If Anything Happens to Hester Page 4

  “Yes, of course it’s me. Guy, where are you? I don’t want you to stay out, I want—”

  “I thought I’d better call because I think I’m going to be late and I didn’t want to cause another scare,” Guy said. “Is Dad there?”

  “You can tell me anything you can tell him. Guy, have you seen Hester?”

  “I wish I had,” Guy said fervently. “Mum, let me speak to Dad.”

  She could have shouted at him: but it would do no good, and might make the situation worse. What had she done, to have brought this on herself? Why had she talked to Hester like she had this afternoon?

  Michael, by her side, took the receiver without a word to her, and said: “Hallo, Guy. What is it?”

  He seemed to listen for an age, and then the last thing Alicia had expected happened; he gave a little smile, actually had to stifle a laugh. He soon sobered, and glanced at Hennessy and Winterton, almost warily. Then he said: “Well, it won’t do any harm. Be careful, Guy … If you’re going to be in too late, telephone us again. We won’t go to bed until we hear.”

  He rang off.

  “Mike, what did he say?” Hennessy demanded, almost too quickly. There was a pleading note in his voice, asking that his friend should not hold out on him. Winterton had a crafty look, and there was a glitter in his eyes which suggested a kind of gloating.

  Alicia felt that she hated Winterton.

  Michael spread his hands, and smiled wryly.

  “Guy’s been told pretty much the same story that you told us,” he said, “and he seems to think that the police do believe that Hester was involved in this. So he’s going up to the Hall to ask John Mannering if he’ll help to prove that the police are wrong.”

  “John Man—” Hennessy began, and then broke into a grin. Winterton looked down his nose, as if he didn’t like the news at all. “Oh, well, that can’t do any harm, and it might even help,” Hennessy went on. “I wonder what put that idea into Guy’s head.”

  “Don’t see that it matters,” Michael said. He slid an arm round Alicia’s waist, hugged her, and at the same time looked very straightly at Hennessy. “Ted, why aren’t you being frank with us? You think the evidence points straight at Hester, don’t you?”

  Hennessy didn’t answer; and that was answer enough.

  “How black is it?” Michael demanded.

  “It’s far too early to say,” Hennessy said at last; he mumbled rather. “I’ve often been on cases which have looked quite straightforward at first and have become so complicated you wouldn’t believe. Last thing I would do is to take it for granted that Hester is guilty.”

  Guilty.

  Winterton, still looking down his nose, gave what seemed to be a sly, satisfied smile. “I take it for granted,” he seemed to imply.

  Then Hennessy said: “And after all, if she did kill him, it could have been in self-defence, it isn’t necessarily murder. I shouldn’t take anything for granted, Mike. Er—Ally, I only wish someone else had this job to do. Believe me, I’ll help in every way I can.”

  Alicia didn’t answer as Hennessy went out.

  “I don’t want him in my house again,” she declared, when the door had closed.

  “I know how you feel,” Michael said.

  “I mean it.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “Mike,” Alicia said, and then caught her breath and felt tears stinging her eyes. “Mike, what’s happened? Could Hester have—”

  She broke off.

  “Of course she didn’t kill the man,” Michael said. This was the first time he had raised his voice since he had talked to her about Hester. “It’s unthinkable—good God, don’t you start doubting her.”

  Alicia said: “I don’t doubt her, Mike, don’t say that. Oh, if only she would ring up, if only we could talk to her.”

  As she said that, she realised that in fact she did doubt Hester; it was almost as if she knew that Hester had been in the car with that man, that Hester had run away from him, after—

  “I hope Mannering doesn’t rebuff young Guy,” Michael said, in better control of himself. “Guy didn’t lose any time, anyhow.”

  Alicia said: “No.”

