by John Hall
‘All is as it was,’ he said. ‘The police have had a look round, of course, but no-one else has been in.’
‘That is a blessing!’ murmured Holmes sadly.
Morrison made as if to lead the way into the room, but Holmes held up a hand. ‘I am sure you have better things to do,’ he said. ‘Watson and I are perfectly accustomed to working alone. Might I have the key? I shall, of course, return it to you, and you may be sure that I shall not hesitate to consult you in case of need.’ And with that, he moved swiftly inside the door. Morrison seemed nonplussed for a moment, then nodded and went off back to his own room.
‘Right, Watson,’ said Holmes, moving aside to allow me in. ‘We shall take a quick look round, although I fear that the passage of time and the presence of an official throng will have conspired to render our task useless.’
‘What are we seeking?’ I said.
‘Anything out of the ordinary.’
We looked, but there was nothing untoward. The only thing of interest I noticed was a photograph of a woman, past the first blush of youth, and striking rather than conventionally attractive in appearance, by the bedside.
‘His wife, I take it,’ said Holmes. ‘It is a fine photograph.’
‘He was, of course, a portrait photographer,’ I said. ‘Probably took it himself – if he did so, it is no wonder he had a considerable reputation for his work.’
‘H’mm. Nothing else? There are no personal letters, you see.’
‘No, but then he was on holiday. He probably dealt with his correspondence before leaving home, and never thought to have his post redirected here. I did exactly the same,’ I said.
‘Very likely. Well, there seems nothing here to point us in the direction of the truth, so shall we view the scene of the crime?’
He locked the door after us, and I led the way downstairs, and into the dining room.
‘Now, Watson,’ said Holmes, rubbing his hands with some eagerness, ‘to work! Where was the body discovered?’
‘In here,’ I said, leading the way. ‘You see there is a little porch affair, an old doorway to the original house, as I would judge, and it was there that the crime took place.’
‘Ah, a telephone!’ said Holmes, shaking his head. ‘You may recall, Doctor, that I have had my doubts about the advisability of opening one’s door to the instrument.’
‘Really, Holmes! You surely cannot blame the telephone for what happened?’
‘Think you not? And yet, Watson, there may be deep significance in this location, may there not? In the fact that the telephone is here, where the murder took place?’
‘How so?’
‘Well, Doctor, consider this possibility. This man, Morgan, discovers some heinous crime in commission, or about to be committed. His first thought is naturally to inform the police. The house is isolated, he cannot easily reach the local bobby – but wait! He has seen the telephone, and knows that the local police station is also likely to have the instrument. He comes in here, to pass on what he knows, but the criminal finds out that Morgan knows something, and pursues him. Morgan enters the cubicle, but the criminal, desperate to avoid detection, pulls open the door, and – ’ and he stabbed viciously at the empty air.
‘You think that is what happened?’ I asked.
‘Not for a moment. But it is certainly one explanation, is it not? The sort of thing which – albeit unlikely – just may have occurred.’ He stared at the interior of the porch. ‘Watson, Watson! I had such hopes of Forrester! But the best of them will not learn to leave things alone! Why has the inside been cleaned?’
‘Well, Holmes, the ordinary business of the house – it would have been rather gruesome – and in any event, a thorough search was made, so Forrester assured me.’
‘Indeed?’ Holmes stared at the telephone for a time. ‘It occurs to me that we may have a clue in our hands at the outset. Had Morgan made a telephone call and hung up, or was he killed before he could lift the receiver?’
‘The exchange would know!’ I said.
‘Indeed, and we must ask without delay.’ Holmes was about to lift the receiver, when he was interrupted by Inspector Forrester entering the room.
‘Mr Holmes, delighted to see you again, sir. Though I could wish that it were under happier circumstances,’ said Forrester.
‘As could I. Why did you say that the porch might be cleaned?’ asked Holmes sharply.
