The Brooklyn Murders

by

G. D. H. Cole

New York

Thomas Seltzer

1924

Contents

Chapter I.
A Family Celebration

At seventy Sir Vernon Brooklyn was still the outstanding figure in the theatrical world. It was, indeed, ten years since he had made his farewell appearance on the stage; and with a consistency rare among the members of his profession, he had persisted in making his first farewell also his last. He had also for some time past resigned to younger men the actual direction of his vast theatrical enterprises, which included five great West End theatres and a steady stream of touring companies in the provinces and overseas. Both as actor and as manager, he was wont to say, his work was over; but as Chairman of the Brooklyn Dramatic Corporation, which conducted all its work under his name, he was almost as much as ever in the eye of the public.

Like most men who have risen by their own efforts, aided by fortune and by a public which takes a pleasure in idolatry, to positions of wide authority, Sir Vernon had developed, perhaps to excess, the habit of getting his own way. Thus, although his niece and house-keeper, Joan Cowper, and his near relatives and friends had done their best to dissuade him from coming to London, he had ignored their protests, and insisted on celebrating his seventieth birthday in the London house, formerly the scene of his triumphs, which he now seldom visited. Sir Vernon now spent most of his time at the great country house in Sussex which he had bought ten years before from Lord Fittleworth. There he entertained largely, and there was no reason why he should not have taken the advice of his relatives and his doctor, and gathered his friends around him to celebrate what he was pleased to call his “second majority.” But Sir Vernon had made up his mind, and it was therefore in the old house just off Piccadilly that his guests assembled for dinner on Midsummer Day, June 25th.

Like Sir Vernon’s country place, the old house had a history. He had bought it, and the grounds with their magnificent garden frontage on Piccadilly, looking over the Green Park, from Lord Liskeard, when that nobleman had successfully gambled away the fortune which had made him, at one time, the richest man in England who had no connection with trade. Sir Vernon had turned his purchase to good use. Facing Piccadilly, but standing well back in its garden from the street, he had built the great Piccadilly Theatre, the perfect playhouse in which, despite its size and large seating capacity, every member of the audience could both see and hear. The theatre covered a lot of ground; but, when it was built, there still remained not only the old mansion fronting upon its side-street—a cul de sac used by its visitors alone—but also, between it and the theatre, a pleasant expanse of garden. For some years Sir Vernon had lived in the house; and there he had also worked, converting the greater part of the ground floor into a palatial set of offices for the Brooklyn Dramatic Corporation. On his retirement from active work, he had kept in his own hands only the first floor, which he fitted as a flat to house him on his visits to town. On the second floor he had installed his nephew, John Prinsep, who had succeeded him as managing director of the Corporation. The third floor was given over to the servants who attended to the whole house. It was in this house that Sir Vernon was celebrating his birthday, and his guests were to dine with him in the great Board Room of the Corporation on the ground floor—formerly the banqueting hall of generations of Liskeards, in which many a political plot had been hatched, and many a diner carried helpless from under the table in the bad days of the Prince Regent.

Between the house and the tall back of the theatre lay the garden, in which a past Lord Liskeard with classical tastes had erected a model Grecian temple and a quantity of indifferent antique statuary, the fruits of his sojourn at the Embassy of Constantinople.

In this garden, before dinner was served, a number of Sir Vernon’s guests had already gathered. The old man had been persuaded, despite the brilliant midsummer weather, to remain in the house; but Joan Cowper and John Prinsep were there to do the honours on his behalf. As Harry Lucas came into the garden, John Prinsep was laughingly, as he said, “showing off the points” of a dilapidated Hercules who, club, lion-skin and all, was slowly mouldering under the trees at one end of the lawn. The stone club had come loose, and Prinsep had taken it from the statue, and was playfully threatening to do classical execution with it upon the persons of his guests. Seeing Lucas, he put the club back into the broken hand of the statue, and came across the lawn to bid him welcome.

“You’re the last to arrive, Mr. Lucas,” said he. “You see it’s quite a family affair this evening.”

It was quite a family affair. Of the eight persons now on the lawn, six were members of the Brooklyn family by birth or marriage; Lucas was Sir Vernon’s oldest friend and collaborator; and young Ellery, the remaining member of the party, was Lucas’s ward, and was usually to be found, when he had his will, somewhere in the neighbourhood of Joan Cowper. As Sir Vernon had fully made up his mind that Joan was to marry Prinsep, and there was supposed to be some sort of engagement between them, Ellery’s attentions were not welcome to Prinsep, and there was no love lost between the two men.

But there was no sign of this in Prinsep’s manner this evening. He seemed to be in unusually good spirits, rather in contrast to his usual humour. For Prinsep was not generally regarded as good company. Since he had succeeded Sir Vernon in the business control of the Brooklyn Corporation, of which he was managing director, he had grown more and more preoccupied with affairs, and had developed a brusque manner which may have served him well in dealing with visitors who wanted something for nothing, but was distinctly out of place in the social interchange of his leisure hours. Prinsep had, indeed, his pleasures. He was reputed a heavy drinker, whose magnificent natural constitution prevented him from showing any of the signs of dissipation. Many of Prinsep’s acquaintances—who were as many as his friends were few—had seen him drink more than enough to put an ordinary man under the table; but none had ever seen him the worse for drink, and he was never better at a bargain than when the other man had taken some glasses less than he, but still a glass too much. Men said that he took his pleasures sadly: certainly they had never been allowed to interfere with his power of work; and often, after a hard evening, he would go to his study and labour far into the night. But, for this occasion, his sullenness seemed to have left him, and his rather harsh laugh rang out repeatedly over the garden.

Lucas had never liked Prinsep; and he soon found himself one of a group that included Joan and Ellery and Mary Woodman, a cousin of the Brooklyns who lived with Joan and helped her to keep Sir Vernon’s house. Presently Joan drew him aside.

“Uncle Harry,” she said, “there’s something I want to tell you.”

Lucas was, in fact, no relation of the Brooklyns; but from their childhood Joan and George Brooklyn had known him as “Uncle Harry,” and had made him their confidant in many of their early troubles. The habit had stuck; and now Joan had a very serious trouble to tell him.

“You must do what you can to help me,” she said. “I’ve told Uncle Vernon again to-day that on no account will I ever marry John, and he absolutely refuses to listen to me. He says it’s all settled, and his will’s made on that understanding, and that we’re engaged, and a whole lot more. I must make him realise that I won’t; but you know what he is. I want you to speak to him for me.”

Lucas thought a moment before replying. Then, “My dear,” he said, “I’m very sorry about it, and you know I will do what I can; but is this quite the time? We should only be accused, with some truth, of spoiling Sir Vernon’s birthday. Let it alone for a few days, and then I’ll try talking to him. But it won’t be easy, at any time.”

“Yes, uncle; but there’s a special reason why it must be done to-night. Uncle Vernon tells me that he is going to announce the terms of his will, and that he will speak of what he calls John’s and my ‘engagement.’ I really can’t allow that to happen. I don’t really mind about the will, or John getting the money; but it must not be publicly given out that John is to have me as well. Uncle Vernon has no right to leave me as part of his ‘net personalty’ to John or anybody else.”

Lucas sighed. He foresaw an awkward interview; for Sir Vernon was not an easy man to deal with, and latterly every year had made him more difficult. But he saw that he was in for it, and, with a reassuring word to Joan, passed into the house in search of his host.

As Joan turned back to rejoin the others, Robert Ellery stepped quickly to her side. Slim and slightly built, he offered a strong contrast to Prinsep’s tall, sturdy figure. Joan’s two lovers were very different types. Ellery was not strictly handsome; but he had an invincible air of being on good terms with the world which, with a ready smile and a clear complexion, were fully as effective as the most approved type of manly beauty. Still under thirty, he was just beginning to make himself a name. A play of his had recently been produced with success by the Brooklyn Corporation: one of his detective novels had made something of a hit, and his personal popularity was helping him to win rapid recognition for his undoubted talent as a writer. Moreover, his guardian, Lucas, was a big figure in the dramatic and literary world, knew everybody who was worth knowing, and had a high opinion of the ability of his ward.

It was obvious that Ellery was in love with Joan. Few men had less power of concealing what was in them, and everybody in the Brooklyn circle, except Sir Vernon himself, was well aware that Ellery thought the world of Joan, and more than suspected that she thought the world of him. Of course, the theory could not be mentioned in Prinsep’s presence; but, when he was not there, the situation was freely discussed. George Brooklyn and his wife always maintained that, even if Joan did not marry Ellery, she would certainly not marry Prinsep. Carter Woodman, Sir Vernon’s lawyer as well as his cousin, held firmly to the opposite opinion, and often hinted that Sir Vernon’s will would settle the question in Prinsep’s favour; but then, as George said, Woodman was a lawyer and his mind naturally ran on the marriage settlements rather than the marriage itself.

The Brooklyns were neither particularly united nor particularly quarrelsome, in their own family circles. They had their bickerings and their mutual dislikes to about the average extent; but more than the normal amount of family solidarity had manifested itself in their dealings with the outer world. Two “outsiders,” Lucas and Ellery, were indeed recognised almost as members of the family; and, on the other hand, one black sheep, Sir Vernon’s brother Walter, had been driven forth and refused further recognition. For the rest, they stuck together, and accepted for the most part unquestioningly Sir Vernon’s often tyrannical, but usually benevolent, authority. If Joan had been a real Brooklyn, George would hardly have been so confident that she would not marry Prinsep.

But Joan was not really a Brooklyn at all. She was the step-daughter of Walter, who had for a time retrieved his fallen fortunes, fallen through his own fault, by marrying the rich widow of Cowper, the “coffee king.” The widow had then obligingly died, and Walter Brooklyn had lost no time in spending her money, including the large sum left in trust for Joan by her mother. But it was not this, so much as Walter’s manner of life, that had caused Joan, at twenty-one, to say that she would live with him no longer. Sir Vernon, to whom she was strongly attached, had then offered her a home, and for five years she had been in fact mistress of his house, and hostess at his lavish entertainment of his theatrical friends. From the first Sir Vernon had set his heart on her marrying his nephew, John Prinsep, who was ten years her senior. But Joan was a young woman with a will of her own; and for five years she had resisted the combined pressure of Sir Vernon and of John Prinsep himself, without any success in persuading either Sir Vernon to give up the idea, or Prinsep of the hopelessness of his suit. Prinsep persisted in believing that she would “come round,” though of late her growing friendship with Ellery had made him more anxious to secure her consent to a definite engagement.

