by John Creasey
Jeremiah glared.
“Asking too much. Three male assistants, one of them a half-wit, another nearly ninety. Just beginning to get things straight with Mary’s help. Good girl. Worker. Bit lonely for her here, that’s the only trouble. No, Mannering, it’s not fair. Isn’t fair. Send her back to the country and it’ll ensnare her again. Been here six months, and she’s only just beginning to forget that she would prefer to be in the wilds. Not fair,” he repeated, almost angrily.
“If she’s been here six months, she can do with a holiday,” said Mannering reasonably. “And you’ve been in a mess for twenty-five years, another few months won’t make any difference.”
“Insolence,” growled Jeremiah. “Why pick on her? Lot of people jump at the job—more experience, too.”
“Yes, I know,” said Mannering, “but I want someone like Mary, who can be company for Lady Gloria Barclay. Gloria isn’t herself—hasn’t been since her father died, and this is a good chance to help her. But if you can’t release Mary for a few weeks.” He sounded casual, as if it didn’t really matter.
“Better ask her,” snapped Jeremiah, and rang a bell.
They heard his story in silence.
He minimized nothing; neither Gloria’s plight nor the possible danger. He liked the calm way Mary received both story and the suggestion that she should help Gloria.
They were quiet when he had finished.
Then Caldecott rasped: “Well, my girl. Feel like a heroine?”
The girl ignored him.
“Do you really think I can help her, Mr. Mannering?”
“Yes.”
“All ri’, all ri’,” growled Jeremiah. “Go away and leave me. If you don’t get your throat cut, you’ll want to stay and make daisy-chains and feed the pigs, and won’t come back. I know. I won’t forgive you for this, Mannering.”
“I’ll come back,” said Mary soothingly. “I’m getting to like London.”
Jeremiah only glared.
It was arranged that Mary should travel by car, next day, with Longley. Mannering promised that the sergeant would call for her at about half past nine. Mary went to the front door with Mannering, quiet and thoughtful, but she said nothing else. Mannering shook hands; and felt a spasm of uneasiness, almost of guilt.
“I’ll be all right,” said Mary.
Mannering laughed; but still felt uneasy.
When she had gone and the door was closed, Mannering stood by the door, looking each way, wary now. No one was in sight, but after a few moments he saw a man’s hat poking from a doorway farther along the street. It was brown felt, and belonged to a plain-clothes officer whom Bristow had detailed to follow him.
The man came out of the doorway and turned towards the far end of the road, a signal that no one had shown any interest in Mannering or in the shop.
Mannering strolled in the detective’s wake, wishing he had his car. Bristow had put out a call for it, and it might be recovered; he doubted it. The nuisance could be overcome by hiring one from his garage, but he was fond of that particular model. Its engine was sweet, it had given him little trouble, and on occasions he had nursed it to ninety. He would like to have it for the drive down to Lithom Hall that night.
He took a taxi to Chelsea.
As he walked upstairs to his flat, he felt his heart beating fast with the curious, exhilarating excitement which always came when, after crisis and ordeal, he met Lorna. The door opened before he reached the landing.
Tumult reigned.
When all was quiet, Lorna said: “I must see Derek Peacock, soon.”
“It did occur to me,” said Mannering.
“But not until it’s all over, darling. I’ve packed for a week at Lithom Hall. Will that be enough?”
“We’ll come back and replenish, if it isn’t,” said Mannering.
“And I’ve told Stella she can have a holiday.”
“And get all the songs out of her system,” suggested Mannering piously. “Can my story wait until we’re on the road?”
“I knew it would have to,” Lorna said resignedly. “What about the shop?”
“Bristow is going to keep an eye on it, and I’ll warn Norris to be on the alert in case they try reprisals. But I don’t think they will.”
“Wishful thinking?”
“I don’t think so. That fat man is no fool. Whether trouble blows at Lithom Hall depends on what his game is. We might have a quiet week. On the other hand—”
Through the open door came a sudden burst of song as Stella, buxom although pretty, carried plates into the dining-room.