  She thought: “Guy must have heard some frightening things to make him brave the Hall, Lord Horton, the reputation of John Mannering, all the things which might be expected to overawe him. How long would it be before he came back? What kind of reception would he have from Mannering? Would he get past the footman who would open the great front door? Lord Horton, the Mannerings and people like them still lived in a different world. Why should they interest themselves in this world which had been so happy and was now filled with such fear?”

  She thought: “It wouldn’t be so bad if there was something we could do.”

  “Make a cup of tea, sweet, and when we’ve had it we can start telephoning all of Hester’s friends, to find out if they knew what was worrying her,” Michael said. “I know it’s late, but we can’t sit doing nothing.”

  That was the moment when Guy cycled out of the range of the headlamp beams bunched near the gates of the Hall, the lights shining on the beech and birch trees there, still thin with the leaves of spring. Here, the only fight was that of his own lamp, the only noises were the hum of the dynamo and the whir of the tyres on the gravel. The trunks of trees loomed up; the fresh green of saplings, even the pink eyes of rabbits. It was heavy going. He had scorned a three-speed for years, but on an uphill run which was urgent wished that he had one. The drive was over a mile long, and uphill all the way. He had come along here once or twice before, to play cricket on the private ground, and knew just how it twisted and turned. He had never cycled up by night, and it was eerie, even a little unnerving, although he would never had admitted it, except perhaps to his father. Sharp sounds startled him, as if people were walking about the woods on either side, but he saw no movement except that of the rabbits. It was a clear night, but the stars were visible only through the gap between the tops of the trees, which almost interlaced fifty or sixty feet above his head.

  Then he saw a greater expanse of the star-filled sky, and knew that he was out of the worst of the woods; two or three more bends would bring him within sight of the Hall itself. Over on the left, hidden by a ring of fine oaks, was the cricket ground and the tennis courts, and more recently the swimming-pool installed when the present Lord Horton had taken over, about three years ago. There had been a lot of talk about his unworthiness, but since he had taken residence little had been said against him, for he spent money freely in the village, he had taken on more men for the grounds, and paid good wages. It was part of the new policy at the Hall that some custom should be given to local tradesmen and farmers; hence the weekly order for the Vanes.

  Guy was letting thoughts like these run through his mind. With them were anxious moments when he thought of what had been said about Hester; the certainty with which his policemen friends had said that she had been seen with the dead man only an hour or two before the body had been discovered. And mingled with them was a curious kind of excitement at the prospect of meeting John Mannering. He could not remember the time when Mannering had not been a kind of hero to him, mostly as a legendary figure often talked about in the newspapers. He was known to be daring, known to take great risks to help those in trouble, known to defy the police if he thought it necessary.

  Now that he was approaching the Hall, Guy found doubts creeping in, implanted by his mother’s reaction. All he had heard about Mannering might be a kind of newspaper build-up. True, he’d given a pleasant enough smile when he had nearly backed into Guy, and had called out an apology, but that signified nothing.

  Lights shone out from the Hall.

  From there, three hundred yards away, the great building seemed not only massive but dark and forbidding. It was a centuries-old castle, once nearly a ruin, but rebuilt only fifty or sixty years ago. It stretched, as if with ramparts, for nearly seventy yards, and was almost as deep. There were castellated towers and walls
; archers’ slits in the grey Portland stone; narrow windows built in mock-Norman style. The reconstruction was known to have cost the first Lord Horton – the multi-millionaire ship-owner – half a million pounds.

  Yet the lights gave the blackness of the building a warmth and a kind of friendliness.

  Guy felt small and insignificant as he cycled towards the porticoed doorway. He found himself wondering whether he should go to the back, or boldly to the front door. Anyone arriving at the front on a bicycle had a nerve. He began to grin, and as the ground levelled out, put on speed. Now he could see the shape of the lighted windows, tall and arched, on either side of the doorway; there were seven lights showing in all, one of them outside the great entrance porch. Guy drew up by this, and got off his machine. He hesitated before leaning it against one of the pillars; that was almost a sacrilege. He grinned, and said sotto voce: “They can’t eat me.” He went boldly to the front door, saw the great hanging bell-pull, searched for an ordinary bell-push and saw none. He held the iron handle and pulled sharply; there was a scratchy noise above his head but no sound of a ringing bell.

