“But who? Who could it be? And why?” I demanded.
“There are several possibilities,” Holmes pointed out. “There is the brother, and then, too, Alistair Johnson may have engaged in activities before his retirement, which may have brought down such actions on his head. It might have taken those who wished him dead some time to uncover his destination, and to make arrangements for his demise. The Island is small, and strangers are remembered.”
“What did Alistair Johnson do in the city?”
Holmes looked at me. “He was an investor, of sorts. First, he worked for a man named Bennett Haswill. I am told that as Haswill made money, so did Johnson, in a more minor way. After twelve years, Johnson had earned sufficient to set up on his own. Needing nothing more, he had a hole in the wall he called his office, and I am told he was a shrewd man. Now and again he took a chance, and almost always it came off. He never risked more than a portion of his growing wealth, so that even if he lost a gamble, he would not be beggared.”
“He did well enough to retire and come back to his old home town, to buy a cottage and turn it into a good-sized house, to hire a gardener, as well as employ Lily,” I added, with some diffidence. “You know, Holmes, I cannot believe what she is said to have done. Nor can I believe that Alistair Johnson behaved as he is supposed to have. The coroner does not seem to have been his friend, but no one else said anything against the man.”
“No,” was all Holmes said, and we retired soon after.
4
I went out early the next day, since I yet had two patients on whom I wished to keep a close eye. They contracted a bad bout of influenza towards the end of the recent epidemic and were extremely ill with that pernicious disease. The woman was being nursed by her daughter, but old Mr. Anson had a hired nurse. I wished to see how they did and provide a new supply of medicine if required, although happily both patients were now recovering.
With that accomplished I returned for a somewhat belated lunch to find Holmes conversing with a very old, well-dressed man. I was introduced to Mr. Haswill, and immediately recalled the name from our earlier conversation. I acknowledged the introduction and sat, hoping I would be included in any information shared. Haswill glanced at my friend and, on receiving his nod, spoke to us both.
“I understand you are interested in Alistair Johnson. He came to work for me as a lad of eighteen, I being only seven years his elder. You will know his antecedents. He’d received a good education and was a sharp boy, who had an eye to the main chance while yet being honest and loyal. I was sorry when he chose to set up for himself, but it was understandable. We remained on good terms, sharing a meal and professional gossip perhaps once a month or so. He retired because his health was deteriorating—some trouble with his lungs, I understood—and thereafter I saw and heard little from him.”
“How was it that at no more than twenty-five or six you were able to be a financier with an office and staff?” I asked, before I thought how the question might sound.
Fortunately, Haswill grinned and took no offence. “My father was an investor before me. He inherited money from my grandfather—a merchant who invested in trading ships and their cargoes—and my father wished to make what he had work for him. It did, and I did better still. Johnson was with me until he was about thirty, when he decided he’d done well enough to walk his own road. I didn’t mind. Now and again we worked together if something was too big for one of us alone. We rarely competed. He was a decent man, was Alistair Johnson, and I was sorry to hear he’d died.”
“You heard nothing more from him once he moved to the island?”
“Once, or perhaps twice.”
“Can you tell us of that?”
Haswill accepted a brandy and soda, settled deeper into the armchair, and began. “It would have been around three years after he left London. I had a letter saying he had to be in Chatham on business, winding up an investment of some sort, and he asked if I wished to share a meal. I had business myself in Gillingham and the two places are hard-by each other, so I met him at a hotel there. We ate and conversed, he spoke of the life he now led, and around mid-afternoon we parted for the final time. I neither saw nor heard from him ever again.”
“Was there any reason given as to why he wished to see you?”
“None in particular, but I had the impression that he may have missed professional conversation. Then, too, he may also have wanted to show that he did well. He spoke of his house, and the changes he made to it.”
“Did he speak of more personal circumstances?” Holmes inquired.
Haswill chuckled. “Indeed he did. Said that he had the snuggest life I’d ever seen. A house just the way he wanted it, and a nice little widow to keep him warm. Said she’d inherit if she stayed around. He’d known her when they were children and always liked her. I asked about his brother, and he said his brother would be pleased to inherit Alistair’s library.”
He glanced at us. “Johnson collected books. First editions, signed works, a few specially bound, and,” he chuckled again, “a few specialities, as well. Yes, that library of his was over two hundred volumes when he left London, and none of them worth less than many pounds apiece. His brother, if he was as book-mad as Johnson said, must have loved receiving them. Myself, I always thought he collected books to have a library and show he was educated, a gentleman, and not because he loved the books for their own sake. I gained an impression when he spoke of his brother that Alistair both loved him and looked down on him a little for his books.”
I shook my head at this and Holmes looked at Haswill. “Did you know that he left nothing to Mrs. Klimpton, despite what he told you of his intentions, and notwithstanding his promises to her over many years? They appeared to have been on excellent terms until his death, but when the will was read, she was not a beneficiary. The lawyer gave her two days to remove herself and her possessions from the house, at which time he also paid the last days of her salary with nothing more, though he left his gardener ten pounds.”