“We will have a quiet week,” said Mannering. “I was going to say—”
The telephone bell rang.
“No peace for the righteous,” complained Mannering as Lorna stretched out for the phone. “I think Fenner might—”
“Hallo,” said Lorna. “Oh, yes, Bill.”
Bristow!
Mannering jumped up.
“Wonderful!” cried Lorna, and her eyes danced. “Yes, I’ll tell him.”
“Oi!” cried Mannering, “I want to speak to—”
But the receiver was down.
“Let me have some fun,” pleaded Lorna. “Wonderful news, darling.”
“Have they caught Fenner?”
“Oh, no. The car’s been found!”
But during dinner she had silent spells, when the memory of the afternoon’s waiting was vivid; and it showed in her eyes. Yet it was the future, not the past, which made her silent: less fear, than uncertainty.
Suddenly, she began to talk about Gloria; how lovely and vivacious she had been—
The sun was low in the west and shining on the tops of the trees which surrounded Lithom Hall. In the great park, deer roamed, nibbling delicately at the short grass, and the birds were filling the air with their nightly song, for dusk would soon fall and the long day be over. The park and the gardens near the house looked at their best. May had been a wet month, and the grass was still bright-green, resisting the sun’s withering heat in the past few days. It was very warm, even now, and many of the windows were open. The front door was closed, its massive oak studded with black iron bolts. The roses in the rose garden lent colour and loveliness to the night.
Gloria stood on the steps leading from the terrace; alone.
Lady Bream sat at a window, with a crochet needle and a half-finished lace mat in her hands, moving gently to and fro in a rocking-chair. She kept glancing at the girl, with a blank stare on her lined face.
Gloria was in the sunlight.
The house made a superb frame; it dwarfed her, yet heightened her slim beauty. There were golden lights in her dark hair, lights too in her eyes, reflected from the sun, which put life into the apple-green of her dress. Her thinness served to emphasize her figure, her golden-tanned legs. She was standing too still; like a frightened bird, ready to fly off at any sign of danger. She looked towards the south, so that the sun shone slantingly on her.
At last she moved, smoothly and easily, yet without changing that air of tension. She walked across the lawn.
Lady Bream, peeking, saw her disappear round the side of the house. The old lady put down her crochet, got up awkwardly from the rocking-chair, not the easiest of starting-points for a woman of her bulk, and plodded through the great house. She went alongside the stairs, through the door which led to the domestic quarters, then to a small morning-room, from which she could see the stables.
Gloria was by them.
The top half-doors of two loose boxes were open, and a wiry weather-browned groom was clearing up the cobbled yard. He touched his forehead as Gloria came up, and spoke. She answered, smiling mechanically. A fine bay mare put its head out of one of the boxes, and whinneyed. Gloria moved towards it, and something like hope appeared in Lady Bream’s eyes. The groom watched closely too – as if he also hoped that Gloria was going to renew her interest in the horses.
Next to the bay’s box was the grey which her father had been riding when he had been thrown.
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Gloria paused near the bay, touched its long, silky nose – and then the grey appeared, arching its long neck, looking at her as if pleadingly.
Gloria raised her hands sharply, and no longer caressed the mare. Abruptly, she turned away, and walked towards a shrubbery beyond the stables.
She disappeared.
Lady Bream tapped sharply on the window, and the groom looked round. She pointed to Gloria, then made a motion with her hands, as if she were shooing away a frisky puppy. The groom touched his forehead and walked slowly in Gloria’s wake.
Lady Bream’s greatest anxiety was that Gloria might try to kill herself. She hadn’t tried, yet, but the old lady had seen an expression in the girl’s eyes during the day, which worried her deeply. A brooding, melancholy, hopeless look of despair.
She thought of Mannering, who had telephoned that he and Lorna hoped to arrive before half past ten. It was not yet ten o’clock.
She heard a movement behind her.
She turned.
“There is a gentleman to see you, my lady,” said Wirral, in his tired, placid way.
“Eh? Who?”
“A doctor, my lady—Doctor Halsted.”
