The Hand of Fear

by Gerald Verner

  ‘She’ll need to be,’ said Hallick, unabashed at his tone. ‘She’s Dexon’s heiress, and I’ll bet my pension they’re after her.’

  No one realised this better than Farringdon. Lesley Thane’s safety worried him a good deal. ‘I don’t quite see what they can do,’ he said. ‘They can’t try the same game with her as they did with Dexon. The New York lawyers would refuse to pay.’

  Hallick swallowed the contents of a tankard of beer in one prodigious gulp. ‘I don’t know what they’ll do,’ he said, wiping his lips. ‘But they’ll do something. You don’t suppose that after all the trouble they’ve been to over Dexon they’re going to see his money slip through their fingers? Not on your life!’

  That afternoon, to the dismay and annoyance of the residents of the Deneswood Valley Estate, certain large and bored-looking men took up their positions at varying points and watched stolidly while the protesting inhabitants went about their business or pleasures. Mr. Ambrose Blessington saw these representatives of the law and shook his large head sadly at the invasion of his property.

  ‘I suppose it is necessary,’ he remarked to Farringdon Street, whom he met during his evening stroll. ‘I should be the last one to — er — attempt to interfere in any way with the machinations of the law, but I sincerely hope that this — er — surveillance will not be long.’

  The reporter could offer no suggestion as to when the valley would be relieved of its invaders.

  When he got back to London later that evening his first call was at the house at Bloomsbury where Leslie Thane had taken up her abode. Williams informed him that she had gone out to tea with her friend, Mr. Holt, and had not yet returned.

  Farringdon was disappointed and a little hurt. He told himself that he was being unreasonable; this fellow was an old friend of the girl’s. Probably she had known him for years. Certainly she had known him longer than she had known Farringdon. It was only natural that she should want to go out with him. It must be lonely for her in a country in which she knew no one.

  ‘You’re jealous, you great goof!’ he said to himself disparagingly.

  He was on the point of leaving the house when a taxi drew up and Lesley got out, followed by a youngish-looking man — the reporter put his age at twenty-eight or thirty.

  She greeted Farringdon with a smile that set his pulses beating faster, and introduced her companion. ‘This is an old friend of mine, Mr. Street,’ she said, and Holt gripped the reporter’s hand.

  ‘Lesley’s told me about you,’ he said in a pleasant voice that bore the faintest trace of an American accent, ‘and the way you’ve been looking after her.’

  ‘Won’t you come in for a minute?’ said the girl as she saw Farringdon’s embarrassment, and they followed her into the house. She had read of the fresh tragedy at Deneswood Valley, and was full of questions which the reporter did his best to satisfy.

  ‘It’s terrible,’ she said. ‘All these murders. By the way, I cabled my uncle’s lawyers and notified them of his death.’

  ‘The police have also notified them, I believe,’ said Farringdon. ‘I want to impress upon you, Miss Thane, the necessity of being careful.’

  ‘You’ve said that before.’ She smiled.

  ‘It can’t be said too often,’ declared the reporter earnestly, ‘and the police hold the same view as I do.’

  ‘Do you really think that Miss Thane is in danger?’ asked Holt gravely.

  ‘I most certainly do,’ answered Farringdon. ‘I don’t know in what danger. I’ve tried to imagine what these people who killed Dexon are likely to do and I can’t, but I’m certain they will make some attempt to retain their hold over the money.’

  ‘They’ll have to be very clever,’ said Lesley. ‘After what happened to my uncle his lawyers would want a lot of convincing before they paid out any more of his money.’

  ‘Whatever they do will be clever,’ declared the reporter. ‘Make no mistake about that.’

  He and Stanley Holt took their leave shortly after, and the young American walked with Farringdon as far as the Strand. The reporter had taken a liking to Holt at once. There was something very open and honest about him, and he concluded that should the occasion arise he would prove a useful ally.

  ‘If I can do anything to help,’ said Holt, as they shook hands at parting, ‘don’t hesitate to call on me at any time. I’ll give you my address.’ He took out a wallet and extracted a card which the reporter stowed away in his pocket. Later, when the crisis came, he was to be thankful that he could get in touch with someone on whom he could rely.

