path: root/75359-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75359 ***


The Crime at Black Dudley

by Margery Allingham

First published 1929
Published in Penguin Books 1950



CONTENTS

      I Candle-Light
     II The Ritual of the Dagger
    III In the Garage
     IV Murder
      V The Mask
     VI Mr Campion Brings the House Down
    VII Five o’clock in the Morning
   VIII Open Warfare
     IX Chris Kennedy Scores a Try Only
      X The Impetuous Mr Abbershaw
     XI One Explanation
    XII ‘Furthermore . . .’ said Mr Campion
   XIII Abbershaw Sees Red
    XIV Abbershaw Gets His Interview
     XV Doctor Abbershaw’s Deductions
    XVI The Militant Mrs Meade
   XVII In the Evening
  XVIII Mr Kennedy’s Council
    XIX Mr Campion’s Conjuring Trick
     XX The Round-Up
    XXI The Point of View of Benjamin Dawlish
   XXII The Darkest Hour
  XXIII An Error in Taste
   XXIV The Last of Black Dudley
    XXV Mr Watt Explains
   XXVI ‘Cherchez la Femme’
  XXVII A Journey by Night
 XXVIII Should a Doctor Tell?
   XXIX The Last Chapter



To ‘THE GANG’



CHAPTER I

Candle-Light

The view from the narrow window was dreary and inexpressibly lonely.
Miles of neglected park-land stretched in an unbroken plain to the
horizon and the sea beyond. On all sides it was the same.

The grey-green stretches were hayed once a year, perhaps, but
otherwise uncropped save by the herd of heavy-shouldered black cattle
who wandered about them, their huge forms immense and grotesque in the
fast-thickening twilight.

In the centre of this desolation, standing in a thousand acres of its
own land, was the mansion, Black Dudley; a great grey building, bare
and ugly as a fortress. No creepers hid its nakedness, and the long
narrow windows were dark-curtained and uninviting.

The man in the old-fashioned bedroom turned away from the window and
went on with his dressing.

‘Gloomy old place,’ he remarked to his reflection in the mirror.
‘Thank God it’s not mine.’

He tweaked his black tie deftly as he spoke, and stood back to survey
the effect.

George Abbershaw, although his appearance did not indicate it, was a
minor celebrity.

He was a smallish man, chubby and solemn, with a choir-boy expression
and a head of ridiculous bright-red curls which gave him a somewhat
fantastic appearance. He was fastidiously tidy in his dress and there
was an air of precision in everything he did or said which betrayed an
amazingly orderly mind. Apart from this, however, there was nothing
about him to suggest that he was particularly distinguished or even
mildly interesting, yet in a small and exclusive circle of learned men
Dr George Abbershaw was an important person.

His book on pathology, treated with special reference to fatal wounds
and the means of ascertaining their probable causes, was a standard
work, and in view of his many services to the police in the past his
name was well known and his opinion respected at the Yard.

At the moment he was on holiday, and the unusual care which he took
over his toilet suggested that he had not come down to Black Dudley
solely for the sake of recuperating in the Suffolk air.

Much to his own secret surprise and perplexity, he had fallen in love.

He recognized the symptoms at once and made no attempt at
self-deception, but with his usual methodical thoroughness set himself
to remove the disturbing emotion by one or other of the only two
methods known to mankind – disillusionment or marriage. For that
reason, therefore, when Wyatt Petrie had begged him to join a week-end
party at his uncle’s house in the country, he had been persuaded to
accept by the promise that Margaret Oliphant should also be of the
party.

Wyatt had managed it, and she was in the house.

George Abbershaw sighed, and let his thoughts run on idly about his
young host. A queer chap, Wyatt: Oxford turned out a lot of
interesting young men with bees in their bonnets. Wyatt was a good
lad, one of the best. He was profoundly grateful to Wyatt. Good Lord,
what a profile she had, and there was brain there too, not empty
prettiness. If only . . . ! He pulled himself together and mentally
rebuked himself.

This problem must be attacked like any other, decently and in order.

He must talk to her; get to know her better, find out what she liked,
what she thought about. With his mind still on these things the
booming of the dinner gong surprised him, and he hurried down the
low-stepped Tudor staircase as nearly flurried as he had ever been in
his life.

However bleak and forbidding was Black Dudley’s exterior, the rooms
within were none the less magnificent. Even here there were the same
signs of neglect that were so evident in the Park, but there was a
certain dusty majesty about the dark-panelled walls with the
oil-paintings hanging in their fast-blackening frames, and in the
heavy, dark-oak furniture, elaborately carved and utterly devoid of
polish, that was very impressive and pleasing.

The place had not been modernized at all. There were still candles in
the iron sconces in the hall, and the soft light sent great shadows,
like enormous ghostly hands, creeping up to the oak-beamed ceiling.

George sniffed as he ran down the staircase. The air was faintly
clammy and the tallow smelt a little.

‘Damp!’ said he to himself. ‘These old places need a lot of looking
after . . . shouldn’t think the sanitary system was any too good. Very
nice, but I’m glad it’s not mine.’

The dining-hall might have made him change his mind. All down one side
of the long, low room was a row of stained-glass windows. In a great
open fireplace a couple of faggots blazed whole, and on the long
refectory table, which ran nearly the entire length of the flagged
floor, eight seven-branched candlesticks held the only light. There
were portraits on the walls, strangely differing in style, as the
artists of the varying periods followed the fashions set by the
masters of their time, but each face bearing a curious likeness to the
next – the same straight noses, the same long thin lips, and above
all, the same slightly rebellious expression.

Most of the party had already assembled when Abbershaw came in, and it
struck him as incongruous to hear the babble of bright young
conversation in this great tomb of a house with its faintly musty air
and curiously archaic atmosphere.

As he caught sight of a gleam of copper-coloured hair on the other
side of the table, however, he instantly forgot any sinister dampness
or anything at all mysterious or unpleasant about the house.

Meggie Oliphant was one of those modern young women who manage to be
fashionable without being ordinary in any way. She was a tall, slender
youngster with a clean-cut white face, which was more interesting than
pretty, and dark-brown eyes, slightly almond-shaped, which turned into
slits of brilliance when she laughed. Her hair was her chief beauty,
copper-coloured and very sleek; she wore it cut in a severe ‘John’
bob, a straight thick fringe across her forehead.

George Abbershaw’s prosaic mind quivered on the verge of poetry when
he looked at her. To him she was exquisite. He found they were seated
next to each other at table, and he blessed Wyatt for his
thoughtfulness.

He glanced up the table at him now and thought what a good fellow he
was.

The candle-light caught his clever, thoughtful face for an instant,
and immediately the young scientist was struck by the resemblance to
the portraits on the wall. There was the same straight nose, the same
wide thin-lipped mouth.

Wyatt Petrie looked what he was, a scholar of the new type. There was
a little careful disarrangement in his dress, his brown hair was not
quite so sleek as his guests’, but he was obviously a cultured,
fastidious man: every shadow on his face, every line and crease of his
clothes indicated as much in a subtle and elusive way.

Abbershaw regarded him thoughtfully and, to a certain degree,
affectionately. He had the admiration for him that one first-rate
scholar always has for another out of his own line. Idly he reviewed
the other man’s record. Head of a great public school, a First in
Classics at Oxford, a recognized position as a minor poet, and above
all a good fellow. He was a rich man, Abbershaw knew, but his tastes
were simple and his charities many. He was a man with an urge, a man
who took life, with its problems and its pleasures, very seriously. So
far as the other man knew he had never betrayed the least interest in
women in general or in one woman in particular. A month ago Abbershaw
would have admired him for this attribute as much as for any other.
Today, with Meggie at his side, he was not so sure that he did not
pity him.

From the nephew, his glance passed slowly round to the uncle, Colonel
Gordon Coombe, host of the week-end.

He sat at the head of the table, and Abbershaw glanced curiously at
this old invalid who liked the society of young people so much that he
persuaded his nephew to bring a houseful of young folk down to the
gloomy old mansion at least half a dozen times a year.

He was a little man who sat huddled in his high-backed chair as if his
backbone was not strong enough to support his frame upright. His crop
of faded yellow hair was now almost white, and stood up like a hedge
above a narrow forehead. But by far the most striking thing about him
was the flesh-coloured plate with which clever doctors had repaired a
war-mutilated face which must otherwise have been a horror too
terrible to think upon. From where he sat, perhaps some fourteen feet
away, Abbershaw could only just detect it, so skilfully was it
fashioned. It was shaped roughly like a one-sided half-mask and
covered almost all the top right-hand side of his face, and through it
the Colonel’s grey-green eyes peered out shrewd and interested at the
tableful of chattering young people.

George looked away hastily. For a moment his curiosity had overcome
his sense of delicacy, and a wave of embarrassment passed over him as
he realized that the little grey-green eyes had rested upon him for an
instant and had found him eyeing the plate.

He turned to Meggie with a faint twinge of unwanted colour in his
round cherubic face, and was a little disconcerted to find her looking
at him, a hint of a smile on her lips and a curious brightness in her
intelligent, dark-brown eyes. Just for a moment he had the
uncomfortable impression that she was laughing at him.

He looked at her suspiciously, but she was no longer smiling, and when
she spoke there was no amusement or superiority in her tone.

‘Isn’t it a marvellous house?’ she said.

He nodded.

‘Wonderful,’ he agreed. ‘Very old, I should say. But it’s very
lonely,’ he added, his practical nature coming out in spite of
himself. ‘Probably most inconvenient . . . I’m glad it’s not mine.’

The girl laughed softly.

‘Unromantic soul,’ she said.

Abbershaw looked at her and reddened and coughed and changed the
conversation.

‘I say,’ he said, under the cover of the general prittle-prattle all
around them, ‘do you know who everyone is? I only recognize Wyatt and
young Michael Prenderby over there. Who are the others? I arrived too
late to be introduced.’

The girl shook her head.

‘I don’t know many myself,’ she murmured. ‘That’s Anne Edgeware
sitting next to Wyatt – she’s rather pretty, don’t you think? She’s a
Stage-cum-Society person; you must have heard of her.’

Abbershaw glanced across the table, where a striking young woman in a
pseudo-Victorian frock and side curls sat talking vivaciously to the
young man at her side. Some of her conversation floated across the
table to him. He turned away again.

‘I don’t think she’s particularly pretty,’ he said with cheerful
inconsequentialness. ‘Who’s the lad?’

‘That boy with black hair talking to her? That’s Martin. I don’t know
his other name, he was only introduced to me in the hall. He’s just a
stray young man, I think.’ She paused and looked round the table.

‘You know Michael, you say. The little round shy girl next him is
Jeanne, his fiancée; perhaps you’ve met her.’

George shook his head.

‘No,’ he said, ‘but I’ve wanted to; I take a personal interest in
Michael’ – he glanced at the fair, sharp-featured young man as he
spoke – ‘he’s only just qualified as an M.D., you know, but he’ll go
far. Nice chap, too . . . Who is the young prize-fighter on the girl’s
left?’

Meggie shook her sleek bronze head at him reprovingly as she followed
his glance to the young giant a little higher up the table. ‘You
mustn’t say that,’ she whispered. ‘He’s our star turn this party.
That’s Chris Kennedy, the Cambridge rugger blue.’

‘Is it?’ said Abbershaw with growing respect. ‘Fine-looking man.’

Meggie glanced at him sharply, and again the faint smile appeared on
her lips and the brightness in her dark eyes. For all his psychology,
his theorizing, and the seriousness with which he took himself, there
was very little of George Abbershaw’s mind that was not apparent to
her, but for all that the light in her eyes was a happy one and the
smile on her lips unusually tender.

‘That,’ she said suddenly, following the direction of his gaze and
answering his unspoken thought, ‘that’s a lunatic.’

George turned to her gravely.

‘Really?’ he said.

She had the grace to become a little confused.

‘His name is Albert Campion,’ she said. ‘He came down in Anne
Edgeware’s car, and the first thing he did when he was introduced to
me was to show me a conjuring trick with a two-headed penny – he’s
quite inoffensive, just a silly ass.’

Abbershaw nodded and stared covertly at the fresh-faced young man with
the tow-coloured hair and the foolish, pale-blue eyes behind
tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles, and wondered where he had seen him
before.

The slightly receding chin and mouth so unnecessarily full of teeth
was distinctly familiar. ‘Albert Campion?’ he repeated under his
breath. ‘Albert Campion? Campion? Campion?’ But still his memory would
not serve him, and he gave up calling on it and once more his
inquisitive glance flickered round the table.

Since the uncomfortable little moment ten minutes ago when the Colonel
had observed him scrutinizing his face, he had been careful to avoid
the head of the table, but now his attention was caught by a man who
sat next to his host, and for an instant he stared unashamedly.

The man was a foreigner, so much was evident at a glance; but that in
itself was not sufficient to interest him so particularly.

The man was an arresting type. He was white-haired, very small and
delicately made, with long graceful hands which he used a great deal
in his conversation, making gestures, swaying his long, pale fingers
gracefully, easily.

Under the sleek white hair which waved straight back from a high
forehead his face was grey, vivacious, and peculiarly wicked.

George could think of no other word to describe the thin-lipped mouth
that became one-sided and O-shaped in speech, the long thin nose, and
more particularly the deep-set, round, black eyes which glistened and
twinkled under enormous shaggy grey brows.

George touched Meggie’s arm.

‘Who is that?’ he said.

The girl looked up and then dropped her eyes hurriedly.

‘I don’t know,’ she murmured, ‘save that his name is Gideon or
something, and he is a guest of the Colonel’s – nothing to do with our
crowd.’

‘Weird-looking man,’ said Abbershaw.

‘Terrible!’ she said, so softly and with such earnestness that he
glanced at her sharply and found her face quite grave.

She laughed as she saw his expression.

‘I’m a fool,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realize what an impression the man
had made on me until I spoke. But he looks a wicked type, doesn’t he?
His friend, too, is rather startling, don’t you think – the man
sitting opposite to him?’

The repetition of the word ‘wicked’, the epithet which had arisen in
his own mind, surprised Abbershaw, and he glanced covertly up the
table again.

The man seated opposite Gideon, on the other side of the Colonel, was
striking enough indeed.

He was a foreigner, grossly fat, and heavily jowled, and there was
something absurdly familiar about him. Suddenly it dawned upon George
what it was. The man was the living image of the little busts of
Beethoven which are sold at music shops. There were the same
heavy-lidded eyes, the same broad nose, and to cap it all the same
shock of hair, worn long and brushed straight back from the amazingly
high forehead.

‘Isn’t it queer?’ murmured Meggie’s voice at his side. ‘See – he has
no expression at all.’

As soon as she had spoken George realized that it was true. Although
he had been watching the man for the last few minutes he had not seen
the least change in the heavy red face; not a muscle seemed to have
moved, nor the eyelids to have flickered; and although he had been
talking to the Colonel at the time, his lips seemed to have moved
independently of the rest of his features. It was as if one watched a
statue speak.

‘I think his name is Dawlish – Benjamin Dawlish,’ said the girl. ‘We
were introduced just before dinner.’

Abbershaw nodded, and the conversation drifted on to other things, but
all the time he was conscious of something faintly disturbing in the
back of his mind, something which hung over his thoughts like a black
shadow vaguely ugly and uncomfortable.

It was a new experience for him, but he recognized it immediately.

For the first time in his life he had a presentiment – a vague,
unaccountable apprehension of trouble ahead.

He glanced at Meggie dubiously.

Love played all sorts of tricks with a man’s brains. It was very
bewildering.

The next moment he had pulled himself together, telling himself
soberly not to be a fool. But wriggle and twist as he might, always
the black shadow sat behind his thoughts, and he was glad of the
candle-light and the bright conversation and the laughter of the
dinner-table.



CHAPTER II

The Ritual of the Dagger

After dinner, Abbershaw was one of the first to enter the great hall
or drawing-room which, with the dining-room, took up the best part of
the ground floor of the magnificent old mansion. It was an amazing
room, vast as a barn and heavily panelled, with a magnificently carved
fire-place at each end wherein two huge fires blazed. The floor was
old oak and highly polished, and there was no covering save for two or
three beautiful Shiraz rugs.

The furniture here was the same as in the other parts of the house,
heavy, unpolished oak, carved and very old; and here, too, the faint
atmosphere of mystery and dankness, with which the whole house was
redolent, was apparent also.

Abbershaw noticed it immediately, and put it down to the fact that the
light of the place came from a huge iron candle-ring which held some
twenty or thirty thick wax candles suspended by an iron chain from the
centre beam of the ceiling, so that there were heavy shadows round the
panelled walls and in the deep corners behind the great fire-places.

By far the most striking thing in the whole room was an enormous
trophy which hung over the fire-place farthest from the door. It was a
vast affair composed of some twenty or thirty lances arranged in a
circle, heads to the centre, and surmounted by a feathered helm and a
banner resplendent with the arms of the Petries.

Yet it was the actual centre-piece which commanded immediate interest.
Mounted on a crimson plaque, at the point where the lance-heads made a
narrow circle, was a long, fifteenth-century Italian dagger. The hilt
was an exquisite piece of workmanship, beautifully chased and
encrusted at the upper end with uncut jewels, but it was not this that
first struck the onlooker. The blade of the Black Dudley Dagger was
its most remarkable feature. Under a foot long, it was very slender
and exquisitely graceful, fashioned from steel that had in it a
curious greenish tinge which lent the whole weapon an unmistakably
sinister appearance. It seemed to shine out of the dark background
like a living and malignant thing.

No one entering the room for the first time could fail to remark upon
it; in spite of its comparatively insignificant size it dominated the
whole room like an idol in a temple.

George Abbershaw was struck by it as soon as he came in, and instantly
the feeling of apprehension which had annoyed his prosaic soul so much
in the other room returned, and he glanced round him sharply, seeking
either reassurance or confirmation, he hardly knew which.

The house-party which had seemed so large round the dinner-table now
looked amazingly small in this cathedral of a room.

Colonel Coombe had been wheeled into a corner just out of the
firelight by a man-servant, and the old invalid now sat smiling
benignly on the group of young people in the body of the room. Gideon
and the man with the expressionless face sat one on either side of
him, while a grey-haired, sallow-faced man whom Abbershaw understood
was a Dr White Whitby, the Colonel’s private attendant, hovered about
them in nervous solicitude for his patient.

On closer inspection Gideon and the man who looked like Beethoven
proved to be even more unattractive than Abbershaw had supposed from
his first somewhat cursory glance.

The rest of the party was in high spirits. Anne Edgeware was
illustrating the striking contrast between Victorian clothes and
modern manners, and her vivacious air and somewhat outrageous
conversation made her the centre of a laughing group. Wyatt Petrie
stood amongst his guests, a graceful, lazy figure, and his
well-modulated voice and slow laugh sounded pleasant and reassuring in
the forbidding room.

It was Anne who first brought up the subject of the dagger, as someone
was bound to do.

‘What a perfectly revolting thing, Wyatt,’ she said, pointing at it.
‘I’ve been trying not to mention it ever since I came in here. I
should toast your muffins with something else, my dear.’

‘Ssh!’ Wyatt turned to her with mock solemnity. ‘You mustn’t speak
disrespectfully of the Black Dudley Dagger. The ghosts of a hundred
dead Petries will haunt you out of sheer outraged family pride if you
do.’

The words were spoken lightly, and his voice had lost none of its
quiet suavity, but whether it was the effect of the dagger itself or
that of the ghostly old house upon the guests none could tell, but the
girl’s flippancy died away and she laughed nervously.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I should just loathe to be haunted. But quite
seriously, then, if we mustn’t laugh, what an incredible thing that
dagger is.’

The others had gathered round her, and she and Wyatt now stood in the
centre of a group looking up at the trophy. Wyatt turned round to
Abbershaw. ‘What do you think of it, George?’ he said.

‘Very interesting – very interesting indeed. It is very old, of
course? I don’t think I’ve ever seen one like it in my life.’ The
little man spoke with genuine enthusiasm. ‘It’s a curio, some old
family relic, I suppose?’

Wyatt nodded, and his lazy grey eyes flickered with faint amusement.

‘Well, yes, it is,’ he said. ‘My ancestors seem to have had high old
times with it if family legends are true.’

‘Ah!’ said Meggie, coming forward. ‘A ghost story?’

Wyatt glanced at her.

‘Not a ghost,’ he said, ‘but a story.’

‘Let’s have it.’ It was Chris Kennedy who spoke; the young rugger blue
had more resignation than enthusiasm in his tone. Old family stories
were not in his line. The rest of the party was considerably more
keen, however, and Wyatt was pestered for the story.

‘It’s only a yarn, of course,’ he began. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever told
it to anyone else before. I don’t think even my uncle knows it.’ He
turned questioningly as he spoke, and the old man shook his head.

‘I know nothing about it,’ he said. ‘My late wife brought me to this
house,’ he explained. ‘It had been in the family for hundreds of
years. She was a Petrie – Wyatt’s aunt. He naturally knows more about
the history of the house than I. I should like to hear it, Wyatt.’

Wyatt smiled and shrugged his shoulders, then, moving forward, he
climbed on to one of the high oak chairs by the fire-place, stepped up
from one hidden foothold in the panelling to another, and stretching
out his hand lifted the shimmering dagger off its plaque and carried
it back to the group who pressed round to see it more closely.

The Black Dudley Dagger lost none of its sinister appearance by being
removed from its setting. It lay there in Wyatt Petrie’s long,
cultured hands, the green shade in the steel blade more apparent than
ever, and a red jewel in the hilt glowing in the candle-light.

‘This,’ said Wyatt, displaying it to its full advantage, ‘is properly
called the “Black Dudley Ritual Dagger”. In the time of Quentin
Petrie, somewhere about 1500, a distinguished guest was found murdered
with this dagger sticking in his heart.’ He paused, and glanced round
the circle of faces. From the corner by the fire-place Gideon was
listening intently, his grey face livid with interest, and his little
black eyes wide and unblinking. The man who looked like Beethoven had
turned towards the speaker also, but there was no expression on his
heavy red face.

Wyatt continued in his quiet voice, choosing his words carefully and
speaking with a certain scholastic precision.

‘I don’t know if you know it,’ he said, ‘but earlier than that date
there had been a superstition which persisted in outlying places like
this that a body touched by the hands of the murderer would bleed
afresh from the mortal wound; or, failing that, if the weapon with
which the murder was committed were placed into the hand which struck
the blow, it would become covered with blood as it had been at the
time of the crime. You’ve heard of that, haven’t you, Abbershaw?’ he
said, turning towards the scientist, and George Abbershaw nodded.

‘Go on,’ he said briefly.

Wyatt returned to the dagger in his hand.

‘Quentin Petrie believed in this superstition, it appears,’ he said,
‘for anyway it is recorded that on this occasion he closed the gates
and summoned the entire household, the family, servants, labourers,
herdsmen, and hangers-on, and the dagger was solemnly passed around.
That was the beginning of it all. The ritual sprang up later – in the
next generation, I think.’

‘But did it happen? Did the dagger spout blood and all that?’ Anne
Edgeware spoke eagerly, her round face alive with interest.

Wyatt smiled. ‘I’m afraid one of the family was beheaded for the
murder,’ he said; ‘and the chronicles have it that the dagger betrayed
him, but I fancy that there was a good deal of juggling in affairs of
justice in those days.’

‘Yes, but where does the ritual come in?’ said Albert Campion, in his
absurd falsetto drawl. ‘It sounds most intriguing. I knew a fellow
once who, when he went to bed, made a point of taking off everything
else first before he removed his topper. He called that a ritual.’

‘It sounds more like a conjuring trick,’ said Abbershaw.

‘It does, doesn’t it?’ agreed the irrepressible Albert. ‘But I don’t
suppose your family ritual was anything like that, was it, Petrie?
Something more lurid, I expect.’

‘It was, a little, but nearly as absurd,’ said Wyatt, laughing.
‘Apparently it became a custom after that for the whole ceremony of
the dagger to be repeated once a year – a sort of family rite as far
as I can ascertain. That was only in the beginning, of course. In
later years it degenerated into a sort of mixed hide-and-seek and
relay race, played all over the house. I believe it was done at
Christmas as late as my grandfather’s time. The procedure was very
simple. All the lights in the house were put out, and the head of the
family, a Petrie by name and blood, handed the dagger to the first
person he met in the darkness. Acceptance was of course compulsory,
and that person had to hunt out someone else to pass the dagger on to,
and the game continued in that fashion – each person striving to get
rid of the dagger as soon as it was handed to him – for twenty
minutes. Then the head of the house rang the dinner gong in the hall,
the servants relit the lights, and the person discovered with the
dagger lost the game and paid a forfeit which varied, I believe, from
kisses to silver coins all round.’

He stopped abruptly.

‘That’s all there is,’ he said, swinging the dagger in his fingers.

‘What a perfectly wonderful story!’

Anne Edgeware turned to the others as she spoke. ‘Isn’t it?’ she
continued. ‘It just sort of fits in with this house!’

‘Let’s play it.’ It was the bright young man with the teeth again, and
he beamed round fatuously at the company as he spoke. ‘For sixpences
if you like,’ he ventured as an added inducement, as no one enthused
immediately.

Anne looked at Wyatt. ‘Could we?’ she said.

‘It wouldn’t be a bad idea,’ remarked Chris Kennedy, who was willing
to back up Anne in anything she chose to suggest. The rest of the
party had also taken kindly to the idea, and Wyatt hesitated.

‘There’s no reason why we shouldn’t,’ he said, and paused. Abbershaw
was suddenly seized with a violent objection to the whole scheme. The
story of the dagger ritual had impressed him strangely. He had seen
the eyes of Gideon fixed upon the speaker with curious intensity, and
had noticed the little huddled old man with the plate over his face
harking to the barbarous story with avid enjoyment. Whether it was the
great dank gloomy house or the disturbing effects of love upon his
nervous system he did not know, but the idea of groping round in the
dark with the malignant-looking dagger filled him with a distaste more
vigorous than anything he had ever felt before. He had an impression,
also, that Wyatt was not too attracted by the idea, but in the face of
the unanimous enthusiasm of the rest of the party he could do nothing
but fall in with the scheme.

Wyatt looked at his uncle.

‘But certainly, my dear boy, why should I?’ The old man seemed to be
replying to an unspoken question. ‘Let us consider it a blessing that
so innocent and pleasing an entertainment can arise from something
that must at one time have been very terrible.’

Abbershaw glanced at him sharply. There had been a touch of something
in the voice that did not ring quite true, something hypocritical –
insincere. Colonel Coombe glanced at the men on either side of him.

‘I don’t know . . .’ he began dubiously.

Gideon spoke at once: it was the first time Abbershaw had heard his
voice, and it struck him unpleasantly. It was deep, liquid, and
curiously caressing, like the purring of a cat.

‘To take part in such an ancient ceremony would be a privilege,’ he
said.

The man who had no expression bowed his head.

‘I too,’ he said, a trace of foreign accent in his voice, ‘would be
delighted.’

Once the ritual had been decided upon, preparations went forward with
all ceremony and youthful enthusiasm. The man-servant was called in,
and his part in the proceedings explained carefully. He was to let
down the great iron candle-ring, extinguish the lights, and haul it up
to the ceiling again. The lights in the hall were to be put out also,
and he was then to retire to the servants’ quarters and wait there
until the dinner-gong sounded, at which time he was to return with
some of the other servants and relight the candles with all speed.

He was a big man with a chest like a prize-fighter and a heavy florid
face with enormous pale-blue eyes which had in them an innately sullen
expression. A man who could become very unpleasant if the occasion
arose, Abbershaw reflected inconsequentially.

As head of the family, Wyatt the last of the Petries took command of
the proceedings. He had the manner, Abbershaw considered, of one who
did not altogether relish his position. There was a faintly unwilling
air about everything he did, a certain over-deliberation in all his
instructions which betrayed, the other thought, a distaste for his
task.

At length the signal was given. With a melodramatic rattle of chains
the great iron candle-ring was let down and the lights put out, so
that the vast hall was in darkness save for the glowing fires at each
end of the room. Gideon and the man with the face like Beethoven had
joined the circle round the doorway to the corridors, and the last
thing George Abbershaw saw before the candles were extinguished was
the little wizened figure of Colonel Coombe sitting in his chair in
the shadow of the fire-place smiling out upon the scene from behind
the hideous flesh-coloured plate. Then he followed the others into the
dim halls and corridors of the great eerie house, and the Black Dudley
Ritual began.



CHAPTER III

In the Garage

The weirdness of the great stone staircases and unlit recesses was
even more disquieting than Abbershaw had imagined it would be. There
were flutterings in the dark, whisperings, and hurried footsteps. He
was by no means a nervous man, and in the ordinary way an experience
of this sort would probably have amused him faintly, had it not bored
him. But on this particular night and in this house, which had
impressed him with such a curious sense of foreboding ever since he
had first seen it from the drive, he was distinctly uneasy.

To make matters worse, he had entirely lost sight of Meggie. He had
missed her in the first blinding rush of darkness, and so, when by
chance he found himself up against a door leading into the garden, he
went out, shutting it softly behind him.

It was a fine night, and although there was no moon, the starlight
made it possible for him to see his way about; he did not feel like
wandering about the eerie grounds alone, and suddenly it occurred to
him that he would go and inspect his A.C. two-seater which he had left
in the big garage beside the drive.

He was a tidy man, and since he had no clear recollection of turning
off the petrol before he left her, it struck him that now was a
convenient opportunity to make sure.

He located the garage without much difficulty, and made his way to it,
crossing over the broad, flagged drive to where the erstwhile barn
loomed up against the starlight sky. The doors were still open and
there was a certain amount of light from two hurricane lanterns
hanging from a low beam in the roof. There were more than half a dozen
cars lined up inside, and he reflected how very typical each was of
its owner. The Rover coupé with the cream body and the black wings was
obviously Anne Edgeware’s; even had he not seen her smart
black-and-white motoring kit he would have known it. The Salmson with
the ridiculous mascot was patently Chris Kennedy’s property; the
magnificent Lanchester must be Gideon’s, and the rest were simple
also; a Bentley, a Buick, and a Swift proclaimed their owners.

As his eye passed from one to another, a smile flickered for an
instant on his lips. There, in the corner, derelict and dignified as a
maiden aunt, was one of the pioneers of motor traffic.

This must be the house car, he reflected, as he walked over to it,
Colonel Coombe’s own vehicle. It was extraordinary how well it matched
the house, he thought as he reached it.

Made in the very beginning of the century, it belonged to the time
when, as some brilliant American has said, cars were built, like
cathedrals, with prayer. It was a brougham; coach-built and leathery,
with a seating capacity in the back for six at least, and a tiny cab
only in front for the driver. Abbershaw was interested in cars, and
since he felt he had time to spare and there was nothing better to do,
he lifted up the extraordinarily ponderous bonnet of the
‘museum-piece’ and looked in.

For some moments he stood staring at the engine within, and then,
drawing a torch from his pocket, he examined it more closely.

Suddenly a smothered exclamation broke from his lips and he bent down
and flashed the light on the underside of the car, peering under the
ridiculously heavy running-boards and glancing at the axles and shaft.
At last he stood up and shut down the bonnet, an expression of mingled
amazement and curiosity on his cherubic face.

The absurd old body, which looked as if it belonged to a car which
would be capable of twenty miles all out at most, was set upon the
chassis and the engine of latest ‘Phantom’ type Rolls-Royce.

He had no time to reflect upon the possible motives of the owner of
the strange hybrid for this inexplicable piece of eccentricity, for at
that moment he was disturbed by the sounds of footsteps coming up the
flagged drive. Instinctively he moved over to his own car, and was
bending over it when a figure appeared in the doorway.

‘Oh – er – hullo! Having a little potter – what?’

The words, uttered in an inoffensively idiotic voice, made Abbershaw
glance up to find Albert Campion smiling fatuously in upon him.

‘Hullo!’ said Abbershaw, a little nettled to have his occupation so
accurately described. ‘How’s the Ritual going?’

Mr Campion looked a trifle embarrassed.

‘Oh, jogging along, I believe. Two hours’ clean fun, don’t you know.’

‘You seem to be missing yours,’ said Abbershaw pointedly.

The young man appeared to break out into a sort of Charleston,
apparently to hide further embarrassment.

‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact I got fed up with it in there,’ he
said, still hopping up and down in a way Abbershaw found peculiarly
irritating. ‘All this running about in the dark with daggers doesn’t
seem to me healthy. I don’t like knives, you know – people getting
excited and all that. I came out to get away from it all.’

For the first time Abbershaw began to feel a faint sympathy for him.

‘Your car here?’ he remarked casually.

This perfectly obvious question seemed to place Mr Campion still less
at ease.

‘Well – er – no. As a matter of fact, it isn’t. To be exact,’ he added
in a sudden burst of confidence, ‘I haven’t got one at all. I’ve
always liked them, though,’ he continued hastily, ‘nice, useful
things. I’ve always thought that. Get you where you want to go, you
know. Better than a horse.’

Abbershaw stared at him. He considered that the man was either a
lunatic or drunk, and as he disliked both alternatives he suggested
stiffly that they should return to the house. The young man did not
greet the proposal with enthusiasm, but Abbershaw, who was a
determined little man when roused, dragged him back to the side door
through which he had come, without further ado.

As soon as they entered the great grey corridor and the faintly dank
musty breath of the house came to meet them, it became evident that
something had happened. There was a sound of many feet, echoing
voices, and at the far end of the passage a light flickered and
passed.

‘Someone kicking up a row over the forfeit, what!’ The idiotic voice
of Albert Campion at his ear jarred upon Abbershaw strangely.

‘We’ll see,’ he said, and there was an underlying note of anxiety in
his voice which he could not hide.

A light step sounded close at hand and there was a gleam of silk in
the darkness ahead of them.

‘Who’s there?’ said a voice he recognized as Meggie’s.

‘Oh, thank God, it’s you!’ she exclaimed, as he spoke to her.

Mr Albert Campion then did the first intelligent thing Abbershaw had
observed in him. He obliterated himself and faded away up the passage,
leaving them together.

‘What’s happened?’ Abbershaw spoke apprehensively, as he felt her hand
quiver as she caught his arm.

‘Where have you been?’ she said breathlessly. ‘Haven’t you heard?
Colonel Coombe had a heart attack right in the middle of the game. Dr
Whitby and Mr Gideon have taken him up to his room. It was all very
awkward for them, though. There weren’t any lights. When they sounded
the gong the servants didn’t come. Apparently there’s only one door
leading from their quarters to the rest of the house and that seems to
have been locked. They’ve got the candles alight now, though,’ she
added, and he noticed that she was oddly breathless.

Abbershaw looked down at her; he wished he could see her face.

‘What’s happening in there now?’ he said. ‘Anything we can do?’

The girl shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. They’re just standing
about talking. I heard Wyatt say that the news had come down that it
was nothing serious, and he asked us all to go on as if nothing had
happened. Apparently the Colonel often gets these attacks . . .’ She
hesitated and made no attempt to move.

Abbershaw felt her trembling by his side, and once again the curious
fear which had been lurking at the back of his mind all the evening
showed itself to him.

‘Tell me,’ he said, with a sudden intuition that made his voice gentle
and comforting in the darkness. ‘What is it?’

She started, and her voice sounded high and out of control.

‘Not – not here. Can’t we get outside? I’m frightened of this house.’
The admission in her tone made his heart leap painfully.

Something had happened, then.

He drew her arm through his.

‘Why, yes, of course we can,’ he said. ‘It’s a fine starlit night;
we’ll go on to the grass.’

He led her out on to the roughly cut turf that had once been smooth
lawns, and they walked together out of the shadows of the house into a
little shrubbery where they were completely hidden from the windows.

‘Now,’ he said, and his voice had unconsciously assumed a protective
tone; ‘what is it?’

The girl looked up at him, and he could see her keen, clever face and
narrow brown eyes in the faint light.

‘It was horrible in there,’ she whispered. ‘When Colonel Coombe had
his attack, I mean. I think Dr Whitby found him. He and Mr Gideon
carried him up while the other man – the man with no expression on his
face – rang the gong. No one knew what had happened, and there were no
lights. Then Mr Gideon came down and said that the Colonel had had a
heart attack . . .’ She stopped and looked steadily at him, and he was
horrified to see that she was livid with terror.

‘George,’ she said suddenly, ‘if I told you something would you think
I – I was mad?’

‘No, of course not,’ he assured her steadily. ‘What else happened?’

The girl swallowed hard. He saw she was striving to compose herself,
and obeying a sudden impulse he slid his arm round her waist, so that
she was encircled and supported by it.

‘In the game,’ she said, speaking clearly and steadily as if it were
an effort, ‘about five minutes before the gong rang, someone gave me
the dagger. I don’t know who it was – I think it was a woman, but I’m
not sure. I was standing at the foot of the stone flight of stairs
which leads down into the lower hall, when someone brushed past me in
the dark and pushed the dagger into my hand. I suddenly felt
frightened of it, and I ran down the corridor to find someone I could
give it to.’

She paused, and he felt her shudder in his arm.

‘There is a window in the passage,’ she said, ‘and as I passed under
it the faint light fell upon the dagger and – don’t think I’m crazy,
or dreaming, or imagining something – but I saw the blade was covered
with something dark. I touched it, it was sticky. I knew it at once,
it was blood!’

‘Blood!’ The full meaning of her words dawned slowly on the man and he
stared at her, half-fascinated, half-incredulous.

‘Yes. You must believe me.’ Her voice was agonized and he felt her
eyes on his face. ‘I stood there staring at it,’ she went on. ‘At
first I thought I was going to faint. I knew I should scream in
another moment, and then – quite suddenly and noiselessly – a hand
came out of the shadows and took the knife. I was so frightened I felt
I was going mad. Then, just when I felt my head was bursting, the gong
rang.’

Her voice died away in the silence, and she thrust something into his
hand.

‘Look,’ she said, ‘if you don’t believe me. I wiped my hand with it.’

Abbershaw flashed his torch upon the little crumpled scrap in his
hand. It was a handkerchief, a little filmy wisp of a thing of lawn
and lace, and on it, clear and unmistakable, was a dull red smear –
dry blood.



CHAPTER IV

Murder

They went slowly back to the house.

Meggie went straight up to her room, and Abbershaw joined the others
in the hall.

The invalid’s corner was empty, chair and all had disappeared.

Wyatt was doing his best to relieve any feeling of constraint amongst
his guests, assuring them that his uncle’s heart attacks were by no
means infrequent and asking them to forget the incident if they could.

Nobody thought of the dagger. It seemed to have vanished completely.
Abbershaw hesitated, wondering if he should mention it, but finally
decided not to, and he joined in the half-hearted, fitful
conversation.

By common consent everyone went to bed early. A depression had settled
over the spirits of the company, and it was well before midnight when
once again the great candle-ring was let down from the ceiling and the
hall left again in darkness.

Up in his room Abbershaw removed his coat and waistcoat, and, attiring
himself in a modestly luxurious dressing-gown, settled down in the
armchair before the fire to smoke a last cigarette before going to
bed. The apprehension he had felt all along had been by no means
lessened by the events of the last hour or so.

He believed Meggie’s story implicitly: she was not the kind of girl to
fabricate a story of that sort in any circumstances, and besides the
whole atmosphere of the building after he had returned from the garage
had been vaguely suggestive and mysterious.

There was something going on in the house that was not ordinary,
something that as yet he did not understand, and once again the face
of the absurd young man with the horn-rimmed spectacles flashed into
his mind and he strove vainly to remember where he had seen it before.

His meditations were cut short by the sound of footsteps in the
passage outside, and the next moment there was a discreet tap at his
door.

Abbershaw rose and opened it, to discover Michael Prenderby, the
young, newly qualified M.D., standing fully dressed in the doorway.

The boy looked worried, and came into the room quickly, shutting the
door behind him after he had glanced up and down the corridor outside
as if to make certain that he had not been followed.

‘Forgive the melodrama,’ he said, ‘but there’s something darn queer
going on in this place. Have a cigarette?’

Abbershaw looked at him shrewdly. The hand that held the
cigarette-case out to him was not too steady, and the facetiousness of
the tone was belied by the expression of anxiety in his eyes.

Michael Prenderby was a fair, slight young man, with a sense of humour
entirely unexpected.

To the casual observer he was an inoffensive, colourless individual,
and his extraordinary spirit and strength of character were known only
to his friends.

Abbershaw took a cigarette and indicated a chair.

‘Let’s have it,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’

Prenderby lit a cigarette and pulled at it vigorously, then he spoke
abruptly.

‘In the first place,’ he said, ‘the old bird upstairs is dead.’

Abbershaw’s blue-grey eyes flickered, and the thought which had lurked
at the back of his mind ever since Meggie’s story in the garden
suddenly grew into a certainty.

‘Dead?’ he said. ‘How do you know?’

‘They told me.’ Prenderby’s pale face flushed slightly. ‘The private
medico fellow – Whitby, I think his name is – came up to me just as I
was coming to bed; he asked me if I would go up with him and have a
look at the old boy.’

He paused awkwardly, and Abbershaw suddenly realized that it was a
question of professional etiquette that was embarrassing him.

‘I thought they’d be bound to have got you up there already,’ the boy
continued, ‘so I chased up after the fellow and found the Colonel
stretched out on the bed, face covered up and all that. Gideon was
there too, and as soon as I got up in the room I grasped what it was
they wanted me for. Mine was to be the signature on the cremation
certificate.’

‘Cremation? They’re in a bit of a hurry, aren’t they?’

Prenderby nodded.

‘That’s what I thought, but Gideon explained that the old boy’s last
words were a wish that he should be cremated and the party should
continue, so they didn’t want to keep the body in the house a moment
longer than was absolutely necessary.’

‘Wanted the party to go on?’ repeated Abbershaw stupidly. ‘Absurd!’

The young doctor leant forward. ‘That’s not all by any means,’ he
said. ‘When I found what they wanted, naturally I pointed out that you
were the senior man and should be first approached. That seemed to
annoy them both. Old Whitby, who was very nervous, I thought, got very
up-stage and talked a lot of rot about “_Practising_ M.D.s”, but it
was the foreigner who got me into the really unpleasant hole. He
pointed out, in that disgustingly sticky voice he has, that I was a
guest in the house and could hardly refuse such a simple request. It
was all damn cheek, and very awkward, but eventually I decided to rely
on your decency to back me up and so . . .’ He paused.

‘Did you sign?’ Abbershaw said quickly.

Prenderby shook his head. ‘No,’ he said with determination, adding
explanatorily: ‘They wouldn’t let me look at the body.’

‘What?’ Abbershaw was startled. Everything was tending in the same
direction. The situation was by no means a pleasant one.

‘You refused?’ he said.

‘Rather.’ Prenderby was inclined to be angry. ‘Whitby talked a lot of
the usual bilge – trotted out all the good old phrases. By the time
he’d finished, the poor old bird on the bed must have been dead about
a year and a half according to him. But he kept himself between me and
the bed, and when I went to pull the sheet down, Gideon got in my way
deliberately. Whitby seemed to take it as a personal insult that I
should think even an ordinary examination necessary. And then I’m
afraid I lost my temper and walked out.’

