Chapter XXXIV.The Stable-YardWhile Superintendent Wilson, by his own methods, was thus working towards the solution of the mystery, Joan and Ellery were also pursuing their investigations along their separate line. There was but one thing needed, they felt, to complete their case, and turn their conviction from moral into legal certainty.How had Woodman got into Liskeard House? That was the question which Joan had set herself to answer. The coach-yard seemed to be the only possible means of access. It was a large square yard opening into Liskeard Street by a pair of massive wooden doors ten feet high, and a small gate let into the wall at the side. Neither the wall nor the doors could be climbed without the aid of a long ladder.One entering by these doors would find himself in the yard. On his left he would have the side wall of Liskeard House, which had no window looking out on to the yard. On his right would be the large coach-house, now used as a garage, above which lived the chauffeur and his wife, formerly a domestic of Sir Vernon’s—both servants of long standing. Their apartment had also a door opening into Liskeard Street, and a way down into the garage.Immediately opposite any one entering the yard from the street was an extension, built out from the side of Liskeard House towards the back. The ground floor of this was occupied by store-rooms, accessible only from the yard; but between these a passage led through directly into the garden. Above were rooms belonging to Liskeard House, whose windows looked out only upon the garden.Joan, as she stood in the yard, noticed first that, if the outer door were open, and the yard itself empty, as at this moment, there was nothing to prevent any one from walking straight through into the garden; for, as she knew, the gate leading to the garden, though it was shut, was never locked save at night. The big front gates of the yard stood open most of the day; and, in any case, the small gate beside them was not locked until the whole place was shut up for the night. A man wishing to get into the garden would only have to watch until the yard itself was empty, and he would then have every chance of getting through without being observed. In the chauffeur’s apartments above the garage, only one window looked down on the yard, and this, as Joan knew, was a tiny spare room, seldom occupied. Even if Woodman had come in by this way, there was only a very slender chance that he had been noticed.The chauffeur came into the yard from the garage, and Joan entered into talk with him. Usually, he locked up, when no one had the car out in the evening, at half-past nine or ten. On this occasion, Lucas’s car had been in the garage during dinner, and he had kept the place open after Lucas went in case any one might want a car out. He had locked the whole place up at eleven o’clock, and had then gone straight to bed. Had any one, Joan asked, entered by the yard entrance before he locked up? He had seen no one; but he had not been in the yard all the time. He went away to ask his wife, and came back to assure Joan that, although she had been in the yard part of the time, she, too, had seen no one pass that way. There was no one else, was there, Joan asked, about that night? No one. But then the chauffeur seemed to be plunged into thought. “Yes, miss, there was some one else. Miss Parker—Norah, what used to be the cook, miss—she came in to help with the dinner, and she stayed the night with us. She went to bed early, she did—about half-past ten. She had to leave early next morning—she went away before they found out what had happened in the night.”“Was she sleeping in the little room up there?”“Yes, miss, and when I looked up at eleven o’clock, she was sitting at the window there. She said she couldn’t sleep, and was trying to read herself off.”“Then she might have seen any one come in?”“Yes, miss, she might.”“Do you know where she is now?”“She’s with my wife this very moment, miss. She’s in a job now, away in Essex. That’s where she went when she left that morning. But it’s her day off, miss, and she’s come up to see us.”Joan asked to speak to the woman, and was soon in the parlour with her and the chauffeur’s wife.“Did I see any one come through the coach-yard that night? Yes, I did, miss; but I didn’t think nothing of it. It was about a quarter to eleven, and I was looking out of the spare room window when a gentleman came into the yard. It was too dark down in the yard at first to see who it was; but as he passed under the lamp by the gate leading into the garden, I saw his face.”“Who was it? Did you know him?”“Mr. Woodman, miss. Of course, I thought it was all right, seeing as it was him.”“And he went through into the garden?”“Yes, miss.”“You didn’t see him come out again?”