by John Creasey
Copyright & Information
The Stolen Legacy
First published in 1962
© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1962-2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
EAN ISBN Edition
075513639X 9780755136391 Print
0755139720 9780755139729 Kindle
0755138074 9780755138074 Epub
0755153812 9780755153817 Epdf
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
www.houseofstratus.com
About the Author
John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.
Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the ‘C’ section in stores. They included:
Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.
Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.
He also founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey’s stories are as compelling today as ever.
Chapter One
True Value
The girl approached Mannering, obviously young, eager and happy, and she made all the assistants in the shop turn to look at her – even Josh Larraby, the manager. The shop itself, Quinns, was nearly four hundred years old, and Mannering dealt mostly in antiques and objets d’art, old paintings and jewellery. True, modern jewellery sometimes came his way but it did not greatly interest him, whereas everything old or ancient attracted and sometimes fascinated him.
It was impossible to think of this girl against a background of age. She belonged to today, with her short and narrow skirt and nicely rounded legs, the jumper pulled on as if carelessly over brown hair that was a little untidy, and a bosom with more promise than maturity. The shop was always kept in a subdued light, with clear brightness only at certain points to aid prospective customers to make up their minds, and the girl seemed to bring the sunlight with her. Outside, in Hart Row, Mayfair, the sun was shining with all the deceptive brilliance of an English spring.
Tom Wainwright walked behind the girl, hurrying, as if finding it difficult to keep pace. She kept her eyes on Mannering, obviously realising who he was, as obviously liking what she saw.
She stopped. “Are you Mr. John Mannering?”
“Yes,” answered Mannering. “And you’re Rebecca Blest.”
“Yes, I am.” She took his hand, and hers was slim, cool and firm; his engulfed it. As soon as she let his go, she slid the strap of a bag off her shoulder; her eyes seemed to dance with delight. “I’ve got them here. I thought it would be safer to carry them casually than to look as if I had a fortune with me.”
“Very wise, too,” approved Mannering, mildly. He glanced over her head. “All right, Tom. Come in, Miss Blest.” He stood aside for her to enter his small office, the shelves crowded with leather-bound reference books and catalogues, a Queen Anne bow fronted desk at one side, with William and Mary slung chairs in front of it. In one corner, concealed by the bookshelves, was the entrance to the strong rooms, and although Rebecca Blest almost certainly did not realise it, in those strong rooms were jewels and other valuables worth nearly a million pounds. “Sit down,” invited Mannering, and moved a chair a few inches.
The girl held the large black plastic bag in both hands, rather like an offering, until he had rounded the desk to his own chair. Then, her eyes brimming over with high spirits and excitement, she placed it in front of him; only then did she sit down.
“There!” she said, as if a tremendous task had been accomplished. “Mr. Mannering—” she broke off.
“Yes?”
“The man I telephoned at Sotheby’s said that I couldn’t find a better valuer than you for these.”
“That was nice of him, but you shouldn’t take even Sotheby’s compliments for granted,” Mannering said drily. “Have you any idea what they’re worth?”
She didn’t answer, but seemed to catch her breath.
“None at all?” encouraged Mannering.
She said: “I just daren’t guess. I daren’t. When I heard about the legacy, I mean the inheritance, I just—well, it was like winning a sweepstake prize. At least I suppose that’s what it feels like, I’ve never had any luck, but—well, I just daren’t guess.” She bit her lips. “My father says—”
She broke off.
“Yes?”
“It’s ridiculous, but he says twenty or thirty thousand pounds. It can’t be so much.” Now she was speaking very hurriedly, and was breathless. “He would have come with me this afternoon if he’d been well enough, but the doctor advised him not to get up for a few more days. He had a mild coronary.” Anxiety showed through her expression momentarily. “Thank God he won’t have to worry about working anymore.” She paused again, and then burst out: “Please look at them, and put me out of my misery.”
“Is there a key?”
“It’s not locked,” Rebecca Blest said.
Mannering chuckled, and she also laughed, but on a rather high-pitched note. Mannering decided not to keep her on tenterhooks any longer.
He knew only that she had telephoned him this morning about the jewels, with a story of an unexpected inheritance. He had checked the story and had it confirmed. She lived in a Notting Hill flatlet with her father; they made just enough money to live comfortably. Apparently three deaths in the family over a period of two years had made Samuel Blest the sole legatee of a distant relative’s estate. The estate included a house in Barnes, in poor condition, and let on lease; the furniture wasn’t anything to write home about, according to his informant. But the jewellery, handed down from generation to generation, should be worth a fortune.
