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+Chapter I
+
+A Family Celebration
+
+At seventy Sir Vernon Brooklyn was still the outstanding figure in the
+theatrical world. It was, indeed, ten years since he had made his
+farewell appearance on the stage; and with a consistency rare among
+the members of his profession, he had persisted in making his first
+farewell also his last. He had also for some time past resigned to
+younger men the actual direction of his vast theatrical enterprises,
+which included five great West End theatres and a steady stream of
+touring companies in the provinces and overseas. Both as actor and as
+manager, he was wont to say, his work was over; but as Chairman of the
+Brooklyn Dramatic Corporation, which conducted all its work under his
+name, he was almost as much as ever in the eye of the public.
+
+Like most men who have risen by their own efforts, aided by fortune
+and by a public which takes a pleasure in idolatry, to positions of
+wide authority, Sir Vernon had developed, perhaps to excess, the habit
+of getting his own way. Thus, although his niece and house-keeper,
+Joan Cowper, and his near relatives and friends had done their best to
+dissuade him from coming to London, he had ignored their protests, and
+insisted on celebrating his seventieth birthday in the London house,
+formerly the scene of his triumphs, which he now seldom visited. Sir
+Vernon now spent most of his time at the great country house in Sussex
+which he had bought ten years before from Lord Fittleworth. There he
+entertained largely, and there was no reason why he should not have
+taken the advice of his relatives and his doctor, and gathered his
+friends around him to celebrate what he was pleased to call his
+“second majority.” But Sir Vernon had made up his mind, and it was
+therefore in the old house just off Piccadilly that his guests
+assembled for dinner on Midsummer Day, June 25th.
+
+Like Sir Vernon’s country place, the old house had a history. He had
+bought it, and the grounds with their magnificent garden frontage on
+Piccadilly, looking over the Green Park, from Lord Liskeard, when that
+nobleman had successfully gambled away the fortune which had made him,
+at one time, the richest man in England who had no connection with
+trade. Sir Vernon had turned his purchase to good use. Facing
+Piccadilly, but standing well back in its garden from the street, he
+had built the great Piccadilly Theatre, the perfect playhouse in
+which, despite its size and large seating capacity, every member of
+the audience could both see and hear. The theatre covered a lot of
+ground; but, when it was built, there still remained not only the old
+mansion fronting upon its side-street—a _cul de sac_ used by its
+visitors alone—but also, between it and the theatre, a pleasant
+expanse of garden. For some years Sir Vernon had lived in the house;
+and there he had also worked, converting the greater part of the
+ground floor into a palatial set of offices for the Brooklyn Dramatic
+Corporation. On his retirement from active work, he had kept in his
+own hands only the first floor, which he fitted as a flat to house him
+on his visits to town. On the second floor he had installed his
+nephew, John Prinsep, who had succeeded him as managing director of
+the Corporation. The third floor was given over to the servants who
+attended to the whole house. It was in this house that Sir Vernon was
+celebrating his birthday, and his guests were to dine with him in the
+great Board Room of the Corporation on the ground floor—formerly the
+banqueting hall of generations of Liskeards, in which many a political
+plot had been hatched, and many a diner carried helpless from under
+the table in the bad days of the Prince Regent.
+
+Between the house and the tall back of the theatre lay the garden, in
+which a past Lord Liskeard with classical tastes had erected a model
+Grecian temple and a quantity of indifferent antique statuary, the
+fruits of his sojourn at the Embassy of Constantinople.
+
+In this garden, before dinner was served, a number of Sir Vernon’s
+guests had already gathered. The old man had been persuaded, despite
+the brilliant midsummer weather, to remain in the house; but Joan
+Cowper and John Prinsep were there to do the honours on his behalf. As
+Harry Lucas came into the garden, John Prinsep was laughingly, as he
+said, “showing off the points” of a dilapidated Hercules who, club,
+lion-skin and all, was slowly mouldering under the trees at one end of
+the lawn. The stone club had come loose, and Prinsep had taken it from
+the statue, and was playfully threatening to do classical execution
+with it upon the persons of his guests. Seeing Lucas, he put the club
+back into the broken hand of the statue, and came across the lawn to
+bid him welcome.
+
+“You’re the last to arrive, Mr. Lucas,” said he. “You see it’s quite a
+family affair this evening.”
+
+It was quite a family affair. Of the eight persons now on the lawn,
+six were members of the Brooklyn family by birth or marriage; Lucas
+was Sir Vernon’s oldest friend and collaborator; and young Ellery, the
+remaining member of the party, was Lucas’s ward, and was usually to be
+found, when he had his will, somewhere in the neighbourhood of Joan
+Cowper. As Sir Vernon had fully made up his mind that Joan was to
+marry Prinsep, and there was supposed to be some sort of engagement
+between them, Ellery’s attentions were not welcome to Prinsep, and
+there was no love lost between the two men.
+
+But there was no sign of this in Prinsep’s manner this evening. He
+seemed to be in unusually good spirits, rather in contrast to his
+usual humour. For Prinsep was not generally regarded as good company.
+Since he had succeeded Sir Vernon in the business control of the
+Brooklyn Corporation, of which he was managing director, he had grown
+more and more preoccupied with affairs, and had developed a brusque
+manner which may have served him well in dealing with visitors who
+wanted something for nothing, but was distinctly out of place in the
+social interchange of his leisure hours. Prinsep had, indeed, his
+pleasures. He was reputed a heavy drinker, whose magnificent natural
+constitution prevented him from showing any of the signs of
+dissipation. Many of Prinsep’s acquaintances—who were as many as his
+friends were few—had seen him drink more than enough to put an
+ordinary man under the table; but none had ever seen him the worse for
+drink, and he was never better at a bargain than when the other man
+had taken some glasses less than he, but still a glass too much. Men
+said that he took his pleasures sadly: certainly they had never been
+allowed to interfere with his power of work; and often, after a hard
+evening, he would go to his study and labour far into the night. But,
+for this occasion, his sullenness seemed to have left him, and his
+rather harsh laugh rang out repeatedly over the garden.
+
+Lucas had never liked Prinsep; and he soon found himself one of a
+group that included Joan and Ellery and Mary Woodman, a cousin of the
+Brooklyns who lived with Joan and helped her to keep Sir Vernon’s
+house. Presently Joan drew him aside.
+
+“Uncle Harry,” she said, “there’s something I want to tell you.”
+
+Lucas was, in fact, no relation of the Brooklyns; but from their
+childhood Joan and George Brooklyn had known him as “Uncle Harry,” and
+had made him their confidant in many of their early troubles. The
+habit had stuck; and now Joan had a very serious trouble to tell him.
+
+“You must do what you can to help me,” she said. “I’ve told Uncle
+Vernon again to-day that on no account will I ever marry John, and he
+absolutely refuses to listen to me. He says it’s all settled, and his
+will’s made on that understanding, and that we’re engaged, and a whole
+lot more. I must make him realise that I won’t; but you know what he
+is. I want you to speak to him for me.”
+
+Lucas thought a moment before replying. Then, “My dear,” he said, “I’m
+very sorry about it, and you know I will do what I can; but is this
+quite the time? We should only be accused, with some truth, of
+spoiling Sir Vernon’s birthday. Let it alone for a few days, and then
+I’ll try talking to him. But it won’t be easy, at any time.”
+
+“Yes, uncle; but there’s a special reason why it must be done
+to-night. Uncle Vernon tells me that he is going to announce the terms
+of his will, and that he will speak of what he calls John’s and my
+‘engagement.’ I really can’t allow that to happen. I don’t really mind
+about the will, or John getting the money; but it must not be publicly
+given out that John is to have me as well. Uncle Vernon has no right
+to leave me as part of his ‘net personalty’ to John or anybody else.”
+
+Lucas sighed. He foresaw an awkward interview; for Sir Vernon was not
+an easy man to deal with, and latterly every year had made him more
+difficult. But he saw that he was in for it, and, with a reassuring
+word to Joan, passed into the house in search of his host.
+
+As Joan turned back to rejoin the others, Robert Ellery stepped
+quickly to her side. Slim and slightly built, he offered a strong
+contrast to Prinsep’s tall, sturdy figure. Joan’s two lovers were very
+different types. Ellery was not strictly handsome; but he had an
+invincible air of being on good terms with the world which, with a
+ready smile and a clear complexion, were fully as effective as the
+most approved type of manly beauty. Still under thirty, he was just
+beginning to make himself a name. A play of his had recently been
+produced with success by the Brooklyn Corporation: one of his
+detective novels had made something of a hit, and his personal
+popularity was helping him to win rapid recognition for his undoubted
+talent as a writer. Moreover, his guardian, Lucas, was a big figure in
+the dramatic and literary world, knew everybody who was worth knowing,
+and had a high opinion of the ability of his ward.
+
+It was obvious that Ellery was in love with Joan. Few men had less
+power of concealing what was in them, and everybody in the Brooklyn
+circle, except Sir Vernon himself, was well aware that Ellery thought
+the world of Joan, and more than suspected that she thought the world
+of him. Of course, the theory could not be mentioned in Prinsep’s
+presence; but, when he was not there, the situation was freely
+discussed. George Brooklyn and his wife always maintained that, even
+if Joan did not marry Ellery, she would certainly not marry Prinsep.
+Carter Woodman, Sir Vernon’s lawyer as well as his cousin, held firmly
+to the opposite opinion, and often hinted that Sir Vernon’s will would
+settle the question in Prinsep’s favour; but then, as George said,
+Woodman was a lawyer and his mind naturally ran on the marriage
+settlements rather than the marriage itself.
+
+The Brooklyns were neither particularly united nor particularly
+quarrelsome, in their own family circles. They had their bickerings
+and their mutual dislikes to about the average extent; but more than
+the normal amount of family solidarity had manifested itself in their
+dealings with the outer world. Two “outsiders,” Lucas and Ellery, were
+indeed recognised almost as members of the family; and, on the other
+hand, one black sheep, Sir Vernon’s brother Walter, had been driven
+forth and refused further recognition. For the rest, they stuck
+together, and accepted for the most part unquestioningly Sir Vernon’s
+often tyrannical, but usually benevolent, authority. If Joan had been
+a real Brooklyn, George would hardly have been so confident that she
+would not marry Prinsep.
+
+But Joan was not really a Brooklyn at all. She was the step-daughter
+of Walter, who had for a time retrieved his fallen fortunes, fallen
+through his own fault, by marrying the rich widow of Cowper, the
+“coffee king.” The widow had then obligingly died, and Walter Brooklyn
+had lost no time in spending her money, including the large sum left
+in trust for Joan by her mother. But it was not this, so much as
+Walter’s manner of life, that had caused Joan, at twenty-one, to say
+that she would live with him no longer. Sir Vernon, to whom she was
+strongly attached, had then offered her a home, and for five years she
+had been in fact mistress of his house, and hostess at his lavish
+entertainment of his theatrical friends. From the first Sir Vernon had
+set his heart on her marrying his nephew, John Prinsep, who was ten
+years her senior. But Joan was a young woman with a will of her own;
+and for five years she had resisted the combined pressure of Sir
+Vernon and of John Prinsep himself, without any success in persuading
+either Sir Vernon to give up the idea, or Prinsep of the hopelessness
+of his suit. Prinsep persisted in believing that she would “come
+round,” though of late her growing friendship with Ellery had made him
+more anxious to secure her consent to a definite engagement.
+
+Ordinarily, Prinsep had a way of scowling when he saw Joan and Ellery
+together; but to-night he seemed without a care as he came up to Joan
+and invited her to lead the way indoors. Dinner was already served;
+and Sir Vernon with Lucas was waiting for them all to come in.
+
+There, in the great Board Room of the Corporation, they offered, one
+by one, their congratulations to the old man. An enemy had once said
+of Sir Vernon Brooklyn that he was the finest stage gentleman in
+Europe—both on and off the stage. The saying was unjust, but there was
+enough of truth in it to sting. Sir Vernon was a little apt to act off
+the stage; and the habit had perhaps grown on him since his
+retirement. To-night, with his fine silver hair and keen, well-cut
+features, he was very much the gentleman, dispensing noble hospitality
+with just too marked a sense of its magnificence. But it was Sir
+Vernon’s day, and his guests were there to do his will, to draw him
+out into reminiscence, to enhance his sense of having made the most of
+life’s chances, and of being sure to leave behind him those who would
+carry on the great tradition. The talk turned to the building of the
+Piccadilly Theatre. The old man told them how, from the first days of
+his success, he had made up his mind to build himself the finest
+theatre in London. From the first he had his eye on the site of
+Liskeard House; and it had taken him twenty years to persuade the
+Liskeards, impoverished as they were, to sell it for such a purpose.
+At last he had secured the site, and then again his foresight had been
+rewarded. Not for nothing had he paid for George Brooklyn’s training
+as an architect, based on the lad’s own bent, and given him the
+opportunity to study playhouse architecture in every quarter of the
+globe. The Piccadilly Theatre was not only George Brooklyn’s
+masterpiece: it was, structurally, acoustically, visually, for
+comfort, in short in every way, the finest theatre in the world. It
+was also the best paying theatre. And, the old man said, if in his day
+he had been the finest actor, so was George’s wife still the finest
+actress, if only she would not waste on domesticity the gift that was
+meant for mankind. For Mrs. George Brooklyn, as Isabelle Raven, had
+been the star of the Piccadilly Theatre until she had married its
+designer and quitted the stage, sorely against Sir Vernon’s will.
+
+Sir Vernon was in his best form; and the talk, led by him, was rapid
+and, at times, brilliant. But there was at least one of those present
+to whom it made no appeal; for Joan Cowper was painfully anxious as to
+the result of Lucas’s interview with Sir Vernon. Several times she
+caught his eye; but, although he smiled at her down the table, his
+look brought her no reassurance. At last, when the servants had
+withdrawn after the last course, Joan rose, purposing to lead the
+ladies to the drawing-room. But Sir Vernon waved her back to her seat,
+saying that, before they left the table, there was something which he
+wanted them all to hear. Clearly there was nothing for it but to wait;
+but Joan made up her mind that, if Sir Vernon spoke of her publicly as
+engaged to Prinsep, not even the spoiling of his birthday party should
+stop her from speaking her mind.
+
+
+
+Chapter II
+
+Sir Vernon’s Will
+
+“All of us here,” began Sir Vernon, with a well-satisfied look round
+the table, “are such good friends that we can be absolutely frank one
+with another. I am an old man; and I expect that almost all of you
+have at one time or another wondered—I put it bluntly—what you will
+get when I die. It is very natural that you should do so; and I have
+come to the conclusion that you had better know exactly how you stand.
+Carter here has, of course, as my legal adviser, known from the first
+what is in my will; and now I want all of you to know, in order that
+you may expect neither too much nor too little. I fear I am still a
+moderately healthy old man, or so my doctor tells me, and you may,
+therefore, still have some time to wait; but at my age it is well to
+be prepared, and I felt that you ought not to be left any longer in
+the dark.”
+
+At this point several of Sir Vernon’s auditors attempted to speak, but
+he waved them into silence.
+
+“No, let me have my say without telling me what I know already,” he
+continued. “I know that you would tell me truly that nothing is
+further from your thoughts than to wish me out of the way. It is not
+because I am in any doubt on that head that I am speaking to you; but
+because this is a business matter, and it is well to know in advance
+what one’s prospects are. Listen to me, then, and I will tell you, as
+far as I can, exactly how the thing stands.
+
+“To several of you I have already made substantial gifts. You, John,
+and you, George, have each received £50,000 in shares of the Company.
+You, Joan, have £10,000 worth of shares standing in your name. These
+sums are apart from my will, and the bequests which I propose to make
+are in addition to these.
+
+“As nearly as Carter here can tell me, I am now worth, on a
+conservative estimate, some eight or nine hundred thousand pounds.
+Carter works it out that, when all death duties have been paid, there
+will be at least £600,000 to be divided among you. In apportioning my
+property I have worked on the basis of this sum. I have divided it,
+first, into two portions—£100,000 for smaller legacies, and £500,000
+to be shared by my residuary legatees.
+
+“First, let me tell you my smaller bequests, which concern most of
+you. To you, Lucas, my oldest and closest friend, I have left nothing
+but a few personal mementoes. You have enough already; and it is at
+your express wish that I do as I have done. To my young friend and
+your ward, Ellery, I leave £5000. I understand that he will have
+enough when you die; but this sum may be welcome to him if, as I
+expect, I am the first to go. To you, Carter, I leave £20,000. You,
+too, have ample means; but our close connection and the work you have
+done so well for me and for the Company call for recognition. To Mrs.
+Carter—to you, Helen—I have left no money—you will share in what your
+husband receives—but I will show you later the jewels which will be
+yours when I die. To you, Mary, who, with Joan, have lived with me and
+cared for me, I leave £20,000, enough to make you independent. There
+are but two more of my smaller legacies I need mention. The rest are
+either to servants or to charitable institutions. But you all know
+that, for many years past, I have not been on good terms with my
+brother Walter. I have no mind, since I have other relatives who are
+far dearer to me, to leave him another fortune to squander like the
+last; but I am leaving in trust for him the sum of £10,000, of which
+he will receive the income during his life. On his death, the sum will
+pass to my dear niece, Joan, to whom I shall also leave absolutely the
+sum of £40,000. This, with the £10,000 which she had already, will
+make her independent, but not rich.
+
+“You may be surprised, Joan, that I leave you no more; but, when I
+tell you of my principal bequests, you will understand the reason. The
+residue, then, of my property, amounting to at least £500,000, I leave
+equally between my two nephews, John Prinsep and George Brooklyn. You
+too, therefore, will both be rich men. As so large a sum is involved,
+I have thought it right to make provision for the decease of either of
+you. Should George die before me, which God forbid, you, Marian, as
+his wife, will receive half the sum which he would have received under
+my will. The other half will pass to John, as the surviving residuary
+legatee. Should John die, the half of his share will pass to Joan—a
+provision the reason for which you will all, I think, readily
+appreciate. I have not made provision for the death of both my
+nephews—for an event so unlikely hardly calls for precaution. But
+should God bring so heavy a misfortune upon us, the residue of my
+property would then pass, as the will now stands, to my nearest
+surviving relative.”
+
+While Sir Vernon was still speaking Joan had been trying to break in
+upon him. Prinsep was able to check her for a moment, but at this
+point she insisted on speaking. “Uncle,” she said, “there is something
+I must say to you in view of what you have just told us. I am very
+sorry if my saying it spoils your birthday; but I must say it all the
+same. What you have left to me is more than enough, and certainly all
+that I expect, or have any right to expect. But I cannot bear that you
+should misunderstand me, or that I should seem, by saying nothing now,
+to accept the position. I want you to understand quite definitely that
+I have no intention of marrying John. I am not engaged to him; and I
+never shall be. It’s not that I have anything against him—it’s simply
+that I don’t want—and don’t mean—to marry him. I’m sorry if it hurts
+you to hear me say this; but you have publicly implied that we are to
+be married, and I couldn’t keep silent after that.”
+
+Sir Vernon’s face had flushed when Joan began to speak, and he had
+seemed on the point of breaking in upon her. But he had evidently
+thought better of it; for he let her have her say. But now he answered
+coldly, and with a suppressed but obvious irritation.
+
+“My dear Joan, you know quite well that this marriage has been an
+understood thing among us all. I don’t pretend to know what fancy has
+got into your head just lately. But, at all events, let us hear no
+more of it to-night. Already what you have said has quite spoilt the
+evening for me.”
+
+Then, as Joan tried to speak, he added, “No, please, no more about it
+now. If you wish you can speak to me about it in the morning.”
+
+Joan still tried to say something; but at this point Lucas cut quickly
+into the conversation. Actor-managers, he said, had all the luck. You
+would not find a poor devil of a playwright with the best part of a
+million to leave to his descendants. And then, with obvious relief,
+the rest helped to steer the talk back to less dangerous topics. Sir
+Vernon seemed to forget his annoyance and launched into a stream of
+old theatrical reminiscence, Lucas capping each of his stories with
+another. The cheerfulness of the latter part of the evening was,
+perhaps, a trifle forced, and there were two, Joan herself and young
+Ellery, who took in it only the smallest possible part. But Prinsep,
+Lucas, and Carter Woodman made up for these others; and an outsider
+would have pronounced Sir Vernon’s party a complete success.
+
+There was no withdrawal of the ladies that evening, for, after her
+discomfiture, Joan made no move towards the drawing-room. In the end
+it was Prinsep who broke up the party with a word to Sir Vernon.
+“Come, uncle,” he said, “ten o’clock and time for our roystering to
+end. I have work I must do about the theatre and it’s time some of us
+were getting home.”
+
+Then Joan seemed to wake up to a sense of her duties, and Sir Vernon
+was promptly bustled off upstairs, the guests gradually taking their
+leave.
+
+Most of them had not far to go. Lucas had his car waiting to run him
+back to his house at Hampstead. Ellery had rooms in Chelsea, and
+announced his intention, as the night was fine, of walking back by the
+parks. The George Brooklyns and the Woodmans, who lived in the outer
+suburbs at Banstead and Esher, were staying the night in town, at the
+famous Cunningham, on the opposite side of Piccadilly, the best hotel
+in London in the estimation of foreign potentates and envoys as well
+as of Londoners themselves. George Brooklyn, saying that he had an
+appointment, asked Woodman to see his wife home, and left Marian and
+the Woodmans outside the front door of the Piccadilly theatre, while
+they crossed the road towards their hotel.
+
+The guests having departed, Liskeard House began to settle down for
+the night. On the ground floor, indeed, there began a scurry of
+servants clearing up after the dinner. On the first floor Joan, having
+seen Sir Vernon to his room, sat in the long-deserted drawing-room,
+talking over the evening’s events with her friend, Mary Woodman, and
+reiterating, to a sympathetic listener, her determination never to
+marry John Prinsep. Meanwhile, upstairs on the second floor, John
+Prinsep sat at his desk in his remote study with a heavy frown on his
+face, very unlike the seemingly light-hearted and amiable expression
+he had worn all the evening. Sir Vernon’s birthday party was over, but
+there were strange things preparing for the night.
+
+
+
+Chapter III
+
+Murder
+
+John Prinsep was a man who valued punctuality and cultivated regular
+habits, both in himself and in others. At 10.15 punctually each night
+a servant came to him to collect any late letters for the post.
+Thereafter, unless some visitor had to be shown up, he was left
+undisturbed, and no one entered his flat on the second floor of
+Liskeard House until the next morning. The servants, who slept on the
+floor above, had access to it by a staircase of their own, and did not
+need to pass through Prinsep’s quarters.
+
+No less regular were the arrangements for the morning. At eight
+o’clock precisely, Prinsep’s valet called him, bringing the morning
+papers and letters and a cup of tea. At the same time, other servants
+began the work of dusting and cleaning the flat, a long suite of rooms
+running the whole length of the house. Prinsep’s bedroom, opening out
+of his study, and accessible also from the end of the long corridor,
+was a pleasant room looking out over the old garden towards the back
+of the theatre.
+
+On the morning after the birthday dinner, Prinsep’s valet approached
+the bedroom door with some trepidation, for he had overslept himself
+and was at least five minutes late—an offence which his master would
+not readily forgive. Repeated knocks bringing no reply, Morgan slipped
+into the room, only to find that the bed had not been slept in, and
+that there was no sign that Prinsep had been there at all since he had
+dressed for dinner on the previous evening. Closing the door, Morgan
+walked back along the corridor to consult his fellow-servants. He
+found Winter, who was superintending the dusting of the drawing-room.
+
+“Did you see the master last night?” he asked. Winter answered with a
+nod, and added, “Yes, I took some letters from him for the post as
+usual.”
+
+“Did he say anything about going out? His bed has not been slept in,
+and he’s not in his room this morning.”
+
+Winter replied that Prinsep had said nothing, and the two men walked
+down the corridor together to take a look round.
+
+At this moment there came a terrible scream from the study, and a
+scared maid-servant came running out straight into Morgan’s arms. “Oh,
+Mr. Morgan—the master,” she sobbed, “I’m sure he’s dead.”
+
+The two men-servants made all haste into the study. There, stretched
+on the floor beside his writing-table lay John Prinsep. A glance told
+them that he was dead, and showed the apparent cause in a knife, the
+handle of which protruded from his chest, just about the region of the
+heart. Morgan went down on his knees beside the body, and felt the
+pulse. “Get out quick,” he said, “and stop those girls from kicking up
+a row. He’s dead, right enough.”
+
+Morgan’s voice was agitated, indeed; but it hardly showed the grief
+that might have been expected in an exemplary valet mourning for the
+death of his master. Winter made no reply, but left the room to quiet
+the servants. Then he came back and telephoned first for the police
+and then for the dead man’s doctor, who promised to be with them
+inside of half an hour. As he sat at the telephone he warned Morgan.
+“Don’t disturb a thing. If we’re not careful one of us may get run in
+for this job.”
+
+Morgan meanwhile had satisfied himself beyond a doubt that Prinsep was
+dead. Leaving the body he turned to Winter. “Some one will have to
+tell Miss Joan, I suppose. I’ll go and find her maid. Meanwhile you
+stay on guard here.”
+
+Winter’s guard was not for long. In less than ten minutes Morgan
+returned. “I’ve seen Miss Joan,” he said, “and she’s gone to tell Sir
+Vernon. Here are the police coming upstairs.”
+
+The telephone message had, by a lucky accident, found Inspector
+Blaikie already at Vine Street, and it was he, with two constables and
+a sergeant, who had come round to the house at once. The constables
+remained downstairs, while he and the sergeant made a preliminary
+examination. Winter told him that nothing had been disturbed, except
+that they had touched the body in order to make sure that Prinsep was
+dead, and used the telephone to communicate with the doctor and the
+police.
+
+“No doubt about his being dead,” said Inspector Blaikie, after a brief
+examination of the body. “Dead some hours, so far as I can see. And no
+doubt about the cause of death, either”—and he pointed to the knife
+still in the body. “Has either of you ever seen that knife before?”
+
+Both Winter and Morgan took a good look at the shaft, but disclaimed
+ever having seen the knife. “It wasn’t his—I can tell you that,” said
+Morgan. “I know everything he had in the study, and I’m dead sure it
+wasn’t here yesterday.”
+
+“Hallo,” said the inspector suddenly, “this is curious. There’s a mark
+on the back of the head that shows he must have been struck a heavy
+blow. It might have killed him by itself—must have stunned him, I
+should say. Well, we’ll leave that for the doctors.” So saying, the
+inspector got up from his knees and began to make a minute examination
+of the room. “Here, you two,” he said to Morgan and Winter, “clear out
+of here for the present, and stay in the next room till I send for
+you.”
+
+Inspector Blaikie was a careful man. Everything in the room was
+rapidly submitted to a detailed examination, the results of which the
+sergeant wrote down as his superior dictated them. They were neither
+surprisingly rich nor surprisingly meagre. Of fingermarks there were
+plenty, but these might well prove to be those of Prinsep himself, or
+of other persons whose presence in the room was quite natural.
+Identifiable footmarks there were none.
+
+Robbery, unless of some special object, did not appear to have been
+the motive of the murderer. Considerable sums of money were in the
+drawers of Prinsep’s desk; but neither these nor the other contents of
+the drawers seemed to have been in any way disturbed. A safe stood
+unopened in a corner of the room. The dead man’s watch and other
+valuables had been left intact upon him. Either the murderer had left
+in great haste without accomplishing his purpose, or that purpose did
+not include robbery of any ordinary kind.
+
+Inspector Blaikie directed his special attention to the papers lying
+on the dead man’s desk, which he seemed to have been working upon when
+he was disturbed. These, it did not take the inspector long to
+discover, related to the financial affairs of Walter Brooklyn who, as
+he soon ascertained later by a few questions, was the brother of Sir
+Vernon, a man about town of shady reputation, and known to be head
+over ears in debt. The papers seemed to contain some sort of abstract
+statement of his liabilities, with a series of letters from him to Sir
+Vernon asking for financial assistance.
+
+“H’m,” said the inspector to himself, “these may easily have a bearing
+on the case.”
+
+But there were other interesting discoveries to come. The inspector
+was now informed that the doctor had arrived. He ordered that he
+should be shown up immediately, and suspended his examination of the
+room to greet the new-comer. Dr. Manton had been for some years the
+dead man’s medical adviser; but no other member of the Brooklyn family
+had been under his care. Something in common with him had perhaps
+caused Prinsep to forsake the staid family physician in his favour;
+but this hardly appeared on the surface. Prinsep was heavily built and
+sullen in expression: Dr. Manton was slim built and rather jaunty,
+with a habit of wearing clothes far less funereal than the normal
+etiquette of the medical profession seems to dictate. He entered now,
+flung a rapid and seemingly quite cheerful “Good-morning,
+inspector—bad business this, I hear,” to Blaikie, and went at once
+down on his knees beside the body. “Bad business—bad business,” he
+continued to repeat to himself, in a perfectly cheerful tone of voice,
+as he made his preliminary examination. He made a noise between his
+teeth as he touched the hilt of the knife still embedded in Prinsep’s
+chest: then, as he saw the contusion on the back of the head, he said
+“H’m, h’m.” Then he relapsed into silence, which he broke a moment
+later by whistling a tune softly to himself.
+
+“Well,” said the inspector, “what’s the report?”
+
+The doctor made no answer for a moment. Then he said, “Have him
+carried into the bedroom. I want to make a fuller examination. I’ll
+talk to you when I’ve done.”
+
+“Very well,” said the inspector; and he went to the door and called to
+the sergeant to bring up the two constables to move the body. Heavily
+they marched into the room, lifted up the dead man, and bore him away,
+the doctor following. But, as they raised the body from the floor, an
+interesting object came to light. Underneath John Prinsep’s body had
+lain a crumpled pocket-handkerchief. The inspector pounced upon it. In
+the corner was plainly marked the name of George Brooklyn.
+
+“Who’s George Brooklyn?” Inspector Blaikie called out to the doctor in
+the adjoining room. The doctor came to the door, and saw the
+handkerchief in the inspector’s hand. “Hallo, what’s that you’ve got?”
+he said. “George Brooklyn is Prinsep’s cousin, old Sir Vernon’s other
+nephew. An architect, I believe, by profession.”
+
+“Thanks. This appears to be his handkerchief,” the inspector answered.
+“It was under the body.”
+
+“H’m. Well, that’s none of my business,” said the doctor, and turned
+back into the bedroom.
+
+There, a minute or two later, Inspector Blaikie followed him, leaving
+the sergeant on guard in the room where the tragedy had occurred. But
+first he carefully packed up and transferred to his handbag the
+handkerchief, the papers from the desk, and certain other spoils of
+his search.
+
+“Well, what do you make of it now?” he asked Dr. Manton.
+
+The doctor had by this time drawn the knife from the wound, and this
+he now handed silently to the inspector, who examined it curiously,
+felt its edge, and finally wrapped it up and put it away in his bag
+with the rest of his findings. Then he turned again to the doctor.
+
+“A shocking business, inspector,” said the latter, still with his
+curiously cheerful air, “and, I may add, rather an odd one. The man
+was not killed with the knife, and the knife wound has not actually
+touched any vital part. He was killed, I have no doubt, by the blow on
+the back of the head—a far easier form of murder for any one who is
+not an expert. It was a savage blow. The wound in the chest, I have
+little hesitation in saying, was inflicted subsequently, probably when
+the man was already dead. As I say, it would not have killed him, and
+there are also indications that it was inflicted after death—the
+comparative absence of bleeding and the general condition of the
+wound, for example.”
+
+“H’m, you say the man was killed with a knock on the head, and the
+assassin then stabbed him in order to make doubly sure.”
+
+“Pardon me, inspector, I say nothing of the sort. I say that the blow
+on the back of the head was the cause of death, and that the knife
+wound was, in all probability, subsequent. Anything about assassins
+and their motives and methods is your business and not mine.”
+
+“I accept the correction,” said the inspector, smiling. “But the
+inference seems practically certain. Why else should the murderer have
+stabbed a dead man?”
+
+“I have no theory, inspector. I simply give you the medical evidence,
+and leave you to draw the inferences for yourself.”
+
+“But perhaps you can give me some valuable information. I believe you
+were Mr. Prinsep’s doctor.”
+
+“Yes, and I think I may say a personal friend.”
+
+“What sort of man was he? Anything wrong, physically?”
+
+“No; there ought to have been, from the way he used his body. But he
+had the constitution of an ox. He limped, owing to an accident some
+years ago. But otherwise—oh, as healthy as you like.”
+
+“And, apart from that, what was he like?”
+
+“I got on well with him; but there were many who did not. A tough
+customer, hard in business and not ready in making friends.”
+
+“What terms was he on with his family—with Mr. George Brooklyn, for
+instance?”
+
+“Come now, inspector, this is hardly fair. I barely know George
+Brooklyn. I don’t think he and Prinsep liked each other; but there had
+been no quarrel so far as I know. I suppose you are thinking of the
+handkerchief.”
+
+“I have to think of these things.”
+
+While he was speaking the inspector opened his bag and took out the
+knife again.
+
+“A curious knife this,” he said. “Perhaps you can tell me whether it
+is a surgical instrument.”
+
+“Not so curious, when you know what it is. I do happen to know, though
+it has nothing to do with my profession. My son is a mechanical
+draughtsman, and he has several. Knives of this type are sold by most
+firms which supply architects’ and draughtsmen’s materials.”
+
+“H’m, what did you say was Mr. George Brooklyn’s profession?”
+
+“I believe he is an architect, and a very promising one.”
+
+“That, doctor, may make this knife a most valuable clue.”
+
+“I do not choose to consider it in that light. Clues are not my
+affair, I am glad to say.”
+
+“Well, they are my business, and I shall certainly have to make
+further inquiries about Mr. George Brooklyn.”
+
+“Oh, inquire away,” said the doctor. “But I fancy you will find George
+Brooklyn quite above suspicion.”
+
+The inspector’s eyes showed, just for an instant, a dangerous gleam.
+Then, “And is there anything else you can tell me?” he asked.
+
+“Nothing else, I think,” said the doctor. “I’m afraid you won’t find
+it much of a clue.” And with that and a few words more about the
+necessary inquest, the doctor took his leave.
+
+The inspector went back into the study. “Ask those two men who are
+waiting to step in here, will you?” he said to the sergeant. Morgan
+and Winter were duly brought in. “Sergeant, while I talk to these two
+men, I want you to make a thorough examination of the rest of the
+house. Leave nothing to chance. House and garden, I mean. And make me
+a sketch plan of the whole place while you’re about it.”
+
+“Now,” said the inspector, when the sergeant had withdrawn, “there are
+a number of questions I want to ask you. First, who, as far as you
+know, was the last person to see the deceased alive? Which of you was
+in charge of the front door last night?”
+
+“I was, sir,” replied Winter.
+
+“Well, then,” said the inspector, “I will begin with you. Morgan can
+go back to the other room for the present, and I will send for him
+when I want him. Now, when did you yourself last see Mr. Prinsep?”
+
+“At 10.30 last night, sir, when I went up to fetch his letters for the
+post.”
+
+“Did you notice anything unusual, or did he make any remark?”
+
+“He just gave me the letters. He didn’t say anything. He seemed in a
+bad temper, but that was nothing out of the ordinary.”
+
+“I see. There was nothing remarkable. Do you know if any one saw him
+after you?”
+
+“Yes, sir. At about a quarter to eleven Mr. George Brooklyn called and
+asked for Mr. Prinsep. I told him I thought Mr. Prinsep was in, and he
+said he would find his own way up.”
+
+“And do you know when Mr. George Brooklyn came out?”
+
+“Yes, I happened to catch sight of him crossing the hall to the front
+door about three-quarters of an hour later—somewhere about half-past
+eleven. We were in the dining-room clearing up, and several of us saw
+him go out.”
+
+“You say ‘clearing up.’ Had there been some entertainment in the house
+last night?”
+
+“Yes, sir. It was Sir Vernon Brooklyn’s family party. His seventieth
+birthday, sir. Besides those in the house there were Mr. and Mrs.
+George, Mr. Carter Woodman, sir—the solicitor, who is also Sir
+Vernon’s cousin—and his wife, and Mr. Lucas—and, yes, Mr. Ellery.”
+
+“When did they leave?”
+
+“They all left a minute or two after ten o’clock. Mr. and Mrs. George
+and the Woodmans are staying at the Cunningham, sir, and they walked.
+Mr. Lucas—the playwriter, sir—he went off in his car to Hampstead, and
+Mr. Ellery, he walked off in a great hurry.”
+
+“So far as you know, no one besides Mr. George Brooklyn saw Mr.
+Prinsep after 10.15.”
+
+“No. Of course, Miss Joan or Miss Woodman or Sir Vernon may have seen
+him without my knowing.”
+
+“One more question. Do you recognise this walking-stick?” The
+inspector had found this lying on the floor of the room. It might be
+Prinsep’s; but it was best to make sure.
+
+“No, sir. I’ve never seen it to my knowledge. But it may have been Mr.
+Prinsep’s, for all that. He had quite a number.”
+
+“You’ve no idea, then, whose it was?”
+
+“No, sir. Mr. Prinsep used to collect walking-sticks. He was always
+bringing new ones home.”
+
+“Now, I want to ask you another question. You see this knife—the one
+that was sticking out of the body. Have you ever seen it before?”
+
+Winter’s manner showed some hesitation. At length he said, “No, I
+can’t say I have. I mean, it wasn’t here to my knowledge yesterday.”
+
+“You seem to hesitate in answering. It’s a curious sort of knife.
+Surely you would remember if you had seen it. Or have you seen one
+like it?”
+
+“Must I answer that question, sir? You see, I’m not at all sure it was
+the same.”
+
+“Of course you must answer. It is your business to give the police all
+the help you can in discovering the murderer.”
+
+“Well, sir, all I meant was that I’d often seen Mr. George Brooklyn
+using that sort of knife when he was doing his work—he’s an
+architect—down at Fittleworth. He used to bring his work down when he
+came to stay with Sir Vernon, and I know he had a knife like that.”
+
+“I see. But you can’t say whether this is his.”
+
+“No. It might be; but all I know is it’s the same pattern.”
+
+“And that’s all you can tell me, is it?” Winter said nothing, and the
+inspector added, “Very well, that will do. Now I want to ask Morgan a
+few questions.”
+
+Morgan had little light to throw upon the tragedy. He had been out all
+the previous evening, after helping his master to dress for dinner,
+when he had noticed nothing extraordinary. He had come back soon after
+11.30, and had gone straight to bed. Where had he been? He had spent
+the evening with friends at Hammersmith, had come back by the Tube
+with two friends, who had only left him at the door of the house.
+There he had met Winter and had gone upstairs with him to bed.
+
+Asked if he knew the walking-stick, he was quite sure that it was not
+his master’s, and that it had not been in the room on the previous
+day. About the knife he knew nothing, except that he had never seen
+it, or one like it, before.
+
+The inspector had just finished his examination of Morgan when he was
+startled by a shout from the garden. Throwing up the window, he called
+to a constable who was running towards the house. The man’s answer was
+to ask him to come as quickly as possible. Calling another constable
+to keep guard in the study, Inspector Blaikie hastened to the garden,
+directed by Morgan to a private stairway which led directly to it from
+the back of the house. This, Morgan informed him, was Mr. Prinsep’s
+usual way of getting into the garden, and thence, by the private
+covered way, into the Piccadilly Theatre itself.
+
+But before inspector Blaikie left the study, he did one thing. He
+’phoned through to Scotland Yard, and made arrangements for the
+immediate arrest of George Brooklyn, who was probably to be found at
+the Cunningham Hotel.
+
+
+
+Chapter IV
+
+What Joan Found in the Garden
+
+Joan Cowper usually knew her own mind. And, in her view, knowing your
+own mind meant knowing when to stop as well as when to go on. She had
+made her position clear at the dinner, and Sir Vernon could no longer
+pretend, she said to herself, that her marriage with Prinsep was a
+foregone conclusion. Sir Vernon, indeed, had said nothing more about
+the matter when she took him to his room in the evening, and they had
+separated for the night apparently on the best of terms. But Joan had
+known that she must prepare for a stormy interview on the morrow; and,
+as she dressed in the morning, her thoughts were running on what she
+should say to Sir Vernon, in answer to the reproaches he was sure to
+address to her.
+
+Just as she was ready for breakfast, her scared maid came to her door,
+and said that Morgan wished to speak to her for a moment. Joan looked
+at the girl’s face, and saw at once that something serious was amiss.
+
+“Why, what’s the matter?” she said.
+
+“I don’t know, miss; but there’s something wrong upstairs, and they’re
+sending for the police.”
+
+Joan hurried to the room where Morgan was waiting for her. With the
+impeccable manner of the good manservant, and almost without a shade
+of feeling in his voice, Morgan told her what had happened—how he and
+Winter had found Prinsep lying on the floor of his study, dead.
+
+“You are sure that he is dead,” she managed to ask. “Have you sent for
+a doctor?”
+
+Morgan assured her that everything was being attended to, and said
+that he had come to her because some one would have to break the news
+to Sir Vernon. Would she do it?
+
+Into Joan’s mind came the thought of the interview she had expected,
+and of the interview she was after all to have. No question now of her
+marrying John Prinsep—there was no longer any such person as John
+Prinsep to marry.
+
+“I suppose I must do it,” she said.
+
+Joan’s composure lasted just long enough for the door to close behind
+Morgan. Then she flung herself down on a couch, and let her feelings
+have their way. She sobbed half hysterically—not because, even at this
+tragic moment, she felt grief for John Prinsep, but simply because the
+sudden catastrophe was too much for her. Tragedy had swooped down in a
+moment on the house of Brooklyn, sweeping out of existence the crisis
+which had seemed so vital to her only a few minutes ago. On her was
+the sense of calamity, bewilderment, and helplessness in the face of
+death.
+
+She had felt no call to ask Morgan questions. John Prinsep’s death—his
+murder—was a fact—a shattering event which must have time to sink into
+her consciousness before she could begin to inquire about the manner
+of its coming. She did not even ask herself how it had happened, or
+who had done this thing. As she lay sobbing, the one thought in her
+mind was that Prinsep was dead.
+
+But soon that other thought, that call to action which had been
+presented to her at the very moment when Morgan told her the news,
+came back into her mind. She had given way; but she must pull herself
+together. Sir Vernon, old and weak as he was, must be told the news;
+and she must tell him. She must tell him at once, lest tidings should
+break on him suddenly from some other quarter. Already the police were
+probably in the house. With a powerful effort, Joan forced herself to
+be calm. Drying her eyes, she stood upright, and looked at herself in
+the glass. She would need all her power to break the news to the old
+man whom she loved—the old man who had loved John Prinsep far more
+than he loved her.
+
+John Prinsep had been Sir Vernon’s favourite nephew—the man who was to
+succeed him—had indeed already succeeded him—in the management of the
+great enterprise he had built up. He liked George and Joan; but
+Prinsep had always had the first place in both his affection and his
+esteem. This death—this murder—Joan told herself, might be more than
+he could bear. It might kill him. And it fell to her, who only the
+night before had flouted his will by refusing to marry John Prinsep,
+to break to the old man the news of his favourite’s death.
+
+Still, it had to be done, and it was best done quickly. Sir Vernon
+always lay in bed to breakfast, and it was to his bedroom that
+Joan went with her evil tidings. She did not try to break it to
+him gradually—she told him straight out what she knew, holding
+his hand as she spoke. He looked very old and feeble there in the
+great bed. But he took it more quietly than she had expected, unable
+apparently to take in at once the full implication of what she said.
+“Dead—murdered,” he repeated to himself again and again. He lay back
+in the bed and closed his eyes. Joan sat beside him for a while, and
+then stole away. His eyes opened and he watched her to the door; but
+he did not speak.
+
+Joan’s first act on leaving Sir Vernon was to telephone to the family
+doctor—old Sir Jonas Dalrymple—and ask him to come round as soon as he
+could. Then she felt that she must have air: her head was swimming and
+she was near to fainting. So she went down the private staircase and
+out into the old garden which, now as ever, seemed so remote from the
+busy world outside. For some minutes she walked up and down the avenue
+of trees, along which were ranged the antique statues Lord Liskeard
+had brought home from Asia Minor. Then, in search of a place where she
+could sit and rest, she went towards the model temple which the same
+old scholar-diplomat had built to mark his enthusiasm for the world of
+antiquity.
+
+But, as Joan came nearer the temple she saw, in the entrance, some
+indistinct dark object lying upon the steps. At first she could not be
+sure what it was; but, as she came close, she became sure that it was
+the body of a man, lying with the feet towards her in an unnatural
+attitude which must be that of either unconsciousness or death. Her
+impulse was to turn tail and run to the house for help; but, with a
+strong effort of will, she forced herself to go still nearer. It was a
+man, and the man, she felt sure, was dead. The face was turned away,
+lying downwards on the stone of the topmost step; and on the exposed
+back of the head was the mark of a savage blow which had crushed the
+skull almost like an egg-shell. Already Joan was nearly certain who it
+was, and an intense feeling of sickness came over her as she forced
+herself to touch the body and to turn it over enough to expose the
+face. Then she let the thing drop back, and started back herself with
+a sharp cry. It was her cousin, George Brooklyn, manifestly dead and
+no less manifestly murdered, who lay there on the steps of the Grecian
+temple.
+
+Filled as she was with horror at the second tragedy of the morning,
+Joan did not lose her presence of mind. She staggered, indeed, and had
+to cling for a minute to the nearest of the old statues—the Hercules
+whose points John Prinsep had showed off to his guests only the night
+before. The tears which she had been keeping back burst from her now,
+and the weeping did her good. She regained her composure and realised
+that her first duty was to summon help. Slowly and unsteadily she
+walked towards the house. At the door leading to the garden she met
+one of the policemen who was helping the sergeant in his examination
+of the house. She tried to speak, but she could only utter one word,
+“Come,” and lead the way back to the horror that lay there in the
+garden.
+
+The policeman followed her. But as soon as they came in view of the
+temple and he saw what she had seen already, he ceased to advance.
+“One moment, miss,” he said, “I must fetch the sergeant,” and he
+started back to the house in search of his superior.
+
+Joan stood stock still, only swaying a little, until the policeman
+came back with the sergeant. Then she watched the two men go up to the
+body, turn it over slightly to see the face, and then let it fall
+back.
+
+“Begging pardon, miss,” said the sergeant, turning to her, “but maybe
+you know who this gentleman is?”
+
+With a violent effort Joan managed to answer, “George—my cousin—Mr.
+George Brooklyn,” she said; and then, overcome by the strain, she
+fainted.
+
+The sergeant was a chivalrous man, and he instantly left off his
+examination of the spot and came to Joan’s help. Propping up her head
+he fanned her rather awkwardly. As he did so, he shouted to the
+policeman. “Don’t stand there, you fool, looking like a stuck pig. Go
+and get some water for the lady.”
+
+The constable set off at a run, lumbering heavily over the grass. “And
+tell the inspector what’s toward,” shouted the sergeant after him. It
+was this shout that the inspector heard, and that made him throw up
+the study window and receive at once the constable’s message.
+
+By the time Inspector Blaikie reached the garden, the constable had
+returned with a glass of water, and Joan had recovered consciousness.
+She was sitting on the grass, her back propped against the pedestal of
+the statue, and the sergeant was trying to persuade her to go indoors.
+The inspector, after a hasty glance at the scene, added his
+entreaties; but Joan refused to go.
+
+“No, I must see this through,” she said, as to herself. “I’m all right
+now,” she added, trying to smile at the police officer. “Let me alone,
+please.” After a time they left her to herself and pursued their
+investigation of the crime.
+
+Not only were the fact and manner of death plain enough: the actual
+weapon with which the blow had been dealt was also clearly indicated.
+Between the body and the statue lay a heavy stone club, evidently a
+part of the group of statuary against which Joan was resting. It was
+the club of Hercules, taken from the hand of the stone figure which
+stood only a few feet away from the body. On the club were
+unmistakable recent bloodstains, and clotted in the blood were hairs
+which seemed to correspond closely with those of the dead man.
+
+The blow had been one of immense violence. The stone club itself was
+so heavy that only a very strong man could have wielded it with
+effect; and it had evidently been brought down with great force on the
+back of George Brooklyn’s head by some one standing almost immediately
+behind him, but rather to the right hand. So much appeared even from a
+cursory inspection of the wound. It was also evident that the body did
+not lie where it had fallen. It had been dragged two or three yards
+along the ground into the temple entry, presumably in order that it
+might be well out of the way of casual notice. The dragging of it
+along the ground had left clear traces. A track had been swept clear
+of loose stones and rubble by the passage of the body, and two little
+ridges showed where the stones and dust had piled up on each side.
+
+George Brooklyn was fully dressed in his evening clothes, just as he
+had appeared at dinner the night before. He had evidently come out
+into the garden without either hat or overcoat—or at least there was
+no sign of these on the scene of the crime. His body lay where it had
+been dragged—presumably by the murderer; and all the evidence seemed
+to show that death had been practically instantaneous. There was no
+sign of a struggle: the only visible mark of the event was the trail
+left where the dragging of the body had swept clear of dirt and
+pebbles the stone approach to the model temple.
+
+All these observations, made by the sergeant within a minute or two of
+discovering the body, were confirmed by the inspector when he went
+over the ground. Footmarks, indeed, were there in plenty; but Joan
+explained that they had all been walking about the garden before
+dinner on the previous evening, and that nearly all of them had
+actually stood for some time just outside the porch of the temple.
+From the footprints it was most unlikely that any valuable evidence
+would be derived.
+
+Had the situation been less grim Inspector Blaikie would have been
+inclined to laugh when he found that the man whose body lay in the
+garden was the very man for whose arrest he had just issued the order.
+His fear had been that George Brooklyn would slip away before there
+was time to effect an arrest. That fear was now most completely
+removed. If George Brooklyn had killed Prinsep upstairs, certainly
+fate had lost no time in exacting retribution.
+
+The inspector’s immediate business, however, was to see what clues to
+this second and more mysterious murder might have been left. And it
+soon appeared to him that valuable evidence was forthcoming. First, on
+the stone club, his skilled examination plainly revealed a fine set of
+finger-prints, blurred in places, but still quite decipherable.
+Moreover, these prints occupied exactly the spaces most natural if the
+weapon had been used for a murderous assault. The inspector carefully
+wrapped up the club for forwarding at once to the Finger-Print
+Department at Scotland Yard.
+
+But good fortune did not end there. Close to the statue of Hercules
+from which the club had been taken he found, trodden into the ground,
+a broken cigar-holder. It was a fine amber holder, broken cleanly
+across the middle. Where the cigar was to be inserted was a stout gold
+band, and on this band was an inscription, “V.B. from H.L.” Blaikie
+looked in vain for a cigar end. Probably the holder had dropped from a
+pocket and been trodden upon. Perhaps from the pocket of the murderer
+himself.
+
+The inspector turned to Joan with his find.
+
+“Have you ever seen this before?” he asked.
+
+Joan gave a start of surprise. For a moment she stared at the
+cigar-holder without saying a word. Then she spoke slowly, and as if
+with an effort.
+
+“Yes,” she said. “Uncle Harry—I mean Mr. Lucas—gave it to Sir Vernon;
+but Mr. Prinsep always used it. I saw him using it last night.”
+
+“Miss Cowper,” said the inspector, “this may be very important. Are
+you quite sure that you saw Mr. Prinsep using this holder last night,
+and, if you are, at what time?”
+
+“Yes, quite sure. He was smoking a cigar in it when he went up to his
+room.”
+
+Joan had stayed in the garden while the inspector was examining the
+ground, because she seemed to have lost the power of doing anything
+else. If she went in she must go and tell Sir Vernon of this second
+tragedy, or else talk to him in such a way as deliberately to keep him
+in ignorance of it. The strain in either case would be, she felt, more
+than she could bear. It was better even to stay near this horrible
+corpse, and to watch the police making their investigations.
+
+Meanwhile, Dr. Manton, and with him a police surgeon, had come into
+the garden and were making an examination of the body. When they had
+done, two stout constables placed it on a stretcher and carried it
+into the house. Joan followed almost mechanically, leaving the
+inspector still in the garden.
+
+As she entered the house Winter told her that Mrs. George Brooklyn and
+Mrs. Woodman were upstairs with Miss Woodman, and that Carter Woodman
+had telephoned to say that he was coming round at once. He had just
+heard, at his office, the news of Prinsep’s murder; but of course he
+would know nothing yet of George’s fate. And then it occurred to Joan
+that Mrs. George, who was upstairs, had probably heard nothing as yet
+of her husband’s death. Was she to break the news again—this time to a
+wife whose love for her husband had been so great as to become a
+family proverb? “As much in love as Marian.” How often they had
+laughed as they said it; and now it came home suddenly to Joan what it
+meant. Still, she must go upstairs and see them—tell them, if need be.
+
+She found that they knew already. They had seen from a window the
+excitement in the garden, and Mary Woodman had run down to find out
+what the trouble was. So Mary had had to tell Mrs. George, and there
+they were sitting in silence, waiting for news that could be no worse,
+and could be no better.
+
+Joan shortly told them what she knew. Marian listened in silence,
+sitting still and staring at nothing with a fixed gaze. She did not
+weep: she was as if she had been turned to stone. Joan thought that
+she looked more beautiful now than she had ever looked on the stage,
+when she set a whole theatre crying for the sorrows of some queen of
+long ago. She longed to offer comfort, but she dared do nothing.
+Complete silence fell on the room.
+
+Meanwhile, below, Carter Woodman had arrived. He heard from Winter at
+the door the news of the second tragedy of the morning. At first he
+seemed half incredulous; but he was soon convinced that there was no
+room for doubt. With a sentence expressing his horror, he hurried
+through into the garden in search of the inspector, whom he found
+still seeking for further traces of the crime.
+
+Carter Woodman took the position by storm. His tall, athletic presence
+dominated the group of men gathered round the statue. He insisted that
+he must hear the whole story, demanded to know what clues the police
+had found, and so bullied the inspector and everybody else as to get
+himself at once very heartily disliked. Before he had half done the
+police were quite in a mood to convict him of the murder, if they
+could find a shred of evidence.
+
+But they had to respect his energy; for it was he who pointed out to
+them something which they had overlooked. It was a scrap of paper
+lying on the floor of the temple, seemingly blown into a corner, just
+beyond where the body had lain. A leaf clearly from a memorandum book,
+and, from the cleanness and the state of the torn edge, apparently not
+long torn out. On it was written, in a hand which Woodman at once
+identified as Prinsep’s, “Come to me in the garden. I will wait in the
+temple—J.P.” There was no address or direction. But it seemed to prove
+that Prinsep, who lay dead upstairs, had arranged with some one a
+meeting in the garden, where now George Brooklyn’s body had been
+found.
+
+It was Woodman, too, who made a valuable suggestion. “Look here,
+inspector,” he said. “Most of this part of the garden, though it is
+hidden from the house by the trees, can be seen from the windows at
+the back of the theatre. Whoever was here with poor old George last
+night may quite possibly have been seen by some one from there. There
+are nearly always people about till late.”
+
+The inspector at once pointed out that the place where they were
+standing, and the temple itself, were completely hidden from the
+theatre by a thick belt of trees and shrubs. But Woodman insisted that
+the chance was worth trying. George or his assailant might have been
+in another part of the garden some of the time.
+
+The inspector and Woodman accordingly went across to the theatre, to
+which the news had already spread. And there they quickly found what
+they wanted. A caretaker, who lived in a set of ground-floor rooms at
+the back of the house had distinctly seen John Prinsep walking up and
+down the garden shortly after eleven o’clock, or it might have been a
+quarter past, on the previous night. He had been quite alone, and the
+man had last seen him walking towards the shrubbery and the temple.
+Asked if he was quite certain that the person he saw was Prinsep he
+said there could be no mistaking Mr. Prinsep. He had on his
+claret-coloured overcoat and slouch hat, and no one could help
+recognising his walk. He had a pronounced limp, and walked with a
+curious sideways action. “It was Mr. Prinsep all right,” the caretaker
+concluded. “I should know him out of a thousand.”
+
+This would have satisfied some men; and it appeared to satisfy
+Woodman. But the inspector held that it was desirable to look for
+corroborative evidence. No one else in the building seemed to have
+seen any one in the garden; but most of the staff had not yet arrived.
+The inspector made arrangements for each to be interrogated on
+arrival, and he and Woodman then went back into the garden through the
+private door opening on the covered way communicating between the
+theatre and the house. They continued their search; but no further
+clues were to be found.
+
+
+
+Chapter V
+
+Plain as a Pikestaff
+
+Inspector Blaikie, when he had done all that he could on the scene of
+the double crime, went at once to report to his superiors and to hold
+a consultation at Scotland Yard. The officer to whom he was
+immediately responsible was the celebrated Superintendent Wilson—“the
+Professor,” as his colleagues called him, in allusion to his scholarly
+habits and his pre-eminently intellectualist way of reasoning out the
+solution of his cases. “The Professor,” in his earlier days as
+Inspector Wilson, had patiently found his way to the heart of a good
+many murder mysteries by thinking them out as logical problems. He had
+made his name by solving the great “Antedated Murder Mystery,” when
+every one else had been hopelessly in fault; and a man’s life and a
+great fortune had both depended on his skill in reasoning out the
+truth. He was a small man, with quick, nervous movements, and a
+curious way of closing his eyes and holding up his hands before him
+with the tips of his fingers pressed tightly together when he was
+discussing a case. He was reputed to have but a scant respect for most
+of his colleagues at Scotland Yard; but he made an exception in favour
+of Inspector Blaikie, whose pertinacity in following up clues worked
+in excellently with his own skill at putting two and two together.
+Blaikie, he would often say, could not reason; but he could find
+things out. He, Wilson, stuck there in his office, could not go
+hunting for clues; but he and Blaikie together were a first-class
+combination. He was sitting at his desk, busy with a mass of papers,
+when the inspector entered. He at once put his work aside and settled
+down to discuss the new case. Word of the second murder had already
+been sent to him over the telephone; and he had seen that the case was
+certain to make a stir. The connection of the victims with Sir Vernon
+Brooklyn and the Piccadilly Theatre was enough to ensure a first-class
+newspaper sensation. There was an unusual note of eagerness in his
+voice as he asked for the latest news.
+
+“The trouble about this case, sir,” said Inspector Blaikie, “is that
+it’s as plain as a pikestaff; but what the clues plainly indicate
+cannot possibly be true. Perhaps I had better tell you the whole story
+from the beginning.”
+
+Superintendent Wilson nodded, put the tips of his fingers together,
+leant back in his chair, and finally closed his eyes. He had composed
+himself to listen.
+
+“I went to Liskeard House shortly before half-past eight this morning,
+on receipt of a telephone message stating that a murder had been
+committed.”
+
+“Who sent the message?”
+
+“One of the servants. They had found the body when they went in to
+clean the room in the morning. I went to the house, as I say. In a
+room on the second floor, a study, I found the body, which the
+servants identified as that of Mr. John Prinsep, by whom the second
+floor was occupied. Mr. Prinsep was managing director of the Brooklyn
+Corporation and nephew of Sir Vernon Brooklyn.”
+
+The superintendent nodded.
+
+“The body was lying on the floor with the face upwards. A knife, which
+I have since found to be of a peculiar type used by architects and
+draughtsmen, was protruding from the chest in the region of the heart.
+On the side of the head was a very clearly marked contusion, obviously
+caused by a heavy blow from some blunt instrument, which cannot have
+been any object of furniture in the room. The dead man’s doctor, Dr.
+Manton, and the police surgeon agree that this blow, and not the knife
+wound, was the cause of death. The knife did not touch any vital part,
+and the doctors believe that the wound in the chest was inflicted
+after death.”
+
+“You say ‘believe.’ Are they certain?”
+
+“No; almost certain, but not so as to swear to it. I at once made an
+examination of the room. The dead man had evidently been sitting at
+his desk, and had fallen from his chair on being struck from behind on
+the left-hand side. On the desk was a mass of papers relating to the
+financial affairs of a Mr. Walter Brooklyn, a brother, I find, of Sir
+Vernon Brooklyn, and therefore uncle to the deceased. I have the
+papers here.”
+
+The inspector handed over a bundle which the superintendent placed
+beside him on the table. “Go on,” he said.
+
+“Lying on the floor, at some distance from the body, was this
+walking-stick, which may, or may not, have some connection with the
+crime. There were at least thirty or forty walking-sticks standing in
+a corner; but this was lying on the floor behind the study chair to
+the left—that is, at the point from which the murderer seems to have
+approached his victim. The servants say that they do not remember
+seeing the stick before; but they cannot be certain, as the deceased
+collected sticks. This is evidently a curio, made, I think, of
+rhinoceros horn.”
+
+The superintendent examined the stick for a moment, and then put it
+down beside him.
+
+“Dr. Manton then arrived, and, after a preliminary examination, asked
+that the body should be removed to the adjoining bedroom. When it was
+lifted up there was revealed, lying beneath it, this handkerchief
+which, as you see, is marked in the corner with the name ‘G.
+Brooklyn.’ Mr. George Brooklyn, I have ascertained, is also a nephew
+of Sir Vernon Brooklyn. He is, moreover, an architect by profession,
+and might therefore easily have been in possession of the knife found
+embedded in the body. Winter, the butler at the house, has often seen
+him using a knife of this precise pattern.”
+
+“H’m,” said the superintendent.
+
+“I made inquiries among the servants. The last of them to see Mr.
+Prinsep alive was the butler, Winter, who collected from him his late
+letters for the post. That was at 10.30 or thereabouts. The deceased
+was sitting at his table, working at a lot of figures. He seemed in a
+bad temper, but that, Winter says, was nothing unusual. But from the
+same Winter I obtained a very valuable piece of evidence. At about a
+quarter to eleven Mr. George Brooklyn called to see the deceased. He
+said he would show himself upstairs, and did so. He was seen by Winter
+and the other servants leaving the house by the front door at about
+11.30. It was on receiving this information that I telephoned to you
+asking for the immediate arrest of Mr. George Brooklyn, who was
+believed to be staying at the Cunningham Hotel.”
