The Missing Old Masters Read online

  Copyright & Information

  The Missing Old Masters

  First published in 1968

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1968-2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  ISBN EAN Edition

  0755136012 9780755136018 Print

  0755139356 9780755139354 Kindle

  075513768X 9780755137688 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author's imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.

  Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the 'C' section in stores. They included:

  Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

  Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

  He also founded the British Crime Writers' Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey's stories are as compelling today as ever.

  Chapter One

  Letter from a Dear Old Lady

  John Mannering opened the letter without thinking much about it, for he was preoccupied with another, typewritten one from Rio de Janeiro, which reported that archaeologists in the Upper Amazon area had unearthed an old city and that in the temples there were bejewelled idols of great splendour and incalculable worth. The writer, Senhor Hortelez, was anxious to know whether Mannering would visit the long-lost city and examine the jewels and the enticing variety of rare antiques and objets d’art so newly discovered, with a view to selling them at Quinns in London, or Quinns in Boston, or through any of the sale-rooms with which Mannering was so familiar.

  It was a most attractive prospect.

  ‘We could do with a change,’ he mused, and glanced at a self-portrait of his wife, Lorna, on the wall opposite his desk in this small office at the back of Quinns in Hart Row, Mayfair. ‘Couldn’t we?’ he asked the picture, as he absent-mindedly slit open the second letter.

  The envelope, with a Salisbury postmark, was addressed in a faltering hand: Baron Mannering, Esq., Quinns, London.

  His smile broadened, then faded somewhat, for the writing was spidery and almost indecipherable. At the top was the address, Archway Cottage, Nether Wylie, Salisbury, Wilts. The letter ran:

  Dear Baron Mannering,

  I read about you a lot, as I’ve always admired brave heroes and honest men. Have discovered in die attic some old oil pictures of my late husband’s, which might be valuable, or again, might not. I don’t trust dealers, but would trust you. Can’t promise travel expenses, but if pictures okay I would look after you. Please come soon as I am seventy-seven years of age.

  Eliza Doze

  Mannering’s smile broadened once again, and as he came to the name, he chuckled with real enjoyment. Surely, he told himself, it couldn’t be true. He put the letter aside and opened others, none of any great significance, and all to do with the art world which was both his business and his life. But every now and again his gaze stole towards the letter from Eliza Doze, and finally he opened the Automobile Association handbook and looked for Nether Wylie; it wasn’t there. He pressed a bell beneath the surface of his bow-shaped Queen Anne desk, and after a few moments grey-haired, gentle-voiced, kind-faced Josh Larraby came in. Larraby was the manager of Quinns of London. He was a little less than average height, and looked very short against Mannering’s six feet one.

  ‘Josh,’ Mannering said, ‘doesn’t young Willis live near Salisbury?’

  ‘He does indeed, sir.’

  ‘Ask him if he knows of a place named Nether Wylie, and if he does, send him in.’

  ‘Right. You know that Mrs. Besborough is coming at ten o’clock, don’t you?’ Larraby urged.

  ‘I remember.’ Mannering looked at the invitation from Rio de Janeiro again. Enticing was the word for it. There was no great urgency, however. The suggested date was a week ahead, giving him time enough to go to Nether Wylie for a day or two.

  There was a tap at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Mannering called.

  The young man who came in, rather diffidently, was tall and willowy and black-haired, good-looking in a long-faced, almost saturnine way. He had very large brown eyes, upsweeping lashes and clearly defined eyebrows. And he dressed exquisitely. He had been at Quinns for nearly a year, being one of a stream of young men who came to train for a profession which was both cultural and commercial, had a special panache and required a great deal of specialised knowledge and a shrewd power of assessment. This one was Beverley Willis, son of Lord Amplesham, and many had made the grave mistake of believing that his dandyism spelt effeminacy.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Good morning, Willis. Do you know a village called Nether Wylie?’

  ‘I know it well,’ answered Willis. ‘A nice little trout stream runs through it, linking up with the Wiltshire Avon. Colonel Cunliffe lives at Nether Manor; the Cunliffes have been there for centuries.’ He broke off, as if afraid that his enthusiasm was running away with him.

  ‘You don’t know an Eliza Doze, do you?’

  ‘Eliza, Eliza?’ Willis frowned, delicately. ‘No, sir, I don’t think I know an Eliza; though Doze does have a slightly feudal ring in my mind as being associated with the Cunliffes. But the name is fairly common in Wiltshire.’

  ‘So Eliza Doze is probably a real name?’

