A Pause for Reflection
When Inspector Blaikie got to his own room, he sat down with a sheet
of paper in front of him, and on it made out, from his notes, a list
of all the persons whom he knew to have been in the house the previous
night. It was a long list, and he made it out more to set his
subconscious mind free to work than with any idea that it would throw
a direct light on the problem. Having made his list, he began to write
down, after each name, exactly what was known about its owner’s doings
and movements on the night before. He left out nothing, however
unimportant it might seem; for he had fully mastered the first
principle of scientific detection—that detail generally gives the clue
to a crime, and that therefore every detail matters.
He began with those who seemed least likely to have had any hand in
the business. First there were the four maid-servants. They had gone
to bed before eleven. They slept two in a room, and there seemed no
reason to doubt that, as they said, they had all slept soundly. He did
not dismiss them from his mind, but he had nothing against them so
far.
Then there was the lady’s maid, Agnes Dutch. She had slept alone on
the first floor, in a little room next to that of Joan Cowper. She had
felt tired, she said, and had gone to bed at 10.30, after making sure
that Miss Joan would not want her again. She seemed a nice, quiet
girl, and, although she seemed very upset in the morning when the
inspector saw her, that was no more than was to be expected. There was
nothing against her either. Besides, Mary Woodman had not gone to bed
until after twelve, and she said that she was certain the girl was in
her room until then. She had been sitting in the big landing-lounge
reading, and both Joan’s and the maid’s doors opened on to the lounge.
What of Mary Woodman herself? She had been with Joan until about
eleven, and had then sat for an hour reading. No one had seen her
during that hour, or heard her go to bed afterwards. But Mary
notoriously got on with everybody and had not an enemy in the world.
Every one had told the inspector, without need of his asking the
question, that she was the very last person to have anything to do
with a murder. Besides, the whole thing was clearly a man’s job. The
inspector filed Mary Woodman in his mind for future reference; but he
felt quite sure that she knew nothing about the crimes.
Then, to finish the women, there was Joan Cowper. She had discovered
George Brooklyn’s body in the garden, and her manner after the
discovery seemed to be sign enough that it had come to her as a
horrifying surprise. Certainly, she had known nothing about George
Brooklyn’s death; but she might, for all that, be in a position to
throw some further light upon the crimes. He had asked her in the
garden how she had spent the previous evening; and she had answered
without hesitation. After seeing Sir Vernon to his room shortly after
ten, she had sat with Mary Woodman in the lounge until eleven o’clock,
and had then gone to bed. Her maid had come to her rather before
half-past ten and she had told her she would be needed no more that
night. Mary Woodman, who had sat on in the lounge, confirmed this, and
stated that Joan had not left her room before midnight. Certainly
there seemed to be nothing to connect Joan with the crimes. She was a
fine young lady, the inspector reflected. She had borne up
wonderfully.
Next there were the men, and it was among them that the criminal, if,
as Blaikie suspected, he was one of the intimate circle of Liskeard
House, would probably be found. Sir Vernon Brooklyn was clearly out of
it. He was a feeble old man whose hand could not possibly have struck
those savage blows. He was reported to be very fond of both his
nephews; and he had undoubtedly gone to bed at a quarter past ten. So
much for him. He might know things or suspect, but he could have had
no hand in the murders. At present, the inspector had been told, he
was prostrated by the news of Prinsep’s death, and his doctor had
forbidden any mention of the matter in his presence. He did not even
know yet that George Brooklyn was dead.
The only other men who had slept in the house were the two
servants—Winter and Morgan. Morgan seemed to be cleared of suspicion,
at least if Winter had told the truth. But might not Winter himself
have had a hand in the affair? The superintendent had dropped a
plausible hint, and there might be something in it. Inspector Blaikie
wrote it down as possible, but unlikely. Two other menservants, who
had waited at dinner, did not sleep in the house, and had left soon
after half-past eleven. They had been busy clearing up until the very
moment of their departure, and it seemed plain that they had enjoyed
neither time nor opportunity for any criminal proceeding. Besides,
they were strangers, imported for the evening from the restaurant
attached to the theatre. As robbery had evidently not been a motive in
either murder, there was the less reason to think seriously about
them. They could have had no motive.
Next, the inspector turned to a consideration of the guests who had
been at the dinner. These were, first, George Brooklyn and his wife.
About George he had already noted down all that he knew. What of Mrs.
George? Inquiries which the sergeant had made established that she had
gone straight back to her hotel—the Cunningham—soon after ten o’clock.
George had left her in the care of the Woodmans, parting from them at
the door of the theatre on plea of an appointment. Mrs. George—or, as
she was better known both to the inspector and to all London, Isabelle
Raven, the great tragedy actress—had then sat talking with Mrs.
Woodman in the sitting-room which they shared at the hotel until
“after eleven,” when she had gone to bed, expecting that her husband
might come in at any moment. She had gone to sleep and had only
discovered his absence when she woke in the morning. She had been
worried, and after a hasty breakfast she had hurried across to
Liskeard House with Helen Woodman to make inquiries. There she had
been met with the fatal news. She was now lying ill in her room at the
Cunningham Hotel, with Mrs. Woodman in faithful attendance upon her.
