THE HAND OF FEAR
Gerald Verner
© Gerald Verner 1936
© Chris Verner 2014
Gerald Verner has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1936 by Wright & Brown Ltd.
This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
Table of Contents
Chapter One – The Tramp
Chapter Two – Farringdon Street
Chapter Three – The Man in the Night
Chapter Four – Clifford Feldon’s Address
Chapter Five – The Man Who Was Drunk
Chapter Six – Death Stalks the Valley
Chapter Seven – Felix Dexon
Chapter Eight – At the Quarry
Chapter Nine – Felix Dexon’s Prison
Chapter Ten – The Fingerprint
Chapter Eleven – At the Seventh Tee
Chapter Twelve – Lesley’s Friend
Chapter Thirteen – Before the Storm
Chapter Fourteen – Mr. Blessington’s Adventure
Chapter Fifteen – What the Gardener Saw
Chapter Sixteen – Mr. Earnshaw is Indignant
Chapter Seventeen – The Night Terror
Chapter Eighteen – Where is Lesley?
Chapter Nineteen – The Return
Chapter Twenty – The Sniper
Chapter Twenty-One – Holt Meets Trouble
Chapter Twenty-Two – The Prisoner
Chapter Twenty-Three – No Escape
Chapter Twenty-Four – Street is Worried
Chapter Twenty-Five – A Matter of Minutes
Chapter Twenty-Six – Death at the Quarry
Chapter Twenty-Seven – The Man Responsible
Chapter Twenty-Eight – The Secret of Deneswood
Chapter Twenty-Nine – The End of Sam Gates
Chapter Thirty – The Motto of America
Chapter One – The Tramp
The Deneswood Valley Estate lies in the shadow of the Surrey Hills between Redhill arid Bletchingly. The approach from the main road is by way of a broad gravel boulevard flanked by trees and guarded at its entrance by a decorative signpost bearing the inscription ‘Private Road’, for the residents of the estate are a retiring people and not partial to strangers.
Mr. Ambrose Blessington, to whose wide dreams and indefatigable work the place owed its inception, set out with the intention of creating a miniature garden city not too far from London, amid the most picturesque surroundings it was possible to obtain, where well-to-do businessmen and others could settle down and live in such peace as the limitations of their bank balances allowed. That Mr. Blessington had succeeded in his objective was testified to by the fact that not one of the score or so of houses, whose gables and twisted chimneys peeped from among the trees that enclosed them, was unoccupied. This was certainly not surprising, for a more beautiful spot than Deneswood Valley would have been difficult to find. None of the stereotyped architecture of the ‘jerry builder’ had been allowed to intrude into this Edenistic paradise. Each house was a design unto itself, passed only after much thought and care on the part of Mr. Blessington, who had superintended the building of each one personally, being careful to reject all materials that were not of the very best, and exercising much care in the laying out of the extensive gardens in which each residence was sited.
The houses were set at irregular intervals from each other so that there was nothing in the nature of a formulaic pattern to offend the artistic soul of Mr. Blessington. They were built round a central park — a flat, smooth stretch of emerald grass with a border of well-rolled gravel, and laid out with flowerbeds that blazed from May to October. In a far corner was a fluttering red pennant which indicated the first tee of the golf course that stretched away down the valley, and was exclusive to the residents of the estate and their various friends. Here, too, were the five tennis courts, their white markings sharp and clear, their nets tightly stretched — models of what tennis courts should be.
From the study windows of his own house — for he lived in the big grey stone mansion at the end of the winding approach — Mr. Blessington could see the white-clad figures playing, and when he allowed his eyes to wander over the beauties of the scene that stretched before him, there came to him a feeling of that joy which is only experienced by the creator.
The garden city was very select. Mr. Blessington had taken the utmost pains in picking its tenants and many applicants had been politely turned down, to their surprise and chagrin, with the barest of formal refusals, and no explanation as to the reason, merely because they did not fit in with Mr. Blessington’s plan. The rents were high — that was only to be expected for such advantages as the estate offered — and were paid directly to Mr. Blessington himself exactly on each quarter-day.