Mannering opened the black bag. Inside were the oddments one would expect to find in a young woman’s handbag, as well as a brown paper parcel, too large for the inner section. He smothered a grin as he took this out, but he had often found a fortune in precious stones wrapped up in a rag and a few bits of cotton wool, so this didn’t surprise him. He placed the parcel carefully
in front of him. It was fairly well-packed, and soft to the touch – it was in fact cotton wool. Someone had advised the girl well on packing, or else the inheritance had always been kept like this. Old men with a fortune in jewels tucked away often treated them as if they were junk.
Mannering began to unpick the knot, and the girl burst out: “Oh, cut it!”
Mannering opened a pen-knife, and did what he was told, then began to put the smaller packets on the desk in front of him. Each piece of jewellery was wrapped in cotton wool, and the wool had a grubby look, as if it had been handled time and time again. There were seventeen small packs in all, seventeen pieces – necklaces, clips, earrings, and such-like, no doubt; all the variety one would expect. Mildly intrigued by the girl’s anxiety, and not even vaguely suspicious that all was not what it seemed, he unwrapped the largest of the packets. He could feel the hardness of the settings through the cotton wool as he unfolded it, and glimpsed the gold two or three times before he realised the truth.
This was not old gold which had been worked by craftsmen centuries ago; this piece was set in the modern method, with a perfunctory if crafty imitation of the old. He looked down, putting it to one side; it was a bracelet, and there seemed little doubt that the girl believed the stones in it to be diamonds.
They were paste, not even of the quality which would deceive the expert for a while.
“Well?” Rebecca Blest exclaimed.
Mannering said: “Give me a few minutes, Miss Blest,” and unwrapped another packet, this time a necklace; then two brooches, and a tiny packet which contained four rings. Here were imitation diamonds, imitation rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and here were cultured pearls. The collection on his desk grew quickly, each piece resting on its own bed of grubby cotton wool, and the girl began to shift in her chair, she was so anxious for his pronouncement.
He did not at all relish what he had to do; it was like taking sweets from a child. Yet he had no choice. Now and again he had glanced at her, and he wondered whether she already had some inkling of what he was going to tell her; certainly something of her excitement had faded, but that could be because she was impatient. He pushed his chair back a few inches, rested his hands on the desk, and studied her. Yes, she was beginning to feel uneasy. Her lips were no longer parted in eagerness, but tightly set. Her eyes had lost some of their bright blue brilliance, and she was clasping her hands in her lap.
“Rebecca,” he said, very quietly, “these aren’t what you thought they were.”
She didn’t say a word.
“I hate to tell you,” Mannering went on, “but you have to know sooner or later. These are paste gems, and the settings are of modem make. They’re not worth much, I’m afraid.” She moistened her lips. Her eyes seemed to grow very large and round, then she closed them and screwed them up as if to fight back tears. Mannering saw the tautness of her fingers, where they were interlocked.
“I’m really sorry,” Mannering said. “Of course, they’re worth a bit.” He was the incurable romantic, as the portrait on the wall above his head showed; in it, he was dressed as a Cavalier, with all the furbelows of the time. His wife had painted that, to catch the spirit of the man: the good-looks, the hazel brown eyes, the clear-cut features – the man sitting at the desk seemed rather like a reincarnation of the one in the portrait. He made a quick estimate of the value of the costume jewellery, which on the right woman would look very well. If he averaged it at twenty pounds apiece, it would be generous; three hundred and forty pounds or so. “In fact I could buy it from you at five hundred pounds.”
She opened her eyes, but did not speak; it was as if the shock of disappointment had made her dumb.
“Or perhaps you want to keep it, for sentimental reasons,” he said. “I shall quite understand—”
“Sentiment!” she cried. “Sentiment!” She pushed her chair back and stood up, as if she needed some kind of release from tension and could not sit still any longer. “No, we’re not interested in sentimental value. My father hates the family.”
She broke off, but it was obviously no moment for Mannering to speak, and he watched as she stared at a small gilded cross, brought to him by a cleric from Italy, then at the spines of the books, then up at his portrait; she stared at that for a moment, but it did not hold her interest. She had her arms rigid by her sides now, her hands clenched.
“… Oh, what’s the use of getting worked up?” she said at last, and momentarily closed her eyes again. “Did you say five hundred pounds?”
“Yes.”
“Couldn’t you – couldn’t you make it more?”