Ordinarily, Prinsep had a way of scowling when he saw Joan and Ellery together; but to-night he seemed without a care as he came up to Joan and invited her to lead the way indoors. Dinner was already served; and Sir Vernon with Lucas was waiting for them all to come in.

There, in the great Board Room of the Corporation, they offered, one by one, their congratulations to the old man. An enemy had once said of Sir Vernon Brooklyn that he was the finest stage gentleman in Europe—both on and off the stage. The saying was unjust, but there was enough of truth in it to sting. Sir Vernon was a little apt to act off the stage; and the habit had perhaps grown on him since his retirement. To-night, with his fine silver hair and keen, well-cut features, he was very much the gentleman, dispensing noble hospitality with just too marked a sense of its magnificence. But it was Sir Vernon’s day, and his guests were there to do his will, to draw him out into reminiscence, to enhance his sense of having made the most of life’s chances, and of being sure to leave behind him those who would carry on the great tradition. The talk turned to the building of the Piccadilly Theatre. The old man told them how, from the first days of his success, he had made up his mind to build himself the finest theatre in London. From the first he had his eye on the site of Liskeard House; and it had taken him twenty years to persuade the Liskeards, impoverished as they were, to sell it for such a purpose. At last he had secured the site, and then again his foresight had been rewarded. Not for nothing had he paid for George Brooklyn’s training as an architect, based on the lad’s own bent, and given him the opportunity to study playhouse architecture in every quarter of the globe. The Piccadilly Theatre was not only George Brooklyn’s masterpiece: it was, structurally, acoustically, visually, for comfort, in short in every way, the finest theatre in the world. It was also the best paying theatre. And, the old man said, if in his day he had been the finest actor, so was George’s wife still the finest actress, if only she would not waste on domesticity the gift that was meant for mankind. For Mrs. George Brooklyn, as Isabelle Raven, had been the star of the Piccadilly Theatre until she had married its designer and quitted the stage, sorely against Sir Vernon’s will.

Sir Vernon was in his best form; and the talk, led by him, was rapid and, at times, brilliant. But there was at least one of those present to whom it made no appeal; for Joan Cowper was painfully anxious as to the result of Lucas’s interview with Sir Vernon. Several times she caught his eye; but, although he smiled at her down the table, his look brought her no reassurance. At last, when the servants had withdrawn after the last course, Joan rose, purposing to lead the ladies to the drawing-room. But Sir Vernon waved her back to her seat, saying that, before they left the table, there was something which he wanted them all to hear. Clearly there was nothing for it but to wait; but Joan made up her mind that, if Sir Vernon spoke of her publicly as engaged to Prinsep, not even the spoiling of his birthday party should stop her from speaking her mind.

Chapter II.
Sir Vernon’s Will

“All of us here,” began Sir Vernon, with a well-satisfied look round the table, “are such good friends that we can be absolutely frank one with another. I am an old man; and I expect that almost all of you have at one time or another wondered—I put it bluntly—what you will get when I die. It is very natural that you should do so; and I have come to the conclusion that you had better know exactly how you stand. Carter here has, of course, as my legal adviser, known from the first what is in my will; and now I want all of you to know, in order that you may expect neither too much nor too little. I fear I am still a moderately healthy old man, or so my doctor tells me, and you may, therefore, still have some time to wait; but at my age it is well to be prepared, and I felt that you ought not to be left any longer in the dark.”

At this point several of Sir Vernon’s auditors attempted to speak, but he waved them into silence.

“No, let me have my say without telling me what I know already,” he continued. “I know that you would tell me truly that nothing is further from your thoughts than to wish me out of the way. It is not because I am in any doubt on that head that I am speaking to you; but because this is a business matter, and it is well to know in advance what one’s prospects are. Listen to me, then, and I will tell you, as far as I can, exactly how the thing stands.

“To several of you I have already made substantial gifts. You, John, and you, George, have each received £50,000 in shares of the Company. You, Joan, have £10,000 worth of shares standing in your name. These sums are apart from my will, and the bequests which I propose to make are in addition to these.

“As nearly as Carter here can tell me, I am now worth, on a conservative estimate, some eight or nine hundred thousand pounds. Carter works it out that, when all death duties have been paid, there will be at least £600,000 to be divided among you. In apportioning my property I have worked on the basis of this sum. I have divided it, first, into two portions—£100,000 for smaller legacies, and £500,000 to be shared by my residuary legatees.

“First, let me tell you my smaller bequests, which concern most of you. To you, Lucas, my oldest and closest friend, I have left nothing but a few personal mementoes. You have enough already; and it is at your express wish that I do as I have done. To my young friend and your ward, Ellery, I leave £5000. I understand that he will have enough when you die; but this sum may be welcome to him if, as I expect, I am the first to go. To you, Carter, I leave £20,000. You, too, have ample means; but our close connection and the work you have done so well for me and for the Company call for recognition. To Mrs. Carter—to you, Helen—I have left no money—you will share in what your husband receives—but I will show you later the jewels which will be yours when I die. To you, Mary, who, with Joan, have lived with me and cared for me, I leave £20,000, enough to make you independent. There are but two more of my smaller legacies I need mention. The rest are either to servants or to charitable institutions. But you all know that, for many years past, I have not been on good terms with my brother Walter. I have no mind, since I have other relatives who are far dearer to me, to leave him another fortune to squander like the last; but I am leaving in trust for him the sum of £10,000, of which he will receive the income during his life. On his death, the sum will pass to my dear niece, Joan, to whom I shall also leave absolutely the sum of £40,000. This, with the £10,000 which she had already, will make her independent, but not rich.

“You may be surprised, Joan, that I leave you no more; but, when I tell you of my principal bequests, you will understand the reason. The residue, then, of my property, amounting to at least £500,000, I leave equally between my two nephews, John Prinsep and George Brooklyn. You too, therefore, will both be rich men. As so large a sum is involved, I have thought it right to make provision for the decease of either of you. Should George die before me, which God forbid, you, Marian, as his wife, will receive half the sum which he would have received under my will. The other half will pass to John, as the surviving residuary legatee. Should John die, the half of his share will pass to Joan—a provision the reason for which you will all, I think, readily appreciate. I have not made provision for the death of both my nephews—for an event so unlikely hardly calls for precaution. But should God bring so heavy a misfortune upon us, the residue of my property would then pass, as the will now stands, to my nearest surviving relative.”

While Sir Vernon was still speaking Joan had been trying to break in upon him. Prinsep was able to check her for a moment, but at this point she insisted on speaking. “Uncle,” she said, “there is something I must say to you in view of what you have just told us. I am very sorry if my saying it spoils your birthday; but I must say it all the same. What you have left to me is more than enough, and certainly all that I expect, or have any right to expect. But I cannot bear that you should misunderstand me, or that I should seem, by saying nothing now, to accept the position. I want you to understand quite definitely that I have no intention of marrying John. I am not engaged to him; and I never shall be. It’s not that I have anything against him—it’s simply that I don’t want—and don’t mean—to marry him. I’m sorry if it hurts you to hear me say this; but you have publicly implied that we are to be married, and I couldn’t keep silent after that.”

Sir Vernon’s face had flushed when Joan began to speak, and he had seemed on the point of breaking in upon her. But he had evidently thought better of it; for he let her have her say. But now he answered coldly, and with a suppressed but obvious irritation.

“My dear Joan, you know quite well that this marriage has been an understood thing among us all. I don’t pretend to know what fancy has got into your head just lately. But, at all events, let us hear no more of it to-night. Already what you have said has quite spoilt the evening for me.”

Then, as Joan tried to speak, he added, “No, please, no more about it now. If you wish you can speak to me about it in the morning.”

Joan still tried to say something; but at this point Lucas cut quickly into the conversation. Actor-managers, he said, had all the luck. You would not find a poor devil of a playwright with the best part of a million to leave to his descendants. And then, with obvious relief, the rest helped to steer the talk back to less dangerous topics. Sir Vernon seemed to forget his annoyance and launched into a stream of old theatrical reminiscence, Lucas capping each of his stories with another. The cheerfulness of the latter part of the evening was, perhaps, a trifle forced, and there were two, Joan herself and young Ellery, who took in it only the smallest possible part. But Prinsep, Lucas, and Carter Woodman made up for these others; and an outsider would have pronounced Sir Vernon’s party a complete success.

There was no withdrawal of the ladies that evening, for, after her discomfiture, Joan made no move towards the drawing-room. In the end it was Prinsep who broke up the party with a word to Sir Vernon. “Come, uncle,” he said, “ten o’clock and time for our roystering to end. I have work I must do about the theatre and it’s time some of us were getting home.”

Then Joan seemed to wake up to a sense of her duties, and Sir Vernon was promptly bustled off upstairs, the guests gradually taking their leave.

Most of them had not far to go. Lucas had his car waiting to run him back to his house at Hampstead. Ellery had rooms in Chelsea, and announced his intention, as the night was fine, of walking back by the parks. The George Brooklyns and the Woodmans, who lived in the outer suburbs at Banstead and Esher, were staying the night in town, at the famous Cunningham, on the opposite side of Piccadilly, the best hotel in London in the estimation of foreign potentates and envoys as well as of Londoners themselves. George Brooklyn, saying that he had an appointment, asked Woodman to see his wife home, and left Marian and the Woodmans outside the front door of the Piccadilly theatre, while they crossed the road towards their hotel.

The guests having departed, Liskeard House began to settle down for the night. On the ground floor, indeed, there began a scurry of servants clearing up after the dinner. On the first floor Joan, having seen Sir Vernon to his room, sat in the long-deserted drawing-room, talking over the evening’s events with her friend, Mary Woodman, and reiterating, to a sympathetic listener, her determination never to marry John Prinsep. Meanwhile, upstairs on the second floor, John Prinsep sat at his desk in his remote study with a heavy frown on his face, very unlike the seemingly light-hearted and amiable expression he had worn all the evening. Sir Vernon’s birthday party was over, but there were strange things preparing for the night.

