Tobias had not mentioned that he might gain great favour with the fair Rosamund if he could give her a ringside account of events.
Mycroft grunted, which Tobias took to mean alright for now but don’t be away too long. Lestrade summoned the young assistant to join him on his mission to the Great Marble Staircase and the Reception Area.
“I’m worried about this doctor they’ve sent,” said Lestrade.
“Why is that?” asked Tobias, feeling very grown up at being taken into the confidence of an Inspector from Scotland Yard.
“My friend Inspector Gregson told me earlier this year that the fellow’s the most stupid medical man in Britain. Hasn’t got two brains to rub together, apparently.”
“I see,” said Tobias. They were back in the Reception Area now. The police had put a number of sheets over the remains of the dead man. William St John Plunkett was no longer visible to his fellow members of the Diogenes Club. Looking upwards, Tobias saw what he had not noticed before. The Grand Staircase swept down to the basement and then soared up to the very top floor of the building. The curves on the stairs and the cast iron banisters looked rather sinister, swooping upwards over five floors to the bedrooms under the roof. The doctor, a middle aged fellow in a grubby tweed suit and unkempt brown shoes, was peering under one of the sheets.
“Well, Dr Henderson, what can you tell us?” Lestrade was sounding rather aggressive, in his ‘let’s get on with things, I’ve got no time to waste’ mood.
“Well, he’s dead,” said the doctor after a long pause.
“I can see he’s dead. The club cat and the club mouse could probably tell us the man’s dead, for God’s sake.”
“Well, he is,” said the doctor, rubbing at a thick pair of spectacles.
“And how did he die, Doctor? Have you had time to form a view on that?”
There was another pause while Dr Henderson put his spectacles back on and peered round the room, as if checking that the lenses were still working.
“He hit his head on the marble floor, I think,” the doctor vouchsafed at last.
“Really?” cried Inspector Lestrade. “He hit his head on the floor! I’d never have guessed it!”
“Well, he did, and that’s a fact, Inspector.” The doctor was beginning to sound like a man who wishes he was very very far away, an Alpine peak perhaps, a South Sea Island, far from marble floors and dead men’s brains lying under your feet in Pall Mall.
“And have you decided whether he was hit on the head and then dumped here, or did he fall over the staircase? Perhaps, heaven forbid, somebody might even have pushed him over the staircase from higher up?”
“I don’t think I could give you a definitive answer to that today, Inspector. I’ll have to look the body properly away from here.”
“So, Doctor Henderson, all you can tell us is that William St John Plunkett here hit his head on the marble floor. He might even have tripped over and fallen so hard that his brains fell out?”
“I fear that must remain a possibility, Inspector.”
“Let me tell you what I think, Doctor. I am of course a mere police Inspector with over thirty years experience. I think he fell, or more likely, was pushed over the banisters on a higher floor. Even falling from two floors above where we are now would probably be enough to kill you. Third, fourth or fifth floor and the heavenly choir are probably welcoming you to Paradise even before your head has hit the ground. Our friend might have been hit on the head before he was thrown over, but I doubt it. He’s not a very heavy man, after all. Lots of people here would have been strong enough to throw him down to the Reception Area. What do you say to those theories, doctor?”
“I’m sure they are very ingenious, Inspector. In my profession we are not meant to speculate. I have no comment to make on any of your fictional hypotheses. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must organise the removal of the corpse.”
Suddenly Inspector Lestrade lost his temper. “You’re bloody well right, I’ll excuse you,” he roared. “Get out of my sight and don’t come back! Don’t even think of coming back here again! Send me a written report first thing in the morning! For now, Doctor Henderson,” Lestrade was very red in the face now, “just get out of my sight. You make me sick. I’m going to take a second opinion. I’m going to order up another bloody doctor right now, one who knows his business!”
The Club Secretary had re-appeared in the Strangers Room. Evan Butterfield looked slightly more composed than he had been on his last visit to Mycroft. “I have two pieces of intelligence which may be of use to you, Mr Holmes,” he began, in the manner of an archaeologist who had just produced a couple of rare skulls from an excavation.