He paused, and looked at the older man awkwardly. ‘You see,’ he said,
with a sudden burst of confidence, ‘I’ve never signed a cremation
certificate in my life, and I didn’t feel like starting on an
obviously fishy case. I only took my finals a few months ago, you
know.’

‘Oh, quite right, quite right.’ Abbershaw spoke with conviction. ‘I
wonder what they’re doing?’

Prenderby grinned.

‘You’ll probably find out,’ he said dryly. ‘They’ll come to you now.
They thought I should be easier to manage, but having failed – and
since they’re in such a hurry – I should think you were for it. It
occurred to me to nip down and warn you.’

‘Good of you. Thanks very much.’ Abbershaw spoke genuinely. ‘It’s a
most extraordinary business. Did it look like heart failure?’

Prenderby shrugged his shoulders.

‘My dear fellow, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I didn’t even see the face.
If it was heart failure why shouldn’t I examine him? It’s more than
fishy, you know, Abbershaw. Do you think we ought to do anything?’

‘No. That is, not at the moment.’ George Abbershaw’s round and chubby
face had suddenly taken on an expression which immediately altered its
entire character. His mouth was firm and decided, and there was
confidence in his eyes. In an instant he had become the man of
authority, eminently capable of dealing with any situation that might
arise.

‘Look here,’ he said, ‘if you’ve just left them they’ll be round for
me any moment. You’d better get out now, so that they don’t find us
together. You see,’ he went on quickly, ‘we don’t want a row here,
with women about and that sort of thing; besides, we couldn’t do
anything if they turned savage. As soon as I get to town I can trot
along and see old Deadwood at the Yard and get everything looked into
without much fuss. That is, of course, once I’ve satisfied myself that
there is something tangible to go upon. So if they press me for that
signature I think I shall give it ’em. You see, I can arrange an
inquiry afterwards if it seems necessary. It’s hardly likely they’ll
get the body cremated before we can get on to ’em. I shall go up to
town first thing in the morning.’

‘That’s the stuff,’ said Prenderby with enthusiasm. ‘If you don’t
mind, I’ll drop down on you afterwards to hear how things have
progressed. Hullo!’

He paused, listening. ‘There’s someone coming down the passage now,’
he said. ‘Look here, if it’s all the same to you I’ll continue the
melodrama and get into that press.’

He slipped into the big wardrobe at the far end of the room and closed
the carved door behind him just as the footsteps paused in the passage
outside and someone knocked.

On opening the door, Abbershaw found, as he had expected, Dr Whitby on
the threshold. The man was in a pitiable state of nerves. His thin
grey hair was damp and limp upon his forehead, and his hands twitched
visibly.

‘Dr Abbershaw,’ he began, ‘I am sorry to trouble you so late at night,
but I wonder if you would do something for us.’

‘My dear sir, of course.’ Abbershaw radiated good humour, and the
other man warmed immediately.

‘I think you know,’ he said, ‘I am Colonel Coombe’s private physician.
He has been an invalid for some years, as I dare say you are aware. In
point of fact, a most unfortunate thing has happened, which although
we have known for some time that it must come soon, is none the less a
great shock. Colonel Coombe’s seizure this evening has proved fatal.’

Abbershaw’s expression was a masterpiece: his eyebrows rose, his mouth
opened.

‘Dear, dear! How very distressing!’ he said with that touch of
pomposity which makes a young man look more foolish than anything
else. ‘_Very_ distressing,’ he repeated, as if another thought had
suddenly struck him. ‘It’ll break up the party, of course.’

Dr Whitby hesitated. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we had hoped not.’

‘Not break up the party?’ exclaimed Abbershaw, looking so profoundly
shocked that the other hastened to explain.

‘The deceased was a most eccentric man,’ he murmured confidentially.
‘His last words were a most urgently expressed desire for the party to
continue.’

‘A little trying for all concerned,’ Abbershaw commented stiffly.

‘Just so,’ said his visitor. ‘That is really why I came to you. It has
always been the Colonel’s wish that he should be cremated immediately
after his decease, and, as a matter of fact, all preparations have
been made for some time. There is just the formality of the
certificate, and I wonder if I might bother you for the necessary
signature.’

He hesitated doubtfully, and shot a glance at the little red-haired
man in the dressing-gown. But Abbershaw was ready for him.

‘My dear sir, anything I can do, of course. Let’s go up there now,
shall we?’

All traces of nervousness had vanished from Whitby’s face, and a sigh
of relief escaped his lips as he escorted the obliging Dr Abbershaw
down the long, creaking corridor to the Colonel’s room.

It was a vast old-fashioned apartment, high-ceilinged, and not too
well lit. Panelled on one side, it was hung on the other with heavy
curtains, ancient and dusty. Not at all the sort of room that appealed
to Abbershaw as a bedchamber for an invalid.

A huge four-poster bed took up all the farther end of the place, and
upon it lay something very still and stiff, covered by a sheet. On a
small table near the wide fire-place were pen and ink and a cremation
certificate form; standing near it was Jesse Gideon, one beautiful
hand shining like ivory upon the polished wood.

Abbershaw had made up his mind that the only way to establish or
confute his suspicions was to act quickly, and assuming a brisk and
officious manner he strode across the room rubbing his hands.

‘Heart failure?’ he said, in a tone that was on the verge of being
cheerful. ‘A little unwonted excitement, perhaps – a slightly heavier
meal – anything might do it. Most distressing – most distressing.
Visitors in the house too.’

He was striding up and down as he spoke, at every turn edging a little
nearer the bed.

‘Now let me see,’ he said suddenly. ‘Just as a matter of form, of
course . . .’ On the last word, moving with incredible swiftness, he
reached the bedside and flicked the sheet from the dead man’s face.

The effect was instantaneous. Whitby caught his arm and dragged him
back from the bed, and from the shadows a figure that Abbershaw had
not noticed before came out silently. The next moment he recognized
Dawlish, the man who looked like Beethoven. His face was still
expressionless, but there was no mistaking the menace in his attitude
as he came forward, and the young scientist realized with a little
thrill of excitement that the veneer was off and that he was up
against an antagonistic force.

The moment passed, however, and in the next instant he had the
situation in hand again, with added advantage of knowing exactly where
he stood. He turned a mildly apologetic face to Whitby.

‘Just as a matter of form,’ he repeated. ‘I like to make a point of
seeing the body. Some of us are a little too lax, I feel, in a matter
like this. After all, cremation is cremation. I’m not one of those men
who insist on a thorough examination, but I just like to make sure
that a corpse is a corpse, don’t you know.’

He laughed as he spoke, and stood with his hands in his pockets,
looking down at the face of the man on the bed. The momentary tension
in the room died down. The heavy-faced Dawlish returned to his corner,
Gideon became suave again, and the doctor stood by Abbershaw a little
less apprehensively.

‘Death actually took place up here, I suppose?’ Abbershaw remarked
conversationally, and shot a quick sidelong glance at Whitby. The man
was ready for it, however.

‘Yes, just after we carried him in.’

‘I see.’ Abbershaw glanced round the room. ‘You brought him up in his
chair, I suppose? How wonderfully convenient those things are.’ He
paused as if lost in thought, and Dawlish muttered impatiently.

Gideon interposed hastily.

‘It is getting late,’ he said in his unnaturally gentle voice. ‘We
must not keep Dr Abbershaw –’

‘Er – no, of course not,’ said Whitby, starting nervously.

Abbershaw took the hint.

‘It is late. I bid you good night, gentlemen,’ he murmured, and moved
towards the door.

Gideon slipped in front of it, pen in hand. He was suave as ever, and
smiling, but the little round eyes beneath the enormous shaggy brows
were bright and dangerous.

Abbershaw realized then that he was not going to be allowed to refuse
to sign the certificate. The three men in the room were determined.
Any objections he might raise would be confuted by force if need be.
It was virtually a signature under compulsion.

He took the pen with a little impatient click of the tongue.

‘How absurd of me, I had forgotten,’ he said, laughing as though to
cover his oversight. ‘Now, let me look, where is it? Oh, I see – just
here – you have attended to all these particulars, of course, Dr
Whitby.’

‘Yes, yes. They’re all in order.’

No one but the self-occupied type of fool that Abbershaw was
pretending to be could possibly have failed to notice the man’s
wretched state of nervous tension. He was quivering and his voice was
entirely out of control. Abbershaw wrote his signature with a
flourish, and returned the pen. There was a distinct sigh of relief in
the room as he moved towards the door.

On the threshold he turned and looked back.

‘Poor young Petrie knows all about this, I suppose?’ he inquired. ‘I
trust he’s not very cut up? Poor lad.’

‘Mr Petrie has been informed, of course,’ Dr Whitby said stiffly. ‘He
felt the shock – naturally – but like the rest of us I fancy he must
have expected it for some time. He was only a relative by his aunt’s
marriage, you know, and that took place after the war, I believe.’

‘Still,’ said Abbershaw, with a return of his old fussiness of manner,
‘very shocking and very distressing – very distressing. Good night,
gentlemen.’

On the last words he went out and closed the door of the great sombre
room behind him. Once in the corridor, his expression changed. The
fussy, pompous personality that he had assumed dropped from him like a
cloak, and he became at once alert and purposeful. There were many
things that puzzled him, but of one thing he was perfectly certain.
Colonel Gordon Coombe had not died of heart disease.



CHAPTER V

The Mask

Abbershaw made his way quietly down the corridor to Wyatt’s room. The
young man had taken him into it himself earlier in the day, and he
found it without difficulty.

There was no light in the crack of the door, and he hesitated for a
moment before he knocked, as if undecided whether he would disturb its
occupant or not, but at length he raised his hand and tapped on the
door.

There was no reply, and after waiting a few minutes he knocked again.
Still no one answered him, and obeying a sudden impulse, he lifted the
latch and went in.

He was in a long, narrow room with a tall window in the wall
immediately facing him, giving out on to a balcony. The place was in
darkness save for the faint light of a newly risen moon, which
streamed in through the window.

He saw Wyatt at once. He was in his dressing-gown, standing in the
window, his arms outstretched, his hands resting on either side of the
frame.

Abbershaw spoke to him, and for a moment he did not move. Then he
turned sharply, and for an instant the moonlight fell upon his face
and the long slender lines of his sensitive hands. Then he turned
round completely and came towards his friend.

But Abbershaw’s mood had changed: he was no longer so determined. He
seemed to have changed his mind.

‘I’ve just heard,’ he said, with real sympathy in his tone. ‘I’m
awfully sorry. It was a bit of a shock, coming now, I suppose?
Anything I can do, of course . . .’

Wyatt shook his head.

‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘but the old boy’s doctor had been expecting it for
years. I believe all the necessary arrangements have been made for
some time. It may knock the life out of the party pretty thoroughly,
though, I’m afraid.’

‘My dear man.’ Abbershaw spoke hastily. ‘We’ll all sheer off first
thing tomorrow morning, of course. Most people have got cars.’

‘Oh, don’t do that.’ Wyatt spoke with sudden insistence. ‘I understand
my uncle was very anxious that the party should go on,’ he said.
‘Really, you’d be doing me a great service if you’d stay on till
Monday and persuade the others to do the same. After all, it isn’t
even as if it was his house. It’s mine, you know. It passed to me on
Aunt’s death, but my uncle, her husband, was anxious to go on living
here, so I rented it to him. I wish you’d stay. He would have liked
it, and there’s no point in my staying down here alone. He was no
blood relative of mine, and he had no kin as far as I know.’ He
paused, and added, as Abbershaw still looked dubious, ‘The funeral and
cremation will take place in London. Gideon has arranged about that;
he was his lawyer, you know, and a very close friend. Stay if you can,
won’t you? Good night. Thanks for coming down.’

Abbershaw went slowly back to his room, a slightly puzzled expression
in his eyes. He had meant to tell Wyatt his discoveries, and even now
he did not know quite why he had not done so. Instinct told him to be
cautious. He felt convinced that there were more secrets in Black
Dudley that night than the old house had ever known. Secrets that
would be dangerous if they were too suddenly brought to light.

He found Prenderby sitting up for him, the ash-tray at his side filled
with cigarette-stubs.

‘So you’ve turned up at last,’ he said peevishly. ‘I wondered if
they’d done a sensational disappearing act with you. This house is
such a ghostly old show I’ve been positively sweltering with terror up
here. Anything transpired?’

Abbershaw sat down by the fire before he spoke.

‘I signed the certificate,’ he said at last. ‘I was practically forced
into it. They had the whole troupe there, old Uncle Tom Beethoven and
all.’

Prenderby leant forward, his pale face becoming suddenly keen again.

‘They are up to something, aren’t they?’ he said.

‘Oh, undoubtedly.’ Abbershaw spoke with authority. ‘I saw the corpse’s
face. There was no heart trouble there. He was murdered – stuck in the
back, I should say.’ He paused, and hesitated as if debating something
in his mind.

Prenderby looked at him curiously. ‘Of course, I guessed as much,’ he
said, ‘but what’s the other discovery? What’s on your mind?’

Abbershaw looked up at him, and his round grey-blue eyes met the boy’s
for an instant.

‘A darned queer thing, Prenderby,’ he said. ‘I don’t understand it at
all. There’s more mystery here than you’d think. When I twitched back
the sheet and looked at the dead man’s face it was darkish in that
four-poster, but there was light enough for me to see one thing.
Extreme loss of blood had flattened the flesh down over his bones till
he looked dead – very dead – and that plate he wore over the top of
his face had slipped out of place and I saw something most
extraordinary.’

Prenderby raised his eyes inquiringly. ‘Very foul?’ he said.

‘Not at all. That was the amazing part of it.’

Abbershaw leaned forward in his chair and his eyes were very grave and
hard. ‘Prenderby, that man had no need to wear that plate. His face
was as whole as yours or mine!’

‘Good God!’ The boy sat up, the truth slowly dawning on him. ‘Then it
was simply –’

Abbershaw nodded.

‘A mask,’ he said.



CHAPTER VI

Mr Campion Brings the House Down

Abbershaw sat up for some time, smoking, after Prenderby left him, and
when at last he got into bed he did not sleep at once, but lay staring
up into the darkness of the beamed ceiling – thinking.

He had just fallen into a doze in which the events of the evening
formed themselves into a fantastic nightmare, when a terrific thud
above his head and a shower of plaster upon his face brought him
hurriedly to his senses.

He sat up in bed, every nerve alert and tingling, waiting for the next
development.

It came almost immediately.

From the floor directly above his head came a series of extraordinary
sounds. It seemed as if heavy pieces of furniture were being hurled
about by some infuriated giant, and between the crashes Abbershaw
fancied he could discern the steady murmur of someone cursing in a
deep, unending stream.

After a second or so of this he decided that it was time to get up and
investigate, and slipping on his dressing-gown he dashed out into the
corridor, where the grey light of morning was just beginning to pierce
the gloom.

Here the noise above was even more distinct. A tremendous upheaval
seemed to be in progress.

Not only Abbershaw had been awakened by it; the whole house appeared
to be stirring. He ran up the staircase in the direction from which
the noise was coming to discover that an old-time architect had not
built another room above the one in which he slept but a wide gallery
from which a second staircase descended. Here he was confronted by an
extraordinary scene.

The man-servant he had noticed so particularly on the evening before
was grappling with someone who was putting up a very stout resistance.
The man was attacking his opponent with an amazing ferocity. Furniture
was hurled in all directions, and as Abbershaw came up he caught a
stream of oaths from the infuriated footman.

His first thought was that a burglar had been surprised red-handed,
but as the two passed under a window in their violent passage round
the place, the straggling light fell upon the face of the second
combatant and Abbershaw started with surprise, for in that moment he
had caught a glimpse of the vacant and peculiarly inoffensive features
of Mr Albert Campion.

By this time there were many steps on the stairs, and the next moment
half the house-party came crowding round behind Abbershaw; Chris
Kennedy in a resplendent dressing-gown was well to the fore.

‘Hullo! A scrap?’ he said, with something very near satisfaction in
his voice, and threw himself upon the two without further
preliminaries.

As the confusion increased with this new development Abbershaw darted
forward and, stooping suddenly, picked up something off the floor by
the head of the second staircase. It was very swiftly done, and no one
noticed the incident.

Chris Kennedy’s weight and enthusiasm brought the fight to an abrupt
finish.

Mr Campion picked himself up from the corner where he had been last
hurled. He was half strangled, but still laughing idiotically.
Meanwhile, Chris Kennedy inspected the butler, whose stream of
rhetoric had become much louder but less coherent.

‘The fellow’s roaring tight,’ he announced, upon closer inspection.
‘Absolutely fighting-canned, but it’s wearing off a bit now.’

He pushed the man away from him contemptuously, and the erstwhile
warrior reeled against the stair-head and staggered off down out of
sight.

‘What’s happened? What’s the trouble?’ Wyatt Petrie came hurrying up
the passage, his voice anxious and slightly annoyed.

Everybody looked at Mr Campion. He was leaning up against the
balustrade, his fair hair hanging over his eyes, and for the first
time it dawned upon Abbershaw that he was fully dressed, and not, as
might have been expected, in the dinner-jacket he had worn on the
previous evening.

His explanation was characteristic.

‘Most extraordinary,’ he said, in his slightly high-pitched voice.
‘The fellow set on me. Picked me up and started doing exercises with
me as if I were a dumb-bell. I thought it was one of you fellows
joking at first, but when he began to jump on me it percolated through
that I was being massacred. Butchered to make a butler’s beano, in
fact.’

He paused and smiled fatuously.

‘I began to hit back then,’ he continued. ‘The bird was tight, of
course, but I’m glad you fellows turned up. I didn’t like the idea of
him chipping bits off the ancestral home with me.’

‘My dear fellow, I’m frightfully sorry this has happened. The man
shall be discharged tomorrow. I’ll see to it.’ Wyatt spoke with real
concern, but Abbershaw was not nearly so easily satisfied.

‘Where did he get at you?’ he said, suddenly stepping forward. ‘Where
were you?’

Mr Campion met the question with charming ingenuousness.

‘Just coming out of my room – that’s the door, over there,’ he said.
‘I opened it and walked out into a war.’

He was buttoning up his waistcoat, which had been ripped open in the
fight, as he spoke.

Abbershaw glanced at the grandfather clock at the head of the
staircase. It showed the hour at eight minutes past four. Mr Campion
followed the direction of his eyes.

‘Yes,’ he said foolishly, ‘I – I always get up early.’

‘Amazingly early,’ said Abbershaw pointedly.

‘I was, this morning,’ agreed Mr Campion cheerfully, adding by way of
explanation, ‘I’m one of those birds who can never sleep in a strange
bed. And then, you know, I’m so afraid of ghosts. I didn’t see any, of
course,’ he went on hastily, ‘but I said to myself as I got into bed
last night, “Albert, this place smells of ghosts,” and somehow I
couldn’t get that idea out of my head all night. So as soon as it
began to get light I thought a walk was indicated, so I got up,
dressed, and sallied forth into the fray.’ He paused and yawned
thoughtfully. ‘I do believe I shall go back to bed now,’ he remarked
as they all stared at him. ‘I don’t feel much like my walk now. In
fact, I don’t feel much like anything. Bung-ho, everybody, Uncle
Albert is now closing down until nine-thirty, when the breakfast
programme will begin, I hope.’ On the last word he waved his hand to
them and disappeared into his own room, shutting the door firmly
behind him.

As Abbershaw turned to go back to his bedroom he became aware of a
slender figure in a dressing-gown at his side. It was Meggie. Seized
by a sudden impulse, he spoke to her softly.

‘Who brought Campion down?’

She looked at him in surprise.

‘Why, Anne,’ she said. ‘I told you. They arrived together about the
same time that I did. Why the interest? Anything I can do?’

Abbershaw hesitated.

‘Well, yes,’ he said at last. ‘She’s a friend of yours, isn’t she?’

Meggie nodded.

‘Rather; I’ve known her for years.’

‘Good,’ said Abbershaw. ‘Look here, could you get her to come down
into the garden? Meet me down there in half an hour in that shrubbery
we found last night? There’s one or two things I want to ask her. Can
you manage that for me?’

‘Of course.’ She looked up at him and smiled; then she added,
‘Anything happened?’

Abbershaw looked at her, and noticed for the first time that there was
a faintly scared expression in her narrow brown eyes, and a sudden
desire to comfort her assailed him. Had he been a little less precise,
a little less timid in these matters, he would probably have kissed
her. As it was, he contented himself by patting her hand rather
foolishly and murmuring, ‘Nothing to get excited about,’ in a way
which neither convinced her nor satisfied himself.

‘In half an hour,’ she murmured and disappeared like a fragile ghost
down the corridor.



CHAPTER VII

Five o’clock in the Morning

George Abbershaw stood in front of the fire-place in his bedroom and
looked down into the fast-greying embers amongst which some red sparks
still glowed, and hesitated irresolutely. In ten minutes he was to
meet Meggie and Anne Edgeware in the garden. He had until then to make
up his mind.

He was not a man to do anything impulsively, and the problem which
faced him now was an unusual one.

On the mantelpiece near his head lay a small leather wallet, the silk
lining of which had been ripped open and something removed, leaving
the whole limp and empty. Abbershaw looked down on a sheaf of paper
which he held in one hand, and tapped it thoughtfully with the other.

If only, he reflected, he knew exactly what he was doing. The thought
occurred to him, in parenthesis, that here arose the old vexed
question as to whether it was permissible to destroy a work of art on
any pretext whatsoever.

For five minutes he deliberated, and then, having made up his mind, he
knelt down before the dying fire and fanned the embers into a flame,
and after coolly preparing a small bonfire in the grate stood back to
watch it burn.

The destruction of the leather case was a problem which presented more
difficulties. For a moment or two he was at a loss, but then taking it
up he considered it carefully.

It was of a usual pattern, a strip of red leather folded over at
either end to form two inner pockets. He took out his own case and
compared the two. His own was new; an aunt had sent it to him for his
birthday, and in an excess of kindliness had caused a small gold
monogram stud to be made for it, a circular fretted affair which
fastened through the leather with a small clip. This stud Abbershaw
removed, and, gouging a hole in the red wallet, effected an exchange.

A liberal splodging with ink from his fountain pen completed the
disguise, and, satisfied that no one at a first or second glance would
recognize it, he ripped out the rest of the lining, trimmed the edges
with a pair of nail scissors, and calmly transferred his papers, with
the exception of a letter or two, to it, and tucked it in his pocket.
His own wallet he put carefully into the inner pocket of his
dinner-jacket, hanging up in the wardrobe.

Then, content with his arrangements, he went softly down the wide
staircase and let himself out into the garden.

Meggie was waiting for him. He caught a glimpse of her red-gold hair
against the dark green of the shrubbery. She was dressed in green, and
despite his preoccupation with the affairs on hand, he noticed how
very much it suited her.

‘Anne is just coming,’ she said, ‘I expect her any moment. I hope it’s
something important you want to ask her. I don’t think she’ll relish
getting up just to see the sun rise.’

Abbershaw looked dubious.

‘I’m afraid that didn’t occur to me,’ he said. ‘It is important, as it
happens, although it may not sound so.’

The girl moved a step closer to him.

‘I told _you_,’ she said, looking up into his face. ‘Tell me. What are
the developments?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘. . . yet. There’s only one thing I can tell
you, and that will be common property by breakfast-time. Colonel
Coombe is dead.’

The girl caught her breath sharply, and looked at him with fear in her
brown eyes.

‘You don’t mean he was . . . ?’ She broke off, not using the word.

Abbershaw looked at her steadily.

‘Dr Whitby has pronounced it heart failure,’ he said. The girl’s eyes
widened, and her expression became puzzled.

‘Then – then the dagger – ?’ she began.

‘Ssh!’ Abbershaw raised his hand warningly, for in the house a door
had creaked, and now Anne Edgeware, a heavily embroidered Chinese
dressing-gown over her frivolous pyjamas, crossed the grass towards
them.

‘Here I am,’ she said. ‘I had to come like this. You don’t mind, do
you? I really couldn’t bring myself to put on my clothes at the hour I
usually take them off. What’s all the fun about?’

Abbershaw coughed: this kind of girl invariably embarrassed him.

‘It’s awfully good of you to come down like this,’ he said awkwardly.
‘And I’m afraid what I am going to say will sound both absurd and
impertinent, but if you would just take it as a personal favour to me
I would be eternally grateful.’ He hesitated nervously, and then
hurried on again. ‘I’m afraid I can’t offer you any explanation at the
moment, but if you would just answer one or two questions and then
forget I ever asked them, you would be rendering me a great service.’

The girl laughed.

‘How thrilling!’ she said. ‘It sounds just like a play! I’ve got just
the right costume too, haven’t I? I feel I shall break out into song
at any moment. What is it?’

Abbershaw was still ill at ease, and he spoke with unwonted timidity.

‘That’s very good of you. As a matter of fact I wanted to ask you
about Mr Campion. I understood that he’s a friend of yours. Excuse me,
but have you known him long?’

‘Albert Campion?’ said Anne blankly. ‘Oh, he’s not a friend of mine at
all. I just gave him a lift down here in “Fido” – that’s my car.’

Abbershaw looked puzzled.

‘I’m sorry. I don’t quite understand,’ he said. ‘Did you meet him at
the station?’

‘Oh no.’ The girl was amused. ‘I brought him all the way down. You
see,’ she went on cheerfully, ‘I met him the night before we came down
at the “Goat on the Roof” – that’s the new night-club in Jermyn
Street, you know. I was with a party, and he sort of drifted into it.
One of the lads knew him, I think. We were all talking, and quite
suddenly it turned out that he was coming down here this week-end. He
was fearfully upset, he said: he’d just run his bus into a lorry or
something equally solid, so he couldn’t come down in it. So I offered
him a lift – naturally.’

‘Oh, er – naturally,’ said Abbershaw, who appeared to be still a
little bewildered. ‘Wyatt invited him, of course.’

The girl in pyjamas looked at him, and a puzzled expression appeared
on her doll-like face.

‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so – in fact I’m sure he didn’t,
because I introduced them myself. Not properly, you know,’ she went on
airily. ‘I just said, “Hullo, Wyatt, this thing is Albert Campion,”
and “Albert, this is the man of the house,” but I could swear they
didn’t know each other. I think he’s one of the Colonel’s pals – how
is the poor old boy, by the way?’

Neither Abbershaw nor Meggie spoke, but remained looking dubiously
ahead of them, and Anne shivered.

‘Here, I’m getting cold,’ she said. ‘Is that all you wanted to know?
Because if it is, I’ll get in, if you don’t mind. Sunrises and
dabbling in the dew aren’t in my repertoire.’

She laughed as she spoke, and Abbershaw thanked her. ‘Not a word,
mind,’ he said hastily.

‘Not a hint,’ she promised lightly, and went fluttering off across the
lawn, the Chinese robe huddled about her.

As soon as she was out of earshot Meggie caught Abbershaw’s arm.

‘George,’ she said, ‘the Colonel didn’t invite Albert Campion here.’

He turned to her sharply.

‘How do you know?’ he demanded.

The girl spoke dryly.

‘Because,’ she said, ‘the Colonel himself pointed Campion out to me
and asked who he was. Why, George,’ she went on suddenly, as the idea
occurred to her, ‘_nobody_ asked him – he hasn’t any business here at
all!’

Abbershaw nodded.

‘That’s just exactly what had occurred to me,’ he said, and relapsed
into silence.

They walked slowly back to the house together, Meggie quiet and
perturbed, her brown eyes narrowed and thoughtful; Abbershaw walking
with his hands clasped behind his back, his head bowed.

He had had, he supposed, as much association with crime and criminals
as any man of his age, but never, in any of his previous experiences
of crime mysteries, had he been placed in a position which required of
him both initiative and action. On other occasions an incident had
been repeated to him and he had explained it, a problem had been put
before him and he had solved it. Now, for the first time in his life
he had to pick out his own questions and answer them himself. Every
instinct in him told him to do something, but what exactly he ought to
do he did not know.

They had almost reached the heavy iron-studded door which led into the
hall, when a smothered exclamation from the girl made him stop
suddenly and look up. The next instant he had stepped back into the
shadow of some overgrown laurels by the house and drawn the girl back
after him.

Out of the garage, silent as a cloud of smoke, had come the incredible
old car which Abbershaw had noticed on the previous evening.

The man-servant who had created the scene with Mr Campion not an hour
before was at the wheel, and Abbershaw noticed that for a man who had
been murderously drunk so recently he was remarkably fresh and
efficient.

The car drew up outside the main door of the mansion not ten paces
from where they stood, hidden by the greenery. The man got out and
opened the door of the car. For some minutes nothing happened, then
Gideon appeared followed by Dawlish and Doctor Whitby, bearing between
them a heavy burden.

They were all fully dressed, and appeared to be in a great hurry. So
engrossed were they that not one of them so much as glanced in the
direction of the laurel clump which hid the two onlookers. Whitby got
into the back of the car and drew the blinds carefully over the
windows, then Dawlish and Gideon lifted the long heavy bundle in after
him and closed the door upon it.

The great car slid away down the drive, and the two men stepped back
noiselessly into the house and disappeared.

The whole incident had taken perhaps three minutes, and it had been
accomplished with perfect silence and precision.

Meggie looked up at Abbershaw fearfully.

‘What was that?’ she said.

The violence of his reply surprised her.

‘Damn them!’ he said explosively. ‘The only piece of real evidence
there was against them. That was the body of Colonel Coombe.’



CHAPTER VIII

Open Warfare

Breakfast that morning showed every promise of being a gloomy and
uncomfortable meal.

Wyatt had discreetly announced his uncle’s death, and the news had
circulated amongst the guests with inevitable speed.

The general opinion was that a tactful farewell and a speedy departure
was the obvious procedure of the day. The story of the old man’s last
wish had not tended greatly to alter anyone’s decision, as it was
clear that no party was likely to be a success, or even bearable in
such circumstances. The wishes of the dead seemed more kindly in
intention than in fact.

Wyatt seemed very crestfallen, and a great deal of sympathy was felt
for him; events could not well have turned out more unfortunately for
him. He sat at the end of the table, a little paler than usual, but
otherwise the same graceful, courteous scholar as ever. He wore the
coloured tie of one of the more obscure Oxford clubs, and had not
attempted to show any outward signs of mourning.

Albert Campion, looking none the worse for his nocturnal adventure,
sat next to Anne Edgeware. They were talking quietly together, and
from the sullen look upon Chris Kennedy’s handsome face it was evident
to anybody who cared to see that the irrepressible young lady was
indulging in the harmless feminine sport of encouraging one admirer in
order to infuriate and thereby gain the interest of another more
valued suitor – even though the occasion was so inauspicious. Mr
Campion was amazingly suited to his present role, and in low tones
they planned their journey back to town together. Coming departures
were indeed a subject for the general conversation of the rather
dispirited assembly in the big sunlit hall.

Michael Prenderby was late for breakfast, and he came in, a trifle
flushed and hurried, and took his place at the table between little
Jeanne Dacre, his fiancée, and Martin Watt, the black-haired beaky
youngster whom Meggie had described as ‘Just a stray young man’. He
was, in point of fact, a chartered accountant in his father’s office,
a pleasing youth with more brains than energy.

Neither Gideon nor Dawlish had appeared, nor had places been set for
them, but the moment that Prenderby sat down and the number of the
guests was completed, the door opened and the two men who most
interested Abbershaw in the house that day walked into the room.

Dawlish came first, and in the sunlight his face appeared more
unprepossessing than it had seemed on the evening before. For the
first time it became apparent what an enormous man he was.

He was fat to the point of grossness, but tall with it, and powerfully
built. The shock of long grey hair, brushed straight back from the
forehead, hung almost to his shoulders, and the eyes, which seemed to
be the only live thing in his face, were bright now and peculiarly
arresting.

Gideon, who came in behind him, looked small and insignificant by
comparison. He was languid and sinuous as before, and he glanced over
the group of young people round the table with a thoughtful, mildly
appraising eye, as if he were estimating their combined weight – or
strength.

Wyatt looked up as they came in and bade them a polite ‘Good morning’.
To everyone’s surprise they ignored him.

Dawlish moved ponderously to the top of the table, where he stood
looking round at the astonished faces, with no expression on his own.

‘Let there be silence,’ he said.

The words were so utterly unexpected and out of keeping with the
situation that it is probable that a certain amount of amusement would
have greeted them had not the tone in his deep Teutonic voice been
singularly menacing.

As it was, the silence was complete, and the German went on, his
expression still unchanged so that it seemed that his voice came to
them through a mask.

‘Something has been lost,’ he said, dividing the words up as he
uttered them and giving equal emphasis to each. ‘It must be returned
to me. There is no need to explain what it is. Whoever has stolen it
will know of what I speak.’

At this colossal piece of impudence a sensation ran round the table,
and Wyatt sprang to his feet. He was livid with anger, but he kept his
voice under perfect control, and the polished intensity of his icy
tone contrasted sharply with the other’s heavy rudeness.

‘Mr Dawlish,’ he said, ‘I think your anxiety to recover your property
has upset your sense of proportion. Perhaps you are aware that you are
a guest in a house that is mine, and that the people that you have
just insulted are my guests also. If you will come to me after
breakfast – before you go – I will do all I can to institute a proper
search for the thing you have mislaid.’

The German did not move. He stood at the head of the table and stared
unblinkingly at the man before him.

‘Until it is returned to me nobody leaves this house,’ he said, the
same solid force behind his tone. Wyatt’s snub he did not appear to
have heard. A faint wave of colour passed over the young man’s pale
face, and he turned to the others, who were staring from one to the
other in frank astonishment.

‘I must apologize,’ he said. ‘I ask you to forgive this extraordinary
display. My uncle’s death appears to have turned this unfortunate
man’s brain.’

Dawlish turned.

‘That young man,’ he said. ‘Let him sit down and be quiet.’

Gideon smiled at Wyatt, and the look on his grey decadent face was an
insult in itself.

‘My dear Mr Petrie,’ he said, and his peculiarly oily voice was suave
and ingratiating, ‘I don’t think you quite realize the position you
are in, you and your friends. Consider: this house is two miles from
the public road. There is no telephone. We have two women servants and
six men and a gate-keeper. All of these people are in Mr Dawlish’s
employ. Your cars have been drained of petrol. I am afraid you are
entirely helpless.’ He paused, and allowed his glance to take in the
amazed expressions round the table.

‘It would be better,’ he continued, ‘to listen rationally, for I must
warn you, my friend Mr Dawlish is not a man who is accustomed to any
opposition to his wishes.’

Wyatt remained on his feet; his face had grown slowly paler, and he
was now rigid with barely controlled fury.

‘Gentlemen, this farce has gone on long enough,’ he said, in a voice
which quivered in spite of himself. ‘If you will please go away we
will get on with our breakfast.’

‘Sit down!’

The words were uttered in a sudden titanic bellow, though but for the
obvious fact that Gideon was incapable of producing so much noise
there was nothing upon Benjamin Dawlish’s face to betray that it was
he who had shouted.

Wyatt started; the limit of his patience had come. He opened his mouth
to speak, to assert his authority. Then, quite suddenly, he dropped
back into his chair, his eyes dilating with as much surprise as fear.
He was looking into the black barrel of a revolver.

The German stood stolidly, absolutely immobile, the dangerous little
weapon levelled in one ponderous hand. ‘Here,’ he said in his unwieldy
English, ‘there is one who has what I seek. To him I speak. When he
returns to me what he has taken you shall all go free. Until then no
one leaves this house – no one at all.’

In the silence which followed this extraordinary announcement Jesse
Gideon moved forward.

‘If Mr Dawlish were to receive his property immediately it would save
us all a great deal of inconvenience,’ he murmured.

For several seconds there was no movement in the room, and the singing
of the birds in the greenery outside the windows became suddenly very
noticeable.

Then Albert Campion coughed discreetly and handed something wrapped up
in his table napkin to the girl who sat next him.

She passed it to her neighbour, and in utter stillness it went the
whole length of the table until Gideon pounced on it avidly and set it
before the German on the table. With a grunt of satisfaction the big
man thrust the revolver into his coat pocket and threw aside the white
napery. Then an exclamation of anger escaped him, and he drew back so
that Mr Campion’s offering lay exposed.

It was a breakfast egg, the very one, in fact, which the fatuous young
man had been on the verge of broaching when the extraordinary
interruptions had occurred.

The effect was instantaneous; the reaction from the silent tension of
a moment before complete.

The entire table shook with laughter.

The German stood stiffly as before. There was still no expression of
any sort upon his face, and his little eyes became dull and lifeless.

Gideon, on the other hand, betrayed his anger vividly. His eyes were
narrowed with fury and his long thin lips were drawn back over his
teeth like an angry dog’s. Gradually the laughter subsided. Benjamin
Dawlish’s personality was one that could not be ignored for long. When
at last there was perfect silence in the room he put his hand in his
pocket and drew out his revolver again.

‘You laugh,’ he said heavily. ‘I do not laugh. And she, the little
one,’ he tossed the gun in his hand with incredible delicacy for one
who looked so clumsy, ‘_she does not laugh either_.’

The last words were uttered with such amazing ferocity that his
hearers started involuntarily, and for an instant there appeared upon
the heavy face, which hitherto had seemed immovable, an expression of
such animalic violence that not one at that table looked him in the
eyes.

A moment later his features had relapsed into their usual stolidity,
and followed by Jesse Gideon he walked slowly from the room.

As the door closed behind them, the silence became painful, and at
last a fitful, uneasy conversation broke out.

‘What an unpleasant old bird!’ said Prenderby, looking at Abbershaw.
He spoke lightly, but there was a worried expression in his eyes; one
hand rested over his fiancée’s, who sat very pale by his side
apparently on the verge of tears. Even Anne Edgeware’s magnificent
sang-froid seemed a little shaken, and Meggie, although the least
alarmed of the three girls, looked very white.

Wyatt was still angry. He gave up trying to apologize for the
incident, however, and joined with the others in discussing it.

‘He’s loony, of course,’ said Martin Watt lazily. ‘Campion got his
goat beautifully, I thought.’

‘Still, even if he is potty, if what he says is true, things are going
to be pretty sportive,’ remarked Chris Kennedy cheerfully. ‘I fear I
may be called upon to bash his head in.’

Abbershaw rose to his feet.

‘I don’t know what you think, Wyatt,’ he said, ‘but it occurs to me
that it might be an idea if we all went into the other room and talked
this thing over. The servants won’t disturb us there. I don’t think
there’s any real danger,’ he went on reassuringly, ‘but perhaps we
ought to find out if what Gideon says about the cars is true.’

Chris Kennedy got up eagerly.

‘I’ll toddle down and discover, shall I?’ he said. ‘Really – I should
like to,’ he added, as Wyatt regarded him doubtfully, and he went off
whistling.

The party adjourned to the next room as Abbershaw had suggested. They
still talked lightly, but there was a distinctly constrained
atmosphere amongst them. Jeanne was frankly scared, Anne Edgeware out
of her depth, and the rest apprehensive.

Abbershaw was the last to step into the enormous hall that was now a
blaze of sunlight. It poured in through long diamond-paned windows,
glinted on the polished floor, and shone softly on Tudor rose and
linenfold. But it was not these which caught his eye and made him
start back with a half-concealed exclamation.

Over the far fire-place, set in the circle of lanceheads, its clear
blade dazzling in the sun and gleaming as brightly as if it had never
left its plaque, sinister and beautiful, was the Black Dudley Dagger.



CHAPTER IX

Chris Kennedy Scores a Try Only

As soon as Abbershaw had recovered from his first surprise, he turned
to Meggie. She was standing just beside him, the others having split
up into little groups talking quietly together. ‘Did you come in here
this morning,’ he said, ‘after we came in from the garden?’

She nodded, and he saw that she was trembling slightly. ‘Yes,’ she
whispered, ‘and – and _it_ was here then, hanging just where it is
now. I – I couldn’t help coming in to see. Someone must have put it
back – in the night.’

Her voice died away in a sob on the last word, and he laid a hand on
her arm.

‘Scared?’ he said.

She met his eyes bravely.

‘I’m glad you’re here too,’ she said simply.

A wave of pleasure swept over Abbershaw, and he coloured, but he did
not speak. The gravity of the situation was by no means lost to him.
He was the eldest of the party, and, moreover, he knew more about the
events of the last twelve hours than probably anyone else in the room.

Something told him to keep quiet about his discoveries, however; he
realized that they were up against dangerous men. Mr Benjamin Dawlish,
as he styled himself, was no ordinary individual, and, at the moment,
he was angry.

The main idea now was to get away at all costs; Abbershaw was sure of
it.

He had not dreamed that the late Colonel’s extraordinary friends would
dare to take this extreme course, but since they had done so, he was
not fool enough to think that they would risk the possibility of being
overpowered; their forces must be very strong.

Once out of the house he himself could get an immediate inquiry
instituted by the highest authorities. If the police could be informed
without their captors’ knowledge, so much the better, but the
principal problem was escape, and that, in the present circumstances,
did not appear to be any too simple.

There was, of course, one way of obtaining freedom; he felt the
battered red wallet in his pocket now, but he was loth to take that
path, for it meant the escape of what he felt certain was a leader of
one of the most skilful criminal organizations in the world. So far he
had been working in the dark, and if he gave in now, that darkness
would never be lightened. It would mean complete surrender. The
mystery would remain a mystery.

He glanced down at Meggie.

‘We’ll lick ’em yet,’ he said.

She laughed at him.

‘Or die in the attempt.’

Abbershaw appeared vastly relieved.

‘That’s how I feel,’ he said.

It was at this moment that Mr Campion made the entire party one group
again by a single fatuous remark.

‘Of course,’ he said affably, ‘I suppose nobody has pinched anything.’

‘I’ve got two bits of soap in my room,’ murmured Prenderby, ‘but I
shouldn’t think that’s what the old bird’s after by the look of him.
And look here, Wyatt,’ he added suddenly, ‘there’s something damned
queer about something else! I suppose you know –’

Abbershaw interposed hastily.

‘The whole thing is a bit queer, Michael,’ he said, fixing the boy
with his eyes. Prenderby took the hint, and was silent, but Wyatt
turned to him.

‘I’m beyond apologizing,’ he said. ‘The whole business is quite out of
my experience. My uncle asked me to bring a party down for this
week-end. He had often done so before. I have met Gideon here before,
but never exchanged more than half a dozen words with him. As for that
Hun, Dawlish, he’s a complete stranger.’

Prenderby, to whom the words had sounded like a reproach, coloured,
and what might have been an uncomfortable pause was covered by the
sudden return of Chris Kennedy. He was in high good humour. His
handsome young face was flushed with excitement, and the others could
not banish the suspicion that he was enjoying the situation
thoroughly.

‘They _have_, the blighters!’ he said, bursting into the group. ‘Not a
drain of juice in any of the buses. Otherwise they’re all right,
though. “Exhibit A” has vanished, by the way – crumbled into dust, I
should think – but apart from that they’re all there.’

‘Meet anyone?’ said Martin.

