Chapter XIII.An ArrestInspector Blaikie had made arrangements to see Superintendent Wilson after lunch; and at half-past two they were closeted together in the superintendent’s office. The decision about the inquest could be no longer delayed: it was imperative that the police should make up their minds how far they would place the facts which they had discovered before the coroner’s jury. The police nearly always hate a coroner’s jury—at least in cases in which murder is suspected or known. They dislike the premature disclosure of their hardly gathered clues before their case is complete: they dread the misdirected inquisitiveness of some juryman who may unknowingly give the criminal just the hint he wants. Above all, they object to looking like fools; and whether they present an incomplete case, or withhold the information they possess, that is very likely to be their fate in the presence of the good men and true and in the columns of the newspapers the next morning.The Brooklyn case had created an immense popular excitement. Neither Prinsep nor George Brooklyn was much known to the general public; but Sir Vernon was still a great popular figure, and pictures of Isabelle Raven—Mrs. George Brooklyn—remembered as the finest actress of a few years ago, had been published in almost every paper. The reporters had, indeed, little enough to go upon; for after the first sensational story of the discovery of the bodies, they had been put off with very scanty information. Nothing connecting Walter Brooklyn with the crime had yet been published; but Inspector Blaikie knew that, as the club servants had fastened on that side of the story, it was certain to reach some of the papers before many days passed. Still, it was a moot point whether or not it would be best to keep all reference to Walter Brooklyn out of the inquest proceedings, if it were possible to do so.Inspector Blaikie would usually have been inclined to favour any plan which aimed at keeping the coroner’s jury in the dark. That was, in his view, a part of the duty of a good police officer. But, on this occasion, he had become so firmly convinced of Walter Brooklyn’s guilt that he was set on a different method of proceeding. What he wanted was to be allowed to arrest Walter Brooklyn at once, in advance of the inquest, and then to tell the coroner’s jury the full story of the evidence against him, in the hope that its publication in the Press would result in the offering of corroborative evidence from outside. He felt more and more certain that Brooklyn had committed both the murders; but he was not so sanguine as to suppose that he had yet enough evidence to assure a favourable verdict—that is, a verdict against Walter—from a jury. There was at least a specious case to be made out in favour of the view that Prinsep had killed George, and a skilful barrister would make much of this, using also every shred of evidence for the view that George had killed Prinsep, in the hope of so muddling the mind of the jury that they would not dare to bring in any verdict other than “Not Guilty.” But only a very little further evidence would give him enough to hang Walter Brooklyn on one if not both of the charges. It was worth while even to submit to the foolish heckling of a coroner’s jury, if by doing so he could hope to get the further evidence he wanted. His case so far, he recognised, depended on an inference; and it would be just like a jury to turn him down. Juries, in his view, always did the wrong thing if you gave them half a chance. Still, in this case it was worth while, in the hope of getting further evidence, even to endure their folly.This reasoning of Inspector Blaikie’s failed to commend itself to Superintendent Wilson. He, too, saw that the case against Walter Brooklyn was not conclusive, and, unlike the inspector, he was not himself by any means convinced that Walter Brooklyn was guilty. But he thought he knew a way of bringing the matter to a supreme test, and of making the suspected man either proclaim his own guilt, or remove the most serious ground of suspicion against him. His idea was that, at least during the first stages of the inquest, the police should say nothing of those discoveries which implicated Walter Brooklyn, but that they should arrange for Walter himself to be called up to give evidence as if there were no suspicion against him. He could be used to identify the deceased; and a hint to the coroner would ensure that he should be asked to give an account of his movements on Tuesday evening. He would then have either to admit or to deny having been in Prinsep’s room—either to tell at last what he must know about the murders, or to perjure himself in such a manner as would leave no doubt of his complicity, and little of his