The Darkest Hour
‘The time,’ said Mr Campion, ‘is nine o’clock.’
Chris Kennedy stretched himself wearily.
‘Six hours since that swine left us,’ he said. ‘Do you think we’ve got
an earthly?’
There was a stir in the room after he had spoken, and almost everybody
looked at the pale-haired bespectacled young man who sat squatting on
his haunches in a corner. Jeanne and Prenderby were alone unconscious
of what was going on. The little girl still supported the boy’s head
in her lap, with her timid little figure crouched over him, her face
hidden.
Albert Campion shook his head.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, but there was no hopefulness in his tone, and
once again the little group relapsed into the silence that had settled
over them after the first outburst which had followed von Faber’s
departure.
Whatever their attitude had been before, they were all now very much
alive to the real peril of their position.
Von Faber had not been wasting his time when he had spoken to them,
and they had each been struck by the stark callousness which had been
visible in him throughout the entire interview.
At last Campion rose to his feet and came across to where Meggie and
Abbershaw were seated. Gravely he offered Abbershaw his cigarette-case
in which there was a single cigarette neatly cut into two pieces.
‘I did it with a razor blade,’ he said. ‘Rather neat, don’t you
think?’
Abbershaw took the half gratefully and they shared a match.
‘I suppose,’ said Campion suddenly, speaking in a quiet and
confidential tone, ‘I suppose you did really burn that junk, Doc.’
Abbershaw glanced at him sharply.
‘I did,’ he said. ‘God forgive me. When I think what I’m responsible
for I feel I shall go mad.’
Mr Campion shrugged his shoulders.
‘My dear old bird,’ he said, ‘I shouldn’t put too much stress on what
our friend von Faber says. He doesn’t seem to me to be a person to be
relied upon.’
‘Why? Do you think he’s just trying to frighten us?’
Abbershaw spoke eagerly, and the other shook his head.
‘I’m afraid not, in the sense you mean,’ he said. ‘I think he’s set
his heart on this little conflagration scene. The man is a criminal
loony, of course. No, I only meant that probably, had someone handed
over his million-dollar book of the words, the Guy Fawkes celebrations
would have gone forward all the same. I’m afraid he’s just a nasty
vindictive person.’
Meggie shuddered, but her voice was quite firm.
‘Do you mean to say that you really think he’ll burn the house down
with us up here?’ she said.
Campion looked up at her, and then at Abbershaw.
‘Not a nice type is he?’ he murmured. ‘I’m afraid we’re for it, unless
by a miracle the villagers see the bonfire before we’re part of it, or
the son of our friend in the attic calls earlier than was expected.’
Meggie stiffened.
‘Mrs Meade,’ she said. ‘I’d forgotten all about her. What will Mr
Dawlish do about her, do you suppose?’
Mr Campion spoke grimly.
‘I could guess,’ he said, and there was silence for a while after
that.
‘But how terrible!’ Meggie burst out suddenly. ‘I didn’t believe that
people like this were allowed to exist. I thought we were civilized. I
thought this sort of thing couldn’t happen.’
Mr Campion sighed.
‘A lot of people believe things like that,’ he said. ‘They imagine the
world is a well-ordered nursery with Scotland Yard and the British
Army standing by to whack anybody who quarrels or uses a naughty word.
I thought that at one time, I suppose everybody does, but it’s not
like that really, you know. Look at me, for example – who would dream
of the cunning criminal brain that lurks beneath my inoffensive
exterior?’
The other two regarded him curiously. In any other circumstances they
would have been embarrassed. Abbershaw was the first to speak.
‘I say,’ he said, ‘if you don’t mind my asking such a thing, what on
earth made you take up your – er – present profession?’
Mr Campion regarded him owlishly through his enormous spectacles.
