The Squire’s Theories
“We’ll have another look at the Maze, Squire, if you don’t mind
stopping there.”
Wendover nodded. He had expected the suggestion.
“You didn’t seem to overflow with sympathy for Shandon,” he commented.
“Friend Ernest raises my gorge,” admitted Sir Clinton frankly. “Did
you ever see a man in such a state? I never could stand that sort of
thing.”
Then, as though he felt he had been too hard on Ernest, he added
perfunctorily:
“Of course, he’d had rather a bad half hour of it.”
“I admire the restraint of your language,” said Wendover with a smile.
“But, you know, Clinton, I think you’re a bit hard on the beggar. What
could he do but run? I’d have run myself, and I make no bones about it
either.”
“Oh, so would I,” Sir Clinton conceded carelessly. “It wasn’t the
running that put my back up.”
“You mean that there’s running _and_ running, so to speak?”
“Exactly. Look at the case of that girl who was in the Maze when the
murders were done—Miss Forrest, I mean. She had just as much right as
Ernest to get hysterical. I won’t say she was as cool as a cucumber
when we saw her; one couldn’t expect that. But she kept her nerves in
order. She didn’t arrive at the house afterwards in a state of
whimpering panic.”
“No, that’s true,” Wendover confirmed. “She’s worth a dozen of Ernest
Shandon at a pinch, that girl. She kept her head and did exactly what
was wanted.”
“Quite so. She wasn’t thinking of her own skin all the time like
friend Ernest.”
“What’s all this about Stenness?” Wendover demanded. “Is it merely
some rot that Ernest’s squirted out in the middle of his funk, or is
there anything in it?”
“Here’s the Maze,” Sir Clinton interrupted, cutting him short.
“Suppose we postpone discussion till after dinner to-night, Squire. I
don’t want to be distracted for the next few minutes if you don’t
mind.”
They entered the Maze and made their way towards Helen’s Bower. Near
the door into it Wendover stopped suddenly and pointed to the pathway
at their feet.
“Hullo! Look, Clinton! There’s a bit of black thread lying on the
ground.”
They stooped over it and examined the fibre.
“Ordinary sewing-silk off a reel, obviously,” was all that Sir Clinton
vouchsafed.
Wendover thought he had seen more in the matter.
“Don’t you see what it is, Clinton? Ariadne’s clue! It’s a thread that
the murderer must have been using to find his way out of the Maze in a
hurry.”
“I showed you before that there’s no difficulty in the Maze if you’ve
once been taken to the centre.”
Wendover had his answer in readiness.
“Yes. But suppose you were the murderer, you would have to get out in
a hurry, wouldn’t you? And you might lose your head. Anybody might get
confused in the flurry. So he took the precaution of laying the thread
to the exit; and all he had to do was to follow it and reel it up as
he went. And this time a bit of it caught somewhere—see, this end’s
tangled in the hedge—and so broke off and he had to leave it behind.
When the Shandons were murdered he probably managed to reel up the
whole of it and so left no trace behind him.”
“Sounds plausible,” Sir Clinton commented curtly. “We may as well
collect the specimen, though really there’s nothing distinctive about
it. One bit of thread’s very much like another.”
“Sherlock Holmes might have made more out of it than that,” said
Wendover, rather resentful at the way his discovery had been treated.
“Doubtless. But as he isn’t here, what can we do? Just bumble along to
the best of our poor abilities. That’s what I’m doing, Squire.”
They entered the tiny enclosure of Helen’s Bower, and Wendover’s eye
was at once caught by a sparkle from the grass near one of the chairs.
He stepped across and picked up a silver cigar-case. Sir Clinton held
out his hand for it and glanced at the outside.
“It’s got a monogram, E.S., engraved on it,” he said. “This is
obviously friend Ernest’s. You remember he said something about
smoking a cigar here. He may have laid the case on his knee and jerked
it off without noticing it when he started on his Marathon for
safety.”
He held the case in his hand and seemed to give careful consideration
to some point. At last he came to a decision and turned to Wendover.
“I think we’ll say nothing about this for a day or two, Squire. I may
want to send this case up to London to have it examined, perhaps. I
can’t say yet. But in the meanwhile we’ll not mention that we found
it. Friend Ernest can take his cigars from the box, in the meantime.
