Sherlock Holmes - The Will of the Dead Page 16

  “Come now, Mr. Maugham,” said Mr. Edwards, “I hardly think that’s the tone with which to speak to your sister.”

  “And I think you should mind your own damn affairs, Mr. Edwards,” spat Joseph, angrily. I stepped back, giving him space. I knew that if it wasn’t for Joseph’s injury, Mr. Edwards’ comments would have precipitated a brawl. Joseph was not one to take such criticism lightly.

  “Mr. Edwards, I think it best that -” There was another crash from the hallway, cutting me off. Voices echoed down the passageway.

  Joseph leapt from his chair, panic-stricken. “My God! They’re here! They must have followed me!” He hobbled towards the conservatory, still clutching his shoulder. “Hold them off. Do anything, Annabel. Stall them until I can get away.” His pleas, however, came too late. I looked round to see Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson and a small army of policemen burst into the sitting room, panting for breath.

  “Stay right where you are, Mr. Maugham!” bellowed Inspector Bainbridge, levelling his revolver at my brother. “It’s over.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  We couldn’t have been more than a few minutes behind Joseph Maugham when Bainbridge put his shoulder to the door and forced our entry into the man’s home.

  I was breathless and my nerves were somewhat frayed following our encounter in Whitechapel, but my dander was up and I was ready to do what was necessary. I had never been one to shy away from a fight, so long as the cause was just and the odds weren’t too unbalanced.

  The door gave way on the second attempt, splintering the frame and wrenching the lock from its housing. It swung open, banging noisily against the wall, immediately eliciting cries of alarm from within. We rushed forward, Bainbridge, Holmes and I, followed closely by a gaggle of uniformed men. Bainbridge evidently had blood in his sights, and Holmes was wearing a satisfied smile. Experience told me this meant he believed the end of the matter to be in sight.

  I found myself hoping that his assertion about the culprit was correct; I rarely had cause to doubt Holmes’s convictions, but if we found Joseph Maugham innocent of the crimes which had been lain at his door, then we had just barged uninvited into the home of two grieving siblings. In truth, my thoughts were for his sister, who I knew would be devastated by either possible outcome.

  The scene in the sitting room, however, was enough to render my concerns immediately irrelevant. Joseph Maugham, bleeding profusely from a gunshot wound in his shoulder, was hobbling towards the conservatory in an effort to escape, while a stunned Miss Annabel Maugham stood in the centre of the room, clearly torn over whether to assist him, or whether to wait for the policemen who had just burst in. Mr. Tobias Edwards was perched on the edge of the sofa, baffled and wide-eyed.

  “Stay right where you are, Mr. Maugham!” bellowed Bainbridge, panting for breath. “It’s over.”

  “Inspector Bainbridge?” exclaimed Miss Maugham, as if searching for an explanation to the extraordinary events unfolding before her. “Mr. Holmes? Dr. Watson?” She looked at me, her eyes pleading, and I found my heart going out to the woman. Clearly, she was at a loss.

  “Inspector, have your men restrain Mr. Maugham,” said Holmes, his voice level. Bainbridge nodded and indicated for two of his constables to pin Maugham’s arms by his sides. He grimaced and gave a half-hearted attempt to struggle free, but he was clearly spent. I fancied I could almost see the fight leave him as his shoulders slumped and he allowed himself to be led to a chair, where he sat, the two policemen on either side of him, each with a hand on one of his shoulders. Dark blood was still seeping through the front of his ruined shirt, and so I fished around in my pocket for a handkerchief, folded it and handed it to him. “Press this to the wound,” I said. “It’ll staunch the flow.” I turned to Bainbridge. “And send for a carriage; this man needs to go to hospital.”

  “Harris?” said Bainbridge, calling to one of the constables.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Do as the doctor says,” muttered Bainbridge. “Wouldn’t do to let the man die. At least until he’s finished answering our questions.”

  “Yes, sir,” echoed Harris, disappearing into the hall.

  Satisfied, Holmes glanced at Annabel Maugham. “Miss Maugham, must I ask the police to restrain you, also?”

  Miss Maugham looked utterly confused by the question. “Restrain me?”

  “Now look here, Holmes -” I started, but he silenced me by raising a single finger. He didn’t once remove his gaze from Miss Maugham’s face.

