137C) 197C)








THE BROOKLYN
MURDERS
by
G. D. H. COLE
Ny
NEW YORK
THOMAS SELTZER
I924


F. R A Cº,
O 253 tº 7
| 92.4
Copyright, 1924, by
THOMAS SELTZER, Inc.
All Rights Reserved
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


chapTER
iI.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
XI.
XII.
XIII.
xIV.
XVI.
XVII.
xVIII.
XIX.
XX.
XXI.
º
CONTENTS
A FAMILY CELEBRATION
SIR vERNoN’s will
MURDER
whAT JoAN Found IN THE GARDEN
PLAIN. As A PIKESTAFF
A PAUSE FOR REFLECTION
THE CASE AGAINST WALTER BROOKLYN
A REVIEW OF THE CASE
waLTER BROOKLYN's ExPLANATION
CHARIS LANG -
JOAN TAKEs UP THE CASE
ROBERT el LERY *
AN ARREST
MAINLY A LOVE SCENE
TO AND FRO
A LINK IN THE CHAIN
THE LOVELY LADY
THE CASE FOR THE DEFENCE
THE POLICE HAVE THEIR DOUBTS
superiNtENDENT wilson THINKs IT out
DoN QUIxote
V
PAGE
1 1
17
3o
56
71
81
89
95
1 1 O
123
135
154
161
175
185
195
2O3
209


vi
Contents
chapTEB
XXII.
XXIII.
XXIV.
xxW.
xxWI.
XXVII.
XXVIII.
XXIX.
XXX.
XXXI.
2XXXII.
XXXIII.
XXXIV.
xxxW.
xxxWI.
xxxWII.
“THE SPANIARD” Does HIs BIT
WALTER BROOKLYN GOES FREE
A FRESH START
RAISING THE WIND
TWO MEN STRIKE A BARGAIN
RoBERT ELLERY's IDEA
THE supeRINTENDENT's THEORY
THE LIE OF THE LAND
A LETTER AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
A BUTTON IN A BAG
sIR John BUNNERY
ON THE TILES
THE STABLE YARD
AN ORDER FOR BULBS
AN AFTERNOON CALL
A HAPPY ENDING
page,
221
229
239
255
27o
279
292
299
307
315
327
334
343
353
357
368


THE BROOKLYN MURDERS


CHAPTER I
A FAMILY CELEBRATION
T seventy Sir Vernon Brooklyn was still the outstanding
tº 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 profes-
sion, 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 ºn
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
I


2 The Brooklyn Murders
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


A Family Celebration 3
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 Lisk-
eards, 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 indif-
ferent antique statuary, the fruits of his sojourn at the Em-
bassy 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.”


4. The Brooklyn Murders
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 col-
laborator; 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 SVernon 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 Corpora-
tion, 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 pre-
vented 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


A Family Celebration 5
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 under-
standing, 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


6 The Brooklyn Murders
be accused, with some truth, of spoiling Sir Vernon's birth-
day. 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 an-
nounce 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 recogni-
tion for his undoubted talent as a writer. Moreover, his


A Family Celebration 7
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 settle-
ments 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 un-
questioningly Sir Vernon's often tyrannical, but usually
benevolent, authority. If Joan had been a real Brooklyn,


8 The Brooklyn Murders
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 pres-
sure 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 per-
sisted 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


A Family Celebration 9
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 noth-
ing 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 mas-
terpiece: it was, structurally, acoustically, visually, for com-
fort, 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


1O The Brooklyn Murders
the gift that was meant for mankind. For Mrs. George
Brooklyn, as Isabelle Raven, had been the star of the Pic-
cadilly 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
66 LL 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 an-
other 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
II


12 The Brooklyn Murders
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 thou-
sand 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 por-
tions—£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


Sār Vernon’s Will 13
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 chari-
table 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 under-
stand the reason. The residue, then, of my property, amount-
ing 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 in-
volved, 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 pre-


14 The Brooklyn Murders
caution. 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 marry-
ing 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.”


Sār Vernon’s Will 15
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 play-
wright with the best part of a million to leave to his descend-
ants. And then, with obvious relief, the rest helped to steer
the talk back to less dangerous topics. Sir Vernon seemed to for-
get 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, per-
haps, 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 wait-
ing to run him back to his house at Hampstead. Ellery had
rooms in Chelsea, and announced his intention, as the night was


16 The Brooklyn Murders
fine, of walking back by the parks. The George Brooklyns
and the Woodmans, who lived in the outer suburbs at Ban-
stead 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 be-
gan 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 pre-
paring for the night.


CHAPTER III
IMURDER
IoHN PRINSEP was a man who valued punctuality and
J cultivated regular habits, both in himself and in others.
At 10.15 punctually each night a servant came to him to col-
lect 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
17


18 The Brooklyn Murders
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


Murder 19
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


2O The Brooklyn Murders
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 dic-
tated them. They were neither surprisingly rich nor surpris-
ingly 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. Identi-
fiable 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


Murder 21
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 Ver-
non 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 sus-
pended 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 per-
haps caused Prinsep to forsake the staid family physician in
his favour; but this hardly appeared on the surface. Prin-
sep 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 medi-
cal 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 contu-
sion on the back of the head, he said “H'm, h’m.” Then he


22 The Brooklyn Murders
relapsed into silence, which he broke a moment later by whis-
tling 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 ob-
ject 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 ar-
chitect, I believe, by profession.”
“Thanks. This appears to be his handkerchief,” the in-
spector 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,


Murder 23
“Well, what do you make of it now?” he asked Dr. Man-
ton.
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?”


24 The Brooklyn Murders
“I have no theory, inspector. I simply give you the medi-
cal evidence, and leave you to draw the inferences for
yourself.”
“But perhaps you can give me some valuable informa-
tion. 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, physi-
cally?”
“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 sup-
pose 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.” t
“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


Murder 25
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 pro-
fession?”
“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 danger-
ous 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. “Ser-
geant, 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 de-
ceased alive? Which of you was in charge of the front door
last night?”


26 The Brooklyn Murders
“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 re-
mark?”
“He just gave me the letters. He didn't say anything. He
seemed in a bad temper, but that was nothing out of the or-
dinary.”
“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 Brook-
lyn 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—some-
where 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 entertain-
ment 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?”


Murder 27
“They all left a minute or two after ten o'clock. Mr. and
Mrs. George and the Woodmans are staying at the Cunning-
ham, 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 Ver-
non 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 3"
“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


28 The Brooklyn Murders
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 noth-
ing, 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 to-
wards 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,


Murder 29
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 prob-
ably to be found at the Cunningham Hotel.


CHAPTER IV
what JoAN Found IN THE GARDEN
OAN 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 fore-
gone 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
30


32 The Brooklyn Murders
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 sud-
denly 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 suc-
ceeded 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 bed-
room 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


What joan Found in the Garden 33
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 faint-
ing. 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 an-
tique 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 en-
trance, 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 ef-
fort 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 her-


34 The Brooklyn Murders
self 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 stag-
gered, 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 real-
ised that her first duty was to summon help. Slowly and un-
steadily 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 po-
liceman 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—


What joan Found in the Garden 35
my cousin–Mr. George Brooklyn,” she said; and then, over-
come 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 con-
stable had returned with a glass of water, and Joan had re-
covered 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, af-
ter 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


36 The Brooklyn Murders
few feet away from the body. On the club were unmistak-
able recent bloodstains, and clotted in the blood were hairs
which seemed to correspond closely with those of the dead
Iſlan.
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 over-
coat—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 inspec-


What joan Found in the Garden 37
tor 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 eve-
ning, and that nearly all of them had actually stood for some
time just outside the porch of the temple. From the foot-
prints 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, trod-
den 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


38 The Brooklyn Murders
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 im-
portant. 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 ex-
amining 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.


What joan Found in the Garden 39
| -
As she entered the house Winter told her that Mrs. George
Brooklyn and Mrs. Woodman were upstairs with Miss Wood-
man, 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 hus-
band 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. Com-
plete silence fell on the room.
Meanwhile, below, Carter Woodman had arrived. He
heard from Winter at the door the news of the second tragedy


40 The Brooklyn Murders
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 seek-
ing 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, de-
manded to know what clues the police had found, and so bul-
lied 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, seem-
ingly 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. Who-


|What joan Found in the Garden 4"
ever 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 con-
cluded. “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 desir-
able 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 ar-


42 The Brooklyn Murders
rangements 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 be-
tween the theatre and the house. They continued their search;
but no further clues were to be found.


CHAPTER V
PLAIN AS A PIKESTAFF
NSPECTOR 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;
43


44 The Brooklyn Murders
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.”
—a


Plain as a Pākestaff 45
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 superin-
tendent 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 con-
nection 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


46 The Brooklyn Murders
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 ex-
amination, asked that the body should be removed to the ad-
joining 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 col-
lected 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


Plain as a Pākestaff 47
the immediate arrest of Mr. George Brooklyn, who was be-
lieved 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 eve-
ning 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


48 The Brooklyn Murders
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 memo-
randum book,” and the inspector handed over the brief
scrawled note in John Prinsep's writing making an appoint-
ment 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, ar-
rived. At his suggestion we went across to the theatre which


5o The Brooklyn Murders
“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 com-
mitted 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 super-
intendent thrust his hands deep into his pockets and leant


Plain as a Pākestaff 51
back in his chair with a satisfied look, as if he had scored a
point.
Inspector Blaikie's face, however, hardly became less dole-
ful. “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 im-
possible 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 as-
certained, by a dresser named Laura Rose about the same time.


52 The Brooklyn Murders
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 after-
wards 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 11.15.
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


Plain as a Pākestaff 53
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 ac-
counted for in that way, there is still another murderer some-
where 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,”


54 The Brooklyn Murders
“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 use-
ful 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 re-
membering 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


Plain as a Pākestaff 55
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
Wººs 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 detec-
tion—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
56


A Pause for Reflection 57
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 read-
ing. 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 ques-
tion, 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


58 The Brooklyn Murders
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. Cer-
tainly 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 in-
spector 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


A Pause for Reflection 59
plain that they had enjoyed neither time nor opportunity for
any criminal proceeding. Besides, they were strangers, im-
ported 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 Wood-
mans, 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 to-


60 The Brooklyn Murders
gether. 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, say-
ing 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


A Pause for Reflection 61
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 per-
sons 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 ad-
viser and a close relative, would be certain to know most of
what there was to be known about the circumstances sur-
rounding 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 morn-
ing 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


62 The Brooklyn Murders
background which successful solicitors seem to regard as an in-
dispensable 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 after-
wards.
“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 busi-
ness 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


A Pause for Reflection 63
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 investiga-
tions. 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 de-
nied that he had made any such promise, and said he was anx-
ious to get the matter honourably settled. I wrote to the


64 The Brooklyn Murders
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 under-
took 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 º'
“I have it here. Somewhere in Hammersmith. Yes, 3 Al-
gernon 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 any-
thing 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 Brook-


A Pause for Reflection 65
lyn Trust, besides a considerable personal income, and he al-
ways 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 º'
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 Prin-
sep'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


66 The Brooklyn Murders
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 attach-
ment?”
“That is a difficult question. She is very thick with Robert
Ellery, the young playwright, you know; but whether she is
in love with him is more than I can tell you. He is obviously
in love with her. It was the common talk, and everybody
knew about it except Sir Vernon.”
“This Mr. Ellery—can you tell me anything about him?
He was at the dinner, was he not?”
“Yes, he’s a ward of old Mr. Lucas, one of Sir Vernon's
oldest friends. A good deal about with Joan, and a frequent
visitor at Sir Vernon's country place. A nice enough fellow,
so far as I have seen.”
“Was he on good terms with Mr. Prinsep?”
“Prinsep did not like his going about with Joan, I think.
Otherwise, they seemed to get on all right.”
“Now, Mr. Woodman, I want to ask you a somewhat diffi-
cult question. I should, of course, ask Sir Vernon himself, if
he were well enough. You know, presumably, the terms of
Sir Vernon's will. Do you feel at liberty to tell me about its
contents? They might throw some light on the question of
motive.”
The lawyer thought a moment. “I don't see why I
shouldn't tell you the whole thing—in confidence,” he said.
“Sir Vernon told them all that night what was in his will,
and you certainly ought to know about it. The greater part


68 The Brooklyn Murders
“Yes, far more than I thought desirable. But Sir Vernon
had a very strong sense of family solidarity. Latterly, how-
ever, Walter Brooklyn's demands had become so exorbitant
that Sir Vernon had been refusing to see him, and had handed
the matter over to Prinsep, whom Walter was finding a much
more difficult man to deal with.”
“Do you know whether Prinsep had been seeing Mr. Walter
Brooklyn lately?”
“Yes; I know he saw him the day before the murder. Wal-
ter was always after money. He'll probably begin sponging
on Miss Cowper in a day or two.”
“You certainly do not give Mr. Walter Brooklyn a good
character.”
“No ; but I think every one you ask will confirm my esti-
mate.”
“I will look into that. Now, are there any other particulars
in the will I ought to know about? I should like to know
approximately what Sir Vernon is worth.”
“Not far short of a million.”
“You don't say so. Then any one interested in his will had
a great deal at stake. Are any others interested besides those
you have mentioned?”
“There are a number of smaller legacies. Miss Cowper was
left £40,000. My sister, Miss Mary Woodman, and I are
left £20,000 each. The rest are quite small legacies.”
“I think that is almost all I need ask you. But is there any
other particular you think might help me in my inquiry?”
“As to that, I cannot say; but there are two points I have
been intending to mention. The first is that I know Mr.


A Pause for Reflection 69
Walter Brooklyn called at Liskeard House a few minutes af-
ter ten on the night of the murder. My wife and I saw him
go up to the porch and ring the bell just after we had come
out of the house.”
“This is very important. Do you know anything more?”
“No, it was merely a chance that I noticed him and pointed
him out to my wife. Mr. and Mrs. George may also have
seen him. They were with us. He went into the hall. That
is all I can tell you.”
“Where did you go when you left the house?”
“Straight back to the hotel where I was staying. I did not
go out again that night. I heard nothing about the tragedy
till they rang me up about it at my office the next morning.”
“Who rang you up?”
“One of the servants at Liskeard House. I do not know
which it was.”
“And what was the other point you wished to mention?”
“Only that I know Mr. Walter Brooklyn was in exceptional
financial difficulties, and had been trying in vain to raise a
loan. This has happened very opportunely for him.”
“But, of course, Sir Vernon may alter his will.”
“If he recovers enough to do so, he may. But I doubt if
he will. He always told me that he could not bear the thought
of leaving money out of the family. And much as he dis-
approves of Walter Brooklyn, he is still attached to him.”
“H'm. Well, thank you very much, Mr. Woodman.
What you have told me has been very helpful. Perhaps I
will call again and tell you what success I meet with in fol-
lowing it up. I may, of course, have more to ask you later.”


70 The Brooklyn Murders
The inspector rose and Woodman gave him his hand. He
went out of the office with his hand tingling.
“Certainly a man who impresses himself upon one,” said he,
laughing softly to himself. “And what he had to say was
most enlightening.”


CHAPTER VII
THE CASE AGAINST WALTER BROOKLYN
NSPECTOR BLAIKIE left Carter Woodman’s office with
the feeling that a new and unexpected light had been
thrown on the tragedy, and that he had at least found a quite
sufficient motive for both crimes. If Walter Brooklyn had
committed the murders, he stood to gain directly a considerable
slice of Sir Vernon's huge fortune. Moreover, a considerable
slice of the remainder would go to his step-daughter, Joan
Cowper, and he might hope to despoil her again, as he had
despoiled her of her mother's money. Evidence against Mr.
Walter Brooklyn might be lacking; but certainly there was
no lack of motive. Moreover, the man seemed, from Wood-
man's description, quite a likely murderer. The inspector de-
cided that his next job was undoubtedly to discover whether
there was any direct evidence against Walter Brooklyn.
To begin with, he said to himself, what had he to go
upon? Of direct evidence, not a shred; but where the direct
evidence pointed obviously in the wrong direction, it was nec-
essary to consider very seriously the question of motive. Wal-
ter Brooklyn, he reflected, would not stand to inherit Sir Ver-
non's money unless both nephews were cleared out of the
way. He had, therefore, a motive for both murders together,
but not for either of them except in conjunction with the other.
This seemed to point to the conclusion that, if Walter Brook-
71


72 The Brooklyn Murders
lyn had committed either of the murders he had committed
both. On the other hand, it still remained possible that one
of the two men had killed the other, and that Walter Brook-
lyn, knowing this and realising his opportunity, had then dis-
posed of the survivor. Or, after all, the indications might
again be as deceptive as those which followed hard upon the
discovery of the murders.
What Woodman had told the inspector provided, however,
at least one clear line of investigation which could be followed
up immediately. If Woodman and other people had seen
Walter Brooklyn approaching Liskeard House and ringing
the front-door bell soon after ten o'clock on the night of the
murders, it ought not to be difficult to get further information
about his movements. Had he been admitted to the house;
and if so, when had he left, and why had no mention of his
visit previously been made to the inspector? The best thing
was to call at Liskeard House at once and make inquiries. In-
spector Blaikie set off immediately.
The bell was answered by a maid-servant, and the inspector
asked for a few words with Mr. Winter. He was shown into
a small side-room, and within a minute Winter joined him.
The inspector plunged at once into business.
“Since I have left you there have been certain developments
which make it desirable that I should ask you one or two ques--
tions. I want to know whether, on Tuesday night, any one
called at the house during the evening?”
“Well, sir, of course, there were the guests at dinner that
night. You have their names.”
“Did any one else call—later in the evening, for example?”
“Yes, there was Mr. George. As I told you, he came at


The Case against Walter Brooklyn 73
about a quarter or ten minutes to eleven, and left at about
11.30.”
“Did anybody else visit the house that night?”
“No-there was no one else.”
“Now, I want you to be very careful. Are you positive
that no one else called ?”
“Yes—I mean, no. I had quite forgotten. At a few min-
utes after ten Mr. Walter Brooklyn—Sir Vernon's brother
—came. He sent up his name to Sir Vernon, and asked
him to see him at once. He said it was about something
important.”
“Did Sir Vernon see him?”
“No. He sent down word by one of the temporary men-
servants he couldn't see him. He told him to see Mr. Prinsep
or to write.”
“Then, did Mr. Walter Brooklyn go up to see Mr. Prin-
sep?”
“No. He seemed mighty annoyed, he did. Said to me
things were coming to a pretty pass when a man wouldn't see
his own brother. Then he took himself out of the house in a
rage, and I shut the door after him.”
“Did you see anything more of him?”
“No, that's the last I saw. He didn’t come back; for I was
on duty here till the place was bolted up for the night.”
“Did Mr. Walter Brooklyn often come to the house?”
“Well, he'd been a number of times lately to see Mr. Prin-
sep.”
“Had he been to see Sir Vernon ?”
“No. You see, Sir Vernon's been away in the country for
some time.”


74 The Brooklyn Murders
“But when he was in London, did Mr. Walter Brooklyn
come to see him?” -
“He used to. Then I believe there was a bit of a quarrel.
Last time he was in London Sir Vernon told me he would not
see Mr. Walter, and I was to tell him to see Mr. Prinsep if
he came. I sent up on Tuesday because I didn't know if the
instructions still held.”
“Then there had been a quarrel?”
“Hardly what you would call a quarrel. What we under-
stood was that Mr. Walter wanted money, and Sir Vernon
wouldn't give it him.”
“Did any one else see Mr. Walter Brooklyn on Tuesday?”
“Yes, the maid—Janet—must have seen him.”
The inspector sent for Janet, who confirmed what Winter
had said. It seemed plain enough that Walter Brooklyn had
called at about ten minutes past ten, had been refused an in-
terview with Sir Vernon, and had left a few minutes later.
Thereafter, no one about the house had seen any more of him.
Before he left the inspector obtained from Winter Mr.
Walter Brooklyn's address. He lived at his club, the Byron
—named after the playwright, not the poet—only a few steps
down Piccadilly. The inspector made that his next place of
call.
The club porter, with the aid of the night porter, gave him
the information he needed. Walter Brooklyn had dined in the
club on Tuesday, had gone out at about ten o'clock and had
returned just about midnight. The night porter had noticed
nothing unusual about him when he came back. It was about
his usual hour. He had gone straight upstairs, the man be-
lieved—probably to his room, but the porter could not say,
*
/


|
\
The Case against Walter Brooklyn 75
So far there was nothing very much to go upon. Walter
Brooklyn might have committed the murders—he had cer-
tainly been out until midnight. But this was nothing un-
usual, and there was no evidence that he had been in the house.
What evidence there was seemed to show that he had not.
But Inspector Blaikie still lingered in talk with the two
porters, asking further questions which produced quite un-
illuminating answers. Soon they found a common interest in
the cricket news, and plunged into a discussion of the respec-
tive chances of Surrey and Middlesex for the County Cham-
pionship. The night porter, who was a north-countryman
and a partisan of Yorkshire, cut in every now and then with
a sarcastic comment. He was especially scornful of the day
porter's pride in the number of amateurs included in the Mid-
dlesex eleven. “Call them gentlemen,” he said. “They
get paid, same as the players, only they put it down as
expenses.”
But at this point the argument broke off; for the day porter
suddenly changed the subject.
“Let me have a look at that stick, will you?” he said to the
inspector.
Inspector Blaikie, who had been twirling the stick about
rather obtrusively, at once handed it over. It was the stick
found in Prinsep's room, and he was carrying it about with
him solely with the hope that some one might recognise it, and
enable him to discover to whom it had belonged. It was a
peculiar stick, and likely to be noticed by those who saw it.
The shaft was of rhinoceros horn, linked together with bands
of gold; and it had a solid gold handle.
“What do you make of it?” the inspector asked,


76 The Brooklyn Murders
f
“I was going to ask you how you got hold of it,” answered
the porter.
“Why do you ask?”
“Only because it is surely Mr. Walter Brooklyn's stick. I
have often seen him carrying it.”
“Take a good look. Are you quite certain it is his?”
“Either it is, or it's one just the same. It's a most unusual
pattern, too.”
“Yes, rhinoceros horn, I should say. Could you swear to
it?”
“Hardly that. There might be two of them. But I’ve not
seen Mr. Brooklyn with his for a day or two.”
“Try to remember—was he carrying this stick when he went
out on Tuesday?”
The porter paused a minute. “Yes, I think he was,” he
said. “But, no, you mean in the evening. You'll have to ask
the night porter here that. He was on duty from nine
o'clock.”
The inspector turned to the night porter. “Do you recog-
nise this as Mr. Brooklyn's stick?”
“Yes, I'm pretty sure it's his.”
“And do you remember whether he was carrying it on Tues-
day night when he went out?”
The man hesitated some time before replying. Finally,
“No,” he said, “I can't say. Maybe he was—I rather think
he was. But I’m not sure.”
“And when he came in 3’’
“He had a stick, I remember. He rapped at the door with it.
I expect it was this one. No, I don't think it was. It was
a plain stick, I'm almost sure.”


The Case against Walter Brooklyn 77
“Remember that this may be of the utmost importance.
You can't remember whether or not Mr. Brooklyn had a
stick when he went out?”
“Not for sure. I think he had.”
“But you can't say whether it was this stick?”
“No, not for certain.”
“And when he came in 7"
“He had a stick; but I’m almost sure it wasn’t this one.”
“Would any one else be likely to know?”
“I don’t think so. There was no one else about.”
At this point the day porter struck in. “I wonder why
you're so curious about that stick,” he said.
“That, I am afraid, is my business,” said the inspector.
“Now, can you tell me where Mr. Brooklyn usually goes of a
night?”
“Sometimes to a theatre or variety show. But most often
he goes to play bridge at his other club.”
“Where is that?”
“It’s a small place—the Sanctum, in Pall Mall. Only a
few minutes from here.”
After a few words more the inspector took his leave en route
for Duke Street. The stick he held in his hand had become a
clue of the first importance. Its presence in Prinsep's study
seemed to show that its owner had been there on the fatal
night. More and more Walter Brooklyn was becoming in-
volved. But how had he got in? That was the mystery still.
At the Sanctum, Inspector Blaikie at first drew a blank—
a blank which he had expected. Walter Brooklyn had not
been to the club on Tuesday. Nothing had been seen of
him since the previous Saturday night.


The Case against Walter Brooklyn 79
with the fact of the stick, seemed to the inspector to determine
his guilt, or at least his complicity in the crimes, or one of
them. The stick and the telephone message, taken together,
proved that he had been in Prinsep's room.
The inspector next produced the stick. The porter recog-
nised it at once as the one Walter Brooklyn always carried.
He had never seen him with another. He was more sure
than the porters at the Byron. He was prepared to swear to
the stick. “But,” he added, “you've gone and lost the ferrule.”
The inspector had noticed that there was no ferrule; but
it had not seemed important. It might have dropped off any-
where. He therefore followed up a different line.
“When did you see this stick last?”
“On Saturday, when Mr. Brooklyn was here, he was show-
ing off a billiard stroke with it out there in the hall. It had a
ferrule then, all right. I happened to notice it.”
No further information was forthcoming, and the inspector
passed on to his next business. He went straight back to
Liskeard House, and up to Prinsep's study. Exhaustive
search there failed to reveal any trace of the missing ferrule.
“I may as well try the garden,” said the inspector to him-
self. “But it's almost too good to be true.”
Nevertheless, there in the garden the inspector lighted on the
ferrule, lying in a heap of gravel near the base of the statue.
He cursed himself for missing it before, and then blessed his
luck that had enabled him to retrieve the blunder. There
could be no doubt that it was the right ferrule. The stick was
an outsize and it fitted exactly. The nail-marks and the im-
pression left by the rim on the stick coincided exactly. The
ferrule was a little out of shape, as if it had been wrenched,


8O The Brooklyn Murders
and there was a scratch on it where it was bent. But, when
the inspector had bent it back into shape, there could be no
doubt about the fit. Walter Brooklyn had been in the garden
as well as in Prinsep's study, and had been on the very spot
where the murder of George Brooklyn had taken place.
Inspector Blaikie was more than satisfied with his day's work.
Out of seemingly insignificant beginnings, he had built up, he
felt, more than enough evidence to hang Walter Brooklyn.
He went in the best of spirits to report to his superior officer.


82 The Brooklyn Murders
“First, that Walter Brooklyn's walking-stick has been found
in his room, and secondly that Walter Brooklyn rang up from
Liskeard House at about 11.30 that night. He must have
rung up from Prinsep's room. There are only two telephones
in the building, one in the porter's room downstairs, connect-
ing with the offices on the ground floor, and the other, on a
separate line, in Prinsep's room. He couldn't have used the
downstairs. 'phone, because it was out of order that night.
Winter told me that.”
“Assume that you are right. Still, there is at least as
strong evidence that George Brooklyn was in the room that
night, too. Remember his handkerchief you picked up, and
the draughtsman's knife. And in any case he was seen leav-
ing the house at 11.30, and we know from the discovery of his
body in the grounds that he came back afterwards.”
“Yes, I know that,” said the inspector.
“And do you mean to tell me that, in face of that evidence,
you can prove to a jury that it was Walter, and not George
Brooklyn, who killed Prinsep'"
“Perhaps not, if the case were taken alone. But it has to
be considered together with the other—the murder of George
Brooklyn. The double incrimination seems to me decisive.”
“Wait a bit. Next let us take George Brooklyn's case,
leaving aside for the moment that of Prinsep. Now, there,
what evidence have you?”
“The finding of the ferrule in the garden, and the strong
motive Walter Brooklyn had to put both nephews of Sir Ver-
non out of the way.” -
“Motive by itself, however strong, is not enough; and the


84 The Brooklyn Murders
very strong evidence, especially as the marks on the club
are just where a man would take hold in order to deal a
smashing blow. The murderer used both hands, you notice.
The prints are quite distinct for both the thumbs.”
“Yes, that is clear enough, although none of the impressions
is quite complete. Somehow a part of the marks had got
rubbed off before the club was properly examined.”
“These accidents will happen. It is only fortunate that the
marks were not destroyed beyond hope of identification. Per-
haps you yourself, inspector, or one of your subordinates,
handled the club carelessly. Or perhaps some one else
handled it before you came on the scene.”
“No. I was most careful, and no one touched it after I
appeared except myself. The sergeant did not allow it to
be touched at all until I arrived. Miss Cowper, who first
discovered the body, told me she had not even noticed the
weapon, much less handled it. She was too upset to notice
anything except the body.”
“Well, I suppose it does not greatly matter, as the identi-
fication of the prints is still quite clear. There remains, of
course, the bare possibility that, while Prinsep did handle the
club, he did not actually kill George Brooklyn. But it is
certain that the club was the weapon used. The fragments
of hair clotted with blood which are still on it came quite
definitely from the head of the deceased. The only doubt
in my mind is whether Prinsep was a powerful enough man
to strike such a blow. But I suppose we must take it that
he was. It was a terrific blow, I understand from the medi-
cal evidence.”
“Yes, but a man not unusually strong can, by using his


A Review of the Case 85
opportunities, get in a very big blow. I do not think there
is much in that.”
“Quite so. Then I take it you agree that, in face of the
evidence, it would be quite impossible to arrest Walter Brook-
lyn on the charge of having murdered George Brooklyn?”
The inspector sighed. “Yes,” he said, “you are right. I
thought the case was getting straightened out, but it now
seems darker than ever.” Then a thought came into the
inspector's mind; and his expression brightened. “But,” he
went on, “if Prinsep murdered George Brooklyn, that makes
it certain that George Brooklyn cannot have murdered him.
It means that the evidence against Walter Brooklyn holds so
far as the murder of Prinsep is concerned.”
“I think you are forgetting a difficulty. Prinsep was last
seen in the garden shortly after eleven. But George Brooklyn
was seen leaving the house at 11:30. After that, he must
somehow have come back, got into the garden, and been mur-
dered. That would take some time.”
The inspector nodded.
“But Walter Brooklyn, who rang up his club from Prinsep's
rooms at 11.30, was back at his club before midnight. That
leaves very little time. If the theory you advance is true, how
do you fit in the times? George Brooklyn could hardly have
got back into the garden and got himself killed, before a
quarter to twelve. It would take Walter Brooklyn five min-
utes to get out of the house and back to his club. That leaves
less than ten minutes for Prinsep to go up to his room and for
Walter Brooklyn to murder him.”
“That sequence of time is difficult; but it is not impossible.
Crime is usually a pretty rapid business. Probably Walter


86 The Brooklyn Murders
and George came back into the garden together, and the two
murders followed in rapid succession. Prinsep killed George,
and he and Walter went upstairs together. Then Walter
killed him while they were discussing his affairs. You re-
member the papers I found lying on the table?”
“Perhaps, but that seems to me exceptionally quick work—
so quick that my instinct is to doubt whether it is the right
explanation. After all, there is no direct evidence that Walter
Brooklyn did murder Prinsep.”
“Surely the walking-stick and the telephone message to-
gether are very strong evidence?”
“Not strong enough, I am certain, to obtain a conviction.
The telephone message was sent some time before George
Brooklyn was killed. And don't forget that, a moment ago,
you thought your evidence that Walter Brooklyn had mur-
dered George Brooklyn equally strong. Yet already you are
practically convinced that he did not.”
“I am still convinced that he was there when the murder
took place in the garden.”
“Ah, that is another matter. He may have been present
at both murders, and yet committed neither.”
“I see now what you are driving at. You mean that there
may be a fourth man involved?”
“That may be so; but I was not quite sure on that point.
What the evidence seems to me to establish beyond reasonable
doubt is that some meeting of the three men—Prinsep and
George and Walter Brooklyn—took place at Liskeard House
that night. That meeting was followed by—probably resulted
in—the death of two of the three. There may have been
others present. That is for you to find out. But I am clear


A Review of the Case 87
that the next step is to discover what this meeting was about,
and who was there. If we knew that, it would probably throw
a new light on the whole situation.” +
“In the circumstances, there is still, it seems to me, every
reason for arresting Walter Brooklyn. He was certainly
present, whether he committed murder or not.”
“I think it will be best to leave him at large for the
time being. We have, I think, ample evidence of his pres-
ence in the house, but not of his having had a guilty hand
in the murders. I think, instead of arresting him, it will be
far better for you to see him, and find out all you can about
what happened that night.”
“Very well. I will try to see him at once. Ought I to
warn him that what he says may be used against him?”
“I must leave that to your judgment. And now, inspector,
I fancy you are a bit discouraged by the result of our talk.
You came here with your mind made up, and you have found
that the case is not so straightforward as it was beginning
to appear. But that is no reason at all for being discouraged.
The evidence you have gathered is of the greatest value. It
has enabled us to put our hand on some one who, we are
practically sure, knows all about the murders, whether or not
he actually committed one of them. Once again, let me con-
gratulate you on a very fine day's work.”
The inspector was only in part reassured by Superintendent
Wilson's conclusion. He had been watching his superior
intently, and had noticed the keen critical joy with which he
had demolished the apparently overwhelming case against Wal-
ter Brooklyn. The inspector had been compelled to admit,
even to himself, the force of his superior's arguments; but,


88 The Brooklyn Murders
when he left the room, he remained, somehow in spite of this,
convinced that Walter Brooklyn was not merely an acces-
sory, but the actual murderer of one, if not of both men, and
with a strong suspicion that the apparently conclusive evi-
dence that Prinsep had killed George Brooklyn had a flaw in
it somewhere, if only he could find it.
But he could not attend to his instincts for the moment. His
next business was to see Walter Brooklyn, and find out from
him all he could. At the least, Walter must know a great
deal. Most probably he knew the whole story. But how
much would he tell?


CHAPTER IX
walTER BROOKLYN's ExPLANATION
NSPECTOR BLAIKIE made a hasty meal, and then set
off for Walter Brooklyn's club. He found Mr. Brook-
lyn there, and was soon alone with him in a private room.
Before the inspector could even introduce himself and state
his business, he found the offensive turned against himself.
He had thought over the interview carefully beforehand, and
had made up his mind that, whatever his private opinion
might be, it was his duty to hear, without prejudice, whatever
Walter Brooklyn had to say, and to put aside for the moment
all suspicions, resting only on the undoubted fact that the
man had been present in the house that night. He might be
able to explain his presence, or he might not. The inter-
view would show. Till the chance had been given, the
inspector was determined to keep an open mind.
But the conversation did not begin at all as he had antici-
pated. As he got out the first few words about the purpose for
which he had asked for an interview, Walter Brooklyn struck
in abruptly.
“See here, inspector, I fail to see that it is any of your
business to come nosing about in my affairs. I find you have
been asking the porter downstairs a whole lot of questions.
From your manner, the fellow has jumped to the conclusion
that you suspect me of having had a hand in these murders.
You've set all the servants simmering, and by now it's all
89


90 The Brooklyn Murders
round the club that I murdered my nephew or something like
it. I tell you I'm damned if I’ll stand it. Blast your im-
pudence. Since you have come here, I think you owe me an
explanation.”
Walter Brooklyn's manner seemed to the inspector quite
extraordinarily violent. But he noticed something else while
Brooklyn was speaking—the man's amazing physical strength.
He could not be less than sixty; but as he stood there, in
a half-threatening attitude—with difficulty, it seemed, holding
himself in—Inspector Blaikie could not help thinking that here
was the very figure of a man to have struck the blows on both
the dead men's skulls. Here, moreover, was a man, obviously
passionate and lacking in self-control—just the sort of person
to resort to violence if his will were crossed. The inspector's
open mind was rapidly closing up before Brooklyn had finished
his first speech. Nevertheless, he answered quietly enough,
“I am sorry, Mr. Brooklyn, if any of my inquiries have
caused you inconvenience. But you must understand that it
is my duty to investigate these murders, and to ask any ques-
tions that may be necessary for that purpose. You apparently
know >>
But here again Walter Brooklyn struck in.
“Necessary inquiries, of course,” he said. “But what I
want to know is what you mean by coming round here and
practically telling my club servants that I have committed
murder. Necessary inquiries, indeed!”
“If you know, Mr. Brooklyn, what was the matter of my
conversation with the club servants, you can hardly fail to
realise why the inquiries were necessary.”


Walter Brooklyn's Explanation 91
“Most certainly I fail to see it. These murders have noth-
ing to do with me.”
“That may be; but even so it is necessary to establish that
fact. You know, I suppose, that your walking-stick was
found in Mr. Prinsep's room the morning after the murder.
I want you to tell me how it got there.”
“I dare say you say you found it there. I know that, if it
was there, it was not I who put it there. I don't believe it was
there at all. I lost it last Tuesday afternoon.”
“And where did you lose it, may I ask?”
“If I knew that, my man, I should have been after it soon
enough. I must have left it somewhere. Not that it's any
business of yours what I did with it.”
“Pardon me, Mr. Brooklyn. You will admit that the fact
that it was found in Mr. Prinsep's room calls for some explana-
tion. If you do not know where you left it, I shall have to
do my best to find out. May I ask where you went last Tues-
day afternoon?”
“I don’t see why I should tell you.”
“I think, Mr. Brooklyn, that, unless you wish to find yourself
in the dock on a criminal charge, you had far better do so.”
For a moment it seemed as if Walter Brooklyn would make
a personal attack on the detective, or at least turn him then and
there out of the room. But he seemed to think better of it.
“Ask your questions,” he said.
“First, then, where did you call when you were out on Tues-
day afternoon?”
“I went first to see Mr. Carter Woodman—I presume you
know who he is—at his office in Lincoln's Inn. Then I took


92 The Brooklyn Murders
a taxi to the Piccadilly Theatre, where I saw that young hound,
Prinsep, and one or two others.” -
“Who were the others?”
“An actress-girl there—a Miss Lang. She was the only
one.”
“Did you see them separately or together?”
“Separately.”
“And then where did you go?”
“Back to Mr. Woodman’s office. I told him I had lost the
stick, and thought I must have left it there. He had a look,
but it wasn’t there. He said I must have left it in the taxi, and
I supposed I had.”
“When did you notice the loss?”
“On leaving the theatre.”
“So you might have left the stick there, or in the taxi, or at
Mr. Woodman’s º'
“Yes. If you found it in Prinsep's room, I suppose he
must have found it in the theatre, and taken it up to his
room.”
“Why didn't he give it back to you when he saw you later
in the evening?”
“Saw me later in the evening! He didn't see me later in
the evening.”
“But you were at Liskeard House on Tuesday evening.”
“Look here, young man. I don't know what you're driving
at. I tell you I did not see Prinsep except in the afternoon.”
“But you were at Liskeard House in the evening.”
“I tell you I was not. Yes, by Jove, though, I was—in a
sense. I went to the door and asked for Sir Vernon, but he
was not at home.”


|Walter Brooklyn’s Explanation 93
“When was that?”
“About ten o'clock, I suppose.”
“And you did not go into the house then?”
“No, only into the outer hall.”
“That, Mr. Brooklyn, is not the occasion to which I was
referring. You came back to Liskeard House still later on
Tuesday evening.”
Walter Brooklyn glared at the inspector. “Young man,”
he said, “I will thank you not to tell me where I was. I know
that for myself.”
“You admit, then, that you came back to the house.”
“I admit nothing of the sort. I was not in the house at
all. I’ve told you already that I did not go there.”
The inspector discharged his bombshell. “Then how did
it occur that you rang up the Sanctum Club from Liskeard
House at 11.30 on Tuesday evening?”
This was too much for Walter Brooklyn. “Infernal im-
pudence,” he said. “I don’t know where you picked up these
cock-and-bull stories. I did not ring up the Sanctum from
Liskeard House, because I was not there. And now I’ve
had enough of your questions, and you can go.” And he
strode to the door and held it open. “Get out,” he said.
The inspector picked up his hat. “I had some further
questions to ask you,” he said. “Perhaps another time I
shall find you in a better mood. Good evening.” And he
left the room as hastily as he could without compromising
his dignity, not quite certain whether Walter Brooklyn would
complete the performance by throwing him downstairs. Brook-
lyn, however, merely relieved his feelings by slamming the
door.


