Murder in the Maze (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  Wendover, however, seized on the point at once. “Ah! So after all your criticisms it seems you believe in my original theory!”

  “I’ve forgotten which that was, by this time,” Sir Clinton admitted. “What was it?”

  The Squire was rather nettled.

  “You poured scorn on it at the time. What I said was this: Suppose Hackleton hired a man to put Neville Shandon out of the way. You say that was a local man, according to some evidence which you haven’t divulged to me. Very good. If he has a local man, he might have had access to Roger Shandon’s private papers, his cheque-book, and so forth. When he was hired for the Neville Shandon business, he may have decided to make a bit extra by forgery, and cover it up by the second murder. Two murders are as cheap as one, when it comes to pay for them; and Roger’s murder has confused the trail very considerably. It’s only a question of identifying the man who could have managed all that without going too much out of his way and attracting attention.”

  Sir Clinton had been listening carefully to Wendover’s exposition.

  “That’s very neat indeed,” he conceded. “It would certainly hold water, if it fitted all the facts that you know, Squire; but unfortunately it leaves out of account the most interesting fact of all.”

  “And that is?” Wendover demanded, with some asperity. He was annoyed to find that he had overlooked something.

  “That is the most interesting fact of all,” Sir Clinton assured him blandly. Then, with a change of tone: “And that’s all I’m able to say just now, Squire. I’ve no fault to find with your reasoning. It hangs together beautifully. But sometimes the human mind, if you follow me, is apt to assume connections where no such things exist in Nature. We’ve got an instinctive craving to trace associations between sets of phenomena—and at times we kid ourselves that there is some relationship when really it’s only a case of simultaneity.”

  “You’ve been reading one of these shilling manuals lately,” said Wendover, suspiciously. “‘How to be a Philosopher in Ten Minutes,’ or something like that. All this gay talk about simultaneity and phenomena and association comes straight from there. You can’t deceive me with a veneer of learning.”

  “Well, I won’t dazzle you with further extracts. Let’s get back to business. Go on with your list.”

  “Young Torrance,” Wendover continued. “He’s a possible agent. I don’t know about his financial circumstances; he may be hard up, for all I know, and amenable to the cash bait that Hackleton could offer. It would be a pretty big one. Young Torrance was the person who proposed that game in the Maze to Miss Forrest. That would give him a reasonable excuse for being in the Maze at that particular time; and further, it would ensure that he was free from the girl’s supervision at the critical moment. Could you have invented a neater dodge yourself if you’d been set to it?”

  “No,” Sir Clinton admitted, frankly, “I doubt if I could.”

  “Take another point,” Wendover pursued his line of reasoning with increased interest. “What evidence have we that there ever was a third individual in the Maze at all? Torrance’s statements: but if Torrance was the murderer himself, of course he’d insist that a third person was present. Miss Forrest’s story of someone running in the Maze: but that may have been Torrance himself. You remember that she found it most difficult to tell the direction from which sounds came when she was in the Maze.”

  “That’s a theory that might take some upsetting, Squire, if you can explain just one point. What did Torrance do with his air-gun after he’d finished with it? No air-gun was found in the Maze after the business. The murderer got rid of it somehow.”

  “I see no great difficulty there,” Wendover pointed out at once. “Look at the time Miss Forrest spent in wandering up and down in the Maze, unable to find her way out. If Torrance knew the labyrinth, he could easily make his way through it, get out to the river bank, chuck his gun into the water, and sprint back again into the Maze before she noticed his absence.”

  He thought for a moment before adding:

  “In fact, I don’t see why he mayn’t have got rid of the gun in the interval between the last murder and the moment he gave the alarm—the time when he shouted out that he’d found the body.”

  He paused again. Then a further flash of insight threw a fresh light on the case.

  “Why, of course, that would account for the running man. He would be rushing to the river bank and back again as quick as he could go, for the essential thing would be to get rid of the gun before anyone met him in the Maze.”

  Sir Clinton had dropped all his air of superior criticism.

