense of movement along a village street. Breughel? It was just possible, but he did not think he could form a really sound opinion until morning – or at least until he could examine the canvas under the right kind of intensive light. It was no use looking at the third, the background of which was darker.

  He gathered up the pictures, and as he did so, saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned, quickly. A girl was crossing the end of the garden, obviously anxious not to be seen, for as he turned she sprang forward and disappeared behind a thick hedge. Mannering hesitated for a moment, then, with a vision of the girl’s slim figure, dark hair and almost scared face still in his mind’s eye, he took the pictures back into the kitchen, looking about for a way of keeping them protectively packed. Finding some old newspapers, he placed several sheets between each painting, then tied them in a package with several lengths of string. By the time he had finished it was getting dark, and it did not surprise him to see the taxi driver and the girl approaching along the path.

  What would they say when they saw the bound figure on the sofa?

  The man’s eyes were now wide open, and Mannering remembered acutely the way they had glared down at him from the attic.

  ‘You—you’re Mannering,’ the prisoner said.

  ‘Yes,’ Mannering replied, ‘and you’re Anstiss.’

  The man nodded. ‘Give me the pictures,’ he mumbled hoarsely, ‘give me the pictures and let me go, and there’s a thousand quid in it for you.’

  ‘I’ll manage without the thousand,’ Mannering said, drily.

  ‘Let me—let me get out of here,’ Anstiss pleaded. There was something peculiarly agitated in his manner, as if he were listening for something. ‘Why don’t you—?’

  There was a muffled explosion above their heads. Anstiss started violently.

  ‘Get me out of here. Get me out!’ Something near panic was in his voice and his expression as he began to struggle against his bonds. ‘Cut me loose!’ he cried. ‘If you don’t—’

  There was a second, lesser explosion, and as it died away the taxi driver shouted: ‘Look there!’

  Mannering glanced out of the window and saw both man and girl staring towards the roof of the cottage. Almost on that instant the taxi driver bellowed:

  ‘You in there, get out! The place is on fire!’

  ‘Let me go!’ screeched the man on the sofa.

  Mannering swung round towards the door as the taxi driver appeared. He saw Mannering and his prisoner, and stopped short, his mouth open.

  ‘Take these,’ Mannering said calmly. He thrust the package into the taxi driver’s arms, spun round again and picked Anstiss up, then strode towards the door. He could hear hissing and crackling, he even imagined he could feel the heat. The front door was still open, the driver a few yards along the path.

  Mannering ran.

  As he reached the roadway he turned again and saw the whole of the roof on fire, flames shooting vertically into the air; and now he could indeed feel the heat, fiercely, furiously beating at him. He moved towards the taxi, and bundled Anstiss into it. Straightening up, he saw people hurrying from the main street of the village, the policeman on his bicycle at their head.

  One thing was certain; no ordinary domestic fire could have gathered force at such speed. This one had obviously started with those muffled explosions; petrol, or something similarly combustible, had caught alight instantaneously.

  Another thing was equally certain; anything left in that attic, whether priceless or not, had gone for ever.

  Were the paintings which the man Anstiss had brought away of value?

  As the question passed through Mannering’s mind, he heard the clip-clop of hoofbeats, and once again he saw the girl wh
o had been in the back garden of the cottage. The horse was cantering and she sat beautifully, with the natural ease of a rider who had been used to the saddle since childhood. The reflection of the flames tinted her dark hair a Titian red, and there was a blaze of fire in her eyes.

  She glanced into the taxi – and fear was added to the fire.

  Chapter Four

  Miss Joanna

  The girl reined in her horse. As she sprang from the saddle Mannering saw her lips move. Then, leading the horse, she drew nearer to the little bunch of people gathered at the gate.

  ‘Good evening, Miss Joanna,’ the policeman called, touching his helmet, ‘I’ve just been talking to the Colonel.’

  ‘Have you, Cope?’ The girl’s voice was quite calm and her manner normal enough. ‘What about?’

