Sherlock Holmes and the Telephone Murder Mystery

by John Hall

  ‘Thank you, that is very clear,’ said Holmes. ‘There are just one or two points on which I would ask for clarification. First of all, you are sure that Lane was asleep when you first entered the library with Gregson?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Pountney, and Tomlinson confirmed it with a grunted vilification of all lazy young devils.

  ‘You see,’ said Holmes, ‘I find it odd that the noise which Gregson made should have brought you two, in one case from the other end of the corridor, and in the other from upstairs, and yet it did not disturb Lane’s slumbers?’

  ‘He seemed well and truly in the Land of Nod,’ said Tomlinson. ‘It was not until we barged in here that he showed any signs of stirring. I agree it seems strange but I have no explanation to offer, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No,’ said Holmes. ‘Did either of you happen to notice whether the windows in here were open when you brought Gregson in?’

  ‘They were,’ said Tomlinson. ‘Or at least, they were open a bit later. I know that because Peter was lighting one cigarette after another – to steady his nerves, I expect – and the air got a bit thick, so I looked at the window, intending to open it, but someone already had.’

  ‘Not I,’ said Pountney, ‘and I did not see anyone else open it, so it must have been open when we first went in. Lane most likely opened it when he went for his forty winks.’

  ‘Idle hound!’ said Tomlinson. ‘He vanished, of course, when the row started in here – I didn’t see him again until an hour or so later, when he was wandering about with that damned notebook of his. You know, I rather think he is enjoying all this fuss. Mind you, I must say that I never have been able to get on with literary men – present company excepted, of course, Doctor! Most of ‘em are too clever by half, for my taste. Or at any rate, they think they are.’

  ‘And they are forever cadging drinks and cigarettes,’ added Pountney rather offensively.

  ‘Really, sir!’ I said.

  ‘Well, then,’ said Holmes with a laugh, ‘what of the secretary? You, Pountney, were upstairs, and yet still you heard Gregson; while Morrison was upstairs, and did not.’

  ‘Ah, but my room is right at the top of the staircase,’ Pountney said, ‘and my door was open. I may have been indoors, but I did not want to stifle with the heat, and so I opened both door and window to let some air into the room. Moreover, the stairwell acts as a sort of sounding board, or echo chamber. You can hear quite low conversations in the hall as you come down the stairs – not that one listens, of course,’ he added hastily, ‘but one cannot help noticing.’

  Tomlinson nodded. ‘That’s true,’ he said, ‘I’ve noticed that myself. And, of course, Gordon’s room is right at the other end of the upstairs corridor. And I know that his door was closed, for I knocked at it when I went to fetch him. And he was using his typewriting machine, for I heard the keys clattering as I reached the door. I suppose that, taken all together, those circumstances would explain his not having heard the noise.’

  ‘Indeed. You, Mr Pountney, did not think to call for the secretary before you came downstairs to investigate the upset?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Never occurred to me. But then, it was Tuesday, you see, and Gordon does not usually come to the house on Tuesdays, just Mondays and Fridays. And then with his room being at the other end of the corridor – I suppose that at the time I just did not recall that he was in the house.’

  ‘No. Well, this does all confirm what we have already found out,’ said Holmes.

  ‘So it was all a waste of time after all!’ said Tomlinson.

  ‘By no means, sir. It is quite essential that the investigator confirms his data from as many independent sources as possible. Now, if I may impose just a little more upon your patience – according to Watson here, you, Mr Tomlinson, made some remark to the effect that you might have understood it better had the murderer attempted to kill Gregson, or words to that effect. And Gregson himself has hinted much the same to me. I must ask you, sir, if you would explain what you meant?’

  Tomlinson looked at him for a long moment, then he stood up. ‘No, sir,’ said he with a surprising forcefulness for a man of his years, ‘I shall not explain! I’m damned if I will!’ He turned from Holmes, and stared at me in open contempt. ‘And as for this business of sneaking, of reporting what one may have overheard in a private conversation, I might excuse it in the midst of a murder investigation, despicable though it is at the best of times. But, since the police have arrested the man whom I consider to be the self-evident culprit, I cannot see that you have any further cause to ask these personal questions, and I shall certainly not answer them!’ And with that, he nodded to Pountney, and stormed out.

