by Marvin Kaye
“Does that gun belong to Lord Morris, Inspector?”
“Yes, according to the butler, Mr. Holmes. It appears to be unfired.”
Holmes leaned over and glanced into the gun’s barrel. Then, with a nod from Nicholson, he picked it up and began to examine it.
“It is a .41 rimfire, single-shot, Colt derringer. How closely did you examine it, Nicholson?”
“Again, Mr. Holmes, I refrained from picking it up, knowing that you would want to see the room exactly as it was.”
“That and the wind would account for the error, for it has, in fact, been fired recently. It is obviously a second round which is undischarged,” he said, handing the gun to Nicholson.
“Yes, you’re right. I can smell the powder.”
“What do you make of the wound, Watson?”
I looked down upon a middle-aged profile that had once been quite dashing but was now pale and expressionless, and replied, “It is obvious from the burns around its rim that it had to have been inflicted at very close range. In all honesty, Holmes, I would probably have taken this for a suicide, if it weren’t for the gun’s being loaded. Lord Morris’ death would have been instantaneous. The wound seems consistent with this pistol, but until the bullet is retrieved from the skull, it is impossible to say for sure that it is the murder weapon. I assume there is no need to infer the time of death?”
“No,” said Nicholson. “Perkins, the butler, heard the shot at approximately 12:45 a.m. and entered the room moments after.”
“He saw no intruder?”
“No, Mr. Holmes.”
“What about all of these papers lying about? Is there anything of any significance?” asked Holmes, as he stooped to look at them.
“Quite possibly there is something significant which is missing, but those I have seen are nothing but household bills.”
“Yes. Here is one for coal, for gas, the green grocer’s.”
“Holmes! There’s an appointment book under this armchair,” I cried. “It appears the pages corresponding to the past four days have been torn out.”
“Excellent, Watson! Why don’t you and Nicholson examine the rest of it, while I have a look around.”
“Good luck, Holmes. The ground is as hard as a rock out there,” replied Nicholson.
Actually, I had almost been able to forget the cold while we were busy in our investigations, but now, I was grateful when Holmes, crawling around on all fours behind the desk, finally made his way onto the patio and closed the French doors behind him. While Nicholson and I paged through Lord Morris’s appointment book, I would glance up occasionally to see how Holmes progressed in his search, crawling upon the frozen ground outside, in ever-widening semi-circles. When he returned, I could have sworn he had found some clue.
“What did you find, Holmes?” I asked.
“Nothing whatever,” he replied with an odd note of triumph in his voice. “How does your research progress?”
“I told you that you wouldn’t find anything out there,” said Nicholson. “There’s very little of interest in here — mostly Parliamentary meetings and lunch dates with his Bagatelle Club companions. It’s all rather pedestrian.”
“With whom was the last appointment?”
“His wife,” I answered, “for their anniversary dinner.”
“I see. May I have a look at it, please?”
Holmes flipped through the book for some time without expressing an interest in any of the entries and then handed it back to the inspector.
“Thank you. I think I am finished with this room for now. Would it be possible for me to interview the rest of the household, Inspector?”
“Certainly. I have already done some preliminary questioning, and it seems that, since only Lady Morris and the butler were in the central part of the house, only they heard a shot. The other servants were asleep in the wings and have been able to add nothing to the account.”
“Then it is to Lady Morris and the butler I would speak. Before we go, however, have you been able to determine who benefits directly from the lord’s death?”
“Lady Morris has already been kind enough to show me Lord Morris’s will, Holmes. She and their only daughter are the two principal heirs, but I would add that, as things stand, these two ladies are already quite well off.”
“Excellent work, Nicholson,” commented Holmes, as the inspector led us to the sitting room where Lady Morris was waiting. She was an elegant and stately woman, only just beginning to approach middle-age, and dressed in a rather simple black dress. Though she had obviously been crying, she had regained her composure enough to speak and, at Nicholson’s request, dispatched her maid in order to fetch Perkins, the butler. After the introductions, Holmes took a seat in the chair opposite the one in which she sat and assumed his most comforting tone.
“Madam, you do us a great kindness in agreeing to speak with us, and I promise I shall be as brief as possible.”
“Mr. Holmes, I shall answer as many questions as you like, if they should aid you in catching my husband’s killer.”
“Thank you. Lady Morris, could you please recount the events of last night, omitting nothing, no matter how seemingly insignificant.”
“Yes. I had retired early, before my husband returned from his club, in fact, and awoke to a loud noise. I heard a door open and close in the hall below and began to hurriedly dress myself. Upon lighting the lamp beside the bed, I noticed that the time was approximately 12:45. Within a few minutes, I descended the stairs and saw Perkins stepping out of the room. I could tell from the expression on his face that something was horribly wrong. Perkins’s family has been attached to my husband for three generations, and I know him almost as well as I know anyone. He tried to stop me from entering, but I forced my way over the threshold. I saw my lifeless husband slumped over his desk and immediately fainted. After summoning the maid to take care of me, Perkins called the police from the telephone in the hall.”
“Lady Morris, are you positive that you heard only one shot?” asked Holmes.
