Mr Watt Explains
After dinner one evening in the following week, Abbershaw held a
private consultation on the affair in his rooms in the Adelphi.
He had not put the case before his friend, Inspector Deadwood, for a
reason which he dared not think out, yet his conscience forbade him to
ignore the mystery surrounding the death of Colonel Coombe altogether.
Since von Faber and his confederates were wanted men, the County
Police had handed over their prisoners to Scotland Yard; and in the
light of preliminary legal proceedings, sufficient evidence had been
forthcoming to render the affair at Black Dudley merely the
culminating point in a long series of charges. Every day it became
increasingly clear that they would not be heard of again for some
time.
Von Faber was still suffering from concussion, and there seemed every
likelihood of his remaining under medical supervision for the term of
his imprisonment at least.
Whitby and his companion had not been traced, and no one, save
himself, so far as Abbershaw could tell, was likely to raise any
inquiries about Colonel Coombe.
All the same, although he had several excellent reasons for wishing
the whole question to remain in oblivion, Abbershaw had forced himself
to institute at least a private inquiry into the mystery.
He and Meggie had dined together when Martin Watt was admitted.
The girl sat in one of the high-backed Stuart chairs by the fire, her
brocade-shod feet crossed, and her hands folded quietly in her lap.
Glancing at her, Abbershaw could not help reflecting that their
forthcoming marriage was more interesting to him than any criminal
hunt in the world.
Martin was more enthusiastic on the subject of the murder. He came in
excited, all trace of indolence had vanished from his face, and he
looked about him with some surprise.
‘No one else here?’ he said. ‘I thought we were going to have a pukka
consultation with all the crowd present – decorations, banners, and
salute of guns!’
Abbershaw shook his head.
‘Sorry! I’m afraid there’s only Prenderby to come,’ he said. ‘Campion
has disappeared, Anne Edgeware is in the South of France recuperating,
Jeanne doesn’t want to hear or think anything about Black Dudley ever
again, so Michael tells me, and I didn’t think we’d mention the thing
to Wyatt, until it’s a certainty at any rate. He’s had his share of
unpleasantness already. So you see there are only the four of us to
talk it over. Have a drink?’
‘Thanks.’ Martin took up the glass and sipped it meditatively. It was
evident from his manner that he was bubbling with suppressed
excitement. ‘I say,’ he said suddenly, unable to control his eagerness
any longer, ‘have you folk twigged the murderer?’
Abbershaw glanced at him sharply.
‘No,’ he said hesitatingly. ‘Why, have you?’
Martin nodded.
‘Fancy so,’ he said, and there was a distinctly satisfied expression
in his grey eyes. ‘It seems pretty obvious to me, why –’
‘Hold hard, Martin.’
Abbershaw was surprised at the apprehension in his own voice, and he
reddened slightly as the other two stared at him.
Martin frowned.
‘I don’t get you,’ he said at last. ‘There’s no special reason against
suspecting Whitby, is there?’
‘Whitby?’
Abbershaw’s astonishment was obvious, and Meggie looked at him
curiously, but Martin was too interested in his theory to raise any
question.
‘Why, yes,’ he said. ‘Whitby. Why not? Think of it in cold blood, who
was the first man to find Colonel Coombe dead? Who had a better motive
for murdering him than anyone else? It seems quite obvious to me.’ He
paused, and as neither of them spoke went on again, raising his voice
a little in his enthusiasm.
‘My dear people, just think of it,’ he insisted. ‘It struck me as soon
as it occurred to me that it was so obvious that I’ve been wondering
ever since why we didn’t hit on it at once. We should have done, of
course, if we hadn’t all been having fun in our quiet way. Look here,
this is exactly how it happened.’
He perched himself on an armchair and regarded them seriously.
