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  They had run over that, not over Gloria.

  He examined her arms, shoulders, her head; she didn’t appear to have been touched by the car.

  “It’s all right,” he said.

  “Are you sure?” Lorna’s voice was taut.

  “Yes, there’s no damage.”

  They could see Gloria clearly in the light of the great lamps. She was breathing evenly, peacefully; relaxed, now. There was a rent in the hem of her dress, which showed one leg halfway up the thigh, and the French knickers she was wearing. He lifted and carried her to the back of the car. Lorna held the door open, and Mannering propped the girl up on the back seat, one end of which was piled with luggage.

  “Shall I move that?” asked Lorna.

  “No, she’ll be all right until we get her indoors.”

  He switched on the roof-light of the car and studied Gloria more closely. Then he closed the door, and glanced towards the house. Lights now blazed from the Hall, and he saw Wirral coming towards him at a waddling kind of run, and Lady Bream descending the stone steps of the terrace. He waved to her, hoping to reassure her. As he did so, a little man in his shirt-sleeves popped out of the surrounding gloom.

  “Is she hurt, sir?”

  Mannering looked round and saw the groom.

  “No, she’s all right.”

  “God be thanked,” said the groom. “Can I help at all, sir?”

  Mannering hesitated.

  “Perhaps you can,” he said. “Darling, you drive up to the house. Pick Wirral up on the way, he’ll help you to get her out of the car and to her room. I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  Lorna slid into the driving-seat, without asking questions. The car moved off, bumping gently back on to the drive, then ran slowly towards Wirral, who was now waddling at walking pace towards it. Lady Bream stood at the foot of the steps, her hand resting on one of the pillars.

  Mannering and the groom were left alone in the increasing darkness. Apart from the hum of the engine, there were night sounds; rustlings and creakings among the trees, a fluttering as a bird returned, late, to its nest; the strange, soft sounds of the country at night.

  “Where were you?” Mannering asked the man.

  “I’d, I’d lost her, sir,” the groom said in a miserable voice. “Fair lost her, I didn’t think I could.”

  “What do you mean, ‘lost’?”

  “Well, sir, her ladyship had told me to follow Lady Gloria,” said the groom. “From the stables, it were—she was queer, mighty queer. Turned away from Duke—that’s his lordship’s grey, sir, as if she’d been struck by lightning, and come tearing away. So her ladyship waved to me to follow, and I did. But I lost her.”

  “Where?” asked Mannering.

  The groom turned and pointed into the gloom.

  “In the thicket, sir,” he said.

  “Did you see anyone else?”

  “I—” the man began, but his voice faded.

  “Go on,” said Mannering encouragingly.

  “I thought—” No, he couldn’t finish, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Yet he hadn’t run far, and it wasn’t as warm as all that. He looked towards the thicket, now just a group of shadows, with some saplings pointing tender spears towards the dark sky.

  “Only—a dog,” he said.

  “Dog?” exclaimed Mannering.

  “But, I didn’t hear un, sir.”

  The quietness of the drive lent eeriness to the story. The groom had followed the girl, and lost her near the thicket, and then seen – or imagined he had seen – a dog which had moved silently. And Mannering knew that he thought the dog had been following the girl. Chasing her.

  Mannering said: “Let’s go and look.”

  “We can’t see a thing, sir, we need a torch.”

  “I have one.” Mannering took a pencil-torch from his pocket.

  The groom took courage, and they walked side by side, retracing Gloria’s steps. The thin beam of light shone on the grass which was trampled where she had run; they could see the trail clearly. It would be impossible, in this light, to see whether a dog had followed her. They drew nearer to the thicket, and the beam grew brighter. Now it shone on the small trees, elders, wild blackberry bushes and great clumps of dogwood, and showed the light-green of the leaves. The earth was softer, too, for the thicket was in a little hollow.

  “Is it damp here?” asked Mannering.

  “Damper than most elsewhere,” replied the groom. “The water do lay here, sir.”