“Doctor,” echoed Lady Bream, who always repeated something that had been said when she was trying to think. “To see whom? I sent for no doctor.”
“He says, my lady, that he is a colleague of Dr. Chatterton.”
“Dr. Chatterton,” repeated Lady Bream. “Colleague. All right, Wirral.”
The butler stood aside to let her pass, then walked sedately in her wake until she reached the great hall. She moved more quickly than one would have expected, and entered the drawing-room without waiting for Wirral to tell the caller that she was coming. The thick pile carpet muffled the sound of her footsteps.
A man rose from a chair near the fireplace.
This was a long and spacious room; furnished in dark rich hues of wine-red and a mauve-blue, with two great arched windows which overlooked the main lawns and part of the rose garden. It faced north-west, and one corner caught a little of the sun, now nearly gone; in a few minutes there would be only the afterglow to presage the long June dusk.
The man was tall.
He was elegant, too; dressed in light-grey with a well-fitting morning coat, narrow trousers and a black bow tie. His hair was dark but streaked with grey, long at the back and sides and sweeping back from his forehead. More actor than doctor to look at, but certainly distinguished. He had pale, aquiline features and clear, pleasing eyes.
“How good of you to see me, Lady Bream.”
“Colleague of Dr. Chatterton’s,” she said, almost accusingly. “Is he ill? Can’t he come tomorrow?”
“Most unfortunately, no,” said the other.
“He knows the importance of—” began Lady Bream.
“Only too well,” said Dr. Halsted, smiling gravely. “He was greatly upset, greatly upset, that the sudden illness of a close relative called him away. He had no choice but to go, Lady Bream, and asked me to come in his stead.”
“Sit down,” said Lady Bream, and lowered herself into the rocking-chair. She sat down too heavily, and it swayed back and lifted her small feet from the floor, drawing attention to grey stockings wrinkled round plump ankles. She sat on the crochet needle, and fidgeted until she found it.
Dr. Halsted sat down opposite her.
“Late to call, isn’t it?” asked Lady Bream.
“I thought it wise to advise you that I should be coming tomorrow, instead of Dr. Chatterton,” said Halsted. “I am staying with friends close by, it was no trouble to drive over, and so much better than telephoning. Dr. Chatterton has so impressed me with the importance and the difficulty of this case, we both agreed that it might be wiser if Lady Gloria were prepared beforehand, for seeing a fresh face. In these indispositions of the mind, one cannot exercise too much care.” He had a slow, measured way of talking; more a lecture-room than a bedside manner.
“I’m glad you realize that,” said Lady Bream.
“I do indeed,” said Halsted. “How has your niece been during the past few days? It is a help for me to find out, now, and not to have to ask her.”
“She hasn’t been at all good,” said Lady Bream. “She dreams, has nightmares. Last night she thought that she saw a man lying in the study with his throat cut! Disturbed everyone and greatly upset herself. And she hates books. This sleepwalking, if we could only cure her of that—”
“We must,” said Dr. Halsted.
“Yes, but how can you?”
“I think I may say that Dr. Chatterton was hopeful of doing that,” said Halsted. “He has told me everything. We have discussed every feature of the case, the advisability of trying new methods—science is continually advancing.” He swallowed the last words. “Has Lady Gloria retired?”
“No, she’s gone out,” said Lady Bream. “It’s all right, she’s being watched.”
“Being watched?” The doctor looked startled, even a little alarmed. “Watched?”
Had Lady Bream been less preoccupied with Gloria, she might have noticed how his hands tightened and his face took on a sharp, almost aggressive look.
“By a groom. Since last night I haven’t liked the look of her at all,” confided Lady Bream. “Wouldn’t be too surprised if—oh, but I’m talking a lot of nonsense! Nonsense! She’s gone for a walk in the cool of the evening. It’s been stifling all day, do her good.”
“I don’t think you are being quite frank with me,” reproved Halsted.
Lady Bream’s eyes bored through him.
“Frank enough,” she said. “I’m frightened about that child, Dr. Halsted. I feel that it wouldn’t take much to make her do away with herself. Not many more shocks.”