‘It had been subjected to a scrupulous examination, sir, and it could hardly be left as it was. Not that there was too much amiss, a little blood on the floor, nothing more. But it would not have been proper to leave it like that. You have my solemn assurance that there was nothing of importance there.’
‘H’mm. Well, I shall have to take your word for it, Inspector. Watson here has just remarked that the exchange could tell us whether Morgan had in fact made a telephone call before he was killed.’
‘The point had struck me, sir,’ said Forrester. ‘I asked this morning, and the girl at the exchange remembered that there were but two calls from the house yesterday afternoon, and on both occasions the caller was trying a London number – the same number in each case – which did not reply. That would have been Mr Gregson, from my enquiries.’
‘A pity. I had hoped that Morgan’s call might have told us something. I suppose there is no means of knowing to whom he had intended to speak?’
‘Not without a crystal ball, Mr Holmes. I had thought the same – indeed, I had entertained a sort of wild hope that Mr Morgan might have been speaking on the telephone when – when it happened, and that the person on the other end might have told us something. But, if he never made his call, then we are in the realms of guesswork.’
‘As you say, Inspector. Has there been a full post-mortem dissection of the body?’
‘There has, sir, but there was nothing to alter the opinion which the police surgeon and Dr Watson here had already formed – death caused by a single stab wound to the heart, and the weapon left in the wound.’
‘You have the weapon here?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Forrester produced a silk handkerchief, in which was wrapped the letter opener I had seen yesterday, the stains on it now a dull rust colour.
Holmes examined it carefully with his lens. ‘There is a finger mark here,’ he said.
(I may add that finger marks were what is called ‘all the rage’ at that time. There were even moves afoot to establish a Fingerprint Bureau at Scotland Yard, although it was not actually set up until a couple of years after the case of which I am writing.)
‘Yes, sir,’ said Forrester, ‘that is the mark of Mr Gregson’s index finger. One of my men has a turn for scientific detection, and he examined the mark. He’s a keen sort of chap, Mr Holmes, and I’m sure that even you would approve of his methods. He also told me that the smudges you see there “might be anything”.’
‘I would concur there,’ said Holmes with a smile. ‘And I am sure that his opinion of the clearer mark is correct.’
‘It does not help much, though,’ I pointed out, ‘for you might reasonably expect a man’s own finger marks to be seen on his own letter opener.’
‘True enough, Watson,’ said Holmes.
‘Well, Mr Holmes,’ said Forrester, ‘if there’s nothing more I can do?’
‘I think not, Inspector. I shall inform you if I find anything out. You have formed no opinion yourself?’
‘Only that things look very bad against Mr Gregson, sir. Could I but find a motive, I might be tempted to put the handcuffs on him.’
‘He seemed genuinely upset last night,’ I said. ‘If his distress were feigned, then he is the best actor I have ever seen – yourself not excepted, Holmes.’
‘And he was upset at finding the body yesterday, according to the gardener,’ added Forrester.
‘You are both quite convinced, then?’ said Holmes.
‘Are you not?’ said Forrester.
‘Well, he might truly be the best actor the world has ever seen!�
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‘Really, Holmes!’ I said. ‘Be he never so brilliant an actor, it would surely have occurred to him that a safer course of action – were he the murderer – would be to sneak out quietly and unobserved.’
‘A touch, Watson! But then he could not guarantee that he would be unobserved – he might have been seen leaving the dining room, and then what chance would he have of escaping justice? I believe that you told me yesterday evening that he had bloodstained trousers?’
‘The blood got there when the body fell against him,’ said Forrester. ‘Or so he claims.’
‘Or so he claims. But what if the blood got there when he stabbed Morgan? Gregson looks down, sees the stains which he knows will incriminate him. What can he do? Under different circumstances he might wash the trousers, or burn them. But he is not at home – the kitchen is occupied by curious servants, and similarly if he were to order a fire lit in his room on a hot summer’s day, there would certainly be talk amongst the maids, and then questions to answer later. A clever man might conclude that the safest course of action was the boldest, and pretend to having found the body. His shouts of terror might have been intended to lend verisimilitude – after all, who suspects a frightened man?’