“No, miss. No one else passed through the yard before Mr. Purvis here came and locked up.”“Now, Norah, I don’t want you to tell any one—or you, Purvis, or your wife—that Norah saw Mr. Woodman come in. It’s very important you shouldn’t mention it just yet.”Mrs. Purvis curtseyed, and Norah also agreed to say nothing. Purvis himself began by saying, “Certainly, miss, if you wish it,” and then he seemed to realise the implication contained in Joan’s request. His jaw dropped, and his mouth hung open. Then he said,—“Beg pardon, miss, but surely you don’t mean as Mr. Woodman had aught to do with this terrible affair?”“Never mind, Purvis, just now, what I mean. I’m not accusing anybody. But I knew some one came in by the yard, and I wanted to make sure who it was.”“Well, miss, you can make sure we won’t say nothing about it.”They kept their word, no doubt; and said nothing to any one else. But, when Joan had gone, they said a great deal among themselves. Joan’s questions had been enough to make them suspect that Woodman might be concerned in the murders. And, though nothing was said of Joan’s discovery, Purvis’s dark and unsupported suspicions of Woodman, and Mrs. Purvis’s hints of what she could say if she had a mind, were soon all round the servants’ hall.It was not surprising that these rumours soon came to Inspector Blaikie’s ears. He was not at first inclined to attach much importance to them; for they appeared to be no more than below-stairs gossip, and the fact of Woodman’s unpopularity with the servants, which had not escaped his observation, seemed sufficiently to account for the vague suspicions. Servants, he said to himself, were always ready to suspect any one they disliked; and in this case they were all strong partisans of Winter, and highly indignant at the share of their attentions which the police had bestowed on the men-servants at Liskeard House. All the same, the inspector traced the rumours to the chauffeur’s wife, and made up his mind to have a little talk with her.He began brusquely—it was his way in dealing with women whom he thought he could frighten—by asking her what she meant by concealing information from the police. The woman was plainly embarrassed; but she only said that she did not know what he meant. He accused her of saying, in the servants’ hall, that she knew who had committed the murders in Liskeard House, but that she wasn’t going to say anything. Her reply was to deny all knowledge, and to inform the inspector that those that said she said such things wasn’t fit—not to associate with the decent folks. The more the inspector tried to browbeat her, the less would she say. She grew sulky, and told him to let a poor woman alone, and not go putting into her mouth things she never said.She didn’t know anything, and, if she did, she wouldn’t tell him. Inspector Blaikie retired from the contest beaten, but warning her that he would call again.He did not, however, retire so far as to prevent him from seeing that, as soon as she believed herself to be alone, the chauffeur’s wife hurried into Liskeard House by the back way, and went straight up the back stairs. Putting two and two together, he speedily concluded that she had gone to see Joan Cowper, and that Joan probably knew all that she knew, and had told her to keep quiet about it. The inspector made up his mind to see Joan as soon as the woman had gone.Meanwhile, Mrs. Purvis was telling Joan about the inspector’s visit, and begging pardon for having let her tongue wag in the servants’ hall. “But I didn’t tell him nothing, miss. You can rest assured of that. I sent him away with a flea in his ear, miss.”At this moment Ellery was announced. Joan dismissed Mrs. Purvis with a further caution to say nothing for the present. As soon as she had gone, Ellery told Joan of his visit to Sir John Bunnery, and of the fact that Woodman had been in serious financial straits before the murders took place. “It seems to be true enough, about your stepfather making a will in his favour. It’s all very odd: I don’t understand it a bit.”“I’m afraid there’s almost nothing he wouldn’t do for money—except murder,” said Joan.“Old Sir John seemed to think that murder was quite a venial offence in comparison with getting money by false pretences,” Ellery answered, laughing.“Don’t be silly, Bob. I’ve found out how Carter got into the house. And I’ve got the proof.” And then Joan told her story of the coach-house yard—her story which proved beyond doubt that Woodman had been on the scene of the crime.“Well done, Joan. So that makes it certain he was here.”“I’m really beginning to think, Bob, we’re rather clever people.”“My dear, we’ve done the trick. Do you realise that it practically finishes our case. We’ve got enough now to be quite sure of a conviction.”