by John Creasey
Lady Bream didn’t like the move; but accepted it.
Mannering sent for Higby and told him that he wanted some things from St. Malden – could Higby drive a car? Yes. Then would he take this list – Mannering had prepared one – and go at once in the Sunbeam-Talbot.
Higby seemed eager; as Gadden had said, he was quite the gentleman. And he was out when Gloria left.
Dr. Halsted stood in the middle of Gloria’s room, staring blankly at the empty bed, the signs of hurried departure. He lost his poise completely. His mouth opened and shut. Mannering, by his side, had told him that they had come to look for Gloria immediately after lunch, and had found her gone. The police had been informed.
Dr. Halsted looked at him strangely, almost disbelievingly, but didn’t voice his doubts. After a few minutes, he recovered sufficiently to advise Mannering that it was essential that Gloria should be found; anything might befall her, she might kill herself, it was a calamity. But there was no spirit in his words, and twenty minutes after he had arrived, he drove recklessly down the drive. He didn’t once look back.
Mannering asked Wirral for an ordnance map of the district, and browsed over it.
At half past six that evening, Mannering pulled up outside the Cap & Bells, a tiny inn in a village a mile from the Whites’ cottage, and glanced at Lorna, who was sitting by his side. They had taken a roundabout route from Lithom Hall, and had been out for nearly an hour. It was still and warm. Mannering felt the heat close about him as the car stopped, and Lorna took out her handbag and inspected her face in the mirror.
“No shine,” said Mannering.
Lorna used her powder puff.
“What now?” she asked.
“I want to be sure we haven’t been followed,” said Mannering. “If we haven’t, we’ll go on to the Whites’ cottage, and have supper there.”
No car drove into the village; there was nothing at all to indicate that they had been followed, and after ten minutes, Mannering started off again. He had taken careful directions from Abel, when telling the groom of the plan, and soon reached the foot of the hill on which the cottage was built. The low hedge enabled them to see the colourful garden, and from here they could also see the tiny orchard as well as the swinging sign. A tandem and two bicycles were resting against the hedge, and they could hear laughter in the garden.
No one came to meet them along the winding path, but they saw a small hand-painted sign, reading: tea gardens and the slanting sun glistened on the wet paint. They strolled round – and as they reached the corner, saw Gloria walking from the back door, carrying a laden tray. She walked very carefully, and put the tray down on a table at which the four cyclists were sitting. Everything she did showed that she was strange to the job – and yet that glow of youth lighted her up. One of the men in the little party spoke to her, cracking a joke. She laughed gaily. She wore a flowered linen frock, which was a little too large and too long for her, and was pouched up above the waist by a wide linen belt. Her sandals also seemed a little too large for her.
“Doing nicely,” murmured Mannering to Lorna.
“Why didn’t you think of it before? We needn’t have brought Mary—”
“Oh, we’ll need Mary,” said Mannering. “And I told you I’d been asleep.”
Abel’s father came out of the kitchen, as if to keep a kindly and benevolent eye on Gloria. A dumpy little woman, who barely reached the old man’s shoulder, joined him. They went to meet Gloria as she came back, and their expressions were so comical that Mannering and Lorna grinned. The Whites’ manner suggested that they were apologizing for permitting such humiliation for the Lady Gloria.
Then a huge, shaggy off-white dog came strolling out of the cottage.
Chapter Thirteen
Mannering Pays a Visit
Lorna’s hand tightened on Mannering’s arm.
The dog passed the old couple, sniffed at Gloria’s knees, and then stalked towards the cyclists and squatted near them, obviously begging titbits. Mannering couldn’t keep his eyes off the dog. Lorna’s grip relaxed as Gloria looked up and recognised them.
Her eyes lighted up.
“Steady!” said Mannering, as she came hurrying towards them, “we’re just ordinary customers.”
Old White said: “If you’d like to have your supper in the cottage, sir—”
“Good idea.”