This recital clearly brought up the question of the Woodmans, man and
wife. When they returned to the hotel with Mrs. George, Carter Woodman
had gone to one of the hotel waiting-rooms to write letters, leaving
the two women together. He said that he had remained at work till
11.45 or so, when he had gone down to the hall and asked the night
porter to see some important letters off by the first post in the
morning. This was corroborated by the night porter, who had so
informed the sergeant. Carter Woodman had then gone straight to bed—a
statement fully confirmed by his wife. This seemed fairly well to
dispose of any connection of either the Woodmans or Mrs. George with
the tragedy.
Harry Lucas? Sir Vernon’s old friend had left in his car for Hampstead
at ten minutes past ten after a few farewell words with Sir Vernon. He
had reached home soon after 10.30, and had gone straight to bed. This
had been already confirmed by police inquiries at Hampstead during the
morning.
Robert Ellery? He had left the house soon after ten, saying that he
intended to walk back to his room at Chelsea. The inspector had not
yet followed his trail; but he now made up his mind to do so, though
he had not much faith in the result. Still, here was at least a loose
end that needed tying.
When he had made his list and tabulated his information, Inspector
Blaikie did not feel that he had greatly advanced in his quest. Not
one of the people on the list seemed in the least likely either to
have committed the murders, or to have been even an accessory to them.
He began to feel that he had not yet got at all on the track of the
real criminal, or at least of the second one, if one of the two men
had really killed the other. Was it some one quite outside the circle
he had been studying, and, if so, how had that outsider got access to
the house? He might have slipped in without being noticed, but it did
not seem very likely, and it was far more difficult to see how he had
slipped out. But, after all, George Brooklyn had got back somehow
after 11.30, and, where he had come, so might another. Perhaps some
one had slipped in and out by way of the theatre.
So the inspector made up his mind to go over the whole scene again,
and, above all, to find out more about the persons with whom he had to
deal—their histories and still more their present ways of life: their
loves and, above all, their animosities, if they had any. There, he
felt, the clue to the mystery was most likely to be found.
Accordingly, on the following morning—the second after the
tragedy—Inspector Blaikie presented himself early at the office of
Carter Woodman and sent up his card. Sir Vernon was still far too ill
to be consulted, and the next thing seemed to be a visit to his
lawyer, who, being both confidential adviser and a close relative,
would be certain to know most of what there was to be known about the
circumstances surrounding the dead men. Woodman had offered all
possible assistance, and had himself suggested a call at his office.
The inspector presented his card to an elderly clerk who was presiding
in the outer office, and was at once shown in to the principal. Again
he was struck, as he had been on the morning before, with the lawyer’s
overflowing vitality. At rather over forty-six, Woodman still looked
very much the athlete he had been in his younger days, when he had
accumulated three Blues at Oxford, and represented England at Rugby
football on more than one occasion. He had given up “childish things,”
he used to say; but the abundant vigour of the man remained, and stood
out strongly against the rather dingy background which successful
solicitors seem to regard as an indispensable mark of respectability.
Carter Woodman, the inspector knew, had a big practice, and one of
good standing. He did all the legal work of the Brooklyn Corporation,
and he was perhaps the best known expert on theatrical law in the
country.
Woodman greeted the inspector cordially, and shook his hand with a
force that made it tingle for some minutes afterwards.
“Well, inspector,” he said, “what progress? Have you got your eye on
the scoundrels yet?”
The inspector shook his head. “We are still only at the beginning of
the case, I am afraid. I have come here to take advantage of your
offer to give me all the help you can.”
“Of course I will. It is indispensable that the terrible business
should be thoroughly cleared up. For one thing, I am very much afraid
for Sir Vernon; and there certainly would be more chance of his
getting over it if we knew exactly what the truth is. Uncertainty is a
killing business. He has not been told yet about Mr. George Brooklyn’s
death.”
“You will understand that, as it is impossible for me to see Sir
Vernon, I shall have to ask you to tell me all you can about any of
the family affairs that may have a bearing on the tragedy. As matters
stand it is most important that I should know as much as possible
about the circumstances of the two dead men. To establish the possible
motives for both crimes may be of the greatest value. There is so
little to go upon in the facts themselves that I have to look for
evidence from outside the immediate events.”
“Am I to understand that you have no further light on the crime beyond
what you gained when the bodies were found?”
“Hardly that, Mr. Woodman. I have at least had time to think things
over, and to conduct a few additional investigations. But I shall know
better what to make of these when I have asked you a few questions.”
“Ask away; but I shall probably be able to answer more to your
satisfaction if you tell me how matters stand. I think I may say that
I know thoroughly both Sir Vernon’s and the late Mr. Prinsep’s
affairs.”
“Well, you know, Mr. Woodman, the _prima facie_ evidence in both cases
seemed to point to a quite impossible conclusion. In each case, what
evidence there was went to show that the two men had murdered each
other. This could not be true of both; but we have so far no evidence
to show whether it ought to be disbelieved in both cases, or only in
one. That is where further particulars may prove so important.”