‘A clever man indeed!’ I said, ‘for he must needs have thought it out fast – damned fast. Remember that he would have had to decide on such a course of action on the spur of the moment. He did not have the time – as you have had the time, Holmes – to sit and think the problem through over a pipe or two of Bradley’s strongest.’
Holmes laughed in his peculiar noiseless fashion. ‘You are right, as always, Watson. A clever man indeed! Or a bold man,’ he added thoughtfully.
‘Or a desperate man?’ suggested Forrester.
‘A madman?’ I contributed.
Holmes stared at me. ‘I confess I had not considered that possibility fully, Watson. Yet it is not without consequence, for I understand that there is evidence to show that no strangers approached the house from outside?’
Forrester nodded. ‘The gardeners were outside the whole time,’ he said. ‘They are good chaps – just working men, of course, but honest enough – and they are none of them involved with the house, or anyone inside it.’
‘In which case, be Gregson the murderer or no, the real murderer was – and still is – inside the house,’ said Holmes.
‘I had worked that out myself, sir,’ said Forrester. ‘I’ll confess that Dr Watson is a braver man than I am, to stay here last night knowing what he did know.’
‘Oh, I locked my door!’ I said. ‘And took a hefty ash stick to bed with me, in the absence of any better weapon.’
‘That reminds me,’ said Holmes, taking my old revolver from his pocket and handing it to me. ‘I trust you may not need it, but better safe than sorry. It’s this way,’ he went on, ‘if the murderer had some reason for his crime, if he intended to kill Morgan and nobody else, then the house is safe enough, all we have to concern ourselves with is tracking the killer down. But if the murderer is indeed a madman, as Watson has suggested, or if Morgan were not the only man against whom the murderer has some grievance, whether real or imagined, then there may be further unpleasantness to come.’
‘You take that possibility seriously?’ asked Forrester.
‘It is a possibility,’ said Holmes. ‘Although I have some hopes that the police interest in the case, and – dare I say it? – the presence of Watson and myself in the house, may help to prevent further mischief, if indeed any such had been projected. But it is clear that the murderer – unless he really were that madman whom Watson has postulated – must have had, or at any rate thought he had, some grievance against Morgan. And as we have said, it may be that the murderer has, or believes he has, some grievance against one or more of the other men who are staying here. That being so, it is very necessary that we should question the occupants of the house to determine their various relations with one another.’
‘Then I shall leave you to it,’ said Forrester, and after the usual civilities he suited the action to the words, and Holmes and I were alone in the dining room once more.
‘Now, Watson, let us start in good earnest. You have some acquaintance with the men here, and I do not. Where shall we begin?’
‘Morrison, the secretary, asked them all not to go too far from the house until you had seen each of them, so they should all be somewhere close to hand. Perhaps we should look in the sitting room, for they are probably in there, or some of them at least.’
I led the way to the sitting room. It was empty save for Lane, who sat in a chair by the French window scribbling in his notebook. He rose to greet us as we entered.
‘Ah,’ said he, holding out his hand, ‘this must be the famous Mr Sherlock Holmes.’
I believe that I have already remarked on Lane’s cynical sense of humour. There was something of that in his greeting, but I thought I could detect another element as well – might it be envy, perhaps? Or could it possibly be – fear?
However, Holmes did not appear to notice anything out of the ordinary, and murmured the usual courtesies. ‘I imagine that you and Dr Watson get on famously,’ Holmes added, ‘since you are both literary men.’
Lane laughed. ‘I fear that I rather shocked Dr Watson last night, by revealing that I contemplated writing some account of this sad business for publication.’
‘Ah!’ said Holmes, ‘you must not mind Watson! He is so used to having it all his own way when it comes to furnishing the reading public with tales of my doings. It may perhaps be no bad thing to have a fresh approach. Indeed, I have on occasion been obliged to criticize Watson for his emphasis on the more sensational aspects of the various problems with which I have been associated.’