The cyclists looked at them curiously, as they went into the cottage by the back doorway. They passed through a tiny scullery-cum-wash-house, into a big white-washed kitchen which was obviously the living-room. The huge table was filled with plates of salad, bowls of tomatoes, small dishes of strawberries, and a bowl of eggs – a sight which made mockery of food shortages. A huge Welsh dresser filled one wall, and the room was stifling because the cooking range was alight, and a big iron kettle simmered over the red-hot coals.
“You’re Mr. Mannering, sir,” said old White. “My boy told us how you’re trying to help her leddyship. It’s an honour to meet you, sir.”
“It’s good of you to look after Lady Gloria,” said Mannering. He turned to Gloria: “Like the new life?”
Gloria said: “I’m hopeless, but I do try!”
“We’ve been busy this evening,” said old White. “This is the first little lull we’ve had. I didn’t want her leddyship to do this work, sir. It was her own idea, but I’m not happy about it, not happy at all.”
“It’s just right,” said Mannering.
“Of course it is,” said Gloria. Her eyes shone rather too brightly. “What can I get you, sir?”
“Now, m’lady—” mumbled old White.
“That’s enough from you,” said Mrs. White, “if it will help then we’re glad to do it. I’d like to show you Lady Gloria’s room, ma’am, it—”
“It’s charming,” said Gloria. “Lovely!”
Everything was lovely for Gloria, then; so much had come from a little hope. She would pour her whole existence into doing what Mannering wanted, and into enjoying this new sense of freedom from care.
But what if the walls of doubt imprisoned her again?
What would happen, if she were wrong? Or even if this first wild rush of confidence receded?
Mannering pushed the thought away, and wondered about the dog.
They went upstairs, inspected a tiny bedroom, its chairs, bed and windows adorned with flowered chintz, slightly faded but all matching. Gloria’s few oddments were set out on a little, kidney-shaped dressing-table. A small window overlooked the front garden, the fields on the other side of the road, and a copse which crowned a distant hill. The window could be seen from the road; Gadden’s man would be able to watch the room closely.
They went downstairs when a bell rang, announcing more customers. The dog came in, and Gloria fondled its head, then hurried out into the garden, where another party of four had arrived. Mannering and Lorna were served by the old couple, old White very fussy and on edge, his wife philosophical, a fount of common sense. The dog, apparently tired of the garden, came into the front room where a bee flew in at the open window and buzzed urgently against the net curtains.
Mannering took a morsel of pressed beef from his plate, and held it out.
“What’s your name, old chap?” he asked.
“Leo,” called Mrs. White, from the kitchen. “Don’t you be spoiling of him, now.”
Mannering laughed. “I won’t.”
But he gave the dog a second morsel, and it stood near him, tail wagging gently. Its head was considerably higher than Mannering’s waist as he sat; it was about the size of a Great Dane – a cross between a Great Dane and a sheep-dog. It looked as if it could be ferocious, too. He fed it again, and as it took the meat from his left hand, muzzling it gently, the warm breath spreading over Mannering’s hand and wrist, Mannering pressed its haunches gently with his right hand.
The shaggy fur had been cut away a little near the left leg.
More than that, the coat just there was cleaner than anywhere else, as
if it had been washed.
Lorna gave it a piece of meat.
Then Mannering pressed again – and immediately the dog flinched, twisted its head round and growled. Mrs. White called: “Now, Leo, now!” but didn’t come into the room. Mannering whispered: “All right, old chap, I won’t hurt you.” He touched the washed fur gently, parting it until he saw what he was looking for – a raw, red wound, covered by the shaggy hair, about two inches long and a quarter of an inch across; only in the middle did the raw flesh show. Matter was oozing from it.
He let the dog go.
Lorna looked at him steadily.
“Yes, that’s it,” he said.
From a call-box a little way along the road, Mannering telephoned the St. Malden Police Station. Gadden had left the office, but Mannering was given his private number, and found him at home. He told the story about the dog, and Gadden promptly promised to send a second man to help the first at the cottage.