‘Not a soul,’ said Kennedy cheerfully, ‘and little Christopher Robin
has an idea. If I asked you for a drink, Petrie, would you give me
ginger-beer?’ There was an air of suppressed jubilation in his tone as
he spoke.

‘My dear fellow . . .’ Wyatt started forward. ‘I think you’ll find all
you want here,’ he said, and led the way to a cupboard set in the
panelling of the fire-place. Kennedy stuck his head in it, and came
out flushed and triumphant. ‘Two Scotch and a “Three Star” Brandy,’ he
said, tucking the bottles under his arm. ‘It’s blasphemy, but there’s
no other way. Get to the window, chicks, and Uncle Christopher will
now produce the rabbit.’

‘What are you going to do with that stuff?’ said Watt, who was not an
admirer of the athletic type. ‘Fill yourself up with it and run amok?’

Kennedy grinned at him over his shoulder; he was already half out of
the room.

‘No fear!’ he said, pausing with his hand on the door-handle. ‘But the
Salmson is. Watch the garage. Keep your eyes upon the performance,
ladies and gentlemen. This trick cannot be repeated.’

The somewhat bewildered little group regarded him doubtfully.

‘I’m afraid I don’t follow you even now,’ said Martin, still coldly.
‘I’m probably infernally thick, but I don’t get your drift.’

Michael Prenderby suddenly lifted his head.

‘Good Lord!’ he said. ‘I do believe you might do it. What a stunt!’

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Kennedy.

He went out, and they heard him racing down the corridor.

Abbershaw turned to Michael.

‘What’s the idea?’ he said.

Prenderby grinned.

‘He’s going to use the booze as juice,’ he said. ‘Rather an idea,
don’t you think? A car like that ought to run on pure spirit, I
suppose. Let’s watch him.’

He led the way to the windows and the others followed him. By craning
their necks they could just see the doors of the barn, both of which
stood open.

For some minutes nothing happened, and Martin Watt was just beginning
to assure himself that his first impression of Kennedy’s ideas in
general was going to be justified when a terrific back-fire sounded
from the garage.

‘Good heavens!’ said Abbershaw. ‘He’s going to do it.’

Someone began to laugh.

‘What a pack of fools they’ll look,’ said Prenderby.

Another small explosion sounded from the garage, and the next moment
the little car appeared in a cloud of blue smoke, with Mr Kennedy at
the wheel. It was moving slowly but triumphantly, and emitting a
stream of back-fires like a machine-gun.

‘Isn’t he marvellous?’

Anne Edgeware clasped her hands as she spoke, and even Martin Watt
admitted grudgingly that ‘the lad had initiative’. Kennedy waved to
them, and they saw his face flushed and excited as a child’s. As he
changed gear the car jerked forward and set off down the drive at an
uneven but ever-increasing pace.

‘That’ll show ’em,’ said Prenderby with a chuckle.

‘They haven’t even tried to stop him,’ said little Jeanne Dacre.

At that moment Mr Kennedy changed into top gear with a roar, and
immediately there was a sharp report, followed by a second, which
seemed to come from a window above their heads. Instantly, even as
they watched it, the Salmson swerved violently, skidded drunkenly
across the drive and turned over, pitching its occupant out upon the
grass beside the path.

‘Good God!’

Michael Prenderby’s voice was hoarse in the silence.

Martin Watt spoke quickly.

‘Dawlish’s gun. They’ve got him. The Hun was in earnest. Come on, you
fellows.’

He thrust open the window and leapt out upon the lawn, the men
following him.

Chris Kennedy was already picking himself up when they reached him. He
was very white, and his left hand grasped his other wrist, from which
the blood was streaming.

‘They got my near-side front wheel and my driving arm,’ he gasped, as
they came up. ‘There’s a bloke somewhere about who can shoot like
hell.’

He swayed a little on the last word, and smiled valiantly. ‘Do you
mind if we get in?’ he murmured. ‘This thing is turning me sick.’

They got him back to the house and into the room where they had all
been standing. As they crossed the lawn, Abbershaw, glancing up at the
second-floor windows, fancied he saw a heavy expressionless face
peering out at them from behind the dark curtains.

The rescue party was considerably subdued. They were beginning to
believe in the sincerity of Mr Benjamin Dawlish’s remarks.

Kennedy collapsed into a chair, and, after saving him from the tender
ministrations of Anne Edgeware, Abbershaw was just about to set out in
search of warm water and a dress shirt to tear up as a bandage, when
there was a discreet tap on the door and a man-servant entered bearing
a complete surgical outfit together with antiseptic bandages and hot
water.

‘With Mr Gideon’s compliments,’ he said gravely, and went out.

Kennedy smiled weakly.

‘Curse their dirty politeness,’ he said, and bowed his head over his
injured wrist.

Abbershaw removed his coat and went over to the tray which the man had
brought.

‘Hullo!’ he said. ‘There’s a note. Read it, Wyatt, will you, while I
get on with this. These are Whitby’s things, I suppose. It almost
looks as if he was expecting trouble.’

Wyatt took the slip of paper off the tray and read the message aloud
in his clear even voice.

‘_We are not joking. No one leaves this house until we have what we
want._’

‘There’s no signature,’ he added, and handed the note to Prenderby,
who looked at it curiously.

‘Looks as if they _have_ lost something,’ he said. ‘What the devil is
it? We can’t help ’em much till we know what it is.’

No one spoke for a moment.

‘Yes, that’s true,’ said Martin Watt at last, ‘and the only thing we
know about it is that it isn’t an egg.’

There was a faint titter of laughter at this, but it soon died down;
the party was beginning to realize the seriousness of their position.

‘It must be something pretty fishy, anyway,’ said Chris Kennedy, still
white with the pain of his wound which Abbershaw was now bandaging.
‘Else why don’t they describe it so that we can all have a hunt round?
Look here, let’s go to them and tell them that we don’t know what
their infernal property is. They can search us if they like, and when
they find we haven’t got it they can let us go, and by God, when they
do I’ll raise hell!’

‘It is precisely for that reason that I’m not inclined to endorse that
suggestion, Kennedy,’ said Abbershaw without looking up from the
bandage he was winding. ‘Our friends upstairs are very determined, and
they’re not likely to risk a possible visit from the police before
they have got what they want and have had reasonable time to make a
good getaway.’

Martin Watt raised his hand.

‘One moment,’ he said, ‘let us do a spot of neat detective work. What
the German gentleman with no manners has lost must be very small. “And
why, my dear Sherlock?” you ask. Because, my little Watsons, when our
obliging young comrade, Campion, offered them an egg wrapped up in a
table napkin they thought they’d holed in one. It isn’t the Black
Dudley diamonds, I suppose, Petrie?’

‘There aren’t any,’ said Wyatt shortly. ‘Damn it all!’ he burst out
with a sudden violence. ‘I never felt so helpless in my life.’

‘If only we had a few guns,’ mourned Chris Kennedy, whose wound even
had not slaked his thirst for a scrap. ‘Then we might make an attempt
to rush ’em. But unarmed against birds who shoot like that we
shouldn’t have an earthly.’

‘It’s not such a bad thing for you that we’re not armed, my lad,’ said
Abbershaw, straightening his shoulders and stepping back from the
table. ‘You don’t want too much excitement with an arm like that.
You’ve lost enough blood already. If I were you, I’d try and get a
spot of sleep. What’s your opinion, Prenderby?’

‘Oh, sleep, by all means,’ said Michael, grinning, ‘if he can get it,
which doesn’t seem likely.’

They were all standing round the patient on the hearth-rug, with their
backs to the fire-place, and for the moment Kennedy was the centre of
interest.

Hardly were the words out of Prenderby’s mouth when they were suddenly
and startlingly confirmed by an hysterical scream from Anne Edgeware.

‘He’s gone!’ she said wildly, as they turned to her. Her dark eyes
were dilated with fear, and every trace of her usual sophisticated and
slightly blasé manner had disappeared.

‘He was standing here – just beside me. He spoke to me a second ago.
He couldn’t have got past me to the door – I was directly in his way.
He’s just vanished. Oh, God – I’m going potty! I think – I . . .’ She
screamed again.

‘My dear girl!’

Abbershaw moved to her side. ‘What’s the matter? Who’s vanished?’

The girl looked at him in stupid amazement. ‘He went from my side just
as if he had disappeared into the air,’ she repeated. ‘I was just
talking to him – I turned away to look at Chris for a moment – I heard
a sort of thud, and when I turned round he’d gone.’

She began to cry noisily.

‘Yes, but who? Who?’ said Wyatt impatiently. ‘Who has vanished?’

Anne peered at him through her tears.

‘Why, _Albert_!’ she said, and burst into louder sobbing. ‘Albert
Campion. They’ve got him because he made fun of them!’



CHAPTER X

The Impetuous Mr Abbershaw

A hasty search revealed the fact that Mr Campion had indeed
disappeared, and the discovery, coupled with Chris Kennedy’s
experience of the morning, reduced the entire company to an unpleasant
state of nerves. The terrified Anne Edgeware and the wounded rugby
blue comforted each other in a corner by the fire. Prenderby’s little
fiancée clung to his hand as a frightened child might have done. The
others talked volubly, but every minute the general gloom deepened.

In the midst of this the lunch gong in the outer hall sounded, as if
nothing untoward had happened. For some moments nobody moved. Then
Wyatt got up. ‘Well, anyway,’ he said, ‘they seem to intend to feed us
– let’s go in, shall we?’

They followed him dubiously into the other room, where a cold luncheon
had been prepared at the long table. Two men-servants waited on them,
silent and surly, and the meal was a quiet one. No one felt in the
mood for trivialities, and Mr Campion was not there to provide his
usual harmless entertainment.

There was a certain amount of apprehension, also, lest Mr Dawlish
might reappear and the experience of breakfast be repeated. Everyone
felt a little relieved, therefore, when the meal ended without a
visitation. The explanation of this apparent neglect came ten minutes
or so later, when Martin Watt, who had gone up to his room to
replenish his cigarette-case, came dashing into the hall where they
were all sitting, the lazy expression for once startled out of his
grey eyes.

‘I say,’ he said, ‘the blighters have searched my room! Had a real old
beano up there by the look of it. Clothes all over the place – half
the floor boards up. I should say the Hun has done it himself – it
looks as if an elephant had run amok there. If I were you people I’d
trot up to your rooms and see if they’ve done the thing thoroughly.’

This announcement brought everybody to their feet. Wyatt, who still
considered himself the host of the party, fumed impotently. Chris
Kennedy swore lurid deeds of revenge under his breath, and Prenderby
and Abbershaw exchanged glances. Abbershaw smiled grimly. ‘I think
perhaps we had better take Watt’s suggestion,’ he said, and led the
way out of the hall.

Once in his room he found that their fears had been justified. His
belongings had been ransacked, his meticulously arranged suitcase
lying open on its side, and his clothes strewn in all directions. The
door of the big oak press with the carved front, which was built into
the wall and took up all one end of the room, stood open, its contents
all over the floor.

A wave of uncontrollable anger passed over him, and with that
peculiarly precise tidiness which was one of his most marked
characteristics he began methodically to put the room straight again.

Prisoners they might be, shots could be fired, and people could
disappear apparently into thin air, none of these could shake him, but
the sight of his belongings jumbled into this appalling confusion all
but unnerved him completely.

He packed up everything he possessed very neatly, and stowed it in the
press, then, slamming the heavy oaken door, he turned the key in the
lock, and thrust it into his pocket.

It was at this precise moment that an extraordinary mental revolution
took place in Abbershaw.

It happened as he put the cupboard key in his pocket; during the
actual movement he suddenly saw himself from the outside. He was
naturally a man of thought, not of action, and now for the first time
in his life he was thrust into a position where quick decisions and
impulsive actions were forced from him. So far, he realized suddenly,
he had always been a little late in grasping the significance of each
situation as it had arisen. This discovery horrified him, and in that
moment of enlightenment Dr George Abbershaw, the sober, deliberate man
of science, stepped into the background, and George Abbershaw the
impulsive, energetic enthusiast came forward to meet the case.

He did not lose his head, however. He realized that at the present
juncture infinite caution was vital. The next move must come from
Dawlish. Until that came they must wait patiently, ready to grasp at
the first chance of freedom. The present state of siege was only
tenable for a very short time. For a week-end Black Dudley might be
safe from visitors, tradespeople, and the like, but after Monday
inquiries must inevitably be made. Dawlish would have to act soon.

There was the affair of Albert Campion. Wyatt had been peculiarly
silent about him, and Abbershaw did not know what to make of it at
all. His impulse was to get the idiot back into their own circle at
all costs, but there was no telling if he had been removed or if he
had vanished of his own free will. No one knew anything about him.

Abbershaw went slowly out of the room and down the corridor to the
staircase, and was just about to descend when he heard the
unmistakable sound of a woman crying.

He paused to listen, and discovered that the noise came from behind a
door on his left.

He hesitated.

Half an hour before, a fear of being intrusive would have prevented
him from doing anything, but a very considerable change had taken
place in him in that time, and he listened again.

The sound continued.

The thought dawned upon him that it was Meggie; he fancied that this
was her room, and the idea of her alone and in distress banished his
last vestige of timidity and caution. He knocked at the door.

Her voice answered him.

‘It’s George,’ he said, almost defiantly. ‘Anything the matter?’

She was some seconds opening the door, and when at last she came he
saw that although she had hastily powdered her face the tear-stains
were still visible upon it.

For one moment Abbershaw felt that he was going to have a relapse into
his old staid self, but he overcame it and there was an expression of
fiery determination in his chubby round face which astonished the girl
so much that her surprise showed in her eyes. Abbershaw recognized it,
and it annoyed him.

In a flash he saw himself as she must have seen him all along, a
round, self-important little man, old for his years, inclined to be
pompous, perhaps – terrible thought – even fussy. A horrible sense of
humiliation swept over him and at the same time a growing desire to
teach her she was wrong, to show her that she had been mistaken, to
prove to her that he was a man to be reckoned with, a personality, a
man of action, vigorous, resourceful, a he-man, a . . . !

He drew a deep breath.

‘I can’t have you crying like this,’ he said, and picked her up and
kissed her.

Meggie could not have responded more gracefully. Whether it was
relief, shock, or simply the last blow to her tortured nerves, he
never knew, but she collapsed into his arms; at first he almost
thought she had fainted.

He led her firmly down the long corridor to the wide window-seat at
the far end. It was recessed, and hung with heavy curtains. He sat
down and drew her beside him, her head on his shoulder.

‘Now,’ he said, still bristling with his newly discovered confidence,
‘you’re going to escape from here tomorrow certainly, if not tonight,
and you’re going to marry me because I love you! I love you! I love
you!’

He paused breathlessly and waited, his heart thumping against his side
like a schoolboy’s.

Her face was hidden from him and she did not speak. For a moment the
awful thought occurred to him that she might be angry with him, or
even – laughing.

‘You – er – you will marry me?’ he said, a momentary anxiety creeping
into his tone. ‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ he went on, with a faint
return of his old primness. ‘I didn’t mean to, but I – I’m an
impetuous sort of fellow.’

Meggie stirred at his side, and as she lifted her face to him he saw
that she was flushed with laughter, but there was more than mere
amusement in her brown eyes. She put her arm round his neck and drew
his head down.

‘George, you’re adorable,’ she said. ‘I love you ridiculously, my
dear.’

A slow, warm glow spread all over Abbershaw. His heart lolloped in his
side, and his eyes danced.

He kissed her again. She lay against his breast very quiet, very
happy, but still a little scared.

He felt like a giant refreshed – after all, he reflected, his first
essay in his new role had been an unparalleled success.



CHAPTER XI

One Explanation

That evening, after tea had been served in ominous silence by the same
two men-servants who had waited at lunch, Michael Prenderby crossed
the room and spoke confidentially to Abbershaw.

‘I say,’ he said awkwardly, ‘poor old Jeanne has got the wind up
pretty badly. Do you think we’ve got an earthly chance of making a
bolt for it?’ He paused, and then went on again quickly, ‘Can’t we
hatch out a scheme of some sort? Between you and me, I’m feeling a bit
desperate.’

Abbershaw frowned.

‘We can’t do much at the moment, I’m afraid,’ he said slowly; but
added, as the boy’s expression grew more and more perturbed, ‘Look
here, come up and smoke a cigarette with me in my room and we’ll talk
it over.’

‘I’d like to.’ Prenderby spoke eagerly, and the two men slipped away
from the others and went quietly up to Abbershaw’s room.

As far as they could ascertain, Dawlish and the others had their
headquarters in the vast old apartment which had been Colonel Coombe’s
bedroom and the rooms immediately above and below it, into which there
seemed no entrance from any part of the house that they knew.

Even Wyatt could not help them with the geography of Black Dudley. The
old house had been first monastery, then farmstead, and finally a
dwelling-house, and in each period different alterations had been
made.

Besides, before the second marriage of his aunt, the enormous old
place had been shut up, and it was not until shortly before her death
that Wyatt first stayed at the place. Since then his visits had been
infrequent and never of a long enough duration to allow him to become
familiar with the numberless rooms, galleries, passages, and
staircases of which the place was composed.

Prenderby was getting nerves, his fiancée’s terror was telling on him,
and, of course, he knew considerably more of the ugly facts of the
situation than any one of the party save Abbershaw himself.

‘The whole thing seemed almost a joke this morning,’ he said
petulantly. ‘That old Hun might have been a music-hall turn then, but
I don’t mind confessing that I’ve got the wind up now. Hang it all,’
he went on bitterly, ‘we’re as far away from civilization here as we
should be if this was the seventeenth century. The modern “Majesty of
the Law” and all that has made us so certain of our own safety that
when a trap like this springs we’re fairly caught. Damn it, Abbershaw,
brute force is the only real power, anyway.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Abbershaw guardedly, ‘but it’s early yet. Some
opportunity is bound to crop up within the next twelve hours. I think
we shall see our two troublesome friends in gaol before we’re
finished.’

Prenderby glanced at him sharply.

‘You’re very optimistic, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘You talk as if
something distinctly promising had happened. Has it?’

George Abbershaw coughed.

‘In a way, yes,’ he said, and was silent. Now, he felt, was not the
moment to announce his engagement to Meggie.

They had reached the door of the bedroom by this time, and further
inquiries on Prenderby’s part were cut short by a sudden and arresting
phenomenon.

From inside the room came a series of extraordinary sounds – long,
high-pitched murmurs, intermingled with howls and curses, and
accompanied now and then by a sound of scuffling.

‘My God!’ said Prenderby. ‘What in the name of good fortune is that?’

Abbershaw did not answer him.

Clearly the move which he had been expecting had been made.

With all his new temerity he seized the door-latch and was about to
fling it up, when Prenderby caught his arm.

‘Go carefully! Go carefully!’ he said, with a touch of indignation in
his voice. ‘You don’t want to shove your head in it, whatever it is.
They’re armed, remember.’

The other nodded, and raising the latch very cautiously he thrust the
door gently open.

Prenderby followed him; both men were alert and tingling with
expectation.

The noise continued; it was louder than before, and sounded peculiarly
unearthly in that ghostly house.

Abbershaw was the first to peer round the door and look in.

‘Good Lord!’ he said at last, glancing back over his shoulder at
Prenderby, ‘there’s not a soul here.’

The two men burst into the room, and the noise, although muffled,
became louder still.

‘I say!’ said Prenderby, suddenly startled out of his annoyance, ‘it’s
in _there_!’

Abbershaw followed the direction of his hand and gasped.

The extraordinary sounds were indubitably proceeding from the great
oak press at the far end of the room – the wardrobe which he had
locked himself not two hours before and the key of which was still
heavy in his pocket. He turned to Michael.

‘Shut the door,’ he said. ‘Lock it, and take the key.’ Then he
advanced towards the cupboard.

Michael Prenderby stood with his back against the door of the room,
waiting.

Very gingerly Abbershaw fitted the huge iron key into the cupboard,
turned over the lock, and wrenched the door open, starting back
instantly.

The noise stopped abruptly.

There was a smothered exclamation from Prenderby and both men stood
back in utter amazement.

There, seated upon a heavy oaken shelf in a square cavity just large
enough to contain him, his hair over his eyes, his clothes
dishevelled, his inane face barely recognizable, was Mr Albert
Campion.

For several seconds he did not move, but sat blinking at them through
the lank strands of yellow hair over his eyes. Then it was that
Abbershaw’s memory revived.

In a flash it came to him where he had seen that vacuous, inoffensive
face before, and a slow expression of wonderment came into his eyes.

He did not speak, however, for at that moment Campion stirred, and
climbed stiffly out into the room.

‘No deception, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, with a wan attempt at
his own facetiousness. ‘All my own work.’

‘How the devil did you get in there?’ The words were Prenderby’s; he
had come forward, his eyes fixed upon the forlorn figure in child-like
astonishment.

‘Oh – influence, mostly,’ said Campion, and dropped into a chair. But
it was evident that a great deal of his spirit had left him. Obviously
he had been badly handled, there were crimson marks round his wrists,
and his shirt showed ragged beneath his jacket.

Prenderby opened his mouth to speak again, but a sign from Abbershaw
silenced him.

‘Dawlish got you, of course?’ he said, with an unwonted touch of
severity in his tone.

Mr Campion nodded.

‘Did they search you?’ Abbershaw persisted.

‘Search me?’ said he. A faintly weary expression came into the pale
eyes behind the large spectacles. ‘My dear sir, they almost had my
skin off in their investigations. That Hun talks like comic opera but
behaves like the Lord High Executioner. He nearly killed me.’ He took
his coat off as he spoke, and showed them a shirt cut to ribbons and
stained with blood from great weals across his back.

‘Good God!’ said Abbershaw. ‘Thrashed!’ Instantly his magisterial
manner vanished and he became the professional man with a case to
attend to.

‘Michael,’ he said, ‘there’s a white shirt amongst my things in that
cupboard, and water and boracic on the washstand. What happened?’ he
continued briefly, as Prenderby hurried to make all preparations for
dressing the man’s injuries.

Mr Campion stirred painfully.

‘As far as I can remember,’ he said weakly, ‘about four hundred years
ago I was standing by the fire-place talking to Anne What’s-her-name,
when suddenly the panel I was leaning against gave way, and the next
moment I was in the dark with a lump of sacking in my mouth.’ He
paused. ‘That was the beginning,’ he said. ‘Then I was hauled up
before old Boanerges and he put me through it pretty thoroughly; I
couldn’t convince him that I hadn’t got his packet of love-letters or
whatever it is that he’s making such a stink about. A more thorough
old bird in the questioning line I never met.’

‘So I should think,’ murmured Prenderby, who had now got Campion’s
shirt off and was examining his back.

‘When they convinced themselves that I was as innocent as a new-born
babe,’ continued the casualty, some of his old cheerfulness returning,
‘they gave up jumping on me and put me into a box-room and locked the
door.’ He sighed. ‘I sleuthed round for a bit,’ he went on, while they
listened to him eagerly. ‘The window was about two thousand feet from
the ground with a lot of natty ironwork on it – and finally, looking
round for a spot soft enough for me to lie down without yowling, I
perceived an ancient chest, under the other cardboard whatnots and
fancy basketwork about the place, and I opened it.’ He paused, and
drank the tooth-glass of water which Prenderby handed to him.

‘I thought some grandmotherly garment might be there,’ he continued.
‘Something I could make a bed of. All I found, however, was something
that I took to be a portion of an ancient bicycle – most unsuitable
for my purpose. I was so peeved that I jumped on it with malicious
intent, and immediately the whole show gave way and I made a neat but
effective exit through the floor. When I got the old brain working
again, I discovered that I was standing on the top of a flight of
steps, my head still half out of the chest. The machinery was the
ancients’ idea of a blind, I suppose. So I shut the lid of the trunk
behind me, and lighting a match toddled down the steps.’

He stopped again. The two men were listening to him intently.

‘I don’t see how you got into the cupboard, all the same,’ said
Prenderby.

‘Nor do I, frankly,’ said Mr Campion. ‘The steps stopped after a bit
and I was in a sort of tunnel – a ratty kind of place; the little
animals put the wind up me a bit – but eventually I crawled along and
came up against a door which opened inwards, got it open, and sneaked
out into your cupboard. That didn’t help me much,’ he added dryly. ‘I
didn’t know where I was, so I just sat there reciting “The Mistletoe
Bough” to myself, and confessing my past life – such sport!’ He
grinned at them and stopped. ‘That’s all,’ he said.

Abbershaw, who had been watching him steadily as he talked, came
slowly down the room and stood before him.

‘I’m sorry you had such a bad time,’ he said, and added very clearly
and distinctly, ‘but there’s really no need to keep up this bright
conversation, _Mr Mornington Dodd_.’

For some seconds Mr Campion’s pale eyes regarded Abbershaw blankly.
Then he started almost imperceptibly, and a slow smile spread over his
face.

‘So you’ve spotted me,’ he said, and, to Abbershaw’s utter amazement,
chuckled inanely. ‘But,’ went on Mr Campion cheerfully, ‘I assure you
you’re wrong about my magnetic personality being a disguise. There is
_absolutely no fraud_. I’m like this – always like this – my best
friends could tell me.’

This announcement took the wind out of Abbershaw’s sails; he had
certainly not expected it.

Mr Campion’s personality was a difficult one to take seriously; it was
not easy, for instance, to decide when he was lying and when he was
not. Abbershaw had reckoned upon his thrust going home, and although
it had obviously done so he did not seem to have gained any advantage
by it.

Prenderby, however, was entirely in the dark, and now he broke in upon
the conversation with curiosity.

‘Here, I say, I don’t get this,’ he said. ‘Who and what is Mr
Mornington Dodd?’

Abbershaw threw out his hand, indicating Mr Albert Campion.

‘That gentleman,’ he said, ‘is Mornington Dodd.’

Albert Campion smiled modestly. In spite of his obvious pain he was
still lively.

‘In a way yes, and in a way no,’ he said, fixing his eyes on
Abbershaw. ‘Mornington Dodd is one of my names. I have also been
called the “Honourable Tootles Ash”, which I thought was rather neat
when it occurred to me. Then there was a girl who used to call me
“Cuddles” and a man at the Guards Club called me something quite
different –’

‘Campion, this is not a joke.’ Abbershaw spoke sternly. ‘However many
and varied your aliases have been, now isn’t the time to boast of
them. We are up against something pretty serious now.’

‘My dear man, don’t I know it?’ said Mr Campion peevishly, indicating
the state of his shoulders. ‘Even better than you do, I should think,’
he said dryly.

‘Now look here,’ said Abbershaw, whose animosity could not but be
mollified by this extraordinary naïveté, ‘you know something about
this business, Campion – that is your name, I suppose?’

‘Well – er – no,’ said the irrepressible young man. ‘But,’ he added,
dropping his voice a tone, ‘my own is rather aristocratic, and I never
use it in business. Campion will do quite well.’

Abbershaw smiled in spite of himself.

‘Very well, then, Mr Campion,’ he said, ‘as I remarked before, you
know something about this business, and you’re going to tell us here
and now. But my dear lad, consider,’ he went on as the other
hesitated, ‘we’re all in the same boat. You, I presume, are as anxious
to get away as anyone. And whereas I am intensely interested in
bringing Dawlish and his confederates to justice, there is no other
delinquency that I am concerned with. I am not a policeman.’

Mr Campion beamed. ‘Is that so?’ he inquired.

‘Certainly it is,’ said Abbershaw. ‘I am a consultant only as far as
the Yard is concerned.’

Mr Campion looked vastly relieved.

‘That’s rather cheered me up,’ he said. ‘I liked you. When I saw you
pottering with your car I thought, “There’s a little joss who might be
quite good fun if he once got off the lead”, and when you mentioned
Scotland Yard just now all that good impression just faded away.’

He paused, and Abbershaw cut in quickly.

‘This doesn’t get us very far,’ he said quietly, ‘does it? You know
the explanation of this extraordinary outrage. Let’s have it.’

Mr Campion regarded him frankly.

‘You may not believe me,’ he said, ‘but I don’t know quite what
they’re driving at even now. But there’s something pretty serious
afoot, I can tell you that.’

It was obvious that he was telling the truth, but Abbershaw was not
satisfied.

‘Well, anyway, you know one thing,’ he said. ‘Why are you here? You
just admitted yourself it was on business.’

‘Oh, it was,’ agreed Campion, ‘most decidedly. But not my business.
Let me explain.’

‘I wish to God you would,’ said Prenderby, who was utterly out of his
depth.

‘Well then, chicks, Uncle Albert speaking.’ Campion leant forward, his
expression more serious than his words. ‘Perhaps I ought to give you
some little idea of my profession. I live, like all intelligent
people, by my wits, and although I have often done things that mother
wouldn’t like, I have remembered her parting words and have never been
vulgar. To cut it short, in fact, I do almost anything within reason –
for a reasonable sum, but nothing sordid or vulgar – quite definitely
nothing vulgar.’

He glanced at Abbershaw, who nodded, and then went on.

‘In this particular case,’ he said, ‘I was approached in London last
week by a man who offered me a very decent sum to get myself included
as unobtrusively as possible into the house-party this week-end and
then to seize the first opportunity I could get to speaking to my
host, the Colonel, alone. I was to make sure that we were alone. Then
I was to go up to him, murmur a password in his ear, and receive from
him a package which I was to bring to London immediately – unopened. I
was warned, of course,’ he continued, looking up at Abbershaw. ‘They
told me I was up against men who would have no compunction in killing
me to prevent me getting away with the package, but I had no idea who
the birds were going to be or I shouldn’t have come for any money. In
fact when I saw them at dinner on the first night I nearly cut the
whole job right out and bunked back to town.’

‘Why? Who are they?’ said Abbershaw.

Mr Campion looked surprised.

‘Good Lord, don’t you know?’ he demanded. ‘And little George a
Scotland Yard expert, too. Jesse Gideon calls himself a solicitor. As
a matter of fact he’s rather a clever fence. And the Hun is no one
else but Eberhard von Faber himself.’

Prenderby still looked blank, but Abbershaw started.

‘The “_Trois Pays_” man?’ he said quickly.

‘And “_Der Schwarzbund_”. And “The Chicago Junker”, and now our own
little “0072” at the Yard,’ said Mr Campion, and there was no
facetiousness in his tone.

‘This means nothing to me,’ said Prenderby.

Mr Campion opened his mouth to speak, but Abbershaw was before him.

‘It means, Michael,’ he said, with an inflection in his voice which
betrayed the gravity in which he viewed the situation, ‘that this man
controls organized gangs of crooks all over Europe and America, and he
has the reputation of being utterly ruthless and diabolically clever.
It means we are up against the most dangerous and notorious criminal
of modern times.’



CHAPTER XII

‘Furthermore . . .’ said Mr Campion

After the little silence that followed Abbershaw’s announcement,
Prenderby spoke.

‘What’s in this mysterious package they’ve lost?’ he said.

Abbershaw looked at Mr Campion inquiringly.

‘Perhaps you could tell us that,’ he said pointedly.

Albert Campion’s vacuous face became even more blank than usual.

‘I don’t know much about it,’ he said. ‘My client didn’t go into all
that, naturally. But I can tell you this much, it’s something sewn in
the lining of a red leather wallet. It felt to me like paper – might
have been a couple of fivers, of course – but I shouldn’t think so.’

‘How do you know?’ said Prenderby quietly.

Mr Campion turned to him cheerfully.

‘Oh, I collected the doings all right,’ he said, ‘and I should have
got away with them if little George here hadn’t been a car fiend.’

Abbershaw frowned.

‘I think you’d better explain,’ he said.

‘Explain?’ said Mr Campion. ‘My dear chicks, there was nothing in it.
As soon as I saw old Uncle Ben and his friends at the table my idea
was to get the package and then beat it, manners or no manners, so
when the story of the Ritual came up I thought “and very nice too” and
suggested the game. Then while all you people were playing “Bats in
the Belfry” with the ancestral skewer, I toddled over to the old boy,
whispered “Inky-Pinky” in his ear, got the wallet, and made a beeline
for the garage.’

He paused and sighed.

‘It was all very exhilarating,’ he went on easily. ‘My only trouble
was that I was afraid that the wretched game would come to an end
before I got away. With great presence of mind, therefore, I locked
the door leading to the servants’ quarters so that any serenade on the
dinner gong would not bring out the torchlight procession immediately.
Then I toddled off down the passage, out of the side door, across the
garden, and arrived all girlish with triumph at the garage and walked
slap-bang into our Georgie looking like an illustration out of _How to
Drive in Three Parts, Send No Money_.’

He stopped and eyed Abbershaw thoughtfully.

‘I got the mental machinery to function with a great effort,’ he
continued, ‘and when I had it ticking over nicely I said to myself,
“Shall I tonk this little cove on the cranium, and stuff him under the
seat? Or shall I leap past him, seize the car, and go home on it?” And
neither stunt seemed really promising. If I bunked, I reasoned, George
would rouse the house or chase me in one of the other cars. I couldn’t
afford to risk either just then. The only other expedient therefore
was to tonk him, and the more I looked at him the less I liked the
notion. Georgie is a sturdy little fellow, a pugnacious little cove,
who might quite easily turn out to be a fly-weight champ, somewhere or
other. If I was licked I was absolutely sunk, and even if I won we
were bound to make a hell of a noise and I was most anxious not to
have any attention focused on me while I had that pocket-book.’

‘So you came back to the house with me meaning to slip out later?’
said Abbershaw.

‘George has made the bell ring – three more shots or a packet of Gold
Flake,’ said Mr Campion facetiously. ‘Of course I did; and I should
have got away. All would have been as merry as a wedding bell, in
fact,’ he went on more sadly, ‘if that Anne woman had not decided that
I was just the sort of harmless mutt to arouse jealousy safely with Mr
Kennedy without giving trouble myself. I couldn’t escape her – she
clung. So I had to wait until I thought everyone would be asleep, and
then, just as I was sneaking out of my room, that precious mock butler
of theirs came for me with a gun. I knocked it out of his hand, and
then he started to jump on me. They must have rumbled by that time
that the old boy had got rid of the packet, and were on the look-out
for anyone trying a moonlight flit.’

He paused, a faintly puzzled expression passed over his face. ‘I could
have sworn he got the packet,’ he said; ‘anyway, in the fight I lost
it. And that’s the one thing that’s really worrying me at the moment –
what has happened to that wallet? For if the man who calls himself
Dawlish doesn’t get what he wants, I think we are all of us for a
pretty parroty time.’

He stopped and looked at Abbershaw steadily.

‘It doesn’t seem to be of any negotiable value,’ he said, ‘and as far
as I can see, the only people who are interested in it are my client
and Dawlish, but I can tell you one thing. It does interest them very
much, and to get hold of it I don’t believe they’d stick at anything.’

‘But what was it?’ persisted Prenderby, who was more puzzled than ever
by these explanations.

Campion shook his head.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘unless it was the Chart of the Buried
Treasure, don’t you know.’

Abbershaw got up from his chair and paced slowly up and down the room.

‘There’s only one weak spot in your story, Campion,’ he said suddenly.
‘It sounds like Gospel apart from that. But there is one thing I don’t
understand. It’s this: Why didn’t you have a revolver on you when you
came out into the garage?’

‘Answered in one,’ said Mr Campion. ‘Because I hadn’t one: I never
carry guns.’

‘Do you mean to say that you set out on an infernally dangerous game
like this without one?’ Abbershaw’s voice was incredulous.

Mr Campion became momentarily grave.

‘It’s a fact,’ he said simply. ‘I’m afraid of them. Horrible things –
guns. Always feel they might go off in a fit of temper and I should be
left with the body. And no bag to put it in either. Then poor little
Albert would be in the soup.’ He shuddered slightly.

‘Let’s talk about something else,’ he said. ‘I can keep up my pecker
in the face of anything else but a corpse.’

Prenderby and Abbershaw exchanged glances, and Abbershaw turned to
where the young man with the tow-coloured hair and the unintelligent
smile sat beaming at them through his glasses.

‘Campion,’ he said, ‘you know, of course, that Colonel Coombe died
last night? Do you know how he died?’

Mr Campion looked surprised.

‘Heart, wasn’t it?’ he said. ‘I thought the old bird had been
scratching round the grave for the last year or so.’

Abbershaw’s expression did not change.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘if that is all you know it may surprise you to hear
that he was murdered – while the Dagger Ritual was going on.’

‘Murdered!’

Every trace of frivolity had vanished from Albert Campion’s face.
There was no mistaking the fact that the news had appalled him, and he
looked at Abbershaw with undisguised horror in his pale eyes.

‘Murdered?’ he repeated. ‘How do you know?’

‘I saw him,’ said Abbershaw simply. ‘They wanted a signature on the
cremation certificate, and got me in for it. They wouldn’t let me
examine the body, but I saw the face and neck and I also saw his
invalid chair.’ His eyes were fixed on Campion the whole time he was
speaking. ‘Then there was the dagger itself,’ he said. ‘There was
blood on the dagger, and blood on the cushions of the chair, but even
if I had not known of these, the body, though I saw so little of it,
would have convinced me that he had been murdered. As perhaps you
know,’ he went on, ‘it is my job to explain how men die, and as soon
as I saw that dead grey face with the depleted veins I knew that he
had died of some wound. Something that would bleed very freely. I
should say it was a stab in the back, myself.’

The change in Mr Campion was extraordinary; he pulled himself together
with an effort.

‘This is horrible,’ he said. ‘I suppose they got him when they
discovered that he had parted with the package. Pretty quick work,’ he
added thoughtfully. ‘I wonder how they rumbled him so soon.’

There was silence for a moment or two after he had spoken, then
Prenderby looked up.

‘The store they set by that package must be enormous, on the face of
it,’ he said. ‘Clearly they’ll do anything for it. I wonder what their
next move will be?’

‘He’s searched our rooms,’ said Abbershaw, ‘and I believe he intended
to lock us in the dining-room and search us immediately after, but his
experiences in the bedrooms taught him the utter impossibility of ever
making a thorough search of a house like this. It couldn’t be done in
the time he had at his disposal. I think he realizes that his only
chance of getting hold of what he wants is to terrorize us until
someone hands it over.’

‘Then I hope to goodness whoever has got it gets the wind up soon,’
said Prenderby.

Campion nodded and sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed. ‘I expect
he’ll have you people up one at a time and bully the truth out of you
until he gets what he wants,’ he said.

‘For a great crook he hasn’t proved very methodical, so far,’ said
Abbershaw. ‘He might have known from the first that there’d be no
point in churning everybody’s clothes up.’

Albert Campion leaned forward. ‘You know, you fellows don’t understand
this bright specimen of German culture,’ he said, with more gravity
than was usual in his falsetto voice. ‘He’s not used to little details
of this sort. He’s the laddie at the top – the big fellow. He just
chooses his men carefully and then says, “You do this”, and they do
it. He doesn’t go chasing round the country opening safes or pinching
motor-cars. I don’t believe he even plans the _coups_ himself. He just
buys criminal brains, supplies the finance, and takes the profits.
That’s why I can’t understand him being here. There must have been
something pretty big afoot, or he’d have had a minion in for it. Gosh!
I wish I was well out of it.’

Abbershaw and Prenderby echoed his wish devoutly in their hearts, and
Prenderby was the first to speak.

‘I wonder whom he’ll start on first,’ he said thoughtfully.

Campion’s pale eyes flickered.

‘I fancy I could tell you that,’ he said. ‘You see, when they couldn’t
get anything out of me, except banalities, they decided that I was
about the fool I looked, and just before a couple of thugs, armed to
the teeth, bundled me off to the box-room, I heard a certain amount of
what they said. Jesse Gideon had apparently gone carefully over the
crowd, and prepared a dossier about each one of us. I came first on
the list of people about which nothing was known, and the next was a
girl. She wasn’t a friend of Petrie’s apparently, and the enemy
couldn’t place her at all.’

‘Who – who was that?’

Abbershaw was staring at the speaker, his eyes grown suddenly hard. A
terrible apprehension had sent the colour to his face. Campion glanced
at him curiously.

‘That red-haired girl who met us in the passage when we came back from
the garage. What’s her name – Oliphant, isn’t it? Meggie Oliphant.
She’s the next to be for it, I believe.’



CHAPTER XIII

Abbershaw Sees Red

‘My God, Abbershaw, he was right! They’ve got her!’

Ten minutes after Mr Campion had first suggested that Meggie might be
the next victim, Prenderby ran into Abbershaw in the corridor outside
the girl’s room. ‘I’ve been all over the house,’ he said. ‘The girls
say that she went up to her room an hour ago to lie down. Now there’s
not a sign of her about.’

Abbershaw did not speak.

In the last few minutes his face had lost much of its cherubic calm.
An entirely new emotion had taken possession of him. He was wildly,
unimaginably angry.

Never, in all his life before, had he experienced anything that could
compare with it, and even as Prenderby watched him he saw the last
traces of the cautious methodical expert vanish and the new,
impulsive, pugnacious fighter come into being.

‘Michael,’ he said suddenly, ‘keep an eye on Campion. His story may be
absolutely true – it sounds like it – but we can’t afford to risk
anything. Keep him up in my room so that he can hide in the passage if
need be. You’ll have to smuggle food up to him somehow. Cheer the
others up if you can.’ Prenderby looked at him anxiously.

‘What are you going to do?’ he said.

Abbershaw set his teeth.

‘I’m going to see them,’ he said. ‘There’s been enough of this mucking
about. There is going to be some sort of understanding, anyway. Damn
it all! They’ve got my girl!’ Turning on his heel he strode off down
the passage.

A green-baize door cut off that portion of the house where Dawlish had
established his headquarters. He passed through it without any
interruption, and reached the door of the room that had once been
Colonel Coombe’s bedchamber.

He tapped on it loudly, and it was opened immediately by a man he had
never seen before, a heavy bull of a fellow whom he guessed to be one
of the servants.

‘What do you want?’ he demanded suspiciously.

‘Mr Dawlish,’ said Abbershaw, and attempted to push past him.

A single blow, violent as a mule kick, sent him flying back against
the opposite wall of the corridor, and the giant glowered at him.

‘Nobody comes in ’ere,’ he said. ‘Mr Dawlish isn’t seeing anybody for
another hour at least,’ he added with a laugh that sent Abbershaw cold
as he grasped its inference.

‘Look here,’ he said, ‘this is very important. I must get in to Mr
Dawlish. Does this interest you?’

He drew a notecase from his pocket as he spoke. The man advanced
towards him and stood glaring down at him, his heavy red face darker
than ever with anger.

Suddenly his hand shot out and Abbershaw’s throat was encased in a
band of steel.

‘You just ’aven’t realized, you and your lot downstairs, what you’re
playing about wiv,’ he said. ‘This ’ere isn’t no Sunday School
hunt-the-thimble-set-out. There’s nine of us, we’re armed, and _he_
isn’t jokin’.’ The hand round Abbershaw’s throat tightened as the thug
thrust his face close against his victim’s.

‘’E ain’t ordered about by nobody. Makes ’is own laws, ’e does. _As_
you’ll soon find out. At the moment ’e’s busy – talking to a lady. And
when ’e’s done wiv ’er I’ll take your message in to ’im and not
before. Now get out – if I ’aven’t killed yer.’

