Mr Campion’s pale eyes were lazy behind his big spectacles.
‘I thought I heard a couple of cars sneaking off in the night,’ he said. ‘We don’t know if old Whitby and his Dowager Daimler have returned – see what I mean?’
‘Are you suggesting Dawlish is here alone?’ said Abbershaw.
‘Not exactly alone,’ conceded Campion. ‘We know Gideon is still about, and that county bird with the face like a thug also, but I don’t expect the others are around. Consider it! Dawlish has us just where he wants us. He decides to make one last search for his precious package, which by now he realizes is pretty hopelessly gone. Then he means to make the place ready for his firework display, set light to it and bunk for home and mother; naturally he doesn’t want all his pals standing by. It’s not a pretty bit of work even for those lads. Besides, even if they do use the side roads, he doesn’t want three cars dashing from the scene at the same time, does he?’
Abbershaw nodded.
‘I see,’ he said slowly. ‘And so, now –’
The rest of his sentence was cut short by the sound of a shot from the turf outside, followed by a woman’s scream that had more indignation than fear in it. Abbershaw and Campion set down their burden in the shadow of the porch and left him to the tender ministrations of Jeanne while they dashed out into the open.
The scene was an extraordinary one.
Spread out in front of the gloomy, forbidding old house was all the colour and pageantry of the Monewdon Hunt. Until a moment or two before, the greater part of the field had kept back, leaving the actual interviewing of the offender to the Master and several of the older members, but now the scene was one of utter confusion.
Apparently Herr von Faber had terminated what had proved to be a lengthy and heated argument with a revolver shot which, whether by accident or by design, had pinked a hole through the Master’s sleeve, and sent half the horses in the field rearing and plunging; and then, under cover of the excitement, had fled for the garage, his ponderous form and long grey hair making him a strange, grotesque figure in the cold morning sun.