What Joan Found in the Garden
Joan Cowper usually knew her own mind. And, in her view, knowing your
own mind meant knowing when to stop as well as when to go on. She had
made her position clear at the dinner, and Sir Vernon could no longer
pretend, she said to herself, that her marriage with Prinsep was a
foregone conclusion. Sir Vernon, indeed, had said nothing more about
the matter when she took him to his room in the evening, and they had
separated for the night apparently on the best of terms. But Joan had
known that she must prepare for a stormy interview on the morrow; and,
as she dressed in the morning, her thoughts were running on what she
should say to Sir Vernon, in answer to the reproaches he was sure to
address to her.
Just as she was ready for breakfast, her scared maid came to her door,
and said that Morgan wished to speak to her for a moment. Joan looked
at the girl’s face, and saw at once that something serious was amiss.
“Why, what’s the matter?” she said.
“I don’t know, miss; but there’s something wrong upstairs, and they’re
sending for the police.”
Joan hurried to the room where Morgan was waiting for her. With the
impeccable manner of the good manservant, and almost without a shade
of feeling in his voice, Morgan told her what had happened—how he and
Winter had found Prinsep lying on the floor of his study, dead.
“You are sure that he is dead,” she managed to ask. “Have you sent for
a doctor?”
Morgan assured her that everything was being attended to, and said
that he had come to her because some one would have to break the news
to Sir Vernon. Would she do it?
Into Joan’s mind came the thought of the interview she had expected,
and of the interview she was after all to have. No question now of her
marrying John Prinsep—there was no longer any such person as John
Prinsep to marry.
“I suppose I must do it,” she said.
Joan’s composure lasted just long enough for the door to close behind
Morgan. Then she flung herself down on a couch, and let her feelings
have their way. She sobbed half hysterically—not because, even at this
tragic moment, she felt grief for John Prinsep, but simply because the
sudden catastrophe was too much for her. Tragedy had swooped down in a
moment on the house of Brooklyn, sweeping out of existence the crisis
which had seemed so vital to her only a few minutes ago. On her was
the sense of calamity, bewilderment, and helplessness in the face of
death.
She had felt no call to ask Morgan questions. John Prinsep’s death—his
murder—was a fact—a shattering event which must have time to sink into
her consciousness before she could begin to inquire about the manner
of its coming. She did not even ask herself how it had happened, or
who had done this thing. As she lay sobbing, the one thought in her
mind was that Prinsep was dead.
But soon that other thought, that call to action which had been
presented to her at the very moment when Morgan told her the news,
came back into her mind. She had given way; but she must pull herself
together. Sir Vernon, old and weak as he was, must be told the news;
and she must tell him. She must tell him at once, lest tidings should
break on him suddenly from some other quarter. Already the police were
probably in the house. With a powerful effort, Joan forced herself to
be calm. Drying her eyes, she stood upright, and looked at herself in
the glass. She would need all her power to break the news to the old
man whom she loved—the old man who had loved John Prinsep far more
than he loved her.
John Prinsep had been Sir Vernon’s favourite nephew—the man who was to
succeed him—had indeed already succeeded him—in the management of the
great enterprise he had built up. He liked George and Joan; but
Prinsep had always had the first place in both his affection and his
esteem. This death—this murder—Joan told herself, might be more than
he could bear. It might kill him. And it fell to her, who only the
night before had flouted his will by refusing to marry John Prinsep,
to break to the old man the news of his favourite’s death.
Still, it had to be done, and it was best done quickly. Sir Vernon
always lay in bed to breakfast, and it was to his bedroom that
Joan went with her evil tidings. She did not try to break it to
him gradually—she told him straight out what she knew, holding
his hand as she spoke. He looked very old and feeble there in the
great bed. But he took it more quietly than she had expected, unable
apparently to take in at once the full implication of what she said.
“Dead—murdered,” he repeated to himself again and again. He lay back
in the bed and closed his eyes. Joan sat beside him for a while, and
then stole away. His eyes opened and he watched her to the door; but
he did not speak.
