“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.”