He acted as his own estate agent, and he never had any trouble. Deneswood Valley was a rich community. The incomes of its residents, if added together, would have totalled a sum running into seven figures.
Strolling along the smooth gravel walk that flanked the central garden and admiring the beauty which a hot summer’s afternoon gave to the child of his brain, Mr. Blessington felt very contented with the world.
He was a man whose age might have been anything between forty-five and sixty. His big, smooth face was unlined, and his gait was alert to the verge of briskness. He was fat, but he carried his stoutness so well that it was scarcely noticeable at first glance. He raised his soft grey hat to a slim girl in white who, with a racket under her arm, came out of a nearby house and crossed over to the green. She gave him a smile as she passed, and he continued his walk with a face that had suddenly become grave and thoughtful.
Rounding a clump of gaily hued shrubs, Mr. Blessington received something of a shock. Coming towards him was the untidy figure of a man — an ill-dressed, ragged man, with a growth of thick stubble on his chin and dusty spots that gaped at the toes.
‘Bless my soul!’ murmured Mr. Blessington in horror. The very thought of a tramp in that beautiful setting was abhorrent to his artistic nature.
The ragged man drew nearer, and as he came level, stopped. ‘’ere, Guv’nor, p’r’aps you can ’elp me,’ he said quickly, swaying slightly on his feet. ‘Want to find a feller. Sam Gates, ’is name is. Lives round ’ere somewhere.’ He waved a dirty hand vaguely.
Mr. Blessington inwardly shuddered. A tramp was bad enough, but a drunken tramp! ‘I think you’ve made a mistake, my good man —’ he began majestically, but the tramp interrupted with an unsteady laugh.
‘I ain’t made no mistake, ol’ feller,’ he said. ‘Oh, no, I ain’t made no mistake. I’ve come to see Sam Gates, an’ I’m blinking well goin’ ter see ’im.’
‘There is nobody of that name here,’ asserted Mr. Blessington with dignity. ‘Now, you just go away quietly, or I shall have to call the gardener and have you put off the estate.’
The tramp eyed him unpleasantly. ‘Call the gardener, will you?’ he snarled. ‘All right. Go on then — call your gardener, you fat old slug! I ain’t a-goin’ from ’ere till I’ve seen Sam, see?’
Mr. Blessington breathed a trifle hard, but decided that perhaps the situation could be met by the use of a little tact. ‘I have already told you,’ he said in his most dignified manner, ‘that there is nobody here of the name of Gates. I know all the servants and I can vouch for the fact that there is none of them with that name.’
‘Who said anythin’ about servants?’ The ragged man leaned forward and gripped Mr. Blessington’s immaculate grey sleeve with a greasy hand. ‘You don’t know wot you’re talkin’ ab
out. Sam Gates ain’t no blinkin’ servant. He’s a pal o’ mine, and I don’t ’ssociate with servants, see? Sam’s got an ’ouse ’ere. One o’ them.’ He jerked his head towards the houses half-revealed through the trees.
Mr. Blessington took his arm away and shook his own head. ‘You’re come to the wrong place, my man,’ he said sternly. ‘This is the Deneswood Valley Estate, and there is nobody living here or otherwise with the name of Gates.’
‘I know this is the Deneswood Ish-Ishtate,’ said the tramp with difficulty, ‘an’ I know of Sam’s ’ere too. It ain’t no good you tryin’ to put me off with lot o’ lies. I got it straight from Tyler, see? No; you jest move yourself an’ show me which is ol’ Sam’s house.’
Mr. Blessington looked round nervously and gave a sigh of relief as he saw the gardener approaching. Really, it was intolerable that he should have been waylaid in this manner. Already abusive, the man was fast becoming threatening.
‘I shall not argue with you further,’ he said. ‘I can only conclude that you are mad or the drink you have consumed has affected your — er — brain. Now, I don’t want any unpleasantness, but unless you go quietly and at once, I shall have to have you removed by force.’
