by John Creasey
Copyright & Information
The Toff And The Runaway Bride
First published in 1959
© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1959-2013
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 2013 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.
ISBN EAN Edition
0755136535 9780755136537 Print
0755139860 9780755139866 Kindle
075513821X 9780755138210 Epub
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 Wedding
On that beautiful morning in May, the Honourable Richard Rollison certainly lived up to his soubriquet, for he was known as the Toff, and he looked like one. He was resplendent, as a newspaper put it that evening, in morning dress and a magnificent embroidered waistcoat, which had suddenly become de rigueur, and in a few months’ time would be quite frozen out.
He was not alone, in garb or contentment; there were a hundred and twenty-three other men at the wedding, all dressed as he, except for the waistcoat, which was worn only by the few who contrived to be ahead of fashion. There were also a hundred and ninety-seven women, as well as a sprinkling of adolescents.
According to the society columnist of the same newspaper, it was a most touching wedding. The bride so sweet and young, the groom so proud and manly, the parson, a prelate, gusty rather than prosy, pungent but not long-winded and the soloist among the choir-boys reached a purity of tone which held even hardened sinners spellbound. Rollison was dry-eyed but not unaffected. He knew both bride and groom, and they had his blessing as well as a wedding present of astonishing unoriginality: a clock. True, it was an unusual clock, and they had asked for it, but he was not greatly proud of the gift.
He stood with the hundreds of others in the lofty, lovely church, with many women dabbing at their eyes and some men wishing they could blow their noses, and waited for Barbara Lorne, who had just become Barbara Lessing, and Guy. Guy was a head taller than his bride, and twenty years older; he was forty-three, Guards, broad-shouldered, curiously blond and strikingly handsome; a lion of a man. He stared straight ahead of him, as if on parade, with Barbara’s arm resting lightly in his, and two pages dressed in gold and blue holding high her train.
Barbara was smiling.
All brides should be smiling, even through their tears of joy, so there was nothing remarkable about that. But there was something remarkable about the way she smiled. It was as if she was commanding her lips to part and her white teeth to show, but could not command her eyes. As she drew closer to Rollison, she darted a glance towards the spot where he was standing, and he felt sure that the glance was of fear and not of joy.
He felt a stab of alarm and of bewilderment.
Then she was past, and there were undertones of “Isn’t she lovely?” “Isn’t she radiant?” and “Aren’t those pages sweet?” The pages, twins aged seven, seemed likely to be bowed down by the weight of brocade in the pure white train, but they strode on manfully, and the first of five bridesmaids was ready to leap to their rescue if they showed any sign of faltering.
The organ music swelled out, filling the great nave, the bridesmaids passed, each looking more beautiful than she was because of the loveliness of pink and cream. Then came the father of the bride, alone, and the tall and dignified parents of the groom.
The cavalcade passed by, and yet Rollison seemed to see only the fear in the eyes of Barbara Lessing, née Lorne. He wondered if anyone else had seen it; and if any had, had simply believed that she was nervous and excited, or else suffering from a natural reaction, poor child, after such excitement. Certainly none of the comments, whispered with proper respect in the church, suggested that anyone but he had been so startled by Barbara’s smile.
Then the guests began to file out, with measured tread, into the bright sunlight which bathed the church, the grey brick of nearby buildings, the bright green of the grass in the middle of Parliament Square, the tall tower of Big Ben. Outside were hundreds of sightseers and dozens of policemen and, of course, the Guards, there to do their comrade honour.
And there was an army of photographers.
Until he reached the side door, Rollison moved as lethargically as the rest; once he reached it, he sped outside and pushed his way through the crowd, stepped on to the pavement and hurried towards the front entrance, to appear as one of those who had waited. Barbara was on the steps of the church, and the bridesmaids and the best man were lining up beside her and Guy Lessing.
Had he not hurried, Rollison would not have heard the man who brought sensation here. He was elderly, grey-haired, and had the look of a tramp brushed up for the occasion. His grey beard was freshly combed and his grey moustache swept back from unexpectedly red, wet lips. He carried a banner which was painted in flaming red, saying: The Blood of the Lamb washes away all sin. He could be seen from the steps of the church, but no one was likely to be able to read that message. There was a lull, when even the traffic seemed to stop for the photographs, the clicking of cameras sounded like a miniature rifle range; and then the grey-bearded man cried out in a voice which boomed as loud as the chimes of Big Ben:
“… know good reason why they should not be joined together in holy matrimony, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.”
