Murder in the Maze (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  “I can’t leave it later than that,” he said to himself at last. “The next one wouldn’t get me into London in time for the boat-train.”

  His eye turned to the window and ranged over the lawns.

  “Well, it’ll be a hard wrench to leave here, no matter what happens. And I wish I saw to-night over and knew where I stand.”

  He passed to a fresh line of thought.

  “At the worst, nothing will matter much if I don’t pull it off.”

  He replaced the ABC on its shelf and went up to his own room. First locking the door, he began deliberately to pack his razors and other toilette articles in an attache case. When he had completed this task, he glanced round the room.

  “Nothing else? No, all the rest of the stuff is waiting for me in London.”

  Chapter Two

  The Affair in the Maze

  Howard Torrance fidgeted a little and then turned to the girl beside him.

  “A bit feeble, just sitting about like this and doing nothing. Care to go down to the tennis courts and play a single?”

  Vera Forrest knew the symptoms well. A good many men would have been glad enough of the chance to monopolise her and would have asked nothing better than to sit there in the shade in her company. But Howard had a surplus of physical energy which could be worked off only by continual exercise. “What’ll we do next?” was a phrase which ran through his talk like a reiterated battle-cry; and he seemed to have exalted sloth to the premier position in his private catalogue of the mortal sins. She glanced at him mischievously and decided to tease him a little before letting him have his way.

  “No, thank you,” she said, sedately.

  Howard had a second suggestion ready.

  “Want to go over to the links and play a few holes?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “What about taking the car to Stanningleigh? I need some cigarettes and I’ll stand you a box of chocolates.”

  “No.”

  Howard looked at her suspiciously.

  “Is this a new game? ‘No, thank you. . . . No, thanks. . . . No.’ Trying to make it shorter each time, is that it? Well, you’ve got to the bottom of the bag this shot. This is where the master-brain says ‘Checkmate!’ Ahem! Like to take a boat out on the river or a while? You can’t say ‘No’ in less than two letters.”

  Vera made no audible response, but she shook her head in refusal. Her companion admitted his defeat gracefully.

  “Didn’t think you’d manage it. You win. Will you have a saucepan or a cheap alarm clock? All the other prizes have been awarded already.”

  Then, as though dismissing trifles and becoming serious:

  “What’s to be done? We can’t sit around like this the whole day. Time’s on the wing, and all that.”

  Vera looked at the shadows on the grass.

  “It’s getting on certainly. We really haven’t time to do much before tea.”

  “It couldn’t miss that, I suppose? It wants its tea?”

  “It wants its tea,” Vera admitted, gravely.

  Howard looked at his watch.

  “Pity we wasted the best part of the afternoon just sitting round and loafing,” he commented disconsolately.

  For a few moments he remained silent, evidently turning various projects over in his mind.

  “Tell you what,” he suggested at last. “Ever been in the old Maze down there by the boat-house? No? Neither have I. What about dashing over and trying our luck with it? Part at the entrance; and the first that gets to the centre wins the game. They say it’s a grand puzzler.”

  “Well, if it will make you happy, I don’t mind. But wait a moment. Hasn’t the Maze got two centres? Somebody told me that once.”

  Howard brushed the objection aside.

  “The first one to reach either centre scores a win. If you get there, sing out. I’ll trust to your native honesty to keep you from cheating.”

  It was comfortable under the trees, and Vera attempted to put off the evil moment of departure even by a few seconds.

  “How many entrances has the Maze?”

  “Oh, don’t know, exactly. Four or five, I think. Nothing in that. Take the first one we come to, whichever it is. Then you go to the right and I’ll go to the left, or t’other way about if you like; and the best man wins. I’ll risk a box of chocolates or a tin of cocoa on it, if you insist. Come along, don’t let’s decay here any longer; I see a bit of moss has grown on my toe since we sat down—and no wonder.”

  Vera gave in and rose from her seat with feigned reluctance.

