Robert Ellery’s Idea
Ellery woke up in the morning with the dim consciousness that he had a
great idea. What had he been thinking out when he dropped off to sleep
the night before? The murders, of course—they were always in his
thoughts. But what was the shattering new idea that had come to him as
he lay awake? That was how his best ideas often came—in the night just
before he went to sleep they came to him half-formed, and the next
morning, by the time he was fully awake, they had somehow taken on
form and certainty. With an effort he stretched and roused himself,
and, as he did so, the idea came back to him. He felt certain that he
knew who was the murderer.
Who, he had asked himself the night before—who, of all the persons who
figured on the list Joan and he had compiled, was most likely to have
done the thing? He felt certain that it was not the work of a
stranger: the whole of the circumstances seemed to point to some one
familiar with the house and its ways. Yet, on the evidence, it seemed
clear enough that no one among those they had put upon their list
could be guilty. But their list included everybody. Very well—this had
been his first inspiration—there must be something wrong with the
evidence. It must point away from the guilty, as it had pointed
towards the innocent. The murderer who had laid that clever trail to
incriminate Walter Brooklyn would obviously have taken the precaution
to lay a trail pointing away from himself. Indeed, whoever had the
apparently clearest _alibi_ was on this showing the most likely to be
guilty. It would be safest, in the circumstances, to ignore for the
moment all the evidence which seemed to prove innocence, and simply
consider, in the light of the remaining conditions, who was most
likely to have been the murderer.
This narrowed the field considerably. The women, except as possible
accessories, could be ruled out of account in any case; for no woman
could have struck the blows by which the two cousins had met their
deaths. That left—whom? Walter Brooklyn was out of it; for his _alibi_
had been not merely accepted, but tested beyond possible doubt. Ellery
could hardly suspect himself, though he admitted that any one else,
following out his line of thought, might still suspect him. His
_alibi_ was not conclusive: it depended on the word of one man. But he
could rule himself out: he could say positively that he had not done
the thing. Then who remained? Only Harry Lucas, Carter Woodman, and
the two servants, Winter and Morgan. Among these, if he was right, the
real murderer must be found.
It was ludicrous, Ellery felt, to suspect his guardian. Harry Lucas
had no possible motive, and he was the very last man for such a deed.
He was ruled out of consideration as soon as the thought was
conceived. About Winter and Morgan Ellery could not feel the same full
certainty; but he was very strongly of opinion that the murders were
not the work of a servant, and that neither of these men had the
qualities which the deed seemed to demand.
Then there was left only—Carter Woodman. It was on that thought that
Ellery had fallen asleep, and that was the idea that now came back to
him with added certainty. Carter Woodman was the murderer.
But was not the whole idea preposterous? Woodman not merely had an
_alibi_ which had satisfied the police; he was a relative, an old
personal friend, the tried and trusted business adviser of the
Brooklyns. His wife was one of Joan’s dearest friends, and he himself
had been constantly about with the men of whose murder Ellery was now
suspecting him. The idea seemed preposterous enough, when it was put
in that way; but, though Ellery presented these difficulties to his
mind in all their strength, they did not at all change his attitude.
No one else was the murderer: therefore Carter Woodman was.
There entered, certainly, into Ellery’s conviction his own strong
dislike of Woodman. The suggestion of Woodman’s guilt, once made, was
plausible to him, because he had not at all the feeling that the deed
was incongruous. It would have been utterly incongruous with what he
knew of any other possible suspect, even Walter Brooklyn; but the cap
seemed to fit Carter Woodman. Ellery said to himself that Woodman was
just the sort of chap who would commit murder, if he had a strong
enough motive.
Yes; but where was the motive in this case? What did Woodman stand to
gain? Knowing the terms of the will, Ellery was aware that he gained
nothing directly; for Sir Vernon’s fortune would now pass mainly to
Walter Brooklyn, and the rest to Joan and to Marian Brooklyn. Of
course, Woodman might hope to get Sir Vernon to make a new will in his
favour, and, in any case, he probably stood now a fine chance of
becoming the managing director of the Brooklyn Corporation. But a man
would hardly commit two desperate murders merely on such chances. The
more Ellery considered the matter, the surer he felt that there must
be something else behind—something of which he was unaware, that would
make the whole case plain.