guilt.Superintendent Wilson, then, would by no means agree to the execution of a warrant for Walter Brooklyn’s arrest before the inquest; for he still thought that he might be innocent and might be persuaded to tell openly what he knew—a chance which his arrest would altogether destroy. But he agreed that, if Walter Brooklyn plainly perjured himself at the inquest, his arrest would be indispensable, and there would be no purpose in leaving him longer at large. He agreed, therefore, to take at once the necessary steps to procure the warrant, and he arranged that it should be handed to the inspector, for execution if and when the need arose. But on no account must it be executed until after the inquest, or save in accordance with the conditions which he had laid down. Only if Walter’s guilt or complicity, and his refusal to tell freely what he knew, were plainly shown, would the superintendent agree to the arrest. Meanwhile, of course, the man should be watched.So it happened that, although the inquest was for the most part a purely formal affair, Walter Brooklyn was among those who were called upon to give evidence. With most of its proceedings we need not concern ourselves: we know well enough already almost all that the coroner’s jury was allowed to know. Indeed, we know a good deal more; for Inspector Blaikie, in his evidence, said not a word either of Walter Brooklyn’s walking-stick, or of the telephone message which he had sent from Liskeard House. No Club servant was called, and there was no reference to the meeting with Charis Lang, who was not in any way brought into the case. Carter Woodman, indeed, gave evidence; but he had been warned in advance by the inspector, and he said nothing which could appear to implicate Walter Brooklyn.To the reporters and to the members of the police who were present, crowding to suffocation the confined space of the coroner’s court, it became more and more evident that the inquest was not likely to throw any light upon the mystery. They heard, from the police witnesses, from the household servants, and from Joan Cowper, how the bodies had been found. Walter Brooklyn and others gave purely formal evidence of identification: the doctors for once told a plain story. George Brooklyn had been killed by a savage blow on the back of the head, dealt without doubt by a powerful man with the stone club of Hercules, which was produced in court with the bloodstains still upon it. Prinsep, too, had probably been killed by the blow on the back of his head, dealt with an unknown instrument. The knife thrust at the heart, which had missed its object, had been made subsequently, and would not by itself have caused sudden death. Inspector Blaikie’s evidence, indeed, promised to be more exciting; for he told of the finding of George Brooklyn’s handkerchief under Prinsep’s body, produced a knife, similar to that found in the body, which he had found in George Brooklyn’s office, showed the broken fragments of Prinsep’s cigar-holder found in the garden, and photographs of fingerprints found on the stone club and others taken from Prinsep’s hands. This was exciting enough; but it did more to mystify than to enlighten the public and the reporters. Still, it was excellent copy; and the reporters, and later the editors and sub-editors, made the most of it. Then, when the inquest seemed practically over, the coroner, a sharp little man who had attended strictly to business and said as little as possible throughout the proceedings, acted on the hint given him by the police, and ordered Walter Brooklyn to be recalled. Walter’s manner, when he gave his earlier evidence and was asked no more than a couple of formal questions, had shown plainly to the inspector, and also to Joan and Ellery, who were sitting together, that he was surprised at being let off so lightly. As the inquest went on, and nothing was said to draw him into the mystery, his expression, troubled and puzzled in the earlier stages, gradually cleared, and, up to the moment when he suddenly found himself recalled, he had been growing more and more sure that the suspicions of the police against him had been somehow dispelled. But now, in an instant, he realised that they had been deliberately keeping back everything that could seem to connect him with the case, not because they did not suspect him still, but because they had carefully set a trap into which they hoped that he would fall. For a moment, a scared look came into his face; but, when he stepped again into the witness stand, he wore his usual rather ill-humoured and supercilious expression. Immaculately dressed and groomed, he was a man who looked precisely what he was—an elderly, but still dissipated, man about town.This time the questions which the coroner asked were far from formal. He began with what was plainly a leading question,—“It has been suggested to me, Mr. Brooklyn, that you may be able to throw some further light on this tragedy. This morning you were given no opportunity to make a general statement; but I desire to give you that opportunity now. Is there anything further that you are in a position to tell us?”