  “Come now, Miss Maugham,” he said, his tone reasonable, but firm. “I think the time has passed for your protestations of innocence. The truth of the matter is plain to see.”

  “It is?” she replied, quietly. “I admit, I am at a loss as to what ‘truth’ you refer to, Mr. Holmes.”

  Holmes’s expression hardened. “That you orchestrated the death of your uncle so that you and your cousins might inherit his fortune.”

  “Dear God!” I exclaimed. This was not a revelation I had anticipated.

  Bainbridge looked as surprised as I was. “You mean to say that Miss Maugham and her brother are responsible for the death of their uncle?”

  “I mean to say,” said Holmes, “that Miss Maugham and her brother, along with their cousins Oswald and Peter Maugham, were jointly responsible for his murder.”

  “All four of them?” I whispered, astounded. I looked to Miss Maugham, whose expression was largely unreadable. She refused to meet my eyes. I simply could not believe that this woman, who to me had appeared so innocent, so fragile, could be responsible for such a terrible crime. “Are you certain, Holmes?”

  “I am correct, am I not, Miss Maugham?” ventured Holmes.

  There was a moment of silence as we collectively held our breaths, waiting for Miss Maugham to speak. When she did not, Holmes shrugged and continued. “I suspect it had been going on for some time. All four of the cousins were aware of the contents of Sir Theobald’s will, and all were entirely dependent upon his generosity.”

  At this, Joseph Maugham issued a long groan of pain, and hunched forward in his chair, gripping his shoulder. I went to him, adjusting the compress. He glowered at me, his teeth gritted, but said nothing.

  Holmes folded his hands behind his back, and began pacing back and forth before the hearth. “It is clear to me that Sir Theobald was growing rather more eccentric in his dotage, but showed no signs of passing on. He was in rude health, free from rheumatism, arthritis and the many other ailments that typically plague men of his age. He was in no hurry to quit this world, and it was this dogged will to survive that eventually became his undoing.”

  Holmes stopped pacing for a moment before Miss Maugham, and then resumed. “Greed and desperation are at the root of this business, the motives responsible for the fiendish plot that led the four cousins to form a murderous cabal.” Holmes was in full flow now, giving forth his summation of the plot that he had been so intent on unravelling for the last few days. “Oswald Maugham provided the chemical compound used to drug Sir Theobald, slipping it into his drinks during the course of that fateful evening, even getting up to provide a further dose when he heard his uncle stir in the night, smashing his water glass on the floorboards. That much was evident after only a cursory examination of Oswald’s apartment and discussing with him the depth of his admiration for the chemical sciences.”

  “But what of the others?” interrupted Bainbridge, and Holmes shot him an impatient look.

  “Peter and Joseph were responsible for the act itself, tossing their unconscious benefactor down the stairs in the middle of the night, leaving him there so that he could be ‘discovered’ the following morning by the housemaid.” He turned and pointed accusingly at Miss Maugham. “Annabel, I can only postulate, was the mastermind behind the plan and took it upon herself to handle the police the following morning. Forgive me, Inspector, but a woman in distress may prove to be a great distraction at the scene of a crime.”

  “Good God!” exclaimed Bainbrid
ge, echoing my earlier sentiment. He, too, had been taken in by this woman.

  Annabel Maugham swallowed, and finally raised her head to meet Holmes’s gaze. “I had no hand in the matter, Mr. Holmes. I am innocent of any charge you might lay against me for my uncle’s death.”

  “Liar!” barked Joseph, suddenly, with bile. He bucked in his chair, trying to get up, and the two constables were forced to restrain him again.

  “I took no part in his murder,” stated Miss Maugham, affecting innocence.

  “Not directly, perhaps. Yet the same cannot be said of your cousin Peter’s death, can it, Miss Maugham?” asked Holmes, allowing the briefest flash of anger to reveal itself in his tone.

  It suddenly struck me what he was getting at. “The shorter man who attacked Peter Maugham!” I exclaimed. “It wasn’t a man at all!”

  “No,” confirmed Holmes, with an approving nod in my direction. “It was a woman. This woman, to be precise. Wearing her brother’s boots and coat in an effort to cover her tracks. The same woman who bought a very particular brand of German cigarettes from a tobacconist’s shop on Oxford Street, and then left one of the butts at the scene in an attempt to make us believe that the mysterious Hans Gerber was the real perpetrator.”

