Murder
John Prinsep was a man who valued punctuality and cultivated regular
habits, both in himself and in others. At 10.15 punctually each night
a servant came to him to collect any late letters for the post.
Thereafter, unless some visitor had to be shown up, he was left
undisturbed, and no one entered his flat on the second floor of
Liskeard House until the next morning. The servants, who slept on the
floor above, had access to it by a staircase of their own, and did not
need to pass through Prinsep’s quarters.
No less regular were the arrangements for the morning. At eight
o’clock precisely, Prinsep’s valet called him, bringing the morning
papers and letters and a cup of tea. At the same time, other servants
began the work of dusting and cleaning the flat, a long suite of rooms
running the whole length of the house. Prinsep’s bedroom, opening out
of his study, and accessible also from the end of the long corridor,
was a pleasant room looking out over the old garden towards the back
of the theatre.
On the morning after the birthday dinner, Prinsep’s valet approached
the bedroom door with some trepidation, for he had overslept himself
and was at least five minutes late—an offence which his master would
not readily forgive. Repeated knocks bringing no reply, Morgan slipped
into the room, only to find that the bed had not been slept in, and
that there was no sign that Prinsep had been there at all since he had
dressed for dinner on the previous evening. Closing the door, Morgan
walked back along the corridor to consult his fellow-servants. He
found Winter, who was superintending the dusting of the drawing-room.
“Did you see the master last night?” he asked. Winter answered with a
nod, and added, “Yes, I took some letters from him for the post as
usual.”
“Did he say anything about going out? His bed has not been slept in,
and he’s not in his room this morning.”
Winter replied that Prinsep had said nothing, and the two men walked
down the corridor together to take a look round.
At this moment there came a terrible scream from the study, and a
scared maid-servant came running out straight into Morgan’s arms. “Oh,
Mr. Morgan—the master,” she sobbed, “I’m sure he’s dead.”
The two men-servants made all haste into the study. There, stretched
on the floor beside his writing-table lay John Prinsep. A glance told
them that he was dead, and showed the apparent cause in a knife, the
handle of which protruded from his chest, just about the region of the
heart. Morgan went down on his knees beside the body, and felt the
pulse. “Get out quick,” he said, “and stop those girls from kicking up
a row. He’s dead, right enough.”
Morgan’s voice was agitated, indeed; but it hardly showed the grief
that might have been expected in an exemplary valet mourning for the
death of his master. Winter made no reply, but left the room to quiet
the servants. Then he came back and telephoned first for the police
and then for the dead man’s doctor, who promised to be with them
inside of half an hour. As he sat at the telephone he warned Morgan.
“Don’t disturb a thing. If we’re not careful one of us may get run in
for this job.”
Morgan meanwhile had satisfied himself beyond a doubt that Prinsep was
dead. Leaving the body he turned to Winter. “Some one will have to
tell Miss Joan, I suppose. I’ll go and find her maid. Meanwhile you
stay on guard here.”
Winter’s guard was not for long. In less than ten minutes Morgan
returned. “I’ve seen Miss Joan,” he said, “and she’s gone to tell Sir
Vernon. Here are the police coming upstairs.”
The telephone message had, by a lucky accident, found Inspector
Blaikie already at Vine Street, and it was he, with two constables and
a sergeant, who had come round to the house at once. The constables
remained downstairs, while he and the sergeant made a preliminary
examination. Winter told him that nothing had been disturbed, except
that they had touched the body in order to make sure that Prinsep was
dead, and used the telephone to communicate with the doctor and the
police.
“No doubt about his being dead,” said Inspector Blaikie, after a brief
examination of the body. “Dead some hours, so far as I can see. And no
doubt about the cause of death, either”—and he pointed to the knife
still in the body. “Has either of you ever seen that knife before?”
Both Winter and Morgan took a good look at the shaft, but disclaimed
ever having seen the knife. “It wasn’t his—I can tell you that,” said
Morgan. “I know everything he had in the study, and I’m dead sure it
wasn’t here yesterday.”
“Hallo,” said the inspector suddenly, “this is curious. There’s a mark
on the back of the head that shows he must have been struck a heavy
blow. It might have killed him by itself—must have stunned him, I
should say. Well, we’ll leave that for the doctors.” So saying, the
inspector got up from his knees and began to make a minute examination
of the room. “Here, you two,” he said to Morgan and Winter, “clear out
of here for the present, and stay in the next room till I send for
you.”
