Murder in the Maze (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  Meanwhile Stenness, accompanied by the gardener, had made his way to the Maze. As they came in sight of it, they saw the figure of Howard Torrance emerge from one of the entrances and gaze in their direction. Recognising the secretary, he came rapidly towards them.

  “Seen Miss Forrest, Stenness?” he demanded as soon as he reached speaking distance. “Is she all right?”

  “She fetched us,” Stenness explained. “She’s completely done in, of course. That’s natural. But I don’t think she’ll come to any harm. I left two maids with her, just in case; though it looked more as if the maids would collapse before she did.”

  Howard nodded without replying, and Stenness continued:

  “We’d better get into the Maze now and stand guard over the body till the police turn up. They’ll be here shortly.”

  Howard hesitated a moment.

  “Sure you know how to get about in that Maze, Stenness? You won’t get tangled up? Got bogged in it myself once already. No desire to have another dose, you know.”

  “There’s no danger of that. Both Skene and I know every inch of it. He cuts the hedges.”

  This seemed to allay Howard’s doubts, and he led the way to the entrance. But here Stenness displaced him.

  “I’ll take the lead, I think. I know the path. Besides, one never can tell. Somebody may be in there yet.”

  He tapped his shot-gun in explanation of his full meaning, and Howard acquiesced.

  “Right! In you go!”

  They entered the labyrinth, Stenness in advance with his gun ready, Howard and the armed gardener bringing up the rear. For a minute or two they walked in silence along the intricate corridors, Stenness taking turning after turning without the slightest hesitation.

  “I wish I had had the thing by heart as he seems to have,” Howard reflected, as he noted the easy way in which the secretary seemed to hold to his route. “It would have been a different business, then.”

  All at once, Stenness halted abruptly and made a gesture of caution to his companions. His quick ears had caught something which they had missed.

  “There’s somebody moving in the next corridor,” he whispered. “Wait here. I’ll fix him.”

  With his gun ready he stepped suddenly round the corner of the alley and immediately they heard his curt command:

  “Hands up!”

  When they in turn had rounded the corner they found the secretary covering with his shot-gun an unattractive stranger. The reddish hair, the ugly mouth, made worse by a ragged and untidy moustache, the peculiar vulpine expression, and the flashy clothes, all combined to produce a bad impression even at the first glance. As he stood, hands in air, in front of Stenness’ gun, his eyes wandered from one face to another with something of the expression of a rat at bay.

  “Run over this fellow, Torrance,” said the secretary. “He may be armed.”

  Howard searched the man methodically and extracted from one pocket a heavy automatic pistol. Beyond that, the man had no other weapon.

  “See if it’s been fired,” suggested Stenness.

  “Fully loaded, and hasn’t been fired,” Howard reported.

  “Good! Now, my man, how do you come to be here?”

  “I was rowing on the river; and as I was coming near here, I heard someone yelling blue murder, so I came up. What would you have done, eh? Kept away, I expect. Then I came inside this monkey-puzzle to give a hand. And I’ve stuck here ever since. That satisfy you?”

  “Nothing to do with me. The police will be here shortly. You can explain to them. Meanwhile, you’ll come along with us. Skene, take charge of this fellow. If he tries to run, empty your gun into his legs. Now come along.”

  Again taking the van, Stenness continued on his way, and in a very short time he brought them to one of the centres of the Maze.

  Howard Torrance followed him into the tiny precinct; but his first glance led him to protest.

  “This isn’t the place where I found the body. It must be in the other centre.”

  Stenness’ shoulders blocked the view for a moment; but almost at once he stepped aside.

  “There’s a body here, at any rate,” he said, going forward as he spoke. “It’s Roger Shandon.”

  “Roger!” exclaimed Howard in blank surprise. “It was Neville Shandon’s body that I found.”

  “Then they’ve both been murdered,” Stenness pointed out coldly. “That’s obvious.”

  “But what I heard sounded like a single attack,” protested Howard.

