‘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 Crime at Black Dudley Page 18
