The Evidence in the Case
When the doctor had completed his work and left the room, Sir Clinton
pulled the tin box of darts from his pocket and went over to the
window to examine it. The box itself suggested nothing in the way of a
clue; it was of a common pattern. He turned from it to the darts
themselves.
“That brown stuff on the feathering is evidently the poison, whatever
it may be,” he reflected. “It doesn’t seem much of a dose to kill a
man, especially if one assumes that it was a quick death. Even
ordinary snake poison would hardly do the trick quick enough. And yet
these fellows didn’t seem to have moved much after they were hit, to
judge by the look of the ground.”
He took a Coddington lens from his pocket and scanned one of the darts
carefully; then with a pin he probed a dark spot near the point of the
projectile.
“So that’s it! He’s drilled a hole clean through the metal and filled
up the hollow with poison. That would mean a fair quantity driven well
home under the skin; and the blood would soon wash the stuff out of
the cavity, since both ends are open. An ingenious devil, evidently.”
He thoughtfully replaced the dart in the box; but before putting the
tin back into his pocket he counted the missiles carefully.
“Eleven of them here; and six more in the two bodies.”
He glanced at the open box again, trying to estimate its probable
capacity.
“That must have been the lot.”
The doctor had extracted the six fatal darts from the bodies and left
them lying on a piece of lint on the dressing-table. Sir Clinton
rolled them up cautiously; took his cigarette-case from his pocket;
emptied out the contents; and inserted the packet of darts instead.
“I’m not likely to get pricked now, short of a big smash.”
After putting the cigarette-case and the tin box containing the darts
into his pockets, he left the room and went downstairs. The windows
throughout the house had been darkened; but Sir Clinton found his way
in the semi-obscurity to Roger Shandon’s study; and here he came upon
Wendover, the two guests, and the secretary. Costock had been left in
the hall in charge of a constable.
“Now,” Sir Clinton said, as he sat down, “I’m afraid I shall have to
trouble you for information. What I want first of all are the plain
facts—nothing else. We’ll come to suspicions afterwards. Which of you
saw the Shandons alive last?”
“I believe I did,” the secretary volunteered. “At about ten minutes
past three this afternoon, Roger Shandon sent one of the maids for me,
and I came straight to this room. He gave me some directions about
letters. While he was doing this, Neville Shandon looked into the
room. He had some papers in his hand. Seeing us engaged, he went away
again. That would be about twenty-five past three, approximately.
Almost immediately after that, Roger Shandon dismissed me; and I
noticed him from the window, going towards the Maze. That was the last
I saw of either of them, till I found their bodies in the Maze.”
Sir Clinton went to the writing-table and made a note.
“You saw Neville Shandon last at about 3.25 p.m., and Roger at, say,
3.30 p.m.?”
“As near as I can gauge the times,” Stenness confirmed.
Sir Clinton considered for a moment.
“I judge that it would take a man walking at an ordinary pace at least
ten minutes—say eleven or twelve—to reach the Maze from the house.
That means that Neville Shandon could have reached the Maze at 3.37;
and Roger might have got there at 3.42. But possibly they were some
minutes later than that; and quite possibly, also, they may have
arrived in a different order, since no one seems to have seen them
actually enter the Maze, so far as we have gone with the story.”
The secretary indicated assent to this with a nod. Sir Clinton turned
next to Torrance.
“I take it that you can carry our information further?”
Howard Torrance gave his version of the events up to the moment when
he discovered the body of Neville Shandon in the enclosure by the Pool
of Narcissus.
“Exact times are what we want,” Sir Clinton reminded him when he had
completed his narrative.
“Can’t give you anything except two. I happened to look at my watch
while Miss Forrest and I were sitting under the trees. It was some
time after three, then—I think it was twenty past three, but I
couldn’t swear to it. I took the time when I found Neville Shandon’s
body. It was 3.52. I could swear to that, for I particularly noted it,
knowing it might be wanted.”
Sir Clinton jotted down these figures also.
“Now, Miss Forrest, I know you’ve had a very trying time. I don’t want
to worry you unnecessarily, but it’s essential to get your evidence as
to what happened in the Maze. Take your time, and don’t let yourself
get excited. It’s all over now.”
