by John Creasey
Mannering finished his drink abruptly.
“No.”
“Well he is,” said Gadden. “The moment I heard about this corpse—even before Bristow telephoned—that Lady Gloria had seen, I made inquiries. Wilberforce, the librarian, left his lodgings in St. Malden two days ago, in the morning, and hasn’t returned. No one paid much attention at first, he’s a man who keeps himself to himself very much. Bit of a misanthrope. What kind of man was this fellow her ladyship saw dead?”
“Grey-haired,” said Mannering.
“She didn’t say that she recognized him?”
“No.”
“That’s a pity, she’d have known Wilberforce,” said Gadden. “I—but were you going to say something, Mr. Mannering?”
Mannering laughed.
“Yes—ruefully! How did you know that Lady Gloria thought she saw a man with his throat cut?”
“Well, now, these things get round,” said the local detective comfortably. “There are a dozen servants here, you know—as well as several gardeners and the grooms. We had a call about it yesterday morning. We knew that you were here and I thought perhaps you were keeping Scotland Yard informed, so I did nothing about it—except put a man to watch the Hall, but one man can’t watch a house of this size properly, can he?”
Mannering rubbed his chin.
“Gadden, I’m humbled.”
“My dear sir, no need for that,” protested Gadden energetically. “A fine kind of policeman I’d be if I didn’t know what was happening in my own territory. But I’m very happy to leave this to you and to Scotland Yard, Mr. Mannering. Better I stay in the background. I’ve given it out that I heard that Lady Gloria nearly met with an accident, and wanted to know all about it. That’s all. But there is one thing you might like to know.”
He paused, giving his slow, amused smile.
“Yes,” said Mannering.
“There’s a footman here, by the name of Higby,” murmured Gadden. “Tall, young fellow, with curly black hair, quite the young gentleman. He came not long before his lordship’s death, I’m told. And when there was talk of a man with his throat cut, I was very interested in the new servants, so I checked on all of them. There are three others—three maids, all quite reliable local people—as well as Higby. Higby answered an advertisement, and he came from London. Very fine references, he had—I’ve never read better. But they were forged, Mr. Mannering, I’ve checked that. Now I could have taken action against him, but I thought it better to bide my time. You’ll find the man worth watching.”
Mannering went across the room and poured himself out another drink.
“I ought to go home,” he said. “You should come and stay here.”
“I’m far too busy,” protested Gadden, beaming. “And you’ve certain advantages over me, Mr. Mannering. I shouldn’t like to change places. But I do want to help in every way I can, and I know you’ll keep me informed about all that happens.”
Chapter Twelve
The Library
Mannering watched the local detective and his sergeant driving away from the house. Gadden was a character and an able man – those first good impressions had been fully justified. True, Sergeant Wilkinson hadn’t uttered an intelligible word since he had arrived, but the speed of his shorthand was remarkable. While it hadn’t been put into words, Mannering felt sure that Gadden believed it better not to show much official interest in the Hall yet; but he would act quickly in an emergency.
The arrival of Halsted, the new interest in Gloria, the possibility that some harm had befallen Chatterton, all increased the sense of urgent danger.
Longley, looking more than ever like a young Greek god, and Mary Scott arrived just after the St. Malden detectives left. Longley was a little sheepish for a reason that Mannering didn’t guess until Longley said that they’d had a snack on the way, and wouldn’t want any lunch.
Mannering and Lady Bream took them into the study where they were to start work, and left them to it. Longley already knew where to look for the cause of the odd noises which Mannering had heard. Mannering sought out Wirral, and talked of Wilberforce. Yes, Wilberforce was a surly man; misanthrope wasn’t too strong a word. Wilberforce had a grudge against life.
The gong sounded for luncheon, just after one o’clock.
Lorna and Mannering went into the dining-room, still talking about Gadden. Lorna had seen Longley and Mary for a few minutes, but Mannering hadn’t given them much thought. He intended to have a talk with Longley immediately after lunch – and warn the Yard man not to be surprised if the curly haired Higby showed interest.
