Chapter Sixteen

Daytime Visit

Chatterton had been waylaid in a London side street, hustled into a taxi-cab, and driven out of London. He had been traced only half an hour ago, locked in a small room in a lonely cottage near Woking – a cottage so old and dilapidated that no one had lived in it for years. The specialist had no idea why the outrage had been committed, said Bristow, and he wasn’t injured. But he was anxious about Lady Gloria, and: “He’s coming out this morning,” said Bristow.

“Tell him he needn’t hurry,” said Mannering. “She’ll certainly be all right until this afternoon. Longley’s told you what has happened to her, hasn’t he?”

“Yes. Chatterton thinks that it might be a good idea,” said Bristow. “Is there anything else to report down there?”

“I don’t think so, Bill.”

“I never like it when I hear you speak in that tone of voice,” said Bristow. “Don’t do anything silly, will you?”

“With police to the right of me and police to the left of me, how can I?”

“Well, I’ve warned you. I’m going to telephone Gadden at St. Malden as soon as I ring off, and he’ll go to see whether he can pick up Halsted,” said Bristow. “I’ve already warned him to have Marchant House watched.”

“Wasn’t it watched last night?” asked Mannering innocently.

“It should have been,” said Bristow. “But you know what these country people are like.”

“Don’t you worry about Gadden,” said Mannering reassuringly.

But why hadn’t he seen the police near Marchant?

He had been glad enough at the time, but it might mean that Gadden and his men might have fallen down on the job. So they could have been equally careless about Gloria.

He was on edge until he put a call through to the St. Malden police, and was assured by the squeaky voice of Sergeant Wilkinson that the night-duty men at the Whites’ cottage had been relieved, and that there had been no incident.

That settled, Mannering went to the library. Mary and Longley, heads close together, were examining a book.

“Don’t you ever eat?” Mannering asked Mary.

“I think Wirral has a soft spot for me, and he asked me if I’d like breakfast in my room.”

“Unfair,” said Mannering drily.

“Quite right,” said Longley with spirit. “I must say you’ve picked out an odd lot,” he added, glancing at the piles. “You’ve got everything from an early Old Moore’s Almanack to a facsimile of the Gutenberg Bible. Queer customers, yours.”

“You know what collectors are,” said Mannering. He looked at Mary who had gone to the far end of the room, and was mounting a pair of steps. “I don’t know what rubbish you’ll find here and I don’t know what valuable books there are, but I’m pretty sure of this—the secret of all the trouble will be found in these books.”

“You’ve always felt that, haven’t you?” asked Longley.

“Yes. And I think it’s worth looking for a secret passage to the library or to another part of the house. I hope to be back later in the morning and may be able to lend a helping hand.”

“Where are you going now?”

“To Marchant House.” Mannering told him what Bristow had said.

“Wish you luck,” Longley said, a trifle wistfully.

Mannering grinned, and glanced at Mary, who was stretching up to one of the higher shelves.

“Look out, you’ll fall,” cried Longley, and hurried to her side.

Mannering went downstairs, as the telephone rang. It was Gadden, to ask whether he was going to Marchant.

“I hope to be there in twenty minutes. I’ll wait for you if I’m there first.”

“You’d have a job,” said Gadden heavily. “I’m in Marchant village now. I’ll wait for you.”

Mannering drove through the dripping lanes, beneath trees which sent a constant shower of water over the road, and through the misty drizzle which cut visibility down to fifty yards. He had to slow down at every turning, to make sure that he didn’t miss the way. If this had started during the night, he would have been in trouble.

Was there much cause for satisfaction?

Halsted and Fenner would certainly be gone; an interview with Fenner might have yielded more dividends.

When he arrived at the village he saw two cars, including Gadden’s old one, standing in front of a cottage, outside which was a board headed: ‘Berkshire Constabulary’. Half-a-dozen villagers were gathered in the doorway of a shop across the road, watching the unusual scene.

Gadden caught sight of him from the front room of the cottage, and beckoned. He greeted Mannering gruffly, introduced him to the local constable, a brisk young man with a cockney accent, proof enough that he had been imported, and then said: “I’m afraid we’re not going to get much here, Mr. Mannering.” Gadden wasn’t so cheerful this morning.

