Sir John Bunnery
Before Joan and Ellery parted, they arranged what each should do next
to clear up the remaining difficulties. Joan was to test her theory
about the coachyard, while Ellery was to investigate the circumstances
surrounding the extraordinary attempt of Woodman and Walter Brooklyn
to raise a loan in anticipation of Sir Vernon’s death. Woodman had
approached Sir John Bunnery; and Sir John’s subsequent letter to Sir
Vernon seemed to make it worth while to find out what information he
possessed. Ellery made up his mind to go and see Sir John; and Joan
furnished him with a convenient pretext for doing so. Sir Vernon had
determined to get his new will into proper legal form at the earliest
possible moment, and had told Joan that Woodman must on no account be
allowed to do the drafting of it. She had suggested that Sir John
Bunnery might be called in, and Sir Vernon had readily agreed. Joan
therefore commissioned Ellery to call on Sir John, and ask him to come
to Liskeard House at his earliest convenience for the purpose of
drawing up Sir Vernon’s new will.
Ellery wrote on his card, “From Sir Vernon Brooklyn,” and, aided by
the name, was speedily shown into Sir John Bunnery’s private office.
Sir John was not at all the popular idea of what “the bookmaker’s
attorney” ought to be. He was a small, dried-up old man, with very
sharp little eyes that darted to and fro with disconcerting
suddenness. He had a way of sitting very still, and looking his
visitors up and down with those bright little eyes, until they felt
that no detail of their appearance—and perhaps none of their
thoughts—had escaped observation. Sir John made Ellery nervous, and,
after a few sentences, he found that he had completed his ostensible
business, without getting anywhere near the matter he had really come
to discuss. He shifted uneasily in his chair.
Sir John Bunnery evidently read his thoughts. “And now, young man,
there is something else you want to say to me, isn’t there?”
This was not at all the way in which Ellery had expected to conduct
the interview. He had hoped to discover what he wanted casually, in
the course of conversation, without giving Sir John, who was, after
all, a friend of Woodman’s, any hint of what he wanted to know. But
Sir John was manifestly a man whom it was not easy to pump. Ellery was
wondering what to reply when the old lawyer spoke again,—
“I have refused Woodman that advance. Is that what you wanted to
know?”
Ellery said that it was not, and then realised that he had admitted
wanting to know something.
“Well, what is it then?” said Sir John.
There was nothing for it but either to get out of the room without the
information that was needed or to make Sir John Bunnery, at least in
part, a confidant. Ellery rapidly chose the latter course, and elected
to go to work the most direct way.
“I want to know precisely what Carter Woodman said to you when he
asked you to lend him that money. Do you know what he wanted it for?”
“You want to know a lot, young man. And why should I tell you all
this?”
“Because Carter Woodman is a murderer.”
Those small eyes looked at him very suddenly. “H’m,” said Sir John,
“and so you think Woodman killed those two fellows at Liskeard House.
Is that it, eh? I dare say they were a good riddance.”
“I must say you take it very calmly, Sir John.”
“In my business, young man, we get used to taking things calmly.
Murder is not an uncommon crime.”
“But I understood Carter Woodman was a friend of yours.”
“If you were my age, young man, and in my profession, you wouldn’t be
surprised even if one of your friends committed a murder. But, he’s no
friend of mine—now. Carter Woodman would be a good riddance himself. I
could have put him in prison for trying to raise money on false
pretences.”
“Sir John, you will tell me what you know. I have almost certain proof
that Woodman did commit murder; but your evidence may be
indispensable.”
“In that case, I should naturally give it at the proper time—to the
police. Why should I give it to you, young man? I never heard of you
before. Who are you?”
“Only a friend of Sir Vernon’s and of Miss Cowper’s. You probably know
my guardian—Mr. Lucas. Miss Cowper and I have been working on the case
together.”
“Oh, you have, have you? Playing the amateur detective, eh?”
“We’ve found out any amount the police don’t know, anyhow.”
“Yes. Amateur detectives always do—in the novels. I prefer to say what
I have to say at the proper time to the police. It saves
complications.”
“But, Sir John, the police are absolutely wrong about this. If you
will tell me what you know, I will undertake that the police shall be
fully informed within the next few days.”
“And why not now, young man? Because you want to do it all yourself.
Is that it?”
“Perhaps it is, and perhaps it isn’t, Sir John. But you know best.
