Raising the Wind
Walter Brooklyn’s release was arranged more quickly than any one had
expected, and, while Ellery and Joan were still engaged in the
conversation just reported, he came out of Brixton Jail a free man. At
the gate he said good-bye to Thomas, and, hailing a taxi, ordered the
man to drive to his Club. The porter at the Byron met him as he
entered with an incredulous stare; for he was a firm believer in the
theory that Brooklyn was guilty, and had for days past been telling
all his friends, and those of the Club members who would listen to
him, of the important part which, he himself had played in bringing
the murderer to justice. Walter Brooklyn was not popular in the Club;
and, by members and servants alike, the assumption of his guilt had
been readily accepted.
Brooklyn passed the porter without a word, and went straight up to his
room. As he passed by the door leading to the kitchen stairs, a
discreetly faint smell of cooking floated up to him, and he thought
how pleasant it would be to see a good dinner before him again in the
comfortable Club dining-room. But a second thought gave him pause.
Could he face his fellow-members just yet? He could pretty accurately
guess what they had been saying about him; and he was not at all sure
what his reception would be. It would be better to give time for the
news of his release, and the convincing evidence of his innocence, to
get round the club before he made a public reappearance. But a good
dinner was indispensable. His first act on regaining the privacy of
his apartment was to take up the house ’phone which connected with the
kitchens, and to order dinner to be sent up to his room. The start of
surprise which the chef gave on hearing who was speaking to him he
could visualize over the ’phone as clearly as if the man had been
standing before him in the same room. He was all the more careful for
that reason in ordering his dinner, discussing the merits of one
course after another at length with the chef. He meant to do himself
well, and he meant the servants to understand that he was back quite
on the old footing.
But Walter Brooklyn had other things to consider besides his
reinstatement as a more or less respectable member of society. He was
literally almost penniless, and he knew that his release from prison
would merely reopen in a more insistent form the long struggle with
his creditors. He must have money, and he must have it at once. His
attempt to get money from Prinsep had completely failed, and Woodman
had very decisively refused to give him an advance. But a great deal
had happened since then. Now both Prinsep and George Brooklyn were
dead; and, in more ways than one, that meant a change in his own
situation. Prinsep had been the main obstacle between him and Sir
Vernon, and there was at least a chance that, if he could see his
brother, he would be able to get a substantial loan. He knew that Sir
Vernon was very ill; but, if only he was not too ill to be approached,
that might make the job all the easier. Could he not persuade the sick
man to back a bill for him, or better still, write a cheque in his
favour? That was one possibility. But there was another. Now that
George and Prinsep were out of the way, who was there to whom Sir
Vernon could leave his wealth? Only Joan and himself. Marian Brooklyn
would doubtless get something, and Mary Woodman; but the bulk of the
property would hardly go to them. Walter knew well enough Sir Vernon’s
strong sense of family loyalty; and he was fairly sure that, in the
changed circumstances, he would profit heavily when his brother died.
Might it not be better, instead of risking the giving of offence to
Sir Vernon by asking for a loan, to try to raise the money on the
strength of his expectations? From that point of view, Sir Vernon’s
illness would make the chances of success all the greater.
Walter Brooklyn had no positive knowledge of Sir Vernon’s will. Some
time back, however, Sir Vernon had written to him, enclosing one of
the many “last cheques” which he had given to his brother, to tell him
that, “except in a very remote contingency,” he could expect no
further assistance, “whether I am dead or alive.” Sir Vernon had
added, “I may as well tell you that I have left the bulk of my
property to my two nephews; and, as long as they live, you will
receive only a comparatively small legacy. You have forfeited all
claim to my esteem, and, as long as I have other near relatives to
whom I can leave my property, I feel under no obligations to place any
of it in your hands. I know too well what you would do with it. I tell
you this in order that you may not deceive yourself by any false
expectations.”
Little had Sir Vernon expected, when he wrote his letter, that the
time would come when it would positively encourage his brother to look
forward to a big legacy. Walter had seen Sir Vernon after receiving
that letter; and, while his brother had told him nothing positive, he
had come away with a shrewd idea that he could expect nothing except
in the unlikely event of both nephews dying before Sir Vernon, but
that, in that event, he would get the bulk of the money. The question
was whether Sir Vernon had altered his will, or whether he would do so
now, when the money was likely actually to pass to his brother. Even
if he wished to alter it, was he well enough to do so? That must be
discovered.
He could find out easily enough about Sir Vernon’s health. Joan would
tell him that, even if she had a good suspicion of his reasons for
wishing to know. But would Joan be in a position to tell him what was
in the will, and would it even be wise to ask her? He was under no
illusions. Joan would not want him to have the money, and, even if he
stood to benefit now, she would be just the person to persuade Sir
Vernon to make a new will. Moreover, there was only one person who
would be certain to know what the will contained, and that was Carter
Woodman.