‘Our little friend Albert is the first person to be considered. There
is absolutely no reason to doubt that fellow’s word, his yarn sounds
true. He showed up jolly well when we were in a tight place. I think
we’ll take him as cleared. His story is true, then. That is to say,
during Act One of the drama when we were all playing “touch” with the
haunted dagger, little Albert stepped smartly up, murmured
“Abracadabra” in the old man’s ear and collected the doings, leaving
the Colonel hale and hearty. What happened next?’ He paused and
glanced at them eagerly. ‘See what I’m driving at? No? Well, see
column two – “The Remarkable Story of the Aged and Batty Housemaid!”
Now have you got it?’
Meggie started to her feet, her eyes brightening.
‘George,’ she said, ‘I do believe he’s got it. Don’t you see, Mrs
Meade told us that she had actually seen Whitby come in with the
news that the Colonel was stabbed in the back. Why – why it’s quite
clear –’
‘Not so fast, not so fast, young lady, _if_ you please. Let the clever
detective tell his story in his own words.’
Martin leant forward as he spoke and beamed at them triumphantly.
‘I’ve worked it all out,’ he said, ‘and, putting my becoming modesty
aside, I will now detail to you the facts which my superlative
deductions have brought to light and which only require the paltry
matter of proof to make them as clear as glass to the meanest
intelligence. Get the scene into your mind. Whitby, a poor pawn in his
chief’s hands, a man whose liberty, perhaps his very life, hangs upon
the word of his superior, von Faber; this man leads his chief to the
Colonel’s desk to find that precious income-tax form or whatever it
was they were all so keen about, and when he gets there the cupboard
is bare, as the classics have it.’ Martin, who had been gradually
working himself up, now broke into a snatch of imaginary dialogue:
‘“It must be on Coombe himself,” growls the Hun,’ he began.
‘“Of course,” agrees the pawn, adding mentally: “Heaven pray it may be
so,” or words to that effect. “Go and see, _you_!” venoms the Hun, and
off goes Whitby, fear padding at his heels.’
He paused for breath and regarded them soberly.
‘Seriously, though,’ he continued with sudden gravity. ‘The chap must
have had a nasty ten minutes. He knew that if anything had gone wrong
and old Coombe had somehow managed to double-cross the gang, as
guardian he was for it with von Faber at his nastiest. Look now,’ he
went on cheerfully, ‘this is where the deduction comes in; as I work
it out, as soon as Whitby entered the darkened part of the house,
someone put the dagger in his hand and then, I should say, the whole
idea occurred to him. He went up to old Coombe in the dark, asked him
for the papers; Coombe replied that he hadn’t got them. Then Whitby,
maddened with the thought of the yarn he was bound to take back to von
Faber, struck the old boy in the back and, after making a rapid
search, took the dagger, joined in the game for thirty seconds, maybe
– just enough time to hand the thing on to somebody – and then dashed
back to Faber and Gideon, with his news. How about that?’
He smiled at them with deep satisfaction – he had no doubts himself.
For some minutes his audience were silent. This solution was certainly
very plausible. At last Abbershaw raised his head. The expression on
his face was almost hopeful.
‘It’s not a bad idea, Martin,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘In fact, the
more I think about it the more likely it seems to become.’
Martin pressed his argument home eagerly.
‘I feel like that too,’ he said. ‘You see, it explains so many things.
First of all, it gives a good reason why von Faber thought that one of
our crowd had done it. Then it also makes it clear why Whitby never
turned up again. And then it has another advantage – it provides a
motive. No one else had any _reason_ for killing the old boy. As far
as I can see he seems to have been very useful to his own gang and no
harm to anybody else. Candidly now, don’t you think I’m obviously
right?’
He looked from one to the other of them questioningly.
Meggie was frowning.
‘There is just one thing you haven’t explained, Martin,’ she said
slowly. ‘What happened to the dagger? When it was in my hand it had
blood on it. Someone snatched it from me before I could scream, and it
wasn’t seen again until the next morning, when it was all bright and
clean again and back in its place in the trophy.’
Martin looked a little crestfallen.
‘That had occurred to me,’ he admitted. ‘But I decided that in the
excitement of the alarm whoever had it chucked it down where it was
found next morning by one of the servants and put back.’
Meggie looked at him and smiled.
