Hide the Baron

by John Creasey

  “Tell me, Prissy,” she ordered.

  “I—I was with him,” the maid said abruptly. Her colour had the brightness of a cock’s comb in the sun. Her eyes looked like porcelain on which a bright light was shining. “I—I was out for a walk, we met in the woods and—and were just resting, and—and someone shot at him.” She gulped, and began to wring her hands. “He was ever so upset, started to run after the someone, but he lost him.” She stopped again, but was unable to stay silent. “I know it was a bullet! It was buried in the tree just above our heads; why, some of the bark fell down right on my face, I—”

  She stopped, this time for good.

  She had drawn the picture clearly; vividly. She had been lying on the grass beneath a tree with George Merrow, and probably no one would ever know the whole truth of that; how often or how they met. If her story was true, and almost certainly it was, someone had shot at them and the bullet had loosened bark which had fallen down on their faces. Merrow had jumped up and gone rushing after the sharpshooter, but had lost him.

  Joanna felt strangely distressed, and heavy-hearted. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know what to expect from George Merrow.

  Mrs. Baddelow’s voice was unexpectedly mild.

  “What happened after that, Prissy? It’s all right, I won’t tell your father, not if I don’t have to.” Clearly she was worried; she had seen that picture as vividly as Joanna. “Just tell me the truth.”

  “Well, nothing much happened,” the maid said slowly. “He came back and said it was a pity but he thought we’d better—er—go back to the village. He escorted me to the end of the woods, then I went on alone, and he came back to the house. At least, that’s what he said he was going to do. And that—that’s everything.” But Priscilla turned a bright red again, looking at Joanna as much as Mrs. Baddelow, and cried defiantly: “There’s nothing wrong in having a cuddle, is there?”

  “If there was anything wrong about it this time, I wouldn’t blame you,” Mrs. Baddelow said, “and I’m sure Miss Woburn wouldn’t, either.”

  Joanna made herself say: “Of course not.”

  “If your father knew this he’d take the strap to you, and if Mr. Garfield knew he’d dismiss you at once, and that would end up the same way,” said the housekeeper. “So you just keep this to yourself, and don’t go gossiping. Understand, Prissy?”

  “I—I wouldn’t dream of telling anyone!”

  “Mind you don’t,” Mrs. Baddelow commanded. “All right, you go along and turn down my bed, never mind Mr. Merrow’s room tonight.” She waited until the girl was outside, then called: “And shut the door behind you!”

  Priscilla closed the door so quietly that they heard hardly a sound.

  Mrs. Baddelow said: “Well, what do you think of that?” She sounded flat and worried as she dropped down on the side of Joanna’s bed. Her grey hair, pulled, tightly back from her forehead, made her face look more angular than it was. “I was afraid there’d be trouble when that girl got the job, I can tell a roving eye when I see one. Mr. George was born a hundred years too late; squire’s sons don’t behave like that these days.” There was no conviction in her voice. “I was against bringing her, but when Mr. Garfield’s made up his mind you can’t do a thing about it. Mark Wilkins spoke for her, and I suppose you know that head gardeners are as temperamental as cooks.”

  Joanna said: “I suppose so. Still, we don’t want to make a tragedy of it, do we?”

  “It’s easy for you, it’s not your responsibility,” Mrs. Baddelow said. “If that girl gets up to anything she shouldn’t I’d be the one they’d blame, it’s my job to keep them out of trouble. It’s not as if I didn’t guess what he was like, is it? Mind you, it’s half Prissy’s fault, the way she behaves when she’s out is no one’s business. I only wish—”

  There was a tap at the door.

  Glad of the interruption, Joanna called: “Come in.”

  Gedde opened the door, stood on the threshold, and said quietly:

  “It’s Superintendent Aylmer, Miss Woburn. Mr. Garfield said that you would see him. May I tell him that you’ll be down?”

