by John Creasey
“He’ll be here soon.”
“It’s a bit late,” Orde remarked complainingly. He no longer blustered, but seemed genuinely taken aback. She remembered how violent he had been at the mews. “Will you wait here?” He opened the door of a small room, three walls of which were covered with old prints, and in which a small writing desk was set across by a window. The deep shutters gave some idea of the thickness of the walls. “Cigarette?” He proffered a silver case.
Lorna seldom smoked, but decided to humour him. “Thank you. I have a light.”
“Won’t keep you long.” Orde went out, leaving the door ajar. She heard his footsteps ring out on a marble or a stone floor. There had been hardly time for her to notice the circular staircase, the gilded banister rail, the high domed ceiling beyond the front entrance. The footsteps stopped; then she thought she heard him going up carpeted stairs. There was no other sound, inside or outside. She lit the cigarette, and it eased her tension. She was always tense when John ran into a case anything like this. When there were such obvious possibilities of danger.
She was there for at least five minutes before she heard Orde hurrying back. Were there no servants here, or none up? It wasn’t late.
Orde pushed the door open.
“It’s all right,” he said. “He’ll be glad to see you.”
He spoke as if he were talking of a man of whom he stood in awe. His manner was edgy, too. Frightened? He mounted the stairs with her, step by step, and the light of a magnificent chandelier – the light which had cast such black shadows – dazzled her. It shone on pictures hanging in recesses in the circular wall; Gainsborough, Constable, Turner – paintings which must touch any modern artist with humility. They reached the first floor and Orde went a step ahead, towards closed double doors of rich red wood. He did not tap but opened one door, and announced, as a butler might: “Mrs Mannering.”
This was a long, spacious, lovely room; a library with light from two chandeliers reflecting from the glass of the bookcases, with tapestry curtains at the high windows, with a thick carpet which seemed to stroke her feet. Gentian was moving towards Lorna from an enormous flat-topped desk; it filled one end of the room, with only space for an easy chair on either side. She remembered what John had told her: that Gentian looked so old and frail and distinguished. She did not get the same impression of frailty, but rather of hidden strength. He was arrestingly handsome in his Roman way, and he took her hand firmly.
“Mrs Mannering, this is a real pleasure. Do sit down.” There were armchairs and a couch, about a marble-topped coffee table at one side of the room. A tray of liqueurs and brandy stood on this, and sparkling glasses. “I’ve admired your portraits for so many years – I don’t think I have missed an exhibition of yours whenever I have been in England.”
“How charming of you,” Lorna murmured. She often found difficulty in responding to this kind of compliment; there was none here, for Gentian made it sound as if he meant every word.
“I hope you’re going to hold another exhibition soon,” he went on. “If you have I will be proud if you will find room for your portrait of Lady Anne Scotton, which you did some years ago – Lady Anne was a cousin of mine, you may recall. I was lucky enough to inherit the portrait after her death. What will you have?” As he spoke there was a movement at the door, and Lorna glanced round to see a butler coming, with coffee on a tray; an old man.
“May I just have coffee?”
“Of course,” said Gentian. He sat down near Lorna, waiting for the manservant to pour out and hand them their cups; then went on as the man walked the length of that long room, moving very slowly, making scarcely a sound. “I understand that you have come ahead of your husband, Mrs Mannering. As a messenger?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Concerning my call on him this afternoon, no doubt.”
“Yes,” Lorna agreed. “He would very much like you to tell him all you can now, and not wait longer.”
“No doubt this is because of the unhappy incident at my niece’s flat,” said Gentian. “And perhaps because she called on your husband very soon after I did. She has always been an impetuous, self-willed person – as a child, as a young girl, and as a young woman. I am glad to say that I am assured that she is already much better, and that a few days’ rest will put her right again. Or as nearly right as it can. She is, I fear—” he broke off, gave an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders, and went on: “What the modern psychologists have been known to call a victim of repressions, I think. That is what I was reluctant to tell your husband, but in the circumstances—”
He was saying that Sara Gentian was a little mad, or at least was a psychological case. He seemed almost suave, certainly too smooth. His practised ease of manner went ill with his reputation of being a recluse, too.
“What time do you expect your husband?” Gentian asked.
“He shouldn’t be long,” Lorna replied. She could ask about the miniature sword, but did not want to tell him what had happened to David Levinson. “I had no idea that your niece suffered from—” she hesitated, deliberately.
“Delusions,” Gentian said, without hesitation. “I think that is fair comment, sad though it may be. She has a strange idea that I am attempting to rob her of her rightful inheritance, whereas in fact—”
He broke off, his head jerking up at a sharp sound at the double doors. One of them opened, and Orde strode in. Lorna saw the glint of annoyance, perhaps of anger, in Gentian’s face as he saw his nephew.
“What is it?”
Orde was breathing hard, like a man who was badly out of condition. He gave the impression that he hesitated to speak in front of Lorna, but had burst in so clumsily that it would be difficult not to.
“She’s got away,” he blurted out.
“Who has?”
