Chapter Fifteen

Cross Country

These books surely held the secret.

Mannering glanced at the first two titles. One was The Story of a Bad Boy by Thomas B. Aldrich: He had never heard of it, could not imagine it to be valuable. The title-page told him that it had been published in the United States in 1870; the leaves were mostly uncut. The other was a tall Boswell’s Life of Samuel Johnson, which looked like a first edition with the expurgated sections still there. It was valuable to collectors, but hardly worth a fortune – three or four hundred pounds at most.

Some of the others were comparatively modern, and could probably be picked up at auctions for a few pounds. The intrinsic value of the books did not explain Fenner’s precautions.

They were now all on the desk, in three piles; it was as much as he could do to lift one pile in comfort. But he had to get them away. He was feeling the reaction; he wanted a cigarette, would have given a lot for a whisky and soda. He opened one of the small cupboards in the desk and found a decanter and several glasses. He helped himself to a weak whisky; and wondered whether his haversacks were big enough for the books.

Not for all of them.

But he could take the smaller volumes, and if he could find another sack, he might be able to hide the larger ones in the grounds.

He sorted the books out again, then went across the hall and out of the front door, placing the books on the top of four steps which led to a lawn. He returned for the smaller parcel which he had taken from the drawing-room and put it with the others. Then he went back and switched off the study light.

It wasn’t so bright outside now; clouds were drifting slowly across the moon.

He made for the oak tree, carrying the parcel, and some of the books, and the grey tossed his head in welcome.

“Won’t be long, old chap,” said Mannering.

He put the parcel and the smaller books into the haversacks, and went to the garage. It was locked, but one of the watchman’s keys fitted it, and soon he was inside, with the doors closed and the light on. There were three cars, including the Rolls-Royce. At the back were several sacks, clean and new. The strong hessian would easily hold the books. He filled two, tied the necks with cord, and went to find a hiding-place for them.

His luck had held remarkably well; he was on edge now.

There was a thick hedge only a few yards from the oak tree – laurel which had been allowed to grow high and wide before it was trimmed. He stuffed one of the large sacks into it, went back for the other, then stood back and surveyed the hedge. In this light, there was nothing to show that anything was hidden there, for the leaves had closed over the gap. In daylight, anyone looking closely would be able to tell that the hedge had been entered.

He would have to chance that.

He slung the haversacks over his shoulders.

The front door was still ajar, but he wanted to be off. He unfastened the grey, led him from beneath the shelter of the oak, and tried to mount. The haversacks made him lose his balance. The sense of urgency increased – he had experienced it before, had come to regard it as a sure sign of danger.

At his second attempt, he swung into the saddle all right, and settled the haversacks on his back.

“Off we go!” he said.

He intended to use the drive gates, so that he could ride on the grass while near the house, and lessen any risk of being heard.

The grey moved forward eagerly.

Then: Crack!

He darted a glance behind him, and saw the front door wide open and a man standing on the steps, gun in hand.

Crack!

He felt a thud, but no pain.

“Faster!” he said aloud, and crouched over the horse’s neck. The grey, scenting the danger, broke into a canter, which changed to a gallop. The shooting quickened, sharp cracks in the night. He heard men running on the gravel, heard the garage doors swing open and crash back; suddenly the drive was illuminated in a great beam of light.

They were getting a car out of the garage.

He still crouched low, with the wind rushing past his face and the grey going as if he knew that a life depended on it. The gates loomed up; they were closed, and the wall surrounding the property was high and solid. He heard the engine of the car splutter and then die down again. There was no more shooting; he was out of small-arms range.

He had to slow down to open the gates, and might have to dismount.

The engine hummed and this time didn’t stop. The light was blinding.

The grey slowed down.

They stopped in front of the gates, and the handle was fairly high – Mannering could lean forward and touch it. It wasn’t locked, but the gate was heavy; had he not been carrying the haversacks, he would have dismounted. He pulled, and the grey edged away as the gate came slowly open. Now the light from the headlamps shone on the wrought iron, casting a wider and brighter beam, and the powerful hum of the engine sounded very near.

