by John Hall
Sherlock Holmes and the Telephone Murder Mystery
John Hall
© John Hall, 1998
John Hall has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1998 by Breese Books Ltd.
This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
This book is dedicated to all those who have ever visited Mount Pleasant, Reigate, a delightful place which (it is perhaps unnecessary to add) bears only a coincidental and passing resemblance to the country house described here!
Chapter One
A very curious characteristic of my good friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, was that even on those rare occasions where he erred in his interpretation of one – or more – of the aspects of a case, none the less he usually managed in some singular manner to arrive at a solution of the mystery, while everyone else remained baffled. One instance was that which I shall now describe, a case which I myself was the means of bringing to Holmes’s attention.
It was, I recall, a seasonably hot day early in July, 1899. I had slept badly, owing to the oppressive heat, which in London seems confined and intensified, trapped in some manner by the buildings. In the end I gave up the attempt even to rest, and came down to my breakfast early. I had thus finished and had begun to read the newspaper in earnest when Sherlock Holmes entered the room. He nodded to me and seemed about to speak, but then his gaze wandered to the corner of the room. He raised an eyebrow, and sighed.
‘It is the future, Holmes!’ I said, following his example and staring at the telephone which we had recently had installed, after much persuasion on my part and some reluctance on Holmes’s.
‘Perhaps it is,’ he said, ‘but I see many disadvantages to it.’
‘It is well tried,’ I told him. ‘It is now fully twenty years since the first London exchange opened –’
‘Remind me to send a congratulatory telegram to the Postmaster General,’ said Holmes, rather churlishly.
‘To begin with, there were only eight subscribers –’
‘I have some trifling recollection that you have already favoured me with lengthy extracts from the prospectus, Doctor,’ said Holmes.
‘But think, Holmes! Consider the ease with which one may communicate with one’s fellows! Why, it is exactly like having your very own little telegraph office in the house!’ I said.
‘With its own little bell, constantly interrupting one’s meals –’
At that juncture, the telephone bell rang.
‘Constantly interrupting one’s meals,’ repeated Holmes firmly, picking up the receiver with every expression of distaste. There followed one of those curious one-sided and monosyllabic conversations which have become so very familiar to all of us in recent years. After a moment, Holmes held the instrument out to me. ‘So far as I can judge, Doctor, the caller wishes to speak to you,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Holmes.’ I took the telephone cautiously, for – although we had had the instrument in the house for a couple of days now – this was the first person to contact me in this fashion. ‘Hello? This is Dr Watson speaking.’
The receiver emitted a strange crackle, over which I could hear occasional stray fragments of speech. ‘– Watson? – Morrison here, at Belmont. You had arranged – stay with us – some – ago. I thought – telephone – confirm your arrival later today.’
‘Yes, yes, indeed,’ I said. ‘I am packed and ready for the off! All being well, I shall arrive there in the middle of the afternoon. I look forward to my stay.’
‘– look forward to – you. My compliments, sir.’
‘And mine to you, sir! There you are, Holmes,’ I said, replacing the receiver, ‘that was Mr Morrison, the secretary at Belmont. Wanted to confirm my stay there, beginning this afternoon.’
‘But I thought you had already confirmed it by letter?’ said Holmes, with a smile.
‘Well, I had. Even so, there may have been some unexpected difficulty, some reason why I could not go. The telephone avoids having to worry about sending telegrams, or disappointing people at the last minute.’
‘Then perhaps I shall grow to like it,’ said Holmes calmly. ‘In any event, I sincerely trust you will enjoy your holiday.’
‘Thank you. Lord knows, I am ready enough for a change,’ I said frankly, ‘I grow tired of London in this weather, and yearn for some country air.’
‘You should get plenty of that,’ said Holmes. ‘Is this place not set ‘twixt the North Downs and the Weald? You will forgive the poetic description, which, if I mistake not, was in that particular prospectus. From which I also heard numerous extracts.’
‘It was a trifle overblown,’ I agreed. ‘But, yes, it is on the borders of Surrey and Sussex, and – according to the friend who recommended it to me, or, rather, me to it – it is a delightful spot.’
‘The area is indeed delightful,’ said Holmes. ‘And with some most interesting associations for both of us, for you will recall that intriguing – though rather elementary – affair of the Cunningham’s, which took place not far from there?’
‘I do recall it, Holmes. In fact, I recorded it under the title of “The Reigate Puzzle”.’
‘I looked into it,’ he said. ‘And I must confess that I have seldom encountered such an emphasis on sensationalism at the expense of fact. By the by,’ he added, before I could fairly counter this charge, ‘does Colonel Hayter still live in those parts?’
