Hide the Baron (4 page)

“The only time I've heard of a Mr. John Mannering was by letter, just after I came here,” she said stiffly. “He wrote to Mr. Garfield on business.”

“Ah! What business?”

“That you must ask Mr. Garfield,” said Joanna abruptly. “Now, unless there is anything else of importance, I must go.”

He didn't answer at once; just looked at her, as if willing her to tell him more. She wished desperately that he would leave; she felt that if he continued to question her, even to stand and stare, she would scream.

“Has Mr. Garfield ever told you that
he
was worried about an attempt on his life?”Aylmer demanded abruptly.

That took her so much by surprise that it strengthened her; and her astonishment must have shown clearly, because Aylmer's manner changed, and obviously he had his answer before she said:

“Good heavens, no!”

“If you should have the slightest indication that Mr. Garfield is worried, or in any kind of danger, please let me know at once,” Aylmer said formally.

Before she answered, he was out of the room.

 

 

It was a miserable evening. Joanna ate alone. Afterwards she expected Garfield to send for her, but no summons came. Usually she ate with George Merrow, and sometimes Garfield ate with them; invariably all three had coffee together. Now there was the quietness of unuttered fear. George, with that mauled leg, was likely to be in hospital for weeks. At this moment he was undoubtedly under morphia, perhaps on the operating table. The massive Aylmer, with his innuendo; Priscilla, with her pathetic little story – and the bullet.

It was dark.

The dining-room was huge, and only the lights at one end were on. If she was going to have to eat alone very often, it would be better to be in her own room; she usually had breakfast there. She stood up and went to the window. It was quite dark outside, but the curtains weren't drawn; Jimmy Garfield liked plenty of light to shine out; and as she stood by a tall arched window, looking through the distorting thickness of the glass into the darkness broken only near the house, she realised something that she hadn't before.

He was afraid of the dark.

Nothing seemed to move outside. She was staring in the direction of the copse, where so much had happened. Above all, she wished that the policeman hadn't talked about the possibility of danger to the old man.

What
danger could there be?

Why had Garfield seemed so worried when she had gone in, earlier in the evening?

She went out of the dining-room. Gedde, who had waited at the table, came in at the other end of the room. It was warm in the high rooms and the lofty hall. She went to the front door, opening the small door set in the massive wooden double doors with their huge iron bolts. A breeze, coming off the downs, made it seem almost cool. She stood on the porch for several minutes, ears strained to catch sounds that just weren't there. In the distance she could see a few lights, from the village of Orme Hill, where Jeff Liddicombe had the ‘Grey Mare'. That started her thinking about Priscilla, the story, the whole miserable business. It was a pity the innkeeper, Liddicombe, hadn't dealt with his daughter before –

Oh, be fair!

She went in.

It was nearly ten. Her head ached with a throbbing persistence which made reading out of the question. She wished she knew whether Garfield was going to send for her or not; he seldom went to bed later than ten, but this was an unusual night.

She went up to her room and undressed, put on her dressing-gown and lay on the bed, not between the sheets. The room was tall and spacious, like all the others; far too big. It was like living in a place that was double life size, although after the first few days she hadn't noticed it so much.

She began to doze.

She went to sleep.

She did not know what time it was when she woke; and, waking, heard first the scream and then the shot somewhere below her.

 

She heard both sounds vaguely at first, as if they were something in a nightmare, forcing themselves upon her consciousness. She lay stiff and frightened; quivering. For a few seconds she heard nothing more, and was actually telling herself that it had been a nightmare, when she heard another scream, faint through thick walls, but unmistakable.

She jumped off the bed, slipped, and pitched forward.

She saved herself by grabbing the bed panel, and her heart thumped wildly. As she stood there, she heard two more sounds which she knew were shots, although they came from a long way off.

She reached the door.

As she opened it, and light came through from the passage, she heard running footsteps, and then another scream which was in the form of words.

“Stop
him, stop him!
”

As she ran into the hall, she thought: “He's got a gun!” It was primitive thought, spurred by fear. She needed a weapon of some kind, and there was none she could use, except on the walls.

A dagger.

She could have her choice, but shrank from taking one and ran instead towards the running footsteps. The passage was never-ending, but now the sound of screaming had died away, there was only the running man.