The words resounded on Rollison’s ears, and the ears of the hundreds near him. Some peop
le were shocked and some annoyed and some were obviously angry.
Rollison watched only the bride and groom.
The bride seemed to sway, and the groom put his arm round her, as if he knew the reason; almost as if he feared that these were not the words of a fanatic, but were aimed straight at him and his bride.
“The blood of the Lamb—” began the bearded man, in that magnificent voice.
“That’s enough,” said a constable, appearing as if from nowhere, and the man of religion broke off at once. “Cut it out, Joe. You don’t want to spoil the bride’s honeymoon, do you?”
Two or three people tittered; as was inevitable.
The bearded man’s eyes blazed.
“Do you deny me my right to spread the gospel? Do you deny me my right—?”
“You’ve got all your rights,” the constable said. He was a young man, and small by London police standards, but obviously he had a wise head and a sufficient good humour. “All the same, if you start spouting any more here you’ll have a crowd gathered round, and then you’ll be causing a breach of the peace. So let’s call it a day, shall we?”
On the church steps, beneath the magnificent arched doorway, another party had gathered, with the bride and groom also in the middle of it. The cameras were still clicking, and cine cameras were whirring, for the television, for cinema news reels and for home movies. Only the small group near the bearded man, Rollison and the policeman now took any notice of the interruption, and the policeman stood as if twice his size, defying the old man to boom out again.
“A man’s got his rights,” the bearded man said angrily, but he pitched his voice low, and turned away. Two people raised a mock cheer. He strode off, looking rather like an Old Testament prophet, with his beard framing his face and his mane of grey hair blown by a gentle wind.
“Nice work,” Rollison said to the constable, who grinned his thanks. “Do you know Joe well?”
“He’s often about,” said the policeman.
“Do you know where he sleeps?”
“Crosby’s, or Old Nick’s,” said the policeman, and looked at Rollison curiously, as if he could not begin to understand his interest; then recognition dawned in his eyes, and he went on: “It’s Mr. Rollison, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Surprised you don’t know Old Joe,” said the constable. “He’s been about on and off for a long time. Not quite right in the head in some ways, but he’s no fool in others. Strong as an ox, too.”
“He looked it,” said Rollison, and stared after the departing prophet, who was now striding across the road, as if knowing that no giant red bus, no towering lorry, no swerving private car and no midget auto scooter could harm him. He reached the far pavement and turned towards St. James’s Park.
“Be at Marble Arch soon,” the constable said. “Honour to have met you, sir.”
“I hope we’re going to meet again,” said Rollison, and smiled, and then saw the crowd sway aside as large black cars came smoothly up to the church gates, and there was much throwing of confetti. Rollison was at the back of the crowd now, and could not see the bride clearly; but he did see that Lessing had his arm round her very firmly, as if she was still in need of support.
The next time Rollison saw them was at the reception. He did not know what had happened between the church and the great house in Devon Square, which looked as if the centuries had been turned back, there was such a display of food and of flunkeys. Whatever the cause, Barbara now Lessing had made a remarkable recovery. Her smile and her manner were alike relaxed, and there was colour on her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes.
“Guy probably gave her a stiff whisky,” Rollison mused to himself, and set about smoked salmon but disregarded caviar. There was a great noise of voices, congratulations, the popping of champagne corks and speeches. The best speech came from the bride’s father, a plump ball of a man who looked too hot, was smiling as if it was his and not his daughter’s wedding, and seemed a joyous little bundle of middle-aged man. When the newly-weds vanished, Rollison felt comfortably replete. He contemplated a fifth glass of champagne thoughtfully, decided that it would put the finishing touch to the occasion and drank it down. A few minutes later he caught a fleeting glimpse of the bride in a powder-blue and black check suit, Guy looking most un-Guards-officer-like in beautifully tailored fawn-coloured cloth, bending as if he hoped to avoid being seen.
It was all most cleverly done.
He was seen then, and his car was daubed with white-wash and festooned with balloons and old shoes. He escaped with Barbara in a battered London taxi, watched only by two faithfuls, by half-past three not only the deed but also the drink was done.
A blonde rested a hand on Rollison’s arm and a bright smile on to his eyes.
