Sherlock Holmes - The Will of the Dead Page 19

  By this time there were shouts and jeers coming from all around the room, although I was not clear whether they were aimed at Holmes, Bainbridge and myself as trouble-making interlopers, or at Asquith for bringing the club into such terrible disrepute.

  I pulled my revolver free from my pocket, levelling it at Asquith. “I’ll shoot if I have to, man,” I called. “Lower the sword, now!”

  Asquith jerked suddenly, arcing the sword through the air towards me. In response, my finger depressed the trigger, and I realised in horror that my bullets had all been spent ineffectually on the iron men earlier in the evening.

  The sword descended, as if in slow motion, and I tried to throw myself to the ground to avoid the blow. I struck the back of a chair, however, and I admit, at that point in the proceedings I thought I was done for. I closed my eyes, waiting for the blade to strike.

  Yet the blow never came. Asquith’s sword clanged loudly against metal, and I twisted awkwardly to see Holmes brandishing a poker he had snatched up from the fireplace. He had intercepted Asquith’s attack, and they now faced one another, poised and ready.

  Asquith howled in frustration, and with both hands still on the pummel of the weapon, swung it back behind his head and brought it down in a sweeping arc towards Holmes. My friend danced backwards, again raising the poker to parry Asquith’s attack.

  Myself and Bainbridge fell back, giving Holmes room to manoeuvre. He adopted a classic fencing poise, his weapon arm raised high, his torso exposed and inviting attack. His eyes traced Asquith’s every movement.

  Asquith, desperate and breathless, lunged forward with his blade, aiming for Holmes’s belly. Holmes dropped his arm and twisted to his right. Poker met sword, deflecting the attack and sending it wide. Without missing a beat, Holmes struck out with his left foot, pivoting round and catching Asquith roundly in the chest.

  Asquith stumbled backwards and almost fell, but caught himself on the back of a Chesterfield and was able to right himself in time to parry a sideswipe from Holmes’s poker. Once again, the two men faced off against each other, circling before the fireplace.

  Holmes was gritting his teeth, his expression fixed with determination. I fumbled for cartridges in my jacket pocket and slipped them hastily into the chambers of my service revolver. I raised my arms and tried to draw a shot, but knew it would be too dangerous to discharge the weapon there and then. I risked hitting Holmes, or the bullet going wide and striking an innocent civilian.

  Men were beginning to gather in a wide circle around us, observing proceedings with interest. It seemed unlikely now that any of them would attempt to intercede; they appeared more concerned with deriving entertainment from the scene, shouting challenges and cheering as the two men fought.

  I watched, helpless, as Asquith came on again, this time employing a downwards chopping motion, aimed at Holmes’s head. Holmes, however, was wise to these desperate manoeuvres and side-stepped easily, allowing the blade to pass harmlessly a few inches from his face. Asquith, however, had overstretched, and Holmes saw his chance. He snapped out a fist and caught the other man hard across the chin.

  Asquith bellowed and fell back, dropping the sword. His hand went to his face, and he looked as if he were about to swoon, shaking his head as if to clear the resulting dizziness. Holmes pressed his advantage, flinging the poker back into the fire and following through with a right hook to Asquith’s kidneys.

  Asquith doubled over and dropped like a sack of potatoes, gasping for breath, spittle flecking his lips. Bainbridge saw his chance to intercede. He rushed forward and grasped the arms of the semi-conscious man, pinning them behind his back. “Someone fetch me some twine!” he barked, straining to keep Asquith upright.

  Holmes fished around in his jacket pocket for a few seconds before withdrawing a thin silk cord. He tossed it to Bainbridge, who deftly snatched it out of the air and set about securing the villain. Moments later Asquith was trussed and bound.

  “There you have it, Inspector,” said Holmes, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. “The duplicitous wretch behind the iron men robberies.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Holmes,” replied Bainbridge, grinning. “My thanks to you, for your assistance.”

  Holmes gave a cursory nod, and glanced over at me expectantly. My hand, still clutching the revolver, was trembling. I slipped it into my jacket pocket.

