by John Creasey
He began to sweat.
The higher ledges were more slippery. He put his fingers on the one-he wanted to reach but could not get a hold. Pressed against the wall, he edged along, groping every few inches, until he found a purchase. Very gradually he hauled himself up, got a knee on the ledge and finally stood on it.
He looked round.
The police cordon seemed a long way off. Two or three men were staring at the windows but none were looking at him. Now he was on the right level he could move much more quickly, but it must be twenty minutes at least since he had started out, and there was no telling what Lobb had done.
A last he neared the library window, noting that it was open almost a foot at the top. He heard nothing, and was terribly afraid that Lobb might have killed Joanna and planned to escape some other way.
Then he heard Lobb roar:
‘If I haven’t got those keys in two minutes, I’ll set her alight.’
Chapter Twenty
Reason for Fear
Directly above the window there was a border of jutting stonework, on which Mannering decided to loop the free end of the rope. He secured it, tugged, then leaned his weight against it. Taking the gas pistol out of his pocket, he put it inside his shirt so that it couldn’t fall, lowered himself until he lay along the ledge at full length, then gradually turned until his head and shoulders hung over the ledge. This was the time of greatest testing, for now he had no foothold – only his hands and arms for support, and the rope round his waist. Edging along until he was still above the window but at one side of it, he lowered himself still further, until he could see into the room.
First, he saw Joanna, stretched on Cunliffe’s desk, apparently unconscious.
Then he saw two of the plastic fire-bombs, one on her breast, one at her feet. And on a corner of the desk was a box of matches. Lobb was standing with his back to the window, one hand raised and clenched, head back as he shouted:
‘I mean what I say. Understand? I’ll set her alight!’
Mannering slipped the pistol from his shirt. Keeping it steady as he hung down wasn’t easy, but the window was open so wide that he could fire without warning. He saw Lobb shake his fist at the door and then, incensed, swing round.
Mannering fired.
The tear-gas pellet caught Lobb on the forehead, and he started back in alarm. In the instant before the gas got into his eyes he saw Mannering, but there was no recognition. He made a dive towards the matches and Mannering fired again, but before the second pellet struck, Lobb was beginning to sway on his feet, clawing at his face.
Mannering pushed the window down further, climbed inside, undid the rope and called: ‘Coming!’ He held his breath as he raced across to the door, turned the key and pushed back the bolts. The tear-gas began to blind his eyes as he staggered on to the landing, but men wearing improvised masks ran past him, to get Lobb and the girl.
‘Mannering, I shall never be able to thank you enough—never.’ Cunliffe held Mannering’s hand tightly, as in a vice. ‘It was the most courageous thing I have ever heard of—quite the most courageous. My darling Joanna—you saved my darling Joanna.’
Standing beside him was Lady Markly; Fishlock and another policeman stood near. Lobb was on his way to the Salisbury police station under strong guard, Joanna was already back at the hospital and Ignatzi had just telephoned to say that her condition was improving. Over an hour had passed since the rescue, and the excitement outside had not yet died away.
‘Would it be wise to check your safe?’ Fishlock asked Cunliffe.
‘I don’t think it’s necessary,’ Cunliffe told him. ‘And now, unless you have essential business here, Chief Inspector, I would appreciate it if you will leave us.’
Fishlock signalled to his men and Mannering went with them to the front door. Fishlock squared his shoulders and quite unexpectedly held out his hand. ‘It’s been a great pleasure to know you, Mr. Mannering.’
Mannering smiled. ‘I wish all policemen were like you,’ he said warmly.
The police car moved off, watched by a group of estate workers and tenants from the village, and Mannering rejoined Cunliffe and his sister. Almost at once, Betsy appeared.
‘Excuse me, sir, there’s a telephone call for Mr. Mannering.’
‘Thank you, where—?’
‘Where’s Middleton?’ demanded the Colonel, sharply.
‘He’s not very well, sir.’
‘Ah. Excitement too much for him, I suppose. Where’s the call?’
