Sherlock Holmes - The Will of the Dead Page 12
The intruder, who was dressed in a black overcoat and clutching a glinting blade, barrelled away down the hall towards the kitchen. Hefting my revolver, I dashed off in pursuit.
“He’s getting away!” bellowed Holmes, in frustration.
“Help here!” I heard Bainbridge call loudly from behind me, and realised one of the constables must have been injured in the fight. I pressed on regardless, following the sound of thundering footsteps, the crunch of broken glass underfoot as our quarry fled through the back door and into the garden beyond.
I knew that Holmes would be able to assist the Inspector and, as it had turned out, I had the best chance of stopping Gerber - if, indeed, it was Gerber I was pursuing.
Haring after him, I skidded on the shards of glass and nearly went down, but caught myself on the doorframe, flinging myself out into the garden behind the fleeing man.
I caught sight of him hauling himself up and over the rear wall and braced myself, raising my revolver and squeezing off a shot. It struck the wall, showering the man in a plume of dust and causing him to cry out in surprise, throwing himself down into the alley beyond.
Cursing, I stowed the revolver in my belt and leapt into the flowerbed, pulling myself up onto the wall. I could see the man fleeing along the alley and, never one to give up easily, I dropped down onto the cobbles and followed on behind.
He proved to be a younger, fitter man than I, however, and while I managed to hold him in view, he was gaining ground with every step, charging towards the main thoroughfare at the other end of the alley.
A moment later I burst out of the mouth of the alley and straight into the path of an oncoming hansom. The horses, spooked, reared up and tried to bolt, and I was forced to fling myself down onto the road to avoid a collision.
The hansom slewed on the wet ground, the horses whinnying as they tried to flee in different directions. I jarred my elbow painfully in the fall and had to roll out of the way of the clattering hooves before I found myself trampled. They passed only inches from my head.
The driver called out in colourful language as I scrabbled to my feet, glancing this way and that, searching for my quarry. Alas, it was too late. I’d lost him. He could have disappeared down any of the myriad bustling side streets. All while I’d been rolling around in the filth, trying to avoid being trodden on.
Frustrated, dirty and smarting, I set out to retrace my steps back to Oswald Maugham’s residence.
* * *
When I returned to the apartment a short while later, I found the place was still in some disarray. Uniformed men were bustling about the place talking in hushed tones. I’d come around the front way and used the doorbell, as I hadn’t much liked the prospect of trying to scrabble back over the rear wall, particularly with my elbow still throbbing fiercely from my tumble in the hall.
Oswald Maugham, as I’d suspected, had not slept a wink, and was now ensconced in his sitting room, nursing a stiff drink, a petrified look on his face.
Bainbridge’s expression was like thunder, and I knew immediately that he was unhappy with the bungling efforts of his constables. He’d hardly had a chance to berate them, however, as one of them had indeed taken a knife blade to the shoulder, and Bainbridge had been forced to stem the flow of blood with a makeshift tourniquet while he awaited the arrival of the doctor.
Holmes, on the other hand, was in exceedingly high spirits. He was standing in the front bay window, parting the heavy felt drapes with his left hand and staring out at the mist-shrouded street beyond. His lips were curled in a broad smile.
“What are you grinning at, Holmes?” I asked, with a certain measure of consternation. “It seems to me that this evening’s pursuits couldn’t have been more of a disaster if we’d tried.”
“Oh, quite the contrary, my dear Watson,” replied Holmes, brightly. “I now have a much clearer notion of the nature of our killer.”
“Oh, right. Do you?” I said, somewhat tired and frustrated. I simply couldn’t see how Holmes could be so unconcerned with the fact we’d let the killer get away again, scot-free. We’d come so close to having him in our grasp.
“Quite so, Watson,” said Holmes. “Here. I found this by the back door.” He made a flourish of handing me the crushed stub of a cigarette.
I took it and gave it a cursory examination. I was in no mood for engaging in his little games, and my elbow was beginning to ache terribly. “The stub of a cigarette...” And then it hit me. “Is it...?”