Chapter III.
Murder

John Prinsep was a man who valued punctuality and cultivated regular habits, both in himself and in others. At 10.15 punctually each night a servant came to him to collect any late letters for the post. Thereafter, unless some visitor had to be shown up, he was left undisturbed, and no one entered his flat on the second floor of Liskeard House until the next morning. The servants, who slept on the floor above, had access to it by a staircase of their own, and did not need to pass through Prinsep’s quarters.

No less regular were the arrangements for the morning. At eight o’clock precisely, Prinsep’s valet called him, bringing the morning papers and letters and a cup of tea. At the same time, other servants began the work of dusting and cleaning the flat, a long suite of rooms running the whole length of the house. Prinsep’s bedroom, opening out of his study, and accessible also from the end of the long corridor, was a pleasant room looking out over the old garden towards the back of the theatre.

On the morning after the birthday dinner, Prinsep’s valet approached the bedroom door with some trepidation, for he had overslept himself and was at least five minutes late—an offence which his master would not readily forgive. Repeated knocks bringing no reply, Morgan slipped into the room, only to find that the bed had not been slept in, and that there was no sign that Prinsep had been there at all since he had dressed for dinner on the previous evening. Closing the door, Morgan walked back along the corridor to consult his fellow-servants. He found Winter, who was superintending the dusting of the drawing-room.

“Did you see the master last night?” he asked. Winter answered with a nod, and added, “Yes, I took some letters from him for the post as usual.”

“Did he say anything about going out? His bed has not been slept in, and he’s not in his room this morning.”

Winter replied that Prinsep had said nothing, and the two men walked down the corridor together to take a look round.

At this moment there came a terrible scream from the study, and a scared maid-servant came running out straight into Morgan’s arms. “Oh, Mr. Morgan—the master,” she sobbed, “I’m sure he’s dead.”

The two men-servants made all haste into the study. There, stretched on the floor beside his writing-table lay John Prinsep. A glance told them that he was dead, and showed the apparent cause in a knife, the handle of which protruded from his chest, just about the region of the heart. Morgan went down on his knees beside the body, and felt the pulse. “Get out quick,” he said, “and stop those girls from kicking up a row. He’s dead, right enough.”

Morgan’s voice was agitated, indeed; but it hardly showed the grief that might have been expected in an exemplary valet mourning for the death of his master. Winter made no reply, but left the room to quiet the servants. Then he came back and telephoned first for the police and then for the dead man’s doctor, who promised to be with them inside of half an hour. As he sat at the telephone he warned Morgan. “Don’t disturb a thing. If we’re not careful one of us may get run in for this job.”

Morgan meanwhile had satisfied himself beyond a doubt that Prinsep was dead. Leaving the body he turned to Winter. “Some one will have to tell Miss Joan, I suppose. I’ll go and find her maid. Meanwhile you stay on guard here.”

Winter’s guard was not for long. In less than ten minutes Morgan returned. “I’ve seen Miss Joan,” he said, “and she’s gone to tell Sir Vernon. Here are the police coming upstairs.”

The telephone message had, by a lucky accident, found Inspector Blaikie already at Vine Street, and it was he, with two constables and a sergeant, who had come round to the house at once. The constables remained downstairs, while he and the sergeant made a preliminary examination. Winter told him that nothing had been disturbed, except that they had touched the body in order to make sure that Prinsep was dead, and used the telephone to communicate with the doctor and the police.

“No doubt about his being dead,” said Inspector Blaikie, after a brief examination of the body. “Dead some hours, so far as I can see. And no doubt about the cause of death, either”—and he pointed to the knife still in the body. “Has either of you ever seen that knife before?”

Both Winter and Morgan took a good look at the shaft, but disclaimed ever having seen the knife. “It wasn’t his—I can tell you that,” said Morgan. “I know everything he had in the study, and I’m dead sure it wasn’t here yesterday.”

“Hallo,” said the inspector suddenly, “this is curious. There’s a mark on the back of the head that shows he must have been struck a heavy blow. It might have killed him by itself—must have stunned him, I should say. Well, we’ll leave that for the doctors.” So saying, the inspector got up from his knees and began to make a minute examination of the room. “Here, you two,” he said to Morgan and Winter, “clear out of here for the present, and stay in the next room till I send for you.”

Inspector Blaikie was a careful man. Everything in the room was rapidly submitted to a detailed examination, the results of which the sergeant wrote down as his superior dictated them. They were neither surprisingly rich nor surprisingly meagre. Of fingermarks there were plenty, but these might well prove to be those of Prinsep himself, or of other persons whose presence in the room was quite natural. Identifiable footmarks there were none.

Robbery, unless of some special object, did not appear to have been the motive of the murderer. Considerable sums of money were in the drawers of Prinsep’s desk; but neither these nor the other contents of the drawers seemed to have been in any way disturbed. A safe stood unopened in a corner of the room. The dead man’s watch and other valuables had been left intact upon him. Either the murderer had left in great haste without accomplishing his purpose, or that purpose did not include robbery of any ordinary kind.

Inspector Blaikie directed his special attention to the papers lying on the dead man’s desk, which he seemed to have been working upon when he was disturbed. These, it did not take the inspector long to discover, related to the financial affairs of Walter Brooklyn who, as he soon ascertained later by a few questions, was the brother of Sir Vernon, a man about town of shady reputation, and known to be head over ears in debt. The papers seemed to contain some sort of abstract statement of his liabilities, with a series of letters from him to Sir Vernon asking for financial assistance.

“H’m,” said the inspector to himself, “these may easily have a bearing on the case.”

But there were other interesting discoveries to come. The inspector was now informed that the doctor had arrived. He ordered that he should be shown up immediately, and suspended his examination of the room to greet the new-comer. Dr. Manton had been for some years the dead man’s medical adviser; but no other member of the Brooklyn family had been under his care. Something in common with him had perhaps caused Prinsep to forsake the staid family physician in his favour; but this hardly appeared on the surface. Prinsep was heavily built and sullen in expression: Dr. Manton was slim built and rather jaunty, with a habit of wearing clothes far less funereal than the normal etiquette of the medical profession seems to dictate. He entered now, flung a rapid and seemingly quite cheerful “Good-morning, inspector—bad business this, I hear,” to Blaikie, and went at once down on his knees beside the body. “Bad business—bad business,” he continued to repeat to himself, in a perfectly cheerful tone of voice, as he made his preliminary examination. He made a noise between his teeth as he touched the hilt of the knife still embedded in Prinsep’s chest: then, as he saw the contusion on the back of the head, he said “H’m, h’m.” Then he relapsed into silence, which he broke a moment later by whistling a tune softly to himself.

“Well,” said the inspector, “what’s the report?”

The doctor made no answer for a moment. Then he said, “Have him carried into the bedroom. I want to make a fuller examination. I’ll talk to you when I’ve done.”

“Very well,” said the inspector; and he went to the door and called to the sergeant to bring up the two constables to move the body. Heavily they marched into the room, lifted up the dead man, and bore him away, the doctor following. But, as they raised the body from the floor, an interesting object came to light. Underneath John Prinsep’s body had lain a crumpled pocket-handkerchief. The inspector pounced upon it. In the corner was plainly marked the name of George Brooklyn.

“Who’s George Brooklyn?” Inspector Blaikie called out to the doctor in the adjoining room. The doctor came to the door, and saw the handkerchief in the inspector’s hand. “Hallo, what’s that you’ve got?” he said. “George Brooklyn is Prinsep’s cousin, old Sir Vernon’s other nephew. An architect, I believe, by profession.”

“Thanks. This appears to be his handkerchief,” the inspector answered. “It was under the body.”

“H’m. Well, that’s none of my business,” said the doctor, and turned back into the bedroom.

There, a minute or two later, Inspector Blaikie followed him, leaving the sergeant on guard in the room where the tragedy had occurred. But first he carefully packed up and transferred to his handbag the handkerchief, the papers from the desk, and certain other spoils of his search.

“Well, what do you make of it now?” he asked Dr. Manton.

The doctor had by this time drawn the knife from the wound, and this he now handed silently to the inspector, who examined it curiously, felt its edge, and finally wrapped it up and put it away in his bag with the rest of his findings. Then he turned again to the doctor.

“A shocking business, inspector,” said the latter, still with his curiously cheerful air, “and, I may add, rather an odd one. The man was not killed with the knife, and the knife wound has not actually touched any vital part. He was killed, I have no doubt, by the blow on the back of the head—a far easier form of murder for any one who is not an expert. It was a savage blow. The wound in the chest, I have little hesitation in saying, was inflicted subsequently, probably when the man was already dead. As I say, it would not have killed him, and there are also indications that it was inflicted after death—the comparative absence of bleeding and the general condition of the wound, for example.”

“H’m, you say the man was killed with a knock on the head, and the assassin then stabbed him in order to make doubly sure.”

“Pardon me, inspector, I say nothing of the sort. I say that the blow on the back of the head was the cause of death, and that the knife wound was, in all probability, subsequent. Anything about assassins and their motives and methods is your business and not mine.”

“I accept the correction,” said the inspector, smiling. “But the inference seems practically certain. Why else should the murderer have stabbed a dead man?”

“I have no theory, inspector. I simply give you the medical evidence, and leave you to draw the inferences for yourself.”

“But perhaps you can give me some valuable information. I believe you were Mr. Prinsep’s doctor.”

“Yes, and I think I may say a personal friend.”

“What sort of man was he? Anything wrong, physically?”

“No; there ought to have been, from the way he used his body. But he had the constitution of an ox. He limped, owing to an accident some years ago. But otherwise—oh, as healthy as you like.”

“And, apart from that, what was he like?”

“I got on well with him; but there were many who did not. A tough customer, hard in business and not ready in making friends.”

“What terms was he on with his family—with Mr. George Brooklyn, for instance?”

“Come now, inspector, this is hardly fair. I barely know George Brooklyn. I don’t think he and Prinsep liked each other; but there had been no quarrel so far as I know. I suppose you are thinking of the handkerchief.”

“I have to think of these things.”

While he was speaking the inspector opened his bag and took out the knife again.

“A curious knife this,” he said. “Perhaps you can tell me whether it is a surgical instrument.”

