Murder in the Maze (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  “Somebody ought to look after the car,” he suggested. “If we leave it here the fellow may steal up and go off with it, suppose he’s lurking about. And where should we be then? He’d have got clean away and left us standing. I think I’d better sit in the car while you hunt about, and then we’ll know. . . .”

  At the sight of the open contempt on Sir Clinton’s face, he let his proposal die away before it was completed, and crawled reluctantly out of the car with the others. He even made a show of eagerness and led the way to the Maze entrance.

  “You’re off the line a bit, Uncle.” Arthur pointed out.

  “I can’t see very well in the dark,” Ernest complained. “And this grass is simply soaked with dew. I’ve got my feet all wet. Such a nuisance. . . .”

  He tripped over something and came heavily to the ground. A heart-felt oath reached their ears.

  “I’m wet all down the front, now,” Ernest wailed. “I fell over some damned thing or other and I’ve hurt my toe. I hope it hasn’t split the nail. What is this thing, damn it?”

  He seemed to be feeling about in the dark.

  “Why! It’s the air-gun!”

  Sir Clinton’s flash-lamp suddenly shot out its glare; and in the cone of illumination they saw the grotesque figure of Ernest kneeling on the ground with the air-gun clutched in his hand. He rose to his feet labouriously.

  “I’m soaking with that dew. Very heavy it’s been to-night. Wasn’t it a godsend that I had a spot of whiskey just before coming out? That’ll keep a cold away. I’ll have another one—a whiskey hot—when I get back again.”

  Sir Clinton paid no attention to Ernest’s babble. He took the air-gun gingerly from its discoverer’s hand and held it out to Arthur in the glare of the flash-lamp.

  “One of the local armoury, I suppose?”

  Arthur examined it for a moment.

  “Yes, that’s one of ours.”

  The honours of discovery, however, seemed destined to fall to Ernest.

  “Here,” he demanded, “turn that light over this way, will you? There’s something round my foot.”

  They could hear him kicking in the obscurity. Sir Clinton swung the beam round and stooped down.

  “It’s a bit of black thread you’ve got tangled up in. Wait a jiffy.”

  He freed Ernest from the fibre and began to trace along the thread with his light. It seemed to be merely the end of a long tentacle extending out from the entrance to the Maze.

  “Ariadne’s clue!” exclaimed Wendover, when he saw the direction in which the filament lay.

  Sir Clinton nodded briefly.

  “You people had better get back to the car,” he said. “I don’t want the ground trampled here. We can look at it in the morning. I’m just going to follow up this thread. I’ll be back in a minute or two.”

  Holding his light low, he disappeared into the intricacies of the Maze, while Wendover shepherded the others back to the car. Once round a corner or two and well out of sight of the rest, Sir Clinton ceased to trouble about the thread and made his way direct to one centre of the Maze. He sought about for a time, evidently fruitlessly; and then made his way to the other centre. Here his search was more successful. Among some bushes in the enclosure, he unearthed a suit-case.

  “Well, that was a long shot,” he admitted to himself, though with evident satisfaction. “He’s evidently not too sure that he’s taken me in with his soft sawder, and he’s provided for contingencies. Let’s see.”

  He opened the suit-case and scrutinised one or two of the garments in it.

  “Complete change of clothes and no marking on so much as a handkerchief. Quite right!”

  He re-closed the suit-case and put it back into the hiding-place in which he had found it. Then he retraced his steps in the Maze until he came to the black thread which he proceeded to follow to the end.

  “Now we’ll go back to the house,” he proposed, when he rejoined the others at the car. “That thread led me to the boat-house.”

  “So the attack was made from the river?” Wendover asked.

  “It’s strange that he didn’t pitch his gun into the water, isn’t it?” Sir Clinton said. “One might have expected him to get rid of it in the easiest way.”

  “I expect he got a bit of a shock,” Arthur suggested. “He must have known he’d hit me squarely and yet nothing happened. That would be a bit of a surprise to him, wouldn’t it? Perhaps he got rattled.”

  “Lucky for you there wasn’t a second shot,” was Sir Clinton’s comment. “You could hardly expect your cigar-case to save you twice running.”

