Chapter Twenty-Four

Hornet’s Nest

The truth was in Wainwright’s expression, in the speed of his movement, in the way he turned with the gun and covered Mannering. It ought to have been easy, but two things saved Mannering; a flash of insight and a flash of memory. He fired first. His bullet struck Wainwright’s wrist, and the man looked baffled, horrified.

His gun dropped.

“Over there!” a policeman was shouting, and the crashing through the undergrowth came louder, drew nearer.

Wainwright’s breathing was louder, too.

“Keep still, Ned,” Mannering said, in a voice he hardly recognised as his own. “Keep quite still.”

“To hell with you, I’ll get you yet!” Wainwright slid his uninjured left hand into his pocket, and turned towards the thicket.

Mannering shot him again.

Then the armed police burst into sight, and Wainwright, face distorted with pain, blood dripping from his right hand and down from his left shoulder, made an ineffectual effort to get away.

The police caught him.

Mannering didn’t move.

Three minutes later, a policeman came out of the undergrowth at the spot where Dibben had appeared, and reported that he’d found a hollow tree; obviously it had been used as a hiding-place and a rendezvous.

Wainwright heard this, but didn’t speak.

Dead Dibben didn’t hear.

A Midham Inspector came hurrying up, looked at Mannering intently, began to speak, but stopped. That was because of the way Mannering was looking at Wainwright, with a strange pain in his eyes.

Wainwright just glared.

Mannering turned away.

It seemed a very long and lonely drive back, later that evening.

Mannering turned into Green Street, and wasn’t surprised to see Fenn’s car pulled up outside the house. Fenn wasn’t in it. A sergeant, walking up to him, said that the Chief Inspector had been upstairs for half an hour.

What had he been saying to Lorna?

Did it matter?

Lorna had heard or seen Mannering’s car from the window, and was at the flat door to greet him. He forced a smile for her, and was glad of the firm, understanding grip of her, hands. She didn’t speak.

“All over,” Mannering said. “Fenn amiable?”

“Very. So he should be.”

“Yes,” said Mannering. “I suppose so. You’ll sit in with us, darling.” He didn’t want to talk to Fenn alone, although he would have found it difficult to give a reason. They went into the drawing-room, where Fenn was standing by the screened fire-place, a whisky-and-soda in his hand. His smile was full and free, his body quite convex as he moved forward, hand outstretched.

“Good to see you,” he said. “Thanks for everything.”

“Thanks? I ought to see a psychiatrist,” Mannering growled. “Once I knew, everything told me the truth. And the time it became so obvious that I should be kicked for missing it, was after Wainwright shot Pendexter Smith. He told me he’d recognised Dibben when we saw him in the grounds at Dragon’s End. He couldn’t have; it was dark, he didn’t see the man’s face, he actually held him with his hands behind him. I was the only one who saw Dibben. So, it was a lie.”

Mannering dropped into a chair.

Lorna mixed him a whisky-and-soda.

Fenn said, “I’m not so sure it was that obvious.”

“It was. I should have seen it much earlier, too. Or suspected it, at least. Sylvester—” Mannering clenched his hands, and Lorna about to hand him the glass, held it back. “He killed Sylvester, of course. Sylvester saw him come in, didn’t give him a second thought, hadn’t the slightest doubt that all was well. And as he turned his back, Wainwright must have smashed at his head.”

“Yes,” said Fenn. “Wainwright was reported as being seen near Quinns that day. Why not? He was the one man I passed right over. But you’d have tumbled to it eventually. That’s almost certainly why he decided to kill you. You had a blind spot, but it would be bound to go.” Fenn paused. “Dibben left a letter, in which he says as much. When you let Dibben go, you really made a friend.”

Mannering took his drink, and forced a smile at Lorna. “Thanks, sweet.” He sipped. “Oh, I can see plenty now. Almost from the beginning, when he told me he found a cosh in Brash’s car. He was never attacked by Brash of course. When we were first at grips with the case, and Wainwright followed Lorna here to make sure that she wasn’t threatened he knew all about the man who was waiting for her. Freddy Bell. Talked to Bell?”

“Yes. He’s cracked, now that he knows Wainwright is under charge. No room left for doubt,” Fenn said. “Wainwright was the evil genius. Incidentally, he’s not as young as he makes out; thirty-one. He’d pass for the early twenties with that nice, ingenuous manner of his. Wainwright had one of the gang hit him over the head, to produce that convincing-looking lump he showed us.”

“Gang,” echoed Lorna, as if the word hurt.

“I think I’ve most of the story clear,” said Fenn. “There may be odds and ends to fill in, but not many. There are really two sides to it. Wainwright’s and Crummy Day’s.”

The story was pieced together in the days which followed, and Mannering studied it until he almost knew it off by heart. Months before he had even heard of Pendexter Smith, he had been unknowingly involved, for Crummy Day and Wainwright, between them, had been planning a big raid on Quinns.

Wainwright, who had an unblemished reputation, was of good social standing and well liked, was bad; just bad. Several years before, he had stolen jewels from the home of a friend, and had been introduced to Crummy Day as a fence; that began their partnership.

Both men had believed that when Pendexter Smith died Miranda would be easy prey. And, to help make sure, Crummy Day had used Bill Brash, who was as innocent of crime as Miranda herself. He had come to know Day when selling him paper and envelopes for Day’s extensive business; Day had befriended him, encouraged him to renew his acquaintance with Miranda, been sure that on Pendexter Smith’s death, Miranda would be guided by Brash – who would be advised by Day himself.

