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Authors: John Creasey

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BOOK: A Sword For the Baron
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Mannering said: “Yes, that would stick in the mind.” He took some cuttings which Chittering handed him, and turned them over.

“And Gentian's own little motherless son died some months later, while his father was still in Africa. No wonder he stayed out there so long before coming home!”

He went through the cuttings again, stopping suddenly at one dated only nineteen years before. “What's this?”

“Gentian had a sister, who died – Orde was her only child,” Chittering went on. “Gentian's brother had a son who married, and whose wife bore him Sara. They were both killed in a car crash when Sara was five. There's a report of it. That's enough to turn a sensitive mind, isn't it? Help that girl, John.”

“If she can be helped by anything I can do, I'll help her,” promised Mannering.

He pictured Lorna again – Lorna, with Sara Gentian, who so desperately needed help.

As young David did.

“I'm going to let you get a cab now,” Chittering said. “I've a rush job on. But I wanted you to know what I've told you.”

He stopped near Trafalgar Square, and Mannering got out, said: “Thanks,” and hailed a taxi.

 

13
GENTIAN HOUSE

 

A single electric lamp, a relic of London's streets of a decade ago, stood in the middle of the courtyard outside Gentian House, spreading a gentle light which was reflected from the tall windows with their small oblong panes. A light showed against the fanlight over the big, black painted front door. Lorna pressed the bell and waited for several seconds. A scud of rain came sweeping on the window, and she felt the cold sting of it against her cheeks. London here seemed quiet and dark, although it wasn't really late; the hum of traffic from the new roads and the flyover at Hyde Park Corner came very clearly.

No one answered, so she pressed the bell again.

Wind made her skirt billow and made her shiver. She wished that someone would come quickly. There was a kind of eeriness here and although that was surely an absurd thought she couldn't push it out of her mind. The street was only sixty feet away and yet seemed to belong to another world; or another age.

She put a finger to the bell again, thinking: “It isn't much after eleven,” but before she touched it, the door opened and a big man stood in the doorway, his shadow covering her.

“What is it?”

She could not see him clearly, but the way he was standing against the light made him look huge and ape-like. That was another ridiculous thought. But his shoulders were hunched, he held his arms in front of him aggressively and seemed to crouch. He could not really see her clearly, because he was in his own light.

She said: “I am Mrs Mannering. I would like to see Lord Gentian.”

“Mrs
Mannering
?” The man's voice was deep, and seemed to take on a note of genuine surprise. He was Orde, of course – John had told her about Claude Orde.

“Yes,” she said. “Is Lord Gentian in?”

“He is, but I don't know whether he'll see anyone,” said Orde. “Come in.” He stood to one side, and immediately was reduced to man-size – big and pudgy-looking, rather comical with his nearly bald head and big eyes. As Lorna passed him, he closed the door. “Where's Mr Mannering?”

“He'll be here soon.”

“It's a bit late,” Orde remarked complainingly. He no longer blustered, but seemed genuinely taken aback. She remembered how violent he had been at the mews. “Will you wait here?” He opened the door of a small room, three walls of which were covered with old prints, and in which a small writing desk was set across by a window. The deep shutters gave some idea of the thickness of the walls. “Cigarette?” He proffered a silver case.

Lorna seldom smoked, but decided to humour him. “Thank you. I have a light.”

“Won't keep you long.” Orde went out, leaving the door ajar. She heard his footsteps ring out on a marble or a stone floor. There had been hardly time for her to notice the circular staircase, the gilded banister rail, the high domed ceiling beyond the front entrance. The footsteps stopped; then she thought she heard him going up carpeted stairs. There was no other sound, inside or outside. She lit the cigarette, and it eased her tension. She was always tense when John ran into a case anything like this. When there were such obvious possibilities of danger.

She was there for at least five minutes before she heard Orde hurrying back. Were there no servants here, or none up? It wasn't late.

Orde pushed the door open.

“It's all right,” he said. “He'll be glad to see you.”

