by John Creasey
“Should we leave her alone, John?”
“I don’t think she’ll wake up for a while,” said Mannering. “Lorna’s a light sleeper, and will hear if she should call out.”
The older woman nodded slowly, and got up from her chair. She pressed her hand against her grey hair, then drew it wearily across her forehead.
“Why did she do it? Why did she try to kill herself?”
Better, perhaps, to let her believe that.
Mannering rested his hand on her shoulder, pressed gently and said: “You know how worked-up she gets, Maggie. Don’t worry too much, we can look after her now. And don’t tell her what she tried to do. She might not remember, and it’ll be much better if she doesn’t.”
The old lady nodded, and Lorna took her to her room.
When Lorna entered the big bedroom, Mannering was in his pyjamas and dressing-gown, sitting in an arm-chair, smoking, with a small book open in his hand – Meredith’s Selected Poems. He put it down as Lorna entered.
She stood by the mantelpiece, looking down at him.
“John, why did you let Maggie think that Gloria tried to kill herself? You know she didn’t.” Her tone was almost accusing.
Mannering said: “I don’t want Maggie to know too much just yet, my sweet. Convince her that the grounds are littered with bad men and killer-dogs, and we’ll have another invalid on our hands. Before we tell either of them the truth, I want another talk with Chatterton.”
“I don’t know whether you’re wise,” said Lorna.
“Chatterton gave me general instructions, and this fits in with them.”
Lorna shrugged.
“What actually happened out there?”
He told her as she undressed.
They had left the door of the room ajar, in case Gloria should need them, but Mannering had fixed a chair so that no one could get in without disturbing them.
He went to sleep long before Lorna.
A maid brought them tea, just after eight o’clock, and Lady Bream came padding in soon afterwards, her hair in curlers, her colourful quilted dressing-gown clutched tightly about her barrel-like figure. She talked huskily. Gloria was still asleep, but she looked much more natural and even had a little colour. The doctor would be here during the morning and they could tell him what had happened. She didn’t mention the fact that Halsted, not Chatterton, was coming; Mannering assumed that she meant Chatterton.
Gloria had breakfast in bed.
Anxious not to fuss her too much, Mannering didn’t go in to see her. Lorna did, and when she joined Mannering, in the small, sunlit breakfast-room, she was frowning. In such moments, she wasn’t beautiful; her brows were drawn together, her lips compressed.
“How is she?” Mannering asked, as he served bacon and eggs from the hotplate.
“She looks all right, except that she’s so thin. It gave me quite a shock.”
“Yes, she’s lost weight. But what about last night?”
“She didn’t say a thing.”
“Did she say anything to Maggie?”
“Maggie says she won’t talk about it. John, do you think she has forgotten?” When he didn’t answer, she went on: “I said that she looked all right, but I didn’t really mean that. Her eyes scare me. So brooding, so frightened and helpless. And when I knew her she was like—sunlight on a spring day.”
Mannering put her plate in front of her.
“Last night has made it worse,” he said. “No, I don’t think she’s forgotten. But I think she’s convinced that no one will believe her if she talks about being chased by a big dog, and so she’s decided to say nothing about it. Better to suffer in silence than to be disbelieved or even ridiculed—Maggie’s treatment is proving a boomerang. I’ll have a talk with Chatterton when he comes. He’ll probably agree that she should be told what I saw last night, it might be the first stage in her recovery. Darling—”
Lorna looked up, surprised by the tone of his voice.
“Smile, please,” said Mannering.
Lorna laughed; gaily.
They had finished breakfast, and a clock was striking half past nine, when Wirral came in with the morning papers, and murmured that Abel the groom would like a word with Mr. Mannering when he could spare five minutes. Mannering said he would be out almost at once, and he picked up the Morning Cry. Out of the front page, the face of Derek Peacock looked at him, younger, eager, smiling. Above Derek was a photograph of his mother, and below, one of Mannering.
Chittering had excelled himself; and undoubtedly the Peacocks would treasure that newspaper for the rest of their lives.