Vera gave him her account, to which he listened without putting any
questions until she had finished.
“Thanks very much, Miss Forrest. There’s just one point. You heard
steps in the Maze several times: a man running at one period and going
on tiptoe at other times. You’re sure of that?”
“Quite sure. I’m not likely to forget it soon.”
“I can quite understand that,” said Sir Clinton, soothingly, for the
girl was evidently affected by the mere remembrance of what she had
gone through. “I’m merely asking these questions to make sure of my
ground, you know. You couldn’t have mistaken Mr. Torrance’s footsteps
for those of the murderer by any chance?”
At this question, the secretary’s face showed a gleam of
enlightenment, as though he had detected a point which he had
previously missed. He glanced at Howard Torrance for an instant as
though trying to read his face; then he looked again at the girl.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Vera admitted frankly. “But I don’t think
I did.”
“You heard Mr. Torrance’s voice from time to time,” Sir Clinton
continued. “I’m trying to suggest that he may have called from a
distance at the same time as you heard the steps near at hand. You
see, it’s essential to find out exactly when the murderer left the
Maze if possible; and we can only do that by checking his movements in
the Maze.”
Vera thought for a moment or two before she replied.
“I can’t recall it. You know, Sir Clinton, I was nearly out of my mind
with panic. I didn’t take note of things. I couldn’t. And there’s
another thing—I did notice that I couldn’t make out the directions
from which sounds came. The Maze seemed to shift them about anyhow. I
really couldn’t tell where Mr. Torrance was at any time when he
shouted to me.”
Sir Clinton nodded.
“I’d rather have you say that than try to strain your memory to make
things fit. Now, just to make sure: You really did hear the murderer’s
steps—or at any rate some steps—quite close to you—on the other side
of the hedge, once? And that was before you found Roger Shandon’s
body?”
Vera nodded assent to both questions. To her relief, Sir Clinton
turned to Stenness.
“Did you note the time when Miss Forrest got back to the house again?”
“I looked at my watch when she was telling me her story. It was then
4.42. I reached the Maze myself at 5.16.”
“You were in your own room upstairs when Miss Forrest came to the
house?”
“Yes. My room is at the back, so I could not have seen her coming in,
even if I’d been looking out of my window. My first warning of the
whole affair was when the maid began to scream.”
Sir Clinton added a jotting to his notes; then he turned to the
company with a relaxation of his official air.
“These are the facts, then—the things you could swear to in the
witness-box. I take it that you’ve told me all that’s relevant. But,
candidly, these facts don’t take us far. The police don’t profess to
know the details of people’s private lives; but when an affair of this
sort crops up we have to poke our noses in, whether we like it or not.
Hitherto we’ve kept to the facts; but now I’d like, if possible, to
get your personal views of the meaning of the facts. You probably have
intimate knowledge of affairs at Whistlefield which I haven’t got.
Does it suggest anything to you in connection with this case?”
He glanced from face to face without putting a direct question to any
of his hearers. Vera Forrest was the first to speak.
“I know almost as little as you do yourself, Sir Clinton. I’m a friend
of Sylvia, of course; but I know no more about her uncles’ affairs
than a casual visitor might pick up in a few days’ stay at the house.
The whole thing is an absolute mystery so far as I’m concerned.”
Howard Torrance had the same story to tell.
“I’m in much the same state as Miss Forrest. Neville Shandon I met for
the first time a few days ago. Roger was only a casual acquaintance;
and I never felt inclined to force myself into his intimacy. I’m
really a guest of Miss Hawkhurst, just as Miss Forrest is.”
Sir Clinton turned to the secretary.
“You’ve perhaps had better opportunities, Mr. Stenness?”
The secretary admitted this with a nod.
“I’ve been secretary to Mr. Roger Shandon for the last two
years—nearly three. Do you expect me to divulge anything about his
private affairs?”
“Anything that seems useful. It can’t hurt him now.”
“Then I needn’t conceal that from time to time he received threatening
letters. The last one came only a few days ago. It was written by this
man Costock who’s outside in the hall. I can produce it if necessary.”
