“I was out with it in the spinney this afternoon, potting rabbits. It makes less noise than a rook-rifle. Scares the bunnies less when you fire. But I only got a couple of brace in the whole afternoon.”
Sir Clinton made no reply. He tried the spring of the airgun; looked to see that the weapon was unloaded; and then pulled the trigger. For a weapon of its size the report was not loud. He was about to try it a second time when his ear was caught by a sound of limping footsteps in the passage. Again the door of the room opened, and Sir Clinton hastily put the gun back against the wall.
Ernest Shandon shuffled into the room and blinked round the assembled group in dull surprise.
“I’ve had a devil of a time,” he said grumpily, “I’ve been walking miles with a nail in my boot.”
Stenness stepped into the breach once more and explained the state of affairs. At first, Ernest seemed frankly incredulous.
“This must be a joke of yours, Stenness. What I mean to say is, the thing’s impossible. Murders don’t happen to people like us, you know. It’s the kind of thing one finds among the lower classes.”
He peered from face to face, as if expecting to see a smile on one of them; but the seriousness of the company at last appeared to bring the truth home to him.
“You really mean it?”
He sank into a chair and gazed round the company once more as though dazed by the realisation of the tragedy.
“Both of ’em? Why, I was talking to them both not three hours ago. We were talking about that Shackleton case—or is it Hackleton? I remember Neville asking if I read the newspapers, and Roger … What was it Roger said? … Oh, yes, now I remember. Roger was giving Neville a hint that Hackleton might find it worth his while to sandbag him or something like that. I can’t think why; but Roger was very strong about that, I remember. And then I went off and left them together. And now you say they’re both dead! I can’t believe it, Stenness. Why, I was talking to them not three hours ago, or even less, it may be, here in this very room.”
“It’s unfortunately true, Mr. Shandon,” Howard Torrance assured him. “I found the body of Mr. Neville Shandon myself.”
Ernest paid no attention to him. He seemed to be quite thunderstruck, now that the news had penetrated his mind. At last he roused himself sufficiently to ask for some details, to which he listened with a sort of heavy interest.
“And they were killed by poisoned darts, you say? And I’ve got a nail in my boot myself. I might get blood-poisoning from it, if I’m not careful. I never thought of that till now.”
Sir Clinton had allowed a decent interval to elapse before entering the conversation; but he now glanced at his watch and put a question.
“Can you tell us when you last saw your brothers alive, Mr. Shandon?”
Ernest reflected for some moments as though trying to fix the time. Then he shook his head regretfully:
“I’d arranged to go in the car with Sylvia—my niece, you know—but she said I was late and she hurried me off to get ready. I was a bit hustled at the last moment. But Sylvia could tell you, most likely. She’s always punctual and she’d remember when we left.”
“It was just before I saw Mr. Neville Shandon look in that door that I heard your car leaving, Mr. Shandon,” Stenness volunteered. “That would be about ten minutes past three.”
Ernest nodded vaguely.
“I remember she sent me to put my boots on. That reminds me, my foot’s very sore. I hope it isn’t blood-poisoning.”
Quite regardless of the company he began to unlace his boot and finally examined a slight tear in his sock. He was busily engaged in feeling inside his boot for the nail before he spoke again.
“That nail came up just after Sylvia dropped me outside the grounds. I walked on for a bit, but it began to hurt. You know how a nail in your boot hurts? So I sat down for a bit by the roadside; and luckily the postman came along in his cart and gave me a lift after a while, or I don’t know what I’d have done. I’d nothing to hammer it flat with, you see.”
He returned to an inspection of his foot.
Sir Clinton glanced at his watch, and even his impassive face showed a trace of impatience.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Shandon, but I must get some facts from you before I go. It’s essential, or I should not trouble you at this time.”
Ernest looked up with a long-suffering expression.
“Oh, ask any questions you please. If I can give any information you want, I’ll be glad to do it, quite glad. It’s a sad affair for me, for all of us. Anything I can do, of course. By the way, do you mind if I ring for tea? I’ve had nothing since lunchtime and I feel a bit tired. One misses one’s tea. It would brighten me up, I think.”
Quite oblivious of the astonishment of the company he rang the bell and gave his order.
“Now, Mr. Shandon, perhaps you’ll give me your attention. I understand that your family consisted of yourself, your two brothers, and the late Mrs. Hawkhurst, your sister. Am I right, or have you any relations except your nephew and niece?”
Ernest blinked for a moment or two as if considering.
“Nobody nearer than a second cousin once removed. At least, I think that’s what you call it. She’s the daughter of a second cousin. Lives in Bath, I think.”
“Another point,” continued Sir Clinton. “Can you tell me if anyone could get the opportunity of learning the Maze without being noticed? The gardeners know the paths, of course; but can you think of anyone else?”
Ernest again blinked for some seconds while he thought over the matter.
“Ardsley