Walter Brooklyn’s first idea, when he got thus far, was to see
Woodman, find out about the will, and try to arrange for a loan on the
strength of his expectations. But would this do either? Woodman was no
friend of his; and, if his attention were called to the matter, he
might easily induce Sir Vernon to make a fresh will. Yet Woodman was
the only person through whom he could hope to arrange for an advance;
for Woodman alone would know whether or not Walter was now Sir
Vernon’s heir. And somehow an advance must be got, and got quickly.
There must surely, he thought, be some way round the difficulty.
Walter Brooklyn was no fool; and he set himself deliberately to devise
some method of raising the wind with Woodman’s aid. He came speedily
to the conclusion that there was only one way in which it could be
done. He must somehow get Woodman on to his side. That was not
altogether impossible, much as the two men disliked each other. It
was, Walter told himself, merely a matter of money.
Woodman, he considered, would certainly receive a legacy under any
will Sir Vernon might make. Probably a few thousands, in return for
his services. But he supposed that Woodman could entertain no hope of
being one of the principal beneficiaries.
Woodman’s expectations were probably small. But Walter Brooklyn had
good reason to believe that, despite his apparent prosperity, Woodman
was hard pressed for money. Left alone in Woodman’s office for a few
minutes the week before, he had hurriedly turned over certain private
papers on the desk, and had gathered enough information to be sure
that Woodman, like himself, would do a good deal for a supply of ready
money. Might not this fact, he wondered, open up the possibility of a
bargain? If, as he believed, the will was now in his favour, he could
offer Woodman very favourable terms for negotiating an advance on his
behalf. He would offer Woodman a share—a substantial share—as a
loan—of whatever he could raise on the strength of Walter’s
expectations.
Why waste time? He would at least see at once whether Woodman was at
his office, and try to arrange an appointment. The telephone was at
his elbow, and he rang up. Woodman was there, and Walter got straight
through to him. His clerks had already gone home for the night.
“Who is speaking?” came the voice from the other end.
“Walter Brooklyn this end. I want to see you as soon as possible.”
As he gave his name, Walter heard a gasp from the man at the other end
of the wire. Then, “Where are you speaking from?” came the voice.
“Not from Brixton, if that is what you mean. I’m speaking from the
Byron Club.”
“Good God, man! How on earth——”
“The police released me this afternoon. I am completely cleared of
this charge, although I understand you were good enough to believe me
guilty.”
To this there came no answer.
“I must see you privately at once.”
“What about?”
“I’ll tell you that when we meet. Will you come round here?”
“When?”
“To-night, if you can. I shall be in my room all the evening.”
“Not to-night. I have an engagement.”
“Then to-morrow morning.”
“Very well. At about eleven.”
“I’ll be here. Good-night.”
Each man as he hung up the receiver had plenty to think about.
Brooklyn was perfecting his scheme for raising a loan with Woodman’s
aid, and reflecting upon the various ways in which he might approach
the subject. Carter Woodman also stood silent with a heavy frown on
his face.
The fact that Walter Brooklyn had been released, although the evidence
against him seemed overwhelming, came as a great surprise to Woodman.
Something curious must have happened, When Brooklyn rang off, he had
been on the point of asking for further details. He would get them
somehow elsewhere. He would try to see the inspector. He rang up
Scotland Yard.
“Hallo. Is that Inspector Blaikie? Carter Woodman speaking.”
“Is that you, Mr. Woodman? I was just trying to get through to you
myself. Are you at your office? Then may I come around and see you for
a few minutes? Will what you wanted to say to me keep till I get
round? Very well, I’ll be with you in half a jiffy.”
This was a piece of luck. Woodman would get the full story from the
inspector, and he would also be able to give in return a piece of
information which, he thought, would make Scotland Yard sit up. How on
earth had they come to release Walter Brooklyn? Well, there was such a
thing as re-arrest. After all, the man had not been acquitted.
The inspector arrived in less than a quarter of an hour. He explained
that he wished to ask Woodman a few questions relating to Prinsep’s
private affairs, and also involving, he believed, certain of the
servants at Liskeard House. Had Woodman heard anything of some trouble
with a girl down at Fittleworth—the head gardener’s daughter—a Miriam
Smith?
Yes, Woodman did know about it; but he had not mentioned it before, as
it was confidential, and there was no reason to believe it had
anything to do with the murders. Prinsep had commissioned him to
settle with the girl for a lump sum payment, in consideration of which
she was to leave the district. Woodman understood there would be a
child. Undoubtedly, Prinsep had behaved badly to the girl; but it was
not the first time. Was there any reason to connect the incident with
the murders?
