Chapter Fourteen

Mannering Searches

 

It was after nine-thirty when Mannering reached the Manor. The lights were blazing, and there was an atmosphere of normality about the place that did not tally with what he knew. The front door was open, and as Mannering went in, Middleton appeared with the mysterious promptness of a good servant.

‘Good evening, sir.’

‘Good evening, Middleton. Do you always leave the door unlocked as late as this?’

‘Only when the Colonel is out, sir.’

‘I see.’

‘He sent his apologies, sir. He and Lady Markly are dining in Salisbury.’

‘Aren’t I too late for dinner?’

‘No, sir,’ said Middleton. ‘The Colonel doesn’t like set times for guests.’

‘I’ll be down in twenty minutes,’ Mannering promised.

‘Very good, sir.’

Mannering went up to his room, and put in a call to Larraby, who lived in a bachelor apartment above Quinns. In little more than a few seconds, Larraby was on the line.

‘Good evening, sir.’

‘Josh, I want Beverley Willis’s home number, quickly.’

‘It’s in my book, sir, if you will wait one moment—ah, Flaxman 73551. He lives near King’s Road and Cheyne Walk—very close to you, sir.’

‘Thanks. And Josh—I want you to come to Salisbury first thing in the morning.’

‘I could drive down at once,’ offered Larraby.

Mannering hesitated, and then said: ‘That might be a good idea.’ He paused. ‘No—better make a really early start tomorrow. I’ll meet you at the Red Lion at eight o’clock, and we’ll have some breakfast.’

‘Very good, sir. Am I to understand some kind of emergency has arisen?’

‘You are indeed,’ Mannering told him. ‘Make sure you’re not followed, and be very careful.’

‘I’m sorry it’s like that, sir. Shall I tell Mrs. Mannering not to expect you tomorrow?’

‘Yes,’ Mannering said. ‘Has anything cropped up in London?’

‘M. Corot telephoned from Paris to confirm that he cannot go to South America, and hopes very much that you can.’

‘So do I,’ said Mannering, ‘but don’t commit me yet.’

He rang off, and waited for a few seconds before picking up the receiver. He could not be sure that the line was untapped but heard nothing to suggest that it was. He put in the call to Flaxman 73551 and a masculine voice with a faintly Scottish accent answered.

‘I’m sorry, Mr. Willis is out and I cannot be sure when he will be home.’

‘Tell him I called and will call again in the morning, will you? This is John Mannering.’

‘Be sure I will tell him, Mr. Mannering.’

Mannering put down the receiver, changed his shirt and tie and went down to dinner. It was strange, almost eerie to be in the big dining-room by himself. Middleton and a young maid waited on him, and at the end of a meal of simple excellence, Mannering asked: ‘Where is Anstiss tonight?’

‘It’s his night off duty, sir.’

‘I see. Don’t wait up for me if I go out again, I’ll take a key.’

‘Very good, sir,’ Middleton said, unsurprised.

At half-past ten, Mannering left in the hired car, driving towards the main road, watchful for the slightest sign of an attack. There was none. At the road he turned left, away from Salisbury, driving for half a mile or so, until he came to a less known entrance to the Manor. He turned into this, put out his headlights and drove slowly until he could see the lights of the main house. He parked on the grass verge, and walked slowly forward. No one was about. He entered by the side door and went up a secondary staircase to the main landing, sure that no one had seen him. He stopped at Joanna’s door, tried the handle and pushed.

The door was locked.

Who would lock it, when Joanna was away?

Mannering took out his penknife and used a picklock swiftly and dexterously. After only a few seconds the lock clicked back. The room was in darkness when he . stepped inside. He put on the light, checked the door to make sure that no light would shine through to the landing, and began to search the room. He found a jewel box on the dressing-table but it contained only a few oddments of costume jewellery. Opening a drawer, he discovered a bank statement which showed that Joanna was about four hundred pounds overdrawn – an indication that Eliza Doze might be right. Beneath it, among some typewritten letters, was one from a Salisbury bank.

 

Dear Miss Cunliffe,

I will appreciate it if you will call and see me one day in the near future. I am sure that you understand that we do not wish to cause you any inconvenience but if you wish to continue the assistance we have been glad to arrange I hope it will be possible for you to offer some security.

 

This badly phrased letter was obviously written by a man who felt ill-at-ease about making such an approach to this particular client. It was crystal clear that Joanna had been overdrawn for some time.

Then Mannering came upon a letter which startled him. Dated five years earlier, it read:

 

Dear Joanna,

As your mother’s friend as well as her legal adviser I want you to know that I will assist you in any way I can. I have already told you how deeply grieved I am about your mother’s death, but please believe that I want very much to help for your own sake, not simply for your mother’s memory.

You are very young; it will be three years and more before you come into the very large sum that you inherit from your mother. As a trustee, I can assure you that the inheritance will be wisely administered, and if you have any special personal need of money, it will, of course, be made available.

 

Yours very sincerely,

Martin C. Wilberforce

 

‘A very large sum,’ Mannering murmured to himself. ‘How large, I wonder?’ He went through more of the papers, and then came upon a letter from a different manager of the same bank.

 

Dear Miss Cunliffe,

Thank you for your letter. I am indeed glad to continue to handle your account and the bank’s services as well as our advice are always at your disposal. I am enclosing a copy of the list of securities lodged with us and will be glad if you will sign one copy and return it to us.

 

The other copy was attached.

The total value of cash and securities was over fifteen thousand pounds.