  “That’s remarkably neat, Squire. I shouldn’t be surprised if it doesn’t touch the root of the business—at one or two points, at the least.”

  Curiously enough, the Chief Constable’s comment produced a complete change in Wendover’s mental outlook. He had fallen upon the Whistlefield case with all the enthusiasm of the irresponsible amateur. The mystery of it had caught his imagination, and he had thrown himself into the chase for a solution with an eagerness which he had hardly realised himself. He felt no more responsibility than if he had been attempting to follow the clues in a detective story. Even the characters involved in the affair failed to give him any particular emotional background. He had never been intimate with the Shandon group; and some of the party he had not so much as seen before the tragedy occurred. Consequently, though he had used the real names of the various people concerned in the affair, they had borne no more significance than if he had said “Mr. X” or “Mr. Y.” The atmosphere in which he had worked had been that of a chess problem rather than an affair in real life.

  And now, at Sir Clinton’s change of attitude, he caught a glimpse of a fresh side. It seemed that the line of thought which he had suggested might lead to something definite. It was no longer a case of idle speculation about the criminality of Mr. X or the guilt of Mr. V. Instead, it was a question whether that rather decent young fellow Howard Torrance was going to find his neck in a noose one of these fine mornings. His own speculations might be the starting-point for a fresh line of detection. It came upon him with something of oppression that in his position with regard to Sir Clinton, his speculations might be put to practical use. Situated as he was, it was hardly so irresponsible a position as he had supposed.

  But at this point in his train of thought a fresh idea occurred to him.

  “Clinton said he knew who the murderer is. So my speculations don’t matter much. But it would have been a bad business if I’d turned suspicion on young Torrance. He might have had a lot of difficulty in clearing himself, if Clinton had taken up that line.”

  Sir Clinton broke in at this moment.

  “You don’t suspect Miss Forrest, I suppose!”

  All the amusement had gone out of the game, so far as Wendover was concerned; but Sir Clinton seemed to have no inkling of this, and pursued his way through the list.

  “Then that leaves Costock,” he pointed out.

  “I don’t think Costock did it,” Wendover declared. He felt inclined to turn his criticism into the other camp now. “What have you against Costock? Can you bring any evidence to show that he had curare in hand? Or that he had an air-gun? Or even that he was in the Maze at all at the time of the murders?”

  “If that’s your line,” said Sir Clinton, with a noncommittal gesture, “we’ll say no more about it. I’ll look after Costock. Now there’s one name left—Ardsley. You’d better leave Ardsley to me, Squire. You’re far too apt to see red on that subject. You couldn’t produce an unbiased view of him if you tried.”

  “Have you any evidence about his movements that afternoon?” Wendover asked, perfunctorily.

  Sir Clinton also seemed to have grown tired of the business.

  “You’ll find Ardsley’s name pretty prominent in the Whistlefield business when it’s all cleared up, I think. But I’m not prepared at present to say exactly what his part in the affair may turn out to be in the end.”

&nb
sp; Wendover was only too glad to let the matter rest at this point. Irresponsible speculation is one thing; speculation which may lead up to a death sentence is something quite different. Suppose his ingenious reasoning—he had to admit that some of it was ingenious—were to lead to a wrongful conviction? He hadn’t quite seen it in that light before. It was all very well for Clinton to go in for theorising. It was his job to find the criminal and convict him. But Wendover had begun to feel that it was hardly for an amateur to step in and take a hand. Why, already he had lightheartedly thrown out suspicions against several people; and obviously some, at least, of these suspicions must be baseless. He would keep out of the field in future, he resolved.

  But there was still one point in connection with the Whistlefield case which had given him a good deal of perplexity. It threw no suspicion on anyone. He decided to clear it up if possible.

  “There’s one thing I’ve been thinking over,” he began. “Why did you pretend you’d forgotten those darts on the museum mantelpiece, when all the time you’d left them there deliberately? You acted the part pretty well, Clinton. You took me in completely at the first rush. I thought it was real vexation over a genuine mistake. But when I’d had time to think about it, I saw plainly enough that you’d done it on purpose. You’re not the sort that makes silly mistakes of that kind.”

