A Case for the Baron Read online

  There was something ‘unspeakable.’ It added a zest to Mannering’s high spirits, for he knew that Bristow had meant what he said, and gave the game a deeper significance.

  Bristow drove them to Langley Station.

  “Sure I can’t take you to Winchester?” Bristow asked at the station.

  “No, Bill, thanks.”

  Bristow drove off, waving.

  When they reached Brockenhurst, the clouds seemed to burst and rain smashed up from the cobbled station yard. At one side an antiquated Daimler, black and square, was parked, with a man at the wheel.

  “Are you from Hadley Grange?” Mannering had to shout to make himself heard over the storm.

  “Yessir!” The driver, small and wizened, started to get out. Mannering motioned him to stay put, opened the rear door and helped Lorna in, then scurried back for their suitcases. They started off slowly, because the rain made it hard to see; the windshield was like a running stream. Even when the rain slackened, the sweeping stretches of tree-clad moorland of the New Forest were hidden, and they could see only nearby hedges, a few disconsolate Forest ponies, the water streaming along the roadside.

  The long drive of Hadley Grange, was lined with oaks and beeches. When they reached the house, a great Georgian pile with one modern wing, they battled their way up the steps while a footman, old and grey-haired, forlornly struggled with a large umbrella.

  They gasped with relief as they went into the hall. As the door closed, the sound of the storm was shut out and peace reigned. One of three chandeliers was lighted. It shone on the wide staircase on the right; on heavy oil portraits of men and women long dead; on the polished oak floor, skin rugs, and age-old furniture.

  “Lorna, my dear!” Marion Ley ran from the stairs, a tall and lovely creature. And wealthy, too. Ley had the house, tradition, and position; his wife, the money. “My dear! How good to see you!” Marion took Lorna’s hands and put her cheek close; a pretence at a kiss. “What a filthy day! I quite expected to have a wire saying that you couldn’t get here. All the telephones lines seem to be down. And John!” She shook hands; hers was cool and firm.

  Marion said: “I’ll take you upstairs.” She linked an arm through Lorna’s, rested a hand on Mannering’s, and talked all the way up the staircase and along the landing. They went along the wide main passage, where tradition reserved the rooms for the most important guests.

  No doubt, then, of the warmth of their welcome, or of Marion’s eagerness to have them here.

  Yes, she was lovely; stately, too, yet – vivacious; and she carried her years lightly. Her voice was silvery, a tinkle of a voice when she laughed, distinctive and friendly.

  What was there about her which Lorna distrusted?

  She opened the door of a large, high-ceilinged bedroom, furnished in blue and gold, a lovely room. The windows overlooked the rainswept lawns and rose gardens, the heavy tapestry curtains were half-drawn, and a light was on.

  “That’s the bathroom.” She pointed. “And your dressing room, John.” She pointed again, and a footman came in with their cases. Marion left them.

  The footman put the cases down, bowed, and went out.

  Lorna laughed. “Darling, she positively gushed. Isn’t she beautiful?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “And this remarkable Marcus, who is too handsome for words and has such powerful influence. I can’t wait to see him.”

  It was half an hour before they went downstairs.

  Voices were coming from the drawing room, on the right of the hall. A grey-haired footman opened the door, and the cheerful talking grew louder. Although the wind still blew with blustering fury, a shaft of sunlight lit up the room, dimming the log fire in the enormous white Adam fireplace. The clink of glasses had a friendly sound.

  In front of the fire were four people. Marion was next to her husband, Robert Ley. He was tall and thin, inclined to stoop, and dark as she was fair. His hair was thin, his manner faintly apologetic. He wore horn-rimmed glasses which rested on the bridge of his hooked nose. The nose was Robert Ley’s only striking feature; and it was much too large. No one could say he looked a match for Marion. By him stood a bulky man in sandy-coloured plus-fours; a man whose craggy face Mannering had last seen on a canvas at the cottage; he was Cherry. Next to him, with Marion on his other side, was a man who brought Bristow’s words to life.

  Marcus Shayne was a match for Marion.

