The Crime at Black Dudley quotes

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.

At the moment he was on holiday, and the unusual care which he took over his toilet suggested that he had not come down to Black Dudley solely for the sake of recuperating in the Suffolk air.

Much to his own secret surprise and perplexity, he had fallen in love.

He recognized the symptoms at once and made no attempt at self-deception, but with his usual methodical thoroughness set himself to remove the disturbing emotion by one or other of the only two methods known to mankind—disillusionment or marriage.

“Wonderful,” he agreed. “Very old, I should say. But it’s very lonely,” he added, his practical nature coming out in spite of himself. “Probably most inconvenient … I’m glad it’s not mine.”

“Unromantic soul,” she said.

Abbershaw looked at her and reddened and coughed and changed the conversation.

not a muscle seemed to have moved, nor the eyelids to have flickered; and although he had been talking to the Colonel at the time, his lips seemed to have moved independently of the rest of his features.

It was as if one watched a statue speak.

“I think his name is Dawlish—Benjamin Dawlish,” said the girl. “We were introduced just before dinner.”

… the high oak chairs by the fireplace, stepped up from one hidden foothold in the panelling to another, and stretching out his hand lifted the shimmering dagger off its plaque and carried it back to the group who pressed round to see it more closely.

The Black Dudley Dagger lost none of its sinister appearance by being removed from its setting.

It lay there in Wyatt Petrie’s long, cultured hands, the green shade in the steel blade more apparent than ever, and a red jewel in the hilt glowing in the candlelight.

Abbershaw leaned forward in his chair and his eyes were very grave and hard.

“Prenderby, that man had no need to wear that plate. His face was as whole as yours or mine!”

“Good God!” The boy sat up, the truth slowly dawning on him. “Then it was simply—”

Dawlish moved ponderously to the top of the table, where he stood looking round at the astonished faces, with no expression on his own.

“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.

Gradually the laughter subsided. Benjamin Dawlish’s personality was one that could not be ignored for long. When at last there was perfect silence in the room he put his hand in his pocket and drew out his revolver again.

“You laugh,” he said heavily. “I do not laugh. And she, the little one,” he tossed the gun in his hand with incredible delicacy for one who looked so clumsy, “she does not laugh either.”

The last words were uttered with such amazing ferocity that his hearers started involuntarily, and for an instant there appeared upon the heavy face, which hitherto had seemed immovable, an expression of such animalic violence that not one at that table looked him in the …

He drew a deep breath.

“I can’t have you crying like this,” he said, and picked her up and kissed her.

Meggie could not have responded more gracefully. Whether it was relief, shock, or simply the last blow to her tortured nerves, he never knew, but she collapsed into his arms; at first he almost thought she had fainted.

“You burnt them?” he said dreamily, and then remarked, as if he had switched on to an entirely new subject,

“I wonder if the smoke from five hundred thousand pounds in notes looks any different from any other sort of firing.”

Abbershaw glanced at him sharply.

“Why not?” said Campion lightly.

“Half a crown here, half a crown there, you know. It soon tells up.”

The others turned to him, attributing the remark to his usual fatuity, but Abbershaw met the pale eyes behind the big spectacles steadily and his apprehension increased. It was not likely that Mr.

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 legerdemain, shall we?”

Wyatt raised his eyes slowly.

“The outer walls are stone,” he said, and there was a curious note in his voice which sent a thrill of horror through everyone who heard it. “The outer walls are stone, but the rest of it is oak, old, well-seasoned oak. It will burn like kindling wood in a grate.”