He must see Joan, and tell her what he suspected. She might well know
some fact, of which he was ignorant, that would throw a clear light on
the motive behind the crimes. But would she ever believe that Woodman
had done it? Ellery realized that what to him seemed like certainty
would seem to others only a guess, and that he had not merely no proof
but actually no evidence to support his assumptions. What evidence
there was told the other way. Still, this did not shake his assurance.
He must make Joan see the case as he had come to see it. Then they
could seek together for the proof.
As soon as Ellery had breakfasted, he set off for Liskeard House to
find Joan. They must get to work at once.
Joan, too, had spent a good part of the night thinking; but her
thoughts had brought her no nearer to a solution of the mystery
surrounding the murders. There was literally not one, of all those who
seemed to be concerned, who could, in her judgment, have been the
murderer. She was reduced to the supposition that it must be some
outsider—some one whom they had not even dreamed so far of connecting
with the crimes.
But Joan’s thoughts, unlike Ellery’s, persistently wandered from the
problem which she had set herself to solve. She kept thinking of the
future—of the thing that was dearest to the heart of the old man lying
at death’s door. It was not the money: it was the direction of the
great dramatic enterprise which he alone had built up. He had set his
heart, she knew, on passing on, not merely his fortune, but the
headship of the Brooklyn Corporation to one of his own blood, one who
could carry on the work he had set himself to do. Whom would he now
put in the place which Prinsep had lately occupied? He might, indeed,
die without the strength to make a change; but Joan did not believe
that he would. It seemed to her inconceivable that he would leave
matters so that the bulk of his fortune, and with it the control of
the Brooklyn Corporation, would pass to her stepfather, who had
manifestly neither the will nor the special capacity to carry on the
work. She was convinced that Sir Vernon would change his will; and she
could see but one man whom he was now likely to make heir to his
wealth and position. Carter Woodman had the talent and the knowledge
to run the Corporation as a business, if not as an artistic success.
Would Sir Vernon put Woodman in Prinsep’s place? Joan hated the very
idea; for she believed in the Brooklyn Corporation as an artistic
venture, and she had always somehow both disliked and distrusted
Carter Woodman. She would have found it difficult to give a definite
reason for her dislike, and she admitted that she was perhaps unfair;
but there it was. She hoped Carter would not get the job, and she was
sure that, however successful he might be commercially, his accession
to power would put an end to all hope of artistic success. Still, she
told herself, it was no business of hers, and she would certainly not
try to influence Sir Vernon in any way. She supposed he would make
Woodman his heir; for there was no one else.
Against her will, the thought of Ellery came into her mind. He would
be, would he not?—she seemed to be arguing with a non-existent
adversary—just the man to carry on Sir Vernon’s great artistic
enterprises. Joan found herself building up quite a romance on the
basis of Robert Ellery’s succession to control of the great Brooklyn
enterprise. How well he would do it! And then she reminded herself
sharply that she had no right to entertain such ideas, and that, in
any case, she certainly could not say a word on Bob’s behalf to Sir
Vernon. No, Carter Woodman would get the job. Joan sighed as she
resigned herself to the inevitable. But despite her good resolutions,
she was still thinking what an excellent successor to Sir Vernon
Robert Ellery would make, when she was told that he was waiting to see
her. She brushed the thought she had been entertaining out of her
mind, and, dressing hastily—for she had breakfasted in bed—went down
to see him.
“Well, my dear, what news?” he asked.
“My dear Bob, I’ve had a beastly night, and I feel utterly washed out.
And my thoughts keep on going round and round in a circle.”
“Poor darling,” said Ellery. “You _are_ having a time.”
“And yet, Bob, it’s odd how little it all matters now I have you.”
“I must give you a kiss for saying that, my dear. And I must try to
live up to it.”
“Dear boy,” said Joan, and then for a few minutes they managed to get
along without the need for words. Joan was the first to rouse herself.
“My dear Bob,” she said, “this is a fine way of wasting time. I
thought our job was to find out who did it.”
“My dear child, I’ve been thinking all the time. It’s wonderful how
putting my head on your shoulder clears my brain. Now I’m ready to
behave like a real scientific detective.”
