If Anything Happens to Hester Read online

  “I can’t tell you,” she said and turned to her father. “Dad, I hate myself for what I’ve done, but I can’t tell you. I just can’t. Don’t try to make me. Don’t—don’t let mother try to. That’s really why I couldn’t come down to see you when the police had gone. I knew you’d want to know what it was all about, and I can’t tell you. I simply can’t.”

  Vane didn’t speak.

  Mannering said: “No one is going to try to make you talk if you feel like that about it.”

  Vane didn’t argue or protest then, either.

  “We’ve more important things to decide, anyhow.”

  Vane said, with an effort: “What?”

  “Are we going to hide Hester, or are we going to let the police find her?” Mannering asked, without much change of expression. “If she’s under arrest the police will look after her, and they’ll make sure she doesn’t come to any harm. But they’ll question you until you tell them everything you know. You’d have to face that.”

  “I wouldn’t mind how much they questioned me,” Hester said.

  “Can we hide her?” asked Vane.

  “I think we could. I’m not sure that we should,” Mannering said.

  “What do you recommend?”

  “That when we think the moment’s right, she gives herself up,” Mannering answered. “It would be much more effective than if she were found by the police.”

  Hester said: “I suppose I ought to.” She had finished one of the sandwiches, and was starting on another, eating mechanically. She had a little more colour in her cheeks, and her eyes were brighter. Mannering judged that she was genuinely calm about facing the need to give herself up; that didn’t worry her. He had a feeling that she would actually be relieved when the time came.

  “What would you say is the right moment?” Vane asked.

  “When she’s told me all that there is to tell,” Mannering said.

  “I can’t tell anyone,” Hester said, and there was no doubt at all that she meant it.

  How far would Vane help with what he wanted, Mannering wondered. How deep did his understanding go? He must know that his daughter would not talk to him or her mother; here was something which she was desperately anxious not to discuss with her parents. She might discuss it with him; or he might be able to jolt her sufficiently to make her talk. If he asked Vane to go, now, though the reason would be too obvious, and might even strengthen the girl’s obstinacy.

  Mannering said: “I’m probably talking out of turn, but if your wife comes back while Hester’s here, it’s going to be extremely difficult.”

  “It is.”

  “She’ll try to make me talk, and I simply can’t,” Hester said dismally.

  “The best thing might be for Hester to come away with me, and when a chance comes, to give herself up to the police,” suggested Mannering. “They’ll certainly take her into custody, and I shouldn’t think they’ll release her for at least eight days – there would be a first hearing and a remand in custody. In those eight days, a lot might resolve itself.”

  “I think you’re probably right.” There was disquiet in Vane’s eyes because of the deception he would have to practise on his wife, but he faced up to that as he did to most things. “But how can you get Hester away?”

  “We’ll have to use our wits,” Mannering said. “The police will be watching for her coming in, they won’t expect her to go out.” He grinned suddenly, to give them heart, and saw the girl respond. “Willing to come with me, Hester?”

  “Yes.”

  “I like this family,” Mannering declared. “I only hope I can make it like me! I’ve Guy’s bicycle in the boot of the car, which is backing on to your drive now. I’ll cause a distraction, and if Hester hides her face and walks just in front of you, Vane, the police won’t see her, even if they aren’t fooled by me. You take out the bicycle. While you’re wheeling it away, Hester can climb in the boot. There’s plenty of room.”

  Hester’s eyes lit up.

  Vane said: “Where do you intend to take her?”

  “Wouldn’t it be better if you didn’t know, so that you honestly can’t tell the police?” suggested Mannering. Before Vane had time to think, he stood up, and went on: “The quicker we’re off the better. Bury your head in that big collar, Hester, and keep your hands in your pocket. This is what I’ll do …”

  Chapter Eleven

  Car Ride

  Hester saw the pale light of the stars, the shape of the rooftop of the house opposite, the black outline of Mannering’s car, and the shape of her father’s figure. She had never felt more conspicuous. She walked a step in front of her father, and he kept touching the back of her foot with his toes; any moment she was afraid that she might stumble, and knew that he was so desperately anxious to make sure that no one saw her. Mannering had crossed the back garden and was to distract the police, further along the street, but a man appeared, on the right. He drew nearer.

  He did not speak, and in the dim light he looked massive. He wore a trilby hat, adding to his height, and his footsteps were heavy but clear. She was sure that this was a policeman; one of the watching men. She could see the outline of his body clearly. She had a scarf wound about her face so that only her eyes were uncovered, and her own breath was hot against the silk, but she felt sure she would be seen.

  The man stopped.

  Her father kicked her heel and she almost stumbled.

  Then there was a crash of breaking glass further along the street, shattering the night’s quiet.

  The man spun round, and Hester saw her father dart forward to the car. He lifted the bicycle out as footsteps sounded along the street. The big man shouted: “Stop there!” and gave chase.

  Hester felt enormous relief, and yet was weak from reaction. There was a light inside the boot lid, showing the huge boot, a few tools, a flashlight and a tennis racquet. She scrambled in. The footsteps had almost stopped, now; then the big man came hurrying back.

