path: root/73716-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 73716 ***
The Brooklyn Murders

by G. D. H. Cole

published by Thomas Seltzer (New York), 1924



Contents

      I  A Family Celebration
     II  Sir Vernon’s Will
    III  Murder
     IV  What Joan Found in the Garden
      V  Plain as a Pikestaff
     VI  A Pause for Reflection
    VII  The Case Against Walter Brooklyn
   VIII  A Review of the Case
     IX  Walter Brooklyn’s Explanation
      X  Charis Lang
     XI  Joan Takes Up the Case
    XII  Robert Ellery
   XIII  An Arrest
    XIV  Mainly a Love Scene
     XV  To and Fro
    XVI  A Link in the Chain
   XVII  The Lovely Lady
  XVIII  The Case for the Defence
    XIX  The Police Have Their Doubts
     XX  Superintendent Wilson Thinks It Out
    XXI  Don Quixote
   XXII  “The Spaniard” Does His Bit
  XXIII  Walter Brooklyn Goes Free
   XXIV  A Fresh Start
    XXV  Raising the Wind
   XXVI  Two Men Strike a Bargain
  XXVII  Robert Ellery’s Idea
 XXVIII  The Superintendent’s Theory
   XXIX  The Lie of the Land
    XXX  A Letter and Its Consequences
   XXXI  A Button in a Bag
  XXXII  Sir John Bunnery
 XXXIII  On the Tiles
  XXXIV  The Stable-Yard
   XXXV  An Order for Bulbs
  XXXVI  An Afternoon Call
 XXXVII  A Happy Ending



Chapter I

A Family Celebration

At seventy Sir Vernon Brooklyn was still the outstanding figure in the
theatrical world. It was, indeed, ten years since he had made his
farewell appearance on the stage; and with a consistency rare among
the members of his profession, he had persisted in making his first
farewell also his last. He had also for some time past resigned to
younger men the actual direction of his vast theatrical enterprises,
which included five great West End theatres and a steady stream of
touring companies in the provinces and overseas. Both as actor and as
manager, he was wont to say, his work was over; but as Chairman of the
Brooklyn Dramatic Corporation, which conducted all its work under his
name, he was almost as much as ever in the eye of the public.

Like most men who have risen by their own efforts, aided by fortune
and by a public which takes a pleasure in idolatry, to positions of
wide authority, Sir Vernon had developed, perhaps to excess, the habit
of getting his own way. Thus, although his niece and house-keeper,
Joan Cowper, and his near relatives and friends had done their best to
dissuade him from coming to London, he had ignored their protests, and
insisted on celebrating his seventieth birthday in the London house,
formerly the scene of his triumphs, which he now seldom visited. Sir
Vernon now spent most of his time at the great country house in Sussex
which he had bought ten years before from Lord Fittleworth. There he
entertained largely, and there was no reason why he should not have
taken the advice of his relatives and his doctor, and gathered his
friends around him to celebrate what he was pleased to call his
“second majority.” But Sir Vernon had made up his mind, and it was
therefore in the old house just off Piccadilly that his guests
assembled for dinner on Midsummer Day, June 25th.

Like Sir Vernon’s country place, the old house had a history. He had
bought it, and the grounds with their magnificent garden frontage on
Piccadilly, looking over the Green Park, from Lord Liskeard, when that
nobleman had successfully gambled away the fortune which had made him,
at one time, the richest man in England who had no connection with
trade. Sir Vernon had turned his purchase to good use. Facing
Piccadilly, but standing well back in its garden from the street, he
had built the great Piccadilly Theatre, the perfect playhouse in
which, despite its size and large seating capacity, every member of
the audience could both see and hear. The theatre covered a lot of
ground; but, when it was built, there still remained not only the old
mansion fronting upon its side-street—a _cul de sac_ used by its
visitors alone—but also, between it and the theatre, a pleasant
expanse of garden. For some years Sir Vernon had lived in the house;
and there he had also worked, converting the greater part of the
ground floor into a palatial set of offices for the Brooklyn Dramatic
Corporation. On his retirement from active work, he had kept in his
own hands only the first floor, which he fitted as a flat to house him
on his visits to town. On the second floor he had installed his
nephew, John Prinsep, who had succeeded him as managing director of
the Corporation. The third floor was given over to the servants who
attended to the whole house. It was in this house that Sir Vernon was
celebrating his birthday, and his guests were to dine with him in the
great Board Room of the Corporation on the ground floor—formerly the
banqueting hall of generations of Liskeards, in which many a political
plot had been hatched, and many a diner carried helpless from under
the table in the bad days of the Prince Regent.

Between the house and the tall back of the theatre lay the garden, in
which a past Lord Liskeard with classical tastes had erected a model
Grecian temple and a quantity of indifferent antique statuary, the
fruits of his sojourn at the Embassy of Constantinople.

In this garden, before dinner was served, a number of Sir Vernon’s
guests had already gathered. The old man had been persuaded, despite
the brilliant midsummer weather, to remain in the house; but Joan
Cowper and John Prinsep were there to do the honours on his behalf. As
Harry Lucas came into the garden, John Prinsep was laughingly, as he
said, “showing off the points” of a dilapidated Hercules who, club,
lion-skin and all, was slowly mouldering under the trees at one end of
the lawn. The stone club had come loose, and Prinsep had taken it from
the statue, and was playfully threatening to do classical execution
with it upon the persons of his guests. Seeing Lucas, he put the club
back into the broken hand of the statue, and came across the lawn to
bid him welcome.

“You’re the last to arrive, Mr. Lucas,” said he. “You see it’s quite a
family affair this evening.”

It was quite a family affair. Of the eight persons now on the lawn,
six were members of the Brooklyn family by birth or marriage; Lucas
was Sir Vernon’s oldest friend and collaborator; and young Ellery, the
remaining member of the party, was Lucas’s ward, and was usually to be
found, when he had his will, somewhere in the neighbourhood of Joan
Cowper. As Sir Vernon had fully made up his mind that Joan was to
marry Prinsep, and there was supposed to be some sort of engagement
between them, Ellery’s attentions were not welcome to Prinsep, and
there was no love lost between the two men.

But there was no sign of this in Prinsep’s manner this evening. He
seemed to be in unusually good spirits, rather in contrast to his
usual humour. For Prinsep was not generally regarded as good company.
Since he had succeeded Sir Vernon in the business control of the
Brooklyn Corporation, of which he was managing director, he had grown
more and more preoccupied with affairs, and had developed a brusque
manner which may have served him well in dealing with visitors who
wanted something for nothing, but was distinctly out of place in the
social interchange of his leisure hours. Prinsep had, indeed, his
pleasures. He was reputed a heavy drinker, whose magnificent natural
constitution prevented him from showing any of the signs of
dissipation. Many of Prinsep’s acquaintances—who were as many as his
friends were few—had seen him drink more than enough to put an
ordinary man under the table; but none had ever seen him the worse for
drink, and he was never better at a bargain than when the other man
had taken some glasses less than he, but still a glass too much. Men
said that he took his pleasures sadly: certainly they had never been
allowed to interfere with his power of work; and often, after a hard
evening, he would go to his study and labour far into the night. But,
for this occasion, his sullenness seemed to have left him, and his
rather harsh laugh rang out repeatedly over the garden.

Lucas had never liked Prinsep; and he soon found himself one of a
group that included Joan and Ellery and Mary Woodman, a cousin of the
Brooklyns who lived with Joan and helped her to keep Sir Vernon’s
house. Presently Joan drew him aside.

“Uncle Harry,” she said, “there’s something I want to tell you.”

Lucas was, in fact, no relation of the Brooklyns; but from their
childhood Joan and George Brooklyn had known him as “Uncle Harry,” and
had made him their confidant in many of their early troubles. The
habit had stuck; and now Joan had a very serious trouble to tell him.

“You must do what you can to help me,” she said. “I’ve told Uncle
Vernon again to-day that on no account will I ever marry John, and he
absolutely refuses to listen to me. He says it’s all settled, and his
will’s made on that understanding, and that we’re engaged, and a whole
lot more. I must make him realise that I won’t; but you know what he
is. I want you to speak to him for me.”

Lucas thought a moment before replying. Then, “My dear,” he said, “I’m
very sorry about it, and you know I will do what I can; but is this
quite the time? We should only be accused, with some truth, of
spoiling Sir Vernon’s birthday. Let it alone for a few days, and then
I’ll try talking to him. But it won’t be easy, at any time.”

“Yes, uncle; but there’s a special reason why it must be done
to-night. Uncle Vernon tells me that he is going to announce the terms
of his will, and that he will speak of what he calls John’s and my
‘engagement.’ I really can’t allow that to happen. I don’t really mind
about the will, or John getting the money; but it must not be publicly
given out that John is to have me as well. Uncle Vernon has no right
to leave me as part of his ‘net personalty’ to John or anybody else.”

Lucas sighed. He foresaw an awkward interview; for Sir Vernon was not
an easy man to deal with, and latterly every year had made him more
difficult. But he saw that he was in for it, and, with a reassuring
word to Joan, passed into the house in search of his host.

As Joan turned back to rejoin the others, Robert Ellery stepped
quickly to her side. Slim and slightly built, he offered a strong
contrast to Prinsep’s tall, sturdy figure. Joan’s two lovers were very
different types. Ellery was not strictly handsome; but he had an
invincible air of being on good terms with the world which, with a
ready smile and a clear complexion, were fully as effective as the
most approved type of manly beauty. Still under thirty, he was just
beginning to make himself a name. A play of his had recently been
produced with success by the Brooklyn Corporation: one of his
detective novels had made something of a hit, and his personal
popularity was helping him to win rapid recognition for his undoubted
talent as a writer. Moreover, his guardian, Lucas, was a big figure in
the dramatic and literary world, knew everybody who was worth knowing,
and had a high opinion of the ability of his ward.

It was obvious that Ellery was in love with Joan. Few men had less
power of concealing what was in them, and everybody in the Brooklyn
circle, except Sir Vernon himself, was well aware that Ellery thought
the world of Joan, and more than suspected that she thought the world
of him. Of course, the theory could not be mentioned in Prinsep’s
presence; but, when he was not there, the situation was freely
discussed. George Brooklyn and his wife always maintained that, even
if Joan did not marry Ellery, she would certainly not marry Prinsep.
Carter Woodman, Sir Vernon’s lawyer as well as his cousin, held firmly
to the opposite opinion, and often hinted that Sir Vernon’s will would
settle the question in Prinsep’s favour; but then, as George said,
Woodman was a lawyer and his mind naturally ran on the marriage
settlements rather than the marriage itself.

The Brooklyns were neither particularly united nor particularly
quarrelsome, in their own family circles. They had their bickerings
and their mutual dislikes to about the average extent; but more than
the normal amount of family solidarity had manifested itself in their
dealings with the outer world. Two “outsiders,” Lucas and Ellery, were
indeed recognised almost as members of the family; and, on the other
hand, one black sheep, Sir Vernon’s brother Walter, had been driven
forth and refused further recognition. For the rest, they stuck
together, and accepted for the most part unquestioningly Sir Vernon’s
often tyrannical, but usually benevolent, authority. If Joan had been
a real Brooklyn, George would hardly have been so confident that she
would not marry Prinsep.

But Joan was not really a Brooklyn at all. She was the step-daughter
of Walter, who had for a time retrieved his fallen fortunes, fallen
through his own fault, by marrying the rich widow of Cowper, the
“coffee king.” The widow had then obligingly died, and Walter Brooklyn
had lost no time in spending her money, including the large sum left
in trust for Joan by her mother. But it was not this, so much as
Walter’s manner of life, that had caused Joan, at twenty-one, to say
that she would live with him no longer. Sir Vernon, to whom she was
strongly attached, had then offered her a home, and for five years she
had been in fact mistress of his house, and hostess at his lavish
entertainment of his theatrical friends. From the first Sir Vernon had
set his heart on her marrying his nephew, John Prinsep, who was ten
years her senior. But Joan was a young woman with a will of her own;
and for five years she had resisted the combined pressure of Sir
Vernon and of John Prinsep himself, without any success in persuading
either Sir Vernon to give up the idea, or Prinsep of the hopelessness
of his suit. Prinsep persisted in believing that she would “come
round,” though of late her growing friendship with Ellery had made him
more anxious to secure her consent to a definite engagement.

Ordinarily, Prinsep had a way of scowling when he saw Joan and Ellery
together; but to-night he seemed without a care as he came up to Joan
and invited her to lead the way indoors. Dinner was already served;
and Sir Vernon with Lucas was waiting for them all to come in.

There, in the great Board Room of the Corporation, they offered, one
by one, their congratulations to the old man. An enemy had once said
of Sir Vernon Brooklyn that he was the finest stage gentleman in
Europe—both on and off the stage. The saying was unjust, but there was
enough of truth in it to sting. Sir Vernon was a little apt to act off
the stage; and the habit had perhaps grown on him since his
retirement. To-night, with his fine silver hair and keen, well-cut
features, he was very much the gentleman, dispensing noble hospitality
with just too marked a sense of its magnificence. But it was Sir
Vernon’s day, and his guests were there to do his will, to draw him
out into reminiscence, to enhance his sense of having made the most of
life’s chances, and of being sure to leave behind him those who would
carry on the great tradition. The talk turned to the building of the
Piccadilly Theatre. The old man told them how, from the first days of
his success, he had made up his mind to build himself the finest
theatre in London. From the first he had his eye on the site of
Liskeard House; and it had taken him twenty years to persuade the
Liskeards, impoverished as they were, to sell it for such a purpose.
At last he had secured the site, and then again his foresight had been
rewarded. Not for nothing had he paid for George Brooklyn’s training
as an architect, based on the lad’s own bent, and given him the
opportunity to study playhouse architecture in every quarter of the
globe. The Piccadilly Theatre was not only George Brooklyn’s
masterpiece: it was, structurally, acoustically, visually, for
comfort, in short in every way, the finest theatre in the world. It
was also the best paying theatre. And, the old man said, if in his day
he had been the finest actor, so was George’s wife still the finest
actress, if only she would not waste on domesticity the gift that was
meant for mankind. For Mrs. George Brooklyn, as Isabelle Raven, had
been the star of the Piccadilly Theatre until she had married its
designer and quitted the stage, sorely against Sir Vernon’s will.

Sir Vernon was in his best form; and the talk, led by him, was rapid
and, at times, brilliant. But there was at least one of those present
to whom it made no appeal; for Joan Cowper was painfully anxious as to
the result of Lucas’s interview with Sir Vernon. Several times she
caught his eye; but, although he smiled at her down the table, his
look brought her no reassurance. At last, when the servants had
withdrawn after the last course, Joan rose, purposing to lead the
ladies to the drawing-room. But Sir Vernon waved her back to her seat,
saying that, before they left the table, there was something which he
wanted them all to hear. Clearly there was nothing for it but to wait;
but Joan made up her mind that, if Sir Vernon spoke of her publicly as
engaged to Prinsep, not even the spoiling of his birthday party should
stop her from speaking her mind.



Chapter II

Sir Vernon’s Will

“All of us here,” began Sir Vernon, with a well-satisfied look round
the table, “are such good friends that we can be absolutely frank one
with another. I am an old man; and I expect that almost all of you
have at one time or another wondered—I put it bluntly—what you will
get when I die. It is very natural that you should do so; and I have
come to the conclusion that you had better know exactly how you stand.
Carter here has, of course, as my legal adviser, known from the first
what is in my will; and now I want all of you to know, in order that
you may expect neither too much nor too little. I fear I am still a
moderately healthy old man, or so my doctor tells me, and you may,
therefore, still have some time to wait; but at my age it is well to
be prepared, and I felt that you ought not to be left any longer in
the dark.”

At this point several of Sir Vernon’s auditors attempted to speak, but
he waved them into silence.

“No, let me have my say without telling me what I know already,” he
continued. “I know that you would tell me truly that nothing is
further from your thoughts than to wish me out of the way. It is not
because I am in any doubt on that head that I am speaking to you; but
because this is a business matter, and it is well to know in advance
what one’s prospects are. Listen to me, then, and I will tell you, as
far as I can, exactly how the thing stands.

“To several of you I have already made substantial gifts. You, John,
and you, George, have each received £50,000 in shares of the Company.
You, Joan, have £10,000 worth of shares standing in your name. These
sums are apart from my will, and the bequests which I propose to make
are in addition to these.

“As nearly as Carter here can tell me, I am now worth, on a
conservative estimate, some eight or nine hundred thousand pounds.
Carter works it out that, when all death duties have been paid, there
will be at least £600,000 to be divided among you. In apportioning my
property I have worked on the basis of this sum. I have divided it,
first, into two portions—£100,000 for smaller legacies, and £500,000
to be shared by my residuary legatees.

“First, let me tell you my smaller bequests, which concern most of
you. To you, Lucas, my oldest and closest friend, I have left nothing
but a few personal mementoes. You have enough already; and it is at
your express wish that I do as I have done. To my young friend and
your ward, Ellery, I leave £5000. I understand that he will have
enough when you die; but this sum may be welcome to him if, as I
expect, I am the first to go. To you, Carter, I leave £20,000. You,
too, have ample means; but our close connection and the work you have
done so well for me and for the Company call for recognition. To Mrs.
Carter—to you, Helen—I have left no money—you will share in what your
husband receives—but I will show you later the jewels which will be
yours when I die. To you, Mary, who, with Joan, have lived with me and
cared for me, I leave £20,000, enough to make you independent. There
are but two more of my smaller legacies I need mention. The rest are
either to servants or to charitable institutions. But you all know
that, for many years past, I have not been on good terms with my
brother Walter. I have no mind, since I have other relatives who are
far dearer to me, to leave him another fortune to squander like the
last; but I am leaving in trust for him the sum of £10,000, of which
he will receive the income during his life. On his death, the sum will
pass to my dear niece, Joan, to whom I shall also leave absolutely the
sum of £40,000. This, with the £10,000 which she had already, will
make her independent, but not rich.

“You may be surprised, Joan, that I leave you no more; but, when I
tell you of my principal bequests, you will understand the reason. The
residue, then, of my property, amounting to at least £500,000, I leave
equally between my two nephews, John Prinsep and George Brooklyn. You
too, therefore, will both be rich men. As so large a sum is involved,
I have thought it right to make provision for the decease of either of
you. Should George die before me, which God forbid, you, Marian, as
his wife, will receive half the sum which he would have received under
my will. The other half will pass to John, as the surviving residuary
legatee. Should John die, the half of his share will pass to Joan—a
provision the reason for which you will all, I think, readily
appreciate. I have not made provision for the death of both my
nephews—for an event so unlikely hardly calls for precaution. But
should God bring so heavy a misfortune upon us, the residue of my
property would then pass, as the will now stands, to my nearest
surviving relative.”

While Sir Vernon was still speaking Joan had been trying to break in
upon him. Prinsep was able to check her for a moment, but at this
point she insisted on speaking. “Uncle,” she said, “there is something
I must say to you in view of what you have just told us. I am very
sorry if my saying it spoils your birthday; but I must say it all the
same. What you have left to me is more than enough, and certainly all
that I expect, or have any right to expect. But I cannot bear that you
should misunderstand me, or that I should seem, by saying nothing now,
to accept the position. I want you to understand quite definitely that
I have no intention of marrying John. I am not engaged to him; and I
never shall be. It’s not that I have anything against him—it’s simply
that I don’t want—and don’t mean—to marry him. I’m sorry if it hurts
you to hear me say this; but you have publicly implied that we are to
be married, and I couldn’t keep silent after that.”

Sir Vernon’s face had flushed when Joan began to speak, and he had
seemed on the point of breaking in upon her. But he had evidently
thought better of it; for he let her have her say. But now he answered
coldly, and with a suppressed but obvious irritation.

“My dear Joan, you know quite well that this marriage has been an
understood thing among us all. I don’t pretend to know what fancy has
got into your head just lately. But, at all events, let us hear no
more of it to-night. Already what you have said has quite spoilt the
evening for me.”

Then, as Joan tried to speak, he added, “No, please, no more about it
now. If you wish you can speak to me about it in the morning.”

Joan still tried to say something; but at this point Lucas cut quickly
into the conversation. Actor-managers, he said, had all the luck. You
would not find a poor devil of a playwright with the best part of a
million to leave to his descendants. And then, with obvious relief,
the rest helped to steer the talk back to less dangerous topics. Sir
Vernon seemed to forget his annoyance and launched into a stream of
old theatrical reminiscence, Lucas capping each of his stories with
another. The cheerfulness of the latter part of the evening was,
perhaps, a trifle forced, and there were two, Joan herself and young
Ellery, who took in it only the smallest possible part. But Prinsep,
Lucas, and Carter Woodman made up for these others; and an outsider
would have pronounced Sir Vernon’s party a complete success.

There was no withdrawal of the ladies that evening, for, after her
discomfiture, Joan made no move towards the drawing-room. In the end
it was Prinsep who broke up the party with a word to Sir Vernon.
“Come, uncle,” he said, “ten o’clock and time for our roystering to
end. I have work I must do about the theatre and it’s time some of us
were getting home.”

Then Joan seemed to wake up to a sense of her duties, and Sir Vernon
was promptly bustled off upstairs, the guests gradually taking their
leave.

Most of them had not far to go. Lucas had his car waiting to run him
back to his house at Hampstead. Ellery had rooms in Chelsea, and
announced his intention, as the night was fine, of walking back by the
parks. The George Brooklyns and the Woodmans, who lived in the outer
suburbs at Banstead and Esher, were staying the night in town, at the
famous Cunningham, on the opposite side of Piccadilly, the best hotel
in London in the estimation of foreign potentates and envoys as well
as of Londoners themselves. George Brooklyn, saying that he had an
appointment, asked Woodman to see his wife home, and left Marian and
the Woodmans outside the front door of the Piccadilly theatre, while
they crossed the road towards their hotel.

The guests having departed, Liskeard House began to settle down for
the night. On the ground floor, indeed, there began a scurry of
servants clearing up after the dinner. On the first floor Joan, having
seen Sir Vernon to his room, sat in the long-deserted drawing-room,
talking over the evening’s events with her friend, Mary Woodman, and
reiterating, to a sympathetic listener, her determination never to
marry John Prinsep. Meanwhile, upstairs on the second floor, John
Prinsep sat at his desk in his remote study with a heavy frown on his
face, very unlike the seemingly light-hearted and amiable expression
he had worn all the evening. Sir Vernon’s birthday party was over, but
there were strange things preparing for the night.



Chapter III

Murder

John Prinsep was a man who valued punctuality and cultivated regular
habits, both in himself and in others. At 10.15 punctually each night
a servant came to him to collect any late letters for the post.
Thereafter, unless some visitor had to be shown up, he was left
undisturbed, and no one entered his flat on the second floor of
Liskeard House until the next morning. The servants, who slept on the
floor above, had access to it by a staircase of their own, and did not
need to pass through Prinsep’s quarters.

No less regular were the arrangements for the morning. At eight
o’clock precisely, Prinsep’s valet called him, bringing the morning
papers and letters and a cup of tea. At the same time, other servants
began the work of dusting and cleaning the flat, a long suite of rooms
running the whole length of the house. Prinsep’s bedroom, opening out
of his study, and accessible also from the end of the long corridor,
was a pleasant room looking out over the old garden towards the back
of the theatre.

On the morning after the birthday dinner, Prinsep’s valet approached
the bedroom door with some trepidation, for he had overslept himself
and was at least five minutes late—an offence which his master would
not readily forgive. Repeated knocks bringing no reply, Morgan slipped
into the room, only to find that the bed had not been slept in, and
that there was no sign that Prinsep had been there at all since he had
dressed for dinner on the previous evening. Closing the door, Morgan
walked back along the corridor to consult his fellow-servants. He
found Winter, who was superintending the dusting of the drawing-room.

“Did you see the master last night?” he asked. Winter answered with a
nod, and added, “Yes, I took some letters from him for the post as
usual.”

“Did he say anything about going out? His bed has not been slept in,
and he’s not in his room this morning.”

Winter replied that Prinsep had said nothing, and the two men walked
down the corridor together to take a look round.

At this moment there came a terrible scream from the study, and a
scared maid-servant came running out straight into Morgan’s arms. “Oh,
Mr. Morgan—the master,” she sobbed, “I’m sure he’s dead.”

The two men-servants made all haste into the study. There, stretched
on the floor beside his writing-table lay John Prinsep. A glance told
them that he was dead, and showed the apparent cause in a knife, the
handle of which protruded from his chest, just about the region of the
heart. Morgan went down on his knees beside the body, and felt the
pulse. “Get out quick,” he said, “and stop those girls from kicking up
a row. He’s dead, right enough.”

Morgan’s voice was agitated, indeed; but it hardly showed the grief
that might have been expected in an exemplary valet mourning for the
death of his master. Winter made no reply, but left the room to quiet
the servants. Then he came back and telephoned first for the police
and then for the dead man’s doctor, who promised to be with them
inside of half an hour. As he sat at the telephone he warned Morgan.
“Don’t disturb a thing. If we’re not careful one of us may get run in
for this job.”

Morgan meanwhile had satisfied himself beyond a doubt that Prinsep was
dead. Leaving the body he turned to Winter. “Some one will have to
tell Miss Joan, I suppose. I’ll go and find her maid. Meanwhile you
stay on guard here.”

Winter’s guard was not for long. In less than ten minutes Morgan
returned. “I’ve seen Miss Joan,” he said, “and she’s gone to tell Sir
Vernon. Here are the police coming upstairs.”

The telephone message had, by a lucky accident, found Inspector
Blaikie already at Vine Street, and it was he, with two constables and
a sergeant, who had come round to the house at once. The constables
remained downstairs, while he and the sergeant made a preliminary
examination. Winter told him that nothing had been disturbed, except
that they had touched the body in order to make sure that Prinsep was
dead, and used the telephone to communicate with the doctor and the
police.

“No doubt about his being dead,” said Inspector Blaikie, after a brief
examination of the body. “Dead some hours, so far as I can see. And no
doubt about the cause of death, either”—and he pointed to the knife
still in the body. “Has either of you ever seen that knife before?”

Both Winter and Morgan took a good look at the shaft, but disclaimed
ever having seen the knife. “It wasn’t his—I can tell you that,” said
Morgan. “I know everything he had in the study, and I’m dead sure it
wasn’t here yesterday.”

“Hallo,” said the inspector suddenly, “this is curious. There’s a mark
on the back of the head that shows he must have been struck a heavy
blow. It might have killed him by itself—must have stunned him, I
should say. Well, we’ll leave that for the doctors.” So saying, the
inspector got up from his knees and began to make a minute examination
of the room. “Here, you two,” he said to Morgan and Winter, “clear out
of here for the present, and stay in the next room till I send for
you.”

Inspector Blaikie was a careful man. Everything in the room was
rapidly submitted to a detailed examination, the results of which the
sergeant wrote down as his superior dictated them. They were neither
surprisingly rich nor surprisingly meagre. Of fingermarks there were
plenty, but these might well prove to be those of Prinsep himself, or
of other persons whose presence in the room was quite natural.
Identifiable footmarks there were none.

Robbery, unless of some special object, did not appear to have been
the motive of the murderer. Considerable sums of money were in the
drawers of Prinsep’s desk; but neither these nor the other contents of
the drawers seemed to have been in any way disturbed. A safe stood
unopened in a corner of the room. The dead man’s watch and other
valuables had been left intact upon him. Either the murderer had left
in great haste without accomplishing his purpose, or that purpose did
not include robbery of any ordinary kind.

Inspector Blaikie directed his special attention to the papers lying
on the dead man’s desk, which he seemed to have been working upon when
he was disturbed. These, it did not take the inspector long to
discover, related to the financial affairs of Walter Brooklyn who, as
he soon ascertained later by a few questions, was the brother of Sir
Vernon, a man about town of shady reputation, and known to be head
over ears in debt. The papers seemed to contain some sort of abstract
statement of his liabilities, with a series of letters from him to Sir
Vernon asking for financial assistance.

“H’m,” said the inspector to himself, “these may easily have a bearing
on the case.”

But there were other interesting discoveries to come. The inspector
was now informed that the doctor had arrived. He ordered that he
should be shown up immediately, and suspended his examination of the
room to greet the new-comer. Dr. Manton had been for some years the
dead man’s medical adviser; but no other member of the Brooklyn family
had been under his care. Something in common with him had perhaps
caused Prinsep to forsake the staid family physician in his favour;
but this hardly appeared on the surface. Prinsep was heavily built and
sullen in expression: Dr. Manton was slim built and rather jaunty,
with a habit of wearing clothes far less funereal than the normal
etiquette of the medical profession seems to dictate. He entered now,
flung a rapid and seemingly quite cheerful “Good-morning,
inspector—bad business this, I hear,” to Blaikie, and went at once
down on his knees beside the body. “Bad business—bad business,” he
continued to repeat to himself, in a perfectly cheerful tone of voice,
as he made his preliminary examination. He made a noise between his
teeth as he touched the hilt of the knife still embedded in Prinsep’s
chest: then, as he saw the contusion on the back of the head, he said
“H’m, h’m.” Then he relapsed into silence, which he broke a moment
later by whistling a tune softly to himself.

“Well,” said the inspector, “what’s the report?”

The doctor made no answer for a moment. Then he said, “Have him
carried into the bedroom. I want to make a fuller examination. I’ll
talk to you when I’ve done.”

“Very well,” said the inspector; and he went to the door and called to
the sergeant to bring up the two constables to move the body. Heavily
they marched into the room, lifted up the dead man, and bore him away,
the doctor following. But, as they raised the body from the floor, an
interesting object came to light. Underneath John Prinsep’s body had
lain a crumpled pocket-handkerchief. The inspector pounced upon it. In
the corner was plainly marked the name of George Brooklyn.

“Who’s George Brooklyn?” Inspector Blaikie called out to the doctor in
the adjoining room. The doctor came to the door, and saw the
handkerchief in the inspector’s hand. “Hallo, what’s that you’ve got?”
he said. “George Brooklyn is Prinsep’s cousin, old Sir Vernon’s other
nephew. An architect, I believe, by profession.”

“Thanks. This appears to be his handkerchief,” the inspector answered.
“It was under the body.”

“H’m. Well, that’s none of my business,” said the doctor, and turned
back into the bedroom.

There, a minute or two later, Inspector Blaikie followed him, leaving
the sergeant on guard in the room where the tragedy had occurred. But
first he carefully packed up and transferred to his handbag the
handkerchief, the papers from the desk, and certain other spoils of
his search.

“Well, what do you make of it now?” he asked Dr. Manton.

The doctor had by this time drawn the knife from the wound, and this
he now handed silently to the inspector, who examined it curiously,
felt its edge, and finally wrapped it up and put it away in his bag
with the rest of his findings. Then he turned again to the doctor.

“A shocking business, inspector,” said the latter, still with his
curiously cheerful air, “and, I may add, rather an odd one. The man
was not killed with the knife, and the knife wound has not actually
touched any vital part. He was killed, I have no doubt, by the blow on
the back of the head—a far easier form of murder for any one who is
not an expert. It was a savage blow. The wound in the chest, I have
little hesitation in saying, was inflicted subsequently, probably when
the man was already dead. As I say, it would not have killed him, and
there are also indications that it was inflicted after death—the
comparative absence of bleeding and the general condition of the
wound, for example.”

“H’m, you say the man was killed with a knock on the head, and the
assassin then stabbed him in order to make doubly sure.”

“Pardon me, inspector, I say nothing of the sort. I say that the blow
on the back of the head was the cause of death, and that the knife
wound was, in all probability, subsequent. Anything about assassins
and their motives and methods is your business and not mine.”

“I accept the correction,” said the inspector, smiling. “But the
inference seems practically certain. Why else should the murderer have
stabbed a dead man?”

“I have no theory, inspector. I simply give you the medical evidence,
and leave you to draw the inferences for yourself.”

“But perhaps you can give me some valuable information. I believe you
were Mr. Prinsep’s doctor.”

“Yes, and I think I may say a personal friend.”

“What sort of man was he? Anything wrong, physically?”

“No; there ought to have been, from the way he used his body. But he
had the constitution of an ox. He limped, owing to an accident some
years ago. But otherwise—oh, as healthy as you like.”

“And, apart from that, what was he like?”

“I got on well with him; but there were many who did not. A tough
customer, hard in business and not ready in making friends.”

“What terms was he on with his family—with Mr. George Brooklyn, for
instance?”

“Come now, inspector, this is hardly fair. I barely know George
Brooklyn. I don’t think he and Prinsep liked each other; but there had
been no quarrel so far as I know. I suppose you are thinking of the
handkerchief.”

“I have to think of these things.”

While he was speaking the inspector opened his bag and took out the
knife again.

“A curious knife this,” he said. “Perhaps you can tell me whether it
is a surgical instrument.”