“I know no more of the affair than I have heard in this court to-day—or previously from the police.” Walter Brooklyn added the last words after a noticeable pause. “Nevertheless, there is a statement that I want to make. It has been suggested, not in this court, but earlier to me by Inspector Blaikie—that I was in Liskeard House on Tuesday evening. I desire to say that I called at Liskeard House shortly after ten o’clock and waited for a few minutes in the outer hall. Then I went away; and since that time—perhaps twenty past ten on Tuesday night—I have not been in either the house or the garden. Of the circumstances of the tragedy I know nothing at all except what I have heard at this inquest or from the police.”Walter Brooklyn’s statement created a sensation; for here was the first hint of a suspicion entertained by somebody as to the real murderer. Clearly the police had been keeping something back—something which would incriminate the man who was now giving evidence. Of course, after interrogating Walter Brooklyn the police might have discovered their suspicions to be groundless, and therefore have said nothing of them. But, if this were so, why had they recalled him in this curious fashion, and why should Brooklyn go out of his way to draw public attention to himself, and to make certain that his doings would be fully canvassed in the newspapers? No, the way in which he had been recalled showed that the police were acting with a definite purpose. They were trying to get Walter Brooklyn to make a statement which would clearly incriminate him, and, if they really had evidence of his presence in the house, they had certainly succeeded.This explanation, natural and largely correct as it was, was not quite a fair account of Superintendent Wilson’s motives. His object had been not merely to get Walter Brooklyn to incriminate himself, but also to give him a chance of clearing himself if he could give a satisfactory explanation of his presence in the house. The fact that the man had repeated on oath an obvious lie seemed to him a good enough reason for ordering an arrest. He nodded across the court to the inspector.But the coroner’s court had not yet quite done with Walter Brooklyn. A juryman, quick to be influenced by the general suspicion which was abroad, signified his desire to ask a question. “Where did you go after leaving Liskeard House?” he rapped out.The coroner interposed. “Since that question has been asked,” he said, “perhaps it would be well if you would give us an account of your movements on Tuesday night.”Walter Brooklyn seemed to think for a minute before replying. “Well,” he said, “I strolled about for a bit round Piccadilly Circus and Shaftesbury Avenue, and then I went home to the club.”“At what time did you reach your club?”“I should guess it was shortly before midnight.”“That is a considerable time after you left Liskeard House.”“I am merely telling you what happened.”“The club porter could probably confirm the time of your return?”“Yes, I imagine so.”“And is there any one who would be able to substantiate your account of what you did between 10.15 and midnight? Were you strolling about all that time?”“Yes, I suppose I was.”“Were you alone?”“Yes.”“Then there is no one who could confirm your story?”“Probably not. But I did meet one or two people I knew.”“None of them is here now?”“No.”“Do you desire that the inquest should be adjourned in order that they may be called?”“No. What on earth for? I don’t know whether I could find them, anyway.”“Then I think there is nothing further I need ask you.”And with that, a good deal bewildered, Walter Brooklyn was told to leave the witness box. He went back to his seat, but a minute later got up and left the court.Many pairs of eyes followed him as he walked slowly towards the door, and the more experienced spectators nudged one another as Inspector Blaikie rose quickly in his place and went out after him. Joan, in her place in the court, saw her stepfather leave; but she did not notice that the inspector had followed. Ellery, who did notice, said nothing; for though he realised what was about to happen he saw that there was no means of preventing the arrest.Meanwhile, the coroner was rapidly summing up the evidence. Murder, he told the jury, was clearly established in both cases; and they need have no hesitation as to their verdict on that point. But who had committed the murders? If they were