94 The Brooklyn Murders
In the hall the inspector found the porter. “Had a plea -
ant interview?” asked the latter, familiar with Walter Brook-
lyn's ways.
“Not exactly pleasant, but decidedly illuminating,” said the
inspector, as he went upon his way.


CHAPTER X
CHARIS LANG
NSPECTOR BLAIKIE, when he left the Byron Club,
was quite convinced that Walter Brooklyn was the mur-
derer. Not merely one of the murderers, but the murderer
of both men. The evidence against Prinsep he was more
than ever inclined to discount in face of the impression which
Walter Brooklyn had made upon him. Not only the man's
manner, but even more his physique, had convinced the in-
spector of his guilt. Here at least was a man who combined
great physical strength with an obviously ungovernable tem-
per—just the combination of qualities which seemed most
clearly to fit the case. After all, he had never believed much
in finger-prints. They showed, no doubt, that Prinsep had
actually held in his hand the weapon with which the murder
was committed; but did that prove that he had done the deed?
He might conceivably have taken hold of the club for some
quite different purpose. The prints were not conclusive evi-
dence—on that point he permitted himself to differ from his
superior, who had seemed to think that they were. They needed
explaining, certainly; but there were other possible explana-
tions. Moreover, if Prinsep had been careless enough to leave
his finger-prints all over the club, was it not curious that not
a trace of them had been left on the dead man's clothing,
95


96 The Brooklyn Murders
though he had obviously been dragged by the collar from the
statue into the little antique temple so as to be out of the
way. A starched collar was about the likeliest possible place
for clear impressions of fingers. But there was not the trace
of a finger-mark on it. The man who dragged the body to
the temple steps had certainly worn gloves.
Then a very curious point struck the inspector. All the
finger-prints had been partly obliterated, as if some one had
handled the club subsequently. But, in the morning he had
been careful that no one should do so, and he was fairly cer-
tain that no one had. Then another significant point occurred
to him. No other finger-prints had been found on the club.
Then, if some one else had handled it subsequently, that some
one else had worn gloves. But, in the garden that morning,
not one of those present had been wearing gloves. The oblit-
erating marks had been made before the discovery, and there-
fore also presumably before the crime. The inspector almost
felt that he could reconstruct the scene. John Prinsep had
held the club; but later, Walter Brooklyn, wearing gloves, had
handled it. As usual, the evidence of the finger-prints, true
as far as it went, was misleading. Only the partial oblitera-
tion of the marks had given the key to the truth. The new
explanation, moreover, fitted in exactly with his observation
of the absence of finger-prints on George Brooklyn's crumpled
collar.
It was true, of course, the inspector reflected, that all this
was only hypothesis. He could not prove absolutely that
the obliterations had been made by a pair of gloved hands
holding the club with murderous purpose, and still less could
he prove that the gloved hands were Walter Brooklyn's. His


Charis Lang 97
conjecture was not evidence in a court of law; but it served to
confirm him in his own opinion. He could now, with good
hope, go in search of further evidence.
What, then, ought his next step to be? His talk with
Walter Brooklyn had opened up certain fresh lines of inquiry.
He must see Woodman again, and find out what had been
the business on which Brooklyn had twice visited him on the
Tuesday. And he had better see this Miss Lang of the
Piccadilly Theatre, in case she could throw any light on the
case. And he must try to trace Walter Brooklyn's stick. He
felt sure that Brooklyn had told him a lie about this, and that
he had really left it in Prinsep's room in the evening. But
it was his business to make every inquiry, and to test Brook-
lyn's story by every possible means.
By this time—for it was now nine o'clock—Woodman would
certainly have left his office. The inspector felt that he had
done a good day's work, and could with a good conscience leave
further activity for the morrow. He went home, and straight
to bed, in his tiny bachelor flat in Judd Street.
When Inspector Blaikie woke the following morning he
at once began to turn the case over in his mind. It was now
Thursday, and the inquests had been fixed for Friday. It
would be necessary that day to decide on the procedure to be
followed. Ought the police to produce the evidence which
they had gathered, or would it be better to make the proceed-
ings as purely formal as possible, and to reserve all disclosures
for the trial which would surely follow? The Inspector's in-
stinct was against any premature showing of his hand; but
he would have to discuss the matter with Superintendent
Wilson, with whom the final decision would rest. That could


98 The Brooklyn Murders
stand over until he had seen Woodman and the unknown
Miss Lang. He would arrange to see the superintendent in
the afternoon.
The inspector went out and breakfasted in one of those huge
“Tyger” restaurants which cater for the servantless flat-
dwellers of London. Then he went to Scotland Yard, ar-
ranged to see the superintendent after lunch, and 'phoned
through to Woodman arranging an eleven o'clock appointment
at his office. Next he got on the 'phone to the Piccadilly
Theatre, and discovered that Miss Lang was expected there
at about midday. He left a message stating that he would
call to see her. She lived, as he knew, at Hammersmith, and
was not on the telephone. He also rang through to the sergeant
on duty at Liskeard House, who reported that there were no
fresh developments.
At eleven o'clock punctually, the inspector entered Carter
Woodman’s outer office. The old clerk, seated there at his
desk, looked up at him suspiciously from a heap of papers.
Rather brusquely, the inspector announced that he had come
to see Woodman by appointment. The man went to tell his
master, and Carter Woodman promptly appeared at the door
of the inner room to bid his visitor welcome. Coming to-
wards the inspector, he gripped him firmly by the hand.
“Well, my lad, how goes it?” he said. “Have you found
the scoundrels? You must come in and tell me all about
33
1t.
The inspector felt himself almost carried bodily into the
inner room, and seated breathless in a chair, while Carter
Woodman took up a commanding position on the hearthrug.
“Quite right to come to me,” he said. “You must treat me


Charis Lang 99
as if I were Sir Vernon—as his man of business I regard
myself as in charge of his affairs. Now let me know ex-
actly what you have done so far, and I’ll see if I can help you.
But, first, have you any fresh clue as to the identity of the
murderers?”
Inspector Blaikie reflected, as Woodman was speaking, that
powerful physique seemed to run in the Brooklyn family.
Woodman was only a distant relative; yet he had many of the
physical characteristics which the inspector had noticed in
Walter Brooklyn. But there the resemblance seemed to end.
Woodman's bluff and hearty manner, which seemed to have
big reserves of strength and self-control behind it, was in
marked contrast to Walter Brooklyn's passionate and excitable
temperament. Woodman belonged to a very definite type—
the successful city man who combined keen business acumen
and a sharp eye for a bargain with a hail-fellow-well-met
manner and an ability to make himself instantly at home in
almost any society.
The inspector, engrossed with his own thoughts, said noth-
ing in immediate reply to Woodman's question; and the latter,
after a pause, repeated it, remarking cheerfully, “What, day-
dreaming, are we? Won't do in a detective, you know. Not
at all what we expect of you, eh?” And, after putting his
hand for a moment on the inspector's shoulder, he abandoned
his place of vantage before the fireplace and sat down in his
desk-chair facing his visitor.
“I saw Mr. Walter Brooklyn yesterday—not, I am afraid,
a very pleasant interview. He seemed to resent very much
my asking him any questions—in fact he all but threw me
downstairs,” the detective added with a laugh.


1OO The Brooklyn Murders
“What took you to see him?” asked Woodman. “I sup-
pose it was about our seeing him outside the house.”
“It had come to my knowledge that Mr. Walter Brooklyn
was actually in Mr. Prinsep's room at Liskeard House at
11.30 on Tuesday night.”
“Good Lord, man, you don't say so. Are you sure? Why,
who in the world told you that?”
“Nobody actually saw him there; but he telephoned at that
time to his club, said that he was speaking from Liskeard
House, and asked if a registered parcel had arrived for him,
as he wanted it sent round there at once.”
“Dear me, inspector, this throws a new—and a most dis-
tressing—light on the case. Did you discover from Mr. Brook-
lyn what he was doing at Liskeard House?”
“No, and it was exactly on that point that I came to see
what you could tell me.”
“My dear chap, I’m as surprised as you are to know that he
was there at all.”
“I understand from Mr. Brooklyn that he had seen you
earlier in the day. It might help if I knew what was the
business then.”
“You probably know enough about Walter Brooklyn to
guess that it was about money.”
“I had guessed so; but I am glad to have it definite. Can
you give me rather more particulars?”
“I think I may, though, strictly speaking, the matter ought
to be confidential. Mr. Walter Brooklyn had been trying
for some time to get Sir Vernon to pay his debts, as he had
done on several previous occasions. This time Sir Vernon
handed the matter over to John Prinsep, partly because he


Charis Lang 'IO1
was away from town, and partly because he thought he could
trust Prinsep to handle the matter more successfully than if
he did it himself. Prinsep thereupon saw Walter Brooklyn,
and also consulted me. On my advice, he refused to make
any payment without a very clear understanding that this
was to be the last application. Walter Brooklyn tried all
means to get the money without conditions, and in particular
refused to disclose in detail what his liabilities were. Prinsep
would not give a penny unless his conditions were met. On
Tuesday afternoon Walter Brooklyn came down by appoint-
ment to see me, and I tried to get him to accept the conditions.
He refused, and declared his intention of seeing Prinsep again.
I told him he must do what he liked about that. I believe he
saw Prinsep. Anyhow, later in the afternoon he came back,
and made another attempt to get me to urge that the con-
ditions should be modified. I refused of course, and he left.
I have not seen him since.”
“So far as you know, he had made no appointment with
Prinsep for the evening?”
“I know nothing about that. He may have done. He did
not tell me.”
“When he came back to you the second time, did he tell
you that he had lost his walking-stick, and ask if you had
found it in the office after he left?”
“Yes, I believe he did. It was not here. I said he had
probably left it in the taxi.”
“And that is all you know about the matter?”
“Yes, of course I know something about the extent of Wal-
ter Brooklyn's liabilities. They are considerable.”
“We can go into that if it becomes necessary. But can


1O2 The Brooklyn Murders
you tell me—would it be likely that, if Walter Brooklyn
arranged a meeting with Prinsep about money, George Brook-
lyn would also have been present? It seems they were both
there that evening?”
“I should not have expected so; but it is certainly not im-
possible. Prinsep might have called in George, as he was
co-heir to Sir Vernon's money, to help him make it quite plain
that the money would only be paid if the conditions were met.
Or, of course, it may have been an accident. George Brook-
lyn might have been with Prinsep when Walter called. Have
you any reason to believe that it was so?”
“Well, we know that Walter Brooklyn, although he denies
it, was in Prinsep's room at about 11.30. We know that
George Brooklyn left the house at about that time, and he
must have come back at some time later to the garden, if not
to the house. It seems at least likely that they met either be-
fore or after 11.30.”
“Yes, that seems probable. But I am afraid I know no
more than I have told you.”
“Perhaps you can help me a little more. I am getting in-
terested in this Miss Lang, who seems to turn up at every point
in the story. It now appears that Walter Brooklyn went to
see her at the theatre on Tuesday afternoon. He saw her and
Prinsep there separately.”
“I know nothing about that. I told you he went off to
see Prinsep; but I have no idea what he can have been doing
with Miss Lang.”
“Did Walter Brooklyn know Miss Lang?”
“Quite probably. He had a large theatrical acquaintance.
But I did not know he was friendly with her.”


Charis Lang 103
“But you said that Mr. George Brooklyn was to have seen
Miss Lang on Tuesday evening.”
The lawyer nodded.
“And now,” the inspector continued, “we find Walter as
well as George Brooklyn mixed up with her. May not she
have had something to do with the evening meeting at Lis-
keard House?”
“Really, inspector, that is a matter for you. I have
Inever seen the young woman, and I know no more about
her than I have already told you. You had better see her
yourself.”
“That is what I propose to do; but I thought you might be
able to throw some light on Walter Brooklyn's dealings with
her.”
“None at all, unfortunately. I wish I could; for there is
nothing I want more than to get this horrible business cleared
up.”
The inspector saw that there was nothing more to be
learned from Carter Woodman at that stage. He accordingly
took his leave, and went in search of Charis Lang, who, he
was beginning to feel, might well hold the clue to the whole
mystery. His original idea had been to see her at her home;
but he had decided that it would be better to talk to her at
the theatre, where the event in which she was concerned had
actually taken place. Accordingly, he took a taxi to the Picca-
dilly Theatre, and sent up his card to Miss Lang, who had
just arrived, and been given his note and message.
When he was shown into Charis Lang's room, Inspector
Blaikie had his first surprise. He had been expecting, with-
out any good reason, to be confronted with a beauty of the


104 The Brooklyn Murders
picture post card type, some little bit of fluff from the musical
comedy stage. But he saw at once that Charis Lang was not
at all that kind of woman. She was a girl whom no one but
an idiot—and Inspector Blaikie was far from being an
idiot—would think of calling pretty. Beautiful, some people
would call her, but less from any regularity of feature than
from an effect of carriage and expression—a dignity without
aloofness, a self-possession that was neither hard nor un-
womanly. The inspector did not think her beautiful—she
was not of the type he admired—but he said to himself that
here was obviously a woman of character. And he at once
changed his mind about the right way of tackling Miss Lang.
She was, he recognised, a person with whom it would pay to be
quite frank.
“I understand,” she began, “that you wish to ask me some
questions about”—she hesitated a moment—“this terrible
affair.” The inspector could see that she was deeply moved.
“Yes, Miss Lang,” he replied, “I have come to ask you for
certain information. We have, of course, every desire to
trouble you as little as possible.”
“Oh,” she interrupted, “I only wish I had more to tell you.
By all means, ask me what you will.”
“I am afraid some of my questions may seem to you rather
impertinent.”
“No, inspector. I understand it is your business to get at
the truth. I shall answer, whatever you may ask.”
“Then, first of all, will you tell me about Mr. Walter
Brooklyn. I understand that he came to see you last Tues-
day here. Is that so?”


Charis Lang 105
“I confess I am surprised at the question. I thought it
was about Mr. George Brooklyn and Mr. Prinsep that you
wished to question me. But I can answer at once. Mr. Wal-
ter Brooklyn did come to see me.”
“Do you know Mr. Walter Brooklyn well ?”
“No, hardly at all. Indeed, until that day I had scarcely
spoken to him. I had met him a few times in large gatherings
at Liskeard House and elsewhere.”
“Then he is not a friend of yours?”
“By no means.” The answer was so decided as to startle
the inspector.
“Have you any objection,” he asked, “to telling me on what
business Mr. Walter Brooklyn visited you on Tuesday?”
“It is not a thing I like to speak about; but I am fully
prepared to tell you. Mr. Brooklyn came to make to me a
dishonourable suggestion that I should help him to extract
money from Mr. Prinsep.”
“In what way?”
“Mr. Prinsep had refused to give Mr. Walter Brooklyn a
certain sum of money which he wanted. He came to ask me
to bring pressure to bear on Mr. Prinsep to give it to him. He
suggested that I had a hold over Mr. Prinsep—I suppose I
must tell you what made him think that too—and that if I was
to ask he would get the money.”
“And on what ground did he ask you to do this?”
“He threatened that if I did not he would tell Sir Vernon
about me and Mr. Prinsep. He made the most horrible
insinuations.”
“You were friendly with Mr. Prinsep?”


106 The Brooklyn Murders
“Two years ago John Prinsep asked me to marry him, and
I accepted him. Our engagement was kept secret at his
request.”
“Miss Lang, I am sorry if I give you pain; but I must
ask you whether you were engaged to Mr. Prinsep at the
time of his death.”
The answer came clearly, but in a voice totally devoid of
expression. “I do not know,” said Charis Lang. “The en-
gagement had at least not been formally broken off.”
“And of course you rejected Walter Brooklyn's proposal?”
“I did.”
“Did you tell Mr. Prinsep about it?”
“No. It was not a matter I could bring myself to mention
to him.”
“You understood that Walter Brooklyn intended to carry
the story to Sir Vernon?”
“Yes, and of course Sir Vernon would have been very angry.
He has always wanted John to marry his ward, Miss Cowper.”
“What had Walter Brooklyn to gain by telling Sir Ver-
non?”
“I suppose he thought that Sir Vernon would soon make
John give me up, and that between them they could fix up for
John and Miss Cowper to marry. Or perhaps he relied on my
telling John, and thought John would let him have the money
to prevent him from going to Sir Vernon.”
“Yes, that seems the most probable explanation. And did
you see Mr. Prinsep after your meeting with Walter Brook-
lyn?”
“Yes, for a few moments. He had seen Mr. Brooklyn,


Charis Lang 107
too, and was very angry. Mr. Brooklyn had used the same
threat to him as he used to me.”
“And how had Mr. Prinsep taken it?”
“He had refused to give Mr. Brooklyn a penny, and said
he would see Sir Vernon himself.”
“In order to tell him of your engagement?”
Again came the answer, painfully given, “I do not know.”
“I am sorry, Miss Lang, but I have not quite done. Did
you see Mr. George Brooklyn on Tuesday?”
“Yes, he came here to see me after he had left Liskeard
House in the evening.”
“At what time was that?”
“It was after ten o'clock—probably about a quarter past.
I am off the stage for a long time then.”
“Was Mr. George Brooklyn a friend of yours?”
“Yes, in a way. At least, Mrs. George Brooklyn is a very
dear friend. I used to understudy her when she was Isabelle
Raven. She was the Isabelle Raven, you know.”
“Yes. Then there was nothing unusual in Mr. George
Brooklyn's coming to see you here?”
“I don’t think he had ever been to my room before. I
had often met him at his own house or at Liskeard House.”
“Did he come for some special purpose?”
“Yes, he came to see me about my engagement to Mr. Prin-
sep.”
“Do you mind telling me more exactly what you mean?”
“Until recently, Mr. Prinsep always behaved to me as if
we were engaged. Lately, his manner to me had changed.
When I spoke to him about it, he laughed it off, and I tried


108 The Brooklyn Murders
to go on treating him as I had done. But about a fortnight
ago I had a letter from Mr. Carter Woodman—you know him,
I expect—saying he would like to discuss with me certain mat-
ters placed in his hands by Mr. Prinsep. I wrote back say-
ing that I could not conceive that there was anything in my
relations with John that called for a lawyer's interference.
Then I took the letter to John, and we had a real quarrel
about it. I asked him if I was to consider our engagement
at an end; but he put me off, and before I could get him to
answer we were interrupted. I did not see him again until
Tuesday, and then only for a minute. I meant to try to
clear matters up, and to tell him I could not go on like that;
but he was called away, and I had no chance. Then in the
evening George Brooklyn came to see me.”
“Will you tell me what happened then?”
“He asked me point-blank whether I had been engaged to
John. I said that I certainly had been, but that I didn’t know
whether I still was. I told him that I still loved John; but
I asked him to let John know—he had promised to see him
when he left me—that I considered our engagement definitely
at an end, unless he desired to renew it.”
“Miss Lang, my questions must have been very painful, and
it has been very good of you to answer them so freely. I think
there is only one thing more I need ask. At what time did
Mr. George Brooklyn leave you?”
“A few minutes after half-past ten. I went on the stage
again almost immediately afterwards.”
“And you did not see Mr. George Brooklyn again?”
“No.”


Charis Lang 109
“You saw no more of either Mr. Prinsep or Mr. Walter
Brooklyn, I suppose?”
“Yes, as it happens, I caught sight, out of my window, of
Mr. Prinsep walking in the garden behind the theatre. That
must have been about a quarter past eleven.”
“And that is all you saw. He was alone?”
“Yes. I saw no one else.”
“Then I have only to thank you again for the way in
which you have told me what you know.” And with that
the inspector took his leave, feeling that, as a result of his
talk, he had scored another good point against Walter Brook-
lyn. Quite apart from the murders, the man really deserved
hanging for his behaviour to Charis Lang—at least that was
how Inspector Blaikie felt about it. He must get enough
evidence to convince his reluctant superior, and thereafter
twelve good men and true, that Walter Brooklyn was the
murderer. John Prinsep, perhaps, was not such a bad rid-
dance: certainly he had been behaving like a cad. But then,
Charis Lang was in love with him, and that was enough to
cover a multitude of sins. For her sake at least the murderer
must be brought to justice. Moreover, George Brooklyn
seemed to have been a good sort. The inspector was inclined
to dismiss the idea that he had had anything to do with the
killing of Prinsep, even though his talk with Prinsep after
leaving Charis Lang might have afforded full provocation, if,
as seemed likely, Prinsep had refused to marry her. The
inspector's last thought was that it was still a tangled enough
skein that he had to unravel. But some at least of the knots
had been successfully untied.


CHAPTER XI
JoAN TAKEs UP THE CASE
HARIS LANG had kept her composure during that
trying interview with the inspector, and had forced her-
self to tell him everything she had to tell that could even
indirectly bear upon the murders. She had felt that this
was her duty; and in her the sense of duty was unusually
strong. But the telling had cost her a terrible effort, and
when the inspector went away, and there was no longer need
to hold herself up bravely, her fortitude gave way. She
had told things which, until then, she had not admitted even
to herself; and what hurt her most was that, in telling the
truth and nothing but the truth, she had been compelled to
let John Prinsep's character appear in the worst light. Not,
she told herself, that it mattered to him any longer; but she
loved him, and it was horrible to her that she should have
to drag his memory in the mud. Moreover, was he not sus-
pected of having killed George Brooklyn, and would not her
account of him have made such an act seem more probable?
She did not believe that he had done so, and, as she thought
over her conversation with the inspector, she felt that she
had been false to his memory; and yet she knew that there
was nothing else she could have done. -
But why had Walter Brooklyn been so dragged into the
case by the detective? Until Inspector Blaikie had come to
IIo


joan Takes up the Case 111
see her, she had been quite without a theory of the events
of Tuesday. She had been stunned by the fact of Prinsep's
death, and she had hardly troubled to think who could have
killed him. Now it was clear that the police believed that
Walter Brooklyn had something to do with it. An odious
man, by all accounts, and one who had proved himself odious
beyond measure in his dealings with her. Yet not a man
she would readily have suspected of murder with violence.
Underhand crimes—dirty, little crimes—she said to herself,
would be more in keeping with what she knew of him. And
then, despite his treatment of her, she accused herself of
being uncharitable. After all, there was some dignity about
murder; and her feeling, biased no doubt by her personal
experience, was that Walter Brooklyn was not even fit to be
a murderer. *
Charis felt that she could not go on to the stage that after-
noon as if nothing had happened. She had forced herself
to play her part—and had played it as well as ever—since the
tragedy; but for that afternoon at least she must be free, and
her understudy must take her place. Having been forced to
tell her story to the inspector, she felt all the more need to
tell it again to some one more sympathetic—to some real
friend capable of understanding what she had swffered and
of sharing in her sorrow. Speedily her mind was made up.
She must see Isabelle, Mrs. George Brooklyn. Isabelle, too,
was in trouble at least as hard as her own. Isabelle had lost
her George, as she had lost John Prinsep.
Then she remembered. Some people said that John had
killed George Brooklyn, and some said that George Brooklyn
had killed John Prinsep. She had heard that there was evi-


112 The Brooklyn Murders
dence, though she did not know what it was. Could either of
these things be true, and, if there was even a chance that either
might be true, how could she go and talk about it to Isabelle?
She did not find an answer to her questions; but all the
same she made up her mind to go. She was capable of con-
ceiving the thought that the two men might have quarrelled,
and that the one might have killed the other; but she was not
capable of believing the thought which she could conceive.
She knew that they might quarrel—that they had done so often
enough; but they would not kill. And even if they had—she
barely formulated the thought—what did it matter now? She
and Isabelle were both desolate and in need of comfort.
She would go.
So Charis, having made—to her understudy's secret delight
—her arrangements at the theatre, set off to find Isabelle—for
that was the name by which she still called Marian Brooklyn.
Isabelle, she knew, was still at the hotel—the Cunningham—
and she had not far to go. In a few minutes the two women
were in each other's arms. It was not a question of who had
killed their lovers; they both needed comfort, and they sought
together such comfort as could be found.
By-and-by, Charis found herself telling the story of the in-
spector's visit. She had never before spoken openly to Mrs.
George about John Prinsep; but now she told the whole story,
only to find that most of it was known to Marian already.
Marian told her how Carter Woodman had come to see her,
and asked her to use her influence to break the entanglement
between Charis and John Prinsep, and how she had indig-
nantly refused and had threatened to go and tell John straight
out that he ought to marry her. Charis did not try to defend


joan Takes up the Case 113
Prinsep: she realised that there could be no defence for what
he had done; but she told Marian that she had loved him, and
that she believed he had loved her—in a way—and would
certainly have married her but for his fear of Sir Vernon's
opposition. She told Marian that it was quite clear from the
inspector's manner that he suspected Walter Brooklyn of one,
if not of both, murders, and at last she told her of Walter
Brooklyn's visit to herself, and of the infamous threat he had
made.
To Charis's surprise, Marian Brooklyn altogether refused to
consider the possibility of Walter's guilt. She had seen him
outside Liskeard House as they left on the Tuesday evening,
and she agreed that he might possibly have gone there to carry
out his threat of telling Sir Vernon. But she was quite con-
vinced that he had had nothing to do with the murders, and she
was very doubtful whether he would really have carried out
his threat against Charis. “Walter Brooklyn,” she said, “is a
thoroughly bad lot. In money matters you couldn't trust him
an inch. But I do not believe he would really have done a
thing like that—I mean, either murdered anybody, or really
told Sir Vernon about you. He might threaten, but I don't
believe he'd do such a thing, when it came to the point.”
Then Marian Brooklyn realised what seemed to her the
most horrible thing about the situation. “Poor Joan,” she
said, “it will be simply terrible for her if Walter Brooklyn is
really suspected. She has trouble enough with what has hap-
pened, already, and with Sir Vernon on her hands in such a
state that nearly everything has to be kept from him. If her
stepfather is going to be dragged into court, I don't know what
she will do.”


114 The Brooklyn Murders
All Charis could suggest was that it would be best that she
should know nothing about it until it could no longer be kept
from her; but to this Marian Brooklyn did not agree. “I
think, dear, she had better know at once. Joan is not easily
frightened; and I am sure she would wish to be told.”
And so it was finally settled. Marian Brooklyn said that
she would go to Liskeard House at once and try to see Joan.
At first she suggested that Charis should come with her; but
finally they agreed that she had better go alone. Charis, a
good deal more at ease after her talk with her friend, went
back to the theatre with every intention of appearing at the
evening performance.
Marian Brooklyn found Joan at home. Indeed, since Tues-
day she had not left the house, save for an occasional breath of
air in the garden. With the police continually making inquir-
ies, newspaper reporters laying constant siege to the house,
and Sir Vernon so ill that the fact of George Brooklyn's death
had still to be kept from him, and George's absence explained
by all manner of subterfuges, Joan and Mary Woodman had
been going through a terrible time, made the worse, in Joan's
case at least, by the sense of helplessness in face of a great
calamity. Her duties in looking after Sir Vernon did not pre-
vent her from thinking: rather they were such as to make
thought turn to brooding. Her thoughts seemed to go round
and round in an endless and aimless circle; and, as the days
passed, the strain was telling on her far more than on Mary
Woodman, who was not blessed—or cursed—with the faculty
of imagination. Mary did her duty quietly and sympatheti-
cally, and with little sign of inward disturbance. Joan did her
duty, too, but she was eating out her soul in the doing of it.


joan Takes up the Case 115
Her face, as she came into the room to greet Marian, was hag-
gard with lack of sleep. She had not quite lost that look of
composure and self-possession that was normally hers; but it
was easy to see that the strain on her had been severe.
Marian did not quite know how to begin what she had to
say; but Joan saved her from her embarrassment by be-
ginning at once to speak about Sir Vernon. He had been very
bad indeed; he was still very bad, but she thought he was be-
ginning to rally. It had been terribly difficult—having to
keep from him the news and prevent him from taking any part
in the investigation. He had asked more than once to see the
police; but the doctor said that absolute rest was indis-
pensable, and that any further shock or excitement would
almost certainly still be fatal to him. Joan told Marian that
she and Mary had their hands so full that they knew little or
nothing of what was going on, and had no idea what progress
the police were making towards the solution of the mystery.
This gave Marian the opening for which she had been
waiting. “It was about that, darling,” she said, “I came to
see you. I did not want the police to come asking you more
questions until you were prepared.”
Joan expressed her surprise. “Prepared, Marian—pre-
pared for what do you mean?”
“Well, dear, I thought I had better tell you. The police
think they have a clue.”
“A clue? Do you mean they know who did it?”
“No, dear. I don't mean that they know; but there is
somebody whom they suspect. Of course, it is their business
to suspect people; but I thought I ought to tell you.”
“Of course, it is their business to find out who did it. I


116 The Brooklyn Murders
am only glad it isn't mine—and yet I can't help wondering.
I keep thinking about it, even though I try hard to put it out
of my mind.”
“That is only natural, dear. It is the same with me. I
find myself wonderin >>
Joan interupted, “And the worst of it is that one's thoughts
take one no further. Mine just go round and round, I haven't
the ghost of an idea who it was.”
“What I came to tell you, Joan, was this. Of course, it
can't be true; but the police suspect—your stepfather.”
Joan had been standing, leaning with one arm on the mantel-
piece; but at Marian's words she went very white, and her
body swayed. She gripped the mantelpiece to steady herself,
and felt her way to a chair. For a moment she said nothing.
Then, so low as to be just audible, her answer came. “Mar-
ian, tell me at once what makes you think that.”
“I don't think it, my dear. But, unfortunately, the police do.
That man, Inspector Blaikie, has quite convinced himself of
it. I had better tell you exactly what I know.”
Then Marian told Joan all about the inspector's visit to
Charis Lang. Joan listened in silence, barely moving. Her
colour came back slowly, and, as she realised that the police
had built up a real case against her stepfather, a look of de-
termination came into her face.
“I wonder if he knows,” she said. “I must go to him at
once.”
Marian said to herself that Joan was bearing it wonderfully
well. There was no fear that she would collapse under the
shock. Indeed, she could see that the news had really done
her good. During the days since the crime she had been


joan Takes up the Case 117
suffering above all because she felt helpless and useless.
The danger to her stepfather gave her a sense of work to do.
It roused her and brought into play the reserves of strength
in her character. Marian had so far held back the reason for
Walter Brooklyn's visit to Charis Lang; but she felt that it
was only fair to Joan to tell her the whole truth, however bad
it might be. If she was to help Walter Brooklyn, she must
certainly know the worst that could be said against him.
There was no doubt at all in Joan's mind. Badly as Wal-
ter Brooklyn had used her, and though she had refused to
live any longer under his roof, she was quite certain that he
was incapable of murder, above all of the murders of the two
victims of Tuesday's tragedy. Even when Marian told her
the purpose with which Walter Brooklyn had been to visit
Charis Lang, that in no way altered her view. “He would
never have told Sir Vernon,” she said. “It was only too like
him to threaten; but he would never have done it. I know
him, and I’m sure of that.”
Joan was keenly anxious to find out what evidence the
police could possibly have against her stepfather; but of
this Marian could tell her hardly anything. She could
only suggest that probably Carter Woodman would know
about it. Mrs. Woodman was still with her at the hotel;
but Carter had been away the previous night, and she had not
seen him. Joan said that she would try to see Carter at once,
and then, when she had found out all she could, she would
go to see Walter Brooklyn.
So far from being prostrated by the news, Joan was moved
by it to take action at once. She telephoned through to Car-
ter Woodman at his office, and asked him particularly to come


118 The Brooklyn Murders
and see her at Liskeard House that afternoon. Woodman
tried to put her off; but when she said that, if he could not
come to her, she would go at once to him, he at last agreed to
come. Within an hour he was with her, and Joan plunged
at once into business by asking him to tell all he knew about
the police and the progress they had made.
Woodman seemed reluctant to talk; but, on being pressed,
he told her most of what had passed at his first talk with
the inspector, leaving out, however, anything which would
tend to connect Walter Brooklyn with the crime, and thereby
creating the impression that the police were totally at a loss.
But Joan was not to be put off so easily. “It’s no use, Car-
ter,” she said, “your trying to spare my feelings. I know that
the police suspect my stepfather, and I want to know on what
evidence they are trying to build up a case against him. Surely
you must know something about that.”
Faced with the direct question, Carter Woodman told her
most of what he knew. He said that the police had found out
that Walter Brooklyn had been in the house that night, and
that he had actually telephoned to his club from Prinsep's
room at about half-past eleven. He told her that Walter
Brooklyn's walking-stick had been found in Prinsep's room,
and that Walter had almost thrown the inspector down-
stairs when he went to question him about his movements.
What surprised him, he said, was that Walter Brooklyn had
not been arrested already.
At this Joan broke out indignantly,"You don't mean that
you believe he did it?”
“My dear Joan, I only wish you had not asked me such a
question. But what am I to think? It is clear that he was


joan Takes up the Case 119
in the house, and somebody must have done it, after all.
I'm sorry for you; but I think you are under no illusions about
your stepfather's character.”
“I tell you that he could never have done a thing like
that. I know he's a bad man, in many ways. But he's not
that sort. Surely you must understand that.”
But Carter Woodman did not seem to understand it. Apol-
ogetically, but firmly, he made it quite clear to Joan that he
was disposed to believe in Walter Brooklyn's guilt, or at least
that he saw nothing unlikely in the supposition that he might
have committed murder. Joan, who had intended to ask
Woodman to go to work for the purpose of clearing her step-
father, soon saw that there was nothing to be gained by mak-
ing such a request. In his present mood, at least, Carter
Woodman would be far more likely to search for further
evidence of Walter Brooklyn's guilt. Joan had found out
from him most of what she wanted; and, seeing that there was
nothing further to be gained by enlisting his help, she got rid
of him as soon as she decently could.
When Woodman had gone, Joan sat down to think the
matter over quietly. She was absolutely certain that her step-
father was in no way guilty of the murders; but, after what
Woodman had said, it seemed only too clear that he must have
been on the spot when one of them at least was committed.
That meant that he knew the truth; but, for some reason or
other, he had evidently not told the police what he knew.
That, Joan felt, was not altogether surprising. Probably the
police had somehow got him into one of his rages; and she
knew that, if that were so, it was just like him to have re-
fused to say a word. It was more than ever necessary for


12O The Brooklyn Murders
her to see him and get at the real truth of what he knew.
Only if she had that to go upon could she help him; and, as
Carter Woodman would do nothing, she felt that she must
devote all her energies to clearing him of the suspicion. He
would have to have a good lawyer of his own, of course; but
Joan must see him, and compel him to bestir himself about his
defence. For one thing, he was certain to be in low water; and
she must at once promise to pay all the expenses of the case.
She admitted to herself that, in the light of what Charis
Lang and Woodman had told her, the police seemed to have a
strong case against Walter Brooklyn. Her mind went back
to Woodman's words, “After all, somebody must have done
it”; and she realised that, for the police “somebody” might
mean Walter Brooklyn quite as readily as any one else.
She, knowing him as no one besides knew him, might be sure
of his innocence; but that was no reason why others should
share her conviction. No, if Walter Brooklyn was to escape
from the coils in which he was enmeshed, it would be because
decisive evidence was forthcoming that he had not committed
the murders. And that decisive evidence would have to be
deliberately searched for by some one other than the police,
who, intent on proving the case against Walter Brooklyn,
would not be likely to seek for clues which would invalidate
their own case. And, if she did not undertake this task, who
would? Šhe felt that the duty was hers.
But if, as she was sure, Walter Brooklyn had not committed
murder, then who had, and what had her stepfather been doing
in Liskeard House that night? It was true that, by Carter's
account, he had denied his presence there; but it did not sur-
prise Joan at all that her stepfather should have lied to the


joan Takes up the Case 121
police. If he was determined not to tell what he knew, his
only possible course was to deny that he had been present.
She would have to point out to him that, as his presence in the
house had been definitely established, the only possible course
remaining was to tell the police everything that he knew.
But what could it be that he was holding back? If he had
been present when murder was done, he must be concealing
the name of the murderer. That puzzled Joan; for she did
not see whom Walter Brooklyn could possibly be intent on
shielding. Quixotism was as unlike him as deliberate murder.
Moreover, who could the murderer have been 3 She searched
her mind in vain for any hint of a clue. There was literally
no one whom she could suspect. The whole thing appeared to
her merely inexplicable.
She realised, however, that the best way—perhaps the only
way—of clearing her stepfather was to bring the real mur-
derer to light. But there might be two different murderers.
Joan was inclined to regard it as quite possible that Prinsep
might have killed George Brooklyn; but it was utterly incon-
ceivable that George should have killed anybody. Far more
clearly than her stepfather, he was not that kind of man.
So that the best line of inquiry seemed to be to search for the
murderer of John Prinsep. But, she remembered, it was in
this case that the police had their strongest evidence against
Walter Brooklyn. There was little or nothing, so far as
she knew, to connect him with the death of George; but he
had been in Prinsep's room, and there his stick had been found.
Surely he must know who had killed John Prinsep. She
could do nothing until she had seen him; but seeing him
might well clear up the whole tragedy once and for all.


122 The Brooklyn Murders
Joan was still lying back in her chair, with closed eyes, try-
ing to think the thing out, when Winter announced that Mr.
Ellery was in the lounge, and would like to see her if she
felt equal to it. She had not seen Ellery since that fatal
Tuesday evening, when he had left with the other guests,
announcing his intention of walking back to Chelsea. Doubt-
less, he had felt that to come sooner would be an intrusion;
but she knew enough of his feelings to be sure that it had cost
him a struggle to keep away. She was glad—very glad—
he had come; for just what she wanted was some one to whom
she could talk freely, some one on whose help she could rely in
trying to clear her stepfather. Robert Ellery, she knew, would
be ready to believe as she believed, and to do everything in
his power to help her in her trouble. These thoughts flashed
through her mind as she went to the lounge where he was
waiting.


