Murder in the Maze (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  “He seems to be the most anxious of the lot,” he commented to himself.

  Arthur Hawkhurst had been standing at the window with his back to the room, but as Sir Clinton came in, he swung round. His face seemed disfigured by a tumult of emotions: anger, distrust, and anxiety were clearly written on it.

  “Well,” he demanded sharply, “can you tell us any more?”

  “You heard what Ardsley said yourself,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “I haven’t seen him since then.”

  Arthur glared at him with unconcealed fury.

  “It’s easy enough to see that it isn’t your sister that’s lying at death’s door! You mightn’t be so cool about it then.”

  He turned back to the window again, and stared out into the night.

  “What has happened?” Howard Torrance demanded. “You’re the only one here who saw it all, Sir Clinton.”

  “Someone took advantage of the music from the loud-speaker to steal up close to the window, there, which Mr. Shandon insisted on opening. An air-gun dart was fired into the room and struck Miss Hawkhurst. Luckily, it happened to hit her wrist just where there was some protection—the chain of her watch-bracelet; and that prevented it from going as deep as it might. But if any poison has got into the wound, it may be a serious matter—most serious. That’s all I know, except that I got Dr. Ardsley over immediately, and he has her in his charge.”

  “Is there any hope that it won’t be fatal this time?” Howard Torrance asked, anxiously.

  Sir Clinton shook his head.

  “I know as little as you do. I got the dart out almost immediately, so perhaps the poison hadn’t time to get in its work. That seems to offer some chance of escape. But you’ll need to wait for the expert’s views. I really know nothing.”

  “And you don’t seem to be doing anything,” snarled Arthur from the window.

  Before Sir Clinton needed to reply, the door opened and Wendover hurried into the room. He was dishevelled, his tie was loose, and his dinner-jacket showed in some places smears of green and brown which he had evidently picked up during his prolonged search. But in his hand he carried the thing Sir Clinton wanted—the air-gun.

  “Good man!” the Chief Constable commented, as his eyes rested on the weapon.

  At the exclamation Arthur turned back towards the room. His face changed as he caught sight of the thing that Wendover carried.

  “Where did you get that, eh? That’s my best air-gun!”

  “That’s the thing that may have killed your sister, then,” said Wendover, looking mistrustfully at Arthur’s disturbed face. “I found it in that clump of rhododendrons out there. It had been jammed right into the middle of the bushes; that’s why it took so long to find.”

  He looked Arthur up and down for a moment; then, disregarding the owner’s outstretched hand, he passed the air-gun to Sir Clinton, who took it from him without a word. Arthur stepped forward angrily as though to recover his property; but at that moment a fresh interruption occurred. Again the door opened, but this time the grim figure of Ardsley appeared on the threshold. He waited for a moment until he saw that he had secured the attention of them all, then he turned towards Sir Clinton and gave him his verdict.

  “This is a bad business! Of course, she’s still alive; and there’s a chance yet. It’s a pity you didn’t think of a tourniquet at the moment—prevent any risk of the stuff spreading, since it’s in an isolated limb. But there’s no use grumbling now. We can only wait and see if she pulls through. It’s a bad business!”

  Sir Clinton nodded.

  “Have you everything you need? The nurses will be here as soon as possible.”

  “Miss Forrest will do in the meantime. One thing—there must be absolute quietness in the house. I can’t have my patient disturbed in the slightest degree. She’s unconscious again; but there must be no risk of disturbing her later on. Complete quiet, or I won’t answer for anything.”

  He turned and left the room without waiting for any questions. The gravity of his expression was enough to show them that he had no great hope for Sylvia’s safety.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Dart

  The period immediately following the attack upon Sylvia was one of intense inquietude in Wendover’s mind. Up to that point he had persuaded himself that the affairs at Whistlefield would eventually prove to be linked up in some way with the Hackleton case. The connection of some of the incidents—the attack on Ernest Shandon, for one—had certainly been obscure; but Wendover had nursed an irrational belief that in the end all the threads would lead back to Hackleton, and that the whole mystery would find a simple explanation which would bring it within the borders of normal motives and sane sequences of actions.