  Sir Clinton came out of his reserve at once.

  “I’m not fooling now, Squire,” he said gravely, “I’m absolutely serious. I’ve staked my main case on that affair. I’m not able to tell you how or why at present. But you mustn’t breathe a word about it to a living soul no matter what happens next.”

  Wendover, in that moment, had a glimpse of a rarely displayed side of Sir Clinton’s character. It convinced him, without further argument.

  “Very good. Nobody will learn it from me.”

  “You may find it pretty difficult to hold your tongue Squire; but I trust you to do it. The temptation will probably be very strong before long. I’m hoping for the best; but I warn you that I’m expecting some pretty black work at Whistlefield before we’re through with this business. I couldn’t help seeing the funny side of Ernest Shandon’s affair; but the next one may not have much fun about it. You can take my word for it that Tragedy’s in the wings, now, waiting for its cue. So, no matter what happens, keep a tight grip on your tongue. You’re the only one who could spot that I was acting then. Nobody at Whistlefield knows anything about me. They took me for a blundering idiot. And that’s precisely what I wanted.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The Fourth Attack

  “I see the coroner’s jury brought in a verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown,” Wendover remarked. “I suppose it’s the only verdict that would fit the case. They seemed to think you’d been rather slack in not having it all cut and dried for them, Clinton. Quite obviously they wanted the murderer’s head on a charger, and they were disappointed when you couldn’t produce the article.”

  “I think they were disappointed that we hadn’t given them more evidence than we did,” Sir Clinton suggested with a certain indifference in his tone. “They seemed to imagine that the whole affair had been got up for their amusement—so that half of them could take on the post of Sherlock-on-the-Pounce. They can pounce away to their heart’s content if they wish. I’m not stopping them. But it isn’t my business to supply them with spring-boards, though they seemed to think so. All I wanted was to get the formalities through without too much jaw. And the coroner, decent man, saw to that for me.”

  “What about your own swoops and pounces, before you wax ironical about these unfortunate yokels? It doesn’t seem to me that you’ve got very much further than they’ve done, after all. What about it, Clinton?”

  Sir Clinton laughed teasingly.

  “The Hackleton case is dragging along still,” he said, with the obvious intention of changing the subject. “Shandon’s junior isn’t making much out of it, so far as I can see. Old man Hackleton has every reason to be content with the removal of Neville Shandon. He’s having it all his own way in the case now—far too clever for the poor barrister. He’ll get off scot-free, or I’m much mistaken.”

  Wendover refused to be led away on this fresh trail.

  “Seriously,” he said, “you don’t seem to be doing much on this Whistlefield case. You’ve just been loafing about, these last few days.”

  Sir Clinton did not defend himself. In fact, he went out of his way to underline Wendover’s complaint.

  “And to-night I’m actually dragging you off to play bridge at Whistlefield, eh? Well, the invitation didn’t originate with me. It came from Miss Hawkhurst. I admit that I angled for it in a somewhat unprincipled way—gave her to understand that the company of a sour old bachelor was getting on my nerves here, that I’d welcome a little bright feminine society, and that the society of herself and Miss Forrest had just the very kind of brightness that the case needed.”

  “She must have felt flattered!” Wendover commented ironically.

  “Oh, of course it was put in my most delicate vein.”

  Then Sir Clinton became suddenly serious.

  “I’m not very happy in my mind about things, Squire; and I want to get a footing in that house apart from purely professional visits. Hence the angling. Otherwise, the thing would be in the worst of taste, I quite admit.”

  Wendover pricked up his ears.

  “Are you expecting more trouble even now? Nothing’s happened. . . .”

  “Since the last time? No, it’s rather a curious point which you may have noticed, Squire. Nothing ever does happen between the last time and the next time. That I should say was an almost invariable rule in life.”