+
+“Yes,” said the superintendent. “I sent two men round there. They were
+informed that Mr. Brooklyn had booked rooms, and that his wife had
+spent the night in the hotel. He had not been there since the previous
+day before dinner. I was about to take further steps when I received
+your second message.”
+
+“Quite so. Now I come, sir, to the really extraordinary part of the
+case. Immediately before telephoning to you I had received an urgent
+message to come down to the garden, where the sergeant was making
+investigations. In the garden I found a body, which was identified by
+a young lady who lives in the house—Sir Vernon Brooklyn’s ward, I
+understand—as that of Mr. George Brooklyn himself. He was in evening
+dress, without hat or coat, and the body was lying on the steps of a
+curious sort of stone summer house—they call it the Grecian
+temple—where it had been dragged. The cause of death—the doctors
+confirm this—was a terrific blow on the back of the head, and the
+weapon was lying a few yards from the body. I have it here in the
+parcel.” The inspector lifted the heavy club with an effort on to the
+table, and the superintendent gave an involuntary start of surprise as
+he saw the strange weapon that had been employed in this sinister
+tragedy.
+
+“It is, as you see, sir, a heavy stone club. It is part of a group of
+statuary—a Hercules, they tell me—which stands in the garden about
+four yards from the summer-house or temple. It has obviously been
+detached for some time from the rest of the statue. On it are some
+bloodstains and hairs which correspond to those of the dead man. There
+are also finger-prints, which I suppose you will have examined. I took
+the precaution to secure finger-prints of both the dead men for
+possible use. They are here.” The inspector handed over another
+parcel.
+
+“I studied carefully the scene of the crime. The deed was evidently
+done almost at the foot of the statue, and the body was dragged from
+there to the temple, presumably to remove it from casual notice. At
+the foot of the statue I found this crushed cigar-holder, which Miss
+Joan Cowper—the young lady to whom I referred—identifies as habitually
+used by Mr. John Prinsep, and actually seen in his mouth at ten
+o’clock last night, when a party then held in the house broke up. I
+also found on the floor of the temple this crumpled piece of paper,
+presumably a leaf from a memorandum book,” and the inspector handed
+over the brief scrawled note in John Prinsep’s writing making an
+appointment in the garden.
+
+What he said, however, was not quite accurate; for it was not he, but
+Carter Woodman, who had found the note.
+
+“The writing of this note was identified by Miss Cowper as that of Mr.
+Prinsep. It is one of the puzzles of this affair.”
+
+“You mean that it would have fitted in better if John Prinsep’s body
+had been found in the garden,” suggested the superintendent.
+
+“Exactly; as things are it is confusing. About this time Mr. Carter
+Woodman, Sir Vernon Brooklyn’s lawyer, arrived. At his suggestion we
+went across to the theatre which overlooks the garden, although the
+place where the crime was committed and the body found is completely
+concealed by trees from both the house and the theatre. Our object was
+to find if any one from the theatre had seen anything of what
+happened. A caretaker stated that he had seen Mr. Prinsep walking in
+the garden some time between eleven o’clock last night and a quarter
+past. I made further inquiries, both in the house and at the theatre;
+but that, I think, exhausts the discoveries I have made so far.” And
+the inspector stopped and wiped his face with a green handkerchief.
+
+“You have stated the case very plainly,” said Superintendent Wilson.
+“Now tell me what you make of it?” And he gave what can best be
+described as the ghost of a chuckle.
+
+“Ah, that’s just where the troubles come in, sir,” replied the
+inspector. “I don’t know what to make of it. As I said, it’s as plain
+as a pikestaff, and yet it can’t be. When I examined Mr. Prinsep’s
+room I found abundant evidence pointing to the conclusion that he was
+murdered by Mr. George Brooklyn. But when I go into the garden, I find
+Mr. George Brooklyn lying dead there, under circumstances which
+strongly suggest that he was killed by Mr. Prinsep. Yet they can’t
+possibly have killed each other. It’s simply impossible.”
+
+“You say that there is strong ground for suspecting that Prinsep
+killed Brooklyn. What is the ground?”
+
+“Well, first there’s that cigar-holder. The second thing is the letter
+in his writing, though I admit that raises a difficulty. The third
+thing is that I’m practically certain the finger-prints on the club
+correspond to those I took from Prinsep’s hands. Then Prinsep was
+certainly seen walking in the garden.”
+
+“In short, Inspector Blaikie,” said the superintendent, half smiling,
+“you appear to hold very strong _prima facie_ evidence that each of
+these two men murdered the other.”
+
+The inspector groaned. “Don’t laugh at me, sir,” he said. “I’m doing
+my best to puzzle it out. Of course they didn’t kill each other. At
+least, both of them didn’t. They couldn’t. You know what I mean.”
+
+“You mean, I take it, that they could only have killed each other and
+left their bodies where they were found, on the assumption that at
+least one corpse was alive enough to walk about and commit a murder
+and then quietly replace itself where it had been killed. It will, I
+fear, be difficult to persuade even a coroner’s jury that such an
+account of the circumstances is correct.”
+
+“Of course it isn’t correct, sir; but you’ll admit that’s what it
+looks like. It is quite possible for a man who has committed a murder
+to be murdered himself as he leaves the scene of his crime; but it’s
+stark, staring nonsense for the man whom he has killed to get up, as
+if he were alive and well, and come after his murderer with a club. To
+say nothing of laying himself out again neatly afterwards. No, that
+won’t wash, Yet the evidence both ways is thoroughly good evidence.”
+
+“We can agree, inspector, that these two men did not kill each other.
+But it remains possible, even probable, on the evidence you have so
+far secured, that one of them did kill the other, and was then himself
+killed by some third person unknown, possibly a witness of the first
+crime bent on exacting retribution. How does that strike you?” The
+superintendent thrust his hands deep into his pockets and leant back
+in his chair with a satisfied look, as if he had scored a point.
+
+Inspector Blaikie’s face, however, hardly became less doleful. “Yes,
+that’s possible,” he said; “but unfortunately there is absolutely
+nothing to show which set of circumstantial clues ought to be accepted
+and which discarded in that case. We do not know which of the two men
+was killed first. When Brooklyn went to see Prinsep, did he murder him
+then and there in the study, or did Prinsep decoy his visitor into the
+garden by means of the note we have found, and there kill him? Either
+theory fits some of the facts: neither fits them all. I don’t know
+which to think, or which to work on as a basis. The evidence we have
+probably points in the right direction in one of the cases, and in the
+wrong direction in the other; but how are we to tell which is right
+and which is wrong? There is nothing to lay hold of.”
+
+“What about the medical evidence as to the time of death? Does that
+throw any light on the case?”
+
+“None whatever, unfortunately. In both instances the doctors agree
+that death almost certainly took place at some time between 10.30 and
+12 o’clock. But they say it is impossible to time the thing any more
+accurately than that.”
+
+“Come, that seems at least to narrow the field of inquiry. When were
+each of these men last seen alive?”
+
+The inspector referred to his notes. “John Prinsep was seen at 10.30
+by the servant, Winter, who went to fetch his letters for the post. He
+was seen in the garden at some time between 11 o’clock and 11.15 by
+the caretaker at the Piccadilly Theatre, Jabez Smith, and also, I have
+since ascertained, by a dresser named Laura Rose about the same time.
+No one seems to have seen him later than about 11.15. His body was
+found in his study this morning at ten minutes past eight by the maid,
+Sarah Plenty, and seen immediately afterwards by the household
+servants, William Winter and Peter Morgan.”
+
+“And George Brooklyn?”
+
+“He was seen at about a quarter to eleven by Winter and other
+servants, when he called at Liskeard House and went up by himself to
+John Prinsep’s room. He was seen again, by Winter and two other
+servants, leaving the house at about 11.30. He did not go home to his
+hotel, and neither his wife nor any one else I have been able to
+discover saw him again. His body was discovered at 9.30 this morning
+in the garden of Liskeard House by his cousin, Joan Cowper.”
+
+“That certainly does not seem to help us very much. In the case of
+Prinsep, he may have died any time after 11.19. Brooklyn was still
+alive at 11.30.”
+
+“Yes; but, if Brooklyn killed Prinsep, it seems he must have done so
+between 11.15, when Prinsep was still alive, and 11.30, when Brooklyn
+was seen leaving the house.”
+
+“That does not follow at all. We know he came back after 11.30, since
+he was found dead in the grounds. The first question is, How and when
+did he come back?”
+
+“I have made every possible inquiry about that. The front door was
+bolted at about 11.45, and Winter is positive that he did not come in
+again that way. There are two other ways into the garden. One is
+through the coach-yard. That was locked and bolted about 11, and was
+found untouched this morning. The other is through the theatre. Nobody
+saw him, and the caretaker says he could not have gone through that
+way without being seen. But it appears that the door from the theatre
+into the garden was not locked until nearly midnight, and it is just
+possible he may have slipped through that way. He seems to have been
+seen in the theatre earlier in the evening—before his call at Liskeard
+House at 10.45.”
+
+“Was it a usual thing for Prinsep to walk about the garden at night?”
+
+“Yes, they tell me that he often took a stroll there on fine nights
+before going to bed.”
+
+The superintendent rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I can only see one
+thing for it,” he said. “We have no evidence to show which of these
+men died first, and therefore, which, if either of them, killed the
+other. You must follow up both sets of clues until you get further
+evidence to show which is the right one. But remember that, even if
+one murder can be accounted for in that way, there is still another
+murderer somewhere at large—unless another unexpected corpse turns up
+with clear evidence of having been murdered by one of the other two.”
+
+The inspector laughed. “Well,” he said, “it all seems a bit of a
+puzzle. It seems to me the next thing is to find out whether either of
+them had any special reason for murdering the other. If you agree, I
+shall work up the antecedents of the case, and do a little research
+into the family history.”
+
+“Yes, that’s probably the best we can do for the present. But spread
+the net wide. Find out all you can about the whole family and the
+servants—every one who is known to have been in the house last
+night—every one who could have any reason for desiring the death of
+either or both of the murdered men.”
+
+“I suppose one of them must have murdered the other,” said the
+inspector reflectively.
+
+“I see no sufficient reason for thinking that,” replied his superior.
+“It looks to me more like a very carefully planned affair, worked out
+by some third party. But we mustn’t take anything for granted. Your
+immediate job is certainly to follow up the clues you have found. Even
+if they do not lead where we expect them to lead, they will probably
+lead somewhere. A deliberately laid false clue is often just as useful
+as an ordinary straightforward clue in the long run.”
+
+“Oh, I’ll keep my eyes open,” said the inspector, “and as there is a
+third party involved in any case, it’s worth remembering that he could
+not easily have got into the house after midnight at the latest, and
+I’m blest if I see how he could have got out of it and left all the
+doors properly fastened unless he had an accomplice inside.”
+
+“That is certainly a point. Every one who slept in the house is
+certainly worth watching. What about the men-servants?”
+
+“Only two—Morgan and Winter—sleep in the house. Morgan says he came
+back about 11.30, after spending the evening with friends in
+Hammersmith. He and Winter went up to their rooms together soon after.
+Morgan’s room can only be reached through Winter’s. Winter says he lay
+awake for some hours—he is a bad sleeper—and heard Morgan snoring in
+the next room all the time. He did not go to sleep until after he had
+heard two o’clock strike. He says he is a light sleeper, and Morgan
+could not have passed through his room without waking him.”
+
+“That seems to clear Morgan, if Winter is speaking the truth. What
+about Winter himself? A good deal seems to turn on his testimony.”
+
+“Winter is a very old servant. He has been in the family since he was
+a boy. He doesn’t strike me as at all the kind of man to be mixed up
+in an affair of this sort. Morgan is rather a sly fellow—much more the
+sort of man one would be inclined to suspect.”
+
+“You are probably right; but we must not let Winter off too easily.
+Suppose it is true that one of these two men did kill the other. Isn’t
+an old devoted family servant, if he saw the crime, Just the man to
+take his revenge? There have been many crimes with far less strong a
+motive.”
+
+“I will certainly have Winter watched, and Morgan too. But I’m not at
+all hopeful. It’s too well planned to be a sudden crime, and I’m sure
+Winter’s not the man for a high-class job of this sort.”
+
+“Do the best you can, and keep me fully informed about the case. If I
+have a brain-wave, I’ll let you know. At present I can’t see light any
+more than you.”
+
+With that unsatisfactory conclusion the two detectives parted.
+Superintendent Wilson, left alone, walked quickly up and down the
+room, chuckling to himself, and every now and then marking off a point
+on his fingers, or pausing in his walk to examine one of the clues
+which the inspector had left in his keeping. He appeared to find it a
+fascinating case.
+
+
+
+Chapter VI
+
+A Pause for Reflection
+
+When Inspector Blaikie got to his own room, he sat down with a sheet
+of paper in front of him, and on it made out, from his notes, a list
+of all the persons whom he knew to have been in the house the previous
+night. It was a long list, and he made it out more to set his
+subconscious mind free to work than with any idea that it would throw
+a direct light on the problem. Having made his list, he began to write
+down, after each name, exactly what was known about its owner’s doings
+and movements on the night before. He left out nothing, however
+unimportant it might seem; for he had fully mastered the first
+principle of scientific detection—that detail generally gives the clue
+to a crime, and that therefore every detail matters.
+
+He began with those who seemed least likely to have had any hand in
+the business. First there were the four maid-servants. They had gone
+to bed before eleven. They slept two in a room, and there seemed no
+reason to doubt that, as they said, they had all slept soundly. He did
+not dismiss them from his mind, but he had nothing against them so
+far.
+
+Then there was the lady’s maid, Agnes Dutch. She had slept alone on
+the first floor, in a little room next to that of Joan Cowper. She had
+felt tired, she said, and had gone to bed at 10.30, after making sure
+that Miss Joan would not want her again. She seemed a nice, quiet
+girl, and, although she seemed very upset in the morning when the
+inspector saw her, that was no more than was to be expected. There was
+nothing against her either. Besides, Mary Woodman had not gone to bed
+until after twelve, and she said that she was certain the girl was in
+her room until then. She had been sitting in the big landing-lounge
+reading, and both Joan’s and the maid’s doors opened on to the lounge.
+
+What of Mary Woodman herself? She had been with Joan until about
+eleven, and had then sat for an hour reading. No one had seen her
+during that hour, or heard her go to bed afterwards. But Mary
+notoriously got on with everybody and had not an enemy in the world.
+Every one had told the inspector, without need of his asking the
+question, that she was the very last person to have anything to do
+with a murder. Besides, the whole thing was clearly a man’s job. The
+inspector filed Mary Woodman in his mind for future reference; but he
+felt quite sure that she knew nothing about the crimes.
+
+Then, to finish the women, there was Joan Cowper. She had discovered
+George Brooklyn’s body in the garden, and her manner after the
+discovery seemed to be sign enough that it had come to her as a
+horrifying surprise. Certainly, she had known nothing about George
+Brooklyn’s death; but she might, for all that, be in a position to
+throw some further light upon the crimes. He had asked her in the
+garden how she had spent the previous evening; and she had answered
+without hesitation. After seeing Sir Vernon to his room shortly after
+ten, she had sat with Mary Woodman in the lounge until eleven o’clock,
+and had then gone to bed. Her maid had come to her rather before
+half-past ten and she had told her she would be needed no more that
+night. Mary Woodman, who had sat on in the lounge, confirmed this, and
+stated that Joan had not left her room before midnight. Certainly
+there seemed to be nothing to connect Joan with the crimes. She was a
+fine young lady, the inspector reflected. She had borne up
+wonderfully.
+
+Next there were the men, and it was among them that the criminal, if,
+as Blaikie suspected, he was one of the intimate circle of Liskeard
+House, would probably be found. Sir Vernon Brooklyn was clearly out of
+it. He was a feeble old man whose hand could not possibly have struck
+those savage blows. He was reported to be very fond of both his
+nephews; and he had undoubtedly gone to bed at a quarter past ten. So
+much for him. He might know things or suspect, but he could have had
+no hand in the murders. At present, the inspector had been told, he
+was prostrated by the news of Prinsep’s death, and his doctor had
+forbidden any mention of the matter in his presence. He did not even
+know yet that George Brooklyn was dead.
+
+The only other men who had slept in the house were the two
+servants—Winter and Morgan. Morgan seemed to be cleared of suspicion,
+at least if Winter had told the truth. But might not Winter himself
+have had a hand in the affair? The superintendent had dropped a
+plausible hint, and there might be something in it. Inspector Blaikie
+wrote it down as possible, but unlikely. Two other menservants, who
+had waited at dinner, did not sleep in the house, and had left soon
+after half-past eleven. They had been busy clearing up until the very
+moment of their departure, and it seemed plain that they had enjoyed
+neither time nor opportunity for any criminal proceeding. Besides,
+they were strangers, imported for the evening from the restaurant
+attached to the theatre. As robbery had evidently not been a motive in
+either murder, there was the less reason to think seriously about
+them. They could have had no motive.
+
+Next, the inspector turned to a consideration of the guests who had
+been at the dinner. These were, first, George Brooklyn and his wife.
+About George he had already noted down all that he knew. What of Mrs.
+George? Inquiries which the sergeant had made established that she had
+gone straight back to her hotel—the Cunningham—soon after ten o’clock.
+George had left her in the care of the Woodmans, parting from them at
+the door of the theatre on plea of an appointment. Mrs. George—or, as
+she was better known both to the inspector and to all London, Isabelle
+Raven, the great tragedy actress—had then sat talking with Mrs.
+Woodman in the sitting-room which they shared at the hotel until
+“after eleven,” when she had gone to bed, expecting that her husband
+might come in at any moment. She had gone to sleep and had only
+discovered his absence when she woke in the morning. She had been
+worried, and after a hasty breakfast she had hurried across to
+Liskeard House with Helen Woodman to make inquiries. There she had
+been met with the fatal news. She was now lying ill in her room at the
+Cunningham Hotel, with Mrs. Woodman in faithful attendance upon her.
+
+This recital clearly brought up the question of the Woodmans, man and
+wife. When they returned to the hotel with Mrs. George, Carter Woodman
+had gone to one of the hotel waiting-rooms to write letters, leaving
+the two women together. He said that he had remained at work till
+11.45 or so, when he had gone down to the hall and asked the night
+porter to see some important letters off by the first post in the
+morning. This was corroborated by the night porter, who had so
+informed the sergeant. Carter Woodman had then gone straight to bed—a
+statement fully confirmed by his wife. This seemed fairly well to
+dispose of any connection of either the Woodmans or Mrs. George with
+the tragedy.
+
+Harry Lucas? Sir Vernon’s old friend had left in his car for Hampstead
+at ten minutes past ten after a few farewell words with Sir Vernon. He
+had reached home soon after 10.30, and had gone straight to bed. This
+had been already confirmed by police inquiries at Hampstead during the
+morning.
+
+Robert Ellery? He had left the house soon after ten, saying that he
+intended to walk back to his room at Chelsea. The inspector had not
+yet followed his trail; but he now made up his mind to do so, though
+he had not much faith in the result. Still, here was at least a loose
+end that needed tying.
+
+When he had made his list and tabulated his information, Inspector
+Blaikie did not feel that he had greatly advanced in his quest. Not
+one of the people on the list seemed in the least likely either to
+have committed the murders, or to have been even an accessory to them.
+He began to feel that he had not yet got at all on the track of the
+real criminal, or at least of the second one, if one of the two men
+had really killed the other. Was it some one quite outside the circle
+he had been studying, and, if so, how had that outsider got access to
+the house? He might have slipped in without being noticed, but it did
+not seem very likely, and it was far more difficult to see how he had
+slipped out. But, after all, George Brooklyn had got back somehow
+after 11.30, and, where he had come, so might another. Perhaps some
+one had slipped in and out by way of the theatre.
+
+So the inspector made up his mind to go over the whole scene again,
+and, above all, to find out more about the persons with whom he had to
+deal—their histories and still more their present ways of life: their
+loves and, above all, their animosities, if they had any. There, he
+felt, the clue to the mystery was most likely to be found.
+
+Accordingly, on the following morning—the second after the
+tragedy—Inspector Blaikie presented himself early at the office of
+Carter Woodman and sent up his card. Sir Vernon was still far too ill
+to be consulted, and the next thing seemed to be a visit to his
+lawyer, who, being both confidential adviser and a close relative,
+would be certain to know most of what there was to be known about the
+circumstances surrounding the dead men. Woodman had offered all
+possible assistance, and had himself suggested a call at his office.
+
+The inspector presented his card to an elderly clerk who was presiding
+in the outer office, and was at once shown in to the principal. Again
+he was struck, as he had been on the morning before, with the lawyer’s
+overflowing vitality. At rather over forty-six, Woodman still looked
+very much the athlete he had been in his younger days, when he had
+accumulated three Blues at Oxford, and represented England at Rugby
+football on more than one occasion. He had given up “childish things,”
+he used to say; but the abundant vigour of the man remained, and stood
+out strongly against the rather dingy background which successful
+solicitors seem to regard as an indispensable mark of respectability.
+Carter Woodman, the inspector knew, had a big practice, and one of
+good standing. He did all the legal work of the Brooklyn Corporation,
+and he was perhaps the best known expert on theatrical law in the
+country.
+
+Woodman greeted the inspector cordially, and shook his hand with a
+force that made it tingle for some minutes afterwards.
+
+“Well, inspector,” he said, “what progress? Have you got your eye on
+the scoundrels yet?”
+
+The inspector shook his head. “We are still only at the beginning of
+the case, I am afraid. I have come here to take advantage of your
+offer to give me all the help you can.”
+
+“Of course I will. It is indispensable that the terrible business
+should be thoroughly cleared up. For one thing, I am very much afraid
+for Sir Vernon; and there certainly would be more chance of his
+getting over it if we knew exactly what the truth is. Uncertainty is a
+killing business. He has not been told yet about Mr. George Brooklyn’s
+death.”
+
+“You will understand that, as it is impossible for me to see Sir
+Vernon, I shall have to ask you to tell me all you can about any of
+the family affairs that may have a bearing on the tragedy. As matters
+stand it is most important that I should know as much as possible
+about the circumstances of the two dead men. To establish the possible
+motives for both crimes may be of the greatest value. There is so
+little to go upon in the facts themselves that I have to look for
+evidence from outside the immediate events.”
+
+“Am I to understand that you have no further light on the crime beyond
+what you gained when the bodies were found?”
+
+“Hardly that, Mr. Woodman. I have at least had time to think things
+over, and to conduct a few additional investigations. But I shall know
+better what to make of these when I have asked you a few questions.”
+
+“Ask away; but I shall probably be able to answer more to your
+satisfaction if you tell me how matters stand. I think I may say that
+I know thoroughly both Sir Vernon’s and the late Mr. Prinsep’s
+affairs.”
+
+“Well, you know, Mr. Woodman, the _prima facie_ evidence in both cases
+seemed to point to a quite impossible conclusion. In each case, what
+evidence there was went to show that the two men had murdered each
+other. This could not be true of both; but we have so far no evidence
+to show whether it ought to be disbelieved in both cases, or only in
+one. That is where further particulars may prove so important.”
+
+“I will tell you all I can.”
+
+“Let us begin with Mr. Prinsep. Was he in any trouble that you know
+of?”
+
+The lawyer hesitated. “Well,” he said at length, “it is a private
+matter, and I am sure it can have no bearing on the case. But you had
+better have all the facts. There had been some trouble—about a woman,
+a girl who is acting in a small part at the Piccadilly Theatre.”
+
+“Her name?”
+
+“Charis Lang. Prinsep had been, well, I believe somewhat intimate with
+her, and she had formed the opinion that he had promised to marry her.
+He came to see me about it. He denied that he had made any such
+promise, and said he was anxious to get the matter honourably settled.
+I wrote to the woman and asked her to meet me; but she refused—said it
+was not a lawyer’s business, but entirely a private question between
+her and Mr. Prinsep. I showed him her letter, and he was very much
+worried. He informed me that Mrs. George Brooklyn—she used to be
+leading lady at the Piccadilly—had known the girl in her professional
+days, and I approached her and told her a part of the story. She took,
+I must say, the girl’s side, and said she was sure a promise of
+marriage had been made. She wanted to take the matter up; but George
+Brooklyn objected to his wife being mixed up in it, and undertook to
+see Miss Lang himself. He was to have done so two nights ago—the night
+of the murders—and then to have gone back to tell Prinsep what had
+happened. I have no means of knowing whether he actually did so.”
+
+“This is very important. Can you give me Miss Lang’s address?”
+
+“I have it here. Somewhere in Hammersmith. Yes, 3 Algernon Terrace.
+But she is at the theatre every evening, and you could probably find
+her there.”
+
+“I must certainly arrange to see her. Can you tell me anything further
+about the young woman? For instance, is she—well—respectable?”
+
+“I have told you all I know. Mrs. George might know more.”
+
+“Thank you. Now, is there anything else you know about Mr. Prinsep
+that might have a bearing on his death?”
+
+“Nothing.”
+
+“Had he any financial troubles?”
+
+“None, I am sure. He had a large salary from the Brooklyn Trust,
+besides a considerable personal income, and he always lived well
+within his means.”
+
+“Had he any enemies?”
+
+Again the lawyer paused before answering. Finally, “No,” he replied,
+“no _enemies_.”
+
+The inspector took the cue.
+
+“But there were some people you know of with whom he was not on the
+best of terms?” he asked.
+
+“I think I may say ‘yes’ to that. He had a temper, and there had been
+violent disputes on several occasions with Mr. Walter Brooklyn—Sir
+Vernon’s brother.”
+
+“One moment. Was he on good terms with Mr. George Brooklyn?”
+
+Again a pause. “No, I can’t say he was—but they were not enemies.
+George thought he had behaved badly to Charis Lang, and said so. Also,
+George was strongly against Prinsep’s marrying Miss Joan Cowper, which
+Sir Vernon had set his heart on.”
+
+And then, in question and answer, the whole episode at the dinner, the
+announcement of Sir Vernon’s will, and Joan’s dramatic refusal to
+marry Prinsep, gradually came out. The inspector felt that now at last
+he was learning things.
+
+“Did Miss Cowper know about Miss Lang?”
+
+“Not that I am aware of. But I can’t be sure. Mrs. George may have
+told her.”
+
+“And what would you say were the relations between Miss Cowper and Mr.
+Prinsep?”
+
+“He was half in love with her—in a sort of a way. At any rate he
+certainly wanted to marry her. She was most certainly not in love with
+him. I don’t think she had any strong feeling against him; but it is
+impossible to be sure. She would have done almost anything rather than
+marry him, I am certain.”
+
+“Had Miss Cowper, so far as you know, any other attachment?”
+
+“That is a difficult question. She is very thick with Robert Ellery,
+the young playwright, you know; but whether she is in love with him is
+more than I can tell you. He is obviously in love with her. It was the
+common talk, and everybody, knew about it except Sir Vernon.”
+
+“This Mr. Ellery—can you tell me anything about him? He was at the
+dinner, was he not?”
+
+“Yes, he’s a ward of old Mr. Lucas, one of Sir Vernon’s oldest
+friends. A good deal about with Joan, and a frequent visitor at Sir
+Vernon’s country place. A nice enough fellow, so far as I have seen.”
+
+“Was he on good terms with Mr. Prinsep?”
+
+“Prinsep did not like his going about with Joan, I think. Otherwise,
+they seemed to get on all right.”
+
+“Now, Mr. Woodman, I want to ask you a somewhat difficult question. I
+should, of course, ask Sir Vernon himself, if he were well enough. You
+know, presumably, the terms of Sir Vernon’s will. Do you feel at
+liberty to tell me about its contents? They might throw some light on
+the question of motive.”
+
+The lawyer thought a moment. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you the
+whole thing—in confidence,” he said. “Sir Vernon told them all that
+night what was in his will, and you certainly ought to know about it.
+The greater part of his property was to be divided at his death
+between his two nephews, who have now unhappily predeceased him.”
+
+“Yes, and in the event of the death of either or both of the nephews,
+what was to happen?”
+
+“If Mr. George Brooklyn died, half of his share was to go to Mrs.
+George and half to Prinsep. If Prinsep died, half of his share was to
+go to Miss Joan Cowper. Sir Vernon explained that his arrangements
+were based on her marrying Prinsep.”
+
+“Then, under the will, Miss Cowper now gets half Mr. Prinsep’s share.
+Does she get half Mr. George’s share also?”
+
+“No, a part of it goes to Mrs. George, and the remainder in both cases
+to the next of kin.”
+
+“I see. And who is the next of kin.”
+
+“Joan’s step-father, Mr. Walter Brooklyn.”
+
+“Ah! I think you mentioned that Mr. Walter Brooklyn was on bad terms
+with Mr. Prinsep.”
+
+“Walter Brooklyn was on bad terms with most people who knew him. His
+step-daughter left him after her mother’s death, and came to live with
+Sir Vernon. I am afraid Walter Brooklyn is not a very likeable
+person.”
+
+“On what terms was he with Sir Vernon?”
+
+“He was always trying to get money from him. He had ran through one
+big fortune, his wife’s—including all the money left in trust for Miss
+Cowper. He leads a fairly expensive life in town, supported, I
+understand, partly by his bridge earnings and partly on what he can
+raise from his friends.”
+
+“Did Sir Vernon give him money?”
+
+“Yes, far more than I thought desirable. But Sir Vernon had a very
+strong sense of family solidarity. Latterly, however, Walter
+Brooklyn’s demands had become so exorbitant that Sir Vernon had been
+refusing to see him, and had handed the matter over to Prinsep, whom
+Walter was finding a much more difficult man to deal with.”
+
+“Do you know whether Prinsep had been seeing Mr. Walter Brooklyn
+lately?”
+
+“Yes; I know he saw him the day before the murder. Walter was always
+after money. He’ll probably begin sponging on Miss Cowper in a day or
+two.”
+
+“You certainly do not give Mr. Walter Brooklyn a good character.”
+
+“No; but I think every one you ask will confirm my estimate.”
+
+“I will look into that. Now, are there any other particulars in the
+will I ought to know about? I should like to know approximately what
+Sir Vernon is worth.”
+
+“Not far short of a million.”
+
+“You don’t say so. Then any one interested in his will had a great
+deal at stake. Are any others interested besides those you have
+mentioned?”
+
+“There are a number of smaller legacies. Miss Cowper was left £40,000.
+My sister, Miss Mary Woodman, and I are left £20,000 each. The rest
+are quite small legacies.”
+
+“I think that is almost all I need ask you. But is there any other
+particular you think might help me in my inquiry?”
+
+“As to that, I cannot say; but there are two points I have been
+intending to mention. The first is that I know Mr. Walter Brooklyn
+called at Liskeard House a few minutes after ten on the night of the
+murder. My wife and I saw him go up to the porch and ring the bell
+just after we had come out of the house.”
+
+“This is very important. Do you know anything more?”
+
+“No, it was merely a chance that I noticed him and pointed him out to
+my wife. Mr. and Mrs. George may also have seen him. They were with
+us. He went into the hall. That is all I can tell you.”
+
+“Where did you go when you left the house?”
+
+“Straight back to the hotel where I was staying. I did not go out
+again that night. I heard nothing about the tragedy till they rang me
+up about it at my office the next morning.”
+
+“Who rang you up?”
+
+“One of the servants at Liskeard House. I do not know which it was.”
+
+“And what was the other point you wished to mention?”
+
+“Only that I know Mr. Walter Brooklyn was in exceptional financial
+difficulties, and had been trying in vain to raise a loan. This has
+happened very opportunely for him.”
+
+“But, of course, Sir Vernon may alter his will.”
+
+“If he recovers enough to do so, he may. But I doubt if he will. He
+always told me that he could not bear the thought of leaving money out
+of the family. And much as he disapproves of Walter Brooklyn, he is
+still attached to him.”
+
+“H’m. Well, thank you very much, Mr. Woodman. What you have told me
+has been very helpful. Perhaps I will call again and tell you what
+success I meet with in following it up. I may, of course, have more to
+ask you later.”
+
+The inspector rose and Woodman gave him his hand. He went out of the
+office with his hand tingling.
+
+“Certainly a man who impresses himself upon one,” said he, laughing
+softly to himself. “And what he had to say was most enlightening.”
+
+
+
+Chapter VII
+
+The Case Against Walter Brooklyn
+
+Inspector Blaikie left Carter Woodman’s office with the feeling that a
+new and unexpected light had been thrown on the tragedy, and that he
+had at least found a quite sufficient motive for both crimes. If
+Walter Brooklyn had committed the murders, he stood to gain directly a
+considerable slice of Sir Vernon’s huge fortune. Moreover, a
+considerable slice of the remainder would go to his step-daughter,
+Joan Cowper, and he might hope to despoil her again, as he had
+despoiled her of her mother’s money. Evidence against Mr. Walter
+Brooklyn might be lacking; but certainly there was no lack of motive.
+Moreover, the man seemed, from Woodman’s description, quite a likely
+murderer. The inspector decided that his next job was undoubtedly to
+discover whether there was any direct evidence against Walter
+Brooklyn.
+
+To begin with, he said to himself, what had he to go upon? Of direct
+evidence, not a shred; but where the direct evidence pointed obviously
+in the wrong direction, it was necessary to consider very seriously
+the question of motive. Walter Brooklyn, he reflected, would not stand
+to inherit Sir Vernon’s money unless both nephews were cleared out of
+the way. He had, therefore, a motive for both murders together, but
+not for either of them except in conjunction with the other. This
+seemed to point to the conclusion that, if Walter Brooklyn had
+committed either of the murders he had committed both. On the other
+hand, it still remained possible that one of the two men had killed
+the other, and that Walter Brooklyn, knowing this and realising his
+opportunity, had then disposed of the survivor. Or, after all, the
+indications might again be as deceptive as those which followed hard
+upon the discovery of the murders.
+
+What Woodman had told the inspector provided, however, at least one
+clear line of investigation which could be followed up immediately. If
+Woodman and other people had seen Walter Brooklyn approaching Liskeard
+House and ringing the front-door bell soon after ten o’clock on the
+night of the murders, it ought not to be difficult to get further
+information about his movements. Had he been admitted to the house;
+and if so, when had he left, and why had no mention of his visit
+previously been made to the inspector? The best thing was to call at
+Liskeard House at once and make inquiries. Inspector Blaikie set off
+immediately.
+
+The bell was answered by a maid-servant, and the inspector asked for a
+few words with Mr. Winter. He was shown into a small side-room, and
+within a minute Winter joined him. The inspector plunged at once into
+business.
+
+“Since I have left you there have been certain developments which make
+it desirable that I should ask you one or two questions. I want to
+know whether, on Tuesday night, any one called at the house during the
+evening?”
+
+“Well, sir, of course, there were the guests at dinner that night. You
+have their names.”
+
+“Did any one else call—later in the evening, for example?”
+
+“Yes, there was Mr. George. As I told you, he came at about a quarter
+or ten minutes to eleven, and left at about 11.30.”
+
+“Did anybody else visit the house that night?”
+
+“No—there was no one else.”
+
+“Now, I want you to be very careful. Are you positive that no one else
+called?”
+
+“Yes—I mean, no. I had quite forgotten. At a few minutes after ten Mr.
+Walter Brooklyn—Sir Vernon’s brother—came. He sent up his name to Sir
+Vernon, and asked him to see him at once. He said it was about
+something important.”
+
+“Did Sir Vernon see him?”
+
+“No. He sent down word by one of the temporary men-servants he
+couldn’t see him. He told him to see Mr. Prinsep or to write.”
+
+“Then, did Mr. Walter Brooklyn go up to see Mr. Prinsep?”
+
+“No. He seemed mighty annoyed, he did. Said to me things were coming
+to a pretty pass when a man wouldn’t see his own brother. Then he took
+himself out of the house in a rage, and I shut the door after him.”
+
+“Did you see anything more of him?”
+
+“No, that’s the last I saw. He didn’t come back; for I was on duty
+here till the place was bolted up for the night.”
+
+“Did Mr. Walter Brooklyn often come to the house?”
+
+“Well, he’d been a number of times lately to see Mr. Prinsep.”
+
+“Had he been to see Sir Vernon?”
+
+“No. You see, Sir Vernon’s been away in the country for some time.”
+
+“But when he was in London, did Mr. Walter Brooklyn come to see him?”
+
+“He used to. Then I believe there was a bit of a quarrel. Last time he
+was in London Sir Vernon told me he would not see Mr. Walter, and I
+was to tell him to see Mr. Prinsep if he came. I sent up on Tuesday
+because I didn’t know if the instructions still held.”
+
+“Then there had been a quarrel?”
+
+“Hardly what you would call a quarrel. What we understood was that Mr.
+Walter wanted money, and Sir Vernon wouldn’t give it him.”
+
+“Did any one else see Mr. Walter Brooklyn on Tuesday?”
+
+“Yes, the maid—Janet—must have seen him.”
+
+The inspector sent for Janet, who confirmed what Winter had said. It
+seemed plain enough that Walter Brooklyn had called at about ten
+minutes past ten, had been refused an interview with Sir Vernon, and
+had left a few minutes later. Thereafter, no one about the house had
+seen any more of him.
+
+Before he left the inspector obtained from Winter Mr. Walter
+Brooklyn’s address. He lived at his club, the Byron—named after the
+playwright, not the poet—only a few steps down Piccadilly. The
+inspector made that his next place of call.
+
+The club porter, with the aid of the night porter, gave him the
+information he needed. Walter Brooklyn had dined in the club on
+Tuesday, had gone out at about ten o’clock and had returned just about
+midnight. The night porter had noticed nothing unusual about him when
+he came back. It was about his usual hour. He had gone straight
+upstairs, the man believed—probably to his room, but the porter could
+not say.
+
+So far there was nothing very much to go upon. Walter Brooklyn might
+have committed the murders—he had certainly been out until midnight.
+But this was nothing unusual, and there was no evidence that he had
+been in the house. What evidence there was seemed to show that he had
+not.
+
+But Inspector Blaikie still lingered in talk with the two porters,
+asking further questions which produced quite unilluminating answers.
+Soon they found a common interest in the cricket news, and plunged
+into a discussion of the respective chances of Surrey and Middlesex
+for the County Championship. The night porter, who was a
+north-countryman and a partisan of Yorkshire, cut in every now and
+then with a sarcastic comment. He was especially scornful of the day
+porter’s pride in the number of amateurs included in the Middlesex
+eleven. “Call them gentlemen,” he said. “They get paid, same as the
+players, only they put it down as expenses.”
+
+But at this point the argument broke off; for the day porter suddenly
+changed the subject.
+
+“Let me have a look at that stick, will you?” he said to the
+inspector.
+
+Inspector Blaikie, who had been twirling the stick about rather
+obtrusively, at once handed it over. It was the stick found in
+Prinsep’s room, and he was carrying it about with him solely with the
+hope that some one might recognise it, and enable him to discover to
+whom it had belonged. It was a peculiar stick, and likely to be
+noticed by those who saw it. The shaft was of rhinoceros horn, linked
+together with bands of gold; and it had a solid gold handle.
+
+“What do you make of it?” the inspector asked.
+
+“I was going to ask you how you got hold of it,” answered the porter.
+
+“Why do you ask?”
+
+“Only because it is surely Mr. Walter Brooklyn’s stick. I have often
+seen him carrying it.”
+
+“Take a good look. Are you quite certain it is his?”
+
+“Either it is, or it’s one just the same. It’s a most unusual pattern,
+too.”
+
+“Yes, rhinoceros horn, I should say. Could you swear to it?”
+
+“Hardly that. There might be two of them. But I’ve not seen Mr.
+Brooklyn with his for a day or two.”
+
+“Try to remember—was he carrying this stick when he went out on
+Tuesday?”
+
+The porter paused a minute. “Yes, I think he was,” he said. “But, no,
+you mean in the evening. You’ll have to ask the night porter here
+that. He was on duty from nine o’clock.”
+
+The inspector turned to the night porter. “Do you recognise this as
+Mr. Brooklyn’s stick?”
+
+“Yes, I’m pretty sure it’s his.”
+
+“And do you remember whether he was carrying it on Tuesday night when
+he went out?”
+
+The man hesitated some time before replying. Finally, “No,” he said,
+“I can’t say. Maybe he was—I rather think he was. But I’m not sure.”
+
+“And when he came in?”
+
+“He had a stick, I remember. He rapped at the door with it. I expect
+it was this one. No, I don’t think it was. It was a plain stick, I’m
+almost sure.”
+
+“Remember that this may be of the utmost importance. You can’t
+remember whether or not Mr. Brooklyn had a stick when he went out?”
+
+“Not for sure. I think he had.”
+
+“But you can’t say whether it was this stick?”
+
+“No, not for certain.”
+
+“And when he came in?”
+
+“He had a stick; but I’m almost sure it wasn’t this one.”
+
+“Would any one else be likely to know?”
+
+“I don’t think so. There was no one else about.”
+
+At this point the day porter struck in. “I wonder why you’re so
+curious about that stick,” he said.
+
+“That, I am afraid, is my business,” said the inspector. “Now, can you
+tell me where Mr. Brooklyn usually goes of a night?”
+
+“Sometimes to a theatre or variety show. But most often he goes to
+play bridge at his other club.”
+
+“Where is that?”
+
+“It’s a small place—the Sanctum, in Pall Mall. Only a few minutes from
+here.”
+
+After a few words more the inspector took his leave _en route_ for
+Duke Street. The stick he held in his hand had become a clue of the
+first importance. Its presence in Prinsep’s study seemed to show that
+its owner had been there on the fatal night. More and more Walter
+Brooklyn was becoming involved. But how had he got in? That was the
+mystery still.
+
+At the Sanctum, Inspector Blaikie at first drew a blank—a blank which
+he had expected. Walter Brooklyn had not been to the club on Tuesday.
+Nothing had been seen of him since the previous Saturday night.
+
+“So you’ve heard nothing of him this week?” said the inspector,
+preparing to take his leave.
+
+“Beg pardon, sir,” replied the porter. “It had almost slipped my
+memory. Mr. Walter Brooklyn rang up one night this week on the
+telephone. I have a note of the call somewhere.”
+
+“What was it about?”
+
+“He asked if a registered parcel had come for him, because if it had
+he wanted it sent round to him at once by hand.”
+
+“Sent to his other club?”
+
+“No. He wanted it sent to Sir Vernon Brooklyn’s, Liskeard House,
+Piccadilly. He gave us the name and address over the ’phone.”
+
+“Did you send the parcel?”
+
+“No. Because we told him no parcel had come.”
+
+“Has it arrived since?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“When was this call you mention?”
+
+The porter referred to his book. “It was about 11.30, or a bit before.
+The call before was at 11.20.”
+
+“On what day?”
+
+“On Tuesday of this week.”
+
+“The night of the murder,” thought the inspector. “And did Mr.
+Brooklyn say where he was speaking from?”
+
+“Yes, he was at Liskeard House, where he wanted the parcel sent.”
+
+So Walter Brooklyn, who had apparently failed to secure admittance to
+the house just before 10.15, had somehow got into it afterwards, and
+was there at 11.30. He, like George Brooklyn, had slipped into the
+house unseen. That fact, with the fact of the stick, seemed to the
+inspector to determine his guilt, or at least his complicity in the
+crimes, or one of them. The stick and the telephone message, taken
+together, proved that he had been in Prinsep’s room.
+
+The inspector next produced the stick. The porter recognised it at
+once as the one Walter Brooklyn always carried. He had never seen him
+with another. He was more sure than the porters at the Byron. He was
+prepared to swear to the stick. “But,” he added, “you’ve gone and lost
+the ferrule.”
+
+The inspector had noticed that there was no ferrule; but it had not
+seemed important. It might have dropped off anywhere. He therefore
+followed up a different line.
+
+“When did you see this stick last?”
+
+“On Saturday, when Mr. Brooklyn was here, he was showing off a
+billiard stroke with it out there in the hall. It had a ferrule then,
+all right. I happened to notice it.”
+
+No further information was forthcoming, and the inspector passed on to
+his next business. He went straight back to Liskeard House, and up to
+Prinsep’s study. Exhaustive search there failed to reveal any trace of
+the missing ferrule.
+
+“I may as well try the garden,” said the inspector to himself. “But
+it’s almost too good to be true.”
+
+Nevertheless, there in the garden the inspector lighted on the
+ferrule, lying in a heap of gravel near the base of the statue. He
+cursed himself for missing it before, and then blessed his luck that
+had enabled him to retrieve the blunder. There could be no doubt that
+it was the right ferrule. The stick was an outsize and it fitted
+exactly. The nail-marks and the impression left by the rim on the
+stick coincided exactly. The ferrule was a little out of shape, as if
+it had been wrenched, and there was a scratch on it where it was bent.
+But, when the inspector had bent it back into shape, there could be no
+doubt about the fit. Walter Brooklyn had been in the garden as well as
+in Prinsep’s study, and had been on the very spot where the murder of
+George Brooklyn had taken place. Inspector Blaikie was more than
+satisfied with his day’s work. Out of seemingly insignificant
+beginnings, he had built up, he felt, more than enough evidence to
+hang Walter Brooklyn. He went in the best of spirits to report to his
+superior officer.
+
+
+
+Chapter VIII
+
+A Review of the Case
+
+The inspector found Superintendent Wilson in his room. As he told his
+case, the superintendent kept his eyes closed, but every now and then
+he gave an approving nod. His subordinate had done well, and it was
+only right that this should be recognised. The inspector’s spirits
+rose higher still as he saw the impression he was making.
+
+Having told the full story, he came to the point on which he wanted
+his superior’s assent.
+
+“And now, sir, I think, as we have abundant evidence, I must ask you
+to get a warrant made out at once for Walter Brooklyn’s arrest.”
+
+It was then the inspector received his first check.
+
+“Not quite so fast, my friend,” said the superintendent. “Do you mean
+that, in your opinion, it is proved that Walter Brooklyn committed
+these murders?”
+
+“Surely,” said Inspector Blaikie, “after what I’ve just told you,
+there can’t be the shadow of a doubt about it.”
+
+Superintendent Wilson gave a short laugh, and sat upright in his
+chair. He was beginning to enjoy himself.
+
+“Ah, but I think there can. Come now. Let us take first only the
+murder of John Prinsep, leaving out of account for the moment the
+murder of George Brooklyn. Now, what evidence have you as to the
+murder of John Prinsep?”
+
+“First, that Walter Brooklyn’s walking-stick has been found in his
+room, and secondly that Walter Brooklyn rang up from Liskeard House at
+about 11.30 that night. He must have rung up from Prinsep’s room.
+There are only two telephones in the building, one in the porter’s
+room downstairs, connecting with the offices on the ground floor, and
+the other, on a separate line, in Prinsep’s room. He couldn’t have
+used the downstairs ’phone, because it was out of order that night.
+Winter told me that.”
+
+“Assume that you are right. Still, there is at least as strong
+evidence that George Brooklyn was in the room that night, too.
+Remember his handkerchief you picked up, and the draughtsman’s knife.
+And in any case he was seen leaving the house at 11.30, and we know
+from the discovery of his body in the grounds that he came back
+afterwards.”
+
+“Yes, I know that,” said the inspector.
+
+“And do you mean to tell me that, in face of that evidence, you can
+prove to a jury that it was Walter, and not George Brooklyn, who
+killed Prinsep?”
+
+“Perhaps not, if the case were taken alone. But it has to be
+considered together with the other—the murder of George Brooklyn. The
+double incrimination seems to me decisive.”
+
+“Wait a bit. Next let us take George Brooklyn’s case, leaving aside
+for the moment that of Prinsep. Now, there, what evidence have you?”
+
+“The finding of the ferrule in the garden, and the strong motive
+Walter Brooklyn had to put _both_ nephews of Sir Vernon out of the
+way.”
+
+“Motive by itself, however strong, is not enough; and the ferrule
+evidence is rather slender. It may have been dropped previously.”
+
+“Walter Brooklyn had not been to Liskeard House for more than a week
+before the murder, and the ferrule was on his stick only three days
+before.”
+
+“I allow you that point. But, even if his stick was in the garden, it
+does not follow that he was there. He may have lost it earlier.
+Prinsep may have had it for all we know. Moreover, what of the
+evidence which seems to show that Prinsep murdered George Brooklyn? He
+was seen in the garden just before eleven o’clock. The cigar-holder
+which he habitually used, and had been using that very evening, was
+found broken on the spot where the murder was done. Moreover, I have
+in my possession now a far more decisive piece of evidence. You told
+me that you were sure the finger-prints on the stone club found in the
+garden were those of Prinsep. You were perfectly correct. The
+Finger-Print Department has compared them with the impressions of John
+Prinsep’s hands, and these coincide beyond a doubt with the marks left
+on the stone. You have not yet seen the reproductions, inspector. Here
+they are.”
+
+The superintendent took some papers and photographs from a drawer, and
+handed them across the table to the inspector, who pored over them for
+some time without speaking. Finally, he said, with something of a
+sigh,—
+
+“There can be no doubt they are the same. And, as you say, this throws
+a quite new light on one of the murders. It seems to prove that George
+Brooklyn was killed by Prinsep.”
+
+“I do not regard it as proof positive: but it is certainly very strong
+evidence, especially as the marks on the club are just where a man
+would take hold in order to deal a smashing blow. The murderer used
+both hands, you notice. The prints are quite distinct for both the
+thumbs.”
+
+“Yes, that is clear enough, although none of the impressions is quite
+complete. Somehow a part of the marks had got rubbed off before the
+club was properly examined.”
+
+“These accidents will happen. It is only fortunate that the marks were
+not destroyed beyond hope of identification. Perhaps you yourself,
+inspector, or one of your subordinates, handled the club carelessly.
+Or perhaps some one else handled it before you came on the scene.”
+
+“No. I was most careful, and no one touched it after I appeared except
+myself. The sergeant did not allow it to be touched at all until I
+arrived. Miss Cowper, who first discovered the body, told me she had
+not even noticed the weapon, much less handled it. She was too upset
+to notice anything except the body.”
+
+“Well, I suppose it does not greatly matter, as the identification of
+the prints is still quite clear. There remains, of course, the bare
+possibility that, while Prinsep did handle the club, he did not
+actually kill George Brooklyn. But it is certain that the club was the
+weapon used. The fragments of hair clotted with blood which are still
+on it came quite definitely from the head of the deceased. The only
+doubt in my mind is whether Prinsep was a powerful enough man to
+strike such a blow. But I suppose we must take it that he was. It was
+a terrific blow, I understand from the medical evidence.”
+
+“Yes, but a man not unusually strong can, by using his opportunities,
+get in a very big blow. I do not think there is much in that.”
+
+“Quite so. Then I take it you agree that, in face of the evidence, it
+would be quite impossible to arrest Walter Brooklyn on the charge of
+having murdered George Brooklyn?”
+
+The inspector sighed. “Yes,” he said, “you are right. I thought the
+case was getting straightened out, but it now seems darker than ever.”
+Then a thought came into the inspector’s mind; and his expression
+brightened. “But,” he went on, “if Prinsep murdered George Brooklyn,
+that makes it certain that George Brooklyn cannot have murdered him.
+It means that the evidence against Walter Brooklyn holds so far as the
+murder of Prinsep is concerned.”
+
+“I think you are forgetting a difficulty. Prinsep was last seen in the
+garden shortly after eleven. But George Brooklyn was seen leaving the
+house at 11.30. After that, he must somehow have come back, got into
+the garden, and been murdered. That would take some time.”
+
+The inspector nodded.
+
+“But Walter Brooklyn, who rang up his club from Prinsep’s rooms at
+11.30, was back at his club before midnight. That leaves very little
+time. If the theory you advance is true, how do you fit in the times?
+George Brooklyn could hardly have got back into the garden and got
+himself killed, before a quarter to twelve. It would take Walter
+Brooklyn five minutes to get out of the house and back to his club.
+That leaves less than ten minutes for Prinsep to go up to his room and
+for Walter Brooklyn to murder him.”
+
+“That sequence of time is difficult; but it is not impossible. Crime
+is usually a pretty rapid business. Probably Walter and George came
+back into the garden together, and the two murders followed in rapid
+succession. Prinsep killed George, and he and Walter went upstairs
+together. Then Walter killed him while they were discussing his
+affairs. You remember the papers I found lying on the table?”
+
+“Perhaps, but that seems to me exceptionally quick work—so quick that
+my instinct is to doubt whether it is the right explanation. After
+all, there is no direct evidence that Walter Brooklyn did murder
+Prinsep.”
+
+“Surely the walking-stick and the telephone message together are very
+strong evidence?”
+
+“Not strong enough, I am certain, to obtain a conviction. The
+telephone message was sent some time before George Brooklyn was
+killed. And don’t forget that, a moment ago, you thought your evidence
+that Walter Brooklyn had murdered George Brooklyn equally strong. Yet
+already you are practically convinced that he did not.”
+
+“I am still convinced that he was there when the murder took place in
+the garden.”
+
+“Ah, that is another matter. He may have been present at both murders,
+and yet committed neither.”
+
+“I see now what you are driving at. You mean that there may be a
+fourth man involved?”
+
+“That may be so; but I was not quite sure on that point. What the
+evidence seems to me to establish beyond reasonable doubt is that some
+meeting of the three men—Prinsep and George and Walter Brooklyn—took
+place at Liskeard House that night. That meeting was followed
+by—probably resulted in—the death of two of the three. There may have
+been others present. That is for you to find out. But I am clear that
+the next step is to discover what this meeting was about, and who was
+there. If we knew that, it would probably throw a new light on the
+whole situation.”
+
+“In the circumstances, there is still, it seems to me, every reason
+for arresting Walter Brooklyn. He was certainly present, whether he
+committed murder or not.”
+
+“I think it will be best to leave him at large for the time being. We
+have, I think, ample evidence of his presence in the house, but not of
+his having had a guilty hand in the murders. I think, instead of
+arresting him, it will be far better for you to see him, and find out
+all you can about what happened that night.”
+
+“Very well. I will try to see him at once. Ought I to warn him that
+what he says may be used against him?”
+
+“I must leave that to your judgment. And now, inspector, I fancy you
+are a bit discouraged by the result of our talk. You came here with
+your mind made up, and you have found that the case is not so
+straightforward as it was beginning to appear. But that is no reason
+at all for being discouraged. The evidence you have gathered is of the
+greatest value. It has enabled us to put our hand on some one who, we
+are practically sure, knows all about the murders, whether or not he
+actually committed one of them. Once again, let me congratulate you on
+a very fine day’s work.”
+
+The inspector was only in part reassured by Superintendent Wilson’s
+conclusion. He had been watching his superior intently, and had
+noticed the keen critical joy with which he had demolished the
+apparently overwhelming case against Walter Brooklyn. The inspector
+had been compelled to admit, even to himself, the force of his
+superior’s arguments; but, when he left the room, he remained, somehow
+in spite of this, convinced that Walter Brooklyn was not merely an
+accessory, but the actual murderer of one, if not of both men, and
+with a strong suspicion that the apparently conclusive evidence that
+Prinsep had killed George Brooklyn had a flaw in it somewhere, if only
+he could find it.
+
+But he could not attend to his instincts for the moment. His next
+business was to see Walter Brooklyn, and find out from him all he
+could. At the least, Walter must know a great deal. Most probably he
+knew the whole story. But how much would he tell?
+
+
+
+Chapter IX
+
+Walter Brooklyn’s Explanation
+
+Inspector Blaikie made a hasty meal, and then set off for Walter
+Brooklyn’s club. He found Mr. Brooklyn there, and was soon alone with
+him in a private room. Before the inspector could even introduce
+himself and state his business, he found the offensive turned against
+himself. He had thought over the interview carefully beforehand, and
+had made up his mind that, whatever his private opinion might be, it
+was his duty to hear, without prejudice, whatever Walter Brooklyn had
+to say, and to put aside for the moment all suspicions, resting only
+on the undoubted fact that the man had been present in the house that
+night. He might be able to explain his presence, or he might not. The
+interview would show. Till the chance had been given, the inspector
+was determined to keep an open mind.
+
+But the conversation did not begin at all as he had anticipated. As he
+got out the first few words about the purpose for which he had asked
+for an interview, Walter Brooklyn struck in abruptly.
+
+“See here, inspector, I fail to see that it is any of your business to
+come nosing about in my affairs. I find you have been asking the
+porter downstairs a whole lot of questions. From your manner, the
+fellow has jumped to the conclusion that you suspect me of having had
+a hand in these murders. You’ve set all the servants simmering, and by
+now it’s all round the club that I murdered my nephew or something
+like it. I tell you I’m damned if I’ll stand it. Blast your impudence.
+Since you have come here, I think you owe me an explanation.”
+
+Walter Brooklyn’s manner seemed to the inspector quite extraordinarily
+violent. But he noticed something else while Brooklyn was speaking—the
+man’s amazing physical strength. He could not be less than sixty; but
+as he stood there, in a half-threatening attitude—with difficulty, it
+seemed, holding himself in—Inspector Blaikie could not help thinking
+that here was the very figure of a man to have struck the blows on
+both the dead men’s skulls. Here, moreover, was a man, obviously
+passionate and lacking in self-control—just the sort of person to
+resort to violence if his will were crossed. The inspector’s open mind
+was rapidly closing up before Brooklyn had finished his first speech.
+Nevertheless, he answered quietly enough,—
+
+“I am sorry, Mr. Brooklyn, if any of my inquiries have caused you
+inconvenience. But you must understand that it is my duty to
+investigate these murders, and to ask any questions that may be
+necessary for that purpose. You apparently know——”
+
+But here again Walter Brooklyn struck in.
+
+“Necessary inquiries, of course,” he said. “But what I want to know is
+what you mean by coming round here and practically telling my club
+servants that I have committed murder. Necessary inquiries, indeed!”
+
+“If you know, Mr. Brooklyn, what was the matter of my conversation
+with the club servants, you can hardly fail to realise why the
+inquiries were necessary.”
+
+“Most certainly I fail to see it. These murders have nothing to do
+with me.”
+
+“That may be; but even so it is necessary to establish that fact. You
+know, I suppose, that your walking-stick was found in Mr. Prinsep’s
+room the morning after the murder. I want you to tell me how it got
+there.”
+
+“I dare say you say you found it there. I know that, if it was there,
+it was not I who put it there. I don’t believe it was there at all. I
+lost it last Tuesday afternoon.”
+
+“And where did you lose it, may I ask?”
+
+“If I knew that, my man, I should have been after it soon enough. I
+must have left it somewhere. Not that it’s any business of yours what
+I did with it.”
+
+“Pardon me, Mr. Brooklyn. You will admit that the fact that it was
+found in Mr. Prinsep’s room calls for some explanation. If you do not
+know where you left it, I shall have to do my best to find out. May I
+ask where you went last Tuesday afternoon?”
+
+“I don’t see why I should tell you.”
+
+“I think, Mr. Brooklyn, that, unless you wish to find yourself in the
+dock on a criminal charge, you had far better do so.”
+
+For a moment it seemed as if Walter Brooklyn would make a personal
+attack on the detective, or at least turn him then and there out of
+the room. But he seemed to think better of it. “Ask your questions,”
+he said.
+
+“First, then, where did you call when you were out on Tuesday
+afternoon?”
+
+“I went first to see Mr. Carter Woodman—I presume you know who he
+is—at his office in Lincoln’s Inn. Then I took a taxi to the
+Piccadilly Theatre, where I saw that young hound, Prinsep, and one or
+two others.”
+
+“Who were the others?”
+
+“An actress-girl there—a Miss Lang. She was the only one.”
+
+“Did you see them separately or together?”
+
+“Separately.”
+
+“And then where did you go?”
+
+“Back to Mr. Woodman’s office. I told him I had lost the stick, and
+thought I must have left it there. He had a look, but it wasn’t there.
+He said I must have left it in the taxi, and I supposed I had.”
+
+“When did you notice the loss?”
+
+“On leaving the theatre.”
+
+“So you might have left the stick there, or in the taxi, or at Mr.
+Woodman’s?”
+
+“Yes. If you found it in Prinsep’s room, I suppose he must have found
+it in the theatre, and taken it up to his room.”
+
+“Why didn’t he give it back to you when he saw you later in the
+evening?”
+
+“Saw me later in the evening! He didn’t see me later in the evening.”
+
+“But you were at Liskeard House on Tuesday evening.”
+
+“Look here, young man. I don’t know what you’re driving at. I tell you
+I did not see Prinsep except in the afternoon.”
+
+“But you were at Liskeard House in the evening.”
+
+“I tell you I was not. Yes, by Jove, though, I was—in a sense. I went
+to the door and asked for Sir Vernon, but he was not at home.”
+
+“When was that?”
+
+“About ten o’clock, I suppose.”
+
+“And you did not go into the house _then_?”
+
+“No, only into the outer hall.”
+
+“That, Mr. Brooklyn, is not the occasion to which I was referring. You
+came back to Liskeard House still later on Tuesday evening.”
+
+Walter Brooklyn glared at the inspector. “Young man,” he said, “I will
+thank you not to tell me where I was. I know that for myself.”
+
+“You admit, then, that you came back to the house.”
+
+“I admit nothing of the sort. I was not in the house at all. I’ve told
+you already that I did not go there.”
+
+The inspector discharged his bombshell. “Then how did it occur that
+you rang up the Sanctum Club from Liskeard House at 11.30 on Tuesday
+evening?”
+
+This was too much for Walter Brooklyn. “Infernal impudence,” he said.
+“I don’t know where you picked up these cock-and-bull stories. I did
+not ring up the Sanctum from Liskeard House, because I was not there.
+And now I’ve had enough of your questions, and you can go.” And he
+strode to the door and held it open. “Get out,” he said.
+
+The inspector picked up his hat. “I had some further questions to ask
+you,” he said. “Perhaps another time I shall find you in a better
+mood. Good evening.” And he left the room as hastily as he could
+without compromising his dignity, not quite certain whether Walter
+Brooklyn would complete the performance by throwing him downstairs.
+Brooklyn, however, merely relieved his feelings by slamming the door.