  ‘About Betsy here,’ the constable answered. ‘Her grandmother’s been hurt and she doesn’t want to stay—’ He broke off, glancing up at the ravening tongues of fire, and added rather helplessly: ‘Not that she could, anyway.’

  ‘You must come to the house, Betsy,’ Joanna said promptly.

  ‘That’s what the Colonel said,’ the policeman reported.

  ‘Thank you, Miss, thank you ever so much.’ The girl was almost in tears. ‘What a thing to happen!’ she gasped. ‘All Granny’s furniture gone—everything.’

  ‘We’ll see that she’s looked after,’ Joanna promised, and turned to Mannering. ‘Are you Mr. Mannering? Beverley Willis’s employer?’ She still spoke calmly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mannering.

  ‘I wonder if you can spare a moment.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The fire brigade should be along any minute,’ said the policeman. ‘You’ll look after Betsy, then, Miss Joanna?’

  ‘Yes, Cope, don’t worry about her.’

  Had the constable glanced into the taxi he must have seen the prisoner, but his head was turned and his gaze uplifted towards the fire.

  ‘Mr. Mannering,’ Joanna said in a very low-pitched but firm voice, ‘will you please let this man go?’

  Mannering was startled into exclaiming: ‘What?’

  ‘It’s extremely important—please, Mr. Mannering, I beg you not to take him to the police.’

  Constable Cope was talking to the crowd and pointing towards the flying sparks. The more prudent of them turned and moved away. In a few seconds someone was bound to notice that the man in the taxi was tied; questions would be asked, and the ensuing publicity would make it impossible for Mannering to do what the girl wished. He had to make a snap decision.

  ‘Can you guarantee that he won’t run away?’ he asked tersely.

  ‘No.’ Joanna answered. ‘I can only promise an explanation.’ She stretched her hands towards him until they almost touched his, but did not speak again.

  For good or ill Mannering made the decision.

  Taking a penknife from his pocket he leaned inside the car and cut the string at the man’s wrists and ankles. Anstiss struggled to a sitting position, then slithered feet first out on to the road.

  ‘Okay,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll keep mum.’

  He turned and walked boldly towards the policeman and the thickening crowd. Three cars and some motorcyclists stopped, and the man slipped unobtrusively between them.

  Joanna said huskily: ‘Thank you—thank you very much.’

  ‘I hope you can convince me that I’ve done the right thing,’ Mannering said drily.

  ‘I—I think I can. Are you staying in Salisbury tonight?’

  ‘I haven’t a hotel yet, but—’

  ‘Then please stay with us! My father would be delighted, and—’ She broke off, finishing simply: ‘I will have a chance to talk to you.’

  ‘If you’re sure it’s all right.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ said Joanna. ‘If you’ll take Betsy in the taxi she can show you the way, and the housekeeper will look after her. I’ll ride across country and tell Daddy you’re coming.’ Climbing quickly into the saddle, she turned the horse and waved a casual goodbye.

  There was nothing left for Mannering to do, for more than enough villagers and passers-by were at hand to cope with any danger from flying sparks, and he could already hear the clanging bell of the approaching fire-engine. Motioning to the taxi driver, who still held the package of canvases, he beckoned to Betsy.

  The driver glanced at the empty back seat. ‘Wasn’t there a man—?’

  ‘I’ve looked after him,’ Mannering said pleasantly. ‘Hallo, Betsy—everything’s fixed. I’m staying at Nether Manor too, so I’ll take you there.’

  ‘Oh, thank you!’ Betsy’s eyes showed her relief.

  They drove for ten minutes along the winding road, then turned left into a tree-lined, private drive. The sweep of meadowland beyond was just visible in the failing light. Straight ahead a house stood dark against the afterglow, lights shining at many windows.

  ‘If you’d drop me here, sir,’ Betsy said, ‘I could run round to the back.’

  ‘All right, Betsy. Go with her, will you?’ Mannering said to the driver.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  In the gloaming, Mannering studied the lines of Nether Manor. He judged it to be early Georgian, noting the handsome pillared porch, the tall windows, each having white-painted shutters pinned back against the rose-red brick walls. Soon, the driver came back, and settled into his seat. He took some time to do it, as if a certain mental agitation were finding an outlet in physical movement.

