Murder in the Maze (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  “I think I’d leave it at that, Mr. Shandon,” Sir Clinton suggested, coolly. “We’d better not run any risk of your memory getting confused.”

  Ernest took his hand away from the tumbler obediently. Wendover could see that he was trembling, and he seemed to be in a condition bordering on panic.

  “Now, let’s have the story as briefly as possible, if you please,” Sir Clinton requested.

  Ernest looked helplessly round the room.

  “I can hardly believe I’m safe,” he explained. “I’ve had such a time, such a time. Dreadful!”

  “Yes, tell us about it.”

  “After dinner, I thought I’d go down and have a look at the Maze,” Ernest continued. “I hadn’t been there, you know, since the affair happened; and I thought I might as well go down and look round the place. I wish I’d never had the idea. Such a time I’ve had.”

  His eyeglasses slipped askew on his nose and he labouriously set them right before continuing.

  “Damn these things! I must get a new pair. They’re always dropping off.”

  “Yes?” Sir Clinton repeated, patiently. All his levity had vanished, Wendover noticed, now that he had come to real business.

  “After lunch I thought I’d go down to the Maze; but it seemed a lot of trouble, going all that distance; and I very nearly gave up the idea. I wish I had. But then I thought of the push-bike I keep in the garage. It would be easy enough to pedal down on it. So I got it out and went off by the road that leads to the East Gate.”

  He put out his hand tentatively towards the tumbler, but drew it back again at the sight of Sir Clinton’s frown. He looked like an overgrown baby caught in the act of mischief.

  “Yes?” Sir Clinton repeated once more.

  “I went into the Maze, you know, never thinking that anything could possibly happen there. I never dreamed of anything happening, you understand? And I walked through it to Helen’s Bower—the place where my brother Roger was murdered, you remember? And when I got there I sat down. I’d come a good way, you see? And I felt that I’d like to sit down.”

  “Did you see anyone in or near the Maze up to that moment?” asked Sir Clinton.

  Ernest pondered for a moment or two. His trepidation, far from brightening him, seemed to have made him look duller than ever.

  “No,” he said, hesitatingly at last, “I can’t say I did. I don’t remember seeing anyone.”

  “And then?”

  “Where was I? Oh, yes, I sat down. It was rather hot; and I thought I’d like a seat. I meant to sit there and smoke a cigar before looking round the Maze. I sat there for a while, I don’t quite know how long. Some time, at least. And then I may have fallen into a doze. The sun was very hot, even when I was in the shade of the hedge, you understand? It makes you sleepy. I suppose I dozed off. Perhaps I was asleep for quite a while.”

  “You can’t give me anything more exact than that, can you, Mr. Shandon?”

  “No, I’m afraid I can’t. It was quite a while, though, I feel pretty sure of that.”

  He put out his hand towards the tumbler again.

  “I really think I’d get on better if I had another drink.”

  Sir Clinton looked at him with unconcealed distaste. Then he picked up the tumbler himself.

  “Two fingers, then.”

  He went across to the window and poured away the surplus from Ernest’s generously filled glass.

  “Now, come along, Mr. Shandon. The sooner we get your story the sooner I can get to work. You must pull yourself together.”

  Ernest Shandon drank off his whiskey neat and then gave a sigh of relief.

  “I feel better now. I’ve really had a terrible time! Where was I? Oh, yes, I woke up.”

  “Thrilling!” said Sir Clinton, brutally. “And what next?”

  Wendover could not help seeing that Sir Clinton’s temper was wearing thin under the strain of listening to this out-pouring of rambling narrative. And this time there was no Stenness who could be turned on to complete the tale. They were dependent entirely on the terror-stricken creature before them.