He thought most about the missing librarian.
Was it possible that Gloria had seen Wilberforce’s body?
Thought of Gloria brought other problems. Could he rely on Longley and Gadden handling the doctor? What would Halsted do when he was told that Gloria wasn’t going to the nursing home? Would it make danger more imminent?
Mystery brooded and danger lurked, past and present merged in ominous fusion – and he could see nothing but bare outlines of the situation.
Wirral came in with hors d’oeuvres.
“Lady Bream sends her compliments, sir, but she will not be down to luncheon, she is staying with Lady Gloria.”
“Thanks,” said Mannering.
“I’m not sure that we ought to encourage Gloria to stay in bed,” Lorna said when Wirral had gone. “She’s had a long rest, if she gets the idea that she’s ill, she might get worse.”
“She’s safer in bed for a while.”
“Darling, what is the matter with you?” asked Lorna tartly. “You aren’t a bit like yourself. Gloria’s perfectly all right for the next few hours—for just as long as Halsted thinks she’s going to the nursing home. When he finds out that she isn’t, she might be in danger.”
Mannering gazed at a small piece of tomato.
“Yes, dear,” he said humbly.
“What are you thinking about?” demanded Lorna.
“Too much about what’s happened and not enough about what we’re going to do,” confessed Mannering. “Beyond getting Longley and Mary here, I haven’t had a constructive notion since this thing started. I—”
“Poor darling,” sighed Lorna. “You saw Bristow, found the blood, had your head cracked open, traced the dog and shot him, made the plaster casts, put a finger on Higby—darling, you’re getting lazy.”
“Trifles,” declared Mannering; but she had cheered him up. “Let’s face a fact: fat Fenner and his friends are taking me for a ride. What we want now is a little ruse that will get them guessing. We can follow Halsted, but can’t do much about him until we’ve more news from Bristow about Chatterton. Halsted may be a doctor, and has committed no known crime. We can check up on the man Kenley, his host, but the Christian name of Wilfrid may be coincidence. It’s all routine, police work, no point in my dabbling in it. Question is—how to fox Fenner? That’s a job I can do, and the police can’t.”
“Why Fenner?” asked Lorna.
“Wilfrid Fenner. He’s the villain who kidnapped me,” said Mannering reproachfully.
“I do recall it,” said Lorna.
Wirral came in again; there was roast duck, green peas and new potatoes.
Mannering’s mind switched from one thing to another restlessly. Gadden would search for that dog; watch Halsted; keep an eye on Higby: and do other things much more effectively than he could. Longley would search that study for fingerprints and any other clues much more thoroughly than he. No use blinking about it. And he had been equally right when he had said that he needed to fox Fenner. But – how?
There must be a way. He – there was!
Lorna said: “What is it?”
Mannering waved her to silence.
Duck, green peas, new potatoes, a fresh fruit salad, all tasted much the same to Mannering. Lorna knew that he was obsessed by a new idea, and did not interrupt. Wirral asked whether they would have coffee there or in the drawing-room, and Mannering did not hea
r him; Lorna said: “In here, Wirral, thanks.” Wirral brought in the coffee, and Mannering lit a cigarette absently.
“Darling,” murmured Lorna.
“Just about ready,” said Mannering. “I’ve been trying to think how it could be done. Depends on Gloria. Your little piece about not encouraging her to think she’s ill rang a loud bell. Gloria must be made to help herself. All she’s been able to do is to mope and brood—because she wouldn’t get out and about. Will she, I wonder, if she thinks that there’s a chance of proving that she’s right?”
“Yes,” said Lorna firmly. “I agree it’s time you told her.”
Mannering said slowly: “Past time, perhaps. Darling, supposing the great Dr. Halsted arrives, complete with Rolls-Royce, to take his patient away. Supposing we go upstairs to her room to get her, and—hey presto, she’s gone.”
Lorna considered.
“Where and why?” she asked practically.
