John Creasey - Meet The Baron

It was not difficult to ensure an invitation from the Overndons for the wedding, as he had guessed.

Mannering had discovered that Lady Mary and Marie were staying at Colonel George Belton’s town house in Park Square. When in London Belton’s visits to his club were made with clockwork regularity, and on the morning following the talk with Bristow Mannering walked to the Square, expecting to see the Colonel. He met his man — the first time they had seen each other since the affair at Overndon Manor — and for the moment the Colonel stood still, staring, and obviously at a loss. Mannering’s smile put him at his ease.

They shook hands warmly.

“Very pleasant to see you again,” said the Colonel, whose moustache was whiter than ever and whose complexion was, if anything, a trifle more rosy. “Lady Mary’d be glad to  see you, John. Why not. . .”

It was typical of the soldier, thought Mannering with a smile, to do his best to put his foot in it. But as the younger man wanted the foot just where it was he nodded.

“How’s everybody?” he asked, as they turned towards the house.

“Excellent, excellent,” said the Colonel. “Marie — harr — umph — is out of town for a couple of days. Er” — the older man swallowed hard — “you know, of course, about . . .”

“Marie,” said Mannering with a laugh. “Yes — that’s why I’m so interested.”

They chatted for some minutes in the house before Lady Mary came in. She looked as sharp as ever, and for her bluntness Mannering had nothing but admiration.

“I was afraid,” she said after the mutual greeting, “you were going to be cinema-esque about that affair, and go off after big game or the chorus. It’s satisfying to find you so individual, John.”

Mannering laughed easily. Lady Mary, he noticed, still wore the frocks thai good Queen Victoria had thought chic, still looked severe, arrogant, and bad-tempered; her voice was still rather low, her words uttered slowly, and all the time there was a twinkle in her fine grey eyes.

“All habits get old-fashioned,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s forget it, shall we?”

The others agreed, and Mannering spent a pleasant hour.

He was preparing to go when another caller arrived, and he met the man who — although he could not guess it then — was going to loom very large in his future adventures.

“Hallo, Gerry!” greeted the Colonel. “Ha, Mannering, you haven’t met — no? Well — Gerry Long from America, Boston. Gerry — John Mannering. . . .”

Long was tall, lean-hipped, wide-shouldered, and pleasant-faced. Like many Americans, he looked nearer twenty-one than twenty-seven, an impression fostered by his corn-coloured hair and his very light skin. He had a free-and-easy attitude, and an easier laugh; Mannering liked him instantly.

“I’ve been told,” said Long cheerfully, “that no man knows England — London especially — as well as you, Mannering.”

“You’ve been told wrong,” smiled the other.

Colonel Belton haw-hawed.

“Don’t you believe it, Gerry, don’t believe it. The young limb’s been painting London red for — for . . .”

“Centuries,” suggested Lady Mary sweetly.

“Nonsense!” snapped the Colonel, who was still easily baited by Lady Mary. He saw the gleam in her eyes and grinned. “You never leave me alone, Mary, you . . .”

“This is quite like old tlmes,” said Mannering, with real warmth.

“You’ve a reputation,” persisted Belton, as though establishing the fact beyond all shadow of doubt, “and you can’t deny it, Mannering. Let me see — aren’t you dabbling in stones these days ?”

Gerry Long looked interested, Mannering thought, as he nodded.

“A little; but not a great deal, mind you.”

He received more than he had bargained for during the next hour. (Jerry Long was interested as a collector in stones, and he played his hobby with all the fervour of youth. It was a difficult but interesting hour, and Mannering’s comparatively small knowledge of gems was tested to the utmost. Happily for Mannering the American did most of the talking, and seemed in no way suspicious that the other was an amateur. Mannering learned a great deal that he had not known before, and he told himself that it would be useful in the future.

One of his most serious difficulties had been the telling of genuine jewels from imitation. It was a task that frequently puzzled even the experts, but by cultivating Gerry Long, who had the American thoroughness with detail, he could learn while seeming to pass opinions.

His quickly-begun friendship with Gerry Long had other advantages that were not immediately obvious.

Long was reputedly wealthier than the Wagnalls, and, indeed, he had control of an immense fortune left by a trust-manipulating father. If anything had been needed to convince the interested hangers-on of Society that John Mannering was one of the moneyed few, it was supplied by his association with the young American.

Mannering was more convinced than ever of his lucky star. He liked Long was drawn by the American’s quick enthusiasm, by his determination — which was almost grim — to make the best of a six months” sojourn in England. And he decided, very quickly, that Long was one of the few people he would not rob.

“It’s almost as if I still had a conscience,” Mannering told himself in front of the mirror at the Elan some weeks later. “Well, to-morrow we shall see. . . .”

The morrow was the day of days for Marie Overndon and Frank Wagnall, of America. Gerry Long was to be best-man. Lorna Fauntley, rather surprisingly, was to be one of seven bridesmaids, chiefly through the influence of the Dowager Countess of Kenton.

