Sherlock Holmes and the Telephone Murder Mystery

by John Hall

  ‘Was Lane in there?’

  Davenport shook his head.

  ‘He had apparently been sleeping in the library earlier,’ said Holmes.

  ‘He certainly was not there when I went in. I did not see him until much later, mooching about with that damned notebook. Things were very confused, though, as you may imagine. Gregson was very upset, and I could not at first make out why, or what had happened. The police arrived very soon after I did, they took Gregson into the kitchen, I think, to speak privately to him, and it was only then that I got the chance to ask the others what the trouble was. I have seldom been so shocked in my life, and I could quite see why Gregson had been in such a state. The police questioned us all in our turn – they did not waste too much time on me, I’m pleased to say, not when once I had told them that I had not been in the place. And then they cleared us out of the library, to take poor Morgan’s body in for the surgeon to see him.’

  ‘Thank you, that is very clear. Tell me, what reason would anyone have to kill Benjamin Morgan?’

  Davenport shook his head. ‘I’m damned if I can tell you. I always got on very well with him, and I think most of the others here did as well. Oh, there were odd differences of opinion, right enough – when are there not? But nothing so bad as to murder for.’

  ‘Had you known him long?’

  ‘About ten years. We almost worked together once, that is how I came to meet him.’

  ‘Almost?’

  ‘Almost, but not quite.’ Davenport stood up, surprisingly briskly for a man of his size, strode across to a shelf, and picked up a magazine the cover of which I recognised at once. ‘The Strand, you see,’ said Davenport. ‘No wonder your fame precedes you, Mr Holmes! Now,’ and he turned the magazine over to show the back cover, ‘this is an example of the sort of work I do, producing plates for manufacturers wishing to advertise their wares, or illustrations for books on shells, or flowers, or the other diversions of the leisured classes. It is scarcely to be described as “Art” in any capital-letter sense, but it is a living. Oh, I produce my own creative engravings, prints which might reasonably have some pretensions to genuine artistic merit and originality, but I have never made any real money from those. It is, I fear, an old story.’

  Holmes nodded.

  ‘Rather like Pear’s Soap and Bubbles do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Exactly, Doctor, save that in that instance the artist got full credit for his work. Well,’ Davenport continued, ‘some ten years ago, I was approached by an old-established firm of corn chandlers. They had an idea for a patent oatmeal, which would take the country by storm, turn our notions of breakfast on their heads. “The new oatmeal for the new century!” – that was how they intended to sell it. And, being so new and up-to-date, they wanted no Bubbles, no mere painting, to advertise the new oatmeal. No, nothing would do but the new art of photography – they proposed to take photographs of engaging little urchins actually eating the substance!’

  ‘What was it called?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, it never was put on the shelves. They tried it out on some of those same urchins, and they hated it. As did I – dreadful stuff, tasted rather of rotten eggs.’

  ‘Intriguing though these revelations are,’ said Holmes sternly, ‘I rather fear –’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Holmes. Well, they had seen the success that Bubbles had been for the soap people, and they wanted to hire a famous photographer for their advertising pictures, include his name in the plate and so on. They asked me to contact Ben, who had already a considerable reputation as a portrait photographer.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he simply hit the roof! He was furious. He did not actually use the phrase “prostituting his art”, or anything, but you could tell that was how he saw it. Ben had his own ideas, you see.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘Nothing, really. Ben stuck to his principles and his portraits, I started work with another photographer, and then the corn merchants decided not to bother after all, and the whole enterprise fell through.’

  ‘And you met Morgan again here?’

  ‘He introduced me to the place. Indeed, we became firm friends, after he had initially blown me up as he did. We still differed about “Art”, of course, he still rather looked down on me for my commercial work, though he seldom actually said as much.’ Davenport laughed. ‘It is strange, for then Gregson rather looked down on Ben in his turn, because Gregson does not consider photography to be an art form! You would see for yourselves if you spent any length of time here. There is almost a – a hierarchy is not the right word – but there are gradations, shades of opinion as to what is legitimate art and what is not. Very odd.’

