An Afternoon Call
Hardly had Joan and Ellery passed from the outer office into Woodman’s
private room when the inspector entered the room they had left, and
asked if Mr. Woodman was in. Moorman, who had met the inspector
several times lately, saw nothing strange in the visit, and merely
replied that his employer was in, but that he was at the moment
engaged. “If you care to wait, sir, I dare say he won’t be long.”
Blaikie said that he would wait, and Moorman thereupon suggested that
he should go in and tell his principal that the inspector was there.
But the inspector told him not to bother: he would take his chance
when Woodman was free. He sat down, therefore, to wait in the outer
office, improving the minutes by conversing with the loquacious old
clerk about his employer’s affairs.
Meanwhile, Joan and Ellery were seated with Carter Woodman. He had
greeted them rather effusively on their entrance; and, in Moorman’s
presence, they had thought it best to shake hands and behave as if
nothing were the matter. Woodman had placed chairs for them, and had
again sat down at his desk. While they spoke he continued for a while
mechanically opening, and glancing at, the pile of letters before him.
It was Joan who spoke first. “We have come here,” she said, “because
it seemed the only thing to do. When we have heard what you have to
say we shall know better what our next step must be.”
Something in her voice caused Woodman to look up sharply. The tone was
hard, and a glance at his two visitors showed him that their errand
was not a pleasant one. But he looked down again and went on opening
his letters without making any sign.
“We have to tell you,” Joan went on, “that we know now who killed John
Prinsep and poor George.”
Woodman gave a start as she spoke; but all he said was, “Then, my dear
Joan, you know a great deal more than I do.”
“I will put it in another way,” said Joan. “We know that you killed
them.” She got the words out with an effort, breathing hard and
clutching the arm of the chair as she spoke.
Woodman dropped the letter he was holding and looked straight at her.
“My dear Joan,” he said, “are you quite mad? And you too, Mr. Ellery?”
“No, we’re not mad. We know,” said Ellery, with a short, uneasy
laugh—a laugh that grated.
Woodman looked from the one to the other.
“I fear you are both mad,” said he very quietly. “And now, will one of
you please tell me what you mean by this extraordinary accusation?”
“You had better hear what we have to say before you start protesting,”
said Ellery. “Let me tell you exactly what happened at Liskeard House
last Tuesday. Then you will see that we know. You are supposed to have
been at your hotel in the small writing-room on the first floor
between 10.45 and 11.30, or after.”
“So I was, of course.”
“But we can produce a gentleman who was in the writing-room between
those hours, and can swear that you were not.”
“Oh, I may have slipped out of the room for a while. But it is
preposterous——”
“You had better hear me out. This gentleman saw you leave the
writing-room and go downstairs at a few minutes to eleven. Shortly
after, he went to the room himself and remained there three-quarters
of an hour. He saw you return to the writing-room rather before a
quarter to twelve.”
“This is pure nonsense. But what of it, even if it were true?”
“This. When you left the room you went down to the basement of the
hotel, which was deserted, and let yourself out by unbarring the side
door leading from the Grill Room into St. John’s Street. You also
returned that way shortly after half-past eleven.”
“Again, I say that you are talking absolute nonsense. But, if it
pleases you, pray continue this fairy tale.”
Joan took up the story. “You walked across to Liskeard House, and
entered the garden through the coach-yard shortly before it was locked
for the night. I will pass over what you did next; but at a time
shortly before half-past eleven—probably about a quarter-past—you put
on John Prinsep’s hat and coat and walked up and down the garden,
imitating his lameness, in a spot where you could be seen from the
back of the theatre. You then went upstairs to John’s room, and
delivered, imitating my stepfather’s voice, a false telephone message
purporting to come from him to his club in Pall Mall. Next you put on
George’s hat and coat, and dressed in them walked out of the front
door in such a way that the servants, seeing you at a distance,
readily mistook you for George. Am I right, so far?”
“I am listening, my dear Joan, because I had better hear the whole of
this wild story that something—or some one”—here he turned and glared
at Ellery—“has put into your head. But, of course, the whole thing is
monstrous.”
“You need not blame Mr. Ellery. He and I have worked it all out
together, and we can prove all we say. I should have mentioned that
before leaving Liskeard House you arranged the scene of the murders so
as to make it seem, first of all, that John and George had killed each
other. Under John’s body you placed a blood-stained handkerchief
belonging to George, and you also left one of George’s knives sticking
in the body. You killed George with a weapon which, as you well knew,
had on it John’s finger-marks. Of course you wore gloves, and
therefore left no marks which could be identified as your own. The
finger-marks on the club with which George was killed were made by
John earlier in the day when he showed you the club before dinner.
They were defaced, but not obliterated, by the marks made later by
your gloved hands. Is that correct?”
“Of course it is not correct. It is a parcel of lies, the whole lot of
it.”