“Not so curious, when you know what it is. I do happen to know, though it has nothing to do with my profession. My son is a mechanical draughtsman, and he has several. Knives of this type are sold by most firms which supply architects’ and draughtsmen’s materials.”

“H’m, what did you say was Mr. George Brooklyn’s profession?”

“I believe he is an architect, and a very promising one.”

“That, doctor, may make this knife a most valuable clue.”

“I do not choose to consider it in that light. Clues are not my affair, I am glad to say.”

“Well, they are my business, and I shall certainly have to make further inquiries about Mr. George Brooklyn.”

“Oh, inquire away,” said the doctor. “But I fancy you will find George Brooklyn quite above suspicion.”

The inspector’s eyes showed, just for an instant, a dangerous gleam. Then, “And is there anything else you can tell me?” he asked.

“Nothing else, I think,” said the doctor. “I’m afraid you won’t find it much of a clue.” And with that and a few words more about the necessary inquest, the doctor took his leave.

The inspector went back into the study. “Ask those two men who are waiting to step in here, will you?” he said to the sergeant. Morgan and Winter were duly brought in. “Sergeant, while I talk to these two men, I want you to make a thorough examination of the rest of the house. Leave nothing to chance. House and garden, I mean. And make me a sketch plan of the whole place while you’re about it.”

“Now,” said the inspector, when the sergeant had withdrawn, “there are a number of questions I want to ask you. First, who, as far as you know, was the last person to see the deceased alive? Which of you was in charge of the front door last night?”

“I was, sir,” replied Winter.

“Well, then,” said the inspector, “I will begin with you. Morgan can go back to the other room for the present, and I will send for him when I want him. Now, when did you yourself last see Mr. Prinsep?”

“At 10.30 last night, sir, when I went up to fetch his letters for the post.”

“Did you notice anything unusual, or did he make any remark?”

“He just gave me the letters. He didn’t say anything. He seemed in a bad temper, but that was nothing out of the ordinary.”

“I see. There was nothing remarkable. Do you know if any one saw him after you?”

“Yes, sir. At about a quarter to eleven Mr. George Brooklyn called and asked for Mr. Prinsep. I told him I thought Mr. Prinsep was in, and he said he would find his own way up.”

“And do you know when Mr. George Brooklyn came out?”

“Yes, I happened to catch sight of him crossing the hall to the front door about three-quarters of an hour later—somewhere about half-past eleven. We were in the dining-room clearing up, and several of us saw him go out.”

“You say ‘clearing up.’ Had there been some entertainment in the house last night?”

“Yes, sir. It was Sir Vernon Brooklyn’s family party. His seventieth birthday, sir. Besides those in the house there were Mr. and Mrs. George, Mr. Carter Woodman, sir—the solicitor, who is also Sir Vernon’s cousin—and his wife, and Mr. Lucas—and, yes, Mr. Ellery.”

“When did they leave?”

“They all left a minute or two after ten o’clock. Mr. and Mrs. George and the Woodmans are staying at the Cunningham, sir, and they walked. Mr. Lucas—the playwriter, sir—he went off in his car to Hampstead, and Mr. Ellery, he walked off in a great hurry.”

“So far as you know, no one besides Mr. George Brooklyn saw Mr. Prinsep after 10.15.”

“No. Of course, Miss Joan or Miss Woodman or Sir Vernon may have seen him without my knowing.”

“One more question. Do you recognise this walking-stick?” The inspector had found this lying on the floor of the room. It might be Prinsep’s; but it was best to make sure.

“No, sir. I’ve never seen it to my knowledge. But it may have been Mr. Prinsep’s, for all that. He had quite a number.”

“You’ve no idea, then, whose it was?”

“No, sir. Mr. Prinsep used to collect walking-sticks. He was always bringing new ones home.”

“Now, I want to ask you another question. You see this knife—the one that was sticking out of the body. Have you ever seen it before?”

Winter’s manner showed some hesitation. At length he said, “No, I can’t say I have. I mean, it wasn’t here to my knowledge yesterday.”

“You seem to hesitate in answering. It’s a curious sort of knife. Surely you would remember if you had seen it. Or have you seen one like it?”

“Must I answer that question, sir? You see, I’m not at all sure it was the same.”

“Of course you must answer. It is your business to give the police all the help you can in discovering the murderer.”

“Well, sir, all I meant was that I’d often seen Mr. George Brooklyn using that sort of knife when he was doing his work—he’s an architect—down at Fittleworth. He used to bring his work down when he came to stay with Sir Vernon, and I know he had a knife like that.”

“I see. But you can’t say whether this is his.”

“No. It might be; but all I know is it’s the same pattern.”

“And that’s all you can tell me, is it?” Winter said nothing, and the inspector added, “Very well, that will do. Now I want to ask Morgan a few questions.”

Morgan had little light to throw upon the tragedy. He had been out all the previous evening, after helping his master to dress for dinner, when he had noticed nothing extraordinary. He had come back soon after 11.30, and had gone straight to bed. Where had he been? He had spent the evening with friends at Hammersmith, had come back by the Tube with two friends, who had only left him at the door of the house. There he had met Winter and had gone upstairs with him to bed.

Asked if he knew the walking-stick, he was quite sure that it was not his master’s, and that it had not been in the room on the previous day. About the knife he knew nothing, except that he had never seen it, or one like it, before.

The inspector had just finished his examination of Morgan when he was startled by a shout from the garden. Throwing up the window, he called to a constable who was running towards the house. The man’s answer was to ask him to come as quickly as possible. Calling another constable to keep guard in the study, Inspector Blaikie hastened to the garden, directed by Morgan to a private stairway which led directly to it from the back of the house. This, Morgan informed him, was Mr. Prinsep’s usual way of getting into the garden, and thence, by the private covered way, into the Piccadilly Theatre itself.

But before inspector Blaikie left the study, he did one thing. He ’phoned through to Scotland Yard, and made arrangements for the immediate arrest of George Brooklyn, who was probably to be found at the Cunningham Hotel.

Chapter IV.
What Joan Found in the Garden

Joan Cowper usually knew her own mind. And, in her view, knowing your own mind meant knowing when to stop as well as when to go on. She had made her position clear at the dinner, and Sir Vernon could no longer pretend, she said to herself, that her marriage with Prinsep was a foregone conclusion. Sir Vernon, indeed, had said nothing more about the matter when she took him to his room in the evening, and they had separated for the night apparently on the best of terms. But Joan had known that she must prepare for a stormy interview on the morrow; and, as she dressed in the morning, her thoughts were running on what she should say to Sir Vernon, in answer to the reproaches he was sure to address to her.

Just as she was ready for breakfast, her scared maid came to her door, and said that Morgan wished to speak to her for a moment. Joan looked at the girl’s face, and saw at once that something serious was amiss.

“Why, what’s the matter?” she said.

“I don’t know, miss; but there’s something wrong upstairs, and they’re sending for the police.”

Joan hurried to the room where Morgan was waiting for her. With the impeccable manner of the good manservant, and almost without a shade of feeling in his voice, Morgan told her what had happened—how he and Winter had found Prinsep lying on the floor of his study, dead.

“You are sure that he is dead,” she managed to ask. “Have you sent for a doctor?”

Morgan assured her that everything was being attended to, and said that he had come to her because some one would have to break the news to Sir Vernon. Would she do it?

Into Joan’s mind came the thought of the interview she had expected, and of the interview she was after all to have. No question now of her marrying John Prinsep—there was no longer any such person as John Prinsep to marry.

“I suppose I must do it,” she said.

Joan’s composure lasted just long enough for the door to close behind Morgan. Then she flung herself down on a couch, and let her feelings have their way. She sobbed half hysterically—not because, even at this tragic moment, she felt grief for John Prinsep, but simply because the sudden catastrophe was too much for her. Tragedy had swooped down in a moment on the house of Brooklyn, sweeping out of existence the crisis which had seemed so vital to her only a few minutes ago. On her was the sense of calamity, bewilderment, and helplessness in the face of death.

She had felt no call to ask Morgan questions. John Prinsep’s death—his murder—was a fact—a shattering event which must have time to sink into her consciousness before she could begin to inquire about the manner of its coming. She did not even ask herself how it had happened, or who had done this thing. As she lay sobbing, the one thought in her mind was that Prinsep was dead.

But soon that other thought, that call to action which had been presented to her at the very moment when Morgan told her the news, came back into her mind. She had given way; but she must pull herself together. Sir Vernon, old and weak as he was, must be told the news; and she must tell him. She must tell him at once, lest tidings should break on him suddenly from some other quarter. Already the police were probably in the house. With a powerful effort, Joan forced herself to be calm. Drying her eyes, she stood upright, and looked at herself in the glass. She would need all her power to break the news to the old man whom she loved—the old man who had loved John Prinsep far more than he loved her.

John Prinsep had been Sir Vernon’s favourite nephew—the man who was to succeed him—had indeed already succeeded him—in the management of the great enterprise he had built up. He liked George and Joan; but Prinsep had always had the first place in both his affection and his esteem. This death—this murder—Joan told herself, might be more than he could bear. It might kill him. And it fell to her, who only the night before had flouted his will by refusing to marry John Prinsep, to break to the old man the news of his favourite’s death.

Still, it had to be done, and it was best done quickly. Sir Vernon always lay in bed to breakfast, and it was to his bedroom that Joan went with her evil tidings. She did not try to break it to him gradually—she told him straight out what she knew, holding his hand as she spoke. He looked very old and feeble there in the great bed. But he took it more quietly than she had expected, unable apparently to take in at once the full implication of what she said. “Dead—murdered,” he repeated to himself again and again. He lay back in the bed and closed his eyes. Joan sat beside him for a while, and then stole away. His eyes opened and he watched her to the door; but he did not speak.

Joan’s first act on leaving Sir Vernon was to telephone to the family doctor—old Sir Jonas Dalrymple—and ask him to come round as soon as he could. Then she felt that she must have air: her head was swimming and she was near to fainting. So she went down the private staircase and out into the old garden which, now as ever, seemed so remote from the busy world outside. For some minutes she walked up and down the avenue of trees, along which were ranged the antique statues Lord Liskeard had brought home from Asia Minor. Then, in search of a place where she could sit and rest, she went towards the model temple which the same old scholar-diplomat had built to mark his enthusiasm for the world of antiquity.

