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 chancer.
‘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 a
t 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.
The Crime at Black Dudley Page 17