  “The devil got away,” he said gruffly. “It wasn’t your daughter, was it?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Vane said. “That was a man.”

  As he spoke, Mannering appeared from the side of the house, and he was not even breathing hard.

  “Didn’t I hear a smash?” he asked.

  “Someone broke a window,” the big man said, and almost on his words a light went on further along the street where a neighbour had been disturbed.

  Mannering said: “Got the bicycle out, Mr. Vane?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll be off,” Mannering said.

  There was plenty of room for Hester to squat, but as the lid came down, the light went out. Suddenly it was pitch dark, and seemed like being shut up in a black hole. The top pressed lightly against Hester’s head, and she bent down further, straining her neck. She heard the snap of the fastener, yet still dared hardly breathe, as if fearful that she would be heard. There were footsteps and the sound of voices, then a movement as if the car were swaying. Mannering was getting in. She breathed more freely now, and wriggled to and fro, to get more comfortable. There was a sharp movement, as if the whole car shook for a moment, then a steady vibration: the engine was turning. A door slammed. She heard the wheels on the gravel of the drive, felt herself thrust to one side as the car turned out of the drive and on to the road. If the detective had not moved, he must be within hands’ reach of her now.

  The car straightened, and she felt it surge forward, the vibration softer. There was a long, swaying motion but no bumping. After the first few seconds she felt a great sense of relief, and moved again; she could sit nearly upright, hugging her knees and bending her head so that her chin was on her chest. She felt the car swing at the curves, but no longer had any sense of alarm.

  Then the car slowed down, and alarm flared up again.

  Was someone stopping it? Was there a policeman, searching all cars? Everything she had heard about a police hunt sprang into her mind.

  The car stopped, she sensed mov
ement, and the next moment the boot opened and the greyness of the starlight came in.

  “All right?” asked Mannering, in a whisper.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “When I get to the Hall I may leave you there, and come back for you. The night watchman may be resting between rounds.”

  “All right.”

  “You’ll do,” Mannering said.

  She just made out the gleam of his teeth. Then he closed the boot, and all the now familiar sounds and movements were repeated. He drove more swiftly, and the road seemed very smooth. Suddenly Hester was thrust against the side, at a sharp left turn; they had entered the gateway of the Hall. She did not know that there were still policemen on duty, two police cars nearby, and among the woods, men searching with lanterns and torches, and beating the undergrowth with their sticks.

  The car stopped again.

  She heard a murmur of voices, and felt panic greater than any she had ever known. It was like a torment inside her. If the police had insisted on opening the boot, if they found her, she would be taken to the police station, charged, kept in a cell—

  The car went on.

  She closed her eyes, and prayed that she would not have to wait in the boot for long; she would know terror every minute of the time. The car swung right and left along the drive, then the road straightened out, and she knew exactly where she was. When they stopped again, she strained her ears to catch the sound of voices, but heard none. Her heart began to pound. Would Mannering let her out at once, or was she doomed to spend a long time here?

  She heard footsteps; then silence fell.

  What would happen if someone came and found her here before Mannering returned?

  She had waited up in the loft, for so long; she had lived on the edge of fear for so long, too. She couldn’t stand much more waiting. She felt as if she would suffocate, it was so stuffy and hot. She must get out. She couldn’t breathe, it wasn’t any use pretending; she couldn’t stay in here. She pushed at the boot, but it would not open. In sudden panic she pushed again and tried to thump on it with her clenched fist, but she only hurt her knuckles.

  I must keep still, she told herself.

  The night watchman might have heard her already; if she were found now, it would be her own fault. She clenched her teeth in an effort to make up for what she had already done, but it was no use, she couldn’t sit cramped up here any longer, she would have to get out somehow.

  She would have to scream.

  There were footsteps.

  If this was Mannering, he must let her out, she couldn’t stay here for another minute. But if it wasn’t Mannering, what would she do? One cry, and whoever was coming would hear.

  The footsteps were very close; someone was approaching the boot, obviously coming straight to it. She did not think it was Mannering. Now she bit her lips and tried to stop breathing for fear of making sound, and there was no calm in her.

  The boot opened, and a man stood looking at her in the garage light.

  It was Rodney Horton, who was smiling at her in a tense kind of way; and then suddenly moved, to help her. As she got out and stood up, he held her very close, arms tight about her. And she found herself sobbing from this shock of surprise. “Rod, oh, Rod.”

  “It’s all right,” Rodney Horton soothed. “It’s all right. You needn’t worry, darling, you needn’t worry at all.”

  Mannering heard him say that.

  Mannering was standing in a corner of the garage, unseen by either of them. Although the light was on, the watchman was on his rounds, and he had met Rodney, Lord Horton’s only son, in the great hall. There was both weakness and strength in Rodney, and in that moment the strength had been uppermost; he had come striding forward, gripping Mannering’s arm, and asking: “Have you heard where Hester is?”

  “I know where she is,” Mannering had answered.

  “Is she all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she—is she under arrest?”

  “No,” Mannering had said, and studied the expression in his manner. “Rod, go and see if the coast is clear, will you?”

