If Anything Happens to Hester

  Copyright & Information

  If Anything Happens to Hester

  First published in 1959

  © John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1959-2014

  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.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  0755135784 9780755135783 Print

  0755139127 9780755139125 Kindle

  0755137469 9780755137466 Epub

  0755153839 9780755153831 Epdf

  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

  Missing Money

  Alicia Vane went to the cash box uneasily, and hesitated before she touched it. Looking out of the window of the small office, she saw her husband loading early lettuce into a van, and Guy, their nineteen-year-old son, pushing a truck loaded with greenhouse tomatoes. The men were much alike in looks although Michael, her husband, was grey-haired at forty-four, and Guy’s jet black hair was glistening in the morning sun. Each had exceptional singlemindedness, and they were intent only on one thing: getting the van loaded and into Gilston for the market, where they were sure to sell all the stock.

  The red brick of the walled garden and the white of the newly painted greenhouses contrasted vividly. In front of Alicia’s eyes were the twenty acres of fertile land on which they laboured – slaved would sometimes be a better word – so that soon they could buy more land and work it. Just in sight was Red House Farm, likely to be on the market in a year or so: buying that was the real objective of both father and son.

  Alicia had never known them happier, for everything had gone right with the greenhouse produce this spring.

  She herself had never been more uneasy.

  She wasn’t unhappy yet, but the seeds of unhappiness for them all lay in that black metal box, standing so openly on the desk. Of course some of the blame, if there were blame to apportion, was Michael’s. He had always been too careless with money, left the box unlocked, seldom kept an accurate account, just left it to her to make up the figures at the end of the day.

  She knew exactly how much money there should be in the box, but Michael didn’t; and Alicia doubted whether Guy had more than a rough idea.

  There should be thirty-nine pounds eleven shillings and five pence. Most of the notes would be crumpled and soiled from much handling.

  She opened the box.

  There was the money, quite neatly stacked, the silver in a blue bank envelope, the coppers loose, the notes apparently untouched. Yet she felt sure that the box was in a different position from the one where she had left it; and she had placed it deliberately, so that she could tell at a glance whether it had been disturbed.

  She took out the money.

  As she did so, she looked at the photograph of the whole family, taken last year during one of the weekends at Clay, the Dorset village where they liked to go because it was comparatively quiet. At one time they had spent three weeks every summer there, but recently only the odd week-end; there had been so much to do here.

  Michael was standing in that curiously aggressive way of his, pipe jutting from his mouth, one hand on his hip, the other on Guy’s shoulder. Guy was smiling, and had his arm round Hester’s waist. Hester was looking unbelievably lovely, wearing what Guy called her beauty queen bikini. It was hard to believe that this young, vital, attractive creature was her daughter; just two years older than Guy.

  In the photograph, she had her fair hair coiled up inside a bathing cap; in another, of Hester by herself, her hair was rippling down to her shoulders. That was Michael’s favourite picture of his only daughter. It would not be just to say that he was consciously more fond of Hester than of Guy, but undoubtedly she meant more to him; she was their first child, whom they had very nearly lost in infancy.

  The seaside photograph was a happy one, and the studio picture made Hester look as if she were full of zest, too.

  She was.

  She had been here twenty minutes ago, just before rushing off on her motor-scooter for Gilston and her day’s work.

  Alicia moved the box, abruptly, and let the lid fall back. She took out the pound notes and began to count them, but before she was half-way through she slowed down. Too obviously, some were missing. She began to count to herself:

  “… twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four …”

  Her voice trailed off.

  There were thirty-four pounds here, including the ten-shilling notes, five less than when she had counted them only this morning. No one else had been here, only Michael, Guy and Hester could have touched the box – and she felt quite sure that only Hester had. During the past month, over twenty pounds had been taken. Michael, leaving the accounts to her, didn’t know. Because it had been such a good spring, the money cashed was considerably up on last year, and unless she told him he would probably never know what was missing. She ought to, of course, but it would be a severe blow, and Alicia wasn’t sure how he would react to it.

  It might spark off a fit of rage.

  It might spoil his absolute trust in his family, and that was the greater danger.

  Of course he ought to be told.

  “Why is she doing it?” Alicia found herself asking in a low-pitched, bitter voice. “She earns nearly ten pounds a week and gives me only three, so she should have plenty of money. If only I knew why.”

  The silence gave no answer.

  The men were loading the last of the tomatoes. Suddenly Michael turned and came striding towards her, as
always in a hurry, clenching his pipe, giving her a kind of half-fierce smile. “Just off, sweet.”

