The Missing Old Masters Page 8

  Why had Joanna painted her trifles over an old canvas?

  And why should the incendiary want to destroy them?

  Mannering drew back from the painting, picked up the palette, worked some pale blue on to a brush and painted over the corner which he had cleaned. Now he had to make up his mind whether to leave the paintings here or take them away. There was an obvious risk of another attack, and the perfect answer would be to watch both entrances. It wasn’t possible by himself.

  Whoever wanted to destroy the paintings certainly didn’t want them found and would be alarmed if they disappeared. But it was possible that one wouldn’t be missed – or even two.

  The decision made, Mannering picked up the canvas he had just been working on, selected one other, also signed with the initials J.C., and tucked them under his arm. As he went awkwardly up the ladder he moved carefully and warily, alive to the danger that someone might have discovered that he was missing.

  His room, however, was exactly as he had left it.

  He slipped the paintings under his mattress, and went out, leaving his door unlocked. A maid was coming out of Joanna’s room.

  ‘How is Miss Joanna?’

  ‘About the same, sir.’

  ‘So she’s no better,’ said Mannering heavily. ‘Who’s with her?’

  ‘Betsy Doze, sir.’

  Mannering nodded, gave a perfunctory tap at the door and went in. Betsy, on a chair near the bed, was knitting and looking at a magazine at the same time. She jumped up, clutching at the falling ball of wool.

  ‘Good—good morning, sir!’

  ‘Hallo, Betsy,’ Mannering said. ‘I’ve just come to see Miss Joanna.’

  He looked down – and was shocked.

  Joanna had been tucked tightly into bed so that only her head and face showed, a scarf twisted in a nun-like coif about her head. She lay, still as death, and very pale. Mannering frowned, studying her lips for some sign of movement. He touched the lid of her right eye, raised it for a moment, then gently lowered it again.

  ‘She—she looks pretty bad, doesn’t she?’ Betsy asked uneasily.

  ‘She’ll get over it,’ Mannering assured her, but he did not feel anything like as confident as he sounded. ‘Look after her.’ He went out, striding back to his own room, knowing exactly what he wanted to do. Seizing the telephone beside his bed, he dialled Dr. Ignatzi’s number.

  A pleasant-voiced woman answered him. ‘I’m afraid the doctor is out, who …? Oh, yes, he did leave a number, Mr. Mannering … Yes, I’ll call him … To come to the Manor urgently … Can I give him any idea what to expect?’

  Mannering, knowing that someone might be listening in, said: ‘I think Joanna may have taken an overdose of some sleeping mixture, probably one with morphia in it.’

  ‘I’ll see that my husband is told right away.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mannering. ‘Thank you very much. It really is urgent.’

  He rang off, wondering whether he would have been wiser to send for an ambulance and get the girl to hospital without delay; but she was breathing evenly enough, and Ignatzi surely wouldn’t be long. Even so, Mannering knew that he would be on edge for the next half hour or so; he must find something to occupy his mind until Ignatzi arrived.

  Walking round to the back of the house, he found a groom brushing down Joanna’s chestnut in a stable yard close by the garage.

  ‘Do you know where I’ll find Miss Hester’s car?’ he asked. ‘Colonel Cunliffe was good enough to say I could use it.’

  ‘The red Mini, sir—it’s in the end garage, Number Six, and the key will be in the ignition. We always leave the key in during the day in case someone needs it in a hurry.’

  Mannering drove round to the front of the house; the car was comfortable enough and had good leg room. He parked it in the shade of a big lime tree. It was warm; this was as good a spell of weather as England had had all the summer.

  A little low-on-the-ground Triumph was coming rapidly up the drive, and Mannering was surprised and relieved to see Ignatzi climb out of it. He was wearing ginger-coloured tweeds and golfing shoes; there wasn’t much doubt about where he’d been. Seeing Mannering, he half turned, but Mannering shook his head and Ignatzi took the hint and went straight into the house. Mannering strolled about the ornamental garden, half his mind admiring the roses, the dahlias, the early chrysanthemums, the other half pre-occupied with Joanna.

