he said. ‘Who, I believe, is no more a pouf than you are, Watson.’
‘Jory Hull was born dead,’ Lestrade said. ‘After he remained blue and still for an entire minute, the doctor pronounced him so and put a napkin over his misshapen body. Lady Hull, in her one moment of heroism, sat up, removed the napkin, and dipped the baby’s legs into the hot water, which had been brought to be used at the birth. The baby began to squirm and squall.’
Lestrade grinned and lit a cigarillo with a flourish.
‘Hull claimed this immersion had caused the boy’s bowed legs, and when he was in his cups, he taxed his wife with it. Told her she should have left well enough alone. Better Jory had been born dead than lived to be what he was, he sometimes said — a scuttling creature with the legs of a crab and the face of a cod.’
Holmes’s only reaction to this extraordinary (and to my physician’s mind rather suspect) story was to comment that Lestrade had gotten a remarkably large body of information in a remarkably short period of time.
‘That points up one of the aspects of the case which I thought would appeal to you, my dear Holmes,’ Lestrade said as we swept into Rotten Row with a splash and a swirl. ‘They need no coercion to speak; coercion’s what it would take to shut em up. Ihey’ve had to remain silent all too long. And then there’s the fact that the new will is gone. Relief loosens tongues beyond measure, I find.’
‘Gone!’ I exclaimed, but Holmes took no notice; his mind still ran upon Jory, the misshapen middle child.
‘Is he ugly, then?’ he asked Leptrade.
‘Hardly handsome, but not as bad as some I’ve seen,’ Lestrade replied comfortably. ‘I believe his father continually heaped vituperation on his head because — ‘
‘ — because he was the only one who had no need of his father’s money to make his way in the world,’ Holmes finished for him.
Lestrade started. ‘The devil! How did you know that?’
‘Because Lord Hull was reduced to carping at Jory’s physical faults. How it must have chafed the old devil to be faced with a potential target so well armored in other respects! Baiting a man for his looks or his posture may be fine for schoolboys or drunken louts, but a villain like Lord Hull had no doubt become used to higher sport. I would venture the opinion that he may have been rather afraid of his bow-legged middle son. What was Jory’s key to the cell door?”
‘Haven’t I told you? He paints,’ Lestrade said.
‘Ah!’
Jory Hull was, as the canvases in the lower halls of Hull House later proved, a very good painter indeed. Not great; I do not mean that at all. But his renderings of his mother and brothers were faithful enough so that, years later, when I saw color photographs for the first time, my mind flashed back to that rainy November afternoon in 1899. And the one of his father perhaps was a work of greatness. Certainly it startled (almost intimidated) with the malevolence that seemed to waft out of the canvas like a breath of dank graveyard air. Perhaps it was Algernon Swinburne that Jory resembled, but his father’s likeness — at least as seen through the middle son’s hand and eye — reminded me of an Oscar Wilde character: that nearly immortal roué, Dorian Gray.
His canvases were long, slow processes, but he was able to quick-sketch with such nimble rapidity that he might come home from Hyde Park on a Saturday afternoon with as much as twenty pounds in his pockets.
‘I’ll wager his father enjoyed that,’ Holmes said. He reached automatically for his pipe, then put it back again. ‘The son of a Peer quick-sketching wealthy American tourists and their sweethearts like a French Bohemian.’
Lestrade laughed heartily. ‘He raged over it, as you may imagine. But Jory — good for him!
— wouldn’t give over his selling stall in Hyde Park . . . not, at least, until his father agreed to an allowance of thirty-five pounds a week. He called it low black mail.’
‘My heart bleeds,’ I said.
‘As does mine, Watson,’ Holmes said. ‘The third son, Lestrade, quickly — we’ve almost reached the house, I believe.’
As Lestrade had intimated, surely Stephen Hull had the greatest cause to hate his father. As his gout grew worse and his head more muddled, Lord Hull surrendered more and more of the
company affairs to Stephen, who was only twenty-eight at the time of his father’s death. The responsibilities devolved upon Stephen, and the blame also devolved upon him if his least decision proved amiss. Yet no financial gain accrued to him should he decide well and his father’s affairs prosper.
Lord Hull should have looked with favor upon Stephen, as the only one of his children with an interest in and an aptitude for the business he had founded; Stephen was a perfect example of what the Bible calls ‘the good son.’ Yet instead of displaying love and gratitude, Lord Hull repaid the young man’s largely successful efforts with scorn, suspicion, and jealousy. On many occasions during the last two years of his life, the old man had offered the charming opinion that Stephen ‘would steal the pennies from a dead man’s eyes.’
‘The b—–d!’ I cried, unable to contain myself.
‘Ignore the new will for a moment,’ Holmes said, steepling his fingers again, ‘and return to the old one. Even under the conditions of that marginally more generous document, Stephen Hull would have had cause for resentment. In spite of all his labors, which had not only saved the family fortune but increased it, his reward was still to have been the youngest son’s share of the spoils. What, by the way, was to have been the disposition of the shipping company under the provisions of what we might call the Pussy Will?’
I looked carefully at Holmes, but, as always, it was difficult to tell if he had attempted a small bon mot. Even after all the years I spent with him and all the adventures we shared, Sherlock Holmes’s sense of humor remains a largely undiscovered country, even to me.
‘It was to be handed over to the Board of Directors, with no provision for Stephen,’ Lestrade said, and pitched his cigarillo out the window as the hackney swept up the curving drive of a house which looked extraordinarily ugly to me just then, as it stood amid its brown lawns in the driving rain. ‘Yet with the father dead and the new will nowhere to be found, Stephen Hull has what the Americans call “leverage.” The company will have him as managing director. They should have done anyway, but now it will be on Stephen Hull’s terms.’
‘Yes,’ Holmes said. ‘Leverage. A good word.’ He leaned out into the rain. ‘Stop short, driver!’
he cried. ‘We’ve not quite done!’
‘As you say, guv’nor,’ the driver returned, ‘but it’s devilish wet out here.’
‘And you’ll go with enough in your pocket to make your innards as wet and devilish as your out’ards,’ Holmes said. This seemed to satisfy the man, and he stopped thirty yards from the front door of the great house. I listened to the rain tip-tapping on the sides of the coach while Holmes cogitated and then said: ‘The old will — the one he teased them with — that document isn’t missing, is it?’
‘Absolutely not. It was on his desk, near his body.’
‘Four excellent suspects! Servants need not apply . . . or so it seems now. Finish quickly, Lestrade — the final circumstances, and the locked room.’
Lestrade complied, consulting his notes from time to time. A month previous, Lord Hull had observed a small black spot on his right leg, directly behind the knee. The family doctor was called. His diagnosis was gangrene, an unusual but far from rare result of gout and poor circulation. The doctor told him the leg would have to come off, and well above the site of the infection.
Lord Hull laughed until tears streamed down his cheeks. The doctor, who had expected any reaction but this, was struck speechless. ‘When they stick me in my coffin, sawbones,’ Hull said,
‘it will be with both legs still attached, thank you very much.’
The doctor told him that he sympathized with Lord Hull’s wish to keep his leg, but that without amputation he would be dead in six months, and he would spend the last two in exquisite pain. Lord Hull asked the doctor what his chances of survival should be if he were to undergo the operation. He was still laughing, Lestrade said, as though it were the best joke he had ever heard.
After some hemming and hawing, the doctor said the odds were even.
‘Bunk,’ said I.
‘Exactly what Lord Hull said,’ Lestrade replied, ‘except he used a term more often used in dosses than in drawing-rooms.’