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    The Unfinished Portrait: (Writing as Anthony Morton)
    The Unfinished Portrait: (Writing as Anthony Morton)
    The Unfinished Portrait: (Writing as Anthony Morton)
    Ebook218 pages2 hours

    The Unfinished Portrait: (Writing as Anthony Morton)

    By John Creasey

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    About this ebook

    As John Mannering's wife paints a portrait of a celebrated beauty, Lady Deirdre Vandemeyer, she begins to doubt the authenticity of her subject. Then she is stabbed and Mannering (aka 'The Baron') goes undercover as a personal assistant to try and get to the bottom of the mystery. What he discovers sets the mind reeling and as always keeps the reader enthralled to the very last moment.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHouse of Stratus
    Release dateMay 1, 2015
    ISBN9780755134526
    The Unfinished Portrait: (Writing as Anthony Morton)
    Author

    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.

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      Book preview

      The Unfinished Portrait - John Creasey

      Chapter Two

      A Delicate Matter

      After a long pause, Mannering said, ‘You can’t be serious.’

      ‘You can’t be awake,’ Lorna retorted, ‘or you’d know I am.’

      ‘You mean …’ Mannering paused, and then went on, ‘You don’t think Lady Vandemeyer is Lady Vandemeyer.’

      ‘No, I don’t,’ Lorna reiterated simply. Mannering frowned.

      ‘We need to think and talk about this,’ he said heavily.

      ‘But if you’re late already—’

      ‘Rennie can wait for a while if he has to,’ said Mannering. He helped himself to bacon and eggs while Lorna poured out coffee, and went on. ‘When did this possibility occur to you?’ When Lorna didn’t reply immediately he continued very thoughtfully, ‘There can’t be many richer people in the world than Cornelius Vandemeyer.’

      Lorna leaned forward. ‘John, I started the portrait for the Cobe Collection, they wanted a portrait by me and they also wanted Deirdre Vandemeyer. She was agreeable. I had to go to her, she wouldn’t come here, but that wasn’t unusual. You were abroad, I forget where, and the early stages didn’t take very long. Then she became ill.’

      ‘Ill,’ Mannering echoed.

      ‘Oh, nothing specific with a name,’ said Lorna. ‘I only know that I went there one morning about a month ago, and was told that Lady Vandemeyer wasn’t well, but would let me know when she was ready for another sitting. I waited a week and then telephoned, and was given practically the same message.’

      ‘After that you decided it was her turn to call you if she wanted the portrait finished?’

      Lorna nodded.

      ‘And she didn’t call?’

      ‘No,’ said Lorna, ‘but the Cobe Collection did.’

      ‘Wanting the portrait?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Lorna. ‘For their summer exhibition.’

      ‘Had they paid anything?’

      Lorna shook her head.

      ‘So they weren’t simply after their money’s worth,’ reasoned Mannering.

      ‘Oh no, that wasn’t it. They really wanted the portrait, and when I told them what had happened they said they would get in touch with Deirdre.’

      ‘And did they?’

      ‘I suppose they must have done. They rang me a little later to say she wouldn’t be able to sit for a while, and asked me if I would wait until she could. And they offered to pay me in advance. As far as I was concerned there was nothing more to do except wait.’

      ‘Well?’ asked Mannering puzzled. ‘What’s worrying you?’

      ‘I saw Deirdre at Harrods yesterday,’ Lorna told him. ‘An assistant was trying to sell her some Brussels lace, and called her Lady Vandemeyer. I looked round, went towards her and said how glad I was that she was better, and could soon begin to sit again. She was very charming and thanked me nicely, and said she hoped so – but I don’t think she had the faintest idea who I was. So last night I got the photographs out and studied them. I’d taken them before starting the portrait, you know how much that helps me if there isn’t a lot of time for sittings.’ Mannering nodded. ‘The more I looked the more sure I felt she wasn’t the woman I’d met in Harrods.’ Lorna got up for more coffee, then began to walk about the room with the percolator in her hand. ‘I nearly told you about it then, but I wasn’t sure you’d take me seriously.’

      ‘Of course I take you seriously. But—’

      ‘But you think she could have changed after the illness,’ Lorna said drily.

      ‘Well, couldn’t she?’

      ‘It’s not that sort of change,’ said Lorna. ‘She didn’t look paler, or thinner, in fact she looked in glowing health.’ Lorna stopped by Mannering’s side and refilled his cup. ‘The eyes, too, were different – an opaque, china blue; far less translucent than the eyes of the woman I am painting. They can’t have changed. And this one looked younger. In your wildest moments, what would you think, darling?’

