Sherlock Holmes - The Will of the Dead

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  SHERLOCK

  HOLMES

  GEORGE MANN

  TITAN BOOKS

  Sherlock Holmes: The Will of the Dead

  Print edition ISBN: 9781781160015

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781781160084

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

  First edition: November 2013

  Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

  George Mann asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. Copyright © 2013 by George Mann

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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  Contents

  Foreword: by Dr. John H. Watson, MD

  Chapter One: From the Testimony of Mr. Oswald Maugham

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven: From the Testimony of Inspector Charles Bainbridge

  Chapter Eight: From the Testimony of Miss Annabel Maugham

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve: From the Testimony of Inspector Charles Bainbridge

  Chapter Thirteen: From the Testimony of Miss Annabel Maugham

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen: From the Testimony of Inspector Charles Bainbridge

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One: From the Testimony of Miss Annabel Maugham

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  About the Author

  The Hambleton Affair

  SHERLOCK

  HOLMES

  FOREWORD

  BY DR. JOHN H. WATSON, MD

  In the interests of completeness I have included here, alongside my own record of the case, extracts from the testimonies of some of the key players in this most unusual of mysteries, outlining events that transpired whilst I was otherwise engaged.

  I cannot, therefore, vouch for the accuracy of such accounts (and, indeed, would caution that in some instances they are most definitely unreliable), although where included they align with my understanding of how events unfolded, and work to shine further light on the myriad complexities of the case.

  I do, however, put my full faith in the testimony of Inspector Charles Bainbridge of Scotland Yard, and believe that his account of the “Iron Men” investigation, in particular, represents a true and full picture of what actually transpired. Reassurance may be drawn from the knowledge that Inspector Bainbridge has given his full approval for his description of events - interpreted and recorded by me, Dr. John Watson - to be published here alongside my own humble narrative.

  All that remains for me to say, then, is that, despite the sometimes remarkable nature of these transcripts and the shocking events to which they elude, all of it remains true.

  CHAPTER ONE

  FROM THE TESTIMONY OF MR. OSWALD MAUGHAM

  I woke to the sound of shattering glass.

  Startled, I sat up in bed, my heart thudding. It was dark - well past midnight - and my first thought was that someone had put out a window and was attempting to enter the house.

  I blinked the sleep from my eyes, waiting for my vision to adjust to the stygian gloom. The house was silent, save for the distant ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway below. I held my breath, listening nervously for any sounds of movement. Nothing.

  The moment stretched.

  My thoughts seemed sluggish - whether from being dragged so unceremoniously from sleep, or from the copious amount of claret I’d consumed during the evening’s festivities, I could not say. I closed my eyes, feeling the pull of unconsciousness. I told myself the sounds had been imagined. There was no need to get up, no need to trouble myself. A mere dream...

  I was close to drifting off again when I heard movement on the landing - footsteps, accompanied by the low murmur of a mumbling voice. I sat up, knowing now that my earlier fears were not unfounded.

  I am not, by nature, a brave soul, but I could not allow a potential intruder to go unchallenged. I slid from beneath my eiderdown, shocked by the sudden cold of the floorboards against the soles of my bare feet.

  I crossed to the door, cautious and quiet. I paused for a moment, listening. There was more murmuring, coming from along the landing.

  I turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open, cringing at the creak of the ancient hinges. I peered out. A shadowy figure stood at the top of the stairs, surrounded by a diffuse globe of lamplight. It turned at the sound of my movement, and I realised, with a sigh of relief, that it was only Uncle Theobald.

  “Oh, thank God,” he called, his voice wavering. “Is that you, Oswald? Lend me your arm, will you? I’m not sure what the devil’s come over me tonight.”

  I pushed the door open and, pulling my dressing-gown around my shoulders and tying the sash about my waist, I emerged onto the cold landing. I saw Jemima, Uncle Theobald’s black and white cat, dancing around his feet. She mewed noisily as she rubbed against his shins.

  “Yes, yes, Jemima. Just a moment longer. Oswald’s here to help.”

  I crossed the hallway, the floorboards creaking. “Uncle?” I asked, concerned. “What are you doing out of bed at this hour?” He looked haggard, his eyes lost in shadow. “You look unwell. Here, let me help you.” I put a reassuring hand under his arm, supporting him.

  Uncle Theobald was an elderly man, and his ailing health over recent months had been a cause of great concern for my cousins and I. Nevertheless, that night he seemed rather more out of sorts than usual. I took the lamp from him, holding it up so that I could see properly. His face looked pale and craggy, the myriad lines cast in stark relief. He narrowed his eyes at the sharpness of the light, and I lowered the lamp again.

  “Thank you, my boy. Thank you. I’m feeling rather light-headed. I spilled my drink... I...” he faltered, his shoulders sagging. He expelled a long, heartfelt sigh. “I’m old, Oswald. Old and feeble.” He sounded bitter, as if he were carrying a great burden, frustrated by his inability to carry out tasks that, only a few months earlier, had seemed like second nature.