  “I woke up,” Ernest repeated, staring at them with wide-opened eyes as though chronicling some vast convulsion of Nature. “And just after I woke up I seemed to hear steps somewhere near me. I wasn’t very wide awake, you understand? and I sat listening for a moment or two—or it may have been for a little longer than that,” he added with an evident effort at exactitude. “And I thought to myself it might be young Torrance or Stenness. It couldn’t have been the girls, you see? because they had taken the car and gone off to do some shopping in Ambledown. I know that, because they said they were going there and I wondered why they didn’t go to Stanningleigh, which is nearer. But I suppose they wanted to go to some special shop in Ambledown. There are better shops in Ambledown . . .”

  A glimpse of the expression on Sir Clinton’s face brought him suddenly back to his direct narrative.

  “So I called out: ‘Who’s there?’ just like that, you know. But nobody replied. So I was wondering who it could be; and I was just going to call again when suddenly I heard the noise of an air-gun going off; and something whizzed past me as close as that!”

  He indicated a track almost grazing his cheek.

  “I jumped up. I didn’t wait to hear any more. I can take the right decision as quick as most people, I assure you, Sir Clinton. I ran as fast as I could to the entrance; and then I heard the fellow re-loading the gun! It was dreadful! My blood didn’t freeze or any thing like that, but I suffered agonies—agonies!”

  “Quite so,” said Sir Clinton soothingly. “You were in a blue funk. We quite understand. An alarming situation. And what happened after that?”

  “I ran out into the Maze. Luckily I’d spotted where the fellow was. He was at the same loophole that he’d used when he killed Roger. Oh, I had all my wits about me; I was really very cool, considering the state of affairs.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I ran through the Maze as hard as I could. Such a time! Fancy having the fellow after me with those darts!”

  “He followed you, then?”

  “It would be what he would do, wouldn’t it?”

  “You mean that you didn’t actually hear him?”

  “No, I didn’t hear him. I didn’t wait to hear anything. I was so busy getting out of the Maze. Of course, I know the Maze well, but it’s difficult to keep your head in a case like that, very difficult. But I did it,” he ended proudly. “I got away from the fellow. Never as much as saw him.”

  His glasses slipped off again in the excitement of his peroration; and he adjusted them painfully.

  “These things do give one a lot of bother,” he complained. “I expect it’s the perspiration on my nose, with all that running. I haven’t run for years.”

  “You got out of the Maze safely, then. What next?”

  “I got on to my bicycle and rode away as hard as I could. What a blessing I had that machine there, eh? If I hadn’t, he might have run me down in the open quite easily. I was quite out of breath.”

  “Then?”

  “Then I went to the telephone and rang you up at the Grange. I had an idea you’d be there. If you hadn’t been, I’d have tried the police-station.”

  “Quite right, Mr. Shandon. Now there are one or two points I must have cleared up. First of all, it seems you met no one either going to the Maze or coming back from it. Did you shout or call for assistance at all on your way to the house?”

  “I couldn’t,” Ernest admitted, simply. “I hadn’t any breath left to shout with. You don’t understand what it was like, I assure you.”

  “Was there no one about?”

  “No,” Ernest answered after a pause. “Arthur had gone off somewhere. He generally seems to go off by himself, quite often one doesn’t see him for hours. I don’t know where he was. Torrance was out of the road, too. I can’t tell you where he was. Perhaps he’d walked over to Stanningleigh. Or perhaps he’d gone somewhere else. I ha
ven’t seen him since lunch-time.”

  “And Mr. Stenness?”

  To Wendover’s surprise the sound of Stenness’ name seemed to galvanise Ernest. His terror appeared to increase again, just when it had seemed to be dying down.

  “Stenness!” he repeated. “Oh, Stenness . . .”

  He broke off short, as though afraid he had been heard.

  “Just a moment,” he muttered, and rose from his chair.

  Wendover could see that the man’s knees were trembling. Ernest walked across to the door, opened it gently, and peered out with a caution which had in it a touch of the ludicrous.

  “Nobody there,” he explained, as he came back again. “You never know.”

  “What’s behind this, Mr. Shandon?” Sir Clinton demanded, impatiently. “If you’ve any information, it’s your duty to give it to me at once. Have you anything to tell me about Mr. Stenness?”