  ‘The artistic temperament?’ I suggested.

  ‘Just so, Doctor.’

  ‘Did these – gradations of belief – ever cause open dissension here?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Indeed they did! We have had many a heated discussion on the topic.’

  ‘And you took part in these – discussions?’

  ‘I started most of them,’ said Davenport, with a smile. ‘It seemed an excellent diversion to get Peter started on his hobby-horse and watch the fun. It probably seems pretty trivial, if not downright childish, to you, and I confess that it seems that way to me, now. But it did not always seem that way.’

  ‘Were tempers ever lost during these discussions?’

  Davenport hesitated.

  ‘Come, sir!’ said Holmes.

  ‘Well, occasionally. Peter can be infuriating sometimes. It is odd – he is an excellent sculptor, and very highly regarded by the critics and connoisseurs, and yet he feels constantly obliged to make himself look bigger by making others look smaller, if I make myself clear. He seems to have very little faith in his own talent and ability – I have not the jargon to describe it properly, though some of the more advanced German mental specialists might have a word for it.’

  ‘I am sure they would have,’ said Holmes. ‘But you say he infuriated you at times?’

  ‘There were times when I could cheerfully have scragged him,’ said Davenport. ‘But – just in case you were wondering – that would have been in the heat of the moment, and in broad daylight to boot, not in cold blood and by skulking in some dark cubbyhole.’

  ‘My dear sir! Nothing, I assure you, could have been further from my thoughts,’ said Holmes.

  Davenport subsided, somewhat mollified. ‘I apologize, sir,’ he said. ‘But this dreadful business has been eating at me like the worm i’ the bud, as someone once remarked.’

  ‘Then you will understand that the sooner we can clear it up, the better?’

  Davenport nodded. ‘Fire away!’

  ‘Can you think of anyone in the place with any reason to kill Morgan?’

  ‘No, sir, and I could swear to that on oath. Even Peter Gregson, although there was some inexplicable antipathy between them, never seemed to hate Ben, they just did not get on well together. Indeed, I would defy anyone to dislike Ben; you might differ with some of his opinions, but you could not help but like the man.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Was there anything else?’ Davenport asked. ‘I think a breath of fresh air would do me good at the moment.’

  ‘There was nothing else just now.’

  Davenport got up, nodded to us, and left the room. Holmes studied the Strand for a moment, then threw it back on the shelf. ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘This artistic temperament seems to excuse much,’ I said. ‘One might have one’s doubts, but it is a well-known phenomenon. Many of the great artists have led less than conventional lives – Cellini, for example.’

  ‘Yes. And that fellow who cut off his own ear.’

  ‘But he was a Dutchman, Holmes!’

  ‘Ah, that explains it, then. And –’ Holmes broke off as the door opened, and Jeremy Lane came into the library.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘I did not know anyone was in here,’ Lane said, pausing in the doorway.
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br />   Holmes waved a hand at the chairs, as Davenport had done earlier. ‘Please sit down,’ he said. ‘I should be grateful for your help with a few small problems.’

  Lane sat down, looking somewhat apprehensive. ‘Of course, if there is anything I can do to help –’ he said. ‘Although I fear –’

  ‘It is merely a small thing,’ said Holmes. ‘You were, you said, asleep in here when Gregson found the body?’

  ‘That is so. I woke up when they all came in here, Tomlinson and Pountney, I mean, bringing Gregson with them. I woke up then, all right, for he was still making a dreadful din!’

  ‘Yes, I am told that Gregson’s response to finding the body was somewhat dramatic. So noisy, in fact, that it brought Tomlinson from the sitting room, and even drew Pountney downstairs from his bedroom. I have known men who slept soundly, I allow – indeed, Watson takes some waking – but even so I find it curious that you should sleep through such an alarm.’