“A loud noise woke me up, and I heard Perkins enter the study. If there were any sounds before those, I slept through them.”
“How long an interval had passed between your waking and your descending the stairs?”
“I did not look at the clock again, but it could have been no more than two minutes.”
“Did you notice anything about the state of the room when you entered it?”
“I noticed several papers lying upon the floor and that the French doors behind my husband’s desk were wide open.”
“The derringer in the study — did it belong to your husband?”
“Yes. My husband was never fond of hunting. It was the only gun in the house.”
“Which club did your husband attend that evening?”
“The only club he ever attended: the Bagatelle Club, in Regent Street. He loved both cards and billiards.”
“You have a daughter?”
“Yes, she is married to an American railroad owner and lives in San Francisco. She is pregnant with our first grandchild.”
“With your permission, Lady Morris, I would like to ask you some more general questions. Can you think of anyone who would want to kill your husband?”
“My husband’s affairs were largely his own, but no, I can think of no one. There was, however, someone unknown to me.”
“Pray, continue,” Holmes said, as he leaned forward, steepling the tips of his fingers.
“Three days ago, on Wednesday evening, I was passing my husband’s study on my way to the stairs, and I heard him speaking with another man. I could not make out what was being said, but my husband was definitely talking to someone whose voice I had never heard before. I thought this odd, as no visitor had called upon us, so I entered the dining room beside the study and kept watch at the window, waiting for the stranger to appear. I assumed he had entered the study through the French doors, since he hadn’t rung at the front door. I was confirmed in this a few min
utes later when a tall man, wearing a black overcoat and a broad-brimmed hat, emerged onto the patio. I had never seen him before, but he was about your height, with a full beard and a slight limp. I am sorry that I cannot tell you more, but it was too dark.
“After that meeting, my husband was a changed man. He did not come to bed that night or any succeeding night, for that matter. I couldn’t get more than a few words out of him at a time, and once, when I looked in upon him in his study, he looked as though he had been weeping. The only excuse he would give was that he was concerned over a friend of his at the club, Sampson, I believe, who was gravely ill. This was all he offered, and most of the time, I could barely make eye-contact with him.”
“I am sorry,” said Holmes. “I have only one more question. Do you remember at what time you came across your husband’s meeting with this stranger?”
“Yes, it was almost 9:30 when he left.”
“Thank you, Lady Morris. I shall let you know as soon as I have any information.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson,” said Lady Morris, as she and her maid left the room. “Please let me know if I can provide you with anything further.”
As soon as she departed, the butler entered the sitting-room. He was slim and in his fifties, with long and greying sideburns.
“Hello, Perkins. I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr. Watson. I have just a few questions for you.”
“I shall try my best to answer them, sir,” replied the butler.
“What were you doing when you heard the shot?”
“I was at the other end of the hall, making sure all of the candles and lamps had been extinguished when I heard it.”
“You heard only one shot?”
“Yes, sir, and I hurried to the study as quickly as I could. I was sure the sound had come from there.”
“At what time had Lord Morris come home that evening?”
“Around midnight, sir. He went directly to his study without saying a word.”
“At what time did you hear the shot?”
“When I passed the grandfather clock in the hall, it was 12:45.”
“When you entered the study, you found it just as it is now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You saw no intruder?”
“None, sir, but I was slow to act, on account of the shock. It took me a moment to walk over to the French doors.”
“Perkins, why did you close the door behind you when you entered Lord Morris’s study?”
“I didn’t, Mr. Holmes. The wind blew it shut.”
“Thank you, Perkins. That will be all for now.”
Perkins opened the door for us, and our trio re-entered the hall. Holmes turned once more to Perkins and asked, “Would it be possible for you to call Dr. Watson and I a cab, please?”
However, Lady Morris immediately appeared at the banister and called down, “Nonsense, our driver shall convey you to your lodgings. Perkins, please get Boggis.”
After thanking Lady Morris, Holmes, Inspector Nicholson, and I discussed the case outside, while waiting for the coach.
“What do you make of it, Holmes? Was Lord Morris shot with his own gun?”
“So it would appear, Watson. You will telegraph, Inspector, when you know for certain?”
“Of course.”
“Holmes, why would the killer load a second round into the gun?” I asked.
“It is much too soon to speculate. Perhaps the killer didn’t,” said Holmes, with the faintest trace of a grin forming upon his face.
“Nonsense, who else would have done it?” shot back Nicholson. “It could be that the murderer was trying to make it appear as though a different gun had been used, in order to deflect suspicion from someone within the household. After all, only someone familiar with the house could have found the gun.”
“There is a germ of a sound theory in that statement, Inspector. The gun and the room’s appearance are definitely meant to deflect suspicion.”
“I take it you are referring to the room’s being rifled?” I asked.
“Yes, Watson. It is suggestive.”
“How so, Holmes?” asked Nicholson.
“An intruder could have had but a minute in which to work, before Perkins entered.”
“That affirms my theory that it was an inside job — the killer knew where to find the papers he wanted,” Nicholson interjected.
“In any event,” I ventured, “I think suspicion rests squarely upon this man in the broad-brimmed hat. Find him, and you’ll find your killer.”
