Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #2

by Gary Lovisi

  Introductions were as awkward as one might expect under the circumstances, and Elspeth’s eyes flashed at the mention of my name.

  “Hilary Caine, of course,” she said, through the sobs. “We were all talking about you . . . before Uncle . . . before he . . .”

  There’s nothing worse than being forced to take frequent breaks during an interrogation in order to allow the tears to flow freely, as I had the feeling they were about to, so I jumped in with the first thing I could think to say, no matter how banal.

  “You’re American, I think.” The Great Detective at work.

  “From Boston,” she confirmed with a sniff. “My mother was Uncle’s sister.”

  I took the past tense as an indication. “Your mother’s dead?”

  She nodded. “Father, too. Uncle Alistair was my last living—I mean . . .”

  I felt another sob coming on, and I didn’t really think that I could avert it with another statement of the painfully obvious. Troughton had, as per usual, positioned himself by the door with the apparent intention of keeping out of things, so I hoped to cause a distraction by bringing him into the conversation.

  “Was the vicar married, Inspector?” I asked. I was reasonably certain that vicars were permitted to marry, but unsure whether it was mandatory.

  “No, Miss Caine.”

  “Very wise. Didn’t Sherlock Holmes say ‘women are never to be entirely trusted, not even the best of them’? He was right, you know.”

  “And do you include yourself in that?” he asked.

  “Oh, absolutely! That’s why I make a point of going through my pockets late at night. I met him once, you know, Sherlock Holmes. Small feet.”

  Elspeth, evidently of the opinion that her finer feelings were not being addressed, began to weep once more. After attempting to offer some few words of condolence, with, unsurprisingly, little success, I decided to press on in any event.

  “So, Miss Seagrave, the Reverend Parbold: he was your only liv—er, remaining relative.”

  She nodded.

  “And you were his.”

  “Well . . . naturally.”

  “So . . . you’d be his sole heir, then.”

  Elspeth gave a last sniff. “I guess so. I’ve never thought about it.”

  “Was he a wealthy man?”

  “I’ve really no idea.”

  Again, I looked to our silent friend the Inspector for clarification.

  “The Parbolds were the local squires a generation ago,” he answered. “I can’t see that the Reverend would have spent all their wealth. He was a man of simple tastes. Didn’t even employ a housekeeper.”

  No housekeeper . . . “So who prepared lunch today?”

  “Oh, he did,” Elspeth answered, now seeming somewhat brighter. “I offered, but he said this was my last day in the country, I should be waited upon.” She paused. “I suppose I’ll have to stay a little longer now.”

  “For the funeral, you mean?” I asked, and instantly wished I hadn’t. Once more, the floodgates opened and there was nothing for me to do but wait and supply the occasional “there, there.” Eventually, she calmed down enough for me to be able to ask about the other guests at the luncheon.

  “Just a couple of friends I made during my stay here. Claude Mountjoy. Oh, and Jago, of course.”

  “Mr Meridian: church organist.” This contribution courtesy of Inspector Troughton, anticipating my next question. So the thin young gentleman I had seen escorted off the premises a short time ago was “Jago” to Miss Seagrave.

  “And what did lunch consist of?”

  Elspeth gave a gentle shrug. It was very becoming, unlike my own shrugs—don’t get me started. “Just tea and sandwiches,” she answered.

  “Paste sandwiches, weren’t they?” I asked. “Meat or fish, do you recall? I had a quick sniff but I couldn’t tell by smell alone.”

  “I’m afraid it all tastes the same to me.”

  That seemed fair enough. They all smelled the same to me, too, so there was no good reason why they all shouldn’t taste the same. “And did everyone have sandwiches?”

  “Sure, I think. Oh wait, I don’t think Jago had anything to eat. But there can’t have been anything in them—I mean, I had a bite.” She looked pleadingly at the Inspector, as though that would have done any good. “And Claude was the first one to eat. He practically ate one whole—jammed the thing into his mouth and spat crumbs everywhere when he spoke.”

