An Arrest
Inspector Blaikie had made arrangements to see Superintendent Wilson
after lunch; and at half-past two they were closeted together in the
superintendent’s office. The decision about the inquest could be no
longer delayed: it was imperative that the police should make up their
minds how far they would place the facts which they had discovered
before the coroner’s jury. The police nearly always hate a coroner’s
jury—at least in cases in which murder is suspected or known. They
dislike the premature disclosure of their hardly gathered clues before
their case is complete: they dread the misdirected inquisitiveness of
some juryman who may unknowingly give the criminal just the hint he
wants. Above all, they object to looking like fools; and whether they
present an incomplete case, or withhold the information they possess,
that is very likely to be their fate in the presence of the good men
and true and in the columns of the newspapers the next morning.
The Brooklyn case had created an immense popular excitement. Neither
Prinsep nor George Brooklyn was much known to the general public; but
Sir Vernon was still a great popular figure, and pictures of Isabelle
Raven—Mrs. George Brooklyn—remembered as the finest actress of a few
years ago, had been published in almost every paper. The reporters
had, indeed, little enough to go upon; for after the first sensational
story of the discovery of the bodies, they had been put off with very
scanty information. Nothing connecting Walter Brooklyn with the crime
had yet been published; but Inspector Blaikie knew that, as the club
servants had fastened on that side of the story, it was certain to
reach some of the papers before many days passed. Still, it was a moot
point whether or not it would be best to keep all reference to Walter
Brooklyn out of the inquest proceedings, if it were possible to do so.
Inspector Blaikie would usually have been inclined to favour any plan
which aimed at keeping the coroner’s jury in the dark. That was, in
his view, a part of the duty of a good police officer. But, on this
occasion, he had become so firmly convinced of Walter Brooklyn’s guilt
that he was set on a different method of proceeding. What he wanted
was to be allowed to arrest Walter Brooklyn at once, in advance of the
inquest, and then to tell the coroner’s jury the full story of the
evidence against him, in the hope that its publication in the Press
would result in the offering of corroborative evidence from outside.
He felt more and more certain that Brooklyn had committed both the
murders; but he was not so sanguine as to suppose that he had yet
enough evidence to assure a favourable verdict—that is, a verdict
against Walter—from a jury. There was at least a specious case to be
made out in favour of the view that Prinsep had killed George, and a
skilful barrister would make much of this, using also every shred of
evidence for the view that George had killed Prinsep, in the hope of
so muddling the mind of the jury that they would not dare to bring in
any verdict other than “Not Guilty.” But only a very little further
evidence would give him enough to hang Walter Brooklyn on one if not
both of the charges. It was worth while even to submit to the foolish
heckling of a coroner’s jury, if by doing so he could hope to get the
further evidence he wanted. His case so far, he recognised, depended
on an inference; and it would be just like a jury to turn him down.
Juries, in his view, always did the wrong thing if you gave them half
a chance. Still, in this case it was worth while, in the hope of
getting further evidence, even to endure their folly.
This reasoning of Inspector Blaikie’s failed to commend itself to
Superintendent Wilson. He, too, saw that the case against Walter
Brooklyn was not conclusive, and, unlike the inspector, he was not
himself by any means convinced that Walter Brooklyn was guilty. But he
thought he knew a way of bringing the matter to a supreme test, and of
making the suspected man either proclaim his own guilt, or remove the
most serious ground of suspicion against him. His idea was that, at
least during the first stages of the inquest, the police should say
nothing of those discoveries which implicated Walter Brooklyn, but
that they should arrange for Walter himself to be called up to give
evidence as if there were no suspicion against him. He could be used
to identify the deceased; and a hint to the coroner would ensure that
he should be asked to give an account of his movements on Tuesday
evening. He would then have either to admit or to deny having been in
Prinsep’s room—either to tell at last what he must know about the
murders, or to perjure himself in such a manner as would leave no
doubt of his complicity, and little of his guilt.
Superintendent Wilson, then, would by no means agree to the execution
of a warrant for Walter Brooklyn’s arrest before the inquest; for he
still thought that he might be innocent and might be persuaded to tell
openly what he knew—a chance which his arrest would altogether
destroy. But he agreed that, if Walter Brooklyn plainly perjured
himself at the inquest, his arrest would be indispensable, and there
would be no purpose in leaving him longer at large. He agreed,
therefore, to take at once the necessary steps to procure the warrant,
and he arranged that it should be handed to the inspector, for
execution if and when the need arose. But on no account must it be
executed until after the inquest, or save in accordance with the
conditions which he had laid down. Only if Walter’s guilt or
complicity, and his refusal to tell freely what he knew, were plainly
shown, would the superintendent agree to the arrest. Meanwhile, of
course, the man should be watched.
