Walter Brooklyn, when Woodman had gone, sat down again in his chair with a heavy sigh. He was very conscious that he had been swindled. Carter Woodman knew the terms of Sir Vernon’s will, and he did not; and it was certain that, with this knowledge to help him, Woodman had struck a hard bargain. Moreover, he not only knew the will: he was in a very strong position, as Sir Vernon’s legal adviser, to prevent the making of a new one which would be disadvantageous to him. Woodman was almost safe to score, whatever might happen. But there was solid comfort in the thought that, under the compact they had just made, it was to Woodman’s interest that Walter should get the largest possible slice of Sir Vernon’s money. Whatever came to Walter was to become Woodman’s in time. Woodman, therefore, would be bound to do his best to serve Walter’s interests. Yes, there were compensations in being swindled on such terms. Walter stood a good chance of wealth for as long as he lived; and what did it matter to him who might get the money after his death?
“After me, the deluge,” said Walter Brooklyn to himself, summing up the evening’s transaction.
XXVII
Robert Ellery’s Idea
Ellery woke up in the morning with the dim consciousness that he had a great idea. What had he been thinking out when he dropped off to sleep the night before? The murders, of course—they were always in his thoughts. But what was the shattering new idea that had come to him as he lay awake? That was how his best ideas often came—in the night just before he went to sleep they came to him half-formed, and the next morning, by the time he was fully awake, they had somehow taken on form and certainty. With an effort he stretched and roused himself, and, as he did so, the idea came back to him. He felt certain that he knew who was the murderer.
Who, he had asked himself the night before—who, of all the persons who figured on the list Joan and he had compiled, was most likely to have done the thing? He felt certain that it was not the work of a stranger: the whole of the circumstances seemed to point to someone familiar with the house and its ways. Yet, on the evidence, it seemed clear enough that no one among those they had put upon their list could be guilty. But their list included everybody. Very well—this had been his first inspiration—there must be something wrong with the evidence. It must point away from the guilty, as it had pointed towards the innocent. The murderer who had laid that clever trail to incriminate Walter Brooklyn would obviously have taken the precaution to lay a trail pointing away from himself. Indeed, whoever had the apparently clearest alibi was on this showing the most likely to be guilty. It would be safest, in the circumstances, to ignore for the moment all the evidence which seemed to prove innocence, and simply consider, in the light of the remaining conditions, who was most likely to have been the murderer.
This narrowed the field considerably. The women, except as possible accessories, could be ruled out of account in any case; for no woman could have struck the blows by which the two cousins had met their deaths. That left—whom? Walter Brooklyn was out of it; for his alibi had been not merely accepted, but tested beyond possible doubt. Ellery could hardly suspect himself, though he admitted that anyone else, following out his line of thought, might still suspect him. His alibi was not conclusive: it depended on the word of one man. But he could rule himself out: he could say positively that he had not done the thing. Then who remained? Only Harry Lucas, Carter Woodman, and the two servants, Winter and Morgan. Among these, if he was right, the real murderer must be found.
It was ludicrous, Ellery felt, to suspect his guardian. Harry Lucas had no possible motive, and he was the very last man for such a deed. He was ruled out of consideration as soon as the thought was conceived. About Winter and Morgan Ellery could not feel the same full certainty; but he was very strongly of opinion that the murders were not the work of a servant, and that neither of these men had the qualities which the deed seemed to demand.
Then there was left only—Carter Woodman. It was on that thought that Ellery had fallen asleep, and that was the idea that now came back to him with added certainty. Carter Woodman was the murderer.
But was not the whole idea preposterous? Woodman not merely had an alibi which had satisfied the police; he was a relative, an old personal friend, the tried and trusted business adviser of the Brooklyns. His wife was one of Joan’s dearest friends, and he himself had been constantly about with the men of whose murder Ellery was now suspecting him. The idea seemed preposterous enough, when it was put in that way; but, though Ellery presented these difficulties to his mind in all their strength, they did not at all change his attitude. No one else was the murderer: therefore Carter Woodman was.
There entered, certainly, into Ellery’s conviction his own strong dislike of Woodman. The suggestion of Woodman’s guilt, once made, was plausible to him, because he had not at all the feeling that the deed was incongruous. It would have been utterly incongruous with what he knew of any other possible suspect, even Walter Brooklyn; but the cap seemed to fit Carter Woodman. Ellery said to himself that Woodman was just the sort of chap who would commit murder, if he had a strong enough motive.
Yes; but where was the motive in this case? What did Woodman stand
