by John Creasey
Mannering said: “I’d like to know what that was all about.”
He bathed and shaved, and in fifteen minutes was dressed in grey flannels, a tweed coat, a scarf tied over an open-necked shirt. The morning’s sun was dulling, and clouds were blowing up from the west; it would rain before midday, and it was now ten o’clock. He hurried along to the landing, and to the lift which led to the tower; and as far as he could make sure, no one saw him. He went up, reached the balcony landing and the blocked staircase, used the key and pressed the spot in a stone, which operated the revolving section of the wall. He had watched Rodney carefully and knew exactly how to do it.
As the door opened, radio music sounded, softly. He peered in. Hester was standing by the window and Mannering knew that she was staring down at Rodney. She had probably seen what happened outside.
Mannering said: “Hester.”
She swung round, startled.
“Oh, I didn’t hear you!”
“You ought to stand a chair here, anyone who comes is bound to shift it,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I—I’m fine.”
“Is there anything you haven’t told me?”
“No,” answered Hester, very tensely. “But there’s one thing I’ve only just realised, Mr. Mannering. Rodney really does hate his father, doesn’t he? Do you—do you know why?”
Chapter Fifteen
Past
“Yes,” Mannering answered. “I know why.” Hester said: “Please tell me.”
“Ten years ago, Lord Horton left his wife, Rodney’s mother and there was a divorce. His wife was so distressed and worried by it that she took her own life.”
He watched the girl closely as he related the bald facts, saw the concern and, gradually, the dawn of understanding in her clear eyes. She did not comment at once, so he went on: “And Rodney has never forgiven his father.”
“I suppose it’s understandable,” Hester said slowly. Mannering could sense the real relief she felt; at least there was a cause. “I knew that the present Lady Horton was his step-mother, but—” she broke off. “Why does Rodney stay here?”
“He stays here when his step-mother is in London or abroad, but won’t stay when she’s here,” Mannering answered. “One reason is that his father controls his money, and keeps a very tight hold on it. I’ve heard him threaten to walk out and emigrate, do anything but accept his father’s hand-outs, but at other times he feels that the money is really his—”
“Is it?” interrupted Hester.
“It will be. Under his grandfather’s will, the fortune goes from father to son. When he’s twenty-five he gets some capital, but until then his father is his only source of income.”
“I see.” Hester looked fresher and younger, Mannering thought; she had slept soundly, probably she had been feeling much better until she had seen what happened outside. It was almost cruel to change her mood, but it had to be changed.
“Hester, do you know any reason why Guy should be attacked?”
“Of course I don’t,” Hester answered. “I’ve been haunted about that all night. Is he—is he any better?”
“A little.”
“Thank God for that! Mr. Mannering, I really must go to Mother.”
“You can’t, for a while,” Mannering said. “Are you sure you know of no reason why anyone should attack Guy?”
“Absolutely none,” Hester insisted. “I’ve never confided in him about Rodney or the blackmail. I told him I was desperately hard up, and wanted to borrow some money, but he didn’t know why. When did it happen? Before or after Morgan—”
“After.”
“Could he have seen who killed Morgan?” She was almost eager.
“Guy didn’t see the murder,” Mannering told her, and he found himself admiring the girl’s quick grasp of the situation. “But he was near the gates about the time, the killer may have thought Guy saw him. Hester, is there anyone with a reason to want you dead, or out of the way?”
She didn’t answer.
“Is there?” Mannering demanded.
“Well, yes,” she answered. “If he knows about Rodney and me, Lord Horton would want me out of the way, wouldn’t he? And I know that when Rodney had a love affair a year ago, his father did his best to drive the girl, away.”
She had the devastating logic of youth, and a mind as clear as crystal.
“Has anyone else got reason to want to harm you?”
“Of course not.”
“Any jilted boy friend?”
“No,” Hester answered flatly. “I’ve never had a steady boy friend and there’s no reason at all for anyone to want me out of the way, except Lord Horton.”
And Horton had just had that vicious quarrel with his son.
Mannering was due to see his host at eleven o’clock, in the long gallery. He left Hester a little before eleven, after promising early news of her brother, and descended the spiral staircases slowly, waited for a few minutes by the lift, half expecting Rodney; but Rodney did not come. He went down in the lift, and then towards the long gallery, which ran the length of the great hall. It was from here that Horton Hall looked like a great mediaeval cathedral, and this the vast nave. Two stained glass windows, each sixteenth-century craftsmanship, were in the west wall. Great tapestries which would have graced the Vatican Museum or the palaces of France hung on these brick walls, which stood as sound and solid now as they had three or four centuries ago. Huge suits of armour, standing like mediaeval sentinels, were in the recesses made by each of the buttresses. Huge oaken furniture, shiny and almost black with an age of polish, loomed against the pale grey of the granite walls as if it would never be moved.
Here and there recesses in the wall were occupied by tiny figures; some carved, some cast, all bejewelled; and here was the great weakness of the Horton Collection; here was the place where the substitutions had first been made.
Horton was not here yet.