On the last words he flung the half-strangled Abbershaw away from him
as if he had been a terrier, and, re-entering the room, slammed the
door behind him, shooting home the bolts.

Abbershaw scrambled to his feet, flung himself against the door,
beating it with his hands, in a paroxysm of fury.

At last he paused in despair: the heavy oak would have withstood a
battering ram. He stood back, helpless and half-maddened with
apprehension for Meggie’s safety.

Then from somewhere far away he fancied he heard a muffled cry.

The effect upon him was instantaneous. His impotent fury vanished and
he became once more cold and reasoning. His one chance of saving her
was to get round the other way: to break in upon Dawlish’s inquisition
from an unguarded point, and, once there, declare all he knew about
the red wallet and the fate of its contents, regardless of the revenge
the German would inevitably take.

Campion had been imprisoned conceivably somewhere near the room where
Dawlish had dealt with him. It was just possible, therefore, that the
passage through the cupboard would lead him to Meggie.

He turned quickly: there was no time to be lost; even now Dawlish
might be trying some of the same methods of urging a confession as he
had employed upon Campion earlier in the day. The thought sickened him
and he dashed down the passage into his own room.

Brushing the astonished Campion aside, he threw open the cupboard door
and pressed against the back of the shelf steadily.

It gave before his weight and swung open, revealing a dark cavity
behind.

He took out his pocket torch and flashed it in front of him. The
passage was wood-lined and very dusty. Doubtless it had not been used
for years before Campion stumbled upon it by chance that afternoon.

It was narrow also, admitting only just enough space for a man to pass
along it, crawling on his hands and knees. But Abbershaw set off down
it eagerly.

The air was almost unbearably musty, and there was a scuttling of rats
in front of him as he crawled on, shining the torch ahead of him as he
went. At length he reached the steps of which Campion had spoken. They
were steep and solid, leading straight up into the darkness which had
opened above his head.

He mounted them cautiously, and a moment later found himself cut off
by an apparently solid floor over him.

A closer examination, however, showed a catch, which, upon being
released, allowed the trap to drop slowly open, so that he had to
retreat some steps in order to avoid its catching him.

The machinery which Campion had referred to as a ‘piece of old
bicycle’ was in fact an ancient iron device, worked with a pedal, for
opening the trap. As soon as he had lifted this hatch, Abbershaw
hauled himself into the open space above it which he knew must be the
chest itself. The lid was down, and he waited for some moments,
breathless, listening. He could hear nothing, however, save the
scuffling of the rats behind him, and at length, very cautiously, he
put his hands above his head, pressed the lid up an inch or two, and
peered out.

No one appeared to be about, and he climbed silently out of the box.
He was in a longish vaulted room, one of the relics of the days when
Black Dudley had been a monastery. Its stone walls were unpanelled,
and a small window high up was closely barred. It was, as Campion had
said, used as a box-room, and filled with lumber of every description.

Abbershaw looked round eagerly for a door, and saw it built almost
next door to the fire-place in the wall opposite him.

It was small, iron, hinged, and very heavy.

He tried it cautiously, and found to his relief that it was unlocked.
So Campion’s escape had been discovered, he reflected, and went
warily. He let himself out cautiously; he had no desire to be
apprehended before he reached Dawlish himself.

The door opened out on to a small stone landing in which were two
similar doors. A steep spiral staircase descended almost at his feet.

He listened attentively, but there was no sound, and he decided that
Dawlish’s inquisition could not be taking place on that floor. He
turned down the steps, therefore, treading softly and hugging the
wall. Once round the first bend, he heard a sound which made him
stiffen and catch his breath – the muffled murmur of voices somewhere
quite close. He went on eagerly, his ears strained to catch the first
recognizable word.

The stairs ended abruptly in a small oak door to the right of which a
narrow passage led off into the darkness.

Through the door he could hear clearly Dawlish’s deep German voice
raised menacingly.

Abbershaw took a deep breath, and pressing up the latch, carefully
pushed the door open. It swung silently on well-greased hinges, and he
passed through it expecting to find himself in the Colonel’s bedroom.

To his surprise he came out into what appeared to be a large cupboard.
The air in it was insufferably hot, and it dawned upon him that he was
in one of those hiding-places that are so often to be found in the
sides of ancient fire-places. Doubtless it was just such another cache
that had swallowed up Campion when he disappeared off the hearth-rug
in the hall. Perhaps the mysterious passage behind him led directly
down to that great sombre room.

From where he stood, every sound in the room without was distinctly
audible.

Dawlish’s voice, bellowing with anger, sounded suddenly quite near to
where he stood.

‘Speak!’ it said. ‘What do you know? All of it – all of it. Keep
nothing back.’ And then, explosively, as if he had turned back to
someone else in the room – ‘Stop her crying – make her speak.’

There was a soft, short, unmistakable sound, and Meggie screamed. A
blinding flash of red passed before Abbershaw’s eyes, and he hurled
himself against the wooden panel nearest him. It gave way before him,
and he shot out into the midst of Dawlish’s inquiry like a hand
grenade.



CHAPTER XIV

Abbershaw Gets His Interview

When Abbershaw picked himself up he discovered that he was not in
Colonel Coombe’s bedroom as he had supposed, but in a smaller and more
luxurious apartment presumably leading off it.

It was lined with books, and had been used apparently as a study or
library.

At a heavy oak table-desk set across one end sat Dawlish, his face
mask-like as ever, and his ponderous hands resting among the papers in
front of him.

Before him stood Jesse Gideon, looking down at Meggie, who sat on a
chair; a man Abbershaw had never seen before leaning over her.

She had been crying, but in spite of her evident terror there was a
vestige of spirit in her narrow brown eyes, and she held herself
superbly.

Abbershaw’s somewhat precipitate entrance startled everybody, and he
was on his feet again before Dawlish spoke.

The German’s dull, expressionless eyes rested on his face.

‘You,’ he said, in his peculiarly stilted English. ‘How foolish you
are. Since you have come out of your turn you may stay. Sit down.’

As the young man stared at him he repeated the last words violently,
but without any movement or gesture.

The man was almost unbelievably immobile.

Abbershaw remained where he was.

His anger was slowly getting the better of him, and he stood there
stiffly, his flaming red hair on end and his round face white and set.

‘I insist that you listen to me,’ he said. ‘This terrorizing of women
has got to stop. What are you gaining by it, anyway? Have you learnt
anything of value to you from this girl?’ His voice rose
contemptuously. ‘Of course you haven’t. You’re making fools of
yourselves.’

The German looked at him steadily, unblinkingly, not a muscle of his
face moved.

‘Gideon,’ he said, ‘tell me, who is this foolish red-headed young man
who so loves to hear his own voice?’

Gideon glided forward obsequiously and stood beside the desk, his grey
face and glittering eyes hideous beneath his white hair. He used his
hands as he talked, emphasizing his words with graceful fluttering
gestures.

‘His name is George Abbershaw,’ he said. ‘He is a doctor of medicine,
a pathologist, an expert upon external wounds and abrasions with
especial regard to their causes. In this capacity he has been often
consulted by Scotland Yard. As a university friend of Wyatt Petrie’s,
there is no reason to suppose that he came here with any ulterior
motive.’

The German continued to regard Abbershaw steadily.

‘He is not a detective, _ja_?’

‘No.’ Gideon spoke emphatically. ‘That is obvious. English detectives
are a race apart. They are evident at the first glance. No one who
knew anything about the English Police Force could possibly suspect Dr
Abbershaw of holding any rank in it.’

The German grunted.

‘So,’ he said, and returned to Abbershaw, ‘you are just an ordinary
headstrong young man who, like the others downstairs, is under the
impression that this affair is a melodrama which has been especially
devised in order that they may have the opportunity of posing
heroically before the young ladies of your party. This is an old
house, suitable for such gaming, but I, one of the chief actors in
your theatre, I am not playing.’

He paused, and Abbershaw was conscious of a faint change in his face,
although he did not appear to have moved a muscle.

‘What does it matter to me,’ he continued, ‘if you hide yourselves in
priestholes or spring upon me out of cupboards? Climb from one room to
another, my friend, make yourself dusty in disused passages, attempt
to run your motor-cars upon alcohol: it does me no harm. My only
interest is in a package I have lost – a thing that can be of no use
to anyone but myself and possibly one other man in the world. It is
because I believe that there is in this house someone who is in the
employ of that other man that I am keeping you all here until I
recover my property.’

The dull, rasping voice stopped for a moment, and Abbershaw was about
to speak when Dawlish again silenced him.

‘To recover that property,’ he repeated, ‘at _whatever cost_. I am not
playing a game. I am not jumping out of cupboards in an attempt to be
heroic. I am not pretending. I think the boy who attempted to drive
off in his motor-car and the madman who escaped from the room upstairs
where I had locked him understood me. The girl here, too, should begin
to understand by now. And the rest of you shall be convinced even as
they have been.’

Abbershaw’s anger had by no means died down under this harangue, and
when he spoke his voice was frigid and very formal.

‘If you carry out those threats, Herr Eberhard von Faber,’ he said,
‘you will be wasting your time.’

Gideon started violently at the name, but the German did not appear
even to have heard.

‘I had your packet,’ Abbershaw continued bitingly.

They were listening intently, and he fancied he discerned a change in
Dawlish’s dull eyes.

‘And in the morning before you had the audacity to place us under this
restraint I destroyed it in the grate in my bedroom.’ He paused,
breathless; the truth was out now, they could do what they liked with
him.

The German’s reply came, very cold and as contemptuous as his own.

‘In the present situation you cannot expect to be believed,’ he said.
‘Do not they tell me after every crime in which great public interest
is taken at least four or five imbeciles approach the police,
confessing to it? Forgive me if I say that you remind me of one of
those imbeciles, Dr Abbershaw.’

He laughed on the last word, and the effect of the deep-throated
chuckle emerging from that still expressionless face was curiously
inhuman.

Abbershaw thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out the red wallet.
To his astonishment neither Dawlish nor his two subordinates betrayed
any sign of recognition, and with a feeling approaching dismay he
realized that this was not what they had visualized as the container
of the thing they sought. He opened it, drew out his own papers, and
laid the case upon the desk in front of the German.

‘The papers you were looking for were sewn inside the lining of this
wallet,’ he said. ‘I ripped them out and destroyed them.’

There was silence for a moment after he had spoken, and Gideon leant
forward and picked up the case in his pale, exquisitely tapering
fingers.

‘It is too small,’ he pronounced at last, turning to the German.

Dawlish spoke without taking his eyes off Abbershaw. It was impossible
to tell what he was thinking.

‘If you are not lying, young man with red hair,’ he said, ‘will you
explain to me why you saw fit to destroy the papers that were
concealed in that pocket-case? Did you read them?’

‘They were in code,’ said Abbershaw sullenly.

Gideon shot a swift glance at him under his bushy eyebrows, and then
turned to Dawlish.

‘Code?’ he said. Still the German did not look at him, but remained
staring at Abbershaw unblinkingly.

‘There may have been a code message in the wallet,’ he said, ‘and you
may have destroyed it. But I do not think it is likely that it had
anything to do with my business down here; unless . . .’

For the first time during that conversation he turned to Gideon.
‘Coombe,’ he said, and there was sullen ferocity in his tone, ‘he may
have succeeded at last.’

Gideon started.

‘Double-crossed?’ he said, and his voice died away in a question.

‘We don’t know.’

The German spoke fiercely. ‘I have no faith in this young fool’s story
– he’s only concerned with the girl. Is Whitby back yet?’

‘No,’ said Gideon. ‘We can’t expect him yet.’

‘So.’ Dawlish nodded. ‘We must keep them till he comes. He may be able
to recognize this case. Whose initials are these?’

‘Mine,’ said Abbershaw. ‘You’ll find that they are clipped on at the
back. I put them on myself.’

Gideon smiled.

‘A very singular thing to do, Dr Abbershaw,’ he said. ‘And may I ask
where you got this wallet?’

Abbershaw hesitated. For the moment he was in a quandary. If he told
the truth he could hardly help incriminating Campion, and in view of
that young man’s present condition it was inhuman to betray him.

‘I found it,’ he said at last, realizing at once how lame the
explanation must sound. Gideon shrugged his shoulders. ‘This man is
wasting our time,’ he said. ‘No, it is Petrie you should examine, as I
have told you all along. He’s just the type _they_ would choose. What
shall we do with these two?’

‘Put them in the other room – not the one the young lunatic got out
of,’ said Dawlish. ‘You came through the passage from the fire-place
in the hall, I suppose,’ he added, turning heavily to Abbershaw, who
nodded. ‘We must wait for Whitby to see this case,’ he continued,
‘then we will consider what is to be done.’

The stranger who had been standing at Meggie’s side laid a hand on her
shoulder.

‘Come,’ he said, jerking her to her feet.

Abbershaw turned on him furiously, only to find a revolver pressed
against his ribs. They were heading towards the staircase behind the
fire-place by which he had come, but when they reached the threshold
Dawlish spoke again.

‘Dr Abbershaw,’ he said, ‘come here.’

Unwillingly, the young man turned and stood before the desk, looking
down at the florid Teutonic face with the dull corpse-like eyes.

‘So you are an expert often referred to by Scotland Yard.’

The German spoke with curious deliberation.

‘I have heard of you. Your name has been mentioned in several cases
which have interested me deeply. You gave evidence in the
Waterside-Birbeck murder, didn’t you?’

Abbershaw nodded.

‘And in the Sturges affair?’

‘Yes.’

‘Had it not been for you, Newman would never have been hanged?’

‘Very probably not.’

A slightly deeper colour seemed to flood the expressionless face.

‘Three of my best men,’ he said. ‘I am very glad to have met you, Dr
Abbershaw. Put them in the small room, Wendon, and lock the door very
carefully. When I have a little more time to speak I have promised
myself another interview with you, Dr Abbershaw.’



CHAPTER XV

Doctor Abbershaw’s Deductions

The room into which Meggie and Abbershaw were thrust so
unceremoniously in the middle of the night was one of the three which
opened out on to the small winding staircase leading down to Colonel
Coombe’s study.

It was comparatively empty, containing only a pile of disused
tapestries and old curtains, two or three travelling trunks and a
chair.

Here, as in the other room, the window was high up in the wall and
iron-barred. There was a second door in the room but it appeared to be
heavily bolted on the other side. Abbershaw made a thorough
investigation of the room with his torch, and then decided that escape
was impossible, and they sat down on the tapestry in silence.

Until now they had not spoken very much, save for a brief account from
Abbershaw of his interview with Campion and his journey through the
passage from his cupboard. Meggie’s story was simpler. She had been
seized on her way up to her room and dragged off through the
green-baize door to be questioned.

Neither felt that much was to be gained from talking. The German had
convinced them of the seriousness of their position, and Abbershaw was
overcome with self-reproach for what he could only feel was his own
fault. Meggie was terrified but much too plucky to show it.

As the utter silence of the darkness descended upon them, however, the
girl laid her hand on Abbershaw’s arm. ‘We’ll be all right,’ she
murmured. ‘It was wonderful of you to come and get me out like that.’

Abbershaw laughed bitterly. ‘I didn’t get you very far,’ he said.

The girl peered at him through the shadow.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It’s better up here than it was down
there.’

Abbershaw took her hand and spoke with unusual violence. ‘My God, they
didn’t hurt you?’ he said.

‘Oh no, nothing much.’

It was evident from her voice that she was trying to make light of a
terrible experience. ‘I was frightened more than hurt,’ she said, ‘but
it was good to see you. Who are they, George? What are they doing
here? What’s it all about?’

Abbershaw covered his face with his hands and groaned in the darkness.

‘I could kick myself,’ he said. ‘It’s all my fault. I did an absurd, a
foolhardy, lunatic thing when I destroyed those papers. I didn’t
realize whom we were up against.’

The girl caught her breath.

‘Then what you said was true?’ she said. ‘You did destroy what they
are looking for?’

‘Yes.’ Abbershaw spoke savagely. ‘I’ve behaved like an idiot all the
way through,’ he said. ‘I’ve been too clever by half, and now I’ve got
you, of all people – the person I’d rather die than see any harm come
to – into this appalling situation. I hit on the truth,’ he went on,
‘but only half of it, and like a fool I acted upon my belief without
being sure. Oh, my God, what a fool I’ve been!’

The girl stirred beside him and laid her head on his shoulders, her
weight resting in the hollow of his arm. ‘Tell me,’ she said.

Abbershaw was only too glad to straighten out his own thoughts in
speech, and he began softly, keeping his voice down lest there should
be listeners on the landing behind the bolted door.

‘It was Colonel Coombe’s murder that woke me up,’ he said. ‘And then,
when I saw the body and realized that the plate across his face was
unneeded and served as a disguise, I realized then that it was crooks
we had to deal with, and casting about in my mind I arrived at
something – not quite the truth – but very near it.’

He paused and drew the girl closer to him.

‘It occurred to me that Dawlish and Gideon might very well be part of
the famous Simister gang – the notorious bank thieves of the States.
The descriptions of two of the leaders seemed to tally very well, and
like a fool I jumped to the conclusion that they were the Simister
gangsters. So that when the documents came into my hands I guessed
what they were.’

The girl looked at him.

‘What were they?’ she said.

Abbershaw hesitated.

‘I don’t want to lay down the law this time,’ he said, ‘but I don’t
see how I can be wrong. In these big gangs of crooks the science of
thieving has been brought to such perfection that their internal
management resembles a gigantic business concern more than anything
else. Modern criminal gangs are not composed of amateurs – each man
has his own particular type of work at which he is an expert. That is
why the police experience such difficulty in bringing to justice the
man actually responsible for a crime, and not merely capturing the
comparatively innocent catspaw who performs the actual thieving.’

He paused, and the girl nodded in the darkness. ‘I see,’ she said.

Abbershaw went on, his voice sunk to a whisper.

‘Very big gangs, like Simister’s, carry this cooperative spirit to an
extreme,’ he continued, ‘and in more cases than one a really big
robbery is planned and worked out to the last detail by a man who may
be hundreds of miles away from the scene of the crime when it is
committed. A man with an ingenious criminal brain, therefore, can
always sell his wares without being involved in any danger whatsoever.
The thing I found was, I feel perfectly sure, a complete crime, worked
out to the last detail by the hand of a master. It may have been a
bank robbery, but of that I’m not sure. It was written in code, of
course, and it was only from the few plans included in the mass of
written matter – and my suspicions – that I got a hint of what it
was.’

Meggie lifted her head.

‘But would they write it down?’ she said. ‘Would they risk that?’

Abbershaw hesitated.

‘I admit that worried me at first,’ he said, ‘but consider the
circumstances. Here is an organization, enormous in its resources, but
every movement of which is bound to be carried out in absolute
secrecy. A lot of people sneer at the efficiency of Scotland Yard, but
not those who have ever had cause to come up against it. Imagine an
organization like this, captained by a mind simple, forceful, and
eminently sensible. A mind that only grasps one thing at a time, but
which deals with that one thing down to the last detail, with the
thoroughness of a Hun.’

‘Dawlish?’ said Meggie.

Abbershaw nodded in the darkness.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Mr Benjamin Dawlish is one of his names.’ He paused,
and then went on again with new enthusiasm, ‘Then imagine the brains
of his gang,’ he continued, ‘the man with the mind of a genius plus
just that one crooked kink which makes him a criminal instead of a
diplomat. It is most important that this one man of all others shall
evade the police.’

Meggie nestled closer to him.

‘Go on,’ she said.

Abbershaw continued, his voice hardly raised above a whisper, but
intense and vehement in the quietness.

‘He must be kept away from the gang then, at all costs,’ he said. ‘So
why not let him live at some out-of-the-way spot in the guise of an
innocent old gentleman, an invalid, going out for long drives in his
ramshackle old car for his health’s sake; but in reality changing his
personality on the road and becoming for a few hours an entirely
different person? Not always the same man, you understand,’ he
explained, ‘but adopting whatever guise seemed most suitable for the
actual detail in hand. A respectable suburban householder eager to
open a small account when it was necessary to inspect a certain bank
manager’s office; an insurance man when a watchman was to be
interviewed; a jovial, open-handed man-about-town when clerks were to
be pumped. And all these different personalities vanishing into thin
air as soon as their work was done, each one of them merging into the
quiet inoffensive old invalid driving about in his joke of a car.’

His voice died away in the darkness, and Meggie stiffened.

‘The Colonel,’ she whispered.

‘Yes,’ murmured Abbershaw. ‘I’m sure of it. He was the designer of the
crimes. Dawlish organized them, and a carefully trained gang carried
them out. The arrangements had to be written out,’ he went on,
‘because otherwise it would entail the Colonel spending some
considerable time with the gang explaining his schemes, whereas it was
much better that they should not know him, or he them. You see,’ he
went on suddenly, ‘that’s what Dawlish had to guard against –
double-crossing. Old Coombe’s plans had a definite market value. They
were worth money to any criminal gang who could get hold of them, and,
as I have said, to minimize any danger of this, Coombe was kept here,
practically as a prisoner, by Dawlish. I dare say the only time he saw
any member of the gang was when Gideon and some other member as
witness came down here to collect the finished scheme for one robbery,
or to discuss the next. On such occasions it was Coombe’s practice to
invite Wyatt to bring down a house-party as a blind to distract
attention from any of his other visitors, who may in some cases have
been characters “known to the police”.’ He stopped and sighed. ‘So
far,’ he said, ‘I was practically right, but I had made one tremendous
error.’

‘And that?’ The girl’s voice quivered with excitement.

‘That,’ said Abbershaw gravely, ‘was the fatal one of taking Dawlish
for Simister. Simister is a rogue about whom there are as many
pleasant stories as unpleasant ones, but about Eberhard von Faber no
one ever laughs. He is, without exception, the most notorious,
unsavoury villain this era has produced. And I have pitched us all –
you too – into his hands.’

The girl repressed a shudder, but she clung to Abbershaw confidently.

‘But why,’ she said suddenly, ‘why didn’t they succeed? Why didn’t the
Colonel give Dawlish the papers and the whole thing work out according
to plan?’

Abbershaw stirred.

‘It would have done,’ he said, ‘but there _was_ double-crossing going
on. The Colonel, in spite of his body-guard – Whitby and the butler –
must have got into communication with Simister’s gang and made some
arrangement with them. I’m only guessing here, of course, but I should
say that the Colonel’s plans were never allowed outside the house and
that his attitude towards Simister must have been, “I will sell them
if you can get them without implicating me”. So Simister employed our
friend, Mr Campion, to smuggle himself into Wyatt’s party without
being recognized by Dawlish.’

Meggie sat up. ‘I see,’ she said, ‘but then, George, who murdered the
Colonel?’

‘Oh, one of the gang, of course – evidently. When they discovered that
he had double-crossed them.’

The girl was silent for a moment, then:

‘They were very quick,’ she said thoughtfully.

Abbershaw jerked his chin up. This was a point which it had never
occurred to him to question.

‘What do you mean?’ he demanded.

Meggie repeated her former observation.

‘They were very quick,’ she said. ‘If the Colonel didn’t have a heart
attack he was murdered when we were playing with the dagger. Before I
had the thing in my hand, in fact. Did they see the old man part with
the papers? And if so, why did they kill him and not Albert Campion?’

Abbershaw was silent. This point of view had not occurred to him. As
far as he knew, apart from the single affair on the landing, they had
not spotted Albert Campion at all.

‘Besides,’ said Meggie, ‘if you remember, Dawlish seemed to be
surprised when something you said suggested that Coombe had
double-crossed them.’

Abbershaw nodded: the incident returned to his mind. Meggie went on
speaking, her voice very low.

‘So Albert Campion was the murderer,’ she said.

Abbershaw started.

‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘I don’t think that for a moment. In fact I’m sure
of it,’ he went on, as he remembered the scene – it seemed incredible
that it was only that afternoon – when Mr Campion had heard of the
Colonel’s murder.

‘I’m sure of it,’ he repeated, ‘and besides,’ he added, as the
extenuating circumstances occurred to him, ‘why should von Faber have
taken all those precautions to conceal someone else’s crime?’

Meggie was silent at this, and Abbershaw continued. ‘There’s no doubt
that the Colonel intended to cheat the gang,’ he said. ‘The documents
were exquisite pieces of work, written on the finest paper in a hand
so small that it would have taken a reading glass to follow the words.
It was in code – not one I know, either – and it was only the tiny
plans that gave the clue to what it was. All sewn into the lining of a
pocket-book which Dawlish didn’t recognize when I showed it to him.
Oh, what a fool I was to destroy it!’

The regret in his tone was very poignant, and for some seconds the
girl did not speak. Then she moved a little nearer to him as if to
compensate him for any embarrassment her question might cause him.

‘Why did you?’ she said at last.

Abbershaw was silent for some time before he spoke. Then he sighed
deeply.

‘I was a crazy, interfering, well-meaning fool,’ he said, ‘and there’s
no more dangerous creature on the face of the earth. I acted partly on
impulse and partly because it really seemed to me to be the best thing
to do at the moment. I had no idea whom we were up against. In the
first place I knew that if I destroyed it I should probably be
preventing a crime at least; you see, I had no means, and no time, to
decipher it and thereby obtain enough information to warn Scotland
Yard. I didn’t even know where the bank to be robbed was situated, or
if indeed it was a bank. I knew we were up against pretty stiff
customers, for one man had already been murdered, presumably on
account of the papers, but I had no idea that they would dream of
attempting anything so wholesale as this.’

He paused and shook his head.

‘I didn’t realize then,’ he continued, ‘that there had been any
double-crossing going on, and I took it for granted that the
pocket-book would be recognized instantly. Situated as we were then,
too, it was reasonable to suppose that I could not hold out against
the whole gang, and it was ten chances to one that they would succeed
in getting back their plans and the scheme would go forward with me
powerless to do anything. Acting entirely upon the impulse of the
moment, therefore, I stuffed the plans into the grate and set fire to
them. That was just before I went down to speak to you in the garden.
Now, of course, Dawlish won’t believe me, and if he did, I’m inclined
to believe he would take his revenge upon all of us. In fact, we’re in
a very nasty mess. If we get out of here we can’t get out of the
house, and that Hun is capable of anything. Oh, my dear, I wish you
weren’t here.’

The last words broke from him in an agony of self-reproach. Meggie
nestled closer to his shoulder.

‘I’m very glad I am,’ she said. ‘If we’re in for trouble let’s go
through it together. Look, we’ve been talking for hours – the dawn’s
breaking. Something may turn up today. Don’t these people ever have
postmen or milkmen or telegram-boys or anything?’

Abbershaw nodded.

‘I’ve thought of that,’ he said, ‘but I think everyone like that is
stopped at the lodge, and anyhow today’s Sunday. Of course,’ he added
brightly, ‘in a couple of days there’ll be inquiries after some of us,
but it’s what von Faber may do before then that’s worrying me.’

Meggie sighed.

‘I don’t want to think,’ she said. ‘Oh, George,’ she added pitifully,
‘I’m so terribly tired.’

On the last word her head lolled heavily against his breast, and he
realized with sudden surprise that she was still a child who could
sleep in spite of the horror of the situation. He sat there with his
back against the wall supporting her in his arms, staring out across
the fast-brightening room, his eyes fixed and full of apprehension.

Gradually the room grew lighter and lighter, and the sun, pale at
first, and then brilliant, poured in through the high window with that
warm serenity that is somehow peculiar to a Sunday morning. Outside he
heard the far-away lowing of the cattle and the lively bickering of
the birds.

He must have dozed a little in spite of his disturbing thoughts, for
he suddenly came to himself with a start and sat up listening
intently, his ears strained, and an expression of utter bewilderment
on his face.

From somewhere close at hand, apparently in the room with the bolted
door, there proceeded a curious collection of sounds. It was a hymn,
sung with a malicious intensity, unequalled by anything Abbershaw had
ever heard in his life before. The voice was a feminine one, high and
shrill; it sounded like some avenging fury. He could make out the
words, uttered with a species of ferocious glee underlying the
religious fervour.

  ‘Oh vain all outward sign of grief,

  And vain the form of prayer,

  Unless the heart implore relief

  And Penitence be there.’

And then with still greater emphasis:

  ‘We smite the breast, we weep in vain,

  In vain in ashes mourn,

  Unless with penitential pain –’

The quavering crescendo reached a pinnacle of self-righteous
satisfaction that can never be known to more forgiving spirits.

  ‘Unless with penitential pain

  The smitten soul be torn.’

The last note died away into silence, and a long drawn-out
‘_Ah-ha-Ha-men_’ followed it.

Then all was still.



CHAPTER XVI

The Militant Mrs Meade

‘Good heavens, what was that?’

It was Meggie who spoke. The noise had awakened her and she sat up,
her hair a little wilder than usual and her eyes wide with
astonishment.

Abbershaw started to his feet.

‘We’ll darned soon find out,’ he said, and went over to the second
door and knocked upon it softly.

‘Who’s there?’ he whispered.

‘The wicked shall perish,’ said a loud, shrill, feminine voice, in
which the broad Suffolk accent was very apparent. ‘The earth shall
open and they shall be swallowed up. And you won’t come into this
room,’ it continued brightly. ‘No, not if you spend a hundred years
a-tapping. And why won’t you come in? ’Cause I’ve bolted the door.’

There was demoniacal satisfaction in the last words, and Abbershaw and
Meggie exchanged glances.

‘It’s a lunatic,’ whispered Abbershaw.

Meggie shuddered.

‘What a horrible house this is,’ she said. ‘But talk to her, George.
She may know how to get us out.’

‘Her chief concern seems to be not to let us in,’ said Abbershaw, but
he returned to the door and spoke again.

‘Who’s there?’ he said, and waited, hardly hoping for an answer, but
the voice replied with unexpected directness:

‘That’s a thing I won’t hide from anybody,’ it said vigorously. ‘Daisy
May Meade’s my name. A married woman and respectable. A church-going
woman too, and there’s some that’s going to suffer for what’s been
going on in this house. Both here, _and_ in the next world. The pit
shall open and swallow them up. Fire and brimstone shall be their
portion. The Lord shall smite them.’

‘Very likely,’ said Abbershaw dryly. ‘But who are you? How did you get
here? Is it possible for you to get us out?’

Apparently his calm, matter-of-fact voice had a soothing effect upon
the vengeful lady in the next room, for there was silence for some
moments, followed by an inquisitive murmur in a less oracular tone.

‘What be you doing of?’

‘We’re prisoners,’ said Abbershaw feelingly. ‘We’ve been shut up here
by Mr Dawlish, and are most anxious to get out. Can you help us?’

Again there was silence for some moments after he had spoken, then the
voice said considerately, ‘I’ve a good mind to have the door open and
have a look at ye.’

‘Good heavens!’ said Abbershaw, startled out of his calm. ‘Do you mean
to say that you can open this door?’

‘That I can,’ said the voice complacently. ‘Didn’t I bolt it myself?
I’m not having a lot of foreigners running round me. I told the German
gentleman so. Oh, they shall be punished. “To the devil you’ll go,” I
told them. “Fire and brimstone and hot irons,” I said.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Abbershaw soothingly, ‘but have you any idea how
we can get out?’

A grunt of consideration was clearly audible through the door. ‘I will
have a look at ye,’ said the voice with sudden decision, and thereupon
there began a fearsome noise of chains, bolts, and the scraping of
heavy furniture, which suggested that Mrs Meade had barricaded herself
in with a vengeance. Soon after there was a creaking and the door
swung open an inch or two, a bright black eye appearing in the crack.
After a moment or so, apparently satisfied, Mrs Meade pushed the door
open wide and stood upon the threshold looking in on them.

She was a striking old woman, tall and incredibly gaunt, with a great
bony frame on which her clothes hung skimpily. She had a brown
puckered face in which her small eyes, black and quick as a bird’s,
glowed out at the world with a religious satisfaction at the coming
punishment of the wicked. She was clothed in a black dress, green with
age, and a stiff white apron starched like a board, which gave her a
rotundity of appearance wholly false. She stood there for some
seconds, her bright eyes taking in every nook and corner of the room.
Apparently satisfied, she came forward.

‘That’ll be your sister, I suppose,’ she said, indicating Meggie with
a bony hand, ‘seeing you’ve both red hair.’

Neither of the two answered, and taking their silence for assent, she
went on.

‘You’re visitors, I suppose?’ she demanded. ‘It’s my belief the
devil’s own work is going on in this house. Haven’t I seen it with me
own eyes? Wasn’t I permitted – praise be the Lord! – to witness some
of it? It’s four shall swing from the gallows, their lives in the
paper, before there’s an end of this business.’

The satisfaction in her voice was apparent, and she beamed upon them,
the maliciousness in her old face truly terrible to see. She was
evidently bursting with her story, and they found it was not difficult
to get her to talk.

‘Who are you?’ demanded Abbershaw. ‘I know your name, of course, but
that doesn’t make me much wiser. Where do you live?’

‘Down in the village, three mile away,’ said the redoubtable Mrs
Meade, beaming at him. ‘I’m not a regular servant here, and I wouldn’t
be, for I’ve no need, but when they has company up here I sometimes
come in for the week to help. My time’s up next Wednesday, and when I
don’t come home my son’ll come down for me. That’s the time I’m
waiting for. Then there’ll be trouble!’

There was grim pleasure in her tone, and she wagged her head solemnly.

‘He’ll have someone to reckon with then, the German gentleman will. My
son don’t hold with foreigners nohow. What with this on top of it, and
him being a murderer too, there’ll be a fight, I can tell you. My
son’s a rare fighter.’

‘I shouldn’t think the Hun would be bad at a scrap,’ murmured
Abbershaw, but at the same time he marvelled at the complacency of the
old woman who could time her rescue for four days ahead and settle
down peacefully to wait for it.

There was one phrase, however, that stuck in his mind.

‘Murderer?’ he said.

The old woman eyed him suspiciously and came farther into the room.

‘What do you know about it?’ she demanded.

‘We’ve told you who we are,’ said Meggie, suddenly sitting up, her
clever pale face flushing a little and her narrow eyes fixed upon her
face.

‘We’re visitors. And we’ve been shut up here by Mr Dawlish, who seems
to have taken over charge of the house ever since Colonel Coombe had
his seizure.’

The old woman pricked up her ears.

‘Seizure?’ she said. ‘That’s what they said it was, did they? The
fiery furnace is made ready for them, and they shall be consumed
utterly. I know it wasn’t no seizure. That was murder, that was. A
life for a life, and an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, that’s
the law, _and_ they shall come to it.’

‘Murder? How do you know it was murder?’ said Abbershaw hastily. The
fanatical forebodings were getting on his nerves.

Once again the crafty look came into the little black eyes and she
considered him dubiously, but she was much too eager to tell her story
to be dissuaded by any suspicions.

‘It was on the Friday night,’ she said, dropping her voice to a
confidential monotone. ‘After dinner had been brought out, Mrs
Browning, that’s the housekeeper, sent me upstairs to see to the
fires. I hadn’t been up there more than ten minutes when I come over
faint.’ She paused and eyed the two defiantly.

‘I never touch liquor,’ she said, and hesitated again. Abbershaw was
completely in the dark, but Meggie had a flash of intuition, born of
long experience of Mrs Meade’s prototypes.

‘But as you weren’t well you looked about for something to revive
you?’ she said. ‘Of course. Why not?’

Mrs Meade’s dubious expression faded.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘What else was I to do?’

‘What else indeed?’ said Meggie encouragingly.

‘What did I do?’ said the old woman, lapsing once more into the
rhetorical form she favoured. ‘I remembered that in the Colonel’s
study – that’s through his bedroom, you know – there was a little
cupboard behind the screen by the window, where he kept a drop of
Scotch whisky. That’s soothing and settling to the stomach as much as
anything is. So, coming over faint, and being in the Colonel’s
bedroom, I went into the study, and had just poured myself out a
little drop when I heard voices, and the German gentleman with his
friend Mr Gideon and Dr Whitby come in.’ She stopped again and looked
at Meggie.

‘I didn’t holler out,’ she said, ‘because it would have looked so bad
– me being there in the dark.’

Meggie nodded understandingly, and Mrs Meade continued.

‘So I just stayed where I was behind the screen,’ she said. ‘Mr Gideon
was carrying a lamp and he set it down on the desk. They was all very
excited, and as soon as Dr Whitby spoke I knew something was up. “What
an opportunity,” he said, “while they’re playing around with that
dagger he’ll just sit where he is. We’re safe for fifteen minutes at
least.” Then the German gentleman spoke. Very brusque he is. “Get on
with it,” says he. “Where does he keep the stuff?”’

Mrs Meade paused, and her little black eyes were eloquent. ‘Imagine
the state I was in, me standing there with the bottle in me ’and,’ she
said. ‘But the next moment Dr Whitby set me at peace again. “In the
secret drawer at the back of the desk,” he said. I peeked round the
edge of the screen and saw ’im fiddling about with the master’s desk.’
She fixed Meggie with a bright black eye. ‘I _was_ upset,’ she said.
‘If it hadn’t been for the whisky and the way it would have looked I’d
’ave gone out, but as it was I couldn’t very well, and so I stayed
where I was, but I listened. For I said to myself, “The humblest of us
are sometimes the ministers of the Lord,” and I realized someone would
have to be brought to justice.’

Her self-righteousness was so sublime that it all but carried her
hearers away with it, and she went on, whilst they listened to her,
fascinated.

‘I saw them open the drawer and then there was such a swearing set-out
that I was ashamed. “It’s gone,” said Mr Gideon, and Dr Whitby he
started moaning like an idiot. “He always kept them here,” he kept
saying over and over again. Then the German, him that’s for Hell Fire
as sure as I’ll be with the Lambs, he got very angry. “You’ve played
the fool enough,” he said, in such a loud voice that I nearly cried
out and gave myself away. “Go and fetch him,” he said. “Bring him up
here. I’ve had enough of this playing.”’

Mrs Meade paused for breath.

‘Dr Whitby’s rather a sullen gentleman,’ she continued, ‘but he went
off like a child. I stood there, my knees knocking together, wishing
me breathing wasn’t so heavy, and praying to the Lord to smite them
for their wickedness, while the German gentleman and Mr Gideon were
talking together in a foreign language. I couldn’t understand it, of
course,’ she added regretfully, ‘but I’m not an old fool, like you
might imagine. Though I’m sixty-two I’m pretty spry, and I could tell
by the way they was waving their hands about and the look on their
faces and the sound of their voices that the German gentleman was
angry about something or other, and that Mr Gideon was trying to
soothe ’im. “Wait,” he said at last, in a Christian tongue, “he’ll
have it on him, I tell you.” Well! . . .’ She paused and looked from
one to the other of her listeners, her voice becoming more dramatic
and her little black eyes sparkling. Clearly she was coming to the
cream of her narrative.

‘Well,’ she repeated, when she was satisfied that they were both
properly on edge, ‘at that moment the door was flung open and Dr
Whitby came back, white as a sheet, and trembling. “Chief! Gideon!” he
said. “He’s been murdered! Stabbed in the back!”’

Mrs Meade stopped to enjoy the full effect of her announcement.

‘Were they surprised?’

Abbershaw spoke involuntarily.

‘You be quiet and I’ll tell ’ee,’ said Mrs Meade, with sudden
sternness. ‘They was struck silly, I can tell you. The German
gentleman was the first to come to his senses. “Who?” he said. Mr
Gideon turned on him then. “Sinisters?” he says, as if asking a
question.’

Meggie and Abbershaw exchanged significant glances, while Mrs Meade
hurried on with her narrative, speaking with great gusto, acting the
parts of the different speakers, and investing the whole gruesome
story with an air of self-righteous satisfaction that made it even
more terrible.

‘The German gentleman wasn’t pleased at that,’ she continued, ‘but it
was he who kept his head, as they say. “And the papers,” said he.
“Were they on him?” “No,” says the doctor. “Then,” said the German
gentleman, “get him upstairs. No one must leave the house till we get
back the papers.” “Don’t let anyone know he’s dead, then,” said Mr
Gideon. “Say it’s heart attack – anything you like.” “There’s blood
about,” said Dr Whitby – “bound to be.” “Then clear it up,” says Mr
Gideon. “I’ll help you. We must hurry before the lights go up.”’

On the last word her voice sank to a whisper, but the stagey horror
with which she was trying to invest the story did not detract from the
real gruesomeness of the tale. Rather it added to it, making the scene
down in the lamplit panelled room seem suddenly clear and very near to
them.

Meggie shuddered and her voice was subdued and oddly breathless when
she spoke.

‘What happened then?’

Mrs Meade drew herself up, and her little black eyes burned with the
fire of righteousness.

‘Then I could hold my tongue no longer,’ she said, ‘and I spoke out.
“Whoso killeth any person, the murderer shall be put to death by the
mouth of witnesses,” I said, and stepped out from behind the screen.’

Abbershaw’s eyes widened as the scene rose up in his mind – the
fanatical old woman, her harsh voice breaking in upon the three crooks
in that first moment of their bewilderment.

‘They were terrified, I suppose,’ he said.

Mrs Meade nodded, and an expression of grim satisfaction spread over
her wrinkled old face.

‘They _was_,’ she said. ‘Mr Gideon went pale as a sheet, and shrank
away from me like an actor on the stage – Dr Whitby stood there stupid
like, his eyes gone all fishy and his mouth hanging open . . .’ She
shook her head. ‘You could see there was guilt there,’ she said, ‘if
not in deed, in the _heart_ – the German gentleman was the only one to
stay his natural colour.’

‘And then?’ Meggie hardly recognized her own voice, so toneless was
it.

‘Then he come up to me,’ the old woman continued, with a return of
indignation in her voice. ‘Slowly he come and put his great heavy face
close to mine. “You be off,” said I, but that didn’t stop him. “How
much have you heard?” said he. “All of it,” says I, “and what’s more
I’m going to bear witness.”’

Mrs Meade took a deep breath.

‘That did it,’ she said. ‘He put his hand over my mouth and the next
moment Dr Whitby had jumped forward and opened the cupboard by the
fire-place. “Put her in here,” said he; “we can see to her after we’ve
got _him_ upstairs.”’

‘You struggled, of course,’ said Abbershaw. ‘It’s extraordinary
someone in the house didn’t hear you.’

Mrs Meade regarded him with concentrated scorn.

‘Me struggle, young man?’ she said. ‘Not me. If there’s going to be
any scrabbling about, I said to myself, better leave it to my son who
knows something about fighting, so as soon as I knew where I was I
hurried up the stairs and shut myself in here. “You can do what you
like,” I said to the German gentleman through the door, “but I’m
staying here until Wednesday if needs be, when my son’ll come for me –
then there’ll be summat to pay, I can tell you!”’

She paused, her pale cheeks flushing with the fire of battle, as she
remembered the incident. ‘He soon went away after that,’ she went on,
wagging her head. ‘He turned the key on me, but that didn’t worry me –
I had the bolts on my side.’

‘But you couldn’t get out?’ interrupted Meggie, whose brain failed
before this somewhat peculiar reasoning.