That’s no great hardship for him.”
“You think the murderer may have picked it up, and you’ll get his
finger-prints from it? It’s a nice smooth surface.”
Sir Clinton looked up from the case with a gleam of amusement on his
features.
“You’re in charge of the Speculation, Surmise, and Conjecture
Department of this firm, Squire. I’m only a humble clerk in the Mum
and Dumb Section—telegraphic address: ‘Tongue-tied.’”
Wendover accepted the tacit rebuke without protest.
“Oh, have it your own way,” he said, “I forgot I wasn’t to expect
anything from you.”
Sir Clinton wrapped the cigar-case carefully in his handkerchief and
stowed it in his pocket before doing anything further.
“Now I think we’d better go and have a look at the loophole again,” he
suggested. “Though I hardly think it’s likely to have changed much
since I saw it last. But I have a sort of feeling that Sherlock would
have found something there, and perhaps you might be able to spot it,
even if I can’t. That’s the worst of this detective business: one
needs an eye for detail and I never had it.”
With an air of deep solemnity he led the way to the outer side of the
hedge, approached the loophole, and peered into it for a time.
“No,” he admitted finally with a crestfallen air, “it seems just the
same as it was when I saw it last.”
He put his hand into the hole.
“Not even a bird’s nest or any little thing of that kind,” he
announced disconsolately. “Ah, we need Sherlock; we need Sherlock.
He’d have found some cigar-ash or something of that sort, no doubt. I
can’t see it. Have a look yourself, Squire.”
Rather irritated by the chaff, Wendover stooped and stared into the
loophole. He had to confess, however, that he saw nothing in the
slightest degree suggestive.
“No broken twigs where the murderer rested his air-gun?” Sir Clinton
inquired. “Have a good look; the price is the same for two peeps as
for one. Special terms by the hour, if you care to . . . Ugh! Damn
these spiders! That gossamer’s all over the place—filthy, filmy
stuff!”
He rubbed his hand on the hedge while Wendover grinned at his
annoyance.
“Serves you right, Clinton! It’ll take your mind off all this
persiflage business.”
Sir Clinton seemed engrossed in removing the remaining filaments from
his hand.
“Pity Sherlock isn’t here,” he let fall in a regretful tone. “He
turned into an entomologist of sorts when he retired. Perhaps he could
tell us what earthly use spiders can be.”
“They keep down flies,” said Wendover, instructively.
“So they do. Illuminating idea! I wish I’d thought of it myself. They
keep down flies!”
“When you’ve quite finished being funny, perhaps you’ll get on with
your job, Clinton. You’re supposed to be detecting murderers, not
delivering lectures on insects.”
Sir Clinton dropped his jesting tone at once.
“Quite right. We ought to be getting along to the police-station now.”
“Aren’t you going to do any more here?”
“No.”
“What about bringing up that dog of yours and seeing if it can do
anything?”
“The dog could do nothing in this case,” said Sir Clinton, definitely.
“It would be a mere waste of time.”
“Well, you seem to know your own mind about that,” Wendover said
rather wonderingly. “I suppose you know best. But I’d have thought it
worth trying.”
Sir Clinton made no reply, but led the way through the Maze to the
car.
“We’ll call at the police-station on the road home, Squire, if you’ll
run us round there. I’m expecting some more reports. And some men must
come up here and search for anything left about—not that it really
matters. By the way,” he added, casually, “I suppose you know who the
murderer is by this time?”
Wendover could only express astonishment at the question.
“Well, you’ve had every chance,” was all that Sir Clinton would
vouchsafe.
“If you know who he is, why don’t you arrest him at once?” Wendover
demanded.
“There’s a big gap between knowing a thing and proving it,” said Sir
Clinton, cautiously.
At the police-station the Chief Constable got out of the car and went
in to interview his subordinates. In a minute or two he was back
again, with some papers in his hands; and they drove on to the Grange.
“I’ve just time to ring up Ardsley before going upstairs,” he said,
when they arrived; and he disappeared in the direction of the
telephone. Wendover noticed that this time Sir Clinton closed the door
of the room behind him, instead of leaving it ajar as he had done on
the previous occasions; so that no sound came out during the
conversation.