CHAPTER XII
ROBERT ELLERY.
IT had been a struggle for Ellery to keep away. He had
heard nothing of the tragedy until Wednesday evening,
when he had been to dine with his guardian, Harry Lucas, at
Hampstead. There had been, of course, nothing in the morn-
ing papers, and he had not seen an evening paper. He had,
indeed, spent the day in a long country walk, returning to
Hampstead across the Heath in time to dress for dinner at
his guardian's house, where he always kept a change of clothes,
and often stayed the night. His walk had been taken with a
purpose—no less a purpose than going thoroughly with him-
self into the question of his feeling for Joan Cowper. He had
been a silent witness of the scene at Sir Vernon's party, when
Joan had declared outright that nothing would ever make her
marry John Prinsep. That outburst of hers had meant a
great deal to him. He had hardly concealed from himself
before the fact that he was head over ears in love with Joan;
but he had always taught himself to regard his love as hope-
less, and tried to make himself believe that he ought to get the
better of it, and accept as a foregone conclusion Joan's mar-
riage with Prinsep. He had been told by Sir Vernon himself
that they were engaged, and, of course, no word on the matter
had passed between him and Joan.
Her definite repudiation of the engagement had therefore
I23


124 The Brooklyn Murders
come to him as a surprise, and, for the first time, had allowed
him to think that his own suit might not be altogether hope-
less. Joan liked him: that he knew well enough; but loving
was, of course, another story, and he hardly allowed himself,
even now, to hope that she loved him. But he made up his
mind, after what had passed, first to spend the day in the
country, thinking things over, or rather charging at full speed
down the Middlesex lanes while the processes of thought went
on of their own momentum. Then, he promised himself to
tell his guardian in the evening exactly how matters stood, and
to ask for his advice. Harry Lucas had known well how to
make himself the friend and counsellor, as well as the guard-
ian, of the young man.
Ellery went straight upstairs and dressed without seeing
his guardian. But, as soon as they met in the smoking-room
before dinner, he saw that something very serious was the mat-
ter. Lucas had expected that Ellery would already have
heard the news; but, when he found that he knew nothing,
he told him the story in a few words, explaining how the
bodies had been discovered, but saying nothing about clues or
about any opinion he may have entertained as to the identity
of the murderer—or the murderers. Lucas himself had been
down to Liskeard House to offer his help: he had seen Sir
Vernon for a few minutes, and had talked with Joan and
Mary Woodman. He had also seen Superintendent Wilson
at Scotland Yard, and offered any help it might be in his power
to give. But, beyond the bare facts discovered in the morn-
ing—startling enough in themselves—he knew little, and, of
course, at this stage the inquiries of Inspector Blaikie were only
at their beginning.


Robert Ellery 125
Ellery asked no questions at first. The news seemed for the
moment to strike him dumb, and the first clear thought that
arose in his mind was that, now at least, there could be no
more question of Joan marrying Prinsep. Ellery had most
cordially disliked and distrusted Prinsep, and he could not pre-
tend to feel any great sorrow at his death. But he had
greatly liked George Brooklyn, and, after his first thought,
it was mainly the terrible sorrow that had come upon all
those who were left that filled his mind. For a time he and
Lucas spoke of nothing but the depth of the tragedy that
had come upon the Brooklyns.
But, by-and-by, Ellery's curiosity began to assert itself.
After all there was mystery as well as tragedy in the events
of Tuesday night; and mystery had always exercised over him
a strong fascination. “I feel a beast,” he said to his guard-
ian, “for thinking of anything but the sorrow of it all; but
I'm damned if I can help wanting to find out all about it.”
“My dear Bob, that's perfectly natural. It would be so
in any one; but it's more than natural in your case. You
write detective novels; and here you are faced with a crime
mystery in real life. You would be more than human if
you didn't want to unravel it. Besides, seriously enough, it
wants unravelling, and I don't think the police are going to
have an easy time in finding out the truth.”
Then Lucas told him of the strange clues that had been
discovered—how all the evidence seemed to point to the con-
clusion that Prinsep had murdered George Brooklyn, and
equally to the conclusion that George had murdered Prinsep.
“Of course,” Lucas added, “that is physically quite impos-
sible; and personally, I'm not in the least disposed to believe


126 The Brooklyn Murders
that either of them killed the other. I'm sure in my own
mind that some one else killed both of them; but I haven't a
ghost of an idea who it can have been.”
“And so there's nothing been found out to throw suspicion
on anybody else?”
“So far as I know, nothing at all. You'd better do a bit
of detective work on your own account.”
Ellery said nothing in reply to that. While they had been
talking, he had been turning over in his mind the question
whether, after what had happened, he could possibly speak to
his guardian about his love for Joan. He had told himself
firmly that he could not; but, just when he had thought his
mind made up, he found himself beginning to speak about it
all the same. He was so full of it that he could not keep from
declaring it. -
“Was Joan really engaged to Prinsep?” he asked.
Harry Lucas had a good idea of Ellery's reason for asking
the question. But he gave no hint of this in his answer, pre-
ferring to let the young man speak or not of his own affairs,
as might seem to him best.
“No-that she never was,” he replied. “Long ago, Sir
Vernon had set his heart on their marrying, and he always
persisted in treating it as settled. Joan, I know, had told him
again and again that she would not marry Prinsep; but he
always put her off, and said that it would all come right in
the end. Between ourselves, I don’t think Prinsep was really
very keen on marrying Joan; but he was prepared to do it
because Sir Vernon wanted it, and he was afraid he would not
get the money if he refused. I don't know that I ought to
speak like that about him now that he's dead: but you know


Robert Ellery 127
very well that I disliked him, and it's no use pretending that
I didn't.”
Ellery felt his spirits rising as he heard what Lucas said—
and again he accused himself of being a beast for feeling cheer-
ful on such an occasion. No more was said then, and during
dinner, while the servants were in the room, they talked of
other things—of the play which Ellery was writing, of where
he had been during the day, of many indifferent matters.
They were both glad when dinner was over, and they could
return to the smoking-room and be again alone.
Then it was that Ellery told Lucas of his love for Joan.
And then he had his surprise; for he found that his guard-
ian had discovered that for himself long ago, and that he
was being strongly encouraged to persist in his suit. “My
dear boy,” said Lucas, “of course you're in love with Joan,
and I shouldn't be a bit surprised if you find out before long
that she's in love with you. She's a very fine young woman,
and I couldn't wish you better fortune than to win her. I
hope you will, when the time comes. But, of course, you
can't make love to her just now. You will have to wait until
this terrible affair is over.”
“But, if I see her how can I possibly help telling her now—
now that other fellow is out of the way? I know I shall
simply blurt it out, and probably spoil my chance for good
and all.”
Lucas gave him some sage advice. He should go and see
Joan, and offer to help in any way he could. But on no
account must he make love to her yet awhile. From which it
may be seen that Harry Lucas, up to date as he thought him-
self, had still some old-fashioned ideas about propriety.


Robert Ellery 129
how could he go there without seeing Joan? As he went to
bed, he told himself that he could do nothing. But he was a
healthy fellow, and his perplexity did not long interfere with
his slumbers. Tired out by his long walk, he slept like a
top.
He was still in bed and asleep on the followng morning
when the landlady knocked at the door and told him that a
gentleman, who would not state his business, was waiting to
see him downstairs. Dressing hastily, he went down, and
found a stranger standing before the fireplace. His visitor
handed him a card, on which he read, “Inspector Gibbs, New
Scotland Yard.” So they had come to ask him something
about the murders.
Inspector Blaikie, who had enough to do in following up
the trail of Walter Brooklyn, had no time to act on his reso-
lution to see Ellery and get from him an explanation of his
movements on Tuesday after leaving Liskeard House. His
colleague, Inspector Gibbs, had therefore been entrusted with
this task. The police were not seriously disposed to think
that Ellery had anything to do with the murders; but every
one who had been at the house that night was worth interro-
gating, and Ellery was therefore to be questioned like the
rest.
Inspector Gibbs was a very polite young man, excellently
groomed, and with an air of treating you as one man of the
world treats another. Very politely he explained the pur-
pose of his visit, and told Ellery that he must not suppose
that, merely because the police asked him certain questions,
there was any suspicion at all attaching to him. “But we must,
you know, get all our facts quite complete.” Ellery said that


130 The Brooklyn Murders
he fully understood, and was prepared to answer any ques-
tions to the best of his power. “But the plain fact is,” he
said, “that I know nothing at all about it.”
He was first asked at what time he had left Liskeard House
on Tuesday evening, and replied that it was a few minutes
past ten—he could not say more exactly. No, he had not
returned there later in the evening—he had gone straight back
to Chelsea. At what time had he reached his rooms in Chel-
sea? About midnight. Not till he made that answer did it
occur to him that there was anything in his movements it might
be difficult to explain.
“About midnight?” said the inspector, with a note of sur-
prise in his voice. “But you said you went straight back after
leaving Liskeard House.”
“What I meant was that I went nowhere else in particular
in between. As a matter of fact I walked back, and spent
some time strolling up and down the Embankment before I
returned to my rooms. I went down to Chelsea Bridge and
walked right along the Embankment to Lots Road, and then
back here to Tite Street. It was just about midnight when
I let myself in.”
“I see. And did you meet any one after you came in?”
“No; but my landlady may have seen me come in. There
was still a light in her room, which looks out over the front
door.”
Before the inspector left he saw the landlady, and con-
firmed this with her. She had seen Ellery come in at about
midnight. There was nothing unusual in his taking a long
evening stroll by the river on a fine night.
But before he saw the landlady the inspector had further


Robert Ellery 131
questions to ask of Ellery himself. “You say, then, that you
were walking about for close on two hours between Liskeard
House and Chelsea Embankment. Is there any one who can
corroborate this?”
Ellery thought for a moment. “Yes, there ought to be,” he
said. “I met a friend who lives somewhere down here in
Chelsea, at Hyde Park Corner, at about a quarter past ten,
and he left me at the Lots Road end of the Embankment at
about half-past eleven. We were together all that time.”
“Will you give me his name and address?”
Ellery paused for a moment, and then gave a nervous laugh.
“Upon my word,” he said, “this is devilish awkward. I
don’t know the chap's address—I never have known it. All
I do know is that he lives somewhere down the west end of
Chelsea—not far from World's End, I think he said.”
“I dare say we can trace him,” said the inspector. “You
had better tell me his profession as well as his name. Per-
haps you know where he works.”
“Good Lord, this is worse than ever,” said Ellery. “I
can’t for the life of me remember what the fellow's name
is. It has slipped clean out of my memory.” Then, seeing
a heightened look of surprise on the inspector's face: “You
see,” he added, “I hardly know him really. He's only a
casual acquaintance I’ve met a few times at the Club.” He
paused and glanced at his visitor, in whose manner he was
already conscious of a change.
“Come, come, Mr. Ellery, surely you must be able to re-
member the man's name. It's not—”
“I only wish I could. I almost had it then. It's some-
thing like Forrest or Forrester or Foster, I'm nearly sure.


132 The Brooklyn Murders
But it isn't any of those. I'm nearly certain it begins with
an “F.’”
“Isn't it rather curious that you should have been walking
about London for so long with a man you hardly know, and
whose name even you can’t remember?”
“It may be curious, inspector, and you may think I'm
making it all up. I can see you're inclined to think that. But
what I’ve told is exactly what happened. I expect the name
will come back to me soon—I have a way of just forgetting
things like that every now and then.”
“A most unfortunate way, if I may say so. I can only
hope that your memory will soon come back. You realise, I
suppose, that the consequences of your—lapse may be
serious?”
“Oh, nonsense, inspector. I don't see anything so curious
about it. I often get talking with chaps I don't know from
Adam; and I'm quite capable of forgetting the name of my
dearest friend. What happened was that we were both walk-
ing home towards Chelsea, it was a beautifully fine night, and
we got into an interesting conversation—about plays. I'm
a playwright, you know, and I think he must be an actor. I
mean, from the way he talked.”
“Well, Mr. Ellery, I should advise you to make a strong
effort to find that gentleman again, or to remember his name.
No doubt it's quite all right; but it will be best for you to
have your alibi confirmed.”
Ellery saw that Inspector Gibbs was not quite sure whether
to believe or disbelieve his story. After all, it did sound a bit
fishy. It would be awkward, and quite fatal to his plans of
acting as an amateur detective, if the police began seriously


Robert Ellery 133
to suspect him of having had a hand in the murders. That
would put a visit to Liskeard House—and to Joan—more than
ever out of the question.
Ellery promised to devote the day to an attempt to trace
his missing acquaintance, and the inspector departed, with a
last word of advice given as by one man of the world to an-
other. But Ellery had an unpleasant feeling that until that
fellow—what the devil was his name?—was run to earth, his
movements would be carefully watched by the police. Which
was not at all the development he had been expecting.
The Chelsea Arts Club, where he had certainly sometimes
met the fellow, seemed the best place to begin the search, and
Ellery accordingly went round there to make his inquiries.
But he drew blank. No one could place a fellow who lived in
Chelsea—probably an actor—whose name was neither Foster
nor Forrest nor Forrester, but something more or less like that.
Every one he asked said it was too vague a description, or
offered him suggestions which he at once rejected. Ellery be-
gan to feel that his job was not going to be easy. As he left
the Club he was more than a little depressed, especially as he
felt sure that a heavy-footed individual, who kept some dis-
tance behind, was under instructions to follow him. The police
boots were unmistakable; he noticed them across the road as
he came down the Club steps, and turning round a moment
later, he saw their wearer following none too discreetly in
his wake. “If that is the police idea of shadowing a man,” he
said to himself, “I don’t think much of it. But perhaps they
don't mind my knowing.” Then he considered whether it was
worth while to try giving his watcher the slip. But that,
he reflected, would only make things worse, and get him


134 The Brooklyn Murders
suspected all the more. He must let himself be followed, and
he might as well take it cheerfully. “With cat-like tread,
upon the foe we steal,” he whistled, and laughed as he heard
the feet of the law clumping along behind him.


CHAPTER XIII
AN ARREST
NSPECTOR BLAIKIE had made arrangements to see
Superintendent Wilson after lunch; and at half-past two
they were closeted together in the superintendent's office. The
decision about the inquest could be no longer delayed: it
was imperative that the police should make up their minds
how far they would place the facts which they had discovered
before the coroner's jury. The police nearly always hate a
coroner's jury—at least in cases in which murder is suspected
or known. They dislike the premature disclosure of their
hardly gathered clues before their case is complete: they dread
the misdirected inquisitiveness of some juryman who may un-
knowingly give the criminal just the hint he wants. Above
all, they object to looking like fools; and whether they present
an incomplete case, or withhold the information they possess,
that is very likely to be their fate in the presence of the good
men and true and in the columns of the newspapers the next
morning.
The Brooklyn case had created an immense popular excite-
ment. Neither Prinsep nor George Brooklyn was much
known to the general public; but Sir Vernon was still a great
popular figure, and pictures of Isabelle Raven—Mrs. George
Brooklyn—remembered as the finest actress of a few years
ago, had been published in almost every paper. The reporters
135


136 The Brooklyn Murders
had, indeed, little enough to go upon; for after the first seri-
sational story of the discovery of the bodies, they had been
put off with very scanty information. Nothing connecting
Walter Brooklyn with the crime had yet been published; but
Inspector Blaikie knew that, as the club servants had fastened
on that side of the story, it was certain to reach some of the
papers before many days passed. Still, it was a moot point
whether or not it would be best to keep all reference to Wal-
ter Brooklyn out of the inquest proceedings, if it were possible
to do so.
Inspector Blaikie would usually have been inclined to favour
any plan which aimed at keeping the coroner's jury in the dark.
That was, in his view, a part of the duty of a good police
officer. But, on this occasion, he had become so firmly con-
vinced of Walter Brooklyn's guilt that he was set on a differ-
ent method of proceeding. What he wanted was to be al-
lowed to arrest Walter Brooklyn at once, in advance of the
inquest, and then to tell the coroner's jury the full story of the
evidence against him, in the hope that its publication in the
Press would result in the offering of corroborative evidence
from outside. He felt more and more certain that Brooklyn
had committed both the murders; but he was not so sanguine as
to suppose that he had yet enough evidence to assure a favour-
able verdict—that is, a verdict against Walter—from a jury.
There was at least a specious case to be made out in favour of
the view that Prinsep had killed George, and a skilful barris-
ter would make much of this, using also every shred of evi-
dence for the view that George had killed Prinsep, in the hope
of so muddling the mind of the jury that they would not dare
to bring in any verdict other than “Not Guilty.” But only


An Arrest 137
a very little further evidence would give him enough to hang
Walter Brooklyn on one if not both of the charges. It was
worth while even to submit to the foolish heckling of a coro-
ner's jury, if by doing so he could hope to get the further
evidence he wanted. His case so far, he recognised, depended
on an inference; and it would be just like a jury to turn him
down. Juries, in his view, always did the wrong thing if
you gave them half a chance. Still, in this case it was worth
while, in the hope of getting further evidence, even to endure
their folly.
This reasoning of Inspector Blaikie's failed to commend it-
self to Superintendent Wilson. He, too, saw that the case
against Walter Brooklyn was not conclusive, and, unlike the
inspector, he was not himself by any means convinced that
Walter Brooklyn was guilty. But he thought he knew a way
of bringing the 'matter to a supreme test, and of making the
suspected man either proclaim his own guilt, or remove the
most serious ground of suspicion against him. His idea was
that, at least during the first stages of the inquest, the police
should say nothing of those discoveries which implicated Wal-
ter Brooklyn, but that they should arrange for Walter himself
to be called up to give evidence as if there were no suspicion
against him. He could be used to identify the deceased; and
a hint to the coroner would ensure that he should be asked to
give an account of his movements on Tuesday evening. He
would then have either to admit or to deny having been in
Prinsep's room—either to tell at last what he must know about
the murders, or to perjure himself in such a manner as would
leave no doubt of his complicity, and little of his guilt.
Superintendent Wilson, then, would by no means agree to


An Arrest 139
To the reporters and to the members of the police who
were present, crowding to suffocation the confined space of
the coroner's court, it became more and more evident that the
inquest was not likely to throw any light upon the mystery.
They heard, from the police witnesses, from the household
servants, and from Joan Cowper, how the bodies had been
found. Walter Brooklyn and others gave purely formal evi-
dence of identification: the doctors for once told a plain story.
George Brooklyn had been killed by a savage blow on the
back of the head, dealt without doubt by a powerful man
with the stone club of Hercules, which was produced in court
with the bloodstains still upon it. Prinsep, too, had probably
been killed by the blow on the back of his head, dealt with
an unknown instrument. The knife thrust at the heart, which
had missed its object, had been made subsequently, and would
not by itself have caused sudden death. Inspector Blaikie's
evidence, indeed, promised to be more exciting; for he told
of the finding of George Brooklyn's handkerchief under Prin-
sep's body, produced a knife, similar to that found in the
body, which he had found in George Brooklyn's office, showed
the broken fragments of Prinsep's cigar-holder found in the
garden, and photographs of fingerprints found on the stone
club and others taken from Prinsep's hands. This was ex-
citing enough; but it did more to mystify than to enlighten
the public and the reporters. Still, it was excellent copy; and
the reporters, and later the editors and sub-editors, made the
most of it. Then, when the inquest seemed practically over,
the coroner, a sharp little man who had attended strictly to
business and said as little as possible throughout the pro-
ceedings, acted on the hint given him by the police, and or-


140 The Brooklyn Murders
dered Walter Brooklyn to be recalled. Walter's manner,
when he gave his earlier evidence and was asked no more than
a couple of formal questions, had shown plainly to the in-
spector, and also to Joan and Ellery, who were sitting to-
gether, that he was surprised at being let off so lightly. As
the inquest went on, and nothing was said to draw him into
the mystery, his expression, troubled and puzzled in the earlier
stages, gradually cleared, and, up to the moment when he
suddenly found himself recalled, he had been growing more
and more sure that the suspicions of the police against him
had been somehow dispelled. But now, in an instant, he
realised that they had been deliberately keeping back every-
thing that could seem to connect him with the case, not be-
cause they did not suspect him still, but because they had
carefully set a trap into which they hoped that he would fall.
For a moment, a scared look came into his face; but, when
he stepped again into the witness stand, he wore his
usual rather ill-humoured and supercilious expression. Im-
maculately dressed and groomed, he was a man who looked
precisely what he was—an elderly, but still dissipated, man
about town.
This time the questions which the coroner asked were far
from formal. He began with what was plainly a leading
question,-
“It has been suggested to me, Mr. Brooklyn, that you may
be able to throw some further light on this tragedy. This
morning you were given no opportunity to make a general
statement; but I desire to give you that opportunity now. Is
there anything further that you are in a position to tell us?”
“I know no more of the affair than I have heard in this


An Arrest 141
court to-day—or previously from the police.” Walter Brook-
lyn added the last words after a noticeable pause. “Never-
theless, there is a statement that I want to make. It has
been suggested, not in this court, but earlier to me by Inspector
Blaikie—that I was in Liskeard House on Tuesday evening.
I desire to say that I called at Liskeard House shortly after
ten o'clock and waited for a few minutes in the outer hall.
Then I went away; and since that time—perhaps twenty
past ten on Tuesday night—I have not been in either the house
or the garden. Of the circumstances of the tragedy I know
nothing at all except what I have heard at this inquest or from
the police.”
Walter Brooklyn's statement created a sensation; for here
was the first hint of a suspicion entertained by somebody as
to the real murderer. Clearly the police had been keeping
something back—something which would incriminate the man
who was now giving evidence. Of course, after interrogating
Walter Brooklyn the police might have discovered their sus-
picions to be groundless, and therefore have said nothing of
them. But, if this were so, why had they recalled him in this
curious fashion, and why should Brooklyn go out of his way
to draw public attention to himself, and to make certain that
his doings would be fully canvassed in the newspapers? No,
the way in which he had been recalled showed that the police
were acting with a definite purpose. They were trying to get
Walter Brooklyn to make a statement which would clearly
incriminate him, and, if they really had evidence of his pres-
ence in the house, they had certainly succeeded.
This explanation, natural and largely correct as it was,
was not quite a fair account of Superintendent Wilson's mo-


142 The Brooklyn Murders
tives. His object had been not merely to get Walter
Brooklyn to incriminate himself, but also to give him a
chance of clearing himself if he could give a satisfactory
explanation of his presence in the house. The fact that the
man had repeated on oath an obvious lie seemed to him a good
enough reason for ordering an arrest. He nodded across the
court to the inspector.
But the coroner's court had not yet quite done with Walter
Brooklyn. A juryman, quick to be influenced by the general
suspicion which was abroad, signified his desire to ask a
question. “Where did you go after leaving Liskeard House?”
he rapped out.
The coroner interposed. “Since that question has been
asked,” he said, “perhaps it would be well if you would give
us an account of your movements on Tuesday night.”
Walter Brooklyn seemed to think for a minute before reply-
ing. “Well,” he said, “I strolled about for a bit round
Piccadilly Circus and Shaftesbury Avenue, and then I went
home to the club.”
“At what time did you reach your club?”
“I should guess it was shortly before midnight.”
“That is a considerable time after you left Liskeard House.”
“I am merely telling you what happened.”
“The club porter could probably confirm the time of your
return ?”
“Yes, I imagine so.”
“And is there any one who would be able to substantiate
your account of what you did between 10.15 and midnight?
Were you strolling about all that time?”
“Yes, I suppose I was.”


An Arrest 143
“Were you alone?”
“Yes.” -
“Then there is no one who could confirm your story?”
“Probably not. But I did meet one or two people I knew.”
“None of them is here now?”
“No.”
“Do you desire that the inquest should be adjourned in
order that they may be called?”
“No. What on earth for? I don’t know whether I could
find them, anyway.”
“Then I think there is nothing further I need ask you.”
And with that, a good deal bewildered, Walter Brooklyn
was told to leave the witness box. He went back to his seat,
but a minute later got up and left the court.
Many pairs of eyes followed him as he walked slowly to-
wards the door, and the more experienced spectators nudged
one another as Inspector Blaikie rose quickly in his place and
went out after him. Joan, in her place in the court, saw her
stepfather leave; but she did not notice that the inspector had
followed. Ellery, who did notice, said nothing; for though
he realised what was about to happen he saw that there was
no means of preventing the arrest.
Meanwhile, the coroner was rapidly summing up the evi-
dence. Murder, he told the jury, was clearly established in
both cases; and they need have no hesitation as to their verdict
on that point. But who had committed the murders? If
they were satisfied that in either case the evidence established
the guilt of some definite person, it was their duty to bring in
a verdict against that person. In his opinion, however, the
evidence was wholly inadequate to form the basis of any posi-


144 The Brooklyn Murders
tive conclusion. It might be that John Prinsep had been
killed by George Brooklyn—the finding of the handkerchief
and his known visit to the house were certainly suspicious cir-
cumstances. It might be, on the other hand, that George
Brooklyn had been killed by John Prinsep—the note in Prin-
sep's writing found in the temple, the cigar-holder, and his
known presence in the garden were all grounds for suspicion.
But both these sets of clues could not point to the truth, and
the jury had no means of determining on which the greater
reliance should be placed. Indeed, both sets of clues might
be misleading, and certainly neither was by itself enough to
form the basis of a verdict. The murders might both be the
work of some third person—and one of them must be the
work of a third person—but no evidence had been placed
before them which would justify a verdict against any par-
ticular person. Suspicion, he would remind them, was a very
different thing from proof, and even with their suspicions they
must not be too free in face of the very slender evidence be-
fore them.
After the coroner's summing up, it was clear that only one
verdict was possible. After only a moment's consultation, the
foreman announced that their verdict in both cases was “Wil-
ful Murder by some person or persons unknown.” The coro-
ner made a short speech thanking every one, and the court
adjourned. Joan was glad to breathe fresh air again after
her first experience of the suffocating atmosphere of a court.
By this time Walter Brooklyn was safe under lock and key.
As he reached the door of the court half an hour earlier, he
felt a touch on his sleeve, and, turning, saw Inspector Blaikie
immediately behind him.


An Arrest 145
“Well, what do you want now?” he said sullenly.
The inspector beckoned him into a corner, and there showed
him the warrant duly made out for his arrest. Walter Brook-
lyn glanced at it. For a moment he drew himself up to his
full height and grasped his stick tightly as if he were con-
sidering the prospects of a mad struggle for liberty. Then
he gave a short laugh. “I will come with you,” he said; and
then he added suddenly, with a fury the more impressive be-
cause its utterance was checked—“you damned little fool of
a policeman.”
“Come, come, Mr. Brooklyn,” said the inspector. “I’m only
doing my duty.” Walter Brooklyn made no reply, and the
inspector added: “Are you ready now?”
“Call a taxi,” said Walter. “I suppose you will not walk
me handcuffed through the streets,” he added bitterly.
“Certainly not,” said the inspector, and he hailed a passing
taxi, and signed to his prisoner to get in.
A small crowd had collected by this time, and stood gaping
on the pavement as the taxi drove away.


Mainly a Love Scene 147
he was in love with her; but neither did she quite admit to
herself that she would not have asked him unless she had been
in love with him.
There was some embarrassment—of which Joan was fully
conscious—in Robert Ellery's manner as he rose to greet her.
“I hope I'm not in the way,” he said awkwardly, blushing as
he said it.
“My dear Bob, I'm so glad you've come. I’ve been pining
for some one to whom I could really talk.”
“I wasn't at all sure whether I ought to come. I thought
you might prefer to be alone, and you must have your hands
very full with Sir Vernon. Of course, I'd have come sooner
if I had thought you wanted me.” Again Ellery coloured.
“I want you now, anyway. And it isn't simply that I want
to talk. I want to do something, and I want your help.”
To help Joan' What thing better could Ellery have
asked for? He would do anything in the world to help
her. But what sort of help did she need? He longed to
tell her that he was hers to command in any way she chose—
because he loved her; but all he found himself saying was,
“I say, that's awfully jolly of you—to let me help you, I
mean”—conscious of the banality of the words even as he spoke
them.
Joan went straight to the point. “Bob, the police suspect
my stepfather of being mixed up with this horrible affair.
In fact, I’m sure they think he is actually guilty of murder.
They've got hold of something that seems to incriminate him.”
Ellery made an inarticulate noise of sympathy.
“Of course, Bob, you and I know he didn't do it. You
do think he couldn't have done it, don't you?”


148 The Brooklyn Murders
“It would certainly never have occurred to me to suspect
him.”
“Of course, he's quite innocent, and it's all some horrible
mistake. He couldn't have done such a thing. But I want
you to help me prove he didn't.”
“My dear Joan, are you quite sure the police really suspect
him? Of course, they have to make inquiries about every-
body. Why, I was quite under the impression that they sus-
pected me.”
“Suspect you? How dreadful! What do you mean?”
“Well, I had a most inquisitorial visit from the police this
morning; and a man in obvious police boots has been follow-
ing me about all day.”
He spoke lightly; but Joan took what he said very se-
riously indeed. “My dear Bob,” she said. “This is posi-
tively awful. But why ever should any one think you—
had anything to do with it?”
“Oh, just because I failed to give a ‘satisfactory explana-
tion'—I think that is what they call it—of my movements on
Tuesday night. You know I walked home after dinner.
Well, I wandered round a bit and didn't get home till mid-
night. So they argue that I had plenty of time to kill half a
dozen people, and insist that I must either prove an alibi—
or take the consequences. What do you say? Do you think
I did it?”
“My dear Bob, don’t joke about it. It's far too serious, if
the police are going to drag you into this terrible business.”
“No, really, it isn't serious at all—now at any rate. I am
in a position, fortunately, to produce a conclusive alibi. You
see, I wasn't alone, and I’ve found the chap who was with me


Mainly a Love Scene 149
most of the time, and sent him round to Scotland Yard to tell
them it's all right. I expect the gentleman with the boots
will be out of a job before long.”
“You’re sure it's really all right?”
“Of course it is, or I shouldn't have said a word about it.
And I dare say what you have heard about the police sus-
pecting old Walter isn't a bit more serious.”
“Oh, but it is. From their point of view, I'm afraid they
have a very strong case.” And Joan told him all that she
knew—both what she had heard about Charis Lang from
Marian Brooklyn, and what Carter Woodman had told her.
Finally, she told Ellery that she had made up her mind to go
at once to her stepfather, and try to make him tell her the
truth.
As Joan told her story, Ellery could not help saying to
himself that it looked bad for old Walter. He did not know
Walter Brooklyn very well; but all he did know was un-
favourable, and he had never heard any one—even Joan her-
self—say a good word for him. Left to his own reflections,
Ellery would not have hesitated to suspect Walter Brooklyn
of murder; for he realised at once that the wicked uncle had
everything to gain by putting his two nephews out of the
way. But Joan knew the man, and he did not; and, if Joan
was positive, that was good enough for him. He was so com-
pletely under her influence that the idea that Walter Brooklyn
was guilty was dismissed almost as soon as it was entertained.
Ellery would make it his business to get Walter Brooklyn
cleared—he would work for the old beast with the feeling
that he was working for Joan himself. Entering at once into
Joan's plan, he applauded her determination to go and see


150 The Brooklyn Murders
her stepfather, and placed himself unreservedly at her service.
“You’re a dear,” she said.
While they had been discussing Walter Brooklyn's story,
Ellery's embarrassment had quite left him; but these words
of Joan's, and her look as she spoke them, brought it back
in double force. He felt the blood rushing to his head, and
became uncomfortably aware that he was going red in the
face. Also, he could not take his eyes off Joan, and some-
how it seemed that she could not take her eyes off him. They
gazed at each other, with something of fear and something of
embarrassment in their looks, and each was conscious of a
heart beating more and more insistently within. For at least
a minute neither of them spoke. Then Ellery said one word
and put out his hand towards her. “Joan,” he said, and his
voice sounded to him strange and unreal. He felt her hand
grasp his, almost fiercely, and an acute sensation—it has no
name—ran right through him at the touch. In an instant,
her head was on his shoulder and his arms were round her.
She was sobbing, and his cheek was caressing hers. “Poor
darling,” he said at last.
Joan had meant that talk with Robert Ellery to be so prac-
tical, so entirely the opening of a business partnership. She
and Bob were to clear her stepfather together; and, when
they had done that, who knew what might come after ? But
there was to be no intrusion of sentiment until the work in
hand was completed. In the event, things had not gone off at
all as she intended. From the moment of his coming, she
had felt a sense of danger—something poignant, yet intensely
welcome—in their meeting. This feeling had been dispelled


Mainly a Love Scene 151
for the time while she told him her tale, and she had half said
to herself that now she was safe. Then, in a moment, security
had vanished, the sense of tension had come back far more
strongly than before, she had felt herself merely a passive
thing—as he was another passive thing—in the control of
great elemental forces beyond herself. Without a word said,
it seemed, a marriage had been arranged.
There was, indeed, no need for words between them on this
matter of matters that had joined them indissolubly together.
They were sitting now on the couch, holding each other's
hands. They could talk business—speak of what must be
done to clear Walter Brooklyn—while with the contact of
their bodies love interpenetrated them. And Joan could say
to herself already that this most unbusinesslike proceeding
was the best stroke of business she had ever done. For the
immediate purpose she had in view, it had immensely strength-
ened their partnership. For these twain had become one flesh,
and what was near her heart needs must be near his also.
As they sat there together, they formed their plan of cam-
paign. It was obviously impossible to make a beginning until
Joan had done her best to make Walter Brooklyn tell what he
knew. If he were to refuse, their task would be so much the
harder; but even the hardest task now seemed easy to them
with the power of their love behind them. Whatever his at-
titude might be, they would still be ready to do their best for
him. But surely he would tell Joan. There was no time
to be lost. He must be seen at once, and Ellery set to work to
advise Joan about the questions she ought to ask.
“It seems clear enough that he was in the house. I suppose
he will be able to explain that. But we mustn't be content


Mainly a Love Scene 153
Joan left at each Club a message asking Walter Brooklyn
to ring her up at Liskeard House immediately he came in.
This was all that could be done for the moment; and to Lis-
keard House they returned, having suffered a check at the
outset of their quest. Ellery promised to spend the evening
scouring London for traces of Walter Brooklyn; and in the
mind of each was the half-formed thought that he might have
fled rather than reveal what he knew. Each knew that the
other feared this; but neither put the thought into words.
They arranged to meet again on the following morning, and
Ellery was to ring up later in the evening to report whether
he had traced Walter, and to hear whether any message had
come to Joan from either of the Clubs. Then, after the
manner of lovers, they bade each other farewell a dozen times
over, each farewell more lingering than the last. At length
Ellery went; for he was due at Scotland Yard, where he
hoped to find that his alibi had been accepted, and the last
trace of suspicion removed from him. It would be awkward
to be followed about by the man in police boots wherever
he went with Joan, and it would be awkward to have the police
know exactly what they were doing in Walter Brooklyn's in-
terest. The police boots had followed Joan and him on their
visits to the two Clubs, and now, as he left Liskeard House,
Ellery saw their owner leaning against a lamp-post opposite,
and gazing straight at the front door. Never, he thought,
had a man looked more obviously a detective—or rather a
Policeman in plain clothes. Even apart from the boots, he
was labelled policeman all over—from his measured stride to
the tips of his waxed moustache. As Ellery turned down into
Piccadilly, he heard the man coming along behind him.


CHAPTER XV
TO AND FRO
T was by a fortunate accident that Ellery had been able
so soon to establish his alibi. After drawing blank at
the Chelsea Arts Club, he had had very little of an idea where
he should try next. He was almost certain that it was there
he had been introduced to the man, and the only course seemed
to be that of waiting until he turned up again, or his name
somehow came back to mind. Still, it was just possible that
Ellery had met the man at his other Club in the Adelphi, and
he got on a bus and went there to pursue his inquiries. His
success was no better, although he remained there to lunch
and made persistent inquiries of his fellow-members for an
actor whose name began with an F. The afternoon found
him walking rather disconsolately down the Strand not at all
certain where to go next. Just outside the Golden Cross
Hotel, fortune did him a good turn; for he ran straight into
the very man he was looking for. Ellery turned back with
him, and explained the difficulty he was in, and his acquaint-
ance promised to go at once to Scotland Yard, and try to set
matters right with Inspector Gibbs. He was so friendly that
Ellery had some difficulty in admitting that he had forgotten
his name; but he got round it by asking for his address, in
case of need. The other's answer was to hand him a card,
on which was written:-
154


To and Fro 155
WILLIAM GLoucestER,
11 Denzil Street, S. W. 3.
“Of course,” said Ellery to himself. “But it didn't begin
with an F after all.”
This meeting put Ellery at his ease; and he felt that he
could now go and see Joan with a clear conscience. Leaving
Gloucester to go to Scotland Yard, and asking him to tell the
inspector that he would come round later, he set off for Lis-
keard House, and found himself charged with the task of
clearing, not himself, but Walter Brooklyn. He also found
himself engaged to be married.
These events made it all the more essential to make quite
sure that the police were no longer inclined to look on him with
suspicion; and, on leaving Joan, he went straight to Scotland
Yard, and was soon received, not by Inspector Gibbs, but by
Superintendent Wilson, who, having received the inspector's
report on Gloucester's visit, had made up his mind to have a
look at Ellery himself. The superintendent at once put him at
his ease by telling him that his explanation, and his friend's
corroboration of it, appeared to be quite satisfactory. Ellery's
reply was to say that, in that case, perhaps he might be re-
lieved of the presence of the heavy-footed individual who had
been following him about all day. The superintendent
laughed. “Yes, I think we can find something more useful for
him to do,” he said. “I hope you have not resented our—
shall I say?—attentions. We were bound to keep an eye on
you until we were certain.” And the superintendent at once
gave instructions on the house-phone that the man who had
been watching Ellery need do so no longer, but should report
to him in a few minutes in his room.