There was no hint that the affair in Bayswater was connected with a mystery at Lithom Hall. The story that Mannering had been kidnapped in order to make him sell stolen jewels, seemed to be fully accepted not only in the Morning Cry, but in the other papers.
Mannering finished his third cup of coffee, and lit a cigarette.
“I’ll go and see Abel. Is Gloria getting up, do you know?”
“I advised her to stay in bed until the doctor comes.”
“Try and make her,” said Mannering.
He knew the house well enough to have gone to the stables from the side door, but chose to go on to the terrace and look across the parkland, which was so different under the sun; bright, lovely, serene, giving no hint of mystery, just a peaceful English pleasance. In front of the terrace were flower-beds, full of zinnias, early asters, antirrhinums of all colours; and there were borders of azaleas, pink, red, orange and yellow. He took in this blaze of colour absently, seeing the bees which swarmed among the flowers and catching sight of a green dragon-fly, now hovering, now darting. In the distance he could hear the broken cry of the cuckoo, the shriller note of a woodpecker, the throaty call of wood-pigeons. He walked round the house, past the shrubbery which grew close to the windows on the east side. The grey walls stretched far above him, massive, built three centuries ago and likely to last for another ten, if man looked after them.
He came to the stables.
Abel and two boys were grooming the horses, and Mannering went up to Lithom’s grey and caressed its head, talking to it in soft undertones, watched approvingly by Abel. The groom approached after a while, and said: “That horse knows her ladyship hates him.”
“Think he does?”
“I’m sure, sir. And a better horse—” the groom broke off, and cleared his throat. “Could you spare me a few minutes right now, sir?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve something to show you,” said Abel importantly.
He led the way into a small, brick hut, a cross between a storage shed and a potting shed. There were piles of seedling boxes, flower pots, small garden tools, sacks of potatoes, some rope and twine, pea sticks and, along the wall, a wooden bench which looked as if it had been there as long as the brick hut itself.
On the bench, spread out, were tufts of grass, many of them dug up, their roots still embedded in the rich, dark soil of the parkland. Mannering’s eyes brightened as he saw the dark, brownish stains on the grass and guessed what they were, but he did nothing to spoil Abel’s triumph.
“Them’s bloodstains!” announced Abel.
“Bloodstains?”
“Aye—sure as I’m here,” said Abel. “You hit that creature last night, sir. First thing this morning, I went down to the thicket and saw the blood on the grass. I’ve seen dried blood often enough to know what that’s like, sir, any man who does a little shooting knows how it stains grass. And I thought you’d like it if I preserved it.”
“That’s wonderful,” praised Mannering warmly. “I think it had better be put away safely, with that paw-cast. Will you take it into the store-room?” He gave the man the key. “Bring the key back to me as soon as you’ve finished.”
“I’ll do that, sir,” said Abel, and then he turned his brown eyes towards Mannering, and asked carefully: “Who will analyse it, sir? Who’ll look for that dog? ’Twas murder, or as near murder as makes little differ
ence. No one can deny that.”
Mannering returned the earnest gaze, taking in every feature of the man’s face. He had seen him before this visit, but had not studied him carefully. Abel’s forehead was high and broad, his chin rounded; his head was almost turnip-shaped. He had thin, greying hair, wiry, like his figure. His sleeves were rolled up to show sinewy, brown forearms, his hands were large and strong-looking; the top joint of the little finger of his left hand was missing. His shirt was open in a deep V, showing the tanned skin beneath; and his face was wrinkled and lined, almost like that of Jeremiah Caldecott. But his complexion had the healthy, weather-beaten look of the countryman, and his brown eyes were clear.
“The police, of course,” said Mannering. “I’ll see to that.”
“Quickly, sir?”
“Yes, today. But I won’t let everyone know.”
Abel demurred.
“I think you should, sir. Everyone’s talking about it, wondering why you didn’t send for the police last night, sir.”
“Oh,” said Mannering, lamely.
