The Crime at Black Dudley (18 page)

‘We understand you perfectly, Mr Gideon,' he murmured. Gideon's sneer deepened into a contemptuous smile and he moved aside a little to let them pass. Abbershaw deliberately ignored his attitude. He wanted no arguments till the girls were safe. They were passing silently, therefore, when suddenly from somewhere beneath them there sounded, ugly and unmistakable, a revolver shot.

Instantly Gideon's smiling contempt turned to a snarl of anger as all his suspicions returned – verified.

‘So it is an expedition, is it?' he said softly. ‘A little explanation, if you please.'

Abbershaw realized that once again they were caught, and a feeling of utter dejection passed over him.

Suddenly from the darkness behind him a high, rather foolish voice that yet had a certain quality of sternness in it said quickly, ‘Don't talk so much. Put 'em up!'

While Abbershaw stood looking at them, Gideon and his burly companion, with mingled expressions of rage and amazement on their faces, raised their hands slowly above their heads.

‘Quick, man, get their guns!'

The words were uttered in Abbershaw's ear by a voice that was still vaguely foolish. He obeyed it instantly, removing a small, wicked little weapon from Gideon's hip pocket and a heavy service revolver from the thug's.

‘Now then, turn round. Quick march. Keep 'em right up. I'm a dangerous man and I shoot like hell.'

Abbershaw glanced round involuntarily, and saw what Gideon and his companions must have done some minutes before – Albert Campion's pleasant, vacuous face, pale and curiously in earnest in the faint light, as he peered at them from behind the gleaming barrel of a heavy Webley.

‘Shove the girls in their room. Give Miss Oliphant the little pistol, and then come with me,' he murmured to Abbershaw, as the strange procession set off up the stairs.

‘Steady,' he went on in a louder voice to the two men in front of him. ‘No fancy work. Any noise either of you makes will be voluntary suicide for the good of the cause. It'll mean one man less to tie up, anyway. I'm taking them up to my room,' he murmured to Abbershaw. ‘Follow me there. They're slippery beggars and two guns are better than one.'

Abbershaw handed Gideon's little revolver to Meggie, which she took eagerly.

‘We'll be all right,' she whispered. ‘Go on after him. They're terrible people.'

‘For God's sake wait here till we come, then,' he whispered back. She nodded, and for a moment her steady brown eyes met his.

‘We will, old dear. Don't worry about us. We're all right.'

She disappeared into the room with Jeanne and Anne
Edgeware, and Abbershaw hurried after Campion considerably reassured. Meggie was a wonderful girl.

He reached Campion just in time to get the bedroom door open and to assist him to get the two into the room. ‘Now,' said Campion, ‘it's getting infernally dark, so we'll have to work fast. Abbershaw, will you keep watch over these two gentlemen. I'm afraid you may have to fire at the one on the right, he's swearing so horribly – while I attend to Mr Gideon's immediate needs. That worthy enthusiast, Chris Kennedy, has pinched all my straps, and though I hate to behave as no guest should, I'm afraid there's no help for it. The Black Dudley linen will have to go.'

As he spoke he stripped the clothes from the great four-poster bed, and began to tear the heavy linen sheets into wide strips. ‘If you could persuade Mr Gideon to stand with his back against the post of this bed,' he remarked at length, ‘I think something might be done for him. Hands still up, please.'

Ten minutes later, a silent mummy-like figure, stretched against the bedpost, arms bandaged to the wood high above his head, an improvised gag in his mouth, was all that remained of the cynical little foreigner.

Mr Campion seemed to have a touch of the professional in all he did. He stood back to survey his handiwork with some pride, then he glanced at their other captive.

‘Heavy, unpleasant-looking bird,' he remarked. ‘I'm afraid he's too heavy for the bed. Isn't there something we can shove him into?'

He glanced round the room as he spoke, and their captive fancied that Abbershaw's eyes followed his, for he suddenly lunged forward and caught the doctor, who was unused to such situations, round the ankles, sending him sprawling. The heavy gun was thrown out of Abbershaw's hand and the thug reached out a great hairy fist for it.