  When they reached Whistlefield again, they found Ardsley talking to Torrance, who had returned from his walk. He had been out alone, it appeared. Vera had gone to her own room when Ardsley had given his news about Sylvia and had not reappeared again.

  Sir Clinton took Ardsley aside for a moment. “You’ve got a nurse upstairs in that room?” Ardsley assented.

  “One of them’s going to watch all night. There’s a superstition some people have that one shouldn’t leave a dead person alone. I don’t mind being superstitious for once, if it’s in a good cause.”

  “No one must get into the room, of course.”

  “No one shall,” said Ardsley, definitely.

  Sir Clinton seemed to be satisfied; and Ardsley left the room. The Chief Constable had one more private conversation still to carry through. He took Ernest Shandon into the study and closed the door.

  “I can put my hand on the murderer now, Mr. Shandon, so you needn’t be nervous about that. But I’m rather troubled about one point. This is going to lead to the devil of a scandal if I arrest him. Are you anxious for that?”

  Ernest seemed staggered by this way of looking at things.

  “Well, really, I don’t quite see what you mean. It’s a bit obscure, isn’t it? I must confess I don’t quite follow you, if you understand me?”

  “I’ll put it this way. I could arrest the fellow tonight. I know where he is. I’d have no trouble over that. But I think I can make surer of him if I wait till to-morrow morning. I’ve got to risk his bolting. I’ve that possibility in view. He might get away. But if he got away, would you worry much? Think of the scandal it would save and it’s going to be a big one. And the trial will be a most labourious affair, too. What do you think? Shall I arrest him now, or wait till the morning and risk his getting away?”

  Ernest pondered over the problem, but he seemed incapable of giving any help.

  “I really don’t know,” he said. “You’re too deep for me, really. I can’t make out what you’re driving at.”

  Sir Clinton’s face showed disappointment.

  “There are some things that a police official can’t put into plain words, you know. I can’t say outright that I’d be glad to see the beggar off the premises. Can’t you see what I mean?”

  But Ernest shook his head dully; and Sir Clinton gave up the effort.

  “Oh, very well,” he said. “The responsibility’s mine in any case. I’ll wait till to-morrow and chance it. But I can’t say I’ve got much help from you, Mr. Shandon. When the scandal comes, you needn’t blame me.”

  He seemed to consider something for a moment, then he added:

  “By the way, I suppose you won’t mind putting me up for the night? I’m taking all the responsibility I’ve any use for, as it is; and I think I ought to be able to say I was here to-night.”

  Ernest seemed to be rendered completely owlish by this last request; but he assented willingly enough. “And Wendover, too, of course,” added Sir Clinton. He paused for a moment as though in doubt, before speaking again.

  “I think I’d better ring up the police-station, if you don’t mind, Mr. Shandon. I’ll do it now.”

  Ernest, with a shameless curiosity, followed him to the instrument and waited until he got the connection.

  “Sir Clinton Driffield speaking. Sergeant, will you be good enough to buy me another tin of Navy Cut—same as the last you got�
�first thing to-morrow morning? I’ve run out of tobacco. Send a man up with it, will you? Yes, Navy Cut. Thanks.”

  Sir Clinton turned away from the instrument and noticed his host hovering close beside him.

  “It’s a handy thing to be a Chief Constable, isn’t it? I’d run out of tobacco and I won’t have time to go down to the village to-morrow morning. I shall arrest that fellow first thing after breakfast; and the formalities may take some time, you know.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Siege of the Maze

  Wendover was awakened next morning in an unfamiliar bedroom to find Sir Clinton at his side. The Chief Constable’s eyes were tired, as though he had had very little sleep; but otherwise he seemed as alert as usual.

  “Come on, Squire!” he said. “Dress as quick as you can. You needn’t mind shaving, for once. You’ve been clamouring for the arrest of the murderer for long enough now, so I thought you’d like to be in at the death. I’ve got an appointment with him this morning; so you’d better hurry up if you want to see the last scenes in the Whistlefield dramatic entertainment.”