Another shot clanged against the iron.

The grey was nosing his way out of the gates, although a car couldn’t get through the gap.

Crack-crack!

He swung right, away from the main road and the way he had come, trying to remember where this road led. The grey, going at a good quick canter, seemed glad to be on the move. The night was dark and shadowy, for the clouds were now thick over the moon, and it was colder. A cottage loomed up on his right, then another, next a little terrace of them; he was in the village.

They raced along the High Street, passing houses to the right and left.

Mannering knew where he was now; he had passed along behind the village to get to Marchant and remembered a grass field, on his right, leading to a small wood bordering the main road to Lithom. He could hear the car engine and, when he glanced round, saw the glow of headlamps swaying up and down.

A light went on in a cottage nearby.

The houses came to an end, and he scanned the hedge for a gate which would lead into the field. Yes, there it was – and the gate was open. He turned into it, then let the grey go all out.

The headlights spread over a corner of the field, and he wasn’t sure whether the car was going straight on, or whether it had stopped. If they guessed which way he had gone, they would drive to the main road and wait near the wood, hoping to head him off.

Was there a way across country?

He didn’t want to stop to look at the map, and he tried to visualize it. The picture gradually cleared in his mind. If he skirted the wood, he would reach a by-road which he could cross easily; from there he would be able to approach Lithom village from the south, and enter the parkland by the South Lodge gates.

It would add half an hour to his journey, but he would avoid the men in the car.

He reached the wood, and rode along the edge. Now and again he saw a glow of headlights through the trees. The car seemed to be moving slowly, he could imagine that the men were waiting to shoot on sight.

He hitched the haversacks up on his back more comfortably, and settled down to a steady trot.

The drawing-room window was still open.

Mannering climbed in, closed it, fastened the catch, then took off his boots and, with them in one hand and the sacks over his shoulder, he crept upstairs.

He entered his own room, and Lorna said softly: “Is that you, John?”

“All safe,” said Mannering, as softly,

A steady drizzle was falling when Mannering awoke, just after eight o’clock next morning, and saw the maid standing by the bedside with the morning tea. She put it on the table, then went to draw the curtains. Lorna was still asleep, and Mannering’s eyes were heavy; he knew that he wouldn’t feel very bright later in the day. But he wished the maid a gay good-morning, and disturbed Lorna, who opened her eyes.

“It’s raining, sir,” said the maid.

“Pity,” said Mannering, and his thoughts flew to the books in the hedge.

“And—and there isn’t any news about Lady Gloria,” the girl said. “I do hope she’s all right.”

“I’m sure she is,” said Mannering soothingly.

The maid looked at him as if he were talking out of the back of his neck, and went out. Mannering poured out tea, and Lorna sat up, stifling a yawn.

It had been just after four-thirty when Mannering had returned, and he had been in bed within ten minutes. Lorna hadn’t asked questions. Now she was agog to hear what had happened. She sipped her tea and listened without interrupting, and when he had finished, she asked slowly: “Where are the books you brought back?”

“In the wardrobe,” said Mannering promptly.

“If the theft’s reported—”

“I doubt if it will be, and I’m quite sure they won’t search here for the loot,” said Mannering. “Before breakfast I’ll take the books up to the library, and make a note of their titles so that we can look at ’em later.” He yawned again. “I’m getting too old in the tooth for midnight rambles.”

“I thought you’d realize that one day.”

Mannering laughed.

He bathed and shaved and, by half past eight, went to look at the books. One of the first he handled was small and dumpy – nearly two inches thick. A small round hole was drilled in the front cover; the hole looked newly made.

Mannering opened the book slowly.

A bullet had gone most of the way through, and touched the back cover; only the book had saved him. He put it aside before Lorna could see it, and when she was in the bathroom, stood up and laid it on the top of the wardrobe, close against the wall.

