“That is only natural, dear. It is the same with me. I find myself wondering—”
Joan interrupted, “And the worst of it is that one’s thoughts take one no further. Mine just go round and round, I haven’t the ghost of an idea who it was.”
“What I came to tell you, Joan, was this. Of course, it can’t be true; but the police suspect—your stepfather.”
Joan had been standing, leaning with one arm on the mantelpiece; but at Marian’s words she went very white, and her body swayed. She gripped the mantelpiece to steady herself, and felt her way to a chair. For a moment she said nothing. Then, so low as to be just audible, her answer came. “Marian, tell me at once what makes you think that.”
“I don’t think it, my dear. But, unfortunately, the police do. That man, Inspector Blaikie, has quite convinced himself of it. I had better tell you exactly what I know.”
Then Marian told Joan all about the inspector’s visit to Charis Lang. Joan listened in silence, barely moving. Her colour came back slowly, and, as she realised that the police had built up a real case against her stepfather, a look of determination came into her face.
“I wonder if he knows,” she said. “I must go to him at once.”
Marian said to herself that Joan was bearing it wonderfully well. There was no fear that she would collapse under the shock. Indeed, she could see that the news had really done her good. During the days since the crime she had been suffering above all because she felt helpless and useless. The danger to her stepfather gave her a sense of work to do. It roused her and brought into play the reserves of strength in her character. Marian had so far held back the reason for Walter Brooklyn’s visit to Charis Lang; but she felt that it was only fair to Joan to tell her the whole truth, however bad it might be. If she was to help Walter Brooklyn, she must certainly know the worst that could be said against him.
There was no doubt at all in Joan’s mind. Badly as Walter Brooklyn had used her, and though she had refused to live any longer under his roof, she was quite certain that he was incapable of murder, above all of the murders of the two victims of Tuesday’s tragedy. Even when Marian told her the purpose with which Walter Brooklyn had been to visit Charis Lang, that in no way altered her view. “He would never have told Sir Vernon,” she said. “It was only too like him to threaten; but he would never have done it. I know him, and I’m sure of that.”
Joan was keenly anxious to find out what evidence the police could possibly have against her stepfather; but of this Marian could tell her hardly anything. She could only suggest that probably Carter Woodman would know about it. Mrs. Woodman was still with her at the hotel; but Carter had been away the previous night, and she had not seen him. Joan said that she would try to see Carter at once, and then, when she had found out all she could, she would go to see Walter Brooklyn.
So far from being prostrated by the news, Joan was moved by it to take action at once. She telephoned through to Carter Woodman at his office, and asked him particularly to come and see her at Liskeard House that afternoon. Woodman tried to put her off; but when she said that, if he could not come to her, she would go at once to him, he at last agreed to come. Within an hour he was with her, and Joan plunged at once into business by asking him to tell all he knew about the police and the progress they had made.
Woodman seemed reluctant to talk; but, on being pressed, he told her most of what had passed at his first talk with the inspector, leaving out, however, anything which would tend to connect Walter Brooklyn with the crime, and thereby creating the impression that the police were totally at a loss. But Joan was not to be put off so easily. “It’s no use, Carter,” she said, “your trying to spare my feelings. I know that the police suspect my stepfather, and I want to know on what evidence they are trying to build up a case against him. Surely you must know something about that.”
Faced with the direct question, Carter Woodman told her most of what he knew. He said that the police had found out that Walter Brooklyn had been in the house that night, and that he had actually telephoned to his club from Prinsep’s room at about half-past eleven. He told her that Walter Brooklyn’s walking-stick had been found in Prinsep’s room, and that Walter had almost thrown the inspector downstairs when he went to question him about his movements. What surprised him, he said, was that Walter Brooklyn had not been arrested already.
At this Joan broke out indignantly, “You don’t mean that you believe he did it?”
“My dear Joan, I only wish you had not asked me such a question. But what am I to think? It is clear that he was in the house, and somebody must have done it, after all. I’m sorry for you; but I think you are under no illusions about your stepfather’s character.”
“I tell you that he could never have done a thing like that. I know he’s a bad man, in many ways. But he’s not that sort. Surely you must understand that.”
But Carter Woodman did not seem to understand it. Apologetically, but firmly, he made it quite clear to Joan that he was disposed to believe in Walter Brooklyn’s guilt, or at least that he saw nothing unlikely in the supposition that he might have committed murder. Joan, who