  “Uncle, those stairs are treacherous and you’re clearly in n
o condition to attempt them unaided. You really should know better,” I said, gently admonishing, but careful to avoid patronising him. “You could have called for Agnes. Or one of us.” I sighed. “Look, I’ll fetch you another glass of water myself.”

  Uncle Theobald smiled sadly. “You always were a thoughtful child, Oswald,” he replied, patting my arm. “I’ve promised Jemima here some of that chicken, too. See to that, would you, while you’re downstairs?”

  “Chicken?” I asked, rubbing my eyes. I was still half asleep and desperate to return to my bed, but I couldn’t allow Uncle Theobald to go running about the house in the dark.

  “Quite so. The leftovers from the party. I had Agnes put some aside on a plate in the pantry.” He grinned. “Didn’t want Jemima to miss out, you see.”

  I glanced down at the cat, which was still mewling around his feet. “He spoils you, Jemima,” I said with a chuckle. I stooped and ruffled the fur behind her ears. “I’ll see to it, Uncle.” I straightened up, taking his arm. “First, however, allow me to escort you back to your bed.”

  “Very well,” he replied gratefully, allowing me to take some of his weight. We shuffled slowly across the landing to his chamber, where I ushered him towards his bed, careful to avoid any fragments of broken glass. The floorboards were damp where he’d dropped the tumbler, but the water had mostly drained away, leaving scattered shards of glass that shone when they caught the fleeting light.

  Jemima had followed us, and jumped up onto the bed as Uncle Theobald pulled the heavy blankets over his legs, propping himself up on the pillows. She meowed loudly.

  “I’m sorry, Jemima,” said Uncle Theobald, conspiratorially. “You heard him. I’m under orders. If you go with Oswald, though, he’ll fetch you that chicken I promised.”

  I hesitated for a moment, as if stupidly waiting to see if the cat would acknowledge what Uncle Theobald had said and follow me, but it seemed she was set upon haunting the poor chap all night. She didn’t seem to want to leave his side, as if - and I realise this sounds ridiculous - she was exhibiting some sixth sense, some foresight of what was to come.

  Of course, at the time I knew none of this, and put it down to the vagaries of the animal, who had always been Uncle Theobald’s pet and no one else’s, trailing around after him as he drifted from one empty room to the next, stirring up the dust and the memories in the old house. Sometimes, it was as if Uncle Theobald himself was a relic of the past, and Jemima his only reason for living.

  “There. Now you make yourself comfortable and I’ll return momentarily with a drink,” I said.

  I left the room and made for the stairs, holding on to the banister as I descended into the murky gloom of the hallway. It didn’t seem worth lighting the wall lamps, so I made do with the flickering oil lamp, traipsing across the cold marble floor and along the passageway to the kitchen. The inky darkness was eerie, the only sounds the swishing of my dressing-gown, the soft thud of my bare feet and the rattle of my breath as I hurried through the kitchen and into the pantry.

  I found the plate of chicken and placed it on the floor in the kitchen beside Jemima’s water bowl. Then, leaving the lamp on the table, I filled a glass with water from the tap, and drained it. I then replenished it for Uncle Theobald. I collected the lamp and hurried back to the stairs, eager to return to my bed.

  “I know, I know. I’m disappointed too, girl. Can’t even fetch myself a ruddy glass of water without causing a fuss.” Uncle Theobald was talking to Jemima when I knocked gently on his open door, and he looked up, beckoning me in. “Ah, thank you, Oswald. You’re a kind boy.”

  “I haven’t been a boy for many years, Uncle,” I chided, grinning.

  “No, no, of course not,” he replied with a chuckle.

  “Right. Here you are,” I said, placing the glass on his bedside table. “We’ll have Agnes clear this mess away in the morning.” I indicated the remnants of the previous glass. “You get some rest, and be careful not to stand on any of this when you rise.”

  Uncle Theobald sighed. He reached for the water and sipped at it slowly. “Very well.” He returned the glass to the bedside table and sunk back into his pillows, his eyes already fluttering closed. “Goodnight, Oswald.”

  “Goodnight, Uncle. Sleep well,” I said, turning down the oil lamp. “And goodnight to you, too, Jemima.” I crept from the room and along the landing to my own chamber, where I hastened to bed, and soon after fell into a deep, restful sleep.

  I woke to the sounds of someone stirring; a door opening and closing, water running, footsteps on the landing. It was still early -around six o’clock, I estimated, and I groaned wearily as I propped myself up on one elbow, blinking away the last vestiges of sleep.

  I started at the thud of something landing upon my chest, and looked down to see Jemima staring up at me with plaintive eyes.

