by John Hall
Holmes leaned over, and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I am truly sorry, sir,’ he said gently. ‘Both for what happened, and for prying into so delicate a subject.’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ said Pountney. ‘Not now. Not after all this time. Time may bring new troubles, but it also heals the old ones, even the very worst of them. But my real point was that although Henry suffered once, I suffered twice. Not merely because of what happened to the lady concerned, but because of what happened to Henry. His own career went to the devil, while I watched. He still loved her, you see. He took refuge in the bottle, for a time. I got him to a doctor, helped him with that, stopped it before it got too bad. But by that time he had lost his name for reliability, for brilliance. His laboriously won reputation was gone, and he never recovered it. Nor wanted to. Oh, he scratched a living, he was never a poor man, nothing like that. But the glory, the praise he should have had, that never came. So, if Henry is a suspect, then I am as well, because by my reckoning, I have twice as many reasons to kill Peter as Henry has. And, just in case you were wondering, I’m damned sure that I did not kill Ben by mistake for Peter!’ And with that, he stood up, bade us good night civilly enough, and left the room.
‘Well, Watson?’ Holmes asked me.
‘A tragic tale, Holmes!’ I shook my head, and patted my pockets.
Holmes laughed, and threw me his cigarette case. ‘Pountney was right about one attribute of literary men.’
‘Nonsense, Holmes! Run out of cigarettes temporarily, nothing more! Yes, a tragic business. But, tragic though it is, it is yesterday’s news. To kill this week for something done twenty years ago? It does not ring true, to paraphrase Mr Pountney.’
‘It could not have festered over the decades? You recall that business at Norwood, do you not?’
‘The lunatic who brooded over the fact that the woman he loved had married another man, you mean? Tried to take his revenge on her son after twenty years? Yes, I recall it, Holmes. You do not think this is another such case?’
Holmes shook his head. ‘I do not think so. But who can say? You recollect that Oldacre attempted to fake his own murder, to implicate the lad.’
‘And there is a parallel with the use of Gregson’s letter opener, you mean? To implicate him?’
‘Well, it is an interesting possibility, is it not? But I am inclined to dismiss it as being, as you say, yesterday’s news. In the Norwood case, Oldacre waited until the son should be old enough to hang for the supposed murder. But there is nothing of that kind here, so why should Tomlinson wait so long to revenge himself on Gregson? Why not act at the time?’ He shook his head again. ‘For all that, one thing which does emerge is Gregson’s womanizing, and its tragic consequences. That has been a recurring theme, Watson, and it must be investigated further – not for some affair twenty years ago, but in case there is anything more recent. And, since Mrs Welsh is the only woman in the house whom Gregson might have approached, I fear that – indelicate though it may be – we must have a talk with her.’
‘In that case, for Heaven’s sake let me ask the questions!’ said I hastily.
‘Yes, the fair sex has always been your department! You may be sure that I shall be as discreet as possible.’ Holmes consulted his watch. ‘I suppose it is too late to think of seeing Mrs Welsh now.’
‘Far too late,’ I said.
‘You are right,’ said Holmes. But he said it reluctantly, and I am sure that, had I not been there, the Welshes’ sleep would have been disturbed that night.
Chapter Eleven
The following day, Holmes lingered over his breakfast in a fashion that was most uncharacteristic when he was engaged upon a case – though it was a different story when he was not! This circumstance was much to my secret amusement, for I knew well enough what he was about. Sure enough, when all the others had left the dining room, and Mrs Welsh looked in, he said, ‘Ah, Mrs Welsh! We have quite finished, thank you.’
Mrs Welsh gave him a dazzling smile, and began to clear the table.
‘Watson rose somewhat late, I fear, but I am not entirely displeased that his loafing has kept us here,’ said Holmes rather mendaciously, ‘for I wanted the opportunity of a word with you.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘Indeed. Pray take a seat.’
Mrs Welsh looked somewhat apprehensive at this. ‘Well, sir –’
‘It will be quite in order, I assure you,’ said Holmes. For a man who has always shown himself quite immune to the charms of women, Holmes has a most persuasive way with the fair sex when he so chooses, and Mrs Welsh sat down without further demur.
