“It has been suggested to me, Mr. Brooklyn, that you may be able to throw some further light on this tragedy. This morning you were given no opportunity to make a general statement; but I desire to give you that opportunity now. Is there anything further that you are in a position to tell us?”
“I know no more of the affair than I have heard in this court today—or previously from the police.” Walter Brooklyn added the last words after a noticeable pause. “Nevertheless, there is a statement that I want to make. It has been suggested, not in this court, but earlier to me by Inspector Blaikie—that I was in Liskeard House on Tuesday evening. I desire to say that I called at Liskeard House shortly after ten o’clock and waited for a few minutes in the outer hall. Then I went away; and since that time—perhaps twenty past ten on Tuesday night—I have not been in either the house or the garden. Of the circumstances of the tragedy I know nothing at all except what I have heard at this inquest or from the police.”
Walter Brooklyn’s statement created a sensation; for here was the first hint of a suspicion entertained by somebody as to the real murderer. Clearly the police had been keeping something back—something which would incriminate the man who was now giving evidence. Of course, after interrogating Walter Brooklyn the police might have discovered their suspicions to be groundless, and therefore have said nothing of them. But, if this were so, why had they recalled him in this curious fashion, and why should Brooklyn go out of his way to draw public attention to himself, and to make certain that his doings would be fully canvassed in the newspapers? No, the way in which he had been recalled showed that the police were acting with a definite purpose. They were trying to get Walter Brooklyn to make a statement which would clearly incriminate him, and, if they really had evidence of his presence in the house, they had certainly succeeded.
This explanation, natural and largely correct as it was, was not quite a fair account of Superintendent Wilson’s motives. His object had been not merely to get Walter Brooklyn to incriminate himself, but also to give him a chance of clearing himself if he could give a satisfactory explanation of his presence in the house. The fact that the man had repeated on oath an obvious lie seemed to him a good enough reason for ordering an arrest. He nodded across the court to the inspector.
But the coroner’s court had not yet quite done with Walter Brooklyn. A juryman, quick to be influenced by the general suspicion which was abroad, signified his desire to ask a question. “Where did you go after leaving Liskeard House?” he rapped out.
The coroner interposed. “Since that question has been asked,” he said, “perhaps it would be well if you would give us an account of your movements on Tuesday night.”
Walter Brooklyn seemed to think for a minute before replying. “Well,” he said, “I strolled about for a bit round Piccadilly Circus and Shaftesbury Avenue, and then I went home to the club.”
“At what time did you reach your club?”
“I should guess it was shortly before midnight.”
“That is a considerable time after you left Liskeard House.”
“I am merely telling you what happened.”
“The club porter could probably confirm the time of your return?”
“Yes, I imagine so.”
“And is there anyone who would be able to substantiate your account of what you did between 10:15 and midnight? Were you strolling about all that time?”
“Yes, I suppose I was.”
“Were you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Then there is no one who could confirm your story?”
“Probably not. But I did meet one or two people I knew.”
“None of them is here now?”
“No.”
“Do you desire that the inquest should be adjourned in order that they may be called?”
“No. What on earth for? I don’t know whether I could find them, anyway.”
“Then I think there is nothing further I need ask you.”
And with that, a good deal bewildered, Walter Brooklyn was told to leave the witness box. He went back to his seat, but a minute later got up and left the court.
Many pairs of eyes followed him as he walked slowly towards the door, and the more experienced spectators nudged one another as Inspector Blaikie rose quickly in his place and went out after him. Joan, in her place in the court, saw her stepfather leave; but she did not notice that the inspector had followed. Ellery, who did notice, said nothing; for though he realised what was about to happen he saw that there was no means of preventing the arrest.
Meanwhile, the coroner was rapidly summing up the evidence. Murder, he told the jury, was clearly established in both cases; and they need have no hesitation as to their verdict on that point. But who had committed the murders? If they were satisfied that in either case the evidence established the guilt of some definite person, it was their duty to bring in a verdict against that person. In his opinion, however, the evidence was wholly inadequate to form the basis of any positive conclusion. It might be that John Prinsep had been killed by George Brooklyn—the finding of the handkerchief and his known visit to the house were certainly suspicious circumstances. It might be, on the other hand, that George Brooklyn had been killed by John Prinsep—the note in Prinsep’s writing found in the temple, the cigar-holder, and his known presence in the garden were all grounds for suspicion. But both these sets of clues could not point to the truth, and the jury had no means of determining on which the greater reliance should be placed. Indeed, both sets of clues might be misleading, and certainly neither was by itself enough to form the basis of a verdict. The murders might both be the work of some third