Let’s telephone to the police to send some one round here, and you can
tell them and me together.”
“And have the police worrying round here all day till heavens knows
when. No, thank you, young man.” Sir John paused, and then went on
suddenly. “I suppose you’re going to marry that Cowper girl.”
“I don’t think that is any business of yours, Sir John. But I have no
objection to telling you that we are engaged to be married.”
“Tut, tut, don’t lose your temper, boy. I’m just going to tell you all
about it. Woodman came to see me the other night at my club—no, not
the Byron: Foster’s, at the corner of Clarges Street. That was at nine
o’clock, by my appointment. He was with me for an hour, discussing
that loan you seem to know all about. He told me just what I told Sir
Vernon in my letter, that Walter Brooklyn had made a will in his
favour, and that they were prepared to sign their joint names to a
bill. He said that made the loan perfectly safe, on the strength of
their expectations from Sir Vernon. That was all he told me.”
Sir John stopped.
“Is that all you know?” asked Ellery, with an air of disappointment.
“No, of course, it’s not all. You just wait a minute, young man. Don’t
be impatient.” Sir John glared for a few seconds at his visitor and,
then continued: “I may say that Woodman already owed me a considerable
sum, in connection with a business transaction. So I thought it wise
to make a few inquiries about him in the city, and I may tell you,
young man, that the fellow’s bankrupt—positively bankrupt—a shilling
in the pound affair or something like it. Speculation, of course. He
can’t hold out for more than a few days. There are men on the Stock
Exchange who know that for a fact.”
“So that Woodman would be very likely to take some desperate step in
order to retrieve his fortunes?”
“Such as coming to me and trying to raise money under false pretences.
The man’s a damned scoundrel,” said Sir John.
“Surely murder is worse than raising money on false pretences, Sir
John.”
“Oh, is it, young man? Of course, you know all about it. I only know
that the fellow ought to be locked up. That’s enough for me. I might
have lent him the money as a friend.”
“But surely, Sir John, when you found out all this about him, you
wouldn’t have considered lending him the money.”
“Of course, I did not consider it. Not for a moment, I never meant to
lend him another penny. I wrote that letter of mine simply to put Sir
Vernon on his guard. I would have gone to the police; but, as I told
you, I saw no reason why I should get myself mixed up in the affair.
But it would have outraged my legal sense if that man had got Sir
Vernon’s money by means of some jiggery pokery with that other old
scoundrel, Walter Brooklyn. So I wrote to Sir Vernon. You see my
position?”
“If that is your position, I don’t quite see why you are telling me
all this now.”
“I am telling you, young man, because I had no suspicion that he had
committed murder as well. If that is the case, a man of that sort is
too dangerous to be left loose. He might be murdering me next, or Sir
Vernon. But now you are going to tell me all about your case against
him.”
Ellery saw that it was best to tell the whole story, and he did tell
most of it. Sir John listened, only interrupting every now and then
with a pertinent question. At the end, his only comment was,—
“H’m, not so bad for amateurs. And now, my fine young man, what are
you going to do next? If I’m to be the family lawyer, that is a point
which concerns me. Is it to be a first-class family scandal, eh?”
“Really, we have been so busy trying to discover the truth, that I
don’t think we have ever considered what to do afterwards.”
“Humph, but you will have to consider it now. Do you think Sir Vernon
is anxious to have another scandal in the family? If you do, I don’t.”
“I suppose the murderer will have to be brought to justice.”
“You do, do you? And doubtless you look forward to appearing in court
and showing how clever you have been.”
“Really, Sir John, I look forward to nothing of the kind. If Carter
Woodman could be put out of the way of further mischief without
dragging the whole affair into court, I should ask for nothing
better.”
“How much of what you have found out is known to the police?”
“Nothing at all, I believe. Of course, some other people—the manager
at the Avenue, for example—know something of the story.”
“They can be dealt with. Well, young man, you think it over, and come
back and talk to me before you say a word to the police. Bring your
Miss Cowper, too, if you like. I’m told she’s a pretty girl.” And with
those words the old lawyer held out his hand, and bustled his visitor
out of the office.
Ellery left Sir John Bunnery’s presence feeling as if he had been
bruised all over. He had found out what he wanted, but not at all in
the way he had intended. And now this masterful old man apparently
meant to take full command of the case. He must see Joan, and tell her
what had happened.