by John Hall
The door opened at this point, and three men entered together, talking in an animated fashion. The conversation tailed off as they saw me, and Morrison made the necessary introductions. ‘Gentlemen, this is Dr Watson. Doctor, may I introduce Mr Peter Gregson, sculptor?’
Gregson extended his hand. ‘Delighted, Doctor.’
‘As am I, sir. I know a Gregson,’ I said. ‘Policeman – inspector, in fact, at Scotland Yard.’
‘Hardly the most artistic of occupations,’ said Gregson with a smile.
‘Perhaps not, sir,’ I told him, ‘but it does ensure that honest citizens – artists included – can sleep easy in their beds!’
Gregson considered me closely for a moment. ‘A touch, Doctor! A man of principle, evidently – and not afraid to stick by your principles. I foresee that we shall have some interesting discussions. But I am being rude,’ he said to Morrison, ‘for I interrupted your introductions, Secretary.’
‘Mr James Davenport, engraver,’ said Morrison.
‘Sounds quite like “Happy Families”, does Gordon’s introduction!’ rumbled Davenport. He was a huge man, and the hand he held out to me resembled nothing so much as a bear’s paw.
‘We like to know what our fellow guests do for a living,’ said Morrison, no whit perturbed. ‘Saves any embarrassment, we find.’
‘Embarrassment?’ I said, puzzled.
‘Well,’ said Morrison with a laugh, ‘some of our guests – present company honourably excepted, of course – do have a rather high opinion of themselves and their talents. So they can be offended if strangers ask “What do you do for a living?” you see. And you’re not to mind James, Doctor. He can be somewhat uncultivated at times. And finally, Mr Jeremy Lane. You should get on with the doctor, Lane, for you’re both writers.’
We murmured the usual pleasantries, and a general conversation of a desultory sort ensued, during which I was able to study my fellow guests more closely. Gregson was about my own age, dressed in what was almost a foppish adherence to the latest fashion.
Davenport was a few years younger; he had a bushy beard, and was somewhat stout, although he carried it well for he was, as I say, considerably taller than the average; a large man in every sense, I thought, with a great, deep bass voice to match the rest of him.
Lane was only twenty-odd, again fashionably dressed, though not excessively so, and he had an almost permanent cynical smile which I soon found slightly irritating; too much the popular image of the literary man, I felt, although I reminded myself of the inadvisability of making hasty judgements.
When we had finished tea, Morrison rang the bell and asked Mrs Welsh to show me my room. She led the way upstairs, and opened a door. ‘Here you are, Doctor. There are no keys, but you’ll find a bolt on the inside. Although most of the gentlemen don’t bother, for the house has never been troubled by tramps, or anything of that sort.’
‘Then I am sure I shall not bother either,’ I said.
Mrs Welsh left, and I went inside my room and looked round. It was larger than I had expected, and I decided that the house must have been extended considerably since it was first built, a conclusion I later learned was correct. There was a large table under the window, and I strolled across to it. Several pens – mostly the worse for wear – were set out on the table, together with an ink-well and paper, evidently put there lest literary inspiration should strike unexpectedly.
Moving to the side of the table, I glanced out into the garden at the back of the house. The area immediately round the house was immaculate, although there were traces of neglect at the farther end. Welsh, along with a couple of other men, his assistants or labourers, as I took it, was busy at work, and the whole formed an idyllic picture. I promised myself a delightful fortnight in a spot which seemed every bit as enchanting as the purple prose in the prospectus – which, I had learned at tea, had been written by a guest, himself a minor poet of some renown – had suggested.
I bathed and changed my clothes, and at seven o’clock I was again in the little book-lined room – the ‘library’, as Welsh had rather grandly styled it – to take a companionable glass of sherry with the other guests. Three other men, whom I had not thus far met, joined us. Morrison introduced me to Mr Henry Tomlinson and Mr Richard Pountney, both elderly gentlemen who were introduced to me as retired musicians. And, just as we were about to go in to dinner, the last guest arrived, a Mr Benjamin Morgan, who showed every sign of having changed hurriedly and not bathed at all.
