The Stable-Yard
While Superintendent Wilson, by his own methods, was thus working
towards the solution of the mystery, Joan and Ellery were also
pursuing their investigations along their separate line. There was but
one thing needed, they felt, to complete their case, and turn their
conviction from moral into legal certainty.
How had Woodman got into Liskeard House? That was the question which
Joan had set herself to answer. The coach-yard seemed to be the only
possible means of access. It was a large square yard opening into
Liskeard Street by a pair of massive wooden doors ten feet high, and a
small gate let into the wall at the side. Neither the wall nor the
doors could be climbed without the aid of a long ladder.
One entering by these doors would find himself in the yard. On his
left he would have the side wall of Liskeard House, which had no
window looking out on to the yard. On his right would be the large
coach-house, now used as a garage, above which lived the chauffeur and
his wife, formerly a domestic of Sir Vernon’s—both servants of long
standing. Their apartment had also a door opening into Liskeard
Street, and a way down into the garage.
Immediately opposite any one entering the yard from the street was an
extension, built out from the side of Liskeard House towards the back.
The ground floor of this was occupied by store-rooms, accessible only
from the yard; but between these a passage led through directly into
the garden. Above were rooms belonging to Liskeard House, whose
windows looked out only upon the garden.
Joan, as she stood in the yard, noticed first that, if the outer door
were open, and the yard itself empty, as at this moment, there was
nothing to prevent any one from walking straight through into the
garden; for, as she knew, the gate leading to the garden, though it
was shut, was never locked save at night. The big front gates of the
yard stood open most of the day; and, in any case, the small gate
beside them was not locked until the whole place was shut up for the
night. A man wishing to get into the garden would only have to watch
until the yard itself was empty, and he would then have every chance
of getting through without being observed. In the chauffeur’s
apartments above the garage, only one window looked down on the yard,
and this, as Joan knew, was a tiny spare room, seldom occupied. Even
if Woodman had come in by this way, there was only a very slender
chance that he had been noticed.
The chauffeur came into the yard from the garage, and Joan entered
into talk with him. Usually, he locked up, when no one had the car out
in the evening, at half-past nine or ten. On this occasion, Lucas’s
car had been in the garage during dinner, and he had kept the place
open after Lucas went in case any one might want a car out. He had
locked the whole place up at eleven o’clock, and had then gone
straight to bed. Had any one, Joan asked, entered by the yard entrance
before he locked up? He had seen no one; but he had not been in the
yard all the time. He went away to ask his wife, and came back to
assure Joan that, although she had been in the yard part of the time,
she, too, had seen no one pass that way. There was no one else, was
there, Joan asked, about that night? No one. But then the chauffeur
seemed to be plunged into thought. “Yes, miss, there was some one
else. Miss Parker—Norah, what used to be the cook, miss—she came in to
help with the dinner, and she stayed the night with us. She went to
bed early, she did—about half-past ten. She had to leave early next
morning—she went away before they found out what had happened in the
night.”
“Was she sleeping in the little room up there?”
“Yes, miss, and when I looked up at eleven o’clock, she was sitting at
the window there. She said she couldn’t sleep, and was trying to read
herself off.”
“Then she might have seen any one come in?”
“Yes, miss, she might.”
“Do you know where she is now?”
“She’s with my wife this very moment, miss. She’s in a job now, away
in Essex. That’s where she went when she left that morning. But it’s
her day off, miss, and she’s come up to see us.”
Joan asked to speak to the woman, and was soon in the parlour with her
and the chauffeur’s wife.
“Did I see any one come through the coach-yard that night? Yes, I did,
miss; but I didn’t think nothing of it. It was about a quarter to
eleven, and I was looking out of the spare room window when a
gentleman came into the yard. It was too dark down in the yard at
first to see who it was; but as he passed under the lamp by the gate
leading into the garden, I saw his face.”
“Who was it? Did you know him?”
“Mr. Woodman, miss. Of course, I thought it was all right, seeing as
it was him.”
“And he went through into the garden?”
“Yes, miss.”
“You didn’t see him come out again?”
“No, miss. No one else passed through the yard before Mr. Purvis here
came and locked up.”
“Now, Norah, I don’t want you to tell any one—or you, Purvis, or your
wife—that Norah saw Mr. Woodman come in. It’s very important you
shouldn’t mention it just yet.”
