A Sword For the Baron (13 page)

“I understand that you were prepared to do anything to stop me – even to framing one of my staff for the theft.”

Orde muttered: “I wish I'd framed
you
.”

“You've had plenty of experience in putting blame on other people,” Mannering said. “And as much in lying. You did it all too smoothly to be new to lying and cheating. You left her gassed, and hoped she was dead – and came back to the mews shouting at her to let you in. Remember? You tried to pretend you had warned her of danger, when you were the cause of it. You pretended to be frightened of her – whereas you were trying to drive her out of her mind. You tried to make sure I kept the sword because it would increase her tensions and her fears – but that was a mistake, wasn't it? You would have been wiser to try to make me give up the sword and wash my hands of the whole affair. When you realised the danger you tried to keep me off by framing Levinson.”

“I only made one mistake,” sneered Orde. “Not killing you.”

“I simply can't understand this,” Gentian muttered in a quavering voice. “I simply can't understand what has been going on. Claude, are you saying that you planted evidence of a crime against Mannering's assistant? That you attacked Mannering last night? That you—but why?
Why
?”

Orde said: “I wanted him off the case.”

“But,
Claude,
why?” The old man looked frail and helpless. His hands were held out in front of him, palms outwards, as if beseechingly.

“There—there were a lot of things I didn't want him to find out,” Orde said. “You should never have gone to Mannering's shop in the first place. I know you went there to try to force Sara's hand but you shouldn't have gone.”

“I am so perplexed I hardly know what to say,” said Gentian. “Why—why were you frightened of Mannering?”

“In case I discovered that he was trying to drive Sara to commit suicide,” Mannering said.

“Oh, no!”

Orde was moving back from Mannering, looking less nervous, as if much of his courage as well as his spirit was back.

“She's no use to you or me or anyone,” he said. “She's been a thorn in our flesh for years – ever since I can remember. If she would get rid of herself—”

“It would help you, as you would become the sole heir,” Mannering said. “And if she wouldn't commit suicide, then just a little help would be all that was needed. Such as suffocating her by putting a towel round her head, and then sitting her in front of a gas oven. Or making the servants dose her with veronal when she came back here to talk to your uncle. Or trying to get her pushed off the roof when she was unconscious. Who did the pushing?”

Orde said: “You can't prove anything. This is only talk. Talk isn't evidence.”

“No,” agreed Mannering coldly. “Talk isn't evidence – but the communicating door between the two flats is.” He looked at Gentian. “Are you satisfied? Your nephew was so anxious to inherit from you that he tried to drive Sara to kill herself. When she didn't succeed, he tried to help her on her way. And after that—” Mannering took a step towards Orde, who backed away. “After that, what? I suppose your uncle would have died of old age, or fallen down that circular staircase, or had some cardiac trouble induced by too much digitalin. How were you going to kill him?”

“That's not true!”

“It's true all right,” Mannering said, still looking at Gentian. “He wouldn't have lived for six months after Sara had died.”

“Uncle, that's not true! I've worked for you all my life, your interests are mine. Anyhow I—I would inherit everything on your death, wouldn't I? There would be no need to—”

He broke off.

“Mr Mannering,” Gentian said, “this has been a great shock – a very great shock indeed. I know that there is no way of avoiding telling the police, but—but if I could have a little time to recover, a little respite, it would help me so much. I—I feel—”

He put a hand to his chest, and staggered. Mannering moved towards him as his eyes rolled and he pressed his hand against the left side of his breast. As he crumpled up, Mannering caught him – and while he was off balance, trying to keep him upright, Orde turned and ran towards the double doors.�

 

 

Gentian was clutching Mannering's arms. It might be a kind of spasm, but just as likely it was simulated, with Gentian making sure that Mannering could not go after Orde. He was making little gasping noises, which sounded faked. The doors opened and Orde rushed out, letting them swing behind him. His steel tipped heels made a sharp clatter on the marble floor of the circular hall.

Gentian became a dead weight in Mannering's arms.

Mannering placed him in one of the large armchairs. His eyes were closed and he was breathing stertorously. Mannering moved to the desk, opened a drawer, and found a list of telephone numbers. One was of a Dr Webb, of 14a, Park Place. He dialled, and a receptionist with a bedside-manner voice answered him promptly.

“I think Lord Gentian has had a stroke,” Mannering said brusquely. “Can Dr Webb come round at once?”