“There may be, or there may not, Mr. Woodman. Are you aware that the
girl was engaged to be married to the butler at Liskeard House?
Winter, his name is.”
“Oh, I know Winter. A most trusted old family servant. I had no idea
that he was engaged to the girl. But I feel quite sure you are wrong
if you connect him in any way with the murders. He is the last man to
be mixed up in such a thing. Besides, between ourselves, I haven’t a
doubt that it was Walter Brooklyn who killed Prinsep. He may have
killed George Brooklyn, too, or Prinsep may. But surely there is not
much doubt he killed Prinsep.”
“I see you have not heard the news, Mr. Woodman. Walter Brooklyn was
released this afternoon.”
Woodman thought that he would get fuller information if he simulated
ignorance and astonishment.
“Released? Whatever for?” he said.
“Because our evidence seems to show that he had nothing to do with
it.”
“But, good heavens! there was his stick, and the telephone message,
and his quarrel with Prinsep. What more do you want?”
“I can’t go into the details, Mr. Woodman. But we have been convinced
that he didn’t do it.”
“Of course, if you have made up your mind, it is no good my telling
you what I was going to tell you. But, when I last saw you, you were
sure enough he was guilty. What on earth has made you change your
opinion?”
“If you have further information, you should certainly tell me, Mr.
Woodman. We ought to know everything that has a possible bearing on
the case.”
“I will tell you; but it must be between ourselves. You know Thomas,
who is Walter Brooklyn’s present solicitor. The man knows his client
is guilty, and he had the effrontery to come here and ask me to help
him in arranging a collusive defence.”
“Indeed, what was it he proposed?”
“That I should help him in an attempt to shift the suspicion to the
men-servants. Of course, I refused to have anything to do with such
dishonourable tactics. Thomas admitted to me that his client was
guilty. I am only surprised that he seems to have succeeded so well in
deceiving the police.”
“You say that Thomas admitted Brooklyn’s guilt to you?” asked the
inspector, half-incredulously, but with a note of excitement in his
voice.
“Undoubtedly, he did. Of course, I should not have told you if he had
not made me that dishonourable proposal. I am telling you now in order
to save an innocent man from suspicion.”
“This is very strange, Mr. Woodman. The proofs of Mr. Brooklyn’s
innocence were considered to be conclusive. Superintendent Wilson very
strongly holds that they are conclusive. He appears to have a perfect
_alibi_.”
“_Alibis_ can be faked, and usually are.”
“This one has been pretty thoroughly tested. But, in view of what you
say, I must certainly take up the matter again at once. Of course, my
first step will be to have a talk with Mr. Thomas.”
“Pardon me, inspector, but I hope you will not do that. I have told
you this in strict confidence, and it would endanger my professional
position if it were known that I had done so.”
“Surely not. The fact that the man made you a dishonourable proposal
absolves you.”
“He would deny it, and it would be only my word against his. He would
merely deny, too, that he ever considered his client to be guilty.
What else could he do? And we could not prove it.”
The inspector stood silent for a moment, biting his lip, while he
thought the position over. Then he said,—
“Very well, Mr. Woodman. Perhaps you are right. But I think I can get
at the truth in another way. I will let you know the result. Rest
assured that what you say will be given full weight.”
“All I want is to prevent you from going on a wild goose chase after
poor old Winter. I’ve known him since I was a baby, and he is quite
incapable of doing what you suggest.”
“That is as may be, Mr. Woodman. We are not inclined to suspect him
seriously without further evidence. But I will certainly look into
what you tell me about Mr. Walter Brooklyn. And now, there is another
matter about which I want to ask you one or two questions.”
“Ask away.”
“You were good enough to give me very full particulars about the
contents of Sir Vernon Brooklyn’s will; but there were one or two
points about which I omitted to ask you. Perhaps you will not mind
clearing them up now. In the first place, as matters stand now, who
did you say were the principal beneficiaries? I have the facts here in
my notebook, but I want to check them.”
“Let me see. Mrs. George Brooklyn gets one half of the sum which would
have gone to George Brooklyn, and Miss Cowper half of what would have
gone to John Prinsep. Mr. Walter Brooklyn is the residuary legatee,
and stands, I suppose, to inherit about half a million, unless the
will is altered.”
“Thank you. The further point I want to know is what the position
would be if Mr. Walter Brooklyn were to die before Sir Vernon. Who
would be the residuary legatee in that case?”
Woodman paused for a moment before replying. Then he said, “The
residue would go, of course, to the next of kin.”