156 The Brooklyn Murders
Ellery assured him that it was quite all right; but that he
was glad to be relieved of the man, because he wanted to do
a little private detecting on his own. “I know you people
have got your knife into Walter Brooklyn; but I'm sure he
had nothing to do with it, and I mean to do my best to find
out who had.” Ellery said this deliberately, in the hope of
getting the superintendent to show something of his hand;
but that wary official merely wished him luck—for “we police-
men,” he said, “are always glad to have a man's character
cleared, though you may not think it”—and politely bowed
him out. So far as he could see, no one followed him as he
left the building, and he went back to Liskeard House. He
had said that he would 'phone; but he found it quite beyond
his power to keep away.
Joan was busy with Sir Vernon when he arrived; but she
came to him before long. No message had come from Walter
Brooklyn, and she was getting anxious. Was it possible that
he had been arrested already? Ellery promised to make in-
quiries, and to use every possible effort to find her step-
father; but, though he tried that evening every place he could
think of in which Walter Brooklyn might be, no trace of him
could be found, and there was no sign that he had been ar-
rested. Resumed inquiries early the next morning were
equally fruitless. Brooklyn had not been back to either of
his Clubs, and no message had been received from him. It
was under these circumstances that Joan failed to see her
stepfather before the inquest opened. She was greatly relieved
to see that he was present, and promising herself that she
would talk to him as soon as it was over, she did nothing
while the inquest was actually in progress. She passed a note


To and Fro 157
to him asking him to come round and see her at Liskeard
House immediately the court rose, and he nodded to her in
reply across the room. She therefore felt no anxiety when
he rose and left his seat before the proceedings came to an
end. Thus it came about that he was arrested without her
having a chance to ask him to tell his story of the events of
Tuesday night.
The explanation of Walter Brooklyn's absence was simple .
enough. By Thursday, life at his Clubs had been made un-
endurable for him by the manner, and evident suspicions, of
the Club servants. He became conscious that his fellow-
members were also talking about him, and he decided to go
away. He had been summoned to appear at the inquest on the
following morning; but he could at least have a quiet night
before returning to his troubles. While Joan and Ellery were
hunting London for him, Walter Brooklyn was doing himself
well at a hotel in Maidenhead. He had intended to return
there after seeing Joan; but the inspector's hand on his shoulder
warned him that he would sleep the coming night in jail.
At Vine Street, Brooklyn asked to be allowed to see a
solicitor. The request was at once granted; and, in response
to an urgent message, Mr. Fred Thomas, of New Court,
arrived within half an hour. Thomas was not Brooklyn's
regular solicitor; for Carter Woodman had managed most of
his business affairs. But Thomas was a Club acquaintance
and a man about town himself—professionally a lawyer with
few illusions and a large, if rather disreputable, practice,
mainly among racing men. Walter Brooklyn's first idea was
that Thomas should make an effort to get him admitted to bail
when he was brought up before the magistrate next morning,


158 The Brooklyn Murders
and he mentioned the names of several persons who might be
prepared to stand surety for him. But Thomas at once de-
stroyed his hopes. There was no chance, he said, of securing
bail on a charge of murder: he was afraid his client would
have to make up his mind to stay where he was for the present.
At any rate, Thomas would see to it that he was made as com-
fortable as could be. There were ways of doing these things,
and Thomas was an expert hand at dealing with the police.
What he could do would be done; but the main thing was for
his client to give him every fact that could possibly be helpful
in preparing the defence. They began to discuss the case.
Meanwhile, Ellery, who had guessed at once the reason why
the inspector had followed Walter Brooklyn out of the coro-
ner's court, had not been idle. He had left his place a minute
or two later, merely whispering to Joan that there was some-
thing he must do at once. He had come out of the court just
in time to see the inspector and Walter Brooklyn get into a
taxi and drive off. Hailing another taxi, he had told the
driver to follow, and his car had drawn up at Vine Street
Police Station a moment after the other. He had seen Brook-
lyn and the inspector pass into the building, and had then
paid his driver, and stood disconsolately outside wondering
what he should do. Finally, he went into the station and
asked for Inspector Blaikie, sending in his card. He was
kept waiting for some minutes, and then the inspector came
to him, and asked what he wanted.
“You have arrested Mr. Walter Brooklyn, have you not?”
Ellery asked.
The inspector replied that he had.


To and Fro 159
“Is it possible for some one to come and see him? I sup-
pose he will be here overnight.”
The inspector shook his head. “He will be here for the
night,” he said, “but you can't see him. He has already sent
for his lawyer.”
“I don’t want to see him myself. But his stepdaughter,
Miss Cowper, is very anxious to have a talk with him.”
“Oh, that's another matter. It might be arranged. I don't
say it could, but it might. The right course would be for
her to see his lawyer, and for him to apply on her behalf. I
couldn't do anything on my own responsibility.”
“Then, if I brought her here, you couldn't allow her to see
him.” -
“No, I'm afraid I couldn't. The regulations are very
strict.”
Ellery tried to move the inspector. He failed, but he was
not inclined to give up hope. He went straight to Scotland
Yard and asked for Superintendent Wilson. Reminding that
official that, earlier in the day, he had wished him luck in his
effort to clear Walter Brooklyn, Ellery obtained without diffi-
culty permission for Joan to see him in his cell. Armed with
a signed permit, he drove straight to Liskeard House.
He found Joan with his guardian, Harry Lucas, who had
brought her back in his car from the court. Lucas, too, had
seen the inspector leave the court, and had guessed his pur-
pose. He had also guessed Ellery's object in leaving a mo-
ment later. In the car, he had already told Joan what he
feared; and they had agreed that the best thing was to go back
to Liskeard House and wait for news. Walter Brooklyn


16o The Brooklyn Murders
would come there if he was still a free man; and if not,
Ellery would either come, or telephone to tell Joan what had
happened.
Joan therefore received Ellery's bad news without surprise;
and she gave him a grateful kiss—she had told Lucas of their
engagement while they were waiting—when he showed her the
permit to visit her stepfather Lucas's car was at the door, and
he offered to take Joan round at once. He took the driver's
seat himself, telling his chauffeur to await his return, and
Joan and Ellery got in behind.


CHAPTER XVI
A LINK IN THE CHAIN
RED THOMAS came away a good deal dissatisfied from
his discussion with his client. Walter Brooklyn, he felt,
had given him little enough to go upon. He persisted in
affirming that he had not been in Liskeard House that night,
and in denying absolutely that he had either rung up his Club
and given a message or left his walking-stick in Prinsep's room.
Yet surely, Thomas argued, the police, if they had proceeded
to the drastic step of an arrest, must have some definite proof
that he had been in the house, or at any rate some clear indica-
tion of his complicity. He did not believe that his client
was being frank with him; and, while he had not said this
outright, a hint of what he thought had produced a violent
outburst of bad temper from Brooklyn, and almost caused
him to tell his legal adviser to clear out and come back no
more. This had served to confirm Thomas's idea that Brook-
lyn was lying, and his thought, as he went away, was that, if
he tried again, probably Brooklyn would tell him the truth
when he cooled down and came to realise more fully what his
position was. In his experience imprisonment had a wonder-
fully sobering effect. Meanwhile, Thomas made up his mind
to see Carter Woodman, and try to find out from him more
definitely how matters stood. Woodman, presumably, would
want Walter Brooklyn to get off, even if he believed him to be
I61


162 The Brooklyn Murders
guilty. He would probably not want a member of the Brook-
lyn family to be convicted of murder, whatever the truth
might be.
Thomas had not long left Walter Brooklyn when Joan ar-
rived to see him. She had come into the police-station alone,
leaving Lucas and Ellery outside in the car to wait for her
return. While they waited, Ellery told his guardian more
about his engagement to Joan, and received from him very
hearty congratulations. “You didn't take my advice, my boy,”
Lucas said; “but now that things have come out right, I'm
most heartily glad that you didn't. I have hoped for this
for a long time. I'm very fond of you both, and I can see
there's no doubt about your being fond of each other.” Which
was very pleasant hearing for Ellery; for he had a great
liking for his guardian, and he knew that his friendly counte-
nance would be likely to stand him in good stead with Sir Ver-
non Brooklyn, of whom he was more than a little afraid.
“You must back me up with Sir Vernon,” he said; and Lucas
readily promised his help.
It was three-quarters of an hour before Joan came out of
the police-station. She seemed well satisfied, smiling back at
the policeman who accompanied her to the door. “He has
told you?” asked Ellery, as he held open the door of the
Cat.
“What he had to tell,” Joan replied. “It was not very
much; but it makes everything different. Let us go back and
talk it over.”
Lucas drove straight back to Liskeard House, and there,
in Joan's room, the three held a consultation. “He was not
here at all,” she told them. “I mean he did not come back


A Link in the Chain 163
to the house on Tuesday night. The telephone message must
be all a mistake.” -
“Do you mean that he knows nothing at all about it?”
asked Ellery.
“I am quite sure that he knows nothing. He has told me
exactly what he did after leaving here and up to the time
when he went back to his Club.”
“You may think I ought not to ask this, Joan,” said Lucas;
“but are you quite sure of what you say?”
“Absolutely sure. He was telling me the truth, I know.”
“Then I suppose,” Ellery put in, “we can produce witnesses
to prove that he was somewhere else when he was supposed to
be here. But who the devil did send that telephone message
if he did not?”
Lucas put in a word. “Never mind that for the moment.
The main thing now is to prove that he did not send it. Who
was with him and where was he?”
“Ah, that’s just the difficulty. He has told me exactly
where he went; but I don’t see how we can find any one to
prove it.”
“Do you mean that he was alone all the time, and no one
saw him?” asked Ellery.
“Well, not quite that; but something very like it, I’m
afraid.”
Then Joan was allowed to tell her story. Walter Brook-
lyn, after being refused an interview with Sir Vernon, had
left Liskeard House at about a quarter past ten. He had
stopped for a minute or two outside the Piccadilly Theatre,
wondering what to do next. Then he had walked slowly along
Piccadilly and into the Circus. There again he had hung


A Link in the Chain 165
made his way, walking a good deal faster, along Jermyn
Street and up St. James's Street, and so back to his Club in
Piccadilly. He had thus again passed Liskeard Street, but on
the opposite side of the road. When he got in, he had gone
straight to bed.
This account of Walter Brooklyn's movements was quite
convincing to Joan and her two listeners; but they had to
admit that there was not much in it to persuade others of its
truth. According to his own account, he must have been in
the neighbourhood of Liskeard House at 11.30 when the 'phone
message was supposed to have been sent; and not one of his
movements between 10.15 and midnight seemed to be at all easy
to confirm by any independent testimony. When Joan had
finished her narrative, they all felt that, if Walter Brooklyn's
vindication was to depend on an alibi, his chances were not
particularly good. Still, if he had not been in the house, the
police could after all have very little against him beyond a
suspicion.
At this point Mary Woodman came into the room to say
that Sir Vernon would be very pleased if Mr. Lucas would
come and sit with him for a while, and Lucas, promising to
obey her order to be very quiet and not to allow the patient to
excite himself, was led off to the sick room.
“I tell you what, Joan,” said Ellery, who had been sitting
still, with a prodigious frown on his face, trying to think the
thing over, “we’ve jolly well got to establish that alibi. We
don't know what else the police may have; but we're safe
enough if we can prove that he wasn't here that evening.
Unless we can establish positively that he wasn't there, the
circumstantial evidence will go down with a jury.”


166 The Brooklyn Murders
“But how can we establish it? I only wish we could.”
“We're going to. We're going to find those people he spoke
to, and we're going to hunt London for people who saw him
strolling about. After all, he's very well known, and lots of
people must have seen him. I know we shall be able to prove
he's telling the truth.”
“You’re a dear to say so, and I don't see what we can do
but try. How do you propose to set about it?”
“First of all, I propose that we make a map of the wander-
ings of Ulysses—shall we call it?—showing exactly where
he went, whom he spoke to and when, and so on. That will
help us to see exactly what's the best way of getting to work.”
So Ellery took a sheet of paper, and they sat down side by
side at the table. Under Joan's directions, Ellery made a map
of Walter Brooklyn's journeyings on Tuesday evening. It
took an hour to do, and this is what it looked like when it was
done, with notes to help them in prosecuting their inquiries.
“It isn't very hopeful, I'm afraid,” said Joan, as they
looked together at the finished plan; “but I'm afraid it is
all we have to go upon.”
“Not quite all, I hope. Did he tell you what the man
he spoke to looked like—I mean the chap who gave him a
match outside the Monico?”
“Yes, he was a tall, dark man, clean-shaven and very blue
in the chin, wearing a long black overcoat and a squash hat.
And he almost certainly had some trouble of the eyes. He
wore glasses; but he kept blinking all the time behind them.”
“That ought to help. Now what about this woman, Kitty?
What is she like?” -
“He savs she is about forty, but dresses—and paints—to


A Link in the Chain
167
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168 The Brooklyn Murders
look younger. She's getting fat, has bright golden hair—
certainly dyed—and wears a great many rings. She's fairly
tall, and walks with a bit of a waddle. Her eyes are dark and
piercing, he says, and she has a smile that looks as if it
was switched on and off like an electric light.”
“I must say she doesn't sound attractive.”
“But he says she is—extraordinarily; and, what is more,
she's very well known. He has heard her other name, but
he can't remember it. He thinks she has had several sur-
names.”
“That seems to be all we can get to start with. What I pro-
pose to do is to follow your stepfather's route, trying to find
some one who saw him at each point where he stopped.”
“Yes, but you can leave a bit of it to me. We know that
Marian and Helen and Carter all saw him coming here at
a few minutes past ten, and the servants here say he left at
about a quarter-past. He tells me he stopped outside the
theatre just after that. If so, some one very likely saw him.
I'll see about that, and I’ll try to find out as well whether any
one saw him passing again later. He must have passed at about
11.20 to half-past—I mean when he stood at the corner of
Liskeard Street, and again just before twelve on his way back
to the Club.”
“Very well. You take this end and I’ll follow the rest
of his wanderings. And there is no reason why I shouldn't
get to work at once. It will be best to go over the ground in
the evening, just as he did.”
They sat and talked of the case for a while longer; and
then they sat for a time without talking at all, happy in each


A Link in the Chain 169
other's presence despite the tragedy in which they were in-
volved. At length Ellery started up, saying that he must
go out and get some dinner, and then go to work seriously.
“And by the way, Joan,” he added, “why shouldn't you
come out and have dinner with me? I’m sure Mary would
look after Sir Vernon.”
“My dear boy, does it occur to you that I’ve left him
to himself for a good long time already—or rather left poor
Mary alone to look after him? I couldn't have done it if
Marian had not promised to come in and help.”
“I’m sure Mary wouldn't mind,” Ellery began, pleading
with her to come.
“Oh, of course, Mary's an angel. She never minds any-
thing. But that's no reason why she should be put upon.
No, my boy, you go and have your bachelor dinner, and I'll
get Winter to send me up an egg.”
“Mayn't I share the egg?”
“Certainly not. Get along with you.” And Joan sped
her lover on his way with the taste of her kiss fresh on his
mouth. It seemed a profanation to eat anything after that;
but all the same, while Joan ate her egg and then took her
turn in watching over Sir Vernon, Ellery, seated alone in the
grill room at Hatchett's was making a very solid and satis-
factory meal. Somehow, love seemed to give one an appetite,
he reflected, as he lighted a cigar. Then he set forth upon
his quest, walking slowly down Piccadilly towards the Circus.
He had no fixed plan of action. As he put it to himself, he
was following the route Walter Brooklyn had taken and just
keeping his eyes open, in the hope that something might turn


17o The Brooklyn Murders
up. Nothing did turn up till he reached Piccadilly Circus.
There, as he knew, Walter Brooklyn had hung about for a few
minutes, but had spoken to no one.
The quest certainly did not seem to be hopeful. Piccadilly
Circus was crowded with people, some hurrying this way or
that in pursuit of some definite object, others standing or stroll-
ing about as if they had nothing to do and nowhere in particu-
lar to go. The flower-women who sit on the island in the
middle of the Circus in the daytime had already left their
posts, and would presumably have done so on Tuesday be-
fore Walter Brooklyn took that disastrous walk. But before
long Ellery picked out two persons who remained at fixed
spots while the rest of the crowd changed from minute to
minute. The one was a policeman regulating the traffic and
the queues at the point where the buses stopped by the island:
the other was a night-watchman in his little hut, keeping guard
over a piece of the roadway which was under repair. These
were the most likely of all the crowd to have been there on
Tuesday night, and with them he determined to begin his
inquiries.
The policeman was quickly disposed of. He had not been
on duty on Tuesday; but a little persuasion in tangible form
soon secured the name of the constable who had, and the news
that he had only been kept away that night by a misadven-
ture, and would be on duty again the following night. Ellery
made a note of the name, and said to himself that he must see
the other policeman later. For the present he strolled over
towards the watchman, whom he found reading a tattered book
in his little cabin, by the light partly of the lamps and sky
signs, and partly, though it was a warm summer evening, of


A Link in the Chain 171
a blazing fire in a pail. He was a little, old man with a pair
of steel spectacles, which had carved a deep rut in his nose,
and he seemed to be reading with extraordinarily concentrated
attention. Ellery managed to see what the book was. It was
Sartor Resartus. The man was clearly a “scholar,” and prob-
ably a homely philosopher of the working-class.
It seemed best to use the opening which providence had
provided. “That's a fine book you've got there,” said Ellery,
casting his mind back to the days at school, when he had first
and last read his Sartor, only to forget all about it and Carlyle
as he reached years of discretion.
The little old man peered up at him over his glasses. “It
is the book for me,” he said. “That Carlyle, sir, he was a
man.”
“I dare say you manage to read a great deal at your job.”
“I do that. You see, I had a accident ten years ago.
‘Fore that, I was a navvy; but that finished me—for heavy
work, I mean. At first, I was wretched at this job; the com-
pany gave it me, when doctor said I was fit for light work.
And then it came to me I'd take up reading, like. I hadn't
hardly ever opened a book till then—not since school. I can
tell you, it's been a revelation to me. I don't ask nothing
better than to sit here with a good book now. But it isn't
often one of you gentlemen seems to notice what I’m reading.”
The old man spoke slowly, and rather as if he was thinking
aloud. He seemed almost to have forgotten that Ellery was
there.
“Perhaps I shouldn't have noticed, unless there had been
something I wanted to ask you. A man's life may depend
on it, and I wanted vour help.”


172 The Brooklyn Murders
The old man peered up at him again, and a little gleam
of excitement came into his eyes; but he only nodded to
Ellery to go on.
Ellery handed him a photograph of Walter Brooklyn.
“On Tuesday night, at about half-past ten, that man stopped
for some minutes on the island in the middle of the Circus
here. He is accused of having been somewhere else, and
his life may depend on our finding some one who saw him
here. What I want to ask is whether you happened to notice
him.” -
The old man thought for a minute before answering. “I
can't say I did; but I seem to know his face somehow. Half-
past ten, you said?”
“Then or then abouts, it must have been.”
“No, I didn't see him. At half-past ten I was in here read-
ing, and I didn't notice much. But I know I’ve seen that
chap somewhere. Wait a minute while I think.”
Ellery waited. It seemed a long while before the old
man Went on.
“Now, if you'd have said half-past eleven, or maybe a
quarter-past, I should have said I saw him.”
“Yes. Why, he did cross the Circus again at about that
time.”
“Then I saw him. It was like this, you see. About a
quarter-past eleven on Tuesday I gets up to walk round the
works here and see if all's right. Up there at the corner by
Shaftesbury Avenue I saw a gentleman—very like your
gentleman he was and smoking a big cigar—come strolling
across the road. Very slow, he was walking. Seemed as if
he was annoyed about something—waving his stick in the


A Link in the Chain 173
air, he was, as if he was making believe to hit somebody. I
only noticed him because a big motor-car came round sud-
denly from Regent Street as he was crossing, and he had to
skip. Came straight into the ropes round the work up there.
I hurried to see if he was all right; but before I got there he
dusted himself down and walked on. I’m almost sure he
was your man. I’ve got a memory for faces, and I noticed
him particularly because he seemed that ratty, if I may say
so.”
“Can you tell me again what time that was?”
“Not far short of half-past eleven—leastways it was after
the quarter, twenty to twenty-five past, maybe.”
Ellery congratulated himself on an extraordinary stroke of
luck. It was, of course, far more important to establish
Walter Brooklyn's presence in Piccadilly Circus between
11.15 and 11.30 than at 10.30; but it had seemed impossible
to do so. Some one might have noticed him when he hung
about there for several minutes; but it seemed very unlikely
that his mere walking across the Circus at the later time could
have been confirmed. By a lucky chance it had been, and
the first link in the alibi had been successfully joined.
The next thing was to get the watchman's name and address,
and to arrange for his appearance if he were called upon.
The old man readily gave the particulars; but when Ellery
talked of payment for his services, he refused. “I don't want
money for it,” he said; “not unless I have to appear in court.
Then I'll want my expenses same as another. But I’ll tell
you what. If I’ve done you a good turn, you come here
again some night and talk to me about books. That'll be a
lot more to me than what you'd give me. There ain't no


174 The Brooklyn Murders
one I’ve got to talk to about what I read. It’ll be a treat to
have a talk to a gent like you, what knows all about books
and what's inside 'em.”
“I'm afraid,” said Ellery, “you do me too much credit. It's
years since I read Carlyle, and I’ve forgotten most about
him. But I’ll come back, and lend you some more of him
if you want it. But I expect you know a lot more about
him than I do.”
It turned out that what the old man wanted above all else
was a copy of Carlyle's Cromwell. Ellery promised to bring
it, and after a few words more they parted on the best of
terms, and Ellery walked on slowly along Coventry Street and
into Leicester Square. He felt that luck was on his side.


CHAPTER XVII
THE LOVELY LADY
walk round Leicester Square in search of the myste-
rious Kitty gave Ellery an uncomfortable feeling.
Kitty appeared to belong to a type of lovely lady which had
not come much in his way, and his first sensation was one of
strong distaste. Moreover, he very soon realised that the de-
scription given to him was not likely to be of much value.
There seemed to be a whole tribe of Kittys in the neighbour-
hood of Leicester Square, and Ellery liked each one he set eyes
on less than the last. He came speedily to two conclusions—
first, that he would never spot the right one by means of the
description which Walter Brooklyn had given, and secondly,
that it would be quite out of his power to address one of these
ladies, or to do anything but seek refuge in flight if, as seemed
most probable, one of them attempted to address him. He
tried to overcome this feeling; but it was no use. Even
though no one had yet spoken to him, he turned tail, and took
refuge in Orange Street for a few minutes’ reflection.
He knew that he could not do it. Moreover, to walk round
Leicester Square addressing strange females by a Christian
name which might or might not belong to them was probably
an excellent prelude to adventures of a sort, but hardly to the
gaining of the particular information of which he was in
search. The way to find Kitty was not to hunt for a hypotheti-
I75


176 The Brooklyn Murders
cal needle in a very unpleasant haystack, but to go straight to
some one who was likely to know. And who would be more
likely than Will Jaxon, who was celebrated as the devil of a
fellow with the women, and lived, moreover, in bachelor
chambers hardly more than round the corner in Panton
Street? Ellery set off there to find his man.
Jaxon had been with Ellery at Oxford, and, dissimilar as
many of their tastes were, they had kept up the acquaintance.
They had in common an intense absorption in the technique of
the theatre, in which Ellery was interested as a young and
promising writer of plays, and Jaxon as an equally promising
producer. But Jaxon's way of living was very different from
his friend's. He was not a vicious man; but he said that
vice, and still more the shoddy imitation of it which passes
current in the London demi-monde, attracted him as a study.
He liked watching the game, and making little bets with him-
self as to its fortunes. It was, he said, a harmless amusement,
and, if the professors of psychology based their views largely
on a study of the “diseases of personality,” why should not
he, a mere amateur, follow their example? So he passed much
of his time among persons whose ways of living were, to
say the least, not in conformity with the dictates of the Non-
conformist conscience. It was his pride to know the Society
underworld; and, in particular, he was wont to boast that he
knew the “points” of all the important “lovely ladies” of
London. It was ten to one that he would know where to find
Kitty.
Jaxon, fortunately, was in, and Ellery was soon able to ex-
plain his business. He wanted a woman, none too young,
and getting fat, whose name was Kitty something-or-other.


The Lovely Lady 177
She was, he believed, often to be found round about Leicester
Square.
“You’re the very last man I ever expected to come to me on
a quest like that,” said Jaxon with a laugh. “Now, if it had
been Lorimer or Wentworth—but you of all men. Oh, I know
it's all right, and your intentions are strictly honourable.
But do you know that there are at least a dozen Kittys, all of
them celebrated in their way, who conform fully to the descrip-
tion you have given me? How am I to know which one you
want?”
Ellery repeated his description, giving every detail that had
been told him—the golden, dyed hair, the smile that switched
on and off like an electric light—“That's not much help. It's
part of the professional equipment,” said Jaxon—the dark
eyes, the slovenly walk.
“The golden hair and the dark eyes help to narrow the
field; but there are still half a dozen it might be—all of the
fat and forty brigade, and all of them no better than they
should be according to the world's reckoning. Five of the
six are just the ordinary thing; but the other is something
quite out of the common run. She's not what you would call
an honest woman; but she's a very remarkable person for all
that. I wonder if it is she you are after.”
“Tell me about her first.”
“Well her name—or at least the name she's known by—
is Kitty Frensham. Kitty Lessing it used to be when I first
knew her. In those days she was more or less the property
of a Russian Archduke, or something of the sort. Or rather,
he used to be altogether her property. Then, a year or so ago,
he died, and since then she has been rather at a loose end.


178 The Brooklyn Murders
She's fat and forty; but she's a most fascinating woman.
Awfully clever, too.”
“Can you get hold of her for me?”
“Yes, I think I know where to find her; but you'd better
understand that she's not at all the ordinary sort of street-
crawler. If she's your woman, the description you gave was
a bit misleading. She is most often about with Horace
Mandleham, the painter chap, nowadays. Come round to
Duke's with me, and I dare say we shall find her.”
Ellery knew about Duke's, of course; but he had never been
there. Just at the moment, it was the latest thing in night
clubs in London, and everybody who fancied himself or herself
as a bit in advance of other folk was keen to go there. Ellery
was not advanced, and it took some persuasion to carry
him along. He seemed to think that Jaxon ought to cut out
his prize for him from under the guns of Duke's and bring her
home in tow. But Jaxon said he could find her, but he
couldn't possibly bring her. Finally, Ellery agreed to go.
After all, he reflected, it was all in the day's work. He had
known what sort of man Walter Brooklyn was; and he must
not complain if the task of clearing up his character meant
going into some queer places.
Duke's certainly did not rely for its popularity on external
display. It was approached by three flights of narrow and
rickety stairs, and the visitors had to satisfy two rather seedy-
looking janitors, not in uniform, at top and bottom. And,
when they entered the Club itself, Ellery had a still greater
surprise. The famous Duke's consisted of one very long
low room—or rather of three long, low attics which had been
amateurishly knocked into one. The decorations were old


The Lovely Lady 179
and faded, and the places where the partitions had been were
still marked by patches of new paper pasted on to hide the
rents in the old. The ventilation was abominable, and what
windows there were did not seem to have been cleaned for ,
months. The furniture—a few seedy divans and a large
number of common Windsor chairs and kitchen tables—seemed
to have been picked up at second-hand from some very inferior
dealer. Tables and floor were stained with countless spillings
of food and drink, and a thick cloud of tobacco smoke made it
quite impossible to see any distance along the room. There
was only one redeeming feature, and Ellery's eye fell upon
it almost as soon as he entered the place. Near the door
was a magnificent grand piano, on which some one was play-
ing really well an arrangement from Borodine's Prince Igor.
Jaxon drew Ellery to a vacant table. “We’ll sit down
here and order something, and then in a moment or two, I'll
go round and spy out the land,” he said. “From here we
shall see any one who goes out. And, by Jove, there's one
of the six Kittys—not the one I told you about. I shouldn't
be surprised if we found the whole half-dozen before the eve-
ning's out. Everybody looks in here just now.”
Ellery felt very uncomfortable when he was left alone to
sip his gin and water while Jaxon went round the room,
exchanging a few words with friends at several of the tables.
But soon his friend came back to report. “No, she's not here
now; but I’ve spotted another Kitty for you. I forgot her:
she makes the seventh on our list, and you'd better have a
word with the two who are here. Bring your drink across, and
I’ll introduce you to that one over there. She's Kitty Turner,
and the chap she's with is a fellow from Bloomsbury way


18O The Brooklyn Murders
called Parkinson—a civil servant, I believe. I’ll do the talk-
ing, or most of it. You just ask her if she knows Walter
Brooklyn when you get a chance.”
They drew a blank at the conversation. Kitty Turner was
certainly a very bright lady, laughing immoderately both at
her own and at Jaxon's jokes, and, it seemed to Ellery, a good
deal relieved to get a rest from her tete-à-tête with the gloomy
fellow who was sitting by her side. He, at any rate, seemed
to take his pleasures sadly. Indeed, it struck Ellery, as he
looked round the room, that very few of the people there
seemed to be really enjoying themselves. The women were
cheerful, but there was something forced about the gaiety
of many of them; and some of the men seemed to need a
deal of cheering up. Ellery found himself wondering why
on earth so many people came to this sort of place, if they did
not even find it amusing. He at any rate was not amused,
even as Jaxon seemed to be, by regarding the place as a sort of
psychological study. He had come there for a definite pur-
pose; and, as soon as he had satisfied himself that Kitty
Turner knew nothing of Walter Brooklyn, he was ready to
move on. A signal soon brought Jaxon to his feet, and they
strolled across the room to try the next Kitty on the list.
Kitty Laurenson did know Walter Brooklyn, but not to any
degree of intimacy. She had met him a few times, and Ellery
rather gathered that, in her opinion, he had been less attentive
than he should have been to her charms. She had certainly
not seen him on Tuesday, or indeed for weeks past. Ellery
liked her even less than the other; for her attitude towards
him seemed to be strictly professional, and, as soon as she
was sure that he could not be fascinated, she showed him


The Lovely Lady 181
plainly that the sooner he went away the better he would
please, her. Ellery again gave Jaxon the signal, and they
left her table. They were just discussing whether it was
worth while to wait a time in the hope that some more Kittys
might turn up, when Jaxon said suddenly, “By Jove, here she
comes, and alone too. We’re in luck.”
Ellery turned, and saw entering the room a stout, rather
coarse-looking woman of about forty or forty-five, so far as
he could judge through the intervening smoke, and despite the
artificial obstructions which the lady herself had placed in the
way of those who might be minded to inspect her too closely.
He saw at once that she was a person to be reckoned with.
The face was powerful, and the pair of keen black eyes which
were glancing penetratingly round the room, as if in search of
some one, were not easily to be forgotten. The figure was
without dignity; but the woman's expression gave it the lie.
Certainly she was more likely to have owned the Russian
Archduke than to have been owned by him.
Jaxon left Ellery standing by himself and went up to her.
She greeted him pleasantly. “Oh, Will, I was looking for
Horace. Do you know if he is here?”
Jaxon replied that he had not seen him and asked her to
join him and his friend while she was waiting. She agreed,
and Jaxon led her across and made the introduction.
From the moment when he was introduced to Kitty Fren-
sham Ellery had a feeling that he had found what he wanted.
She was very gracious; but, as Jaxon introduced her, she
smiled, and the coming of her smile was for all the world as
if she had suddenly pressed the switch and turned it on like
the electric light. Both the other Kittys had smiles which


182 The Brooklyn Murders
they turned on and off at will; but their smiles came into
being gradually, whereas this woman smiled, and stopped
smiling, with quite extraordinary suddenness. Ellery was so
sure that she was the right woman, and also, as he told Jaxon
afterwards, so sure of her common sense, that he plunged
straight into his story.
“There's something I want to ask you,” he said, “indeed,
I got Jaxon to introduce me on purpose. You know Walter
Brooklyn, don't you?”
Her face at once became serious. “Yes, I do. I have just
seen the terrible news in the evening paper. Do you think
he can have done it, Mr. Ellery? I suppose you know him
too.”
“Yes, I know him, and I am quite sure he had nothing
to do with it. I want you to help prove that I am right.
You saw him on Tuesday night, did you not?”
“I had quite forgotten it; but I did. I spoke to him for a
minute or two. I was coming out of the Alhambra with
Horace—Mr. Mandleham, that is—and Horace had left me
for a minute to look for a taxi. The Old 'un came up and
spoke to me, I remember.”
“The Old 'un? Is that a name for Walter Brooklyn?”
“Yes, we used to call him ‘The Old Rip'; but it got short-
ened to ‘the Old 'un.” He goes the pace rather, even now,
you know.”
“I dare say he does; and of course that is likely to make it
all the worse for him with the jury—if it's the usual sort.”
“But if he didn't do it, surely he's all right, isn't he?”
“The fact that you remember meeting him may be the


The Lovely Lady 183
means of saving his life. Can you tell me at what time that
was 3’”
“Oh, Lord, Mr. Ellery, I never know the time. It was
some time in the evening, fairly early. We left before the
show was over. Horace would probably know.”
“Did Mr. Mandleham see Mr. Brooklyn º'
“Yes, he did. When he came back he asked me who it was
I had been talking to.”
At this point a new voice struck into the conversation.
“Hallo, Kitty, you seem very deep in something. Haven't
you even a word for me?”
“Why, here is Horace,” said Kitty. “I’ve been waiting for
you for hours, Horace. It's really too bad. But now you
come over here, and make yourself really useful for a minute.
It's not a thing you do often.”
Horace Mandleham was fortunately quite precise about the
time. They had left the Alhambra a few minutes after half-
past ten, and he had come back with the taxi just about a
quarter to eleven. Walter Brooklyn had at that moment taken
his leave of Kitty Frensham. Yes, that was the man. He
recognised at once the photograph which Ellery passed across
to him. He was quite ready to swear to it, if it was of any
importance. He had seen the evening paper, and knew the
chap was in trouble.
A good deal to his surprise, Ellery found that he definitely
liked Kitty Frensham, and before he left he had even promised
to go and see her soon in her flat in Chelsea, which, as she
told him, was hardly more than round the corner from his own
rooms. She had promised, and had made Mandleham prom-


184 The Brooklyn Murders
ise as well, to give every help that could possibly be given in
clearing Walter Brooklyn, although she had made it plain
that she did not like him, and although her reluctance to find
herself in a court of law was evident enough. Still, she had
recognised that she ought to do what she could; and Ellery
half-believed that a part of her willingness was due to the
fact that he had impressed her favourably. He had come
prepared to spend money in securing the evidence of a “lovely
lady” of unlovely repute: he had secured the willing testimony
of an exceedingly clever and, even to his temperament, fas-
cinating woman. Kitty Frensham was certainly not the sort
of person to whom money could be offered for such a service.
It puzzled Ellery that such a woman should have, as he
put it to himself, “gone to the bad.” She was worthy of some-
thing better than that anaemic specimen, Mandleham.
It was by this time too late to do more; but, before going
home, Ellery 'phoned through to Joan, who was waiting up
for a message from him and told her briefly what he had ac-
complished. The quest, he said, had taken him to some
strange places; he would tell her all about it on the morrow.
Joan, too, had news of a sort; but she said that it would keep.
Both of them retired for the night well pleased with the
results of their first evening's experience of practical detec-
tive work. It had been easy going so far; but, Ellery said to
himself, fortune had a most encouraging way of smiling on the
beginner. Probably their troubles were still to come.


186 The Brooklyn Murders
But, when one came to think of it, was there not yet another
indication of the man's guilt? If the man had been innocent,
he would surely have gone first of all to the family lawyer.
Thomas knew Woodman only slightly, and was not quite
sure of his reception. But, when he rang up, Woodman
readily agreed to see him and to give all possible help. “After
all,” he had said, “the man's a sort of relation of mine, what-
ever he may have done”—a way of putting the position which
did not strengthen Thomas's belief in the innocence of his
client.
When Thomas was shown into Woodman's office, he was
surprised at the cordiality of his reception. Woodman was
“so glad” he had come, and they must work together to do what
they could for the poor fellow—“a bit of a bad hat, between
ourselves, but—for the sake of the family, you know.”
Thomas went straight to the point. “Mr. Brooklyn posi-
tively assures me that he was not in Liskeard House on Tues-
day night, and that he knows absolutely nothing of the
murders.”
Woodman said nothing; but he drummed on the table with
his fingers, and the action conveyed a perfectly clear message.
What were you to do for a fellow who would not tell his own
lawyer the truth?
“He says that he simply strolled about all the time between
ten o’clock and midnight.”
“Alone?” asked Woodman.
“Yes, quite alone. Judging from his story, it would be im-
possible to obtain confirmation—even if it were all true.”
“Then what line of defence do you propose to adopt?”
“It was on that point I wanted your advice. In the circum-


The Case for the Defence 187
stances, and assuming that they remain unchanged, what can
we do but deny the story and trust to a blustering counsel to
get him off?”
“H'm, surely more than that is needed?”
“Certainly; but what more can be done, unless there is some-
thing else that Mr. Brooklyn can tell us?”
“Look here, Thomas. You can be quite frank with me.
I'm quite sure Brooklyn was in the house and that he knows all
about the murders, even if he didn't actually commit them.
But, like you, I want to get him off.”
“Can't you help me to make him speak?”
“He doesn't like me, and nothing I could say would have
any influence. If he had been inclined to trust me, he would
have sent for me in the first instance. You'll have to make
him talk somehow. But I can tell you what will weigh most
heavily against him. He stands to gain a fortune by these
murders—not by either of them singly, but by both together.
It's hard to get over a fact like that as well as the other evi-
dence; the suggestion of motive is so clear—and, to put it
bluntly, his personal character doesn't help matters.”
“Do you happen to know whether Mr. Brooklyn was pressed
for money?”
“He was always pressed for money, and just lately he has
been even harder pressed than usual. He was round here on
Tuesday trying all he could to get money from me, and he left
me with the expressed intention of seeing Prinsep, and having
another attempt to raise the wind through him. I know Prin-
sep was determined to refuse, and he wasn't a man to refuse
gently, either.”
“What you say makes me feel more than ever like throwing


188 The Brooklyn Murders
up the case. I'm not bound to go on if he won't be frank with
xx
ine.
“Don’t throw it up. We must give the fellow every chance.
It's difficult for you, I know, but do the best you can. I expect
your idea of a good hectoring counsel is the best that can be
managed. After all, they have no direct evidence.”
“I'm afraid what they have is good enough.”
“Oh, you never know, with a jury.”
“What came into my head was that the best possible line of
defence, if it can be arranged, would be to throw suspicion on
some one else. Not enough to do the other person any real
damage, but just enough to create a reasonable doubt.”
Woodman made no reply for a moment. Then he said,
“That's all very well; but where do you propose to find the
person and the evidence?”
“First of all, it is surely very probable that George Brooklyn
was actually killed by Prinsep. There is good evidence for
that, you'll agree.”
“Good enough to make a case, and it may even be true,
though I don't think it is.”
“Well, I propose to argue strongly that it is true, and I think
we can create enough doubt to make it impossible to convict
Mr. Brooklyn on that head. That leaves the murder of
Prinsep.”
“Unfortunately, that is just where the evidence against Wal-
ter Brooklyn is strongest.”
“I know it is; and I want you to help me to find some one
else who could reasonably be suspected of killing Prinsep.
Never mind the evidence. I’ll find that if you'll help me to
the person. It won't need to be enough to do the suspected


The Case for the Defence 189
person any real damage. It isn't as if we wanted to get any
one convicted: I only want to throw dust in the jury's eyes.”
“I’m sorry; but I can't help you there,” said Woodman
shortly.
“What about the servants?”
“Out of the question. They're as innocent as you are.”
“What does it matter if they are innocent? Can they be
proved so?”
Carter Woodman brought his fist down on the table with a
bang. Then he said very deliberately, “I am anxious to use
all legitimate means of getting Mr. Walter Brooklyn acquitted;
but I must tell you once and for all, Thomas, that I decline
to be a party to attempt to throw the guilt on any innocent
persons.”
“My dear fellow, what is the use of talking about legitimate
means in a case like this? You know as well as I do that only
illegitimate means can give my client a dog's chance.”
“Then I'm sorry I can't help you.”
With that the interview ended. Thomas left Woodman’s
office more firmly than ever convinced of Walter Brooklyn's
guilt, but also determined to follow up his stratagem of shift-
ing the suspicion, or at least some part of it, elsewhere. The
more he thought of the plan, the more it appealed to him. It
wasn’t much of a dodge in itself; but it seemed to offer more
hope than anything else in this case. If the fellow did get
hanged after all, he would have only himself to blame.
Thomas would have done his best.
Following up this line of thought, Thomas made up his
mind that the first thing to do was to get full information
about the servants.


