The Maze

by Philip MacDonald

  Why?

  I beg your pardon?

  I said why.

  Mr Brunton, I am afraid this is a court of inquiry, not a debating club! Am I to understand that you refuse to take the oath and will give your evidence without having done so?

  No.

  I am afraid I cannot understand your conduct, Mr Brunton!

  Quite easy to follow! You said would I please take the oath. I said: Must I? You said: No. However, I’ll go through the gabble.

  Will you please hand Mr Brunton the book?

  I swear by Almighty God that what I shall say in evidence in this Court shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  You are the only son of Maxwell Brunton, deceased?

  Whoever told you that?

  Mr Brunton, I must ask you to treat this Court with the respect due to it.

  Didn’t know I wasn’t!

  Silence in the Court! I will have silence! Now then: When, Mr Brunton, did you last see your father?

  Just when the others did. He came down to the drawing-room while we were playing bridge.

  And you agree with the time. Mr Brunton, as given by the other witnesses?

  Yes.

  You did not see him again alive after that?

  I said that was the last time I saw him, and I meant it.

  Your room, Mr Brunton, is next door to your father’s study, isn’t it?

  Yes. That’s to say, mine’s the last room at the back of the original building of the house. The study was built on. Can’t hear what’s going on, or anything of that sort, if that’s what you’re after.

  What I am ‘after’, Mr Brunton, will appear in the course of my questions. No such remarks are needed from the witnesses.

  Couldn’t we get on with it?

  What time was it when you retired to your room, Mr Brunton?

  Good God! It seems to me we keep going round and round the same old circle. All the other people have told you we all went up except Hargreaves and Claire, my sister, at half-past eleven.

  And you didn’t leave your room after retiring to it at half-past eleven?

  Yes, I did.

  When and what for?

  About ten minutes after I got there. Lavatory.

  You returned straight to your room?

  Obviously.

  And went, I suppose, straight to bed?

  Do you think I’m a damn fool? You know perfectly well that that little swine Harrison told you that after he came—after he had found the Guv’nor, that I wasn’t undressed. No; I didn’t go to bed. I didn’t feel like sleep. I’d only gone up because I wanted to be alone. I took off my dinner jacket and put on a dressing-gown.

  And you sat up alone like that in your room for three hours?

  Pretty simple, isn’t it? I came up at half-past eleven. Harrison came in at a quarter-past two. Three hours less a quarter.

  May I ask, Mr Brunton, what you were doing during this time?

  No harm in asking. I was thinking.

  May we ask what those thoughts were that occupied you for such a long period of time?

  Ask away. You know already. You know from my mother’s evidence.

  Do you mean to tell us, Mr Brunton, that you were thinking about the disagreement you had had with your father that afternoon, and the situation which had led up to that disagreement?

  Yes. Quite natural, isn’t it? Fellow wants to get married. Can’t afford to do it on his own. Asks his father. Nothing doing. Fellow isn’t feeling much like sleep.

  During those three hours, Mr Brunton, did you hear anything unusual going on in the house?

  Don’t remember hearing a sound. You don’t hear much in my room, anyhow.

  Will you please tell us, Mr Brunton, the exact situation at the end of your quarrel with your father. Perhaps it would be better if you would tell us the whole thing. We understand, from previous evidence, that the interview ended, at any rate, in high words.

  Plenty of words and some of them high! Very easy to explain. Asked father whether he’d increase my allowance to what I considered enough to get married on. He said, ‘No.’ I said, ‘Why?’ He had the damn—My fiancée didn’t meet with his approval.

  May I ask, Mr Brunton, on what grounds he based his disapproval?

  You can ask until you’re black in the face. You’ll get no answer from me. I think you’re inquiring into how my father came to get killed, not into the histories of people who’ve nothing to do with that.

  Very well. We will leave that matter. At least for the moment. I would like to take this opportunity of saying, though, that I should be glad if you would moderate both your manner and your language.

  You moderate your questions and I’ll try.

  How, Mr Brunton, was the matter left between your father and yourself? What, I mean, was the situation at the end of the interview?

  Just like that. I asked. He refused.

  There was nothing, then, to suggest that the matter could be reopened between you? Your father, I take it, was final, or seemed so?

  Dead final. I knew him pretty well. I didn’t tell mother when I was talking to her afterwards, but I’m perfectly sure that he would never have altered his mind. It was being so sure that put me in such a state.

  You do not agree, then, with Mrs Brunton, that you had merely approached your father at an unpropitious time?

  No. He’d have been the same at any time. That’s what I think, anyhow.

  So you do not agree with the implications of your mother and other witnesses in their evidence that Mr Brunton was, shall we say, in ill-temper during the day preceding his death?

  Didn’t say so, did I? Certainly he was. Damn bad mood. But that was nothing with father. I’m going by what I know of him generally.

  Have you any idea, Mr Brunton, reverting to one part of your answer, as to what could have put your father in this ‘bad mood’? Any idea, I mean, apart from these matters of which we have already heard, such as the disagreement with Mrs Brunton?

  Yes.

  . . . . . .