  Pountney looked after him. Then he looked unhappily from Holmes to me and back again, and said, ‘Oh, dear!’

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Oh, dear!’ said Pountney again.

  ‘Now, sir,’ said Holmes, ‘you must see that Mr Tomlinson’s response was not such as to convince Dr Watson and myself that he is entirely free from suspicion in this matter. It would, perhaps, be as well if you were to tell us what you know.’

  Pountney looked unhappily from Holmes to me, and back again. As if to gain time to consider his reply, he took an old briar pipe from his pocket and stared at it. Holmes threw his tobacco pouch to him. ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Pountney, filling his pipe. ‘You must not mind Henry,’ he added. ‘He only flared up in that way because he is upset. He’ll feel bad about it later, and apologize handsomely, I am certain of that. Come to that, this business of poor Ben’s being killed is enough to unsettle anyone. Under ordinary circumstances, Henry would never have dreamed of speaking to you in that uncivil fashion. He is the most easy-going of men, as a general rule.’

  ‘I do not dispute it,’ said Holmes. ‘But I have to tell you, sir, that Dr Watson and I are by no means convinced that the police have the right man in custody.’

  Pountney paused in the act of lighting his pipe, and stared at Holmes until the match burned down to his finger and he gave a little start and blew it out. ‘Like Henry, I had assumed that the matter was resolved,’ said he, lighting another match.

  Holmes shook his head. ‘There are some puzzling aspects to the case.’

  ‘Such as Peter’s not having the slightest reason to kill Ben, you mean?’ said Pountney quickly.

  ‘That, and other circumstances.’

  ‘I must confess that it did bother me,’ said Pountney with a more sympathetic air than he had hitherto shown. ‘Yes. It seemed so – so very pointless.’

  ‘Indeed. So you will agree with me that it is most desirable that we should clear the matter up properly? It is no more than our duty, after all. A duty we owe both to Mr Gregson, for if he is innocent, then he should be released; and no less to poor Mr Morgan, whose death should be avenged. And, for good measure, it is very necessary that the true murderer be caught, for who can say but that he might not kill again?’

  ‘Good Lord! That’s true enough!’ said Pountney. He hesitated. ‘And what if – I cannot believe it, mind you, but it is possible – what if Peter Gregson is guilty after all?’

  ‘Then we have done no harm. And we may even establish a reason for his committing the crime.’

  Pountney shrugged his shoulders. ‘If you really think it may help. Though I must say that I agree with Henry that idle gossip is unlikely to solve the mystery.’

  ‘Idle gossip, as you call it, is very often the detective’s greatest ally,’ said Holmes. ‘Now, this remark which Tomlinson made about his understanding it if someone had killed Gregson – he must have had something specific in mind, I think, to make him say that.’

  Pountney shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing. Holmes waited, also without speaking. At last, Pountney mumbled, ‘It was all a long time ago, now. I should like to help, of course, but I really cannot see that it could be relevant.’

  ‘You and Tomlinson have known each other many years, I gather?’ said Holmes.

  ‘Oh, yes.’
Pountney seemed relieved at this apparent change of subject. ‘From our school days, in point of fact. Then we studied music together, even shared diggings in London, waiting for fame and fortune to come along.’ He laughed. ‘They never did, of course, or not to any notable degree. But we did pretty well.’

  ‘And the friendship has obviously lasted?’

  ‘As you can see. When Henry married, of course, he moved out – they took a house out Islington way. I visited them there several times, and enjoyed the place so much that I vowed that when I retired I should move there. I did, too – I have a little house in the same road as Henry. Very pleasant.’

  ‘And Tomlinson’s wife has no objections to his coming here and leaving her alone?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Oh, she is not with him anymore,’ said Pountney vaguely, putting another match to his pipe, which had gone out. Holmes did not say anything, and when Pountney had his pipe lit to his satisfaction, he went on unprompted, ‘We are both on our own, now, Henry and I, so naturally we see a good deal of one another – quite like our bachelor days, in fact. I never married, and have no close family, and Henry is in the same boat, these days.’