‘O’ course I couldn’t get out,’ said Mrs Meade vigorously. ‘No more’n
could he come in. As long as my tongue’s in my head someone’ll swing
for murder, and I’m quite willing to wait for my son on Wednesday.
They won’t get in to me to kill me, I reckon,’ she continued, with a
flicker of pleasure in her eyes, ‘and so when my son comes along
there’ll be someone to help cast out the wicked. I ain’t a-holding my
tongue, not for nobody.’

‘And that’s all you know, then?’ said Meggie.

‘All?’ Mrs Meade’s tone was eloquent. ‘Some people’ll find it’s quite
enough. Those three didn’t actually do the murder, but there’s someone
in the house who did, and –’ She broke off sharply and glanced from
one to the other. ‘Why’re you two lookin’ at one ’nother so?’ she
demanded.

But she got no reply to her question. Meggie and Abbershaw were
regarding each other fixedly, the same phrase in the old woman’s
remark had struck both of them, and to each it bore the same terrible
significance. ‘Those three didn’t actually do the murder, but there’s
someone in the house who did.’ Dawlish, Gideon, Whitby were cleared of
the actual crime in one word; the servants were all confined in their
own quarters – Albert Campion insisted that he locked the door upon
them. Who then could be responsible? Albert Campion himself – or one
of their own party? Neither spoke – the question was too terrifying to
put into words.



CHAPTER XVII

In the Evening

The disturbing discovery which Meggie and Abbershaw had made in Mrs
Meade’s story silenced them for some time. Until the old woman’s
extraordinary announcement ten minutes before, the division between
the sheep and the goats had been very sharply defined. But now the
horrible charge of murder was brought into their own camp. On the face
of it, either Albert Campion or one of the young people in the
house-party must be the guilty person.

Of course there was always the saving hope that in his haste Campion
had locked one of the servants out instead of confining them all to
their quarters as he had intended. But even so, neither Abbershaw nor
the girl could blind themselves to the fact that in the light of
present circumstances the odds were against the murderer lying in that
quarter.

The entire staff of the house was employed by von Faber or his agents,
that is to say that they were actually of the gang themselves. Coombe
was an asset to them – it was not in their interests to kill him.

And yet, on the other hand, if the gang had not committed the murder
they certainly covered up all traces of it. Mrs Meade’s story had
deepened the mystery instead of destroying it.

Meggie looked at Abbershaw.

‘If we could only get out,’ she murmured. Abbershaw nodded briskly.
Conjectures and theories could wait until afterwards; the main
business in hand at the moment was escape, if not out of the house at
least back to the others.

He turned to the old woman.

‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of getting out through there?’ he
suggested, indicating the inner room in the doorway of which she still
stood.

She shook her head.

‘There’s nobbut a fire-place and a door,’ she said, ‘and you’ll not
get through the door because I’ve bolted it and he’s locked it. You
can have a look at the fire-place if you like, but the chimney’ll only
land you up on the roof even if you could get up it; best wait till
Wednesday till my son comes.’

Abbershaw was inclined to enlighten her on the chances her son was
likely to have against the armed Herr von Faber, but he desisted, and
contented himself by shaking his head. Meggie, ever practical, came
forward with a new question.

‘But do you eat? Have you been starved all this time?’ she said.

Mrs Meade looked properly aggrieved.

‘Oh, they bring me my victuals,’ she said; ‘naturally.’

Apparently the event of her being starved out of her stronghold had
not occurred to her. ‘Lizzie Tiddy brings me up a tray night and
morning.’

‘Lizzie Tiddy?’ Abbershaw looked up inquiringly. ‘Who’s that?’

A smile, derisive and unpleasant, spread over the wrinkled face.
‘She’s a natural,’ she said, and laughed.

‘A natural?’

‘She’s not right in her head. All them Tiddys are a bit crazed. Lizzie
is the wust.’

‘Does she work here?’ Meggie’s face expressed her disapproval.

Mrs Meade’s smile broadened into a grin, and her quick eyes rested on
the girl.

‘That’s right. No one else wouldn’t ha’ had her. She helps Mrs
Browning, the housekeeper, washes up and such-like.’

‘And brings up the food?’ There was an eagerness in Abbershaw’s tone.
An idiot country girl was not likely to offer much resistance if they
made an attempt to escape as soon as she opened the door.

Mrs Meade nodded.

‘Ah, Lizzie brings up the tray,’ she said. ‘She sets it on the floor
while she unlocks my door, then I pull the bolts back and open it ever
such a little, and then I pull the tray in.’

It was such a simple procedure that Abbershaw’s spirits rose.

‘When does this happen?’ he said. ‘What time of day?’

‘Half after eight in the morning and half after eight at night.’

He glanced at his watch.

‘She’s due now, then, practically?’

Mrs Meade glanced up at the window. ‘Shouldn’t be at all surprised,’
she agreed. ‘Light looks about right. I’ll go back to my own room,
then, if you don’t mind. Best not to let anybody know that I’ve been
havin’ any truck wi’ you.’

On the last word she turned her back on him, and after closing the
door, connecting the two rooms, silently, they heard her softly
pressing the bolts home.

‘What an extraordinary old woman,’ whispered Meggie. ‘Is she mad, do
you think?’

Abbershaw shook his head.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I almost wish she were. But she’s certainly not crazy,
and I believe every word of her story is absolutely true. My dear
girl, consider – she certainly hasn’t the imagination to invent it.’

The girl nodded slowly.

‘That’s true,’ she said, and added suddenly, ‘but, George you don’t
really believe that those dreadful men didn’t kill Colonel Coombe?’

Abbershaw looked at her seriously.

‘I don’t see why they should, do you?’ he asked. ‘Think of it in the
light of what we know.’

‘Then that means that either Albert Campion or – oh, George, it’s
horrible!’

Abbershaw’s face grew even more serious.

‘I know,’ he said, and was silent for a minute or so. ‘But that is not
what is worrying me at the moment,’ he went on suddenly, as though
banishing the thought from his mind. ‘I’ve got you into this appalling
mess, and I’ve got to get you out of it – and that, unless I’m
mistaken, is Lizzie Tiddy coming up the stairs now.’

The girl held her breath, and for a moment or two they stood silent,
listening. There was certainly the sound of footsteps on the stone
landing outside, and the uneasy rattle of crockery on an unsteady
tray. Abbershaw’s hand closed round the girl’s arm.

‘Now,’ he whispered, ‘keep behind me, and at your first opportunity
nip out of here into the room immediately on your left and go straight
for the chest I told you of. You can’t miss it. It’s in the corner and
enormous. I’ll follow you.’

The girl nodded, and at the same moment the key turned in the lock,
and whatever hopes Abbershaw had entertained vanished immediately. The
door opened some two inches, and there appeared in the aperture the
muzzle of a revolver.

Abbershaw groaned. He might have known, he told himself bitterly, that
their captors were not absolute fools. The girl clung to him and he
could feel her heart beating against his arm. Gradually the door
opened wider, and a face appeared above the gun. It was the stranger
whom Dawlish had addressed as Wendon on the day before. He stood
grinning in at them, the gun levelled directly at Meggie.

‘Any monkey-tricks and the girl goes first,’ he said. ‘It’s the
Guvnor’s orders. He’s reserving you, mate, for ’is own personal
attention. That’s one of the reasons why he’s feeding you. Now then,
my girl, push the tray under and hurry about it.’

The last remark was addressed to someone behind him, although he never
for a moment took his eyes off Abbershaw and the girl. There was a
scuffling in the passage outside, and then a narrow tray appeared upon
the floor. It came sliding towards them through the crack in the door,
and Abbershaw was suddenly conscious of a pair of idiot eyes, set in a
pale, vacant face, watching him from behind it.

His impulse was to leap forward and risk the revolver, but the man had
him helpless since it was Meggie whom he covered. Slowly the door
closed, and on the moment that the gun disappeared Abbershaw sprang
forward fiercely, but it was a forlorn hope. The heavy door slammed
to, and they heard the lock shoot home.

There was food on the tray: a pile of sandwiches, and a jug of water.
Meggie stood listening for a moment, then she whispered sharply:

‘George, they don’t take the same precautions with her. Perhaps if we
got in there we could get past them.’

Abbershaw darted across the room to the other door, then his face
changed.

‘She’s bolted us out, of course,’ he said, ‘and besides, we’re too
late now. We must wait till they come this evening. Oh, my dear, I’m
so sorry I got you into all this.’

The girl smiled at him, but she did not reply, and presently, since in
spite of their precarious position they were very hungry, they sat
down and began to eat.

And then the long weary day dragged on. Mrs Meade did not seem to be
inclined for further conversation, and they knew that sooner or later
Dr Whitby and the man who had driven him must return, and the
red-leather wallet be identified. What would happen then they could
only conjecture, but since Dawlish was already prejudiced against
Abbershaw he was not likely to be unmoved when he discovered the story
of the burning of the papers to be true.

But it was Meggie’s position that chiefly disturbed Abbershaw.
Whatever they did to him, they were not likely to let her return to
civilization knowing what she did about them. The others, after all,
so far as Dawlish knew, realized little or nothing of the true
position. Campion had succeeded in convincing them that he was no more
than the fool he looked, and they knew nothing of his disclosures to
Abbershaw and Prenderby.

The chances, therefore, were against them releasing the girl, and
Abbershaw’s brain sickened at the thought of her possible fate. Escape
was impossible, however, and there was nothing in the room that could
in any way be manufactured into a weapon. The window, even had it been
large enough to permit a man’s climbing through it, looked out on to a
sheer drop of seventy feet on to the flags below.

There seemed nothing for it but to settle down and wait for Dawlish to
make the next move.

As the morning passed and then afternoon without any change, save for
a few martial and prophetic hymns from Mrs Meade, their spirits sank
deeper than ever; and it grew dark.

Clearly Whitby had not yet returned, and Abbershaw reflected that he
might quite possibly have experienced some trouble with the cremation
authorities, in which case there were distinct chances of the police
coming to their rescue. He wondered, if that occasion should arise,
what Dawlish would do – if he would remove Meggie and himself, or
simply make a dash for it with his own gang, risking detection
afterwards.

On the face of it, he reflected, as he considered what he knew of the
man, both from what he had heard and his own experience, the chances
were against Meggie and himself being left to tell their story. The
prospects looked very black.

And then, quite suddenly, something happened that set his heart
beating wildly with new hope, and made him spring to his feet with
Meggie at his side, their eyes fixed upon the door, their ears
strained to catch every sound.

From inside the room where Mrs Meade had fortified herself, there came
an extraordinary sound.

A gentle scraping followed by a burst of shrill indignation from the
old woman herself, and the next moment, clear and distinct, a slightly
nervous falsetto voice said briskly, ‘It’s all right, my dear madam,
I’m not from the assurance company.’

Meggie grasped Abbershaw’s arm.

‘Albert Campion!’ she said.

Abbershaw nodded: the voice was unmistakable, and he moved over to the
inner door and tapped upon it gently.

‘Campion,’ he called softly, ‘we’re in here.’

‘That’s all right, old bird, I’m coming. You couldn’t call the old
lady off, could you?’

Campion’s voice sounded a little strained.

‘She seems to think I’m not the sort of person you ought to know.
Can’t you tell her that many a true heart beats beneath a ready-made
suit?’

‘Mrs Meade.’

Abbershaw raised his voice a little.

‘Mr Campion is a friend of ours. Could you let him in to us?’

‘You keep strange company,’ came the woman’s strident voice from the
other side of the door. ‘A man that creeps down a chimney upon a body
isn’t one that I’d put up with.’

Abbershaw and Meggie exchanged glances. Apparently Mr Campion had
descended from the skies.

Then the absurd voice came out to them again, raised a little in
indignation.

‘But even if your son is coming, my dear old bird,’ he was saying,
‘there’s really no reason why my friends and I should not meet before
that happy moment. After all, I too have a mother.’ The exact
significance of his last remark was not apparent, but it seemed to
work like a charm upon the old woman, and with a few mumbled words she
opened the door, and Albert Campion stood upon the threshold, beaming
at them.

‘I don’t think I’ll come in,’ he said cheerfully. ‘This lady seems
crazy for me to meet her son and I’m afraid that she may compel me to
do so by locking me in with you if I get far enough out of the room
for her to shut this door. And as the laddie is not expected to call
till Wednesday, I don’t want him to get his diploma from me in person.
I think if you’re both ready, we’ll all go back the way I came.’

‘Down the chimney?’ said Meggie, in some trepidation.

‘Through the chimney,’ corrected Campion, with pride. ‘I’ve been
fooling about all day trying to find the “money-back” handle – and now
I’ve got the two coppers,’ he added brightly, grinning at the two
red-headed young people before him. ‘You can’t possibly dislike puns
more than I do,’ he went on hastily. ‘Let’s get back, shall we? This
is an unhealthy spot.’

They followed him into the old woman’s room. She stood glaring at them
suspiciously with her little bright eyes.

‘Where are you going?’ she demanded. ‘I don’t know as ’ow I ought to
let ye go.’

‘Aren’t you coming with us?’ said Meggie quickly. ‘Surely you want to
get away from those dreadful men at once? You’ll be much safer with
us.’

‘What? And miss seeing my son beat ’em up?’ said Mrs Meade
contemptuously. ‘Not me, miss. Besides,’ she added sharply, ‘I don’t
know as I’m not safer with the German gentleman than I am with a
natural.’ She pointed to Campion suggestively. ‘Lizzie Tiddy’s not the
only half-wit in this house. Chimney-climbing – !’ Her remark reminded
them, as they turned to where an old stone fire-place, wide and
primitive, stood on one side of the small room. It seemed at first
utterly impracticable as a means of exit, but Campion led them over to
it with a certain pride.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘It’s so simple when you think of it. The same
chimney serves for both this room and the room behind it, which is no
other, ladies and gentlemen, than the one which Mr Campion performed
his now famous disappearing trick in. Admission fourpence. Roll up in
your hundreds. In fact,’ he went on more seriously, ‘virtually
speaking, both rooms have the same fire-place separated only by this
little wall arrangement – quite low, you see – to divide the two
grates, and topped by a thin sheet of iron to separate the flames.’

He paused, and surveyed them owlishly through his horn-rimmed
spectacles. ‘I discovered, all by myself and with no grown-up aid,
that this natty device was removable. I lifted it out, and stepped
deftly into the presence of this lady on my right, whose opening
remark rather cooled my ardour.’

‘I said “The wicked shall be cast into hell”,’ put in Mrs Meade, ‘and
so they shall. Into a burning fiery furnace, same as if that grate
there was piled up with logs and you a-top of them.’

This remark was addressed to Abbershaw, but she turned with tremendous
agility upon Campion. ‘_And_ the fools,’ she said, ‘the Lord ’isself
couldn’t abide fools.’

Campion looked a little hurt.

‘Something tells me,’ he said in a slightly aggrieved tone, ‘that I am
not, as it were, a popular hero. Perhaps it might be as well if we
went. You’ll bolt your door again, won’t you?’ he added, turning to
the old woman.

‘You may lay I will,’ said she meaningly.

‘Are you sure you won’t come with us?’

It was Meggie who spoke, and the old woman eyed her less fiercely than
she had done the others.

‘Thank you, I’ll bide where I am,’ she said. ‘I know what I’m up to,
which is more than you do, I reckon, trapezing round with a pair of
gorbies.’

Campion touched the girl’s arm.

‘Come,’ he said softly. ‘I thought I heard someone. I’ll go first,
then you follow me.’

He stepped up on the stone hob as he spoke, and then swung his leg
over the brick back of the grate which they now saw was little over
three feet high, and disappeared out of sight. Meggie followed him,
and Abbershaw sprang after her. Within three minutes they had emerged
into the boxroom and Campion raised the lid of the chest in the far
corner.

Meggie suffered herself to be led down the dusty passage, Campion in
front of her, and Abbershaw behind.

As they went, they heard the cracked voice of Mrs Meade chanting
vigorously to herself:

  ‘While the wicked are confounded

  Doomed to flames of woe unbounded,

  Call me with Thy saints surrounded.

  Ah-ha-Ha-ha-men.’



CHAPTER XVIII

Mr Kennedy’s Council

When Albert Campion and his two refugees crawled out at the far end of
the passage, they found the cupboard door open and the entire crowd
assembled in the bedroom without, waiting for them. Anne Edgeware
threw herself across the room towards Meggie with a little squeaky cry
that was part sympathy, part relief. Prenderby’s little Jeanne had not
been a reassuring companion.

The strain of the last twenty-four hours had told upon them all. The
atmosphere in the wide, old-fashioned room was electric, and Campion’s
somewhat foolish voice and fatuous expression struck an incongruous
note.

‘Goods as per instructions,’ he said brightly, as he scrambled out of
the cupboard. ‘Sign along the dotted line please.’

As soon as they were all in the room, however, he shut the cupboard
door carefully, betraying that he was especially anxious that no sound
should percolate through into the little box-room they had just left.

Chris Kennedy was the first to speak. He was a little flushed, and
there was an air of suppressed excitement about him that showed that
his wounded arm no longer damped his spirits.

‘Now we’re all here,’ he said, ‘we can get right down to this thing
and work out a scheme to get us out of here and those customers what
they deserve. I’m for a fight.’

‘Here, I say, hold on a minute, my son,’ drawled Martin Watt, ‘let’s
all start fair. What have you two lost souls been up to, first of
all?’ he went on, turning to Meggie and Abbershaw. ‘How did our little
Albert get hold of you? No bickering, I hope?’

‘No, all done by kindness,’ said Mr Campion cheerfully; ‘there was
only one dragon in my path, a female of the species, and full of good
words. Most of them new to me,’ he added thoughtfully. The portion of
Abbershaw’s story which the little doctor felt inclined to tell did
not take very long. The others also had had their adventures; Martin
Watt seemed to have instituted himself spokesman, and as soon as the
other had finished he began.

‘We’ve had sport, too, in our own way. Old Dachshund Dawlish has had
us up one at a time, you know, heard our catechism and our family
history, searched our pockets and let us go again. He has also locked
us all up in the central big hall and had another go at our rooms. Old
Prenderby tried to square a servant and got the business end of a gun
in his tummy by way of retort. The girls have been overhauled by a
ghastly old housekeeper woman and a loony maid. And last but not
least, we had a confidential lecture from Gideon, who gave us the
jolliest little character-sketch of his pal that one can imagine.’

He paused, and a faint smile at the recollection passed over his
indolent face.

‘According to him, the old boy is a cross between Mr Hyde, Gilles de
Rais, and Napoleon, but without the finesse of any of the three. On
the whole I’m inclined to agree with him,’ he continued, ‘but a fat
lot of good it’s doing him or us, for that matter, because he can’t
find his package and we can’t get home to our mommas. I told him that,
but he didn’t seem to see the argument. I’m afraid he’s rather a
stupid man.’

Abbershaw nodded.

‘Perhaps he is,’ he said, ‘but at the same time he’s a very dangerous
one. I may as well tell you fellows,’ he went on, with sudden
determination in his grey eyes, ‘there’s something that’s on my
conscience. I had those papers – they were papers, as a matter of fact
– the first morning we were down here, and I burnt them. I told him
what I’d done when I went in to see him yesterday, but he wouldn’t
believe me.’

He paused and looked round him. Campion’s pale eyes were goggling
behind his enormous spectacles, and Wyatt met Abbershaw’s appealing
glance sympathetically. The rest were more surprised than anything
else, and, on the whole, approving.

Campion voiced the general thought.

‘Do you know what they were – the papers, I mean?’ he said, and there
was something very like wonderment in his tone. Abbershaw nodded.

‘They were all written in code, but I had a pretty shrewd idea,’ he
said, and he explained to them the outline of his ideas on the
subject.

Campion listened to him in silence, and when he had finished glanced
across and spoke softly.

‘You burnt them?’ he said dreamily, and then remarked, as if he had
switched on to an entirely new subject, ‘I wonder if the smoke from
five hundred thousand pounds in notes looks any different from any
other sort of firing.’

Abbershaw glanced at him sharply.

‘Five hundred thousand pounds?’ he said.

‘Why not?’ said Campion lightly. ‘Half a crown here, half a crown
there, you know. It soon tells up.’

The others turned to him, attributing the remark to his usual fatuity,
but Abbershaw met the pale eyes behind the big spectacles steadily and
his apprehension increased. It was not likely that Mr Campion would be
far out in his estimation since he knew so much about the affair.

Five hundred thousand pounds. The colossal sum brought home to him the
extent of the German’s loss, and he understood the crook’s grim
determination to recover the lost plans. He had not thought that the
men were playing for such great stakes. In a flash he saw the
situation as it really was, and his next words were sharp and
imperative.

‘It’s more important than I can say that we should get out of here,’
he said. ‘In fact we’ve _got_ to get out of here at once. Of course I
know it’s been the idea all along, but now it’s imperative. At any
moment now Whitby may return, and Dawlish will be convinced that I
told him the truth yesterday. And then heaven only knows what he will
do. Our one hope is to get out before Whitby comes back.’

‘There’s only one way, I’ve been saying it all along.’ It was Chris
Kennedy who spoke. He was seated on the end of the bed, his knees
crossed, and his young face alert and eager. ‘We shall have to make a
straight fight for it,’ he said. ‘It’s our only hope. No one trying to
sneak out on his own to inform the local Bobby would have an earthly.
I’ve thought of that. They’d spot us and we know they don’t mind
shooting.’

‘There’s a suit of armour in the hall,’ suggested Campion suddenly.
‘I’ll put it on and toddle forth into the night, if you like. They
could pot at me as much as they pleased. How about that?’

Abbershaw glanced at him sharply, but there was no trace of a sneer on
the pleasant vacuous face, and he looked abashed when Kennedy spoke a
little brutally.

‘Sorry,’ he said, without looking round, ‘we haven’t got time for that
sort of stuff now. We’re in a devilish unpleasant situation and we’ve
got to get the girls and ourselves out of it. I tell you, a straight
fight is the only thing for it. Look here, I’ve got it all taped.
We’ve got our first chance coming in a moment. We’ve had dinner every
night so far, so I expect we can reasonably suppose that we’ll get it
again tonight. Two fellows wait on us then. They’re both armed, we
know, and judging from the way they treated Michael they know how to
use their guns all right.’

‘Why, they’re not very tricky, are they?’ said Mr Campion, a faint
expression of surprise appearing in his face. ‘I understood you just
pressed the trigger and – pop! – off it went.’

Chris Kennedy granted him one withering look and went on with his
scheme.

‘There’s only one way to handle these customers, therefore,’ he said.
‘The first thing is to overpower those two and get their guns. Six of
us ought to be able to do that. Then the two best shots had better
take those revolvers and scout round for the others. The important
thing is, of course, that the first bit of work is done in absolute
silence. I believe that once we get those two guns we can lay ’em all
by the heels. We shall be prepared, we shall be organized – they
won’t. What do you say?’

There was a moment or two of silence. Martin Watt was the first to
speak.

‘Well, I’m for it,’ he said.

‘So am I,’ said Wyatt quietly.

Abbershaw hesitated, and Prenderby too was silent, whilst Albert
Campion remained mild and foolish-looking as if he were looking in on
the scene from outside.

Abbershaw was thinking of Meggie. Prenderby too had his fiancée
clinging to his arm. Mr Campion appeared to be thinking of nothing at
all.

‘After all, it does seem to be our only chance.’

It was Prenderby who spoke, and the words stirred Abbershaw.

What the boy said was perfectly true. He turned to Kennedy.

‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’m with you.’

Kennedy looked pointedly at Albert.

‘And you?’ he said.

Albert shook his head. ‘Oh, I’m not standing out,’ he said. ‘I don’t
like these rough games, but I don’t shirk them when they’re thrust on
me. What do we all do?’

Mr Kennedy appeared to have the whole plan clear in his mind.

‘It’s quite simple,’ he said, leaning his chin in his unwounded hand
and bending forward, an intent expression in his eyes.

‘Let _me_ shape your career for you!’ quoted Mr Campion brightly.
Kennedy reddened angrily and dropped the pose, but he went on
doggedly.

‘My idea,’ he said, ‘is that three go down to dinner with the girls.
I’m afraid they’ll have to come or the men will smell a rat. They
start food, and the other three fellows wait outside the door until
one of their laddies is at work on the side table and the other
serving the dishes at the big table. At that moment someone knocks a
glass on to the flags. That’s the signal. Then the blokes outside the
door charge in and seize the carver. One of ’em gets his arm. Another
stuffs a hanky in his mouth, and the third stands by to slog him over
the head if necessary. Hang it, we can’t go wrong like that. The only
thing is they mustn’t suspect us. We’ve got to take them by surprise.
It’s the simplest thing going as long as we don’t make a row.’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Campion, standing up with sudden solemnity. ‘A very
clever idea, but what we have to ask ourselves is: Is it quite fair?
Three men on to one. Come, come, we must remember that we are British,
and all that. Perhaps we could each tie a hand behind our backs – or
shall I offer them single combat instead?’

Chris Kennedy rose to his feet, and walking across to Mr Campion spoke
quietly but vigorously.

Mr Campion blushed.

‘I didn’t think you’d take it like that. You will have it your own
way, of course. I shan’t say anything.’

‘You’d better not,’ said Kennedy, and walked back to his seat.
‘Abbershaw, you, Michael, and Mr Campion had better go down with the
girls, and Wyatt, Martin, and I will wait for the signal of the broken
glass. Who’s going to do that? It had better be a girl. Miss Oliphant,
will you do it?’

Meggie nodded.

‘As soon as one man is at the carving-table and the other serving us,’
she said.

Kennedy smiled at her. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Now is that clear?’ he
went on, glancing around him, his eyes dancing with excitement.
‘Abbershaw, you get the bloke’s arms, Prenderby, you’re responsible
for gagging the sportsman! –’

‘Yes?’ said Campion, who was apparently gibbering with excitement.
‘And what can I do?’

‘You stand by,’ said Kennedy, with something suspiciously like a sneer
on his handsome young face.

‘Oh, very well,’ said Mr Campion, looking considerably disappointed.
‘I’ll stand ready to dot the fellow with a bottle if necessary.’

‘That’s the idea,’ agreed Chris Kennedy somewhat grudgingly, and
returned to the others. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘it’ll be a bit of a
shock for the two lackey-thugs to see you all turning up bright and
happy after your adventures; still, I think the idea is to walk in as
if nothing had ever happened. You can indulge in a certain amount of
bright conversation if you like, to put them off the scent. That’s
where you’ll come in useful,’ he added, turning to Campion. ‘Talk as
much as you like. That’s the time to be funny.’

‘Righto,’ said Mr Campion, brightening visibly. ‘I’ll show them my
two-headed penny. I’ll be awfully witty. “They laughed when I sat down
at the piano, but when I began to play they knew at once that I had
taken Kennedy’s Patent Course. How they cheered me on –”’

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Martin Watt, grinning good-naturedly. ‘The fun
starts at dinner, then. Oh, and by the way, when we’ve pinched these
fellows’ guns, what do we do with the laddies? Leave them lying
about?’

‘I’ve thought of that,’ said the indefatigable Kennedy; ‘we tie ’em
up. I’ve been collecting portmanteau straps. That’ll do it, you’ll
find. We’ll lash ’em both into chairs and leave ’em there.’

‘Yes,’ said Martin, ‘and next? When we’ve fixed up all that, what
happens next?’

‘Then somebody takes charge of the girls,’ said Kennedy. ‘They lock
themselves in some safe room – Miss Oliphant’s bedroom just at the
head of the stairs, for instance. Then the rest of us form into two
parties with a revolver each and storm the servants’ quarters, where,
with a certain amount of luck, we shall get another gun or two. Then
we can let out at some of these lads who amble round keeping an eye on
us after dinner. We’ll tie ’em up and raid old Dawlish’s quarters.’

He paused and looked round him, smiling.

‘As soon as we’ve got everyone accounted for, we get the girls and
sheer out of the house in a body. How’s that?’

‘Sounds lovely,’ said Mr Campion, adding after a pause, ‘so simple.
It’ll be rather awkward if someone makes a noise, though, won’t
it? I mean you might have the entire gang down on you at the
one-gun-per-three-men stage.’

Kennedy snapped at him. He was thoroughly tired of Mr Campion’s
helpful suggestions.

‘There just hasn’t got to be any noise,’ he said, ‘that’s the point.
And by the way, I think you’re the man to stay with the girls.’

There was no mistaking his inference, but to Abbershaw’s surprise Mr
Campion seemed to jump at the idea.

‘Righto,’ he said, ‘I shall be delighted.’

Chris Kennedy’s answering remark was cut short, rather fortunately,
Abbershaw felt, by a single and, in the circumstances, highly dramatic
sound – the deep booming of the dinner gong.



CHAPTER XIX

Mr Campion’s Conjuring Trick

The six young people went down to the big dining-hall with a certain
amount of trepidation. Jeanne clung to Prenderby, the other two girls
stuck together, and Abbershaw was able to have a word or two with Mr
Campion.

‘You don’t like the idea?’ he murmured.

The other shrugged his shoulders.

‘It’s the risk, my old bird,’ he said softly. ‘Our pugilistic friend
doesn’t realize that we’re not up against a gang of racecourse thugs.
I tried to point it out to him but I’m afraid he just thought I was
trying to be funny. People without humour always have curious ideas on
that subject. However, it may come off. It’ll be the last thing he’ll
expect us to do, anyway, and if you really have burnt that paper it’s
the best thing we could do.’

‘I suppose you think I’m a fool,’ said Abbershaw, a little defiantly.
Campion grinned.

‘On the contrary, young sir, I think you’re a humorist. A trifle
unconscious, perhaps, but none the worse for that.’

Their conversation ended abruptly, for they had reached the foot of
the staircase and were approaching the dining-room.

The door stood open, and they went in to find the table set for all
nine of them, and the two men who had acted as footmen during the
week-end awaiting their coming. They sat down at the table. ‘The
others won’t be a moment, but we’ll start, please,’ said Campion, and
the meal began.

For some minutes it seemed as if the funereal atmosphere which
surrounded the whole house was going to damp any attempt at bright
conversation that anyone might feel disposed to make, but Mr Campion
sailed nobly into the breach.

Abbershaw was inclined to wonder at him until he realized with
a little shock that considering the man’s profession the art of
talking rubbish in any circumstances might be one of his chief
stock-in-trades.

At the moment he was speaking of food. His high voice worked up to a
pitch of enthusiasm, and his pale eyes widened behind his horn-rimmed
spectacles.

‘It all depends what you mean by eating,’ he was saying. ‘I don’t
believe in stuffing myself, you know, but I’m not one of those people
who are against food altogether. I knew a woman once who didn’t
believe in food – thought it was bad for the figure – so she gave it
up altogether. Horrible results, of course; she got so thin that no
one noticed her around – husband got used to being alone –
estrangement, divorce – oh, I believe in food. I say, have you seen my
new trick with a napkin and a salt-cellar – rather natty, don’t you
think?’

He covered a salt-cellar with his napkin as he spoke, made several
passes over it, a solemn expression on his face, and then, whisking
the napery away, disclosed nothing but shining oak beneath.

His mind still on Mr Campion’s profession, Abbershaw was conscious of
a certain feeling of apprehension. The salt-cellar was antique,
probably worth a considerable sum.

Mr Campion’s trick was not yet over, however. A few more passes and
the salt-cellar was discovered issuing from the waistcoat of the
man-servant who happened to be attending to him at the time.

‘There!’ he said. ‘A pretty little piece of work, isn’t it? All done
by astrology. For my next I shall require two assistants, any live
fish, four aspidistras, and one small packet of Gold Flake.’ As he
uttered the last words he turned sharply to beam around the table, and
his elbow caught Meggie’s glass and sent it crashing to the floor.

A little breathless silence would have followed the smash had not he
bounded up from his chair immediately and bent down ostensibly to
gather up the fragments, jabbering the whole time. ‘What an idiot!
What an idiot! Have I splashed your dress, Miss Oliphant? All over the
floor! What a mess, what a mess! Come here, my man, here: bring a
dust-pan and broom with you.’ He was making such a fuss and such a
noise that no one had noticed the door open, and the somewhat
self-conscious entry of Chris Kennedy’s little band. No one, that is,
save Campion, who from his place of vantage half-way under the table
had an excellent view of the feet.

At the moment when Martin Watt leapt forward at the man by the carving
table, Campion threw his arms round the other man-servant’s legs just
below the knees, and jerked him back on to the flags with an almost
professional neatness. Within two seconds he was seated astride the
man’s chest, his knees driven into the fleshy part of his arms, whilst
he stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth. Abbershaw and Prenderby
hurried to his assistance and between them they strapped the man into
a chair, where he sat glaring at them, speechless and impotent.

Kennedy’s party, though less neat, had been quite as successful, and
Chris himself, flushed with excitement, now stood with his man’s
loaded revolver in his hand.

‘Have you got his gun?’ he said, in a voice which sounded hoarse even
to himself, as he indicated Campion’s captive.

‘No,’ said Abbershaw, and began his search. Two minutes later he
looked up, disappointed.

‘He hasn’t one,’ he said at last, and even the man himself seemed
surprised.

Kennedy swore softly and handed the gun which he held to Martin.

‘You’d better have it,’ he said. ‘I’m hopeless with my right arm gone.
Now, then, Campion, will you go upstairs with the girls? Abbershaw,
you’d better go with them. As soon as you’ve seen them safely locked
in the room, come back to us. We’re making for the servants’
quarters.’

They obeyed in silence, and Abbershaw led Campion and the three girls
quietly out of the room, across the hall, and up the wide staircase.
On the first landing they paused abruptly. Two figures were looming
towards them through the dimness ahead. It was Jesse Gideon and the
heavy, red-faced man whom Abbershaw had encountered outside Dawlish’s
door in his search for Meggie. They would have passed in silence had
not Gideon spoken suspiciously in his smooth silken voice.

‘Dinner is over early?’ he said, fixing his narrow glittering eyes on
Meggie.

She replied coldly that it was, and made as if to pass on up the
stairs, but Gideon evidently intended to prolong the conversation, for
he glided in front of her so that he and the surly ruffian beside him
barred her progress up the stairs from the step above the one on which
she was standing.

‘You are all so eager,’ Gideon continued softly, ‘that it almost looks
like an expedition to me. Or perhaps it is one of your charming games
of hide-and-seek which you play so adroitly,’ he added, and the sneer
on his unpleasant face was very obvious. ‘You will forgive me saying
so I am sure,’ he went on, still in the same soothing obsequious
voice, ‘but don’t you think you are trying Mr Dawlish’s patience a
little too much by being so foolish in your escapades? If you are wise
you will take my advice and keep very quiet until it pleases him to
release you.’

He spoke banteringly, but there was no mistaking the warning behind
his words, and it was with some eagerness that Abbershaw took Meggie’s
arm and piloted her between the two men. His one aim at the moment was
to get the girl safely to her room.

‘We understand you perfectly, Mr Gideon,’ he murmured. Gideon’s sneer
deepened into a contemptuous smile and he moved aside a little to let
them pass. Abbershaw deliberately ignored his attitude. He wanted no
arguments till the girls were safe. They were passing silently,
therefore, when suddenly from somewhere beneath them there sounded,
ugly and unmistakable, a revolver shot.

Instantly Gideon’s smiling contempt turned to a snarl of anger as all
his suspicions returned – verified.

‘So it is an expedition, is it?’ he said softly. ‘A little
explanation, if you please.’

Abbershaw realized that once again they were caught, and a feeling of
utter dejection passed over him.

Suddenly from the darkness behind him a high, rather foolish voice
that yet had a certain quality of sternness in it said quickly, ‘Don’t
talk so much. Put ’em up!’

While Abbershaw stood looking at them, Gideon and his burly companion,
with mingled expressions of rage and amazement on their faces, raised
their hands slowly above their heads.

‘Quick, man, get their guns!’

The words were uttered in Abbershaw’s ear by a voice that was still
vaguely foolish. He obeyed it instantly, removing a small, wicked
little weapon from Gideon’s hip pocket and a heavy service revolver
from the thug’s.

‘Now then, turn round. Quick march. Keep ’em right up. I’m a dangerous
man and I shoot like hell.’

Abbershaw glanced round involuntarily, and saw what Gideon and his
companions must have done some minutes before – Albert Campion’s
pleasant, vacuous face, pale and curiously in earnest in the faint
light, as he peered at them from behind the gleaming barrel of a heavy
Webley.

‘Shove the girls in their room. Give Miss Oliphant the little pistol,
and then come with me,’ he murmured to Abbershaw, as the strange
procession set off up the stairs.

‘Steady,’ he went on in a louder voice to the two men in front of him.
‘No fancy work. Any noise either of you makes will be voluntary
suicide for the good of the cause. It’ll mean one man less to tie up,
anyway. I’m taking them up to my room,’ he murmured to Abbershaw.
‘Follow me there. They’re slippery beggars and two guns are better
than one.’

Abbershaw handed Gideon’s little revolver to Meggie, which she took
eagerly.

‘We’ll be all right,’ she whispered. ‘Go on after him. They’re
terrible people.’

‘For God’s sake wait here till we come, then,’ he whispered back. She
nodded, and for a moment her steady brown eyes met his.

‘We will, old dear. Don’t worry about us. We’re all right.’

She disappeared into the room with Jeanne and Anne Edgeware, and
Abbershaw hurried after Campion considerably reassured. Meggie was a
wonderful girl.

He reached Campion just in time to get the bedroom door open and to
assist him to get the two into the room. ‘Now,’ said Campion, ‘it’s
getting infernally dark, so we’ll have to work fast. Abbershaw, will
you keep watch over these two gentlemen. I’m afraid you may have to
fire at the one on the right, he’s swearing so horribly – while I
attend to Mr Gideon’s immediate needs. That worthy enthusiast, Chris
Kennedy, has pinched all my straps, and though I hate to behave as no
guest should, I’m afraid there’s no help for it. The Black Dudley
linen will have to go.’

As he spoke he stripped the clothes from the great four-poster bed,
and began to tear the heavy linen sheets into wide strips. ‘If you
could persuade Mr Gideon to stand with his back against the post of
this bed,’ he remarked at length, ‘I think something might be done for
him. Hands still up, please.’

Ten minutes later, a silent mummy-like figure, stretched against the
bedpost, arms bandaged to the wood high above his head, an improvised
gag in his mouth, was all that remained of the cynical little
foreigner.

Mr Campion seemed to have a touch of the professional in all he did.
He stood back to survey his handiwork with some pride, then he glanced
at their other captive.

‘Heavy, unpleasant-looking bird,’ he remarked. ‘I’m afraid he’s too
heavy for the bed. Isn’t there something we can shove him into?’

He glanced round the room as he spoke, and their captive fancied that
Abbershaw’s eyes followed his, for he suddenly lunged forward and
caught the doctor, who was unused to such situations, round the
ankles, sending him sprawling. The heavy gun was thrown out of
Abbershaw’s hand and the thug reached out a great hairy fist for it.

He was quick, but Campion was before him. With a sudden cat-like
movement he snatched up the weapon, and as the other came for him,
lunging forward, all his ponderous weight behind his fist, Campion
stepped back lightly and then, raising his arm above his head, brought
down the butt of the pistol with all his strength upon the
close-shaven skull.

The man went down like a log as Abbershaw scrambled to his feet,
breathless and apologetic.

‘My dear old bird, don’t lose your Organizing Power, Directive
Ability, Self-Confidence, Driving Force, Salesmanship, and Business
Acumen,’ chattered Mr Campion cheerfully. ‘In other words, look on the
bright side of things. This fruity affair down here, for instance, has
solved his own problem. All we have to do now is to stuff him in a
cupboard and lock the door. He won’t wake up for a bit yet.’

Abbershaw, still apologetic, assisted him to lift the heavy figure
into a hanging cupboard, where they deposited him, shutting the door
and turning the key.

‘Well, now I suppose we’d better lend a hand with the devilry
downstairs,’ said Mr Campion, stretching himself. ‘I haven’t heard any
more shots, have you?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Abbershaw. ‘I fancied I heard something while you
were dealing with – er – that last customer. And I say, Campion, I
haven’t liked to ask you before now, but where the devil did you get
that gun from?’

Mr Campion grinned from behind his enormous spectacles. ‘Oh, that,’ he
said, ‘that was rather fortunate as it happened. I had a notion things
might be awkward, so I was naturally anxious that the guns, or at
least one of them, should fall into the hands of someone who knew
something about bluff at any rate.’

‘Where did you get it from?’ demanded Abbershaw. ‘I thought only one
of those men in the dining-room had a gun?’

‘Nor had they when we tackled ’em,’ agreed Mr Campion. ‘I relieved our
laddie of this one earlier on in the meal, while I was performing my
incredible act with the salt-cellar, in fact. It was the first
opportunity I’d had, and I couldn’t resist it.’

Abbershaw stared at him.

‘By Jove,’ he said, with some admiration, ‘while you were doing your
conjuring trick you picked his pocket.’

Mr Campion hesitated, and Abbershaw had the uncomfortable impression
that he reddened slightly.

‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘in a way, yes, but if you don’t mind – let’s
call it _léger de main_, shall we?’



CHAPTER XX

The Round-Up

As Abbershaw and Campion made their way slowly down the staircase to
the first floor, the house seemed to be unnaturally silent. The
candles in the iron sconces had not been lighted, and the corridors
were quite dark save for a faint greyness here and there when the open
doors of a room permitted the faint light of the stars to penetrate
into the gloom.

Abbershaw touched his companion’s arm.

‘How about going through the cupboard passage to the box-room and then
down the staircase into Dawlish’s room through the fire-place door?’
he whispered. ‘We might take him by surprise.’ Mr Campion appeared to
hesitate. Then his voice, high and foolish as ever, came softly
through the thick darkness.

‘Not a bad notion, doctor,’ he said, ‘but we’re too late for that, I’m
afraid. Hang it all, our friends’ target practice downstairs must have
given the old boy a hint that something was up. It’s only natural. I
think we’d better toddle downstairs to see how the little ones
progress. Walk softly, keep your gun ready, and for heaven’s sake
don’t shoot unless it’s a case of life or sleep perfect sleep.’

On the last word he moved forward so that he was a pace or two ahead
of Abbershaw, and they set off down the long corridor in single file.

They reached the head of the staircase without hindrance and paused
for a moment to listen.

All beneath them was silent, the husky, creaky quiet of an old house
at night, and Abbershaw was conscious of an uneasy sensation in the
soles of his feet and a tightening of his collar band.

After what seemed an interminable time Campion moved on again, hugging
the extra shadow of the wall, and treading so softly that the ancient
wood did not creak beneath him. Abbershaw followed him carefully, the
gun clenched in his hand. This sort of thing was manifestly not in his
line, but he was determined to see it through as creditably as he was
able. He might lack experience, but not courage.

A sudden stifled exclamation from Mr Campion a pace or so ahead of him
made him start violently, however; he had not realized how much the
experience of the past forty-eight hours had told on his nerves.

‘Look out!’ Campion’s voice was barely audible. ‘Here’s a casualty.’

He dropped silently as he spoke, and the next moment a little
pin-prick of light from a minute electric torch fell upon the upturned
face of the body upon the stairs.