‘This sad business must have quite unsettled the ordered life of the house,’ Holmes began.
Mrs Welsh pursed her lips. ‘Indeed it has, Mr Holmes. Unsettling – yes, sir, that is just the word for it.’
‘And I imagine that running a large, old place of this kind, more or less single-handed, is enough of a task at the best of times?’
‘Oh, it’s not so bad, sir, not in the general run of things. You get into your little routines, as it were, to help things run smoothly.’
‘Indeed. Tell me,’ said Holmes, ‘is there – that is to say, I could imagine that things might occasionally be somewhat – embarrassing, shall I say? – given the nature of the place.’
I groaned inwardly at this colossal ineptitude, but Mrs Welsh was too puzzled to be offended. ‘I am not sure I follow you, Mr Holmes.’
‘Well, is it not sometimes awkward – a whole house full of men, and yourself the only attractive – I may say, very attractive – woman?’
‘You are forgetting Elsie and Doris, the maids, sir,’ said Mrs Welsh. But she flushed as she said it, and patted her hair in a becoming fashion.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Holmes. ‘But – delightful though they indubitably are – they are here only throughout the day.’
‘Well, I won’t deny that some of the guests – and especially the older gentlemen – do have a way with them,’ said Mrs Welsh. ‘But usually it shows as little courtesies, or what you might call gallantry. If there were anything else – well, I’m sure I can look after myself.’
‘Indeed you can!’ said I heartily. ‘And I must say, Holmes, that I never –’
Holmes held up a hand. ‘Bear with me, Doctor! Now, Mrs Welsh, Watson here has a theory that Mr Gregson did not commit the murder.’
‘Well, sir, I could have told you that!’ said Mrs Welsh. ‘He’s such a nice, quiet gentleman. Oh, I don’t say that even he doesn’t have a way with him, sometimes. But murder? Never! Begging your pardon, sir.’
‘But you see, in order to clear his name, we must make some rather personal enquiries,’ Holmes went on.
‘Yes, sir, I can see that. But I assure you that there was nothing of that sort. Not here. I am given to understand that Mr Gregson is what I believe is generally called a “ladies’ man”, but he was never anything other than the soul of courtesy to me,’ said Mrs Welsh with just a touch of iciness in her demeanour. ‘Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me?’ And she stood up, and went on with clearing the table.
‘Thank you,’ said Holmes. ‘I am sorry if I have offended you. But I had entertained hopes that we might have cleared Mr Gregson’s name.’
Mrs Welsh paused in her work. ‘And these questions might have helped with that?’
‘I had hoped as much.’
‘Well –’ Mrs Welsh hesitated. ‘It isn’t my place to gossip, sir.’
‘Indeed not.’
‘And it is only gossip, as far as I know. But – well, you might have a word with the rector.’
‘The rector?’
‘I’m saying no more,’ said Mrs Welsh firmly, as she left for the kitchen.
‘Right, Watson! Do you know where the rectory might be?’
‘Well, at least I know where the church is, which is evidently more than you do! And I presume the rectory is not far from there.’
‘Lead on, Doctor.’
I led the way do
wn the lane, all aglow in the morning sunlight, until we reached the little old church. The rectory stood at no great distance, and we were soon turning into the drive through a gate bearing a brass plate that read ‘The Rev. Dr Obadiah Montfort, DD’.
‘Curious!’ I said.
Holmes looked at me.
‘The rector’s name,’ I said. ‘It –’ and I stopped, as a middle-aged clergyman, evidently Dr Montfort himself, appeared on the steps.
‘Good morning, sir!’ said Holmes cheerily. ‘Have I the honour of addressing Dr Montfort?’
‘You have, sir.’ The rector looked from Holmes to me.
Holmes handed over his card. ‘My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is Doctor John Watson.’
The rector raised an eyebrow. ‘Indeed? Your name is not totally unfamiliar to me, sir, although I must confess that I had not hitherto believed in your existence.’
‘Oh?’
