Sherlock Holmes - The Will of the Dead Read online

  “I assure you, Mr. Asquith, that I am doing everything in my power to resolve the matter of the ‘iron men’ as swiftly and efficiently as possible,” I said, in a reassuring tone. “If I can recover your automata, I will.” I paused, weighing my next question. “Tell me, Mr. Asquith - is there a way to stop them?”

  “To stop them?” Asquith looked thoughtful, and then sheepish. “I think not, Inspector. The key is not in stopping the automata themselves, but the villain who is giving them instructions. Nothing short of artillery guns or other, more developed automata could stop them once they’ve been given a task.”

  I nodded. I’d anticipated as much from the many reports. “Do you have any idea who might be behind the thefts?”

  Asquith shrugged. “A rival industrialist, perhaps? A criminal gang? I understand from the newspapers that my machines have so far been employed in a series of burglaries,” he said, pursing his lips in disgust. “That speaks only of a stunning lack of imagination on the part of the villain. To reduce my automata to that...” he trailed off, shaking his head. “They’re capable of so much more.”

  “I see it pains you enormously, Mr. Asquith,” I said, in a placatory manner.

  “Anything I can do, Inspector, anything at all, just ask.” Asquith gave a heavy sigh. “I’ll happily show you my workshops if it would prove useful, give a statement to the press - anything that helps.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Asquith. I’ll certainly bear that in mind,” I said.

  “I do intend to speak to the press,” said Asquith, fixing me with his bright, blue eyes. “It’s imperative that I protect the name of my family and business, you understand. If it were to get about that these iron men belonged to me... well, the ramifications... I think it best that I address the matter directly, and explain to the public that these machines were intended only to be put to servile use, and not to be abused in such a way. I wish to make it clear,” he went on, “that whoever stole these machines is misusing them.”

  “Very well,” I sighed, already anticipating the wrath of Lord Roth, the expression on his face when he read such an article in The Times. Nevertheless, I could not justifiably prevent the man from protesting his innocence and protecting his reputation.

  “I’ll be in touch, then, Mr. Asquith, as soon as I have news to report, or further need of your help,” I said.

  Asquith looked momentarily confused. “But Inspector - wasn’t there something else? The reason for your message this morning?”

  I chuckled, rising to my feet. “No, no, Mr. Asquith. I find we are entirely aligned in our concerns. I wished to question you regarding your missing automata and any possible links they might have to these notorious iron men. You answered my questions even before I asked them.”

  “Very good,” said Asquith, standing and smoothing down the front of his jacket. “Here’s my card,” he said, handing me a small cream-coloured square of board. “You can usually find me at my club, if I’m not at the workshop.”

  I proffered my hand, and Asquith shook it vigorously. “I’m gratified to know that my case is finally being heard, Inspector Bainbridge. Thank you.”

  Harris opened the door and ushered Asquith through. “I’ll show you out, sir,” he said, leading Asquith away down the passage.

  When they’d gone I let out a heartfelt sigh and withdrew my pocket watch from my waistcoat. It was approaching five o’clock. Not long, then, until I could unburden myself to Lestrade over a brandy. The thought was cheering, despite the knowledge that, in his office, Roth was most likely checking his own pocket watch, waiting for his opportunity to make his point and send me back to the old Whitechapel beat from whence I’d come.

  I hoped I wouldn’t be able to give him the satisfaction.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  FROM THE TESTIMONY OF MISS ANNABEL MAUGHAM

  It was early evening, but the light was already beginning to fade and I’d drawn the curtains to keep the warmth from escaping. Joseph was in town on business - although on what business, I could not testify. He revealed very little to me regarding his comings and goings, and I had long ago learned that if I wished to maintain a relatively peaceful existence, I should not provoke him by enquiring.

  Consequently, I had eaten a light meal of pea soup and, trying to place aside my concerns over my present situation - although I admit I remained somewhat preoccupied by considerations of a financial nature - I had taken up my knitting needles and planned to spend the evening in quiet contemplation before the fire.

