“Yes, just after we carried him in.”
“I see.” Abbershaw glanced round the room. “You brought him up in his chair, I suppose? How wonderfully convenient those things are.” He paused as if lost in thought, and Dawlish muttered impatiently.
Gideon interposed hastily.
“It is getting late,” he said in his unnaturally gentle voice. “We must not keep Dr. Abbershaw—”
“Er—no, of course not,” said Whitby, starting nervously.
Abbershaw took the hint.
“It is late. I bid you good night, gentlemen,” he murmured, and moved towards the door.
Gideon slipped in front of it, pen in hand. He was suave as ever, and smiling, but the little round eyes beneath the enormous shaggy brows were bright and dangerous.
Abbershaw realized then that he was not going to be allowed to refuse to sign the certificate. The three men in the room were determined. Any objections he might raise would be confuted by force if need be. It was virtually a signature under compulsion.
He took the pen with a little impatient click of the tongue.
“How absurd of me, I had forgotten,” he said, laughing as though to cover his oversight. “Now, let me look, where is it? Oh, I see—just here—you have attended to all these particulars, of course, Dr. Whitby.”
“Yes, yes. They’re all in order.”
No one but the self-occupied type of fool that Abbershaw was pretending to be could possibly have failed to notice the man’s wretched state of nervous tension. He was quivering and his voice was entirely out of control. Abbershaw wrote his signature with a flourish, and returned the pen. There was a distinct sigh of relief in the room as he moved towards the door.
On the threshold he turned and looked back.
“Poor young Petrie knows all about this, I suppose?” he inquired. “I trust he’s not very cut up? Poor lad.”
“Mr. Petrie has been informed, of course,” Dr. Whitby said stiffly. “He felt the shock—naturally—but like the rest of us I fancy he must have expected it for some time. He was only a relative by his aunt’s marriage, you know, and that took place after the war, I believe.”
“Still,” said Abbershaw, with a return of his old fussiness of manner, “very shocking and very distressing—very distressing. Good night, gentlemen.”
On the last words he went out and closed the door of the great sombre room behind him. Once in the corridor, his expression changed. The fussy, pompous personality that he had assumed dropped from him like a cloak, and he became at once alert and purposeful. There were many things that puzzled him, but of one thing he was perfectly certain. Colonel Gordon Coombe had not died of heart disease.
V
The Mask
Abbershaw made his way quietly down the corridor to Wyatt’s room. The young man had taken him into it himself earlier in the day, and he found it without difficulty.
There was no light in the crack of the door, and he hesitated for a moment before he knocked, as if undecided whether he would disturb its occupant or not, but at length he raised his hand and tapped on the door.
There was no reply, and after waiting a few minutes he knocked again. Still no one answered him, and obeying a sudden impulse, he lifted the latch and went in.
He was in a long, narrow room with a tall window in the wall immediately facing him, giving out on to a balcony. The place was in darkness save for the faint light of a newly risen moon, which streamed in through the window.
He saw Wyatt at once. He was in his dressing-gown, standing in the window, his arms outstretched, his hands resting on either side of the frame.
Abbershaw spoke to him, and for a moment he did not move. Then he turned sharply, and for an instant the moonlight fell upon his face and the long slender lines of his sensitive hands. Then he turned round completely and came towards his friend.
But Abbershaw’s mood had changed: he was no longer so determined. He seemed to have changed his mind.
“I’ve just heard,” he said, with real sympathy in his tone. “I’m awfully sorry. It was a bit of a shock, coming now, I suppose? Anything I can do, of course …”
Wyatt shook his head.
“Thanks,” he said, “but the old boy’s doctor had been expecting it for years. I believe all the necessary arrangements have been made for some time. It may knock the life out of the party pretty thoroughly, though, I’m afraid.”
“My dear man.” Abbershaw spoke hastily. “We’ll all sheer off first thing tomorrow morning, of course. Most people have got cars.”
“Oh, don’t do that.” Wyatt spoke with sudden insistence. “I understand my uncle was very anxious that the party should go on,” he said. “Really, you’d be doing me a great service if you’d stay on till Monday and persuade the others to do the same. After all, it isn’t even as if it was his house. It’s mine, you know. It passed to me on Aunt’s death, but my uncle, her husband, was anxious to go on living here, so I rented it to him. I wish you’d stay. He would have liked it, and there’s no point in my staying down here alone. He was no blood relative of mine, and he had no kin as far as I know.” He paused, and added, as Abbershaw still looked dubious, “The funeral and cremation will take place in London. Gideon has arranged about that; he was his lawyer, you know, and a very close friend. Stay if you can, won’t you? Good night. Thanks for coming down.”
Abbershaw went slowly back to his room, a slightly puzzled expression in his eyes. He had meant to tell Wyatt his discoveries, and even now he did not know quite why he had not done so. Instinct told him to be cautious. He felt convinced that there were more secrets in Black Dudley that night than the old house had ever known. Secrets