At dinner it emerged that Morgan was a photographer, and that his late arrival had been occasioned by his having been out on the Downs, taking pictures in the glorious sunlight. And Tomlinson and Pountney explained that I had missed them earlier because they too been out for the afternoon, but only as far as the local inn, for they made no claim to be as energetic as some of the younger men.
There was a curious little incident at dinner, which I was later to remember. I experienced that indefinable sensation of being studied closely, with which most readers will be familiar, though they could not begin to explain it, any more than I can – some almost-forgotten atavistic trait from our primeval days, I suppose. Anyway, I glanced up, and caught Morgan studying me closely. I could think of nothing to say, but was saved the trouble, for Morgan flushed like any schoolgirl, and said, ‘Your pardon, sir. I was merely thinking what a fine subject you would make for the camera.’
There was a general laugh at this, and I confess that I was unsure how to take it. However, Morrison reassured me by saying, ‘You must not mind Morgan, Doctor. He has said the same to all of us.’
‘Except me!’ amended Gregson.
‘Oh,’ said Morgan, ‘you’re quite vain enough as it is!’
It was not said unkindly; and there was another general laugh; yet for all that, I felt that there was something more unpleasant, some antagonism which was only barely concealed beneath the banter.
The moment passed at once, and there ensued a general conversation, on the hoary old topic, ‘Is Photography Art?’ I shall not rehearse the entire argument, which will be all too familiar to readers of the popular press; but there was an interesting and – in view of later events, perhaps a significant – divergence of opinion. Morgan naturally took the view that photography was not merely art, but The Art, in capitals, the one, the only, the true. Some of the others took the opposite view, the most articulate being Gregson. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘all a man need do is press a button, and lo! – a work of art. Your instruction books tell you what to do, how, when and why to do it. Even your ground-glass screen is engraved with lines to show you The Golden Mean! How can you –’ etc., etc.
My own opinion was sought, and I freely confessed that I had no strong feelings either way. This brought me a certain amount of cheerful contumely, as being something of a Philistine, but at least it concluded the aimless discussion, and the conversation turned to lighter things.
There was a piano in a corner of the spacious dining room, and it turned out that Tomlinson, who had been something of a singer in his day, still had a fine baritone voice. He favoured us with a couple of songs after dinner, and I was looking forward to a diverting enough evening. However, I was to be disappointed, for, to my surprise, most of the guests excused themselves and went up their rooms at which I considered an exceptionally early hour.
Morrison evidently noticed my disappointment, and told me, ‘Unless you visit the local inn – which is not entirely salubrious, I may say – there is little to do of an evening. For that reason, and because they do come here for a rest, most of our gentlemen do not keep late hours. However, it is a little early for me, too, so perhaps a turn round the garden would not come amiss?’
‘Indeed not,’ I said. ‘And possibly even a cigar?’
‘I should be delighted.’
The dining room had an enormous French window, which took up the angle of the outside walls, but the evening had turned slightly chilly, and the windows were shut, so Morrison led me to a small door, which
he opened to reveal a tiny porch of sorts.
‘This was the old door, here before French windows were thought of,’ he said. ‘And you will note –’ and he pointed with some pride at the telephone which had pride of place on a wall of the porch. ‘The coming thing,’ he said.
‘Just what I was telling a friend of mine this morning,’ I said. ‘I can see the day when every household will have one of these.’
‘Well, perhaps I would not go quite that far,’ said Morrison with a smile. ‘But for the man of business, yes, I predict that the telephone will quickly become indispensable.’
He opened the door in the outer wall of the little porch, and ushered me out into the June evening.
‘Welsh and his fellows certainly do a good job with your gardens,’ I told him.