“Who is that? I think you have not mentioned any other relatives.”
“To the best of my belief, inspector, I myself am the next of kin
after Walter Brooklyn.”
The inspector whistled. “Then you would inherit the bulk of the money
if Sir Vernon Brooklyn died after Walter Brooklyn.”
“Yes, that is, unless a new will were made. I should, of course, have
to inform Sir Vernon fully as to the circumstances.”
“Quite so. And now there is just one further point. Sir Vernon has
not, I suppose, shown any desire so far to amend his will.”
“He is far too ill to be troubled at present with matters of
business.”
“I see. Then, so far as you know, the old will stands.”
“Yes. Mr. Walter Brooklyn is at present the principal heir.”
“Thank you, Mr. Woodman,” said the inspector, holding out his hand.
When Inspector Blaikie had gone, Woodman sat down again at his desk to
think things over. What was the purpose of the questions just
addressed to him? Clearly, the police had some new idea in their
minds. They had come to the conclusion, on grounds adequate or
inadequate, that Walter Brooklyn was not the murderer, and they were
clearly trying to find out afresh who else could have had a reasonable
motive. That was the only possible reason for the careful inquiries
into the terms of the will. Was it possible that the police had a real
new clue—possibly even a definite suspicion? Would they even begin
suspecting him, now they had discovered that he was next of kin? As
long as Walter Brooklyn lived, he stood to gain nothing. It was
ridiculous to think that he could be suspected.
The inspector also had a good deal to think about when he left
Woodman’s office. His first thought was to see his superior officer;
but he found that the superintendent was out, and was not expected
back for an hour or so. He made up his mind to fill in the interval by
clearing up the new question, relating to Walter Brooklyn’s guilt,
which Carter Woodman had raised. He took a taxi, and drove to Liskeard
House, where he asked to see Miss Cowper. She received him at once,
and he came straight to the point.
“Miss Cowper, I have a question to ask you. You may think it a very
peculiar one, and you need not answer it if you would rather not. I
shall not tell any one that you refused, or that I asked it. I want to
know whether, so far as you are aware, Mr. Thomas, your stepfather’s
solicitor, at any time believed in his client’s guilt. I should not
ask you, of course, if your stepfather had not been released. But I
have a reason for asking.”
Joan showed that the question startled her; but she answered without
hesitation. “Yes,” she said, “Mr. Thomas did believe what you say
until we undeceived him with the evidence you also found convincing;
indeed, that was why Mr. Ellery and I determined to go to work on our
own. We felt that Mr. Thomas, believing what was not true, would never
find out what was true. My stepfather told me that he was sure Thomas
believed him guilty; but he said, ‘I dare say he’ll make as good a
defence as another would when it comes to the point.’”
“I will tell you, Miss Cowper, exactly why I asked the question. It
is being stated that Mr. Brooklyn actually confessed his guilt to
his solicitor, and that Mr. Thomas told a third person that he was
guilty. I should not, of course, tell you this if I believed it to
be true. Your answer quite satisfies me that it is based on a
misunderstanding.”
“It is preposterous,” said Joan indignantly. “My stepfather told Mr.
Thomas the absolute truth; but the man would not believe it, until we
proved it to him.”
“That is just what I imagined, Miss Cowper. Thank you very much for
speaking to me so frankly. It has saved a world of trouble. Let me
assure you that no suspicion at all now rests on Mr. Brooklyn.”
“I should hope not,” said Joan. “But who put this abominable story
about?”
“I cannot tell you that, Miss Cowper. But you may rest secure that no
more will be heard of it. May I use your telephone for a moment on my
way out?”
The permission was readily given, and, in the hall, the inspector
stepped into the little closed lobby, in which the telephone was kept,
and rang up Carter Woodman.
“Hallo, is that Mr. Woodman? Inspector Blaikie speaking. I have looked
into that matter about which you spoke to me. About Walter Brooklyn, I
mean—his having told Thomas that he was guilty. There’s nothing in it.
No, nothing in it. You made a mistake. You must have misinterpreted
what Thomas said. He did believe Mr. Brooklyn to be guilty, but Mr.
Brooklyn never told him so. It was merely his personal opinion. What?
Am I sure? Yes, quite certain. No, I have not seen Thomas; but I am
sure all the same. Yes, I now regard Mr. Brooklyn’s innocence as quite
established. Yes, quite certain. No doubt at all about it. We made a
very natural mistake when we arrested him; but that’s all done with
now. I think we are getting on the right track. Thanks all the same.
You were quite right to tell me, though there proved to be nothing in
it. Good-night.”
The inspector hung up the receiver, and went on his way.