A Good Read

by John Creasey

  Copyright & Information

  A Good Read

  First published in 1949

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1949-2014

  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

  0755135288 9780755135288 Print

  0755139011 9780755139019 Kindle

  0755137353 9780755137350 Epub

  0755153782 9780755153787 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

  The Screaming Woman

  The night was still and quiet.

  The great house was clear and grey in the light of a crescent moon, which shone upon the sweeping lawns, on rose-gardens robbed by the night of their colour, and on stately beech and chestnut trees which lined the main drive. The house stood on the crest of a hill, lordly, aloof. The windows of the west wing shone in the moonlight.

  There was no wind, and only the gentle sounds of the sleeping countryside.

  Nearly a mile away were the entrances to the drive – North and South Lodges, with imposing wrought iron gates crowned by the Lithom crest, two lions rampant with crossed swords above them; the Lithoms had been a fighting family. Beech, oak and birch surrounded the parkland in which the house was set, and the night was clear enough for these to be seen from the house.

  Suddenly, a light showed on the ground floor.

  It was in the east wing, which had been dark and gloomy, made a yellow square against the greyness of the house, shone dimly on to the stone terrace.

  The shadow of a woman appeared against the light.

  Two arms were flung upwards – the woman backed slowly towards the window.

  Then the quiet of the night was broken by a piercing scream.

  The shadow disappeared and the screaming died, but the light still glowed. The dark shapes of moths fluttered against the window.

  Inside the house, all had been quiet until that scream. Now its echo followed the woman as she fled from the study where she had found the Thing, into the great hall where the portraits of dead Lithoms looked down on her, as if contemptuous of her fear. She fled up the wide, circular staircase still screaming, into the gloom of the first floor. There the bust of her father glowed, as if the night had given life to its marble.

  She ran along a wide passage, lit dimly by a tiny lamp at the far end, passing tall, dark, closed doors. She reached a door which stood ajar, and stopped running. She fought for breath now; her face was drained of colour, her eyes were feverishly bright. She pressed one hand against her breast, where her dressing-gown gaped over silk-clad mounds. She began to shiver.

  Two doors opened.

  From one came a tall man, wearing dark-blue pyjamas; he was behind the girl. At the other, a short woman whose grey hair was twisted in old-fashioned metal curlers, faced the girl. The woman’s face was shiny with night-cream, her eyes looked angry and alarmed.

  The man switched on the lights in his room. The old woman clutched her dressing-gown, and said harshly: “Gloria! What on earth are you doing?”

  The girl stared at her, lips parted, blue eyes still reflecting terror.

  “Gloria! Don’t stand there gaping, tell me what’s the matter!”

  The girl tried to speak, but could only mutter incoherently.

  The man approached and rested a hand lightly on her shoulder. Although the June night was warm, he could feel the tremors shaking her cold flesh.

  “Gloria!” cried the old woman. “Control yourself! Have you had another nightmare? This can’t go on, this—”

  “Steady,” interrupted the man mildly. “She’ll be all right.”

  He led Gloria into her room, the one with the door ajar, and switched on the light.

  The rest of the house was still and silent.

  The room was large, with a high ceiling, exquisite plaster-work, light oak-panelling, a two-poster bed against one wall, the bedclothes rumpled and flung back, and the girl’s clothes folded neatly over a chair. A huge walnut wardrobe stood opposite the bed, there was a bow-shaped dressing-table and a carpet with a thick, warm pile. Under the great mantelpiece was an electric fire. The man pushed a winged arm-chair closer to the fire, then bent down and switched it on.

  “Sit down, and I’ll get you a drink,” he said. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Nothing to worry about indeed!” snorted the woman. “She’ll drive us all mad before she’s finished. It’s bad enough by day, but if she’s going to start at night, then I—”

  The man, so tall and commanding, smoothed down his ruffled, dark hair, and a gleam of amusement sparkled in his hazel eyes. Humorous lines which hadn’t shown before appeared at the corners of his lips; his face was lean, handsome, tanned.

  “Maggie, can you still make a cup of tea?” he asked.

  “Can I what?”

  “Make a cup of tea. That’s what Gloria really needs. There’s a gas-ring in your room, and your secret hoard.”

  “Don’t be absurd!”

  “Don’t be difficult,” said the man.

  The woman tossed back her head and glared, but turned and went out, her heel-less slippers sliding up and down over rosy heels.

