by John Creasey
He knew that he oughtn’t to stop here.
True, he hadn’t been told that there must be no pause for refreshments, but Bristow had told him that Mannering might need him urgently. Ten minutes – well, a quarter of an hour – surely wouldn’t make much difference; Mannering couldn’t need him as urgently as that.
The winding path between the flowers was so narrow that they had to walk close together; it didn’t occur to Longley to step behind Mary. Instead, he held her arm, and kept slipping off the path on to the garden soil. The cottage had been freshly whitewashed, and the windows were painted black and cream. The crimson ramblers which climbed round door and windows had been well pruned, and the flowers grew in thick clusters. The whole garden hummed with bees and insects. The morning warmth stole upon the two visitors, giving them a feeling of lethargy which they hadn’t felt in the car, where the wind had cooled them.
An old man appeared in the doorway. Grey, unshaven, wearing a patched Norfolk jacket, corduroy breeches and a pair of gaitered boots, he looked as dry as a piece of sun-dried leather. There were crinkly lines at his mouth and eyes and those eyes were very blue and keen.
“Morning,” he greeted.
“Good-morning,” said Longley. “Could we have a cup of coffee?”
“Aye, gladly,” said the old man. “And biscuits?”
Longley looked at Mary.
“I am rather peckish,” said Mary.
“How about something a bit more substantial?” asked Longley.
A quarter of an hour? Well, twenty minutes …
“What would you be liking?” asked the old man, with a friendly, deceptive cunning. “How would some fresh salad and a hard-boiled egg appeal to the young lady?” He paused, not for an answer but for effect, and then added; “There’s nothing better than fresh salad, is there? And if you like, you can pick it yourself. Come round the back with me,” he added, as if that thought had only just occurred to him. “You can have a table on the grass, if it pleases you, under the apple trees. Lovely and cool there at all times of the day.”
Every corner in the back garden had been pressed into service. There were a dozen fruit trees, with apples and plums already forming; a kitchen garden, beyond the trees; and between the house and the little patch of grass, with several wooden tables, were soft-fruit bushes. Fat gooseberries, a greenish-brown, looked juicy and sweet and ready for picking. Red and black currant bushes were covered with white curtain netting to keep away the birds. In one corner was a patch of ground which at first sight looked neglected; when they drew nearer, they saw that the straw on it covered strawberries; the glistening fruit ripe and enticing.
There was also a tiny greenhouse. Inside were fully grown tomato plants, and some of the fruit was ripe and firm. Near it grew lettuces and radishes – and, beyond a short hedge, was a chicken-run, where the fowls scratched earnestly.
The old man cut some lettuce; went into the greenhouse and picked four large tomatoes; and Mary pulled some radishes, while Longley forgot the urgency of a mission for the first time in his career. They strolled about the garden, and twenty minutes passed before the old man brought out a tray. The lettuce glistened with water, the tomatoes, cut into quarters, oozed juice, two eggs, halved, were on each plate; and there was coffee.
“Now how would you like a few strawberries to finish up with?” asked the old man seductively. “And—” he lowered his voice. “Real, fresh cream.”
So they ordered strawberries and cream.
From somewhere afar off came the friendly note of a church clock. It chimed the quarters, and then twelve strokes for the hour, and Longley realized that they had lingered for half an hour already. He felt uneasy. Mary looked as if she were enchanted; she had told him that she had lived in the country all her life, and he could understand what she was feeling now. The salad was delicious; the coffee creamy; and the huge pile of strawberries with a jug of thick cream, made their eyes glisten.
Something of Longley’s restraint fell away.
“We’re all gluttons now,” he remarked.
“I haven’t had a meal like this for—”
“Years?”
“Well, since last summer,” said Mary. “We sometimes got cream at home, and we grew our own strawberries. Isn’t it gloriously warm out here?”
“Perfect,” said Longley.
