The Dart
The period immediately following the attack upon Sylvia was one of
intense inquietude in Wendover’s mind. Up to that point he had
persuaded himself that the affairs at Whistlefield would eventually
prove to be linked up in some way with the Hackleton case. The
connection of some of the incidents—the attack on Ernest Shandon, for
one—had certainly been obscure; but Wendover had nursed an irrational
belief that in the end all the threads would lead back to Hackleton,
and that the whole mystery would find a simple explanation which would
bring it within the borders of normal motives and sane sequences of
actions.
The latest tragedy, however, could not be squared with any of his
preconceived ideas. What possible relationship could exist between
Hackleton and Sylvia which would make her removal essential to the
financier? It was hardly likely that either she or Ernest had been the
repository of Neville Shandon’s secrets.
But if Hackleton dropped out of the piece, then the whole affair
seemed to lose any thread of purpose and to become a mere massacre
perpetrated by some being urged on by motives which lay outside the
bounds of reason. Instead of a coldly calculating criminal, Wendover
seemed to find himself confronted by a creature beyond the pale of
humanity, a thing that slew at random out of sheer lust for death. His
own normal mind revolted from such a monster; and he strove hard to
piece the evidence together again in some way which would eliminate
this nightmare figure and replace it by a criminal actuated by motives
which sane intellects could grasp.
As soon as he got Sir Clinton alone after the tragedy at Whistlefield,
he had done his best to extort information; but in this he had failed
completely. Every one of his inquiries was met by a curt denial of any
ulterior knowledge, though it was manifest that Sir Clinton was
concentrating his whole mind on the latest developments in the
Whistlefield affair. Despite this blank negation, however, the Squire
got the impression that the Chief Constable’s anxiety centred round
Sylvia rather than the Whistlefield case as a whole. From an unguarded
word he inferred that Sir Clinton had, somehow or other, taken a risk;
and that the results had been very different from what he had
expected. Something had cut across Sir Clinton’s schemes and had
shaken his confidence.
Even when he abandoned his fruitless inquisition and went to bed,
Wendover was unable to free himself from the latest tragedy. His mind
insisted on conjuring up pictures: some of them memories, others
imaginary scenes in which the unknown murderer played his part. He saw
the bridge-table at the end of the rubber, with the cards of the last
trick lying still ungathered, Sir Clinton putting down the marker, a
cigarette smouldering on the ash-tray, Vera Forrest shuffling the pack
for the next deal. Nothing could have been more peaceful. Then, in a
flash, came the transformation scene. He lived again through the
nightmare moment when the lethal dart sped in upon them from the outer
dark, changing their fancied security into a thing of horror and
peril. And from this his imagination passed to that lurking monster in
the gloom beyond the window: a vague, featureless figure, crouching
among the rhododendrons, lifting the thin barrel of the air-gun in
search of the appointed victim. In uneasy visions such as these, his
night dragged slowly on.
Morning brought Wendover no release from his anxiety. Before he had
come downstairs, Sir Clinton had been busy with the telephone; and his
face was sufficient to show that he had had bad news. Wendover hardly
dared to ask what it was; for his guest’s features plainly betrayed
that the worst might be expected.
“Ardsley’s been telephoning,” Sir Clinton explained briefly. “She’s
much worse. There was a bad collapse in the early morning and they
just managed to pull her through. Luckily the nurses were on the spot,
so everything was done that could be done. But Ardsley seems to have
very little hope now. He thinks the dose of the poison must have been
bigger than we thought.”
He bit his lip, seemed on the verge of saying something else, then
ended by changing his mind and choosing other words: “We must go
across there after breakfast, Squire, I must see Ardsley. You’ve no
idea how this affair worries me.”
“I think I have a fair notion,” Wendover replied. “I’ve had a pretty
bad night over it myself. It’s a damnable affair.”