“I’m sure they’re going to be wonderfully, wonderfully, wonnerfly happy!”
The blonde clutched his hand, as if afraid that he was looking for a chance to get away – as in fact he was.
“When are you going to marry?” she demanded, and some of the middle-aged people near her were old-fashioned enough to freeze as with horror. But she had not finished yet. “You’re the most eligible bachelor in London, and have been for twenty years, but all you ever do is buy your friends wedding presents. Why don’t you find a nice girl, and settle down?”
“It’s sad,” said Rollison, “but there are too many nice girls. Take you, for instance.” He slid his arm round her, squeezed, gave her a kiss which so astonished her that she let him go, surrendering to his embrace. Next moment, she was swaying uncertainly on her own two legs and Rollison was out of sight.
“Well!” she said explosively.
Several middle-aged backs were turned on her.
“Beast!” she burst out.
No one appeared to hear.
“Brute!” she said, and stared towards the spot where Rollison might be, but was not.
He was out in the square, walking towards the far corner and not far away, to his own home in Gresham Terrace. He walked at modest pace because it was very warm, and there was no need for haste. He swung his short stick from time to time, as a man without a care. A few people stared at him, which was not unusual. He took no notice of them but looked ahead, undoubtedly very thoughtful. He kept making himself remember the moment when Barbara had glanced at him while in the aisle; kept telling himself that he had made no mistake, she had really been frightened. And he remembered the way she had flinched when the old man had called out, and the way Lessing had helped her into the bridal car.
Gresham Terrace was a street of tall, graceful houses, many rather drab, some newly painted black and white or blue or white, or just plain black or blue. Number 22, where he had a top-floor flat, was about half-way along the street, facing the terrace of houses on the other side and, beyond, the hustle of Piccadilly, which was out of sight but within earshot. He walked up three flights of stairs sedately, quite used to the fact that there was no lift, and as he stepped on to the top landing, the door of his own flat opened.
His man of genius, Jolly, appeared.
That was hardly remarkable. But the expression on Jolly’s face, and the way he placed a finger at his lips, abjuring silence, were astonishing, for Jolly did not customarily look perturbed and flushed; nor did his finger usually quiver, as with excitement.
“Just one moment, sir,” he whispered, and made as if to step on the landing and close the door behind him. But before he could do either there was a flurry of footsteps, and a girl called out:
“Rolly, is that you?”
In that moment Rollison fully understood why Jolly had been so affected, for the voice was familiar; quite recently he had heard its owner saying, “I will.”
Chapter Two
Runaway Bride
Barbara Lessing, née Lorne, appeared behind Jolly, who had accepted defe
at with dignity, and stood aside. Barbara was in that blue-and-black check suit, which fitted her perfectly, and she looked a bride enough to fill the heart of any man. Excitement of a kind Rollison could not then understand gave her beauty radiance. Unexpectedly, fear – or what he had thought was fear – had gone.
“Surely I didn’t forget,” said Rollison, before she could say another word; and he gained a moment’s respite, for that bewildered her.
“Forget what?” she demanded.
“I couldn’t have,” said the Toff, as if to himself, and he stretched out his arms, took her hands, drew her to him and kissed her firmly on the cheek. “Blessings,” he said. “Now that the bride’s been properly kissed, she may go off with a clear conscience.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Barbara said. “I’ve come to you for help.”
“Guy deserted you already?” asked Rollison, with a lightness he did not feel even remotely.
“No,” said Guy Lessing’s new wife, “he hasn’t deserted me.” She was staring straight into Rollison’s eyes, and he waited for the sensation which he knew had floored Jolly; but he had won enough time to be prepared for it. “But I’ve run away from him,” finished Barbara. “It was the only thing I could do.”
Jolly bowed his head, as if in supplication.
“I will say this for you,” conceded Rollison, “you’re certainly your father’s daughter, he knows his own mind, too. Let’s go in and sit down. If there should be a squeak of this in a newspaper it would be all over town in the morning.” He took her arm and propelled her into the lounge-hall, with its etchings and its one Picasso, its thick carpet and its luxurious chairs. Without a pause, he ushered her into the big room, a living-room-cum-study, in which was his Trophy Wall—one filled with souvenirs of crimes he had investigated, and of murderers he had helped to put in dock.