  Stenness shrugged his shoulders. “That’s for the police to explain,” he said. “No use barking yourself when you keep a dog.”

  He went forward and covered the face of the body with his handkerchief.

  “It’s Roger, obviously; and stone dead. Nothing more to do here. Let’s try the other centre next. Skene, you needn’t come. Keep your eye on this fellow till we come back.”

  He led Howard through the alleys once more and in a short time they entered the second centre of the Maze.

  “This is Neville Shandon, true enough,” the secretary reported. The identification had taken longer, since the body lay on its face. “Mustn’t disturb anything, Torrance. The police may be able to make something out of it if we leave things alone.”

  He rose from his knees and mechanically dusted his trousers as he spoke. Howard was struck by the extraordinary matter-of-fact way in which Stenness had treated the whole affair. One might have expected some sign of emotion, surprise at the very least; but Stenness had gone through the whole business without showing the slightest disturbance. But as Howard reflected on the matter, he was forced to admit that, after all, it was much what one might have anticipated. Stenness, he remembered, had always been chary of showing any emotion whatever. Probably this was just a case of carrying the normal to an extreme where it became noticeable. Stenness, doubtless, took a pride in that mask of coolness.

  The secretary stooped for a moment over Neville Shandon’s body and examined the left hand which lay clenched on the grass.

  “There’s a piece of paper there. It looks as if it had been wrenched out of his hand and a scrap left in his grip. Let’s see what one can make of it without touching it.”

  He knelt down and scrutinised the fragment painfully.

  “Some of his notes on the Hackleton case, perhaps. I can read ‘Hackle . . .’ on it plain enough.”

  Howard did not trouble to look at the paper at close range.

  “What do you make of it?” he demanded, as the Secretary rose to his feet again.

  “I? Nothing much. It might be someone trying to put Neville Shandon out of business while the Hackleton case is on. That might account for the notes being taken. Or it might be someone with a grudge against Roger. He had some enemies. A threatening letter came from a man only the other day.”

  Howard digested these suggestions for a few moments without speaking; then he offered an objection.

  “But d’you think it’s likely that two murderers would choose an identical moment for their attacks? Two simultaneous crimes is a bit of a record, it seems to me.”

  “Think so?” the secretary responded, carelessly. “It’s happened this time, for all that.”

  Howard had to admit the truth of this.

  Stenness looked at his watch.

  “I must be getting off to the outside of the Maze. The police will be here very soon, and they’ll need a guide. I’ll take you back to Skene, if you like.”

  Howard nodded assent and once more Stenness led the way through a tangle of alleys.

  “Here’s Helen’s Bower,” he said, nodding towards its entrance. “You can sit down there till I bring the police.”

  Howard watched his figure disappear round a corner of the corridor and then turned his steps to the entrance of the little enclosure where Roger Shandon’s body lay. As he entered it, he was surprised to see Skene on his knees at the foot of the hedge, evidently collecting some small objects.

  “What are you after, Skene?
” he demanded. “I thought you were supposed to be watching this fellow.”

  Skene rose to his feet, rather sulky at being reproved.

  “He ain’t escaped yet. I’m ’tween him and the door.”

  Howard acknowledged the truth of both statements. “What are you grubbing in the hedge for?” he continued, after he had made his apology.

  Skene extended an earthy palm on which rested some small objects.

  “’Tis the lid of a tin box—one o’ these round ’uns. And here’s some darts that Mr. Hawkhurst uses for that air-gun o’ his when he’s shootin’ at a target. Let’s see . . . one . . . two . . . three . . .”

  He labouriously counted up to seven and held out his hand for confirmation.

  “Put ’em in the box-lid, Skene, and lay ’em down somewhere safe. You found them where I saw you searching?”

  “Just in there, among the roots o’ the hedge. Like enough the other bit o’ the box’ll be outside in the alley. I’ll have a look.”