She reached the hall.

The small door within the door was open wide. A man was moving towards it, staring along the passage down there, not looking up. She could see the top of his head, the small white patch, not larger than a half-crown, in the dark hair. He put a pale white hand on the door, and opened it wider. He didn't look up, and the view she had of his face was distorted. He climbed through the doorway, withdrawing his right hand last; and in it was the gun.

For the rest, there was silence.

The door didn't close.

Joanna kept running, had paused only for the second when he had first appeared. Now she was called two ways; to follow him, and to go and see what had happened. Fear was like a scream inside her. She reached the foot of the stairs, and felt the wind coming in from the downs.

Then she saw Gedde.

He was moving unsteadily. Blood glistened at the corner of his mouth, his eyes looked huge and glittering. He was wearing a dark blue dressing-gown, very like his usual black, and his face was a dirty white colour. He held a gun in his right hand, pointing towards the door. He tried to run, but almost fell.

“Gedde!” Joanna cried.

He looked up at her, and his mouth opened, but she couldn't hear the words. He made a fluttering movement with his empty hand, and she gathered that he was telling her to go to the door and follow the man. She hesitated, out of her dread; and as she did so, Gedde pitched forward, the gun struck the floor and slithered towards her.

Gedde hit the floor so heavily that the thud of his falling made Joanna flinch.

The gun was only a few feet away.

She rushed forward, and snatched at it, then turned round. Gedde lay quite still, but she could picture his movement in her mind's eye, could understand what he wanted so desperately. She reached the door.

A red light showed, not far away.

An engine whined, with the touch of the self-starter; whined again and yet again, and then turned smoothly. There was a pale white light at the front of the car, too; it faced the long drive and the distant gates; the glow of the rear light touched bushes growing close to the drive itself.

The car began to move.

She raised the gun, and fired. She knew how to use an automatic, but this was a revolver and it kicked so badly that she almost dropped it. Pain throbbed at her elbow and her shoulder. She tried to level the gun again, and gritted her teeth as she squeezed the trigger. The kick back didn't seem so bad; and after the roar of the shot, she heard a metallic clang, as if the bullet had struck the body of the car. It did nothing to slow the car down; instead, it moved faster, and suddenly the headlights flashed on, illuminating the drive and stretches on either side, the bushes, the slim trunks of young trees, the great girth of some oaks. The pool of light was constantly moving, the red glow fading, and the dark shape of the car was vivid against the glow.

At a turn in the drive she saw it broadside on; then trees hid it, except for the glow which grew further and further away.

The sound of the engine died, too.

She was alone again, here; alone with the wounded Gedde, and perhaps with death.

The wind was chilly now.

She turned, as quickly as she could make herself, fighting the fear which was never far away. Now it was not fear of what might happen to her, only of what she might find. Why hadn't the others heard? Couldn't they, in their rooms? Where was Mrs. Baddelow, where was. Priscilla, where were the other members of the staff? There were seven in all; surely Gedde had managed to send for help.

Lights blazed out. Had Gedde put them on; or the intruder?

Silence greeted her.

Gedde was stretched out with his right hand crushed beneath him and his left flung forward, as if he were trying to stop the gun from falling. He hadn't moved. A little patch of blood, near his side, glistened in the bright light. Joanna gritted her teeth as she went towards him, hesitatingly.

She felt his pulse; there was no hint of beating, no doubt that he was dead.

She straightened up and moved swiftly, head raised and chin thrust forward, towards Jimmy Garfield's room.

She reached it.

The door was wide open, and all the lights on; it seemed to her that for the rest of her life she would associate death with blazing lights. The room seemed empty; the wheel-chair was not in sight. There was no sound to ease her fears, and she made herself go further into the room. There it was, with the great glazed bookcases filled with books, the thick carpet, the evidence of wealth in a kind of restrained opulence. The primitive bronzes stared blindly upon it all.

The door leading to Jimmy's bedroom was open.

Had he been – in bed?

A clock struck, startling her, and for the first time she wondered what time it was. The striking was deep, sonorous. One – two –

She waited.

One, two.
It was two o'clock in the morning, the cold, witching hours. The note was vibrant and its quivering lasted for a long time, as if it wanted to be heard.

She went into the old man's room.

