“I am listening, my dear Joan, because I had better hear the whole of this wild story that something—or someone”—here he turned and glared at Ellery—“has put into your head. But, of course, the whole thing is monstrous.”
“You need not blame Mr. Ellery. He and I have worked it all out together, and we can prove all we say. I should have mentioned that before leaving Liskeard House you arranged the scene of the murders so as to make it seem, first of all, that John and George had killed each other. Under John’s body you placed a bloodstained handkerchief belonging to George, and you also left one of George’s knives sticking in the body. You killed George with a weapon which, as you well knew, had on it John’s fingermarks. Of course you wore gloves, and therefore left no marks which could be identified as your own. The fingermarks on the club with which George was killed were made by John earlier in the day when he showed you the club before dinner. They were defaced, but not obliterated, by the marks made later by your gloved hands. Is that correct?”
“Of course it is not correct. It is a parcel of lies, the whole lot of it.”
“Really, Mr. Woodman,” said Ellery, “you will find that the whole story is remarkably convincing to others, if not to you. Let me give you an account of the objects you had in view. You knew that it was physically impossible for John and George to have killed each other; but by leaving the signs as you did you hoped to create the impression that either might have killed the other. Your main object, however, was not to create suspicion against either of these two, but to incriminate another person, whom you desired to remove for reasons of your own. You therefore faked the telephone message I have mentioned; and you also left Walter Brooklyn’s stick in John Prinsep’s room. You also detached the ferrule from the stick with your penknife, and left the ferrule in the garden on the spot where George was murdered. By actual murder you had already, on Tuesday night, removed two of the three persons who stood between you and Sir Vernon’s fortune. You hoped that, by means of the clues which you provided, the law would do your work in removing the third. I will not ask you whether this is true. We know it.”
Woodman shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, if you know it,” he said, “of course there is nothing for me to say.”
“You left Liskeard House wearing George’s hat and overcoat. These you took back to the hotel, and stowed away in a handbag for the night. You went out the next morning carrying the handbag, which you brought to this office. At lunchtime you took it with you. I do not know where you lunched, but you went into the cloakroom of the Avenue Restaurant, as if you were going to lunch there, and left the hat and coat hanging on a peg. You hoped that it would be impossible to trace them to you. They have been traced.”
During Ellery’s last speech Woodman’s forced calm had first showed some sign of breaking. But he pulled himself together with an effort. “I must say you have laid this plot very carefully,” he said.
“Unfortunately, not only have you been traced,” Joan went on, “but you were unwise enough not to notice, when you left the coat, that it lacked a button. You left that button deep down in the corner of the bag which is now in that cupboard over there.”
With a sudden cry Woodman rose from his chair and sprang towards the cupboard. He tore the bag open and felt wildly in it. Then he flung the bag away.
“No,” said Joan, “the button is not there, Mr. Woodman—now. It is safe somewhere else.”
“And I think, Mr. Woodman, what you have just done rather disposes of the pose of injured innocence. Don’t you?” asked Ellery.
Woodman kicked the bag savagely into a corner and sank into his chair. His face had gone dead white. Shakily he poured out and drank a glass of water.
“Your hopes of removing my stepfather by due process of law,” Joan continued, “were unfortunately frustrated. You were, therefore, in the position of having committed two murders for nothing, unless you could find some fresh means of profiting by them. You found such means. As soon as you heard of my stepfather’s release you made your plans. Soon after his release you met him, and somehow or other, persuaded him to make a will in your favour. I do not know how you did it; but I presume there was some agreement between you to share the proceeds of your deal. You then attempted, on the strength of your joint expectations under Sir Vernon’s will, to raise a large loan from one who was a friend of yours—Sir John Bunnery. You were in serious financial trouble, and only a considerable immediate supply of money could save you from bankruptcy and disgrace. That, I think, is correct.”
Joan paused, but this time Woodman had nothing to say. His face had gone grayer still. He stared at Joan, and his hand strayed towards one of the drawers of the table before him. But he remained silent.
This time, however, Joan pressed him for an answer.
“Do you admit now that what I have said is true?” she asked. And, as he still said nothing, “We can prove it all, you know,” Ellery added.
Woodman pulled himself together with an effort. “You have told the police all this?” he asked.
“Not a word as