Joan’s first act on leaving Sir Vernon was to telephone to the family
doctor—old Sir Jonas Dalrymple—and ask him to come round as soon as he
could. Then she felt that she must have air: her head was swimming and
she was near to fainting. So she went down the private staircase and
out into the old garden which, now as ever, seemed so remote from the
busy world outside. For some minutes she walked up and down the avenue
of trees, along which were ranged the antique statues Lord Liskeard
had brought home from Asia Minor. Then, in search of a place where she
could sit and rest, she went towards the model temple which the same
old scholar-diplomat had built to mark his enthusiasm for the world of
antiquity.
But, as Joan came nearer the temple she saw, in the entrance, some
indistinct dark object lying upon the steps. At first she could not be
sure what it was; but, as she came close, she became sure that it was
the body of a man, lying with the feet towards her in an unnatural
attitude which must be that of either unconsciousness or death. Her
impulse was to turn tail and run to the house for help; but, with a
strong effort of will, she forced herself to go still nearer. It was a
man, and the man, she felt sure, was dead. The face was turned away,
lying downwards on the stone of the topmost step; and on the exposed
back of the head was the mark of a savage blow which had crushed the
skull almost like an egg-shell. Already Joan was nearly certain who it
was, and an intense feeling of sickness came over her as she forced
herself to touch the body and to turn it over enough to expose the
face. Then she let the thing drop back, and started back herself with
a sharp cry. It was her cousin, George Brooklyn, manifestly dead and
no less manifestly murdered, who lay there on the steps of the Grecian
temple.
Filled as she was with horror at the second tragedy of the morning,
Joan did not lose her presence of mind. She staggered, indeed, and had
to cling for a minute to the nearest of the old statues—the Hercules
whose points John Prinsep had showed off to his guests only the night
before. The tears which she had been keeping back burst from her now,
and the weeping did her good. She regained her composure and realised
that her first duty was to summon help. Slowly and unsteadily she
walked towards the house. At the door leading to the garden she met
one of the policemen who was helping the sergeant in his examination
of the house. She tried to speak, but she could only utter one word,
“Come,” and lead the way back to the horror that lay there in the
garden.
The policeman followed her. But as soon as they came in view of the
temple and he saw what she had seen already, he ceased to advance.
“One moment, miss,” he said, “I must fetch the sergeant,” and he
started back to the house in search of his superior.
Joan stood stock still, only swaying a little, until the policeman
came back with the sergeant. Then she watched the two men go up to the
body, turn it over slightly to see the face, and then let it fall
back.
“Begging pardon, miss,” said the sergeant, turning to her, “but maybe
you know who this gentleman is?”
With a violent effort Joan managed to answer, “George—my cousin—Mr.
George Brooklyn,” she said; and then, overcome by the strain, she
fainted.
The sergeant was a chivalrous man, and he instantly left off his
examination of the spot and came to Joan’s help. Propping up her head
he fanned her rather awkwardly. As he did so, he shouted to the
policeman. “Don’t stand there, you fool, looking like a stuck pig. Go
and get some water for the lady.”
The constable set off at a run, lumbering heavily over the grass. “And
tell the inspector what’s toward,” shouted the sergeant after him. It
was this shout that the inspector heard, and that made him throw up
the study window and receive at once the constable’s message.
By the time Inspector Blaikie reached the garden, the constable had
returned with a glass of water, and Joan had recovered consciousness.
She was sitting on the grass, her back propped against the pedestal of
the statue, and the sergeant was trying to persuade her to go indoors.
The inspector, after a hasty glance at the scene, added his
entreaties; but Joan refused to go.
“No, I must see this through,” she said, as to herself. “I’m all right
now,” she added, trying to smile at the police officer. “Let me alone,
please.” After a time they left her to herself and pursued their
investigation of the crime.
Not only were the fact and manner of death plain enough: the actual
weapon with which the blow had been dealt was also clearly indicated.
Between the body and the statue lay a heavy stone club, evidently a
part of the group of statuary against which Joan was resting. It was
the club of Hercules, taken from the hand of the stone figure which
stood only a few feet away from the body. On the club were
unmistakable recent bloodstains, and clotted in the blood were hairs
which seemed to correspond closely with those of the dead man.
