No less regular were the arrangements for the morning. At eight o’clock precisely, Prinsep’s valet called him, bringing the morning papers and letters and a cup of tea. At the same time, other servants began the work of dusting and cleaning the flat, a long suite of rooms running the whole length of the house. Prinsep’s bedroom, opening out of his study, and accessible also from the end of the long corridor, was a pleasant room looking out over the old garden towards the back of the theatre.
On the morning after the birthday dinner, Prinsep’s valet approached the bedroom door with some trepidation, for he had overslept himself and was at least five minutes late—an offence which his master would not readily forgive. Repeated knocks bringing no reply, Morgan slipped into the room, only to find that the bed had not been slept in, and that there was no sign that Prinsep had been there at all since he had dressed for dinner on the previous evening. Closing the door, Morgan walked back along the corridor to consult his fellow-servants. He found Winter, who was superintending the dusting of the drawing-room.
“Did you see the master last night?” he asked.
Winter answered with a nod, and added, “Yes, I took some letters from him for the post as usual.”
“Did he say anything about going out? His bed has not been slept in, and he’s not in his room this morning.”
Winter replied that Prinsep had said nothing, and the two men walked down the corridor together to take a look round.
At this moment there came a terrible scream from the study, and a scared maidservant came running out straight into Morgan’s arms. “Oh, Mr. Morgan—the master,” she sobbed, “I’m sure he’s dead.”
The two menservants made all haste into the study. There, stretched on the floor beside his writing-table lay John Prinsep. A glance told them that he was dead, and showed the apparent cause in a knife, the handle of which protruded from his chest, just about the region of the heart. Morgan went down on his knees beside the body, and felt the pulse. “Get out quick,” he said, “and stop those girls from kicking up a row. He’s dead, right enough.”
Morgan’s voice was agitated, indeed; but it hardly showed the grief that might have been expected in an exemplary valet mourning for the death of his master. Winter made no reply, but left the room to quiet the servants. Then he came back and telephoned first for the police and then for the dead man’s doctor, who promised to be with them inside of half an hour. As he sat at the telephone he warned Morgan. “Don’t disturb a thing. If we’re not careful one of us may get run in for this job.”
Morgan meanwhile had satisfied himself beyond a doubt that Prinsep was dead. Leaving the body he turned to Winter. “Someone will have to tell Miss Joan, I suppose. I’ll go and find her maid. Meanwhile you stay on guard here.”
Winter’s guard was not for long. In less than ten minutes Morgan returned. “I’ve seen Miss Joan,” he said, “and she’s gone to tell Sir Vernon. Here are the police coming upstairs.”
The telephone message had, by a lucky accident, found Inspector Blaikie already at Vine Street, and it was he, with two constables and a sergeant, who had come round to the house at once. The constables remained downstairs, while he and the sergeant made a preliminary examination. Winter told him that nothing had been disturbed, except that they had touched the body in order to make sure that Prinsep was dead, and used the telephone to communicate with the doctor and the police.
“No doubt about his being dead,” said Inspector Blaikie, after a brief examination of the body. “Dead some hours, so far as I can see. And no doubt about the cause of death, either”—and he pointed to the knife still in the body. “Has either of you ever seen that knife before?”
Both Winter and Morgan took a good look at the shaft, but disclaimed ever having seen the knife. “It wasn’t his—I can tell you that,” said Morgan. “I know everything he had in the study, and I’m dead sure it wasn’t here yesterday.”
“Hallo,” said the inspector suddenly, “this is curious. There’s a mark on the back of the head that shows he must have been struck a heavy blow. It might have killed him by itself—must have stunned him, I should say. Well, we’ll leave that for the doctors.” So saying, the inspector got up from his knees and began to make a minute examination of the room. “Here, you two,” he said to Morgan and Winter, “clear out of here for the present, and stay in the next room till I send for you.”
Inspector Blaikie was a careful man. Everything in the room was rapidly submitted to a detailed examination, the results of which the sergeant wrote down as his superior dictated them. They were neither surprisingly rich nor surprisingly meagre. Of fingermarks there were plenty, but these might well prove to be those of Prinsep himself, or of other persons whose presence in the room was quite natural. Identifiable footmarks there were none.
Robbery, unless of some special object, did not appear to have been the motive of the murderer. Considerable sums of money were in the drawers of Prinsep’s desk; but neither these nor the other contents of the drawers seemed to have been in any way disturbed. A safe stood unopened in
