He looked at Sir Clinton suspiciously.
“You yourself didn’t waste much worry over him, it seemed to me. I thought at the time that you were taking it as a practical joke, somehow.”
“A very practical joke,” Sir Clinton said, but he kept every tinge of expression out of his voice when he made the comment.
“Now we can go on to the identity of Hackleton’s agent,” Wendover resumed. “You say it was someone who knew the Shandons by sight. It must have been someone who had leave to come and go at will through the Whistlefield grounds, or else someone who landed on the riverbank. That limits things down a good deal. Roger Shandon didn’t encourage strangers to roam about his place. The gardeners had orders to turn out anyone who ventured in, unless they were going up to the house on business. No stranger or neighbour—bar Costock—was on the premises so far as is known. I came across one of the gardeners and he told me that.”
Sir Clinton had no hesitation in confirming this.
“That agrees with all my men have been able to make out.”
“Then,” Wendover proceeded, “we’re limited down to the people at the house, the staff of the place, and Costock.”
“Go on,” Sir Clinton encouraged him.
Wendover pulled a notebook from his pocket and consulted some figures which he had jotted down at the time he heard the original evidence.
“If you take the facts as we know them,” he went on, “it’s clear that Neville Shandon could not have reached the Maze before 3:37 p.m.; and the second murder was over before 4:05 p.m. As a matter of fact, the times really allow less margin than that, for Neville’s body was found at 3:52 p.m. and both were probably dead by that time.”
“I think that’s quite demonstrable on Torrance’s evidence,” Sir Clinton admitted.
“That means then that the murderer left the Maze at some time not much earlier than four o’clock, since Miss Forrest heard him in the Maze after Neville’s body was found by Torrance at 3:52 p.m.”
“Most probable on the face of it.”
“Then if you find someone in such a position that they could not have been in the Maze at 4 p.m., they’re cleared.”
“True.”
Wendover produced from a cupboard an Ordnance Survey map of the district.
“Let’s take each person in turn and see if we can establish their positions during the afternoon.”
“I can help you there,” Sir Clinton volunteered. “I got most of it in the police reports. They were busy on that very point.”
Wendover nodded and began without more ado.
“Sylvia Hawkhurst. She was out paying a call, wasn’t she?”
“Yes,” Sir Clinton explained. “She and friend Ernest went off in the car from the house at about eighteen minutes past three. At a quarter to four—just about the moment when the murders occurred—she was in a shop buying shoelaces. That precludes any chance of her having used the car to get back to the Maze at the critical time. After that she paid a call on some friends and stayed with them until she came back home after six o’clock.”
“What about Ernest Shandon?”
Sir Clinton smiled.
“Miss Hawkhurst dropped him at the East Gate as she passed out. It’s about two-and-a-half miles to the East Gate, and she says she was driving about fifteen miles an hour—it’s a narrow road, you remember. That means she dropped him at the East Gate at about 3:30. It’s the best part of two miles back to the Maze. Friend Ernest could hardly have walked it in fifteen minutes, could he? And he’s not much of a runner, to judge by his condition this morning. As a matter of fact, his story’s completely confirmed by other evidence. My men interviewed the driver of the post-cart. At 4:20 he came upon Ernest squatting by the roadside, about a mile along the public road, into which the East Gate leads. It’s a place where there’s a little wood, easily identifiable. Friend Ernest was sitting there with his boot off, damning the nail that had hurt him.”
Wendover looked at his map.
“That clears him. I can see the wood; it’s the only one that abuts on the road in that stretch. Now what about Arthur?”
“We’ve only his own word for his movements. He certainly set out for the spinney; but that’s all one can say.”
Wendover scanned his map once more.
“The spinney’s only a mile from the Maze in a direct line. He might have cut across and got away again; and no one would be any wiser. He had all the afternoon for the affair.”
His face clouded.
“Somehow, I don’t think he was responsible, Clinton.”
Sir Clinton made no direct reply.
“He was hardly a likely agent for Hackleton to fix on, at any rate,” he observed.
“Well, let’s get on. What about the gardeners?”
“Two of them were working in a field about a mile from the Maze all afternoon. Each clears the other.”
“And the third gardener who was on the spot that day—the man Skene?”
“His story is that he was working in the kitchen-garden near the house. There’s no evidence against that.”
“The maids? And the chauffeur?”
“All accounted for. They had nothing to do with the affair.”
“And Stenness?”
Wendover looked keenly at Sir Clinton as he brought out the secretary’s name; but the Chief Constable showed no sign of special interest.
“Stenness?” he repeated. “Stenness was undoubtedly at the house at twenty to five, or thereabouts, for Miss Forrest saw him when she came back.”
“Then he’d plenty of time to be down at the Maze at the critical period and get home to the house again while Torrance and Miss Forrest were wandering about in the labyrinth?”
“He had,” Sir Clinton agreed, gravely.
“He’d have been the ideal agent for Hackleton,” Wendover pursued. “And if Ernest’s not got the wind up about nothing—which is always possible, of course—Stenness would be worth watching.”
“He is being watched,” Sir Clinton assured him,
