by John Hall
‘ “So that scurrility may have no nourishment”, as it were?’
‘The quoting of classical and medieval tags – even in translation – is symptomatic either of the successful conclusion of a case, or of bewilderment,’ said Holmes. ‘Since it is not the first, the trained logician would unhesitatingly conclude that it must thus be the second. Are we bewildered, Watson?’
‘Slightly, Holmes. The only point of such a deception would be to attempt to show that your theory is correct, and that Gregson was the murderer’s intended victim. And the only logical reason for Gregson’s wanting to prove the theory correct would be that it was not!’ I said. ‘And why should Gregson want us to think that Morgan was killed by mistake, so to speak, if he were not – unless Gregson himself really were the murderer?’
‘You sum it up in your inimitable fashion, Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘Why on earth should he try to fool us in so obvious a fashion? We had already pretty well accepted that it was Gregson’s death the murderer planned, and told him as much – if he is guilty, and he wanted to fool us, he had succeeded, or almost. Why then this very clumsy attempt to push us towards a conclusion we had already reached, when a child could see that it must have the opposite effect?’
‘Over-egging the pudding, as it were? Criminals do stupid things, though, Holmes. Grow over-confident, think the investigators are fools. After all, if Gregson did kill Morgan, then he has already taken a very dangerous course by drawing attention to his finding – or apparently finding – the body in the dramatic way that he did. It might be part and parcel of the same melodramatic character. He may simply be unable to help himself, to stop himself over-dramatizing.’
‘You are right, Watson. Criminals do stupid things.’ And he repeated slowly, ‘Criminals do stupid things. But then –’ He shook his head, and got up. ‘For all that, I am far from satisfied, Doctor. If Gregson –’ and he shook his head again. ‘Still,’ he added with a sudden quiet chuckle, ‘I think that possibility too may be covered by my plans for later this evening.’ And, before I could ask what those plans might be, he had nodded a farewell and left my room.
I washed and changed, and waited for Holmes to call for me. Together we collected Gregson, who was silent and seemingly deep in thought, and we all three went downstairs.
The mood at dinner was still not what it would have been under happier circumstances, but the others seemed relieved by Holmes’s presence, reassured that the mystery might soon be resolved. For his part, Holmes regaled the company with tales of our early exploits together – but I noticed that he carefully avoided mentioning any cases which involved murder, violence or sudden death. The meal went off, in short, far better than I had feared, and the evening passed quickly enough.
We had taken our coffee and cigars into the library, and the evening was fairly well advanced, when our relative tranquillity was disturbed by a ring at the front door. We looked at one another, wondering who it might be, until Mrs Welsh entered the room. She looked round, then spoke to Morrison. ‘It’s the police, sir,’ said she. ‘Inspector Forrester would like a word with you.’
Morrison, a worried look on his face, went out, to return a moment later. ‘I rather fear they want to talk to you, Gregson,’ he said.
Gregson raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He got up and left the room, and Holmes quickly followed him, closing the door behind him.
We could hear the inspector’s voice, though the words could not be made out, then Gregson said something, then Holmes’s rather penetrating voice – ‘Now, remember!’ – and then Gregson again said something, still indistinct. Then the front door banged shut, and Holmes came back into the library, alone.
There was a moment’s silence. ‘Well?’ I said, for it was clear that the others were too timid, or too polite, to ask what had happened.
‘Inspector Forrester has taken Gregson into custody,’ said Holmes, rubbing his hands with every indication of delight, though his face showed no emotion whatever.
Chapter Nine
I realised at once that this was Holmes’s doing, the result of his telephone call earlier that afternoon. The others, of course, did not realise it, and there was a moment’s pause, then everyone began to speak at once. When the din had eventually subsided somewhat, Morrison demanded, ‘They have really arrested him, then?’
‘So it would seem,’ said Holmes.
‘They must think him guilty, then!’ said Pountney.
And Tomlinson muttered, ‘Told you so!’ to the room at large.