190 The Brooklyn Murders
Thus, Walter Brooklyn's legal adviser, though with a very
different idea in his mind, set to work upon an aspect of the
case which had already been considered and investigated by
the police. It will be remembered that Inspector Blaikie had
cross-examined the two men-servants, and that subsequently he
and Superintendent Wilson had agreed to have the two men
watched—not that they were much disposed to believe that
either of them had anything directly to do with the murders,
but because their complicity or knowledge, or even their guilt,
was just barely conceivable. Morgan's presence at the house
of his friends at Hammersmith on the Tuesday night, and his
return to Liskeard House at about a quarter to eleven, had been
duly verified; but his statement that he had gone straight to
bed, and remained there until the morning, rested wholly on
Winter's evidence. There was no reason to suspect this, unless
it should turn out that Winter was himself involved. The
police had, therefore, directed most of their attention to the
butler, who had certainly gone up to his room with Morgan at
a quarter to twelve. Had he stayed there, or had he come
down again and played some part in the night's doings? On
this point the police could find no evidence at all. Morgan
stated that Winter was in his room in the morning, that his
bed had been slept in, and that he rose at his usual hour. But
Morgan had slept heavily, and he could not positively say that
Winter had remained in his room all night. This fact, how-
ever, was clearly no evidence at all against Winter, and there
had been nothing in his demeanour to suggest that he was in
any way concerned. His past history, too, seemed to make him
a most unlikely criminal. Accordingly, now that the evidence
seemed to point conclusively to the guilt of Walter Brooklyn,


The Case for the Defence 191
the police, while they still kept some perfunctory watch on the
two servants, practically dismissed them from their minds.
Thomas, when he had ascertained the main facts about the
two men-servants, did not for a moment suspect that either of
them was guilty, or think it likely that either had any knowl-
edge of the crimes. His first step was to ask Walter
Brooklyn himself whether he supposed that either of the serv-
ants could throw any light on the matter. Supposing his client
to be at the least fully cognisant of the night's events, he
thought that the question could hardly fail to give him some
guidance. But Walter Brooklyn displayed little interest, and
by doing so confirmed the lawyer's opinion that the servants
had nothing at all to do with it. “Go and see them by all
means,” Brooklyn had said, “but I don't suppose they know
anything about it.” That was all he would say, and he still
stuck to the story he had first told Thomas, and maintained
that he himself was equally ignorant of what had taken place.
A marked coolness, which did not increase Thomas's zest for
the case, had sprung up between him and his client, and al-
though certain questions had to be asked and answered, it was
clear enough that Walter Brooklyn greatly preferred the soli-
tude of his cell to his lawyer's society.
It was on his own initiative, therefore, that Thomas went to
see both Winter and Morgan, and received from them a repeti-
tion of what they had told the police. From them he learnt
nothing new. But from one of the maid-servants he picked up
a fact which had escaped Inspector Blaikie's attention. A few
days before the murders the butler, Winter, had quarrelled
violently with John Prinsep, and, in the heat of the quarrel,
Prinsep had practically given the man notice to leave. The


192 The Brooklyn Murders
notice had not been quite definite, and the maid had heard Win-
ter confide to Morgan that he intended to hang on and see
what happened, and to get the matter cleared up with Prinsep
the one way or the other before the month expired. She did
not know what the quarrel had been about; and Thomas did
not think it politic to push his inquiries further, or to ask either
Morgan or Winter himself for an explanation. He, therefore,
cautioned the girl against telling any one at all that there had
been a quarrel. “It would only make further trouble,” he
said; “and we have trouble enough on our hands already.”
Thomas had thus found the first essential for building up a
case on suspicion against Winter—an actual quarrel and there-
fore a possible motive for murder. But he recognised that the
argument was very thin, and that he must, if possible, get some-
thing more definite. Inquiries, however, failed to give him
anything at all that could be used to defame either Winter's
or Morgan's character. They appeared to be persons of un-
blemished respectability, and Winter's long service in the
Brooklyn household seemed never to have been marred before
by such an incident as his quarrel with Prinsep. The position
did not look promising for Thomas's client; but he determined
to persist. -
His persistence was at length rewarded. He discovered
what had been the cause of the quarrel between Winter and
Prinsep. And it was Morgan who told him, quite unconscious
that he was providing a link in the chain which Thomas was
attempting to forge. Thomas had turned his attention to a
further study of the character and circumstances of the mur-
dered men, and had gone to Morgan for light on the ways of
his late master. It was easy to see that Morgan had disliked


194 The Brooklyn Murders
was guilty, and that nevertheless fortune had presented him
with an excellent chance of shifting the suspicion elsewhere.
Certainly he would say not a word of his discoveries to any
one until the time came to adopt an actual line of defence at
the coming trial.


196 The Brooklyn Murders
But it is one thing to be sure that you have the right man in
custody, and quite another to be sure of getting him convicted
by a jury. The inspector admitted that the case against Wal-
ter Brooklyn was not conclusive. His complicity was practi-
cally proved; but there was no direct evidence that he had
actually struck the blows. The evidence was circumstantial;
and, in these circumstances, the inspector did not disguise from
himself the fact that any attempt to shift the suspicion might
at least create enough doubt to make a conviction improbable.
Accordingly, while Joan and Ellery were doing their best to
prove Walter Brooklyn's innocence, Inspector Blaikie was
searching, with equal vigour, for further proofs of his guilt.
But he found nothing that was of material importance, so
far as he could see. The sole addition to his case was the evi-
dence of a taxi-driver, who, from his accustomed post on the
rank outside the Piccadilly Theatre, had seen Walter Brooklyn
pass at somewhere about half-past eleven or so; but the man
could not be sure to a few minutes. This was all very well
in its way, the inspector thought; but as Walter Brooklyn's
presence inside Liskeard House at about 11.30 was proved al-
ready, it could not be of much importance to prove his presence
just outside at about the same time. There was, however, this
to be said for the new piece of evidence. Walter Brooklyn
denied the telephone message, and maintained that he had not
been at Liskeard House at all. Direct evidence that he had
been at the time in question within a minute's walk of the
house was certainly better than nothing.
Nothing further had come to light when, on Saturday morn-
ing, Inspector Blaikie went to Superintendent Wilson with his
daily report on the case, telling him first about the taxi-man's


198 The Brooklyn Murders
“You’re right there; but I've come across nothing that
would suggest a quarrel. Morgan—that's the valet chap—
made no secret of disliking Prinsep very cordially; but Win-
ter seems to be just the good, faithful family servant.”
“I dare say there's nothing to be found out in that way: but
you might make a note of it, and get a few inquiries made.
We want to know exactly how strong the defence is likely to
be. And, by the way, I suppose you still have no doubts in
your own mind that Walter Brooklyn is the murderer?” The
superintendent opened his eyes, and looked at the inspector as
he spoke.
“None at all—at least, it seems to me practically certain.
Quite as certain as the case against most men who get hanged.
Do you mean that you are in doubt about it?”
The superintendent made no direct reply to this. “At
any rate,” he said, “the evidence is certainly not conclusive.
I suppose you have no idea whether the defence will try
to prove an alibi.”
“I don't see how they can. According to his own story,
Brooklyn was just strolling about alone all the evening. He
can't prove that, surely.”
“Oh, I don't know about that. If it were true, he might
have been seen by a dozen people. And, even if it weren't
true, Thomas might be able to produce witnesses who would
swear they had seen him. Thomas wouldn't stick at that.
Any alibi he tries to produce will need very careful scrutiny.”
“But we know Brooklyn was in the house at 11.30.”
The superintendent smiled, and leant back in his chair.
“No,” he said, “that is just where you go wrong. We don't
know it. It rests on the evidence about the telephone mes-


2OO The Brooklyn Murders
indeed he was. A criminal would hardly lay two distinct and
actually inconsistent sets of clues, leading to quite different
suspects.”
“Not unless he was a quite exceptionally clever criminal,
I grant you. But tell me this. Why should a man, who
otherwise covered his traces so well, give himself away like
an utter fool by that telephone conversation?”
“Obviously, I should say, because the 'phone message was
sent before the murder, and the murder was not premeditated.
Having killed his man, Brooklyn took the only possible course
by denying the conversation.”
“Yes, that theory hangs together; but I'm not satisfied with
it. There seems to me to be every reason to believe that the
murders were most carefully thought out beforehand, and in
that case the sending of the telephone message needs a lot of
explanation. Then, again, we have still no indication at all
of how Walter Brooklyn, or for that matter George Brook-
lyn, got into or out of the house.”
“On that point I have absolutely failed to get any light.
My first idea, of course, was duplicate keys, and the stable
yard. But the yard was quite definitely bolted as well as
locked by eleven o'clock. The wall could not be scaled with-
out a long ladder, which is out of the question. The front
door is quite impossible, unless three or four servants were
in the plot. I suppose they must have slipped in through the
theatre, although it beats me how they got in without being
seen.”
“May not Walter Brooklyn have come in through the stable
yard before it was closed, and been in the house some time


The Police Have Their Doubts 201
before the murders? He may have been going away when
your taxi-man saw him at about 11:30.”
“Even so, that doesn't explain how he let himself out and
bolted the place after him from the inside. And, in any case,
George Brooklyn was still alive at 11.30, when he was seen
leaving the building by the front door. He had to get back,
and Prinsep, if he killed him, must have been alive too until
well after 11.30.”
“And you can add to that the difficulty that George Brook-
lyn seems to have got back into the garden after 11.30, and
that, where one man could enter unseen, so could two.”
The inspector scratched his chin. “The whole thing is a
puzzle,” he said. “But there's one thing I’m sure of. It's a
much worse puzzle if you don't assume that Walter Brook-
lyn was the murderer.”
“Still, there's nothing so dangerous as to simplify your
problem by assuming what you cannot conclusively prove to
be true. If I were a juryman, I certainly could not vote for
a conviction on the evidence we have at present.”
“But's there's no one else who could have done it.”
“Oh, yes, there is. There's all the population of London. I
grant you we have at present no reason for suspecting any
one else in particular. But that may be because we don't
know enough.”
“Then what do you want me to do?”
“Hunt, for all you’re worth, for further evidence. Don't
shut your eyes to the possibility that Walter Brooklyn may
not be the murderer. Hunt for evidence of any kind, as if
you were starting the case afresh.”


2O2 The Brooklyn Murders
“And, meanwhile, Walter Brooklyn remains in custody?”
“Most certainly. There is presumptive evidence that he
is the guilty party. But it's nothing like a certainty. Re-
member that.”
The above conversation serves to show that the police, on
their side, were becoming seriously worried. They had hoped
that the strong presumptive evidence against Walter Brooklyn
would speedily have been reinforced by further discoveries;
but so far they had been disappointed. Inspector Blaikie at
least was still strongly of opinion that he was guilty; but a
strong opinion is not enough to convince a jury, and the inspec-
tor did not like to see the acquittal of a man he had arrested,
especially as he had no other evidence pointing to some dif-
ferent person as the guilty person. Superintendent Wilson at
least, while he could not blame the inspector for his conduct
of the investigation, was growing more and more dissatisfied
with the progress of the case. He had an uneasy and a grow-
ing feeling, which he had at first been unwilling to admit
even to himself, that they were on the wrong tack.


CHAPTER XX
SUPERINTENDENT WILSON THINKS IT OUT
HEN the inspector had left him, Superintendent Wilson
gave himself up for a time to his thoughts. Leaning
back in his chair, with his long legs stretched out before him,
and the tips of his fingers pressed together before his face,
he concentrated his faculties upon the Brooklyn affair. A
heavy frown settled on his brow, and he gave every now and
then an impatient twist of his body, eloquent of his mind's
discomfort. At length he sighed, looked at the clock, rose,
put on his hat, and started for home. He had made up his
mind, as he did when difficulties beset him, to talk the case
over with his wife.
Superintendent Wilson never mentioned business to his
wife when things were going well; but whenever his usually
clear brain seemed to be working amiss, it was his way to
unload on her all his trouble. Not that Mrs. Wilson had a
powerful intellect—far from it. She was a comfortable,
motherly woman, inclined to stoutness, and completely wrapped
up in her children and her home. For her husband she had a
profound admiration. He was, to her mind, not merely the
finest detective in Europe, but the cleverest man in the world.
But she was quite content to admire his cleverness without
understanding it; and her husband made no attempt, as a
rule, to discuss his cases with her.
203


2O4 The Brooklyn Murders
He had found, however, that on the rare occasions on
which his thinking got into a blind alley, her very passivity
was the best possible help he could have. As he talked to her,
and as she assented unquestioningly to everything that he
said, new ideas somehow arose in his mind. Doubts were dis-
pelled, new courses of action suggested, the weak spots in the
armour of crime became apparent. He would tell her that she
had been the source of his most brilliant inspirations; and
she would placidly accept the rôle, without bothering to in-
quire in what way she contributed to his flashes of insight into
the most abstruse mysteries that came under the notice of the
Criminal Investigation Department.
It was a sign of deep dissatisfaction with the progress of
the Brooklyn case that the superintendent now took his troubles
home to his wife. He found her, in the pleasant sitting-
room of their house facing Clapham Common, placidly knitting
woollies for the children in anticipation of the coming winter.
From the garden came the noise of the children themselves,
playing a game which involved repeated shouts of “Bang,
bang, bang!” as the rival armies engaged.
“My dear. I want to consult you,” he said, coming up and
kissing her.
Mrs. Wilson laid down her knitting on the table beside her,
and composed herself to listen.
“It’s about this Brooklyn case. I suppose you've read about
it in the papers. I'm working on it, you know.”
Mrs. Wilson, who confined her newspaper reading to a
glance at the pictures and headlines in the Daily Graphic,
had barely heard of the case, and knew none of the details.
Her husband therefore began by giving her a brief, but per-


Wilson Thinks ºf Out 2O7
“Do you mean ” Mrs. Wilson began; but her husband
was now in full flow, and he cut her short.
“What I mean is that the criminal deliberately laid the set
of clues which pointed to the two men having murdered each
other. We were bound to see through these, because the
conclusion to which they pointed was just physically impos-
sible. Then he laid the clues pointing to Walter Brooklyn,
really meaning this time to get Walter Brooklyn hanged for
the murders. My word, yes, this does throw a new light on
the case. My dear, you've done it again. There's lots to
find out yet; but I’m sure it will come out right now that I
know where to begin.”
“Then who was the murderer, dear? Have I told you some-
how? I’m sure I don’t know who it was.”
“Neither do I, my dear. But I think I do know now how to
begin looking for him. When I've found him I'll tell you who
he is. And half the credit of finding him will be yours.”
The superintendent was so moved that he went up and kissed
his wife as he kissed her only on occasions of rare exaltation.
Then he got back to business with a sigh.
“If both sets of clues are false, my dear, you see that
doesn’t make them valueless. They may still be used to point
to the real murderer. Yes, I begin to see light already. If
Walter Brooklyn did not send that telephone message, who
did? Not much help there, I'm afraid, except that it was a
very daring criminal indeed, and probably one who knew in-
timately both Walter Brooklyn and Liskeard House. Ringing
up Brooklyn's club shows that—he knew the man's habits.
There is something to go upon at all events. But there's


CHAPTER XXI
DoN QUIxote
HILE Fred Thomas was trying to make a shield for
Walter Brooklyn's guilt by throwing the suspicion
upon others whom he himself believed to be innocent, Joan and
Ellery were following up their attempt to prove her step-
father's alibi. Two points they had already established,
thanks to Ellery's mingled sagacity and good fortune. Walter
Brooklyn had definitely been in Leicester Square at a
quarter to eleven, and in Piccadilly Circus at about twenty
past eleven. So far his story was confirmed. Moreover, if
he had been seen in the Circus at 11.20, it was difficult to be-
lieve that he had rung up his club from Prinsep's room at
Liskeard House, after making his way unseen into the building,
less than ten minutes later. It was true that the evidence
was not absolutely conclusive, as neither time could be fixed,
quite certainly, to within a few minutes. But at least the
evidence against him was severely shaken, and there seemed to
be good reason for urging that the telephone message, round
which the case had practically been built up, was a fake. Find
out who sent it, the defence could argue, and you would find
the real criminal.
Still, even if the telephone message could be discredited—
and Ellery realised that this would take some doing—there
remained the walking-stick, and the undoubted fact that Wal-
209


2.1Q The Brooklyn Murders
ter Brooklyn had expressed the intention of seeing Prinsep
that evening. They could not feel that the evidence which
they had so far gathered made his acquittal even probable,
much less secure, especially as there was still no evidence that
seemed to point in any other direction. Joan and Ellery felt
that they must get further confirmation of the alibi. It was
a question of accounting, not for a few minutes here and there,
but for every minute of Walter Brooklyn's time. Clearly,
what now mattered most was where he had been between the
time when the old night-watchman saw him in Piccadilly Cir-
cus and his return to his Club at about midnight. George
Brooklyn had been seen alive as late as 11.30, and Prinsep only
a few minutes before. If Walter Brooklyn had murdered
either, it must have been done between 11.30 and midnight;
for it seemed clear enough that he had not left his Club again
during the night. Of this the night porter was positive. At
the same time, it was desirable, though less important, to con-
firm also his story of his movements during the earlier part of
the evening. After they had talked the situation over, Joan
and Ellery determined to pursue the hunt together, and once
more to follow Walter Brooklyn's route in search of further
confirmation.
For what it was worth, Joan had already been able to con-
firm her stepfather's first statement about his movements.
A door porter at the Piccadilly Theatre had seen him standing
for a minute or two outside the main entrance “a bit before
half-past ten,” and had noticed him walking off along Picca-
dilly towards the Circus. Thereafter, although Joan and
Ellery hunted high and low, they could get no further trace


Don Quixote 211
of him until his meeting with Kitty Frensham in Leicester
Square at a quarter to eleven. They found and interrogated
without success the policeman who had been on duty in Picca-
dilly Circus. They even inquired of the porter outside the
Monico and the Criterion and of a few street sellers who were
standing at the corners. There was no information to be ob-
tained; but they agreed that this did not greatly matter, if
only they could get evidence bearing on Walter Brooklyn's
movements after half-past eleven, or still better, from 10.45
onwards. They would begin at the other end, and try to trace
his movements between 11.30 and midnight. Accordingly,
they walked down together to Trafalgar Square. Here there
were two possible lines of investigation. Walter Brooklyn
had first leaned for some moments over the parapet opposite
the National Gallery: he had then walked down to the top
of Whitehall, and had there paused to set his watch by a
clock standing out over one of the shops. There was a slen-
der chance that some one might have noticed him on one or
other of these occasions.
“How shall we make a start here?” asked Ellery, rather
forlornly, as they stood at the corner of Cockspur Street, over-
looking Trafalgar Square. At the foot of the Nelson Column
stood the usual curious—and incurious—crowd listening to
some orator descanting on the rights—or wrongs—of labour.
“Follow the old precept, of course,” said Joan promptly.
“Ask a policeman. There seem to be plenty about.”
Ellery went up to the nearest and began to explain his busi-
ness. He was speedily referred to the sergeant, who was
standing at the edge of the crowd, eyeing the little knot of


212 The Brooklyn Murders
speakers on the plinth, as if he was meditating a possible
arrest. “He’ll know who was on duty on Tuesday night. I
wasn’t,” said the constable.
The sergeant was communicative. First, he bade them wait
a few minutes while he listened to what the speaker, then on
her feet—for it was a woman—was saying. What she said
appeared to give him satisfaction; for he smiled happily, as
he entered a note in his book. Then the speech became more
commonplace. and the sergeant, bidding a constable take notes
while he was busy, signified his willingness to attend to Joan
and Ellery. But, before they could tell him of their concerns,
they had to listen awhile to his, which related mainly to the
iniquity of allowing seditious meetings to be held openly in
Trafalgar Square. “They tell us to take it all down, they
do—every word; and then they do nothing. They shove it
away in some pigeon-hole or other.”
“They” were presumably the powers that ruled, at the
Home Office, over the doings of the Metropolitan Police.
“What I say is, What's the police for, if it isn't to stop
this kind of thing?” He jerked his thumb in the direction of
the plinth.
“But you make an arrest sometimes, don't you?” Joan
asked.
“Once in a blue moon, maybe. But even then, more often
than not the Home Secretary lets 'em go. Disgusting, I
call it, and demoralising for the country. If I had my
way . . .”
He had his way for a few minutes, as far as words went, and
then, as the reward of patient listening, he let Ellery have his
say. But he was not helpful.


Don Quixote 213
“Yes, I know who was on duty here that night. There was
Bill Adams and Tom Short down by Whitehall, and there
was George Mulligan patrolling up there by the Gallery.
But it's a hundred to one against any of them having noticed
your man. Adams is on duty here, and the other two will
be along at the station. You can have a word with Adams
now, and I’ll take you along to the station myself in a few
minutes. They're just finishing up there.” He jerked a
thumb in the direction of the plinth.
Adams, a tall, fat policeman, who kept patting himself on
the stomach while he talked, had seen nothing of Walter
Brooklyn, whose photograph Ellery showed him. “Lord bless
you, if I was to notice everybody I should have a job on,” was
his comment, clearly showing his view of the hopelessness of
their search. Discouraged, they left him, and went to the
station with the sergeant.
Here, the same fate befell them. Neither of the two con-
stables had noticed Walter Brooklyn; and both of them seemed
to think the quest quite hopeless. Ellery did not give the
name of the man he was looking for, lest the police, intent
on building up their own case, might refuse him information.
Only an unrecognisable snapshot had appeared in the Press.
“Well, sir,” said the sergeant. “I’ve done my best for you,
and I’m sorry it's no use. But it's what I told you to expect.”
Ellery distributed suitable rewards in the appropriately furtive
manner, and prepared to take his leave. But Joan stopped
him.
“I have an idea,” she said. “It may come to nothing; but
it's worth trying.” Then she turned to Mulligan, a short,
humorous, and very obviously Irish constable.
33


214 The Brooklyn Murders
“Tell me, is there any tramp, or person of that sort, who
is often to be found at night in Trafalgar Square? I mean
some one you're always having to move on.”
“Lord, miss, there's a dozen or so. Move 'em on night
after night; but they come back just the same.”
“Well, I want you to find me a man like that—one who's
always hanging about the Square, and is likely to know others
who do the same. Can you find me a man of that sort?”
“Certainly, miss, I can. I see what you're after, and I
should say the chap we call ‘the Spaniard' is about what you
want. He's a bloke who goes about in a long cloak and a
broad-brimmed felt hat—often not much else, I should say,
barring the remains of a pair of trousers—he's pretty nearly
always about in the Square, and he's always talking to any
one he can find to listen.”
Ellery broke in. “Can you find him for us now?”
The constable looked at the sergeant. “If the sergeant here
will let me leave the station for half an hour, I expect I
can,” he said.
The sergeant was duly placated, and the two set off with
Constable Mulligan. He led them, not into the Square, but
into the little alley behind St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields. There
he pointed to the bar of a rather disreputable-looking public-
house. “You go in there,” he said to Ellery, “and ask if
‘the Spaniard' is there. They'd know him. If I were to go
in, they'd shut up like a knife when you aren't looking.”
Ellery went in and ordered a drink. A glance round the
bar showed him that “the Spaniard” was not in the bar at
the moment. He turned to the woman behind the bar counter


Don Quixote 215
and asked her if she knew where to find “the Spaniard.” The
woman looked at him with an air of surprise; but she made
no reply. Then she turned to a curtained door behind her,
and spoke through it. “Alf,” she said, “come here a minute.”
Alf speedily appeared in his shirt-sleeves—a portly, middle-
aged man, rather stolid to look at, but with a pair of cun-
ning little eyes that looked at you, not steadily, but with a
succession of keen, quick glances. Ellery heard the woman
whisper to him, “This gent here's asking for ‘the Spaniard.’”
“And what might you be wanting with ‘the Spaniard,’ mis-
ter?” asked Alf, leaning across the bar, and speaking confi-
dentially almost into Ellery's ear.
“Certainly nothing to his disadvantage. But I want to
know something, and I think he may be able to tell me.”
The publican looked at him a trifle suspiciously. “Is the
gentleman known to you, maybe?” he asked.
“No; or I could probably find him for myself. I thought
you might know him.”
“Well, he ain't here,” said Alf, apparently making up his
mind to Ellery's disadvantage. Ellery began to expostulate;
but at that moment, through the same curtained door through
which mine host had come, walked a quite unmistakable figure
—a very tall, thin man, with perfectly white hair and beard,
the latter cut to a fine point. The new-comer wore a long
and very threadbare black cloak, now green with age, and he
seemed just about to place upon his head a very wide-brimmed
black—or rather greenish—felt hat, which Ellery thought of
instinctively as a “sombrero.” In a fine, high-pitched voice,
perfectly cultivated but a good deal affected, and with a cu-


216 The Brooklyn Murders
rious intonation that seemed like the affectation of a foreign
accent, he addressed the woman behind the bar. “Did I
hear my name spoken among you?” he asked.
The woman turned to Alf, who shrugged his shoulders.
“Here he is,” he said to Ellery. “I suppose you'd better
ask him what you want.”
Ellery put on his best manners. “Sir,” said he to the man
called “the Spaniard,” “may I have the honour of a few words
with you on a matter which concerns me very deeply, and you,
I must admit, scarcely at all?”
“The Spaniard” bowed low. “The honour, sir,” he replied,
“is with me. For, as the poet says, “Honoured is he to whom
man speaks the things of his heart.’”
“We will call the honours easy, if you please. But I shall
be very much obliged for a few words with you.”
“If it please you, then, let us take the air together. I can
speak and listen better under the sky.”
“With pleasure; but just a word before we go. My friend,
Miss Cowper, and the gentleman who brought me to you are
waiting outside. You will not mind if they accompany us?”
Ellery had some misgiving that, suddenly confronted with
a policeman, the old “Spaniard” might reach the conclusion
that he had been led into a trap, and refuse to speak.
“And to whom do I owe the honour of this introduction?”
“Well, to be frank, he is a policeman; but he is acting
quite in a non-professional capacity.”
The old man hesitated a moment. Then he said only,
“Let us go.”
Outside, Ellery's fears were speedily removed. He saw
Joan and the policeman waiting a few doors off. “The


Don Quixote 217
Spaniard” saw them too, and, at sight of Mulligan, his face
lighted up with pleasure. He greeted Joan with a low bow,
and then turned to Mulligan with another.
“Ah, my friend, it is you. As the poet says, “Even among
the thorns the rose is sweet.’ You are not, I thank God, as
others of your cloth.” Then he turned to Ellery. “Mr.
Mulligan and I are old friends,” he said: “but it is not al-
ways so between me and the guardians of law and order, as
you quaintly term them.”
“Yes,” said Mulligan, smiling, “‘The Spaniard' and I
have had many a good talk together. But you didn't know,
did you, father, that I’d tracked you here. I wouldn't go in
because I thought there might be others who wouldn't be so
pleased to see me.”
“As always, the soul of consideration. The mark, gentle-
men, of true chivalry. I will requite you as best I can by any
service that I can do to your friends.” And again he lifted
his hat, and made a sweeping bow.
When Joan and Ellery talked the thing over afterwards
they remembered that their eyes had met at this moment, and
they had much ado not to laugh outright. They discovered
that the same thought had come into their heads. This was
not merely “The Spaniard”: it was Don Quixote himself
come to life again. But where was Rosinante?
Constable Mulligan excused himself. “I mustn't be away
from the station any longer. Now you've been introduced you
can get along without me. You know where to find me if
you want me again.” And, thanked and rewarded by Ellery,
the constable returned to his duty, after putting a hand affec-
tionately on the old man's shoulder by way of farewell.


218 The Brooklyn Murders
Joan and Ellery between them told “the Spaniard” the full
story of their quest, first as they walked towards Trafalgar
Square, and then leaning over the very parapet over which
Walter Brooklyn had leaned. “The Spaniard” heard them
through, only inclining his head every now and then to show
that he fully appreciated some particular point in the narra-
tive. Finally, Ellery produced the photograph of Walter
Brooklyn, and asked the old man whether he had seen the
original on Tuesday night.
“A fine figure of a gentleman,” said “the Spaniard,” “and,
indeed, I know him well by sight, though hitherto I have been
denied the honour of knowing his name. Often have I seen
him in Pall Mall.”
“Yes, but did you see him on Tuesday?” Joan could not
help interrupting.
“The Spaniard's" way of continuing was in itself a mild
and courteous reproof. “Often, my friends, have I seen him,
little deeming that one day my memory of him might be of
service to others.” And then he added, “Yes, I saw him here
on Tuesday—here, on this very spot to which I have led you.
Here he stopped and lighted a cigar. I noted that he lighted
it from the stump of another.”
“That was because he had no matches,” said Joan excitedly.
“That bears out what he said.”
“Madam, if it would not incommode you, might I crave
your permission to smoke even now?” Joan readily gave it,
and the old man deftly rolled a cigarette with strong black
tobacco from a battered metal case.
“Can you tell us at what time you saw him?” said Ellery.


Don Quixote 219
“Ah, time. Why should I mark the hours? What need
have I to know? It was evening.”
“But what you tell us is of no use unless you can say what
time it was.”
“Alas, if I had but known, my watch should never have
gone—the way of all watches.” A faint flicker of a smile, and
an extraordinarily expressive gesture, accompanied the phrase.
It was as if all watches had a mysterious knack of vanishing
into infinite space. “But, nevertheless, another's memory may
serve where mine fails. For I was not alone.”
“Who was with you? Can we find him?”
“I will find him for you; but not till evening. And
meantime, I will seek for those who may have seen Mr.
Brooklyn in Whitehall. If any can find such a man, I can
find him. There is a fraternity among us who wander under
the sky. We remark what passes around us; for we have no
affairs of our own to disturb our minds.” He turned to El-
lery. “It would be well that you should leave the photograph
with me until evening. Then we will meet again.”
An appointment was made for Trafalgar Square at eleven
o'clock that same night. The old man would not meet them
sooner, or elsewhere. Joan could not leave Sir Vernon at
that hour; but Ellery would come. In parting, she thanked
“the Spaniard” for all that he had done.
“What can a man do better than come to the aid of ladies in
distress? Truly, as the poet says, “He enlargeth his heart
who doeth his neighbour a kindness.’ The word I have ren-
dered ‘neighbour' is feminine in the Spanish,” he added, half to
himself.


22O The Brooklyn Murders
“What a queer old bird!” said Ellery, as they walked
away. “It was difficult to keep it up while we were talking to
him; but it was well worth while.”
“I think he's a dear,” said Joan. “A bit queer, of course;
but see how he's helping us. We could never have done any-
thing without him.” z
“He’s quite off his chump, that's clear. But he seems to
be quite all there when it's a question of getting something
done. We're meeting some queer people on this job.”
“Who do you suppose he is?” asked Joan.
“Nothing on earth, if you mean how does he get his living.
I should say he was just what they call a character, picking
up somehow barely enough to exist on, and drifting about
with nothing in particular to do. He probably drinks, or has
been in trouble somehow.” -
“I don't care what trouble he's been in. He fascinates
me. And he's obviously an educated man.”
“Yes, I dare say he was quite the gentleman—in the ortho-
dox sense—years ago. Now he is one of the bottom dogs,
keeping up his self-respect by playing the hidalgo.”
“Don’t you suppose he's really a Spaniard?”
“No more than you or I. He's probably been in Spain.
That's all. But, whoever he is, he seems likely to get us just
the information we want, and that's what we really care about.
Only I feel inclined to introduce him to my night watchman
at Piccadilly. They would make a pretty pair. They are
both hero-worshippers.”


CHAPTER XXII
“THE SPANIARD” Does HIs BIT
LLERY met “the Spaniard” in accordance with his ap-
pointment in Trafalgar Square that evening. As he
approached, he saw the Šid man pacing up and down the
pavement in front of the National Gallery, walking slowly
with a dignity and grace worthy of some grandee of the olden
times. He was curiously like the Lavery portrait of Cunning-
hame Graham. “The Spaniard” made Ellery a low bow, ac-
companied by a sweeping gesture with his broad-brimmed hat;
and Ellery, doing his best to live up to the occasion, returned
the salutation with a very inferior grace.
“You have news for me?” he asked.
“If you will do me the honour of accompanying me in my
promenade, I think I may be able to impart certain facts
of interest to your fair lady.”
“The Spaniard,” as Ellery told Joan afterwards, took the
devil of a time to come down to brass tacks. But what he had
to tell was quite conclusive. He had found, and could pro-
duce, conclusive evidence that Walter Brooklyn had been in
Trafalgar Square at the time he had stated. He had dis-
covered two men who had seen him leaning over the parapet
opposite the National Gallery, and one of them had definitely
noticed the time by the clock of St. Martin's Church. This
had been at 11.40. Moreover, the second man, perhaps, “the
22I


224 The Brooklyn Murders
“What news?” she asked anxiously, coming forward to
greet him as he was announced.
“The best,” he replied. “The alibi is proved.”
“Oh, I am so glad. And now I can tell you a secret. I
wasn't absolutely sure my stepfather had told us the truth.
At least, I was sure; but I couldn't help having a doubt every
now and then. And I simply couldn't bear the thought that
he might have been implicated. I knew, of course, that he
hadn't killed any one; but I wasn't quite sure he didn't know
all about it. And everybody else seemed to believe the worst,
and at times I couldn't help being a little shaken. Now you
must tell me all about what you've found out.”
Ellery did tell her all about it, and also of the steps he
had taken to arrange a meeting at Thomas's office for the
following morning. Joan said at once that she would go; and
Ellery thereupon rang up Thomas, to whom he had so far said
nothing, at his home, and demanded an interview. Joan and
he must, he said, see Thomas on urgent business. They would
be bringing several witnesses who could throw valuable light
on the case, and they would be at his office at 10.30 on the
following morning. Would Thomas be sure to keep the time
free?
Thomas was plainly surprised, and also curious; and he
tried to make Ellery tell him over the 'phone what it was all
about. This Ellery would not do, merely saying that the
matter was of vital importance, but he would rather explain
it all in the morning. Thomas thereupon agreed to cancel a
previous engagement, and to be ready for them at the hour
arranged. “Now, at last,” said Ellery, as he hung up the


“The Spaniard” Does his Bit 225
receiver, “I think we are entitled to a good night's rest.”
“I’m afraid there won't be much sleep for me, darling,” said
Joan. “Sir Vernon was told to-day about poor George. He
kept asking for him, and in the end Marian had to tell him
all about it. Of course it has made him worse. Now, he
keeps asking to see the police, and insisting that they must
find the murderers. But he knows nothing at all about it—
he has no idea who did it. Some one must be with him all
the time, of course. Mary is with him now, and I have to
take her place at midnight. She is tired out, poor thing.”
“And what about you, poor thing?” said Ellery; for he could
see that she was almost at the end of her strength. He drew
her head down on to his shoulder, and tried to persuade her
to give up the idea of coming to Thomas's office in the morning.
But Joan was firm: she must see the thing through. She
would be all right: she could get plenty of sleep later in the
day. Ellery had to consent to her coming, and the lovers
sat together till midnight, when they bade each other fare-
well, as lovers do, for all the world as if their parting were,
not for a few hours, but for an eternity.
It was getting on for one o'clock when Ellery reached
home; and he was surprised as he went up the steps, to see
a light in his sitting-room. He let himself in with his key,
and found his landlady sitting bolt upright on the hall chair.
“Lord, Mr. Ellery,” she said, “how late you are. There's a
person in your room been waiting for you more than an hour.
I wouldn't go to bed with him there—not for worlds, I
wouldn't. He said he must see you, and would wait.”
“What sort of a man?”


226 The Brooklyn Murders
“Oh, not a nice man. He looks to me more like a tramp,
sir, than anything else. I was afraid he might steal something
if I left him.”
Ellery opened the door and went in. He at once recognised
the man who had followed Walter Brooklyn on Tuesday
from Trafalgar Square to Jermyn Street—one of the witnesses
whom “the Spaniard” had found. The visitor lost no time.
“Look 'ere, mister,” he said, “it’s off.”
“What's off? What do you mean?”
“What I mean is you don't catch me givin' hevidence in
this 'ere case. You treated me like a gent, and I thought
I'd let you know. But to-morrow I shan’t be there. You
gotter understand that.”
“Do you mean you won't help to clear Mr. Brooklyn?
Why, what's the matter?”
“Well, mister, I may not be what I oughter be—leastways,
some folks says I ain’t. But I got views o' my own as to
what's right, same as others. And I’ve found out a thing or
two about this Mr. Brooklyn of yours. He can swing, s'far
as I’m concerned.” -
“My good fellow, the man's innocent of this crime, whatever
you may know about him. You must say what you know.”
“Not so much ‘good fellow,’ and there's no ‘must' about it,
mister. That chap deserves hangin' for things he's done, and
I don't care if they hangs 'im on the right charge or the
wrong 'un. I know a girl what . . .” -
“I don’t mind telling you that I don’t like Mr. Brooklyn
any better than you do. But I want to see him cleared. He
didn't commit these murders, I know that.”
.
*


“The Spaniard” Does his Bit 227
“Come, come, mister, why not let 'im hang? What's it
matter to you, anyway? He'd be a good riddance, from what
I 'ear of 'im.”
“But you can't see a man condemned when you know he's
innocent.”
“Why not, mister? I says, Why not? It's not as if you
had any personal interest in the fellow, so to speak.”
“But I have. He's the stepfather of the girl I'm engaged
to marry. She would never get over it if he were convicted.”
The pickpocket's manner changed from sullenness to in-
terest. “Eh, what's that you say?” he said. “Nah, if you'd
told me that at onct, I’m not one to stand between a man and
his girl.”
“You’ll come, won't you?”
The man hesitated. “I don't say as I won’t,” he said.
“But, if I do come, ’twon’t be for any love of your Mr. Brook-
lyn. I’d see 'im hanged, and glad too, along of what I
know.”
“I don't care why you come, as long as you do come.”
“Well, mister, I’ll come. If yer want to know why, it's
because I’ve took a bit of a fancy to yer. But I’ll 'ave a bit
of me own back on that Brooklyn gent, if he gets off bein’
'ung. I didn't lift is watch off 'im that night; but I will when
'e gets out.”
“Oh, you're welcome there. Pick his pockets as much as
you like.”
“In course yer won’t let on ter the police what I’ve been
sayin'. I’ve bin treatin' yer as if yer was a pal, yer know.”
Ellery promised that his visitor's calling should be kept a


228 The Brooklyn Murders
dead secret. Then he gave him a drink and showed him out,
after obtaining a renewal of the promise that he would attend
in the morning. The man slouched out into the night.
Love did not keep Ellery awake. He was tired, and he
slept soundly, only waking in time to snatch a hasty breakfast,
and to call for Joan early enough to take her straight round
with him to their appointment at Thomas's office.


