11289 lines
553 KiB
Markdown
11289 lines
553 KiB
Markdown
Chapter I
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A Family Celebration
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At seventy Sir Vernon Brooklyn was still the outstanding figure in the
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theatrical world. It was, indeed, ten years since he had made his
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farewell appearance on the stage; and with a consistency rare among
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the members of his profession, he had persisted in making his first
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farewell also his last. He had also for some time past resigned to
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younger men the actual direction of his vast theatrical enterprises,
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which included five great West End theatres and a steady stream of
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touring companies in the provinces and overseas. Both as actor and as
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manager, he was wont to say, his work was over; but as Chairman of the
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Brooklyn Dramatic Corporation, which conducted all its work under his
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name, he was almost as much as ever in the eye of the public.
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Like most men who have risen by their own efforts, aided by fortune
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and by a public which takes a pleasure in idolatry, to positions of
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wide authority, Sir Vernon had developed, perhaps to excess, the habit
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of getting his own way. Thus, although his niece and house-keeper,
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Joan Cowper, and his near relatives and friends had done their best to
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dissuade him from coming to London, he had ignored their protests, and
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insisted on celebrating his seventieth birthday in the London house,
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formerly the scene of his triumphs, which he now seldom visited. Sir
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Vernon now spent most of his time at the great country house in Sussex
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which he had bought ten years before from Lord Fittleworth. There he
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entertained largely, and there was no reason why he should not have
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taken the advice of his relatives and his doctor, and gathered his
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friends around him to celebrate what he was pleased to call his
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“second majority.” But Sir Vernon had made up his mind, and it was
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therefore in the old house just off Piccadilly that his guests
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assembled for dinner on Midsummer Day, June 25th.
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Like Sir Vernon’s country place, the old house had a history. He had
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bought it, and the grounds with their magnificent garden frontage on
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Piccadilly, looking over the Green Park, from Lord Liskeard, when that
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nobleman had successfully gambled away the fortune which had made him,
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at one time, the richest man in England who had no connection with
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trade. Sir Vernon had turned his purchase to good use. Facing
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Piccadilly, but standing well back in its garden from the street, he
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had built the great Piccadilly Theatre, the perfect playhouse in
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which, despite its size and large seating capacity, every member of
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the audience could both see and hear. The theatre covered a lot of
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ground; but, when it was built, there still remained not only the old
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mansion fronting upon its side-street—a _cul de sac_ used by its
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visitors alone—but also, between it and the theatre, a pleasant
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expanse of garden. For some years Sir Vernon had lived in the house;
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and there he had also worked, converting the greater part of the
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ground floor into a palatial set of offices for the Brooklyn Dramatic
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Corporation. On his retirement from active work, he had kept in his
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own hands only the first floor, which he fitted as a flat to house him
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on his visits to town. On the second floor he had installed his
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nephew, John Prinsep, who had succeeded him as managing director of
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the Corporation. The third floor was given over to the servants who
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attended to the whole house. It was in this house that Sir Vernon was
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celebrating his birthday, and his guests were to dine with him in the
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great Board Room of the Corporation on the ground floor—formerly the
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banqueting hall of generations of Liskeards, in which many a political
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plot had been hatched, and many a diner carried helpless from under
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the table in the bad days of the Prince Regent.
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Between the house and the tall back of the theatre lay the garden, in
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which a past Lord Liskeard with classical tastes had erected a model
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Grecian temple and a quantity of indifferent antique statuary, the
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fruits of his sojourn at the Embassy of Constantinople.
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In this garden, before dinner was served, a number of Sir Vernon’s
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guests had already gathered. The old man had been persuaded, despite
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the brilliant midsummer weather, to remain in the house; but Joan
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Cowper and John Prinsep were there to do the honours on his behalf. As
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Harry Lucas came into the garden, John Prinsep was laughingly, as he
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said, “showing off the points” of a dilapidated Hercules who, club,
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lion-skin and all, was slowly mouldering under the trees at one end of
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the lawn. The stone club had come loose, and Prinsep had taken it from
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the statue, and was playfully threatening to do classical execution
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with it upon the persons of his guests. Seeing Lucas, he put the club
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back into the broken hand of the statue, and came across the lawn to
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bid him welcome.
