“Of course,” said Ellery, “he may have lunched here and not been noticed. But I’m inclined to believe he didn’t lunch here at all. There was nothing to stop him from walking straight into the cloak room, and then going right away as if he had lunched without coming into the restaurant at all. I wonder how Moorman knew he lunched here that day?”
“We can’t ask him that without putting him on his guard,” said Joan. “But what we have is good enough. And we can make Moorman speak out later, if it becomes necessary.”
The manager had by this time left them, and they were discussing the situation alone. Suddenly Ellery broke in on something that Joan was saying.
“By Jove,” he said, “I’ve just remembered. What a fool I am not to have thought of it before.”
“What is it this time?”
“Why, you remember those fingerprints of Prinsep’s that were on the club George was killed with. I know how they got there. When we were in the garden before dinner I saw Prinsep take down that club from the statue, and swing it about. He was showing it to—whom do you think?”
“Not Carter Woodman?”
“Yes, Woodman. That must have given him the idea of using the club. He may have remembered that it would probably have Prinsep’s fingermarks on it.”
“Yes, but if he used it afterwards it would have his marks too.”
“Not necessarily. Don’t you remember the police saying at the inquest that some of the marks were blurred, as if the club had been handled afterwards? That inspector fellow said he was sure the murderer had worn gloves. That’s it. Woodman must have worn gloves, and they blurred the marks. That shows that Woodman killed George as well as Prinsep.”
“Of course it all helps to make it likely; and I never thought John had done it. But it’s not proof, you know.”
“It may not be proof, but, by George, with the rest of the facts we have I think it’s good enough.”
“No, Bob, I don’t think it is good enough—for proof, I mean—unless we can prove that Carter was in Liskeard House that evening. If we could prove that, I agree that we could bring the whole thing home to him.”
“But we know he went out of the Cunningham, and lied about where he had been.”
“We know he lied, but we can’t even prove that he went out of the hotel. We only showed that he could have got out, and in again, without being seen. It really isn’t good enough—yet.”
“But how are we to make it any better?”
“If Carter got back into Liskeard House I’m going to find out how he did it. He couldn’t have come in by the front door—someone would have been certain to see him. And I’m fairly certain he couldn’t have got in through the theatre without being seen.”
“Then how on earth did he get in?”
“That’s what I mean to find out. If he didn’t come in the other ways, he must have come in through the coach-yard.”
“But surely the evidence at the inquest showed that it was all locked up, and no one could possibly have got in that way.”
“My dear Bob, the evidence only showed that it was locked at eleven o’clock. The police theory was that the murders were somewhere about midnight. But we believe Carter got out of the Cunningham some time before eleven. He must have come through before it was locked. And we know now, thanks to that coat-button, how he got out.”
“You may be right. But the chauffeur and his wife both said they didn’t see anyone come in before they locked up; so that, even if Woodman did come that way, I don’t see how we can prove it.”
“You are a Jeremiah. Of course I don’t see either. But I haven’t really tried yet, and I’m going to. And now, Bob, let’s pay our bill, and get to work on it. It must be so, and I’m not going to believe it can’t be proved.”
XXXII
Sir John Bunnery
Before Joan and Ellery parted, they arranged what each should do next to clear up the remaining difficulties. Joan was to test her theory about the coach-yard, while Ellery was to investigate the circumstances surrounding the extraordinary attempt of Woodman and Walter Brooklyn to raise a loan in anticipation of Sir Vernon’s death. Woodman had approached Sir John Bunnery; and Sir John’s subsequent letter to Sir Vernon seemed to make it worth while to find out what information he possessed. Ellery made up his mind to go and see Sir John; and Joan furnished him with a convenient pretext for doing so. Sir Vernon had determined to get his new will into proper legal form at the earliest possible moment, and had told Joan that Woodman must on no account be allowed to do the drafting of it. She had suggested that Sir John Bunnery might be called in, and Sir Vernon had readily agreed. Joan therefore commissioned Ellery to call on Sir John, and ask him to come to Liskeard House at his earliest convenience for the purpose of drawing up Sir Vernon’s new will.
Ellery wrote on his card, “From Sir Vernon Brooklyn,” and, aided by the name, was speedily shown into Sir John Bunnery’s private office. Sir John was not at all the popular idea of what “the bookmaker’s attorney” ought to be. He was a small, dried-up old man, with very sharp little eyes that darted to and fro with disconcerting suddenness. He had a way of sitting very still, and looking his visitors up and down with those bright little eyes, until they felt that no detail of their appearance—and perhaps none
