Chapter Twenty

Threats

The dog’s head had been smashed in. There was blood spattering its shaggy fur – and there was blood on Abel’s hands. He looked round, and then stood up, and his movements were slow, like those of an old man. He turned – and Mannering was shocked by his expression. Grief? Or horror at finding proof that his father’s dog was involved?

He saw Mannering.

The smooth-tongued St. Malden sergeant came forward, carrying a hatchet.

“Superintendent, we’ve found—”

“Be careful you don’t smear finger-prints,” said Bristow sharply.

When Mannering joined Abel, the groom didn’t speak, but sniffed and then blew his nose vigorously into a bright-blue handkerchief. He spoke in a low-pitched, grating voice.

“If I find who did it, I’ll kill him with my own hands. That’s what I’ll do, sir. I’ll kill him with these …”

He held out his browned, strong hands, with the fingers hooked, like claws. He clenched them slowly, the muscles in his leathery forearms working; and it was easy to believe that he imagined the neck of a man between his fingers. Every man within earshot turned and looked at him.

“I should let someone else deal with him,” said Mannering mildly. “Have you any idea who it was?”

“No, sir, not for sure.”

“If you’ve any suspicions, tell us,” snapped Bristow.

Abel said: “I don’t know who you are, sir, but whoever you are, I’ll say this: I won’t name any man because I think he might have done this. I’ll name him as soon as I can be sure.”

He turned and walked away; at a nod from the sergeant, two policemen followed him. Mannering and Bristow turned to the slaughtered dog and to the hatchet. The blade was dull, blunt and blood-stained; a similar weapon as had been used on Longley. There was sticky as well as dried blood on it; probably one was Longley’s and the other Leo’s. The police-chemists would go into that. Did it help them now?

Bristow wrapped the hatchet up in brown paper provided by a policeman, and they took it to the house. A quick test showed that there were no finger-prints; whoever had killed the dog had wiped the handle clean. Nor were there footprints from which a plaster cast could be taken – nothing to guide them.

Abel himself, two of the gardeners, Higby and the lodge-keeper, had been near the thicket at various times – all, ostensibly, looking for the dog.

The two gardeners had been here when Higby had come to tell them of the attack on Longley; they had left Higby here alone for a few minutes. They’d heard nothing to suggest that the dog was being killed.

Mannering, Bristow and Gadden went up to the house. Wirral, looking nervous and speaking in a husky voice, reported that Lady Bream had swooned when she had heard that the dog had been killed, and that Mrs. Mannering was with her.

They went up to the library.

Gadden had said very little so far, and gave Mannering the impression that he would have liked a private talk with Bristow.

Bristow was pulling at a cigarette.

“This man Higby,” he said abruptly. “He had the opportunity. Apparently someone had control over the dog, and he could have called it and hit it as it came up. It wouldn’t have had time to realize there was danger.”

Gadden said: “I agree, Mr. Bristow—I think we ought to detain Higby. He was near the switchboard just before your sergeant was found, and in the thicket about the time that the dog was killed. No doubt Longley was attacked first and the killer went off and killed the dog. Is there?” he demanded, when neither of the others spoke.

Bristow said: “I don’t think there’s much doubt about that. Any ideas, John?”

Gadden frowned; he looked burly and disapproving.

Mannering said: “Yes, look at these books. The cause of all the bother is still here. They contain something or conceal something. I think there’ll be another attempt to get at them. Not to take them away, but to find their secret and get away with that. I wouldn’t charge Higby—I’d wait and see if there’s another attempt to get these books.”

“No man would be such a fool as to try again,” growled Gadden.

“Hardly likely,” Bristow looked at Mannering thoughtfully.

Mannering said: “Look what they’ve already done to get their secret. Murdered Lithom—I don’t think there’s much doubt about that. Driven Gloria nearly crazy, then tried to kidnap her. Kidnapped Chatterton. Staged two gun-battles, kidnapped Mary Scott, attacked Longley under our noses, killed that dog. No lack of daring, and they’ll come again. Don’t forget that someone in the household attacked Longley. There hasn’t been a stranger here this morning, we’d have known at once if there had been, you can’t get to that switchboard without being seen. We’re after someone in the household, and—”

“Higby,” said Gadden flatly. “I can see no sense in wasting time.”

“You might hold Higby on circumstantial evidence,” said Mannering. “If you wait, you might catch him red-handed—he, or whoever’s in it.”

Bristow’s voice was sharp and accusing.

“What are you keeping back?”

“Nothing. I’m pinning my faith on the lure of those books. Fenner’s spy will have sent him word that all the books are back. Can you doubt that?” Mannering moved aside, raising his hands almost resignedly. “But you’re the policemen, I’m just the stooge! If I were you, I’d get Jeremiah Caldecott or any expert book-dealer to go through those books. He might find what Longley missed. And I’d get it done quickly—Caldecott will come if he thinks it will help Mary. Any news of her?” he asked abruptly.

Gadden shook his head.

“I think we’d better get Caldecott,” Bristow said.

Gadden didn’t argue; but it was clear that he disliked taking Mannering’s advice.