‘They do what they can, although the place is a little too large for the staff I have,’ he said. ‘The old difficulty – the trust income, once more than adequate, is no longer as impressive as it was. I should like to have the money to improve the entire garden, some day. There are all sorts of nooks and crannies – there is even an old walled fruit garden, dating from the last century, which you will see if you take a look round in daylight tomorrow. Overgrown now, of course, but with great capabilities, as a more famous gardener than I am was wont to remark. Gardening is by way of being a hobby of mine,’ he went on. ‘Before I came down here, I worked in a city firm, but I find the country far more congenial. As indeed is the position – you will have noticed that many of us are on first name terms, the result of acquaintance over the years. This job is, to be blunt, something of a sinecure, for the place pretty well runs itself, and my attendance is required only on Mondays and Fridays, as a rule.’
‘You do not live in the house itself, then?’ I asked.
‘I have a cottage of sorts a couple of miles down the lane,’ said Morrison. ‘Only small, but with a large garden. I should have been off home some time ago, in the usual way of things, but I am staying here overnight – I have a camp bed in my room upstairs – and putting in an extra day tomorrow. I believe I mentioned that I am off on holiday at the weekend? I wanted to clear up as much as may be before I left.’
We finished our cigars, and said good night. Perhaps it was the country air, or perhaps I was fatigued by the day’s travel and the meeting of new people. Whatever the cause, and despite the hour’s still being somewhat earlier than my habitual bedtime, I knew nothing more until eight o’clock next morning, when a tap on the door heralded my early morning tea.
I had made an appointment to see Colonel Hayter that day, and so I decided to leave a fuller exploration of the grounds for later in the week. I was familiar enough with the area as a whole, although not with the immediate environs of Belmont, and saw from a glance at a framed map in the library that a walk of some three or four miles would bring me to Colonel Hayter’s house at Reigate.
I set off after breakfast, taking the path that led through the garden at the back of the house. I noticed the walled garden Morrison had mentioned, although I had no time to go in and look round. As I passed the old brick wall, I saw Gregson, standing in front of an easel, and looking somewhat disgruntled.
‘I thought you were a sculptor?’ I said, after exchanging the usual civilities.
‘I am, but I paint as well. That reminds me, you have not seen a palette knife about the place at all, have you? I’ve mislaid mine, and I foolishly only brought the one along.’
‘You mean those little trowel sort of things? Afraid not. Do you not have some brushes there?’
‘I do,’ said Gregson. ‘But I prefer the direct approach of the knife.’
‘Indeed? I have known surgeons who thought much the same.’
He regarded me suspiciously. I added hastily, ‘No, I fear I have not seen one about the place. But I’ll keep an eye open for it.’
‘I should be most grateful if you would.’
I set off in earnest then along the foot of the Downs, and quickly came to a landmark I recognised. On old ground now, I made good time and arrived at the colonel’s house towards eleven. I found my old friend harshly treated by the hand of time, so weak indeed that he could scarcely rise to greet me.
There was a second guest at lunch, another military man, Colonel de Montfort, who turned out to be the chief constable of those parts. And there was, naturally enough, a good deal of reminiscence on a wide spectrum of matters: criminal, military and sporting. Colonel Hayter seemed to enjoy himself well enough, but the excitement, or the effort, of so many recollections of stirring deeds tired him out very quickly, so that by the middle of the afternoon both the nurse and the secretary – whose name was Cameron, by the way, not that he will appear again in my tale – indicated that it might be as well if de Montfort and I said our goodbyes.
‘I’m going your way, Doctor,’ said de Montfort as we emerged into the sunshine. ‘May I offer you a lift?’
I was somewhat weary from my morning’s exercise and somewhat disturbed at finding my old friend in so sad a state, so I did not stand out but accepted the colonel’s kind offer.
On the drive back, we chatted of this and that, until the trap turned into the lane which led to Belmont. The colonel’s driver, who had not thus far ventured upon any familiarity, coughed and said, ‘Beg pardon, sir, but there looks to be something to do at the gentleman’s house here.’
‘What? Lord, yes, you’re right, Williams,’ said the colonel. ‘A bad business, too, by the look of things,’ he added, gesturing to a low, covered vehicle that stood in the lane, ‘for that is our mortuary cart. There may be a call for your services, Doctor, so perhaps –’
‘I am entirely at your disposal, sir,’ I said.
