If Anything Happens to Hester Read online

“Do the—do the newspapers know about this?”

  “Two local reporters were there.”

  “Well, my mother will have to be told before she reads it in the newspapers,” Guy said. He drew his hand across his forehead, and Mannering belatedly offered cigarettes.

  “No, thanks,” Guy replied. “I don’t smoke yet.” The ‘yet’ seemed to emphasise his youth. “I—er—I wouldn’t mind a glass of cider or lemonade, or—”

  “I’ll get it,” Mannering said at once, and went to a Cromwellian court cupboard, where drinks were kept. He was aware of the intentions of the lad watching him, and wondered what was coming next and how far he dare go on. How much did it matter, for instance, if young Vane was told the truth about Clive Morgan, and talked about it in the village or in the town? The newspapers might have the story already, so the truth was that it would make very little difference. Mannering poured out cider, took the tankard to the boy and said: “Did your mother suspect that your sister was being blackmailed?”

  Guy exclaimed: “What!” and started so violently that a little of the cider spilled over the edge of the tankard. His eyes looked enormous. “Are you sure?”

  “It’s a reasonable assumption. Morgan is believed to have been a blackmailer. He was known to be a rogue.”

  “Good God!”

  “And if you’re going to say that he deserved to be killed, I wouldn’t argue,” Mannering remarked, dryly. “But the police take the view that the victim of a blackmailer should tell them, not take the law into their own hands. Do you know if your sister was short of money?”

  Guy didn’t answer.

  “Did you?” Mannering asked, more firmly.

  “Yes,” Guy answered, slowly and reluctantly. “Yes, I did. She wanted to borrow twenty-five pounds from me about a month ago. I’d only got about a fiver. Could have done with it back last week, so I dropped a hint, but she didn’t take it. I guessed that she was still hard up. I couldn’t really understand it, because she gets a good salary—and—” Guy broke off and narrowed his eyes. “Do you think that this man was blackmailing her?”

  “I’ve told you that it looks like it,” Mannering said. “She was seen talking to him about once a week, usually on the road from your home to Gilston – as if he met her there by appointment. It was always on a Friday – she gets paid on Thursday, doesn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “She had borrowed from friends at her work, too, and drawn an advance on her salary,” Mannering went on. “The police haven’t had much time to work in, but they’d started an inquiry before Morgan was killed, because he wasn’t trusted. They suspected that he was up to no good with your sister, and checked – that’s how they came to find out that she owed altogether about a hundred and fifty pounds.”

  “A hundred and—” Guy’s voice trailed off.

  “That’s a lot of money,” Mannering said flatly.

  “It’s a hell of a lot,” Guy agreed weakly, and pressed his hand against his forehead. “I hardly know whether to be glad or sorry that I came to see you, sir. This is shocking. Awful. But—but if he did drive her too far, wouldn’t that be justifiable homicide? I mean, would it be considered provocation?” He was almost pathetically eager.

  “That would probably depend on what she’d done to allow him to blackmail her,” Mannering replied, cautiously, “and how long it had been going on. Do you know what she’d done?”

  Guy didn’t answer.

  Mannering saw him sip the cider, which he had hardly touched, then saw him turn and put the tankard down, as if he had no more patience. He still did not speak, and his face was something to see; tense, handsome, young-old. He was fighting a kind of personal battle, and it would be a mistake to interrupt until it was over. The room was quiet, there was not even a rustle of hot ash on the hearth; but suddenly a clock struck; it was twelve o’clock.

  Guy said: “No, sir, and that’s the strangest thing about it. I can’t believe that Hester would do anything which would let a blackmailer get his claws into her, unless—well, unless she was having an affair with someone, and it had gone too far. She would know that my mother and father would hate that, and—but it doesn’t make any sense,” he exploded, his eyes blazing. “No, I don’t know. I just can’t believe that Hester would commit any crime to explain blackmail. It must be something else.”

  “And you want me to find out?”