‘Can that have gone in two years?’ Mannering asked aloud.

He finished his search. There were a few bank statements of recent date showing an overdraft, which would not have mattered but for the specific request for security.

If a girl of twenty-three had gone through that amount of money in two years, what had she spent it on? If she had been blackmailed, it must have been for something pretty serious.

He put all the papers back where he had found them, then stood by the door and surveyed the room. He could think of nothing he had missed until he caught sight of a handbag on a small table. He stepped across, picked this up and opened it.

Inside were a few oddments, a little money, some keys and a folded note which read: Don’t play around any longer. We mean business.

Mannering had never seen a more obvious blackmail ultimatum. He refolded it carefully, holding it by the edges as he slipped it inside an envelope which he placed in his pocket. Then he switched off the light, waiting for a few seconds before opening the door. No one was outside. He went down the secondary staircase and into the grounds by the side entrance, walking through the garden towards the cottage where Lady Markly lived. Mannering didn’t really believe she had anything to do with the missing paintings; nevertheless, with so much unsolved mystery, anything was possible, and this would be an excellent opportunity to search the cottage.

Walking up to the cottage, he circled it, then stood for a moment motionless in the shadows. There were no lights in the windows, front or back. No one appeared to have followed him, nor was there any sound of movement. Stepping inside the tiny porch, he began to work on the lock of the cottage door with a piece of specially toughened steel. Practised as he was, it made very little noise; nevertheless he paused again, to make sure no one had been disturbed, before pushing the door open. He switched on a pocket torch and the beam stabbed like a white dagger through the darkness. Through the hall he crept, past the tiny kitchen, and into the room beyond.

This really was a tiny place; he should be through in fifteen minutes, perhaps even ten. He moved forward as he shone the torch ahead – and kicked against something unyielding on the floor. He struck it so heavily that he tripped and fell, wrenching his shoulder, the torch weaving a wild pattern on the opposite wall.

He put the torch out and got to his feet in darkness, listening, heart thumping.

There was no sound.

He switched on the torch again and, almost fearfully, directed it downwards.

It flickered across a pair of highly polished black shoes, along a pair of trousered legs, a white shirt front, a bow-tie – a face.

It shone on the face of Anstiss, thief and footman.

Mannering was quite sure that Anstiss was dead, although he could not see immediately what had caused death. The man lay on his back, his head turned to one side. His mouth was slack, his eyes were nearly closed.

Slowly Mannering groped for, and found, his wrist; the pulse was still.

He straightened up and leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. The sensible thing was to get away at once, before anyone discovered him here – and yet he wanted to search the cottage. Once the body was found the police would take over, and there would be no chance at all to make a search.

The curtains were drawn.

He shone the torch towards the door until it showed the light switch, crossed to it and flicked it down. The light fell on a charmingly furnished sitting-cum-dining-room. His gaze passed over a settee, two easy chairs, a small table, and came to rest on a writing-bureau. It was unlocked, but contained nothing to give him any help, only the kind of business documents that a woman living alone would have.

She had a bank balance of eight hundred and seven pounds and a deposit account of a little over a thousand; hardly a fortune. She appeared to own a few building society shares and a few other securities, but she wasn’t a wealthy woman, on this evidence.

It was time he went.

Putting out the light, he went back into the hall and crept swiftly up the narrow, carpeted stairs. After a quick look round the tiny bedroom, he lifted the curtain, not expecting to see anything but the lights of the Manor and the shapes of trees.

He stood appalled.

Not far off were two police cars, their headlights pointing towards the cottage. Half a dozen men had alighted. Mannering saw the beams of other cars, the shapes of other men, turned in the same direction. The cottage was surrounded by the police; he had no chance to get away.

 

Shocked, aghast, Mannering let the curtain fall. He could hear no sounds, for the men approached across grass, but it would not be more than two minutes before they reached the door.

Who had sent for them?

That thought passed through his mind as he went towards the landing, reached it and looked upwards. There, as he had hoped, he saw a hatch to an attic. He measured the distance with his eyes, and jumped, hands banging upwards, knocking the hatch cover to one side. Then he jumped again, gripped the edge of the hatch and hauled himself up, the pain in his shoulder almost unbearable. Yet he was able to climb through, scrambling over the side, then to push the hatch cover into place. It fell with a click.

He had won a few minutes’ respite.

Was there an attic window? The roof was of thatch, he remembered, but he had never been near the cottage by day. Cautiously he nicked the torch; the beam fell coldly, impartially, on two paintings. He caught his breath.

These were the paintings he had taken from the studio, and which had been stolen in turn from the Mini after the crash.

He paused long enough to make doubly sure, then shone the torch about the attic. The sloping roof reached to the floor on either side, and even in the middle there was hardly room to stand upright.

There was a window, small but big enough for him to squeeze through, giving him hope that there was still a chance of getting out on to the roof and dropping down to safety.

The alternative was to open the door when the knocking began, to tell the truth and hope that the police would believe him. Surely no one in their senses would seriously believe that he had murdered Anstiss!

But whether they did or not, the police would have to hold him, and he would be able to do nothing more to help Joanna. He had a mental picture of Joanna, pale and still, and of Dr. Ignatzi, deeply worried because he believed that someone had poisoned the girl.

The choice was already made; he had to try to get away. If he failed and were caught, then he could tell the truth; there would be almost as much hope of being believed then as now.

Wedging the two pictures inside his jacket, he edged towards the window.