  As she moved across the small room, where she worked in a comfort which would have been envied by many a business executive, Joanna realised that she had never before come, knowingly, face-to-face with a detective. She had asked policemen for directions often enough, once been involved in a trivial accident; but the police as detectives were outside her sphere of experience. Perhaps because of the story she’d just heard, she felt almost nervous.

  Did one shake hands?

  This Superintendent Aylmer was big, dressed in Harris tweeds which made him bulky, and if he’d worn gaiters instead of baggy trousers, she would have pictured him in any market of any country town. A comfortable-looking elderly man, he had rather tired-looking eyes and a pleasant smile. He solved the first problem by holding out his hand.

  “Good evening, Miss Woburn,” he said, “Mr. Garfield’s told me a lot about you.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said lamely; and after that there was only one thing to add; “Not too much to my discredit, I hope.”

  “On the contrary,” Aylmer said, the smile broadening; somehow, it was easy to imagine the type of thing that Garfield would say. “Well, no need to keep you long, Miss Woburn, you’ll be wanting your dinner. Very plucky thing you did, if you don’t mind my saying so. Not a very nice job for—”

  “It had to be done.”

  “Him, yes, but you didn’t have to do it,” said Aylmer. “Well, the thing I’m anxious to know is whether you saw anyone else near the spot about the time you were there, Miss Woburn. You’d seen Mr. Merrow before, I suppose?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you went the long way round and he took the short cut.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why was that, Miss Woburn?”

  It would be easy to say that it was none of his business, yet she sensed that would be the wrong thing. She felt herself going red, and remembered Priscilla’s scarlet flush; that made it worse. The flushing didn’t affect her voice or her manner.

  “We’d had a disagreement, and preferred to go different ways. I didn’t see anyone else nearby.”

  “Sure, Miss Woburn?”

  “I am positive.”

  “Well, that’s a pity,” said Aylmer, rubbing his chin; she heard the scratching sound as his finger ran over the stubble. “I hoped you might have seen the devil who put those traps there. It’s a funny thing, but we happen to know they weren’t there half an hour or so earlier, one of the gardeners chanced to have walked that way. You didn’t hear anyone, I suppose?”

  “No,” said Joanna.

  “Well, can’t be helped,” said Aylmer, “it might delay us a bit but it won’t stop us from catching the beggar sooner or later. We know where the traps came from, that’s a help.”

  She was startled.

  “But if you know whose they are, surely you know who put them there.”

  “Different thing altogether,” Aylmer assured her. “Belonged to Jeff Liddicombe, at the ‘Grey Mare’. He’s got an old stable turned into a saloon that’s quite a museum in its way, and those old traps were on the wall to his knowledge at two o’clock today. Closing time. Jeff Liddicombe would no more put traps down than he’d use a whip to a horse, Miss Woburn, it’s just one of those things that don’t happen. Those traps were stolen and put down there for some purpose which isn’t clear yet, but—”

  “Surely to catch rabbits! Poachers—”

  “Rabbits in traps that size?”Aylmer scoffed. “Can tell you’re not a countrywoman. Meant for foxes, they were, and there haven’t been many round here for thirty or fifty years. Mantraps, you might say. Has Mr. Merrow said anything to you to suggest he’s worried about attacks on his life?”

  That question came so swiftly upon
the maid’s story that it was like a blow in the face. Joanna didn’t answer. She saw the interest quickening in Aylmer’s eyes, but still didn’t speak; and she realised that her silence would almost certainly be misconstrued.

  “What has he said?”demanded the detective.

  “Nothing,” Joanna answered, too quickly. “Nothing at all.” If she started to explain, it would seem such a rigmarole; and she wanted to keep out of any fending and probing, out of anything which would show George Merrow up as a Don Juan whose greatest triumphs were with little country maids. “I’m sorry, Superintendent. Even if there were anything on Mr. Merrow’s mind, he wouldn’t be likely to confide in me. We were not particularly close friends.”

  Aylmer looked at her very straightly.

