by John Creasey
“You all right, Miss Woburn?”
Of course she was all right, couldn’t he see?
He was gasping for breath.
“Yes,” she said.
“Thank God for that. Just found Mannering. In the cellar.” Aylmer gulped. “He’s unconscious but—there’s a written note which says Liddicombe had planned to kill you this morning. We’ve got Liddicombe, but another of the devils is still at large. So is Liddicombe’s daughter, Priscilla. She might be as deadly as—”
He broke off.
Priscilla Liddicombe, on a bicycle, turned a corner in the road and came tearing towards them.
Chapter Twenty-Three
A Question of Identity
Aylmer and the other detective stood together in front of Joanna, as if to shield her from attack; and Priscilla looked as if she were ready to attack. She put every ounce of strength into her movements, and as she drew nearer, her eyes glistened as if she were filled with murderous intent. At sight of Aylmer, she stopped pedalling and jammed on the brakes; for a moment it looked as if she would be tossed over the handlebars. Aylmer ducked.
She steadied herself, and sprang off the machine.
“Now, young woman—” Aylmer began.
“Never mind the talk,” Priscilla Liddicombe gasped. “There’s a man waiting to—to blow Miss Woburn into little pieces! He’s hiding by a bridge. Don’t ask me how I know, I don’t have to talk, but that’s the size of it. Chap named Micky. And that man Richardson’s somewhere—somewhere in the ‘Grey Mare’.” She gulped. “I don’t know where, I don’t know anything else about it!”
“Where is this Micky?”Aylmer demanded sharply.
“Somewhere! I don’t know any more, I just had to tell you, I—”
Priscilla broke off, staring towards the inn; it was obvious that she only realised what the smoke meant at that moment.
“It’s burning,” she breathed. “Richardson might be there, in the cellar.”
Aylmer said with a wincing note in his voice: “It’s the old barn that’s on fire. You’re dead right. Richardson was there; whether he’ll come round or not I don’t know”.
The girl swayed. Joanna moved, to hold her; and stood with her arms round her shoulders. Aylmer stared at the smoke and the man on the stretcher.
A man came up, with a card, and said something about finding it beneath Mannering. Aylmer was soon calling orders. Joanna saw him drive off; another police-car followed. She went towards the inert figure which had been brought from the cellar.
Richardson?
No, it wasn’t; anyhow, he looked different.
John Mannering!
She watched them put him in an ambulance, which had just arrived, and she did not know whether he was alive.
Aylmer and two policemen approached the bridge from the fields and thickets behind it, and took Micky by surprise. He did grab one of the grenades, but Aylmer wrested it from him and hurled it into the river. Its explosion terrified a thousand birds and as many rabbits, but did no harm.
Bristow got out of his car near Hampstead Heath, and talked to a detective-inspector from the local division. They were not within sight of Seale’s house, but it was surrounded at a distance, and watched from the windows of neighbouring houses. Anyone who left there would be detained; but no one left. Bristow knew what had happened in Orme Hill; knew that it was touch and go with Mannering. He felt a savage eagerness to raid the house and to hold Seale and Greer, whom Liddicombe had named; but he knew that if they staged a raid, the men inside would shoot it out.
They might not know what had happened.
So Bristow moved from one of the loosely flung cordon to another. All he knew about Seale and Greer fitted in with what had happened.
A man came hurrying.
“Mr. Bristow, sir.”
“Yes?”Bristow turned his back on the green of the heath, the trees, the brambles where Wilberforce had been murdered.
“Door’s open, sir, and three men and a woman are getting in a car. Any instructions?”
“So they’re on the run,” Bristow said, and his eyes showed deep satisfaction. “All right, we’ll lay on a reception.” He flashed messages by walkie-talkie to the other police-cars, and they made their way towards the ends of the street where Seale lived. Bristow was at one corner when he saw the car coming out. It was a roomy Austin, and doubtless had a nice turn of speed. Greer was at the wheel, Seale beside him, a man and a woman with a lot of corn-coloured hair were in the back seats. Bristow drove along as if he weren’t interested in them. He sensed Seale’s gaze. He didn’t know whether Seale or the others would recognise him.
If Seale had a gun –
They were almost alongside, the Austin gathering speed, when Bristow wrenched his wheel. The two cars met sideways on, and the Austin swayed. Greer trod on the accelerator, the engine roared, the cars scraped noisily – and the bumpers locked.
The Austin’s engine stalled.
Seale, his face more than ever like a robot’s, raised a gun and pointed at Bristow through the open window. Bristow ducked desperately, but knew that he hadn’t a chance if the man fired.
Then a second police-car banged into the back of the Austin, the bullet smashed the windscreen and did no harm; police rushed the cars before Seale or Greer or the others had a chance.
Bristow watched them being led away.