  “Watson,” said Holmes, “be a good fellow and ensure that some of the Inspector’s constables are on the way.”

  “Very well,” I said, with a sigh, starting towards the door.

  “And then, I feel,” went on Holmes, “a pot of tea before the fire at Baker Street is long overdue. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Indeed I would,” I replied, with a broad grin. I felt suddenly as if a burden had been lifted from my shoulders. “And a slice of Mrs. Hudson’s Madeira cake, perhaps?” I ventured.

  Holmes threw back his head and gave a long, heartfelt laugh. “Quite so, Watson,” he said, still chuckling. “Quite so.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I could still barely believe the events that had unfolded over the last few days, and I brooded upon this as I sat in silence with Holmes later that evening, drinking brandy and staring at the dancing flames in the grate.

  Holmes was puffing thoughtfully on his pipe, attired in his ratty old dressing-gown. He looked more relaxed than I’d seen him in months. Nevertheless, something about these twin cases had affected us both deeply, and I couldn’t help but wonder what subtle mechanisms were now hard at work inside my friend’s mind. He seemed unusually pensive, despite his peaceful countenance.

  He’d spent the last hour explaining his movements over the previous two days, including a detailed account of how he’d scoured the city’s many tobacconists in search of imported German cigarettes, and placed adverts in the London newspapers soliciting buyers for the fictional Moon Star diamond.

  He talked also of his interludes posing as Gerber, and how he’d used this assumed identity to draw the villains out, encouraging each of the Maughams to take increasingly bold steps in the knowledge that, when they finally overreached, he, Bainbridge and I would be on hand to step in and arrest them.

  I felt a prize fool for having had the wool pulled over my eyes for so long, but nevertheless a great deal of admiration for my friend. He was a wily devil, and had clearly seen to the heart of the matter - of both matters - in no time at all. While Bainbridge and I were still floundering about in search of evidence and motive, Holmes was working away behind the scenes, laying traps and luring the perpetrators in.

  I wondered how Bainbridge was getting on back at the Yard. Bainbridge seemed to me to be a good man and a solid policeman, and I could tell that Holmes, too, held him in high regard. He lacked the insights of my friend, and neither did he have an affinity for the deductive methods employed by Holmes, but he clearly understood the need for thoroughness, and, when the situation called for it, action as well. I had a feeling he would go far in his chosen profession, but that it would be something of a bumpy and uncomfortable journey. Men like Roth - in my experience - did not enjoy being proved wrong. Bainbridge would have a fight on his hands.

  Of the others, we could only speculate. It seemed as if Tobias Edwards - the real Hans Gerber - would indeed inherit the entirety of Sir Theobald’s estate, once his true identity had been properly established and he’d stood trial for the wilful destruction of his uncle’s last will and testament. Even if he was ordered to serve a prison sentence for his crime, Holmes assured me he was still likely to inherit upon his release, being the last surviving member of Sir Theobald’s family.

  Gerber’s cousins, on the other hand, were destined for the gallows. The thought did not offer me a great deal of comfort.

  For my part, I had badly misjudged Miss Annabel Maugham, allowing myself to succumb too readily to her feminine charms. She had seen me for the gullible fool that I am, and had used that to her advantage, manipulating both Edwards and myself by masquerading as a vu
lnerable woman in need of our protection. As it transpired, she proved to be one of the hardest, coldest women I had ever met. It was a testament to her acting ability - or perhaps my naivety - that I had been taken in for so long.

  Holmes, of course, would never allow himself to become embroiled in such nonsense. I saw now the reason for his calculated coldness, his unwillingness to share in the emotions of others. To him, such things were a distraction, a form of weakness that sought to keep him from the clarity for which he yearned. Indeed, in the hands of those of dubious morality such emotions became a tool, used to manipulate others, to bend those unfortunates to their will. Which, of course, was precisely the approach adopted by Annabel Maugham in her dealings with Mr. Edwards and myself.

  Whatever the outcome, I can honestly state that I regretted having ever laid eyes upon the woman. Aside from causing me to feel boyishly naive, she had embarrassed me before Holmes, and for that, I could never forgive her.