satisfied that in either case the evidence established the guilt of some definite person, it was their duty to bring in a verdict against that person. In his opinion, however, the evidence was wholly inadequate to form the basis of any positive conclusion. It might be that John Prinsep had been killed by George Brooklyn—the finding of the handkerchief and his known visit to the house were certainly suspicious circumstances. It might be, on the other hand, that George Brooklyn had been killed by John Prinsep—the note in Prinsep’s writing found in the temple, the cigar-holder, and his known presence in the garden were all grounds for suspicion. But both these sets of clues could not point to the truth, and the jury had no means of determining on which the greater reliance should be placed. Indeed, both sets of clues might be misleading, and certainly neither was by itself enough to form the basis of a verdict. The murders might both be the work of some third person—and one of themmustbe the work of a third person—but no evidence had been placed before them which would justify a verdict against any particular person. Suspicion, he would remind them, was a very different thing from proof, and even with their suspicions they must not be too free in face of the very slender evidence before them.After the coroner’s summing up, it was clear that only one verdict was possible. After only a moment’s consultation, the foreman announced that their verdict in both cases was “Wilful Murder by some person or persons unknown.” The coroner made a short speech thanking every one, and the court adjourned. Joan was glad to breathe fresh air again after her first experience of the suffocating atmosphere of a court.By this time Walter Brooklyn was safe under lock and key. As he reached the door of the court half an hour earlier, he felt a touch on his sleeve, and, turning, saw Inspector Blaikie immediately behind him.“Well, what do you want now?” he said sullenly.The inspector beckoned him into a corner, and there showed him the warrant duly made out for his arrest. Walter Brooklyn glanced at it. For a moment he drew himself up to his full height and grasped his stick tightly as if he were considering the prospects of a mad struggle for liberty. Then he gave a short laugh. “I will come with you,” he said; and then he added suddenly, with a fury the more impressive because its utterance was checked—“you damned little fool of a policeman.”“Come, come, Mr. Brooklyn,” said the inspector. “I’m only doing my duty.” Walter Brooklyn made no reply, and the inspector added: “Are you ready now?”“Call a taxi,” said Walter. “I suppose you will not walk me handcuffed through the streets,” he added bitterly.“Certainly not,” said the inspector, and he hailed a passing taxi, and signed to his prisoner to get in.A small crowd had collected by this time, and stood gaping on the pavement as the taxi drove away.
Inspector Blaikie had made arrangements to see Superintendent Wilson after lunch; and at half-past two they were closeted together in the superintendent’s office. The decision about the inquest could be no longer delayed: it was imperative that the police should make up their minds how far they would place the facts which they had discovered before the coroner’s jury. The police nearly always hate a coroner’s jury—at least in cases in which murder is suspected or known. They dislike the premature disclosure of their hardly gathered clues before their case is complete: they dread the misdirected inquisitiveness of some juryman who may unknowingly give the criminal just the hint he wants. Above all, they object to looking like fools; and whether they present an incomplete case, or withhold the information they possess, that is very likely to be their fate in the presence of the good men and true and in the columns of the newspapers the next morning.
The Brooklyn case had created an immense popular excitement. Neither Prinsep nor George Brooklyn was much known to the general public; but Sir Vernon was still a great popular figure, and pictures of Isabelle Raven—Mrs. George Brooklyn—remembered as the finest actress of a few years ago, had been published in almost every paper. The reporters had, indeed, little enough to go upon; for after the first sensational story of the discovery of the bodies, they had been put off with very scanty information. Nothing connecting Walter Brooklyn with the crime had yet been published; but Inspector Blaikie knew that, as the club servants had fastened on that side of the story, it was certain to reach some of the papers before many days passed. Still, it was a moot point whether or not it would be best to keep all reference to Walter Brooklyn out of the inquest proceedings, if it were possible to do so.
