Murder in the Maze (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  Sir Clinton’s smile showed more than a touch of unbelief.

  “Make it the whole truth, when you’re at it,” he advised, “and begin by explaining how you happen to be here at this particular period.”

  “Well, you see, this Shandon man—Roger—he owed me something, so he did. He didn’t play straight with me out at Kimberley.”

  “So you came home, as soon as you got out, to blackmail him? That’s obvious. You needn’t protest, Costock. It’s really not of any importance, for I’m quite convinced that you didn’t reach the stage of negotiations, so there’s no harm done. You put up in the village, waiting for a chance to see him alone, I suppose?”

  Costock nodded.

  “And now explain how you came to be in at the death, please.”

  “It was this way. As I was going through the village I came on a boatman. It’s a hot day, so I thought I’d go on the river for a row.”

  “And perhaps spy out the land, seeing that the grounds are easily accessible from the riverbank?”

  “Well, I don’t say yes and I don’t say no. It might have come in handy.”

  “And you took a pistol with you on your outing?”

  Costock had his explanation ready.

  “I thought as perhaps I’d run across Shandon and we might get talking. He’s a violent-tempered swine—leastways, he was so. And ’t seemed to me best to have a quietener in my pocket; for I’d have stood no chance at all against him, man to man. He could ha’ licked me with one hand.”

  “When did you leave the boat-house in the village?”

  “‘Bout three o’clock, as near as I can remember. But the boatman could tell you. He took the time for hirin’ the boat.”

  “You came up the river fairly slowly, then; and what happened after that?”

  “As I can along, I noticed a little private boathouse and a landing-stage. I knew that would be Shandon’s place, for I’d asked the boatman about it. Just as I was coming abreast of it, I heard some yells; so I stopped rowing and let the boat drift. Then I heard someone squalling ‘Murder’ at the pitch of his voice, behind some hedges nearby the water. So I pulled in, hitched up my boat, and ran through the nearest hole in the hedge. And then I got tangled up in that fandango of a thing they have there—what they call the Maze.”

  “You didn’t see anyone running away from the Maze before you got in?”

  “No.”

  “Did you run about in the Maze or did you walk?”

  Costock considered for a moment or two.

  “I walked. Once I was inside, I got tangled up, as I told you; and I didn’t want to be running round corners slap into a murderer.”

  “And then?”

  “Oh, after that I heard a lot o’ shoutin’ and a girl screamin’ an’ all that sort o’ thing. But I was that tangled up I could get nowhere. I’d got fair lost in that infernal monkey-puzzle.”

  Sir Clinton turned to Wendover.

  “This fellow was searched, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes. Nothing on him but the pistol, and we took that away.”

  Sir Clinton turned back to Costock.

  “You can go now; but you’ll have to stay in the village for a day or two. You’ll be wanted at the inquest. I may as well tell you that you’ll be watched, so it’s no use trying to bolt.”

  He dismissed the ex-I.D.B. with scant ceremony; handed his dog over to the care of the constable with orders to take it to the Grange; and then went down the steps to Wendover’s car.

  Chapter Six

  The Toxicologist

  “The next port of call, Squire, will be Dr. Ardsley’s,” Sir Clinton informed his companion as they seated themselves in the car. “And you can put a bit of hurry into it, if you like.”

  Wendover’s appearance had earned him the kindly nickname which the Chief Constable used. He was one of those red-faced hearty country gentlemen who, on first acquaintance, give an entirely erroneous impression of themselves. Met casually, he might quite easily have appeared to be a slightly fussy person of very limited intellect and even more restricted interests; but behind that façade lived a fairly acute brain which took a certain sly delight in exaggerating the misleading mannerisms. Wendover was anything but a fool, though he liked to pose as one.

  “All right,” he said, as the pace of the car increased. “It won’t take long to get there. But what do you know about Ardsley? Never mentioned him to you, so far as I can remember?”

  “Well, don’t put off any longer. Tell me something about him now,” suggested Sir Clinton. “All I know is that he’s an expert in poisons or something of that sort.”