  Well! We are waiting, Mr Brunton.

  What for?

  Please do not quibble. We are waiting for you to tell us, as I think you know perfectly well, what your idea is of the cause of your father’s ill-temper.

  Hargreaves.

  Please be more explicit, Mr Brunton. Conciseness is to be desired, I admit, but not conciseness which leaves a witness’s meaning in the air.

  Good God! You asked me what I thought put the Guv’nor—my father, in that mood, and I told you Hargreaves. I meant it. If I did know why, I’d tell you, but I don’t. All I know is that when I saw him first that Thursday and the day before, he said a couple of things—just remarks here and there—which showed me that he didn’t like having Hargreaves in the house.

  Can you remember the words of these remarks, Mr Brunton?

  No.

  Not even a slightly more detailed gist?

  No.

  When were these remarks made?

  The one on Thursday was made when I first went into the study. When I was breaking the ice. Didn’t take much notice of it. Too much occupied with my own troubles.

  All you can tell us, then, is that you gathered that the person and presence of Mr Hargreaves was distasteful to your father?

  I didn’t say anything about person. You’re right about presence, though. What I mean is that I got a general feeling that it was not so much that he didn’t like Hargreaves, but he didn’t like Hargreaves being about the place.

  Did your father, Mr Brunton, know Mr Hargreaves well?

  Hardly at all. Hargreaves was a friend of Claire’s, my sister, years ago, before she was married, but we didn’t see much of him. Knew him, of course, and all that. But not well. About the time Claire got married he went abroad. He’d only just come back when he came to stay. My sister asked my mother to ask him. Old friends and all that.

  You can give us nothing more definite, then, Mr Brunton? I am sorry to keep worr
ying, but this is all rather important. You can give us nothing more definite about the apparent dislike for Mr Hargreaves on your father’s part?

  No. Said so once.

  Perhaps you can tell us then whether this dislike of Mr Hargreaves’s presence was shared by any other member of the family. Yourself, for instance? Or your mother?

  Can’t speak for my mother. She certainly never showed anything.

  And yourself, Mr Brunton?

  Nothing against Hargreaves myself. Don’t see much of him. Don’t think much about him. Too much occupied with my own trouble.

  And your sister, of course?

  My sister will be giving evidence, I suppose, on her own account.

  How long has Mr Hargreaves been staying in the house, Mr Brunton?

  Why the devil do you keep asking me questions when you know the answers? But I suppose you must. Can’t say definitely. Just over a week, I think.

  I see that I must remind you again, Mr Brunton, that your manner is not one to be desired. Please keep your criticisms of this Court and the way it is being conducted to yourself. Confine yourself to answering my questions and answering them in a proper manner.

  After all this I can’t remember whether there is one for me to answer or not.

  I will supply it. You have heard all the previous evidence, Mr Brunton?

  I haven’t been asleep.

  You will remember, then, that during your mother’s evidence I put to her a series of questions which elicited the fact that if an intrigue of your father’s had been going on unknown to her during the time immediately prior to his death, such an intrigue must have been with someone resident in the house.

  Yes. I remember the foul business.

  Mr Brunton! I really must insist that you mend your behaviour in this Court.

  Sorry. Sorry.

  At the end of that series of questions I put a question—I can assure you that I did not like putting it—to which your mother stated that she could not reply.

  You mean the one about if my father had had a spare mistress in the house, who would it have been?

  If you care to put it in that manner, Mr Brunton, yes.

  What the hell does it matter what manner I put it in? Means the same thing, doesn’t it? Well, I’ll answer it. There’ve been so many bagfuls of stinking linen washed in this room already that one more won’t hurt. If there was—mind that ‘if,’ Mr Coroner—if there was, what you call an ‘intrigue’ going on in the house, I should give it as my opinion that it was with my mother’s maid.

  You mean Jeannette Bokay?

  Obviously Bocquet. My mother’s only got one maid.

  Do you mean to suggest to the Court, Mr Brunton, that you have reason for supposing that this Jeannette Bokay was carrying on an intrigue with your father?

  I asked you to mind that ‘if,’ didn’t I? I don’t know anything. I don’t think anything. You said if there was one, who would it be with? I say, if there was one, the answer is Bocquet.

  Why, Mr Brunton?

  Eh?

  I said, ‘Why?’ What are the facts behind this reasoning on your part?

  You will probably understand when you have Bocquet up here! Oh, damn it! Let’s cut a long story short. My father couldn’t keep away from women. You know that by this time, and every damn halfpenny paper will have it on every front page this evening. What’s it matter what I say? You want to know why I choose Bocquet for this imaginary mistress you’re trying to create. I’ll tell you. The answer’s quite obvious. Because—she’s—good—to—look—at. My father may have been a womaniser, but he did have taste.

  No doubt, Mr Brunton. Bokay, however, is not the only attractive woman, apart from his own family, under your father’s roof.

  Eh! … Good God! You know you oughtn’t to be allowed to run this job! You’re a foul-minded … Do they let you do this sort of thing?