Inspector Blaikie was a careful man. Everything in the room was
rapidly submitted to a detailed examination, the results of which the
sergeant wrote down as his superior dictated them. They were neither
surprisingly rich nor surprisingly meagre. Of fingermarks there were
plenty, but these might well prove to be those of Prinsep himself, or
of other persons whose presence in the room was quite natural.
Identifiable footmarks there were none.
Robbery, unless of some special object, did not appear to have been
the motive of the murderer. Considerable sums of money were in the
drawers of Prinsep’s desk; but neither these nor the other contents of
the drawers seemed to have been in any way disturbed. A safe stood
unopened in a corner of the room. The dead man’s watch and other
valuables had been left intact upon him. Either the murderer had left
in great haste without accomplishing his purpose, or that purpose did
not include robbery of any ordinary kind.
Inspector Blaikie directed his special attention to the papers lying
on the dead man’s desk, which he seemed to have been working upon when
he was disturbed. These, it did not take the inspector long to
discover, related to the financial affairs of Walter Brooklyn who, as
he soon ascertained later by a few questions, was the brother of Sir
Vernon, a man about town of shady reputation, and known to be head
over ears in debt. The papers seemed to contain some sort of abstract
statement of his liabilities, with a series of letters from him to Sir
Vernon asking for financial assistance.
“H’m,” said the inspector to himself, “these may easily have a bearing
on the case.”
But there were other interesting discoveries to come. The inspector
was now informed that the doctor had arrived. He ordered that he
should be shown up immediately, and suspended his examination of the
room to greet the new-comer. Dr. Manton had been for some years the
dead man’s medical adviser; but no other member of the Brooklyn family
had been under his care. Something in common with him had perhaps
caused Prinsep to forsake the staid family physician in his favour;
but this hardly appeared on the surface. Prinsep was heavily built and
sullen in expression: Dr. Manton was slim built and rather jaunty,
with a habit of wearing clothes far less funereal than the normal
etiquette of the medical profession seems to dictate. He entered now,
flung a rapid and seemingly quite cheerful “Good-morning,
inspector—bad business this, I hear,” to Blaikie, and went at once
down on his knees beside the body. “Bad business—bad business,” he
continued to repeat to himself, in a perfectly cheerful tone of voice,
as he made his preliminary examination. He made a noise between his
teeth as he touched the hilt of the knife still embedded in Prinsep’s
chest: then, as he saw the contusion on the back of the head, he said
“H’m, h’m.” Then he relapsed into silence, which he broke a moment
later by whistling a tune softly to himself.
“Well,” said the inspector, “what’s the report?”
The doctor made no answer for a moment. Then he said, “Have him
carried into the bedroom. I want to make a fuller examination. I’ll
talk to you when I’ve done.”
“Very well,” said the inspector; and he went to the door and called to
the sergeant to bring up the two constables to move the body. Heavily
they marched into the room, lifted up the dead man, and bore him away,
the doctor following. But, as they raised the body from the floor, an
interesting object came to light. Underneath John Prinsep’s body had
lain a crumpled pocket-handkerchief. The inspector pounced upon it. In
the corner was plainly marked the name of George Brooklyn.
“Who’s George Brooklyn?” Inspector Blaikie called out to the doctor in
the adjoining room. The doctor came to the door, and saw the
handkerchief in the inspector’s hand. “Hallo, what’s that you’ve got?”
he said. “George Brooklyn is Prinsep’s cousin, old Sir Vernon’s other
nephew. An architect, I believe, by profession.”
“Thanks. This appears to be his handkerchief,” the inspector answered.
“It was under the body.”
“H’m. Well, that’s none of my business,” said the doctor, and turned
back into the bedroom.
There, a minute or two later, Inspector Blaikie followed him, leaving
the sergeant on guard in the room where the tragedy had occurred. But
first he carefully packed up and transferred to his handbag the
handkerchief, the papers from the desk, and certain other spoils of
his search.
“Well, what do you make of it now?” he asked Dr. Manton.