  A soft wind rustled through the trees, and twigs crackled under their feet, they stirred dead leaves. As the beam moved from side to side, the lower branches of the trees and the grass seemed to be moving, but there was stealthiness about it all – a quiet which seemed more profound then the soft noises. Mannering could hear the heavy breathing of his companion and knew that he was still nervous.

  They were in the heart of the thicket.

  They saw the imprints of Gloria’s sandals, when they paused to examine the path.

  Something glistened: water.

  Not far ahead was a tiny pool, halfway across the path, and the earth about it was soft and damp. There was the imprint of the side of a heel, and Mannering knew that the girl had only just missed treading in the pool. He stopped here, and cast the light downwards – and the groom suddenly drew a hissing breath.

  “See there, sir!”

  The light steadied, and shone clearly on a paw-mark, dark and deep, close to the unruffled pool of water. The groom bent down and peered at it.

  “Don’t touch it yet,” Mannering said.

  “Why, why not, sir?”

  “We ought to take a cast, we might find it useful. Can you tell me what kind of dog it was?”

  “A big un, sir.”

  “Yes,” agreed Mannering, patiently. “Alsatian? Airedale?”

  “Could be either—or any other big breed, I know little about their paw-marks, horses is my line.” He drew in another hissing breath. “But it was a monster, sir!”

  “Yes, a big chap,” agreed Mannering again. “And you saw it, running after her?”

  “It—it weren’t no more than a shape, a great, pale shape,” said the groom, and his voice was unsteady as he spoke, and he looked about him as if he thought that the dog might leap out of the darkness upon them. “I didn’t hear a sound, sir—and usually dogs make a noise when they run like that, you can hear them padding and hear them breathing. Can’t, can’t you, sir?”

  “There were two cars on the drive,” Mannering reminded him.

  “Ah, there was and all,” said the groom in a brighter voice. “I’d forgotten that, sir, yours and the other one. I don’t mind it so much now that I can understand why I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Did you hear any other sounds?”

  “Only her ladyship running,” said the groom. “I didn’t see her until she was nigh under the car.”

  “Are you sure you heard nothing?”

  “What would I be hearing?” asked the groom.

  Mannering pursed his lips and whistled softly: low though the sound was, it made the groom jump. They looked at each other, just seeing the paleness of their faces and their shadowy outlines, and the groom said eagerly: “A whistle! Aye! I heard one, like a squeak it was. I would have thought it was a bough creaking, they make funny noises at night, you can imagine almost anything. But I heard a whistle—was some feller calling off the dog, do you think?”

  “It could have been that,” said Mannering.

  He took out his cigarettes and proffered them, but Abel refused, saying that he always made his own. Mannering lit up, and his face was red and yellow in the glow from the lighter. It seemed darker when he clicked it off. They were standing on either side of the paw-mark, and the torch-beam streamed downwards, striking on the pool of water, which twisted the reflection into all manner of shapes.

  Mannering spoke quietly: “Can you find some plaster of Paris at the house?”

  “Oh, yes, si
r, we use it often.”

  “Get some, will you,” said Mannering. “Bring a spade and a small trowel and a box, a seedling box will do. Be as quick as you can.”

  “Ay, sir!”

  “Off you go, then.”

  The groom was soon lost to sight.

  Mannering drew at his cigarette, wondering uneasily whether it was wise to smoke because the glowing tip could be seen. He resisted a temptation to put it out. Every now and again he peered about him. He heard just the night noises. After a while, he picked up several small branches of dead wood which lay on the ground. He tucked them under his arm and went on collecting.

  Gloria had gone for a solitary walk, and come to this thicket; and the dog had leapt at her. Terrified, she had run blindly towards the light where she had sought sanctuary; blind terror had made her fling herself forward.

  She had been in the grip of that mortal terror, had hardly realized where she was going. If the groom hadn’t seen the dog, no one would have suspected that she had been running away; no one would have been surprised had she ‘committed suicide’.

