Chapter XXXVII.A Happy Ending

Chapter XXXVII.A Happy EndingJoan, Ellery, and the superintendent faced one another across Woodman’s body. Moorman, his nerves gone, crouched in a corner, muttering. The inspector bent down and made a quick inspection of the body.“H’m,” he said, “he’s quite dead.”The superintendent turned to Ellery. “And now perhaps it is time for you to give me a little explanation.”“Of this?” asked Ellery, pointing to the body.“Of everything,” was the answer.“It is straightforward enough,” said Ellery. “Mr. Woodman, as you will easily discover if you ask that whimpering object over there, has been for some time in grave financial difficulties. This morning he was disappointed of raising a large sum for which he had hoped; and I am afraid this is the result.”“Is that all you have to tell me?”“What more should I have?”“May I ask whether you have any theory as to the murderer of George Brooklyn, or of John Prinsep?”“I have no theory. And I cannot see what that has to do with thissuicide.” Ellery emphasised the last word.“Oh, that’s your line, is it? And supposing I suggested that this gentleman here”—he pointed to Woodman’s body—“was the murderer.”“I should ask you what evidence you have to support such an extraordinary suggestion.”“Very well, Mr. Ellery. But I had better tell you that I already have full knowledge of the truth. That is why I am here. You and the young lady here had much better make a clean breast of it.”“Don’t you think, superintendent, that you had better deal with one thing at a time? Surely, for the moment, this dead man claims your attention. You know where to find us if you want us. I shall take Miss Cowper home.”“By all means, Mr. Ellery. There is work for me here. But I shall have to call on you both later in the day. Could I meet you—say at Liskeard House—about six o’clock?”“Oh, if that’s the attitude you take, I suppose we’d better have it out now.”“That will be best, I think.” Then Superintendent Wilson turned to the inspector, who had not recovered from his amazement at the miraculous appearance of his superior. The superintendent pointed to Woodman’s body. “Call in your men and have that thing removed. Then we can say what we have to say.”So, when the body had been taken away, Joan and Ellery found themselves face to face with Superintendent Wilson. “I will tell you what I know,” he said, “and then I think you will see the wisdom of letting me hear your story. But first there is one thing I must do.”Going to Woodman’s desk, he took from his pocket-book the scraps of paper which he had found, and rapidly compared them with other specimens of Woodman’s handwriting. “Just as I thought,” he said, “and now I am ready.”“Fire away, then,” said Ellery.“Well, it was clear enough to me, from an early stage in the case—even before you confirmed my view with your very convincingalibi, that Mr. Walter Brooklyn was not the murderer. That was the assumption on which I set to work.”“May I ask why?” said Joan. “Of course, I knew he hadn’t done it; but what made you——?”“A quite proper question, Miss Cowper. What made me take that view was a very strong conviction that the clues—the second set of clues, I mean—pointed far too directly to Mr. Brooklyn. They looked as if they had been deliberately laid. I ought to have seen that at once; but I was put off by the other set of clues—the obviously false ones—that the police were meant to see through from the first. It took me a little time to realise that the murderer had been clever enough to lay two separate sets of false clues—one meant to be seen through, and one meant to mislead.”“Yes, we got to that, too, though we didn’t put it quite as you do.”“Quite so. Well, as soon as I reached that conclusion, it became clear that the murderer had strong reasons for removing, not only your two cousins, but also your stepfather. My next step, therefore, was to discover who would be most likely to inherit Sir Vernon Brooklyn’s money if Mr. Walter Brooklyn was safely out of the way.”“So that brought you to Carter Woodman at once?”“In a sense, yes. But of course at that stage I had no sort of proof. I set out to prove what was only a theory.”“Yes, that was what we did. Tell us what you found out,” said Ellery, half-rising from his chair in his excitement.“You remember that Mr. Walter Brooklyn’s stick was found in Mr. Prinsep’s room. Well, I succeeded in proving that Mr. Brooklyn had left that stick in Carter Woodman’s office on the day of the murders.”“Lord, we never thought of that,” said Ellery.“Moorman, whom you know, admitted that to me, not knowing who I was. I got it out of him when he thought I was merely a client taking an outside interest in the case. He didn’t realise that it was of importance.”“And that was your proof?” asked Joan, with an air of disappointment.“Dear me, Miss Cowper, I should be very sorry to try to hang a man on such evidence. That was only a beginning. What puzzled me was that, whereas the weapon with which Mr. George Brooklyn was killed was found on the scene of the murder, there was no sign of any weapon which could have killed Mr. Prinsep. So I made a thorough fresh search, and at last, on the roof of the building which projects over towards the coach-yard, I found the weapon, where the murderer had thrown it out of sight. It was a bag filled with small-shot.”