“I believe Shandon made part of his money there,” Stenness volunteered in confirmation.
As they entered Helen’s Bower, Stenness saw a momentary upward twitch of Sir Clinton’s eyebrows as his glance lighted on the stranger whom they had encountered in the Maze.
“Ah! Mr. Timothy Costock?”
The captive showed much more surprise.
“Why, it’s Driffield, so it is! Well, if that isn’t the damnedest luck. There’s no keepin’ out o’ the way o’ you busies, it seems. But you’re on the wrong track this shot. I never laid a finger on this fellow.”
He indicated Roger Shandon’s body as he spoke.
“Nobody’s accused you of laying a finger on him. Or of anything else—yet,” said Sir Clinton, curtly. “I’ll listen to your story later on. Don’t waste time elaborating it. You’ll find the plain truth’s best. This is more serious than illicit diamond buying.”
He paused for an instant, then continued:
“Now I think of it, you were Shandon’s cat’s paw that time I got my hands on you at Kimberley.”
Then, as Costock opened his mouth in protest, Sir Clinton cut him short abruptly:
“I’d keep my mouth shut, if I were you. Nobody’s asking you to incriminate yourself.”
The hint was sufficient for the ex-I.D.B. expert. His protest died on his lips. Sir Clinton paid no further attention to him, but set about a careful examination of the body of Roger Shandon. As he rose to his feet again, Stenness came forward.
“This is Mr. Howard Torrance, Sir Clinton, a guest at the house. He was in the Maze at the moment when the murder was done. Torrance, this is the Chief Constable.”
He turned to the gardener.
“This is Skene, Sir Clinton, one of the gardeners on the estate. He came with me here as soon as we learned what had happened.”
Sir Clinton nodded a brief appreciation of Stenness’s explanations. The secretary had wasted no words over the business, and yet had given all the information necessary at the moment.
Howard Torrance, thus brought to the front, seized the opportunity offered to him.
“Some darts here. Skene found them at the foot of the hedge. Lid of a tin box was lying beside them as well.”
Sir Clinton picked up the lid and inspected the tiny missiles which had been collected.
“Airgun darts, evidently,” he commented.
Characteristically enough, he did not call attention to the equally obvious fact that they were not ordinary airgun darts. The woollen feathering, instead of showing the usual gaudy colours, was stained brown; and a rusty powder seemed to cling to the fibre. A tiny patch of the same pigment showed on the metal jackets of the darts, near the points. Sir Clinton put the collection down again carefully.
“Now, Skene,” he said, turning to the gardener, “that was a good piece of work of yours. Can you show me exactly where you found these things?”
Obviously delighted with the Chief Constable’s compliment, Skene was only too ready to indicate the precise position where he had picked up the darts and the box-lid.
“You got the lot, I suppose? At least all you could see from here?”
Howard Torrance, watching the Chief Constable, was surprised to see that his eyes, instead of searching the ground, seemed to be ranging over the surface of the hedge; and when Skene answered the question, Sir Clinton’s thoughts appeared to be elsewhere. He turned to Stenness.
“Can you take us to the other side of this hedge at that point?”
Stenness led the way once more into the Maze; and Sir Clinton found that quite a considerable distance had to be traversed before they reached the required position.
“This is the place?” he inquired, as Stenness came to a halt. “That’s clear enough,” he added, as he stooped to pick something from the side of the path. When he held it out, they recognised it as the bottom of the tin box of which the lid had already been found. Sir Clinton turned to the constables.
“Hunt about and see if you can find any more of these darts. You mustn’t miss a single one, remember. And handle them carefully. They’re deadly things, evidently.”
Then, as Stenness and Howard Torrance showed signs of joining in the search, the Chief Constable stopped them with a gesture.
“I think we’ll leave the officials to do the work,” he said with a certain finality in his tone.
Again he appeared to be more interested in the hedge itself than in the roots where more darts might be hidden; and after a moment or two he went forward and seemed to peer closely into the greenery at one particular point. When he stepped back again, Howard moved forward in curiosity; and Sir Clinton made way for him. As he brought his eye to the position in which he had seen the Chief Constable’s, he looked into a concealed loophole. The twigs had been trimmed away to form a tunnel, the ends of which had been left covered with a thin screen of leafage; and a glance through the aperture showed that it bore directly on the chair in which Roger Shandon had been killed.
But already Sir Clinton seemed to have lost interest in the matter. He whistled; and the dog which had been left behind in Helen’s Bower came running to him.
“Have a sniff,” he invited the animal, holding out to it the part of the tin box which he still held in his hand. “Now see what you can make of it.”
He turned to his companions.
“It’s a poor chance. Don’t blame the animal if it fails.”
Part of Sir Clinton’s character was revealed in the whimsical apology. He was always noted for his loyalty to his subordinates and his readiness to recognise the impossibility of some tasks. It was the complement to his sternness when he had to deal with inefficiency.
“That’s right! Good dog! He’s on to something!” Wendover announced unnecessarily.
The beast had apparently picked up some scent or other, for it hurried off along the