“Why not?”

“The birds have flown,” growled Gadden. “This Dr. Halsted and the owner of the house, Wilfrid Kenley, were seen to leave in Halsted’s Rolls-Royce before dawn. I’ve put a call out for it. It wasn’t until this morning that we learned the owner was very like your man Fenner. That came from the men who watched during the night. They were both lured away from the house by two men who left in the early hours, and when they came back, there was a pitched battle going on between the servants and a chap on horseback. The servants overpowered my men, and locked them in a garden shed. Damned nerve!”

“These beggars mean business. But who was the horseman?”

“I don’t know. Cowley here heard a horse galloping past his window about four o’clock, and a car passed immediately afterwards.”

“We’ve put the wind up them, anyhow,” Mannering said.

“I wish we hadn’t. And just to complicate things, there was a young couple staying at the house—the wife in the family way. They may still be there. All the gates and gaps in the hedges are being watched. I’ve brought a lot of men out, but I’m afraid we’re too late.”

“We may pick up something,” said Mannering soothingly.

They drove to the house in their own cars, and pulled up outside the front door. Mannering glanced towards the hedge. The rain was more than just a nuisance; it might seriously damage the hidden books. He was worrying about that when a nervous-looking woman of middle-age opened the door.

“Good morning, gentlemen.”

“I want to see Mr. Kenley,” said Gadden.

“I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Kenley was called away early this morning, he—”

“The young Mr. Kenley,” said Gadden.

“Oh, Mr. Charles is in, sir, but he’ll have to keep you a few minutes, he’s only just got up.” She stood aside for them to enter. “What name shall I give, sir?”

“Just say the police.”

“The po-lice,” sighed the nervous woman, and her hands were shaking as she opened the door of the drawing-room and asked them to wait. There wasn’t a genuine period piece there; it was all reproduction.

They waited for ten minutes before Charles Kenley came in, limping slightly, dressed except for a collar and tie.

Gadden stared at the young man.

His left eye was discoloured, his lips were puffy, and there was an angry red bruise on the side of his chin. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was smoking a cigarette which he took rather gingerly from the corner of his mouth.

“You look as if you’ve been in the wars, Mr. Kenley,” remarked Gadden sharply.

“I have,” said Kenley abruptly.

“Recently?”

“Yes, last night. We had burglars.”

Gadden raised his eyebrows.

“Indeed, Mr. Kenley. You had burglars in the night, and yet by eleven o’clock in the morning, you hadn’t reported to the police. You tried to take the law into your own hands, presumably.”

“Supposing I did,” growled Kenley.

“Supposing you tell me why you didn’t think it worth reporting,” said Gadden sharply.

Kenley pressed his hand against his forehead.

“I didn’t have any choice.”

“Come, please!”

“Well, I didn’t. We had a guest here—a Dr. Halsted. Apparently he’s in some kind of trouble. My uncle asked me not to report what had happened until Halsted could get away. Maybe that’s against the law, but—well, I wasn’t in the mood to argue. I’d had a pretty rough time, and I went back to bed—I didn’t wake up until half an hour ago, and my uncle and Halsted had gone.”

“I see.” Gadden could be nasty.

“Then you’re a cleverer man than I,” said Kenley sourly. “I haven’t got it yet. I—”

“Supposing you tell me exactly what happened,” said Gadden, and as he spoke, Sergeant Wilkinson meandered into the room, performing his magic with his beefy hands.

“I will in a minute. I must pop up and tell my wife everything’s all right. Thank the Lord she wasn’t disturbed last night,” Kenley added fervently. “She’s—er—”

“So I understand,” said Gadden.

It was strange for Mannering to stand and watch Kenley, remembering what had happened the previous night and knowing that Kenley hadn’t the slightest idea that he had been the assailant.

Kenley was soon back.

“All right, she’s going to have breakfast in bed. Shall I be glad when this business is over!”

“I don’t think you’re likely to have another burglary,” said Gadden.

“I wasn’t thinking about that.”