“She has. She walked out of the nursing home.”
“Sara has?” Gentian uttered the name as he would a child’s. After a moment, he glanced at Lorna; she had the impression that he was anxious both to create a good impression, and to damn his niece. “Oh, what a pity that is. I thought she was at least safe for tonight.”
“Well, she isn’t.”
“Do they know where she’s gone?”
“No. I hope to God that she doesn’t try to injure herself.”
“Why should she?” Lorna asked.
“She has already attempted suicide once today,” Gentian said gently. “I’m afraid that it is an unhappy truth that if she cannot get her own way she is liable to become hysterical, and in hysteria she is quite capable of any act of violence. Are the police searching for her?”
“They say they’re keeping a lookout,” Orde muttered. “A fat lot of use that will be.” He gulped as he looked at Lorna, and there was no doubt that he wished she were not there. “Shall I go to the mews?”
“It would be a kindly thing to do,” Gentian said. “And get the police—”
“The police are sure to watch the mews if she has escaped and they still want her,” Lorna interpolated. She used the word ‘escaped’ without thinking, and realised that she was already beginning to accept Gentian’s assessment of his niece’s mental condition.
“That’s quite true. I think it would be wiser to stay here,” Gentian went on. “Sara isn’t likely to—” he broke off and raised his hands, in a gesture of resignation. “You know we shouldn’t worry Mrs Mannering with our domestic problems. This is why I was so uncertain about confiding in your husband, Mrs Mannering. I—”
A door slammed.
Both men started – and Lorna had the impression that they had been on the alert for a sound. Orde swung round and doubled to the door; from behind he looked ridiculous: he had heavy, unshapely buttocks, and his jacket was too tight for him. He pulled open the door and rushed out.
“I am so sorry—” Gen
tian began.
“Sara!” shouted Orde. “Sara!”
Gentian stood up with a jerk, murmured: “Do excuse me,” and went after Orde. He moved fast for an old man; there were a lot of surprising things about Lord Gentian. Orde was bellowing again, and thumping down the carpeted stairs. Sharp footsteps rang out on the marble floor below. Gentian disappeared. Orde was still shouting. Lorna put her coffee cup down and hurried towards the door, which Gentian closed behind him. She reached it and turned the handle – and to her surprise, the door did not open. She pulled again, harder; it did not move. She backed away from the door, hearing the sounds dulled, sure that Orde himself was in the big circular hall.
Could Gentian have deliberately locked her in?
She tried both doors, feeling half angry, half agitated. There was silence outside now, but no reassurance. She moved further away from the door, then crossed hurriedly to the big desk and picked up a telephone. She heard the sound which told her that it was connected with the exchange, not to a switchboard in the house. She dialled WHI 1212, and was answered almost at once.
“Is Mr Bristow there, please? Superintendent Bristow.”
“Hold on.” In the following pause the silence almost scared her; she stared at the door but it did not open. The delay seemed to go on and on, but at last Bristow, sounding rather breathless, came on the line.
“Bristow here.”
“Bill, is John there?” Lorna demanded. “This is Lorna, and I want—”
“He left five minutes ago,” Bristow interrupted. “Why?”
“Is he coming straight here?”
“Where is here?”
“Gentian House.”
“He didn’t tell me where he was going,” Bristow said. “He’s keeping far too much to himself. Lorna, listen to me. He tried to take the blame for young Levinson’s crime. He seems to think that he’s responsible for Levinson being in trouble. Make him see this thing clearly. The one helpful thing he can do is to make Gentian – both the Gentians – talk to me. Make sure he understands.”
Lorna said: “I’ll try. Thank you.” She spoke stiffly, and rang off immediately, thinking not about Bristow, but about John. He could not get here for at least another five minutes, and might be ten or fifteen. If only that door was unlocked. She went across to it, turned the handle, pulled – and staggered back because it opened without the slightest difficulty, so she had pulled too hard. She heard nothing. She stepped onto the circular gallery, leaned against the rail, and peered down.
Orde appeared from a doorway almost immediately beneath her. His foreshortened figure looked podgy, even ugly; his bald patch was huge and shiny.
He was talking to someone in a despairing voice: “She’s up on the roof, I tell you, and she’s locked the doors. She’ll throw herself off if we can’t stop her.
14
CALL 999!
Mannering’s taxi slowed down as it approached Gentian House. The beautifully wrought iron gates were open, and Mannering saw his Bentley in the light of the lamp in the middle of the courtyard. He was feeling grim and gloomy, because of the way things were working out, but at least Lorna was here with Gentian; she might have had more luck with him.
“Drop me here,” he said.
He paid the cab off, and walked quickly across the flagged courtyard, seeing exactly the same view as Lorna, and getting the same kind of impression; that he was walking out of one London age into another. He saw the bell, a press button in the middle of a brass circle, and pressed. He waited for a few seconds, fancying that he could hear people coming inside; but the door didn’t open. He pressed again. He began to feel alarm because Lorna was here, and he couldn’t understand the situation. Why didn’t someone answer? He pressed again. Quick, sharp footsteps sounded on the stone floor inside. At least someone was hurrying.