  Chapter Five

  Marion came forward. “Come and see everybody. You know Cherry and, of course, you know Bob. And you most certainly should know Marcus Shayne.”

  “And ought to put him on canvas,” boomed General Cheriton. “If you could. Ha!”

  “Lorna—John,” murmured Robert Ley. His smile was charming.

  Shayne also smiled—

  Bristow had failed to describe him because description was impossible. In his smile and in his brown eyes was an ageless perfection; you took all the most distinctive features of all handsome men, put them together, added this man’s expression – and produced Shayne. You put a dash of evil and a splash of saintliness; mixed gay, dashing youth with wise, cunning age – and produced Shayne.

  Mannering found himself taking his features apart, and they weren’t perfect; only the effect of them all together was that. The eyes were sad and, at first glance, docile; but in fact they glowed with vitality. Shayne had a Roman nose and a pointed chin, wore his fair hair long and with studied carelessness – but was his hair fair or grey? Was he forty or sixty? His complexion was flawless, gently coloured.

  His voice was like the mellow tone of an old church bell, slow yet not sonorous. Shayne stood out in that group like an apostle from his flock; or the Devil from his acolytes.

  “We were all afraid that the weather would stop you, Mrs. Mannering. I was deploring my bad luck again,” he said.

  “Nonsense!” boomed Cheriton. “They were saying you would probably want to avoid me, Lorna, because of that picture. Ha! How’s it getting along?”

  “It’s nearly finished.’ Lorna smiled mechanically; sight of Shayne had shaken her.

  “You won’t like it, General,” Shayne said. “Mrs. Mannering always shows her sitters what others see in them. It is an unearthly trick.”

  He was right, thought Mannering; he would probably always say exactly the right thing, choose the apt word.

  “Nothing others see in me I’d dislike,” he boomed. “Is there, m’dear?” His laughter rang through the great room. His grizzled hair was caught by a fitful gleam of sunlight, which disappeared and left the room dim and shadowy. With the fading of the sun, much of the life seemed to fade, and even Marion looked, momentarily, colourless; but not Shayne. When the sun shone on Shayne, he held it prisoner.

  “Lunch has to be early, today. I’ve a committee coming to see me,” Marion said. “This hospital and Red Cross work! Does anyone mind?”

  No one minded, when the gong went, at half-past twelve.

  Lorna quickly recovered from the effect of Shayne, and scintillated during lunch, as if determined to captivate him. Marion smiled benign approval; no jealousy there, anyhow.

  Gertrude Cheriton came in, a mannish woman in the middle thirties, gruff and aggressively apologetic for being late. Her bobbed dark hair hung in rat’s-tails about her head; she had obviously been out hatless in the rain.

  Towards the end of luncheon a large, antiquated car – the Daimler taxi – came slowly up the drive.

  “My committee,” grimaced Marion. “Lorna, do come and meet them with me. And you, Gertrude.” So she left the men together, and Cheriton promptly decided that he wanted a nap. Ley went off, on the excuse of some work.

  “So everyone is usefully employed except us,” Shayne said. “Are you fond of an after-lunch walk?”

  “Yes,” said Mannering. This was all well planned.

  They went out by a side door, and passed a room laid out as a bazaar, with a group of earnest women studying the many articles on display.

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bsp; “Marion is holding a sale of work tomorrow,” murmured Shayne. “The theory is that everyone will pay twice as much here as they would in the village hall.” He put on a hat with a wide, curly brim, an actor’s hat; it gave him a rakish air.

  Outside, he walked with the lithe step of a young man. It was cold, although the sky was nearly clear of clouds and the sun shone with a dazzling brilliance on wet leaves and grass. They kept to the drive, because the ground was waterlogged on either side.

  As they went down the long drive, Shayne talked about the New Forest and the pity of the ruthless clearance of trees for wartime purposes. He spoke of various other things, but did not touch on the subject of jewels; yet this tête-à-tête had obviously been contrived for some specific reason.

  Near the front gates, he asked: “Which way shall we go?”

  “If we turn left we’ll reach the North Drive after about a mile, and keep on dry ground all the way.”

  “Then we’ll go left. I—”

  Shayne stopped abruptly.