“Not so curious, when you know what it is. I do happen to know, though
it has nothing to do with my profession. My son is a mechanical
draughtsman, and he has several. Knives of this type are sold by most
firms which supply architects’ and draughtsmen’s materials.”

“H’m, what did you say was Mr. George Brooklyn’s profession?”

“I believe he is an architect, and a very promising one.”

“That, doctor, may make this knife a most valuable clue.”

“I do not choose to consider it in that light. Clues are not my
affair, I am glad to say.”

“Well, they are my business, and I shall certainly have to make
further inquiries about Mr. George Brooklyn.”

“Oh, inquire away,” said the doctor. “But I fancy you will find George
Brooklyn quite above suspicion.”

The inspector’s eyes showed, just for an instant, a dangerous gleam.
Then, “And is there anything else you can tell me?” he asked.

“Nothing else, I think,” said the doctor. “I’m afraid you won’t find
it much of a clue.” And with that and a few words more about the
necessary inquest, the doctor took his leave.

The inspector went back into the study. “Ask those two men who are
waiting to step in here, will you?” he said to the sergeant. Morgan
and Winter were duly brought in. “Sergeant, while I talk to these two
men, I want you to make a thorough examination of the rest of the
house. Leave nothing to chance. House and garden, I mean. And make me
a sketch plan of the whole place while you’re about it.”

“Now,” said the inspector, when the sergeant had withdrawn, “there are
a number of questions I want to ask you. First, who, as far as you
know, was the last person to see the deceased alive? Which of you was
in charge of the front door last night?”

“I was, sir,” replied Winter.

“Well, then,” said the inspector, “I will begin with you. Morgan can
go back to the other room for the present, and I will send for him
when I want him. Now, when did you yourself last see Mr. Prinsep?”

“At 10.30 last night, sir, when I went up to fetch his letters for the
post.”

“Did you notice anything unusual, or did he make any remark?”

“He just gave me the letters. He didn’t say anything. He seemed in a
bad temper, but that was nothing out of the ordinary.”

“I see. There was nothing remarkable. Do you know if any one saw him
after you?”

“Yes, sir. At about a quarter to eleven Mr. George Brooklyn called and
asked for Mr. Prinsep. I told him I thought Mr. Prinsep was in, and he
said he would find his own way up.”

“And do you know when Mr. George Brooklyn came out?”

“Yes, I happened to catch sight of him crossing the hall to the front
door about three-quarters of an hour later—somewhere about half-past
eleven. We were in the dining-room clearing up, and several of us saw
him go out.”

“You say ‘clearing up.’ Had there been some entertainment in the house
last night?”

“Yes, sir. It was Sir Vernon Brooklyn’s family party. His seventieth
birthday, sir. Besides those in the house there were Mr. and Mrs.
George, Mr. Carter Woodman, sir—the solicitor, who is also Sir
Vernon’s cousin—and his wife, and Mr. Lucas—and, yes, Mr. Ellery.”

“When did they leave?”

“They all left a minute or two after ten o’clock. Mr. and Mrs. George
and the Woodmans are staying at the Cunningham, sir, and they walked.
Mr. Lucas—the playwriter, sir—he went off in his car to Hampstead, and
Mr. Ellery, he walked off in a great hurry.”

“So far as you know, no one besides Mr. George Brooklyn saw Mr.
Prinsep after 10.15.”

“No. Of course, Miss Joan or Miss Woodman or Sir Vernon may have seen
him without my knowing.”

“One more question. Do you recognise this walking-stick?” The
inspector had found this lying on the floor of the room. It might be
Prinsep’s; but it was best to make sure.

“No, sir. I’ve never seen it to my knowledge. But it may have been Mr.
Prinsep’s, for all that. He had quite a number.”

“You’ve no idea, then, whose it was?”

“No, sir. Mr. Prinsep used to collect walking-sticks. He was always
bringing new ones home.”

“Now, I want to ask you another question. You see this knife—the one
that was sticking out of the body. Have you ever seen it before?”

Winter’s manner showed some hesitation. At length he said, “No, I
can’t say I have. I mean, it wasn’t here to my knowledge yesterday.”

“You seem to hesitate in answering. It’s a curious sort of knife.
Surely you would remember if you had seen it. Or have you seen one
like it?”

“Must I answer that question, sir? You see, I’m not at all sure it was
the same.”

“Of course you must answer. It is your business to give the police all
the help you can in discovering the murderer.”

“Well, sir, all I meant was that I’d often seen Mr. George Brooklyn
using that sort of knife when he was doing his work—he’s an
architect—down at Fittleworth. He used to bring his work down when he
came to stay with Sir Vernon, and I know he had a knife like that.”

“I see. But you can’t say whether this is his.”

“No. It might be; but all I know is it’s the same pattern.”

“And that’s all you can tell me, is it?” Winter said nothing, and the
inspector added, “Very well, that will do. Now I want to ask Morgan a
few questions.”

Morgan had little light to throw upon the tragedy. He had been out all
the previous evening, after helping his master to dress for dinner,
when he had noticed nothing extraordinary. He had come back soon after
11.30, and had gone straight to bed. Where had he been? He had spent
the evening with friends at Hammersmith, had come back by the Tube
with two friends, who had only left him at the door of the house.
There he had met Winter and had gone upstairs with him to bed.

Asked if he knew the walking-stick, he was quite sure that it was not
his master’s, and that it had not been in the room on the previous
day. About the knife he knew nothing, except that he had never seen
it, or one like it, before.

The inspector had just finished his examination of Morgan when he was
startled by a shout from the garden. Throwing up the window, he called
to a constable who was running towards the house. The man’s answer was
to ask him to come as quickly as possible. Calling another constable
to keep guard in the study, Inspector Blaikie hastened to the garden,
directed by Morgan to a private stairway which led directly to it from
the back of the house. This, Morgan informed him, was Mr. Prinsep’s
usual way of getting into the garden, and thence, by the private
covered way, into the Piccadilly Theatre itself.

But before inspector Blaikie left the study, he did one thing. He
’phoned through to Scotland Yard, and made arrangements for the
immediate arrest of George Brooklyn, who was probably to be found at
the Cunningham Hotel.



Chapter IV

What Joan Found in the Garden

Joan Cowper usually knew her own mind. And, in her view, knowing your
own mind meant knowing when to stop as well as when to go on. She had
made her position clear at the dinner, and Sir Vernon could no longer
pretend, she said to herself, that her marriage with Prinsep was a
foregone conclusion. Sir Vernon, indeed, had said nothing more about
the matter when she took him to his room in the evening, and they had
separated for the night apparently on the best of terms. But Joan had
known that she must prepare for a stormy interview on the morrow; and,
as she dressed in the morning, her thoughts were running on what she
should say to Sir Vernon, in answer to the reproaches he was sure to
address to her.

Just as she was ready for breakfast, her scared maid came to her door,
and said that Morgan wished to speak to her for a moment. Joan looked
at the girl’s face, and saw at once that something serious was amiss.

“Why, what’s the matter?” she said.

“I don’t know, miss; but there’s something wrong upstairs, and they’re
sending for the police.”

Joan hurried to the room where Morgan was waiting for her. With the
impeccable manner of the good manservant, and almost without a shade
of feeling in his voice, Morgan told her what had happened—how he and
Winter had found Prinsep lying on the floor of his study, dead.

“You are sure that he is dead,” she managed to ask. “Have you sent for
a doctor?”

Morgan assured her that everything was being attended to, and said
that he had come to her because some one would have to break the news
to Sir Vernon. Would she do it?

Into Joan’s mind came the thought of the interview she had expected,
and of the interview she was after all to have. No question now of her
marrying John Prinsep—there was no longer any such person as John
Prinsep to marry.

“I suppose I must do it,” she said.

Joan’s composure lasted just long enough for the door to close behind
Morgan. Then she flung herself down on a couch, and let her feelings
have their way. She sobbed half hysterically—not because, even at this
tragic moment, she felt grief for John Prinsep, but simply because the
sudden catastrophe was too much for her. Tragedy had swooped down in a
moment on the house of Brooklyn, sweeping out of existence the crisis
which had seemed so vital to her only a few minutes ago. On her was
the sense of calamity, bewilderment, and helplessness in the face of
death.

She had felt no call to ask Morgan questions. John Prinsep’s death—his
murder—was a fact—a shattering event which must have time to sink into
her consciousness before she could begin to inquire about the manner
of its coming. She did not even ask herself how it had happened, or
who had done this thing. As she lay sobbing, the one thought in her
mind was that Prinsep was dead.

But soon that other thought, that call to action which had been
presented to her at the very moment when Morgan told her the news,
came back into her mind. She had given way; but she must pull herself
together. Sir Vernon, old and weak as he was, must be told the news;
and she must tell him. She must tell him at once, lest tidings should
break on him suddenly from some other quarter. Already the police were
probably in the house. With a powerful effort, Joan forced herself to
be calm. Drying her eyes, she stood upright, and looked at herself in
the glass. She would need all her power to break the news to the old
man whom she loved—the old man who had loved John Prinsep far more
than he loved her.

John Prinsep had been Sir Vernon’s favourite nephew—the man who was to
succeed him—had indeed already succeeded him—in the management of the
great enterprise he had built up. He liked George and Joan; but
Prinsep had always had the first place in both his affection and his
esteem. This death—this murder—Joan told herself, might be more than
he could bear. It might kill him. And it fell to her, who only the
night before had flouted his will by refusing to marry John Prinsep,
to break to the old man the news of his favourite’s death.

Still, it had to be done, and it was best done quickly. Sir Vernon
always lay in bed to breakfast, and it was to his bedroom that
Joan went with her evil tidings. She did not try to break it to
him gradually—she told him straight out what she knew, holding
his hand as she spoke. He looked very old and feeble there in the
great bed. But he took it more quietly than she had expected, unable
apparently to take in at once the full implication of what she said.
“Dead—murdered,” he repeated to himself again and again. He lay back
in the bed and closed his eyes. Joan sat beside him for a while, and
then stole away. His eyes opened and he watched her to the door; but
he did not speak.

Joan’s first act on leaving Sir Vernon was to telephone to the family
doctor—old Sir Jonas Dalrymple—and ask him to come round as soon as he
could. Then she felt that she must have air: her head was swimming and
she was near to fainting. So she went down the private staircase and
out into the old garden which, now as ever, seemed so remote from the
busy world outside. For some minutes she walked up and down the avenue
of trees, along which were ranged the antique statues Lord Liskeard
had brought home from Asia Minor. Then, in search of a place where she
could sit and rest, she went towards the model temple which the same
old scholar-diplomat had built to mark his enthusiasm for the world of
antiquity.

But, as Joan came nearer the temple she saw, in the entrance, some
indistinct dark object lying upon the steps. At first she could not be
sure what it was; but, as she came close, she became sure that it was
the body of a man, lying with the feet towards her in an unnatural
attitude which must be that of either unconsciousness or death. Her
impulse was to turn tail and run to the house for help; but, with a
strong effort of will, she forced herself to go still nearer. It was a
man, and the man, she felt sure, was dead. The face was turned away,
lying downwards on the stone of the topmost step; and on the exposed
back of the head was the mark of a savage blow which had crushed the
skull almost like an egg-shell. Already Joan was nearly certain who it
was, and an intense feeling of sickness came over her as she forced
herself to touch the body and to turn it over enough to expose the
face. Then she let the thing drop back, and started back herself with
a sharp cry. It was her cousin, George Brooklyn, manifestly dead and
no less manifestly murdered, who lay there on the steps of the Grecian
temple.

Filled as she was with horror at the second tragedy of the morning,
Joan did not lose her presence of mind. She staggered, indeed, and had
to cling for a minute to the nearest of the old statues—the Hercules
whose points John Prinsep had showed off to his guests only the night
before. The tears which she had been keeping back burst from her now,
and the weeping did her good. She regained her composure and realised
that her first duty was to summon help. Slowly and unsteadily she
walked towards the house. At the door leading to the garden she met
one of the policemen who was helping the sergeant in his examination
of the house. She tried to speak, but she could only utter one word,
“Come,” and lead the way back to the horror that lay there in the
garden.

The policeman followed her. But as soon as they came in view of the
temple and he saw what she had seen already, he ceased to advance.
“One moment, miss,” he said, “I must fetch the sergeant,” and he
started back to the house in search of his superior.

Joan stood stock still, only swaying a little, until the policeman
came back with the sergeant. Then she watched the two men go up to the
body, turn it over slightly to see the face, and then let it fall
back.

“Begging pardon, miss,” said the sergeant, turning to her, “but maybe
you know who this gentleman is?”

With a violent effort Joan managed to answer, “George—my cousin—Mr.
George Brooklyn,” she said; and then, overcome by the strain, she
fainted.

The sergeant was a chivalrous man, and he instantly left off his
examination of the spot and came to Joan’s help. Propping up her head
he fanned her rather awkwardly. As he did so, he shouted to the
policeman. “Don’t stand there, you fool, looking like a stuck pig. Go
and get some water for the lady.”

The constable set off at a run, lumbering heavily over the grass. “And
tell the inspector what’s toward,” shouted the sergeant after him. It
was this shout that the inspector heard, and that made him throw up
the study window and receive at once the constable’s message.

By the time Inspector Blaikie reached the garden, the constable had
returned with a glass of water, and Joan had recovered consciousness.
She was sitting on the grass, her back propped against the pedestal of
the statue, and the sergeant was trying to persuade her to go indoors.
The inspector, after a hasty glance at the scene, added his
entreaties; but Joan refused to go.

“No, I must see this through,” she said, as to herself. “I’m all right
now,” she added, trying to smile at the police officer. “Let me alone,
please.” After a time they left her to herself and pursued their
investigation of the crime.

Not only were the fact and manner of death plain enough: the actual
weapon with which the blow had been dealt was also clearly indicated.
Between the body and the statue lay a heavy stone club, evidently a
part of the group of statuary against which Joan was resting. It was
the club of Hercules, taken from the hand of the stone figure which
stood only a few feet away from the body. On the club were
unmistakable recent bloodstains, and clotted in the blood were hairs
which seemed to correspond closely with those of the dead man.

The blow had been one of immense violence. The stone club itself was
so heavy that only a very strong man could have wielded it with
effect; and it had evidently been brought down with great force on the
back of George Brooklyn’s head by some one standing almost immediately
behind him, but rather to the right hand. So much appeared even from a
cursory inspection of the wound. It was also evident that the body did
not lie where it had fallen. It had been dragged two or three yards
along the ground into the temple entry, presumably in order that it
might be well out of the way of casual notice. The dragging of it
along the ground had left clear traces. A track had been swept clear
of loose stones and rubble by the passage of the body, and two little
ridges showed where the stones and dust had piled up on each side.

George Brooklyn was fully dressed in his evening clothes, just as he
had appeared at dinner the night before. He had evidently come out
into the garden without either hat or overcoat—or at least there was
no sign of these on the scene of the crime. His body lay where it had
been dragged—presumably by the murderer; and all the evidence seemed
to show that death had been practically instantaneous. There was no
sign of a struggle: the only visible mark of the event was the trail
left where the dragging of the body had swept clear of dirt and
pebbles the stone approach to the model temple.

All these observations, made by the sergeant within a minute or two of
discovering the body, were confirmed by the inspector when he went
over the ground. Footmarks, indeed, were there in plenty; but Joan
explained that they had all been walking about the garden before
dinner on the previous evening, and that nearly all of them had
actually stood for some time just outside the porch of the temple.
From the footprints it was most unlikely that any valuable evidence
would be derived.

Had the situation been less grim Inspector Blaikie would have been
inclined to laugh when he found that the man whose body lay in the
garden was the very man for whose arrest he had just issued the order.
His fear had been that George Brooklyn would slip away before there
was time to effect an arrest. That fear was now most completely
removed. If George Brooklyn had killed Prinsep upstairs, certainly
fate had lost no time in exacting retribution.

The inspector’s immediate business, however, was to see what clues to
this second and more mysterious murder might have been left. And it
soon appeared to him that valuable evidence was forthcoming. First, on
the stone club, his skilled examination plainly revealed a fine set of
finger-prints, blurred in places, but still quite decipherable.
Moreover, these prints occupied exactly the spaces most natural if the
weapon had been used for a murderous assault. The inspector carefully
wrapped up the club for forwarding at once to the Finger-Print
Department at Scotland Yard.

But good fortune did not end there. Close to the statue of Hercules
from which the club had been taken he found, trodden into the ground,
a broken cigar-holder. It was a fine amber holder, broken cleanly
across the middle. Where the cigar was to be inserted was a stout gold
band, and on this band was an inscription, “V.B. from H.L.” Blaikie
looked in vain for a cigar end. Probably the holder had dropped from a
pocket and been trodden upon. Perhaps from the pocket of the murderer
himself.

The inspector turned to Joan with his find.

“Have you ever seen this before?” he asked.

Joan gave a start of surprise. For a moment she stared at the
cigar-holder without saying a word. Then she spoke slowly, and as if
with an effort.

“Yes,” she said. “Uncle Harry—I mean Mr. Lucas—gave it to Sir Vernon;
but Mr. Prinsep always used it. I saw him using it last night.”

“Miss Cowper,” said the inspector, “this may be very important. Are
you quite sure that you saw Mr. Prinsep using this holder last night,
and, if you are, at what time?”

“Yes, quite sure. He was smoking a cigar in it when he went up to his
room.”

Joan had stayed in the garden while the inspector was examining the
ground, because she seemed to have lost the power of doing anything
else. If she went in she must go and tell Sir Vernon of this second
tragedy, or else talk to him in such a way as deliberately to keep him
in ignorance of it. The strain in either case would be, she felt, more
than she could bear. It was better even to stay near this horrible
corpse, and to watch the police making their investigations.

Meanwhile, Dr. Manton, and with him a police surgeon, had come into
the garden and were making an examination of the body. When they had
done, two stout constables placed it on a stretcher and carried it
into the house. Joan followed almost mechanically, leaving the
inspector still in the garden.

As she entered the house Winter told her that Mrs. George Brooklyn and
Mrs. Woodman were upstairs with Miss Woodman, and that Carter Woodman
had telephoned to say that he was coming round at once. He had just
heard, at his office, the news of Prinsep’s murder; but of course he
would know nothing yet of George’s fate. And then it occurred to Joan
that Mrs. George, who was upstairs, had probably heard nothing as yet
of her husband’s death. Was she to break the news again—this time to a
wife whose love for her husband had been so great as to become a
family proverb? “As much in love as Marian.” How often they had
laughed as they said it; and now it came home suddenly to Joan what it
meant. Still, she must go upstairs and see them—tell them, if need be.

She found that they knew already. They had seen from a window the
excitement in the garden, and Mary Woodman had run down to find out
what the trouble was. So Mary had had to tell Mrs. George, and there
they were sitting in silence, waiting for news that could be no worse,
and could be no better.

Joan shortly told them what she knew. Marian listened in silence,
sitting still and staring at nothing with a fixed gaze. She did not
weep: she was as if she had been turned to stone. Joan thought that
she looked more beautiful now than she had ever looked on the stage,
when she set a whole theatre crying for the sorrows of some queen of
long ago. She longed to offer comfort, but she dared do nothing.
Complete silence fell on the room.

Meanwhile, below, Carter Woodman had arrived. He heard from Winter at
the door the news of the second tragedy of the morning. At first he
seemed half incredulous; but he was soon convinced that there was no
room for doubt. With a sentence expressing his horror, he hurried
through into the garden in search of the inspector, whom he found
still seeking for further traces of the crime.

Carter Woodman took the position by storm. His tall, athletic presence
dominated the group of men gathered round the statue. He insisted that
he must hear the whole story, demanded to know what clues the police
had found, and so bullied the inspector and everybody else as to get
himself at once very heartily disliked. Before he had half done the
police were quite in a mood to convict him of the murder, if they
could find a shred of evidence.

But they had to respect his energy; for it was he who pointed out to
them something which they had overlooked. It was a scrap of paper
lying on the floor of the temple, seemingly blown into a corner, just
beyond where the body had lain. A leaf clearly from a memorandum book,
and, from the cleanness and the state of the torn edge, apparently not
long torn out. On it was written, in a hand which Woodman at once
identified as Prinsep’s, “Come to me in the garden. I will wait in the
temple—J.P.” There was no address or direction. But it seemed to prove
that Prinsep, who lay dead upstairs, had arranged with some one a
meeting in the garden, where now George Brooklyn’s body had been
found.

It was Woodman, too, who made a valuable suggestion. “Look here,
inspector,” he said. “Most of this part of the garden, though it is
hidden from the house by the trees, can be seen from the windows at
the back of the theatre. Whoever was here with poor old George last
night may quite possibly have been seen by some one from there. There
are nearly always people about till late.”

The inspector at once pointed out that the place where they were
standing, and the temple itself, were completely hidden from the
theatre by a thick belt of trees and shrubs. But Woodman insisted that
the chance was worth trying. George or his assailant might have been
in another part of the garden some of the time.

The inspector and Woodman accordingly went across to the theatre, to
which the news had already spread. And there they quickly found what
they wanted. A caretaker, who lived in a set of ground-floor rooms at
the back of the house had distinctly seen John Prinsep walking up and
down the garden shortly after eleven o’clock, or it might have been a
quarter past, on the previous night. He had been quite alone, and the
man had last seen him walking towards the shrubbery and the temple.
Asked if he was quite certain that the person he saw was Prinsep he
said there could be no mistaking Mr. Prinsep. He had on his
claret-coloured overcoat and slouch hat, and no one could help
recognising his walk. He had a pronounced limp, and walked with a
curious sideways action. “It was Mr. Prinsep all right,” the caretaker
concluded. “I should know him out of a thousand.”

This would have satisfied some men; and it appeared to satisfy
Woodman. But the inspector held that it was desirable to look for
corroborative evidence. No one else in the building seemed to have
seen any one in the garden; but most of the staff had not yet arrived.
The inspector made arrangements for each to be interrogated on
arrival, and he and Woodman then went back into the garden through the
private door opening on the covered way communicating between the
theatre and the house. They continued their search; but no further
clues were to be found.



Chapter V

Plain as a Pikestaff

Inspector Blaikie, when he had done all that he could on the scene of
the double crime, went at once to report to his superiors and to hold
a consultation at Scotland Yard. The officer to whom he was
immediately responsible was the celebrated Superintendent Wilson—“the
Professor,” as his colleagues called him, in allusion to his scholarly
habits and his pre-eminently intellectualist way of reasoning out the
solution of his cases. “The Professor,” in his earlier days as
Inspector Wilson, had patiently found his way to the heart of a good
many murder mysteries by thinking them out as logical problems. He had
made his name by solving the great “Antedated Murder Mystery,” when
every one else had been hopelessly in fault; and a man’s life and a
great fortune had both depended on his skill in reasoning out the
truth. He was a small man, with quick, nervous movements, and a
curious way of closing his eyes and holding up his hands before him
with the tips of his fingers pressed tightly together when he was
discussing a case. He was reputed to have but a scant respect for most
of his colleagues at Scotland Yard; but he made an exception in favour
of Inspector Blaikie, whose pertinacity in following up clues worked
in excellently with his own skill at putting two and two together.
Blaikie, he would often say, could not reason; but he could find
things out. He, Wilson, stuck there in his office, could not go
hunting for clues; but he and Blaikie together were a first-class
combination. He was sitting at his desk, busy with a mass of papers,
when the inspector entered. He at once put his work aside and settled
down to discuss the new case. Word of the second murder had already
been sent to him over the telephone; and he had seen that the case was
certain to make a stir. The connection of the victims with Sir Vernon
Brooklyn and the Piccadilly Theatre was enough to ensure a first-class
newspaper sensation. There was an unusual note of eagerness in his
voice as he asked for the latest news.

“The trouble about this case, sir,” said Inspector Blaikie, “is that
it’s as plain as a pikestaff; but what the clues plainly indicate
cannot possibly be true. Perhaps I had better tell you the whole story
from the beginning.”

Superintendent Wilson nodded, put the tips of his fingers together,
leant back in his chair, and finally closed his eyes. He had composed
himself to listen.

“I went to Liskeard House shortly before half-past eight this morning,
on receipt of a telephone message stating that a murder had been
committed.”

“Who sent the message?”

“One of the servants. They had found the body when they went in to
clean the room in the morning. I went to the house, as I say. In a
room on the second floor, a study, I found the body, which the
servants identified as that of Mr. John Prinsep, by whom the second
floor was occupied. Mr. Prinsep was managing director of the Brooklyn
Corporation and nephew of Sir Vernon Brooklyn.”

The superintendent nodded.

“The body was lying on the floor with the face upwards. A knife, which
I have since found to be of a peculiar type used by architects and
draughtsmen, was protruding from the chest in the region of the heart.
On the side of the head was a very clearly marked contusion, obviously
caused by a heavy blow from some blunt instrument, which cannot have
been any object of furniture in the room. The dead man’s doctor, Dr.
Manton, and the police surgeon agree that this blow, and not the knife
wound, was the cause of death. The knife did not touch any vital part,
and the doctors believe that the wound in the chest was inflicted
after death.”

“You say ‘believe.’ Are they certain?”

“No; almost certain, but not so as to swear to it. I at once made an
examination of the room. The dead man had evidently been sitting at
his desk, and had fallen from his chair on being struck from behind on
the left-hand side. On the desk was a mass of papers relating to the
financial affairs of a Mr. Walter Brooklyn, a brother, I find, of Sir
Vernon Brooklyn, and therefore uncle to the deceased. I have the
papers here.”

The inspector handed over a bundle which the superintendent placed
beside him on the table. “Go on,” he said.

“Lying on the floor, at some distance from the body, was this
walking-stick, which may, or may not, have some connection with the
crime. There were at least thirty or forty walking-sticks standing in
a corner; but this was lying on the floor behind the study chair to
the left—that is, at the point from which the murderer seems to have
approached his victim. The servants say that they do not remember
seeing the stick before; but they cannot be certain, as the deceased
collected sticks. This is evidently a curio, made, I think, of
rhinoceros horn.”

The superintendent examined the stick for a moment, and then put it
down beside him.

“Dr. Manton then arrived, and, after a preliminary examination, asked
that the body should be removed to the adjoining bedroom. When it was
lifted up there was revealed, lying beneath it, this handkerchief
which, as you see, is marked in the corner with the name ‘G.
Brooklyn.’ Mr. George Brooklyn, I have ascertained, is also a nephew
of Sir Vernon Brooklyn. He is, moreover, an architect by profession,
and might therefore easily have been in possession of the knife found
embedded in the body. Winter, the butler at the house, has often seen
him using a knife of this precise pattern.”

“H’m,” said the superintendent.

“I made inquiries among the servants. The last of them to see Mr.
Prinsep alive was the butler, Winter, who collected from him his late
letters for the post. That was at 10.30 or thereabouts. The deceased
was sitting at his table, working at a lot of figures. He seemed in a
bad temper, but that, Winter says, was nothing unusual. But from the
same Winter I obtained a very valuable piece of evidence. At about a
quarter to eleven Mr. George Brooklyn called to see the deceased. He
said he would show himself upstairs, and did so. He was seen by Winter
and the other servants leaving the house by the front door at about
11.30. It was on receiving this information that I telephoned to you
asking for the immediate arrest of Mr. George Brooklyn, who was
believed to be staying at the Cunningham Hotel.”

“Yes,” said the superintendent. “I sent two men round there. They were
informed that Mr. Brooklyn had booked rooms, and that his wife had
spent the night in the hotel. He had not been there since the previous
day before dinner. I was about to take further steps when I received
your second message.”

“Quite so. Now I come, sir, to the really extraordinary part of the
case. Immediately before telephoning to you I had received an urgent
message to come down to the garden, where the sergeant was making
investigations. In the garden I found a body, which was identified by
a young lady who lives in the house—Sir Vernon Brooklyn’s ward, I
understand—as that of Mr. George Brooklyn himself. He was in evening
dress, without hat or coat, and the body was lying on the steps of a
curious sort of stone summer house—they call it the Grecian
temple—where it had been dragged. The cause of death—the doctors
confirm this—was a terrific blow on the back of the head, and the
weapon was lying a few yards from the body. I have it here in the
parcel.” The inspector lifted the heavy club with an effort on to the
table, and the superintendent gave an involuntary start of surprise as
he saw the strange weapon that had been employed in this sinister
tragedy.

“It is, as you see, sir, a heavy stone club. It is part of a group of
statuary—a Hercules, they tell me—which stands in the garden about
four yards from the summer-house or temple. It has obviously been
detached for some time from the rest of the statue. On it are some
bloodstains and hairs which correspond to those of the dead man. There
are also finger-prints, which I suppose you will have examined. I took
the precaution to secure finger-prints of both the dead men for
possible use. They are here.” The inspector handed over another
parcel.

“I studied carefully the scene of the crime. The deed was evidently
done almost at the foot of the statue, and the body was dragged from
there to the temple, presumably to remove it from casual notice. At
the foot of the statue I found this crushed cigar-holder, which Miss
Joan Cowper—the young lady to whom I referred—identifies as habitually
used by Mr. John Prinsep, and actually seen in his mouth at ten
o’clock last night, when a party then held in the house broke up. I
also found on the floor of the temple this crumpled piece of paper,
presumably a leaf from a memorandum book,” and the inspector handed
over the brief scrawled note in John Prinsep’s writing making an
appointment in the garden.

What he said, however, was not quite accurate; for it was not he, but
Carter Woodman, who had found the note.

“The writing of this note was identified by Miss Cowper as that of Mr.
Prinsep. It is one of the puzzles of this affair.”

“You mean that it would have fitted in better if John Prinsep’s body
had been found in the garden,” suggested the superintendent.

“Exactly; as things are it is confusing. About this time Mr. Carter
Woodman, Sir Vernon Brooklyn’s lawyer, arrived. At his suggestion we
went across to the theatre which overlooks the garden, although the
place where the crime was committed and the body found is completely
concealed by trees from both the house and the theatre. Our object was
to find if any one from the theatre had seen anything of what
happened. A caretaker stated that he had seen Mr. Prinsep walking in
the garden some time between eleven o’clock last night and a quarter
past. I made further inquiries, both in the house and at the theatre;
but that, I think, exhausts the discoveries I have made so far.” And
the inspector stopped and wiped his face with a green handkerchief.

“You have stated the case very plainly,” said Superintendent Wilson.
“Now tell me what you make of it?” And he gave what can best be
described as the ghost of a chuckle.

“Ah, that’s just where the troubles come in, sir,” replied the
inspector. “I don’t know what to make of it. As I said, it’s as plain
as a pikestaff, and yet it can’t be. When I examined Mr. Prinsep’s
room I found abundant evidence pointing to the conclusion that he was
murdered by Mr. George Brooklyn. But when I go into the garden, I find
Mr. George Brooklyn lying dead there, under circumstances which
strongly suggest that he was killed by Mr. Prinsep. Yet they can’t
possibly have killed each other. It’s simply impossible.”

“You say that there is strong ground for suspecting that Prinsep
killed Brooklyn. What is the ground?”

“Well, first there’s that cigar-holder. The second thing is the letter
in his writing, though I admit that raises a difficulty. The third
thing is that I’m practically certain the finger-prints on the club
correspond to those I took from Prinsep’s hands. Then Prinsep was
certainly seen walking in the garden.”

“In short, Inspector Blaikie,” said the superintendent, half smiling,
“you appear to hold very strong _prima facie_ evidence that each of
these two men murdered the other.”

The inspector groaned. “Don’t laugh at me, sir,” he said. “I’m doing
my best to puzzle it out. Of course they didn’t kill each other. At
least, both of them didn’t. They couldn’t. You know what I mean.”

“You mean, I take it, that they could only have killed each other and
left their bodies where they were found, on the assumption that at
least one corpse was alive enough to walk about and commit a murder
and then quietly replace itself where it had been killed. It will, I
fear, be difficult to persuade even a coroner’s jury that such an
account of the circumstances is correct.”

“Of course it isn’t correct, sir; but you’ll admit that’s what it
looks like. It is quite possible for a man who has committed a murder
to be murdered himself as he leaves the scene of his crime; but it’s
stark, staring nonsense for the man whom he has killed to get up, as
if he were alive and well, and come after his murderer with a club. To
say nothing of laying himself out again neatly afterwards. No, that
won’t wash. Yet the evidence both ways is thoroughly good evidence.”

“We can agree, inspector, that these two men did not kill each other.
But it remains possible, even probable, on the evidence you have so
far secured, that one of them did kill the other, and was then himself
killed by some third person unknown, possibly a witness of the first
crime bent on exacting retribution. How does that strike you?” The
superintendent thrust his hands deep into his pockets and leant back
in his chair with a satisfied look, as if he had scored a point.