The tramp’s thick lips curled back in a savage snarl, revealing his broken, tobacco-stained teeth. ‘Oh, yer will, will yer,’ he cried hoarsely. ‘Go on, you just try it, you old —! I’ll knock yer bloomin’ face through the other side of yer ’ead!’
He clenched his fists, and Mr. Blessington took a hasty step backwards, and then suddenly the tramp’s temper subsided, and his voice dropped to a conciliatory whine. ‘All right, Guv’nor, I’ll go. Didn’t mean no ’arm,’ he muttered, and shuffled off in the direction of the main road.
Mr. Blessington gasped his relief and looked round to see what had caused this sudden change of front on the part of the unpleasant trespasser. But there was no one in sight except the gardener. Apparently the tramp had altered his mind of his own volition. Well, anyway — Mr. Blessington watched the ragged figure turn into the private road and disappear round a bend — he was gone.
A most objectionable man, he thought as he walked slowly back to his house for tea, and not only objectionable but dangerous. He decided to speak to the police about the matter, and then immersing himself in some work that awaited him that evening, the episode of the tramp passed for the moment from his mind. Mr. Blessington was an early riser and he had just descended to his breakfast on the following morning when his servant announced that the head gardener wished to see him urgently. He went out and found the agitated and white-faced man waiting nervously in the hall.
‘Well, what is it, Jennings?’ asked Mr. Blessington.
‘Something dreadful has happened,’ said the old man tremulously. ‘Will you come with me, sir? I thought I’d better tell you at once — before anyone found it.’
‘Found it — found what?’ demanded Mr. Blessington a little irritably. He was never at his best before breakfast.
‘The — the body, sir,’ whispered the gardener hoarsely, and his master jumped.
‘What do you mean? Is someone dead?’ he exclaimed, and Jennings nodded his grey head.
‘Yes, sir — I think it’s murder!’ he said. ‘If you’ll come with me, sir, I’ll show you.’
‘Murder? Good heavens!’ Mr. Blessington’s eyes started from his head. ‘Yes, yes, show me at once!’
He followed the gardener down the drive and out onto the gravelled walk. It was fresh and cool in the early morning sunlight.
‘Here, sir,’ said Jennings, and stopping beside a clump of bushes, pointed downwards. ‘Look, sir!’
Mr. Blessington looked, and his large face went the colour of chalk. Stretched on his back, his sightless eyes turned to the sky, and his ragged coat stiff with the blood that had welled from the wound in his throat, lay the figure of the tramp who had accosted him the previous afternoon.
‘He’s been stabbed in the neck, sir,’ muttered Jennings tremulously, ‘and there’s no sign of a knife anywhere, so I suppose it must have been murder, sir.’
Mr. Blessington recovered himself with an effort. ‘That’s a matter for the police to find out,’ he said. ‘We must send for them at once.’ And then an afterthought struck him: ‘Good heavens! The publicity of this crime will be horrible — horrible!’
Could he have looked into the future he would have found good cause for his remark, for the murder of tramp was but the beginning, and was shortly to be followed by a series of events that were to make the Deneswood Valley world notorious, obscuring its peace and beauty beneath a mantle of mystery, fear and sudden death.
Chapter Two – Farringdon Street
Mr. Farringdon Street came leisurely down the Strand, his hands in his pockets, his lips pursed on a whistle that was soundless. His bearing held a touch of insolence, the grey eyes that surveyed the passers-by a hint of laughter, for he found life very amusing.
Of medium height and rather stockily built, he looked younger than his thirty-nine years. His pleasant face was unlined, and his smooth black hair — for he wore no hat this bright summer morning — was innocent of grey.
Throughout the length of Fleet Street he was known as ‘Farry,’ and was as popular among his fellow reporters as he was with the taciturn Mr. Ebbs, the gaunt news editor of the Morning Herald, on the staff of which enterprising paper he held the position of crime reporter since the tragic death of poor Hallam Winchester, who had drunk himself into the grave two years before.
