A Branch for the Baron: (Writing as Anthony Morton)

By John Creasey

John Mannering (aka ‘The Baron’) is a retired cracksman and jewel thief who now runs an antique shop, ‘Quinns’, in London’s Mayfair. He decides to open a branch in Boston and at the same time move to an Elizabethan Manor House known as Harden Court. However, the present owner of the house disappears, and a man is found dead in one of its secret stairways. Further mystery ensues and then ‘The Baron’ suffers a devastating blow before he can open his new branch, and before he can get to grips with determining what is going on – he is arrested for murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: House of Stratus
• Release date: Apr 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9780755136957

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

Part One

Tewkesbury, England

Chapter One

Quest for Quinns 2

As a matter of fact, Mr. Mannering, the estate agent said, I believe I know exactly the kind of building you are seeking. It is near Tewkesbury, in Worcestershire, a gem, a positive gem. It was built by Walter Arum, in sixteen ninety-two – how old are your Mayfair premises, Mr. Mannering?

Twenty-one years younger than yours, answered Mannering. He sat at ease in front of the small oak desk, which looked as if it also had been built circa 1692, in a small office in Bottle Court; there really was one cherished window relic of seventeenth-century bottle glass in the left hand corner of this office. Bottle Court was in the City of London, within a stone’s throw of the inn where Ben Johnson had polished not only the seat, but the gossip going on around him. Today, it was very quiet. Now and again footsteps passed, once a bicycle bell rang, once there was a distant sound of a motor car horn, but all of these were intrusions upon the dusty, rusty museum-like atmosphere of Messrs. Kittle, West and Bright, Specialists in Country Properties since 1843.

The present Mr. Kittle, a man in his early thirties wearing a butterfly wing collar and a grey cravat pinned with a single pearl, gave the impression that he was dressed for a performance of a Dickens adaptation on television. Mannering, in dark grey suit, blue-grey tie, handkerchief and socks, with a blue-grey Homburg which he believed would soon be back in fashion was as modern as the second half of the twentieth century, yet he had an air with him, a kind of Elizabethan rakishness, and he was not out of place.

So you see, the two buildings have much in common, although we have no record of Walter Arum building in London – his work was nearly all in the West Midlands, and some very fine examples there are. I feel sure that this particular property is likely to please you, Mr. Mannering. What—ah—what puzzles me, if I may so, is why you want one which has been scheduled, as they say, for demolition. As a matter of interest, this house near Tewkesbury has been the centre of a bitter battle, a very bitter battle indeed. It is very close to an old bridge over the river Avon. The demands of modern traffic require a new, wider bridge and the only suitable position for one lies straight across the grounds of Marden Court. The Marden family, greatly impoverished I fear, has fought splendidly, splendidly, and many of the city fathers have supported them. However, progress cannot be stopped. The bridge is undoubtedly necessary. The Mardens have accepted defeat, and will move away to a thatched cottage on the other side of Tewkesbury. I may say, Mr. Mannering, that this habitat accords much more closely with their present financial position, but the whole issue has been one of bitter distress for them. If they thought there was a ghost of a chance of Marden Court being saved— he broke off, as if he knew that he was asking for a miracle.

If it’s available, and the timbers are safe from woodworm, dry rot and old age, I propose to transport it to the United States, Mannering announced, quite casually.

"To the United States?"

Yes, sir.

"Across the Atlantic?"

Unless there’s been a serious upheaval in the earth’s shape, across the Atlantic, confirmed Mannering.

B—b—b—but—

It was obviously time to take pity on Mr. Kittle, who looked quite as astounded as he sounded. Mannering leaned forward, to make sure that the estate agent understood that he was in earnest, and said: I know; it sounds absurd, but people have done this kind of thing with castles, remember. I’d like to open a branch of Quinns in Boston, and now that currency restrictions have been lifted I can transfer enough assets to arrange that. I’ve an American friend who would like to take shares in Quinns, and we both agree that if we could move Quinns lock, stock and barrel as it stands, it would increase the chances of success tenfold. As we can’t move Quinns, then—

"A replica of Quinns! burst out young Mr. Kittle, and now he began to smile radiantly. What a wonderful idea. A genuine Tudor Elizabethan gem set in the heart of Boston – Mr. Mannering, if I may say so, I think this conception has the mark of genius. It—ah—will create difficulties, of course, considerable difficulties of transport and re-erection on the new site. Yes. But the conception – brilliant, Mr. Mannering, brilliant!"

Nice of you to say so, murmured Mannering. What will the Mardens say?

I am sure they will be very pleased, after the first shock, Kittle assured him. Oh yes, indeed. Even if they weren’t there is nothing they can do about it, Mr. Mannering. The whole property, land and building, has been taken over by a combined Planning Board consisting of the County, the Tewkesbury and the National road and highway authorities. There was some talk of the house itself being moved to another site, but—ah—it was decided that this would be too costly, far too costly. You haven’t underestimated the cost, Mr. Mannering, have you? Mr. Kittle became anxious.

