by John Hall
‘Eminently sensible,’ I said. ‘In fact, I had thought along those lines myself.’ This was true enough: I had worked with Holmes long enough to know the value of first-hand evidence taken before Father Time and the fallibility of human memory have conspired to have their usual effect. And if there was a spark of an idea at the back of my mind that I might solve the case before ever Holmes arrived, the reader will understand that such a notion was not unreasonable; these days many of us see ourselves as amateur detectives, and my association with Holmes had at least given me a rudimentary idea of the correct techniques. I followed Morrison to the sitting room, therefore, with some pride and a sturdy determination to do what I might.
Tomlinson and Pountney were already in the sitting room, sunk alike in gloom and leather armchairs. They looked up and nodded as Morrison and I went in, but said nothing.
We sat down. Morrison said, ‘In a sense, I’m pleased that I was here; it meant that the police did not have to come and winkle me out from my little cottage, for I should not have wanted my wife upset – not that she won’t be, of course, but at least she will hear it from me, not some policeman. On the other hand, it does mean that I am a suspect, just like these old rogues here,’ and he nodded towards the other two.
Pountney lifted his head, and smiled wanly without speaking, but Tomlinson stirred in his chair, and said, ‘I should have thought there was only one real suspect, wouldn’t you?’
‘Come, sir,’ said Morrison, ‘there is hardly a shred of evidence against him that is not purely circumstantial.’
‘It was his letter opener, was it not? A letter opener which was in his room? And we all know they did not exactly hit it off. Now, had it been Gregson who was killed, the police would have had excellent reason to suspect any – or all – of us.’
There was an embarrassed silence at this. I felt that I was letting Holmes down, that I should have pressed for further details, but I did not know how to phrase the questions which came unbidden to my mind.
Pountney, evidently anxious to change the subject, asked Morrison, ‘How will this affect your holiday, Secretary?’
‘Oh, that’s scratched, as the turf accountants put it. The police obviously asked me to stay in the district, but even if they hadn’t, I wouldn’t have felt happy with this looming over me. It would smack of deserting one’s post, would it not? No, once this is resolved –’
He broke off as the door swung open and James Davenport came into the room. Davenport nodded, then, evidently feeling that some more elaborate greeting was called for, said, ‘This is a damnable affair, is it not?’ before walking to the French window that occupied the whole of one wall, where he stood gazing moodily out at the garden.
Davenport’s actions seemed to cast an even deeper gloom over the other three occupants of the room, and none of them made any attempt at conversation for a good five minutes. It seemed, to me at least, more like five hours, and I was steeling myself to make some remark about the weather when, to my great relief, the door opened and Jeremy Lane entered the room, brushing back his long blond hair. Lane carried a leather-bound notebook and a silver pencil, and was particularly remarkable inasmuch as he did not seem infected by the prevailing gloom.
He glanced round the room, and cheerfully remarked, ‘Very traditional, this.’
‘What is, sir?’ demanded Davenport in an aggressive fashion.
‘Well, all the suspects gathered together, waiting for the detective to tell them who done it. It would have been better in the library, though. Quite the one-act play.’
Davenport said, ‘I, for one, don’t find that remark funny in the least, you damned puppy! In fact, I think it’s offensive in the extreme, and if you haven’t got anything sensible to say, I strongly urge you to keep quiet.’
‘Sorry, I’m sure! I was just trying to put a brave face on things,’ and Lane sat down, temporarily abashed.
‘Mrs Welsh is fixing us some sandwiches and things,’ said Morrison hastily. The others murmured their thanks, then, not knowing what to say, relapsed into a further silence.
It did not last too long, though, for after a short time the door opened, and Mrs Welsh came in pushing a trolley.
‘Good evening, gentlemen.’ Mrs Welsh clearly did not see why she should vary her evening greeting just because the house was full of police. After all, her demeanour said as loud as words, she was in the habit of saying the same thing at the start of every dinner, even though she had seen all the guests many times throughout the course of the day. It was one of the little civilities which, to Mrs Welsh, made all the difference.