‘Profession?’ he said indignantly. ‘It’s my vocation. It seemed to me
that I had no talent for anything else, but in this line I can eke out
the family pittance with tolerable comfort. Of course,’ he went on
suddenly, as he caught sight of Meggie’s face, ‘I don’t exactly
“crim”, you know, as I told the doc. here. My taste is impeccable.
Most of my commissions are more secret than shady. I occasionally do a
spot of work for the Government, though, of course, that isn’t as
lucrative as honest crime. This little affair, of course, was
perfectly simple. I had only to join this house-party, take a packet
of letters from the old gentleman, toddle back to the Savoy, and my
client would be waiting for me. A hundred guineas, and all clean fun –
no brain-work required.’ He beamed at them. ‘Of course I knew what I
was in for,’ he went on. ‘I knew that more or less as soon as I got
down here. I didn’t expect anything quite like this, though, I admit.
I’m afraid the Gay Career and all that is in the soup.’
He spoke lightly, but there was no callousness in his face, and it
suddenly occurred to Abbershaw that he was doing his best to cheer
them up, for after a moment or two of silence he remarked suddenly:
‘After all, I don’t see why the place should burn as he says it will,
and I know people do escape from burning houses because I’ve seen it
on the pictures.’
His remarks were cut short by a thundering blow upon the door, and in
the complete silence that followed, a voice spoke slowly and
distinctly so that it was audible throughout the entire room.
‘You have another hour,’ it said, ‘in which to restore Mr Dawlish’s
property. If it is not forthcoming by that time there will be another
of these old country-mansion fires which have been so frequent of
late. It is not insured and so it is not likely that anyone will
inquire into the cause too closely.’
Martin Watt threw himself against the door with all his strength, and
there was a soft amused laugh from outside.
‘We heard your attempts to batter down the door last night,’ said the
voice, ‘and Mr Dawlish would like you to know that although he has
perfect faith in it holding, he has taken the precaution to reinforce
it considerably on this side. As you have probably found out, the
walls, too, are not negotiable and the window won’t afford you much
satisfaction.’
‘You dirty swine!’ shouted Chris Kennedy weakly from his corner, and
Martin Watt turned slowly upon his heel and came back into the centre
of the room, an expression of utter hopelessness on his face.
‘I’m afraid we’re sunk,’ he said slowly and quietly and moved over
towards the window, where he stood peering out between the bars.
Wyatt sat propped up against the wall, his chin supported in his
hands, and his eyes fixed steadily upon the floor in front of him. For
some time he had neither moved nor spoken. As Abbershaw glanced at him
he could not help being reminded once again of the family portraits in
the big dining-hall, and he seemed somehow part and parcel of the old
house, sitting there morosely waiting for the end.
Meggie suddenly lifted her head.
‘How extraordinary,’ she said softly, ‘to think that everything is
going on just the same only a mile or two away. I heard a dog barking
somewhere. It’s incredible that this fearful thing should be happening
to us and no one near enough to get us out. Think of it,’ she went on
quietly. ‘A man murdered and taken away casually as if it were a light
thing, and then a criminal lunatic’ – she paused and her brown eyes
narrowed – ‘I hope he’s a lunatic – calmly proposes to massacre us
all. It’s unthinkable.’
There was silence for a moment after she had spoken, and then Campion
looked at Abbershaw.
‘That yarn about Coombe,’ he said quietly. ‘I can’t get over it. Are
you sure he was murdered?’
Abbershaw glanced at him shrewdly. It seemed unbelievable that this
pleasant, inoffensive-looking young man could be a murderer attempting
to cast off any suspicion against himself, and yet, on the face of Mrs
Meade’s story, the evidence looked very black against him.
As he did not reply, Campion went on.
‘I don’t understand it at all,’ he said. ‘The man was so valuable to
them . . . he must have been.’
Abbershaw hesitated, and then he said quietly:
‘Are you sure he was – I mean do you _know_ he was?’
Campion’s pale eyes opened to their fullest extent behind his enormous
glasses.