“Oh, Bob! How horrible it is when you put it that way. It has really been rather fun finding it all out; but now we’ve found out, oh, what are we to do about it?”“The obvious thing would be to tell the police.”“I suppose it would. But think of the trial—the horrible publicity of it. And I don’t a bit want to see Carter hanged, though he may deserve it. Think of poor Helen.”“My dear Joan, of course you don’t. But it’s not so easy to hush up a thing like this.”“Bob, need we tell the police? They don’t know what we’ve been doing. Must we tell them now?”“Blest if I know, darling. But I forgot to tell you about what the old lawyer chap, Bunnery, said. He wants it hushed up all right.”“Then that means we can hush it up.”“I don’t know whether we can or not. But I tell you what I suggest we do. You come down with me and see Carter Woodman. We shall have to tell him what we know, and force him to admit the whole thing. Then we’ll see what he means to do—perhaps he might agree to run away to Australia, or something, before the police find out. And then we can see old Bunnery and get his advice, and decide what to do about telling them.”Before Joan could answer this string of proposals, there came a knock at the door, and Inspector Blaikie walked into the room. Joan and Ellery evidently showed their embarrassment, for he stood looking curiously at them for a moment, and then said reassuringly that he had only come in to have a word or two, if he might. Joan asked him to sit down, and offered him a cigarette. The inspector lighted it deliberately, and then he suddenly shot a question at them.“What is it you have told the chauffeur’s wife not to tell me?”Joan looked quickly at Ellery, and Ellery looked at Joan; but neither of them answered.“Come, come, Miss Cowper. You really must not try to prevent the police from getting information or you will force us to conclude that you wish to shield the murderer.”Still Joan made no answer.“I hope, Miss Cowper, that it is only that you and your friend have been doing a little detective work on your own, and wanted to have all the credit for yourselves. But don’t you think the time has come for telling me what you know?”Ellery did not answer the question directly. “Look here, inspector,” he said, “you think we know all about these murders, and are trying to keep the truth from you.”“It looks mighty like it.”“Well, in a sense, I don’t say we haven’t been keeping something back. But I give you my word that we’re not in collusion with the murderer or anything of that sort. There is a very special reason why we can’t tell you quite everything just now—for what it is worth.”“Does the very special reason apply to Miss Cowper as well?”“Yes,” said Joan; “for the moment it does.”Ellery went on. “Of course, I know you have a grievance. You’re going to tell us that we are abetting the criminal, whoever he is, and that we shall be getting into trouble if we’re not careful.”“So you will,” said the inspector. “Very serious trouble.”“All the same, inspector, I’m afraid we must risk it. Very likely we shall be free to tell you the whole story, or what we know of it, in a day or two. But we won’t tell you now. That’s flat.”“A day or two is ample time for a criminal to get away.”“Maybe; but I don’t think you need worry about that. You’ve given him enough time to get away if he wants to. In any case, we are not going to tell you. I’m sorry, but——”“I warn you that you are conspiring to defeat the ends of justice.”“Sorry, and all that. Another time, inspector, we shall look forward to an interesting talk. But for the present—Good-morning.”The inspector took the hint, and left the room in a very bad temper. His parting shot was that he must report their conduct to his official superior.“What on earth are we to do now?” said Joan.“Go and see Carter Woodman at once, I think. When we’ve done that, we shall know better how to act.”“But suppose he runs away when he hears our story—flies the country, I mean.”“Wouldn’t that be the best way out? I don’t want to see him hanged any more than you do.”“As the inspector said, we run some risk ourselves that way; but the worst of it is that the whole story is bound to come out.”“I don’t see how it can be kept secret in any case—or rather, I only see one possible way.”“What’s that?”“Wait till we’ve been to Woodman. I want to see if he will be man enough to take it.”“I don’t know what you mean. But I suppose we had better see Woodman.”“Yes, and there’s no time to lose, if the inspector is on the trail.”Joan and Ellery took a taxi, and ordered the driver to drive to Woodman’s office. But they underestimated the inspector’s promptness in action. They did not know that behind them followed another taxi, containing Inspector Blaikie and two plain-clothes detectives.