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“You’re the last to arrive, Mr. Lucas,” said he. “You see it’s quite a
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family affair this evening.”
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It was quite a family affair. Of the eight persons now on the lawn,
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six were members of the Brooklyn family by birth or marriage; Lucas
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was Sir Vernon’s oldest friend and collaborator; and young Ellery, the
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remaining member of the party, was Lucas’s ward, and was usually to be
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found, when he had his will, somewhere in the neighbourhood of Joan
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Cowper. As Sir Vernon had fully made up his mind that Joan was to
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marry Prinsep, and there was supposed to be some sort of engagement
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between them, Ellery’s attentions were not welcome to Prinsep, and
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there was no love lost between the two men.
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But there was no sign of this in Prinsep’s manner this evening. He
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seemed to be in unusually good spirits, rather in contrast to his
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usual humour. For Prinsep was not generally regarded as good company.
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Since he had succeeded Sir Vernon in the business control of the
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Brooklyn Corporation, of which he was managing director, he had grown
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more and more preoccupied with affairs, and had developed a brusque
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manner which may have served him well in dealing with visitors who
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wanted something for nothing, but was distinctly out of place in the
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social interchange of his leisure hours. Prinsep had, indeed, his
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pleasures. He was reputed a heavy drinker, whose magnificent natural
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constitution prevented him from showing any of the signs of
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dissipation. Many of Prinsep’s acquaintances—who were as many as his
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friends were few—had seen him drink more than enough to put an
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ordinary man under the table; but none had ever seen him the worse for
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drink, and he was never better at a bargain than when the other man
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had taken some glasses less than he, but still a glass too much. Men
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said that he took his pleasures sadly: certainly they had never been
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allowed to interfere with his power of work; and often, after a hard
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evening, he would go to his study and labour far into the night. But,
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for this occasion, his sullenness seemed to have left him, and his
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rather harsh laugh rang out repeatedly over the garden.
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Lucas had never liked Prinsep; and he soon found himself one of a
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group that included Joan and Ellery and Mary Woodman, a cousin of the
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Brooklyns who lived with Joan and helped her to keep Sir Vernon’s
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house. Presently Joan drew him aside.
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“Uncle Harry,” she said, “there’s something I want to tell you.”
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Lucas was, in fact, no relation of the Brooklyns; but from their
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childhood Joan and George Brooklyn had known him as “Uncle Harry,” and
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had made him their confidant in many of their early troubles. The
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habit had stuck; and now Joan had a very serious trouble to tell him.
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“You must do what you can to help me,” she said. “I’ve told Uncle
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Vernon again to-day that on no account will I ever marry John, and he
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absolutely refuses to listen to me. He says it’s all settled, and his
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will’s made on that understanding, and that we’re engaged, and a whole
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lot more. I must make him realise that I won’t; but you know what he
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is. I want you to speak to him for me.”
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Lucas thought a moment before replying. Then, “My dear,” he said, “I’m
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very sorry about it, and you know I will do what I can; but is this
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quite the time? We should only be accused, with some truth, of
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spoiling Sir Vernon’s birthday. Let it alone for a few days, and then
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I’ll try talking to him. But it won’t be easy, at any time.”
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“Yes, uncle; but there’s a special reason why it must be done
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to-night. Uncle Vernon tells me that he is going to announce the terms
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of his will, and that he will speak of what he calls John’s and my
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‘engagement.’ I really can’t allow that to happen. I don’t really mind
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about the will, or John getting the money; but it must not be publicly
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given out that John is to have me as well. Uncle Vernon has no right
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to leave me as part of his ‘net personalty’ to John or anybody else.”
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Lucas sighed. He foresaw an awkward interview; for Sir Vernon was not
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an easy man to deal with, and latterly every year had made him more
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difficult. But he saw that he was in for it, and, with a reassuring
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word to Joan, passed into the house in search of his host.
