Chapter Ten

The Danger

 

The innocent-looking plastic bag was twenty feet away from Mannering, but within inches of the smouldering rags. If the flames leapt suddenly they might well touch it.

He remembered the explosive sounds in the cottage – just such sounds as would be made if this bag did burst and it did contain petrol.

As these thoughts were sweeping through his mind he was moving swiftly but steadily towards the bench. A flame leapt two inches into the air. It was very hot. He could see only the liquid in the plastic bag, liquid which he now noted was slightly yellowed, lacking the clarity of clear water. Lifting a piece of hardboard with agonising slowness – any quick displacement of air might well fan the flames in the wrong direction – he placed it firmly between the rags and the plastic bag, and wedged it in position.

His mouth was very dry.

With another piece of hardboard he pushed the rags further away, close to the edge of the bench. Then he placed the board on top of them; that should smother the flames. The smell of burning was nauseatingly unpleasant.

Keeping a hand in front of his face, he watched the plastic bag. Overheated by the flames, it might well explode at a touch; and though, with every moment, the risk of an explosion was lessening, he would be wise not to handle it for some time. He began to look about him and saw another, similar, bag in the corner where, on his last visit to the studio, he had seen the copy of the Franz Hals portrait.

The portrait wasn’t there.

The second bag was quite cool and he picked it up. This, too, was made of plastic, with a rubber band round the neck, rather like a toy balloon. He loosened this band carefully, smelling, as he did so, the faint but unmistakable fumes of petrol.

He looked across at the other bag, beginning to take in the situation in more detail. Once the fire had taken a hold, this studio would have been wrecked, and so would the gallery above it. Even if the rest of the house had been saved, the whole of the north side of the Manor would have been burned out.

Who would take such a risk, and – why?

Why had Anstiss set fire to the attic at the cottage?

Obviously, thought Mannering, to destroy something that he and Lobb were anxious that no one should discover; so, presumably, the same kind of ‘something’ was here in the studio. His heart began to beat faster. Search, and he would find.

Just as he had taken it for granted that Lobb had cut off Joanna’s hair, so, now, he was taking it for granted that Anstiss had started this fire. It wasn’t absolutely certain, but it was highly probable.

Why?

What was there here which had to be destroyed?

What had there been in the attic at the cottage?

He began to search, looking behind every picture, on every shelf, moving everything so that he could be sure he overlooked nothing. Gradually he became absorbed in the task, so much so that he lost all count of time – all thought of danger, too.

Suddenly he heard a sound from the top of the spiral staircase, and realised that someone was approaching the stairs from the gallery.

He moved back cautiously, stepping behind an easel supporting a large canvas.

The door leading from the gallery to the stairs opened, and a pair of highly polished riding-boots appeared, then a man’s legs, then the skirt of his jacket.

It was Colonel Cunliffe.

 

Cunliffe left the door open and clumped down the stairs quite briskly. He sniffed, looking about the studio without appearing to notice Mannering. The plastic bag, however, caught his eye, and he went straight over to it. His hand hovered; Mannering was tempted to shout: ‘Don’t touch it,’ but it was probably cool enough to be handled by now. Cunliffe was cautious, after all, and merely lifted the hardboard off the rags. Smoke billowed up, sending him back, gasping.

‘What the devil!’ he exclaimed.

He stood staring at the rags, wrinkling his nose. Then he turned and stared at the paintings, running his hand over the back of his head. ‘Can’t understand it,’ he muttered. ‘Who would want to burn the place down?’

Now he leaned over the plastic bag, sniffed, then backed away. Slowly he buried his face in his hands; at that moment he was remarkably like his daughter, giving the same impression of helplessness and hoplessness that she had given when crouched in grief at the foot of the stairs.

‘Will it never end?’ he asked, despairingly. ‘Will it never end?’

Presently he straightened up, and brushing the rags on to the hardboard, he carried them to the sink and ran water over the now all but dead embers. He stared at the tap as the water sprayed out, then washed and dried his hands with unthinking thoroughness. Mannering could see him very clearly, could not mistake the look of despair on his features.

‘Joanna,’ he said sadly. ‘Oh, Joanna.’