  Mr Brunton, you must please control yourself, or I shall have to take other methods to ensure that you do. To some extent I can sympathise with your feelings and consequent manner and indignation. But not beyond a point. You used the word ‘foul’ just now. Let me remind you. Mr Brunton, that a murder may be a foul business. Will you please give me your undertaking to mend your behaviour?

  . . . . . .

  Mr Brunton!

  Oh, all right. I’ll be good.

  Very well. I take it from your reception of my last remarks in regard to the question I had asked you, that you still adhere to your view that if there was an intrigue going on between your father and a member of the household at the time of his death, the other party to the intrigue must have been Jeannette Bokay?

  Yes.

  Have you any other reasons besides the one you gave just now for making this statement? Now, please …

  Yes.

  Will you please give them to the Court?

  My father had had a line on Bocquet before.

  Indeed? When was this?

  About eighteen months ago.

  You are certain?

  Yes.

  How?

  I came in very late one night—being very quiet, not to wake the house. Didn’t put light on downstairs. Just as I opened the door of my room, the study door opened and Bocquet came out. She was in pyjamas.

  And your father was in the study?

  Obviously. I heard him.

  And the time was?

  Very late, as I said. Near as I can remember, about half-past two, quarter to three.

  Do you know, Mr Brunton, whether either your father or Bokay was aware that you had seen her leaving the study?

  They weren’t. I hadn’t switched on my light. As a matter of fact, I’d just half closed my door behind me when I heard the study door open and happened to look out through the crack of my door.

  And you made no reference of what you saw to anyone?

  Why should I?

  You did not tell your mother?

  Why should I? She’d had enough of that sort of trouble. Even if I’d told her and she’d got rid of the girl, it’d only’ve been the same thing with someone else. I wouldn’t have mentioned it now if it hadn’t been for the suggestion you made.

  I see. And so you were satisfied to let this intrigue, which you knew about, go on without saying anything to anybody?

  Surely that’s my business? As a matter of fact, I did speak to my father. We had a row about it.

  There is one thing I don’t quite follow, Mr Brunton. That is, you were very particular just now with your conditional clause. You stated that you knew nothing and thought nothing about the possibility of Bokay’s being your father’s mistress during the time immediately prior to his death and yet, here you are telling us that she was, in fact, his mistress.

  Half a minute! Half a minute! That was eighteen months ago. The whole thing lasted—I don’t know how long it had been going on, of course—but the whole thing lasted, after that time when I saw her, coming out of the study, not more than a month. They never did last very long.

  I take it, Mr Brunton, that you are trying to tell the Court that this liaison was terminated?

  That’s right.

  You know this?

  Sure of it. My father told me himself.

  But would that—

  Half a minute. My father never told lies. I mean in that sort of way. If you taxed him with a thing he gave you the truth. He must, of course, have lied and acted lies about women while he was having affaires with them, but they’d be just what you’d call convenience lies. As I say, if you taxed him with a thing, you got the truth. And he came and told me that the Bocquet thing was over. He was a bit worried about it. I think he’d expected the girl to give up her job and go when he’d finished with her. He said as much. He’d have made it all right as far as money went. But she wasn’t having any. That’s what he told me. Of course, he couldn’t very well ask mother to get rid of her.

  You believed this?

  Certainly. I’ve told you my father never lied. Also the way the girl b
ehaved was proof. Even mother noticed something odd about her. She seemed to be in a sort of brooding rage for weeks. Then she got over it.

  And you never saw a recrudescence of your father’s—of this liaison?

  Never. I merely said, in answer to your question, that if there was an affair going on in the house, it must’ve been a revival of the Bocquet one.

  But, in fact, you do not know that this was so?

  How many times have I got to tell you? No. I have no grounds for suspicion. Seems damn unlikely to me.

  I see. One more question, Mr Brunton, and may I please remind you that such questions as these have to be asked? Now that your father is dead, I take it that you will be in a position to contract the marriage to which he would not consent.

  You take it right.

  I understand, Mr Brunton, that the bulk of your father’s considerable fortune comes to you?

  It does.

  Were you aware of this before his death?

  Look here, blast—Sorry. Yes.

  Did you happen to know, Mr Brunton, before your father’s death, of any of his intentions in regard to minor bequests?

  Only generally. He told me at one time and another what he was doing for mother. Leaving her an annuity of £5000. And Claire an annuity of £3000, and one or two small things I can’t remember. You can find them in that will. I can see a copy of it peeping out from under your papers.

  And the residue of the estate which you have inherited, Mr Brunton, is, I understand, in the neighbourhood of £300,000?

  Something like that. Have a look at your papers.

  Well, Mr Brunton, I think that’s all we have to ask you just at present. That is, unless any member of the jury has any question he would like to put … I see there are none. Thank you, Mr Brunton. You may stand down. We may want you again later.

  I think that it is now time that we adjourned for luncheon. In view of the pressing nature of this inquiry I am going to ask you all to shorten the recess and be back here in forty-five minutes time, when I shall call the next witness—Claire Bayford.

  VIII

  CLAIRE BAYFORD

  WHAT is your full name?

  Claire Bayford.

  Will you please take the oath?