  The latest tragedy, however, could not be squared with any of his preconceived ideas. What possible relationship could exist between Hackleton and Sylvia which would make her removal essential to the financier? It was hardly likely that either she or Ernest had been the repository of Neville Shandon’s secrets.

  But if Hackleton dropped out of the piece, then the whole affair seemed to lose any thread of purpose and to become a mere massacre perpetrated by some being urged on by motives which lay outside the bounds of reason. Instead of a coldly calculating criminal, Wendover seemed to find himself confronted by a creature beyond the pale of humanity, a thing that slew at random out of sheer lust for death. His own normal mind revolted from such a monster; and he strove hard to piece the evidence together again in some way which would eliminate this nightmare figure and replace it by a criminal actuated by motives which sane intellects could grasp.

  As soon as he got Sir Clinton alone after the tragedy at Whistlefield, he had done his best to extort information; but in this he had failed completely. Every one of his inquiries was met by a curt denial of any ulterior knowledge, though it was manifest that Sir Clinton was concentrating his whole mind on the latest developments in the Whistlefield affair. Despite this blank negation, however, the Squire got the impression that the Chief Constable’s anxiety centred round Sylvia rather than the Whistlefield case as a whole. From an unguarded word he inferred that Sir Clinton had, somehow or other, taken a risk; and that the results had been very different from what he had expected. Something had cut across Sir Clinton’s schemes and had shaken his confidence.

  Even when he abandoned his fruitless inquisition and went to bed, Wendover was unable to free himself from the latest tragedy. His mind insisted on conjuring up pictures: some of them memories, others imaginary scenes in which the unknown murderer played his part. He saw the bridge-table at the end of the rubber, with the cards of the last trick lying still ungathered, Sir Clinton putting down the marker, a cigarette smouldering on the ash-tray, Vera Forrest shuffling the pack for the next deal. Nothing could have been more peaceful. Then, in a flash, came the transformation scene. He lived again through the nightmare moment when the lethal dart sped in upon them from the outer dark, changing their fancied security into a thing of horror and peril. And from this his imagination passed to that lurking monster in the gloom beyond the window: a vague, featureless figure crouching among the rhododendrons, lifting the thin barrel of the air-gun in search of the appointed victim. In uneasy visions such as these, his night dragged slowly on.

  Morning brought Wendover no release from his anxiety. Before he had come downstairs, Sir Clinton had been busy with the telephone; and his face was sufficient to show that he had had bad news. Wendover hardly dared to ask what it was; for his guest’s features plainly betrayed that the worst might be expected.

  “Ardsley’s been telephoning,” Sir Clinton explained briefly. “She’s much worse. There was a bad collapse in the early morning, and they just managed to pull her through. Luckily the nurses were on the spot, so everything was done that could be done. But Ardsley seems to have very little hope now. He thinks the dose of the poison must have been bigger than we thought.”

  He bit his lip, seemed on the verge of saying something else, then ended
by changing his mind and choosing other words:

  “We must go across there after breakfast, Squire. I must see Ardsley. You’ve no idea how this affair worries me.”

  “I think I have a fair notion,” Wendover replied. “I’ve had a pretty bad night over it myself. It’s a damnable affair.”

  Sir Clinton nodded absent-mindedly. He was evidently lost in his thoughts. By the set of his mouth, Wendover could guess that they were anything but pleasant.

  Though he hardly admitted it to himself, Sir Clinton’s behaviour was another factor which had loosened Wendover’s grip on the normal world. Hitherto the Chief Constable had seemed so sure of his case that he had treated it almost lightly; but now it was self-evident that something had gone wrong. Things had not worked out according to plan. The tragedy which he had predicted had forced itself into being; but now that it had come he appeared unable to act the part of the deus ex machina which he seemed to have meant to play. This sudden change disturbed Wendover deeply. The man on whom he had been relying to clear up the mystery appeared to be perplexed and anxious instead of cool and resolute.