While one or two of the books were really old and valuable, most were interesting collectors’ pieces, but no more. The small book which he had found in the writing-desk was an early Italian production, illuminated in red and black.

He put the papers in a drawer in the dressing-table and locked it, then prepared to take the books to the library. It wasn’t going to be easy to slip in without being seen, but he hadn’t far to go; the main doors of the big library led off a passage which ran across the top of this one.

“I’ll go and see if the coast is clear,” said Lorna.

She was back in a few minutes.

“It’s all right. I’ve opened the door. There’s a table just inside, with some other piles of books on and under it, you can put them there.”

“I could kiss you,” Mannering said.

“Hurry, you fool!”

Mannering’s heart was in his mouth as he walked along the passage. If anyone saw him carrying the haversacks, they would be curious; and he didn’t want to answer questions. He reached the library unseen.

The piles of books in the corner were reminiscent of Jeremiah Caldecott’s shop, but this untidiness was a godsend. He placed his in two piles – and then heard footsteps!

He still had the haversacks.

There was a shelf, half-empty, near him. He grabbed the haversacks and tucked them behind some books – and as he turned round, the door opened and Longley’s fair head appeared.

The sergeant looked startled.

“Hallo! You’re up early.”

“Catching worms,” said Mannering lightly.

“Plenty of worms in some of this stuff,” said Longley, frowning. “It’s a damned shame, they ought to have been looked after better. That chap Wilberforce just didn’t know his job. I don’t think much damage is done—the worst I came across yesterday I dumped down there.” He glanced at the piles of books. “What’s brought you here, sir?”

“You recommended a visit.”

Longley laughed.

“I didn’t think you’d come before breakfast. I’ve had mine—haven’t seen Mary this morning, have you?”

Mannering couldn’t miss the eagerness in the detective’s voice.

“She’s probably still asleep,” he said drily, and glanced at the books; his own pile looked conspicuous. “Well, I’ll get along to breakfast—leave those three piles for me, will you?”

He pointed.

“What are they?” asked Longley.

“Oddments I’ve had inquiries for at Quinns,” said Mannering, “if there’s going to be a sale, I may as well be in on the ground floor.”

“Always with an eye to business,” said Longley. “I won’t touch ’em.”

“Thanks.”

Lorna had left the bedroom, and Mannering hurried downstairs, but she wasn’t there; Wirral was. There was grapefruit or porridge; Mannering chose grapefruit, and started to eat, looking out of the window.

The whole scene had changed with the weather; the bright green was smeared as with grey shadow, and the windows were spotted with myriad rain-spots. Rain trickled down them in places, and it was almost impossible to see far.

Would the hedge keep the books fairly dry?

No point in worrying about that.

The next task was to tackle Fenner.

The police?

It would be a waste of time putting the police on to Wilfrid Fenner; the man would have left Marchant by now.

“I don’t see that it makes any difference,” said Lorna practically. “If you had stayed behind to talk to him last night, you’d never have escaped. It’s a good thing that you did have a mental blackout. But didn’t you say that his nephew was there? And did you see Halsted?”

Mannering said: “Yes, to the first; no, to the second. Young Kenley’s wife is about to have a baby, if he told the truth, and she might be in a bad way. The shooting probably roused her. It would certainly have scared young Kenley. If he has no idea that his uncle is up to this business, he’ll have a shock.”

“He’ll have to find out sooner or later.”

Wirral brought in the papers. There was nothing about Gloria’s disappearance, and only a brief mention of the affair at Bayswater, with the familiar statement that the police expected to make an arrest shortly.

A bell began to ring, and went on ringing.

“That’s the telephone,” said Lorna. “I hope Gloria’s all right.”

“Gadden’s men will look after her.” Mannering looked up. “Call for me, Wirral?”

“Yes, sir. Will you take it in the study or the hall?”

“The study,” decided Mannering.

He wasn’t surprised that it was Bristow; and he wasn’t surprised to hear that Bristow had startling news about Dr. Chatterton.