Mrs. Purvis curtseyed, and Norah also agreed to say nothing. Purvis
himself began by saying, “Certainly, miss, if you wish it,” and then
he seemed to realise the implication contained in Joan’s request. His
jaw dropped, and his mouth hung open. Then he said,—
“Beg pardon, miss, but surely you don’t mean as Mr. Woodman had aught
to do with this terrible affair?”
“Never mind, Purvis, just now, what I mean. I’m not accusing anybody.
But I knew some one came in by the yard, and I wanted to make sure who
it was.”
“Well, miss, you can make sure we won’t say nothing about it.”
They kept their word, no doubt; and said nothing to any one else. But,
when Joan had gone, they said a great deal among themselves. Joan’s
questions had been enough to make them suspect that Woodman might be
concerned in the murders. And, though nothing was said of Joan’s
discovery, Purvis’s dark and unsupported suspicions of Woodman, and
Mrs. Purvis’s hints of what she could say if she had a mind, were soon
all round the servants’ hall.
It was not surprising that these rumours soon came to Inspector
Blaikie’s ears. He was not at first inclined to attach much importance
to them; for they appeared to be no more than below-stairs gossip, and
the fact of Woodman’s unpopularity with the servants, which had not
escaped his observation, seemed sufficiently to account for the vague
suspicions. Servants, he said to himself, were always ready to suspect
any one they disliked; and in this case they were all strong partisans
of Winter, and highly indignant at the share of their attentions which
the police had bestowed on the men-servants at Liskeard House. All the
same, the inspector traced the rumours to the chauffeur’s wife, and
made up his mind to have a little talk with her.
He began brusquely—it was his way in dealing with women whom he
thought he could frighten—by asking her what she meant by concealing
information from the police. The woman was plainly embarrassed; but
she only said that she did not know what he meant. He accused her of
saying, in the servants’ hall, that she knew who had committed the
murders in Liskeard House, but that she wasn’t going to say anything.
Her reply was to deny all knowledge, and to inform the inspector that
those that said she said such things wasn’t fit—not to associate with
the decent folks. The more the inspector tried to browbeat her, the
less would she say. She grew sulky, and told him to let a poor woman
alone, and not go putting into her mouth things she never said.
She didn’t know anything, and, if she did, she wouldn’t tell him.
Inspector Blaikie retired from the contest beaten, but warning her
that he would call again.
He did not, however, retire so far as to prevent him from seeing that,
as soon as she believed herself to be alone, the chauffeur’s wife
hurried into Liskeard House by the back way, and went straight up the
back stairs. Putting two and two together, he speedily concluded that
she had gone to see Joan Cowper, and that Joan probably knew all that
she knew, and had told her to keep quiet about it. The inspector made
up his mind to see Joan as soon as the woman had gone.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Purvis was telling Joan about the inspector’s visit,
and begging pardon for having let her tongue wag in the servants’
hall. “But I didn’t tell him nothing, miss. You can rest assured of
that. I sent him away with a flea in his ear, miss.”
At this moment Ellery was announced. Joan dismissed Mrs. Purvis with a
further caution to say nothing for the present. As soon as she had
gone, Ellery told Joan of his visit to Sir John Bunnery, and of the
fact that Woodman had been in serious financial straits before the
murders took place. “It seems to be true enough, about your stepfather
making a will in his favour. It’s all very odd: I don’t understand it
a bit.”
“I’m afraid there’s almost nothing he wouldn’t do for money—except
murder,” said Joan.
“Old Sir John seemed to think that murder was quite a venial offence
in comparison with getting money by false pretences,” Ellery answered,
laughing.
“Don’t be silly, Bob. I’ve found out how Carter got into the house.
And I’ve got the proof.” And then Joan told her story of the
coach-house yard—her story which proved beyond doubt that Woodman had
been on the scene of the crime.
“Well done, Joan. So that makes it certain he was here.”
“I’m really beginning to think, Bob, we’re rather clever people.”
“My dear, we’ve done the trick. Do you realise that it practically
finishes our case. We’ve got enough now to be quite sure of a
conviction.”
“Oh, Bob! How horrible it is when you put it that way. It has really
been rather fun finding it all out; but now we’ve found out, oh, what
are we to do about it?”
