The Crime at Black Dudley (21 page)

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 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.'

‘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 “viewhalloo” 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.