  “Don’t bother, Skene. We mustn’t disturb anything till the police get here, you know. If there’s anything more, they’ll prefer to hunt for it themselves. What you’ve got to remember is that you found these seven things—seven, remember—at that point in the hedge. Better mark it with a stick or something, so that you’ll know the exact spot again.”

  The sight of the darts had put a thought into his mind. He went over to Roger Shandon’s body and examined it carefully. But so far as the exposed portions were concerned, he found no trace of the thing for which he was searching; and he did not care to take the responsibility of altering the posture of the corpse.

  As he rose to his feet once more he heard the note of a motor horn in the distance.

  “The police, I expect,” he said to Skene. “They’ll be here in a minute or two. Mr. Stenness has gone to lead them in through the Maze.”

  Chapter Four

  The Chief Constable

  As Stenness picked his way through the convolutions of the Maze, his face showed that his mind was at work on some puzzling problem.

  “Things haven’t worked out quite according to plan,” he commented to himself as he walked along. “I’ve missed that train, now; and I may as well see the business through on the spot. If only I’d aimed for the earlier train, I might have pulled it off.”

  His frown of annoyance faded out suddenly, as a new idea crossed his mind.

  “Perhaps it’s all for the best after all. I never thought of that point. Nobody can swear to it: and it leaves me absolutely on velvet—safer than ever.”

  His face cleared completely as he considered the fresh situation which had presented itself.

  “This is worth a dozen of the other notion. All I have to do now is to sit tight and keep a straight face.”

  The secretary soon reached the outskirts of the Maze. Then, taking up a position which commanded the road to the East Gate, he sat down on the grass and awaited the arrival of the police.

  Before long, a motor-horn sounded, and he rose to his feet as a big car came tearing up the narrow private road. In the front seats were two civilians, whilst the back held three uniformed policemen. Long before the motor reached him, Stenness had recognised the man at the wheel as the owner of a neighbouring estate.”

  That’s Wendover of Talgarth Grange. I wonder what he’s doing here.”

  Going out into the roadway, the secretary signalled them to stop and the long car drew up as it came level with him. Wendover jumped down from the driving seat and came forward while the others were getting out of the motor.

  “Sad business, this, Stenness! Terrible affair! Is poor Shandon really dead? Why, I saw him yesterday, poor chap.”

  Stenness was watching the remainder of the party, and he noticed that there had been a dog in the car. It was now fawning on the second civilian, evidently delighted to get out of its cramped quarters in the motor. Stenness turned back to his interlocutor.

  “It’s worse than we supposed when I telephoned. Two of the Shandons have been murdered in the Maze, here.”

  He nodded in the direction of the high green hedges. Wendover was completely taken aback.

  “Two of them! My godfathers! Here, Clinton!” he called to the second civilian. “Terrible business, this. There’s been a second murder.”

  Then, as the man with the dog came up to them, Wendover turned back to the secretary.

  “This is the Chief Constable, Sir Clinton Driffield. Clinton, this is Mr. Stenness, secretary to Roger Shandon.”

  Stenness examined the Chief Constable with what seemed more than common interest. Sir Clinton was a slight man who looked about thirty-five. His sun-tanned face, the firm mouth under the close-clipped moustache, the beautifully-kept teeth and hands, might have attracted a second glance in a crowd; but to counter this there was a deliberate ordinariness about his appearance. Had a stranger, meeting him casually, been asked later on to describe him, it would have been difficult; for Sir Clinton designedly refrained from anything characteristic in his dress. Only his eyes failed to fit in with the rest of his conventional appearance; and even them he had disciplined as far as possible. Normally, they had a bored expression; but at times the mask slipped aside and betrayed the activity of the brain behind them. When fixed on a man they gave a curious impression as though they saw, not the physical exterior of the subject, but instead the real personality concealed below the facial lineaments.

  “A second case? H’m! You seem to be starting a wholesale trade at Whistlefield, Mr. Stenness.”

  Stenness was not impressed by the cheerfulness of the tone. He had felt those keen eyes sweep over him; and though it had been anything but a stare, he had the sensation of being appraised and catalogued for future reference. He disliked the turn of the Chief Constable’s phrase, too. Whether intentionally or not, it seemed to verge on the macabre.