He had been so obsessed by the desire to keep as much as he could from Lady Bream and Gloria that he overlooked the anxiety and the curiosity of the servants. By now, the story of Abel’s ‘dog’ would have reached everyone in the house, man, woman and child – and naturally they expected to see the police.
“It’s true, sir,” said Abel.
“Of course it is,” said Mannering. “I’ll see that the police come soon. But—not a word to Lady Gloria or Lady Bream about that dog.”
“I understand, sir,” said Abel.
Mannering left him putting the blood-stained grass into seed-boxes, went to have another word with the grey, spared time to whisper to the bay next door, then strolled round to the front of the house. The thicket, which he could see so clearly from here, fascinated him. Then he saw a car turn into the drive from the North Lodge, and recognized the clean, aristocratic lines of a Rolls-Royce. Immediately he remembered the car which he had passed the previous night. He couldn’t tell whether this was the same one; he didn’t see that it greatly mattered, but he ought to have asked Lady Bream who the visitor had been. Yesterday he could blame his thick head, but today it was clear enough. The pain had largely gone from the bruise, and the swelling had subsided; it was tender, though.
The Rolls-Royce drew nearer.
He saw the elegant man at the wheel, without recognizing him. He had not expected it to be Chatterton, because Chatterton had a Daimler.
He quickened his step, reaching the terrace as Halsted entered the house. He heard Wirral greet him, and the words: “Dr. Halsted.” His frown deepened, but by the time he reached the hall, Halsted was halfway up the stairs, escorted by the butler.
Mannering had not heard of Dr. Halsted; or of any other doctor in attendance on Gloria. It might be the local G.P., but country doctors did not travel round in the latest model Rolls-Royces. He heard footsteps up above, expected to see Wirral, but instead he saw Lorna coming down the stairs.
“Who was that?” asked Mannering.
“A doctor named Halsted,” said Lorna. “Maggie’s just told me that Chatterton can’t get here today—he’ll be away for a few days. Doesn’t that cut across your plans, John?”
Yes; and he didn’t like this.
“Er—it does a bit. Did you have a word with him?”
“Well—just.”
“What’s he like?”
“A supercilious know-all,” said Lorna. “The worst possible Harley Street type. But that doesn’t mean that he isn’t good, Chatterton wouldn’t have a fool for a locum, would he?”
“He certainly wouldn’t,” said Mannering. “Did the doctor send you out?”
“No, I came down to see you.”
“Go back again, and see what he makes of her,” urged Mannering. “Much better to hear first-hand than to rely on what Maggie says.” His manner gave no inkling of the thoughts racing through his mind. “Will you?”
“Of course.” Lorna went upstairs.
Mannering turned into the drawing-room. The sun was already striking in at the south-east windows, and picking out the deep colours, but Mannering had no eye for colour just then. He went to the telephone and sank down in an easy chair, lifting the receiver. He could just see the distant thicket.
A girl with a rich, country voice answered him, and he gave a Mayfair number – the number of Dr. Maurice Chatterton. The girl asked him to hold on, and several minutes passed, with various noises muttering against his ear. The room was pleasantly warm, although all the windows were wide open.
Then: “You’re through,” said the girl.
“Mayfair 3-1245,” said another girl, with the haughty refinement of a superior being.
“Is Dr. Chatterton there, please?” asked Mannering.
“Dr. Chatterton has been called away, and cannot say when he will return.”
“I must get in touch with him,” said Mannering.
“I’m sorry, sir, but he left instructions that—”
“This is a personal call,” said Mannering. “John Mannering is speaking.”
That made little impression on the haughty voice.
“I’m sorry, sir, but Dr. Chatterton left strict instructions that he wasn’t to be—er—worried, sir. In fact he didn’t leave his address or telephone number. I understand that a relative has been taken seriously ill. Can you leave a message for when he returns?”
Mannering said slowly: “No, but wait a minute. When did he leave?”
“Last evening, sir.”
“Did he tell you when he might be back?”
“I didn’t actually see him, sir, he had been out,” said the girl. “I understand from his valet that he left unexpectedly. Shall I take a message?”