  It was a shock to me, therefore, when, at around seven o’clock, there was a brisk rap at the front door. I heard Martha, our housemaid, run quickly to answer it.

  “Is that you, Joseph?” I called, sighing. “Have you forgotten your key again?” I didn’t expect a response, and so, a little exasperated, I placed my knitting on the arm of my chair and rose stiffly, stretching my aching back. I hurried down the hall, beckoning for Martha to move out of the way.

  “I don’t know, Jo -” I stopped short at the sight of an unfamiliar man, standing before me in the doorway. He was wearing a long black overcoat - a little threadbare around the elbows - with a wide-brimmed hat pulled down low over his face. He had an imposing, hook-shaped nose, a wiry moustache and green eyes that gleamed in the fading light. “Oh, I do apologise,” I said, attempting to recover from the surprise. “I wasn’t expecting any callers. How may I help you?”

  The stranger smiled gregariously. “Good evening, Miss Maugham,” he said, in a thick German accent. “My name is Mr. Hans Gerber.” He studied my face, as if searching for my reaction. I remained outwardly calm, although inside I felt my stomach lurch. So, this was the mysterious Hans Gerber, the man who would steal my inheritance. He had quite a nerve, to come to my door in such a manner. “May I come in?” he asked, taking a step towards me, as if expecting me to make way.

  “Well, I...” I said, unsure for a moment on the best course of action. There was a part of me that wished to discover more about this mysterious man, to question him on the nature of his claim, to challenge him, even, on his temerity. Here, before me, was the man who had threatened to ruin my cousins, Joseph and myself as an act of revenge against a slight carried out by a prior generation. I wondered if perhaps I might even be able to reason with the man, to make him see what he was doing, and discuss whether we might be able to reach some sort of compromise. After all, Uncle Theobald had been a rich man, and there was plenty of money to go around. Perhaps if he were to understand the implications of his actions, he might be better disposed towards a mutually satisfying solution.

  My good sense told me, however, that I should not risk allowing such a man - a stranger who might well wish me ill -into my home whilst I was without a chaperone. And besides, his business was as much with Joseph, and I could not speak on my brother’s behalf.

  I made my decision, and remained resolutely where I was standing, blocking the doorway. “I think perhaps you should call again, Mr. Gerber, when my brother is at home. It would be improper for me to invite you in while he is out on business. I am sure whatever you have come to say would be best heard by the both of us.”

  Gerber grinned. “Come now, Miss Maugham,” he said, his tone slightly threatening. “We are, after all, family.”

  I felt my ire rising. “I assure you, Mr. Gerber, you are no family of mine.” I began to close the door, but he caught it with his boot, forcing it open. I almost screamed in frustration, wishing I were stronger. “You are not welcome here,” I said firmly. When this didn’t seem to move him, I offered him a warning. “My brother will be back from town shortly.”

  “Ah. Excellent. Then perhaps I could wait?” he said, as if none of the unpleasantness of the last few moments had occurred. “I come only to discuss certain arrangements with you, Miss Maugham, regarding the future of my estate.”

  I could hardly believe the sheer audacity of the man. “Of your estate, Mr. Gerber!”

  “Quite so, Miss Maugham. Within a matter of days I shal
l be taking up residence at Sir Theobald’s house,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I came here to discuss the return of your belongings. I understand you kept a room at the house?” He looked at me expectantly, and I nodded in confirmation. I found I was unable to speak for the sheer anger blossoming inside of me. “Such a room, of course, shall no longer be required,” he went on. “Arrangements will need to be made for you to collect anything you wish to keep.”

  “How dare you,” I said, sharply, flicking out my wrist and striking him hard across the cheek with the flat of my hand. He reeled back, his hand going to his face, and I felt a surge of panic. I’d struck out without thinking, driven by his audacity and rudeness. Now, I feared retaliation.

  “Now, Miss Maugham!” he said, quietly. “There is no need for such unpleasantness. I have every intention of being reasonable about this. A week, at least, before you need to remove your things. Plenty of time to make the necessary arrangements.”

