The Superintendent’s Theory
When Inspector Blaikie reported to Superintendent Wilson the results
of his conversation with Carter Woodman, he had formed no definite
theory. He explained without comment the precise terms of the will,
stating that, if Walter Brooklyn had been removed, Carter Woodman, as
next of kin, would have became the principal beneficiary. He was not
prepared for the conclusion which his superior immediately drew on
hearing that this was the case.
“Then Carter Woodman is the murderer,” said the superintendent, with
an air of finality. “If we had known these facts before, it would have
saved a world of trouble.”
“But,” said Inspector Blaikie, “Carter Woodman appears to have a
perfect _alibi_. He was in the Cunningham Hotel at the time when the
murders were committed—at least that seemed to be an undoubted fact
when we investigated his movements.”
“My dear inspector, it does not follow that, because Walter Brooklyn’s
_alibi_ proved to be sound, all _alibis_ are therefore equally sound.
I do not need to remind you that _alibis_ can be faked.”
“Quite so, sir; but aren’t you rather hasty in leaping to the
conclusion that Woodman is guilty? We have really nothing against him,
except a suggestion of motive. As matters stand now, he has gained
absolutely nothing by the murders.”
“Perhaps not, though it is not safe to be too sure on that point. We
may not know all the circumstances. But, if you are right, don’t you
see that the very fact that, as matters stand now, he has gained
nothing, is a very strong reason for suspecting him?”
The inspector failed to follow this reasoning. “Why do you say that?”
he asked. “I can’t see it at all.”
“Well, it is clear that the murderer, whoever he was, did his level
best to get Walter Brooklyn hanged. Who stood to gain by getting
Walter Brooklyn out of the way?”
“I see. Carter Woodman. Yes, I follow now.”
“That is one strong point against him. Here is another. Do you
remember where Walter Brooklyn thought he had left his stick on
Tuesday afternoon? He went back to look for it, you remember.”
The inspector thought for a moment. “In Carter Woodman’s office,” he
said at last.
“Well, then, isn’t it clear that he did leave his stick in Woodman’s
office? Woodman found it, but denied the fact when Walter called to
fetch it, and told him he must have left it in the taxi. Then Woodman
deliberately planted the stick on the scene of Prinsep’s murder.”
“That’s pure hypothesis. I don’t say it isn’t true; but——”
“It’s more than hypothesis: it is divination. Surely you see that it
_must_ be what happened.”
“I expect, as usual, you are right,” said the inspector. “But will it
convince a jury? I have tried all I know to get any evidence showing
when the stick was left; but not a trace can I find. A jury will
regard it as a pure hypothesis.”
The superintendent sighed. Juries are sadly lacking in appreciation of
the subtleties of reasoning. “You’re quite right there,” he said. “My
divination won’t hang Carter Woodman. But it convinces you as it
convinced me. We have to get faith in our own knowledge before we can
make a case that will persuade others. You and I now have that faith.
We know that Carter Woodman is guilty.”
“But even you can’t prove it.”
“Not yet; but it will be proved. And now I come to a third point. You
remember that written message that was found in the garden near George
Brooklyn’s body—the scrap of paper you picked up. It was in Prinsep’s
writing.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Have you thought any more about that scrap of paper, or have you just
assumed that it was a request by Prinsep that George Brooklyn should
meet him in the garden?”
“There didn’t seem to be much to be gleaned from it.”
“There I think you are wrong. I want to know exactly when that piece
of paper was found, and by whom.”
“We found it in the garden that morning, when we were looking for
clues after finding George Brooklyn’s body.”
“Who actually found it?”
“I suppose I did. No, I remember now, it was Carter Woodman who
directed my attention to it. It was lying in a corner of the
summer-house—the place they call ‘the temple.’”
“My dear inspector,” said the superintendent excitedly, “do you
realise the significance of what you have just said. Woodman took good
care that you should discover that piece of paper, _because he had put
it there for you to find_.” The superintendent said these last words
slowly, and with very great emphasis.
The inspector scratched his head thoughtfully. “I believe you are
right,” he said. “It was after we had finished our first search that
Woodman drew my attention to the scrap of paper.”
“He was afraid you would fail to notice it.”