Sir Clinton nodded absent-mindedly. He was evidently lost in his
thoughts. By the set of his mouth, Wendover could guess that they were
anything but pleasant.
Though he hardly admitted it to himself, Sir Clinton’s behaviour was
another factor which had loosened Wendover’s grip on the normal world.
Hitherto the Chief Constable had seemed so sure of his case that he
had treated it almost lightly; but now it was self-evident that
something had gone wrong. Things had not worked out according to plan.
The tragedy which he had predicted had forced itself into being; but
now that it had come he appeared unable to act the part of the _deus
ex machina_ which he seemed to have meant to play. This sudden change
disturbed Wendover deeply. The man on whom he had been relying to
clear up the mystery appeared to be perplexed and anxious instead of
cool and resolute.
When they reached Whistlefield, Ernest Shandon was the first person
who came to meet them.
“This is a terrible business!” he lamented, as he came into the study
where they were. “It’s a dreadful affair, really. A dreadful affair!
Ardsley’s very down about it, very down. You know, he wouldn’t do for
a doctor in practice. He’s most unsympathetic. Most doctors are
careful: they don’t blurt things out in the callous sort of way that
Ardsley does. He doesn’t think about one’s feelings in the slightest.
One expects a little decent circumlocution from a doctor; but there’s
none of that about him. I asked him this morning if Sylvia had passed
a good night; and he just glared at me and snarled that she was lucky
to be alive at all; snarled it out as if she had been one of the dogs
he cuts up. Is that the way to break bad news to a relation? I call it
beastly. He never thinks of what it means to us. It’s just a case to
him, I suppose. But look what it means to us. Sylvia runs the house so
well. I don’t know what we’ll do without her.”
Sir Clinton had let him run on; but quite evidently he had no
intention of wasting much time listening to Ernest’s lamentations.
“Miss Forrest must be resting just now, I suppose?”
“Yes,” Ernest assured him, “she was up helping Ardsley until the
nurses came; and after that she didn’t seem able to sleep, so she sat
up for a while. Ardsley came down and found her in the early morning,
so he sent her off to bed. So he told me. I had gone to bed myself
some time before.”
Sir Clinton made no comment and Ernest proceeded with his complaints.
“What I feel is that the police aren’t doing anything. Why haven’t you
arrested somebody? My nerves are beginning to wear thin under this
strain, I tell you. Here we have some murderer haunting the
neighbourhood. He kills my brothers; he attacks me; he brings my niece
to death’s door—and all the time the police look on with their hands
in their pockets. What are they paid for? That’s what I ask you. Why
don’t they lay hands on the fellow? What sort of a life do you think
I’m leading just now? Every time I go outside the house I have the
feeling that the scoundrel may be lurking behind the next bush,
getting his gun ready. That’s a pretty state of things. And not a
finger do you lift to help!”
“I offered you a guard of constables for Whistlefield not so long ago,
Mr. Shandon. You refused it then. I’m sorry it isn’t available now. I
have other work for my men at present.”
Ernest was somewhat taken aback by this reminder.
“So you did, so you did. I’d forgotten that.”
Sir Clinton seemed inclined to accept this as an apology.
“I should like to see Mr. Stenness for a moment in private, if you
don’t mind, Mr. Shandon. Could you send him to me?”
Ernest evidently felt that he had let his tongue run away with him.
Possibly some faint realisation of the display of cowardice which he
had made was dawning upon his mind. At any rate, he hastened to meet
Sir Clinton’s wish.
“I’ll hunt him up and send him to you,” he announced with surprising
conciseness; and he left the room without further talk.
While they were waiting for Stenness the door opened and Arthur
Hawkhurst came in. Rather to Wendover’s surprise he showed no trace of
the ill-feeling which he had displayed so strongly on the previous
night. Instead, he seemed rather shamefaced; and he opened in an
unexpected vein.
“I behaved like a young cub last night, Sir Clinton,” he admitted
frankly. “I daresay I said a lot of things that I shouldn’t have said.