+
+In the hall the inspector found the porter. “Had a pleasant
+interview?” asked the latter, familiar with Walter Brooklyn’s ways.
+
+“Not exactly pleasant, but decidedly illuminating,” said the
+inspector, as he went upon his way.
+
+
+
+Chapter X
+
+Charis Lang
+
+Inspector Blaikie, when he left the Byron Club, was quite convinced
+that Walter Brooklyn was the murderer. Not merely one of the
+murderers, but the murderer of both men. The evidence against Prinsep
+he was more than ever inclined to discount in face of the impression
+which Walter Brooklyn had made upon him. Not only the man’s manner,
+but even more his physique, had convinced the inspector of his guilt.
+Here at least was a man who combined great physical strength with an
+obviously ungovernable temper—just the combination of qualities which
+seemed most clearly to fit the case. After all, he had never believed
+much in finger-prints. They showed, no doubt, that Prinsep had
+actually held in his hand the weapon with which the murder was
+committed; but did that prove that he had done the deed? He might
+conceivably have taken hold of the club for some quite different
+purpose. The prints were not conclusive evidence—on that point he
+permitted himself to differ from his superior, who had seemed to think
+that they were. They needed explaining, certainly; but there were
+other possible explanations. Moreover, if Prinsep had been careless
+enough to leave his finger-prints all over the club, was it not
+curious that not a trace of them had been left on the dead man’s
+clothing, though he had obviously been dragged by the collar from the
+statue into the little antique temple so as to be out of the way. A
+starched collar was about the likeliest possible place for clear
+impressions of fingers. But there was not the trace of a finger-mark
+on it. The man who dragged the body to the temple steps had certainly
+worn gloves.
+
+Then a very curious point struck the inspector. All the finger-prints
+had been partly obliterated, as if some one had handled the club
+subsequently. But, in the morning he had been careful that no one
+should do so, and he was fairly certain that no one had. Then another
+significant point occurred to him. No other finger-prints had been
+found on the club. Then, if some one else had handled it subsequently,
+that some one else had worn gloves. But, in the garden that morning,
+not one of those present had been wearing gloves. The obliterating
+marks had been made before the discovery, and therefore also
+presumably before the crime. The inspector almost felt that he could
+reconstruct the scene. John Prinsep had held the club; but later,
+Walter Brooklyn, wearing gloves, had handled it. As usual, the
+evidence of the finger-prints, true as far as it went, was misleading.
+Only the partial obliteration of the marks had given the key to the
+truth. The new explanation, moreover, fitted in exactly with his
+observation of the absence of finger-prints on George Brooklyn’s
+crumpled collar.
+
+It was true, of course, the inspector reflected, that all this was
+only hypothesis. He could not prove absolutely that the obliterations
+had been made by a pair of gloved hands holding the club with
+murderous purpose, and still less could he prove that the gloved hands
+were Walter Brooklyn’s. His conjecture was not evidence in a court of
+law; but it served to confirm him in his own opinion. He could now,
+with good hope, go in search of further evidence.
+
+What, then, ought his next step to be? His talk with Walter Brooklyn
+had opened up certain fresh lines of inquiry. He must see Woodman
+again, and find out what had been the business on which Brooklyn had
+twice visited him on the Tuesday. And he had better see this Miss Lang
+of the Piccadilly Theatre, in case she could throw any light on the
+case. And he must try to trace Walter Brooklyn’s stick. He felt sure
+that Brooklyn had told him a lie about this, and that he had really
+left it in Prinsep’s room in the evening. But it was his business to
+make every inquiry, and to test Brooklyn’s story by every possible
+means.
+
+By this time—for it was now nine o’clock—Woodman would certainly have
+left his office. The inspector felt that he had done a good day’s
+work, and could with a good conscience leave further activity for the
+morrow. He went home, and straight to bed, in his tiny bachelor flat
+in Judd Street.
+
+When Inspector Blaikie woke the following morning he at once began to
+turn the case over in his mind. It was now Thursday, and the inquests
+had been fixed for Friday. It would be necessary that day to decide on
+the procedure to be followed. Ought the police to produce the evidence
+which they had gathered, or would it be better to make the proceedings
+as purely formal as possible, and to reserve all disclosures for the
+trial which would surely follow? The Inspector’s instinct was against
+any premature showing of his hand; but he would have to discuss the
+matter with Superintendent Wilson, with whom the final decision would
+rest. That could stand over until he had seen Woodman and the unknown
+Miss Lang. He would arrange to see the superintendent in the
+afternoon.
+
+The inspector went out and breakfasted in one of those huge “Tyger”
+restaurants which cater for the servantless flat-dwellers of London.
+Then he went to Scotland Yard, arranged to see the superintendent
+after lunch, and ’phoned through to Woodman arranging an eleven
+o’clock appointment at his office. Next he got on the phone to the
+Piccadilly Theatre, and discovered that Miss Lang was expected there
+at about midday. He left a message stating that he would call to see
+her. She lived, as he knew, at Hammersmith, and was not on the
+telephone. He also rang through to the sergeant on duty at Liskeard
+House, who reported that there were no fresh developments.
+
+At eleven o’clock punctually, the inspector entered Carter Woodman’s
+outer office. The old clerk, seated there at his desk, looked up at
+him suspiciously from a heap of papers. Rather brusquely, the
+inspector announced that he had come to see Woodman by appointment.
+The man went to tell his master, and Carter Woodman promptly appeared
+at the door of the inner room to bid his visitor welcome. Coming
+towards the inspector, he gripped him firmly by the hand. “Well, my
+lad, how goes it?” he said. “Have you found the scoundrels? You must
+come in and tell me all about it.”
+
+The inspector felt himself almost carried bodily into the inner room,
+and seated breathless in a chair, while Carter Woodman took up a
+commanding position on the hearthrug. “Quite right to come to me,” he
+said. “You must treat me as if I were Sir Vernon—as his man of
+business I regard myself as in charge of his affairs. Now let me know
+exactly what you have done so far, and I’ll see if I can help you.
+But, first, have you any fresh clue as to the identity of the
+murderers?”
+
+Inspector Blaikie reflected, as Woodman was speaking, that powerful
+physique seemed to run in the Brooklyn family. Woodman was only a
+distant relative; yet he had many of the physical characteristics
+which the inspector had noticed in Walter Brooklyn. But there the
+resemblance seemed to end. Woodman’s bluff and hearty manner, which
+seemed to have big reserves of strength and self-control behind it,
+was in marked contrast to Walter Brooklyn’s passionate and excitable
+temperament. Woodman belonged to a very definite type—the successful
+city man who combined keen business acumen and a sharp eye for a
+bargain with a hail-fellow-well-met manner and an ability to make
+himself instantly at home in almost any society.
+
+The inspector, engrossed with his own thoughts, said nothing in
+immediate reply to Woodman’s question; and the latter, after a pause,
+repeated it, remarking cheerfully, “What, daydreaming, are we? Won’t
+do in a detective, you know. Not at all what we expect of you, eh?”
+And, after putting his hand for a moment on the inspector’s shoulder,
+he abandoned his place of vantage before the fireplace and sat down in
+his desk-chair facing his visitor.
+
+“I saw Mr. Walter Brooklyn yesterday—not, I am afraid, a very pleasant
+interview. He seemed to resent very much my asking him any
+questions—in fact he all but threw me downstairs,” the detective added
+with a laugh.
+
+“What took you to see him?” asked Woodman. “I suppose it was about our
+seeing him outside the house.”
+
+“It had come to my knowledge that Mr. Walter Brooklyn was actually in
+Mr. Prinsep’s room at Liskeard House at 11.30 on Tuesday night.”
+
+“Good Lord, man, you don’t say so. Are you sure? Why, who in the world
+told you that?”
+
+“Nobody actually saw him there; but he telephoned at that time to his
+club, said that he was speaking from Liskeard House, and asked if a
+registered parcel had arrived for him, as he wanted it sent round
+there at once.”
+
+“Dear me, inspector, this throws a new—and a most distressing—light on
+the case. Did you discover from Mr. Brooklyn what he was doing at
+Liskeard House?”
+
+“No, and it was exactly on that point that I came to see what you
+could tell me.”
+
+“My dear chap, I’m as surprised as you are to know that he was there
+at all.”
+
+“I understand from Mr. Brooklyn that he had seen you earlier in the
+day. It might help if I knew what was the business then.”
+
+“You probably know enough about Walter Brooklyn to guess that it was
+about money.”
+
+“I had guessed so; but I am glad to have it definite. Can you give me
+rather more particulars?”
+
+“I think I may, though, strictly speaking, the matter ought to be
+confidential. Mr. Walter Brooklyn had been trying for some time to get
+Sir Vernon to pay his debts, as he had done on several previous
+occasions. This time Sir Vernon handed the matter over to John
+Prinsep, partly because he was away from town, and partly because he
+thought he could trust Prinsep to handle the matter more successfully
+than if he did it himself. Prinsep thereupon saw Walter Brooklyn, and
+also consulted me. On my advice, he refused to make any payment
+without a very clear understanding that this was to be the last
+application. Walter Brooklyn tried all means to get the money without
+conditions, and in particular refused to disclose in detail what his
+liabilities were. Prinsep would not give a penny unless his conditions
+were met. On Tuesday afternoon Walter Brooklyn came down by
+appointment to see me, and I tried to get him to accept the
+conditions. He refused, and declared his intention of seeing Prinsep
+again. I told him he must do what he liked about that. I believe he
+saw Prinsep. Anyhow, later in the afternoon he came back, and made
+another attempt to get me to urge that the conditions should be
+modified. I refused of course, and he left. I have not seen him
+since.”
+
+“So far as you know, he had made no appointment with Prinsep for the
+evening?”
+
+“I know nothing about that. He may have done. He did not tell me.”
+
+“When he came back to you the second time, did he tell you that he had
+lost his walking-stick, and ask if you had found it in the office
+after he left?”
+
+“Yes, I believe he did. It was not here. I said he had probably left
+it in the taxi.”
+
+“And that is all you know about the matter?”
+
+“Yes, of course I know something about the extent of Walter Brooklyn’s
+liabilities. They are considerable.”
+
+“We can go into that if it becomes necessary. But can you tell
+me—would it be likely that, if Walter Brooklyn arranged a meeting with
+Prinsep about money, George Brooklyn would also have been present? It
+seems they were both there that evening?”
+
+“I should not have expected so; but it is certainly not impossible.
+Prinsep might have called in George, as he was co-heir to Sir Vernon’s
+money, to help him make it quite plain that the money would only be
+paid if the conditions were met. Or, of course, it may have been an
+accident. George Brooklyn might have been with Prinsep when Walter
+called. Have you any reason to believe that it was so?”
+
+“Well, we know that Walter Brooklyn, although he denies it, was in
+Prinsep’s room at about 11.30. We know that George Brooklyn left the
+house at about that time, and he must have come back at some time
+later to the garden, if not to the house. It seems at least likely
+that they met either before or after 11.30.”
+
+“Yes, that seems probable. But I am afraid I know no more than I have
+told you.”
+
+“Perhaps you can help me a little more. I am getting interested in
+this Miss Lang, who seems to turn up at every point in the story. It
+now appears that Walter Brooklyn went to see her at the theatre on
+Tuesday afternoon. He saw her and Prinsep there separately.”
+
+“I know nothing about that. I told you he went off to see Prinsep; but
+I have no idea what he can have been doing with Miss Lang.”
+
+“Did Walter Brooklyn know Miss Lang?”
+
+“Quite probably. He had a large theatrical acquaintance. But I did not
+know he was friendly with her.”
+
+“But you said that Mr. George Brooklyn was to have seen Miss Lang on
+Tuesday evening.”
+
+The lawyer nodded.
+
+“And now,” the inspector continued, “we find Walter as well as George
+Brooklyn mixed up with her. May not she have had something to do with
+the evening meeting at Liskeard House?”
+
+“Really, inspector, that is a matter for you. I have never seen the
+young woman, and I know no more about her than I have already told
+you. You had better see her yourself.”
+
+“That is what I propose to do; but I thought you might be able to
+throw some light on Walter Brooklyn’s dealings with her.”
+
+“None at all, unfortunately. I wish I could; for there is nothing I
+want more than to get this horrible business cleared up.”
+
+The inspector saw that there was nothing more to be learned from
+Carter Woodman at that stage. He accordingly took his leave, and went
+in search of Charis Lang, who, he was beginning to feel, might well
+hold the clue to the whole mystery. His original idea had been to see
+her at her home; but he had decided that it would be better to talk to
+her at the theatre, where the event in which she was concerned had
+actually taken place. Accordingly, he took a taxi to the Piccadilly
+Theatre, and sent up his card to Miss Lang, who had just arrived, and
+been given his note and message.
+
+When he was shown into Charis Lang’s room, Inspector Blaikie had his
+first surprise. He had been expecting, without any good reason, to be
+confronted with a beauty of the picture post card type, some little
+bit of fluff from the musical comedy stage. But he saw at once that
+Charis Lang was not at all that kind of woman. She was a girl whom no
+one but an idiot—and Inspector Blaikie was far from being an
+idiot—would think of calling pretty. Beautiful, some people would call
+her, but less from any regularity of feature than from an effect of
+carriage and expression—a dignity without aloofness, a self-possession
+that was neither hard nor unwomanly. The inspector did not think her
+beautiful—she was not of the type he admired—but he said to himself
+that here was obviously a woman of character. And he at once changed
+his mind about the right way of tackling Miss Lang. She was, he
+recognised, a person with whom it would pay to be quite frank.
+
+“I understand,” she began, “that you wish to ask me some questions
+about”—she hesitated a moment—“this terrible affair.” The inspector
+could see that she was deeply moved.
+
+“Yes, Miss Lang,” he replied, “I have come to ask you for certain
+information. We have, of course, every desire to trouble you as little
+as possible.”
+
+“Oh,” she interrupted, “I only wish I had more to tell you. By all
+means, ask me what you will.”
+
+“I am afraid some of my questions may seem to you rather impertinent.”
+
+“No, inspector. I understand it is your business to get at the truth.
+I shall answer, whatever you may ask.”
+
+“Then, first of all, will you tell me about Mr. Walter Brooklyn. I
+understand that he came to see you last Tuesday here. Is that so?”
+
+“I confess I am surprised at the question. I thought it was about Mr.
+George Brooklyn and Mr. Prinsep that you wished to question me. But I
+can answer at once. Mr. Walter Brooklyn did come to see me.”
+
+“Do you know Mr. Walter Brooklyn well?”
+
+“No, hardly at all. Indeed, until that day I had scarcely spoken to
+him. I had met him a few times in large gatherings at Liskeard House
+and elsewhere.”
+
+“Then he is not a friend of yours?”
+
+“By no means.” The answer was so decided as to startle the inspector.
+
+“Have you any objection,” he asked, “to telling me on what business
+Mr. Walter Brooklyn visited you on Tuesday?”
+
+“It is not a thing I like to speak about; but I am fully prepared to
+tell you. Mr. Brooklyn came to make to me a dishonourable suggestion
+that I should help him to extract money from Mr. Prinsep.”
+
+“In what way?”
+
+“Mr. Prinsep had refused to give Mr. Walter Brooklyn a certain sum of
+money which he wanted. He came to ask me to bring pressure to bear on
+Mr. Prinsep to give it to him. He suggested that I had a hold over Mr.
+Prinsep—I suppose I must tell you what made him think that too—and
+that if I was to ask he would get the money.”
+
+“And on what ground did he ask you to do this?”
+
+“He threatened that if I did not he would tell Sir Vernon about me and
+Mr. Prinsep. He made the most horrible insinuations.”
+
+“You were friendly with Mr. Prinsep?”
+
+“Two years ago John Prinsep asked me to marry him, and I accepted him.
+Our engagement was kept secret at his request.”
+
+“Miss Lang, I am sorry if I give you pain; but I must ask you whether
+you were engaged to Mr. Prinsep at the time of his death.”
+
+The answer came clearly, but in a voice totally devoid of expression.
+“I do not know,” said Charis Lang. “The engagement had at least not
+been formally broken off.”
+
+“And of course you rejected Walter Brooklyn’s proposal?”
+
+“I did.”
+
+“Did you tell Mr. Prinsep about it?”
+
+“No. It was not a matter I could bring myself to mention to him.”
+
+“You understood that Walter Brooklyn intended to carry the story to
+Sir Vernon?”
+
+“Yes, and of course Sir Vernon would have been very angry. He has
+always wanted John to marry his ward, Miss Cowper.”
+
+“What had Walter Brooklyn to gain by telling Sir Vernon?”
+
+“I suppose he thought that Sir Vernon would soon make John give me up,
+and that between them they could fix up for John and Miss Cowper to
+marry. Or perhaps he relied on my telling John, and thought John would
+let him have the money to prevent him from going to Sir Vernon.”
+
+“Yes, that seems the most probable explanation. And did you see Mr.
+Prinsep after your meeting with Walter Brooklyn?”
+
+“Yes, for a few moments. He had seen Mr. Brooklyn, too, and was very
+angry. Mr. Brooklyn had used the same threat to him as he used to me.”
+
+“And how had Mr. Prinsep taken it?”
+
+“He had refused to give Mr. Brooklyn a penny, and said he would see
+Sir Vernon himself.”
+
+“In order to tell him of your engagement?”
+
+Again came the answer, painfully given, “I do not know.”
+
+“I am sorry, Miss Lang, but I have not quite done. Did you see Mr.
+George Brooklyn on Tuesday?”
+
+“Yes, he came here to see me after he had left Liskeard House in the
+evening.”
+
+“At what time was that?”
+
+“It was after ten o’clock—probably about a quarter past. I am off the
+stage for a long time then.”
+
+“Was Mr. George Brooklyn a friend of yours?”
+
+“Yes, in a way. At least, Mrs. George Brooklyn is a very dear friend.
+I used to understudy her when she was Isabelle Raven. She was _the_
+Isabelle Raven, you know.”
+
+“Yes. Then there was nothing unusual in Mr. George Brooklyn’s coming
+to see you here?”
+
+“I don’t think he had ever been to my room before. I had often met him
+at his own house or at Liskeard House.”
+
+“Did he come for some special purpose?”
+
+“Yes, he came to see me about my engagement to Mr. Prinsep.”
+
+“Do you mind telling me more exactly what you mean?”
+
+“Until recently, Mr. Prinsep always behaved to me as if we were
+engaged. Lately, his manner to me had changed. When I spoke to him
+about it, he laughed it off, and I tried to go on treating him as I
+had done. But about a fortnight ago I had a letter from Mr. Carter
+Woodman—you know him, I expect—saying he would like to discuss with me
+certain matters placed in his hands by Mr. Prinsep. I wrote back
+saying that I could not conceive that there was anything in my
+relations with John that called for a lawyer’s interference. Then I
+took the letter to John, and we had a real quarrel about it. I asked
+him if I was to consider our engagement at an end; but he put me off,
+and before I could get him to answer we were interrupted. I did not
+see him again until Tuesday, and then only for a minute. I meant to
+try to clear matters up, and to tell him I could not go on like that;
+but he was called away, and I had no chance. Then in the evening
+George Brooklyn came to see me.”
+
+“Will you tell me what happened then?”
+
+“He asked me point-blank whether I had been engaged to John. I said
+that I certainly had been, but that I didn’t know whether I still was.
+I told him that I still loved John; but I asked him to let John
+know—he had promised to see him when he left me—that I considered our
+engagement definitely at an end, unless he desired to renew it.”
+
+“Miss Lang, my questions must have been very painful, and it has been
+very good of you to answer them so freely. I think there is only one
+thing more I need ask. At what time did Mr. George Brooklyn leave
+you?”
+
+“A few minutes after half-past ten. I went on the stage again almost
+immediately afterwards.”
+
+“And you did not see Mr. George Brooklyn again?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“You saw no more of either Mr. Prinsep or Mr. Walter Brooklyn, I
+suppose?”
+
+“Yes, as it happens, I caught sight, out of my window, of Mr. Prinsep
+walking in the garden behind the theatre. That must have been about a
+quarter past eleven.”
+
+“And that is all you saw. He was alone?”
+
+“Yes. I saw no one else.”
+
+“Then I have only to thank you again for the way in which you have
+told me what you know.” And with that the inspector took his leave,
+feeling that, as a result of his talk, he had scored another good
+point against Walter Brooklyn. Quite apart from the murders, the man
+really deserved hanging for his behaviour to Charis Lang—at least that
+was how Inspector Blaikie felt about it. He must get enough evidence
+to convince his reluctant superior, and thereafter twelve good men and
+true, that Walter Brooklyn was the murderer. John Prinsep, perhaps,
+was not such a bad riddance: certainly he had been behaving like a
+cad. But then, Charis Lang was in love with him, and that was enough
+to cover a multitude of sins. For her sake at least the murderer must
+be brought to justice. Moreover, George Brooklyn seemed to have been a
+good sort. The inspector was inclined to dismiss the idea that he had
+had anything to do with the killing of Prinsep, even though his talk
+with Prinsep after leaving Charis Lang might have afforded full
+provocation, if, as seemed likely, Prinsep had refused to marry her.
+The inspector’s last thought was that it was still a tangled enough
+skein that he had to unravel. But some at least of the knots had been
+successfully untied.
+
+
+
+Chapter XI
+
+Joan Takes Up the Case
+
+Charis Lang had kept her composure during that trying interview with
+the inspector, and had forced herself to tell him everything she had
+to tell that could even indirectly bear upon the murders. She had felt
+that this was her duty; and in her the sense of duty was unusually
+strong. But the telling had cost her a terrible effort, and when the
+inspector went away, and there was no longer need to hold herself up
+bravely, her fortitude gave way. She had told things which, until
+then, she had not admitted even to herself; and what hurt her most was
+that, in telling the truth and nothing but the truth, she had been
+compelled to let John Prinsep’s character appear in the worst light.
+Not, she told herself, that it mattered to him any longer; but she
+loved him, and it was horrible to her that she should have to drag his
+memory in the mud. Moreover, was he not suspected of having killed
+George Brooklyn, and would not her account of him have made such an
+act seem more probable? She did not believe that he had done so, and,
+as she thought over her conversation with the inspector, she felt that
+she had been false to his memory; and yet she knew that there was
+nothing else she could have done.
+
+But why had Walter Brooklyn been so dragged into the case by the
+detective? Until Inspector Blaikie had come to see her, she had been
+quite without a theory of the events of Tuesday. She had been stunned
+by the fact of Prinsep’s death, and she had hardly troubled to think
+who could have killed him. Now it was clear that the police believed
+that Walter Brooklyn had something to do with it. An odious man, by
+all accounts, and one who had proved himself odious beyond measure in
+his dealings with her. Yet not a man she would readily have suspected
+of murder with violence. Underhand crimes—dirty, little crimes—she
+said to herself, would be more in keeping with what she knew of him.
+And then, despite his treatment of her, she accused herself of being
+uncharitable. After all, there was some dignity about murder; and her
+feeling, biased no doubt by her personal experience, was that Walter
+Brooklyn was not even fit to be a murderer.
+
+Charis felt that she could not go on to the stage that afternoon as if
+nothing had happened. She had forced herself to play her part—and had
+played it as well as ever—since the tragedy; but for that afternoon at
+least she must be free, and her understudy must take her place. Having
+been forced to tell her story to the inspector, she felt all the more
+need to tell it again to some one more sympathetic—to some real friend
+capable of understanding what she had suffered and of sharing in her
+sorrow. Speedily her mind was made up. She must see Isabelle, Mrs.
+George Brooklyn. Isabelle, too, was in trouble at least as hard as her
+own. Isabelle had lost her George, as she had lost John Prinsep.
+
+Then she remembered. Some people said that John had killed George
+Brooklyn, and some said that George Brooklyn had killed John Prinsep.
+She had heard that there was evidence, though she did not know what it
+was. Could either of these things be true, and, if there was even a
+chance that either might be true, how could she go and talk about it
+to Isabelle?
+
+She did not find an answer to her questions; but all the same she made
+up her mind to go. She was capable of conceiving the thought that the
+two men might have quarrelled, and that the one might have killed the
+other; but she was not capable of believing the thought which she
+could conceive. She knew that they might quarrel—that they had done so
+often enough; but they would not kill. And even if they had—she barely
+formulated the thought—what did it matter now? She and Isabelle were
+both desolate and in need of comfort. She would go.
+
+So Charis, having made—to her understudy’s secret delight—her
+arrangements at the theatre, set off to find Isabelle—for that was the
+name by which she still called Marian Brooklyn. Isabelle, she knew,
+was still at the hotel—the Cunningham—and she had not far to go. In a
+few minutes the two women were in each other’s arms. It was not a
+question of who had killed their lovers; they both needed comfort, and
+they sought together such comfort as could be found.
+
+By-and-by, Charis found herself telling the story of the inspector’s
+visit. She had never before spoken openly to Mrs. George about John
+Prinsep; but now she told the whole story, only to find that most of
+it was known to Marian already. Marian told her how Carter Woodman had
+come to see her, and asked her to use her influence to break the
+entanglement between Charis and John Prinsep, and how she had
+indignantly refused and had threatened to go and tell John straight
+out that he ought to marry her. Charis did not try to defend Prinsep:
+she realised that there could be no defence for what he had done; but
+she told Marian that she had loved him, and that she believed he had
+loved her—in a way—and would certainly have married her but for his
+fear of Sir Vernon’s opposition. She told Marian that it was quite
+clear from the inspector’s manner that he suspected Walter Brooklyn of
+one, if not of both, murders, and at last she told her of Walter
+Brooklyn’s visit to herself, and of the infamous threat he had made.
+
+To Charis’s surprise, Marian Brooklyn altogether refused to consider
+the possibility of Walter’s guilt. She had seen him outside Liskeard
+House as they left on the Tuesday evening, and she agreed that he
+might possibly have gone there to carry out his threat of telling Sir
+Vernon. But she was quite convinced that he had had nothing to do with
+the murders, and she was very doubtful whether he would really have
+carried out his threat against Charis. “Walter Brooklyn,” she said,
+“is a thoroughly bad lot. In money matters you couldn’t trust him an
+inch. But I do not believe he would really have done a thing like
+that—I mean, either murdered anybody, or really told Sir Vernon about
+you. He might threaten, but I don’t believe he’d do such a thing, when
+it came to the point.”
+
+Then Marian Brooklyn realised what seemed to her the most horrible
+thing about the situation. “Poor Joan,” she said, “it will be simply
+terrible for her if Walter Brooklyn is really suspected. She has
+trouble enough with what has happened, already, and with Sir Vernon on
+her hands in such a state that nearly everything has to be kept from
+him. If her stepfather is going to be dragged into court, I don’t know
+what she will do.”
+
+All Charis could suggest was that it would be best that she should
+know nothing about it until it could no longer be kept from her; but
+to this Marian Brooklyn did not agree. “I think, dear, she had better
+know at once. Joan is not easily frightened; and I am sure she would
+wish to be told.”
+
+And so it was finally settled. Marian Brooklyn said that she would go
+to Liskeard House at once and try to see Joan. At first she suggested
+that Charis should come with her; but finally they agreed that she had
+better go alone. Charis, a good deal more at ease after her talk with
+her friend, went back to the theatre with every intention of appearing
+at the evening performance.
+
+Marian Brooklyn found Joan at home. Indeed, since Tuesday she had not
+left the house, save for an occasional breath of air in the garden.
+With the police continually making inquiries, Newspaper reporters
+laying constant siege to the house, and Sir Vernon so ill that the
+fact of George Brooklyn’s death had still to be kept from him, and
+George’s absence explained by all manner of subterfuges, Joan and Mary
+Woodman had been going through a terrible time, made the worse, in
+Joan’s case at least, by the sense of helplessness in face of a great
+calamity. Her duties in looking after Sir Vernon did not prevent her
+from thinking: rather they were such as to make thought turn to
+brooding. Her thoughts seemed to go round and round in an endless and
+aimless circle; and, as the days passed, the strain was telling on her
+far more than on Mary Woodman, who was not blessed—or cursed—with the
+faculty of imagination. Mary did her duty quietly and sympathetically,
+and with little sign of inward disturbance. Joan did her duty, too,
+but she was eating out her soul in the doing of it. Her face, as she
+came into the room to greet Marian, was haggard with lack of sleep.
+She had not quite lost that look of composure and self-possession that
+was normally hers; but it was easy to see that the strain on her had
+been severe.
+
+Marian did not quite know how to begin what she had to say; but Joan
+saved her from her embarrassment by beginning at once to speak about
+Sir Vernon. He had been very bad indeed; he was still very bad, but
+she thought he was beginning to rally. It had been terribly
+difficult—having to keep from him the news and prevent him from taking
+any part in the investigation. He had asked more than once to see the
+police; but the doctor said that absolute rest was indispensable, and
+that any further shock or excitement would almost certainly still be
+fatal to him. Joan told Marian that she and Mary had their hands so
+full that they knew little or nothing of what was going on, and had no
+idea what progress the police were making towards the solution of the
+mystery.
+
+This gave Marian the opening for which she had been waiting. “It was
+about that, darling,” she said, “I came to see you. I did not want the
+police to come asking you more questions until you were prepared.”
+
+Joan expressed her surprise. “Prepared, Marian—prepared for what do
+you mean?”
+
+“Well, dear, I thought I had better tell you. The police think they
+have a clue.”
+
+“A clue? Do you mean they know who did it?”
+
+“No, dear. I don’t mean that they know; but there is somebody whom
+they suspect. Of course, it is their business to suspect people; but I
+thought I ought to tell you.”
+
+“Of course, it is their business to find out who did it. I am only
+glad it isn’t mine—and yet I can’t help wondering. I keep thinking
+about it, even though I try hard to put it out of my mind.”
+
+“That is only natural, dear. It is the same with me. I find myself
+wondering——”
+
+Joan interrupted, “And the worst of it is that one’s thoughts take one
+no further. Mine just go round and round, I haven’t the ghost of an
+idea who it was.”
+
+“What I came to tell you, Joan, was this. Of course, it can’t be true;
+but the police suspect—your stepfather.”
+
+Joan had been standing, leaning with one arm on the mantelpiece; but
+at Marian’s words she went very white, and her body swayed. She
+gripped the mantelpiece to steady herself, and felt her way to a
+chair. For a moment she said nothing. Then, so low as to be just
+audible, her answer came. “Marian, tell me at once what makes you
+think that.”
+
+“I don’t think it, my dear. But, unfortunately, the police do. That
+man, Inspector Blaikie, has quite convinced himself of it. I had
+better tell you exactly what I know.”
+
+Then Marian told Joan all about the inspector’s visit to Charis Lang.
+Joan listened in silence, barely moving. Her colour came back slowly,
+and, as she realised that the police had built up a real case against
+her stepfather, a look of determination came into her face.
+
+“I wonder if he knows,” she said. “I must go to him at once.”
+
+Marian said to herself that Joan was bearing it wonderfully well.
+There was no fear that she would collapse under the shock. Indeed, she
+could see that the news had really done her good. During the days
+since the crime she had been suffering above all because she felt
+helpless and useless. The danger to her stepfather gave her a sense of
+work to do. It roused her and brought into play the reserves of
+strength in her character. Marian had so far held back the reason for
+Walter Brooklyn’s visit to Charis Lang; but she felt that it was only
+fair to Joan to tell her the whole truth, however bad it might be. If
+she was to help Walter Brooklyn, she must certainly know the worst
+that could be said against him.
+
+There was no doubt at all in Joan’s mind. Badly as Walter Brooklyn had
+used her, and though she had refused to live any longer under his
+roof, she was quite certain that he was incapable of murder, above all
+of the murders of the two victims of Tuesday’s tragedy. Even when
+Marian told her the purpose with which Walter Brooklyn had been to
+visit Charis Lang, that in no way altered her view. “He would never
+have told Sir Vernon,” she said. “It was only too like him to
+threaten; but he would never have done it. I know him, and I’m sure of
+that.”
+
+Joan was keenly anxious to find out what evidence the police could
+possibly have against her stepfather; but of this Marian could tell
+her hardly anything. She could only suggest that probably Carter
+Woodman would know about it. Mrs. Woodman was still with her at the
+hotel; but Carter had been away the previous night, and she had not
+seen him. Joan said that she would try to see Carter at once, and
+then, when she had found out all she could, she would go to see Walter
+Brooklyn.
+
+So far from being prostrated by the news, Joan was moved by it to take
+action at once. She telephoned through to Carter Woodman at his
+office, and asked him particularly to come and see her at Liskeard
+House that afternoon. Woodman tried to put her off; but when she said
+that, if he could not come to her, she would go at once to him, he at
+last agreed to come. Within an hour he was with her, and Joan plunged
+at once into business by asking him to tell all he knew about the
+police and the progress they had made.
+
+Woodman seemed reluctant to talk; but, on being pressed, he told her
+most of what had passed at his first talk with the inspector, leaving
+out, however, anything which would tend to connect Walter Brooklyn
+with the crime, and thereby creating the impression that the police
+were totally at a loss. But Joan was not to be put off so easily.
+“It’s no use, Carter,” she said, “your trying to spare my feelings. I
+know that the police suspect my stepfather, and I want to know on what
+evidence they are trying to build up a case against him. Surely you
+must know something about that.”
+
+Faced with the direct question, Carter Woodman told her most of what
+he knew. He said that the police had found out that Walter Brooklyn
+had been in the house that night, and that he had actually telephoned
+to his club from Prinsep’s room at about half-past eleven. He told her
+that Walter Brooklyn’s walking-stick had been found in Prinsep’s room,
+and that Walter had almost thrown the inspector downstairs when he
+went to question him about his movements. What surprised him, he said,
+was that Walter Brooklyn had not been arrested already.
+
+At this Joan broke out indignantly, “You don’t mean that you believe
+he did it?”
+
+“My dear Joan, I only wish you had not asked me such a question. But
+what am I to think? It is clear that he was in the house, and somebody
+must have done it, after all. I’m sorry for you; but I think you are
+under no illusions about your stepfather’s character.”
+
+“I tell you that he could never have done a thing like that. I know
+he’s a bad man, in many ways. But he’s not that sort. Surely you must
+understand that.”
+
+But Carter Woodman did not seem to understand it. Apologetically, but
+firmly, he made it quite clear to Joan that he was disposed to believe
+in Walter Brooklyn’s guilt, or at least that he saw nothing unlikely
+in the supposition that he might have committed murder. Joan, who had
+intended to ask Woodman to go to work for the purpose of clearing her
+stepfather, soon saw that there was nothing to be gained by making
+such a request. In his present mood, at least, Carter Woodman would be
+far more likely to search for further evidence of Walter Brooklyn’s
+guilt. Joan had found out from him most of what she wanted; and,
+seeing that there was nothing further to be gained by enlisting his
+help, she got rid of him as soon as she decently could.
+
+When Woodman had gone, Joan sat down to think the matter over quietly.
+She was absolutely certain that her stepfather was in no way guilty of
+the murders; but, after what Woodman had said, it seemed only too
+clear that he must have been on the spot when one of them at least was
+committed. That meant that he knew the truth; but, for some reason or
+other, he had evidently not told the police what he knew. That, Joan
+felt, was not altogether surprising. Probably the police had somehow
+got him into one of his rages; and she knew that, if that were so, it
+was just like him to have refused to say a word. It was more than ever
+necessary for her to see him and get at the real truth of what he
+knew. Only if she had that to go upon could she help him; and, as
+Carter Woodman would do nothing, she felt that she must devote all her
+energies to clearing him of the suspicion. He would have to have a
+good lawyer of his own, of course; but Joan must see him, and compel
+him to bestir himself about his defence. For one thing, he was certain
+to be in low water; and she must at once promise to pay all the
+expenses of the case.
+
+She admitted to herself that, in the light of what Charis Lang and
+Woodman had told her, the police seemed to have a strong case against
+Walter Brooklyn. Her mind went back to Woodman’s words, “After all,
+somebody must have done it”; and she realised that, for the police
+“somebody” might mean Walter Brooklyn quite as readily as any one
+else. She, knowing him as no one besides knew him, might be sure of
+his innocence; but that was no reason why others should share her
+conviction. No, if Walter Brooklyn was to escape from the coils in
+which he was enmeshed, it would be because decisive evidence was
+forthcoming that he had not committed the murders. And that decisive
+evidence would have to be deliberately searched for by some one other
+than the police, who, intent on proving the case against Walter
+Brooklyn, would not be likely to seek for clues which would invalidate
+their own case. And, if she did not undertake this task, who would?
+She felt that the duty was hers.
+
+But if, as she was sure, Walter Brooklyn had not committed murder,
+then who had, and what had her stepfather been doing in Liskeard House
+that night? It was true that, by Carter’s account, he had denied his
+presence there; but it did not surprise Joan at all that her
+stepfather should have lied to the police. If he was determined not to
+tell what he knew, his only possible course was to deny that he had
+been present. She would have to point out to him that, as his presence
+in the house had been definitely established, the only possible course
+remaining was to tell the police everything that he knew.
+
+But what could it be that he was holding back? If he had been present
+when murder was done, he must be concealing the name of the murderer.
+That puzzled Joan; for she did not see whom Walter Brooklyn could
+possibly be intent on shielding. Quixotism was as unlike him as
+deliberate murder. Moreover, who could the murderer have been? She
+searched her mind in vain for any hint of a clue. There was literally
+no one whom she could suspect. The whole thing appeared to her merely
+inexplicable.
+
+She realised, however, that the best way—perhaps the only way—of
+clearing her stepfather was to bring the real murderer to light. But
+there might be two different murderers. Joan was inclined to regard it
+as quite possible that Prinsep might have killed George Brooklyn; but
+it was utterly inconceivable that George should have killed anybody.
+Far more clearly than her stepfather, he was not that kind of man. So
+that the best line of inquiry seemed to be to search for the murderer
+of John Prinsep. But, she remembered, it was in this case that the
+police had their strongest evidence against Walter Brooklyn. There was
+little or nothing, so far as she knew, to connect him with the death
+of George; but he had been in Prinsep’s room, and there his stick had
+been found. Surely he must know who had killed John Prinsep. She could
+do nothing until she had seen him; but seeing him might well clear up
+the whole tragedy once and for all.
+
+Joan was still lying back in her chair, with closed eyes, trying to
+think the thing out, when Winter announced that Mr. Ellery was in the
+lounge, and would like to see her if she felt equal to it. She had not
+seen Ellery since that fatal Tuesday evening, when he had left with
+the other guests, announcing his intention of walking back to Chelsea.
+Doubtless, he had felt that to come sooner would be an intrusion; but
+she knew enough of his feelings to be sure that it had cost him a
+struggle to keep away. She was glad—very glad—he had come; for just
+what she wanted was some one to whom she could talk freely, some one
+on whose help she could rely in trying to clear her stepfather. Robert
+Ellery, she knew, would be ready to believe as she believed, and to do
+everything in his power to help her in her trouble. These thoughts
+flashed through her mind as she went to the lounge where he was
+waiting.
+
+
+
+Chapter XII
+
+Robert Ellery
+
+It had been a struggle for Ellery to keep away. He had heard nothing
+of the tragedy until Wednesday evening, when he had been to dine with
+his guardian, Harry Lucas, at Hampstead. There had been, of course,
+nothing in the morning papers, and he had not seen an evening paper.
+He had, indeed, spent the day in a long country walk, returning to
+Hampstead across the Heath in time to dress for dinner at his
+guardian’s house, where he always kept a change of clothes, and often
+stayed the night. His walk had been taken with a purpose—no less a
+purpose than going thoroughly with himself into the question of his
+feeling for Joan Cowper. He had been a silent witness of the scene at
+Sir Vernon’s party, when Joan had declared outright that nothing would
+ever make her marry John Prinsep. That outburst of hers had meant a
+great deal to him. He had hardly concealed from himself before the
+fact that he was head over ears in love with Joan; but he had always
+taught himself to regard his love as hopeless, and tried to make
+himself believe that he ought to get the better of it, and accept as a
+foregone conclusion Joan’s marriage with Prinsep. He had been told by
+Sir Vernon himself that they were engaged, and, of course, no word on
+the matter had passed between him and Joan.
+
+Her definite repudiation of the engagement had therefore come to him
+as a surprise, and, for the first time, had allowed him to think that
+his own suit might not be altogether hopeless. Joan liked him: that he
+knew well enough; but loving was, of course, another story, and he
+hardly allowed himself, even now, to hope that she loved him. But he
+made up his mind, after what had passed, first to spend the day in the
+country, thinking things over, or rather charging at full speed down
+the Middlesex lanes while the processes of thought went on of their
+own momentum. Then, he promised himself to tell his guardian in the
+evening exactly how matters stood, and to ask for his advice. Harry
+Lucas had known well how to make himself the friend and counsellor, as
+well as the guardian, of the young man.
+
+Ellery went straight upstairs and dressed without seeing his guardian.
+But, as soon as they met in the smoking-room before dinner, he saw
+that something very serious was the matter. Lucas had expected that
+Ellery would already have heard the news; but, when he found that he
+knew nothing, he told him the story in a few words, explaining how the
+bodies had been discovered, but saying nothing about clues or about
+any opinion he may have entertained as to the identity of the
+murderer—or the murderers. Lucas himself had been down to Liskeard
+House to offer his help: he had seen Sir Vernon for a few minutes, and
+had talked with Joan and Mary Woodman. He had also seen Superintendent
+Wilson at Scotland Yard, and offered any help it might be in
+his power to give. But, beyond the bare facts discovered in the
+morning—startling enough in themselves—he knew little, and, of course,
+at this stage the inquiries of Inspector Blaikie were only at their
+beginning.
+
+Ellery asked no questions at first. The news seemed for the moment to
+strike him dumb, and the first clear thought that arose in his mind
+was that, now at least, there could be no more question of Joan
+marrying Prinsep. Ellery had most cordially disliked and distrusted
+Prinsep, and he could not pretend to feel any great sorrow at his
+death. But he had greatly liked George Brooklyn, and, after his first
+thought, it was mainly the terrible sorrow that had come upon all
+those who were left that filled his mind. For a time he and Lucas
+spoke of nothing but the depth of the tragedy that had come upon the
+Brooklyns.
+
+But, by-and-by, Ellery’s curiosity began to assert itself. After all
+there was mystery as well as tragedy in the events of Tuesday night;
+and mystery had always exercised over him a strong fascination. “I
+feel a beast,” he said to his guardian, “for thinking of anything but
+the sorrow of it all; but I’m damned if I can help wanting to find out
+all about it.”
+
+“My dear Bob, that’s perfectly natural. It would be so in any one; but
+it’s more than natural in your case. You write detective novels; and
+here you are faced with a crime mystery in real life. You would be
+more than human if you didn’t want to unravel it. Besides, seriously
+enough, it wants unravelling, and I don’t think the police are going
+to have an easy time in finding out the truth.”
+
+Then Lucas told him of the strange clues that had been discovered—how
+all the evidence seemed to point to the conclusion that Prinsep had
+murdered George Brooklyn, and equally to the conclusion that George
+had murdered Prinsep.
+
+“Of course,” Lucas added, “that is physically quite impossible; and
+personally, I’m not in the least disposed to believe that either of
+them killed the other. I’m sure in my own mind that some one else
+killed both of them; but I haven’t a ghost of an idea who it can have
+been.”
+
+“And so there’s nothing been found out to throw suspicion on anybody
+else?”
+
+“So far as I know, nothing at all. You’d better do a bit of detective
+work on your own account.”
+
+Ellery said nothing in reply to that. While they had been talking, he
+had been turning over in his mind the question whether, after what had
+happened, he could possibly speak to his guardian about his love for
+Joan. He had told himself firmly that he could not; but, just when he
+had thought his mind made up, he found himself beginning to speak
+about it all the same. He was so full of it that he could not keep
+from declaring it.
+
+“Was Joan really engaged to Prinsep?” he asked.
+
+Harry Lucas had a good idea of Ellery’s reason for asking the
+question. But he gave no hint of this in his answer, preferring to let
+the young man speak or not of his own affairs, as might seem to him
+best.
+
+“No—that she never was,” he replied. “Long ago, Sir Vernon had set his
+heart on their marrying, and he always persisted in treating it as
+settled. Joan, I know, had told him again and again that she would not
+marry Prinsep; but he always put her off, and said that it would all
+come right in the end. Between ourselves, I don’t think Prinsep was
+really very keen on marrying Joan; but he was prepared to do it
+because Sir Vernon wanted it, and he was afraid he would not get the
+money if he refused. I don’t know that I ought to speak like that
+about him now that he’s dead: but you know very well that I disliked
+him, and it’s no use pretending that I didn’t.”
+
+Ellery felt his spirits rising as he heard what Lucas said—and again
+he accused himself of being a beast for feeling cheerful on such an
+occasion. No more was said then, and during dinner, while the servants
+were in the room, they talked of other things—of the play which Ellery
+was writing, of where he had been during the day, of many indifferent
+matters. They were both glad when dinner was over, and they could
+return to the smoking-room and be again alone.
+
+Then it was that Ellery told Lucas of his love for Joan. And then he
+had his surprise; for he found that his guardian had discovered that
+for himself long ago, and that he was being strongly encouraged to
+persist in his suit. “My dear boy,” said Lucas, “of course you’re in
+love with Joan, and I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if you find out
+before long that she’s in love with you. She’s a very fine young
+woman, and I couldn’t wish you better fortune than to win her. I hope
+you will, when the time comes. But, of course, you can’t make love to
+her just now. You will have to wait until this terrible affair is
+over.”
+
+“But, if I see her how can I possibly help telling her now—now that
+other fellow is out of the way? I know I shall simply blurt it out,
+and probably spoil my chance for good and all.”
+
+Lucas gave him some sage advice. He should go and see Joan, and offer
+to help in any way he could. But on no account must he make love to
+her yet awhile. From which it may be seen that Harry Lucas, up to date
+as he thought himself, had still some old-fashioned ideas about
+propriety.
+
+Ellery stayed the night at Hampstead, and went to bed in a mood of
+cheerfulness which, he told himself, was quite unforgivably brutal. He
+would go and see Joan the next day. He would try to follow his
+guardian’s advice: but, if he failed, well, he would fail, and he was
+not sure that to fail would be quite such a disaster as Lucas made
+out. After all, she had not been engaged to Prinsep; and why should he
+not say he loved her?
+
+The next morning Ellery left, after an early breakfast, without seeing
+his guardian, and went off for another long walk across the Heath and
+over to Mill Hill. His mood had changed, and he now told himself that
+to go and see Joan would be an intrusion, and that he must at least
+let some days pass before he went. He felt he could not see her
+without telling her of his love, and he was sure that to tell her now
+would be wrong. He tried to put the thing out of his mind, and, as
+long as he kept walking, he succeeded fairly well. But when, after a
+long day, he found himself back in his lodgings at Chelsea, he was
+soon aware that he would be fit for nothing else until he had seen
+her.
+
+He tried to go on with his work; but after a few attempts he put it
+aside as useless. Then he sat down to try to bring his mind to bear on
+the crime. He felt that he, as an amateur expert in “detecting,” ought
+to be able to see some light upon the conditions of the crime; but he
+could see none. At length he was obliged to tell himself that he had
+not nearly enough information to go upon, and that he could not hope
+to make any progress without going himself over the scene of the crime
+and hearing more of what the police had done. But how could he do that
+without going to Liskeard House? And how could he go there without
+seeing Joan? As he went to bed, he told himself that he could do
+nothing. But he was a healthy fellow, and his perplexity did not long
+interfere with his slumbers. Tired out by his long walk, he slept like
+a top.
+
+He was still in bed and asleep on the following morning when the
+landlady knocked at the door and told him that a gentleman, who would
+not state his business, was waiting to see him downstairs. Dressing
+hastily, he went down, and found a stranger standing before the
+fireplace. His visitor handed him a card, on which he read, “Inspector
+Gibbs, New Scotland Yard.” So they had come to ask him something about
+the murders.
+
+Inspector Blaikie, who had enough to do in following up the trail of
+Walter Brooklyn, had no time to act on his resolution to see Ellery
+and get from him an explanation of his movements on Tuesday after
+leaving Liskeard House. His colleague, Inspector Gibbs, had therefore
+been entrusted with this task. The police were not seriously disposed
+to think that Ellery had anything to do with the murders; but every
+one who had been at the house that night was worth interrogating, and
+Ellery was therefore to be questioned like the rest.
+
+Inspector Gibbs was a very polite young man, excellently groomed, and
+with an air of treating you as one man of the world treats another.
+Very politely he explained the purpose of his visit, and told Ellery
+that he must not suppose that, merely because the police asked him
+certain questions, there was any suspicion at all attaching to him.
+“But we must, you know, get all our facts quite complete.” Ellery said
+that he fully understood, and was prepared to answer any questions to
+the best of his power. “But the plain fact is,” he said, “that I know
+nothing at all about it.”
+
+He was first asked at what time he had left Liskeard House on Tuesday
+evening, and replied that it was a few minutes past ten—he could not
+say more exactly. No, he had not returned there later in the
+evening—he had gone straight back to Chelsea. At what time had he
+reached his rooms in Chelsea? About midnight. Not till he made that
+answer did it occur to him that there was anything in his movements it
+might be difficult to explain.
+
+“About midnight?” said the inspector, with a note of surprise in his
+voice. “But you said you went straight back after leaving Liskeard
+House.”
+
+“What I meant was that I went nowhere else in particular in between.
+As a matter of fact I walked back, and spent some time strolling up
+and down the Embankment before I returned to my rooms. I went down to
+Chelsea Bridge and walked right along the Embankment to Lots Road, and
+then back here to Tite Street. It was just about midnight when I let
+myself in.”
+
+“I see. And did you meet any one after you came in?”
+
+“No; but my landlady may have seen me come in. There was still a light
+in her room, which looks out over the front door.”
+
+Before the inspector left he saw the landlady, and confirmed this with
+her. She had seen Ellery come in at about midnight. There was nothing
+unusual in his taking a long evening stroll by the river on a fine
+night.
+
+But before he saw the landlady the inspector had further questions to
+ask of Ellery himself. “You say, then, that you were walking about for
+close on two hours between Liskeard House and Chelsea Embankment. Is
+there any one who can corroborate this?”
+
+Ellery thought for a moment. “Yes, there ought to be,” he said. “I met
+a friend who lives somewhere down here in Chelsea, at Hyde Park
+Corner, at about a quarter past ten, and he left me at the Lots Road
+end of the Embankment at about half-past eleven. We were together all
+that time.”
+
+“Will you give me his name and address?”
+
+Ellery paused for a moment, and then gave a nervous laugh. “Upon my
+word,” he said, “this is devilish awkward. I don’t know the chap’s
+address—I never have known it. All I do know is that he lives
+somewhere down the west end of Chelsea—not far from World’s End, I
+think he said.”
+
+“I dare say we can trace him,” said the inspector. “You had better
+tell me his profession as well as his name. Perhaps you know where he
+works.”
+
+“Good Lord, this is worse than ever,” said Ellery. “I can’t for the
+life of me remember what the fellow’s name is. It has slipped clean
+out of my memory.” Then, seeing a heightened look of surprise on the
+inspector’s face: “You see,” he added, “I hardly know him really. He’s
+only a casual acquaintance I’ve met a few times at the Club.” He
+paused and glanced at his visitor, in whose manner he was already
+conscious of a change.
+
+“Come, come, Mr. Ellery, surely you must be able to remember the man’s
+name. It’s not———”
+
+“I only wish I could. I almost had it then. It’s something like
+Forrest or Forrester or Foster, I’m nearly sure. But it isn’t any of
+those. I’m nearly certain it begins with an ‘F.’”
+
+“Isn’t it rather curious that you should have been walking about
+London for so long with a man you hardly know, and whose name even you
+can’t remember?”
+
+“It may be curious, inspector, and you may think I’m making it all up.
+I can see you’re inclined to think that. But what I’ve told is exactly
+what happened. I expect the name will come back to me soon—I have a
+way of just forgetting things like that every now and then.”
+
+“A most unfortunate way, if I may say so. I can only hope that your
+memory will soon come back. You realise, I suppose, that the
+consequences of your—lapse may be serious?”
+
+“Oh, nonsense, inspector. I don’t see anything so curious about it. I
+often get talking with chaps I don’t know from Adam; and I’m quite
+capable of forgetting the name of my dearest friend. What happened was
+that we were both walking home towards Chelsea, it was a beautifully
+fine night, and we got into an interesting conversation—about plays.
+I’m a playwright, you know, and I think he must be an actor. I mean,
+from the way he talked.”
+
+“Well, Mr. Ellery, I should advise you to make a strong effort to find
+that gentleman again, or to remember his name. No doubt it’s quite all
+right; but it will be best for you to have your _alibi_ confirmed.”
+
+Ellery saw that Inspector Gibbs was not quite sure whether to believe
+or disbelieve his story. After all, it did sound a bit fishy. It would
+be awkward, and quite fatal to his plans of acting as an amateur
+detective, if the police began seriously to suspect him of having had
+a hand in the murders. That would put a visit to Liskeard House—and to
+Joan—more than ever out of the question.
+
+Ellery promised to devote the day to an attempt to trace his missing
+acquaintance, and the inspector departed, with a last word of advice
+given as by one man of the world to another. But Ellery had an
+unpleasant feeling that until that fellow—what the devil was his
+name?—was run to earth, his movements would be carefully watched by
+the police. Which was not at all the development he had been
+expecting.
+
+The Chelsea Arts Club, where he had certainly sometimes met the
+fellow, seemed the best place to begin the search, and Ellery
+accordingly went round there to make his inquiries. But he drew blank.
+No one could place a fellow who lived in Chelsea—probably an
+actor—whose name was neither Foster nor Forrest nor Forrester, but
+something more or less like that. Every one he asked said it was too
+vague a description, or offered him suggestions which he at once
+rejected. Ellery began to feel that his job was not going to be easy.
+As he left the Club he was more than a little depressed, especially as
+he felt sure that a heavy-footed individual, who kept some distance
+behind, was under instructions to follow him. The police boots were
+unmistakable; he noticed them across the road as he came down the Club
+steps, and turning round a moment later, he saw their wearer following
+none too discreetly in his wake. “If that is the police idea of
+shadowing a man,” he said to himself, “I don’t think much of it. But
+perhaps they don’t mind my knowing.” Then he considered whether it was
+worth while to try giving his watcher the slip. But that, he
+reflected, would only make things worse, and get him suspected all the
+more. He must let himself be followed, and he might as well take it
+cheerfully. “With cat-like tread, upon the foe we steal,” he whistled,
+and laughed as he heard the feet of the law clumping along behind him.
+
+
+
+Chapter XIII
+
+An Arrest
+
+Inspector Blaikie had made arrangements to see Superintendent Wilson
+after lunch; and at half-past two they were closeted together in the
+superintendent’s office. The decision about the inquest could be no
+longer delayed: it was imperative that the police should make up their
+minds how far they would place the facts which they had discovered
+before the coroner’s jury. The police nearly always hate a coroner’s
+jury—at least in cases in which murder is suspected or known. They
+dislike the premature disclosure of their hardly gathered clues before
+their case is complete: they dread the misdirected inquisitiveness of
+some juryman who may unknowingly give the criminal just the hint he
+wants. Above all, they object to looking like fools; and whether they
+present an incomplete case, or withhold the information they possess,
+that is very likely to be their fate in the presence of the good men
+and true and in the columns of the newspapers the next morning.
+
+The Brooklyn case had created an immense popular excitement. Neither
+Prinsep nor George Brooklyn was much known to the general public; but
+Sir Vernon was still a great popular figure, and pictures of Isabelle
+Raven—Mrs. George Brooklyn—remembered as the finest actress of a few
+years ago, had been published in almost every paper. The reporters
+had, indeed, little enough to go upon; for after the first sensational
+story of the discovery of the bodies, they had been put off with very
+scanty information. Nothing connecting Walter Brooklyn with the crime
+had yet been published; but Inspector Blaikie knew that, as the club
+servants had fastened on that side of the story, it was certain to
+reach some of the papers before many days passed. Still, it was a moot
+point whether or not it would be best to keep all reference to Walter
+Brooklyn out of the inquest proceedings, if it were possible to do so.
+
+Inspector Blaikie would usually have been inclined to favour any plan
+which aimed at keeping the coroner’s jury in the dark. That was, in
+his view, a part of the duty of a good police officer. But, on this
+occasion, he had become so firmly convinced of Walter Brooklyn’s guilt
+that he was set on a different method of proceeding. What he wanted
+was to be allowed to arrest Walter Brooklyn at once, in advance of the
+inquest, and then to tell the coroner’s jury the full story of the
+evidence against him, in the hope that its publication in the Press
+would result in the offering of corroborative evidence from outside.
+He felt more and more certain that Brooklyn had committed both the
+murders; but he was not so sanguine as to suppose that he had yet
+enough evidence to assure a favourable verdict—that is, a verdict
+against Walter—from a jury. There was at least a specious case to be
+made out in favour of the view that Prinsep had killed George, and a
+skilful barrister would make much of this, using also every shred of
+evidence for the view that George had killed Prinsep, in the hope of
+so muddling the mind of the jury that they would not dare to bring in
+any verdict other than “Not Guilty.” But only a very little further
+evidence would give him enough to hang Walter Brooklyn on one if not
+both of the charges. It was worth while even to submit to the foolish
+heckling of a coroner’s jury, if by doing so he could hope to get the
+further evidence he wanted. His case so far, he recognised, depended
+on an inference; and it would be just like a jury to turn him down.
+Juries, in his view, always did the wrong thing if you gave them half
+a chance. Still, in this case it was worth while, in the hope of
+getting further evidence, even to endure their folly.
+
+This reasoning of Inspector Blaikie’s failed to commend itself to
+Superintendent Wilson. He, too, saw that the case against Walter
+Brooklyn was not conclusive, and, unlike the inspector, he was not
+himself by any means convinced that Walter Brooklyn was guilty. But he
+thought he knew a way of bringing the matter to a supreme test, and of
+making the suspected man either proclaim his own guilt, or remove the
+most serious ground of suspicion against him. His idea was that, at
+least during the first stages of the inquest, the police should say
+nothing of those discoveries which implicated Walter Brooklyn, but
+that they should arrange for Walter himself to be called up to give
+evidence as if there were no suspicion against him. He could be used
+to identify the deceased; and a hint to the coroner would ensure that
+he should be asked to give an account of his movements on Tuesday
+evening. He would then have either to admit or to deny having been in
+Prinsep’s room—either to tell at last what he must know about the
+murders, or to perjure himself in such a manner as would leave no
+doubt of his complicity, and little of his guilt.
+
+Superintendent Wilson, then, would by no means agree to the execution
+of a warrant for Walter Brooklyn’s arrest before the inquest; for he
+still thought that he might be innocent and might be persuaded to tell
+openly what he knew—a chance which his arrest would altogether
+destroy. But he agreed that, if Walter Brooklyn plainly perjured
+himself at the inquest, his arrest would be indispensable, and there
+would be no purpose in leaving him longer at large. He agreed,
+therefore, to take at once the necessary steps to procure the warrant,
+and he arranged that it should be handed to the inspector, for
+execution if and when the need arose. But on no account must it be
+executed until after the inquest, or save in accordance with the
+conditions which he had laid down. Only if Walter’s guilt or
+complicity, and his refusal to tell freely what he knew, were plainly
+shown, would the superintendent agree to the arrest. Meanwhile, of
+course, the man should be watched.
+
+So it happened that, although the inquest was for the most part a
+purely formal affair, Walter Brooklyn was among those who were called
+upon to give evidence. With most of its proceedings we need not
+concern ourselves: we know well enough already almost all that the
+coroner’s jury was allowed to know. Indeed, we know a good deal more;
+for Inspector Blaikie, in his evidence, said not a word either of
+Walter Brooklyn’s walking-stick, or of the telephone message which he
+had sent from Liskeard House. No Club servant was called, and there
+was no reference to the meeting with Charis Lang, who was not in any
+way brought into the case. Carter Woodman, indeed, gave evidence; but
+he had been warned in advance by the inspector, and he said nothing
+which could appear to implicate Walter Brooklyn.
+
+To the reporters and to the members of the police who were present,
+crowding to suffocation the confined space of the coroner’s court, it
+became more and more evident that the inquest was not likely to throw
+any light upon the mystery. They heard, from the police witnesses,
+from the household servants, and from Joan Cowper, how the bodies had
+been found. Walter Brooklyn and others gave purely formal evidence of
+identification: the doctors for once told a plain story. George
+Brooklyn had been killed by a savage blow on the back of the head,
+dealt without doubt by a powerful man with the stone club of Hercules,
+which was produced in court with the bloodstains still upon it.
+Prinsep, too, had probably been killed by the blow on the back of his
+head, dealt with an unknown instrument. The knife thrust at the heart,
+which had missed its object, had been made subsequently, and would not
+by itself have caused sudden death. Inspector Blaikie’s evidence,
+indeed, promised to be more exciting; for he told of the finding of
+George Brooklyn’s handkerchief under Prinsep’s body, produced a knife,
+similar to that found in the body, which he had found in George
+Brooklyn’s office, showed the broken fragments of Prinsep’s
+cigar-holder found in the garden, and photographs of fingerprints
+found on the stone club and others taken from Prinsep’s hands. This
+was exciting enough; but it did more to mystify than to enlighten the
+public and the reporters. Still, it was excellent copy; and the
+reporters, and later the editors and sub-editors, made the most of it.
+Then, when the inquest seemed practically over, the coroner, a sharp
+little man who had attended strictly to business and said as little as
+possible throughout the proceedings, acted on the hint given him by
+the police, and ordered Walter Brooklyn to be recalled. Walter’s
+manner, when he gave his earlier evidence and was asked no more than a
+couple of formal questions, had shown plainly to the inspector, and
+also to Joan and Ellery, who were sitting together, that he was
+surprised at being let off so lightly. As the inquest went on, and
+nothing was said to draw him into the mystery, his expression,
+troubled and puzzled in the earlier stages, gradually cleared, and, up
+to the moment when he suddenly found himself recalled, he had been
+growing more and more sure that the suspicions of the police against
+him had been somehow dispelled. But now, in an instant, he realised
+that they had been deliberately keeping back everything that could
+seem to connect him with the case, not because they did not suspect
+him still, but because they had carefully set a trap into which they
+hoped that he would fall. For a moment, a scared look came into his
+face; but, when he stepped again into the witness stand, he wore his
+usual rather ill-humoured and supercilious expression. Immaculately
+dressed and groomed, he was a man who looked precisely what he was—an
+elderly, but still dissipated, man about town.
