He did not, however, go to the door of Woodman’s outer office. Instead, he went along the corridor to where, as he remembered, the private door from Woodman’s inner sanctum gave on the passage. There he paused and listened. Someone was speaking within; but not a word was audible through the stout door. There was no keyhole, and nothing was to be seen either. The superintendent must fare further, to the back of the building, if he sought to find out what was in progress in Woodman’s room. There might be a window, looking on the room, through which he could watch unobserved. He soon found a backdoor, leading into a small flagged yard at the rear of the building. It was locked; but the key was in place. Unlocking it he slipped out into the yard, and easily located the window of Woodman’s room. By standing on a water-butt, he could see the three people—Joan, Ellery, and Carter Woodman—within. But the window was closed, and he could hear nothing. He remained at his post of vantage, watching.
XXXVI
An Afternoon Call
Hardly had Joan and Ellery passed from the outer office into Woodman’s private room when the inspector entered the room they had left, and asked if Mr. Woodman was in. Moorman, who had met the inspector several times lately, saw nothing strange in the visit, and merely replied that his employer was in, but that he was at the moment engaged. “If you care to wait, sir, I dare say he won’t be long.”
Blaikie said that he would wait, and Moorman thereupon suggested that he should go in and tell his principal that the inspector was there. But the inspector told him not to bother: he would take his chance when Woodman was free. He sat down, therefore, to wait in the outer office, improving the minutes by conversing with the loquacious old clerk about his employer’s affairs.
Meanwhile, Joan and Ellery were seated with Carter Woodman. He had greeted them rather effusively on their entrance; and, in Moorman’s presence, they had thought it best to shake hands and behave as if nothing were the matter. Woodman had placed chairs for them, and had again sat down at his desk. While they spoke he continued for a while mechanically opening, and glancing at, the pile of letters before him.
It was Joan who spoke first. “We have come here,” she said, “because it seemed the only thing to do. When we have heard what you have to say we shall know better what our next step must be.”
Something in her voice caused Woodman to look up sharply. The tone was hard, and a glance at his two visitors showed him that their errand was not a pleasant one. But he looked down again and went on opening his letters without making any sign.
“We have to tell you,” Joan went on, “that we know now who killed John Prinsep and poor George.”
Woodman gave a start as she spoke; but all he said was, “Then, my dear Joan, you know a great deal more than I do.”
“I will put it in another way,” said Joan. “We know that you killed them.” She got the words out with an effort, breathing hard and clutching the arm of the chair as she spoke.
Woodman dropped the letter he was holding and looked straight at her.
“My dear Joan,” he said, “are you quite mad? And you too, Mr. Ellery?”
“No, we’re not mad. We know,” said Ellery, with a short, uneasy laugh—a laugh that grated.
Woodman looked from the one to the other.
“I fear you are both mad,” said he very quietly. “And now, will one of you please tell me what you mean by this extraordinary accusation?”
“You had better hear what we have to say before you start protesting,” said Ellery. “Let me tell you exactly what happened at Liskeard House last Tuesday. Then you will see that we know. You are supposed to have been at your hotel in the small writing-room on the first floor between 10:45 and 11:30, or after.”
“So I was, of course.”
“But we can produce a gentleman who was in the writing-room between those hours, and can swear that you were not.”
“Oh, I may have slipped out of the room for a while. But it is preposterous—”
“You had better hear me out. This gentleman saw you leave the writing-room and go downstairs at a few minutes to eleven. Shortly after, he went to the room himself and remained there three-quarters of an hour. He saw you return to the writing-room rather before a quarter to twelve.”
“This is pure nonsense. But what of it, even if it were true?”
“This. When you left the room you went down to the basement of the hotel, which was deserted, and let yourself out by unbarring the side door leading from the Grill Room into St. John’s Street. You also returned that way shortly after half-past eleven.”
“Again, I say that you are talking absolute nonsense. But, if it pleases you, pray continue this fairy tale.”
Joan took up the story. “You walked across to Liskeard House, and entered the garden through the coach-yard shortly before it was locked for the night. I will pass over what you did next; but at a time shortly before half-past eleven—probably about a quarter-past—you put on John Prinsep’s hat and coat and walked up and down the garden, imitating his lameness, in a spot where you could be seen from the back of the theatre. You then went upstairs to John’s room, and