Inspector Blaikie would usually have been inclined to favour any plan which aimed at keeping the coroner’s jury in the dark. That was, in his view, a part of the duty of a good police officer. But, on this occasion, he had become so firmly convinced of Walter Brooklyn’s guilt that he was set on a different method of proceeding. What he wanted was to be allowed to arrest Walter Brooklyn at once, in advance of the inquest, and then to tell the coroner’s jury the full story of the evidence against him, in the hope that its publication in the Press would result in the offering of corroborative evidence from outside. He felt more and more certain that Brooklyn had committed both the murders; but he was not so sanguine as to suppose that he had yet enough evidence to assure a favourable verdict—that is, a verdict against Walter—from a jury. There was at least a specious case to be made out in favour of the view that Prinsep had killed George, and a skilful barrister would make much of this, using also every shred of evidence for the view that George had killed Prinsep, in the hope of so muddling the mind of the jury that they would not dare to bring in any verdict other than “Not Guilty.” But only a very little further evidence would give him enough to hang Walter Brooklyn on one if not both of the charges. It was worth while even to submit to the foolish heckling of a coroner’s jury, if by doing so he could hope to get the further evidence he wanted. His case so far, he recognised, depended on an inference; and it would be just like a jury to turn him down. Juries, in his view, always did the wrong thing if you gave them half a chance. Still, in this case it was worth while, in the hope of getting further evidence, even to endure their folly.
This reasoning of Inspector Blaikie’s failed to commend itself to Superintendent Wilson. He, too, saw that the case against Walter Brooklyn was not conclusive, and, unlike the inspector, he was not himself by any means convinced that Walter Brooklyn was guilty. But he thought he knew a way of bringing the matter to a supreme test, and of making the suspected man either proclaim his own guilt, or remove the most serious ground of suspicion against him. His idea was that, at least during the first stages of the inquest, the police should say nothing of those discoveries which implicated Walter Brooklyn, but that they should arrange for Walter himself to be called up to give evidence as if there were no suspicion against him. He could be used to identify the deceased; and a hint to the coroner would ensure that he should be asked to give an account of his movements on Tuesday evening. He would then have either to admit or to deny having been in Prinsep’s room—either to tell at last what he must know about the murders, or to perjure himself in such a manner as would leave no doubt of his complicity, and little of his guilt.
Superintendent Wilson, then, would by no means agree to the execution of a warrant for Walter Brooklyn’s arrest before the inquest; for he still thought that he might be innocent and might be persuaded to tell openly what he knew—a chance which his arrest would altogether destroy. But he agreed that, if Walter Brooklyn plainly perjured himself at the inquest, his arrest would be indispensable, and there would be no purpose in leaving him longer at large. He agreed, therefore, to take at once the necessary steps to procure the warrant, and he arranged that it should be handed to the inspector, for execution if and when the need arose. But on no account must it be executed until after the inquest, or save in accordance with the conditions which he had laid down. Only if Walter’s guilt or complicity, and his refusal to tell freely what he knew, were plainly shown, would the superintendent agree to the arrest. Meanwhile, of course, the man should be watched.
So it happened that, although the inquest was for the most part a purely formal affair, Walter Brooklyn was among those who were called upon to give evidence. With most of its proceedings we need not concern ourselves: we know well enough already almost all that the coroner’s jury was allowed to know. Indeed, we know a good deal more; for Inspector Blaikie, in his evidence, said not a word either of Walter Brooklyn’s walking-stick, or of the telephone message which he had sent from Liskeard House. No Club servant was called, and there was no reference to the meeting with Charis Lang, who was not in any way brought into the case. Carter Woodman, indeed, gave evidence; but he had been warned in advance by the inspector, and he said nothing which could appear to implicate Walter Brooklyn.
