If Anything Happens to Hester Read online

  “If we knew all the facts, if we could question Hester for instance, we would probably be able to get results quicker,” Hennessy said eagerly.

  “I can see his point of view,” Michael conceded.

  “I’m not interested in a point of view, I’m just interested in making sure that Hester’s safe,” Alicia declared. “Anyhow, we don’t know where Hester is.”

  “Mannering does,” Hennessy put in quickly. “He’s out of action and won’t be any use to Hester or anyone for a week or more. Why don’t you make him tell you where she is? If you keep at him, he’ll tell you. And I tell you that if we don’t find Hester soon, the situation will be even worse.”

  Neither Alicia nor Michael answered.

  Hennessy said flatly: “You’ve got to make up your minds whom to trust – a stranger like Mannering, or me and the police. Good God! You don’t think I want to do Hester any harm, do you? It would be like harming my own daughter!”

  Alicia could feel the sincerity which glowed in him.

  “I’ll take it up with Mannering as soon as he’s able to see me,” Michael promised, and Alicia did not argue, for she now knew that it was the only wise thing to do. “Do you know when he’ll be able to talk?”

  “I’ll check,” Hennessy promised, still eagerly. “He may be round tonight. If not, first thing in the morning. May I use your telephone?”

  “Ten o’clock in the morning is the first chance we’ll get,” Hennessy told them when he had spoken to the Hall. “I talked to Mrs. Mannering.”

  Lorna turned away from the telephone in the sitting-room of the suite, and went to the bedroom, to see John lying motionless. At times, his stillness and his pallor frightened her. There was no hint of colour in his cheeks, but there seemed to be dark shadows at his eyes. She closed the door and went back to the dressing-room’s fireside. Simms had built a log fire, but it was not really cold. She stared into the flames, and kept hearing those whispered voices, and Horton and Largent’s final conclusion: that John had been mistaken about some of the pieces he had said were replicas. She was more than ever sure that Largent was wrong, but until she could talk to John, there was no way of proving it. If he didn’t recover consciousness in the morning—

  She had told Vane that he could come at ten o’clock. Now she wondered whether that would be late enough. She was restless and worried – not only about John but about Hester Vane. The more she heard about the circumstances the more sure she felt that John had hidden her somewhere for good reasons of his own. The why didn’t matter; the hiding place did.

  She had not yet seen Horton, and when Simms came in she wasn’t surprised that he told her: “His lordship is home, ma’am, and asks whether you would like him to come and see you, or whether you would care to join him in the study.”

  “I’ll join him,” Lorna said. “Tell him I’ll be along in five minutes.”

  “Very good, ma’am.”

  Lorna looked hard at Simms as he went out. There was something about the man that she didn’t like, but she could not put a name to it; it was almost as if he was watching her. It would hardly be surprising if he reported everything she did and said to Horton.

  She walked along the gallery towards the staircase, and was acutely aware of the fact that the two men had been there. She went down the wide staircase towards the main hall and then rounded it and went to the room where John had seen Guy: she had been told about Guy’s visit. John had helped Hester, and she had vanished; had promised to help Guy, and he had been savagely attacked; had said that he would help Rodney, and Rodney had disappeared.

  It was almost as if this were a campaign against John.

  Nonsense?

  She went into the study. Horton was on his own, sitting near a bigger, warmer fire than the one upstairs. He jumped up at sight of her, and approached with his good hand outstretched. She distrusted him far more than she distrusted Simms, in spite of Horton’s smile, his heartiness, and the powerful grip of his left hand.

  “Lorna, my dear, how good to see you.” He held her hand a moment too long. “I’m dreadfully sorry about all this, and it’s worse because I had to be out when you came. How is John?”

  “He’s still unconscious,” Lorna answered.

