"But Mr. Triscott——" I argued.
"Ah, yes," he said, "Mr. Triscott—exactly. The whole thing could only be done in partnership, I admit. But does not everything point to a partnership in what, to my mind, is one of the ugliest crimes in our records? You ought to be able to follow the workings of Charles Ashley's mind, a mind as tortuous as the body that held it. Let me put the facts once more briefly before you. While Philip obstinately remained a bachelor, all was well. Charles stuck to the old miser, carefully watching over his interests lest they become jeopardised. But presently, Lady Peet-Jackson became a widow and Philip gaily announced his engagement. From that hour Charles, of course, must have seen the fortune on which he had already counted slipping away irretrievably from his grasp. Can you not see in your mind's eye that queer, misshapen creature setting his crooked brain to devise a way out of the difficulty? Can you not see the plan taking shape gradually, forming itself slowly into a resolve—a resolve to stop his brother's marriage at all costs? But how? Philip, passionately in love with Muriel Peet-Jackson, having won her after years of waiting, was not likely to give her up. No, but she might give him up. She had done it once for the sake of ambition, she might do it again if ... if ... well, Charles Ashley, obscure, poor, misshapen, was not likely to find a rival who would supplant his handsome brother in any woman's affections. Certainly not! But there remained the other possibility, the possibility that Philip, poor—or, better still, disgraced—might cease to be a prize in the matrimonial market. Disgraced! But how? By publicity? By crime? Yes, by crime! Now, can you see the plan taking shape?
"Can you see Charles cudgelling his wits as to what crime could most easily be fastened on a man of Philip's personality and social position? Probably a chance word dropped by his father put the finishing touch to his scheme, a chance word on the subject of a will. And there was the whole plan ready. The unsigned will, the assault on the dying man, and quarrels there always were plenty between the peppery old miser and his somewhat impatient son. As for Triscott, the dapper little local lawyer, I suppose it took some time for Charles Ashley's crooked schemes to appear as feasible and profitable to him. Of course, without him nothing could have been done, and the whole of my theory rests upon the fact that the two men were partners in the crime.
"Where they first met, and how they became friends, I don't profess to know. If I had had anything to do with the official investigation of that crime I should first of all have examined the servant in the Triscott household, and found out whether or no Mr. Charles Ashley had ever been a visitor there. In any case, I should have found out something about Triscott's friends and Triscott's haunts. I am sure that it would then have come to light that Charles Ashley and Mr. Triscott had constant intercourse together.
"I cannot bring myself to believe in that unsigned will. There was nothing whatever that led up to it, except the supposed quarrel on the Wednesday. But, if that old miser did want to alter his will, why should he have sent for a man whom he hardly knew and whom, mind you, he would have to pay for his services, rather than for his friend, Oldwall, who would have done the work for nothing? The man was a miser, remember. His meanness, we are told, amounted to a mania; a miser never pays for something he can get for nothing. There was also another little point that struck me during the inquest as significant. If Triscott was an entire stranger to Charles Ashley, why should he have taken such a personal interest in him and in the old man to the extent of sending his wife to spend two whole days and nights in charge of an invalid who was nothing to him? Why should Mrs. Triscott have undertaken such a thankless task in the house of a miser, where she would get no comforts and hardly anything to eat? Why, I say, should the Triscotts have done all that if they had not some vital self-interest at stake?
"And I contend that that self-interest demanded that one of them should be there, in the flat, on the watch, to see that no third person was present whilst Philip spent his time by his father's bedside—a witness, such as Lady Peet-Jackson, perhaps, or some friend—whose testimony might demolish the whole edifice of lies, which had been so carefully built up. And, did you notice another point? The charwoman, by a new arrangement, was never at the flat on a Monday morning, and that arrangement had only obtained for the past two months. Now why? Charwomen stay away, I believe, on Sundays always, but, I ask you, have you ever heard of a charwoman having a holiday on a Monday?"
I was bound to admit that it was unusual, whereupon the old scarecrow went on, with excitement that grew as rapidly as did the feverish energy of his fingers manipulating his bit of string.
"And now propel your mind back to that same Monday morning, when, the coast being clear, Charles Ashley, back at the flat and alone with the old man, was able at last to put the finishing touch to his work of infamy. One pressure of the fingers, one blow with the walking-stick, and the curtain was rung down finally on the hideous drama which he had so skilfully invented. Think of it all carefully and intelligently," the Old Man in the Corner concluded, as he stuffed his beloved bit of string into the capacious pocket of his checked ulster, "and you will admit that there is not a single flaw in my argument——"
"The walking-stick," I broke in, quickly.
"Exactly," he retorted, "the walking-stick. Charles was quick enough to grasp the significance of that, and on Saturday, while his brother's back was turned, he carefully hid the walking-stick, knowing that it would be a useful piece of evidence presently. Do you, for a moment, suppose," he added, dryly, "that any man would have been such a fool as to throw his walking-stick and the crumpled notes of the will underneath his victim's bed? They could not have been left there, remember, they could not have rolled under the bed, as the walking-stick had a crook-handle; they must deliberately have been thrown there.