CHAPTER XXIII
WALTER BROOKLYN GOES FREE
HE business transacted at Thomas's office that morning
was protracted; but the result of it was never in doubt.
Thomas had before long to admit that he had been suspecting
an innocent man, and that man his own client. At first he
was inclined to be incredulous; but, when witness after wit-
ness was produced, he had to admit absolutely that Joan and
Ellery had proved their case. The testimony of one, or even
two, witnesses might have been doubted; but the cumulative
effect of the evidence, given by the old night-watchman, Kitty
Frensham, and Horace Mandleham, and the men whom “the
Spaniard” had found, was irresistible. It was true that the
evidence of the stick and the telephone message which Walter
Brooklyn was supposed to have sent were unaffected by the
case which Joan and Ellery had prepared; but Thomas, though
he knew nothing of Superintendent Wilson's new view of the
case, agreed that any charge based on these would certainly
collapse in face of a conclusive alibi. Thomas confidently
stated that it was only a matter of a short time before Walter
Brooklyn would be released “without a stain on his
character.”
There were stains enough on it already, Joan said to her-
self, even if this last disgrace were removed. Walter Brook-
lyn was not guilty of murder, and had been, in this case, un-
229


230 The Brooklyn Murders
justly accused. But no amount of sympathy with him in his
present misfortune could wipe out the recollection of what
she had suffered while she had still felt it her duty to live
with him. She had done her best to absolve him of the
charge of murder, because she was fully assured of his in-
nocence; but, that once accomplished, she desired to have no
more to do with him. When, therefore, Thomas suggested
that she should go at once to the prison and tell her step-
father the good news, while he and Ellery saw the police
and endeavoured to make arrangements for his release,
Joan refused and said that she would prefer Thomas to see
his client himself. To the rest of the suggested programme
she agreed, and Thomas at once got through on the 'phone to
Superintendent Wilson, and arranged an immediate appoint-
ment. Joan and Ellery agreed with him that the best course
was to tell the police the whole story at once, and, instead
of waiting for the trial, to endeavour to secure Walter Brook-
lyn's release as soon as the necessary formalities could be
carried through.
Taking their witnesses with them, therefore, Joan, Ellery,
and Thomas set out for Scotland Yard. There they left the
witnesses in a waiting-room, and were at once shown in to the
superintendent. Inspector Blaikie, who had been sent for
when Thomas's message was received, was also present, and
the two police officers now heard from Joan and Ellery what
they had done. The superintendent listened very quietly to
their story, in one of his favourite attitudes, with his eyes
closed most of the time, his legs thrust out before him, and
his hands buried deep in his trousers pockets. The inspector
once or twice tried to interrupt, and was at first obviously


Walter Brooklyn Goes Free 231
incredulous. But, before they had done, the strength of their
case was evident, even to him, and the testimony of the wit-
nesses, who were then called in and examined one by one, was
quite conclusive in its cumulative effect. Walter Brooklyn
had been seen by no less than seven persons, and it was quite
inconceivable, in view of the times and places at which they
had seen him, that he could have made his way into and out
of Liskeard House and committed even a single murder, in
the time available. The superintendent jotted down a list
of the independent testimonies which went to the making of
the alibi.
10.15 or so. Shown out of Liskeard House by Winter.
10.20 or so. Seen by porter at Piccadilly Theatre walking
up Piccadilly towards the Circus.
10.45. Seen in Leicester Square by Kitty Frensham and
Horace Mandleham.
11.20 or so. Seen in Piccadilly Circus by night-watchman.
11.30 or so. Seen by taxi-driver near Liskeard Street in
Piccadilly (exact time uncertain).
11.35 (about). Seen, at time not precisely fixed, but it must
have been at this time, by “the Spaniard,” leaning on the
parapet and then walking along the top of Trafalgar
Square.
11.45. Seen by witness of unknown occupation at the top
of Whitehall and followed by him up Cockspur Street
and Regent Street, as far as the corner of Jermyn Street.
12 midnight. Seen by night-porter entering the Byron Club
(the porter is positive he did not go out again).
When the last witness had withdrawn the superintendent
looked at his notes.


Walter Brooklyn Goes Free 233
prosecution is withdrawn, and get the man released as soon as
possible. To my mind the alibi is quite convincing. But,
even apart from it, I was going to tell you this morning that I
proposed to recommend Walter Brooklyn's release. I will ex-
plain my reasons when the others have gone. You leave it to
me.”
The inspector said nothing, but followed his superior officer
back into the other room.
“Well, Mr. Thomas,” said the superintendent, “I shall cer-
tainly offer no opposition to your client's release. Will you
take the necessary steps on your side?”
Thomas said that he would, and the superintendent added
that, in that case, there should be neither difficulty nor delay.
Only formal evidence of arrest had been offered before the
magistrate, and they might now consider the charge as defi-
nitely dropped.
Joan began to thank him; but he stopped her.
“It is not a matter for thanks,” he said. “We appear to
have arrested the wrong man, and the need for apologies, if it
exists, is on our side. You will, however, agree that appear-
ances were strongly against Mr. Brooklyn, and that we could
hardly have taken any other course. Indeed, it seems clear
that whoever did commit the murder, or murders, must have
deliberately planned to throw suspicion on your stepfather.
That, I think, furnishes an important clue.”
“But I suppose you have now no idea at all who the mur-
derer was $’”
“It is hardly fair to ask me that question, Miss Cowper,”
said the superintendent, smiling. “You come here, and knock
the police theory into smithereens, and then you ask us if we


234 The Brooklyn Murders
have another theory ready-made. No. We have not a theory,
but we do possess certain very important clues.”
At this point Thomas had a word to say. “It is just pos-
sible that I may be able to help you there. In preparing for
the defence of my client, I had, of course, to consider who the
criminal, or criminals, might be, and to make certain inquiries.
I lighted on certain information which you may find useful. I
am not likely to need it now; but I will gladly make you a
present of it for what it is worth.”
“What is your information?”
“I believe you have been watching certain of the servants at
Liskeard House—Morgan, I mean, and the butler, Winter.”
The superintendent glanced at Inspector Blaikie, who
nodded.
“You may, or may not, have discovered that the man Winter
had a very strong personal cause of quarrel with Mr. Prinsep;
quite enough, I think, to be the motive of a serious crime.”
The superintendent again looked towards Inspector Blaikie,
who very slightly shook his head. Then he said to Thomas,
“I think you had better tell us all you know.”
“Well, to begin with, the butler had a violent quarrel with
Mr. Prinsep a few days before the murder, and was practically
given notice to leave. That can be proved by the evidence of
the maidservants and of Morgan.”
“This is the first I’ve heard of it,” said Joan, “and what’s
more, I don't believe it. Winter is a very old and trusted fam-
ily servant. I am sure Mr. Prinsep would not have given him
notice.”
“The maids say that the notice was not quite definite, and


Walter Brooklyn Goes Free 235
that Winter was not sure whether he would have to go or not.
He spoke to Morgan about it. But the evidence as to the
quarrel is quite decisive.”
“I think it's horrible,” said Joan. “I’m every bit as sure
that Winter had nothing to do with it as I am about my step-
father. And what if they did have a quarrel? John—Mr.
Prinsep, I mean—was always hot-tempered.”
“I have not yet told the inspector what the quarrel was
about. It was about the girl Winter was engaged to-a girl
down at Fittleworth—the head gardener's daughter, I believe.
I understand that Mr. Prinsep had some relations with her,
and Winter objected.”
At this Joan suddenly went red all over; but she said noth-
ing. The superintendent, who was watching her, said very
quietly, “Do you know this girl, Miss Cowper, and can you
throw any light on the incident? I am sorry to ask; but—”
he paused for her answer.
“Of course I know the girl well; but I would rather not
speak of it. I had no idea that she was to be married to
Winter.”
“Very well, Miss Cowper. I see that you do know, and that
there is some truth in the story. Can you say that there is
not?”
“I prefer not to say anything.”
“That will do. I see your point, Mr. Thomas. This cer-
tainly provides what we have been seeking—a possible motive
for Mr. Prinsep's murder. But, of course, it is merely a pos-
sible indication. There is no evidence against Winter, as far
as I am aware.”


236 The Brooklyn Murders
“That, Mr. Superintendent, is entirely your business. I
merely gave you what information I had gathered. Tracking
down the criminal is fortunately no concern of mine.”
“Quite so. And that is the whole of your information?”
“Yes. Apart from that I know no more than you know
already.”
“Then I can only thank you for the help you have given,
and assure you that everything possible shall be done to expe-
dite your client's release. And, by the way, you had better say
nothing to any one else of what you have just told me.” And
thereupon, with the skill born of long practice, the superintend-
ent bowed his visitors out of the room. To Inspector Blaikie
he spoke a word, asking him to remain for a few minutes'
discussion.
Joan's indignation burst forth as soon as she was outside
the building. She was particularly angry with Thomas.
“I call it abominable. We have just succeeded in clearing
one innocent man, whom an hour or two ago you believed to be
guilty: and now you are wantonly throwing suspicion on some
one else. What business is it of yours? I know Winter had
nothing to do with it.”
“That is all very well, Miss Cowper; but it was my duty to
tell the police, and, moreover, by doing so, I probably speeded
up Mr. Brooklyn's release by at least twenty-four hours.
It is always wise to have the police on your side—when you
can.”
“If it was your duty, why didn't you tell the police when you
first found it out?”
“I will be quite frank with you, Miss Cowper. I did not,
because, until your very smart work in proving Mr. Brooklyn's


Walter Brooklyn Goes Free 237
alibi, my best chance of getting him off was to be able to throw
unexpected suspicion on some one else at the trial.”
“I call it beastly—even to think of using methods like that.”
Thomas was very suave. “But I suppose, Miss Cowper, you
would not have liked to see your stepfather condemned. I had
to do the best I could.”
“I don't care. It can't be right to throw suspicion on an in-
nocent man like that. Do you—yourself—believe Winter did
it? Why didn't you do what he did—clear my stepfather by
proving the truth of what he said?”
“Perhaps, Miss Cowper, it was because I am not so clever as
you are. I have already congratulated you on the way you
have managed this affair.”
“I don't want your congratulations. Do you believe Winter
did it?”
“As to that, Miss Cowper, I do not pretend to know. It is
for the police, and not for me, to find out.”
Joan, on hearing this, simply turned her back on him, and
walked away. Thomas very politely raised his hat to her back,
told Ellery that he must be off, and hailed a passing taxi.
Ellery hurried after Joan.
For a minute after he came up with her, she strode on fast,
saying nothing. Then, “Don’t you think it's beastly?” she
said.
“I agree with you that Thomas is a cad, and I don't believe
old Winter had anything to do with it. And I don't think
there was any need for him to tell the police. But he probably
did it, as he said, in order to get the police on our side.” *
“And now they'll all be off full cry after Winter. I sup-
pose they will want to arrest him next.”


238 The Brooklyn Murders
Ellery shook his head. “Hardly, without more evidence
than they possess. But they will probably have him watched.”
There was a further silence, during which Joan continued to
walk fast, staring straight in front of her. At last she said,
“I’ve been thinking, and I’m sure I see what we ought to do.
So far we have only been trying to prove that my stepfather
did not do it. We've succeeded. But at this rate we shall all
of us be suspected in turn. There's only one thing for it.
There will be no peace and quietness till some one finds the
criminal. I don't believe the police will ever find him. Why
shouldn't you and I find him ourselves? We haven't done
badly so far.”
Ellery whistled. “That's a much taller order than proving
your stepfather's alibi,” he said. “But I’m game. There cer-
tainly won't be much peace for any of us till somebody finds
out who did do it. But I'm dashed if I know how to begin.”
“Neither do I, at present. We have to think it all out, and
make a fresh start. Come home with me, and we'll start plan-
ning it at once.”
“They say two heads are better than one, and I’m prepared
to be your very faithful follower. But you'll have to be Sher-
lock Holmes, I'm afraid.”
“Come along then, Watson. But try not to be as stupid as
your namesake.”


CHAPTER XXIV
A FRESH START
66 ELL, where do we stand now?” said Superintendent
Wilson, as he turned back into the room after show-
ing his visitors out.
“Nowhere at all, sir, I should say,” was the inspector's dis-
contented reply. “You have let the bird in the hand go, and
all the other birds are safer than ever in the bush. Are you so
sure there's no doubt about that alibié’”
“Still harping on that, are you, inspector? Come, put the
idea of Walter Brooklyn's guilt out of your head. It's not
often I take much stock in alibis; but this one is absolutely
convincing.”
“I’m not so sure, sir, all the same. At least, I'd have kept
hold of the man we had got till we could lay some one else by
the heels.”
The superintendent shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
“That's the worst of you, inspector,” he said, “you are imper-
vious to evidence. You never will give up an idea when you've
once been at the trouble of forming it. And therefore you
don't see how this morning's business really helps us.”
“Helps us? No, I'm jiggered if I see that. If you're in
the right we are in a worse hole than ever.”
“No, my dear inspector, it does help us.” And the super-
intendent rubbed his hands with satisfaction. He smiled to
239


24O The Brooklyn Murders
himself as he reflected that he could see further than most peo-
ple through a brick wall.
“How do you mean?” asked the inspector.
“Well, if Walter Brooklyn was not in the house, it is clear
that he did not send that telephone message. But some one did
send it. Who was that some one? Find him, and you find
the murderer. It was clearly sent with the deliberate intention
of throwing suspicion on Walter Brooklyn.”
“Yes, if you're right about the alibi, I see that. But I don’t
see that we're any nearer to finding out who did send it.”
“Well, at least,” said the superintendent, “there are certain
things to go upon. First, there is no doubt at all that the mes-
sage was sent, and sent from Liskeard House. The inquiries
at the Exchange prove that.”
The inspector nodded.
“That being so, is it not safe to conclude that it was sent
by one of the inmates, or by the murderer, before making his
escape? If the murderer was an inmate of the house, the two
possibilities are reduced to one. Probably he was at any rate
some one familiar with the house and the family.”
“I see,” said the inspector, and his face brightened up for the
first time. “That is certainly a point. You mean that Winter
could without difficulty have sent the message?”
“Doubtless he could; and so could others. Don't jump to
conclusions. I agree that it would fit in with the theory your
mind is now forming that Winter is guilty. But remember
that we have really nothing against him. Even if the story
about the quarrel and his engagement turns out to be true, that
doesn't carry us very far. It is not enough to prove motive.
If everybody who had a motive for murder killed his man there


A Fresh Starf 241
would be nobody left alive. Direct evidence is what counts.”
“But direct evidence isn't easy to get.”
“Nothing that is worth while is easy to get. Our job is to
do things that are difficult.”
“That's all very well, but—”
“But me no buts, inspector. So far from being depressed
by this morning's events, I am greatly encouraged. They fit
in exactly with my own view.”
“But, if you don't believe Winter did it, who do you think
did 2”
“Come now, inspector. That is a question for the end of the
argument, not the beginning. I had at least fully made up my
mind, before I knew anything at all of this alibi, that Walter
Brooklyn did not do it.”
“What on earth made you think that? Had you some
fresh evidence?”
“No, inspector, merely some fresh use of the old evidence.
The more I thought about it, the plainer it became that both
those sets of clues were deliberately laid by the same person—
I mean the murderer. Don't you see my point?”
“But why did the murderer lay two inconsistent sets of false
clues?”
“That, my dear inspector, is the point. He laid them both
in the hope that we should see through the one set, and
not through the other. Which is just what you have done.
He is a clever scoundrel. He meant us to hang Walter
Brooklyn.”
“He’s too clever for me, if that's so. But, supposing you're
right, I don't see that we are much nearer to finding out who
he is.”


242 The Brooklyn Murders
The superintendent assumed the air of one instructing a
little child, and, as he spoke, ticked off the points on his fingers.
“My dear Blaikie, we have to trace the murderer through the
false clues which he left. Point number one. Walter Brook-
lyn's stick was found in Prinsep's room. If Walter Brook-
lyn did not put it there, who did?”
“Dashed if I know,” said the inspector.
“Who could have put it there? Some one must have got it
from Walter Brooklyn.”
“He said he left it in a taxi, didn't he?”
“No, he said he didn't know where he had left it. It might
have been in a taxi, or it might have been in any of the
places he visited that afternoon—in Woodman's office, for
example, or in the Piccadilly Theatre. You must find out
again exactly where he went, and, if possible, where he
did leave the stick. There is just the chance that Prinsep
found it and took it up to his room. But I don't think so.
I think it was clearly left on the floor of Prinsep's room in
order that it might serve as a clue to mislead us.”
“I see your point. I’ll find out what I can.”
“Then there's the telephone message. It is not very difficult
to imitate a man’s voice over the telephone; but I doubt if the
murderer would have risked it unless he had known the man he
was imitating pretty well. He may even have been something
of a mimic. The idea of imitating the voice would have oc-
curred to such a man. Find out if there is any one connected
with the Brooklyns who is much of a mimic.”
“Why, old Sir Vernon Brooklyn used to be the finest imper-
sonator in England in his younger days, before he took to se-
rious acting.” -


A Fresh Start 243
“I was not thinking of him. There may be others. That
sort of talent often runs in families.”
“I’ll make inquiries.”
“Now I come to a much more important point. When one
man takes elaborate measures to get another hanged, it usually
means he has either some violent grudge, or some strong reason
for securing the removal of that particular person. If the
murderer tried to get Walter Brooklyn hanged, when he might
apparently have got away without leaving any clue at all, he
must have had either a violent hatred, or, more probably, a
very strong motive for wishing Walter Brooklyn out of the
way. We have to find out who had such a motive.”
“Motive seems a dangerous line to go on. You remember
that Walter Brooklyn had the strongest financial motive for
killing his nephews. He gets a pot of the money when Sir
Vernon dies.”
“I know he does; but what I want you to find out is who
would get the money if Walter Brooklyn were removed.
When you found out about the will, did you discover that?”
“No. It seemed quite enough to find out that Brooklyn
stood to get it by killing his nephews. So far as I remember,
there was nothing in the will to say who would get the money
if they all died.”
“That's a point you must make quite sure of not merely
what is in the will, but who is the next of kin after Walter
Brooklyn. It may be the decisive clue.”
“I believe you have some definite suspicion in your mind.”
“My dear inspector, if I have I'm not going to say any more
about it just now. You go and find out what I have asked;
and then we can talk.”


244 The Brooklyn Murders
“I’m to do nothing, then, about Winter?”
“I certainly did not say that. That man Thomas seems to
have found out something you had missed. It is your turn to
pick up something that has escaped him. Watch the servants
at Liskeard House—the maids as well as Winter and Morgan.
Keep an eye on the whole household. And meanwhile I will
find out all about that girl at Fittleworth. I can have in-
quiries made locally on the spot.”
“Then you're inclined to think Winter may have done it?”
“Not at all. There you are jumping to conclusions again.
I'm not at all disposed to say anything definite just at present.
What we need is further information, and all we can do for
the present is to follow up every hint we get.”
“I’ll do my best, sir. But it doesn't look to me very
hopeful.”
“Oh, never say die. Even if we could not find out the whole
truth for ourselves—and I believe we can—there is plenty of
chance still for the murderer to give himself away. In my ex-
perience that is how ninety-nine out of a hundred murderers get
caught—I mean of those who do get caught at all. You watch
Winter carefully, but don't jump to the conclusion that he's
guilty. Watch them all: keep your eyes and your mind wide
open. We’ll pull it through yet.”
“But,” said the inspector, unable any longer to keep back the
question, “if you think neither Walter Brooklyn nor Winter
did it, who do you think did?”
“If I knew that, my dear inspector, I shouldn't be giving you
these instructions. The real criminal may be some one quite
outside our previous range of suspicion. Indeed, I shan’t be at
all surprised if he is.”


A Fresh Starf 245
“But you mean that the immediate thing is to go fully into
these new aspects of the case?”
“Quite so. Do that, and report progress. And remember
to keep your eyes wide open for anything that may turn up.
We must trust largely to luck.”
As Inspector Blaikie left Superintendent Wilson's room, he
was in a curiously divided state of mind. At one moment he
still said to himself that all his good labour could not have
been wasted, and that Walter Brooklyn must really be guilty
after all. The next he found himself assuming, with greater
assurance, that Winter was the murderer. He was one of
those men who can only keep their minds open by entertaining
two contrary opinions at the same time. He shook his head
over what seemed to him the weakness of his superior in let-
ting Walter Brooklyn go without arresting some one else.
Meanwhile, in the lounge at Liskeard House, Joan and
Ellery were sitting very close to each other on a sofa making
their plans for the discovery of the criminal.
“How had we better begin?” he asked, running his hand
despairingly through his hair.
“I can see only one way,” Joan replied. “We have nothing
to go upon—nothing, I mean, that would make us suspect any
particular person. So the only thing to do is to suspect every-
body—to find out exactly where everybody was when the crime
was committed, and what they were doing that evening.”
“That's something of an undertaking.”
“I don't mean all the world. I mean everybody who was,
or was likely to have been, in this house. Of course, it may
have been some one quite different; but I think that's the best
way to start. And we mustn't rule out anybody—even our-


246 The Brooklyn Murders
selves—however sure we are they had nothing to do with it.
Even if that doesn't find the criminal, it may help us to light
on a clue.”
“But it is still a tall order. We don’t even know at what
time the murders were committed.”
“Isn't that a good point to begin upon? Let me see.
When were George and John last seen alive?”
“Both at some time after eleven. George was seen leaving
the house at half-past, and Prinsep was seen rather before that
time in the garden. Isn't that so?”
“Then that,” said Joan, “definitely fixes the time of both
the murders as being later than say 11.15, and one of them
definitely after 11.30. That is something to go upon.”
“Ah, but stop a minute. May not either the people who
thought they saw George, or the others who thought they
saw John, have been mistaken 7 Neither of them was seen
close to.”
“It doesn't seem very likely. Winter would hardly have
mistaken some one else for George when he saw him going out
by the front door.”
“Still, my dear, it's possible. Winter was at the other end
of the hall and only noticed him by accident. He probably
caught no more than a glimpse.”
“Yes, Bob; but the other man saw him from quite close.
You remember he said he went to open the door for him; but
George slipped out before he could get there.”
“Yes, I know; but did the other man know George by sight?
He was only a hired waiter, in for the evening. Winter
probably told him afterwards it was George, and he took it
for granted,”


A Fresh Starf 247
“I think you're romancing, my dear. If it wasn't George,
who was it?” -
“Surely, Joan, in that case it was the murderer, whoever he
may have been.”
Joan sighed. “Follow up that idea of yours by all means,”
she said, “but it doesn't sound to me very hopeful. The people
who said they saw John are much more likely to have been
mistaken. They only saw him from a window some way off;
and it was half dark.”
“Do you know, Joan, I'm half inclined to believe that
neither of them was really seen then at all. What I mean is,
they may both have been dead by half-past eleven. Suppose
they were neither of them seen. Yes, and by Jove, that would
get rid of one difficulty. I've never been able to see how
George got back into the grounds after the place was all locked
up. But suppose he didn't have to get back at all, because he
never went out. Then the man who went out, and was mis-
taken for George, would be the murderer. Joan, aren't you
listening?”
“Yes, Bob, I heard what you said, and I half think you're
right. I was thinking of that telephone message.”
“Why, what about it?” -
“What I mean is, if that message was sent with the object of
shifting the suspicion on to some one else, isn't it more likely
to have been sent after, than before, the murders?”
“You’re right. At least, it was probably sent after one of
them. There's no necessary reason to suppose that they were
both done at the same time. We don't even know that the
same man did them.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. Two murders in one night


A Fresh Start 249
eleven and half-past; but that's as near as we can get.”
“Let it stand there: and now let's follow out our original
plan, and see what we know about everybody who might have
been mixed up in it. Let's write it down. I’ll write.”
Losing no time, they got to work. First, they made a list
of every one who had been present at the dinner on the eve-
ning of the tragedy—Sir Vernon, John Prinsep, George Brook-
lyn and his wife, Carter and Mrs. Woodman, Lucas, Mary
Woodman—and themselves. Next came the servants—Win-
ter, Morgan, Agnes Dutch, the two other maids, the hired
waiters. These were the only persons who, as far as they
knew, had been in the house that night. Next, they wrote
down exactly what they knew of the doings of every one of
these people, leaving spaces in which they could fill in further
particulars as they discovered more. When it was finished
the list and comments took this form:- -
Evidence for
Persons Movements Movements
Sir Vernon Went to bed 10.15 Joan, Mary
Remained in room Woodman
Joan With Sir Vernon Sir Vernon
10.15 to 10.30
With Mary Wood- Mary Woodman
man, 10.30 to
1O-40
Then bed Self
“That ‘self" looks very suspicious,” said Joan, as Ellery
wrote it down.


25o The Brooklyn Murders
“Yes, we are suspecting ourselves as well as others. I
strongly suspect you.”
“And I you. But get on.”
Evidence for
Persons Movements Movements
Mary Woodman In landing-lounge Joan to 10.40
till after 11
Then bed Self
“Another suspect,” said Ellery.
“Poor Mary,” said Joan. “She couldn't hurt a fly.”
“Then I suspect her all the more.”
Winter Downstairs with Other servants
servants till after
11:30
Lets in Morgan Morgan
soon after 11.30
Then bed Morgan
“He went to bed. But did he stay there? That's the
point.”
“Put down “Did he stay there? No clear evidence.” After
all, Morgan says he did.”
“Yes, but Morgan isn't sure.”
“We come to him next.”
Evidence for
Persons Movements Movements
Morgan - At Hammersmith Unconfirmed, but
till 11 may be capable of
confirmation


252 The Brooklyn Murders
Evidence for
Persons Movements Movements
Marian Brooklyn Back to hotel 10.20
Talked with Helen
till 11.30 in
Helen's room
Then bed
“But she's out of it anyway.”
“Yes, poor Marian.”
Carter Woodman Back to hotel lo.20
In hotel writing-
room till 11.45
Gave letters to por-
ter to post 11.45
“That seems all right.”
“Yes. Helen's next.”
Helen Woodman Back to hotel lo.20
With Marian till
11.30
Then bed
“And now we come to you, Bob.”
Carter and Helen
Woodman
Helen Woodman
No confirmation
Marian and Helen
Told above had let-
ters to write
Porter and liftman
Marian and Carter
Marian
Carter Woodman
after 11.45
“Oh, I'm no use. I have a proved alibi already, I'm in
the same position as your revered stepfather.”
“Put yourself down all the same.”


A Fresh Start 253
Persons Movements Evidence for
Movements
Ellery Walking about Gloucester
10.15 to about
midnight
Home and bed Landlady
“But did you stay in bed?”
“And slept like a top.”
“That only leaves Uncle Harry.” º
“Oh, he left in his car at 10.15, and went straight back to
Hampstead. He told me the police had made inquiries, and
confirmed that he got back at 10.45, and did not go out again.”
“Put him down.”
Lucas Left Liskeard All of us
House by car
10.15
Arrived home 10.45 Police satisfied
and stayed there
“And that's everybody.”
“Yes, and I don’t know that we’re much further. There
is no one on this list you can possibly suspect, except perhaps
Morgan, and he can hardly have done it unless Winter was in
it too.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Then whom do you suspect.”
“No one and every one. I want time to think that list
over. Leave it with me, and I’ll put on my considering cap,
and tell you to-morrow.”
“Don’t you go suspecting poor Winter, like the police.”


254 The Brooklyn Murders
“My dear Joan, this is most undetective-like advice. You
ought to make a point of suspecting everybody.”
“I make an exception of Winter.”
“I'm afraid you want to make an exception of everybody.
I have a far more suspicious nature.”
“Is there anything I can do while you're thinking it over?”
“Yes. Go and see Carter Woodman and find out all you
can about John's circumstances at the time of the murder.
Carter may know something about this Winter story, or be able
at any rate to tell you something useful we don't know. Then
come here to-morrow morning, and I’ll tell you if I’ve had a
brain-wave.”
Then at last Ellery said good-bye, and Joan went to get the
sleep she badly needed.


CHAPTER XXV
RAISING THE WIND
ALTER BROOKLYN'S release was arranged more
quickly than any one had expected, and, while Ellery
and Joan were still engaged in the conversation just reported,
he came out of Brixton Jail a free man. At the gate he
said good-bye to Thomas, and, hailing a taxi, ordered the man
to drive to his Club. The porter at the Byron met him
as he entered with an incredulous stare; for he was a firm
believer in the theory that Brooklyn was guilty, and had for
days past been telling all his friends, and those of the Club
members who would listen to him, of the important part which
he himself had played in bringing the murderer to justice.
Walter Brooklyn was not popular in the Club; and, by mem-
bers and servants alike, the assumption of his guilt had been
readily accepted.
Brooklyn passed the porter without a word, and went
straight up to his room. As he passed by the door leading to
the kitchen stairs, a discreetly faint smell of cooking floated up
to him, and he thought how pleasant it would be to see a
good dinner before him again in the comfortable Club dining-
room. But a second thought gave him pause. Could he face
his fellow-members just yet? He could pretty accurately
guess what they had been saying about him; and he was not
at all sure what his reception would be. It would be better
255


256 The Brooklyn Murders
to give time for the news of his release, and the convincing
evidence of his innocence, to get round the club before he
made a public reappearance. But a good dinner was indis-
pensable. His first act on regaining the privacy of his apart-
ment was to take up the house 'phone which connected with
the kitchens, and to order dinner to be sent up to his room.
The start of surprise which the chef gave on hearing who
was speaking to him he could visualize over the 'phone as
clearly as if the man had been standing before him in the
same room. He was all the more careful for that reason
in ordering his dinner, discussing the merits of one course
after another at length with the chef. He meant to do him-
self well, and he meant the servants to understand that he
was back quite on the old footing.
But Walter Brooklyn had other things to consider besides
his reinstatement as a more or less respectable member of
society. He was literally almost penniless, and he knew that
his release from prison would merely reopen in a more in-
sistent form the long struggle with his creditors. He must
have money, and he must have it at once. His attempt to
get money from Prinsep had completely failed, and Wood-
man had very decisively refused to give him an advance.
But a great deal had happened since then. Now
both Prinsep and George Brooklyn were dead; and, in
more ways than one, that meant a change in his own situation.
Prinsep had been the main obstacle between him and Sir Ver-
non, and there was at least a chance that, if he could see his
brother, he would be able to get a substantial loan. He knew
that Sir Vernon was very ill; but, if only he was not too ill
to be approached, that might make the job all the easier.


Raising the Wind 257
Could he not persuade the sick man to back a bill for him, or
better still, write a cheque in his favour? That was one pos-
sibility. But there was another. Now that George and Prin-
sep were out of the way, who was there to whom Sir Vernon
could leave his wealth? Only Joan and himself. Marian
Brooklyn would doubtless get something, and Mary Woodman;
but the bulk of the property would hardly go to them. Wal-
ter knew well enough Sir Vernon's strong sense of family
loyalty; and he was fairly sure that, in the changed circum-
stances, he would profit heavily when his brother died. Might
it not be better, instead of risking the giving of offence to
Sir Vernon by asking for a loan, to try to raise the money on
the strength of his expectations? From that point of view,
Sir Vernon's illness would make the chances of success all the
greater.
Walter Brooklyn had no positive knowledge of Sir Vernon's
will. Some time back, however, Sir Vernon had written to
him, enclosing one of the many “last cheques” which he had
given to his brother, to tell him that, “except in a very remote
contingency,” he could expect no further assistance, “whether
I am dead or alive,” Sir Vernon had added, “I may as well tell
you that I have left the bulk of my property to my two
nephews; and, as long as they live, you will receive only a
comparatively small legacy. You have forfeited all claim to
my esteem, and, as long as I have other near relatives to
whom I can leave my property, I feel under no obligations to
place any of it in your hands. I know too well what you
would do with it. I tell you this in order that you may not
deceive yourself by any false expectations.”
Little had Sir Vernon, expected, when he wrote his letter,


258 The Brooklyn Murders
that the time would come when it would positively encourage
his brother to look forward to a big legacy. Walter had seen
Sir Vernon after receiving that letter; and, while his brother
had told him nothing positive, he had come away with a shrewd
idea that he could expect nothing except in the unlikely event
of both nephews dying before Sir Vernon, but that, in that
event, he would get the bulk of the money. The question
was whether Sir Vernon had altered his will, or whether he
would do so now, when the money was likely actually to pass
to his brother. Even if he wished to alter it, was he well
enough to do so? That must be discovered.
He could find out easily enough about Sir Vernon's health.
Joan would tell him that, even if she had a good suspicion
of his reasons for wishing to know. But would Joan be in
a position to tell him what was in the will, and would it even
be wise to ask her? He was under no illusions. Joan would
not want him to have the money, and, even if he stood to bene-
fit now, she would be just the person to persuade Sir Vernon
to make a new will. Moreover, there was only one person
who would be certain to know what the will contained, and
that was Carter Woodman.
Walter Brooklyn's first idea, when he got thus far, was to
see Woodman, find out about the will, and try to arrange
for a loan on the strength of his expectations. But would
this do either? Woodman was no friend of his; and, if his
attention were called to the matter, he might easily induce Sir
Vernon to make a fresh will. Yet Woodman was the only per-
son through whom he could hope to arrange for an advance; for
Woodman alone would know whether or not Walter was now


Raising the Wind 259
Sir Vernon's heir. And somehow an advance must be got,
and got quickly.
There must surely, he thought, be some way round the
difficulty. Walter Brooklyn was no fool; and he set himself
deliberately to devise some method of raising the wind with
Woodman's aid. He came speedily to the conclusion that
there was only one way in which it could be done. He must
somehow get Woodman on to his side. That was not al-
together impossible, much as the two men disliked each other.
It was, Walter told himself, merely a matter of money.
Woodman, he considered, would certainly receive a legacy
under any will Sir Vernon might make. Probably a few thou-
sands, in return for his services. But he supposed that Wood-
man could entertain no hope of being one of the principal
beneficiaries.
Woodman's expectations were probably small. But Walter
Brooklyn had good reason to believe that, despite his appar-
ent prosperity, Woodman was hard pressed for money. Left
alone in Woodman's office for a few minutes the week before,
he had hurriedly turned over certain private papers on the
desk, and had gathered enough information to be sure that
Woodman, like himself, would do a good deal for a supply of
ready money. Might not this fact, he wondered, open up
the possibility of a bargain? If, as he believed, the will was
now in his favour, he could offer Woodman very favourable
terms for negotiating an advance on his behalf. He would
offer Woodman a share—a substantial share—as a loan—of
whatever he could raise on the strength of Walter's expecta-
tlCI1S. -


26o The Brooklyn Murders
Why waste time? He would at least see at once whether
Woodman was at his office, and try to arrange an appoint-
ment. The telephone was at his elbow, and he rang up.
Woodman was there, and Walter got straight through to him.
His clerks had already gone home for the night.
“Who is speaking?” came the voice from the other end.
“Walter Brooklyn this end. I want to see you as soon as
possible.”
As he gave his name, Walter heard a gasp from the man
at the other end of the wire. Then, “Where are you speak-
ing from?” came the voice.
“Not from Brixton, if that is what you mean. I’m speak-
ing from the Byron Club.”
“Good God, man! How on earth 23.
“The police released me this afternoon. I am completely
cleared of this charge, although I understand you were good
enough to believe me guilty.”
To this there came no answer.
“I must see you privately at once.”
“What about?”
“I’ll tell you that when we meet. Will you come round
here?”
“When 2”
“To-night, if you can. I shall be in my room all the
evening.”
“Not to-night. I have an engagement.”
“Then to-morrow morning.”
“Very well. At about eleven.”
“I’ll be here. Good-night.”


Raising the Wind 261
Each man as he hung up the receiver had plenty to think
about. Brooklyn was perfecting his scheme for raising a loan
with Woodman's aid, and reflecting upon the various ways in
which he might approach the subject. Carter Woodman also
stood silent with a heavy frown on his face.
The fact that Walter Brooklyn had been released, although
the evidence against him seemed overwhelming, came as a great
surprise to Woodman. Something curious must have happened,
When Brooklyn rang off, he had been on the point of asking
for further details. He would get them somehow elsewhere.
He would try to see the inspector. He rang up Scotland
Yard.
“Hallo. Is that Inspector Blaikie? Carter Woodman
speaking.”
“Is that you, Mr. Woodman? I was just trying to get
through to you myself. Are you at your office? Then may
I come around and see you for a few minutes? Will
what you wanted to say to me keep till I get round? Very
well, I'll be with you in half a jiffy.”
This was a piece of luck. Woodman would get the full
story from the inspector, and he would also be able to give
in return a piece of information which, he thought, would
make Scotland Yard sit up. How on earth had they come to
release Walter Brooklyn? Well, there was such a thing as
re-arrest. After all, the man had not been acquitted.
The inspector arrived in less than a quarter of an hour.
He explained that he wished to ask Woodman a few ques-
tions relating to Prinsep's private affairs, and also involving,
he believed, certain of the servants at Liskeard House. Had


262 The Brooklyn Murders
Woodman heard anything of some trouble with a girl down
at Fittleworth—the head gardener's daughter—a Miriam
Smith?
Yes, Woodman did know about it; but he had not men-
tioned it before, as it was confidential, and there was no
reason to believe it had anything to do with the murders.
Prinsep had commissioned him to settle with the girl for a
lump sum payment, in consideration of which she was to
leave the district. Woodman understood there would be a
child. Undoubtedly, Prinsep had behaved badly to the girl;
but it was not the first time. Was there any reason to con-
nect the incident with the murders?
“There may be, or there may not, Mr. Woodman. Are
you aware that the girl was engaged to be married to the
butler at Liskeard House? Winter, his name is.”
“Oh, I know Winter. A most trusted old family servant.
I had no idea that he was engaged to the girl. But I feel quite
sure you are wrong if you connect him in any way with the
murders. He is the last man to be mixed up in such a thing.
Besides, between ourselves, I haven’t a doubt that it was Wal-
ter Brooklyn who killed Prinsep. He may have killed George
Brooklyn, too, or Prinsep may. But surely there is not much
doubt he killed Prinsep.”
“I see you have not heard the news, Mr. Woodman. Wal-
ter Brooklyn was released this afternoon.”
Woodman thought that he would get fuller information if
he simulated ignorance and astonishment.
“Released ? Whatever for ‘’’’ he said.
“Because our evidence seems to show that he had nothing
tº do with it.”


