‘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 Pe
trie,’ 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.
The Crime at Black Dudley Page 5