In exactly the same tone in which she would have apologized for the fact that there was no toast, she went on, ‘Sorry about all the upset, but there’s nothing we can do about it, is there? Now, the police tell me they have finished in the dining room, so it will be breakfast as usual in there tomorrow. Is that all right? Good, enjoy your meal.’
She gave us a dazzling smile, and headed for the door, stopping to allow Peter Gregson to enter. ‘Evening, Mr Gregson, you’re just in time for what is, I’m afraid, a very scratch meal.’
Gregson gave her a forced smile, and then came into the room, looked round, and said, ‘All been helping the police with their enquiries, have we? Not that any of you have got anything to worry about.’
‘I sincerely hope none of us has,’ said Morrison, offering Gregson a plate of sandwiches.
‘Ugh, no, thanks! I couldn’t face anything at the moment. I’ve never felt less like food in all my life, but I could do with a cup of tea.’ Gregson poured himself a cup, added several spoonfuls of sugar, and drank eagerly. He poured a second cup, and placed it on the floor by the side of his chair. He ran a hand through his hair, a habit of his that I had already observed several times yesterday. His hair was longer than convention would have deemed necessary, though not quite as long as Lane’s, and despite the fact that he must have been around my own age, it was still a rich tint. His face was unlined, but showing signs of the strain he evidently felt.
He picked his tea up, and drank, in a more leisurely way this time, then, suddenly, he said, ‘They think it was me, you know.’
There was a moment’s silence at this, then Morrison said, ‘I’m sure you’re mistaken there. This has obviously been very disturbing for everyone, and equally obviously, all of us here are under some suspicion to some degree or another.’
Gregson shook his head vigorously. ‘No, they do. What else could they think, given the circumstances? Perfectly natural, of course. And I know all of you must think the same.’
‘Now, there I know you’re mistaken,’ said Morrison, with a sort of false heartiness that sounded appalling. ‘I –’ and even he was unable to continue. He fell silent, and gazed at his plate.
The silence was by turns embarrassing, oppressive and well-nigh intolerable. I was about to say something – anything – to try to clear the air, when all of a sudden Tomlinson put down his plate, stood up and said, ‘I know it’s a bit early, even for me, but I feel absolutely exhausted. Nervous fatigue, or something of that sort, I expect. So if you’ll all excuse me, I’ll say good night.’
‘And me,’ said Pountney, getting up as well.
As they headed towards the door, Morrison said, ‘One moment.’ To the room at large, he went on, ‘Dr Watson has been good enough to offer to ask Mr Sherlock Holmes to look into this dreadful affair, and should he agree to do so – and I sincerely hope that he will – then I would ask you all to answer whatever questions he may put to you. It is, when all is said and done, in our best interests to have it cleared up as quickly as possible. And another thing, which the police probably mentioned to each of you – and I don’t know how much importance you might want to attach to it anyway – but it might be as well to keep your room door locked, just until all this business can be cleared up. Personally, I take it seriously enough to say that I’m not going to leave my room at all until day-
light.’
Gregson s
tood up, a curious expression on his face. ‘There’s no need for any of you to worry,’ he said. ‘I only had the one letter opener with me, and the police have taken that away with them. Of course, there’s still the palette knife, isn’t there, the one I only pretended to have lost? And then, of course, for all you know, I brought another half-dozen along with me, one for each of you.’
Morrison started to say something, but Gregson went on, almost in a shout, ‘I didn’t kill Ben! I know you all think I did – and I can’t say that I blame you for that – but I didn’t. Really and truly I didn’t!’ And he went to the door nearly at a run, brushed past Pountney and Tomlinson, who were standing in the doorway, and hurried out into the corridor.
Pountney stared after him for a long time, then said, ‘Well.’
‘Well, indeed,’ said Tomlinson. ‘It seems very much of an anti-climax to say good night after that, but nevertheless, good night.’