  “Bit stiff in the joints with sitting so long?” Howard inquired, sympathetically. “It’ll wear off at once.”

  As they sauntered across the stretches of turf which led down to the Maze, Vera was struck by the quietness of the grounds.

  “Whistlefield’s a lovely place, isn’t it, Howard?”

  “Top-hole,” he agreed, cordially. “First-class tennis courts; good golf-course only a quarter of an hour away; the river’s quite decent for punting; plenty of room in the house to dance; and I believe they run a pack of otter-hounds somewhere in the neighbourhood.”

  “I didn’t know you were a house-agent.”

  Howard saw the dig, but took no offence.

  “Sounds a bit like their patter, doesn’t it? ‘Company’s water, gas, and electric light. Telephone. Main drainage.’ Well, nothing to be ashamed of, is it? Whistlefield’s all right.”

  “Sylvia’s lucky to be here. By the way, where has she gone to this afternoon, do you know? I haven’t seen her since lunch.”

  “Off in the car to see some people and arrange for some tennis to-morrow. I must say Sylvia looks after one well when one comes to stay. Always on the go.”

  “Where are the rest of the villagers?”

  “One uncle’s off with Sylvia. The other two were in the study when I saw them last. Stenness is somewhere around. I met young Arthur when you sent me up to the house a few minutes ago. He was coming out of the gun-room with a nasty look in his eyes and an air-gun in his hand. Gave him a cheery hail and got a grunt in reply. Seemed peevish about something or other, quite fretful, even. Wished him Good Hunting and asked him if he was going to shoot rabbits in the spinney. All I got was a growl that he was going to shoot something sitting if he couldn’t shoot it any other way. Seemed determined to work off bad temper by slaughtering something, no matter what?”

  Vera’s face betrayed sympathy.

  “Poor Arthur! It’s hard lines on that boy, Howard. He’s been changed a good deal by that beastly illness he had.”

  Howard’s expression showed that he shared her feelings.

  “Pity. Used to be a bright lad. All right, even yet; but not quite the same, somehow. Moody at times; and apt to loaf about doing nothing for half the day. No real go about him. A queer temper, too, some days. When I met him just now, for instance, he looked ready to bite me in the gizzard. Not at all the society man.”

  Vera dismissed the subject, which threatened to throw a gloom over them both. They liked Arthur Hawkhurst, in spite of the occasional flashes of abnormality which he had shown since the attack of encephalitis lethargica.

  “You’re playing quite fair, aren’t you, Howard? You’ve never been inside the Maze at all?”

  “You don’t suppose that I’d cheat for the sake of winning a tin of cocoa, do you? It’s amazing what a low view of mankind some girls have. Soured from the cradle, what? And born in suspicion, belike. Shake it off, or it’ll grow on you, Vera. Go and dig in the garden when you feel an attack coming on.”

  “Oh, don’t rub it in! I know your motto well enough; ‘Perspiration is better than cure,’ or something like that, isn’t it? I only asked out of idle curiosity. No reflections on your honesty really intended.”

  “Your apology of even date duly received and filed. Sounds like the house-agent vein again, that, doesn’t it? Come on. I’ll race you this last hundred yards and give you a start to that rhododendron. Half a tin of cocoa on the
event, since you’re so mercenary.”

  Vera rejected his offer; and they walked over the last lawn to the nearest entrance to the Maze.

  The Maze at Whistlefield was a relic of earlier days when such things were fashionable; but it had been kept in good repair, and Roger Shandon’s gardeners spent a considerable amount of labour in clipping its topiary hedges into the semblance of green walls. Somewhat irregular in outline, it covered about half an acre of ground; but into that limited space there was compressed more than half a mile of pathways; and the shortest route to either of the centres was at least two hundred and fifty yards in length. But few except experts could have found their way to either Helen’s Bower or the Pool of Narcissus by walking a mere two hundred and fifty yards. The Whistlefield Maze was a labyrinth far exceeding in complexity its kindred at Hatfield and Hampton Court. Its twelve-foot hedges were impenetrably thick; and in its design it followed the “island-pattern” to such an extent that incautious explorers might wander by the hour through its tiny archipelago without gaining a foot towards the innermost recesses or even realising that they were simply coasting round and round the outline of some detached hedge.