  “Richards told me that he might be out for twenty-four hours or more,” Horton remarked. “It will do him good, too. Pity he is going to be hors de combat for a bit, but it can’t be helped. Sit down, and tell me all about yourself. Whose pictures have you been painting lately?” He was talking too much and too rapidly, to cover a guilty conscience, of course; he did not intend to tell her about Largent yet. “One of these days I would like you to paint Rodney’s, it’s time he had a portrait done. Now, what is it to be? Brandy? Liqueur?”

  “May I just have coffee?”

  “My dear, of course.” Horton pulled a long rope, the bell-pull. “Do sit down. I—”

  He glanced round as the telephone bell gave a sharp ring, and stopped. He didn’t move towards it, but Lorna had the impression that he was expecting a call that he did not much like. It rang again.

  “Sorry,” he said. “If the maid comes in while I’m talking, order what you want, will you?” He lifted the telephone and glanced at Lorna, and she had a strong feeling that he wished that she were not here. “Lord Horton speaking,” he announced, and waited.

  The door opened, and a small, thin woman came in.

  Horton exclaimed: “What?” and seemed to recoil from the telephone. The woman stopped in her tracks. Lorna turned round to Horton, and all other thoughts were driven from her mind. He looked dreadful, all the heartiness had vanished.

  There was a long pause.

  “How—how badly?” he asked, and Lorna stood up, approaching him; he looked as if he might fall.

  “I see. Very well. I’ll come at once.”

  He replaced the receiver slowly, and for the next few moments everything he did was very deliberate, as if he was suffering from a severe shock. He saw Lorna and saw the maid, moistened his lips as if he was about to speak, but said nothing.

  Lorna made herself ask: “What is it, Barry?”

  He closed his eyes; and it was a fact that he looked older, and somehow shrunken.

  “Rodney,” He said. “The police in London—want to question him. They—they had a warrant for his arrest, for—for dealing in stolen jewels. He—”

  Horton couldn’t finish.

  Peters drew in a hissing breath.

  Lorna found herself touching Horton’s sound arm, as if that would give him a little strength.

  “He tried to get away, and ran into a car,” Horton said, in that same shocked voice. “He was badly injured, and is in Westminster Hospital. I—I must go.” He squared his shoulders, and became more brisk.

  “Peters, tell Black to bring the Rolls-Royce round at once. Have some things packed and send Morrison after me with them – take them to the Arturo Club, and telephone them to say that I will probably arrive about one o’clock.”

  “Very good, sir,” the maid said, and withdrew.

  Horton looked at Lorna. She saw the pain in his pale grey eyes, and realised what John had realised earlier in the day; there was deep love in him for his only son. He moistened his lips again, as if he wanted to say something but could not find the words. Then he spoke in a hard voice: “I’m sorry about this. Lorna, there’s something you must know. John must, too. I had to find out quickly how much Rodney had taken away from here. When the doctor told me that John could not hope to be about for several days, I sent for Largent. He’s staying in Gilston, but he will be out here in the morning. I meant to tell you then, but felt embarrassed as John was ill. You must forgive me, but—but if that boy was so frightened that he resisted arrest and ran away from the police, then he must have committed a black crime indeed, a black crime.”

  He seemed to be muttering to himself.

  Lorna said: “Of course you had to send for Largent, John will know that. I hope Rodney—”

  Words
were so little use.

  “If he dies—” Horton said, then broke off, bit his lips, and moved suddenly towards the door. She watched him go. She knew that within five minutes he would be going down the drive; that in a little more than two hours he would be at his son’s bedside. Horton’s son – and Vane’s son. It was a strange parallel.

  There was still a great deal that she did not understand, but she told herself that if Rodney died, it would be a paralysing blow to his father.

  If Rodney died …

  Up in the Tower Room, Hester was lying curled up on an easy-chair, with a rug over her. It was chilly; not really cold, but cold enough to promise real cold during the night. She was only vaguely aware of it as she sat there, curled up for warmth, feeling almost as if she were doped.