‘He does.’ Colonel Hayter was an old friend whom I had first known in Afghanistan, and with whom Holmes and I had been staying at the time of the Cunningham case. ‘Colonel Hayter had suggested I stay with him, in point of fact. But I fear he is not the man he once was, and any excitement – even an unobtrusive guest such as myself – is quite forbidden. He lives quietly these days, his only companions a nurse, for he is very weak, and a secretary of some sort, a Carstairs, or Carruthers, or some such name. The colonel is working on what he has described to me as his ‘literary testament’, in the shape of a definitive history of the events at Maiwand. The secretary – a young fellow, fresh from university, as I understand – is helping him to compile it, and I have offered to pay a short visit tomorrow, to look over what has been accomplished thus far, and perhaps offer some advice on the literary and military aspects.’
‘I see. You will please give the colonel my compliments and good wishes. I owe him much, for he was the means of introducing me to a most diverting case,’ said Holmes, buttering a slice of toast. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘you had mentioned earlier that you were introduced to this place, and not it to you. What meant you by that?’
‘The place is not a hotel,’ I told him. ‘It is an old country house – Belmont by name – which is run under the terms of a charitable trust.’
‘Indeed?’
‘The trust was set up some twenty years ago by a philanthropist whose name – could I but recollect it myself – would be familiar to you. A household name, in very truth, for he made a vast fortune in boot-blacking or some such thing, invested it in railway stock, and so became one of the richest men in England. Now, he was by way of being a patron of the arts – indeed, he was himself a talented
amateur engraver in mezzotint –’
Holmes groaned.
I ignored him. ‘He had a large family – and, by what I am told privately, an equally large wife. He realised that many of his artistic acquaintances were in much the same state. He realised further that many of them would benefit from the occasional break from home, wife and children, but that most of them simply had insufficient funds to permit their taking a holiday abroad, or staying at a first-rate hotel. He accordingly bought this old manor house, and endowed it in his will with the wherewithal to run it exactly like one of those first-rate hotels, but at a nominal cost to guests.’
‘A philanthropist indeed.’
‘As you say, Holmes.’
‘And the recommendation?’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘one needs a recommendation from someone who has stayed there, nothing more than that. Provided that one has some connection with literature, or the arts. Oh, and the terms of the trust mean that only men can stay there, of course.’
‘So that there may be no distractions, presumably?’ said Holmes.
‘Presumably. You ought to come along, Holmes – I could ring the secretary now, see if they have a room free.’
‘You are very kind. But I fear my literary achievements are scarcely an adequate testimonial.’
‘You underrate yourself, Holmes. Why, your monographs have invariably been received as the last word on their subject – whatever it may have been.’
Holmes laughed. ‘I am tempted. But it is very short notice. And besides, I can hardly leave just at the moment, when this business of the black pearl of the Borgias is so very pressing.’
I nodded, for I knew that Holmes was engaged on trying to track down the thief who had stolen the fabulous jewel from the Prince of Colonna’s room at the Dacre Hotel. I may add that the case baffled even Holmes for a time, although he solved the puzzle a year later in a most interesting case which I have recorded under the title, ‘The Six Napoleons’.
‘Did I overhear you say your bag is packed?’ asked Holmes.
‘You did. I am all ready, and shall leave by the afternoon train – unless, of course, I can be of any assistance with your investigations, in which case I am entirely at your disposal.’
Holmes shook his head. ‘Thank you for the offer, but I fear that the problem may be insoluble, at least for the moment, and that your best efforts would not help me. I suspect that it will prove to be one of those annoying cases where the solution, if it comes at all, is delayed some considerable time, and is largely dependent on chance. No, Doctor, it only remains for me to wish you an enjoyable and restful holiday in the country. And that I must do now,’ he added, looking at his watch, ‘for I have an appointment at half past the hour. Princes are not to be kept waiting, even when one brings them no good news.’
Holmes left shortly afterwards, and I spent the morning putting the finishing touches to my packing, although in truth my wants were few and simple.
I took a cab at eleven, lunched at my club, and at two o’clock was sitting in a first-class carriage at Victoria. At Redhill I changed to a local train, and at half past three I got down at a quiet little halt, set amongst poppies and cow parsley. I had been given directions to the house, which was no more than half a mile from the railway halt, and a leisurely walk of ten minutes or so brought me to a leafy lane, with a few large houses strung out along it. Mostly these were newly built, the homes of city men indulging their taste for the country, but one of them was genuinely old, the exterior dating as I judged from the early part of the seventeenth century. A new and brightly polished brass plaque on the gatepost read ‘Belmont’, and I turned into a gravel drive that led through neat gardens. I nodded a greeting to an old fellow who was pottering about in the flower beds, and stopped before a heavy oak door, over which was carved the date 1607. Pleased that my deduction had been correct, I pulled vigorously at the bell.
There was a short delay, then the door swung open with a creak, to reveal a short man, some forty-odd years old, deeply sunburned, with a very straight back and wearing the broadest grin I have ever seen. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘My name is Watson,’ I said. ‘I believe I am expected?’
‘Dr Watson? You are indeed, sir. Come in, and I’ll bring your bag along.’
‘Thank you, Mr –’
‘Welsh, sir. Ernest Welsh – Ernie to my pals – gardener and handyman round about the old place. My wife would have met you, but it’s almost tea time.’