It was all over bar the shouting, he knew; the shouting, and the waiting to find out what happened to Mannering.
Mannering lived.
But before the day was out, Jimmy Garfield had a sharp relapse, and died.
Joanna was at the hospital with Merrow when that happened.
Five days later, looking exactly like himself and feeling almost fit, Mannering walked down the great staircase at Brook House. He felt as light-hearted as he had for a long, long time.
He had spent an hour with Lorna the previous evening, and there was no longer the slightest danger for her. He knew that George Merrow was back at the house, confined to his bed but making good progress. He knew of the odd friendship which had now developed between Priscilla Liddicombe and Joanna Woburn. Joanna’s chief fear appeared to be that the police would level some charge against Priscilla.
Mannering did not think they would.
The girl had been under her father’s orders, and terrified of him. She had spied on the occupants of Brook House, and reported every move. She had also admitted Liddicombe to the house so that he had been able to go up to the roof and make the plan for the burglary.
She had fallen in love with George Merrow, too.
Then, after her father’s orders on the morning that had seen the end of it all, she had obeyed precisely, and told Joanna the He. She would probably never be able to explain her frame of mind during that hour or two; how she had been torn between fear of her father, and dread of what might happen to other, people. She had always known that Liddicombe was a man of violence, but tried to shut her mind to it. She had not been told directly of the plot to kill Joanna, but remarks made by Micky and her father had made their purpose clear. She had brooded over them, knowing exactly where Micky was waiting.
She had believed that she had a chance of winning George Merrow without Joanna; so she had watched Joanna drive off, for those few minutes had wanted her to die. Then something had cracked inside her, she had realised the full horror of what she was doing. In sudden desperation she had taken the cycle and ridden over the grassland, taking paths which gave her a chance to head Joanna off.
Mannering was pondering over this as he went into the library.
Aylmer and Bristow were already there, Bristow looking relaxed and comparatively cheerful. Two local detectives were also present. George Merrow was wheeled in, with Joanna behind the wheel-chair, looking like a princess out of Scandina
vian legends. It was easy to forget Merrow’s expression because of his startling good looks.
“Well, what’s the dictatorial summons about?” Merrow demanded. “Who’s done what wrong now?”
Mannering chuckled.
Bristow said: “Mr. Mannering seems to think he has a useful contribution to make to our general knowledge, Mr. Merrow, and we would like you here for confirmation of certain parts of his statement.”
Merrow shrugged. “Maybe this is the confirmation you want.” He took a sealed envelope from his pocket and held it out. “A signed statement which should persuade you to keep the dogs off me.”
Bristow took it. “Thanks.” He didn’t open it. “Be interesting to see how right you are, Mannering.”
Mannering said mildly: “Nice of you, Bill. I’m not going to keep you long, though. It concerns the contents of the black box, of course, which we were told were miniatures. Nothing of the kind, as you now know—but you have the box and contents, I haven’t seen it. I’m just guessing.”
Bristow snorted.
“Fact,” said Mannering brightly. “That box did contain a kind of miniature, I’ve no doubt at all. Miniature documents—tiny photostat copies of evidence to send Seale, Liddicombe and the others of the mob to jail, perhaps to the gallows. Right?”
Bristow exclaimed: “And you guessed that? Not on your life. You must have known all along.”
“That’s the trouble with policemen, they have no faith in human nature or perceptiveness,” Mannering said. “I didn’t know, Bill. But it had to be something that Seale would kill to get; something which could be effective after Jimmy Garfield’s death, in the right hands. Something, I think, he wanted to get to me, hoping I’d tackle Seale and company. I think he was going to confide in me, and hope I’d help him without confiding in you.”
Bristow growled: “That’s right. There was a letter in the box, saying just that. He’d meant Merrow to bring it to you, and when Merrow was injured, put it on to Miss Woburn.”
“Confide in you about what?” asked Joanna slowly.
Bristow said: “Go on, Oracle.”
Mannering chuckled.
“Recognition at last!” He didn’t continue at once, and in fact his smile faded; he looked serious, almost diffident. “Jimmy wasn’t the real Garfield,” he said quietly. “The genuine J. G. had died. The Jimmy who lived here impersonated him. Seale knew that, and tried to blackmail Jimmy. Jimmy countered with those photostat copies. Checkmate.”
He paused.
Joanna, a hand on Merrow’s shoulder, said in a hushed voice:
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes,” Merrow said. He gripped her hand. “Jimmy told me about it. That’s why I kept quiet. I’ve put it all in the statement.”
There was silence, and Bristow broke it quietly, almost reluctantly.