  “I’d give anything if you would.” Guy spread his hands, not knowing that he had copied the gesture from his father. “That’s easy to say, I haven’t really got anything to offer, but I’d do anything to repay you. It isn’t only Hester, it—”

  He broke off.

  Mannering didn’t prompt him.

  “I was going to say it’s my mother and father,” Guy went on, “and then I realised that we don’t know where Hester is. If—if she did do this thing, she mightn’t have the—the courage to face up to it.” He was losing colour, and the brightness in his eyes seemed to be almost feverish. “If—if she struck at him and killed him, she might have—”

  He could not bring himself to finish.

  Mannering said: “Take it easy, Guy. There’s no reason at all to think she might have killed herself.”

  Guy said tensely: “I heard them arranging a search of the copse, and of the woods on the estate. I thought they were looking for clues, but if the police think that she might have killed herself, they would start a search at night, wouldn’t they? They’d be more likely to leave clues until the morning.”

  “They might,” Mannering agreed.

  “Oh, God!” Guy exclaimed. “It’s going to be terrible if—” he stopped again, and squared his shoulders, gave Mannering a young-old look, and spoke much more carefully, pausing between every few words. “I don’t know what’s got into me, sir. I seem to be assuming that Hester killed this man. I don’t believe she did. She must be hiding somewhere, terribly frightened. Will you help to find her, and will you look after her interests, Mr. Mannering?”

  Mannering answered promptly: “Yes.”

  The boy raised his hands, as if he had expected a refusal and could not fully comprehend such swift acceptance. He hesitated for what seemed a long time, before saying: “I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Mannering. I mean that. I—I would like to go and tell my mother and father. Will you come and see them in the morning?”

  “I’ll come and see them now,” Mannering said, “and run you home. Did you come on your bike?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll dump that in the boot,” Mannering said, talking as unceremoniously about his Rolls-Bentley as Guy would about the market garden van. “Let’s go round to the garage.” He moved briskly to the door and Guy followed almost to quickly; they got in each other’s way. Mannering stood back. The boy was nearly six feet; he was going to be powerful when he filled out. He moved very well, too, and was so obsessed by the disaster which had overtaken his sister and the family that he hardly spared a moment to glance about him. It took them several minutes to reach a side door of the Hall, another minute to reach the garages, hidden by a front wing, and still lit up. The Rolls-Bentley was drawn a little ahead of a Rolls-Royce, a Daimler, a Chrysler, a Jaguar and an MG. A man in blue chauffeur’s uniform came hurrying as they put the bicycle into the boot of Mannering’s car.

  “All right, Symes, I’ll drive,” Mannering said. “In you get, Guy.”

  Guy climbed in, sat in the unbelievable luxury, and realised it without feeling the slightest excitement. He sensed the expertness with which Mannering took the controls, and the smoothness of the car as they started down the drive. The great headlights carved a silver light through the night, then fell upon the trees and silvered the pale green of young leaves. Still purring, the car nosed its way downhill and round the sharp bends. The beams of the headlamps seemed to dart among the trees and the undergrowth, disturbing rabbits and a hare, suddenly lighting up the green eyes of a fox, which slunk across the road. Then they turned another bend. In that instant, t
he night was filled with dozens of lamps. There were car headlamps, cycle lamps, storm lanterns and torches, the smaller fights on the move, obviously being carried by the police as they searched.

  Guy said gruffly: “Well, we know what they think now, sir, don’t we?”

  “The police can get things wrong,” Mannering answered, and did not add the thing which was uppermost in his mind. It was wholly irrational, but it had been there from the moment he had seen this lad.

  If his sister was anything like him, she might commit murder if driven to it, but she would not kill herself.

  If she had not killed herself, had she run away from fear of the consequences, or had she been taken away against her will?

  That idea wasn’t yet in the boy’s mind; probably was not in the mind of anyone but his.

  Mannering slowed down, because two men were crossing the drive; as he did so, he heard the shrill blast of a policeman’s whistle. He glanced sharply at Guy Vane, and saw from the boy’s expression that he had jumped to the obvious conclusion: that the blowing of the whistle might mean that the police had found Hester.