“I will tell you all I can.”
“Let us begin with Mr. Prinsep. Was he in any trouble that you know
of?”
The lawyer hesitated. “Well,” he said at length, “it is a private
matter, and I am sure it can have no bearing on the case. But you had
better have all the facts. There had been some trouble—about a woman,
a girl who is acting in a small part at the Piccadilly Theatre.”
“Her name?”
“Charis Lang. Prinsep had been, well, I believe somewhat intimate with
her, and she had formed the opinion that he had promised to marry her.
He came to see me about it. He denied that he had made any such
promise, and said he was anxious to get the matter honourably settled.
I wrote to the woman and asked her to meet me; but she refused—said it
was not a lawyer’s business, but entirely a private question between
her and Mr. Prinsep. I showed him her letter, and he was very much
worried. He informed me that Mrs. George Brooklyn—she used to be
leading lady at the Piccadilly—had known the girl in her professional
days, and I approached her and told her a part of the story. She took,
I must say, the girl’s side, and said she was sure a promise of
marriage had been made. She wanted to take the matter up; but George
Brooklyn objected to his wife being mixed up in it, and undertook to
see Miss Lang himself. He was to have done so two nights ago—the night
of the murders—and then to have gone back to tell Prinsep what had
happened. I have no means of knowing whether he actually did so.”
“This is very important. Can you give me Miss Lang’s address?”
“I have it here. Somewhere in Hammersmith. Yes, 3 Algernon Terrace.
But she is at the theatre every evening, and you could probably find
her there.”
“I must certainly arrange to see her. Can you tell me anything further
about the young woman? For instance, is she—well—respectable?”
“I have told you all I know. Mrs. George might know more.”
“Thank you. Now, is there anything else you know about Mr. Prinsep
that might have a bearing on his death?”
“Nothing.”
“Had he any financial troubles?”
“None, I am sure. He had a large salary from the Brooklyn Trust,
besides a considerable personal income, and he always lived well
within his means.”
“Had he any enemies?”
Again the lawyer paused before answering. Finally, “No,” he replied,
“no _enemies_.”
The inspector took the cue.
“But there were some people you know of with whom he was not on the
best of terms?” he asked.
“I think I may say ‘yes’ to that. He had a temper, and there had been
violent disputes on several occasions with Mr. Walter Brooklyn—Sir
Vernon’s brother.”
“One moment. Was he on good terms with Mr. George Brooklyn?”
Again a pause. “No, I can’t say he was—but they were not enemies.
George thought he had behaved badly to Charis Lang, and said so. Also,
George was strongly against Prinsep’s marrying Miss Joan Cowper, which
Sir Vernon had set his heart on.”
And then, in question and answer, the whole episode at the dinner, the
announcement of Sir Vernon’s will, and Joan’s dramatic refusal to
marry Prinsep, gradually came out. The inspector felt that now at last
he was learning things.
“Did Miss Cowper know about Miss Lang?”
“Not that I am aware of. But I can’t be sure. Mrs. George may have
told her.”
“And what would you say were the relations between Miss Cowper and Mr.
Prinsep?”
“He was half in love with her—in a sort of a way. At any rate he
certainly wanted to marry her. She was most certainly not in love with
him. I don’t think she had any strong feeling against him; but it is
impossible to be sure. She would have done almost anything rather than
marry him, I am certain.”
“Had Miss Cowper, so far as you know, any other attachment?”
“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 difficult 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 of his property was to be divided at his death
between his two nephews, who have now unhappily predeceased him.”
“Yes, and in the event of the death of either or both of the nephews,
what was to happen?”
“If Mr. George Brooklyn died, half of his share was to go to Mrs.
George and half to Prinsep. If Prinsep died, half of his share was to
go to Miss Joan Cowper. Sir Vernon explained that his arrangements
were based on her marrying Prinsep.”
“Then, under the will, Miss Cowper now gets half Mr. Prinsep’s share.
Does she get half Mr. George’s share also?”
“No, a part of it goes to Mrs. George, and the remainder in both cases
to the next of kin.”
“I see. And who is the next of kin.”
“Joan’s step-father, Mr. Walter Brooklyn.”
“Ah! I think you mentioned that Mr. Walter Brooklyn was on bad terms
with Mr. Prinsep.”
“Walter Brooklyn was on bad terms with most people who knew him. His
step-daughter left him after her mother’s death, and came to live with
Sir Vernon. I am afraid Walter Brooklyn is not a very likeable
person.”
“On what terms was he with Sir Vernon?”
“He was always trying to get money from him. He had ran through one
big fortune, his wife’s—including all the money left in trust for Miss
Cowper. He leads a fairly expensive life in town, supported, I
understand, partly by his bridge earnings and partly on what he can
raise from his friends.”
“Did Sir Vernon give him money?”
“Yes, far more than I thought desirable. But Sir Vernon had a very
strong sense of family solidarity. Latterly, however, 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. Walter 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 estimate.”
“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. Walter Brooklyn
called at Liskeard House a few minutes after 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 disapproves 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 following it up. I may, of course, have more to
ask you later.”
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.”