“I wonder what he’s up to with that confounded Jack-the-Ripper,”
Wendover speculated uneasily, as he went upstairs to dress. “Well,
perhaps he’ll tell me something after dinner.”
But when they had settled themselves in their easy chairs after
dinner, he found that Sir Clinton evidently intended to reverse the
rôles.
“Now then, Squire, _you’re_ under no restraint of official secrecy.
What do you make of the affair so far?”
“I see. I’m to be Watson, and then you’ll prove what an ass I am. I’m
not over keen.”
Sir Clinton hastened to reassure him.
“I’m not going to poke fun at you merely for the sake of making you
uncomfortable, Squire. It would really be some help if I could see the
thing from a fresh point of view. Lord knows, I’m not infallible; and
you may quite easily hit on something that’ll put a new light on
things and prevent me making a bad mistake.”
The obvious sincerity of this was enough to placate Wendover. He had
been cogitating deeply over the Whistlefield affair, and he felt that
if he could not suggest a provable solution of the mystery, at least
he could bring a reasonable amount of criticism to bear on the
available evidence.
“What we have to account for,” he began, “are: first, the murder of
the two Shandons; second, the burglary; third, the attack on Ernest
Shandon; and, fourth, the so-called hanky-panky with the cheque.”
“That’s correct,” Sir Clinton agreed. “But suppose we leave out the
cheque affair at present. We really know nothing definite about it
yet.”
Wendover was dissatisfied with this ruling.
“It seems to me an essential part in the scheme of things. Let me put
the case as I see it. Hackleton is at the back of the whole affair, I
take it; but he’s been employing an agent; and that agent has been
going beyond Hackleton’s instructions and has been operating on his
own to a certain extent. I think that fits everything in the case.”
Sir Clinton seemed inclined to dispute this conclusion, but he
restrained himself and merely nodded to Wendover to continue.
“I see your objection, I think,” the Squire went on. “You meant to
say: ‘Why were _both_ the Shandons murdered when it was only Neville’s
death that was essential to Hackleton?’ But there’s quite a plausible
explanation of that. You can’t hang a man twice. So if a man decides
to commit a single murder, he might as well commit two. The
punishment’s the same for a quantity. And if he can commit two with
equal impunity—as in the Maze—mightn’t it occur to him that two
murders would be a stiffer problem than one murder, in these
particular circumstances? Isn’t it the double murder that’s giving all
the difficulty? Of course it is. If either Shandon had been murdered
solus, we’d know at once the line to look up. But at present we don’t.
Now why shouldn’t the murderer have seen that very point and utilised
it?”
Sir Clinton nodded.
“That’s ingenious, Squire. I’m not ironical.”
“I’d rather choose that solution than any of the other possible ones.
If you reject it, you’ve got to assume that two independent murderers,
both using the same out-of-the-way method, chose to operate
simultaneously. The chances against that are miles too big. Or else
you have to believe that two co-operating murderers were at work and
that each of them thought he had the right victim in front of him. I
can’t quite swallow the notion that this was a co-operative affair.
The third solution is that the murderer mistook one brother for the
other, killed Roger first, and then had to kill Neville to carry out
his instructions. He might have had only a general description of
Neville Shandon to go on and may have made a mistake in identity.”
“I doubt if Hackleton would have left any loophole of that sort,” Sir
Clinton interrupted. “Neville’s portrait could easily have been bought
and given to the murderer. But it’s not worth while arguing the point.
The murderer knew the two Shandons perfectly well by sight. I’m sure
of my ground there.”
“You mean the murderer was a local man?” demanded Wendover. “How did
you find that out?”
“I’m not going to tell you at present, Squire. Sorry to play the
mystery-man, and all that sort of stuff; but it has to be done.”
Wendover was plainly distrustful of this point.
“If it _was_ a local affair, what was the black silk thread then? The
thread we found in the Maze not a couple of hours ago.”
Sir Clinton closed his eyes as though pondering deeply.
“Yes indeed,” he said oracularly, “what was the silk thread?”
He sat up suddenly and beamed on Wendover.