So it happened that, although the inquest was for the most part a
purely formal affair, Walter Brooklyn was among those who were called
upon to give evidence. With most of its proceedings we need not
concern ourselves: we know well enough already almost all that the
coroner’s jury was allowed to know. Indeed, we know a good deal more;
for Inspector Blaikie, in his evidence, said not a word either of
Walter Brooklyn’s walking-stick, or of the telephone message which he
had sent from Liskeard House. No Club servant was called, and there
was no reference to the meeting with Charis Lang, who was not in any
way brought into the case. Carter Woodman, indeed, gave evidence; but
he had been warned in advance by the inspector, and he said nothing
which could appear to implicate Walter Brooklyn.
To the reporters and to the members of the police who were present,
crowding to suffocation the confined space of the coroner’s court, it
became more and more evident that the inquest was not likely to throw
any light upon the mystery. They heard, from the police witnesses,
from the household servants, and from Joan Cowper, how the bodies had
been found. Walter Brooklyn and others gave purely formal evidence of
identification: the doctors for once told a plain story. George
Brooklyn had been killed by a savage blow on the back of the head,
dealt without doubt by a powerful man with the stone club of Hercules,
which was produced in court with the bloodstains still upon it.
Prinsep, too, had probably been killed by the blow on the back of his
head, dealt with an unknown instrument. The knife thrust at the heart,
which had missed its object, had been made subsequently, and would not
by itself have caused sudden death. Inspector Blaikie’s evidence,
indeed, promised to be more exciting; for he told of the finding of
George Brooklyn’s handkerchief under Prinsep’s body, produced a knife,
similar to that found in the body, which he had found in George
Brooklyn’s office, showed the broken fragments of Prinsep’s
cigar-holder found in the garden, and photographs of fingerprints
found on the stone club and others taken from Prinsep’s hands. This
was exciting enough; but it did more to mystify than to enlighten the
public and the reporters. Still, it was excellent copy; and the
reporters, and later the editors and sub-editors, made the most of it.
Then, when the inquest seemed practically over, the coroner, a sharp
little man who had attended strictly to business and said as little as
possible throughout the proceedings, acted on the hint given him by
the police, and ordered Walter Brooklyn to be recalled. Walter’s
manner, when he gave his earlier evidence and was asked no more than a
couple of formal questions, had shown plainly to the inspector, and
also to Joan and Ellery, who were sitting together, that he was
surprised at being let off so lightly. As the inquest went on, and
nothing was said to draw him into the mystery, his expression,
troubled and puzzled in the earlier stages, gradually cleared, and, up
to the moment when he suddenly found himself recalled, he had been
growing more and more sure that the suspicions of the police against
him had been somehow dispelled. But now, in an instant, he realised
that they had been deliberately keeping back everything that could
seem to connect him with the case, not because they did not suspect
him still, but because they had carefully set a trap into which they
hoped that he would fall. For a moment, a scared look came into his
face; but, when he stepped again into the witness stand, he wore his
usual rather ill-humoured and supercilious expression. Immaculately
dressed and groomed, he was a man who looked precisely what he was—an
elderly, but still dissipated, man about town.
This time the questions which the coroner asked were far from formal.
He began with what was plainly a leading question,—
“It has been suggested to me, Mr. Brooklyn, that you may be able to
throw some further light on this tragedy. This morning you were given
no opportunity to make a general statement; but I desire to give you
that opportunity now. Is there anything further that you are in a
position to tell us?”
“I know no more of the affair than I have heard in this court
to-day—or previously from the police.” Walter Brooklyn added the last
words after a noticeable pause. “Nevertheless, there is a statement
that I want to make. It has been suggested, not in this court, but
earlier to me by Inspector Blaikie—that I was in Liskeard House on
Tuesday evening. I desire to say that I called at Liskeard House
shortly after ten o’clock and waited for a few minutes in the outer
hall. Then I went away; and since that time—perhaps twenty past ten on
Tuesday night—I have not been in either the house or the garden. Of
the circumstances of the tragedy I know nothing at all except what I
have heard at this inquest or from the police.”
Walter Brooklyn’s statement created a sensation; for here was the
first hint of a suspicion entertained by somebody as to the real
murderer. Clearly the police had been keeping something back—something
which would incriminate the man who was now giving evidence. Of
course, after interrogating Walter Brooklyn the police might have
discovered their suspicions to be groundless, and therefore have said
nothing of them. But, if this were so, why had they recalled him in
this curious fashion, and why should Brooklyn go out of his way to
draw public attention to himself, and to make certain that his doings
would be fully canvassed in the newspapers? No, the way in which he
had been recalled showed that the police were acting with a definite
purpose. They were trying to get Walter Brooklyn to make a statement
which would clearly incriminate him, and, if they really had evidence
of his presence in the house, they had certainly succeeded.
