The Crime at Black Dudley (15 page)

‘What happened then?'

Mrs Meade drew herself up, and her little black eyes burned with the fire of righteousness.

‘Then I could hold my tongue no longer,' she said, ‘and I spoke out. “Whoso killeth any person, the murderer shall be put to death by the mouth of witnesses,” I said, and stepped out from behind the screen.'

Abbershaw's eyes widened as the scene rose up in his mind – the fanatical old woman, her harsh voice breaking in upon the three crooks in that first moment of their bewilderment.

‘They were terrified, I suppose,' he said.

Mrs Meade nodded, and an expression of grim satisfaction spread over her wrinkled old face.

‘They
was
,' she said. ‘Mr Gideon went pale as a sheet, and shrank away from me like an actor on the stage – Dr Whitby stood there stupid like, his eyes gone all fishy and his mouth hanging open … ' She shook her head. ‘You could see there was guilt there,' she said, ‘if not in deed, in the
heart
– the German gentleman was the only one to stay his natural colour.'

‘And then?' Meggie hardly recognized her own voice, so toneless was it.

‘Then he come up to me,' the old woman continued, with a return of indignation in her voice. “Slowly he come and put his great heavy face close to mine. “You be off,” said I, but that didn't stop him. “How much have you heard?” said he. “All of it,” says I, “and what's more I'm going to bear witness.” '

Mrs Meade took a deep breath.

‘That did it,' she said. ‘He put his hand over my mouth and the next moment Dr Whitby had jumped forward and opened the cupboard by the fire-place. “Put her in here,” said he; “we can see to her after we've got
him
upstairs.” '

‘You struggled, of course,' said Abbershaw. ‘It's extraordinary someone in the house didn't hear you.'

Mrs Meade regarded him with concentrated scorn.

‘Me struggle, young man?' she said. ‘Not me. If there's going to be any scrabbling about, I said to myself, better leave it to my son who knows something about fighting, so as soon as I knew where I was I hurried up the stairs and shut myself in here. “You can do what you like,” I said to the German gentleman through the door, “but I'm staying here until Wednesday if needs be, when my son'll come for me – then there'll be summat to pay, I can tell you!” '

She paused, her pale cheeks flushing with the fire of
battle, as she remembered the incident. ‘He soon went away after that,' she went on, wagging her head. ‘He turned the key on me, but that didn't worry me – I had the bolts on my side.'

‘But you couldn't get out?' interrupted Meggie, whose brain failed before this somewhat peculiar reasoning.

‘O' course I couldn't get out,' said Mrs Meade vigorously. ‘No more'n could he come in. As long as my tongue's in my head someone'll swing for murder, and I'm quite willing to wait for my son on Wednesday. They won't get in to me to kill me, I reckon,' she continued, with a flicker of pleasure in her eyes, ‘and so when my son comes along there'll be someone to help cast out the wicked. I ain't a-holding my tongue, not for nobody.'

‘And that's all you know, then?' said Meggie.

‘All?' Mrs Meade's tone was eloquent. ‘Some people'll find it's quite enough. Those three didn't actually do the murder, but there's someone in the house who did, and –' She broke off sharply and glanced from one to the other. ‘Why're you two lookin' at one ‘nother so?' she demanded.

But she got no reply to her question. Meggie and Abbershaw were regarding each other fixedly, the same phrase in the old woman's remark had struck both of them, and to each it bore the same terrible significance. ‘Those three didn't actually do the murder, but there's someone in the house who did.' Dawlish, Gideon, Whitby were cleared of the actual crime in one word; the servants were all confined in their own quarters – Albert Campion insisted that he locked the door upon them. Who then could be responsible? Albert Campion himself – or one of their own party? Neither spoke – the question was too terrifying to put into words.

The disturbing discovery which Meggie and Abbershaw had made in Mrs Meade's story silenced them for some time. Until the old woman's extraordinary announcement ten
minutes before, the division between the sheep and the goats had been very sharply defined. But now the horrible charge of murder was brought into their own camp. On the face of it, either Albert Campion or one of the young people in the house-party must be the guilty person.