  Ignatzi was taking his time; he must have been there at least half an hour, Mannering thought. Then he heard another engine, and saw a white ambulance coming along the drive.

  So he’s worried too, Mannering thought grimly.

  He did not wait to see Joanna brought out of the Manor, but got back into Hester Cunliffe’s car and drove out of the grounds towards the village. The blackened ruin of Eliza Doze’s cottage showed clearly, as he rounded a bend in the road.

  Had there been disguised paintings there, as well?

  It was difficult to associate the thatched cottages and the atmosphere of peacefulness with fire and violence and the threat of death; difficult to realise that, until last evening, he had never seen this place. Pulling up by the telephone kiosk outside the village store, he stepped inside and put in a call to Quinns. Larraby was on the line, almost immediately. ‘Find out what you can about a man named Harry Anstiss, obviously a practised thief,’ Mannering told him, ‘and another named Lobb, a big, powerfully built man who can paint. Ring me back at the Manor. If you can find out nothing, say so. If either has a record just say the answer is in the affirmative. All clear, Josh?’

  ‘Quite clear, sir.’

  Mannering rang off, and immediately dialled Dr. Ignatzi’s number; the same woman answered him.

  ‘Sorry to worry you again,’ Mannering said.

  ‘Oh, that’s all right, Mr. Mannering.’

  ‘I’d like to call in and see Dr. Ignatzi when he’s had a chance to examine Joanna Cunliffe,’ Mannering said. ‘What would be a good time?’

  ‘Well—would six o’clock be too late?’

  ‘Six o’clock will be fine. Thank you.’

  Leaving the kiosk, he went into the village shop, small, but surprisingly bright, the shelves stacked with fresh-looking tins and packets. He bought some cigarettes from a middle-aged woman who was pleasant enough, but uncommunicative. He had a feeling that she knew who he was and was determined in advance not to be drawn. As he drove slowly, thoughtfully, back to the Manor, first Ignatzi in his Triumph and then the ambulance passed him. He saw one or two men working in the ornamental garden, others on the lawns.

  ‘He must keep a staff of twenty,’ Mannering reflected.

  Leaving the car outside the front door, he went into the house. It was past two o’clock, so he had missed luncheon, but after his late breakfast this was something he could well do without. Going straight to his room, he lifted the mattress to make sure that the paintings he had taken from the studio were still there. They were.

  Suddenly there was a tap at the door. Swiftly he lowered the mattress and smoothed the coverlet.

  ‘Come in,’ he called.

  After a short pause, Cunliffe entered. He looked tired and very much older, and his shoulders sagged dejectedly.

  ‘They’ve taken Joanna to hospital,’ he announced. ‘Ignatzi seems worried about her.’ He lifted his hands and let them fall. ‘And I, too, am deeply worried. Mannering, forgive me if, once again, I take advantage of your presence here, but I would very much appreciate some—some guidance from you, both on a matter of business which affects us both and on a personal matter. Have you time to listen?’

  ‘And to help, if I can,’ promised Mannering.

  Chapter Eleven

  Colonel Cunliffe Confides

  I’ve been very worried about Joanna for over a year,’ said Cunliffe. He had take
n Mannering to his upstairs library, a room of elegance and glowing beauty. Half of one wall was covered with miniatures, possibly by Nicholas Hilliard, and Mannering’s expert eye told him that this collection alone would fetch at least a hundred thousand pounds at any big auction. There was a Gainsborough portrait too, and on one narrow wall a magnificent painting of Nether Manor, almost certainly by Constable. ‘My sister puts it down to the fact that she lost her mother at an impressionable age,’ Cunliffe went on, ‘yet I am a long way from being sure that is the right explanation. I believe—’

  He hesitated, and squared his shoulders as if to make a supreme effort.

  ‘What do you believe?’ asked Mannering sharply.

  Cunliffe drew a deep breath. ‘I have reason to suspect that it is Joanna who has taken the paintings and replaced them by copies. I do not, I cannot, believe that she would do such things for personal gain, and so it follows that she must be—she must be ill. Mannering’ – Cunliffe paused and there was a film of tears in his eyes – ‘these paintings mean so much to me, as I told you. Two days ago I would never have believed that Joanna would touch them, whatever the circumstances. Now, I am not so sure.’

