Murder in the Maze (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  Vera nodded assent to both questions. To her relief, Sir Clinton turned to Stenness.

  “Did you note the time when Miss Forrest got back to the house again?”

  “I looked at my watch when she was telling me her story. It was then 4.42. I reached the Maze myself at 5.16.”

  “You were in your own room upstairs when Miss Forrest came to the house?”

  “Yes. My room is at the back, so I could not have seen her coming in, even if I’d been looking out of my window. My first warning of the whole affair was when the maid began to scream.”

  Sir Clinton added a jotting to his notes; then he turned to the company with a relaxation of his official air.

  “These are the facts, then—the things you could swear to in the witness-box. I take it that you’ve told me all that’s relevant. But, candidly, these facts don’t take us far. The police don’t profess to know the details of people’s private lives; but when an affair of this sort crops up we have to poke our noses in, whether we like it or not. Hitherto we’ve kept to the facts; but now I’d like, if possible, to get your personal views of the meaning of the facts. You probably have intimate knowledge of affairs at Whistlefield which I haven’t got. Does it suggest anything to you in connection with this case?”

  He glanced from face to face without putting a direct question to any of his hearers. Vera Forrest was the first to speak.

  “I know almost as little as you do yourself, Sir Clinton. I’m a friend of Sylvia, of course; but I know no more about her uncles’ affairs than a casual visitor might pick up in a few days’ stay at the house. The whole thing is an absolute mystery so far as I’m concerned.”

  Howard Torrance had the same story to tell.

  “I’m in much the same state as Miss Forrest. Neville Shandon I met for the first time a few days ago. Roger was only a casual acquaintance; and I never felt inclined to force myself into his intimacy. I’m really a guest of Miss Hawkhurst, just as Miss Forrest is.”

  Sir Clinton turned to the secretary.

  “You’ve perhaps had better opportunities, Mr. Stenness?”

  The secretary admitted this with a nod.

  “I’ve been secretary to Mr. Roger Shandon for the last two years—nearly three. Do you expect me to divulge anything about his private affairs?”

  “Anything that seems useful. It can’t hurt him now.”

  “Then I needn’t conceal that from time to time he received threatening letters. The last one came only a few days ago. It was written by this man Costock who’s outside in the hall. I can produce it if necessary.”

  Sir Clinton contented himself with saying: “I know something about Costock’s career.” He looked at Stenness as though he expected more, but the secretary seemed to have nothing to add on that subject.

  “Perhaps you could tell us about the relations between the various members of the family. That must have come under your notice,” Sir Clinton suggested.

  Stenness considered for a moment as though arranging his facts.

  “The three brothers always seemed to me to be on good enough terms. I never noticed any ill-feeling amongst them. Neville was rather a bully—in his manner, I mean. He always treated one as if one were a hostile witness; but probably that was just a mannerism. Roger was hot-tempered at times. He didn’t hit it off with his nephew somehow. But so far as I saw, the feeling was all on one side. Young Hawkhurst seems a harmless boy—rather moody since he had that attack of sleepy sickness.”

  Sir Clinton seemed to prick up his ears at the words.

  “He had sleepy sickness, had he? Any ill-effects?”

  “Nothing that one could see, except his instability—moodiness or whatever you like to call it. Very cheery one day and rather depressed soon afterwards, I noticed at times.”

  Sir Clinton did not pursue the subject.

  “Have you heard of any ill-feeling locally?” he asked. “I mean friction with the maids, or the gardeners, or the neighbours?”

  Stenness racked his memory for a moment or two.

  “No, nothing that I can recall. There was some slight disagreement with Dr. Ardsley over fishing rights not long ago; and a few angry letters passed between him and Roger Shandon. But it wasn’t an important matter—rather a squabble, but nothing to leave real ill-feeling.”

  “Do you know anything about money matters? They were both well-off?”

  “Neville was believed to make enormous fees in some cases. Roger, I know, had plenty of money. He often sent me to cash bearer cheques on his account and some of them ran into thousands.”