Mannering took advantage of the authority that allowed him to move two small pieces from their recesses to a single light which hung, oddly and incongruously, from a long flex; it was a jeweller’s fight. He did not stand at the small oak table where his tools and scales, calipers and record books were, but turned to the pieces, one an exquisite early English figure of a bishop, the other the figure of a young girl, draped with a jewelled cloak. The exquisite workmanship in itself was as rare as it was beautiful, and made each object precious; but the diamonds in the cloak which covered the girl from breast to waist should be real. Now, they scintillated and sparkled, but when Mannering took a small diamond brooch from a case and placed it at the same angle beneath the light, there was no doubt that it had greater brilliance than the figure; and the figure’s diamonds should have been brighter. He cleaned the diamond cloak with a small brush wet with soapy water, then polished it with a leather; it sparkled a little more, but was still not as bright as it should have been. He turned it upside down, to see the markings on the base; there was little doubt that these were newer than they should have been.
This was a copy and these ‘diamonds’ were paste. It was worth perhaps a hundred pounds; and the value of the original was at least two thousand.
Mannering, used to working among beautiful and precious things, was suddenly and sharply disturbed by that fact: this one tiny object in his hand should be worth two thousand pounds, and when he glanced round there were a dozen, perhaps two dozen such objects, all of similar value. The wealth of the Hortons was fabulous; they were said to be one of the wealthiest families in Europe.
It was like being in a treasure house.
Mannering picked up the bishop, and almost immediately felt the curious attraction of real diamonds. It was an attraction he had known most of his life, a kind of magnetism. Even before he examined this, he believed that it was real. He derived a kind of excitement, divorced from all the circumstances of his investigation, from the murder and the blackmail, and from the feud between Lord Horton and his son.
; Horton was late.
Mannering put the bishop down, and made an entry in the notebook he used as a record. Already he had examined over three hundred objets d’art and twenty or thirty of them were replicas. He had made a mental note of the total value of the missing items, and it was well over a hundred thousand pounds. This was crime in a grand manner.
He turned to put the two objects back in the recess, and then heard footsteps down below. They were heavy, and echoed through the great hall; only Horton walked like that and made so much noise. Mannering did not call, but watched as he came from the door leading into a courtyard and then into the park. From this height, sixty feet above the ground floor, the owner of the Hall and of this fabulous collection looked short and misshapen; almost as stocky as his son. He walked with deliberate tread towards a door beneath the gallery, and in a moment or two would be on his way up here; his footsteps would ring out clearly on the stone steps.
He disappeared.
Mannering had seen the scowl on his round face, knew that he was in an ugly mood, and was prepared for any kind of unpleasantness; what he had to decide was whether to let this pass, or whether to give Horton as good as he gave. The primary purpose in Mannering’s mind was to find the truth about the murder; the rest would fit into place after that.
Horton’s footsteps sounded again.
Then Mannering heard a different sound, soft and slithering; it was much nearer him. He swung round. A man with a scarf wound round his face and with a cloth cap pulled low over his head was by the desk, left hand outstretched for the record book, where Mannering made his notes on the quality of the pieces here – the real and the false; and his right hand pointing a gun at Mannering.
The man cried: “Don’t move.” He picked up the book and backed a pace, and the gun in his hand did not waver. Mannering’s heart began to pound. The notes in that book were unimportant while he was alive – but if he were dead, then it was the only record of his findings.
Was this man going to kill him?
“Keep quiet,” the man said sharply. The footsteps on the stairs seemed louder, and any moment the heavy door would open and Horton would stride into the gallery.
The man with the gun backed another pace; possibly he did not shoot because he had less chance to get away with someone else near.
Mannering called: “Barry! Don’t come in!”
He saw the glint in the gunman’s eyes, heard an exclamation from Horton, and prepared to throw himself forward. Then without warning, someone hooked his legs from under him. He crashed down, twisting his head round as he fell. He saw another man, face covered, bending over him, with his right hand raised; and in his right hand was a weapon of the kind which had been used in the attack on Guy Vane.
Mannering flung his hands up to try to save his head. He felt the blow, and took part of its weight on his left forearm, but the weapon struck his forehead too, and dazed him.
He heard a roar; from Horton.
Then he heard the unmistakable bark of a shot.
He was dizzy and helpless, his arms were folded over the back of his head, he was fearful of another blow. He heard a second shot, and tried to roll over, but could not. A man kicked him. Then he heard loud, echoing voices, and knew that servants were coming. He began to scramble to his feet, still dizzy, but able to stand upright. One of the men with a scarf was at the door. Horton lay in the doorway, his back to Mannering. The servants were in the hall and others were on the staircase. One man went rushing out, but the one who had attacked Mannering was still close.
Mannering took a long step towards him. He had to pull that scarf off, and take a good look at the face.
The man swung round.
Another shot echoed on the stairs.
Someone cried out, as if in pain.
Mannering snatched at the scarf, clutched it, and pulled it from the sharp-pointed face of a man he had never seen before. He saw the glitter in dark eyes and the set of thin lips.
Then the man rushed and struck at him savagely.
