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 pocketbook. 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 airgun 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 airgun 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 airgun.
“This seems pretty strong. Can you kill anything with it?”
Arthur’s grief seemed to