Abbershaw felt the blood rise and surge in his ears as he looked down
and recognized Chris Kennedy, very pale from a gash over his right
temple.

‘Dotted over the beam with the familiar blunt instrument,’ murmured
Campion sadly. ‘He was so impetuous. Boys will be boys, of course, but
– well, well, well.’

‘Is he dead?’ Abbershaw could not see the extent of the damage,
and he hardly recognized his own voice, it was so strained and
horror-stricken.

‘Dead?’ Mr Campion seemed to be surprised. ‘Oh, dear me, no – he’s
only out of action for a bit. Our friends here are artists in this
sort of thing, and I rather fancy that so far Daddy Dawlish has
decided against killing off his chicks. Of course,’ he went on softly,
‘what his attitude will be now that we’ve taken up the offensive
deliberately I don’t like to suggest. On the whole I think our present
policy of complete caution is to be maintained. Hop over this – he’s
as safe here as anywhere – and come on.’

Abbershaw stepped carefully over the recumbent figure, and advanced
softly after the indefatigable Mr Campion.

They had hardly reached the foot of the staircase, and Abbershaw was
speculating upon Campion’s plan of campaign, when their direction was
suddenly decided for them. From the vicinity of the servants’ quarters
far below them on their left there came a sudden crash which echoed
dully over the entire house, followed by a volley of shots and a
hoarse scream as of a man in pain or terror.

Albert Campion paused abruptly.

‘That’s done it!’ he said. ‘Now we’ve _got_ to lick ’em! Come on,
Doc.’ On the last word he darted forward, Abbershaw at his heels. The
door in the recess under the stairs was shut but unlocked, and on
opening it they found themselves in a narrow stone corridor with a
second door at the far end.

The noise was increasing; it sounded to Abbershaw as if a pitched
battle were taking place somewhere near at hand.

The second door disclosed a great stone kitchen lit by two swinging
oil lamps. At first Abbershaw thought it was deserted, but a smothered
sound from the far end of the room arrested him, and he turned to see
a heavy, dark-eyed woman and an hysterical weak-faced girl gagged and
bound to wooden kitchen chairs in the darkest corner of the room.

These must be Mrs Browning and Lizzie Tiddy; the thought flitted
through his mind and was forgotten, for Mr Campion was already at the
second door, a heavy iron-studded structure behind which pandemonium
seemed to have broken loose.

Mr Campion lifted the iron latch, and then sprang aside as the door
shot open to meet him, precipitating the man who had been cowering
against it headlong into the room. It was Wendon, the man who had
visited Meggie and Abbershaw in their prison room early that morning.

He struggled to his feet and sprang at the first person he caught
sight of, which unfortunately for him was Campion himself. His object
was a gun, but Mr Campion, who seemed to have a peculiar aversion to
putting a revolver to its right use, extricated himself from the man’s
hold with an agility and strength altogether surprising in one of such
a languid appearance, and, to use his own words, ‘dotted the fellow’.

It was a scientific tap, well placed and of just adequate force;
Wendon’s eyes rolled up, he swayed forward and crashed. Abbershaw and
Campion darted over him into the doorway.

The scene that confronted them was an extraordinary one.

They were on the threshold of a great vaulted scullery or brewhouse,
in which the only light came from a single wall lamp and a blazing
fire in the sunken hearth. What furniture there had been in the room,
a rickety table and some benches, was smashed to firewood, and lay in
splinters all over the stone floor.

There were seven men in the room. Abbershaw recognized the two he had
last seen bound and gagged in the dining-hall, two others were
strangers to him, and the remaining three were of his own party.

Even in the first moment of amazement he wondered what had happened to
their guns.

The two prisoners of the dining-room had been relieved of theirs, he
knew, but then Martin Watt should be armed. Wendon, too, had had a
revolver that morning, and the other two, quick-footed Cockneys with
narrow suspicious eyes, should both have had weapons, surely.

Besides, there were the shots he had just heard. There was evidence of
gunfire also. Michael Prenderby lay doubled up on a long, flat stone
sink which ran the whole length of the place some three feet from the
floor. Martin Watt, every trace of his former languidness vanished,
was fighting like a maniac with one of the erstwhile prisoners in the
shadow at the extreme end of the room; but it was Wyatt who was the
central figure in the drama.

He stood balanced on the edge of the sink in front of Michael. The
flickering firelight played on the lines of his lank figure, making
him seem unnaturally tall. His longish hair was shaken back from his
forehead, and his clothes were blood-stained and wildly dishevelled;
but it was his face that most commanded attention. The intellectual,
clever, and slightly cynical scholar had vanished utterly, and in its
place there had appeared a warrior of the Middle Ages, a man who had
thrown his whole soul into a fight with fanatical fury.

In his two hands he wielded a wooden pole tipped at the end with a
heavy iron scoop, such as are still used in many places to draw water
up out of wells. It was clearly the first thing that had come to his
hand, but in his present mood it made him the most formidable of
weapons. He was lashing out with it with an extraordinary fury,
keeping the three men at bay as if they had been yelping dogs, and as
an extra flicker from the fire lit up his face afresh it seemed to
Abbershaw that it was transformed; he looked more like the Avenging
Angel than a scholar with a well scoop.

Campion whipped out his gun, and his quiet high voice sounded clearly
through the noise.

‘Now then, now then! Put ’em up!’ he said distinctly. ‘There’s been
enough fun here for this evening. Put ’em up! I’m firing,’ he added
quietly, and at the same moment a bullet flashed past the head of the
man nearest Wyatt and struck the stone wall behind him. The effect was
instantaneous. The noise ceased, and slowly the four members of
Dawlish’s gang raised their hands above their heads.

Gradually Wyatt’s uplifted weapon sank to the ground and he dropped
down off the sink and collapsed, his head between his knees, his arms
hanging limply by his sides.

Martin Watt came reeling into the circle of light by the fire,
somewhat battered and dishevelled but otherwise unhurt.

‘Thank God you’ve come,’ he said breathlessly, and grinned. ‘I thought
our number was up.’

Mr Campion herded his captives into a straight line along one wall.

‘Now if you fellows will hold them up,’ he said pleasantly, ‘I will
repeat my celebrated rope trick. For this performance I shall employ
nothing less than actual rope, which I see is all ready waiting for
me.’

As he spoke he was unfastening the hank of clothes line which hung
ready for use near the fire. He handed Martin his gun, while
Abbershaw, more alert this time, held up their captives. As he corded
up the four, Martin Watt, still breathless, recounted briefly the
events which had led up to the scene they had just witnessed.

‘We got into the kitchen first,’ he said. ‘There didn’t seem to be a
soul about except the women. They started to scream the place down
though, so we tied ’em up. It wasn’t till we’d done that that we
realized that Chris wasn’t with us. We guessed he’d met trouble, so we
started to go back. We hadn’t got half-way across the room, though,
before the door burst open and a man came in.’

He paused and took a deep breath.

‘I told him to put up his hands or I’d fire at him,’ he went on
jerkily, ‘but he didn’t. He just came for me, so I did fire. I didn’t
hit him, of course – I didn’t mean to – but the noise seemed to start
things up generally. There seemed to be footsteps all round us. We
didn’t know where to shove the cove. The door into here seemed handy
and we’d just got him inside when these four charged in on us from the
kitchen passage. Michael had got the first fellow’s gun by that time.
He lost his head a bit, I guess, and blazed at them – shooting wildly
over their heads most of the time. Then one of the fellows got him and
he curled up on the sink over there with his gun underneath him. By
this time, however, I’d got ’em fairly well under control, God knows
how.’

The boy spoke modestly, but there were indications of ‘how’ upon the
faces of their captives.

‘I got them to stick up their hands,’ he continued, ‘and then I yelled
to Wyatt to get their guns.’

He paused, and glanced at the silent figure hunched up on the flags.

‘Poor old chap,’ he said. ‘I think he went barmy – almost ran amok. He
got the guns all right – there were only two of them – and before I
could stop him or yell at him even, he had chucked them into that
bricked-in place over there. See what it is? A darn great well – I
heard them splash ages after they went in. I bawled at him, but he
yelled out what sounded like “Sweet Seventeen” or something equally
potty, grabbed that scoop, and began to lay about with it like a
loony.’ He shook his head and paused for breath. ‘Then a foul thing
happened,’ he went on suddenly. ‘One of them came for me – and I
warned him I’d shoot, and finally I tried to, but the thing only
clicked in my hand. The shot I had already fired must have been the
last. Then we closed. When you came in the other three were trying to
get at Prenderby for his gun – he was knocked out, you know – and old
Wyatt was lashing round like the flail of the Lord. Then, of course,
you just finished things off for us.’

‘A very pretty tale of love and war,’ murmured Mr Campion, some of his
old inanity returning. ‘“Featuring Our Boys. Positively for One Night
Only.” I’ve finished with the lads now, Doc – you might have a look at
the casualties.’

Abbershaw lowered his revolver, and approached Prenderby with some
trepidation. The boy lay on the stone sink dangerously doubled up, his
face hidden. A hasty examination, however, disclosed only a long
superficial scalp wound. Abbershaw heaved a sigh of relief.

‘He’s stunned,’ he said briefly. ‘The bullet grazed along his temple
and put him out. We ought to get him upstairs, though, I think.’

‘Well, I don’t see why we shouldn’t,’ said Martin cheerfully. ‘Hang
it, our way is fairly clear now. Gideon and a thug are upstairs, you
say, safely out of the way; we have four sportsmen here and one
outside; that’s seven altogether. Then the doctor lad and his shover
are still away presumably, so there’s only old Dawlish himself left.
The house is ours.’

‘Not so eager, not so eager!’ Albert Campion strolled over to them as
he spoke. ‘Old Daddy Dawlish is an energetic bit of work, believe me.
Besides, he has only to get going with his Boy Scout’s ever-ready,
self-expanding, patent pocket-knife and the fun will begin all over
again. No, I think that the doc. had better stay here with his gun,
his patient and the prisoners, while you come along with me. I’ll take
Prenderby’s gun.’

‘Righto,’ said Martin. ‘What’s the idea, a tour of the works?’

‘More or less,’ Campion conceded. ‘I want you to do a spot of
ambulance work. The White Hope of our side is draped tastefully along
the front stairs. While you’re gathering up the wreckage I’ll toddle
round to find Poppa von Faber, and on my way back after the argument
I’ll call in for the girls, and we’ll all make our final exit _en
masse_. Dignity, Gentlemen, and British Boyhood’s Well-known Bravery,
Coolness, and Distinction are the passwords of the hour.’

Martin looked at him wonderingly. ‘Do you always talk bilge?’ he said.

‘No,’ said Mr Campion lightly, ‘but I learnt the language reading
advertisements. Come on.’

He led the way out of the brewhouse into the kitchen, Martin
following. On the threshold he paused suddenly, and an exclamation
escaped him.

‘What’s happened?’ Abbershaw darted after them, and the next moment
he, too, caught his breath.

Wendon, the man Campion had laid out not ten minutes before, and left
lying an inert mass on the fibre matting, had vanished utterly.
Campion spoke softly, and his voice was unusually grave.

‘He didn’t walk out of here on his own,’ he said. ‘There’s not a skull
on earth that would withstand that tap I gave him. No, my sons, he was
fetched.’ And while they looked at him he grinned.

‘To be continued – evidently,’ he said, and added lightly, ‘Coming,
Martin?’

Abbershaw returned to his post in the brewhouse, and, after doing all
he could for the still unconscious Prenderby, settled down to await
further developments.

He had given up reflecting upon the strangeness of the circumstances
which had brought him, a sober, respectable London man, into such an
extraordinary position, and now sat staring ahead, his eyes fixed on
the grey stone wall in front of him.

Wyatt remained where he had collapsed; the others had not addressed
him, realizing in some vague subconscious way that he would rather
that they left him alone.

Abbershaw had forgotten him entirely, so that when he raised himself
suddenly and staggered to his feet the little red-haired doctor was
considerably startled. Wyatt’s face was unnaturally pale, and his dark
eyes had become lacklustre and without expression.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘I had a brain storm, I think – I must
get old Harcourt Gieves to overhaul me if we ever get back to London
again.’

‘If we ever get back?’ The words started out of Abbershaw’s mouth. ‘My
dear fellow, don’t be absurd! We’re bound to get back some time or
other.’ He heard his own voice speaking testily in the silence of the
room, and then with a species of forced cheerfulness foreign to him.
‘But now I think we shall be out of the house in an hour or so, and I
shall be delighted to inform the county police of this amazing
outrage.’

Even while he spoke he wondered at himself. The words and the voice
were those of a small man speaking of a small thing – he was up
against something much bigger than that.

Further conversation was cut short by the arrival of Martin with the
now conscious but still dazed Kennedy. The four prisoners remained
quiet, and after the first jerky word of greeting and explanation
there was no sound in the brewhouse, save the crackling of the fire in
the great hearth.

It was Abbershaw himself who first broke the silence. It seemed that
they had waited an age, and there was still no audible movement in the
house above them.

‘I hope he’s all right,’ he said nervily.

Martin Watt looked up.

‘An extraordinary chap,’ he said slowly. ‘What is he?’

Abbershaw hesitated. The more he thought about Mr Albert Campion’s
profession the more confused in mind he became. It was not easy to
reconcile what he knew of the man with his ideas on con-men and that
type of shady character in general. There was even a possibility, of
course, that Campion was a murderer, but the farther away his
interview with Mrs Meade became, the more ridiculous and absurd that
supposition seemed. He did not answer Martin’s question, and the boy
went on lazily, almost as if he were speaking to himself.

‘The fellow strikes one as a congenital idiot,’ he said. ‘Even now I’m
not sure that he’s not one; yet if it hadn’t been for him we’d all be
in a nasty mess at the present moment. It isn’t that he suddenly stops
fooling and becomes serious, though,’ he went on, ‘he’s fooling the
whole time all right – he _is_ a fool, in fact.’

‘He’s an amazing man,’ said Abbershaw, adding as though in duty bound,
‘and a good fellow.’ But he would not commit himself further, and the
silence began again.

Yet no one heard the kitchen door open, or noticed any approach, until
a shadow fell over the bright doorway, and Mr Campion, inoffensive and
slightly absurd as ever, appeared on the threshold.

‘I’ve scoured the house,’ he murmured, ‘not a soul about. Old Daddy
Hun and his pal are not the birds I took them for. They appear to have
vamoosed – I fancy I heard a car. Ready?’

‘Did you get the women?’ It was Abbershaw who spoke. Campion nodded.
‘They’re here behind me, game as hell. Bring Prenderby over your
shoulder, Watt. We’ll all hang together, women in the centre, and the
guns on the outside; I don’t think there’s anyone around, but we may
as well be careful. Now for the wide open spaces!’

Martin hoisted the unconscious boy over his shoulder and Abbershaw and
Wyatt supported Kennedy, who was now rapidly coming to himself,
between them. The girls were waiting for them in the kitchen. Jeanne
was crying quietly on Meggie’s shoulder, and there was no trace of
colour in Anne Edgeware’s round cheeks, but they showed no signs of
panic. Campion marshalled the little force into advancing order,
placing himself at the head, Meggie and Jeanne behind him, with
Abbershaw on one side and Martin and Anne on the other, while Wyatt
and Kennedy were behind.

‘The side door,’ said Campion. ‘It takes us nearest the garage – there
may be some juice about now. If not, we must toddle of course. The
tour will now proceed, visiting the Albert Memorial, Ciro’s, and the
Royal Ophthalmic Hospital . . .’

As he spoke he led them down the stone passage-way, out of the door
under the stairs, and down the corridor to the side door, through
which Abbershaw had gone to visit the garage on the fateful night of
the Dagger Ritual.

‘Now,’ he said, as with extraordinarily silent fingers he manoeuvred
the ponderous bars and locks on the great door, ‘this is where the
orchestra begins to play soft music and the circle shuffles for its
hats as we fall into one another’s arms – that’s done it!’

On the last word the hinges creaked faintly as the heavy door swung
inwards. The night was pitch dark but warm and pleasant, and they went
out eagerly on the gravel, each conscious of an unspeakable relief as
the realization of freedom came to them.

‘My God!’ The words were uttered in a sob as Campion started forward.

At the same moment the others caught a shadowy glimpse of the radiator
of a great car not two yards ahead of them. Then they were enveloped
in the glare of enormous head-lights, which completely blinded them.

They stood dazed and helpless for an instant, caught mercilessly and
held by the glare.

A quiet German voice spoke out of the brightness, cold, and
inexplicably horrible in its tonelessness.

‘I have covered the girl with red hair with my revolver; my assistant
has the woman on the left as his aim. If there is any movement from
anybody other than those I shall command, we shall both fire. Put your
hands over your heads. Everybody! . . . So.’



CHAPTER XXI

The Point of View of Benjamin Dawlish

It was all over very quickly.

There was no way of telling if the cold merciless voice behind the
blinding lights was speaking truth or no, but in the circumstances it
was impossible not to regard it.

The little party stood there, hands raised above their heads; then
hurrying footsteps echoed down the stone corridor behind them and
their erstwhile prisoners surrounded them.

The German had lied when he spoke of his assistant, then. The man must
have slipped into the house by the other door and released the men in
the brewhouse.

‘You will now go up to a room on the top floor to which my men will
lead you. Anyone who makes the least attempt to escape will be shot
instantly. By “shot” I mean shot dead.’

The voice of Benjamin Dawlish came clearly to them from behind the
wall of light. The icy tonelessness which had made the voice so
terrible on the first hearing was still there and Abbershaw had a
vision of the expressionless face behind it, heavy and without life,
like a mask.

The spirit of the little group was momentarily broken. They had made
their attempt and failed in the very moment when their success seemed
assured.

Again unarmed, they were forced back into the house and placed in a
room on the top floor at the far end of the long gallery where Albert
Campion had had his fight with the butler. It was a long narrow room,
oak-panelled, but without a fire-place, and lighted only from a single
narrow iron-barred window.

Even as Abbershaw entered it, a feeling of misgiving overcame him.
Other rooms had possibilities of escape; this held none.

It was completely empty, and the door was of treble oak, iron-studded.
It had doubtless been used at one time as a private chapel, possibly
in those times when it was wisest to hold certain religious ceremonies
behind barred doors.

The only light came from a hurricane lantern which one of the men had
brought up with him. He set it on the floor now so that the room was
striped with grotesque shadows. The prisoners were herded down to the
end of the room, two men keeping them covered the whole time.

Martin Watt set Prenderby down in a corner, and Jeanne, still crying
quietly, squatted down beside him and took his head in her lap.

Abbershaw darted forward towards their captors.

‘This is absurd,’ he said bitterly. ‘Either let us interview Mr
Dawlish downstairs or let him come up to us. It’s most important that
we should come to a proper understanding at last.’

One of the men laughed.

‘I’m afraid you don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said in a
curiously cultured voice. ‘As a matter of fact I believe Mr Dawlish is
coming up to talk to you in a moment or so. But I’m afraid you’ve got
a rather absurd view of the situation altogether. You don’t seem to
realize the peculiar powers of our chief.’

Wyatt leaned against the oak panelling, his arms folded and his chin
upon his breast. Ever since the incident in the brewhouse he had been
peculiarly morose and silent. Mr Campion also was unusually quiet, and
there was an expression on his face that betrayed his anxiety. Meggie
and Anne stood together. They were obviously very frightened, but they
did not speak or move. Chris Kennedy fumed with impotent rage, and
Martin Watt was inclined to be argumentive.

‘I don’t know what the damn silly game is,’ he said, ‘but whatever it
is it’s time we stopped playing. Your confounded “Chief” may be the
great Pooh-Bah himself for all I care, but if he thinks he can
imprison nine respectable citizens for an indefinite period on the
coast of Suffolk without getting himself into serious trouble he’s
barmy, that’s all there is to it. What’s going to happen when
inquiries start being made?’

The man who had spoken before did not answer, but he smiled, and there
was something very unpleasant and terrifying about that smile.

Further remarks from Martin were cut short by steps in the corridor
outside and the sudden appearance of Mr Benjamin Dawlish himself,
followed by Gideon, pale and stiff from his adventure, but smiling
sardonically, his round eyes veiled, and his wicked mouth drawn all
over to one side in the ‘O’ which so irritated Abbershaw.

‘Now look here, sir.’ It was Martin Watt who spoke. ‘It’s time you had
a straight talk with us. You may be a criminal, but you’re behaving
like a lunatic, and –’

‘Stop that, young man.’

Dawlish’s deep unemotional voice sounded heavily in the big room, and
instantly the boy found that he had the muzzle of a revolver pressed
against his ribs.

‘Shut up,’ a voice murmured in his ear, ‘or you’ll be plugged as sure
as hell.’

Martin relapsed into helpless silence, and the German continued. He
was still unblinking and expressionless, his heavy red face deeply
shadowed in the fantastic light. He looked at them steadily from one
to the other as if he had been considering them individually, but
there was no indication from his face or his manner to betray anything
of his conclusions.

‘So,’ he said, ‘when I look at you I see how young you all are, and it
does not surprise me any longer that you should be so foolish. You are
ignorant, that is why you are so absurd.’

‘If you’ve come here to be funny –’ Martin burst out, but the gun
against his ribs silenced him, and the German went on speaking in his
inflexible voice as if there had been no interruption.

‘Before I explain to you what exactly I have ordained shall happen,’
he said, ‘I have decided to make everything quite clear to you. I do
this because it is my fancy that none of you should consider I have
behaved in any way unreasonably. I shall begin at the beginning. On
Friday night Colonel Coombe was murdered in this house while you were
playing in the dark with that ancient dagger which hangs in the hall.
It was with that dagger that he was killed.’

This announcement was news to some of his hearers, and his quick eyes
took in the expressions of the little group before him. ‘I concealed
that murder,’ he continued deliberately, ‘because at that time there
were several very excellent reasons why I should do so. It would have
been of very great inconvenience to me if there had been an inquest
upon Coombe, as he was in my employ, and I do not tolerate any
interference, private or official, in my affairs. Apart from that,
however, the affair had very little interest for me, but I should like
to make it clear now that although I do not know his identity, the
person who killed Gordon Coombe is in this room facing me. I say this
advisedly because I know that no one entered the house from outside
that night, nor has any stranger left it since, and even had they not
perfect alibis there is no reason why I should credit it to one of my
own people.’

His inference was clear, and there was a moment of resentment among
the young people, although no one spoke. The German went on with
inexorable calm.

‘But as I have said,’ he repeated, in his awkward pedantic English,
‘that does not interest me. What is more important to me is this.
Either the murderer stole a packet of papers off the body of his
victim, or else Colonel Coombe handed them at some time or other in
that evening to one of you. Those papers are mine. I think I estimate
their value to me at something over half one million pounds. There is
one other man in the world to whom they would be worth something
approaching the same value. I assume that one of you here is a servant
of that man.’

Again he paused, and again his small round eyes scrutinized the faces
before him. Then, apparently satisfied, he continued. ‘You will admit
that I have done everything in my power to obtain possession of these
papers without harming anyone. From the first you have behaved
abominably. May I suggest that you have played hide-and-seek about the
house like school-children? And at last you have annoyed me. There are
also one or two among you’ – he glanced at Abbershaw – ‘with whom I
have old scores to settle. You have been searched, and you have been
watched, yet no trace of my property has come to light. Therefore I
give you one last chance. At eleven o’clock tomorrow morning I leave
this house with my staff. We shall take the side roads that will lead
us on to the main Yarmouth motor way without passing through any
villages. If I have my property in my possession when I go, I will see
that you can contrive your release for yourselves. If not –’

He paused, and they realized the terrible thing that was coming a full
second before the quiet words left his lips.

‘I shall first set fire to the house. To shoot you direct would be
dangerous – even charred skeletons may show traces of bullet
fractures. No, I am afraid I must just leave you to the fire.’

In the breathless silence that followed this announcement Jeanne’s
sobs became suddenly very audible, and Abbershaw, his face pale and
horror-stricken, leapt forward.

‘But I told you,’ he said passionately. ‘I told you. I burnt those
papers. I described them to you. I burnt them – the ashes are probably
in my bedroom grate now.’

A sound that was half a snarl, half a cry, broke from the German, and
for the second time they saw the granite composure of his face broken,
and had a vision of the livid malevolence behind the mask.

‘If I could believe, Dr Abbershaw,’ he said, ‘that you could ever be
so foolish – so incredibly foolish – as to destroy a packet of papers,
a portion of whose value must have been evident to you, then I could
believe also that you could deserve no better fate than the singularly
unpleasant death which most certainly awaits you and your friends
unless I am in possession of my property by eleven o’clock tomorrow
morning. Good night, ladies and gentlemen. I leave you to think it
over.’

He passed out of the room on the last words, the smirking Gideon on
his heels. His men backed out after him, their guns levelled.
Abbershaw dashed after them just as the great door swung to. He beat
upon it savagely with his clenched fists, but the oak was like a rock.

‘Burn?’ Martin’s voice broke the silence, and it was almost wondering.
‘But the place is stone – it can’t burn.’

Wyatt raised his eyes slowly.

‘The outer walls are stone,’ he said, and there was a curious note in
his voice which sent a thrill of horror through everyone who heard it.
‘The outer walls are stone, but the rest of it is oak, old,
well-seasoned oak. It will burn like kindling wood in a grate.’



CHAPTER XXII

The Darkest Hour

‘The time,’ said Mr Campion, ‘is nine o’clock.’

Chris Kennedy stretched himself wearily.

‘Six hours since that swine left us,’ he said. ‘Do you think we’ve got
an earthly?’

There was a stir in the room after he had spoken, and almost everybody
looked at the pale-haired bespectacled young man who sat squatting on
his haunches in a corner. Jeanne and Prenderby were alone unconscious
of what was going on. The little girl still supported the boy’s head
in her lap, with her timid little figure crouched over him, her face
hidden.

Albert Campion shook his head.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, but there was no hopefulness in his tone, and
once again the little group relapsed into the silence that had settled
over them after the first outburst which had followed von Faber’s
departure.

Whatever their attitude had been before, they were all now very much
alive to the real peril of their position.

Von Faber had not been wasting his time when he had spoken to them,
and they had each been struck by the stark callousness which had been
visible in him throughout the entire interview.

At last Campion rose to his feet and came across to where Meggie and
Abbershaw were seated. Gravely he offered Abbershaw his cigarette-case
in which there was a single cigarette neatly cut into two pieces.

‘I did it with a razor blade,’ he said. ‘Rather neat, don’t you
think?’

Abbershaw took the half gratefully and they shared a match.

‘I suppose,’ said Campion suddenly, speaking in a quiet and
confidential tone, ‘I suppose you did really burn that junk, Doc.’

Abbershaw glanced at him sharply.

‘I did,’ he said. ‘God forgive me. When I think what I’m responsible
for I feel I shall go mad.’

Mr Campion shrugged his shoulders.

‘My dear old bird,’ he said, ‘I shouldn’t put too much stress on what
our friend von Faber says. He doesn’t seem to me to be a person to be
relied upon.’

‘Why? Do you think he’s just trying to frighten us?’

Abbershaw spoke eagerly, and the other shook his head.

‘I’m afraid not, in the sense you mean,’ he said. ‘I think he’s set
his heart on this little conflagration scene. The man is a criminal
loony, of course. No, I only meant that probably, had someone handed
over his million-dollar book of the words, the Guy Fawkes celebrations
would have gone forward all the same. I’m afraid he’s just a nasty
vindictive person.’

Meggie shuddered, but her voice was quite firm.

‘Do you mean to say that you really think he’ll burn the house down
with us up here?’ she said.

Campion looked up at her, and then at Abbershaw.

‘Not a nice type is he?’ he murmured. ‘I’m afraid we’re for it, unless
by a miracle the villagers see the bonfire before we’re part of it, or
the son of our friend in the attic calls earlier than was expected.’

Meggie stiffened.

‘Mrs Meade,’ she said. ‘I’d forgotten all about her. What will Mr
Dawlish do about her, do you suppose?’

Mr Campion spoke grimly.

‘I could guess,’ he said, and there was silence for a while after
that.

‘But how terrible!’ Meggie burst out suddenly. ‘I didn’t believe that
people like this were allowed to exist. I thought we were civilized. I
thought this sort of thing couldn’t happen.’

Mr Campion sighed.

‘A lot of people believe things like that,’ he said. ‘They imagine the
world is a well-ordered nursery with Scotland Yard and the British
Army standing by to whack anybody who quarrels or uses a naughty word.
I thought that at one time, I suppose everybody does, but it’s not
like that really, you know. Look at me, for example – who would dream
of the cunning criminal brain that lurks beneath my inoffensive
exterior?’

The other two regarded him curiously. In any other circumstances they
would have been embarrassed. Abbershaw was the first to speak.

‘I say,’ he said, ‘if you don’t mind my asking such a thing, what on
earth made you take up your – er – present profession?’

Mr Campion regarded him owlishly through his enormous spectacles.

‘Profession?’ he said indignantly. ‘It’s my vocation. It seemed to me
that I had no talent for anything else, but in this line I can eke out
the family pittance with tolerable comfort. Of course,’ he went on
suddenly, as he caught sight of Meggie’s face, ‘I don’t exactly
“crim”, you know, as I told the doc. here. My taste is impeccable.
Most of my commissions are more secret than shady. I occasionally do a
spot of work for the Government, though, of course, that isn’t as
lucrative as honest crime. This little affair, of course, was
perfectly simple. I had only to join this house-party, take a packet
of letters from the old gentleman, toddle back to the Savoy, and my
client would be waiting for me. A hundred guineas, and all clean fun –
no brain-work required.’ He beamed at them. ‘Of course I knew what I
was in for,’ he went on. ‘I knew that more or less as soon as I got
down here. I didn’t expect anything quite like this, though, I admit.
I’m afraid the Gay Career and all that is in the soup.’

He spoke lightly, but there was no callousness in his face, and it
suddenly occurred to Abbershaw that he was doing his best to cheer
them up, for after a moment or two of silence he remarked suddenly:

‘After all, I don’t see why the place should burn as he says it will,
and I know people do escape from burning houses because I’ve seen it
on the pictures.’

His remarks were cut short by a thundering blow upon the door, and in
the complete silence that followed, a voice spoke slowly and
distinctly so that it was audible throughout the entire room.

‘You have another hour,’ it said, ‘in which to restore Mr Dawlish’s
property. If it is not forthcoming by that time there will be another
of these old country-mansion fires which have been so frequent of
late. It is not insured and so it is not likely that anyone will
inquire into the cause too closely.’

Martin Watt threw himself against the door with all his strength, and
there was a soft amused laugh from outside.

‘We heard your attempts to batter down the door last night,’ said the
voice, ‘and Mr Dawlish would like you to know that although he has
perfect faith in it holding, he has taken the precaution to reinforce
it considerably on this side. As you have probably found out, the
walls, too, are not negotiable and the window won’t afford you much
satisfaction.’

‘You dirty swine!’ shouted Chris Kennedy weakly from his corner, and
Martin Watt turned slowly upon his heel and came back into the centre
of the room, an expression of utter hopelessness on his face.

‘I’m afraid we’re sunk,’ he said slowly and quietly and moved over
towards the window, where he stood peering out between the bars.

Wyatt sat propped up against the wall, his chin supported in his
hands, and his eyes fixed steadily upon the floor in front of him. For
some time he had neither moved nor spoken. As Abbershaw glanced at him
he could not help being reminded once again of the family portraits in
the big dining-hall, and he seemed somehow part and parcel of the old
house, sitting there morosely waiting for the end.

Meggie suddenly lifted her head.

‘How extraordinary,’ she said softly, ‘to think that everything is
going on just the same only a mile or two away. I heard a dog barking
somewhere. It’s incredible that this fearful thing should be happening
to us and no one near enough to get us out. Think of it,’ she went on
quietly. ‘A man murdered and taken away casually as if it were a light
thing, and then a criminal lunatic’ – she paused and her brown eyes
narrowed – ‘I hope he’s a lunatic – calmly proposes to massacre us
all. It’s unthinkable.’

There was silence for a moment after she had spoken, and then Campion
looked at Abbershaw.

‘That yarn about Coombe,’ he said quietly. ‘I can’t get over it. Are
you sure he was murdered?’

Abbershaw glanced at him shrewdly. It seemed unbelievable that this
pleasant, inoffensive-looking young man could be a murderer attempting
to cast off any suspicion against himself, and yet, on the face of Mrs
Meade’s story, the evidence looked very black against him.

As he did not reply, Campion went on.

‘I don’t understand it at all,’ he said. ‘The man was so valuable to
them . . . he must have been.’

Abbershaw hesitated, and then he said quietly:

‘Are you sure he was – I mean do you _know_ he was?’

Campion’s pale eyes opened to their fullest extent behind his enormous
glasses.

‘I know he was to be paid a fabulous sum by Simister for his
services,’ he said, ‘and I know that on a certain day next month there
was to be a man waiting at a big London hotel to meet him. That man is
the greatest genius at disguise in Europe, and his instructions were
to give the old boy a face-lift and one or two other natty gadgets and
hand him a ticket for the first transatlantic liner, complete with
passport, family history, and pretty niece. Von Faber didn’t know
that, of course, but even if he did I don’t see why he should stick
the old gentleman in the gizzard, do you? The whole thing beats me.
Besides, why does he want to saddle us with the nasty piece of work?
It’s the sort of thing he’d never convince us about. I don’t see it
myself. It can’t be some bright notion of easing his own conscience.’

Abbershaw remained silent. He could not forget the old woman’s
strangely convincing story, the likelihood of which was borne out by
Campion’s own argument, but the more he thought about the man at his
side, the more absurd did an explanation in that direction seem.

A smothered cry of horror from Martin at the window brought them all
to their feet.

‘The swine,’ he said bitterly, turning to them, his face pale and his
eyes glittering. ‘Look. I saw Dawlish coming out of the garage towards
the house. He was carrying petrol cans. He intends to have a good
bonfire.’

‘Good God!’ said Chris Kennedy, who had taken his place at the window.
‘Here comes a lad with a faggot. Oh, why can’t I get at ’em!’

‘They’re going to burn us!’

For the first time the true significance of the situation seemed to
dawn upon little Jeanne, and she burst into loud hysterical sobbing
which was peculiarly unnerving in the tense atmosphere. Meggie crossed
over to her and attempted to soothe her, but her self-control had gone
completely and she continued to cry violently.

Anne Edgeware, too, was crying, but less noisily, and the tension
became intolerable.

Abbershaw felt for his watch, and was about to draw it out when Albert
Campion laid a hand over his warningly. As he did so his coat sleeve
slipped up and Abbershaw saw the dial of the other’s wrist-watch. It
was five minutes to eleven.

At the same moment, however, there were footsteps outside the door
again, and this time the voice of Jesse Gideon spoke from without.

‘It is your last chance,’ he said. ‘In three minutes we leave the
house. You know the rest. What shall I say to Mr Dawlish?’

‘Tell him to burn and to be damned to him!’ shouted Martin.

‘Very appropriate!’ murmured Mr Campion, but his voice had lost its
gaiety, and the hysterical sobs of the girl drowned the words.

And then, quite suddenly, from somewhere far across the fields there
came a sound which everybody in the room recognized. A sound which
brought them to their feet, the blood returning to their cheeks, and
sent them crowding to the window, a new hope in their eyes.

It was the thin far-off call of a hunting horn.

Martin, his head jammed between the bars of the narrow window, let out
a whoop of joy.

‘The Hunt, by God!’ he said. ‘Yes – Lord! There’s the pack not a
quarter of a mile away! Glory be to God, was that a splodge of red
behind that hedge? It was! Here he comes!’

His voice was resonant with excitement, and he struggled violently as
if he would force himself through the iron bars.

‘There he is,’ he said again; ‘and yes, look at him – look at him!
Half the county behind him! They’re in the park now. Gosh! They’re
coming right for us. Quick! Yell to ’em! God! They mustn’t go past!
How can we attract them! Yell at ’em! Shout something! They’ll be on
us in a minute.’

‘I think,’ murmured a quiet, rather foolish voice that yet had a note
of tension in its tone, ‘that in circumstances like this a
“view-halloo” would be permissible. Quickly! Now, are you ready, my
children? Let her go!’

There was utter silence after the shout died away upon the wind, and
then Campion’s voice behind them murmured again:

‘Once more. Put your backs into it.’

The cry rang out wildly, agonizingly, a shout for help, and then again
there was stillness.

Martin suddenly caught his breath.

‘They’ve heard,’ he said in a voice strangled with excitement. ‘A chap
is coming over here now.’



CHAPTER XXIII

An Error in Taste

‘What shall I shout to him?’ said Martin nervously, as the solitary
horseman came cantering across the turf towards the house. ‘I can’t
blab out the whole story.’

‘Yell, “We’re prisoners,”’ suggested Kennedy, ‘and, “Get us out for
the love of Mike.”’

‘It’s a young chap,’ murmured Martin. ‘Sits his horse well. Must be a
decent cove. Here goes.’

He thrust his head as far out of the window as the bars would permit,
and his clear young voice echoed out across the grass.

‘Hello! Hello! Hell-o! Up here – top window! Up here! I say, we’re
prisoners. A loony in charge is going to burn the house down. For
God’s sake give the alarm and get us out.’

There was a period of silence, and then Martin spoke over his shoulder
to the others:

‘He can’t hear. He’s coming closer. He seems to be a bit of an ass.’

‘For heaven’s sake get him to understand,’ said Wyatt. ‘Everything
depends on him.’

Martin nodded, and strained out of the window again.

‘We’re locked in here. Prisoners, I tell you. We –’ he broke off
suddenly and they heard him catch his breath.

‘Dawlish!’ he said. ‘The brute’s down there talking to him quietly as
if nothing were up.’

‘We’re imprisoned up here, I tell you,’ he shouted again. ‘That man is
a lunatic – a criminal. For heaven’s sake don’t take any notice of
him.’

He paused breathless, and they heard the heavy German voice raised a
little as though with suppressed anger.

‘I tell you I am a doctor. These unfortunate people are under my care.
They are poor imbeciles. You are exciting them. You will oblige me by
going away immediately. I cannot have you over my grounds.’

And then a young voice with an almost unbelievable county accent spoke
stiffly:

‘I am sorry. I will go away immediately, of course. I had no idea you
– er – kept lunatics. But they gave the “view-halloo” and naturally I
thought they’d seen.’

Martin groaned.

‘The rest of the field’s coming up. The pack will be past in a
moment.’

Mr Campion’s slightly falsetto voice interrupted him. He was very
excited. ‘_I_ know that voice,’ he said wildly. ‘That’s old “Guffy”
Randall. Half a moment.’

On the last word he leapt up behind Martin and thrust his head in
through the bars above the boy’s.

‘Guffy!’ he shouted. ‘Guffy Randall! Your own little Bertie is behind
these prison bars in desperate need of succour. The old gentleman on
your right is a fly bird – look out for him.’

‘That’s done it!’

Martin’s voice was triumphant.

‘He’s looking up. He’s recognized you, Campion. Great Scott! The Hun
is getting out his gun.’

At the same moment the German’s voice, bellowing now in his fury, rose
up to them.

‘Go away. You are trespassing. I am an angry man, sir. You are more
than unwise to remain here.’

And then the other voice, well bred and protesting.

‘My dear sir, you have a friend of mine apparently imprisoned in your
house. I must have an explanation.’

‘Good old Guff –’ began Mr Campion, but the words died on his lips as
the German’s voice again sounded from the turf beneath them.

‘You fool! Can none of you see when I am in earnest? Will that teach
you?’

A pistol shot followed the last word, and Martin gasped.

‘Good God! He hasn’t shot him?’ The words broke from Abbershaw in
horror.

Martin remained silent, and then a whisper of horror escaped the
flippant Mr Campion.

‘Shot him?’ he said. ‘No. The unmitigated arch-idiot has shot one of
the hounds. Just caught the tail end of the pack. Hullo! Here comes
the huntsman with the field bouncing up behind him like Queen Victoria
rampant. Now he’s for it.’

The noise below grew to a babel, and Albert Campion turned a pink,
excited face towards the anxious group behind him.

‘How like the damn fool Guffy,’ he said. ‘So upset about the hound
he’s forgotten me.’

He returned to his look-out, and the next moment his voice resounded
cheerfully over the tumult.

‘I think they’re going to lynch Poppa von Faber. I say, I’m enjoying
this.’

Now that the danger was less imminent, the spirits of the whole party
were reviving rapidly.

There was an excited guffaw from Martin.

‘Campion,’ he said, ‘look at this.’

‘Coo!’ said Mr Campion idiotically, and was silent.

‘The most militant old dear I’ve ever seen in all my life,’ murmured
Martin aloud. ‘Probably a Lady Di-something-or-other. Fourteen stone
if she weighs an ounce, and a face like her own mount. God, she’s
angry. Hullo! She’s dismounting.’

‘She’s coming for him,’ yelped Mr Campion. ‘Oh, Inky-Pinky! God’s in
His Heaven, all’s right with the world. She’s caught him across the
face with her crop. Guffy!’ The last word was bellowed at the top of
his voice, and the note of appeal in it penetrated through the uproar.

‘Get us out! And take care for yourselves. They’re armed and
desperate.’

‘With you, my son.’

The cheering voice from outside thrilled them more than anything had
done in their lives before, and Martin dropped back from the window,
breathless and flushed.

‘What a miracle,’ he said. ‘What a heaven-sent glorious miracle. Looks
as if our Guardian Angel had a sense of humour.’

‘Yes, but will they be able to get to us?’ Meggie spoke nervously.
‘After all, they are armed, and –’

‘My dear girl, you haven’t seen!’ Martin turned upon her. ‘He can’t
murder half the county. There’s a crowd outside the house that makes
the place look like the local horse show. Daddy Dawlish’s stunt for
putting the fear of God into Campion’s little friend has brought the
entire Hunt down upon him thirsting for his blood. Looks as if they’ll
get it now, too. Hullo! Here they come.’

His last words were occasioned by the sound of footsteps outside, and
then a horrified voice said clearly:

‘Good heavens! What’s the smell of kerosene?’

Several heavy blows outside followed. Then there was the grating of
bolts and the heavy door swung open.

On the threshold stood Guffy Randall, a pleasant, horsy young man with
a broken nose and an engaging smile. He was backed by half a dozen or
so eager and bewildered horsemen.

‘I say, Bertie,’ he said, without further introduction, ‘what’s up?
The passage out here is soaked with paraffin, and there’s a small
mountain of faggots on the stairs.’

Martin Watt grasped his arm.

‘All explanations later, my son,’ he said. ‘The one thing we’ve got to
do now is to prevent Uncle Bosche from getting away. He’s got a gang
of about ten, too, but they’re not so important. He’s the lad we want,
and a little sheeny pal of his.’

‘Righto. We’re with you. Of course the man’s clean off the bean. Did
you see that hound?’

‘Yes,’ said Martin soothingly. ‘But it’s the chappie we want now.
He’ll make for his car.’

‘He won’t get to it yet awhile,’ said the new-comer grimly. ‘He’s
surrounded by a tight hedge composed of the oldest members, and
they’re all seeing red – but still, we’ll go down.’

