Chapter VI.A Pause for ReflectionWhen 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, theprima facieevidence 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, “noenemies.”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.”
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, theprima facieevidence 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, “noenemies.”
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.”