Sherlock Holmes and the Telephone Murder Mystery

by John Hall

  ‘Good Lord!’ I said. ‘That must have been a considerable shock for the poor fellow!’

  ‘To say the least,’ said the inspector. ‘According to the gardener chap, Mr Gregson started screaming “blue murder”, and “fit to wake the dead”.’

  ‘An unfortunate choice of phrases in the circumstances,’ said de Montfort, drily.

  ‘Indeed, sir. And Mr Gregson is still very upset.’ Forrester hesitated.

  De Montfort said, ‘You seem to imply a “But –” ’

  There was another hesitation, then Forrester said, ‘But – and despite his distress, which seems genuine enough – things look very bad for Mr Gregson, and that’s the truth. It was his knife, which he says he last saw upstairs in his room, which was used to kill Mr Morgan. It was Mr Gregson who was outside the dining room – if indeed he was outside – when Mr Morgan was in there. Nobody else seems to have been downstairs, or at any rate not near the dining room.’

  ‘But they would scarcely advertise the fact if they were!’ I told him. I marched up to the front door, which I have already described as heavy oak, set in the ancient thick stone wall. ‘The wall is thick, as you see, forming an entrance lobby of sorts here,’ I went on. ‘If Gregson merely stood in the open doorway, looking out at the garden, he would be unlikely to see anyone creeping along to the dining room door. If he actually came outside into the garden, then it would be well-nigh impossible for him to see anyone in the house.’

  ‘He says he came just outside the door,’ said Forrester.

  ‘So that someone might have sneaked along to the dining room,’ I said.

  Forrester looked unconvinced.

  ‘Well, then,’ I said, striving to emulate Holmes’s methods as much as may be, ‘let us consider the alternative. Was the outer door to the porch closed?’

  ‘Closed, but not locked. In fact, Mr Gregson had originally gone into the porch from the garden, using the outer door.’

  ‘There you are!’ I said in some triumph. ‘The murderer might easily have entered from the garden!’

  Forrester shook his head. ‘I hardly think so, Doctor. The door was unlocked, fair enough, but the gardener, Welsh, and his lad, Merryweather, were out there pretty well all the time. Now, I don’t claim that one or the other of them was never out of sight of the house, or that one or the other never came inside. In fact, we know that Welsh came in for a cup of tea at around the time in question – which was three o’clock this afternoon, by the by, almost to the minute, so far as we can judge. But the lad did not; he took his tea outside. So, for all practical purposes, one or another of those two was outside the whole time, and they never saw anyone come near the outer door.’

  ‘Done from the inside, then,’ said de Montfort.

  ‘It seems almost certain, sir.’ Forrester hesitated again. ‘You’ll recall I asked if Mr Holmes was with you, Doctor? Well, the colonel here knows me, and my abilities, well enough not to take me amiss when I say honestly that I wish Mr Holmes were here, for I’m pretty well out of my depth, and that’s a fact. In the decade since we last met, I’ve had seven cases of sudden death to deal with. Two were suicides, poor souls; three were accidents; one was the result of a drunken brawl; and the last one was a henpecked husband who killed his nagging wife, then went along to the local station and turned himself in to the sergeant, nice as ninepence! So you’ll understand that my experience of these affairs is limited.’

  ‘Well spoken, Inspector,’ said de Montfort. ‘And you’ll know me well enough not to take me amiss when I echo your wish that Mr Holmes should look into this business. How about it, Doctor? Could you not persuade him to investigate on our behalf? As Forrester, says, we are a collection of mossbacks here, and need some help.’

  ‘I can ask him,’ I said. ‘But I happen to know that he is very busy just now, and I can promise nothing.’

  De Montfort looked crestfallen. ‘I am sorry to hear you say so. Well, I suppose I shall just have to appeal to Scotland Yard, ask them to send out Inspector Lestrade, or another of their best men.’

  ‘Good Heavens, no!’ I said, adding hastily, ‘That is to say, I am sure that I can prevail on Holmes to take a look at the matter.’

  De Montfort held out a hand. ‘I shall be eternally grateful! And now, Inspector, unless I can be of any further use, I must be going along. You will please be good enough to keep me informed?’ And he made his farewells and was soon in his trap going back the way we had come.