The weapon, a length of iron with a knobbed end, struck Mannering at the top of the right arm, and sent him staggering. The first blow and the effort he had just made had taken all his strength, and he came up against the low gallery wall and would have fallen but for its support. The face of the man in front of him seemed to be going round and round. There were two faces, three faces, and they were all close to him, all seemed to be mouthing at him. He gritted his teeth and tried to stand upright, but could not.
He felt the other’s arm round his legs.
For a moment, he did not understand why. The faces had gone. All he could see were the shapes of the suits of armour, the furniture, the jewelled objets d’art, all merging into one another, and all seemed to be moving round and round in a whirlpool which went faster and faster. Then there came the grip at his legs.
Why?
He felt pressure against the back of his legs, and the stonework of the gallery wall pressed into the small of his back.
His feet left the ground.
Then he realised that the other was trying to topple him over; that in a moment he might be hurtling down to the stone floor below, to crash and to die.
The awfulness of the danger gave Mannering a greater strength and clarity of vision. He spread his arms and clutched the stone balustrade, and tensed himself. The pressure against the small of his back was agonising, if it got worse his back would break. The pressure on his arms was great, too, and only the tips of his toes were touching the floor. But for the earlier blows he could have fought this man off, but now horror was close upon him. He could not last out much longer.
He felt a sharp pain on his knuckles; another, more agonising. He let go with his right hand. The pressure became worse, he felt himself actually balancing on the low wall, felt his head and shoulders toppling towards the floor; and to death.
Chapter Sixteen
Picture of a Man
Mannering did not think he had a chance to escape.
Now that he was leaning backwards, his feet right off the ground, he saw only one thing clearly: a mental picture of the man who was sending him to his death. Every line on the sharp-featured face seemed to be thrown up in sharp relief; so did the glint in the brown eyes.
Mannering kicked out.
He felt his right shoe strike against something yielding, and for a moment the pressure eased. He was lying there, balanced on the foot-wide ledge, still gripping it with his left hand, and still with a chance. He dared not move swiftly. He began to edge himself forward, expecting every moment the other man to return to the attack.
Then he heard a shout, words which sounded like: “There’s another,” and a gasp: “Look!” He could see the vast nave-like ceiling, the great chandeliers, the massive oaken rafters. Then he heard a clatter of footsteps. Men gripped his legs, another leaned over the ledge and supported the back of his head and his shoulders. He was half lifted, half dragged, to the safety of the gallery. His back felt raw, as if it had been scraped over a saw, his head was bursting, and there was no strength left in him. He felt himself carried by two men, and laid on a great couch, and winced when his back was pushed against wood. He kept seeing that sharp-featured face – but now he could picture Horton’s, too. There was a growing fear in him, that Horton had been killed. The attack had come so swiftly and suddenly, and there had been no time to do more than warn the man.
He felt a cold pad on his forehead, easing the burning pain. Men’s voices sounded. He opened his eyes, and saw faces close to him, one man very close. Hands ran over his body, checking for broken bones. All he needed was a dressing on his back and a few hours’ rest, then he would be himself.
He made himself say: “Is Lord Horton—badly hurt?”
“He’ll be all right,” answered the man who had examined his body. “Wounded in the arm, that’s all. You’ll be all right too, Mr. Mannering. I shouldn’t talk too much now. Wait until you’ve had a cup of coffee and a couple of aspirins.” He ma
de it sound so casual. “How bad is your back?”
“It’s—all right.”
“I’d like to help you turn over, and have a look at it,” the man said. “I’m a St. John Ambulance Brigade man, one of the Hall staff, sir, and I assure you that I won’t do you any harm.”
Mannering said: “Get me—to my room, will you?” He clenched his teeth against the pain at his back; if there was a serious injury, it would be there. He felt another surge of fear, in case he was more badly hurt than he realised.
“Just as soon as possible,” the first-aid man assured him, and practically ignored Mannering’s request. “What we’re going to do is slide a blanket under you, and then turn you over on your face – don’t worry about trying to turn round yourself, you’ll be all right. Ready?”
The man would do whatever he wanted. “Yes.”
Mannering’s back felt as if it would break as he was rolled over gently; could it really be worse? There was a kind of panic in him, and he hardly dared to breathe. Then he felt a gentle pressure upon the soreness, pressure which became more and more firm. He felt his shirt being pulled up, and after a moment the first-aid man said: “I think it’s just bruising, sir, I’ll be surprised if it isn’t. You won’t be able to move about much for a few days, I’m afraid, but you should be all right after that. I think you’d be wise to stay here until the doctor comes and he confirms what I say, though.”
“All right,” Mannering muttered.
“I should stay on your stomach,” the man went on. “Be more comfortable that way.”
“Thanks. Are you sure about Lord Horton?”
“He’s been able to walk downstairs, sir, just a flesh wound in the top of the arm.”
“Were the men caught?”
“I’m afraid not, sir,” another man answered; this was Simms. “One of the servants was badly wounded, and the man who tried to push you over actually climbed down one of the pillars.” There was a note of admiration in the valet’s voice. “The coffee will be along in a few minutes, sir.”
The two men who had attacked Mannering were almost certainly the two who had so savagely attacked Guy Vane; probably the two who had killed Clive Morgan.