  He sounded like someone you’d love to introduce to mother. “Hungry, was he?”

  “I think he just did it to annoy Uncle.”

  If Inspector Troughton found this suggestion of enmity between Mountjoy and Parbold interesting, he gave no sign of it. “They didn’t get on?” I enquired.

  Elspeth bestowed a wan smile upon us. “I guess not. I didn’t realise ’til today. I thought Uncle was friends with everyone. But during lunch something happened—I don’t know for certain what caused it, whether it was Claude spitting food, or when he said that they should have poured some communion wine to toast me properly, but when he thought I couldn’t hear him, Uncle leaned in close to Claude and whispered: ‘I’ll thank you to mind your manners, Mountjoy. May I remind you that you are here on sufferance.’

  “Claude smiled, and replied: ‘An act of martyrdom that will doubtless stand you in good stead when you stand, at last, on the threshold of the afterlife.’

  “ ‘Is that a threat?’ asked Uncle.

  “ ‘Heaven forbid,’ Claude replied.”

  “And then?” I asked.

  “Nothing. We all began to talk about the recent goings on in Overdale, and then—” She halted.

  “And you’re certain that’s what was said, Miss Seagrave? “Even though it was a whispered conversation?” Troughton seemed to have come to life once more.

  Elspeth nodded vigorously. “I have very acute hearing, Inspector. The doctors back home say I’m a real marvel.”

  I hoped this young lady’s memory would prove as reliable as her hearing.

  “Do you recall whether everyone drank their tea, Elspeth?” I asked.

  She bit her lip. A bad sign. “I think so.”

  “Think so or know so?”

  A nod this time. “I’m sure of it, yes. We all drank. I’ve always liked tea. Must be the English side of me.”

  “And did everyone take milk and sugar?”

  “Oh, I don’t have sugar. And Uncle prefers—preferred a slice of lemon in his tea. But Jago had milk and maybe one sugar. And I poured Claude’s milk for him.”

  “No sugar for Claude?”

  “Oh, he loaded the cup with it. You should have seen Uncle’s expression.”

  Claude Mountjoy and the Reverend again . . . At least I knew what my next act should be, and whom I would have to interview. As for the above-mentioned preferences in tea-taking, I didn’t have a hope in the hereafter of remembering it all, so I acquired a page from the notebook of Inspector Troughton—who hadn’t used it at all thus far in the proceedings—and wrote the following:

  Claude Mountjoy—milk and sugar

  Jago Meridian—milk and sugar

  Elspeth Seagrave—milk, no sugar

  Rev Parbold (Dec’d)—no milk/sugar, slice of lemon

  “Is it that important?” Elspeth asked.

  “I have absolutely no idea,” I confessed. I looked at what I had just written, and observed that I had underlined “slice of lemon” with some vigour. Clearly, I considered it important, and who am I to argue with myself? Looking up, I asked: “Did your uncle slice the lemon or did someone else do it for him?”

  She seemed perplexed, bless her heart. “I guess so. I mean, I didn’t see him do it.” You’ll notice that she knew better than to ask me whether it might be
important this time, although for the first time since the case had begun (not so terribly long ago, I admit), I felt that I was on the right track. Rising, I asked Troughton if I might have a private word in the kitchen.

  I thought I might get away with a polite nod in Elspeth’s direction, but it was not to be. She took my hand—a gesture I’ve always been less than comfortable with—and said sincerely: “I—I just want to say I’m sorry I didn’t get to know you before all this unpleasantness. I’m sure we’d have been great friends.”

  Well, what can one say to that? I said that I was equally sure that would have been the case, freed myself from her grip and scurried into the kitchen, where I discovered the Inspector waiting for me.

  * * * *

  “Well, Miss Caine?” was all he seemed inclined to say.

  “She is both pretty and charming,” I observed. “I therefore hate her.”