  “You evidently lost the chance of a good job when the Sibyls went out of business,” said Wendover in a disappointed tone. “You could have written up their books for them in the very best style. You’re a past master in the art of seeming to say something important and really saying nothing whatever.”

  “It often comes in useful,” said Sir Clinton. “But why say anything at all? It seems just about the time when we ought to be starting for Whistlefield. Suppose we take the hint.”

  He refused to discuss the Whistlefield case during the drive across, or even to give Wendover an inkling of why he wished to get a footing in the house at all. The Squire was not quite satisfied. To him, it appeared rather like a breach of hospitality for them to go there with anything in their minds beyond the game for which they had been invited. He disliked the idea of Sir Clinton Driffield introducing his alter ego the Chief Constable into a neighbour’s house by this indirect method.

  When they arrived they found only four of the Whistlefield party awaiting them. Arthur Hawkhurst was busy with the loud-speaker, from which he was evoking weird oscillation-notes in the course of his endeavours to pick up different stations. Ernest Shandon was sitting drowsily in a corner of the room; and Wendover noticed with distaste that he had a spirit decanter and syphon on a table beside him. As the Chief Constable and Wendover were announced, Sylvia came forward.

  “So glad you’ve come, Sir Clinton. We’re looking forward to some decent bridge. . . .”

  A weird howl from the loud-speaker drowned the remainder of her words. Ernest lifted himself from his chair with an effort and approached them.

  “Are you much of a bridge-player?” he inquired apathetically. “I never cared enough for the game to do much good. It’s such a lot of trouble, you know. All this business of struggling for the declaration, and all that. And if one gets keen on it one’s apt to get very keen; and perhaps then one spends a lot of time over it. And one might spend that time in other ways, perhaps better, don’t you think? But perhaps you like it? Some people do.”

  “Uncle was never a rap of good at it,” Sylvia explained with a faint suspicion of a smile. “So naturally he doesn’t like it. Same as the non-dancing man who can’t dance, you know.”

  “Now Stenness is a good player,” Ernest w
ent on. “And I can’t think why he finds it amusing. He’s got all the cards docketed in his head, you know, just like a lot of papers in pigeon-holes. That seems to me too much like work—making a toil of pleasure and all that sort of thing. But to-night he won’t be playing. He’s busy in the study with some papers I asked him to look over. And Torrance is practicing shots in the billiard room, so he won’t be playing, either. Arthur! Are you going to play?”

  Arthur looked up crossly from his task.

  “No!” he snapped. “Can’t you see this affair’s gone out of gear and I’m trying to put it right?”

  Another shriek from the instrument emphasised his words. Sylvia put her hands to her ears.

  “Will you be long over it, Arthur?” she demanded. “These howls are terrible.”

  “Can’t you see I’m doing the best I can?” her brother retorted snappishly. “There’s nothing so aggravating as to have someone standing over one the whole time asking: ‘Will it be all right soon?’ and ‘When d’you think you’ll have it in order?’ or ‘D’you know what’s wrong with it?’ I’m doing the best I can with the thing.”

  Sylvia was evidently used to her brother’s outbreaks of temper. With a slight gesture she reassured Arthur that he would not be interrupted again; and then she turned to getting the bridge-table arranged. She and Wendover were to play Sir Clinton and Vera Forrest.

  “I don’t care much for this room at this time of the evening,” she said, as she took the cards from their box. “The window’s almost level with the ground, and that bank of rhododendrons is so close that it blocks the best part of the view.”

  “Not much view left at this time of night, Miss Hawkhurst,” Wendover said, glancing out. “The dusk’s so deep that one can hardly see anything in it now.”

  Ernest who had been shuffling about the room in an aimless fashion for a few moments suddenly uttered a complaint.

  “It’s very stuffy in here. Don’t you find it so, Sir Clinton? And you, Miss Forrest? It’s a rather hot night. Very close. I do like fresh air; they sometimes laugh at me and call me a fresh air fiend, you know; but I do like a breath of fresh air. Anybody object to the window being opened a bit from the bottom? Let some cooler air in here, then.”