‘In the morning-room, sir. It’s a Mr. Larraby.’
Mannering went into the morning-room, and picked up the telephone. He felt overwhelmingly tired, but knew he had to steel himself to make one more effort.
‘Hallo, Josh,’ he said. ‘It’s all right to say whatever you want to say.’
‘That blackmail note, sir. It was definitely written by Lobb; the handwriting people have compared it with a letter on the police files, and there’s no doubt about it. As for those two pictures which had been over-painted, they were superimposed on recent copies—excellent copies, but copies nevertheless. One was a Vermeer, the other a Franz Hals. Is that what you expected, sir?’
‘Yes,’ Mannering said. ‘Just what I expected.’ He paused. ‘Josh—tell young Willis to bring Hester down here at once—she’ll be needed.’ He replaced the receiver and went back into the hall, where Cunliffe was standing before one of the ancestral portraits, while his sister walked aimlessly to and fro. There was an atmosphere of anti-climax; neither Cunliffe nor Lady Markly seemed to know exactly what to do. Mannering waited long enough to be sure they knew he was back, then announced clearly: ‘That was a most interesting case.’
Cunliffe spun round.
‘Was that from the police? Has Lobb talked?’
‘No,’ Mannering said. ‘Joanna has.’
‘Joanna?’ Lady Markly came forward very quickly. ‘But she is still unconscious,, she can’t have talked!’
‘That was her great trouble, wasn’t it,’ Mannering said grimly. ‘She could never bring herself to talk.’
‘Mannering, be good enough to make your meaning clear,’ Cunliffe said coldly.
‘I shall do precisely that,’ Mannering said. ‘What do you think is the cause of Joanna’s strange behaviour?’
‘She—’ Cunliffe began, then broke off.
‘Why did she paint her little trifles over old masters?’ demanded Mannering.
Cunliffe caught his breath.
‘You know that. Oh, dear God.’ He became old and defeated in one moment, shoulders sagging, hands limp by his side. ‘This is—dreadful. I’ve realised for some time what she has been doing. Mannering, I—I should have told the police. I realise that. But how can one betray one’s own flesh and blood? How can one?’ He began to wring his hands. ‘She had copies painted and replaced the real ones with the copies; then—then she had the real ones sold. She painted over them so that—so that she could get them out of the house without being discovered. She must have got into the wrong hands, Mannering. It’s not her fault, I can’t bring myself to blame her. The man Lobb exerted great pressure, in tolerable pressure. Poor child, she—’
‘You are a nauseating hypocrite,’ Mannering said clearly.
Cunliffe gasped.
‘I will repeat that,’ said Mannering. ‘You are a nauseating hypocrite, Cunliffe.’
‘You—you are insulting, sir!’
‘Yes,’ Mannering said. ‘I mean to be.’
‘You yourself said that my daughter painted over old masters—’
‘She painted over faked old masters,’ said Mannering, ‘in a desperate, last-minute attempt to save you, her father, from being unmasked as a swindler. As soon as she realised I was a picture-expert she was afraid I’d discover the fakes and would guess what was going
on—that was why she painted over them.’
‘John, what are you saying?’ demanded Lady Markly tensely.
Mannering turned towards her. ‘I am saying that your brother hired this fellow Lobb to paint copies of certain paintings in his collection. These copies he sold as genuine, and had the originals stored in his London vault.’
Cunliffe was standing very still.
‘Clive,’ said his sister in a strained voice. ‘Clive, you—!’ She broke off. Mannering’s expression as he looked at Cunliffe was one of utter disgust.
‘Joanna found out and tried to stop you, but you would not stop,’ he said. ‘As soon as Lobb discovered how concerned she was, and how afraid that you might be discovered, he began to blackmail her—while you stood by and allowed him to do so.’
Cunliffe said thinly: ‘I had no choice.’
‘You mean you refused to consider one.’
‘We were both in that man’s hands. When I first employed him I thought I could trust him. Then, too late, I found that I couldn’t.’