Haswill stared. “That doesn’t sound at all like Alistair. He was a man of his word. He told me she’d inherit, and if he told her the same thing and then changed his mind, he’d have informed her fair and open. In any case, if things had gone wrong for them, she’d have known.”
“She knew of nothing like that, nor did anyone else who knew them,” Holmes affirmed. “There is no evidence they were ever on anything but excellent terms.”
“Who, then, did inherit?”
“The brother, Kyle Johnson. He received the house, his brother’s library, his money, and all else save a few minor items and amounts.”
“And nothing to the widow?”
“Not a penny piece,” I confirmed.
Bennett Haswill frowned. “I wouldn’t have believed it,” he said quietly. “That isn’t the Alistair Johnson I knew for more than forty years. It doesn’t surprise me that he’d leave extra to his brother if he decided to cut the woman out of his will, for he’d no other relations besides his brother, but to leave the woman nothing after promising her an inheritance? I am amazed.”
And indeed, he seemed genuinely shocked. There was silence for a moment before Holmes spoke again.
“Such an action was most unlike the man you knew?” Haswill nodded. “You say that on your last meeting he spoke kindly of Mrs. Klimpton, saying they had been friends for many years, and he told you that he planned her to inherit both his house and any money he had left?”
“I do.”
“Would you now come with me to a lawyer and make a sworn statement to that effect, and if in the future I ask that you come to the Isle of Sheppey and give that testimony in evidence, are you willing to do so?”
Haswill nodded again slowly.
Holmes and Haswill went out a few minutes later, while I ate my—fortunately—cold collation for lunch and returned to my rounds. I had no idea what Holmes had in mind, but as Haswill was now in his late eighties, it was a sensible idea to have a sworn statement in case he
did not live to give evidence in person. However, I could not for the life of me see at whose trial his statement could be used or against whom his testimony might be given.
Holmes returned late that night and it was not until the following morning that I could ask further questions.
As I ate breakfast, I asked Holmes, “Where do you see this case as being now?”
“We have many suspicions, but little evidence. Alistair Johnson died. Perhaps from natural causes, for I see nothing to indicate otherwise. Lily Klimpton supposedly committed suicide. I believe that to be murder.”
I raised my brows at him. “You are sure?”
“I am. Moreover, while as yet I have no proof regarding Johnson’s will, there, too, is something strange. All who knew the man say that his word was good, yet after years of swearing to Lily that she would inherit, he not only left her with nothing, he left her in a position where she must leave her home within two days, without recompense of anything bar her wages.”
“I know,” I said. “It does not fit what we heard of his character. It seems to me that you should talk to Kyle Johnson.”
“That is my intention. The man comes and goes from the Isle, but the lawyer mentioned that his employer would be back later today. I will leave mid-morning.”
I asked little more, reflecting that I should hear everything once Holmes returned, unless…. “Would you like me to join you tomorrow? I could do that, if I would be of use.”
Holmes shook his head. “No, this trip will be short. I shall speak to Kyle Johnson, ask a few questions, tell the police and the Simeses what I have learned to date, and return. There are points I wish to pursue in London, however. On those, if you would, Watson, I could use a hand.” I assented eagerly. “I am told that Kyle Johnson is well-known in bibliophile circles. Can you find someone knowledgeable and ask what they know of him? What is his character and his standing in the community? What is his specialty, and what of his own library?”
“I can do that,” I agreed. “I may even have some information by the time you return.”
Holmes rose from the table and clapped me on the shoulder. “I have no doubt of it, and I will leave you to your work. If I am not delayed I shall see you again tomorrow evening or the day after.”
He disappeared into his bedroom and I, too, prepared for the day’s work.
My first patient of the day was an elderly lady who might, I considered, be useful in ways other than being a pleasant patient and a prompt payer of her bills.
I checked her condition and found that she was on the mend and, upon being offered tea, accepted. I sat to enjoy a possibly useful gossip, her two spaniels sharing their time between us.
“Tell me, have you ever heard of a Mr. Kyle Johnson? He is a collector of books, and has quite a library, so I am told.”
Old Mrs. Tremain chuckled richly. “Know him? Indeed, I do. My late husband employed him to search for volumes he desired for his library.”
“Did Johnson ever mention his brother?”
“Yes. I met him, too, once or twice. I found him a pleasant man, always polite, and quite knowledgeable as well, since he, too, was a collector. I believe he had money and was a collector in his own right, rather than acting on behalf of others, as Kyle did.”
I had chosen the right person to talk to, and settled to encourage her, while patting a spaniel that had thrust its nose into my hand. “So one was a collector, while the other was more an agent. Do you know how that disparity occurred?”
“I cannot be certain, but I think the brother worked as some sort of financier, while Kyle had always worked as an agent. The brother came later to buying books, and it was not a passion for him. I think he collected them as a hobby only.”
I nodded. “I see. That is likely why his brother left Mr. Kyle Johnson his library upon his death.”
“Oh, indeed, I think Kyle often found volumes for him. His brother may have believed the library was, in part, owed to Kyle. But Kyle is a good agent, and has the ability to find any volume wanted, no matter how obscure its disposition. Why, I remember…”
I listened to a long story of how her husband had desired a particular volume, which Johnson tracked down to an isolated area in Scotland. He traveled there, convinced the aged, noble, but almost penniless owner to part with it, and returned in triumph.
