Mycroft Holmes and Murder at the Diogenes Club (The Mycroft Holmes Adventure series Book 5)

by David Dickinson

  “Explain yourself, Lestrade. I am not in possession of the full facts but I do confess that the case does contain some singular points of interest.”

  “I have no doubt you will see things my way, Mr Holmes. The Library, I believe, is the only room of which you do not yet have the details. In there, if I may read from my officer’s notes, were three gentlemen, Fitzpaine Somerset, who entered the Club at 2.05, took no lunch and went straight to the Library, Harvey Somerville-Strauss who entered the Diogenes at one ten, took lunch, partaking of the cold beef rather than the famous duck, in the Library by two twenty, William Horne, came into the Club at two twenty five and went straight to the Library. Then he fell asleep.”

  Inspector Lestrade glanced at Mycroft and Tobias. The look of triumph was unmistakeable. “With me so far, gentlemen?” They both nodded.

  “Also present in the Library was William St John Plunkett, who came into the Club at two fifty five and went straight to the Library.” Inspector Lestrade paused and stared briefly at the volumes of French poetry on the bookshelf on the opposite wall as if they might contain further clues.

  “All the men awake in the Library report him leaving shortly before half past three. Obviously no words were spoken as the rules of silence applied. Now, gentlemen, this is the important thing. You will remember Club Secretary Butterworth saying that the dead man had a couple of cousins who were members here? You do? I give you three guesses, Mr Holmes, as to the identity of these cousins. You decline my offer?”

  “I do, Inspector,” said Mycroft wearily.

  “Why, Mr Holmes, let me introduce cousin Fitzpaine Somerset and cousin William Horne, both present in the Library moments before Plunkett was murdered. And I tell you something else. Somerset, Horne

  and Somerville Strauss had all been to the same school! So they had common bonds linking each to the other, strong enough for them to plan this murder and lie to us about what happened in that library. They made just one mistake.”

  “And what was that, Lestrade?”

  “They failed to realise who they were dealing with, not some inexperienced sergeant or recently promoted Inspector, but, I, Lestrade, veteran of The Yard! All are being held in the Library under guard. I have sent for Plunkett’s will. No doubt they will crack in the end. I might even solve the case before supper time!”

  “I see,” said Mycroft, rubbing a hand under his left eye. Tobias thought he was looking rather depressed all of a sudden.

  “Tell us, if you would, Inspector, how old the three citizens in the Library are?”

  “How old?” barked Lestrade, “it is not the custom of the Metropolitan Police to ask suspects for their birth certificates. But since you ask, Mr Holmes, I should say that Fitzpaine Somerset was in his late forties, Somerville Strauss a much younger fellow, middle thirties perhaps, and Horne late fifties or early sixties. I fail to see the relevance, Mr Holmes, I really do.”

  Mycroft looked at Lestrade as if he were an experienced sailor dealing with a raw recruit who does not yet know how to tie a knot. “What was the school all three attended?”

  “They all went to Rugby, Mr Holmes. Bloody public schools! They should all be abolished.”

  “Thank you, Inspector.”

  “Mr Holmes?”

  “Really, Lestrade, I thought my brother and I might have taught you some common sense by now. Consider, if you would. One man in his middle thirties, one in his late forties, one around sixty. Even in the days of Tom Brown and Flashman, Inspector, Rugby School would not have had pupils with an age gap of nearly thirty years. Just think of it, Lestrade, a class where the age of the pupils ranged from fifteen to forty five. So I put it to you that the fact they all went to the same school does not matter very much. They might have met at Old Boys Dinners, if they liked those sorts of things,” – Mycroft shuddered slightly as he mentioned Old Boys Dinners – “but I doubt if that schoolboy association is any indication of a conspiracy to murder.”

  “That’s as maybe, Mr Holmes. I still see it as significant that they all went to the same school. More important, these three, or the two who were awake, watched Plunkett leave the Library and go to his doom. You don’t need very many for a conspiracy, Mr Holmes. Three would be just fine. One of them popped out and killed Plunkett and popped back to his place again. All agreed on the story they would tell to the police.”