  “But why?” asked Bainbridge, furrowing his brow. “Why kill Peter?” He glanced at Miss Maugham, but she remained tightlipped. The look she was giving Holmes, however, was fierce enough to burn right through him.

  “Because he came to us, Inspector,” explained Holmes. “When the will went missing, the cousins all accused one another of stealing it, falling out with each other and disagreeing on how to proceed. They all thought the others were double-crossing them. In Peter’s case, he probably was. I imagine he thought he’d be able to frame his cousins for his uncle’s murder and walk away with the entire inheritance himself.”

  “He always was a devious fool,” added Miss Maugham.

  “His murder served a dual purpose, you see. On one hand, it reduced the number of claimants to the inheritance and prevented him from pointing the finger of suspicion at his cousins. On the other, it provided Miss Maugham with the perfect opportunity to discredit Hans Gerber, from whom she had only just received a visit. Gerber posed a very real threat, for without the will, he was in line to inherit everything.” Holmes had again resumed his pacing.

  I saw that Joseph Maugham was struggling to maintain consciousness and crossed to him, adjusting his posture and resting his head upon the back of the chair. His eyelids fluttered lightly, but it was clear that he was weakened by blood loss. I lifted his fingers from my blood-soaked handkerchief and assumed responsibility for applying pressure to the wound. He was not at risk of bleeding to death; the bullet had missed any vital organs or arteries, and a good surgeon would be able to remove any fragments and cauterise the wound.

  Over my shoulder, Bainbridge was still questioning Holmes. “Then why make an attempt on Oswald’s life?” he asked. “He was not party to Peter’s plans.”

  “That was Joseph,” said Holmes, “no doubt driven by his sister’s greed, as well as the need to cover their tracks. Oswald must have suspected the truth about Peter’s death. Only he could identify the likely suspects, because he understood their motives. And, of course, he was party to the truth about Sir Theobald’s fall. Just like Peter, removing Oswald could only benefit Annabel and Joseph, provided they could pin the crime on Hans Gerber.”

  Holmes put a hand on Bainbridge’s shoulder. “You must send some of your men to arrest Oswald Maugham, Inspector. He is every bit as guilty as these two sorry specimens.”

  “Very well,” said Bainbridge, sighing. “It’s a rum affair, this, Mr. Holmes.”

  “But what of Hans Gerber?” blurted Tobias Edwards, and I admit, at that point in proceedings I had almost forgotten he was there. He’d remained silent and observant while events carried on around him, but now everyone turned to look at him, weighing his question. His was still sitting on the edge of the sofa, his hands clasped upon his knees. He glanced from Miss Maugham to Holmes, waiting for Holmes’s response.

  “Ah, yes,” said Holmes, laughing. “Hans Gerber. I fear that I may not have represented you at all well during the course of this endeavour, Mr. Edwards. Nevertheless, I hope you will forgive me for temporarily liberating your name. Your real name, that is.”

  Edwards looked for a moment as if Holmes had just slapped him across the face. His eyes went wide and he emitted a startled, strangled noise as he fought panic. He glanced at the door, but two of the uniformed men stepped further into the room, blocking the exit. “I... well...” he started, his face reddening. He looked hopefully up at Holmes, and then sighed wearily. His shoulders fell. “You have me, Mr. Holmes. I should never have been in doubt that you would.”

  I twisted around, still keeping my hand pressed against the wound in Joseph Maugham’s shoulder. “You mean to say that Hans Gerber didn’t die in Afghanistan, Holmes? That Mr. Edwards is, in fact, the real Hans Gerber?” I could barely credit it. The web of lies and betrayals weaved by the Maugham family was more complex than I could ever have imagined.

  “This is too much, Mr. Holmes!” declared Bainbridge, throwing his hands up in dismay. “Too much!”

  “I fear it is all true, Dr. Watson,” said Edwards, tremulously. “I am, indeed, Hans Gerber.”

  “You?” exclaimed Miss Maugham, angrily. “You’re Hans Gerber?”