“Listen—” began Mannering; and he talked while the coffee grew cold.
Gloria was sitting in front of the open window, wearing her dressing-gown, looking wan, her eyes dull and hopeless. She had called ‘come in’ when Mannering had tapped on the door, but she only glanced round quickly and showed no interest in his arrival. He went across to the window, smiling down at her, but she looked up sombrely, showing him the dark shadows under her eyes; her hair seemed to have lost some of its glossy loveliness.
It flashed into Mannering’s mind that if her hair were cut short, it would be remarkably like Higby’s. The texture was similar, and both curled naturally.
“Hallo,” said Gloria tonelessly.
“How are you feeling?”
“All right.”
“You always have been all right,” Mannering assured her. “I’ve some news for you.”
“You mean, I’m to go away,” said Gloria.
“Yes.”
“I can’t say that I mind,” said Gloria. “I’m tired of staying here. It doesn’t make any difference where I am. No one believes me, you all think that I’m mad. Oh, you needn’t pretend that you don’t.” A spark of feeling crept into her voice. “You think I see things which don’t exist, and now you’re sending me away—if I were poor, it would be to an asylum. I’m wealthy, so it’s to a nursing home. It all amounts to the same thing.”
“I don’t think you’ve quite got it right,” murmured Mannering. “I don’t intend to let anyone take you to a nursing home.”
Her eyes brightened, but she looked puzzled.
“Aunt Maggie says—”
“I haven’t consulted Aunt Maggie about this yet. It’s up to you to make the decision.”
“Decision?” She lingered over the word. “What decision?”
“Whether you’ll help us to find out the truth,” said Mannering quietly. “Gloria, look at me.”
The brightness in her eyes was blinding now; hope, reborn.
“I think you saw a dead man in the library,” Mannering said carefully. “I found traces of blood on the carpet—it’s been tested and is human blood. I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure of it.”
Her hands moved from her lap to the arms of her chair, and she gripped them tightly. Her breathing came in short, jerky breaths, and her lips parted, showing her even white teeth. Beauty took possession of her again, pouring life into her.
Mannering went on: “If you were right about that, you might have been right about everything. I’m going to make sure. Last night you were chased by a dog in the grounds, weren’t you? That’s why you ran in front of my car.”
She cried: “How did you know?” And tears glistened.
“I shot and wounded the dog.”
She began to rise to her feet, still supporting herself on the arms of her chair.
“John, you—you aren’t lying to me? You aren’t pretending? You aren’t trying to cheer me up?” Her voice was pitched very low, and he could see the fear which drove the dread into the open.
“It’s all quite true. There’s another thing. Dr. Halsted is a fake. I don’t think he’s a colleague of Dr. Chatterton’s. I think he wants to get you away from here—away from me—so that you can’t help to find out the truth. I don’t intend to let you go.”
She didn’t speak.
“And I’ve got to have your help,” said Mannering. “Halsted and his friends want you away from here. If you won’t go quietly, they might try to kidnap you. That’s the risk. I want to avoid it by sending you somewhere safe and comfortable. To friends, if you like—anywhere that isn’t too near here. And while you’re away, I want you to write down all the things you think you’ve seen, all your reasons for believing your father was murdered. It might be of vital importance to you, and to others.”
She said: “I see.” She dropped back in the chair again, but the glow was still in her eyes. “What—what else?”
“Will you do it?”
“Yes, oh, yes!”
“That’s fine,” said Mannering, but he didn’t let her see his relief. “It may only be for a few days, but there’ll be time for you to write all this down. There’s still something else. Did anything happen when your father was alive to make you think that he was frightened—or afraid of being murdered? Did anything happen here, that could have led to the mystery?”
She said slowly: “No, John. I’ve racked my brains to think of anything. I didn’t know much about his work, I wasn’t in his confidence about that. There’s nothing I know.”
“All right,” said Mannering. He took a photograph from his pocket and held it, back towards her so that she couldn’t see it at first. “He had a lot of visitors, didn’t he?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And you saw most of them?”
