She didn’t know anything, and, if she did, she wouldn’t tell him. Inspector Blaikie retired from the contest beaten, but warning her that he would call again.
He did not, however, retire so far as to prevent him from seeing that, as soon as she believed herself to be alone, the chauffeur’s wife hurried into Liskeard House by the back way, and went straight up the back stairs. Putting two and two together, he speedily concluded that she had gone to see Joan Cowper, and that Joan probably knew all that she knew, and had told her to keep quiet about it. The inspector made up his mind to see Joan as soon as the woman had gone.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Purvis was telling Joan about the inspector’s visit, and begging pardon for having let her tongue wag in the servants’ hall. “But I didn’t tell him nothing, miss. You can rest assured of that. I sent him away with a flea in his ear, miss.”
At this moment Ellery was announced. Joan dismissed Mrs. Purvis with a further caution to say nothing for the present. As soon as she had gone, Ellery told Joan of his visit to Sir John Bunnery, and of the fact that Woodman had been in serious financial straits before the murders took place. “It seems to be true enough, about your stepfather making a will in his favour. It’s all very odd: I don’t understand it a bit.”
“I’m afraid there’s almost nothing he wouldn’t do for money—except murder,” said Joan.
“Old Sir John seemed to think that murder was quite a venial offence in comparison with getting money by false pretences,” Ellery answered, laughing.
“Don’t be silly, Bob. I’ve found out how Carter got into the house. And I’ve got the proof.” And then Joan told her story of the coach-house yard—her story which proved beyond doubt that Woodman had been on the scene of the crime.
“Well done, Joan. So that makes it certain he was here.”
“I’m really beginning to think, Bob, we’re rather clever people.”
“My dear, we’ve done the trick. Do you realise that it practically finishes our case. We’ve got enough now to be quite sure of a conviction.”
“Oh, Bob! How horrible it is when you put it that way. It has really been rather fun finding it all out; but now we’ve found out, oh, what are we to do about it?”
“The obvious thing would be to tell the police.”
“I suppose it would. But think of the trial—the horrible publicity of it. And I don’t a bit want to see Carter hanged, though he may deserve it. Think of poor Helen.”
“My dear Joan, of course you don’t. But it’s not so easy to hush up a thing like this.”
“Bob, need we tell the police? They don’t know what we’ve been doing. Must we tell them now?”
“Blest if I know, darling. But I forgot to tell you about what the old lawyer chap, Bunnery, said. He wants it hushed up all right.”
“Then that means we can hush it up.”
“I don’t know whether we can or not. But I tell you what I suggest we do. You come down with me and see Carter Woodman. We shall have to tell him what we know, and force him to admit the whole thing. Then we’ll see what he means to do—perhaps he might agree to run away to Australia, or something, before the police find out. And then we can see old Bunnery and get his advice, and decide what to do about telling them.”
Before Joan could answer this string of proposals, there came a knock at the door, and Inspector Blaikie walked into the room. Joan and Ellery evidently showed their embarrassment, for he stood looking curiously at them for a moment, and then said reassuringly that he had only come in to have a word or two, if he might. Joan asked him to sit down, and offered him a cigarette. The inspector lighted it deliberately, and then he suddenly shot a question at them.
“What is it you have told the chauffeur’s wife not to tell me?”
Joan looked quickly at Ellery, and Ellery looked at Joan; but neither of them answered.
“Come, come, Miss Cowper. You really must not try to prevent the police from getting information or you will force us to conclude that you wish to shield the murderer.”
Still Joan made no answer.
“I hope, Miss Cowper, that it is only that you and your friend have been doing a little detective work on your own, and wanted to have all the credit for yourselves. But don’t you think the time has come for telling me what you know?”
Ellery did not answer the question directly. “Look here, inspector,” he said, “you think we know all about these murders, and are trying to keep the truth from you.”
“It looks mighty like it.”
“Well, in a sense, I don’t say we haven’t been keeping something back. But I give you my word that we’re not in collusion with the murderer or anything of that sort. There is a very special reason why we can’t tell you quite everything just now—for what it is worth.”
“Does the very special reason apply to Miss Cowper as well?”
“Yes,” said Joan; “for the moment it does.”
Ellery went on. “Of course, I know you have a grievance. You’re going to tell us that we