‘So that was it,’ breathed Lady Markly.
‘That was it,’ said Mannering flatly. ‘Joanna did everything she could to protect her father, and paid all she had to Lobb to try to save him. But there came a time when she could go on no longer. Then, at Lobb’s instigation, she did steal old masters—hiding them in Eliza Doze’s attic. Eliza knew they were there but didn’t know their value nor what they were. She did see Joanna being driven to despair, and she sent for me.’ He did not betray his knowledge of Lady Markly’s share in that.
‘So it was Joanna who took the paintings from the north gallery,’ muttered Cunliffe. ‘Oh well,’ – he shrugged his shoulders – ‘it doesn’t matter now.’ He looked from Mannering to Lady Markly, then back to Mannering. ‘I had no choice,’ he repeated hoarsely, ‘no choice at all.’
‘You knew Joanna was near breaking-point, but you did nothing to help her,’ said Mannering.
‘I had no choice,’ Cunliffe repeated yet again, as if these were words graven on his mind. ‘I had to preserve the family honour. And I had to preserve the family position. With taxation as savage as it is, some effort must be made to live as one was ordained to live. I could either sell my treasures, or—make copies and sell to the fools who thought they were real. I did my duty as I conceived it.’
‘You condemned your daughter to despair,’ said Mannering quietly. ‘You allowed Lobb the sadistic touch of shearing her hair, and threatening her with even worse violence. To lull any suspicions I might have, you said that she was either mad or bad—or both. And only a few moments ago you tried to shield yourself at her expense. Where are the original paintings now? Still in the vault in London?’
‘They are. And they are mine. I have preserved one of the greatest private collections of works of art. I have maintained Nether Manor in its rightful way. I have continued to employ servants who were the children of servants for many generations. And my daughter betrayed me.’
His sister was looking at him in mingled horror and disgust.
Mannering stepped forward. ‘She never betrayed you. You betrayed yourself.’
Cunliffe gasped. ‘You mean she didn’t—she didn’t tell you—?’ His voice tailed away.
‘No,’ said Mannering. ‘She didn’t tell me. She didn’t tell anyone.’
‘Then—then what you have just said was all—was all bluff?’
Mannering nodded. Tardy. And you confirmed my suspicions. But don’t think that Lobb wouldn’t have given you away. Do you seriously think he will take the blame for all this without naming you?’
Cunliffe didn’t answer.
‘Because he won’t,’ Mannering went on. ‘The moment he realises that he hasn’t a chance, that will be the moment he’ll start talking about your share in the crimes.’
Cunliffe gave an almost imperceptible nod, then turned and walked away. His footsteps echoed on the porch, sounded on the gravel of the drive, then petered into silence.
Violet Markly turned towards Mannering. ‘You know what he will do, don’t you?’
‘I know what I expect him to do,’ Mannering said. ‘He could never bring himself to face trial.’
‘You understand so much, don’t you?’ said Lady Markly slowly.
‘So much was obvious,’ Mannering murmured. ‘I began to suspect your brother might be involved just after I put out a fire in the studio beneath the north gallery. He came down while I was in the studio, but I stepped behind an easel and I didn’t think he saw me—but a little later he pretended to confide in me; told me that there had always been throwbacks to evil strains and insanity in the Cunliffe family, and blamed Joanna for the fire. I knew then that he must have known I was there.’
‘But who started the fire?’ asked Lady Markly.
‘Lobb or Anstiss, I imagine, in an attempt to burn any incriminating evidence. They didn’t care if the Manor burnt to the ground, and they knew by then that I was on to them. But it’ll all come out at the trial. Violet’ – Mannering looked directly at Lady Markly – ‘tell me one thing.’
‘If I can.’
‘Did you drug Joanna after her collapse?’
‘I couldn’t see her suffer any more,’ Lady Markly said simply. ‘I thought that was the best way to help her. I wanted to get her out of this house and away from any further danger, so I gave her a slight overdose of sleeping tablets, crushed in milk—I think they contained morphia, but I can’t show them to you because the horde’s completely disappeared. I suppose dive took them.’
