Shadow The Baron (15 page)

For all the notice Celia took, she need not have spoken.

“Where is my mother?” asked Celia.

“At the Milne Court Hotel, Knightsbridge.”

“You said this morning that she wasn’t seriously ill.”

“She is, now. She wants to see you.”

“But you mustn’t go out!” cried Mrs. Morant

Celia took notice, this time; and the change in her was astonishing. She smiled; he hadn’t seen her smile before. It gave life and freshness to her beauty, and it made her seem much younger. She moved quickly to Mrs. Morant, and took her hands.

“Ethel, he needn’t know, need he? I could just slip out and be back within an hour – Paul said he wouldn’t be home until after midnight. He needn’t know, if you don’t tell him.” She squeezed the older woman’s hands, as if she were humouring a child. “I’ll be able to help you, one day, to make up for it. Be a pet, and go and take out a suit – any one will do.” She brushed Mrs. Morant’s over powdered cheeks with her lips, and then gave her a little push. Mrs. Morant hesitated, but eventually went to the door.

“Supposing he should find out,” she said waveringly.

“But he needn’t, Ethel, unless you’re silly, and I know you can keep a confidence.”

“Well –”

“You’d better make it the black suit,” Celia said.

Mrs. Morant disappeared, but left the door open. As Celia went across and closed it the long glowing housecoat lent added grace to her movements. There was eagerness in her manner when she hurried across to Mannering.

“Is she terribly ill? Or –”

“I thought you’d like to see her and I knew that Paul was out.”

She didn’t ask how he knew.

“I won’t be five minutes,” she said, and turned and hurried into the bedroom. There were sounds of voices and movement, and once Celia laughed; the laugh certainly couldn’t have come from Mrs. Morant.

Lorna said: “What is going to happen when she realizes that she isn’t going to see her mother?”

Mannering said: “But she is.”

Lorna took a deep breath, “And after that, what?”

“That’s when we do the kidnapping,” Mannering said. “Unless Celia has changed her ways, she’ll come out dripping in mink. She’ll go into the hotel dripping in mink. You will come out, wrapped in the same mink, and she will have your outfit on. Close observers will then see me and a woman they believe to be my wife, drive off. I shall shake off the police car, get into another, and drive to Chloe’s cottage. You will drive the bus outside, and the police call sent out for it will quickly be’ rewarded. You’ll probably be asked where I am. You won’t know. You’ll say that we drove together to the Cherry Bar and had a drink, and then I disappeared.”

“I suppose it could work,” said Lorna, “But you’ve forgotten one little thing.”

“What little thing?”

“That Celia probably won’t play the game the way you want it.”

“If life were all smooth, where would the fun be?” asked Mannering. “If it works, telephone Larraby at his usual hotel, and ask him to go to the village, and keep watch.”

Lorna nodded.

The bedroom door opened, and Celia came out. She wore the mink coat, and a light hood edged with fur.

Mrs. Fleming was still unconscious. Mannering had warned Celia that she might be. Celia stayed for twenty minutes, and when she left the room, much of the whipped up vitality seemed to have seeped out of her.

Mannering drew her towards Fleming’s door, and she hesitated, and pulled against him.

“I want to go back now, please.”

“You shall, soon.”

“I don’t want to see my father.”

“He’s not here,” said Mannering. He opened the door, and she saw that only Lorna was in the room. She went in. The visit to her mother was obviously still vivid on her mind. She was depressed, she didn’t want to stay.

“I’m glad you came for me, but I must get back now,” she said.

“Celia,” Mannering was almost sombre. “How far would you go to help your mother?”

“I don’t understand you. The doctors are looking after her, aren’t they?”

“Did you notice the nurse?”

“I couldn’t very well help noticing her!”

“You don’t know she is a policewoman.”

“What do you mean?” Celia’s voice was tense.

“Your mother is under constant surveillance. The police suspect that she killed Muriel Lee. They’re hoping that each time she comes round, she may say something which will give the truth away.”

Celia cried: “No!”

“That is why the nurse is there. Celia, do you know who killed Muriel?”

“No!”