But, as Joan came nearer the temple she saw, in the entrance, some indistinct dark object lying upon the steps. At first she could not be sure what it was; but, as she came close, she became sure that it was the body of a man, lying with the feet towards her in an unnatural attitude which must be that of either unconsciousness or death. Her impulse was to turn tail and run to the house for help; but, with a strong effort of will, she forced herself to go still nearer. It was a man, and the man, she felt sure, was dead. The face was turned away, lying downwards on the stone of the topmost step; and on the exposed back of the head was the mark of a savage blow which had crushed the skull almost like an egg-shell. Already Joan was nearly certain who it was, and an intense feeling of sickness came over her as she forced herself to touch the body and to turn it over enough to expose the face. Then she let the thing drop back, and started back herself with a sharp cry. It was her cousin, George Brooklyn, manifestly dead and no less manifestly murdered, who lay there on the steps of the Grecian temple.

Filled as she was with horror at the second tragedy of the morning, Joan did not lose her presence of mind. She staggered, indeed, and had to cling for a minute to the nearest of the old statues—the Hercules whose points John Prinsep had showed off to his guests only the night before. The tears which she had been keeping back burst from her now, and the weeping did her good. She regained her composure and realised that her first duty was to summon help. Slowly and unsteadily she walked towards the house. At the door leading to the garden she met one of the policemen who was helping the sergeant in his examination of the house. She tried to speak, but she could only utter one word, “Come,” and lead the way back to the horror that lay there in the garden.

The policeman followed her. But as soon as they came in view of the temple and he saw what she had seen already, he ceased to advance. “One moment, miss,” he said, “I must fetch the sergeant,” and he started back to the house in search of his superior.

Joan stood stock still, only swaying a little, until the policeman came back with the sergeant. Then she watched the two men go up to the body, turn it over slightly to see the face, and then let it fall back.

“Begging pardon, miss,” said the sergeant, turning to her, “but maybe you know who this gentleman is?”

With a violent effort Joan managed to answer, “George—my cousin—Mr. George Brooklyn,” she said; and then, overcome by the strain, she fainted.

The sergeant was a chivalrous man, and he instantly left off his examination of the spot and came to Joan’s help. Propping up her head he fanned her rather awkwardly. As he did so, he shouted to the policeman. “Don’t stand there, you fool, looking like a stuck pig. Go and get some water for the lady.”

The constable set off at a run, lumbering heavily over the grass. “And tell the inspector what’s toward,” shouted the sergeant after him. It was this shout that the inspector heard, and that made him throw up the study window and receive at once the constable’s message.

By the time Inspector Blaikie reached the garden, the constable had returned with a glass of water, and Joan had recovered consciousness. She was sitting on the grass, her back propped against the pedestal of the statue, and the sergeant was trying to persuade her to go indoors. The inspector, after a hasty glance at the scene, added his entreaties; but Joan refused to go.

“No, I must see this through,” she said, as to herself. “I’m all right now,” she added, trying to smile at the police officer. “Let me alone, please.” After a time they left her to herself and pursued their investigation of the crime.

Not only were the fact and manner of death plain enough: the actual weapon with which the blow had been dealt was also clearly indicated. Between the body and the statue lay a heavy stone club, evidently a part of the group of statuary against which Joan was resting. It was the club of Hercules, taken from the hand of the stone figure which stood only a few feet away from the body. On the club were unmistakable recent bloodstains, and clotted in the blood were hairs which seemed to correspond closely with those of the dead man.

The blow had been one of immense violence. The stone club itself was so heavy that only a very strong man could have wielded it with effect; and it had evidently been brought down with great force on the back of George Brooklyn’s head by some one standing almost immediately behind him, but rather to the right hand. So much appeared even from a cursory inspection of the wound. It was also evident that the body did not lie where it had fallen. It had been dragged two or three yards along the ground into the temple entry, presumably in order that it might be well out of the way of casual notice. The dragging of it along the ground had left clear traces. A track had been swept clear of loose stones and rubble by the passage of the body, and two little ridges showed where the stones and dust had piled up on each side.

George Brooklyn was fully dressed in his evening clothes, just as he had appeared at dinner the night before. He had evidently come out into the garden without either hat or overcoat—or at least there was no sign of these on the scene of the crime. His body lay where it had been dragged—presumably by the murderer; and all the evidence seemed to show that death had been practically instantaneous. There was no sign of a struggle: the only visible mark of the event was the trail left where the dragging of the body had swept clear of dirt and pebbles the stone approach to the model temple.

All these observations, made by the sergeant within a minute or two of discovering the body, were confirmed by the inspector when he went over the ground. Footmarks, indeed, were there in plenty; but Joan explained that they had all been walking about the garden before dinner on the previous evening, and that nearly all of them had actually stood for some time just outside the porch of the temple. From the footprints it was most unlikely that any valuable evidence would be derived.

Had the situation been less grim Inspector Blaikie would have been inclined to laugh when he found that the man whose body lay in the garden was the very man for whose arrest he had just issued the order. His fear had been that George Brooklyn would slip away before there was time to effect an arrest. That fear was now most completely removed. If George Brooklyn had killed Prinsep upstairs, certainly fate had lost no time in exacting retribution.

The inspector’s immediate business, however, was to see what clues to this second and more mysterious murder might have been left. And it soon appeared to him that valuable evidence was forthcoming. First, on the stone club, his skilled examination plainly revealed a fine set of finger-prints, blurred in places, but still quite decipherable. Moreover, these prints occupied exactly the spaces most natural if the weapon had been used for a murderous assault. The inspector carefully wrapped up the club for forwarding at once to the Finger-Print Department at Scotland Yard.

But good fortune did not end there. Close to the statue of Hercules from which the club had been taken he found, trodden into the ground, a broken cigar-holder. It was a fine amber holder, broken cleanly across the middle. Where the cigar was to be inserted was a stout gold band, and on this band was an inscription, “V.B. from H.L.” Blaikie looked in vain for a cigar end. Probably the holder had dropped from a pocket and been trodden upon. Perhaps from the pocket of the murderer himself.

The inspector turned to Joan with his find.

“Have you ever seen this before?” he asked.

Joan gave a start of surprise. For a moment she stared at the cigar-holder without saying a word. Then she spoke slowly, and as if with an effort.

“Yes,” she said. “Uncle Harry—I mean Mr. Lucas—gave it to Sir Vernon; but Mr. Prinsep always used it. I saw him using it last night.”

“Miss Cowper,” said the inspector, “this may be very important. Are you quite sure that you saw Mr. Prinsep using this holder last night, and, if you are, at what time?”

“Yes, quite sure. He was smoking a cigar in it when he went up to his room.”

Joan had stayed in the garden while the inspector was examining the ground, because she seemed to have lost the power of doing anything else. If she went in she must go and tell Sir Vernon of this second tragedy, or else talk to him in such a way as deliberately to keep him in ignorance of it. The strain in either case would be, she felt, more than she could bear. It was better even to stay near this horrible corpse, and to watch the police making their investigations.

Meanwhile, Dr. Manton, and with him a police surgeon, had come into the garden and were making an examination of the body. When they had done, two stout constables placed it on a stretcher and carried it into the house. Joan followed almost mechanically, leaving the inspector still in the garden.

As she entered the house Winter told her that Mrs. George Brooklyn and Mrs. Woodman were upstairs with Miss Woodman, and that Carter Woodman had telephoned to say that he was coming round at once. He had just heard, at his office, the news of Prinsep’s murder; but of course he would know nothing yet of George’s fate. And then it occurred to Joan that Mrs. George, who was upstairs, had probably heard nothing as yet of her husband’s death. Was she to break the news again—this time to a wife whose love for her husband had been so great as to become a family proverb? “As much in love as Marian.” How often they had laughed as they said it; and now it came home suddenly to Joan what it meant. Still, she must go upstairs and see them—tell them, if need be.

She found that they knew already. They had seen from a window the excitement in the garden, and Mary Woodman had run down to find out what the trouble was. So Mary had had to tell Mrs. George, and there they were sitting in silence, waiting for news that could be no worse, and could be no better.

Joan shortly told them what she knew. Marian listened in silence, sitting still and staring at nothing with a fixed gaze. She did not weep: she was as if she had been turned to stone. Joan thought that she looked more beautiful now than she had ever looked on the stage, when she set a whole theatre crying for the sorrows of some queen of long ago. She longed to offer comfort, but she dared do nothing. Complete silence fell on the room.

Meanwhile, below, Carter Woodman had arrived. He heard from Winter at the door the news of the second tragedy of the morning. At first he seemed half incredulous; but he was soon convinced that there was no room for doubt. With a sentence expressing his horror, he hurried through into the garden in search of the inspector, whom he found still seeking for further traces of the crime.

Carter Woodman took the position by storm. His tall, athletic presence dominated the group of men gathered round the statue. He insisted that he must hear the whole story, demanded to know what clues the police had found, and so bullied the inspector and everybody else as to get himself at once very heartily disliked. Before he had half done the police were quite in a mood to convict him of the murder, if they could find a shred of evidence.

But they had to respect his energy; for it was he who pointed out to them something which they had overlooked. It was a scrap of paper lying on the floor of the temple, seemingly blown into a corner, just beyond where the body had lain. A leaf clearly from a memorandum book, and, from the cleanness and the state of the torn edge, apparently not long torn out. On it was written, in a hand which Woodman at once identified as Prinsep’s, “Come to me in the garden. I will wait in the temple—J.P.” There was no address or direction. But it seemed to prove that Prinsep, who lay dead upstairs, had arranged with some one a meeting in the garden, where now George Brooklyn’s body had been found.

It was Woodman, too, who made a valuable suggestion. “Look here, inspector,” he said. “Most of this part of the garden, though it is hidden from the house by the trees, can be seen from the windows at the back of the theatre. Whoever was here with poor old George last night may quite possibly have been seen by some one from there. There are nearly always people about till late.”

The inspector at once pointed out that the place where they were standing, and the temple itself, were completely hidden from the theatre by a thick belt of trees and shrubs. But Woodman insisted that the chance was worth trying. George or his assailant might have been in another part of the garden some of the time.

