Chapter Seven

William Brash

The young man was wholesome-looking, probably in the middle-twenties, nice-featured in a homely way, dressed in a Harris-tweed jacket and flannel trousers, with bright-brown shoes. Having made sure who Mannering was, he ignored Fenn and a police-sergeant; he wasn’t far from glaring.

Mannering didn’t answer.

The young man took a step forward, and demanded, “Do you know where she is?”

“If I do,” said Mannering, mildly, “can you give me one good reason why I should tell you?”

That put a spark to the fire, as was meant. The caller’s eyes flashed furiously, his hands clenched, his cheeks turned bright red.

“I mean to know where she is, understand? Come on, tell me, or—”

Then he made his great mistake; he shot out a hand and gripped Mannering’s forearm. He was two inches shorter than Mannering, but broader across the shoulders, and he looked powerful and fit. None of that availed him. Mannering twisted his own forearm, gripped the young man’s, twisted again and pushed – and the visitor went staggering back, out of the doorway and towards the head of the stairs. He couldn’t stop himself, and the sergeant grabbed him.

Rescued from a headlong flight down the stairs, the newcomer looked both badly shaken and bewildered. His face was now a bright red, the red that a coy young maiden might turn if she were deeply embarrassed, but the rage had died from his bright-blue eyes; bewilderment replaced it. He rubbed his right wrist, as if wondering if it had really happened, or whether this were part of a dream.

Mannering beamed at him.

“Goodevening,” he said. “Can I help you?”

Fenn made a smothered noise behind his hand; the sergeant, who knew Mannering far better than did Fenn, hid a grin. The young man noticed neither of these things, just looked uncertainly at Mannering. He moistened his lips. His colour began to recede; even when the flush had gone, he had a fair, pink-cheeked face.

“Because I will gladly help,” went on Mannering, “if I can. You were inquiring about—” He paused, invitingly.

The young man gulped.

“Miranda. Miranda—Smith. Is she—is she here?”

“May I know who wants to know?” asked Mannering, with the most genial of smiles.

“Er—” began the young man, and then seemed to shake his head. “Er—my name is Brash. William Brash. Er—Bill Brash,” he added emphatically, as if that would convey a great deal. “I—er—I’m a friend of Miranda Smith. It’s very important that I should know where she is.”

“Why?” Mannering’s voice was honey-sweet.

“Well—”

“Supposing you come in,” said Mannering, “and tell us all about it there.”

He stood aside. The young man who called himself Bill Brash followed, and Fenn brought up the rear. The sergeant looked regretful because the show was over too quickly.

Mannering closed the hall door and led the way to his study. Bill Brash was still bewildered and a little out of his depth, but Fenn seemed fascinated. A different Mannering had come upon the scene, a man in a guise he had heard about but hadn’t seen before. He could imagine any man who crossed Mannering being scared of him. He could begin to understand the reputation which he had built up, even at Scotland Yard; and the awe in which some policemen seemed to stand of him.

Yet Mannering looked the same—

The change was in his smile, just a quirk of his well-shaped lips; in a kind of courtliness; the lift of his head; a manner that was almost impudent – a step farther, and it would have become arrogance. He not only looked different and spoke in a softer yet clear-cut voice, but he also moved differently. He was on the attack. It wasn’t a very strong attack, and the opposition wasn’t likely to be powerful, but that was the big difference; he had taken the initiative completely. Fenn felt oddly sorry for Bill Brash.

The study was a small room with one large window overlooking distant houses, the Embankment, and the Thames; a familiar scene and welcome on that warm evening. The furniture was obviously antique; Fenn recognised two William and Mary slung leather chairs and a carved-oak settle which must be at least four hundred years old. Yet it didn’t strike one as being old-fashioned. It had an atmosphere which was peculiarly its own; and Fenn, his mind very alert, decided that it suited Mannering.

“Sit down, Mr. Brash,” invited Mannering, and pulled up a chair. “And you, Mr. Fenn.” Not Chief Inspector. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t have a drink. Whisky? Gin? Sherry—?”

“Er—no, thanks,” said Brash, blankly.

“Lemonade?”

With the nuance in a word Mannering could drip sarcasm.

“Well, yes, please,” said Bill Brash.

Mannering was startled, and Fenn gulped. There was a short pause. Mannering, knowing full well that Fenn was summing him up and not missing a trick, began to wonder what Bill Brash was really up to. Was he deeper than he seemed?

“And you?” Mannering asked Fenn, gravely.

“Whisky-and-soda, if I may.”

“Gladly,” said Mannering, and poured out. He had a whisky-and-soda himself. “Mr. Brash,” he said, as he thrust the lemonade into the young man’s hand, “Miss Miranda Smith and Pendexter Smith were at my shop this afternoon, but—”

Brash flashed, “Isn’t she here?”

“I want to know why you think she might be?”

“She went off with your wife,” Brash declared. “I know, a girl at a shop opposite Quinns told me. I came here just as soon as I could, because I must see Miranda. Look, Mr. Mannering—” He got up and moved forward, his voice and his expression alike appealing. “Is she all right?”

“Yes,” said Mannering.

Relief sprang into the young man’s eyes. It was impossible to guess the real cause of it, but it affected him swiftly, almost physically. He backed to his chair, and dropped into it. Lemonade, still effervescing, spilled over the side of his glass, and he looked at it quickly but without real comprehension.

“Thank God for that,” he breathed.

“What did you think might have happened to her?”