Campion turned to Abbershaw.

‘I think the girls had better come out,’ he said. ‘We don’t want any
mistakes at this juncture. Poor old Prenderby too, if we can bring
him. The place is as inflammable as gun-cotton. I’ll give you a hand
with him.’

They carried the boy downstairs between them.

As Randall had said, the corridors smelt of paraffin and there were
enormous faggots of dry kindling wood in advantageous positions all
the way down to the hall. Clearly Herr von Faber had intended to leave
nothing to chance.

‘What a swine!’ muttered Abbershaw. ‘The man must be crazy, of
course.’

Albert Campion caught his eye.

‘I don’t think so, my son,’ he said. ‘In fact I shouldn’t be at all
surprised if at this very moment our friend Boche wasn’t proving his
sanity pretty conclusively . . . Did it occur to you that his gang of
boy friends have been a little conspicuous by their absence this
morning?’

Abbershaw halted suddenly and looked at him.

‘What are you driving at?’ he demanded.

Mr Campion’s pale eyes were lazy behind his big spectacles.

‘I thought I heard a couple of cars sneaking off in the night,’ he
said. ‘We don’t know if old Whitby and his Dowager Daimler have
returned – see what I mean?’

‘Are you suggesting Dawlish is here _alone_?’ said Abbershaw.

‘Not exactly alone,’ conceded Campion. ‘We know Gideon is still about,
and that county bird with the face like a thug also, but I don’t
expect the others are around. Consider it! Dawlish has us just where
he wants us. He decides to make one last search for his precious
package, which by now he realizes is pretty hopelessly gone. Then he
means to make the place ready for his firework display, set light to
it and bunk for home and mother; naturally he doesn’t want all his
pals standing by. It’s not a pretty bit of work even for those lads.
Besides, even if they do use the side roads, he doesn’t want three
cars dashing from the scene at the same time, does he?’

Abbershaw nodded.

‘I see,’ he said slowly. ‘And so, now –’

The rest of his sentence was cut short by the sound of a shot from the
turf outside, followed by a woman’s scream that had more indignation
than fear in it. Abbershaw and Campion set down their burden in the
shadow of the porch and left him to the tender ministrations of Jeanne
while they dashed out into the open.

The scene was an extraordinary one.

Spread out in front of the gloomy, forbidding old house was all the
colour and pageantry of the Monewdon Hunt. Until a moment or two
before, the greater part of the field had kept back, leaving the
actual interviewing of the offender to the Master and several of the
older members, but now the scene was one of utter confusion.

Apparently Herr von Faber had terminated what had proved to be a
lengthy and heated argument with a revolver shot which, whether by
accident or by design, had pinked a hole through the Master’s sleeve,
and sent half the horses in the field rearing and plunging; and then,
under cover of the excitement, had fled for the garage, his ponderous
form and long grey hair making him a strange, grotesque figure in the
cold morning sun.

When Abbershaw and Campion burst upon the scene the first moment of
stupefied horror was barely over.

Martin Watt’s voice rang out clearly above the growing murmur of
anger.

‘The garage . . . quickly!’ he shouted, and almost before the last
word had left his lips there was the sound of an engine ‘revving’
violently. Then the great doors were shattered open, and the big
Lanchester dived out like a torpedo. There were three men in it, the
driver, Dawlish, and Gideon. Guffy Randall sprang into his saddle,
and, followed by five or six of the younger spirits, set off at a
gallop across the turf. Their intention was obvious. With reasonable
luck they could expect to cut off the car at a point some way up the
drive.

Campion shouted to them warningly, but his voice was lost in the wind
of their speed, and he turned to Abbershaw, his face pale and twisted
with horror.

‘They don’t realize!’ he said, and the doctor was struck with the
depth of feeling in his tone. ‘Von Faber won’t stop for anything –
those horses! God! Look at them now!’

Guffy Randall and his band had drawn their horses up across the road
in the way of the oncoming car.

Campion shouted to them wildly, but they did not seem to hear. Every
eye in the field was upon them as the great grey car shot on, seeming
to gather speed at every second.

Campion stood rigidly, his arm raised above his head.

‘He’ll charge ’em,’ he murmured, and suddenly ducked as though unable
to look any longer. Abbershaw, too, in that moment when it seemed
inevitable that men and horseflesh must be reduced to one horrible
bloody mêlée, blinked involuntarily. They had reckoned without
horsemanship, however; just when it seemed that no escape were
possible the horses reared and scattered, but as the car swept between
them Guffy’s lean young form shot down and his crop caught the driver
full across the face.

The car leapt forward, swerved over the narrow turf border into a
small draining ditch, and, with a horrible sickening grind of smashing
machinery, overturned.



CHAPTER XXIV

The Last of Black Dudley

‘I’m sorry to ’ave ’ad to trouble you, sir.’

Detective-Inspector Pillow, of the County Police, flapped back a
closely written page of his notebook and resettled himself on the
wooden chair which seemed so small for him as he spoke. Abbershaw, who
was bending over the bed in which Prenderby lay, now conscious and
able to take an interest in the proceedings, did not speak.

The three of them were alone in one of the first-floor rooms of Black
Dudley, and the Inspector was coming to the end of his inquiry.

He was a sturdy, red-faced man with close-cropped yellow hair, and a
slow-smiling blue eye. At the moment he was slightly embarrassed, but
he went on with his duty doggedly.

‘We’re getting everybody’s statements – in their own words,’ he said,
adding importantly and with one eye on Abbershaw, ‘The Chief is not at
all sure that Scotland Yard won’t be interested in this affair. ’E is
going to acquaint them with the facts right away, I believe . . . I
know there’s no harm in me telling _you_ that, sir.’

He paused, and cast a wary glance at the little red-haired doctor.

‘Oh, quite,’ said Abbershaw hastily, adding immediately: ‘Have you got
everything you want now? I don’t want my patient here disturbed more
than I can help, you understand, Inspector.’

‘Oh, certainly not, sir – certainly not. I quite understand.’

The Inspector spoke vehemently, but he still fingered his notebook
doubtfully.

‘There’s just one point more, sir, I’d like to go into with you, if
you don’t mind,’ he said at last. ‘Just a little discrepancy ’ere.
Naturally we want to get everything co’erent if we can, you
understand. This is just as a matter of form, of course. Only you see
I’ve got to hand my report in and –’

‘That’s all right, Inspector. What is it?’ said Abbershaw
encouragingly.

The Inspector removed his pencil from behind his ear and, after biting
the end of it reflectively for a moment, said briskly: ‘Well, it’s
about this ’ere tale of a murder, sir. Some of the accounts ’ave it
that the accused, Benjamin Dawlish, believed to be an alias, made some
rather startling accusations of murder when you was all locked up
together on the evening of the 27th, that is, yesterday.’

He paused and looked at Abbershaw questioningly. The doctor hesitated.

There were certain details of the affair which he had decided to
reserve for higher authorities since he did not want to risk the delay
which a full exposure now would inevitably cause.

Whitby and the driver of the disguised Rolls had not returned.
Doubtless they had been warned in time.

Meanwhile the Inspector was still waiting.

‘As I take it, sir,’ he said at length, ‘the story was a bit of
“colour”, as you might say, put in by the accused to scare the ladies.
Perhaps you ’ad some sort of the same idea?’

‘Something very much like that,’ agreed Abbershaw, glad to have evaded
the awkward question so easily. ‘I signed the cremation certificate
for Colonel Coombe’s body, you know.’

‘Oh, you did, did you, sir. Well, that clears that up.’

Inspector Pillow seemed relieved. Clearly he regarded Abbershaw as
something of an oracle since he was so closely associated with
Scotland Yard, and incidentally he appeared to consider that the
affair was tangled enough already without the introduction of further
complications.

‘By the way,’ said Abbershaw suddenly, as the thought occurred to him,
‘there’s an old woman from the village in one of the attics,
Inspector. Has she been rescued yet?’

A steely look came into the Inspector’s kindly blue eyes.

‘Mrs Meade?’ he said heavily. ‘Yes. The party ’as been attended to.
The local constable ’as ’er in charge at the moment.’ He sniffed.
‘_And_ ’e’s got ’is ’ands full,’ he added feelingly. ‘She seems to be
a well-known character round ’ere. A regular tartar,’ he went on more
confidentially. ‘Between you and me, sir’ – he tapped his forehead
significantly – ‘she seems to be a case for the County Asylum. It took
three men half an hour to get ’er out of the ’ouse. Kept raving about
’ell-fire and ’er son comin’ of a Wednesday or something, I dunno.
’Owever, Police-Officer Maydew ’as ’er in ’and. Seems ’e understands
’er more or less. ’Er daughter does ’is washing, and it’s well known
the old lady’s a bit queer. We come acrost strange things in our work,
sir, don’t we?’

Abbershaw was properly flattered by this assumption of colleagueship.

‘So you expect Scotland Yard in on this, Inspector?’ he said.

The policeman wagged his head seriously.

‘I shouldn’t be at all surprised, sir,’ he said. ‘Although,’ he added,
a trifle regretfully, ‘if they don’t hurry up I shouldn’t wonder if
there wasn’t much for them to do except to attend the inquest. Our Dr
Rawlins thinks ’e may pull ’em round, but ’e can’t say yet for
certain.’

Abbershaw nodded.

‘It was Dawlish himself who got the worst of it, wasn’t it?’ he said.

‘That is so,’ agreed the Inspector. ‘The driver, curiously enough,
seemed to get off very lightly, I thought. Deep cut acrost his face,
but otherwise nothing much wrong with ’im. The Chief’s been
interviewing ’im all the morning. Jesse Gideon, the second prisoner,
is still unconscious. ’E ’as several nasty fractures, I understand,
but Dawlish got all one side of the car on top of ’im and the doctor
seems to think that if he keeps ’im alive ’is brain may go. There’s
not much sense in that, I told ’im. Simply giving everybody trouble, I
said. Still, we ’ave to be ’umane, you know. How about Mr Prenderby,
sir? Shall I take ’is statement later?’

Prenderby spoke weakly from the bed.

‘I should like to corroborate all Dr Abbershaw has told you,’ he said.
‘Do you think you could make that do, Inspector?’

‘It’s not strictly in accordance with the regulations,’ murmured
Pillow, ‘but I think under the circumstances we might stretch a point.
I’ll ’ave your name and address and I won’t bother you two gentlemen
no more.’

After Prenderby’s name, age, address, and telephone number had been
duly noted down in the Inspector’s notebook, Abbershaw spoke.

‘I suppose we may set off for Town when we like, then?’ he said.

‘Just whenever you like, sir.’

The Inspector shut his notebook with a click, and picking up his hat
from beneath his chair, moved to the door.

‘I’ll wish you good day, then, gentlemen,’ he said, and stalked out.

Prenderby looked at Abbershaw.

‘You didn’t tell him about Coombe?’ he said.

Abbershaw shook his head.

‘No,’ he said.

‘But surely, if we’re going to make the charge we ought to do it at
once? You’re not going to let the old bird get away with it, are you?’

Abbershaw looked at him curiously.

‘I’ve been a damned fool all the way through,’ he said, ‘but now I’m
on ground I understand, and I’m not going to live up to my record. You
didn’t hear what Dawlish said to us last night, but if you had, and if
you had heard that old woman’s story, I think you’d see what I’m
thinking. He didn’t murder Coombe.’

Prenderby looked at him blankly.

‘My head may be still batty,’ he said, ‘but I’m hanged if I get you.
If the Hun or his staff aren’t responsible, who is?’

Abbershaw looked at him fixedly, and Prenderby was moved to sarcasm.

‘Anne Edgeware, or your priceless barmy crook who showed up so well
when things got tight, I suppose,’ he suggested.

Abbershaw continued to stare at him, and something in his voice when
he spoke startled the boy by its gravity.

‘I don’t know, Michael,’ he said. ‘That’s the devil of it, I don’t
know.’

Prenderby opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut short by a tap on
the door. It was Jeanne and Meggie.

‘This will have to wait, old boy,’ he murmured as they came in. ‘I’ll
come round and have a talk with you if I may, when we get back.’

‘May Michael be moved?’ It was Meggie who spoke. ‘I’m driving Jeanne
up to Town,’ she explained, ‘and we wondered if we might take Michael
too.’

Prenderby grinned to Abbershaw.

‘As one physician to another,’ he said, ‘perhaps not. But speaking as
man to man, I don’t think the atmosphere of this house is good for my
aura. I think with proper feminine care and light conversation only,
the journey might be effected without much danger, don’t you?’

Abbershaw laughed.

‘I believe in the feminine care,’ he said. ‘I’d like to come with you,
but I’ve got the old A.C. in the garage, so I must reconcile myself to
a lonely trip.’

‘Not at all,’ said Meggie. ‘You’re taking Mr Campion. Anne and Chris
are going up with Martin. Chris’s car is hopeless, and Anne says
she’ll never drive again until her nerves have recovered. The garage
man is taking her car into Ipswich, and sending it up from there.’

‘Where’s Wyatt?’ said Prenderby.

‘Oh, he’s staying down here – till the evening, at any rate.’

It was Jeanne who spoke. ‘It’s his house, you see, and naturally there
are several arrangements to make. I told him I thought it was very
terrible of us to go off, but he said he’d rather we didn’t stay. You
see, the place is quite empty – there’s not a servant anywhere – and
naturally it’s a bit awkward for him. You’d better talk to him, Dr
Abbershaw.’

Abbershaw nodded.

‘I will,’ he said. ‘He ought to get away from here pretty soon, or
he’ll be pestered to death by journalists.’

Meggie slipped her arm through his.

‘Go and find him then, dear, will you?’ she said. ‘It must be terrible
for him. I’ll look after these two. Come and see me when you get
back.’

Abbershaw glanced across the room, but Jeanne and Michael were too
engrossed in each other to be paying any attention to anything else,
so he bent forward impetuously and kissed her, and she clung to him
for a moment.

‘You bet I will,’ he said, and as he went out of the room he felt
himself, in spite of his problems, the happiest man alive.

He found Wyatt alone in the great hall. He was standing with his back
to the fire-place, in which the cold embers of yesterday’s fire still
lay.

‘No, thanks awfully, old boy,’ he said, in response to Abbershaw’s
suggestion. ‘I’d rather stay on on my own if you don’t mind. There’s
only the miserable business of caretakers and locking up to be seen
to. There are my uncle’s private papers to be gone through, too,
though Dawlish seems to have destroyed a lot of them. I’d rather be
alone. You understand, don’t you?’

‘Why, of course, my dear fellow . . .’ Abbershaw spoke hastily. ‘I’ll
see you in Town no doubt when you get back.’

‘Why, yes, I hope so. You do see how it is, don’t you? I must go
through the old boy’s personalia.’

Abbershaw looked at him curiously.

‘Wyatt,’ he said suddenly, ‘do you know much about your uncle?’

The other glanced at him sharply.

‘How do you mean?’ he demanded.

The little doctor’s courage seemed suddenly to fail him.

‘Oh, nothing,’ he said, and added, somewhat idiotically, he felt, ‘I
only wondered.’

Wyatt let the feeble explanation suffice, and presently Abbershaw,
realizing that he wished to be alone, made his adieux and went off to
find Campion and to prepare for the oncoming journey. His round
cherubic face was graver than its wont, however, and there was a
distinctly puzzled expression in his grey eyes.

It was not until he and Campion were entering the outskirts of London
late that evening that he again discussed the subject which perplexed
him chiefly.

Mr Campion had chatted in his own particular fashion all the way up,
but now he turned to Abbershaw with something more serious in his
face.

‘I say,’ he said, ‘what _did_ happen about old Daddy Coombe? No one
raised any row, I see. What’s the idea? Dawlish said he was murdered;
you said he was murdered; Prenderby said he was murdered. Was he?’

His expression was curious but certainly not fearful, Abbershaw was
certain.

‘I didn’t say anything, of course, to the old Inspector person,’
Campion went on, ‘because I didn’t know anything, but I thought you
fellows would have got busy. Why the reticence? _You_ didn’t do it by
any chance, did you?’

‘No,’ said Abbershaw shortly, some of his old pompousness returning at
the suggestion of such a likelihood.

‘No offence meant,’ said Mr Campion, dropping into the vernacular of
the neighbourhood through which they were passing. ‘Nor none taken, I
hope. No, what I was suggesting, my dear old bird, was this: Are you
sleuthing a bit in your own inimitable way? Is the old cerebral
machine ticking over? Who and what and why and wherefore, so to
speak?’

‘I don’t know, Campion,’ said Abbershaw slowly. ‘I don’t know any more
than you do who did it. But Colonel Coombe was murdered. Of that I’m
perfectly certain, and – I don’t think Dawlish or his gang had
anything to do with it.’

‘My dear Holmes,’ said Mr Campion, ‘you’ve got me all of a flutter.
You’re not serious, are you?’

‘Perfectly,’ said Abbershaw. ‘After all, who might not have done it,
with an opportunity like that, if they wanted to? Hang it all, how do
I know that you didn’t do it?’

Mr Campion hesitated, and then shrugged his shoulders.

‘I’m afraid you’ve got a very wrong idea of me,’ he said. ‘When I told
you that I never did anything in bad taste, I meant it. Sticking an
old boy in the middle of a house-party parlour-game occurs to me to be
the height of bad form. Besides, consider, I was only getting a
hundred guineas. Had my taste been execrable I wouldn’t have risked
putting my neck in a noose for a hundred guineas, would I?’

Abbershaw was silent. The other had voiced the argument that had
occurred to himself, but it left the mystery no clearer than before.

Campion smiled.

‘Put me down as near Piccadilly as you can, old man, will you?’ he
said.

Abbershaw nodded, and they drove on in silence.

At last, after some considerable time, he drew up against the kerb on
the corner of Berkeley Street. ‘Will this do you?’ he said.

‘Splendidly. Thanks awfully, old bird. I shall run into you some time,
I hope.’

Campion held out his hand as he spoke, and Abbershaw, overcome by an
impulse, shook it warmly, and the question that had been on his lips
all the drive suddenly escaped him.

‘I say, Campion,’ he said, ‘who the hell are you?’

Mr Campion paused on the running-board and there was a faintly puckish
expression behind his enormous glasses.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Shall I tell you? Listen – do you know who my mother
is?’

‘No,’ said Abbershaw, with great curiosity.

Mr Campion leaned over the side of the car until his mouth was an inch
or two from the other man’s ear, and murmured a name, a name so
illustrious that Abbershaw started back and stared at him in
astonishment.

‘Good God!’ he said. ‘You don’t mean that?’

‘No,’ said Mr Campion cheerfully, and went off striding jauntily down
the street until, to Abbershaw’s amazement, he disappeared through the
portals of one of the most famous and exclusive clubs in the world.



CHAPTER XXV

Mr Watt Explains

After dinner one evening in the following week, Abbershaw held a
private consultation on the affair in his rooms in the Adelphi.

He had not put the case before his friend, Inspector Deadwood, for a
reason which he dared not think out, yet his conscience forbade him to
ignore the mystery surrounding the death of Colonel Coombe altogether.

Since von Faber and his confederates were wanted men, the County
Police had handed over their prisoners to Scotland Yard; and in the
light of preliminary legal proceedings, sufficient evidence had been
forthcoming to render the affair at Black Dudley merely the
culminating point in a long series of charges. Every day it became
increasingly clear that they would not be heard of again for some
time.

Von Faber was still suffering from concussion, and there seemed every
likelihood of his remaining under medical supervision for the term of
his imprisonment at least.

Whitby and his companion had not been traced, and no one, save
himself, so far as Abbershaw could tell, was likely to raise any
inquiries about Colonel Coombe.

All the same, although he had several excellent reasons for wishing
the whole question to remain in oblivion, Abbershaw had forced himself
to institute at least a private inquiry into the mystery.

He and Meggie had dined together when Martin Watt was admitted.

The girl sat in one of the high-backed Stuart chairs by the fire, her
brocade-shod feet crossed, and her hands folded quietly in her lap.

Glancing at her, Abbershaw could not help reflecting that their
forthcoming marriage was more interesting to him than any criminal
hunt in the world.

Martin was more enthusiastic on the subject of the murder. He came in
excited, all trace of indolence had vanished from his face, and he
looked about him with some surprise.

‘No one else here?’ he said. ‘I thought we were going to have a pukka
consultation with all the crowd present – decorations, banners, and
salute of guns!’

Abbershaw shook his head.

‘Sorry! I’m afraid there’s only Prenderby to come,’ he said. ‘Campion
has disappeared, Anne Edgeware is in the South of France recuperating,
Jeanne doesn’t want to hear or think anything about Black Dudley ever
again, so Michael tells me, and I didn’t think we’d mention the thing
to Wyatt, until it’s a certainty at any rate. He’s had his share of
unpleasantness already. So you see there are only the four of us to
talk it over. Have a drink?’

‘Thanks.’ Martin took up the glass and sipped it meditatively. It was
evident from his manner that he was bubbling with suppressed
excitement. ‘I say,’ he said suddenly, unable to control his eagerness
any longer, ‘have you folk twigged the murderer?’

Abbershaw glanced at him sharply.

‘No,’ he said hesitatingly. ‘Why, have you?’

Martin nodded.

‘Fancy so,’ he said, and there was a distinctly satisfied expression
in his grey eyes. ‘It seems pretty obvious to me, why –’

‘Hold hard, Martin.’

Abbershaw was surprised at the apprehension in his own voice, and he
reddened slightly as the other two stared at him.

Martin frowned.

‘I don’t get you,’ he said at last. ‘There’s no special reason against
suspecting Whitby, is there?’

‘Whitby?’

Abbershaw’s astonishment was obvious, and Meggie looked at him
curiously, but Martin was too interested in his theory to raise any
question.

‘Why, yes,’ he said. ‘Whitby. Why not? Think of it in cold blood, who
was the first man to find Colonel Coombe dead? Who had a better motive
for murdering him than anyone else? It seems quite obvious to me.’ He
paused, and as neither of them spoke went on again, raising his voice
a little in his enthusiasm.

‘My dear people, just think of it,’ he insisted. ‘It struck me as soon
as it occurred to me that it was so obvious that I’ve been wondering
ever since why we didn’t hit on it at once. We should have done, of
course, if we hadn’t all been having fun in our quiet way. Look here,
this is exactly how it happened.’

He perched himself on an armchair and regarded them seriously.

‘Our little friend Albert is the first person to be considered. There
is absolutely no reason to doubt that fellow’s word, his yarn sounds
true. He showed up jolly well when we were in a tight place. I think
we’ll take him as cleared. His story is true, then. That is to say,
during Act One of the drama when we were all playing “touch” with the
haunted dagger, little Albert stepped smartly up, murmured
“Abracadabra” in the old man’s ear and collected the doings, leaving
the Colonel hale and hearty. What happened next?’ He paused and
glanced at them eagerly. ‘See what I’m driving at? No? Well, see
column two – “The Remarkable Story of the Aged and Batty Housemaid!”
Now have you got it?’

Meggie started to her feet, her eyes brightening.

‘George,’ she said, ‘I do believe he’s got it. Don’t you see, Mrs
Meade told us that she had actually seen Whitby come in with the
news that the Colonel was stabbed in the back. Why – why it’s quite
clear –’

‘Not so fast, not so fast, young lady, _if_ you please. Let the clever
detective tell his story in his own words.’

Martin leant forward as he spoke and beamed at them triumphantly.

‘I’ve worked it all out,’ he said, ‘and, putting my becoming modesty
aside, I will now detail to you the facts which my superlative
deductions have brought to light and which only require the paltry
matter of proof to make them as clear as glass to the meanest
intelligence. Get the scene into your mind. Whitby, a poor pawn in his
chief’s hands, a man whose liberty, perhaps his very life, hangs upon
the word of his superior, von Faber; this man leads his chief to the
Colonel’s desk to find that precious income-tax form or whatever it
was they were all so keen about, and when he gets there the cupboard
is bare, as the classics have it.’ Martin, who had been gradually
working himself up, now broke into a snatch of imaginary dialogue:

‘“It must be on Coombe himself,” growls the Hun,’ he began.

‘“Of course,” agrees the pawn, adding mentally: “Heaven pray it may be
so,” or words to that effect. “Go and see, _you_!” venoms the Hun, and
off goes Whitby, fear padding at his heels.’

He paused for breath and regarded them soberly.

‘Seriously, though,’ he continued with sudden gravity. ‘The chap must
have had a nasty ten minutes. He knew that if anything had gone wrong
and old Coombe had somehow managed to double-cross the gang, as
guardian he was for it with von Faber at his nastiest. Look now,’ he
went on cheerfully, ‘this is where the deduction comes in; as I work
it out, as soon as Whitby entered the darkened part of the house,
someone put the dagger in his hand and then, I should say, the whole
idea occurred to him. He went up to old Coombe in the dark, asked him
for the papers; Coombe replied that he hadn’t got them. Then Whitby,
maddened with the thought of the yarn he was bound to take back to von
Faber, struck the old boy in the back and, after making a rapid
search, took the dagger, joined in the game for thirty seconds, maybe
– just enough time to hand the thing on to somebody – and then dashed
back to Faber and Gideon, with his news. How about that?’

He smiled at them with deep satisfaction – he had no doubts himself.

For some minutes his audience were silent. This solution was certainly
very plausible. At last Abbershaw raised his head. The expression on
his face was almost hopeful.

‘It’s not a bad idea, Martin,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘In fact, the
more I think about it the more likely it seems to become.’

Martin pressed his argument home eagerly.

‘I feel like that too,’ he said. ‘You see, it explains so many things.
First of all, it gives a good reason why von Faber thought that one of
our crowd had done it. Then it also makes it clear why Whitby never
turned up again. And then it has another advantage – it provides a
motive. No one else had any _reason_ for killing the old boy. As far
as I can see he seems to have been very useful to his own gang and no
harm to anybody else. Candidly now, don’t you think I’m obviously
right?’

He looked from one to the other of them questioningly.

Meggie was frowning.

‘There is just one thing you haven’t explained, Martin,’ she said
slowly. ‘What happened to the dagger? When it was in my hand it had
blood on it. Someone snatched it from me before I could scream, and it
wasn’t seen again until the next morning, when it was all bright and
clean again and back in its place in the trophy.’

Martin looked a little crestfallen.

‘That had occurred to me,’ he admitted. ‘But I decided that in the
excitement of the alarm whoever had it chucked it down where it was
found next morning by one of the servants and put back.’

Meggie looked at him and smiled.

‘Martin,’ she said, ‘your mother has the most marvellous butler in the
world. Plantagenet, I do believe, would pick up a blood-stained dagger
in the early morning, have it cleaned, and hang it up on its proper
nail, and then consider it beneath his dignity to mention so trifling
a matter during the police inquiries afterwards. But believe me, that
man is unique. Besides, the only servants there were members of the
gang. Had they found it we should probably have heard about it.
Anyway, they wouldn’t have cleaned it and hung it up again.’

Martin nodded dubiously, and the momentary gleam of hope disappeared
from Abbershaw’s face.

‘Of course,’ said Martin, ‘Whitby may have put it back himself. Gone
nosing around during the night, you know, and found it, and thinking,
“Well, we can’t have this about,” put it back in its proper place and
said no more about it.’ He brightened visibly. ‘Come to think of it,
it’s very likely. That makes my theory all the stronger, what?’

The others were not so easily convinced.

‘He might,’ said Meggie, ‘but there’s not much reason why he should go
nosing about at night, as you say. And even so it doesn’t explain who
took it out of my hand, does it?’

Martin was shaken but by no means overwhelmed.

‘Oh, well,’ he said airily, ‘all that point is a bit immaterial, don’t
you think? After all, it’s the main motive and opportunity and
questions that are important. Anyone might have snatched the dagger
from you. It is one of those damn fool gallant gestures that old Chris
Kennedy might have perpetrated. It might have been anyone playing in
the game. However, in the main, I think we’ve spotted our man. Don’t
you, Abbershaw?’

‘I hope so.’

The fervency of the little doctor’s reply surprised them.

Martin was gratified.

‘I _know_ I’m right,’ he said. ‘Now all we’ve got to do is to prove
it.’

Abbershaw agreed.

‘That’s so,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think that will be so easy, Martin.
You see, we’ve got to find the chap first, and without police aid
that’s going to be a well-nigh impossible job. We can’t bring the Yard
into it until we’ve got past theories.’

‘No, of course not,’ said Martin. ‘But I say,’ he added, as a new
thought occurred to him, ‘there is one thing, though. Whitby was the
cove who had the wind-up, wasn’t he? No one else turned a hair, and if
there was a guilty conscience amongst the gang, surely it was his?’

This suggestion impressed his listeners more than any of his other
arguments. Abbershaw looked up excitedly.

‘I do believe you’re right,’ he said. ‘What do you think, Meggie?’

The girl hesitated. As she recollected Mrs Meade’s story of the
discovery of the murder, Martin’s theory became rapidly more and more
plausible.

‘Yes,’ she said again. ‘I believe he’s hit it.’

Martin grinned delightedly.

‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘Now all we’ve got to do is to find the chap
and get the truth out of him. This is going to be great. Now what’s
the best way to get on to the trail of those two johnnies? Toddle
round to all the crematoriums in the country and make inquiries?’

The others were silent. Here was a problem which, without the
assistance of Scotland Yard, they were almost powerless to tackle.

They were still discussing it when, fifteen minutes later, Michael
Prenderby walked in. His pale face was flushed as if from violent
exertion and he began to talk eagerly as soon as he got into the room.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said; ‘but I’ve had an adventure. Walked right
into it in the Lea Bridge Road. I stopped to have a plug put in and
there it was staring at me. I stared at it – I thought I was seeing
things at first – until the garage man got quite embarrassed.’

Martin Watt regarded the new-comer coldly.

‘Look here, Michael,’ he said with reproach. ‘We’re here to discuss a
murder, you know.’

‘Well?’ Prenderby looked pained and surprised. ‘Aren’t I helping you?
Isn’t this a most helpful point?’

Abbershaw glanced at him sharply.

‘What are you talking about?’ he said.

Prenderby stared at him.

‘Why, the car, of course,’ he said. ‘What else could it be? The car,’
he went on, as they regarded him uncomprehendingly for a moment or so.
‘_The_ car. The incredible museum specimen in which that precious
medico carted off the poor old bird’s body. There it was, sitting up
looking at me like a dowager-duchess.’



CHAPTER XXVI

‘Cherchez la Femme’

‘If you’d only keep quiet,’ said Michael Prenderby, edging a chair
between himself and the vigorous Martin who was loudly demanding
particulars, ‘I’ll tell you all about it. The garage is half-way down
the Lea Bridge Road, on the left-hand side not far past the river or
canal or whatever it is. It’s called “The Ritz” – er – because there’s
a coffee-stall incorporated with it. It’s not a very big place. The
usual type – a big white-washed shed with a tin roof – no tiles or
anything. While the chap was fixing the plug the doors were open, so I
looked in, and there, sitting in a corner, a bit like “Dora” and a bit
like a duchess, but unmistakably herself, was Colonel Coombe’s
original mechanical brougham.’

‘But are you sure?’

Martin was dancing with excitement.

‘Absolutely positive.’ Prenderby was emphatic. ‘I went and had a look
at the thing. The laddie in the garage was enjoying the joke as much
as anyone. He hadn’t had time to examine it, he said, but he’d never
set eyes on anything like it in his life. I didn’t know what to do. I
didn’t think I’d wait and see the fellows without telling you because
I didn’t know what schemes you were hatching, so I told the garage man
that I’d like to buy the bus as a museum piece. He told me that the
people who brought it in were coming back for it some time tonight and
he’d tell them. I thought we’d get down there first and be waiting for
them as they came in. Of course the old car may have changed hands,
but even so –’

‘Rather!’ Martin was enthusiastic. ‘We’ll go down there right away,
shall we? All of us?’

‘Not Meggie,’ said Abbershaw quickly. ‘No,’ he added with
determination, as she turned to him appealingly. ‘You had your share
of von Faber’s gang at Black Dudley, and I’m not going to risk
anything like that again.’

Meggie looked at him, a faintly amused expression playing round the
corners of her mouth, but she did not attempt to argue with him:
George was to be master in his own home, she had decided.

The three men set off in Prenderby’s small Riley, Abbershaw tucked
uncomfortably between the other two.

Martin Watt grinned.

‘I’ve got a gun this time,’ he said. ‘Our quiet country week-end
taught me that much.’

Abbershaw was silent. He, too, had invested in an automatic, since his
return to London. But he was not proud of the fact, since he secretly
considered that its purchase had been a definite sign of weakness.

They wormed their way through the traffic, which was mercifully thin
at that time of night, although progress was by no means easy. A clock
in Shoreditch struck eleven as they went through the borough, and
Martin spoke fervently.

‘Good lord, I hope we don’t miss them,’ he said, and added with a
chuckle, ‘I bet old Kennedy would give his ears to be on this trip.
How far down is the place, Prenderby?’

‘Not far now,’ said Michael, as he swung into the unprepossessing
tram-lined thoroughfare which leads to the ‘Bakers’ Arms’ and
Wanstead.

‘And you say the garage man was friendly?’ said Abbershaw.

‘Oh, perfectly,’ said Prenderby, with conviction. ‘I think we can
count on him. What exactly is our plan of campaign?’

Martin spoke airily.

‘We just settle down and wait for the fellows, and when they come we
get hold of them and make them talk.’

Abbershaw looked dubious. Now that he was back in the civilization of
London he was inclined to feel that the lawless methods of Black
Dudley were no longer permissible, no matter what circumstances should
arise. Martin had more of the adventurous spirit left in him, however.
It was evident that he had made up his mind about their plan of
campaign.

‘The only thing these fellows understand is force,’ he said
vigorously. ‘We’re going to talk to ’em in their mother tongue.’

Abbershaw would have demurred, but at this moment all conversation was
suspended by their sudden arrival at the garage. They found ‘The Ritz’
still open, though business even at the coffee-stall was noticeably
slack.

As soon as the car came to a standstill, a loose-limbed, raw-boned
gentleman in overalls and a trilby hat came out to meet them.

He regarded them with a cold suspicion in his eyes which even
Prenderby’s friendly grin did not thaw.

‘I’ve come back to see about the old car I wanted to buy –’ Prenderby
began, with his most engaging grin.

‘You did, did you?’ The words were delivered with a burst of Homeric
geniality that would have deceived nobody. ‘But, it’s not for sale,
see! You’d better back your car out, there’s no room to turn here.’

Prenderby was frankly puzzled; clearly this was the last reception he
had expected.

‘He’s been told to hold his tongue,’ whispered Martin, and then,
turning to the garage man, he smiled disarmingly. ‘You’ve no idea what
a disappointment this is to me,’ he said. ‘I collect relics of this
sort and by my friend’s description the specimen you have here seems
to be very nearly perfect. Let me have a look at it at any rate.’

He slipped hastily out of the car as he spoke and made a move in the
direction of the darkened garage door.

‘Oh no, you don’t!’ The words were attended by the suspicious and
unfriendly gentleman in the overalls and at the same moment Martin
found himself confronted with the whole six-foot-three of indignant
aggressiveness, while the voice, dropping a few tones, continued
softly, ‘There’s a lot of people round here what are friends of mine.
Very particular friends. I’d ’op it if I was you.’

Martin stared at him with apparent bewilderment.

‘My dear man, what’s the matter?’ he said. ‘Surely you’re not the type
of fellow to be unreasonable when someone asks you to show him a car.
There’s no reason why I should be wasting your time even.’

He chinked some money in his pocket suggestively. The face beneath the
trilby remained cold and unfriendly.

‘Now look ’ere,’ he said, thrusting his hands into his trousers
pockets through the slits in his overalls, ‘I’m telling you, and you
can take it from me or not as you please. But if you do take it, and I
’ope for your sake you do, you’ll go right away from this place. I’ve
got my reasons for telling you – see?’

Martin still seemed bewildered.

‘But this is extraordinary,’ he said, and added as if the thought had
suddenly occurred to him, ‘I suppose this doesn’t interest you?’

A crackle of notes sounded as he spoke and then his quiet lazy voice
continued. ‘_So_ attractive I always think. That view of the Houses of
Parliament on the back is rather sweet – or perhaps you like this one
better – or this? I’ve got two here printed in green as well. What do
you say?’

For a moment the man did not answer, but it was evident that some of
his pugnacity had abated.

‘A fiver!’ he said, and went on more reasonably after a considerable
pause. ‘Look here, what _is_ this game you’re up to? What’s your
business is your business and I’m not interfering, but this I ’ope and
arsk. I don’t want any fooling around my garage. I’ve got ’undreds of
pounds’ worth of cars in ’ere and I’ve got my reputation to think of.
So no setting fire to anything or calling of the police – see? If I
let you in ’ere to ’ave a look at that car that’s got to be
understood.’

‘Why, of course not. Let us have a look at the car at any rate,’ said
Martin, handing him the notes.

The man was still doubtful, but the money had a warming and soothing
effect upon his temper.

‘Are you all coming in?’ he said at last. ‘Because if so you’d better
hurry up. The owners may be back any time now.’

This was a step forward at any rate. Abbershaw and Prenderby climbed
out of the Riley and followed Martin with the visibly softening
proprietor into the garage.

The man switched on the light and the three surveyed the miscellaneous
collection of cars with interest.

‘There she is,’ said Prenderby, his voice betraying his excitement.
‘Over in that corner there. Now, I ask you, could you miss her
anywhere?’

The others followed the direction of his eyes and an exclamation broke
from Martin.

‘She certainly has IT,’ he said. ‘Once seen never forgotten.’ He
turned to the garage proprietor. ‘Have you looked at her, Mr – er –
er – ?’ he hesitated, at a loss for the name.

‘’Aywhistle,’ said the man stolidly, ‘and I ain’t. I don’t know
anything about ’er nor don’t want to. Now, ’ave you seen enough to
keep you ’appy?’

Martin looked at him curiously.

‘Look here, Captain,’ he said. ‘You come over here. I want to show you
something if you haven’t seen it already.’

He moved over to the old car as he spoke, Mr Haywhistle following him
unwillingly. Martin pulled up the bonnet and pointed to the engine.

‘Ever seen anything like that before?’ he said.

Mr Haywhistle looked at the machinery casually and without interest at
first. But gradually his expression changed and he dropped upon his
knees and peered underneath the car to get a glimpse of the chassis. A
moment or two later he lifted a red face towards them which wore an
expression almost comic in its surprise.

‘Gawd lumme!’ he said. ‘A bloomin’ Rolls.’

Martin nodded and an explanation of these ‘Young Nob’s’ interest in
the affair presented itself to the garage owner:

‘Pinched it, did he?’ he said. ‘Oh! I see now. But I pray and arsk
you, sir, don’t ’ave any rowin’ in ’ere. I’ve ’ad a bit of trouble
that way already – see?’ He looked at them appealingly.

Martin turned to the others.

‘I don’t think we need do anything in here, do you?’ he said. ‘If Mr
Haywhistle will let us wait in his yard at the side, with the gates
open, as soon as Whitby comes out we can follow him. How’s that?’

‘That suits me fine,’ said Mr Haywhistle, looking at them anxiously.
‘Now I’ll tell you what,’ he went on, clearly eager to do all that he
could to assist them now that he was not so sure of himself. ‘This is
wot ’e says to me. Early this morning, about eight o’clock, ’e comes
in ’ere with the car. My boy put ’er in for ’im, so I didn’t ’ear the
engine running. I came in just as ’e was leaving instructions. As far
as I could gather he intended to meet a friend ’ere late tonight and
they was going off together in the car as soon as this friend turned
up. Well, about eight o’clock tonight, this gentleman ’ere,’ – he
indicated Prenderby – ‘’e calls in and spots the car and mentioned
buying it. Of course I see where ’is artfulness comes in now,’ he
added, beaming at them affably. ‘’Owever, I didn’t notice anything
fishy at the time so when the owner of the car comes in about ’alf an
hour ago I tells him that there was a gentleman interested in the old
bus. Whereupon ’e went in the air – a fair treat. “Tell me,” says ’e,
“was ’e anything like this?” Thereupon ’e gives a description of a
little red-’eaded cove, which I see now is this gentleman ’ere.’

He nodded at Abbershaw. ‘Perhaps it’s your car, sir?’ he suggested.

Abbershaw smiled non-committally, and Mr Haywhistle went on.

‘Well, what eventually transpired,’ he said ponderously, ‘was this. I
was not to show ’is property to anybody, and a very nasty way ’e said
it too. ’E said ’e was coming back this side of twelve and if ’is
friend turned up before him I was to ask ’im to wait.’

Abbershaw looked at his watch.

‘We’d better get into the yard straight away,’ he said.

Mr Haywhistle glanced up at a big clock on the bare whitewashed wall.

‘Lumme, yes,’ he said. ‘’Alf a minute, I’ll come and ’elp you.’

With his assistance they backed the Riley into the dark yard by the
side of ‘The Ritz’ and put out their lights.

‘You get into ’er and sit waiting. Then as soon as they come out on
the road you can nip after them – see?’ he said.

Since there was nothing better to do they took his advice and the
three sat silent in the car, waiting.

Martin was grinning to himself. The promise of adventure had chased
the lazy expression out of his eyes and he appeared alert and
interested. Prenderby leant on the steering wheel, his thin pale face
utterly expressionless.

Abbershaw alone looked a little perturbed. He had some doubts as to
the Riley’s capabilities as far as chasing the disguised Rolls were
concerned. He was also a little afraid of Martin’s gun. He realized
that they were on a lawless errand since they were acting entirely
without proof, and any casualties that might occur would be difficult
to explain afterwards even to so obliging a person as Inspector
Deadwood.

He was disturbed in his reflections by Martin’s elbow gently prodded
into his ribs. He looked up to see a tall burly figure, in a light
overcoat and a cap pulled down well on his head, standing in the wedge
of light cast through the open doorway of the garage.

‘“The butler”,’ whispered Prenderby excitedly.

Abbershaw nodded; he too had recognized the man.

Mr Haywhistle’s manner was perfect.

‘’Ere you are, sir,’ they heard him say cheerfully. ‘Your friend won’t
be long. Said ’e’d be round just before twelve. I shouldn’t stand out
there,’ he went on tactfully, as the man showed a disposition to look
about him. ‘I’m always ’aving cars swing in ’ere without looking where
they’re going. I can’t stop ’em. It’s dangerous you know. That’s
right. Come inside.’

As the two figures disappeared, a third, moving rapidly with quick,
nervous steps, hurried in out of the darkness.

The three men in the car caught a glimpse of him as he passed into the
garage. It was Whitby himself.

‘Shall I start the engine?’ murmured Prenderby.

Martin put a warning hand on his.

‘Wait till they start theirs,’ he said. ‘Now.’

Michael trod softly on the starter and the Riley began to purr.

‘Keep back, see which way they turn, and then after them,’ Martin
whispered sharply. ‘Hullo! Here they come!’

Even as he spoke there was the soft rustle of wheels on the concrete
and then the curious top-heavy old car glided softly and gently into
the road, taking the direction of Wanstead, away from the city.