  Of course, I did not wholeheartedly agree with Holmes’s uninvolved approach, as successful as it had proved during the years of our association. To leech the humanity from every situation and to set oneself apart from the people involved was, in my eyes, to somehow diminish oneself, too. Logic played a part, of course, but to remove all else from the equation? I found such a notion terribly disheartening. If it wasn’t for the people involved - if we didn’t set out to help those less fortunate than ourselves - why on earth did we bother to embroil ourselves in the affairs of others?

  Perhaps this need to recognise the humanity in people was nothing but a symptom of my soft heart, or a sign of the doctor in me, but I suppose I secretly understood that, beneath the veneer, beneath the pomp and maddening opacity, Holmes was a decent sort of fellow. Probably the most decent I had ever known. His method, which he put above all else in his pursuit of the truth, represented a great sacrifice, and one that many could never recognise or know. To those subjected to his cutting remarks, his arrogance, his impatience, he was simply “that Baker Street detective”, the hard-nosed eccentric who would strong-arm his way into a police investigation and show everyone up. But I understood that, in so doing, Holmes had removed not only the illogical from the situation, but much of himself, too. He had suppressed his own needs for the benefit of the case.

  To Holmes, the world was nothing more than a puzzle that needed to be solved, the people in it mere pawns. I didn’t much care to consider the world in those terms, and I believe that was why he often kept me around - because, when he needed me to, I could remind him of the human element, of what he had forgotten, or perhaps never had in the first place.

  Additionally, I knew that, despite having my fingers burned by women such as Annabel Maugham, I would gleefully immerse myself in such situations again and again, and would no doubt continue to make the same mistakes ad infinitum. Holmes, I think, could never understand that about me, but then that was just another on his long list of puzzles to be solved.

  I sensed movement, and looked over to see Holmes knocking out the dottles from his pipe on the arm of his chair. He brushed them dismissively onto the carpet.

  “I say, Holmes,” I said, finally breaking the silence that had grown up between us over the last few minutes. “You haven’t yet explained how you came to the conclusion that Percival Asquith was the man behind the iron men robberies.” I took a sip from my brandy. “What gave him away?”

  “His desperation,” said Holmes. “His need to be heard. The fact he had invested his entire family fortune in those ridiculous machines, and they did not work. He stood to lose everything.”

  “Quite so,” I said, frowning. “But that doesn’t explain why he should go to the extraordinary length of faking the theft of his own prototypes and waging a campaign of terror upon the streets of London.”

  Holmes chuckled quietly, amused by my evident misreading of the situation. “Oh, but it does, Watson. Of course it does. Above all else, Asquith desired publicity. He spoke to Inspector Bainbridge of going to the papers, of proclaiming to the whole of London that his fabulous machines had been stolen and were being put to nefarious use by some foul agent.” He began refilling his pipe, stuffing tobacco into the bowl and tamping it down with his thumb.

  “Perhaps so...” I offered, still confused. “Yet I fail to see what good such publicity might have done him, given the circumstances.”

  “Ah, Watson,” said Holmes, affectionately. “Think on it for a moment. Asquith was close to ruin. His machines were not viable, and he had failed to secure any investment in his business. No one believed he’d ever get the things to work. But if, suddenly, working examples of his designs were stolen and seen publicly to be operational...”

  “Then he’d have investors clamouring to throw their money at him! And, since his prototypes had been ‘stolen’, he wouldn’t have to show them to anyone, meaning those sorry investors would never be able to ascertain that the machines were really just men in iron suits,” I exclaimed. “Good Lord, Holmes!”

  “Precisely, Watson,” he said, approvingly.

  “What, then, of the jewellery thefts?” I said, suddenly. “Why go to such trouble, and why put those poor people through so much?”

  “It had to seem realistic, Watson. People had to believe the iron men were real. I suspect if Asquith had been successful in his deception, he might have unleashed a new breed of iron man upon the city, hunting down the ‘misappropriated’ models and returning the stolen jewellery to its owners, to much pomp and acclaim,” said Holmes, shaking his head at the sheer temerity of the man.