“I’d be delighted to hear them,” said Mycroft, struggling to hide his boredom.
“The first,” Butterfield said, “is that we have solved the problem of the Club rules and the silence! You won’t be surprised to hear, I’m sure, that it was one of our High Court Judges who came up with the solution. Mr Justice Salmon said it was perfectly clear. The police needed to keep people in the rooms they were in when the incident occurred. That was perfectly reasonable in a murder inquiry. There was no mention of the police in the Rule Book. Therefore when they were in the room, be it the dining room or the library or wherever it might be in the club, the police could speak to the members and the members could speak to the police. Once the constabulary left the room, the normal rules of silence would apply. Ingenious, is it not, Mr Holmes?”
Mycroft managed what he hoped looked like a nod of wisdom and agreement. He remembered a late night conversation in this very room with Mr Justice Salmon some years before. The Judge had been nursing a very large glass of cognac. “Don’t know why you joined up here for the duration, my friend,” he began, sounding as if the law might have partaken rather too freely of the grape in the dining room, “but forgive me if I tell you why I did. In my role as Judge I sit in court most days of the week. My ears are assaulted eight to ten hours a day by inarticulate criminals, long winded barristers and witnesses who may or may not be telling the truth. On and on they go, until after five o’clock in the afternoon sometimes, like a torture drip, with hardly a second of silence to appease the spirits. What a relief when I make my way through those doors downstairs! Silence at last! No barristers! No criminals! No points of order, no points of procedure, no requests for adjournment. The only adjournment required here is deciding whether or not to remove oneself from Plato’s Cave to the Bar or the Dining Room! Thank God for the Diogenes!”
With that Mr Justice Salmon, to Mycroft’s great delight, had taken an enormous draught of his brandy and promptly fallen asleep, his snores soon penetrating into the Morning Room beyond.
“And the other thing, Mr Secretary?” Mycroft was searching in his jacket pocket for his foul Virginia cigarettes.
“I probably shouldn’t say this, Mr Holmes, but then you are a founder member of this establishment. The late Mr Plunkett,” Butterfield was whispering now and looking around him rather furtively, “was one of the richest members of the Diogenes. I have heard it said that he worth around half a million pounds, if not more.”
“God bless my soul,” said Mycroft. “Did he have a wife and children, the normal amount of baggage?”
“He was a single man, Mr Holmes, and that’s a fact. They say he had a couple of cousins he introduced as members here, but I’m damned if I can remember who they are for the moment.”
Nodding furiously, Butterfield backed out of the room. Tobias met him on his way in.
“Here’s a pretty thing, Tobias,” said Mycroft, taking a long pull on his cigarette, “the corpse was a wealthy corpse. Worth half a million dead or alive according to Butterfield. I hope I can be the first to tell the good Inspector. The word Motive will flash before his brain in giant letters and may never leave it. My brother Sherlock always used to say that the police were obsessed with why and not how. Never mind, Tobias. What do you have to report?”
“Well sir, the police believe
there were fifteen guests in the Club at the time of the murder, four in the Garden Room, three in the Smoking Room, three in the Library, three in the Drawing Room and the two of us here in the Strangers Room. In addition there was the Head Porter and two other porters, one in the lodge near the main entrance, a Cook and one member of the Kitchen Staff and the Club Secretary.”
“Do you know who any of the members were in these rooms, Tobias?”
“Only the three in the Library, sir. Inspector Lestrade has promised me the rest of the names when he has checked them with the Secretary.”
“And who were these scholars, parked among the book stacks, Tobias?”
“Well, sir, they have told the police that one of their number was fast asleep at the time of the incident. Apparently the Chef had an especially fine lunch of caviar and his special roast duck on the menu today.”
Tobias checked in his small notebook again. “Horace Waters, sir, Charles Howard, George Cholmondeley-Warner were the occupants of the library. Waters was the one asleep.”
“Well, well, Tobias, we pronounce it Chumley, don’t you know. I wonder if the fellow was looking at architectural drawings. The Diogenes has a fine collection of them.”
