Murder in the Maze (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  “I’d have done so myself if I’d been put to that job; so I suppose they’d had enough sense to do it, too.”

  “But why was it a double murder, then?” demanded Sir Clinton. “How did Roger come into the business?”

  Wendover pondered for a moment; then he seemed to see a solution.

  “Perhaps they had two murderers at work and each of them imagined he’d got the right man in front of him. The two Shandons were very much alike, you know.”

  Sir Clinton nodded without committing himself. “Pass along to the next caravan! What’s the next animal on show in your menagerie?”

  “I’m a bit doubtful about young Hawkhurst, to tell you the truth. I hardly like to think that he did it; and yet after that attack of sleepy sickness he certainly did turn very queer in his temper. You’d have seen a fine outburst if you’d been with us when we went up for the curare. And there’s no disguising the fact that he and Roger didn’t get on together at all. Given an unbalanced mind and that state of affairs, one has to admit that queer results might turn up.”

  “What do you make of the opportunity factor in his case?”

  “All we have is his own word that he was up at the spinney shooting rabbits. For all we know, he may have been in the Maze. He knows it thoroughly. All the family do, of course.”

  He thought in silence for a moment or two, then added:

  “And of course he’s very keen on air-guns; and he knew of the store of curare in the house.”

  “You’ve made out quite a fair case against both Hackleton and young Hawkhurst as suspects, Squire; but there isn’t a tittle of evidence there that a jury would look at, you know.”

  “Oh, I see that well enough,” Wendover admitted. “But the case against other people isn’t half as strong. Ardsley’s a possible suspect. He has possession of curare; he knows the Maze intimately. . . .”

  “And he’s had a squabble with Roger Shandon over some trifling fishing rights. I’m afraid even Izaak Walton would hardly have thought the matter was a sufficient ground for murder, Squire.”

  Wendover could think of no reply to this on the spur of the moment and to cover his defeat he hurried on to a fresh group of suspects.

  “Now we come to the people who were actually in the Maze at the time of the murder or whom we know to have been in it immediately afterwards: Torrance, Miss Forrest, and that fellow Costock, your I.D.B. friend. I can’t see how Miss Forrest had anything to do with it. As to Costock, you know about him and I don’t.”

  “Yes,” said Sir Clinton, “I know all about Costock.”

  But he volunteered no further information and waited for Wendover to proceed.

  “That leaves Torrance, then. It’s as plain as print that Torrance might have been the murderer. He was in the Maze at the time. He arranged to part from the girl at the entrance. He’s had plenty of time to learn the Maze while he’s been down here at Whistlefield. He might have been the person Vera Forrest heard running in the Maze just after the murder—quite easily.”

  “He didn’t take an air-gun into the Maze with him,” Sir Clinton objected.

  Wendover had his answer ready this time.

  “No, but he might have had it hidden there beforehand.”

  “And no air-gun was found afterwards.”

  “He may have chucked it on to the top of one of the hedges. Your constables couldn’t have spotted it there without ladders.”

  “That’s quite true,” said Sir Clinton. “Well?”

  Wendover seemed to have a flash of illumination. His face lit up.

  “Now I see what you meant by your map-analogy! Of course, the snag is that on the face of it young Torrance had no motive. But suppose he was Hackleton’s tool? Suppose he was in the pay of Hackleton to do this job for him. Then it would all fit in. But it’ll be the devil of a business to prove it, if it is true.”

  Glancing across at his friend he detected a peculiar expression on Sir Clinton’s face. It was only a fleeting one, for almost immediately the Chief Constable resumed his normal mask.

  “Go on,” he said again.

  Wendover had to confess that he had reached the end of his list.

  “There’s nobody else that I can think of. Sylvia Hawkhurst was paying a visit to some people in the afternoon and didn’t get home till it was all over. Ernest Shandon was off the premises, too, probably sitting by the roadside and cursing the nail in his boot at the very time his brothers were being murdered. And then there’s Stenness. He was up at the house when the affair took place. Miss Forrest found him there when she went to give the alarm.”