  When they reached Whistlefield, Ernest Shandon was the first person who came to meet them.

  “This is a terrible business!” he lamented, as he came into the study where they were. “It’s a dreadful affair, really. A dreadful affair! Ardsley’s very down about it, very down. You know, he wouldn’t do for a doctor in practice. He’s most unsympathetic. Most doctors are careful; they don’t blurt things out in the callous sort of way that Ardsley does. He doesn’t think about one’s feelings in the slightest. One expects a little decent circumlocution from a doctor; but there’s none of that about him. I asked him this morning if Sylvia had passed a good night; and he just glared at me and snarled that she was lucky to be alive at all; snarled it out as if she had been one of the dogs he cuts up. Is that the way to break bad news to a relation? I call it beastly. He never thinks of what it means to us. It’s just a case to him, I suppose. But look what it means to us. Sylvia runs the house so well. I don’t know what we’ll do without her.”

  Sir Clinton had let him run on; but quite evidently he had no intention of wasting much time listening to Ernest’s lamentations.

  “Miss Forrest must be resting just now, I suppose?”

  “Yes,” Ernest assured him, “she was up helping Ardsley until the nurses came; and after that she didn’t seem able to sleep, so she sat up for a while. Ardsley came down and found her in the early morning, so he sent her off to bed. So he told me. I had gone to bed myself some time before.”

  Sir Clinton made no comment and Ernest proceeded with his complaints.

  “What I feel is that the police aren’t doing anything. Why haven’t you arrested somebody? My nerves are beginning to wear thin under this strain, I tell you. Here we have some murderer haunting the neighbourhood. He kills my brothers; he attacks me; he brings my niece to death’s door—and all the time the police look on with their hands in their pockets. What are they paid for? That’s what I ask you. Why don’t they lay hands on the fellow? What sort of a life do you think I’m leading just now? Every time I go outside the house I have the feeling that the scoundrel may be lurking behind the next bush, getting his gun ready. That’s a pretty state of things. And not a finger do you lift to help!”

  “I offered you a guard of constables for Whistlefield not so long ago, Mr. Shandon. You refused it then. I’m sorry it isn’t available now. I have other work for my men at present.”

  Ernest was somewhat taken aback by this reminder. “So you did, so you did. I’d forgotten that.”

  Sir Clinton seemed inclined to accept this as an apology.

  “I should like to see Mr. Stenness for a moment in private, if you don’t mind, Mr. Shandon. Could you send him to me?”

  Ernest evidently felt that he had let his tongue run away with him. Possibly some faint realisation of the display of cowardice which he had made was dawning upon his mind. At any rate, he hastened to meet Sir Clinton’s wish.

  “I’ll hunt him up and send him to you,” he announced with surprising conciseness; and he left the room without further talk.

  While they were waiting for Stenness the door opened and Arthur Hawkhurst came in. Rather to Wendover’s surprise he showed no trace of the ill-feeling which he had displayed so strongly on the previous night. Instead, he seemed rather shamefaced; and he opened in an unexpected vein.

  “I behaved like a young cub last night, Sir Clinton,” he admitted frankly. “I daresay I said a lot of things that I shouldn’t have said. But you know quite well”—his teeth showed in an engaging smile—“I was badly upset. Anyone might be, I think. Poor Sylvia! I’m deuced fond of her, you know. She’s about the only person in the world that matters a tinker’s curse to me. So naturally I wasn’t quite level-headed; and I daresay I said things I shouldn’t have said.”

  “That’s all right,” Sir Clinton assured him. “I understood perfectly how you felt. Forget it, and don’t worry. You’ve trouble enough without bothering about trifles just now.”

  Arthur nodded a gloomy acquiescence.

  “Have you any notion why the thing was done?”

  Sir Clinton was careful not to give a direct answer.

  “We’re doing our best.”

  Arthur’s eye lighted up.

  “I wish you’d let me take a hand. Perhaps I could be of some use?”

  “Not just at present, I’m afraid.”