  Lane stared at the book-lined shelves. ‘Indeed. And, as I believe I have already said, I am very mindful of the fact that, had I been awake, I might have prevented the tragedy, or at the very least identified the guilty party.’

  ‘Well, we cannot be certain as to that. After all, there were others in the house. Welsh was next door in the kitchen when the murder took place, Tomlinson was in the sitting room, and neither of them seems to have seen or heard anything which might have prevented, or avenged, the crime,’ said Holmes. He waited, and when Lane said nothing, he added gently, ‘On the other hand, they both heard Gregson when he found the body. So you will understand that I am curious as to why you did not awaken?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Lane looked embarrassed. ‘The fact is – look here, Mr Holmes, everyone knows you, and Dr Watson here. But have you ever actually heard of Jeremy Lane? Before you were summoned here, that is?’

  ‘As Watson will tell you, my knowledge of literature is of the scantiest.’

  ‘And you, Doctor? You are yourself a man of letters, after all?’ Lane asked me.

  ‘I am a busy man, sir! I have not as much time as I should wish to keep up with today’s vast outpourings of literary works by all and sundry,’ said I stiffly.

  Lane laughed aloud. ‘Well said, Doctor! But, sir, I can assure you that had you all the time in the world, were you to subscribe to every periodical now being published, you would be hard put to it to know the name of Jeremy Lane. Oh, I have published one or two small pieces, delicate gems of poetry and prose – who has not? But –’ and here he broke off and glanced at the door, which was closed – ‘you will please to treat this as strictly between ourselves? The fact is, my first post after leaving college was in a City firm. I had a taste for writing, and – as I thought – some small talent. A modest legacy some three years ago prompted me to chuck the job in and try writing. I soon realised that my small talent was small indeed, or so editors and publishers seem to think. Things have gone badly – damned badly, to be brutally frank – and the modest legacy is now well-nigh exhausted. I came down here partly by way of an intermission from the constant worry about what is to become of me, and partly to see if I could not drum up some new ideas. I have been sleeping poorly of late, and even the country air did not seem to help much. Yesterday I had a headache, with lack of sleep, perhaps, so I came in here and took a dose of laudanum. It got rid of the headache by the simple, but effective, expedient of putting me to sleep almost at once, and I knew nothing more until the party came in here, and all the racket started.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Holmes, ‘that quite explains it. Thank you. I am sorry your efforts have not met with the rewards which I am certain they deserve, but perhaps that will change in the near future?’

  ‘It is kind of you to say so,’ said Lane, ‘but I fear you are being overly optimistic.’ He stood up. ‘I think perhaps a turn in the grounds might clear my head.’

  ‘You are still not sleeping?’ I said.

  Lane shook his head.

  ‘Well,’ I told him, ‘laudanum is indeed effective, but I would not recommend its repeated use. I have seen too many men – aye, and women, too – become addicted to the stuff.’

  ‘I shall abjure it forthwith,’ said Lane, with some of his old cynicism, as he left the room.

  When Lane had gone, Holmes turned to me. ‘Would laudanum account for his not hearing Gregson?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, if the dose were large enough.’

  ‘So, we are to envisage Lane coming in here and taking a dose of laudanum because he had been suffering from insomnia –’ Holmes frowned. ‘But then why did he not simply go upstairs and take to his bed, I wonder?’

  ‘Perhaps he was not being quite honest with us?’ I suggested. ‘He did say that his Muse had deserted him – perhaps the truth is that he sought inspiration in the opiate, like de Quincey, or the “Ancient Mariner” fellow, Coleridge, was it?’

  ‘H’mm, that is certainly possible. Seeking his Muse in his drug-induced dreams. Dreams, I wonder – or nightmares? How say you to that notion, friend Watson?’