  “Stenness,” said Sir Clinton reflectively. “Stenness is a very efficient fellow.”

  Wendover thought he detected something behind the phrase.

  “What do you think?” he demanded.

  Sir Clinton looked at him mildly.

  “I think it’s about time we were going to bed, Squire. We may have to be up early to-morrow. At least, I may.”

  Chapter Nine

  The Burglary at Whistlefield

  When Sir Clinton came down to breakfast on the following morning, Wendover thought that he looked tired and worried, though he was doing his best to show his normal composure.

  “You look as if you’d been up all night, Clinton; and yet you cleared me off to bed fairly early.”

  The Chief Constable forced a smile, but it was obvious that he had something on his mind which was troubling him.

  “Not all night,” he said, qualifying Wendover’s suggestion by a slight emphasis. “But I’ve certainly lost a good deal of sleep over this Whistlefield business.”

  “I can’t see what you’ve got to worry about just now,” his host retorted. “Until one gets more evidence than we have just now, there’s nothing that can be done, so far as I can see. You practically admitted as much yourself, last night.”

  “Last night and this morning are two different things,” Sir Clinton pointed out, rather gloomily. “A lot may happen in six hours.”

  “Well, if they have happened, they have happened; and you couldn’t have prevented them happening.”

  “That sounds like a truism,” the Chief Constable commented, “and I wish it were one. But it isn’t.”

  He seemed almost on the verge of a confidence at last; but to Wendover’s disappointment he contented himself with adding:

  “I’ve taken a big risk in this affair, Squire; and if the game goes against me, I’d never be able to forgive myself. It’s as serious as that.”

  From his tone, it was evident that he was gravely perturbed; and Wendover could find nothing to say which seemed likely to be helpful.

  In a moment or two, Sir Clinton broke the silence. “They’re on the ’phone at Whistlefield, aren’t they?”

  “Yes. Are you expecting a message?”

  “One never can tell,” was all that Sir Clinton would vouchsafe. “Can you hear your telephone bell from this room?”

  “Oh, yes, the machine’s just down the passage from here, as it happens.”

  Sir Clinton went on with his breakfast; but Wendover could see that he was listening for the ringing of the bell. Just as they had finished, it rang sharply.

  “I’ll go,” said Sir Clinton. “It’s almost certain to be Whistlefield ringing up.”

  As he rose from the table Wendover could see a look of acute anxiety on his face. He left the door open as he went out, and the sound of his voice at the telephone came back into the room.

  “Driffield speaking. . . . Did you say burglar or burglars? . . . All right, don’t bother to tell me any more now. I’m coming across at once. Good-bye.”

  Sir Clinton came back to Wendover. The anxiety on his face was as deeply marked as ever; but the prospect of action seemed to have raised his spirits slightly.

  “Come on, Wendover. Get the car out, will you? There’s been a burglary at Whistlefield last night. I’ll need to go across and look into the affair.”

  When they reached Whistlefield, they we
re shown into the study where they found Ernest Shandon and Stenness waiting for them.

  “Now you might give me the whole story, Mr. Shandon,” Sir Clinton requested as soon as he had greeted the two. “It may be a case where time means a good deal; and we want to get our hands on these fellows at once, if we can.”

  Ernest pulled out his cigarette-case. He seemed to be in very nervous condition.

  “D’you mind if I smoke?” he demanded, perfunctorily. “It soothes one, I always think; gives you a better chance of putting things calmly and not getting mixed up in your story.”

  He peered thoughtfully into his case for a second or two before he could make up his mind which cigarette to take; but at last he found one to his mind and set it alight. Wendover fidgeted slightly, but Sir Clinton evidently recognised the uselessness of trying to hasten Ernest in his operations.

  “There’s been a burglary here last night,” he announced at last. “Or rather, when I say last night, I really mean this morning, because it was a good deal after midnight when it happened.”

  “Can you give me the exact time?” Sir Clinton asked.