  “Tell me this, Inspector, how and where do you think Plunkett was killed?”

  “How and where? I don’t follow you, Mr Holmes. He was killed at the bottom of the Great Staircase in the Reception area. We know that for a fact.”

  “Ah, but do we, Inspector? Was his face bashed in on the ground floor with some block of marble that has, up till now, evaded the notice of the police? Or was he brought up to the first floor and pushed over the banisters? Second floor maybe? Third? Fourth? Fifth? I doubt if the case you have assembled so far would stand up to cross examination in the Old Bailey, Lestrade.”

  Lestrade grinned. Years of working with Sherlock Holmes had made him virtually immune to challenges to his own position.

  “That’s as may be, Mr Holmes. The fact is we’ve got the motive. Two cousins, each probably set to inherit very large sums of money. The means will become apparent in due course. I’m not letting the three in the Library out of the Club this evening. They can stay in one of the bedrooms upstairs. And there’s a great benefit in being in the Diogenes Club, Mr Holmes, which I’m sure you will have seen long before me.”

  “And what might that be, Lestrade?”

  “Why, they cannot speak to each other! They cannot polish their alibis or discuss what they said to the police. I’ll have a couple of constables on duty on the fifth floor this evening to make sure there are no private conspiracies of chat going on. Now, if you will excuse me, Mr Holmes, I must go and hear what the servants have to say for themselves. Their memories may shed new light on the matter.”

  As the Inspector’s hand reached the door handle, there was a plea that was almost pathetic from the other side of the Stranger’s Room.

  “Lestrade,” said Mycroft, and Tobias thought he had never heard that voice, normally so calm and commanding, in such a low state. “Could we go? Tobias and I are not murderers, as you well know. My apartment is only round the corner. I am not feeling well. I could be back here in a matter of minutes, if needed.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Holmes. I can’t let you go just yet. For a start there is nobody in Britain whose opinion I would value more than yours in the matter of this murder inquiry. Second, I don’t think I can let you go before any of the others from the Garden Room or the Drawing Room. People might say the police were showing favours to those they already knew. So please hang on for a little while, Mr Holmes. I’ll get you home as soon as ever I can, I promise.”

  Mycroft groaned. “After all this, I think I may have to resign from the Diogenes, Tobias.”

  “Do you have any theories about the crime, sir?” Tobias was keen to bring his master back from the slough of despond.

  “I might have, Tobias, I might have. But I need one or two more pieces of information. I can tell you one thing, mind you.”

  “And what might that be, sir?”

  Mycroft leant back in his chair. For a moment the old self confidence, often referred to as arrogance by his colleagues in the Civil Service, returned.

  “It’s this, Tobias. Lestrade is almost certainly barking up the wrong tree!”

  Suddenly Tobias had a brainwave. It might help to restore his master’s temper.

  “I say, sir. Would you care for some tea? I know it’s quite late but the kitchens here are said to be very flexible. They’re famous along Pall Mall, apparently, for their cream cakes, éclairs and profiteroles, all those sorts of delicacies.”

  “What a good idea, Tobias. In fact, an excellent idea. I await your return with the trophies of battle.”

  Two hundred yards away Inspector Lestrade was leaning on the counter of the Porter’s Lodge. Samuel Tompkins, the p
orter on duty that day, was a former soldier, taught to respect authority and uniforms. And Inspector Lestrade was always sympathetic to people like porters. He tried to give the impression that he was one of them really, that, in spite of his position, he was as liable to the whims of a capricious higher authority as the people he was interviewing. Above all, he tried to convey the notion that he and the porter or his equivalents elsewhere were all in this together.

  “We have your account, of when the people came in, Mr Tompkins,” Lestrade began. “And you’re sure nobody has gone out since you’ve been on duty?”

  “I’m certain of that, sir. I’ve never left my post this afternoon, not never.”

  “Of course,” said Lestrade with a faint smile. “Are there any other ways a man might have left?”

  “He could have got out through the kitchens, I suppose,” said the porter after a long pause, “but I’m sure somebody would have heard him.”

  “You mention hearing things, Mr Tompkins. Now, this is really rather important, and I want you to take your time before you give your answer.”

