“That’s pure hypothesis. I don’t say it isn’t true; but—”
“It’s more than hypothesis: it is divination. Surely you see that it must be what happened.”
“I expect, as usual, you are right,” said the inspector. “But will it convince a jury? I have tried all I know to get any evidence showing when the stick was left; but not a trace can I find. A jury will regard it as a pure hypothesis.”
The superintendent sighed. Juries are sadly lacking in appreciation of the subtleties of reasoning. “You’re quite right there,” he said. “My divination won’t hang Carter Woodman. But it convinces you as it convinced me. We have to get faith in our own knowledge before we can make a case that will persuade others. You and I now have that faith. We know that Carter Woodman is guilty.”
“But even you can’t prove it.”
“Not yet; but it will be proved. And now I come to a third point. You remember that written message that was found in the garden near George Brooklyn’s body—the scrap of paper you picked up. It was in Prinsep’s writing.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Have you thought any more about that scrap of paper, or have you just assumed that it was a request by Prinsep that George Brooklyn should meet him in the garden?”
“There didn’t seem to be much to be gleaned from it.”
“There I think you are wrong. I want to know exactly when that piece of paper was found, and by whom.”
“We found it in the garden that morning, when we were looking for clues after finding George Brooklyn’s body.”
“Who actually found it?”
“I suppose I did. No, I remember now, it was Carter Woodman who directed my attention to it. It was lying in a corner of the summerhouse—the place they call ‘the temple.’ ”
“My dear inspector,” said the superintendent excitedly, “do you realise the significance of what you have just said. Woodman took good care that you should discover that piece of paper, because he had put it there for you to find.” The superintendent said these last words slowly, and with very great emphasis.
The inspector scratched his head thoughtfully. “I believe you are right,” he said. “It was after we had finished our first search that Woodman drew my attention to the scrap of paper.”
“He was afraid you would fail to notice it.”
“I can see that you are right, sir; but there again you have a thing which will not convince a jury for a moment. Your reasoning will seem to them fantastic. I only know you are right because you always are right when you make a long guess like that.”
“But need it be only a guess? Look here.” And Superintendent Wilson pushed the scrap of paper across to his subordinate. “Take a good look. Do you see anything curious about it?”
“It’s written oddly near the edge of the paper.”
“Yes, that is the point. The writing is right up at the top of the paper, and immediately above the writing is a torn edge. The paper, as we said before, is a sheet torn from the memorandum block found in Prinsep’s room; but it is not a complete sheet. About an inch has been neatly torn off the top of the sheet. Is that a natural thing for Prinsep to have done, and does the writing look natural as it stands now on the sheet?”
The inspector looked again at the note. “No, it certainly does not,” he said.
“Doesn’t that suggest anything to you?”
“Do you mean that this is only part of the message?”
“That’s exactly what I do mean. The message now says only, ‘Meet me in the garden.—J. P.’ Probably what it said originally was, ‘Dear So-and-So—whatever the name may have been, and I don’t believe it was ‘George’—meet me in the garden.—J. P.’ There may have been a date, too, at the top of the note.”
“You mean that this note, though it was written by Prinsep, was not written with reference to the particular occasion we are concerned with.”
“Precisely. Now, I suppose there is no hope of our finding the missing part of that memorandum slip; but I am convinced that is what happened.”
The inspector made a sudden exclamation. “Good Lord! what a fool I have been,” he said.
“How do you mean?” said the superintendent sharply.
“Why, I actually found what must have been the missing part of the slip when I was searching Prinsep’s room. I thought nothing of it at the time.”
“You have it now?”
The inspector shook his head ruefully. “No,” he said, “it has gone west. When I searched the room, I naturally looked in the grate. There had been a fire, and on the hearth was a half-burnt scrap of paper.”
“What was on it?”
“Nothing but the name of a day at the head—Monday, it was—and one word. The rest was burnt. It had evidently fallen out of the grate.”
“The word was?”
“ ‘Man.’ Just ‘man,’ nothing else.”
The superintendent gave an excited laugh. “Now I know what the note contained,” he said. “ ‘Monday, Dear Woodman, Meet me in the garden.—J. P.’ How does that strike you? The note was from Prinsep to Woodman; but it was written on the day before the murders. Lord, what a pity you didn’t keep the fragment. My dear inspector, never destroy anything. That is the only safe course for a man like you.”
“I did show it to the sergeant, sir,” said the inspector, considerably crestfallen at his superior’s tone.
“Come, that’s a bit better. The judge will probably accept your combined testimonies. It’s a great pity, though, you didn’t realise the importance of that scrap of charred paper. However, for our own purposes at least I think we can take it as proved that Woodman deliberately prepared and planted that note