Inspector Blaikie’s face, however, hardly became less doleful. “Yes,
that’s possible,” he said; “but unfortunately there is absolutely
nothing to show which set of circumstantial clues ought to be accepted
and which discarded in that case. We do not know which of the two men
was killed first. When Brooklyn went to see Prinsep, did he murder him
then and there in the study, or did Prinsep decoy his visitor into the
garden by means of the note we have found, and there kill him? Either
theory fits some of the facts: neither fits them all. I don’t know
which to think, or which to work on as a basis. The evidence we have
probably points in the right direction in one of the cases, and in the
wrong direction in the other; but how are we to tell which is right
and which is wrong? There is nothing to lay hold of.”

“What about the medical evidence as to the time of death? Does that
throw any light on the case?”

“None whatever, unfortunately. In both instances the doctors agree
that death almost certainly took place at some time between 10.30 and
12 o’clock. But they say it is impossible to time the thing any more
accurately than that.”

“Come, that seems at least to narrow the field of inquiry. When were
each of these men last seen alive?”

The inspector referred to his notes. “John Prinsep was seen at 10.30
by the servant, Winter, who went to fetch his letters for the post. He
was seen in the garden at some time between 11 o’clock and 11.15 by
the caretaker at the Piccadilly Theatre, Jabez Smith, and also, I have
since ascertained, by a dresser named Laura Rose about the same time.
No one seems to have seen him later than about 11.15. His body was
found in his study this morning at ten minutes past eight by the maid,
Sarah Plenty, and seen immediately afterwards by the household
servants, William Winter and Peter Morgan.”

“And George Brooklyn?”

“He was seen at about a quarter to eleven by Winter and other
servants, when he called at Liskeard House and went up by himself to
John Prinsep’s room. He was seen again, by Winter and two other
servants, leaving the house at about 11.30. He did not go home to his
hotel, and neither his wife nor any one else I have been able to
discover saw him again. His body was discovered at 9.30 this morning
in the garden of Liskeard House by his cousin, Joan Cowper.”

“That certainly does not seem to help us very much. In the case of
Prinsep, he may have died any time after 11.19. Brooklyn was still
alive at 11.30.”

“Yes; but, if Brooklyn killed Prinsep, it seems he must have done so
between 11.15, when Prinsep was still alive, and 11.30, when Brooklyn
was seen leaving the house.”

“That does not follow at all. We know he came back after 11.30, since
he was found dead in the grounds. The first question is, How and when
did he come back?”

“I have made every possible inquiry about that. The front door was
bolted at about 11.45, and Winter is positive that he did not come in
again that way. There are two other ways into the garden. One is
through the coach-yard. That was locked and bolted about 11, and was
found untouched this morning. The other is through the theatre. Nobody
saw him, and the caretaker says he could not have gone through that
way without being seen. But it appears that the door from the theatre
into the garden was not locked until nearly midnight, and it is just
possible he may have slipped through that way. He seems to have been
seen in the theatre earlier in the evening—before his call at Liskeard
House at 10.45.”

“Was it a usual thing for Prinsep to walk about the garden at night?”

“Yes, they tell me that he often took a stroll there on fine nights
before going to bed.”

The superintendent rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I can only see one
thing for it,” he said. “We have no evidence to show which of these
men died first, and therefore, which, if either of them, killed the
other. You must follow up both sets of clues until you get further
evidence to show which is the right one. But remember that, even if
one murder can be accounted for in that way, there is still another
murderer somewhere at large—unless another unexpected corpse turns up
with clear evidence of having been murdered by one of the other two.”

The inspector laughed. “Well,” he said, “it all seems a bit of a
puzzle. It seems to me the next thing is to find out whether either of
them had any special reason for murdering the other. If you agree, I
shall work up the antecedents of the case, and do a little research
into the family history.”

“Yes, that’s probably the best we can do for the present. But spread
the net wide. Find out all you can about the whole family and the
servants—every one who is known to have been in the house last
night—every one who could have any reason for desiring the death of
either or both of the murdered men.”

“I suppose one of them must have murdered the other,” said the
inspector reflectively.

“I see no sufficient reason for thinking that,” replied his superior.
“It looks to me more like a very carefully planned affair, worked out
by some third party. But we mustn’t take anything for granted. Your
immediate job is certainly to follow up the clues you have found. Even
if they do not lead where we expect them to lead, they will probably
lead somewhere. A deliberately laid false clue is often just as useful
as an ordinary straightforward clue in the long run.”

“Oh, I’ll keep my eyes open,” said the inspector, “and as there is a
third party involved in any case, it’s worth remembering that he could
not easily have got into the house after midnight at the latest, and
I’m blest if I see how he could have got out of it and left all the
doors properly fastened unless he had an accomplice inside.”

“That is certainly a point. Every one who slept in the house is
certainly worth watching. What about the men-servants?”

“Only two—Morgan and Winter—sleep in the house. Morgan says he came
back about 11.30, after spending the evening with friends in
Hammersmith. He and Winter went up to their rooms together soon after.
Morgan’s room can only be reached through Winter’s. Winter says he lay
awake for some hours—he is a bad sleeper—and heard Morgan snoring in
the next room all the time. He did not go to sleep until after he had
heard two o’clock strike. He says he is a light sleeper, and Morgan
could not have passed through his room without waking him.”

“That seems to clear Morgan, if Winter is speaking the truth. What
about Winter himself? A good deal seems to turn on his testimony.”

“Winter is a very old servant. He has been in the family since he was
a boy. He doesn’t strike me as at all the kind of man to be mixed up
in an affair of this sort. Morgan is rather a sly fellow—much more the
sort of man one would be inclined to suspect.”

“You are probably right; but we must not let Winter off too easily.
Suppose it is true that one of these two men did kill the other. Isn’t
an old devoted family servant, if he saw the crime, just the man to
take his revenge? There have been many crimes with far less strong a
motive.”

“I will certainly have Winter watched, and Morgan too. But I’m not at
all hopeful. It’s too well planned to be a sudden crime, and I’m sure
Winter’s not the man for a high-class job of this sort.”

“Do the best you can, and keep me fully informed about the case. If I
have a brain-wave, I’ll let you know. At present I can’t see light any
more than you.”

With that unsatisfactory conclusion the two detectives parted.
Superintendent Wilson, left alone, walked quickly up and down the
room, chuckling to himself, and every now and then marking off a point
on his fingers, or pausing in his walk to examine one of the clues
which the inspector had left in his keeping. He appeared to find it a
fascinating case.



Chapter VI

A Pause for Reflection

When Inspector Blaikie got to his own room, he sat down with a sheet
of paper in front of him, and on it made out, from his notes, a list
of all the persons whom he knew to have been in the house the previous
night. It was a long list, and he made it out more to set his
subconscious mind free to work than with any idea that it would throw
a direct light on the problem. Having made his list, he began to write
down, after each name, exactly what was known about its owner’s doings
and movements on the night before. He left out nothing, however
unimportant it might seem; for he had fully mastered the first
principle of scientific detection—that detail generally gives the clue
to a crime, and that therefore every detail matters.

He began with those who seemed least likely to have had any hand in
the business. First there were the four maid-servants. They had gone
to bed before eleven. They slept two in a room, and there seemed no
reason to doubt that, as they said, they had all slept soundly. He did
not dismiss them from his mind, but he had nothing against them so
far.

Then there was the lady’s maid, Agnes Dutch. She had slept alone on
the first floor, in a little room next to that of Joan Cowper. She had
felt tired, she said, and had gone to bed at 10.30, after making sure
that Miss Joan would not want her again. She seemed a nice, quiet
girl, and, although she seemed very upset in the morning when the
inspector saw her, that was no more than was to be expected. There was
nothing against her either. Besides, Mary Woodman had not gone to bed
until after twelve, and she said that she was certain the girl was in
her room until then. She had been sitting in the big landing-lounge
reading, and both Joan’s and the maid’s doors opened on to the lounge.

What of Mary Woodman herself? She had been with Joan until about
eleven, and had then sat for an hour reading. No one had seen her
during that hour, or heard her go to bed afterwards. But Mary
notoriously got on with everybody and had not an enemy in the world.
Every one had told the inspector, without need of his asking the
question, that she was the very last person to have anything to do
with a murder. Besides, the whole thing was clearly a man’s job. The
inspector filed Mary Woodman in his mind for future reference; but he
felt quite sure that she knew nothing about the crimes.

Then, to finish the women, there was Joan Cowper. She had discovered
George Brooklyn’s body in the garden, and her manner after the
discovery seemed to be sign enough that it had come to her as a
horrifying surprise. Certainly, she had known nothing about George
Brooklyn’s death; but she might, for all that, be in a position to
throw some further light upon the crimes. He had asked her in the
garden how she had spent the previous evening; and she had answered
without hesitation. After seeing Sir Vernon to his room shortly after
ten, she had sat with Mary Woodman in the lounge until eleven o’clock,
and had then gone to bed. Her maid had come to her rather before
half-past ten and she had told her she would be needed no more that
night. Mary Woodman, who had sat on in the lounge, confirmed this, and
stated that Joan had not left her room before midnight. Certainly
there seemed to be nothing to connect Joan with the crimes. She was a
fine young lady, the inspector reflected. She had borne up
wonderfully.

Next there were the men, and it was among them that the criminal, if,
as Blaikie suspected, he was one of the intimate circle of Liskeard
House, would probably be found. Sir Vernon Brooklyn was clearly out of
it. He was a feeble old man whose hand could not possibly have struck
those savage blows. He was reported to be very fond of both his
nephews; and he had undoubtedly gone to bed at a quarter past ten. So
much for him. He might know things or suspect, but he could have had
no hand in the murders. At present, the inspector had been told, he
was prostrated by the news of Prinsep’s death, and his doctor had
forbidden any mention of the matter in his presence. He did not even
know yet that George Brooklyn was dead.

The only other men who had slept in the house were the two
servants—Winter and Morgan. Morgan seemed to be cleared of suspicion,
at least if Winter had told the truth. But might not Winter himself
have had a hand in the affair? The superintendent had dropped a
plausible hint, and there might be something in it. Inspector Blaikie
wrote it down as possible, but unlikely. Two other menservants, who
had waited at dinner, did not sleep in the house, and had left soon
after half-past eleven. They had been busy clearing up until the very
moment of their departure, and it seemed plain that they had enjoyed
neither time nor opportunity for any criminal proceeding. Besides,
they were strangers, imported for the evening from the restaurant
attached to the theatre. As robbery had evidently not been a motive in
either murder, there was the less reason to think seriously about
them. They could have had no motive.

Next, the inspector turned to a consideration of the guests who had
been at the dinner. These were, first, George Brooklyn and his wife.
About George he had already noted down all that he knew. What of Mrs.
George? Inquiries which the sergeant had made established that she had
gone straight back to her hotel—the Cunningham—soon after ten o’clock.
George had left her in the care of the Woodmans, parting from them at
the door of the theatre on plea of an appointment. Mrs. George—or, as
she was better known both to the inspector and to all London, Isabelle
Raven, the great tragedy actress—had then sat talking with Mrs.
Woodman in the sitting-room which they shared at the hotel until
“after eleven,” when she had gone to bed, expecting that her husband
might come in at any moment. She had gone to sleep and had only
discovered his absence when she woke in the morning. She had been
worried, and after a hasty breakfast she had hurried across to
Liskeard House with Helen Woodman to make inquiries. There she had
been met with the fatal news. She was now lying ill in her room at the
Cunningham Hotel, with Mrs. Woodman in faithful attendance upon her.

This recital clearly brought up the question of the Woodmans, man and
wife. When they returned to the hotel with Mrs. George, Carter Woodman
had gone to one of the hotel waiting-rooms to write letters, leaving
the two women together. He said that he had remained at work till
11.45 or so, when he had gone down to the hall and asked the night
porter to see some important letters off by the first post in the
morning. This was corroborated by the night porter, who had so
informed the sergeant. Carter Woodman had then gone straight to bed—a
statement fully confirmed by his wife. This seemed fairly well to
dispose of any connection of either the Woodmans or Mrs. George with
the tragedy.

Harry Lucas? Sir Vernon’s old friend had left in his car for Hampstead
at ten minutes past ten after a few farewell words with Sir Vernon. He
had reached home soon after 10.30, and had gone straight to bed. This
had been already confirmed by police inquiries at Hampstead during the
morning.

Robert Ellery? He had left the house soon after ten, saying that he
intended to walk back to his room at Chelsea. The inspector had not
yet followed his trail; but he now made up his mind to do so, though
he had not much faith in the result. Still, here was at least a loose
end that needed tying.

When he had made his list and tabulated his information, Inspector
Blaikie did not feel that he had greatly advanced in his quest. Not
one of the people on the list seemed in the least likely either to
have committed the murders, or to have been even an accessory to them.
He began to feel that he had not yet got at all on the track of the
real criminal, or at least of the second one, if one of the two men
had really killed the other. Was it some one quite outside the circle
he had been studying, and, if so, how had that outsider got access to
the house? He might have slipped in without being noticed, but it did
not seem very likely, and it was far more difficult to see how he had
slipped out. But, after all, George Brooklyn had got back somehow
after 11.30, and, where he had come, so might another. Perhaps some
one had slipped in and out by way of the theatre.

So the inspector made up his mind to go over the whole scene again,
and, above all, to find out more about the persons with whom he had to
deal—their histories and still more their present ways of life: their
loves and, above all, their animosities, if they had any. There, he
felt, the clue to the mystery was most likely to be found.

Accordingly, on the following morning—the second after the
tragedy—Inspector Blaikie presented himself early at the office of
Carter Woodman and sent up his card. Sir Vernon was still far too ill
to be consulted, and the next thing seemed to be a visit to his
lawyer, who, being both confidential adviser and a close relative,
would be certain to know most of what there was to be known about the
circumstances surrounding the dead men. Woodman had offered all
possible assistance, and had himself suggested a call at his office.

The inspector presented his card to an elderly clerk who was presiding
in the outer office, and was at once shown in to the principal. Again
he was struck, as he had been on the morning before, with the lawyer’s
overflowing vitality. At rather over forty-six, Woodman still looked
very much the athlete he had been in his younger days, when he had
accumulated three Blues at Oxford, and represented England at Rugby
football on more than one occasion. He had given up “childish things,”
he used to say; but the abundant vigour of the man remained, and stood
out strongly against the rather dingy background which successful
solicitors seem to regard as an indispensable mark of respectability.
Carter Woodman, the inspector knew, had a big practice, and one of
good standing. He did all the legal work of the Brooklyn Corporation,
and he was perhaps the best known expert on theatrical law in the
country.

Woodman greeted the inspector cordially, and shook his hand with a
force that made it tingle for some minutes afterwards.

“Well, inspector,” he said, “what progress? Have you got your eye on
the scoundrels yet?”

The inspector shook his head. “We are still only at the beginning of
the case, I am afraid. I have come here to take advantage of your
offer to give me all the help you can.”

“Of course I will. It is indispensable that the terrible business
should be thoroughly cleared up. For one thing, I am very much afraid
for Sir Vernon; and there certainly would be more chance of his
getting over it if we knew exactly what the truth is. Uncertainty is a
killing business. He has not been told yet about Mr. George Brooklyn’s
death.”

“You will understand that, as it is impossible for me to see Sir
Vernon, I shall have to ask you to tell me all you can about any of
the family affairs that may have a bearing on the tragedy. As matters
stand it is most important that I should know as much as possible
about the circumstances of the two dead men. To establish the possible
motives for both crimes may be of the greatest value. There is so
little to go upon in the facts themselves that I have to look for
evidence from outside the immediate events.”

“Am I to understand that you have no further light on the crime beyond
what you gained when the bodies were found?”

“Hardly that, Mr. Woodman. I have at least had time to think things
over, and to conduct a few additional investigations. But I shall know
better what to make of these when I have asked you a few questions.”

“Ask away; but I shall probably be able to answer more to your
satisfaction if you tell me how matters stand. I think I may say that
I know thoroughly both Sir Vernon’s and the late Mr. Prinsep’s
affairs.”

“Well, you know, Mr. Woodman, the _prima facie_ evidence in both cases
seemed to point to a quite impossible conclusion. In each case, what
evidence there was went to show that the two men had murdered each
other. This could not be true of both; but we have so far no evidence
to show whether it ought to be disbelieved in both cases, or only in
one. That is where further particulars may prove so important.”

“I will tell you all I can.”

“Let us begin with Mr. Prinsep. Was he in any trouble that you know
of?”

The lawyer hesitated. “Well,” he said at length, “it is a private
matter, and I am sure it can have no bearing on the case. But you had
better have all the facts. There had been some trouble—about a woman,
a girl who is acting in a small part at the Piccadilly Theatre.”

“Her name?”

“Charis Lang. Prinsep had been, well, I believe somewhat intimate with
her, and she had formed the opinion that he had promised to marry her.
He came to see me about it. He denied that he had made any such
promise, and said he was anxious to get the matter honourably settled.
I wrote to the woman and asked her to meet me; but she refused—said it
was not a lawyer’s business, but entirely a private question between
her and Mr. Prinsep. I showed him her letter, and he was very much
worried. He informed me that Mrs. George Brooklyn—she used to be
leading lady at the Piccadilly—had known the girl in her professional
days, and I approached her and told her a part of the story. She took,
I must say, the girl’s side, and said she was sure a promise of
marriage had been made. She wanted to take the matter up; but George
Brooklyn objected to his wife being mixed up in it, and undertook to
see Miss Lang himself. He was to have done so two nights ago—the night
of the murders—and then to have gone back to tell Prinsep what had
happened. I have no means of knowing whether he actually did so.”

“This is very important. Can you give me Miss Lang’s address?”

“I have it here. Somewhere in Hammersmith. Yes, 3 Algernon Terrace.
But she is at the theatre every evening, and you could probably find
her there.”

“I must certainly arrange to see her. Can you tell me anything further
about the young woman? For instance, is she—well—respectable?”

“I have told you all I know. Mrs. George might know more.”

“Thank you. Now, is there anything else you know about Mr. Prinsep
that might have a bearing on his death?”

“Nothing.”

“Had he any financial troubles?”

“None, I am sure. He had a large salary from the Brooklyn Trust,
besides a considerable personal income, and he always lived well
within his means.”

“Had he any enemies?”

Again the lawyer paused before answering. Finally, “No,” he replied,
“no _enemies_.”

The inspector took the cue.

“But there were some people you know of with whom he was not on the
best of terms?” he asked.

“I think I may say ‘yes’ to that. He had a temper, and there had been
violent disputes on several occasions with Mr. Walter Brooklyn—Sir
Vernon’s brother.”

“One moment. Was he on good terms with Mr. George Brooklyn?”

Again a pause. “No, I can’t say he was—but they were not enemies.
George thought he had behaved badly to Charis Lang, and said so. Also,
George was strongly against Prinsep’s marrying Miss Joan Cowper, which
Sir Vernon had set his heart on.”

And then, in question and answer, the whole episode at the dinner, the
announcement of Sir Vernon’s will, and Joan’s dramatic refusal to
marry Prinsep, gradually came out. The inspector felt that now at last
he was learning things.

“Did Miss Cowper know about Miss Lang?”

“Not that I am aware of. But I can’t be sure. Mrs. George may have
told her.”

“And what would you say were the relations between Miss Cowper and Mr.
Prinsep?”

“He was half in love with her—in a sort of a way. At any rate he
certainly wanted to marry her. She was most certainly not in love with
him. I don’t think she had any strong feeling against him; but it is
impossible to be sure. She would have done almost anything rather than
marry him, I am certain.”

“Had Miss Cowper, so far as you know, any other attachment?”

“That is a difficult question. She is very thick with Robert Ellery,
the young playwright, you know; but whether she is in love with him is
more than I can tell you. He is obviously in love with her. It was the
common talk, and everybody, knew about it except Sir Vernon.”

“This Mr. Ellery—can you tell me anything about him? He was at the
dinner, was he not?”

“Yes, he’s a ward of old Mr. Lucas, one of Sir Vernon’s oldest
friends. A good deal about with Joan, and a frequent visitor at Sir
Vernon’s country place. A nice enough fellow, so far as I have seen.”

“Was he on good terms with Mr. Prinsep?”

“Prinsep did not like his going about with Joan, I think. Otherwise,
they seemed to get on all right.”

“Now, Mr. Woodman, I want to ask you a somewhat difficult question. I
should, of course, ask Sir Vernon himself, if he were well enough. You
know, presumably, the terms of Sir Vernon’s will. Do you feel at
liberty to tell me about its contents? They might throw some light on
the question of motive.”

The lawyer thought a moment. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you the
whole thing—in confidence,” he said. “Sir Vernon told them all that
night what was in his will, and you certainly ought to know about it.
The greater part of his property was to be divided at his death
between his two nephews, who have now unhappily predeceased him.”

“Yes, and in the event of the death of either or both of the nephews,
what was to happen?”

“If Mr. George Brooklyn died, half of his share was to go to Mrs.
George and half to Prinsep. If Prinsep died, half of his share was to
go to Miss Joan Cowper. Sir Vernon explained that his arrangements
were based on her marrying Prinsep.”

“Then, under the will, Miss Cowper now gets half Mr. Prinsep’s share.
Does she get half Mr. George’s share also?”

“No, a part of it goes to Mrs. George, and the remainder in both cases
to the next of kin.”

“I see. And who is the next of kin.”

“Joan’s step-father, Mr. Walter Brooklyn.”

“Ah! I think you mentioned that Mr. Walter Brooklyn was on bad terms
with Mr. Prinsep.”

“Walter Brooklyn was on bad terms with most people who knew him. His
step-daughter left him after her mother’s death, and came to live with
Sir Vernon. I am afraid Walter Brooklyn is not a very likeable
person.”

“On what terms was he with Sir Vernon?”

“He was always trying to get money from him. He had ran through one
big fortune, his wife’s—including all the money left in trust for Miss
Cowper. He leads a fairly expensive life in town, supported, I
understand, partly by his bridge earnings and partly on what he can
raise from his friends.”

“Did Sir Vernon give him money?”

“Yes, far more than I thought desirable. But Sir Vernon had a very
strong sense of family solidarity. Latterly, however, Walter
Brooklyn’s demands had become so exorbitant that Sir Vernon had been
refusing to see him, and had handed the matter over to Prinsep, whom
Walter was finding a much more difficult man to deal with.”

“Do you know whether Prinsep had been seeing Mr. Walter Brooklyn
lately?”

“Yes; I know he saw him the day before the murder. Walter was always
after money. He’ll probably begin sponging on Miss Cowper in a day or
two.”

“You certainly do not give Mr. Walter Brooklyn a good character.”

“No; but I think every one you ask will confirm my estimate.”

“I will look into that. Now, are there any other particulars in the
will I ought to know about? I should like to know approximately what
Sir Vernon is worth.”

“Not far short of a million.”

“You don’t say so. Then any one interested in his will had a great
deal at stake. Are any others interested besides those you have
mentioned?”

“There are a number of smaller legacies. Miss Cowper was left £40,000.
My sister, Miss Mary Woodman, and I are left £20,000 each. The rest
are quite small legacies.”

“I think that is almost all I need ask you. But is there any other
particular you think might help me in my inquiry?”

“As to that, I cannot say; but there are two points I have been
intending to mention. The first is that I know Mr. Walter Brooklyn
called at Liskeard House a few minutes after ten on the night of the
murder. My wife and I saw him go up to the porch and ring the bell
just after we had come out of the house.”

“This is very important. Do you know anything more?”

“No, it was merely a chance that I noticed him and pointed him out to
my wife. Mr. and Mrs. George may also have seen him. They were with
us. He went into the hall. That is all I can tell you.”

“Where did you go when you left the house?”

“Straight back to the hotel where I was staying. I did not go out
again that night. I heard nothing about the tragedy till they rang me
up about it at my office the next morning.”

“Who rang you up?”

“One of the servants at Liskeard House. I do not know which it was.”

“And what was the other point you wished to mention?”

“Only that I know Mr. Walter Brooklyn was in exceptional financial
difficulties, and had been trying in vain to raise a loan. This has
happened very opportunely for him.”

“But, of course, Sir Vernon may alter his will.”

“If he recovers enough to do so, he may. But I doubt if he will. He
always told me that he could not bear the thought of leaving money out
of the family. And much as he disapproves of Walter Brooklyn, he is
still attached to him.”

“H’m. Well, thank you very much, Mr. Woodman. What you have told me
has been very helpful. Perhaps I will call again and tell you what
success I meet with in following it up. I may, of course, have more to
ask you later.”

The inspector rose and Woodman gave him his hand. He went out of the
office with his hand tingling.

“Certainly a man who impresses himself upon one,” said he, laughing
softly to himself. “And what he had to say was most enlightening.”



Chapter VII

The Case Against Walter Brooklyn

Inspector Blaikie left Carter Woodman’s office with the feeling that a
new and unexpected light had been thrown on the tragedy, and that he
had at least found a quite sufficient motive for both crimes. If
Walter Brooklyn had committed the murders, he stood to gain directly a
considerable slice of Sir Vernon’s huge fortune. Moreover, a
considerable slice of the remainder would go to his step-daughter,
Joan Cowper, and he might hope to despoil her again, as he had
despoiled her of her mother’s money. Evidence against Mr. Walter
Brooklyn might be lacking; but certainly there was no lack of motive.
Moreover, the man seemed, from Woodman’s description, quite a likely
murderer. The inspector decided that his next job was undoubtedly to
discover whether there was any direct evidence against Walter
Brooklyn.

To begin with, he said to himself, what had he to go upon? Of direct
evidence, not a shred; but where the direct evidence pointed obviously
in the wrong direction, it was necessary to consider very seriously
the question of motive. Walter Brooklyn, he reflected, would not stand
to inherit Sir Vernon’s money unless both nephews were cleared out of
the way. He had, therefore, a motive for both murders together, but
not for either of them except in conjunction with the other. This
seemed to point to the conclusion that, if Walter Brooklyn had
committed either of the murders he had committed both. On the other
hand, it still remained possible that one of the two men had killed
the other, and that Walter Brooklyn, knowing this and realising his
opportunity, had then disposed of the survivor. Or, after all, the
indications might again be as deceptive as those which followed hard
upon the discovery of the murders.

What Woodman had told the inspector provided, however, at least one
clear line of investigation which could be followed up immediately. If
Woodman and other people had seen Walter Brooklyn approaching Liskeard
House and ringing the front-door bell soon after ten o’clock on the
night of the murders, it ought not to be difficult to get further
information about his movements. Had he been admitted to the house;
and if so, when had he left, and why had no mention of his visit
previously been made to the inspector? The best thing was to call at
Liskeard House at once and make inquiries. Inspector Blaikie set off
immediately.

The bell was answered by a maid-servant, and the inspector asked for a
few words with Mr. Winter. He was shown into a small side-room, and
within a minute Winter joined him. The inspector plunged at once into
business.

“Since I have left you there have been certain developments which make
it desirable that I should ask you one or two questions. I want to
know whether, on Tuesday night, any one called at the house during the
evening?”

“Well, sir, of course, there were the guests at dinner that night. You
have their names.”

“Did any one else call—later in the evening, for example?”

“Yes, there was Mr. George. As I told you, he came at about a quarter
or ten minutes to eleven, and left at about 11.30.”

“Did anybody else visit the house that night?”

“No—there was no one else.”

“Now, I want you to be very careful. Are you positive that no one else
called?”

“Yes—I mean, no. I had quite forgotten. At a few minutes after ten Mr.
Walter Brooklyn—Sir Vernon’s brother—came. He sent up his name to Sir
Vernon, and asked him to see him at once. He said it was about
something important.”

“Did Sir Vernon see him?”

“No. He sent down word by one of the temporary men-servants he
couldn’t see him. He told him to see Mr. Prinsep or to write.”

“Then, did Mr. Walter Brooklyn go up to see Mr. Prinsep?”

“No. He seemed mighty annoyed, he did. Said to me things were coming
to a pretty pass when a man wouldn’t see his own brother. Then he took
himself out of the house in a rage, and I shut the door after him.”

“Did you see anything more of him?”

“No, that’s the last I saw. He didn’t come back; for I was on duty
here till the place was bolted up for the night.”

“Did Mr. Walter Brooklyn often come to the house?”

“Well, he’d been a number of times lately to see Mr. Prinsep.”

“Had he been to see Sir Vernon?”

“No. You see, Sir Vernon’s been away in the country for some time.”

“But when he was in London, did Mr. Walter Brooklyn come to see him?”

“He used to. Then I believe there was a bit of a quarrel. Last time he
was in London Sir Vernon told me he would not see Mr. Walter, and I
was to tell him to see Mr. Prinsep if he came. I sent up on Tuesday
because I didn’t know if the instructions still held.”

“Then there had been a quarrel?”

“Hardly what you would call a quarrel. What we understood was that Mr.
Walter wanted money, and Sir Vernon wouldn’t give it him.”

“Did any one else see Mr. Walter Brooklyn on Tuesday?”

“Yes, the maid—Janet—must have seen him.”

The inspector sent for Janet, who confirmed what Winter had said. It
seemed plain enough that Walter Brooklyn had called at about ten
minutes past ten, had been refused an interview with Sir Vernon, and
had left a few minutes later. Thereafter, no one about the house had
seen any more of him.

Before he left the inspector obtained from Winter Mr. Walter
Brooklyn’s address. He lived at his club, the Byron—named after the
playwright, not the poet—only a few steps down Piccadilly. The
inspector made that his next place of call.

The club porter, with the aid of the night porter, gave him the
information he needed. Walter Brooklyn had dined in the club on
Tuesday, had gone out at about ten o’clock and had returned just about
midnight. The night porter had noticed nothing unusual about him when
he came back. It was about his usual hour. He had gone straight
upstairs, the man believed—probably to his room, but the porter could
not say.

So far there was nothing very much to go upon. Walter Brooklyn might
have committed the murders—he had certainly been out until midnight.
But this was nothing unusual, and there was no evidence that he had
been in the house. What evidence there was seemed to show that he had
not.

But Inspector Blaikie still lingered in talk with the two porters,
asking further questions which produced quite unilluminating answers.
Soon they found a common interest in the cricket news, and plunged
into a discussion of the respective chances of Surrey and Middlesex
for the County Championship. The night porter, who was a
north-countryman and a partisan of Yorkshire, cut in every now and
then with a sarcastic comment. He was especially scornful of the day
porter’s pride in the number of amateurs included in the Middlesex
eleven. “Call them gentlemen,” he said. “They get paid, same as the
players, only they put it down as expenses.”

But at this point the argument broke off; for the day porter suddenly
changed the subject.

“Let me have a look at that stick, will you?” he said to the
inspector.

Inspector Blaikie, who had been twirling the stick about rather
obtrusively, at once handed it over. It was the stick found in
Prinsep’s room, and he was carrying it about with him solely with the
hope that some one might recognise it, and enable him to discover to
whom it had belonged. It was a peculiar stick, and likely to be
noticed by those who saw it. The shaft was of rhinoceros horn, linked
together with bands of gold; and it had a solid gold handle.

“What do you make of it?” the inspector asked.

“I was going to ask you how you got hold of it,” answered the porter.

“Why do you ask?”

“Only because it is surely Mr. Walter Brooklyn’s stick. I have often
seen him carrying it.”

“Take a good look. Are you quite certain it is his?”

“Either it is, or it’s one just the same. It’s a most unusual pattern,
too.”

“Yes, rhinoceros horn, I should say. Could you swear to it?”

“Hardly that. There might be two of them. But I’ve not seen Mr.
Brooklyn with his for a day or two.”

“Try to remember—was he carrying this stick when he went out on
Tuesday?”

The porter paused a minute. “Yes, I think he was,” he said. “But, no,
you mean in the evening. You’ll have to ask the night porter here
that. He was on duty from nine o’clock.”

The inspector turned to the night porter. “Do you recognise this as
Mr. Brooklyn’s stick?”

“Yes, I’m pretty sure it’s his.”

“And do you remember whether he was carrying it on Tuesday night when
he went out?”

The man hesitated some time before replying. Finally, “No,” he said,
“I can’t say. Maybe he was—I rather think he was. But I’m not sure.”

“And when he came in?”

“He had a stick, I remember. He rapped at the door with it. I expect
it was this one. No, I don’t think it was. It was a plain stick, I’m
almost sure.”

“Remember that this may be of the utmost importance. You can’t
remember whether or not Mr. Brooklyn had a stick when he went out?”

“Not for sure. I think he had.”

“But you can’t say whether it was this stick?”

“No, not for certain.”

“And when he came in?”

“He had a stick; but I’m almost sure it wasn’t this one.”

“Would any one else be likely to know?”

“I don’t think so. There was no one else about.”

At this point the day porter struck in. “I wonder why you’re so
curious about that stick,” he said.

“That, I am afraid, is my business,” said the inspector. “Now, can you
tell me where Mr. Brooklyn usually goes of a night?”

“Sometimes to a theatre or variety show. But most often he goes to
play bridge at his other club.”

“Where is that?”