“Architectural drawings, sir?”
“Sorry, Tobias, I should have said. If William St John Plunkett was noted for attendance at funerals, George Cholmondeley-Warner was famous for cathedrals.”
“Did he build cathedrals, sir?”
“Sorry, Tobias, my mind is not what is should be this afternoon. You could say that Cholmondeley- Warner does indeed build cathedrals. Yes, you could definitely say that. Only his are not made of wood and stone and lead tiles, but of matchsticks.”
Tobias dropped his pen and his notebook on the floor. “Did you say matchsticks, sir?”
“I did, Tobias, I did. So far, to the best of my knowledge, in a converted gallery in Cholmondeley Manor in Wiltshire, you can see Winchester, Lincoln and Gloucester Cathedrals, all made entirely of matches. There was said at one time to have been a Salisbury Cathedral, but that had to be abandoned after the spire kept falling off. I am not sure whether Swan Vestas or Bryant and May are the favoured means of construction. Cholmondeley- Warner spends eight to nine months in his workshop on each new model. There was talk of a small exhibition in the Reception Area here in the club, but no removal company could guarantee that the matchstick cathedrals would reach here in one piece.”
“Heavens above, sir,” said Tobias, “what a strange way to spend your time.”
“No stranger perhaps, Tobias, than making entries all day in some great ledger in a counting house. If I had to choose which to look at, I think I would take the matchstick cathedrals any time.”
Mycroft had come to life briefly at the mention of the matchstick cathedrals. Tobias had noticed a lethargy, a weariness that had been creeping over his master for some weeks, if not months. Tobias was worried. For a short time the old Mycroft would be on view, commanding, powerful, radiating wisdom and authority. Then he would slump back into some strange ennui of the soul.
There was a sound outside of a trolley being wheeled across the Hall. Murders might change things, but tea some time after four o’clock remained locked into the Diogenes day, the trolley making its way round all the principal rooms. So much easier than the members having to bestir themselves to a different part of the club.
Inspector Lestrade knocked vigorously on the door and marched straight in. “Well, Mr Holmes, I think I can say we begin to make progress. We know now who was here at the time of the incident and when my people have finished deciphering the appalling hand writing of the porter in the lodge, we shall know when they arrived. One thing does strike me as unusual, Mr Holmes. It would appear that a number of the members here were asleep at the time of the incident. If they had been awake they could all have given themselves a watertight alibi, but it’s not so easy when some of them are slumbering away in their comfortable chairs.”
“I don’t find that strange at all, Inspector. I wouldn’t have been surprised if nearly all of them had gone. I suggest you see how many of the sleepers had partaken of the Club lunch and how many had not. That might help you. By the way, has the Secretary told you about the dead man’s money? Apparently he was worth half a million pounds, no wife, no children.”
“God bless my soul,” said the Inspector. Dr Watson from time to time had described Lestrade as resembling a bloodhound on the scent. Tobias thought you could almost see those huge ears flapping, the hound itself leaning forward to sniff out its prey. “That should make our life much easier, eh, Mr Holmes. Oh, I do like that. I shall seek out the Secretary immediately.”
Mycroft Holmes leant back in his chair and formed the fingers of his hands into a steeple. His eyes were closed. His face had a pained expression as if something was troubling him or he was suffering from indigestion. Tobias checked his notebook.
“Tobias, can you make sure I do this when the Inspector calls again. I must ask Lestrade if we can be released from our temporary prison here in the Strangers Room. It is absurd to suggest that either you or I could have been involved in the murder. I want to go home. It’s not very far from here anyway.”
Tobias felt sorry for his employer, not a feeling he had often encountered before. Mycroft was looking like an old man, and an old man unsure how much longer he wishes to live. The Police Sergeant swept into the room bearing paper work for Tobias.
“Mr Holmes, young Tobias, I have here the lists of most of the names of the members in the various rooms. And the records of their entry and departure into the Club today from the Porter’s Lodge. Inspector Lestrade was most anxious that you should receive this information as soon as possible. The Inspector will bring the latest bulletin himself.”