  ‘No reason at all why it shouldn’t be,’ said Willis. ‘The two names seem to fit very snugly together.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Mannering drily, ‘but I’m not looking for a study in euphony. Are the Dozes you know, or have heard of, reliable families?’

  ‘Very reliable indeed,’ Willis assured him. ‘The only black sheep I remember was Ezekiel Doze. Good heavens, sir! I do know an Eliza, she used to be nanny to Colonel Cunliffe’s daughters before she married Ezekiel. He was a second-hand de
aler, the kind that used to be called a rag-and-bone man, and spent most of what little he earned on drink. But he must have been dead for ten years or more; I can only just remember him.’

  Willis’s interest showed in his eyes but he refrained from voicing it.

  ‘And Eliza wants me to go down and look at some oil pictures,’ Mannering said solemnly.

  ‘Some oil—oh’ Willis smiled, almost pained. ‘Her phraseology, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Aren’t there enough art dealers or antique dealers in Salisbury?’ Willis asked. ‘The city’s full of them, and very good ones, too. At least two are excellent judges of paintings.’

  ‘Eliza Doze doesn’t trust them.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Willis, and wrinkled his long nose. ‘Probably a bit clannish as a family, and I seem to remember some kind of sensation.’ He contemplated Mannering for some time, before going on: ‘I could find out more, without any trouble. I know the Cunliffes quite well.’

  ‘Talk to them on the telephone, will you?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, sir, one of the daughters lives in town. I might be able to find out something during lunch.’

  ‘See if she’s free,’ Mannering said, and was fully aware of the satisfaction which appeared in Willis’s eyes.

  As he spoke, the telephone rang. Mannering lifted the receiver.

  ‘Mrs. Besborough is here, sir,’ Larraby informed him.

  ‘Thanks, Josh—all right, Willis, let me know what you can.’

  ‘If she isn’t free this morning I’ll have a shot this evening,’ Willis promised.

  He opened the door, stepping aside for Mannering to enter the long, narrow shop to welcome Mrs. Besborough, who was standing by Larraby. The contrast between them was quite remarkable, Larraby being almost part of the background of oak panelling and beautiful paintings, of discreetly lit show-cases containing jewellery and bibelots of great antiquity and interest, while Mrs. Besborough, very tall, very angular, was the last word in modernity of dress and manner. A woman of sixty, she had quite beautiful legs and a frank and uninhibited desire to show them. She was a South African with a great deal of money and had come to buy for a museum in a town in the Orange Free State. Mannering had learned already that she was an excellent business woman, knew what she wanted to buy, and would not waste his time.

  They shook hands.

  ‘Mr. Mannering, I’ve decided not to take the Georgian silver, but I am interested in the mediaeval armour and the jewelled swords and lances. I feel that there will be a great deal of interest shown in them in South Africa. And I seem to remember a twelfth-century set of Black Forest hunting spears that would be of general interest, too …’

  Mannering spent most of the morning with her, then lunched off a sandwich and beer while he dictated letters. There were only two he did not answer – those from Eliza Doze and Senhor Hortelez; he could not make up his mind about either, and wanted to talk to Lorna about the South American possibility. If she were free from painting commissions and would like to come, they could mix business with pleasure. Immediately after lunch he went to Christie’s for a preview; there were some interesting Dutch portraits, but nothing he wanted for himself. A Chinese oil lamp of the Fourth Ming Dynasty caught his eye. He made a mental note of the price he would give for it; possibly he would send someone to bid. He was so preoccupied that he forgot Eliza Doze and was walking into the street when he heard his name called in a foreign accent.

  ‘Mr. Mannairing, pliz—Mr. Mannairing!’ He turned, to see a small, dark-haired man half in, half out of a taxi – Jules Corot, a French antique dealer with whom he did a lot of business.

  ‘… I telephoned your gallery but you were not there, and I must fly back to Paris tonight, I come only for the day. Did you have the letter from Hortelez this morning?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Mannering.

  ‘Bien! He tells me you hear from him. I have a client very interested indeed, he will spend a million francs at least if the jewels are genuine, but alas I cannot go to South America next week. Can you go, pliz?’

  ‘I’m thinking of it,’ Mannering temporised.

  Corot’s eyes lit up.

  ‘Good! I am very glad if you will, I would rather trust your judgement of the discovery. There is talk, you know, of a clever fake. These cities are so soon buried under the jungle, it is possible a patch was cleared and a false temple and idols put there a few years ago, then allowed to be grown over. You understand me?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Mannering.

  ‘Will you talk by telephone if you are going?’

  ‘Yes, of course. By the end of the week.’