But you know quite well”—his teeth showed in an engaging smile—“I was
badly upset. Anyone might be, I think. Poor Sylvia! I’m deuced fond of
her, you know. She’s about the only person in the world that matters a
tinker’s curse to me. So naturally I wasn’t quite level-headed; and I
daresay I said things I shouldn’t have said.”
“That’s all right,” Sir Clinton assured him. “I understood perfectly
how you felt. Forget it, and don’t worry. You’ve trouble enough
without bothering about trifles just now.”
Arthur nodded a gloomy acquiescence.
“Have you any notion why the thing was done?”
Sir Clinton was careful not to give a direct answer.
“We’re doing our best.”
Arthur’s eye lighted up.
“I wish you’d let me take a hand. Perhaps I could be of some use?”
“Not just at present, I’m afraid.”
Arthur took the rejection badly.
“Nothing to hinder my working on my own, then, is there? You can’t
prevent that. And if I come across the brute you needn’t expect to be
allowed to butt in then, you know. I’ll tackle him myself. Hanging’s
too good for him.”
“I agree with you there,” Sir Clinton said unguardedly. Then he added
with a faint smile: “We’re speaking quite unofficially, of course.”
Arthur looked up suspiciously.
“I’m not quite sure what you mean. But what _I_ mean’s quite plain and
can be put into plain English. If I can lay my hands on the man who
tried to murder Sylvia, he’ll wish for a decent hanging before I’m
done with him. I’ll . . .”
“That’s enough, Mr. Hawkhurst,” Sir Clinton interrupted sharply. “We
don’t want to hear about it.”
Arthur’s temper boiled up at the words. Wendover, glancing at his
face, saw the features contorted in hardly-restrained fury. With an
effort, the boy fought down his anger until he could speak.
“If anything happens to Sylvia I’ll get the brute yet; and then he’ll
wish he’d never been born. That’s that!”
He swung round on his heel and left the room.
Sir Clinton sighed slightly as the door closed.
“Oh, Lord!” he exclaimed softly, as if to himself. “I hadn’t reckoned
on _that_. This is growing devilishly complicated.”
Wendover had pricked up his ears.
“What’s the trouble now?”
Sir Clinton seemed to realise that he had spoken his thoughts aloud.
“It’s another factor that I hadn’t allowed for,” he admitted. But he
refused to divulge anything further; and Wendover had to content
himself with the cryptic phrase.
Stenness did not keep them waiting long. When he came into the study,
Wendover was surprised to see the change which the night seemed to
have made in the secretary’s appearance. He was heavy-eyed; and his
features had a drawn expression as though he had passed through some
great strain.
“I suppose we all look a bit like that, after this affair,” Wendover
commented to himself. “Clinton’s half killing himself with anxiety;
young Hawkhurst’s far from normal; and I suppose I must look a bit
white about the gills myself. It’s only to be expected.”
Sir Clinton wasted no time on preliminaries, but came to the point at
once.
“Mr. Shandon told us that you knew the contents of Roger Shandon’s
will. Can you give me the gist of it? It’s not a confidential document
now, of course.”
“There’s a copy of it in the safe here,” Stenness explained. “You can
look it over if you like.”
“Thanks. But if you can remember the main points it may save me the
trouble of reading through it.”
Stenness took a key from his pocket and went across to open the safe
which was built into the wall of the study.
“The will’s simple enough. All the property is to be divided equally
between Neville Shandon, Ernest Shandon, Miss Hawkhurst, and Arthur
Hawkhurst. There’s the usual provision about heirs and survivors of
that group.”
“What I particularly want to know is whether there’s any residuary
legatee mentioned, anybody who takes the remainder of the estate after
all other legacies have been paid in full.”
“I don’t remember any provision of that sort,” Stenness admitted,
searching among the papers in the safe. “Here’s the copy of the will
if you’d care to look at it.”