  ‘You said that his wife had died?’ said Holmes.

  ‘I did not say that.’ Pountney paused. ‘Although she did, in point of fact.’ He smoked in silence for a while.

  Again, Holmes said nothing, but began to fill his own pipe.

  At last, Pountney said, ‘Look here, Mr Holmes, as I told you at the start, I do not approve of gossip, not as such. But you have a reputation for discretion – and you, Doctor, I rely on you to hide names and places and so on pretty thoroughly. And so, if it will help solve this mystery, I shall tell you. But this is not widely known, and I shall be grateful if it might stay that way.’

  ‘You may rely on us,’ said Holmes.

  ‘Very well, then. As you could see, old Henry is not exactly fond of Peter. It goes back a while – a good while. Twenty years, in point of fact.’ He sighed, perhaps musing on the inexorable passage of Time’s winged chariot. ‘It is said that if a man commits no indiscretions at twenty, he will commit them at forty. Not that it was an indiscretion, of course, very far from it! But Henry was forty, more than forty, and he met a younger woman. Considerably younger, in fact. She came to him for lessons, that’s how it started. She was a brilliant musician in her own right, and could have built a considerable reputation, with time and the proper opportunities. And she was attractive.’ He put another match to his pipe, although it did not seem strictly necessary. ‘Yes, a good deal younger.’ He paused, then shook himself. ‘But that did not matter. Not at all.’

  ‘They married, I take it?’ said Holmes.

  Pountney nodded. ‘The age difference, as I say, did not matter. I’ll swear to that. No, the trouble was, you see, that she was – what can I call it? – emotional. Sensitive. Too damned sensitive, if you ask me, like so many people associated with what are so preciously called “The Arts”. She seemed to need continual reassurance about her work, needed to be told that it was good. You understand? Peter is much the same, perhaps you noticed?’

  Holmes nodded, but did not interrupt.

  ‘Henry was doing well in those days,’ Pountney went on. ‘A brilliant violinist. Could have had a national reputation – international. Easily. Could have – and should have. He had tremendous confidence in himself, too. Knew he was good. Brimming with self-confidence, knew he couldn’t put a foot wrong.’ He sighed. ‘That was the trouble, you see. He had so much confidence that he just could not see that his wife was the other way, didn’t realise that she needed this constant praise. I do not criticize him, you are to understand – I merely point out that such was the case.

  ‘Well, Henry got the chance to tour on the Continent – Paris, Berlin, Prague. A wonderful opportunity, naturally, and a great honour. He might have been able to take his wife with him, too, it could have been arranged somehow. But, as ill-luck would have it, she too had secured a long engagement, in London. So she had to stay behind.’ He played at lighting his pipe again.

  ‘And?’ said Holmes.

  Pountney shrugged his shoulders. ‘The usual thing, I’m afraid. Henry was off on his Continental tour. His wife fell into one of her melancholic moods.’ He sighed. ‘I wish to Heaven she had come to me! But – I suppose she thought of me as Henry’s friend, did not see me – anyway, she did not. And Peter, you see – he knew them both, though not well, and – well, I’m sure you understand. I think he very likely understood how she felt, being prone to those same black moods himself. I think that was all he had intended, to lend a sympathetic ear. As it was, of course –’ and he broke off, and shrugged again.

  ‘You have obviously known Gregson a long time as well, then?’

  ‘Twenty years? Thirty? One loses count. There is a distinct art world, and a music world, of course, more or less closed to outsiders, but whose inhabitants all know one another. Understandable – after all, one would not be surprised if the good Doctor here knew a dozen other medical men, would one?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Holmes. ‘You were saying – ?’

  ‘Oh, that. Not much more to tell, really. It could not be kept quiet, of course – not in that small circle. And Henry – although he is tolerant enough as a general rule – he has his own ideas, his own standards.’

  ‘He divorced her?’

