He could find out easily enough about Sir Vernon’s health. Joan would tell him that, even if she had a good suspicion of his reasons for wishing to know. But would Joan be in a position to tell him what was in the will, and would it even be wise to ask her? He was under no illusions. Joan would not want him to have the money, and, even if he stood to benefit now, she would be just the person to persuade Sir Vernon to make a new will. Moreover, there was only one person who would be certain to know what the will contained, and that was Carter Woodman.
Walter Brooklyn’s first idea, when he got thus far, was to see Woodman, find out about the will, and try to arrange for a loan on the strength of his expectations. But would this do either? Woodman was no friend of his; and, if his attention were called to the matter, he might easily induce Sir Vernon to make a fresh will. Yet Woodman was the only person through whom he could hope to arrange for an advance; for Woodman alone would know whether or not Walter was now Sir Vernon’s heir. And somehow an advance must be got, and got quickly.
There must surely, he thought, be some way round the difficulty. Walter Brooklyn was no fool; and he set himself deliberately to devise some method of raising the wind with Woodman’s aid. He came speedily to the conclusion that there was only one way in which it could be done. He must somehow get Woodman on to his side. That was not altogether impossible, much as the two men disliked each other. It was, Walter told himself, merely a matter of money.
Woodman, he considered, would certainly receive a legacy under any will Sir Vernon might make. Probably a few thousands, in return for his services. But he supposed that Woodman could entertain no hope of being one of the principal beneficiaries.
Woodman’s expectations were probably small. But Walter Brooklyn had good reason to believe that, despite his apparent prosperity, Woodman was hard pressed for money. Left alone in Woodman’s office for a few minutes the week before, he had hurriedly turned over certain private papers on the desk, and had gathered enough information to be sure that Woodman, like himself, would do a good deal for a supply of ready money. Might not this fact, he wondered, open up the possibility of a bargain? If, as he believed, the will was now in his favour, he could offer Woodman very favourable terms for negotiating an advance on his behalf. He would offer Woodman a share—a substantial share—as a loan—of whatever he could raise on the strength of Walter’s expectations.
Why waste time? He would at least see at once whether Woodman was at his office, and try to arrange an appointment. The telephone was at his elbow, and he rang up. Woodman was there, and Walter got straight through to him. His clerks had already gone home for the night.
“Who is speaking?” came the voice from the other end.
“Walter Brooklyn this end. I want to see you as soon as possible.”
As he gave his name, Walter heard a gasp from the man at the other end of the wire. Then, “Where are you speaking from?” came the voice.
“Not from Brixton, if that is what you mean. I’m speaking from the Byron Club.”
“Good God, man! How on earth—”
“The police released me this afternoon. I am completely cleared of this charge, although I understand you were good enough to believe me guilty.”
To this there came no answer.
“I must see you privately at once.”
“What about?”
“I’ll tell you that when we meet. Will you come round here?”
“When?”
“Tonight, if you can. I shall be in my room all the evening.”
“Not tonight. I have an engagement.”
“Then tomorrow morning.”
“Very well. At about eleven.”
“I’ll be here. Good night.”
Each man as he hung up the receiver had plenty to think about. Brooklyn was perfecting his scheme for raising a loan with Woodman’s aid, and reflecting upon the various ways in which he might approach the subject. Carter Woodman also stood silent with a heavy frown on his face.
The fact that Walter Brooklyn had been released, although the evidence against him seemed overwhelming, came as a great surprise to Woodman. Something curious must have happened. When Brooklyn rang off, he had been on the point of asking for further details. He would get them somehow elsewhere. He would try to see the inspector. He rang up Scotland Yard.
“Hallo. Is that Inspector Blaikie? Carter Woodman speaking.”
“Is that you, Mr. Woodman? I was just trying to get through to you myself. Are you at your office? Then may I come around and see you for a few minutes? Will what you wanted to say to me keep till I get round? Very well, I’ll be with you in half a jiffy.”
This was a piece of luck. Woodman would get the full story from the inspector, and he would also be able to give in return a piece of information which, he thought, would make Scotland Yard sit up. How on earth had they come to release Walter Brooklyn? Well, there was such a thing as re-arrest. After all, the man had not been acquitted.
The inspector arrived in less than a quarter of an hour. He explained that he wished to ask Woodman a few questions relating to Prinsep’s private affairs, and also involving, he believed, certain of the servants at Liskeard House. Had Woodman heard anything of some trouble with a girl down at Fittleworth—the head gardener’s daughter—a Miriam