How much do you think they’ll want for it? asked Mannering.

Well, sir, I really don’t know. The house is—ah—is likely to be broken up, and the panelling, the balustrade, the gallery, the windows, the gables, the staircase sold in lots for smaller premises – Marden Court is too large these days, no servants at all, you see. I don’t know, but I am sure that the Planning Board will be only too interested in an offer for the whole building. You—ah—would be willing to pay for its removal from its present site, whatever the expense?

Yes, of course, said Mannering, and uncrossed his legs. I’ll also need a master-builder to take it down, and put it up again in Boston, he added. What kind of a problem will that be?

Mr. Kittle looked pensive for a long time, then began to smile happily.

Quite honestly, Mr. Mannering, for any other man I would regard it as extremely difficult. However, I am sure that a man of your drive and imagination will find what you need, but—may I telephone the secretary of the Planning Board about this? And when would an appointment with the agents be convenient for you?

Any time.

Excellent, excellent. I will telephone at once, Mr. Mannering, and the Planning Board will doubtless be happy to deal through the Tewkesbury agent who represents Kittle, West and Bright—a Mr. Anderson-Sett. I am sure that he will do everything in his power to help—everything. He knows more about buildings of the period, their condition, their preservation, their history—Mr. Mannering, I have heard it said that Mr. Anderson-Sett is personally acquainted with more ghosts than any other man in the British Isles! Mr. Kittle laughed at this huge joke, and lifted the telephone.

Half an hour later, with an appointment arranged in Tewkesbury for the next day, Mannering left the offices in Bottle Court, and looked up at a sky so blue that it would arouse any weatherwise Englishman’s suspicions of impending rain. Interlacing the cobbles in Bottle Court were tiny rivulets shining from a previous storm, but Mannering took a chance, and walked briskly, first to Fleet Street, then towards the Strand, hardly aware of the city’s noise, looking about him with a newly sharpened awareness of all that was ancient in London. Even the Gothic towers of the Law Courts had a medieval look, hinting at battlements and armoured knights, and the churches of St. Martin-le-Strand and St. Clements created the touch of nostalgia that usually came whenever he was out of England. The chimes of ‘Oranges and Lemons’ rang out from St. Clements as he passed it, at exactly four o’clock.

By the time he reached Trafalgar Square, a huge storm-cloud was blowing up; half the massed array of busy, bulging pigeons was in shadow, the rest in brilliant sun. A taxi slowed down at some traffic lights, and Mannering saw its ‘free’ sign. He got in, and said: Quinns, Hart Lane, and sat back.

As they moved off, the driver opened the little glass partition, and said: Excuse me, sir, did you say Quinns?

In Hart Lane, yes. It’s between New Bond Street and Burlington Arcade.

Oh, I know Quinns, sir, declared the driver. He looked no more than thirty, and had a slightly husky, conspiratorial kind of voice. Always liked these old places, I have. Shame they pull so many of them down. Little bit of old London, that’s what I say. Very fond of history at school, I was – still am, for that matter. You don’t get any writers like Sam Pepps today, that’s a fact.

It certainly is a fact, agreed Mannering earnestly.

Very remarkable place, that Quinns, went on the driver. I don’t know whether you are aware of it, sir, but it’s owned by a bloke named Mannering. John Mannering. His wife paints. Proper card, that Mannering is, they say he knows more about objects dart than anyone in the business. Even Scotland Yard consults him, sometimes. I happened to take a couple of Yanks there once, and a man from the Yard was there. Strike me pink, you should have heard the way Mannering ticked off that Yard man for hinting that he might have some smuggled jewels at Quinns.

And had he? inquired Mannering.

Well, to be honest, I dunno, said the driver, but it wouldn’t surprise me. No, sir, it wouldn’t surprise me. Proper card, that Mannering. And he keeps Quinns like an ancient monaament, isn’t that what they’re called?

You’ve found exactly the right word, Mannering said.

When the taxi stopped outside Quinns, in the narrow, cobbled street, the door of Quinns opened and a youthful assistant stepped forward to open the taxi door. Behind him, the narrow front of the shop looked dark and yet inviting, the name of Quinns in old English lettering showed up in gold. On a red velvet background in the window itself there lay a single casket, so bejewelled that its beauty scintillated in scarlet and orange, blue and green, in gold and silver, even in black.

Pay the cabby for me, Tom, Mannering said, and add two shillings.

Yes, Mr. Mannering, said the assistant.

"Mr. Man— began the taxi-driver. He leaned out to take a closer look at Mannering, then broke into the broadest of beaming smiles and said in a more conspiratorial tone than ever: Blimey, so it is! Any time you want help with them smuggled sparklers, Mr. Mannering, just think a’ me."

Mannering laughed.

The second assistant named Richard, the youngest then on the staff of Quinns, opened the door. Mannering paused on the threshold, and at the back of the shop a buzzer sounded faintly, warning the other members of the staff that the door had opened and someone was inside. There were several precautions against being taken by surprise at Quinns, and he wondered whether the same ones would be sufficient in Boston. The United States was a strange, comparatively unknown world to him, one he had visited two or three times, but only briefly.

