Chapter Two

The Prowler

Mannering could see the dim, blurred reflection of the man’s head and shoulders – and one hand, touching the doorframe. He moved along a little, breathed on the glass to smear it, then stared hard, as if looking inside the book-case.

The man stayed at the door.

Mannering breathed heavily again and smeared the glass in front of him. As the cloud cleared, the watcher disappeared.

Mannering swung round, reached the door and peered into the hall, standing at one side, so that he couldn’t easily be seen.

The other was walking softly along the wide passage which led to the ballroom. He reached a door which opened to the right of the large swing-doors of the ballroom, and touching the handle, turned and glanced behind him. Mannering darted out of sight. Next time he ventured to look, the man had disappeared, but he remained vivid in Mannering’s mind’s eye. Short, slim, dressed in black clothes – as the butler or any of the footmen at Lithom Hall would be by day, but not two hours after the household had retired.

Mannering followed the unknown and opened the door through which the man had passed. A light went out, another door opened. Whoever was ahead had one advantage; he knew the house better than Mannering. But Mannering passed along a narrow passage and the pale light from the hall showed him the far door.

He reached it, turned the handle and pulled.

The door didn’t open.

He pushed.

No, it was locked.

He stood in the gloom, deliberating, then went back to the study.

The chalk-mark showed up plainly, and he remembered seeing a pair of scissors in the drawer; he took them out, with a small envelope. There was a dull smear over the spot; blood would coalesce when exposed to the air.

He cut off the soiled strands of pile, placed them in the envelope, sealed it, and thrust it into his pocket.

As he finished, he heard a new sound, shuffling, rustling. He peered at the door – and then a smile transformed his face, gave him a gay and lively look, wariness all gone.

Lady Bream, a distant relative whom Gloria called ‘Aunt’, thumped into the hall and into sight.

“Well? Having a quiet read?”

“Fascinating things, books,” murmured Mannering.

“Exasperating people, fools. What are you trying to do, John? Persuade Gloria that she did see something?”

“Just trying to make sure.”

“There’s no need to make sure. You’re quite wrong to encourage the child. Heaven knows, I’m sorry enough for her,” went on Lady Bream. “She was so different, so bright and gay—but now—there’s too much coddling.”

“I know. You said so upstairs.”

“These specialists,” sneered Lady Bream. “Money, money, money, thumping fat fees, for pretending that there’s something mysterious about a girl who had a shock and can’t get over it. I’m disappointed in you, John, I thought you had more commonsense.”

“We young people!”

“Young? You. You’re forty, old enough to—”

“Thirty-eight, please,” pleaded Mannering.

“That’s still old enough to know better than to pamper Gloria!”

“She might have seen a body, you know.”

“Have you seen one?”

“Oh, no, but—”

“Then that proves she was dreaming,” said Lady Bream, sweepingly. “John, you’ve got to stop her from mooning about the house all day. Do you know, she hasn’t been to London for six months. She won’t visit anyone, won’t even call on old friends. She refuses all invitations, she hasn’t hunted this year. She’s developing melancholia, that’s what’s happening to Gloria. And all these high falutin’ ideas that the specialists give her are making her worse. Now she really thinks she’s ill, and she’s brooding over that as well as over Philip. I thought you would help her to get over his death.”

“I do try.”

“You don’t try the right way.”

“Each to his own method,” said Mannering. “Maggie, didn’t I ask you not to leave her alone?”

“She’s asleep,” said Lady Bream. “Don’t try to teach me my business, John.”

“I won’t try to teach you a thing,” said Mannering. “Let’s go.”

Lady Bream insisted on satisfying herself that nothing was amiss in the study, then led the way up the stairs, rustling and thumping. In Gloria’s room, the red glow from the electric fire spread soft hues over the sleeping girl as she sat in the chair. Her shoulders drooped and her cheek rested against a wing; in repose, she looked lovely.

Lady Bream tidied the rumpled bed and turned down the bedclothes.

“Can you lift her, John?”

“I don’t want to wake her.”