“I’m afraid not,” Mannering said, and wondered if there was any special reason for her wanting another hundred or two. “When I’ve had a closer look at it I might find one or two of the pieces better than I think they are.”
She said: “Yes, I suppose so. I suppose I could—I could take them to someone else.”
He smiled. “By all means.” He hoped that she wouldn’t, being quite sure that she would get no more than half his offer, and having a feeling that if she discovered that he had acted on an impulse of romantic generosity, she would become suddenly, perhaps, haughtily, proud. “I’m really sorry, Miss Blest, but—”
She stared up at the portrait again.
“I can’t understand it,” she said. “I just can’t understand it. It’s almost as if he had stretched out from the grave to hurt my father.”
Mannering murmured: “Who did?” and wondered how much truth there was in the story of the three deaths which had led her father to the inheritance. It seemed certain that she believed it. There was someone in the family whom she had good reason to dislike, and the whole story might well be worth the hearing. His thoughts began to wander. Had the previous owner had these replicas of real gems made, and sold the genuine ones? Had owner 1, 2 or 3 carried out the switch? Had any of the other inheritors, in their lifetime, discovered the switch from real to false?
Had the switch been done recently?
These and a lot of other questions chased one another through his mind as Mannering watched the girl. As far as he could judge, the false gems had been in those settings for some years, for nothing suggested brand new work and each piece needed cleaning. At the simplest, this was a matter for the insurance company, but insurance liability was in turn a matter for experts and not for him; he wished only that he could help this girl.
She was staring at him intently.
“My Uncle Rett did.”
“Your Uncle Rett.”
“The uncle who died—” she broke off, and turned away again. “Oh, it’s such a long story, and it’s hopelessly involved. My father’s brother-in-law, Rett Larker, inherited the jewels and everything else, and he left everything to my father. If Uncle Rett had wanted to hurt, he couldn’t have chosen a better way.” The girl had a scared look, now. “I don’t know how this will affect my father,” she confided, and approached the desk with one hand outstretched as if in appeal. “I think the shock might harm him. He—he’s been so ill.”
Now both her hands were stretched out to Mannering. There was no doubt of the intensity of her pleading. He could go up to seven hundred; it had been a good year, and the loss could be absorbed – but only a fool would consider it.
“Need you tell him?” she demanded. “Can you give me a letter, or a valuation, or even something which says you have to take some time to get an accurate valuation? Something I can show my father and make him think it’s all right, that it’s only a matter of time.”
“But would that help?” asked Mannering.
“Yes, of course it would,” Rebecca Blest declared. “It—it would let him down much more lightly. I could—I could tell him the truth gradually, and he needn’t know the whole truth until he’s much stronger. Will you help me?”
It would have taken a much harder-hearted man to tell her no. And because he wanted to know if she went to someone else, Mannering sent Ms most agile assistant after her.
Chapter Two
Pain Deferred …
Rebecca Blest turned out of Hart Row into Bond Street, Mayfair, only vaguely aware that a young man from Quinns had followed her. She was so deeply upset that she realised little of what went on around her, and stepped blindly off the pavement when the lights were red; a motorcyclist pulled up with screeching brakes. The rider rasped: “You silly bitch! You—” and then he saw her face, and broke off. He had been scared, but the sight of her expression drove fear away, as well as anger; the transformation was remarkable. A plump middle-aged man took Rebecca’s arm with unwanted familiarity, and gave her a little squeeze.
“You really must be more careful, my dear. You need someone to look after you.”
“… dy jay walkers,” contributed the driver of a passing car.
Rebecca tried to shake herself free, but the middle-aged man held firm.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was—I wasn’t thinking.”
“But you should think, my dear,” the middle-aged man insisted, and drew her a little closer. “Now why don’t we go somewhere for a cup of tea, or to my club for a drink? It will give you time to recover.”
“No, I—”
The motorcyclist had pulled into the side of the road, and propped up his machine. He pushed through London’s heedless, hurrying crowd, all rushing to cross before the lights changed again, and put a hand on the man’s plump wrist.
“Okay, grandpa,” he said. “You’ve done your good deed.”
“Now, really—”
The motorcyclist tightened his grip enough to make the middle-aged man wince, release Rebecca, mutter under his breath, and step into the road as the lights changed. For a moment, under the contemplative eye of a policeman on the other side of the road, Rebecca and the motorcyclist stood together. The youth was of about the same height as the girl; stocky, fair-haired, freckled and fresh-looking. He had greeny-grey eyes.