The inspector and Woodman accordingly went across to the theatre, to which the news had already spread. And there they quickly found what they wanted. A caretaker, who lived in a set of ground-floor rooms at the back of the house had distinctly seen John Prinsep walking up and down the garden shortly after eleven o’clock, or it might have been a quarter past, on the previous night. He had been quite alone, and the man had last seen him walking towards the shrubbery and the temple. Asked if he was quite certain that the person he saw was Prinsep he said there could be no mistaking Mr. Prinsep. He had on his claret-coloured overcoat and slouch hat, and no one could help recognising his walk. He had a pronounced limp, and walked with a curious sideways action. “It was Mr. Prinsep all right,” the caretaker concluded. “I should know him out of a thousand.”

This would have satisfied some men; and it appeared to satisfy Woodman. But the inspector held that it was desirable to look for corroborative evidence. No one else in the building seemed to have seen any one in the garden; but most of the staff had not yet arrived. The inspector made arrangements for each to be interrogated on arrival, and he and Woodman then went back into the garden through the private door opening on the covered way communicating between the theatre and the house. They continued their search; but no further clues were to be found.

Chapter V.
Plain as a Pikestaff

Inspector Blaikie, when he had done all that he could on the scene of the double crime, went at once to report to his superiors and to hold a consultation at Scotland Yard. The officer to whom he was immediately responsible was the celebrated Superintendent Wilson—“the Professor,” as his colleagues called him, in allusion to his scholarly habits and his pre-eminently intellectualist way of reasoning out the solution of his cases. “The Professor,” in his earlier days as Inspector Wilson, had patiently found his way to the heart of a good many murder mysteries by thinking them out as logical problems. He had made his name by solving the great “Antedated Murder Mystery,” when every one else had been hopelessly in fault; and a man’s life and a great fortune had both depended on his skill in reasoning out the truth. He was a small man, with quick, nervous movements, and a curious way of closing his eyes and holding up his hands before him with the tips of his fingers pressed tightly together when he was discussing a case. He was reputed to have but a scant respect for most of his colleagues at Scotland Yard; but he made an exception in favour of Inspector Blaikie, whose pertinacity in following up clues worked in excellently with his own skill at putting two and two together. Blaikie, he would often say, could not reason; but he could find things out. He, Wilson, stuck there in his office, could not go hunting for clues; but he and Blaikie together were a first-class combination. He was sitting at his desk, busy with a mass of papers, when the inspector entered. He at once put his work aside and settled down to discuss the new case. Word of the second murder had already been sent to him over the telephone; and he had seen that the case was certain to make a stir. The connection of the victims with Sir Vernon Brooklyn and the Piccadilly Theatre was enough to ensure a first-class newspaper sensation. There was an unusual note of eagerness in his voice as he asked for the latest news.

“The trouble about this case, sir,” said Inspector Blaikie, “is that it’s as plain as a pikestaff; but what the clues plainly indicate cannot possibly be true. Perhaps I had better tell you the whole story from the beginning.”

Superintendent Wilson nodded, put the tips of his fingers together, leant back in his chair, and finally closed his eyes. He had composed himself to listen.

“I went to Liskeard House shortly before half-past eight this morning, on receipt of a telephone message stating that a murder had been committed.”

“Who sent the message?”

“One of the servants. They had found the body when they went in to clean the room in the morning. I went to the house, as I say. In a room on the second floor, a study, I found the body, which the servants identified as that of Mr. John Prinsep, by whom the second floor was occupied. Mr. Prinsep was managing director of the Brooklyn Corporation and nephew of Sir Vernon Brooklyn.”

The superintendent nodded.

“The body was lying on the floor with the face upwards. A knife, which I have since found to be of a peculiar type used by architects and draughtsmen, was protruding from the chest in the region of the heart. On the side of the head was a very clearly marked contusion, obviously caused by a heavy blow from some blunt instrument, which cannot have been any object of furniture in the room. The dead man’s doctor, Dr. Manton, and the police surgeon agree that this blow, and not the knife wound, was the cause of death. The knife did not touch any vital part, and the doctors believe that the wound in the chest was inflicted after death.”

“You say ‘believe.’ Are they certain?”

“No; almost certain, but not so as to swear to it. I at once made an examination of the room. The dead man had evidently been sitting at his desk, and had fallen from his chair on being struck from behind on the left-hand side. On the desk was a mass of papers relating to the financial affairs of a Mr. Walter Brooklyn, a brother, I find, of Sir Vernon Brooklyn, and therefore uncle to the deceased. I have the papers here.”

The inspector handed over a bundle which the superintendent placed beside him on the table. “Go on,” he said.

“Lying on the floor, at some distance from the body, was this walking-stick, which may, or may not, have some connection with the crime. There were at least thirty or forty walking-sticks standing in a corner; but this was lying on the floor behind the study chair to the left—that is, at the point from which the murderer seems to have approached his victim. The servants say that they do not remember seeing the stick before; but they cannot be certain, as the deceased collected sticks. This is evidently a curio, made, I think, of rhinoceros horn.”

The superintendent examined the stick for a moment, and then put it down beside him.

“Dr. Manton then arrived, and, after a preliminary examination, asked that the body should be removed to the adjoining bedroom. When it was lifted up there was revealed, lying beneath it, this handkerchief which, as you see, is marked in the corner with the name ‘G. Brooklyn.’ Mr. George Brooklyn, I have ascertained, is also a nephew of Sir Vernon Brooklyn. He is, moreover, an architect by profession, and might therefore easily have been in possession of the knife found embedded in the body. Winter, the butler at the house, has often seen him using a knife of this precise pattern.”

“H’m,” said the superintendent.

“I made inquiries among the servants. The last of them to see Mr. Prinsep alive was the butler, Winter, who collected from him his late letters for the post. That was at 10.30 or thereabouts. The deceased was sitting at his table, working at a lot of figures. He seemed in a bad temper, but that, Winter says, was nothing unusual. But from the same Winter I obtained a very valuable piece of evidence. At about a quarter to eleven Mr. George Brooklyn called to see the deceased. He said he would show himself upstairs, and did so. He was seen by Winter and the other servants leaving the house by the front door at about 11.30. It was on receiving this information that I telephoned to you asking for the immediate arrest of Mr. George Brooklyn, who was believed to be staying at the Cunningham Hotel.”

“Yes,” said the superintendent. “I sent two men round there. They were informed that Mr. Brooklyn had booked rooms, and that his wife had spent the night in the hotel. He had not been there since the previous day before dinner. I was about to take further steps when I received your second message.”

“Quite so. Now I come, sir, to the really extraordinary part of the case. Immediately before telephoning to you I had received an urgent message to come down to the garden, where the sergeant was making investigations. In the garden I found a body, which was identified by a young lady who lives in the house—Sir Vernon Brooklyn’s ward, I understand—as that of Mr. George Brooklyn himself. He was in evening dress, without hat or coat, and the body was lying on the steps of a curious sort of stone summer house—they call it the Grecian temple—where it had been dragged. The cause of death—the doctors confirm this—was a terrific blow on the back of the head, and the weapon was lying a few yards from the body. I have it here in the parcel.” The inspector lifted the heavy club with an effort on to the table, and the superintendent gave an involuntary start of surprise as he saw the strange weapon that had been employed in this sinister tragedy.

“It is, as you see, sir, a heavy stone club. It is part of a group of statuary—a Hercules, they tell me—which stands in the garden about four yards from the summer-house or temple. It has obviously been detached for some time from the rest of the statue. On it are some bloodstains and hairs which correspond to those of the dead man. There are also finger-prints, which I suppose you will have examined. I took the precaution to secure finger-prints of both the dead men for possible use. They are here.” The inspector handed over another parcel.

“I studied carefully the scene of the crime. The deed was evidently done almost at the foot of the statue, and the body was dragged from there to the temple, presumably to remove it from casual notice. At the foot of the statue I found this crushed cigar-holder, which Miss Joan Cowper—the young lady to whom I referred—identifies as habitually used by Mr. John Prinsep, and actually seen in his mouth at ten o’clock last night, when a party then held in the house broke up. I also found on the floor of the temple this crumpled piece of paper, presumably a leaf from a memorandum book,” and the inspector handed over the brief scrawled note in John Prinsep’s writing making an appointment in the garden.

What he said, however, was not quite accurate; for it was not he, but Carter Woodman, who had found the note.

“The writing of this note was identified by Miss Cowper as that of Mr. Prinsep. It is one of the puzzles of this affair.”

“You mean that it would have fitted in better if John Prinsep’s body had been found in the garden,” suggested the superintendent.

“Exactly; as things are it is confusing. About this time Mr. Carter Woodman, Sir Vernon Brooklyn’s lawyer, arrived. At his suggestion we went across to the theatre which overlooks the garden, although the place where the crime was committed and the body found is completely concealed by trees from both the house and the theatre. Our object was to find if any one from the theatre had seen anything of what happened. A caretaker stated that he had seen Mr. Prinsep walking in the garden some time between eleven o’clock last night and a quarter past. I made further inquiries, both in the house and at the theatre; but that, I think, exhausts the discoveries I have made so far.” And the inspector stopped and wiped his face with a green handkerchief.

“You have stated the case very plainly,” said Superintendent Wilson. “Now tell me what you make of it?” And he gave what can best be described as the ghost of a chuckle.

“Ah, that’s just where the troubles come in, sir,” replied the inspector. “I don’t know what to make of it. As I said, it’s as plain as a pikestaff, and yet it can’t be. When I examined Mr. Prinsep’s room I found abundant evidence pointing to the conclusion that he was murdered by Mr. George Brooklyn. But when I go into the garden, I find Mr. George Brooklyn lying dead there, under circumstances which strongly suggest that he was killed by Mr. Prinsep. Yet they can’t possibly have killed each other. It’s simply impossible.”

“You say that there is strong ground for suspecting that Prinsep killed Brooklyn. What is the ground?”

“Well, first there’s that cigar-holder. The second thing is the letter in his writing, though I admit that raises a difficulty. The third thing is that I’m practically certain the finger-prints on the club correspond to those I took from Prinsep’s hands. Then Prinsep was certainly seen walking in the garden.”