  “And he took cash for these? Rather unusual.”

  “My impression was that he gambled a good deal—roulette and that sort of thing—for high stakes. I’ve often paid in large sums in notes on his behalf.”

  Sir Clinton seemed to make a mental note of this.

  “Now what about the third brother—Ernest, I think his name is?”

  A faint expression of contempt crossed Stenness’ face at the mention of Ernest’s name.

  “He’s not like his brothers.”

  Then the disdain of the efficient man for his inefficient fellow broke out.

  “He seems never to have done anything, so far as I know. His brothers kept him going. He spends his time loafing about: fishing, shooting, or just hanging round. It was his fishing, as a matter of fact, that led to the row with Dr. Ardsley.”

  Sir Clinton leaned forward in his chair and looked at the secretary keenly.

  “All this is very interesting, Mr. Stenness; but I have an idea that there’s something in your mind that you haven’t told us. What is it?”

  The secretary gave him look for look before replying.

  “I don’t think this is a local affair at all. The evidence points away from that, entirely.”

  “Ah! Now this is what I really wanted, Mr. Stenness.”

  Thus encouraged Stenness wasted no time.

  “When Neville Shandon looked into the room before going to the Maze, he had a sheaf of papers in his hand. When I examined his body I noticed a scrap of paper—a torn bit. I could read ‘Hackle . . .’ on it in Neville’s writing, and a few other words as well.”

  “That’s quite correct,” interrupted Sir Clinton, “I have it in my pocket-book. And you infer . . .”

  “I infer that that scrap is all that remains of his notes for his cross-examination of Hackleton which was to come off this week.”

  “In other words, you think someone in Hackleton’s pay is the murderer; and the intention was to put Neville Shandon out of the case finally?”

  “That’s your statement, not mine,” said Stenness, suddenly becoming cautious. “But it’s been done before now.”

  Sir Clinton nodded.

  “You’re thinking of the shooting of Labori in the Dreyfus case, I suppose?”

  “That would be a parallel case to the one you sketched.”

  “And the notes might be useful to Hackleton’s side as showing the probable line of attack beforehand?”

  Stenness maintained his caution.

  “That’s your suggestion, not mine.”

  “But assuming that,” demanded Sir Clinton, “why was Roger Shandon murdered at all? He had nothing to do with the case.”

  Stenness had his answer ready.

  “Assume that twin brothers resemble each other closely and even dress alike. Mightn’t a stranger mistake one for the other and kill him? Obviously. And then he might find that he’d made an error if the second brother turned up. The second man is the man he’s been paid to put out of the way. Wouldn’t he finish his job?”

  “That’s an ingenious theory, Mr. Stenness,” commented Sir Clinton, but he refrained from saying anything further.

  Howard Torrance had listened carefully.

  “Hardly think that’ll fit, though. Neville was dead when I came across him; and I’d just heard Roger shouting . . . at least, . . . at any rate,” he stumbled for a moment, then recanted. “No, you may be right. I was c
onfusing the order of finding the bodies with the order of the murders.”

  “There’s no proof of the order of the murders,” Stenness pointed out. “Both of them were dead when they were found, and that’s all we know.”

  At this moment steps sounded outside, the door opened noisily, and Sir Clinton saw a stranger enter the room. At the sight of the air-gun in the newcomer’s hand, Vera Forrest gave a slight exclamation.

  “This is Sir Clinton Driffield, Mr. Hawkhurst,” Stenness hastened to explain. “The Chief Constable.”

  Arthur Hawkhurst leaned his air-gun against the wall and came forward.

  “D’you usually travel with an escort, sir?” he inquired with a boyish grin. “A bobby and a plain clothes man in the hall outside, I see.”

  Then, turning to Stenness, he went on:

  “Uncle Roger anywhere about? I owe the old man an apology. He’s rather peevish with me over the piano, you know; and I must smooth him down. Not let the sun go down on his wrath, et cetera.”

  Stenness threw an interrogative glance at Sir Clinton. Getting the answer he expected, he broke the news to Arthur.

