The Brooklyn Murders

At seventy Sir Vernon Brooklyn was still the outstanding figure in the theatrical world. It was, indeed, ten years since he had made his farewell appearance on the stage; and with a consistency rare among the members of his profession, he had persisted in making his first farewell also his last. He had also for some time past resigned to younger men the actual direction of his vast theatrical enterprises, which included five great West End theatres and a steady stream of touring companies in the provinces and overseas. Both as actor and as manager, he was wont to say, his work was over; but as Chairman of the Brooklyn Dramatic Corporation, which conducted all its work under his name, he was almost as much as ever in the eye of the public.

Like most men who have risen by their own efforts, aided by fortune and by a public which takes a pleasure in idolatry, to positions of wide authority, Sir Vernon had developed, perhaps to excess, the habit of getting his own way. Thus, although his niece and housekeeper, Joan Cowper, and his near relatives and friends had done their best to dissuade him from coming to London, he had ignored their protests, and insisted on celebrating his seventieth birthday in the London house, formerly the scene of his triumphs, which he now seldom visited. Sir Vernon now spent most of his time at the great country house in Sussex which he had bought ten years before from Lord Fittleworth.

John Prinsep was a man who valued punctuality and cultivated regular habits, both in himself and in others. At 10:15 punctually each night a servant came to him to collect any late letters for the post. Thereafter, unless some visitor had to be shown up, he was left undisturbed, and no one entered his flat on the second floor of Liskeard House until the next morning. The servants, who slept on the floor above, had access to it by a staircase of their own, and did not need to pass through Prinsep’s quarters.

No less regular were the arrangements for the morning. At eight o’clock precisely, Prinsep’s valet called him, bringing the morning papers and letters and a cup of tea. At the same time, other servants began the work of dusting and cleaning the flat, a long suite of rooms running the whole length of the house. Prinsep’s bedroom, opening out of his study, and accessible also from the end of the long corridor, was a pleasant room looking out over the old garden towards the back of the theatre.

On the morning after the birthday dinner, Prinsep’s valet approached the bedroom door with some trepidation, for he had overslept himself and was at least five minutes late⁠—an offence which his master would not readily forgive. Repeated knocks bringing no reply, Morgan slipped into the room, only to find that the bed had not been slept in, and that there was no sign that Prinsep had been there at all since he had dressed for dinner on the previous evening.

But, as Joan came nearer the temple she saw, in the entrance, some indistinct dark object lying upon the steps. At first she could not be sure what it was; but, as she came close, she became sure that it was the body of a man, lying with the feet towards her in an unnatural attitude which must be that of either unconsciousness or death. Her impulse was to turn tail and run to the house for help; but, with a strong effort of will, she forced herself to go still nearer. It was a man, and the man, she felt sure, was dead. The face was turned away, lying downwards on the stone of the topmost step; and on the exposed back of the head was the mark of a savage blow which had crushed the skull almost like an eggshell. Already Joan was nearly certain who it was, and an intense feeling of sickness came over her as she forced herself to touch the body and to turn it over enough to expose the face. Then she let the thing drop back, and started back herself with a sharp cry. It was her cousin, George Brooklyn, manifestly dead and no less manifestly murdered, who lay there on the steps of the Grecian temple.

Filled as she was with horror at the second tragedy of the morning, Joan did not lose her presence of mind. She staggered, indeed, and had to cling for a minute to the nearest of the old statues⁠—the Hercules whose points John Prinsep had showed off to his guests only the night before.

“The trouble about this case, sir,” said Inspector Blaikie, “is that it’s as plain as a pikestaff; but what the clues plainly indicate cannot possibly be true. Perhaps I had better tell you the whole story from the beginning.”

Superintendent Wilson nodded, put the tips of his fingers together, leant back in his chair, and finally closed his eyes. He had composed himself to listen.

“I went to Liskeard House shortly before half-past eight this morning, on receipt of a telephone message stating that a murder had been committed.”

“Who sent the message?”

“One of the servants. They had found the body when they went in to clean the room in the morning. I went to the house, as I say.

“No; or I could probably find him for myself. I thought you might know him.”

“Well, he ain’t here,” said Alf, apparently making up his mind to Ellery’s disadvantage. Ellery began to expostulate; but at that moment, through the same curtained door through which mine host had come, walked a quite unmistakable figure⁠—a very tall, thin man, with perfectly white hair and beard, the latter cut to a fine point. The newcomer wore a long and very threadbare black cloak, now green with age, and he seemed just about to place upon his head a very wide-brimmed black⁠—or rather greenish⁠—felt hat, which Ellery thought of instinctively as a “sombrero.” In a fine, high-pitched voice, perfectly cultivated but a good deal affected, and with a curious intonation that seemed like the affectation of a foreign accent, he addressed the woman behind the bar. “Did I hear my name spoken among you?” he asked.

The woman turned to Alf, who shrugged his shoulders.

“Here he is,” he said to Ellery. “I suppose you’d better ask him what you want.”

Ellery put on his best manners. “Sir,” said he to the man called the Spaniard, “may I have the honour of a few words with you on a matter which concerns me very deeply, and you, I must admit, scarcely at all?”

The Spaniard bowed low. “The honour, sir,” he replied, “is with me. For, as the poet says, ‘Honoured is he to whom man speaks the things of his heart.’ ”

“We will call the honours easy, if you please. But I shall be very much obliged for a few words with you.”

“If it please you, then, let us take the air together. I can speak and listen better under the sky.”