by John Hall
‘We spoke with the Reverend Dr Montfort this morning,’ said Holmes.
Miss Pollit’s jaw set in a determined fashion. ‘He does not want you to take me back there, does he? Because if so, I can tell you –’
Holmes held up a hand. ‘Nothing of that kind, I can assure you, madam. Dr Montfort did, however, ask me to pass his compliments and kind wishes on to you, and to assure you that his door will always be open to you.’
Miss Pollit clapped her hands, and laughed aloud. ‘Oh, he is a darling! As are you for bringing me the news! That is to say,’ she added hastily, ‘I am most grateful to you, sir. I did not wish to quarrel with Uncle Obadiah – I call him “uncle”, although he is not, of course – indeed, there was no real quarrel, but I know that he was desperately unhappy when I left. As was I, in some sense. Oh, thank you, Violet,’ she said, as the maid brought in a tray, and set it down with somewhat of a disapproving look at Holmes and myself.
‘Your “uncle”, as you call him, the rector, I should say, is most concerned for your welfare,’ said Holmes.
‘I can appreciate that,’ said Miss Pollit. ‘But, really, he has little to fear, Mr Holmes. I am not entirely foolish, and you can see for yourself that Violet – though she has the kindest of hearts – presents something of the appearance of a dragon. I rely on her to keep out any undesirables.’
Holmes laughed. ‘Well, I merely pass on the rector’s remarks,’ he said. ‘I was to be especially scrupulous in telling you that he would not wish to lose touch with you altogether.’
Miss Pollit poured the tea, for which I was grateful, as Holmes had not allowed us to pause for any refreshments. ‘It was very good of him to do so – and very good of you to take the trouble to pass on his kind words. But, then,’ she asked with a little frown, ‘if Uncle Obadiah has not asked you to persuade me to return, what is the purpose of your visit? Or – I do not mean to be rude – but is it just a social call?’
‘Indeed not,’ said Holmes. ‘Tell me, are you acquainted with a Mr Benjamin Morgan?’
‘No.’
‘You are sure?’
‘Certain, Mr Holmes. Why do you ask me that?’
‘What of a Mr Peter Gregson?’
‘Why, yes! I know Mr Gregson. In fact he was very kind to me when first I decided to move here. He found this place for me, indeed, and I should never have been able to do that for myself. Again, I ask why you want to know these things?’
‘It is a rather serious matter, Miss Pollit,’ said Holmes. ‘Mr Morgan has been murdered –’
‘Murdered! Oh, surely not?’
‘And Mr Gregson has been arrested for the crime,’ finished Holmes.
‘Now, that is ridiculous!’
‘I am inclined to agree with you,’ said Holmes. ‘But in order to establish his innocence, I must ask what might appear to be impertinent questions. May I do so now?’
‘Oh, if it will help Mr Gregson, yes! But I really cannot imagine what I might tell you that could help.’
‘Well,’ said Holmes, choosing his words with some care, ‘you said, I think, that when you first moved to London, Mr Gregson was very good to you?’
‘Oh, yes! He found me this house, as I told you. And he found dear Violet for me, to keep away what he called “the lounge lizards”, by which I think he meant adventurers, and – and men of that sort. And he introduced me to a good many influential people, gallery owners, art critics, that kind of thing. Influential, and useful to the aspiring artist – though, frankly, many of them do seem to me to fall very much into the lounge lizard category.’
‘And – forgive me, I mean no offence – but that was the whole nature of your relationship?’
‘I do not – oh!’ said Miss Pollit, flushing. ‘I see! No, Mr Holmes, you may take my word for it that there was nothing untoward. Nothing that would bring a frown to Uncle Obadiah’s brow. I regarded Mr Gregson – he asked me to call him “Peter”, but that seemed unseemly. Oh, dear! That sounded horrible, did it not? – I mean that it would have been unseemly, what with him being so much older. Oh, now that sounds worse! He began to call me “Sarah”, of course, but that was all right. What was I saying? Yes – that I regard him rather in the light of the father I had lost. And I think – does this sound too sickly? – that he sees me as the daughter he never had.’
‘I see,’ said Holmes, patently puzzled. ‘Have you seen Mr Gregson recently?’
