The Missing Old Masters Read online

  The man went out.

  The first thing Mannering wanted was to know what the man and woman, whose voices he had overheard, were quarrelling about. He felt sure that the woman was Joanna, and could only guess that the man was her father. He hesitated. As a guest, the idea of eavesdropping was repellent, but there was much mystery here – and the old woman had been gravely injured. All thought and hope of relaxation had now gone.

  He opened the bedroom door and stepped on to the landing. From there he glanced down into the well of the hall, saw that it was empty and walked quickly to the room where the couple were talking.

  The man was saying: ‘… I simply don’t understand you. Have you no pride in your heritage, Joanna? No pride in maintaining the family tradition? You can’t be serious.’

  With a catch in her voice the girl replied: ‘I’ve never been more serious in my life. Please do as I ask, Daddy. Please.’

  Mannering wished he were in the room and could see as well as hear what was going on. He could imagine the pleading on Joanna’s face, the supplication in her eyes, but he had no idea at all of what Cunliffe looked like. Silence fell, and the impulse to open the door was almost overwhelming; it became greater as the silence lengthened. Mannering moved closer, listening intently for Cunliffe’s reply, but could hear nothing.

  Suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of a woman’s violent crying – and at the same time a man stepped across the hall below, his footsteps now sharp on polished marquetry, now softened by rich carpets.

  Chapter Five

  Shock at Dinner

  Mannering moved swiftly from the door, and went thoughtfully back to his room. What was it Joanna so desperately wanted her father to do, he wondered, and why should Colonel Cunliffe accuse his daughter of lack of family pride? As he turned into his own room a clock in the hall began to chime; it was nine o’clock. He found his case opened on the bed, and everything he needed in the bathroom; so someone knew he had been out of the room and could have seen him at the other door.

  He had a quick bath, dressed, and was ready by twenty-five-past nine. As he left his room he heard Cunliffe’s voice again, this time downstairs.

  ‘Now don’t be long, Violet.’

  ‘Only a moment,’ a woman said. She appeared at a doorway and hurried towards the foot of the stairs, a tall, handsome woman in her middle forties. She stopped at the sight of Mannering, only a few steps above her.

  ‘Oh, Mr. Mannering.’ Cunliffe appeared from the same doorway. ‘I’m so sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. Violet, may I present Mr. Mannering? Mr. Mannering, my sister, Lady Markly.’

  Violet Markly had a pleasant face and a friendly smile.

  She murmured a conventional greeting and hurried up the stairs.

  Cunliffe moved quietly across the hall with conventional ease. There was nothing in his manner to suggest anxiety or concern as he led the way to a small room where bottles gleamed on a dark chiffonier. Beyond, through an arched doorway, was a large dining-room, lit with candles in imposing silver candelabra.

  ‘What will you have?’ Cunliffe asked. ‘Violet said she’d only be a moment, which means ten minutes at least, and my daughter Joanna will be a little late.’ He hovered in front of the bottles.

  ‘May I have a whisky and soda?’

  Cunliffe poured out. ‘You’ve met my daughter, of course—your very good health—at the scene of the fire, she tells me. What a lot of excitement for an isolated place like this! The cottage was burned right down, I understand. Perhaps that attack on poor Eliza Doze saved her from a still more horrible fate. A shocking thing though, really shocking. Don’t know what the country’s coming to; even an old woman of nearly eighty isn’t safe from these brutes. I wonder—’

  ‘Do you know how she is?’ interrupted Mannering.

  ‘Oh, yes. Had a word with the hospital ten minutes ago; Joanna was very concerned. She’s not badly hurt—nothing broken—and apparently she’ll be up and about in a few days. How long are you going to be down here, Mannering?’

  ‘Only a day or two,’ Mannering answered.

  ‘Came by taxi, I understand. We’ve a Little Mini. You can use it if it’s any help—my daughter Hester’s, but she’s in London most of the time and won’t drive up there. Parking problems. Understand you’re in antiques.’

