by John Hall
‘Why did you tell us the letter opener was in your room?’ asked Forrester without preamble.
‘Ah.’ Gregson threw away his cigarette. ‘That was silly, I know.’
‘I can think of another way to describe it, sir,’ said Forrester heavily.
‘I know! But, you see – the thing is – the thing was – that is, I hadn’t killed Ben. I mean, I knew I had not killed him. But there was nobody around who might have killed him, nobody in the house, or the garden. Nobody at all. No sign of any murderer – except me. I knew just how it must look. So, what was I to do? I did not immediately see things that way – before I could properly think it out, I panicked, kicked up a fuss, drew attention to myself. Afterwards, of course, when I was in the library just before you arrived, Inspector, I realised that I should have sneaked away quietly, but it was too late. I knew that it looked bad – me being there, and my letter opener being used, and above all, no other suspects in the vicinity. So, I thought that if I said that the letter opener was upstairs, insisted on it, swore to it, the police would think it was someone else – that the murderer was someone else, I mean. Which, of course, it was.’
‘Why on earth did you need a letter opener outside in the first place?’ asked Holmes.
‘Because I had lost my palette knife, of course. I had some vague idea of using the letter opener as an improvised palette knife, but when it came right down to it I did not like to misuse it in that cavalier fashion. I can use a brush, but I prefer the knife, to slap on great slabs of paint, not miserable little dabs.’
‘Speaking of miserable little dabs –’ began Inspector Forrester.
Holmes held up a hand. ‘Do you not realise, sir,’ he asked Gregson, ‘that if you had simply told the truth, and said that the letter opener was outside the whole time, we might have eliminated many fruitless lines of enquiry? That, indeed, the correct explanation would have been almost self-evident?’
‘Oh, yes! Of course I see that. Now. But, you see, I did not see it at the time. I told you, I lost my head.’
‘And that clumsy attempt to make us think that you were the intended victim?’ I said. ‘That was part of it, too?’
Gregson nodded, shamefaced. ‘You were not fooled by that?’
‘We were not, sir,’ said Holmes. ‘Watson spotted it at once!’
‘You see,’ said Gregson, ‘I hoped that if you thought that I was the intended victim, you would not suspect me, but look for the real murderer.’
‘I believe you said something like, “criminals do stupid things”, Watson?’ said Holmes to me. ‘Regrettably, so do innocent men!’
‘Do you realise further,’ said Forrester to Gregson, ‘that it is a very serious matter to obstruct the police in the execution of their duties? If it were up to me –’
‘I think we must have an amnesty there,’ said Holmes. ‘We were all at fault, I think. Gregson for lying to us, me for taking too much on trust, and you, Inspector, for your lamentable failure to find that bloodstained handkerchief!’ He turned to me. ‘This will scarcely count as one of my greatest successes, Watson!’
‘You cannot say that, Mr Holmes!’ said Forrester. ‘Why, it had us all fooled!’
‘I echo that,’ said Gregson. ‘There were times when I could have sworn that I felt the rope around my neck! You certainly have my eternal gratitude, sir.’ He looked at Forrester. ‘And I am truly sorry for my foolishness, Inspector,’ he said.
‘Well,’ said Forrester, ‘I suppose there is no great harm done at that.’ And he nodded a farewell, and set off for the house.
Holmes consulted his watch. ‘Enjoy the rest of your stay, Watson,’ he said. ‘I can just get a train back to London, I think.’
‘Will you not stay?’ said Gregson. ‘There are some questions I should wish to ask you.’
‘Yes, Holmes!’ I urged. ‘It will do you good.’
Holmes smiled. ‘Perhaps I will, at that. A murder in the first two days of your stay bodes well, Watson! Who can say what next week may not bring? Yes, I think I shall stay, after all!’
I shuddered, and followed him inside.
Chapter Fourteen
I had just finished breakfast when Sherlock Holmes came into the room. He glanced at the telephone – no longer with apprehension, but with anticipation – then his gaze moved to the mantelshelf, where a small, modern sculpture had pride of place. He smiled, half to himself, but then his face fell, and he sat down moodily at the table.
‘You are right, Holmes,’ I said, endeavouring to emulate those feats with which he had so often astonished me in the past, ‘it was indeed an interesting case, but with something of a sad conclusion.’
‘Amazing, Watson!’ said he, managing a smile. ‘You are right, of course.’ He grew morose again, and pushed his plate away. ‘He will hang, Watson, I am sure of it. Oh, I shall do what I can, you may be sure, but English justice does not recognise the “crime of passion” of our French neighbours. Yes, I fear that he will hang.’
‘He did kill a man, Holmes! When all is said and done, many of us have suffered losses, by death or by desertion. But we do not all rush out and stick knives into people!’
Holmes shrugged.
In an attempt to distract him, I said, ‘One thing does still puzzle me, though, Holmes. That telephone call which the murdered man did not get around to making – who was it he wanted to speak to, do you think?’
‘We are in the region of pure speculation, there,’ said Holmes. ‘It was not his lady friend, we know that much, for she was abroad. A business matter, perhaps? Or perhaps he had never used the telephone before, and wanted to call some acquaintance, just for the novelty of using the instrument? Indeed, he may possibly have wanted no more than to study the apparatus close up, to see what all the fuss is about. It is one of those irritating loose ends which you can so easily gloss over in your accounts, but which almost invariably crop up in a case none the less.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. Holmes, you really should eat something –’ I began, but broke off as there was a loud knock at the street door. ‘A client?’ I ventured – with an access of hope, for I knew that once the sombre mood was upon Holmes, only work – or worse – would bring him out of it.
‘It appears so,’ said Holmes, as the little page entered the room. ‘A case, is it, Billy?’
‘Yes sir – a big case, it is. For Dr Watson.’
‘Oh. An emergency?’ I half-rose from my chair, then subsided as a carter’s man followed Billy into the room, carrying a packing case, some three feet square and six inches deep.
‘Ah!’ I said, taking a shilling from my pocket. ‘Thank you! I have been expecting this.’
The carter’s man touched his cap, and left. Billy seemed disposed to linger in the hope of seeing what I had received, but I ushered him out.
‘If I might borrow your penknife, Holmes?’
Holmes watched with interest as I removed the outer crate, then unwrapped some coarse sacking.
‘Well, Holmes? What do you think?’ and I held up the picture for his approval. ‘I bought it from Miss Pollit, asked her to send it on.’
Holmes averted his eyes.
‘An honest study from the life, Holmes!’
‘Life in the seraglio, perhaps! You surely cannot intend to hang that in here? Think of Billy – a young, impressionable lad! Think of Mrs Hudson! Think of my digestion!’
‘I had thought, Holmes – my bedroom, perhaps?’
‘My dear fellow! Think of the effect it might have on the maids!’
‘Yes, indeed! That is to say,’ I added hastily, as I wrapped my prize in its sacking once again, ‘in that event, I shall just have to keep it in my dispatch box at the bank, and look at it only on special occasions.’
Holmes poured himself a cup of coffee. ‘You have – as always, Watson – arrived at the correct solution.’
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