  “Miss Woburn,” he said severely, “whatever your personal feelings or views, it is always wise to make a full statement to the police of any matter worrying you. Anything you say will be regarded as completely confidential.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said flatly. “I can’t help you.”

  Aylmer didn’t actually call her a liar, but looked as if he restrained himself with an effort.

  “Very well.” He could be cold and aloof; he was. “If you change your mind, kindly let me know.” He turned his broad shoulder towards her, massive and almost menacing; then he turned back sharply: “Have you had any association with a man named Mannering? John Mannering?”

  Joanna hesitated.

  “Miss Woburn,” Aylmer said quite nastily, “it will greatly facilitate matters if you will answer my questions.”

  That made her angry; less because of the question than the manner.

  She was tired out; the encounter with Merrow hadn’t been pleasant, and the task of freeing his and the dog’s feet had exhausted her. She didn’t know that she was suffering from a form of delayed shock. Her head was aching, she wanted to get away somewhere quiet; and she wanted this big, boorish man to stop asking questions.

  “The only time I’ve heard of a Mr. John Mannering was by letter, just after I came here,” she said stiffly. “He wrote to Mr. Garfield on business.”

  “Ah! What business?”

  “That you must ask Mr. Garfield,” said Joanna abruptly. “Now, unless there is anything else of importance, I must go.”

  He didn’t answer at once; just looked at her, as if willing her to tell him more. She wished desperately that he would leave; she felt that if he continued to question her, even to stand and stare, she would scream.

  “Has Mr. Garfield ever told you that he was worried about an attempt on his life?”Aylmer demanded abruptly.

  That took her so much by surprise that it strengthened her; and her astonishment must have shown clearly, because Aylmer’s manner changed, and obviously he had his answer before she said:

  “Good heavens, no!”

  “If you should have the slightest indication that Mr. Garfield is worried, or in any kind of danger, please let me know at once,” Aylmer said formally.

  Before she answered, he was out of the room.

  Chapter Four

  Night

  It was a miserable evening. Joanna ate alone. Afterwards she expected Garfield to send for her, but no summons came. Usually she ate with George Merrow, and sometimes Garfield ate with them; invariably all three had coffee together. Now there was the quietness of unuttered fear. George, with that mauled leg, was likely to be in hospital for weeks. At this moment he was undoubtedly under morphia, perhaps on the operating table. The massive Aylmer, with his innuendo; Priscilla, with her pathetic little story – and the bullet.

  It was dark.

  The dining-room was huge, and only the lights at one end were on. If she was going to have to eat alone very often, it would be better to be in her own room; she usually had breakfast there. She stood up and went to the window. It was quite dark outside, but the curtains weren’t drawn; Jimmy Garfield liked plenty of light to shine out; and as she stood by a tall arched window, looking through the distorting thickness of the glass into the darkness broken only near the house, she realised something that she hadn’t before.

  He was afraid of the dark.

  Nothing seemed to move outside. She was staring in the direction of the copse, where so much had happened. Above all, she wished that the policeman hadn’t talked about the possibility of danger to the old man.

  What danger could there be?

  Why had Garfield seemed so worried when she had gone in, earlier in the evening?

  She went out of the dining-room. Gedde, who had waited at the table, came in at the other end of the room. It was warm in the high rooms and the lofty hall. She went to the front door, opening the small door set in the massive wooden double doors with their huge iron bolts. A breeze, coming off the downs, made it seem almost cool. She stood on the porch for several minutes, ears strained to catch sounds that just weren’t there. In the distance she could see a few lights, from the village of Orme Hill, where Jeff Liddicombe had the ‘Grey Mare’. That started her thinking about Priscilla, the story, the whole miserable business. It was a pity the innkeeper, Liddicombe, hadn’t dealt with his daughter before –

  Oh, be fair!

  She went in.