Yes, he was in bed.

He had been struck savagely on the head, there was red on the pillow case, on the sheet, on his face. But he wasn't dead. His eyes were open. He lay there helpless and, as George had been, in pain, but when he saw her his lips moved, as if he were calling.

The sight of him, hurt but alive, put new spirit into her, took away the dread, strengthened her and told her what she had to do. Telephone the police and a doctor, then go for Mrs. Baddelow.

No! She might be able to save Jimmy's life, before doing any of these. She reached him. His mouth was still moving, and his blue eyes were trying to convey a message; she heard a sound, just a husky whisper which did not make sense, coming from the back of his throat.

“Don't talk, Jimmy,” she said, “don't talk, I'll help you.” She was examining the wound at the side of his head; she couldn't tell how bad it was, realised only that there might be severe internal haemorrhage, as well as the bleeding she could see. Where was the right spot to exert pressure?

First, she needed a pad of some kind, to stem the bleeding.

A sheet; a pillow case; anything.

Garfield was mouthing and making that whispering sound.

“Jimmy,” she said, quite steadily now, “don't talk, or you'll make it worse.”

He ignored her.

She slid a pillow out of a slip, folded the slip, and pressed it gently on the wound, where the blood was slowly pulsing out. He was moving his right hand, towards the corner, much as Gedde had done.

“
Jimmy, lie still!
”

Suddenly, alarmingly, his voice became strong. That was so unexpected that she stopped what she was doing.

“Take the miniatures and take them to Mannering,” he said. “They're in the seat of my chair. Tell no one, y'understand? No one. Take them to John Man—”

He stopped, and his voice faded as suddenly as it had strengthened. He grabbed her hand. She sensed his fear, and shared it. His eyes were very bright and rounded, he looked at her as if pleadingly.

“Jimmy!” she breathed.

Then his eyes closed, as if putting out a light, and his frail body sagged. After a second the tightness of his grip on her arm slackened.

“Jimmy,” she breathed again.

There were tears in her eyes.

 

 

Joanna turned away from the bed and the still, lifeless figure. Lifeless? He looked dead, and for a moment she told herself that he was. She moved only a foot or two, to the telephone at the bedside table. She picked up the receiver, and, while waiting, watched Jimmy Garfield.

Was
he breathing?

The village operator, a woman, said: “Number, please.”

“I want—I want the police station.”

“The police sta—” The woman stopped. “Do you mean the village constable, miss?”

“No, the police station in Orme, where Superintendent Aylmer is.”

“Oh,
Orme.
Just hold on a minute, miss.” There was a pause, then came the noises which seemed inseparable from the telephone. Then: “Oh, miss, I hope nothing's the matter. I've heard all about that awful business with the traps, poor Mr. Merrow must …”

Was Garfield
breathing?

Joanna's eyes began to glisten; she thought he was. She broke across the woman's flow of words, without a thought.

“Yes, it is serious. Ask the police to come here as soon as possible, will you, with a doctor and—and an ambulance.”

“Another
ambulance? Why, what on earth—”

“Quickly, please.”

Joanna put the receiver down. She felt choked, but was quite sure that she hadn't made a mistake. Jimmy was breathing, his chest was rising and falling slightly and there was a faint movement at his lips.

Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy!

She became almost frenzied. Get blankets, hot-water bottles, anything to keep him warm, keep the circulation going, she could let him die or she could save him. She heaped blankets over him, then ran into the passage, heading for the kitchen – and she saw Priscilla.

Priscilla was getting up from behind a big, carved chair; its oak had been blackened by the centuries. She had no colour at all. She was wearing an open dressing-gown over a pair of flimsy pyjamas, which didn't conceal much; and it wasn't her fault that when allowed full freedom, her curves were riotous. She was shivering.

“Priscilla, what—”

“I—I—I heard—” Priscilla began, shrilly and then broke off. “I heard a—a bang, and came down, and—”

Her mouth worked, like an idiot's.

“Priscilla! Go and put a kettle on, at once! Fill two hot-water bottles. Bring them here. Then call Mrs. Baddelow. Understand?”

