Sherlock Holmes - The Will of the Dead Page 8

  “Peter?” spat Joseph, angrily. “His thoughts are not for the family, Mr. Holmes, but only for himself.”

  “Joseph!” admonished Miss Maugham. “Peter is as distraught as the rest of us over Uncle Theobald’s death.”

  “But particularly over the loss of the will. You know he blames me, Mr. Holmes? He might say otherwise, but he’s intimated as much. He thinks I took the ruddy thing to steal his inheritance.” I noticed Joseph was clenching his fists by his sides in barely contained frustration.

  “And did you, Mr. Maugham?” asked Holmes, levelly.

  The result was like lighting a touch paper. Joseph Maugham’s face flushed red, and he took a step towards Holmes, raising one of his fists. “I most certainly did not!” he barked. He glowered at Holmes, and I feared any further questioning would result in a violent rebuttal.

  Apparently seeing this too, Miss Maugham stepped forward and placed a restraining hand on Joseph’s arm. “I think, Mr. Holmes,” she said, deftly changing the subject, “that it’s best if you examine this letter. It may be pertinent to the matter in hand, and it would offer me some comfort to know that a man of your keen intelligence had looked it over.”

  She produced the document and passed it to Holmes. He accepted it with a slight inclination of his head, and then turned his attention to examining the handwriting upon the cream-coloured envelope, the postmark and the notepaper within. He did this for a full minute, while we all looked on in silence. Then, clearing his throat, he began to read out loud:

  Dear Miss Annabel Maugham,

  It is not without considerable sadness that I write to you this day. Having been made aware of the news of my uncle’s death — our uncle’s death - in the obituary pages of The Times, I nevertheless felt compelled to reach for my pen.

  It has been many years since Sir Theobald shamefully cast out his sister, my mother Frances, forcing her into a life of near-poverty. She never forgave him for this slight, and for abandoning her in such a way, simply for following her heart. She carried that sense of abandonment to the grave.

  However, I now feel it is appropriate, upon the occasion of Sir Theobald’s passing, that the two halves of our family make reparations and are finally reconciled. As the oldest living nephew of Sir Theobald, I understand that it falls upon me to take on the upkeep of his not inconsiderable estate, and to manage the sizeable inheritance that comes with it. I shall therefore make haste to London at once to see to all of the necessary arrangements.

  You may expect a call from me presently.

  Yours,

  Mr. Hans Gerber

  Holmes folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. He passed it back to Miss Maugham, who was looking to him expectantly.

  “Good grief,” I muttered, under my breath. The gall of this fellow was quite exceptional, whatever the truth behind his claim.

  “How dare he!” exclaimed Joseph, his temper flaring once again, this time - I felt - with good cause.

  “So this Gerber chap is actually your cousin?” I asked.

  “He is no cousin of mine!” snapped Joseph.

  “Yet what he says is true,” admitted Miss Maugham. “My uncle did have a sister named Frances, although he never spoke of her. She was disinherited many, many years ago for secretly marrying a German salesman. My uncle - as then head of the family - felt it was his duty to cast her out for marrying beneath her station, as much as I believe it pained him to do so.” She sighed. “This, of course, was before Joseph and I were born, when Frances was still a young woman and before our father was killed abroad. We knew that Frances and Mr. Gerber had indeed had a son, but that is all. If Uncle Theobald knew any more than that, he kept it from us.”

  “And now this! He picks his time to introduce himself. Like a vulture circling the corpse of his dead relative.” Joseph finally dropped into a chair, as if the fight had left him.

  “As you can see, gentlemen, the contents of this letter have us deeply concerned,” continued Miss Maugham.

  “Have you consulted your solicitor on the matter?” asked Holmes.

  “Not yet,” replied Miss Maugham. “It was received a mere half an hour before your arrival, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Then I suggest you contact Mr. Edwards directly. He needs to be made aware of Mr. Gerber’s claim, so that he may advise you on the appropriate course of action. I am sure he’ll be able to offer you some comfort,” said my friend.

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” said Miss Maugham.

  “Tell me, Mr. Maugham. Do you believe this man’s claim to be related to the sudden disappearance of your uncle’s will?” asked Holmes, leaning forward in his chair.

  “I cannot say. Yet it seems too much of a coincidence not to be,” replied Joseph, with a shrug.