“It is, Watson,” said Holmes, sweeping it out of my grasp and holding it up to the faint light from the window. “Identical in almost every way to the one we found at the home of the late Peter Maugham earlier this very day.”
“Then it was Gerber,” I muttered. This had to be the confirmation we’d been looking for.
Holmes laughed. “While I applaud your enthusiasm, Watson, I fear you have missed one potentially vital clue. There is no way that the man to whom you have just given chase was the same person who murdered Peter Maugham.”
“But Holmes!” I protested, bewildered. “Everything points to Gerber. The cigarettes, the motive...”
“The motive? Perhaps,” said Holmes, thoughtfully. “Yet the person who killed Peter Maugham was short. This we established from the length of their strides, and also from the relative height of the wounds inflicted upon the victim. The man you have just pursued, as well you saw, was far taller.”
“Good heavens, Holmes!” I exclaimed. “You’re right!” I frowned, uncertain now. “But what of Gerber?”
Holmes raised a single eyebrow. “That is quite the question, Watson. What of Gerber indeed...”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Annabel Maugham was in a dreadful state when Holmes and I called on her the following morning. Her brother was out on undisclosed business, and while she was alone she had received another threatening letter from the notorious Mr. Hans Gerber.
It appeared that - somehow - the odious wretch knew exactly when to time the delivery of his missives to achieve the most devastating effect. It seemed clear to me that he was surreptitiously observing his cousins, and I mentioned as much to Holmes on the journey over. Holmes, of course, had already considered this notion, and waved his hand nonchalantly in the back of the brougham. “Of course, Watson,” he said, imperiously. “That much is obvious. Yet I cannot see how it might assist us in bringing him to justice.”
“Well, for a start, we might ourselves observe the households in question, and if Gerber puts in an appearance we can swoop in, restrain him and take him into custody,” I ventured, perplexed that Holmes had missed such an obvious plan.
Holmes shook his head. “A clever man, Watson, would use agents to achieve such ends. We would not know for whom we were waiting, meaning we would undoubtedly find ourselves challenging every caller to the house, be they maid, delivery man, salesman or relative. Even then, the agents will only be briefed with what information is pertinent to them achieving their goal and getting paid. The information they could give us would be largely useless.” He took a long draw from his pipe, and exhaled a cloud of pungent smoke into the confines of the cab. I coughed and spluttered pointedly, and he smiled. “I believe our time would be much better spent pursuing other avenues of our investigation, such as those we are already set upon.”
I nodded, seeing the logic in Holmes’s argument, but not wishing to give him the satisfaction of admitting defeat. He was, of course, correct - I saw the sense in what he said - but truthfully his patronising tone and easy dismissal had somewhat grated upon me that morning, and I preferred to sit and brood. I was tired and fractious following our exploits at Oswald Maugham’s apartment and did not wish to sour things further with brittle words, and so we sat in silence until our arrival at the home of Joseph and Annabel Maugham.
Upon arrival we discovered that - distressed by the contents of the new letter, and unsure what else to do - Miss Maugham had sent directly for Tobias Edwards, who had immediately hurried across town to sit with
her. It was he who showed us in.
He looked haggard and put-upon. He had dark rings beneath his eyes and his complexion was decidedly pale. Clearly he, too, was desperately concerned over the Gerber matter, and it was a simple matter to deduce that he wasn’t sleeping. I made a mental note to offer him any medical assistance he might require before the morning’s interview was over.
He beckoned us into the hall, but hesitated there for a moment, speaking in a sepulchral whisper. “I should warn you, Mr. Holmes, that Miss Maugham is in no condition to receive visitors. I imagine, however, that despite this she would benefit greatly from your support.” His eyes searched Holmes’s face, looking for comprehension.
Holmes smiled warmly. “I understand, Mr. Edwards,” he said.
Edwards nodded thankfully and led us into the sparsely furnished sitting room, where previously we had briefly interviewed Miss Maugham and her brother.