  Chapter Twenty

  Mannering Wakes

  When Mannering first came round, he did not know where he was, and was semi-conscious for a few minutes. It was dark. He was not aware of Lorna, asleep in the bed next to him, but could hear the ticking of a clock. He had no conscious thought, just an awareness of trouble and anxiety; but he felt himself going under to the waves of sleep again, and succumbed.

  When he next came round, it was light; and he knew that the light came from the window. He stared at it. There was exceptional brightness, as if the sun were striking the glass, and he felt very warm. He was still aware of a sense of anxiety, but did not at first realise what it was about. Then he heard someone call out, in the grounds, and although he did not recognise the voice, he was immediately reminded of Hester.

  He started.

  His back seemed to be slashed with pain.

  He lay quite still, reminded so viciously of what had happened, and knowing that he could not move with any comfort, and sudden movement would be agonising. Even then, he was sweating from the slash of pain. He lay very still, while all the thoughts poured through his mind, and he recalled everything.

  He turned his head.

  He saw Lorna’s comb and brushes on the dressing-table; Lorna’s handbag; a handkerchief; other oddments which told him that she was at the Hall. That was the first moment of relief. He turned his head cautiously, as if that might hurt, and looked at the closed door. It was possible that she was in the other room. He opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, and then called: “Lorna.”

  His voice sounded weak, and he doubted whether it would reach the ears of anyone in the outer room. He sweated still more. He lay without moving, aware of tenderness more than soreness now, and worried about his back; that pain had not been normal. But he was still in the Hall, and if there were anything really serious, he would have been taken to hospital; with Guy Vane.

  “Lorna!”

  There was no answer.

  He wondered what time it was; somewhere about eleven o’clock in the morning, judging from the sun. And he wondered what day it was. It seemed a long time since he had been attacked and it would not surprise him to learn that he had been unconscious for forty-eight hours; but against that he reminded himself that if he had been so seriously injured, he would have been in a hospital.

  Unless they dared not move him.

  “Lorna!” he called.

  There was still no answer.

  He could stretch out and touch the bell at the side of the bed; it might be painful to move like that, but he could do it. That would bring Simms, and he preferred to talk to Lorna, to let her know first that he was conscious. The first question to ask was about Hester Vane. He was edgy about Hester, but told himself that there was no need to be, for Rodney would surely have come back by now, and released her.

  Then he saw a newspaper.

  It lay on a small table, near the bed but not alongside it. At first, he looked at it with only idle curiosity, for it did not seem important. Lorna did. He deliberated whether to wait for her, hoping that when she came back to the suite the first thing she would do was to look in at him, or whether to touch that bell.

  Then he read the headline, which was upside down to him and looked peculiar. Double e’s always did when seen upside down. PEER’S SON INJURED, he spelt out, and then drew in a sharp breath, as he thought of Rodney. Peer’s son what? It might mean anything. Could this be about Rodney, and if it were, what had he done to hit the newspaper headlines?

  Mannering had to get that newspaper, but it was out of reach unless he stretched from the bed. He edged over, cautiously. His back was very tender and painful, but the agonising streak of pain did not come. The newspaper was within a foot of his outstretched hand, and he was as close to the edge of the bed as he could get. Now he could only hope to reach it by rolling over; if he should fall, he would not be able to get up by himself. Nothing else would have persuaded him but those words seemed to shout at him. PEER’S SON IN—

  He began to edge himself over to his side. Once on his side he could roll over on to his stomach. Pain stabbed through his back, and he winced and relaxed. He must ring the bell.

  He could just touch it.

  He felt furious with himself because he was so helpless, but there was no real cause for reproach. He lay back, sweating, worrying. It seemed a long time before any sound came, and he began to wonder whether the bell had been heard. Usually Simms came very quickly, he had a small room just across the passage and was generally there. Mannering, clenching his teeth, was about to press the bell again when the door opened.

  Lorna came in.