  Supposing that dog had leapt at Lithom’s horse, and made it rear and throw its rider?

  He finished collecting the wood and found his way back to the pool. He put the sticks in a square about it, marking it off, and then stood upright and looked round him again, seeing the bright stars and, just rising, a crescent moon which spread a soft, pale light over the park. Lorna would be anxious now, for Gloria would be in bed, and there was nothing left for Lorna to do.

  How long had the groom been gone? A quarter of an hour?

  He tossed the cigarette away.

  No, not a quarter of an hour – the cigarette would not have lasted more than ten minutes, and he had lit it before sending off the groom. Only seven or eight minutes had passed, then, although it seemed so much longer; and it would take twenty minutes for the groom to get everything together and walk back.

  He heard more rustling. Was it different from the night’s noises?

  He slipped his right hand into his pocket and felt the cold steel of an automatic. He gripped it lightly and listened, wary, poised, trying to make sure from which direction the sound came. After the first few seconds, he was certain that it was a new sound. It might be a fox, even a badger; any one of the larger animals which prowl by night.

  Or it might be a man.

  It was drawing nearer, and came from the direction of the North Lodge.

  Nearer – nearer still.

  He drew out the gun and held it close to his waist, pointing towards the sound. He felt a chill, a crawly feeling at the back of his neck, and his stomach muscles were taut. He thought of Gloria, giving way to panic, perhaps haunted by such sounds as this tearing at her frayed nerves.

  Nearer.

  Was it man or beast?

  He peered towards the denseness of the thicket, seeing only the stars and the dark sky when he glanced upwards; he could not see anything above the skyline, because of the trees and scrub. Yet it was drawing closer, and the sound was steady and regular now. Was it imagination, or could he see a shape, about waist-high? Lighter than the darkness, like a grey werewolf slinking towards him. He looked away deliberately, and then back. Now he could see the thing – and knew that it was a dog. It was almost clear of the long grass, not twenty yards away from him; perhaps not ten.

  He heard a new sound, a soft whistle that might well have been the creaking of a loose branch, but he knew that it was not. He raised the gun, levelling it towards the shape which moved more swiftly. He heard another fresh sound, like the intake of breath.

  He fired.

  The flash of the shot lit up the low branches of the trees and the near-by undergrowth, but blinded him to everything else. He didn’t see the dog or the man who had whistled. He heard a yelp, high-pitched and shrill, and knew that he had hurt the brute. He heard it fall heavily; a moment later another whistle hissed through the night, louder than the first, urgent, summoning. More rustling; he thought he could see the shape of the dog rising from the ground. He fired again – but there was no rewarding yelp.

  Someone afar off shouted.

  The groom was approaching, and had heard the shots.

  Mannering did not go in pursuit, but waited until Abel shouted again, then answered: “All safe!”

  But was he safe?

  There was more rustling, and he thought it was caused by a gust of wind, but couldn’t be sure; he strained his ears and kept his gun cocked. His assailant might try again, from a different angle. He had no idea how badly he had wounded the dog; or even whether there was only one. A whispering sound was close to his ears, and he knew that was caused by the wind. Then the groom shouted again, and, after he had called back, he heard a second voice; so the groom hadn’t come here alone.

  The men were little more than a hundred yards away, and he could see a powerful torch flashing. He kept still – until suddenly the torch shone on him, lighting up his legs and feet. He realized that he made a silhouette against it, and could be clearly seen by anyone behind him.

  Chapter Nine

  Bloodstains

  The flashing beam of the torch made silver of the young leaves, etched the lower branches of the saplings and the shrubs, lengthened the spiky tops of the long grass and made the young ferns, not yet unfurled, look like giant caterpillars curled on the top of creamcoloured leaves.

  Mannering stood behind a bush; the light no longer shone on him.