  ‘And paintings,’ observed Mannering, solemnly.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course, paintings. I’ve some fine portraits here—a Gainsborough, a Brenghel, a Vermeer, a Rubens …’ The listing of his treasures ceased suddenly as Joanna came into the room.

  She looked several years older than she had done in jeans; but a lovely young woman. Her hair was piled high on her head, showing small, aristocratic ears, charmingly jewelled, and her make up had been applied with care.

  ‘Daddy, forgive me if I’m late … Mr. Mannering, lovely to see you again … Could I have a gin and It, Daddy? Not too much gin.’ She waited until her father had turned away, and then whispered in a voice Mannering could only just hear: ‘Please don’t show surprise at anything.’ With scarcely a pause she talked on in the normal voice of verbal intercourse, about the fire and the attack.

  A few minutes later Lady Markly appeared, and they went in to dinner.

  Even as versed as Mannering was at disguising his feelings, he could scarcely control a start of surprise; for the footman holding back Lady Markly’s chair was Harry Anstiss.

  It was a well-cooked meal, beautifully served, and Mannering ate and drank with concentration and pleasure, taking no more notice of Anstiss than Anstiss was taking of him.

  Once the subject of the village sensation was over, the conversation drifted sparklingly to politics, motoring, yachting and finally to antiques. All three were knowledgeable, Joanna more than her aunt but less than her father. Mannering told them the story of the find in the Upper Amazon.

  ‘And will you go, Mr. Mannering?’ Lady Markly asked.

  ‘I hope to,’ Mannering said.

  He happened to be glancing at Anstiss as he spoke, and could have sworn that Anstiss mouthed three words: ‘You’ll be lucky.’

  ‘A cigar, Mannering?’ Cunliffe proffered a box when the men were alone with the port between them.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Going well? … Good. Now!’ Cunliffe braced himself and looked squarely across the table. ‘Mannering, forgive me taking advantage of your visit here, but I’ve a problem. Can I speak in absolute confidence?’

  Mannering nodded.

  ‘I have your word?’

  ‘You have my word.’

  Cunliffe watched Mannering intently.

  ‘You—ah—you have been consulted on art thefts by the Yard, haven’t you?’

  ‘Occasionally, yes,’ said Mannering cautiously.

  ‘I’ve a deuced strange problem on my hands, Mannering. Don’t want to go to the police with it until I know the basic situation. You—ah—you’ve noticed my paintings? Oh, of course, we talked about them. Yes—I ah, have a small collection in the north gallery. Small but quite beautiful, and particularly valuable to me for sentimental reasons. They—ah—were stolen last week.’

  Mannering managed to put a note of astonishment into his voice.

  ‘Stolen! A week ago?’

  ‘Within the last week, certainly. I don’t often go up to the north gallery, but did so seven days ago when everything was in order. I visited it again today, and this time noticed that a frame of the Rubens was scratched, took a closer look, and—’ Cunliffe threw up his hands. ‘Copies! No doubt at all. Copies! I went through the lot, Mannering. Someone had taken the originals out of their frames and put in the copies. Damned good, mind you, would have fooled me but for the scratches on the frame. Care to see them?’

  ‘Very much indeed,’ said Mannering.

  Cunliffe glanced
towards the door. ‘Joanna and Violet will find plenty to talk about for twenty minutes. Come this way, will you?’

  There was another doorway leading from the dining-room, near which was a secondary staircase, spiralling upwards, the sides exquisitely carved. Cunliffe and Mannering walked up it, footsteps ringing on the solid oak. At the top was a long, narrow gallery which overlooked a part of the house which Mannering hadn’t seen. One light glowed dimly from the ceiling, but Cunliffe switched on others, over each of the seven pictures, so placed to show them to their best advantage and to ensure that no direct light was reflected from the varnished surfaces.

  Mannering’s heart began to beat very fast, for these appeared to be identical with those he had brought from the cottage. He saw the Vermeer first, then the Breughel. In this light the copies, if indeed they were copies, were masterfully done.

  ‘What do you make of them?’ Cunliffe asked.

  ‘I’d need special light and a special glass to be sure,’ Mannering said.