  Troughton raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s a woman’s prerogative to hate any woman prettier and more charming than she is.”

  “I see,” he said, although I doubt that he did. “But do you think she poisoned her uncle?” he went on.

  “I’ve heard nothing to suggest that so far. But wouldn’t it be wonderful if she had?”

  For some reason, he didn’t seem to share my glee at that prospect. Men are such illogical creatures, don’t you find?

  “Any other thoughts?” he asked.

  I indicated the lemon from which Parbold had extracted the slice currently floating on the dregs of his tea. “I’d get that looked at,” I suggested.

  Despite his somewhat irksome unwillingness to participate in the interviewing of Elspeth Seagrave, Troughton’s faculties were in no way dimmed. He understood what I was talking about instantly.

  “I’d also like to have a chat with Claude Mountjoy, the man with the appalling table manners,” I added. “I’d very much like to hear the story behind his little spat with the Reverend.”

  Troughton shook his head. “I think we can eliminate him as a suspect, Miss Caine.”

  I hate it when I feel that someone is suddenly leagues ahead of me, and I felt it right then.

  “I wish I shared your certainty, Inspector. Just why can’t he be our poisoner?”

  “Because Claude Mountjoy is blind, Miss Caine,” he replied.

  Of course, you don’t imagine for a minute that I would let a little bombshell like that prevent me from questioning Mountjoy. My old friend Mr Carrados didn’t let his blindness prevent him from investigating a good many murders. Pursuing that notion to its logical conclusion, there was no reason why Claude Mountjoy should allow the same condition to prevent him from committing one. But there was only one way to know for certain, of course, and that was to have a chat with the man himself. Unsurprisingly, I couldn’t persuade Inspector Troughton to accompany me. He’d somehow got hold of a copy of the latest Tittle Tattle and had decided instead to catch up on his reading, assuring me that I would do a perfectly competent job without him. Of that fact I had no doubt, arrogant young so-and-so that I was; but I was nevertheless disappointed with his lack of enthusiasm for my chosen line of inquiry.

  * * * *

  When I visited Claude Mountjoy’s home, Abaddon Cottage, I discovered him pottering about in his garden, clipping protuberances from his rose bushes and dropping them into a bucket. He was not a tall man, but wide. And his grizzly ginger beard gave the impression that his face widened at the bottom.

  He assured me that he was perfectly delighted to see me (yes, he said ‘see’), but I must say, I had no sense of this alleged enthusiasm in his tone of voice, or in the fact that he resumed tending to his roses rather than invite me into his cottage for a cup of tea. Not that I would have accepted, given recent events, but it was an odd omission. Mr Mountjoy was no gentleman.

  “Are my roses beautiful, Miss Caine?” he asked in an almost effeminate tone. Peter Lorre hadn’t made it to Hollywood at this stage, but if I had to compare Claude Mountjoy to anybody, it would be him. Or do I mean ‘he’?

  “You’re asking the wrong girl, Mr Mountjoy,” I replied. “I’m afraid I’ve never understood the appeal of flowers.”

  He sighed, rising to his feet. “Such a disheartening attitude in one so young.”

  “Who says I’m young?”

  “Your voice. You are . . . twenty-three?”

  I was actually twenty-four, so I felt he deserved my congratulations.

  “When one is without sight, one learns to appreciate beauty in other ways: smell, texture.”

  I couldn’t resist the opportunity to create a little disharmony at this point, but then I rarely can. “ ‘God’s great work,’ the Reverend would have said.”

  Mountjoy was not so easily baited. “One does not need to imagine a controlling force behind everything in order to appreciate it. Are you by any chance a religious person?”

  “I’m a lapsed cynic.”

  “You have my sympathies. Supporters of organised religion have brought nothing but pain and misery upon the population. They should all be shot.”

  I sensed that the conversation would begin to circle the plughole were I to question the logic of his argument, so I moved on.