  He drew back, listening intently.

  He knew one or two of the servants at the Hall, and wasn’t sure whether to hope that someone he knew opened the door or not; a man who didn’t know that he was Guy Vane might give him a better hearing. The door opened quickly enough to startle him, and he was confronted by a small, dark-clad man whom he had seen about Gilston town, but whom he didn’t know.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “Good evening,” Guy said, and wished that his mouth didn’t seem so dry. “Is Mr. Man—may I see Mr. Mannering, please?”

  “I will find out if he is in,” the small man said, and stood aside.

  Guy stepped in.

  He was dwarfed by the enormous hall, startled by the walls of stone furnished with great tapestries. The walls had iron rings in them, some filled with electric lights made in the shape of torches. More of these went up the walls of the great curved staircase which led to a gallery high above his head. This had been meant to impress; now it could easily overawe anyone new to it. Guy made an effort not to be overawed, but was acutely conscious of his grey flannels and tweed coat, his bicycle clips, the fact that he was sweating after the hard ride.

  “What name shall I tell Mr. Mannering, sir?” The ‘sir’ did not seem to have any edge to it.

  “Vane – Guy Vane.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The small man turned away and walked towards a double doorway behind the circular staircase; the hall ran right round the staircase, with a few doors, all big and iron studded, leading off it. The double doors opened, and Guy was alone here. He looked round, craning his neck now that there was no need to maintain any kind of pretence. Everything was so vast that it was almost comical. He could imagine his father coming in, looking round, and making pertinent, ironic comments; it would take a great deal to overawe his father.

  Then he was aware of being watched. A slight noise attracted his attention at first coming from the staircase. He looked up. It seemed an age before he picked out the figure of a young man standing by one of the great pillars which supported the gallery. He knew the man, slightly; had once played cricket and once played soccer against him. This was the Honourable Rodney Horton, the only son of Lord Horton, and heir to the Hall and everything that went with it. That more than anything else affected Guy: he was looking at a man not more than four or five years older than himself, but who would inherit several million pounds.

  Young Horton did not look away from him, but raised a hand in a casual greeting. Then the small man came from the double doors behind the stairs.

  “Mr. Mannering will see you, sir.”

  Guy only just checked himself from exclaiming: “Oh, good!” He was near the double doors when a clock he hadn’t noticed because it was hidden by the staircase began to chime. It was midnight; what a time to burst in. If Mannering was willing to see him now, it was reasonable proof that he was everything that his reputation claimed.

  The small man led the way into a room large by the bungalow standards, but small here. A log fire in an old open hearth smouldered. The walls were plastered and painted, and several portraits hung on them, but Guy was not interested in furniture or paintings, only in Mannering, who was standing with his back to the fire. He was alone. He looked tall and quite remarkably handsome, and what was more important, he looked as if he belonged here. By his side was a small table which was probably centuries old; on it stood a squat bottle of brandy and two big brandy glasses. The glow of the fire reflected on the glasses, and made the brandy in one of them look as if it were tinged with blood.

  “Hallo!” Mannering greeted, as Guy found himself shaking hands; and also found himself attracted by the other’s smile, and the glint in his eyes. “Didn’t we try to run each other down earlier this evening?”

  “That’s right,” Guy said. “I—er—it’s extremely good of you to see me.”

  “I can’t imagine it’s a social call so late as this,” Mannering said dryly. “If it’s urgent enough to come so late, it must be important.” He hesitated, as if giving Guy time to adjust himself, and then asked in the mildest of voices: “Is it about your sister?”

  Chapter Six

  Promise

  John Mannering thought: “I like the look of him.”