‘Then you stay here, Williams, while we take a look at this business.’ And so saying, the colonel jumped down and led the way to the gate, where a young constable stood on duty.
‘Now, what –’ and the colonel broke off as another man emerged from the house. ‘Ah – Forrester!’
The man so addressed ran down the drive. ‘My word, Colonel, you have soon heard of the matter!’ he said. ‘And Dr Watson, too!’
Before he had spoken I had recognised him, for this was another old acquaintance, Inspector Forrester, who had been involved in the Cunningham case a decade earlier. We shook hands, and Forrester said, ‘Is Mr Sherlock Holmes with you, by any chance, Doctor?’
‘He is not,’ I said.
Forrester’s face fell. ‘I could wish he were, sir,’ said he, ‘for I tell you frankly that this is a bad business.’
‘We know nothing of it,’ said de Montfort. ‘I am here purely by chance. So perhaps you had better explain?’
‘I must ask you, Doctor, what you know of a Mr Benjamin Morgan?’ said Forrester.
‘I? Nothing. I met Morgan for the first time in my life last night,’ I told him.
‘So he was not a particular friend of yours?’
‘No, although he seems likeable enough. Say, though – you said “was”, did you not?’
‘I did, sir. I regret to inform you that Mr Benjamin Morgan has been murdered.’
Chapter Two
‘Murdered?’ I asked rather stupidly – for even my long association with Holmes had scarcely prepared me for this tragedy, so very unexpected, and so very close to home.
‘Stabbed, I’m afraid,’ said Forrester. ‘In that little porch affair, where the telephone is.’
Feeling somewhat foolish, I asked, ‘He was not by any chance killed with an artist’s palette knife, was he?’
‘That’s an odd sort of question, Doctor,’ said Forrester.
De Montfort added, ‘An odd sort of weapon, too, if you ask me. The artist’s palette knives I’ve seen have had a rounded end, rather after the manner of a cheese knife. No damn good for stabbing! Unless you mean the other sort, like a little – what d’you call ‘em? – a bricklayer’s trowel kind of contraption. Still a bit small, and rough and ready, but you might do some damage with one of those, if y
ou had a determined man with a strong arm behind it.’
‘Why did you ask that particularly, Doctor?’ Forrester wanted to know.
My feelings of foolishness in no degree abated, I said, ‘Oh – it was nothing. Nothing really. Just something that happened this morning. Rather silly – an odd incident, the kind that lodges in your mind. One of the guests happened to ask me if I had seen his palette knife around the place, as he had mislaid it.’
‘And which of the gentlemen might that have been?’ asked Forrester.
‘Chap called Gregson,’ I told him.
‘I see.’ Forrester raised an eyebrow.
‘Well, Inspector?’ asked de Montfort, with some warmth.
‘No, gentlemen,’ said Forrester, ‘Mr Morgan was not killed with a palette knife, but with a paper knife. A letter opener, some people call them. Silver, rather ornate.’
‘Indeed?’ said de Montfort.
In an absent sort of way, Forrester said, ‘The paper knife – like the missing palette knife – belonged to Mr Gregson.’
‘Indeed!’ said de Montfort again.
‘He claims it was upstairs in his room.’
‘And who found the body?’ I asked.
‘That was Mr Gregson again.’
De Montfort and I looked at one another. ‘I think you had better give us a sketch of events as far as you know them,’ said de Montfort.
‘It was this way, sir,’ said the inspector. ‘It appears that this Mr Gregson wished to make a telephone call. He went into the cubbyhole where the telephone is, tried the number, but failed to make his call. He set off for the front door to smoke a cigarette, and as he left the dining room, Mr Morgan went in, also intending to use the telephone. Mr Gregson had his smoke, and went back to try again. The dining room was empty, and the inner door to the porch was closed. Mr Gregson approached the door, but could not hear anything. Thinking that Mr Morgan must have finished and left, Mr Gregson opened the door – and Mr Morgan’s body fell out, literally at Mr Gregson’s feet.’