“Really, Mr. Woodman,” said Ellery, “you will find that the whole
story is remarkably convincing to others, if not to you. Let me give
you an account of the objects you had in view. You knew that it was
physically impossible for John and George to have killed each other;
but by leaving the signs as you did you hoped to create the impression
that either might have killed the other. Your main object, however,
was not to create suspicion against either of these two, but to
incriminate another person, whom you desired to remove for reasons of
your own. You therefore faked the telephone message I have mentioned;
and you also left Walter Brooklyn’s stick in John Prinsep’s room. You
also detached the ferrule from the stick with your penknife, and left
the ferrule in the garden on the spot where George was murdered. By
actual murder you had already, on Tuesday night, removed two of the
three persons who stood between you and Sir Vernon’s fortune. You
hoped that, by means of the clues which you provided, the law would do
your work in removing the third. I will not ask you whether this is
true. We know it.”
Woodman shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, if you know it,” he said, “of
course there is nothing for me to say.”
“You left Liskeard House wearing George’s hat and overcoat. These you
took back to the hotel, and stowed away in a handbag for the night.
You went out the next morning carrying the handbag, which you brought
to this office. At lunch-time you took it with you. I do not know
where you lunched, but you went into the cloak-room of the Avenue
Restaurant, as if you were going to lunch there, and left the hat and
coat hanging on a peg. You hoped that it would be impossible to trace
them to you. They have been traced.”
During Ellery’s last speech Woodman’s forced calm had first showed
some sign of breaking. But he pulled himself together with an effort.
“I must say you have laid this plot very carefully,” he said.
“Unfortunately, not only have you been traced,” Joan went on, “but you
were unwise enough not to notice, when you left the coat, that it
lacked a button. You left that button deep down in the corner of the
bag which is now in that cupboard over there.”
With a sudden cry Woodman rose from his chair and sprang towards the
cupboard. He tore the bag open and felt wildly in it. Then he flung
the bag away.
“No,” said Joan, “the button is not there, Mr. Woodman—now. It is safe
somewhere else.”
“And I think, Mr. Woodman, what you have just done rather disposes of
the pose of injured innocence. Don’t you?” asked Ellery.
Woodman kicked the bag savagely into a corner and sank into his chair.
His face had gone dead white. Shakily he poured out and drank a glass
of water.
“Your hopes of removing my stepfather by due process of law,” Joan
continued, “were unfortunately frustrated. You were, therefore, in the
position of having committed two murders for nothing, unless you could
find some fresh means of profiting by them. You found such means. As
soon as you heard of my stepfather’s release you made your plans. Soon
after his release you met him, and somehow or other, persuaded him to
make a will in your favour. I do not know how you did it; but I
presume there was some agreement between you to share the proceeds of
your deal. You then attempted, on the strength of your joint
expectations under Sir Vernon’s will, to raise a large loan from one
who was a friend of yours—Sir John Bunnery. You were in serious
financial trouble, and only a considerable immediate supply of money
could save you from bankruptcy and disgrace. That, I think, is
correct.”
Joan paused, but this time Woodman had nothing to say. His face had
gone grayer still. He stared at Joan, and his hand strayed towards one
of the drawers of the table before him. But he remained silent.
This time, however, Joan pressed him for an answer.
“Do you admit now that what I have said is true?” she asked. And, as
he still said nothing, “We can prove it all, you know,” Ellery added.
Woodman pulled himself together with an effort. “You have told the
police all this?” he asked.
“Not a word as yet,” said Joan. “We decided to see you first.”
“May I ask why?”
“If it can be helped, we do not want your wife to suffer more than she
must for what you have done. Nor do we want a scandal. If you will
leave the country, and never come back, we will do what we can to hush
the whole thing up.”
A light came into Woodman’s ashen face. “I see,” he said.
“Do you admit that all we have told you is true?”
“It doesn’t seem to be much good denying it now.”
“You will sign, in our presence, a confession that you committed these
murders?”
“I don’t know what for. No, I won’t sign anything.”
“But you admit it.”
“Between ourselves, yes. In public, a thousand times no.”
Woodman even smiled as he said this.
“You admit it to us.”
“Yes, yes. Haven’t I said so? But there are some things not even you
seem to know.”
“Won’t you tell us them, Mr. Woodman, just to make our story
complete?” said Ellery. “Remember that we are proposing to let you go.
We are taking some risks in doing that.”
“Not for my sake, I’ll be bound. But I don’t mind telling you. What do
you want to know?”
“How the murders were actually done.”
“Oh, I have no objection to telling you. Indeed, I flatter myself the
thing was rather prettily arranged.”
Woodman had almost regained his outward composure and spoke with some
of his accustomed assurance.
“I went into the garden of Liskeard House, just as you said, by the
coach-yard. I have no idea how you discovered that. Then I went
straight up the back stairs to Prinsep’s room. No one saw me go
upstairs, I take it, or you would have mentioned the fact. I found
Prinsep at his table writing. I laid him out with a big blow on the
back of the head.”