  Now the approaching men were near the thicket and the beam was caught on a thick bush, distorting the light, which spread in a pale glow, helping the moon to light up the scene. Not until he saw the two men did Mannering move from his hiding-place.

  Abel called in a shrill, anxious voice: “Are you there, sir?”

  “Yes, here,” said Mannering. “Step carefully now, you’re near the pool.”

  “What—what happened, sir?”

  “I was scared by my own shadow and fired at it.”

  “You fired!”

  “Oh, yes,” said Mannering.

  Abel drew up. His companion was a tall, young footman. Soon they were joined by another, a man with curly black hair. He carried the spade; the groom had everything else that Mannering had sent for. They lodged the powerful torch in the fork between a branch and a tree trunk, so that it shone on the pool and the paw-mark, and under Mannering’s instructions, set to work. Abel had brought a bottle of water for mixing the plaster, and wielded the trowel expertly. The slimy whitish paste made a little castle in the seed-box, and Mannering took a lump on the trowel and placed it gently into the paw-mark. He set the footman looking for other marks, and the man found three, but none was so clear as the first they’d found. Nevertheless, Mannering put the plaster into them, and by the time that was finished the plaster on the first was dry.

  “What now, sir?” asked Abel.

  “We’re going to dig round that, lift it on the spade, and put it into the seed-box,” said Mannering. “Then we’ll have it safe at the house, and can make sure no one will blunder into it. You good at digging, Abel?”

  “I’m not so bad,” said Abel, gruffly.

  He did a good, clean job. Soon the plastered earth was in the seed-box, the plaster itself like a little pale crown over the dark soil. They had hardly finished when more men approached – another footman and a gardener. They had been sent by Lorna and Lady Bream to find out who had been shooting.

  “Can any of you run?” asked Mannering.

  After a moment’s pause, the curly-haired footman admitted that he could “run a bit”.

  “Then go back to the house quickly, and report all’s well.”

  The footman started off, with the others following at walking pace, Abel hugging the precious seed-box as an anxious mother would carry her babe. They were soon out of the thicket, and did not need the torch, for the moon had risen much higher. The great oaks with their spreading branches were huge patches against the moon-swept grass, the little mounds in the u
neven ground made misty shadows against the light. The lines of trees on either side of the drive looked far away; and all was still. Most of the lights of the house had been put out, but three still blazed. Once, Mannering saw Lorna standing against the window of the drawing-room, and he also saw the footman enter by the front door.

  Lorna quickly disappeared.

  It was past eleven o’clock. Mannering’s head was aching and the bump throbbing, and now he began to worry about Gloria. It seemed a long time before he stepped into the hall, with Abel at his side.

  Lorna came hurrying out of the drawing-room.

  “What was the shooting, John?”

  “I was nervous,” said Mannering. “How’s Gloria?”

  She accepted the explanation without argument, although she obviously had not believed the footman.

  “Gloria’s all right.”

  No need to worry then.

  Now that he had his prize, Mannering was anxious to make sure that nothing damaged or destroyed it; the seed-box was put on a high shelf in a store-room, and the door locked.

  Mannering pocketed the key, Abel went off to his quarters above the stables; Wirral made his nightly tour of the house to lock up; a footman brought in a salad and some sandwiches and coffee.

  Gloria was asleep.

  Except for a few small bruises, she wasn’t marked, but she had been so hysterical on coming round, that Lady Bream had given her a sedative, which Dr. Chatterton had told her to administer only in emergency. Lady Bream was up with her now.

  After supper, Mannering and Lorna went upstairs to the great room with a four-poster bed, which had been assigned to them. Their cases were already unpacked and their nightclothes laid out. The room had massive oak furniture, all ornately carved, old and beautiful. The brick fireplace was huge, and there were old-fashioned settles right inside the hearth.

  Mannering went with Lorna to see Gloria, who was very pale, but sleeping soundly. Lady Bream looked up at him from the side of the bed, her eyes heavy with sleep and with anxiety.