Of course there was always the saving hope that in his haste Campion had locked one of the servants out instead of confining them all to their quarters as he had intended. But even so, neither Abbershaw nor the girl could blind themselves to the fact that in the light of present circumstances the odds were against the murderer lying in that quarter.

The entire staff of the house was employed by von Faber or his agents, that is to say that they were actually of the gang themselves. Coombe was an asset to them – it was not in their interests to kill him.

And yet, on the other hand, if the gang had not committed the murder they certainly covered up all traces of it. Mrs Meade's story had deepened the mystery instead of destroying it.

Meggie looked at Abbershaw.

‘If we could only get out,' she murmured. Abbershaw nodded briskly. Conjectures and theories could wait until afterwards; the main business in hand at the moment was escape, if not out of the house at least back to the others.

He turned to the old woman.

‘I don't suppose there's any chance of getting out through there?' he suggested, indicating the inner room in the doorway of which she still stood.

She shook her head.

‘There's nobbut a fire-place and a door,' she said, ‘and you'll not get through the door because I've bolted it and he's locked it. You can have a look at the fire-place if you like, but the chimney'll only land you up on the roof even if you could get up it; best wait till Wednesday till my son comes.'

Abbershaw was inclined to enlighten her on the chances her son was likely to have against the armed Herr von
Faber, but he desisted, and contented himself by shaking his head. Meggie, ever practical, came forward with a new question.

‘But do you eat? Have you been starved all this time?' she said.

Mrs Meade looked properly aggrieved.

‘Oh, they bring me my victuals,' she said; ‘naturally.'

Apparently the event of her being starved out of her stronghold had not occurred to her. ‘Lizzie Tiddy brings me up a tray night and morning.'

‘Lizzie Tiddy?' Abbershaw looked up inquiringly. ‘Who's that?'

A smile, derisive and unpleasant, spread over the wrinkled face. ‘She's a natural,' she said, and laughed.

‘A natural?'

‘She's not right in her head. All them Tiddys are a bit crazed. Lizzie is the wust.'

‘Does she work here?' Meggie's face expressed her disapproval.

Mrs Meade's smile broadened into a grin, and her quick eyes rested on the girl.

‘That's right. No one else wouldn't ha' had her. She helps Mrs Browning, the housekeeper, washes up and such-like.'

‘And brings up the food?' There was an eagerness in Abbershaw's tone. An idiot country girl was not likely to offer much resistance if they made an attempt to escape as soon as she opened the door.

Mrs Meade nodded.

‘Ah, Lizzie brings up the tray,' she said. ‘She sets it on the floor while she unlocks my door, then I pull the bolts back and open it ever such a little, and then I pull the tray in.'

It was such a simple procedure that Abbershaw's spirits rose.

‘When does this happen?' he said. ‘What time of day?'

‘Half after eight in the morning and half after eight at night.'

He glanced at his watch.

‘She's due now, then, practically?'

Mrs Meade glanced up at the window. ‘Shouldn't be at all surprised,' she agreed. ‘Light looks about right. I'll go back to my own room, then, if you don't mind. Best not to let anybody know that I've been havin' any truck wi' you.'

On the last word she turned her back on him, and after closing the door, connecting the two rooms, silently, they heard her softly pressing the bolts home.

‘What an extraordinary old woman,' whispered Meggie. ‘Is she mad, do you think?'

Abbershaw shook his head.

‘No,' he said. ‘I almost wish she were. But she's certainly not crazy, and I believe every word of her story is absolutely true. My dear girl, consider – she certainly hasn't the imagination to invent it.'

The girl nodded slowly.

‘That's true,' she said, and added suddenly, ‘but, George you don't really believe that those dreadful men didn't kill Colonel Coombe?'

Abbershaw looked at her seriously.

‘I don't see why they should, do you?' he asked. ‘Think of it in the light of what we know.'

‘Then that means that either Albert Campion or – oh, George, it's horrible!'

Abbershaw's face grew even more serious.