  Ernest made a gesture, appealing piteously for a lowering of Sir Clinton’s voice.

  “You remember,” he continued, almost in a whisper, “that the other night—I mean last night, the night of the burglary—I was going through Roger’s papers. I think I told you before that I was doing that, didn’t I? And amongst his papers I came across his cheque-books and some stubs. I was looking through these, just to see what things he’d been spending money on—the firms he’d been dealing with, and so forth, you understand? And quite by accident, I noticed something funny. The counterfoil of the last missing cheque had been cut out of the book. I’d never have noticed it if it hadn’t been that I was looking at the numbers. It was cut away very carefully, very neatly indeed, you know? But there was the counterfoil for the cheque before it numbered something like 60072 and the next one in the book was numbered 60074 or some figures like these. There was a missing number in the series. And there was another funny thing. I happened to look at the last bundle of returned cheques in Roger’s drawer. He hadn’t destroyed them, it seems, for some reason or other. I can’t think why, myself. But there they were. And one of them was missing from the series.”

  “There’s nothing mysterious in that,” Wendover objected. “It may have been a cheque that went abroad, and hasn’t been returned to the bank yet. Your brother had interests overseas.”

  Ernest’s dull eyes brightened slightly in triumph.

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Wendover. That’s a mistake. I was curious about the thing, it seemed to me so funny. So I looked up at the counterfoil of that missing cheque in Roger’s stub; and it was a cheque for some hundreds and it was made payable to his stockbrokers. That seemed funnier than ever, didn’t it? A cheque like that would go right back to the bank with no delay. It would be paid in immediately, I’m sure it would. Wouldn’t it? Of course, sure to be, you know?”

  Sir Clinton had been following this with keen interest.

  “And where does Mr. Stenness come in?” he asked.

  Ernest looked round the room again as though he feared that Stenness might be concealed somewhere.

  “Well,” he said, reluctantly, “Stenness had access to Roger’s papers. He could have got at this cheque-book, I’m sure. Roger was a bit careless, sometimes. I’ve seen his cheque-book lying about on the table often. I remember I saw it last Tuesday, was it? Or was it Wednesday? It was in the morning, I know that.”

  Sir Clinton’s face showed uncommon interest now.

  “And you think . . .?” he prompted.

  Ernest poured out another stiff glass of whiskey, this time unchecked by anyone.

  “I can’t say I think anything, really. I shouldn’t like to go so far as that, you understand. That might be going too far. But I let slip to you that I’d found something funny amongst the cheques, last night. I mean I told you this morning what I’d found last night. Or rather . . .”

  “I understand,” said Sir Clinton, rescuing him from his tangle. “And . . . ?”

  “And Stenness was there when I mentioned it. He knew I’d found some hanky-panky.”

  Sir Clinton leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment or two.

  “I see what’s in your mind, Mr. Shandon,” he said at length. “Well, that you can be put straight easily enough. So long as you were the only person who knew of this affair, you might be a danger to the fellow who was responsible for what you call the hanky-panky. It might be worth his while to put you out of the way—silence you, eh? and cover the business up.”

  Ernest’s starting eyes showed that he had no liking for such plain discourse.

  “Then,” continued Sir Clinton, “the remedy’s simple. Just tell whoever it is—we needn’t drag in names, need we?—that you’ve mentioned the matter to me. Then there will be no point in disturbing you further, you see? You’ll be quite safe, once you’ve done that. Doubly safe, in fact, for any further attack on you would be a bit too suspicious. That’s your best course.”

  “I never thought of that,” said Ernest, gratefully. “It’s a relief, I can tell you. Such a relief! And you think there’ll be no chance of another attack on me?”

  “I’d take almost any odds against it,” Sir Clinton reassured him.

  “Well, I shall stay inside the house altogether for a week or two, at any rate,” Ernest decided, his fears returning suddenly. “That ought to be safe enough.”

  He applied himself again to the decanter.

  Sir Clinton had one last question to put.

  “Where was Stenness while you were down at the Maze?”