  ‘Oh, these are copies all right,’ Cunliffe insisted, then went on uneasily: ‘I particularly don’t want the police brought in, Mannering. On the other hand, I must know what happened to those paintings. It shouldn’t be too difficult—after all, someone had to be up here for a considerable time. The door to the gallery is always kept locked, and the windows are impregnable. Impregnable. If a member of the staff—ah—or even one of the family, was remotely involved—’ He broke off. ‘I’m sure you understand,’ he added.

  ‘I do indeed,’ Mannering said.

  ‘Will you help?’

  ‘To find the thief?’

  ‘Yes. And the paintings, dammit.’

  ‘Do you really believe this could be a family matter?’ Mannering asked bluntly.

  Cunliffe pursed his lips.

  ‘I can only say that I must insist on not making the facts public, at least for the time being.’

  ‘Are the paintings insured?’

  ‘Of course, Mannering. They are very valuable indeed.’

  ‘Unless you report the loss at once the insurance company might argue that you lost an opportunity to recover them, and dispute your claim,’ Mannering said.

  Cunliffe’s mouth dropped open.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Very seriously.’

  ‘That—that certainly does put a different complexion on the matter,’ Cunliffe admitted. ‘I—ah—will have to give it a lot more consideration. Presumably it can keep until morning.’

  ‘Oh, yes. And you can say you told me and I advised waiting for a few hours,’ Mannering offered.

  ‘Very thoughtful of you. You can understand how worried I am, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Mannering said again.

  ‘Now—perhaps we ought to join the others.’ Cunliffe, still preoccupied, turned towards the head of the stairs and stood aside for Mannering to pass.

  ‘I’d like to slip along to my room first,’ Mannering said.

  ‘Of course. Of course. You can find your own way down, can’t you?’

  Mannering nodded. He watched Cunliffe go downstairs, then walked swiftly along the corridor. Reaching his bedroom, he paused for a moment, then swung the door sharply back against the wall, half expecting someone to be lurking behind it. But the room was empty. The bedclothes had been turned down, otherwise everything seemed to be exactly as it had been before. He studied the room more closely. Now he noticed that two drawers stood out more than he recalled, and he thought a chair had been pushed to one side. Cautiously, he went to the bathroom.

  It was empty.

  There was no way of being sure that the room had been searched, but almost certainly Anstiss would have taken any chance to look for the paintings. Mannering went out and down the stairs. Cunliffe and Lady Markly were sitting in front of a television set from the screen of which a black face shone, a deep voice sounded. Mannering heard the world ‘Commonwealth’ before Cunliffe switched off.

  ‘Don’t do that for me,’ Mannering said.

  ‘Oh, nothing worth seeing tonight,’ said Cunliffe bluffly. ‘My daughter’s gone to bed, Mannering—very tired. She asked me to wish you goodnight for her.’

  ‘And I must be off,’ Lady Markly said. ‘I live in a cottage in the grounds, Mr. Mannering.’

  ‘May I walk there with you?’

  ‘Really, there’s no need.’

  ‘Be a very good idea,’ Cunliffe said. (Was it his imagination, wondered Mannering, or was his host anxious to get rid of him?) ‘So many odd things seem to have happened recently. And it’s a very dark night.’

  It was indeed a very dark night, despite the brightness of the stars. The pale outline of the carriageway showed up eerily. Beyond the trees, lights showed at windows.

  ‘That’s the cottage, Mr. Mannering; not very far, you see.’

  ‘Far enough on a dark night,’ Mannering answered.

  That was when he thought he heard a sound behind them, but he did not turn round. He talked in pleasantries until he and Lady Markly reached the cottage gate, where they said goodnight. Mannering waited until she was safely inside, then turned back to the main house. He had not taken a dozen steps before he heard faint footfalls behind him. Now he had no doubt at all that he was being followed.

  Chapter Six

  The Threats

  Mannering did not alter his pace as he made his way back towards the Manor. He was acutely aware of the lights which suddenly flared out from the windows. He could not have been more vulnerable.