While Superintendent Wilson, by his own methods, was thus working towards the solution of the mystery, Joan and Ellery were also pursuing their investigations along their separate line. There was but one thing needed, they felt, to complete their case, and turn their conviction from moral into legal certainty.
How had Woodman got into Liskeard House? That was the question which Joan had set herself to answer. The coach-yard seemed to be the only possible means of access. It was a large square yard opening into Liskeard Street by a pair of massive wooden doors ten feet high, and a small gate let into the wall at the side. Neither the wall nor the doors could be climbed without the aid of a long ladder.
One entering by these doors would find himself in the yard. On his left he would have the side wall of Liskeard House, which had no window looking out on to the yard. On his right would be the large coach-house, now used as a garage, above which lived the chauffeur and his wife, formerly a domestic of Sir Vernon’s—both servants of long standing. Their apartment had also a door opening into Liskeard Street, and a way down into the garage.
Immediately opposite any one entering the yard from the street was an extension, built out from the side of Liskeard House towards the back. The ground floor of this was occupied by store-rooms, accessible only from the yard; but between these a passage led through directly into the garden. Above were rooms belonging to Liskeard House, whose windows looked out only upon the garden.
Joan, as she stood in the yard, noticed first that, if the outer door were open, and the yard itself empty, as at this moment, there was nothing to prevent any one from walking straight through into the garden; for, as she knew, the gate leading to the garden, though it was shut, was never locked save at night. The big front gates of the yard stood open most of the day; and, in any case, the small gate beside them was not locked until the whole place was shut up for the night. A man wishing to get into the garden would only have to watch until the yard itself was empty, and he would then have every chance of getting through without being observed. In the chauffeur’s apartments above the garage, only one window looked down on the yard, and this, as Joan knew, was a tiny spare room, seldom occupied. Even if Woodman had come in by this way, there was only a very slender chance that he had been noticed.
The chauffeur came into the yard from the garage, and Joan entered into talk with him. Usually, he locked up, when no one had the car out in the evening, at half-past nine or ten. On this occasion, Lucas’s car had been in the garage during dinner, and he had kept the place open after Lucas went in case any one might want a car out. He had locked the whole place up at eleven o’clock, and had then gone straight to bed. Had any one, Joan asked, entered by the yard entrance before he locked up? He had seen no one; but he had not been in the yard all the time. He went away to ask his wife, and came back to assure Joan that, although she had been in the yard part of the time, she, too, had seen no one pass that way. There was no one else, was there, Joan asked, about that night? No one. But then the chauffeur seemed to be plunged into thought. “Yes, miss, there was some one else. Miss Parker—Norah, what used to be the cook, miss—she came in to help with the dinner, and she stayed the night with us. She went to bed early, she did—about half-past ten. She had to leave early next morning—she went away before they found out what had happened in the night.”
“Was she sleeping in the little room up there?”
“Yes, miss, and when I looked up at eleven o’clock, she was sitting at the window there. She said she couldn’t sleep, and was trying to read herself off.”
“Then she might have seen any one come in?”
“Yes, miss, she might.”
“Do you know where she is now?”
“She’s with my wife this very moment, miss. She’s in a job now, away in Essex. That’s where she went when she left that morning. But it’s her day off, miss, and she’s come up to see us.”
Joan asked to speak to the woman, and was soon in the parlour with her and the chauffeur’s wife.
“Did I see any one come through the coach-yard that night? Yes, I did, miss; but I didn’t think nothing of it. It was about a quarter to eleven, and I was looking out of the spare room window when a gentleman came into the yard. It was too dark down in the yard at first to see who it was; but as he passed under the lamp by the gate leading into the garden, I saw his face.”
“Who was it? Did you know him?”
“Mr. Woodman, miss. Of course, I thought it was all right, seeing as it was him.”
“And he went through into the garden?”
“Yes, miss.”
“You didn’t see him come out again?”
“No, miss. No one else passed through the yard before Mr. Purvis here came and locked up.”
“Now, Norah, I don’t want you to tell any one—or you, Purvis, or your wife—that Norah saw Mr. Woodman come in. It’s very important you shouldn’t mention it just yet.”