“I hope you’re wrong,” said Dr. Halsted. “You have no real fear that at the moment—”
“No, no, she’s all right now. Abel the groom is a most trustworthy fellow. But I suppose you want to know that she seems more melancholy today than ever. She needs young companionship—”
“I think we should wait until tomorrow before we decide what she needs,” said Dr. Halsted. “I shall be here just after ten o’clock, Lady Bream.”
“Very well.” She made to get up.
“Please don’t disturb yourself,” said Halsted. He stood up and went to her, bowed low over her hand, and then crossed to the fireplace and pulled the bell. “I don’t think you need worry too much tonight. I understand that she has never had two of these nightmares on successive nights, and she should sleep well. In the morning, we’ll see, we’ll see.” He stood with his back to the fireplace, all elegance, charm and assurance, and looked round when the door opened and Wirral came in.
“Dr. Halsted is leaving,” said Lady Bream.
Halsted bowed again, wished her goodnight, and went out. When Wirral closed the door, Lady Bream sat rocking herself to and fro until she saw Halsted appear on the terrace. He was a shadowy figure now, for night was almost on them, as he walked down the steps to his car, which stood immediately in front of them – a Rolls-Royce. He got in and switched on the lights, and she heard the soft note of the engine.
The car moved off, towards the North drive.
At the same time, headlights sprang out of the gloom and cast a brilliant light over the chestnut trees and the beeches, lighting up the drive itself and the green grass and the shrubs on either side. The two cars drew closer to each other, and the headlights were suddenly dipped, only one side of the drive showed up now.
The cars passed.
The headlights were switched on again, and almost shone on the house. The approaching car appeared to be travelling fast, but Lady Bream was smiling, because she was sure that this was Mannering. She ran her fingers over the smooth steel of the crochet needle – then suddenly stopped and stiffened; for a flash of light green appeared.
It was Gloria, Gloria throwing herself in front of the car!
Chapter Eight
A Flash of Green
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sp; Mannering switched on his headlights as he drew near the drive gates, and they reflected from the windows of the lodge, showing that the gates were wide open. He swung the wheel, and they turned into the drive, passing the lodge, outside which stood a man and a woman, the lodge-keepers. Then Mannering saw the approaching car, and dipped his headlights.
“I wonder who that is,” said Lorna.
“Might be anyone,” said Mannering absently. “They do have visitors—Maggie sees to that. She’s probably been trying to cheer Gloria up again.”
Lorna didn’t speak.
The other car drew near, and they saw that it was a Rolls-Royce, with a man at the wheel but no other occupants. They passed. Mannering put his foot down on the accelerator; there was still nearly half a mile to go, and the drive sloped upwards. Only three lights shone at the great pile of the house, and he looked towards it, impressed, as always, by its massiveness and grandeur.
Then he saw Gloria.
He caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye; she was running towards the drive. She was very near, and running fast. Suddenly she dashed within the radius of the headlights, and they could both see her face, distorted as with terror, her mouth wide open. She was running straight at them – but whether deliberately or because she was running away from some unseen terror, there was no way of telling.
Mannering swung the wheel.
A flash of vivid green was topped by Gloria’s dark hair.
The nearside wheel ran up the verge, the car tipped over. Mannering applied the brakes, slowly – he mustn’t stop suddenly, or they might turn over.
The girl was only a few yards away.
Suddenly she flung herself forward, on to the verge, as if trying to get beneath the wheels. He turned the wheel again, and felt a bump. He was travelling at only five or six miles an hour, but the bump had sounded sickeningly, and shook the car. Lorna exclaimed. Mannering put on the handbrake, and flung open the door.
Gloria was lying in a heap near the back wheel.
“Is she?” began Lorna, then broke off.
Mannering went down on one knee, and took the girl’s hands. He could see no blood. She was only an inch or two from the wheel; it might have struck her and thrown her to one side; there might be internal injuries. She was unconscious and motionless. He looked round, seeing a thing which sent a wave of relief running through him; the stump of a tree.
