Sherlock Holmes - The Will of the Dead Read online

  I, however, felt Roth’s assertion that Sir Theobald’s fall was a clear example of accidental death was blatantly misguided, particularly in light of the murder of Peter Maugham, and had already made the decision to ignore this directive, given that I knew it was born out of a desire to brush the matter under the carpet so that Roth might save face. I intended to continue with the investigation, working alongside Holmes and Dr. Watson. I also understood that I would have to do so in a manner that - if not surreptitious - did not draw the attention of Roth or his loose-lipped cronies.

  I mused on this as I traipsed home through the cold streets, mulling over my options for the following day.

  It was then that the automatons came at me as if from nowhere; as if the night had somehow just given them up, spitting them forth from the very depths of hell itself.

  There were two of the things, propelling themselves along with a measured, lumbering gait. They matched perfectly the descriptions recounted to me by the victims of their crimes, resembling nothing so much as animated suits of armour. Steam curled above their heads from twin exhaust shunts that jutted from their shoulders, and they wore much of their workings on their exterior, encrusted over their armour plating. Complex arrays of pistons and cogs clustered around each major joint, sighing and whirring with every juddering movement. Their eyes were burning red coals, and although their expressions were fixed and cold, I could sense their malevolent intent. It was clear they meant to kill me.

  I turned to flee, thinking that perhaps I could outrun them, but to my horror I discovered that a further two machines were closing in behind me. They had picked their timing perfectly: I was hemmed in, with nowhere to run.

  I hefted my cane, gripping it in both hands, although I doubted it would do me much good against the metal monsters. I would give it my damn best shot, however. I would go down fighting.

  Despite my burgeoning terror, I couldn’t help but wonder at the marvellous engineering these iron men represented. They were walking miracles - thinking, intelligent machines, able to follow the most complex of instructions, to employ subtle strategies as well as absolute brute strength. Everything that made them dangerous made them utterly magnificent, too, and I realised now why Percival Asquith had been so animated when he’d described them to me earlier that day. They were a remarkable achievement, despite the nefarious use to which they had now been committed. I wondered for a moment if they were not truly machines at all, but demons trapped within metal skeletons, given physical form to walk amongst the living.

  As the iron men closed in on me from all directions, I found myself backing up against a derelict building, brandishing my cane before me. In panic I tried the narrow door, but it was locked, bolted from the inside. I put my shoulder to it, but it would not give. I could not fathom any other means of escape, but I was damned if this was going to be my final hour.

  The first of the automatons lurched within striking distance and I swung my cane, throwing all of my weight behind it. It struck the side of the machine’s head and the force of the blow caused it to step sideways in order to maintain its balance. The pain in my wrists, however, was excruciating, as the mahogany rebounded from the metal plating, sending painful tremors along my forearms.

  The iron man, however, seemed hardly to notice my attack, and showed no sign of being dazed by my blow. It thrust out its knife-like metal claws and grasped for my face. Desperately, I twisted away and it caught my coat, shredding the fabric as it attempted to reel me closer.

  Another of them came at me from the opposite direction, this time catching my upper arm, ripping through my coat, jacket and shirt to gouge furrows in the soft flesh. I howled in pain, dropping my cane. I kicked at the thing, but it was a futile gesture, serving only to highlight my weakness in the face of these powerful machines.

  The remaining two iron men had now joined their brethren to complete the circle, and the four of them peered at me impassively as I cowered, awaiting my fate. Warm blood was trickling down my arm, and while I knew the injury was not severe, the pain was almost enough to make me swoon. I fought to stay alert, to fight down the pain and focus on how the hell I was going to get away.

  The first of the iron men stepped forward again, slowly and deliberately pulling back its arm and forming a fist. I tried to anticipate its timing, and as it thrashed out, I dropped to my haunches, the fist passing harmlessly above my head, smashing through the door. Splinters of wood showered down onto my neck and shoulders. I realised I’d lost my hat in the scramble to get out of the way.