He spoke as if he were talking of a man of whom he stood in awe. His manner was edgy, too. Frightened? He mounted the stairs with her, step by step, and the light of a magnificent chandelier – the light which had cast such black shadows – dazzled her. It shone on pictures hanging in recesses in the circular wall; Gainsborough, Constable, Turner – paintings which must touch any modern artist with humility. They reached the first floor and Orde went a step ahead, towards closed double doors of rich red wood. He did not tap but opened one door, and announced, as a butler might: “Mrs Mannering.”

This was a long, spacious, lovely room; a library with light from two chandeliers reflecting from the glass of the bookcases, with tapestry curtains at the high windows, with a thick carpet which seemed to stroke her feet. Gentian was moving towards Lorna from an enormous flat-topped desk; it filled one end of the room, with only space for an easy chair on either side. She remembered what John had told her: that Gentian looked so old and frail and distinguished. She did not get the same impression of frailty, but rather of hidden strength. He was arrestingly handsome in his Roman way, and he took her hand firmly.

“Mrs Mannering, this is a real pleasure. Do sit down.” There were armchairs and a couch, about a marble-topped coffee table at one side of the room. A tray of liqueurs and brandy stood on this, and sparkling glasses. “I've admired your portraits for so many years – I don't think I have missed an exhibition of yours whenever I have been in England.”

“How charming of you,” Lorna murmured. She often found difficulty in responding to this kind of compliment; there was none here, for Gentian made it sound as if he meant every word.

“I hope you're going to hold another exhibition soon,” he went on. “If you have I will be proud if you will find room for your portrait of Lady Anne Scotton, which you did some years ago – Lady Anne was a cousin of mine, you may recall. I was lucky enough to inherit the portrait after her death. What will you have?” As he spoke there was a movement at the door, and Lorna glanced round to see a butler coming, with coffee on a tray; an old man.

“May I just have coffee?”

“Of course,” said Gentian. He sat down near Lorna, waiting for the manservant to pour out and hand them their cups; then went on as the man walked the length of that long room, moving very slowly, making scarcely a sound. “I understand that you have come ahead of your husband, Mrs Mannering. As a messenger?”

“Yes, that's right.”

“Concerning my call on him this afternoon, no doubt.”

“Yes,” Lorna agreed. “He would very much like you to tell him all you can now, and not wait longer.”

“No doubt this is because of the unhappy incident at my niece's flat,” said Gentian. “And perhaps because she called on your husband very soon after I did. She has always been an impetuous, self-willed person – as a child, as a young girl, and as a young woman. I am glad to say that I am assured that she is already much better, and that a few days' rest will put her right again. Or as nearly right as it can. She is, I fear—” he broke off, gave an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders, and went on: “What the modern psychologists have been known to call a victim of repressions, I think. That is what I was reluctant to tell your husband, but in the circumstances—”

He was saying that Sara Gentian was a little mad, or at least was a psychological case. He seemed almost suave, certainly too smooth. His practised ease of manner went ill with his reputation of being a recluse, too.

“What time do you expect your husband?” Gentian asked.

“He shouldn't be long,” Lorna replied. She could ask about the miniature sword, but did not want to tell him what had happened to David Levinson. “I had no idea that your niece suffered from—” she hesitated, deliberately.

“Delusions,” Gentian said, without hesitation. “I think that is fair comment, sad though it may be. She has a strange idea that I am attempting to rob her of her rightful inheritance, whereas in fact—”

He broke off, his head jerking up at a sharp sound at the double doors. One of them opened, and Orde strode in. Lorna saw the glint of annoyance, perhaps of anger, in Gentian's face as he saw his nephew.

“What is it?”

Orde was breathing hard, like a man who was badly out of condition. He gave the impression that he hesitated to speak in front of Lorna, but had burst in so clumsily that it would be difficult not to.

“She's got away,” he blurted out.

“Who has?”

“She
has. She walked out of the nursing home.”

“Sara has?” Gentian uttered the name as he would a child's. After a moment, he glanced at Lorna; she had the impression that he was anxious both to create a good impression, and to damn his niece. “Oh, what a pity that is. I thought she was at least safe for tonight.”