Morrison waved a hand as they left, then settled in his chair and looked round at the others. ‘I suspect we’re all a bit overwrought,’ he said. He gazed sternly at Davenport. ‘For instance, James, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear before today. Certainly not to any great extent.’
Davenport looked suitably ashamed of himself. ‘Sorry, Secretary. As you say, our nerves are all a bit frayed just at the moment. I know I’m a bit upset – a good deal upset – at all this. You know how it is,’ he appealed to his listeners in general –’a man weighs fifteen stone, or a bit more, has a beard, and a successful enough career, so everyone takes him for some sort of refuge in any of life’s little storms. Trustworthy, reliable, and all the rest. To be quite honest, I’ve never in my whole life come across anything that I could not cope with. Until now, that is. The first – well, upsetting is the only word that comes to mind, though that is to put it mildly – the first occurrence in my life that has me at a considerable loss, and so all I can think of to do is show my annoyance by swearing, childish though it may be. I think the real truth of the matter is that I’m very annoyed with myself for feeling so useless. Helpless, almost.’ He brooded in silence for a time, then said, ‘Poor devil!’
Morrison said, ‘You, or Benjamin?’
‘Peter Gregson,’ said Davenport unexpectedly. ‘It does look pretty bad for him, I must say. He was quite right, of course, the police must suspect him, they can’t very well do otherwise. And, despite your valiant attempt to reassure him, Gordon, I don’t imagine that anyone here has any real doubts.’
‘So, you weren’t impressed by his rather dramatic – if not melodramatic – protestation of innocence?’ asked Lane.
Davenport shrugged, but did not reply.
Morrison stood up. ‘It does seem to have been a very long day,’ he said, ‘so I think I’ll take a quick look round, make sure everything’s locked up, then turn in. Though I imagine Welsh will have been extra vigilant this evening.’
‘A bit like bolting the stable door after all the horses have – well,’ said Davenport. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘Yes. It couldn’t really be too much worse if we did leave the front door wide open all night,’ said Morrison. ‘Still, we might as well at least show willing.’
Davenport stood up. ‘I’ll make the rounds with you,’ he told Morrison. ‘We should all feel better after a decent night’s sleep.’
As Morrison and Davenport left, Lane looked across at me and said, ‘And then there were two. Should we go upstairs together, for safety, do you think, or would you feel happier knowing I wasn’t lurking on the staircase behind you?’
There was an odd note in his voice. I could identify the humorous content – or what obviously struck Lane as being humorous – but there was something more, and it took a while to work out what it was. Then I said, ‘You’re actually quite enjoying this, aren’t you?’
Lane had enough grace to look embarrassed. ‘Well, you have to admit – I mean, I feel sorry for the poor chap and all that, but I didn’t really know him – I’ve only been here a week and it’s my first visit – but you have to admit it’s – well, an opportunity. Isn’t it?’
I did not immediately take Lane’s meaning. Then I realised the true significance of the leather-bound notebook, open on Lane’s knee, and asked, ‘You’re going to write about this?’
‘I really don’t see why not,’ said Lane, with a defensive shrug of his shoulders. ‘After all, everyone says you have to write about what you know, write from your own personal experience. Don’t they? And how many writers of sensational fiction have been in this sort of position?’
‘This sort of happy position, you mean?’
‘You know very well what I mean. I didn’t kill Ben Morgan. I am not responsible for his death. But if I can’t make a halfway decent book out of the experience, then I really have chosen the wrong career. It may not be well written, but at least it’ll be authentic. After all, Doctor, you yourself have done much the same thing on many occasions. The difference between us is that you have a great literary reputation, whereas mine is best described by the good old Latin tag, “non est”.’
‘Well,’ I said with a laugh, ‘I suppose that is true enough. Do write your story, and perhaps one day I shall write mine.’
Lane seemed about to speak, when Mrs Welsh came back into the room. ‘Dr Watson, someone is asking for you on the telephone, sir.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Welsh.’