264 The Brooklyn Murders
“This is very strange, Mr. Woodman. The proofs of Mr.
Brooklyn's innocence were considered to be conclusive. Super-
intendent Wilson very strongly holds that they are conclusive.
He appears to have a perfect alibi.”
“Alibis can be faked, and usually are.”
“This one has been pretty thoroughly tested. But, in
view of what you say, I must certainly take up the matter
again at once. Of course, my first step will be to have a talk
with Mr. Thomas.”
“Pardon me, inspector, but I hope you will not do that.
I have told you this in strict confidence, and it would en-
danger my professional position if it were known that I had
done so.”
“Surely not. The fact that the man made you a dishonour-
able proposal absolves you.”
“He would deny it, and it would be only my word against
his. He would merely deny, too, that he ever considered his
client to be guilty. What else could he do? And we could
not prove it.”
The inspector stood silent for a moment, biting his lip,
while he thought the position over. Then he said,
“Very well, Mr. Woodman. Perhaps you are right. But
I think I can get at the truth in another way. I will let
you know the result. Rest assured that what you say will
be given full weight.”
“All I want is to prevent you from going on a wild goose
chase after poor old Winter. I’ve known him since I was a
baby, and he is quite incapable of doing what you suggest.”
“That is as may be, Mr. Woodman. We are not inclined
to suspect him seriously without further evidence. But I will


Raising the Wind 265
certainly look into what you tell me about Mr. Walter Brook-
lyn. And now, there is another matter about which I want
to ask you one or two questions.”
“Ask away.”
“You were good enough to give me very full particulars
about the contents of Sir Vernon Brooklyn's will; but there
were one or two points about which I omitted to ask you.
Perhaps you will not mind clearing them up now. In the
first place, as matters stand now, who did you say were the
principal beneficiaries? I have the facts here in my note-
book, but I want to check them.”
“Let me see. Mrs. George Brooklyn gets one half of the
sum which would have gone to George Brooklyn, and Miss
Cowper half of what would have gone to John Prinsep. Mr.
Walter Brooklyn is the residuary legatee, and stands, I sup-
pose, to inherit about half a million, unless the will is altered.”
“Thank you. The further point I want to know is what the
position would be if Mr. Walter Brooklyn were to die before
Sir Vernon. Who would be the residuary legatee in that
case?”
Woodman paused for a moment before replying. Then
he said, “The residue would go, of course, to the next of
kin.” -
“Who is that? I think you have not mentioned any other
relatives.”
“To the best of my belief, inspector, I myself am the next
of kin after Walter Brooklyn.”
The inspector whistled. “Then you would inherit the bulk
of the money if Sir Vernon Brooklyn died after Walter Brook-
lyn.”


266 The Brooklyn Murders
“Yes, that is, unless a new will were made. I should, of
course, have to inform Sir Vernon fully as to the circum-
stances.”
“Quite so. And now there is just one further point. Sir
Vernon has not, I suppose, shown any desire so far to amend
his will.”
“He is far too ill to be troubled at present with matters of
business.”
“I see. Then, so far as you know, the old will stands.”
“Yes. Mr. Walter Brooklyn is at present the principal
heir.”
“Thank you, Mr. Woodman,” said the inspector, holding
out his hand.
When Inspector Blaikie had gone, Woodman sat down
again at his desk to think things over. What was the pur-
pose of the questions just addressed to him? Clearly, the
police had some new idea in their minds. They had come to
the conclusion, on grounds adequate or inadequate, that Wal-
ter Brooklyn was not the murderer, and they were clearly try-
ing to find out afresh who else could have had a reasonable
motive. That was the only possible reason for the careful
inquiries into the terms of the will. Was it possible that the
police had a real new clue—possibly even a definite suspi-
cion? Would they even begin suspecting him, now they had
discovered that he was next of kin? As long as Walter
Brooklyn lived, he stood to gain nothing. It was ridiculous
to think that he could be suspected.
The inspector also had a good deal to think about when he
left Woodman's office. His first thought was to see his supe-


Raising the Wind 267
rior officer; but he found that the superintendent was out, and
was not expected back for an hour or so. He made up his
mind to fill in the interval by clearing up the new question,
relating to Walter Brooklyn's guilt, which Carter Woodman
had raised. He took a taxi, and drove to Liskeard House,
where he asked to see Miss Cowper. She received him at once,
and he came straight to the point.
“Miss Cowper, I have a question to ask you. You may
think it a very peculiar one, and you need not answer it if
you would rather not. I shall not tell any one that you re-
fused, or that I asked it. I want to know whether, so far as
you are aware, Mr. Thomas, your stepfather's solicitor, at any
time believed in his client's guilt. I should not ask you, of
course, if your stepfather had not been released. But I have
a reason for asking.”
Joan showed that the question startled her; but she an-
swered without hesitation. “Yes,” she said, “Mr. Thomas
did believe what you say until we undeceived him with the
evidence you also found convincing; indeed, that was why
Mr. Ellery and I determined to go to work on our own. We
felt that Mr. Thomas, believing what was not true, would
never find out what was true. My stepfather told me that
he was sure Thomas believed him guilty; but he said, ‘I dare
say he'll make as good a defence as another would when it
comes to the point.’”
“I will tell you, Miss Cowper, exactly why I asked the ques-
tion. It is being stated that Mr. Brooklyn actually confessed
his guilt to his solicitor, and that Mr. Thomas told a third
person that he was guilty. I should not, of course, tell


268 The Brooklyn Murders
you this if I believed it to be true. Your answer quite satisfies
me that it is based on a misunderstanding.”
“It is preposterous,” said Joan indignantly. “My step-
father told Mr. Thomas the absolute truth; but the man
would not believe it, until we proved it to him.”
“That is just what I imagined, Miss Cowper. Thank you
very much for speaking to me so frankly. It has saved a
world of trouble. Let me assure you that no suspicion at all
now rests on Mr. Brooklyn.”
“I should hope not,” said Joan. “But who put this abom-
inable story about?”
“I cannot tell you that, Miss Cowper. But you may rest
secure that no more will be heard of it. May I use your tele-
phone for a moment on my way out?”
The permission was readily given, and, in the hall, the
inspector stepped into the little closed lobby, in which the tele-
phone was kept, and rang up Carter Woodman.
“Hallo, is that Mr. Woodman? Inspector Blaikie speak-
ing. I have looked into that matter about which you spoke
to me. About Walter Brooklyn, I mean—his having told
Thomas that he was guilty. There's nothing in it. No,
nothing in it. You made a mistake. You must have mis-
interpreted what Thomas said. He did believe Mr. Brooklyn
to be guilty, but Mr. Brooklyn never told him so. It was
merely his personal opinion. What? Am I sure? Yes,
quite certain. No, I have not seen Thomas; but I am sure all
the same. Yes, f now regard Mr. Brooklyn's innocence as
quite established. Yes, quite certain. No doubt at all about
it. We made a very natural mistake when we arrested him;
but that's all done with now. I think we are getting on the


Raising the Wind 269
right track. Thanks all the same. You were quite right
to tell me, though there proved to be nothing in it. Good-
night.” -
The inspector hung up the receiver, and went on his way.


CHAPTER XXVI
TWO MEN STRIKE A BARGAIN
ALTER BROOKLYN dined alone in his rooms. As
a rule, a single Club waiter would have been deputed to
attend upon him; but this evening he noticed that no less than
four found an excuse for coming to help. Each course was
brought to table by a different hand; for the whole Club
staff were curious to get a good look at the member who had
been miraculously delivered from jail and the gallows. That
very afternoon, when they had discussed the case, they had
all been taking his guilt for granted, picturing him in his
lonely cell devouring the skilly of adversity; and now here
he was back again amongst them, eating an excellent dinner
as if nothing out of the way had occurred. If Carter Wood-
man had been there to express his continued confidence that
Walter Brooklyn was guilty, he would, despite the release,
not have lacked supporters among the Club servants; for
Walter Brooklyn was not an easy man to like, especially for
his social inferiors. But this evening those who were most
convinced of his guilt were also anxious to take part in wait-
ing upon him. There is a thrill to be got by close personal
contact with a real murderer.
Downstairs, Walter Brooklyn had no doubt, the dining-
room and the smoking-rooms, as well as the servants’ quarters,
were busy with the news of his release. Among the Club
members, as among the servants, there would be differences of
270


Two Men Strike a Bargain 271
opinion; and he felt he could name certain members who
would be vigorously affirming their belief that the police made
a mistake, not when they arrested him, but when they let him
go. The spiteful old johnnies, he said to himself, would
gladly see him hanged. Their disappointment added to the
pleasure of being a free man. And this was really a first-
rate dinner. The Byron had its faults; but they did know
how to cook.
Indeed, the more Walter thought about the new situation,
the better he was pleased. His two inconvenient nephews
were safely out of the way; and he had an excellent chance of
becoming an exceedingly rich man. He smiled to himself as
he counted his chickens. True, there were immediate troubles
to be faced. He must have money now. But he was sure
Woodman couldn't be fool enough to refuse the terms he
was in a position to offer. Supposing even that he did refuse,
there was still the way of going direct to old Vernon.
By the way, how was old Vernon? That dinner had been
so good that the idea of telephoning to Liskeard House to
inquire had gone clean out of his head. He would do it
now. It would be the very devil if the old chap were to go
and alter his will. The chances were he wasn't well enough
to do it. He would ring up at once and inquire after him.
It would be only decent. After all, the man was his brother.
Winter's voice over the telephone informed him that Sir
Vernon had taken an alarming turn for the worse. His condi-
tion was said to be critical, but not hopeless. The doctor
was with him now. Sir Vernon had been unconscious for
some time. Winter promised to ring up and give the doctor's
further report later in the evening.


Two Men Strike a Bargain 273
“This is quite unexpected,” he said, “but I am very glad you
have come. Have a whisky.” Carter Woodman nodded. “I
found I could get here after all this evening,” he said.
Then he mixed himself a good stiff whisky, silently refilled
Brooklyn's glass for him, and sank into a chair.
“What was it you wanted to see me about?” he asked.
“Money, as usual, I suppose.”
Brooklyn nodded. “A man must live, you know,” he said.
“Your idea of living has always been one that runs away
with the money, my dear chap,” said Woodman, with a laugh.
“Never mind that. I want some now.”
“But you know that Sir Vernon, through Prinsep, gave
me positive instructions that I should only give you money
on one condition.”
“Isn't the position a bit different now, Woodman? I mean
since what happened last week.”
Woodman paused a moment. “There is a difference,” he
said, “but clearly I cannot advance you money without author-
ity from Sir Vernon, and he is far too ill to be troubled about
such things at present.”
“I don’t want you to trouble him. But I should have
thought that, in the new circumstances, you would make no
difficulty about advancing me a loan. I want £10,000 to clear
off debts, and a few thousands to get along with for the
present.”
“My dear fellow, do you think I carry ten thousand pounds
loose in my pocket?”
“I think you could get me an advance of more than that
amount if you chose.”
“But Sir Vernon may alter his will.”


276 The Brooklyn Murders
should draw up a new will, making me the heir to your estate.”
“You stand to get the lot that way, whatever happens. I
can see that it is very nice indeed from your point of view.
And what, may I ask, do you offer me in exchange?”
“Twenty thousand pounds down, which I can borrow on the
strength of our joint expectations, and I'm willing to add
two thousand a year until Sir Vernon dies. And in addition,
I offer you the security that, even if Sir Vernon cuts you
out of his will, you will still get your share of the money.”
“But, if Sir Vernon dies now—he's pretty bad, they tell
me—the effect of it will be that I shall be making you a pretty
handsome present.”
“And I shall be presenting you with twenty thousand pounds
in hard cash.”
They wrangled for some time longer; but Walter Brook-
lyn, in ignorance of the precise terms of the will, was at a
serious disadvantage. Finally, he agreed to Carter Wood-
man's terms; and Woodman at once sat down and drafted out
a written agreement putting their compact into definite terms.
He also drew up, in a few lines, a will constituting himself
Walter Brooklyn's heir.
“Now, we must get these documents signed and witnessed,”
he said.
“There will be some one about downstairs,” said Brooklyn
heavily. He had an uneasy feeling that he was being badly
swindled; but twenty thousand pounds down was the main
thing. Besides, he might find ways, though Woodman was a
cute lawyer, of repudiating the bargain later, if it proved to
his interest to do so.
There were two documents to be witnessed—the will and


Two Men Strike a Bargain 277
the agreement. The I.O.U., which was Woodman's further
security for the £20,000, would not, of course, be signed until
the money was actually paid over. The two men went down-
stairs, found the night-porter and a waiter who had not yet
gone to bed, and completed the two documents in their pres-
ence. Then, taking the will and his copy of the agreement,
Woodman bade Walter Brooklyn good-night, receiving a not
very cordial response. His first business on the morrow would
be to use the two documents and the joint expectation of the
two men under Sir Vernon's will, as a means of raising at
once, not merely the £20,000 for Walter Brooklyn, but the
much larger sum of which he himself stood immediately in
need. He thought he knew a man who would let him have
the money. If he failed, bankruptcy was inevitable. Wood-
man congratulated himself on a good night's work. Already
his chestnuts were half out of the fire.
Walter Brooklyn, when Woodman had gone, sat down
again in his chair with a heavy sigh. He was very conscious
that he had been swindled. Carter Woodman knew the terms
of Sir Vernon's will, and he did not; and it was certain that,
with this knowledge to help him, Woodman had struck a
hard bargain. Moreover, he not only knew the will: he was
in a very strong position, as Sir Vernon's legal adviser, to
prevent the making of a new one which would be disadvan-
tageous to him. Woodman was almost safe to score, what-
ever might happen. But there was solid comfort in the
thought that, under the compact they had just made, it was
to Woodman's interest that Walter should get the largest
possible slice of Sir Vernon's money. Whatever came to Wal-
ter was to become Woodman's in time. Woodman, therefore,


CHAPTER XXVII
ROBERT ELLERY's IDEA
LLERY woke up in the morning with the dim conscious-
ness that he had a great idea. What had he been
thinking out when he dropped off to sleep the night before?
The murders, of course—they were always in his thoughts.
But what was the shattering new idea that had come to him
as he lay awake? That was how his best ideas often came—
in the night just before he went to sleep they came to him half-
formed, and the next morning, by the time he was fully awake,
they had somehow taken on form and certainty. With an
effort he stretched and roused himself, and, as he did so, the
idea came back to him. He felt certain that he knew who
was the murderer.
Who, he had asked himself the night before—who, of all
the persons who figured on the list Joan and he had compiled,
was most likely to have done the thing? He felt certain that
it was not the work of a stranger: the whole of the circum-
stances seemed to point to some one familiar with the house
and its ways. Yet, on the evidence, it seemed clear enough that
no one among those they had put upon their list could be
guilty. But their list included everybody. Very well—this
had been his first inspiration—there must be something wrong
with the evidence. It must point away from the guilty, as it
had pointed towards the innocent. The murderer who had
279


28o The Brooklyn Murders
laid that clever trail to incriminate Walter Brooklyn would ob-
viously have taken the precaution to lay a trail pointing away
from himself. Indeed, whoever had the apparently clearest
alibi was on this showing the most likely to be guilty. It
would be safest, in the circumstances, to ignore for the mo-
ment all the evidence which seemed to prove innocence, and
simply consider, in the light of the remaining conditions, who
was most likely to have been the murderer.
This narrowed the field considerably. The women, except
as possible accessories, could be ruled out of account in any
case; for no woman could have struck the blows by which the
two cousins had met their deaths. That left—whom? Wal-
ter Brooklyn was out of it; for his alibi had been not merely
accepted, but tested beyond possible doubt. Ellery could
hardly suspect himself, though he admitted that any one else,
following out his line of thought, might still suspect him.
His alibi was not conclusive: it depended on the word of one
man. But he could rule himself out: he could say positively
that he had not done the thing. Then who remained? Only
Harry Lucas, Carter Woodman, and the two servants, Winter
and Morgan. Among these, if he was right, the real murderer
must be found.
It was ludicrous, Ellery felt, to suspect his guardian.
Harry Lucas had no possible motive, and he was the very
last man for such a deed. He was ruled out of consideration
as soon as the thought was conceived. About Winter and
Morgan Ellery could not feel the same full certainty; but he
was very strongly of opinion that the murders were not the
work of a servant, and that neither of these men had the
qualities which the deed seemed to demand.


282 The Brooklyn Murders
in his favour, and, in any case, he probably stood now a fine
chance of becoming the managing director of the Brooklyn
Corporation. But a man would hardly commit two desperate
murders merely on such chances. The more Ellery considered
the matter, the surer he felt that there must be something else
behind—something of which he was unaware, that would
make the whole case plain.
He must see Joan, and tell her what he suspected. She
might well know some fact, of which he was ignorant, that
would throw a clear light on the motive behind the crimes.
But would she ever believe that Woodman had done it?
Ellery realized that what to him seemed like certainty would
seem to others only a guess, and that he had not merely no
proof but actually no evidence to support his assumptions.
What evidence there was told the other way. Still, this did
not shake his assurance. He must make Joan see the case as
he had come to see it. Then they could seek together for
the proof.
As soon as Ellery had breakfasted, he set off for Liskeard
House to find Joan. They must get to work at once.
Joan, too, had spent a good part of the night thinking; but
her thoughts had brought her no nearer to a solution of
the mystery surrounding the murders. There was literally
not one, of all those who seemed to be concerned, who could,
in her judgment, have been the murderer. She was reduced
to the supposition that it must be some outsider—some one
whom they had not even dreamed so far of connecting with
the crimes.
But Joan's thoughts, unlike Ellery's, persistently wandered
from the problem which she had set herself to solve. She


Robert Ellery’s Idea 283
kept thinking of the future—of the thing that was dearest to
the heart of the old man lying at death's door. It was not
the money: it was the direction of the great dramatic enter-
prise which he alone had built up. He had set his heart, she
knew, on passing on, not merely his fortune, but the headship
of the Brooklyn Corporation to one of his own blood, one who
could carry on the work he had set himself to do. Whom
would he now put in the place which Prinsep had lately oc-
cupied? He might, indeed, die without the strength to make
a change; but Joan did not believe that he would. It seemed
to her inconceivable that he would leave matters so that the
bulk of his fortune, and with it the control of the Brooklyn
Corporation, would pass to her stepfather, who had manifestly
neither the will nor the special capacity to carry on the work.
She was convinced that Sir Vernon would change his will; and
she could see but one man whom he was now likely to make
heir to his wealth and position. Carter Woodman had the
talent and the knowledge to run the Corporation as a business,
if not as an artistic success. Would Sir Vernon put Wood-
man in Prinsep's place? Joan hated the very idea; for she
believed in the Brooklyn Corporation as an artistic venture,
and she had always somehow both disliked and distrusted
Carter Woodman. She would have found it difficult to give
a definite reason for her dislike, and she admitted that she
was perhaps unfair; but there it was. She hoped Carter
would not get the job, and she was sure that, however success-
ful he might be commercially, his accession to power would
put an end to all hope of artistic success. Still, she told
herself, it was no business of hers, and she would certainly
not try to influence Sir Vernon in any way. She supposed


284 The Brooklyn Murders
he would make Wobdman his heir; for there was no one else.
Against her will, the thought of Ellery came into her mind.
He would be, would he not?—she seemed to be arguing with
a non-existent adversary—just the man to carry on Sir Ver-
non's great artistic enterprises. Joan found herself building
up quite a romance on the basis of Robert Ellery's succession
to control of the great Brooklyn enterprise. How well he
would do it! And then she reminded herself sharply that
she had no right to entertain such ideas, and that, in any case,
she certainly could not say a word on Bob's behalf to Sir
Vernon. No, Carter Woodman would get the job. Joan
sighed as she resigned herself to the inevitable. But despite
her good resolutions, she was still thinking what an excellent
successor to Sir Vernon Robert Ellery would make, when she
was told that he was waiting to see her. She brushed the
thought she had been entertaining out of her mind, and, dress-
ing hastily—for she had breakfasted in bed—went down to
see him.
“Well, my dear, what news?” he asked.
“My dear Bob, I’ve had a beastly night, and I feel utterly
washed out. And my thoughts keep on going round and
round in a circle.”
“Poor darling,” said Ellery. “You are having a time.”
“And yet, Bob, it's odd how little it all matters now I
have you.”
“I must give you a kiss for saying that, my dear. And I
must try to live up to it.”
“Dear boy,” said Joan, and then for a few minutes they
managed to get along without the need for words. Joan was


Robert Ellery's Idea 285
the first to rouse herself. “My dear Bob,” she said, “this is
a fine way of wasting time. I thought our job was to find out
who did it.”
“My dear child, I’ve been thinking all the time. It's won-
derful how putting my head on your shoulder clears my
brain. Now I’m ready to behave like a real scientific detec-
tive.”
“I think you'll do it better if you sit a little farther off.
Now, my lad, what do you think about it?”
“I think just this, Joan. I think I know now who did it.”
Joan gave a gasp. “You know who did it!” she repeated.
“Well, I don't know; but I think I have a very good idea.”
“Do you mean you've got some evidence at last. Who
was it, Bob? Tell me.”
“No, I haven't any fresh evidence yet. I’ve just been
thinking. But I believe it was”—Ellery paused—“Carter
Woodman.”
Joan gave a half-cry of surprise. “Bob, Bob, you can't
mean that. Whatever makes you say such a thing? My
dear boy, it's quite absurd.”
“Why is it absurd, Joan º'
“Well, Carter's a member of the family, and one of our
oldest friends, and—but what's the use of discussing it?
Why, he was here yesterday.”
“He may be here to-day, dear; but I don’t see what that has
to do with it.”
“But Carter's been helping the police all through.
He’s 33
“Isn't that just what he would do if he were guilty?”


286 The Brooklyn Murders
“My dear Bob, this is absurd. We know that Carter was
in the Cunningham Hotel all the evening. He couldn't have
done it. Reall >>
“Do you think that the man who was clever enough to
fasten all that suspicion on your stepfather wouldn't be clever
enough to provide himself with a passable alibiž”
“Oh, yes. But all this doesn't tell me why you suspect
Carter. Put it out of your mind, Bob. I know you don't
like him, but that doesn't mean that he has committed mur-
der.”
“I’ve said to myself already everything that you are saying
now. But I still believe that he did it.”
“Why, Bob? Have you any reason—any proof at all, I
mean?”
“No, I’ve no proof; but I’ve an idea. It's a question of
elimination. If nobody else did it, then he did.”
“But, my dear boy, what possible motive could he have had?
People don't commit murders just for fun. Do be reason-
able. Carter was on quite good terms with both George and
John, and he had no reason for killing either of them.”
“Do you mean that, Joan'?” said Ellery, with a sense of
disappointment. “I hoped you would be able to explain to
me what motive he could have had. Come now, doesn't he
really stand to gain something—I mean, don't you think Sir
Vernon may make him his heir, or something of that sort?”
Joan paused. “Yes, Bob,” she said, with a sigh. “There
I think you're right. Sir Vernon will very likely put Carter
in John's place, I should imagine. But—”
“Well, isn’t that a motive?”
“No, my dear, it isn't. After all, we don't know that he


Robert Ellery's Idea 287
will, and I’m quite sure people don't commit carefully planned
murders just on a chance like that. Really, Bob, it's ridic-
ulous.”
Ellery said nothing, but got up and strode across the room.
Then he turned and faced Joan. “Look here,” he said,
“supposing we hadn't cleared old Walter, and he had been
put out of the way as well as Prinsep and George. Who'd
have been the heir then—the next of kin, I mean?”
“Oh, Carter, I suppose. But you don’t suggest 35
“My dear child, we've been a pair of fools. By George,
I wasn't sure; but I’m sure now. What you've just said
makes it clear as clear.”
“Makes what clear?”
“Why, the motive. Of course, I ought to have seen it
before.”
“Ought to have seen it before? Ought to have seen what?”
“Why, whoever murdered John and George did his best to
throw the suspicion on your stepfather, didn't he?”
“Yes, I suppose he did.”
“And if your stepfather had been convicted, Woodman
could have stepped into Sir Vernon's shoes without a word said
as the next heir.”
“When Sir Vernon died—yes. Probably, he could.”
“And wasn't all this the surest way of hastening his end?
But that is not my point. As long as Walter Brooklyn was
likely to be convicted, the man I suspect stood to inherit Sir
Vernon's money, and to step at once into Prinsep's shoes.
He had murdered two of the people who stood in his way,
and he did his best to murder the third judicially by faking
up evidence against him. If Walter Brooklyn was convicted,


CHAPTER XXVIII
THE superiNTENDENT's THEORY
HEN Inspector Blaikie reported to Superintendent Wil-
son the results of his conversation with Carter Wood-
man, he had formed no definite theory. He explained without
comment the precise terms of the will, stating that, if Walter
Brooklyn had been removed, Carter Woodman, as next of kin,
would have became the principal beneficiary. He was not pre-
pared for the conclusion which his superior immediately drew
on hearing that this was the case.
“Then Carter Woodman is the murderer,” said the superin-
tendent, with an air of finality. “If we had known these facts
before, it would have saved a world of trouble.”
“But,” said Inspector Blaikie, “Carter Woodman appears to
have a perfect alibi. He was in the Cunningham Hotel at the
time when the murders were committed—at least that seemed to
be an undoubted fact when we investigated his movements.”
“My dear inspector, it does not follow that, because Walter
Brooklyn's alibi proved to be sound, all alibis are therefore
equally sound. I do not need to remind you that alibis can be
faked.”
“Quite so, sir; but aren't you rather hasty in leaping to the
conclusion that Woodman is guilty? We have really nothing
against him, except a suggestion of motive. As matters stand
now, he has gained absolutely nothing by the murders.”
292


The Superintendent’s Theory 293
“Perhaps not, though it is not safe to be too sure on that
point. We may not know all the circumstances. But, if you
are right, don't you see that the very fact that, as matters stand
now, he has gained nothing, is a very strong reason for sus-
pecting him?”
The inspector failed to follow this reasoning. “Why do you
say that?” he asked. “I can’t see it at all.”
“Well, it is clear that the murderer, whoever he was, did his
level best to get Walter Brooklyn hanged. Who stood to gain
by getting Walter Brooklyn out of the way?”
“I see. Carter Woodman. Yes, I follow now.”
“That is one strong point against him. Here is another.
Do you remember where Walter Brooklyn thought he had left
his stick on Tuesday afternoon? He went back to look for it,
you remember.”
The inspector thought for a moment. “In Carter Wood-
man's office,” he said at last.
“Well, then, isn’t it clear that he did leave his stick in Wood-
man's office? Woodman found it, but denied the fact when
Walter called to fetch it, and told him he must have left it in
the taxi. Then Woodman deliberately planted the stick on the
scene of Prinsep's murder.”
“That's pure hypothesis. I don't say it isn't true; but—”
“It's more than hypothesis: it is divination. Surely you see
that it must be what happened.”
“I expect, as usual, you are right,” said the inspector. “But
will it convince a jury? I have tried all I know to get any
evidence showing when the stick was left; but not a trace can I
find. A jury will regard it as a pure hypothesis.”
The superintendent sighed. Juries are sadly lacking in ap-


294 The Brooklyn Murders
preciation of the subtleties of reasoning. “You’re quite right
there,” he said. “My divination won't hang Carter Woodman.
But it convinces you as it convinced me. We have to get faith
in our own knowledge before we can make a case that will per-
suade others. You and I now have that faith. We know that
Carter Woodman is guilty.”
“But even you can't prove it.”
“Not yet; but it will be proved. And now I come to a third
point. You remember that written message that was found in
the garden near George Brooklyn's body—the scrap of paper
you picked up. It was in Prinsep's writing.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Have you thought any more about that scrap of paper, or
have you just assumed that it was a request by Prinsep that
George Brooklyn should meet him in the garden?”
“There didn't seem to be much to be gleaned from it.”
“There I think you are wrong. I want to know exactly
when that piece of paper was found, and by whom.”
“We found it in the garden that morning, when we were
looking for clues after finding George Brooklyn's body.”
“Who actually found it?”
“I suppose I did. No, I remember now, it was Carter
Woodman who directed my attention to it. It was lying in a
corner of the summer-house—the place they call ‘the temple.’”
“My dear inspector,” said the superintendent excitedly, “do
you realise the significance of what you have just said.
Woodman took good care that you should discover that piece of
paper, because he had put it there for you to find.” The super-
intendent said these last words slowly, and with very great
emphasis.


296 The Brooklyn Murders
den.—J.P.” There may have been a date, too, at the top of
the note.”
“You mean that this note, though it was written by Prinsep,
was not written with reference to the particular occasion we are
concerned with.”
“Precisely. Now, I suppose there is no hope of our finding
the missing part of that memorandum slip; but I am convinced
that is what happened.”
" The inspector made a sudden exclamation. “Good Lord!
what a fool I have been,” he said.
“How do you mean?” said the superintendent sharply.
“Why, I actually found what must have been the missing
part of the slip when I was searching Prinsep's room. I
thought nothing of it at the time.”
“You have it now 7"
The inspector shook his head ruefully. “No,” he said, “it
has gone west. When I searched the room, I naturally looked
in the grate. There had been a fire, and on the hearth was a
half-burnt scrap of paper.”
“What was on it?”
“Nothing but the name of a day at the head—Monday, it
was—and one word. The rest was burnt. It had evidently
fallen out of the grate.”
“The word was $"
“‘Man.’ Just ‘man,’ nothing else.”
The superintendent gave an excited laugh. “Now I know
what the note contained,” he said. “Monday, Dear Woodman,
Meet me in the garden.—J.P.” How does that strike you?
The note was from Prinsep to Woodman; but it was written
on the day before the murders. Lord, what a pity you didn't


The Superintendent’s Theory 297
keep the fragment. My dear inspector, never destroy any-
thing. That is the only safe course for a man like you.”
“I did show it to the sergeant, sir,” said the inspector, con-
siderably crestfallen at his superior's tone.
“Come, that's a bit better. The judge will probably accept
your combined testimonies. It's a great pity, though, you
didn't realise the importance of that scrap of charred paper.
However, for our own purposes at ieast I think we can take it
as proved that Woodman deliberately prepared and planted
that note on the scene of the crime, believing that the other
piece was safely burnt in the fire in Prinsep's room. Our case
against Woodman is mounting up. Come, inspector, you must
follow up these new clues at once.”
“Don’t forget Woodman's alibi. That still holds unless we
can shake it.”
“It must be your next business to shake it. We now know
that Woodman did leave the Cunningham Hotel that evening.
It is your job to discover how he left it and how he got into
Liskeard House. Make these the next points, inspector.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“And there is one other matter I should tell you about,
though, in the light of our discoveries, it is now probably of
quite minor importance, I think. Still, we must not be
too cocksure, or neglect any fact that may possibly bear on the
case. If we are right about Woodman, then he planned the
whole affair very carefully; but he took a big risk all the same.”
“Having you to reckon with, yes.”
“Well, I doubt if a man would take a risk of that magnitude
without some very urgent reason—such as grave and immedi-
ate financial embarrassment. I want you to look into Wood-


298 The Brooklyn Murders
man's record, make inquiries about him in the city, and see if
he appears to be in Queer Street, or anything of that sort.”
“It wouldn't prove anything if he were.”
“No; but it would greatly strengthen our case on the ques-
tion of motive. It's worth looking into, at all events. And
now, inspector, I won't keep you. There's work to do; and
you had best be getting about it. And I want to do some more
thinking in this case. It gets interesting.”
ºw


302 The Brooklyn Murders
not conclusive, and Ellery was fairly well pleased with the
result of his visit. But he had not yet done. According to
Woodman's story, he had written his letters in a small and
little used writing-room on the first floor, at the opposite end
of the hotel from his own rooms, but quite near the basement
stairs, to which another small flight of stairs led directly from
the first floor almost from the writing-room door. Ellery went
into the writing-room and found it deserted. He remembered
that Woodman had stated that he had had it to himself
throughout the time he had spent there.
Ellery had no definite idea that the writing-room would
yield a clue, but he thought that he might as well have a look
round. He glanced at the blotting pads which lay on each
table, only to see that the blotting paper was evidently changed
very frequently. But, picking up one of the blotters he
discovered that, while the top sheet was practically clean, the
old used sheets of blotting paper had been left underneath.
Rapidly he examined every sheet. On several he saw marks
of Carter Woodman's writing, and of his large bold signature.
This, however, showed only that Woodman often used the
room. So far it bore out his story. The pads bore impres-
sions of several other handwritings; but only one other re-
curred frequently. Ellery was able to make out the signature
by holding the paper up to the light. The writing was cu-
rious and quite unmistakable. The name of the writer was
Ba Pu–evidently an Oriental.
Ellery had an idea. It was a chance and no more; but he
made up his mind to see Ba Pu, if he was still in the hotel,
and to put a few questions. Returning to the hall he asked
the porter the number of his room.


The Lie of the Land 303
“Oh, you mean the Burmese gentleman,” said the porter.
“He has a suite on the first floor. His sitting-room is No.
17. He came in only a few minutes ago.”
Ellery made his way to No. 17 and knocked. The Burmese
—a small, dark-skinned man with curious twinkling little eyes
and quick movements—was in his room and received him with
ready courtesy. Ellery presented his card and apologised for
intrudng upon him.
“Oh, no,” said the Burmese. “You not intrude. Very
please.”
“You may think it very strange of me,” said Ellery, “but
may I ask you a question without explaining fully why I ask
it? It is on a matter of real importance.”
“Ask. Yes,” said the Burmese. “I help if I can.” He
spoke English quickly and jerkily, but he evidently understood
the language well. “I very glad meet you, Mr. Ellery. I
Burmese, come here study the British conditions. Go back
Burma tell my people all about this country. You help me.
I help you.”
“Then that is a bargain, and I can ask you my question
at once. Did you use the writing-room opposite here at any
time on the evening of Tuesday, the 17th of this month?”
“Why, that the very day I come here. Yes, I use him that
night. I came here study your conditions. I want meet all
your famous men. I go there write letters ask them meet
me. I write your Mr. Bernard Shaw, your Mr. Wells, your
Mr. Arnold Bennett.” -
Ellery interrupted. “Can you tell me at what time that
evening you were in the writing-room?”
“Yes, I tell you. I come here to stay. Evening I wish


3O4 The Brooklyn Murders
write letters. I wish at once to meet your famous men. I go
to writing-room door. I peep in. I see gentleman there, writ-
ing. He not notice me; but I shy. I steal away.”
“What time was that?”
“Eleven by the clock—no earlier. It was what you call
eleven less a quarter.”
“I see, about 10.45.”
“Yes. I go back to my room and I wait. I leave door
open and soon I see gentleman come out of writing-room and
go downstairs. Then I go in. I write my letters.”
“Do you know when that was?”
“I go back to writing-room a few minutes after I go back
to my room. About eleven of the clock—it was then.”
“And how long did you stay there?”
“I stay there long time—what you call the three-quarters
of hour, perhaps.”
“And then you came back to your room?”
“Yes. I come back here.”
“You did not see the gentleman who was in the writing-
room again.”
“Yes, I see him. He come upstairs there, outside my door,
just after I get back to my room.”
“You left the door open then.”
“Yes. There was no air. It is what you call stuffy here.
I see him go into writing-room.” -
“And that was the last you saw of him?”
“Yes. But he stay in hotel. I see him later—days later—
often times.”
“Then you would recognise him if you saw him. Is this


The Lie of the Land 305
he?” and Ellery passed a photograph of Carter Woodman to
the Burmese.
“Yes, that he.” And then the Burmese smiled blandly and
added, “And now you tell me why you wish know this.”
“I would rather not tell you just yet, Mr. Pu, if you will
forgive me. All I can say is that what you have told me
affects a man’s life.”
“You not want to tell me, you not tell me. But you help
me get interview with Mr. Bernard Shaw. I help you. You
help me. See?”
Ellery promised his good offices—for what they were worth.
“And Mr. H. G. Wells?”
Ellery again promised with rather more hesitation, to do
what he could.
“And Mr. Bennett?”
This time Ellery, foreseeing further additions to the list,
suggested that he should come back and have another talk
with Mr. Pu in a day or two. He would certainly do any-
thing possible to help him.
“And Mr. Bertrand Russell?” the Burmese was saying, as
Ellery managed to talk himself out of the room.
Here at last, Ellery said to himself, as he left the hotel,
was proof, proof positive, even all but certainty. Woodman
had lied about his doings on Tuesday evening, and his alibi
was a fake. At the time when he had said that he was writing
letters in the small writing-room he was really somewhere else.
He had left the writing-room at a few minutes before eleven,
and he had only returned to it, by the stairs which led directly
to the basement, about three-quarters of an hour later. The


CHAPTER XXX
A LETTER AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
NE of Joan's duties, during these troublous days, was
to deal with Sir Vernon's private letters. The manage-
ment of the Brooklyn Corporation had passed, for the time
being, into the hands of a subordinate; but there were many
private letters to be read and answered. Ill as he was, Sir
Vernon liked to be consulted about some of these; and Joan
always set aside a few to discuss with him each morning. On
the day following Ellery's successful investigation at the Cun-
ningham Hotel, Joan sat opening the letters at breakfast.
Most of them contained little of interest; but there was one,
marked Private, which was clearly of importance. As Joan
read it, she felt that yet another of the clues leading to the
discovery of the murderer had come unexpectedly into her
lands.
The letter was from Sir John Bunnery, the successful solici-
tor, well-known in the sporting world as “the bookmaker's at-
torney,” a nickname which he had earned by his long associa-
tion with legal cases connected with the Turf. Sir John had
been a friend of Sir Vernon's in earlier years; but the two men
had quarrelled many years ago, and since then they had seen
nothing of each other. Carter Woodman, however, was, as
Joan knew, a friend of Sir John's, and she was not surprised
when, glancing down the letter, she read his name.
Sir John Bunnery began by offering his sympathy to an old
307


308 The Brooklyn Murders
friend in the misfortunes which had come upon him, adding
that he hoped their drifting apart of late years would not make
the sympathy less welcome. Then, having said the proper
thing, he came to business. On the previous day, he explained,
a somewhat curious request had come to him from Mr. Carter
Woodman, who had asked for his help in securing a large loan,
stating that there could be no doubt about the repayment of
the money, as full security could be given that far more than
the sum asked for would be available under the will of Sir
Vernon Brooklyn. He, Carter Woodman, was one of the bene-
ficiaries under the will, and he was also in a position to offer,
in return for the loan, the joint guarantee of Mr. Walter
Brooklyn, who had now, in tragic circumstances, become the
principal beneficiary under the will. Woodman stated that he
was Walter Brooklyn's heir, and that he and Walter were pre-
pared to make themselves jointly liable for the repayment of
the sum asked for. Sir John said that he would, of course, be
most pleased to assist Mr. Woodman, who was a personal
friend; but although Woodman had approached him in confi-
dence, and asked him not to mention the matter even to Sir Ver-
non, he had felt it necessary to write equally in confidence to
Sir Vernon in order to ascertain whether Woodman and
Walter Brooklyn were in fact the heirs. Sir Vernon would
understand that he was asking for this information only in
strict confidence, and he—Sir John—would quite accept the
position if the answer was that Sir Vernon did not feel able to
tell him how matters stood. In that case, however, he would
feel compelled to decline to arrange the very large advance—
£60,000—for which Woodman had asked. A hint would be
enough to tell him how he ought to act. Sir John ended with


A Letter and Its Consequences 309
a repetition of his condolences, and expressed the hope, that,
when Sir Vernon was well enough, their old friendship might
be renewed.
Joan read the letter right through with a feeling of bewilder-
ment. What could it all mean? Were her stepfather and
Carter Woodman really acting in collusion in an attempt to
raise money in anticipation of Sir Vernon's death? And, if
they were, what light did their extraordinary proceeding throw
on the murders?
The letter gave Joan a good deal to think about. The in-
formation which Woodman had given to Sir John Bunnery
might, of course, be technically correct. She realised that,
under the existing will, Walter Brooklyn was, now that the two
persons who had stood in his way had been removed, the prin-
cipal beneficiary. But he had become so entirely by an acci-
dent, which was certainly no part of the testator's intention,
and his chance of remaining so depended entirely on Sir Wer-
non's not making a new will in some one else's favour. Wood-
man, of course, might have a good reason for thinking that he
would not do that, even if he were able; but Joan doubted this,
and was more inclined to believe that he was relying on Sir
Vernon's speedy death without making a new will. Walter
had, in any case, only become the heir after the murders. That
was but a few days ago; and he and Woodman had, Joan re-
flected, certainly been quite extraordinarily prompt in trying
to take advantage of the new position. Either they must be
in some terrible financial difficulty, or they must fear the make
ing of a new will, and hope to raise the money before this
could come about.
What surprised Joan far more were the statements that


31o The Brooklyn Murders
Walter had made Carter Woodman his heir. She knew well
that Walter had no love for Woodman; and she at once real-
ised that he could only have taken such a step in return for a
pecuniary consideration. There was obviously, in Woodman's
application to Sir John Bunnery, evidence of a very unpleasant
bargain. The whole letter made Joan very angry indeed.
In any case the receipt of the letter could not but consider-
ably strengthen Joan's suspicions of Carter Woodman. “Of
course,” she said to herself, “he hoped to raise this money with-
out our hearing anything about it.” And she could not help
feeling that it looked very much as if he had deliberately
planned the whole thing in order to lay hands on the money.
But, apart from the effect of the letter upon Joan, what was
likely to be its effect on Sir Vernon? She felt that she must
show it to him; and she did not conceal from herself that she
positively wanted him to see it. For she hardly concealed
from herself now her desire, her hope for Ellery's sake, that
Sir Vernon would alter his will. The effect of Sir John Bun-
nery's letter, she thought, would certainly be to make him very
angry with both Walter Brooklyn and Carter Woodman; and
she felt sure that, ill as he was, Sir Vernon, under the circum-
stances, would lose no time in making a new will. Woodman,
indeed, had, she felt, effectively destroyed his chances of get-
ting the money for the sake of which, if her suspicions were
correct, he had probably done two men to death. Sir John
Bunnery's breach of confidence had hoisted the engineer with
his own petard.
Taking this letter and one or two others from the heap which
lay before her, Joan went up to Sir Vernon's room. She read
him the others first, and received his instructions, or rather his


312 The Brooklyn Murders
the sums there left to them, except that no sum should be paid
to Carter Woodman. A further clause appointed Joan and
Henry Lucas joint executors, and a third, an after-thought,
provided for the payment of a small annuity to Helen Wood-
man. “There is no need for her to suffer for what he has
done,” said Sir Vernon.
Two of the servants were then called in to witness the will,
and Joan, at Sir Vernon's command, took it downstairs and had
it placed at once in the office safe of the Brooklyn Corporation.
“I am easier now in my mind,” said the old man, as Joan
returned from her errand. “You will have to carry on the
Brooklyn tradition now, Joan,” he added. Joan took his hand,
and sat by him, and, in a few minutes he fell asleep. Joan sat
by his side for a while. Then she quietly disengaged her hand,
and left him sleeping. He was tired out; but she believed the
exertion had done him good.
In the lounge Joan found Ellery, in a high state of excite-
ment. “News, darling,” he said. “I have news for you, and
it shows that I was right.”
“I have some news for you, too, my boy. It's a most ex-
traordinary thing that has happened. I’m not so sure as I
was that you were wrong.”
“I think my news makes it simply certain I was right.”
“Bob, Sir Vernon has made a new will, cutting out Carter.”
“My dear, you don't mean to say he suspects?” -
“No, of course he doesn't; but this morning we found out
that Carter and my stepfather are trying—the two of them—to
raise money on the strength of the will.”
“Good Lord, how did you find out that?”