+
+This time the questions which the coroner asked were far from formal.
+He began with what was plainly a leading question,—
+
+“It has been suggested to me, Mr. Brooklyn, that you may be able to
+throw some further light on this tragedy. This morning you were given
+no opportunity to make a general statement; but I desire to give you
+that opportunity now. Is there anything further that you are in a
+position to tell us?”
+
+“I know no more of the affair than I have heard in this court
+to-day—or previously from the police.” Walter Brooklyn added the last
+words after a noticeable pause. “Nevertheless, there is a statement
+that I want to make. It has been suggested, not in this court, but
+earlier to me by Inspector Blaikie—that I was in Liskeard House on
+Tuesday evening. I desire to say that I called at Liskeard House
+shortly after ten o’clock and waited for a few minutes in the outer
+hall. Then I went away; and since that time—perhaps twenty past ten on
+Tuesday night—I have not been in either the house or the garden. Of
+the circumstances of the tragedy I know nothing at all except what I
+have heard at this inquest or from the police.”
+
+Walter Brooklyn’s statement created a sensation; for here was the
+first hint of a suspicion entertained by somebody as to the real
+murderer. Clearly the police had been keeping something back—something
+which would incriminate the man who was now giving evidence. Of
+course, after interrogating Walter Brooklyn the police might have
+discovered their suspicions to be groundless, and therefore have said
+nothing of them. But, if this were so, why had they recalled him in
+this curious fashion, and why should Brooklyn go out of his way to
+draw public attention to himself, and to make certain that his doings
+would be fully canvassed in the newspapers? No, the way in which he
+had been recalled showed that the police were acting with a definite
+purpose. They were trying to get Walter Brooklyn to make a statement
+which would clearly incriminate him, and, if they really had evidence
+of his presence in the house, they had certainly succeeded.
+
+This explanation, natural and largely correct as it was, was not quite
+a fair account of Superintendent Wilson’s motives. His object had been
+not merely to get Walter Brooklyn to incriminate himself, but also to
+give him a chance of clearing himself if he could give a satisfactory
+explanation of his presence in the house. The fact that the man had
+repeated on oath an obvious lie seemed to him a good enough reason for
+ordering an arrest. He nodded across the court to the inspector.
+
+But the coroner’s court had not yet quite done with Walter Brooklyn. A
+juryman, quick to be influenced by the general suspicion which was
+abroad, signified his desire to ask a question. “Where did you go
+after leaving Liskeard House?” he rapped out.
+
+The coroner interposed. “Since that question has been asked,” he said,
+“perhaps it would be well if you would give us an account of your
+movements on Tuesday night.”
+
+Walter Brooklyn seemed to think for a minute before replying. “Well,”
+he said, “I strolled about for a bit round Piccadilly Circus and
+Shaftesbury Avenue, and then I went home to the club.”
+
+“At what time did you reach your club?”
+
+“I should guess it was shortly before midnight.”
+
+“That is a considerable time after you left Liskeard House.”
+
+“I am merely telling you what happened.”
+
+“The club porter could probably confirm the time of your return?”
+
+“Yes, I imagine so.”
+
+“And is there any one who would be able to substantiate your account
+of what you did between 10.15 and midnight? Were you strolling about
+all that time?”
+
+“Yes, I suppose I was.”
+
+“Were you alone?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Then there is no one who could confirm your story?”
+
+“Probably not. But I did meet one or two people I knew.”
+
+“None of them is here now?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Do you desire that the inquest should be adjourned in order that they
+may be called?”
+
+“No. What on earth for? I don’t know whether I could find them,
+anyway.”
+
+“Then I think there is nothing further I need ask you.”
+
+And with that, a good deal bewildered, Walter Brooklyn was told to
+leave the witness box. He went back to his seat, but a minute later
+got up and left the court.
+
+Many pairs of eyes followed him as he walked slowly towards the door,
+and the more experienced spectators nudged one another as Inspector
+Blaikie rose quickly in his place and went out after him. Joan, in her
+place in the court, saw her stepfather leave; but she did not notice
+that the inspector had followed. Ellery, who did notice, said nothing;
+for though he realised what was about to happen he saw that there was
+no means of preventing the arrest.
+
+Meanwhile, the coroner was rapidly summing up the evidence. Murder, he
+told the jury, was clearly established in both cases; and they need
+have no hesitation as to their verdict on that point. But who had
+committed the murders? If they were satisfied that in either case the
+evidence established the guilt of some definite person, it was their
+duty to bring in a verdict against that person. In his opinion,
+however, the evidence was wholly inadequate to form the basis of any
+positive conclusion. It might be that John Prinsep had been killed by
+George Brooklyn—the finding of the handkerchief and his known visit to
+the house were certainly suspicious circumstances. It might be, on the
+other hand, that George Brooklyn had been killed by John Prinsep—the
+note in Prinsep’s writing found in the temple, the cigar-holder, and
+his known presence in the garden were all grounds for suspicion. But
+both these sets of clues could not point to the truth, and the jury
+had no means of determining on which the greater reliance should be
+placed. Indeed, both sets of clues might be misleading, and certainly
+neither was by itself enough to form the basis of a verdict. The
+murders might both be the work of some third person—and one of them
+_must_ be the work of a third person—but no evidence had been placed
+before them which would justify a verdict against any particular
+person. Suspicion, he would remind them, was a very different thing
+from proof, and even with their suspicions they must not be too free
+in face of the very slender evidence before them.
+
+After the coroner’s summing up, it was clear that only one verdict was
+possible. After only a moment’s consultation, the foreman announced
+that their verdict in both cases was “Wilful Murder by some person or
+persons unknown.” The coroner made a short speech thanking every one,
+and the court adjourned. Joan was glad to breathe fresh air again
+after her first experience of the suffocating atmosphere of a court.
+
+By this time Walter Brooklyn was safe under lock and key. As he
+reached the door of the court half an hour earlier, he felt a touch on
+his sleeve, and, turning, saw Inspector Blaikie immediately behind
+him.
+
+“Well, what do you want now?” he said sullenly.
+
+The inspector beckoned him into a corner, and there showed him the
+warrant duly made out for his arrest. Walter Brooklyn glanced at it.
+For a moment he drew himself up to his full height and grasped his
+stick tightly as if he were considering the prospects of a mad
+struggle for liberty. Then he gave a short laugh. “I will come with
+you,” he said; and then he added suddenly, with a fury the more
+impressive because its utterance was checked—“you damned little fool
+of a policeman.”
+
+“Come, come, Mr. Brooklyn,” said the inspector. “I’m only doing my
+duty.” Walter Brooklyn made no reply, and the inspector added: “Are
+you ready now?”
+
+“Call a taxi,” said Walter. “I suppose you will not walk me handcuffed
+through the streets,” he added bitterly.
+
+“Certainly not,” said the inspector, and he hailed a passing taxi, and
+signed to his prisoner to get in.
+
+A small crowd had collected by this time, and stood gaping on the
+pavement as the taxi drove away.
+
+
+
+Chapter XIV
+
+Mainly a Love Scene
+
+Joan had fully intended to see her stepfather before the inquest and
+to warn him of his danger and get him to tell the truth to her at
+least. When Ellery came to visit her on the Thursday afternoon—the
+inquest was on Friday—she had been on the point of setting out for his
+club, with the set purpose of making him tell her the whole story.
+Just before dinner time, she knew, was the most likely hour for
+finding him at home. There would probably be difficulty in persuading
+him to talk freely, even to her; but she thought that she would know
+how to manage him. It was still too early to start, however, and she
+had ample time to see Ellery first. A talk with him was just what she
+wanted. He would sympathise with her, and, she was sure, he was just
+the man to help her where Carter Woodman had failed. He would throw
+himself into the case, and aid her to find out what she ought to do in
+order to clear her stepfather of the suspicion which lay upon him.
+Since her talk with Woodman, she had come to realise fully how grave
+that suspicion was; but she was sure that Bob—she and Ellery had
+called each other by their Christian names ever since they were
+children—would not only take her word for it that Walter Brooklyn
+could not possibly be guilty of the crimes, but be ready to use his
+wits and his time in proving the suspected man’s innocence. She did
+not quite tell herself that he would do all this because he was in
+love with her; but neither did she quite admit to herself that she
+would not have asked him unless she had been in love with him.
+
+There was some embarrassment—of which Joan was fully conscious—in
+Robert Ellery’s manner as he rose to greet her. “I hope I’m not in the
+way,” he said awkwardly, blushing as he said it.
+
+“My dear Bob, I’m so glad you’ve come. I’ve been pining for some one
+to whom I could really talk.”
+
+“I wasn’t at all sure whether I ought to come. I thought you might
+prefer to be alone, and you must have your hands very full with Sir
+Vernon. Of course, I’d have come sooner if I had thought you wanted
+me.” Again Ellery coloured.
+
+“I want you now, anyway. And it isn’t simply that I want to talk. I
+want to do something, and I want your help.”
+
+To help Joan! What thing better could Ellery have asked for? He would
+do anything in the world to help her. But what sort of help did she
+need? He longed to tell her that he was hers to command in any way she
+chose—because he loved her; but all he found himself saying was, “I
+say, that’s awfully jolly of you—to let me help you, I mean”—conscious
+of the banality of the words even as he spoke them.
+
+Joan went straight to the point. “Bob, the police suspect my
+stepfather of being mixed up with this horrible affair. In fact, I’m
+sure they think he is actually guilty of murder. They’ve got hold of
+something that seems to incriminate him.”
+
+Ellery made an inarticulate noise of sympathy.
+
+“Of course, Bob, you and I know he didn’t do it. You do think he
+couldn’t have done it, don’t you?”
+
+“It would certainly never have occurred to me to suspect him.”
+
+“Of course, he’s quite innocent, and it’s all some horrible mistake.
+He couldn’t have done such a thing. But I want you to help me prove he
+didn’t.”
+
+“My dear Joan, are you quite sure the police really suspect him? Of
+course, they have to make inquiries about everybody. Why, I was quite
+under the impression that they suspected me.”
+
+“Suspect you? How dreadful! What _do_ you mean?”
+
+“Well, I had a most inquisitorial visit from the police this morning;
+and a man in obvious police boots has been following me about all
+day.”
+
+He spoke lightly; but Joan took what he said very seriously indeed.
+“My dear Bob,” she said. “This is positively awful. But why ever
+should any one think you—had anything to do with it?”
+
+“Oh, just because I failed to give a ‘satisfactory explanation’—I
+think that is what they call it—of my movements on Tuesday night. You
+know I walked home after dinner. Well, I wandered round a bit and
+didn’t get home till midnight. So they argue that I had plenty of time
+to kill half a dozen people, and insist that I must either prove an
+_alibi_—or take the consequences. What do you say? Do you think I did
+it?”
+
+“My dear Bob, don’t joke about it. It’s far too serious, if the police
+are going to drag you into this terrible business.”
+
+“No, really, it isn’t serious at all—now at any rate. I am in a
+position, fortunately, to produce a conclusive _alibi_. You see, I
+wasn’t alone, and I’ve found the chap who was with me most of the
+time, and sent him round to Scotland Yard to tell them it’s all right.
+I expect the gentleman with the boots will be out of a job before
+long.”
+
+“You’re sure it’s really all right?”
+
+“Of course it is, or I shouldn’t have said a word about it. And I dare
+say what you have heard about the police suspecting old Walter isn’t a
+bit more serious.”
+
+“Oh, but it is. From their point of view, I’m afraid they have a very
+strong case.” And Joan told him all that she knew—both what she had
+heard about Charis Lang from Marian Brooklyn, and what Carter Woodman
+had told her. Finally, she told Ellery that she had made up her mind
+to go at once to her stepfather, and try to make him tell her the
+truth.
+
+As Joan told her story, Ellery could not help saying to himself that
+it looked bad for old Walter. He did not know Walter Brooklyn very
+well; but all he did know was unfavourable, and he had never heard any
+one—even Joan herself—say a good word for him. Left to his own
+reflections, Ellery would not have hesitated to suspect Walter
+Brooklyn of murder; for he realised at once that the wicked uncle had
+everything to gain by putting his two nephews out of the way. But Joan
+knew the man, and he did not; and, if Joan was positive, that was good
+enough for him. He was so completely under her influence that the idea
+that Walter Brooklyn was guilty was dismissed almost as soon as it was
+entertained. Ellery would make it his business to get Walter Brooklyn
+cleared—he would work for the old beast with the feeling that he was
+working for Joan himself. Entering at once into Joan’s plan, he
+applauded her determination to go and see her stepfather, and placed
+himself unreservedly at her service.
+
+“You’re a dear,” she said.
+
+While they had been discussing Walter Brooklyn’s story, Ellery’s
+embarrassment had quite left him; but these words of Joan’s, and her
+look as she spoke them, brought it back in double force. He felt the
+blood rushing to his head, and became uncomfortably aware that he was
+going red in the face. Also, he could not take his eyes off Joan, and
+somehow it seemed that she could not take her eyes off him. They gazed
+at each other, with something of fear and something of embarrassment
+in their looks, and each was conscious of a heart beating more and
+more insistently within. For at least a minute neither of them spoke.
+Then Ellery said one word and put out his hand towards her. “Joan,” he
+said, and his voice sounded to him strange and unreal. He felt her
+hand grasp his, almost fiercely, and an acute sensation—it has no
+name—ran right through him at the touch. In an instant, her head was
+on his shoulder and his arms were round her. She was sobbing, and his
+cheek was caressing hers. “Poor darling,” he said at last.
+
+
+Joan had meant that talk with Robert Ellery to be so practical, so
+entirely the opening of a business partnership. She and Bob were to
+clear her stepfather together; and, when they had done that, who knew
+what might come after? But there was to be no intrusion of sentiment
+until the work in hand was completed. In the event, things had not
+gone off at all as she intended. From the moment of his coming, she
+had felt a sense of danger—something poignant, yet intensely
+welcome—in their meeting. This feeling had been dispelled for the time
+while she told him her tale, and she had half said to herself that now
+she was safe. Then, in a moment, security had vanished, the sense of
+tension had come back far more strongly than before, she had felt
+herself merely a passive thing—as he was another passive thing—in the
+control of great elemental forces beyond herself. Without a word said,
+it seemed, a marriage had been arranged.
+
+There was, indeed, no need for words between them on this matter of
+matters that had joined them indissolubly together. They were sitting
+now on the couch, holding each other’s hands. They could talk
+business—speak of what must be done to clear Walter Brooklyn—while
+with the contact of their bodies love interpenetrated them. And Joan
+could say to herself already that this most unbusinesslike proceeding
+was the best stroke of business she had ever done. For the immediate
+purpose she had in view, it had immensely strengthened their
+partnership. For these twain had become one flesh, and what was near
+her heart needs must be near his also.
+
+As they sat there together, they formed their plan of campaign. It was
+obviously impossible to make a beginning until Joan had done her best
+to make Walter Brooklyn tell what he knew. If he were to refuse, their
+task would be so much the harder; but even the hardest task now seemed
+easy to them with the power of their love behind them. Whatever his
+attitude might be, they would still be ready to do their best for him.
+But surely he would tell Joan. There was no time to be lost. He must
+be seen at once, and Ellery set to work to advise Joan about the
+questions she ought to ask.
+
+“It seems clear enough that he was in the house. I suppose he will be
+able to explain that. But we mustn’t be content with getting just his
+explanation of what he was doing here. Try to find out exactly what he
+did and where he went that day. We may need to be able to account for
+every minute of his time.”
+
+Joan said that she quite saw how every detail mattered. If he would
+tell her anything, he would probably be willing to tell the whole
+story. At all events, she would do her best. It would be wisest, they
+agreed, for her to go alone; for Walter Brooklyn would very likely
+refuse to talk if Ellery were with her. But he would walk round to the
+club with her, and wait while she tried to get her stepfather to see
+her.
+
+So Joan and Ellery walked round to the Byron Club together. There was
+a strange pleasure—quite unlike anything they had known before—in
+merely walking side by side. They belonged to each other now. But the
+answer to Ellery’s inquiry of the Club porter was that Mr. Brooklyn
+was out, and that he had left word he might not return to the Club
+that night. Joan did not at all like the expression on the porter’s
+face as he gave this information. She saw that he at any rate had
+strong suspicions, presumably put into his mind by the police.
+
+Asked whether he could say where Mr. Brooklyn was, the porter did not
+know. He might, perhaps, be at his other Club, the Sanctum, in Pall
+Mall. Or again, he might not. He had not said where he was going.
+
+Inquiries at the other Club were equally barren. Mr. Walter Brooklyn
+had not been there that day. He might come in, or he might not. And
+again Joan saw from the porter’s manner that here too her stepfather
+was under suspicion of murder.
+
+Joan left at each Club a message asking Walter Brooklyn to ring her up
+at Liskeard House immediately he came in. This was all that could be
+done for the moment; and to Liskeard House they returned, having
+suffered a check at the outset of their quest. Ellery promised to
+spend the evening scouring London for traces of Walter Brooklyn; and
+in the mind of each was the half-formed thought that he might have
+fled rather than reveal what he knew. Each knew that the other feared
+this; but neither put the thought into words. They arranged to meet
+again on the following morning, and Ellery was to ring up later in the
+evening to report whether he had traced Walter, and to hear whether
+any message had come to Joan from either of the Clubs. Then, after the
+manner of lovers, they bade each other farewell a dozen times over,
+each farewell more lingering than the last. At length Ellery went; for
+he was due at Scotland Yard, where he hoped to find that his _alibi_
+had been accepted, and the last trace of suspicion removed from him.
+It would be awkward to be followed about by the man in police boots
+wherever he went with Joan, and it would be awkward to have the police
+know exactly what they were doing in Walter Brooklyn’s interest. The
+police boots had followed Joan and him on their visits to the two
+Clubs, and now, as he left Liskeard House, Ellery saw their owner
+leaning against a lamp-post opposite, and gazing straight at the front
+door. Never, he thought, had a man looked more obviously a
+detective—or rather a policeman in plain clothes. Even apart from the
+boots, he was labelled policeman all over—from his measured stride to
+the tips of his waxed moustache. As Ellery turned down into
+Piccadilly, he heard the man coming along behind him.
+
+
+
+Chapter XV
+
+To and Fro
+
+It was by a fortunate accident that Ellery had been able so soon to
+establish his _alibi_. After drawing blank at the Chelsea Arts Club,
+he had had very little of an idea where he should try next. He was
+almost certain that it was there he had been introduced to the man,
+and the only course seemed to be that of waiting until he turned up
+again, or his name somehow came back to mind. Still, it was just
+possible that Ellery had met the man at his other Club in the Adelphi,
+and he got on a bus and went there to pursue his inquiries. His
+success was no better, although he remained there to lunch and made
+persistent inquiries of his fellow-members for an actor whose name
+began with an F. The afternoon found him walking rather disconsolately
+down the Strand not at all certain where to go next. Just outside the
+Golden Cross Hotel, fortune did him a good turn; for he ran straight
+into the very man he was looking for. Ellery turned back with him, and
+explained the difficulty he was in, and his acquaintance promised to
+go at once to Scotland Yard, and try to set matters right with
+Inspector Gibbs. He was so friendly that Ellery had some difficulty in
+admitting that he had forgotten his name; but he got round it by
+asking for his address, in case of need. The other’s answer was to
+hand him a card, on which was written:—
+
+    William Gloucester,
+    11 Denzil Street, S. W. 3.
+
+“Of course,” said Ellery to himself. “But it didn’t begin with an F
+after all.”
+
+This meeting put Ellery at his ease; and he felt that he could now go
+and see Joan with a clear conscience. Leaving Gloucester to go to
+Scotland Yard, and asking him to tell the inspector that he would come
+round later, he set off for Liskeard House, and found himself charged
+with the task of clearing, not himself, but Walter Brooklyn. He also
+found himself engaged to be married.
+
+These events made it all the more essential to make quite sure that
+the police were no longer inclined to look on him with suspicion; and,
+on leaving Joan, he went straight to Scotland Yard, and was soon
+received, not by Inspector Gibbs, but by Superintendent Wilson, who,
+having received the inspector’s report on Gloucester’s visit, had made
+up his mind to have a look at Ellery himself. The superintendent at
+once put him at his ease by telling him that his explanation, and his
+friend’s corroboration of it, appeared to be quite satisfactory.
+Ellery’s reply was to say that, in that case, perhaps he might be
+relieved of the presence of the heavy-footed individual who had been
+following him about all day. The superintendent laughed. “Yes, I think
+we can find something more useful for him to do,” he said. “I hope you
+have not resented our—shall I say?—attentions. We were bound to keep
+an eye on you until we were certain.” And the superintendent at once
+gave instructions on the house-phone that the man who had been
+watching Ellery need do so no longer, but should report to him in a
+few minutes in his room.
+
+Ellery assured him that it was quite all right; but that he was glad
+to be relieved of the man, because he wanted to do a little private
+detecting on his own. “I know you people have got your knife into
+Walter Brooklyn; but I’m sure he had nothing to do with it, and I mean
+to do my best to find out who had.” Ellery said this deliberately, in
+the hope of getting the superintendent to show something of his hand;
+but that wary official merely wished him luck—for “we policemen,” he
+said, “are always glad to have a man’s character cleared, though you
+may not think it”—and politely bowed him out. So far as he could see,
+no one followed him as he left the building, and he went back to
+Liskeard House. He had said that he would ’phone; but he found it
+quite beyond his power to keep away.
+
+Joan was busy with Sir Vernon when he arrived; but she came to him
+before long. No message had come from Walter Brooklyn, and she was
+getting anxious. Was it possible that he had been arrested already?
+Ellery promised to make inquiries, and to use every possible effort to
+find her stepfather; but, though he tried that evening every place he
+could think of in which Walter Brooklyn might be, no trace of him
+could be found, and there was no sign that he had been arrested.
+Resumed inquiries early the next morning were equally fruitless.
+Brooklyn had not been back to either of his Clubs, and no message had
+been received from him. It was under these circumstances that Joan
+failed to see her stepfather before the inquest opened. She was
+greatly relieved to see that he was present, and promising herself
+that she would talk to him as soon as it was over, she did nothing
+while the inquest was actually in progress. She passed a note to him
+asking him to come round and see her at Liskeard House immediately the
+court rose, and he nodded to her in reply across the room. She
+therefore felt no anxiety when he rose and left his seat before the
+proceedings came to an end. Thus it came about that he was arrested
+without her having a chance to ask him to tell his story of the events
+of Tuesday night.
+
+The explanation of Walter Brooklyn’s absence was simple enough. By
+Thursday, life at his Clubs had been made unendurable for him by the
+manner, and evident suspicions, of the Club servants. He became
+conscious that his fellow-members were also talking about him, and he
+decided to go away. He had been summoned to appear at the inquest on
+the following morning; but he could at least have a quiet night before
+returning to his troubles. While Joan and Ellery were hunting London
+for him, Walter Brooklyn was doing himself well at a hotel in
+Maidenhead. He had intended to return there after seeing Joan; but the
+inspector’s hand on his shoulder warned him that he would sleep the
+coming night in jail.
+
+At Vine Street, Brooklyn asked to be allowed to see a solicitor. The
+request was at once granted; and, in response to an urgent message,
+Mr. Fred Thomas, of New Court, arrived within half an hour. Thomas was
+not Brooklyn’s regular solicitor; for Carter Woodman had managed most
+of his business affairs. But Thomas was a Club acquaintance and a man
+about town himself—professionally a lawyer with few illusions and a
+large, if rather disreputable, practice, mainly among racing men.
+Walter Brooklyn’s first idea was that Thomas should make an effort to
+get him admitted to bail when he was brought up before the magistrate
+next morning, and he mentioned the names of several persons who might
+be prepared to stand surety for him. But Thomas at once destroyed his
+hopes. There was no chance, he said, of securing bail on a charge of
+murder: he was afraid his client would have to make up his mind to
+stay where he was for the present. At any rate, Thomas would see to it
+that he was made as comfortable as could be. There were ways of doing
+these things, and Thomas was an expert hand at dealing with the
+police. What he could do would be done; but the main thing was for his
+client to give him every fact that could possibly be helpful in
+preparing the defence. They began to discuss the case.
+
+Meanwhile, Ellery, who had guessed at once the reason why the
+inspector had followed Walter Brooklyn out of the coroner’s court, had
+not been idle. He had left his place a minute or two later, merely
+whispering to Joan that there was something he must do at once. He had
+come out of the court just in time to see the inspector and Walter
+Brooklyn get into a taxi and drive off. Hailing another taxi, he had
+told the driver to follow, and his car had drawn up at Vine Street
+Police Station a moment after the other. He had seen Brooklyn and the
+inspector pass into the building, and had then paid his driver, and
+stood disconsolately outside wondering what he should do. Finally, he
+went into the station and asked for Inspector Blaikie, sending in his
+card. He was kept waiting for some minutes, and then the inspector
+came to him, and asked what he wanted.
+
+“You have arrested Mr. Walter Brooklyn, have you not?” Ellery asked.
+
+The inspector replied that he had.
+
+“Is it possible for some one to come and see him? I suppose he will be
+here overnight.”
+
+The inspector shook his head. “He will be here for the night,” he
+said, “but you can’t see him. He has already sent for his lawyer.”
+
+“I don’t want to see him myself. But his stepdaughter, Miss Cowper, is
+very anxious to have a talk with him.”
+
+“Oh, that’s another matter. It might be arranged. I don’t say it
+could, but it might. The right course would be for her to see his
+lawyer, and for him to apply on her behalf. I couldn’t do anything on
+my own responsibility.”
+
+“Then, if I brought her here, you couldn’t allow her to see him.”
+
+“No, I’m afraid I couldn’t. The regulations are very strict.”
+
+Ellery tried to move the inspector. He failed, but he was not inclined
+to give up hope. He went straight to Scotland Yard and asked for
+Superintendent Wilson. Reminding that official that, earlier in the
+day, he had wished him luck in his effort to clear Walter Brooklyn,
+Ellery obtained without difficulty permission for Joan to see him in
+his cell. Armed with a signed permit, he drove straight to Liskeard
+House.
+
+He found Joan with his guardian, Harry Lucas, who had brought her back
+in his car from the court. Lucas, too, had seen the inspector leave
+the court, and had guessed his purpose. He had also guessed Ellery’s
+object in leaving a moment later. In the car, he had already told Joan
+what he feared; and they had agreed that the best thing was to go back
+to Liskeard House and wait for news. Walter Brooklyn would come there
+if he was still a free man; and if not, Ellery would either come, or
+telephone to tell Joan what had happened.
+
+Joan therefore received Ellery’s bad news without surprise; and she
+gave him a grateful kiss—she had told Lucas of their engagement while
+they were waiting—when he showed her the permit to visit her
+stepfather Lucas’s car was at the door, and he offered to take Joan
+round at once. He took the driver’s seat himself, telling his
+chauffeur to await his return, and Joan and Ellery got in behind.
+
+
+
+Chapter XVI
+
+A Link in the Chain
+
+Fred Thomas came away a good deal dissatisfied from his discussion
+with his client. Walter Brooklyn, he felt, had given him little enough
+to go upon. He persisted in affirming that he had not been in Liskeard
+House that night, and in denying absolutely that he had either rung up
+his Club and given a message or left his walking-stick in Prinsep’s
+room. Yet surely, Thomas argued, the police, if they had proceeded to
+the drastic step of an arrest, must have some definite proof that he
+had been in the house, or at any rate some clear indication of his
+complicity. He did not believe that his client was being frank with
+him; and, while he had not said this outright, a hint of what he
+thought had produced a violent outburst of bad temper from Brooklyn,
+and almost caused him to tell his legal adviser to clear out and come
+back no more. This had served to confirm Thomas’s idea that Brooklyn
+was lying, and his thought, as he went away, was that, if he tried
+again, probably Brooklyn would tell him the truth when he cooled down
+and came to realise more fully what his position was. In his
+experience imprisonment had a wonderfully sobering effect. Meanwhile,
+Thomas made up his mind to see Carter Woodman, and try to find out
+from him more definitely how matters stood. Woodman, presumably, would
+want Walter Brooklyn to get off, even if he believed him to be guilty.
+He would probably not want a member of the Brooklyn family to be
+convicted of murder, whatever the truth might be.
+
+Thomas had not long left Walter Brooklyn when Joan arrived to see him.
+She had come into the police-station alone, leaving Lucas and Ellery
+outside in the car to wait for her return. While they waited, Ellery
+told his guardian more about his engagement to Joan, and received from
+him very hearty congratulations. “You didn’t take my advice, my boy,”
+Lucas said; “but now that things have come out right, I’m most
+heartily glad that you didn’t. I have hoped for this for a long time.
+I’m very fond of you both, and I can see there’s no doubt about your
+being fond of each other.” Which was very pleasant hearing for Ellery;
+for he had a great liking for his guardian, and he knew that his
+friendly countenance would be likely to stand him in good stead with
+Sir Vernon Brooklyn, of whom he was more than a little afraid. “You
+must back me up with Sir Vernon,” he said; and Lucas readily promised
+his help.
+
+It was three-quarters of an hour before Joan came out of the
+police-station. She seemed well satisfied, smiling back at the
+policeman who accompanied her to the door. “He has told you?” asked
+Ellery, as he held open the door of the car.
+
+“What he had to tell,” Joan replied. “It was not very much; but it
+makes everything different. Let us go back and talk it over.”
+
+Lucas drove straight back to Liskeard House, and there, in Joan’s
+room, the three held a consultation. “He was not here at all,” she
+told them. “I mean he did not come back to the house on Tuesday night.
+The telephone message must be all a mistake.”
+
+“Do you mean that he knows nothing at all about it?” asked Ellery.
+
+“I am quite sure that he knows nothing. He has told me exactly what he
+did after leaving here and up to the time when he went back to his
+Club.”
+
+“You may think I ought not to ask this, Joan,” said Lucas; “but are
+you quite sure of what you say?”
+
+“Absolutely sure. He was telling me the truth, I know.”
+
+“Then I suppose,” Ellery put in, “we can produce witnesses to prove
+that he was somewhere else when he was supposed to be here. But who
+the devil did send that telephone message if he did not?”
+
+Lucas put in a word. “Never mind that for the moment. The main thing
+now is to prove that he did not send it. Who was with him and where
+was he?”
+
+“Ah, that’s just the difficulty. He has told me exactly where he went;
+but I don’t see how we can find any one to prove it.”
+
+“Do you mean that he was alone all the time, and no one saw him?”
+asked Ellery.
+
+“Well, not quite that; but something very like it, I’m afraid.”
+
+Then Joan was allowed to tell her story. Walter Brooklyn, after being
+refused an interview with Sir Vernon, had left Liskeard House at about
+a quarter past ten. He had stopped for a minute or two outside the
+Piccadilly Theatre, wondering what to do next. Then he had walked
+slowly along Piccadilly and into the Circus. There again he had hung
+about for a few minutes, and had then gone slowly along Coventry
+Street as far as Leicester Square. He had walked round the Square, and
+outside the Alhambra had stopped for a few minutes to talk to a woman
+of his acquaintance—“not at all a nice woman, I am afraid,—and he
+knows no more about her than that her name is Kitty, and that she is
+often to be found about there. He doesn’t even know her surname. It
+was about a quarter to eleven when he met her.”
+
+Then he had gone on past the Hippodrome and up Charing Cross Road as
+far as Cambridge Circus. He had stopped for a few minutes outside the
+Palace, but had not spoken to any one, and then he had walked down
+Shaftesbury Avenue and back into Piccadilly Circus. In Cambridge
+Circus he had lighted a cigar with his last match; but it had gone
+out. Just outside the Monico he had stopped a man he did not
+know—“fellow came out of the place, he looked like a waiter, don’t you
+know”—and had borrowed a match and re-lighted his cigar. Then he had
+crossed the Circus again, and walked back down Piccadilly as far as
+the turning leading to Liskeard House. He had half a mind, he said, to
+go in and ask to see Prinsep; but after hanging about for a few
+minutes he had given up the idea, crossed the road, and walked down
+St. James’s Street with the idea of looking in at his other Club. But
+he had decided not to go in, and had walked past the door down Pall
+Mall and into Trafalgar Square. At the top of Whitehall he had looked
+at his watch, and the time had been 11.45. Just before that, he had
+hung over the parapet on the National Gallery side of the Square for a
+minute or two; but he had no conversation with any one. On leaving the
+Square, he turned up Regent Street and made his way, walking a good
+deal faster, along Jermyn Street and up St. James’s Street, and so
+back to his Club in Piccadilly. He had thus again passed Liskeard
+Street, but on the opposite side of the road. When he got in, he had
+gone straight to bed.
+
+This account of Walter Brooklyn’s movements was quite convincing to
+Joan and her two listeners; but they had to admit that there was not
+much in it to persuade others of its truth. According to his own
+account, he must have been in the neighbourhood of Liskeard House at
+11.30 when the ’phone message was supposed to have been sent; and not
+one of his movements between 10.15 and midnight seemed to be at all
+easy to confirm by any independent testimony. When Joan had finished
+her narrative, they all felt that, if Walter Brooklyn’s vindication
+was to depend on an _alibi_, his chances were not particularly good.
+Still, if he had not been in the house, the police could after all
+have very little against him beyond a suspicion.
+
+At this point Mary Woodman came into the room to say that Sir Vernon
+would be very pleased if Mr. Lucas would come and sit with him for a
+while, and Lucas, promising to obey her order to be very quiet and not
+to allow the patient to excite himself, was led off to the sick room.
+
+“I tell you what, Joan,” said Ellery, who had been sitting still, with
+a prodigious frown on his face, trying to think the thing over, “we’ve
+jolly well got to establish that _alibi_. We don’t know what else the
+police may have; but we’re safe enough if we can prove that he wasn’t
+here that evening. Unless we can establish positively that he wasn’t
+there, the circumstantial evidence will go down with a jury.”
+
+“But how can we establish it? I only wish we could.”
+
+“We’re going to. We’re going to find those people he spoke to, and
+we’re going to hunt London for people who saw him strolling about.
+After all, he’s very well known, and lots of people must have seen
+him. I know we shall be able to prove he’s telling the truth.”
+
+“You’re a dear to say so, and I don’t see what we can do but try. How
+do you propose to set about it?”
+
+“First of all, I propose that we make a map of the wanderings of
+Ulysses—shall we call it?—showing exactly where he went, whom he spoke
+to and when, and so on. That will help us to see exactly what’s the
+best way of getting to work.”
+
+So Ellery took a sheet of paper, and they sat down side by side at the
+table. Under Joan’s directions, Ellery made a map of Walter Brooklyn’s
+journeyings on Tuesday evening. It took an hour to do, and this is
+what it looked like when it was done, with notes to help them in
+prosecuting their inquiries.
+
+[Illustration: A map of some streets in London, entitled “Walter
+Brooklyn’s Odyssey.” A dotted line traces a path from Liskeard House
+to Byron Club that meanders along a dozen streets, including
+Piccadilly, Charing Cross Road, Jermyn Street, Pall Mall, and Liskeard
+Street. Nine different points on the path are labelled indicating
+points where Walter Brooklyn engaged in some activity.]
+
+“It isn’t very hopeful, I’m afraid,” said Joan, as they looked
+together at the finished plan; “but I’m afraid it is all we have to go
+upon.”
+
+“Not quite all, I hope. Did he tell you what the man he spoke to
+looked like—I mean the chap who gave him a match outside the Monico?”
+
+“Yes, he was a tall, dark man, clean-shaven and very blue in the chin,
+wearing a long black overcoat and a squash hat. And he almost
+certainly had some trouble of the eyes. He wore glasses; but he kept
+blinking all the time behind them.”
+
+“That ought to help. Now what about this woman, Kitty? What is she
+like?”
+
+“He says she is about forty, but dresses—and paints—to look younger.
+She’s getting fat, has bright golden hair—certainly dyed—and wears a
+great many rings. She’s fairly tall, and walks with a bit of a waddle.
+Her eyes are dark and piercing, he says, and she has a smile that
+looks as if it was switched on and off like an electric light.”
+
+“I must say she doesn’t sound attractive.”
+
+“But he says she is—extraordinarily; and, what is more, she’s very
+well known. He has heard her other name, but he can’t remember it. He
+thinks she has had several surnames.”
+
+“That seems to be all we can get to start with. What I propose to do
+is to follow your stepfather’s route, trying to find some one who saw
+him at each point where he stopped.”
+
+“Yes, but you can leave a bit of it to me. We know that Marian and
+Helen and Carter all saw him coming here at a few minutes past ten,
+and the servants here say he left at about a quarter-past. He tells me
+he stopped outside the theatre just after that. If so, some one very
+likely saw him. I’ll see about that, and I’ll try to find out as well
+whether any one saw him passing again later. He must have passed at
+about 11.20 to half-past—I mean when he stood at the corner of
+Liskeard Street, and again just before twelve on his way back to the
+Club.”
+
+“Very well. You take this end and I’ll follow the rest of his
+wanderings. And there is no reason why I shouldn’t get to work at
+once. It will be best to go over the ground in the evening, just as he
+did.”
+
+They sat and talked of the case for a while longer; and then they sat
+for a time without talking at all, happy in each other’s presence
+despite the tragedy in which they were involved. At length Ellery
+started up, saying that he must go out and get some dinner, and then
+go to work seriously.
+
+“And by the way, Joan,” he added, “why shouldn’t you come out and have
+dinner with me? I’m sure Mary would look after Sir Vernon.”
+
+“My dear boy, does it occur to you that I’ve left him to himself for a
+good long time already—or rather left poor Mary alone to look after
+him? I couldn’t have done it if Marian had not promised to come in and
+help.”
+
+“I’m sure Mary wouldn’t mind,” Ellery began, pleading with her to
+come.
+
+“Oh, of course, Mary’s an angel. She never minds anything. But that’s
+no reason why she should be put upon. No, my boy, you go and have your
+bachelor dinner, and I’ll get Winter to send me up an egg.”
+
+“Mayn’t I share the egg?”
+
+“Certainly not. Get along with you.” And Joan sped her lover on his
+way with the taste of her kiss fresh on his mouth. It seemed a
+profanation to eat anything after that; but all the same, while Joan
+ate her egg and then took her turn in watching over Sir Vernon,
+Ellery, seated alone in the grill room at Hatchett’s was making a very
+solid and satisfactory meal. Somehow, love seemed to give one an
+appetite, he reflected, as he lighted a cigar. Then he set forth upon
+his quest, walking slowly down Piccadilly towards the Circus. He had
+no fixed plan of action. As he put it to himself, he was following the
+route Walter Brooklyn had taken and just keeping his eyes open, in the
+hope that something might turn up. Nothing did turn up till he reached
+Piccadilly Circus. There, as he knew, Walter Brooklyn had hung about
+for a few minutes, but had spoken to no one.
+
+The quest certainly did not seem to be hopeful. Piccadilly Circus was
+crowded with people, some hurrying this way or that in pursuit of some
+definite object, others standing or strolling about as if they had
+nothing to do and nowhere in particular to go. The flower-women who
+sit on the island in the middle of the Circus in the daytime had
+already left their posts, and would presumably have done so on Tuesday
+before Walter Brooklyn took that disastrous walk. But before long
+Ellery picked out two persons who remained at fixed spots while the
+rest of the crowd changed from minute to minute. The one was a
+policeman regulating the traffic and the queues at the point where the
+buses stopped by the island: the other was a night-watchman in his
+little hut, keeping guard over a piece of the roadway which was under
+repair. These were the most likely of all the crowd to have been there
+on Tuesday night, and with them he determined to begin his inquiries.
+
+The policeman was quickly disposed of. He had not been on duty on
+Tuesday; but a little persuasion in tangible form soon secured the
+name of the constable who had, and the news that he had only been kept
+away that night by a misadventure, and would be on duty again the
+following night. Ellery made a note of the name, and said to himself
+that he must see the other policeman later. For the present he
+strolled over towards the watchman, whom he found reading a tattered
+book in his little cabin, by the light partly of the lamps and sky
+signs, and partly, though it was a warm summer evening, of a blazing
+fire in a pail. He was a little, old man with a pair of steel
+spectacles, which had carved a deep rut in his nose, and he seemed to
+be reading with extraordinarily concentrated attention. Ellery managed
+to see what the book was. It was _Sartor Resartus_. The man was
+clearly a “scholar,” and probably a homely philosopher of the
+working-class.
+
+It seemed best to use the opening which providence had provided.
+“That’s a fine book you’ve got there,” said Ellery, casting his mind
+back to the days at school, when he had first and last read his
+_Sartor_, only to forget all about it and Carlyle as he reached years
+of discretion.
+
+The little old man peered up at him over his glasses. “It is _the_
+book for me,” he said. “That Carlyle, sir, he was a man.”
+
+“I dare say you manage to read a great deal at your job.”
+
+“I do that. You see, I had a accident ten years ago. ’Fore that, I was
+a navvy; but that finished me—for heavy work, I mean. At first, I was
+wretched at this job; the company gave it me, when doctor said I was
+fit for light work. And then it came to me I’d take up reading, like.
+I hadn’t hardly ever opened a book till then—not since school. I can
+tell you, it’s been a revelation to me. I don’t ask nothing better
+than to sit here with a good book now. But it isn’t often one of you
+gentlemen seems to notice what I’m reading.”
+
+The old man spoke slowly, and rather as if he was thinking aloud. He
+seemed almost to have forgotten that Ellery was there.
+
+“Perhaps I shouldn’t have noticed, unless there had been something I
+wanted to ask you. A man’s life may depend on it, and I wanted your
+help.”
+
+The old man peered up at him again, and a little gleam of excitement
+came into his eyes; but he only nodded to Ellery to go on.
+
+Ellery handed him a photograph of Walter Brooklyn. “On Tuesday night,
+at about half-past ten, that man stopped for some minutes on the
+island in the middle of the Circus here. He is accused of having been
+somewhere else, and his life may depend on our finding some one who
+saw him here. What I want to ask is whether you happened to notice
+him.”
+
+The old man thought for a minute before answering. “I can’t say I did;
+but I seem to know his face somehow. Half-past ten, you said?”
+
+“Then or then abouts, it must have been.”
+
+“No, I didn’t see him. At half-past ten I was in here reading, and I
+didn’t notice much. But I know I’ve seen that chap somewhere. Wait a
+minute while I think.”
+
+Ellery waited. It seemed a long while before the old man went on.
+
+“Now, if you’d have said half-past eleven, or maybe a quarter-past, I
+should have said I saw him.”
+
+“Yes. Why, he did cross the Circus again at about that time.”
+
+“Then I saw him. It was like this, you see. About a quarter-past
+eleven on Tuesday I gets up to walk round the works here and see if
+all’s right. Up there at the corner by Shaftesbury Avenue I saw a
+gentleman—very like your gentleman he was and smoking a big cigar—come
+strolling across the road. Very slow, he was walking. Seemed as if he
+was annoyed about something—waving his stick in the air, he was, as if
+he was making believe to hit somebody. I only noticed him because a
+big motor-car came round suddenly from Regent Street as he was
+crossing, and he had to skip. Came straight into the ropes round the
+work up there. I hurried to see if he was all right; but before I got
+there he dusted himself down and walked on. I’m almost sure he was
+your man. I’ve got a memory for faces, and I noticed him particularly
+because he seemed that ratty, if I may say so.”
+
+“Can you tell me again what time that was?”
+
+“Not far short of half-past eleven—leastways it was after the quarter,
+twenty to twenty-five past, maybe.”
+
+Ellery congratulated himself on an extraordinary stroke of luck. It
+was, of course, far more important to establish Walter Brooklyn’s
+presence in Piccadilly Circus between 11.15 and 11.30 than at 10.30;
+but it had seemed impossible to do so. Some one might have noticed him
+when he hung about there for several minutes; but it seemed very
+unlikely that his mere walking across the Circus at the later time
+could have been confirmed. By a lucky chance it had been, and the
+first link in the _alibi_ had been successfully joined.
+
+The next thing was to get the watchman’s name and address, and to
+arrange for his appearance if he were called upon. The old man readily
+gave the particulars; but when Ellery talked of payment for his
+services, he refused. “I don’t want money for it,” he said; “not
+unless I have to appear in court. Then I’ll want my expenses same as
+another. But I’ll tell you what. If I’ve done you a good turn, you
+come here again some night and talk to me about books. That’ll be a
+lot more to me than what you’d give me. There ain’t no one I’ve got to
+talk to about what I read. It’ll be a treat to have a talk to a gent
+like you, what knows all about books and what’s inside ’em.”
+
+“I’m afraid,” said Ellery, “you do me too much credit. It’s years
+since I read Carlyle, and I’ve forgotten most about him. But I’ll come
+back, and lend you some more of him if you want it. But I expect you
+know a lot more about him than I do.”
+
+It turned out that what the old man wanted above all else was a copy
+of Carlyle’s _Cromwell_. Ellery promised to bring it, and after a few
+words more they parted on the best of terms, and Ellery walked on
+slowly along Coventry Street and into Leicester Square. He felt that
+luck was on his side.
+
+
+
+Chapter XVII
+
+The Lovely Lady
+
+To walk round Leicester Square in search of the mysterious Kitty gave
+Ellery an uncomfortable feeling. Kitty appeared to belong to a type of
+lovely lady which had not come much in his way, and his first
+sensation was one of strong distaste. Moreover, he very soon realised
+that the description given to him was not likely to be of much value.
+There seemed to be a whole tribe of Kittys in the neighbourhood of
+Leicester Square, and Ellery liked each one he set eyes on less than
+the last. He came speedily to two conclusions—first, that he would
+never spot the right one by means of the description which Walter
+Brooklyn had given, and secondly, that it would be quite out of his
+power to address one of these ladies, or to do anything but seek
+refuge in flight if, as seemed most probable, one of them attempted to
+address him. He tried to overcome this feeling; but it was no use.
+Even though no one had yet spoken to him, he turned tail, and took
+refuge in Orange Street for a few minutes’ reflection.
+
+He knew that he could not do it. Moreover, to walk round Leicester
+Square addressing strange females by a Christian name which might or
+might not belong to them was probably an excellent prelude to
+adventures of a sort, but hardly to the gaining of the particular
+information of which he was in search. The way to find Kitty was not
+to hunt for a hypothetical needle in a very unpleasant haystack, but
+to go straight to some one who was likely to know. And who would be
+more likely than Will Jaxon, who was celebrated as the devil of a
+fellow with the women, and lived, moreover, in bachelor chambers
+hardly more than round the corner in Panton Street? Ellery set off
+there to find his man.
+
+Jaxon had been with Ellery at Oxford, and, dissimilar as many of their
+tastes were, they had kept up the acquaintance. They had in common an
+intense absorption in the technique of the theatre, in which Ellery
+was interested as a young and promising writer of plays, and Jaxon as
+an equally promising producer. But Jaxon’s way of living was very
+different from his friend’s. He was not a vicious man; but he said
+that vice, and still more the shoddy imitation of it which passes
+current in the London _demi-monde_, attracted him as a study. He liked
+watching the game, and making little bets with himself as to its
+fortunes. It was, he said, a harmless amusement, and, if the
+professors of psychology based their views largely on a study of the
+“diseases of personality,” why should not he, a mere amateur, follow
+their example? So he passed much of his time among persons whose ways
+of living were, to say the least, not in conformity with the dictates
+of the Nonconformist conscience. It was his pride to know the Society
+underworld; and, in particular, he was wont to boast that he knew the
+“points” of all the important “lovely ladies” of London. It was ten to
+one that he would know where to find Kitty.
+
+Jaxon, fortunately, was in, and Ellery was soon able to explain his
+business. He wanted a woman, none too young, and getting fat, whose
+name was Kitty something-or-other. She was, he believed, often to be
+found round about Leicester Square.
+
+“You’re the very last man I ever expected to come to me on a quest
+like that,” said Jaxon with a laugh. “Now, if it had been Lorimer or
+Wentworth—but you of all men. Oh, I know it’s all right, and your
+intentions are strictly honourable. But do you know that there are at
+least a dozen Kittys, all of them celebrated in their way, who conform
+fully to the description you have given me? How am I to know which one
+you want?”
+
+Ellery repeated his description, giving every detail that had been
+told him—the golden, dyed hair, the smile that switched on and off
+like an electric light—“That’s not much help. It’s part of the
+professional equipment,” said Jaxon—the dark eyes, the slovenly walk.
+
+“The golden hair and the dark eyes help to narrow the field; but there
+are still half a dozen it might be—all of the fat and forty brigade,
+and all of them no better than they should be according to the world’s
+reckoning. Five of the six are just the ordinary thing; but the other
+is something quite out of the common run. She’s not what you would
+call an honest woman; but she’s a very remarkable person for all that.
+I wonder if it is she you are after.”
+
+“Tell me about her first.”
+
+“Well her name—or at least the name she’s known by—is Kitty Frensham.
+Kitty Lessing it used to be when I first knew her. In those days she
+was more or less the property of a Russian Archduke, or something of
+the sort. Or rather, he used to be altogether her property. Then, a
+year or so ago, he died, and since then she has been rather at a loose
+end. She’s fat and forty; but she’s a most fascinating woman. Awfully
+clever, too.”
+
+“Can you get hold of her for me?”
+
+“Yes, I think I know where to find her; but you’d better understand
+that she’s not at all the ordinary sort of street-crawler. If she’s
+your woman, the description you gave was a bit misleading. She is most
+often about with Horace Mandleham, the painter chap, nowadays. Come
+round to Duke’s with me, and I dare say we shall find her.”
+
+Ellery knew about Duke’s, of course; but he had never been there. Just
+at the moment, it was the latest thing in night clubs in London, and
+everybody who fancied himself or herself as a bit in advance of other
+folk was keen to go there. Ellery was not advanced, and it took some
+persuasion to carry him along. He seemed to think that Jaxon ought to
+cut out his prize for him from under the guns of Duke’s and bring her
+home in tow. But Jaxon said he could find her, but he couldn’t
+possibly bring her. Finally, Ellery agreed to go. After all, he
+reflected, it was all in the day’s work. He had known what sort of man
+Walter Brooklyn was; and he must not complain if the task of clearing
+up his character meant going into some queer places.
+
+Duke’s certainly did not rely for its popularity on external display.
+It was approached by three flights of narrow and rickety stairs, and
+the visitors had to satisfy two rather seedy-looking janitors, not in
+uniform, at top and bottom. And, when they entered the Club itself,
+Ellery had a still greater surprise. The famous Duke’s consisted of
+one very long low room—or rather of three long, low attics which had
+been amateurishly knocked into one. The decorations were old and
+faded, and the places where the partitions had been were still marked
+by patches of new paper pasted on to hide the rents in the old. The
+ventilation was abominable, and what windows there were did not seem
+to have been cleaned for months. The furniture—a few seedy divans and
+a large number of common Windsor chairs and kitchen tables—seemed to
+have been picked up at second-hand from some very inferior dealer.
+Tables and floor were stained with countless spillings of food and
+drink, and a thick cloud of tobacco smoke made it quite impossible to
+see any distance along the room. There was only one redeeming feature,
+and Ellery’s eye fell upon it almost as soon as he entered the place.
+Near the door was a magnificent grand piano, on which some one was
+playing really well an arrangement from Borodine’s _Prince Igor_.
+
+Jaxon drew Ellery to a vacant table. “We’ll sit down here and order
+something, and then in a moment or two, I’ll go round and spy out the
+land,” he said. “From here we shall see any one who goes out. And, by
+Jove, there’s one of the six Kittys—not the one I told you about. I
+shouldn’t be surprised if we found the whole half-dozen before the
+evening’s out. Everybody looks in here just now.”
+
+Ellery felt very uncomfortable when he was left alone to sip his gin
+and water while Jaxon went round the room, exchanging a few words with
+friends at several of the tables. But soon his friend came back to
+report. “No, she’s not here now; but I’ve spotted another Kitty for
+you. I forgot her: she makes the seventh on our list, and you’d better
+have a word with the two who are here. Bring your drink across, and
+I’ll introduce you to that one over there. She’s Kitty Turner, and the
+chap she’s with is a fellow from Bloomsbury way called Parkinson—a
+civil servant, I believe. I’ll do the talking, or most of it. You just
+ask her if she knows Walter Brooklyn when you get a chance.”
+
+They drew a blank at the conversation. Kitty Turner was certainly a
+very bright lady, laughing immoderately both at her own and at Jaxon’s
+jokes, and, it seemed to Ellery, a good deal relieved to get a rest
+from her _tête-à-tête_ with the gloomy fellow who was sitting by her
+side. He, at any rate, seemed to take his pleasures sadly. Indeed, it
+struck Ellery, as he looked round the room, that very few of the
+people there seemed to be really enjoying themselves. The women were
+cheerful, but there was something forced about the gaiety of many of
+them; and some of the men seemed to need a deal of cheering up. Ellery
+found himself wondering why on earth so many people came to this sort
+of place, if they did not even find it amusing. He at any rate was not
+amused, even as Jaxon seemed to be, by regarding the place as a sort
+of psychological study. He had come there for a definite purpose; and,
+as soon as he had satisfied himself that Kitty Turner knew nothing of
+Walter Brooklyn, he was ready to move on. A signal soon brought Jaxon
+to his feet, and they strolled across the room to try the next Kitty
+on the list.
+
+Kitty Laurenson did know Walter Brooklyn, but not to any degree of
+intimacy. She had met him a few times, and Ellery rather gathered
+that, in her opinion, he had been less attentive than he should have
+been to her charms. She had certainly not seen him on Tuesday, or
+indeed for weeks past. Ellery liked her even less than the other; for
+her attitude towards him seemed to be strictly professional, and, as
+soon as she was sure that he could not be fascinated, she showed him
+plainly that the sooner he went away the better he would please her.
+Ellery again gave Jaxon the signal, and they left her table. They were
+just discussing whether it was worth while to wait a time in the hope
+that some more Kittys might turn up, when Jaxon said suddenly, “By
+Jove, here she comes, and alone too. We’re in luck.”
+
+Ellery turned, and saw entering the room a stout, rather
+coarse-looking woman of about forty or forty-five, so far as he could
+judge through the intervening smoke, and despite the artificial
+obstructions which the lady herself had placed in the way of those who
+might be minded to inspect her too closely. He saw at once that she
+was a person to be reckoned with. The face was powerful, and the pair
+of keen black eyes which were glancing penetratingly round the room,
+as if in search of some one, were not easily to be forgotten. The
+figure was without dignity; but the woman’s expression gave it the
+lie. Certainly she was more likely to have owned the Russian Archduke
+than to have been owned by him.
+
+Jaxon left Ellery standing by himself and went up to her. She greeted
+him pleasantly. “Oh, Will, I was looking for Horace. Do you know if he
+is here?”
+
+Jaxon replied that he had not seen him and asked her to join him and
+his friend while she was waiting. She agreed, and Jaxon led her across
+and made the introduction.
+
+From the moment when he was introduced to Kitty Frensham Ellery had a
+feeling that he had found what he wanted. She was very gracious; but,
+as Jaxon introduced her, she smiled, and the coming of her smile was
+for all the world as if she had suddenly pressed the switch and turned
+it on like the electric light. Both the other Kittys had smiles which
+they turned on and off at will; but their smiles came into being
+gradually, whereas this woman smiled, and stopped smiling, with quite
+extraordinary suddenness. Ellery was so sure that she was the right
+woman, and also, as he told Jaxon afterwards, so sure of her common
+sense, that he plunged straight into his story.
+
+“There’s something I want to ask you,” he said, “indeed, I got Jaxon
+to introduce me on purpose. You know Walter Brooklyn, don’t you?”
+
+Her face at once became serious. “Yes, I do. I have just seen the
+terrible news in the evening paper. Do you think he can have done it,
+Mr. Ellery? I suppose you know him too.”
+
+“Yes, I know him, and I am quite sure he had nothing to do with it. I
+want you to help prove that I am right. You saw him on Tuesday night,
+did you not?”
+
+“I had quite forgotten it; but I did. I spoke to him for a minute or
+two. I was coming out of the Alhambra with Horace—Mr. Mandleham, that
+is—and Horace had left me for a minute to look for a taxi. The Old ’un
+came up and spoke to me, I remember.”
+
+“The Old ’un? Is that a name for Walter Brooklyn?”
+
+“Yes, we used to call him ‘The Old Rip’; but it got shortened to ‘the
+Old ’un.’ He goes the pace rather, even now, you know.”
+
+“I dare say he does; and of course that is likely to make it all the
+worse for him with the jury—if it’s the usual sort.”
+
+“But if he didn’t do it, surely he’s all right, isn’t he?”
+
+“The fact that you remember meeting him may be the means of saving his
+life. Can you tell me at what time that was?”
+
+“Oh, Lord, Mr. Ellery, I never know the time. It was some time in the
+evening, fairly early. We left before the show was over. Horace would
+probably know.”
+
+“Did Mr. Mandleham see Mr. Brooklyn?”
+
+“Yes, he did. When he came back he asked me who it was I had been
+talking to.”
+
+At this point a new voice struck into the conversation. “Hallo, Kitty,
+you seem very deep in something. Haven’t you even a word for me?”
+
+“Why, here is Horace,” said Kitty. “I’ve been waiting for you for
+hours, Horace. It’s really too bad. But now you come over here, and
+make yourself really useful for a minute. It’s not a thing you do
+often.”
+
+Horace Mandleham was fortunately quite precise about the time. They
+had left the Alhambra a few minutes after half-past ten, and he had
+come back with the taxi just about a quarter to eleven. Walter
+Brooklyn had at that moment taken his leave of Kitty Frensham. Yes,
+that was the man. He recognised at once the photograph which Ellery
+passed across to him. He was quite ready to swear to it, if it was of
+any importance. He had seen the evening paper, and knew the chap was
+in trouble.
+
+A good deal to his surprise, Ellery found that he definitely liked
+Kitty Frensham, and before he left he had even promised to go and see
+her soon in her flat in Chelsea, which, as she told him, was hardly
+more than round the corner from his own rooms. She had promised, and
+had made Mandleham promise as well, to give every help that could
+possibly be given in clearing Walter Brooklyn, although she had made
+it plain that she did not like him, and although her reluctance to
+find herself in a court of law was evident enough. Still, she had
+recognised that she ought to do what she could; and Ellery
+half-believed that a part of her willingness was due to the fact that
+he had impressed her favourably. He had come prepared to spend money
+in securing the evidence of a “lovely lady” of unlovely repute: he had
+secured the willing testimony of an exceedingly clever and, even to
+his temperament, fascinating woman. Kitty Frensham was certainly not
+the sort of person to whom money could be offered for such a service.
+It puzzled Ellery that such a woman should have, as he put it to
+himself, “gone to the bad.” She was worthy of something better than
+that anæmic specimen, Mandleham.
+
+It was by this time too late to do more; but, before going home,
+Ellery ’phoned through to Joan, who was waiting up for a message from
+him and told her briefly what he had accomplished. The quest, he said,
+had taken him to some strange places; he would tell her all about it
+on the morrow. Joan, too, had news of a sort; but she said that it
+would keep. Both of them retired for the night well pleased with the
+results of their first evening’s experience of practical detective
+work. It had been easy going so far; but, Ellery said to himself,
+fortune had a most encouraging way of smiling on the beginner.
+Probably their troubles were still to come.
+
+
+
+Chapter XVIII
+
+The Case for the Defence
+
+The more Fred Thomas thought over the case which he had to handle, the
+less he liked it. He was certainly not accustomed to be squeamish; and
+considerably more than his share of rather shady business came his
+way. But he did not like these cases of what he called “serious
+crime.” Sharp practice was well enough; but a lawyer engaged in it
+regularly had best abstain from the defence of murderers. Thomas had
+by this time gone into the whole case, and was fully aware of the
+force of the evidence against his client held by the police. In his
+mind, there was not much doubt of Walter Brooklyn’s guilt. He had
+obviously been in the house; the stick and the telephone message
+showed that; and what were you to do with a man who would not make a
+clean breast of it to his own lawyer? What was the use of his client’s
+reiterated assertions that he had not been near the place, and that he
+knew nothing at all about the murders? Indeed, was not the refusal to
+speak the clearest indication of guilt? If Brooklyn, though he had
+been present in the house, had not been guilty, surely he would have
+told what he knew. Still, unsatisfactory as his client was, he would
+have to do his best for him. He could not very well throw up the case
+after he had once agreed to take charge of it. But he was not hopeful,
+and, for the moment, it seemed the best course to go and talk the
+whole thing over with Carter Woodman.
+
+But, when one came to think of it, was there not yet another
+indication of the man’s guilt? If the man had been innocent, he would
+surely have gone first of all to the family lawyer.
+
+Thomas knew Woodman only slightly, and was not quite sure of his
+reception. But, when he rang up, Woodman readily agreed to see him and
+to give all possible help. “After all,” he had said, “the man’s a sort
+of relation of mine, whatever he may have done”—a way of putting the
+position which did not strengthen Thomas’s belief in the innocence of
+his client.
+
+When Thomas was shown into Woodman’s office, he was surprised at the
+cordiality of his reception. Woodman was “so glad” he had come, and
+they must work together to do what they could for the poor fellow—“a
+bit of a bad hat, between ourselves, but—for the sake of the family,
+you know.”
+
+Thomas went straight to the point. “Mr. Brooklyn positively assures me
+that he was not in Liskeard House on Tuesday night, and that he knows
+absolutely nothing of the murders.”
+
+Woodman said nothing; but he drummed on the table with his fingers,
+and the action conveyed a perfectly clear message. What were you to do
+for a fellow who would not tell his own lawyer the truth?
