The Crime at Black Dudley

The view from the narrow window was dreary and inexpressibly lonely. Miles of neglected parkland stretched in an unbroken plain to the horizon and the sea beyond. On all sides it was the same.

The grey-green stretches were hayed once a year, perhaps, but otherwise uncropped save by the herd of heavy-shouldered black cattle who wandered about them, their huge forms immense and grotesque in the fast-thickening twilight.

In the centre of this desolation, standing in a thousand acres of its own land, was the mansion, Black Dudley; a great grey building, bare and ugly as a fortress. No creepers hid its nakedness, and the long narrow windows were dark-curtained and uninviting.

The man in the old-fashioned bedroom turned away from the window and went on with his dressing.

“Gloomy old place,” he remarked to his reflection in the mirror. “Thank God it’s not mine.”

He tweaked his black tie deftly as he spoke, and stood back to survey the effect.

George Abbershaw, although his appearance did not indicate it, was a minor celebrity.

He was a smallish man, chubby and solemn, with a choirboy expression and a head of ridiculous bright-red curls which gave him a somewhat fantastic appearance. He was fastidiously tidy in his dress and there was an air of precision in everything he did or said which betrayed an amazingly orderly mind. Apart from this, however, there was nothing about him to suggest that he was particularly distinguished or even mildly interesting, yet in a small and exclusive circle of learned men Dr. George Abbershaw was an important person.

“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.

“Let there be silence,” he said.

The words were so utterly unexpected and out of keeping with the situation that it is probable that a certain amount of amusement would have greeted them had not the tone in his deep Teutonic voice been singularly menacing.

As it was, the silence was complete, and the German went on, his expression still unchanged so that it seemed that his voice came to them through a mask.

“Something has been lost,” he said, dividing the words up as he uttered them and giving equal emphasis to each. “It must be returned to me. There is no need to explain what it is. Whoever has stolen it will know of what I speak.”

At this colossal piece of impudence a sensation ran round the table, and Wyatt sprang to his feet. He was livid with anger, but he kept his voice under perfect control, and the polished intensity of his icy tone contrasted sharply with the other’s heavy rudeness.

“Mr. Dawlish,” he said, “I think your anxiety to recover your property has upset your sense of proportion. Perhaps you are aware that you are a guest in a house that is mine, and that the people that you have just insulted are my guests also. If you will come to me after breakfast⁠—before you go⁠—I will do all I can to institute a proper search for the thing you have mislaid.”

“The wicked shall perish,” said a loud, shrill, feminine voice, in which the broad Suffolk accent was very apparent. “The earth shall open and they shall be swallowed up. And you won’t come into this room,” it continued brightly. “No, not if you spend a hundred years a-tapping. And why won’t you come in? ’Cause I’ve bolted the door.”

There was demoniacal satisfaction in the last words, and Abbershaw and Meggie exchanged glances.

“It’s a lunatic,” whispered Abbershaw.

Meggie shuddered.

“What a horrible house this is,” she said. “But talk to her George. She may know how to get us out.”

“Her chief concern seems to be not to let us in,” said Abbershaw, but he returned to the door and spoke again.

“Who’s there?” he said, and waited, hardly hoping for an answer, but the voice replied with unexpected directness:

“That’s a thing I won’t hide from anybody,” it said vigorously. “Daisy May Meade’s my name. A married woman and respectable. A churchgoing woman too, and there’s some that’s going to suffer for what’s been going on in this house. Both here, and in the next world. The pit shall open and swallow them up. Fire and brimstone shall be their portion. The Lord shall smite them.”

“It all depends what you mean by eating,” he was saying. “I don’t believe in stuffing myself, you know, but I’m not one of those people who are against food altogether. I knew a woman once who didn’t believe in food⁠—thought it was bad for the figure⁠—so she gave it up altogether. Horrible results, of course; she got so thin that no one noticed her around⁠—husband got used to being alone⁠—estrangement, divorce⁠—oh, I believe in food. I say, have you seen my new trick with a napkin and a saltcellar⁠—rather natty, don’t you think?”

He covered a saltcellar with his napkin as he spoke, made several passes over it, a solemn expression on his face, and then, whisking the napery away, disclosed nothing but shining oak beneath.

His mind still on Mr. Campion’s profession, Abbershaw was conscious of a certain feeling of apprehension. The saltcellar was antique, probably worth a considerable sum.

Mr. Campion’s trick was not yet over, however. A few more passes and the saltcellar was discovered issuing from the waistcoat of the manservant who happened to be attending to him at the time.

“There!” he said. “A pretty little piece of work, isn’t it? All done by astrology. For my next I shall require two assistants, any live fish, four aspidistras, and one small packet of Gold Flake.” As he uttered the last words he turned sharply to beam around the table, and his elbow caught Meggie’s glass and sent it crashing to the floor.