To the reporters and to the members of the police who were present, crowding to suffocation the confined space of the coroner’s court, it became more and more evident that the inquest was not likely to throw any light upon the mystery. They heard, from the police witnesses, from the household servants, and from Joan Cowper, how the bodies had been found. Walter Brooklyn and others gave purely formal evidence of identification: the doctors for once told a plain story. George Brooklyn had been killed by a savage blow on the back of the head, dealt without doubt by a powerful man with the stone club of Hercules, which was produced in court with the bloodstains still upon it. Prinsep, too, had probably been killed by the blow on the back of his head, dealt with an unknown instrument. The knife thrust at the heart, which had missed its object, had been made subsequently, and would not by itself have caused sudden death. Inspector Blaikie’s evidence, indeed, promised to be more exciting; for he told of the finding of George Brooklyn’s handkerchief under Prinsep’s body, produced a knife, similar to that found in the body, which he had found in George Brooklyn’s office, showed the broken fragments of Prinsep’s cigar-holder found in the garden, and photographs of fingerprints found on the stone club and others taken from Prinsep’s hands. This was exciting enough; but it did more to mystify than to enlighten the public and the reporters. Still, it was excellent copy; and the reporters, and later the editors and sub-editors, made the most of it. Then, when the inquest seemed practically over, the coroner, a sharp little man who had attended strictly to business and said as little as possible throughout the proceedings, acted on the hint given him by the police, and ordered Walter Brooklyn to be recalled. Walter’s manner, when he gave his earlier evidence and was asked no more than a couple of formal questions, had shown plainly to the inspector, and also to Joan and Ellery, who were sitting together, that he was surprised at being let off so lightly. As the inquest went on, and nothing was said to draw him into the mystery, his expression, troubled and puzzled in the earlier stages, gradually cleared, and, up to the moment when he suddenly found himself recalled, he had been growing more and more sure that the suspicions of the police against him had been somehow dispelled. But now, in an instant, he realised that they had been deliberately keeping back everything that could seem to connect him with the case, not because they did not suspect him still, but because they had carefully set a trap into which they hoped that he would fall. For a moment, a scared look came into his face; but, when he stepped again into the witness stand, he wore his usual rather ill-humoured and supercilious expression. Immaculately dressed and groomed, he was a man who looked precisely what he was—an elderly, but still dissipated, man about town.
This time the questions which the coroner asked were far from formal. He began with what was plainly a leading question,—
“It has been suggested to me, Mr. Brooklyn, that you may be able to throw some further light on this tragedy. This morning you were given no opportunity to make a general statement; but I desire to give you that opportunity now. Is there anything further that you are in a position to tell us?”
“I know no more of the affair than I have heard in this court to-day—or previously from the police.” Walter Brooklyn added the last words after a noticeable pause. “Nevertheless, there is a statement that I want to make. It has been suggested, not in this court, but earlier to me by Inspector Blaikie—that I was in Liskeard House on Tuesday evening. I desire to say that I called at Liskeard House shortly after ten o’clock and waited for a few minutes in the outer hall. Then I went away; and since that time—perhaps twenty past ten on Tuesday night—I have not been in either the house or the garden. Of the circumstances of the tragedy I know nothing at all except what I have heard at this inquest or from the police.”
Walter Brooklyn’s statement created a sensation; for here was the first hint of a suspicion entertained by somebody as to the real murderer. Clearly the police had been keeping something back—something which would incriminate the man who was now giving evidence. Of course, after interrogating Walter Brooklyn the police might have discovered their suspicions to be groundless, and therefore have said nothing of them. But, if this were so, why had they recalled him in this curious fashion, and why should Brooklyn go out of his way to draw public attention to himself, and to make certain that his doings would be fully canvassed in the newspapers? No, the way in which he had been recalled showed that the police were acting with a definite purpose. They were trying to get Walter Brooklyn to make a statement which would clearly incriminate him, and, if they really had evidence of his presence in the house, they had certainly succeeded.
This explanation, natural and largely correct as it was, was not quite a fair account of Superintendent Wilson’s motives. His object had been not merely to get Walter Brooklyn to incriminate himself, but also to give him a chance of clearing himself if he could give a satisfactory explanation of his presence in the house. The fact that the man had repeated on oath an obvious lie seemed to him a good enough reason for ordering an arrest. He nodded across the court to the inspector.
But the coroner’s court had not yet quite done with Walter Brooklyn. A juryman, quick to be influenced by the general suspicion which was abroad, signified his desire to ask a question. “Where did you go after leaving Liskeard House?” he rapped out.
The coroner interposed. “Since that question has been asked,” he said, “perhaps it would be well if you would give us an account of your movements on Tuesday night.”
