The Toff among the Millions

By John Creasey

The Honourable Richard Rollison (aka ‘The Toff’) is visiting Easton Hall, a pleasant and quiet country house that has been converted to a hotel. It is said to be more suited to the retired looking for rest than excitement. However, on this occasion it does not live up to its reputation. A man is found dead in the swimming pool, and a little later, The Toff's friend Teddy Merchant disappears. It is then left to him to solve what turns out to be a multi-layered mystery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: House of Stratus
• Release date: May 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9780755138142

John Creasey

Born in Surrey, England, into a poor family as seventh of nine children, John Creasey attended a primary school in Fulham, London, followed by The Sloane School. He did not follow his father as a coach maker, but pursued various low-level careers as a clerk, in factories, and sales. His ambition was to write full time and by 1935 he achieved this, some three years after the appearance of his first crime novel ‘Seven Times Seven’. From the outset, he was an astonishingly prolific and fast writer, and it was not unusual for him to have a score, or more, novels published in any one year. Because of this, he ended up using twenty eight pseudonyms, both male and female, once explaining that booksellers otherwise complained about him totally dominating the ‘C’ section in bookstores. They included: Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, JJ Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York. As well as crime, he wrote westerns, fantasy, historical fiction and standalone novels in many other genres. It is for crime, though, that he is best known, particularly the various detective ‘series’, including Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Baron, The Toff, and Inspector Roger West, although his other characters and series should not be dismissed as secondary, as the likes of Department ‘Z’ and Dr. Palfrey have considerable followings amongst readers, as do many of the ‘one off’ titles, such as the historical novel ‘Masters of Bow Street’ about the founding of the modern police force. With over five hundred books to his credit and worldwide sales approaching one hundred million, and translations into over twenty-five languages, Creasey grew to be an international sensation. He travelled widely, promoting his books in places as far apart as Russia and Australia, and virtually commuted between the UK and USA, visiting in all some forty seven states. As if this were not enough, he also stood for Parliament several times as a Liberal in the 1940’s and 50’s, and an Independent throughout the 1960’s. In 1966, he founded the ‘All Party Alliance’, which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum, and was also involved with the National Savings movement; United Europe; various road safety campaigns, and famine relief. In 1953 Creasey founded the British Crime Writers’ Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. He won the Edgar Award from the Mystery Writers of America for his novel ‘Gideon’s Fire’ and in 1969 was given the ultimate Grand Master Award. There have been many TV and big screen adaptations of his work, including major series centred upon Gideon, The Baron, Roger West and others. His stories are as compelling today as ever, with one of the major factors in his success being the ability to portray characters as living – his undoubted talent being to understand and observe accurately human behaviour. John Creasey died at Salisbury, Wiltshire in 1973. 'He leads a field in which Agatha Christie is also a runner.' - Sunday Times.

Book preview

Chapter Two

The Toff Is Saddened

Lucia did not answer immediately, and in the pause Rollison looked about him to secure a line of retreat which would also hide him if the others stepped through the line of cupressus. A few yards away was a big flowering currant bush, which would hide him. He stepped towards it, his footsteps muffled by the springy turf.

I am coming back to Town, Lucia said firmly.

You listen to me! You’re to stay here.

I flatly refuse, said Lucia. I tell you that his eyes follow me everywhere, I don’t feel safe when he’s around. I am not going to try anything on Marchant this weekend.

I won’t have you talk to me like that, said ‘uncle’. You’ll do what I tell you, or—why, you little—!

There followed a sound which might have come from a struggle, and then a sharper noise like a muffled pistol shot. It was nothing of the kind, but was almost certainly the sound of Lucia slapping the man’s face. She stepped out to the spot where Rollison had been standing a moment earlier, followed by the man, whose right cheek showed the marks of fingers. Lucia walked swiftly towards the drive, not far away, and the man stood staring after her, fingering his cheek. Rollison could see his craggy profile, and judged from his expression that he bore no love at all for Lucia. She disappeared behind a row of bushes although her footsteps sounded on the gravel of the drive.