I went along to the dining room, and into the porch. The outer door was shut and locked, and despite the early hour and the fact that the dining room was bathed in a golden glow of evening sunshine, there was a gloom about the little cubbyhole that might have unsettled a more sensitive soul.
I picked up the receiver, and was heartened to hear Holmes’s down-to-earth voice. In a few words I explained how matters stood, and asked if he could possibly spare some time.
‘I can, and I will, Doctor,’ said Holmes, ‘for I have run myself into something of a dead end with the Borgia pearl business. I shall take the first convenient train tomorrow.’
‘I am delighted to hear it!’ I said, and meant it.
I had no key to the outside doors, or I would have taken a stroll in the garden to clear my head, which was swimming from the afternoon’s excitement. I could think of nothing to do which might usefully pass the time, so I went into the library and found a book whose solidity promised some narcotic effect. I set off for the stairs, and my eye flit on the umbrella stand, which contained various sticks and the like. One of these was a great ash plant with a massive knotty root for a handle. I had – naturally enough – not brought my revolver with me, not expecting stirring events, so I took the stick upstairs with me. Let anyone try anything untoward with me tonight! I bolted my door, and read until midnight, when my eyes began to close.
The following morning I went down to breakfast rather late, but found that the others had not yet appeared. I passed the morning somehow or other, I could not say how, although I do know that I was distracted and could not settle down to anything. I was therefore considerably heartened when, towards eleven o’clock, a trap from the local inn pulled up in the lane, and Mr Sherlock Holmes got down from it.
Chapter Three
‘I have remarked before, Doctor,’ said Sherlock Holmes as he strode towards me, ‘that you are the stormy petrel of crime, and here you prove me right once again! Apparently in search of peace and quiet, the very first thing you do is encounter a murder!’
‘Hardly from choice, Holmes!’ I said – and with some indignation, for Holmes’s sense of humour is occasionally of the oddest.
‘Of course not, Watson. Now, to work. The first thing is to meet the secretary – Morrison, is it? It is as well to establish our official standing at the outset.’
I knew that Morrison was upstairs in his room, and I led the way. The secretary’s relief at seeing Holmes was clear. ‘Thank Heaven you could get down here, Mr Holmes!’ said Morrison. ‘I yield to no man in my admiration for Inspector Forrester and his constab
les, worthy fellows all, but the police do have their set procedures, and what I wish for above all else is discretion. I do not know if you are aware of it, sir, but some of the men who stay here are illustrious indeed. Some have an international reputation in their own field, as you might imagine – why, we have had men staying here who have been knighted for their literary or artistic endeavours. And equally, some of them are known in society by virtue of their birth and position – we had the brother of a cabinet minister here last week – thank Heaven he was not here this week!’
‘Thank Heaven, indeed!’ murmured Holmes.
Morrison managed a smile. ‘You think that perhaps I am behaving in a melodramatic fashion?’ he said. ‘I am perhaps a touch over-sensitive as to my position here, but really, Mr Holmes, I do not exaggerate when I say that any breath of scandal would have ramifications far beyond my own humble post.’
‘I quite understand,’ said Holmes. ‘And you may rest assured that I shall do no more than is necessary to arrive at a rapid and discreet solution.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Morrison. ‘It goes without saying that you have the run of the place so far as I am concerned. The guests’ rooms are, of course, another matter; I have no authority to allow you access to them.’
‘It may not be necessary,’ said Holmes. ‘If there is any difficulty in that direction, then of course the police will have to be brought into the matter, but we will seek to do what we can without any unpleasantness in the first instance.’
‘That is all I can ask. I take it you will be staying here?’ said Morrison. ‘I have arranged a room for you – rather cramped, I fear, as it is a sort of box room by rights, but it was that or the room lately occupied by poor Benjamin Morgan, and I naturally thought –’
‘I am sure your choice will be excellent,’ said Holmes. ‘If I might leave my bag in the room, and then take a look round – Morgan’s room first, I think, and then the room where the crime took place?’
Morrison showed Holmes his room, which was not so cramped as the secretary had suggested, and then led the way to another door, which he unlocked.