They had nearly finished, and he was looking at his wrist-watch ostentatiously, when they heard a dog growling. The note was so fierce that it startled them, and they looked round. Longley had a nervousness of dogs which always annoyed him but which he couldn’t overcome.
This one seemed to be on the far side of the fence.
Then they heard a fresh sound; a cat, scolding and spitting. There was a sudden flurry, and they saw a sleek, black tom streak across the garden.
The dog rushed after it.
Mary exclaimed: “Look!”
And she clutched Longley’s arm.
It was a great, shaggy beast, a greyish or dirty white; long legs cleared the hedge in a bound and it raced after the cat, which sprang up one of the apple trees. As the dog stood barking furiously and prancing round the trunk of the tree, the old man came hurrying at a shuffling run.
“Leo—Leo! Come here, boy, come here!” He drew level with Mary and Longley, and said in an aside: “Leo hates cats, but you needn’t fear him. Leo.”
The dog still pranced.
He had a thick leather collar, which the old man grabbed. The dog howled as he was dragged away. He was taken into the house, and the back door closed on him.
Longley said: “What a brute!”
“The ugliest dog I’ve seen for a long time,” said Mary. “Usually I like dogs, but—”
“Something not so good about that one,” said Longley. “I say, we ought to be moving! We’ve lingered rather too long.”
Mary jumped up.
“I oughtn’t to have made you stay.”
The old man had obviously been watching from the cottage, and came out. He showed a disposition to talk, and asked them where they were heading. Longley saw no reason why he shouldn’t tell him, and said that they were going to Lithom Hall to work in the library.
The old man’s eyes lighted up.
“Are you, then. Come you’ll see my boy.”
“Your boy?” Longley looked puzzled.
“Aye, my son, Abel,” said the old man. “He’s a groom at Lithom Hall. That is, he looks after the horses,” he added, as if they might not be familiar with the word groom. “Been there since he was a boy, rising thirteen,” he added. “They didn’t keep them at school so long in his young days.”
Longley said: “I suppose not. We must be on our way; how much do I owe you?”
He paid the bill, and the old man came and waved as they went off – and they saw the shaggy dog in the window of the front room of the cottage, looking at them with its nose pressed close to the glass.
After Halsted had gone, Mannering went to the thicket to inspect the damage. Abel had not exaggerated. Several men had trampled about the grass, destroying the plaster-casts which Mannering had protected with branches the previous night. Abel had said that all this had been done since he had visited the thicket that morning; he would have noticed it, otherwise. So someone had entered the thicket, from the far side presumably, and made sure that nothing remained to identify the dog – or whatever had made the paw-marks.
Abel returned to the stables and Mannering to the house. Lorna was in the drawing-room, writing letters. She put her pen down as Mannering entered.
“Is anything left?” she asked.
“Nothing at all. Thorough people, my sweet; it isn’t going to be easy to catch ’em. You know there’s a traitor in the house, don’t you?”
“It’s pretty obvious.”
“Keep your eyes on the black, curly haired footman,” said Mannering.
Lorna said: “So you’ve spotted the traitor.”
“I think so.” Mannering lit a cigarette and sat
on the corner of the bureau where she was writing. “What did you make of Dr. Halsted?”
Lorna said slowly: “He reminded me of Maria Marten and the Red Barn.”
Mannering chuckled.
“Just about right. Melodrama with a capital M, and quite the worst man they could have used for the purpose.”
“I suppose he is a fake,” mused Lorna.
“Need you ask?”
“Would anyone who isn’t genuine behave quite like that?” asked Lorna thoughtfully.
Mannering said: “I see the point, but Halsted’s phoney. Takes us a step further, too. They know that I’m here, that Gloria and Lady Bream are no longer on their own, so—get Gloria away, so that she can be kept under surveillance. I wish I knew why they think it’s necessary.”
Lorna said nothing.