  Ernest looked at him owlishly, reflected for a moment or two, and then shook his head in a care-worn fashion.

  “No, I don’t think so. I didn’t look at the clock, you know. It was after midnight, that’s all I can remember.”

  “Begin at the beginning, then, Mr. Shandon, and give us all the details you can. Anything may turn out to be useful for all we can tell,”

  “I usually go to bed quite early,” Ernest began, “but last night, after you went away, I thought I would have another look over Roger’s papers. You interrupted me, you remember,” he said, as though in explanation of his activity. “I got quite interested in some of them. Roger had so many irons in the fire. I hadn’t realised before what an amount of energy he must have had. You’ve no idea of the amount of things he was mixed up in.”

  “Yes?” said Sir Clinton, trying to hasten the slow progress of the narrative.

  “Such an amount of things,” Ernest went on. “It took me all my time to make head or tail of the papers I looked at. I must have been hours and hours, turning them over and reading bits here and there—files of correspondence and that sort of thing. His cheque-book stubs were there, too, and I looked at them. I’d no idea so much cash passed through his hands, no idea at all. By the way, I noticed something funny about his last cheque-book. I’ll tell you about that again, though. It was rum, I thought; but I’d better be getting on with the story.”

  Sir Clinton nodded patiently and waited for more.

  “I’d just been looking over the cheque-book when I heard a noise,” Ernest pursued. “Of course, in an old house like this one often hears sounds at night, furniture cracking and doors rattling, and all that sort of thing; so I didn’t pay any attention to it at the time. It was only afterwards that I remembered I’d heard it; and perhaps it had nothing to do with the burglary at all. I just mention it, because you said I was to give you all the details I could, you know.”

  “What sort of sound was it?” Sir Clinton asked.

  Ernest looked bewildered.

  “What sort of sound was it?” he repeated. “Oh, a noise, you know. A . . . a . . .” he seemed to find the English language too limited. “It was a sound, you understand?”

  “A voice?” suggested Sir Clinton.

  “No, not a voice. A sound, just like a snick or a rap or something of that sort, if you see what I mean.”

  “And then?”

  “Oh, I paid no attention to it. In a house like this one often hears queer noises at night. It didn’t really draw my attention. I was interested in this thing about the cheque-book. So I didn’t trouble about the sound.”

  Wendover was surprised at Sir Clinton’s patience, for no sign of boredom appeared on his face. In fact, he seemed keenly interested.

  “The next thing I remember,” Ernest continued, “was feeling sleepy. I put away the papers, put them all back in the safe again and locked it up. Then I thought I’d go to bed. I always go out for a breath of fresh air before I go to my room at night—if it isn’t raining—so I went to the window and looked out. It was quite dry; so I made up my mind to go for my usual stroll. I don’t go far, you know, just up and down a little near the house. It seems to me that a breath of fresh air clears your lungs and makes you sleep better after you’ve had it. I’m a great believer in fresh air. I hate sitting in a stuffy room—must have the windows open always.”

  “So you went out?”

  “Yes. I put on a light overcoat and a cap and I opened the front door. It was locked when I found it—I suppose that’s important?”

  Sir Clinton made no audible comment.

  “I went out into the garden and strolled round the house. That took me under the window of the room where Neville—my brother—had been sleeping during his stay here. And, d’you know? I found a ladder sticking up against the wall there and resting against Neville’s window-sill. And when I looked up, there was the window open!”

  Sir Clinton interrupted him.

  “Was there a light in the room?”

  Ernest blinked hopelessly for a moment or two.

  “Was there a light? There may have been. Did I say anything about a light to you, Stenness, when I waked you up? No? Well, I don’t think there was a light. There may have been, but now I come to think of it I don’t remember seeing a light. No, I’m almost sure the electric light wasn’t on in the room. I’d have noticed that. I’d have seen that at once. No, there was no light.”

  Wendover intervened with a suggestion.

  “Perhaps the burglars heard you coming and switched off.”

  Sir Clinton had evidently heard all he wished to know about the light.