+
+“He says that he simply strolled about all the time between ten
+o’clock and midnight.”
+
+“Alone?” asked Woodman.
+
+“Yes, quite alone. Judging from his story, it would be impossible to
+obtain confirmation—even if it were all true.”
+
+“Then what line of defence do you propose to adopt?”
+
+“It was on that point I wanted your advice. In the circumstances, and
+assuming that they remain unchanged, what can we do but deny the story
+and trust to a blustering counsel to get him off?”
+
+“H’m, surely more than that is needed?”
+
+“Certainly; but what more can be done, unless there is something else
+that Mr. Brooklyn can tell us?”
+
+“Look here, Thomas. You can be quite frank with me. I’m quite sure
+Brooklyn was in the house and that he knows all about the murders,
+even if he didn’t actually commit them. But, like you, I want to get
+him off.”
+
+“Can’t you help me to make him speak?”
+
+“He doesn’t like me, and nothing I could say would have any influence.
+If he had been inclined to trust me, he would have sent for me in the
+first instance. You’ll have to make him talk somehow. But I can tell
+you what will weigh most heavily against him. He stands to gain a
+fortune by these murders—not by either of them singly, but by both
+together. It’s hard to get over a fact like that as well as the other
+evidence; the suggestion of motive is so clear—and, to put it bluntly,
+his personal character doesn’t help matters.”
+
+“Do you happen to know whether Mr. Brooklyn was pressed for money?”
+
+“He was always pressed for money, and just lately he has been even
+harder pressed than usual. He was round here on Tuesday trying all he
+could to get money from me, and he left me with the expressed
+intention of seeing Prinsep, and having another attempt to raise the
+wind through him. I know Prinsep was determined to refuse, and he
+wasn’t a man to refuse gently, either.”
+
+“What you say makes me feel more than ever like throwing up the case.
+I’m not bound to go on if he won’t be frank with me.”
+
+“Don’t throw it up. We must give the fellow every chance. It’s
+difficult for you, I know, but do the best you can. I expect your idea
+of a good hectoring counsel is the best that can be managed. After
+all, they have no direct evidence.”
+
+“I’m afraid what they have is good enough.”
+
+“Oh, you never know, with a jury.”
+
+“What came into my head was that the best possible line of defence, if
+it can be arranged, would be to throw suspicion on some one else. Not
+enough to do the other person any real damage, but just enough to
+create a reasonable doubt.”
+
+Woodman made no reply for a moment. Then he said, “That’s all very
+well; but where do you propose to find the person and the evidence?”
+
+“First of all, it is surely very probable that George Brooklyn was
+actually killed by Prinsep. There is good evidence for that, you’ll
+agree.”
+
+“Good enough to make a case, and it may even be true, though I don’t
+think it is.”
+
+“Well, I propose to argue strongly that it is true, and I think we can
+create enough doubt to make it impossible to convict Mr. Brooklyn on
+that head. That leaves the murder of Prinsep.”
+
+“Unfortunately, that is just where the evidence against Walter
+Brooklyn is strongest.”
+
+“I know it is; and I want you to help me to find some one else who
+could reasonably be suspected of killing Prinsep. Never mind the
+evidence. I’ll find that if you’ll help me to the person, It won’t
+need to be enough to do the suspected person any real damage. It isn’t
+as if we wanted to get any one convicted: I only want to throw dust in
+the jury’s eyes.”
+
+“I’m sorry; but I can’t help you there,” said Woodman shortly.
+
+“What about the servants?”
+
+“Out of the question. They’re as innocent as you are.”
+
+“What does it matter if they are innocent? Can they be proved so?”
+
+Carter Woodman brought his fist down on the table with a bang. Then he
+said very deliberately, “I am anxious to use all legitimate means of
+getting Mr. Walter Brooklyn acquitted; but I must tell you once and
+for all, Thomas, that I decline to be a party to attempt to throw the
+guilt on any innocent persons.”
+
+“My dear fellow, what is the use of talking about legitimate means in
+a case like this? You know as well as I do that only illegitimate
+means can give my client a dog’s chance.”
+
+“Then I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
+
+With that the interview ended. Thomas left Woodman’s office more
+firmly than ever convinced of Walter Brooklyn’s guilt, but also
+determined to follow up his stratagem of shifting the suspicion, or at
+least some part of it, elsewhere. The more he thought of the plan, the
+more it appealed to him. It wasn’t much of a dodge in itself; but it
+seemed to offer more hope than anything else in this case. If the
+fellow did get hanged after all, he would have only himself to blame.
+Thomas would have done his best.
+
+Following up this line of thought, Thomas made up his mind that the
+first thing to do was to get full information about the servants.
+
+Thus, Walter Brooklyn’s legal adviser, though with a very different
+idea in his mind, set to work upon an aspect of the case which had
+already been considered and investigated by the police. It will be
+remembered that Inspector Blaikie had cross-examined the two
+men-servants, and that subsequently he and Superintendent Wilson had
+agreed to have the two men watched—not that they were much disposed to
+believe that either of them had anything directly to do with the
+murders, but because their complicity or knowledge, or even their
+guilt, was just barely conceivable. Morgan’s presence at the house of
+his friends at Hammersmith on the Tuesday night, and his return to
+Liskeard House at about a quarter to eleven, had been duly verified;
+but his statement that he had gone straight to bed, and remained there
+until the morning, rested wholly on Winter’s evidence. There was no
+reason to suspect this, unless it should turn out that Winter was
+himself involved. The police had, therefore, directed most of their
+attention to the butler, who had certainly gone up to his room with
+Morgan at a quarter to twelve. Had he stayed there, or had he come
+down again and played some part in the night’s doings? On this point
+the police could find no evidence at all. Morgan stated that Winter
+was in his room in the morning, that his bed had been slept in, and
+that he rose at his usual hour. But Morgan had slept heavily, and he
+could not positively say that Winter had remained in his room all
+night. This fact, however, was clearly no evidence at all against
+Winter, and there had been nothing in his demeanour to suggest that he
+was in any way concerned. His past history, too, seemed to make him a
+most unlikely criminal. Accordingly, now that the evidence seemed to
+point conclusively to the guilt of Walter Brooklyn, the police, while
+they still kept some perfunctory watch on the two servants,
+practically dismissed them from their minds.
+
+Thomas, when he had ascertained the main facts about the two
+men-servants, did not for a moment suspect that either of them was
+guilty, or think it likely that either had any knowledge of the
+crimes. His first step was to ask Walter Brooklyn himself whether he
+supposed that either of the servants could throw any light on the
+matter. Supposing his client to be at the least fully cognisant of the
+night’s events, he thought that the question could hardly fail to give
+him some guidance. But Walter Brooklyn displayed little interest, and
+by doing so confirmed the lawyer’s opinion that the servants had
+nothing at all to do with it. “Go and see them by all means,” Brooklyn
+had said, “but I don’t suppose they know anything about it.” That was
+all he would say, and he still stuck to the story he had first told
+Thomas, and maintained that he himself was equally ignorant of what
+had taken place. A marked coolness, which did not increase Thomas’s
+zest for the case, had sprung up between him and his client, and
+although certain questions had to be asked and answered, it was clear
+enough that Walter Brooklyn greatly preferred the solitude of his cell
+to his lawyer’s society.
+
+It was on his own initiative, therefore, that Thomas went to see both
+Winter and Morgan, and received from them a repetition of what they
+had told the police. From them he learnt nothing new. But from one of
+the maid-servants he picked up a fact which had escaped Inspector
+Blaikie’s attention. A few days before the murders the butler, Winter,
+had quarrelled violently with John Prinsep, and, in the heat of the
+quarrel, Prinsep had practically given the man notice to leave. The
+notice had not been quite definite, and the maid had heard Winter
+confide to Morgan that he intended to hang on and see what happened,
+and to get the matter cleared up with Prinsep the one way or the other
+before the month expired. She did not know what the quarrel had been
+about; and Thomas did not think it politic to push his inquiries
+further, or to ask either Morgan or Winter himself for an explanation.
+He, therefore, cautioned the girl against telling any one at all that
+there had been a quarrel. “It would only make further trouble,” he
+said; “and we have trouble enough on our hands already.”
+
+Thomas had thus found the first essential for building up a case on
+suspicion against Winter—an actual quarrel and therefore a possible
+motive for murder. But he recognised that the argument was very thin,
+and that he must, if possible, get something more definite. Inquiries,
+however, failed to give him anything at all that could be used to
+defame either Winter’s or Morgan’s character. They appeared to be
+persons of unblemished respectability, and Winter’s long service in
+the Brooklyn household seemed never to have been marred before by such
+an incident as his quarrel with Prinsep. The position did not look
+promising for Thomas’s client; but he determined to persist.
+
+His persistence was at length rewarded. He discovered what had been
+the cause of the quarrel between Winter and Prinsep. And it was Morgan
+who told him, quite unconscious that he was providing a link in the
+chain which Thomas was attempting to forge. Thomas had turned his
+attention to a further study of the character and circumstances of the
+murdered men, and had gone to Morgan for light on the ways of his late
+master. It was easy to see that Morgan had disliked Prinsep, though he
+had always behaved to him in life as a perfectly suave and
+well-drilled servant knows how to behave—with a deadly politeness that
+conceals all human feeling behind an impenetrable mask. But, now that
+Prinsep was dead, Morgan no longer concealed his opinion of him. He
+had neither prospect nor intention of remaining with the Brooklyns,
+and he did not care whether they liked or disliked what he said.
+Accordingly, he told Thomas without any hesitation that, shortly
+before his death, Prinsep had been engaged in a peculiarly unpleasant
+intrigue with a girl down at Sir Vernon’s country place at
+Fittleworth, in Sussex—the daughter, in fact, of Sir Vernon’s head
+gardener there—and what made it worse was that the girl was engaged to
+be married at the time to a decent fellow who had only found out at
+the last moment how things were going. He would marry her all the
+same; but that did not make Prinsep’s part in the affair less
+dishonourable.
+
+It did not take Thomas long to extract the information that the
+“decent fellow” whom Prinsep had wronged was actually no other than
+this very man, Winter, against whom he had been trying to build up a
+case. Winter was twenty years older than the girl; but he seemed to be
+very much in love with her, and naturally enraged by Prinsep’s misuse
+of her. Here at last were all the elements of a crime of passion, and
+Thomas began to see his way clear to throw upon Winter quite enough
+suspicion to make it very difficult for a jury to convict Walter
+Brooklyn. Indeed, might he not even have stumbled accidentally on the
+truth, or a part of it? Perhaps after all Walter Brooklyn was not the
+murderer, although he knew all about it. But, on the whole, he was
+still inclined to believe that his client was guilty, and that
+nevertheless fortune had presented him with an excellent chance of
+shifting the suspicion elsewhere. Certainly he would say not a word of
+his discoveries to any one until the time came to adopt an actual line
+of defence at the coming trial.
+
+
+
+Chapter XIX
+
+The Police Have Their Doubts
+
+While the representatives of the defence—official and unofficial—were
+pursuing their separate lines of investigation, the police had not
+been altogether idle. Inspector Blaikie had not been long in finding
+out that Thomas had been making inquiries among the servants at
+Liskeard House, or in drawing the conclusion that the defence would
+make an attempt to shift some part at least of the suspicion to other
+shoulders with the object of creating enough doubt to make it
+difficult for a jury to convict their client. He was not surprised at
+this, and it did not at all alarm him; for, among other things, he
+regarded it as sure proof that the lawyer held his own case to be
+weak. The inspector was quite unable to take seriously the idea that
+Winter was in any way implicated in the murders; and Morgan’s
+complicity, owing to the position of their bedrooms, was practically
+impossible without Winter’s. Blaikie therefore treated Thomas’s moves
+as being merely the necessary preparation for an attempt to throw dust
+into the eyes of the jury, and not in the least an endeavour to find
+the real murderer. There could be no doubt about it—Thomas’s tactics
+were, from the inspector’s standpoint, the final and conclusive
+proof—Walter Brooklyn had murdered Prinsep, and either he or Prinsep
+had murdered George Brooklyn. They had the right man under lock and
+key.
+
+But it is one thing to be sure that you have the right man in custody,
+and quite another to be sure of getting him convicted by a jury. The
+inspector admitted that the case against Walter Brooklyn was not
+conclusive. His complicity was practically proved; but there was no
+direct evidence that he had actually struck the blows. The evidence
+was circumstantial; and, in these circumstances, the inspector did not
+disguise from himself the fact that any attempt to shift the suspicion
+might at least create enough doubt to make a conviction improbable.
+Accordingly, while Joan and Ellery were doing their best to prove
+Walter Brooklyn’s innocence, Inspector Blaikie was searching, with
+equal vigour, for further proofs of his guilt.
+
+But he found nothing that was of material importance, so far as he
+could see. The sole addition to his case was the evidence of a
+taxi-driver, who, from his accustomed post on the rank outside the
+Piccadilly Theatre, had seen Walter Brooklyn pass at somewhere about
+half-past eleven or so; but the man could not be sure to a few
+minutes. This was all very well in its way, the inspector thought; but
+as Walter Brooklyn’s presence inside Liskeard House at about 11.30 was
+proved already, it could not be of much importance to prove his
+presence just outside at about the same time. There was, however, this
+to be said for the new piece of evidence. Walter Brooklyn denied the
+telephone message, and maintained that he had not been at Liskeard
+House at all. Direct evidence that he had been at the time in question
+within a minute’s walk of the house was certainly better than nothing.
+
+Nothing further had come to light when, on Saturday morning, Inspector
+Blaikie went to Superintendent Wilson with his daily report on the
+case, telling him first about the taxi-man’s evidence. The
+superintendent seemed to attach some importance to this. “Where you
+have to rely on circumstantial evidence,” he said, “the accumulation
+of details is all-important. Every little helps. Your taxi-driver may
+yet be an important link in the chain.”
+
+The inspector confided to his superior that the result of his
+reflections on the case was to make him far more doubtful than he had
+been of securing a conviction.
+
+“Quite so,” said the superintendent. “I thought you would realise that
+when you had thought it over.”
+
+The inspector replied that he saw it now, and went on to explain what
+he believed to be the strategy of the defence—throwing suspicion on
+the servants. “The trouble of it is,” he said, “that although I’m
+absolutely sure in my own mind that Winter had nothing whatever to do
+with the affair, there’s no way of proving the thing one way or the
+other. So far as the evidence goes, he might have done it. Of course,
+there’s absolutely no shred of evidence that he did; but that is not
+enough to prevent a clever counsel from arousing suspicion in the mind
+of a jury.”
+
+“Are you so sure,” said the superintendent, “that there is no shred of
+evidence? I mean, of course, of what the other side may be able to
+dress up to look like evidence. I should say that fellow Thomas is
+clever enough to find something that he can make serve as a cause for
+suspicion, if there is anything at all that will serve. For example,
+this Prinsep seems to have been a bit of a beast. Is there anything to
+show whether Winter was on good or bad terms with him? If they had
+quarrelled or anything of the sort, that is just the kind of fact
+Thomas, or his counsel, would use to good effect.”
+
+“You’re right there; but I’ve come across nothing that would suggest a
+quarrel. Morgan—that’s the valet chap—made no secret of disliking
+Prinsep very cordially; but Winter seems to be just the good, faithful
+family servant.”
+
+“I dare say there’s nothing to be found out in that way: but you might
+make a note of it, and get a few inquiries made. We want to know
+exactly how strong the defence is likely to be. And, by the way, I
+suppose you still have no doubts in your own mind that Walter Brooklyn
+is the murderer?” The superintendent opened his eyes, and looked at
+the inspector as he spoke.
+
+“None at all—at least, it seems to me practically certain. Quite as
+certain as the case against most men who get hanged. Do you mean that
+you are in doubt about it?”
+
+The superintendent made no direct reply to this. “At any rate,” he
+said, “the evidence is certainly not conclusive. I suppose you have no
+idea whether the defence will try to prove an _alibi_.”
+
+“I don’t see how they can. According to his own story, Brooklyn was
+just strolling about alone all the evening. He can’t prove that,
+surely.”
+
+“Oh, I don’t know about that. If it were true, he might have been seen
+by a dozen people. And, even if it weren’t true, Thomas might be able
+to produce witnesses who would swear they had seen him. Thomas
+wouldn’t stick at that. Any _alibi_ he tries to produce will need very
+careful scrutiny.”
+
+“But we know Brooklyn was in the house at 11.30.”
+
+The superintendent smiled, and leant back in his chair. “No,” he said,
+“that is just where you go wrong. We don’t know it. It rests on the
+evidence about the telephone message. But have you considered all the
+possibilities about that message? The defence clearly will not admit
+that Walter Brooklyn sent it. We believe he did; but is it not quite
+possible for the defence to argue that somebody else sent that message
+with the deliberate intention of misleading us? And is it not also
+possible that Brooklyn sent it, but not from Liskeard House?”
+
+“But why should he say he was at Liskeard House if he wasn’t?”
+
+“I don’t say he wasn’t. But he may maintain that the man who took the
+message down made a mistake. After all, such mishaps are common
+enough. Or he may have been meaning to go to Liskeard House before the
+messenger arrived.”
+
+“I think that is ruled out any way. We have proved from inquiries at
+the telephone exchange that Liskeard House did ring up Brooklyn’s club
+at about the time stated. There was some trouble about the connection,
+and the operator remembers making it.”
+
+“Well, take the other possibility. May not the defence argue that some
+one else must have impersonated Brooklyn at the telephone, with the
+deliberate object of throwing suspicion upon him? The murderer,
+supposing him not to be Walter Brooklyn, would obviously want to get
+some one else suspected if he could. On that theory, all the
+circumstantial evidence would be false clues left by the real
+murderer.”
+
+“That doesn’t seem to me at all likely, if I may say so. The evidence
+that was left on the spot where Prinsep was killed was obviously meant
+to incriminate George Brooklyn. That seems to show that, when the
+murder was done, the murderer had no idea that George Brooklyn was
+dead already, if indeed he was. A criminal would hardly lay two
+distinct and actually inconsistent sets of clues, leading to quite
+different suspects.”
+
+“Not unless he was a quite exceptionally clever criminal, I grant you.
+But tell me this. Why should a man, who otherwise covered his traces
+so well, give himself away like an utter fool by that telephone
+conversation?”
+
+“Obviously, I should say, because the ’phone message was sent before
+the murder, and the murder was not premeditated. Having killed his
+man, Brooklyn took the only possible course by denying the
+conversation.”
+
+“Yes, that theory hangs together; but I’m not satisfied with it. There
+seems to me to be every reason to believe that the murders were most
+carefully thought out beforehand, and in that case the sending of the
+telephone message needs a lot of explanation. Then, again, we have
+still no indication at all of how Walter Brooklyn, or for that matter
+George Brooklyn, got into or out of the house.”
+
+“On that point I have absolutely failed to get any light. My first
+idea, of course, was duplicate keys, and the stable yard. But the yard
+was quite definitely bolted as well as locked by eleven o’clock. The
+wall could not be scaled without a long ladder, which is out of the
+question. The front door is quite impossible, unless three or four
+servants were in the plot. I suppose they must have slipped in through
+the theatre, although it beats me how they got in without being seen.”
+
+“May not Walter Brooklyn have come in through the stable yard before
+it was closed, and been in the house some time before the murders? He
+may have been going away when your taxi-man saw him at about 11.30.”
+
+“Even so, that doesn’t explain how he let himself out and bolted the
+place after him from the inside. And, in any case, George Brooklyn was
+still alive at 11.30, when he was seen leaving the building by the
+front door. He had to get back, and Prinsep, if he killed him, must
+have been alive too until well after 11.30.”
+
+“And you can add to that the difficulty that George Brooklyn seems to
+have got back into the garden after 11.30, and that, where one man
+could enter unseen, so could two.”
+
+The inspector scratched his chin. “The whole thing is a puzzle,” he
+said. “But there’s one thing I’m sure of. It’s a much worse puzzle if
+you don’t assume that Walter Brooklyn was the murderer.”
+
+“Still, there’s nothing so dangerous as to simplify your problem by
+assuming what you cannot conclusively prove to be true. If I were a
+juryman, I certainly could not vote for a conviction on the evidence
+we have at present.”
+
+“But there’s no one else who could have done it.”
+
+“Oh, yes, there is. There’s all the population of London. I grant you
+we have at present no reason for suspecting any one else in
+particular. But that may be because we don’t know enough.”
+
+“Then what do you want me to do?”
+
+“Hunt, for all you’re worth, for further evidence. Don’t shut your
+eyes to the possibility that Walter Brooklyn may not be the murderer.
+Hunt for evidence of any kind, as if you were starting the case
+afresh.”
+
+“And, meanwhile, Walter Brooklyn remains in custody?”
+
+“Most certainly. There is presumptive evidence that he is the guilty
+party. But it’s nothing like a certainty. Remember that.”
+
+The above conversation serves to show that the police, on their side,
+were becoming seriously worried. They had hoped that the strong
+presumptive evidence against Walter Brooklyn would speedily have been
+reinforced by further discoveries; but so far they had been
+disappointed. Inspector Blaikie at least was still strongly of opinion
+that he was guilty; but a strong opinion is not enough to convince a
+jury, and the inspector did not like to see the acquittal of a man he
+had arrested, especially as he had no other evidence pointing to some
+different person as the guilty person. Superintendent Wilson at least,
+while he could not blame the inspector for his conduct of the
+investigation, was growing more and more dissatisfied with the
+progress of the case. He had an uneasy and a growing feeling, which he
+had at first been unwilling to admit even to himself, that they were
+on the wrong tack.
+
+
+
+Chapter XX
+
+Superintendent Wilson Thinks It Out
+
+When the inspector had left him, Superintendent Wilson gave himself up
+for a time to his thoughts. Leaning back in his chair, with his long
+legs stretched out before him, and the tips of his fingers pressed
+together before his face, he concentrated his faculties upon the
+Brooklyn affair. A heavy frown settled on his brow, and he gave every
+now and then an impatient twist of his body, eloquent of his mind’s
+discomfort. At length he sighed, looked at the clock, rose, put on his
+hat, and started for home. He had made up his mind, as he did when
+difficulties beset him, to talk the case over with his wife.
+
+Superintendent Wilson never mentioned business to his wife when things
+were going well; but whenever his usually clear brain seemed to be
+working amiss, it was his way to unload on her all his trouble. Not
+that Mrs. Wilson had a powerful intellect—far from it. She was a
+comfortable, motherly woman, inclined to stoutness, and completely
+wrapped up in her children and her home. For her husband she had a
+profound admiration. He was, to her mind, not merely the finest
+detective in Europe, but the cleverest man in the world. But she was
+quite content to admire his cleverness without understanding it; and
+her husband made no attempt, as a rule, to discuss his cases with her.
+
+He had found, however, that on the rare occasions on which his
+thinking got into a blind alley, her very passivity was the best
+possible help he could have. As he talked to her, and as she assented
+unquestioningly to everything that he said, new ideas somehow arose in
+his mind. Doubts were dispelled, new courses of action suggested, the
+weak spots in the armour of crime became apparent. He would tell her
+that she had been the source of his most brilliant inspirations; and
+she would placidly accept the rôle, without bothering to inquire in
+what way she contributed to his flashes of insight into the most
+abstruse mysteries that came under the notice of the Criminal
+Investigation Department.
+
+It was a sign of deep dissatisfaction with the progress of the
+Brooklyn case that the superintendent now took his troubles home to
+his wife. He found her, in the pleasant sitting-room of their house
+facing Clapham Common, placidly knitting woollies for the children in
+anticipation of the coming winter. From the garden came the noise of
+the children themselves, playing a game which involved repeated shouts
+of “Bang, bang, bang!” as the rival armies engaged.
+
+“My dear. I want to consult you,” he said, coming up and kissing her.
+
+Mrs. Wilson laid down her knitting on the table beside her, and
+composed herself to listen.
+
+“It’s about this Brooklyn case. I suppose you’ve read about it in the
+papers. I’m working on it, you know.”
+
+Mrs. Wilson, who confined her newspaper reading to a glance at the
+pictures and headlines in the _Daily Graphic_, had barely heard of the
+case, and knew none of the details. Her husband therefore began by
+giving her a brief, but perfectly clear, account of the circumstances
+of the crimes. It helped to clear his own mind, and to put the
+essential facts in their proper focus.
+
+“How dreadful!” was Mrs. Wilson’s appropriate comment at various
+points in the story. “And who did it?” she asked when her husband had
+done, smiling at him as if he were certain to know.
+
+“My dear, if I knew that, I shouldn’t need to consult you. Blaikie
+feels quite certain it was Walter Brooklyn, old Sir Vernon’s brother.
+I’d better tell you just what there is against him.” And the
+superintendent gave an account of the evidence leading to the
+presumption of Walter Brooklyn’s guilt—the walking-stick, his failure
+to explain his movements on the night of the murders, his very strong
+motive for the crimes, and finally, the telephone message sent from
+Liskeard House on the fatal evening.
+
+“But you say he didn’t do it. Then who did?” asked his wife.
+
+“No, my dear, I didn’t say he didn’t do it. All I say is that I’m not
+satisfied that he did.”
+
+“But you say he sent the telephone message——”
+
+“Even if he did send the message, that doesn’t prove that he committed
+the murders. He may have been there, and yet some one else may be the
+murderer. But I’m not even sure that he ever did send the message.”
+
+“If he didn’t send it, some one else did.”
+
+“Yes, my dear, that’s the very point. But if it was some one else,
+then that some one was deliberately trying to incriminate Walter
+Brooklyn.”
+
+“That is what you call laying a false clue, isn’t it?”
+
+“Yes, but the trouble is that, if the telephone and the walking-stick
+are false clues, we have to deal with two quite different sets of
+false clues, both deliberately laid, and pointing to quite different
+conclusions as to the murderer. Is that possible?” The superintendent
+paused, and looked at his wife. But instead of answering, she got up
+and went to the window. “Georgie,” she said, “you mustn’t pull the
+cat’s tail. If you’re not good I shall send you to bed.” Then she came
+back to her seat. “Yes, dear, you were saying——”
+
+“I was asking whether it was credible that some one should have laid
+two sets of quite inconsistent false clues for the purpose of
+misleading us.”
+
+“Two sets of clues, dear. And both to mislead you. It must be very
+difficult to see through them both.”
+
+“By George,” exclaimed the superintendent, leaping from his chair and
+beginning to pace up and down the room. “By George, you’ve given me
+just the idea I wanted. Yes, that must be it.”
+
+“What must be what, dear? I had no idea I’d said anything clever.”
+
+“Why, _both_ sets of clues weren’t meant to mislead us. That’s it. The
+criminal laid two sets of false clues. He meant us to see through one
+set; but he thought we should never see through the other. He reckoned
+it would never occur to us that both sets of clues were false. Oh,
+yes. We were to feel awfully bucked up about seeing through the first
+set of clues—the obviously false ones—and then we were meant to go on
+and hang the wrong man gaily on the strength of the others. It was a
+clever idea, too, by Jove.”
+
+“Do you mean——” Mrs. Wilson began; but her husband was now in full
+flow, and he cut her short.
+
+“What I mean is that the criminal deliberately laid the set of clues
+which pointed to the two men having murdered each other. We were bound
+to see through these, because the conclusion to which they pointed was
+just physically impossible. Then he laid the clues pointing to Walter
+Brooklyn, really meaning this time to get Walter Brooklyn hanged for
+the murders. My word, yes, this does throw a new light on the case. My
+dear, you’ve done it again. There’s lots to find out yet; but I’m sure
+it will come out right now that I know where to begin.”
+
+“Then who was the murderer, dear? Have I told you somehow? I’m sure I
+don’t know who it was.”
+
+“Neither do I, my dear. But I think I do know now how to begin looking
+for him. When I’ve found him I’ll tell you who he is. And half the
+credit of finding him will be yours.” The superintendent was so moved
+that he went up and kissed his wife as he kissed her only on occasions
+of rare exaltation. Then he got back to business with a sigh.
+
+“If both sets of clues are false, my dear, you see that doesn’t make
+them valueless. They may still be used to point to the real murderer.
+Yes, I begin to see light already. If Walter Brooklyn did not send
+that telephone message, who did? Not much help there, I’m afraid,
+except that it was a very daring criminal indeed, and probably one who
+knew intimately both Walter Brooklyn and Liskeard House. Ringing up
+Brooklyn’s club shows that—he knew the man’s habits. There is
+something to go upon at all events. But there’s the walking-stick
+too—yes, that may be the point on which the whole case turns.”
+
+By this time Superintendent Wilson was talking to himself, almost
+oblivious of his listener. His wife knew too well to interrupt him.
+She resumed her knitting, only looking up at him from time to time as
+he paced up and down the room.
+
+“The stick. H’m. If Walter Brooklyn didn’t leave it in Prinsep’s room,
+who did? It was a very remarkable stick, and quite certain to be
+recognised. Just the thing, in facet, for a false clue. Let me see.
+Brooklyn said he lost it on the Tuesday afternoon—the day of the
+murders. That means that somehow or other the murderer got hold of it.
+H’m, h’m. We’re getting warm, my dear. When we know for certain who
+got hold of that stick we shall have found the murderer. Yes, we must
+certainly find out all about that stick. Left in a taxi, was it? I
+think not. I’m beginning to have a very shrewd idea of where it was
+left.” The superintendent paused.
+
+“Where was it left, dear?”
+
+“Wait till I know for certain, darling. I’ll find out, never fear. And
+then I shall know who the murderer was. But even then I shall be a
+long way off getting a conviction.” The superintendent laughed.
+
+“But surely, if you know——”
+
+“Knowing is one thing, and proving a case to a jury quite another. But
+that’s enough for the present. I want to sleep on this.” And with
+these words Superintendent Wilson went out into the garden to play
+with the children.
+
+
+
+Chapter XXI
+
+Don Quixote
+
+While Fred Thomas was trying to make a shield for Walter Brooklyn’s
+guilt by throwing the suspicion upon others whom he himself believed
+to be innocent, Joan and Ellery were following up their attempt to
+prove her stepfather’s _alibi_. Two points they had already
+established, thanks to Ellery’s mingled sagacity and good fortune.
+Walter Brooklyn had definitely been in Leicester Square at a quarter
+to eleven, and in Piccadilly Circus at about twenty past eleven. So
+far his story was confirmed. Moreover, if he had been seen in the
+Circus at 11.20, it was difficult to believe that he had rung up his
+club from Prinsep’s room at Liskeard House, after making his way
+unseen into the building, less than ten minutes later. It was true
+that the evidence was not absolutely conclusive, as neither time could
+be fixed, quite certainly, to within a few minutes. But at least the
+evidence against him was severely shaken, and there seemed to be good
+reason for urging that the telephone message, round which the case had
+practically been built up, was a fake. Find out who sent it, the
+defence could argue, and you would find the real criminal.
+
+Still, even if the telephone message could be discredited—and Ellery
+realised that this would take some doing—there remained the
+walking-stick, and the undoubted fact that Walter Brooklyn had
+expressed the intention of seeing Prinsep that evening. They could not
+feel that the evidence which they had so far gathered made his
+acquittal even probable, much less secure, especially as there was
+still no evidence that seemed to point in any other direction. Joan
+and Ellery felt that they must get further confirmation of the
+_alibi_. It was a question of accounting, not for a few minutes here
+and there, but for every minute of Walter Brooklyn’s time. Clearly,
+what now mattered most was where he had been between the time when the
+old night-watchman saw him in Piccadilly Circus and his return to his
+Club at about midnight. George Brooklyn had been seen alive as late as
+11.30, and Prinsep only a few minutes before. If Walter Brooklyn had
+murdered either, it must have been done between 11.30 and midnight;
+for it seemed clear enough that he had not left his Club again during
+the night. Of this the night porter was positive. At the same time, it
+was desirable, though less important, to confirm also his story of his
+movements during the earlier part of the evening. After they had
+talked the situation over, Joan and Ellery determined to pursue the
+hunt together, and once more to follow Walter Brooklyn’s route in
+search of further confirmation.
+
+For what it was worth, Joan had already been able to confirm her
+stepfather’s first statement about his movements. A door porter at the
+Piccadilly Theatre had seen him standing for a minute or two outside
+the main entrance “a bit before half-past ten,” and had noticed him
+walking off along Piccadilly towards the Circus. Thereafter, although
+Joan and Ellery hunted high and low, they could get no further trace
+of him until his meeting with Kitty Frensham in Leicester Square at a
+quarter to eleven. They found and interrogated without success the
+policeman who had been on duty in Piccadilly Circus. They even
+inquired of the porter outside the Monico and the Criterion and of a
+few street sellers who were standing at the corners. There was no
+information to be obtained; but they agreed that this did not greatly
+matter, if only they could get evidence bearing on Walter Brooklyn’s
+movements after half-past eleven, or still better, from 10.45 onwards.
+They would begin at the other end, and try to trace his movements
+between 11.30 and midnight. Accordingly, they walked down together to
+Trafalgar Square. Here there were two possible lines of investigation.
+Walter Brooklyn had first leaned for some moments over the parapet
+opposite the National Gallery: he had then walked down to the top of
+Whitehall, and had there paused to set his watch by a clock standing
+out over one of the shops. There was a slender chance that some one
+might have noticed him on one or other of these occasions.
+
+“How shall we make a start here?” asked Ellery, rather forlornly, as
+they stood at the corner of Cockspur Street, overlooking Trafalgar
+Square. At the foot of the Nelson Column stood the usual curious—and
+incurious—crowd listening to some orator descanting on the rights—or
+wrongs—of labour.
+
+“Follow the old precept, of course,” said Joan promptly. “Ask a
+policeman. There seem to be plenty about.”
+
+Ellery went up to the nearest and began to explain his business. He
+was speedily referred to the sergeant, who was standing at the edge of
+the crowd, eyeing the little knot of speakers on the plinth, as if he
+was meditating a possible arrest. “He’ll know who was on duty on
+Tuesday night. I wasn’t,” said the constable.
+
+The sergeant was communicative. First, he bade them wait a few minutes
+while he listened to what the speaker, then on her feet—for it was a
+woman—was saying. What she said appeared to give him satisfaction; for
+he smiled happily, as he entered a note in his book. Then the speech
+became more commonplace, and the sergeant, bidding a constable take
+notes while he was busy, signified his willingness to attend to Joan
+and Ellery. But, before they could tell him of their concerns, they
+had to listen awhile to his, which related mainly to the iniquity of
+allowing seditious meetings to be held openly in Trafalgar Square.
+“They tell us to take it all down, they do—every word; and then they
+do nothing. They shove it away in some pigeon-hole or other.”
+
+“They” were presumably the powers that ruled, at the Home Office, over
+the doings of the Metropolitan Police.
+
+“What I say is, What’s the police for, if it isn’t to stop this kind
+of thing?” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the plinth.
+
+“But you make an arrest sometimes, don’t you?” Joan asked.
+
+“Once in a blue moon, maybe. But even then, more often than not the
+Home Secretary lets ’em go. Disgusting, I call it, and demoralising
+for the country. If I had my way . . .”
+
+He had his way for a few minutes, as far as words went, and then, as
+the reward of patient listening, he let Ellery have his say. But he
+was not helpful.
+
+“Yes, I know who was on duty here that night. There was Bill Adams and
+Tom Short down by Whitehall, and there was George Mulligan patrolling
+up there by the Gallery. But it’s a hundred to one against any of them
+having noticed your man. Adams is on duty here, and the other two will
+be along at the station. You can have a word with Adams now, and I’ll
+take you along to the station myself in a few minutes. They’re just
+finishing up there.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the plinth.
+
+Adams, a tall, fat policeman, who kept patting himself on the stomach
+while he talked, had seen nothing of Walter Brooklyn, whose photograph
+Ellery showed him. “Lord bless you, if I was to notice everybody I
+should have a job on,” was his comment, clearly showing his view of
+the hopelessness of their search. Discouraged, they left him, and went
+to the station with the sergeant.
+
+Here, the same fate befell them. Neither of the two constables had
+noticed Walter Brooklyn; and both of them seemed to think the quest
+quite hopeless. Ellery did not give the name of the man he was looking
+for, lest the police, intent on building up their own case, might
+refuse him information. Only an unrecognisable snapshot had appeared
+in the Press.
+
+“Well, sir,” said the sergeant. “I’ve done my best for you, and I’m
+sorry it’s no use. But it’s what I told you to expect.” Ellery
+distributed suitable rewards in the appropriately furtive manner, and
+prepared to take his leave. But Joan stopped him.
+
+“I have an idea,” she said. “It may come to nothing; but it’s worth
+trying.” Then she turned to Mulligan, a short, humorous, and very
+obviously Irish constable.
+
+“Tell me, is there any tramp, or person of that sort, who is often to
+be found at night in Trafalgar Square? I mean some one you’re always
+having to move on.”
+
+“Lord, miss, there’s a dozen or so. Move ’em on night after night; but
+they come back just the same.”
+
+“Well, I want you to find me a man like that—one who’s always hanging
+about the Square, and is likely to know others who do the same. Can
+you find me a man of that sort?”
+
+“Certainly, miss, I can. I see what you’re after, and I should say the
+chap we call ‘the Spaniard’ is about what you want. He’s a bloke who
+goes about in a long cloak and a broad-brimmed felt hat—often not much
+else, I should say, barring the remains of a pair of trousers—he’s
+pretty nearly always about in the Square, and he’s always talking to
+any one he can find to listen.”
+
+Ellery broke in. “Can you find him for us now?”
+
+The constable looked at the sergeant. “If the sergeant here will let
+me leave the station for half an hour, I expect I can,” he said.
+
+The sergeant was duly placated, and the two set off with Constable
+Mulligan. He led them, not into the Square, but into the little alley
+behind St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields. There he pointed to the bar of a
+rather disreputable-looking public-house. “You go in there,” he said
+to Ellery, “and ask if ‘the Spaniard’ is there. They’d know him. If I
+were to go in, they’d shut up like a knife when you aren’t looking.”
+
+Ellery went in and ordered a drink. A glance round the bar showed him
+that “the Spaniard” was not in the bar at the moment. He turned to the
+woman behind the bar counter and asked her if she knew where to find
+“the Spaniard.” The woman looked at him with an air of surprise; but
+she made no reply. Then she turned to a curtained door behind her, and
+spoke through it. “Alf,” she said, “come here a minute.”
+
+Alf speedily appeared in his shirt-sleeves—a portly, middle-aged man,
+rather stolid to look at, but with a pair of cunning little eyes that
+looked at you, not steadily, but with a succession of keen, quick
+glances. Ellery heard the woman whisper to him, “This gent here’s
+asking for ‘the Spaniard.’”
+
+“And what might you be wanting with ‘the Spaniard,’ mister?” asked
+Alf, leaning across the bar, and speaking confidentially almost into
+Ellery’s ear.
+
+“Certainly nothing to his disadvantage. But I want to know something,
+and I think he may be able to tell me.”
+
+The publican looked at him a trifle suspiciously. “Is the gentleman
+known to you, maybe?” he asked.
+
+“No; or I could probably find him for myself. I thought you might know
+him.”
+
+“Well, he ain’t here,” said Alf, apparently making up his mind to
+Ellery’s disadvantage. Ellery began to expostulate; but at that
+moment, through the same curtained door through which mine host had
+come, walked a quite unmistakable figure—a very tall, thin man, with
+perfectly white hair and beard, the latter cut to a fine point. The
+new-comer wore a long and very threadbare black cloak, now green with
+age, and he seemed just about to place upon his head a very
+wide-brimmed black—or rather greenish—felt hat, which Ellery thought
+of instinctively as a “sombrero.” In a fine, high-pitched voice,
+perfectly cultivated but a good deal affected, and with a curious
+intonation that seemed like the affectation of a foreign accent, he
+addressed the woman behind the bar. “Did I hear my name spoken among
+you?” he asked.
+
+The woman turned to Alf, who shrugged his shoulders.
+
+“Here he is,” he said to Ellery. “I suppose you’d better ask him what
+you want.”
+
+Ellery put on his best manners. “Sir,” said he to the man called “the
+Spaniard,” “may I have the honour of a few words with you on a matter
+which concerns me very deeply, and you, I must admit, scarcely at
+all?”
+
+“The Spaniard” bowed low. “The honour, sir,” he replied, “is with me.
+For, as the poet says, ‘Honoured is he to whom man speaks the things
+of his heart.’”
+
+“We will call the honours easy, if you please. But I shall be very
+much obliged for a few words with you.”
+
+“If it please you, then, let us take the air together. I can speak and
+listen better under the sky.”
+
+“With pleasure; but just a word before we go. My friend, Miss Cowper,
+and the—gentleman who brought me to you are waiting outside. You will
+not mind if they accompany us?”
+
+Ellery had some misgiving that, suddenly confronted with a policeman,
+the old “Spaniard” might reach the conclusion that he had been led
+into a trap, and refuse to speak.
+
+“And to whom do I owe the honour of this introduction?”
+
+“Well, to be frank, he is a policeman; but he is acting quite in a
+non-professional capacity.”
+
+The old man hesitated a moment. Then he said only, “Let us go.”
+
+Outside, Ellery’s fears were speedily removed. He saw Joan and the
+policeman waiting a few doors off. “The Spaniard” saw them too, and,
+at sight of Mulligan, his face lighted up with pleasure. He greeted
+Joan with a low bow, and then turned to Mulligan with another.
+
+“Ah, my friend, it is you. As the poet says, ‘Even among the thorns
+the rose is sweet.’ You are not, I thank God, as others of your
+cloth.” Then he turned to Ellery. “Mr. Mulligan and I are old
+friends,” he said: “but it is not always so between me and the
+guardians of law and order, as you quaintly term them.”
+
+“Yes,” said Mulligan, smiling. “‘The Spaniard’ and I have had many a
+good talk together. But you didn’t know, did you, father, that I’d
+tracked you here. I wouldn’t go in because I thought there might be
+others who wouldn’t be so pleased to see me.”
+
+“As always, the soul of consideration. The mark, gentlemen, of true
+chivalry. I will requite you as best I can by any service that I can
+do to your friends.” And again he lifted his hat, and made a sweeping
+bow.
+
+When Joan and Ellery talked the thing over afterwards, they remembered
+that their eyes had met at this moment, and they had much ado not to
+laugh outright. They discovered that the same thought had come into
+their heads. This was not merely “The Spaniard”: it was Don Quixote
+himself come to life again. But where was Rosinante?
+
+Constable Mulligan excused himself. “I mustn’t be away from the
+station any longer. Now you’ve been introduced you can get along
+without me. You know where to find me if you want me again.” And,
+thanked and rewarded by Ellery, the constable returned to his duty,
+after putting a hand affectionately on the old man’s shoulder by way
+of farewell.
+
+Joan and Ellery between them told “the Spaniard” the full story of
+their quest, first as they walked towards Trafalgar Square, and then
+leaning over the very parapet over which Walter Brooklyn had leaned.
+“The Spaniard” heard them through, only inclining his head every now
+and then to show that he fully appreciated some particular point in
+the narrative. Finally, Ellery produced the photograph of Walter
+Brooklyn, and asked the old man whether he had seen the original on
+Tuesday night.
+
+“A fine figure of a gentleman,” said “the Spaniard,” “and, indeed, I
+know him well by sight, though hitherto I have been denied the honour
+of knowing his name. Often have I seen him in Pall Mall.”
+
+“Yes, but did you see him on Tuesday?” Joan could not help
+interrupting.
+
+“The Spaniard’s” way of continuing was in itself a mild and courteous
+reproof. “Often, my friends, have I seen him, little deeming that one
+day my memory of him might be of service to others.” And then he
+added, “Yes, I saw him here on Tuesday—here, on this very spot to
+which I have led you. Here he stopped and lighted a cigar. I noted
+that he lighted it from the stump of another.”
+
+“That was because he had no matches,” said Joan excitedly. “That bears
+out what he said.”
+
+“Madam, if it would not incommode you, might I crave your permission
+to smoke even now?” Joan readily gave it, and the old man deftly
+rolled a cigarette with strong black tobacco from a battered metal
+case.
+
+“Can you tell us at what time you saw him?” said Ellery.
+
+“Ah, time. Why should I mark the hours? What need have I to know? It
+was evening.”
+
+“But what you tell us is of no use unless you can say what time it
+was.”
+
+“Alas, if I had but known, my watch should never have gone—the way of
+all watches.” A faint flicker of a smile, and an extraordinarily
+expressive gesture, accompanied the phrase. It was as if all watches
+had a mysterious knack of vanishing into infinite space. “But,
+nevertheless, another’s memory may serve where mine fails. For I was
+not alone.”
+
+“Who was with you? Can we find him?”
+
+“I will find him for you; but not till evening. And meantime, I will
+seek for those who may have seen Mr. Brooklyn in Whitehall. If any can
+find such a man, I can find him. There is a fraternity among us who
+wander under the sky. We remark what passes around us; for we have no
+affairs of our own to disturb our minds.” He turned to Ellery. “It
+would be well that you should leave the photograph with me until
+evening. Then we will meet again.”
+
+An appointment was made for Trafalgar Square at eleven o’clock that
+same night. The old man would not meet them sooner, or elsewhere. Joan
+could not leave Sir Vernon at that hour; but Ellery would come. In
+parting, she thanked “the Spaniard” for all that he had done.
+
+“What can a man do better than come to the aid of ladies in distress?
+Truly, as the poet says, ‘He enlargeth his heart who doeth his
+neighbour a kindness.’ The word I have rendered ‘neighbour’ is
+feminine in the Spanish,” he added, half to himself.
+
+“What a queer old bird!” said Ellery, as they walked away. “It was
+difficult to keep it up while we were talking to him; but it was well
+worth while.”
+
+“I think he’s a dear,” said Joan. “A bit queer, of course; but see how
+he’s helping us. We could never have done anything without him.”
+
+“He’s quite off his chump, that’s clear. But he seems to be quite all
+there when it’s a question of getting something done. We’re meeting
+some queer people on this job.”
+
+“Who do you suppose he is?” asked Joan.
+
+“Nothing on earth, if you mean how does he get his living. I should
+say he was just what they call a character, picking up somehow barely
+enough to exist on, and drifting about with nothing in particular to
+do. He probably drinks, or has been in trouble somehow.”
+
+“I don’t care what trouble he’s been in. He fascinates me. And he’s
+obviously an educated man.”
+
+“Yes, I dare say he was quite the gentleman—in the orthodox
+sense—years ago. Now he is one of the bottom dogs, keeping up his
+self-respect by playing the hidalgo.”
+
+“Don’t you suppose he’s really a Spaniard?”
+
+“No more than you or I. He’s probably been in Spain. That’s all. But,
+whoever he is, he seems likely to get us just the information we want,
+and that’s what we really care about. Only I feel inclined to
+introduce him to my night watchman at Piccadilly. They would make a
+pretty pair. They are both hero-worshippers.”
+
+
+
+Chapter XXII
+
+“The Spaniard” Does His Bit
+
+Ellery met “the Spaniard” in accordance with his appointment in
+Trafalgar Square that evening. As he approached, he saw the old man
+pacing up and down the pavement in front of the National Gallery,
+walking slowly with a dignity and grace worthy of some grandee of the
+olden times. He was curiously like the Lavery portrait of Cunninghame
+Graham. “The Spaniard” made Ellery a low bow, accompanied by a
+sweeping gesture with his broad-brimmed hat; and Ellery, doing his
+best to live up to the occasion, returned the salutation with a very
+inferior grace.
+
+“You have news for me?” he asked.
+
+“If you will do me the honour of accompanying me in my promenade, I
+think I may be able to impart certain facts of interest to your fair
+lady.”
+
+“The Spaniard,” as Ellery told Joan afterwards, took the devil of a
+time to come down to brass tacks. But what he had to tell was quite
+conclusive. He had found, and could produce, conclusive evidence that
+Walter Brooklyn had been in Trafalgar Square at the time he had
+stated. He had discovered two men who had seen him leaning over the
+parapet opposite the National Gallery, and one of them had definitely
+noticed the time by the clock of St. Martin’s Church. This had been at
+11.40. Moreover, the second man, perhaps, “the Spaniard” hinted—oh, so
+delicately that his way of saying it seemed to make petty larceny a
+fine art—in the hope of picking a few trifles out of Mr. Brooklyn’s
+pockets, had actually followed him round the Square, and seen him take
+out his watch and look at the time. He had shadowed Brooklyn up
+Cockspur Street and the Haymarket, actually as far as the corner of
+Jermyn Street, where some object of greater immediate interest had
+served to distract him from the chase. Moreover, in return for
+suitable rewards, both these men were prepared to give evidence. “The
+Spaniard” had arranged for them both to meet Ellery, if he so desired,
+and, in a few minutes’ time, they would be in the bar of the little
+public-house in which Ellery had originally met with “the Spaniard”
+himself.
+
+This was more than satisfactory, and Ellery at once went to meet the
+two men and hear their stories. They fully bore out what “the
+Spaniard” had said, and Ellery took their names and addresses, and
+then arranged to see them again on the following morning at the same
+place, and to take them, with the other witnesses he and Joan had
+collected, to Thomas’s office, where they would be able to consider
+the steps that had best be taken towards securing Walter Brooklyn’s
+absolution. He could get hold of the remaining witnesses later in the
+evening; but first he had to thank “the Spaniard” and to settle with
+him for what he had done.
+
+Ellery had no doubt that “the Spaniard” both needed and expected
+payment for the very real service he had rendered; but it was, he
+found, by no means easy to come to the point. The old man, despite his
+seedy garments, was very much the fine gentleman in his manners; it
+was easy enough to thank him handsomely, and to receive his still more
+handsome acknowledgments. But it was not at all easy to offer him
+money. Still, it had to be done; and, awkwardly and stammeringly,
+Ellery at last did it.
+
+He was met with a refusal. “The Spaniard” was only too glad to have
+been of some service—to a lady. Thanks were more than enough:
+pecuniary reward would degrade a charming episode to the level of a
+commercial transaction. Perhaps, some day, Ellery, or Miss Cowper
+might be in a position to do him a service. He would accept it gladly;
+but he begged that, until the occasion arose, no more might be said
+upon the matter. Ellery had to leave it at that, making a resolution
+to seek at once an occasion for being of service to the man who had
+helped so greatly in their quest. Meanwhile, he could only thank him
+again, and exchange, in taking his leave, the fine courtesies which
+gave “the Spaniard” such manifest pleasure.
+
+Ellery’s first action, on leaving Trafalgar Square, was to take steps
+to summon his other witnesses to meet him at Thomas’s office the
+following morning. Kitty Frensham he secured by a telephone message to
+Mandleham’s flat. Mandleham at once promised to come himself, and to
+bring Kitty with him, at half-past ten. Ellery then walked on to
+Piccadilly Circus, where he found his friend, the night-watchman, deep
+this time in Carlyle’s _Oliver Cromwell_, which Ellery had lent him.
+He, too, promised to be in attendance. Ellery then walked along
+Piccadilly to the theatre, and secured the attendant who had seen
+Walter Brooklyn standing outside at “a bit before half-past ten.” This
+completed his preparations; and he rang at the bell of Liskeard House,
+and asked for Joan.
+
+“What news?” she asked anxiously, coming forward to greet him as he
+was announced.
+
+“The best,” he replied. “The _alibi_ is proved.”
+
+“Oh, I am so glad. And now I can tell you a secret. I wasn’t
+absolutely sure my stepfather had told us the truth. At least, I was
+sure; but I couldn’t help having a doubt every now and then. And I
+simply couldn’t bear the thought that he might have been implicated. I
+knew, of course, that he hadn’t killed any one; but I wasn’t quite
+sure he didn’t know all about it. And everybody else seemed to believe
+the worst, and at times I couldn’t help being a little shaken. Now you
+must tell me all about what you’ve found out.”
+
+Ellery did tell her all about it, and also of the steps he had taken
+to arrange a meeting at Thomas’s office for the following morning.
+Joan said at once that she would go; and Ellery thereupon rang up
+Thomas, to whom he had so far said nothing, at his home, and demanded
+an interview. Joan and he must, he said, see Thomas on urgent
+business. They would be bringing several witnesses who could throw
+valuable light on the case, and they would be at his office at 10.30
+on the following morning. Would Thomas be sure to keep the time free?
+
+Thomas was plainly surprised, and also curious; and he tried to make
+Ellery tell him over the ’phone what it was all about. This Ellery
+would not do, merely saying that the matter was of vital importance,
+but he would rather explain it all in the morning. Thomas thereupon
+agreed to cancel a previous engagement, and to be ready for them at
+the hour arranged. “Now, at last,” said Ellery, as he hung up the
+receiver, “I think we are entitled to a good night’s rest.”
+
+“I’m afraid there won’t be much sleep for me, darling,” said Joan.
+“Sir Vernon was told to-day about poor George. He kept asking for him,
+and in the end Marian had to tell him all about it. Of course it has
+made him worse. Now, he keeps asking to see the police, and insisting
+that they must find the murderers. But he knows nothing at all about
+it—he has no idea who did it. Some one must be with him all the time,
+of course. Mary is with him now, and I have to take her place at
+midnight. She is tired out, poor thing.”
+
+“And what about you, poor thing?” said Ellery; for he could see that
+she was almost at the end of her strength. He drew her head down on to
+his shoulder, and tried to persuade her to give up the idea of coming
+to Thomas’s office in the morning. But Joan was firm: she must see the
+thing through. She would be all right: she could get plenty of sleep
+later in the day. Ellery had to consent to her coming, and the lovers
+sat together till midnight, when they bade each other farewell, as
+lovers do, for all the world as if their parting were, not for a few
+hours, but for an eternity.
+
+It was getting on for one o’clock when Ellery reached home; and he was
+surprised as he went up the steps, to see a light in his sitting-room.
+He let himself in with his key, and found his landlady sitting bolt
+upright on the hall chair. “Lord, Mr. Ellery,” she said, “how late you
+are. There’s a person in your room been waiting for you more than an
+hour. I wouldn’t go to bed with him there—not for worlds, I wouldn’t.
+He said he must see you, and would wait.”
+
+“What sort of a man?”
+
+“Oh, not a nice man. He looks to me more like a tramp, sir, than
+anything else. I was afraid he might steal something if I left him.”
+
+Ellery opened the door and went in. He at once recognised the man who
+had followed Walter Brooklyn on Tuesday from Trafalgar Square to
+Jermyn Street—one of the witnesses whom “the Spaniard” had found. The
+visitor lost no time.
+
+“Look ’ere, mister,” he said, “it’s off.”
+
+“What’s off? What do you mean?”
+
+“What I mean is you don’t catch me givin’ hevidence in this ’ere case.
+You treated me like a gent, and I thought I’d let you know. But
+to-morrow I shan’t be there. You gotter understand that.”
+
+“Do you mean you won’t help to clear Mr. Brooklyn? Why, what’s the
+matter?”
+
+“Well, mister, I may not be what I oughter be—leastways, some folks
+says I ain’t. But I got views o’ my own as to what’s right, same as
+others. And I’ve found out a thing or two about this Mr. Brooklyn of
+yours. He can swing, s’far as I’m concerned.”
+
+“My good fellow, the man’s innocent of this crime, whatever you may
+know about him. You must say what you know.”
+
+“Not so much ‘good fellow,’ and there’s no ‘must’ about it, mister.
+That chap deserves hangin’ for things he’s done, and I don’t care if
+they hangs ’im on the right charge or the wrong ’un. I know a girl
+what . . .”
+
+“I don’t mind telling you that I don’t like Mr. Brooklyn any better
+than you do. But I want to see him cleared. He didn’t commit these
+murders, I know that.”
+
+“Come, come, mister, why not let ’im hang? What’s it matter to you,
+anyway? He’d be a good riddance, from what I ’ear of ’im.”
+
+“But you can’t see a man condemned when you know he’s innocent.”
+
+“Why not, mister? I says, Why not? It’s not as if you had any personal
+interest in the fellow, so to speak.”
+
+“But I have. He’s the stepfather of the girl I’m engaged to marry. She
+would never get over it if he were convicted.”
+
+The pickpocket’s manner changed from sullenness to interest. “Eh,
+what’s that you say?” he said. “Nah, if you’d told me that at onct,
+I’m not one to stand between a man and his girl.”
+
+“You’ll come, won’t you?”
+
+The man hesitated. “I don’t say as I won’t,” he said. “But, if I do
+come, ’twon’t be for any love of your Mr. Brooklyn. I’d see ’im
+hanged, and glad too, along of what I know.”
+
+“I don’t care why you come, as long as you do come.”
+
+“Well, mister, I’ll come. If yer want to know why, it’s because I’ve
+took a bit of a fancy to yer. But I’ll ’ave a bit of me own back on
+that Brooklyn gent, if he gets off bein’ ’ung. I didn’t lift ’is watch
+off ’im that night; but I will when ’e gets out.”
+
+“Oh, you’re welcome there. Pick his pockets as much as you like.”
+
+“In course yer won’t let on ter the police what I’ve been sayin’. I’ve
+bin treatin’ yer as if yer was a pal, yer know.”
+
+Ellery promised that his visitor’s calling should be kept a dead
+secret. Then he gave him a drink and showed him out, after obtaining a
+renewal of the promise that he would attend in the morning. The man
+slouched out into the night.
+
+Love did not keep Ellery awake. He was tired, and he slept soundly,
+only waking in time to snatch a hasty breakfast, and to call for Joan
+early enough to take her straight round with him to their appointment
+at Thomas’s office.
+
+
+
+Chapter XXIII
+
+Walter Brooklyn Goes Free
+
+The business transacted at Thomas’s office that morning was
+protracted; but the result of it was never in doubt. Thomas had before
+long to admit that he had been suspecting an innocent man, and that
+man his own client. At first he was inclined to be incredulous; but,
+when witness after witness was produced, he had to admit absolutely
+that Joan and Ellery had proved their case. The testimony of one, or
+even two, witnesses might have been doubted; but the cumulative effect
+of the evidence, given by the old night-watchman, Kitty Frensham, and
+Horace Mandleham, and the men whom “the Spaniard” had found, was
+irresistible. It was true that the evidence of the stick and the
+telephone message which Walter Brooklyn was supposed to have sent were
+unaffected by the case which Joan and Ellery had prepared; but Thomas,
+though he knew nothing of Superintendent Wilson’s new view of the
+case, agreed that any charge based on these would certainly collapse
+in face of a conclusive _alibi_. Thomas confidently stated that it was
+only a matter of a short time before Walter Brooklyn would be released
+“without a stain on his character.”
+
+There were stains enough on it already, Joan said to herself, even if
+this last disgrace were removed. Walter Brooklyn was not guilty of
+murder, and had been, in this case, unjustly accused. But no amount of
+sympathy with him in his present misfortune could wipe out the
+recollection of what she had suffered while she had still felt it her
+duty to live with him. She had done her best to absolve him of the
+charge of murder, because she was fully assured of his innocence; but,
+that once accomplished, she desired to have no more to do with him.
+When, therefore, Thomas suggested that she should go at once to the
+prison and tell her stepfather the good news, while he and Ellery saw
+the police and endeavoured to make arrangements for his release, Joan
+refused and said that she would prefer Thomas to see his client
+himself. To the rest of the suggested programme she agreed, and Thomas
+at once got through on the ’phone to Superintendent Wilson, and
+arranged an immediate appointment. Joan and Ellery agreed with him
+that the best course was to tell the police the whole story at once,
+and, instead of waiting for the trial, to endeavour to secure Walter
+Brooklyn’s release as soon as the necessary formalities could be
+carried through.
+
+Taking their witnesses with them, therefore, Joan, Ellery, and Thomas
+set out for Scotland Yard. There they left the witnesses in a
+waiting-room, and were at once shown in to the superintendent.
+Inspector Blaikie, who had been sent for when Thomas’s message was
+received, was also present, and the two police officers now heard from
+Joan and Ellery what they had done. The superintendent listened very
+quietly to their story, in one of his favourite attitudes, with his
+eyes closed most of the time, his legs thrust out before him, and his
+hands buried deep in his trousers pockets. The inspector once or twice
+tried to interrupt, and was at first obviously incredulous. But,
+before they had done, the strength of their case was evident, even to
+him, and the testimony of the witnesses, who were then called in and
+examined one by one, was quite conclusive in its cumulative effect.
+Walter Brooklyn had been seen by no less than seven persons, and it
+was quite inconceivable, in view of the times and places at which they
+had seen him, that he could have made his way into and out of Liskeard
+House and committed even a single murder, in the time available. The
+superintendent jotted down a list of the independent testimonies which
+went to the making of the _alibi_.
+
+10.15 or so. Shown out of Liskeard House by Winter.
+
+10.20 or so. Seen by porter at Piccadilly Theatre walking up
+  Piccadilly towards the Circus.
+
+10.45. Seen in Leicester Square by Kitty Frensham and Horace
+  Mandleham.
+
+11.20 or so. Seen in Piccadilly Circus by night-watchman.
+
+11.30 or so. Seen by taxi-driver near Liskeard Street in Piccadilly
+  (exact time uncertain).
+
+11.35 (about). Seen, at time not precisely fixed, but it must have
+  been at this time, by “the Spaniard,” leaning on the parapet and
+  then walking along the top of Trafalgar Square.
+
+11.45. Seen by witness of unknown occupation at the top of Whitehall
+  and followed by him up Cockspur Street and Regent Street, as far as
+  the corner of Jermyn Street.
+
+12 midnight. Seen by night-porter entering the Byron Club (the porter
+  is positive he did not go out again).
+
+When the last witness had withdrawn the superintendent looked at his
+notes.
+
+“What do you make of it now?” asked Thomas. The reply, unhesitatingly
+given, was that the _alibi_ seemed to be conclusive.
+
+“I admit,” said the superintendent, “that for a time we were barking
+up the wrong tree. There remain, of course, to be explained the
+telephone message and the presence of your client’s stick. I don’t say
+that we shan’t have to test even the _alibi_ further—some of your
+witnesses are of rather doubtful character. But personally I admit
+that I have no doubt about it; indeed, quite apart from the _alibi_, I
+had already made up my mind on other grounds that your client was
+innocent. Your discoveries merely confirm my opinion.”
