“And he’s had a squabble with Roger Shandon over some trifling fishing rights. I’m afraid even Izaak Walton would hardly have thought the matter was a sufficient ground for murder, Squire.”
Wendover could think of no reply to this on the spur of the moment, and to cover his defeat he hurried on to a fresh group of suspects.
“Now we come to the people who were actually in the Maze at the time of the murder or whom we know to have been in it immediately afterwards: Torrance, Miss Forrest, and that fellow Costock, your I.D.B. friend. I can’t see how Miss Forrest had anything to do with it. As to Costock, you know about him and I don’t.”
“Yes,” said Sir Clinton, “I know all about Costock.”
But he volunteered no further information and waited for Wendover to proceed.
“That leaves Torrance, then. It’s as plain as print that Torrance might have been the murderer. He was in the Maze at the time. He arranged to part from the girl at the entrance. He’s had plenty of time to learn the Maze while he’s been down here at Whistlefield. He might have been the person Vera Forrest heard running in the Maze just after the murder—quite easily.”
“He didn’t take an airgun into the Maze with him,” Sir Clinton objected.
Wendover had his answer ready this time.
“No, but he might have had it hidden there beforehand.”
“And no airgun was found afterwards.”
“He may have chucked it on to the top of one of the hedges. Your constables couldn’t have spotted it there without ladders.”
“That’s quite true,” said Sir Clinton. “Well?”
Wendover seemed to have a flash of illumination. His face lit up.
“Now I see what you meant by your map-analogy! Of course, the snag is that on the face of it young Torrance had no motive. But suppose he was Hackleton’s tool? Suppose he was in the pay of Hackleton to do this job for him? Then it would all fit in. But it’ll be the devil of a business to prove it, if it is true.”
Glancing across at his friend he detected a peculiar expression on Sir Clinton’s face. It was only a fleeting one, for almost immediately the Chief Constable resumed his normal mask.
“Go on,” he said again.
Wendover had to confess that he had reached the end of his list.
“There’s nobody else that I can think of. Sylvia Hawkhurst was paying a visit to some people in the afternoon and didn’t get home till it was all over. Ernest Shandon was off the premises, too, probably sitting by the roadside and cursing the nail in his boot at the very time his brothers were being murdered. And then there’s Stenness. He was up at the house when the affair took place. Miss Forrest found him there when she went to give the alarm.”
“Stenness,” said Sir Clinton reflectively. “Stenness is a very efficient fellow.”
Wendover thought he detected something behind the phrase.
“What do you think?” he demanded.
Sir Clinton looked at him mildly.
“I think it’s about time we were going to bed, Squire. We may have to be up early tomorrow. At least, I may.”
IX
The Burglary at Whistlefield
When Sir Clinton came down to breakfast on the following morning, Wendover thought that he looked tired and worried, though he was doing his best to show his normal composure.
“You look as if you’d been up all night, Clinton; and yet you cleared me off to bed fairly early.”
The Chief Constable forced a smile, but it was obvious that he had something on his mind which was troubling him.
“Not all night,” he said, qualifying Wendover’s suggestion by a slight emphasis. “But I’ve certainly lost a good deal of sleep over this Whistlefield business.”
“I can’t see what you’ve got to worry about just now,” his host retorted. “Until one gets more evidence than we have just now, there’s nothing that can be done, so far as I can see. You practically admitted as much yourself, last night.”
“Last night and this morning are two different things,” Sir Clinton pointed out, rather gloomily. “A lot may happen in six hours.”
“Well, if they have happened, they have happened; and you couldn’t have prevented them happening.”
“That sounds like a truism,” the Chief Constable commented, “and I wish it were one. But it isn’t.”
He seemed almost on the verge of a confidence at last; but to Wendover’s disappointment he contented himself with adding:
“I’ve taken a big risk in this affair, Squire; and if the game goes against me, I’d never be able to forgive myself. It’s as serious as that.”
From his tone, it was evident that he was gravely perturbed; and Wendover could find nothing to say which seemed likely to be helpful.
In a moment or two, Sir Clinton broke the silence.
“They’re on the phone at Whistlefield, aren’t they?”
“Yes. Are you expecting a message?”
“One never can tell,” was all that Sir Clinton would vouchsafe. “Can you hear your telephone bell from this room?”
“Oh, yes, the machine’s just down the passage from here, as it happens.”
Sir Clinton went on with his breakfast; but Wendover could see that he was listening for the ringing of the bell. Just as they had finished, it rang sharply.
“I’ll go,” said Sir Clinton. “It’s almost certain to be Whistlefield ringing up.”
As he rose from the table Wendover could see a look of acute anxiety on his face. He left the door open as he went out, and the sound of his voice at the telephone came back into the room.
“Driffield speaking … Did you say burglar or burglars? … All right, don’t bother to tell me any more now. I’m coming across at once. Goodbye.”
Sir Clinton came back to Wendover. The anxiety on his face was as deeply marked as ever; but the prospect of action seemed to have raised his spirits slightly.
“Come on, Wendover. Get the car out, will you? There’s been a