  Chapter Seven

  The Evidence

  Mannering pulled into the side of the drive, and let the nearest nearside front wheel rise on to the bank as he stopped. Dozens of men were hurrying towards the spot where one had blown his whistle. The copse was thin just here, and there were few small trees, so that it was possible to see three men, standing together and staring down at a particular spot. Mannering heard Guy Vane mutter under his breath, and did not stop him from flinging open the door of the car and jumping on to the drive. Guy did not notice that Mannering actually got out of his door more quickly, and was a little ahead of him as he made for the small group.

  Then Detective Inspector Hennessy and Detective Sergeant Winterton, whom Mannering had met earlier in the evening, pushed their way through towards the centre. Guy began to run; but there was no need, for nobody lay on the ground; instead, there was something quite small. As he drew nearer, Mannering saw that it was like a piece of rag; nearer still, it proved to be a scarf which looked blue in the bright light of a man’s torch.

  Hennessy and the sergeant bent down to examine it, but no one touched it. Guy stopped short.

  Mannering touched his arm, and he glanced round.

  “Keep your voice low,” Mannering said. “Do you recognise it?”

  “I think so.”

  “What is it?”

  “My—my sister’s scarf.”

  “Right,” Mannering said. “Wait here. If the police ask you to go forward you’d better go, but don’t volunteer to do or say anything. I won’t be long.” He went ahead, and two or three men who looked as if they would like to stop him, glanced up, recognised him, and stepped hastily out of the way. He reached the local detectives as they bent down, Winterton actually crouching over the knitted scarf. A man with a camera was coming forward.

  Hennessy saw Mannering, and snapped: “Stop there.”

  Mannering stopped, and asked mildly: “What’s the point of stopping?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Mannering.” Hennessy was stiff-voiced. “I don’t want anyone on this spot until the ground’s been thoroughly examined. Sergeant Carter!” A man came hurrying. “I want a protecting fence put up round this spot, quick, and a guard every twenty yards or so. No one’s to come through. Willis, take photographs from all angles, but be careful where you tread. Mind that.” He pointed, and Mannering saw a patch of soft ground with some footprints in it but he couldn’t be sure whether they were a woman’s or a man’s. “Anything I can do for you, sir?” Hennessy now asked.

  “Any sign of the missing girl?”

  “This scarf answers the description of one that she was known to have been wearing today.”

  “Any sign of anyone else near here?”

  Hennessy was very formal as he had been all the time; apparently he did not relish carrying out his investigation in the grounds of the Hall, nor relish having to give orders to a friend of Lord Horton.

  “Sorry, sir, I’ve no comment to make.”

  Mannering said: “Pity,” and turned and went back to Guy, who had obeyed instructions, and hadn’t moved. He had been within earshot, and was staring at the scarf. At a touch from Mannering, he turned and went back to the Rolls-Bentley. He did not speak until they were on the move again.

  “It looked like hers.”

  “I think we can be sure she was here,” said Mannering. “How far is this from the car?”

  “About two hundred yards, I suppose.”

  “A long way off for her to drop her scarf,” observed Mannering, but the boy did not take inference from that, and Mannering did not make the implication any more obvious. They neared the open drive gates. Only a few police stood about now, and two or three local people were still excited enough to watch them. As Mannering turned right, towards Gilston and the Vanes’ home, the headlights of a car behind shone on to his driving-mirror, and once on the road, he slowed down. The other car passed. Mannering saw the driver wave him down, and pulled into the side of the road. The other car, the Jaguar, pulled in front of him, and the driver jumped out and came hurrying back.

  “That’s Lord Horton,” Guy said, sharply.

  “Yes,” Mannering agreed, winding down his window. He saw Horton’s heavy, rather fleshy face, clear in the reflected light of the headlamps. “Hallo, Barry,” he greeted. “What’s brought you?”

  Horton looked past him, at the boy.

  “Good evening, Vane. John, I want a word with you, urgently.”