Sir Clinton contented himself with saying: “I know something about
Costock’s career.” He looked at Stenness as though he expected more,
but the secretary seemed to have nothing to add on that subject.
“Perhaps you could tell us about the relations between the various
members of the family. That must have come under your notice,” Sir
Clinton suggested.
Stenness considered for a moment as though arranging his facts.
“The three brothers always seemed to me to be on good enough terms. I
never noticed any ill-feeling amongst them. Neville was rather a
bully—in his manner, I mean. He always treated one as if one were a
hostile witness; but probably that was just a mannerism. Roger was
hot-tempered at times. He didn’t hit it off with his nephew somehow.
But as far as I saw, the feeling was all on one side. Young Hawkhurst
seems a harmless boy—rather moody since he had that attack of sleepy
sickness.”
Sir Clinton seemed to prick up his ears at the words.
“He had sleepy sickness, had he? Any ill-effects?”
“Nothing that one could see, except this instability—moodiness or
whatever you like to call it. Very cheery one day and rather depressed
soon afterwards, I noticed at times.”
Sir Clinton did not pursue the subject.
“Have you heard of any ill-feeling locally?” he asked. “I mean
friction with the maids, or the gardeners, or the neighbours?”
Stenness racked his memory for a moment or two.
“No, nothing that I can recall. There was some slight disagreement
with Dr. Ardsley over fishing rights not long ago; and a few angry
letters passed between him and Roger Shandon. But it wasn’t an
important matter—rather a squabble, but nothing to leave real
ill-feeling.”
“Do you know anything about money matters? They were both well-off?”
“Neville was believed to make enormous fees in some cases. Roger, I
know, had plenty of money. He often sent me to cash bearer cheques on
his account and some of them ran into thousands.”
“And he took cash for these? Rather unusual.”
“My impression was that he gambled a good deal—roulette and that sort
of thing—for high stakes. I’ve often paid in large sums in notes on
his behalf.”
Sir Clinton seemed to make a mental note of this.
“Now what about the third brother—Ernest, I think his name is?”
A faint expression of contempt crossed Stenness’s face at the mention
of Ernest’s name.
“He’s not like his brothers.”
Then the disdain of the efficient man for his inefficient fellow broke
out.
“He seems never to have done anything, so far as I know. His brothers
kept him going. He spends his time loafing about: fishing, shooting,
or just hanging round. It was his fishing, as a matter of fact, that
led to the row with Dr. Ardsley.”
Sir Clinton leaned forward in his chair and looked at the secretary
keenly.
“All this is very interesting, Mr. Stenness; but I have an idea that
there’s something in your mind that you haven’t told us. What is it?”
The Secretary gave him look for look before replying.
“I don’t think this is a local affair at all. The evidence points away
from that, entirely.”
“Ah! Now this is what I really wanted, Mr. Stenness.”
Thus encouraged Stenness wasted no time.
“When Neville Shandon looked into the room before going to the Maze,
he had a sheaf of papers in his hand. When I examined his body I
noticed a scrap of paper—a torn bit. I could read ‘Hackl . . .’ on it
in Neville’s writing, and a few other words as well.”
“That’s quite correct,” interrupted Sir Clinton, “I have it in my
pocket-book. And you infer . . . ?”
“I infer that that scrap is all that remains of his notes for his
cross-examination of Hackleton which was to come off this week.”
“In other words, you think someone in Hackleton’s pay is the murderer;
and the intention was to put Neville Shandon out of the case finally?”
“That’s your statement, not mine,” said Stenness, suddenly becoming
cautious. “But it’s been done before now.”
Sir Clinton nodded.
“You’re thinking of the shooting of Labori in the Dreyfus case, I
suppose?”
“That would be a parallel case to the one you sketched.”
“And the notes might be useful to Hackleton’s side as showing the
probable line of attack beforehand?”
Stenness maintained his caution.
“That’s your suggestion, not mine.”
“But assuming that,” demanded Sir Clinton, “why was Roger Shandon
murdered at all? He had nothing to do with the case.”
Stenness had his answer ready.
“Assume that twin brothers resemble each other closely and even dress
alike. Mightn’t a stranger mistake one for the other and kill him?
