So the inspector made up his mind to go over the whole scene again, and, above all, to find out more about the persons with whom he had to deal—their histories and still more their present ways of life: their loves and, above all, their animosities, if they had any. There, he felt, the clue to the mystery was most likely to be found.
Accordingly, on the following morning—the second after the tragedy—Inspector Blaikie presented himself early at the office of Carter Woodman and sent up his card. Sir Vernon was still far too ill to be consulted, and the next thing seemed to be a visit to his lawyer, who, being both confidential adviser and a close relative, would be certain to know most of what there was to be known about the circumstances surrounding the dead men. Woodman had offered all possible assistance, and had himself suggested a call at his office.
The inspector presented his card to an elderly clerk who was presiding in the outer office, and was at once shown in to the principal. Again he was struck, as he had been on the morning before, with the lawyer’s overflowing vitality. At rather over forty-six, Woodman still looked very much the athlete he had been in his younger days, when he had accumulated three Blues at Oxford, and represented England at Rugby football on more than one occasion. He had given up “childish things,” he used to say; but the abundant vigour of the man remained, and stood out strongly against the rather dingy background which successful solicitors seem to regard as an indispensable mark of respectability. Carter Woodman, the inspector knew, had a big practice, and one of good standing. He did all the legal work of the Brooklyn Corporation, and he was perhaps the best known expert on theatrical law in the country.
Woodman greeted the inspector cordially, and shook his hand with a force that made it tingle for some minutes afterwards.
“Well, inspector,” he said, “what progress? Have you got your eye on the scoundrels yet?”
The inspector shook his head. “We are still only at the beginning of the case, I am afraid. I have come here to take advantage of your offer to give me all the help you can.”
“Of course I will. It is indispensable that the terrible business should be thoroughly cleared up. For one thing, I am very much afraid for Sir Vernon; and there certainly would be more chance of his getting over it if we knew exactly what the truth is. Uncertainty is a killing business. He has not been told yet about Mr. George Brooklyn’s death.”
“You will understand that, as it is impossible for me to see Sir Vernon, I shall have to ask you to tell me all you can about any of the family affairs that may have a bearing on the tragedy. As matters stand it is most important that I should know as much as possible about the circumstances of the two dead men. To establish the possible motives for both crimes may be of the greatest value. There is so little to go upon in the facts themselves that I have to look for evidence from outside the immediate events.”
“Am I to understand that you have no further light on the crime beyond what you gained when the bodies were found?”
“Hardly that, Mr. Woodman. I have at least had time to think things over, and to conduct a few additional investigations. But I shall know better what to make of these when I have asked you a few questions.”
“Ask away; but I shall probably be able to answer more to your satisfaction if you tell me how matters stand. I think I may say that I know thoroughly both Sir Vernon’s and the late Mr. Prinsep’s affairs.”
“Well, you know, Mr. Woodman, the prima facie evidence in both cases seemed to point to a quite impossible conclusion. In each case, what evidence there was went to show that the two men had murdered each other. This could not be true of both; but we have so far no evidence to show whether it ought to be disbelieved in both cases, or only in one. That is where further particulars may prove so important.”
“I will tell you all I can.”
“Let us begin with Mr. Prinsep. Was he in any trouble that you know of?”
The lawyer hesitated. “Well,” he said at length, “it is a private matter, and I am sure it can have no bearing on the case. But you had better have all the facts. There had been some trouble—about a woman, a girl who is acting in a small part at the Piccadilly Theatre.”
“Her name?”
“Charis Lang. Prinsep had been, well, I believe somewhat intimate with her, and she had formed the opinion that he had promised to marry her. He came to see me about it. He denied that he had made any such promise, and said he was anxious to get the matter honourably settled. I wrote to the woman and asked her to meet me; but she refused—said it was not a lawyer’s business, but entirely a private question between her and Mr. Prinsep. I showed him her letter, and he was very much worried. He informed me that Mrs. George Brooklyn—she used to be leading lady at the Piccadilly—had known the girl in her professional days, and I approached her and told her a part of the