+
+“Then you agree,” said Thomas, “that my client ought to be released.”
+
+“Before you answer that question, sir,” put in Inspector Blaikie, “may
+I have a word? I admit that what we have just heard is very powerful
+testimony; but surely the telephone message proves that Mr. Brooklyn
+was in the house, and therefore that there is something wrong with the
+_alibi_. To say nothing of the stick. I hope you won’t agree to a
+release at least until there has been time to look into the matter
+further.”
+
+The superintendent rose from his chair. “You will excuse us for a
+moment,” he said to the others, and he beckoned to the inspector to
+follow him into the adjoining room. “My dear inspector,” he said, when
+he had shut the door, “you will kindly leave me to manage this
+affair.”
+
+The inspector replied, “Certainly, sir”; but he added, half to
+himself, “All the same, I believe he did it.”
+
+“I shall order release—I mean I shall announce that the prosecution is
+withdrawn, and get the man released as soon as possible. To my mind
+the _alibi_ is quite convincing. But, even apart from it, I was going
+to tell you this morning that I proposed to recommend Walter
+Brooklyn’s release. I will explain my reasons when the others have
+gone. You leave it to me.”
+
+The inspector said nothing, but followed his superior officer back
+into the other room.
+
+“Well, Mr. Thomas,” said the superintendent, “I shall certainly offer
+no opposition to your client’s release. Will you take the necessary
+steps on your side?”
+
+Thomas said that he would, and the superintendent added that, in that
+case, there should be neither difficulty nor delay. Only formal
+evidence of arrest had been offered before the magistrate, and they
+might now consider the charge as definitely dropped.
+
+Joan began to thank him; but he stopped her.
+
+“It is not a matter for thanks,” he said. “We appear to have arrested
+the wrong man, and the need for apologies, if it exists, is on our
+side. You will, however, agree that appearances were strongly against
+Mr. Brooklyn, and that we could hardly have taken any other course.
+Indeed, it seems clear that whoever did commit the murder, or murders,
+must have deliberately planned to throw suspicion on your stepfather.
+That, I think, furnishes an important clue.”
+
+“But I suppose you have now no idea at all who the murderer was?”
+
+“It is hardly fair to ask me that question, Miss Cowper,” said the
+superintendent, smiling. “You come here, and knock the police theory
+into smithereens, and then you ask us if we have another theory
+ready-made. No. We have not a theory, but we do possess certain very
+important clues.”
+
+At this point Thomas had a word to say. “It is just possible that I
+may be able to help you there. In preparing for the defence of my
+client, I had, of course, to consider who the criminal, or criminals,
+might be, and to make certain inquiries. I lighted on certain
+information which you may find useful. I am not likely to need it now;
+but I will gladly make you a present of it for what it is worth.”
+
+“What is your information?”
+
+“I believe you have been watching certain of the servants at Liskeard
+House—Morgan, I mean, and the butler, Winter.”
+
+The superintendent glanced at Inspector Blaikie, who nodded.
+
+“You may, or may not, have discovered that the man Winter had a very
+strong personal cause of quarrel with Mr. Prinsep; quite enough, I
+think, to be the motive of a serious crime.”
+
+The superintendent again looked towards Inspector Blaikie, who very
+slightly shook his head. Then he said to Thomas, “I think you had
+better tell us all you know.”
+
+“Well, to begin with, the butler had a violent quarrel with Mr.
+Prinsep a few days before the murder, and was practically given notice
+to leave. That can be proved by the evidence of the maidservants and
+of Morgan.”
+
+“This is the first I’ve heard of it,” said Joan, “and what’s more, I
+don’t believe it. Winter is a very old and trusted family servant. I
+am sure Mr. Prinsep would not have given him notice.”
+
+“The maids say that the notice was not quite definite, and that Winter
+was not sure whether he would have to go or not. He spoke to Morgan
+about it. But the evidence as to the quarrel is quite decisive.”
+
+“I think it’s horrible,” said Joan. “I’m every bit as sure that Winter
+had nothing to do with it as I am about my stepfather. And what if
+they did have a quarrel? John—Mr. Prinsep, I mean—was always
+hot-tempered.”
+
+“I have not yet told the inspector what the quarrel was about. It was
+about the girl Winter was engaged to—a girl down at Fittleworth—the
+head gardener’s daughter, I believe. I understand that Mr. Prinsep had
+some relations with her, and Winter objected.”
+
+At this Joan suddenly went red all over; but she said nothing. The
+superintendent, who was watching her, said very quietly, “Do you know
+this girl, Miss Cowper, and can you throw any light on the incident? I
+am sorry to ask; but—” he paused for her answer.
+
+“Of course I know the girl well; but I would rather not speak of it. I
+had no idea that she was to be married to Winter.”
+
+“Very well, Miss Cowper. I see that you do know, and that there is
+some truth in the story. Can you say that there is not?”
+
+“I prefer not to say anything.”
+
+“That will do. I see your point, Mr. Thomas. This certainly provides
+what we have been seeking—a possible motive for Mr. Prinsep’s murder.
+But, of course, it is merely a possible indication. There is no
+evidence against Winter, as far as I am aware.”
+
+“That, Mr. Superintendent, is entirely your business. I merely gave
+you what information I had gathered. Tracking down the criminal is
+fortunately no concern of mine.”
+
+“Quite so. And that is the whole of your information?”
+
+“Yes. Apart from that I know no more than you know already.”
+
+“Then I can only thank you for the help you have given; and assure you
+that everything possible shall be done to expedite your client’s
+release. And, by the way, you had better say nothing to any one else
+of what you have just told me.” And thereupon, with the skill born of
+long practice, the superintendent bowed his visitors out of the room.
+To Inspector Blaikie he spoke a word, asking him to remain for a few
+minutes’ discussion.
+
+Joan’s indignation burst forth as soon as she was outside the
+building. She was particularly angry with Thomas.
+
+“I call it abominable. We have just succeeded in clearing one innocent
+man, whom an hour or two ago you believed to be guilty: and now you
+are wantonly throwing suspicion on some one else. What business is it
+of yours? I know Winter had nothing to do with it.”
+
+“That is all very well, Miss Cowper; but it was my duty to tell the
+police, and, moreover, by doing so, I probably speeded up Mr.
+Brooklyn’s release by at least twenty-four hours. It is always wise to
+have the police on your side—when you can.”
+
+“If it was your duty, why didn’t you tell the police when you first
+found it out?”
+
+“I will be quite frank with you, Miss Cowper. I did not, because,
+until your very smart work in proving Mr. Brooklyn’s _alibi_, my best
+chance of getting him off was to be able to throw unexpected suspicion
+on some one else at the trial.”
+
+“I call it beastly—even to think of using methods like that.”
+
+Thomas was very suave. “But I suppose, Miss Cowper, you would not have
+liked to see your stepfather condemned. I had to do the best I could.”
+
+“I don’t care. It can’t be right to throw suspicion on an innocent man
+like that. Do you—yourself—believe Winter did it? Why didn’t you do
+what he did—clear my stepfather by proving the truth of what he said?”
+
+“Perhaps, Miss Cowper, it was because I am not so clever as you are. I
+have already congratulated you on the way you have managed this
+affair.”
+
+“I don’t want your congratulations. Do you believe Winter did it?”
+
+“As to that, Miss Cowper, I do not pretend to know. It is for the
+police, and not for me, to find out.”
+
+Joan, on hearing this, simply turned her back on him, and walked away.
+Thomas very politely raised his hat to her back, told Ellery that he
+must be off, and hailed a passing taxi. Ellery hurried after Joan.
+
+For a minute after he came up with her, she strode on fast, saying
+nothing. Then, “Don’t you think it’s beastly?” she said.
+
+“I agree with you that Thomas is a cad, and I don’t believe old Winter
+had anything to do with it. And I don’t think there was any need for
+him to tell the police. But he probably did it, as he said, in order
+to get the police on our side.”
+
+“And now they’ll all be off full cry after Winter. I suppose they will
+want to arrest him next.”
+
+Ellery shook his head. “Hardly, without more evidence than they
+possess. But they will probably have him watched.”
+
+There was a further silence, during which Joan continued to walk fast,
+staring straight in front of her. At last she said, “I’ve been
+thinking, and I’m sure I see what we ought to do. So far we have only
+been trying to prove that my stepfather did not do it. We’ve
+succeeded. But at this rate we shall all of us be suspected in turn.
+There’s only one thing for it. There will be no peace and quietness
+till some one finds the criminal. I don’t believe the police will ever
+find him. Why shouldn’t you and I find him ourselves? We haven’t done
+badly so far.”
+
+Ellery whistled. “That’s a much taller order than proving your
+stepfather’s _alibi_,” he said. “But I’m game. There certainly won’t
+be much peace for any of us till somebody finds out who did do it. But
+I’m dashed if I know how to begin.”
+
+“Neither do I, at present. We have to think it all out, and make a
+fresh start. Come home with me, and we’ll start planning it at once.”
+
+“They say two heads are better than one, and I’m prepared to be your
+very faithful follower. But you’ll have to be Sherlock Holmes, I’m
+afraid.”
+
+“Come along then, Watson. But try not to be as stupid as your
+namesake.”
+
+
+
+Chapter XXIV
+
+A Fresh Start
+
+“Well, where do we stand now?” said Superintendent Wilson, as he
+turned back into the room after showing his visitors out.
+
+“Nowhere at all, sir, I should say,” was the inspector’s discontented
+reply. “You have let the bird in the hand go, and all the other birds
+are safer than ever in the bush. Are you so sure there’s no doubt
+about that _alibi_?”
+
+“Still harping on that, are you, inspector? Come, put the idea of
+Walter Brooklyn’s guilt out of your head. It’s not often I take much
+stock in _alibis_; but this one is absolutely convincing.”
+
+“I’m not so sure, sir, all the same. At least, I’d have kept hold of
+the man we had got till we could lay some one else by the heels.”
+
+The superintendent shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “That’s the
+worst of you, inspector,” he said, “you are impervious to evidence.
+You never will give up an idea when you’ve once been at the trouble of
+forming it. And therefore you don’t see how this morning’s business
+really helps us.”
+
+“Helps us? No, I’m jiggered if I see that. If you’re in the right we
+are in a worse hole than ever.”
+
+“No, my dear inspector, it does help us.” And the superintendent
+rubbed his hands with satisfaction. He smiled to himself as he
+reflected that he could see further than most people through a brick
+wall.
+
+“How do you mean?” asked the inspector.
+
+“Well, if Walter Brooklyn was not in the house, it is clear that he
+did not send that telephone message. But some one did send it. Who was
+that some one? Find him, and you find the murderer. It was clearly
+sent with the deliberate intention of throwing suspicion on Walter
+Brooklyn.”
+
+“Yes, if you’re right about the _alibi_, I see that. But I don’t see
+that we’re any nearer to finding out who did send it.”
+
+“Well, at least,” said the superintendent, “there are certain things
+to go upon. First, there is no doubt at all that the message was sent,
+and sent from Liskeard House. The inquiries at the Exchange prove
+that.”
+
+The inspector nodded.
+
+“That being so, is it not safe to conclude that it was sent by one of
+the inmates, or by the murderer, before making his escape? If the
+murderer was an inmate of the house, the two possibilities are reduced
+to one. Probably he was at any rate some one familiar with the house
+and the family.”
+
+“I see,” said the inspector, and his face brightened up for the first
+time. “That is certainly a point. You mean that Winter could without
+difficulty have sent the message?”
+
+“Doubtless he could; and so could others. Don’t jump to conclusions. I
+agree that it would fit in with the theory your mind is now forming
+that Winter is guilty. But remember that we have really nothing
+against him. Even if the story about the quarrel and his engagement
+turns out to be true, that doesn’t carry us very far. It is not enough
+to prove motive. If everybody who had a motive for murder killed his
+man there would be nobody left alive. Direct evidence is what counts.”
+
+“But direct evidence isn’t easy to get.”
+
+“Nothing that is worth while is easy to get. Our job is to do things
+that are difficult.”
+
+“That’s all very well, but——”
+
+“But me no buts, inspector. So far from being depressed by this
+morning’s events, I am greatly encouraged. They fit in exactly with my
+own view.”
+
+“But, if you don’t believe Winter did it, who do you think did?”
+
+“Come now, inspector. That is a question for the end of the argument,
+not the beginning. I had at least fully made up my mind, before I knew
+anything at all of this _alibi_, that Walter Brooklyn did not do it.”
+
+“What on earth made you think that? Had you some fresh evidence?”
+
+“No, inspector, merely some fresh use of the old evidence. The more I
+thought about it, the plainer it became that both those sets of clues
+were deliberately laid by the same person—I mean the murderer. Don’t
+you see my point?”
+
+“But why did the murderer lay two inconsistent sets of false clues?”
+
+“That, my dear inspector, _is_ the point. He laid them both in the
+hope that we should see through the one set, and not through the
+other. Which is just what you have done. He is a clever scoundrel. He
+meant us to hang Walter Brooklyn.”
+
+“He’s too clever for me, if that’s so. But, supposing you’re right, I
+don’t see that we are much nearer to finding out who he is.”
+
+The superintendent assumed the air of one instructing a little child,
+and, as he spoke, ticked off the points on his fingers. “My dear
+Blaikie, we have to trace the murderer through the false clues which
+he left. Point number one. Walter Brooklyn’s stick was found in
+Prinsep’s room. If Walter Brooklyn did not put it there, who did?”
+
+“Dashed if I know,” said the inspector.
+
+“Who could have put it there? Some one must have got it from Walter
+Brooklyn.”
+
+“He said he left it in a taxi, didn’t he?”
+
+“No, he said he didn’t know where he had left it. It might have been
+in a taxi, or it might have been in any of the places he visited that
+afternoon—in Woodman’s office, for example, or in the Piccadilly
+Theatre. You must find out again exactly where he went, and, if
+possible, where he did leave the stick. There is just the chance that
+Prinsep found it and took it up to his room. But I don’t think so. I
+think it was clearly left on the floor of Prinsep’s room in order that
+it might serve as a clue to mislead us.”
+
+“I see your point. I’ll find out what I can.”
+
+“Then there’s the telephone message. It is not very difficult to
+imitate a man’s voice over the telephone; but I doubt if the murderer
+would have risked it unless he had known the man he was imitating
+pretty well. He may even have been something of a mimic. The idea of
+imitating the voice would have occurred to such a man. Find out if
+there is any one connected with the Brooklyns who is much of a mimic.”
+
+“Why, old Sir Vernon Brooklyn used to be the finest impersonator in
+England in his younger days, before he took to serious acting.”
+
+“I was not thinking of him. There may be others. That sort of talent
+often runs in families.”
+
+“I’ll make inquiries.”
+
+“Now I come to a much more important point. When one man takes
+elaborate measures to get another hanged, it usually means he has
+either some violent grudge, or some strong reason for securing the
+removal of that particular person. If the murderer tried to get Walter
+Brooklyn hanged, when he might apparently have got away without
+leaving any clue at all, he must have had either a violent hatred, or,
+more probably, a very strong motive for wishing Walter Brooklyn out of
+the way. We have to find out who had such a motive.”
+
+“Motive seems a dangerous line to go on. You remember that Walter
+Brooklyn had the strongest financial motive for killing his nephews.
+He gets a pot of the money when Sir Vernon dies.”
+
+“I know he does; but what I want you to find out is who would get the
+money if Walter Brooklyn were removed. When you found out about the
+will, did you discover that?”
+
+“No. It seemed quite enough to find out that Brooklyn stood to get it
+by killing his nephews. So far as I remember, there was nothing in the
+will to say who would get the money if they all died.”
+
+“That’s a point you must make quite sure of—not merely what is in the
+will, but who is the next of kin after Walter Brooklyn. It may be the
+decisive clue.”
+
+“I believe you have some definite suspicion in your mind.”
+
+“My dear inspector, if I have I’m not going to say any more about it
+just now. You go and find out what I have asked; and then we can
+talk.”
+
+“I’m to do nothing, then, about Winter?”
+
+“I certainly did not say that. That man Thomas seems to have found out
+something you had missed. It is your turn to pick up something that
+has escaped him. Watch the servants at Liskeard House—the maids as
+well as Winter and Morgan. Keep an eye on the whole household. And
+meanwhile I will find out all about that girl at Fittleworth. I can
+have inquiries made locally on the spot.”
+
+“Then you’re inclined to think Winter may have done it?”
+
+“Not at all. There you are jumping to conclusions again. I’m not at
+all disposed to say anything definite just at present. What we need is
+further information, and all we can do for the present is to follow up
+every hint we get.”
+
+“I’ll do my best, sir. But it doesn’t look to me very hopeful.”
+
+“Oh, never say die. Even if we could not find out the whole truth for
+ourselves—and I believe we can—there is plenty of chance still for the
+murderer to give himself away. In my experience that is how
+ninety-nine out of a hundred murderers get caught—I mean of those who
+do get caught at all. You watch Winter carefully, but don’t jump to
+the conclusion that he’s guilty. Watch them all: keep your eyes and
+your mind wide open. We’ll pull it through yet.”
+
+“But,” said the inspector, unable any longer to keep back the
+question, “if you think neither Walter Brooklyn nor Winter did it, who
+do you think did?”
+
+“If I knew that, my dear inspector, I shouldn’t be giving you these
+instructions. The real criminal may be some one quite outside our
+previous range of suspicion. Indeed, I shan’t be at all surprised if
+he is.”
+
+“But you mean that the immediate thing is to go fully into these new
+aspects of the case?”
+
+“Quite so. Do that, and report progress. And remember to keep your
+eyes wide open for anything that may turn up. We must trust largely to
+luck.”
+
+As Inspector Blaikie left Superintendent Wilson’s room, he was in a
+curiously divided state of mind. At one moment he still said to
+himself that all his good labour could not have been wasted, and that
+Walter Brooklyn must really be guilty after all. The next he found
+himself assuming, with greater assurance, that Winter was the
+murderer. He was one of those men who can only keep their minds open
+by entertaining two contrary opinions at the same time. He shook his
+head over what seemed to him the weakness of his superior in letting
+Walter Brooklyn go without arresting some one else.
+
+Meanwhile, in the lounge at Liskeard House, Joan and Ellery were
+sitting very close to each other on a sofa making their plans for the
+discovery of the criminal.
+
+“How had we better begin?” he asked, running his hand despairingly
+through his hair.
+
+“I can see only one way,” Joan replied. “We have nothing to go
+upon—nothing, I mean, that would make us suspect any particular
+person. So the only thing to do is to suspect everybody—to find out
+exactly where everybody was when the crime was committed, and what
+they were doing that evening.”
+
+“That’s something of an undertaking.”
+
+“I don’t mean all the world. I mean everybody who was, or was likely
+to have been, in this house. Of course, it may have been some one
+quite different; but I think that’s the best way to start. And we
+mustn’t rule out anybody—even ourselves—however sure we are they had
+nothing to do with it. Even if that doesn’t find the criminal, it may
+help us to light on a clue.”
+
+“But it is still a tall order. We don’t even know at what time the
+murders were committed.”
+
+“Isn’t that a good point to begin upon? Let me see. When were George
+and John last seen alive?”
+
+“Both at some time after eleven. George was seen leaving the house at
+half-past, and Prinsep was seen rather before that time in the garden.
+Isn’t that so?”
+
+“Then that,” said Joan, “definitely fixes the time of both the murders
+as being later than say 11.15, and one of them definitely after 11.30.
+That is something to go upon.”
+
+“Ah, but stop a minute. May not either the people who thought they saw
+George, or the others who thought they saw John, have been mistaken?
+Neither of them was seen close to.”
+
+“It doesn’t seem very likely. Winter would hardly have mistaken some
+one else for George when he saw him going out by the front door.”
+
+“Still, my dear, it’s possible. Winter was at the other end of the
+hall and only noticed him by accident. He probably caught no more than
+a glimpse.”
+
+“Yes, Bob; but the other man saw him from quite close. You remember he
+said he went to open the door for him; but George slipped out before
+he could get there.”
+
+“Yes, I know; but did the other man know George by sight? He was only
+a hired waiter, in for the evening. Winter probably told him
+afterwards it was George, and he took it for granted.”
+
+“I think you’re romancing, my dear. If it wasn’t George, who was it?”
+
+“Surely, Joan, in that case it was the murderer, whoever he may have
+been.”
+
+Joan sighed. “Follow up that idea of yours by all means,” she said,
+“but it doesn’t sound to me very hopeful. The people who said they saw
+John are much more likely to have been mistaken. They only saw him
+from a window some way off; and it was half dark.”
+
+“Do you know, Joan, I’m half inclined to believe that neither of them
+was really seen then at all. What I mean is, they may both have been
+dead by half-past eleven. Suppose they were neither of them seen. Yes,
+and by Jove, that would get rid of one difficulty. I’ve never been
+able to see how George got back into the grounds after the place was
+all locked up. But suppose he didn’t have to get back at all, because
+he never went out. Then the man who went out, and was mistaken for
+George, would be the murderer. Joan, aren’t you listening?”
+
+“Yes, Bob, I heard what you said, and I half think you’re right. I was
+thinking of that telephone message.”
+
+“Why, what about it?”
+
+“What I mean is, if that message was sent with the object of shifting
+the suspicion on to some one else, isn’t it more likely to have been
+sent after, than before, the murders?”
+
+“You’re right. At least, it was probably sent after one of them.
+There’s no necessary reason to suppose that they were both done at the
+same time. We don’t even know that the same man did them.”
+
+“Oh, I don’t know about that. Two murders in one night is bad enough;
+but to ask me to believe in two different murderers is too much of a
+strain on my credulity.”
+
+“Then you don’t think Prinsep killed George?” Ellery asked.
+
+“No, I’m nearly sure he didn’t. It isn’t, I’m afraid, dear, that I
+don’t think he was morally capable of it. I simply feel sure he
+wouldn’t have been such a fool.”
+
+“Not even if George had told what he thought of him about Charis Lang?
+They’d both probably have lost their tempers pretty badly.”
+
+“No, Bob, not even then. At least I’m nearly sure. I’m convinced there
+was only one murderer. Remember they were both killed the same way.”
+
+“Well, let’s assume you’re right. Then if what you said about the
+’phone message was right, it was probably sent after one of the
+murders—I mean immediately after. The murderer wouldn’t have wasted
+time on the premises.”
+
+“Yes, that means that 11.30, or thereabouts, is the critical time.
+Then half-past ten is the earliest possible. Winter went up to get
+John’s letters then, and everything was all right.”
+
+“Oh, but George was seen long after that. Winter let him in by the
+front door at a quarter to eleven.”
+
+“Yes, it was certainly George he let in. They spoke, and he couldn’t
+have made a mistake. That narrows it a bit.”
+
+“Then probably it all happened after a quarter to eleven—unless George
+found Prinsep dead when he got upstairs, and chased the murderer down
+the private stairs into the garden, and got killed by him out there.
+How does that strike you, Joan?”
+
+“It’s possible, Bob; but it looks as if we couldn’t fix the time very
+nearly. It was somewhere between a quarter to eleven and half-past;
+but that’s as near as we can get.”
+
+“Let it stand there: and now let’s follow out our original plan, and
+see what we know about everybody who might have been mixed up in it.
+Let’s write it down. I’ll write.”
+
+Losing no time, they got to work. First, they made a list of every one
+who had been present at the dinner on the evening of the tragedy—Sir
+Vernon. John Prinsep, George Brooklyn and his wife, Carter and Mrs.
+Woodman, Lucas, Mary Woodman—and themselves. Next came the
+servants—Winter, Morgan, Agnes Dutch, the two other maids, the hired
+waiters. These were the only persons who, as far as they knew, had
+been in the house that night. Next, they wrote down exactly what they
+knew of the doings of every one of these people, leaving spaces in
+which they could fill in further particulars as they discovered more.
+When it was finished the list and comments took this form:—
+
+  _Persons_         _Movements  _           _Evidence for Movements_
+  Sir Vernon        Went to bed 10.15       Joan, Mary
+                    Remained in room        Woodman
+  Joan              With Sir Vernon         Sir Vernon
+                      10.15 to 10.30
+                    With Mary Woodman,      Mary Woodman
+                      10.30 to 10.40
+                    Then bed                Self
+
+“That ‘self’ looks very suspicious,” said Joan, as Ellery wrote it
+down.
+
+“Yes, we are suspecting ourselves as well as others. I strongly
+suspect you.”
+
+“And I you. But get on.”
+
+  _Persons_         _Movements_             _Evidence for Movements_
+  Mary Woodman      In landing-lounge       Joan to 10.40
+                      till after 11
+                    Then bed                Self
+
+“Another suspect,” said Ellery.
+
+“Poor Mary,” said Joan. “She couldn’t hurt a fly.”
+
+“Then I suspect her all the more.”
+
+  _Persons_         _Movements_             _Evidence for Movements_
+  Winter            Downstairs with         Other servants
+                      servants till after
+                      11.30
+                    Lets in Morgan          Morgan
+                      soon after 11.30
+                    Then bed                Morgan
+
+“He went to bed. But did he stay there? That’s the point.”
+
+“Put down ‘Did he stay there? No clear evidence.’ After all, Morgan
+says he did.”
+
+“Yes, but Morgan isn’t sure.”
+
+“We come to him next.”
+
+  _Persons_         _Movements_             _Evidence for Movements_
+  Morgan            At Hammersmith          Unconfirmed, but may be
+                      till 11                 capable of confirmation
+                    Arrived at Liskeard     Winter
+                      House soon
+                      after 11.30
+                    Went to bed             Winter
+                    Stayed there            Winter
+
+“I say, there wouldn’t be much evidence of what Morgan did, if it
+wasn’t for Winter. Suppose they were both in it. Winter’s story
+depends on Morgan’s almost as much as Morgan’s on his.”
+
+“We suspect them both. At least I don’t, but I mean to pretend to do
+so. Who’s next?”
+
+“Agnes Dutch.”
+
+“Put her down.”
+
+  _Persons_         _Movements_             _Evidence for Movements_
+  Agnes Dutch       Dismissed by Joan       Joan
+                      for night 10.30
+                    Went to bed
+
+“Next, please.”
+
+“The maid-servants.”
+
+“They’re all in the same position. Put them down.”
+
+  _Persons_         _Movements_             _Evidence for Movements_
+  Maid-servants     Downstairs till         Winter and waiters
+                      after 11              One another
+                    Then bed
+
+“More collusion.”
+
+“Don’t be silly. Now we come to the people who weren’t sleeping in the
+house.”
+
+  _Persons_         _Movements_             _Evidence for Movements_
+  Marian Brooklyn   Back to hotel 10.20     Carter and Helen Woodman
+                    Talked with Helen       Helen Woodman
+                      till 11.30 in
+                      Helen’s room
+                    Then bed                No confirmation
+
+“But she’s out of it anyway.”
+
+“Yes, poor Marian.”
+
+  _Persons_         _Movements_             _Evidence for Movements_
+  Carter Woodman    Back to hotel 10.20     Marian and Helen
+                    In hotel writing-room   Told above had
+                      till 11.45              letters to write
+                    Gave letters to porter  Porter and liftman
+                      to post 11.45
+
+“That seems all right.”
+
+“Yes. Helen’s next.”
+
+  _Persons_         _Movements_             _Evidence for Movements_
+  Helen Woodman     Back to hotel 10.20     Marian and Carter
+                    With Marian till        Marian
+                      11.30
+                    Then bed                Carter Woodman after 11.45
+
+“And now we come to you, Bob.”
+
+“Oh, I’m no use. I have a proved _alibi_ already. I’m in the same
+position as your revered stepfather.”
+
+“Put yourself down all the same.”
+
+  _Persons_         _Movements_             _Evidence for Movements_
+  Ellery            Walking about 10.15     Gloucester
+                      to about midnight
+                    Home and bed            Landlady
+
+“But did you stay in bed?”
+
+“And slept like a top.”
+
+“That only leaves Uncle Harry.”
+
+“Oh, he left in his car at 10.15, and went straight back to Hampstead.
+He told me the police had made inquiries, and confirmed that he got
+back at 10.45, and did not go out again.”
+
+“Put him down.”
+
+  _Persons_         _Movements_             _Evidence for Movements_
+  Lucas             Left Liskeard House     All of us
+                      by car 10.15
+                    Arrived home 10.45      Police satisfied
+                      and stayed there
+
+“And that’s everybody.”
+
+“Yes, and I don’t know that we’re much further. There is no one on
+this list you can possibly suspect, except perhaps Morgan, and he can
+hardly have done it unless Winter was in it too.”
+
+“I don’t know about that.”
+
+“Then whom do you suspect.”
+
+“No one and every one. I want time to think that list over. Leave it
+with me, and I’ll put on my considering cap, and tell you to-morrow.”
+
+“Don’t you go suspecting poor Winter, like the police.”
+
+“My dear Joan, this is most undetective-like advice. You ought to make
+a point of suspecting everybody.”
+
+“I make an exception of Winter.”
+
+“I’m afraid you want to make an exception of everybody. I have a far
+more suspicious nature.”
+
+“Is there anything I can do while you’re thinking it over?”
+
+“Yes. Go and see Carter Woodman and find out all you can about John’s
+circumstances at the time of the murder. Carter may know something
+about this Winter story, or be able at any rate to tell you something
+useful we don’t know. Then come here to-morrow morning, and I’ll tell
+you if I’ve had a brain-wave.”
+
+Then at last Ellery said good-bye, and Joan went to get the sleep she
+badly needed.
+
+
+
+Chapter XXV
+
+Raising the Wind
+
+Walter Brooklyn’s release was arranged more quickly than any one had
+expected, and, while Ellery and Joan were still engaged in the
+conversation just reported, he came out of Brixton Jail a free man. At
+the gate he said good-bye to Thomas, and, hailing a taxi, ordered the
+man to drive to his Club. The porter at the Byron met him as he
+entered with an incredulous stare; for he was a firm believer in the
+theory that Brooklyn was guilty, and had for days past been telling
+all his friends, and those of the Club members who would listen to
+him, of the important part which, he himself had played in bringing
+the murderer to justice. Walter Brooklyn was not popular in the Club;
+and, by members and servants alike, the assumption of his guilt had
+been readily accepted.
+
+Brooklyn passed the porter without a word, and went straight up to his
+room. As he passed by the door leading to the kitchen stairs, a
+discreetly faint smell of cooking floated up to him, and he thought
+how pleasant it would be to see a good dinner before him again in the
+comfortable Club dining-room. But a second thought gave him pause.
+Could he face his fellow-members just yet? He could pretty accurately
+guess what they had been saying about him; and he was not at all sure
+what his reception would be. It would be better to give time for the
+news of his release, and the convincing evidence of his innocence, to
+get round the club before he made a public reappearance. But a good
+dinner was indispensable. His first act on regaining the privacy of
+his apartment was to take up the house ’phone which connected with the
+kitchens, and to order dinner to be sent up to his room. The start of
+surprise which the chef gave on hearing who was speaking to him he
+could visualize over the ’phone as clearly as if the man had been
+standing before him in the same room. He was all the more careful for
+that reason in ordering his dinner, discussing the merits of one
+course after another at length with the chef. He meant to do himself
+well, and he meant the servants to understand that he was back quite
+on the old footing.
+
+But Walter Brooklyn had other things to consider besides his
+reinstatement as a more or less respectable member of society. He was
+literally almost penniless, and he knew that his release from prison
+would merely reopen in a more insistent form the long struggle with
+his creditors. He must have money, and he must have it at once. His
+attempt to get money from Prinsep had completely failed, and Woodman
+had very decisively refused to give him an advance. But a great deal
+had happened since then. Now both Prinsep and George Brooklyn were
+dead; and, in more ways than one, that meant a change in his own
+situation. Prinsep had been the main obstacle between him and Sir
+Vernon, and there was at least a chance that, if he could see his
+brother, he would be able to get a substantial loan. He knew that Sir
+Vernon was very ill; but, if only he was not too ill to be approached,
+that might make the job all the easier. Could he not persuade the sick
+man to back a bill for him, or better still, write a cheque in his
+favour? That was one possibility. But there was another. Now that
+George and Prinsep were out of the way, who was there to whom Sir
+Vernon could leave his wealth? Only Joan and himself. Marian Brooklyn
+would doubtless get something, and Mary Woodman; but the bulk of the
+property would hardly go to them. Walter knew well enough Sir Vernon’s
+strong sense of family loyalty; and he was fairly sure that, in the
+changed circumstances, he would profit heavily when his brother died.
+Might it not be better, instead of risking the giving of offence to
+Sir Vernon by asking for a loan, to try to raise the money on the
+strength of his expectations? From that point of view, Sir Vernon’s
+illness would make the chances of success all the greater.
+
+Walter Brooklyn had no positive knowledge of Sir Vernon’s will. Some
+time back, however, Sir Vernon had written to him, enclosing one of
+the many “last cheques” which he had given to his brother, to tell him
+that, “except in a very remote contingency,” he could expect no
+further assistance, “whether I am dead or alive.” Sir Vernon had
+added, “I may as well tell you that I have left the bulk of my
+property to my two nephews; and, as long as they live, you will
+receive only a comparatively small legacy. You have forfeited all
+claim to my esteem, and, as long as I have other near relatives to
+whom I can leave my property, I feel under no obligations to place any
+of it in your hands. I know too well what you would do with it. I tell
+you this in order that you may not deceive yourself by any false
+expectations.”
+
+Little had Sir Vernon, expected, when he wrote his letter, that the
+time would come when it would positively encourage his brother to look
+forward to a big legacy. Walter had seen Sir Vernon after receiving
+that letter; and, while his brother had told him nothing positive, he
+had come away with a shrewd idea that he could expect nothing except
+in the unlikely event of both nephews dying before Sir Vernon, but
+that, in that event, he would get the bulk of the money. The question
+was whether Sir Vernon had altered his will, or whether he would do so
+now, when the money was likely actually to pass to his brother. Even
+if he wished to alter it, was he well enough to do so? That must be
+discovered.
+
+He could find out easily enough about Sir Vernon’s health. Joan would
+tell him that, even if she had a good suspicion of his reasons for
+wishing to know. But would Joan be in a position to tell him what was
+in the will, and would it even be wise to ask her? He was under no
+illusions. Joan would not want him to have the money, and, even if he
+stood to benefit now, she would be just the person to persuade Sir
+Vernon to make a new will. Moreover, there was only one person who
+would be certain to know what the will contained, and that was Carter
+Woodman.
+
+Walter Brooklyn’s first idea, when he got thus far, was to see
+Woodman, find out about the will, and try to arrange for a loan on the
+strength of his expectations. But would this do either? Woodman was no
+friend of his; and, if his attention were called to the matter, he
+might easily induce Sir Vernon to make a fresh will. Yet Woodman was
+the only person through whom he could hope to arrange for an advance;
+for Woodman alone would know whether or not Walter was now Sir
+Vernon’s heir. And somehow an advance must be got, and got quickly.
+
+There must surely, he thought, be some way round the difficulty.
+Walter Brooklyn was no fool; and he set himself deliberately to devise
+some method of raising the wind with Woodman’s aid. He came speedily
+to the conclusion that there was only one way in which it could be
+done. He must somehow get Woodman on to his side. That was not
+altogether impossible, much as the two men disliked each other. It
+was, Walter told himself, merely a matter of money.
+
+Woodman, he considered, would certainly receive a legacy under any
+will Sir Vernon might make. Probably a few thousands, in return for
+his services. But he supposed that Woodman could entertain no hope of
+being one of the principal beneficiaries.
+
+Woodman’s expectations were probably small. But Walter Brooklyn had
+good reason to believe that, despite his apparent prosperity, Woodman
+was hard pressed for money. Left alone in Woodman’s office for a few
+minutes the week before, he had hurriedly turned over certain private
+papers on the desk, and had gathered enough information to be sure
+that Woodman, like himself, would do a good deal for a supply of ready
+money. Might not this fact, he wondered, open up the possibility of a
+bargain? If, as he believed, the will was now in his favour, he could
+offer Woodman very favourable terms for negotiating an advance on his
+behalf. He would offer Woodman a share—a substantial share—as a
+loan—of whatever he could raise on the strength of Walter’s
+expectations.
+
+Why waste time? He would at least see at once whether Woodman was at
+his office, and try to arrange an appointment. The telephone was at
+his elbow, and he rang up. Woodman was there, and Walter got straight
+through to him. His clerks had already gone home for the night.
+
+“Who is speaking?” came the voice from the other end.
+
+“Walter Brooklyn this end. I want to see you as soon as possible.”
+
+As he gave his name, Walter heard a gasp from the man at the other end
+of the wire. Then, “Where are you speaking from?” came the voice.
+
+“Not from Brixton, if that is what you mean. I’m speaking from the
+Byron Club.”
+
+“Good God, man! How on earth——”
+
+“The police released me this afternoon. I am completely cleared of
+this charge, although I understand you were good enough to believe me
+guilty.”
+
+To this there came no answer.
+
+“I must see you privately at once.”
+
+“What about?”
+
+“I’ll tell you that when we meet. Will you come round here?”
+
+“When?”
+
+“To-night, if you can. I shall be in my room all the evening.”
+
+“Not to-night. I have an engagement.”
+
+“Then to-morrow morning.”
+
+“Very well. At about eleven.”
+
+“I’ll be here. Good-night.”
+
+Each man as he hung up the receiver had plenty to think about.
+Brooklyn was perfecting his scheme for raising a loan with Woodman’s
+aid, and reflecting upon the various ways in which he might approach
+the subject. Carter Woodman also stood silent with a heavy frown on
+his face.
+
+The fact that Walter Brooklyn had been released, although the evidence
+against him seemed overwhelming, came as a great surprise to Woodman.
+Something curious must have happened, When Brooklyn rang off, he had
+been on the point of asking for further details. He would get them
+somehow elsewhere. He would try to see the inspector. He rang up
+Scotland Yard.
+
+“Hallo. Is that Inspector Blaikie? Carter Woodman speaking.”
+
+“Is that you, Mr. Woodman? I was just trying to get through to you
+myself. Are you at your office? Then may I come around and see you for
+a few minutes? Will what you wanted to say to me keep till I get
+round? Very well, I’ll be with you in half a jiffy.”
+
+This was a piece of luck. Woodman would get the full story from the
+inspector, and he would also be able to give in return a piece of
+information which, he thought, would make Scotland Yard sit up. How on
+earth had they come to release Walter Brooklyn? Well, there was such a
+thing as re-arrest. After all, the man had not been acquitted.
+
+The inspector arrived in less than a quarter of an hour. He explained
+that he wished to ask Woodman a few questions relating to Prinsep’s
+private affairs, and also involving, he believed, certain of the
+servants at Liskeard House. Had Woodman heard anything of some trouble
+with a girl down at Fittleworth—the head gardener’s daughter—a Miriam
+Smith?
+
+Yes, Woodman did know about it; but he had not mentioned it before, as
+it was confidential, and there was no reason to believe it had
+anything to do with the murders. Prinsep had commissioned him to
+settle with the girl for a lump sum payment, in consideration of which
+she was to leave the district. Woodman understood there would be a
+child. Undoubtedly, Prinsep had behaved badly to the girl; but it was
+not the first time. Was there any reason to connect the incident with
+the murders?
+
+“There may be, or there may not, Mr. Woodman. Are you aware that the
+girl was engaged to be married to the butler at Liskeard House?
+Winter, his name is.”
+
+“Oh, I know Winter. A most trusted old family servant. I had no idea
+that he was engaged to the girl. But I feel quite sure you are wrong
+if you connect him in any way with the murders. He is the last man to
+be mixed up in such a thing. Besides, between ourselves, I haven’t a
+doubt that it was Walter Brooklyn who killed Prinsep. He may have
+killed George Brooklyn, too, or Prinsep may. But surely there is not
+much doubt he killed Prinsep.”
+
+“I see you have not heard the news, Mr. Woodman. Walter Brooklyn was
+released this afternoon.”
+
+Woodman thought that he would get fuller information if he simulated
+ignorance and astonishment.
+
+“Released? Whatever for?” he said.
+
+“Because our evidence seems to show that he had nothing to do with
+it.”
+
+“But, good heavens! there was his stick, and the telephone message,
+and his quarrel with Prinsep. What more do you want?”
+
+“I can’t go into the details, Mr. Woodman. But we have been convinced
+that he didn’t do it.”
+
+“Of course, if you have made up your mind, it is no good my telling
+you what I was going to tell you. But, when I last saw you, you were
+sure enough he was guilty. What on earth has made you change your
+opinion?”
+
+“If you have further information, you should certainly tell me, Mr.
+Woodman. We ought to know everything that has a possible bearing on
+the case.”
+
+“I will tell you; but it must be between ourselves. You know Thomas,
+who is Walter Brooklyn’s present solicitor. The man knows his client
+is guilty, and he had the effrontery to come here and ask me to help
+him in arranging a collusive defence.”
+
+“Indeed, what was it he proposed?”
+
+“That I should help him in an attempt to shift the suspicion to the
+men-servants. Of course, I refused to have anything to do with such
+dishonourable tactics. Thomas admitted to me that his client was
+guilty. I am only surprised that he seems to have succeeded so well in
+deceiving the police.”
+
+“You say that Thomas admitted Brooklyn’s guilt to you?” asked the
+inspector, half-incredulously, but with a note of excitement in his
+voice.
+
+“Undoubtedly, he did. Of course, I should not have told you if he had
+not made me that dishonourable proposal. I am telling you now in order
+to save an innocent man from suspicion.”
+
+“This is very strange, Mr. Woodman. The proofs of Mr. Brooklyn’s
+innocence were considered to be conclusive. Superintendent Wilson very
+strongly holds that they are conclusive. He appears to have a perfect
+_alibi_.”
+
+“_Alibis_ can be faked, and usually are.”
+
+“This one has been pretty thoroughly tested. But, in view of what you
+say, I must certainly take up the matter again at once. Of course, my
+first step will be to have a talk with Mr. Thomas.”
+
+“Pardon me, inspector, but I hope you will not do that. I have told
+you this in strict confidence, and it would endanger my professional
+position if it were known that I had done so.”
+
+“Surely not. The fact that the man made you a dishonourable proposal
+absolves you.”
+
+“He would deny it, and it would be only my word against his. He would
+merely deny, too, that he ever considered his client to be guilty.
+What else could he do? And we could not prove it.”
+
+The inspector stood silent for a moment, biting his lip, while he
+thought the position over. Then he said,—
+
+“Very well, Mr. Woodman. Perhaps you are right. But I think I can get
+at the truth in another way. I will let you know the result. Rest
+assured that what you say will be given full weight.”
+
+“All I want is to prevent you from going on a wild goose chase after
+poor old Winter. I’ve known him since I was a baby, and he is quite
+incapable of doing what you suggest.”
+
+“That is as may be, Mr. Woodman. We are not inclined to suspect him
+seriously without further evidence. But I will certainly look into
+what you tell me about Mr. Walter Brooklyn. And now, there is another
+matter about which I want to ask you one or two questions.”
+
+“Ask away.”
+
+“You were good enough to give me very full particulars about the
+contents of Sir Vernon Brooklyn’s will; but there were one or two
+points about which I omitted to ask you. Perhaps you will not mind
+clearing them up now. In the first place, as matters stand now, who
+did you say were the principal beneficiaries? I have the facts here in
+my notebook, but I want to check them.”
+
+“Let me see. Mrs. George Brooklyn gets one half of the sum which would
+have gone to George Brooklyn, and Miss Cowper half of what would have
+gone to John Prinsep. Mr. Walter Brooklyn is the residuary legatee,
+and stands, I suppose, to inherit about half a million, unless the
+will is altered.”
+
+“Thank you. The further point I want to know is what the position
+would be if Mr. Walter Brooklyn were to die before Sir Vernon. Who
+would be the residuary legatee in that case?”
+
+Woodman paused for a moment before replying. Then he said, “The
+residue would go, of course, to the next of kin.”
+
+“Who is that? I think you have not mentioned any other relatives.”
+
+“To the best of my belief, inspector, I myself am the next of kin
+after Walter Brooklyn.”
+
+The inspector whistled. “Then you would inherit the bulk of the money
+if Sir Vernon Brooklyn died after Walter Brooklyn.”
+
+“Yes, that is, unless a new will were made. I should, of course, have
+to inform Sir Vernon fully as to the circumstances.”
+
+“Quite so. And now there is just one further point. Sir Vernon has
+not, I suppose, shown any desire so far to amend his will.”
+
+“He is far too ill to be troubled at present with matters of
+business.”
+
+“I see. Then, so far as you know, the old will stands.”
+
+“Yes. Mr. Walter Brooklyn is at present the principal heir.”
+
+“Thank you, Mr. Woodman,” said the inspector, holding out his hand.
+
+When Inspector Blaikie had gone, Woodman sat down again at his desk to
+think things over. What was the purpose of the questions just
+addressed to him? Clearly, the police had some new idea in their
+minds. They had come to the conclusion, on grounds adequate or
+inadequate, that Walter Brooklyn was not the murderer, and they were
+clearly trying to find out afresh who else could have had a reasonable
+motive. That was the only possible reason for the careful inquiries
+into the terms of the will. Was it possible that the police had a real
+new clue—possibly even a definite suspicion? Would they even begin
+suspecting him, now they had discovered that he was next of kin? As
+long as Walter Brooklyn lived, he stood to gain nothing. It was
+ridiculous to think that he could be suspected.
+
+The inspector also had a good deal to think about when he left
+Woodman’s office. His first thought was to see his superior officer;
+but he found that the superintendent was out, and was not expected
+back for an hour or so. He made up his mind to fill in the interval by
+clearing up the new question, relating to Walter Brooklyn’s guilt,
+which Carter Woodman had raised. He took a taxi, and drove to Liskeard
+House, where he asked to see Miss Cowper. She received him at once,
+and he came straight to the point.
+
+“Miss Cowper, I have a question to ask you. You may think it a very
+peculiar one, and you need not answer it if you would rather not. I
+shall not tell any one that you refused, or that I asked it. I want to
+know whether, so far as you are aware, Mr. Thomas, your stepfather’s
+solicitor, at any time believed in his client’s guilt. I should not
+ask you, of course, if your stepfather had not been released. But I
+have a reason for asking.”
+
+Joan showed that the question startled her; but she answered without
+hesitation. “Yes,” she said, “Mr. Thomas did believe what you say
+until we undeceived him with the evidence you also found convincing;
+indeed, that was why Mr. Ellery and I determined to go to work on our
+own. We felt that Mr. Thomas, believing what was not true, would never
+find out what was true. My stepfather told me that he was sure Thomas
+believed him guilty; but he said, ‘I dare say he’ll make as good a
+defence as another would when it comes to the point.’”
+
+“I will tell you, Miss Cowper, exactly why I asked the question. It
+is being stated that Mr. Brooklyn actually confessed his guilt to
+his solicitor, and that Mr. Thomas told a third person that he was
+guilty. I should not, of course, tell you this if I believed it to
+be true. Your answer quite satisfies me that it is based on a
+misunderstanding.”
+
+“It is preposterous,” said Joan indignantly. “My stepfather told Mr.
+Thomas the absolute truth; but the man would not believe it, until we
+proved it to him.”
+
+“That is just what I imagined, Miss Cowper. Thank you very much for
+speaking to me so frankly. It has saved a world of trouble. Let me
+assure you that no suspicion at all now rests on Mr. Brooklyn.”
+
+“I should hope not,” said Joan. “But who put this abominable story
+about?”
+
+“I cannot tell you that, Miss Cowper. But you may rest secure that no
+more will be heard of it. May I use your telephone for a moment on my
+way out?”
+
+The permission was readily given, and, in the hall, the inspector
+stepped into the little closed lobby, in which the telephone was kept,
+and rang up Carter Woodman.
+
+“Hallo, is that Mr. Woodman? Inspector Blaikie speaking. I have looked
+into that matter about which you spoke to me. About Walter Brooklyn, I
+mean—his having told Thomas that he was guilty. There’s nothing in it.
+No, nothing in it. You made a mistake. You must have misinterpreted
+what Thomas said. He did believe Mr. Brooklyn to be guilty, but Mr.
+Brooklyn never told him so. It was merely his personal opinion. What?
+Am I sure? Yes, quite certain. No, I have not seen Thomas; but I am
+sure all the same. Yes, f now regard Mr. Brooklyn’s innocence as quite
+established. Yes, quite certain. No doubt at all about it. We made a
+very natural mistake when we arrested him; but that’s all done with
+now. I think we are getting on the right track. Thanks all the same.
+You were quite right to tell me, though there proved to be nothing in
+it. Good-night.”
+
+The inspector hung up the receiver, and went on his way.
+
+
+
+Chapter XXVI
+
+Two Men Strike a Bargain
+
+Walter Brooklyn dined alone in his rooms. As a rule, a single Club
+waiter would have been deputed to attend upon him; but this evening he
+noticed that no less than four found an excuse for coming to help.
+Each course was brought to table by a different hand; for the whole
+Club staff were curious to get a good look at the member who had been
+miraculously delivered from jail and the gallows. That very afternoon,
+when they had discussed the case, they had all been taking his guilt
+for granted, picturing him in his lonely cell devouring the skilly of
+adversity; and now here he was back again amongst them, eating an
+excellent dinner as if nothing out of the way had occurred. If Carter
+Woodman had been there to express his continued confidence that Walter
+Brooklyn was guilty, he would, despite the release, not have lacked
+supporters among the Club servants; for Walter Brooklyn was not an
+easy man to like, especially for his social inferiors. But this
+evening those who were most convinced of his guilt were also anxious
+to take part in waiting upon him. There is a thrill to be got by close
+personal contact with a real murderer.
+
+Downstairs, Walter Brooklyn had no doubt, the dining-room and the
+smoking-rooms, as well as the servants’ quarters, were busy with the
+news of his release. Among the Club members, as among the servants,
+there would be differences of opinion; and he felt he could name
+certain members who would be vigorously affirming their belief that
+the police made a mistake, not when they arrested him, but when they
+let him go. The spiteful old johnnies, he said to himself, would
+gladly see him hanged. Their disappointment added to the pleasure of
+being a free man. And this was really a first-rate dinner. The Byron
+had its faults; but they did know how to cook.
+
+Indeed, the more Walter thought about the new situation, the better he
+was pleased. His two inconvenient nephews were safely out of the way;
+and he had an excellent chance of becoming an exceedingly rich man. He
+smiled to himself as he counted his chickens. True, there were
+immediate troubles to be faced. He must have money now. But he was
+sure Woodman couldn’t be fool enough to refuse the terms he was in a
+position to offer. Supposing even that he did refuse, there was still
+the way of going direct to old Vernon.
+
+By the way, how was old Vernon? That dinner had been so good that the
+idea of telephoning to Liskeard House to inquire had gone clean out of
+his head. He would do it now. It would be the very devil if the old
+chap were to go and alter his will. The chances were he wasn’t well
+enough to do it. He would ring up at once and inquire after him. It
+would be only decent. After all, the man was his brother.
+
+Winter’s voice over the telephone informed him that Sir Vernon had
+taken an alarming turn for the worse. His condition was said to be
+critical, but not hopeless. The doctor was with him now. Sir Vernon
+had been unconscious for some time. Winter promised to ring up and
+give the doctor’s further report later in the evening.
+
+Walter Brooklyn was duly sympathetic; and there was in him indeed some
+real feeling for his brother. But the thought uppermost in his mind
+was that, if old Vernon would only be obliging enough to die, it would
+be from his brother’s point of view a very happy release. If only the
+will had not been altered already without his knowing about it. A
+horrible thought: not likely, perhaps, but disquieting all the same.
+How badly he wanted to see Carter Woodman in order to make sure. Poor
+old Vernon would never live to alter his will now. Everything depended
+on the terms of the will now in force. It was probably all right; but
+he would give something to know for certain. And, if Sir Vernon would
+only die now and get it over, there would be no need to bribe Woodman
+for an advance. The money would be his then. Should he wait and risk
+it? No; old men often took so unconscionably long a-dying. If things
+came right, he would never miss what he would have to give Woodman for
+the sake of immediate security. The telephone rang. It was Winter. The
+doctor had just left. Sir Vernon’s condition was very critical, but
+the doctor said it was still not hopeless. He might rally and get
+well. But any shock would certainly be fatal. The doctor was coming
+again later. Should he ’phone up again? Brooklyn asked him to do so,
+and rang off. Yes, he must certainly see Woodman, unless old Vernon
+was obliging enough to die in the night.
+
+Turning these things over in his mind, Walter Brooklyn sat, until a
+pleasant drowsiness came over him. He woke with a start. It was after
+eleven. Was not that a knock at the door? “Come in,” he said.
+
+When he saw who his visitor was, he greeted him warmly. “This is quite
+unexpected,” he said, “but I am very glad you have come. Have a
+whisky.” Carter Woodman nodded. “I found I could get here after all
+this evening,” he said. Then he mixed himself a good stiff whisky,
+silently refilled Brooklyn’s glass for him, and sank into a chair.
+
+“What was it you wanted to see me about?” he asked. “Money, as usual,
+I suppose.”
+
+Brooklyn nodded. “A man must live, you know,” he said.
+
+“Your idea of living has always been one that runs away with the
+money, my dear chap,” said Woodman, with a laugh.
+
+“Never mind that. I want some now.”
+
+“But you know that Sir Vernon, through Prinsep, gave me positive
+instructions that I should only give you money on one condition.”
+
+“Isn’t the position a bit different now, Woodman? I mean since what
+happened last week.”
+
+Woodman paused a moment. “There is a difference,” he said, “but
+clearly I cannot advance you money without authority from Sir Vernon,
+and he is far too ill to be troubled about such things at present.”
+
+“I don’t want you to trouble him. But I should have thought that, in
+the new circumstances, you would make no difficulty about advancing me
+a loan. I want £10,000 to clear off debts, and a few thousands to get
+along with for the present.”
+
+“My dear fellow, do you think I carry ten thousand pounds loose in my
+pocket?”
+
+“I think you could get me an advance of more than that amount if you
+chose.”
+
+“But Sir Vernon may alter his will.”
+
+These words of Woodman’s brought great comfort to Walter Brooklyn’s
+heart. They proved at least that, as the will stood, he would come in
+for a considerable sum on his brother’s death. He was emboldened to
+make a definite proposal.
+
+“Look here, Woodman, you know what is in the will. I want you to
+advance me twenty thousand pounds at once on the strength of my
+expectations under it. There’s no risk, practically; what there is,
+I’m prepared to pay for. If you let me have twenty thousand now, you
+shall have thirty thousand when Sir Vernon dies.”
+
+“Good heavens, do you think I’m rolling in money? If I had twenty
+thousand to spare I couldn’t risk it on a pure gamble like that. The
+odds are that Sir Vernon will alter his will, or you may die before he
+does. Where should I be then?”
+
+“I should imagine in that case you would get a big slice of the money
+yourself.”
+
+“But, really, that’s no reason why I should give it to you. What you
+propose is absurd.”
+
+“You know very well, Woodman, that it is not absurd. But, if you don’t
+like my proposal, make one of your own. What I want is twenty thousand
+pounds and a regular income assured until old Vernon dies.”
+
+“My word, you don’t want much,” was Woodman’s comment; but his brain
+was working actively. He was, in fact, in quite as dire straits for
+money as Walter Brooklyn himself. Lately, his position was worse; for
+heavy stock exchange speculation had brought him to the point of
+certain bankruptcy unless he could raise a considerable sum at once.
+His mind went to work on a definite scheme, which indeed he had
+conceived before ever he came to visit Walter Brooklyn. While he
+perfected his plan, he continued to protest the impossibility of doing
+what Walter suggested. Before making his proposal he wanted to be sure
+how far the man to whom he was speaking knew what Sir Vernon
+Brooklyn’s will contained. Twenty thousand pounds, he suggested, was a
+big sum to ask for on the strength of expectations under the will. He
+saw at once that this line of argument made Walter Brooklyn anxious,
+and before long he had convinced himself that Sir Vernon’s brother had
+no certain knowledge of the provisions of the will. Then he was ready
+to spring his audacious proposal.
+
+“Look here, Brooklyn, I’ve been thinking it over, and we may be able
+to manage something. I’ll try to get you that twenty thousand pounds
+on condition that you make over to me one-half of your expectation
+under the will.”
+
+“You’re asking me to buy a pig in a poke,” was Walter Brooklyn’s
+answer. “You know the details of the will, and I’m willing to tell you
+that I don’t. I can’t accept your terms; but I’m willing to pay you
+forty thousand pounds when I get the money if you let me have twenty
+down. Isn’t that a fair proportion?”
+
+“Considering the risk, certainly not. But I’m willing to make an
+alternative suggestion. Under the will, Joan and Mrs. George Brooklyn
+are both amply provided for. The inheritance of the rest of Sir
+Vernon’s money probably lies between you and me, whether the will is
+altered or not. I suggest that we make an agreement to go equal shares
+in whatever is left to either of us. I add one condition, that you
+should draw up a new will, making me the heir to your estate.”
+
+“You stand to get the lot that way, whatever happens. I can see that
+it is very nice indeed from your point of view. And what, may I ask,
+do you offer me in exchange?”
+
+“Twenty thousand pounds down, which I can borrow on the strength of
+our joint expectations, and I’m willing to add two thousand a year
+until Sir Vernon dies. And in addition, I offer you the security that,
+even if Sir Vernon cuts you out of his will, you will still get your
+share of the money.”
+
+“But, if Sir Vernon dies now—he’s pretty bad, they tell me—the effect
+of it will be that I shall be making you a pretty handsome present.”
+
+“And I shall be presenting you with twenty thousand pounds in hard
+cash.”
+
+They wrangled for some time longer; but Walter Brooklyn, in ignorance
+of the precise terms of the will, was at a serious disadvantage.
+Finally, he agreed to Carter Woodman’s terms; and Woodman at once sat
+down and drafted out a written agreement putting their compact into
+definite terms. He also drew up, in a few lines, a will constituting
+himself Walter Brooklyn’s heir.
+
+“Now, we must get these documents signed and witnessed,” he said.
+
+“There will be some one about downstairs,” said Brooklyn heavily. He
+had an uneasy feeling that he was being badly swindled; but twenty
+thousand pounds down was the main thing. Besides, he might find ways,
+though Woodman was a cute lawyer, of repudiating the bargain later, if
+it proved to his interest to do so.
+
+There were two documents to be witnessed—the will and the agreement.
+The I.O.U., which was Woodman’s further security for the £20,000,
+would not, of course, be signed until the money was actually paid
+over. The two men went downstairs, found the night-porter and a waiter
+who had not yet gone to bed, and completed the two documents in their
+presence. Then, taking the will and his copy of the agreement, Woodman
+bade Walter Brooklyn good-night, receiving a not very cordial
+response. His first business on the morrow would be to use the two
+documents and the joint expectation of the two men under Sir Vernon’s
+will, as a means of raising at once, not merely the £20,000 for Walter
+Brooklyn, but the much larger sum of which he himself stood
+immediately in need. He thought he knew a man who would let him have
+the money. If he failed, bankruptcy was inevitable. Woodman
+congratulated himself on a good night’s work. Already his chestnuts
+were half out of the fire.
+
+Walter Brooklyn, when Woodman had gone, sat down again in his chair
+with a heavy sigh. He was very conscious that he had been swindled.
+Carter Woodman knew the terms of Sir Vernon’s will, and he did not;
+and it was certain that, with this knowledge to help him, Woodman had
+struck a hard bargain. Moreover, he not only knew the will: he was in
+a very strong position, as Sir Vernon’s legal adviser, to prevent the
+making of a new one which would be disadvantageous to him. Woodman was
+almost safe to score, whatever might happen. But there was solid
+comfort in the thought that, under the compact they had just made, it
+was to Woodman’s interest that Walter should get the largest possible
+slice of Sir Vernon’s money. Whatever came to Walter was to become
+Woodman’s in time. Woodman, therefore, would be bound to do his best
+to serve Walter’s interests. Yes, there were compensations in being
+swindled on such terms. Walter stood a good chance of wealth for as
+long as he lived; and what did it matter to him who might get the
+money after his death?
+
+“After me, the deluge,” said Walter Brooklyn to himself, summing up
+the evening’s transaction.
+
+
+
+Chapter XXVII
+
+Robert Ellery’s Idea
+
+Ellery woke up in the morning with the dim consciousness that he had a
+great idea. What had he been thinking out when he dropped off to sleep
+the night before? The murders, of course—they were always in his
+thoughts. But what was the shattering new idea that had come to him as
+he lay awake? That was how his best ideas often came—in the night just
+before he went to sleep they came to him half-formed, and the next
+morning, by the time he was fully awake, they had somehow taken on
+form and certainty. With an effort he stretched and roused himself,
+and, as he did so, the idea came back to him. He felt certain that he
+knew who was the murderer.
+
+Who, he had asked himself the night before—who, of all the persons who
+figured on the list Joan and he had compiled, was most likely to have
+done the thing? He felt certain that it was not the work of a
+stranger: the whole of the circumstances seemed to point to some one
+familiar with the house and its ways. Yet, on the evidence, it seemed
+clear enough that no one among those they had put upon their list
+could be guilty. But their list included everybody. Very well—this had
+been his first inspiration—there must be something wrong with the
+evidence. It must point away from the guilty, as it had pointed
+towards the innocent. The murderer who had laid that clever trail to
+incriminate Walter Brooklyn would obviously have taken the precaution
+to lay a trail pointing away from himself. Indeed, whoever had the
+apparently clearest _alibi_ was on this showing the most likely to be
+guilty. It would be safest, in the circumstances, to ignore for the
+moment all the evidence which seemed to prove innocence, and simply
+consider, in the light of the remaining conditions, who was most
+likely to have been the murderer.