“It’s a small place—the Sanctum, in Pall Mall. Only a few minutes from
here.”

After a few words more the inspector took his leave _en route_ for
Duke Street. The stick he held in his hand had become a clue of the
first importance. Its presence in Prinsep’s study seemed to show that
its owner had been there on the fatal night. More and more Walter
Brooklyn was becoming involved. But how had he got in? That was the
mystery still.

At the Sanctum, Inspector Blaikie at first drew a blank—a blank which
he had expected. Walter Brooklyn had not been to the club on Tuesday.
Nothing had been seen of him since the previous Saturday night.

“So you’ve heard nothing of him this week?” said the inspector,
preparing to take his leave.

“Beg pardon, sir,” replied the porter. “It had almost slipped my
memory. Mr. Walter Brooklyn rang up one night this week on the
telephone. I have a note of the call somewhere.”

“What was it about?”

“He asked if a registered parcel had come for him, because if it had
he wanted it sent round to him at once by hand.”

“Sent to his other club?”

“No. He wanted it sent to Sir Vernon Brooklyn’s, Liskeard House,
Piccadilly. He gave us the name and address over the ’phone.”

“Did you send the parcel?”

“No. Because we told him no parcel had come.”

“Has it arrived since?”

“No.”

“When was this call you mention?”

The porter referred to his book. “It was about 11.30, or a bit before.
The call before was at 11.20.”

“On what day?”

“On Tuesday of this week.”

“The night of the murder,” thought the inspector. “And did Mr.
Brooklyn say where he was speaking from?”

“Yes, he was at Liskeard House, where he wanted the parcel sent.”

So Walter Brooklyn, who had apparently failed to secure admittance to
the house just before 10.15, had somehow got into it afterwards, and
was there at 11.30. He, like George Brooklyn, had slipped into the
house unseen. That fact, with the fact of the stick, seemed to the
inspector to determine his guilt, or at least his complicity in the
crimes, or one of them. The stick and the telephone message, taken
together, proved that he had been in Prinsep’s room.

The inspector next produced the stick. The porter recognised it at
once as the one Walter Brooklyn always carried. He had never seen him
with another. He was more sure than the porters at the Byron. He was
prepared to swear to the stick. “But,” he added, “you’ve gone and lost
the ferrule.”

The inspector had noticed that there was no ferrule; but it had not
seemed important. It might have dropped off anywhere. He therefore
followed up a different line.

“When did you see this stick last?”

“On Saturday, when Mr. Brooklyn was here, he was showing off a
billiard stroke with it out there in the hall. It had a ferrule then,
all right. I happened to notice it.”

No further information was forthcoming, and the inspector passed on to
his next business. He went straight back to Liskeard House, and up to
Prinsep’s study. Exhaustive search there failed to reveal any trace of
the missing ferrule.

“I may as well try the garden,” said the inspector to himself. “But
it’s almost too good to be true.”

Nevertheless, there in the garden the inspector lighted on the
ferrule, lying in a heap of gravel near the base of the statue. He
cursed himself for missing it before, and then blessed his luck that
had enabled him to retrieve the blunder. There could be no doubt that
it was the right ferrule. The stick was an outsize and it fitted
exactly. The nail-marks and the impression left by the rim on the
stick coincided exactly. The ferrule was a little out of shape, as if
it had been wrenched, and there was a scratch on it where it was bent.
But, when the inspector had bent it back into shape, there could be no
doubt about the fit. Walter Brooklyn had been in the garden as well as
in Prinsep’s study, and had been on the very spot where the murder of
George Brooklyn had taken place. Inspector Blaikie was more than
satisfied with his day’s work. Out of seemingly insignificant
beginnings, he had built up, he felt, more than enough evidence to
hang Walter Brooklyn. He went in the best of spirits to report to his
superior officer.



Chapter VIII

A Review of the Case

The inspector found Superintendent Wilson in his room. As he told his
case, the superintendent kept his eyes closed, but every now and then
he gave an approving nod. His subordinate had done well, and it was
only right that this should be recognised. The inspector’s spirits
rose higher still as he saw the impression he was making.

Having told the full story, he came to the point on which he wanted
his superior’s assent.

“And now, sir, I think, as we have abundant evidence, I must ask you
to get a warrant made out at once for Walter Brooklyn’s arrest.”

It was then the inspector received his first check.

“Not quite so fast, my friend,” said the superintendent. “Do you mean
that, in your opinion, it is proved that Walter Brooklyn committed
these murders?”

“Surely,” said Inspector Blaikie, “after what I’ve just told you,
there can’t be the shadow of a doubt about it.”

Superintendent Wilson gave a short laugh, and sat upright in his
chair. He was beginning to enjoy himself.

“Ah, but I think there can. Come now. Let us take first only the
murder of John Prinsep, leaving out of account for the moment the
murder of George Brooklyn. Now, what evidence have you as to the
murder of John Prinsep?”

“First, that Walter Brooklyn’s walking-stick has been found in his
room, and secondly that Walter Brooklyn rang up from Liskeard House at
about 11.30 that night. He must have rung up from Prinsep’s room.
There are only two telephones in the building, one in the porter’s
room downstairs, connecting with the offices on the ground floor, and
the other, on a separate line, in Prinsep’s room. He couldn’t have
used the downstairs ’phone, because it was out of order that night.
Winter told me that.”

“Assume that you are right. Still, there is at least as strong
evidence that George Brooklyn was in the room that night, too.
Remember his handkerchief you picked up, and the draughtsman’s knife.
And in any case he was seen leaving the house at 11.30, and we know
from the discovery of his body in the grounds that he came back
afterwards.”

“Yes, I know that,” said the inspector.

“And do you mean to tell me that, in face of that evidence, you can
prove to a jury that it was Walter, and not George Brooklyn, who
killed Prinsep?”

“Perhaps not, if the case were taken alone. But it has to be
considered together with the other—the murder of George Brooklyn. The
double incrimination seems to me decisive.”

“Wait a bit. Next let us take George Brooklyn’s case, leaving aside
for the moment that of Prinsep. Now, there, what evidence have you?”

“The finding of the ferrule in the garden, and the strong motive
Walter Brooklyn had to put _both_ nephews of Sir Vernon out of the
way.”

“Motive by itself, however strong, is not enough; and the ferrule
evidence is rather slender. It may have been dropped previously.”

“Walter Brooklyn had not been to Liskeard House for more than a week
before the murder, and the ferrule was on his stick only three days
before.”

“I allow you that point. But, even if his stick was in the garden, it
does not follow that he was there. He may have lost it earlier.
Prinsep may have had it for all we know. Moreover, what of the
evidence which seems to show that Prinsep murdered George Brooklyn? He
was seen in the garden just before eleven o’clock. The cigar-holder
which he habitually used, and had been using that very evening, was
found broken on the spot where the murder was done. Moreover, I have
in my possession now a far more decisive piece of evidence. You told
me that you were sure the finger-prints on the stone club found in the
garden were those of Prinsep. You were perfectly correct. The
Finger-Print Department has compared them with the impressions of John
Prinsep’s hands, and these coincide beyond a doubt with the marks left
on the stone. You have not yet seen the reproductions, inspector. Here
they are.”

The superintendent took some papers and photographs from a drawer, and
handed them across the table to the inspector, who pored over them for
some time without speaking. Finally, he said, with something of a
sigh,—

“There can be no doubt they are the same. And, as you say, this throws
a quite new light on one of the murders. It seems to prove that George
Brooklyn was killed by Prinsep.”

“I do not regard it as proof positive: but it is certainly very strong
evidence, especially as the marks on the club are just where a man
would take hold in order to deal a smashing blow. The murderer used
both hands, you notice. The prints are quite distinct for both the
thumbs.”

“Yes, that is clear enough, although none of the impressions is quite
complete. Somehow a part of the marks had got rubbed off before the
club was properly examined.”

“These accidents will happen. It is only fortunate that the marks were
not destroyed beyond hope of identification. Perhaps you yourself,
inspector, or one of your subordinates, handled the club carelessly.
Or perhaps some one else handled it before you came on the scene.”

“No. I was most careful, and no one touched it after I appeared except
myself. The sergeant did not allow it to be touched at all until I
arrived. Miss Cowper, who first discovered the body, told me she had
not even noticed the weapon, much less handled it. She was too upset
to notice anything except the body.”

“Well, I suppose it does not greatly matter, as the identification of
the prints is still quite clear. There remains, of course, the bare
possibility that, while Prinsep did handle the club, he did not
actually kill George Brooklyn. But it is certain that the club was the
weapon used. The fragments of hair clotted with blood which are still
on it came quite definitely from the head of the deceased. The only
doubt in my mind is whether Prinsep was a powerful enough man to
strike such a blow. But I suppose we must take it that he was. It was
a terrific blow, I understand from the medical evidence.”

“Yes, but a man not unusually strong can, by using his opportunities,
get in a very big blow. I do not think there is much in that.”

“Quite so. Then I take it you agree that, in face of the evidence, it
would be quite impossible to arrest Walter Brooklyn on the charge of
having murdered George Brooklyn?”

The inspector sighed. “Yes,” he said, “you are right. I thought the
case was getting straightened out, but it now seems darker than ever.”
Then a thought came into the inspector’s mind; and his expression
brightened. “But,” he went on, “if Prinsep murdered George Brooklyn,
that makes it certain that George Brooklyn cannot have murdered him.
It means that the evidence against Walter Brooklyn holds so far as the
murder of Prinsep is concerned.”

“I think you are forgetting a difficulty. Prinsep was last seen in the
garden shortly after eleven. But George Brooklyn was seen leaving the
house at 11.30. After that, he must somehow have come back, got into
the garden, and been murdered. That would take some time.”

The inspector nodded.

“But Walter Brooklyn, who rang up his club from Prinsep’s rooms at
11.30, was back at his club before midnight. That leaves very little
time. If the theory you advance is true, how do you fit in the times?
George Brooklyn could hardly have got back into the garden and got
himself killed, before a quarter to twelve. It would take Walter
Brooklyn five minutes to get out of the house and back to his club.
That leaves less than ten minutes for Prinsep to go up to his room and
for Walter Brooklyn to murder him.”

“That sequence of time is difficult; but it is not impossible. Crime
is usually a pretty rapid business. Probably Walter and George came
back into the garden together, and the two murders followed in rapid
succession. Prinsep killed George, and he and Walter went upstairs
together. Then Walter killed him while they were discussing his
affairs. You remember the papers I found lying on the table?”

“Perhaps, but that seems to me exceptionally quick work—so quick that
my instinct is to doubt whether it is the right explanation. After
all, there is no direct evidence that Walter Brooklyn did murder
Prinsep.”

“Surely the walking-stick and the telephone message together are very
strong evidence?”

“Not strong enough, I am certain, to obtain a conviction. The
telephone message was sent some time before George Brooklyn was
killed. And don’t forget that, a moment ago, you thought your evidence
that Walter Brooklyn had murdered George Brooklyn equally strong. Yet
already you are practically convinced that he did not.”

“I am still convinced that he was there when the murder took place in
the garden.”

“Ah, that is another matter. He may have been present at both murders,
and yet committed neither.”

“I see now what you are driving at. You mean that there may be a
fourth man involved?”

“That may be so; but I was not quite sure on that point. What the
evidence seems to me to establish beyond reasonable doubt is that some
meeting of the three men—Prinsep and George and Walter Brooklyn—took
place at Liskeard House that night. That meeting was followed
by—probably resulted in—the death of two of the three. There may have
been others present. That is for you to find out. But I am clear that
the next step is to discover what this meeting was about, and who was
there. If we knew that, it would probably throw a new light on the
whole situation.”

“In the circumstances, there is still, it seems to me, every reason
for arresting Walter Brooklyn. He was certainly present, whether he
committed murder or not.”

“I think it will be best to leave him at large for the time being. We
have, I think, ample evidence of his presence in the house, but not of
his having had a guilty hand in the murders. I think, instead of
arresting him, it will be far better for you to see him, and find out
all you can about what happened that night.”

“Very well. I will try to see him at once. Ought I to warn him that
what he says may be used against him?”

“I must leave that to your judgment. And now, inspector, I fancy you
are a bit discouraged by the result of our talk. You came here with
your mind made up, and you have found that the case is not so
straightforward as it was beginning to appear. But that is no reason
at all for being discouraged. The evidence you have gathered is of the
greatest value. It has enabled us to put our hand on some one who, we
are practically sure, knows all about the murders, whether or not he
actually committed one of them. Once again, let me congratulate you on
a very fine day’s work.”

The inspector was only in part reassured by Superintendent Wilson’s
conclusion. He had been watching his superior intently, and had
noticed the keen critical joy with which he had demolished the
apparently overwhelming case against Walter Brooklyn. The inspector
had been compelled to admit, even to himself, the force of his
superior’s arguments; but, when he left the room, he remained, somehow
in spite of this, convinced that Walter Brooklyn was not merely an
accessory, but the actual murderer of one, if not of both men, and
with a strong suspicion that the apparently conclusive evidence that
Prinsep had killed George Brooklyn had a flaw in it somewhere, if only
he could find it.

But he could not attend to his instincts for the moment. His next
business was to see Walter Brooklyn, and find out from him all he
could. At the least, Walter must know a great deal. Most probably he
knew the whole story. But how much would he tell?



Chapter IX

Walter Brooklyn’s Explanation

Inspector Blaikie made a hasty meal, and then set off for Walter
Brooklyn’s club. He found Mr. Brooklyn there, and was soon alone with
him in a private room. Before the inspector could even introduce
himself and state his business, he found the offensive turned against
himself. He had thought over the interview carefully beforehand, and
had made up his mind that, whatever his private opinion might be, it
was his duty to hear, without prejudice, whatever Walter Brooklyn had
to say, and to put aside for the moment all suspicions, resting only
on the undoubted fact that the man had been present in the house that
night. He might be able to explain his presence, or he might not. The
interview would show. Till the chance had been given, the inspector
was determined to keep an open mind.

But the conversation did not begin at all as he had anticipated. As he
got out the first few words about the purpose for which he had asked
for an interview, Walter Brooklyn struck in abruptly.

“See here, inspector, I fail to see that it is any of your business to
come nosing about in my affairs. I find you have been asking the
porter downstairs a whole lot of questions. From your manner, the
fellow has jumped to the conclusion that you suspect me of having had
a hand in these murders. You’ve set all the servants simmering, and by
now it’s all round the club that I murdered my nephew or something
like it. I tell you I’m damned if I’ll stand it. Blast your impudence.
Since you have come here, I think you owe me an explanation.”

Walter Brooklyn’s manner seemed to the inspector quite extraordinarily
violent. But he noticed something else while Brooklyn was speaking—the
man’s amazing physical strength. He could not be less than sixty; but
as he stood there, in a half-threatening attitude—with difficulty, it
seemed, holding himself in—Inspector Blaikie could not help thinking
that here was the very figure of a man to have struck the blows on
both the dead men’s skulls. Here, moreover, was a man, obviously
passionate and lacking in self-control—just the sort of person to
resort to violence if his will were crossed. The inspector’s open mind
was rapidly closing up before Brooklyn had finished his first speech.
Nevertheless, he answered quietly enough,—

“I am sorry, Mr. Brooklyn, if any of my inquiries have caused you
inconvenience. But you must understand that it is my duty to
investigate these murders, and to ask any questions that may be
necessary for that purpose. You apparently know——”

But here again Walter Brooklyn struck in.

“Necessary inquiries, of course,” he said. “But what I want to know is
what you mean by coming round here and practically telling my club
servants that I have committed murder. Necessary inquiries, indeed!”

“If you know, Mr. Brooklyn, what was the matter of my conversation
with the club servants, you can hardly fail to realise why the
inquiries were necessary.”

“Most certainly I fail to see it. These murders have nothing to do
with me.”

“That may be; but even so it is necessary to establish that fact. You
know, I suppose, that your walking-stick was found in Mr. Prinsep’s
room the morning after the murder. I want you to tell me how it got
there.”

“I dare say you say you found it there. I know that, if it was there,
it was not I who put it there. I don’t believe it was there at all. I
lost it last Tuesday afternoon.”

“And where did you lose it, may I ask?”

“If I knew that, my man, I should have been after it soon enough. I
must have left it somewhere. Not that it’s any business of yours what
I did with it.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Brooklyn. You will admit that the fact that it was
found in Mr. Prinsep’s room calls for some explanation. If you do not
know where you left it, I shall have to do my best to find out. May I
ask where you went last Tuesday afternoon?”

“I don’t see why I should tell you.”

“I think, Mr. Brooklyn, that, unless you wish to find yourself in the
dock on a criminal charge, you had far better do so.”

For a moment it seemed as if Walter Brooklyn would make a personal
attack on the detective, or at least turn him then and there out of
the room. But he seemed to think better of it. “Ask your questions,”
he said.

“First, then, where did you call when you were out on Tuesday
afternoon?”

“I went first to see Mr. Carter Woodman—I presume you know who he
is—at his office in Lincoln’s Inn. Then I took a taxi to the
Piccadilly Theatre, where I saw that young hound, Prinsep, and one or
two others.”

“Who were the others?”

“An actress-girl there—a Miss Lang. She was the only one.”

“Did you see them separately or together?”

“Separately.”

“And then where did you go?”

“Back to Mr. Woodman’s office. I told him I had lost the stick, and
thought I must have left it there. He had a look, but it wasn’t there.
He said I must have left it in the taxi, and I supposed I had.”

“When did you notice the loss?”

“On leaving the theatre.”

“So you might have left the stick there, or in the taxi, or at Mr.
Woodman’s?”

“Yes. If you found it in Prinsep’s room, I suppose he must have found
it in the theatre, and taken it up to his room.”

“Why didn’t he give it back to you when he saw you later in the
evening?”

“Saw me later in the evening! He didn’t see me later in the evening.”

“But you were at Liskeard House on Tuesday evening.”

“Look here, young man. I don’t know what you’re driving at. I tell you
I did not see Prinsep except in the afternoon.”

“But you were at Liskeard House in the evening.”

“I tell you I was not. Yes, by Jove, though, I was—in a sense. I went
to the door and asked for Sir Vernon, but he was not at home.”

“When was that?”

“About ten o’clock, I suppose.”

“And you did not go into the house _then_?”

“No, only into the outer hall.”

“That, Mr. Brooklyn, is not the occasion to which I was referring. You
came back to Liskeard House still later on Tuesday evening.”

Walter Brooklyn glared at the inspector. “Young man,” he said, “I will
thank you not to tell me where I was. I know that for myself.”

“You admit, then, that you came back to the house.”

“I admit nothing of the sort. I was not in the house at all. I’ve told
you already that I did not go there.”

The inspector discharged his bombshell. “Then how did it occur that
you rang up the Sanctum Club from Liskeard House at 11.30 on Tuesday
evening?”

This was too much for Walter Brooklyn. “Infernal impudence,” he said.
“I don’t know where you picked up these cock-and-bull stories. I did
not ring up the Sanctum from Liskeard House, because I was not there.
And now I’ve had enough of your questions, and you can go.” And he
strode to the door and held it open. “Get out,” he said.

The inspector picked up his hat. “I had some further questions to ask
you,” he said. “Perhaps another time I shall find you in a better
mood. Good evening.” And he left the room as hastily as he could
without compromising his dignity, not quite certain whether Walter
Brooklyn would complete the performance by throwing him downstairs.
Brooklyn, however, merely relieved his feelings by slamming the door.

In the hall the inspector found the porter. “Had a pleasant
interview?” asked the latter, familiar with Walter Brooklyn’s ways.

“Not exactly pleasant, but decidedly illuminating,” said the
inspector, as he went upon his way.



Chapter X

Charis Lang

Inspector Blaikie, when he left the Byron Club, was quite convinced
that Walter Brooklyn was the murderer. Not merely one of the
murderers, but the murderer of both men. The evidence against Prinsep
he was more than ever inclined to discount in face of the impression
which Walter Brooklyn had made upon him. Not only the man’s manner,
but even more his physique, had convinced the inspector of his guilt.
Here at least was a man who combined great physical strength with an
obviously ungovernable temper—just the combination of qualities which
seemed most clearly to fit the case. After all, he had never believed
much in finger-prints. They showed, no doubt, that Prinsep had
actually held in his hand the weapon with which the murder was
committed; but did that prove that he had done the deed? He might
conceivably have taken hold of the club for some quite different
purpose. The prints were not conclusive evidence—on that point he
permitted himself to differ from his superior, who had seemed to think
that they were. They needed explaining, certainly; but there were
other possible explanations. Moreover, if Prinsep had been careless
enough to leave his finger-prints all over the club, was it not
curious that not a trace of them had been left on the dead man’s
clothing, though he had obviously been dragged by the collar from the
statue into the little antique temple so as to be out of the way. A
starched collar was about the likeliest possible place for clear
impressions of fingers. But there was not the trace of a finger-mark
on it. The man who dragged the body to the temple steps had certainly
worn gloves.

Then a very curious point struck the inspector. All the finger-prints
had been partly obliterated, as if some one had handled the club
subsequently. But, in the morning he had been careful that no one
should do so, and he was fairly certain that no one had. Then another
significant point occurred to him. No other finger-prints had been
found on the club. Then, if some one else had handled it subsequently,
that some one else had worn gloves. But, in the garden that morning,
not one of those present had been wearing gloves. The obliterating
marks had been made before the discovery, and therefore also
presumably before the crime. The inspector almost felt that he could
reconstruct the scene. John Prinsep had held the club; but later,
Walter Brooklyn, wearing gloves, had handled it. As usual, the
evidence of the finger-prints, true as far as it went, was misleading.
Only the partial obliteration of the marks had given the key to the
truth. The new explanation, moreover, fitted in exactly with his
observation of the absence of finger-prints on George Brooklyn’s
crumpled collar.

It was true, of course, the inspector reflected, that all this was
only hypothesis. He could not prove absolutely that the obliterations
had been made by a pair of gloved hands holding the club with
murderous purpose, and still less could he prove that the gloved hands
were Walter Brooklyn’s. His conjecture was not evidence in a court of
law; but it served to confirm him in his own opinion. He could now,
with good hope, go in search of further evidence.

What, then, ought his next step to be? His talk with Walter Brooklyn
had opened up certain fresh lines of inquiry. He must see Woodman
again, and find out what had been the business on which Brooklyn had
twice visited him on the Tuesday. And he had better see this Miss Lang
of the Piccadilly Theatre, in case she could throw any light on the
case. And he must try to trace Walter Brooklyn’s stick. He felt sure
that Brooklyn had told him a lie about this, and that he had really
left it in Prinsep’s room in the evening. But it was his business to
make every inquiry, and to test Brooklyn’s story by every possible
means.

By this time—for it was now nine o’clock—Woodman would certainly have
left his office. The inspector felt that he had done a good day’s
work, and could with a good conscience leave further activity for the
morrow. He went home, and straight to bed, in his tiny bachelor flat
in Judd Street.

When Inspector Blaikie woke the following morning he at once began to
turn the case over in his mind. It was now Thursday, and the inquests
had been fixed for Friday. It would be necessary that day to decide on
the procedure to be followed. Ought the police to produce the evidence
which they had gathered, or would it be better to make the proceedings
as purely formal as possible, and to reserve all disclosures for the
trial which would surely follow? The Inspector’s instinct was against
any premature showing of his hand; but he would have to discuss the
matter with Superintendent Wilson, with whom the final decision would
rest. That could stand over until he had seen Woodman and the unknown
Miss Lang. He would arrange to see the superintendent in the
afternoon.

The inspector went out and breakfasted in one of those huge “Tyger”
restaurants which cater for the servantless flat-dwellers of London.
Then he went to Scotland Yard, arranged to see the superintendent
after lunch, and ’phoned through to Woodman arranging an eleven
o’clock appointment at his office. Next he got on the phone to the
Piccadilly Theatre, and discovered that Miss Lang was expected there
at about midday. He left a message stating that he would call to see
her. She lived, as he knew, at Hammersmith, and was not on the
telephone. He also rang through to the sergeant on duty at Liskeard
House, who reported that there were no fresh developments.

At eleven o’clock punctually, the inspector entered Carter Woodman’s
outer office. The old clerk, seated there at his desk, looked up at
him suspiciously from a heap of papers. Rather brusquely, the
inspector announced that he had come to see Woodman by appointment.
The man went to tell his master, and Carter Woodman promptly appeared
at the door of the inner room to bid his visitor welcome. Coming
towards the inspector, he gripped him firmly by the hand. “Well, my
lad, how goes it?” he said. “Have you found the scoundrels? You must
come in and tell me all about it.”

The inspector felt himself almost carried bodily into the inner room,
and seated breathless in a chair, while Carter Woodman took up a
commanding position on the hearthrug. “Quite right to come to me,” he
said. “You must treat me as if I were Sir Vernon—as his man of
business I regard myself as in charge of his affairs. Now let me know
exactly what you have done so far, and I’ll see if I can help you.
But, first, have you any fresh clue as to the identity of the
murderers?”

Inspector Blaikie reflected, as Woodman was speaking, that powerful
physique seemed to run in the Brooklyn family. Woodman was only a
distant relative; yet he had many of the physical characteristics
which the inspector had noticed in Walter Brooklyn. But there the
resemblance seemed to end. Woodman’s bluff and hearty manner, which
seemed to have big reserves of strength and self-control behind it,
was in marked contrast to Walter Brooklyn’s passionate and excitable
temperament. Woodman belonged to a very definite type—the successful
city man who combined keen business acumen and a sharp eye for a
bargain with a hail-fellow-well-met manner and an ability to make
himself instantly at home in almost any society.

The inspector, engrossed with his own thoughts, said nothing in
immediate reply to Woodman’s question; and the latter, after a pause,
repeated it, remarking cheerfully, “What, daydreaming, are we? Won’t
do in a detective, you know. Not at all what we expect of you, eh?”
And, after putting his hand for a moment on the inspector’s shoulder,
he abandoned his place of vantage before the fireplace and sat down in
his desk-chair facing his visitor.

“I saw Mr. Walter Brooklyn yesterday—not, I am afraid, a very pleasant
interview. He seemed to resent very much my asking him any
questions—in fact he all but threw me downstairs,” the detective added
with a laugh.

“What took you to see him?” asked Woodman. “I suppose it was about our
seeing him outside the house.”

“It had come to my knowledge that Mr. Walter Brooklyn was actually in
Mr. Prinsep’s room at Liskeard House at 11.30 on Tuesday night.”

“Good Lord, man, you don’t say so. Are you sure? Why, who in the world
told you that?”

“Nobody actually saw him there; but he telephoned at that time to his
club, said that he was speaking from Liskeard House, and asked if a
registered parcel had arrived for him, as he wanted it sent round
there at once.”

“Dear me, inspector, this throws a new—and a most distressing—light on
the case. Did you discover from Mr. Brooklyn what he was doing at
Liskeard House?”

“No, and it was exactly on that point that I came to see what you
could tell me.”

“My dear chap, I’m as surprised as you are to know that he was there
at all.”

“I understand from Mr. Brooklyn that he had seen you earlier in the
day. It might help if I knew what was the business then.”

“You probably know enough about Walter Brooklyn to guess that it was
about money.”

“I had guessed so; but I am glad to have it definite. Can you give me
rather more particulars?”

“I think I may, though, strictly speaking, the matter ought to be
confidential. Mr. Walter Brooklyn had been trying for some time to get
Sir Vernon to pay his debts, as he had done on several previous
occasions. This time Sir Vernon handed the matter over to John
Prinsep, partly because he was away from town, and partly because he
thought he could trust Prinsep to handle the matter more successfully
than if he did it himself. Prinsep thereupon saw Walter Brooklyn, and
also consulted me. On my advice, he refused to make any payment
without a very clear understanding that this was to be the last
application. Walter Brooklyn tried all means to get the money without
conditions, and in particular refused to disclose in detail what his
liabilities were. Prinsep would not give a penny unless his conditions
were met. On Tuesday afternoon Walter Brooklyn came down by
appointment to see me, and I tried to get him to accept the
conditions. He refused, and declared his intention of seeing Prinsep
again. I told him he must do what he liked about that. I believe he
saw Prinsep. Anyhow, later in the afternoon he came back, and made
another attempt to get me to urge that the conditions should be
modified. I refused of course, and he left. I have not seen him
since.”

“So far as you know, he had made no appointment with Prinsep for the
evening?”

“I know nothing about that. He may have done. He did not tell me.”

“When he came back to you the second time, did he tell you that he had
lost his walking-stick, and ask if you had found it in the office
after he left?”

“Yes, I believe he did. It was not here. I said he had probably left
it in the taxi.”

“And that is all you know about the matter?”

“Yes, of course I know something about the extent of Walter Brooklyn’s
liabilities. They are considerable.”

“We can go into that if it becomes necessary. But can you tell
me—would it be likely that, if Walter Brooklyn arranged a meeting with
Prinsep about money, George Brooklyn would also have been present? It
seems they were both there that evening?”

“I should not have expected so; but it is certainly not impossible.
Prinsep might have called in George, as he was co-heir to Sir Vernon’s
money, to help him make it quite plain that the money would only be
paid if the conditions were met. Or, of course, it may have been an
accident. George Brooklyn might have been with Prinsep when Walter
called. Have you any reason to believe that it was so?”

“Well, we know that Walter Brooklyn, although he denies it, was in
Prinsep’s room at about 11.30. We know that George Brooklyn left the
house at about that time, and he must have come back at some time
later to the garden, if not to the house. It seems at least likely
that they met either before or after 11.30.”

“Yes, that seems probable. But I am afraid I know no more than I have
told you.”

“Perhaps you can help me a little more. I am getting interested in
this Miss Lang, who seems to turn up at every point in the story. It
now appears that Walter Brooklyn went to see her at the theatre on
Tuesday afternoon. He saw her and Prinsep there separately.”

“I know nothing about that. I told you he went off to see Prinsep; but
I have no idea what he can have been doing with Miss Lang.”

“Did Walter Brooklyn know Miss Lang?”

“Quite probably. He had a large theatrical acquaintance. But I did not
know he was friendly with her.”

“But you said that Mr. George Brooklyn was to have seen Miss Lang on
Tuesday evening.”

The lawyer nodded.

“And now,” the inspector continued, “we find Walter as well as George
Brooklyn mixed up with her. May not she have had something to do with
the evening meeting at Liskeard House?”

“Really, inspector, that is a matter for you. I have never seen the
young woman, and I know no more about her than I have already told
you. You had better see her yourself.”

“That is what I propose to do; but I thought you might be able to
throw some light on Walter Brooklyn’s dealings with her.”

“None at all, unfortunately. I wish I could; for there is nothing I
want more than to get this horrible business cleared up.”

The inspector saw that there was nothing more to be learned from
Carter Woodman at that stage. He accordingly took his leave, and went
in search of Charis Lang, who, he was beginning to feel, might well
hold the clue to the whole mystery. His original idea had been to see
her at her home; but he had decided that it would be better to talk to
her at the theatre, where the event in which she was concerned had
actually taken place. Accordingly, he took a taxi to the Piccadilly
Theatre, and sent up his card to Miss Lang, who had just arrived, and
been given his note and message.

When he was shown into Charis Lang’s room, Inspector Blaikie had his
first surprise. He had been expecting, without any good reason, to be
confronted with a beauty of the picture post card type, some little
bit of fluff from the musical comedy stage. But he saw at once that
Charis Lang was not at all that kind of woman. She was a girl whom no
one but an idiot—and Inspector Blaikie was far from being an
idiot—would think of calling pretty. Beautiful, some people would call
her, but less from any regularity of feature than from an effect of
carriage and expression—a dignity without aloofness, a self-possession
that was neither hard nor unwomanly. The inspector did not think her
beautiful—she was not of the type he admired—but he said to himself
that here was obviously a woman of character. And he at once changed
his mind about the right way of tackling Miss Lang. She was, he
recognised, a person with whom it would pay to be quite frank.

“I understand,” she began, “that you wish to ask me some questions
about”—she hesitated a moment—“this terrible affair.” The inspector
could see that she was deeply moved.

“Yes, Miss Lang,” he replied, “I have come to ask you for certain
information. We have, of course, every desire to trouble you as little
as possible.”

“Oh,” she interrupted, “I only wish I had more to tell you. By all
means, ask me what you will.”

“I am afraid some of my questions may seem to you rather impertinent.”

“No, inspector. I understand it is your business to get at the truth.
I shall answer, whatever you may ask.”

“Then, first of all, will you tell me about Mr. Walter Brooklyn. I
understand that he came to see you last Tuesday here. Is that so?”

“I confess I am surprised at the question. I thought it was about Mr.
George Brooklyn and Mr. Prinsep that you wished to question me. But I
can answer at once. Mr. Walter Brooklyn did come to see me.”

“Do you know Mr. Walter Brooklyn well?”

“No, hardly at all. Indeed, until that day I had scarcely spoken to
him. I had met him a few times in large gatherings at Liskeard House
and elsewhere.”