  “Reasonable!” I bellowed in disbelief. “Reasonable! You have some nerve, Mr. Gerber. I’ll give you that. You wait until Joseph hears about this!”

  “Excellent,” replied Gerber, calmly. He was smiling again, my earlier assault on him already forgotten. “Your brother will no doubt be able to make all of the necessary arrangements.” He stepped back, releasing the door.

  “Goodnight to you, Mr. Gerber,” I said, fighting back tears of frustration. “Do not come here again.”

  I slammed the door violently and hurriedly turned the key in the lock.

  I waited until I heard his footsteps receding down the garden path as he strode off into the evening, and then slumped back against the wall. The sobs came in fitful, gasping bursts. Martha, who had been loitering in the hallway, ready to offer her assistance, came rushing to my side, but I batted her aside in embarrassment.

  All of my life I had known security and safety, and I had always known that, when my uncle finally passed on, I would become a woman of independent means.

  Hans Gerber was going to ruin everything. He was going to spoil all my plans, all my hopes for the future. That odious wretch who called himself my cousin was about to destroy everything I’d dreamed of, and I was powerless to stop him.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The following morning, events began to take a more sinister turn. I’d agreed - once again - to meet Holmes at Baker Street, although I’d promised myself I would return to my surgery later that afternoon. I feared that my patients would be feeling so neglected that I might as well have gone to Suffolk with my wife after all.

  My plans were soon to be dashed, however, as these things often are when a man counts Mr. Sherlock Holmes amongst his closest friends.

  Holmes was waiting for me when I arrived, even though, as a conscientious man, I was five minutes earlier than arranged. He nearly leapt out of his seat when I came bustling through the door, and I could see immediately that something had hold of his attention. He had that wide-eyed, frenetic look that only ever came upon him in the midst of a case, when something new or unexpected had occurred, throwing fresh light on the matter or introducing previously unanticipated levels of complexity.

  “Ah, Watson! As punctual as ever.” I realised Holmes was already wearing his overcoat and scarf, and was clutching his hat in his hand, as if ready to leave.

  “Forgive me, Holmes,” I muttered. “I wasn’t aware that you were waiting for me, or I should have come sooner. Whatever is the matter?”

  “Word from Inspector Bainbridge, Watson. Our villain has shown his hand,” said Holmes. As he had been the previous evening, he seemed full of nervous energy, fidgeting with his hat and restless to get moving.

  “Gerber, you mean?” I said, unsure.

  “In a manner of speaking...” replied Holmes, once again falling back onto his predilection for ambiguity.

  “Oh, not this again, Holmes,” I said, with a note of warning in my voice. “Please, do enlighten me - without any cryptic comments.”

  Holmes frowned, but continued. “There’s been a murder, Watson. Another death.”

  “Good Lord!” I exclaimed. “Go on!”

  “Peter Maugham has been found dead in his sitting room, a knife in his chest. The telegram from Bainbridge said it was quite a spectacular mess.” I did think that Holmes might have imparted this information without so much relish, but I knew it was not the poor man’s death that had so excited him, but the prospect of a deepening puzzle.

  “My word. The plot thickens, Holmes. What the devil is going on? Why would anyone have it in for Peter Maugham?” I admit, I could not see what motive the elusive Mr. Gerber might have for taking such extreme measures.

  “That, Watson,” pronounced Holmes, “is precisely what I intend to find out.” He placed his hat upon his head decisively. “Now, don’t remove your coat or hat,” he went on. “We’re to go directly to the scene. Bainbridge has arranged for everything to be left precisely as it was found.”

  He ushered me towards the door, and, at his insistence, I took the stairs two at a time, hurrying towards the street below. Holmes produced his whistle from his coat pocket and gave forth a shrill blow, duly summoning the nearest hansom.

