The Case Against Walter Brooklyn
Inspector 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 Woodman’s description, quite a likely
murderer. The inspector decided 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 necessary to consider very seriously
the question of motive. Walter Brooklyn, he reflected, would not stand
to inherit Sir Vernon’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 Brooklyn 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 Brooklyn, knowing this and realising his
opportunity, had then disposed 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. Inspector 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 questions. 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 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 minutes 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. Prinsep?”
“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. Prinsep.”
“Had he been to see Sir Vernon?”
“No. You see, Sir Vernon’s been away in the country for some time.”
“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 understood 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 interview 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 believed—probably to his room, but the porter could
not say.
So far there was nothing very much to go upon. Walter Brooklyn might
have committed the murders—he had certainly been out until midnight.
But this was nothing unusual, 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 unilluminating answers.
Soon they found a common interest in the cricket news, and plunged
into a discussion of the respective chances of Surrey and Middlesex
for the County Championship. 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 Middlesex
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.
“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 recognise this as
Mr. Brooklyn’s stick?”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure it’s his.”
“And do you remember whether he was carrying it on Tuesday 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?”
“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.”
“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?”
“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 involved. 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.
“So you’ve heard nothing of him this week?” said the inspector,
preparing to take his leave.
“Beg pardon, sir,” replied the porter. “It had almost slipped my
memory. Mr. Walter Brooklyn rang up one night this week on the
telephone. I have a note of the call somewhere.”
“What was it about?”
“He asked if a registered parcel had come for him, because if it had
he wanted it sent round to him at once by hand.”
“Sent to his other club?”
“No. He wanted it sent to Sir Vernon Brooklyn’s, Liskeard House,
Piccadilly. He gave us the name and address over the ’phone.”
“Did you send the parcel?”
“No. Because we told him no parcel had come.”
“Has it arrived since?”
“No.”
“When was this call you mention?”
The porter referred to his book. “It was about 11.30, or a bit before.
The call before was at 11.20.”
“On what day?”
“On Tuesday of this week.”
“The night of the murder,” thought the inspector. “And did Mr.
Brooklyn say where he was speaking from?”
“Yes, he was at Liskeard House, where he wanted the parcel sent.”
So Walter Brooklyn, who had apparently failed to secure admittance to
the house just before 10.15, had somehow got into it afterwards, and
was there at 11.30. He, like George Brooklyn, had slipped into the
house unseen. That fact, 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 recognised 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 anywhere. He therefore
followed up a different line.
“When did you see this stick last?”
“On Saturday, when Mr. Brooklyn was here, he was showing 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 himself. “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 impression left by the rim on the
stick coincided exactly. The ferrule was a little out of shape, as if
it had been wrenched, 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.