She was standing by the hearth, clutching a scrap of paper in her hands, and she rushed over to Holmes when we walked in, her expression imploring. It was clear she’d been crying. “Oh, Mr. Holmes! Thank goodness you’re here! I fear I am beside myself. I do not know what to do. Mr. Edwards here has tried but can offer little consolation. It seems Mr. Gerber is set upon destroying this family.”
“You have received another letter, I see, Miss Maugham,” I said.
“Indeed I have, Dr. Watson, this very morning. Joseph left early, with business to attend to, and after taking breakfast I came to the door to collect the post and found this upon the mat.” She brandished the crumpled letter before her as if it were a dirty rag.
“It seems this Gerber fellow has nerves of steel. After what he’s done... to continue in such a fashion!” I said, disapprovingly.
“May I see the contents of the letter, Miss Maugham?” asked Holmes.
“Yes,” she replied, handing it to him and stepping back to warm herself before the spitting fire, “of course.” She appeared to regain her composure somewhat, although I noticed she continued to wring her hands anxiously behind her back. I resolved that, whenever we caught the vagabond who had caused this woman such grave distress, I would make sure that he paid dearly for his crimes.
“Thank you,” said Holmes, unfolding the crumpled note and smoothing out the creases. “I’ll read it aloud, if I may?” He glanced up at Miss Maugham, and she gave a curt nod of approval.
Holmes cleared his throat:
My dear Miss Maugham,
May I offer my sincerest condolences upon the death of your cousin, Peter. I am sure that the circumstances must weigh very heavily upon your conscience. For him to die in such a fashion seems hardly befitting for a man of his station.
Allow me to assure you that, as the day approaches when I shall assume responsibility for this family’s affairs, I will make it my business to ensure that you, Oswald and your brother receive all that you deserve.
Regards
Mr. Hans Gerber
Holmes finished reading and looked up, appraising our reactions.
“Good grief!” I said, unsure how to articulate my disgust. “He writes only to gloat of his own handiwork. ‘On your conscience’ indeed! The sheer gall of the man! He knows no bounds! This letter constitutes a very real threat to Miss Maugham’s life, Holmes.”
“Perhaps so. These are the words of a very bitter man, Watson.” Holmes folded the note again, handing it to Tobias Edwards, who was hovering at his elbow, following proceedings with a keen interest. Not for the first time, I wondered if this interest in Miss Maugham’s affairs was something more than professional. I suspected it was - he had already gone far beyond the remit of a family solicitor in attending her at her home. She was, after all, a striking woman.
“My brother Joseph cannot hear of this,” she said, stifling a sob. “It would drive him to distraction, and he has such a violent temper. I don’t know what he might do...” she trailed off, her hands to her mouth.
Edwards went to comfort her, placing a hand on her arm. “There, there, Miss Maugham. All will be well.”
It was clear to me from Annabel Maugham’s pale aspect that she was fearful for her safety. Not only at the hands of Mr. Hans Gerber, but perhaps also at those of her tempestuous brother. She shook as she spoke of him, but seemed to take some measure of comfort, at least, from the presence of Edwards.
I had met Joseph Maugham only briefly, but he’d seemed to me like a brute of a man, and it had been clear at the time that he and his sister had concluded an argument only moments before Holmes and I arrived. Indeed, he’d been quarrelsome during the interview itself. I wondered how long she’d been suffering at the hands of this man; what power he had over her. Perhaps it was related to their financial arrangements; she’d risk ruin if she even considered setting herself up as a woman of independent means without her brother’s support. Or perhaps there was more to it than that. Familial ties, I knew, ran deep, even when one party showed nothing but utter contempt for the other.
For now, however, she was safe. Uniformed constables had been placed on watch outside the house, and Holmes had spoken with them prior to entering - despite his earlier assertion that there was nothing to be gained from watching the comings and goings around the premises.
They had seen nothing to raise suspicion. Joseph Maugham had returned to the house late the previous evening, smelling of cheap gin, and had left early that morning, just as Miss Maugham had described. They were not aware of his destination, any more than Miss Maugham herself appeared to be.
