The Brooklyn Murders

his leave, feeling that, as a result of his talk, he had scored another good point against Walter Brooklyn. Quite apart from the murders, the man really deserved hanging for his behaviour to Charis Lang⁠—at least that was how Inspector Blaikie felt about it. He must get enough evidence to convince his reluctant superior, and thereafter twelve good men and true, that Walter Brooklyn was the murderer. John Prinsep, perhaps, was not such a bad riddance: certainly he had been behaving like a cad. But then, Charis Lang was in love with him, and that was enough to cover a multitude of sins. For her sake at least the murderer must be brought to justice. Moreover, George Brooklyn seemed to have been a good sort. The inspector was inclined to dismiss the idea that he had had anything to do with the killing of Prinsep, even though his talk with Prinsep after leaving Charis Lang might have afforded full provocation, if, as seemed likely, Prinsep had refused to marry her. The inspector’s last thought was that it was still a tangled enough skein that he had to unravel. But some at least of the knots had been successfully untied.

XI

Joan Takes Up the Case

Charis Lang had kept her composure during that trying interview with the inspector, and had forced herself to tell him everything she had to tell that could even indirectly bear upon the murders. She had felt that this was her duty; and in her the sense of duty was unusually strong. But the telling had cost her a terrible effort, and when the inspector went away, and there was no longer need to hold herself up bravely, her fortitude gave way. She had told things which, until then, she had not admitted even to herself; and what hurt her most was that, in telling the truth and nothing but the truth, she had been compelled to let John Prinsep’s character appear in the worst light. Not, she told herself, that it mattered to him any longer; but she loved him, and it was horrible to her that she should have to drag his memory in the mud. Moreover, was he not suspected of having killed George Brooklyn, and would not her account of him have made such an act seem more probable? She did not believe that he had done so, and, as she thought over her conversation with the inspector, she felt that she had been false to his memory; and yet she knew that there was nothing else she could have done.

But why had Walter Brooklyn been so dragged into the case by the detective? Until Inspector Blaikie had come to see her, she had been quite without a theory of the events of Tuesday. She had been stunned by the fact of Prinsep’s death, and she had hardly troubled to think who could have killed him. Now it was clear that the police believed that Walter Brooklyn had something to do with it. An odious man, by all accounts, and one who had proved himself odious beyond measure in his dealings with her. Yet not a man she would readily have suspected of murder with violence. Underhand crimes⁠—dirty, little crimes⁠—she said to herself, would be more in keeping with what she knew of him. And then, despite his treatment of her, she accused herself of being uncharitable. After all, there was some dignity about murder; and her feeling, biased no doubt by her personal experience, was that Walter Brooklyn was not even fit to be a murderer.

Charis felt that she could not go on to the stage that afternoon as if nothing had happened. She had forced herself to play her part⁠—and had played it as well as ever⁠—since the tragedy; but for that afternoon at least she must be free, and her understudy must take her place. Having been forced to tell her story to the inspector, she felt all the more need to tell it again to someone more sympathetic⁠—to some real friend capable of understanding what she had suffered and of sharing in her sorrow. Speedily her mind was made up. She must see Isabelle, Mrs. George Brooklyn. Isabelle, too, was in trouble at least as hard as her own. Isabelle had lost her George, as she had lost John Prinsep.

Then she remembered. Some people said that John had killed George Brooklyn, and some said that George Brooklyn had killed John Prinsep. She had heard that there was evidence, though she did not know what it was. Could either of these things be true, and, if there was even a chance that either might be true, how could she go and talk about it to Isabelle?

She did not find an answer to her questions; but all the same she made up her mind to go. She was capable of conceiving the thought that the two men might have quarrelled, and that the one might have killed the other; but she was not capable of believing the thought which she could conceive. She knew that they might quarrel⁠—that they had done so often enough; but they would not kill. And even if they had⁠—she barely formulated the thought⁠—what did it matter now? She and Isabelle were both desolate and in need of comfort. She would go.

So Charis, having made⁠—to her understudy’s secret delight⁠—her arrangements at the theatre, set off to find Isabelle⁠—for that was the name by which she still called Marian Brooklyn. Isabelle, she knew, was still at the hotel⁠—the Cunningham⁠—and she had not far to go. In a few minutes the two women were in each other’s arms. It was not a question of who had killed their lovers; they both needed comfort, and they sought together such comfort as could be found.

By-and-by, Charis found herself telling the story of the inspector’s visit. She had never before spoken openly to Mrs. George about John Prinsep; but now she told the whole story, only to