Caldecott arrived in a police-car just after lunch, and was soon busy with the books.

“I ought to tell you, Mr. Bristow,” said Gadden formally, “that I’m not happy about Mr. Mannering’s part in this. Since I guessed he was the man to break into Marchant House, I’ve wondered a great deal about him. Could he be gaining time for himself, not just to trap the criminal?”

Bristow grinned.

“You really mean, is he Fenner’s agent?”

“That’s it,” said Gadden dourly. “And before you say no, Mr. Bristow, look at some of the facts. I’ve lived in this part of the world a long time. I’ve always known the Lithoms, the same as I’ve known other big families. There are men who won’t stop at anything, not even murder, to save a family’s name. There’s some mystery about the Earl’s death, as well as about his daughter—and Mannering, a distant relative, might set himself above the law to protect their reputation. These people haven’t really stopped believing in a form of divine right—if you’d lived around here as long as I, you’d know it. The Lithoms were always a bold family, proud and aloof—behaving like demi-gods. This Mannering, he has a manner with him I don’t always like. He wasn’t hurt by Fenner in London, was he? Part of that story could have been a lie. He was outside when Mary Scott was kidnapped—”

“He brought the girl here,” Bristow interrupted.

“She may have discovered something he didn’t want her to know.”

“But he installed her in the library,” objected Bristow. “He asked me to send Longley here too.”

Gadden said stubbornly: “There’s something strange about the man, Mr. Bristow.”

“He’s one of his own kind, but I don’t think—”

Higby appeared in the study, where they were talking. He came in without tapping, and Bristow looked at him frostily. “Well?”

“There is a telephone call for you, sir. Will you take it in here?”

“Yes,” said Bristow. “Put it through.”

Higby went out, closing the door softly. Gadden rubbed his bulky chin, and said that Higby was another man he certainly didn’t like – and there was something about him which reminded him of the late Earl.

The telephone rang shortly, and Bristow lifted the receiver.

“Hold on, please, the surgeon of St. Malden Hospital would like a word with you,” said a girl at the other end.

Bristow said: “I’ll hold on.”

“Who is it?” asked Gadden.

“The surgeon—news of Longley,” said Bristow.

The minute which followed was one of the longest of his life. He could hear voices in the distance, and now and again footsteps, but it seemed an age before a man whose voice sounded surprisingly young, spoke quietly: “Mr. Bristow?”

“Yes. How is Sergeant Longley?”

“Oh, he’ll pull through,” said the surgeon. “He came round just before he went into the theatre, and asked for you. He wasn’t really responsible for what he said, but you ought to know.”

Bristow said slowly: “Yes, what was it?”

“He kept saying that he had some information about a man named Mannering. And he mentioned a woman named Mary a great deal. It’s just possible that he means that one or the other attacked him. I thought it might help you in your investigations, and in any case I promised him that I would tell you.”

“I see,” said Bristow heavily. “Thank you very much. You’re sure he’ll pull through?”

“We’ll have to keep him here for several weeks,” said the surgeon, “I don’t want you to think that it’s a trivial job, but he’ll be all right.”

“Thanks,” said Bristow, and rang off. He looked at Gadden, shaken now. He couldn’t refuse to accept the indications of that statement – Longley wouldn’t talk lightly. This wasn’t evidence, but it might point to the truth. All his old doubts about Mannering, his latent suspicions, crowded upon him. As a class, people like Mannering did stick close together; and yet – Mannering had come to him; hadn’t tried to handle this case alone.

Gadden asked bluntly: “Did Longley name anyone?”

Bristow said: “Yes, he—”

He broke off, staring at the door. Gadden also watched it – seeing it was ajar, yet both of them knew that Higby had closed it when he had gone out, they had watched until it clicked.

Bristow put a hand to his lips, and tip-toed to the door. Before he reached it, Mannering pushed it open and stepped into the room. He smiled brightly; but both of them knew he had been listening. Deep hostility existed now.

“Hallo, Bill,” Mannering said. “Any bright ideas?”

Bristow said: “No. Have you?”

“I wouldn’t call ’em bright, but I can’t get Mary Scott off my mind. Any news?”

“None.”

Mannering said: “There must be something we can do.”

“We can do,” Gadden said, and hostility sparked from him.

Mannering had an obsession – Mary. His responsibility for her was greater than that of any of the others. Gloria had a claim on him up to a point, so had Longley, but he had brought Mary here; but for him, she would still be working with Caldecott – and the old dealer would be in London, and not upstairs poring over the books.

Lorna had the same obsession.

Mannering went up to see Caldecott, who appeared to be reading one of the old books, and looked up blankly when Mannering asked him whether he had discovered anything. Then he shook his head, and began to talk about the beauties of a page of the original Gutenberg Bible.

“I know,” said Mannering. “Couldn’t be lovelier, but we knew that. Is there anything you’ve found we don’t know about?”

Caldecott smiled, impishly. “So impatient! I have looked. Come. See this.” He opened a book at the title page, which was beautifully illustrated. “This, my friend, is not the original. The colour faded, new ink was used—paint, I mean. Yes. Now beneath that new coat of paint—”

“Yes?” Mannering asked sharply.