‘Not for a couple of months. He used to look in on me every day or so, when I first moved here, to see that I getting along satisfactorily. But then his visits grew less frequent – not that we grew apart or anything, but he seemed to be more easy in his mind about me, when he saw that there was nothing to worry about. He escorted me to several dances, and glowered at the young men if they ventured on any familiarity! But, no, I have not seen him recently.’
‘Well, that does not really help us,’ said Holmes, getting to his feet, ‘but it does seem to eliminate one possible line of enquiry. I am sorry to have troubled you, Miss Pollit. And I am sorry to have to bring you the sad news about Mr Morgan.’
‘Naturally, I am very sorry that the poor man is dead – who would not be? But, since I did not know him, you can see that it does not grieve me in any deep personal sense. No, I am far more concerned that Mr Gregson should be suspected of so horrid a thing! I only wish I could do more to help him. Could I visit him, do you think?’
Holmes shook his head. ‘I do not think that would be a good idea.’
‘I owe him so much, you see. I would have been stifled had I stayed in the village. And yet, because I was a girl and not a boy, because I am a woman and not a man, I was not – I am not – expected to travel, or to earn my living, or – or anything.’
‘Plenty of women earn their living,’ said Holmes with a smile. ‘Plenty of them are obliged to, for they have not your advantages.’
‘Oh, as governesses, and housekeepers, and that sort of thing. Looking after men, or the children of men. But not as writers, or artists, or anything of that sort. That is all seen as men’s work. Why, if I had been a man, who would think it odd if I moved to London and became a painter, or if I went off alone on the Grand Tour – or its modern equivalent, rather, sowing my wild oats in Paris, or somewhere?’
‘Really, Madam!’ I said. ‘And besides, plenty of ladies have been great travellers.’
‘Oh, indeed they have. “The great English eccentrics”, is the phrase that comes to mind! Elderly ladies, dressing up in exotic garb and taking young Arab lovers! No, thank you, Doctor!’
‘Really!’ I said again, at something of a loss for a reply.
Miss Pollit gave a wicked smile. ‘Do I shock you? You are not familiar with my work, I take it? No? Well, come along, and you will soon see why I could not paint as I would wish in the dear old rectory.’
She set off upstairs. Holmes looked at me, raised an eyebrow, and followed without comment. I followed him, and Miss Pollit ushered us into her studio.
I looked around the large room, every surface of which was covered with studies of the female form in the costume – or lack thereof – and style that one associates most readily with Alma-Tadema.
‘You must use a good deal of pink paint!’ said I involuntarily.
‘Now,’ said Miss Pollit, ‘tell me why it should shock you that I paint these subjects? Why is it right for a man to paint like this, and wrong for me to do so?’
‘Well –’
‘Well, then, if only men are to paint women like this, should I perhaps paint men in classical poses?’
‘Good Lord!’ I said. ‘Heaven forbid!’
‘Come, Doctor,’ said Miss Pollit, laughing, ‘shall I not paint you in the style of Michelangelo’s David, do you think?’
Confused, I stared at a painting entitled, ‘The Marriage of Athena’ – although frankly it looked to me more like ‘The Rape of the Sabine Women’. Seeking to change the subject, I said, ‘By the way, Miss Pollit, Holmes here quite forgot to mention
that the rector’s daughter is to be married, and you are invited to the wedding, to be a bridesmaid.’
‘Oh, how wonderful!’
‘And perhaps one day she will be invited to yours?’ suggested Holmes.
‘Perhaps,’ said Miss Pollit. ‘Or again,’ she added very seriously, ‘perhaps I shall stay unmarried, and take a lover when I am forty.’
Holmes laughed. ‘Whatever he may be, he will be a very lucky man. Indeed, I am surprised that you have not done anything in that direction already – or is “dear Violet” perhaps too indiscriminating as to what constitutes a lounge lizard?’
Miss Pollit laughed with him. ‘Perhaps so. Although there have been admirers.’
‘I could hardly have thought otherwise,’ said Holmes.
Miss Pollit’s face clouded. ‘There was one – another reason for my wanting to move here. But you would not be interested, I’m sure!’
‘On the contrary, I should be most interested,’ said Holmes.
