Murder in the Maze (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  Sylvia looked up from her game.

  “We’re right in front of the window, Uncle. Perhaps some of us might object to possible draughts.”

  But Ernest refused to allow his desires to be sidetracked in this way.

  “You don’t object, Miss Forrest? No? And you people don’t, either? You see, Sylvia, nobody minds. I’ll just open it a bit.”

  He went forward and threw open the lower sash to its highest range.

  “There! That’s much better!” he ejaculated, as he retired to his corner again. “It won’t get so stuffy now. That’ll be a great improvement, you’ll see. I never, could stand stuffy rooms. I remember . . .”

  Whatever he remembered was drowned by the loud-speaker. Arthur had at last completed his repairs and the jazz music of the machine filled the room.

  “There! That’s all right now,” the mechanic announced at the pitch of his voice in an endeavour to make himself heard. “I’ll just leave it on, if you don’t mind. I want to see if it’s properly fixed up.”

  He left the room unobserved by the bridge-players, who were intent on their game. Ernest gave a sour look at the loud-speaker; and after bearing it with obvious distaste for some minutes, he also rose.

  “I’m going into the winter-garden,” he explained, as he passed the bridge-table. “I can’t stand the racket that machine makes. It makes my head ache; it gives me a regular piercing pain in the ear to sit near it. I’ll just rest quietly in the winter-garden and come back again when Arthur’s finished with his tinkering at the affair.”

  He stooped over Sir Clinton’s shoulder and added in an undertone:

  “I’ve been very careful lately. I’ve taken your advice and kept inside the house as much as possible—so as to run no unnecessary risks, you know.”

  He nodded with the air of one who confirms a weighty decision and lumbered off out of the room, leaving Sir Clinton staring after him.

  “My advice!” the Chief Constable reflected with a certain dry amusement. “Well, I like his cheek in foisting that on to my shoulders!”

  Wendover was glad that bridge precluded much conversation. He felt that Sir Clinton had drawn him into a false position that evening; and he had to exert himself so as not to betray his feelings in the matter. Once they sat down, however, the play turned out very even; and he had not much mental energy left for anything beyond his game, which tended to reconcile him to his visit. Both the girls played better than the average; and he was beginning to forget his dissatisfaction as time went on.

  “That’s game and rubber,” said Sir Clinton, at length, as he looked up from the marker lying beside him.

  Sylvia glanced at her wrist-watch.

  “Shall we play another?” she asked. “There’s plenty of time, unless you wish to get away early.”

  As she spoke she stretched out her arm to lift the marker; but in the middle of the gesture she gave a sharp cry of pain and started up from her chair. Then, as she mechanically brought her hand down again on to the table, Wendover saw a spurt of blood from her right wrist and, at its source, the brown feathering of one of the poisoned darts embedded in her white skin.

  For an instant the group around the bridge-table was stricken into immobility, while the blood jetted from Sylvia’s wrist and stained the cards across which her hand had fallen. The swift incursion of tragedy upon the scene had taken them unawares. A moment or two earlier they had been sitting in safety, intent upon their game. Then, out of the night the tiny missile had sped to its mark; and the King of Terrors had come among them. There had not even been the warning of the air-gun’s report; for it must have been drowned by the noise of the loud-speaker which still continued to pour out its incongruous flood of dance music.

  Wendover, frozen in his chair, took in the scene almost without knowing that he was observing it; the pain-shot face of Sylvia, the horror in Vera Forrest’s eyes, the trickle of blood across the littered cards, and the cool visage of Sir Clinton as he leaned over the table towards the wounded girl. Then, as he watched, Sylvia’s expression changed. She had seen the poisoned dart in her wrist and now she understood what it meant. Her lips opened as though saying something, then her face grew suddenly white, and she slipped back in her chair.

  Sir Clinton rose swiftly and lifted the unconscious girl across the room to one of the couches. Wendover noticed that, even in the haste, the Chief Constable took care to use his own body as a shield, keeping it between Sylvia and the window until he had reached a point which seemed out of range of the assassin.