  ‘But that hideous attack on her,’ Mannering said slowly.

  ‘Surely—’

  ‘People who are mentally—mentally unbalanced’ – Cunliffe got the words out with an effort – ‘do strange things, Mannering. I’m very much afraid that Joanna may herself have—’ He broke off, glancing at a grand father clock in a corner of the room. ‘I should soon have a message from the hospital; Ignatzi promised to call the moment the specialist had seen her. Did you know that she was an amateur painter?’ he added abruptly.

  Mannering had no wish to disclose, even to his host, his knowledge of the studio beneath the north gallery. ‘No, I didn’t,’ he said easily.

  ‘She spent a year at the Slade, and although she isn’t particularly good, she paints quite pleasantly. Some years ago my wife used to clean and frame the paintings here—it was her hobby and she was better than many professionals. Since she died, the workshop—beneath the north gallery—has been used as a studio by Joanna. I went down there this morning, to search for some clue as to her behaviour, her distress—and do you know what I found?’ He did not wait for an answer but went on unbelievingly: ‘I found smouldering rags and—and a plastic bag filled with petrol! Petrol! Mannering, if that had ignited, the whole house might have been burned down!’

  ‘Petrol!’ exclaimed Mannering, in assumed astonishment. ‘But Joanna couldn’t …’

  ‘I don’t know, Mannering. I simply don’t know. But I do know that no week, hardly a day, passes now without some fresh cause for anxiety. Mannering—there is a barrier between Joanna and me. There was a time when she would confide in me, but now she keeps everything to herself.’

  ‘Don’t you think a doctor, even a psychiatrist …?’ Mannering asked.

  Cunliffe’s manner changed. His eyes flashed, and he sat erect in his chair, his hands clenched.

  ‘Psychiatrist? What the devil do you mean? Do you think my daughter is mad?’

  ‘That’s the last thing I meant,’ Mannering said soothingly. ‘It’s just that psychiatrists are experts in gaining a patient’s confidence.’ He paused for a moment, before asking suddenly: ‘Why do you allow a man like Lobb on the premises?’

  He brought the name out casually and without the slightest warning, remembering the effect it had had on Joanna. But Cunliffe only frowned.

  ‘I know of no one named Lobb.’

  ‘What about Anstiss?’

  ‘The second footman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He is a very good servant. My daughter ‘

  ‘He is a thief,’ Mannering said quietly.

  ‘Anstiss—a thief?’

  ‘An art thief.’

  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed Cunliffe. ‘You really mean—’ He sank back in his chair. ‘But Joanna recommended him! She said he had worked for years for the family of a friend of hers, who were cutting down on staff. A—thief?’

  ‘I think you’ll find that he has a record.’

  ‘It’s—it’s unbelievable. Joanna couldn’t have known. She—’ Cunliffe broke off again, as if he had suddenly realised that in the circumstances it would not be surprising if his daughter had indeed known the truth about Anstiss. Very slowly he got up, and moved towards the window overlooking the ornamental garden. Two cedars of Lebanon stood out against a copse of green and copper beech.

  ‘I’ll be in my room—’ Mannering began.

  ‘Please don’t go,’ Cunliffe said. After a long pause, he went on: ‘Will you come and join me, Mannering?’ His voice had changed and become much softer. As Mannering reached his side he waved his hand towards the view, with its beauty, its colour, its grandeur. ‘Mannering,’ he went on, ‘Cunliffes have owned this land for generations. Cunliffes have ridden out from Nether Manor for a hundred selfless missions. Five men from our family died in the Crusades, two at Crecy and four at Agincourt. My father drove away from here for the First World War, and didn’t return. I left here for the Second World War, more fortunate than he, for I came home. There is’ – he gestured again, this time to the leather-bound tomes on one wall, larger books than most – ‘there is the written history of the family—illustrated works begun by monks who helped to build Salisbury Cathedral. Much Cunliffe money was spent in the cathedral; much of the wood for pews and choir-stalls, beams and reredos, was from trees felled in these grounds. You’ – Cunliffe paused, then turned slowly to face Mannering – ‘you are a man who can understand what such things as these mean; what a source of pride they are.’