‘I know he was to be paid a fabulous sum by Simister for his
services,’ he said, ‘and I know that on a certain day next month there
was to be a man waiting at a big London hotel to meet him. That man is
the greatest genius at disguise in Europe, and his instructions were
to give the old boy a face-lift and one or two other natty gadgets and
hand him a ticket for the first transatlantic liner, complete with
passport, family history, and pretty niece. Von Faber didn’t know
that, of course, but even if he did I don’t see why he should stick
the old gentleman in the gizzard, do you? The whole thing beats me.
Besides, why does he want to saddle us with the nasty piece of work?
It’s the sort of thing he’d never convince us about. I don’t see it
myself. It can’t be some bright notion of easing his own conscience.’
Abbershaw remained silent. He could not forget the old woman’s
strangely convincing story, the likelihood of which was borne out by
Campion’s own argument, but the more he thought about the man at his
side, the more absurd did an explanation in that direction seem.
A smothered cry of horror from Martin at the window brought them all
to their feet.
‘The swine,’ he said bitterly, turning to them, his face pale and his
eyes glittering. ‘Look. I saw Dawlish coming out of the garage towards
the house. He was carrying petrol cans. He intends to have a good
bonfire.’
‘Good God!’ said Chris Kennedy, who had taken his place at the window.
‘Here comes a lad with a faggot. Oh, why can’t I get at ’em!’
‘They’re going to burn us!’
For the first time the true significance of the situation seemed to
dawn upon little Jeanne, and she burst into loud hysterical sobbing
which was peculiarly unnerving in the tense atmosphere. Meggie crossed
over to her and attempted to soothe her, but her self-control had gone
completely and she continued to cry violently.
Anne Edgeware, too, was crying, but less noisily, and the tension
became intolerable.
Abbershaw felt for his watch, and was about to draw it out when Albert
Campion laid a hand over his warningly. As he did so his coat sleeve
slipped up and Abbershaw saw the dial of the other’s wrist-watch. It
was five minutes to eleven.
At the same moment, however, there were footsteps outside the door
again, and this time the voice of Jesse Gideon spoke from without.
‘It is your last chance,’ he said. ‘In three minutes we leave the
house. You know the rest. What shall I say to Mr Dawlish?’
‘Tell him to burn and to be damned to him!’ shouted Martin.
‘Very appropriate!’ murmured Mr Campion, but his voice had lost its
gaiety, and the hysterical sobs of the girl drowned the words.
And then, quite suddenly, from somewhere far across the fields there
came a sound which everybody in the room recognized. A sound which
brought them to their feet, the blood returning to their cheeks, and
sent them crowding to the window, a new hope in their eyes.
It was the thin far-off call of a hunting horn.
Martin, his head jammed between the bars of the narrow window, let out
a whoop of joy.
‘The Hunt, by God!’ he said. ‘Yes – Lord! There’s the pack not a
quarter of a mile away! Glory be to God, was that a splodge of red
behind that hedge? It was! Here he comes!’
His voice was resonant with excitement, and he struggled violently as
if he would force himself through the iron bars.
‘There he is,’ he said again; ‘and yes, look at him – look at him!
Half the county behind him! They’re in the park now. Gosh! They’re
coming right for us. Quick! Yell to ’em! God! They mustn’t go past!
How can we attract them! Yell at ’em! Shout something! They’ll be on
us in a minute.’
‘I think,’ murmured a quiet, rather foolish voice that yet had a note
of tension in its tone, ‘that in circumstances like this a
“view-halloo” would be permissible. Quickly! Now, are you ready, my
children? Let her go!’
There was utter silence after the shout died away upon the wind, and
then Campion’s voice behind them murmured again:
‘Once more. Put your backs into it.’
The cry rang out wildly, agonizingly, a shout for help, and then again
there was stillness.
Martin suddenly caught his breath.
‘They’ve heard,’ he said in a voice strangled with excitement. ‘A chap
is coming over here now.’