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As Joan turned back to rejoin the others, Robert Ellery stepped
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quickly to her side. Slim and slightly built, he offered a strong
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contrast to Prinsep’s tall, sturdy figure. Joan’s two lovers were very
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different types. Ellery was not strictly handsome; but he had an
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invincible air of being on good terms with the world which, with a
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ready smile and a clear complexion, were fully as effective as the
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most approved type of manly beauty. Still under thirty, he was just
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beginning to make himself a name. A play of his had recently been
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produced with success by the Brooklyn Corporation: one of his
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detective novels had made something of a hit, and his personal
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popularity was helping him to win rapid recognition for his undoubted
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talent as a writer. Moreover, his guardian, Lucas, was a big figure in
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the dramatic and literary world, knew everybody who was worth knowing,
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and had a high opinion of the ability of his ward.
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It was obvious that Ellery was in love with Joan. Few men had less
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power of concealing what was in them, and everybody in the Brooklyn
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circle, except Sir Vernon himself, was well aware that Ellery thought
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the world of Joan, and more than suspected that she thought the world
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of him. Of course, the theory could not be mentioned in Prinsep’s
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presence; but, when he was not there, the situation was freely
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discussed. George Brooklyn and his wife always maintained that, even
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if Joan did not marry Ellery, she would certainly not marry Prinsep.
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Carter Woodman, Sir Vernon’s lawyer as well as his cousin, held firmly
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to the opposite opinion, and often hinted that Sir Vernon’s will would
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settle the question in Prinsep’s favour; but then, as George said,
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Woodman was a lawyer and his mind naturally ran on the marriage
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settlements rather than the marriage itself.
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The Brooklyns were neither particularly united nor particularly
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quarrelsome, in their own family circles. They had their bickerings
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and their mutual dislikes to about the average extent; but more than
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the normal amount of family solidarity had manifested itself in their
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dealings with the outer world. Two “outsiders,” Lucas and Ellery, were
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indeed recognised almost as members of the family; and, on the other
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hand, one black sheep, Sir Vernon’s brother Walter, had been driven
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forth and refused further recognition. For the rest, they stuck
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together, and accepted for the most part unquestioningly Sir Vernon’s
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often tyrannical, but usually benevolent, authority. If Joan had been
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a real Brooklyn, George would hardly have been so confident that she
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would not marry Prinsep.
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But Joan was not really a Brooklyn at all. She was the step-daughter
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of Walter, who had for a time retrieved his fallen fortunes, fallen
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through his own fault, by marrying the rich widow of Cowper, the
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“coffee king.” The widow had then obligingly died, and Walter Brooklyn
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had lost no time in spending her money, including the large sum left
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in trust for Joan by her mother. But it was not this, so much as
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Walter’s manner of life, that had caused Joan, at twenty-one, to say
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that she would live with him no longer. Sir Vernon, to whom she was
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strongly attached, had then offered her a home, and for five years she
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had been in fact mistress of his house, and hostess at his lavish
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entertainment of his theatrical friends. From the first Sir Vernon had
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set his heart on her marrying his nephew, John Prinsep, who was ten
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years her senior. But Joan was a young woman with a will of her own;
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and for five years she had resisted the combined pressure of Sir
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Vernon and of John Prinsep himself, without any success in persuading
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either Sir Vernon to give up the idea, or Prinsep of the hopelessness
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of his suit. Prinsep persisted in believing that she would “come
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round,” though of late her growing friendship with Ellery had made him
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more anxious to secure her consent to a definite engagement.
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Ordinarily, Prinsep had a way of scowling when he saw Joan and Ellery
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together; but to-night he seemed without a care as he came up to Joan
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and invited her to lead the way indoors. Dinner was already served;
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and Sir Vernon with Lucas was waiting for them all to come in.