The blow had been one of immense violence. The stone club itself was
so heavy that only a very strong man could have wielded it with
effect; and it had evidently been brought down with great force on the
back of George Brooklyn’s head by some one standing almost immediately
behind him, but rather to the right hand. So much appeared even from a
cursory inspection of the wound. It was also evident that the body did
not lie where it had fallen. It had been dragged two or three yards
along the ground into the temple entry, presumably in order that it
might be well out of the way of casual notice. The dragging of it
along the ground had left clear traces. A track had been swept clear
of loose stones and rubble by the passage of the body, and two little
ridges showed where the stones and dust had piled up on each side.
George Brooklyn was fully dressed in his evening clothes, just as he
had appeared at dinner the night before. He had evidently come out
into the garden without either hat or overcoat—or at least there was
no sign of these on the scene of the crime. His body lay where it had
been dragged—presumably by the murderer; and all the evidence seemed
to show that death had been practically instantaneous. There was no
sign of a struggle: the only visible mark of the event was the trail
left where the dragging of the body had swept clear of dirt and
pebbles the stone approach to the model temple.
All these observations, made by the sergeant within a minute or two of
discovering the body, were confirmed by the inspector when he went
over the ground. Footmarks, indeed, were there in plenty; but Joan
explained that they had all been walking about the garden before
dinner on the previous evening, and that nearly all of them had
actually stood for some time just outside the porch of the temple.
From the footprints it was most unlikely that any valuable evidence
would be derived.
Had the situation been less grim Inspector Blaikie would have been
inclined to laugh when he found that the man whose body lay in the
garden was the very man for whose arrest he had just issued the order.
His fear had been that George Brooklyn would slip away before there
was time to effect an arrest. That fear was now most completely
removed. If George Brooklyn had killed Prinsep upstairs, certainly
fate had lost no time in exacting retribution.
The inspector’s immediate business, however, was to see what clues to
this second and more mysterious murder might have been left. And it
soon appeared to him that valuable evidence was forthcoming. First, on
the stone club, his skilled examination plainly revealed a fine set of
finger-prints, blurred in places, but still quite decipherable.
Moreover, these prints occupied exactly the spaces most natural if the
weapon had been used for a murderous assault. The inspector carefully
wrapped up the club for forwarding at once to the Finger-Print
Department at Scotland Yard.
But good fortune did not end there. Close to the statue of Hercules
from which the club had been taken he found, trodden into the ground,
a broken cigar-holder. It was a fine amber holder, broken cleanly
across the middle. Where the cigar was to be inserted was a stout gold
band, and on this band was an inscription, “V.B. from H.L.” Blaikie
looked in vain for a cigar end. Probably the holder had dropped from a
pocket and been trodden upon. Perhaps from the pocket of the murderer
himself.
The inspector turned to Joan with his find.
“Have you ever seen this before?” he asked.
Joan gave a start of surprise. For a moment she stared at the
cigar-holder without saying a word. Then she spoke slowly, and as if
with an effort.
“Yes,” she said. “Uncle Harry—I mean Mr. Lucas—gave it to Sir Vernon;
but Mr. Prinsep always used it. I saw him using it last night.”
“Miss Cowper,” said the inspector, “this may be very important. Are
you quite sure that you saw Mr. Prinsep using this holder last night,
and, if you are, at what time?”
“Yes, quite sure. He was smoking a cigar in it when he went up to his
room.”
Joan had stayed in the garden while the inspector was examining the
ground, because she seemed to have lost the power of doing anything
else. If she went in she must go and tell Sir Vernon of this second
tragedy, or else talk to him in such a way as deliberately to keep him
in ignorance of it. The strain in either case would be, she felt, more
than she could bear. It was better even to stay near this horrible
corpse, and to watch the police making their investigations.
Meanwhile, Dr. Manton, and with him a police surgeon, had come into
the garden and were making an examination of the body. When they had
done, two stout constables placed it on a stretcher and carried it
into the house. Joan followed almost mechanically, leaving the
inspector still in the garden.