  Wendover pricked up his ears.

  “‘Poisons,’ sez you? You don’t think . . .”

  But Sir Clinton was not to be drawn so easily. “You’re quite right, Squire. I don’t think. I never caught the knack of it, somehow. Just tell me all about Ardsley, will you, and put it in a nutshell, for we haven’t much time.”

  “Ardsley?” Wendover ruminated, “Ardsley’s one of these damned vivisectionists. Doesn’t even need to do it for a living, either; just cuts up dogs and cats for pleasure, I suppose, since he’s got a private income. He’s one of these cold-blooded beggars, all brains and no emotions, and that sort of thing. Swarms up mountains for amusement, they say—quite good at it, too. Member of Alpine Club, I believe. He’s a good fisherman; got an eye like a hawk and seems to have the devil’s own luck in clearing the streams round about here. He had a row with Roger Shandon over that, I remember.”

  He pondered for a moment.

  “That seems all about Ardsley.”

  A fresh subject occurred to him.

  “Not arresting anybody yet, Clinton? Seems funny to have two murders and no arrests. Aren’t you afraid of letting the fellow slip through your fingers?”

  “Not very,” the Chief Constable reassured him. “I’m having Costock shadowed—I gave instructions to the constable about it. The rest of the Whistlefield people can’t budge either; for they’ll be wanted at the inquest to give evidence.”

  “But the fellow might bolt in the meanwhile.”

  “He may—assuming he’s one of the house crowd. But if he’s one of them, he’ll have to be fairly smart. I’ve got photographs of all the ones who were at the Maze—took them under pretence of needing someone to give the scale in the pictures. A photograph’s better than a description, you know.”

  Wendover was silent for a few seconds.

  “I suppose you’re going to Ardsley about the poison on the darts?”

  “Partly that, partly to gather impressions, if you must know.”

  “Oh, well, he ought to be able to spot the thing for you. They say he’s written a book on poisonology or whatever they call it.”

  “Toxicology is the word you’re dredging for, I think.”

  “Well, toxicology, then. That reminds me, do you think . . .”

  “Never. Quite against my strictest principles. Tomorrow I shall spend a penny on the local paper. I shall read up what the crime expert in it has got to say. Then I shall know all about it. Why should I bother to think?”

  Wendover thought that he had surprised the Chief Constable’s subject of speculation. In spite of the hints he had received, he persisted in his probing.

  “Then you think that Ardsley may be . . .”

  “There’s a law of libel, Squire; and you’re just twittering on the edge of it at present. I tell you bluntly that I have no definite ideas just now; and you’ll get nothing by all this hydraulic pump business that you’re trying. If I ever get to the bottom of this affair, I promise you I’ll spout like an Artesian well of information. Till then, the borings will show no results.”

  Wendover accepted the rebuff placidly. Sir Clinton was grateful, and showed it by his next words.

  “The fact is, Squire, I’m keeping an open mind and I don’t want to be prejudiced. It’s as clear as print that you dislike this man Ardsley. Hence it wouldn’t pay me to listen to you unconsciously dis
crediting him beforehand. I tell you what. We’ll discuss the thing to-night when I’ve got my mind cleared up a bit; and then you can say what you like. But I don’t promise to give you much information, remember. I’m paid to keep my mouth shut so long as a quiet tongue is necessary; and I’ve got to earn my pay, you see.”

  Wendover’s face cleared when this point of view was put before him.

  “You can’t put it fairer than that, Clinton,” he admitted. “I hadn’t looked at it quite in that light, you know.”

  He said no more at the time, and soon the car reached the entrance to the toxicologist’s grounds. At the house they learned that Dr. Ardsley was at home; and they were shown into a room. He did not keep them waiting long.

  As he came forward to meet them, Sir Clinton saw a man of about fifty. Ardsley’s hair was silvered, and his face showed heavy lines; but his step was light and he was obviously in perfect condition. From below heavy eyebrows his grey eyes seemed to examine the world coldly; and the set of his mouth was sufficient to show more than a little toughness in the disposition which had moulded it.