“I should say it was a clue.”
“Damn your leg-pulling,” the Squire broke out. “I shan’t go on, if
you’re going to make the whole thing into a farce.”
Sir Clinton apologised.
“Sorry. You took the wrong meaning out of what I said. But don’t let’s
waste time over it. Please go ahead, Squire.”
Only partly mollified, Wendover continued his analysis.
“The next thing is the burglary. That was obviously a case of getting
at some document belonging to Neville Shandon. You remember the
fragment of notes for his cross-examination that was found in his
hand? They got some of his stuff, but clearly they suspected that he
might have more notes. So they burgled his room to see if they could
find anything further.”
This time Sir Clinton showed no desire to criticise.
“Right! On the face of it, the burglary and the murder of Neville
Shandon fit together. But the trouble is that the commission of the
burglary would show that it was Neville they were after, and hence
make the murder of Roger useless as a blind. I merely point out the
snag. I’m not trying to carp, Squire.”
Wendover thought for a minute or more in silence. Then he produced a
reply.
“The two murders were part of a pre-devised scheme, as I suggested.
But afterwards, the murderer found he hadn’t got the documents
complete. He had to get them if possible. So he took the risk of the
burglary giving the show away.”
Sir Clinton admitted the possibility of such a case.
“But now what about the attack on Ernest Shandon. How does that fit
in?”
“What’s one murder more or less to a man who has two on his soul
already? The attack on Ernest may have been an extra blind, simply,
like the murder of Roger Shandon. Suppose they’d got Ernest this
afternoon, wouldn’t that have tangled the business up still further?”
“Admitted, of course. And really friend Ernest would hardly have been
missed. Is that all the theory you have on the point?”
Wendover was rather doubtful about putting forward his second choice.
“It might have been a practical joke, of course. Someone with a sense
of humour rather out of gear might have had a grudge against the
little beast and, knowing he was an arrant coward, they might have
stirred him up without meaning to do him any real harm—just used an
ordinary air-gun dart.”
He looked at Sir Clinton suspiciously.
“You yourself didn’t waste much worry over him, it seemed to me. I
thought at the time that you were taking it as a practical joke,
somehow.”
“A very practical joke,” Sir Clinton said, but he kept every tinge of
expression out of his voice when he made the comment.
“Now we can go on to the identity of Hackleton’s agent,” Wendover
resumed. “You say it was some one who knew the Shandons by sight. It
must have been someone who had leave to come and go at will through
the Whistlefield grounds, or else someone who landed on the
river-bank. That limits things down a good deal. Roger Shandon didn’t
encourage strangers to roam about his place. The gardeners had orders
to turn out anyone who ventured in, unless they were going up to the
house on business. No stranger or neighbour—bar Costock—was on the
premises so far as is known. I came across one of the gardeners and he
told me that.”
Sir Clinton had no hesitation in confirming this.
“That agrees with all my men have been able to make out.”
“Then,” Wendover proceeded, “we’re limited down to the people at the
house, the staff of the place, and Costock.”
“Go on,” Sir Clinton encouraged him.
Wendover pulled a notebook from his pocket and consulted some figures
which he had jotted down at the time he heard the original evidence.
“If you take the facts as we know them,” he went on, “it’s clear that
Neville Shandon could not have reached the Maze before 3.37 p.m.; and
the second murder was over before 4.5 p.m. As a matter of fact, the
times really allow less margin than that, for Neville’s body was found
at 3.52 p.m. and both were probably dead by that time.”
“I think that’s quite demonstrable on Torrance’s evidence,” Sir
Clinton admitted.
“That means then that the murderer left the Maze at some time not much
earlier than four o’clock, since Miss Forrest heard him in the Maze
after Neville’s body was found by Torrance at 3.52 p.m.”
“Most probable on the face of it.”
“Then if you find someone in such a position that they could not have
been in the Maze at 4 p.m., they’re cleared.”
“True.”
Wendover produced from a cupboard an Ordnance Survey map of the
district.
“Let’s take each person in turn and see if we can establish their
positions during the afternoon.”
“I can help you there,” Sir Clinton volunteered. “I got most of it in
the police reports. They were busy on that very point.”