To threaten Pendexter, wear him down, and bring his death nearer, Day had used Wainwright.

Wainwright was planning a big raid on Quinns, to look like an outside job. Then Pendexter Smith took the nest-egg there, and above everything else, Crummy Day wanted to possess the nest and the jewelled eggs. Both crooks knew that there was reason to fear Mannering; actually feared that Smith had told him the story, implicating Crummy Day. So Pendexter had been waylaid and made to talk; then drugged and taken home.

Crummy wanted action.

Wainwright needed a stooge.

Suspicion was thrown on Brash, who was ready made. Brash, hating Smith, told Crummy Day that he was going to see if Miranda’s uncle had started to take over her fortune – and Day had sent Dibben and other men to watch, and to act as needed. The main purpose, by then, was to distract Mannering’s attention – get him to Dragon’s End and after Brash, while Wainwright broke into Quinns for the nest-egg and other treasures.

But Wainwright could not break in.

He had got Mannering out of the way, but was beaten by the strong-room doors. So he had to wait, and work by day. Knowing Mannering and Sylvester were at Quinns, and that Trevor was out, he and two accomplices had broken into Quinns.

Once Sylvester had been killed and entry forced, Wainwright had gone out by the back way. But the men left behind to deal with Mannering had failed, one had not reckoned on murder, got cold feet, and run. The other had fallen to Mannering.

From that moment Wainwright knew that sooner or later Mannering would realise that Sylvester had been killed by someone he knew and trusted. Wainwright had made this clear to Crummy Day, in Dibben’s hearing, and set out to kill. Day had opposed this.

Wainwright was tired of taking Day’s orders, and tired of feeding Day’s insatiable lust for treasures. Brash, already suspected of Revell’s murder – and Revell had been killed so as to trap Brash – was at Day’s and Wainwright saw his chance to kill Day, have Brash framed, and be his own master from then on.

He knew where Day kept his treasures, had meant to take them all. The police had found these now, a treasure trove of priceless things, enough to bewilder and bedazzle even Mannering.

Wainwright had known that for his own safety, Mannering and Pendexter Smith – who had seen him at Day’s and would name him if he saw him at Quinns – must both die. He had planned the murders at Dragon’s End, and relied on Dibben to help. Dibben had refused to kill Mannering. He had hidden in the hollow tree in the grounds, awaited his chance, and warned Mannering.

Of all his deep regrets, Mannering’s deepest was that Dibben had died. He had broken the news to Dora Dibben himself, had tried to ease the blow, and left, distressed by her obvious grief. He would wait a while, then find some way to help.

One thing crowded out thought even of Dora Dibben, and the story itself.

Would Miranda recover?

At the hospital where she had been taken, Brash was waiting and praying. A simple, eager, ardent Brash, who had been sure that Pendexter Smith was planning to turn Miranda’s treasures into securities, but not dreamed why; and who, being a dupe of Day’s, had been taken for a rogue by Pendexter Smith, and seen as a menace to Miranda.

Three days later, Richardson telephoned Mannering.

“Miranda Smith will pull through,” he said, “I thought you’d like to be the first to know … Yes, quite certain … ’Bye.”

Lorna and Mannering stood by the window of the drawing-room, watching the end of Green Street. Neither needed to tell the other of the strange tension gripping them. Whenever a car appeared, Lorna flinched; and when eventually Bill Brash’s green M.G. turned, snorting, into the street, Lorna bit her lip.

But when she looked at Mannering, she was smiling.

“Idiot, aren’t I?”

“Crazy,” agreed Mannering, and kissed her nose. “May you get worse and worse! It’s a pity it’s the middle of the afternoon, I could do with a drink.”

“Richardson says—”

“Fenn said—”

They stopped, half-laughingly.

“The reports appear to say that she is really normal again,” Mannering said with great care. “Are people being kind? Is that your worry?”

Lorna nodded.

“There’s one thing,” she said, “if Miranda needs someone to help her through, she couldn’t do better than Bill Brash. I hope—”

Mannering finished for her. “She marries him.”

The car had drawn up beneath their window, out of sight. Soon the front-door bell rang, and Ethel, almost as worked up as the Mannerings, crossed the hall. The Mannerings had the drawing-room door open, ready to greet Bill Brash and Miranda.

What would she say?

How would she feel?

The door opened. Bill Brash stood back a little, as if he wanted all the spotlighting to be on Miranda. She smiled at Ethel, who mumbled something and stood aside. She looked into Mannering’s eyes; then into Lorna’s. She hadn’t changed at all. She was fresh and lovely, with those clear-blue eyes, and perfect figure; and she had the same familiar grace.

Lorna went forward, hands outstretched.

“It’s good to see you, Miranda. And you, Bill.”

“It is lovely to be here again,” Miranda said, in a quiet, husky voice; almost a tired voice, but natural and clear and without a suggestion of an impediment. “You have both been so very good.”

“And listen!” Bill Brash burst out, turning the colour of a turkey cock. “It’s all settled, ding-dong, wedding-bells, she is going to marry me! And you’d never believe, she used to think I might be mixed up in that crooked business. She says that’s why she wouldn’t say ‘yes’ before. Do you think—”

“Darling,” said Miranda Smith, very gently, and with a gleam in her eyes, “don’t you think it is time you let me speak for myself?”