Mannering sat down in an easy chair, leaned back, and studied the intricate plaster-work of the ceiling. It was of beautiful craftmanship, at least a hundred years old. When it had been done, the Lithoms had really been a fighting family; now that there was only Gloria left, the tradition would die out – and it had begun to fade in the days of her father. He mused over that. He knew that Lithom had been in the Grenadier Guards as a young man; he had been intended for a soldier, gone to Sandhurst, spent several years in India, including three in the soul-destroying heat and dysentery of the North West Frontier. But he had left the Army before the 1914–18 war. Of course, he had gone back during those four years, but had not distinguished himself – the first Lithom who had failed to for three hundred years. There had been no family to discuss this, to talk over the Earl’s shortcomings, to prod and hint and whisper; but his friends had served in their stead, and rumour died hard.
Mannering had heard many a tale about the decline of the Lithoms, even before Lady Bream had appealed for his help.
Since then, he had studied the history of the family and of the last Earl. There was mystery there; whether it had anything to do with the present mystery he didn’t know; it wasn’t likely. Yet – why had a man born and bred into such a family, showing no signs of revolt in his early years, suddenly turned his back on his career and retired into an obscurity which baffled all his friends?
As a young man, Lithom had won no reputation as a scholar. But gradually he had won respect and admiration in various circles, and he had won renown in the least expected sphere – international affairs. After a short tenure as British Ambassador in various European capitals, he had been given a kind of roving commission, and negotiated a number of pacts both during and after the war. Gradually he had dropped out of the limelight; it was rumoured because he had not seen eye to eye with the Government on home affairs.
Throughout his life he had collected old books and manuscripts, adding to the family collection. Some of his forbears had always been interested in books; others, warriors even in retirement, had taken a casual pride in the collection and added to it in a haphazard way. Occasionally a rascally librarian had stolen and sold some precious relic or ancient book – one man had been transported to Tasmania for stealing, among other ‘tomes’, a copy of Imitatio Christi by Thomas à Kempis. Other librarians had been zealous. The last librarian, named Wilberforce, had been one of the poorer of a series, and he had left a few weeks before Lithom’s death. Wilberforce was past sixty, and now lived in retirement in St. Malden, the nearest town of any size to Lithom. His reputation as a man was poor – he was surly, ill-tempered and ungenerous.
Jeremiah Caldecott had thought little of Wilberforce; Mannering knew of him only vaguely.
Mannering had concentrated on Lithom’s active life.
After his wife’s death, Lithom had lived for his work, his books and his daughter. He had been jealous of them all. His influence on Gloria had been largely bad. He had undoubtedly tried to make sure that she would never marry, by restricting her choice of friends, by choosing them for her, and by taking her with him on most of his travels. At twenty she had been the hostess of Lithom Hall.
Lorna stirred in her chair.
Mannering sat up.
“Sorry, darling. I’ve drawn another blank. Grey matter’s taking a rest. I’ve been dreaming.”
“About Halsted?”
“No, the family. Halsted isn’t worth much thought now that he’s placed as a charlatan.”
“What are you going to do about him?”
“Tell young Longley what’s happened, and leave it to him and the local police to watch the precious doctor,” said Mannering. “That’s why I want Halsted back this afternoon. I suppose I’d better tell him that we’ve decided to keep Gloria here until we’ve seen Chatterton, which will make him squeal—and from then on, the police will cover him. Longley’s later than I expected—what’s the time?”
“A quarter past twelve.”
Mannering stood up.
“He certainly won’t be long now; if he’d started late, Bristow would have told me. This may be him.” A car turned past the North Lodge into the main drive. It was large, and old, and travelled slowly. No, it wasn’t Longley; a hefty-looking man was at the wheel, next to him a younger man who might have been his son.
The car drew up and the couple climbed out.
“I wonder who it is,” said Lorna.
Mannering rubbed his chin.
“Local coppers, for a fortune. I ought to have taken Abel’s advice earlier.”
“Ought you?” asked Lorna.
It wasn’t a casual question, and it made Mannering look at her sharply. She stood up as they heard Wirral open the front door.
