The Crime at Black Dudley

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