No flowers for uncle, mused Rollison.

He was not surprised by the vindictive expression on the man’s face, and wondered how the argument would be settled. The odds were on Lucia, he thought. Whether she would go with ‘uncle’, or stay on her own, Rollison did not try to guess, although later in the evening he judged that ‘uncle’ and niece had decided to remain friends.

The man, who had registered as Thomas Lister, came down to dinner in an old-fashioned dinner-jacket suit which would have been remarkable had every other man there been dressed for dinner, for it was Victorian of cut and the back of the trousers and coat, as well as the sleeves, were turning green.

Obviously Lister wanted to create an impression of Victorian respectability.

He went up to his room immediately after dinner, without staying for coffee, obviously to Teddy Marchant’s delight. Lucia said that her ‘uncle’ had received some unexpected but urgent work just before leaving town, and that it might be necessary for her to return with him the next morning. Teddy was immediately cast down. Rollison and a dozen others watched the couple walk out to the verandah, and disappear on the terraces. An elderly woman approached Rollison and asked whether it was not a divine evening for a walk. Rollison made the excuse that he had promised to be a fourth at bridge, and the widow completely ruined what was left of his evening by sitting at his elbow and offering whispered advice.

It was ten o’clock, and not quite dark, when he went up to his room.

Apart from the problem of Lucia, ‘uncle’, Teddy, and the obvious fact that Teddy was being softened up in preparation for being relieved of a considerable part of his fortune, there was another thing which troubled Rollison.

He did not think that Lucia had lied when she had said that his eyes had followed her everywhere, and that he made her nervous. He had allowed her to realise that he was watching her. Even making allowances for the fact that he had thought that she was after Teddy’s money, that was bad.

Two other things emerged as he stood in front of his bedroom window and looked out into the approaching gloom of the night.

The stars were bright, and there was not a cloud in sight. The evening had brought welcome coolness and a gentle breeze blew from the river, a mile away. Footsteps and voices floated upwards from people who were taking a stroll before going to bed. The night was subdued, like their voices and the strains of radio music which came from the lounge. All of those things were in tune with Rollison’s spirit, which was saddened by reflection; nevertheless he allowed himself to face facts.

Teddy would flatly disbelieve this story, and Rollison would not be able to convince him that it was true. In three days Teddy had fallen helplessly in love. His reaction would be to do the manly thing and tell Lucia. Lucia would then deny it, might even win Teddy to her side, and at least would be warned enough to step aside from danger. Everything would turn on whether Teddy could be convinced that Rollison was right.

I’ll sleep on it, he decided.

He slept well but woke up early, in broad daylight. The sun was streaming through a corner of his window and turned the green of a mighty chestnut tree to gold and amber. He lay staring at the tree, and then a butterfly flitted past the window, returned, flew into the room and out again, and after much uncertainty settled on the ledge, where its glorious colours were caught by the sun and made vivid against the cream paint of the woodwork. Rollison’s mind went back to the moment when he had first seen Lucia.

He got out of bed, put on a blue silk dressing-gown, pulled an easy chair towards the window – it ran smoothly on its castors, as everything ran smoothly at Easton Hall – and took a book from a small bookshelf beneath the window. He chose it at random, opened to a page in the same way, and found himself deep in the gloom and eerie atmosphere of Wuthering Heights. He read a few pages, and the butterfly continued to rest on the woodwork.

It’s not a morning for a Brontë, decided Rollison, and put the book down. It might be one for a swim. No one else was likely to be at the swimming pool at half-past six. He dressed in slacks, a short-sleeved silk shirt and rubber-soled shoes, took a towel and costume and left his room.

A few doors along was Teddy Marchant’s room, its door closed. On the other side of the landing was Lucia’s room, and Rollison would have thought little of it had the door been closed. As it was it stood ajar and he could see someone moving inside.

Lucia was packing a case which stood open on the bed. She was flinging clothes into it. Rollison did not stay long, for she might look up and see him. He went downstairs, smiling at the probability that ‘uncle’ was going to get a shock. It did not occur to him that Lister would leave before breakfast until, after passing through the hall and nodding an affable good-morning to an elderly maid who was polishing the floor, he stepped on to the porch.