‘Well, it is the old story – his feelings for me were sincere, and all that kind of thing, but I simply did not reciprocate them. He was a bit younger than me – not a serious difference, but I think women grow up quicker than men anyway, do not you? He was very – what can I call it? – intense. He wanted marriage, but on his terms, and those terms were that I should have children, and be always busy about the house, and never, ever lift my head to see out of the kitchen window.’ She sighed. ‘It was a pity, because I liked him, and might have grown to love him – he was handsome, and intelligent – far cleverer than I am. And I liked his father, poor man.’
‘And his name,’ said Holmes dreamily, still looking at the huge canvases, ‘was John Merryweather.’
Miss Pollit stared at him. ‘How on earth did you know that?’
‘No matter,’ said Holmes. ‘Come along, Watson – we must return to Belmont, I fear.’
‘Do call a cab, Holmes,’ I said. ‘I shall join you presently.’
Chapter Thirteen
Holmes sat in silence in the cab to Victoria. Thinking to cheer him up, I said, ‘Likening me to Michelangelo’s David, indeed!’
Holmes gave a weak smile, then sank back into his seat, and occupied himself with his own thoughts. I did not venture to disturb him again, and at Victoria he disappeared on some mysterious errand, and left me alone. I took the opportunity to have a sandwich and a glass of beer.
Holmes was equally uncommunicative on the train. It was only as we neared Redhill that he consulted his watch, and said, ‘Ten minutes to go!’ He sighed. ‘Why do these poor wretches carry on in such a fashion, Watson? It is pretty clear what happened, of course. Gregson told us that he had passed the time of day with Welsh and Merryweather at tea time – he very probably said, “I must telephone Sarah”, or something of that kind, speaking in an absent-minded manner, and meaning the gallery owner, of course. But Merryweather – who evidently resented Miss Pollit’s moving away, and perhaps even saw it as her jilting him – thought that there was some illicit liaison between the girl he had lost and Gregson, whom Merryweather would naturally cast in the role of the elderly roué who had seduced her. It must have sounded as if Gregson were crowing over him, rubbing it in.’
‘And this lad killed Morgan by mistake, just as we thought?’
Holmes nodded. ‘I telephoned to Inspector Forrester, and he and his men will be at Redhill to meet us.’
‘One thing still puzzles me, Holmes.’
‘Indeed?’
‘How did the lad get the letter opener? He said the gardeners – Welsh excepted – never went into the main house.’
‘Ah, but we have only his word for that, Watson! Most probably –’ and he broke off, and drummed his fingers on the carriage window.
‘It suggests premeditation,’ I said. ‘And, if your theory is correct, it was not premeditated! After all, he would hardly steal the letter opener on the off-chance that Gregson would sneer at him, now would he?’
Holmes scowled. ‘It is a difficulty,’ he admitted. ‘And I confess that I have no easy answer just yet. We shall have to ask the lad himself.’ And he sat back in a gloomy silence once again.
At Redhill we were met by Inspector Forrester, with a sergeant and a couple of constables. Gregson was there, too, none the worse for his incarceration, but looking as puzzled as I admit I felt.
I think that we all had questions to ask Holmes, but as the traps which Forrester had provided clattered along the country lanes, Holmes dismissed all attempts to engage him in conversation. It was not until our little party had stepped down at the gate of Belmont that he said, ‘I think we shall restrict it to you, Watson, and you, Inspector. Leave your fellows here for the moment – I do not expect any trouble.’
‘If you say so, Mr Holmes.’
Holmes led the way round the side of the house to the back garden, where Welsh and Merryweather were busy about their day’s work.
Welsh looked as we neared him, and was about to give a cheery greeting, but then he saw our faces. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked anxiously.
‘I think it is I they wish to see, Mr Welsh,’ said Merryweather quietly. ‘I have rather been expecting this, gentlemen,’ he added. ‘You need have no concern, I shall make no sort of fuss. Only –’ and he looked at the ground.
‘You understand that we have no choice?’ said Holmes gently.
Merryweather nodded. ‘It will kill my father, though,’ said he sadly.
‘You should have thought of that sooner, sir!’ Holmes told him more sternly. ‘Does your conscience not trouble you unduly?’