He looked about the shelves and seemed to be making sure that there were no other smouldering rags. Then he turned and stared at the painted trifles.

‘Joanna,’ he repeated.

At last he went up the stairs, his step that of an old and weary man. The gallery door closed. Cautiously Mannering moved from his hiding-place, the picture of Cunliffe’s despair vivid in his mind’s eye as he continued his search.

He found nothing that could have the least significance.

He went round once again and then stood where Cunliffe had stood, in front of the gay little modern paintings. For the first time he saw the initials J.C. in the bottom left-hand corner of each. These were the only finished paintings, the only things of any conceivable value here, and no one could possibly believe they were worth more than a few pounds, unless …

He took one off the wall and carried it to the clear north light beneath the window. Any art student with the slightest flair could do as well or better. Fetching a small bottle of methylated spirits and a piece of clean rag, he dampened a spot on the rag and carefully rubbed a corner of the painting. The pale blue of the sky came off on to the rag almost immediately. He dampened another spot, and worked on the same corner again with even greater care.

He did not get down to the canvas, for there was darker paint beneath the blue. He cleaned a slightly larger area and found traces of varnish, reddish-brown colour and a small speck of bright yellow, strangely reminiscent of the Franz Hals portrait he had seen on his earlier visit. He stopped, putting canvas and rag down, and studied the picture.

Why had Joanna painted her trifles over an old canvas?

And why should the incendiary want to destroy them?

Mannering drew back from the painting, picked up the palette, worked some pale blue on to a brush and painted over the corner which he had cleaned. Now he had to make up his mind whether to leave the paintings here or take them away. There was an obvious risk of another attack, and the perfect answer would be to watch both entrances. It wasn’t possible by himself.

Whoever wanted to destroy the paintings certainly didn’t want them found and would be alarmed if they disappeared. But it was possible that one wouldn’t be missed – or even two.

The decision made, Mannering picked up the canvas he had just been working on, selected one other, also signed with the initials J.C., and tucked them under his arm. As he went awkwardly up the ladder he moved carefully and warily, alive to the danger that someone might have discovered that he was missing.

His room, however, was exactly as he had left it.

He slipped the paintings under his mattress, and went out, leaving his door unlocked. A maid was coming out of Joanna’s room.

‘How is Miss Joanna?’

‘About the same, sir.’

‘So she’s no better,’ said Mannering heavily. ‘Who’s with her?’

‘Betsy Doze, sir.’

Mannering nodded, gave a perfunctory tap at the door and went in. Betsy, on a chair near the bed, was knitting and looking at a magazine at the same time. She jumped up, clutching at the falling ball of wool.

‘Good—good morning, sir!’

‘Hallo, Betsy,’ Mannering said. ‘I’ve just come to see Miss Joanna.’

He looked down – and was shocked.

Joanna had been tucked tightly into bed so that only her head and face showed, a scarf twisted in a nun-like coif about her head. She lay, still as death, and very pale. Mannering frowned, studying her lips for some sign of movement. He touched the lid of her right eye, raised it for a moment, then gently lowered it again.

‘She—she looks pretty bad, doesn’t she?’ Betsy asked uneasily.

‘She’ll get over it,’ Mannering assured her, but he did not feel anything like as confident as he sounded. ‘Look after her.’ He went out, striding back to his own room, knowing exactly what he wanted to do. Seizing the telephone beside his bed, he dialled Dr. Ignatzi’s number.

A pleasant-voiced woman answered him. ‘I’m afraid the doctor is out, who …? Oh, yes, he did leave a number, Mr. Mannering … Yes, I’ll call him … To come to the Manor urgently … Can I give him any idea what to expect?’

Mannering, knowing that someone might be listening in, said: ‘I think Joanna may have taken an overdose of some sleeping mixture, probably one with morphia in it.’

‘I’ll see that my husband is told right away.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mannering. ‘Thank you very much. It really is urgent.’

He rang off, wondering whether he would have been wiser to send for an ambulance and get the girl to hospital without delay; but she was breathing evenly enough, and Ignatzi surely wouldn’t be long. Even so, Mannering knew that he would be on edge for the next half hour or so; he must find something to occupy his mind until Ignatzi arrived.