  “And what happened next, Mr. Shandon?”

  “When I came to the bottom of the ladder, I said to myself: ‘Burglars.’ You remember you’d been talking about how easy it would be to get into Whistlefield, that very night, in the museum. Then I had an idea. I took away the ladder as quietly as I could. That would prevent them getting out of the window again, you see? And then I went off back to the front door, let myself in, and roused Stenness and young Torrance. I was very nervous, you understand. Anyone might be, after getting a surprise like that.”

  He took a fresh cigarette and lighted it with care. As he was about to continue his narrative, Sir Clinton arrested him and turned to Stenness.

  “Perhaps you could give us your experiences, Mr. Stenness.”

  “I’d gone to bed at the usual time, and fell asleep. I was waked up by someone knocking at my door; and when I got up I found it was Mr. Shandon. He said there were burglars in the room that Mr. Neville Shandon’s body was lying in. Mr. Shandon had on a cap and a light overcoat. As soon as he had waked me, he went off to wake Mr. Torrance. I looked at my watch. It was 2.35 A. M. I picked up the poker from my fireside and went out of my room. Mr. Torrance was there, too, by that time. I suggested that he had better get a poker as well, or else go down to the gunroom and get something better. He got a poker. Then all three of us went to Neville Shandon’s room. The door was locked; but we burst it in without making much of a noise. It’s an old door, and the lock fitted very poorly. There was no light on in the room when I got to it.”

  “I’m almost sure, now I think over it, that there wasn’t any light at the window,” Ernest began again. “I couldn’t have helped seeing it, could I? Of course, all the rest of the house was dark, so if that window was dark it wouldn’t catch my eye and I wouldn’t remember about it. But if it had been lit up, I’d have noticed it at once.”

  Stenness took no notice of the interruption.

  “Somebody had evidently been in the room. Everything was upside down. All the drawers had been ransacked and their contents had been thrown about. Neville Shandon’s attaché case had been treated in the same way. The whole place was in confusion.”

  “Did you make out what the thieves had been searching for?”


  “Well, his writing-case had been torn open and most of the contents had been strewn about the floor. They’d been in a great hurry over their work. And his pocket-book was pitched over into one corner of the room as if someone had been through the contents and had chucked it away.”

  “What about money? His note-case was lying on the dressing-table. I put it there myself when I searched his body yesterday.”

  “Some notes were lying on the floor amongst the rest of the stuff. I didn’t count them. In fact I didn’t touch anything. I thought you’d better see things as they were.”

  “The window was still open?”

  “Yes.”

  “It looks as though the burglar (or burglars) had got away before Mr. Shandon saw the ladder, then. They’d cleared out and left the ladder in position. What about the key of the door?”

  “It hasn’t turned up.”

  “And what happened after that? Why didn’t you ring up the police at once?”

  Stenness suppressed a sardonic smile with evident difficulty.

  “Mr. Shandon was to look after that part. I went back to my room, put on some clothes, and kept myself awake by reading till the morning. We hadn’t roused the rest of the people in the house.”

  Sir Clinton turned to Ernest.

  “Couldn’t you get through to the police-station, Mr. Shandon? I must see about this. It’s a serious matter for my subordinates.”

  Ernest seemed completely taken aback by this view of the question.

  “Well, Sir Clinton, I suppose I ought to have rung up the police; but it was very late, you know. I was awfully sleepy; and as I was walking along, I turned into my own bedroom. I was very shaken up by the whole affair. It hadn’t happened to me before, you see. And somehow, I must have begun to undress quite without thinking about it—you know how one does things unconsciously. . . .”

  Then, with disarming frankness, he admitted the truth:

  “I went to bed. And after a minute or two, I remembered I ought to have rung up the police. But that would have meant getting out of bed again and putting on some clothes to go down to the ’phone. It would have been a lot of trouble. And it didn’t seem to me that it mattered very much really. So while I was thinking about it, I fell asleep. But I rang you up as soon as I got up this morning.”