“I—I—I heard—”

“Go
for those hot-water bottles!
”

Priscilla turned away. She did not need to pass Gedde, although the sight of him had affected her so badly. She faltered, but gradually gained courage; or appeared to. At last she disappeared. Joanna turned back into the room, flinched at the sight of the still figure, and wondered if she had been dreaming.

She glanced at the wheel-chair.

She felt as if Jimmy Garfield had charged her with a mission, with his dying breath. She was to take the miniatures hidden in his wheel-chair to John Mannering – the man in whom Aylmer was so interested.

She couldn't think about that now.

Jimmy hadn't stirred, and it was easy to believe that she had been wrong, that blankets and hot-water bottles would do no good at all.

She could only wait.

She went to the wheel-chair, and saw nothing unusual; but she knew that the padded seat was removable; it was fastened with straps. She unfastened the straps and lifted it. There was a flat box which fitted flush with the sides of the chair, almost as if it had been made for it. She lifted this out, and saw that it was heavily sealed with Sellotape. She didn't try to open it, but put it on one side, replaced the chair seat, and pushed the chair further away. She hesitated, then turned and went out, hurrying up to her room. She put the box beneath the mattress at the foot of her bed, then went downstairs again. She reached the door of Jimmy Garfield's room as a man came hurrying from the service quarters – an odd-job man in his sixties, looking scared.

“You all right, Miss Woburn?” He was breathless. “That Prissy's in such a state I don't know whether to believe her or not. I haven't called the others – shall I, or—”

He caught sight of Gedde, and his voice trailed off.

Two minutes later, Priscilla arrived with tears streaming down her face from the reaction – but with the hot-water bottles under her arm.

The puzzling thing was that Mrs. Baddelow still wasn't here, but there was no time to worry about Mrs. Baddelow or anyone. Joanna put the hot-water bottles in with Jimmy, one on each side of the frail body, and then turned her attention to Priscilla, who was heading for an attack of hysterics which wouldn't help at all. She needed a hot drink, some clothes on, much reassurance.

There was too much to do.

At least it saved Joanna from thinking.

She was surprised that the police arrived so quickly. First, two men in uniform, with a car bearing the illuminated sign
Police
on the roof; then the ambulance with another policeman by the side of the driver; finally, Aylmer and two other plain-clothes men and a police-surgeon, a white-haired daddy of a man who sounded asthmatic. It was Aylmer who took complete control, talked to Joanna briefly and mildly, nodded as if he fully understood, and somehow reassured her. By then she was feeling dreadful; shivering fits kept coming over her, and she couldn't stop them. The doctor made her up a milky looking white dose, and ten minutes after she'd taken it, she felt steadier.

Yet she did not see what happened moment by moment. So much was going on. The police-surgeon with Jimmy, with Gedde, with Priscilla; the police, searching everywhere; police-cars with their headlights blazing, at the spot on the drive where the little car had stood while she had shot at it. The police with the gun Joanna herself had fired; talking to her again, and drawing her story out quietly, item by item.

Then, highlights:

“No, Mr. Garfield's not dead,” the white-haired daddy said, “but he is gravely injured, no point in minimising the danger. We'll do all we can.”

At least, there were some grounds for hope.

“I don't think you need worry about Mrs. Baddelow,” said Aylmer, “apparently she is used to taking a sleeping draught, there are tablets by her bed. Dr. Menzies thinks that she took more than usual last night, and she is simply in a drugged sleep. No great harm's done.”

Then, a few minutes later: “Glad to tell you that Mr. Merrow is comfortable, anyhow.”

“Oh, good!” That delighted her; and in a queer way told her that she had missed him dreadfully in the night's nightmare.

Finally: “Now I'm going to recommend that
you
have a sleeping draught, Miss Woburn, and go to bed. You'll feel twice the woman you are if you can sleep the clock round. We shall be here all night and well into the morning, so you'll have nothing to worry about.”

“Thank you,” Joanna said, almost stupidly. “Thank you. If I can just lie down that will be fine. I'm sure I shall sleep.”

“Of course you will,” Aylmer reassured her. “But the draught will make sure you don't wake up too soon!” He actually took her along to her room; and she realised that he had shielded her from Priscilla and the other servants, had made sure that she wasn't harassed more than the circumstances compelled. “No way in which you can help us further, is there? Nothing indicated what the thief came after?”he asked in his deep, almost ponderous voice.