Wendover nodded and began without more ado.
“Sylvia Hawkhurst. She was out paying a call, wasn’t she?”
“Yes,” Sir Clinton explained. “She and friend Ernest went off in the
car from the house at about eighteen minutes past three. At a quarter
to four—just about the moment when the murders occurred—she was in a
shop buying shoe-laces. That precludes any chance of her having used
the car to get back to the Maze at the critical time. After that she
paid a call on some friends and stayed with them until she came back
home after six o’clock.”
“What about Ernest Shandon?”
Sir Clinton smiled.
“Miss Hawkhurst dropped him at the East Gate as she passed out. It’s
about two-and-a-half miles to the East Gate, and she says she was
driving about fifteen miles an hour—it’s a narrow road, you remember.
That means she dropped him at the East Gate at about 3.30. It’s the
best part of two miles back to the Maze. Friend Ernest could hardly
have walked it in fifteen minutes, could he? And he’s not much of a
runner, to judge by his condition this morning. As a matter of fact,
his story’s completely confirmed by other evidence. My men interviewed
the driver of the post-cart. At 4.20 he came upon Ernest squatting by
the roadside, about a mile along the public road, into which the East
Gate leads. It’s a place where there’s a little wood, easily
identifiable. Friend Ernest was sitting there with his boot off,
damning the nail that had hurt him.”
Wendover looked at his map.
“That clears him. I can see the wood; it’s the only one that abuts on
the road in that stretch. Now what about Arthur?”
“We’ve only his own word for his movements. He certainly set out for
the spinney; but that’s all one can say.”
Wendover scanned his map once more.
“The spinney’s only a mile from the Maze in a direct line. He might
have cut across and got away again; and no one would be any wiser. He
had all the afternoon for the affair.”
His face clouded.
“Somehow, I don’t think he was responsible, Clinton.”
Sir Clinton made no direct reply.
“He was hardly a likely agent for Hackleton to fix on, at any rate,”
he observed.
“Well, let’s get on. What about the gardeners?”
“Two of them were working in a field about a mile from the Maze all
afternoon. Each clears the other.”
“And the third gardener who was on the spot that day—the man Skene?”
“His story is that he was working in the kitchen-garden near the
house. There’s no evidence against that.”
“The maids? And the chauffeur?”
“All accounted for. They had nothing to do with the affair.”
“And Stenness?”
Wendover looked keenly at Sir Clinton as he brought out the
secretary’s name; but the Chief Constable showed no sign of special
interest.
“Stenness?” he repeated. “Stenness was undoubtedly at the house at
twenty to five, or thereabouts, for Miss Forrest saw him when she came
back.”
“Then he’d plenty of time to be down at the Maze at the critical
period and get home to the house again while Torrance and Miss Forrest
were wandering about in the labyrinth?”
“He had,” Sir Clinton agreed, gravely.
“He’d have been the ideal agent for Hackleton,” Wendover pursued. “And
if Ernest’s not got the wind up about nothing—which is always
possible, of course—Stenness would be worth watching.”
“He is being watched,” Sir Clinton assured him, and then seemed to
regret his confidence.
Wendover, however, seized on the point at once.
“Ah! So after all your criticisms it seems you believe in my original
theory!”
“I’ve forgotten which that was, by this time,” Sir Clinton admitted.
“What was it?”
The Squire was rather nettled.
“You poured scorn on it at the time. What I said was this: Suppose
Hackleton hired a man to put Neville Shandon out of the way. You say
that was a local man, according to some evidence which you haven’t
divulged to me. Very good. If he was a local man, he might have had
access to Roger Shandon’s private papers, his cheque-book, and so
forth. When he was hired for the Neville Shandon business, he may have
decided to make a bit extra by forgery, and cover it up by the second
murder. Two murders are as cheap as one, when it comes to pay for
them; and Roger’s murder has confused the trail very considerably.
It’s only a question of identifying the man who could have managed all
that without going too much out of his way and attracting attention.”
Sir Clinton had been listening carefully to Wendover’s exposition.
“That’s very neat indeed,” he conceded. “It would certainly hold
water, if it fitted all the facts that you know, Squire; but
unfortunately it leaves out of account the most interesting fact of
all.”