“Your mother had the opportunity, and she has a record of –”

“Why should she kill her? Why?”

“I don’t know,” said Mannering. “I don’t think she did. I believe that someone else killed her, and would like it to look as if your mother is guilty. I want to find out who that someone is, I want to get at the whole truth. I think it will be an ugly truth, when it comes to light. And I want your help.”

“There’s nothing I can do,” she said, and looked at him with torment in her eyes.

“But I think that there is.”

“I know nothing about it!”

“Paul does.”

She didn’t answer, didn’t deny that it might be true. She looked older by ten years.

“I want to talk to Paul, and I want you to be away from him for a few days. If he didn’t do it – all right, things can go on as they are. But I think he will try to use you as an alibi. He can make you do exactly what he wants, Celia, when he’s with you – and sometimes when he’s away from you. I know that you hate the thought that he might have had anything to do with this, but if you don’t find out for certain, you’ll never have a minute’s peace. You don’t have much peace, now. I want you to leave London for a few days, and let me deal with Paul. What I’m asking you to do is simply to let him fight this out on his own. You won’t be asked to betray him or do anything to harm him. Do you understand?”

She said: “Yes, I understand.”

“Will you come away?” asked Mannering.

Her eyes stared burningly at Mannering, and she began to breathe heavily; gaspingly. It was as if she were fighting against an influence which had sprung into the room, unseen but powerful. Mannering guessed at its nature. She was tempted to do what he suggested, feared that he was right about Paul, and yet couldn’t bring herself to defy him.

Lorna watched, fascinated.

Mannering kept his gaze on the girl’s eyes; as Paul so often did. He could see the signs of the deepening struggle, and could not guess what the outcome would be. If anything broke this tension, she would probably collapse, and refuse to come; she would rush back to Buckley Street and wait for the man.

Someone walked along the passage. He had a momentary fear that it might be Fleming.

The footsteps passed the door, and silence fell again.

Mannering said: “Your mother is in grave danger, Celia.”

She opened her lips and moved her hands, but didn’t speak. She turned and darted a single glance towards the door, as if she could see through the walls to the woman who lay unconscious only a few yards away. Then she swung round, and stretched out her hands towards Mannering.

“Yes, I’ll come,” she gasped. “I’ll come.”

The danger was from the lights outside the hotel; but it had to be chanced. With her hair hidden beneath Lorna’s silk scarf and her face turned towards the ground, Celia walked with him to the car. Mannering couldn’t see the watching police, but knew they were there. He took the wheel, leaned across and slammed the door, Celia sitting silently by his side. He moved off, and as he turned the corner, saw a police car following. He settled down to plan the best way to shake it off, and told Celia what he was going to do. She made no comment. He drove at speed as far as Marble Arch. The police car was some distance away. In Oxford Street, he beat two sets of traffic lights, and then turned to the right, pulling up in a cul-de-sac, near one of the Squares. An illuminated sign, with a bunch of cherries flashing on and off, spread a red glow over him and over Celia.

No one showed any interest in him or the car.

Ten minutes later, Lorna drove up in a hired Buick.

In two minutes, Mannering was driving the Buick, with his coat collar turned up and his hat pulled low over his forehead. Celia was wearing her mink again. He made for the Great West Road. The powerful car responded to every effort he asked from it, they touched ninety miles an hour along the main road itself, and then settled down to fifty miles an hour towards Winchester.

The headlights of the car shone upon the windows of the cottages in the high street of Haddon village, on thatch and mellow brick, on tiny gardens and briared hedges. Mannering followed Chittering’s instructions carefully, turning left at a fork, and then driving along a narrow country lane for several hundred yards. He pulled up sharply, peering at an inconspicuous sign which stated:

Rose Lane Cottage

District Nurse

“We’re here,” he said.

He helped Celia out. She hadn’t spoken since they had left London and now he half expected her to cry out in sudden protest, to wish that she hadn’t come, to want to go back. But her calm remained unbroken.

There were lights on at two of the windows of the cottage.

He’d told Celia what he had arranged, and repeated the gist of it.