  The porter’s lodge was less than a hundred yards of marble corridor away from the Reception area where the dead man was found. Here, if anywhere, the noises that accompanied a murder would have been heard. There was a pause while the porter thought about his answer. The Inspector offered him a cigarette, a Wild Woodbine, Lestrade’s favourite brand.

  Samuel Tompkins inhaled deeply and looked carefully at Lestrade.

  “I was going to tell your Sergeant only he was in a great hurry. I heard a number of things. Shortly before half past three by the little clock in the Lodge here, I thought I heard the lift going upwards. It make a funny noise, sir, that lift, once it passes the third floor, so it must have been going to the fourth or the fifth. A couple of minutes later I heard it again, so it must have been coming down. Then shortly after half past three – I can’t see that big clock in Reception from here, sir, it’s more accurate than the one in the lodge - , there was a sort of thump. Just a thump. Now I know what was happening, it might have been a body hitting the ground. At the time I thought the noise could have come in from the street outside, sir. And then, blow me down, the lift went up again, past the point where it creaks. Then it came down again, like before. I swear to God, Inspector, that’s what I heard. If you ask me too many questions you’ll confuse me, so you will, sir.”

  “I quite see that. You’ve done very well, Mr Tompkins. I’m very pleased with you. Just one question, if I may. You didn’t hear any other noises, footsteps on the stairs, running feet in the Reception Area?”

  “Well, sir, I didn’t hear any footsteps at all and that’s a fact. You can’t hear people going up and down the other staircases from here, sir. You can try it if you like, but you won’t hear a thing.”

  “Very good, Mr Tompkins. I would ask you to do one last thing for us. Could you write down what you’ve just told me? I’ve made a note of it, of course, but with evidence as important as yours, it helps to have it down on paper.”

  “Of course, sir,” said Tompkins, blowing an enormous mouthful of Wild Woodbine smoke past Inspector Lestrade in the direction of the front door.

  Lestrade’s Sergeant was writing up the notes on his interviews with the kitchen staff. Lestrade himself waited for the porter’s written account of what he had heard before he returned to the Stranger’s Room where he discovered that a miracle had taken place. Gone was the grumpy Mycroft, the sad old man who looked as if the spirit might have gone out of him, the wreck in the arm chair. In his place was the old Mycroft, still aged, but vigorous now, drawing great strength, it appeared, from a plateful of éclairs and a partially demolished chocolate cake, adorned on top with lashings of chocolate curls. Mycroft had confessed to Tobias that he hadn’t had any lunch. Maybe it was hunger that caused the drop in his spirits. He looked interested when Lestrade returned with the news of the strange manoeuvrings of the Diogenes lift.

  “How very interesting, yes indeed. What a singular affair this is turning out to be.”

  “Would you care to elaborate on that, Mr Holmes?”

  “Not for the present, Lestrade. What, if I may ask, are your plans for the present? I repeat my earlier request that we be allowed to go home, Tobias and I.”

  “I’m afraid that will not be possible at present, but I do have your interests at heart, Mr Holmes.”

  Lestrade returned to the Library. Somerville Strauss and William Horne had been removed to another silent room, guarded by one of Lestrade’s constables. Fitzpaine Somerset was waiting for him under a leather bound section of nineteenth century English fiction. The Louis the Fourteenth clock on the mantelpiece said it was a quarter to six.

  “Well, Somerset,” Lestrade began quietly, “you know as well as I do that it would be easier all round if you told us the whole story now.”

  “What are you talking about, Inspector? What whole story?”

  “Why,” said Lestrade, “the story of what happened to Mr Plunkett.

  Perhaps you could tell me once again exactly what happened in this room earlier this afternoon. The full facts, if you please, not the edited version you gave us earlier.”

  “I’ve told you everything, Lestrade. I came into the Club shortly after two and came straight to the Library. I wanted to look up something about the history of hunting in Gloucestershire. Plunkett came in just before three, I seem to recall, but I’m not sure of the exact time, as I was in the middle of an interesting article about the early days of the Berkeley. He went out shortly before three thirty – I’m sure of that because the clock went off for the half hour just afterwards.”

