“Yes,” said the superintendent. “I sent two men round there. They were informed that Mr. Brooklyn had booked rooms, and that his wife had spent the night in the hotel. He had not been there since the previous day before dinner. I was about to take further steps when I received your second message.”
“Quite so. Now I come, sir, to the really extraordinary part of the case. Immediately before telephoning to you I had received an urgent message to come down to the garden, where the sergeant was making investigations. In the garden I found a body, which was identified by a young lady who lives in the house—Sir Vernon Brooklyn’s ward, I understand—as that of Mr. George Brooklyn himself. He was in evening dress, without hat or coat, and the body was lying on the steps of a curious sort of stone summer house—they call it the Grecian temple—where it had been dragged. The cause of death—the doctors confirm this—was a terrific blow on the back of the head, and the weapon was lying a few yards from the body. I have it here in the parcel.” The inspector lifted the heavy club with an effort on to the table, and the superintendent gave an involuntary start of surprise as he saw the strange weapon that had been employed in this sinister tragedy.
“It is, as you see, sir, a heavy stone club. It is part of a group of statuary—a Hercules, they tell me—which stands in the garden about four yards from the summerhouse or temple. It has obviously been detached for some time from the rest of the statue. On it are some bloodstains and hairs which correspond to those of the dead man. There are also fingerprints, which I suppose you will have examined. I took the precaution to secure fingerprints of both the dead men for possible use. They are here.” The inspector handed over another parcel.
“I studied carefully the scene of the crime. The deed was evidently done almost at the foot of the statue, and the body was dragged from there to the temple, presumably to remove it from casual notice. At the foot of the statue I found this crushed cigar-holder, which Miss Joan Cowper—the young lady to whom I referred—identifies as habitually used by Mr. John Prinsep, and actually seen in his mouth at ten o’clock last night, when a party then held in the house broke up. I also found on the floor of the temple this crumpled piece of paper, presumably a leaf from a memorandum book,” and the inspector handed over the brief scrawled note in John Prinsep’s writing making an appointment in the garden.
What he said, however, was not quite accurate; for it was not he, but Carter Woodman, who had found the note.
“The writing of this note was identified by Miss Cowper as that of Mr. Prinsep. It is one of the puzzles of this affair.”
“You mean that it would have fitted in better if John Prinsep’s body had been found in the garden,” suggested the superintendent.
“Exactly; as things are it is confusing. About this time Mr. Carter Woodman, Sir Vernon Brooklyn’s lawyer, arrived. At his suggestion we went across to the theatre which overlooks the garden, although the place where the crime was committed and the body found is completely concealed by trees from both the house and the theatre. Our object was to find if anyone from the theatre had seen anything of what happened. A caretaker stated that he had seen Mr. Prinsep walking in the garden some time between eleven o’clock last night and a quarter past. I made further inquiries, both in the house and at the theatre; but that, I think, exhausts the discoveries I have made so far.” And the inspector stopped and wiped his face with a green handkerchief.
“You have stated the case very plainly,” said Superintendent Wilson. “Now tell me what you make of it?” And he gave what can best be described as the ghost of a chuckle.
“Ah, that’s just where the troubles come in, sir,” replied the inspector. “I don’t know what to make of it. As I said, it’s as plain as a pikestaff, and yet it can’t be. When I examined Mr. Prinsep’s room I found abundant evidence pointing to the conclusion that he was murdered by Mr. George Brooklyn. But when I go into the garden, I find Mr. George Brooklyn lying dead there, under circumstances which strongly suggest that he was killed by Mr. Prinsep. Yet they can’t possibly have killed each other. It’s simply impossible.”
“You say that there is strong ground for suspecting that Prinsep killed Brooklyn. What is the ground?”
“Well, first there’s that cigar-holder. The second thing is the letter in his writing, though I admit that raises a difficulty. The third thing is that I’m practically certain the fingerprints on the club correspond to those I took from Prinsep’s hands. Then Prinsep was certainly seen walking in the garden.”
“In short, Inspector Blaikie,” said the superintendent, half smiling, “you appear to hold very strong prima facie evidence that each of these two men murdered the other.”
The inspector groaned. “Don’t laugh at me, sir,” he said. “I’m doing my best to puzzle it out. Of course they didn’t kill each other. At least, both of them didn’t. They couldn’t. You know what I mean.”
“You mean, I take it, that they could only have killed each other and left their bodies where they were found, on the assumption that at least one corpse was alive enough to walk about and commit a murder and then quietly replace itself where it had been killed. It will, I fear, be difficult to persuade even a coroner’s jury that such an account of the circumstances is correct.”
“Of course it isn’t correct, sir; but you’ll admit that’s what it looks like. It is quite possible for a man who has committed a murder to be murdered himself
