Читать книгу The Crime at Black Dudley - Margery Allingham - Страница 5

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The weirdness of the great stone staircases and unlit recesses was even more disquieting than Abbershaw had imagined it would be. There were flutterings in the dark, whisperings, and hurried footsteps. He was by no means a nervous man, and in the ordinary way an experience of this sort would probably have amused him faintly, had it not bored him. But on this particular night and in this house, which had impressed him with such a curious sense of foreboding ever since he had first seen it from the drive, he was distinctly uneasy.

To make matters worse, he had entirely lost sight of Meggie. He had missed her in the first blinding rush of darkness, and so, when by chance he found himself up against a door leading into the garden, he went out, shutting it softly behind him.

It was a fine night, and although there was no moon, the starlight made it possible for him to see his way about; he did not feel like wandering about the eerie grounds alone, and suddenly it occurred to him that he would go and inspect his A.C. two-seater which he had left in the big garage beside the drive.

He was a tidy man, and since he had no clear recollection of turning off the petrol before he left her, it struck him that now was a convenient opportunity to make sure.

He located the garage without much difficulty, and made his way to it, crossing over the broad, flagged drive to where the erstwhile barn loomed up against the starlight sky. The doors were still open and there was a certain amount of light from two hurricane lanterns hanging from a low beam in the roof. There were more than half a dozen cars lined up inside, and he reflected how very typical each was of its owner. The Rover coupé with the cream body and the black wings was obviously Anne Edgeware’s; even had he not seen her smart black-and-white motoring kit he would have known it. The Salmson with the ridiculous mascot was patently Chris Kennedy’s property; the magnificent Lanchester must be Gideon’s, and the rest were simple also; a Bentley, a Buick, and a Swift proclaimed their owners.

As his eye passed from one to another, a smile flickered for an instant on his lips. There, in the corner, derelict and dignified as a maiden aunt, was one of the pioneers of motor traffic.

This must be the house car, he reflected, as he walked over to it. Colonel Coombe’s own vehicle. It was extraordinary how well it matched the house, he thought as he reached it.

Made in the very beginning of the century, it belonged to the time when, as some brilliant American has said, cars were built, like cathedrals, with prayer. It was a brougham; coach-built and leathery, with a seating capacity in the back for six at least, and a tiny cab only in front for the driver. Abbershaw was interested in cars, and since he felt he had time to spare and there was nothing better to do, he lifted up the extraordinarily ponderous bonnet of the ‘museum-piece’ and looked in.

For some moments he stood staring at the engine within, and then, drawing a torch from his pocket, he examined it more closely.

Suddenly a smothered exclamation broke from his lips and he bent down and flashed the light on the underside of the car, peering under the ridiculously heavy running-boards and glancing at the axles and shaft. At last he stood up and shut down the bonnet, an expression of mingled amazement and curiosity on his cherubic face.

The absurd old body, which looked as if it belonged to a car which would be capable of twenty miles all out at most, was set upon the chassis and the engine of latest ‘Phantom’ type Rolls-Royce.

He had no time to reflect upon the possible motives of the owner of the strange hybrid for this inexplicable piece of eccentricity, for at that moment he was disturbed by the sounds of footsteps coming up the flagged drive. Instinctively he moved over to his own car, and was bending over it when a figure appeared in the doorway.

‘Oh—er—hullo! Having a little potter—what?’

The words, uttered in an inoffensively idiotic voice, made Abbershaw glance up to find Albert Campion smiling fatuously in upon him.

‘Hullo!’ said Abbershaw, a little nettled to have his occupation so accurately described. ‘How’s the Ritual going?’

Mr Campion looked a trifle embarrassed.

‘Oh, jogging along, I believe. Two hours’ clean fun, don’t you know.’

‘You seem to be missing yours,’ said Abbershaw pointedly.

The young man appeared to break out into a sort of Charleston, apparently to hide further embarrassment.

‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact I got fed-up with it in there,’ he said, still hopping up and down in a way Abbershaw found peculiarly irritating. ‘All this running about in the dark with daggers doesn’t seem to me healthy. I don’t like knives, you know—people getting excited and all that. I came out to get away from it all.’

For the first time Abbershaw began to feel a faint sympathy for him.

‘Your car here?’ he remarked casually.

This perfectly obvious question seemed to place Mr Campion still less at ease.

‘Well—er—no. As a matter of fact, it isn’t. To be exact,’ he added in a sudden burst of confidence. ‘I haven’t got one at all. I’ve always liked them, though,’ he continued hastily, ‘nice, useful things. I’ve always thought that. Get you where you want to go, you know. Better than a horse.’

Abbershaw stared at him. He considered that the man was either a lunatic or drunk, and as he disliked both alternatives he suggested stiffly that they should return to the house. The young man did not greet the proposal with enthusiasm, but Abbershaw, who was a determined little man when roused, dragged him back to the side door through which he had come, without further ado.