  The girl Gloria was leaning back with her eyes closed. Her breath still came uneasily and her hands were tight on the arms of her chair, the knuckles white. Her dark hair fell in rippling waves to her shoulders, there were dark rings under her eyes, traces of lipstick on her lips and of rouge on her cheeks. The man moved, to face her.
>
  “What was it, Gloria?”

  After a long pause, her lips moved.

  “It was—horrible! Those books—”

  “Another dream?”

  Her eyes flashed open.

  “It wasn’t a dream! It couldn’t have been a dream!” She sat forward, stretching out a hand and clutching his; her fingers were icy cold. “John, it couldn’t have been a dream, it was too horrible. I saw it.”

  “What did you see?”

  “A—a dead body.”

  “Where?” asked the man, as if dead bodies might be found lying about at any odd corner.

  “In—the study.”

  “I’ll pop down and have a look in a minute,” said the man gravely. “Did you wake up down there?”

  “I—yes,” Gloria said, hoarsely. “I’d been sleep-walking again, I suppose. Why can’t they cure me? It’s horrible, John. Nobody seems to be able to do anything about it. I—I don’t think they want to!” Her voice rose. “That’s what it is, they want me to go mad! I hate them, hate every one of them, especially her. They don’t think I’m fit to own Lithom Hall, they don’t think—”

  “Whatever they think, you do own it,” said the man, quiet and reassuring. “And you’ll run it well, Gloria. You’ll soon be free of this sleep-walking. The best doctors in England are helping, you know. It may take a few months, but you’ll gradually get better.”

  “But it’s getting worse! I hate the books, the libraries, everything to do with books.”

  “Tell me about tonight,” said the man. “You woke up in the study did you—not outside?”

  “I—I was in the study when—when I began to come round. I don’t know what woke me. I found myself standing there. I could see the moon and the garden, and felt very cold. I was near the door and groped about to switch on the light. And then I saw it.”

  “Where was it?”

  “On—on the floor, by his desk.”

  The man moved, taking both of her hands in his, and asked quietly: “Was it your father, Gloria?”

  “No!” she screamed, and snatched her hands away. “No, no, no! You’re as bad as they are, you don’t believe me, you think I’m mad! But it wasn’t father, it was a stranger, he was murdered too! His throat was cut, the blood—”

  She began to sob.

  The older woman came in, carrying a tray on which were two cups and saucers, a tooth-glass, a teapot and a jug of milk. She carried them in front of her, the tray pressing lightly against her ample bosom.

  “Gloria, how many more times must I tell you that your father wasn’t murdered? It was an accident. It’s monstrous to keep saying he was murdered.”

  “But he was!” cried Gloria. “I know he was!”

  Milk spilled over the side of the jug as the woman banged the tray down.

  “Nonsense!” She began to pour out.

  “Maggie—” began the man.

  She rounded on him.

  “Don’t call me Maggie! And don’t encourage Gloria in this nonsense.”

  “Whatever’s ailing Gloria, you aren’t helping her much.”

  “Don’t be a fool. I’ve no time for all this modern nonsense. Psychosis, neurosis, psychiatry, they’re all the same. High sounding words for simple things. Gloria’s got an obsession, and the way to deal with it is to make her pull herself together. In my young days—” she broke off and took the girl a cup of tea, then handed the man the tooth-glass. “You’ll have to manage with that, and mind, it’s hot. Gloria! Drink your tea.”

  The cup and saucer were chinking loudly in the girl’s unsteady hand, but she managed to raise the cup, holding the saucer close to catch the tea that spilled over the side.

  “I’m going to have a look round downstairs.” The man put his tea down on a glass tray on the dressing-table. “I won’t be long.”

  “John Mannering, you’re as big a fool as the child!” declared the woman vigorously. “You half believe her, don’t you? Dead man, poof! Oh, I heard, there isn’t much I don’t hear in this house. She went walking in her sleep again, and woke up in the middle of a dream. Of course, she dreamt her father was murdered. Ever since he passed on, she’s dreamt of violence and blood and evil books. What she needs is a job of work, to get the nonsense out of her system. Hard work would do her good.”

  “Like you did in your young days,” murmured Mannering who was already at the door. “Don’t leave her until I get back, Maggie.”

  The old woman snorted angrily.