‘Well!’ said Davenport. ‘I feel sorry for poor old Peter, but if he is guilty – well! And at any rate,’ he added in a shamefaced sort of way, ‘it does mean that the rest of us are no longer under that dreadful cloud of suspicion.’
‘It does indeed,’ said Morrison, consulting his watch. He stood up. ‘And, that being so, I will ask you to excuse me – I shall return home tonight, before it is quite dark. I shall be back tomorrow, of course.’ He left the room, and we heard the front door open and close again.
‘Well, Mr Holmes,’ said Davenport, ‘if this is your doing, then you have my most sincere thanks, sir.’
The rest of them expressed similar sentiments, but Holmes made no reply, beyond a smile or bow of the head. There was an almost palpable air of relief about the room, as though the storm had at last broken, and the intolerably oppressive atmosphere had given way to something which was at least recognisable, albeit still a touch unpleasant. The others all appeared to accept that Gregson had indeed killed Morgan, though only Tomlinson went so far as to say as much, and there was some inconclusive speculation as to the reason for the murder. Again, Holmes made only non-committal replies to the many questions that were very naturally addressed to him, and the conversation soon grew more general.
Whilst the others were discussing something or other, I took the opportunity to take Holmes on one side and ask him if Gregson’s ‘arrest’ were indeed his doing. He laughed in his peculiar silent fashion. ‘It was, Watson. We are safe either way, you see, for if he is innocent, and in danger, then – although his bed may be harder, and his tomorrow’s breakfast scantier, than he might have wished – at least he is safe where he is, for the moment.’
‘And if he is guilty, you get the credit for a speedy arrest!’
‘Well, at any rate Forrester does. But I own, Watson, that I am still far from happy – despite his inept performance earlier today.’
‘You think he may yet be innocent?’
‘Let us say that further enquiries may not come amiss. Fortunately, we have already taken much of our testimony, and this evening’s almost festive mood may make our task easier still.’
Ten minutes or so later, Lane announced that he was off to bed. There seemed to be a general inclination to follow his example, but Holmes said, ‘I wonder if Watson and myself might have a few moments with you, Mr Pountney, and you, Mr Tomlinson?’
They looked at him in some surprise, and with perhaps a touch of resentment at the prospect of their slumbers being delayed, but agreed readily enough. Davenport, who also seemed surprised at the request, excused himself, and the four of us were left in sole possession of the library.
‘Well, Mr Holmes?’ said Tomlinson. ‘I had hoped the whole sad and sordid business would be concluded with tonight’s news.’
‘Hardly that, sir!’ said Holmes. ‘There is sure to be a sensational trial, with the guests – such as yourself – being called to testify.’
‘Lord, yes!’ said Pountney, gloomily. ‘Never thought of that. He’s right, of course, Henry, there’s sure to be a good deal of public interest in the case.’
‘That is, always assuming that Gregson comes to trial,’ said Holmes carefully.
‘And why on earth should he not?’ asked Tomlinson, staring at him.
‘Well, for the very simple reason that it is by no means certain that the case against him will stand up in court.’
Tomlinson and Pountney looked at him in silence for a moment, th
en Tomlinson gave a dismissive snort. ‘And why should it not, sir? It was his letter opener which committed the crime; he was found at the scene. What more is necessary, pray?’
‘What was the reason for the crime?’ asked Holmes gently.
‘Well, that is easy enough! We all knew they did not get on!’ said Tomlinson.
But Pountney, in a more reasoned tone, said, ‘Come, Henry! We all fail to “get on” with someone, do we not? It is not in human nature to like everyone, after all. But we do not kill everyone we take a dislike to.’
‘Then who did kill Morgan?’ demanded Tomlinson. ‘If, as you say, Gregson’s dislike of the man were insufficient reason – and I am not disposed to argue that point too vigorously now – then none among the rest of us had even that trifling cause for murder!’
‘I had thought,’ said Holmes, ‘that if you were to go over the events of yesterday once more, with Watson and myself, something might perhaps emerge – something you had overlooked earlier as being of no importance, say?’
Tomlinson gave a theatrical sigh. ‘The police have already asked us the same thing,’ he said.
