I returned to Baker Street one evening in the autumn of ‘95 after dining at my club and indulging in a game of billiards with my friend Thurston. And as I approached our sitting room door I could discern voices within which informed me that Sherlock Holmes was engaged with a client. With some diplomacy I entered with the intention of going straight to my room, but Holmes waved me to my chair by the hearth.
‘Ah, Watson, just in time,’ he cried. ‘When there is a crie de cour, I am quite lost without my Boswell,’ he said, addressing his remarks to his visitor who sat in the shadows on the chaise longue. He was a young man, somewhere in his early twenties with tousled sandy hair and was leaning forward in a crouching fashion which indicated his emotional discomfort.
‘This is my friend and associate Dr Watson who takes an inordinate interest in my investigations’, said Holmes.
The young man rose, gave a nod of acknowledgement and shook my hand.
‘And this,’ continued Holmes, ‘is Mr Andrew Sinclair who has travelled all the way from Ayrshire in Bonnie Scotland to elicit my help.’
‘Aye, sir,’ the young man said, with some passion. ‘My train just got in about an hour ago. I’m hoping I can persuade Mr Holmes to return with me to Tragere House. It’s a most urgent business.’ He leaned further forward lowering his voice. ‘It’s murder.’
Holmes gave a brief cackle and rubbed his hands with pleasure. ‘That is just the point we had reached in the matter when you so conveniently joined our company, Watson. Now you can be in at the beginning. You know how much I value your opinion in these cases.’ The veneer of sarcasm in this utterance was so fine that I doubt if Mr Sinclair noticed it, but I did.
‘Would you be so good as to supply us all with a glass of brandy, Watson? I’m sure Mr Sinclair would welcome such a restorative after his long journey and then he can tell us all about this story of murder.’
Moments later we were all seated by the glowing embers of the fire with brandy glasses in hand. ‘Now, sir,’ said Holmes, relaxing back in his chair, ‘let me have the facts and please be precise as to details’.
‘As you know my name is Andrew Sinclair,’ began the young man in a clear and confident voice. ‘I am engaged to be married to Morag Cameron, the daughter of Alan Cameron, the Laird of Tragere, that’s a large estate not far from Ayr. The tragedy occurred only last night. I was dining at the big house with my intended and my future in-laws, Mr Cameron and his wife Anne. It was the first time I had been treated in this fashion. Morag and I have only just become engaged and there was a certain reluctance on her parents’ behalf to accept the match. As wealthy landowners, they viewed me as something of an upstart fortune hunter keen to get my hands on their wealth through their daughter. They did not want the marriage to take place. You see, I am only the son of the local cobbler and at present I am merely an articled clerk to Smithson and Wylie in Ayr, but I have prospects, Mr Holmes, I have prospects.’
‘I am delighted to hear it,’ observed my friend, ‘but could we concentrate on the matter in hand.’
‘Aye, sir, I am sorry to digress. It’s a wee sore point with me that’s all. I arrived at Tragere House at the appointed time and was met with stilted civility by Mrs Cameron. Mr Cameron apparently was attending to business elsewhere, in his study, I was told. But if you want my opinion, Mr Holmes…’
‘Indeed I do,’ said Holmes.
‘I believe he was putting off socialising with me for as long as he could. Anyway, Mrs Cameron was polite enough, I suppose, although I could tell it was a strain for her. Matters became worse for me when Morag had to leave the room to attend to a nose bleed. She had managed to stem the blood in her handkerchief but needed some cold running water. She insisted that she required no assistance to deal with this minor problem.’ The young man gave a dry humourless cough. ‘So, I was left alone with my prospective mother-in-law. It was a trial, I can tell you. I know I am worthy of Morag’s hand and I will make her a good husband and I fully intend to be successful in my legal career but of course I could not express these sentiments with any force to my beloved’s mother. I knew such claims would suggest a sense of desperation on my part.’
