Chapter Thirteen

Mannering Pays a Visit

Lorna’s hand tightened on Mannering’s arm.

The dog passed the old couple, sniffed at Gloria’s knees, and then stalked towards the cyclists and squatted near them, obviously begging titbits. Mannering couldn’t keep his eyes off the dog. Lorna’s grip relaxed as Gloria looked up and recognised them.

Her eyes lighted up.

“Steady!” said Mannering, as she came hurrying towards them, “we’re just ordinary customers.”

Old White said: “If you’d like to have your supper in the cottage, sir—”

“Good idea.”

The cyclists looked at them curiously, as they went into the cottage by the back doorway. They passed through a tiny scullery-cum-wash-house, into a big white-washed kitchen which was obviously the living-room. The huge table was filled with plates of salad, bowls of tomatoes, small dishes of strawberries, and a bowl of eggs – a sight which made mockery of food shortages. A huge Welsh dresser filled one wall, and the room was stifling because the cooking range was alight, and a big iron kettle simmered over the red-hot coals.

“You’re Mr. Mannering, sir,” said old White. “My boy told us how you’re trying to help her leddyship. It’s an honour to meet you, sir.”

“It’s good of you to look after Lady Gloria,” said Mannering. He turned to Gloria: “Like the new life?”

Gloria said: “I’m hopeless, but I do try!”

“We’ve been busy this evening,” said old White. “This is the first little lull we’ve had. I didn’t want her leddyship to do this work, sir. It was her own idea, but I’m not happy about it, not happy at all.”

“It’s just right,” said Mannering.

“Of course it is,” said Gloria. Her eyes shone rather too brightly. “What can I get you, sir?”

“Now, m’lady—” mumbled old White.

“That’s enough from you,” said Mrs. White, “if it will help then we’re glad to do it. I’d like to show you Lady Gloria’s room, ma’am, it—”

“It’s charming,” said Gloria. “Lovely!”

Everything was lovely for Gloria, then; so much had come from a little hope. She would pour her whole existence into doing what Mannering wanted, and into enjoying this new sense of freedom from care.

But what if the walls of doubt imprisoned her again?

What would happen, if she were wrong? Or even if this first wild rush of confidence receded?

Mannering pushed the thought away, and wondered about the dog.

They went upstairs, inspected a tiny bedroom, its chairs, bed and windows adorned with flowered chintz, slightly faded but all matching. Gloria’s few oddments were set out on a little, kidney-shaped dressing-table. A small window overlooked the front garden, the fields on the other side of the road, and a copse which crowned a distant hill. The window could be seen from the road; Gadden’s man would be able to watch the room closely.

They went downstairs when a bell rang, announcing more customers. The dog came in, and Gloria fondled its head, then hurried out into the garden, where another party of four had arrived. Mannering and Lorna were served by the old couple, old White very fussy and on edge, his wife philosophical, a fount of common sense. The dog, apparently tired of the garden, came into the front room where a bee flew in at the open window and buzzed urgently against the net curtains.

Mannering took a morsel of pressed beef from his plate, and held it out.

“What’s your name, old chap?” he asked.

“Leo,” called Mrs. White, from the kitchen. “Don’t you be spoiling of him, now.”

Mannering laughed. “I won’t.”

But he gave the dog a second morsel, and it stood near him, tail wagging gently. Its head was considerably higher than Mannering’s waist as he sat; it was about the size of a Great Dane – a cross between a Great Dane and a sheep-dog. It looked as if it could be ferocious, too. He fed it again, and as it took the meat from his left hand, muzzling it gently, the warm breath spreading over Mannering’s hand and wrist, Mannering pressed its haunches gently with his right hand.

The shaggy fur had been cut away a little near the left leg.

More than that, the coat just there was cleaner than anywhere else, as if it had been washed.

Lorna gave it a piece of meat.

Then Mannering pressed again – and immediately the dog flinched, twisted its head round and growled. Mrs. White called: “Now, Leo, now!” but didn’t come into the room. Mannering whispered: “All right, old chap, I won’t hurt you.” He touched the washed fur gently, parting it until he saw what he was looking for – a raw, red wound, covered by the shaggy hair, about two inches long and a quarter of an inch across; only in the middle did the raw flesh show. Matter was oozing from it.

He let the dog go.

Lorna looked at him steadily.

“Yes, that’s it,” he said.

From a call-box a little way along the road, Mannering telephoned the St. Malden Police Station. Gadden had left the office, but Mannering was given his private number, and found him at home. He told the story about the dog, and Gadden promptly promised to send a second man to help the first at the cottage.

