Hide the Baron (10 page)

This was the maid, Priscilla, and girls didn't come any prettier or more provocative.

“I could come back—”

“You come right here, Prissy,” ordered Merrow, “and hold my hand. Tight. You may have saved me from making a grave mistake, this Mr. Richardson has a persuasive tongue.” His smile was still twisted wryly as he looked at Mannering. “If I think I can help any way at all, I'll send a message.”

That was final; and there was nothing Mannering could do to change it.

Priscilla looked at him pleadingly, as if knowing she had upset him, but unwittingly – and as if she were trying to apologise. He shrugged and went out. He remembered the note of passion underlying the scene between Merrow and Joanna Woburn. A woman would say that you could never tell with a man. He wasn't so sure. Merrow wasn't acting in character over the maid; there had been defiance in his manner, a defensive attitude which suggested that he had been badly hurt and could only think of hurting back.

But was that the explanation?

Mannering wondered if Joanna had seen the girl come along, and if she had, what she would feel.

He reached a corner.

One look at Joanna's set face told him that she had seen Priscilla go into the ward, and didn't like it.

The detective escort appeared to be completely oblivious.

 

 

Mannering put down the receiver of the extension telephone in his room, and sat back in a comfortable chair. He was fully dressed, but his shoes were off; a pair of his own slippers were in the fender, but he hadn't put them on. He was smiling, for the Night Sister at the hospital in Chelsea had been wholly reassuring. Lorna was sleeping naturally, and the signs were good; not a definite all-clear yet, but very promising.

He brooded over that walk along the Embankment. His mood hardened.

He went over all that had happened during the day, and wasn't sure that he yet had everything in the right perspective. Merrow was one puzzle, Joanna another. Undoubtedly a curious bond existed between them, as if intense dislike and deep affection lived side by side.

Joanna had said little when they had returned to the house. Nothing had happened on the road. They'd dined together in the big dining-room, partly at Mrs. Baddelow's insistence; then Joanna had excused herself, pleading a headache, and gone to her room. That was next door to Mannering's. Adjoining on the other side of Joanna was a room with a communicating door, and one of the Orme policemen would spend the night in there. Another was on duty outside, making a regular patrol of the grounds. Were these precautions enough? A clock struck ten as Mannering pushed his feet into his slippers, and went outside. No one was in sight. He tried the handle of Joanna's door; she had locked it, as the police requested. So no one could easily get in that way; one detective was at hand, the other outside.

Mannering went downstairs, still uneasy in spite of the precautions. The danger for himself had eased, but he could see that of the girl's more vividly. It was bad enough to know that she might be attacked; to think of her dead …

He went downstairs, and found White, the policeman-butler, coming out of the dining-room.

“Everything set, White?”

“I think so, sir.”

“The place is thoroughly wired for burglar alarm, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes, thoroughly, sir.”

“No weaknesses that you've discovered?”

“We had a Landon man over here this morning, checking and servicing the whole system, and we had double sensitivity arranged for Miss Woburn's room—door
and
window. If anyone gets at her—” White shrugged.

“They won't, sir.”

“How about the grounds?”

“One man there now, sir, and a second to come at midnight, when we've bedded down.” White managed to convey the impression that he thought ‘Mr. Richardson' was being excessively fussy.

“It seems fine,” Mannering said, “but still—”

“You
really
needn't worry, sir.”

Mannering said mildly: “I hope you're right, you know. We can't check and double check enough.” His pause puzzled White, and then he added very softly: “She's too young to die.”

White caught his breath.

“I don't mean to say that I don't fully understand the importance of it, sir.”

“That's good,” said Mannering. “Now, what about the roof?”

“That's easy, sir. Mr. Garfield kept the top floor empty and there are only three staircases down. We've sealed each off, sir—no possible danger at all.”

What
could
go wrong?

“It all sounds impregnable,” Mannering conceded. “I know I'm an old fusspot, but what about the staff? I gather they've all been thoroughly checked.”

“Mr. Aylmer did that himself, sir, and one of the gardeners was stood off yesterday morning—nothing known against him, but he isn't known around here, and the Super was playing safe. Miss Woburn authorised it, sir. All the other people are local, known them all our lives, so to speak—'cept Mrs. Baddelow, and she's been checked. And they're pretty angry. Mr. Garfield is very popular, and all of them have got very fond of Miss Woburn. Everyone's on the alert.”