He told his story; as far as Mannering knew, it was all true. He described the kitchen passage incident, and said that half-an-hour after he had been tied to the chair, he had heard shooting. Not until some time later had one of the staff come into the kitchen, and found him and the night-watchman. Kenley seemed confused and bewildered. He hadn’t known that his uncle had employed a night-watchman, had no idea that there was any mystery, and he blamed it all on to Dr. Halsted, who had been at the house only two days. Yet he was obviously uneasy. All the servants except the woman, a daily help, had left.

He hadn’t visited the study.

He looked aghast when he saw that the safe had been broken open, but Mannering was much more interested in Gadden’s reaction. Gadden examined first the gun, then the gas-pistol which had ejected the tear-gas, and finally the twine in the keyhole, all with increasing astonishment, which he made no attempt to hide. When he straightened up, he looked at Mannering dazedly.

“I’ve never seen anything like it! That thief was brilliant! I’ve seldom come across a better job. And the man knew just what he was about, was afraid that the safe was protected and kept out of the way of the bullet which came from that gun. Murderous contraption! Did you know that the gun was there, Mr. Kenley?”

“I can hardly believe it is there,” said Kenley hoarsely. “I was always telling my uncle that he ought to get a modern safe. And yet …” his voice trailed off.

“Well, someone made a clean sweep of the contents,” said Gadden briskly. “It may have been the thief or it could have been your uncle. How did the thief force entry?”

“I’m damned if I know!”

It was twenty minutes before they discovered the open window in the empty bedroom, and Gadden pointed to the scratches at the catch and the other signs that the window had been forced. Mannering looked out, seeing that the rain had almost stopped, but the books would be soaked through; if he left them for another day, the damage might be irremediable. They mustn’t be left.

“We’d better have a look outside,” said Gadden. “Wilkinson!”

“Sir?” squeaked Wilkinson. He had followed them like a faithful dog from the study to the bedroom.

“See to the prints on the safe and in the study.”

“Yes, sir.” Wilkinson lumbered off.

It hadn’t quite stopped raining when they went outside but the sky in the west was brighter, and much of the mist had cleared. One of Gadden’s men was standing in the empty garage. The man led them away and pointed out that a horse had been beneath the oak tree; for the first time Mannering felt anxious.

Had the grey horse left hoof-marks, which might be traced?

Gadden agreed that a horse had been there, but thought that the hoofs had been muffled, and there was nothing they could learn from the marks. All of them, including Kenley, looked beneath the oak and up to the window, and saw where Mannering had forced entry. Meanwhile, Mannering, thinking only of the books, moved towards the laurel hedge, and made a great fuss of looking at the grass.

Gadden came over.

“Found anything?”

“A man moved about here quite a bit, I should say,” said Mannering. “The grass is crushed—nothing in the way of footprints, I’m afraid, but—why did he come to the hedge?”

Gadden rubbed his chin.

“Well, why?”

“I can’t imagine, but the horse was standing under the oak on the house side of the tree, not over here. Yet the man was here.”

“Something in that,” agreed Gadden. He began to poke about the hedge, using a small piece of fallen wood, and Kenley came up with the other detective.

It was Kenley who first saw the sacks.

Gadden suggested that the books should be dabbed dry and then taken to Lithom Hall, where the librarian might be able to help identify and value them. Kenley raised no objection, but wanted a receipt.

Gadden said that he wanted to go to the Hall, but didn’t explain why.

There was a subtle change in the Inspector’s manner. Mannering thought that he kept looking at him speculatively, almost suspiciously; he hoped it was only his imagination. Gadden and Wilkinson loaded the two lots of books into the back of the old car, after they had been roughly dried with a duster. Two men were left at the house, to continue the investigation and to examine all papers, although undoubtedly Fenner – or Kenley – had had ample time to take away incriminating documents.

Mannering gave Lithom Hall a miss and drove to the Whites’ cottage.

By then the sun was out, but the trees were still dripping, and there was little prospect of a busy day for the acquisitive Mr. White. A man wearing an old Army waterproof cape was working on the hedge opposite; one of Gadden’s men. He saw another, by the side of the orchard. Would two men be enough to save Gloria from being kidnapped if Fenner discovered where she was staying?