“In short, Inspector Blaikie,” said the superintendent, half smiling, “you appear to hold very strong prima facie evidence that each of these two men murdered the other.”

The inspector groaned. “Don’t laugh at me, sir,” he said. “I’m doing my best to puzzle it out. Of course they didn’t kill each other. At least, both of them didn’t. They couldn’t. You know what I mean.”

“You mean, I take it, that they could only have killed each other and left their bodies where they were found, on the assumption that at least one corpse was alive enough to walk about and commit a murder and then quietly replace itself where it had been killed. It will, I fear, be difficult to persuade even a coroner’s jury that such an account of the circumstances is correct.”

“Of course it isn’t correct, sir; but you’ll admit that’s what it looks like. It is quite possible for a man who has committed a murder to be murdered himself as he leaves the scene of his crime; but it’s stark, staring nonsense for the man whom he has killed to get up, as if he were alive and well, and come after his murderer with a club. To say nothing of laying himself out again neatly afterwards. No, that won’t wash. Yet the evidence both ways is thoroughly good evidence.”

“We can agree, inspector, that these two men did not kill each other. But it remains possible, even probable, on the evidence you have so far secured, that one of them did kill the other, and was then himself killed by some third person unknown, possibly a witness of the first crime bent on exacting retribution. How does that strike you?” The superintendent thrust his hands deep into his pockets and leant back in his chair with a satisfied look, as if he had scored a point.

Inspector Blaikie’s face, however, hardly became less doleful. “Yes, that’s possible,” he said; “but unfortunately there is absolutely nothing to show which set of circumstantial clues ought to be accepted and which discarded in that case. We do not know which of the two men was killed first. When Brooklyn went to see Prinsep, did he murder him then and there in the study, or did Prinsep decoy his visitor into the garden by means of the note we have found, and there kill him? Either theory fits some of the facts: neither fits them all. I don’t know which to think, or which to work on as a basis. The evidence we have probably points in the right direction in one of the cases, and in the wrong direction in the other; but how are we to tell which is right and which is wrong? There is nothing to lay hold of.”

“What about the medical evidence as to the time of death? Does that throw any light on the case?”

“None whatever, unfortunately. In both instances the doctors agree that death almost certainly took place at some time between 10.30 and 12 o’clock. But they say it is impossible to time the thing any more accurately than that.”

“Come, that seems at least to narrow the field of inquiry. When were each of these men last seen alive?”

The inspector referred to his notes. “John Prinsep was seen at 10.30 by the servant, Winter, who went to fetch his letters for the post. He was seen in the garden at some time between 11 o’clock and 11.15 by the caretaker at the Piccadilly Theatre, Jabez Smith, and also, I have since ascertained, by a dresser named Laura Rose about the same time. No one seems to have seen him later than about 11.15. His body was found in his study this morning at ten minutes past eight by the maid, Sarah Plenty, and seen immediately afterwards by the household servants, William Winter and Peter Morgan.”

“And George Brooklyn?”

“He was seen at about a quarter to eleven by Winter and other servants, when he called at Liskeard House and went up by himself to John Prinsep’s room. He was seen again, by Winter and two other servants, leaving the house at about 11.30. He did not go home to his hotel, and neither his wife nor any one else I have been able to discover saw him again. His body was discovered at 9.30 this morning in the garden of Liskeard House by his cousin, Joan Cowper.”

“That certainly does not seem to help us very much. In the case of Prinsep, he may have died any time after 11.19. Brooklyn was still alive at 11.30.”

“Yes; but, if Brooklyn killed Prinsep, it seems he must have done so between 11.15, when Prinsep was still alive, and 11.30, when Brooklyn was seen leaving the house.”

“That does not follow at all. We know he came back after 11.30, since he was found dead in the grounds. The first question is, How and when did he come back?”

“I have made every possible inquiry about that. The front door was bolted at about 11.45, and Winter is positive that he did not come in again that way. There are two other ways into the garden. One is through the coach-yard. That was locked and bolted about 11, and was found untouched this morning. The other is through the theatre. Nobody saw him, and the caretaker says he could not have gone through that way without being seen. But it appears that the door from the theatre into the garden was not locked until nearly midnight, and it is just possible he may have slipped through that way. He seems to have been seen in the theatre earlier in the evening—before his call at Liskeard House at 10.45.”

“Was it a usual thing for Prinsep to walk about the garden at night?”

“Yes, they tell me that he often took a stroll there on fine nights before going to bed.”

The superintendent rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I can only see one thing for it,” he said. “We have no evidence to show which of these men died first, and therefore, which, if either of them, killed the other. You must follow up both sets of clues until you get further evidence to show which is the right one. But remember that, even if one murder can be accounted for in that way, there is still another murderer somewhere at large—unless another unexpected corpse turns up with clear evidence of having been murdered by one of the other two.”

The inspector laughed. “Well,” he said, “it all seems a bit of a puzzle. It seems to me the next thing is to find out whether either of them had any special reason for murdering the other. If you agree, I shall work up the antecedents of the case, and do a little research into the family history.”

“Yes, that’s probably the best we can do for the present. But spread the net wide. Find out all you can about the whole family and the servants—every one who is known to have been in the house last night—every one who could have any reason for desiring the death of either or both of the murdered men.”

“I suppose one of them must have murdered the other,” said the inspector reflectively.

“I see no sufficient reason for thinking that,” replied his superior. “It looks to me more like a very carefully planned affair, worked out by some third party. But we mustn’t take anything for granted. Your immediate job is certainly to follow up the clues you have found. Even if they do not lead where we expect them to lead, they will probably lead somewhere. A deliberately laid false clue is often just as useful as an ordinary straightforward clue in the long run.”

“Oh, I’ll keep my eyes open,” said the inspector, “and as there is a third party involved in any case, it’s worth remembering that he could not easily have got into the house after midnight at the latest, and I’m blest if I see how he could have got out of it and left all the doors properly fastened unless he had an accomplice inside.”

“That is certainly a point. Every one who slept in the house is certainly worth watching. What about the men-servants?”

“Only two—Morgan and Winter—sleep in the house. Morgan says he came back about 11.30, after spending the evening with friends in Hammersmith. He and Winter went up to their rooms together soon after. Morgan’s room can only be reached through Winter’s. Winter says he lay awake for some hours—he is a bad sleeper—and heard Morgan snoring in the next room all the time. He did not go to sleep until after he had heard two o’clock strike. He says he is a light sleeper, and Morgan could not have passed through his room without waking him.”

“That seems to clear Morgan, if Winter is speaking the truth. What about Winter himself? A good deal seems to turn on his testimony.”

“Winter is a very old servant. He has been in the family since he was a boy. He doesn’t strike me as at all the kind of man to be mixed up in an affair of this sort. Morgan is rather a sly fellow—much more the sort of man one would be inclined to suspect.”

“You are probably right; but we must not let Winter off too easily. Suppose it is true that one of these two men did kill the other. Isn’t an old devoted family servant, if he saw the crime, just the man to take his revenge? There have been many crimes with far less strong a motive.”

“I will certainly have Winter watched, and Morgan too. But I’m not at all hopeful. It’s too well planned to be a sudden crime, and I’m sure Winter’s not the man for a high-class job of this sort.”

“Do the best you can, and keep me fully informed about the case. If I have a brain-wave, I’ll let you know. At present I can’t see light any more than you.”

With that unsatisfactory conclusion the two detectives parted. Superintendent Wilson, left alone, walked quickly up and down the room, chuckling to himself, and every now and then marking off a point on his fingers, or pausing in his walk to examine one of the clues which the inspector had left in his keeping. He appeared to find it a fascinating case.

Chapter VI.
A Pause for Reflection

When Inspector Blaikie got to his own room, he sat down with a sheet of paper in front of him, and on it made out, from his notes, a list of all the persons whom he knew to have been in the house the previous night. It was a long list, and he made it out more to set his subconscious mind free to work than with any idea that it would throw a direct light on the problem. Having made his list, he began to write down, after each name, exactly what was known about its owner’s doings and movements on the night before. He left out nothing, however unimportant it might seem; for he had fully mastered the first principle of scientific detection—that detail generally gives the clue to a crime, and that therefore every detail matters.

He began with those who seemed least likely to have had any hand in the business. First there were the four maid-servants. They had gone to bed before eleven. They slept two in a room, and there seemed no reason to doubt that, as they said, they had all slept soundly. He did not dismiss them from his mind, but he had nothing against them so far.

Then there was the lady’s maid, Agnes Dutch. She had slept alone on the first floor, in a little room next to that of Joan Cowper. She had felt tired, she said, and had gone to bed at 10.30, after making sure that Miss Joan would not want her again. She seemed a nice, quiet girl, and, although she seemed very upset in the morning when the inspector saw her, that was no more than was to be expected. There was nothing against her either. Besides, Mary Woodman had not gone to bed until after twelve, and she said that she was certain the girl was in her room until then. She had been sitting in the big landing-lounge reading, and both Joan’s and the maid’s doors opened on to the lounge.

What of Mary Woodman herself? She had been with Joan until about eleven, and had then sat for an hour reading. No one had seen her during that hour, or heard her go to bed afterwards. But Mary notoriously got on with everybody and had not an enemy in the world. Every one had told the inspector, without need of his asking the question, that she was the very last person to have anything to do with a murder. Besides, the whole thing was clearly a man’s job. The inspector filed Mary Woodman in his mind for future reference; but he felt quite sure that she knew nothing about the crimes.

Then, to finish the women, there was Joan Cowper. She had discovered George Brooklyn’s body in the garden, and her manner after the discovery seemed to be sign enough that it had come to her as a horrifying surprise. Certainly, she had known nothing about George Brooklyn’s death; but she might, for all that, be in a position to throw some further light upon the crimes. He had asked her in the garden how she had spent the previous evening; and she had answered without hesitation. After seeing Sir Vernon to his room shortly after ten, she had sat with Mary Woodman in the lounge until eleven o’clock, and had then gone to bed. Her maid had come to her rather before half-past ten and she had told her she would be needed no more that night. Mary Woodman, who had sat on in the lounge, confirmed this, and stated that Joan had not left her room before midnight. Certainly there seemed to be nothing to connect Joan with the crimes. She was a fine young lady, the inspector reflected. She had borne up wonderfully.