When the Mannerings reached Lithom Hall, a little after half past eight, Longley and Mary had only just left the study, and Mary was changing in her room. Mannering and the sergeant returned to the study where Longley reported a futile afternoon’s work. He could find no finger-prints; everything had been dusted, whether to get rid of the finger-prints or whether in the ordinary way, he couldn’t tell.

“I can,” said Mannering grimly. “I told Wirral to see that the room wasn’t opened while I was away, but someone went in there. What about the corner—no strange noises by daylight?”

“As far as I can find out, the shelves are fastened to the wall and the wall’s quite solid,” said Longley. “I’ll have another go at it tomorrow, though, and I’ll keep an eye on it tonight.”

“And you’d better start on the library upstairs in the morning,” said Mannering.

“I will. Is Lady Gloria all right?”

Mannering told him about the dog.

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Longley. “I know that brute, we had lunch there this morning. Look here, sir, aren’t you taking a hell of a risk in leaving Lady Gloria there?”

“We can watch both her and the dog,” said Mannering drily. “Know anything about horses?”

“I’m scared of ’em at close quarters,” confessed Longley. “That’s one reason why I’ve always fought shy of the mounted branch. Why, sir?”

“You might try to learn something about ’em,” said Mannering. “Abel, the groom, will help, and I fancy Mary Scott is interested in four-legged beasties.”

“Possibly,” said Longley blankly. “But why do I want to get interested in horses?”

“You don’t—you want to get acquainted with Abel White,” said Mannering. “The Whites have had that dog since it was a puppy, eight years ago. The old man tells me that Abel’s never had much time for it, and yet—see what I mean?”

“I’ll get to the bottom of that bright boy,” promised Longley. “By the way, have you looked in the big library today? Upstairs, I mean.”

“Not lately—why?”

“There’s nothing special down here,” said Longley, “but there’s some wonderful stuff upstairs. There’s a case of papyri—genuine, if I’m any judge—a lot of parchments, Egyptian and Persian. And as for books, it’s a treasure-house. There’s that Codex you mentioned, and a lot of other stuff. You must see …”

Mannering gave only half an ear to Longley’s enthusiastic summary. It was satisfying that the sergeant could look after the books; it left him free for more general work. Free, especially, for one thing he was set on doing. The idea, unlike the plan for Gloria, had been in his mind for some time – and he couldn’t suppress it.

Would Lorna try to?

Longley looked puzzled when Mannering smiled in the midst of hearing a long peroration on Shakespeare folios.

When Mannering and Longley joined the others in the drawing-room, Longley and Mary sat together on a chesterfield, pretending to listen to a concert of chamber music; Lorna really was listening, so Mannering had no chance of speaking to her until they were upstairs in their room, a little before midnight. Then she stifled a yawn, and said: “Think you’ve done enough now, darling?”

“No. Lots on the waiting-list.”

“There’s always tomorrow,” said Lorna.

“No, tonight.”

Lorna said slowly: “What can you do tonight?”

“Visit Halsted and Kenley at Marchant House,” said Mannering.

Lorna drew in her breath; her eyes grew stormy, but slowly cleared, and she said: “I suppose I always knew you’d go there. Plan it thoroughly, darling.”

There was violence in the way Mannering drew her to him, and kissed her.

It was as if a cloak had been thrown over Mannering and had been snatched away – leaving a different man in his place, not Mannering; much more like the Baron of old.

He had brought a box of grease-paints and theatrical make-up with him, accessories on which Bristow always frowned; and while Lorna had been getting ready for bed, he worked on his face, slipping thin rubber ‘mock’ teeth over his own, and disfiguring his mouth because the rubber looked yellow and dirty. He put rubber cheek pads in his mouth, held by suction against the inside of the cheeks and making his face look plumper. With them in, his voice sounded different – he had to speak slowly, and rather as if he had a plum in his mouth.

When the Baron had been born, Mannering had undergone an intensive course of elocution, so that he could change not only the sound, but the timbre of his voice. It wasn’t easy now, he was out of practice; but no one would have recognized him as Mannering when he was speaking.

Grease-paint, deftly applied, darkened his skin and made him look older. He dyed his hair and his eyebrows and eyelashes with a dye which would wash out easily with spirit – and when he had finished, turned to Lorna.

“Will do?” asked Mannering.

“Perfection—you’re a loss to the stage.”

“No footlights, thanks, I prefer to work in the dark.”

“Yes. John—”

“Yes?”

“Are you taking a gun?”

Mannering tapped his pocket.

The clouds returned to her eyes; but not for long.