As the dog was here, whoever handled the dog for him would soon pass on the news.

Gloria would have to leave soon; or the guard must be strengthened. Fears crowded on Mannering.

The front door opened and the old man raised a hand in greeting.

“Nice to see you again, sir. You’re just in time for a cup of tea.”

“Thanks,” said Mannering, stepping into the tiny passage. “How’s Lady Gloria?”

“Slept like a top, sir, and she says she feels much better.”

“I do feel better,” said Gloria.

Mannering had a vision of the old Gloria, as she appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was much clearer-eyed, and although the dark circles were there, they weren’t so marked. The one night away from the Hall and the general excitement, had worked like a charm. In the tiny parlour, with a pot of tea in front of them, shadows returned to her eyes; but with the shadows was a look of eagerness.

“Is there any news?” she asked.

“We’ve chased some of the bad men from their lair,” said Mannering lightly. “I don’t think it’ll be long before we get results.”

She closed her eyes; and her hands were clenched.

“And I once said you didn’t believe me!”

“Never mind what you said, think about the problem. Have you had time to write anything out yet?”

“I—I did try to start last night, but I was so tired. And I slept late this morning. But, John, I don’t think I can do anything to help! You know about Father and Wilberforce now, I could kick myself for having forgotten it. And Fenner, of course. He wanted those books desperately. Do you think he had anything to do with—Father’s death?”

“Possibly. Gloria, can’t you think of any special thing about those books that Fenner wanted?” asked Mannering. “Could you make out a list of them for instance—or of some of them?”

“There is a list,” said Gloria.

He sat up sharply.

“Where?”

“It should be in the desk in the study. There were fifty or sixty books. Fenner gave a written list to Wilberforce, who typed it out—there were several copies.”

“That’s fine! But all the same, jot down any titles you remember. Don’t stop trying to recall them, and don’t forget you might hold the key. And Gloria—”

“Yes?”

“I think you’re in some danger yourself.”

“I know; I’m glad, in a way,” she said quietly.

“Well, I’m not. Do you feel safe here?”

“There are two men outside, one at the back and one at the front—White says they’re policemen.”

“They are, just yell if you want them. Anyone else been about?”

She hesitated. “No. The only thing that’s happened is that Leo has wandered off. Apparently he’s always doing it, he sometimes disappears for two or three days on end. He’s a ferocious-looking beast, but I wouldn’t like anything to happen to him,” she added. “The Whites are rather upset. They think he might have gone to see Abel—you haven’t seen him at the Hall, I suppose?”

So she shrugged aside her own danger, and he’d said enough about it.

“No,” said Mannering. “I’ll keep a look out.”

Old White’s plaints about the disappearance of the dog rang in his ears when he left. Could he trust the old man? Was it nonsense to think that the Whites could have had anything to do with Lithom’s death and the violence which had followed? If Abel was involved, they would probably do anything to protect him.

There were slender grounds for suspecting Abel; and Lorna’s hint, the obvious fact that she hadn’t liked the groom.

The suspicion against Higby was much greater.

Abel – Higby – Fenner.

At the gate Mannering turned to wave to Gloria, who was standing in the doorway. She raised her arm, and then turned as if to go in. Something about the poise struck him forcibly. It reminded him of someone else – the similarity was so startling that he stood and stared until Gloria got tired of waving, laughed, and went indoors.

The man working at the hedge came up to him.

“You’re Mr. Mannering, sir, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Detective-Officer Green,” said the hedger, who had taken off his waterproof cape, for the sun was warm now. “If you see the Inspector, sir, tell him everything is all right here, will you? We haven’t seen anyone loitering.”

“I will, gladly.” Mannering put that vision aside, made himself think of Abel, the Whites, the wisdom of leaving Gloria here. He was so full of it that when he reached the village he telephoned to the police-station.

He talked freely.

“Aye,” said Gadden. “I’ve been thinking along those lines myself, Mr. Mannering. I’ve arranged for a radio patrol car to be near that cottage, and for two other men to take up positions there—I’ve taken them away from Lithom Hall.”

“Every time I speak to you, you take a load off my mind,” said Mannering.