“Yes, the man did not at all wish to sell, but since he did not like his heirs, Kyle arranged that he should sell the volume to my husband on the condition that it remained in his library and only came to us on his death. That was clever of Kyle, and it all worked out. My husband paid less, since the old man had the money immediately and could keep the volume out of his heirs’ hands. Yet he retained it until his demise and knew that it would have an excellent home thereafter.”
“How long ago was that?”
She mused briefly. “Why, it would have been thirty years ago, now. The old man died within the year, as expected. Kyle travelled at once to Scotland with the receipt and bill of sale. The lawyer, having been earlier consulted, gave him the book on production of those.” She chortled. “The old man’s heirs did not appreciate losing the book. It was the most valuable possession of the estate and they were infuriated to learn it had been sold. My husband said that what really angered them was not only losing good money, but finding, too, what the old man had done with my husband’s payment.”
I raised a brow in inquiry.
Mrs. Tremain gave me a mischievous smile. “The old man had dogs—half a dozen Scottish Deerhounds—and thought the world of the animals. He knew his heirs would have the whole lot put down as soon as he was out of the way and was determined it shouldn’t happen. He left them to his gamekeeper, along with the gamekeeper’s cottage. The book money went to the gamekeeper in advance of his death. His lawyer put it into funds, and the interest allowed him to feed the dogs—expensive beasts, that breed.”
I smiled, and Mrs. Tremain twinkled back at me. “Yes, my husband and I had many a laugh at that.” She sighed then. “We visited friends in the district about eight years after the old man died, and they took us for a drive. We went past his home, and it was falling down, gone to rack and ruin. They said the heirs sold off the land to two neighbors, but no one wanted the house, so the heirs took everything that could be moved and left it to crumble.”
“And the gamekeeper?”
“Oh, his cottage was there. The dogs were well-bred and of desirable lines. He set up kennels and sold the puppies and was making a fair living from them.”
I found the whole tale amusing, and asked a few questions, turning her mind to Kyle Johnson again. “So, he does have a library?”
“Oh, yes. He said that was why he became an agent. Others paid him to travel, and while he did so on their behalf, he was able to seek out books for his own library. You know, he’s a nice man. I always liked him, as did my husband, and while he acted as my husband’s agent we regarded him as more a friend than an employee.”
She shared a scone between the spaniels. “Kyle liked my dogs, and always said that if he could ever afford a big house he’d have his books in a fitting library, as well as a dog or two. As it was, his travels made it difficult to care for an animal. It truth, I think it was more that if he must choose, he preferred books. He does have a housekeeper, and I’m sure she could look after a dog while he was away.”
I reflected that I really knew little of Kyle Johnson or his circumstances. Did Holmes know that the man wanted to own a dog—or that he had a housekeeper?
“Does he own a house?”
Mrs. Tremain shook her head. “I believe he has it on lease, or so my husband told me.”
Her husband now being dead these past three years, his information could be out of date. Even if Kyle Johnson did own his residence, it was likely he would not say no to owning the large house—which could be sold—and a library he wanted. Perhaps that was why he told the lawyer to have Lily vacate the premises so quickly. Come to think of it, had Kyle Johnson taken up r
esidence as yet, or was he still in his original abode? I approached that matter carefully.
“It’s been three years since you lost your husband,” I said sympathetically. “I daresay you still miss him?”
“That is so. He was a good man, and we were married almost fifty years. I did not have his passion for books, but I enjoy seeing and reading them. As we are childless, we had the money to indulge in his collecting.”
“And will you pass them on, or will you have Johnson sell them for you?”
Mrs. Tremain snorted. “Sell them? No, they’ve been left to my great-nephew. He’s another who loves them, and he’ll inherit house and library. We entailed the library, so on his death the books pass to his heirs or to the Bodleian. My husband specialized in first editions or specialty books signed by the authors or some illustrious person who received it. It is a magnificent collection, and we—that is, I—hope it remains long within the family. However, life is uncertain, and that the Bodleian may inherit safeguards the books as my husband wished.”
Sadly, her hope that the library would remain in the family was not realized. Many years later I heard that Mrs. Tremain, having by then removed to Brighton, died in 1914, and her great-nephew died only weeks later in the first year of the Great War. The Bodleian inherited, something that delighted them, although it would have saddened my patient. I may add that Mrs. Tremain’s current spaniel happily found an excellent home with her grand-nephew’s sister, a lover of dogs.
I prized myself away from Mrs. Tremain—the lady has a fund of fascinating tales and I always enjoy my visits—and moved on to my next patient, richer by knowledge of Kyle Johnson that I hoped Holmes did not have and might find of use or benefit. Although I admit I questioned Kyle Johnson’s genuine fondness for dogs. I suspected that his so-called fondness for them was an affectation designed to ingratiate him with his clients.
I came wearily home that evening and began my rounds again early the next day. When I returned that evening, a taxicab was just discharging Holmes outside our address. I was delighted to see him.
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