  “What about starting, eh?” Wendover demanded. “Get on the track while the scent’s hot, Clinton? Every minute may count, you know.”

  Sir Clinton assented with a nod and snapped his fingers to call his dog to heel.

  “Suppose you show us the bodies, Mr. Stenness.”

  Without replying, Stenness led the way into the Maze, followed closely by the whole party. The Chief Constable scanned the corridors as he passed along, but made no comment. Wendover evidently felt that some explanation of his presence was due, for as they traversed the alleys he overtook the secretary.

  “Curious coincidence, this, Stenness. Sir Clinton’s a friend of mine, and he happened to be staying with me just now for a few days. Most fortunate affair! When you ’phoned down to the police station, they rang him up at once at the Grange. I got out the car, of course; and we picked up the constables at the station as we passed. Couldn’t have been better planned, could it?”

  Then, passing to a new line of thought, he added:

  “Terrible affair for the family! Dreadful business! It’ll be a frightful shock for Miss Hawkhurst, won’t it?”

  Before Stenness could reply, they came to the entrance of one of the centres of the Maze. The secretary turned to the Chief Constable.

  “This is what they call the Pool of Narcissus, Sir Clinton. We found Neville Shandon’s body here. Roger Shandon’s body is lying in the other centre of the Maze.”

  Sir Clinton nodded without replying, took off his hat, and entered the enclosure. The body lay just as Stenness had seen it last; and the Chief Constable made no attempt to touch it, though he subjected it to a most minute inspection.

  “I forgot to tell you,” whispered Wendover. “We ’phoned for a doctor to come and examine the body. He’ll be here very soon.”

  The Chief Constable rose lightly to his feet.

  “Two or three small wounds, apparently; but not much bleeding. Once the doctor’s overhauled him, we can make a fuller examination. In the meantime, things had better be left as they are. Will you take us to the other body, now, Mr. Stenness?”

  Leaving one of the constables on
guard over the corpse, the party made its way, under Stenness’ guidance, to the second centre of the Maze. On the road, Wendover gave Stenness some further information.

  “Most fortunate that Driffield was on the spot, wasn’t it? He’ll get to the bottom of things quick enough; trust him for that. He used to be out in South Africa; a big post in the police there. Then he came home for family reasons and dropped into the Chief Constableship here. Much too good a man for the place, you know; but it gives him enough to keep him busy. By the way, he knew something about Roger Shandon out at the Cape.”

  “I believe Shandon made part of his money there,” Stenness volunteered in confirmation.

  As they entered Helen’s Bower, Stenness saw a momentary upward twitch of Sir Clinton’s eyebrows as his glance lighted on the stranger whom they had encountered in the Maze.

  “Ah! Mr. Timothy Costock?”

  The captive showed much more surprise.

  “Why, it’s Driffield, so it is! Well, if that isn’t the damnedest luck. There’s no keepin’ out o’ the way o’ you busies, it seems. But you’re on the wrong track this shot. I never laid a finger on this fellow.”

  He indicated Roger Shandon’s body as he spoke.

  “Nobody’s accused you of laying a finger on him. Or of anything else-yet,” said Sir Clinton, curtly. “I’ll listen to your story later on. Don’t waste time elaborating it. You’ll find the plain truth’s best. This is more serious than illicit diamond buying.”

  He paused for an instant, then continued:

  “Now I think of it, you were Shandon’s cat’s paw that time I got my hands on you at Kimberley.”

  Then, as Costock opened his mouth in protest, Sir Clinton cut him short abruptly:

  “I’d keep my mouth shut, if I were you. Nobody’s asking you to incriminate yourself.”

  The hint was sufficient for the ex-I.D.B. expert. His protest died on his lips. Sir Clinton paid no further attention to him, but set about a careful examination of the body of Roger Shandon. As he rose to his feet again, Stenness came forward.