The doctor had by this time drawn the knife from the wound, and this
he now handed silently to the inspector, who examined it curiously,
felt its edge, and finally wrapped it up and put it away in his bag
with the rest of his findings. Then he turned again to the doctor.
“A shocking business, inspector,” said the latter, still with his
curiously cheerful air, “and, I may add, rather an odd one. The man
was not killed with the knife, and the knife wound has not actually
touched any vital part. He was killed, I have no doubt, by the blow on
the back of the head—a far easier form of murder for any one who is
not an expert. It was a savage blow. The wound in the chest, I have
little hesitation in saying, was inflicted subsequently, probably when
the man was already dead. As I say, it would not have killed him, and
there are also indications that it was inflicted after death—the
comparative absence of bleeding and the general condition of the
wound, for example.”
“H’m, you say the man was killed with a knock on the head, and the
assassin then stabbed him in order to make doubly sure.”
“Pardon me, inspector, I say nothing of the sort. I say that the blow
on the back of the head was the cause of death, and that the knife
wound was, in all probability, subsequent. Anything about assassins
and their motives and methods is your business and not mine.”
“I accept the correction,” said the inspector, smiling. “But the
inference seems practically certain. Why else should the murderer have
stabbed a dead man?”
“I have no theory, inspector. I simply give you the medical evidence,
and leave you to draw the inferences for yourself.”
“But perhaps you can give me some valuable information. I believe you
were Mr. Prinsep’s doctor.”
“Yes, and I think I may say a personal friend.”
“What sort of man was he? Anything wrong, physically?”
“No; there ought to have been, from the way he used his body. But he
had the constitution of an ox. He limped, owing to an accident some
years ago. But otherwise—oh, as healthy as you like.”
“And, apart from that, what was he like?”
“I got on well with him; but there were many who did not. A tough
customer, hard in business and not ready in making friends.”
“What terms was he on with his family—with Mr. George Brooklyn, for
instance?”
“Come now, inspector, this is hardly fair. I barely know George
Brooklyn. I don’t think he and Prinsep liked each other; but there had
been no quarrel so far as I know. I suppose you are thinking of the
handkerchief.”
“I have to think of these things.”
While he was speaking the inspector opened his bag and took out the
knife again.
“A curious knife this,” he said. “Perhaps you can tell me whether it
is a surgical instrument.”
“Not so curious, when you know what it is. I do happen to know, though
it has nothing to do with my profession. My son is a mechanical
draughtsman, and he has several. Knives of this type are sold by most
firms which supply architects’ and draughtsmen’s materials.”
“H’m, what did you say was Mr. George Brooklyn’s profession?”
“I believe he is an architect, and a very promising one.”
“That, doctor, may make this knife a most valuable clue.”
“I do not choose to consider it in that light. Clues are not my
affair, I am glad to say.”
“Well, they are my business, and I shall certainly have to make
further inquiries about Mr. George Brooklyn.”
“Oh, inquire away,” said the doctor. “But I fancy you will find George
Brooklyn quite above suspicion.”
The inspector’s eyes showed, just for an instant, a dangerous gleam.
Then, “And is there anything else you can tell me?” he asked.
“Nothing else, I think,” said the doctor. “I’m afraid you won’t find
it much of a clue.” And with that and a few words more about the
necessary inquest, the doctor took his leave.
The inspector went back into the study. “Ask those two men who are
waiting to step in here, will you?” he said to the sergeant. Morgan
and Winter were duly brought in. “Sergeant, while I talk to these two
men, I want you to make a thorough examination of the rest of the
house. Leave nothing to chance. House and garden, I mean. And make me
a sketch plan of the whole place while you’re about it.”
“Now,” said the inspector, when the sergeant had withdrawn, “there are
a number of questions I want to ask you. First, who, as far as you
know, was the last person to see the deceased alive? Which of you was
in charge of the front door last night?”
“I was, sir,” replied Winter.
“Well, then,” said the inspector, “I will begin with you. Morgan can
go back to the other room for the present, and I will send for him
when I want him. Now, when did you yourself last see Mr. Prinsep?”
“At 10.30 last night, sir, when I went up to fetch his letters for the
post.”
“Did you notice anything unusual, or did he make any remark?”
“He just gave me the letters. He didn’t say anything. He seemed in a
bad temper, but that was nothing out of the ordinary.”