  “Elspeth—Miss Seagrave—was telling me about some strong words that passed between yourself and the Vicar. Something about him standing on the threshold of the afterlife.”

  Mountjoy shook his head wearily. “Dear, dear Elspeth. Such a sweet girl, but like all her sex, so painfully indiscreet. For a man who made the worship of God his profession rather than his hobby, Alistair Parbold was very easily goaded on the subject.”

  “And your goading upset him so?”

  “I am a very, very good goader, if there is such a thing. I’m sure you’d like to know what transpired before my chiding. The conversation went along the following lines: Parbold, masking his discomfort with a thin veneer of affability, attempted to make this somewhat awkward gathering less so by starting up a conversation. I proposed ‘old times’ as a likely topic—a suggestion that did not meet with much enthusiasm. Miss Seagrave berated her uncle for overlooking the only topic to have held the interests of the tiny minds that make up Overdale.”

  I remembered that when I’d first been introduced to Elspeth and before she’d broken into the first of many floods of tears, she’d said something like, “We were all talking about you.”

  “You talked about the recent murder case and the arrest of Major Stuart-Davies?” I suggested.

  “Naturally. Miss Seagrave said that, although she’d barely known the Major, she was surprised when he was arrested. In suitably ridiculous fashion, the Reverend agreed with her, adding: ‘I’m sorry to say he pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes, mine included.’ I pointed out that to do so must surely be the prerogative of the lost sheep. Despite my exceedingly witty and ingenious interjection, the old man was less than amused and his temper only became worse. Really, it was worth it just to see the look on his face.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked, thinking for a moment that I might have misheard.

  “Just an expression, Miss Caine. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

  I wondered whether I did know what he meant.

  “So, no love lost between the two of you?” I observed, as though that point hadn’t already been made abundantly clear.

  Mountjoy smiled a Father Christmas smile. “I suppose it would be fair to say that I had hate in my heart for Mr Parbold,” he said.

  “Hate enough to kill?”

  He appeared to mull this notion over. “I can’t say I’ve ever really considered it, but . . . yes, why not?”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “No, no particular reason,” he said, lightly.

  And it seemed to me that he really meant it. He hated Alistair
Parbold simply because he could.

  “Most people wouldn’t go to such extremes,” I noted.

  “Then I take great comfort in the fact that I am not most people. Please, take a turn with me around the garden. Perhaps you might come to revise your opinions.”

  I wondered whether the same might be true of my companion, but I doubted it very much. Nevertheless, stroll we did, and our conversation continued, interrupted only by the odd bit of Latin, Claude Mountjoy’s attempt at improving my botanical knowledge.

  * * * *

  As we walked, I asked whether his attitude regarding Parbold might not be looked upon as a trifle excessive. Mountjoy grew more animated as the conversation took a darker turn.

  “Only if you believe that a system exists for measuring so-called good and evil. And before you warn me about saying as much to your friend Inspector Troughton, I should advise you that I have informed him of my opinions on more than one occasion. Law is nothing more than the crystallized prejudices of the community, Miss Caine. Everybody dies. Sooner or later, one way or another. To punish those who take life strikes me as the worst form of hypocrisy in an already hypocritical society.”

  “Myself, I’d like to believe there are less finite methods of solving a dispute. But then, I’m only a woman and can’t be expected to think about such things logically.”

  He harrumphed at this; or rather, he gave a sound that is usually described as a harrumph, but doesn’t really sound that way. “I can tell from your tone of voice that you don’t really think that.”

  “And what do I really think, Mr Mountjoy?”

  He started, as though he’d been on the receiving end of a sudden shock. “You surely can’t believe that a helpless old blind man could have poisoned the Reverend Parbold?”

  “You don’t strike me as being all that helpless, or even all that old. Fifty-eight?”

  He stated that he was fifty-nine, but that I was worthy of some congratulation nevertheless.