“Absolutely nothing,” Joanna said.

She remembered the first meeting with Aylmer, and his grimness, as she went to her bed and dropped heavily on to it. She pressed her hands against her forehead, looked at him, but said almost to herself: “I should have told this afternoon …”

She told him now; all Priscilla's story.

Aylmer listened intently and without interrupting. When she had finished, he said: “Ah, hum, yes. Understand your reticence.” Not a word of rebuke, not even a hint of it. “Well, if we can't get at the truth any other way we'll have to question young Prissy Liddicombe.” He grinned. “Pert little piece, that lass, if her father used the strap on her a bit more and talked less about what he was going to do, she'd be more like. All right, Miss Woburn, thanks for telling me. Goodnight.”

He went out.

When she got into bed she thought that she would never sleep.

When she woke it was after midday.

Her mind was quite clear, and she remembered everything, although not too vividly. The daddy-doctor had known what he was about, obviously, for the draught had not only made her sleep, but had soothed her nerves. She could recollect what had happened without any feeling of horror.

When she went out, wearing just her dressing-gown, a policeman was on duty at the end of the passage, and gave her a stolid ‘good morning'. When she returned, Mrs. Baddelow was in her room, looking as severe as ever until the door closed, and then becoming almost tearful.

“Oh, I wouldn't have let you bear the burden of this on your own for
anything
; if I'd dreamt of what might happen I wouldn't have cared if I hadn't slept a wink. I sleep so badly, dear, you don't know what that is until you've suffered from insomnia for a year or two, and Gedde had been so difficult for the past few days. Then there was Prissy. I felt desperate, so I took two tablets. But I've
never
slept so heavily as that before, and—”

“It doesn't matter.” Joanna stopped the flood. “Don't worry about it. If there could be a cup of tea …”

“Oh, of
course!
” Mrs. Baddelow hurried out.

Joanna felt beneath the mattress for the flat box. It was still there. She turned it over in her hand, and wondered exactly how much it was worth, and why Jimmy had charged her with taking it to Mannering. She asked herself if she ought to tell the police, but at heart knew that she wouldn't; there had been the old man's talk of a twenty-year burden on his conscience; and his tone when he had said there were not many whom he could trust.

She
must
be trustworthy.

Mrs. Baddelow brought the tea herself.

“And I've just rung the hospital, dear; the report isn't
too
bad. At least he's just hanging on, poor old chap.” She stood quite still, hands clasped in front of her flat waist. “I do hope he doesn't die, this is the best job I've had for years. Well, you take it easy, dear, no one's going to complain if you stay in bed all day.”

Joanna didn't want to stay in bed all day. She wanted to take that box to John Mannering. It would mean going to London, and giving some reason why she wanted to, and she turned it over in her mind during the afternoon. Aylmer wasn't at the house, but the other police were still searching for clues; there was no news of an arrest, no further news of Jimmy.

She went through the files, and found the letter which Mannering had sent, from Quinns, Hart Row, London, W.1. It simply asked if he were interested in two Ming vases, and gave the dimensions; Jimmy had politely said ‘no'. The notepaper was of excellent quality and the address, together with the words
Antiques – Objets d'Art,
were embossed in black. She filed the letter again, and then began to worry about how to go to London. She had no car, but Jimmy had allowed her to use a little Austin runabout, although she'd always asked permission.

She couldn't, now.

She could tell Aylmer that she had business in London; letters in the files showed that she was here on a month's trial, and that the month was up today. Thirty days of quiet hopefulness, the enjoyment marred only by George Merrow, and one day of violence touched with horror. Now –

She stopped herself thinking about it.

She went to ask the policeman in charge if there were any objection to her keeping an appointment in London, and found him in the library, talking to a man she hadn't seen before. The stranger was tall, almost startlingly good-looking, with a smile which attracted and a voice which pleased. When she entered, this man glanced at her. She liked him on sight, and sensed that he would move well, that he carried much authority.

Could he be from Scotland Yard?

The local man turned, and said: “Hallo, Miss Woburn, how can I help you?” Before she had a chance to answer, he went on: “Do you know Mr. Mannering?”

She knew that her surprise showed in her expression, knew that it puzzled both men, and her ‘no' had a strangely false ring.