“Then he is not a friend of yours?”

“By no means.” The answer was so decided as to startle the inspector.

“Have you any objection,” he asked, “to telling me on what business
Mr. Walter Brooklyn visited you on Tuesday?”

“It is not a thing I like to speak about; but I am fully prepared to
tell you. Mr. Brooklyn came to make to me a dishonourable suggestion
that I should help him to extract money from Mr. Prinsep.”

“In what way?”

“Mr. Prinsep had refused to give Mr. Walter Brooklyn a certain sum of
money which he wanted. He came to ask me to bring pressure to bear on
Mr. Prinsep to give it to him. He suggested that I had a hold over Mr.
Prinsep—I suppose I must tell you what made him think that too—and
that if I was to ask he would get the money.”

“And on what ground did he ask you to do this?”

“He threatened that if I did not he would tell Sir Vernon about me and
Mr. Prinsep. He made the most horrible insinuations.”

“You were friendly with Mr. Prinsep?”

“Two years ago John Prinsep asked me to marry him, and I accepted him.
Our engagement was kept secret at his request.”

“Miss Lang, I am sorry if I give you pain; but I must ask you whether
you were engaged to Mr. Prinsep at the time of his death.”

The answer came clearly, but in a voice totally devoid of expression.
“I do not know,” said Charis Lang. “The engagement had at least not
been formally broken off.”

“And of course you rejected Walter Brooklyn’s proposal?”

“I did.”

“Did you tell Mr. Prinsep about it?”

“No. It was not a matter I could bring myself to mention to him.”

“You understood that Walter Brooklyn intended to carry the story to
Sir Vernon?”

“Yes, and of course Sir Vernon would have been very angry. He has
always wanted John to marry his ward, Miss Cowper.”

“What had Walter Brooklyn to gain by telling Sir Vernon?”

“I suppose he thought that Sir Vernon would soon make John give me up,
and that between them they could fix up for John and Miss Cowper to
marry. Or perhaps he relied on my telling John, and thought John would
let him have the money to prevent him from going to Sir Vernon.”

“Yes, that seems the most probable explanation. And did you see Mr.
Prinsep after your meeting with Walter Brooklyn?”

“Yes, for a few moments. He had seen Mr. Brooklyn, too, and was very
angry. Mr. Brooklyn had used the same threat to him as he used to me.”

“And how had Mr. Prinsep taken it?”

“He had refused to give Mr. Brooklyn a penny, and said he would see
Sir Vernon himself.”

“In order to tell him of your engagement?”

Again came the answer, painfully given, “I do not know.”

“I am sorry, Miss Lang, but I have not quite done. Did you see Mr.
George Brooklyn on Tuesday?”

“Yes, he came here to see me after he had left Liskeard House in the
evening.”

“At what time was that?”

“It was after ten o’clock—probably about a quarter past. I am off the
stage for a long time then.”

“Was Mr. George Brooklyn a friend of yours?”

“Yes, in a way. At least, Mrs. George Brooklyn is a very dear friend.
I used to understudy her when she was Isabelle Raven. She was _the_
Isabelle Raven, you know.”

“Yes. Then there was nothing unusual in Mr. George Brooklyn’s coming
to see you here?”

“I don’t think he had ever been to my room before. I had often met him
at his own house or at Liskeard House.”

“Did he come for some special purpose?”

“Yes, he came to see me about my engagement to Mr. Prinsep.”

“Do you mind telling me more exactly what you mean?”

“Until recently, Mr. Prinsep always behaved to me as if we were
engaged. Lately, his manner to me had changed. When I spoke to him
about it, he laughed it off, and I tried to go on treating him as I
had done. But about a fortnight ago I had a letter from Mr. Carter
Woodman—you know him, I expect—saying he would like to discuss with me
certain matters placed in his hands by Mr. Prinsep. I wrote back
saying that I could not conceive that there was anything in my
relations with John that called for a lawyer’s interference. Then I
took the letter to John, and we had a real quarrel about it. I asked
him if I was to consider our engagement at an end; but he put me off,
and before I could get him to answer we were interrupted. I did not
see him again until Tuesday, and then only for a minute. I meant to
try to clear matters up, and to tell him I could not go on like that;
but he was called away, and I had no chance. Then in the evening
George Brooklyn came to see me.”

“Will you tell me what happened then?”

“He asked me point-blank whether I had been engaged to John. I said
that I certainly had been, but that I didn’t know whether I still was.
I told him that I still loved John; but I asked him to let John
know—he had promised to see him when he left me—that I considered our
engagement definitely at an end, unless he desired to renew it.”

“Miss Lang, my questions must have been very painful, and it has been
very good of you to answer them so freely. I think there is only one
thing more I need ask. At what time did Mr. George Brooklyn leave
you?”

“A few minutes after half-past ten. I went on the stage again almost
immediately afterwards.”

“And you did not see Mr. George Brooklyn again?”

“No.”

“You saw no more of either Mr. Prinsep or Mr. Walter Brooklyn, I
suppose?”

“Yes, as it happens, I caught sight, out of my window, of Mr. Prinsep
walking in the garden behind the theatre. That must have been about a
quarter past eleven.”

“And that is all you saw. He was alone?”

“Yes. I saw no one else.”

“Then I have only to thank you again for the way in which you have
told me what you know.” And with that the inspector took his leave,
feeling that, as a result of his talk, he had scored another good
point against Walter Brooklyn. Quite apart from the murders, the man
really deserved hanging for his behaviour to Charis Lang—at least that
was how Inspector Blaikie felt about it. He must get enough evidence
to convince his reluctant superior, and thereafter twelve good men and
true, that Walter Brooklyn was the murderer. John Prinsep, perhaps,
was not such a bad riddance: certainly he had been behaving like a
cad. But then, Charis Lang was in love with him, and that was enough
to cover a multitude of sins. For her sake at least the murderer must
be brought to justice. Moreover, George Brooklyn seemed to have been a
good sort. The inspector was inclined to dismiss the idea that he had
had anything to do with the killing of Prinsep, even though his talk
with Prinsep after leaving Charis Lang might have afforded full
provocation, if, as seemed likely, Prinsep had refused to marry her.
The inspector’s last thought was that it was still a tangled enough
skein that he had to unravel. But some at least of the knots had been
successfully untied.



Chapter XI

Joan Takes Up the Case

Charis Lang had kept her composure during that trying interview with
the inspector, and had forced herself to tell him everything she had
to tell that could even indirectly bear upon the murders. She had felt
that this was her duty; and in her the sense of duty was unusually
strong. But the telling had cost her a terrible effort, and when the
inspector went away, and there was no longer need to hold herself up
bravely, her fortitude gave way. She had told things which, until
then, she had not admitted even to herself; and what hurt her most was
that, in telling the truth and nothing but the truth, she had been
compelled to let John Prinsep’s character appear in the worst light.
Not, she told herself, that it mattered to him any longer; but she
loved him, and it was horrible to her that she should have to drag his
memory in the mud. Moreover, was he not suspected of having killed
George Brooklyn, and would not her account of him have made such an
act seem more probable? She did not believe that he had done so, and,
as she thought over her conversation with the inspector, she felt that
she had been false to his memory; and yet she knew that there was
nothing else she could have done.

But why had Walter Brooklyn been so dragged into the case by the
detective? Until Inspector Blaikie had come to see her, she had been
quite without a theory of the events of Tuesday. She had been stunned
by the fact of Prinsep’s death, and she had hardly troubled to think
who could have killed him. Now it was clear that the police believed
that Walter Brooklyn had something to do with it. An odious man, by
all accounts, and one who had proved himself odious beyond measure in
his dealings with her. Yet not a man she would readily have suspected
of murder with violence. Underhand crimes—dirty, little crimes—she
said to herself, would be more in keeping with what she knew of him.
And then, despite his treatment of her, she accused herself of being
uncharitable. After all, there was some dignity about murder; and her
feeling, biased no doubt by her personal experience, was that Walter
Brooklyn was not even fit to be a murderer.

Charis felt that she could not go on to the stage that afternoon as if
nothing had happened. She had forced herself to play her part—and had
played it as well as ever—since the tragedy; but for that afternoon at
least she must be free, and her understudy must take her place. Having
been forced to tell her story to the inspector, she felt all the more
need to tell it again to some one more sympathetic—to some real friend
capable of understanding what she had suffered and of sharing in her
sorrow. Speedily her mind was made up. She must see Isabelle, Mrs.
George Brooklyn. Isabelle, too, was in trouble at least as hard as her
own. Isabelle had lost her George, as she had lost John Prinsep.

Then she remembered. Some people said that John had killed George
Brooklyn, and some said that George Brooklyn had killed John Prinsep.
She had heard that there was evidence, though she did not know what it
was. Could either of these things be true, and, if there was even a
chance that either might be true, how could she go and talk about it
to Isabelle?

She did not find an answer to her questions; but all the same she made
up her mind to go. She was capable of conceiving the thought that the
two men might have quarrelled, and that the one might have killed the
other; but she was not capable of believing the thought which she
could conceive. She knew that they might quarrel—that they had done so
often enough; but they would not kill. And even if they had—she barely
formulated the thought—what did it matter now? She and Isabelle were
both desolate and in need of comfort. She would go.

So Charis, having made—to her understudy’s secret delight—her
arrangements at the theatre, set off to find Isabelle—for that was the
name by which she still called Marian Brooklyn. Isabelle, she knew,
was still at the hotel—the Cunningham—and she had not far to go. In a
few minutes the two women were in each other’s arms. It was not a
question of who had killed their lovers; they both needed comfort, and
they sought together such comfort as could be found.

By-and-by, Charis found herself telling the story of the inspector’s
visit. She had never before spoken openly to Mrs. George about John
Prinsep; but now she told the whole story, only to find that most of
it was known to Marian already. Marian told her how Carter Woodman had
come to see her, and asked her to use her influence to break the
entanglement between Charis and John Prinsep, and how she had
indignantly refused and had threatened to go and tell John straight
out that he ought to marry her. Charis did not try to defend Prinsep:
she realised that there could be no defence for what he had done; but
she told Marian that she had loved him, and that she believed he had
loved her—in a way—and would certainly have married her but for his
fear of Sir Vernon’s opposition. She told Marian that it was quite
clear from the inspector’s manner that he suspected Walter Brooklyn of
one, if not of both, murders, and at last she told her of Walter
Brooklyn’s visit to herself, and of the infamous threat he had made.

To Charis’s surprise, Marian Brooklyn altogether refused to consider
the possibility of Walter’s guilt. She had seen him outside Liskeard
House as they left on the Tuesday evening, and she agreed that he
might possibly have gone there to carry out his threat of telling Sir
Vernon. But she was quite convinced that he had had nothing to do with
the murders, and she was very doubtful whether he would really have
carried out his threat against Charis. “Walter Brooklyn,” she said,
“is a thoroughly bad lot. In money matters you couldn’t trust him an
inch. But I do not believe he would really have done a thing like
that—I mean, either murdered anybody, or really told Sir Vernon about
you. He might threaten, but I don’t believe he’d do such a thing, when
it came to the point.”

Then Marian Brooklyn realised what seemed to her the most horrible
thing about the situation. “Poor Joan,” she said, “it will be simply
terrible for her if Walter Brooklyn is really suspected. She has
trouble enough with what has happened, already, and with Sir Vernon on
her hands in such a state that nearly everything has to be kept from
him. If her stepfather is going to be dragged into court, I don’t know
what she will do.”

All Charis could suggest was that it would be best that she should
know nothing about it until it could no longer be kept from her; but
to this Marian Brooklyn did not agree. “I think, dear, she had better
know at once. Joan is not easily frightened; and I am sure she would
wish to be told.”

And so it was finally settled. Marian Brooklyn said that she would go
to Liskeard House at once and try to see Joan. At first she suggested
that Charis should come with her; but finally they agreed that she had
better go alone. Charis, a good deal more at ease after her talk with
her friend, went back to the theatre with every intention of appearing
at the evening performance.

Marian Brooklyn found Joan at home. Indeed, since Tuesday she had not
left the house, save for an occasional breath of air in the garden.
With the police continually making inquiries, newspaper reporters
laying constant siege to the house, and Sir Vernon so ill that the
fact of George Brooklyn’s death had still to be kept from him, and
George’s absence explained by all manner of subterfuges, Joan and Mary
Woodman had been going through a terrible time, made the worse, in
Joan’s case at least, by the sense of helplessness in face of a great
calamity. Her duties in looking after Sir Vernon did not prevent her
from thinking: rather they were such as to make thought turn to
brooding. Her thoughts seemed to go round and round in an endless and
aimless circle; and, as the days passed, the strain was telling on her
far more than on Mary Woodman, who was not blessed—or cursed—with the
faculty of imagination. Mary did her duty quietly and sympathetically,
and with little sign of inward disturbance. Joan did her duty, too,
but she was eating out her soul in the doing of it. Her face, as she
came into the room to greet Marian, was haggard with lack of sleep.
She had not quite lost that look of composure and self-possession that
was normally hers; but it was easy to see that the strain on her had
been severe.

Marian did not quite know how to begin what she had to say; but Joan
saved her from her embarrassment by beginning at once to speak about
Sir Vernon. He had been very bad indeed; he was still very bad, but
she thought he was beginning to rally. It had been terribly
difficult—having to keep from him the news and prevent him from taking
any part in the investigation. He had asked more than once to see the
police; but the doctor said that absolute rest was indispensable, and
that any further shock or excitement would almost certainly still be
fatal to him. Joan told Marian that she and Mary had their hands so
full that they knew little or nothing of what was going on, and had no
idea what progress the police were making towards the solution of the
mystery.

This gave Marian the opening for which she had been waiting. “It was
about that, darling,” she said, “I came to see you. I did not want the
police to come asking you more questions until you were prepared.”

Joan expressed her surprise. “Prepared, Marian—prepared for what do
you mean?”

“Well, dear, I thought I had better tell you. The police think they
have a clue.”

“A clue? Do you mean they know who did it?”

“No, dear. I don’t mean that they know; but there is somebody whom
they suspect. Of course, it is their business to suspect people; but I
thought I ought to tell you.”

“Of course, it is their business to find out who did it. I am only
glad it isn’t mine—and yet I can’t help wondering. I keep thinking
about it, even though I try hard to put it out of my mind.”

“That is only natural, dear. It is the same with me. I find myself
wondering——”

Joan interrupted, “And the worst of it is that one’s thoughts take one
no further. Mine just go round and round, I haven’t the ghost of an
idea who it was.”

“What I came to tell you, Joan, was this. Of course, it can’t be true;
but the police suspect—your stepfather.”

Joan had been standing, leaning with one arm on the mantelpiece; but
at Marian’s words she went very white, and her body swayed. She
gripped the mantelpiece to steady herself, and felt her way to a
chair. For a moment she said nothing. Then, so low as to be just
audible, her answer came. “Marian, tell me at once what makes you
think that.”

“I don’t think it, my dear. But, unfortunately, the police do. That
man, Inspector Blaikie, has quite convinced himself of it. I had
better tell you exactly what I know.”

Then Marian told Joan all about the inspector’s visit to Charis Lang.
Joan listened in silence, barely moving. Her colour came back slowly,
and, as she realised that the police had built up a real case against
her stepfather, a look of determination came into her face.

“I wonder if he knows,” she said. “I must go to him at once.”

Marian said to herself that Joan was bearing it wonderfully well.
There was no fear that she would collapse under the shock. Indeed, she
could see that the news had really done her good. During the days
since the crime she had been suffering above all because she felt
helpless and useless. The danger to her stepfather gave her a sense of
work to do. It roused her and brought into play the reserves of
strength in her character. Marian had so far held back the reason for
Walter Brooklyn’s visit to Charis Lang; but she felt that it was only
fair to Joan to tell her the whole truth, however bad it might be. If
she was to help Walter Brooklyn, she must certainly know the worst
that could be said against him.

There was no doubt at all in Joan’s mind. Badly as Walter Brooklyn had
used her, and though she had refused to live any longer under his
roof, she was quite certain that he was incapable of murder, above all
of the murders of the two victims of Tuesday’s tragedy. Even when
Marian told her the purpose with which Walter Brooklyn had been to
visit Charis Lang, that in no way altered her view. “He would never
have told Sir Vernon,” she said. “It was only too like him to
threaten; but he would never have done it. I know him, and I’m sure of
that.”

Joan was keenly anxious to find out what evidence the police could
possibly have against her stepfather; but of this Marian could tell
her hardly anything. She could only suggest that probably Carter
Woodman would know about it. Mrs. Woodman was still with her at the
hotel; but Carter had been away the previous night, and she had not
seen him. Joan said that she would try to see Carter at once, and
then, when she had found out all she could, she would go to see Walter
Brooklyn.

So far from being prostrated by the news, Joan was moved by it to take
action at once. She telephoned through to Carter Woodman at his
office, and asked him particularly to come and see her at Liskeard
House that afternoon. Woodman tried to put her off; but when she said
that, if he could not come to her, she would go at once to him, he at
last agreed to come. Within an hour he was with her, and Joan plunged
at once into business by asking him to tell all he knew about the
police and the progress they had made.

Woodman seemed reluctant to talk; but, on being pressed, he told her
most of what had passed at his first talk with the inspector, leaving
out, however, anything which would tend to connect Walter Brooklyn
with the crime, and thereby creating the impression that the police
were totally at a loss. But Joan was not to be put off so easily.
“It’s no use, Carter,” she said, “your trying to spare my feelings. I
know that the police suspect my stepfather, and I want to know on what
evidence they are trying to build up a case against him. Surely you
must know something about that.”

Faced with the direct question, Carter Woodman told her most of what
he knew. He said that the police had found out that Walter Brooklyn
had been in the house that night, and that he had actually telephoned
to his club from Prinsep’s room at about half-past eleven. He told her
that Walter Brooklyn’s walking-stick had been found in Prinsep’s room,
and that Walter had almost thrown the inspector downstairs when he
went to question him about his movements. What surprised him, he said,
was that Walter Brooklyn had not been arrested already.

At this Joan broke out indignantly, “You don’t mean that you believe
he did it?”

“My dear Joan, I only wish you had not asked me such a question. But
what am I to think? It is clear that he was in the house, and somebody
must have done it, after all. I’m sorry for you; but I think you are
under no illusions about your stepfather’s character.”

“I tell you that he could never have done a thing like that. I know
he’s a bad man, in many ways. But he’s not that sort. Surely you must
understand that.”

But Carter Woodman did not seem to understand it. Apologetically, but
firmly, he made it quite clear to Joan that he was disposed to believe
in Walter Brooklyn’s guilt, or at least that he saw nothing unlikely
in the supposition that he might have committed murder. Joan, who had
intended to ask Woodman to go to work for the purpose of clearing her
stepfather, soon saw that there was nothing to be gained by making
such a request. In his present mood, at least, Carter Woodman would be
far more likely to search for further evidence of Walter Brooklyn’s
guilt. Joan had found out from him most of what she wanted; and,
seeing that there was nothing further to be gained by enlisting his
help, she got rid of him as soon as she decently could.

When Woodman had gone, Joan sat down to think the matter over quietly.
She was absolutely certain that her stepfather was in no way guilty of
the murders; but, after what Woodman had said, it seemed only too
clear that he must have been on the spot when one of them at least was
committed. That meant that he knew the truth; but, for some reason or
other, he had evidently not told the police what he knew. That, Joan
felt, was not altogether surprising. Probably the police had somehow
got him into one of his rages; and she knew that, if that were so, it
was just like him to have refused to say a word. It was more than ever
necessary for her to see him and get at the real truth of what he
knew. Only if she had that to go upon could she help him; and, as
Carter Woodman would do nothing, she felt that she must devote all her
energies to clearing him of the suspicion. He would have to have a
good lawyer of his own, of course; but Joan must see him, and compel
him to bestir himself about his defence. For one thing, he was certain
to be in low water; and she must at once promise to pay all the
expenses of the case.

She admitted to herself that, in the light of what Charis Lang and
Woodman had told her, the police seemed to have a strong case against
Walter Brooklyn. Her mind went back to Woodman’s words, “After all,
somebody must have done it”; and she realised that, for the police
“somebody” might mean Walter Brooklyn quite as readily as any one
else. She, knowing him as no one besides knew him, might be sure of
his innocence; but that was no reason why others should share her
conviction. No, if Walter Brooklyn was to escape from the coils in
which he was enmeshed, it would be because decisive evidence was
forthcoming that he had not committed the murders. And that decisive
evidence would have to be deliberately searched for by some one other
than the police, who, intent on proving the case against Walter
Brooklyn, would not be likely to seek for clues which would invalidate
their own case. And, if she did not undertake this task, who would?
She felt that the duty was hers.

But if, as she was sure, Walter Brooklyn had not committed murder,
then who had, and what had her stepfather been doing in Liskeard House
that night? It was true that, by Carter’s account, he had denied his
presence there; but it did not surprise Joan at all that her
stepfather should have lied to the police. If he was determined not to
tell what he knew, his only possible course was to deny that he had
been present. She would have to point out to him that, as his presence
in the house had been definitely established, the only possible course
remaining was to tell the police everything that he knew.

But what could it be that he was holding back? If he had been present
when murder was done, he must be concealing the name of the murderer.
That puzzled Joan; for she did not see whom Walter Brooklyn could
possibly be intent on shielding. Quixotism was as unlike him as
deliberate murder. Moreover, who could the murderer have been? She
searched her mind in vain for any hint of a clue. There was literally
no one whom she could suspect. The whole thing appeared to her merely
inexplicable.

She realised, however, that the best way—perhaps the only way—of
clearing her stepfather was to bring the real murderer to light. But
there might be two different murderers. Joan was inclined to regard it
as quite possible that Prinsep might have killed George Brooklyn; but
it was utterly inconceivable that George should have killed anybody.
Far more clearly than her stepfather, he was not that kind of man. So
that the best line of inquiry seemed to be to search for the murderer
of John Prinsep. But, she remembered, it was in this case that the
police had their strongest evidence against Walter Brooklyn. There was
little or nothing, so far as she knew, to connect him with the death
of George; but he had been in Prinsep’s room, and there his stick had
been found. Surely he must know who had killed John Prinsep. She could
do nothing until she had seen him; but seeing him might well clear up
the whole tragedy once and for all.

Joan was still lying back in her chair, with closed eyes, trying to
think the thing out, when Winter announced that Mr. Ellery was in the
lounge, and would like to see her if she felt equal to it. She had not
seen Ellery since that fatal Tuesday evening, when he had left with
the other guests, announcing his intention of walking back to Chelsea.
Doubtless, he had felt that to come sooner would be an intrusion; but
she knew enough of his feelings to be sure that it had cost him a
struggle to keep away. She was glad—very glad—he had come; for just
what she wanted was some one to whom she could talk freely, some one
on whose help she could rely in trying to clear her stepfather. Robert
Ellery, she knew, would be ready to believe as she believed, and to do
everything in his power to help her in her trouble. These thoughts
flashed through her mind as she went to the lounge where he was
waiting.



Chapter XII

Robert Ellery

It had been a struggle for Ellery to keep away. He had heard nothing
of the tragedy until Wednesday evening, when he had been to dine with
his guardian, Harry Lucas, at Hampstead. There had been, of course,
nothing in the morning papers, and he had not seen an evening paper.
He had, indeed, spent the day in a long country walk, returning to
Hampstead across the Heath in time to dress for dinner at his
guardian’s house, where he always kept a change of clothes, and often
stayed the night. His walk had been taken with a purpose—no less a
purpose than going thoroughly with himself into the question of his
feeling for Joan Cowper. He had been a silent witness of the scene at
Sir Vernon’s party, when Joan had declared outright that nothing would
ever make her marry John Prinsep. That outburst of hers had meant a
great deal to him. He had hardly concealed from himself before the
fact that he was head over ears in love with Joan; but he had always
taught himself to regard his love as hopeless, and tried to make
himself believe that he ought to get the better of it, and accept as a
foregone conclusion Joan’s marriage with Prinsep. He had been told by
Sir Vernon himself that they were engaged, and, of course, no word on
the matter had passed between him and Joan.

Her definite repudiation of the engagement had therefore come to him
as a surprise, and, for the first time, had allowed him to think that
his own suit might not be altogether hopeless. Joan liked him: that he
knew well enough; but loving was, of course, another story, and he
hardly allowed himself, even now, to hope that she loved him. But he
made up his mind, after what had passed, first to spend the day in the
country, thinking things over, or rather charging at full speed down
the Middlesex lanes while the processes of thought went on of their
own momentum. Then, he promised himself to tell his guardian in the
evening exactly how matters stood, and to ask for his advice. Harry
Lucas had known well how to make himself the friend and counsellor, as
well as the guardian, of the young man.

Ellery went straight upstairs and dressed without seeing his guardian.
But, as soon as they met in the smoking-room before dinner, he saw
that something very serious was the matter. Lucas had expected that
Ellery would already have heard the news; but, when he found that he
knew nothing, he told him the story in a few words, explaining how the
bodies had been discovered, but saying nothing about clues or about
any opinion he may have entertained as to the identity of the
murderer—or the murderers. Lucas himself had been down to Liskeard
House to offer his help: he had seen Sir Vernon for a few minutes, and
had talked with Joan and Mary Woodman. He had also seen Superintendent
Wilson at Scotland Yard, and offered any help it might be in
his power to give. But, beyond the bare facts discovered in the
morning—startling enough in themselves—he knew little, and, of course,
at this stage the inquiries of Inspector Blaikie were only at their
beginning.

Ellery asked no questions at first. The news seemed for the moment to
strike him dumb, and the first clear thought that arose in his mind
was that, now at least, there could be no more question of Joan
marrying Prinsep. Ellery had most cordially disliked and distrusted
Prinsep, and he could not pretend to feel any great sorrow at his
death. But he had greatly liked George Brooklyn, and, after his first
thought, it was mainly the terrible sorrow that had come upon all
those who were left that filled his mind. For a time he and Lucas
spoke of nothing but the depth of the tragedy that had come upon the
Brooklyns.

But, by-and-by, Ellery’s curiosity began to assert itself. After all
there was mystery as well as tragedy in the events of Tuesday night;
and mystery had always exercised over him a strong fascination. “I
feel a beast,” he said to his guardian, “for thinking of anything but
the sorrow of it all; but I’m damned if I can help wanting to find out
all about it.”

“My dear Bob, that’s perfectly natural. It would be so in any one; but
it’s more than natural in your case. You write detective novels; and
here you are faced with a crime mystery in real life. You would be
more than human if you didn’t want to unravel it. Besides, seriously
enough, it wants unravelling, and I don’t think the police are going
to have an easy time in finding out the truth.”

Then Lucas told him of the strange clues that had been discovered—how
all the evidence seemed to point to the conclusion that Prinsep had
murdered George Brooklyn, and equally to the conclusion that George
had murdered Prinsep.

“Of course,” Lucas added, “that is physically quite impossible; and
personally, I’m not in the least disposed to believe that either of
them killed the other. I’m sure in my own mind that some one else
killed both of them; but I haven’t a ghost of an idea who it can have
been.”

“And so there’s nothing been found out to throw suspicion on anybody
else?”

“So far as I know, nothing at all. You’d better do a bit of detective
work on your own account.”

Ellery said nothing in reply to that. While they had been talking, he
had been turning over in his mind the question whether, after what had
happened, he could possibly speak to his guardian about his love for
Joan. He had told himself firmly that he could not; but, just when he
had thought his mind made up, he found himself beginning to speak
about it all the same. He was so full of it that he could not keep
from declaring it.

“Was Joan really engaged to Prinsep?” he asked.

Harry Lucas had a good idea of Ellery’s reason for asking the
question. But he gave no hint of this in his answer, preferring to let
the young man speak or not of his own affairs, as might seem to him
best.

“No—that she never was,” he replied. “Long ago, Sir Vernon had set his
heart on their marrying, and he always persisted in treating it as
settled. Joan, I know, had told him again and again that she would not
marry Prinsep; but he always put her off, and said that it would all
come right in the end. Between ourselves, I don’t think Prinsep was
really very keen on marrying Joan; but he was prepared to do it
because Sir Vernon wanted it, and he was afraid he would not get the
money if he refused. I don’t know that I ought to speak like that
about him now that he’s dead: but you know very well that I disliked
him, and it’s no use pretending that I didn’t.”

Ellery felt his spirits rising as he heard what Lucas said—and again
he accused himself of being a beast for feeling cheerful on such an
occasion. No more was said then, and during dinner, while the servants
were in the room, they talked of other things—of the play which Ellery
was writing, of where he had been during the day, of many indifferent
matters. They were both glad when dinner was over, and they could
return to the smoking-room and be again alone.

Then it was that Ellery told Lucas of his love for Joan. And then he
had his surprise; for he found that his guardian had discovered that
for himself long ago, and that he was being strongly encouraged to
persist in his suit. “My dear boy,” said Lucas, “of course you’re in
love with Joan, and I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if you find out
before long that she’s in love with you. She’s a very fine young
woman, and I couldn’t wish you better fortune than to win her. I hope
you will, when the time comes. But, of course, you can’t make love to
her just now. You will have to wait until this terrible affair is
over.”

“But, if I see her how can I possibly help telling her now—now that
other fellow is out of the way? I know I shall simply blurt it out,
and probably spoil my chance for good and all.”

Lucas gave him some sage advice. He should go and see Joan, and offer
to help in any way he could. But on no account must he make love to
her yet awhile. From which it may be seen that Harry Lucas, up to date
as he thought himself, had still some old-fashioned ideas about
propriety.

Ellery stayed the night at Hampstead, and went to bed in a mood of
cheerfulness which, he told himself, was quite unforgivably brutal. He
would go and see Joan the next day. He would try to follow his
guardian’s advice: but, if he failed, well, he would fail, and he was
not sure that to fail would be quite such a disaster as Lucas made
out. After all, she had not been engaged to Prinsep; and why should he
not say he loved her?

The next morning Ellery left, after an early breakfast, without seeing
his guardian, and went off for another long walk across the Heath and
over to Mill Hill. His mood had changed, and he now told himself that
to go and see Joan would be an intrusion, and that he must at least
let some days pass before he went. He felt he could not see her
without telling her of his love, and he was sure that to tell her now
would be wrong. He tried to put the thing out of his mind, and, as
long as he kept walking, he succeeded fairly well. But when, after a
long day, he found himself back in his lodgings at Chelsea, he was
soon aware that he would be fit for nothing else until he had seen
her.

He tried to go on with his work; but after a few attempts he put it
aside as useless. Then he sat down to try to bring his mind to bear on
the crime. He felt that he, as an amateur expert in “detecting,” ought
to be able to see some light upon the conditions of the crime; but he
could see none. At length he was obliged to tell himself that he had
not nearly enough information to go upon, and that he could not hope
to make any progress without going himself over the scene of the crime
and hearing more of what the police had done. But how could he do that
without going to Liskeard House? And how could he go there without
seeing Joan? As he went to bed, he told himself that he could do
nothing. But he was a healthy fellow, and his perplexity did not long
interfere with his slumbers. Tired out by his long walk, he slept like
a top.

He was still in bed and asleep on the following morning when the
landlady knocked at the door and told him that a gentleman, who would
not state his business, was waiting to see him downstairs. Dressing
hastily, he went down, and found a stranger standing before the
fireplace. His visitor handed him a card, on which he read, “Inspector
Gibbs, New Scotland Yard.” So they had come to ask him something about
the murders.

Inspector Blaikie, who had enough to do in following up the trail of
Walter Brooklyn, had no time to act on his resolution to see Ellery
and get from him an explanation of his movements on Tuesday after
leaving Liskeard House. His colleague, Inspector Gibbs, had therefore
been entrusted with this task. The police were not seriously disposed
to think that Ellery had anything to do with the murders; but every
one who had been at the house that night was worth interrogating, and
Ellery was therefore to be questioned like the rest.

Inspector Gibbs was a very polite young man, excellently groomed, and
with an air of treating you as one man of the world treats another.
Very politely he explained the purpose of his visit, and told Ellery
that he must not suppose that, merely because the police asked him
certain questions, there was any suspicion at all attaching to him.
“But we must, you know, get all our facts quite complete.” Ellery said
that he fully understood, and was prepared to answer any questions to
the best of his power. “But the plain fact is,” he said, “that I know
nothing at all about it.”

He was first asked at what time he had left Liskeard House on Tuesday
evening, and replied that it was a few minutes past ten—he could not
say more exactly. No, he had not returned there later in the
evening—he had gone straight back to Chelsea. At what time had he
reached his rooms in Chelsea? About midnight. Not till he made that
answer did it occur to him that there was anything in his movements it
might be difficult to explain.

“About midnight?” said the inspector, with a note of surprise in his
voice. “But you said you went straight back after leaving Liskeard
House.”

