by John Hall
‘The point is a valid one,’ said Holmes.
Lane said, ‘But the objection is not insuperable. If the murderer knew the ways of the house, he would know that Welsh went for his tea at three o’clock each day – regular as clockwork – I noticed that myself last week. What more natural than to assume – albeit incorrectly – that the assistant would do precisely the same? Welsh is frequently indoors for five or ten minutes. Not always, I agree, but often enough. The murderer may well have assumed that he had a clear run for that ten minutes – ten minutes in which to commit his crime.’
‘H’mm. That may well be so,’ said Holmes. ‘Of course, there is another, and more powerful, objection to all this.’
‘Indeed?’ asked Lane.
‘You do not see it? No matter. Now, I must ask you this – where were you at three o’clock yesterday afternoon?’
Lane looked shamefaced. ‘I was in the library.’
‘Which is right next door to the dining room?’
Lane nodded, without speaking.
‘And yet you heard nothing?’ asked Holmes.
‘The fact is, I was a little sleepy after luncheon yesterday – it was curried chicken, one of my particular favourites, and I had a generous portion – so I went in there to rest for a moment or two. I succeeded so well that I fell asleep.’
‘Only think,’ I could not help myself saying, ‘had you been awake and alert, you might have caught the murderer red-handed! Or even prevented the crime! That would be something to write a book about!’
‘I scarcely think that amusing, sir,’ said Lane coldly.
‘Indeed not! Most unseemly!’ said Holmes, adding rather mischievously, ‘And if the murderer had been interrupted or discovered, who can say but that there may not have been two victims instead of one?’
‘Good God!’ said Lane. ‘I never thought of that! Thank Heaven for that second helping of curry!’
‘Your presence in the library, awake or not, does tend to confirm that the murderer did not approach from the garden,’ Holmes remarked thoughtfully. ‘After all, he could not be certain that the library was unoccupied, or that any occupant might be dozing. For that matter,’ he added, getting to his feet and walking over to the French window, which stood open in the heat, ‘the murderer could not be sure that there would be no-one in this room. I observe that there is a very limited view of the garden from the chairs in here, but by walking through this window and proceeding only a couple of paces –’ and he did just that as he spoke – ‘a man may obtain a fine prospect of the entire garden.’
‘Tomlinson was in here yesterday afternoon,’ volunteered Lane. ‘And Pountney was upstairs in his room, which also commands a view of the garden at this side of the house. Or at least, that is where they claim to have been.’
‘What, indoors on a hot day like yesterday?’ said Holmes. ‘Still, it does lend yet more weight to the theory that the murderer approached from inside the house.’
‘You mean it was one of them? Or should I say, “one of us”, perhaps?’ said Lane.
‘I did not say so.’
Lane stood up. ‘If there is nothing more, Mr Holmes? I could do with a little fresh air, to clear my head.’
‘Nothing more for the time being, sir,’ said Holmes.
Lane nodded to us, and went out through the French window into the garden.
‘Well Watson?’ asked Holmes, when Lane was out of earshot.
‘One of the guests described him as an impertinent puppy, or something of that sort, yesterday,’ I said, ‘and I am bound to say that I concur entirely with that view. That apart, there are a couple of interesting points. First of all, Lane’s discovery that there was no-one outside for a short while alters matters quite considerably, does it not?’
‘It certainly alters them slightly.’
‘More than slightly, I should say, Holmes. We have assumed that no outsider – a tramp, or gypsy, or something of that sort – could have killed Morgan. But, if there were nobody in the garden at the time in question, then such an unknown assailant might well have reached the house unobserved.’
‘It is indeed a point,’ said Holmes, ‘but not as significant as you seem to think, Watson. For one thing, a tramp or a gypsy might very well come up to the house to steal, but surely not to kill? Why should a stranger kill Morgan, unless it were in the heat of the moment, if, shall we say, Morgan had interrupted him in his pilfering? And that seems unlikely – your convenient unknown itinerant would lurk outside the house, and Morgan was inside. For another thing – more significant yet – there is the problem of the weapon. I understand that Gregson claims it was upstairs, in his room? Well, then, how came it to be downstairs in the first place? The very fact of its being used as a weapon has – quite understandably – overshadowed the equally important fact of its being removed from Gregson’s room at all.’