“No like Abel?”
“I don’t think—” began Lorna.
Then the door opened, and Wirral announced Inspector Gadden of the St. Malden police.
Mannering liked the local detective’s calm, brown face; his shrewd and friendly grey eyes; his rather ponderous manner and deep voice, and the fact that he didn’t complain, even drily, of being left out in the cold. He told Mannering that Bristow had telephoned him that morning, giving him some idea of what had happened. He was, he said, very glad to meet Mr. Mannering – he’d often wanted to; and he hoped, with a twinkle in his eye, that Mr. Mannering was not going to lure the bad men from London down to his quiet district, where poaching and car offences were the major crimes.
“Not if I can help it,” said Mannering, pouring out whiskies-andsodas. They were in a morning-room, and Wirral had brought in whisky, gin and sherry.
“Now do you really think what happened to you is connected with the trouble here?” asked Gadden.
“Yes.”
“Then it’s a great pity,” said Gadden. “Ah, thanks. Your good luck, Mr. Mannering.” They drank – the sergeant who had come with Gadden muttering in his throat as if nervously. His name was Wilkinson and he had big red hands. “Of course, I knew that Lady Gloria had ideas about what had happened to her father, Mr. Mannering. This seems to suggest that she wasn’t so wrong as we thought.”
Mannering nodded.
“And I can’t say that I’m sorry,” said Gadden. “I never could catch on to Lord Lithom falling off his horse and breaking his neck—wonderful horseman, his lordship. But you won’t want me to waste time talking about that. Can you tell me anything else?”
“A little,” said Mannering. “Are you going to make notes?”
The red hands of Sergeant Wilkinson performed strange antics, and a small pencil and a large notebook appeared out of the pockets of his brown tweed suit. He sat at a table and applied himself to his shorthand – which was very fast; Mannering was able to talk at his normal pace.
The telling took more than half an hour, and when Mannering had finished, Gadden asked shrewd questions – about the dog which he had wounded, the smashing of the plaster cast and the visit of Dr. Halsted. Did Mannering think that this new doctor wanted to kidnap Lady Gloria?
Mannering said: “Yes.”
“And how are you going to handle this Dr. Halsted?” asked Gadden, as if it were no concern of his.
&nb
sp; “The question should be, how are you going to handle him?” said Mannering mildly.
Gadden smiled; he had big, white teeth and a strong square jaw, and when he smiled he looked as young as the thirty-year-old Wilkinson.
“Well, Mr. Mannering, I wouldn’t really put it like that,” he said. “I saw the Chief Constable this morning, and he agrees that we should ask Scotland Yard to handle this business for us, if they will. And Superintendent Bristow has a lot of confidence in you, I will say that.” There seemed to be a sly dig in the words. “Bristow has sent this Sergeant Longley, to act as a librarian or whatever he’s to be called, and will send another man if necessary. That’s to prevent anyone from the Hall thinking that the police are watching all the time, isn’t it? Bristow says that you think it will lure them into making a mistake. But will it?”
“It might,” said Mannering. “I’ve been anxious not to spread it about that the police are on the spot, but that’s chiefly because I didn’t want to encourage Lady Gloria too much. We can soon tell her that we think she may be right about her father’s death—and about the body in the library.”
Gadden said: “I wouldn’t like to tell Lady Gloria anything without having medical advice, Mr. Mannering. This body in the library, now—was there one?”
“Bristow tells me I found a spot of blood. I know that doesn’t prove that someone had his throat cut, but—”
“I see what you mean,” said Gadden thoughtfully. “Could you guess whose body it was?”
“No.”
“Have you thought about the identity much?”
“Not much,” agreed Mannering.
“That’s the difference between an amateur like you and we professionals, Mr. Mannering,” Gadden observed. “The first thing I should want to know is whether anyone is missing, and whose body it might have been. Did you know that the librarian who left here just before Lord Lithom died, is missing from his home?”