Mrs. Purvis curtseyed, and Norah also agreed to say nothing. Purvis himself began by saying, “Certainly, miss, if you wish it,” and then he seemed to realise the implication contained in Joan’s request. His jaw dropped, and his mouth hung open. Then he said,—
“Beg pardon, miss, but surely you don’t mean as Mr. Woodman had aught to do with this terrible affair?”
“Never mind, Purvis, just now, what I mean. I’m not accusing anybody. But I knew some one came in by the yard, and I wanted to make sure who it was.”
“Well, miss, you can make sure we won’t say nothing about it.”
They kept their word, no doubt; and said nothing to any one else. But, when Joan had gone, they said a great deal among themselves. Joan’s questions had been enough to make them suspect that Woodman might be concerned in the murders. And, though nothing was said of Joan’s discovery, Purvis’s dark and unsupported suspicions of Woodman, and Mrs. Purvis’s hints of what she could say if she had a mind, were soon all round the servants’ hall.
It was not surprising that these rumours soon came to Inspector Blaikie’s ears. He was not at first inclined to attach much importance to them; for they appeared to be no more than below-stairs gossip, and the fact of Woodman’s unpopularity with the servants, which had not escaped his observation, seemed sufficiently to account for the vague suspicions. Servants, he said to himself, were always ready to suspect any one they disliked; and in this case they were all strong partisans of Winter, and highly indignant at the share of their attentions which the police had bestowed on the men-servants at Liskeard House. All the same, the inspector traced the rumours to the chauffeur’s wife, and made up his mind to have a little talk with her.
He began brusquely—it was his way in dealing with women whom he thought he could frighten—by asking her what she meant by concealing information from the police. The woman was plainly embarrassed; but she only said that she did not know what he meant. He accused her of saying, in the servants’ hall, that she knew who had committed the murders in Liskeard House, but that she wasn’t going to say anything. Her reply was to deny all knowledge, and to inform the inspector that those that said she said such things wasn’t fit—not to associate with the decent folks. The more the inspector tried to browbeat her, the less would she say. She grew sulky, and told him to let a poor woman alone, and not go putting into her mouth things she never said.
She didn’t know anything, and, if she did, she wouldn’t tell him. Inspector Blaikie retired from the contest beaten, but warning her that he would call again.
He did not, however, retire so far as to prevent him from seeing that, as soon as she believed herself to be alone, the chauffeur’s wife hurried into Liskeard House by the back way, and went straight up the back stairs. Putting two and two together, he speedily concluded that she had gone to see Joan Cowper, and that Joan probably knew all that she knew, and had told her to keep quiet about it. The inspector made up his mind to see Joan as soon as the woman had gone.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Purvis was telling Joan about the inspector’s visit, and begging pardon for having let her tongue wag in the servants’ hall. “But I didn’t tell him nothing, miss. You can rest assured of that. I sent him away with a flea in his ear, miss.”
At this moment Ellery was announced. Joan dismissed Mrs. Purvis with a further caution to say nothing for the present. As soon as she had gone, Ellery told Joan of his visit to Sir John Bunnery, and of the fact that Woodman had been in serious financial straits before the murders took place. “It seems to be true enough, about your stepfather making a will in his favour. It’s all very odd: I don’t understand it a bit.”
“I’m afraid there’s almost nothing he wouldn’t do for money—except murder,” said Joan.
“Old Sir John seemed to think that murder was quite a venial offence in comparison with getting money by false pretences,” Ellery answered, laughing.
“Don’t be silly, Bob. I’ve found out how Carter got into the house. And I’ve got the proof.” And then Joan told her story of the coach-house yard—her story which proved beyond doubt that Woodman had been on the scene of the crime.
“Well done, Joan. So that makes it certain he was here.”
“I’m really beginning to think, Bob, we’re rather clever people.”
“My dear, we’ve done the trick. Do you realise that it practically finishes our case. We’ve got enough now to be quite sure of a conviction.”
“Oh, Bob! How horrible it is when you put it that way. It has really been rather fun finding it all out; but now we’ve found out, oh, what are we to do about it?”