  The footsteps continued.

  Were there two men? Or just one? Was it Anstiss? With this uncertainty for company, Mannering had a vivid mental picture of Joanna Cunliffe as she had pleaded with him to let Anstiss go.

  Why had she done so?

  He was halfway between the cottage and the house, when several of the lights of the house went out. That helped a little. And whoever was behind him seemed to keep at a fair distance. But surely no one would follow him simply for the sake of seeing where he went?

  Suddenly, startlingly, a man spoke.

  ‘Stop there, Mannering.’

  Mannering went on.

  ‘Stop there if you don’t want a bullet in your back.’ The voice was low-pitched and clear; he thought it was Anstiss but was not sure.

  A shot would be heard, and with so many people about someone would be bound to investigate. Mannering went on but he clenched his teeth.

  ‘I’ve warned you,’ the man behind him said; it was Anstiss. And now he seemed to be drawing nearer.

  The threat to shoot was probably made to unnerve Mannering and to make him more vulnerable to some other form of attack. How would it come? Anstiss was a small man, but he might well carry a cosh or a stick, and he could leap forward and smash a blow down on Mannering’s head. Mannering keyed himself. If he ran he could reach the safety of the house – unless Anstiss did have a gun. But that would lose another chance of questioning the man. If he spun round and attacked …

  A second man spoke out of the darkness on his right.

  ‘Stop there, Mannering.’

  Mannering turned his head and saw a vague, dark shape, the pale blur of a face, and as he did so heard the man behind him running, sensed the moment when Anstiss leapt at him. He leaned forward, bending almost double, and Anstiss went flying over his shoulders. On the instant Mannering jumped towards the dark shape – the shape of a man – of a big man.

  They collided.

  The shock of the impact sent Mannering reeling back, sent the other staggering too. He was both big and heavy, and if youth were on his side, would have all the advantages. Mannering guessed that Anstiss would soon attack again; the obviously sensible thing was to run for the house. But even as the thought flashed through his mind, Mannering saw the big man clearly, judged
his position and leapt forward, arms outstretched to grab his ankles and to pull him down. His hands opened and closed, and the man pitched backwards, leaving Mannering stretched on the ground at full length. Before he could start to get up, Anstiss leapt.

  Mannering felt a kick in the side, another on the shoulder. The next moment he was struck savagely on the back of the head. Senses reeling, he tried to struggle to his feet, but another blow fell with the weight of a sledge-hammer, and he lost consciousness.

  ‘Watch him,’ muttered Anstiss.

  The other man shrugged. ‘He’s dead to the world.’

  ‘He could be foxing.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it. Take his arms.’

  Warily, Anstiss moved towards Mannering’s head, bending down and gripping his arms as the other took his legs. They lifted him, sagging in the middle, and carried him away from the drive and the lawns. Before they had gone fifty yards, Anstiss gasped:

  ‘I must rest.’

  ‘Just a breather.’

  ‘How far do we have to go?’

  ‘’Nother hundred yards.’

  Twice more they lowered Mannering as they carried him through the trees towards a small hut. They were both gasping for breath when they reached it, dropped Mannering and opened the door. It made little sound. The big man went inside, flashing a torch, the beam falling on saws, a scything machine, ropes, canvas bags and two wire-netted cages half full of leaves. Anstiss followed him, and lit an oil lamp. There was only one window and a piece of sacking hung from it. Along one wall was a garden bench, with a broken arm rest.

  ‘Put him on that,’ the big man said. ‘Get a move on.’

  When Mannering had fallen, the jolt had brought him back to consciousness. He was vaguely aware of the light inside the hut, but his head ached, and his body was too limp for him to make any effort to get away. He saw the men come out of the doorway, dark against the dim light, and closed his eyes. They picked him up again and carried him inside; he steeled himself against the pain of being dropped, but this time they placed him on the bench, his head at one end, his legs resting over the broken rail at the other. Then they sat down, one on an upturned drum, one on a coil of rope. There was a smell of oil, of new-mown grass, of decomposing leaves – and freshly, of tobacco smoke.