“Nothing will wake her now,” said Lady Bream confidently. “After one of these spells, she sleeps like a log. Don’t be lazy.”

Gloria was very light in Mannering’s arms. He realized almost with a sense of shock how thin she was.

She didn’t stir as he carried her to the bed.

Lady Bream tucked her in and, before moving away, brushed her forehead lightly with her hand. Then she turned away as if ashamed of the emotion. When they reached the passage, she was smiling and her voice was gentle.

“Poor child,” she said. “Philip’s death was such a shock for her, John, we must do something to help her.”

“We will, Maggie.”

The old woman looked at him with her head on one side, probing, inquiring.

“John, what’s going on in that wicked mind of yours?”

“The usual blank,” said Mannering. “The grey cells won’t work in the early hours. Blame my riotous living.”

“I sometimes wonder whether you ever forget that some idiots consider you to be a good detective. I always said that admiration would spoil you, John.” She touched his arm. “Do you think Philip was murdered?”

Mannering said quickly: “There’s nothing at all to suggest it, Maggie. I’ve looked for evidence high and low. That’s why I’m here.”

“I thought as much,” breathed Lady Bream. “Who sent you?”

“I had a talk with Dr. Chatterton. He’s puzzled.”

“I’m disappointed in that man, too,” said Lady Bream. “I thought he really was clever, but he’s handled this case shamefully. I swear he encourages Gloria to think that she’s right about Philip being murdered.”

“I don’t know how Chatterton handles his patients, but he did say that one sure cure for Gloria would be to find out that she’s right. She—but look here, it’s chilly out here. Come to my room and let’s hug the fire.”

Lady Bream looked as if she were going to refuse, but changed her mind.

Soon, she was sitting in an arm-chair in Mannering’s room, with the fire on. Her eyes were bird-like, and the analogy was heightened by her small beak of a nose and rather thin lips, which curved downwards at the corners. Her neck was thin and wrinkled, and her face a mass of tiny criss-cross lines; she was in the early sixties, and no one looking at her would have been surprised had she been seventy. But her eyes were still bright and her grey hair plentiful, and no one doubted the shrewdness of her mind.

Mannering told her that Chatterton had said, convincingly, that if it could be proved that Gloria’s father had been murdered, the girl’s recovery from fears and nightmares would be rapid. It was less fear than the fact that no one believed her that was affecting her. Everyone was sure that it was an hallucination, that she was mentally sick. Chatterton had gone further; and Lady Bream’s face grew sombre as she listened. The specialist doubted if ordinary treatment would help her; Gloria fought against it so much because of her passionate belief.

“So I thought I’d have a look round,” finished Mannering.

The woman nodded, slowly, worriedly.

“And you’ve found nothing?”

“Nothing at all,” Mannering said. In his mind’s eye was a picture of a small, slender man in black; no need to tell Lady Bream about that yet. “I’ve examined the reports of the autopsy, consulted pathologists, done everything I can. All Philip’s injuries were compatible with a fall from his horse. The assumption is that his horse shied at something and threw him. It’s hard to believe, because Philip was born to a saddle, but—”

“Good riders always die in the saddle,” Lady Bream declared roundly. “There’s nothing hard to believe about it at all. But John, what are we to do with Gloria?”

Mannering said: “I thought you knew.”

She looked suddenly older and careworn, and seemed to shrink back into the chair.

“I thought I did,” she said in a voice little above a whisper. “I’m not really sure. I think Gloria wants taking out of herself. I’ve been trying to shake her up for a month, and she’s no better. Shall we send her away?”

“Not yet.”

“Can’t you make her do something, instead of shutting herself up here all the time? I never thought I’d come to hate this house, but—”

“It’s no use forcing her to do anything,” Mannering said. “We can only encourage her. I’ll get Lorna to come down for a few days, that might help. Gloria might improve if she had a companion nearer her own age, too.” The gleam made his eyes sparkle again. “She’s too used to elderly company, isn’t she?”

“She always has been!”

“It hasn’t been good for her,” said Mannering, leaning against the mantelpiece. “She’s—how old?”