‘I never thought of that! Why, if we could find who took it from the room, we might also find the murderer!’ And, being somewhat unwilling to abandon my own theory, I added, ‘An outsider might have taken it, though, and used it to kill Morgan when he tried to prevent the thief leaving the house!’
‘Hardly, Watson! That would mean that the thief must have entered the house before either Gregson or Morgan went into the porch to use the telephone, and we know that is out of the question, for Welsh and his fellows were outside earlier. But you are right in saying that if we could find the man who took the letter opener, we might go a long a way towards solving the mystery. Bear in mind, Watson, that a man who steals one item may well steal others. Has anything else been taken from any of the rooms, I wonder?’
‘Nobody has said as much. But then the lamentable events of yesterday afternoon have, as you say, put everything else in the shade.’
‘Let us imagine for a moment that one of the guests is a thief.’
‘Holmes!’
‘Merely for the sake of argument, my dear fellow. He enters Gregson’s room, takes the silver letter opener, perhaps other desirable items, and leaves the room. Morgan sees him leaving. Now, if the thief had an armful of swag, of course Morgan would be immediately suspicious. But if the thief had stowed his booty in his pockets – small, but valuable items – then Morgan might think that the thief had been in Gregson’s room legitimately, to smoke a cigar with Gregson, say, or that he had looked in to say that he was off to the village and to ask if he could carry out any small commission for Gregson, that kind of thing. In a place like this, the guests – and especially if they know one another well – probably look in on one another two or three times a day.’
‘True enough. Morgan might not suspect anything immediately, but the thief would know that as soon as Gregson raised the alarm about the theft, then at that point Morgan would recall what he had seen.’
Holmes nodded.
‘So your first theory about Morgan’s being killed to prevent his telling what he knew might be correct!’ I said. ‘Still, it does seem a big step, Holmes, from what is frankly little more than petty theft to murder. Were I – Heaven forbid! – ever in such reduced circumstances that I must steal from my acquaintances, then if I feared discovery I would not kill and face the noose. Instead, I should stuff my pockets with the most valuable plunder, and clear off, take the first train out of the place, lose myself in the crowds of London with a false beard and a false name.’
‘That is one obvious objection. You had other points to raise, I believe?’
‘Indeed I had. I shall trade you information for information. In the first place, everyone says that Gregson kicked up a considerable fuss when he found Morgan’s body. How came Lane to sleep through the noise, two helpings of curry notwithstanding?’
‘Well done! I had wondered about that myself.’
‘And then, did you notice Lane’s behaviour when you first came in here?’
‘Oh, you felt that, too, then? Yes, Watson, I seemed to note a rather curious demeanour. But that does not necessarily imply guilt. An innocent man co
nfronted by the forces of the law may well feel unsettled.’
‘Rather as a man may dread a visit to his dentist, though he knows perfectly well that his teeth are sound?’
‘Your parallel is exact,’ said Holmes, laughing. ‘No, I would not attach too much importance to his bearing, were that all. After all, even an older man, a man of the world, may well feel upset at such a dramatic event as murder. Lane is young, he is a stranger here, among older men, men whom he does not know, men who have perhaps offered him a cigar, played billiards with him, told him tall stories. It would not be too unbelievable if the thought of one of those men being a murderer unsettled him, now would it? But your first point, about his sleeping through the noise made by Gregson, is, as you say, most interesting. I feel strongly that there is something we have not seen yet, something we have not been told, perhaps, and we shall keep Mr Lane in mind. Now, what would you have me tell you in exchange?’
‘Really, Holmes!’ I said. ‘You know very well! First of all, how did you know that Lane would have been making enquiries?’