‘It was Lobb who took them,’ said Mannering. ‘He gave them to his sister and her husband—Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins of The Kettle—to keep them quiet during his intended getaway. Well, that’s solved the mystery of how he came by them. Violet, let me ask you something—’
‘No, let me ask you something,’ said Violet Markly. ‘Tell me—were you in my cottage last night?’
Mannering smiled faintly. ‘Yes—I’m afraid I’d been wondering if you were involved. Please forgive me. But if I hadn’t found those pictures in your attic—’
Lady Markly looked startled. ‘What pictures?’
‘Joanna’s pictures—the pictures which gave me the final answers to this whole mystery. I first came across them in the studio, and noticed that he’d painted over what appeared, on first inspection, to be something pretty valuable. They were, of course, two of Lobb’s faked old masters, which Joanna was afraid I’d recognise and had, in a desperate attempt to protect her father, painted over. While I was taking them to Salisbury, someone—I suspect Lobb—ran me down in a lorry, and the pictures disappeared. Lobb, if it was Lobb, must have given them to your brother. He, realising I must be suspicious, decided the safest hiding-place was your cottage, and sent Anstiss to conceal them in your attic. Or so I believe. We’ll never know for certain,’ Mannering went on, ‘but I think Lobb had also seen the writing on the wall, knew he couldn’t rely on Anstiss, and killed him at the cottage before I got there.’
Lady Markly shivered. Slowly she moved round the wide, high-ceilinged hall, looking up at the portraits of Cunliffes now long dead.
‘So the whole Cunliffe collection is safe, except the paintings from the north gallery which were destroyed at Eliza Doze’s cottage.’
Mannering shook his head. ‘The police are holding those. I got them out of the cottage just in time.’
Lady Markly smiled. ‘I might have known it. Is there anything you can’t—?’
A man came running from the drive, into the porch, into the hall – one of the older gardeners, who was gasping for breath as he burst out: ‘M’lady, the Colonel’s shot himself! He’s dead – ‘he’s shot himself!’
When Beverley Willis and Hester, a taller, livelier girl than Joanna, arrived that evening, Mannering left, and caught the last train to London. There, Larr
aby met him, anxious for the news.
‘It was the best way out, sir,’ he said gravely, after Mannering had told him.
‘I think so, Josh,’ said Mannering. ‘But it was a very ugly business and I think I need a complete change. I’ll fly to Rio on Monday or Tuesday.’
‘An excellent idea, sir,’ said Larraby. ‘And I know that Mrs. Mannering will think so, too.’
Series Information
Published or to be published by
House of Stratus
Dates given are those of first publication
Alternative titles in brackets
'The Baron' (47 titles) (writing as Anthony Morton)
'Department 'Z'' (28 titles)
'Dr. Palfrey Novels' (34 titles)
'Gideon of Scotland Yard' (22 titles)
'Inspector West' (43 titles)
'Sexton Blake' (5 titles)
'The Toff' (59 titles)
along with:
The Masters of Bow Street
This epic novel embraces the story of the Bow Street Runners and the Marine Police, forerunners of the modern police force, who were founded by novelist Henry Fielding in 1748. They were the earliest detective force operating from the courts to enforce the decisions of magistrates. John Creasey's account also gives a fascinating insight into family life of the time and the struggle between crime and justice, and ends with the establishment of the Metropolitan Police after the passing of Peel's Act in 1829.
'The Baron' Series
These Titles can be read as a series, or randomly as standalone novels
Meet the Baron (The Man in the Blue Mask) (1937)
The Baron Returns (The Return of the Blue Mask) (1937)
The Baron Again (Salute Blue Mask) (1938)
The Baron at Bay (Blue Mask at Bay) (1938)
Alias the Baron (Alias Blue Mask) (1939)
The Baron at Large (Challenge Blue Mask!) (1939)