“With what weapon?”
“With a sand-bag. Then it has not been found? I threw it out
afterwards on to the roof of the stables out of sight. Then, as I
wasn’t sure if he was dead, I made sure with a knife I found lying on
the table. It belonged, I knew, to George Brooklyn. I don’t know how
it got there. It wasn’t part of my plan. I finished him off with that,
and went out on to the landing. Just then I heard some one coming
upstairs. It was George Brooklyn. Until that moment I had no definite
intention of killing George that night. I meant to leave signs which
would show that George and Walter had conspired to kill Prinsep. I had
put a hankerchief of George’s under the body. George’s coming just
then was deuced awkward. I had no time to clear away the traces, and I
had somehow to prevent him from entering the room. So I met him on the
landing and told him that Prinsep was in the garden and wanted him to
go down. He went down the back stairs with me like a lamb. It was then
it occurred to me that, as he had seen me up in Prinsep’s room, I
should have to kill him too. I led him over towards the temple and let
him get a few paces in front. Then I seized the club from the Hercules
statue and smashed his head in from behind. After that I had to
consider how to cover my tracks. I dragged the body into the temple
entrance, fetched Prinsep’s coat and hat and walked up and down the
garden, as you know. Then I went up again to Prinsep’s room, and sent
off that telephone message and arranged things there, leaving George’s
handkerchief under the body and Walter’s stick in the room. I had
already dropped the ferrule in the garden, and a note in Prinsep’s
writing, making an appointment for the garden. He had sent it to me
the previous day. George had left his hat and overcoat on the landing.
I had intended to slip out unobserved somehow; but seeing the coat and
hat gave me an idea. I put them on, and walked out as George Brooklyn,
thus throwing every one wrong, as I thought, about the time of the
murders. All the rest you seem to know.”
“H’m,” said Ellery. “You are a remarkably cold-blooded scoundrel.”
“Perhaps; but we can keep our opinions of each other to ourselves. You
would prefer me to go away rather than stay and face your accusation.
Isn’t that so?”
“I suppose you can put it that way,” said Ellery.
“Well, I can’t go without money. That’s the position. And I want a
good lot. I can’t lay hands on money at short notice, and you will
have to find it. Besides, remember that, if you don’t accuse me, I am
still Walter Brooklyn’s heir, and he is Sir Vernon’s. I understand it
is most unlikely Sir Vernon will live to make another will. Now, how
much can you provide—and how soon? That is the business proposition we
have to settle between us. I am prepared to disappear for the present,
and I will go further, for a suitable consideration—and promise never
to come back to this country. But my condition is that I get half of
whatever comes to Joan when Sir Vernon dies. How does that strike
you?”
Joan had listened with a feeling of nausea to Woodman’s confession.
But now she broke in indignantly. “I am afraid,” she said, “that you
are a little after the fair. It is quite true that, under my
stepfather’s new will, you appear to be the principal heir. It is also
true that my stepfather stood to inherit a large sum of money, _until
Sir Vernon made a new will_.” Joan said these words very slowly and
distinctly. As Woodman heard them the colour, which had quite come
back, faded again from his face, and he stared at her with a
consternation that deepened as she went on.
“We had not quite finished our story. After your wicked bargain with
my stepfather you attempted to raise money on the strength of being
his, and therefore indirectly Sir Vernon’s, heir. I know how hard up
you were—indeed pressure from creditors will, I hope, provide a good
enough reason for your absconding now. If you choose to spread the
report that you have died abroad, we shall certainly not object. But
you will get no money from us. As I was saying, you went to Sir John
Bunnery and tried to raise a large sum from him on the ground of your
expectations. But you may not know that Sir John at once wrote
privately to Sir Vernon to ask whether you were really the heir, or
that yesterday Sir Vernon rallied enough to make a new will. That
will, of course, excludes both you and my stepfather altogether.”
At these words the colour came suddenly back into Woodman’s cheeks. In
a second he pulled open a drawer in the desk before him, seized from
it a revolver and took aim at Joan. But Ellery was just too quick for
him, knocking up his arm so that the bullet embedded itself in the
ceiling. Woodman at once turned on Ellery, closing with him, and a
fierce struggle began. At this moment there was a sound of breaking
glass, and, rapidly opening the window through the hole which he had
made, Superintendent Wilson leapt into the room. At the same time, the
door leading to the outer office began to rattle as if some one were
attempting to open it from without; but it was locked, and resisted
all efforts to break it open. Then some one smashed the glass panel
above and the head of Inspector Blaikie, with Moorman’s terrified face
behind, appeared in the gap. At sight of the superintendent, Ellery
relaxed his hold for a moment and Woodman broke loose. But this time,
instead of aiming at Joan, he turned the weapon upon himself. Putting
the barrel of the revolver to his temple he fired. When, a moment
later, the inspector forced an entrance, he found Joan, Ellery, and
Superintendent Wilson bending over Carter Woodman’s body.