  Mannering went into his own room, put on a red silk dressing-gown, and walked along the passage towards the head of the stairs. He paused by the side of the marble bust of an elderly man, rather like Gloria; this was the bust of her father. It was cruel to keep it there, reminding her a dozen times a day both of the past and of her obsession. He felt sure that it was an obsession; she had been sleepwalking and dreaming at the same time, and had awakened to ‘see’ something which wasn’t there. He was going to investigate only because he wanted to convince Gloria that he was on her side. He studied the bust for a few seconds, noting how the sculptor had caught the aloof, disapproving expression of the late Earl of Lithom. Gloria hadn’t had a real chance; not with such a father. Yet she had been passionately devoted to him, finding in his nature a softness which few others even suspected. And Mannering had known her gay and carefree, a delight to the eye. The change in her, over the past year, was hurtful.

  Mannering hurried down the stairs.

  He pulled his dressing-gown about him more tightly as he reached the chilly hall, hung with portraits of men and women. That family resemblance ran right through the Lithom family. Now the title was going to die out; there were no male descendants; only women to carry on the tradition, and even if Gloria married—

  Gloria ought to be married.

  He crossed the hall towards the study – and stopped short.

  The light wasn’t on.

  A glow came from the landing and a paler gleam through the windows on either side of the great front door, but the study was in darkness; the door was closed. Mannering went forward more cautiously, groping in his pocket for a handkerchief. He spread it over his palm, then gripped the handle lightly and turned it. The door opened easily. He took the handkerchief away and stood on the threshold, his head raised; he was sniffing as well as frowning.

  All trace of tiredness, all hint of scepticism, had gone; he was alert and wary.

  Using the handkerchief again, he switched on the light. As it flooded the room, he heard a sound, but saw nothing move. Books stood behind glass shelves which rose from floor to ceiling – books in leather, tooled in gold, brown, red, yellow, black, tall books and thin, many of them old and rubbed, some looking as new as when they had first been bound and placed with the others on these shelves. It had been a Lithom custom to bind all books for the study in special bindings; the colour of the binding classified the book.

  The desk stood just where it had been when Lord Lithom was alive. This was the smaller of two libraries, used in Lithom’s day as a study. The big library was upstairs.

  There was no body on the floor.

  He crossed the room and pushed at the window, but it was latched. He went to the desk, bent down on one knee and studied the thick pile of the fawn-coloured carpet; then he moved and looked at it from a different angle. The pile fell in different ways near the desk, some this way, some that. The rest of the carpet looked as if it had been brushed in the same direction. Only near the desk was the pile different, rather like crushed grass where someone had been lying. He went down on one knee again – and saw something glisten. It was a reflection of the light; and a fawn-coloured carpet shouldn’t reflect light.

  He moved his head to and fro, to try to catch the gleam again. There it was! Yes – and it glistened red.

  Keeping his eye on the spot, he bent his head nearer. The mark was very small, just a spot, and was half-way down a tuft of the thick pile.

  It was wet.

  It might be blood.

>   Mannering stood up and went to the desk, which was unlocked, and opened one of the drawers. He rummaged about until he found a small piece of chalk in a box containing paper clips, pen nibs and other oddments. With the chalk in his hand, he searched for and found the spot again. He drew a ring round it, about two inches in diameter, pressing hard to get the chalk to show.

  Next he went to the corner where he fancied he had heard a sound, and peered closely at the polished mahogany of the shelves and uprights. One or two smears on the high polish might have been caused by someone who had taken out a book. He didn’t touch the wood or the glass, and was about to turn when he heard a sound behind him.

  He seemed lost in contemplation of the bookshelves, but actually peered in the glass. His own shadow turned it into a mirror, and he could see a reflection of the door-way.

  A man was there.

  Chapter Two

  The Prowler

  Mannering could see the dim, blurred reflection of the man’s head and shoulders – and one hand, touching the doorframe. He moved along a little, breathed on the glass to smear it, then stared hard, as if looking inside the book-case.

  The man stayed at the door.

  Mannering breathed heavily again and smeared the glass in front of him. As the cloud cleared, the watcher disappeared.

  Mannering swung round, reached the door and peered into the hall, standing at one side, so that he couldn’t easily be seen.

  The other was walking softly along the wide passage which led to the ballroom. He reached a door which opened to the right of the large swing-doors of the ballroom, and touching the handle, turned and glanced behind him. Mannering darted out of sight. Next time he ventured to look, the man had disappeared, but he remained vivid in Mannering’s mind’s eye. Short, slim, dressed in black clothes – as the butler or any of the footmen at Lithom Hall would be by day, but not two hours after the household had retired.

  Mannering followed the unknown and opened the door through which the man had passed. A light went out, another door opened. Whoever was ahead had one advantage; he knew the house better than Mannering. But Mannering passed along a narrow passage and the pale light from the hall showed him the far door.