He handed it over to Sir Clinton who unfolded it and began to read.
“He left you nothing, did he?” the Chief Constable asked casually, as
he continued his study of the document.
Stenness was plainly surprised by the question.
“No. Why should he? I’ve only been with him a year or two. I’m not an
old family retainer who’s earned a pension. As a matter of fact, there
are no bequests of the kind.”
“So I see,” Sir Clinton agreed when he had finished his reading. “It’s
a very short will, not complicated by any of the provisions they often
put into these things.”
He seemed to ponder over the matter for a moment or two.
“I had rather expected to find a residuary legatee in the thing
somewhere; but you’re quite right, there’s nothing of the sort
mentioned. You don’t happen to know anything about Neville Shandon’s
will, do you? It wouldn’t fall into your province.”
Stenness shook his head.
“I never read it. But I witnessed it, as it happens. And the
impression I got from a glance at the last page was that it may have
run on the same lines as Roger’s. You can easily get a copy of it once
it’s filed, if you need it.”
Sir Clinton handed back the will and rose to his feet as the secretary
restored the document to the safe.
“I see you have a key of that thing?”
Stenness closed the safe and put the key back into his pocket.
“Yes, Mr. Shandon told me to keep this one. I’ve been arranging the
papers for him and it was more convenient that I should have the key.
It saved him the bother of always handing it over when I needed it.”
“You hadn’t a key in Roger Shandon’s time?”
“No, Roger was rather a different sort of person.”
“By the way, Mr. Stenness, are you staying on here as secretary to
Ernest Shandon?”
Stenness seemed slightly taken aback by the question.
“There’s no definite arrangement, so far. I’m staying until the estate
affairs have been cleared up; but after that I doubt if I shall remain
here. I can do better than this.”
“I suppose you could,” Sir Clinton agreed indifferently.
He looked at his watch.
“I want to see Dr. Ardsley now. I’m rather in a hurry at present; but
there are one or two more questions I want to put to you sometime, Mr.
Stenness. Will you be free after dinner to-night? Very well, I’ll come
across then. Now, if you could let Dr. Ardsley know I’m here.”
Stenness was evidently a prompt messenger, for Ardsley appeared almost
at once. Wendover scanned his face eagerly as he came into the room.
Here was the person who might be able to set their minds at ease. But
Ardsley’s countenance gave him no cause for raising his spirits. It
betrayed nothing but gloom and anxiety.
“She’s much worse. I’d hoped for a rally after that attack in the
night, but she hasn’t pulled herself together.”
“Tell us plainly what you think,” demanded Sir Clinton. “You needn’t
beat about the bush where we’re concerned.”
Ardsley’s face seemed to grow, if anything, graver than before.
“I can hold out no great hope. Frankly, I think it will be all up
soon—to-night, perhaps.”
No one seemed inclined to speak. Wendover was trying to force himself
to face what now seemed inevitable. Death often came swiftly; but the
circumstances of Sylvia’s tragedy gave it a quality which ordinary
deaths do not possess. He could hardly assure himself that the whole
thing was not a nightmare. There seemed to be something so aimless in
the whole business, the killing of a young girl against whom no one
could conceivably harbour any personal grudge. The inhuman
purposelessness which had cut Sylvia down on the threshold of her life
seemed more terrible to him than any planned scheme would have done;
for a calculated crime would imply a motive, whereas this deed seemed
to have arisen out of mere chaos—something outside normal things.
Sir Clinton took a step towards the door and then seemed to change his
mind.
“Do you think you could get some vinegar and some washing soda?” he
asked, turning to Ardsley. “There’s something I’d like to be sure
about; and it might be as well that an expert should see it.”
Ardsley had no difficulty in procuring what was wanted. As the doctor
in charge of Sylvia, he had only to ask for anything. A couple of
tumblers and a water-carafe were brought as well, at Sir Clinton’s
request.