From the look on Lane’s face, I could tell that this was a blow – he had evidently been counting on those ‘sensational aspects’ in large measure to provide the material for his proposed book. For the rest, I was in no sense offended by Holmes’s remarks, for I was well enough aware that he intended merely to win Lane’s confidence, so that the ensuing interview might go the easier.
‘If I might have just a very few words?’ said Holmes.
‘Mr Morrison asked us to tell you anything you wished to know,’ said Lane. ‘I must say, it is something of a novelty to be a suspect in a murder investigation. Quite thrilling, in fact.’
‘I hardly think that we shall consider you very seriously as a suspect,’ said Holmes with a laugh. ‘After all, I understand that this was your first visit to the house, so you had – presumably – never met Morgan before?’
‘Ah, but you cannot be sure,’ said Lane, with more confidence than he had hitherto shown. ‘How do you know, Mr Holmes, that I am not Morgan’s long-lost nephew, come back from foreign parts to murder him and claim my inheritance?’
‘You may be sure that I shall look closely even into that remote possibility,’ said Holmes calmly. ‘By the by, you are not Morgan’s long-lost nephew, or anything of that sort, are you?’
‘Indeed, no!’ said Lane, obviously impressed by Holmes’s demeanour. ‘I was merely trying to show that the solution to the puzzle may not be the obvious one.’
‘It was very kind of you to point that out, and you may be quite sure that I shall bear it firmly in mind,’ said Holmes. ‘Now, I imagine that you have yourself done a little in the way of looking into the problem, even in the short time since the murder took place. So perhaps you would favour us with any theories you may have formed, or any information you have unearthed.’
Lane looked at him in some surprise. ‘Why, yes! I don’t know how you knew, but you are right, I have done a little looking about.’ He leaned back in his chair, evidently flattered that Holmes had seen fit to consult him. ‘How, in general terms, do you imagine the crime was committed?’
‘Well, in very general terms, I understand that the murderer probably came through the house into the dining room, opened the door to the porch, and – did the deed.’
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�So the police think,’ said Lane. ‘But the murderer could equally well have approached the porch from the outside, through the garden.’
‘But I understood that there was someone in the garden the whole time?’ said Holmes.
‘So it was said. But I have discovered that there was a short time – at the right time, for the murderer – when the back garden was empty. By the way,’ he asked, ‘can a garden be described as empty? I mean, of course, that there was nobody out there – unless, of course, the murderer happened to be out there.’
‘Indeed?’ said Holmes. ‘That is contrary to my information.’
‘I imagine it is,’ said Lane, a smug smile on his face. ‘At around three o’clock, Welsh and his assistant came to the house for a cup of tea. Welsh stayed inside, as you know, and the lad went back out. But – and I discovered this only this morning by talking to Welsh – the lad had occasion to answer a call of nature. He used the domestic offices by the side of the house, then went to the kitchen to wash his hands, and only then did he take his cup of tea outside.’
‘He cannot have been away from the garden for very long, surely?’ I said.
Lane shrugged. ‘Five minutes? Perhaps ten? Who can say? But, be the time never so short, for a time he was not outside, and thus could not observe the back of the house.’
‘That is something I did not know,’ said Holmes. ‘It illustrates once again the inadvisability of taking things for granted. Yes, the police – not to speak of Watson and myself – ought to have enquired as to that.’
‘Even so,’ I said, stung slightly by the implied criticism, ‘I cannot see that it alters matters very much. After all, if the murderer did approach via the garden, then he would have been obliged to wait until the men were out of the way. He could not possibly guarantee that Morgan would actually be inside the porch at the time in question. Nor could he legitimately rely on the state of the assistant gardener’s digestive tract! The lad might well have been back outside immediately, and then the murderer would have been in trouble, with a vengeance.’