  ‘Well, Forrester,’ I said, when the colonel was out of sight, ‘you are quite sure that having Holmes here will not –’

  ‘Not in the least, sir. I spoke the literal truth when I told you that this is out of my depth. I have not the driving ambition of some of my fellows – I’d far rather have my garden and my pipe than be chasing all over London. Oh, I’m well enough for the usual run of crime round here, but this – no, sir, if Mr Holmes will consent to look at the problem, I’d be very grateful.’

  ‘I could call him now, for we have the telephone at Baker Street,’ I said. ‘That is, if it is quite in order to use the telephone, or –’

  ‘We have examined the porch very thoroughly,’ said Forrester, ‘but there was nothing to be made of that, apart from a few bloodstains on the floor, as you would expect.’

  ‘The murderer’s clothing might well have been bloodstained, too,’ I pointed out.

  ‘I had thought of that, sir. And we did indeed find some bloodstains.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes – on Mr Gregson’s trousers.’

  ‘Understandable, if the body had fallen against him?’

  ‘True, Doctor, but another fact which some might regard as telling against him, if not positively damning.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘that’s as may be. I’ll ring Holmes now, see what he thinks of it all.’ And I went into the house, up the shallow stair and into the large dining room. The door to the little porch stood open, and so did the outer door. The bloodstains of which Forrester had spoken had evidently been washed away, and the bright June sunlight streamed in; but even that could not prevent a shudder of horror coming involuntarily over me as I picked up the telephone and asked the exchange to connect me with 221B.

  The bell pealed for what seemed an eternity, and I was just thinking that Holmes must still be out on business, when a youthful but hoarse voice said, ‘’Ullo? Oo’s there?’

  Recognizing the page’s voice and style of oratory, I said, ‘Billy? Is that you? This is Dr Watson – is Mr Holmes there?’

  ‘Mr ’Olmes, Doctor? No, ’e’s out.’

  ‘Now, Billy, listen to me – I want you to ask Mr Holmes to ring me as soon as he gets back. The number is on a piece of paper on the mantelshelf. Have you got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Mr ’Olmes to ring you, on the mantelshelf. Right you are, Doctor.’

  Knowing that I could easily try again later should Holmes not be equal to the task of breaking Billy’s cryptogram, I replaced the receiver, and re-joined Forrester in the dining room.

  ‘Now, Doctor,’ said the inspector, ‘although Mr Holmes is not here, you are, and you can be of some valuable service to me.’

  ‘I am entirely at your disposal.’

  ‘The first thing is, would you view Mr Morgan’s body? It was taken into the library next door. The police surgeon has seen it already, of course, and I don’t for one moment imagine that your opinion will differ from his, but Mr Holmes is sure to ask about the wound, and so on, and if you’ve seen it at first hand, so to speak –’

  ‘I quite understand.’

  Forrester took me to the library, where the body of the unfortunate Morgan lay. I examined it thoroughly, but could find nothing that the police surgeon might have missed. The cause of death was quite obvious, a single stab wound to the heart. The knife which had been found in the body was there, and I made to pick it up gingerly.

  ‘It has been examined for finger marks,’ said Forrester. ‘We are not so backward, even here.’

 
‘And the results?’

  ‘Nothing very conclusive. Some smudges which “might be anything”, according to my man, and one clear print, of Mr Gregson’s right index finger.’

  ‘As one might expect, since it was his knife.’

  ‘True enough,’ agreed Forrester.

  ‘Stabbed from in front, you see?’

  ‘Yes. He must have seen his killer, almost certainly knew him – as we have already thought. So he wouldn’t have any reason to suspect anything untoward, until –’ Forrester shivered. ‘Makes you think, Doctor.’

  ‘It does indeed.’

  ‘What think you to the slight bruising on the forehead?’

  ‘Oh, undoubtedly made post-mortem. Probably when the body fell out of the lobby on to the floor, or perhaps the head hit the wall of the cubicle as he fell over, soon after he died.’