  Wendover had been rubbing his eyes rather sleepily when he awoke; but Sir Clinton’s words stimulated him into activity.

  “Go on with your dressing and don’t talk,” Sir Clinton replied to his questions. “I haven’t time to explain things just now. There’ll be a good deal of explaining to be done in the end,” he added, gloomily, “so we may as well make one bite at it!”

  Wendover hurried over his toilet and soon he and Sir Clinton descended the stair and made their way to the front door. The figure of Stenness was plainly visible in the light of the early morning.

  “So it was Stenness? Somehow I thought it might have been he,” Wendover whispered, while they were still at a distance.

  “I’ve got appointments with several people this morning,” Sir Clinton said, sharply. “Ardsley’s another of them. You needn’t start suspecting every one, Squire, or you’ll have a busy time. No! No questions till later!”

  He stepped forward and greeted the secretary. “Where’s the gun-room, Stenness? It may be as well to pick up something useful!”

  The secretary led them down some passages. If he was surprised by Sir Clinton’s methods, he showed no visible sign. When they reached the gun-room, each selected a shot-gun and ammunition under Sir Clinton’s orders. Wendover noticed that the Chief Constable picked out a couple himself.

  “One’s for Ardsley,” he explained in answer to Wendover’s glance of surprise. “Come along! He’ll be waiting for us outside, I expect.”

  When they reached the front door again, Ardsley was just stepping out of his car. Sir Clinton motioned him back into the driving-seat and directed the others to get into the motor.

  “The Maze, if you please, Ardsley,” he said, when they had seated themselves.

  Wendover was completely at sea for a few moments. It was plain that both Ardsley and Stenness must be regarded as cleared in the eyes of the Chief Constable, or he would not have brought them there and taken the trouble to arm them. But if they were excluded, the murderer must belong to a very small group. And suddenly Wendover saw his way through the whole intricacy of the Whistlefield case.

  “Of course! Young Torrance! He’s the man!”

  But he was careful not to utter his views aloud, fearing to draw the fire of Sir Clinton, who was sitting beside him with drawn brows. Wendover felt it better to pursue his line of thought silently.

  “What an ass I’ve been! Young Torrance was in the Maze when the two Shandons were killed. He was somewhere or other about, probably, when Ernest was attacked. Clinton has most likely tracked him down without saying anything about it. And when Sylvia was shot, he wasn’t with us in the room; they said he was playing billiards by himself. Quite likely he sneaked out of the billiard room window, crept round, did the shooting, and got back under cover while we were all too taken aback by the business to do anything. If I’d have been a shade quicker, that night, I’d have got him! And last night, when Arthur was attacked, Torrance had gone for a walk alone. It’s obvious! And like an idiot, I didn’t see it. All one needed was a pencil and paper and a list of the people who were actually on hand on each occasion; and then, by elimination, one was bound to get at him straight away.”

  He pondered over his own obtuseness for a time, while the car ran down the road towards the Maze; but his train of thought was interrupted by Ardsley pulling up at a word from Sir Clinton. A uniformed constable stepped forward from the shelter of a clump of bushes, and Wendover saw with surprise that he had a revolver at his belt.

  “Everything all right?” demanded Sir Clinton, as the constable saluted.

  “Yes, sir. It went exactly as you told us. About a quarter of an hour ago we saw him hurrying along the road.”

  “Just so,” Sir Clinton interrupted. “I watched him leaving the house.”

  “He went into the Maze, sir; and as soon as he was well inside, we followed your orders and put the padlocks on all the gates. He tried to get out once, sir; but as soon as he saw us he ran back into the Maze.”

  “You didn’t try to catch him, of course?”

  “No, sir. Your orders were strict about that; and we kept to them.”

  “Quite right. Now you’ve got the stuff up, haven’t you?”

  “It’s over there, sir.”

  “Well, bring me the megaphone. We’ll need to talk to him before we can do anything further.”

  While the constable was fetching the instrument, they got out of the car. Wendover, when he found himself on the road, gazed across at the green barriers of the Maze, behind which the murderer was lurking. Sir Clinton’s tactics were plain enough in their final phase, though Wendover could not understand how the Chief Constable had been so sure of running the miscreant down in the particular way he had chosen.

