The Crime at Black Dudley (23 page)

Read The Crime at Black Dudley Online

Authors: Margery Allingham

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.'

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