“Yes, Watson. Once we have this stranger’s identity, we shall have solved this case.”
“Well Holmes, if you have no objections, after I consult with the coroner, I am going to start questioning some of the people in this address book.”
“Very good, Nicholson. Watson and I will visit the Bagatelle Club. I shall contact you, if anything develops.”
By this time, Boggis had arrived with the coach. Before Holmes gave him directions, he asked my friend if he was Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Once Holmes had affirmed this, Boggis began to draw closer and speak confidentially.
“Mr. Holmes, sir, there is something that has been troubling me about the master, but I’m not sure if it’s something I should mention to the mistress.”
“Go on, Boggis.”
“You see, sir, I’m the one what always drives his lordship to the club, and sometimes, his lordship asks me to pick up some of his friends, as well. Lately, not Lord Morris, but a couple of these friends have been mentioning something peculiar — a ‘Bagatelle Shakespeare Society’. But they always sound real smarmy when they say it, like lechers in a dancehall. Now I’m no better than any other bloke, but it seems to me that these two friends had some kind of corrupting influence on his lordship. Does any of this help you, Mr. Holmes?”
“Yes, Boggis. Tell me, had you ever driven Lord Morris and these friends to any destination other than the Bagatelle Club?”
“No, sir. Just heard ’em talk is all.”
“Thank you, Boggis.”
Holmes said hardly a word on our drive back to Baker Street. I knew better than to interrupt my friend during such spells of silence, for he would undoubtedly reveal all at the appropriate time. Our trip was, therefore, rather monotonous, except for a quick stop at the post office, so Holmes could send a telegram. When we finally arrived at 221 B, Holmes tipped Boggis most generously, and we ascended to our rooms, Holmes to await a response to his telegram and I to await the lunch which Mrs. Hudson was preparing. After I had eaten, Holmes having elected to instead consume a heroic amount of shag for lunch, I sat down in my armchair and rested my legs upon an ottoman heaped with cushions, for the cold had been bothering my old wound terribly. It was just after I had finally gotten comfortable when two telegrams arrived for Holmes.
“Ah, the first one is from Inspector Nicholson, confirming that Lord Morris’s derringer did, indeed, fire the fatal shot. The second is from the Earl of Maynooth.”
“The father of Ronald Adair? Is he back in England?”
“He has been back for some time, Watson, and has agreed to meet with us, at the Bagatelle Club. Perhaps he will be able to shed some light upon the affairs of Lord Morris.”
Once again, we hailed a four-wheeler and were soon on our way to Regent Street. It was still quite gloomy and cold, but at least the wind had finally died, making our trip somewhat more comfortable. As we approached our destination, I felt a wave of nostalgia as I gazed upon the white façade of the Criterion Bar, for it was there that I first heard mention of Holmes, an event which changed dramatically the trajectory of my life. There was little time for reminiscing, though, for we had soon reached our destination. Upon entering the club, a small, elderly man in the most neatly pressed suit I had ever seen began leading us past table upon table of cigar chewing nobility, all enjoying their games and their brandy.
“Once again, we are moving in high life, Watson,” quipped Holmes with a sly smile.
We
then arrived at a comfortable, oak-paneled alcove where sat an ample-framed, florid-faced gentleman whom I took to be the Earl of Maynooth.
“Hello, Mr. Holmes. And Dr. Watson, it is so good to finally meet you. Too bad about Lord Morris; terrible business that. I shall do what I can to help, but I must admit that I did not know the man terribly well. Please, take a seat,” he said, indicating two sumptuous leather armchairs. After Holmes and I had accepted and lit the cigars our host offered to us, Holmes addressed the earl.
“I realise, sir, that you were not close to Lord Morris, but was it his custom to stay here until late in the evening?”
“Why Mr. Holmes, I, myself, no longer keep very late hours, so I could not positively answer your question.”
“Lady Morris said her husband spent a great deal of his time here, but another source of mine intimated that he may have been here less frequently than she thought. Would you, by any chance, know anything about that?”
“Lord knows I have enough trouble keeping track of my own affairs and could not possibly be expected to keep tabs on a veritable stranger. I do know, however, that the lord and a few of his friends were rather fond of the ladies, Mr. Holmes.”
“Yes, that is the very thing about which I need to know more.”
“I am afraid I do not know much more than that. Besides, it is not fitting for a man of my position to engage in such cheap gossip.”
“I understand, sir, but I am afraid that, to find out what happened to the late lord, I must press the issue. What was the Bagatelle Shakespeare Society?”
“Not so loud, man. And do not think for a moment that I would ever forget the service you and Dr. Watson performed for my family in risking both of your own lives to apprehend my son’s murderer. I would not miss any opportunity to help you, but I must be discreet. Lord Morris and two of his friends, whose names I will provide to you should it become absolutely necessary, liked to prowl the theatres of the West End in search of conquests. The practice started when the lord met an actress at the Burbage Theatre by the name of Cecilia Benson. He was quite fond of her and went to see her regularly. She then introduced some of her friends to Lord Morris’s companions. Since all of the men are married, they would usually come here first and then depart for the Burbage later in the evening.”