‘Thankfully, before long the other dinner guests arrived, Dr Eustace Pavlow and his wife Victoria. They are a gentle couple somewhere in their sixth decade I should guess. Pavlow has retired from practice now but is still called upon from time to time by some of his old patients for assistance. We have a nodding acquaintance. On their arrival I was glad to take a back seat as it were in the general conversation. Then Morag returned and I felt a lot easier. The Pavlows expressed concern about her nose bleed but Morag assured them that it was a minor matter and had been dealt with successfully. At this juncture the butler, Rogers, shepherded us through in to the dining room. Still Mr Cameron had not made an entrance. At first his wife did not seem dismayed at his absence, but when the soup was served, she gave an expression of annoyance. ‘That man,’ she snapped. ‘Sometime he irritates me greatly. No doubt he will have become engrossed in his wretched paperwork and lost all sense of time. He does this quite often and it drives me to distraction.’
‘Oh, Mother,’ said Morag, ‘I am sure he isn’t doing it deliberately. Why don’t you go to his study and bring him down.’
Mrs Cameron flashed us an uneasy smile and rose from her chair. ‘I will. I’ll go to his room and drag him here by the scruff of his neck like a naughty schoolboy.’ It was quite an embarrassing moment but we all nodded with false smiles. My darling Morag seemed the least perturbed. No doubt her father’s errant behaviour was a common occurrence. Mrs Cameron instructed us to carry on dining so as not to let the soup grow cold and then disappeared. We obeyed her request and indulged in uneasy sporadic conversation until we heard a loud scream. Both Doctor Pavlow and I were on our feet in an instant, quickly followed by Morag.
‘That came from my father’s study,’ she said and with speed led us from the dining room up the central staircase to a room immediately at the top of the stairs. The sight that met our eyes is one that will be forever etched in my memory.
‘There, lying in a slumped posture, face down on his desk, his arms outstretched was Alan Cameron. There was a broad red stain on the back of his jacket. It glistened in the gaslight. I could see that it was blood. The result of a series of terrible wounds. It was quite clear that the man was dead. What increased the horror of this scene was that standing by him was his wife, holding a vicious looking dagger in her hand which was covered in gouts of blood. She seemed frozen with shock. She did not move or say a thing as we entered the chamber and her face registered no emotion whatsoever.’
The young man paused in his narrative to take a sip of brandy. I glanced over at Holmes and saw that his face was alive with interest and anticipation.
After a moment, our visitor resumed his narrative. ‘The doctor gently took hold of Mrs Cameron and, relieving her of the knife, walked her from the room and administered a sedative. Meanwhile I coped with Morag who, on realising that her father was dead, became hysterical. I coped as best I could, but Mrs Pavlow took her from the room to comfort her, leaving me with the dead body. I looked closely at it. Mr Cameron had clearly been stabbed several times in the back. His position sitting at the desk suggested that he had no notion that he was about to be attacked. To be slaughtered.’ Sinclair shivered at the recollection.
‘The police were summoned and a rather brusque Inspector called Crabtree from the Ayr constabulary took charge and promptly arrested Mrs Cameron for murder. She was carted away, much to the extra distress of my darling Morag.’
‘Presumably Mrs Cameron protested her innocence,’ said Holmes.
‘Indeed she did.’
‘How did she explain the fact that she was holding the murder weapon and standing by the dead body?’
‘She said that she entered Mr Cameron’s study and discovered her husband slumped forward on the desk. At first she didn’t see the knife protruding from his back. The room was dimly lighted. On approaching him, she realised the horror of the situation and instinctively grabbed the dagger, pulling it out of her husband’s back and then screamed. After this, she froze with the shock of it all.’
‘Do you believe this story?’
‘Well, yes. The alternative is too unpleasant to contemplate.’
‘And yet the man was murdered and the culprit must be one of the people in the house at that time. And Mrs Cameron was found with the body and holding the weapon. I can understand Inspector Crabtree’s motives in arresting her. But of course the official police always jump to the obvious conclusions.’
‘It seems too fantastic that Mrs Cameron should commit such a deed, Mr Holmes. As far as I know they were a happily married couple. I am desperate for this mystery to be solved, not so much for myself but for my darling Morag. Someone else – I have no idea who – must have committed this deed. Will you please help?’
‘A pretty little problem, eh, Watson?’ said Holmes rising and taking his cherrywood pipe from the mantelpiece and stuffing it with tobacco.
‘Either that or no problem at all: the lady is guilty.’
‘I cannot accept that,’ cried Sinclair hotly. ‘I appeal to you, Mr Holmes, come back with me to Tragere House and see what you can make of the matter’.
