FIFTY-FOUR
‘This Mrs Gregson is an interesting one,’ the old man said, handing an old copy of the Pall Mall Gazette to Bert. ‘Have a read. Then do you think you could snip that out and put it on our wall?’
The space above the fireplace now reminded Bert of a spider’s web, an intricate pattern of threads spiralling out from the centre. Or dual centres, he should say. And the spider, he had to admit, looked to be intoxicated, as wobbly as his father on Christmas Day. But even though it looked to be a confusing jumble, Mr Holmes, as he called him, seemed to hold every piece of information in his head, too.
Having spent the day on his plank, the former detective was spending an evening on the sofa, although propped up ramrod straight by cushions. They had enjoyed a dinner of bangers and mash cooked by ‘the girl’, who was far from being as young as that name suggested, Bert thought. Now, they were talking over the case. Thrillingly, he was treated as an adult in these sessions, with no subject – sex or war or politics – out of bounds. Bert did occasionally offer opinions and sometimes his employer reacted as if he were surprised Bert was in the room. Or could speak at all.
But at times like this, when his opinion was sought, he relished the fact that his mother had allowed him to come and assist. Although her permission was granted only after she had insisted on scrubbing the place to her standards (she clearly didn’t think much of ‘the girl’), blacking the front doorstep and putting fresh sheets on the narrow bed shoehorned into the boxroom. Before his first overnight visit she had taken Bert aside and said: ‘Even if he is a bit funny, he isn’t likely to cause you too much trouble with that back of is, is he?’
‘Well?’ he asked when Bert had finished and was neatly clipping the piece with the long-bladed scissors that Mr Holmes had designated for the task.
‘It is obvious she has criminal tendencies from this article,’ said Bert, using a term he had heard the old man use. ‘And is quite ruthless. And political. So could she be the murderer?’
‘We can’t rule anyone out at this stage. Watson has given me the dramatis personae, but little in the way of stage directions.’ He pointed at the centre of his web. ‘I think the answer lies in one or both of those places.’ There were two names written at the heart of the construction on the wall. One was ‘Leigh’ and the other was ‘Flitcham’.
‘We shall have to see where Mrs Gregson was born or brought up, to see if she has links with either area. There might be more on her trial in The Times.’ He indicated a stack of boxes hitherto untouched by Bert. ‘Which we have back until 1905. But there is something we should look at closely now, Bert, before we call it a night.’
‘What’s that?’
Mr Holmes pointed to the top shelf of the bookcase behind him. ‘The red volume, please, Bert.’
Bert clambered up the bookcase and fetched the tome the old man had indicated. He read the gold-lettering on the spine and said it out loud, ‘Who’s Who?’
‘The very same.’
Ten minutes later he asked for a run of The Times, covering dates almost a year previously. Having located what he wanted, he asked Bert to fetch his Bradshaw railway timetable.
It was, he said, bad back or no, about time they made a ‘house call’, whatever that was.