Obviously. And then he might find that he’d made an error if the
second brother turned up. The second man is the man he’s been paid to
put out of the way. Wouldn’t he finish his job?”
“That’s an ingenious theory, Mr. Stenness,” commented Sir Clinton, but
he refrained from saying anything further.
Howard Torrance had listened carefully.
“Hardly think that’ll fit, though. Neville was dead when I came across
him; and I’d just heard Roger shouting . . . at least . . . at any
rate,” he stumbled for a moment, then recanted. “No, you may be right.
I was confusing the order of finding the bodies with the order of the
murders.”
“There’s no proof of the order of the murders,” Stenness pointed out.
“Both of them were dead when they were found, and that’s all we know.”
At this moment steps sounded outside, the door opened noisily, and Sir
Clinton saw a stranger enter the room. At the sight of the air-gun in
the newcomer’s hand, Vera Forrest gave a slight exclamation.
“This is Sir Clinton Driffield, Mr. Hawkhurst,” Stenness hastened to
explain. “The Chief Constable.”
Arthur Hawkhurst leaned his air-gun against the wall and came forward.
“D’you usually travel with an escort, sir?” he inquired with a boyish
grin. “A bobby and a plain clothes man in the hall outside, I see.”
Then, turning to Stenness, he went on:
“Uncle Roger anywhere about? I owe the old man an apology. He’s rather
peevish with me over the piano, you know; and I must smooth him down.
Not let the sun go down on his wrath, et cetera.”
Stenness threw an interrogative glance at Sir Clinton. Getting the
answer he expected, he broke the news to Arthur.
“What! Both of ’em killed! Nonsense!”
Then the sight of the Chief Constable and the recollection of the
uniformed man outside seemed to convince him.
“Of course! That accounts for the bobby. And they’re both gone, you
say? Poor old birds! Poor old birds!”
It was hardly the requiem which might have been expected; but it
seemed sincere enough in tone if not in words. He added thoughtfully:
“And now I’ll never get that apology off my chest, after brooding over
it all afternoon. I owed him that.”
Sir Clinton crossed the room and picked up the air-gun.
“This seems pretty strong. Can you kill anything with it?”
Arthur’s grief seemed to pass away with the opening up of a fresh
subject.
“I was out with it in the spinney this afternoon, potting rabbits. It
makes less noise than a rook-rifle. Scares the bunnies less when you
fire. But I only got a couple of brace in the whole afternoon.”
Sir Clinton made no reply. He tried the spring of the air-gun; looked
to see that the weapon was unloaded; and then pulled the trigger. For
a weapon of its size the report was not loud. He was about to try it a
second time when his ear was caught by a sound of limping footsteps in
the passage. Again the door of the room opened, and Sir Clinton
hastily put the gun back against the wall.
Ernest Shandon shuffled into the room and blinked round the assembled
group in dull surprise.
“I’ve had a devil of a time,” he said grumpily, “I’ve been walking
miles with a nail in my boot.”
Stenness stepped into the breach once more and explained the state of
affairs. At first, Ernest seemed frankly incredulous.
“This must be a joke of yours, Stenness. What I mean to say is, the
thing’s impossible. Murders don’t happen to people like us, you know.
It’s the kind of thing one finds among the lower classes.”
He peered from face to face, as if expecting to see a smile on one of
them; but the seriousness of the company at last appeared to bring the
truth home to him.
“You really mean it?”
He sank into a chair and gazed round the company once more as though
dazed by the realisation of the tragedy.
“Both of ’em? Why, I was talking to them both not three hours ago. We
were talking about that Shackleton case—or is it Hackleton? I remember
Neville asking if I read the newspapers, and Roger . . . What was it
Roger said? . . . Oh, yes, now I remember. Roger was giving Neville a
hint that Hackleton might find it worth his while to sandbag him or
something like that. I can’t think why; but Roger was very strong
about that, I remember. And then I went off and left them together.
And now you say they’re both dead! I can’t believe it, Stenness. Why,
I was talking to them not three hours ago, or even less, it may be,
here in this very room.”
“It’s unfortunately true, Mr. Shandon,” Howard Torrance assured him.
“I found the body of Mr. Neville Shandon myself.”