  “Or perhaps it was done for insurance, Holmes,” I ventured. “Perhaps Asquith was hedging his bets, ensuring he still had something if his plot to attract new investors failed.”

  “Perhaps so!” said Holmes brightly, clearly taken with my idea.

  “Well, I hope the blighter languishes in a prison cell for many years to come,” I said. “Family fortunes, it seems, can be dangerous things.” I gave a satisfied sigh. “I can’t say I’m sorry to see the back of those blasted iron men, or those traitorous Maughams. I’ll be happy to return to my practice tomorrow, and a little normality.”

  “It is tomorrow upon which you welcome the return of Mrs. Watson, is it not?” asked Holmes, around the mouthpiece of his briar. He struck a match, bringing the flame up to the bowl and puffing gently until it took. Smoke billowed around him as he settled back in his chair, casting the spent match into the fire.

  “Indeed it is,” I confirmed. “I miss her dearly, Holmes. Although I fear I may have familial reparations of my own to make upon her return. I’ve achieved little of what I promised while she’s been out of town.”

  “Ah, but what you have achieved, Watson!” proclaimed Holmes, chuckling.

  “Quite so, Holmes, quite so,” I said, wistfully. “Although I cannot testify that Mrs. Watson will feel the same way...” I paused, looking at Holmes, who appeared to be struggling to contain a sudden outburst. My lips quivered, and then, unable to prevent myself, I let out a roar of laughter. Holmes, himself almost hacking on the smoke he had just inhaled, waved me quiet and put a finger to his lips.

  “My dear Watson, the hour is late. Think of Mrs. Hudson.” This, of course, served only to send us into further paroxysms of laughter. I collapsed back in my chair, gasping for breath. I felt as if the world had suddenly been lifted from my shoulders.

  When our brief period of levity had passed, I stood, crossing to the drinks cabinet and replenishing my glass. “Holmes?” I asked, holding up the brandy bottle. He shook his head, content with his pipe.

  “So what next?” I asked, returning to my seat by the fire. The warmth was having a soporific effect, and I knew it would not be long before I was forced to retire. Holmes had kindly offered me the use of my old room for the night. “I do hope you’re not planning to indulge in another of your damnable black moods,” I added.

  Holmes smiled. “Fear not, Watson!” he said, brightly. “Inspector Bainbridge has already requested my as
sistance with another little problem - involving the carcass of a giant ape brought back from the Congo, if I’m not mistaken - and there’s always the violin to keep me company.”

  “You know you only have to call, Holmes,” I said.

  “Why would I call? You are, as I’ve said, a creature of habit, Watson. I know you’ll call here at Baker Street when you have the time and inclination.” He clamped his pipe between his teeth, and reached under his chair, withdrawing his old violin and bow.

  “Indeed I will, Holmes. Be sure of it,” I confirmed.

  Holmes leaned back in his chair, propped the violin beneath his chin, and attacked the strings suddenly and fiercely with the bow, eliciting a cacophonous response from the instrument. I frowned at the discordant tune as he continued in this manner. I feared he seemed intent on continuing on in that vein until breakfast.

  “Oh, do you have to, Holmes? It’s nearly two in the morning!” I said, glancing at the clock. “And besides,” I continued, waving him to be quiet, “think of Mrs. Hudson.”

  If the violin had not already woken the poor woman, I was convinced that the ensuing raucous laughter surely would.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  George Mann was born in Darlington and has written numerous books, short stories, novellas and original audio scripts. The Affinity Bridge, the first novel in his Newbury & Hobbes Victorian fantasy series, was published in 2008. Other titles in the series include The Osiris Ritual, The Immorality Engine, The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes and the forthcoming The Revenant Express.

  His other novels include Ghosts of Manhattan and Ghosts of War, mystery novels about a vigilante set against the backdrop of a post-steampunk 1920s New York, as well as an original Doctor Who novel, Paradox Lost, featuring the Eleventh Doctor alongside his companions, Amy and Rory.

  He has edited a number of anthologies, including Encounters of Sherlock Holmes, The Solaris Book of New Science Fiction and The Solaris Book of New Fantasy. Further Encounters of Sherlock Holmes will be released in 2014.