+
+This narrowed the field considerably. The women, except as possible
+accessories, could be ruled out of account in any case; for no woman
+could have struck the blows by which the two cousins had met their
+deaths. That left—whom? Walter Brooklyn was out of it; for his _alibi_
+had been not merely accepted, but tested beyond possible doubt. Ellery
+could hardly suspect himself, though he admitted that any one else,
+following out his line of thought, might still suspect him. His
+_alibi_ was not conclusive: it depended on the word of one man. But he
+could rule himself out: he could say positively that he had not done
+the thing. Then who remained? Only Harry Lucas, Carter Woodman, and
+the two servants, Winter and Morgan. Among these, if he was right, the
+real murderer must be found.
+
+It was ludicrous, Ellery felt, to suspect his guardian. Harry Lucas
+had no possible motive, and he was the very last man for such a deed.
+He was ruled out of consideration as soon as the thought was
+conceived. About Winter and Morgan Ellery could not feel the same full
+certainty; but he was very strongly of opinion that the murders were
+not the work of a servant, and that neither of these men had the
+qualities which the deed seemed to demand.
+
+Then there was left only—Carter Woodman. It was on that thought that
+Ellery had fallen asleep, and that was the idea that now came back to
+him with added certainty. Carter Woodman was the murderer.
+
+But was not the whole idea preposterous? Woodman not merely had an
+_alibi_ which had satisfied the police; he was a relative, an old
+personal friend, the tried and trusted business adviser of the
+Brooklyns. His wife was one of Joan’s dearest friends, and he himself
+had been constantly about with the men of whose murder Ellery was now
+suspecting him. The idea seemed preposterous enough, when it was put
+in that way; but, though Ellery presented these difficulties to his
+mind in all their strength, they did not at all change his attitude.
+No one else was the murderer: therefore Carter Woodman was.
+
+There entered, certainly, into Ellery’s conviction his own strong
+dislike of Woodman. The suggestion of Woodman’s guilt, once made, was
+plausible to him, because he had not at all the feeling that the deed
+was incongruous. It would have been utterly incongruous with what he
+knew of any other possible suspect, even Walter Brooklyn; but the cap
+seemed to fit Carter Woodman. Ellery said to himself that Woodman was
+just the sort of chap who would commit murder, if he had a strong
+enough motive.
+
+Yes; but where was the motive in this case? What did Woodman stand to
+gain? Knowing the terms of the will, Ellery was aware that he gained
+nothing directly; for Sir Vernon’s fortune would now pass mainly to
+Walter Brooklyn, and the rest to Joan and to Marian Brooklyn. Of
+course, Woodman might hope to get Sir Vernon to make a new will in his
+favour, and, in any case, he probably stood now a fine chance of
+becoming the managing director of the Brooklyn Corporation. But a man
+would hardly commit two desperate murders merely on such chances. The
+more Ellery considered the matter, the surer he felt that there must
+be something else behind—something of which he was unaware, that would
+make the whole case plain.
+
+He must see Joan, and tell her what he suspected. She might well know
+some fact, of which he was ignorant, that would throw a clear light on
+the motive behind the crimes. But would she ever believe that Woodman
+had done it? Ellery realized that what to him seemed like certainty
+would seem to others only a guess, and that he had not merely no proof
+but actually no evidence to support his assumptions. What evidence
+there was told the other way. Still, this did not shake his assurance.
+He must make Joan see the case as he had come to see it. Then they
+could seek together for the proof.
+
+As soon as Ellery had breakfasted, he set off for Liskeard House to
+find Joan. They must get to work at once.
+
+Joan, too, had spent a good part of the night thinking; but her
+thoughts had brought her no nearer to a solution of the mystery
+surrounding the murders. There was literally not one, of all those who
+seemed to be concerned, who could, in her judgment, have been the
+murderer. She was reduced to the supposition that it must be some
+outsider—some one whom they had not even dreamed so far of connecting
+with the crimes.
+
+But Joan’s thoughts, unlike Ellery’s, persistently wandered from the
+problem which she had set herself to solve. She kept thinking of the
+future—of the thing that was dearest to the heart of the old man lying
+at death’s door. It was not the money: it was the direction of the
+great dramatic enterprise which he alone had built up. He had set his
+heart, she knew, on passing on, not merely his fortune, but the
+headship of the Brooklyn Corporation to one of his own blood, one who
+could carry on the work he had set himself to do. Whom would he now
+put in the place which Prinsep had lately occupied? He might, indeed,
+die without the strength to make a change; but Joan did not believe
+that he would. It seemed to her inconceivable that he would leave
+matters so that the bulk of his fortune, and with it the control of
+the Brooklyn Corporation, would pass to her stepfather, who had
+manifestly neither the will nor the special capacity to carry on the
+work. She was convinced that Sir Vernon would change his will; and she
+could see but one man whom he was now likely to make heir to his
+wealth and position. Carter Woodman had the talent and the knowledge
+to run the Corporation as a business, if not as an artistic success.
+Would Sir Vernon put Woodman in Prinsep’s place? Joan hated the very
+idea; for she believed in the Brooklyn Corporation as an artistic
+venture, and she had always somehow both disliked and distrusted
+Carter Woodman. She would have found it difficult to give a definite
+reason for her dislike, and she admitted that she was perhaps unfair;
+but there it was. She hoped Carter would not get the job, and she was
+sure that, however successful he might be commercially, his accession
+to power would put an end to all hope of artistic success. Still, she
+told herself, it was no business of hers, and she would certainly not
+try to influence Sir Vernon in any way. She supposed he would make
+Woodman his heir; for there was no one else.
+
+Against her will, the thought of Ellery came into her mind. He would
+be, would he not?—she seemed to be arguing with a non-existent
+adversary—just the man to carry on Sir Vernon’s great artistic
+enterprises. Joan found herself building up quite a romance on the
+basis of Robert Ellery’s succession to control of the great Brooklyn
+enterprise. How well he would do it! And then she reminded herself
+sharply that she had no right to entertain such ideas, and that, in
+any case, she certainly could not say a word on Bob’s behalf to Sir
+Vernon. No, Carter Woodman would get the job. Joan sighed as she
+resigned herself to the inevitable. But despite her good resolutions,
+she was still thinking what an excellent successor to Sir Vernon
+Robert Ellery would make, when she was told that he was waiting to see
+her. She brushed the thought she had been entertaining out of her
+mind, and, dressing hastily—for she had breakfasted in bed—went down
+to see him.
+
+“Well, my dear, what news?” he asked.
+
+“My dear Bob, I’ve had a beastly night, and I feel utterly washed out.
+And my thoughts keep on going round and round in a circle.”
+
+“Poor darling,” said Ellery. “You _are_ having a time.”
+
+“And yet, Bob, it’s odd how little it all matters now I have you.”
+
+“I must give you a kiss for saying that, my dear. And I must try to
+live up to it.”
+
+“Dear boy,” said Joan, and then for a few minutes they managed to get
+along without the need for words. Joan was the first to rouse herself.
+“My dear Bob,” she said, “this is a fine way of wasting time. I
+thought our job was to find out who did it.”
+
+“My dear child, I’ve been thinking all the time. It’s wonderful how
+putting my head on your shoulder clears my brain. Now I’m ready to
+behave like a real scientific detective.”
+
+“I think you’ll do it better if you sit a little farther off. Now, my
+lad, what do you think about it?”
+
+“I think just this, Joan. I think I know now who did it.”
+
+Joan gave a gasp. “You know who did it!” she repeated.
+
+“Well, I don’t know; but I think I have a very good idea.”
+
+“Do you mean you’ve got some evidence at last. Who was it, Bob? Tell
+me.”
+
+“No, I haven’t any fresh evidence yet. I’ve just been thinking. But I
+believe it was”—Ellery paused—“Carter Woodman.”
+
+Joan gave a half-cry of surprise. “Bob, Bob, you can’t mean that.
+Whatever makes you say such a thing? My dear boy, it’s quite absurd.”
+
+“Why is it absurd, Joan?”
+
+“Well, Carter’s a member of the family, and one of our oldest friends,
+and—but what’s the use of discussing it? Why, he was here yesterday.”
+
+“He may be here to-day, dear; but I don’t see what that has to do with
+it.”
+
+“But Carter’s been helping the police all through. He’s——”
+
+“Isn’t that just what he would do if he were guilty?”
+
+“My dear Bob, this is absurd. We know that Carter was in the
+Cunningham Hotel all the evening. He couldn’t have done it. Really——”
+
+“Do you think that the man who was clever enough to fasten all that
+suspicion on your stepfather wouldn’t be clever enough to provide
+himself with a passable _alibi_?”
+
+“Oh, yes. But all this doesn’t tell me why you suspect Carter. Put it
+out of your mind, Bob. I know you don’t like him, but that doesn’t
+mean that he has committed murder.”
+
+“I’ve said to myself already everything that you are saying now. But I
+still believe that he did it.”
+
+“Why, Bob? Have you any reason—any proof at all, I mean?”
+
+“No, I’ve no proof; but I’ve an idea. It’s a question of elimination.
+If nobody else did it, then he did.”
+
+“But, my dear boy, what possible motive could he have had? People
+don’t commit murders just for fun. Do be reasonable. Carter was on
+quite good terms with both George and John, and he had no reason for
+killing either of them.”
+
+“Do you mean that, Joan?” said Ellery, with a sense of disappointment.
+“I hoped you would be able to explain to me what motive he could have
+had. Come now, doesn’t he really stand to gain something—I mean, don’t
+you think Sir Vernon may make him his heir, or something of that
+sort?”
+
+Joan paused. “Yes, Bob,” she said, with a sigh. “There I think you’re
+right. Sir Vernon will very likely put Carter in John’s place, I
+should imagine. But——”
+
+“Well, isn’t that a motive?”
+
+“No, my dear, it isn’t. After all, we don’t know that he will, and I’m
+quite sure people don’t commit carefully planned murders just on a
+chance like that. Really, Bob, it’s ridiculous.”
+
+Ellery said nothing, but got up and strode across the room. Then he
+turned and faced Joan. “Look here,” he said, “supposing we hadn’t
+cleared old Walter, and he had been put out of the way as well as
+Prinsep and George. Who’d have been the heir then—the next of kin, I
+mean?”
+
+“Oh, Carter, I suppose. But you don’t suggest——”
+
+“My dear child, we’ve been a pair of fools. By George, I wasn’t sure;
+but I’m sure now. What you’ve just said makes it clear as clear.”
+
+“Makes what clear?”
+
+“Why, the motive. Of course, I ought to have seen it before.”
+
+“Ought to have seen it before? Ought to have seen what?”
+
+“Why, whoever murdered John and George did his best to throw the
+suspicion on your stepfather, didn’t he?”
+
+“Yes, I suppose he did.”
+
+“And if your stepfather had been convicted, Woodman could have stepped
+into Sir Vernon’s shoes without a word said as the next heir.”
+
+“When Sir Vernon died—yes. Probably, he could.”
+
+“And wasn’t all this the surest way of hastening his end? But that is
+not my point. As long as Walter Brooklyn was likely to be convicted,
+the man I suspect stood to inherit Sir Vernon’s money, and to step at
+once into Prinsep’s shoes. He had murdered two of the people who stood
+in his way, and he did his best to murder the third judicially by
+faking up evidence against him. If Walter Brooklyn was convicted, he
+was quite safe to get both the money and the control of the theatres.
+That’s what he was after when he tried to get your stepfather
+convicted of murder. Doesn’t that theory fit the facts?”
+
+“I suppose it does, Bob. But it would be a simply horrible thing to
+have to believe, and it doesn’t convince me in the least. I don’t like
+Carter; but we’ve treated him as almost one of the family all these
+years. Could he possibly have done such a thing?”
+
+“I don’t like him either—in fact, I dislike him very strongly—and I
+believe he could—and did. But it won’t be easy to prove it.”
+
+“But, Bob, it can’t be true. Carter was with the others at the
+Cunningham all the time on the night when John and George were
+killed.”
+
+“I know he said he was; but was he? A thing like that needs to be
+proved. Why, he’s the only man who had any reason for killing these
+three people, and, unless he can prove conclusively that he didn’t
+kill two of them, and do his best to get the law to kill the third, I
+shall go on believing that he did. At any rate, I mean to look into
+it.”
+
+“But you can’t possibly bring a charge of that sort without proof.”
+
+“You and I are going to find the proof, and there are two things you
+can do to help. First, you must find out—from Marian will probably be
+best—where Woodman really was on Tuesday night, I mean whether he
+positively was with them in the hotel all the evening. I don’t believe
+he was.”
+
+“My dear boy, it would be simply horrible to have to go and ask Marian
+things like that, when I can’t possibly tell her why we want to know
+them. To think that she is actually living with the Woodmans, without
+an idea that any one is suspecting Carter of having murdered her
+husband.”
+
+“No, you mustn’t tell her a word. But you can easily find out what I
+want without letting her see what I suspect.”
+
+“I suppose I must try to find out, just to prove that you’re all
+wrong. But I don’t suspect Carter. It’s just too horrible to think.”
+
+“My dear, whether we like it or not, we have to find the man who did
+this—more than ever now that your stepfather is cleared. A man who was
+capable of these things is capable of anything, and I can’t bear the
+thought that you may be meeting him and regarding him as a friend.”
+
+“All right, Bob. I agree that we have to get to the bottom of this.
+I’ll do my best. But I’m still sure you’re wrong.”
+
+“That’s right, Joan, I only hope I am. But, while you’re seeing
+Marian, I will try to find out a few things about friend Woodman on my
+own.”
+
+At this moment Marian Brooklyn was shown in. She came across most
+mornings, and spent a part of the day at Liskeard House, taking her
+share in looking after Sir Vernon. It was a relief to her to have
+something to do. It stopped her from just thinking day and night of
+what she had lost. Ellery had not seen her since the tragedy, and he
+felt shy and awkward now in the presence of her grief. At the end of a
+few minutes he took his leave and left Joan to do what she had
+promised.
+
+It was not easy to come to the point. How could she, without rousing
+suspicions, ask Marian about Carter Woodman’s movements on the night
+of the murders? But, very soon, Marian gave her just the chance she
+needed, by saying that she and Helen had been alone together all the
+previous evening.
+
+“Where was Carter?” she asked.
+
+“He had to go out and see some one on business. He did not get back
+till we were just going to bed.”
+
+“Sitting up late as usual, I suppose?”
+
+“It was about twelve o’clock—certainly not later. And you know I can’t
+sleep if I go to bed early.”
+
+“I didn’t know Carter did business in the evenings. He always used to
+boast of keeping his evenings clear for enjoying himself.”
+
+“Yes, and he had promised Helen to be in. But he said it was a very
+particular engagement. At some Club or other, I believe. He was seeing
+Sir John Bunnery about some legal business. When he came in he was
+dead tired, and went straight to bed.”
+
+“Marian, do you like Carter?” Joan asked suddenly. “It seems funny I
+never asked you that before. I hate him.”
+
+“My dear, you mustn’t say that. Of course I like him. I don’t mean I
+care for Carter like some other people; but of course I like him.
+Helen is a darling.”
+
+“That means you don’t like him at all—only you’re too nice to say so.”
+
+“I do like him, Joan. At least, I mean I don’t dislike him.”
+
+“He seems to leave Helen alone a great deal.”
+
+“Far too much, and he’s often out until all hours.”
+
+“He even went out again after the dinner here last Tuesday, didn’t
+he?”
+
+“No, he didn’t that night. He went away to his room and wrote letters.
+But he didn’t go out again. I stayed with Helen till he came up to
+bed—rather before twelve. But don’t talk about that horrible night.”
+
+“I’m sorry, dear. I won’t again.”
+
+And then they talked of other things, until Marian went in to sit a
+while with Sir Vernon. The doctor, who had been with him, saw Joan on
+his way out. Sir Vernon, he reported, was not yet out of immediate
+danger; but he was rallying wonderfully from the shock which he had
+sustained.
+
+
+
+Chapter XXVIII
+
+The Superintendent’s Theory
+
+When Inspector Blaikie reported to Superintendent Wilson the results
+of his conversation with Carter Woodman, he had formed no definite
+theory. He explained without comment the precise terms of the will,
+stating that, if Walter Brooklyn had been removed, Carter Woodman, as
+next of kin, would have became the principal beneficiary. He was not
+prepared for the conclusion which his superior immediately drew on
+hearing that this was the case.
+
+“Then Carter Woodman is the murderer,” said the superintendent, with
+an air of finality. “If we had known these facts before, it would have
+saved a world of trouble.”
+
+“But,” said Inspector Blaikie, “Carter Woodman appears to have a
+perfect _alibi_. He was in the Cunningham Hotel at the time when the
+murders were committed—at least that seemed to be an undoubted fact
+when we investigated his movements.”
+
+“My dear inspector, it does not follow that, because Walter Brooklyn’s
+_alibi_ proved to be sound, all _alibis_ are therefore equally sound.
+I do not need to remind you that _alibis_ can be faked.”
+
+“Quite so, sir; but aren’t you rather hasty in leaping to the
+conclusion that Woodman is guilty? We have really nothing against him,
+except a suggestion of motive. As matters stand now, he has gained
+absolutely nothing by the murders.”
+
+“Perhaps not, though it is not safe to be too sure on that point. We
+may not know all the circumstances. But, if you are right, don’t you
+see that the very fact that, as matters stand now, he has gained
+nothing, is a very strong reason for suspecting him?”
+
+The inspector failed to follow this reasoning. “Why do you say that?”
+he asked. “I can’t see it at all.”
+
+“Well, it is clear that the murderer, whoever he was, did his level
+best to get Walter Brooklyn hanged. Who stood to gain by getting
+Walter Brooklyn out of the way?”
+
+“I see. Carter Woodman. Yes, I follow now.”
+
+“That is one strong point against him. Here is another. Do you
+remember where Walter Brooklyn thought he had left his stick on
+Tuesday afternoon? He went back to look for it, you remember.”
+
+The inspector thought for a moment. “In Carter Woodman’s office,” he
+said at last.
+
+“Well, then, isn’t it clear that he did leave his stick in Woodman’s
+office? Woodman found it, but denied the fact when Walter called to
+fetch it, and told him he must have left it in the taxi. Then Woodman
+deliberately planted the stick on the scene of Prinsep’s murder.”
+
+“That’s pure hypothesis. I don’t say it isn’t true; but——”
+
+“It’s more than hypothesis: it is divination. Surely you see that it
+_must_ be what happened.”
+
+“I expect, as usual, you are right,” said the inspector. “But will it
+convince a jury? I have tried all I know to get any evidence showing
+when the stick was left; but not a trace can I find. A jury will
+regard it as a pure hypothesis.”
+
+The superintendent sighed. Juries are sadly lacking in appreciation of
+the subtleties of reasoning. “You’re quite right there,” he said. “My
+divination won’t hang Carter Woodman. But it convinces you as it
+convinced me. We have to get faith in our own knowledge before we can
+make a case that will persuade others. You and I now have that faith.
+We know that Carter Woodman is guilty.”
+
+“But even you can’t prove it.”
+
+“Not yet; but it will be proved. And now I come to a third point. You
+remember that written message that was found in the garden near George
+Brooklyn’s body—the scrap of paper you picked up. It was in Prinsep’s
+writing.”
+
+“Yes, I remember.”
+
+“Have you thought any more about that scrap of paper, or have you just
+assumed that it was a request by Prinsep that George Brooklyn should
+meet him in the garden?”
+
+“There didn’t seem to be much to be gleaned from it.”
+
+“There I think you are wrong. I want to know exactly when that piece
+of paper was found, and by whom.”
+
+“We found it in the garden that morning, when we were looking for
+clues after finding George Brooklyn’s body.”
+
+“Who actually found it?”
+
+“I suppose I did. No, I remember now, it was Carter Woodman who
+directed my attention to it. It was lying in a corner of the
+summer-house—the place they call ‘the temple.’”
+
+“My dear inspector,” said the superintendent excitedly, “do you
+realise the significance of what you have just said. Woodman took good
+care that you should discover that piece of paper, _because he had put
+it there for you to find_.” The superintendent said these last words
+slowly, and with very great emphasis.
+
+The inspector scratched his head thoughtfully. “I believe you are
+right,” he said. “It was after we had finished our first search that
+Woodman drew my attention to the scrap of paper.”
+
+“He was afraid you would fail to notice it.”
+
+“I can see that you are right, sir; but there again you have a thing
+which will not convince a jury for a moment. Your reasoning will seem
+to them fantastic. I only know you are right because you always are
+right when you make a long guess like that.”
+
+“But need it be only a guess? Look here.” And Superintendent Wilson
+pushed the scrap of paper across to his subordinate. “Take a good
+look. Do you see anything curious about it?”
+
+“It’s written oddly near the edge of the paper.”
+
+“Yes, that is the point. The writing is right up at the top of the
+paper, and immediately above the writing is a torn edge. The paper, as
+we said before, is a sheet torn from the memorandum block found in
+Prinsep’s room; but it is not a complete sheet. About an inch has been
+neatly torn off the top of the sheet. Is that a natural thing for
+Prinsep to have done, and does the writing look natural as it stands
+now on the sheet?”
+
+The inspector looked again at the note. “No, it certainly does not,”
+he said.
+
+“Doesn’t that suggest anything to you?”
+
+“Do you mean that this is only part of the message?”
+
+“That’s exactly what I do mean. The message now says only, ‘Meet me in
+the garden.—J.P.’ Probably what it said originally was, ‘Dear So and
+So—whatever the name may have been, and I don’t believe it was
+‘George’—meet me in the garden.—J.P.’ There may have been a date, too,
+at the top of the note.”
+
+“You mean that this note, though it was written by Prinsep, was not
+written with reference to the particular occasion we are concerned
+with.”
+
+“Precisely. Now, I suppose there is no hope of our finding the missing
+part of that memorandum slip; but I am convinced that is what
+happened.”
+
+The inspector made a sudden exclamation. “Good Lord! what a fool I
+have been,” he said.
+
+“How do you mean?” said the superintendent sharply.
+
+“Why, I actually found what must have been the missing part of the
+slip when I was searching Prinsep’s room. I thought nothing of it at
+the time.”
+
+“You have it now?”
+
+The inspector shook his head ruefully. “No,” he said, “it has gone
+west. When I searched the room, I naturally looked in the grate. There
+had been a fire, and on the hearth was a half-burnt scrap of paper.”
+
+“What was on it?”
+
+“Nothing but the name of a day at the head—Monday, it was—and one
+word. The rest was burnt. It had evidently fallen out of the grate.”
+
+“The word was?”
+
+“‘Man.’ Just ‘man,’ nothing else.”
+
+The superintendent gave an excited laugh. “Now I know what the note
+contained,” he said. “‘Monday, Dear Woodman, Meet me in the
+garden.—J.P.’ How does that strike you? The note was from Prinsep to
+Woodman; but it was written on the day before the murders. Lord, what
+a pity you didn’t keep the fragment. My dear inspector, never destroy
+anything. That is the only safe course for a man like you.”
+
+“I did show it to the sergeant, sir,” said the inspector, considerably
+crestfallen at his superior’s tone.
+
+“Come, that’s a bit better. The judge will probably accept your
+combined testimonies. It’s a great pity, though, you didn’t realise
+the importance of that scrap of charred paper. However, for our own
+purposes at least I think we can take it as proved that Woodman
+deliberately prepared and planted that note on the scene of the crime,
+believing that the other piece was safely burnt in the fire in
+Prinsep’s room. Our case against Woodman is mounting up. Come,
+inspector, you must follow up these new clues at once.”
+
+“Don’t forget Woodman’s _alibi_. That still holds unless we can shake
+it.”
+
+“It must be your next business to shake it. We now know that Woodman
+did leave the Cunningham Hotel that evening. It is your job to
+discover how he left it and how he got into Liskeard House. Make these
+the next points, inspector.”
+
+“I’ll do my best, sir.”
+
+“And there is one other matter I should tell you about, though, in the
+light of our discoveries, it is now probably of quite minor
+importance, I think. Still, we must not be too cocksure, or neglect
+any fact that may possibly bear on the case. If we are right about
+Woodman, then he planned the whole affair very carefully; but he took
+a big risk all the same.”
+
+“Having you to reckon with, yes.”
+
+“Well, I doubt if a man would take a risk of that magnitude without
+some very urgent reason—such as grave and immediate financial
+embarrassment. I want you to look into Woodman’s record, make
+inquiries about him in the city, and see if he appears to be in Queer
+Street, or anything of that sort.”
+
+“It wouldn’t prove anything if he were.”
+
+“No; but it would greatly strengthen our case on the question of
+motive. It’s worth looking into, at all events. And now, inspector, I
+won’t keep you. There’s work to do; and you had best be getting about
+it. And I want to do some more thinking in this case. It gets
+interesting.”
+
+
+
+Chapter XXIX
+
+The Lie of the Land
+
+When Joan and Ellery determined upon their course of action, Ellery’s
+immediate part was to make a thorough investigation of Carter
+Woodman’s movements. Apparently he had a perfect _alibi_—as good as
+Ellery’s own—absolving him of all part in the events of the fatal
+Tuesday night. Indeed, in the eyes of the law he had scarcely needed
+an _alibi_, for nothing had occurred to throw any real suspicion upon
+him. Ellery suspected him nevertheless almost to certainty; but he
+admitted to himself that even now his suspicion was based on what
+others would regard as no more than a guess. Tuesday, therefore,
+seemed the best starting-point; for if Woodman’s _alibi_ for that
+occasion held good, that would finish the matter, and prove that the
+whole edifice of suppositions which Ellery had built up was founded on
+nothing.
+
+It was easy enough for Ellery to walk into the Cunningham Hotel, where
+he was already known, under pretext of a visit to Marian Brooklyn.
+But, having made his entry, he did not proceed to the suite of rooms
+which she shared with the Woodmans. His object was to explore the
+hotel in order to discover whether there was in fact, as the porter
+and the manager had stated to Inspector Blaikie, only one possible
+exit. The porter, who had been at the door from ten o’clock onwards
+through the night had been quite certain that Woodman had not gone out
+that way. He had come in with his wife and Mrs. Brooklyn at about a
+quarter past ten, and he had not returned to the entrance hall until
+about a quarter to twelve, when he had given the porter his late
+letters for the post, and had gone straight upstairs again. That
+seemed clear enough; for the porter was very positive that Woodman had
+not gone out at any time during the evening.
+
+There was, the manager had told the police, another exit, of course,
+for the hotel servants. But the only way to this from the club
+quarters lay through the great kitchen, and it would be quite
+impossible for a guest to leave by this way without being observed.
+Ellery had chosen eleven o’clock at night for his visit to the hotel,
+and meeting the manager, whom he knew, he asked to be shown into the
+kitchens. The management was excessively proud of these, and made a
+regular show of them to its guests. The manager readily agreed to take
+him round, and even a cursory inspection was enough to show Ellery
+that, even at that hour in the evening, no guest could possibly have
+left by the servant’s exit without being seen by at least half a dozen
+persons. The preparation of theatre suppers was in full swing, and the
+kitchens were alive with chefs and waiters at least until midnight.
+
+Leaving the manager, as if he were going up to the Woodmans’
+apartment, Ellery resumed his prowl. On the ground floor he speedily
+discovered there was no possible means of exit except the main door.
+There remained the basement, occupied mainly by a vast grill room
+which was closed at ten o’clock. Ellery descended the stairs, and
+pushed open the grill room door communicating with the hotel. The
+place was in darkness and, without turning on the light, he made a
+tour of the huge room. At the far end were cloak rooms and another
+flight of stairs communicating with the street. So far it would be
+fully possible for a guest to make his way without attracting
+attention. Ellery went up the far stairs, and approached the door
+leading from the grill room to the street. It was heavily barred and
+bolted, as well as locked. But the key was in the lock, and there
+seemed to be nothing to prevent the bolts from being withdrawn from
+the inside. As quietly as he could Ellery took down the bars, slid
+back the bolts, and unlocked the door. He stood, not in the street,
+but in a small outer hall with another locked door in front of him.
+This door also could be undone from the inside, and, opening it
+cautiously, Ellery found himself looking out into St. John’s Street.
+He had established the fact that it was possible at night for a guest
+to leave the Cunningham Hotel unobserved. Quietly he re-locked the
+doors and slid back the well-oiled bolts and bars, surprised for the
+second time to find how little noise his operations made.
+
+Woodman, then, could have both left and returned to the hotel without
+being seen. But had he? The very lack of possible observers seemed to
+make it impossible to prove the case either for or against him. If no
+one had seen Ellery make his investigations—and as he returned to the
+ground floor he was certain that no one had noticed him, at least
+until he reached the top of the basement stairs—why should any one
+have seen Carter Woodman when he had followed the same route? The
+effect of Ellery’s investigations was to make Woodman’s _alibi_
+insecure. But it afforded absolutely no positive evidence of his
+guilt.
+
+Still, it was something to have shown that the _alibi_ was not
+conclusive, and Ellery was fairly well pleased with the result of his
+visit. But he had not yet done. According to Woodman’s story, he had
+written his letters in a small and little used writing-room on the
+first floor, at the opposite end of the hotel from his own rooms, but
+quite near the basement stairs, to which another small flight of
+stairs led directly from the first floor almost from the writing-room
+door. Ellery went into the writing-room and found it deserted. He
+remembered that Woodman had stated that he had had it to himself
+throughout the time he had spent there.
+
+Ellery had no definite idea that the writing-room would yield a clue,
+but he thought that he might as well have a look round. He glanced at
+the blotting pads which lay on each table, only to see that the
+blotting paper was evidently changed very frequently. But, picking up
+one of the blotters he discovered that, while the top sheet was
+practically clean, the old used sheets of blotting paper had been left
+underneath. Rapidly he examined every sheet. On several he saw marks
+of Carter Woodman’s writing, and of his large bold signature. This,
+however, showed only that Woodman often used the room. So far it bore
+out his story. The pads bore impressions of several other
+handwritings; but only one other recurred frequently. Ellery was able
+to make out the signature by holding the paper up to the light. The
+writing was curious and quite unmistakable. The name of the writer was
+Ba Pu—evidently an Oriental.
+
+Ellery had an idea. It was a chance and no more; but he made up his
+mind to see Ba Pu, if he was still in the hotel, and to put a few
+questions. Returning to the hall he asked the porter the number of his
+room.
+
+“Oh, you mean the Burmese gentleman,” said the porter. “He has a suite
+on the first floor. His sitting-room is No. 17. He came in only a few
+minutes ago.”
+
+Ellery made his way to No. 17 and knocked. The Burmese—a small,
+dark-skinned man with curious twinkling little eyes and quick
+movements—was in his room and received him with ready courtesy. Ellery
+presented his card and apologised for intruding upon him.
+
+“Oh, no,” said the Burmese. “You not intrude. Very please.”
+
+“You may think it very strange of me,” said Ellery, “but may I ask you
+a question without explaining fully why I ask it? It is on a matter of
+real importance.”
+
+“Ask. Yes,” said the Burmese. “I help if I can.” He spoke English
+quickly and jerkily, but he evidently understood the language well. “I
+very glad meet you, Mr. Ellery. I Burmese, come here study the British
+conditions. Go back Burma tell my people all about this country. You
+help me. I help you.”
+
+“Then that is a bargain, and I can ask you my question at once. Did
+you use the writing-room opposite here at any time on the evening of
+Tuesday, the 17th of this month?”
+
+“Why, that the very day I come here. Yes, I use him that night. I came
+here study your conditions. I want meet all your famous men. I go
+there write letters ask them meet me. I write your Mr. Bernard Shaw,
+your Mr. Wells, your Mr. Arnold Bennett.”
+
+Ellery interrupted. “Can you tell me at what time that evening you
+were in the writing-room?”
+
+“Yes, I tell you. I come here to stay. Evening I wish write letters. I
+wish at once to meet your famous men. I go to writing-room door. I
+peep in. I see gentleman there, writing. He not notice me; but I shy.
+I steal away.”
+
+“What time was that?”
+
+“Eleven by the clock—no earlier. It was what you call eleven less a
+quarter.”
+
+“I see, about 10.45.”
+
+“Yes. I go back to my room and I wait. I leave door open and soon I
+see gentleman come out of writing-room and go downstairs. Then I go
+in. I write my letters.”
+
+“Do you know when that was?”
+
+“I go back to writing-room a few minutes after I go back to my room.
+About eleven of the clock—it was then.”
+
+“And how long did you stay there?”
+
+“I stay there long time—what you call the three-quarters of hour,
+perhaps.”
+
+“And then you came back to your room?”
+
+“Yes. I come back here.”
+
+“You did not see the gentleman who was in the writing-room again.”
+
+“Yes, I see him. He come upstairs there, outside my door, just after I
+get back to my room.”
+
+“You left the door open then.”
+
+“Yes. There was no air. It is what you call stuffy here. I see him go
+into writing-room.”
+
+“And that was the last you saw of him?”
+
+“Yes. But he stay in hotel. I see him later—days later—often times.”
+
+“Then you would recognise him if you saw him. Is this he?” and Ellery
+passed a photograph of Carter Woodman to the Burmese.
+
+“Yes, that he.” And then the Burmese smiled blandly and added, “And
+now you tell me why you wish know this.”
+
+“I would rather not tell you just yet, Mr. Pu, if you will forgive me.
+All I can say is that what you have told me affects a man’s life.”
+
+“You not want to tell me, you not tell me. But you help me get
+interview with Mr. Bernard Shaw. I help you. You help me. See?”
+
+Ellery promised his good offices—for what they were worth.
+
+“And Mr. H. G. Wells?”
+
+Ellery again promised with rather more hesitation, to do what he
+could.
+
+“And Mr. Bennett?”
+
+This time Ellery, foreseeing further additions to the list, suggested
+that he should come back and have another talk with Mr. Pu in a day or
+two. He would certainly do anything possible to help him.
+
+“And Mr. Bertrand Russell?” the Burmese was saying, as Ellery managed
+to talk himself out of the room.
+
+Here at last, Ellery said to himself, as he left the hotel, was proof,
+proof positive, even all but certainty. Woodman had lied about his
+doings on Tuesday evening, and his _alibi_ was a fake. At the time
+when he had said that he was writing letters in the small writing-room
+he was really somewhere else. He had left the writing-room at a few
+minutes before eleven, and he had only returned to it, by the stairs
+which led directly to the basement, about three-quarters of an hour
+later. The inference was obvious—to Ellery at least. But his new
+certainty that Woodman was the criminal was still of course very far
+from complete demonstration. A man might lie about his movements, and
+still not be a murderer. What should the next step be? He would see
+Joan, and convince her now that his suspicions had been rightly
+directed. She could hardly still doubt.
+
+
+
+Chapter XXX
+
+A Letter and Its Consequences
+
+One of Joan’s duties, during these troublous days, was to deal with
+Sir Vernon’s private letters. The management of the Brooklyn
+Corporation had passed, for the time being, into the hands of a
+subordinate; but there were many private letters to be read and
+answered. Ill as he was, Sir Vernon liked to be consulted about some
+of these; and Joan always set aside a few to discuss with him each
+morning. On the day following Ellery’s successful investigation at the
+Cunningham Hotel, Joan sat opening the letters at breakfast. Most of
+them contained little of interest; but there was one, marked Private,
+which was clearly of importance. As Joan read it, she felt that yet
+another of the clues leading to the discovery of the murderer had come
+unexpectedly into her hands.
+
+The letter was from Sir John Bunnery, the successful solicitor,
+well-known in the sporting world as “the bookmaker’s attorney,” a
+nickname which he had earned by his long association with legal cases
+connected with the Turf. Sir John had been a friend of Sir Vernon’s in
+earlier years; but the two men had quarrelled many years ago, and
+since then they had seen nothing of each other. Carter Woodman,
+however, was, as Joan knew, a friend of Sir John’s, and she was not
+surprised when, glancing down the letter, she read his name.
+
+Sir John Bunnery began by offering his sympathy to an old friend in
+the misfortunes which had come upon him, adding that he hoped their
+drifting apart of late years would not make the sympathy less welcome.
+Then, having said the proper thing, he came to business. On the
+previous day, he explained, a somewhat curious request had come to him
+from Mr. Carter Woodman, who had asked for his help in securing a
+large loan, stating that there could be no doubt about the repayment
+of the money, as full security could be given that far more than the
+sum asked for would be available under the will of Sir Vernon
+Brooklyn. He, Carter Woodman, was one of the beneficiaries under the
+will, and he was also in a position to offer, in return for the loan,
+the joint guarantee of Mr. Walter Brooklyn, who had now, in tragic
+circumstances, become the principal beneficiary under the will.
+Woodman stated that he was Walter Brooklyn’s heir, and that he and
+Walter were prepared to make themselves jointly liable for the
+repayment of the sum asked for. Sir John said that he would, of
+course, be most pleased to assist Mr. Woodman, who was a personal
+friend; but although Woodman had approached him in confidence, and
+asked him not to mention the matter even to Sir Vernon, he had felt it
+necessary to write equally in confidence to Sir Vernon in order to
+ascertain whether Woodman and Walter Brooklyn were in fact the heirs.
+Sir Vernon would understand that he was asking for this information
+only in strict confidence, and he—Sir John—would quite accept the
+position if the answer was that Sir Vernon did not feel able to tell
+him how matters stood. In that case, however, he would feel compelled
+to decline to arrange the very large advance—£60,000—for which Woodman
+had asked. A hint would be enough to tell him how he ought to act. Sir
+John ended with a repetition of his condolences, and expressed the
+hope, that, when Sir Vernon was well enough, their old friendship
+might be renewed.
+
+Joan read the letter right through with a feeling of bewilderment.
+What could it all mean? Were her stepfather and Carter Woodman really
+acting in collusion in an attempt to raise money in anticipation of
+Sir Vernon’s death? And, if they were, what light did their
+extraordinary proceeding throw on the murders?
+
+The letter gave Joan a good deal to think about. The information which
+Woodman had given to Sir John Bunnery might, of course, be technically
+correct. She realised that, under the existing will, Walter Brooklyn
+was, now that the two persons who had stood in his way had been
+removed, the principal beneficiary. But he had become so entirely by
+an accident, which was certainly no part of the testator’s intention,
+and his chance of remaining so depended entirely on Sir Vernon’s not
+making a new will in some one else’s favour. Woodman, of course, might
+have a good reason for thinking that he would not do that, even if he
+were able; but Joan doubted this, and was more inclined to believe
+that he was relying on Sir Vernon’s speedy death without making a new
+will. Walter had, in any case, only become the heir after the murders.
+That was but a few days ago; and he and Woodman had, Joan reflected,
+certainly been quite extraordinarily prompt in trying to take
+advantage of the new position. Either they must be in some terrible
+financial difficulty, or they must fear the making of a new will, and
+hope to raise the money before this could come about.
+
+What surprised Joan far more were the statements that Walter had made
+Carter Woodman his heir. She knew well that Walter had no love for
+Woodman; and she at once realised that he could only have taken such a
+step in return for a pecuniary consideration. There was obviously, in
+Woodman’s application to Sir John Bunnery, evidence of a very
+unpleasant bargain. The whole letter made Joan very angry indeed.
+
+In any case the receipt of the letter could not but considerably
+strengthen Joan’s suspicions of Carter Woodman. “Of course,” she said
+to herself, “he hoped to raise this money without our hearing anything
+about it.” And she could not help feeling that it looked very much as
+if he had deliberately planned the whole thing in order to lay hands
+on the money.
+
+But, apart from the effect of the letter upon Joan, what was likely to
+be its effect on Sir Vernon? She felt that she must show it to him;
+and she did not conceal from herself that she positively wanted him to
+see it. For she hardly concealed from herself now her desire, her hope
+for Ellery’s sake, that Sir Vernon would alter his will. The effect of
+Sir John Bunnery’s letter, she thought, would certainly be to make him
+very angry with both Walter Brooklyn and Carter Woodman; and she felt
+sure that, ill as he was, Sir Vernon, under the circumstances, would
+lose no time in making a new will. Woodman, indeed, had, she felt,
+effectively destroyed his chances of getting the money for the sake of
+which, if her suspicions were correct, he had probably done two men to
+death. Sir John Bunnery’s breach of confidence had hoisted the
+engineer with his own petard.
+
+Taking this letter and one or two others from the heap which lay
+before her, Joan went up to Sir Vernon’s room. She read him the others
+first, and received his instructions, or rather his permission to deal
+with them as she thought best. Then, without any previous comment, she
+read him Sir John Bunnery’s letter, watching his face as she read.
+
+The effect of the news upon him was exactly what she had expected. He
+was very angry, and while she was reading he interjected indignant
+comments. He was effectively roused; and, as soon as she had finished
+reading, he bade her write at once to Sir John Bunnery, not answering
+his question directly, but strongly advising him not to lend the
+money. “Write at once,” he said, “and I will sign it myself. The
+answer must be sent immediately.”
+
+Joan needed no second invitation. She sat down at once, and having
+written the answer, read it through to Sir Vernon, who signed it. She
+then gave it to one of the servants, with instructions that it should
+be posted immediately. When she came back into the room, Sir Vernon
+was sitting up in bed. He had a pencil in his hand, and was trying to
+write on the fly-leaf of a book he had taken from the table beside his
+bed. As Joan came to him, he sank back, exhausted by the effort.
+
+“Come here, my dear,” he said. “I shan’t rest now till I’ve made a new
+will, and I want you to write it for me. It can be put into proper
+legal form later, if there is time.”
+
+“Shall I send for Carter Woodman?” said Joan.
+
+“No, my dear. No more Carter Woodman for me just now. I shall have to
+find a new lawyer. But never mind that now. You write what I tell
+you.”
+
+Then, slowly and painfully, the old man dictated a new will. “I have
+to make it simple,” he said. The new will left Joan the whole of his
+fortune, with the request that she should pay to all persons mentioned
+in the previous will, and still living, the sums there left to them,
+except that no sum should be paid to Carter Woodman. A further clause
+appointed Joan and Henry Lucas joint executors, and a third, an
+after-thought, provided for the payment of a small annuity to Helen
+Woodman. “There is no need for her to suffer for what he has done,”
+said Sir Vernon.
+
+Two of the servants were then called in to witness the will, and Joan,
+at Sir Vernon’s command, took it downstairs and had it placed at once
+in the office safe of the Brooklyn Corporation.
+
+“I am easier now in my mind,” said the old man, as Joan returned from
+her errand. “You will have to carry on the Brooklyn tradition now,
+Joan,” he added. Joan took his hand, and sat by him, and, in a few
+minutes he fell asleep. Joan sat by his side for a while. Then she
+quietly disengaged her hand, and left him sleeping. He was tired out;
+but she believed the exertion had done him good.
+
+In the lounge Joan found Ellery, in a high state of excitement. “News,
+darling,” he said. “I have news for you, and it shows that I was
+right.”
+
+“I have some news for you, too, my boy. It’s a most extraordinary
+thing that has happened. I’m not so sure as I was that you were
+wrong.”
+
+“I think my news makes it simply certain I was right.”
+
+“Bob, Sir Vernon has made a new will, cutting out Carter.”
+
+“My dear, you don’t mean to say he suspects?”
+
+“No, of course he doesn’t; but this morning we found out that Carter
+and my stepfather are trying—the two of them—to raise money on the
+strength of the will.”
+
+“Good Lord, how did you find out that?”
+
+“A letter came to Sir Vernon from Sir John Bunnery, saying Woodman had
+approached him in confidence for a loan of sixty thousand pounds, on
+the joint security of his and my stepfather’s expectations. He said my
+stepfather had made him his heir.”
+
+“Made whom?”
+
+“Why, Carter. So that he stood to get the money any way.”
+
+Ellery whistled. “My word, the plot thickens. And now let me tell you
+my news.”
+
+And so the two lovers exchanged their information. Joan, in her anger
+against Carter Woodman, was now a good deal easier to convince. She
+admitted at once the force of Ellery’s evidence. If Woodman had lied,
+it was not likely that he had lied for nothing. Her anger for the time
+prevented her from realising the full horror of the position; but
+presently it came home to her. “Oh, poor Helen,” she said, “what _are_
+we to do? It will break her heart.”
+
+“My dear we must clear this thing up now. We can’t leave it where it
+stands. You see that.”
+
+Joan pulled herself together. “Yes, I suppose we have to go through
+with it.”
+
+“And find positive proof.”
+
+“I suppose we must go on.”
+
+“We can’t prove it yet, you see,” said Ellery. “But we’ve made a
+really good beginning on the job of bringing last Tuesday’s business
+home to Woodman, and we mustn’t lose any time in following up that
+trail to the end.”
+
+“But how do you propose to follow it up? Haven’t you done all you can
+there?”
+
+“No. Don’t you see? We must prove that the man the servants took for
+George that night when he went out of this house was really Carter
+Woodman.”
+
+“That all sounds very well; but I don’t see how you’re going to do
+it.”
+
+“Neither do I; but I mean to have a shot.”
+
+“My dear Bob, let me try. It’s my turn to do something. I have an
+idea, and I may be able to find out about it.”
+
+“You’re very mysterious. Won’t you tell me what the idea is?”
+
+“No, Bob. It may come to nothing; and I’d rather try it myself first.
+It won’t take long to find out. You’ve done all the clever things so
+far; and I think it’s my turn for a change.”
+
+“Right you are, Joan. I only hope it’s a good ’un.”
+
+“I hope it is; but it’s only a chance. You come back here to-night and
+I’ll tell you. Besides, I want an excuse for seeing you again.”
+
+“Darling,” said Ellery, and their conversation for the next few
+minutes can be left to the experienced imagination of the reader.
+
+
+
+Chapter XXXI
+
+A Button in a Bag
+
+As soon as Ellery had gone, Joan put on her things and walked across
+to the Cunningham Hotel, where she went straight upstairs to the rooms
+occupied by Carter Woodman and his wife. As she expected, there was no
+one at home. Woodman was at his office, and Marian Brooklyn and Mrs.
+Woodman were, she knew, away for the day. Joan locked the two doors
+opening on the corridor, and had the suite safely to herself.
+
+It would have been awkward if any one had interrupted her, for what
+she did was to make a thorough search of the rooms, looking
+particularly at all the articles of male clothing and going very
+carefully through Carter Woodman’s own belongings. Her search was
+entirely unsuccessful, and, having replaced everything neatly so that
+no one would notice that it had been disturbed, she unlocked the doors
+and gave it up as a bad job.
+
+“So much for that little idea,” she said to herself. “I could never
+really have hoped to find it there.”
+
+But was that the end of her idea? As Joan finished her tidying up she
+began to hope that it was not. Carter Woodman had not been foolish
+enough to leave what she was looking for in his own rooms; but he
+must, she said to herself, have left it somewhere. Where then would he
+have left it? Where would she, if she wanted to get safely rid of a
+rather bulky object, so as never to hear of it again, be likely to
+leave it?
+
+A station cloak-room at once occurred to her as a likely place; but
+the prospect of searching all the cloak-rooms of London was not
+alluring. Moreover, there were a dozen other places in which he might
+have disposed of a compromising object with almost equal safety. At
+the bottom of the river—a stone was all that was needed. In a
+pawnshop—of course after removing all marks that would serve to
+identify the article. In a cab, or any of a hundred other places,
+merely by leaving them behind. The cabman would hardly ask questions,
+if he found something of obvious value. To hunt for what Woodman had
+hidden seemed far more hopeless, far worse than looking for a needle
+in a haystack. It would need an army of men to do the searching. The
+police might be able to do that sort of thing. She and Ellery
+certainly could not.
+
+Yet, if their theory was right, Woodman had almost certainly returned
+to the hotel after murdering George and Prinsep, bearing with him at
+least one very comprising piece of property. He could hardly have got
+rid of it—or them—safely the same evening. Most likely he would have
+done them up in a bag or parcel and gone out to dispose of them the
+next morning, on his way to his office. A bag was the more likely,
+for, as Woodman habitually carried one, it would attract less notice
+than a parcel. Assume that he had gone out with the things in a bag.
+Had he taken them to his office, or had he got rid of them on the way?
+Either might be the case, and it would not be easy to follow up the
+clue.
+
+Then Joan had a sudden thought; swiftly she got up and again locked
+the doors. Among the things she had searched there had been a large
+hand-bag. She had looked into it, and found it empty. As the objects
+she was seeking were bulky she had not studied it very carefully; but
+it was Just possible that it might repay further inspection.
+
+But, before Joan could make her search she heard steps coming along
+the corridor. Hastily she unlocked the sitting-room door and hurried
+into the bedroom. Hardly had she done so when she saw Carter Woodman
+come into the room. Fortunately, the bedroom communicated directly
+with the corridor; and Joan, without pausing to make any further
+examination or to watch Woodman’s movements, let herself out
+noiselessly into the corridor and sped down the stairs unobserved. A
+narrow shave, and all, it seemed, for nothing.
+
+Then Woodman’s presence in the hotel gave Joan another idea. If he was
+there, he was not at his office. Why should she not complete the task
+she had set herself by having a look round there as well? She took a
+taxi, and, in less than a quarter of an hour, she was in Woodman’s
+outer office, and in talk with his confidential clerk. She was told
+that Woodman was not in, and would not be back until after lunch. She
+told Moorman that she could not wait, but that she would like to go
+into the inner office and write a note. Moorman at once showed her in,
+and withdrew to the outer room.
+
+Joan saw that whatever she did she would have to do quickly. First,
+she scribbled a hasty note stating that she had come to see Woodman to
+inquire about her stepfather’s affairs. As he was out, however, her
+business would keep. Having done this, she cast her eyes quickly round
+the room. In one corner was a hat and coat cupboard, and in it was
+hanging a coat of Woodman’s. Very quickly she went through the
+pockets. The only papers were a number of restaurant bills, evidently
+stuffed in hastily and forgotten. Joan confiscated them, without much
+hope that they would be of use. Then, in the bottom of the cupboard,
+she noticed a hand-bag, twin brother of the one she had been on the
+point of examining at the hotel. Hastily she opened it. Apparently it
+was empty; but, feeling round the corners, Joan found a hard object—a
+coat button—which she quickly transferred to her purse. Then, putting
+back the bag and closing the cupboard, she returned to the outer room.
+A talk with the clerk might have its uses.
+
+“Mr. Woodman has been looking rather ill just lately,” Joan began. “Do
+you think he is really unwell?”
+
+“I must say, miss, he’s not well. Between you and me, miss, he’s been
+badly worried.”
+
+“About these terrible murders, you mean?”
+
+“About them, miss, and about other things. Mr. Woodman wouldn’t like
+my saying so, but he has had terrible worries.”
+
+“Oh, dear, I hope nothing serious.”
+
+“Oh, probably not, miss, and you mustn’t say a word about it to any
+one. I ought not to have said what I did say. But I’m worried too.
+You’ll be sure not to mention it, miss, won’t you?”
+
+“All right, Moorman, don’t you worry.”
+
+“But, miss, Mr. Woodman is such a short-tempered gentleman. And you
+don’t know how angry he’d be if he knew what I have been saying to
+you.”
+
+“You’ll have to look after him, Moorman. See that he doesn’t worry too
+much. By the way, I suppose I couldn’t catch him now at lunch. Where
+does he usually lunch?”
+
+“Generally at the Blue Boar up Holborn, miss. He generally goes to the
+Blue Boar every day when he’s in this part.”
+
+“If I try there, and don’t find him, where else could I try? Does he
+ever go to any other restaurant?”
+
+“I don’t quite know where he’d be, miss. One day last week he went to
+the Avenue by Hatton Garden. But I don’t think he’s been there since.
+He’s never been there but the once to my knowledge.”
+
+“When was that, Moorman?”
+
+“As it happens, miss, I can tell you. It was the day we heard of those
+terrible murders. Last Wednesday, miss.”
+
+“Thank you, Moorman. I’ll see if he’s at either of those places. If
+not, I may come back.”
+
+But Joan did not go to either of the places of which Moorman had told
+her. Instead, she went to the nearest telephone box, and ’phoned to
+Ellery, who was lunching at his club, to come at once and meet her
+outside Chancery Lane Station. Meanwhile, she went into an A. B. C.
+and ordered a cup of coffee. As she waited she took out the
+coat-button and had a good look at it.
+
+She was not in much doubt. The button was of a quite peculiar kind—a
+bright brass button identical with those which George Brooklyn always
+wore on his summer evening coat. Here was luck indeed. According to
+her theory Carter Woodman had been mistaken for George Brooklyn
+because he had deliberately come out of Liskeard House wearing
+George’s coat and opera hat. George was very particular with his
+dress, and the coat was quite unmistakable. With these, if not in
+them, he must have returned to the Cunningham Hotel, where he would
+have stowed them away somewhere safely for the night. But the next
+morning his first object would be to get rid of their incriminating
+presence. She had guessed that he would pack them away in the bag
+which he usually carried, and so leave for the office bearing them
+away without any risk of arousing suspicion. Then her first thought
+had been that he would leave them in some railway cloak-room, or drop
+them quietly into the river. But this would involve the risk that the
+bag might turn up, and be identified as his. What would be the safest
+way of disposing of the hat and coat without leaving the bag, or
+running any risk of identification? She thought she had guessed at
+least one way in which it might have been done, and it was to follow
+this up that she wanted Ellery’s help. She had now proved definitely
+to her own satisfaction that the coat had been in Woodman’s bag; but
+she was not sure whether the police would be willing to accept the
+evidence of a solitary coat-button.
+
+They must find the coat, unless it had been put beyond reach of
+recovery. When Ellery arrived Joan told him that they were going to
+lunch together at the Avenue Restaurant opposite Hatton Garden. In a
+few words she told him what he was to do.
+
+At the Avenue Joan remained at the table they had chosen, while Ellery
+went to the gentlemen’s cloak room. There was no attendant in the room
+at the time, and Ellery made a quick survey of the two or three dozen
+hats and coats which were hanging there. What he was looking for was
+at any rate not among them. In a few minutes the attendant came in,
+and Ellery entered into talk.
+
+“Do you get many hats and coats left behind here?” he asked.
+
+“Not many, sir. Sometimes a gentleman leaves a coat or an umbrella;
+but he generally comes back for it. Gentlemen sometimes leave things
+when they’re a bit on, sir, if I may put it so without taking a
+liberty. But not often, sir. Most of the customers here are very
+regular gents. When things is left we keep them here for a week or two
+and then we send them to the Lost Property Office. Have you lost
+something, sir?”
+
+“No, but a friend of mine thinks he left a coat and opera hat here a
+week or so ago. Have you found anything of the sort?”
+
+“Yes, I have,” said the porter. “And what’s more, I’m damned,
+sir—begging your pardon, sir, if I could make it out at all. Gentlemen
+don’t usually walk about in opera hats at lunch time, or go away
+leaving their hats behind. But this lot was left at lunch-time. I know
+that, sir, because it weren’t here in the morning, and I noticed it
+after lunch.”
+
+“Perhaps it had my friend’s name in it.”
+
+“No, sir, that it hadn’t. I searched that coat, and not a name nor a
+scrap of paper was there on it. A pair of gloves and a few coppers was
+all it had in it.”
+
+“Wasn’t there a name in the hat either?”
+
+“No, there wasn’t, or we would probably have found the owner by now.”
+
+“Well,” said Ellery. “I’m going to take you into my confidence. I
+believe that coat and hat did belong to my friend, and I want you to
+let me have a look at them. The matter is more important than it
+sounds, for if it is the coat I think it may be the clue to the
+discovery of a murderer.”
+
+“Lord, sir, you don’t say so.” The attendant’s face brightened, and a
+new sense of importance came into his manner. “Lord, a real murderer.”
+He rubbed his hands. Then he said, remembering that he had no idea who
+Ellery might be. “In that case, sir, oughtn’t we to send for the
+police?”
+
+“All in good time,” said Ellery; “but before we do that you must let
+me see the coat and hat and find out if I am right. It wouldn’t do to
+bring the police here on a wild goose chase. I don’t want to take them
+away; but you must keep them safe and not give them up to any one
+until the police come.”
+
+The porter thereupon brought out the coat and hat. The coat was
+undoubtedly George Brooklyn’s, or own fellow to his, and to make the
+proof complete there was a button missing, and the remaining buttons
+were the same as that which Joan had found in the handbag in Carter
+Woodman’s office. Ellery turned to examine the hat. There was no name
+in it, but in the crown there was evidence no less valuable. At some
+time the adhesive gold initials which hatters use had been fastened
+inside. These had been removed, or fallen out; but their removal had
+left the spaces which they had covered cleaner than the rest of the
+white silk lining. The initials “G.B.” stood out, not as plainly as if
+the gold letters had remained, but quite unmistakably when the lining
+was carefully examined. There could be no doubt that Joan’s sagacity
+had resulted in bringing to light George Brooklyn’s hat and coat, or
+that they had been left in a place which Woodman had visited on the
+day following the murder. Their theory that Woodman had masqueraded as
+George Brooklyn was confirmed, and the new evidence served to connect
+him, more closely than any previous discovery, with the murders at
+Liskeard House.
+
+Ellery drew Woodman’s photograph from his pocket. “Have you ever seen
+this gentleman?” he asked. But the porter did not remember. He might
+have, or he might not. So many gentlemen came to the Avenue, and he
+was not continuously in the cloak room. The lady at the cash desk
+would be more likely to remember. She was a rare one for faces.
+
+Cautioning the man to take the greatest care of the hat and coat until
+the police came, Ellery rejoined Joan in the restaurant upstairs and
+told her of his success. They determined to see the manager, and take
+further precautions against the disappearance of George Brooklyn’s
+clothes. Joan had selected a table in an alcove, at which it was
+possible to talk quietly without being overheard, and, through the
+head waiter, Ellery got the manager to come and join them there. They
+told him, in confidence, the greater part of the story, names and all,
+except that they did not give Carter Woodman’s name. The manager
+promised that the coat and hat should be kept safely, and given up
+only to the police. He then sent for the cashier, to whom Woodman’s
+photograph was shown; but she did not remember his face, and was
+inclined to be positive that he had not really lunched there on that
+day. The waiters were then called in turn and shown the photograph;
+but none of them remembered having seen Woodman. The manager seemed to
+regard this as conclusive evidence that he had not lunched in the
+restaurant.
+
+“Of course,” said Ellery, “he may have lunched here and not been
+noticed. But I’m inclined to believe he didn’t lunch here at all.
+There was nothing to stop him from walking straight into the cloak
+room, and then going right away as if he had lunched without coming
+into the restaurant at all. I wonder how Moorman knew he lunched here
+that day?”
+
+“We can’t ask him that without putting him on his guard,” said Joan.
+“But what we have is good enough. And we can make Moorman speak out
+later, if it becomes necessary.”
+
+The manager had by this time left them, and they were discussing the
+situation alone. Suddenly Ellery broke in on something that Joan was
+saying.
+
+“By Jove,” he said, “I’ve just remembered. What a fool I am not to
+have thought of it before.”
+
+“What is it this time?”
+
+“Why, you remember those finger-prints of Prinsep’s that were on the
+club George was killed with. I know how they got there. When we were
+in the garden before dinner I saw Prinsep take down that club from the
+statue, and swing it about. He was showing it to—whom do you think?”
+
+“Not Carter Woodman?”
+
+“Yes, Woodman. That must have given him the idea of using the club. He
+may have remembered that it would probably have Prinsep’s finger-marks
+on it.”
+
+“Yes, but if he used it afterwards it would have his marks too.”
+
+“Not necessarily. Don’t you remember the police saying at the inquest
+that some of the marks were blurred, as if the club had been handled
+afterwards? That inspector fellow said he was sure the murderer had
+worn gloves. That’s it. Woodman must have worn gloves, and they
+blurred the marks. That shows that Woodman killed George as well as
+Prinsep.”
+
+“Of course it all helps to make it likely; and I never thought John
+had done it. But it’s not proof, you know.”
+
+“It may not be proof, but, by George, with the rest of the facts we
+have I think it’s good enough.”
+
+“No, Bob, I don’t think it is good enough—for proof, I mean—unless we
+can prove that Carter was in Liskeard House that evening. If we could
+prove that, I agree that we could bring the whole thing home to him.”
+
+“But we know he went out of the Cunningham, and lied about where he
+had been.”
+
+“We know he lied, but we can’t even prove that he went out of the
+hotel. We only showed that he could have got out, and in again,
+without being seen. It really isn’t good enough—yet.”
+
+“But how are we to make it any better?”
+
+“If Carter got back into Liskeard House I’m going to find out how he
+did it. He couldn’t have come in by the front door—some one would have
+been certain to see him. And I’m fairly certain he couldn’t have got
+in through the theatre without being seen.”
+
+“Then how on earth did he get in?”
+
+“That’s what I mean to find out. If he didn’t come in the other ways,
+he must have come in through the coachyard.”
+
+“But surely the evidence at the inquest showed that it was all locked
+up, and no one could possibly have got in that way.”
+
+“My dear Bob, the evidence only showed that it was locked at eleven
+o’clock. The police theory was that the murders were somewhere about
+midnight. But we believe Carter got out of the Cunningham some time
+before eleven. He must have come through before it was locked. And we
+know now, thanks to that coat-button, how he got out.”
+
+“You may be right. But the chauffeur and his wife both said they
+didn’t see any one come in before they locked up; so that, even if
+Woodman did come that way, I don’t see how we can prove it.”
+
+“You are a Jeremiah. Of course I don’t see either. But I haven’t
+really tried yet, and I’m going to. And now, Bob, let’s pay our bill,
+and get to work on it. It must be so, and I’m not going to believe it
+can’t be proved.”
+
+
+
+Chapter XXXII
+
+Sir John Bunnery
+
+Before Joan and Ellery parted, they arranged what each should do next
+to clear up the remaining difficulties. Joan was to test her theory
+about the coachyard, while Ellery was to investigate the circumstances
+surrounding the extraordinary attempt of Woodman and Walter Brooklyn
+to raise a loan in anticipation of Sir Vernon’s death. Woodman had
+approached Sir John Bunnery; and Sir John’s subsequent letter to Sir
+Vernon seemed to make it worth while to find out what information he
+possessed. Ellery made up his mind to go and see Sir John; and Joan
+furnished him with a convenient pretext for doing so. Sir Vernon had
+determined to get his new will into proper legal form at the earliest
+possible moment, and had told Joan that Woodman must on no account be
+allowed to do the drafting of it. She had suggested that Sir John
+Bunnery might be called in, and Sir Vernon had readily agreed. Joan
+therefore commissioned Ellery to call on Sir John, and ask him to come
+to Liskeard House at his earliest convenience for the purpose of
+drawing up Sir Vernon’s new will.