  “Clear for what?” Rodney had asked.

  “For Hester to come in. She’s in the boot of my car.”

  Without wasting time the younger man had turned and hurried out of the side entrance of the Hall. Mannering had followed him to the garage, in time to see him holding Hester tightly in his arms. Mannering gave them no more than thirty seconds, and then went across.

  “Sorry,” he said briskly. “Rod, go and see that no one’s about. Keep ahead of me all the time, and give me a warning by holding up your right hand.”

  “Right.”

  “Now,” Mannering said. Rodney turned away.

  He was a stocky, fair-haired young man, and the girl was about the same height. He had rugged good looks which reminded Mannering vividly of Lord Horton. He had an unexpected grace of movement, too, but was too square-shouldered and broad across the hips for his height.

  He disappeared.

  “Come on,” Mannering said to Hester, and took her arm. He had a curiously impersonal manner whenever he wanted to adopt it, and he did now. He led her along a passage towards a small courtyard where two lights burned at narrow windows, swept her across a grass lawn, and into the arched doorway at the side of the Hall. There was a wide brick-walled passage with a few paintings on the walls, and a great iron studded door at the end. Mannering opened this, peered round it, and then ushered the girl into the main hall. Instead of going to the great staircase, he crossed to another door, like this, where Rodney was standing. Beyond was a spiral staircase, chill and bleak, its stone treads worn with the feet of centuries. Mannering helped the girl up, until they came to a wide passage with several doors leading off. Rodney Horton stood at one of the doors, beckoning.

  Mannering crossed with the girl, and ushered her inside. The door closed, and Rodney stood leaning against it, looking at her.

  Mannering was sure of one thing: in spite of her danger, in spite of the suspicions of the police, in spite of what had just happened, these two young people were oblivious of him: no one mattered to either, but the other. It was a complete absorption seldom seen, and he found himself smiling faintly.

  This was his sitting-room; next to it was his bedroom, next to that, his bathroom. Each was a high room furnished in Jacobean furniture which had a dull lustre. The furniture and the room dwarfed the three people in it, and Mannering saw that Rodney was in fact an inch shorter than the girl.

  He said: “Very interesting. How long has this been going on?”

  Rodney started, and turned round to him.

  “What?”

  “This romance. Isn’t that the word?”

  “Romance,” Rodney almost choked.

  “How long?” asked Mannering.

  “We—we’ve known each other for about three months,” said Rodney. “Any objection?”

  “Does your father know?”

  “No, but when the time comes I’ll tell him.”

  “Sure he doesn’t know?”

  “Of course I’m sure.” Rodney’s voice took on an overtone of impatience. “What difference does it make, anyhow? The only thing that matters is hiding Hester.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Mannering said, mildly. “I think a lot of other things are equally important. Making sure she doesn’t come to any harm, for instance, and so finding out who really killed Clive Morgan.”

  “The police are bound to find the murderer—” Rodney began, but Mannering cut him short with a gesture, and both Rodney and Hester looked at him with a kind of fear.

  “I shouldn’t leave it to the police, they may not know all the facts,” Mannering went on. “I do know some of those facts. I think this is a moment to think about the implications.” He moved forward, took the girl’s arm and led her into the inner room, waited until she sat in a tall backed winged armchair, which faced the great stone fireplace. Rodney stood by her side, wary, one arm raised and bent,
as if ready for instant action if any threat materialised. He looked very young; younger than his twenty-three years.

  “Now what’s on your mind?” he demanded.

  “Just this,” answered Mannering promptly. “You and Hester have known each other for about three months. Hester has been blackmailed for about eight weeks. Hester refused to tell her father why she had been blackmailed. Has it anything to do with her association with you?”

  Before either of them spoke, he felt sure that he was right.

  The only doubt was whether they would confide in him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Truth?

  Mannering watched the girl more closely than he watched Rodney. Hester was an easier subject to assess, and much less practised in deceit; the boy had been forced into deceitfulness most of his life. Mannering knew his history better than most, and the only thing he could not be sure about was how his upbringing had affected Rodney’s mind, his character and his moods. At this moment Rodney was an aggressive, almost angry-looking youth with an out-thrust chin, his hands clenched as if he would like to come forward and use them on Mannering. In the light of the room, his eyes seemed a silvery grey colour. The girl was—frightened.

  Rodney spoke at last, in a voice which almost grated.

  “What are you trying to say? That I’m blackmailing the girl I love?”

  “Clive Morgan did the blackmailing,” Mannering said, “but it could have been because of something he knew about you. Hester, it’s time you told me exactly what this is about. You have my word that I won’t tell your parents without your permission, but I must know what hold Morgan was able to exert over you.”

  The girl didn’t answer.

  Mannering had seen how adamant she could be when she had been in her own home, and that hadn’t changed. The whole of the Vane bungalow would stand inside this suite of rooms, he knew, yet the girl seemed to fit into both backgrounds. In spite of the blue-green duffle coat threads, pulled with thorns, her ruffled hair and her tired eyes, there was real quality about her.