  Wordlessly, the iron man struggled to free its hand. In doing so it inadvertently wrenched away another shower of wooden fragments, and glancing up, I realised with a glimmer of hope that the impact had exposed the metal bolt that barred the door.

  The iron man stepped back, regarding its hand inquisitively, and I saw my chance. I sprang to my feet, reaching through the door for the bolt. My fingers clutched at the cold metal and the bolt slid free. I fell against the door, which heaved open, and I tumbled into the interior of the abandoned building, cracking my knee against a broken table and going down hard.

  I scrabbled immediately to my feet, grimacing as lancing pain shot through my left arm. Through the doorway, I could see only the bulky silhouettes of the iron men, their glowing red eyes hovering in the gloom.

  One of them stepped forward, ducking its head beneath the lintel, but its shoulders struck the edges of the doorframe. It twisted and turned for a moment, struggling to force its way through, but its broad shoulders simply bashed against the wood and surrounding brickwork, grinding noisily. The opening, it seemed, was too narrow for it.

  I watched, breathless, as it tried again, this time adjusting its poise and rotating its shoulders to make itself smaller. Once again, however, it struck the edges of the frame, unable to force its bulk through the doorway. It glowered at me for a moment, its claws outstretched as it strained to reach me, and then withdrew.

  Its footsteps echoed noisily as it stomped away.

  I allowed myself to breathe a cautious sigh of relief. Had they gone? I peered out into the gloom, but could discern nothing but the empty street beyond. I dared not approach the opening in case the machines were still outside, hoping that I’d think they’d retreated and attempt to flee.

  I glanced around, attempting to get the measure of my surroundings. The building was clearly in a state of disrepair, and was in the process of being renovated. There was a musty reek of damp and disuse. A pile of bricks sat in the middle of the floor, buckets and rags had been discarded haphazardly all about the place, as if the men had simply walked away from their work upon the chiming of the clock.

  The place was cavernous, and walls had evidently been demolished to open up the space. Behind me, a rickety-looking staircase led to an upper floor. If I could find an alternative exit from the building, I decided, there was still a chance I could get away.

  I turned at the sound of a noise from outside, just in time to see one of the iron men collide with the doorframe. The entire building seemed to shake with the impact, and to my horror, the bricks around the door exploded, showering me with dust and debris. The metal monster was now jammed in the frame, embedded part way into the wall. Its metal talons grasped at the edges of the opening, tearing away handfuls of the ruined brickwork.

  With a grating screech it heaved itself through into the room, its metal feet crunching on the loose fragments. Over its shoulder I saw another of them waiting to force its way in, and I knew then that they would not stop until I was dead. They were unstoppable.

  I turned and fled, my heart pounding, looking for a window or another doorway through which I might effect an escape. Aghast, I realised that all the exits had been boarded up by the workmen, and the only option left open to me was to take the stairs to the upper floor.

  I reached the bottom step only inches ahead of an iron man and took them two at a time, hoping to outpace it. It was fast, however, faster than its bulk might suggest, and I
barely had time to glance down through the banisters to see the others hauling themselves into the building and following on behind.

  I slipped on the landing carpet, almost going over, but managed to use the handrail to save myself, and I swung round onto the upper floor, desperately searching for somewhere to take cover. I knew that nothing I might do, no weapon I might find in this house would have any effect on the machines, but still, in my desperation, I held out hope.

  The upper floor was as desolate and abandoned as the ground floor. The empty bedrooms would offer me no salvation, and a drop from the windows at this height would ensure only two broken legs, if not worse.

  The stairs had seemed to slow the iron men fractionally, and so I pressed my advantage and hurtled up a second flight, heading towards the attic, and from there, the roof. I had no notion of what I might do when I got there, but at that point I was desperate and buying myself even a few more seconds felt like a victory.