When the Mannerings reached Lithom Hall, a little after half past eight, Longley and Mary had only just left the study, and Mary was changing in her room. Mannering and the sergeant returned to the study where Longley reported a futile afternoon’s work. He could find no finger-prints; everything had been dusted, whether to get rid of the finger-prints or whether in the ordinary way, he couldn’t tell.
“I can,” said Mannering grimly. “I told Wirral to see that the room wasn’t opened while I was away, but someone went in there. What about the corner—no strange noises by daylight?”
“As far as I can find out, the shelves are fastened to the wall and the wall’s quite solid,” said Longley. “I’ll have another go at it tomorrow, though, and I’ll keep an eye on it tonight.”
“And you’d better start on the library upstairs in the morning,” said Mannering.
“I will. Is Lady Gloria all right?”
Mannering told him about the dog.
“Great Scott!” exclaimed Longley. “I know that brute, we had lunch there this morning. Look here, sir, aren’t you taking a hell of a risk in leaving Lady Gloria there?”
“We can watch both her and the dog,” said Mannering drily. “Know anything about horses?”
“I’m scared of ’em at close quarters,” confessed Longley. “That’s one reason why I’ve always fought shy of the mounted branch. Why, sir?”
“You might try to learn something about ’em,” said Mannering. “Abel, the groom, will help, and I fancy Mary Scott is interested in four-legged beasties.”
“Possibly,” said Longley blankly. “But why do I want to get interested in horses?”
“You don’t—you want to get acquainted with Abel White,” said Mannering. “The Whites have had that dog since it was a puppy, eight years ago. The old man tells me that Abel’s never had much time for it, and yet—see what I mean?”
“I’ll get to the bottom of that bright boy,” promised Longley. “By the way, have you looked in the big library today? Upstairs, I mean.”
“Not lately—why?”
“There’s nothing special down here,” said Longley, “but there’s some wonderful stuff upstairs. There’s a case of papyri—genuine, if I’m any judge—a lot of parchments, Egyptian and Persian. And as for books, it’s a treasure-house. There’s that Codex you mentioned, and a lot of other stuff. You must see …”
Mannering gave only half an ear to Longley’s enthusiastic summary. It was satisfying that the sergeant could look after the books; it left him free for more general work. Free, especially, for one thing he was set on doing. The idea, unlike the plan for Gloria, had been in his mind for some time – and he couldn’t suppress it.
Would Lorna try to?
Longley looked puzzled when Mannering smiled in the midst of hearing a long peroration on Shakespeare folios.
When Mannering and Longley joined the others in the drawing-room, Longley and Mary sat together on a chesterfield, pretending to listen to a concert of chamber music; Lorna really was listening, so Mannering had no chance of speaking to her until they were upstairs in their room, a little before midnight. Then she stifled a yawn, and said: “Think you’ve done enough now, darling?”
“No. Lots on the waiting-list.”
“There’s always tomorrow,” said Lorna.
“No, tonight.”
Lorna said slowly: “What can you do tonight?”
“Visit Halsted and Kenley at Marchant House,” said Mannering.
Lorna drew in her breath; her eyes grew stormy, but slowly cleared, and she said: “I suppose I always knew you’d go there. Plan it thoroughly, darling.”
There was violence in the way Mannering drew her to him, and kissed her.
It was as if a cloak had been thrown over Mannering and had been snatched away – leaving a different man in his place, not Mannering; much more like the Baron of old.
He had brought a box of grease-paints and theatrical make-up with him, accessories on which Bristow always frowned; and while Lorna had been getting ready for bed, he worked on his face, slipping thin rubber ‘mock’ teeth over his own, and disfiguring his mouth because the rubber looked yellow and dirty. He put rubber cheek pads in his mouth, held by suction against the inside of the cheeks and making his face look plumper. With them in, his voice sounded different – he had to speak slowly, and rather as if he had a plum in his mouth.