      ‘I think you think Deirdre Vandemeyer is being impersonated,’ Mannering said.

      ‘Yes, I do. I don’t want to, but I do.’

      ‘Is her husband in London, do you know?’

      ‘Yes – he was at Sotheby’s on Monday, remember.’

      ‘I’d forgotten,’ answered Mannering, ‘but I remember now. I don’t suppose …’ he broke off.

      ‘Go on,’ said Lorna. ‘Speculate aloud.’

      ‘Well, he couldn’t possibly be fooled, could he?’

      ‘By a substitute wife, do you mean?’

      Mannering nodded.

      ‘Hardly,’ said Lorna, laughing. ‘It sounds too absurd, doesn’t it. Do you think I could have imagined the whole thing?’

      ‘I suppose you could have been wrong. But I rather hope you weren’t!’ There was a glint of humour in Mannering’s hazel eyes. ‘Just the kind of thing I’d like to work on! May I, darling?’

      Lorna nodded. ‘Yes, please.’

      ‘It shall be done.’

      ‘John—’

      ‘No conditions,’ Mannering interrupted firmly.

      ‘Just one. That you tell me what you find out, and don’t spare my feelings if I’ve made a fool of myself.’

      ‘I’ll keep you up to date,’ Mannering promised. ‘Provided you haven’t kept anything back, that is. I don’t want to start with half a story.’

      ‘I really have told you everything I can,’ Lorna assured him.

      ‘If you remember anything else let me know, won’t you?’ said Mannering. ‘You would be surprised how the teeniest, weeniest clue, even a hunch …’

      She laughed, quite gaily.

      She was still laughing when he left the flat at twenty-past nine, and she telephoned Quinns in Hart Row, Mayfair, to let Rennie know that Mannering would be late.

      Mannering had parked his car outside the previous night; his garage was one of several which had recently been demolished to make a site for a block of flats, and he was looking for another within easy walking distance. He was driving a Jaguar, silver grey in colour, soft and silent in movement. The storm had pocked the paintwork and glass with grey rings, and he wiped the windscreen briskly before getting in. As he closed the door a woman entered the street from the King’s Road end, and he recognised Josephine, their daily. When she had first come to work for Lorna, Mannering had asked her for her full name, and she had said primly, ‘Just Josephine.’ And Josephine she remained.

      She was a well-preserved woman of middle-age, who dyed her hair to its original blackness, had a good complexion and nicely defined features. Always very punctilious, she stopped by the car.

      ‘Good morning, sir.’

      ‘Good morning, Josephine!’

      Convention honoured, Josephine went along to the house. Once inside, she would, Mannering knew, indulging both a small vanity and an austere parsimony at the same time, don one of Lorna’s discarded studio smocks, and work in it all day.

      Mannering turned the corner into a stream of traffic, wrinkled his nose as a cloud of smoke billowed from the exhaust of a milk tanker in front of him, then glided ahead. It would take from fifteen to thirty minutes to reach Quinns, according to the density of the traffic.

      He was there at a quarter to ten.

      Quinns of London was a narrow-fronted shop in a narrow street, a relic of Elizabethan London. Opposite was an exclusive milliners, nearby an exclusive beauty salon – in Hart Lane every business had to be exclusive or it could not afford to be expensive. As he pulled up, the shop door opened and a young man appeared, particularly young for Quinns, Lionel Spencer. He was elegant and yet he looked durable; in fact, he was accomplished in judo and karate.

      ‘Good morning, sir.’ He opened the door.

      ‘Good morning. Has Mr Rennie been waiting long?’

      ‘He telephoned to say he would be late,’ said Lionel. ‘So you need not have hurried. Shall I park the car for you, sir?’

      It would have been cruel to say ‘no.’

      How different would things have been, Mannering wondered later, if he had stayed with Lorna for another half-hour?

      The first thing Mannering did was to look through the post in his small, exquisitely furnished office at the back of Quinns. There was nothing of importance, nothing at all that was urgent. Larraby, his manager, was in the long, narrow shop and, with two junior assistants, was at the never-ending task of polishing and dusting, washing and cleaning, the countless precious things in stock. These varied from a jewel-encrusted Italian ring said to have belonged to Leonardo da Vinci, to a stool filched from the tomb of an early Egyptian king. Laying aside the last envelope, Mannering picked up the telephone and dialled New Scotland Yard.

      Almost at once a girl’s voice intoned curtly, ‘Scotland Yard … Help you?’

      ‘Mr Bristow, please.’

      ‘Superintendent Bristow?’

      ‘I didn’t know there was any other Bristow at the Yard,’ Mannering said, mildly.