No one else, other than the postman, had been near the property, and Annabel herself had not left the house.
She looked over at us now, the concern evident on her face. “What of poor Oswald? I understand there was an incident at his apartment last night?”
Holmes nodded. “I fear, Miss Maugham, that an attempt would indeed have been made on his life, had Dr. Watson not acted as swiftly and commendably as he did to prevent it.”
I couldn’t help but smile at Holmes’s unusual praise. It was reassuring to know that my efforts were appreciated.
“Is it too much to hope that you managed to detain the culprit?” she pressed, anxiously.
“I’m afraid not, Miss Maugham. He is a wily devil, and although I gave chase, I fear I lost him,” I said, with a shrug.
“Do you think he might come here?” she asked, clutching Edwards’s forearm.
“I think it very likely he might try, Miss Maugham,” said Holmes. “For that reason, and that reason alone,” at this juncture he offered me a sly, knowing look, “the two police constables posted outside of your home will remain here indefinitely. At the very least until this situation is brought to a satisfactory resolution.”
“Satisfactory?” replied Miss Maugham, with bitterness in her tone. “Satisfactory for whom, Mr. Holmes? Peter is dead. Uncle Theobald’s will is missing. Joseph is incensed beyond reason and soon I shall be destitute. I see very little satisfaction to be derived from this situation.” Clearly, the pressure was becoming unbearable.
“Now really, Miss Maugham,” said Edwards, in a conciliatory fashion. “It’s not as bad as all that. You must trust in Mr. Holmes. He will find a way out of this mess, for all of us. I know he will.” He paused, glancing up at Holmes, whose expression remained rigid and unreadable. “Now, alas, I must take my leave,” he continued. “There is much to be done. I shall call again in a day or two, to see if I might be of further assistance.” He lowered his voice. “And you must feel free to send for me at any time, if there is anything you need,” he said, softly, to Miss Maugham.
“Thank you, Mr. Edwards,” she replied. “I’m not at all sure what this family would do without you.”
“It’s nothing,” he said, smiling.
“Your compassion does you credit, Mr. Edwards,” I said. It had occurred to me, as I’d watched the two of them interacting, that perhaps Edwards represented a means of escape to Miss Maugham, a way to free herself from the curse of her unruly brother.
“Quite so, Mr. Edwards,” replied Holmes.
“Good day, Mr. Edwards,” said Miss Maugham, quietly, as he left.
Holmes cleared his throat, pointedly. “Miss Maugham. We shall leave you now in the capable hands of the police. Please, do not leave the house unless absolutely necessary. Take all due precautions and inform the constables of your whereabouts at all times. Follow these instructions and all will be well.”
“And Mr. Gerber?” she said.
“The net is closing on Mr. Hans Gerber,” replied Holmes, cryptically. “Soon, all will be revealed...”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
FROM THE TESTIMONY OF INSPECTOR CHARLES BAINBRIDGE
I was strolling home through Holborn when it happened.
It was late - after eleven - and I was wrapped up against the frigid wind, my collar turned up, my hat pulled down low over my brow. Perhaps I’d have heard them coming if I hadn’t been so intent on getting home, and so muffled against the inclement weather.
I’d passed a pleasant evening at my club in the company of Inspector Lestrade, lamenting over the lack of progress in our respective investigations. He was engaged in a missing persons enquiry and suspected that the “victim” - in this case a high-profile City banker - was in fact a bigamist who had fled to Malta with his second wife, abandoning his first wife and child to fend for themselves. Of course, it was proving nigh on impossible to trace the fellow, and despite Lestrade’s suspicions, he had no conclusive evidence to support them.
For my part, I was still concerned with juggling the matter of Sir Theobald Maugham’s suspicious death with the increasingly concerning rash of iron men robberies. Lord Roth, of course, was pushing for progress in the latter case, insisting I bring about a swift resolution to the Maugham matter in order that I might divert all my resources to the iron men case.