Holmes puffed meditatively on his pipe, his sharp lean features obscured by smoke for some moments. ‘It is an intriguing mystery, I grant you. What do you say, Watson, do you fancy taking in some lungfuls of bracing Scottish air?’
I nodded. ‘You know I am always happy to travel north of the border.’
Sinclair jumped from his chair in excitement. ‘Excellent, gentlemen. There is a Scottish express leaving at midnight. If we hurry we can catch that and be at Tragere House late tomorrow.’
*
And so it was that early the following evening that Holmes, Sinclair and I found ourselves travelling in a dogcart from Ayr station to Tragere House. Holmes had spent most of the journey from London in profound silence. I knew this behaviour of old. I was aware that he was weighing up the evidence that had been provided by our client and considering the various possible scenarios which might lead him to a successful conclusion of the case.
He discussed the matter with me briefly while Sinclair slumbered after his exhausting exertions of the last twenty four hours. ‘The evidence is certainly damning,’ he said. ‘If the lady is guilty, it is certainly the most extreme case of crime passionel I have encountered. If you mean to do away with your husband, you do not do it in the middle of a dinner party with a set of guests in attendance.’
I agreed. ‘However,’ I added, ‘Sinclair did suggest that Mrs Cameron was irritated with her husband and this could have been the culmination of years of frustration – a sudden breakdown of reason.’
Holmes shook his head. ‘It would be a very strong form of irritation that could lead you to stab your husband many times in the back. No, I am sure that it is not as simple as that. Well, we do have the basic facts but as yet these do not provide us with enough straw to make bricks. We shall have to wait until we get to Scotland and learn more.’
Sinclair had wired ahead that we were coming. Doctor Pavlow and his wife had remained at Tragere House in order to comfort and look after the distraught Morag while Sinclair had travelled to London to engage Holmes’s help. The dark veil of dusk had already settled itself on the countryside which was ablaze with autumn colours and the wind was stiffening, causing us to wrap our coats tightly around us as the dogcart rattled along the country lanes and tracks. The Tragere estate was very large and once we had passed the ancient gateway, it took us some ten minutes before the house itself loomed into view. It was a large impressive gothic style structure with fairy tale turrets. A dull light shone through the heavily mullioned windows, and from the high chimneys there sprang a single black column of smoke.
A tall well-built man stepped from the shadows of the porch to greet us. This was Rogers the butler who attended to our luggage and led us into the grand hallway.
‘Rogers will show you to your quarters,’ said Sinclair.
Holmes shook his head. ‘To begin with I would like to see the room in which the murder took place.’
Alan Cameron’s study was a small oppressive chamber, panelled in dark wood. The walls were adorned with pictures of highland scenes and a stag’s head glowered at us above a small fireplace. The desk at which he had been sitting when he was assaulted was splattered with blood. The room was now cold and dank and even when Rogers turned up the gas, it was gloomy. Holmes threw off his Ulster and like an eager bloodhound began patrolling the room, examining carefully each square inch of the surroundings. At one point, he dropped to the floor and crawled about, magnifying glass in hand, muttering quietly to himself. He even examined the wastepaper basket, extracting something that looked like a white cloth. This performance was by now a familiar one to me but I could observe that Andrew Sinclair and Rogers the butler were both fascinated and amazed at my friend’s behaviour.
He spent a great deal of time examining the surface of the desk and the chair in which Cameron had been sitting. He retrieved a penknife from his coat pocket and then produced two small envelopes and commenced scraping portions of dried blood from different areas of the desk. After scrutinising them carefully for some moments under the magnifying glass he placed the scrapings into the envelopes.
He then opened the two drawers of the desk and quickly rifled through the contents. One document in particular arrested his interest and he spent some time studying it. Meanwhile we watched in silence as though we were the audience entranced by some remarkable dumb show, baffled and fascinated by what we saw. Eventually, he stood before us, with a smile on his face. ‘There are some interesting indications here, but nothing yet to fully clear the mist that surrounds this crime,’ he announced briskly.’ However they do provide a basis for some further thought.’
The investigation of the room concluded, we were then shown to our quarters to refresh ourselves after the long journey. Before going downstairs for dinner, I went to Holmes’ room to see if he would confide in me what his investigations had revealed.
‘Look at the two samples of blood I retrieved,’ he said, casually, as he adjusted his evening tie.
I did so but saw nothing of obvious consequence and admitted as much.