  “What! Both of ’em killed! Nonsense!”

  Then the sight of the Chief Constable and the recollection of the uniformed man outside seemed to convince him.

  “Of course! That accounts for the bobby. And they’re both gone, you say? Poor old birds! Poor old birds!”

  It was hardly the requiem which might have been expected; but it seemed sincere enough in tone if not in words. He added thoughtfully:

  “And now I’ll never get that apology off my chest, after brooding over it all afternoon. I owed him that.”

  Sir Clinton cross the room and picked up the air-gun.

  “This seems pretty strong. Can you kill anything with it?”

  Arthur’s grief seemed to pass away with the opening up of a fresh subject.

  “I was out with it in the spinney this afternoon, potting rabbits. It makes less noise than a rook-rifle. Scares the bunnies less when you fire. But I only got a couple of brace in the whole afternoon.”

  Sir Clinton made no reply. He tried the spring of the air-gun; looked to see that the weapon was unloaded; and then pulled the trigger. For a weapon of its size the report was not loud. He was about to try it a second time when his ear was caught by a sound of limping footsteps in the passage. Again the door of the room opened, and Sir Clinton hastily put the air-gun back against the wall.

  Ernest Shandon shuffled into the room and blinked round the assembled group in dull surprise.

  “I’ve had a devil of a time,” he said grumpily, “I’ve been walking miles with a nail in my boot.”

  Stenness stepped into the breach once more and explained the state of affairs. At first, Ernest seemed frankly incredulous.

  “This must be a joke of yours, Stenness. What I mean to say is, the thing’s impossible. Murders don’t happen to people like us, you know. It’s the kind of thing one finds among the lower classes.”

  He peered from face to face, as if expecting to see a smile on one of them; but the seriousness of the company at last appeared to bring the truth home to him.

  “You really mean it?”

  He sank into a chair and gazed round the company once more as though dazed by the realisation of the tragedy.

  “Both of ’em? Why, I was talking to them both not three hours ago. We were talking about that Shackleton case—or is it Hackleton? I remember Neville asking if I read the newspapers, and Roger . . . What was it Roger said? . . . Oh, yes, now I remember. Roger was giving Neville a hint that Shackleton might find it worth his while to sandbag him or something like that. I can’t think why; but Roger was very strong about that, I remember. And then I went off and left them together. And now you say they’re both dead! I can’t believe it, Stenness. Why, I was talking to them not three hours ago, or even less, it may be, here in this very room.”

  “It’s unfortunately true, Mr. Shandon,” Howard Torrance assured him. “I found the body of Mr. Neville Shandon myself.”

  Ernest paid no attention to him. He seemed to be quite thunderstruck, now that the news had penetrated his mind. At last he roused himself sufficiently to ask for some details, to which he listened with a sort of heavy interest.

  “And they were killed by poisoned darts, you say? And I’ve got a nail in my boot myself. I might get blood-poisoning from it, if I’m not careful. I never thought of that till now.”

  Sir Clinton had allowed a decent interval to elapse before entering the conversation; but he now glanced at his watch and put a question.

  “Can you tell us when you last saw your brothers alive, Mr. Shandon?”

  Ernest reflected for some moments as though trying to fix the time. Then he shook his head regretfully:

  “I’d arranged to go in the car with Sylvia—my niece, you know—but she said I was late and she hurried me off to get ready. I was a bit hustled at the last moment. But Sylvia could tell you, most likely. She’s always punctual and she’d remember when we left.”

  “It was just before I saw Mr. Neville Shandon look in that door that I heard your car leaving, Mr. Shandon,” Stenness volunteered. “That would be about ten minutes past three.”

  Ernest nodded vaguely.

  “I remember she sent me to put my boots on. That reminds me, my foot’s very sore. I hope it isn’t blood-poisoning.”

  Quite regardless of the company he began to unlace his boot and finally examined a slight tear in his sock. He was busily engaged in feeling inside his boot for the nail before he spoke again.