“No doubt it’s true, Miss Woburn. The man you knew as Garfield was really a man named Holden. The real Garfield died a natural death. He had few friends, and Holden seized a chance to succeed in one of the boldest impersonation frauds in history.” Bristow gulped, as if he hated to-admit that, but didn’t pause for long. “Just before his death, the real Garfield had bought this house. He died intestate, and Holden, your Jimmy, took over—according to a letter he kept at his bank to be opened after his death, he thought he was only cheating the State. Then afterwards he discovered an heir—a nephew whom the real Garfield had cut off because of some quarrel. Jimmy—sent for Merrow, paid his fare, told him the truth. Merrow took to the old man, and was prepared to wait for his inheritance, and not give Jimmy away.”
“All the time, your Jimmy dealt by letter, telephone and through agents when he took over. He was a brilliant forger, and a serious accident—the one which paralysed him—had altered his appearance a great deal. He had only to keep from people who knew him well, to get away with the impersonation. There was one exception—Gedde, who was an old friend of Jimmy’s. With Gedde as a conspirator, the impersonation had its big chance of success.”
“It worked perfectly—until, in the last few years, Jimmy had this fight with Seale on his hands.”
“Seale wanted to take over the house, the fortune, the treasures kept here; to come into the open, live his life here freely. So, as a blackmailer and killer, he had to keep in the background.”
“He hated Jimmy.”
“He bore a grudge which turned him from an ordinary crook into a cold-blooded killer. You won’t want more details about him, what’s happened speaks for itself, but—”
He paused again.
Merrow said: “There are things we do want made clear, Mr. Bristow. That Jimmy wasn’t a killer. He spent a fortune seeking me out—seeking the real Garfield’s nephew, remember, so that I should inherit.”
“I wasn’t much good, but—I liked Jimmy. He was a man in a million, crook or not. Soon after I got here, I realised that there was a lot of trouble. Jimmy told me what it was. He also told me that he was going to ask Mannering to help.”
“What I didn’t realise was that he wanted help for you, and was afraid you’d be killed,” Mannering said.
“He wasn’t scared for himself,” Merrow agreed. He paused, then went on abruptly: “I was pretty sure there was a spy in the household. I checked the servants closely, and came to the conclusion that Priscilla was most likely.” He looked up at Joanna, scowling. “And she was. Believe it or not, I set my cap at sweet Prissy, because I wanted to get the truth. That’s the simple answer.”
Joanna said chokily; “If only you’d told me—”
She was staring down at Merrow as if she couldn’t believe her ears.
“Never mind the means, I wanted to justify the end,” Merrow said. “I hadn’t much time for finer feelings, either. I felt that women owed me a lot that they’d never pay back. Priscilla would have talked, sooner or later. Once they actually fired at us when we were together, to scare Prissy into silence, and to scare me. They did!”
“There isn’t much more,” Bristow put in unexpectedly. “Too much quixotism was the chief trouble.” But he smiled at Merrow. “It was the decision to send for Mannering that brought matters to a head. Priscilla heard Jimmy and Merrow talking of that, and told her father. Seale made one last effort to get the photostats, so that he could take over. Priscilla Liddicombe let the man Pete in, to search for them. It didn’t work out. Pete was seen by Garfield and Gedde. He hit him savagely, shot Gedde dead, and escaped. We know what happened after that.”
Bristow waited.
“We know pretty well everything now, don’t we?” Mannering said. “Can you fill in the gaps, Bill?”
Aylmer chuckled.
“Very funny,” Bristow said dryly. “Well, I can try. Some of the bits and pieces fit in nicely. For instance, the old quarrel between Seale and Jimmy. They once swindled a kid who killed himself. Afterwards, Seale wanted to become a fence, Jimmy turned it down and turned Seale in. Seale tried to escape, stole a car, and was badly smashed up. His face is just one big job of plastic surgery; he has other bone trouble which sometimes makes it difficult for him to move freely. That’s why he looks—” Bristow didn’t finish, but asked why he looks abruptly. “Anything else worrying any of you?”
“Now that I’m through all this,” said George Merrow, “I doubt if anything will ever worry me again.”
His hand closed over Joanna’s.
A few months later, after the trials and the executions, when all was calm again at Brook House and Orme, Joanna and George Merrow were married. Mannering and Lorna, Aylmer and Bristow and others associated with the case in which the Baron went into hiding, attended the wedding at the village church and the reception which would have done Jimmy Garfield proud.
There was a telegram of good wishes, signed ‘Priscilla’.
“Where is she now?” Bristow asked.
“Got a job as an artist’s model, in Chelsea,” Aylmer said. “Mannering fixed it, didn’t you, Mannering?”
“Blame or praise my wife,” said Mannering. He looked at Lorna, who was watching Joanna and the bridegroom in the way that only women can; appraising and assessing. Lorna was calm and completely herself it was hard to believe she had ever been close to death.
“What’s that?” she asked absently, and before waiting for an answer, she went on: “Oh, they’ll be happy—you don’t need to ask!”
She wondered why Mannering laughed.
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