The rector laughed. ‘I have read Dr Watson’s stories in a rather lurid magazine, more than one copy of which I have had occasion to confiscate from errant choirboys,’ he said. ‘It is a surprise – albeit a pleasant one – to find that you are as real as I am.’
Holmes laughed with him. ‘Oh, Watson and I are real enough,’ he said.
‘Come inside,’ said the rector, and led the way to a little sitting room furnished in what I should have called a bachelor’s taste. ‘My wife refuses to allow me to smoke in the main rooms,’ he said by way of explanation, ‘so please – make yourselves at home.’ And he took an ancient briar from the mantelshelf, and patted his pockets in an absent-minded fashion.
Holmes sighed, threw his tobacco pouch to the rector, scribbled a note on his shirt cuff – I leaned over and read: ‘Bradleys 2lb shag’ – and said, ‘We are here about this sad business over at Belmont.’
The rector frowned. ‘I heard something of it,’ he said. ‘I was not consulted in any spiritual capacity, you are to understand, but heard it merely as servants’ gossip. I sincerely trust that I am free from what our forefathers might have called “enthusiasm” – I do not draw any parallels between the world of “Art” and “Letters” and those Cities of the Plain whose names cause so much innocent amusement to the village lads in our Bible classes. Yet for all that, I could wish that some of the guests down the road would devote a little less of their time and energy to the things of this world. It might save a good deal of distress in the long run.’
‘Amen to that!’ said Holmes. ‘You and I, sir, are not entirely dissimilar in that we are too often consulted as a last resort, when it is too late for that word of good advice which might have saved the day.’
The rector nodded. ‘True enough. But, in a more practical vein, I cannot see that I can shed any light on the matter. As I say, anything I have heard has been at second – or, rather, third – hand.’
‘It is drawing a bow at a venture, I know,’ said Holmes. ‘But I have reason to think that you have had dealings with Belmont – or, rather, with one or more of the guests there – which may have some bearing on the present problem.’
The rector’s brow clouded. He smoked in silence for a time before saying, ‘It is a painful subject for me, sir. I know you cannot have known that, but it is so. I must therefore ask you to excuse my not discussing the matter. On any other head, you may rely on my responding as fully as I may.’
Holmes seemed at a loss. To break the silence that ensued, I asked, ‘I was struck by your name, Dr Montfort. You are not by any chance related to the chief constable, Colonel de Montfort?’
The rector’s brow cleared at once. ‘He is by way of being a distant cousin of mine,’ he said. He waved a hand to indicate a shelf which held a long row of great scrapbooks. ‘I am something of an amateur of genealogy,’ he went on, ‘and could show you the exact relationship, were you interested, but it would take some time. It is my ambition eventually to prove a connection between my own humble family and those de Montforts, father and son, whose names are – or at least, should be – familiar to every schoolboy.’
‘But you have not yet succeeded in that?’ I asked.
‘Alas! No.’
‘Colonel de Montfort is an acquaintance of mine,’ I said. ‘In point of fact, it was he who asked Mr Holmes to look into the business at Belmont.’
‘Oh!’ said the rector. ‘That puts a slightly different complexion on things, of course. I would wish to help if I could, but yet –’
‘You may have the utmost confidence in our discretion,’ said Holmes. ‘Watson has already promised as much to the chief constable, and to the secretary at Belmont.’
‘Very well, I rely on you. It was my ward, Miss Sarah Pollit,’ said the rector. ‘The only daughter of one of my oldest and closest college friends. He and his wife died tragically in an epidemic of cholera, almost twenty years back, and Sarah came to live with us. She was a good girl, though somewhat headstrong, and she had a definite talent for drawing and painting. When she came into her father’s money at the age of twenty-one, she determined to make a career of art, and accordingly she sought out the inhabitants of Belmont.’
‘She could not stay there, though, under the terms of the trust,’ I said.
‘No, Doctor, but she could – and did – make the acquaintance of the secretary’s wife, Mrs Morrison. And then it was but a simple matter to obtain an introduction to some of the guests. One, in particular.’ He sighed.
‘Peter Gregson?’ asked Holmes.