‘Not unduly. Oh, I might have acted otherwise – I wish I had, for that matter. But – no.’
Holmes looked astounded. ‘What, it does not bother you that you killed the wrong man? A man innocent of any crime save wanting to use the telephone?’
It was now Merryweather who looked astonished. ‘What on earth are you raving about?’ he asked. ‘What do you mean by “the wrong man”?’
Holmes stared at him. ‘Do you deny that you meant to kill Gregson, but killed Morgan instead?’
‘No! I mean, yes – I do deny it. Gregson? Why should I want to kill that pompous ass?’
‘Because you thought that he had stolen the woman you loved.’
Merryweather shook his head. ‘You are either very clever, Mr Holmes, or very stupid. Either way, I fear you have quite lost me.’
‘Why, I am speaking of Miss Sarah Pollit!’
‘Sarah? Oh, that was ages ago – a boyish fancy. I am engaged, now – or at any rate I was, for I doubt if the rector will allow his daughter to marry me at the foot of the scaffold.’
‘For God’s sake, man!’ I burst out. ‘Why did you kill Gregson?’
‘Why, because he ran off with my mother, of course. Did she not tell you?’
‘She is out of the country,’ said Holmes gently. ‘So, that was it, was it?’
Merryweather nodded. ‘It broke my father’s heart. Dr Watson here will say that there is no such ailment, but I can testify that there is. If you had seen his face when the black mood of despair is upon him – why, death itself is preferable to such a life! And he knows it – many a time I have been obliged to hide his razor, and watch him secretly, lest he harm himself. Monday was such a night. I had no sleep, for I dared not leave him. I should have stayed with him the next day, only he seemed a little better, and Mrs Timms promised to watch him, and send for the doctor if need be. My stomach was upset, all right, with the sheer worry of it all. Then I came here, and saw – saw him, Morgan, walking about as if he owned the place, drinking his port and smoking his cigar, and all the time my poor father was lying in his darkened room, and might have made away with himself by the time I got back home! Morgan did not recognise me, of course – I was but a lad when my mother ran off, and here of course we were never introduced – but I knew him all right, and it ate into my soul!’ He wiped his brow. ‘It was more than I could bear. But even then, I think I could have borne it, o
nly I saw the knife thing on the bench –’
Holmes held up a hand. ‘The letter opener was upstairs, in Gregson’s room,’ he said.
‘Oh, no! It was on the bench, there –’ he waved a hand – ‘with his other paints and things. I picked it up – I picked it up – and – and –’ and the rest was lost in a great sob.
‘There is no need to continue,’ said Holmes. ‘Only one more question, if you will – you saw Gregson go into the porch, did you not? How, then, did you know that he had left, and that Morgan was there in his stead?’
‘I saw them,’ said Merryweather simply. ‘I was passing the French window with my cup of tea, and I happened to look in. Then I saw the letter opener, or whatever you call it, on the bench – and – and that was that.’
‘Ah!’
‘Was there no blood on your hands, though?’ I asked.
Merryweather looked at his hands. ‘In a literal sense, you mean?’ He shook his head. ‘I had been reading an article about finger marks a day or so before, and so I made sure to pick the knife up in my handkerchief. There was some blood on that, of course. I stuck the handkerchief in my pocket – I was terrified that the police would ask me to turn out my pockets, but they never did. They just asked me if I had seen any strangers about the place, and I said quite truthfully that I had not.’
Holmes looked at Forrester, who looked at his boot toes. ‘What became of the handkerchief?’
‘Oh, I burned it when I got home.’
‘I think, Inspector –’
‘Yes, sir.’ Forrester motioned to his sergeant, who came and took Merryweather into the house.
‘Bad business, sir,’ ventured Welsh, who had been a silent spectator throughout.
‘It is, indeed,’ said Holmes. ‘To Forrester, he said, ‘I think a word with Gregson might be in order, Inspector.’
‘It might at that, Mr Holmes. Or even two words. And I know just the words, though I won’t use them in front of you gentlemen.’
He led the way back to the house, but Gregson, released by the sergeant, came out to meet us. He had recovered some of his old jauntiness, and from somewhere or another he had acquired a cigarette, which he was smoking with evident relish.