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There, in the great Board Room of the Corporation, they offered, one
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by one, their congratulations to the old man. An enemy had once said
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of Sir Vernon Brooklyn that he was the finest stage gentleman in
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Europe—both on and off the stage. The saying was unjust, but there was
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enough of truth in it to sting. Sir Vernon was a little apt to act off
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the stage; and the habit had perhaps grown on him since his
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retirement. To-night, with his fine silver hair and keen, well-cut
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features, he was very much the gentleman, dispensing noble hospitality
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with just too marked a sense of its magnificence. But it was Sir
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Vernon’s day, and his guests were there to do his will, to draw him
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out into reminiscence, to enhance his sense of having made the most of
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life’s chances, and of being sure to leave behind him those who would
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carry on the great tradition. The talk turned to the building of the
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Piccadilly Theatre. The old man told them how, from the first days of
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his success, he had made up his mind to build himself the finest
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theatre in London. From the first he had his eye on the site of
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Liskeard House; and it had taken him twenty years to persuade the
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Liskeards, impoverished as they were, to sell it for such a purpose.
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At last he had secured the site, and then again his foresight had been
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rewarded. Not for nothing had he paid for George Brooklyn’s training
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as an architect, based on the lad’s own bent, and given him the
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opportunity to study playhouse architecture in every quarter of the
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globe. The Piccadilly Theatre was not only George Brooklyn’s
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masterpiece: it was, structurally, acoustically, visually, for
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comfort, in short in every way, the finest theatre in the world. It
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was also the best paying theatre. And, the old man said, if in his day
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he had been the finest actor, so was George’s wife still the finest
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actress, if only she would not waste on domesticity the gift that was
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meant for mankind. For Mrs. George Brooklyn, as Isabelle Raven, had
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been the star of the Piccadilly Theatre until she had married its
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designer and quitted the stage, sorely against Sir Vernon’s will.
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Sir Vernon was in his best form; and the talk, led by him, was rapid
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and, at times, brilliant. But there was at least one of those present
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to whom it made no appeal; for Joan Cowper was painfully anxious as to
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the result of Lucas’s interview with Sir Vernon. Several times she
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caught his eye; but, although he smiled at her down the table, his
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look brought her no reassurance. At last, when the servants had
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withdrawn after the last course, Joan rose, purposing to lead the
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ladies to the drawing-room. But Sir Vernon waved her back to her seat,
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saying that, before they left the table, there was something which he
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wanted them all to hear. Clearly there was nothing for it but to wait;
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but Joan made up her mind that, if Sir Vernon spoke of her publicly as
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engaged to Prinsep, not even the spoiling of his birthday party should
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stop her from speaking her mind.
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Chapter II
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Sir Vernon’s Will
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“All of us here,” began Sir Vernon, with a well-satisfied look round
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the table, “are such good friends that we can be absolutely frank one
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with another. I am an old man; and I expect that almost all of you
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have at one time or another wondered—I put it bluntly—what you will
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get when I die. It is very natural that you should do so; and I have
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come to the conclusion that you had better know exactly how you stand.
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Carter here has, of course, as my legal adviser, known from the first
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what is in my will; and now I want all of you to know, in order that
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you may expect neither too much nor too little. I fear I am still a
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moderately healthy old man, or so my doctor tells me, and you may,
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therefore, still have some time to wait; but at my age it is well to
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be prepared, and I felt that you ought not to be left any longer in
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the dark.”
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At this point several of Sir Vernon’s auditors attempted to speak, but
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he waved them into silence.
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“No, let me have my say without telling me what I know already,” he
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continued. “I know that you would tell me truly that nothing is
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further from your thoughts than to wish me out of the way. It is not
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because I am in any doubt on that head that I am speaking to you; but
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because this is a business matter, and it is well to know in advance
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what one’s prospects are. Listen to me, then, and I will tell you, as
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far as I can, exactly how the thing stands.
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“To several of you I have already made substantial gifts. You, John,
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and you, George, have each received £50,000 in shares of the Company.
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You, Joan, have £10,000 worth of shares standing in your name. These
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sums are apart from my will, and the bequests which I propose to make
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are in addition to these.