Next there were the men, and it was among them that the criminal, if, as Blaikie suspected, he was one of the intimate circle of Liskeard House, would probably be found. Sir Vernon Brooklyn was clearly out of it. He was a feeble old man whose hand could not possibly have struck those savage blows. He was reported to be very fond of both his nephews; and he had undoubtedly gone to bed at a quarter past ten. So much for him. He might know things or suspect, but he could have had no hand in the murders. At present, the inspector had been told, he was prostrated by the news of Prinsep’s death, and his doctor had forbidden any mention of the matter in his presence. He did not even know yet that George Brooklyn was dead.

The only other men who had slept in the house were the two servants—Winter and Morgan. Morgan seemed to be cleared of suspicion, at least if Winter had told the truth. But might not Winter himself have had a hand in the affair? The superintendent had dropped a plausible hint, and there might be something in it. Inspector Blaikie wrote it down as possible, but unlikely. Two other menservants, who had waited at dinner, did not sleep in the house, and had left soon after half-past eleven. They had been busy clearing up until the very moment of their departure, and it seemed plain that they had enjoyed neither time nor opportunity for any criminal proceeding. Besides, they were strangers, imported for the evening from the restaurant attached to the theatre. As robbery had evidently not been a motive in either murder, there was the less reason to think seriously about them. They could have had no motive.

Next, the inspector turned to a consideration of the guests who had been at the dinner. These were, first, George Brooklyn and his wife. About George he had already noted down all that he knew. What of Mrs. George? Inquiries which the sergeant had made established that she had gone straight back to her hotel—the Cunningham—soon after ten o’clock. George had left her in the care of the Woodmans, parting from them at the door of the theatre on plea of an appointment. Mrs. George—or, as she was better known both to the inspector and to all London, Isabelle Raven, the great tragedy actress—had then sat talking with Mrs. Woodman in the sitting-room which they shared at the hotel until “after eleven,” when she had gone to bed, expecting that her husband might come in at any moment. She had gone to sleep and had only discovered his absence when she woke in the morning. She had been worried, and after a hasty breakfast she had hurried across to Liskeard House with Helen Woodman to make inquiries. There she had been met with the fatal news. She was now lying ill in her room at the Cunningham Hotel, with Mrs. Woodman in faithful attendance upon her.

This recital clearly brought up the question of the Woodmans, man and wife. When they returned to the hotel with Mrs. George, Carter Woodman had gone to one of the hotel waiting-rooms to write letters, leaving the two women together. He said that he had remained at work till 11.45 or so, when he had gone down to the hall and asked the night porter to see some important letters off by the first post in the morning. This was corroborated by the night porter, who had so informed the sergeant. Carter Woodman had then gone straight to bed—a statement fully confirmed by his wife. This seemed fairly well to dispose of any connection of either the Woodmans or Mrs. George with the tragedy.

Harry Lucas? Sir Vernon’s old friend had left in his car for Hampstead at ten minutes past ten after a few farewell words with Sir Vernon. He had reached home soon after 10.30, and had gone straight to bed. This had been already confirmed by police inquiries at Hampstead during the morning.

Robert Ellery? He had left the house soon after ten, saying that he intended to walk back to his room at Chelsea. The inspector had not yet followed his trail; but he now made up his mind to do so, though he had not much faith in the result. Still, here was at least a loose end that needed tying.

When he had made his list and tabulated his information, Inspector Blaikie did not feel that he had greatly advanced in his quest. Not one of the people on the list seemed in the least likely either to have committed the murders, or to have been even an accessory to them. He began to feel that he had not yet got at all on the track of the real criminal, or at least of the second one, if one of the two men had really killed the other. Was it some one quite outside the circle he had been studying, and, if so, how had that outsider got access to the house? He might have slipped in without being noticed, but it did not seem very likely, and it was far more difficult to see how he had slipped out. But, after all, George Brooklyn had got back somehow after 11.30, and, where he had come, so might another. Perhaps some one had slipped in and out by way of the theatre.

So the inspector made up his mind to go over the whole scene again, and, above all, to find out more about the persons with whom he had to deal—their histories and still more their present ways of life: their loves and, above all, their animosities, if they had any. There, he felt, the clue to the mystery was most likely to be found.

Accordingly, on the following morning—the second after the tragedy—Inspector Blaikie presented himself early at the office of Carter Woodman and sent up his card. Sir Vernon was still far too ill to be consulted, and the next thing seemed to be a visit to his lawyer, who, being both confidential adviser and a close relative, would be certain to know most of what there was to be known about the circumstances surrounding the dead men. Woodman had offered all possible assistance, and had himself suggested a call at his office.

The inspector presented his card to an elderly clerk who was presiding in the outer office, and was at once shown in to the principal. Again he was struck, as he had been on the morning before, with the lawyer’s overflowing vitality. At rather over forty-six, Woodman still looked very much the athlete he had been in his younger days, when he had accumulated three Blues at Oxford, and represented England at Rugby football on more than one occasion. He had given up “childish things,” he used to say; but the abundant vigour of the man remained, and stood out strongly against the rather dingy background which successful solicitors seem to regard as an indispensable mark of respectability. Carter Woodman, the inspector knew, had a big practice, and one of good standing. He did all the legal work of the Brooklyn Corporation, and he was perhaps the best known expert on theatrical law in the country.

Woodman greeted the inspector cordially, and shook his hand with a force that made it tingle for some minutes afterwards.

“Well, inspector,” he said, “what progress? Have you got your eye on the scoundrels yet?”

The inspector shook his head. “We are still only at the beginning of the case, I am afraid. I have come here to take advantage of your offer to give me all the help you can.”

“Of course I will. It is indispensable that the terrible business should be thoroughly cleared up. For one thing, I am very much afraid for Sir Vernon; and there certainly would be more chance of his getting over it if we knew exactly what the truth is. Uncertainty is a killing business. He has not been told yet about Mr. George Brooklyn’s death.”

“You will understand that, as it is impossible for me to see Sir Vernon, I shall have to ask you to tell me all you can about any of the family affairs that may have a bearing on the tragedy. As matters stand it is most important that I should know as much as possible about the circumstances of the two dead men. To establish the possible motives for both crimes may be of the greatest value. There is so little to go upon in the facts themselves that I have to look for evidence from outside the immediate events.”

“Am I to understand that you have no further light on the crime beyond what you gained when the bodies were found?”

“Hardly that, Mr. Woodman. I have at least had time to think things over, and to conduct a few additional investigations. But I shall know better what to make of these when I have asked you a few questions.”

“Ask away; but I shall probably be able to answer more to your satisfaction if you tell me how matters stand. I think I may say that I know thoroughly both Sir Vernon’s and the late Mr. Prinsep’s affairs.”

“Well, you know, Mr. Woodman, the prima facie evidence in both cases seemed to point to a quite impossible conclusion. In each case, what evidence there was went to show that the two men had murdered each other. This could not be true of both; but we have so far no evidence to show whether it ought to be disbelieved in both cases, or only in one. That is where further particulars may prove so important.”

“I will tell you all I can.”

“Let us begin with Mr. Prinsep. Was he in any trouble that you know of?”

The lawyer hesitated. “Well,” he said at length, “it is a private matter, and I am sure it can have no bearing on the case. But you had better have all the facts. There had been some trouble—about a woman, a girl who is acting in a small part at the Piccadilly Theatre.”

“Her name?”

“Charis Lang. Prinsep had been, well, I believe somewhat intimate with her, and she had formed the opinion that he had promised to marry her. He came to see me about it. He denied that he had made any such promise, and said he was anxious to get the matter honourably settled. I wrote to the woman and asked her to meet me; but she refused—said it was not a lawyer’s business, but entirely a private question between her and Mr. Prinsep. I showed him her letter, and he was very much worried. He informed me that Mrs. George Brooklyn—she used to be leading lady at the Piccadilly—had known the girl in her professional days, and I approached her and told her a part of the story. She took, I must say, the girl’s side, and said she was sure a promise of marriage had been made. She wanted to take the matter up; but George Brooklyn objected to his wife being mixed up in it, and undertook to see Miss Lang himself. He was to have done so two nights ago—the night of the murders—and then to have gone back to tell Prinsep what had happened. I have no means of knowing whether he actually did so.”

“This is very important. Can you give me Miss Lang’s address?”

“I have it here. Somewhere in Hammersmith. Yes, 3 Algernon Terrace. But she is at the theatre every evening, and you could probably find her there.”

“I must certainly arrange to see her. Can you tell me anything further about the young woman? For instance, is she—well—respectable?”

“I have told you all I know. Mrs. George might know more.”

“Thank you. Now, is there anything else you know about Mr. Prinsep that might have a bearing on his death?”

“Nothing.”

“Had he any financial troubles?”

“None, I am sure. He had a large salary from the Brooklyn Trust, besides a considerable personal income, and he always lived well within his means.”

“Had he any enemies?”

Again the lawyer paused before answering. Finally, “No,” he replied, “no enemies.”

The inspector took the cue.

“But there were some people you know of with whom he was not on the best of terms?” he asked.

“I think I may say ‘yes’ to that. He had a temper, and there had been violent disputes on several occasions with Mr. Walter Brooklyn—Sir Vernon’s brother.”

“One moment. Was he on good terms with Mr. George Brooklyn?”

Again a pause. “No, I can’t say he was—but they were not enemies. George thought he had behaved badly to Charis Lang, and said so. Also, George was strongly against Prinsep’s marrying Miss Joan Cowper, which Sir Vernon had set his heart on.”

And then, in question and answer, the whole episode at the dinner, the announcement of Sir Vernon’s will, and Joan’s dramatic refusal to marry Prinsep, gradually came out. The inspector felt that now at last he was learning things.

“Did Miss Cowper know about Miss Lang?”

“Not that I am aware of. But I can’t be sure. Mrs. George may have told her.”

“And what would you say were the relations between Miss Cowper and Mr. Prinsep?”

“He was half in love with her—in a sort of a way. At any rate he certainly wanted to marry her. She was most certainly not in love with him. I don’t think she had any strong feeling against him; but it is impossible to be sure. She would have done almost anything rather than marry him, I am certain.”

“Had Miss Cowper, so far as you know, any other attachment?”