The Case for the Defence
The more Fred Thomas thought over the case which he had to handle, the
less he liked it. He was certainly not accustomed to be squeamish; and
considerably more than his share of rather shady business came his
way. But he did not like these cases of what he called “serious
crime.” Sharp practice was well enough; but a lawyer engaged in it
regularly had best abstain from the defence of murderers. Thomas had
by this time gone into the whole case, and was fully aware of the
force of the evidence against his client held by the police. In his
mind, there was not much doubt of Walter Brooklyn’s guilt. He had
obviously been in the house; the stick and the telephone message
showed that; and what were you to do with a man who would not make a
clean breast of it to his own lawyer? What was the use of his client’s
reiterated assertions that he had not been near the place, and that he
knew nothing at all about the murders? Indeed, was not the refusal to
speak the clearest indication of guilt? If Brooklyn, though he had
been present in the house, had not been guilty, surely he would have
told what he knew. Still, unsatisfactory as his client was, he would
have to do his best for him. He could not very well throw up the case
after he had once agreed to take charge of it. But he was not hopeful,
and, for the moment, it seemed the best course to go and talk the
whole thing over with Carter Woodman.
But, when one came to think of it, was there not yet another
indication of the man’s guilt? If the man had been innocent, he would
surely have gone first of all to the family lawyer.
Thomas knew Woodman only slightly, and was not quite sure of his
reception. But, when he rang up, Woodman readily agreed to see him and
to give all possible help. “After all,” he had said, “the man’s a sort
of relation of mine, whatever he may have done”—a way of putting the
position which did not strengthen Thomas’s belief in the innocence of
his client.
When Thomas was shown into Woodman’s office, he was surprised at the
cordiality of his reception. Woodman was “so glad” he had come, and
they must work together to do what they could for the poor fellow—“a
bit of a bad hat, between ourselves, but—for the sake of the family,
you know.”
Thomas went straight to the point. “Mr. Brooklyn positively assures me
that he was not in Liskeard House on Tuesday night, and that he knows
absolutely nothing of the murders.”
Woodman said nothing; but he drummed on the table with his fingers,
and the action conveyed a perfectly clear message. What were you to do
for a fellow who would not tell his own lawyer the truth?
“He says that he simply strolled about all the time between ten
o’clock and midnight.”
“Alone?” asked Woodman.
“Yes, quite alone. Judging from his story, it would be impossible to
obtain confirmation—even if it were all true.”
“Then what line of defence do you propose to adopt?”
“It was on that point I wanted your advice. In the circumstances, and
assuming that they remain unchanged, what can we do but deny the story
and trust to a blustering counsel to get him off?”
“H’m, surely more than that is needed?”
“Certainly; but what more can be done, unless there is something else
that Mr. Brooklyn can tell us?”
“Look here, Thomas. You can be quite frank with me. I’m quite sure
Brooklyn was in the house and that he knows all about the murders,
even if he didn’t actually commit them. But, like you, I want to get
him off.”
“Can’t you help me to make him speak?”
“He doesn’t like me, and nothing I could say would have any influence.
If he had been inclined to trust me, he would have sent for me in the
first instance. You’ll have to make him talk somehow. But I can tell
you what will weigh most heavily against him. He stands to gain a
fortune by these murders—not by either of them singly, but by both
together. It’s hard to get over a fact like that as well as the other
evidence; the suggestion of motive is so clear—and, to put it bluntly,
his personal character doesn’t help matters.”
“Do you happen to know whether Mr. Brooklyn was pressed for money?”
“He was always pressed for money, and just lately he has been even
harder pressed than usual. He was round here on Tuesday trying all he
could to get money from me, and he left me with the expressed
intention of seeing Prinsep, and having another attempt to raise the
wind through him. I know Prinsep was determined to refuse, and he
wasn’t a man to refuse gently, either.”
“What you say makes me feel more than ever like throwing up the case.
I’m not bound to go on if he won’t be frank with me.”
“Don’t throw it up. We must give the fellow every chance. It’s
difficult for you, I know, but do the best you can. I expect your idea
of a good hectoring counsel is the best that can be managed. After
all, they have no direct evidence.”
“I’m afraid what they have is good enough.”