  After leaving Holt he walked down Fleet Street to the offices of the Morning Herald. Mr. Ebbs was in a most cheerful mood. ‘This gets better and better,’ he said, rubbing his thin hands. ‘It was a stroke of luck, that girl coming here the other day. It’s supplied us with the finest story ever printed.’

  ‘And it’s not over yet,’ said Farringdon. ‘The best is yet to come, or I’ll eat the last edition.’

  ‘You on to something?’ The news editor looked at him sharply.

  Farringdon shook his head. ‘No, but I’ve got a feeling,’ he replied. ‘There’s a lot more to come yet.’

  ‘More murders?’ inquired Mr. Ebbs hopefully.

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said the reporter. ‘You’ve had three in the last few days, isn’t that enough for you?’

  ‘Can’t have too many,’ retorted the bloodthirsty Mr. Ebbs. ‘Nothing sends up the circulation like a nice juicy murder. The public revels in it. Well, we mustn’t grumble, but let me have anything fresh the minute you get hold of it.’

  He plunged into the mass of papers in front of him, and Farringdon left him to his labours. Going into the reporters’ room, he chatted for a little while with his confrères and then went home.

  The last conscious thought in his mind before he fell asleep was of Lesley Thane and the danger which he felt sure might, at any moment, burst out of the shadows that shrouded it and attack her.

  Chapter Thirteen – Before the Storm

  The next few days passed without incident. At Deneswood Valley everything was calm and peaceful. The residents carried on with their normal lives, trying to dismiss from their memories the series of tragedies which had given the estate worldwide notoriety. The lull was, had they but known it, only the calm before the storm, the breathless hush before the first peal of thunder. For the unknown forces that had been responsible for the deaths of Feldon, Felix Dexon and Mr. Sopley were gathering to deliver their final blow.

  The men whom Hallick had put on to keep a watchful eye on the inhabitants of the estate still remained at their posts, though nothing happened to justify their vigilance. Neither did the listener at the telephone exchange gather any useful information. The calls that came and went were completely innocuous.

  The younger members of the community continued to play tennis and golf, and their laughter was the only disturber of the peace of the place. There was one among them, however, whose laughter was a trifle forced and into whose eyes at moments, when she was unobserved, crept a look of worry. Pamela Earnshaw — the girl whom Mr. Blessington had greeted so pleasantly on the day the unfortunate Lew Miller had first appeared — was just a little uneasy. Since the night when the maid’s scream had aroused the residents of the estate to the horror that stalked in their midst, her father had changed. His healthy, ruddy colour had given place to a muddy grey, and there were marks beneath his eyes that spoke of lack of sleep. Once she had awakened in the middle of the night to hear his heavy steps pacing the floor of his room, and wondered at the cause of his restlessness. But when she had asked him what was the matter he had impatiently replied that there was nothing, that he was just a little out of sorts. She had accepted the explanation without further comment but she had not believed it. There was something seriously the matter — something that had begun on the night of the murders . . .

  He offered a possible reason for his worry when he called her into his study one afternoon just
as she was setting out for tennis. He had not shaved that day; the sunlight falling on his face showed the stubble of his beard. Usually a most particular man about his appearance, the fact gave her fresh cause for alarm.

  ‘Sit down, Pamela,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  ‘I can’t stay very long,’ she began. ‘They’re waiting for me —’

  ‘Let them wait!’ he snapped impatiently. ‘What I have to say is more important than keeping a few young fools waiting.’ He was irritable and bad-tempered and she knew from experience that it was useless arguing. Obediently, she sat down and waited for what was to come.

  ‘I want to speak to you seriously about the future,’ said Earnshaw, fiddling with a paper-knife on his desk. ‘I am not a young man and — well, I should like to see you settled before anything happens to me.’

  She stared at him in astonishment. This was the last thing she had expected. ‘But —’ she protested, and he silenced her with a gesture.