“What time will you lock up?”

“Midnight sharp,” answered White. “We're waiting for old Jake, the odd job man, and Prissy—Priscilla. Usually get back on the eleven o'clock bus, I'm told, so they should be here at any minute.” He was beginning to sound impatient again. “Might as well go and have a look.”

“If you don't mind,” said Mannering apologetically, “I'll come with you.”

They went out of the front door, and walked round to the side; it seemed a long way. Suddenly, a small light appeared, swaying up and down; soon it was apparent that someone was walking up a secondary drive, swinging a torch. The light seemed to get brighter and whiter. Soon, they could see the outline of two people, a man and a woman. Mannering left White, went inside, and contrived to be at the back entrance when the couple came in.

Jake was elderly and reliable.

Priscilla was flushed, as if she had had a drink or two, and her eyes were very bright. Like that, she looked more than provocatively attractive; she was positively seductive. She was small and virile and vivacious, and it was easy to imagine a man finding solace in her arms.

Solace for
what?

Mannering gave the girl time to get to her room, after having a cup of cocoa in the kitchen, then asked Mrs. Baddelow to take him up to the staff bedrooms. Mrs. Baddelow was primness and propriety itself, but didn't object too much when Mannering said that he wanted to talk to Priscilla on her own.

Mrs. Baddelow opened the door, keeping Mannering outside.

“You're not undressing yet, Prissy, are you?”

“Just going to start. Can't I go to bed when I like, or—”

“Now I don't want any sauce from you,” Mrs. Baddelow said sharply. “Mr. Richardson wants to have a word with you.”

“What, that old—” Priscilla broke off, and that was obviously at a sign from Mrs. Baddelow. A giggle, quickly stifled, suggested that Mannering wouldn't get much sense out of her; but if he were going to get any at all, tonight was the night.

“You can come in,” Mrs. Baddelow said; something in her voice was enough to set Priscilla giggling again.

She was grinning when Mannering went in. Mrs. Baddelow closed the door, but was almost certainly standing just outside it. Listening? Mannering didn't yet know. He stood looking at the girl, who wasn't at all put out; two more drinks, and she would be as drunk as could be.

“I don't know what you expect me to tell you,” she said. “Coming to something, isn't it, police by day and you by—” She broke off, with a giggle. “See what I mean?”

“Fond of Mr. Merrow?” Mannering asked abruptly.

That shook her, and helped to sober her. She hesitated for what seemed a long time, then relaxed; but she didn't sit down, and she was very wary, with a spiteful look.

“Any of
your
business?”

“No,” admitted Mannering, almost wearily. “Nothing to do with me, Priscilla. I just don't want him hurt any more.”

“What do you mean?”

“He won't tell anyone why he was attacked. If we don't know—and I mean the police as well as me—we can't help him much if he should be attacked again.”

“Why should he be?”

“That's what we're trying to find out.”

Priscilla moved slowly towards Mannering. She walked with a slight sway, which must have been impressively undulating from behind. He wasn't sure whether she was putting up an act, or whether her carriage was natural. She had the look of a
gamine,
it was hard to see her as a country girl, the daughter of the keeper of an old hostelry in a village as small as Orme Hill. She put her head on one side. Her lipstick and her eyes glistened. She had touched her eyes slightly with mascara; at one corner, her lipstick was smeared, as it might have been after kissing. She wore a shimmery green dress which was a shade too tight. He knew that she was nineteen, but nineteen could easily mean full maturity.

“Look, mister,” she said, “I don't know what you're trying to suggest about Mr. Merrow and me, but I'll tell you something. He's a gentleman, and anything he does is okay by me. You might not think I'm good enough for him, and nor might Miss Woburn, but why should I let that worry me? If I can get him, I'm going to—and I don't mind how I do it. See what I mean?”

She did it so well, with great effrontery; but beneath all that there was ample evidence of nervousness.

The last thing she expected was a laugh.

She got one.

“What's funny?” she snapped.

“Very charming,” said Mannering dryly, “and as far as I'm concerned, good luck to you, my dear.” He wanted her as an ally, not an adversary. “But that's beside the point. I don't want Mr. Merrow to get hurt any more.”