When the Baron had been born, Mannering had undergone an intensive course of elocution, so that he could change not only the sound, but the timbre of his voice. It wasn’t easy now, he was out of practice; but no one would have recognized him as Mannering when he was speaking.
Grease-paint, deftly applied, darkened his skin and made him look older. He dyed his hair and his eyebrows and eyelashes with a dye which would wash out easily with spirit – and when he had finished, turned to Lorna.
“Will do?” asked Mannering.
“Perfection—you’re a loss to the stage.”
“No footlights, thanks, I prefer to work in the dark.”
“Yes. John—”
“Yes?”
“Are you taking a gun?”
Mannering tapped his pocket.
The clouds returned to her eyes; but not for long.
Mannering had both the automatic and spare ammunition; and much more. A remarkable knife, the blades of which were more like a set of tools, and with which he could break open almost any door or window. A pair of dark, cotton gloves; some cord; a blue scarf, with holes cut in it for the mouth and nose, and which could be tied round his face so that he wouldn’t be seen even with his disguise – which would serve only if he were forced to take off the scarf. He had a small jemmy, too – a cold chisel, bent at one end – and a large pad of cotton-wool, pinned inside his coat. He was dressed in jodhpurs and a tweed jacket. The jodhpurs had always been roomy round the waist. He folded a sheet and tied it round his waist giving him at least another two inches in girth, and he had difficulty in buttoning up the jodhpurs.
It was a quarter-to-one before he was ready.
Lorna didn’t speak when he went out.
Downstairs, he opened a drawing-room window, and climbed out.
He hoped Longley wasn’t awake and about, the police would hardly approve of his present move.
He saw no sign of anyone.
He walked on grass as far as the stables, and heard one of the horses moving about in his loose box, as if he had scented a man, and was anxious for company. Mannering went to Lithom’s grey; and it was the grey which was restless. He opened the top half-door, and the horse pushed it wider and muzzled him. Mannering smoothed his nose and whispered to him, and then looked up towards the living quarters over the garage, at the far end of the yard, where Abel and the other groom, a young lad, slept. There was no light. Abel might be disturbed if the grey made too much noise, but the risk had to be taken.
Mannering entered the box, put on the stall light, which gave a dim yellow glow, closed the top door, and then tied some strips of sacking round the grey’s hoofs. Th
e horse stood patient, but quivering with excitement, while Mannering put on the bridle and saddle, which he found in a small harness-room between the two loose-boxes.
Next, Mannering opened both top and bottom doors, and crept out, leading the horse.
The muffled hoofs made little sound.
No light appeared.
Soon they were on the grass on the side of the drive. Mannering tightened the girths, and then mounted smoothly, easily. He rode at a walking pace towards the gates.
He looked a different man; and felt one.
He was filled with a fierce excitement which amounted almost to exultation. He felt free from the inhibitions of daily life, free from the orthodoxy of the police, free to do what he liked in order to find out the truth about Lithom’s death and Gloria’s plight. The night air, cool and refreshing, was welcome after the heat of the day.
He reached the road.
The pieces of sacking muffled the sharp clip-clop of the grey’s hoofs; only someone nearby would be able to hear them. The grey tossed his head and side-stepped; he was eager, and would have preferred a wild gallop through the night across the fields and parkland.
Mannering let him trot.
A mile along this road he had to turn left, along a narrow, winding lane which led to Marchant village. He had studied the ordnance plan and knew that if he cut across the back of the village, over some fields, he would come upon a belt of trees which bordered the grounds of Marchant House. He knew there would be difficulties because he hadn’t seen the place by daylight, but didn’t propose to jump his fences before he reached them.
A signpost loomed out of the moonlit night, as limply grey as the night before. Hedges and trees showed in dark, uneven shapes against the powdery stars in the pale sky.
He turned off this road, and reined in. He waited for fully five minutes, but heard no movement, nothing to indicate that he had been watched or followed. He turned again and headed for Marchant.
Marchant was much smaller than Lithom Hall.