“But I don’t see how you could prove whose it was.”“One moment, Mr. Ellery. I took that bag away, and went carefully through its contents. Among them I found two tiny scraps of paper, obviously part of an order, or a memorandum of an order, for garden bulbs. When I went to the desk there just now, it was to confirm my view that the writing was Carter Woodman’s. I was right.”“So that proved it?” said Joan.“I would not go so far as to say that,” said Superintendent Wilson. “But it made a case, with certain other points which you probably know as well as I—Woodman’s financial difficulties, and so on. I had not, however, finished my case. In fact, when I came here, I was pursuing my investigations. Your presence and that of the inspector were quite unexpected. Indeed, I may say that you interrupted me.”“Sorry and all that,” said Ellery. “But, you see, we had finished our case, and proved Carter Woodman’s guilt so that he knew the game was up. Hence the end of the story as you saw it just now.”“I suggest, Mr. Ellery—and Miss Cowper—that, in view of what we both know, the only possible course is to pool our information. I have told you my evidence. Will you be good enough now to tell me yours?”Joan and Ellery looked at each other, and Joan nodded. They both realised that it was inevitable that they should tell Superintendent Wilson all they knew.“You tell him, Bob. I’m not up to it,” said Joan, smiling faintly. “But, superintendent, you realise, don’t you, how anxious we have been that this horrible story should not come to light. It has caused misery enough already: the telling of it will only cause more.”“I understand,” said the superintendent.“Then can’t we still keep it to ourselves?” said Joan, with a note of hope in her voice.The superintendent shook his head. “I suppose you realise,” he said, “that you have both committed a very serious offence. But I won’t be too hard on you—especially as you have shown yourselves such creditable amateurs in my line of business,” he added with a smile. “But I am afraid the whole story must come out now. There is really no question about that.”“But surely,” said Joan, “there’s no one to try now: so you can’t have a trial. I don’t see why you should want to drag the whole beastly story to light. It will——”“Pardon me, Miss Cowper. There will have to be an inquest on Carter Woodman, and you and Mr. Ellery will have to tell what you know.”“But can’t we say he committed suicide—it’s quite true, he did, and leave it at that,” said Joan.“Yes,” Ellery put in, “and give evidence about his embarrassed financial position as a reason for taking his life.”“Quite impossible,” said the superintendent. “I fear the story must come out; but, as there will be no trial, there will not really be very much publicity. You will do best to tell the whole story at the inquest. It will all blow over very soon.”“But what about poor Helen—I mean Mrs. Woodman?” said Joan.“I am afraid she will have to bear it as best she can.”So it was done. At the inquest the whole story was told, both by Joan and Ellery and by Superintendent Wilson. The papers the next day were full of it, and full, too, of compliments both to the professionals and to the amateurs on the skill shown in unravelling the mystery. But that same day came a parliamentary crisis. The old Prime Minister resigned, and a new one—in the name of conservatism and tranquillity—took his place. Parliament was dissolved, and the drums beat and beacons flared in anticipation of an “appeal to the people.” In a few days, the Brooklyn mystery was forgotten, except by those directly concerned and by a few specialists in the records of crime.Joan and Ellery, of course, are married, and quite disgustingly rich, now that Sir Vernon is dead. They live at Liskeard House when they are in town, and Ellery is managing director of the Brooklyn Corporation. He has made many attempts to get Marian to return to the stage; and perhaps he will yet succeed. For he has just written a play in which, she agrees, the leading part was made for her. Family matters keep Joan rather busy at present; but her first play, produced a year ago by the Brooklyn Corporation, was a great success. She is thinking of collaborating with her husband in another, with a strong detective interest.Ellery summed up the situation the other day, when he and Joan were talking over the days of the great Brooklyn mystery. “Well, my dear, it was sad about poor old George, but you must agree that the other two were really a good riddance.” And, although one of them had been in a way her suitor, I think Joan did agree. But all she said was “Poor Marian!”The End

Joan, Ellery, and the superintendent faced one another across Woodman’s body. Moorman, his nerves gone, crouched in a corner, muttering. The inspector bent down and made a quick inspection of the body.