  Sir Clinton rapidly explained the cause of his visit; and producing the box of darts, he handed one of them to the toxicologist.

  “I’m not sufficiently ignorant to expect you to tell me what this stuff is on the spur of the moment, Dr. Ardsley; but I’m really trusting to luck that you may be able to make a guess at what the thing might be. If you can do even that, it may be of great importance to us.”

  Ardsley took the dart and examined it for a moment or two. Then he put questions about the state of the bodies and the times, which Sir Clinton was able to furnish.

  “H’m!” he said at last. “I think, from what you say, that I might make a guess at it. It’s obviously one of these arrow poisons or something of that sort; perhaps a strophanthus derivative or a member of the strychnos group.”

  “Can you give me anything more definite?” Sir Clinton demanded, rather anxiously. “Time’s the main factor with me just now. I know these vegetable things are the very devil to spot; but it’s honestly a matter of life or death, and I want something definite if you can give me it.”

  Ardsley frowned slightly as he examined the dart.

  “Can you spare me this? I mean, to examine it, chemically—and otherwise. I can’t promise to let you have it back intact, you know.”

  “Give me information, that’s all I ask.”

  “Very good.”

  He paused for a moment.

  “You won’t want to let this out of your sight, I suppose. Then you’d better come along to my laboratory. Luckily I have a guinea-pig in stock.”

  He glanced under his eyebrows at Wendover.

  “You’d rather stay here, I should think, Wendover. You dislike vivisection. I’m only going to put a needle into the little beast—quite painless; but you needn’t come and get your feelings rasped.”

  It was phrased politely enough; but it was quite evident from the way in which it was said that Ardsley had no desire to let Wendover into his laboratory. Leaving the Squire to kick his heels, the toxicologist led Sir Clinton through the house to the research department.

  “We’d better see exactly what phenomena the poison produces, first of all. I’ll get the guinea-pig.”

  He washed some of the poison from the dart with liquid, and introduced the solution into a hypodermic syringe, by means of which he injected a minute amount of the fluid under the guinea-pig’s skin.

  “Dead already?” Sir Clinton asked in some astonishment. “It’s like a thunderbolt.”

  Ardsley had been experimenting on the animal and watching closely. His face showed that he had found something definite.

  “I think I can make a guess,” he said. “It happens to be something with which I’m fairly familiar. Let’s confirm it.”

  He made another extraction of the poison which he placed in a test-tube. To this he added a few drops of solution from a bottle which he took down from a shelf.

  “Sulphovanadic acid,” he explained. “Just watch.”

  On the addition of the reagent, the liquid in the test-tube turned black.

  “It ought to change to dark blue, and then to red after a time.”

  “What do you make of it?” Sir Clinton demanded.

  “Curare. I’m pretty sure of it. I’ve used it a lot and I feel fairly safe in saying that. Of course, if you want me to swear to it, that’s a different matter. This is only a rough test. I’d need to do a lot more before I could go into the box and testify about it.”

  Sir Clinton nodded.

  “Of course, I know it by name,” he said. “South American arrow poison, isn’t it? Can you tell me anything more about it?”

  Ardsley was engaged in writing some notes. He looked up apologetically for a moment.

  “I have to enter up details to each experiment I carry out, you know, Sir Clinton—even if it’s only a case of pricking a beast with a needle. If you don’t mind, I’ll finish this entry. I like to have things always shipshape in that line, and the more so since I’ve got the police on the premises.”

  He smiled, not altogether pleasantly, as he turned again to his writing. When he had finished, he suggested that they should rejoin Wendover.

  “I’m not going to give you a lecture on curare,” he said, when they had returned to the other room, “but one or two points may be of use to you. It’s a South American arrow poison, as you said. Its physiological effect is a powerful paralysing action on the motor nerve endings supplying striated muscle, but it has no action on the excitability of the muscle. You saw the actual results in that experiment.”