Ernest paid no attention to him. He seemed to be quite thunderstruck,
now that the news had penetrated his mind. At last he roused himself
sufficiently to ask for some details, to which he listened with a sort
of heavy interest.
“And they were killed by poisoned darts, you say? And I’ve got a nail
in my boot myself. I might get blood-poisoning from it, if I’m not
careful. I never thought of that till now.”
Sir Clinton had allowed a decent interval to elapse before entering
the conversation; but he now glanced at his watch and put a question.
“Can you tell us when you last saw your brothers alive, Mr. Shandon?”
Ernest reflected for some moments as though trying to fix the time.
Then he shook his head regretfully:
“I’d arranged to go in the car with Sylvia—my niece, you know—but she
said I was late and she hurried me off to get ready. I was a bit
hustled at the last moment. But Sylvia could tell you, most likely.
She’s always punctual and she’d remember when we left.”
“It was just before I saw Mr. Neville Shandon look in that door that I
heard your car leaving, Mr. Shandon,” Stenness volunteered. “That
would be about ten minutes past three.”
Ernest nodded vaguely.
“I remember she sent me to put my boots on. That reminds me, my foot’s
very sore. I hope it isn’t blood-poisoning.”
Quite regardless of the company he began to unlace his boot and
finally examined a slight tear in his sock. He was busily engaged in
feeling inside his boot for the nail before he spoke again.
“That nail came up just after Sylvia dropped me outside the grounds. I
walked on for a bit, but it began to hurt. You know how a nail in your
boot hurts? So I sat down for a bit by the roadside; and luckily the
postman came along in his cart and gave me a lift after a while, or I
don’t know what I’d have done. I’d nothing to hammer it flat with, you
see.”
He returned to an inspection of his foot.
Sir Clinton glanced at his watch, and even his impassive face showed a
trace of impatience.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Shandon, but I must get some facts from you before I
go. It’s essential, or I should not trouble you at this time.”
Ernest looked up with a long-suffering expression.
“Oh, ask any questions you please. If I can give any information you
want, I’ll be glad to do it, quite glad. It’s a sad affair for me, for
all of us. Anything I can do, of course. By the way, do you mind if I
ring for tea? I’ve had nothing since lunch-time and I feel a bit
tired. One misses one’s tea. It would brighten me up, I think.”
Quite oblivious of the astonishment of the company he rang the bell
and gave his order.
“Now, Mr. Shandon, perhaps you’ll give me your attention. I understand
that your family consisted of yourself, your two brothers, and the
late Mrs. Hawkhurst, your sister. Am I right, or have you any
relations except your nephew and niece?”
Ernest blinked for a moment or two as if considering.
“Nobody nearer than a second cousin once removed. At least, I think
that’s what you call it. She’s the daughter of a second cousin. Lives
in Bath, I think.”
“Another point,” continued Sir Clinton. “Can you tell me if anyone
could get the opportunity of learning the Maze without being noticed?
The gardeners know the paths, of course; but can you think of anyone
else?”
Ernest again blinked for some seconds while he thought over the
matter.
“Ardsley took an interest in it at one time—that was before he made
such a fuss over the fishing. He hasn’t been here since that row. Not
that I bore any grudge over it, you understand, far from it. One may
differ from a man without letting bad feeling come in, I always think,
don’t you?”
Sir Clinton refused to follow him into this by-path.
“Nobody else?”
“No, I can remember nobody who ever took the slightest interest in it.
It’s not, somehow, the sort of thing that does interest people. What I
mean to say is, there’s not much use in it, is there?”
Sir Clinton diverged for an instant from his usual reticence.
“It’s strange the murderer didn’t leave some trace, then. I’d have
expected to find him using a thread to guide him out of the Maze—like
Theseus in the labyrinth.”
He paused for a moment, then added:
“But perhaps he rolled it up as he went out, so as to leave nothing
behind.”
He rose as he spoke and put his last questions.
“Do you suspect anyone in this matter, Mr. Shandon? Was there anyone
in the background whom we haven’t heard about? A woman, for instance?”
Ernest Shandon seemed to ponder these queries in his dull way.