‘True,’ said Holmes, ‘but you were very naturally upset yesterday, and may thus have failed to mention some detail – some apparently trivial detail, as I say – which may yet prove not so trivial after all.’
Tomlinson shook his head, and made to stand up.
‘Come, sir!’ said Holmes. ‘You would not have an innocent man go to the gallows, merely because it would keep you out of bed for half an hour? Think of the lifetime of sleepless nights that would result!’
‘He is right, Henry,’ said Pountney. ‘And then, think of the dinner invitations that one would receive, were one to be instrumental in bringing the real murderer to book! Come, sir,’ he said to Holmes, ‘ask your questions. I shall answer for Henry’s good behaviour.’
Tomlinson threw up his hands in mock resignation. ‘I probably should not have been able to sleep anyway, with all the excitement of today’s events,’ he said. ‘Dick is right – fire away, Mr Holmes, and we shall answer you.’
‘I am very glad to hear you say so,’ said Holmes, ‘for I am certain you must know much about the place, and the people in it, which Watson and I, as outsiders, could never hope to guess at. Now, the first and most obvious question must be, who had any reason to kill Morgan?’
Tomlinson shook his head. ‘No-one! I have said as much already!’
Pountney said, ‘Henry puts it baldly, but he is right, Mr Holmes. As he said a moment ago, if we allow that Gregson had no reason to kill Ben Morgan, then nobody else in the place had a reason either. I can truthfully say that everyone got on well with him.’
‘And yet someone stabbed him to death!’
‘It is indeed a mystery,’ said Tomlinson.
‘You are right,’ said Holmes. ‘Mr Pountney, may I begin with you?’
Pountney looked apprehensive, but nodded agreement.
‘At the time of the murder, you were upstairs, I think?’
‘I was,’ said Pountney. ‘I had luncheon with the others, and then I went up to my room to write some letters – nothing of any great moment, just notes to some old friends to whom I had been meaning to write for the past week. We all know which road is paved with good intentions, I think! Well, I had intended to catch up on my correspondence as soon as the weather became inclement, and kept me inside, but of course it has been perfect – glorious summer days the whole time. Yesterday, I determined that despite the heat I would at last get them written, and set to work accordingly.’
‘I have seen Morgan’s room,’ said Holmes, ‘and Watson’s, and my own, of course, and all three have a substantial table under the window. Has yours the same?’
Pountney nodded. ‘All the rooms are alike in that regard.’
‘And you sat at the table to write your letters?’
‘I did.’
‘From where you were seated, could you see out over the garden?’
Pountney thought a moment. ‘It rather depends. If you are busy writing, you bend over the table, and thus cannot be said to be looking at the garden. I was pretty much doing that, I believe. Of course, if you straighten up, you might well stare out for inspiration, as it were.’
‘And did you straighten up and stare out for inspiration?’ asked Holmes.
‘Oh, very likely. One does, I find.’
‘And on these occasions, you sought inspiration – where? In the garden itself, or in the distant views over the countryside?’
‘Hard to say,’ said Pountney vaguely. ‘One looks without really seeing, as it were.’
‘ “You see, but you do not observe”, perhaps?’ I asked.
Holmes gave me a stern look, but Pountney only nodded, and said, ‘That is it, exactly!’
‘But you may have looked at the garden?’ Holmes went on.
‘I may well have done so. I simply cannot say with any degree of truth whether or not I did so,’ said Pountney. ‘However, I can truthfully say that if I did look at the garden, I should have noticed anything at all out of the way. I was not so absorbed in what I was doing as to miss any excitement, I can assure you!’
‘You do not recall seeing Gregson sketching out there, say? Or Welsh about his duties in the rose beds?’
‘No, I cannot say that I marked either of them. But then, one gets used to seeing Welsh and his fellows out there at all times of the day, so that if I had seen him, it may well not have made any great impression upon my mind. Peter? No, again I cannot recall seeing him particularly. But then, if he were sitting on the bench at the kitchen side of the garden, as I believe he was, then I most likely would be unable to see him from where I was sitting – I should have had to stand up and move closer to the window in order to command a view of that side.’