“And that is?” Wendover demanded, with some asperity. He was annoyed
to find that he had overlooked something.
“That is the most interesting fact of all,” Sir Clinton assured him
blandly. Then, with a change of tone: “And that’s all I’m able to say
just now, Squire. I’ve no fault to find with your reasoning. It hangs
together beautifully. But sometimes the human mind, if you follow me,
is apt to assume connections where no such things exist in Nature.
We’ve got an instinctive craving to trace associations between sets of
phenomena—and at times we kid ourselves that there is some
relationship when really it’s only a case of simultaneity.”
“You’ve been reading one of these shilling manuals lately,” said
Wendover suspiciously. “‘How to be a Philosopher in Ten Minutes,’ or
something like that. All this gay talk about simultaneity and
phenomena and association comes straight from there. You can’t deceive
me with a veneer of learning.”
“Well, I won’t dazzle you with further extracts. Let’s get back to
business. Go on with your list.”
“Young Torrance,” Wendover continued. “He’s a possible agent. I don’t
know about his financial circumstances; he may be hard up, for all I
know, and amenable to the cash bait that Hackleton could offer. It
would be a pretty big one. Young Torrance was the person who proposed
that game in the Maze to Miss Forrest. That would give him a
reasonable excuse for being in the Maze at that particular time; and
further, it would ensure that he was free from the girl’s supervision
at the critical moment. Could you have invented a neater dodge
yourself if you’d been set to it?”
“No,” Sir Clinton admitted, frankly, “I doubt if I could.”
“Take another point,” Wendover pursued his line of reasoning with
increased interest. “What evidence have we that there ever was a third
individual in the Maze at all? Torrance’s statements: but if Torrance
was the murderer himself, of course he’d insist that a third person
was present. Miss Forrest’s story of someone running in the Maze: but
that may have been Torrance himself. You remember that she found it
most difficult to tell the direction from which sounds came when she
was in the Maze.”
“That’s a theory that might take some upsetting, Squire, if you can
explain just one point. What did Torrance do with his air-gun after
he’d finished with it? No air-gun was found in the Maze after the
business. The murderer got rid of it somehow.”
“I see no great difficulty there,” Wendover pointed out at once. “Look
at the time Miss Forrest spent in wandering up and down in the Maze,
unable to find her way out. If Torrance knew the labyrinth, he could
easily make his way through it, get out to the river bank, chuck his
gun into the water, and sprint back again into the Maze before she
noticed his absence.”
He thought for a moment before adding:
“In fact, I don’t see why he mayn’t have got rid of the gun in the
interval between the last murder and the moment he gave the alarm—the
time when he shouted out that he’d found the body.”
He paused again. Then a further flash of insight threw a fresh light
on the case.
“Why, of course, that would account for the running man. He would be
rushing to the river bank and back again as quick as he could go, for
the essential thing would be to get rid of the gun before anyone met
him in the Maze.”
Sir Clinton had dropped all his air of superior criticism.
“That’s remarkably neat, Squire. I shouldn’t be surprised if it
doesn’t touch the root of the business—at one or two points, at the
least.”
Curiously enough, the Chief Constable’s comment produced a complete
change in Wendover’s mental outlook. He had fallen upon the
Whistlefield case with all the enthusiasm of the irresponsible
amateur. The mystery of it had caught his imagination, and he had
thrown himself into the chase for a solution with an eagerness which
he had hardly realised himself. He felt no more responsibility than if
he had been attempting to follow clues in a detective story. Even the
characters involved in the affair failed to give him any particular
emotional background. He had never been intimate with the Shandon
group; and some of the party he had not so much as seen before the
tragedy occurred. Consequently, though he had used the real names of
the various people concerned in the affair, they had borne no more
significance than if he had said “Mr. X” or “Mr. Y.” The atmosphere in
which he had worked had been that of a chess problem rather than an
affair in real life.
And now, at Sir Clinton’s change of attitude, he caught a glimpse of a
fresh side. It seemed that the line of thought which he had suggested
might lead to something definite. It was no longer a case of idle
speculation about the criminality of Mr. X or the guilt of Mr. Y.