Most people who were introduced to Farringdon Street for the first time were inclined to wonder how he got his name, but the explanation was a simple one. At the tender age of six weeks he had been found by a startled policeman on the steps of an office building wrapped in many shawls and yelling lustily. There was no clue to his parents, and sooner than let the baby go to a foundling home, the good-natured constable and his wife had adopted it.
‘We’ll call him Farringdon,’ declared Mr. Flecker, when his wife brought up the subject of a name for the infant. ‘It were in Farringdon Street that I found ’im, and Farringdon is as good a name as any.’
As Farringdon Flecker he passed through boyhood and eventually joined the police force at the wish of his foster-father, who had now attained the rank of sergeant. When that big-hearted man was killed in a fight with a drunken gang three years later, young Farringdon resigned from the city police at the urgent request of Mrs. Flecker, and to the regret of his superiors who had marked him for promotion.
He had always had a hankering for journalism, and under the pen-name of ‘Farringdon Street’ had contributed several articles to obscure provincial newspapers during his service as a police officer. Now he was able to devote his whole time to that precarious job, and speedily achieved success.
When Mrs. Flecker died two years after her husband, Farringdon was holding down a job as junior reporter on the staff of the Morning Herald. His uncanny flair for crime stories soon brought him to the notice of the news editor. It was only natural that when that erratic genius, Hallam Winchester, finally succumbed to the drink which had kept him alive for so many years, young Farringdon Street should step into his shoes. The pen-name under which he had first started to write stuck to him, and few people remembered the Flecker or were aware that he possessed any other name.
He came blithely along Fleet Street and ran up the steps of the huge building which housed the activities of the Morning Herald. Except for one man the reporters’ room was empty, and this industrious individual, who was busily thumping a typewriter, never even looked round as Street came in.
‘Hello, Curley!’ said Farringdon. ‘What are you doing?’
Curley Brown grunted without ceasing his onslaught on the typewriter. ‘A column and a half on the opening of the new bridge,’ he said. ‘Nearly finished, too, thank heaven!’
Farringdon Street sprawled in a chair and searched in his pocket for a cigarette. ‘What was it like?’ he asked, referring to the function
which had taken place that morning.
‘Like every other that has ever been seen,’ muttered the reporter. ‘Shut up, Farry, for the Lord’s sake! You’ve made me make two mistakes already.’
Farringdon grinned, showing his even white teeth, and took no notice of the exhortation. ‘A good newspaper man should be able to work under any conditions,’ he admonished severely. ‘It’s a matter of concentration —’ He stopped and looked towards the door as it was jerked open and a shirt-sleeved sub-editor thrust in his head.
‘The ‘Old Man’ wants you, Street,’ he said, and with a sigh Farringdon got to his feet.
‘What’s ‘broken’?’ he demanded.
The shirt-sleeved man shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘He’s got a girl with him. A good looker, too. He told me to shoot you along as soon as you came in.’
Farringdon raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, well! Wonders will never cease.’ He walked along the corridor to the door of Mr. Samuel Ebbs’s office, tapped, and in answer to the gruff invitation, turned the handle and entered the news editor’s room.
‘I’ve been waiting for you, Street!’ snapped Mr. Ebbs, a small, bald-headed man with a thin, pale face, staring across the huge untidy desk at which he sat. ‘What have you been doing with yourself?’
Farringdon Street said nothing. It is doubtful even if he heard the question which had been put to him. His entire attention was taken up with the third occupant of the room.
By the side of the news editor’s desk sat a girl who, at first sight, looked scarcely more than a child, and Farringdon stared, for never in his life had he seen anything so lovely. The illusion of extreme youth was not dispelled by his scrutiny, but he saw that she was really older than she looked. The full red lips were firm; the blue eyes that met his had a decision of character that could not have been possessed by a person in their teens, as he had at first supposed her to be. The little hat that she wore failed to conceal the fine texture of her fair hair, and as she caught the admiration in his glance she flushed slightly.
The Hand of Fear (Keith Calder Book 3) Page 1