He beckoned Stenness to his side.
“One of your own ladders, I suppose?”
Stenness examined it.
“Yes, I happen to recognise it. The gardeners use it, and it’s kept somewhere about the place.”
“Some soil on the windowsill,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “They must have picked it up on their boots from the flowerbed where the end of the ladder rests.”
“There’s some on the floor here, as well,” Stenness pointed out.
“So I see,” Sir Clinton confirmed, “but that might have been brought up by Mr. Shandon when you and he came in here. One can’t attach much importance to it.”
He said nothing more, and contented himself with a careful inspection of the room.
“I think I’ve seen all I want to see,” he said at last. “By the way, you haven’t a key of the Maze, have you? I noticed the iron gates at each entrance had locks on them. I want to go down there now and look round.”
“I can get you a key, I think,” Stenness said, doubtfully, “but the place is always left open. It’s never been locked at any time, to my knowledge.”
“Oh, that’s all right then,” Sir Clinton hastened to say. “Now, Wendover, I think we’ll be getting along.”
A thought seemed to strike him at the last moment.
“If you’re afraid of being worried by any more burglars, Mr. Shandon, I’ll detach a couple of constables to look after Whistlefield. But I really don’t think it’s the least likely that you’ll have any further attempts of the sort. They seem to have made a thorough business of this one, to judge by the state they left the place in.”
Ernest seemed rather shamefaced at the Chief Constable’s proposal. Quite obviously he recognised that he had not shone as a hero in the business of the night.
“No,” he replied, “I don’t think we need them, Sir Clinton. I think we’ll manage without them, really. Of course, one feels a little nervous. I think it’s quite understandable, when things have been happening all together like this. But still, I don’t think we really need a guard. If you think it’s not likely to happen again, I’m quite ready to take your view of it, quite ready, I assure you. As you say, there’s no reason why they should come back at all. They must have got what they wanted. They’re sure to have got it, I think. No, they’re hardly likely to come back again.”
As they made their way downstairs Sylvia Hawkhurst met them.
“I’ve been looking for you, Sir Clinton. Guess what you left behind you last night.”
Sir Clinton shook his head doubtfully.
“I never succeed in these guessing competitions, Miss Hawkhurst. What was it?”
“The box of darts! You put it down on the mantlepiece of the museum; and I happened to notice it this morning when I went in.”
Sir Clinton’s face betrayed his annoyance at his blunder. It was so obvious that no one cared to say anything on the subject.
“I’ll get it for you in a moment,” Sylvia said, as she hurried off.
Stenness looked at the Chief Constable, and it seemed as if his estimate of Sir Clinton was undergoing revision. Wendover was completely taken aback by the turn of events.
“Here it is,” Sylvia said, as she came back to them again. “It was just where you left it. You’d better count the darts to make sure I haven’t lost any—though I haven’t opened the box at all. I was too much afraid of them.”
Sir Clinton obeyed and found the total correct. He shut the box carefully and stowed it away in his pocket.
“Thanks, Miss Hawkhurst. It was very careless of me. But there’s no harm done, since you’ve taken care of them for me.”
And after a few words about the affairs of the night, he took his leave.
“Take the road to the East Gate, Squire,” he requested, as Wendover let in the clutch.
“You’re a bright detective,” his friend retorted scornfully. “Here you’ve been racing and chasing to cut off a possible source of curare; and in the middle of the job you leave a whole tin of lethal darts lying about for Tom, Dick or Harry to pick up. The limit, I’d call it!”
“It was very careless,” Sir Clinton admitted, biting his lip.
“Careless!” Wendover echoed, contemptuously. “I can’t think how you managed to do it. My godfathers! Leaving stuff like that on a mantelpiece!”
Sir Clinton flushed.
“Look here, Squire, I can say ‘You’re a damned fool,’ just as often as I need to hear it just now, without your help. You can’t guess how I feel about it. Don’t rub it in, there’s a good chap.”
Wendover had never seen his friend so disturbed before. He stopped his denunciations at once. In a few moments they reached the Maze, and both left the car. Sir Clinton led the way to the entrance through which they had gone on the previous afternoon.
“I’d better take the lead,” said Wendover. “I know the Maze and you don’t. Just follow me.”
Sir Clinton paid no attention but kept in front. To Wendover’s surprise he showed no hesitation, but threaded his way through the labyrinth without difficulty. When he reached the centre he turned to his companion.
“That’s merely to show you that anyone can find their way through here if they keep their heads. I memorised the thing as Stenness was guiding us yesterday—first right, third left, and so on. So you see the murderer could have got up it easily enough if he had someone to show him the ropes at the start.”
He glanced into the centre and then passed round to the position of the loophole in the outer hedge. As he did so he gave an exclamation of disgust and passed his hand over his face.
“Ugh! Spider’s web got across my mouth! There’s any amount of gossamer about here. These hedges must be full of spiders. Beastly things!”
Coming to the loophole, he examined it carefully as though to discover the range of view from it. Then he made his way to the