  A little man turned into the drive, huddled in a sodden overcoat, and with his hat like a small tent, because of the rain. His shoes squelched, and he looked so utterly dejected that Mannering studied him with more than casual interest, even before Shayne said, beneath his breath: “What the devil!” Which might mean much or little.

  The man heard and glanced up. He had a pinched and hungry face and a nervous air, yet when he paused, he raked Mannering with an unexpectedly bold glance. When he looked back at Shayne, all boldness disappeared.

  Shayne went ahead and stopped in front of the newcomer. “What are you doing here, Ferris?”

  The man muttered words Mannering could not catch, except the final, frightened and apologetic: “I thought you ought to know, sir.”

  “Are you sure about this?” demanded Shayne.

  “Sure, I’m sure.” Ferris mumbled again.

  “Don’t mumble. There is nothing Mr. Mannering need not know.” He put a faint emphasis on “Mannering”; he wanted Ferris to know who was with them.

  “Mr. Mannering?” Ferris looked sharply at Mannering. “Afternoon, sir!” Then he continued with what he had been saying to Shayne, “Yes, he left Waterloo on the eleven o’clock. I saw him at Brockenhurst. He came this way, sir. I tried to telephone you, but the lines are down because of the storm. I couldn’t get a taxi, so I had to walk.”

  “Very long-suffering of you,” said Shayne. ‘Go to the house and ask for Meyer. He will find you some dry clothes. You’d better have a hot bath, too. I’ll see you before you go.”

  “Very good, sir.” Ferris went along the drive, shooting another curious glance at Mannering. “You’ll be careful, won’t you? Don’t take any chances.”

  Shayne turned and led the way towards the North Drive, along a tree-lined road. His stride was longer, he seemed touched with new, nervous energy.

  “Ferris came to warn me that I may be in danger.”

  “Of what?”

  “Being murdered.” Shayne strode on. “I didn’t think they would follow me down here. Wishful thinking! I shall be annoyed if anything disturbs us this weekend.’

  “Getting murdered is exasperating.”

  Shayne laughed. “Marion said I would like you. It’s not fair to be mysterious. I’m sorry. I confess that I find the subject distasteful and sordid, but I should like to talk it over with you. That is why I was anxious to meet you. Consequently I have made myself a nuisance to Marion. You could help me, I think. Much though I dislike admitting it, I badly need help. Have you ever had an enemy, Mannering? Not just a man who disliked you and tried to outwit you at every opportunity; not just a man who talked scurrilously behind your back, libelled and slandered you foully whenever he could, but a mortal enemy. A man who hated you.”

  “Yes,” said Mannering.

  Shayne said, “You were certainly the man I wanted to see. You have helped the police at times, and thus public enemies have become yours. This is a deep, personal enmity. A blood feud. Have you ever been so frightened that you would wake up in the middle of the night, in a sweat of terror? Been afraid to walk in the open, been sick with dread when you’ve heard an unexpected sound nearby, even a soft foot fall?”

  “Yes.”

  Shayne smiled, showing that saintliness.

  “I shall forever be grateful to Marion for bringing us together. I can talk to you already, and that eases loneliness. Loneliness is the worst part of fear. It can never be shared. This enemy employs others to do his miserable work. Ferris, an old servant of mine, came to tell me that a certain man, who has already tried to injure me, reached Brockenhurst this afternoon. He may be in these grounds now.”

  “We should have brought guns,” said Mannering dryly.

  “Ah! A man of action. I am not that, Mannering, I live too much with thoughts, ideals, dreams. But I am sometimes practical. You are on good terms with the police, aren’t you?”

  “Reasonably good.”

  “Have you ever angered them by working against them?”

  At once a warning rang in Mannering’s mind; why should Shayne think he had worked against the law? Who knew that, save those who knew the Baron?

  “The police and I have been on different sides of the fence, and it hasn’t kept me awake at night.” Of course, Shayne knew nothing about the Baron!

  “That is why I wanted your advice – and help. For good reasons, which I shall presently explain, I am unwilling to go to the police. Yet I find it wearying to be constantly on the alert, not knowing how and when the next assault will come, whether it will be an attempt to kill me, or just to maim or frighten me. It is like living in hell.”