+
+Ellery wrote on his card, “From Sir Vernon Brooklyn,” and, aided by
+the name, was speedily shown into Sir John Bunnery’s private office.
+Sir John was not at all the popular idea of what “the bookmaker’s
+attorney” ought to be. He was a small, dried-up old man, with very
+sharp little eyes that darted to and fro with disconcerting
+suddenness. He had a way of sitting very still, and looking his
+visitors up and down with those bright little eyes, until they felt
+that no detail of their appearance—and perhaps none of their
+thoughts—had escaped observation. Sir John made Ellery nervous, and,
+after a few sentences, he found that he had completed his ostensible
+business, without getting anywhere near the matter he had really come
+to discuss. He shifted uneasily in his chair.
+
+Sir John Bunnery evidently read his thoughts. “And now, young man,
+there is something else you want to say to me, isn’t there?”
+
+This was not at all the way in which Ellery had expected to conduct
+the interview. He had hoped to discover what he wanted casually, in
+the course of conversation, without giving Sir John, who was, after
+all, a friend of Woodman’s, any hint of what he wanted to know. But
+Sir John was manifestly a man whom it was not easy to pump. Ellery was
+wondering what to reply when the old lawyer spoke again,—
+
+“I have refused Woodman that advance. Is that what you wanted to
+know?”
+
+Ellery said that it was not, and then realised that he had admitted
+wanting to know something.
+
+“Well, what is it then?” said Sir John.
+
+There was nothing for it but either to get out of the room without the
+information that was needed or to make Sir John Bunnery, at least in
+part, a confidant. Ellery rapidly chose the latter course, and elected
+to go to work the most direct way.
+
+“I want to know precisely what Carter Woodman said to you when he
+asked you to lend him that money. Do you know what he wanted it for?”
+
+“You want to know a lot, young man. And why should I tell you all
+this?”
+
+“Because Carter Woodman is a murderer.”
+
+Those small eyes looked at him very suddenly. “H’m,” said Sir John,
+“and so you think Woodman killed those two fellows at Liskeard House.
+Is that it, eh? I dare say they were a good riddance.”
+
+“I must say you take it very calmly, Sir John.”
+
+“In my business, young man, we get used to taking things calmly.
+Murder is not an uncommon crime.”
+
+“But I understood Carter Woodman was a friend of yours.”
+
+“If you were my age, young man, and in my profession, you wouldn’t be
+surprised even if one of your friends committed a murder. But, he’s no
+friend of mine—now. Carter Woodman would be a good riddance himself. I
+could have put him in prison for trying to raise money on false
+pretences.”
+
+“Sir John, you will tell me what you know. I have almost certain proof
+that Woodman did commit murder; but your evidence may be
+indispensable.”
+
+“In that case, I should naturally give it at the proper time—to the
+police. Why should I give it to you, young man? I never heard of you
+before. Who are you?”
+
+“Only a friend of Sir Vernon’s and of Miss Cowper’s. You probably know
+my guardian—Mr. Lucas. Miss Cowper and I have been working on the case
+together.”
+
+“Oh, you have, have you? Playing the amateur detective, eh?”
+
+“We’ve found out any amount the police don’t know, anyhow.”
+
+“Yes. Amateur detectives always do—in the novels. I prefer to say what
+I have to say at the proper time to the police. It saves
+complications.”
+
+“But, Sir John, the police are absolutely wrong about this. If you
+will tell me what you know, I will undertake that the police shall be
+fully informed within the next few days.”
+
+“And why not now, young man? Because you want to do it all yourself.
+Is that it?”
+
+“Perhaps it is, and perhaps it isn’t, Sir John. But you know best.
+Let’s telephone to the police to send some one round here, and you can
+tell them and me together.”
+
+“And have the police worrying round here all day till heavens knows
+when. No, thank you, young man.” Sir John paused, and then went on
+suddenly. “I suppose you’re going to marry that Cowper girl.”
+
+“I don’t think that is any business of yours, Sir John. But I have no
+objection to telling you that we are engaged to be married.”
+
+“Tut, tut, don’t lose your temper, boy. I’m just going to tell you all
+about it. Woodman came to see me the other night at my club—no, not
+the Byron: Foster’s, at the corner of Clarges Street. That was at nine
+o’clock, by my appointment. He was with me for an hour, discussing
+that loan you seem to know all about. He told me just what I told Sir
+Vernon in my letter, that Walter Brooklyn had made a will in his
+favour, and that they were prepared to sign their joint names to a
+bill. He said that made the loan perfectly safe, on the strength of
+their expectations from Sir Vernon. That was all he told me.”
+
+Sir John stopped.
+
+“Is that all you know?” asked Ellery, with an air of disappointment.
+
+“No, of course, it’s not all. You just wait a minute, young man. Don’t
+be impatient.” Sir John glared for a few seconds at his visitor and,
+then continued: “I may say that Woodman already owed me a considerable
+sum, in connection with a business transaction. So I thought it wise
+to make a few inquiries about him in the city, and I may tell you,
+young man, that the fellow’s bankrupt—positively bankrupt—a shilling
+in the pound affair or something like it. Speculation, of course. He
+can’t hold out for more than a few days. There are men on the Stock
+Exchange who know that for a fact.”
+
+“So that Woodman would be very likely to take some desperate step in
+order to retrieve his fortunes?”
+
+“Such as coming to me and trying to raise money under false pretences.
+The man’s a damned scoundrel,” said Sir John.
+
+“Surely murder is worse than raising money on false pretences, Sir
+John.”
+
+“Oh, is it, young man? Of course, you know all about it. I only know
+that the fellow ought to be locked up. That’s enough for me. I might
+have lent him the money as a friend.”
+
+“But surely, Sir John, when you found out all this about him, you
+wouldn’t have considered lending him the money.”
+
+“Of course, I did not consider it. Not for a moment, I never meant to
+lend him another penny. I wrote that letter of mine simply to put Sir
+Vernon on his guard. I would have gone to the police; but, as I told
+you, I saw no reason why I should get myself mixed up in the affair.
+But it would have outraged my legal sense if that man had got Sir
+Vernon’s money by means of some jiggery pokery with that other old
+scoundrel, Walter Brooklyn. So I wrote to Sir Vernon. You see my
+position?”
+
+“If that is your position, I don’t quite see why you are telling me
+all this now.”
+
+“I am telling you, young man, because I had no suspicion that he had
+committed murder as well. If that is the case, a man of that sort is
+too dangerous to be left loose. He might be murdering me next, or Sir
+Vernon. But now you are going to tell me all about your case against
+him.”
+
+Ellery saw that it was best to tell the whole story, and he did tell
+most of it. Sir John listened, only interrupting every now and then
+with a pertinent question. At the end, his only comment was,—
+
+“H’m, not so bad for amateurs. And now, my fine young man, what are
+you going to do next? If I’m to be the family lawyer, that is a point
+which concerns me. Is it to be a first-class family scandal, eh?”
+
+“Really, we have been so busy trying to discover the truth, that I
+don’t think we have ever considered what to do afterwards.”
+
+“Humph, but you will have to consider it now. Do you think Sir Vernon
+is anxious to have another scandal in the family? If you do, I don’t.”
+
+“I suppose the murderer will have to be brought to justice.”
+
+“You do, do you? And doubtless you look forward to appearing in court
+and showing how clever you have been.”
+
+“Really, Sir John, I look forward to nothing of the kind. If Carter
+Woodman could be put out of the way of further mischief without
+dragging the whole affair into court, I should ask for nothing
+better.”
+
+“How much of what you have found out is known to the police?”
+
+“Nothing at all, I believe. Of course, some other people—the manager
+at the Avenue, for example—know something of the story.”
+
+“They can be dealt with. Well, young man, you think it over, and come
+back and talk to me before you say a word to the police. Bring your
+Miss Cowper, too, if you like. I’m told she’s a pretty girl.” And with
+those words the old lawyer held out his hand, and bustled his visitor
+out of the office.
+
+Ellery left Sir John Bunnery’s presence feeling as if he had been
+bruised all over. He had found out what he wanted, but not at all in
+the way he had intended. And now this masterful old man apparently
+meant to take full command of the case. He must see Joan, and tell her
+what had happened.
+
+
+
+Chapter XXXIII
+
+On the Tiles
+
+Inspector Blaikie had received very definite instructions from the
+superintendent as to the course of investigation which he was to
+follow up. He was to find out all he could about Woodman’s financial
+circumstances, and he was to seek for proof that Woodman had been in
+possession of Walter Brooklyn’s walking-stick. Side by side with this
+line of investigation, he had intended to look further into his own
+private suspicions of Ellery; but these, which had been almost removed
+by his last talk with the superintendent, were finally dispelled by a
+further talk with William Gloucester. Ellery’s _alibi_ was good
+enough: Carter Woodman was the man whose every concern he must
+scrutinize if he would find the murderer.
+
+It did not take the inspector long to prove beyond doubt that Woodman
+was in a state of serious financial embarrassment. Discreet inquiries
+in the city showed that he had been speculating heavily in oil shares,
+and that he stood to lose a large sum on the falling prices of the
+shares which he had contracted to buy. There was nothing to show
+directly that he had staked his clients’, as well as his own, money on
+the fate of his dealings; but the inspector could make a shrewd guess
+at the state of his affairs. In all probability, he must either raise
+money at once, or else face ignominious collapse, and perhaps worse.
+It was definite that he had been putting off his creditors with
+promises to pay in the near future, and plunging meanwhile into more
+serious difficulties in the attempt to extricate himself.
+
+So far, so good; but the other matter gave the inspector far more
+serious trouble. Try as he would, he could get no clue that would tell
+him whether Walter Brooklyn had really left his walking-stick in
+Carter Woodman’s office. His first thought had been to see Woodman’s
+confidential clerk, and to find out, if possible without putting
+Woodman on his guard, what the man might know. He had scraped an
+acquaintance with Moorman in the course of his investigations, and had
+several times talked to him about the case. Moorman, he was fairly
+well convinced, had not the least suspicion of his employer’s guilt,
+and the inspector was sure that he had said nothing to make him
+suspect. Indeed, he could hardly have done so; for only since he last
+saw the man had he himself begun to suspect Woodman.
+
+Now, accordingly, Inspector Blaikie, watching for an opportunity when
+he was certain that Carter Woodman was not in his office, went to see
+Moorman. He asked for Woodman, and, receiving the answer that he was
+out, fell easily into conversation with the old clerk. It was quite
+casually that he asked after a while, “By the way, Walter Brooklyn was
+here on the day of the murders. You don’t happen to remember whether
+he had his walking-stick with him, do you?”
+
+Moorman looked at him sharply, as if he realised that there was a
+purpose in the question. “I’ve no idea,” he said. “’Tisn’t a thing I
+should notice, one way or the other. I’m too short-sighted to notice
+much.”
+
+The inspector tried a little to jog his memory, but with no result.
+Moorman either did not remember, or he would not tell. To ask the
+young clerk in the vestibule seemed too dangerous; for to do so would
+almost certainly be to put Woodman on his guard. The inspector could
+only report to the superintendent that he had failed to trace the
+stick.
+
+“Look here, Blaikie,” said Superintendent Wilson, “this will never do.
+We know perfectly well who committed these murders, and we’re as far
+off bringing it home to him as ever.”
+
+The inspector could only reply that he had done his best.
+
+“Yes; and I’m not blaming you,” his superior rejoined. “But it won’t
+do. I see I shall have to take a hand in the game myself. We must find
+out about that walking-stick, and there’s another point I’ve reasoned
+out to-day. Where’s the weapon with which Prinsep was killed?”
+
+“Why, you’ve got the club.”
+
+“Yes, yes; but you don’t tell me that the murderer carried that
+immense unwieldy thing up two flights of stairs, when he might easily
+have been seen. No, Prinsep wasn’t killed with that club. George
+Brooklyn was; but it was some other weapon that killed Prinsep.”
+
+“There’s the knife,” suggested the inspector. “But you have that too.”
+
+“Really, inspector, you are unusually thick-headed this morning. The
+man wasn’t killed with a knife. He was killed with a blow on the back
+of the head, delivered with some heavy blunt instrument. Isn’t that
+what the doctors said?”
+
+“Quite. If it wasn’t the club, I suppose the murderer carried the
+weapon away.”
+
+“I suppose he may have done, as you did not find it. You are sure
+there was no object in the room that might have been used as a
+weapon.”
+
+“None at all, I think. The stick belonging to Walter Brooklyn could
+not have made the wound, I am told—nor any of the other sticks for
+that matter. It looked much more like a case of sand-bagging, now I
+think of it in this light.”
+
+“Well, inspector, I’m not satisfied, and I feel sure you will not
+object if I do a bit of investigation on my own.”
+
+“Are you taking the case out of my hands, sir?”
+
+“No, no. I want you to carry on, and especially to find out what these
+young people—Miss Cowper and Ellery—are doing. There are only two or
+three points on which I want to satisfy myself personally.”
+
+“Very well, sir,” said the inspector; and he left feeling—and
+looking—more than a little aggrieved.
+
+Superintendent Wilson, in his rare personal appearances in the work of
+detection, had one great advantage, he was not known by sight, even to
+most of the habitual criminal class. He had, therefore, on this
+occasion at least, no need to disguise himself. He merely went to
+Carter Woodman’s office as a prospective client, who had been strongly
+recommended to him. He wanted both to have a look at Woodman himself
+and to see whether anything more could be got out of Moorman on the
+question of the stick.
+
+Woodman was engaged with a client when he arrived, and he had a
+favourable chance of making friends with the old clerk before he was
+shown into the inner office. He used his opportunity for that alone,
+making no attempt to lead the conversation towards the business on
+which he had come. In a very few minutes he was shown into Woodman’s
+private office.
+
+Looking his man up and down, he noted, as the inspector had noted
+before him, the powerful physique, the straining vitality, the false
+geniality of Woodman’s manner. But he could see also that the man was
+seriously worried. There was, for all his appearance of heartiness, a
+harried look about him, and he seemed preoccupied as, with an
+excellent assumption of business incapacity, his visitor began to
+unfold a long story about a lease and a mortgage which he wished to
+negotiate. Woodman listened with growing impatience, as the
+superintendent meant that he should. At length he interrupted, saying
+that the details could be dealt with later. His visitor was most
+apologetic—never had a head for business, but positively must get the
+matter dealt with that day. He lived away in the country—Mr. Amos
+Porter of Sunderling in Sussex was his description for the nonce—and
+he would not be in town again for weeks. Woodman finally suggested
+that, as there was other work he must do, Mr. Porter should settle the
+details with his clerk—an excellent man of business, who would be able
+to tell him all he wanted. Mr. Porter, after a perfunctory attempt to
+go on with his explanation to the principal, agreed; and he was soon
+back in the other office with Moorman.
+
+Mr. Porter had left his hat, coat, and stick in the outer office when
+he went in to see Woodman, laying the stick on a chair and covering it
+with his coat. His business with Moorman was soon done, and he crossed
+the room to get his things. By a curious accident, while he was
+struggling into his coat, he dropped his stick at Moorman’s feet.
+Moorman picked it up, but as he was passing it back to its owner, he
+started violently and almost dropped it.
+
+“A queer old stick, is it not?” said Mr. Porter. “I value it highly
+for its associations.”
+
+Moorman peered at him, oddly. “I beg pardon, sir, but isn’t that the
+stick a gentleman I know used to carry?”
+
+“No, no. I’ve had this stick for years. I bought it in—let me see,
+where did I buy it? Never mind. I had no idea there was another like
+it. That is most interesting. May I ask who uses such a stick?”
+
+“The gentleman’s name is Brooklyn—Mr. Walter Brooklyn. He had one very
+like yours.”
+
+“God bless my soul! Not the fellow whose name has been in all the
+papers? Dear me, what was it about? I know it was in the papers.”
+
+“Mr. Brooklyn was suspected—wrongly—of murder.”
+
+“Oh, yes, I remember now. And you know Mr. Brooklyn? How interesting.”
+
+Moorman lowered his voice. “He was in the office with that stick on
+the very day on which the murders were committed.”
+
+“Dear, dear. It is coming back to me. There was something about the
+stick in the papers. How odd it should be like mine.”
+
+“It was found in the room where one of the murders took place.”
+
+“And you saw Mr. Brooklyn with the stick when he left this office the
+same day. Dear me, that must have looked very bad for him. But he was
+released, wasn’t he?”
+
+“Yes, the police let him go.”
+
+“And did you give evidence, Mr. Moorman? Did you have to say you had
+seen him leave this office with that stick in his hands? It must be a
+terrible ordeal to be a witness—terrible.”
+
+“I didn’t have to give evidence, and in any case I didn’t see the
+stick when Mr. Brooklyn left the office.”
+
+“Oh, I see. He hadn’t the stick with him when he left. Then, of
+course, it wouldn’t go so much against him, it being found. Why, it
+might have been my stick”—and Mr. Porter gave a curious high laugh.
+“Well, Mr.—is it Moorman?—thank you. You’ve told me just what I wanted
+to know—about my mortgage. I will write in, sending all the documents.
+_Good_-morning.”
+
+Safely out of earshot and eyeshot of Woodman’s office, Superintendent
+Wilson had a quiet laugh. “A little diplomacy does it,” he said to
+himself. “Now I know all about the stick. And next for another little
+exploration.”
+
+The superintendent’s next visit was paid in his proper person. Driving
+to Liskeard House, he asked to be shown up to Prinsep’s room, where
+everything was still just as it had been when the murder was
+discovered. There he made a careful examination of the room and all
+its contents, seeking for any weapon with which the murder could
+possibly have been done. His search was fruitless; and, after a while,
+he passed to the window and gazed out thoughtfully into the garden
+below. The roof of the antique temple showed over the intervening
+trees; but the place where the murder of George Brooklyn had taken
+place was completely hidden by the trees and the bushes growing around
+them. The superintendent cast back in his mind to discover whether the
+bushes had been searched for possible clues. He assumed that they
+had—it was an elementary precaution—but he had best have a hunt round
+himself. Something might have been overlooked. He went down the
+private staircase into the garden, and began his search.
+
+Nothing rewarded his efforts, though he spent a good hour searching;
+and it was with a puzzled expression that he went upstairs again to
+Prinsep’s room, resuming his stand at the window and gazing out.
+Suddenly something seemed to catch his attention. Leaning as far out
+of the window as he could, he studied intently what he could see of
+the roof. “It’s just a possibility,” he muttered, as he closed the
+window, and crossed the room.
+
+What Superintendent Wilson had remarked was that almost on the level
+of Prinsep’s window was the roof of that part of the house which
+projected over the stable-yard. It was not near enough for any entry
+to the room to be effected by its means; but it was easily within
+reach of a throw, and an object cast away upon it would be completely
+invisible and safely disposed of until some day, probably distant,
+when the roof might need repair. It was an admirable place for the
+bestowal of any inconvenient piece of property.
+
+By means of the landing window, the superintendent found his way
+without much difficulty out on to the roof, and was easily able to
+climb over its gabled side to the flat space in the centre. And there
+at last his efforts were rewarded; for on the roof lay, clearly just
+where it had been thrown, a small bag heavily loaded, not with sand,
+but with small shot—a deadly weapon. Stuffing the thing into his
+pocket, the superintendent climbed back with more difficulty, and shut
+the window behind him. He chuckled softly to himself. He had reasoned
+aright, and here at last was a clue that had not been laid to
+mislead—a real clue that he must make to point straight at the
+murderer. He went back to his office to examine his find at leisure.
+
+
+
+Chapter XXXIV
+
+The Stable-Yard
+
+While Superintendent Wilson, by his own methods, was thus working
+towards the solution of the mystery, Joan and Ellery were also
+pursuing their investigations along their separate line. There was but
+one thing needed, they felt, to complete their case, and turn their
+conviction from moral into legal certainty.
+
+How had Woodman got into Liskeard House? That was the question which
+Joan had set herself to answer. The coach-yard seemed to be the only
+possible means of access. It was a large square yard opening into
+Liskeard Street by a pair of massive wooden doors ten feet high, and a
+small gate let into the wall at the side. Neither the wall nor the
+doors could be climbed without the aid of a long ladder.
+
+One entering by these doors would find himself in the yard. On his
+left he would have the side wall of Liskeard House, which had no
+window looking out on to the yard. On his right would be the large
+coach-house, now used as a garage, above which lived the chauffeur and
+his wife, formerly a domestic of Sir Vernon’s—both servants of long
+standing. Their apartment had also a door opening into Liskeard
+Street, and a way down into the garage.
+
+Immediately opposite any one entering the yard from the street was an
+extension, built out from the side of Liskeard House towards the back.
+The ground floor of this was occupied by store-rooms, accessible only
+from the yard; but between these a passage led through directly into
+the garden. Above were rooms belonging to Liskeard House, whose
+windows looked out only upon the garden.
+
+Joan, as she stood in the yard, noticed first that, if the outer door
+were open, and the yard itself empty, as at this moment, there was
+nothing to prevent any one from walking straight through into the
+garden; for, as she knew, the gate leading to the garden, though it
+was shut, was never locked save at night. The big front gates of the
+yard stood open most of the day; and, in any case, the small gate
+beside them was not locked until the whole place was shut up for the
+night. A man wishing to get into the garden would only have to watch
+until the yard itself was empty, and he would then have every chance
+of getting through without being observed. In the chauffeur’s
+apartments above the garage, only one window looked down on the yard,
+and this, as Joan knew, was a tiny spare room, seldom occupied. Even
+if Woodman had come in by this way, there was only a very slender
+chance that he had been noticed.
+
+The chauffeur came into the yard from the garage, and Joan entered
+into talk with him. Usually, he locked up, when no one had the car out
+in the evening, at half-past nine or ten. On this occasion, Lucas’s
+car had been in the garage during dinner, and he had kept the place
+open after Lucas went in case any one might want a car out. He had
+locked the whole place up at eleven o’clock, and had then gone
+straight to bed. Had any one, Joan asked, entered by the yard entrance
+before he locked up? He had seen no one; but he had not been in the
+yard all the time. He went away to ask his wife, and came back to
+assure Joan that, although she had been in the yard part of the time,
+she, too, had seen no one pass that way. There was no one else, was
+there, Joan asked, about that night? No one. But then the chauffeur
+seemed to be plunged into thought. “Yes, miss, there was some one
+else. Miss Parker—Norah, what used to be the cook, miss—she came in to
+help with the dinner, and she stayed the night with us. She went to
+bed early, she did—about half-past ten. She had to leave early next
+morning—she went away before they found out what had happened in the
+night.”
+
+“Was she sleeping in the little room up there?”
+
+“Yes, miss, and when I looked up at eleven o’clock, she was sitting at
+the window there. She said she couldn’t sleep, and was trying to read
+herself off.”
+
+“Then she might have seen any one come in?”
+
+“Yes, miss, she might.”
+
+“Do you know where she is now?”
+
+“She’s with my wife this very moment, miss. She’s in a job now, away
+in Essex. That’s where she went when she left that morning. But it’s
+her day off, miss, and she’s come up to see us.”
+
+Joan asked to speak to the woman, and was soon in the parlour with her
+and the chauffeur’s wife.
+
+“Did I see any one come through the coach-yard that night? Yes, I did,
+miss; but I didn’t think nothing of it. It was about a quarter to
+eleven, and I was looking out of the spare room window when a
+gentleman came into the yard. It was too dark down in the yard at
+first to see who it was; but as he passed under the lamp by the gate
+leading into the garden, I saw his face.”
+
+“Who was it? Did you know him?”
+
+“Mr. Woodman, miss. Of course, I thought it was all right, seeing as
+it was him.”
+
+“And he went through into the garden?”
+
+“Yes, miss.”
+
+“You didn’t see him come out again?”
+
+“No, miss. No one else passed through the yard before Mr. Purvis here
+came and locked up.”
+
+“Now, Norah, I don’t want you to tell any one—or you, Purvis, or your
+wife—that Norah saw Mr. Woodman come in. It’s very important you
+shouldn’t mention it just yet.”
+
+Mrs. Purvis curtseyed, and Norah also agreed to say nothing. Purvis
+himself began by saying, “Certainly, miss, if you wish it,” and then
+he seemed to realise the implication contained in Joan’s request. His
+jaw dropped, and his mouth hung open. Then he said,—
+
+“Beg pardon, miss, but surely you don’t mean as Mr. Woodman had aught
+to do with this terrible affair?”
+
+“Never mind, Purvis, just now, what I mean. I’m not accusing anybody.
+But I knew some one came in by the yard, and I wanted to make sure who
+it was.”
+
+“Well, miss, you can make sure we won’t say nothing about it.”
+
+They kept their word, no doubt; and said nothing to any one else. But,
+when Joan had gone, they said a great deal among themselves. Joan’s
+questions had been enough to make them suspect that Woodman might be
+concerned in the murders. And, though nothing was said of Joan’s
+discovery, Purvis’s dark and unsupported suspicions of Woodman, and
+Mrs. Purvis’s hints of what she could say if she had a mind, were soon
+all round the servants’ hall.
+
+It was not surprising that these rumours soon came to Inspector
+Blaikie’s ears. He was not at first inclined to attach much importance
+to them; for they appeared to be no more than below-stairs gossip, and
+the fact of Woodman’s unpopularity with the servants, which had not
+escaped his observation, seemed sufficiently to account for the vague
+suspicions. Servants, he said to himself, were always ready to suspect
+any one they disliked; and in this case they were all strong partisans
+of Winter, and highly indignant at the share of their attentions which
+the police had bestowed on the men-servants at Liskeard House. All the
+same, the inspector traced the rumours to the chauffeur’s wife, and
+made up his mind to have a little talk with her.
+
+He began brusquely—it was his way in dealing with women whom he
+thought he could frighten—by asking her what she meant by concealing
+information from the police. The woman was plainly embarrassed; but
+she only said that she did not know what he meant. He accused her of
+saying, in the servants’ hall, that she knew who had committed the
+murders in Liskeard House, but that she wasn’t going to say anything.
+Her reply was to deny all knowledge, and to inform the inspector that
+those that said she said such things wasn’t fit—not to associate with
+the decent folks. The more the inspector tried to browbeat her, the
+less would she say. She grew sulky, and told him to let a poor woman
+alone, and not go putting into her mouth things she never said.
+
+She didn’t know anything, and, if she did, she wouldn’t tell him.
+Inspector Blaikie retired from the contest beaten, but warning her
+that he would call again.
+
+He did not, however, retire so far as to prevent him from seeing that,
+as soon as she believed herself to be alone, the chauffeur’s wife
+hurried into Liskeard House by the back way, and went straight up the
+back stairs. Putting two and two together, he speedily concluded that
+she had gone to see Joan Cowper, and that Joan probably knew all that
+she knew, and had told her to keep quiet about it. The inspector made
+up his mind to see Joan as soon as the woman had gone.
+
+Meanwhile, Mrs. Purvis was telling Joan about the inspector’s visit,
+and begging pardon for having let her tongue wag in the servants’
+hall. “But I didn’t tell him nothing, miss. You can rest assured of
+that. I sent him away with a flea in his ear, miss.”
+
+At this moment Ellery was announced. Joan dismissed Mrs. Purvis with a
+further caution to say nothing for the present. As soon as she had
+gone, Ellery told Joan of his visit to Sir John Bunnery, and of the
+fact that Woodman had been in serious financial straits before the
+murders took place. “It seems to be true enough, about your stepfather
+making a will in his favour. It’s all very odd: I don’t understand it
+a bit.”
+
+“I’m afraid there’s almost nothing he wouldn’t do for money—except
+murder,” said Joan.
+
+“Old Sir John seemed to think that murder was quite a venial offence
+in comparison with getting money by false pretences,” Ellery answered,
+laughing.
+
+“Don’t be silly, Bob. I’ve found out how Carter got into the house.
+And I’ve got the proof.” And then Joan told her story of the
+coach-house yard—her story which proved beyond doubt that Woodman had
+been on the scene of the crime.
+
+“Well done, Joan. So that makes it certain he was here.”
+
+“I’m really beginning to think, Bob, we’re rather clever people.”
+
+“My dear, we’ve done the trick. Do you realise that it practically
+finishes our case. We’ve got enough now to be quite sure of a
+conviction.”
+
+“Oh, Bob! How horrible it is when you put it that way. It has really
+been rather fun finding it all out; but now we’ve found out, oh, what
+are we to do about it?”
+
+“The obvious thing would be to tell the police.”
+
+“I suppose it would. But think of the trial—the horrible publicity of
+it. And I don’t a bit want to see Carter hanged, though he may deserve
+it. Think of poor Helen.”
+
+“My dear Joan, of course you don’t. But it’s not so easy to hush up a
+thing like this.”
+
+“Bob, need we tell the police? They don’t know what we’ve been doing.
+Must we tell them now?”
+
+“Blest if I know, darling. But I forgot to tell you about what the old
+lawyer chap, Bunnery, said. He wants it hushed up all right.”
+
+“Then that means we can hush it up.”
+
+“I don’t know whether we can or not. But I tell you what I suggest we
+do. You come down with me and see Carter Woodman. We shall have to
+tell him what we know, and force him to admit the whole thing. Then
+we’ll see what he means to do—perhaps he might agree to run away to
+Australia, or something, before the police find out. And then we can
+see old Bunnery and get his advice, and decide what to do about
+telling them.”
+
+Before Joan could answer this string of proposals, there came a knock
+at the door, and Inspector Blaikie walked into the room. Joan and
+Ellery evidently showed their embarrassment, for he stood looking
+curiously at them for a moment, and then said reassuringly that he had
+only come in to have a word or two, if he might. Joan asked him to sit
+down, and offered him a cigarette. The inspector lighted it
+deliberately, and then he suddenly shot a question at them.
+
+“What is it you have told the chauffeur’s wife not to tell me?”
+
+Joan looked quickly at Ellery, and Ellery looked at Joan; but neither
+of them answered.
+
+“Come, come, Miss Cowper. You really must not try to prevent the
+police from getting information or you will force us to conclude that
+you wish to shield the murderer.”
+
+Still Joan made no answer.
+
+“I hope, Miss Cowper, that it is only that you and your friend have
+been doing a little detective work on your own, and wanted to have all
+the credit for yourselves. But don’t you think the time has come for
+telling me what you know?”
+
+Ellery did not answer the question directly. “Look here, inspector,”
+he said, “you think we know all about these murders, and are trying to
+keep the truth from you.”
+
+“It looks mighty like it.”
+
+“Well, in a sense, I don’t say we haven’t been keeping something back.
+But I give you my word that we’re not in collusion with the murderer
+or anything of that sort. There is a very special reason why we can’t
+tell you quite everything just now—for what it is worth.”
+
+“Does the very special reason apply to Miss Cowper as well?”
+
+“Yes,” said Joan; “for the moment it does.”
+
+Ellery went on. “Of course, I know you have a grievance. You’re going
+to tell us that we are abetting the criminal, whoever he is, and that
+we shall be getting into trouble if we’re not careful.”
+
+“So you will,” said the inspector. “Very serious trouble.”
+
+“All the same, inspector, I’m afraid we must risk it. Very likely we
+shall be free to tell you the whole story, or what we know of it, in a
+day or two. But we won’t tell you now. That’s flat.”
+
+“A day or two is ample time for a criminal to get away.”
+
+“Maybe; but I don’t think you need worry about that. You’ve given him
+enough time to get away if he wants to. In any case, we are not going
+to tell you. I’m sorry, but——”
+
+“I warn you that you are conspiring to defeat the ends of justice.”
+
+“Sorry, and all that. Another time, inspector, we shall look forward
+to an interesting talk. But for the present—Good-morning.”
+
+The inspector took the hint, and left the room in a very bad temper.
+His parting shot was that he must report their conduct to his official
+superior.
+
+“What on earth are we to do now?” said Joan.
+
+“Go and see Carter Woodman at once, I think. When we’ve done that, we
+shall know better how to act.”
+
+“But suppose he runs away when he hears our story—flies the country, I
+mean.”
+
+“Wouldn’t that be the best way out? I don’t want to see him hanged any
+more than you do.”
+
+“As the inspector said, we run some risk ourselves that way; but the
+worst of it is that the whole story is bound to come out.”
+
+“I don’t see how it can be kept secret in any case—or rather, I only
+see one possible way.”
+
+“What’s that?”
+
+“Wait till we’ve been to Woodman. I want to see if he will be man
+enough to take it.”
+
+“I don’t know what you mean. But I suppose we had better see Woodman.”
+
+“Yes, and there’s no time to lose, if the inspector is on the trail.”
+
+Joan and Ellery took a taxi, and ordered the driver to drive to
+Woodman’s office. But they underestimated the inspector’s promptness
+in action. They did not know that behind them followed another taxi,
+containing Inspector Blaikie and two plain-clothes detectives.
+
+
+
+Chapter XXXV
+
+An Order for Bulbs
+
+Superintendent Wilson’s examination of his find took him some little
+time. The bag was of ordinary stout canvas, most unlikely to be
+capable of identification. The small-shot also was of a kind which can
+be purchased at any gunsmith’s and at most ironmongers. To trace the
+criminal by means of either of these clues seemed virtually
+impossible. But this was not the end of the matter. Taking the shot,
+the superintendent carefully sifted it, and by-and-by he had separated
+from the pile of shot quite a number of other minute objects which had
+lain among it. There were several small pieces of cardboard, a few
+fragments of matches, some wisps of tobacco, a few balls of fluff, two
+pins, three small nails, and several tiny scraps of paper. Some or all
+of these might, of course, have got mixed up with the shot before ever
+it came into the murderer’s possession, and most of them were not at
+all likely in any case to afford a clue. But the chance was worth
+trying; and the inspector made a minute examination of them all. The
+scraps of paper alone seemed to hold out any hope of a clue. Two of
+them were blank: one was an indistinguishable fragment of a newspaper,
+apparently from the typography _The Times_: the other two, which
+fitted together, contained a few words written by hand. The words were
+unimportant, merely: “12 doz. hyacinths; 15 doz. tulips; 10 doz.
+sq.——” the last word being cut short by a tear. The paper was
+evidently part of an order, or of a memorandum for an order, for
+garden bulbs. But the writing—the superintendent compared it with a
+note which he had received from Woodman—the writing was very like. He
+could not say positively that they were the same. He must compare the
+scrap of paper with other specimens of Woodman’s hand. A second visit
+to Woodman’s office, in the guise of Mr. Porter, the unbusinesslike
+mortgage-maker, would probably afford the opportunity. Superintendent
+Wilson called a taxi, and drove away in the direction of Lincoln’s
+Inn.
+
+The Fates, watching outside that very ordinary-looking office, had a
+more than usually amusing time that afternoon. As Joan and Ellery,
+after dismissing their taxi, entered the outer office, a second taxi
+drew up a few doors off, just out of view. Inspector Blaikie leapt
+out, and after him two plain-clothes officers. The inspector rapidly
+posted his men. “There is no back way out of these premises,” he said,
+“so we have an easy job. I am going right in now, and I want you two
+to wait outside, and follow any of our people who come out. You know
+them all by sight. If Carter Woodman comes out, don’t lose sight of
+him on any account. But don’t detain him unless it is quite impossible
+to keep an eye on him. I shall probably keep my eye on the other two
+myself.” So saying, the inspector disappeared into the building. He
+had no clearly formed plan in his mind; but his suspicions had been
+thoroughly aroused, and he feared that Joan and Ellery had gone to
+warn Woodman to fly from the country.
+
+A few minutes after the inspector had entered the office his two
+subordinates had the surprise of their lives. A third taxi drew up at
+the door, and out of it stepped no less a person that Superintendent
+Wilson. While they were debating whether to speak to him, his quick
+eye caught sight of them, and, rapidly walking a little way along the
+street in order to be out of view, he beckoned them to come.
+
+“What are you doing here?” he asked.
+
+In a few words the men told him that Inspector Blaikie, and Joan and
+Ellery as well, were inside, and that they had received instructions
+to remain on the watch, and to follow Woodman if he came out. The
+superintendent thought rapidly. If he went in, it would be obviously
+impossible to maintain his _alias_ of Mr. Porter, and he ran the risk
+of interrupting a most important conversation. If, on the other hand,
+he stayed outside, what blunder might not be committed in his absence?
+Telling the men to remain on guard and follow the inspector’s
+instruction, he entered the building.
+
+He did not, however, go to the door of Woodman’s outer office.
+Instead, he went along the corridor to where, as he remembered, the
+private door from Woodman’s inner sanctum gave on the passage. There
+he paused and listened. Some one was speaking within; but not a word
+was audible through the stout door. There was no keyhole, and nothing
+was to be seen either. The superintendent must fare further, to the
+back of the building, if he sought to find out what was in progress in
+Woodman’s room. There might be a window, looking on the room, through
+which he could watch unobserved. He soon found a back-door, leading
+into a small flagged yard at the rear of the building. It was locked;
+but the key was in place. Unlocking it he slipped out into the yard,
+and easily located the window of Woodman’s room. By standing on a
+water-butt, he could see the three people—Joan, Ellery, and Carter
+Woodman—within. But the window was closed, and he could hear nothing.
+He remained at his post of vantage, watching.
+
+
+
+Chapter XXXVI
+
+An Afternoon Call
+
+Hardly had Joan and Ellery passed from the outer office into Woodman’s
+private room when the inspector entered the room they had left, and
+asked if Mr. Woodman was in. Moorman, who had met the inspector
+several times lately, saw nothing strange in the visit, and merely
+replied that his employer was in, but that he was at the moment
+engaged. “If you care to wait, sir, I dare say he won’t be long.”
+
+Blaikie said that he would wait, and Moorman thereupon suggested that
+he should go in and tell his principal that the inspector was there.
+But the inspector told him not to bother: he would take his chance
+when Woodman was free. He sat down, therefore, to wait in the outer
+office, improving the minutes by conversing with the loquacious old
+clerk about his employer’s affairs.
+
+Meanwhile, Joan and Ellery were seated with Carter Woodman. He had
+greeted them rather effusively on their entrance; and, in Moorman’s
+presence, they had thought it best to shake hands and behave as if
+nothing were the matter. Woodman had placed chairs for them, and had
+again sat down at his desk. While they spoke he continued for a while
+mechanically opening, and glancing at, the pile of letters before him.
+
+It was Joan who spoke first. “We have come here,” she said, “because
+it seemed the only thing to do. When we have heard what you have to
+say we shall know better what our next step must be.”
+
+Something in her voice caused Woodman to look up sharply. The tone was
+hard, and a glance at his two visitors showed him that their errand
+was not a pleasant one. But he looked down again and went on opening
+his letters without making any sign.
+
+“We have to tell you,” Joan went on, “that we know now who killed John
+Prinsep and poor George.”
+
+Woodman gave a start as she spoke; but all he said was, “Then, my dear
+Joan, you know a great deal more than I do.”
+
+“I will put it in another way,” said Joan. “We know that you killed
+them.” She got the words out with an effort, breathing hard and
+clutching the arm of the chair as she spoke.
+
+Woodman dropped the letter he was holding and looked straight at her.
+
+“My dear Joan,” he said, “are you quite mad? And you too, Mr. Ellery?”
+
+“No, we’re not mad. We know,” said Ellery, with a short, uneasy
+laugh—a laugh that grated.
+
+Woodman looked from the one to the other.
+
+“I fear you are both mad,” said he very quietly. “And now, will one of
+you please tell me what you mean by this extraordinary accusation?”
+
+“You had better hear what we have to say before you start protesting,”
+said Ellery. “Let me tell you exactly what happened at Liskeard House
+last Tuesday. Then you will see that we know. You are supposed to have
+been at your hotel in the small writing-room on the first floor
+between 10.45 and 11.30, or after.”
+
+“So I was, of course.”
+
+“But we can produce a gentleman who was in the writing-room between
+those hours, and can swear that you were not.”
+
+“Oh, I may have slipped out of the room for a while. But it is
+preposterous——”
+
+“You had better hear me out. This gentleman saw you leave the
+writing-room and go downstairs at a few minutes to eleven. Shortly
+after, he went to the room himself and remained there three-quarters
+of an hour. He saw you return to the writing-room rather before a
+quarter to twelve.”
+
+“This is pure nonsense. But what of it, even if it were true?”
+
+“This. When you left the room you went down to the basement of the
+hotel, which was deserted, and let yourself out by unbarring the side
+door leading from the Grill Room into St. John’s Street. You also
+returned that way shortly after half-past eleven.”
+
+“Again, I say that you are talking absolute nonsense. But, if it
+pleases you, pray continue this fairy tale.”
+
+Joan took up the story. “You walked across to Liskeard House, and
+entered the garden through the coach-yard shortly before it was locked
+for the night. I will pass over what you did next; but at a time
+shortly before half-past eleven—probably about a quarter-past—you put
+on John Prinsep’s hat and coat and walked up and down the garden,
+imitating his lameness, in a spot where you could be seen from the
+back of the theatre. You then went upstairs to John’s room, and
+delivered, imitating my stepfather’s voice, a false telephone message
+purporting to come from him to his club in Pall Mall. Next you put on
+George’s hat and coat, and dressed in them walked out of the front
+door in such a way that the servants, seeing you at a distance,
+readily mistook you for George. Am I right, so far?”
+
+“I am listening, my dear Joan, because I had better hear the whole of
+this wild story that something—or some one”—here he turned and glared
+at Ellery—“has put into your head. But, of course, the whole thing is
+monstrous.”
+
+“You need not blame Mr. Ellery. He and I have worked it all out
+together, and we can prove all we say. I should have mentioned that
+before leaving Liskeard House you arranged the scene of the murders so
+as to make it seem, first of all, that John and George had killed each
+other. Under John’s body you placed a blood-stained handkerchief
+belonging to George, and you also left one of George’s knives sticking
+in the body. You killed George with a weapon which, as you well knew,
+had on it John’s finger-marks. Of course you wore gloves, and
+therefore left no marks which could be identified as your own. The
+finger-marks on the club with which George was killed were made by
+John earlier in the day when he showed you the club before dinner.
+They were defaced, but not obliterated, by the marks made later by
+your gloved hands. Is that correct?”
+
+“Of course it is not correct. It is a parcel of lies, the whole lot of
+it.”
+
+“Really, Mr. Woodman,” said Ellery, “you will find that the whole
+story is remarkably convincing to others, if not to you. Let me give
+you an account of the objects you had in view. You knew that it was
+physically impossible for John and George to have killed each other;
+but by leaving the signs as you did you hoped to create the impression
+that either might have killed the other. Your main object, however,
+was not to create suspicion against either of these two, but to
+incriminate another person, whom you desired to remove for reasons of
+your own. You therefore faked the telephone message I have mentioned;
+and you also left Walter Brooklyn’s stick in John Prinsep’s room. You
+also detached the ferrule from the stick with your penknife, and left
+the ferrule in the garden on the spot where George was murdered. By
+actual murder you had already, on Tuesday night, removed two of the
+three persons who stood between you and Sir Vernon’s fortune. You
+hoped that, by means of the clues which you provided, the law would do
+your work in removing the third. I will not ask you whether this is
+true. We know it.”
+
+Woodman shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, if you know it,” he said, “of
+course there is nothing for me to say.”
+
+“You left Liskeard House wearing George’s hat and overcoat. These you
+took back to the hotel, and stowed away in a handbag for the night.
+You went out the next morning carrying the handbag, which you brought
+to this office. At lunch-time you took it with you. I do not know
+where you lunched, but you went into the cloak-room of the Avenue
+Restaurant, as if you were going to lunch there, and left the hat and
+coat hanging on a peg. You hoped that it would be impossible to trace
+them to you. They have been traced.”
+
+During Ellery’s last speech Woodman’s forced calm had first showed
+some sign of breaking. But he pulled himself together with an effort.
+“I must say you have laid this plot very carefully,” he said.
+
+“Unfortunately, not only have you been traced,” Joan went on, “but you
+were unwise enough not to notice, when you left the coat, that it
+lacked a button. You left that button deep down in the corner of the
+bag which is now in that cupboard over there.”
+
+With a sudden cry Woodman rose from his chair and sprang towards the
+cupboard. He tore the bag open and felt wildly in it. Then he flung
+the bag away.
+
+“No,” said Joan, “the button is not there, Mr. Woodman—now. It is safe
+somewhere else.”
+
+“And I think, Mr. Woodman, what you have just done rather disposes of
+the pose of injured innocence. Don’t you?” asked Ellery.
+
+Woodman kicked the bag savagely into a corner and sank into his chair.
+His face had gone dead white. Shakily he poured out and drank a glass
+of water.
+
+“Your hopes of removing my stepfather by due process of law,” Joan
+continued, “were unfortunately frustrated. You were, therefore, in the
+position of having committed two murders for nothing, unless you could
+find some fresh means of profiting by them. You found such means. As
+soon as you heard of my stepfather’s release you made your plans. Soon
+after his release you met him, and somehow or other, persuaded him to
+make a will in your favour. I do not know how you did it; but I
+presume there was some agreement between you to share the proceeds of
+your deal. You then attempted, on the strength of your joint
+expectations under Sir Vernon’s will, to raise a large loan from one
+who was a friend of yours—Sir John Bunnery. You were in serious
+financial trouble, and only a considerable immediate supply of money
+could save you from bankruptcy and disgrace. That, I think, is
+correct.”
+
+Joan paused, but this time Woodman had nothing to say. His face had
+gone grayer still. He stared at Joan, and his hand strayed towards one
+of the drawers of the table before him. But he remained silent.
+
+This time, however, Joan pressed him for an answer.
+
+“Do you admit now that what I have said is true?” she asked. And, as
+he still said nothing, “We can prove it all, you know,” Ellery added.
+
+Woodman pulled himself together with an effort. “You have told the
+police all this?” he asked.
+
+“Not a word as yet,” said Joan. “We decided to see you first.”
+
+“May I ask why?”
+
+“If it can be helped, we do not want your wife to suffer more than she
+must for what you have done. Nor do we want a scandal. If you will
+leave the country, and never come back, we will do what we can to hush
+the whole thing up.”
+
+A light came into Woodman’s ashen face. “I see,” he said.
+
+“Do you admit that all we have told you is true?”
+
+“It doesn’t seem to be much good denying it now.”
+
+“You will sign, in our presence, a confession that you committed these
+murders?”
+
+“I don’t know what for. No, I won’t sign anything.”
+
+“But you admit it.”
+
+“Between ourselves, yes. In public, a thousand times no.”
+
+Woodman even smiled as he said this.
+
+“You admit it to us.”
+
+“Yes, yes. Haven’t I said so? But there are some things not even you
+seem to know.”
+
+“Won’t you tell us them, Mr. Woodman, just to make our story
+complete?” said Ellery. “Remember that we are proposing to let you go.
+We are taking some risks in doing that.”
+
+“Not for my sake, I’ll be bound. But I don’t mind telling you. What do
+you want to know?”
+
+“How the murders were actually done.”
+
+“Oh, I have no objection to telling you. Indeed, I flatter myself the
+thing was rather prettily arranged.”
+
+Woodman had almost regained his outward composure and spoke with some
+of his accustomed assurance.
+
+“I went into the garden of Liskeard House, just as you said, by the
+coach-yard. I have no idea how you discovered that. Then I went
+straight up the back stairs to Prinsep’s room. No one saw me go
+upstairs, I take it, or you would have mentioned the fact. I found
+Prinsep at his table writing. I laid him out with a big blow on the
+back of the head.”
+
+“With what weapon?”
+
+“With a sand-bag. Then it has not been found? I threw it out
+afterwards on to the roof of the stables out of sight. Then, as I
+wasn’t sure if he was dead, I made sure with a knife I found lying on
+the table. It belonged, I knew, to George Brooklyn. I don’t know how
+it got there. It wasn’t part of my plan. I finished him off with that,
+and went out on to the landing. Just then I heard some one coming
+upstairs. It was George Brooklyn. Until that moment I had no definite
+intention of killing George that night. I meant to leave signs which
+would show that George and Walter had conspired to kill Prinsep. I had
+put a hankerchief of George’s under the body. George’s coming just
+then was deuced awkward. I had no time to clear away the traces, and I
+had somehow to prevent him from entering the room. So I met him on the
+landing and told him that Prinsep was in the garden and wanted him to
+go down. He went down the back stairs with me like a lamb. It was then
+it occurred to me that, as he had seen me up in Prinsep’s room, I
+should have to kill him too. I led him over towards the temple and let
+him get a few paces in front. Then I seized the club from the Hercules
+statue and smashed his head in from behind. After that I had to
+consider how to cover my tracks. I dragged the body into the temple
+entrance, fetched Prinsep’s coat and hat and walked up and down the
+garden, as you know. Then I went up again to Prinsep’s room, and sent
+off that telephone message and arranged things there, leaving George’s
+handkerchief under the body and Walter’s stick in the room. I had
+already dropped the ferrule in the garden, and a note in Prinsep’s
+writing, making an appointment for the garden. He had sent it to me
+the previous day. George had left his hat and overcoat on the landing.
+I had intended to slip out unobserved somehow; but seeing the coat and
+hat gave me an idea. I put them on, and walked out as George Brooklyn,
+thus throwing every one wrong, as I thought, about the time of the
+murders. All the rest you seem to know.”
+
+“H’m,” said Ellery. “You are a remarkably cold-blooded scoundrel.”
+
+“Perhaps; but we can keep our opinions of each other to ourselves. You
+would prefer me to go away rather than stay and face your accusation.
+Isn’t that so?”
+
+“I suppose you can put it that way,” said Ellery.
+
+“Well, I can’t go without money. That’s the position. And I want a
+good lot. I can’t lay hands on money at short notice, and you will
+have to find it. Besides, remember that, if you don’t accuse me, I am
+still Walter Brooklyn’s heir, and he is Sir Vernon’s. I understand it
+is most unlikely Sir Vernon will live to make another will. Now, how
+much can you provide—and how soon? That is the business proposition we
+have to settle between us. I am prepared to disappear for the present,
+and I will go further, for a suitable consideration—and promise never
+to come back to this country. But my condition is that I get half of
+whatever comes to Joan when Sir Vernon dies. How does that strike
+you?”
+
+Joan had listened with a feeling of nausea to Woodman’s confession.
+But now she broke in indignantly. “I am afraid,” she said, “that you
+are a little after the fair. It is quite true that, under my
+stepfather’s new will, you appear to be the principal heir. It is also
+true that my stepfather stood to inherit a large sum of money, _until
+Sir Vernon made a new will_.” Joan said these words very slowly and
+distinctly. As Woodman heard them the colour, which had quite come
+back, faded again from his face, and he stared at her with a
+consternation that deepened as she went on.
+
+“We had not quite finished our story. After your wicked bargain with
+my stepfather you attempted to raise money on the strength of being
+his, and therefore indirectly Sir Vernon’s, heir. I know how hard up
+you were—indeed pressure from creditors will, I hope, provide a good
+enough reason for your absconding now. If you choose to spread the
+report that you have died abroad, we shall certainly not object. But
+you will get no money from us. As I was saying, you went to Sir John
+Bunnery and tried to raise a large sum from him on the ground of your
+expectations. But you may not know that Sir John at once wrote
+privately to Sir Vernon to ask whether you were really the heir, or
+that yesterday Sir Vernon rallied enough to make a new will. That
+will, of course, excludes both you and my stepfather altogether.”
+
+At these words the colour came suddenly back into Woodman’s cheeks. In
+a second he pulled open a drawer in the desk before him, seized from
+it a revolver and took aim at Joan. But Ellery was just too quick for
+him, knocking up his arm so that the bullet embedded itself in the
+ceiling. Woodman at once turned on Ellery, closing with him, and a
+fierce struggle began. At this moment there was a sound of breaking
+glass, and, rapidly opening the window through the hole which he had
+made, Superintendent Wilson leapt into the room. At the same time, the
+door leading to the outer office began to rattle as if some one were
+attempting to open it from without; but it was locked, and resisted
+all efforts to break it open. Then some one smashed the glass panel
+above and the head of Inspector Blaikie, with Moorman’s terrified face
+behind, appeared in the gap. At sight of the superintendent, Ellery
+relaxed his hold for a moment and Woodman broke loose. But this time,
+instead of aiming at Joan, he turned the weapon upon himself. Putting
+the barrel of the revolver to his temple he fired. When, a moment
+later, the inspector forced an entrance, he found Joan, Ellery, and
+Superintendent Wilson bending over Carter Woodman’s body.
+
+
+
+Chapter XXXVII
+
+A Happy Ending
+
+Joan, Ellery, and the superintendent faced one another across
+Woodman’s body. Moorman, his nerves gone, crouched in a corner,
+muttering. The inspector bent down and made a quick inspection of the
+body.
+
+“H’m,” he said, “he’s quite dead.”
+
+The superintendent turned to Ellery. “And now perhaps it is time for
+you to give me a little explanation.”
+
+“Of this?” asked Ellery, pointing to the body.
+
+“Of everything,” was the answer.
+
+“It is straightforward enough,” said Ellery. “Mr. Woodman, as you will
+easily discover if you ask that whimpering object over there, has been
+for some time in grave financial difficulties. This morning he was
+disappointed of raising a large sum for which he had hoped; and I am
+afraid this is the result.”
+
+“Is that all you have to tell me?”
+
+“What more should I have?”
+
+“May I ask whether you have any theory as to the murderer of George
+Brooklyn, or of John Prinsep?”
+
+“I have no theory. And I cannot see what that has to do with this
+_suicide_.” Ellery emphasised the last word.
+
+“Oh, that’s your line, is it? And supposing I suggested that this
+gentleman here”—he pointed to Woodman’s body—“was the murderer.”
+
+“I should ask you what evidence you have to support such an
+extraordinary suggestion.”
+
+“Very well, Mr. Ellery. But I had better tell you that I already have
+full knowledge of the truth. That is why I am here. You and the young
+lady here had much better make a clean breast of it.”
+
+“Don’t you think, superintendent, that you had better deal with one
+thing at a time? Surely, for the moment, this dead man claims your
+attention. You know where to find us if you want us. I shall take Miss
+Cowper home.”
+
+“By all means, Mr. Ellery. There is work for me here. But I shall have
+to call on you both later in the day. Could I meet you—say at Liskeard
+House—about six o’clock?”
+
+“Oh, if that’s the attitude you take, I suppose we’d better have it
+out now.”
+
+“That will be best, I think.” Then Superintendent Wilson turned to the
+inspector, who had not recovered from his amazement at the miraculous
+appearance of his superior. The superintendent pointed to Woodman’s
+body. “Call in your men and have that thing removed. Then we can say
+what we have to say.”
+
+So, when the body had been taken away, Joan and Ellery found
+themselves face to face with Superintendent Wilson. “I will tell you
+what I know,” he said, “and then I think you will see the wisdom of
+letting me hear your story. But first there is one thing I must do.”
+
+Going to Woodman’s desk, he took from his pocket-book the scraps of
+paper which he had found, and rapidly compared them with other
+specimens of Woodman’s handwriting. “Just as I thought,” he said, “and
+now I am ready.”
+
+“Fire away, then,” said Ellery.
+
+“Well, it was clear enough to me, from an early stage in the case—even
+before you confirmed my view with your very convincing _alibi_, that
+Mr. Walter Brooklyn was not the murderer. That was the assumption on
+which I set to work.”
+
+“May I ask why?” said Joan. “Of course, I knew he hadn’t done it; but
+what made you——?”
+
+“A quite proper question, Miss Cowper. What made me take that view was
+a very strong conviction that the clues—the second set of clues, I
+mean—pointed far too directly to Mr. Brooklyn. They looked as if they
+had been deliberately laid. I ought to have seen that at once; but I
+was put off by the other set of clues—the obviously false ones—that
+the police were meant to see through from the first. It took me a
+little time to realise that the murderer had been clever enough to lay
+two separate sets of false clues—one meant to be seen through, and one
+meant to mislead.”
+
+“Yes, we got to that, too, though we didn’t put it quite as you do.”
+
+“Quite so. Well, as soon as I reached that conclusion, it became clear
+that the murderer had strong reasons for removing, not only your two
+cousins, but also your stepfather. My next step, therefore, was to
+discover who would be most likely to inherit Sir Vernon Brooklyn’s
+money if Mr. Walter Brooklyn was safely out of the way.”
+
+“So that brought you to Carter Woodman at once?”
+
+“In a sense, yes. But of course at that stage I had no sort of proof.
+I set out to prove what was only a theory.”
+
+“Yes, that was what we did. Tell us what you found out,” said Ellery,
+half-rising from his chair in his excitement.
+
+“You remember that Mr. Walter Brooklyn’s stick was found in Mr.
+Prinsep’s room. Well, I succeeded in proving that Mr. Brooklyn had
+left that stick in Carter Woodman’s office on the day of the murders.”
+
+“Lord, we never thought of that,” said Ellery.
+
+“Moorman, whom you know, admitted that to me, not knowing who I was. I
+got it out of him when he thought I was merely a client taking an
+outside interest in the case. He didn’t realise that it was of
+importance.”
+
+“And that was your proof?” asked Joan, with an air of disappointment.
+
+“Dear me, Miss Cowper, I should be very sorry to try to hang a man on
+such evidence. That was only a beginning. What puzzled me was that,
+whereas the weapon with which Mr. George Brooklyn was killed was found
+on the scene of the murder, there was no sign of any weapon which
+could have killed Mr. Prinsep. So I made a thorough fresh search, and
+at last, on the roof of the building which projects over towards the
+coach-yard, I found the weapon, where the murderer had thrown it out
+of sight. It was a bag filled with small-shot.”
+
+“But I don’t see how you could prove whose it was.”
+
+“One moment, Mr. Ellery. I took that bag away, and went carefully
+through its contents. Among them I found two tiny scraps of paper,
+obviously part of an order, or a memorandum of an order, for garden
+bulbs. When I went to the desk there just now, it was to confirm my
+view that the writing was Carter Woodman’s. I was right.”
+
+“So that proved it?” said Joan.
+
+“I would not go so far as to say that,” said Superintendent Wilson.
+“But it made a case, with certain other points which you probably know
+as well as I—Woodman’s financial difficulties, and so on. I had not,
+however, finished my case. In fact, when I came here, I was pursuing
+my investigations. Your presence and that of the inspector were quite
+unexpected. Indeed, I may say that you interrupted me.”
+
+“Sorry and all that,” said Ellery. “But, you see, we had finished our
+case, and proved Carter Woodman’s guilt so that he knew the game was
+up. Hence the end of the story as you saw it just now.”
+
+“I suggest, Mr. Ellery—and Miss Cowper—that, in view of what we both
+know, the only possible course is to pool our information. I have told
+you my evidence. Will you be good enough now to tell me yours?”
+
+Joan and Ellery looked at each other, and Joan nodded. They both
+realised that it was inevitable that they should tell Superintendent
+Wilson all they knew.
+
+“You tell him, Bob. I’m not up to it,” said Joan, smiling faintly.
+“But, superintendent, you realise, don’t you, how anxious we have been
+that this horrible story should not come to light. It has caused
+misery enough already: the telling of it will only cause more.”
+
+“I understand,” said the superintendent.
+
+“Then can’t we still keep it to ourselves?” said Joan, with a note of
+hope in her voice.
+
+The superintendent shook his head. “I suppose you realise,” he said,
+“that you have both committed a very serious offence. But I won’t be
+too hard on you—especially as you have shown yourselves such
+creditable amateurs in my line of business,” he added with a smile.
+“But I am afraid the whole story must come out now. There is really no
+question about that.”
+
+“But surely,” said Joan, “there’s no one to try now: so you can’t have
+a trial. I don’t see why you should want to drag the whole beastly
+story to light. It will——”
+
+“Pardon me, Miss Cowper. There will have to be an inquest on Carter
+Woodman, and you and Mr. Ellery will have to tell what you know.”
+
+“But can’t we say he committed suicide—it’s quite true, he did, and
+leave it at that,” said Joan.
+
+“Yes,” Ellery put in, “and give evidence about his embarrassed
+financial position as a reason for taking his life.”
+
+“Quite impossible,” said the superintendent. “I fear the story must
+come out; but, as there will be no trial, there will not really be
+very much publicity. You will do best to tell the whole story at the
+inquest. It will all blow over very soon.”
+
+“But what about poor Helen—I mean Mrs. Woodman?” said Joan.
+
+“I am afraid she will have to bear it as best she can.”
+
+
+So it was done. At the inquest the whole story was told, both by Joan
+and Ellery and by Superintendent Wilson. The papers the next day were
+full of it, and full, too, of compliments both to the professionals
+and to the amateurs on the skill shown in unravelling the mystery.
+But that same day came a parliamentary crisis. The old Prime
+Minister resigned, and a new one—in the name of conservatism and
+tranquillity—took his place. Parliament was dissolved, and the drums
+beat and beacons flared in anticipation of an “appeal to the people.”
+In a few days, the Brooklyn mystery was forgotten, except by those
+directly concerned and by a few specialists in the records of crime.
+
+
+Joan and Ellery, of course, are married, and quite disgustingly rich,
+now that Sir Vernon is dead. They live at Liskeard House when they are
+in town, and Ellery is managing director of the Brooklyn Corporation.
+He has made many attempts to get Marian to return to the stage; and
+perhaps he will yet succeed. For he has just written a play in which,
+she agrees, the leading part was made for her. Family matters keep
+Joan rather busy at present; but her first play, produced a year ago
+by the Brooklyn Corporation, was a great success. She is thinking of
+collaborating with her husband in another, with a strong detective
+interest.
+
+Ellery summed up the situation the other day, when he and Joan were
+talking over the days of the great Brooklyn mystery. “Well, my dear,
+it was sad about poor old George, but you must agree that the other
+two were really a good riddance.” And, although one of them had been
+in a way her suitor, I think Joan did agree. But all she said was
+“Poor Marian!”
+
+
+The End