“Nothing,” murmured Caldecott. “Oh, I have made sure. So! I try another gambit—no fool, old Caldecott. I have taken all the titles and authors’ names, and tried to find a code. But—”

“No code,” said Mannering drily.

“No, John, not yet. One thing I do know. Wilberforce knew little about books. Everything here—” he waved an arm round the great library—“shows me that. I am told that he is missing.”

“Yes.”

“A great pity,” said Caldecott. “I would have enjoyed telling him what I thought of him. Now, off with you. I must get busy!”

Mannering went into his bedroom.

Lorna looked round from the dressing-table.

“Oh, hallo!” greeted Mannering.

Lorna said: “Hallo, darling,” in a tone of voice which he didn’t like, which brought all his fears for Mary to a head. And then he saw that she was holding a sheet of notepaper by one corner – holding it gingerly, as if she were anxious not to touch the back or front of the paper. She was looking severe; almost sullen, with her thick, black eyebrows drawn together. This was the Lorna who had lived in fear when Mannering had been the Baron, and now felt a breath of the past steal over her.

“What is it?” he asked.

She held out the letter.

It was written in pencil, in block lettering, and on Lithom Hall paper, with the crest in royal-blue in the middle and the words Lithom Hall, Berkshire immediately beneath it. It wasn’t dated or signed, and it read:

“If you want to see the girl alive again, be in the library, alone, at one-fifteen tonight.”

Eyes seemed to watch Mannering everywhere.

Outside in the grounds there were policemen, some in uniform, some in plain clothes. There were others inside, including two who were stationed by the door of the library. Bristow did not take Mannering into his confidence; Gadden showed his distrust plainly. The only relief to a trying few hours was that Lady Bream stayed in her room – until Caldecott came hurrying in, with an open book in one hand, excitement on his face.

“John, look!”

“What is it?” Mannering’s heart leapt.

“A magnificent job—magnificent. The spine of this book has been cut open and repaired. I could hardly believe it, the repair was perfect—perfect.”

“Did you find anything?” Mannering asked in a choky voice.

“Eh? Oh, about your mystery. No, no. But this work—magnificent. Well, well. I must stop for tonight. I have an old friend in St. Malden and I am going to dine with him. I wish I could give Wilberforce a piece of my mind, while I’m there.”

He ambled off.

Bristow and Gadden did not leave the Hall until nearly nine.

The policemen were taken from the library, but Mannering wasn’t told whether any were left in the house. Certainly there were several in the grounds. Wirral went about looking like a ghost, as if he had been sworn to a conspiracy of silence. Higby was on duty late in the evening, when Mannering and Lorna had a nightcap in the drawing-room, large and lonely with only the two of them. The huge chesterfield where Mary and Longley had sat on the past two evenings seemed to leer at Mannering.

They went upstairs at half past eleven. There was nothing for them to say that hadn’t already been said a dozen times. Lorna went to bed; but not to sleep.

At a quarter to one Mannering stood up, seeing Lorna stir as he moved from his chair.

“Awake, darling?”

“Yes.”

Mannering went to the wardrobe and checked his gun, slipped it into his pocket and then pulled on a pair of thin gloves. No one could really be surprised if he prowled by night, he didn’t use disguise.

Lorna said: “I’m coming with you.”

“You’re staying here,” said Mannering, and his voice was sharp. “I might want your help later. I’ll shout if—”

“John, I must come!”

“We can’t both stick our necks out. If I’m not back by two-fifteen, yell out of the window. The grounds are lousy with police.”

She was desperately anxious to be with him, but gave way.

He kissed her.

At two minutes to one, he stepped into the passage. A dim light was burning, as it had burned every night for many years. He went first to the head of the stairs and peered over the carved oak banisters. A man was sitting on an upright chair, in a position to watch both the front door and stairs.

Would Bristow take that precaution, and neglect the library? Not unless he planned to give someone plenty of rope, in the hope that he would hang himself.

The pencilled lettering on that note was written clearly on Mannering’s mind’s eye. It outlined the simplest of threats; an elementary attempt to coerce him, and yet – he couldn’t ignore it.

He remembered Mary opening the door of the book-shop.

He shut out the vision, and went to the corner of the passage. He peered round – and saw a man move into a doorway. The light was so poor that he couldn’t tell whether it was a policeman or not. It wasn’t; the man moved and came furtively towards him. It was a short fellow—

Abel White passed him.

Mannering crept out to follow – and heard another movement downstairs. He went back, believing that the police-guard was coming up. The man stayed downstairs.

Abel White had gone.

Mannering walked towards the library, remembering Abel’s face when he had found Leo. If Abel were Fenner’s man, who had killed the dog? And why? Had Abel felt compelled to strike the fatal blow? Had he been acting when in the thicket?

Mannering reached Lady Bream’s door – and it stood ajar.

He pushed it wider, and peered into the room which was in darkness, except near the door, where the faint light filtered through from the passage.

The bed was empty.

He went right inside the room.

The room was empty.