  “After the brute, Wendover!” Sir Clinton ordered, raising his voice above the clamour of the loud-speaker. “You may be able to spot him before he gets clear away. And shut that window behind you.”

  Galvanised into action by the curt directions, Wendover suddenly ceased to be a mere spectator. Without a word he swung himself through the open window and out into the darkness. Somewhere in the gloom, the unknown murderer must be lurking, waiting perhaps to make sure of his victim with a second shot. Wendover was filled with an anger wholly alien to his usual temperament, and he peered eagerly into the obscurity around him in the hope of glimpsing a shadow moving among the shades.

  The murder of the two Shandons and the attack upon Ernest had left him emotionally untouched to any real extent. The two Shandons had been hard men, from all he knew of them; and the fate which had overtaken them did not seem altogether out of keeping with people of their type. The attempt on Ernest had been unsuccessful and had made little impression on Wendover’s feelings. But this latest outrage was in a different category. Even yet he could hardly realise that a deadly effort had been made to injure Sylvia. Sylvia! It was hardly possible for him to feel sure that anyone would attempt to bring down a girl in that terrible fashion. A man, somehow, was different; but he revolted against the idea of cutting short a life like Sylvia’s. The aimlessness of it seemed appalling to his mind; and his anger against the hidden assassin rose to a white heat.

  He moved forward in the direction from which he supposed the shot had come; but in a few steps he ran right into the belt of rhododendrons which stretched parallel with the house on this front. As he did so, the loud-speaker was suddenly shut off; and he halted to listen for sounds of movement. Nothing seemed to be stirring. He circled about the rhododendrons, but found no one there.

  He retraced his steps towards the window. A single dim light shone at the other end of the winter-garden, but except for it the house-front was dark. The bridge-table showed every detail under the lamps of the room beyond the window—an ideal target for the eye of anyone posted in the darkness.

  Suddenly Wendover’s eyes were dazzled by a blaze of light as the whole of the winter-garden lamps were switched on.

  “I say,” demanded a cautious voice, “what does all this mean? What’s all this about, I say? Who are you, out there?”

  Wendover’s eyes, after an instant or two, grew accustomed to the glare. Looking towards the speaker, he saw Ernest Shandon’s figure at the nearest door of the winter-garden. Ernest evidently meant to run no risks; for he was holding the door almost closed and had taken shelter behind it while he called out his demand for explanations. Wendover’s lips curled contemptuously as he noted the shrinking figure under the lights.

  “I’m Wendover,” he announced.

  Ernest opened the door another inch, though with manifest reluctance.

  “What’s it all about?” he reiterated, with almost pathetic anxiety. “Is there any danger? What are you running around like this for? Where’s Driffield? What’s happened? Can’t you answer, man?”

  Wendover was still more disgusted by the obvious poltroonery of the man who was, nominally at least, his host.

  “Miss Hawkhurst has been shot with one of those poisoned darts. Come along and see if there’s anything we can do.”

  Ernest was quite evidently reduced to the last stage of moral prostration by the news. He had not even sufficient nerve left to cover up his cowardice.

 
“Eh? What’s that? Come out there and be shot at myself? I won’t!”

  “Well, stay there, then!” Wendover growled, continuing his way back to the window through which he had come.

  “I tell you what I’ll do,” he heard Ernest’s voice again. “I’ll go into the house by the other door of the winter-garden and come round to where you are. I’ll be under cover the whole way if I do that.”

  The sound of the winter-garden door closing and the turning of the key in the lock came to Wendover’s ears as he reopened the window and climbed through, shutting it behind him.

  Sylvia was still lying on the couch, evidently unconscious. Sir Clinton was beside her and, much to Wendover’s surprise, some lint and bandages had been laid out on the bridge-table which had been pulled across the room.

  “Miss Forrest,” the Chief Constable said curtly, “will you bring some warm water? Get it yourself. These maids are no use in an emergency. And tell them to get Miss Hawkhurst’s room ready for her—immediately. A hot-water bottle as quick as they can—and some brandy.”