Instead, it was a question whether that rather decent young fellow
Howard Torrance was going to find his neck in a noose one of these
fine mornings. His own speculations might be the starting-point for a
fresh line of detection. It came upon him with something of oppression
that in his position with regard to Sir Clinton, his speculations
might be put to practical use. Situated as he was, it was hardly so
irresponsible a position as he had supposed.
But at this point in his train of thought a fresh idea occurred to
him.
“Clinton said he knew who the murderer is. So my speculations don’t
matter much. But it would have been a bad business if I’d turned
suspicion on young Torrance. He might have had a lot of difficulty in
clearing himself, if Clinton had taken up that line.”
Sir Clinton broke in at this moment.
“You don’t suspect Miss Forrest, I suppose!”
“No.”
All the amusement had gone out of the game, so far as Wendover was
concerned; but Sir Clinton seemed to have no inkling of this, and
pursued his way through the list.
“Then that leaves Costock,” he pointed out.
“I don’t think Costock did it,” Wendover declared. He felt inclined to
turn his criticism into the other camp now. “What have you against
Costock? Can you bring any evidence to show that he had curare in
hand? Or that he had an air-gun? Or even that he was in the Maze at
all at the time of the murders?”
“If that’s your line,” said Sir Clinton, with a non-committal gesture,
“we’ll say no more about it. I’ll look after Costock. Now there’s one
name left—Ardsley. You’d better leave Ardsley to me, Squire. You’re
far too apt to see red on that subject. You couldn’t produce an
unbiased view of him if you tried.”
“Have you any evidence about his movements that afternoon?” Wendover
asked, perfunctorily.
Sir Clinton also seemed to have grown tired of the business.
“You’ll find Ardsley’s name pretty prominent in the Whistlefield
business when it’s all cleared up, I think. But I’m not prepared at
present to say exactly what his part in the affair may turn out to be
in the end.”
Wendover was only too glad to let the matter rest at this point.
Irresponsible speculation is one thing; speculation which may lead up
to a death sentence is something quite different. Suppose his
ingenious reasoning—he had to admit that some of it was ingenious—were
to lead to a wrongful conviction? He hadn’t quite seen it in that
light before. It was all very well for Clinton to go in for
theorising. It was his job to find the criminal and convict him. But
Wendover had begun to feel that it was hardly for an amateur to step
in and take a hand. Why, already he had light-heartedly thrown out
suspicions against several people; and obviously some, at least, of
these suspicions must be baseless. He would keep out of the field in
future, he resolved.
But there was still one point in connection with the Whistlefield case
which had given him a good deal of perplexity. It threw no suspicion
on anyone. He decided to clear it up if possible.
“There’s one thing I’ve been thinking over,” he began. “Why did you
pretend you’d forgotten those darts on the museum mantelpiece, when
all the time you’d left them there deliberately? You acted the part
pretty well, Clinton. You took me in completely at the first rush. I
thought it was real vexation over a genuine mistake. But when I’d had
time to think about it, I saw plainly enough that you’d done it on
purpose. You’re not the sort that makes silly mistakes of that kind.”
Sir Clinton came out of his reserve at once.
“I’m not fooling now, Squire,” he said gravely. “I’m absolutely
serious. I’ve staked my main case on that affair. I’m not able to tell
you how or why at present. But you mustn’t breathe a word about it to
a living soul, _no matter what happens next_.”
Wendover, in that moment, had a glimpse of a rarely-displayed side of
Sir Clinton’s character. It convinced him, without further argument.
“Very good. Nobody will learn it from me.”
“You may find it pretty difficult to hold your tongue, Squire; but I
trust you to do it. The temptation will probably be very strong before
long. I’m hoping for the best; but I warn you that I’m expecting some
pretty black work at Whistlefield before we’re through with this
business. I couldn’t help seeing the funny side of Ernest Shandon’s
affair; but the next one may not have much fun about it. You can take
my word for it that Tragedy’s in the wings, now, waiting for its cue.
So, _no matter what happens_, keep a tight grip on your tongue. You’re
the only one who could spot that I was acting then. Nobody at
Whistlefield knows anything about me. They took me for a blundering
idiot. And that’s precisely what I wanted.”