  “I guessed something of the sort from the state of the two bodies,” Sir Clinton explained. “It was pretty clear that neither of them had struggled much before they died. I put that down to the swift action of the poison; but from what you say, they must have been paralysed when the stuff got into the bloodstream.”

  Ardsley made no comment, but continued his exposition.

  “It wouldn’t require a large dose to kill a man. Curare contains various alkaloids. Paracurarine and protocurarine are amongst them. A quarter of a grain of protocurarine would kill a ten-stone man quite easily. There was far more than a fatal dose of curare on that dart.”

  “Can you tell us anything about how the stuff comes on the market?” Sir Clinton inquired.

  “There are three brands of it to be had,” the toxicologist explained. “Para curare you can buy in bamboo tubes; calabash curare is packed in gourds; and what they call ‘pot’ curare is sold in earthenware pots. The stuff’s a crude product, you understand. One specimen differs from another to some extent, though not materially for most purposes.”

  “You have some of it in stock yourself for your experiments, perhaps?”

  Ardsley smiled rather grimly.

  “A man isn’t required to incriminate himself, is he? But I don’t mind admitting that I have some of the stuff. You could have found that out for yourself by examining my returns under the Act, you know, so I lose nothing by frankness.”

  Sir Clinton acknowledged the underlying meaning of Ardsley’s words by a faint shrug of his shoulders, a completely noncommittal gesture.

  “You practically told me you had it, there in the laboratory,” he reminded the toxicologist. “What’s more important at present is to know if anyone else could have had access to it.”

  Ardsley reflected for a moment or two before speaking again.

  “There’s another source of supply close at hand,” he said, as though the point had just come to his memory. “Roger Shandon had a sort of museum up at Whistlefield—stuff he had picked up on his travels—rubbish mostly. But I remember he had a pot of curare amongst it.”

  “Ah! That’s what I wanted to get at,” Sir Clinton broke in. “You’re sure about that?”

  “Quite. It slipped my memory at the time; but I’m quite certain about it. It’s the real stuff, undoubtedly. I remember that once, a while ago, I ran short of
curare and I borrowed Roger’s specimen and took some of it. I returned it to him at once, of course; and I only took a trace for use. But it’s real curare all right, without any doubt.”

  “And that stuffs lying up at Whistlefield now? Is it under lock and key?”

  “No,” Ardsley explained, “it’s just lying loose in an open museum-case. Anyone could lay their hands on it.”

  Sir Clinton’s face showed perplexity.

  “It’s time that we’re up against,” he repeated; and he seemed to be making some unsatisfactory calculation. “I wish I’d known about that stuff an hour ago.”

  He turned to Wendover.

  “Look here, you must do this for me. I’ve other things to attend to which must be put through immediately. Will you take Dr. Ardsley up in your car to Whistlefield? He’ll identify the pot of curare for you; you couldn’t be sure of it yourself. And then take charge of it. Quote me, if anyone raises objections. And make a note of who objects, if anyone does. Now it’s a matter of hurry, and more hurry. You must get that stuff into your hands without a second’s delay, Wendover.”

  The toxicologist wasted no time.

  “I’ll get my coat now,” he said, going towards the door.

  “We must stop any chance of further supplies at once, just in case of more trouble,” Sir Clinton said, when their host had left the room.

  Wendover was plainly astonished.

  “Do you expect another crime? Surely two’s enough?”

  “One never knows,” Sir Clinton affirmed, with a hint of trouble in his tone. “I’d never forgive myself if I neglected the possibility—even though it’s a very remote one. One can’t bring dead men back to life with a few regrets, you know.”

  Ardsley put his head in at the door.

  “I’m ready.”

  “Then let’s get off,” said Sir Clinton. “Drop me in the village as we pass, Wendover, I’ve something to do there. I’ll join you at Whistlefield as quick as I can. Wait for me there. Now, drive for all you’re worth.”

  As they came into the village, Sir Clinton gave a sigh of relief.