“No,” he said at last, “I don’t think so. Not to my knowledge, at
least. Of course my brothers had their own affairs; but that’s to be
expected in families, isn’t it? I mean, they didn’t tell me
everything, of course. But bar this Shackleton business, I can’t say I
ever heard anything that would fit the case. No, I can’t remember ever
hearing anything of the sort.”
The Chief Constable wasted no further time.
“I shall have to come back again, Mr. Shandon. Will you think over the
matter meanwhile and take a note of anything you think likely to help
us. And you also,” he added, turning to the rest of the group.
As the door was closing behind him and Wendover, he heard Ernest’s
verdict, delivered in a disconsolate tone:
“This’ll be an infernal bother!”
In the hall, they found Costock in charge of a constable and
apparently resigned to his detention. When questioned, he added but
little to the story which he had told earlier in the day to Stenness.
“What brought you to this neighbourhood at all?” Sir Clinton demanded.
“You don’t expect us to believe that you came here by pure chance, do
you?”
“No,” Costock admitted. “If I was pitchin’ a yarn to a flattie or to
an ordinary busy, I’d say that; an’ I’d stick to it. But you know a
bit too much about me, Driffield; an’ it wouldn’t take with you. So
I’ll just take an’ tell you the truth, so I will.”
Sir Clinton’s smile showed more than a touch of unbelief.
“Make it the whole truth, when you’re at it,” he advised, “and begin
by explaining how you happen to be here at this particular period.”
“Well, you see, this Shandon man—Roger—he owed me something, so he
did. He didn’t play straight with me out at Kimberley.”
“So you came home as soon as you got out, to blackmail him? That’s
obvious. You needn’t protest, Costock. It’s really not of any
importance, for I’m quite convinced that you didn’t reach the stage of
negotiations, so there’s no harm done. You put up in the village,
waiting for a chance to see him alone, I suppose?”
Costock nodded.
“And now explain how you came to be in at the death, please.”
“It was this way. As I was going through the village I came on a
boatman. It’s a hot day, so I thought I’d go on the river for a row.”
“And perhaps spy out the land, seeing that the grounds are easily
accessible from the river-bank?”
“Well, I don’t say yes and I don’t say no. It might have come in
handy.”
“And you took a pistol with you on your outing?”
Costock had his explanation ready.
“I thought as perhaps I’d run across Shandon and we might get talking.
He’s a violent-tempered swine—leastways, he was so. And ’t seemed to
me best to have a quietener in my pocket; for I’d have stood no chance
at all against him, man to man. He could ha’ licked me with one hand.”
“When did you leave the boat-house in the village?”
“’Bout three o’clock, as near as I can remember. But the boatman could
tell you. He took the time for hirin’ the boat.”
“You came up the river fairly slowly, then; and what happened after
that?”
“As I came along, I noticed a little private boat-house and a
landing-stage. I knew that would be Shandon’s place, for I’d asked the
boatman about it. Just as I was coming abreast of it, I heard some
yells; so I stopped rowing and let the boat drift. Then I heard
someone squalling ‘Murder’ at the pitch of his voice, behind some
hedges near by the water. So I pulled in, hitched up my boat, and ran
through the nearest hole in the hedge. And then I got tangled up in
that fandango of a thing they have there—what they call the Maze.”
“You didn’t see anyone running away from the Maze before you got in?”
“No.”
“Did you run about in the Maze or did you walk?”
Costock considered for a moment or two.
“I walked. Once I was inside, I got tangled up, as I told you; and I
didn’t want to be running round corners slap into a murderer.”
“And then?”
“Oh, after that I heard a lot o’ shoutin’ and a girl screamin’ an’ all
that sort o’ thing. But I was that tangled up I could get nowhere. I’d
got fair lost in that infernal monkey-puzzle.”
Sir Clinton turned to Wendover.
“This fellow was searched, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. Nothing on him but the pistol, and we took that away.”
Sir Clinton turned back to Costock.
“You can go now; but you’ll have to stay in the village for a day or
two. You’ll be wanted at the inquest. I may as well tell you that
you’ll be watched, so it’s no use trying to bolt.”
He dismissed the Ex-I.D.B. with scant ceremony; handed his dog over to
the care of the constable with orders to take it to the Grange; and
then went down the steps to Wendover’s car.