Not far along the drive, and carrying a suitcase in either hand, ‘uncle’ was walking vigorously. At dinner the previous night he had looked a man of sixty-five, perhaps even older. Now he strode out with the vigour of a much younger man.

Rollison moved to a small patch of lawn and sat down, spreading out his costume and towel as if he had just returned from the pool. Then he lit a cigarette and waited, his patience rewarded when hurried footsteps sounded from the hall and Lucia appeared, carrying one case which was rather too large for her to handle conveniently.

As if startled Rollison sat up.

Why, hallo, hallo, he said inanely. Up in the morning early, Lucia?

Until that moment Lucia’s face had been set in an expression not nice on a young and pretty girl. Immediately she heard Rollison’s voice, that changed. She looked startled, hesitated, then switched on her nicest smile.

Oh, good-morning, Mr. Rollison!

What have I done not to be called ‘Rolly’? asked Rollison, standing up. Can I help you?

"Please don’t worry. Uncle asked me to meet him at the gates, a taxi is coming from Bath, and if we hurry we might just catch the early train to London. A minute, a single minute, might make all the difference, she added breathlessly. I’ve left a note for Teddy. Tell him I just had to leave, won’t you?"

I do hope there’s nothing wrong, said Rollison, taking the case. If I carry this you’ll get to the end of the drive much quicker.

Thank you so much, said Lucia.

As they walked quickly along the drive, the reason for such a hurried departure puzzled him. She had evaded answering his implied question in ‘I do hope there’s nothing wrong’, and, peering intently towards the gates which then came in sight, appeared to think of nothing but reaching the road.

Lister was standing on the other side of the road.

When he saw Rollison he smiled and stepped forward.

That is very kind of you, sir. Lucia, my dear, you should have told me that your case was so heavy. I had no idea. The bulk of my niece’s luggage will be sent on, he added to Rollison. I wonder where that taxi is, it should have been here by now.

I think I hear it, said Rollison.

Do you? Lister followed his gaze. Ah, there it is! Thank you very much again, sir, thank you.

I’m delighted, said Rollison.

He handed Lucia into a dilapidated six-seater with a driver who did not leave his seat, put in the cases, and stood aside for Lister. Lister told the driver to hurry. Lucia turned her most amiable smile on Rollison as the taxi moved off.

Rollison watched it out of sight, and then returned to the drive.

So Lucia had won.

Reaching his bathing-suit and towel, he bent down, draped them over his arm, and strolled towards the pool. A clock in a great, rambling building which stood in many acres of grounds, struck seven. From an open window the first B.B.C. news; there was nothing of interest.

Nearer the pool, which was surrounded by rows of stately poplars inclining their long sleek heads to the wind, he heard voices. He frowned and halted. Obviously others had forestalled him. He was annoyed with himself for being annoyed.

A girl called: I won’t be a moment, darling. Wait for me.

All right, said a man.

Rollison recognised them as an engaged couple who, but for Teddy and Lucia, might have been the central attraction for romantics at Easton Hall, and wondered whether he should go on, although this time he was thinking of the others and not himself. He might have turned away had the man who was out of sight said nothing. As it was he heard the other gasp, and the girl call from her dressing-cubicle: What is it, darling?

Er—just a moment, said the other.

Rollison noticed the edge to his voice, wondered what he had seen, and began to walk towards the pool again. He was nearly there when the youth called still more sharply: Gwen, put on a wrap and go back to the hotel quickly. Send one or two of the menservants, but don’t come back yourself. He was crisp-voiced and incisive.

The girl did not argue. She appeared with a wrap about her, long, slim legs showed where it parted. She saw Rollison, murmured ‘good-morning’, and hurried on.

Rollison stepped through the hedge towards the pool.

Chapter Three

The Body In The Pool

The water’s surface was ruffled gently by the wind and it showed wavering streaks of blue and green, the tiles at the bottom and the sides distorted by the greenish-coloured water. It was small but well-appointed, with a diving platform at one end, a long chute next to it, and roomy cubicles for changing.