  Lestrade’s eye was drawn to a gap, like a missing tooth, in a three volume edition of Anthony Trollope’s The Way we Live Now just behind Somerset’s left ear. He wondered briefly if Auguste Melmotte would have been a member of the Diogenes Club. Carrie, Lestrade’s wife, was always complaining that her husband had his head stuck in a book when he should have been helping her around the house or in the garden.

  “Yes, yes,” said Lestrade wearily, “we know all that. Now would you please tell us the real story?”

  “I tell you, Inspector, how many times do I have to repeat myself? That is the real story. That is the whole story. There is no more. There is nothing left to say because I do not know any more. Do I make myself clear?”

  FitzPaine Someset was beginning to sound cross. That pleased Lestrade. Suspects were more likely to confess when they had lost their tempers than when they were of sound mind. The interview was interrupted by a knock on the door. It was the Sergeant.

  “Sorry, sir, it’s the other doctor, Doctor Trelawney, sir. He’s in Reception now, sir. I’ve told him what we know so far.”

  “Wait here, Somerset,” said Lestrade. In his book all guilty suspects automatically forfeited the right to be addressed as Mr or Mrs. “I’ll come back for you later.”

  Doctor Trelawney was much younger than his predecessor Doctor Henderson. He could not be seen in reception when Lestrade and his Sergeant arrived.

  “Sir, he’s in the lift. He’s been going up and down in it ever since he arrived.”

  With that a cheery “Good Evening” greeted them from the second floor. Dr Trelawney may have taken the lift up, but he was walking down.

  “Inspector Lestrade, I presume,” he began. “What a curious case. I was fortunate enough to be able to take a look at the body in the hospital round the corner before I arrived.” With that Dr Trelawney took a few paces back from the bottom of the stairs until he was in the centre of the reception area. He stared up at the great curving staircase for a few minutes.

  “Well, Inspector, let me say what I think. It is always easier for the second opinion in cases like these, you know. You do not have to be as careful or as punctilious as the first man.”

  “And?” said Inspector Lestrade. His hat was beginning to twirl faster and faster in his hands, always a sign of excitement.

  “I gather my colleague
would not commit himself to a view on precisely how the dead man met his end,” he began. “If you asked me to stick my neck out, Inspector, I do not think he was killed on the ground floor. Nor do I think he could have been thrown over the first or second floors. It is unlikely, but not impossible, that a man might have survived with a broken back and broken limbs if he had been thrown from floor one or two. But three, four and five are all possible. There are no medical equations, I’m afraid, to indicate how far a man of such a height and such a weight must fall before he is killed. Even if there were, you could probably find medical experts who would argue the contrary in court. For a fee, of course. Now, can I go, Inspector? You see, I’m taking my wife out to dinner. It’s all rather exciting. We’ve only been married a fortnight!”

  “Congratulations, Doctor. Just one thing. I notice you were taking rides in the lift. Did you come to any conclusions about the significance of all those journeys up and down round the time of death?”

  Doctor Trelawney smiled. “Lifts?” he said:

  “‘Lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud

  I fall upon the thorns of life, I bleed.’”

  “Shelley, Percy Bysshe Shelley,” said the Sergeant unexpectedly, “Ode to the West Wind. We had to learn the whole bloody thing at school.”

  Lestrade shook the doctor by the hand. “Have a good evening, doctor. Don’t go falling down any big flight of stairs now. We may need you in court.”

  Inspector Lestrade was on his way back to the Library when a frantic young constable stopped him.

  “Inspector, sir, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to do, sir.”

  “What to do about what, Constable Freeman?” said Lestrade testily.

  “Sir, it’s the other suspects, sir. They all want to go home. They’re all complaining, sir. Three of them want to talk to their MPs. One of them says he had a brother who is a High Court Judge. Two more are going to speak to the Home Secretary when they get out. And there’s another one who says he works for The Times newspapers, sir. Says he writes the leaders about politics on weekdays. They all began shouting at me, sir. Two of them said they would see to it that I was expelled from the force and would never work again. I’ve only just been made up as constable, sir, and it would break my mother’s heart if I was expelled.”