  It was nearly ten. Her head ached with a throbbing persistence which made reading out of the question. She wished she knew whether Garfield was going to send for her or not; he seldom went to bed later than ten, but this was an unusual night.

  She went up to her room and undressed, put on her dressing-gown and lay on the bed, not between the sheets. The room was tall and spacious, like all the others; far too big. It was like living in a place that was double life size, although after the first few days she hadn’t noticed it so much.

  She began to doze.

  She went to sleep.

  She did not know what time it was when she woke; and, waking, heard first the scream and then the shot somewhere below her.

  She heard both sounds vaguely at first, as if they were something in a nightmare, forcing themselves upon her consciousness. She lay stiff and frightened; quivering. For a few seconds she heard nothing more, and was actually telling herself that it had been a nightmare, when she heard another scream, faint through thick walls, but unmistakable.

  She jumped off the bed, slipped, and pitched forward.

  She saved herself by grabbing the bed panel, and her heart thumped wildly. As she stood there, she heard two more sounds which she knew were shots, although they came from a long way off.

  She reached the door.

  As she opened it, and light came through from the passage, she heard running footsteps, and then another scream which was in the form of words.

  “Stop him, stop him!”

  As she ran into the hall, she thought: “He’s got a gun!” It was primitive thought, spurred by fear. She needed a weapon of some kind, and there was none she could use, except on the walls.

  A dagger.

  She could have her choice, but shrank from taking one and ran instead towards the running footsteps. The passage was never-ending, but now the sound of screaming had died away, there was only the running man.

  She reached the hall.

  The small door within the door was open wide. A man was moving towards it, staring along the passage down there, not looking up. She could see the top of his head, the small white patch, not larger than a half-crown, in the dark hair. He put a pale white hand on the door, and opened it wider. He didn’t look up, and the view she had of his face was distorted. He climbed through the doorway, withdrawing his right hand last; and in it was the gun.

  For the rest, there was silence.

  The door didn’t close.

  Joanna kept running, had paused only for the second when he had first appeared. Now she was called two ways; to follow him, and to go and see what had happened
. Fear was like a scream inside her. She reached the foot of the stairs, and felt the wind coming in from the downs.

  Then she saw Gedde.

  He was moving unsteadily. Blood glistened at the corner of his mouth, his eyes looked huge and glittering. He was wearing a dark blue dressing-gown, very like his usual black, and his face was a dirty white colour. He held a gun in his right hand, pointing towards the door. He tried to run, but almost fell.

  “Gedde!” Joanna cried.

  He looked up at her, and his mouth opened, but she couldn’t hear the words. He made a fluttering movement with his empty hand, and she gathered that he was telling her to go to the door and follow the man. She hesitated, out of her dread; and as she did so, Gedde pitched forward, the gun struck the floor and slithered towards her.

  Gedde hit the floor so heavily that the thud of his falling made Joanna flinch.

  The gun was only a few feet away.

  She rushed forward, and snatched at it, then turned round. Gedde lay quite still, but she could picture his movement in her mind’s eye, could understand what he wanted so desperately. She reached the door.

  A red light showed, not far away.

  An engine whined, with the touch of the self-starter; whined again and yet again, and then turned smoothly. There was a pale white light at the front of the car, too; it faced the long drive and the distant gates; the glow of the rear light touched bushes growing close to the drive itself.

  The car began to move.

  She raised the gun, and fired. She knew how to use an automatic, but this was a revolver and it kicked so badly that she almost dropped it. Pain throbbed at her elbow and her shoulder. She tried to level the gun again, and gritted her teeth as she squeezed the trigger. The kick back didn’t seem so bad; and after the roar of the shot, she heard a metallic clang, as if the bullet had struck the body of the car. It did nothing to slow the car down; instead, it moved faster, and suddenly the headlights flashed on, illuminating the drive and stretches on either side, the bushes, the slim trunks of young trees, the great girth of some oaks. The pool of light was constantly moving, the red glow fading, and the dark shape of the car was vivid against the glow.