  “That nail came up just after Sylvia dropped me outside the grounds. I walked on for a bit, but it began to hurt. You know how a nail in your boot hurts? So I sat down for a bit by the roadside; and luckily the postman came along in his cart and gave me a lift after a while, or I don’t know what I’d have done. I’d nothing to hammer it flat with, you see.”

  He returned to an inspection of his foot.

  Sir Clinton glanced at his watch and even his impassive face showed a trace of impatience.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Shandon, but I must get some facts from you before I go. It’s essential, or I should not trouble you at this time.”

  Ernest looked up with a long-suffering expression.

  “Oh, ask any questions you please. If I can give any information you want, I’ll be glad to do it, quite glad. It’s a sad affair for me, for all of us. Anything I can do, of course. By the way, do you mind if I ring for tea? I’ve had nothing since lunch-time and I feel a bit tired. One misses one’s tea. It would brighten me up, I think.”

  Quite oblivious of the astonishment of the company he rang the bell and gave his order.

  “Now, Mr. Shandon, perhaps you’ll give me your attention. I understand that your family consisted of yourself, your two brothers, and the late Mrs. Hawkhurst, your sister. Am I right, or have you any relations except your nephew and niece?”

  Ernest blinked for a moment or two as if considering.

  “Nobody nearer than a second cousin once removed. At least, I think that’s what you call it. She’s the daughter of a second cousin. Lives in Bath, I think.”

  “Another point,” continued Sir Clinton. “Can you tell me if anyone could get the opportunity of learning the Maze without being noticed? The gardeners know the paths of course; but can you think of anyone else?”

  Ernest again blinked for some seconds while he thought over the matter.

  “Ardsley took an interest in it at one time—that was before he made such a fuss over the fishing. He hasn’t been here since that row. Not that I bore any grudge over it, you understand, far from it. One may differ from a man, without letting bad feeling come in, I always think, don’t you?”

  Sir Clinton refused to follow him into this bypath. “Nobody else?”

  “No, I can remember nobody who ever took the slightest interest in it. It’s not, somehow, the sort of thing that does interest people. What I mean to say is, there’s not m
uch use in it, is there?”

  Sir Clinton diverged for an instant from his usual reticence.

  “It’s strange the murderer didn’t leave some trace, then. I’d have expected to find him using a thread to guide him out of the Maze—like Theseus in the labyrinth.”

  He paused for a moment, then added:

  “But perhaps he rolled it up as he went out, so as to leave nothing behind.”

  He rose as he spoke and put his last questions:

  “Do you suspect anyone in this matter, Mr. Shandon? Was there anyone in the background whom we haven’t heard about? A woman, for instance?”

  Ernest Shandon seemed to ponder these queries in his dull way.

  “No,” he said at last, “I don’t think so. Not to my knowledge, at least. Of course my brothers had their own affairs; but that’s to be expected in families, isn’t it? I mean, they didn’t tell me everything, of course. But bar this Shackleton business, I can’t say I ever heard anything that would fit the case. No, I can’t remember ever hearing anything of the sort.”

  The Chief Constable wasted no further time.

  “I shall have to come back again, Mr. Shandon. Will you think over the matter meanwhile and take a note of anything you think likely to help us. And you also,” he added, turning to the rest of the group.

  As the door was closing behind him and Wendover, he heard Ernest’s verdict, delivered in a disconsolate tone:

  “This’ll be an infernal bother!”

  In the hall, they found Costock in charge of a constable and apparently resigned to his detention. When questioned, he added but little to the story which he had told earlier in the day to Stenness.

  “What brought you to this neighbourhood at all?” Sir Clinton demanded. “You don’t expect us to believe that you came here by pure chance, do you?”

  “No,” Costock admitted. “If I was pitchin’ a yarn to a flattie or to an ordinary busy, I’d say that; an’ I’d stick to it. But you know a bit too much about me, Driffield; an’ it wouldn’t take with you. So I’ll just take an’ tell you the truth, so I will.”