“Yes, there was Mr. George. As I told you, he came at about a quarter or ten minutes to eleven, and left at about 11:30.”
“Did anybody else visit the house that night?”
“No—there was no one else.”
“Now, I want you to be very careful. Are you positive that no one else called?”
“Yes—I mean, no. I had quite forgotten. At a few minutes after ten Mr. Walter Brooklyn—Sir Vernon’s brother—came. He sent up his name to Sir Vernon, and asked him to see him at once. He said it was about something important.”
“Did Sir Vernon see him?”
“No. He sent down word by one of the temporary menservants he couldn’t see him. He told him to see Mr. Prinsep or to write.”
“Then, did Mr. Walter Brooklyn go up to see Mr. Prinsep?”
“No. He seemed mighty annoyed, he did. Said to me things were coming to a pretty pass when a man wouldn’t see his own brother. Then he took himself out of the house in a rage, and I shut the door after him.”
“Did you see anything more of him?”
“No, that’s the last I saw. He didn’t come back; for I was on duty here till the place was bolted up for the night.”
“Did Mr. Walter Brooklyn often come to the house?”
“Well, he’d been a number of times lately to see Mr. Prinsep.”
“Had he been to see Sir Vernon?”
“No. You see, Sir Vernon’s been away in the country for some time.”
“But when he was in London, did Mr. Walter Brooklyn come to see him?”
“He used to. Then I believe there was a bit of a quarrel. Last time he was in London Sir Vernon told me he would not see Mr. Walter, and I was to tell him to see Mr. Prinsep if he came. I sent up on Tuesday because I didn’t know if the instructions still held.”
“Then there had been a quarrel?”
“Hardly what you would call a quarrel. What we understood was that Mr. Walter wanted money, and Sir Vernon wouldn’t give it him.”
“Did anyone else see Mr. Walter Brooklyn on Tuesday?”
“Yes, the maid—Janet—must have seen him.”
The inspector sent for Janet, who confirmed what Winter had said. It seemed plain enough that Walter Brooklyn had called at about ten minutes past ten, had been refused an interview with Sir Vernon, and had left a few minutes later. Thereafter, no one about the house had seen any more of him.
Before he left the inspector obtained from Winter Mr. Walter Brooklyn’s address. He lived at his club, the Byron—named after the playwright, not the poet—only a few steps down Piccadilly. The inspector made that his next place of call.
The club porter, with the aid of the night porter, gave him the information he needed. Walter Brooklyn had dined in the club on Tuesday, had gone out at about ten o’clock and had returned just about midnight. The night porter had noticed nothing unusual about him when he came back. It was about his usual hour. He had gone straight upstairs, the man believed—probably to his room, but the porter could not say.
So far there was nothing very much to go upon. Walter Brooklyn might have committed the murders—he had certainly been out until midnight. But this was nothing unusual, and there was no evidence that he had been in the house. What evidence there was seemed to show that he had not.
But Inspector Blaikie still lingered in talk with the two porters, asking further questions which produced quite unilluminating answers. Soon they found a common interest in the cricket news, and plunged into a discussion of the respective chances of Surrey and Middlesex for the County Championship. The night porter, who was a north-countryman and a partisan of Yorkshire, cut in every now and then with a sarcastic comment. He was especially scornful of the day porter’s pride in the number of amateurs included in the Middlesex eleven. “Call them gentlemen,” he said. “They get paid, same as the players, only they put it down as expenses.”
But at this point the argument broke off; for the day porter suddenly changed the subject.
“Let me have a look at that stick, will you?” he said to the inspector.
Inspector Blaikie, who had been twirling the stick about rather obtrusively, at once handed it over. It was the stick found in Prinsep’s room, and he was carrying it about with him solely with the hope that someone might recognise it, and enable him to discover to whom it had belonged. It was a peculiar stick, and likely to be noticed by those who saw it. The shaft was of rhinoceros horn, linked together with bands of gold; and it had a solid gold handle.
“What do you make of it?” the inspector asked.
“I was going to ask you how you got hold of it,” answered the porter.
“Why do you ask?”
“Only because it is surely Mr. Walter Brooklyn’s stick. I have often seen him carrying it.”
“Take a good look. Are you quite certain it is his?”
“Either it is, or it’s one just the same. It’s a most unusual pattern, too.”
“Yes, rhinoceros horn, I should say. Could you swear to it?”
“Hardly that. There might be two of them. But I’ve not seen Mr. Brooklyn with his for a day or two.”
“Try to remember—was he carrying this stick when he went out on Tuesday?”
The porter paused a minute. “Yes, I think he was,” he said. “But, no, you mean in the evening. You’ll have to ask the night porter here that. He was on duty from nine o’clock.”
The inspector turned to the night porter. “Do you recognise this as Mr. Brooklyn’s stick?”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure it’s his.”
“And do you remember whether he was carrying it on Tuesday night when he went out?”
The man hesitated some time before replying. Finally, “No,” he said, “I can’t say. Maybe he was—I rather think he was. But I’m not sure.”
“And when he came in?”
“He had a stick, I remember. He rapped at the door with it. I expect it was this one. No, I don’t