Walking round to the back of the house, he found a groom brushing down Joanna’s chestnut in a stable yard close by the garage.

‘Do you know where I’ll find Miss Hester’s car?’ he asked. ‘Colonel Cunliffe was good enough to say I could use it.’

‘The red Mini, sir—it’s in the end garage, Number Six, and the key will be in the ignition. We always leave the key in during the day in case someone needs it in a hurry.’

Mannering drove round to the front of the house; the car was comfortable enough and had good leg room. He parked it in the shade of a big lime tree. It was warm; this was as good a spell of weather as England had had all the summer.

A little low-on-the-ground Triumph was coming rapidly up the drive, and Mannering was surprised and relieved to see Ignatzi climb out of it. He was wearing ginger-coloured tweeds and golfing shoes; there wasn’t much doubt about where he’d been. Seeing Mannering, he half turned, but Mannering shook his head and Ignatzi took the hint and went straight into the house. Mannering strolled about the ornamental garden, half his mind admiring the roses, the dahlias, the early chrysanthemums, the other half pre-occupied with Joanna.

Ignatzi was taking his time; he must have been there at least half an hour, Mannering thought. Then he heard another engine, and saw a white ambulance coming along the drive.

So he’s worried too, Mannering thought grimly.

He did not wait to see Joanna brought out of the Manor, but got back into Hester Cunliffe’s car and drove out of the grounds towards the village. The blackened ruin of Eliza Doze’s cottage showed clearly, as he rounded a bend in the road.

Had there been disguised paintings there, as well?

It was difficult to associate the thatched cottages and the atmosphere of peacefulness with fire and violence and the threat of death; difficult to realise that, until last evening, he had never seen this place. Pulling up by the telephone kiosk outside the village store, he stepped inside and put in a call to Quinns. Larraby was on the line, almost immediately. ‘Find out what you can about a man named Harry Anstiss, obviously a practised thief,’ Mannering told him, ‘and another named Lobb, a big, powerfully built man who can paint. Ring me back at the Manor. If you can find out nothing, say so. If either has a record just say the answer is in the affirmative. All clear, Josh?’

‘Quite clear, sir.’

Mannering rang off, and immediately dialled Dr. Ignatzi’s number; the same woman answered him.

‘Sorry to worry you again,’ Mannering said.

‘Oh, that’s all right, Mr. Mannering.’

‘I’d like to call in and see Dr. Ignatzi when he’s had a chance to examine Joanna Cunliffe,’ Mannering said. ‘What would be a good time?’

‘Well—would six o’clock be too late?’

‘Six o’clock will be fine. Thank you.’

Leaving the kiosk, he went into the village shop, small, but surprisingly bright, the shelves stacked with fresh-looking tins and packets. He bought some cigarettes from a middle-aged woman who was pleasant enough, but uncommunicative. He had a feeling that she knew who he was and was determined in advance not to be drawn. As he drove slowly, thoughtfully, back to the Manor, first Ignatzi in his Triumph and then the ambulance passed him. He saw one or two men working in the ornamental garden, others on the lawns.

‘He must keep a staff of twenty,’ Mannering reflected.

Leaving the car outside the front door, he went into the house. It was past two o’clock, so he had missed luncheon, but after his late breakfast this was something he could well do without. Going straight to his room, he lifted the mattress to make sure that the paintings he had taken from the studio were still there. They were.

Suddenly there was a tap at the door. Swiftly he lowered the mattress and smoothed the coverlet.

‘Come in,’ he called.

After a short pause, Cunliffe entered. He looked tired and very much older, and his shoulders sagged dejectedly.

‘They’ve taken Joanna to hospital,’ he announced. ‘Ignatzi seems worried about her.’ He lifted his hands and let them fall. ‘And I, too, am deeply worried. Mannering, forgive me if, once again, I take advantage of your presence here, but I would very much appreciate some—some guidance from you, both on a matter of business which affects us both and on a personal matter. Have you time to listen?’

‘And to help, if I can,’ promised Mannering.