A Letter and Its Consequences 313
“A letter came to Sir Vernon from Sir John Bunnery, saying
Woodman had approached him in confidence for a loan of sixty
thousand pounds, on the joint security of his and my step-
father's expectations. He said my stepfather had made him
his heir.”
“Made whom?”
“Why, Carter. So that he stood to get the money any way.”
Ellery whistled. “My word, the plot thickens. And now
let me tell you my news.”
And so the two lovers exchanged their information. Joan,
in her anger against Carter Woodman, was now a good deal
easier to convince. She admitted at once the force of Ellery's
evidence. If Woodman had lied, it was not likely that he had
lied for nothing. Her anger for the time prevented her from
realising the full horror of the position; but presently it came
home to her. “Oh, poor Helen,” she said, “what are we to
do? It will break her heart.”
“My dear we must clear this thing up now. We can’t leave
it where it stands. You see that.”
Joan pulled herself together. “Yes, I suppose we have to
go through with it.”
“And find positive proof.”
“I suppose we must go on.”
“We can’t prove it yet, you see,” said Ellery. “But we’ve
made a really good beginning on the job of bringing last Tues-
day's business home to Woodman, and we mustn't lose any
time in following up that trail to the end.”
“But how do you propose to follow it up? Haven't you
done all you can there?”


314 The Brooklyn Murders
“No. Don't you see? We must prove that the man the
servants took for George that night when he went out of this
house was really Carter Woodman.”
“That all sounds very well; but I don't see how you're go-
ing to do it.”
“Neither do I; but I mean to have a shot.”
“My dear Bob, let me try. It's my turn to do something.
I have an idea, and I may be able to find out about it.”
“You’re very mysterious. Won't you tell me what the idea
is ?”
“No, Bob. It may come to nothing; and I’d rather try it
myself first. It won't take long to find out. You've done all
the clever things so far; and I think it's my turn for a change.”
“Right you are, Joan. I only hope it's a good 'un.”
“I hope it is; but it's only a chance. You come back here
to-night and I’ll tell you. Besides, I want an excuse for see-
ing you again.”
“Darling,” said Ellery, and their conversation for the next
few minutes can be left to the experienced imagination of the
reader.


CHAPTER XXXI
A BUTTON IN A BAG
S soon as Ellery had gone, Joan put on her things and
walked across to the Cunningham Hotel, where she went
straight upstairs to the rooms occupied by Carter Woodman
and his wife. As she expected, there was no one at home.
Woodman was at his office, and Marian Brooklyn and Mrs.
Woodman were, she knew, away for the day. Joan locked the
two doors opening on the corridor, and had the suite safely to
herself.
It would have been awkward if any one had interrupted her,
for what she did was to make a thorough search of the rooms,
looking particularly at all the articles of male clothing and
going very carefully through Carter Woodman's own be-
longings. Her search was entirely unsuccessful, and, having
replaced everything neatly so that no one would notice that it
had been disturbed, she unlocked the doors and gave it up as a
bad job.
“So much for that little idea,” she said to herself. “I could
never really have.hoped to find it there.”
But was that the end of her idea? As Joan finished her
tidying up she began to hope that it was not. Carter Wood-
man had not been foolish enough to leave what she was look-
ing for in his own rooms; but he must, she said to herself, have
left it somewhere. Where then would he have left it?
3I5


A Button in a Bag 317
again locked the doors. Among the things she had searched
there had been a large hand-bag. She had looked into it, and
found it empty. As the objects she was seeking were bulky
she had not studied it very carefully; but it was just possible
that it might repay further inspection.
But, before Joan could make her search she heard steps
coming along the corridor. Hastily she unlocked the sitting-
room door and hurried into the bedroom. Hardly had she done
so when she saw Carter Woodman come into the room. For-
tunately, the bedroom communicated directly with the corridor;
and Joan, without pausing to make any further examination
or to watch Woodman's movements, let herself out noiselessly
into the corridor and sped down the stairs unobserved. A nar-
row shave, and all, it seemed, for nothing.
Then Woodman's presence in the hotel gave Joan another
idea. If he was there, he was not at his office. Why should
she not complete the task she had set herself by having a look
round there as well? She took a taxi, and, in less than
a quarter of an hour, she was in Woodman’s outer office, and
in talk with his confidential clerk. She was told that Wood-
man was not in, and would not be back until after lunch. She
told Moorman that she could not wait, but that she would like
to go into the inner office and write a note. Moorman at once
showed her in, and withdrew to the outer room.
Joan saw that whatever she did she would have to do
quickly. First, she scribbled a hasty note stating that she had
come to see Woodman to inquire about her stepfather's affairs.
As he was out, however, her business would keep. Having
done this, she cast her eyes quickly round the room. In one
corner was a hat and coat cupboard, and in it was hanging a


318 The Brooklyn Murders
coat of Woodman's. Very quickly she went through the
pockets. The only papers were a number of restaurant bills,
evidently stuffed in hastily and forgotten. Joan confiscated
them, without much hope that they would be of use. Then,
in the bottom of the cupboard, she noticed a hand-bag, twin
brother of the one she had been on the point of examining at
the hotel. Hastily she opened it. Apparently it was empty;
but, feeling round the corners, Joan found a hard object—a
coat button—which she quickly transferred to her purse.
Then, putting back the bag and closing the cupboard, she re-
turned to the outer room. A talk with the clerk might have its
uSeS.
“Mr. Woodman has been looking rather ill just lately,”
Joan began. “Do you think he is really unwell ?”
“I must say, miss, he's not well. Between you and me, miss,
he's been badly worried.”
“About these terrible murders, you mean?”
“About them, miss, and about other things. Mr. Woodman
wouldn't like my saying so, but he has had terrible worries.”
“Oh, dear, I hope nothing serious.”
“Oh, probably not, miss, and you mustn't say a word about
it to any one. I ought not to have said what I did say. But
I’m worried too. You'll be sure not to mention it, miss, won’t
you?”
“All right, Moorman, don't you worry.”
“But, miss, Mr. Woodman is such a short-tempered gentle-
man. And you don't know how angry he'd be if he knew what
I have been saying to you.”
“You’ll have to look after him, Moorman. See that he
doesn't worry too much. By the way, I suppose I couldn't


A Button in a Bag 319
catch him now at lunch. Where does he usually lunch?”
“Generally at the Blue Boar up Holborn, miss. He gener-
ally goes to the Blue Boar every day when he's in this part.”
“If I try there, and don’t find him, where else could I try?
Does he ever go to any other restaurant?”
“I don't quite know where he'd be, miss. One day last week
he went to the Avenue by Hatton Garden. But I don't think
he's been there since. He's never been there but the once to
my knowledge.”
“When was that, Moorman 3”
“As it happens, miss, I can tell you. It was the day we
heard of those terrible murders. Last Wednesday, miss.”
“Thank you, Moorman. I’ll see if he's at either of those
places. If not, I may come back.”
But Joan did not go to either of the places of which Moor-
man had told her. Instead, she went to the nearest telephone
box, and 'phoned to Ellery, who was lunching at his club, to
come at once and meet her outside Chancery Lane Station.
Meanwhile, she went into an A. B. C. and ordered a cup of
coffee. As she waited she took out the coat-button and had a
good look at it.
She was not in much doubt. The button was of a quite pe-
culiar kind—a bright brass button identical with those which
George Brooklyn always wore on his summer evening coat.
Here was luck indeed. According to her theory Carter Wood-
man had been mistaken for George Brooklyn because he had
deliberately come out of Liskeard House wearing George's
coat and opera hat. George was very particular with his dress,
and the coat was quite unmistakable. With these, if not in
them, he must have returned to the Cunningham Hotel, where


A Button in a Bag 321
“Not many, sir. Sometimes a gentleman leaves a coat or
an umbrella; but he generally comes back for it. Gentlemen
sometimes leave things when they're a bit on, sir, if I may put
it so without taking a liberty. But not often, sir. Most of
the customers nere are very regular gents. When things is
left we keep them here for a week or two and then we send
them to the Lost Property Office. Have you lost something,
sir?”
“No, but a friend of mine thinks he left a coat and opera
hat here a week or so ago. Have you found anything of the
Sort 2"
“Yes, I have,” said the porter. “And what's more, I’m
damned, sir—begging your pardon, sir, if I could make it out
at all. Gentlemen don't usually walk about in opera hats at
lunch time, or go away leaving their hats behind. But this
lot was left at lunch-time. I know that, sir, because it weren't
here in the morning, and I noticed it after lunch.”
“Perhaps it had my friend's name in it.”
“No, sir, that it hadn't. I searched that coat, and not a
name nor a scrap of paper was there on it. A pair of gloves
and a few coppers was all it had in it.” -
“Wasn’t there a name in the hat either?”
“No, there wasn't, or we would probably have found the
owner by now.”
“Well,” said Ellery. “I’m going to take you into my confi-
dence. I believe that coat and hat did belong to my friend,
and I want you to let me have a look at them. The matter is
more important than it sounds, for if it is the coat I think it
may be the clue to the discovery of a murderer.”
“Lord, sir, you don't say so.” The attendant’s face bright-


A Button in a Bag 325
“No, Bob, I don’t think it is good enough—for proof, I
mean—unless we can prove that Carter was in Liskeard House
that evening. If we could prove that, I agree that we could
bring the whole thing home to him.”
“But we know he went out of the Cunningham, and lied
about where he had been.”
“We know he lied, but we can’t even prove that he went
out of the hotel. We only showed that he could have got
out, and in again, without being seen. It really isn't good
enough—yet.”
“But how are we to make it any better?”
“If Carter got back into Liskeard House I’m going to find
out how he did it. He couldn’t have come in by the front
door—some one would have been certain to see him. And
I’m fairly certain he couldn't have got in through the theatre
without being seen.”
“Then how on earth did he get in?”
“That's what I mean to find out. If he didn’t come in the
other ways, he must have come in through the coachyard.”
“But surely the evidence at the inquest showed that it was
all locked up, and no one could possibly have got in that
way.”
“My dear Bob, the evidence only showed that it was locked
at eleven o'clock. The police theory was that the murders
were somewhere about midnight. But we believe Carter got
out of the Cunningham some time before eleven. He must
have come through before it was locked. And we know now,
thanks to that coat-button, how he got out.”
“You may be right. But the chauffeur and his wife both
said they didn’t see any one come in before they locked up;


326 The Brooklyn Murders
so that, even if Woodman did come that way, I don't see
how we can prove it. .
“You are a Jeremiah. Of course I don’t see either. But
I haven't really tried yet, and I’m going to. And now, Bob,
let's pay our bill, and get to work on it. It must be so, and
I'm not going to believe it can't be proved.”


CHAPTER XXXII
sIR John BUNNERY
Bºok: Joan and Ellery parted, they arranged what each
should do next to clear up the remaining difficulties.
Joan was to test her theory about the coachyard, while Ellery
was to investigate the circumstances surrounding the extraor-
dinary attempt of Woodman and Walter Brooklyn to
raise a loan in anticipation of Sir Vernon's death. Wood-
man had approached Sir John Bunnery; and Sir John's sub-
sequent letter to Sir Vernon seemed to make it worth while
to find out what information he possessed. Ellery made up
his mind to go and see Sir John; and Joan furnished him
with a convenient pretext for doing so. Sir Vernon had de-
termined to get his new will into proper legal form at the
earliest possible moment, and had told Joan that Woodman
must on no account be allowed to do the drafting of it. She
had suggested that Sir John Bunnery might be called in,
and Sir Vernon had readily agreed. Joan therefore commis-
sioned Ellery to call on Sir John, and ask him to come to
Liskeard House at his earliest convenience for the purpose
of drawing up Sir Vernon's new will.
Ellery wrote on his card, “From Sir Vernon Brooklyn,”
and, aided by the name, was speedily shown into Sir John
Bunnery's private office. Sir John was not at all the popular
idea of what “the bookmaker's attorney” ought to be. He was
327


Sir John Bunnery 331
strength of their expectations from Sir Vernon. That was all
he told me.”
Sir John stopped.
“Is that all you know?” asked Ellery, with an air of
disappointment.
“No, of course, it's not all. You just wait a minute, young
man. Don't be impatient.” Sir John glared for a few sec-
onds at his visitor and, then continued: “I may say that
Woodman already owed me a considerable sum, in connection
with a business transaction. So I thought it wise to make a
few inquiries about him in the city, and I may tell you, young
man, that the fellow's bankrupt—positively bankrupt—a shil-
ling in the pound affair or something like it. Speculation, of
course. He can't hold out for more than a few days. There
are men on the Stock Exchange who know that for a fact.”
“So that Woodman would be very likely to take some des-
perate step in order to retrieve his fortunes?”
“Such as coming to me and trying to raise money under
false pretences. The man's a damned scoundrel,” said Sir
John.
“Surely murder is worse than raising money on false pre-
tences, Sir John.”
“Oh, is it, young man? Of course, you know all about
it. I only know that the fellow ought to be locked up.
That's enough for me. I might have lent him the money as
a friend.”
“But surely, Sir John, when you found out all this about
him, you wouldn't have considered lending him the money.”
“Of course, I did not consider it. Not for a moment, I


332 The Brooklyn Murders
never meant to lend him another penny. I wrote that letter of
mine simply to put Sir Vernon on his guard. I would have
gone to the police; but, as I told you, I saw no reason why
I should get myself mixed up in the affair. But it would have
outraged my legal sense if that man had got Sir Vernon's
money by means of some jiggery pokery with that other old
scoundrel, Walter Brooklyn. So I wrote to Sir Vernon. You
see my position?”
“If that is your position, I don't quite see why you are
telling me all this now.”
“I am telling you, young man, because I had no suspicion
that he had committed murder as well. If that is the case,
a man of that sort is too dangerous to be left loose. He
might be murdering me next, or Sir Vernon. But now you are
going to tell me all about your case against him.”
Ellery saw that it was best to tell the whole story, and he
did tell most of it. Sir John listened, only interrupting
every now and then with a pertinent question. At the end,
his only comment was,
“H'm, not so bad for amateurs. And now, my fine young
man, what are you going to do next? If I'm to be the family
lawyer, that is a point which concerns me. Is it to be a first-
class family scandal, eh?”
“Really, we have been so busy trying to discover the truth,
that I don’t think we have ever considered what to do after-
wards.”
“Humph, but you will have to consider it now. Do you
think Sir Vernon is anxious to have another scandal in the
family? If you do, I don't.”


Sir John Bunnery 333
“I suppose the murderer will have to be brought to jus-
tice.”
“You do, do you? And doubtless you look forward to
appearing in court and showing how clever you have been.”
“Really, Sir John, I look forward to nothing of the kind.
If Carter Woodman could be put out of the way of further
mischief without dragging the whole affair into court, I
should ask for nothing better.”
“How much of what you have found out is known to the
police?”
“Nothing at all, I believe. Of course, some other people—
the manager at the Avenue, for example—know something of
the story.”
“They can be dealt with. Well, young man, you think it
over, and come back and talk to me before you say a word to
the police. Bring your Miss Cowper, too, if you like. I'm
told she's a pretty girl.” And with those words the old law-
yer held out his hand, and bustled his visitor out of the office.
Ellery left Sir John Bunnery's presence feeling as if he
had been bruised all over. He had found out what he wanted,
but not at all in the way he had intended. And now this
masterful old man apparently meant to take full command
of the case. He must see Joan, and tell her what had hap-
pened. -


CHAPTER XXXIII
ON THE TILES
NSPECTOR BLAIKIE had received very definite instruc-
tions from the superintendent as to the course of investi-
gation which he was to follow up. He was to find out all he
could about Woodman's financial circumstances, and he was
to seek for proof that Woodman had been in possession of
Walter Brooklyn's walking-stick. Side by side with this line
of investigation, he had intended to look further into his own
private suspicions of Ellery; but these, which had been almost
removed by his last talk with the superintendent, were finally
dispelled by a further talk with William Gloucester. Ellery's
alibi was good enough: Carter Woodman was the man whose
every concern he must scrutinize if he would find the murderer.
It did not take the inspector long to prove beyond doubt
that Woodman was in a state of serious financial embarrass-
ment. Discreet inquiries in the city showed that he had been
speculating heavily in oil shares, and that he stood to lose a
large sum on the falling prices of the shares which he had
contracted to buy. There was nothing to show directly that
he had staked his clients', as well as his own, money on the
fate of his dealings; but the inspector could make a shrewd
guess at the state of his affairs. In all probability, he must
either raise money at once, or else face ignominious collapse,
and perhaps worse. It was definite that he had been putting
334


338 The Brooklyn Murders
conversation towards the business on which he had come.
In a very few minutes he was shown into Woodman's private
office.
Looking his man up and down, he noted, as the inspector
had noted before him, the powerful physique, the straining
witality, the false geniality of Woodman's manner. But he
could see also that the man was seriously worried. There
was, for all his appearance of heartiness, a harried look about
him, and he seemed preoccupied as, with an excellent assump-
tion of business incapacity, his visitor began to unfold a long
story about a lease and a mortgage which he wished to nego-
tiate. Woodman listened with growing impatience, as the
superintendent meant that he should. At length he inter-
rupted, saying that the details could be dealt with later. His
visitor was most apologetic—never had a head for business,
but positively must get the matter dealt with that day. He
lived away in the country—Mr. Amos Porter of Sunderling in
Sussex was his description for the nonce—and he would not
be in town again for weeks. Woodman finally suggested that,
as there was other work he must do, Mr. Porter should settle
the details with his clerk—an excellent man of business, who
would be able to tell him all he wanted. Mr. Porter, after
a perfunctory attempt to go on with his explanation to the
principal, agreed; and he was soon back in the other office
with Moorman.
Mr. Porter had left his hat, coat, and stick in the outer
office when he went in to see Woodman, laying the stick on
a chair and covering it with his coat. His business with
Moorman was soon done, and he crossed the room to get his
things. By a curious accident, while he was struggling into


On the Täles 339
his coat, he dropped his stick at Moorman's feet. Moorman
picked it up, but as he was passing it back to its owner, he
started violently and almost dropped it.
“A queer old stick, is it not?” said Mr. Porter. “I value
it highly for its associations.”
Moorman peered at him oddly. “I beg pardon, sir, but
isn't that the stick a gentleman I know used to carry?”
“No, no. I’ve had this stick for years. I bought it in—
let me see, where did I buy it? Never mind. I had no idea
there was another like it. That is most interesting. May I
ask who uses such a stick?”
“The gentleman's name is Brooklyn—Mr. Walter Brook-
lyn. He had one very like yours.”
“God bless my soul! Not the fellow whose name has been
in all the papers? Dear me, what was it about? I know
it was in the papers.”
“Mr. Brooklyn was suspected—wrongly—of murder.”
“Oh, yes, I remember now. And you know Mr. Brooklyn?
How interesting.”
Moorman lowered his voice. “He was in the office with that
stick on the very day on which the murders were committed.”
“Dear, dear. It is coming back to me. There was some-
thing about the stick in the papers. How odd it should be
like mine.”
“It was found in the room where one of the murders took
place.”
“And you saw Mr. Brooklyn with the stick when he left this
office the same day. Dear me, that must have looked very
bad for him. But he was released, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, the police let him go.”


On the Täles 341
bushes had been searched for possible clues. He assumed that
they had—it was an elementary precaution—but he had best
have a hunt round himself. Something might have been
overlooked. He went down the private staircase into the gar-
den, and began his search.
Nothing rewarded his efforts, though he spent a good hour
searching; and it was with a puzzled expression that he went
upstairs again to Prinsep's room, resuming his stand at the
window and gazing out. Suddenly something seemed to catch
his attention. Leaning as far out of the window as he could,
he studied intently what he could see of the roof. “It’s just
a possibility,” he muttered, as he closed the window, and
crossed the room.
What Superintendent Wilson had remarked was that al-
most on the level of Prinsep's window was the roof of that
part of the house which projected over the stable-yard. It
was not near enough for any entry to the room to be effected
by its means; but it was easily within reach of a throw, and
an object cast away upon it would be completely invisible and
safely disposed of until some day, probably distant, when the
roof might need repair. It was an admirable place for the
bestowal of any inconvenient piece of property.
By means of the landing window, the superintendent found
his w y without much difficulty out on to the roof, and was
easily able to climb over its gabled side to the flat space in
the centre. And there at last his efforts were rewarded; for on
the roof lay, clearly just where it had been thrown, a small
bag heavily loaded, not with sand, but with small shot—a
deadly weapon. Stuffing the thing into his pocket, the superin-
tendent climbed back with more difficulty, and shut the window


344 The Brooklyn Murders
House towards the back. The ground floor of this was oc-
cupied by store-rooms, accessible only from the yard; but be-
tween these a passage led through directly into the garden.
Above were rooms belonging to Liskeard House, whose win-
dows looked out only upon the garden.
Joan, as she stood in the yard, noticed first that, if the outer
door were open, and the yard itself empty, as at this moment,
there was nothing to prevent any one from walking straight
through into the garden; for, as she knew, the gate leading to
the garden, though it was shut, was never locked save at night.
The big front gates of the yard stood open most of the day;
and, in any case, the small gate beside them was not locked
until the whole place was shut up for the night. A man wish-
ing to get into the garden would only have to watch until the
yard itself was, empty, and he would then have every chance
of getting through without being observed. In the chauffeur's
apartments above the garage, only one window looked down
on the yard, and this, as Joan knew, was a tiny spare room,
seldom occupied. Even if Woodman had come in by this way,
there was only a very slender chance that he had been noticed.
The chauffeur came into the yard from the garage, and Joan
entered into talk with him. Usually, he locked up, when no
one had the car out in the evening, at half-past nine or ten.
On this occasion, Lucas's car had been in the garage during
dinner, and he had kept the place open after Lucas went in
case any one might want a car out. He had locked the whole
place up at eleven o'clock, and had then gone straight to bed.
Had any one, Joan asked, entered by the yard entrance before
he locked up? He had seen no one; but he had not been in
the yard all the time. He went away to ask his wife, and


348 The Brooklyn Murders
tell him. Inspector Blaikie retired from the contest beaten,
but warning her that he would call again.
He did not, however, retire so far as to prevent him from
seeing that, as soon as she believed herself to be alone, the
chauffeur's wife hurried into Liskeard House by the back way,
and went straight up the back stairs. Putting two and
two together, he speedily concluded that she had gone to see
Joan Cowper, and that Joan probably knew all that she
knew, and had told her to keep quiet about it. The inspector
made up his mind to see Joan as soon as the woman had
gone.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Purvis was telling Joan about the inspec-
tor's visit, and begging pardon for having let her tongue wag
in the servants’ hall. “But I didn't tell him nothing, miss.
You can rest assured of that. I sent him away with a flea
in his ear, miss.”
At this moment Ellery was announced. Joan dismissed
Mrs. Purvis with a further caution to say nothing for the
present. As soon as she had gone, Ellery told Joan of his
visit to Sir John Bunnery, and of the fact that Woodman had
been in serious financial straits before the murders took place.
“It seems to be true enough, about your stepfather making a
will in his favour. It's all very odd: I don't understand it a
bit.”
“I’m afraid there's almost nothing he wouldn't do for
money—except murder,” said Joan.
“Old Sir John seemed to think that murder was quite a
venial offence in comparison with getting money by false pre-
tences,” Ellery answered, laughing.
“Don’t be silly, Bob, I've found out how Carter got into


An Order for Bulbs 355
taxi drew up at the door, and out of it stepped no less a per-
son that Superintendent Wilson. While they were debating
whether to speak to him, his quick eye caught sight of them,
and, rapidly walking a little way along the street in order to be
out of view, he beckoned them to come.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
In a few words the men told him that Inspector Blaikie,
and Joan and Ellery as well, were inside, and that they had
received instructions to remain on the watch, and to follow
Woodman if he came out. The superintendent thought
rapidly. If he went in, it would be obviously impossible to
maintain his alias of Mr. Porter, and he ran the risk of inter-
rupting a most important conversation. If, on the other hand,
he stayed outside, what blunder might not be committed in
his absence? Telling the men to remain on guard and follow
the inspector's instruction, he entered the building.
He did not, however, go to the door of Woodman's outer
office. Instead, he went along the corridor to where, as he re-
membered, the private door from Woodman’s inner sanctum
gave on the passage. There he paused and listened. Some
one was speaking within; but not a word was audible through
the stout door. There was no keyhole, and nothing was to be
seen either. The superintendent must fare further, to the
back of the building, if he sought to find out what was in
progress in Woodman's room. There might be a window,
looking on the room, through which he could watch
unobserved. He soon found a back-door, leading into a small
flagged yard at the rear of the building. It was locked; but
the key was in place. Unlocking it he slipped out into the
yard, and easily located the window of Woodman's room.


CHAPTER XXXVI
AN AFTERNOON CALL
ARDLY had Joan and Ellery passed from the outer
office into Woodman's private room when the inspector
entered the room they had left, and asked if Mr. Woodman
was in. Moorman, who had met the inspector several times
lately, saw nothing strange in the visit, and merely replied that
his employer was in, but that he was at the moment engaged.
“If you care to wait, sir, I dare say he won't be long.”
Blaikie said that he would wait, and Moorman thereupon
suggested that he should go in and tell his principal that the
inspector was there. But the inspector told him not to bother:
he would take his chance when Woodman was free. He sat
down, therefore, to wait in the outer office, improving the min-
utes by conversing with the loquacious old clerk about his
employer's affairs.
Meanwhile, Joan and Ellery were seated with Carter Wood-
man. He had greeted them rather effusively on their en-
trance; and, in Moorman's presence, they had thought it best
to shake hands and behave as if nothing were the matter.
Woodman had placed chairs for them, and had again sat
down at his desk. While they spoke he continued for a while
mechanically opening, and glancing at, the pile of letters be-
fore him.
It was Joan who spoke first. “We have come here,” she
357


358 The Brooklyn Murders
said, “because it seemed the only thing to do. When we have
heard what you have to say we shall know better what our
next step must be.”
Something in her voice caused Woodman to look up sharply.
The tone was hard, and a glance at his two visitors showed
him that their errand was not a pleasant one. But he looked
down again and went on opening his letters without making
any sign.
“We have to tell you,” Joan went on, “that we know now
who killed John Prinsep and poor George.”
Woodman gave a start as she spoke; but all he said was,
“Then, my dear Joan, you know a great deal more than I do.”
“I will put it in another way,” said Joan. “We know that
you killed them.” She got the words out with an effort,
breathing hard and clutching the arm of the chair as she
spoke.
Woodman dropped the letter he was holding and looked
straight at her.
“My dear Joan,” he said, “are you quite mad? And you
too, Mr. Ellery?”
“No, we're not mad. We know,” said Ellery, with a short,
uneasy laugh—a laugh that grated.
Woodman looked from the one to the other.
“I fear you are both mad,” said he very quietly. “And
now, will one of you please tell me what you mean by this
extraordinary accusation?”
“You had better hear what we have to say before you
start protesting,” said Ellery. “Let me tell you exactly what
happened at Liskeard House last Tuesday. Then you will
see that we know, You are supposed to have been at your


An Afternoon Call 359
hotel in the small writing-room on the first floor between
10.45 and 11.30, or after.”
“So I was, of course.”
“But we can produce a gentleman who was in the writing-
room between those hours, and can swear that you were not.”
“Oh, I may have slipped out of the room for a while. But
it is preposterous 33
“You had better hear me out. This gentleman saw you
leave the writing-room and go downstairs at a few minutes
to eleven. Shortly after, he went to the room himself and
remained there three-quarters of an hour. He saw you return
to the writing-room rather before a quarter to twelve.”
“This is pure nonsense. But what of it, even if it were
true?”
“This. When you left the room you went down to the
basement of the hotel, which was deserted, and let yourself out
by unbarring the side door leading from the Grill Room into
St. John's Street. You also returned that way shortly after
half-past eleven.”
“Again, I say that you are talking absolute nonsense. But,
if it pleases you, pray continue this fairy tale.”
Joan took up the story. “You walked across to Liskeard
House, and entered the garden through the coach-yard shortly
before it was locked for the night. I will pass over what you
did next; but at a time shortly before half-past eleven—prob-
ably about a quarter-past—you put on John Prinsep's hat
and coat and walked up and down the garden, imitating his
lameness, in a spot where you could be seen from the back of
the theatre. You then went upstairs to John's room, and
delivered, imitating my stepfather's voice, a false telephone


364 The Brooklyn Murders
“Yes, yes. Haven't I said so? But there are some things
not even you seem to know.”
“Won't you tell us them, Mr. Woodman, just to make our
story complete?” said Ellery. “Remember that we are pro-
posing to let you go. We are taking some risks in doing
that.”
“Not for my sake, I’ll be bound. But I don’t mind telling
you. What do you want to know?”
“How the murders were actually done.”
“Oh, I have no objection to telling you. Indeed, I flatter
myself the thing was rather prettily arranged.”
Woodman had almost regained his outward composure and
spoke with some of his accustomed assurance.
“I went into the garden of Liskeard House, just as you
said, by the coach-yard. I have no idea how you discovered
that. Then I went straight up the back stairs to Prinsep's
room. No one saw me go upstairs, I take it, or you would
have mentioned the fact. I found Prinsep at his table writ-
ing. I laid him out with a big blow on the back of the head.”
“With what weapon?”
“With a sand-bag. Then it has not been found? I threw
it out afterwards on to the roof of the stables out of sight.
Then, as I wasn’t sure if he was dead, I made sure with a
knife I found lying on the table. It belonged, I knew, to
George Brooklyn. I don't know how it got there. It wasn’t
part of my plan. I finished him off with that, and went out
on to the landing. Just then I heard some one coming up-
stairs. It was George Brooklyn. Until that moment I had
no definite intention of killing George that night. I meant
to leave signs which would show that George and Walter had


366 The Brooklyn Murders
“I suppose you can put it that way,” said Ellery.
“Well, I can't go without money. That's the position.
And I want a good lot. I can't lay hands on money at short
notice, and you will have to find it. Besides, remember that,
if you don't accuse me, I am still Walter Brooklyn's heir, and
he is Sir Vernon's. I understand it is most unlikely Sir Ver-
non will live to make another will. Now, how much can you
provide—and how soon? That is the business proposition we
have to settle between us. I am prepared to disappear for
the present, and I will go further, for a suitable consideration—
and promise never to come back to this country. But my
condition is that I get half of whatever comes to Joan when
Sir Vernon dies. How does that strike you?”
Joan had listened with a feeling of nausea to Woodman’s
confession. But now she broke in indignantly. “I am
afraid,” she said, “that you are a little after the fair. It is
quite true that, under my stepfather's new will, you appear to
be the principal heir. It is also true that my stepfather stood
to inherit a large sum of money, until Sir Vernon made a
new will.” Joan said these words very slowly and distinctly.
As Woodman heard them the colour, which had quite come
back, faded again from his face, and he stared at her with a
consternation that deepened as she went on.
“We had not quite finished our story. After your wicked
bargain with my stepfather you attempted to raise money on
the strength of being his, and therefore indirectly Sir Vernon's,
heir. I know how hard up you were—indeed pressure from
creditors will, I hope, provide a good enough reason for your
absconding now. If you choose to spread the report that you
have died abroad, we shall certainly not object. But you will


372 The Brooklyn Murders
dent Wilson. “But it made a case, with certain other points
which you probably know as well as I–Woodman's financial
difficulties, and so on. I had not, however, finished my case.
In fact, when I came here, I was pursuing my investigations.
Your presence and that of the inspector were quite unexpected.
Indeed, I may say that you interrupted me.”
“Sorry and all that,” said Ellery. “But, you see, we had
finished our case, and proved Carter Woodman's guilt so that
he knew the game was up. Hence the end of the story as
you saw it just now.”
“I suggest, Mr. Ellery—and Miss Cowper—that, in view of
what we both know, the only possible course is to pool our in-
formation. I have told you my evidence. Will you be good
enough now to tell me yours?”
Joan and Ellery looked at each other, and Joan nodded.
They both realised that it was inevitable that they should tell
Superintendent Wilson all they knew.
“You tell him, Bob. I'm not up to it,” said Joan, smiling
faintly. “But, superintendent, you realise, don't you, how
anxious we have been that this horrible story should not come
to light. It has caused misery enough already: the telling
of it will only cause more.”
“I understand,” said the superintendent.
“Then can't we still keep it to ourselves?” said Joan,
with a note of hope in her voice.
The superintendent shook his head. “I suppose you realise,”
he said, “that you have both committed a very serious offence.
But I won't be too hard on you—especially as you have shown
yourselves such creditable amateurs in my line of business,”
he added with a smile. “But I am afraid the whole
St
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A Happy Ending 373
story must come out now. There is really no question about
that.” -
“But surely,” said Joan, “there's no one to try now: so you
can't have a trial. I don't see why you should want to drag
the whole beastly story to light. It will 32
“Pardon me, Miss Cowper. There will have to be an in-
quest on Carter Woodman, and you and Mr. Ellery will have
to tell what you know.”
“But can't we say he committed suicide—it's quite true, he
did, and leave it at that,” said Joan. *.
“Yes,” Ellery put in, “and give evidence about his em-
barrassed financial position as a reason for taking his life.”
“Quite impossible,” said the superintendent. “I fear the
story must come out; but, as there will be no trial, there will
not really be very much publicity. You will do best to tell
the whole story at the inquest. It will all blow over very
soon.”
“But what about poor Helen—I mean Mrs. Woodman?”
said Joan. -
“I am afraid she will have to bear it as best she can.”
So it was done. At the inquest the whole story was told,
both by Joan and Ellery and by Superintendent Wilson. The
papers the next day were full of it, and full, too, of compli-
ments both to the professionals and to the amateurs on the
skill shown in unravelling the mystery. But that same day
came a parliamentary crisis. The old Prime Minister resigned,
and a new one—in the name of conservatism and tranquillity—
took his place. Parliament was dissolved, and the drums beat
and beacons flared in anticipation of an “appeal to the people.”


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