He was quick, but Campion was before him. With a sudden cat-like movement he snatched up the weapon, and as the other came for him, lunging forward, all his ponderous weight behind his fist, Campion stepped back lightly
and then, raising his arm above his head, brought down the butt of the pistol with all his strength upon the close-shaven skull.

The man went down like a log as Abbershaw scrambled to his feet, breathless and apologetic.

‘My dear old bird, don't lose your Organizing Power, Directive Ability, Self-Confidence, Driving Force, Salesmanship, and Business Acumen,' chattered Mr Campion cheerfully. ‘In other words, look on the bright side of things. This fruity affair down here, for instance, has solved his own problem. All we have to do now is to stuff him in a cupboard and lock the door. He won't wake up for a bit yet.'

Abbershaw, still apologetic, assisted him to lift the heavy figure into a hanging cupboard, where they deposited him, shutting the door and turning the key.

‘Well, now I suppose we'd better lend a hand with the devilry downstairs,' said Mr Campion, stretching himself. ‘I haven't heard any more shots, have you?'

‘I don't know,' said Abbershaw. ‘I fancied I heard something while you were dealing with – er – that last customer. And I say, Campion, I haven't liked to ask you before now, but where the devil did you get that gun from?'

Mr Campion grinned from behind his enormous spectacles. ‘Oh, that,' he said, ‘that was rather fortunate as it happened. I had a notion things might be awkward, so I was naturally anxious that the guns, or at least one of them, should fall into the hands – of someone who knew something about bluff at any rate.'

‘Where did you get it from?' demanded Abbershaw. ‘I thought only one of those men in the dining-room had a gun?'

‘Nor had they when we tackled 'em,' agreed Mr Campion. ‘I relieved our laddie of this one earlier on in the meal, while I was performing my incredible, act with the salt-cellar, in fact. It was the first opportunity I'd had, and I couldn't resist it.'

Abbershaw stared at him.

‘By Jove,' he said, with some admiration, ‘while you
were doing your conjuring trick you picked his pocket.'

Mr Campion hesitated, and Abbershaw had the uncomfortable impression that he reddened slightly.

‘Well,' he said at last, ‘in a way, yes, but if you don't mind – let's call it
léger de main
, shall we?'

As Abbershaw and Campion made their way slowly down the staircase to the first floor, the house seemed to be unnaturally silent. The candles in the iron sconces had not been lighted, and the corridors were quite dark save for a faint greyness here and there when the open doors of a room permitted the faint light of the stars to penetrate into the gloom.

Abbershaw touched his companion's arm.

‘How about going through the cupboard passage to the box-room and then down the staircase into Dawlish's room through the fire-place door?' he whispered. ‘We might take him by surprise.' Mr Campion appeared to hesitate. Then his voice, high and foolish as ever, came softly through the thick darkness.

‘Not a bad notion, doctor,' he said, ‘but we're too late for that, I'm afraid. Hang it all, our friends' target practice downstairs must have given the old boy a hint that something was up. It's only natural. I think we'd better toddle downstairs to see how the little ones progress. Walk softly, keep your gun ready, and for heaven's sake don't shoot unless it's a case of life or sleep perfect sleep.'

On the last word he moved forward so that he was a pace or two ahead of Abbershaw, and they set off down the long corridor in single file.

They reached the head of the staircase without hindrance and paused for a moment to listen.

All beneath them was silent, the husky, creaky quiet of an old house at night, and Abbershaw was conscious of an
uneasy sensation in the soles of his feet and a tightening of his collar band.

After what seemed an interminable time Campion moved on again, hugging the extra shadow of the wall, and treading so softly that the ancient wood did not creak beneath him. Abbershaw followed him carefully, the gun clenched in his hand. This sort of thing was manifestly not in his line, but he was determined to see it through as creditably as he was able. He might lack experience, but not courage.

A sudden stifled exclamation from Mr Campion a pace or so ahead of him made him start violently, however; he had not realized how much the experience of the past forty-eight hours had told on his nerves.

‘Look out!' Campion's voice was barely audible. ‘Here's a casualty.'

He dropped silently as he spoke, and the next moment a little pin-prick of light from a minute electric torch fell upon the upturned face of the body upon the stairs.