“Nearly all of them.”
“Did you ever see this man here?” asked Mannering, and he showed her a photograph of Wilfrid Fenner.
He expected her to look at it intently, to cudgel her brains for any recollection of the man, perhaps to give him a vague answer. The sudden change in her expression, the way she leapt up and gripped his arm astonished him. She nearly dropped the photograph, and was trembling violently.
“That’s Fenner!”
“Yes, Wilfrid Fenner,” Mannering murmured slowly. “When—”
“He was always here! He wanted Father to sell him some books—offered fantastic prices for some of them. We couldn’t get rid of him, he was so insistent. I disliked him—Father did, too. And he stole some of the books—or rather, Wilberforce did, and sold them to Fenner. When—when Father discovered that, he dismissed Wilberforce. He’d have told the police, but Wilberforce had been with us so long. Fenner didn’t come again after that. John, what do you know about him?”
“That Fenner’s a very nasty piece of work, my dear—and he’s still interested in the library.” Mannering put the photograph in his pocket. “Gloria, think hard. You went downstairs to the library and saw the dead man, with his throat cut. Was he facing the door?”
“No, the fireplace. He was all huddled up. His arm was over his face, and that gash in his throat, it was awful. Awful! He was lying on the rug—”
“What rug?” demanded Mannering.
“The big Persian rug in front of the desk,” said Gloria. “Surely you know it.”
Mannering said: “What a blind fool I can be! Yes, I remember, but it’s been taken away. Now, steady, Gloria. It’s only circumstantial evidence. The dead man had grey hair, hadn’t he?”
“Yes—yes.”
“You didn’t recognize him?”
“No. I could only see the top of his head and—and his throat.”
“We’re doing very nicely. Now! You’ve got to leave here before Halsted comes. We’re going to tell him that you’ve been kidnapped, or that you’ve run away. Do you know of anywhere you’d like to go?”
She hesitated.
Mannering forced himself not to think too much about the revelation about Fenner. Time for that, later. Gloria mattered; he must keep
up this flow which had poured new life into her. She said slowly, eagerly: “There’s one place, but you may not like it.”
“Where is it?”
“A cottage, not very far away,” said Gloria. “It’s about twenty miles, I suppose. Abel’s mother and father, Mr. and Mrs. White, live there. I used to go there when we were out riding, as a child, and I’ve often called, ever since. It’s a lovely cottage, and the old couple are dears.”
“Twenty miles ought to be far enough away,” said Mannering. “We’ll fix it.”
“John! Oh, John, I don’t know what to say. I’m so—”
“You haven’t time to talk, just to act,” urged Mannering. “You’ll need old clothes, and not Mayfair cut, either. Can you borrow some from one of the maids? Is there one you could trust?”
“Someone to be in the secret, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“No,” said Gloria. “No, don’t let any of the servants know where I am, except Abel. But I could take some of Louise’s clothes. She’s our under-housemaid and is in hospital. She won’t be back for three or four weeks. She’s about my size. Will that do?”
“Just right. Put some on, and be ready to leave by the back door when I give the word. I’ll arrange for someone to come for you. How soon can you be ready?”
“In half an hour,” said Gloria. She looked radiant.
“You can have an hour, not a minute more. Don’t put on too much make-up, and make a poor job of it. Country girl on a day’s outing, you know the kind of thing.”
“It’s easy,” cried Gloria. She looked so young and excited; he realized that her youth was bursting out into full flower; that because of her father’s influence, she had never really been young before.
And then clouds drove the brightness away.
“John!”
“What is it?”
“Aunt Maggie.”
“I’ll look after Aunt Maggie,” Mannering said.
Mannering went to the switchboard downstairs and telephoned to Gadden. No one noticed him making the call, and Gadden promised to do everything that was required – send one of his men in a car for Gloria; take her to the cottage; and have a man stationed near the cottage, night and day. She was to go alone, and explain it to the Whites herself: the more responsibility she had, the better for her.