In the pool, his body visible in snaky, moving lines under water, was the man who had called out. He must have dived in smoothly, for there had been no sound. Then Rollison saw something else, at the deep end of the bath; it looked like another man who hardly moved; what movement he made must be illusory, caused by the water.

Rollison slipped off his clothes, drew on his trunks, and dived in as the other broke the surface above the thing on the bottom. He made a splash, and shivered; the water was surprisingly cold. He swam strongly towards the man, whose name he knew was Henderson. Henderson was gasping for breath as he swept his black hair back from his eyes. He stammered something, and Rollison smiled, then went under water. The coloured tiles wavered in front of his eyes, and so did the object at the bottom. Now that he was nearer, it looked like the huddled body of a man.

It was.

He reached the body, but it was not easy to keep himself near the bottom. He pulled at the sodden clothes without shifting the dead weight. He could not see the face, which was tucked beneath the man’s arms: the tail of his coat and the ends of his trousers floated sluggishly.

Rollison held his breath and pulled harder, but moved the man an inch or two. He released his grip and shot upwards, much as Henderson had done. Henderson was treading water, and as Rollison neared him, asked desperately: Can’t we do anything?

Don’t—know, gasped Rollison. Pretty—weighty. He should—float.

I found that out, said Henderson.

Possibly something—in his pockets, gasped Rollison. Didn’t see—anything tied to—him.

Tied?

Come on, Rollison said more evenly. Feel in his pockets.

He went down again, and Henderson joined him, his face grotesque beneath the water. This time Rollison did not expend energy on tugging at the body, but put a hand towards the man’s pocket, holding a shoulder with his other hand to keep himself down. He felt something hard, gripped it, and drew it out. Even in spite of the weight of water about him it seemed heavy. As he glanced down it slipped out of his fingers and dropped to the bottom.

Rollison did not know whether Henderson had found a similar thing in the other pocket. He broke the surface again and drew in deep breaths of air. Henderson stayed under water longer and bobbed up while Rollison was taking a breather. There might be a chance of reviving the man with artificial respiration.

Something bumped against his legs, and pushed him to one side. He fell back into the water, kicking out to keep himself afloat. A pair of sightless eyes gaped in front of him, and a pair of slack lips.

G–good Lord, gasped Henderson, and gulped. He—

Hold it, said Rollison. The youngster was turning colour.

Go towards the side. I’ll pull him over and you can help me to get him up.

A glimpse of the man convinced him that artificial respiration would be a waste of time; the body must have been in the water for seven or eight hours. Henderson said: What shall I do?

You go and make sure that no women take it in their heads to come here, will you? I can handle him all right.

I’ll stay for anything that needs doing, said Henderson. Whom ought we to tell?

The manager, the police, and a doctor, replied Rollison. Will you make a start on those, when someone’s reached the trees and can take over from you? Your girl friend went for servants, didn’t she? Send one of them over to me as soon as a second arrives. Where are you going? he added as Henderson made for one of the cubicles.

My—my cigarettes, muttered Henderson.

There’s a case in my pocket, said Rollison, nodding towards the other side of the bath. Take one, and throw it over to me, will you? There’s a lighter attached.

Henderson was a better colour when he had the cigarette alight.

Coming! he called, and lobbed the case across. He caught it cleanly enough for Henderson to say: Good catch, before he hurried off.

Rollison did not light a cigarette but peered into the pool. Two small, dark objects were resting on the bottom, the things which had been in the dead man’s pockets. Rollison dived in and groped for the weights. He found one but needed both hands to lever it from the tiles. He brought it up. Out of the water, it seemed three times as heavy as when it had been underneath. He hoisted it to the side, and went down for the second.

He put it by its pair, then looked towards Henderson’s cubicle. The door was ajar and he saw a towel. As his own was on the other side of the bath Rollison borrowed Henderson’s, dried his hands, arms and face and, leaving the rest of his body to dry in the sun, examined the weights.

They were some