Abbershaw felt the blood rise and surge in his ears as he looked down and recognized Chris Kennedy, very pale from a gash over his right temple.

‘Dotted over the beam with the familiar blunt instrument,' murmured Campion sadly. ‘He was so impetuous. Boys will be boys, of course, but – well, well, well.'

‘Is he dead?' Abbershaw could not see the extent of the damage, and he hardly recognized his own voice, it was so strained and horror-stricken.

‘Dead?' Mr Campion seemed to be surprised. ‘Oh, dear me, no – he's only out of action for a bit. Our friends here are artists in this sort of thing, and I rather fancy that so far Daddy Dawlish has decided against killing off his chicks. Of course,' he went on softly, ‘what his attitude will be now that we've taken up the offensive deliberately I don't like to suggest. On the whole I think our present policy of complete caution is to be maintained. Hop over this – he's as safe here as anywhere – and come on.'

Abbershaw stepped carefully over the recumbent figure, and advanced softly after the indefatigable Mr Campion.

They had hardly reached the foot of the staircase, and Abbershaw was speculating upon Campion's plan of campaign, when their direction was suddenly decided for them. From the vicinity of the servants' quarters far below them on their left there came a sudden crash which echoed dully over the entire house, followed by a volley of shots and a hoarse scream as of a man in pain or terror.

Albert Campion paused abruptly.

‘That's done it!' he said. ‘Now we've
got
to lick 'em! Come on, Doc.' On the last word he darted forward, Abbershaw at his heels. The door in the recess under the stairs was shut but unlocked, and on opening it they found themselves in a narrow stone corridor with a second door at the far end.

The noise was increasing; it sounded to Abbershaw as if a pitched battle were taking place somewhere near at hand.

The second door disclosed a great stone kitchen lit by two swinging, oil lamps. At first Abbershaw thought it was deserted, but a smothered sound from the far end of the room arrested him, and he turned to see a heavy, dark-eyed woman and an hysterical weak-faced girl gagged and bound to wooden kitchen chairs in the darkest corner of the room.

These must be Mrs Browning and Lizzie Tiddy; the thought flitted through his mind and was forgotten, for Mr Campion was already at the second door, a heavy iron-studded structure behind which pandemonium seemed to have broken loose.

Mr Campion lifted the iron latch, and then sprang aside as the door shot open to meet him, precipitating the man who had been cowering against it headlong into the room. It was Wendon, the man who had visited Meggie and Abbershaw in their prison room early that morning.

He struggled to his feet and sprang at the first person he caught sight of which unfortunately for him was Campion himself. His object was a gun, but Mr Campion, who seemed to have a peculiar aversion to putting a revolver to its right use, extricated himself from the man's hold with an agility and strength altogether surprising in one of such a languid
appearance, and, to use his own words, ‘dotted the fellow'.

It was a scientific tap, well placed and of just adequate force; Wendon's eyes rolled up, he swayed forward and crashed. Abbershaw and Campion darted over him into the doorway.

The scene that confronted them was an extraordinary one.

They were on the threshold of a great vaulted scullery or brewhouse, in which the only light came from a single wall lamp and a blazing fire in the sunken hearth. What furniture there had been in the room, a rickety table and some benches, was smashed to firewood, and lay in splinters all over the stone floor.

There were seven men in the room. Abbershaw recognized the two he had last seen bound and gagged in the dining-hall, two others were strangers to him, and the remaining three were of his own party.

Even in the first moment of amazement he wondered what had happened to their guns.

The two prisoners of the dining-room had been relieved of theirs, he knew, but then Martin Watt should be armed. Wendon, too, had had a revolver that morning, and the other two, quick-footed Cockneys with narrow suspicious eyes, should both have had weapons, surely.

Besides, there were the shots he had just heard. There was evidence of gunfire also. Michael Prenderby lay doubled up on a long, flat stone sink which ran the whole length of the place some three feet from the floor. Martin Watt, every trace of his former languidness vanished, was fighting like a maniac with one of the erstwhile prisoners in the shadow at the extreme end of the room; but it was Wyatt who was the central figure in the drama.