  ‘Bien! Mr. Mannairing, forgive pliz, I have a client I meet at Christie’s. He is interested in some tapestries said to be Norman—did you see them?’

  ‘I only noticed them in passing,’ Mannering said.

  Corot pouted. ‘What you only notice in passing is often not worth stopping to look at. But I must go!’ He gripped Mannering’s hand, and hurried into the entrance to the sale-rooms and up the stairs.

  Mannering walked briskly back to Quinns. Not until he reached the shop did he think again of Eliza Doze, reminded by the sight of Beverley Willis at the door. Pausing to study a single jewelled headpiece, said to have belonged to the Tsarina, he nodded approval of the way Larraby had placed it, and went inside. Three customers were in the shop, which had the curiously subdued atmosphere of a museum rather than a place of business.

  ‘How did you get on at lunch?’ Mannering asked Willis.

  ‘Oh, splendidly, thanks.’ Obviously the young man had lunched well and the stars were still in his eyes. ‘Oh, and I was right about the sensation. It was some time ago, of course, but these things never seem to die, and only gather more lustre with the years and the telling. It appears old Ezekiel Doze sold a painting for a few shillings to a Salisbury dealer and it resold at Christie’s for five thousand. Doze drank himself silly on what little the dealer had given him—and refused to go near a dealer again.’

  Mannering saw one of the customers glance up, as if with sudden interest.

  He was a middle-aged, greying man with small, very bright eyes, and had been talking to one of the younger assistants about a Queen Anne cabinet. Mannering went along to his office, giving the man only a passing thought.

  On top of his desk was the letter from Eliza Doze. He read it again – and quite suddenly he decided: I’ll go down and see her. It was now nearly three o’clock and there was no time to drive to Nether Wylie and back before night – but if he caught an early train the next morning he could hire a car in Salisbury and go round and see the local antique shops; he hadn’t been to the cathedral city for a long time.

  His telephone bell rang.

  ‘Mannering … Oh, hallo, darling! … Believe it or not, I’ve been thinking about you.’

  ‘And I’ve been thinking about you,’ his wife told him.

  She had a deep voice for a woman, and now, as so often, it held a note of laughter. ‘I ran into Jules Corot and he told me about Rio de Janeiro. If you go without me—’

  Mannering’s heart leapt.

  ‘Can you come?’

  ‘Yes—bless you, darling!’

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Mannering. ‘We’ll fly next Tuesday, there’s a plane which gets us to Rio just in time. Can you be ready?’

  ‘I will be, but I’ll have to work like mad,’ Lorna said. ‘I’ve promised Mrs. Besborough her portrait by Monday, and this will be an added incentive. Have you noticed what a strangely hawk-like face she has?’

  ‘Eagle,’ Mannering hazarded.

  ‘Both predatory birds,’ said Lorna, ‘so take care. I may work late tonight; don’t worry if I sleep up in the studio.’

  She rang off.

  Mannering put down the receiver, smiling
, faintly nostalgic. Not very long ago his marriage had seemed in grave danger of breaking, but both had realised this in time; now each knew a fresh sense of contentment with and enjoyment of each other.

  There was a tap at the door; it was the assistant who had been with the bright-eyed man.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Mannering, absently.

  ‘Mr. Jenkins would very much like a word with you, sir. He says he has a matter he would like to discuss in confidence.’

  ‘Do we know Mr. Jenkins?’ asked Mannering.

  ‘He has just taken over The Kettle in Salisbury,’ the other answered. ‘We have dealt with them in the past.’

  ‘From Salisbury,’ Mannering echoed, under his breath. ‘The long arm of coincidence? I wonder.’ Louder, he went on: ‘Yes, of course. Show Mr. Jenkins in.’

  Chapter Two

  The Man from The Kettle

  Mr. Jenkins had soft, cool hands and soft, cool-looking cheeks and soft, down-like hair which grew in side-whiskers and moustache as if in a persistent attempt to assert manliness. He was hesitant in manner, and sat on the edge of the big armchair fashioned for a much larger man. He took one timid glance about the office and then his gaze lingered on the portrait above Mannering’s head. As Mannering spoke, to put him at his ease, he started, shooting a look at Mannering and then another at the portrait, which was of a man in the hat, ringlet curls and furbelows of a cavalier. The heads were as like as two peas, strong, handsome and dark-haired, the slightly arched eyebrows identical.

  ‘How can I help you, Mr. Jenkins?’ Mannering asked.

  ‘Why that—why, it’s the spitting image of you,’ declared Jenkins, on a rising note of excitement. ‘I’m sorry if I appear rude, but you must admit the likeness is a bit startling. What did you say, sir?’