‘Dotted over the beam with the familiar blunt instrument,’ murmured Campion sadly. ‘He was so impetuous. Boys will be boys, of course, but – well, well, well.’
‘Is he dead?’ Abbershaw could not see the extent of the damage, and he hardly recognized his own voice, it was so strained and horror-stricken.
‘Dead?’ Mr Campion seemed to be surprised. ‘Oh, dear me, no – he’s only out of action for a bit. Our friends here are artists in this sort of thing, and I rather fancy that so far Daddy Dawlish has decided against killing off his chicks. Of course,’ he went on softly, ‘what his attitude will be now that we’ve taken up the offensive deliberately I don’t like to suggest. On the whole I think our present policy of complete caution is to be maintained. Hop over this – he’s as safe here as anywhere – and come on.’
Abbershaw stepped carefully over the recumbent figure, and advanced softly after the indefatigable Mr Campion.
They had hardly reached the foot of the staircase, and Abbershaw was speculating upon Campion’s plan of campaign, when their direction was suddenly decided for them. From the vicinity of the servants’ quarters far below them on their left there came a sudden crash which echoed dully over the entire house, followed by a volley of shots and a hoarse scream as of a man in pain or terror.
Albert Campion paused abruptly.
‘That’s done it!’ he said. ‘Now we’ve got to lick ’em! Come on, Doc.’ On the last word he darted forward, Abbershaw at his heels. The door in the recess under the stairs was shut but unlocked, and on opening it they found themselves in a narrow stone corridor with a second door at the far end.
The noise was increasing; it sounded to Abbershaw as if a pitched battle were taking place somewhere near at hand.
The second door disclosed a great stone kitchen lit by two swinging oil lamps. At first Abbershaw thought it was deserted, but a smothered sound from the far end of the room arrested him, and he turned to see a heavy, dark-eyed woman and an hysterical weak-faced girl gagged and bound to wooden kitchen chairs in the darkest corner of the room.
These must be Mrs Browning and Lizzie Tiddy; the thought flitted through his mind and was forgotten, for Mr Campion was already at the second door, a heavy iron-studded structure behind which pandemonium seemed to have broken loose.