  ‘Don’t interrupt me, please,’ he said. ‘I have given a lot of thought to the subject and the least you can do is to listen to what I have to say.’ He paused and stared out of the window. ‘The fact of the matter is,’ he went on, his eyes still fixed on the sunlit garden, ‘Mr. Blessington has — er — approached me for my consent to — er — pay his address to you . . .’

  She gasped. Never in her wildest imaginings would she have associated the stout and prosperous owner of the Deneswood Valley Estate with the softer passions. ‘How ridiculous!’ she burst out, and her father frowned.

  ‘I don’t see that it is ridiculous at all,’ he retorted. ‘Mr. Blessington is a very estimable gentleman, financially sound, and in my opinion would make an excellent husband —’

  ‘It’s absurd!’ she broke in. ‘I have no desire to marry, but if I had, Mr. Blessington, however estimable he may be, would be the last person I should choose.’

  ‘All the same, I should like you to consider the matter seriously,’ said Earnshaw. ‘You have formed no other attachments — at least not to my knowledge.’ He looked at her inquiringly, and she shook her head. ‘Very well, then, I see no obstacle in the way. Mr. Blessington is in a position to give you a comfortable home and everything you could wish for. In fact, if my wishes count for anything with you, I could wish for nothing better. I won’t say anything more just now,’ he added hastily, as she opened her lips to reply. ‘But please think it over and remember what I have said.’ He dismissed her and she went to join her waiting companions with anger in her heart. Her game that afternoon was decidedly erratic.

  Coming back to the house for tea, she met the stout figure in the alpaca jacket moving ponderously along the gravel walk. Mr. Blessington raised his immaculate grey hat and smiled his most charming smile. ‘A lovely day, Miss Earnshaw,’ he said. ‘A very lovely day.’ From his tone one would have imagined that he was entirely responsible for the glory of the afternoon. She would have passed him with a bare acknowledgment, but he stopped her. ‘Has your father spoken to you?’ he asked.

  ‘My father frequently speaks to me,’ she replied. ‘It’s a habit in our family.’

  If she hoped that this would put him off, she was mistaken. Mr. Blessington failed even to smile at the joke. ‘I mean,’ he said gravely, ‘concerning a matter — er — a matter — er — very dear to me, which I mentioned to him the other day —’

  ‘I’d rather not discuss it, Mr. Blessington,’ she interrupted. ‘I must go now, or I shall be late for tea.’ She turned away but he laid a hand on her arm.

  ‘I don’t wish to — er — press my suit at a disadvantageous moment,’ he said heavily, ‘but I would like you to know that I should esteem it a great honour —’

  ‘I appreciate the honour,’ said Pamela untruthfully, ‘but really, Mr. Blessington, I’d rather you didn’t mention it again.’

  He inclined his head. ‘Your wish is my command, Miss Earnshaw,’ he said. ‘No doubt I have been a little premature in allowing you to become aware of the state of my feelings. I beg you, however, to give the matter your consideration. Your very earnest consideration. In the meanwhile I shall not lose hope.’

  He watched her as she hurried towards the drive of Earnshaw’s house and then continued slowly and pompously on his way. If the expression of his face was anything to go by, his thoughts were pleasant ones.

  *

  Lesley Thane had spent a busy day. That morning a letter had arrived from a firm of solicitors representing her uncle’s lawyers in England, acquainting her with the fact that they had been asked to look after her affairs, and requesting that she would call at their offices at eleven o’clock, if convenient to herself. It was convenient, and Lesley duly presented herself at the old house in Bedford Row, of which Messrs. Lavers, Tabb & Lavers leased the first floor. She was shown into a musty office and greeted by the smallest and most dried-up man she had ever seen.

  ‘Sit down, Miss Thane,’ he squeaked in a thin, reedy voice, which cracked at the end of every sentence. ‘I am glad you have been able to come.’

  Lesley sat down, and the dried-up little man pressed a push on his desk.