“Oh, you never know, with a jury.”
“What came into my head was that the best possible line of defence, if
it can be arranged, would be to throw suspicion on some one else. Not
enough to do the other person any real damage, but just enough to
create a reasonable doubt.”
Woodman made no reply for a moment. Then he said, “That’s all very
well; but where do you propose to find the person and the evidence?”
“First of all, it is surely very probable that George Brooklyn was
actually killed by Prinsep. There is good evidence for that, you’ll
agree.”
“Good enough to make a case, and it may even be true, though I don’t
think it is.”
“Well, I propose to argue strongly that it is true, and I think we can
create enough doubt to make it impossible to convict Mr. Brooklyn on
that head. That leaves the murder of Prinsep.”
“Unfortunately, that is just where the evidence against Walter
Brooklyn is strongest.”
“I know it is; and I want you to help me to find some one else who
could reasonably be suspected of killing Prinsep. Never mind the
evidence. I’ll find that if you’ll help me to the person. It won’t
need to be enough to do the suspected person any real damage. It isn’t
as if we wanted to get any one convicted: I only want to throw dust in
the jury’s eyes.”
“I’m sorry; but I can’t help you there,” said Woodman shortly.
“What about the servants?”
“Out of the question. They’re as innocent as you are.”
“What does it matter if they are innocent? Can they be proved so?”
Carter Woodman brought his fist down on the table with a bang. Then he
said very deliberately, “I am anxious to use all legitimate means of
getting Mr. Walter Brooklyn acquitted; but I must tell you once and
for all, Thomas, that I decline to be a party to attempt to throw the
guilt on any innocent persons.”
“My dear fellow, what is the use of talking about legitimate means in
a case like this? You know as well as I do that only illegitimate
means can give my client a dog’s chance.”
“Then I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
With that the interview ended. Thomas left Woodman’s office more
firmly than ever convinced of Walter Brooklyn’s guilt, but also
determined to follow up his stratagem of shifting the suspicion, or at
least some part of it, elsewhere. The more he thought of the plan, the
more it appealed to him. It wasn’t much of a dodge in itself; but it
seemed to offer more hope than anything else in this case. If the
fellow did get hanged after all, he would have only himself to blame.
Thomas would have done his best.
Following up this line of thought, Thomas made up his mind that the
first thing to do was to get full information about the servants.
Thus, Walter Brooklyn’s legal adviser, though with a very different
idea in his mind, set to work upon an aspect of the case which had
already been considered and investigated by the police. It will be
remembered that Inspector Blaikie had cross-examined the two
men-servants, and that subsequently he and Superintendent Wilson had
agreed to have the two men watched—not that they were much disposed to
believe that either of them had anything directly to do with the
murders, but because their complicity or knowledge, or even their
guilt, was just barely conceivable. Morgan’s presence at the house of
his friends at Hammersmith on the Tuesday night, and his return to
Liskeard House at about a quarter to eleven, had been duly verified;
but his statement that he had gone straight to bed, and remained there
until the morning, rested wholly on Winter’s evidence. There was no
reason to suspect this, unless it should turn out that Winter was
himself involved. The police had, therefore, directed most of their
attention to the butler, who had certainly gone up to his room with
Morgan at a quarter to twelve. Had he stayed there, or had he come
down again and played some part in the night’s doings? On this point
the police could find no evidence at all. Morgan stated that Winter
was in his room in the morning, that his bed had been slept in, and
that he rose at his usual hour. But Morgan had slept heavily, and he
could not positively say that Winter had remained in his room all
night. This fact, however, was clearly no evidence at all against
Winter, and there had been nothing in his demeanour to suggest that he
was in any way concerned. His past history, too, seemed to make him a
most unlikely criminal. Accordingly, now that the evidence seemed to
point conclusively to the guilt of Walter Brooklyn, the police, while
they still kept some perfunctory watch on the two servants,
practically dismissed them from their minds.