“Twenty-four. Why, at twenty-four I’d had three children,” declared Lady Bream, puffing out her chest; the careworn expression disappeared. “What Gloria wants is a husband, children, life. She isn’t alive, John, she hasn’t been for a year or more. I sometimes think that Philip sapped her vitality. It was no life for a child to live here with him. All the guests were his age, not hers—” she broke off, and grunted. “He didn’t want her to get married. He didn’t say so, but I know that’s true. He kept eligible young men away from the house. Never let her go to London alone. She was beautiful—she is still—but he crushed her. He—oh, one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but he wasn’t fair. He traded on her devotion to him, and when he died, she collapsed. He was a wonderful man,” added Lady Bream with a sniff, “but—”

“Not a very good father?”

“That’s about it,” agreed Lady Bream. “John, supposing we had one or two young people here, would it help? There’s Lucy and Daphne—”

“I don’t think anyone in the family would be much good, they’d have no patience with Gloria. Ever thought how strange it is that Philip was so different from the rest of the family, Maggie? They’re forthright people—a spade’s a spade, and all that. If a man has a pair of good hands, he’s all right to them. A fighting family, not a family of thinkers—and Philip was a thinker first and a man of action afterwards.”

“A long way afterwards,” observed Lady Bream tartly. “Quite remote from the famous ancestors.”

“Yes, but how does that help Gloria?” asked Lady Bream. “I don’t know that it does, but it’s worth thinking about.” Mannering stood up. “Now you ought to go to bed, Maggie. You’ll be tired in the morning.”

“I’m perfectly all right,” said Lady Bream sharply. “What about this young person? If the family won’t do, who will?”

“We might try to find someone,” mused Mannering.

“A companion?”

“Yes, but not officially, at first. We’d have to prepare the way carefully—find an excuse for bringing someone here. If Gloria thinks that she’s being spied on, or that we’ve given her a nurse, it would make her worse.”

“Will you do something?” demanded Lady Bream.

“Yes,” promised Mannering.

“Do it quickly,” pleaded Lady Bream, but in a flash the soft note faded from her voice. “Now! Help me up, John.” He took her cold hands in his and pulled her gently; when she stood up, she barely reached his shoulder, and had to put her head back in order to look into his eyes. “Tell me this,” she demanded quietly. “Do you think Philip was murdered?”

“I hope he was,” said Mannering.

Lady Bream was in her own room.

Mannering went along the passage to the bathroom. Surface thoughts were in his mind, crowding out the other, more significant ones. Lady Bream was old for her age; much too old for Gloria; not natural enough, too intense. A younger woman here might help Gloria. He must fix it.

But Chatterton who knew what he was talking about, thought that only one thing would cure her – proof of murder.

The significant thoughts broke through to the surface. The truth about the night – the man in black – the blood spot. Of course it was blood; Gloria had seen a dead man, but who would believe her? He believed her! And that mysterious prowler, who—

The man might have been disturbed by Gloria’s scream and come to investigate, seen Mannering and decided he need not stay.

Delusions – his, not Gloria’s.

Would a disturbed servant dress? Or move so stealthily? Deliberately try to conceal his presence? No. The noise in the study might have been imagination, or creaking wood, a door sagging; the rest was real.

So now there were two dead men – Philip, and the unknown. People didn’t get their throats cut by accident. They had been known to, for dabbling in other people’s affairs. That spot of blood – he wouldn’t listen to the small voice telling him it might not be blood – made this a job for the police.

Send for the police, and Gloria would be in seventh heaven; have them fail to find the explanation – she’d be back in black hell.

He ought to test the study for finger-prints; and then get prints of everyone at Lithom Hall. Some talk! For him, virtually impossible.

If he’d followed that man—

No, he’d never have found the fellow in the labyrinth of the domestic quarters.

He reached the door of his own room again, and heard a movement along the passage behind him.

He looked round sharply, but could see nothing; then he heard the movement again, and smiled; it was the gurgling of water, he’d just become aware of it. He opened the door and went inside, groping for the light switch.

Something struck him heavily on the side of the head, and he pitched forward.