The Maze

by Philip MacDonald

  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.

  I understand that you are the only daughter of Maxwell Brunton, deceased?

  Yes.

  You have heard the evidence of the foregoing witnesses, Mrs Bayford?

  Yes.

  Is it correct that you were in the drawing-room with the rest of the family upon the fatal evening?

  Yes.

  And do you remember your father coming in for five minutes or so just after eleven o’clock?

  Yes.

  And that occasion was the last occasion upon which you saw him alive?

  Yes.

  I understand from previous evidence that you and Mr Hargreaves remained downstairs for longer than the rest of the household?

  Yes.

  At what time did you yourself, Mrs Bayford, go upstairs to your room?

  I happen to know exactly. At ten minutes to twelve. I told Mr Hargreaves I was very sleepy. We’d been out late dancing the night before. He looked at his watch and told me the time.

  So that you were in your bedroom at five minutes to twelve at the latest? And Mr Hargreaves? Did he remain downstairs after you had left?

  No. He came up with me. We said good-night at the head of the stairs and went into our rooms at the same time.

  I see. And after you had got into your room, Mrs Bayford, did you leave it again that night?

  No. Not until after—until after—

  I quite understand. You did not leave your room, then, until you were roused after your father’s death had been discovered?

  No.

  Did you go to bed?

  Yes. When I first got upstairs. As I said, I was very tired. I undressed and got into bed at once. I thought I should go to sleep but somehow I couldn’t. I tried reading, and that was no good; so at last I got up, slipped on some clothes, and sat down at my table to write my diary.

  I see. And during these two and a half hours that you were in your room, did you hear any unusual sound at all from the rest of the house?

  I don’t remember hearing anything of any kind.

  Thank you. Now, Mrs Bayford, you have heard the evidence of all the previous witnesses?

  Yes.

  You will have noticed, then, that mention has been made by more than one witness of your father’s apparent dislike of Mr Hargreaves’s presence in the house. Can you elucidate this for us in any way?

  I—I think so. I—I—I suppose this is necessary?

  Yes, Mrs Bayford. Please continue.

  I think—I think—that Daddy—my father thought—didn’t like Mr Hargreaves being there because he thought—he thought—that perhaps Mr Hargreaves and I might—might—just possibly get married.

  I see. Was this attitude of your father’s, do you know, Mrs Bayford, on account of Mr Hargreaves personally?

  Oh, no! Daddy—my father liked Mr Hargreaves. No … If father was upset, it was because he thought that I should be going away again. He was awfully upset when I married and—and—

  One moment, Mrs Bayford. I believe you were married for only a short time?

  Yes. My husband died seven months after the wedding.

  And you immediately came back to live with your family?

  Yes.

  I take it, Mrs Bayford, that you and your father were on very affectionate terms?

  Yes. Very. He—he—Oh …!

  . . . . . .

  Please hand this glass of water to Mrs Bayford.

  I—I am so sorry.

  Are you feeling well enough, Mrs Bayford, to continue?

  Yes. I’m sorry. Please go on.

  To pick up our thread, then, Mrs Bayford: You feel certain that this dislike which your father showed concerning Mr Hargreaves’s presence in the house was due to his fear that you might become Mr Hargreaves’s wife and so leave your family again?

  That—that is so.

  Are you, in fact, Mrs Bayford, engaged to Mr Hargreaves?

  No.

  I see—I see … But I assume that your father had good reason to suppose that—

  Yes … You see—you see—Mr Hargreaves and I were very old friends. We’ve known each other since we were children. And—and—when Mr Hargreaves came back to England, I asked Daddy—my father, whether I could ask him to stay with us. And he let me. And I think he could see. I am afraid I am not explaining myself very well.

  Never mind, Mrs Bayford. I follow your meaning. I hope you realise that it is not pleasant for me personally to have to conduct this examination.

  Oh! I do understand.

  In previous evidence, Mrs Bayford—Jennings’s, to be precise—it was stated that you came away from an interview you had with your father in his study on Thursday afternoon in such a manner that it would appear that you had been quarrelling with him.

  Not quarrelling. No! D—my father and I never quarrelled. Never! I—I was unhappy. I was sort of mixed up. I—I can’t explain.

  Never mind, Mrs Bayford. We will take it—if I am wrong correct me—that you were suffering from mixed emotions at the thought of the possibility of leaving your father, conflicting, perhaps, with the desire that in certain circumstances you should leave him?

  Thank you. That’s quite right.

  So that you had no quarrel or misunderstanding with your father?

  Not on that day or ever!

  Now, Mrs Bayford: I fear that the next part of my examination is going to be rather painful to you. It must, however, be gone through. I hope you understand the position.

  I do. Perfectly.

  You have heard the previous evidence. And you have heard the statement made by the various witnesses in regard—er—in regard to your father’s relations with the other sex.

  Yes.

  Is this evidence and the trend of this evidence in accordance with your knowledge?

  Yes.

  Very well. I must now put to you the question which I have put to the last two witnesses, your mother and your brother. If your father, at the time of his death, had been carrying on an intrigue with someone living under his roof, whom do you consider would be the most likely partner in this intrigue?