“He won't get hurt while he's in hospital.”

“Aren't you guessing a lot?”

She shook her head emphatically.

“
I'm
not guessing,” she said. “
George
told me that as soon as I got back you and the police would probably be pestering me with questions; I knew what to expect.

Let me tell you something.
George
didn't say a word to me that would interest you or the police, and if he had,
I
wouldn't say a word. I want him to know that he can trust me, see. Tell that to Miss High and Blooming Mighty Joanna, and see whether he trusts
her.
”

Mannering raised his eyebrows; and then chuckled again. That startled her. Taking her completely by surprise, he chucked her under the chin, then patted her cheek.

“Spirited wench, aren't you? Wouldn't do any man any harm! But don't make any mistakes about it, Prissy—your George might be in danger, and if you can find a way of helping you'll do more good than harm.”

She gulped.

“Why don't you take a walk?” she asked, and turned away.

 

Outside, Mrs. Baddelow was looking annoyed because Mannering had kept her there so long. He apologised, humbly, and she went off. He watched her thoughtfully. According to White, Aylmer had checked everyone, and all the staff were local, except Mrs. Baddelow. But they were also approachable, and it was surprising what a supposedly loyal servant would do for money.

He went down to his own room.

He listened at the door of Joanna's room for a few seconds, and heard nothing. He would have liked a word with her, to reassure himself and her, but wasn't sure that it would be wise to disturb her if she were asleep. He closed his own door, and looked out of the window. He could see one of the policemen; the other, presumably, was on the other side of the house.

The policeman showed up in light from a window.

Beyond the range of the light, it was very dark.

 

When the lights went out, it was pitch. No one could possibly see the man whom Seale and Greer had sent.

 

Mannering lay between sleeping and waking. He wasn't sure what the time was, or whether he had slept at all. He felt pleasantly drowsy, perhaps a little too warm. The window was open, and he could see the faint greyness of the sky, but there were no stars; clouds had blown up since the afternoon. Wind came up, suddenly, rustling nearby trees, one gust hit the side of the house quite noisily; and then it died away.

A clock struck.

One – two – three.

He couldn't get off to sleep again. He couldn't be sure that there was no way of breaking into the house, and had a feeling that he had missed an obvious way, perhaps one that he would use in the days of the Baron.

Two men to patrol these grounds weren't enough; if a killer came here, he could wait until both were out of sight and earshot, then get to the window. He would have to spend a lot of time at whatever window he chose, though; and he might set off the alarm. It was one thing to break into a protected house, another to do so when the police both inside and outside were on the alert.

But it could be done.

The
Baron
had done it.

If he wanted to get into this house, knowing what he did of the precautions, what would he do?

He turned over, restlessly, and reminded himself that it wasn't only a question of getting into the house, it was one of getting into Joanna's room.

If he left his own door open, so that he would hear the slightest sound, it might give him more peace of mind. He got up, opened the door a fraction, placed a chair against it so that it couldn't be opened wider without disturbing him, and then went back to bed.

How would he get in?

From the roof, of course, but …

 

A small, nippy man who had worked for Lucien Seale over many years, and who set no limit to the kind of crime he would commit, watched the dark shape of Brook House as Mannering lay restlessly, and all the others were silent. Two or three lights were on, and that was a nuisance, because he might make a mistake, and be seen. But when one worked for Seale, one didn't fall down on the job. There were two reasons; Seale paid well – much better than most – for success, and reasonably well for the attempt. He also paid
very
thoroughly for wilful failure.

Seale could give you away to the police, or could arrange a little accident which would put you to sleep and make sure that you didn't wake up any more. There were all kinds of ways to fix these accidents, and Seale was a specialist in them all.

The little man, whose name was Brill, watched the policemen as they moved on their regular rounds, now and again silhouettes against the lighted windows. It was so quiet that he could hear their footsteps. There was never complete silence, it was surprising how far the sound travelled by night.

He closed in.

He knew that the house was wired for a burglar alarm, knew the system which had been installed, and was well aware that he couldn't break through it. But burglar alarms had their weaknesses, and few people ever worried about wiring up the
top
windows.