Superintendent Wilson, then, would by no means agree to the execution of a warrant for Walter Brooklyn’s arrest before the inquest; for he still thought that he might be innocent and might be persuaded to tell openly what he knew—a chance which his arrest would altogether destroy. But he agreed that, if Walter Brooklyn plainly perjured himself at the inquest, his arrest would be indispensable, and there would be no purpose in leaving him longer at large. He agreed, therefore, to take at once the necessary steps to procure the warrant, and he arranged that it should be handed to the inspector, for execution if and when the need arose. But on no account must it be executed until after the inquest, or save in accordance with the conditions which he had laid down. Only if Walter’s guilt or complicity, and his refusal to tell freely what he knew, were plainly shown, would the superintendent agree to the arrest. Meanwhile, of course, the man should be watched.
So it happened that, although the inquest was for the most part a purely formal affair, Walter Brooklyn was among those who were called upon to give evidence. With most of its proceedings we need not concern ourselves: we know well enough already almost all that the coroner’s jury was allowed to know. Indeed, we know a good deal more; for Inspector Blaikie, in his evidence, said not a word either of Walter Brooklyn’s walking-stick, or of the telephone message which he had sent from Liskeard House. No Club servant was called, and there was no reference to the meeting with Charis Lang, who was not in any way brought into the case. Carter Woodman, indeed, gave evidence; but he had been warned in advance by the inspector, and he said nothing which could appear to implicate Walter Brooklyn.
To the reporters and to the members of the police who were present, crowding to suffocation the confined space of the coroner’s court, it became more and more evident that the inquest was not likely to throw any light upon the mystery. They heard, from the police witnesses, from the household servants, and from Joan Cowper, how the bodies had been found. Walter Brooklyn and others gave purely formal evidence of identification: the doctors for once told a plain story. George Brooklyn had been killed by a savage blow on the back of the head, dealt without doubt by a powerful man with the stone club of Hercules, which was produced in court with the bloodstains still upon it. Prinsep, too, had probably been killed by the blow on the back of his head, dealt with an unknown instrument. The knife thrust at the heart, which had missed its object, had been made subsequently, and would not by itself have caused sudden death. Inspector Blaikie’s evidence, indeed, promised to be more exciting; for he told of the finding of George Brooklyn’s handkerchief under Prinsep’s body, produced a knife, similar to that found in the body, which he had found in George Brooklyn’s office, showed the broken fragments of Prinsep’s cigar-holder found in the garden, and photographs of fingerprints found on the stone club and others taken from Prinsep’s hands. This was exciting enough; but it did more to mystify than to enlighten the public and the reporters. Still, it was excellent copy; and the reporters, and later the editors and subeditors, made the most of it. Then, when the inquest seemed practically over, the coroner, a sharp little man who had attended strictly to business and said as little as possible throughout the proceedings, acted on the hint given him by the police, and ordered Walter Brooklyn to be recalled. Walter’s manner, when he gave his earlier evidence and was asked no more than a couple of formal questions, had shown plainly to the inspector, and also to Joan and Ellery, who were sitting together, that he was surprised at being let off so lightly. As the inquest went on, and nothing was said to draw him into the mystery, his expression, troubled and puzzled in the earlier stages, gradually cleared, and, up to the moment when he suddenly found himself recalled, he had been growing more and more sure that the suspicions of the police against him had been somehow dispelled. But now, in an instant, he realised that they had been deliberately keeping back everything that could seem to connect him with the case, not because they did not suspect him still, but because they had carefully set a trap into which they hoped that he would fall. For a moment, a scared look came into his face; but, when he stepped again into the witness stand, he wore his usual rather ill-humoured and supercilious expression. Immaculately dressed and groomed, he was a man who looked precisely what he was—an elderly, but still dissipated, man about town.
This time the questions which the coroner asked