Mannering had both the automatic and spare ammunition; and much more. A remarkable knife, the blades of which were more like a set of tools, and with which he could break open almost any door or window. A pair of dark, cotton gloves; some cord; a blue scarf, with holes cut in it for the mouth and nose, and which could be tied round his face so that he wouldn’t be seen even with his disguise – which would serve only if he were forced to take off the scarf. He had a small jemmy, too – a cold chisel, bent at one end – and a large pad of cotton-wool, pinned inside his coat. He was dressed in jodhpurs and a tweed jacket. The jodhpurs had always been roomy round the waist. He folded a sheet and tied it round his waist giving him at least another two inches in girth, and he had difficulty in buttoning up the jodhpurs.

It was a quarter-to-one before he was ready.

Lorna didn’t speak when he went out.

Downstairs, he opened a drawing-room window, and climbed out.

He hoped Longley wasn’t awake and about, the police would hardly approve of his present move.

He saw no sign of anyone.

He walked on grass as far as the stables, and heard one of the horses moving about in his loose box, as if he had scented a man, and was anxious for company. Mannering went to Lithom’s grey; and it was the grey which was restless. He opened the top half-door, and the horse pushed it wider and muzzled him. Mannering smoothed his nose and whispered to him, and then looked up towards the living quarters over the garage, at the far end of the yard, where Abel and the other groom, a young lad, slept. There was no light. Abel might be disturbed if the grey made too much noise, but the risk had to be taken.

Mannering entered the box, put on the stall light, which gave a dim yellow glow, closed the top door, and then tied some strips of sacking round the grey’s hoofs. The horse stood patient, but quivering with excitement, while Mannering put on the bridle and saddle, which he found in a small harness-room between the two loose-boxes.

Next, Mannering opened both top and bottom doors, and crept out, leading the horse.

The muffled hoofs made little sound.

No light appeared.

Soon they were on the grass on the side of the drive. Mannering tightened the girths, and then mounted smoothly, easily. He rode at a walking pace towards the gates.

He looked a different man; and felt one.

He was filled with a fierce excitement which amounted almost to exultation. He felt free from the inhibitions of daily life, free from the orthodoxy of the police, free to do what he liked in order to find out the truth about Lithom’s death and Gloria’s plight. The night air, cool and refreshing, was welcome after the heat of the day.

He reached the road.

The pieces of sacking muffled the sharp clip-clop of the grey’s hoofs; only someone nearby would be able to hear them. The grey tossed his head and side-stepped; he was eager, and would have preferred a wild gallop through the night across the fields and parkland.

Mannering let him trot.

A mile along this road he had to turn left, along a narrow, winding lane which led to Marchant village. He had studied the ordnance plan and knew that if he cut across the back of the village, over some fields, he would come upon a belt of trees which bordered the grounds of Marchant House. He knew there would be difficulties because he hadn’t seen the place by daylight, but didn’t propose to jump his fences before he reached them.

A signpost loomed out of the moonlit night, as limply grey as the night before. Hedges and trees showed in dark, uneven shapes against the powdery stars in the pale sky.

He turned off this road, and reined in. He waited for fully five minutes, but heard no movement, nothing to indicate that he had been watched or followed. He turned again and headed for Marchant.

Marchant was much smaller than Lithom Hall.

It stood on the top of a gentle rise, surrounded by sweeping parkland, but the park was smaller; the drive, a dim ribbon some two hundred yards from the belt of trees where Mannering sat on the horse, was much shorter. The house was Georgian; square, simple, stately. Tall trees, elms he fancied, grew near the house, but the thing which made his eyes glisten was an oak tree which spread its branches almost to the first-floor windows.

Halsted was in there – and Halsted’s host.

Mannering pictured Fenner reeling back against the mantelpiece and striking out at him; Fenner, and the men in the doorway, firing at him and trying to get the door down. He remembered the wild leap from the window to a safety which had seemed a long way off, Derek Peacock and his mother—

There should be some of Gadden’s men nearby, but he had seen and heard nothing of them. He waited for a while to let any watcher reveal himself; none did.

“We’ll get a bit nearer,” he said to the grey, and pressed his knees gently into its sides. They brushed small bushes and twigs aside, making a rustling sound as they approached the house, which was in darkness. Two oak trees, not far from the one near the window, had hidden a garage and some outbuildings, which gradually loomed up against the sky.

One of the oaks was only a dozen yards from the garage.

“That’ll do,” whispered Mannering.

He slipped from the saddle, knotted up the reins, tied the rope from the halter – which he had left on under the bridle – to a convenient branch, smoothed the horse’s flanks, and let him nibble at two lumps of sugar from the palm of his hand. Then he hung the haversacks on a branch, and approached the side of the house near the garage. The windows were shuttered. He walked to the back, where an ornamental garden lay bright under the moon, which was reflected in the pool of water in the middle. As at Lithom Hall, there was a paved terrace along which he could walk softly.

All the windows were shuttered.