The Sergeant departed before Mycroft or Tobias could ask him about their departure.
“I’ll just sort this lot out for you, sir,” said Tobias. “I think there may be a better means of presenting the information than the way it is organised now.”
Tobias went to the Diogenes desk on the opposite side of the room and returned with a dozen sheets of Diogenes finest notepaper. For five or ten minutes he wrote rapidly. Mycroft appeared to be asleep. Tobias noted sadly that not even a cigarette or a piece of Turkish Delight seemed to tempt his fancy. As the Diogenes clock on the mantelpiece rang twice for half past four, Tobias began to read from his Collect for the afternoon.
“Right, sir, I think is this is the most useful way of organising the information.
“The Garden Room. Samuel Woodley, entered the club at 11.45, took the lunch, went to Garden Room at 2.15.
“Fitzsimmons Buckley, entered the club at 12.45, also took lunch, went to Garden Room 2.30, fell asleep.
“Adolphus Sylvester-Jones, entered the club at 1.40, did not take lunch, went straight to the Garden Room.
“Octavius Fielding, entered the club at 12.10, took lunch, went to the Garden Room at 2.05.
“All four of them testify that the other three were in the Garden Room from the time of their arrival until the murder.”
There was a grunt from Mycroft’s chair. “Do we know what they were doing in the Garden Room, Tobias? And did you say that one of them was called Sylvester Jones?”
“Indeed so, sir. There was or rather is a Sylvester Jones in there. We do not have any information on what the members were doing in there.”
“Carry on, pray.”
“The Smoking Room,” Tobias continued. “Nathaniel Goldsmith, entered the club at 2.15, did not take lunch, went straight to the Smoking Room.
“Theodore Worthington, entered the club at 12.20, went to the Bar, took lunch, and repaired to the Smoking Room at 2.20.
“George Cuthbertson, entered the club at 1.45, went straight to the Smoking Room, fell asleep.
“You won’t be surprised to hear, sir, that the three of them, at various times, were all smoking fine Cuban cigars. One of them told the police, apparently, that the cigars were the finest thi
ng in the Club, better even than the food and the silence.”
“Never cared for cigars myself,” said Mycroft, “made myself ill in the stables when I was about fifteen years old. I was sick all over the straw.”
“Now we have the Drawing Room, sir. Three members once again.
“James Denison, came into the club at 10.30, spent the morning in the Library, took lunch, repaired to the Drawing Room at 2.40.
“Lindsay McMaster, entered the club at 12.40, took lunch, in the Drawing Room at 2.30. He remembers the clock striking, sir.
“Jacob Creed Montgomery, entered the club at 11.15, spent the morning in Plato’s Cave, took lunch late and arrived in the Drawing Room at 2.45. Once again, sir, all three report the other two members in place all the time until the murder.”
Mycroft sat up suddenly and brushed a small drift of psoriasis flakes from his shoulders. “All this is negative information, Tobias. From what you have told me the victim must have been in the Library. Surely to God somebody in there must have seen him leave, even if they didn’t see him come back. And where was the murderer? Which room was he in? Did he have the lunch? Could I draw your attention to one other matter, Tobias?”
“What is that, sir? said Tobias, wondering briefly if some great pronouncement was about to be made like the one concerning the curious incident of the dog in the night.
“Well,” said Mycroft, “you must remember, Tobias, that in a silent place like the Diogenes people are very attuned to noise. But nobody has mentioned the thump of a body hitting that marble floor, or even a scream. That’s strange.”
“Perhaps we could refer to the matter, sir, as The Case of the Silent Corpse?”
Before Mycroft had a chance to answer, Inspector Lestrade and the Club Secretary burst into the room in a state of high excitement.
“Well, Mr Holmes, I think we may say that the case is very close to completion! A capital inquiry indeed! Would that all our cases involved people virtually sealed up in separate rooms!”
Mycroft Holmes and Murder at the Diogenes Club (The Mycroft Holmes Adventure series Book 5) Page 2