Lorna opened the door.
“John, thank God it’s you!”
Mannering stepped in very quickly, and she let the door slam, she was so agitated.
“Sara’s on the roof,” she told him. “They’re afraid that she’ll throw herself down. It’s like a madhouse here.”
He remembered how calm and quiet everything had been outside.
“Where are they?”
“They went this way,” she said. She led him across the circular hall to a door opposite the one from which Claude Orde had come when she had been upstairs. This door, standing open, led to a passage towards a secondary hall, where lights blazed. Mannering saw people moving about as he stepped ahead of Lorna and pushed the door open.
It opened onto a square courtyard, surrounded on all four sides – a way of making sure that every room in the building had daylight. A dozen windows were bright with light, a lamp – like the one outside – stood in the middle, surrounded by a rockery on which the flowers had been robbed of colour by the bright lights. Mannering saw three people, one of them Gentian.
Orde was calling out: “The ladder’s broken!” He seemed to be gasping for breath. “Talk to her, for God’s sake – don’t let her jump.”
“Sara,” Lord Gentian called in a clear voice, “we want you to unlock the doors up there, and to come down here at once. We want to help you.”
There was no answer; nothing to suggest that anyone was on the roof.
“Sara, all we want to do is help you,” Gentian called again. His voice echoed in the courtyard. “We don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
Suddenly, a beam of light shot out. Orde held a powerful torch, and swivelled it upwards. The beam flickered on windows, shone on the white stone facing of the house, shone on a stack pipe and some guttering, and then onto the stone ledge which went right round the roof. This was patterned, almost castellated, and even from here it was possible to see how thick the stone was. The beam reflected from it, brightly. Orde moved it round, very slowly, as if he had no idea where his quarry was.
“I’ve got to try to get up to her,” he said roughly.
He switched off the beam, and hurried through an open doorway.
Mannering took Lorna’s arm and they went towards Gentian. He turned round, showing no surprise at seeing Mannering.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do,” he said.
“You can send for the fire service,” Mannering said sharply.
“No, not yet. No, Mr Mannering, we want to try—”
“Go and call 999, darling,” Mannering said. “Ask for Fire and tell them what’s happened. With luck they’ll be here in five minutes.”
Lorna began to move.
“Mrs Mannering!” Gentian called sharply. “I do not want you to call for official help until all chance of reasoning with my niece has gone.”
“Rather see her jump to her death?” demanded Mannering.
“I am sure she will listen to reason.”
“Lorna, will you call 999?” Mannering said. “Go to a ‘phone outside, if necessary. I think—”
A curious sound cut across his words, followed by a loud crash. Pieces of stone flew about the courtyard. A moment later, another missile came crashing down, and Mannering saw it in the faint light from a doorway. It wasn’t stone, it was a roof slate. It smashed into hundreds of pieces, and one piece cut into his leg.
“She’d like to kill us,” Gentian called in a strained voice. “If she throws any more of those down—”
Another slate crashed.
“I’m afraid this is the end,” said Gentian. “We had hoped so very much to avoid a scandal, but now everyone must know that she is—unhinged. You’re quite right, Mannering – except for one thing. If anyone climbs up onto that roof, she is almost certain to throw herself off. How will that help?”
“What makes you so sure?” Mannering demanded. “She seems to want to injure Orde more than herself, and she thinks he is here.” He waited but n
o more slates came crashing. “How many servants are here?”
“Two.”
“Two.”
“They are the only resident servants,” Gentian said. “You forget that this house is closed much of the time. They are completely trustworthy, but—why do you ask?”
“I wondered why the place wasn’t buzzing with people. Is there a ladder?” As Mannering asked, Orde came striding from the doorway.
“I can’t get up,” he said hoarsely. “Has she been throwing things?”
“Yes,” Gentian replied. “She—”
“Is there a ladder handy?” Mannering demanded.
Orde echoed: “Ladder? Well, yes, but something’s gone wrong with the sliding mechanism. I can’t get more than halfway up to the roof. Not that I’d go up that way. She’d crack my skull like an eggshell.”
Mannering said: “Do you know where she is?”
“Not—not for sure. At each side there’s a wide ledge – a service ledge, from which you can get at the chimneys and the stack pipes. She’s crouching behind one of those – the one up there, I think.” Orde pointed across the courtyard. “My God, it’s time she was put away.”
“We have tried so hard—” Gentian began.
“Orde, try running the ladder up on the right,” Mannering said. “Don’t worry whether it’s working or not, make it sound as if it is. She can’t do much harm if you’re over there and she’s where you think she is.”
“What’s—what’s on your mind?” demanded Orde.
“I think I can climb up on this side while you’re distracting her attention.”
“Climb?” echoed Gentian.
“Why, that’s suicidal!” Orde exclaimed.
“Put the ladder up,” Mannering said; and it was an order.
“Mannering, you must not take such a risk!”
“Risk? When you tell me that your niece is likely to throw herself down?” Mannering said scathingly.