“What I meant was that I went nowhere else in particular in between.
As a matter of fact I walked back, and spent some time strolling up
and down the Embankment before I returned to my rooms. I went down to
Chelsea Bridge and walked right along the Embankment to Lots Road, and
then back here to Tite Street. It was just about midnight when I let
myself in.”

“I see. And did you meet any one after you came in?”

“No; but my landlady may have seen me come in. There was still a light
in her room, which looks out over the front door.”

Before the inspector left he saw the landlady, and confirmed this with
her. She had seen Ellery come in at about midnight. There was nothing
unusual in his taking a long evening stroll by the river on a fine
night.

But before he saw the landlady the inspector had further questions to
ask of Ellery himself. “You say, then, that you were walking about for
close on two hours between Liskeard House and Chelsea Embankment. Is
there any one who can corroborate this?”

Ellery thought for a moment. “Yes, there ought to be,” he said. “I met
a friend who lives somewhere down here in Chelsea, at Hyde Park
Corner, at about a quarter past ten, and he left me at the Lots Road
end of the Embankment at about half-past eleven. We were together all
that time.”

“Will you give me his name and address?”

Ellery paused for a moment, and then gave a nervous laugh. “Upon my
word,” he said, “this is devilish awkward. I don’t know the chap’s
address—I never have known it. All I do know is that he lives
somewhere down the west end of Chelsea—not far from World’s End, I
think he said.”

“I dare say we can trace him,” said the inspector. “You had better
tell me his profession as well as his name. Perhaps you know where he
works.”

“Good Lord, this is worse than ever,” said Ellery. “I can’t for the
life of me remember what the fellow’s name is. It has slipped clean
out of my memory.” Then, seeing a heightened look of surprise on the
inspector’s face: “You see,” he added, “I hardly know him really. He’s
only a casual acquaintance I’ve met a few times at the Club.” He
paused and glanced at his visitor, in whose manner he was already
conscious of a change.

“Come, come, Mr. Ellery, surely you must be able to remember the man’s
name. It’s not———”

“I only wish I could. I almost had it then. It’s something like
Forrest or Forrester or Foster, I’m nearly sure. But it isn’t any of
those. I’m nearly certain it begins with an ‘F.’”

“Isn’t it rather curious that you should have been walking about
London for so long with a man you hardly know, and whose name even you
can’t remember?”

“It may be curious, inspector, and you may think I’m making it all up.
I can see you’re inclined to think that. But what I’ve told is exactly
what happened. I expect the name will come back to me soon—I have a
way of just forgetting things like that every now and then.”

“A most unfortunate way, if I may say so. I can only hope that your
memory will soon come back. You realise, I suppose, that the
consequences of your—lapse may be serious?”

“Oh, nonsense, inspector. I don’t see anything so curious about it. I
often get talking with chaps I don’t know from Adam; and I’m quite
capable of forgetting the name of my dearest friend. What happened was
that we were both walking home towards Chelsea, it was a beautifully
fine night, and we got into an interesting conversation—about plays.
I’m a playwright, you know, and I think he must be an actor. I mean,
from the way he talked.”

“Well, Mr. Ellery, I should advise you to make a strong effort to find
that gentleman again, or to remember his name. No doubt it’s quite all
right; but it will be best for you to have your _alibi_ confirmed.”

Ellery saw that Inspector Gibbs was not quite sure whether to believe
or disbelieve his story. After all, it did sound a bit fishy. It would
be awkward, and quite fatal to his plans of acting as an amateur
detective, if the police began seriously to suspect him of having had
a hand in the murders. That would put a visit to Liskeard House—and to
Joan—more than ever out of the question.

Ellery promised to devote the day to an attempt to trace his missing
acquaintance, and the inspector departed, with a last word of advice
given as by one man of the world to another. But Ellery had an
unpleasant feeling that until that fellow—what the devil was his
name?—was run to earth, his movements would be carefully watched by
the police. Which was not at all the development he had been
expecting.

The Chelsea Arts Club, where he had certainly sometimes met the
fellow, seemed the best place to begin the search, and Ellery
accordingly went round there to make his inquiries. But he drew blank.
No one could place a fellow who lived in Chelsea—probably an
actor—whose name was neither Foster nor Forrest nor Forrester, but
something more or less like that. Every one he asked said it was too
vague a description, or offered him suggestions which he at once
rejected. Ellery began to feel that his job was not going to be easy.
As he left the Club he was more than a little depressed, especially as
he felt sure that a heavy-footed individual, who kept some distance
behind, was under instructions to follow him. The police boots were
unmistakable; he noticed them across the road as he came down the Club
steps, and turning round a moment later, he saw their wearer following
none too discreetly in his wake. “If that is the police idea of
shadowing a man,” he said to himself, “I don’t think much of it. But
perhaps they don’t mind my knowing.” Then he considered whether it was
worth while to try giving his watcher the slip. But that, he
reflected, would only make things worse, and get him suspected all the
more. He must let himself be followed, and he might as well take it
cheerfully. “With cat-like tread, upon the foe we steal,” he whistled,
and laughed as he heard the feet of the law clumping along behind him.



Chapter XIII

An Arrest

Inspector Blaikie had made arrangements to see Superintendent Wilson
after lunch; and at half-past two they were closeted together in the
superintendent’s office. The decision about the inquest could be no
longer delayed: it was imperative that the police should make up their
minds how far they would place the facts which they had discovered
before the coroner’s jury. The police nearly always hate a coroner’s
jury—at least in cases in which murder is suspected or known. They
dislike the premature disclosure of their hardly gathered clues before
their case is complete: they dread the misdirected inquisitiveness of
some juryman who may unknowingly give the criminal just the hint he
wants. Above all, they object to looking like fools; and whether they
present an incomplete case, or withhold the information they possess,
that is very likely to be their fate in the presence of the good men
and true and in the columns of the newspapers the next morning.

The Brooklyn case had created an immense popular excitement. Neither
Prinsep nor George Brooklyn was much known to the general public; but
Sir Vernon was still a great popular figure, and pictures of Isabelle
Raven—Mrs. George Brooklyn—remembered as the finest actress of a few
years ago, had been published in almost every paper. The reporters
had, indeed, little enough to go upon; for after the first sensational
story of the discovery of the bodies, they had been put off with very
scanty information. Nothing connecting Walter Brooklyn with the crime
had yet been published; but Inspector Blaikie knew that, as the club
servants had fastened on that side of the story, it was certain to
reach some of the papers before many days passed. Still, it was a moot
point whether or not it would be best to keep all reference to Walter
Brooklyn out of the inquest proceedings, if it were possible to do so.

Inspector Blaikie would usually have been inclined to favour any plan
which aimed at keeping the coroner’s jury in the dark. That was, in
his view, a part of the duty of a good police officer. But, on this
occasion, he had become so firmly convinced of Walter Brooklyn’s guilt
that he was set on a different method of proceeding. What he wanted
was to be allowed to arrest Walter Brooklyn at once, in advance of the
inquest, and then to tell the coroner’s jury the full story of the
evidence against him, in the hope that its publication in the Press
would result in the offering of corroborative evidence from outside.
He felt more and more certain that Brooklyn had committed both the
murders; but he was not so sanguine as to suppose that he had yet
enough evidence to assure a favourable verdict—that is, a verdict
against Walter—from a jury. There was at least a specious case to be
made out in favour of the view that Prinsep had killed George, and a
skilful barrister would make much of this, using also every shred of
evidence for the view that George had killed Prinsep, in the hope of
so muddling the mind of the jury that they would not dare to bring in
any verdict other than “Not Guilty.” But only a very little further
evidence would give him enough to hang Walter Brooklyn on one if not
both of the charges. It was worth while even to submit to the foolish
heckling of a coroner’s jury, if by doing so he could hope to get the
further evidence he wanted. His case so far, he recognised, depended
on an inference; and it would be just like a jury to turn him down.
Juries, in his view, always did the wrong thing if you gave them half
a chance. Still, in this case it was worth while, in the hope of
getting further evidence, even to endure their folly.

This reasoning of Inspector Blaikie’s failed to commend itself to
Superintendent Wilson. He, too, saw that the case against Walter
Brooklyn was not conclusive, and, unlike the inspector, he was not
himself by any means convinced that Walter Brooklyn was guilty. But he
thought he knew a way of bringing the matter to a supreme test, and of
making the suspected man either proclaim his own guilt, or remove the
most serious ground of suspicion against him. His idea was that, at
least during the first stages of the inquest, the police should say
nothing of those discoveries which implicated Walter Brooklyn, but
that they should arrange for Walter himself to be called up to give
evidence as if there were no suspicion against him. He could be used
to identify the deceased; and a hint to the coroner would ensure that
he should be asked to give an account of his movements on Tuesday
evening. He would then have either to admit or to deny having been in
Prinsep’s room—either to tell at last what he must know about the
murders, or to perjure himself in such a manner as would leave no
doubt of his complicity, and little of his guilt.

Superintendent Wilson, then, would by no means agree to the execution
of a warrant for Walter Brooklyn’s arrest before the inquest; for he
still thought that he might be innocent and might be persuaded to tell
openly what he knew—a chance which his arrest would altogether
destroy. But he agreed that, if Walter Brooklyn plainly perjured
himself at the inquest, his arrest would be indispensable, and there
would be no purpose in leaving him longer at large. He agreed,
therefore, to take at once the necessary steps to procure the warrant,
and he arranged that it should be handed to the inspector, for
execution if and when the need arose. But on no account must it be
executed until after the inquest, or save in accordance with the
conditions which he had laid down. Only if Walter’s guilt or
complicity, and his refusal to tell freely what he knew, were plainly
shown, would the superintendent agree to the arrest. Meanwhile, of
course, the man should be watched.

So it happened that, although the inquest was for the most part a
purely formal affair, Walter Brooklyn was among those who were called
upon to give evidence. With most of its proceedings we need not
concern ourselves: we know well enough already almost all that the
coroner’s jury was allowed to know. Indeed, we know a good deal more;
for Inspector Blaikie, in his evidence, said not a word either of
Walter Brooklyn’s walking-stick, or of the telephone message which he
had sent from Liskeard House. No Club servant was called, and there
was no reference to the meeting with Charis Lang, who was not in any
way brought into the case. Carter Woodman, indeed, gave evidence; but
he had been warned in advance by the inspector, and he said nothing
which could appear to implicate Walter Brooklyn.

To the reporters and to the members of the police who were present,
crowding to suffocation the confined space of the coroner’s court, it
became more and more evident that the inquest was not likely to throw
any light upon the mystery. They heard, from the police witnesses,
from the household servants, and from Joan Cowper, how the bodies had
been found. Walter Brooklyn and others gave purely formal evidence of
identification: the doctors for once told a plain story. George
Brooklyn had been killed by a savage blow on the back of the head,
dealt without doubt by a powerful man with the stone club of Hercules,
which was produced in court with the bloodstains still upon it.
Prinsep, too, had probably been killed by the blow on the back of his
head, dealt with an unknown instrument. The knife thrust at the heart,
which had missed its object, had been made subsequently, and would not
by itself have caused sudden death. Inspector Blaikie’s evidence,
indeed, promised to be more exciting; for he told of the finding of
George Brooklyn’s handkerchief under Prinsep’s body, produced a knife,
similar to that found in the body, which he had found in George
Brooklyn’s office, showed the broken fragments of Prinsep’s
cigar-holder found in the garden, and photographs of fingerprints
found on the stone club and others taken from Prinsep’s hands. This
was exciting enough; but it did more to mystify than to enlighten the
public and the reporters. Still, it was excellent copy; and the
reporters, and later the editors and sub-editors, made the most of it.
Then, when the inquest seemed practically over, the coroner, a sharp
little man who had attended strictly to business and said as little as
possible throughout the proceedings, acted on the hint given him by
the police, and ordered Walter Brooklyn to be recalled. Walter’s
manner, when he gave his earlier evidence and was asked no more than a
couple of formal questions, had shown plainly to the inspector, and
also to Joan and Ellery, who were sitting together, that he was
surprised at being let off so lightly. As the inquest went on, and
nothing was said to draw him into the mystery, his expression,
troubled and puzzled in the earlier stages, gradually cleared, and, up
to the moment when he suddenly found himself recalled, he had been
growing more and more sure that the suspicions of the police against
him had been somehow dispelled. But now, in an instant, he realised
that they had been deliberately keeping back everything that could
seem to connect him with the case, not because they did not suspect
him still, but because they had carefully set a trap into which they
hoped that he would fall. For a moment, a scared look came into his
face; but, when he stepped again into the witness stand, he wore his
usual rather ill-humoured and supercilious expression. Immaculately
dressed and groomed, he was a man who looked precisely what he was—an
elderly, but still dissipated, man about town.

This time the questions which the coroner asked were far from formal.
He began with what was plainly a leading question,—

“It has been suggested to me, Mr. Brooklyn, that you may be able to
throw some further light on this tragedy. This morning you were given
no opportunity to make a general statement; but I desire to give you
that opportunity now. Is there anything further that you are in a
position to tell us?”

“I know no more of the affair than I have heard in this court
to-day—or previously from the police.” Walter Brooklyn added the last
words after a noticeable pause. “Nevertheless, there is a statement
that I want to make. It has been suggested, not in this court, but
earlier to me by Inspector Blaikie—that I was in Liskeard House on
Tuesday evening. I desire to say that I called at Liskeard House
shortly after ten o’clock and waited for a few minutes in the outer
hall. Then I went away; and since that time—perhaps twenty past ten on
Tuesday night—I have not been in either the house or the garden. Of
the circumstances of the tragedy I know nothing at all except what I
have heard at this inquest or from the police.”

Walter Brooklyn’s statement created a sensation; for here was the
first hint of a suspicion entertained by somebody as to the real
murderer. Clearly the police had been keeping something back—something
which would incriminate the man who was now giving evidence. Of
course, after interrogating Walter Brooklyn the police might have
discovered their suspicions to be groundless, and therefore have said
nothing of them. But, if this were so, why had they recalled him in
this curious fashion, and why should Brooklyn go out of his way to
draw public attention to himself, and to make certain that his doings
would be fully canvassed in the newspapers? No, the way in which he
had been recalled showed that the police were acting with a definite
purpose. They were trying to get Walter Brooklyn to make a statement
which would clearly incriminate him, and, if they really had evidence
of his presence in the house, they had certainly succeeded.

This explanation, natural and largely correct as it was, was not quite
a fair account of Superintendent Wilson’s motives. His object had been
not merely to get Walter Brooklyn to incriminate himself, but also to
give him a chance of clearing himself if he could give a satisfactory
explanation of his presence in the house. The fact that the man had
repeated on oath an obvious lie seemed to him a good enough reason for
ordering an arrest. He nodded across the court to the inspector.

But the coroner’s court had not yet quite done with Walter Brooklyn. A
juryman, quick to be influenced by the general suspicion which was
abroad, signified his desire to ask a question. “Where did you go
after leaving Liskeard House?” he rapped out.

The coroner interposed. “Since that question has been asked,” he said,
“perhaps it would be well if you would give us an account of your
movements on Tuesday night.”

Walter Brooklyn seemed to think for a minute before replying. “Well,”
he said, “I strolled about for a bit round Piccadilly Circus and
Shaftesbury Avenue, and then I went home to the club.”

“At what time did you reach your club?”

“I should guess it was shortly before midnight.”

“That is a considerable time after you left Liskeard House.”

“I am merely telling you what happened.”

“The club porter could probably confirm the time of your return?”

“Yes, I imagine so.”

“And is there any one who would be able to substantiate your account
of what you did between 10.15 and midnight? Were you strolling about
all that time?”

“Yes, I suppose I was.”

“Were you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Then there is no one who could confirm your story?”

“Probably not. But I did meet one or two people I knew.”

“None of them is here now?”

“No.”

“Do you desire that the inquest should be adjourned in order that they
may be called?”

“No. What on earth for? I don’t know whether I could find them,
anyway.”

“Then I think there is nothing further I need ask you.”

And with that, a good deal bewildered, Walter Brooklyn was told to
leave the witness box. He went back to his seat, but a minute later
got up and left the court.

Many pairs of eyes followed him as he walked slowly towards the door,
and the more experienced spectators nudged one another as Inspector
Blaikie rose quickly in his place and went out after him. Joan, in her
place in the court, saw her stepfather leave; but she did not notice
that the inspector had followed. Ellery, who did notice, said nothing;
for though he realised what was about to happen he saw that there was
no means of preventing the arrest.

Meanwhile, the coroner was rapidly summing up the evidence. Murder, he
told the jury, was clearly established in both cases; and they need
have no hesitation as to their verdict on that point. But who had
committed the murders? If they were satisfied that in either case the
evidence established the guilt of some definite person, it was their
duty to bring in a verdict against that person. In his opinion,
however, the evidence was wholly inadequate to form the basis of any
positive conclusion. It might be that John Prinsep had been killed by
George Brooklyn—the finding of the handkerchief and his known visit to
the house were certainly suspicious circumstances. It might be, on the
other hand, that George Brooklyn had been killed by John Prinsep—the
note in Prinsep’s writing found in the temple, the cigar-holder, and
his known presence in the garden were all grounds for suspicion. But
both these sets of clues could not point to the truth, and the jury
had no means of determining on which the greater reliance should be
placed. Indeed, both sets of clues might be misleading, and certainly
neither was by itself enough to form the basis of a verdict. The
murders might both be the work of some third person—and one of them
_must_ be the work of a third person—but no evidence had been placed
before them which would justify a verdict against any particular
person. Suspicion, he would remind them, was a very different thing
from proof, and even with their suspicions they must not be too free
in face of the very slender evidence before them.

After the coroner’s summing up, it was clear that only one verdict was
possible. After only a moment’s consultation, the foreman announced
that their verdict in both cases was “Wilful Murder by some person or
persons unknown.” The coroner made a short speech thanking every one,
and the court adjourned. Joan was glad to breathe fresh air again
after her first experience of the suffocating atmosphere of a court.

By this time Walter Brooklyn was safe under lock and key. As he
reached the door of the court half an hour earlier, he felt a touch on
his sleeve, and, turning, saw Inspector Blaikie immediately behind
him.

“Well, what do you want now?” he said sullenly.

The inspector beckoned him into a corner, and there showed him the
warrant duly made out for his arrest. Walter Brooklyn glanced at it.
For a moment he drew himself up to his full height and grasped his
stick tightly as if he were considering the prospects of a mad
struggle for liberty. Then he gave a short laugh. “I will come with
you,” he said; and then he added suddenly, with a fury the more
impressive because its utterance was checked—“you damned little fool
of a policeman.”

“Come, come, Mr. Brooklyn,” said the inspector. “I’m only doing my
duty.” Walter Brooklyn made no reply, and the inspector added: “Are
you ready now?”

“Call a taxi,” said Walter. “I suppose you will not walk me handcuffed
through the streets,” he added bitterly.

“Certainly not,” said the inspector, and he hailed a passing taxi, and
signed to his prisoner to get in.

A small crowd had collected by this time, and stood gaping on the
pavement as the taxi drove away.



Chapter XIV

Mainly a Love Scene

Joan had fully intended to see her stepfather before the inquest and
to warn him of his danger and get him to tell the truth to her at
least. When Ellery came to visit her on the Thursday afternoon—the
inquest was on Friday—she had been on the point of setting out for his
club, with the set purpose of making him tell her the whole story.
Just before dinner time, she knew, was the most likely hour for
finding him at home. There would probably be difficulty in persuading
him to talk freely, even to her; but she thought that she would know
how to manage him. It was still too early to start, however, and she
had ample time to see Ellery first. A talk with him was just what she
wanted. He would sympathise with her, and, she was sure, he was just
the man to help her where Carter Woodman had failed. He would throw
himself into the case, and aid her to find out what she ought to do in
order to clear her stepfather of the suspicion which lay upon him.
Since her talk with Woodman, she had come to realise fully how grave
that suspicion was; but she was sure that Bob—she and Ellery had
called each other by their Christian names ever since they were
children—would not only take her word for it that Walter Brooklyn
could not possibly be guilty of the crimes, but be ready to use his
wits and his time in proving the suspected man’s innocence. She did
not quite tell herself that he would do all this because he was in
love with her; but neither did she quite admit to herself that she
would not have asked him unless she had been in love with him.

There was some embarrassment—of which Joan was fully conscious—in
Robert Ellery’s manner as he rose to greet her. “I hope I’m not in the
way,” he said awkwardly, blushing as he said it.

“My dear Bob, I’m so glad you’ve come. I’ve been pining for some one
to whom I could really talk.”

“I wasn’t at all sure whether I ought to come. I thought you might
prefer to be alone, and you must have your hands very full with Sir
Vernon. Of course, I’d have come sooner if I had thought you wanted
me.” Again Ellery coloured.

“I want you now, anyway. And it isn’t simply that I want to talk. I
want to do something, and I want your help.”

To help Joan! What thing better could Ellery have asked for? He would
do anything in the world to help her. But what sort of help did she
need? He longed to tell her that he was hers to command in any way she
chose—because he loved her; but all he found himself saying was, “I
say, that’s awfully jolly of you—to let me help you, I mean”—conscious
of the banality of the words even as he spoke them.

Joan went straight to the point. “Bob, the police suspect my
stepfather of being mixed up with this horrible affair. In fact, I’m
sure they think he is actually guilty of murder. They’ve got hold of
something that seems to incriminate him.”

Ellery made an inarticulate noise of sympathy.

“Of course, Bob, you and I know he didn’t do it. You do think he
couldn’t have done it, don’t you?”

“It would certainly never have occurred to me to suspect him.”

“Of course, he’s quite innocent, and it’s all some horrible mistake.
He couldn’t have done such a thing. But I want you to help me prove he
didn’t.”

“My dear Joan, are you quite sure the police really suspect him? Of
course, they have to make inquiries about everybody. Why, I was quite
under the impression that they suspected me.”

“Suspect you? How dreadful! What _do_ you mean?”

“Well, I had a most inquisitorial visit from the police this morning;
and a man in obvious police boots has been following me about all
day.”

He spoke lightly; but Joan took what he said very seriously indeed.
“My dear Bob,” she said. “This is positively awful. But why ever
should any one think you—had anything to do with it?”

“Oh, just because I failed to give a ‘satisfactory explanation’—I
think that is what they call it—of my movements on Tuesday night. You
know I walked home after dinner. Well, I wandered round a bit and
didn’t get home till midnight. So they argue that I had plenty of time
to kill half a dozen people, and insist that I must either prove an
_alibi_—or take the consequences. What do you say? Do you think I did
it?”

“My dear Bob, don’t joke about it. It’s far too serious, if the police
are going to drag you into this terrible business.”

“No, really, it isn’t serious at all—now at any rate. I am in a
position, fortunately, to produce a conclusive _alibi_. You see, I
wasn’t alone, and I’ve found the chap who was with me most of the
time, and sent him round to Scotland Yard to tell them it’s all right.
I expect the gentleman with the boots will be out of a job before
long.”

“You’re sure it’s really all right?”

“Of course it is, or I shouldn’t have said a word about it. And I dare
say what you have heard about the police suspecting old Walter isn’t a
bit more serious.”

“Oh, but it is. From their point of view, I’m afraid they have a very
strong case.” And Joan told him all that she knew—both what she had
heard about Charis Lang from Marian Brooklyn, and what Carter Woodman
had told her. Finally, she told Ellery that she had made up her mind
to go at once to her stepfather, and try to make him tell her the
truth.

As Joan told her story, Ellery could not help saying to himself that
it looked bad for old Walter. He did not know Walter Brooklyn very
well; but all he did know was unfavourable, and he had never heard any
one—even Joan herself—say a good word for him. Left to his own
reflections, Ellery would not have hesitated to suspect Walter
Brooklyn of murder; for he realised at once that the wicked uncle had
everything to gain by putting his two nephews out of the way. But Joan
knew the man, and he did not; and, if Joan was positive, that was good
enough for him. He was so completely under her influence that the idea
that Walter Brooklyn was guilty was dismissed almost as soon as it was
entertained. Ellery would make it his business to get Walter Brooklyn
cleared—he would work for the old beast with the feeling that he was
working for Joan himself. Entering at once into Joan’s plan, he
applauded her determination to go and see her stepfather, and placed
himself unreservedly at her service.

“You’re a dear,” she said.

While they had been discussing Walter Brooklyn’s story, Ellery’s
embarrassment had quite left him; but these words of Joan’s, and her
look as she spoke them, brought it back in double force. He felt the
blood rushing to his head, and became uncomfortably aware that he was
going red in the face. Also, he could not take his eyes off Joan, and
somehow it seemed that she could not take her eyes off him. They gazed
at each other, with something of fear and something of embarrassment
in their looks, and each was conscious of a heart beating more and
more insistently within. For at least a minute neither of them spoke.
Then Ellery said one word and put out his hand towards her. “Joan,” he
said, and his voice sounded to him strange and unreal. He felt her
hand grasp his, almost fiercely, and an acute sensation—it has no
name—ran right through him at the touch. In an instant, her head was
on his shoulder and his arms were round her. She was sobbing, and his
cheek was caressing hers. “Poor darling,” he said at last.


Joan had meant that talk with Robert Ellery to be so practical, so
entirely the opening of a business partnership. She and Bob were to
clear her stepfather together; and, when they had done that, who knew
what might come after? But there was to be no intrusion of sentiment
until the work in hand was completed. In the event, things had not
gone off at all as she intended. From the moment of his coming, she
had felt a sense of danger—something poignant, yet intensely
welcome—in their meeting. This feeling had been dispelled for the time
while she told him her tale, and she had half said to herself that now
she was safe. Then, in a moment, security had vanished, the sense of
tension had come back far more strongly than before, she had felt
herself merely a passive thing—as he was another passive thing—in the
control of great elemental forces beyond herself. Without a word said,
it seemed, a marriage had been arranged.

There was, indeed, no need for words between them on this matter of
matters that had joined them indissolubly together. They were sitting
now on the couch, holding each other’s hands. They could talk
business—speak of what must be done to clear Walter Brooklyn—while
with the contact of their bodies love interpenetrated them. And Joan
could say to herself already that this most unbusinesslike proceeding
was the best stroke of business she had ever done. For the immediate
purpose she had in view, it had immensely strengthened their
partnership. For these twain had become one flesh, and what was near
her heart needs must be near his also.

As they sat there together, they formed their plan of campaign. It was
obviously impossible to make a beginning until Joan had done her best
to make Walter Brooklyn tell what he knew. If he were to refuse, their
task would be so much the harder; but even the hardest task now seemed
easy to them with the power of their love behind them. Whatever his
attitude might be, they would still be ready to do their best for him.
But surely he would tell Joan. There was no time to be lost. He must
be seen at once, and Ellery set to work to advise Joan about the
questions she ought to ask.

“It seems clear enough that he was in the house. I suppose he will be
able to explain that. But we mustn’t be content with getting just his
explanation of what he was doing here. Try to find out exactly what he
did and where he went that day. We may need to be able to account for
every minute of his time.”

Joan said that she quite saw how every detail mattered. If he would
tell her anything, he would probably be willing to tell the whole
story. At all events, she would do her best. It would be wisest, they
agreed, for her to go alone; for Walter Brooklyn would very likely
refuse to talk if Ellery were with her. But he would walk round to the
club with her, and wait while she tried to get her stepfather to see
her.

So Joan and Ellery walked round to the Byron Club together. There was
a strange pleasure—quite unlike anything they had known before—in
merely walking side by side. They belonged to each other now. But the
answer to Ellery’s inquiry of the Club porter was that Mr. Brooklyn
was out, and that he had left word he might not return to the Club
that night. Joan did not at all like the expression on the porter’s
face as he gave this information. She saw that he at any rate had
strong suspicions, presumably put into his mind by the police.

Asked whether he could say where Mr. Brooklyn was, the porter did not
know. He might, perhaps, be at his other Club, the Sanctum, in Pall
Mall. Or again, he might not. He had not said where he was going.

Inquiries at the other Club were equally barren. Mr. Walter Brooklyn
had not been there that day. He might come in, or he might not. And
again Joan saw from the porter’s manner that here too her stepfather
was under suspicion of murder.

Joan left at each Club a message asking Walter Brooklyn to ring her up
at Liskeard House immediately he came in. This was all that could be
done for the moment; and to Liskeard House they returned, having
suffered a check at the outset of their quest. Ellery promised to
spend the evening scouring London for traces of Walter Brooklyn; and
in the mind of each was the half-formed thought that he might have
fled rather than reveal what he knew. Each knew that the other feared
this; but neither put the thought into words. They arranged to meet
again on the following morning, and Ellery was to ring up later in the
evening to report whether he had traced Walter, and to hear whether
any message had come to Joan from either of the Clubs. Then, after the
manner of lovers, they bade each other farewell a dozen times over,
each farewell more lingering than the last. At length Ellery went; for
he was due at Scotland Yard, where he hoped to find that his _alibi_
had been accepted, and the last trace of suspicion removed from him.
It would be awkward to be followed about by the man in police boots
wherever he went with Joan, and it would be awkward to have the police
know exactly what they were doing in Walter Brooklyn’s interest. The
police boots had followed Joan and him on their visits to the two
Clubs, and now, as he left Liskeard House, Ellery saw their owner
leaning against a lamp-post opposite, and gazing straight at the front
door. Never, he thought, had a man looked more obviously a
detective—or rather a policeman in plain clothes. Even apart from the
boots, he was labelled policeman all over—from his measured stride to
the tips of his waxed moustache. As Ellery turned down into
Piccadilly, he heard the man coming along behind him.



Chapter XV

To and Fro

It was by a fortunate accident that Ellery had been able so soon to
establish his _alibi_. After drawing blank at the Chelsea Arts Club,
he had had very little of an idea where he should try next. He was
almost certain that it was there he had been introduced to the man,
and the only course seemed to be that of waiting until he turned up
again, or his name somehow came back to mind. Still, it was just
possible that Ellery had met the man at his other Club in the Adelphi,
and he got on a bus and went there to pursue his inquiries. His
success was no better, although he remained there to lunch and made
persistent inquiries of his fellow-members for an actor whose name
began with an F. The afternoon found him walking rather disconsolately
down the Strand not at all certain where to go next. Just outside the
Golden Cross Hotel, fortune did him a good turn; for he ran straight
into the very man he was looking for. Ellery turned back with him, and
explained the difficulty he was in, and his acquaintance promised to
go at once to Scotland Yard, and try to set matters right with
Inspector Gibbs. He was so friendly that Ellery had some difficulty in
admitting that he had forgotten his name; but he got round it by
asking for his address, in case of need. The other’s answer was to
hand him a card, on which was written:—

    William Gloucester,
    11 Denzil Street, S. W. 3.

“Of course,” said Ellery to himself. “But it didn’t begin with an F
after all.”

This meeting put Ellery at his ease; and he felt that he could now go
and see Joan with a clear conscience. Leaving Gloucester to go to
Scotland Yard, and asking him to tell the inspector that he would come
round later, he set off for Liskeard House, and found himself charged
with the task of clearing, not himself, but Walter Brooklyn. He also
found himself engaged to be married.

These events made it all the more essential to make quite sure that
the police were no longer inclined to look on him with suspicion; and,
on leaving Joan, he went straight to Scotland Yard, and was soon
received, not by Inspector Gibbs, but by Superintendent Wilson, who,
having received the inspector’s report on Gloucester’s visit, had made
up his mind to have a look at Ellery himself. The superintendent at
once put him at his ease by telling him that his explanation, and his
friend’s corroboration of it, appeared to be quite satisfactory.
Ellery’s reply was to say that, in that case, perhaps he might be
relieved of the presence of the heavy-footed individual who had been
following him about all day. The superintendent laughed. “Yes, I think
we can find something more useful for him to do,” he said. “I hope you
have not resented our—shall I say?—attentions. We were bound to keep
an eye on you until we were certain.” And the superintendent at once
gave instructions on the house-phone that the man who had been
watching Ellery need do so no longer, but should report to him in a
few minutes in his room.

Ellery assured him that it was quite all right; but that he was glad
to be relieved of the man, because he wanted to do a little private
detecting on his own. “I know you people have got your knife into
Walter Brooklyn; but I’m sure he had nothing to do with it, and I mean
to do my best to find out who had.” Ellery said this deliberately, in
the hope of getting the superintendent to show something of his hand;
but that wary official merely wished him luck—for “we policemen,” he
said, “are always glad to have a man’s character cleared, though you
may not think it”—and politely bowed him out. So far as he could see,
no one followed him as he left the building, and he went back to
Liskeard House. He had said that he would ’phone; but he found it
quite beyond his power to keep away.