“Anything! She was with her Uncle, he’s hardly responsible for his actions, you can never tell what he’s going to do next. I’d heard him say he was going to see you, that’s why I went to Quinns. Lucky thing that girl was at the shop across the road.” Brash sipped his lemonade, then put it on a small table, next took out a silk handkerchief and dabbed his forehead and his neck. “Is he here, too?”

“No.”

“May I see Miranda?”

He hadn’t been told positively that Miranda was here. It was possible that he was trying a trick question, but he looked far too naïve for any such cunning; in fact, he looked almost too simple and straightforward to be true. But there seemed no point in further evasion; he was as likely to talk after seeing Miranda as he was now – more likely, perhaps.

“No,” said Mannering. “Pendexter Smith went off on his own. Miranda’s here, but not too well.”

Brash flashed, “Why not? Is she hurt?”

“Why—?”

“For the love of Mike tell me the truth, don’t stand there vacillating!” roared Brash, and his face turned as red as a turkey cock. “Where is she?”

He jumped up and strode to the door, pulled it open, and rushed into the hall. Fenn, startled, was a yard behind Mannering as Mannering followed. Brash made for the kitchen door, not knowing what it was, thrust the door open and strode in.

Ethel, now sitting and fanning herself out of her fears, was by the window. Young Wainwright was standing near her, with a pewter tankard of beer in his right hand. Wainwright looked startled. It was an odd moment for Mannering to realise that he hadn’t really seen Wainwright before, except as a mild-mannered, competent, and hard-working young man with a sound knowledge of antiques and objets d’art. He was learning fast about precious stones, too. Now, still in his black coat and striped grey trousers, he looked different; the tankard caused that. It made him more human, less a stuffed dummy.

Brash swung round.

“Where is she? Come on, it’s time—”

“You like trouble, don’t you?” asked Mannering, very softly. “But I’ll forgive you, this time. I’ll find out if Miranda wants to see you. Chief Inspector—”

“I’ll stay here,” offered Fenn.

“You’re very good.”

“Of course she’ll want to see me,” Brash cried. “There isn’t any need—”

Mannering looked at him from narrowed eyes. He stopped. It was another example of the way Mannering could change. Fenn could even understand what had made Brash break off and gulp.

Wainwright came from the kitchen.

Mannering went into the bedroom. Lorna was at the dressingtable, doing nothing except looking at the girl. Miranda was sitting in exactly the same position, hands in lap, blue eyes wide open, seeing things which weren’t there, because nothing in sight need frighten her. The impression of fresh, lovely youth was very strong – and when he contrasted that with her affliction, Mannering felt a sharp twinge of almost physical pain.

All he wanted to do was see them both when Brash came in. He didn’t say a word to Miranda, but crossed her line of vision, and so made her look up. He smiled, and pointed to the door, then called: “All right.”

Did she know what he meant?

Fenn came in first, obviously intent on seeing what happened when these two met. Mannering had the best position, standing by Lorna’s side, hand on her shoulder, able to see first Miranda and then the youth.

Bill Brash stopped short; he looked as if he hadn’t really believed that he would see Miranda. He was overjoyed. His lips parted, he held his breath. Gradually, the delight spread from his eyes over his face, he went forward again swiftly, and dropped to his knees in front of her.

It was oddly touching. The days of ardent, kneeling swains had gone, yet Brash knelt before this girl swiftly, unthinkingly, naturally. He took her hands and looked up into her eyes; and he gave Mannering the impression of pleading with her.

The gleam of recognition in her eyes was unmistakable. She wasn’t as glad to see him as he was to see her, but she showed no signs of dismay or dislike. She looked at him, making no attempt to free her hands from his clasp.

“Are you—all right?” Brash asked.

The words hardly carried to Mannering and Fenn; and that didn’t matter. He formed them carefully, so that the girl could lip-read. And she did, for she nodded. Brash stayed where he was, as if he could hardly believe that she was not hurt, could still hardly convince himself that she was really there.

Wainwright appeared in the doorway.

He had left the tankard behind, but brought his new manner with him; a confidence, perhaps a kind of self-assertiveness, which he never revealed at Quinns. He watched Bill Brash steadily, then looked at the girl. It was evident that he liked looking at her; and that was hardly surprising, for she was really something to see.

“Excuse me, sir,” Wainwright said to Mannering, “is there anything more you want me for tonight?”

Mannering answered promptly, “No, you carry on. Head not too bad?”

“I hardly notice it now,” said Wainwright, but that could hardly be true. He was more like the youthful, eager assistant of the shop as he bowed to Lorna. “Goodnight, Mrs. Mannering. Goodnight, sir.”

He inclined his head to Chief Inspector Fenn, and shot a last, lingering glance at Miranda. Then he went out.

Brash gave no sign that he had known anyone else was in the room.

“Now, Mr. Brash,” said Mannering, quietly, “I think you owe us a little more explanation.”

Brash didn’t turn away from Miranda.

“Eh? Oh. What about?”

“Your visit here. Miss Smith and her affliction.” That was the only word to use. It could have no effect on her, as she couldn’t hear and could only lip-read if he spoke care fully while looking straight at her. “And if it comes to that—”

Brash stood up, slowly, his manner oddly deliberate. He turned round. In his pink, rosy-skinned way, he was quite nice-looking. Now that his eyes were calmer, his whole body relaxed; as if he had drawn some kind of assurance from Miranda Smith.

“I came to make sure she was all right. I don’t trust Pendexter Smith, and he has no right to sell anything of hers. I understood he was going to offer some of her jewels for sale. That is why he came to you, isn’t it? He won’t defraud her while I’m alive to stop him. If there’s any more trouble I shall complain to the police.”