Chapter VII.The Case Against Walter BrooklynInspector 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 leaveen routefor 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.
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 leaveen routefor 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.