  ‘What, a nightmare? Killing Morgan under the impression that he was fighting some hideous phantasm? I suppose it is possible,’ I said doubtfully, ‘and I could not entirely rule it out, for I have known opium cause some odd hallucinations. But opium dreams are usually not accompanied by any great bodily activity – the dreamer remains in his chair, or on his bed. So the effect would be unusual, in my experience. With bhang, the hashish of the Arabs, perhaps, or that noisome Devil’s Foot Root we came across, but not the poppy, not as a rule.’

  ‘I bow to your greater knowledge of drugs.’ Holmes looked at his watch. ‘It is almost the hour for afternoon tea, so we might as well stay in here.’

  As he had said, it was not long before Mrs Welsh came in with the customary trays, cups and saucers, and what have you. I was not sorry to see a large cake on one plate, for I had not eaten since breakfast, and I fear that I have not Holmes’s single-mindedness of purpose. The other guests were not long in arriving, and Morrison introduced Holmes to those he had not yet had a chance to meet.

  The atmosphere was somewhat strained, I must confess, but perhaps that was only to be expected, under the circumstances. Holmes did his best to put the others at their ease, and with some success. I was delighted to see that he also found time to eat some bread and butter, and two portions of cake, for I had feared that he might be starving himself in order – as he would put it – that his reasoning powers might be the keener.

  I noticed further that Holmes approached Gregson, and had a quiet word with him. I could not guess what had been said, but when tea was over and there was a general move out of the library, Gregson remained behind, and when only the three of us were left, he said, ‘Here I am, Mr Holmes. What was so secret that it could not be said sooner?’

  ‘Nothing secret, not as such. Merely a few points requiring clarification. Did you ever find your lost palette knife, by the by?’

  Gregson shook his head. ‘I have not really looked for it, not properly. Other, and more pressing, matters have obtruded in an uncivil way, demanding my attention. I fear the palette knife is gone for ever. But, since the murder was not committed with it, it hardly seems important, does it?’

  ‘Hardly. When you came in from the garden, you closed the outer door behind you?’

  ‘I closed it, but did not lock it.’

  ‘And when Morgan went into the porch from the dining room, did he close the inner door?’

  ‘Yes, I saw it close as I left the dining room. He would naturally not wish to be overheard.’

  ‘Indeed not. Now, as you left the dining room to go to the front door, did you see or hear anyone else?’

  Gregson shook his head. ‘There was nobody about, Mr Holmes, I can swear to that.’

  ‘There could not possibly have been anyone concealed on the stairs, let us say?’

  Another shake of the head answered him. ‘I cannot believe so.’

  ‘Would you just run through the events of
yesterday afternoon once more, to be certain?’

  Gregson pulled a face, and sighed theatrically.

  ‘I know that it is difficult, and tiresome, and unsettling,’ said Holmes, ‘but I assure you that it is important.’

  ‘Very well. I tried to telephone Sarah just after luncheon – say two o’clock or just before. There was no answer. I went outside – I had already set up a small easel, and intended to do some painting or sketching. I tried to settle to that, without much success. I had been out there for some time, when Welsh and his assistant walked past me, and Welsh said, I think, “Time for tea”, something like that, and the assistant said, “A warm day”, as I recall. I had not realised it was so late – I had meant to try the telephone again and it was odd that I should have left it so long. I looked at my watch, made some remark about the lateness of the hour, how time flies, something quite trite of that kind, and said that I would try the telephone, if I recall correctly.’ He broke off, and asked, ‘Is this truly necessary?’

  ‘Your account is most detailed, and may be of the greatest use.’

  ‘If you say so. I came into the house –’

  ‘One moment,’ said Holmes. ‘You are certain there was no-one in the garden?’

  ‘Sure as eggs is eggs. Welsh and his lad will tell you the same. The whole place was deserted. In fact I have seldom known it so quiet, for on a warm day there is usually someone else around the garden. The air was hot, as you know, yesterday, still almost to the point of being oppressive. Even the birds seemed exhausted by the heat, and had grown tired of singing. It may all sound very poetic, but it is literally true. I am certain I should have known had anyone come into the garden.’