He tried the shutters. They were of heavy wood, fastened on the inside, and secured to the wall so as to defy any burglar unless he had strong tools. Mannering made a complete circuit of the house before admitting that he would have to try to force entry by one of the first-floor windows.

The glass up there also reflected the moon.

He stood beneath the oak tree, studying its long branches. One almost brushed the side of the house, the end a yard or more from the window. He saw something jutting out near the glass, but couldn’t be sure what it was. He put on the cotton gloves and the scarf-mask.

He swung himself on to a lower branch, hoisted himself into the tree, then stood in the fork, breathing heavily, acutely aware of the noise of the rustling leaves. Old, nostalgic sensations came back. A nervous excitement which made his forehead and the back of his neck cold; the palms of his hands were clammy. That phase would soon pass.

But the excitement would remain, with a tension which he knew so well. It was as if some power, always in him, took possession of his mind and body, giving him a sixth sense and a supreme confidence.

He waited, listening, unable to see much because of the foliage.

He heard nothing; Gadden’s detectives were not about, or else were very canny.

He stretched up to the branch above him; it gave more freely than the first, groaning and creaking when all his weight was on it. But it held; he had no fear of it giving way. Soon he was standing halfway along it, on a level with the window. Holding on to a branch higher still, he edged farther along. The branch swayed gently up and down, making foothold precarious. He broke off small twigs which clutched at his face, then stood, with the foliage parted, staring at the window. The ‘something’ was a fitting where there had once been shutters. It jutted out three inches from the grey wall.

He edged farther still, the bough giving all the time.

If the window was out of reach, he would have to go higher.

He stretched out his right hand, clutching the tree with his left, and was able to touch the fitting.

There was also a narrow window-ledge.

He measured the distance, decided that he could get a firm enough hold, and stood balancing himself on the branch, without support. The coldness had gone and his palms were dry. The calculation of danger faded; only the task mattered.

He leaned forward, touching the ledge with one hand and the fitting with the other. He gripped tightly, and swung himself from the branch. He bumped against the wall and his right hand slipped, but he held fast with his left. Gradually he found a grip with his other hand, first on the fitting, then on the ledge. He hung down, his feet touching the shutter of the window immediately below – it gave him a little support.

He hauled himself up.

Soon he crouched on the window-ledge.

The window was closed.

He took out his knife, while examining the catch and trying to see into the room beyond. The curtains were drawn back and he could make out the shape of a bed. He couldn’t see anyone in it, and looked for clothes on the end of the bed or on chairs.

Nothing was visible.

He opened a thin knife-blade.

The catch was old-fashioned, but not of the screw type; he would be able to force it back without much trouble, although it might hit the glass noisily. He worked at it gently. It had been oiled recently, and moved without much trouble. He pushed it farther and farther back, pressing close against the window all the time. The stone ledge hurt his knees; he kept easing them.

If he slipped, he would crash thirty feet to the ground.

When he judged that the catch was about to spring open, he pressed his left hand against the glass, then exerted a little extra pressure with the knife. The catch sprang back, but because he was pressing the glass, the noise was slight.

He waited for a few seconds; patience was all-important.

Nothing stirred.

He took out the jemmy, forced the chisel edge between the window and the frame, and levered it up gently. The chisel made a dent in the wood at first, but did not move the window. It wasn’t easy to exert the necessary pressure, but when he tried again the window opened a quarter of an inch. Soon it was wide enough for him to get his fingers beneath it. He shifted his position, so that he could push halfway along the window and distribute the pressure evenly. The window opened without much noise.

When it was open nearly eighteen inches, he stopped pushing upwards.

He rested again.

Then he peered at the bed, but could see no sign of anyone lying in it. He put one leg into the room …

He stood by the window, still staring at the bed. Then he stepped forward, and peered closer; yes, it was empty.

One danger averted.

He turned and looked into the grounds. Waiting and watching irked him; but he had to bear them. If Gadden’s men had seen him, they would show themselves soon. But they could do little more than report to Gadden; they could hardly warn the man they were secretly watching.

He went to the door.

The room opened on to a wide passage, off which led several other rooms. If the doors were locked, forcing them would take precious time. He opened the nearest door without trouble, and peered in. There were twin beds, and a young couple occupied them, both facing the window; their faces were lit up by the moonlight.

He closed the door softly.

Then he tried the next, which was also unlocked. He stepped inside, glad of the carpet; there had been carpets in all the rooms and in the passage, helping him to keep quiet.

In the double bed here, lay one man.

The face was in shadows.

Mannering went forward, treading lightly. The man’s face was turned away from the window, and there was no light from the door, but the diffused light of the moon would service his purpose.

He reached the bed, and bent over the sleeping man – a fat man.

It was Wilfrid Fenner.