As soon as they entered the great grey corridor and the faintly dank musty breath of the house came to meet them, it became evident that something had happened. There was a sound of many feet, echoing voices, and at the far end of the passage a light flickered and passed.

‘Someone kicking up a row over the forfeit, what!’ The idiotic voice of Albert Campion at his ear jarred upon Abbershaw strangely.

‘We’ll see,’ he said, and there was an underlying note of anxiety in his voice which he could not hide.

A light step sounded close at hand and there was a gleam of silk in the darkness ahead of them.

‘Who’s there?’ said a voice he recognized as Meggie’s.

‘Oh, thank God, it’s you!’ she exclaimed, as he spoke to her.

Mr Albert Campion then did the first intelligent thing Abbershaw had observed in him. He obliterated himself and faded away up the passage, leaving them together.

‘What’s happened?’ Abbershaw spoke apprehensively, as he felt her hand quiver as she caught his arm.

‘Where have you been?’ she said breathlessly. ‘Haven’t you heard? Colonel Coombe had a heart attack right in the middle of the game. Dr Whitby and Mr Gideon have taken him up to his room. It was all very awkward for them, though. There weren’t any lights. When they sounded the gong the servants didn’t come. Apparently there’s only one door leading from their quarters to the rest of the house and that seems to have been locked. They’ve got the candles alight now, though,’ she added, and he noticed that she was oddly breathless.

Abbershaw looked down at her; he wished he could see her face.

‘What’s happening in there now?’ he said. ‘Anything we can do?’

The girl shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. They’re just standing about talking. I heard Wyatt say that the news had come down that it was nothing serious, and he asked us all to go on as if nothing had happened. Apparently the Colonel often gets these attacks ...’ She hesitated and made no attempt to move.

Abbershaw felt her trembling by his side, and once again the curious fear which had been lurking at the back of his mind all evening showed itself to him.

‘Tell me,’ he said, with a sudden intuition that made his voice gentle and comforting in the darkness. ‘What is it?’

She started, and her voice sounded high and out of control.

‘Not—not here. Can’t we get outside? I’m frightened of this house.’ The admission in her tone made his heart leap painfully.

Something had happened, then.

He drew her arm through his.

‘Why, yes, of course we can,’ he said. ‘It’s a fine starlit night; we’ll go on to the grass.’

He led her out on to the roughly cut turf that had once been smooth lawns, and they walked together out of the shadows of the house into a little shrubbery where they were completely hidden from the windows.

‘Now,’ he said, and his voice had unconsciously assumed a protective tone; ‘what is it?’

The girl looked up at him, and he could see her keen, clever face and narrow brown eyes in the faint light.

‘It was horrible in there,’ she whispered. ‘When Colonel Coombe had his attack, I mean. I think Dr Whitby found him. He and Mr Gideon carried him up while the other man—the man with no expression on his face—rang the gong. No one knew what had happened, and there were no lights. Then Mr Gideon came down and said that the Colonel had had a heart attack ...’ She stopped and looked steadily at him, and he was horrified to see that she was livid with terror.

‘George,’ she said suddenly, ‘if I told you something would you think I—I was mad?’

‘No, of course not,’ he assured her steadily. ‘What else happened?’

The girl swallowed hard. He saw she was striving to compose herself, and obeying a sudden impulse he slid his arm round her waist, so that she was encircled and supported by it.

‘In the game,’ she said, speaking clearly and steadily as if it were an effort, ‘about five minutes before the gong rang, someone gave me the dagger. I don’t know who it was—I think it was a woman, but I’m not sure. I was standing at the foot of the stone flight of stairs which leads down into the lower hall, when someone brushed past me in the dark and pushed the dagger into my hand. I suddenly felt frightened of it, and I ran down the corridor to find someone I could give it to.’

She paused, and he felt her shudder in his arm.

‘There is a window in the passage,’ she said, ‘and as I passed under it the faint light fell upon the dagger and—don’t think I’m crazy, or dreaming, or imagining something—but I saw the blade was covered with something dark. I touched it, it was sticky. I knew it at once, it was blood!’

‘Blood!’ The full meaning of her words dawned slowly on the man and he stared at her, half-fascinated, half-incredulous.

‘Yes. You must believe me.’ Her voice was agonized and he felt her eyes on his face. ‘I stood there staring at it,’ she went on. ‘At first I thought I was going to faint. I knew I should scream in another moment, and then—quite suddenly and noiselessly—a hand came out of the shadows and took the knife. I was so frightened I felt I was going mad. Then, just when I felt my head was bursting, the gong rang.’

Her voice died away in the silence, and she thrust something into his hand.

‘Look,’ she said, ‘if you don’t believe me. I wiped my hand with it.’

Abbershaw flashed his torch upon the little crumpled scrap in his hand. It was a handkerchief, a little filmy wisp of a thing of lawn and lace, and on it, clear and unmistakable, was a dull red smear—dry blood.