Bristow’s mention of publicity was more than justified, and the Overndon wedding was without doubt one of the outstanding events of the year. John Mannering was to be one of many honoured guests. He used the word “honoured” when talking to himself, and there was a rather grim smile at the corners of his mouth.

Marie Overndon looked very lovely.

She was dressed in white, and as Mannering saw her walking from the altar he remembered vividly the preciousness of that month at the Manor. He remembered too the half-promises and his belief in her. But he viewed it all with the air of a cynic. He knew that beneath her serene beauty there was a brittle hardness; he reminded himself that if he had been rich, instead of — comparatively — poor, he himself and not Frank Wagnall would have been walking with her to the strain: that breathed o’er Eden.

Marie was entirely self-possessed. She saw him, he knew, but looked past him. Was there the slightest suggestion of a smile on her lips, or was his imagination playing him tricks?

Mannering looked at the man.

Wagnall had many points in common with Gerry Long. He was tall, fair-haired, lithe, and passably good-looking; he carried his clothes easily, and he looked as pleased with life as most people thought he should be. He also looked young.

Mannering, smiling slightly, watched them disappear from the church, and then told himself that he would be busy in the very near future. The last echoing notes from the great organ seemed to keep his thoughts company.

CHAPTER TWELVE

TWO SETS OF PEARLS

COLONEL GEORGE BELTON HAD OFFERED HIS HOUSE TO THE Overndons for the wedding, and he had helped the Wagnalls to make a good job of it. The old place looked positively lively where, a few months before, it had been comparatively deserted. The servants, many imported for the occasion, were resplendent in livery, and they knew how to smile. To Mannering there seemed as many menservants as there were guests, and he knew that there were over a thousand guests.

It was what the Wagnall. called a “little” crowd, and what Marie Overndon termed “just a few of my closer friends”. It was a success. Everyone seemed happy, no one was too hilarious, and the calmness of the bride, exquisite as only youth and Molyneux could make her, and very lovely in her own right, created admiration that few dared try to put into words. There were the usual speeches, the usual toasts, the usual jokes, and a refreshing contribution from Gerry Long, who, when called upon for his best-man’s oration, coloured furiously, cleared his throat, raised his glass, and said, “Here’s how!” Mannering warmed to Long; the man was completely unaffected.

The library had been given up to the gifts, and Mannering was more interested in it than in anything else.

He looked round it, soon after the bride and groom had left for Paris and thence to the South. The room was admirably situated, he knew. For one thing, there were no windows, but two glass skylights set slantwise in the ceiling afforded ample light.

There was only one door, which led into the hall, and that was guarded day and night by a regular plain-clothes man who had been pointed out to Mannering by Bristow, and a stocky little man, far too polite to be a guest, who was actually from Dorman’s Detective Agency.

There were other policemen in the house too, and a guard outside. The chances of a burglary were literally nil, but the possibility of an inside job was there, however, and no chances were being taken by the Wagnalls. But. . .

Mannering had his plan worked out.

He had examined the gifts thoroughly, and found that very few of them were practicable objects for a robbery. There were three things, however, which the Baron wanted, although he was going to be satisfied if he contrived to get one of them.

The Wagnall diamonds, a necklace of rare beauty, were a present from the groom’s lather to the bride. In the open market they would have been worth thirty thousand pounds. In the Baron’s market they were worth about five or six thousand, and they were a prize worth gaining, although they would be difficult to sell.

The Wagnall necklace was placed in the centre of the long table and surrounded by other gifts, as though accepting their homage. At the far ends two other gifts of precious stones held places of honour. The Rennel sapphires — bought by Frank Wagnall for his wife from under the very purse of Lord Fauntley, who had been deliberating on their purchase for months — were nearest the door, and therefore the most likely prize. At the other end was the pearl-necklace that Lady Kenton had presented. Lady Kenton had taken the Wagnalls under her wing from their first day in London, and she had been constrained to make an imposing show.

She had succeeded, for the pearls had been as much admired as any of the gifts, and she almost haunted the library to hear the world commend her.

When Mannering drifted in after the reception, he found Lady Kenton with Gerry Long and two or three other acquaintances. The Dowager was exclaiming in delight at this gift and that gift, but all she said led up to her pearls, and she longed for comment. Gerry Long saw it, and obliged. Lady Kenton’s gratification was such that she voted the Americans the most courteous race on earth. Mannering looked at the pearls for three full minutes, and then said, in a voice of awe: “That is the most perfect graduation I’ve seen.”

Lady Kenton immediately relieved America of the crown of courtesy and gave it to England. Mannering and Long smiled at each other.

And then Lady Kenton took a step forward, intent on examining a pair of gold-backed brushes presented by a distinguished gentleman from America. She stubbed her foot against a table-leg, or a chair, or the carpet — she was never sure which — she was too startled — and after a single gasp she began to hop on one foot, pressing her lips together to prevent herself from crying out in pain. Mannering and Long leapt to her rescue.