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“As nearly as Carter here can tell me, I am now worth, on a
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conservative estimate, some eight or nine hundred thousand pounds.
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Carter works it out that, when all death duties have been paid, there
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will be at least £600,000 to be divided among you. In apportioning my
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property I have worked on the basis of this sum. I have divided it,
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first, into two portions—£100,000 for smaller legacies, and £500,000
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to be shared by my residuary legatees.
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“First, let me tell you my smaller bequests, which concern most of
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you. To you, Lucas, my oldest and closest friend, I have left nothing
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but a few personal mementoes. You have enough already; and it is at
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your express wish that I do as I have done. To my young friend and
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your ward, Ellery, I leave £5000. I understand that he will have
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enough when you die; but this sum may be welcome to him if, as I
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expect, I am the first to go. To you, Carter, I leave £20,000. You,
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too, have ample means; but our close connection and the work you have
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done so well for me and for the Company call for recognition. To Mrs.
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Carter—to you, Helen—I have left no money—you will share in what your
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husband receives—but I will show you later the jewels which will be
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yours when I die. To you, Mary, who, with Joan, have lived with me and
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cared for me, I leave £20,000, enough to make you independent. There
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are but two more of my smaller legacies I need mention. The rest are
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either to servants or to charitable institutions. But you all know
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that, for many years past, I have not been on good terms with my
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brother Walter. I have no mind, since I have other relatives who are
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far dearer to me, to leave him another fortune to squander like the
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last; but I am leaving in trust for him the sum of £10,000, of which
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he will receive the income during his life. On his death, the sum will
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pass to my dear niece, Joan, to whom I shall also leave absolutely the
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sum of £40,000. This, with the £10,000 which she had already, will
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make her independent, but not rich.
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“You may be surprised, Joan, that I leave you no more; but, when I
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tell you of my principal bequests, you will understand the reason. The
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residue, then, of my property, amounting to at least £500,000, I leave
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equally between my two nephews, John Prinsep and George Brooklyn. You
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too, therefore, will both be rich men. As so large a sum is involved,
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I have thought it right to make provision for the decease of either of
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you. Should George die before me, which God forbid, you, Marian, as
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his wife, will receive half the sum which he would have received under
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my will. The other half will pass to John, as the surviving residuary
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legatee. Should John die, the half of his share will pass to Joan—a
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provision the reason for which you will all, I think, readily
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appreciate. I have not made provision for the death of both my
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nephews—for an event so unlikely hardly calls for precaution. But
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should God bring so heavy a misfortune upon us, the residue of my
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property would then pass, as the will now stands, to my nearest
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surviving relative.”
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While Sir Vernon was still speaking Joan had been trying to break in
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upon him. Prinsep was able to check her for a moment, but at this
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point she insisted on speaking. “Uncle,” she said, “there is something
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I must say to you in view of what you have just told us. I am very
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sorry if my saying it spoils your birthday; but I must say it all the
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same. What you have left to me is more than enough, and certainly all
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that I expect, or have any right to expect. But I cannot bear that you
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should misunderstand me, or that I should seem, by saying nothing now,
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to accept the position. I want you to understand quite definitely that
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I have no intention of marrying John. I am not engaged to him; and I
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never shall be. It’s not that I have anything against him—it’s simply
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that I don’t want—and don’t mean—to marry him. I’m sorry if it hurts
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you to hear me say this; but you have publicly implied that we are to
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be married, and I couldn’t keep silent after that.”
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Sir Vernon’s face had flushed when Joan began to speak, and he had
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seemed on the point of breaking in upon her. But he had evidently
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thought better of it; for he let her have her say. But now he answered
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coldly, and with a suppressed but obvious irritation.
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“My dear Joan, you know quite well that this marriage has been an
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understood thing among us all. I don’t pretend to know what fancy has
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got into your head just lately. But, at all events, let us hear no
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more of it to-night. Already what you have said has quite spoilt the
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evening for me.”
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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
|