“Now you can put your back against the door, Squire. We don’t want any
visitors.”
From a tiny glass bottle which he drew from his pocket, the Chief
Constable extracted one of the ill-omened darts.
“This is the one which wounded Miss Hawkhurst,” he explained, as he
dropped it into a glass of water. “Now we’ll need to give it time.”
He stirred it round occasionally; and gradually a faint bluish tinge
communicated itself to the water. Ardsley was scrutinising the glass
with deep interest, but his face showed nothing of the thoughts in his
mind.
“Now we add a drop of vinegar, Squire,” said Sir Clinton, suiting the
action to the word.
As the vinegar mixed with the solution, Wendover saw a change in the
tint—a pale red replaced the original blue.
“Now some washing soda, for a change,” said Sir Clinton, dropping in a
crystal and swirling the liquid round in the glass. As he did so, the
blue tinge returned to the solution.
Ardsley nodded approvingly.
“Litmus, obviously. That clinches it. You must be a bit of a chemist
to have hit on that tip.”
Sir Clinton made no reply, but he cautioned Wendover to bear the test
in mind.
“If that’s all you want, I’ll go back to Miss Hawkhurst,” Ardsley
said, as soon as Sir Clinton ceased speaking.
“We’re going back to the Grange, now,” Sir Clinton explained. “If you
need me, you’ve only to ring up.”
“I thought you were in a hurry,” Wendover said in some surprise when
he found that Sir Clinton seemed to have nothing on hand on their
return to the Grange. “You broke off your talk with Stenness on that
excuse. Why not have finished it at the time, instead of trailing over
there again later in the day?”
“I’m worried about Miss Hawkhurst, Squire; and I prefer to get my news
direct from Ardsley rather than over the ’phone.”
“You didn’t get much out of him this morning,” Wendover complained.
“And I can’t think why you put that man into the business at all. It
seems to me tempting Providence. Why, he’s quite possibly the source
of the original curare, for all you know; he’s one of the suspects.”
“He’s not on my list of suspects, Squire; and if he’s on yours, you
may score him off straight away. That’s definite. As to my using him,
who could do the work better? What would a country G.P. make of Miss
Hawkhurst’s case? Nothing whatever! You can’t expect rural medicos to
be the last word in the study of out-of-the-way poisons. It’s not
reasonable to ask it.”
Wendover’s increasing disquietude found its relief in speech at last.
“I can’t see what your aim is in this affair, Clinton. You say you
know the murderer. Why don’t you arrest him at once? You claimed to
know him days ago; and yet you did nothing. And now you’ve let things
drift; and the result has been this attack on Sylvia Hawkhurst. Why,
you’re responsible for that! You were criminally careless with these
poison darts, leaving them lying about for anyone to pick up.”
Sir Clinton made no defence. Instead, he turned Wendover’s vehemence
into another channel.
“It’s easy to say ‘Arrest somebody!’ Suppose you were in my shoes,
Squire, and you wanted to be absolutely on the safe side; whom would
you arrest at this very moment?”
Under the spur of the direct question, Wendover had a flash of
illumination.
“Ernest Shandon,” he said. “I’ve just been thinking over things, and
I’ve seen one or two points in a fresh light. Who was it opened the
window last night and so made it possible for the murderer to shoot
into the room? Ernest Shandon! Who was out of the room when the shot
was fired? Ernest Shandon! Where was he? In the winter-garden, which
has a door opening close to the bank of rhododendrons in which the
murderer hid himself. Who had access to that stock of curare in the
museum? Ernest Shandon!”
Sir Clinton failed to repress a smile, though he did his best.
“And who was attacked himself, in the Maze? Ernest Shandon! And who
was sitting with a nail in his boot on the public highway that
afternoon when his brothers were killed? Ernest Shandon! Let’s
complete the tale, you know, before we begin to talk about arrests.