  The attic was empty and my entrance stirred whirling pools of ancient dust, causing me to hack and cough and cover my mouth in the crook of my elbow as I staggered towards the roof door.

  I didn’t even stop to try the handle, but forced the door with my shoulder, bursting out into the frigid night. The roof of the small building was a square, gravelled terrace, overlooking the street below. A low stone lintel ran around the perimeter of the roof, but otherwise it was featureless. A sudden gust of cold wind threatened to knock me from my feet. The view across the neighbouring rooftops would have been quite breathtaking, if the circumstances had been different; a thin fog was beginning to descend, softening the moonlight and giving everything a hazy, diffuse appearance. For a moment it felt as if I was alone in an empty city, the only sound the whistling of the wind, drowning out everything else.

  I heard movement behind me and ran across the roof to the opposite edge, glancing down at the street below. From three stories up the slick cobbles surely represented certain death. The nearest building was at least ten feet away, a squat, two-storey office building with a flat roof. I didn’t like the odds of being able to make the jump, especially without a run-up.

  Behind me, the four automatons emerged from the doorway, fanning out across the roof. I believe the thing that terrified me most about them was the lack of even the slightest emotion on their blank, metal faces. I had faced killers before, brawled with men intent on my murder, had even been shot, stabbed and left for dead during my time as a police constable, but never had I been so afraid as I was when faced with the sheer, cold calm of those metal faces. Nevertheless, I stood my ground as the machines once again drew their circle around me, closing in.

  I stepped back, onto the stone lintel, and felt the wind at my back. I could hardly breathe for fear, and my mouth was dry, filled with the metallic tang of adrenaline. I was certain I was going to die.

  The iron men came at me, their talons raised.

  I was out of options. I could go down fighting, or I could jump. Either seemed like utter madness, but I did not dwell on my decision. With a deep breath I dropped into a crouch, and then, forcing as much power into my legs as I could muster, uncoiled like a spring, twisting in the air, stretching out my arms and praying for all I was worth as I tumbled through the air.

  In the event I overshot and stumbled as I landed on the rooftop of the building opposite, pitching forward and slamming down upon my damaged arm. Crying out in pain, I broke into a roll to slow my momentum, and then, seconds later, came to rest on the damp, dirty gravel.

  I could barely believe that I was still alive, but I wasn’t taking anything for granted. I turned, climbing to my feet and looking back to the iron men, who remained on the other rooftop, their red eyes burning in the darkness. It didn’t appear as if they were prepared to risk the jump.

  Smarting, but with fresh hope blossoming in my chest, I glanced around, catching sight of a cast-iron stairwell fixed to the side of the building: a fire escape. I ran for it, jumping onto the platform and practically sliding down the steps to the alley below, where I landed with a thump on the cobbles.

  Panting, bruised and bleeding, I didn’t look back to see if the iron men were following me. I ran out into the thoroughfare, frantically waving down the first cab that I saw, and gave instructions to be taken directly to Scotland Yard.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The next morning I woke to a quiet, empty house. I rose, saw to my ablutions, and then treated myself to a large breakfast of grilled kidneys, tomatoes and toast. For a good while I sat at the breakfast table reading the previous day’s newspaper, and contemplating the day ahead.

  I had resolved to spend the day at my surgery, seeing to a number of urgent matters. My patients, thankfully, were largely understanding of my absences. Many of them had read the published accounts of my adventures with Holmes, and understood that my infrequent periods away from the surgery typically denoted a new mystery in the works. Often, upon my return, they would question me for details - which I would not, of course, provide - or speculate wildly on the nature of the case.

  Nevertheless, I was deeply conscious of the fact that my duty as a physician was to their health, and not to their entertainment, and I made every effort to attend to them whenever I could.