“He most certainly can,” the receptionist promised. “Will you please loosen all of Lord Gentian's clothes . . .”

Mannering had a feeling that she was not surprised by the news. He turned from the telephone, and studied the old man. While he was doing so, the door opened again and the butler appeared.

“Come in and unfasten his lordship's collar and waistband,” Mannering ordered. “I've sent for Dr Webb.” He watched this frail old man come forward, obviously anxious. “Which way did Mr Orde go?”

“Out—out of the back, sir. I wondered what—” the butler broke off, but quickened his pace towards Gentian, who hadn't moved.

Mannering said: “I'll be back.”

He went out, still not sure of the truth about Gentian's collapse. Even if it were faked, Gentian believed he thought it genuine. The more he pondered, the more likely it seemed that the old man had given his nephew a chance to escape. Was Gentian as innocent as he had tried to make out, or had he and Orde been involved together? What could make them work together to try to drive Sara to kill herself?

A taxi came crawling along. He hailed it, and sat in the back, legs stretched out straight. He had the answers to many of the questions but not necessarily the most important one. Sara Gentian probably held the key to that. If Orde was to be believed, he had simply wanted to be next in line for the inheritance, but was that the real answer?

Mannering kept glancing through the back window, to make sure that he wasn't followed. He wondered how Levinson was getting on, and when he would report. He lit a cigarette, and watched the passing scene, but in his mind's eye he saw only Gentian and Orde. If Gentian
had
given Orde the chance to escape, what could the reason be? Did he think that his nephew could escape? On the face of it, Orde would be arrested and tried. No one could seriously hope that he would stay free for long.

Was there something Orde wanted to do before he was arrested? Something Gentian wanted done, too?

Supposing they wanted Sara dead – that could be the urgent objective. Gentian might have given Orde a chance to go and kill her?

Mannering leaned forward: “The nearest telephone kiosk, as quick as you can make it.” He thrust his hand into his pocket for coppers as the taxi turned into the kerb and began to travel more slowly.

Orde might not know where to find Sara, Mannering told himself. Certainly he shouldn't know. But did he?

 

Sara Gentian smiled across at Lorna as they sat in the study of the flat. She was much better. No one meeting her now would suspect that there was anything seriously the matter with her. They might believe she was highly strung, and notice that she was trying to suppress agitation. Now she sat in a sewing chair, long legs stretched out in front of her, moving her feet round and round in a steady movement, hands folded in her lap. She had on the powder blue twin set which she had worn at Quinns. She had made up rather better, but had never really mastered the art of applying lipstick; Lorna had the impression that she didn't care how it was daubed on.

“I feel a different person,” Sara declared. “I wouldn't have believed I could feel so different in a few hours.”

“You'll feel better still when John's home.”

“I quite believe I shall,” Sara said. “Mrs Mannering, do you think he will believe me?”

“About what particular thing?”

“There is only one that matters,” Sara said. “The sword – it must go back to Gentian House.”

“Why is it so important?” Lorna asked.

It was the third time that she had tried to trick the girl into an explanation, and the third time that Sara simply replied: “That is beside the point.”

She leaned forward, hugging her knees and looking about the room. The portrait of Mannering as a Regency Buck hung over the carved mantelpiece, and she studied it for a long time, before jumping up and saying: “Of course, you're
the
artist, aren't you?”

Lorna laughed. “I paint, yes, but—”

“Oh, don't be silly. There's no point in false modesty.” Sara looked and sounded excited. “I've not only heard about you, I've seen a lot of your portraits. My uncle actually has one. He—” She broke off.

Lorna noticed the way she frowned, and the tightening of her lips; as if some unpleasant thought had crossed her mind. She jumped up, went closer to the portrait, and stared up at it.

“He's very handsome,” she observed. “Do you know what I think?” She turned round with easy, natural grace. “I think you ought to have your portrait of my Aunt Anne. It's a beautiful one, it really is. My uncle couldn't care less about it, and as for Claude—” she moved forward, eyes glistening. “Couldn't you get it back? For an exhibition or something? Couldn't you?”

“I expect I could, if there was any reason to.”

“Reason? It's stuck away in a dark corner of the house, up on the second floor,” Sara told her. “Isn't that reason enough?” She went quickly, restlessly, to the window. “I've always admired anyone who could paint. I wish I could myself, but I'm useless. All my women look like cows and all my men like satyrs. I suppose they are, really. Mrs Mannering, would you do me a very great favour?”