Gadden grunted; yesterday he would have laughed. It was almost as if he guessed where he had been during the night. Mannering overcame the momentary feeling of disquiet.

“Anything more?” asked Gadden.

“Yes. Your men at the Whites’ cottage report all’s well,” said Mannering. “Oh, and White tells me that his dog’s missing, and that it often wanders off, sometimes for a day or two. Someone else may have some influence with the brute.”

“Aye—maybe Abel White,” said Gadden drily. “Maybe someone else. If there’s nothing more, I’ll be ringing off, Mr. Mannering. I’ve got my hands full here today.”

“You’ll cope! Goodbye.”

Mannering went back to the car and sat at the wheel. Gadden must be preoccupied, worried; he couldn’t suspect. His own mind was filled with senseless fears. And Gloria was safe enough; sound man, Gadden.

He had a vivid mental picture of Gloria, standing in the doorway, as he drove off.

Lady Bream, Mary Scott and Longley were all at luncheon, Mannering had no early opportunity to talk to Lorna. Longley and Mary talked enthusiastically about the Lithom collection. Lady Bream, at first trying to appear interested, gradually withdrew into herself. Mannering watched her curiously; was she just worried about Gloria? Or was she frightened?

In his room, Mannering locked the door and took out the papers he had taken from Fenner’s bureau. He’d expected little from them – and found little. Some tradesmen’s bills; what looked like a wage account for seven men; several other oddments, but no addresses, nothing incriminating.

He heard the handle of the door turn; that would be Lorna. She saw what he was doing, and asked: “Anything there to help?”

“No.”

“Isn’t there any progress?”

“No.”

Lorna looked at him thoughtfully, gave a slow smile, and said: “Do you mind if I go back to town?”

He was dumbfounded.

“Back? But why on earth should you?”

“I’m having trouble with my husband,” said Lorna.

He relaxed.

“Men can be brutes. What’s he done?”

“He keeps secrets from me.”

“Then he’s needing solace and assurance,” said Mannering solemnly. “Probably he has a crazy idea and is afraid to confide it, in case you laugh at him.”

“I won’t laugh.”

“Remember Gloria?” Mannering asked, and startled her. He went on: “Can you call her to mind? Face, figure, poise?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Keep the picture in your mind and come with me,” said Mannering.

Downstairs, they came upon Wirral in the hall. He seemed tired and harassed, as if the pressure of events was too much for him.

“Ask Higby to come and see me,” said Mannering.

“In the drawing-room, sir?”

“No, in the library.”

Wirral went off, and Mannering led Lorna into the library, where he opened the main drawer of the desk, which controlled all the smaller drawers. The papers inside were neatly arranged in folders. Some were in Lithom’s strong, neat handwriting; some were in Gloria’s; most were typewritten. There were several short lists of books, but he came upon a longer list. There were some sixty titles – and one that struck his eye was The Story of a Bad Boy by Thomas B. Aldrich.

That was one of the books which he had found at Marchant!

This was probably the list.

The door opened, and Higby came in, deferential, pleasantvoiced: “Did you want to see me, sir?”

“Oh, yes, Higby,” said Mannering. “While you’ve been in service here, have there been any thefts of books, do you know?”

“There were a few, sir.”

“Do you know who took them?”

“I believe that his lordship thought he knew, and took action,” said Higby evasively.

“What kind of action?”

“He dismissed the librarian, sir.”

“Oh, I see. All right, thanks.”

Higby inclined his head, and went to the door, but as he was about to leave, Mannering called: “Oh, Higby.”

The footman turned.

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t tell anyone I asked you about that,” said Mannering.

“I won’t, sir.”

The door closed on him.

The list was in Mannering’s hand; forgotten. Lorna stared first at the door and then at him, with a strained expression, almost a look of unbelief. But what he had seen at the cottage, Lorna had seen here.

Two people, a man and a girl, each framed in a doorway.

Lorna drew in her breath.

“John—Higby’s a Lithom.”

Mannering said: “Thanks for not laughing. Feel sure?”

“I can’t imagine why I haven’t seen it before. Same profile, same turn of the head, same hair. A male Lithom!”

“Going back to town?” asked Mannering.