  “John!” She paused on the threshold, then hurried across to him. “Darling, what have you been doing? You’re half out of bed.”

  “Sorry,” he managed to say, and looked into her face, eagerly. She kissed him. The pressure of her body against his for a moment hurt his back. She drew away. “What were you trying to do?” she demanded. “If you make your back any worse you’ll be laid up for months.”

  “I wanted—the newspaper.” Mannering felt very weak, and was sweating; his forehead was clammy. She glanced at it.

  “Oh,” she said, and went across and picked it up. “Darling, there isn’t a thing you can do.”

  “Is it—Rodney?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not—not one of my good cases,” Mannering said, and gave a twisted smile. “I’m on my back, and—never mind. What—does it say?”

  Lorna held out the front page of the Daily Globe so that he could read it, and immediately he drew in a sharp breath; and he realised that Lorna could see the alarm in his eyes. For the headlines read:

  PEER’S SON INJURED WHILE RESISTING ARREST

  “How—badly?”

  “Very badly.”

  “When?”

  “Last night, in London.”

  “Last night—darling, how long have I been here?”

  “Fifteen hours, the doctor tells me,” Lorna said. “John, what’s worrying you?”

  “And Rodney hasn’t come back?”

  “No.”

  “God,” Mannering groaned, and closed his eyes. “Lorna—”

  “John, whatever it is, there isn’t a thing you can do about it, and I’m not going to let you try to do anything,” Lorna said. He knew the tone of old: the tone almost of desperation, because she knew that if he was really set on some course of action, there was nothing she could do to prevent him from taking it.

  She wouldn’t try to prevent anything he wanted to do now. He felt a tension greater than he had known it since he had come to the Hall, and the tension passed itself on to her. She stood close to the bed, and he stared up into her eyes, and said: “Has Hester Vane been found?”

  “No.”

  “She—”

  “Darling,” Lorna said, and rested a hand on his shoulder. “The girl has to look after herself. It’s obvious that she’s been lying, and that she got herself into this trouble. She must get herself out of it.”

  That sidetracked Mannering.

  “Who said she’d been lying?”

  “All the evidence—”

  “It often lies itself.”

  “John, S
uperintendent Morrison’s here, from the Yard. I’ve just been talking to him, and the evidence against Hester is greater than ever it was. The knife that was used to kill Morgan was her brother’s. She’d borrowed it the day before the murder – one of the assistants at her shop told the police that.”

  Mannering said: “Positive?”

  “It was found late last night in the woods near the gates, and her parents admitted that she had borrowed it – she often did, apparently, for getting stones out of the tyres of her motor-scooter. Don’t even think of trying to do anything more for her, John. Tell the police where she is, and be done with it.”

  “Lorna—”

  “It’s no use arguing!”

  “She’s in the Tower suite here. She must have been there for nearly twenty-four hours without food.”

  “No!” Lorna was badly shaken by that. “But—”

  “No one uses it these days. Rodney has one key. I’ve got the other.”

  Mannering broke off.

  Unthinking, he had moved, and the pain stabbed again, he had to clench his teeth against it. Lorna’s alarm was at least reassuring.

  “It’s in my trousers pocket,” Mannering said, and Lorna jumped up and went to the wardrobe. “I want to talk to her before anyone else sees her.”

  “John, you’re not fit to—”

  “I don’t talk with my back!”

  “You talk out of the back of your neck sometimes,” Lorna said, and began to rummage through the pockets of his trousers, which were on a hanger.

  “Simms may have emptied the pockets,” Mannering said. And of course, Simms would, it wasn’t possible to think normally about the ordinary things. “Is my loose change on the dressing-table?”

  Lorna looked.

  “No,” she said, and glanced to the mantelpiece, then at a small chest. “There it is,” she added, and stepped across the room. Even now, Mannering saw the easy grace with which she moved, and felt that tension in her manner. “There’s your key case.”