  So it was that we found ourselves hurtling across town in the back of a cab, towards yet more evidence of murder, intrigue and revenge. Holmes was positively alive with nervous energy, and I could see even being confined in the back of the cab was too much for him. He was like a hound that had caught the scent of the hunt, and he wanted to be at the scene, in the thick of it, engaging his not inconsiderable mind. It was a pleasure to see him once more himself.

  I sat back in my seat, resolute in my mind that when we finally caught up with Mr. Hans Gerber - who I was already sure must be responsible for this latest tragedy - I would take great pleasure in seeing him put before a judge.

  My patients, it seemed, would have to wait for my attentions a little while longer.

  * * *

  The residence of Peter Maugham was a modest, terraced house in a reasonably fashionable street just off Cheyne Walk, close to the river. The small front garden had a single raised bed, planted with roses, and a black cast-iron railing that ran parallel to the road. Three steps led up to the front door, which stood ajar, with a uniformed constable standing guard to one side.

  Holmes, brazen as ever, strolled directly past the waiting policeman and in through the front door without knocking, causing the man to start after him, calling out in concern.

  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson to see Inspector Bainbridge,” I said, catching the man’s arm in an effort to avoid a scene. He was a young constable in his mid-twenties, with a pencil-thin moustache and a mess of dark hair poking out from beneath his domed helmet.

  He looked at me suspiciously. “Sherlock ’olmes?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I confirmed. “And Dr. Watson.” I offered my hand, and he took it, shaking it warily. “Please forgive my friend,” I said. “Once he has hold of a scent...”

  The bobby, evidently deciding that I wasn’t attempting to pull the wool over his eyes, heaved a sigh of relief. “I’ve heard that about him, Dr. Watson, from the other men on the force.” He lowered his voice. “They say he’s a blinkin’ nightmare, to be honest, always swanning in and shouting at everyone.”

  I laughed heartily. “Well, you’re not wrong,” I said. “And if I’m not mistaken, he’ll be up to his usual tricks within the next few minutes.”

  “In that case,” said the young man, “I’m glad to be out here.”

  I patted him on the shoulder and, still chuckling, followed Holmes into the house.

  It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom inside. Bainbridge was standing in the hallway, leaning heavily on his cane. His clothes were a little crumpled, as though he’d pulled them on hurriedly in the dark, and I noticed he had forgone his usual bowler hat. He looked tired - haggard, even - and I saw instantly that the pressure of simultaneously overseeing two major investigations was taking a toll on his health.
He looked as if he’d hardly slept, and I suspected that he’d probably been up most of the night working on the other case, only to be called away from his bed early that morning to Peter Maugham’s house.

  A murder was clearly the last thing he needed; the tangled web being weaved by the Maugham family was complex enough as it was, without this new, gruesome development. Additionally, there was now no room for dispute regarding the death of Sir Theobald. Even if it could be proved that the old man’s death was an accident - something both Holmes and I very much doubted - the murder of Peter Maugham, along with the mysterious reappearance of Hans Gerber, meant that Scotland Yard’s investigations into the Maugham family were only just beginning. Added to that, of course, was the fact that the iron men crimes continued to increase in both frequency and boldness.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” said Bainbridge, jovially, as we entered the hall. “Something told me I’d be seeing the two of you again shortly.”

  “Once again, Inspector, we meet under less than salubrious circumstances,” I said, offering him a warm smile.

  “Where’s the body?” said Holmes, sharply, and I turned to glare at him for being so indelicate.

  Bainbridge sighed. “Straight down to business then, Mr. Holmes.”

  Holmes raised both eyebrows in a gesture of complete incomprehension, as if to say “what else?” Then, realising his directness might well have caused offense, gave an impatient sigh, before going on. “There’s little time to waste, Inspector, if we’re to derive as much useful information from the scene as possible. Every second that passes, valuable clues are lost to us. Spilled blood thickens, fingerprints are disturbed...”

  Bainbridge nodded in understanding. “Very well, Mr. Holmes.” He turned and, cupping a hand to his mouth, called along the passageway. “Mitchell! Clear the way for Mr. Holmes.”