  He turned at the sound of steps, to find the constable had come back with the megaphone, a battered instrument which had probably seen service at police sports in the past. Sir Clinton took it from his subordinate and then called the attention of the group about the car.

  “I want you people to take careful note of what happens, from now onwards. You may have to give evidence about it, so please pay attention to everything that happens.”

  Wendover noticed that Sir Clinton’s voice had lost its usual tinge of humour. Quite obviously he regarded the situation as grave; and his tone was that of a man who sees difficulties ahead, but means to overcome them if possible. As soon as he was certain that all the group were on the alert, the Chief Constable raised the megaphone and spoke towards the Maze.

  “Ernest Shandon! I have a warrant here for your arrest. I call on you to surrender. Come to the gate nearest the road within five minutes and give yourself up.”

  “He’s got a pistol, sir,” the constable hastened to add to his previous report, “and an air-gun, too. He had them in his hands as he went into the Maze.”

  Sir Clinton raised the megaphone again.

  “Before you come to the gate, you must throw your weapons over the hedge. You can’t get away, Shandon, you may as well come out quietly.”

  His voice echoed across the lawns, but from the recesses of the Maze came no reply.

  “Five minutes from now,” Sir Clinton said finally, and put down the megaphone. He glanced at his wristwatch as he did so.

  “He won’t come out, of course; but I’m anxious to do everything in a justifiable way,” he explained. “He’s had fair warning.”

  They stood uneasily about, furtively consulting their watches until the five-minute period had elapsed; but no sign came from the Maze. Wendover was completely puzzled by the turn of events. How could Ernest Shandon be the murderer? When the attempt had been made on Arthur, Ernest Shandon had been sitting within ten feet of Wendover himself, under the eye of Sir Clinton; and the attack had been carried out here, at the entrance to the Maze. Then, floating through his mind, came a recollection of Sir Clinton’s hint that a man might be
“on both halves of the map simultaneously.” But that was impossible! No man could be in two places at once. The whole affair seemed to verge on a nightmare inconsistency. And yet, Sir Clinton had evidently foreseen the attempt to escape and had taken precautions to prevent it being successful. And undoubtedly it must be Ernest Shandon in the Maze, for the local constables must have recognised him from their hiding-places as he went in.

  When the five minutes’ grace elapsed, Sir Clinton turned round; but as he did so, his eye was caught by a new figure which was advancing over the lawns.

  “Oh, damnation!” he exclaimed, angrily. “Here’s the very thing I wanted to avoid.”

  Wendover, following Sir Clinton’s glance, recognised Arthur Hawkhurst hurrying towards them; and as he approached, the Squire could see that he was carrying a sporting rifle in his hand.

  “You gave me the slip,” Arthur said reproachfully, as he came up to them. “But I spotted what you were after. Heard you moving about and dressed in next to no time. I’m a bit out of breath with the hurry.”

  Sir Clinton looked at him sternly.

  “If you come here at all, Mr. Hawkhurst, you come under my orders. If you can’t agree to that, I’ll have to see that you’re sent back to the house.”

  Arthur frowned heavily; then, after a moment’s thought, he evidently made up his mind to accept the inevitable.

  “Very well, then. If you put it like that, there’s no more to be said. But if the beggar attempts to escape, I suppose I may wing him?”

  He touched his rifle as he spoke.

  “You’ll do exactly as you’re told.”

  Sir Clinton evidently had no wish to be distracted from his main problem. His voice had a ring in it which impressed even Arthur.

  “What’s it all about?” he demanded from Wendover, in a lowered tone.

  “Your uncle’s the murderer, it seems; and Sir Clinton’s got him trapped in the Maze.”

  Arthur looked at him in amazement.

  “I say, you know, Wendover, that’ll take a bit of thinking over, won’t it?”

  He said no more; and Wendover could believe that Arthur, like himself, was conning over the whole of the Whistlefield case, and being brought up against the apparent impossibilities of the Chief Constable’s solution of the problem. At length Arthur lifted his head.