“Well, she isn't.”

“Do they know where she's gone?”

“No. I hope to God that she doesn't try to injure herself.”

“Why should she?” Lorna asked.

“She has already attempted suicide once today,” Gentian said gently. “I'm afraid that it is an unhappy truth that if she cannot get her own way she is liable to become hysterical, and in hysteria she is quite capable of any act of violence. Are the police searching for her?”

“They say they're keeping a lookout,” Orde muttered. “A fat lot of use that will be.” He gulped as he looked at Lorna, and there was no doubt that he wished she were not there. “Shall I go to the mews?”

“It would be a kindly thing to do,” Gentian said. “And get the police—”

“The police are sure to watch the mews if she has escaped and they still want her,” Lorna interpolated. She used the word ‘escaped' without thinking, and realised that she was already beginning to accept Gentian's assessment of his niece's mental condition.

“That's quite true. I think it would be wiser to stay here,” Gentian went on. “Sara isn't likely to—” he broke off and raised his hands, in a gesture of resignation. “You know we shouldn't worry Mrs Mannering with our domestic problems. This is why I was so uncertain about confiding in your husband, Mrs Mannering. I—”

A door slammed.

Both men started – and Lorna had the impression that they had been on the alert for a sound. Orde swung round and doubled to the door; from behind he looked ridiculous: he had heavy, unshapely buttocks, and his jacket was too tight for him. He pulled open the door and rushed out.

“I am so sorry—” Gentian began.

“Sara!” shouted Orde. “Sara!”

Gentian stood up with a jerk, murmured: “Do excuse me,” and went after Orde. He moved fast for an old man; there were a lot of surprising things about Lord Gentian. Orde was bellowing again, and thumping down the carpeted stairs. Sharp footsteps rang out on the marble floor below. Gentian disappeared. Orde was still shouting. Lorna put her coffee cup down and hurried towards the door, which Gentian closed behind him. She reached it and turned the handle – and to her surprise, the door did not open. She pulled again, harder; it did not move. She backed away from the door, hearing the sounds dulled, sure that Orde himself was in the big circular hall.

Could Gentian have deliberately locked her in?

She tried both doors, feeling half angry, half agitated. There was silence outside now, but no reassurance. She moved further away from the door, then crossed hurriedly to the big desk and picked up a telephone. She heard the sound which told her that it was connected with the exchange, not to a switchboard in the house. She dialled WHI 1212, and was answered almost at once.

“Is Mr Bristow there, please? Superintendent Bristow.”

“Hold on.” In the following pause the silence almost scared her; she stared at the door but it did not open. The delay seemed to go on and on, but at last Bristow, sounding rather breathless, came on the line.

“Bristow here.”

“Bill, is John there?” Lorna demanded. “This is Lorna, and I want—”

“He left five minutes ago,” Bristow interrupted. “Why?”

“Is he coming straight here?”

“Where is here?”

“Gentian House.”

“He didn't tell me where he was going,” Bristow said. “He's keeping far too much to himself. Lorna, listen to me. He tried to take the blame for young Levinson's crime. He seems to think that he's responsible for Levinson being in trouble. Make him see this thing clearly. The one helpful thing he can do is to make Gentian – both the Gentians – talk to me. Make sure he understands.”

Lorna said: “I'll try. Thank you.” She spoke stiffly, and rang off immediately, thinking not about Bristow, but about John. He could not get here for at least another five minutes, and might be ten or fifteen. If only that door was unlocked. She went across to it, turned the handle, pulled – and staggered back because it opened without the slightest difficulty, so she had pulled too hard. She heard nothing. She stepped onto the circular gallery, leaned against the rail, and peered down.

Orde appeared from a doorway almost immediately beneath her. His foreshortened figure looked podgy, even ugly; his bald patch was huge and shiny.

He was talking to someone in a despairing voice: “She's up on the roof, I tell you, and she's locked the doors. She'll throw herself off if we can't stop her.

 

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