‘See,’ said Holmes, ‘the scrapings from this envelope are quite clearly dried blood. How often have we seen such debris, eh, old friend?’
I nodded in agreement.
‘However, the flakes from the second envelope are of a different consistency and darker hue. They are not blood at all.’
‘Not blood…!’ I exclaimed in amazement. ‘Then what are they?’
Holmes shrugged. ‘Without my chemical apparatus I cannot be sure. It is certainly a manufactured substance. I should guess cochineal.’
‘Great heavens. What does this mean?’
My question prompted one of Sherlock Holmes’ enigmatic smiles. ‘All in good time,’ he said.
I tried another approach. ‘What was that document that caught your attention?’
‘Ah, that was Alan Cameron’s Last Will and Testament. Most illuminating.’
‘In what way?’
Holmes pressed a finger to his lips. It was an alternative expression to ‘All in good time’.
‘You know my methods, Watson. It is foolish to reveal one’s developing theory until it has fully blossomed. This is a paradoxical case. On one level, the solution seems simple but dealing with all the clues to make a coherent narrative is more challenging. Come now, we shall be late for dinner.’
*
On entering the dining room Sinclair introduced us to the Pavlows. Morag was absent however. Sinclair informed us that she was still too distressed to be in company but would be happy to talk to my friend later that evening.
Dr Eustace Pavlow was, to my mind, the epitome of an old country doctor. He was grey haired, slight of build, with a pale kind face which seemed to bear a permanently serene expression. Gentle blue eyes stared out from behind a pair of gold pince nez and his whole manner radiated trust and reliability. His wife, Victoria, was a plump cheery faced lady who seemed overcome by the tragic event that had occurred two evenings earlier and had little to say for herself. Indeed conversation was stilted during the course of the meal and Holmes, as was his way, remained virtually mute until the coffee arrived. It was then that he turned his attention to Dr Pavlow.
‘What do you make of this matter, doctor?’ he said in an almost casual manner. ‘Have you any alternative theories concerning the murder?’
Pavlow shook his head sadly. ‘I am afraid not, Mr Holmes. It is all quite baffling to me.’
‘I assume you believe that Mrs Cameron is innocent.’
‘Certainly. It is not in the lady’s nature to carry out such a heinous crime. I have known Alan and Anne many years and they were a loving and devoted couple.’
‘And yet Mrs Cameron seemed inordinately angry at her husband’s non-appearance at the dinner table last evening…’
Pavlow gave a wry smile. ‘Husbands and wives often get irritated with each other, Mr Holmes. That is the nature of marriage, but it does not lead to murder.’
‘You examined the body?’
‘I checked Alan’s pulse and looked closely the wounds. There were three in all; they were quite vicious and administered with great force.’
‘With great hatred?’
‘I suppose you could say so.’
‘There is no means of concealment in the room, so the murderer must have entered by the door. It is clear to me that whoever administered the blows was someone that Alan Cameron knew well since he was sitting at his desk and had no concerns about his assailant being behind him.’
‘You cannot think that dear Anne did such a thing,’ said Victoria Pavlow suddenly, with some passion.
‘The superficial evidence points in that direction, but I admit I am not fully convinced that she did. Tell me, when you and your husband arrived for dinner, did you go straight into the dining room?’
This enquiry seemed to discomfort Mrs Pavlow. ‘Why… no, not straight away. I went to the bathroom on the first floor to freshen my toilette and Eustace waited for me in the hall. This is the usual practice when we come to dinner at Tragere House, which we do at least half a dozen times a year.’
‘You did not encounter Mr Cameron on your journey there and back?’
‘Of course not,’ she replied with some heat, deeply irritated by my friend’s question. ‘If I had I would have informed the police.’
Holmes nodded gently, apparently unaware of the lady’s sharpness of tone.
‘Would you mind describing the gown you were wearing at dinner last evening?’
‘Really, Mr Holmes,’ snapped Dr Pavlow, ‘what has this to do with your investigation? It seems a puerile and very personal enquiry.’
‘It may have much to do with my investigation,’ Holmes replied lightly, waving his hand airily. ‘But, of course, Mrs Pavlow is under no obligation to answer.’ With a quick swivel of the head he turned his gaze upon the lady in question and she shrank visibly from it.