  “Oh, hello, Jemima. What are you doing here? Is it morning already? I must have left the door ajar.” I stroked the fur on the top of her head, and she mewled happily. “Where’s Uncle Theobald, eh? Well, I suppose it’s almost time for breakfast. Did you polish off that chicken?” She looked at me curiously, tilting her head to one side. I sighed. “Look, you’ve got me doing it now. Talking to a cat -” I stopped abruptly at the sound of a dreadful, ear-splitting shriek. It was perhaps the worst sound I have ever heard; the raw, terrified, primal scream of a woman.

  “Agnes!” I called, throwing back the covers and sending Jemima sprawling on the bed. I ran out onto the landing. “Agnes?”

  I could hear her whimpering in the hallway below, and I hurried to the top of the stairs. She was huddled at the bottom, her back to me, slowly rocking back and forth on her knees. I could see she was bent over something bulky, but it was obscured from view.

  “Agnes? What’s wrong? Whatever’s happened?” I asked, with trepidation. I started down the stairs towards her. Behind me I could hear doors being flung open as the rest of the household, woken by the screaming maid, came rushing out to see what had occurred.

  “Oh, Mr. Oswald, sir,” gasped Agnes, between sobs. “There’s been a terrible accident. Sir Theobald...” She drew a deep intake of breath, moving to one side so I could see. There, on the marble floor, lay the broken remains of my uncle. His head was resting at an unnatural angle and blood had trickled from his nose, forming a glossy pool beside him. One arm looked broken, and his eyes were open and staring. I felt a creeping sensation of dread in the pit of my stomach.

  “Good God!” I cried, hurtling down the remaining steps to his side. “He must have fallen in the night!” I dropped to my knees, meaning to search for a pulse, but found I could not bring myself to touch him. He looked so pale, and I could see that he was no longer breathing. “Is he...?” I stammered, already knowing the answer.

  “Yes, sir,” sobbed Agnes, unable to control her tears. “He’s... he’s...” she whimpered. “Sir Theobald is dead.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Of all the many adventures of Sherlock Holmes that I have chronicled these long years, the mystery surrounding the death of Sir Theobald Maugham still lingers in my mind as perhaps one of the most unsettling, and certainly one of the most affecting.

  For many years I had thought not to set it down, in part due to the sensitivities of that fateful family, but as much - in truth - because I could not even begin to see how to record such a complex web of betrayal and deceit.

  I hope that perhaps, with the benefit of time, I may finally be able to present it here, if not only to once again demonstrate the deductive cunning of my friend and associate, but also to set straight the record of what truly occurred.

  It began on a grey evening in late October 1889. Domestic duties had kept me away from Baker Street for nearly two full months, and the long summer had given way to a fruitful, mellow autumn. The streets were wreathed in a low-lying mist that curled around the gas lamps and softened the harsh lines of the city. I’m not ashamed to admit that I was happy and enjoying married life, and my thoughts had been far
from murder, blackmail, or any of the other forms of criminal activity that typically punctuated the time I spent with Holmes.

  Holmes himself, on the other hand, unable to find a case that could hold his attention, had once again retreated into one of his insufferable black moods. He had taken to lounging about the apartment in his tatty, ancient dressing-gown, smoking his pipe incessantly and indulging in his deplorable chemical habit. In his drug-induced lethargy, he had abandoned all sense of cleanliness and propriety. The apartment was cluttered with abandoned teacups, heaped plates and a landslide of discarded newspapers. Mrs. Hudson had, for the last week, refused to enter his chambers, and it had been her hastily scrawled missive that had brought me to town, and to Baker Street, that very morning.

  I had bustled into the apartment with the intention of admonishing Holmes for his lackadaisical behaviour. Although I had learned from experience that my chastisement was unlikely to stir him from his ennui, I felt obliged to make the attempt all the same, both for his sake, and for that of the long-suffering Mrs. Hudson.

  He had his back to me when I entered the room, propped up in his armchair by the fire. His bare feet were resting up on a small table, and he was drawing his violin bow steadily back and forth across the strings of the instrument in an apparently random fashion, causing it to emit a violent, disharmonious screeching -rather, I considered, echoing my own present temperament.

  “Holmes?” I said, full of bluster. “What the devil do you think you’re doing, man? Poor Mrs. Hudson is beside herself! Stop torturing that damn instrument for a moment, will you, and listen to an old friend.”

  To my satisfaction, the screeching came to an abrupt halt.

  “Ah, Watson!” replied Holmes, delighted. “Yes, I was rather expecting you,” he continued, in a more languorous manner.

  This somewhat took the wind from my sails. “You were?” I said, a little indignantly.

  “Naturally,” replied Holmes, with a dismissive wave of his hand. He lowered the violin and turned about in his chair to regard me. I could see he was wearing his crimson dressing-gown over a tatty black suit, both of them pitted and pockmarked with tobacco burns and chemical stains. His eyes were hooded and lost in shadow; he was evidently not in the best of ways.