  ‘So the police surgeon thinks. Well, there’s nothing much to be made of that, then, but thank you anyway, Dr Watson.’

  Forrester led me back to the dining room, and studied the little cubicle which was the location of the crime. ‘A bad business.’ He shook himself, as if to clear his head of any morbid fancies. ‘Now, Doctor, to work! You arrived – when?’

  ‘Just yesterday afternoon, I fear. So I have scarcely had the opportunity to form any but the slightest impression of the house or its occupants.’

  ‘So that you had not, for example, seen the letter opener which killed Mr Morgan?’

  ‘I had not.’

  ‘You had not been into Mr Gregson’s room, say?’

  ‘Certainly not!’

  ‘Oh, I imply nothing untoward, sir. I just thought he might have invited you in to smoke a cigar, say. Something of that sort.’

  ‘I hardly knew any of them well enough for that sort of thing.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Forrester. ‘Now, I understand that it was the custom of the house that guests did not lock their doors?’

  ‘So I was told. I was assured that there had never been any alarms or excursions, no trouble with burglars or anything. With the benefit of hindsight, of course, those assurances ring a little hollow. But then one does not come away for a fortnight’s rest with the idea that one will be stabbed to death.’

  ‘Indeed not. Anyway,’ said Forrester with a grim smile, ‘I suspect that a few of the doors will be locked tonight!’

  ‘I know mine will!’ said I frankly. ‘For the significance of the testimony of Welsh and his fellows has not escaped me, just as I’m sure it has not escaped you.’

  ‘It has not, Doctor.’ Forrester hesitated. ‘I know how difficult my next question will be, sir. I know you dislike telling tales out of school, as it were, and in the ordinary way of things, I should not dream of listening to gossip about the gentlemen staying here, much less would I ask you to talk about them. But this is a very grim affair, and with some serious implications which you have already noticed yourself. So, I must ask if you noticed any sort of animosity, any antagonism, between any of the guests? Anything at all, but more especially if Mr Morgan or Mr Gregson were involved?’

  I hesitated in my turn, uncertain as to the best course of action. Forrester was right, of course, it was my duty to say plainly as much as I knew. And yet it seemed to smack of dis-loyalty, even if it were disloyalty to a man I had only just met.

  ‘Come, Doctor, I can see that there is something.’

  ‘Well, then – and this is purely my own impression, you are to be clear on that score – but there was a rather unpleasant little interlude at dinner yesterday.’ And I proceeded to tell him what had happened.

  When I had done, Forrester asked, ‘What was your impression of how matters stood between Morgan and Gregson? Was it merely a sort of schoolboy banter, or more earnest, think you?’

  ‘It was handled lightly enough,’ I said. ‘But for all that, I had the feeling of something more weighty at the back of it, some old antipathy, if not downright hostility.’

  ‘Thank you for your candour, sir,’ said Forrester. ‘And my apologies again for pressing the matter.’

  ‘Oh, it is hardly your fault, Inspector. Had Morgan not been killed, the situation would never have arisen. Is your work here all but done?’

  ‘I think so, sir. We shall take the body to the mortuary for examination, although I hardly think there will be any surprises there. For the rest, in the absence of any sort of conclusive proof as to motive and so on, I think I shall wait until Mr Holmes arrives. Now, I think I had best see Mr Morrison, and tell him how things stand.’

  Forrester left, and I took another look round the room, but without forming any real opinion as to what might have occurred. At the very least, I thought, I might get the geography of the place, as it were, firmly fixed in my mind.

  When you entered the front door of the house, you were at once in a large hall, too grand to be called a mere lobby, with a stand for umbrellas, pegs for coats and hats, stags’ heads, and the like. To the left – as you stood when you first came into the house – was a cloakroom of sorts, with a wash basin and the usual offices. To your right was the main stair, broad and grand, with a massive oak banister that would have been a splendid ornament to any house, and beyond that again was a baize door leading to the kitchens, and the living quarters of Mr and Mrs Welsh. These were out of bounds to guests, save by special invitation.