  Vera was so quick that she had to pause at the door for his last directions.

  “You, Wendover,” went on Sir Clinton, “get Ardsley on the ’phone at once. Tell him I want him here at Whistlefield.”

  Wendover halted for a moment.

  “Hadn’t I better tell him what he’s wanted for? He may be able to bring something with him.”

  “It’s all arranged. Damnation, man! Will you hurry up!”

  Wendover, electrified by the vehemence of the tone, hurried off without a word. When he returned he found that Vera Forrest had carried out her instructions and had come back to see if anything more could be done. Ernest had also found his way into the room and stood staring vacantly at the form of his niece lying so limply on the couch. He was evidently about to open his mouth when Sir Clinton looked up.

  “Everything all right? Thanks, Miss Forrest. You got Ardsley, Wendover? Good so far, then.”

  He was busy bathing the wound with warm water as he spoke.

  “There’s just a chance we may be able to do something,” he explained going on with his task. “By the merest luck, the dart hit the chain of her watch-bracelet. It got down between the links and made a nasty wound all the same; but it didn’t quite embed itself in the flesh. So there’s just the chance that the dose of poison injected may not reach the fatal amount. I can’t say. Ardsley will know better when he arrives.”

  He bathed the wound again, then turned to Wendover.

  “You saw no one?”

  Wendover shook his head.

  “It’s practically pitch dark to-night. I could see nothing.”

  Sir Clinton thought for a moment.

  “You’ll find a flash-lamp in my overcoat pocket. Get it, Wendover, and hunt round that bank of rhododendrons to see if you can find the air-gun. The brute may have dropped it in the hurry, this time. Don’t mind if you make a mess—the gun’s more important than any tracks you may obscure in your search.”

  As Wendover moved towards the door, Ernest seemed to come to life.

  “I suppose I ought to help,” he said, “but it seems to me taking a needless risk, sending anyone out into the dark like that. For all we know the fellow may be out there yet, with his gun. I don’t think anyone should go. I’m not going,” he concluded simply.

  Sir Clinton glanced up for a moment and scanned Ernest with eyes which made no effort to conceal their contempt.

  “I didn’t ask you to volunteer. Go on, Wendover. I’ll come and give you a hand as soon as Ardsley arrives.”

  As Wendover turned to leave the room Stenness’ figure appeared at the door. It was evident that the secretary had been put on the alert by the hurrying to and fro in the house, and had come to see what was amiss; but apparently he had had no inkling of the real state of affairs. Wendover saw him glance from one to another in the room until at last his eyes lighted upon the limp figure of Sylvia stretched on the couch. Then a flash of expression crossed his features, something which betrayed an intense emotion; but Wendover, at the moment, was unable to interpret it. He stored it up in his memory for future consideration, and then left the room.

  “And now,” said Sir Clinton, “I think we’d better take Miss Hawkhurst up to her room. We can manage it well enough; and she’d better be there rather than here when she comes to herself again.”

  Under his directions this was carried out. On reaching Sylvia’s room, Sir Clinton looked round and then, going over to the window, he endeavoured to scan the surroundings; but it was obviously too dark to see much.

  “I think we’ll shift this bed,” he suggested, when he came back. “It had better be brought over into this corner. Then there will be no possibility of any shot reaching it from the window. One never knows . . .”

  He paused for a moment.

  “Now I think Miss Forrest and I had better wait here till Miss Hawkhurst comes out of her faint; or at any rate till Dr. Ardsley turns up. But we mustn’t have a crowd here just now.”

  His manner, rather than his words, cleared the room of his late assistants; and he and Vera Forrest were left alone. Sir Clinton, after feeling Sylvia’s pulse, succeeded in giving her a few drops of brandy. Soon she stirred faintly. Sir Clinton left the bedside and returned to the window. Down below, at a short distance, he could see Wendover busy with the flash-lamp. Quite obviously he had not yet found anything.

  As Sir Clinton turned away from the window Vera Forrest beckoned him aside.