I went in, and found myself in a spacious entrance hall, panelled in dark oak. On the opposite side, facing the door, a couple of steps led up to a sort of raised dais which formed a corridor running left and right, with a balustrade along its length. On the corridor wall, again right opposite the front door, hung a very large and rather indifferent painting of a dour-looking gentleman dressed in the style of fifty years ago.
‘The founder of the place, that, sir,’ said Welsh, seeing me looking at the picture. ‘Now, as you are just in time for tea, why not go straight through to the library – that door, there, sir – and meet the other gentlemen? I’ll take your bag up to your room, and the wife will show you where it is when you have had a cup of tea.’
‘I’m obliged,’ I said, and made to give him a small token of my appreciation.
‘Bless you, sir, no need for that. When you leave, of course, if you’re of the same mind –’ and he gave a sort of half-salute.
The salute, coupled with his carriage, emboldened me to venture on another deduction. ‘Old soldier?’ I asked.
‘That I am, sir.’
‘Me too. Berkshires. Wounded at Maiwand, and left the service.’
‘Were you, sir? I was in the Sudan, myself, sir.’
‘What, this last business?’
‘No, sir, about the time you were fighting – time of General Gordon.’
‘Warm work.’
The grin grew broader. ‘It was that, sir. And I was similar to yourself, if I may make so bold, for I too took a bullet and was pensioned off. Still, keep smiling, that’s what I always say, sir. I fell into this billet almost at once, and have been here ever since.’
‘Better to be born lucky than rich, eh?’
‘It is, sir. Now, they say it’s a small world, and so it is, for haven’t the Berkshires just finished the job we – General Gordon and myself – started in the Sudan?’
‘They have indeed,’ I said.
‘Gave ’em what for, didn’t they, sir?’
‘So the newspaper reports say.’
‘Well, sir, it’s been grand talking to you, if you’ll pardon the liberty. But I must be about my work, or the secretary will be after me. Perhaps I’ll have the privilege of a word or two later, sir, if you happen to be about the garden and have a moment to spare?’
‘With pleasure,’ I said.
‘Then I hope you enjoy your stay, sir.’
‘If the guests are all as agreeable as you, Welsh, I shall enjoy myself very much,’ I told him, and the honest fellow flushed with pride.
I went up the shallow stair and a couple of paces brought me to the room which Welsh had indicated. It was empty, and I looked round with some curiosity. The room was evidently used as a library of sorts, for though not very large it was lined with books, many in a lamentable state of preservation. A low table held a tray with cups, saucers and light refreshments.
I hesitated, wondering whether to presume to sit down uninvited. A footstep outside heralded the entry of a woman, forty or so years of age and still very handsome, carrying a tray with two teapots upon it.
She put the tray down, and smiled at me. ‘Dr Watson, is it?’
‘It is.’
‘Mrs Welsh, sir. I’m the housekeeper here.’
‘Ah, yes, I believe I met your husband.’
‘Help yourself to tea, sir, and cake. Darjeeling in this pot, Earl Grey in the other.’
So saying, Mrs Welsh left. I fear that I still stood looking round the room, for, despite the warm and ci
vil reception from Mr and Mrs Welsh, I had not thus far encountered what I might call an official personage. Before too long, however, the door opened again, and a man of around my own age, with a cheerful look on his face, came in.
‘Hullo!’ he said. ‘Dr Watson, I presume?’ (In common with every medical man, I have been obliged to grow accustomed to this sort of greeting, since the famous encounter between Stanley and Livingstone.)
‘I am, sir.’
He held out his hand. ‘Gordon Morrison, sir. Secretary to the trust. I am glad that you arrived this week, for I am off on a short holiday on Friday, and would have been sorry to have missed you. I rather like to meet new guests, introduce myself, and the house, as it were. Do help yourself to tea.’
I poured a cup for Morrison, another for myself, and said, ‘You will forgive my making myself at home, but Mr and Mrs Welsh asked me in.’
‘I would not have forgiven you had you stood on ceremony,’ he said. ‘We try to make our guests feel as if they are in their own family home, but with none of the distractions that the family home too often contains. And – whilst we do not, of course, encourage any sort of familiarity among the servants – we do not have too many rules and regulations. You have brought a dress suit?’ he added anxiously.
‘As you asked, sir.’
‘We do keep up certain standards. Although,’ he added with a sigh, ‘some of the guests – still, I must not talk out of school.’
‘A friend of mine once remarked that art in the blood is liable to take strange forms,’ I told him.
‘It is indeed! And, after three or four years in this post, I can say that some of the forms it takes are strange in the extreme. I confess that I had not fully realised the meaning of the word “Bohemianism” before I came here.’
‘The artistic temperament,’ I said.
‘Lord, yes! But I fear I run the risk of offending you, Doctor, for you are yourself a man of letters.’
‘I flatter myself that I am a practical man, sir, without too many fads and fancies,’ I reassured him.