      ‘Oh, there are several,’ the girl said loftily. ‘You’re through.’

      A man who was not Bristow answered almost at once; another voice new to Mannering. It was over six months since he had called the Yard, and there had been many changes since the Metropolitan Police had moved into the new headquarters.

      ‘Mr Bristow’s office,’ the man said.

      ‘Ask Mr Bristow if he’s free to take a call from John Mannering,’ Mannering said.

      ‘Mr Mannering of Quinns, sir?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘I’m sure he would like to speak to you, sir. Just one moment.’

      One moment grew into several until at last a familiar voice, enlivened by what sounded like genuine heartiness, came through.

      ‘Hallo, John! I was only thinking of you yesterday.’

      ‘I was only reading about you today,’ retorted Mannering.

      ‘Oh! Which particular newspaper?’

      ‘The Times.’

      ‘Ah, well, we all come to it. I’ve been teetering on the edge of retirement for some time, you know, and finally took the plunge.’

      After a pause, Mannering said, ‘Bill, it won’t seem the same.’

      ‘It won’t be the same,’ Bristow said gruffly. ‘I shall miss it like hell.’

      ‘Of course you will. Bill, remember one thing, will you?’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘The Yard will miss you, too.’

      ‘Oh, nonsense!’ Bristow said bluffly. ‘And let’s get to business, John! What can I do for you?’

      ‘I didn’t ring on business,’ Mannering said.

      ‘You mean …’ Bristow paused. ‘You … just rang for …’

      He could not find the right words.

      ‘Old time’s sake,’ Mannering said lightly. ‘Lorna is going to get in touch, soon, about dinner. Try to make it, won’t you?’

      ‘Be absolutely sure I will,’ promised Bristow. ‘Nice of you to call, John, I—well, very nice of you to call. I’ll be seeing you.’

      Mannering rang off slowly. He needed no telling that Bristow was feeling sentimental, and very far from relishing the thought of retirement. It flashed through his mind that Larraby was also nearing retirement and could not last much longer doing a full day’s work – he was in his middle seventies. Whereas Bristow … Mannering stifled the thought, giving a fierce little grin. Bristow, his old enemy, manager of Quinns! Now who was feeling sentimental?

      Yet the idea that Bristow could be invaluable here, kept returning. Lorna was in her attic studio, approached from the main flat by a loft-ladder which she could draw up whenever she wanted to be undisturbed. Two easels were placed prominently. On one rested the unfinished portrait of Deirdre Vandemeyer; on the other were pinned the photographs.

      Propped casually against the walls were canvases in various stages of completion. On the walls themselves, beneath the dark rafters and the huge cross struts were dozens of sketches and water-colours, showing Lorna’s wide range of skill, touched here and there by brilliance.

      Leading off the studio was an alcove, where Lorna kept stores of paint, canvas, thinners: everything needed for her work. Beyond this, facing south over the river, was a small room with a divan bed, a small dressing-table, and a dozen smocks like those beloved by Josephine, two or three pairs of slacks, slippers and sandals.

      Lorna looked from the painting to the photographs, then back to the painting, telling herself that she must be mistaken, when she heard a ring at the front door bell. The next moment she heard Josephine walk briskly out of the kitchen to the door. Lorna was too preoccupied to pay much attention – the caller was almost certainly a tradesman.

      She heard a man say, ‘Good morning. Mrs John Mannering?’

      That came of allowing Josephine to wear the studio smocks, she thought wryly.

      ‘Yes,’ Josephine said. She would add, ‘Who shall I say wishes to see her?’ and would then make an effort to recollect whether the loft-ladder was up or down; if up, then ‘Mrs Mannering’ was out.

      But those words did not come. Instead, Lorna heard a peculiar gasp, followed by silence. Lorna leaned forward, listening intently. There was a heavy thump and the loud slamming of the front door.

      Chapter Three

      Victim

      Lorna leaned over the hatch opening and called, ‘Josephine!’ She heard nothing, and the quiet was unnerving. ‘Josephine!’ she called again; but only silence answered her. Thoroughly disquieted she darted towards the tiny alcove, where a small window overlooked the street and saw a man getting into a car about a hundred yards away. Almost instantaneously the car started off, too fast. A child on a cycle turned his wheel in alarm, bumped into the kerb and toppled over. The car disappeared.

      Lorna flew towards the step-ladder again.

      To get down it was safest to go backwards. Descending, she reproached herself for having delayed so long. Hurrying, she missed a step and hit the floor heavily, jolting her whole body. Momentarily, she was dizzy. Picking herself up she made her way with a greater deliberation towards the hall and the front door. Her slowness now was partly because she was afraid of what she might

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