The real truth of the matter is that Ernest Shandon has annoyed you by
his cowardice and his general selfishness, and, therefore, you think
he’d be all the better for a hanging. You’re beginning to see red
here, just as you saw red in Ardsley’s case.”
Wendover sullenly admitted his blunder.
“But there’s another person who ought to be under observation—young
Hawkhurst,” he continued. “That young beggar seems to me hardly sane
at times. Look at him this morning! That cerebro-spinal affair has
affected him far more than I supposed . . .”
He broke off, struck by a fresh idea.
“Is he the person you have your eye on, Clinton? I never thought of
that! Now that might account for the thing that’s been puzzling me—the
damned aimlessness of all the Whistlefield affair. It’s just the sort
of thing a lunatic would do. And they say that in a sleepy sickness
case, if it turns to homicidal mania, the creature may go for the
nearest relations. Just what’s happened at Whistlefield! And it was he
who put on the loud-speaker last night and so covered any noise he
might have made in getting into position outside the window. I hadn’t
thought of that before. And it was his air-gun that I found in the
rhododendrons.”
This time, Sir Clinton did not smile.
“I don’t mind admitting to you, Squire, that young Hawkhurst is one of
my difficulties.”
Wendover returned to his original charge.
“Well, I can’t understand what you’re driving at, Clinton. On the face
of things, it seems to me that you’ve gambled away that poor girl’s
life merely to get a case that you can prove; and now you’re no nearer
it than you were before.”
Sir Clinton’s face grew very grave.
“You’ve touched a sore spot there, Squire. But did it never occur to
you that I didn’t expect an attack on Miss Hawkhurst? What I did
expect was something quite different. Didn’t it strike you as peculiar
that I angled for that invitation to play bridge when it obviously
wasn’t the sort of thing that one expects? I had to put on a pretty
tough hide to wangle that with a straight face.”
“Yes,” Wendover confirmed, “it was a piece of rank bad taste and I was
surprised at your doing it.”
“It was. And I’m not usually celebrated for that kind of thing. Don’t
you see what I was driving at, Squire? I expected the next attack to
be made on myself—and I took good care to make an opportunity for it
by going on to the murderer’s own ground. The whole bridge-party
affair was a plant of mine to make myself a good target for the
air-gun expert.”
“My godfathers!” Wendover ejaculated in surprise, “I never thought
that was what you were after. You’ve got fair nerves, Clinton, to
offer yourself up like that to be shot at.”
“I’d rather take it when I was ready for it than have it
unexpectedly—hence the bridge-party. I felt he’d hardly be able to
resist the chance of a sitting shot.”
“H’m! I don’t know that I’d have been able to screw myself up to that
point.”
“Of course you would! You didn’t hesitate over the risk of going after
that fellow, through the window.”
“Yes,” Wendover admitted, “but that was in hot blood, which is rather
different.”
Sir Clinton brushed this aside.
“The trouble is that I didn’t get what I wanted, after all. Miss
Hawkhurst was hit. But you may remember that just when the brute
pulled the trigger, she leaned slightly forward and put out her hand,
whilst I happened to lean back. The dart went past you, and it struck
her arm; but I can’t for the life of me be sure whether that was an
accident or not. If I knew whether that shot was meant for me or for
her, I’d know rather more about the case than I do; and I’d be in an
easier frame of mind, I can tell you.”
A fresh point seemed to occur to him.
“By the way, Squire, your surmise about the fate of the air-gun in the
first attacks turns out to be correct. My men have been dragging the
river near the bank at the boat-house; and we’ve got the air-gun that
killed the two Shandons. The murderer must have pitched it into the
water just as you suggested.”
Wendover was distinctly pleased at this tribute to his acuteness.
“Is there anything identifiable about it?” he demanded.
“It seems to have come from the Whistlefield armoury,” Sir Clinton
replied. “Confound them, I wish they hadn’t gone in so strong for
air-guns. It makes things more difficult.”