“The obvious thing would be to tell the police.”
“I suppose it would. But think of the trial—the horrible publicity of
it. And I don’t a bit want to see Carter hanged, though he may deserve
it. Think of poor Helen.”
“My dear Joan, of course you don’t. But it’s not so easy to hush up a
thing like this.”
“Bob, need we tell the police? They don’t know what we’ve been doing.
Must we tell them now?”
“Blest if I know, darling. But I forgot to tell you about what the old
lawyer chap, Bunnery, said. He wants it hushed up all right.”
“Then that means we can hush it up.”
“I don’t know whether we can or not. But I tell you what I suggest we
do. You come down with me and see Carter Woodman. We shall have to
tell him what we know, and force him to admit the whole thing. Then
we’ll see what he means to do—perhaps he might agree to run away to
Australia, or something, before the police find out. And then we can
see old Bunnery and get his advice, and decide what to do about
telling them.”
Before Joan could answer this string of proposals, there came a knock
at the door, and Inspector Blaikie walked into the room. Joan and
Ellery evidently showed their embarrassment, for he stood looking
curiously at them for a moment, and then said reassuringly that he had
only come in to have a word or two, if he might. Joan asked him to sit
down, and offered him a cigarette. The inspector lighted it
deliberately, and then he suddenly shot a question at them.
“What is it you have told the chauffeur’s wife not to tell me?”
Joan looked quickly at Ellery, and Ellery looked at Joan; but neither
of them answered.
“Come, come, Miss Cowper. You really must not try to prevent the
police from getting information or you will force us to conclude that
you wish to shield the murderer.”
Still Joan made no answer.
“I hope, Miss Cowper, that it is only that you and your friend have
been doing a little detective work on your own, and wanted to have all
the credit for yourselves. But don’t you think the time has come for
telling me what you know?”
Ellery did not answer the question directly. “Look here, inspector,”
he said, “you think we know all about these murders, and are trying to
keep the truth from you.”
“It looks mighty like it.”
“Well, in a sense, I don’t say we haven’t been keeping something back.
But I give you my word that we’re not in collusion with the murderer
or anything of that sort. There is a very special reason why we can’t
tell you quite everything just now—for what it is worth.”
“Does the very special reason apply to Miss Cowper as well?”
“Yes,” said Joan; “for the moment it does.”
Ellery went on. “Of course, I know you have a grievance. You’re going
to tell us that we are abetting the criminal, whoever he is, and that
we shall be getting into trouble if we’re not careful.”
“So you will,” said the inspector. “Very serious trouble.”
“All the same, inspector, I’m afraid we must risk it. Very likely we
shall be free to tell you the whole story, or what we know of it, in a
day or two. But we won’t tell you now. That’s flat.”
“A day or two is ample time for a criminal to get away.”
“Maybe; but I don’t think you need worry about that. You’ve given him
enough time to get away if he wants to. In any case, we are not going
to tell you. I’m sorry, but——”
“I warn you that you are conspiring to defeat the ends of justice.”
“Sorry, and all that. Another time, inspector, we shall look forward
to an interesting talk. But for the present—Good-morning.”
The inspector took the hint, and left the room in a very bad temper.
His parting shot was that he must report their conduct to his official
superior.
“What on earth are we to do now?” said Joan.
“Go and see Carter Woodman at once, I think. When we’ve done that, we
shall know better how to act.”
“But suppose he runs away when he hears our story—flies the country, I
mean.”
“Wouldn’t that be the best way out? I don’t want to see him hanged any
more than you do.”
“As the inspector said, we run some risk ourselves that way; but the
worst of it is that the whole story is bound to come out.”
“I don’t see how it can be kept secret in any case—or rather, I only
see one possible way.”
“What’s that?”
“Wait till we’ve been to Woodman. I want to see if he will be man
enough to take it.”
“I don’t know what you mean. But I suppose we had better see Woodman.”
“Yes, and there’s no time to lose, if the inspector is on the trail.”
Joan and Ellery took a taxi, and ordered the driver to drive to
Woodman’s office. But they underestimated the inspector’s promptness
in action. They did not know that behind them followed another taxi,
containing Inspector Blaikie and two plain-clothes detectives.