  They turned into the gate of the North Drive. The house was a mile away, and out of sight. Shrubs and trees on either side still dripped; some were screened from the sun by the tall trees. Despite the sun, this northern side of the parkland squelched unpleasantly at every step.

  “And you expected trouble this weekend?” asked Mannering.

  “No, or I should not have come. Until I saw Ferris, I had no idea there would be any, beyond the fact that the danger is always with me. I tell you, Mannering—”

  A crack of a rifle shot rang out, sharp and clear. It came from the right, some distance off.

  Shayne jumped violently. Mannering pushed him to the ground, lay down beside him.

  Chapter Six

  To one side, behind them, was an oak tree, its lower branches no more than six feet from the ground. Beyond the shrubs to their right was a stretch of open parkland. There, some two hundred yards away, Mannering had seen a man bring a rifle to his shoulder.

  As they reached the ground, a second shot rang out; the bullet struck against the oak tree, dull, ominous.

  “Stay where you are,” Mannering said.

  Because the drive was steep and the banks rose high on either side, it gave them ample cover. Shayne didn’t move. Mannering crawled forward on his hands and knees, until he judged that a shrub hid him from the sniper. He climbed up the bank, still crouching, and peered over the top of a clump of leafy rhododendrons. The man with the rifle was waiting for another chance, peering tensely towards them. He was wearing a dark coat and a trilby hat; his face was just a pale shape beneath it.

  Mannering crept round the rhododendrons, whispering: “Don’t move, Shayne. He’s still there. I’ll try to get behind him.”

  Now and again, Mannering straightened up to look over the bushes. The drive curved; soon he was within fifty yards of the man, who had lowered his rifle and was looking about him, as if hoping to catch a movement which would justify another shot. His face was turned away from Mannering, still a pale shape, impossible to distinguish.

  Everywhere was quiet, until an angry, throaty shout, startled both Mannering and the other man.

  A newcomer broke through the screen of bushes and ran fast towards the sharpshooter, who swung on his heel. The newcomer bellowed, raised a clenched fist; cool, foolish courage which served him well. The gunma
n began to run, away from Mannering as well as from this new known enemy.

  “Catch him! The throaty voice came. A pair of short gaitered legs worked like pistons, and an old Norfolk jacket billowed out in the wind. The gamekeeper, brandished a stout ash stick, as if it could protect him against lead.

  Oh, for a gun, to bring the sharpshooter down.

  Gamekeeper and gunman disappeared towards the road, crashing through the undergrowth. Mannering reached the roadside hedge as the sound of footsteps was fading. He vaulted the hedge, to see the gamekeeper standing not far away, round, brick-red face, a scowl enough to terrify poachers, breath coming gustily, stick twirling in stubby fingers.

  “If I could get my hand on un—”

  “You’d teach him to poach!” said Mannering, promptly. The gamekeeper would be a simple soul, with poachers to him just what an unknown man was to Shayne, enemies. If he’d doubted Shayne before, could he doubt him now?

  “Aye, sir, that I would,” the gamekeeper growled. “I’d wring his neck for un, the thievin’ rascal. You didn’t get a good sight of un, did ‘ee?”

  “No, you had him on the run.”

  “I’ve got my own ideas on un,” said the gamekeeper. “Some when I’ll catch un, sir, be sure I will. You be a visitor at the house, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  The gamekeeper touched his cap and went sturdily off towards Hadley Village, with the purpose, he claimed, of finding out whether a ‘certain person’ had been at home that afternoon. Mannering walked briskly towards the North Drive. To the gamekeeper the sharpshooter was and remained a poacher; they might avoid alarming the house-party. Unless Shayne—no, Shayne wouldn’t spread alarm.

  Shayne came from behind a clump of rhododendrons, his coat covered with muddy gravel, trousers torn, and shoes scratched, smiled with a troubled air.

  “Thank you, Mannering. A third shot might have hit me and on my own, I wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

  They walked slowly along the drive, silent until Shayne said: “Who shouted?”