“If I can.”

“Would you let me see your studio? I'd love to. I once saw Augustus John's, in Hampshire somewhere, and I was fascinated. Of course he was very old. I saw Picasso's once, too. It was really rather shocking. About twenty of us gatecrashed. He was very charming, if a little odd. You are charming and not even a little odd! May I see where you work?”

“Of course,” Lorna said. “The studio is up in the attic.” She led the way out of this room along a passage between the kitchen and main bathroom. A loft ladder with a handrail was in position which led to a large hatch. She went up first, and switched on a light as soon as she reached the studio, then turned round and gave Sara a hand up.

Sara drew in a deep breath. “It's wonderful!”

She stood at the top of the steps, as if awed.

The attic stretched across the whole of the top of the house, although at two sides the ceiling sloped so that there was no room to stand up. All round the walls were portraits, some standing on the floor, some hung; a few were finished paintings, most were drawings, some finished, some hardly started. Only one or two were framed. The colours of the portraits were vivid, all the likenesses were remarkable. Along
one wall were rows of small portraits, almost miniatures, none of them framed. These were of people whom Lorna had met or whom she remembered; a fisherwoman from Looe, a Breton onion seller, an old Israeli with a patriarchal white beard and piercing eyes, an Arab child. There were several of Mannering, mostly black and white sketches, as well as a few small self portraits, none of which did her justice.

“But—this is an exhibition in its own right!” Sara declared. “I've never seen—oh, you must show them.”

“One day,” Lorna said.

“I really mean it,” Sara insisted. Her eyes looked as bright as the patriarch's. “Soon – it's wrong to keep such beautiful pictures up here where no one can see them. You ought to have an exhibition at Quinns.”

“Gentian House would be much more suitable,” Lorna said, jestingly.

For a moment, Sara's eyes lit up. She cried: “Yes, of course!” Then slowly the fire seemed to fade out of her eyes, blankness replaced it. Her lips tightened. She did not look away from Lorna, who had seen many a disappointed child behave in much the same way. “No, I'm afraid that wouldn't be possible,” she said almost petulantly. She moved closer to the miniatures, but the edge had been taken off her eagerness, she was much more formal, almost naïvThe front doorbell rang. Ethel bustled across to it, singing quite loudly; Lorna was used to that by now, but Sara turned her head and looked towards the stairs. As Ethel opened the door, the telephone bell rang. There was an extension up here, but it wasn't switched through. The ringing went on and on, drowning the voices at the door. A man was there, and soon footsteps sounded inside. The telephone bell kept ringing. It might be Chittering downstairs, Lorna thought, or Bristow – she laughed at herself; it might be anybody.

Sara was staring at the top of the loft ladder.

“Who—who is that?” she asked. Tension had gripped her; gripped her from the moment Lorna had suggested the exhibition at Gentian House. She had lost all her colour. “Who is it?”

The bell was ringing, and sounded louder.

“Ethel!” Lorna called, pitching her voice high. “Switch the call through to here.”

“Yes, ma'am!” Ethel called shrilly.

She did not say who had come. The man's voice did not sound again. Sara moved towards Lorna and gripped the newel post at the top of the ladder. The ringing started up here, at a telephone over by the northlight, near the easel and some shelves which held most of the things Lorna needed. She hurried across, and snatched it up.

“This is Lorna Mannering.”

“Lorna, are you all right?” It was John, speaking in a sharp, anxious voice. “You were so long in answering—”

“Of course I'm all right,” Lorna replied. “Sara's here. We're in the studio, and the telephone wasn't switched through. What makes you think—”

“Have you heard from Orde? If he knows you left the nursing home with Sara he might guess where Sara is,” reasoned Mannering. “Has he telephoned to say he's coming?”

“Would you expect him to?”

“I don't know what to expect. Don't let Sara go out, will you? And don't let Orde come in. I'll be with you in twenty minutes.”

“All right, darling,” Lorna said. “I'll look after everything, and—”

A scream broke across her words; shrill, high-pitched.

She nearly dropped the telephone as she spun round. John was calling: “
What was that
?”

Sara was backing away from the stepladder, and Claude Orde's head and shoulders appeared above the level of the floor. �