As she entered the house Winter told her that Mrs. George Brooklyn and
Mrs. Woodman were upstairs with Miss Woodman, and that Carter Woodman
had telephoned to say that he was coming round at once. He had just
heard, at his office, the news of Prinsep’s murder; but of course he
would know nothing yet of George’s fate. And then it occurred to Joan
that Mrs. George, who was upstairs, had probably heard nothing as yet
of her husband’s death. Was she to break the news again—this time to a
wife whose love for her husband had been so great as to become a
family proverb? “As much in love as Marian.” How often they had
laughed as they said it; and now it came home suddenly to Joan what it
meant. Still, she must go upstairs and see them—tell them, if need be.
She found that they knew already. They had seen from a window the
excitement in the garden, and Mary Woodman had run down to find out
what the trouble was. So Mary had had to tell Mrs. George, and there
they were sitting in silence, waiting for news that could be no worse,
and could be no better.
Joan shortly told them what she knew. Marian listened in silence,
sitting still and staring at nothing with a fixed gaze. She did not
weep: she was as if she had been turned to stone. Joan thought that
she looked more beautiful now than she had ever looked on the stage,
when she set a whole theatre crying for the sorrows of some queen of
long ago. She longed to offer comfort, but she dared do nothing.
Complete silence fell on the room.
Meanwhile, below, Carter Woodman had arrived. He heard from Winter at
the door the news of the second tragedy of the morning. At first he
seemed half incredulous; but he was soon convinced that there was no
room for doubt. With a sentence expressing his horror, he hurried
through into the garden in search of the inspector, whom he found
still seeking for further traces of the crime.
Carter Woodman took the position by storm. His tall, athletic presence
dominated the group of men gathered round the statue. He insisted that
he must hear the whole story, demanded to know what clues the police
had found, and so bullied the inspector and everybody else as to get
himself at once very heartily disliked. Before he had half done the
police were quite in a mood to convict him of the murder, if they
could find a shred of evidence.
But they had to respect his energy; for it was he who pointed out to
them something which they had overlooked. It was a scrap of paper
lying on the floor of the temple, seemingly blown into a corner, just
beyond where the body had lain. A leaf clearly from a memorandum book,
and, from the cleanness and the state of the torn edge, apparently not
long torn out. On it was written, in a hand which Woodman at once
identified as Prinsep’s, “Come to me in the garden. I will wait in the
temple—J.P.” There was no address or direction. But it seemed to prove
that Prinsep, who lay dead upstairs, had arranged with some one a
meeting in the garden, where now George Brooklyn’s body had been
found.
It was Woodman, too, who made a valuable suggestion. “Look here,
inspector,” he said. “Most of this part of the garden, though it is
hidden from the house by the trees, can be seen from the windows at
the back of the theatre. Whoever was here with poor old George last
night may quite possibly have been seen by some one from there. There
are nearly always people about till late.”
The inspector at once pointed out that the place where they were
standing, and the temple itself, were completely hidden from the
theatre by a thick belt of trees and shrubs. But Woodman insisted that
the chance was worth trying. George or his assailant might have been
in another part of the garden some of the time.
The inspector and Woodman accordingly went across to the theatre, to
which the news had already spread. And there they quickly found what
they wanted. A caretaker, who lived in a set of ground-floor rooms at
the back of the house had distinctly seen John Prinsep walking up and
down the garden shortly after eleven o’clock, or it might have been a
quarter past, on the previous night. He had been quite alone, and the
man had last seen him walking towards the shrubbery and the temple.
Asked if he was quite certain that the person he saw was Prinsep he
said there could be no mistaking Mr. Prinsep. He had on his
claret-coloured overcoat and slouch hat, and no one could help
recognising his walk. He had a pronounced limp, and walked with a
curious sideways action. “It was Mr. Prinsep all right,” the caretaker
concluded. “I should know him out of a thousand.”
This would have satisfied some men; and it appeared to satisfy
Woodman. But the inspector held that it was desirable to look for
corroborative evidence. No one else in the building seemed to have
seen any one in the garden; but most of the staff had not yet arrived.
The inspector made arrangements for each to be interrogated on
arrival, and he and Woodman then went back into the garden through the
private door opening on the covered way communicating between the
theatre and the house. They continued their search; but no further
clues were to be found.