  Directly opposite the main door was another stair of sorts, a shallow flight of three steps only, leading to the long oak-panelled corridor that ran to left and right. In lieu of a wall, an oak railing or baluster ran along the near-side portion of the corridor which abutted on the entrance hall, giving the effect of a raised dais – indeed, I am half convinced that the foundation of the house was much older than the date over the front door might suggest; that this entrance hall was the original part of the house; and that the corridor now ran where once some old lord of the manor had kept his high table.

  At the far end of the corridor to the left was a spacious sitting room, all odd angles and nooks, comfortably fitted up like the smoking room of a London club, even down to the billiard table which stood in one corner. This sitting room had French windows which gave on to a little paved area, at the far side of which was a pond, and beyond that was the garden proper.

  The little library was to the right of the sitting room, and then the dining room – where I now stood – was on the other side of the library. These three rooms were reached from the corridor, and only from the corridor, there were no connecting doors between them. However, in the right-hand wall of the dining room – looking at it from the door which gave on to the corridor – there was a connecting door leading to the kitchen, and this door was used by Mrs Welsh for serving meals. In the corner made by that same wall, and the wall opposite the corridor, was the huge French window which gave on to the garden. And also in the wall opposite the corridor was the old porch with the telephone.

  To complete the plan, at the far right-hand end of the corridor which rang along the house there was another baize door, again leading to the kitchens and staff quarters. Satisfied that I had it pretty clear in my mind, I started towards the porch, thinking I might check the exterior plan. I was interrupted by the opening of the main door, and Forrester saying, ‘I’m off now, Doctor. But I shall look in tomorrow, and hope to see yourself and Mr Holmes then.’

  He left, and Morrison, looking very gloomy, came into the room. ‘A bad business, this, Dr Watson.’

  ‘At least there seems a general consensus as to that point,’ I told him.

  ‘What? Oh, indeed.’ Morrison looked at me with what seemed like awe. ‘I must confess that I had not quite associated you with the Dr Watson of the Strand, and such-like, sir. Not until Inspector Forrester mentioned it just now. I understand that you intend to ask Mr Sherlock Holmes to look into the matter?’ he added, with a certain access of cheerfulness.

  ‘Indeed, yes. The inspector asked me to do so.’

  ‘I am sure he is right to ask,’ said Morrison. ‘I can tell you fra
nkly, sir, that I could wish for a speedy – and, above all, a discreet – resolution of the matter. As it is, the trustees are hardly likely to look favourably upon my stewardship. After all, I was in the house when it happened!’

  ‘They can scarcely blame you, sir! Unless, of course – ?’

  ‘Sir! No, I take your point. But I know my trustees, sir, and you do not. Decent fellows all, of course. But earnest and sober, almost to a fault. Solicitors and clergymen, to a man. Not that I have anything against – but still! Why, when I think of the publicity –!’ and the poor fellow broke off and shook his head in despair.

  ‘I should have no fear on that score,’ I told him. ‘Inspector Forrester is a good fellow, and I have some small acquaintance with the chief constable. I imagine that they will both want to keep things quiet for the time being. As for Mr Holmes, I can assure you that he is the very soul of discretion. If the matter can be brought to a speedy resolution, there may well be nothing more than a bare summary in the press.’

  Morrison looked somewhat relieved, and said, ‘Unless you yourself publish some account of it?’

  ‘If ever I do,’ I told him, ‘you may be certain that I shall hide real names and places in an impenetrable fashion.’ (It should perhaps not be necessary for me to add that I have done so in this present account!)

  ‘I am glad to hear you say so,’ said Morrison. ‘And now, although it seems a touch callous to speak of these things with poor Benjamin lying in the mortuary, the ordinary business of life must be attended to. I hardly thought it proper to have dinner in here tonight, and indeed Mrs Welsh has not had time to prepare anything of the usual kind. But I have asked her to put together a cold collation of sorts, and serve it in the sitting room. I have asked that the others assemble in there, so perhaps we should join them?’ As he led the way to the door, he added, ‘By the way, Doctor, as Mr Holmes is to handle the case, and as you are his friend and colleague, I wonder if you might – discreetly, of course – take the opportunity to ask a few questions, determine where everyone was, and so forth? That is, if you think it a wise idea?’