  “Have you as much as you hoped?” Alicia asked.

  “Twenty-eight pounds of tomatoes extra, and a couple of dozen lettuce. Nothing will go wrong this year.” Michael lived on a mixture of hard work and optimism. “If we haven’t cleared the stall by lunch-time, I’ll send Guy home with the van, and come on by bus later.”

  “Try to be home for lunch,” Alicia urged.

  “I’ll get a snack if I can’t.”

  “I know your snacks,” Alicia said scornfully. “Two tomatoes and a lettuce.”

  She was glad to be able to send him off with a laugh. Guy came rushing, to wash his hands, give her a peck of a kiss, and then take a running leap up to the seat next to his father. Neither of them appeared to have noticed that Alicia was troubled. She closed and locked the box, and put it in a drawer, which she also locked. Two or three accounts had to be met in cash today, so they wouldn’t bank any money until tomorrow. She went out of the office to the bungalow close by it, large, and well proportioned; it had been attractively and solidly built between the wars. The kitchen where the daily, Mrs. Glee, was working overlooked the grounds and the small office, and anyone who stepped into the office also stepped on to a bell-push hidden under a mat, warning anyone in the house.

  That was how Alicia could be so sure that only the family had been, this morning.

  Mrs. Glee, a diminutive countrywoman with a townswoman’s brusqueness, greeted her almost sharply.

  “Morning, Mrs. Vane. They’ve got off early this morning.”

  “Yes, it’s not yet ten o’clock,” Alicia answered.

  “Good thing some of the family believes in punctuality,” declared Mrs. Glee.

  Alicia was so full of thoughts about Hester that the remark didn’t at first sink in; she was at the door, on her way up to the bedroom, when it did. She stopped.

  “What did you say?”

  “Oh, it’s no business of mine,” said Mrs. Glee, “but if your Hester doesn’t come back one day and tell you she’s got the sack, I shall be surprised.”

  The chill which was already in Alicia’s mind seemed to become icy.” What on earth makes you say that?”

  “Well she’s due at the shop at half-past nine, to my knowledge, and at half-past nine most Fridays I see her talking to a man friend with a flash sports car. Once now and again is all right, but every Friday’s coming it, I should think. It’s none of my business, but if anyone told me that about my daughter, I’d regard it as a favour.”

  Mrs. Glee made no doubt that she regarded this as a favour, too.

  “Yes,” said Alicia. “I’m glad you told me, Mrs. Glee. Are you sure it’s every Friday?”

  “Positive.”

  “Is it always the same man?”

  “Certain sure,” declared Mrs. Glee, “and I don’t think I’d be very happy if he was meeting my daughter regularly, either.”

  If Alicia asked “why not” it would turn all this into kitchen scandal; the difficulty was to forbear comment without annoying the other woman. A car slowed down outside, and was almost certainly the village store van, coming to collect tomatoes and lettuce. The engine stopped.

  “I must go,” said Alicia, and took the chance to hurry out.

  As she handed the van man the baskets of tomatoes and the boxes of lettuce, took the money and gave him his receipted bill, she was thinking: “It’s on Fridays that I miss the money.” Was it possible that Hester was making regular payments to this man? Alicia wished that she had asked more about the man, and why Mrs. Glee did not like him, but it would be impossible to re-open the subject and Mrs. Glee was not likely to broach it again. She had done her duty, and would let it rest.

  “And here are the papers,” the van man said.

  “Thank you, Jack.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” the elderly man assured her. “Well, I must be off, I’ve a special for delivery at the Hall this morning, mustn’t keep them waiting. Did you see that Rolls-Bentley which purred past last night – maroon and silver grey. What a beauty!” At seventy-one, Jack’s enthusiasm for cars was at least as great as Guy’s. “It would be Mr. Mannering’s, I expect.”

  “Mr. Who?”

  “Mr. Mannering. You know, John Mannering.”

  “I don’t think I do know.” Alicia was thinking of Hester again, and the man in the flashy sports car.

  “Well, it’s in the Gazette,” Jack said. “He’s come down to advise on refurnishing some of the old rooms at the Hall. He’s a famous antique dealer – you’ll know him when you read about it. His wife’s coming later – the painter, you know.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Alicia said, to save trouble.

  In fact, the new Mannering meant nothing in spite of the aides-memoires of an antique dealer and a wife who painted. Alicia was not even slightly interested in any visitors at the Hall whether they had a Rolls-Bentley or not. Only Hester mattered. As she began to make the beds, she realised that it would be impossible to tell Michael at this stage; she must try to find out what was happening, and to put it right herself. The difficulty would be having a talk with Hester without one of the others being present; they were always liable to come in unexpectedly.