‘There is no mystery there. He plans a book about what has happened. What more natural than that he should do a little research on his own account? The urge to amateur detection is quite irresistible! And understandable – after all, if he could solve the crime himself, that would do sales of his book no harm, now would it? You surely do not tell me, Watson, that you yourself had no such aspirations before I got here?’
‘Certainly not!’ I said, adding hastily, ‘Well, then, what was the objection to the murderer’s approaching from the garden, the objection which Lane failed to see, and which you glossed over?’
‘Ah, yes, now that is a little more to the point. And, of course, you mentioned it yourself, in passing.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Indeed. Do you not recall the circumstance?’
‘For Heaven’s sake, Holmes!’
‘Well, then. Tell me, Watson, you examined the outer door of the porch pretty thoroughly, did you not?’
‘Pretty thoroughly, Holmes.’
‘Describe it to me.’
‘Oak, heavy oak, old, black, three inches thick. Perhaps a couple of hundred years old. Heavy iron latch, and a modern – and effective – Chubb lock. Oh, and studded on the outside with square-headed iron nails, for decorative effect.’
Holmes clapped his hands. ‘Excellent! Oh – any window?’
‘Oh, of course, I forgot – four tiny panes, set high up. Odd glass, old – I can’t remember what you call it – like the bottom of a glass bottle. Greenish-grey, practically opaque. Useless for illumination.’
‘And worse for seeing through?’
‘Absolutely! But – Good God, Holmes!’
‘You see, Watson?’
‘I see – where the murderer could not, or at least not from the garden.’
‘Where the murderer could not,’ repeated Holmes slowly. ‘You said yourself that the murderer could not guarantee Morgan’s presence in the porch – I would go further, and say that the murderer could not even be aware of it! If the murderer had been in the garden, he cannot have been up near the house, or the gardeners would have seen him. Therefore he must have been at the far end, where it is quite overgrown. He would have seen Gregson go in from the garden using the outer door, but could not have seen him leave – and Morgan enter – via the inner door and the dining room. The only way you could see that is through the French window in the corner of the dining room – and even then you would have to stand at the side of the house near the kitchen door. You must approach the house, and the kitchen door, so closely that you must be seen by the occupants of the kitchen.’
‘And the same applies to anyone looking out from the house,’ I said. ‘They would also see Gregson come in from the garden, but not go out through the dining room.’
‘An excellent point,’ said Holmes. ‘So that even if the murderer did approach the porch through the house, as we have thought, it may still have been the case –’
‘That he thought Gregson was still inside the porch!’
Holmes nodded. ‘And certainly anyone looking at the house from the garden must have thought that.’
‘But, Holmes! If your theory is correct –’ I stopped, my head whirling.
‘Yes, Doctor?’
‘If Gregson were the intended victim, and not Morgan – why, that means that the murderer failed!’
Holmes nodded.
‘But then he might try again, Holmes!’
‘He might indeed, Doctor.’
‘But should we not tell Gregson this?’
‘Tell me what?’
I glanced up in some considerable surprise, and perhaps even with a muttered imprecation, for it was Gregson himself, looking pale and drawn, who had just entered the room. He threw himself wearily into an armchair, and asked again, ‘Tell me what?’
Chapter Four
‘And for that matter,’ Gregson asked Holmes, ‘who might you be?’
‘My name is Sherlock Holmes.’
‘Ah, yes, the renowned private detective of Baker Street. We were informed that you had been summoned, and here you are! Well, sir, you might have saved yourself a fatiguing journey,’ said Gregson, recovering his spirits somewhat, ‘for the police think I did the foul deed – and everyone in the house seems to agree with ’em. Not that I can blame them, I must say. Why, if I didn’t know for certain that I was innocent, I’m damned if I wouldn’t suspect myself!’
‘I can assure you, sir,’ said Holmes, ‘that I have not jumped to any such conclusion, and nor has Dr Watson.’