He stepped farther into the narrow shop. On either side were antiques of rare value, and closer to the walls as well as hanging on them, were more antiques, miniatures, and objets d’art in great variety. In two long showcases, skilfully lighted so that the jewels in them seemed to spring to life, was costume jewellery spanning the centuries of feminine adornment. Here and there pale lights glowed, always showing up the beauty of a special piece, and at the far end of the shop was a crown reputed to have come from an Egyptian tomb. Mannering was not yet sure of its genuine antiquity.

Just beyond this was a passage, and to the right of the passage was a door leading to Mannering’s office; to the left an outer office. From this, anyone on duty could see the shop, could lock the door by remote control and could ring the burglar alarm. A little way beyond the passage was the staircase, a twisting one with uneven steps, a carved banister rail and beautifully carved posts, all darkened by age. The uneven ceiling with its massively hewn beams gave an illusion of exceptional lowness. The walls were uneven, and of different heights. On the first floor were the storerooms for the larger pieces, above that was a small attic with a gabled roof.

A grey-haired man stood up from a desk in the larger office. He was short and gentle-looking, and his silky grey hair was curly. Mannering, his wife and some policemen knew that this man, Larraby, had once served a prison sentence for stealing precious stones. He had worked for Mannering first as a runner, then as assistant and lately as manager, in all for over ten years.

Good afternoon, Mr. Mannering. Did you have any luck?

I wouldn’t be surprised, Josh, said Mannering. I shall know for certain by this time tomorrow. You’d better start getting ready for a big buying spree, it won’t be any use having an empty shop over there. Find out what basic stuff there is in the usual dealers’ places, and get catalogues of everything Sotheby’s and Christies’ are going to offer in the next four weeks.

Very good, sir, said Larraby. You have in mind taking some showcases and larger pieces, I imagine.

I’d like to take Quinns as it stands, Mannering said. The nearer we can get to that, the better.

I quite understand, sir, I’ll see to it at once. Mrs. Mannering telephoned, went on Larraby. She asked me to tell you that she has arranged to finish the Gotham portrait this evening, in artificial light, as Lord Gotham has urgent business appointments tomorrow.

Fine, said Mannering. Get someone to telephone the Old Bell at Tewkesbury, or else the Hop Pole, and fix us a double room for tomorrow night. If Gotham’s finished, my wife will need a breather anyway.

It all appears to be working out very well, sir, said Larraby. I hope it goes as well on the other side of the Atlantic as it is going here.

Why shouldn’t it, Josh? inquired Mannering.

"No particular reason, said Larraby, reflectively. I suppose I feel that there can only be one Quinns, and that anything else can only be an imitation. It’s almost as if—"

I’m biting off more than I can chew, suggested Mannering.

Larraby’s pale blue eyes were very clear and his gaze was straight as he said: Yes, I suppose that is how I do feel. I am a little worried by the whole project, but—it won’t be the first time you’ve beaten the odds, sir, will it?

And I’ll be lucky again, said Mannering cheerfully. Send a cable to Mr. Corry in Boston, Josh, and tell him I think we may have found what we’re looking for.

Chapter Two

Marden Court

Lorna Mannering glanced from time to time at her husband as they drove first from London to Oxford, then from Oxford towards Tewkesbury. He was more preoccupied than usual, but she believed this was wholly to do with the new venture. Even for John, this was a big one. As they drove along the winding road beyond Cheltenham, she reflected that she had never known him look more fit; the tan from three weeks skiing in Switzerland hadn’t yet worn off, and seemed to give his eyes a clearer look; his profile might be described by the vague as like a Greek god’s. In fact, his looks were of a later period; she had once painted a portrait of him as a kind of Laughing Cavalier brought up to date, and she still believed that the likeness was the best she had ever achieved.

He swung the red Allard he now favoured on to the Bristol – Tewkesbury Road, and put his foot down harder on the accelerator. Without looking at her, he said: What have I done wrong?

Wrong? Lorna echoed.

Isn’t the look censorious?

I hope there’s no need for it to be, said Lorna. "You are only interested in buying the house and taking it to Boston, aren’t you?"

Mannering glanced at her, and there was a glint of laughter in his eyes.

What else would interest me, sweet?

You behave rather as if the Yard’s asked you to keep a look-out for some bad men, or as if someone has offered Quinns a stolen hoard.

Nothing from the Yard, no hot stuff offered to Quinns, Mannering said firmly. As a matter of fact, now that we’re so close to finding the house, I’m trying to make sure that all my doubts are groundless.

How many doubts? inquired Lorna. And what about?

Initial cost, and eventual success, Mannering answered promptly. "We’ll need at least a hundred thousand pounds’ worth of stock, and I don’t want to take too much away from the Mayfair Quinns. The house itself will cost anything up to five thousand. I