The Crime at Black Dudley · Chapter 29 (2/2)

“I see,” he said. “I see. But otherwise it was a perfect murder. Think of it⁠—Heaven knows how many fingerprints on the dagger handle, no one with any motive⁠—no one who might not have committed the crime, and by the same reasoning no one who might. It had its moments of horror too, though,” he said, pausing suddenly. “The moment when I came upon Miss Oliphant in the dark⁠—I had to follow the dagger round, you see, to be in at the first alarm. I saw her pause under the window and stare at the blade, and I don’t think it was until then that I realized that there was blood on it. So I took it from her. It was an impulsive, idiotic thing to do, and when the alarm did come the thing was in my own hand. I didn’t see what they were getting at at first, and I was afraid I hadn’t quite killed him, although I’d worked out the blow with a medical chart before I went down there. I took the dagger up to my own room. You nearly found me with it, by the way.”

Abbershaw nodded.

“I know,” he said. “I think it was instinct, but as you came in from the balcony I caught a glimpse of something in your hand, and although I didn’t see what it was, I couldn’t get the idea of the dagger out of my mind.”

“Two flaws,” said Wyatt, and was silent.

The atmosphere in the pleasant room had become curiously cold, and Abbershaw shivered. The sordid glossy photograph lay upon the floor, and the pretty childish face with the expression of innocence which had now become so sinister smiled up at him from the carpet.

“Well, what are you going to do?”

It was Wyatt who spoke, pausing abruptly in his feverish stride.

Abbershaw did not look at him.

“What are you going to do?” he murmured.

Wyatt hesitated.

“There is a Dominican Foundation in the rocky valley of El Puerto in the north of Spain,” he said. “I have been in correspondence with them for some time. I have been disposing of all my books this week. I realized when von Faber passed into the hands of the police that my campaign was ended, but⁠—”

He stopped and looked at Abbershaw; then he shrugged his shoulders.

“What now?” he said.

Abbershaw rose to his feet and held out his hand.

“I don’t suppose I shall see you again before you go,” he said. “Goodbye.”

Wyatt shook the outstretched hand, but after the first flicker of interest which the last words had occasioned his expression had become preoccupied. He crossed the room and picked up the photograph, and the last glimpse Abbershaw had of him was as he sat in the deep armchair, crouching over it, his eyes fixed on the sweet, foolish little face.

As the little doctor walked slowly down the staircase to the street his mind was in confusion. He was conscious of a strong feeling of relief, even although his worst fears had been realized. At the back of his head, the old problem of Law and Order as opposed to Right and Wrong worried itself into the inextricable tangle which knows no unravelling. Wyatt was both a murderer and a martyr. There was no one who could decide between the two, in his opinion.

And in his thoughts, too, were his own affairs: Meggie, and his love for her, and their marriage.

As he stepped out into the street, a round moon face, red and hot with righteous indignation loomed down upon him out of the darkness.

“Come at last, ’ave yer?” inquired a thick sarcastic voice. “Your name and address, if you please.”

Gradually it dawned upon the still meditative doctor that he was confronted by an excessively large and unfriendly London bobby.

“This is your car, I suppose?” the questioner continued more mildly, as he observed Abbershaw’s blank expression, but upon receiving the assurance that it was, all his indignation returned.

“This car’s been left ’ere over an hour to my certain personal knowledge,” he bellowed. “Unattended and drawn out a foot from the kerb, which aggravates the offence. This’ll mean a summons, you know”⁠—he flourished his notebook. “Name and address.”

Abbershaw having furnished him with this information, he replaced the pencil in its sheath and, clicking the book’s elastic band smartly, continued his homily. He was clearly very much aggrieved.

“It’s people like you,” he explained, as Abbershaw climbed into the driving seat, “wot gives us officers all our work. But we’re not goin’ to have these offences, I can tell you. We’re making a clean sweep. Persons offending against the Law are not going to be tolerated.”

He paused suspiciously. The slightly dazed expression upon the face of the little red-haired man in the car had suddenly given place to a smile.

“Splendid!” he said, and there was unmistakable enthusiasm in his tone. “Really, really splendid, Officer! You don’t know how comforting that sounds. My fervent wishes for your success.” And he drove off, leaving the policeman looking after him, wondering a little wistfully if the charge in his notebook should not perhaps have read, “Drunk in charge of a car.”