‘And you wouldn’t say as much if you had, in any case, eh? After all, if you let on that you suspected me, I might attack you – I haven’t got a knife about me at the moment, but I could do some damage with this –’ and he waved a hunk of bread at us as he spoke. Subsiding slightly, and sounding rather ashamed of himself, he added, ‘You will excuse my manners, gentlemen, but I am under somewhat of a strain just at the moment. Excuse also my informal meal – but I simply could not face the accusing looks at breakfast, and I was famished. I wheedled this from Mrs Welsh – she is a good soul, though somewhat limited in her outlook. Indeed, she is perhaps the only one in the house who does not think me a murderer, or a madman, or both.’
‘I think it quite likely that you are the innocent victim of circumstances,’ said Holmes calmly. ‘But in order to convince the police of that, I must present them with the real culprit, and that necessitates asking some few questions of the various guests in the house, yourself included.’
Gregson nodded, and said through a mouthful of bread, ‘I see that. Fire away, sir!’
Holmes threw his cigarette case to Gregson. ‘You seem in need of a sedative, so help yourself. Now, how long had you known the murdered man?’
‘About half my life, or a little longer,’ said Gregson, wiping away a stray crumb, then lighting a cigarette and blowing out an enormous cloud of blue smoke.
‘Indeed? I had formed the impression that you met here, for some reason.’
‘Not at all. As a matter of fact, we went to art school together. We were never close friends, don’t ask me why – there was no sort of active hostility, not then, we just moved in different circles.’
‘You said “not then”. There was what you called “active hostility” later, though?’
Gregson looked somewhat ashamed. ‘There were some discussions as to what exactly constituted “Art” and what did not. Those sometimes became a little – and more than a little – acrimonious.’
‘H’mm. Acrimonious or no, it certainly seems a very trivial casus belli,’ said Holmes.
Gregson gave an indifferent shrug of his shoulders. ‘Not worth killing for, you mean? I would quite agree with you there.’
‘Come, sir,’ said Holmes. ‘We are all men of the world. Unless you are forthright with me, I can hardly be expected to help you – for I will tell you frankly that it seems that the police do entertain some suspicions
of you. And this childish nonsense as to what may or may not be “Art” hardly seems a reason for murder.’
Gregson shrugged his shoulders again.
‘You have come under suspicion, and for murder,’ said Holmes again. ‘If you are arrested, tried and found guilty, I need not remind you of the penalty which the law exacts. If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear from me.’
Gregson looked suitably abashed, but still hesitated before he spoke. ‘It is an old tale,’ he said at last. ‘And a sordid enough tale, in all conscience. I fear it may shock you, for all your worldly pretensions.’
‘You had best let us be the judges of that,’ said Holmes.
‘Very well. But remember that I tried to warn you.’ Gregson drew on his cigarette, and blew out a great cloud of smoke. ‘We were both young men, Benjamin Morgan and I, at the very threshold of our respective careers. Perhaps not exactly starving in the proverbial garret, but not so very far away from it at times. There was an art dealer, a lady – dead now, I fear, but her name might at one time have been familiar even to you – and she had a small but exclusive gallery in London. Her shows were famous throughout the country, and abroad. Mostly the exhibitors were equally famous, names of some consequence in artistic circles. It chanced that between two of these notable displays there was a gap in the calendar, and she bethought herself to encourage a young, struggling artist. Quite by chance she narrowed the choice down to Ben Morgan and myself – and I emphasize that it was by chance, for, as I told you, we were never close, and by that time we had quite lost touch. Now, there could be but one exhibition, and there were two artists – the gallery was scarcely big enough to display work by both of us. So, was it to be the progressive sculptor, or the brilliant photographer? It was difficult to choose on the basis of our work, and so the lady decided to apply another criterion.’ He drew on his cigarette.
Holmes raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes?’
‘Oh, dear!’ sighed Gregson. ‘Are you really so naive? Well, then – the lady’s customers collected works of art. The lady herself, however, had other tastes. She collected young men. Do I positively need to elaborate?’