‘I know,' he said, and was silent for a minute or so. ‘But that is not what is worrying me at the moment,' he went on suddenly, as though banishing the thought from his mind. ‘I've got you into this appalling mess, and I've got to get you out of it – and that, unless I'm mistaken, is Lizzie Tiddy coming up the stairs now.'

The girl held her breath, and for a moment or two they stood silent, listening. There was certainly the sound of footsteps on the stone landing outside, and the uneasy rattle of crockery on an unsteady tray. Abbershaw's hand closed round the girl's arm.

‘Now,' he whispered, ‘keep behind me, and at your first opportunity nip out of here into the room immediately on
your left and go straight for the chest I told you of. You can't miss it. It's in the corner and enormous. I'll follow you.'

The girl nodded, and at the same moment the key turned in the lock, and whatever hopes Abbershaw had entertained vanished immediately. The door opened some two inches, and there appeared in the aperture the muzzle of a revolver.

Abbershaw groaned. He might have known, he told himself bitterly, that their captors were not absolute fools. The girl clung to him and he could feel her heart beating against his arm. Gradually the door opened wider, and a face appeared above the gun. It was the stranger whom Dawlish had addressed as Wendon on the day before. He stood grinning in at them, the gun levelled directly at Meggie.

‘Any monkey-tricks and the girl goes first,' he said. ‘It's the Guvnor's orders. He's reserving you, mate, for 'is own personal attention. That's one of the reasons why he's feeding you. Now then, my girl, push the tray under and hurry about it.'

The last remark was addressed to someone behind him, although he never for a moment took his eyes off Abbershaw and the girl. There was a scuffling in the passage outside, and then a narrow tray appeared upon the floor. It came sliding towards them through the crack in the door, and Abbershaw was suddenly conscious of a pair of idiot eyes, set in a pale, vacant face, watching him from behind it.

His impulse was to leap forward and risk the revolver, but the man had him helpless since it was Meggie whom he covered. Slowly the door closed, and on the moment that the gun disappeared Abbershaw sprang forward fiercely, but it was a forlorn hope. The heavy door slammed to, and they heard the lock shoot home.

There was food on the tray: a pile of sandwiches, and a jug of water. Meggie stood listening for a moment, then she whispered sharply:

‘George, they don't take the same precautions with her. Perhaps if we got in there we could get past them.'

Abbershaw darted across the room to the other door, then his face changed.

‘She's bolted us out, of course,' he said, ‘and besides, we're too late now. We must wait till they come this evening. Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry I got you into all this.'

The girl smiled at him, but she did not reply, and presently, since in spite of their precarious position they were very hungry, they sat down and began to eat.

And then the long weary day dragged on. Mrs Meade did not seem to be inclined for further conversation, and they knew that sooner or later Dr Whitby and the man who had driven him must return, and the red-leather wallet be identified. What would happen then they could only conjecture, but since Dawlish was already prejudiced against Abbershaw he was not likely to be unmoved when he discovered the story of the burning of the papers to be true.

But it was Meggie's position that chiefly disturbed Abbershaw. Whatever they did to him, they were not likely to let her return to civilization knowing what she did about them. The others, after all, so far as Dawlish knew, realized little or nothing of the true position. Campion had succeeded in convincing them that he was no more than the fool he looked, and they knew nothing of his disclosures to Abbershaw and Prenderby.

The chances, therefore, were against them releasing the girl, and Abbershaw's brain sickened at the thought of her possible fate. Escape was impossible, however, and there was nothing in the room that could in any way be manufactured into a weapon. The window, even had it been large enough to permit a man's climbing through it, looked out on to a sheer drop of seventy feet on to the flags below.

There seemed nothing for it but to settle down and wait for Dawlish to make the next move.

As the morning passed and then afternoon without any change, save for a few martial and prophetic hymns from Mrs Meade, their spirits sank deeper than ever; and it grew dark.

Clearly Whitby had not yet returned, and Abbershaw
reflected that he might quite possibly have experienced some trouble with the cremation authorities, in which case there were distinct chances of the police coming to their rescue. He wondered, if that occasion should arise, what Dawlish would do – if he would remove Meggie and himself, or simply make a dash for it with his own gang, risking detection afterwards.