  I—I—Daddy—I—I can’t answer! I’m sure it isn’t a fair question. I won’t answer! I don’t care whether I’m supposed to answer or not, but I won’t! I couldn’t anyhow, and I wouldn’t if I could. All this time, in this beastly place, all you vile people have been doing nothing but harp, harp, harp, on Daddy and women. Women! Women! Women! I know he was fond of women. I know he couldn’t keep away from women. I know it was wrong of him, but that’s all I’ve heard about him here. All! Just that one thing. Always! All the time! I know it’s a big thing and a serious one. But it’s bigger and more serious for some people than it is for others. Who has told you anything about what a wonderful man my father really was? Who has told you about all the good things he did? Nobody! I can’t, because if I started to tell you I should never stop. Who has told you how kind he was? How sympathetic! How understanding! Who has told you about all the lame dogs he’s put on their feet and never told anybody? If you wanted to know anything about that you had to peep and pry the way those people have been peeping and prying about the one failing he had got. You’ve heard what other people have had to put up with from him, but have you heard what he had to put up with from other people? No! Have you heard anything about other people’s nerves? Other people’s tempers! Have you heard anything about when he was young and hadn’t got all his money, how other people spent what he hadn’t got and how he never complained? Never! Never! Never! I am sick of hearing about him and women. He never hurt them, so far as I know, and, anyway, they used to flock around him, simply throwing themselves at him. Isn’t it as much their fault as his? Damn them!

  Mrs Bayford! …

  Oh! Stop talking! You’ve done all the talking here. I’m telling you something you haven’t heard, and that is what you ought to know. You are the Coroner!
You are supposed to be finding things out, and all the time you’ve only found out one thing about Daddy. Suppose he’d been a man who neglected his children! Suppose he’d been a man who never helped anyone! Suppose he’d been a man who, during the war, took a nice soft job in Whitehall! Suppose he’d been a man who was a secret drinker or drugger. Would all that have come out and been chewed about and clawed about and smelt round by all you people and his people? Of course it wouldn’t! And yet all these things are sins! Surely, surely, surely, this business of sinning must vary with the sinner! … Oh! it makes me sick—sick, I tell you!

  Mrs Bayford, please … We quite understand your natural—

  Oh, please be quiet! … I am sorry … I won’t talk any more. I will answer your questions, but I won’t answer that question you asked me … I won’t!

  Gentlemen, have you any further questions at this stage which you would like me to put to this witness? No? Thank you. Mrs Bayford, you may stand down. We may want you again later.

  Call Mary Elizabeth Lamort … What is it, sir? What is it? I cannot have you interrupting the Court in this way! If you have any business with the Court, please tell the clerk. In the meantime we are waiting for another witness … Call Mary Elizabeth Lamort.

  I am Miss Lamort’s doctor. I wish to make a statement.

  Miss Lamort’s doctor? Please come up to the table, sir.

  IX

  WILLIAM EUSTACE FOTHERGILL, M.R.C.S., L.R.C.P.

  WHAT is your full name?

  My full name is William Eustace Fothergill.

  You wish to make a statement to the Court?

  Yes. I should point out, however, that I have no connection with the case except in so far as that one of the witnesses is a patient of mine.

  Will you make this statement, whatever it may be, upon oath?

  Most certainly I will.

  Very well, then. Please take the oath.

  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 a qualified medical practitioner?

  Yes. I am a member of the Royal College of Surgeons and a licentiate of the Royal College of Physicians.

  And you are medical adviser to …

  Miss Mary Elizabeth Lamort.

  And it is in connection with Miss Lamort that you wish to make a statement?

  Yes.

  Will you please do so?

  Yes. It is my considered opinion that Miss Lamort—to put the matter into words easily apprehended by a layman—is in a nervous condition of such acuteness that it would be highly dangerous for her to be exposed at present to the ordeal of giving her evidence in this painful and distressing case.

  That is your considered opinion?

  I never express an opinion, sir, which is not considered. I should perhaps add, however, that Miss Lamort has asked me to explain that she very much desires to give her evidence. In fact, she endeavoured to go contrary to my advice and return to Court from the waiting-room in which she is at the moment lying down. Fortunately, however, I prevailed upon her—

  Quite, quite. How soon, Dr Fothergill, do you think that Miss Lamort will be in a condition to give her evidence without undue danger to her health?

  That, Mr Coroner, is very hard to say. Miss Lamort has prevailed upon me, however, to allow her to come into Court and give evidence in an hour’s time, provided that she is in a less acute nervous condition.

  Miss Lamort, sir, has been my patient for three or four years. As you know, she is an actress—perhaps the greatest actress we have today. She brings to life the same emotional intensity which she brings to her art. She is, in fact, of an extraordinarily highly strung, neurotic disposition. The terrible event which is the subject of this inquiry has so disordered her nervous system that her condition is a matter for serious consideration. If you like, I will explain her condition in technical terms, but I doubt if this would be of any use.

  Quite, quite! I take it, Dr Fothergill, that we will leave the matter like this. If she is able, Miss Lamort will give her evidence in an hour, or if we adjourn for the day before that time has elapsed we will leave her evidence until tomorrow.

