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 morning 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 himself 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 hopeless, and tried to make
himself believe that he ought to get the better of it, and accept as a
foregone conclusion Joan’s marriage 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 come to him
as a surprise, and, for the first time, had allowed him to think that
his own suit might not be altogether hopeless. 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 guardian, 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 matter. 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
morning—startling enough in themselves—he knew little, and, of course,
at this stage the inquiries of Inspector Blaikie were only at their
beginning.
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 pretend 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 guardian, “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 conclusion that Prinsep had
murdered George Brooklyn, and equally to the conclusion that George
had murdered Prinsep.
“Of course,” Lucas added, “that is physically quite impossible; and
personally, I’m not in the least disposed to believe 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, preferring 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 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 cheerful 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 guardian 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 himself, had still some old-fashioned ideas about
propriety.
Ellery stayed the night at Hampstead, and went to bed in a mood of
cheerfulness which, he told himself, was quite unforgivably brutal. He
would go and see Joan the next day. He would try to follow his
guardian’s advice: but, if he failed, well, he would fail, and he was
not sure that to fail would be quite such a disaster as Lucas made
out. After all, she had not been engaged to Prinsep; and why should he
not say he loved her?
The next morning Ellery left, after an early breakfast, without seeing
his guardian, and went off for another long walk across the Heath and
over to Mill Hill. His mood had changed, and he now told himself that
to go and see Joan would be an intrusion, and that he must at least
let some days pass before he went. He felt he could not see her
without telling her of his love, and he was sure that to tell her now
would be wrong. He tried to put the thing out of his mind, and, as
long as he kept walking, he succeeded fairly well. But when, after a
long day, he found himself back in his lodgings at Chelsea, he was
soon aware that he would be fit for nothing else until he had seen
her.
He tried to go on with his work; but after a few attempts he put it
aside as useless. Then he sat down to try to bring his mind to bear on
the crime. He felt that he, as an amateur expert in “detecting,” ought
to be able to see some light upon the conditions of the crime; but he
could see none. At length he was obliged to tell himself that he had
not nearly enough information to go upon, and that he could not hope
to make any progress without going himself over the scene of the crime
and hearing more of what the police had done. But how could he do that
without going to Liskeard House? And 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 following 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 resolution 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 interrogating, 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 purpose 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 he fully understood, and was prepared to answer any questions 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 Chelsea? 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 surprise 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 confirmed 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 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. Perhaps 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 remember the man’s
name. It’s not———”
“I only wish I could. I almost had it then. It’s something like
Forrest or Forrester or Foster, I’m nearly sure. 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 walking 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 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 another. 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 began 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 distance
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 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.