  I felt Joseph start up out of his chair, and turned to see his eyes had opened and he was straining against the constables’ grip. I added my weight to theirs, forcing him back into his seat. “Let me free!” he burbled, flecks of spittle on his lips. “I’ll kill him!”

  “Hold him!” called Bainbridge, and another of the policemen came to take my place, pinning him down. I stood, stretching my aching legs, and fished another handkerchief from my pocket to wipe the sticky blood from my fingers.

  Edwards barely seemed to know whom to address. In the end, he settled on Holmes. “I admit, Mr. Holmes, that I feared I might never be able to come forward once you had begun your campaign against the Maughams. Of course, I had no notion that you were my impersonator, but I knew that whoever was, they could not be the real Hans Gerber. I could say nothing, however, lest I inadvertently incriminate myself.” He paused, as if appraising Holmes respectfully. “But tell me - how did you work it out?”

  Holmes grinned. “Elementary, Mr. Edwards. The painting on the wall in your office shows a man standing before the banks of the Rhine. The likeness in the eyes is uncanny. I took him to be your father at once. A German. Your injured hand, although possibly the result of a childhood mishap, was more likely caused by a misfiring weapon, the sort of injury one might expect to be sustained by a military man.” Holmes was on a roll, now, describing his method. The sheer simplicity of his deductions never ceased to amaze me.

  “That leaves only the motive and the opportunity to destroy the will,” he went on, “which you burned in the grate of Sir Theobald’s study upon the morning of his death. No one else had cause or opportunity to do it, Mr. Edwards. Together, these three simple facts allowed me to deduce that Hans Gerber had not, contrary to the newspaper reports of the time, died in Afghanistan, but was alive and well and living under an assumed name in London.

  “Add to that the realisation that Hans Gerber, despite the Germanic name bestowed upon him by his father, was born in England to an English mother, and it was no leap at all to assume that Hans Gerber would sound very much like an Englishman, with an English taste in tobacco. A fact that both Annabel and Joseph Maugham missed when they planted evidence at the scenes of both their crimes, supposedly incriminating Gerber, but in fact suggesting quite the opposite,” he finished, with a flourish.

  “Quite remarkable, Mr. Holmes,” said Edwards, with the hint of a smile.

  “But why, Mr. Edwards?” I asked. “Why adopt a new name and allow everyone to consider you dead?”

  “I wanted a new life, Dr. Watson,” replied Edwards. “A
better life. Id lived in squalor for so many years, watched my mother die of cholera. When I was injured during the war and invalided back to England, unable to fire a weapon because of my lost fingers, I adopted the name of a dead friend whom I knew to have no surviving family back home. It felt like a new beginning.” He rubbed his hands over his face, sighing.

  “It was not a difficult pretence, and soon I had managed to find a position with a firm of solicitors. It took me three years before I was finally able to meet Sir Theobald - my uncle - and to earn his confidence and respect.”

  At this Miss Maugham scoffed bitterly, and Edwards looked momentarily pained, but continued regardless. “In those early months of our acquaintance I had dreams of reuniting the family. I saw it as a chance to make reparations and heal the rift that had caused my mother to be so devastatingly cut out. I was soon to discover, however, when drawing up Sir Theobald’s will, that reparations were far from his mind. He made no provision for his sister’s family in the settlement of his estate, and refused to even acknowledge their existence when pressed. I was disgusted, of course, but there was very little I could do.”

  “Until, that was, you were called to the house upon the morning of his death in order to begin the appropriate legal proceedings,” said Holmes.

  “Quite so,” agreed Edwards. “It was while fetching the document that I had the idea. I’d seen the way my cousins had treated the old man - with little more respect than for a lame dog - and felt no remorse for them or their lost incomes as I set the document alight in the grate. Little did I realise, of course, that Sir Theobald had been murdered, nor that someone would shortly come along and impersonate me, drawing attention to my name, even incriminating me for murder. All of this meant, of course, that I could not come forward to claim my inheritance. Until now.”

  There was a brief commotion in the hall and I saw Harris appear in the doorway, indicating that the carriage had arrived.

  “I take it, then, that you did indeed have a second copy of the will at your offices, but that, too, met its end in the grate?” I prompted, keen to understand just how far this man had gone to seek revenge upon his benighted family before the opportunity to question him was lost.