  Thank you, Mr Coroner.

  Call Peter Joliffe Hargreaves.

  X

  PETER JOLIFFE HARGREAVES

  WHAT is your full name?

  Peter Joliffe Hargreaves.

  Will you please take the oath?

  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 Peter Joliffe Hargreaves and your permanent residence is—?

  Monk’s Court, Storton Magna, Dorset.

  You are an old friend of the Brunton family’s?

  I have been acquainted with the family for a considerable number of years.

  You were a guest of the deceased, staying under his roof at the time of his death?

  Yes.

  You have heard the evidence of the preceding witnesses, including that of Mrs Bayford?

  Yes.

  Now, Mr Hargreaves, will you please tell us whether you can corroborate the evidence of Mrs Bayford as to when you last saw Mr Maxwell Brunton alive?

  Certainly. He came into the drawing-room just after eleven.

  You did not see him again?

  No.

  And when, Mr Hargreaves, you said good-night to Mrs Bayford in the corridor, you went straight into your room?

  Yes.

  Did you leave your room again that night at any time between your entering it and your being roused with the news of Mr Brunton’s death?

  No.

  Did you go to bed?

  Yes. Almost immediately I got to my room. I was very tired.

  You heard no unusual noises of any kind in the house? Or any noise whatsoever?

  None. I was asleep almost as soon as I got into bed.

  I see. Thank you. Now, Mr Hargreaves, kindly tell the Court what your profession is.

  I am a qualified physician and surgeon but do not practise.

  You are, I suppose, of independent means?

  Yes. I served throughout the war as a doctor in the R.A.M.C. in France, getting my commission as soon as I was qualified in 1915. After leaving the army in 1920 I started a private practice. I was in private practice for four years. Then my uncle, Sir Charles Hargreaves, died and left me his money and his house and estate in Dorsetshire. I gave up my practice and devoted my time to the estate.

  Thank you, Mr Hargreaves, but we understand that you have been for a long holiday, only just recently, abroad. Is that so?

  It is.

  Will you please tell the Court the exact period for which you were abroad and where you have been. I am sorry, Mr Hargreaves, if my questions seem inapposite, but in matters of this kind all facts have to be collected.

  I can understand that. I went abroad two years ago last May. I went first to South Africa to stay with my brother in Rhodesia. I was there for six months. I then went on a long hunting trip across what used to be ‘German East,’ and I was there for the rest of the time—that would be about fourteen months. My trip home took up the remaining four months of the two years I have mentioned.

  Mr Hargreaves, was it your original intention to come home when you did?

  No. I had intended to get back to South Africa and put in another visit to my brother.

  What caused you to alter your mind?

  The news which I read in an old paper of the death of Mrs Bayford’s husband.

  I see … I wonder whether we may assume, Mr Hargreaves, that Mrs Bayford’s marriage was the cause of your leaving England?

  You may. The assumption is correct.

  And immediately you heard the news of the death of Mrs Bayford’s husband, you decided to return home?

  Yes. I hoped very much that Mrs Bayford would eventually consent to be my wife.

  I see. On your return I suppose you immediately let Mrs
Bayford know your whereabouts, and that was the cause of your being invited—at Mrs Bayford’s insistence, as we have already heard from her evidence—to stay at Rajah Gardens?

  That is correct.

  Your visit has lasted how long, Mr Hargreaves?

  A fortnight today.

  And are your feelings toward Mrs Bayford still the same, Mr Hargreaves, as they were when you broke off your travels in Africa to come back to England? I am sorry to have to ask you all these questions, but they are necessary.

  If my feelings have changed at all they have merely intensified.

  I see. So that you still hope …?

  Exactly. I still hope that Mrs Bayford will consent to become my wife. It has been pure cowardice upon my part that I do not already know the answer to this question. Just now, in this chair, Mrs Bayford—through this cowardice of mine—was subjected to what must have been an intensely uncomfortable, to say the least of it, ordeal, I want publicly to apologise to her …

  . . . . . .

  Please! Please! I cannot in any circumstances have interruptions. Please continue, Mr Hargreaves.

  There would not appear, sir, to be any need for me to go on further—in answer to your last question, I mean.

  Perhaps you are right, Mr Hargreaves. The Court is to take it, then, that you are deeply in love with Mrs Bayford and wish to marry her, and that in all probability you will do so?

  Yes.

  You have heard all the previous evidence given to this Court, Mr Hargreaves?

  Every word.

  With particular reference to Mrs Bayford’s evidence, is there anything in that evidence with which you disagree?

  Nothing whatsoever.

  Even, Mr Hargreaves, as to the cause of this dislike which Mr Brunton exhibited—to more than one witness—of your presence in the house?

  No. I did not know of this attitude of Mr Brunton’s until I came to this Court. Whatever it was, the only possible explanation for it could be that which Mrs Bayford put forward. That explanation is most highly probable. Mrs Bayford and her father were devoted to each other.

  We may take it, then, Mr Hargreaves, that during your stay at Rajah Gardens your relations with Mr Maxwell Brunton were absolutely unmarked by any—er—er—awkwardness of any description?