  Arthur took the rejection badly.

  “Nothing to hinder my working on my own, then, is there? You can’t prevent that. And if I come across the brute you needn’t expect to be allowed to butt in then, you know. I’ll tackle him myself. Hanging’s too good for him.”

  “I agree with you there,” Sir Clinton said unguardedly. Then he added with a faint smile: “We’re speaking quite unofficially, of course.”

  Arthur looked up suspiciously.

  “I’m not quite sure what you mean. But what I mean’s quite plain and can be put into plain English. If I can lay my hands on the man who tried to murder Sylvia, he’ll wish for a decent hanging before I’m done with him. I’ll . . .”

  “That’s enough, Mr. Hawkhurst,” Sir Clinton interrupted sharply. “We don’t want to hear about it.”

  Arthur’s temper boiled up at the words. Wendover glancing at his face, saw the features contorted in hardly restrained fury. With an effort, the boy fought down his anger until he could speak.

  “If anything happens to Sylvia I’ll get the brute yet; and then he’ll wish he’d never been born. That’s that!”

  He swung round on his heel and left the room.

  Sir Clinton sighed slightly as the door closed.

  “Oh, Lord!” he exclaimed softly, as if to himself. “I hadn’t reckoned on that. This is growing devilishly complicated.”

  Wendover had pricked up his ears.

  “What’s the trouble now?”

  Sir Clinton seemed to realise that he had spoken his thoughts aloud.

  “It’s another factor that I hadn’t allowed for,” he admitted. But he refused to divulge anything further; and Wendover had to content himself with the cryptic phrase.

  Stenness did not keep them waiting long. When he came into the study, Wendover was surprised to see the change which the night seemed to have made in the secretary’s appearance. He was heavy-eyed; and his features had a drawn expression as though he had passed through some great strain.

  “I suppose we all look a bit like that, after this affair,” Wendover commented to himself. “Clinton’s half-killing himself with anxiety; young Hawkhurst’s far from normal; and I suppose I must look a bit white about the gills myself. It’s only to be expected.”

  Sir Clinton wasted no time in preliminaries, but came to the point at once.

  “Mr. Shandon told us that you knew the contents of Roger Shandon’s will. Can you give me the gist of it? It’s not a confidential document now, of course.”

  “There’s a co
py of it in the safe here,” Stenness explained. “You can look it over if you like.”

  “Thanks. But if you can remember the main points it may save me the trouble of reading through it.”

  Stenness took a key from his pocket and went across to open the safe which was built into the wall of the study.

  “The will’s simple enough. All the property is to be divided equally between Neville Shandon, Ernest Shandon, Miss Hawkhurst, and Arthur Hawkhurst. There’s the usual provision about heirs and survivors of that group.”

  “What I particularly want to know is whether there’s any residuary legatee mentioned, anybody who takes the remainder of the estate after all other legacies have been paid in full.”

  “I don’t remember any provision of that sort,” Stenness admitted, searching among the papers in the safe. “Here’s the copy of the will if you’d care to look at it.”

  He handed it over to Sir Clinton who unfolded it and began to read.

  “He left you nothing, did he?” the Chief Constable asked casually, as he continued his study of the document.

  Stenness was plainly surprised by the question.

  “No. Why should he? I’ve only been with him a year or two. I’m not an old family retainer who’s earned a pension. As a matter of fact, there are no bequests of the kind.”

  “So I see,” Sir Clinton agreed when he had finished his reading. “It’s a very short will, not complicated by any of the provisions they often put into these things.”

  He seemed to ponder over the matter for a moment or two.

  “I had rather expected to find a residuary legatee in the thing somewhere; but you’re quite right, there’s nothing of the sort mentioned. You don’t happen to know anything about Neville Shandon’s will, do you? It wouldn’t fall into your province.”

  Stenness shook his head.

  “I never read it. But I witnessed it, as it happens. And the impression I got from a glance at the last page was that it may have run on the same lines as Roger’s. You can easily get a copy of it once it’s filed, if you need it.”