The rector nodded. ‘He undertook to give her lessons – oh, it was all correct enough, he came here and I, or my wife, acted as chaperon. But, as men of the world, you will be well enough aware that there are subtler forms of seduction than the obvious – the man was a good talker, and discourse of crowds, of bright lights, of gaiety – these things must have their effect on the young and impressionable mind.’
‘Do I understand you to say that there was some understanding, some liaison, between Gregson and your ward?’ asked Holmes.
‘I do not say so,’ said the rector. ‘I do not – I cannot – believe that. But Sarah determined that she would pursue her career by moving to London. She had control of her own money by then, so I had no say in that. All I could do was give my advice, and that I did – but it was ignored. Now, I am not one of those who would see London as all that is bad, as some sink of iniquity, but I could none the less wish that she had not gone. Or, having gone, that she were a little older and wiser, or perhaps a little less rich and attractive – for she is both. I am most concerned about her, Mr Holmes.’
‘You are right to be, sir. Have you kept in touch with her?’
‘I have her address, and I have many times taken up my pen to write to her, but something prevented me. To repeat my advice would be supererogatory, and possibly even seem presumptuous – and yet I cannot with any good conscience applaud her actions.’
‘But you would answer if she wrote? You would not turn her away if she paid you a visit?’
‘Indeed not! Nothing could please me more, or my wife – or my daughter, who looks upon Sarah not as a friend but as a sister. Indeed, my daughter is engaged to be married, and I know that she wants nothing more than for Sarah to be present and act as a bridesmaid.’
‘May I have a note of her address?’ asked Holmes. ‘I think your Miss Pollit may perhaps throw some light on this matter at Belmont, and there are some questions I would wish to ask her. At the same time – but only if you wish it – I could pass on your remarks as to wanting to see her, and so forth.’
‘I should esteem it a great kindness if you would,’ said the rector, scribbling on a piece of paper. ‘Please assure her of our unswerving affection, and say that any word from her will have a loving and immediate response.’
‘It is a pleasure to hear you say so, sir,’ said Holmes warmly, shaking the rector’s hand. ‘And now, we must take our leave.’
The rector showed us out, and Holmes set off at a good pace in the direction of the little railway halt. ‘We can enqui
re about local trains at the inn,’ said he, ‘and hire a trap if we are unlucky.’
‘You think this Miss Sarah Pollit will shed some light on the matter?’
‘It is possible. In any event, it is the most up-to-date line of enquiry we have encountered thus far!’ said Holmes, laughing.
We were lucky with the trains – as Holmes almost invariably was – and towards the hour of luncheon we alighted at Victoria.
Chapter Twelve
We took a cab at Victoria, and were soon rattling along Cheyne Walk, which has been home to so many famous men of letters and the arts. The cab turned into a less well-known street, and drew up before a house built in the reign of Queen Anne.
‘There is the studio,’ said Holmes, nodding up to where half the roof had been taken off and replaced by a huge skylight. ‘It is not a recent conversion. I wonder who has owned the place over the years? Some of these old London houses could tell a tale or two, if they could but speak!’
He rang the bell, and the door was opened by an elderly maid of a most respectable – if not downright terrifying – appearance. Holmes handed over our cards, and said, ‘Might we speak to Miss Sarah Pollit?’
The maid looked at him suspiciously, and I was beginning to doubt whether we should be admitted, when an attractive young woman of twenty-two or -three appeared in the corridor behind the maid and asked, ‘Who is it, Violet?’
The maid gave a shrug, and passed our cards to the young woman.
‘Mr Sherlock Holmes? And Dr Watson? Please come in, gentlemen. Violet,’ she said to the maid, ‘please bring us some tea.’
She led the way to a small but comfortable sitting room, and showed us to chairs.
‘Miss Sarah Pollit, I take it?’ said Holmes.
‘Yes. I’m sorry, I was forgetting the social niceties. You must ascribe that to my excitement at the fact that Mr Holmes and Dr Watson have called upon me. It is not every day that that happens, of course. But I am intrigued – what on earth can the renowned Mr Holmes of Baker Street possibly want with me?’