Prenderby dropped in the clutch and the Riley slipped out of its
hiding-place and darted out in pursuit, a graceful silver fish amid
the traffic.



CHAPTER XXVII

A Journey by Night

For the first few miles, while they were still in the traffic,
Prenderby contented himself with keeping the disguised Rolls in sight.
It would be absurd, he realized, to overtake them while still in
London, since they were acting in an unofficial capacity and he was
particularly anxious not to arouse the suspicions of the occupants of
the car in front of them.

He went warily, therefore, contriving always to keep a fair amount of
traffic between them.

Martin was exultant. He was convinced by his own theory, and was
certain that the last act of the Black Dudley mystery was about to
take place.

Prenderby was too much absorbed by the details of the chase to give
any adequate thought to the ultimate result.

Abbershaw alone was dubious. This, like everything else connected with
the whole extraordinary business, appalled him by its amazing
informality. He could not rid his mind of the thought that it was all
terribly illegal – and besides that, at the back of his mind, there
was always that other question, that problem which had caused him so
many sleepless nights since his return to London. He hoped Martin was
right in his theory, but he was sufficiently alarmed by his own secret
thought to wish not to put Martin’s idea to the test. He wanted to
think Martin was right, to find out nothing that would make him look
elsewhere for the murderer.

As they escaped from the tramway lines and came out into that waste of
little new houses which separates the city from the fields, they and
the grotesque old car in front were practically alone on the wide
ill-lighted roads.

It was growing cold and there was a suggestion of a ground mist so
that the car in front looked like a dim ghost returned from the early
days of motoring.

As the last of the houses vanished and they settled down into that
long straight strip of road through the forest, Prenderby spoke:

‘How about now?’ he said. ‘Shall I open out?’

Martin glanced at Abbershaw.

‘What do you think?’ he said.

Abbershaw hesitated.

‘I don’t quite see what you intend to do,’ he said. ‘Suppose you
succeed in stopping them, what are you going to say? We have no proof
against the man and no authority to do anything if we had.’

‘But we’re going to get proof,’ said Martin cheerfully. ‘That’s the
big idea. First we stop them, then we sit on their heads while they
talk.’

Abbershaw shook his head.

‘I don’t think we’d get much out of them that way,’ he said. ‘And if
we did it wouldn’t be evidence. No, if you take my advice you’ll run
them to earth. Then perhaps we’ll find something, although really, my
dear Martin, I can’t help feeling –’

‘Let’s kick him out, Prenderby,’ said Martin, ‘he’s trying to spoil
the party.’

Abbershaw grinned.

‘I think we’re doing all we can do,’ he said. ‘After all it’s no good
letting them out of our sight.’

Prenderby sighed.

‘I wish you’d decided to overtake,’ he said. ‘This is a marvellous
road. It wouldn’t hurt us to be a bit nearer, anyway, would it?’

Martin nudged him gently.

‘If you want to try your speed, my lad,’ he said, ‘here’s your
opportunity. The old lady has started to move.’

The other two glanced ahead sharply. The Rolls had suddenly begun to
move at something far beyond her previous respectable rate. The red
tail-light was already disappearing into the distance.

Prenderby’s share in the conversation came to an abrupt end. The Riley
began to purr happily and they shot forward at an ever-increasing pace
until the speedometer showed sixty.

‘Steady!’ said Martin. ‘Don’t pass them in your excitement. We don’t
want them to spot us either.’

‘What makes you so sure that they haven’t done so already?’ said
Abbershaw shrewdly, and added as they glanced at him inquiringly, ‘I
couldn’t help thinking as we came along that they were going very
leisurely, taking their time, when there was plenty of other traffic
on the road. As soon as we were alone together they began to move. I
believe they’ve spotted us.’

Prenderby spoke without looking round.

‘He’s right,’ he said. ‘Either that or they’re suddenly in the deuce
of a hurry. I’m afraid they’re suspicious of us. They can’t possibly
know who we are with lights like these.’

‘Then I say,’ cut in Martin excitedly, ‘they’ll try to dodge us. I’d
get as near as you can and then sit on their tail if I were you.’

Abbershaw said nothing and the Riley slowly crept up on the other car
until she was directly in her head-lights. The Rolls swayed to the
side to enable them to pass, but Prenderby did not avail himself of
the invitation. Eventually the big car slackened speed but still
Prenderby did not attempt to pass.

The next overture from the Rolls was as startling as it was abrupt.
The little rear window opened suddenly and a bullet hit the road
directly in front of them.

Prenderby swerved and brought the Riley almost to a full stop.

‘A pot-shot at our front tyre,’ he said. ‘If he’d got us we’d have
turned over. Martin, I believe you’re on the right tack. The cove is
desperate.’

‘Of course I’m right,’ said Martin excitedly. ‘But don’t let them get
away, man, they’ll be out of sight in a minute.’

‘Sorry,’ said Prenderby obstinately, ‘I’m keeping my distance. You
don’t seem to realize the result of a tyre-burst at that pace.’

‘Oh, he won’t do it again,’ said Martin cheerfully. ‘Besides, he’s a
rotten shot anyway.’

Prenderby said no more, but he was careful to keep at a respectable
distance from the Rolls.

‘They’ll start moving now,’ said Martin. ‘We shall have our work cut
out if we’re going to be in at the death. Look out for the side
turnings. Do you know this road at all?’

‘Pretty well,’ said Prenderby. ‘He’s heading for Chelmsford, I should
say, or somewhere round there. I think he’ll have some difficulty in
shaking us off.’

The big car ahead was now speeding away from them rapidly and
Prenderby had his hands full to keep them anywhere in sight. In
Chelmsford they lost sight of it altogether and were forced to inquire
of a policeman in the deserted High Street.

The placid country bobby took the opportunity of inspecting their
licence and then conceded the information that a ‘vehicle of a type
now obsolete, and bearing powerful lamps’ had passed through the town,
taking the Springfield road for Kelvedon and Colchester some three
minutes before their own arrival.

The Riley sped on down the winding road through the town, Martin
cursing vigorously.

‘Now we’re sunk,’ he said. ‘Missed them sure as Pancake-tide. They’ve
only got to nip into a side road and shut off their lamps and we’re
done. In fact,’ he went on disconsolately, ‘I don’t know if there’s
any point in going on at all now.’

‘There’s only one point,’ cut in Abbershaw quietly. ‘If by chance they
are going somewhere definite – I mean if they want to get to a certain
spot in set time – they’ll probably go straight on and trust to luck
that they’ve shaken us off.’

‘That’s right,’ said Martin. ‘Let’s go on full tilt to Colchester and
ask there. No one could miss a bus like that. It looks as if it ought
not to be about alone. Full steam ahead, Michael.’

‘Ay, ay, sir,’ said Prenderby cheerfully and trod on the accelerator.

They went through Witham at a speed that would have infuriated the
local authorities, but still the road was ghostly and deserted. At
length, just outside Kelvedon, far away in the distance there appeared
the faint haze of giant head-lights against the trees.

Martin whooped.

‘A sail, a sail, captain,’ he said. ‘It must be her. Put some speed
into it, Michael.’

‘All right. If we seize up or leave the road, on your head be it,’
said Prenderby, through his teeth. ‘She’s all out now.’

The hedges on either side of them became blurred and indistinct.
Finally, in the long straight strip between Marks Tey and Lexden, they
slowly crept up behind the big car again.

‘That’s her all right,’ said Martin; ‘she’s crawling, isn’t she?
Comparatively, I mean. I believe Abbershaw’s hit it. She’s keeping an
appointment. Look here, let’s drop down and shut off our head-lights –
the sides will carry us.’

‘Hullo! Where’s he off to now?’

It was Michael who spoke. The car ahead had taken a sudden turn to the
right, forsaking the main road.

‘After her,’ said Martin, with suppressed excitement. ‘Now we’re
coming to it, I do believe. Any idea where that leads to?’

‘No,’ said Michael. ‘I haven’t the least. There’s only a lane there if
I remember. Probably the drive of a house.’

‘All the better.’ Martin was enthusiastic. ‘That means we have located
them anyway.’

‘Wait a bit,’ said Michael, as, dimming his lights, he swung round
after the other car. ‘It’s not a drive. I remember it now. There’s a
signpost over there somewhere which says, “To Birch”, wherever “Birch”
may be. Gosh! No speeding on this road, my children,’ he added
suddenly, as he steered the Riley round a concealed right-angle bend
in the road.

The head-lights of the car they were following were still just visible
several turns ahead. For the next few miles the journey developed into
a nightmare. The turns were innumerable.

‘God knows how we’re going to get back,’ grumbled Michael. ‘I don’t
know which I prefer; your friend with the gun or an attempt to find
our way back through these roads before morning.’

‘Cheer up,’ said Martin consolingly. ‘You may get both. Any idea where
we are? Was that a church we passed just now?’

‘I thought I heard a cow,’ suggested Abbershaw helpfully.

‘Let’s catch ’em up,’ said Martin. ‘It’s time something definite
happened.’

Abbershaw shook his head.

‘That’s no good, my dear fellow,’ he said. ‘Don’t you see our
position? We can’t stop a man in the middle of the night and accuse
him of murder without more proof or more authority. We must find out
where he is and that’s all.’

Martin was silent. He had no intention of allowing the adventure to
end so tamely. They struggled on without speaking.

At length, after what had seemed to be an interminable drive, through
narrow miry lanes with surfaces like ploughed fields, through
forgotten villages, past ghostly churches dimly outlined against the
sky, guided only by the glare ahead, the darkness began to grey and in
the uncertain light of the dawn they found themselves on a track of
short springy grass amid the most desolate surroundings any one of
them had ever seen.

On all sides spread vast stretches of salting covered with clumps of
rough, coarse grass with here and there a ragged river or a dyke-head.

Far ahead of them the old black car lumbered on.

Martin sniffed.

‘The sea,’ he said. ‘I wonder if that old miracle ahead swims? A bus
like that might do anything. That would just about sink us if we went
to follow them.’

‘Just about,’ said Michael dryly. ‘What do we do now?’

‘I suppose we go on to the bitter end,’ said Martin. ‘They may have a
family house-boat out there. Hullo! Look at them now.’

The Rolls had at last come to a full stop, although the head-lights
were still streaming out over the turf.

Michael brought the Riley up sharply.

‘What now?’ he said.

‘Now the fun begins,’ said Martin. ‘Get out your gun, Abbershaw.’

Hardly had he spoken when an exclamation came down the morning to
them, followed immediately by a revolver shot which again fell short
of them.

Without hesitation Martin fired back. The snap of his automatic was
instantly followed by a much larger explosion.

‘That’s their back tyre,’ he said. ‘Let’s get behind the car and play
soldiers. They’re sure to retaliate. This is going to be fun.’

But in this he was mistaken. Neither Whitby nor his companion seemed
inclined for further shooting. The two figures were plainly
discernible through the fast-lightening gloom, Whitby in a long dust
coat and a soft hat, and the other man taller and thinner, his cap
still well down over his face.

And then, while they were still looking at him, Whitby thrust his hand
into his coat pocket and pulled out a large white handkerchief which
he shook at them solemnly, waving it up and down. Its significance was
unmistakable.

Abbershaw began to laugh. Even Martin grinned.

‘That’s matey, anyway,’ he said. ‘What happens next?’



CHAPTER XXVIII

Should a Doctor Tell?

Still holding the handkerchief well in front of him, Whitby came a
pace or two nearer, and presently his weak, half-apologetic voice came
to them down the wind.

‘Since we’ve both got guns, perhaps we’d better talk,’ he shouted
thinly. ‘What do you want?’

Martin glanced at Abbershaw.

‘Keep him covered,’ he murmured. ‘Prenderby, old boy, you’d better
walk behind us. We don’t know what their little game is yet.’

They advanced slowly – absurdly, Abbershaw could not help thinking –
on that vast open salting, miles from anywhere.

Whitby was still the harassed, scared-looking little man who had come
to ask Abbershaw for his assistance on that fateful night at Black
Dudley. He was, if anything, a little more composed now than then, and
he greeted them affably.

‘Well, here we are, aren’t we?’ he said, and paused. ‘What do you
want?’

Martin Watt opened his mouth to speak; he had a very clear notion of
what he wanted and was anxious to explain it.

Abbershaw cut him short, however.

‘A word or two of conversation, Doctor,’ he said.

The little man blinked at him dubiously.

‘Why, yes, of course,’ he said, ‘of course. I should hate to
disappoint you. You’ve come a long way for it, haven’t you?’

He was so patently nervous that in spite of themselves they could not
get away from the thought that they were very unfairly matched.

‘Where shall we talk?’ continued the little doctor, still timidly. ‘I
suppose there must be quite a lot of things you want to ask me?’

Martin pocketed his gun.

‘Look here, Whitby,’ he said. ‘That is the point – there are lots of
things. That’s why we’ve come. If you’re sensible you’ll give us
straight answers. You know what happened at Black Dudley after you
left, of course?’

‘I – I read in the papers,’ faltered the little figure in front of
them. ‘Most regrettable. Who would have thought that such a clever,
intelligent man would turn out to be such a dreadful criminal?’

Martin shook his head.

‘That’s no good, Doc,’ he said. ‘You see, not everything came out in
the papers.’

Whitby sighed. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Perhaps if you told me exactly how
much you know I should see precisely what to tell you.’

Martin grinned at this somewhat ambiguous remark.

‘Suppose we don’t make things quite so simple as that,’ he said.
‘Suppose we both put our cards on the table – all of them.’

He had moved a step nearer as he spoke and the little doctor put up
his hand warningly.

‘Forgive me, Mr Watt,’ he said. ‘But my friend behind me is very
clever with his pistol, as you may have noticed, and we’re right in
his range now, aren’t we? If I were you I really think I’d take my gun
out again.’

Martin stared at him and slowly drew his weapon out of his pocket.

‘That’s right,’ said Whitby. ‘Now we’ll go a little farther away from
him, shall we? You were saying – ?’

Martin was bewildered. This was the last attitude he had expected a
fugitive to take up in the middle of a saltmarsh at four o’clock in
the morning.

Abbershaw spoke quietly behind him.

‘It’s Colonel Coombe’s death we are interested in, Doctor,’ he said.
‘Your position at Black Dudley has been explained to us.’

He watched the man narrowly as he spoke but there was no trace of
surprise or fear on the little man’s face.

He seemed relieved.

‘Oh! I see,’ he said. ‘You, Doctor Abbershaw, would naturally be
interested in the fate of my patient’s body. As a matter of fact, he
was cremated at Eastchester, thirty-six hours after I left Black
Dudley. But, of course,’ he went on cheerfully, ‘you will want to know
the entire history. After we left the house we went straight over to
the registrar’s. He was very sympathetic. Like everybody else in the
vicinity he knew of the Colonel’s weak health and was not surprised at
my news. In fact, he was most obliging. Your signature and mine were
quite enough for him. He signed immediately and we continued our
journey. I was on my way back to the house when I received – by the
merest chance – the news of the unfortunate incidents which had taken
place in my absence. And so,’ he added with charming frankness, ‘we
altered our number plates and changed our destination. Are you
satisfied?’

‘Not quite,’ said Martin grimly.

The nervous little doctor hurried on before they could stop him.

‘Why, of course,’ he said, ‘I was forgetting. There must be a great
many things that still confuse you. The exact import of the papers
that you, Doctor Abbershaw, were so foolhardy as to destroy? Never
revealed, was it?’

‘We know it was the detailed plan of a big robbery,’ said Abbershaw
stiffly.

‘Indeed it was,’ said Whitby warmly. ‘Quite the largest thing our
people had ever thought of undertaking. Have you – er – any idea what
place it was? Everything was all taped out so that nothing remained to
chance, no detail left unconsidered. It was a complete plan of
campaign ready to be put into immediate action. The work of a master,
I assure you. Do you know the place?’

He saw by their faces that they were ignorant, and a satisfied smile
spread over the little man’s face.

‘It wasn’t my secret,’ he said. ‘But naturally I couldn’t help hearing
a thing or two. As far as I could gather von Faber’s objective was the
Repository of the Bullion for the Repayment of the American Debt.’

The three were silent, the stupendousness of the scheme suddenly
brought home to them.

‘Then,’ continued Whitby rapidly, ‘there was Colonel Coombe’s own part
in von Faber’s affairs. Perhaps you don’t know that for the greater
part of his life Colonel Coombe had been under von Faber’s influence
to an enormous extent, in fact I think I might almost say that he was
dominated absolutely by von –’

‘It’s not Colonel Coombe’s life, Doctor Whitby, which interests us so
particularly,’ cut in Martin suddenly. ‘It’s his death. You know as
well as we do that he was murdered.’

For an instant the nervous garrulousness of the little doctor vanished
and he stared at them blankly.

‘There are a lot of people interested in that point,’ he said at last.
‘I am myself, for one.’

‘So we gathered,’ murmured Martin, under his breath, while Abbershaw
spoke hastily.

‘Doctor Whitby,’ he said, ‘you and I committed a very grave offence by
signing those certificates.’

‘Yes,’ said Whitby, and paused for a moment or so, after which he
brightened up visibly and hurried on. ‘But really, my dear sir, in the
circumstances I don’t see that we could have done anything else, do
you? We were the victims of a stronger force.’

Abbershaw disregarded the other’s smile and spoke steadily.

‘Doctor Whitby,’ he said, ‘do you know who murdered Colonel Coombe?’

The little doctor’s benign expression did not alter.

‘Why, of course,’ he said. ‘I should have thought that, at least, was
obvious to everybody – everybody who knew anything at all about the
case, that is.’

Abbershaw shook his head.

‘I’m afraid we must plead either great stupidity or peculiarly
untrusting dispositions,’ he said. ‘That is the point on which we are
not at all satisfied.’

‘But my dear young people –’ for the first time during that interview
the little man showed signs of impatience. ‘That is most obvious.
Amongst your party – let us say, Mr Petrie’s party, as opposed to von
Faber’s – there was a member of the famous Simister gang of America.
Perhaps you have heard of it, Doctor Abbershaw. Colonel Coombe had
been attempting to establish relations with them for some time. In
fact, that was the reason why I and my pugnacious friend behind us
were placed at Black Dudley – to keep an eye upon him. During the
progress of the Dagger Ritual, Simister’s man eluded our vigilance and
chose that moment not only to get hold of the papers, but also to
murder the unfortunate Colonel. That, by the way, was only a title he
adopted, you know.’

The three younger men remained unimpressed.

Martin shook his head.

‘Not a bad story, but it won’t wash,’ he said. ‘If one of our party
stabbed the old boy, why do you all go to such lengths to keep it so
quiet for us?’

‘Because, my boy,’ said Whitby testily, ‘we didn’t want a fuss. In
fact, the police on the scene was the last thing we desired. Besides,
you seem to forget the extraordinary importance of the papers.’

Again Martin shook his head.

‘We’ve heard all this before,’ he said; ‘and it didn’t sound any
better then. To be perfectly frank, we are convinced that one of your
people was responsible. We want to know who, and we want to know why.’

The little doctor’s face grew slowly crimson, but it was the flush of
a man annoyed rather than a guilty person accused of his crime.

‘You tire me with your stupidity,’ he said suddenly. ‘Good God, sir,
consider it. Have you any idea how valuable the man was to us? Do you
know what he was paid for his services? Twenty thousand pounds for
this coup alone. Simister would probably have offered him more. You
don’t hear about these things. Government losses rarely get into the
papers – certainly not with figures attached. Not the smallest member
of our organization stood to gain anything at all by his death. I
confess I was surprised at Simister’s man, unless he was
double-crossing his own people.’

For a moment even Martin’s faith in his own theory was shaken.

‘In that case,’ said Abbershaw unexpectedly, ‘it will doubtless
surprise you to learn that the man employed by Simister to obtain the
package had a complete alibi. In fact, it was impossible for him ever
to have laid hands upon the dagger.’

‘Impossible?’ The word broke from Whitby’s lips like a cry, but
although they were listening to him critically, to not one of them did
it sound like a cry of fear. He stared at them, amazement in his eyes.

‘Have you proof of that?’ he said at last.

‘Complete proof,’ said Abbershaw quietly. ‘I think you must reconsider
your theory, Doctor Whitby. Consider how you yourself stand, in the
light of what I have just said.’

An expression of mild astonishment spread over the insignificant
little face. Then, to everybody’s surprise, he laughed.

‘Amateur detectives?’ he said. ‘I’m afraid you’ve had a long ride for
nothing, gentlemen. I confess that my position as accessory after the
fact is a dangerous one, but then, so is Doctor Abbershaw’s. Consider
the likelihood of your suggestion. Have you provided me with a
motive?’

‘I suggest,’ said Martin calmly, ‘that your position when von Faber
discovered that your prisoner had “eluded your vigilance”, as you call
it, would not have been too good.’

Whitby paused thoughtfully.

‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Not bad at all. Very pretty. But’ – he shook his
head – ‘unfortunately not true. My position with Coombe dead was “not
good” as you call it. But had Coombe been alive he would have had to
face the music, wouldn’t he? It was von Faber’s own fault that I ever
left his side at all.’

This was certainly a point which they had not considered. It silenced
them for a moment, and in the lull a sound which had been gradually
forcing itself upon their attention for the last few moments became
suddenly very apparent – the steady droning of an aeroplane engine.

Whitby looked up, mild interest on his face.

It was now quite light, and the others, following his gaze, saw a huge
Fokker monoplane flying low against the grey sky.

‘He’s out early,’ remarked Prenderby.

‘Yes,’ said Whitby. ‘There’s an aerodrome a couple of miles across
here, you know. Quite near my house, in fact.’

Martin pricked up his ears.

‘Your house?’ he echoed.

The little doctor nodded.

‘Yes. I have a small place down here by the sea. Very lonely, you
know, but I thought it suited my purpose very well just now. Frankly,
I didn’t like the idea of your following me and it made my friend
quite angry.’

‘Hullo! He’s in difficulties or something.’

It was Prenderby who spoke. He had been watching the aeroplane, which
was now almost directly above their heads. His excited cry made them
all look up again, to see the great plane circling into the wind.

There was now no drone of the engine but they could hear the sough of
the air through the wires, and for a moment it seemed as if it were
dropping directly on top of them. The next instant it passed so near
that they almost felt its draught upon their faces. Then it taxied
along the ground, coming to a halt in the glow of the still burning
head-lights of the big car.

Instinctively, they hurried towards it, and until they were within
twenty yards they did not realize that Whitby’s confederate had got
there first and was talking excitedly to the pilot.

‘Good God!’ said Martin suddenly stopping dead in his tracks. The same
thought struck the others at precisely the same instant.

Through the waves of mingled anger and amazement which overwhelmed
them, Whitby’s precise little voice came clearly.

‘I observe that he carries a machine-gun,’ he remarked. ‘That’s what I
like about these Germans – so efficient. In view of what my excitable
colleague has probably said to the pilot, I really don’t think I
should come any nearer. Perhaps you would turn off our head-lights
when you go back, they have served their purpose. Take the car too if
you like.’

He paused and beamed on them.

‘Good-bye,’ he said. ‘I suppose it would annoy you if I thanked you
for coming to see me off? Don’t do that,’ he added sharply, as
Martin’s hand shot to his side pocket. ‘Please don’t do that,’ he
repeated more earnestly. ‘For my friends would most certainly kill you
without the least compunction, and I don’t want that. Believe me, my
dear young people, whatever your theories may be, I am no murderer. I
am leaving the country in this melodramatic fashion because it
obviates the inconveniences which might arise if I showed my passport
here just at present. Don’t come any nearer. Good-bye, gentlemen.’

As they watched him go, Martin’s hand again stole to his pocket.

Abbershaw touched his arm.

‘Don’t be a fool, old man,’ he said. ‘If he’s done one murder, don’t
encourage him to do another, and if he hasn’t, why help him to?’

Martin nodded and made a remark which did nobody any credit.

They stood there watching the machine with the gun trained upon them
from its cockpit until it began to move again; then they turned back
towards the Riley.

‘Right up the garden,’ said Martin bitterly. ‘Fooled, done brown, put
it how you like. There goes Coombe’s murderer and here are we poor
mutts who listened trustingly while he told us fairy stories to pass
the time away until his pals turned up for him. I wish we’d risked
that machine-gun.’

Prenderby nodded gloomily.

‘I feel sick,’ he said. ‘We spotted him and then he got away with it.’

Abbershaw shook his head.

‘He got away certainly,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think we’ve got much
cause to regret it.’

‘What do you mean? Think he didn’t kill him?’

They looked at him incredulously.

Abbershaw nodded.

‘I know he didn’t kill him,’ he said quietly.

Martin grunted.

‘I’m afraid I can’t agree with you there,’ he said. ‘Gosh! I’ll never
forgive myself for being such a fool!’

Prenderby was inclined to agree with him, but Abbershaw stuck to his
own opinion, and the expression on his face as they drove silently
back to Town was very serious and, somehow, afraid.



CHAPTER XXIX

The Last Chapter

In the six weeks which followed the unsatisfactory trip to the Essex
Marshes, Abbershaw and Meggie were fully occupied preparing for their
wedding, which they had decided should take place as soon as was
possible.

Prenderby seemed inclined to forget the Black Dudley affair
altogether: his own marriage to Jeanne was not far distant and
provided him with a more interesting topic of thought and
conversation, and Martin Watt had gone back to his old haunts in the
City and the West End.

Wyatt was in his flat overlooking St James’s, apparently immersed as
ever in the obscurities of his reading.

But Abbershaw had not forgotten Colonel Coombe.

He had not put the whole matter before his friend, Inspector Deadwood
of Scotland Yard, for a reason which he was unable to express in
definite words, even to himself.

An idea was forming in his mind – an idea which he shrank from and yet
could not wholly escape.

In vain he argued with himself that his thought was preposterous and
absurd; as the days went on and the whole affair sank more and more
into its true perspective, the more the insidious theory grew upon him
and began to haunt his nights as well as his days.

At last, very unwillingly, he gave way to his suspicions and set out
to test his theory.

His procedure was somewhat erratic. He spent the best part of a week
in the reading-room of the British Museum; this was followed by a
period of seclusion in his own library, with occasional descents upon
the bookshops of Charing Cross Road, and then, as though his capacity
for the tedium of a subject in which he was not naturally interested
was not satiated, he spent an entire week-end in the Kensington house
of his uncle, Sir Dorrington Wynne, one-time Professor of Archaeology
in the University of Oxford, a man whose conversation never left the
subject of his researches.

Another day or so at the British Museum completed Abbershaw’s
investigations, and one evening found him driving down Whitehall in
the direction of the Abbey, his face paler than usual, and his eyes
troubled.

He went slowly, as if loth to reach his destination, and when a little
later he pulled up outside a block of flats, he remained for some time
at the wheel, staring moodily before him. Every moment the task he had
set himself became more and more nauseous.

Eventually, he left the car, and mounting the carpeted stairs of the
old Queen Anne house walked slowly up to the first floor.

A man-servant admitted him, and within three minutes he was seated
before a spacious fire-place in Wyatt Petrie’s library.

The room expressed its owner’s personality. Its taste was perfect but
a little academic, a little strict. It was an ascetic room. The walls
were pale-coloured and hung sparsely with etchings and engravings – a
Goya, two or three moderns, and a tiny Rembrandt. There were books
everywhere, but tidily, neatly kept, and a single hanging in one
corner, a dully burning splash of old Venetian embroidery.

Wyatt seemed quietly pleased to see him. He sat down on the other side
of the hearth and produced cigars and Benedictine.

Abbershaw refused both. He was clearly ill at ease, and he sat silent
for some moments after the first words of greeting, staring moodily
into the fire.

‘Wyatt,’ he said suddenly, ‘I’ve known you for a good many years.
Believe me, I’ve not forgotten that when I ask you this question.’

Wyatt leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, his liqueur glass
lightly held in his long, graceful fingers. Abbershaw turned in his
chair until he faced the silent figure.

‘Wyatt,’ he said slowly and evenly, ‘why did you stab your uncle?’

No expression appeared upon the still pale face of the man to whom he
had spoken. For some moments he did not appear to have heard.

At last he sighed and, leaning forward, set his glass down upon the
little book-table by his side.

‘I’ll show you,’ he said.

Abbershaw took a deep breath. He had not been prepared for this;
almost anything would have been easier to bear.

Meanwhile Wyatt crossed over to a small writing-desk let into a wall
of bookshelves and, unlocking it with a key which he took from his
pocket, produced something from a drawer; carrying it back to the
fire-place, he handed it to his visitor.

Abbershaw took it and looked at it with some astonishment.

It was a photograph of a girl.

The face was round and childlike, and was possessed of that peculiar
innocent sweetness which seems to belong only to a particular type of
blonde whose beauty almost invariably hardens in maturity.

At the time of the portrait, Abbershaw judged, the girl must have been
about seventeen – possibly less. Undeniably lovely, but in the
golden-haired unsophisticated fashion of the medieval angel.

The last face in the world that he would have suspected Wyatt of
noticing.

He turned the thing over in his hand. It was one of those cheap,
glossy reproductions which circulate by the thousand in the theatrical
profession.

He sat looking at it helplessly; uncomprehending, and very much at
sea.

Wyatt came to the rescue.

‘Her stage name was “Joy Love”,’ he said slowly, and there was silence
again.

Abbershaw was still utterly perplexed, and opened his mouth to ask the
obvious question, but the other man interrupted him, and the depth and
bitterness of his tone surprised the doctor.

‘Her real name was Dolly Lord,’ he said. ‘She was seventeen in that
photograph, and I loved her – I do still love her – most truly and
most deeply.’ He added simply, ‘I have never loved any other woman.’

He was silent, and Abbershaw, who felt himself drifting further and
further out of his depth at every moment, looked at him blankly. There
was no question that the man was sincere. The tone in his voice, every
line of his face and body proclaimed his intensity.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Abbershaw.

Wyatt laughed softly and began to speak quickly, earnestly, and all in
one key.

‘She was appearing in the crowd scene in _The Faith of St Hubert_,
that beautiful little semi-sacred opera that they did at the Victor
Gordon Arts Theatre in Knightsbridge,’ he said. ‘That’s where I first
saw her. She looked superb in a snood and wimple. I fell in love with
her. I found out who she was after considerable trouble. I was crazy
about her by that time.’

He paused and looked at Abbershaw with his narrow dark eyes in which
there now shone a rebellious, almost fanatical light.

‘You can call it absurd with your modern platonic-suitability
complexes,’ he said, ‘but I fell in love with a woman as nine-tenths
of the men have done since the race began and will continue to do
until all resemblance of the original animal is civilized out of us
and the race ends – with her face, and with her carriage, and with her
body. She seemed to me to fulfil all my ideals of womankind. She
became my sole object. I wanted her, I wanted to marry her.’

He hesitated for a moment and looked at Abbershaw defiantly, but as
the other did not speak he went on again. ‘I found out that in the
ordinary way she was what they call a “dancing instructress” in one of
the night-clubs at the back of Shaftesbury Avenue. I went there to
find her. From the manager in charge I discovered that for half a
crown a dance and anything else I might choose to pay I might talk as
long as I liked with her.’

Again he hesitated, and Abbershaw was able to see in his face
something of what the disillusionment had meant to him.

‘As you know,’ Wyatt continued, ‘I know very little of women. As a
rule they don’t interest me at all. I think that is why Joy interested
me so much. I want you to understand,’ he burst out suddenly with
something akin to savagery in his tone, ‘that the fact that she was
not of my world, that her accent was horrible, and her finger-nails
hideously over-manicured would not have made the slightest difference.
I was in love with her: I wanted to marry her. The fact that she was
stupid did not greatly deter me either. She was incredibly stupid –
the awful stupidity of crass ignorance and innocence. Yes,’ he went on
bitterly as he caught Abbershaw’s involuntary expression, ‘innocence.
I think it was that that broke me up. The girl was innocent with the
innocence of a savage. She knew nothing. The elementary civilized code
of right and wrong was an abstruse doctrine to her. She was horrible.’
He shuddered, and Abbershaw fancied that he began to understand. An
incident that would have been ordinary enough to a boy in his teens
had proved too much for a studious recluse of twenty-seven. It had
unhinged his mind.

Wyatt’s next remark therefore surprised him.

‘She interested me,’ he said. ‘I wanted to study her. I thought her
extraordinary mental state was due to chance at first – some
unfortunate accident of birth and upbringing – but I found I was
wrong. That was the thing that turned me into a particularly militant
type of social reformer. Do you understand what I mean, Abbershaw?’

He leant forward as he spoke, his eyes fixed on the other man’s face.
‘Do you understand what I’m saying? The state of that girl’s mentality
was not due to chance – it was _deliberate_.’

Abbershaw started.

‘Impossible,’ he said involuntarily, and Wyatt seized upon the word.

‘Impossible?’ he echoed passionately. ‘That’s what everybody would
say, I suppose, but I tell you you’re wrong. I went right into it. I
found out. That girl had been trained from a child. She was a perfect
product of a diabolical scheme, and she wasn’t the only victim. It was
a society, Abbershaw, a highly organized criminal concern. This girl,
my girl, and several others of her kind, were little wheels in the
machinery. They were the catspaws – specially prepared implements with
which to attract certain men or acquire certain information. The thing
is horrible when the girl is cognizant of what she is doing – when the
choice is her own – but think of it, trained from childhood, minds
deliberately warped, deliberately developed along certain lines. It’s
driven me insane, Abbershaw.’

He was silent for a moment or so, his head in his hands. Abbershaw
rose to his feet, but the other turned to him eagerly.

‘Don’t go,’ he said. ‘You must hear it all.’

The little red-haired doctor sat down immediately.

‘I found it all out,’ Wyatt repeated. ‘I shook out the whole terrible
story and discovered that the brains of this organization were bought,
like everything else. That is to say, they had a special brain to plan
the crime that other men would commit. That appalled me. There’s
something revolting about mass-production anyway, but when applied to
crime it’s ghastly. I felt I’d wasted my life fooling around with
books and theories, while all around me, on my very doorstep, these
appalling things were happening. I worked it all out up here. It
seemed to me that the thing to be done was to get at those brains – to
destroy them. Lodging information with the police wouldn’t be enough.
What’s the good of sending brains like that to prison for a year or
two when at the end of the time they can come back and start afresh?
It took me a year to trace those brains and I found them in my own
family, though not, thank God, in my own kin . . . my aunt’s husband,
Gordon Coombe. I saw that there was no point in simply going down
there and blowing his brains out. _He_ was only the beginning. There
were others, men who could organize the thing, men who could conceive
such an abominable idea as the one which turned Dolly Lord into Joy
Love, a creature not quite human, not quite animal – a machine, in
fact. So I had to go warily. My uncle was in the habit of asking me to
take house-parties down to Black Dudley, as you probably know, to
cover his interviews with his confederates. I planned what I thought
was a perfect killing, and the next time I was asked I chose my
house-party carefully and went down there with every intention of
putting my scheme into action.’

‘You _chose_ your house-party?’

Abbershaw looked at him curiously as he spoke.

‘Certainly,’ said Wyatt calmly. ‘I chose each one of you deliberately.
You were all people of blameless reputation. There was not one of you
who could not clear himself with perfect certainty. The suspicion
would therefore necessarily fall on one of my uncle’s own guests, each
of whom had done, if not murder, something more than as bad. I thought
Campion was of their party until we were all prisoners. Until
Prenderby told me, I thought Anne Edgeware had brought him, even
then.’

‘You ran an extraordinary risk,’ said Abbershaw.

Wyatt shook his head.

‘Why?’ he said. ‘I was my uncle’s benefactor, not he mine. I had
nothing to gain by his death, and I should have been as free from
suspicion as any of you. Of course,’ he went on, ‘I had no idea that
things would turn out as they did. No one could have been more
surprised than I when they concealed the murder in that extraordinary
way. When I realized that they had lost something I understood, and I
was desperately anxious that they should not recover what I took to be
my uncle’s notes for the gang’s next coup. That is why I asked you to
stay.’

‘Of course,’ said Abbershaw slowly, ‘you were wrong.’

‘In not pitching on von Faber as my first victim?’ said Wyatt.

Abbershaw shook his head.

‘No,’ he said. ‘In setting out to fight a social evil single-handed.
That is always a mad thing to do.’

Wyatt raised his eyes to meet the other’s.

‘I know,’ he said simply. ‘I think I am a little mad. It seemed to me
so wicked. I loved her.’

There was silence after he had spoken, and the two men sat for some
time, Abbershaw staring into the fire, Wyatt leaning back, his eyes
half-closed. The thought that possessed Abbershaw’s mind was the pity
of it – such a good brain, such a valuable idealistic soul. And it
struck him in a sudden impersonal way that it was odd that evil should
beget evil. It was as if it went on spreading in ever-widening
circles, like ripples round the first splash of a stone thrown into a
pond.

Wyatt recalled him from his reverie.

‘It was a perfect murder,’ he said, almost wonderingly. ‘How did you
find me out?’

Abbershaw hesitated. Then he sighed. ‘I couldn’t help it,’ he said.
‘It was too perfect. It left nothing to chance. Do you know where I
have spent the last week or so? In the British Museum.’

He looked at the other steadily.

‘I now know more about your family history than, I should think, any
other man alive. That Ritual story would have been wonderful for your
purpose, Wyatt, if it just hadn’t been for one thing. It was not
true.’

Wyatt rose from his chair abruptly, and walked up and down the room.
This flaw in his scheme seemed to upset him more than anything else
had done.

‘But it might have been true,’ he argued. ‘Who could prove it? A
family legend.’

‘But it wasn’t true,’ Abbershaw persisted. ‘It wasn’t true because
from the year 1100 until the year 1603 – long past the latest date to
which such a story as yours could have been feasible, Black Dudley was
a monastery and not in the possession of your family at all. Your
family estate was higher up the coast, in Norfolk, and I shouldn’t
think the dagger came into your possession until 1650 at least, when
an ancestor of yours is referred to as having returned from the Papal
States laden with merchandise.’

Wyatt continued to pace up and down the room.

‘I see,’ he said. ‘I see. But otherwise it was a perfect murder. Think
of it – Heaven knows how many finger-prints on the dagger handle, no
one with any motive – no one who might not have committed the crime,
and by the same reasoning no one who might. It had its moments of
horror too, though,’ he said, pausing suddenly. ‘The moment when I
came upon Miss Oliphant in the dark – I had to follow the dagger
round, you see, to be in at the first alarm. I saw her pause under the
window and stare at the blade, and I don’t think it was until then
that I realized that there was blood on it. So I took it from her. It
was an impulsive, idiotic thing to do, and when the alarm did come the
thing was in my own hand. I didn’t see what they were getting at at
first, and I was afraid I hadn’t quite killed him, although I’d worked
out the blow with a medical chart before I went down there. I took the
dagger up to my own room. You nearly found me with it, by the way.’

Abbershaw nodded.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I think it was instinct, but as you came in from
the balcony I caught a glimpse of something in your hand, and although
I didn’t see what it was, I couldn’t get the idea of the dagger out of
my mind.’

‘Two flaws,’ said Wyatt, and was silent.

The atmosphere in the pleasant room had become curiously cold, and
Abbershaw shivered. The sordid glossy photograph lay upon the floor,
and the pretty childish face with the expression of innocence which
had now become so sinister smiled up at him from the carpet.

‘Well, what are you going to do?’

It was Wyatt who spoke, pausing abruptly in his feverish stride.

Abbershaw did not look at him.

‘What are _you_ going to do?’ he murmured.

Wyatt hesitated.

‘There is a Dominican Foundation in the rocky valley of El Puerto in
the north of Spain,’ he said. ‘I have been in correspondence with them
for some time. I have been disposing of all my books this week. I
realized when von Faber passed into the hands of the police that my
campaign was ended, but –’

He stopped and looked at Abbershaw; then he shrugged his shoulders.

‘What now?’ he said.

Abbershaw rose to his feet and held out his hand.

‘I don’t suppose I shall see you again before you go,’ he said.
‘Good-bye.’

Wyatt shook the outstretched hand, but after the first flicker of
interest which the last words had occasioned his expression had become
preoccupied. He crossed the room and picked up the photograph, and the
last glimpse Abbershaw had of him was as he sat in the deep armchair,
crouching over it, his eyes fixed on the sweet, foolish little face.

As the little doctor walked slowly down the staircase to the street
his mind was in confusion. He was conscious of a strong feeling of
relief, even although his worst fears had been realized. At the back
of his head, the old problem of Law and Order as opposed to Right and
Wrong worried itself into the inextricable tangle which knows no
unravelling. Wyatt was both a murderer and a martyr. There was no one
who could decide between the two, in his opinion.

And in his thoughts, too, were his own affairs: Meggie, and his love
for her, and their marriage.


As he stepped out into the street, a round moon face, red and hot with
righteous indignation, loomed down upon him out of the darkness.

‘Come at last, ’ave yer?’ inquired a thick sarcastic voice. ‘Your name
and address, _if_ you please.’

Gradually it dawned upon the still meditative doctor that he was
confronted by an excessively large and unfriendly London bobby.

‘This is your car, I suppose?’ the questioner continued more mildly,
as he observed Abbershaw’s blank expression, but upon receiving the
assurance that it was, all his indignation returned.

‘This car’s been left ’ere over an hour to my certain personal
knowledge,’ he bellowed. ‘Unattended and drawn out a foot from the
kerb, which aggravates the offence. This’ll mean a summons, you know’
– he flourished his notebook. ‘Name and address.’

Abbershaw having furnished him with this information, he replaced the
pencil in its sheath and, clicking the book’s elastic band smartly,
continued his homily. He was clearly very much aggrieved.

‘It’s people like you,’ he explained, as Abbershaw climbed into the
driving seat, ‘wot gives us officers all our work. But we’re not goin’
to have these offences, I can tell you. We’re making a clean sweep.
Persons offending against the Law are not going to be tolerated.’

He paused suspiciously. The slightly dazed expression upon the face of
the little red-haired man in the car had suddenly given place to a
smile.

‘Splendid!’ he said, and there was unmistakable enthusiasm in his
tone. ‘Really, really splendid, Officer! You don’t know how comforting
that sounds. My fervent wishes for your success.’ And he drove off,
leaving the policeman looking after him, wondering a little wistfully
if the charge in his notebook should not perhaps have read, ‘Drunk in
charge of a car.’



TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

This transcription follows the text of the Penguin reprint edition
published in 1950. However, the following alterations have been made
to correct what are believed to be unambiguous errors in the text:

 * “handerkerchief” has been changed to “handkerchief” (Chapter III);
 * “taken an on expression” has been changed to “taken on an
   expression” (Chapter IV);
 * “Abberhaw” has been changed to “Abbershaw” (Chapter VI);
 * “as the fatal one” has been changed to “was the fatal one”
   (Chapter XV);
 * A semicolon at the end of a paragraph has been changed to a colon.
   (Chapter XV);
 * “glanced him” has been changed to “glanced at him”
   (Chapter XXII);
 * “if he had” has been changed to “if we had” (Chapter XXVII).



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75359 ***