  So many people had got temporarily lost in the labyrinth and, being so far away from the house, had been unable to get help even by shouting, that at last precautions had been taken to avoid mishaps of the kind in future.

  As Vera and her companion reached the tall iron gate in the outer hedge which marked one of the entrances, they found themselves confronted with a small notice-board to which an old-fashioned horn was suspended.

  VISITORS ENTERING THE MAZE ARE ADVISED TO TAKE THIS HORN WITH THEM SO THAT THEY CAN SUMMON ASSISTANCE IF NECESSARY. ON LEAVING THE MAZE, KINDLY HANG THE HORN IN ITS PLACE AGAIN.

  Howard went up to the board and read the notice with obvious contempt.

  “Nice lot of incompetents they seem to have about the house!” he commented in a scathing tone. “I wonder they don’t provide a bath-chair and a man to push you to the centre, and be done with it. As if any person of ordinary intelligence couldn’t find his way through a thing about the size of a washing-green.”

  “Ever been in a maze before?” Vera inquired.

  “No, not that I can remember.”

  “Ah, then kindly unhook the horn and give it to me. I’m not proud.”

  Howard took the horn from its place and handed it over.

  “What’s the good of one horn, since we’re not going in together?”

  Vera looked him over coldly.

  “When I get lost, I shall blow the horn and get someone to show me the way out. When you get lost, you’ll be able to practice breathing exercise in yelling for help. You see, you’ve got a much louder and harsher voice than I have. You’ll be all right, I’m sure. But if you think you can’t come up to the lung-power needed, you might go round to the next entrance and see if there isn’t a horn there. I should think there’s sure to be one at each entrance.”

  Howard was put on his mettle.

  “Oh, I shan’t get lost. Don’t fret too much about me. Now then, who’s for the centre?”

  “Come along, then. I’ll take the left-hand path here, and you can go to the right. Whoever gets first to the centre can shout: ‘I win!’ and then start for the exit door. If it’s a tie at the centre, then the first one out is the winner. Keep a tight hold on your honesty and don’t shout unless you get to the centre! These are all the directions necessary, I think. Now, go!”

  Vera hurried along a straight corridor for some twenty yards and then turned sharply to the right as the path altered its direction. On again, until a promontory of hedge forced her to diverge into a recess in the greenery, from which she emerged again into the main track. Another corner to the right was turned and now she seemed to have come into a cul-de-sac.

  “Rather a sell if I’ve chosen a blind alley at the very start,” she thought to herself. “Howard would jubilate over that when he found out about it.”

  However, on reaching the wall of hedge which seemed to bar her way, she came upon a concealed turning to the right.

  “And after walking all that distance, I’m still on the very outer rim of this Maze! However, this turn’s going to take me in towards the centre.”

  Up to that point her progress had been simplicity itself; but now alternative paths began to open up every few yards. The tall hedges cut off everything but the sky; and soon she found that she had completely lost her bearings and was wandering at random. For a time she hurried forward, choosing always those turnings which seemed likely to bring her nearer to where she supposed the centre to lie; but at last the continual windings confused her so much that she could not even tell in which direction to walk in order to reach the inner reaches of the labyrinth. Long zig-zag corridors ended, time after time, in blank walls; and in traversing them forwards and back again she grew more and more doubtful of her bearings. When she thought of taking the sun as a reference-point, it was too late; for by that time she had lost all notion of her whereabouts.

  “I’m sure I’ve seen that patch of withered leaves in the hedge more than once before,” she said to herself, halting to examine it more carefully. “Yes, I’m certain I passed it a few minutes ago. I must be coming back in my tracks and just going over the same ground again and again.”