This explanation, natural and largely correct as it was, was not quite
a fair account of Superintendent Wilson’s motives. His object had been
not merely to get Walter Brooklyn to incriminate himself, but also to
give him a chance of clearing himself if he could give a satisfactory
explanation of his presence in the house. The fact that the man had
repeated on oath an obvious lie seemed to him a good enough reason for
ordering an arrest. He nodded across the court to the inspector.
But the coroner’s court had not yet quite done with Walter Brooklyn. A
juryman, quick to be influenced by the general suspicion which was
abroad, signified his desire to ask a question. “Where did you go
after leaving Liskeard House?” he rapped out.
The coroner interposed. “Since that question has been asked,” he said,
“perhaps it would be well if you would give us an account of your
movements on Tuesday night.”
Walter Brooklyn seemed to think for a minute before replying. “Well,”
he said, “I strolled about for a bit round Piccadilly Circus and
Shaftesbury Avenue, and then I went home to the club.”
“At what time did you reach your club?”
“I should guess it was shortly before midnight.”
“That is a considerable time after you left Liskeard House.”
“I am merely telling you what happened.”
“The club porter could probably confirm the time of your return?”
“Yes, I imagine so.”
“And is there any one who would be able to substantiate your account
of what you did between 10.15 and midnight? Were you strolling about
all that time?”
“Yes, I suppose I was.”
“Were you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Then there is no one who could confirm your story?”
“Probably not. But I did meet one or two people I knew.”
“None of them is here now?”
“No.”
“Do you desire that the inquest should be adjourned in order that they
may be called?”
“No. What on earth for? I don’t know whether I could find them,
anyway.”
“Then I think there is nothing further I need ask you.”
And with that, a good deal bewildered, Walter Brooklyn was told to
leave the witness box. He went back to his seat, but a minute later
got up and left the court.
Many pairs of eyes followed him as he walked slowly towards the door,
and the more experienced spectators nudged one another as Inspector
Blaikie rose quickly in his place and went out after him. Joan, in her
place in the court, saw her stepfather leave; but she did not notice
that the inspector had followed. Ellery, who did notice, said nothing;
for though he realised what was about to happen he saw that there was
no means of preventing the arrest.
Meanwhile, the coroner was rapidly summing up the evidence. Murder, he
told the jury, was clearly established in both cases; and they need
have no hesitation as to their verdict on that point. But who had
committed the murders? If they were satisfied that in either case the
evidence established the guilt of some definite person, it was their
duty to bring in a verdict against that person. In his opinion,
however, the evidence was wholly inadequate to form the basis of any
positive conclusion. It might be that John Prinsep had been killed by
George Brooklyn—the finding of the handkerchief and his known visit to
the house were certainly suspicious circumstances. It might be, on the
other hand, that George Brooklyn had been killed by John Prinsep—the
note in Prinsep’s writing found in the temple, the cigar-holder, and
his known presence in the garden were all grounds for suspicion. But
both these sets of clues could not point to the truth, and the jury
had no means of determining on which the greater reliance should be
placed. Indeed, both sets of clues might be misleading, and certainly
neither was by itself enough to form the basis of a verdict. The
murders might both be the work of some third person—and one of them
_must_ be the work of a third person—but no evidence had been placed
before them which would justify a verdict against any particular
person. Suspicion, he would remind them, was a very different thing
from proof, and even with their suspicions they must not be too free
in face of the very slender evidence before them.
After the coroner’s summing up, it was clear that only one verdict was
possible. After only a moment’s consultation, the foreman announced
that their verdict in both cases was “Wilful Murder by some person or
persons unknown.” The coroner made a short speech thanking every one,
and the court adjourned. Joan was glad to breathe fresh air again
after her first experience of the suffocating atmosphere of a court.
By this time Walter Brooklyn was safe under lock and key. As he
reached the door of the court half an hour earlier, he felt a touch on
his sleeve, and, turning, saw Inspector Blaikie immediately behind
him.
“Well, what do you want now?” he said sullenly.
The inspector beckoned him into a corner, and there showed him the
warrant duly made out for his arrest. Walter Brooklyn glanced at it.
For a moment he drew himself up to his full height and grasped his
stick tightly as if he were considering the prospects of a mad
struggle for liberty. Then he gave a short laugh. “I will come with
you,” he said; and then he added suddenly, with a fury the more
impressive because its utterance was checked—“you damned little fool
of a policeman.”
“Come, come, Mr. Brooklyn,” said the inspector. “I’m only doing my
duty.” Walter Brooklyn made no reply, and the inspector added: “Are
you ready now?”
“Call a taxi,” said Walter. “I suppose you will not walk me handcuffed
through the streets,” he added bitterly.
“Certainly not,” said the inspector, and he hailed a passing taxi, and
signed to his prisoner to get in.
A small crowd had collected by this time, and stood gaping on the
pavement as the taxi drove away.