Joan was busy with Sir Vernon when he arrived; but she came to him
before long. No message had come from Walter Brooklyn, and she was
getting anxious. Was it possible that he had been arrested already?
Ellery promised to make inquiries, and to use every possible effort to
find her stepfather; but, though he tried that evening every place he
could think of in which Walter Brooklyn might be, no trace of him
could be found, and there was no sign that he had been arrested.
Resumed inquiries early the next morning were equally fruitless.
Brooklyn had not been back to either of his Clubs, and no message had
been received from him. It was under these circumstances that Joan
failed to see her stepfather before the inquest opened. She was
greatly relieved to see that he was present, and promising herself
that she would talk to him as soon as it was over, she did nothing
while the inquest was actually in progress. She passed a note to him
asking him to come round and see her at Liskeard House immediately the
court rose, and he nodded to her in reply across the room. She
therefore felt no anxiety when he rose and left his seat before the
proceedings came to an end. Thus it came about that he was arrested
without her having a chance to ask him to tell his story of the events
of Tuesday night.

The explanation of Walter Brooklyn’s absence was simple enough. By
Thursday, life at his Clubs had been made unendurable for him by the
manner, and evident suspicions, of the Club servants. He became
conscious that his fellow-members were also talking about him, and he
decided to go away. He had been summoned to appear at the inquest on
the following morning; but he could at least have a quiet night before
returning to his troubles. While Joan and Ellery were hunting London
for him, Walter Brooklyn was doing himself well at a hotel in
Maidenhead. He had intended to return there after seeing Joan; but the
inspector’s hand on his shoulder warned him that he would sleep the
coming night in jail.

At Vine Street, Brooklyn asked to be allowed to see a solicitor. The
request was at once granted; and, in response to an urgent message,
Mr. Fred Thomas, of New Court, arrived within half an hour. Thomas was
not Brooklyn’s regular solicitor; for Carter Woodman had managed most
of his business affairs. But Thomas was a Club acquaintance and a man
about town himself—professionally a lawyer with few illusions and a
large, if rather disreputable, practice, mainly among racing men.
Walter Brooklyn’s first idea was that Thomas should make an effort to
get him admitted to bail when he was brought up before the magistrate
next morning, and he mentioned the names of several persons who might
be prepared to stand surety for him. But Thomas at once destroyed his
hopes. There was no chance, he said, of securing bail on a charge of
murder: he was afraid his client would have to make up his mind to
stay where he was for the present. At any rate, Thomas would see to it
that he was made as comfortable as could be. There were ways of doing
these things, and Thomas was an expert hand at dealing with the
police. What he could do would be done; but the main thing was for his
client to give him every fact that could possibly be helpful in
preparing the defence. They began to discuss the case.

Meanwhile, Ellery, who had guessed at once the reason why the
inspector had followed Walter Brooklyn out of the coroner’s court, had
not been idle. He had left his place a minute or two later, merely
whispering to Joan that there was something he must do at once. He had
come out of the court just in time to see the inspector and Walter
Brooklyn get into a taxi and drive off. Hailing another taxi, he had
told the driver to follow, and his car had drawn up at Vine Street
Police Station a moment after the other. He had seen Brooklyn and the
inspector pass into the building, and had then paid his driver, and
stood disconsolately outside wondering what he should do. Finally, he
went into the station and asked for Inspector Blaikie, sending in his
card. He was kept waiting for some minutes, and then the inspector
came to him, and asked what he wanted.

“You have arrested Mr. Walter Brooklyn, have you not?” Ellery asked.

The inspector replied that he had.

“Is it possible for some one to come and see him? I suppose he will be
here overnight.”

The inspector shook his head. “He will be here for the night,” he
said, “but you can’t see him. He has already sent for his lawyer.”

“I don’t want to see him myself. But his stepdaughter, Miss Cowper, is
very anxious to have a talk with him.”

“Oh, that’s another matter. It might be arranged. I don’t say it
could, but it might. The right course would be for her to see his
lawyer, and for him to apply on her behalf. I couldn’t do anything on
my own responsibility.”

“Then, if I brought her here, you couldn’t allow her to see him.”

“No, I’m afraid I couldn’t. The regulations are very strict.”

Ellery tried to move the inspector. He failed, but he was not inclined
to give up hope. He went straight to Scotland Yard and asked for
Superintendent Wilson. Reminding that official that, earlier in the
day, he had wished him luck in his effort to clear Walter Brooklyn,
Ellery obtained without difficulty permission for Joan to see him in
his cell. Armed with a signed permit, he drove straight to Liskeard
House.

He found Joan with his guardian, Harry Lucas, who had brought her back
in his car from the court. Lucas, too, had seen the inspector leave
the court, and had guessed his purpose. He had also guessed Ellery’s
object in leaving a moment later. In the car, he had already told Joan
what he feared; and they had agreed that the best thing was to go back
to Liskeard House and wait for news. Walter Brooklyn would come there
if he was still a free man; and if not, Ellery would either come, or
telephone to tell Joan what had happened.

Joan therefore received Ellery’s bad news without surprise; and she
gave him a grateful kiss—she had told Lucas of their engagement while
they were waiting—when he showed her the permit to visit her
stepfather Lucas’s car was at the door, and he offered to take Joan
round at once. He took the driver’s seat himself, telling his
chauffeur to await his return, and Joan and Ellery got in behind.



Chapter XVI

A Link in the Chain

Fred Thomas came away a good deal dissatisfied from his discussion
with his client. Walter Brooklyn, he felt, had given him little enough
to go upon. He persisted in affirming that he had not been in Liskeard
House that night, and in denying absolutely that he had either rung up
his Club and given a message or left his walking-stick in Prinsep’s
room. Yet surely, Thomas argued, the police, if they had proceeded to
the drastic step of an arrest, must have some definite proof that he
had been in the house, or at any rate some clear indication of his
complicity. He did not believe that his client was being frank with
him; and, while he had not said this outright, a hint of what he
thought had produced a violent outburst of bad temper from Brooklyn,
and almost caused him to tell his legal adviser to clear out and come
back no more. This had served to confirm Thomas’s idea that Brooklyn
was lying, and his thought, as he went away, was that, if he tried
again, probably Brooklyn would tell him the truth when he cooled down
and came to realise more fully what his position was. In his
experience imprisonment had a wonderfully sobering effect. Meanwhile,
Thomas made up his mind to see Carter Woodman, and try to find out
from him more definitely how matters stood. Woodman, presumably, would
want Walter Brooklyn to get off, even if he believed him to be guilty.
He would probably not want a member of the Brooklyn family to be
convicted of murder, whatever the truth might be.

Thomas had not long left Walter Brooklyn when Joan arrived to see him.
She had come into the police-station alone, leaving Lucas and Ellery
outside in the car to wait for her return. While they waited, Ellery
told his guardian more about his engagement to Joan, and received from
him very hearty congratulations. “You didn’t take my advice, my boy,”
Lucas said; “but now that things have come out right, I’m most
heartily glad that you didn’t. I have hoped for this for a long time.
I’m very fond of you both, and I can see there’s no doubt about your
being fond of each other.” Which was very pleasant hearing for Ellery;
for he had a great liking for his guardian, and he knew that his
friendly countenance would be likely to stand him in good stead with
Sir Vernon Brooklyn, of whom he was more than a little afraid. “You
must back me up with Sir Vernon,” he said; and Lucas readily promised
his help.

It was three-quarters of an hour before Joan came out of the
police-station. She seemed well satisfied, smiling back at the
policeman who accompanied her to the door. “He has told you?” asked
Ellery, as he held open the door of the car.

“What he had to tell,” Joan replied. “It was not very much; but it
makes everything different. Let us go back and talk it over.”

Lucas drove straight back to Liskeard House, and there, in Joan’s
room, the three held a consultation. “He was not here at all,” she
told them. “I mean he did not come back to the house on Tuesday night.
The telephone message must be all a mistake.”

“Do you mean that he knows nothing at all about it?” asked Ellery.

“I am quite sure that he knows nothing. He has told me exactly what he
did after leaving here and up to the time when he went back to his
Club.”

“You may think I ought not to ask this, Joan,” said Lucas; “but are
you quite sure of what you say?”

“Absolutely sure. He was telling me the truth, I know.”

“Then I suppose,” Ellery put in, “we can produce witnesses to prove
that he was somewhere else when he was supposed to be here. But who
the devil did send that telephone message if he did not?”

Lucas put in a word. “Never mind that for the moment. The main thing
now is to prove that he did not send it. Who was with him and where
was he?”

“Ah, that’s just the difficulty. He has told me exactly where he went;
but I don’t see how we can find any one to prove it.”

“Do you mean that he was alone all the time, and no one saw him?”
asked Ellery.

“Well, not quite that; but something very like it, I’m afraid.”

Then Joan was allowed to tell her story. Walter Brooklyn, after being
refused an interview with Sir Vernon, had left Liskeard House at about
a quarter past ten. He had stopped for a minute or two outside the
Piccadilly Theatre, wondering what to do next. Then he had walked
slowly along Piccadilly and into the Circus. There again he had hung
about for a few minutes, and had then gone slowly along Coventry
Street as far as Leicester Square. He had walked round the Square, and
outside the Alhambra had stopped for a few minutes to talk to a woman
of his acquaintance—“not at all a nice woman, I am afraid,—and he
knows no more about her than that her name is Kitty, and that she is
often to be found about there. He doesn’t even know her surname. It
was about a quarter to eleven when he met her.”

Then he had gone on past the Hippodrome and up Charing Cross Road as
far as Cambridge Circus. He had stopped for a few minutes outside the
Palace, but had not spoken to any one, and then he had walked down
Shaftesbury Avenue and back into Piccadilly Circus. In Cambridge
Circus he had lighted a cigar with his last match; but it had gone
out. Just outside the Monico he had stopped a man he did not
know—“fellow came out of the place, he looked like a waiter, don’t you
know”—and had borrowed a match and re-lighted his cigar. Then he had
crossed the Circus again, and walked back down Piccadilly as far as
the turning leading to Liskeard House. He had half a mind, he said, to
go in and ask to see Prinsep; but after hanging about for a few
minutes he had given up the idea, crossed the road, and walked down
St. James’s Street with the idea of looking in at his other Club. But
he had decided not to go in, and had walked past the door down Pall
Mall and into Trafalgar Square. At the top of Whitehall he had looked
at his watch, and the time had been 11.45. Just before that, he had
hung over the parapet on the National Gallery side of the Square for a
minute or two; but he had no conversation with any one. On leaving the
Square, he turned up Regent Street and made his way, walking a good
deal faster, along Jermyn Street and up St. James’s Street, and so
back to his Club in Piccadilly. He had thus again passed Liskeard
Street, but on the opposite side of the road. When he got in, he had
gone straight to bed.

This account of Walter Brooklyn’s movements was quite convincing to
Joan and her two listeners; but they had to admit that there was not
much in it to persuade others of its truth. According to his own
account, he must have been in the neighbourhood of Liskeard House at
11.30 when the ’phone message was supposed to have been sent; and not
one of his movements between 10.15 and midnight seemed to be at all
easy to confirm by any independent testimony. When Joan had finished
her narrative, they all felt that, if Walter Brooklyn’s vindication
was to depend on an _alibi_, his chances were not particularly good.
Still, if he had not been in the house, the police could after all
have very little against him beyond a suspicion.

At this point Mary Woodman came into the room to say that Sir Vernon
would be very pleased if Mr. Lucas would come and sit with him for a
while, and Lucas, promising to obey her order to be very quiet and not
to allow the patient to excite himself, was led off to the sick room.

“I tell you what, Joan,” said Ellery, who had been sitting still, with
a prodigious frown on his face, trying to think the thing over, “we’ve
jolly well got to establish that _alibi_. We don’t know what else the
police may have; but we’re safe enough if we can prove that he wasn’t
here that evening. Unless we can establish positively that he wasn’t
there, the circumstantial evidence will go down with a jury.”

“But how can we establish it? I only wish we could.”

“We’re going to. We’re going to find those people he spoke to, and
we’re going to hunt London for people who saw him strolling about.
After all, he’s very well known, and lots of people must have seen
him. I know we shall be able to prove he’s telling the truth.”

“You’re a dear to say so, and I don’t see what we can do but try. How
do you propose to set about it?”

“First of all, I propose that we make a map of the wanderings of
Ulysses—shall we call it?—showing exactly where he went, whom he spoke
to and when, and so on. That will help us to see exactly what’s the
best way of getting to work.”

So Ellery took a sheet of paper, and they sat down side by side at the
table. Under Joan’s directions, Ellery made a map of Walter Brooklyn’s
journeyings on Tuesday evening. It took an hour to do, and this is
what it looked like when it was done, with notes to help them in
prosecuting their inquiries.

[Illustration: A map of some streets in London, entitled “Walter
Brooklyn’s Odyssey.” A dotted line traces a path from Liskeard House
to Byron Club that meanders along a dozen streets, including
Piccadilly, Charing Cross Road, Jermyn Street, Pall Mall, and Liskeard
Street. Nine different points on the path are labelled indicating
points where Walter Brooklyn engaged in some activity.]

“It isn’t very hopeful, I’m afraid,” said Joan, as they looked
together at the finished plan; “but I’m afraid it is all we have to go
upon.”

“Not quite all, I hope. Did he tell you what the man he spoke to
looked like—I mean the chap who gave him a match outside the Monico?”

“Yes, he was a tall, dark man, clean-shaven and very blue in the chin,
wearing a long black overcoat and a squash hat. And he almost
certainly had some trouble of the eyes. He wore glasses; but he kept
blinking all the time behind them.”

“That ought to help. Now what about this woman, Kitty? What is she
like?”

“He says she is about forty, but dresses—and paints—to look younger.
She’s getting fat, has bright golden hair—certainly dyed—and wears a
great many rings. She’s fairly tall, and walks with a bit of a waddle.
Her eyes are dark and piercing, he says, and she has a smile that
looks as if it was switched on and off like an electric light.”

“I must say she doesn’t sound attractive.”

“But he says she is—extraordinarily; and, what is more, she’s very
well known. He has heard her other name, but he can’t remember it. He
thinks she has had several surnames.”

“That seems to be all we can get to start with. What I propose to do
is to follow your stepfather’s route, trying to find some one who saw
him at each point where he stopped.”

“Yes, but you can leave a bit of it to me. We know that Marian and
Helen and Carter all saw him coming here at a few minutes past ten,
and the servants here say he left at about a quarter-past. He tells me
he stopped outside the theatre just after that. If so, some one very
likely saw him. I’ll see about that, and I’ll try to find out as well
whether any one saw him passing again later. He must have passed at
about 11.20 to half-past—I mean when he stood at the corner of
Liskeard Street, and again just before twelve on his way back to the
Club.”

“Very well. You take this end and I’ll follow the rest of his
wanderings. And there is no reason why I shouldn’t get to work at
once. It will be best to go over the ground in the evening, just as he
did.”

They sat and talked of the case for a while longer; and then they sat
for a time without talking at all, happy in each other’s presence
despite the tragedy in which they were involved. At length Ellery
started up, saying that he must go out and get some dinner, and then
go to work seriously.

“And by the way, Joan,” he added, “why shouldn’t you come out and have
dinner with me? I’m sure Mary would look after Sir Vernon.”

“My dear boy, does it occur to you that I’ve left him to himself for a
good long time already—or rather left poor Mary alone to look after
him? I couldn’t have done it if Marian had not promised to come in and
help.”

“I’m sure Mary wouldn’t mind,” Ellery began, pleading with her to
come.

“Oh, of course, Mary’s an angel. She never minds anything. But that’s
no reason why she should be put upon. No, my boy, you go and have your
bachelor dinner, and I’ll get Winter to send me up an egg.”

“Mayn’t I share the egg?”

“Certainly not. Get along with you.” And Joan sped her lover on his
way with the taste of her kiss fresh on his mouth. It seemed a
profanation to eat anything after that; but all the same, while Joan
ate her egg and then took her turn in watching over Sir Vernon,
Ellery, seated alone in the grill room at Hatchett’s was making a very
solid and satisfactory meal. Somehow, love seemed to give one an
appetite, he reflected, as he lighted a cigar. Then he set forth upon
his quest, walking slowly down Piccadilly towards the Circus. He had
no fixed plan of action. As he put it to himself, he was following the
route Walter Brooklyn had taken and just keeping his eyes open, in the
hope that something might turn up. Nothing did turn up till he reached
Piccadilly Circus. There, as he knew, Walter Brooklyn had hung about
for a few minutes, but had spoken to no one.

The quest certainly did not seem to be hopeful. Piccadilly Circus was
crowded with people, some hurrying this way or that in pursuit of some
definite object, others standing or strolling about as if they had
nothing to do and nowhere in particular to go. The flower-women who
sit on the island in the middle of the Circus in the daytime had
already left their posts, and would presumably have done so on Tuesday
before Walter Brooklyn took that disastrous walk. But before long
Ellery picked out two persons who remained at fixed spots while the
rest of the crowd changed from minute to minute. The one was a
policeman regulating the traffic and the queues at the point where the
buses stopped by the island: the other was a night-watchman in his
little hut, keeping guard over a piece of the roadway which was under
repair. These were the most likely of all the crowd to have been there
on Tuesday night, and with them he determined to begin his inquiries.

The policeman was quickly disposed of. He had not been on duty on
Tuesday; but a little persuasion in tangible form soon secured the
name of the constable who had, and the news that he had only been kept
away that night by a misadventure, and would be on duty again the
following night. Ellery made a note of the name, and said to himself
that he must see the other policeman later. For the present he
strolled over towards the watchman, whom he found reading a tattered
book in his little cabin, by the light partly of the lamps and sky
signs, and partly, though it was a warm summer evening, of a blazing
fire in a pail. He was a little, old man with a pair of steel
spectacles, which had carved a deep rut in his nose, and he seemed to
be reading with extraordinarily concentrated attention. Ellery managed
to see what the book was. It was _Sartor Resartus_. The man was
clearly a “scholar,” and probably a homely philosopher of the
working-class.

It seemed best to use the opening which providence had provided.
“That’s a fine book you’ve got there,” said Ellery, casting his mind
back to the days at school, when he had first and last read his
_Sartor_, only to forget all about it and Carlyle as he reached years
of discretion.

The little old man peered up at him over his glasses. “It is _the_
book for me,” he said. “That Carlyle, sir, he was a man.”

“I dare say you manage to read a great deal at your job.”

“I do that. You see, I had a accident ten years ago. ’Fore that, I was
a navvy; but that finished me—for heavy work, I mean. At first, I was
wretched at this job; the company gave it me, when doctor said I was
fit for light work. And then it came to me I’d take up reading, like.
I hadn’t hardly ever opened a book till then—not since school. I can
tell you, it’s been a revelation to me. I don’t ask nothing better
than to sit here with a good book now. But it isn’t often one of you
gentlemen seems to notice what I’m reading.”

The old man spoke slowly, and rather as if he was thinking aloud. He
seemed almost to have forgotten that Ellery was there.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have noticed, unless there had been something I
wanted to ask you. A man’s life may depend on it, and I wanted your
help.”

The old man peered up at him again, and a little gleam of excitement
came into his eyes; but he only nodded to Ellery to go on.

Ellery handed him a photograph of Walter Brooklyn. “On Tuesday night,
at about half-past ten, that man stopped for some minutes on the
island in the middle of the Circus here. He is accused of having been
somewhere else, and his life may depend on our finding some one who
saw him here. What I want to ask is whether you happened to notice
him.”

The old man thought for a minute before answering. “I can’t say I did;
but I seem to know his face somehow. Half-past ten, you said?”

“Then or then abouts, it must have been.”

“No, I didn’t see him. At half-past ten I was in here reading, and I
didn’t notice much. But I know I’ve seen that chap somewhere. Wait a
minute while I think.”

Ellery waited. It seemed a long while before the old man went on.

“Now, if you’d have said half-past eleven, or maybe a quarter-past, I
should have said I saw him.”

“Yes. Why, he did cross the Circus again at about that time.”

“Then I saw him. It was like this, you see. About a quarter-past
eleven on Tuesday I gets up to walk round the works here and see if
all’s right. Up there at the corner by Shaftesbury Avenue I saw a
gentleman—very like your gentleman he was and smoking a big cigar—come
strolling across the road. Very slow, he was walking. Seemed as if he
was annoyed about something—waving his stick in the air, he was, as if
he was making believe to hit somebody. I only noticed him because a
big motor-car came round suddenly from Regent Street as he was
crossing, and he had to skip. Came straight into the ropes round the
work up there. I hurried to see if he was all right; but before I got
there he dusted himself down and walked on. I’m almost sure he was
your man. I’ve got a memory for faces, and I noticed him particularly
because he seemed that ratty, if I may say so.”

“Can you tell me again what time that was?”

“Not far short of half-past eleven—leastways it was after the quarter,
twenty to twenty-five past, maybe.”

Ellery congratulated himself on an extraordinary stroke of luck. It
was, of course, far more important to establish Walter Brooklyn’s
presence in Piccadilly Circus between 11.15 and 11.30 than at 10.30;
but it had seemed impossible to do so. Some one might have noticed him
when he hung about there for several minutes; but it seemed very
unlikely that his mere walking across the Circus at the later time
could have been confirmed. By a lucky chance it had been, and the
first link in the _alibi_ had been successfully joined.

The next thing was to get the watchman’s name and address, and to
arrange for his appearance if he were called upon. The old man readily
gave the particulars; but when Ellery talked of payment for his
services, he refused. “I don’t want money for it,” he said; “not
unless I have to appear in court. Then I’ll want my expenses same as
another. But I’ll tell you what. If I’ve done you a good turn, you
come here again some night and talk to me about books. That’ll be a
lot more to me than what you’d give me. There ain’t no one I’ve got to
talk to about what I read. It’ll be a treat to have a talk to a gent
like you, what knows all about books and what’s inside ’em.”

“I’m afraid,” said Ellery, “you do me too much credit. It’s years
since I read Carlyle, and I’ve forgotten most about him. But I’ll come
back, and lend you some more of him if you want it. But I expect you
know a lot more about him than I do.”

It turned out that what the old man wanted above all else was a copy
of Carlyle’s _Cromwell_. Ellery promised to bring it, and after a few
words more they parted on the best of terms, and Ellery walked on
slowly along Coventry Street and into Leicester Square. He felt that
luck was on his side.



Chapter XVII

The Lovely Lady

To walk round Leicester Square in search of the mysterious Kitty gave
Ellery an uncomfortable feeling. Kitty appeared to belong to a type of
lovely lady which had not come much in his way, and his first
sensation was one of strong distaste. Moreover, he very soon realised
that the description given to him was not likely to be of much value.
There seemed to be a whole tribe of Kittys in the neighbourhood of
Leicester Square, and Ellery liked each one he set eyes on less than
the last. He came speedily to two conclusions—first, that he would
never spot the right one by means of the description which Walter
Brooklyn had given, and secondly, that it would be quite out of his
power to address one of these ladies, or to do anything but seek
refuge in flight if, as seemed most probable, one of them attempted to
address him. He tried to overcome this feeling; but it was no use.
Even though no one had yet spoken to him, he turned tail, and took
refuge in Orange Street for a few minutes’ reflection.

He knew that he could not do it. Moreover, to walk round Leicester
Square addressing strange females by a Christian name which might or
might not belong to them was probably an excellent prelude to
adventures of a sort, but hardly to the gaining of the particular
information of which he was in search. The way to find Kitty was not
to hunt for a hypothetical needle in a very unpleasant haystack, but
to go straight to some one who was likely to know. And who would be
more likely than Will Jaxon, who was celebrated as the devil of a
fellow with the women, and lived, moreover, in bachelor chambers
hardly more than round the corner in Panton Street? Ellery set off
there to find his man.

Jaxon had been with Ellery at Oxford, and, dissimilar as many of their
tastes were, they had kept up the acquaintance. They had in common an
intense absorption in the technique of the theatre, in which Ellery
was interested as a young and promising writer of plays, and Jaxon as
an equally promising producer. But Jaxon’s way of living was very
different from his friend’s. He was not a vicious man; but he said
that vice, and still more the shoddy imitation of it which passes
current in the London _demi-monde_, attracted him as a study. He liked
watching the game, and making little bets with himself as to its
fortunes. It was, he said, a harmless amusement, and, if the
professors of psychology based their views largely on a study of the
“diseases of personality,” why should not he, a mere amateur, follow
their example? So he passed much of his time among persons whose ways
of living were, to say the least, not in conformity with the dictates
of the Nonconformist conscience. It was his pride to know the Society
underworld; and, in particular, he was wont to boast that he knew the
“points” of all the important “lovely ladies” of London. It was ten to
one that he would know where to find Kitty.

Jaxon, fortunately, was in, and Ellery was soon able to explain his
business. He wanted a woman, none too young, and getting fat, whose
name was Kitty something-or-other. She was, he believed, often to be
found round about Leicester Square.

“You’re the very last man I ever expected to come to me on a quest
like that,” said Jaxon with a laugh. “Now, if it had been Lorimer or
Wentworth—but you of all men. Oh, I know it’s all right, and your
intentions are strictly honourable. But do you know that there are at
least a dozen Kittys, all of them celebrated in their way, who conform
fully to the description you have given me? How am I to know which one
you want?”

Ellery repeated his description, giving every detail that had been
told him—the golden, dyed hair, the smile that switched on and off
like an electric light—“That’s not much help. It’s part of the
professional equipment,” said Jaxon—the dark eyes, the slovenly walk.

“The golden hair and the dark eyes help to narrow the field; but there
are still half a dozen it might be—all of the fat and forty brigade,
and all of them no better than they should be according to the world’s
reckoning. Five of the six are just the ordinary thing; but the other
is something quite out of the common run. She’s not what you would
call an honest woman; but she’s a very remarkable person for all that.
I wonder if it is she you are after.”

“Tell me about her first.”

“Well her name—or at least the name she’s known by—is Kitty Frensham.
Kitty Lessing it used to be when I first knew her. In those days she
was more or less the property of a Russian Archduke, or something of
the sort. Or rather, he used to be altogether her property. Then, a
year or so ago, he died, and since then she has been rather at a loose
end. She’s fat and forty; but she’s a most fascinating woman. Awfully
clever, too.”

“Can you get hold of her for me?”

“Yes, I think I know where to find her; but you’d better understand
that she’s not at all the ordinary sort of street-crawler. If she’s
your woman, the description you gave was a bit misleading. She is most
often about with Horace Mandleham, the painter chap, nowadays. Come
round to Duke’s with me, and I dare say we shall find her.”

Ellery knew about Duke’s, of course; but he had never been there. Just
at the moment, it was the latest thing in night clubs in London, and
everybody who fancied himself or herself as a bit in advance of other
folk was keen to go there. Ellery was not advanced, and it took some
persuasion to carry him along. He seemed to think that Jaxon ought to
cut out his prize for him from under the guns of Duke’s and bring her
home in tow. But Jaxon said he could find her, but he couldn’t
possibly bring her. Finally, Ellery agreed to go. After all, he
reflected, it was all in the day’s work. He had known what sort of man
Walter Brooklyn was; and he must not complain if the task of clearing
up his character meant going into some queer places.

Duke’s certainly did not rely for its popularity on external display.
It was approached by three flights of narrow and rickety stairs, and
the visitors had to satisfy two rather seedy-looking janitors, not in
uniform, at top and bottom. And, when they entered the Club itself,
Ellery had a still greater surprise. The famous Duke’s consisted of
one very long low room—or rather of three long, low attics which had
been amateurishly knocked into one. The decorations were old and
faded, and the places where the partitions had been were still marked
by patches of new paper pasted on to hide the rents in the old. The
ventilation was abominable, and what windows there were did not seem
to have been cleaned for months. The furniture—a few seedy divans and
a large number of common Windsor chairs and kitchen tables—seemed to
have been picked up at second-hand from some very inferior dealer.
Tables and floor were stained with countless spillings of food and
drink, and a thick cloud of tobacco smoke made it quite impossible to
see any distance along the room. There was only one redeeming feature,
and Ellery’s eye fell upon it almost as soon as he entered the place.
Near the door was a magnificent grand piano, on which some one was
playing really well an arrangement from Borodine’s _Prince Igor_.

Jaxon drew Ellery to a vacant table. “We’ll sit down here and order
something, and then in a moment or two, I’ll go round and spy out the
land,” he said. “From here we shall see any one who goes out. And, by
Jove, there’s one of the six Kittys—not the one I told you about. I
shouldn’t be surprised if we found the whole half-dozen before the
evening’s out. Everybody looks in here just now.”

Ellery felt very uncomfortable when he was left alone to sip his gin
and water while Jaxon went round the room, exchanging a few words with
friends at several of the tables. But soon his friend came back to
report. “No, she’s not here now; but I’ve spotted another Kitty for
you. I forgot her: she makes the seventh on our list, and you’d better
have a word with the two who are here. Bring your drink across, and
I’ll introduce you to that one over there. She’s Kitty Turner, and the
chap she’s with is a fellow from Bloomsbury way called Parkinson—a
civil servant, I believe. I’ll do the talking, or most of it. You just
ask her if she knows Walter Brooklyn when you get a chance.”

They drew a blank at the conversation. Kitty Turner was certainly a
very bright lady, laughing immoderately both at her own and at Jaxon’s
jokes, and, it seemed to Ellery, a good deal relieved to get a rest
from her _tête-à-tête_ with the gloomy fellow who was sitting by her
side. He, at any rate, seemed to take his pleasures sadly. Indeed, it
struck Ellery, as he looked round the room, that very few of the
people there seemed to be really enjoying themselves. The women were
cheerful, but there was something forced about the gaiety of many of
them; and some of the men seemed to need a deal of cheering up. Ellery
found himself wondering why on earth so many people came to this sort
of place, if they did not even find it amusing. He at any rate was not
amused, even as Jaxon seemed to be, by regarding the place as a sort
of psychological study. He had come there for a definite purpose; and,
as soon as he had satisfied himself that Kitty Turner knew nothing of
Walter Brooklyn, he was ready to move on. A signal soon brought Jaxon
to his feet, and they strolled across the room to try the next Kitty
on the list.

Kitty Laurenson did know Walter Brooklyn, but not to any degree of
intimacy. She had met him a few times, and Ellery rather gathered
that, in her opinion, he had been less attentive than he should have
been to her charms. She had certainly not seen him on Tuesday, or
indeed for weeks past. Ellery liked her even less than the other; for
her attitude towards him seemed to be strictly professional, and, as
soon as she was sure that he could not be fascinated, she showed him
plainly that the sooner he went away the better he would please her.
Ellery again gave Jaxon the signal, and they left her table. They were
just discussing whether it was worth while to wait a time in the hope
that some more Kittys might turn up, when Jaxon said suddenly, “By
Jove, here she comes, and alone too. We’re in luck.”

Ellery turned, and saw entering the room a stout, rather
coarse-looking woman of about forty or forty-five, so far as he could
judge through the intervening smoke, and despite the artificial
obstructions which the lady herself had placed in the way of those who
might be minded to inspect her too closely. He saw at once that she
was a person to be reckoned with. The face was powerful, and the pair
of keen black eyes which were glancing penetratingly round the room,
as if in search of some one, were not easily to be forgotten. The
figure was without dignity; but the woman’s expression gave it the
lie. Certainly she was more likely to have owned the Russian Archduke
than to have been owned by him.

Jaxon left Ellery standing by himself and went up to her. She greeted
him pleasantly. “Oh, Will, I was looking for Horace. Do you know if he
is here?”

Jaxon replied that he had not seen him and asked her to join him and
his friend while she was waiting. She agreed, and Jaxon led her across
and made the introduction.

From the moment when he was introduced to Kitty Frensham Ellery had a
feeling that he had found what he wanted. She was very gracious; but,
as Jaxon introduced her, she smiled, and the coming of her smile was
for all the world as if she had suddenly pressed the switch and turned
it on like the electric light. Both the other Kittys had smiles which
they turned on and off at will; but their smiles came into being
gradually, whereas this woman smiled, and stopped smiling, with quite
extraordinary suddenness. Ellery was so sure that she was the right
woman, and also, as he told Jaxon afterwards, so sure of her common
sense, that he plunged straight into his story.

“There’s something I want to ask you,” he said, “indeed, I got Jaxon
to introduce me on purpose. You know Walter Brooklyn, don’t you?”

Her face at once became serious. “Yes, I do. I have just seen the
terrible news in the evening paper. Do you think he can have done it,
Mr. Ellery? I suppose you know him too.”

“Yes, I know him, and I am quite sure he had nothing to do with it. I
want you to help prove that I am right. You saw him on Tuesday night,
did you not?”

“I had quite forgotten it; but I did. I spoke to him for a minute or
two. I was coming out of the Alhambra with Horace—Mr. Mandleham, that
is—and Horace had left me for a minute to look for a taxi. The Old ’un
came up and spoke to me, I remember.”

“The Old ’un? Is that a name for Walter Brooklyn?”

“Yes, we used to call him ‘The Old Rip’; but it got shortened to ‘the
Old ’un.’ He goes the pace rather, even now, you know.”