  She could go into Gilston and have lunch with Hester; or better, go in during the afternoon and have tea with her. They could talk freely if they went to Madden’s, with its separate stalls for luncheon or tea. The decision made, Alicia felt some sense of relief, bustled more, and even managed to tell herself that she was probably making much out of nothing. She went out to pick some wallflowers and tulips for the afternoon market, leaving Mrs. Glee to look after the lunch. Michael wasn’t likely to be home for lunch, of course.

  In a way, she hoped that he wouldn’t.

  The van came swinging into the drive, Guy driving and by himself. She heard him whistling as he dumped the empty boxes, and then came towards the kitchen, greeted Mrs. Glee, and washed sketchily – he liked washing little more today than he had five years ago.

  Then he came in breezily.

  “Hallo, Mum, had a good morning? Nice lot of tulips I see, but the wallflowers are looking a bit tatty.” He sat on the arm of a chair, tall, lean, healthy-looking; happy and for some reason excited. “Has the Gazette arrived?”

  “You’re almost sitting on it.”

  “I never think to look under The Times,” Guy said, and picked up the local newspaper and shook it open. “Anything in about John Mannering, I wonder. I saw his car this morning—wooosh! Loveliest thing on four wheels you ever saw.”

  “Really?”

  “He was browsing among the old junk stalls, amazing how a man like that can’t keep away from old stuff, isn’t it? Did you read how he found a Van Gogh on a junk stall down in Devon, bought it for thirty bob, and sold it for nine thousand pounds.”

  That really startled his mother.

  “If that’s the kind of thing he does I don’t want to hear about him,” she said, partly to see how Guy would react.

  He grinned at her.

  “Old stick-in-the-mud, that’s what you are. I don’t believe you ever read anything except the woman’s page and what the stars don’t foretell. Mannering split the proceeds with the old boy who owned the shop he’d bought it from, on condition that the old boy split his share with the old lady who’d sold it to him with a lot of other junk. That, my dear mother, is the kind of man John Mannering is.”

  Alicia laughed. “All right, I apologise to him.”

  “So I should think! I’d love a chance to meet him, I wonder if—hallo, here’s a big article and a photograph of him and his wife! She’s the artist.” Guy brought the Gilston Gazette to his mother, and she saw a remarkably good-looking, smiling man of about forty, and an equally handsome woman who seemed a little too severe. The caption beneath the picture read:

  Mr. and Mrs. John Mannering, the famous private detective and antique dealer and his wife, are to be guests at Nort
on Hall, where he will advise Lord Norton on various matters pertaining to his collection of antiques and old masters. Mrs. Mannering is the eminent portrait painter.

  “How about that?” Guy asked, “I wonder if he is there to give advice on whether there’s any funny business going on at Norton Hall. I once heard that Mannering does most of his snooping in the guise of a dealer. He must be good, even Scotland Yard consults him. I—ah, food!” His eyes glistened. “Stew with dumplings, that’s just about right for me. Save a plateful for Dad, I’ll bet he’ll be ravenous when he gets home.”

  “I’ll see that he doesn’t starve,” Alicia assured him.

  “I bet you will,” said Guy, and then looked up and asked unexpectedly: “Mum, what’s the matter with Hester this last few weeks? Is she going through another ordeal by young love?”

  Alicia said, as offhandedly as she could: “I haven’t noticed anything. Why?”

  “And they say the maternal instinct never lets you down,” scoffed Guy. “She’s moping about the dickens of a lot. I saw her in town this morning, and she looked washed out, almost as if she hadn’t slept. She was bright enough this morning, wasn’t she?”

  “I thought so,” Alicia said. “I’ll keep an eye on her, you eat your lunch.”

  Chapter Two

  Untruthful Daughter

  “But, Mother,” Hester insisted, “there’s nothing the matter with me, nothing at all. I’ve a bit of a headache today, that’s all.”

  Alicia said: “Hester, you ought to know by now that it’s no use lying to me.”

  She saw the blood rush to Hester’s cheeks, and the flood of anger which made daughter so much like father; Guy took after her, Alicia, and seldom lost his temper. Hester bunched her hands on the table, and for a moment it looked as if she would jump up and walk out. She managed to restrain herself, although when she spoke her voice was tense and angry.

  “I’m not lying, and I resent that.”