  ‘I can indeed,’ Mannering told him.

  ‘A source of pride,’ Cunliffe repeated in a far-away voice. ‘Mannering, if you were to read those books, the history of this family, you would find the truth in them. There have been dishonourable members of the family. One was hanged, for treason, another burned at the stake for heresy. Some have been judged mad.’ This time Mannering did not speak.

  ‘Yes,’ said Cunliffe, huskily. ‘There has always been a streak of madness in the family.’ His lips twisted. ‘You will better understand why I was so sensitive just now.’ Mannering nodded but did not interrupt. ‘I have this grave anxiety about Joanna, whom I so dearly love. If I am right and she is—is double-dealing, is it because she is unbalanced? Or is it because she has inherited those qualities which can bring dishonour?’

  Mannering looked grave. ‘I don’t know,’ he said slowly.

  ‘The possibility of either torments me.’ Cunliffe passed a hand wearily across his forehead. ‘I am the last surviving member of the male line. All that I have, all that the family has, will go to my eldest grandson, should I be fortunate enough to have one. But neither of my daughters is yet married, and I may well be the last Cunliffe to own Nether Manor. I cannot go to the police about those missing pictures, Mannering. Nor can I ask a psychiatrist to examine my daughter. If the police were to discover a criminal streak, or the doctors to find evidence of mental instability in any one of the family—’

  He paused, as if at a loss for words, and in that instant the telephone bell rang. Cunliffe did not move to answer it at first; then, as if awakened from a trance, he snatched up the receiver.

  ‘Colonel Cunliffe.’ To Mannering, he mouthed: ‘It might be about Joanna.’ Tense and still, he stood beside his desk. ‘Yes, yes … oh, is there any—any immediate danger?’ Anxiety leapt expressively to his mouth, his eyes. ‘There isn’t … Thank you, thank you for calling.’

  He rang off, moistening his lips, and turned to Mannering.

  ‘They are going to keep her at the Infirmary, under observation.’

  ‘The best thing that could happen,’ Mannering said reassuringly. ‘What she needs is a complete rest.’

  While touched by
Colonel Cunliffe’s obvious distress, he could not bring himself to believe that Joanna was in fact mentally unbalanced. Far more likely, he thought, that, as he had originally suspected, the girl was being blackmailed. As Colonel Cunliffe had himself said, so many strange things had happened, and Joanna could hardly be responsible for them all.

  No, something very sinister was going on in the village of Nether Wylie, and while anxious not to abuse his host’s hospitality, Mannering knew he would be unable to rest until he had discovered exactly what it was.

  Half an hour later, he was back in his own room. Nothing had been touched; it was possible that no one had yet noticed that Joanna’s pictures had been taken from the studio. But as he lifted them from beneath the mattress, the telephone bell rang – he never seemed to be able to touch them without some interruption, Mannering thought resignedly, as he reached for the receiver.

  ‘A call for you from London, sir,’ a girl said. The next moment Josh Larraby was on the line.

  ‘Mr. Mannering?’

  ‘Yes, Josh.’ Mannering felt excitement stirring.

  ‘So far as the first is concerned, the answer is in the affirmative,’ Larraby said. So Anstiss did have a police record. ‘I can discover nothing about the other matter.’

  ‘Keep trying,’ urged Mannering. ‘It’s even more important.’

  He rang off, picked up the pictures and carried them under his arm down to the car. It was now after four o’clock and he wanted to go into Salisbury and visit The Kettle before seeing Dr. Ignatzi. Before starting off, he told Middleton that he would be back soon after eight o’clock. The afternoon was warm and pleasant, and the little car hummed smoothly; he had so much on his mind that it was a good thing the car almost drove itself.

  He went through the gateway leading on to the main road, taking his time. He saw a lorry coming from Salisbury, but there was plenty of room to turn towards the city and it did not occur to him to wait.

  As he reached the road, the lorry swung towards him.