Thomas, when he had ascertained the main facts about the two
men-servants, did not for a moment suspect that either of them was
guilty, or think it likely that either had any knowledge of the
crimes. His first step was to ask Walter Brooklyn himself whether he
supposed that either of the servants could throw any light on the
matter. Supposing his client to be at the least fully cognisant of the
night’s events, he thought that the question could hardly fail to give
him some guidance. But Walter Brooklyn displayed little interest, and
by doing so confirmed the lawyer’s opinion that the servants had
nothing at all to do with it. “Go and see them by all means,” Brooklyn
had said, “but I don’t suppose they know anything about it.” That was
all he would say, and he still stuck to the story he had first told
Thomas, and maintained that he himself was equally ignorant of what
had taken place. A marked coolness, which did not increase Thomas’s
zest for the case, had sprung up between him and his client, and
although certain questions had to be asked and answered, it was clear
enough that Walter Brooklyn greatly preferred the solitude of his cell
to his lawyer’s society.
It was on his own initiative, therefore, that Thomas went to see both
Winter and Morgan, and received from them a repetition of what they
had told the police. From them he learnt nothing new. But from one of
the maid-servants he picked up a fact which had escaped Inspector
Blaikie’s attention. A few days before the murders the butler, Winter,
had quarrelled violently with John Prinsep, and, in the heat of the
quarrel, Prinsep had practically given the man notice to leave. The
notice had not been quite definite, and the maid had heard Winter
confide to Morgan that he intended to hang on and see what happened,
and to get the matter cleared up with Prinsep the one way or the other
before the month expired. She did not know what the quarrel had been
about; and Thomas did not think it politic to push his inquiries
further, or to ask either Morgan or Winter himself for an explanation.
He, therefore, cautioned the girl against telling any one at all that
there had been a quarrel. “It would only make further trouble,” he
said; “and we have trouble enough on our hands already.”
Thomas had thus found the first essential for building up a case on
suspicion against Winter—an actual quarrel and therefore a possible
motive for murder. But he recognised that the argument was very thin,
and that he must, if possible, get something more definite. Inquiries,
however, failed to give him anything at all that could be used to
defame either Winter’s or Morgan’s character. They appeared to be
persons of unblemished respectability, and Winter’s long service in
the Brooklyn household seemed never to have been marred before by such
an incident as his quarrel with Prinsep. The position did not look
promising for Thomas’s client; but he determined to persist.
His persistence was at length rewarded. He discovered what had been
the cause of the quarrel between Winter and Prinsep. And it was Morgan
who told him, quite unconscious that he was providing a link in the
chain which Thomas was attempting to forge. Thomas had turned his
attention to a further study of the character and circumstances of the
murdered men, and had gone to Morgan for light on the ways of his late
master. It was easy to see that Morgan had disliked Prinsep, though he
had always behaved to him in life as a perfectly suave and
well-drilled servant knows how to behave—with a deadly politeness that
conceals all human feeling behind an impenetrable mask. But, now that
Prinsep was dead, Morgan no longer concealed his opinion of him. He
had neither prospect nor intention of remaining with the Brooklyns,
and he did not care whether they liked or disliked what he said.
Accordingly, he told Thomas without any hesitation that, shortly
before his death, Prinsep had been engaged in a peculiarly unpleasant
intrigue with a girl down at Sir Vernon’s country place at
Fittleworth, in Sussex—the daughter, in fact, of Sir Vernon’s head
gardener there—and what made it worse was that the girl was engaged to
be married at the time to a decent fellow who had only found out at
the last moment how things were going. He would marry her all the
same; but that did not make Prinsep’s part in the affair less
dishonourable.
It did not take Thomas long to extract the information that the
“decent fellow” whom Prinsep had wronged was actually no other than
this very man, Winter, against whom he had been trying to build up a
case. Winter was twenty years older than the girl; but he seemed to be
very much in love with her, and naturally enraged by Prinsep’s misuse
of her. Here at last were all the elements of a crime of passion, and
Thomas began to see his way clear to throw upon Winter quite enough
suspicion to make it very difficult for a jury to convict Walter
Brooklyn. Indeed, might he not even have stumbled accidentally on the
truth, or a part of it? Perhaps after all Walter Brooklyn was not the
murderer, although he knew all about it. But, on the whole, he was
still inclined to believe that his client was guilty, and that
nevertheless fortune had presented him with an excellent chance of
shifting the suspicion elsewhere. Certainly he would say not a word of
his discoveries to any one until the time came to adopt an actual line
of defence at the coming trial.