“I think you’ll do it better if you sit a little farther off. Now, my
lad, what do you think about it?”
“I think just this, Joan. I think I know now who did it.”
Joan gave a gasp. “You know who did it!” she repeated.
“Well, I don’t know; but I think I have a very good idea.”
“Do you mean you’ve got some evidence at last. Who was it, Bob? Tell
me.”
“No, I haven’t any fresh evidence yet. I’ve just been thinking. But I
believe it was”—Ellery paused—“Carter Woodman.”
Joan gave a half-cry of surprise. “Bob, Bob, you can’t mean that.
Whatever makes you say such a thing? My dear boy, it’s quite absurd.”
“Why is it absurd, Joan?”
“Well, Carter’s a member of the family, and one of our oldest friends,
and—but what’s the use of discussing it? Why, he was here yesterday.”
“He may be here to-day, dear; but I don’t see what that has to do with
it.”
“But Carter’s been helping the police all through. He’s——”
“Isn’t that just what he would do if he were guilty?”
“My dear Bob, this is absurd. We know that Carter was in the
Cunningham Hotel all the evening. He couldn’t have done it. Really——”
“Do you think that the man who was clever enough to fasten all that
suspicion on your stepfather wouldn’t be clever enough to provide
himself with a passable _alibi_?”
“Oh, yes. But all this doesn’t tell me why you suspect Carter. Put it
out of your mind, Bob. I know you don’t like him, but that doesn’t
mean that he has committed murder.”
“I’ve said to myself already everything that you are saying now. But I
still believe that he did it.”
“Why, Bob? Have you any reason—any proof at all, I mean?”
“No, I’ve no proof; but I’ve an idea. It’s a question of elimination.
If nobody else did it, then he did.”
“But, my dear boy, what possible motive could he have had? People
don’t commit murders just for fun. Do be reasonable. Carter was on
quite good terms with both George and John, and he had no reason for
killing either of them.”
“Do you mean that, Joan?” said Ellery, with a sense of disappointment.
“I hoped you would be able to explain to me what motive he could have
had. Come now, doesn’t he really stand to gain something—I mean, don’t
you think Sir Vernon may make him his heir, or something of that
sort?”
Joan paused. “Yes, Bob,” she said, with a sigh. “There I think you’re
right. Sir Vernon will very likely put Carter in John’s place, I
should imagine. But——”
“Well, isn’t that a motive?”
“No, my dear, it isn’t. After all, we don’t know that he will, and I’m
quite sure people don’t commit carefully planned murders just on a
chance like that. Really, Bob, it’s ridiculous.”
Ellery said nothing, but got up and strode across the room. Then he
turned and faced Joan. “Look here,” he said, “supposing we hadn’t
cleared old Walter, and he had been put out of the way as well as
Prinsep and George. Who’d have been the heir then—the next of kin, I
mean?”
“Oh, Carter, I suppose. But you don’t suggest——”
“My dear child, we’ve been a pair of fools. By George, I wasn’t sure;
but I’m sure now. What you’ve just said makes it clear as clear.”
“Makes what clear?”
“Why, the motive. Of course, I ought to have seen it before.”
“Ought to have seen it before? Ought to have seen what?”
“Why, whoever murdered John and George did his best to throw the
suspicion on your stepfather, didn’t he?”
“Yes, I suppose he did.”
“And if your stepfather had been convicted, Woodman could have stepped
into Sir Vernon’s shoes without a word said as the next heir.”
“When Sir Vernon died—yes. Probably, he could.”
“And wasn’t all this the surest way of hastening his end? But that is
not my point. As long as Walter Brooklyn was likely to be convicted,
the man I suspect stood to inherit Sir Vernon’s money, and to step at
once into Prinsep’s shoes. He had murdered two of the people who stood
in his way, and he did his best to murder the third judicially by
faking up evidence against him. If Walter Brooklyn was convicted, he
was quite safe to get both the money and the control of the theatres.
That’s what he was after when he tried to get your stepfather
convicted of murder. Doesn’t that theory fit the facts?”