  Ernest stood with his tumbler arrested on the road to his mouth while he pondered over the matter.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted finally. “I really can’t say. I left him here, working at Roger’s papers; and I told him I was going to Helen’s Bower. But when I came back again he wasn’t here. He’d put the papers away. I don’t know where he’d gone.”

  “Ah, indeed?” said Sir Clinton ruminatively. But he made no further comment.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Squire’s Theories

  “We’ll have another look at the Maze, Squire, if you don’t mind stopping there.”

  Wendover nodded. He had expected the suggestion. “You didn’t seem to overflow with sympathy for Shandon,” he commented.

  “Friend Ernest raises my gorge,” admitted Sir Clinton, frankly. “Did you ever see a man in such a state? I never could stand that sort of thing.”

  Then, as though he felt he had been too hard on Ernest, he added perfunctorily:

  “Of course, he’d rather a bad half hour of it.”

  “I admire the restraint of your language,” said Wendover with a smile. “But, you know, Clinton, I think you’re a bit hard on the beggar. What could he do but run? I’d have run myself, and I make no bones about it either.”

  “Oh, so would I,” Sir Clinton conceded carelessly. “It wasn’t the running that put my back up.”

  “You mean that there’s running and running, so to speak?”

  “Exactly. Look at the case of that girl who was in the Maze when the murders were done—Miss Forrest, I mean. She had just as much right as Ernest to get hysterical. I won’t say she was as cool as a cucumber when we saw her; one couldn’t expect that. But she kept her nerves in order. She didn’t arrive at the house afterwards in a state of whimpering panic.”

  “No, that’s true,” Wendover confirmed. “She’s worth a dozen of Ernest Shandon at a pinch, that girl. She kept her head and did exactly what was wanted.”

  “Quite so. She wasn’t thinking of her own skin all the time like Friend Ernest.”

  “What’s all this about Stenness?” Wendover demanded. “Is it merely some rot that Ernest’s squirted out in the middle of his funk, or is there anything in it?”

  “Here’s the Maze,” Sir Clinton interrupted, cutting him short. “Suppose we postpone discussion till after dinner to-night, Squire. I don’t want to be distracted for the next few minutes, if you don’t mind.”

  They entered the Maze and made their way towards Helen’s Bower. Nea
r the door into it Wendover stopped suddenly and pointed to the pathway at their feet.

  “Hullo! Look, Clinton! There’s a bit of black thread lying on the ground.”

  They stooped over it and examined the fibre.

  “Ordinary sewing-silk off a reel, obviously,” was all that Sir Clinton vouchsafed.

  Wendover thought he had seen more in the matter.

  “Don’t you see what it is, Clinton? Ariadne’s clue! It’s a thread that the murderer must have been using to find his way out of the Maze in a hurry.”

  “I showed you before that there’s no difficulty in the Maze if you’ve once been taken to the centre.”

  Wendover had his answer in readiness.

  “Yes. But suppose you were the murderer, you would have to get out in a hurry, wouldn’t you? And you might lose your head. Anybody might get confused in the flurry. So he took the precaution of laying the thread to the exit; and all he had to do was to follow it and reel it up as he went. And this time a bit of it caught somewhere—see, this end’s tangled in the hedge—and so it broke off and he had to leave it behind. When the Shandons were murdered he probably managed to reel up the whole of it and so left no trace behind him.”

  “Sounds plausible,” Sir Clinton commented curtly. “We may as well collect the specimen, though really there’s nothing distinctive about it. One bit of thread’s very much like another.”

  “Sherlock Holmes might have made more out of it than that,” said Wendover, rather resentful at the way his discovery had been treated.

  “Doubtless. But as he isn’t here, what can we do? Just bumble along to the best of our poor abilities. That’s what I’m doing, Squire.”

  They entered the tiny enclosure of Helen’s Bower, and Wendover’s eye was at once caught by a sparkle from the grass near one of the chairs. He stepped across and picked up a silver cigar-case. Sir Clinton held out his hand for it and glanced at the outside.