  “What do you think, Sir Clinton? Is there any chance of her getting over it?”

  Sir Clinton’s grave face showed the anxiety which was at work in his mind.

  “I really can’t say anything, Miss Forrest, for I don’t know anything. The wound isn’t as deep as in the other cases. That’s always something. She hasn’t collapsed immediately, as her uncles did. That’s something also. But we’ll need to wait for Dr. Ardsley; and even when he comes, I doubt if we shall learn much. He’ll at least be able to give her any special treatment that there is. We can only hope for the best.”

  It was clear from his tone that he did not take a light view of the case. He had hardly ceased speaking when they heard the sound of someone racing up the stair. The door was opened brusquely; and Sir Clinton had just time to interpose himself when Arthur Hawkhurst came into the room. The boy was evidently in high excitement. He had learned of the affair downstairs and had rushed up on the spur of the moment.

  “‘Sh!” said Sir Clinton, angrily. “Don’t break in here like a wild bull!”

  He led the boy gently outside into the hall.

  “Your sister has been shot at like your uncles,” he explained. “So far, the thing hasn’t killed her; but you needn’t take any optimistic view. I’ve sent for Dr. Ardsley. He knows about that poison; and perhaps he may be able to do something.”

  Arthur seemed unable to control his excitement.

  “But who’d do a thing like that?” he demanded.

  “Don’t make a row,” Sir Clinton ordered, bluntly. “We can’t stand here holding a committee meeting. There’s plenty of time for discussion later on. She’s just coming out of a faint—at least it looks like that. Shock of seeing what had hurt her, no doubt, was what sent her off. Nothing to be done now until Ardsley comes. . . . Ah, here he is. Now, Hawkhurst, we’ll go; and leave the expert to the business.”

  Ardsley was ascending the stair, carrying a bag with him. He nodded a curt greeting to the two at the head of the stair, gave another interrogative nod as if inquiring which room he should enter, and then disappeared, closing the door behind him. Arthur seemed amazed that Sir Clinton had said nothing as the doctor passed.

  “Aren’t you going to tell him about it?” he demanded anxiously.

  “He knows all about it,” Sir Clinton assured him, but he added no explanations. “One moment, before we go.”

  He waited for a minute or two, then the door of Sylvia’s room reopened and Ardsley came out. His ordinari
ly impassive face had an expression of unusual gravity; and in answer to Sir Clinton’s interrogation he shook his head doubtfully.

  “One can’t tell,” was all he would vouchsafe. “Get these nurses at once.”

  And with this he turned on his heel and re-entered the room.

  Sir Clinton put his hands into his pockets and stood for a moment or two as though lost in thought. Then suddenly coming to life again, he made his way to the telephone box, where he shook himself free from Arthur on the plea of an urgent call.

  When he had given his message through the telephone, the Chief Constable returned to the room in which the attack had been made. Wendover was apparently still busy with his search among the rhododendrons; Vera Forrest was with Sylvia; but the rest of the Whistlefield group were there, waiting to hear the Latest news of the victim.

  Ernest Shandon’s nerves had evidently suffered severely from this fresh shock. He was sitting in his original seat at the back of the room, his head sunk forward and his eyes staring apathetically at the carpet before him; whilst in his hand he held a glass of neat whiskey which he had just poured out from the decanter beside him. Sir Clinton noticed that the curtains had been drawn in front of the window through which the attack had been made; and he was not far out in believing that this precaution was due to Ernest. It was, in fact, the first thing he had done, once he had found leisure for it.

  Howard Torrance and Stenness were standing together near the fireplace. Howard, manifestly, was still in ignorance of some details of the tragedy; and he was endeavouring to extract them from Stenness by a series of eager questions. But the secretary, for once, seemed to have lost his efficiency. He was obviously replying almost at random; and his whole bearing was that of a man disturbed by a trivial interruption, while in the midst of some intense preoccupation with another subject. His appearance suggested that of a man suddenly oppressed by an unexpected and intolerable calamity. Sir Clinton’s eyes narrowed as he swept his glance over the secretary’s face.