“I dare say he does; and of course that is likely to make it all the
worse for him with the jury—if it’s the usual sort.”

“But if he didn’t do it, surely he’s all right, isn’t he?”

“The fact that you remember meeting him may be the means of saving his
life. Can you tell me at what time that was?”

“Oh, Lord, Mr. Ellery, I never know the time. It was some time in the
evening, fairly early. We left before the show was over. Horace would
probably know.”

“Did Mr. Mandleham see Mr. Brooklyn?”

“Yes, he did. When he came back he asked me who it was I had been
talking to.”

At this point a new voice struck into the conversation. “Hallo, Kitty,
you seem very deep in something. Haven’t you even a word for me?”

“Why, here is Horace,” said Kitty. “I’ve been waiting for you for
hours, Horace. It’s really too bad. But now you come over here, and
make yourself really useful for a minute. It’s not a thing you do
often.”

Horace Mandleham was fortunately quite precise about the time. They
had left the Alhambra a few minutes after half-past ten, and he had
come back with the taxi just about a quarter to eleven. Walter
Brooklyn had at that moment taken his leave of Kitty Frensham. Yes,
that was the man. He recognised at once the photograph which Ellery
passed across to him. He was quite ready to swear to it, if it was of
any importance. He had seen the evening paper, and knew the chap was
in trouble.

A good deal to his surprise, Ellery found that he definitely liked
Kitty Frensham, and before he left he had even promised to go and see
her soon in her flat in Chelsea, which, as she told him, was hardly
more than round the corner from his own rooms. She had promised, and
had made Mandleham promise as well, to give every help that could
possibly be given in clearing Walter Brooklyn, although she had made
it plain that she did not like him, and although her reluctance to
find herself in a court of law was evident enough. Still, she had
recognised that she ought to do what she could; and Ellery
half-believed that a part of her willingness was due to the fact that
he had impressed her favourably. He had come prepared to spend money
in securing the evidence of a “lovely lady” of unlovely repute: he had
secured the willing testimony of an exceedingly clever and, even to
his temperament, fascinating woman. Kitty Frensham was certainly not
the sort of person to whom money could be offered for such a service.
It puzzled Ellery that such a woman should have, as he put it to
himself, “gone to the bad.” She was worthy of something better than
that anæmic specimen, Mandleham.

It was by this time too late to do more; but, before going home,
Ellery ’phoned through to Joan, who was waiting up for a message from
him and told her briefly what he had accomplished. The quest, he said,
had taken him to some strange places; he would tell her all about it
on the morrow. Joan, too, had news of a sort; but she said that it
would keep. Both of them retired for the night well pleased with the
results of their first evening’s experience of practical detective
work. It had been easy going so far; but, Ellery said to himself,
fortune had a most encouraging way of smiling on the beginner.
Probably their troubles were still to come.



Chapter XVIII

The Case for the Defence

The more Fred Thomas thought over the case which he had to handle, the
less he liked it. He was certainly not accustomed to be squeamish; and
considerably more than his share of rather shady business came his
way. But he did not like these cases of what he called “serious
crime.” Sharp practice was well enough; but a lawyer engaged in it
regularly had best abstain from the defence of murderers. Thomas had
by this time gone into the whole case, and was fully aware of the
force of the evidence against his client held by the police. In his
mind, there was not much doubt of Walter Brooklyn’s guilt. He had
obviously been in the house; the stick and the telephone message
showed that; and what were you to do with a man who would not make a
clean breast of it to his own lawyer? What was the use of his client’s
reiterated assertions that he had not been near the place, and that he
knew nothing at all about the murders? Indeed, was not the refusal to
speak the clearest indication of guilt? If Brooklyn, though he had
been present in the house, had not been guilty, surely he would have
told what he knew. Still, unsatisfactory as his client was, he would
have to do his best for him. He could not very well throw up the case
after he had once agreed to take charge of it. But he was not hopeful,
and, for the moment, it seemed the best course to go and talk the
whole thing over with Carter Woodman.

But, when one came to think of it, was there not yet another
indication of the man’s guilt? If the man had been innocent, he would
surely have gone first of all to the family lawyer.

Thomas knew Woodman only slightly, and was not quite sure of his
reception. But, when he rang up, Woodman readily agreed to see him and
to give all possible help. “After all,” he had said, “the man’s a sort
of relation of mine, whatever he may have done”—a way of putting the
position which did not strengthen Thomas’s belief in the innocence of
his client.

When Thomas was shown into Woodman’s office, he was surprised at the
cordiality of his reception. Woodman was “so glad” he had come, and
they must work together to do what they could for the poor fellow—“a
bit of a bad hat, between ourselves, but—for the sake of the family,
you know.”

Thomas went straight to the point. “Mr. Brooklyn positively assures me
that he was not in Liskeard House on Tuesday night, and that he knows
absolutely nothing of the murders.”

Woodman said nothing; but he drummed on the table with his fingers,
and the action conveyed a perfectly clear message. What were you to do
for a fellow who would not tell his own lawyer the truth?

“He says that he simply strolled about all the time between ten
o’clock and midnight.”

“Alone?” asked Woodman.

“Yes, quite alone. Judging from his story, it would be impossible to
obtain confirmation—even if it were all true.”

“Then what line of defence do you propose to adopt?”

“It was on that point I wanted your advice. In the circumstances, and
assuming that they remain unchanged, what can we do but deny the story
and trust to a blustering counsel to get him off?”

“H’m, surely more than that is needed?”

“Certainly; but what more can be done, unless there is something else
that Mr. Brooklyn can tell us?”

“Look here, Thomas. You can be quite frank with me. I’m quite sure
Brooklyn was in the house and that he knows all about the murders,
even if he didn’t actually commit them. But, like you, I want to get
him off.”

“Can’t you help me to make him speak?”

“He doesn’t like me, and nothing I could say would have any influence.
If he had been inclined to trust me, he would have sent for me in the
first instance. You’ll have to make him talk somehow. But I can tell
you what will weigh most heavily against him. He stands to gain a
fortune by these murders—not by either of them singly, but by both
together. It’s hard to get over a fact like that as well as the other
evidence; the suggestion of motive is so clear—and, to put it bluntly,
his personal character doesn’t help matters.”

“Do you happen to know whether Mr. Brooklyn was pressed for money?”

“He was always pressed for money, and just lately he has been even
harder pressed than usual. He was round here on Tuesday trying all he
could to get money from me, and he left me with the expressed
intention of seeing Prinsep, and having another attempt to raise the
wind through him. I know Prinsep was determined to refuse, and he
wasn’t a man to refuse gently, either.”

“What you say makes me feel more than ever like throwing up the case.
I’m not bound to go on if he won’t be frank with me.”

“Don’t throw it up. We must give the fellow every chance. It’s
difficult for you, I know, but do the best you can. I expect your idea
of a good hectoring counsel is the best that can be managed. After
all, they have no direct evidence.”

“I’m afraid what they have is good enough.”

“Oh, you never know, with a jury.”

“What came into my head was that the best possible line of defence, if
it can be arranged, would be to throw suspicion on some one else. Not
enough to do the other person any real damage, but just enough to
create a reasonable doubt.”

Woodman made no reply for a moment. Then he said, “That’s all very
well; but where do you propose to find the person and the evidence?”

“First of all, it is surely very probable that George Brooklyn was
actually killed by Prinsep. There is good evidence for that, you’ll
agree.”

“Good enough to make a case, and it may even be true, though I don’t
think it is.”

“Well, I propose to argue strongly that it is true, and I think we can
create enough doubt to make it impossible to convict Mr. Brooklyn on
that head. That leaves the murder of Prinsep.”

“Unfortunately, that is just where the evidence against Walter
Brooklyn is strongest.”

“I know it is; and I want you to help me to find some one else who
could reasonably be suspected of killing Prinsep. Never mind the
evidence. I’ll find that if you’ll help me to the person. It won’t
need to be enough to do the suspected person any real damage. It isn’t
as if we wanted to get any one convicted: I only want to throw dust in
the jury’s eyes.”

“I’m sorry; but I can’t help you there,” said Woodman shortly.

“What about the servants?”

“Out of the question. They’re as innocent as you are.”

“What does it matter if they are innocent? Can they be proved so?”

Carter Woodman brought his fist down on the table with a bang. Then he
said very deliberately, “I am anxious to use all legitimate means of
getting Mr. Walter Brooklyn acquitted; but I must tell you once and
for all, Thomas, that I decline to be a party to attempt to throw the
guilt on any innocent persons.”

“My dear fellow, what is the use of talking about legitimate means in
a case like this? You know as well as I do that only illegitimate
means can give my client a dog’s chance.”

“Then I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

With that the interview ended. Thomas left Woodman’s office more
firmly than ever convinced of Walter Brooklyn’s guilt, but also
determined to follow up his stratagem of shifting the suspicion, or at
least some part of it, elsewhere. The more he thought of the plan, the
more it appealed to him. It wasn’t much of a dodge in itself; but it
seemed to offer more hope than anything else in this case. If the
fellow did get hanged after all, he would have only himself to blame.
Thomas would have done his best.

Following up this line of thought, Thomas made up his mind that the
first thing to do was to get full information about the servants.

Thus, Walter Brooklyn’s legal adviser, though with a very different
idea in his mind, set to work upon an aspect of the case which had
already been considered and investigated by the police. It will be
remembered that Inspector Blaikie had cross-examined the two
men-servants, and that subsequently he and Superintendent Wilson had
agreed to have the two men watched—not that they were much disposed to
believe that either of them had anything directly to do with the
murders, but because their complicity or knowledge, or even their
guilt, was just barely conceivable. Morgan’s presence at the house of
his friends at Hammersmith on the Tuesday night, and his return to
Liskeard House at about a quarter to eleven, had been duly verified;
but his statement that he had gone straight to bed, and remained there
until the morning, rested wholly on Winter’s evidence. There was no
reason to suspect this, unless it should turn out that Winter was
himself involved. The police had, therefore, directed most of their
attention to the butler, who had certainly gone up to his room with
Morgan at a quarter to twelve. Had he stayed there, or had he come
down again and played some part in the night’s doings? On this point
the police could find no evidence at all. Morgan stated that Winter
was in his room in the morning, that his bed had been slept in, and
that he rose at his usual hour. But Morgan had slept heavily, and he
could not positively say that Winter had remained in his room all
night. This fact, however, was clearly no evidence at all against
Winter, and there had been nothing in his demeanour to suggest that he
was in any way concerned. His past history, too, seemed to make him a
most unlikely criminal. Accordingly, now that the evidence seemed to
point conclusively to the guilt of Walter Brooklyn, the police, while
they still kept some perfunctory watch on the two servants,
practically dismissed them from their minds.

Thomas, when he had ascertained the main facts about the two
men-servants, did not for a moment suspect that either of them was
guilty, or think it likely that either had any knowledge of the
crimes. His first step was to ask Walter Brooklyn himself whether he
supposed that either of the servants could throw any light on the
matter. Supposing his client to be at the least fully cognisant of the
night’s events, he thought that the question could hardly fail to give
him some guidance. But Walter Brooklyn displayed little interest, and
by doing so confirmed the lawyer’s opinion that the servants had
nothing at all to do with it. “Go and see them by all means,” Brooklyn
had said, “but I don’t suppose they know anything about it.” That was
all he would say, and he still stuck to the story he had first told
Thomas, and maintained that he himself was equally ignorant of what
had taken place. A marked coolness, which did not increase Thomas’s
zest for the case, had sprung up between him and his client, and
although certain questions had to be asked and answered, it was clear
enough that Walter Brooklyn greatly preferred the solitude of his cell
to his lawyer’s society.

It was on his own initiative, therefore, that Thomas went to see both
Winter and Morgan, and received from them a repetition of what they
had told the police. From them he learnt nothing new. But from one of
the maid-servants he picked up a fact which had escaped Inspector
Blaikie’s attention. A few days before the murders the butler, Winter,
had quarrelled violently with John Prinsep, and, in the heat of the
quarrel, Prinsep had practically given the man notice to leave. The
notice had not been quite definite, and the maid had heard Winter
confide to Morgan that he intended to hang on and see what happened,
and to get the matter cleared up with Prinsep the one way or the other
before the month expired. She did not know what the quarrel had been
about; and Thomas did not think it politic to push his inquiries
further, or to ask either Morgan or Winter himself for an explanation.
He, therefore, cautioned the girl against telling any one at all that
there had been a quarrel. “It would only make further trouble,” he
said; “and we have trouble enough on our hands already.”

Thomas had thus found the first essential for building up a case on
suspicion against Winter—an actual quarrel and therefore a possible
motive for murder. But he recognised that the argument was very thin,
and that he must, if possible, get something more definite. Inquiries,
however, failed to give him anything at all that could be used to
defame either Winter’s or Morgan’s character. They appeared to be
persons of unblemished respectability, and Winter’s long service in
the Brooklyn household seemed never to have been marred before by such
an incident as his quarrel with Prinsep. The position did not look
promising for Thomas’s client; but he determined to persist.

His persistence was at length rewarded. He discovered what had been
the cause of the quarrel between Winter and Prinsep. And it was Morgan
who told him, quite unconscious that he was providing a link in the
chain which Thomas was attempting to forge. Thomas had turned his
attention to a further study of the character and circumstances of the
murdered men, and had gone to Morgan for light on the ways of his late
master. It was easy to see that Morgan had disliked Prinsep, though he
had always behaved to him in life as a perfectly suave and
well-drilled servant knows how to behave—with a deadly politeness that
conceals all human feeling behind an impenetrable mask. But, now that
Prinsep was dead, Morgan no longer concealed his opinion of him. He
had neither prospect nor intention of remaining with the Brooklyns,
and he did not care whether they liked or disliked what he said.
Accordingly, he told Thomas without any hesitation that, shortly
before his death, Prinsep had been engaged in a peculiarly unpleasant
intrigue with a girl down at Sir Vernon’s country place at
Fittleworth, in Sussex—the daughter, in fact, of Sir Vernon’s head
gardener there—and what made it worse was that the girl was engaged to
be married at the time to a decent fellow who had only found out at
the last moment how things were going. He would marry her all the
same; but that did not make Prinsep’s part in the affair less
dishonourable.

It did not take Thomas long to extract the information that the
“decent fellow” whom Prinsep had wronged was actually no other than
this very man, Winter, against whom he had been trying to build up a
case. Winter was twenty years older than the girl; but he seemed to be
very much in love with her, and naturally enraged by Prinsep’s misuse
of her. Here at last were all the elements of a crime of passion, and
Thomas began to see his way clear to throw upon Winter quite enough
suspicion to make it very difficult for a jury to convict Walter
Brooklyn. Indeed, might he not even have stumbled accidentally on the
truth, or a part of it? Perhaps after all Walter Brooklyn was not the
murderer, although he knew all about it. But, on the whole, he was
still inclined to believe that his client was guilty, and that
nevertheless fortune had presented him with an excellent chance of
shifting the suspicion elsewhere. Certainly he would say not a word of
his discoveries to any one until the time came to adopt an actual line
of defence at the coming trial.



Chapter XIX

The Police Have Their Doubts

While the representatives of the defence—official and unofficial—were
pursuing their separate lines of investigation, the police had not
been altogether idle. Inspector Blaikie had not been long in finding
out that Thomas had been making inquiries among the servants at
Liskeard House, or in drawing the conclusion that the defence would
make an attempt to shift some part at least of the suspicion to other
shoulders with the object of creating enough doubt to make it
difficult for a jury to convict their client. He was not surprised at
this, and it did not at all alarm him; for, among other things, he
regarded it as sure proof that the lawyer held his own case to be
weak. The inspector was quite unable to take seriously the idea that
Winter was in any way implicated in the murders; and Morgan’s
complicity, owing to the position of their bedrooms, was practically
impossible without Winter’s. Blaikie therefore treated Thomas’s moves
as being merely the necessary preparation for an attempt to throw dust
into the eyes of the jury, and not in the least an endeavour to find
the real murderer. There could be no doubt about it—Thomas’s tactics
were, from the inspector’s standpoint, the final and conclusive
proof—Walter Brooklyn had murdered Prinsep, and either he or Prinsep
had murdered George Brooklyn. They had the right man under lock and
key.

But it is one thing to be sure that you have the right man in custody,
and quite another to be sure of getting him convicted by a jury. The
inspector admitted that the case against Walter Brooklyn was not
conclusive. His complicity was practically proved; but there was no
direct evidence that he had actually struck the blows. The evidence
was circumstantial; and, in these circumstances, the inspector did not
disguise from himself the fact that any attempt to shift the suspicion
might at least create enough doubt to make a conviction improbable.
Accordingly, while Joan and Ellery were doing their best to prove
Walter Brooklyn’s innocence, Inspector Blaikie was searching, with
equal vigour, for further proofs of his guilt.

But he found nothing that was of material importance, so far as he
could see. The sole addition to his case was the evidence of a
taxi-driver, who, from his accustomed post on the rank outside the
Piccadilly Theatre, had seen Walter Brooklyn pass at somewhere about
half-past eleven or so; but the man could not be sure to a few
minutes. This was all very well in its way, the inspector thought; but
as Walter Brooklyn’s presence inside Liskeard House at about 11.30 was
proved already, it could not be of much importance to prove his
presence just outside at about the same time. There was, however, this
to be said for the new piece of evidence. Walter Brooklyn denied the
telephone message, and maintained that he had not been at Liskeard
House at all. Direct evidence that he had been at the time in question
within a minute’s walk of the house was certainly better than nothing.

Nothing further had come to light when, on Saturday morning, Inspector
Blaikie went to Superintendent Wilson with his daily report on the
case, telling him first about the taxi-man’s evidence. The
superintendent seemed to attach some importance to this. “Where you
have to rely on circumstantial evidence,” he said, “the accumulation
of details is all-important. Every little helps. Your taxi-driver may
yet be an important link in the chain.”

The inspector confided to his superior that the result of his
reflections on the case was to make him far more doubtful than he had
been of securing a conviction.

“Quite so,” said the superintendent. “I thought you would realise that
when you had thought it over.”

The inspector replied that he saw it now, and went on to explain what
he believed to be the strategy of the defence—throwing suspicion on
the servants. “The trouble of it is,” he said, “that although I’m
absolutely sure in my own mind that Winter had nothing whatever to do
with the affair, there’s no way of proving the thing one way or the
other. So far as the evidence goes, he might have done it. Of course,
there’s absolutely no shred of evidence that he did; but that is not
enough to prevent a clever counsel from arousing suspicion in the mind
of a jury.”

“Are you so sure,” said the superintendent, “that there is no shred of
evidence? I mean, of course, of what the other side may be able to
dress up to look like evidence. I should say that fellow Thomas is
clever enough to find something that he can make serve as a cause for
suspicion, if there is anything at all that will serve. For example,
this Prinsep seems to have been a bit of a beast. Is there anything to
show whether Winter was on good or bad terms with him? If they had
quarrelled or anything of the sort, that is just the kind of fact
Thomas, or his counsel, would use to good effect.”

“You’re right there; but I’ve come across nothing that would suggest a
quarrel. Morgan—that’s the valet chap—made no secret of disliking
Prinsep very cordially; but Winter seems to be just the good, faithful
family servant.”

“I dare say there’s nothing to be found out in that way: but you might
make a note of it, and get a few inquiries made. We want to know
exactly how strong the defence is likely to be. And, by the way, I
suppose you still have no doubts in your own mind that Walter Brooklyn
is the murderer?” The superintendent opened his eyes, and looked at
the inspector as he spoke.

“None at all—at least, it seems to me practically certain. Quite as
certain as the case against most men who get hanged. Do you mean that
you are in doubt about it?”

The superintendent made no direct reply to this. “At any rate,” he
said, “the evidence is certainly not conclusive. I suppose you have no
idea whether the defence will try to prove an _alibi_.”

“I don’t see how they can. According to his own story, Brooklyn was
just strolling about alone all the evening. He can’t prove that,
surely.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. If it were true, he might have been seen
by a dozen people. And, even if it weren’t true, Thomas might be able
to produce witnesses who would swear they had seen him. Thomas
wouldn’t stick at that. Any _alibi_ he tries to produce will need very
careful scrutiny.”

“But we know Brooklyn was in the house at 11.30.”

The superintendent smiled, and leant back in his chair. “No,” he said,
“that is just where you go wrong. We don’t know it. It rests on the
evidence about the telephone message. But have you considered all the
possibilities about that message? The defence clearly will not admit
that Walter Brooklyn sent it. We believe he did; but is it not quite
possible for the defence to argue that somebody else sent that message
with the deliberate intention of misleading us? And is it not also
possible that Brooklyn sent it, but not from Liskeard House?”

“But why should he say he was at Liskeard House if he wasn’t?”

“I don’t say he wasn’t. But he may maintain that the man who took the
message down made a mistake. After all, such mishaps are common
enough. Or he may have been meaning to go to Liskeard House before the
messenger arrived.”

“I think that is ruled out any way. We have proved from inquiries at
the telephone exchange that Liskeard House did ring up Brooklyn’s club
at about the time stated. There was some trouble about the connection,
and the operator remembers making it.”

“Well, take the other possibility. May not the defence argue that some
one else must have impersonated Brooklyn at the telephone, with the
deliberate object of throwing suspicion upon him? The murderer,
supposing him not to be Walter Brooklyn, would obviously want to get
some one else suspected if he could. On that theory, all the
circumstantial evidence would be false clues left by the real
murderer.”

“That doesn’t seem to me at all likely, if I may say so. The evidence
that was left on the spot where Prinsep was killed was obviously meant
to incriminate George Brooklyn. That seems to show that, when the
murder was done, the murderer had no idea that George Brooklyn was
dead already, if indeed he was. A criminal would hardly lay two
distinct and actually inconsistent sets of clues, leading to quite
different suspects.”

“Not unless he was a quite exceptionally clever criminal, I grant you.
But tell me this. Why should a man, who otherwise covered his traces
so well, give himself away like an utter fool by that telephone
conversation?”

“Obviously, I should say, because the ’phone message was sent before
the murder, and the murder was not premeditated. Having killed his
man, Brooklyn took the only possible course by denying the
conversation.”

“Yes, that theory hangs together; but I’m not satisfied with it. There
seems to me to be every reason to believe that the murders were most
carefully thought out beforehand, and in that case the sending of the
telephone message needs a lot of explanation. Then, again, we have
still no indication at all of how Walter Brooklyn, or for that matter
George Brooklyn, got into or out of the house.”

“On that point I have absolutely failed to get any light. My first
idea, of course, was duplicate keys, and the stable yard. But the yard
was quite definitely bolted as well as locked by eleven o’clock. The
wall could not be scaled without a long ladder, which is out of the
question. The front door is quite impossible, unless three or four
servants were in the plot. I suppose they must have slipped in through
the theatre, although it beats me how they got in without being seen.”

“May not Walter Brooklyn have come in through the stable yard before
it was closed, and been in the house some time before the murders? He
may have been going away when your taxi-man saw him at about 11.30.”

“Even so, that doesn’t explain how he let himself out and bolted the
place after him from the inside. And, in any case, George Brooklyn was
still alive at 11.30, when he was seen leaving the building by the
front door. He had to get back, and Prinsep, if he killed him, must
have been alive too until well after 11.30.”

“And you can add to that the difficulty that George Brooklyn seems to
have got back into the garden after 11.30, and that, where one man
could enter unseen, so could two.”

The inspector scratched his chin. “The whole thing is a puzzle,” he
said. “But there’s one thing I’m sure of. It’s a much worse puzzle if
you don’t assume that Walter Brooklyn was the murderer.”

“Still, there’s nothing so dangerous as to simplify your problem by
assuming what you cannot conclusively prove to be true. If I were a
juryman, I certainly could not vote for a conviction on the evidence
we have at present.”

“But there’s no one else who could have done it.”

“Oh, yes, there is. There’s all the population of London. I grant you
we have at present no reason for suspecting any one else in
particular. But that may be because we don’t know enough.”

“Then what do you want me to do?”

“Hunt, for all you’re worth, for further evidence. Don’t shut your
eyes to the possibility that Walter Brooklyn may not be the murderer.
Hunt for evidence of any kind, as if you were starting the case
afresh.”

“And, meanwhile, Walter Brooklyn remains in custody?”

“Most certainly. There is presumptive evidence that he is the guilty
party. But it’s nothing like a certainty. Remember that.”

The above conversation serves to show that the police, on their side,
were becoming seriously worried. They had hoped that the strong
presumptive evidence against Walter Brooklyn would speedily have been
reinforced by further discoveries; but so far they had been
disappointed. Inspector Blaikie at least was still strongly of opinion
that he was guilty; but a strong opinion is not enough to convince a
jury, and the inspector did not like to see the acquittal of a man he
had arrested, especially as he had no other evidence pointing to some
different person as the guilty person. Superintendent Wilson at least,
while he could not blame the inspector for his conduct of the
investigation, was growing more and more dissatisfied with the
progress of the case. He had an uneasy and a growing feeling, which he
had at first been unwilling to admit even to himself, that they were
on the wrong tack.



Chapter XX

Superintendent Wilson Thinks It Out

When the inspector had left him, Superintendent Wilson gave himself up
for a time to his thoughts. Leaning back in his chair, with his long
legs stretched out before him, and the tips of his fingers pressed
together before his face, he concentrated his faculties upon the
Brooklyn affair. A heavy frown settled on his brow, and he gave every
now and then an impatient twist of his body, eloquent of his mind’s
discomfort. At length he sighed, looked at the clock, rose, put on his
hat, and started for home. He had made up his mind, as he did when
difficulties beset him, to talk the case over with his wife.

Superintendent Wilson never mentioned business to his wife when things
were going well; but whenever his usually clear brain seemed to be
working amiss, it was his way to unload on her all his trouble. Not
that Mrs. Wilson had a powerful intellect—far from it. She was a
comfortable, motherly woman, inclined to stoutness, and completely
wrapped up in her children and her home. For her husband she had a
profound admiration. He was, to her mind, not merely the finest
detective in Europe, but the cleverest man in the world. But she was
quite content to admire his cleverness without understanding it; and
her husband made no attempt, as a rule, to discuss his cases with her.

He had found, however, that on the rare occasions on which his
thinking got into a blind alley, her very passivity was the best
possible help he could have. As he talked to her, and as she assented
unquestioningly to everything that he said, new ideas somehow arose in
his mind. Doubts were dispelled, new courses of action suggested, the
weak spots in the armour of crime became apparent. He would tell her
that she had been the source of his most brilliant inspirations; and
she would placidly accept the rôle, without bothering to inquire in
what way she contributed to his flashes of insight into the most
abstruse mysteries that came under the notice of the Criminal
Investigation Department.

It was a sign of deep dissatisfaction with the progress of the
Brooklyn case that the superintendent now took his troubles home to
his wife. He found her, in the pleasant sitting-room of their house
facing Clapham Common, placidly knitting woollies for the children in
anticipation of the coming winter. From the garden came the noise of
the children themselves, playing a game which involved repeated shouts
of “Bang, bang, bang!” as the rival armies engaged.

“My dear. I want to consult you,” he said, coming up and kissing her.

Mrs. Wilson laid down her knitting on the table beside her, and
composed herself to listen.

“It’s about this Brooklyn case. I suppose you’ve read about it in the
papers. I’m working on it, you know.”

Mrs. Wilson, who confined her newspaper reading to a glance at the
pictures and headlines in the _Daily Graphic_, had barely heard of the
case, and knew none of the details. Her husband therefore began by
giving her a brief, but perfectly clear, account of the circumstances
of the crimes. It helped to clear his own mind, and to put the
essential facts in their proper focus.

“How dreadful!” was Mrs. Wilson’s appropriate comment at various
points in the story. “And who did it?” she asked when her husband had
done, smiling at him as if he were certain to know.

“My dear, if I knew that, I shouldn’t need to consult you. Blaikie
feels quite certain it was Walter Brooklyn, old Sir Vernon’s brother.
I’d better tell you just what there is against him.” And the
superintendent gave an account of the evidence leading to the
presumption of Walter Brooklyn’s guilt—the walking-stick, his failure
to explain his movements on the night of the murders, his very strong
motive for the crimes, and finally, the telephone message sent from
Liskeard House on the fatal evening.

“But you say he didn’t do it. Then who did?” asked his wife.

“No, my dear, I didn’t say he didn’t do it. All I say is that I’m not
satisfied that he did.”

“But you say he sent the telephone message——”

“Even if he did send the message, that doesn’t prove that he committed
the murders. He may have been there, and yet some one else may be the
murderer. But I’m not even sure that he ever did send the message.”

“If he didn’t send it, some one else did.”

“Yes, my dear, that’s the very point. But if it was some one else,
then that some one was deliberately trying to incriminate Walter
Brooklyn.”

“That is what you call laying a false clue, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but the trouble is that, if the telephone and the walking-stick
are false clues, we have to deal with two quite different sets of
false clues, both deliberately laid, and pointing to quite different
conclusions as to the murderer. Is that possible?” The superintendent
paused, and looked at his wife. But instead of answering, she got up
and went to the window. “Georgie,” she said, “you mustn’t pull the
cat’s tail. If you’re not good I shall send you to bed.” Then she came
back to her seat. “Yes, dear, you were saying——”

“I was asking whether it was credible that some one should have laid
two sets of quite inconsistent false clues for the purpose of
misleading us.”

“Two sets of clues, dear. And both to mislead you. It must be very
difficult to see through them both.”

“By George,” exclaimed the superintendent, leaping from his chair and
beginning to pace up and down the room. “By George, you’ve given me
just the idea I wanted. Yes, that must be it.”

“What must be what, dear? I had no idea I’d said anything clever.”

“Why, _both_ sets of clues weren’t meant to mislead us. That’s it. The
criminal laid two sets of false clues. He meant us to see through one
set; but he thought we should never see through the other. He reckoned
it would never occur to us that both sets of clues were false. Oh,
yes. We were to feel awfully bucked up about seeing through the first
set of clues—the obviously false ones—and then we were meant to go on
and hang the wrong man gaily on the strength of the others. It was a
clever idea, too, by Jove.”

“Do you mean——” Mrs. Wilson began; but her husband was now in full
flow, and he cut her short.

“What I mean is that the criminal deliberately laid the set of clues
which pointed to the two men having murdered each other. We were bound
to see through these, because the conclusion to which they pointed was
just physically impossible. Then he laid the clues pointing to Walter
Brooklyn, really meaning this time to get Walter Brooklyn hanged for
the murders. My word, yes, this does throw a new light on the case. My
dear, you’ve done it again. There’s lots to find out yet; but I’m sure
it will come out right now that I know where to begin.”

“Then who was the murderer, dear? Have I told you somehow? I’m sure I
don’t know who it was.”

“Neither do I, my dear. But I think I do know now how to begin looking
for him. When I’ve found him I’ll tell you who he is. And half the
credit of finding him will be yours.” The superintendent was so moved
that he went up and kissed his wife as he kissed her only on occasions
of rare exaltation. Then he got back to business with a sigh.

“If both sets of clues are false, my dear, you see that doesn’t make
them valueless. They may still be used to point to the real murderer.
Yes, I begin to see light already. If Walter Brooklyn did not send
that telephone message, who did? Not much help there, I’m afraid,
except that it was a very daring criminal indeed, and probably one who
knew intimately both Walter Brooklyn and Liskeard House. Ringing up
Brooklyn’s club shows that—he knew the man’s habits. There is
something to go upon at all events. But there’s the walking-stick
too—yes, that may be the point on which the whole case turns.”

By this time Superintendent Wilson was talking to himself, almost
oblivious of his listener. His wife knew too well to interrupt him.
She resumed her knitting, only looking up at him from time to time as
he paced up and down the room.

“The stick. H’m. If Walter Brooklyn didn’t leave it in Prinsep’s room,
who did? It was a very remarkable stick, and quite certain to be
recognised. Just the thing, in fact, 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, I 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



Transcriber’s Note

_The Brooklyn Murders_ was originally published in England in
1923 by Collins. This transcription was made from the text of the US
edition published in 1924 by Thomas Seltzer, Inc. However, the
following changes have been made to correct what are believed to be
unambiguous printer’s errors.

 * Two missing quotation marks have been inserted.
 * “interupted” has been changed to “interrupted” (Ch. XI).
 * “followng” has been changed to “following” (Ch. XII).
 * “But’s there’s” has been changed to “But there’s” (Ch. XIX).
 * “a few minutes, time” has been changed to “a few minutes’ time”
   (Ch. XXII).
 * “intrudng” has been changed to “intruding” (Ch. XXIX).
 * “convicition” has been changed to “conviction” (Ch. XXXVII).

Additionally, in the original text of Chapter XXIV, the column
headings in the list of suspects were only repeated once per page
(i.e., a resumption of the list appearing lower on the same page would
omit the column headings). For this transcription, the column headings
are included with each resumption.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 73716 ***