  My mind, however, kept on wandering back to the events of the previous day - particularly the stricken look on the face of Miss Annabel Maugham. I wondered what sort of monster Gerber must be, to inflict so much anxiety on an innocent, grieving woman. In truth, I knew the answer all too well, for I had met many of his type over the years: those so shaped by bitterness, so caught up in their need for revenge and their desire for personal gain that they will stop at nothing - not even the murder of those they purport to love - to achieve their aims.

  The thought gave me pause. It was a brutal world that gave rise to such villains, and I was grateful for men like Holmes and Bainbridge who were prepared to stand up for what was right. Idly, I wondered how Bainbridge’s investigation into the iron men was coming on. He’d seemed most concerned with the lack of progress during our last encounter, and I could only imagine the sheer amount of pressure he must have been under to obtain a swift result.

  I had just finished my second coffee when I heard the letterbox clatter down the hall. I glanced at the clock on the mantel, frowning. It was too late for the first post, and yet too early for the second. Someone, then, had dropped a missive through the door.

  I pushed my chair back and stood, fully suspecting it to be the work of Holmes, sending yet another urchin around to summon me to Baker Street. Well, today he’d have to wait, at least until later that afternoon, when any urgent matters at the surgery had been properly attended to.

  I strolled down the hall in no particular hurry, eyeing the cream-coloured envelope lying on the mat. Groaning, I stooped and retrieved it, turning it over to examine what was written on the front. It read simply: DR. WATSON in an unfamiliar hand. So, it wasn’t from Holmes after all.

  Intrigued, I tore the envelope open, and withdrew the thin slip of paper from within. It was poor-quality notepaper, wafer-thin and near-transparent, and obviously not the work of my friend. I unfolded it and began to read:

  Dear Dr. Watson,

  Allow me to begin by offering my sincerest apologies. It was most rude of me to cut out on you at the cemetery, but I fear a conversation at that point in the proceedings would not have ended satisfactorily for either of us. I do hope, however, that we will meet someday soon, once this business is over. I have long been an admirer of your little fictions.

  My name, of course, is Mr. Hans Gerber, and I write today to request that you desist from your dirty little investigations into my family’s private affairs. Your continued interference cannot end well. You are an intelligent man and I am sure you understand me. These are private matters that do not concern you or your impertinent friend, Mr. Holmes, and you will no longer be party to them, one way or another.

  I bid you a good day, Dr. Watson, and continued good health.<
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  Yours,

  Mr. Hans Gerber

  “Little fictions!” I exclaimed, incensed. “Dirty little investigations!”

  I tossed the letter on the floor in abject disgust. I felt my face flush in anger. How dare he! To speak of impertinence, to threaten me in such a manner... It was all I could do to remain calm.

  Gerber would not, of course, dissuade me from our investigation by such cowardly means. If anything, his note would strengthen my resolve to get the man safely behind bars.

  I left the scrap of paper where it lay on the tiles, and started out towards the breakfast room. I’d traversed about half the length of the hallway when it suddenly struck me: the note had not come by the post, but had been delivered by hand, either by Gerber himself or by an agent in his employ. This meant two things. Firstly, that Gerber knew where I lived, and secondly, that he might still be in the vicinity.

  My blood up, I reversed my trajectory and hurried to the front door. I flung it open and stepped out onto the pavement, glancing from left to right for any sign of the odious wretch.

  Sure enough, I spied him only a moment later, standing beside a lamp post at the far end of my street. He was dressed in a similar fashion to when I’d seen him at Sir Theobald’s funeral, with a wide-brimmed hat obscuring his face, and a black overcoat draped over his shoulders. There was no mistaking it. It had to be Gerber.

  As if to underline the point, when he saw me he reached up and touched the brim of his hat, slightly inclining his head in acknowledgement. He’d clearly been loitering there since posting the note through my door, waiting to see my reaction. The only possible reason was to gloat.

  I saw red. I was incensed by the audacity of the man. How dare he come here, to my home, and threaten me in such a manner? Not only that, but to stand there revelling in my confusion and rage.