“No, thanks,” said Mannering. “Goodbye.”
He rang off, sat up, and looked bleakly over the lawns.
Chatterton knew that he was trying to help Gloria, and would surely have told him had he been called away; the case was too important for it to be handled casually almost carelessly. As the specialist had left yesterday evening, he could easily have sent Mannering a message.
He lifted the receiver again, and this time he called Whitehall 1212. The call came through more quickly.
“Superintendent Bristow, please,” said Mannering, and the Yard operator asked him to hold on.
While he was doing so, he heard a movement in the hall – a soft, gentle movement, not that of Wirral or a servant on his ordinary business but, like someone on tip-toe.
He glanced around.
The door was opening.
Chapter Ten
A Fine Head of Hair
The door opened only a few inches, then stopped.
Whoever stood outside could not see Mannering, but would be able to hear anything he said in a normal voice.
Mannering stood up cautiously, and stepped round the chair, ready to move fast. Then Bristow came on the line – a friendly Bristow.
“Well, John, what’s up now?”
Mannering whispered into the mouthpiece: “Can you hear me?”
“Hallo, John. Are you there?”
“Can you hear me?”
“I can’t hear you,” said Bristow, a little testily now. “Can’t you speak up?”
Mannering formed his words very carefully and spoke slowly and deliberately.
“Can—you—hear—me—now?”
A pause, and then: “Yes, just about. What’s up? Someone listening?”
“Yes,” said Mannering. “No trouble, it’s all right. Listen carefully, Bill. You know that Dr. Maurice Chatterton—”
“Who?”
“Chat-ter-ton.”
Bristow said: “Oh, yes, attending Lady Gloria. What about him?”
“He’s been called away unexpectedly—can you hear?”
“Yes,” Bristow’s voice was sharp.
“See what you can find out about his going, without making a fuss.”
“Without wh
at?” asked Bristow.
“Making a fuss.”
“Let me get this straight,” said Bristow. “Chatterton’s been called away, you think there might be some funny business, and want us to trace him without letting anyone know that we suspect that he’s missing. Right?”
“Perfect, Bill. Thanks.”
“Anything else?”
“Find out if anything is known about a Dr. Halsted, supposed to be a colleague of Chatterton’s.”
“Right.” Bristow was hearing better. “How are things going?”
“Quite nicely,” said Mannering. “All right, Bill. I’ll be seeing you.”
He rang off, raised his voice a little and said: “Oh, hold on a moment.” Bristow couldn’t hear that, but the man at the door could. Mannering stepped towards the door, thought he heard a movement which might have been a stealthy footstep, but didn’t hurry. Probably the other was tired of standing, and easing his legs.
Mannering stretched out his hand, touched the handle – and pulled sharply.
No one was there.
Mannering drew back, frowning. He had closed the door when he had come in; it hadn’t opened of its own volition.
He stepped into the hall, in time to see a man disappearing along the passage where the mystery man had gone from the library two nights ago. He couldn’t see him clearly, because the light wasn’t good there, but a shaft of reflected sunlight caught his head and shoulders. The man was dressed in black, and had a fine head of dark hair – almost black.
A door closed softly.
The second footman who had come out with Abel the previous night was curly-haired; Mannering remembered noting it absently. Dark, glossy, curly hair, more suitable for a woman than for a man. It would be easy to check whether any of the other servants had glossy, black, curly, hair; but it wasn’t likely that there were two heads like that in the same household.
The front door was open and Dr. Halsted’s Rolls-Royce stood glistening. Mannering went out on to the terrace and down the steps. The car was one of the latest models, with a coach-built body, and had cost at least £5,000; that made Halsted a wealthy man. There was no crest on the doors, nothing to distinguish this Rolls-Royce from another to the casual eye. He peered in at the driver’s window, but there was nothing in the dashboard pocket. Interest in a car like this was natural enough; if he were seen, it could easily be explained as casual curiosity. He looked at the house, but couldn’t see each window, could only be sure that no one watched him from close by.