  With the dying out of her own footfalls, the silence of the Maze impressed itself on her; and she strained her ears to catch the sound of Howard as he moved somewhere beyond these impenetrable green living walls.

  “If I really get stuck in here,” she reflected, “I can always blow the horn and bring someone who knows the place to lead me out.”

  She listened again, more intently. Then, suddenly there was no need to strain her ears.

  First came a dull thud, which unconsciously she recognised as familiar, though she could not identify it at the moment. Then, almost in the same instant, a man’s voice gave an inarticulate cry in which surprise, pain, and anger seemed to be mingled. A moment of silence, then a peculiar metallic grating reached her ears, followed by a second thud and a fresh cry of pain. Again came the peculiar metallic rasping, yet another of these familiar dull concussions, and then, lower this time, a last cry. Then there was silence once more.

  Vera stood paralysed by what she had heard. In a flash of enlightenment she guessed that behind these inexplicable events some tragedy was in progress; something dreadful was happening quite close at hand, though screened from her by the high green walls which shut her in. She had never heard that note in a man’s voice before. Utterly shocked by the unexpected revelation of violence, she stood for a moment with her knees trembling under her, while her pulse beat in her throat so heavily as to prevent her uttering a sound. Then, with an effort, she found her voice.

  “Howard! Are you there? What’s happened? Oh, what’s happened?”

  “I’m here.”

  She could not make out from which direction his shout came. The towering hedges seemed to deflect sound so that it was impossible to determine even approximately the position of a speaker.

  “What were these cries, Howard? What’s happened?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “Somebody hurt. But I can’t get to the place. Stay where you are, Vera. I’ll see if I can find my way to you.”

  She listened intently in the silence that followed. Feet moved in the Maze; evidently Howard was doing his best to make in her direction. But beyond this she could detect no other noise, though she strained her ears to the utmost. She had expected to hear groans from the wounded man, but nothing broke the stillness until Howard called to her again. His voice seemed further off than before.

  “Shout, will you, Vera? I’ve lost your direction.”

  She called again; and he replied. But as she listened, his footsteps seemed to recede and die away in the distance. Evidently he had found that the direct path was blocked and had had to retreat up some long alley to try a fresh start.

  Then, with surprise at her previous fo
rgetfulness, she bethought herself of the horn in her hand. That would bring assistance. She ought to have remembered it before. The shock had put it out of her mind. She was in the act of lifting it to her lips when again her nerves were shaken by a new cry from the inner recesses of the Maze.

  “Murder!”

  She recognised Howard’s voice, tinged with horror. It was a loud-voiced ejaculation rather than a cry for assistance, she felt with relief. Howard hadn’t run into a trap. Before she could pull herself together, he shouted again, this time with the full strength of his lungs:

  “Murder! See that no one gets away from the Maze!”

  Vera’s nerves were almost attuned to the shock of the discovery. A picture of some swift and terrible act of violence crossed her mind. It must have been soon over, for she remembered that after the three cries she had heard no sound of any sort. Not twenty yards from her, it might be, a human being had been battered out of existence; and but for these cries she would have known nothing whatever.

  She raised her voice again.

  “Howard! I’m frightened. What’s happened?”

  “One of the Shandons has been killed. I blundered into the centre, trying to get to you. There’s blood on his coat.”

  He broke off for a moment, evidently gathering his breath, then again he shouted:

  “Murder! Help! Here in the Maze! Murder!”

  Vera held her breath, listening eagerly for some answering cry from the outer world which now seemed so peaceful and unattainable. Then in the silence, she heard the sound of a man running hard in the alleys of the Maze.

  “Is that you, Howard?” she called. “I hear someone running not far from where I am.”

  No sooner had she spoken than the noise of running footfalls ceased abruptly.

  “Is that you, Howard?” she called again, nervously.

  There came a sound of rustling and tearing, then Howard’s voice sounded across the labyrinth.