  “Right,” said Mannering. “It won’t take long, will it?”

  “Two minutes.”

  “I’ll get out,” Guy offered swiftly, and before Mannering could attempt to stop him, he was out of the Rolls-Bentley and standing in the road looking back at the flickering and the swaying lights to the spot where the murdered man had been found. Mannering also got out. Horton was breathing heavily, as if he had been hurrying before getting into the car. He was half a head shorter than Mannering, but probably eight inches further round the waist; a certain forty-four.

  “Where are you going, John?”

  “To have a word with the Vanes.”

  “You know this boy is her brother, don’t you?”

  “I don’t believe that much is coincidence,” Mannering said. “I like the boy.”

  “I liked the girl. It looks as if she’s a murderer.”

  “You ought to be glad about that.”

  “John,” said Horton, in a very quiet voice, and gripping Mannering’s arm, “you know the position as well if not better than anyone else. No one wanted Morgan dead more than I, no one is more glad that he’s dead. You also know that I couldn’t have killed him, because you were sitting in my room with me when he died. I’m sorry that the girl’s involved, especially as Rod is fond of her, but the vital thing is to make sure that no one realised that my son was being blackmailed.”

  “If Rod gets scared over this, he might tell you more about who was blackmailing him.”

  “You know it was Morgan.”

  “I know Morgan was someone’s catspaw,” Mannering said.

  “Rod doesn’t know whose. It’s vital that no one discovers that Morgan was blackmailing him, I tell you. If the police were to probe and find that out, and why, it would be disastrous for the family name.”

  “It would be disastrous for that girl if she were convicted for a murder she didn’t commit.”

  “She must have committed it!”

  “That’s what the police seem to think, that’s what you want to think, and that’s what we have to prove. Barry, I’ll go a long way to help you, and you know it. I’ve done a lot already and—”

  “Don’t think that I’m not grateful,” Horton said, in a louder voice. He took Mannering’s forearm and drew closer, so that he could speak without any risk of being overheard by Guy or anyone else nearby. In fact Guy was on the other side of the car from them, and out of sight; but that di
d not mean that he could not hear. “I’m so grateful that I’ll do anything you ask,” Horton went on. “You’ve been magnificent. But you mustn’t spoil it now. There’s no need for you to get any more deeply involved. The police don’t like the idea of you taking part in the investigation. I told you that the Chief Constable said so. There’s no need for you to do a thing except stay here and check these things of mine, and make sure just what is missing.”

  “And what if the girl’s convicted?”

  “John, you don’t even know her.”

  “If she’s alive, I’m going to,” Mannering said. His voice was pleasant, and his expression matched it; but there was something in the way he spoke which made it obvious that nothing would change his mind. “I won’t give anything away about Rod,” he went on, “but the police are probably already asking themselves why you came chasing after me when I was taking young Vane home. You not only have to be careful, you have to make sure that Rod stops playing the fool, too.”

  “I can’t answer for Rodney,” Horton said, and there was a note almost of bitterness in his voice. “You’re the one who can see me through. And for the sake of a girl you’ve never even seen.”

  “I saw her this afternoon,” Mannering said. “You said that she usually went to tea at Madden’s. She was there with her mother. I had a good look at them both when they left – after a tiff, I think.” Mannering rested a hand firmly on Horton’s shoulder. “Barry, there’s no reason at all why this should make more trouble for you.”

  “I hope you’re right, but I don’t like it.”

  “Forget it,” Mannering advised. He turned away and raised his voice: “Guy!” he called. “We’re ready to start.”

  There was no answer.

  “Vane!” he called.

  There was still no answer.

  He moved swiftly round the front of the Rolls-Bentley, and stared along the road on the far side.

  There was no sign of Vane. He peered into the trees on either side but the only light was from the two cars and no beam was shining into the trees. He felt a surge of annoyance with himself for having let this happen and turned to face Horton, who was standing very still, big, and burly, only the darkness hiding his obesity. It also hid his expression.