“The obvious thing would be to tell the police.”
“I suppose it would. But think of the trial—the horrible publicity of it. And I don’t a bit want to see Carter hanged, though he may deserve it. Think of poor Helen.”
“My dear Joan, of course you don’t. But it’s not so easy to hush up a thing like this.”
“Bob, need we tell the police? They don’t know what we’ve been doing. Must we tell them now?”
“Blest if I know, darling. But I forgot to tell you about what the old lawyer chap, Bunnery, said. He wants it hushed up all right.”
“Then that means we can hush it up.”
“I don’t know whether we can or not. But I tell you what I suggest we do. You come down with me and see Carter Woodman. We shall have to tell him what we know, and force him to admit the whole thing. Then we’ll see what he means to do—perhaps he might agree to run away to Australia, or something, before the police find out. And then we can see old Bunnery and get his advice, and decide what to do about telling them.”
Before Joan could answer this string of proposals, there came a knock at the door, and Inspector Blaikie walked into the room. Joan and Ellery evidently showed their embarrassment, for he stood looking curiously at them for a moment, and then said reassuringly that he had only come in to have a word or two, if he might. Joan asked him to sit down, and offered him a cigarette. The inspector lighted it deliberately, and then he suddenly shot a question at them.
“What is it you have told the chauffeur’s wife not to tell me?”
Joan looked quickly at Ellery, and Ellery looked at Joan; but neither of them answered.
“Come, come, Miss Cowper. You really must not try to prevent the police from getting information or you will force us to conclude that you wish to shield the murderer.”
Still Joan made no answer.
“I hope, Miss Cowper, that it is only that you and your friend have been doing a little detective work on your own, and wanted to have all the credit for yourselves. But don’t you think the time has come for telling me what you know?”
Ellery did not answer the question directly. “Look here, inspector,” he said, “you think we know all about these murders, and are trying to keep the truth from you.”
“It looks mighty like it.”
“Well, in a sense, I don’t say we haven’t been keeping something back. But I give you my word that we’re not in collusion with the murderer or anything of that sort. There is a very special reason why we can’t tell you quite everything just now—for what it is worth.”
“Does the very special reason apply to Miss Cowper as well?”
“Yes,” said Joan; “for the moment it does.”
Ellery went on. “Of course, I know you have a grievance. You’re going to tell us that we are abetting the criminal, whoever he is, and that we shall be getting into trouble if we’re not careful.”
“So you will,” said the inspector. “Very serious trouble.”
“All the same, inspector, I’m afraid we must risk it. Very likely we shall be free to tell you the whole story, or what we know of it, in a day or two. But we won’t tell you now. That’s flat.”
“A day or two is ample time for a criminal to get away.”
“Maybe; but I don’t think you need worry about that. You’ve given him enough time to get away if he wants to. In any case, we are not going to tell you. I’m sorry, but——”
“I warn you that you are conspiring to defeat the ends of justice.”
“Sorry, and all that. Another time, inspector, we shall look forward to an interesting talk. But for the present—Good-morning.”
The inspector took the hint, and left the room in a very bad temper. His parting shot was that he must report their conduct to his official superior.
“What on earth are we to do now?” said Joan.
“Go and see Carter Woodman at once, I think. When we’ve done that, we shall know better how to act.”
“But suppose he runs away when he hears our story—flies the country, I mean.”
“Wouldn’t that be the best way out? I don’t want to see him hanged any more than you do.”
“As the inspector said, we run some risk ourselves that way; but the worst of it is that the whole story is bound to come out.”
“I don’t see how it can be kept secret in any case—or rather, I only see one possible way.”
“What’s that?”
“Wait till we’ve been to Woodman. I want to see if he will be man enough to take it.”
“I don’t know what you mean. But I suppose we had better see Woodman.”
“Yes, and there’s no time to lose, if the inspector is on the trail.”
Joan and Ellery took a taxi, and ordered the driver to drive to Woodman’s office. But they underestimated the inspector’s promptness in action. They did not know that behind them followed another taxi, containing Inspector Blaikie and two plain-clothes detectives.