“I can see that you are right, sir; but there again you have a thing
which will not convince a jury for a moment. Your reasoning will seem
to them fantastic. I only know you are right because you always are
right when you make a long guess like that.”
“But need it be only a guess? Look here.” And Superintendent Wilson
pushed the scrap of paper across to his subordinate. “Take a good
look. Do you see anything curious about it?”
“It’s written oddly near the edge of the paper.”
“Yes, that is the point. The writing is right up at the top of the
paper, and immediately above the writing is a torn edge. The paper, as
we said before, is a sheet torn from the memorandum block found in
Prinsep’s room; but it is not a complete sheet. About an inch has been
neatly torn off the top of the sheet. Is that a natural thing for
Prinsep to have done, and does the writing look natural as it stands
now on the sheet?”
The inspector looked again at the note. “No, it certainly does not,”
he said.
“Doesn’t that suggest anything to you?”
“Do you mean that this is only part of the message?”
“That’s exactly what I do mean. The message now says only, ‘Meet me in
the garden.—J.P.’ Probably what it said originally was, ‘Dear So and
So—whatever the name may have been, and I don’t believe it was
‘George’—meet me in the garden.—J.P.’ There may have been a date, too,
at the top of the note.”
“You mean that this note, though it was written by Prinsep, was not
written with reference to the particular occasion we are concerned
with.”
“Precisely. Now, I suppose there is no hope of our finding the missing
part of that memorandum slip; but I am convinced that is what
happened.”
The inspector made a sudden exclamation. “Good Lord! what a fool I
have been,” he said.
“How do you mean?” said the superintendent sharply.
“Why, I actually found what must have been the missing part of the
slip when I was searching Prinsep’s room. I thought nothing of it at
the time.”
“You have it now?”
The inspector shook his head ruefully. “No,” he said, “it has gone
west. When I searched the room, I naturally looked in the grate. There
had been a fire, and on the hearth was a half-burnt scrap of paper.”
“What was on it?”
“Nothing but the name of a day at the head—Monday, it was—and one
word. The rest was burnt. It had evidently fallen out of the grate.”
“The word was?”
“‘Man.’ Just ‘man,’ nothing else.”
The superintendent gave an excited laugh. “Now I know what the note
contained,” he said. “‘Monday, Dear Woodman, Meet me in the
garden.—J.P.’ How does that strike you? The note was from Prinsep to
Woodman; but it was written on the day before the murders. Lord, what
a pity you didn’t keep the fragment. My dear inspector, never destroy
anything. That is the only safe course for a man like you.”
“I did show it to the sergeant, sir,” said the inspector, considerably
crestfallen at his superior’s tone.
“Come, that’s a bit better. The judge will probably accept your
combined testimonies. It’s a great pity, though, you didn’t realise
the importance of that scrap of charred paper. However, for our own
purposes at least I think we can take it as proved that Woodman
deliberately prepared and planted that note on the scene of the crime,
believing that the other piece was safely burnt in the fire in
Prinsep’s room. Our case against Woodman is mounting up. Come,
inspector, you must follow up these new clues at once.”
“Don’t forget Woodman’s _alibi_. That still holds unless we can shake
it.”
“It must be your next business to shake it. We now know that Woodman
did leave the Cunningham Hotel that evening. It is your job to
discover how he left it and how he got into Liskeard House. Make these
the next points, inspector.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“And there is one other matter I should tell you about, though, in the
light of our discoveries, it is now probably of quite minor
importance, I think. Still, we must not be too cocksure, or neglect
any fact that may possibly bear on the case. If we are right about
Woodman, then he planned the whole affair very carefully; but he took
a big risk all the same.”
“Having you to reckon with, yes.”
“Well, I doubt if a man would take a risk of that magnitude without
some very urgent reason—such as grave and immediate financial
embarrassment. I want you to look into Woodman’s record, make
inquiries about him in the city, and see if he appears to be in Queer
Street, or anything of that sort.”
“It wouldn’t prove anything if he were.”
“No; but it would greatly strengthen our case on the question of
motive. It’s worth looking into, at all events. And now, inspector, I
won’t keep you. There’s work to do; and you had best be getting about
it. And I want to do some more thinking in this case. It gets
interesting.”