Chapter XI.Joan Takes Up the CaseCharis 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.
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.