  Pountney nodded. ‘He did. I think that she had expected that Peter would “do the decent thing”, as the saying goes, “make an honest woman of her”. But Peter simply did not see it in that light. As far as he was concerned, what had happened was by mutual agreement, and that was an end of it. Enjoyable enough – at least, I trust it was, or the fuss was all for nothing – but without any sort of obligation on his part. It is not that he is evil, or immoral. He simply sees things a little differently from the majority of us, that is all. I have to say that I never blamed Peter. Never blamed him at all. He did the right thing, by his own lights. He could not see that the lady might see things in another light.’ He smoked his pipe in silence.

  ‘And that was the cause of Tomlinson’s remark?’ Holmes asked.

  ‘More or less.’ Pountney shrugged his shoulders. There was a long pause, then he went on, ‘The story did not end there. What with the divorce, and then Peter’s desertion of her – what she saw as his desertion of her, although even I cannot honestly lay any blame at his door, as I say – and then being prey to melancholia – to cut a long story short, she took her own life.’

  ‘Good Heavens!’ I said.

  Pountney nodded. ‘It was a tremendous shock. I was horrified, and of course Henry was absolutely – well, you may imagine. I do not think he had ever ceased to love her, you see, despite everything. And then of course he blamed Peter for the whole business. Wrongly, unjustifiably, in my view. But you cannot blame Henry for thinking like that, can you? And Henry has never really forgiven Peter. So you see, Mr Holmes, that if it had been Peter who had been killed, and not Ben Morgan, then Henry might indeed have been a suspect.’

  ‘You see,’ said Holmes gently, ‘the difficulty lies in this – anyone might have seen Gregson go into the porch from the garden, but it would be well-nigh impossible for anyone to see him leave, and Morgan take his place. You do see what that implies, do you not?’

  ‘Not in the least,’ said Pountney. He frowned. ‘Stop a moment, though. Are you suggesting that the murderer intended to kill not Morgan, but Gregson?’

  ‘It is a possibility.’

  Pountney whistled. ‘And that is why you were asking about Henry? I see!’ Incredibly, he smiled. ‘But in that event, Mr Holmes, you have not one suspect, but two.’

  ‘Indeed? And who is the second, pray?’

  ‘It is none other than myself!’ said Pountney. ‘And I have a good deal better cause to kill Peter than has Henry.’

  Holmes raised an eyebrow.

  ‘There is one last twist in my tale,’ Pountney went on. ‘I should not have told you this, had it
not been for your silly notion about Henry, because it is nobody’s business but my own. But, since you do entertain that silly notion, I shall tell you what I have never told another living soul. I have said that I never married. That was not particularly from choice, nor because I have no inclinations in that direction – unlike a lot of the fellows one meets in this “Art” world! No, I did meet a woman I could have loved, could have married. Only Henry met her first. “One of life’s little ironies”, is the cliché that comes to mind. She had eyes for nobody but Henry, so of course I could never say anything. And when they married – well, I wished them every happiness, and I meant it. Oh, I cannot pretend that there was never the odd twinge of regret, but, what with knowing and liking Henry for so long, and so well, and – and her – well, I wished them every happiness.’ He paused. ‘She knew, of course. They always do. Perhaps that is why she did not come to me, when Henry was away. Perhaps she felt easier talking to Peter, on the grounds that he was not involved. Who can say? Another little irony, if it were so!’

  ‘But then, after the divorce – ?’ said Holmes, gently.

  ‘I cannot tell you, sir. Perhaps my feelings had changed? Remember, if you will, that I saw the whole thing mainly from Henry’s point of view. He confided in me, and I felt his sense of betrayal, of horror, at what had been done to him. And then – being as I am a touch old-fashioned myself – I perhaps expected Peter to offer her his hand and his name. Despite the fact that I knew him so well. And then of course there was the sheer difficulty of making my own feelings known. What could I have said? “Madam, my best, my oldest friend has just divorced you, so will you have dinner with me?” It hardly rings true, does it? I suppose some men might – these days, of course – well! But I know I could not. And, by the time I had collected my thoughts, it was too late.’