“You understand, don’t you, that you’re a friend of Miss Chittering’s, staying with her for a few days. You haven’t been well, and you’re resting. You’re not to leave the cottage, except with Jane Chittering or her friend Chloe, until I’ve been to see you again.”

“Yes, I understand,” she said.

Mannering started to walk with her along the gravel path, but she put her hand arrestingly on his arm.

“Why do you hate Paul?”

“I don’t know him well enough to hate,” said Mannering. “I do know him well enough to believe he’ll do anything to get his own way, and that this time, he mustn’t get it unless he’s innocent. If he is –”

“He must be,” said Celia, with a note of pleading.

“Then all will be well,” said Mannering.

There was an old fashioned pull type bell, which clanged noisily at his touch. Immediately there were sounds of movement inside, the door was flung open, and Chloe stood there, both hands outstretched, Jane close behind her.

They drew Celia into a warm, pretty living room in which a log fire blazed.

Mannering left for Guildford, if not entirely relieved, yet with some of his anxiety ironed away.

Fleming had told him, quite freely, about his house. It was on the Horsham side of the county town, with several acres of ground, most of it planted with fruit trees. He also kept a few pigs, and had told Mannering that a neighbour had promised to look after them; there was no living in servant. Mannering parked his car a hundred yards away, and then walked to the house, Maylands. There was no light, except from the stars.

He walked round the front garden, and then stood close to the black cavity of the front door, and watched the nearby road. There was no sign either of the house being watched or that he had been followed. The police might have been here, but he doubted whether they would have been able to get a search warrant. Nevertheless he waited patiently and in utter silence for ten minutes. When the cold began to creep into him, he turned to the door.

He was fully equipped for his enterprise, with cotton gloves, knife, and a scarf, which he could pull over his face in an emergency. Examining the lock, he found it to be a mortise, more difficult to force than a Yale, but having the advantage that it could be opened without damage. He left the porch and walked to the back of the house. Both fowl house and pigsty were visible as humped shapes at the end of the garden, and by them was the garage. The walls of the house were cream washed and he knew that if anyone looked this way, he might be seen.

There was a little porch over the back door.

He studied the lock. It was also a mortise, but easier than that at the front. The disadvantage of back door entry was that it was often bolted and chained when the house was empty.

He started on the lock with his knife.

Making a little noise was unimportant, and enabled him to work faster. The lock clicked back. Feeling the usual quiver of excitement, but keeping it well in control, he pushed the door – and it opened.

He stepped inside the pitch-black void, closing the door behind him. A streak of sky could be seen from one window. He pulled the curtain across, and then switched on his torch.

This was a big, roomy kitchen, modernised and uncluttered. The door leading to the front of the house was closed but not locked. He stepped into a wide passage, and the torchlight shone on a rug, parquet flooring, and several oddments of good furniture.

He went into each of three downstairs rooms and drew the thick curtains; they were heavy and of excellent quality. Once they were drawn, he switched on a light in the front room. It was large, and extremely well furnished. Mrs. Fleming had good taste, and money had evidently not been spared. A baby grand stood in one corner, and on it were three photographs, two women and two men.

One was Celia, as a girl; the other of Fleming, his wife, and a younger, fair haired man, with a touch, Mannering decided, of irresponsible charm.

He went upstairs.

There were five bedrooms, and all had the same good taste and evidence of money freely spent. In one room there was a bowl of daffodils, not yet faded. Why had Mrs. Fleming taken the trouble to leave flowers in a bedroom, when she had known that she would be away for several days?

There were clothes in the wardrobe, books on a table within reach of the bed, and he opened two of them. Both were inscribed: “Celia Fleming”. So this was Celia’s room, and the flowers were altar offerings to Celia. The room looked as if it were kept lovingly, further evidence of the attachment between mother and daughter. Celia’s hatred was centred on her father; as she had shown from the beginning.

He glanced into all the bedrooms, and then went downstairs. The smallest room was a study cum library, with the walls by the fireplace lined with books. There were several large photographs showing Fleming in the saddle, dressed for polo. Others had obviously been taken in India. There was a small, old-fashioned safe.