‘It was a long blue taffeta gown,’ she said quickly. ‘A very simple outfit.’
‘Not adorned with seed pearls?’
She shook her head.
‘Do you now require to know what I was wearing?’ sneered the usually placid doctor.
Holmes chuckled. ‘That will not be necessary. Now then, Mr Sinclair, I wonder if I could have those few words with your fiancée.’
This suggestion seemed to unsettle the young man. ‘Well,’ he said hesitating,’ I suspect she is resting still.’
‘I have no wish to disturb her but there is a certain amount of urgency in this matter. You did say that she would grant me an interview. If we are to prove Anne Cameron’s innocence we must act with alacrity. I only require a few moments conversation with her.’
‘But why? I am sure there is nothing she can add to the report I have given to you.’
‘Are you sure? Sometimes we see things, are aware of things that appear to have no relevance without realising their crucial importance. I have trained myself to use such apparent inconsequentialities and identify any key factors that may otherwise rest unnoticed. To put it another way, sir, we must turn over every pebble on the beach in order to discover the truth.’
*
Holmes and I, led by Sinclair, made our way up the central staircase and along a gloomily lit corridor to Morag Cameron’s room. On reaching it, the young man turned to us with a flushed face held in a rigid earnest expression. ‘If you would bear with me gentlemen, I will appraise my fiancée of your desire to speak with her and ascertain if she is well enough to cope with being questioned about this dreadful tragedy.’
‘Certainly,’ said Holmes, adding when Sinclair had entered the room. ‘Our young friend has certainly mastered the circumspect nature of the legal language’.
A few minutes later, Sinclair ushered us into the room. Morag Cameron was sitting up in bed. She was indeed a pretty young thing with startling hazel eyes and luxurious blonde tresses, but her complexion was pale and dark shadows under her eyes gave evidence of the strain and distress she was suffering.
Sinclair introduced us and drew up a chair so that Holmes could sit by the bed. ‘I apologise for this intrusion, especially at this most difficult time,’ Holmes said in his most solicitous tone. ‘I just want to clarify a few details concerning the death of your father so that we can get to the bottom of this terrible tragedy.’
‘I understand, Mr Holmes. I am so desperate to uncover the truth so that my mother is proved innocent and can be released from prison.’
‘I notice the long black dress hanging on the wardrobe over there. Is that the gown you wore last evening?’
Miss Cameron’s eyes widened in surprise at this question. ‘Why, yes.’
Holmes rose from his chair and moved to the wardrobe to study the garment at close quarters. ‘Most charming,’ he said softly as he peered at it carefully. ‘Most charming.’
Miss Cameron shook her head in bewilderment.
‘Surely you digress from your purpose here, Mr Holmes,’ observed Sinclair somewhat coldly.
‘Do I?’ remarked my friend casually as he resumed his seat and turned his attention to Morag Cameron once more. ‘You suffered from a nosebleed the other evening. Is this a regular affliction, Miss Cameron?’
‘No.’
‘But I understand you dealt with it calmly and efficiently.’
‘I believe so.’
‘When you excused yourself from the sitting room what did you do?’
‘I came back here, to my room, bathed my nose and stemmed the flow of blood. Then I returned to the sitting room.’
‘I see.’
‘You do not seem content with my answers, Mr Holmes.’
Holmes gave Morag Cameron a cold grin. ‘I am afraid I am not. I always react in this fashion when someone is telling me a series of lies.’
‘What the devil do you mean by this effrontery?’ roared Andrew Sinclair, rushing forward. I feared for an instant that he would assault my friend, but Holmes raised his hand and stopped in him in his tracks. ‘I am afraid the truth can often be hurtful, Mr Sinclair. I am sorry to inform you that your fiancée was responsible for her father’s death’.
Colour drained from Sinclair’s face and he sank down on the edge of the bed. By contrast Morag Cameron seemed quite unperturbed by this revelation and merely smiled.
‘You must be mad! It can’t be true,’ groaned Sinclair, his head sunk upon his chest.
‘You will have great difficulty in proving your theory, Mr Holmes,’ said Morag.