“H’m,” he said, “he’s quite dead.”

The superintendent turned to Ellery. “And now perhaps it is time for you to give me a little explanation.”

“Of this?” asked Ellery, pointing to the body.

“Of everything,” was the answer.

“It is straightforward enough,” said Ellery. “Mr. Woodman, as you will easily discover if you ask that whimpering object over there, has been for some time in grave financial difficulties. This morning he was disappointed of raising a large sum for which he had hoped; and I am afraid this is the result.”

“Is that all you have to tell me?”

“What more should I have?”

“May I ask whether you have any theory as to the murderer of George Brooklyn, or of John Prinsep?”

“I have no theory. And I cannot see what that has to do with thissuicide.” Ellery emphasised the last word.

“Oh, that’s your line, is it? And supposing I suggested that this gentleman here”—he pointed to Woodman’s body—“was the murderer.”

“I should ask you what evidence you have to support such an extraordinary suggestion.”

“Very well, Mr. Ellery. But I had better tell you that I already have full knowledge of the truth. That is why I am here. You and the young lady here had much better make a clean breast of it.”

“Don’t you think, superintendent, that you had better deal with one thing at a time? Surely, for the moment, this dead man claims your attention. You know where to find us if you want us. I shall take Miss Cowper home.”

“By all means, Mr. Ellery. There is work for me here. But I shall have to call on you both later in the day. Could I meet you—say at Liskeard House—about six o’clock?”

“Oh, if that’s the attitude you take, I suppose we’d better have it out now.”

“That will be best, I think.” Then Superintendent Wilson turned to the inspector, who had not recovered from his amazement at the miraculous appearance of his superior. The superintendent pointed to Woodman’s body. “Call in your men and have that thing removed. Then we can say what we have to say.”

So, when the body had been taken away, Joan and Ellery found themselves face to face with Superintendent Wilson. “I will tell you what I know,” he said, “and then I think you will see the wisdom of letting me hear your story. But first there is one thing I must do.”

Going to Woodman’s desk, he took from his pocket-book the scraps of paper which he had found, and rapidly compared them with other specimens of Woodman’s handwriting. “Just as I thought,” he said, “and now I am ready.”

“Fire away, then,” said Ellery.

“Well, it was clear enough to me, from an early stage in the case—even before you confirmed my view with your very convincingalibi, that Mr. Walter Brooklyn was not the murderer. That was the assumption on which I set to work.”

“May I ask why?” said Joan. “Of course, I knew he hadn’t done it; but what made you——?”

“A quite proper question, Miss Cowper. What made me take that view was a very strong conviction that the clues—the second set of clues, I mean—pointed far too directly to Mr. Brooklyn. They looked as if they had been deliberately laid. I ought to have seen that at once; but I was put off by the other set of clues—the obviously false ones—that the police were meant to see through from the first. It took me a little time to realise that the murderer had been clever enough to lay two separate sets of false clues—one meant to be seen through, and one meant to mislead.”

“Yes, we got to that, too, though we didn’t put it quite as you do.”

“Quite so. Well, as soon as I reached that conclusion, it became clear that the murderer had strong reasons for removing, not only your two cousins, but also your stepfather. My next step, therefore, was to discover who would be most likely to inherit Sir Vernon Brooklyn’s money if Mr. Walter Brooklyn was safely out of the way.”

“So that brought you to Carter Woodman at once?”

“In a sense, yes. But of course at that stage I had no sort of proof. I set out to prove what was only a theory.”

“Yes, that was what we did. Tell us what you found out,” said Ellery, half-rising from his chair in his excitement.

“You remember that Mr. Walter Brooklyn’s stick was found in Mr. Prinsep’s room. Well, I succeeded in proving that Mr. Brooklyn had left that stick in Carter Woodman’s office on the day of the murders.”

“Lord, we never thought of that,” said Ellery.

“Moorman, whom you know, admitted that to me, not knowing who I was. I got it out of him when he thought I was merely a client taking an outside interest in the case. He didn’t realise that it was of importance.”

“And that was your proof?” asked Joan, with an air of disappointment.