“I see. There was nothing remarkable. Do you know if any one saw him
after you?”
“Yes, sir. At about a quarter to eleven Mr. George Brooklyn called and
asked for Mr. Prinsep. I told him I thought Mr. Prinsep was in, and he
said he would find his own way up.”
“And do you know when Mr. George Brooklyn came out?”
“Yes, I happened to catch sight of him crossing the hall to the front
door about three-quarters of an hour later—somewhere about half-past
eleven. We were in the dining-room clearing up, and several of us saw
him go out.”
“You say ‘clearing up.’ Had there been some entertainment in the house
last night?”
“Yes, sir. It was Sir Vernon Brooklyn’s family party. His seventieth
birthday, sir. Besides those in the house there were Mr. and Mrs.
George, Mr. Carter Woodman, sir—the solicitor, who is also Sir
Vernon’s cousin—and his wife, and Mr. Lucas—and, yes, Mr. Ellery.”
“When did they leave?”
“They all left a minute or two after ten o’clock. Mr. and Mrs. George
and the Woodmans are staying at the Cunningham, sir, and they walked.
Mr. Lucas—the playwriter, sir—he went off in his car to Hampstead, and
Mr. Ellery, he walked off in a great hurry.”
“So far as you know, no one besides Mr. George Brooklyn saw Mr.
Prinsep after 10.15.”
“No. Of course, Miss Joan or Miss Woodman or Sir Vernon may have seen
him without my knowing.”
“One more question. Do you recognise this walking-stick?” The
inspector had found this lying on the floor of the room. It might be
Prinsep’s; but it was best to make sure.
“No, sir. I’ve never seen it to my knowledge. But it may have been Mr.
Prinsep’s, for all that. He had quite a number.”
“You’ve no idea, then, whose it was?”
“No, sir. Mr. Prinsep used to collect walking-sticks. He was always
bringing new ones home.”
“Now, I want to ask you another question. You see this knife—the one
that was sticking out of the body. Have you ever seen it before?”
Winter’s manner showed some hesitation. At length he said, “No, I
can’t say I have. I mean, it wasn’t here to my knowledge yesterday.”
“You seem to hesitate in answering. It’s a curious sort of knife.
Surely you would remember if you had seen it. Or have you seen one
like it?”
“Must I answer that question, sir? You see, I’m not at all sure it was
the same.”
“Of course you must answer. It is your business to give the police all
the help you can in discovering the murderer.”
“Well, sir, all I meant was that I’d often seen Mr. George Brooklyn
using that sort of knife when he was doing his work—he’s an
architect—down at Fittleworth. He used to bring his work down when he
came to stay with Sir Vernon, and I know he had a knife like that.”
“I see. But you can’t say whether this is his.”
“No. It might be; but all I know is it’s the same pattern.”
“And that’s all you can tell me, is it?” Winter said nothing, and the
inspector added, “Very well, that will do. Now I want to ask Morgan a
few questions.”
Morgan had little light to throw upon the tragedy. He had been out all
the previous evening, after helping his master to dress for dinner,
when he had noticed nothing extraordinary. He had come back soon after
11.30, and had gone straight to bed. Where had he been? He had spent
the evening with friends at Hammersmith, had come back by the Tube
with two friends, who had only left him at the door of the house.
There he had met Winter and had gone upstairs with him to bed.
Asked if he knew the walking-stick, he was quite sure that it was not
his master’s, and that it had not been in the room on the previous
day. About the knife he knew nothing, except that he had never seen
it, or one like it, before.
The inspector had just finished his examination of Morgan when he was
startled by a shout from the garden. Throwing up the window, he called
to a constable who was running towards the house. The man’s answer was
to ask him to come as quickly as possible. Calling another constable
to keep guard in the study, Inspector Blaikie hastened to the garden,
directed by Morgan to a private stairway which led directly to it from
the back of the house. This, Morgan informed him, was Mr. Prinsep’s
usual way of getting into the garden, and thence, by the private
covered way, into the Piccadilly Theatre itself.
But before inspector Blaikie left the study, he did one thing. He
’phoned through to Scotland Yard, and made arrangements for the
immediate arrest of George Brooklyn, who was probably to be found at
the Cunningham Hotel.