Holmes shook his head. ‘You have left a few tracks along the route of murder, Miss Cameron, that should convince a jury to consider the matter with great scrutiny’. He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘This is yours, I believe. It has your initial on the corner and it is stained with blood. I found it in the waste paper basket in your father’s study where you dropped it no doubt before you carried out your murderous deed. Although, it isn’t actually stained with blood, just something that replicates the colour and consistency – like cochineal. I observe that there is a little bottle standing on the shelf above your dressing table. You used it to fake a nose bleed which would allow you to leave the sitting room on the evening of the crime and visit your father’s study in order to murder him’.
Miss Cameron’s smile faded now, but she did not respond to Holmes’ claim.
‘You were wearing the black dress over there and in the violence of your action some of the tiny seed pearls became dislodged. I found four of them under your father’s chair.
‘But why should I want to kill my father?’
‘Because he changed his will. I saw a copy of it in his desk drawer. No doubt the original is lodged with his solicitor. He was so opposed to you marrying a man of such lowly financial status whom he took quite wrongly, I believe, to be a fortune hunter that he left you with only a small allowance on his death. He had warned you to cease your relationship with Mr Sinclair and choose a man whom he believed was more worthy of the daughter of the Laird of Tragere. He was so angry at your insistence in continuing with this alliance that he meant to teach you a lesson for disobeying him. Isn’t that the case?’
‘He was a stubborn, foolish old man’.
‘But what good would killing him do?’ asked Sinclair, his eyes now moist with tears.
‘It wasn’t as simple as that. She planned the murder in such a fashion as to implicate her mother. That is why she encouraged Mrs Cameron to visit her father’s room during the course of the dinner the other evening. She knew that her mother would be discovered with the dead body and thus implicated in the murder. With both her parents out of the way, she would become mistress of the Tragere estate. Isn’t that true, Miss Cameron?’
The girl giggled and it was then for the first time I saw the madness in her eyes. They were wild and gleeful and lacked any sign of contrition.
‘Is all of this really true, Mr Holmes? It’s not a trick?’ asked Sinclair, the depths of his despair resonating in his voice.
‘Of course it’s true, you idiot,’ cried Morag, her features alive with excitement and she gave another of her mad giggles. ‘My father had no right to block my inheritance. And so he paid the price for being so intransigent,’ she snarled.
‘I think we should get Dr Pavlow to give Miss Cameron a sedative and then the police must be informed,’ said Holmes softly.
‘Go to hell,’ screamed the girl, twisting her body in a paroxysm of impotent anger.
I just stared in pity and horror at the tormented creature as did Andrew Sinclair, before he quietly turned on his heels and like a sleepwalker left the room.
*
Despite our traumatic experiences of the previous day, as we travelled on the morning express from Edinburgh to London, my friend Sherlock Holmes tucked in to a hearty breakfast in the dining car.
‘Fuel for the long tiring journey ahead,’ he grinned facetiously and then added in a more serious tone, ‘and an antidote to the bleak tragedy we have left behind us.’
I nodded. ‘It is Andrew Sinclair I feel the most sorry for. That young man has not only had his dreams of marital happiness cruelly snatched away from him, but it is a blight on his life that will live with him for the rest of his days.’
‘There are no winners in this matter. One must remember the father cruelly murdered and the widow who has not only lost her husband but her daughter also. The whole case has elements of a Greek tragedy. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’ His eyes twinkled mischievously, knowing I would be appalled by such a statement.
‘When did you begin to suspect Morag Cameron?’
‘Well, the nose bleeding incident struck me as odd and then when I found her discarded handkerchief in the wastepaper basket that raised my suspicions further. Why should the girl wish to fake a nose bleed unless it was for a nefarious purpose? It was then that I began to see my way through the mist. Her presence in the murder room was assured, aided by the discovery of the seed pearls, but what puzzled me initially was the motive. Why should this young girl wish to kill her father? And then I discovered the copy of the will, recently dated, which indicated that the bulk of the estate was not going to Morag as no doubt had been the case previously. Typical of the official police to overlook this piece of damning evidence. But the girl will never see the gallows. Her mental structures have crumbled under the weight of her obsession. It is clear that a kind of madness overtook her. She will end up in some institution for the rest of her life. Strangely, old boy, I feel rather sorry for her. A woman should be able to marry whomever she wishes without constraints and penalties. Don’t you agree?’
‘Of course,’ I nodded, with a smile. I was always fascinated when Holmes expounded his views on romance and matrimony.
‘Now then,’ he said cheerily, ‘be so good as to pass me the toast and butter.’