“Dear me, Miss Cowper, I should be very sorry to try to hang a man on such evidence. That was only a beginning. What puzzled me was that, whereas the weapon with which Mr. George Brooklyn was killed was found on the scene of the murder, there was no sign of any weapon which could have killed Mr. Prinsep. So I made a thorough fresh search, and at last, on the roof of the building which projects over towards the coach-yard, I found the weapon, where the murderer had thrown it out of sight. It was a bag filled with small-shot.”

“But I don’t see how you could prove whose it was.”

“One moment, Mr. Ellery. I took that bag away, and went carefully through its contents. Among them I found two tiny scraps of paper, obviously part of an order, or a memorandum of an order, for garden bulbs. When I went to the desk there just now, it was to confirm my view that the writing was Carter Woodman’s. I was right.”

“So that proved it?” said Joan.

“I would not go so far as to say that,” said Superintendent Wilson. “But it made a case, with certain other points which you probably know as well as I—Woodman’s financial difficulties, and so on. I had not, however, finished my case. In fact, when I came here, I was pursuing my investigations. Your presence and that of the inspector were quite unexpected. Indeed, I may say that you interrupted me.”

“Sorry and all that,” said Ellery. “But, you see, we had finished our case, and proved Carter Woodman’s guilt so that he knew the game was up. Hence the end of the story as you saw it just now.”

“I suggest, Mr. Ellery—and Miss Cowper—that, in view of what we both know, the only possible course is to pool our information. I have told you my evidence. Will you be good enough now to tell me yours?”

Joan and Ellery looked at each other, and Joan nodded. They both realised that it was inevitable that they should tell Superintendent Wilson all they knew.

“You tell him, Bob. I’m not up to it,” said Joan, smiling faintly. “But, superintendent, you realise, don’t you, how anxious we have been that this horrible story should not come to light. It has caused misery enough already: the telling of it will only cause more.”

“I understand,” said the superintendent.

“Then can’t we still keep it to ourselves?” said Joan, with a note of hope in her voice.

The superintendent shook his head. “I suppose you realise,” he said, “that you have both committed a very serious offence. But I won’t be too hard on you—especially as you have shown yourselves such creditable amateurs in my line of business,” he added with a smile. “But I am afraid the whole story must come out now. There is really no question about that.”

“But surely,” said Joan, “there’s no one to try now: so you can’t have a trial. I don’t see why you should want to drag the whole beastly story to light. It will——”

“Pardon me, Miss Cowper. There will have to be an inquest on Carter Woodman, and you and Mr. Ellery will have to tell what you know.”

“But can’t we say he committed suicide—it’s quite true, he did, and leave it at that,” said Joan.

“Yes,” Ellery put in, “and give evidence about his embarrassed financial position as a reason for taking his life.”

“Quite impossible,” said the superintendent. “I fear the story must come out; but, as there will be no trial, there will not really be very much publicity. You will do best to tell the whole story at the inquest. It will all blow over very soon.”

“But what about poor Helen—I mean Mrs. Woodman?” said Joan.

“I am afraid she will have to bear it as best she can.”

So it was done. At the inquest the whole story was told, both by Joan and Ellery and by Superintendent Wilson. The papers the next day were full of it, and full, too, of compliments both to the professionals and to the amateurs on the skill shown in unravelling the mystery. But that same day came a parliamentary crisis. The old Prime Minister resigned, and a new one—in the name of conservatism and tranquillity—took his place. Parliament was dissolved, and the drums beat and beacons flared in anticipation of an “appeal to the people.” In a few days, the Brooklyn mystery was forgotten, except by those directly concerned and by a few specialists in the records of crime.

Joan and Ellery, of course, are married, and quite disgustingly rich, now that Sir Vernon is dead. They live at Liskeard House when they are in town, and Ellery is managing director of the Brooklyn Corporation. He has made many attempts to get Marian to return to the stage; and perhaps he will yet succeed. For he has just written a play in which, she agrees, the leading part was made for her. Family matters keep Joan rather busy at present; but her first play, produced a year ago by the Brooklyn Corporation, was a great success. She is thinking of collaborating with her husband in another, with a strong detective interest.

Ellery summed up the situation the other day, when he and Joan were talking over the days of the great Brooklyn mystery. “Well, my dear, it was sad about poor old George, but you must agree that the other two were really a good riddance.” And, although one of them had been in a way her suitor, I think Joan did agree. But all she said was “Poor Marian!”

The End

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