“I suppose it does, Bob. But it would be a simply horrible thing to
have to believe, and it doesn’t convince me in the least. I don’t like
Carter; but we’ve treated him as almost one of the family all these
years. Could he possibly have done such a thing?”
“I don’t like him either—in fact, I dislike him very strongly—and I
believe he could—and did. But it won’t be easy to prove it.”
“But, Bob, it can’t be true. Carter was with the others at the
Cunningham all the time on the night when John and George were
killed.”
“I know he said he was; but was he? A thing like that needs to be
proved. Why, he’s the only man who had any reason for killing these
three people, and, unless he can prove conclusively that he didn’t
kill two of them, and do his best to get the law to kill the third, I
shall go on believing that he did. At any rate, I mean to look into
it.”
“But you can’t possibly bring a charge of that sort without proof.”
“You and I are going to find the proof, and there are two things you
can do to help. First, you must find out—from Marian will probably be
best—where Woodman really was on Tuesday night, I mean whether he
positively was with them in the hotel all the evening. I don’t believe
he was.”
“My dear boy, it would be simply horrible to have to go and ask Marian
things like that, when I can’t possibly tell her why we want to know
them. To think that she is actually living with the Woodmans, without
an idea that any one is suspecting Carter of having murdered her
husband.”
“No, you mustn’t tell her a word. But you can easily find out what I
want without letting her see what I suspect.”
“I suppose I must try to find out, just to prove that you’re all
wrong. But I don’t suspect Carter. It’s just too horrible to think.”
“My dear, whether we like it or not, we have to find the man who did
this—more than ever now that your stepfather is cleared. A man who was
capable of these things is capable of anything, and I can’t bear the
thought that you may be meeting him and regarding him as a friend.”
“All right, Bob. I agree that we have to get to the bottom of this.
I’ll do my best. But I’m still sure you’re wrong.”
“That’s right, Joan, I only hope I am. But, while you’re seeing
Marian, I will try to find out a few things about friend Woodman on my
own.”
At this moment Marian Brooklyn was shown in. She came across most
mornings, and spent a part of the day at Liskeard House, taking her
share in looking after Sir Vernon. It was a relief to her to have
something to do. It stopped her from just thinking day and night of
what she had lost. Ellery had not seen her since the tragedy, and he
felt shy and awkward now in the presence of her grief. At the end of a
few minutes he took his leave and left Joan to do what she had
promised.
It was not easy to come to the point. How could she, without rousing
suspicions, ask Marian about Carter Woodman’s movements on the night
of the murders? But, very soon, Marian gave her just the chance she
needed, by saying that she and Helen had been alone together all the
previous evening.
“Where was Carter?” she asked.
“He had to go out and see some one on business. He did not get back
till we were just going to bed.”
“Sitting up late as usual, I suppose?”
“It was about twelve o’clock—certainly not later. And you know I can’t
sleep if I go to bed early.”
“I didn’t know Carter did business in the evenings. He always used to
boast of keeping his evenings clear for enjoying himself.”
“Yes, and he had promised Helen to be in. But he said it was a very
particular engagement. At some Club or other, I believe. He was seeing
Sir John Bunnery about some legal business. When he came in he was
dead tired, and went straight to bed.”
“Marian, do you like Carter?” Joan asked suddenly. “It seems funny I
never asked you that before. I hate him.”
“My dear, you mustn’t say that. Of course I like him. I don’t mean I
care for Carter like some other people; but of course I like him.
Helen is a darling.”
“That means you don’t like him at all—only you’re too nice to say so.”
“I do like him, Joan. At least, I mean I don’t dislike him.”
“He seems to leave Helen alone a great deal.”
“Far too much, and he’s often out until all hours.”
“He even went out again after the dinner here last Tuesday, didn’t
he?”
“No, he didn’t that night. He went away to his room and wrote letters.
But he didn’t go out again. I stayed with Helen till he came up to
bed—rather before twelve. But don’t talk about that horrible night.”
“I’m sorry, dear. I won’t again.”
And then they talked of other things, until Marian went in to sit a
while with Sir Vernon. The doctor, who had been with him, saw Joan on
his way out. Sir Vernon, he reported, was not yet out of immediate
danger; but he was rallying wonderfully from the shock which he had
sustained.