  He saw the startled expression in the youngster’s grey eyes, and the eagerness, too. He liked the upright figure, and the squared shoulders, as well as a look of fearlessness and simplicity seldom found in a youth of eighteen or so.

  “How on earth did you guess that it was about Hester?” Guy Vane demanded.

  There was no point in mystifying him; no reason why he should not be told the obvious things, even though there was a great deal that no one but Mannering and his host yet knew.

  “It’s very simple,” Mannering answered. “No witchcraft I assure you. As the murder was committed in the grounds of the Hall, Lord Horton telephoned the Chief Constable, who told him everything there is to know so far – that this murdered man was known to have been with a Miss Hester Vane this evening, and earlier in the day. So when Guy Vane calls—” he broke off with a shrug.

  Guy said: “It sounds easy, when you explain it like that.” His eyes narrowed and hardened, he could be quite a tough customer. “I don’t believe that my sister killed this man. Do the police think she did?”

  How much could he take?

  Mannering said: “Yes, I’m pretty sure they do.”

  He saw the other’s jaws clench, saw them work for a moment, saw the stubbornness in his expression. There was no real shock, just a realisation of unpleasant facts and a determination not to accept them.

  “Well, they’re wrong.”

  “Sure?” asked Mannering.

  “Of course I’m—” Guy began, but hesitated.

  When Mannering did not prompt him, he went on carefully: “In a way I’m sure, because I’m positive that whatever happened, Hester wouldn’t kill a man. On the other hand, I can’t offer any evidence, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Good distinction.” Mannering said, and wondered if he were a little too ponderous. “Did you know the dead man?”

  “I’ve seen him, but I didn’t know him.”

  “Do you know what connection there was between him and your sister?”

  “Mr. Mannering, all I can tell you is that I don’t believe that Hester would do anything which was—well, criminal. She was a bit troubled about something, but none of us knows what it was. My mother’s worried stiff, and my father—well, there was a policeman at the house just before I left, and I heard what the police were saying among themselves. To hear them talk it was just a question of finding my sister and accusing her. I don’t believe it, but I can’t do much. Will you help?”

  It was very straight from the shoulder; like the boy.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re asking?” Mannering asked.

  “I think so, sir.�
��

  “I mean, what happens if I try to help and find that the evidence points to your sister?”

  “I don’t believe it will.”

  “It might.”

  Guy hesitated, and then said roughly: “Well, if she did it, she did it, and there’s nothing we can do except try to find out why. If the man attacked her, or anything like that, wouldn’t it be justifiable homicide?”

  “Yes,” Mannering agreed, and wondered how much anxiety the boy could really stand. He did not speak too seriously, but did not want to appear too casual.

  “But there’s no evidence of a struggle, no evidence that the dead man expected to be killed. He was sitting at the wheel of his car. There wasn’t room for him to have made any sudden movement towards a passenger, the wheel would have prevented him. It looks as if he was sitting there, probably talking, when he was killed with a knife wound from the side – the passenger’s side. It pierced the carotid artery.”

  He saw the boy flinch; so obviously he knew the implications of that injury.

  Mannering went on, feeling cold-blooded and cruel but knowing that all of this had to be said: “It could have been done quite easily by anyone, man or woman, sitting next to Morgan—”

  “Who?”

  “The dead man’s name was Clive Morgan.”

  “Oh.”

  “Ever heard your sister talk of ‘Clive’?”

  “No.”

  That seemed the truth.

  “I see. Well, it’s almost certain a passenger inflicted the wound. If there had been any sign of a struggle, if the body had been found in the back of the car where there was comfortable room for movement, or even by the side of the car, it might lend colour to the theory that whoever killed him was defending himself or herself, but there’s no evidence of this. The indications are that Morgan was sitting and talking, and was killed by a single thrust. A knife thrust to the neck isn’t made without intent to kill,” Mannering added dryly.

  “I can see that,” Guy said. “Have you actually seen the body?”

  “I saw Morgan while he was in the car.”