XXVIII
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 summerhouse—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.”