‘H’mm. Now,’ said Holmes, ‘I understand that Gregson was very upset when he found the body?’
‘You can say that again!’ said Tomlinson, with a short laugh. ‘If, indeed, he did find it, and that too was not merely a counterfeit.’
‘If you please,’ said Holmes. ‘I shall come to you in a moment. Now, Mr Pountney, when did you first realise that something was wrong? When you heard Gregson in the dining room?’
‘Yes. I became aware of a noise, it sounded like a hammering – I think Peter must have pounded on the kitchen door, to attract Welsh’s attention, call for help, that sort of thing. Of course, I did not at first know that it was Peter – I could not recognise the voice, much less could I make out any words – but the noise attracted my attention. To be honest with you, my first thought was that it was some tramp, or drunk, who had wandered into the house, and was being ejected by Welsh and his men.’ He hesitated. ‘I confess that I did not immediately rush to investigate – oh, there was a time when I would have been first on the scene all right, but age makes a man cautious. Then I rebuked myself for my pusillanimity, and set off down the stairs. I reached the bend in the staircase, and could see Welsh standing in the doorway of the dining room, his arm round Peter, as if to support him. Well, naturally I went down right away to see if I could help. Henry got to the door at about the same time, did you not?’
‘Yes,’ said Tomlinson, ‘I heard the racket, just as Dick did, and –’
Holmes stopped him again. ‘All in good time,’ he said. And to Pountney, ‘Pray continue.’
‘There’s really not too much more to add. Welsh said that Ben had been hurt, and I assumed there had been some sort of accident at first. Welsh asked if Henry and I could see to Peter, and summon Gordon Morrison. We took Peter into the library – Lane was in there, fast asleep –’
‘Lazy young devil!’ grunted Tomlinson.
‘I stayed with Peter, and tried to calm him down a bit. And Henry went for Morrison. That’s more or less the end of the story. Peter did calm down a bit, Lane woke up, and Henry came back and into the library to see what was happening. Peter told his tale, in a very disjointed and incoherent sort of fashion –
I have to confess I simply could not believe him, not at first. I thought he was making it up, some sort of a bizarre joke, perhaps, despite his obvious distress. Then Morrison came in and said he had sent for the police, and he confirmed Peter’s story, said that Ben had been stabbed to death. My mind still could not accept it, but then the police arrived, and of course I realised it must be true, difficult though it was to believe.’
‘Thank you,’ said Holmes. ‘And you, Mr Tomlinson?’
‘I cannot add much to Dick’s account. I was in the sitting room, working, when I heard the noise along the corridor.’
‘Working?’
‘I compose, a little,’ said Tomlinson, rather self-consciously.
‘Indeed? For the piano, or the violin, perhaps?’
‘I am working on a full orchestral symphony, at the moment.’
‘That is an ambitious enterprise,’ said Holmes admiringly.
‘It is, sir,’ said Tomlinson. ‘Far beyond my usual small efforts. And, because of that, I wanted some peace and quiet, that I might collate what I have done thus far. I took my bits and pieces into the sitting room, and set to work.’
‘You did not notice anything unusual in the house, or in the garden?’
‘No, sir. But then, like Dick here, I was busy, and I cannot say that I broke off from my work to look outside particularly.’
‘You worked without any interruptions?’
‘Yes, until that racket started.’
‘What did you think it was?’
‘I’m damned if I know,’ said Tomlinson. ‘I could not make out just what it was, I only know that I wished it would stop. Then I decided to take a look, as it sounded so odd. I came along the corridor, and – as Dick says – I saw Welsh and Gregson at the dining room door. I think Dick and I more or less got there together. I went upstairs to fetch Gordon, and we took a look at poor Ben’s body, It was glaringly obvious that medical aid would be useless, so Gordon asked Welsh to keep an eye on the dining room, and sent for the police. As Dick has told you, I went into the library to see what was going on. And things happened after that just as he said.’