Walter Brooklyn seemed to think for a minute before replying. “Well,” he said, “I strolled about for a bit round Piccadilly Circus and Shaftesbury Avenue, and then I went home to the club.”
“At what time did you reach your club?”
“I should guess it was shortly before midnight.”
“That is a considerable time after you left Liskeard House.”
“I am merely telling you what happened.”
“The club porter could probably confirm the time of your return?”
“Yes, I imagine so.”
“And is there any one who would be able to substantiate your account of what you did between 10.15 and midnight? Were you strolling about all that time?”
“Yes, I suppose I was.”
“Were you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Then there is no one who could confirm your story?”
“Probably not. But I did meet one or two people I knew.”
“None of them is here now?”
“No.”
“Do you desire that the inquest should be adjourned in order that they may be called?”
“No. What on earth for? I don’t know whether I could find them, anyway.”
“Then I think there is nothing further I need ask you.”
And with that, a good deal bewildered, Walter Brooklyn was told to leave the witness box. He went back to his seat, but a minute later got up and left the court.
Many pairs of eyes followed him as he walked slowly towards the door, and the more experienced spectators nudged one another as Inspector Blaikie rose quickly in his place and went out after him. Joan, in her place in the court, saw her stepfather leave; but she did not notice that the inspector had followed. Ellery, who did notice, said nothing; for though he realised what was about to happen he saw that there was no means of preventing the arrest.
Meanwhile, the coroner was rapidly summing up the evidence. Murder, he told the jury, was clearly established in both cases; and they need have no hesitation as to their verdict on that point. But who had committed the murders? If they were satisfied that in either case the evidence established the guilt of some definite person, it was their duty to bring in a verdict against that person. In his opinion, however, the evidence was wholly inadequate to form the basis of any positive conclusion. It might be that John Prinsep had been killed by George Brooklyn—the finding of the handkerchief and his known visit to the house were certainly suspicious circumstances. It might be, on the other hand, that George Brooklyn had been killed by John Prinsep—the note in Prinsep’s writing found in the temple, the cigar-holder, and his known presence in the garden were all grounds for suspicion. But both these sets of clues could not point to the truth, and the jury had no means of determining on which the greater reliance should be placed. Indeed, both sets of clues might be misleading, and certainly neither was by itself enough to form the basis of a verdict. The murders might both be the work of some third person—and one of themmustbe the work of a third person—but no evidence had been placed before them which would justify a verdict against any particular person. Suspicion, he would remind them, was a very different thing from proof, and even with their suspicions they must not be too free in face of the very slender evidence before them.
After the coroner’s summing up, it was clear that only one verdict was possible. After only a moment’s consultation, the foreman announced that their verdict in both cases was “Wilful Murder by some person or persons unknown.” The coroner made a short speech thanking every one, and the court adjourned. Joan was glad to breathe fresh air again after her first experience of the suffocating atmosphere of a court.
By this time Walter Brooklyn was safe under lock and key. As he reached the door of the court half an hour earlier, he felt a touch on his sleeve, and, turning, saw Inspector Blaikie immediately behind him.
“Well, what do you want now?” he said sullenly.
The inspector beckoned him into a corner, and there showed him the warrant duly made out for his arrest. Walter Brooklyn glanced at it. For a moment he drew himself up to his full height and grasped his stick tightly as if he were considering the prospects of a mad struggle for liberty. Then he gave a short laugh. “I will come with you,” he said; and then he added suddenly, with a fury the more impressive because its utterance was checked—“you damned little fool of a policeman.”
“Come, come, Mr. Brooklyn,” said the inspector. “I’m only doing my duty.” Walter Brooklyn made no reply, and the inspector added: “Are you ready now?”
“Call a taxi,” said Walter. “I suppose you will not walk me handcuffed through the streets,” he added bitterly.
“Certainly not,” said the inspector, and he hailed a passing taxi, and signed to his prisoner to get in.
A small crowd had collected by this time, and stood gaping on the pavement as the taxi drove away.