‘Martin,’ she said, ‘your mother has the most marvellous butler in the
world. Plantagenet, I do believe, would pick up a blood-stained dagger
in the early morning, have it cleaned, and hang it up on its proper
nail, and then consider it beneath his dignity to mention so trifling
a matter during the police inquiries afterwards. But believe me, that
man is unique. Besides, the only servants there were members of the
gang. Had they found it we should probably have heard about it.
Anyway, they wouldn’t have cleaned it and hung it up again.’
Martin nodded dubiously, and the momentary gleam of hope disappeared
from Abbershaw’s face.
‘Of course,’ said Martin, ‘Whitby may have put it back himself. Gone
nosing around during the night, you know, and found it, and thinking,
“Well, we can’t have this about,” put it back in its proper place and
said no more about it.’ He brightened visibly. ‘Come to think of it,
it’s very likely. That makes my theory all the stronger, what?’
The others were not so easily convinced.
‘He might,’ said Meggie, ‘but there’s not much reason why he should go
nosing about at night, as you say. And even so it doesn’t explain who
took it out of my hand, does it?’
Martin was shaken but by no means overwhelmed.
‘Oh, well,’ he said airily, ‘all that point is a bit immaterial, don’t
you think? After all, it’s the main motive and opportunity and
questions that are important. Anyone might have snatched the dagger
from you. It is one of those damn fool gallant gestures that old Chris
Kennedy might have perpetrated. It might have been anyone playing in
the game. However, in the main, I think we’ve spotted our man. Don’t
you, Abbershaw?’
‘I hope so.’
The fervency of the little doctor’s reply surprised them.
Martin was gratified.
‘I _know_ I’m right,’ he said. ‘Now all we’ve got to do is to prove
it.’
Abbershaw agreed.
‘That’s so,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think that will be so easy, Martin.
You see, we’ve got to find the chap first, and without police aid
that’s going to be a well-nigh impossible job. We can’t bring the Yard
into it until we’ve got past theories.’
‘No, of course not,’ said Martin. ‘But I say,’ he added, as a new
thought occurred to him, ‘there is one thing, though. Whitby was the
cove who had the wind-up, wasn’t he? No one else turned a hair, and if
there was a guilty conscience amongst the gang, surely it was his?’
This suggestion impressed his listeners more than any of his other
arguments. Abbershaw looked up excitedly.
‘I do believe you’re right,’ he said. ‘What do you think, Meggie?’
The girl hesitated. As she recollected Mrs Meade’s story of the
discovery of the murder, Martin’s theory became rapidly more and more
plausible.
‘Yes,’ she said again. ‘I believe he’s hit it.’
Martin grinned delightedly.
‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘Now all we’ve got to do is to find the chap
and get the truth out of him. This is going to be great. Now what’s
the best way to get on to the trail of those two johnnies? Toddle
round to all the crematoriums in the country and make inquiries?’
The others were silent. Here was a problem which, without the
assistance of Scotland Yard, they were almost powerless to tackle.
They were still discussing it when, fifteen minutes later, Michael
Prenderby walked in. His pale face was flushed as if from violent
exertion and he began to talk eagerly as soon as he got into the room.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said; ‘but I’ve had an adventure. Walked right
into it in the Lea Bridge Road. I stopped to have a plug put in and
there it was staring at me. I stared at it – I thought I was seeing
things at first – until the garage man got quite embarrassed.’
Martin Watt regarded the new-comer coldly.
‘Look here, Michael,’ he said with reproach. ‘We’re here to discuss a
murder, you know.’
‘Well?’ Prenderby looked pained and surprised. ‘Aren’t I helping you?
Isn’t this a most helpful point?’
Abbershaw glanced at him sharply.
‘What are you talking about?’ he said.
Prenderby stared at him.
‘Why, the car, of course,’ he said. ‘What else could it be? The car,’
he went on, as they regarded him uncomprehendingly for a moment or so.
‘_The_ car. The incredible museum specimen in which that precious
medico carted off the poor old bird’s body. There it was, sitting up
looking at me like a dowager-duchess.’