  ‘Bring the file containing the Dexon documents,’ he ordered the clerk who answered the summons, and when that individual had gone on his errand: ‘Very sad about your uncle, Miss Thane. Very sad indeed. Dreadful!’ Lesley agreed that it was both sad and dreadful. ‘I never met him,’ went on Mr. Lavers, shaking his head. ‘But we handle all Wade & Spelling’s English business — they are, as you know, your late uncle’s American lawyers — and they communicated with us regarding the contents of his will. I expect you are aware that your uncle left all his property to you?’

  Lesley nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I was always under that impression.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Mr. Lavers, ‘we have not got the actual will. That is in the possession of Messrs. Wade & Spellings, and there are certain legal formalities to be complied with before you can actually take over your late uncle’s money. In the meanwhile, however, it occurred to me that you might possibly be requiring some money to be going on with, and I shall be very happy if you will draw on us to the extent of your needs.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ said the girl. ‘But I really don’t think I require anything at the moment.’

  ‘Don’t hesitate to ask me if at any time you do,’ said Mr. Lavers. ‘We shall be only too happy to act as your bankers until such time as the legal arrangements allow of your taking over your property.’

  He proceeded to go into the amount which Felix Dexon had left, and the girl was staggered at its magnitude. She had always known that her uncle was a rich man, but had never been aware of the exact extent of his wealth. The shares and securities had, as the years went by, increased in value, and his income, amounting at the time of his disappearance to nearly four hundred thousand pounds a year, had increased, and was now in the region of half a million. It frightened her a little when she realised that all this money was now hers.

  She had an appointment to meet Farringdon Street for lunch and over the meal she told the interested reporter of her interview with the solicitors. When he heard the amount of her income, Farringdon whistled softly. ‘It’s enough to tempt the Archangel Gabriel!’ he said. ‘No wonder these people were willing to take risks in the case of Dexon in order to handle a colossal sum like that.’

  ‘Has anything more been discovered?’ asked Lesley, and he shook his head.

  ‘No, nothing,’ he answered. ‘The police are still working on the case, of course. So am I for that matter. But at the present things are more or less at a deadlock.’

  He escorted her back to the boarding-house at Bloomsbury and went along to Scotland Yard to see Hallick. The inspector, who was dealing with a mass of reports, shook his head in answer to his question.

  ‘No, nothing fresh,’ he said despondently. ‘I’ve been trying to check up on Sam Gates, but we’ve no information concerning him whatever. If he’s a crook, which I’ve every
reason to believe, he’s never been through our hands.’

  ‘Blagdon was a little suspicious of Jones-Perry,’ said Farringdon. ‘Did he tell you?’

  ‘About his shoes being covered with white limestone dust?’ asked Hallick. ‘Yes, he told me that, and I questioned Perry. But he says that the road along the top of the quarry is thick with it, and he got it walking along there. There is a road along the top of the quarry, and it is covered with white dust, so he may have been truthful.’

  ‘We seem to have come to a dead end,’ said the reporter, and Hallick gloomily agreed with him.

  ‘The person behind this business is clever,’ he remarked. ‘He hasn’t left a solitary clue that we can get hold of.’

  ‘What we want to know,’ said Farringdon, ‘is who Sam Gates is. That’s the name by which our unknown murderer was known to Miller, and he came to look for him in Deneswood Valley. One of the residents was called Sam Gates at one time, and that’s the man we want.’

  ‘Even that isn’t definite,’ said Hallick. ‘We don’t know that it was this fellow Gates who killed Miller; it’s only a conjecture. Well, perhaps something’ll turn up if we wait patiently.’

  His words were prophetic. That night one of the men stationed at Deneswood Valley rang through to the Yard with the information that Mr. Blessington had been savagely attacked while crossing the golf course.

  ‘I’ll come down at once,’ said the inspector, and three minutes after he had hung up the receiver he was on his way, unaware that what he had just learnt was the prelude to the final act in the drama that was being staged among the rural beauties of Deneswood Valley.

  Chapter Fourteen – Mr. Blessington’s Adventure

  When Hallick arrived at the house occupied by the owner of the estate, he found it seething with activity. A constable and Inspector Blagdon were downstairs in the study, and from the inspector he received a detailed account of Mr. Blessington’s adventure.