  ‘Excuse me if I’m speaking out of turn, sir,’ he said at last.

  ‘What’s worrying you?’ asked Mannering.

  ‘That man you brought away from the cottage.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He hadn’t any right there, sir, had he?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mannering slowly. ‘I doubt it. I want to know, and I intend to find out, exactly what he was doing.’

  ‘Shouldn’t that be a matter for the police?’ The taxi driver’s face was shadowed, but something in the twist of his body as he sat there was both aggressive and stubborn. His voice had a stubborn edge, too. ‘He was tied up when you brought him out, wasn’t he?’

  ‘You didn’t miss much, did you?’ said Mannering lightly. ‘He was tied up and he shouldn’t have been in the cottage as far as I know, but—’

  ‘How do you know he wasn’t the man who attacked the old woman?’

  ‘I don’t,’ Mannering answered. ‘I don’t know why she was attacked, either. I came down here at her request because she said she needed my help. But I don’t think she’s in any danger while she’s in hospital, and I’m helping in the best way I know how.’ He settled squarely in his seat. ‘How long have you had your taxi licence?’

  Startled, the man answered: ‘Thirteen years.’

  ‘So you know the Salisbury police fairly well?’

  ‘I know them, all right, and I’ve always been on good terms with them. I don’t intend to risk—’

  Mannering interrupted him. ‘I want you to take that package straight to their local headquarters—in Wilton Road, isn’t it? Tell them I asked you to leave it in their care. Here’s my card,’ he added. ‘Someone at the police station will know of me. And say I hope to be in Salisbury to pick up the package tomorrow or the day after.’

  As Mannering spoke, the driver’s manner changed, his aggression fading.

  ‘I’ll certainly do that, sir!’

  ‘And don’t stop on the way,’ Mannering advised.

  ‘I won’t, sir!’

  ‘Now we’ll go up to the house,’ Mannering said.

  The driver let in the clutch and drove round the circular carriageway to the front door. Mannering prepared to jump out of the car.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’

 
‘Time and distance, sir, one pound fifteen shillings.’

  Mannering gave the man two pounds ten shillings. ‘I may want you tomorrow,’ he told him. ‘Have you a card?’ He took the printed card offered to him and went up to the house. The driver started his engine again as the front door was opened by an elderly manservant.

  ‘Good evening, sir.’

  ‘I believe Colonel Cunliffe is expecting me—my name is Mannering, John Mannering.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir.’ The man, not unlike Larraby in appearance, stood to one side. ‘The Colonel asked me to show you straight to your room, sir. He is looking forward to seeing you at dinner.’

  Mannering nodded. ‘Thank you.’ It was puzzling he thought, that neither Cunliffe nor his daughter was here to make him welcome.

  He followed the old man up a curving staircase with a beautiful polished balustrade, the walls hung with portraits. Staircase, hall and landing were fitted with precious things which struck an immediate chord in Mannering. He could soon be at home in this place. He was always at peace in a house where there was obvious reverence for the arts and culture of past days, and as he looked about him, all sense of urgency vanished. He would discover the truth about the paintings in good time; for the rest of the evening he could relax.

  The thought was hardly in his mind when he heard a woman cry: ‘No, no, you mustn’t!’

  A man replied in a hard, carrying voice: ‘You are out of your senses. Of course I shall.’

  ‘It’s been a beautiful day, sir, beautiful,’ babbled the manservant, his voice pitched overloud, in an attempt to drown the speakers. ‘This way, sir.’

  He ushered Mannering into a recess from which led two doors opposite each other, opened that on the right, and stood aside. Mannering entered a long, high-ceilinged room, with tall windows. A light sprayed over a deep armchair and a large canopied four-poster bed. In one corner was another doorway.

  ‘The bathroom is there, sir. Dinner is at half-past nine. If there is anything you want, please ring.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Mannering said.