  “Quite so,” said Holmes.

  “So you think it to be the case, too?” prompted Miss Maugham.

  “I believe it bears further investigation, Miss Maugham,” he replied. “I should very much like to meet this Hans Gerber.”

  “As would I, Mr. Holmes,” said Joseph, darkly. “As would I.” The inference was not lost on me.

  “I can see, Mr. Maugham, that today’s events have greatly disturbed you,” said Holmes. “Dr. Watson and I will take our leave so that you may consult Mr. Edwards. I trust that we may call again at a more suitable time?”

  “Of course, Mr. Holmes. And once again - thank you,” said Miss Maugham. She started to rise from her chair, but I put a hand out to stop her.

  “Oh no, don’t get up, Miss Maugham. We’ll see ourselves out,” I said.

  “Thank you, Dr. Watson. And good day,” she replied, with a weak smile.

  “Good day to you both,” I said, accompanying Holmes into the hall, where we gathered our coats and hats, and took our leave.

  By this point I was anxious to discuss this most unusual new development with Holmes, to discover what he made of this Mr. Hans Gerber, but frustratingly he seemed unwilling to open up, despite my questions. The letter had obviously given him much to consider, and he claimed he needed to retreat to Baker Street to think. I knew this for the euphemism it was. He intended to lose himself in a drug-induced fug, to retreat inside his own skull in search of answers. I could not be party to that.

  With a heavy heart I dropped Holmes at Baker Street and took a cab home so that I might spend the afternoon reviewing my patients’ notes. I hoped the following day would bring with it some answers. In the event, I was soon to discover, it would bring only more questions.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I rose early the next day to attend the funeral of Sir Theobald Maugham. Holmes, restless, had set his mind on remaining at Baker Street to continue his research into the history of the Maugham family, as well as the mysterious “Hans Gerber” character whose letter we had come across the previous day.

  It was at times such as these that I had learned to stay out of his way. There was little I could do while he had his nose buried in notebooks and files of newspaper clippings, and experience warned me Id likely find myself frustrated by his persistent silence and misuse of chemical stimulants.

  Holmes knew this too, of course, and so dispatched me to Sir Theobald Maugham’s funeral to both pay our respects and to keep an eye on the interactions of the cousins. Of course, it was not like Holmes to be truly altruistic; I knew that he also wished to get rid of me so that he might concentrate on his work without distraction.

  So it was that I found myself standing on the side lines of what transpired to be a rather intimate family affair, far smaller and quieter than I had expected for such a venerable old man as Sir Theobald.

  It was a miserable morning to be buried. The graveyard was veiled in a thin, wispy mist, and rain lashed the headstones, turning the soft loam into a sticky morass beneath my boots. Birds crowed forlornly from the jagged treetops, as if heckling the sodden vicar, who stood beside the grave, giving forth his sermon in a low, sonorous voice. My mind wandered, and I imagined shapes hulking in the mist, watching the sma
ll, quiet assembly as they lowered one of their own into the earth.

  It would soon transpire that those shapes were not only born of my imagination, however.

  The family hardly spoke to one another. Annabel and Joseph Maugham stood apart from the others, their faces hidden behind the angle of their umbrellas. Peter Maugham stood beside his cousin, Oswald, in silent vigil. Behind them, a small gathering of servants and friends of the late Sir Theobald filled out the ranks of mourners, stark silhouettes in black suits and long veils.

  Tobias Edwards, the solicitor, stood alongside me, well back from the others. He was wearing a heavy woollen overcoat, similar to my own, and a wide-brimmed bowler hat, from which the rain ran in a steady cascade, pattering upon his shoulders.

  “A rather poor show for the old man, isn’t it?” he said, with a heavy sigh.

  “I must say, I did expect more people,” I replied. “I’d have thought a man of such standing would have attracted a greater turnout, despite the rain.”

  “Sir Theobald was a lonely old man, Dr. Watson. He had no one, save for his servants and the ungrateful children of his late siblings,” said Edwards, regretfully.

  “And you, of course, Mr. Edwards,” I countered, stamping my feet in an effort to stave off the cold.

  “Well, yes. I suppose you’re right. Not that it’s done him much good,” said Edwards.

  “Then you know of the claims of this Gerber chap, of the letter he sent to Miss Annabel?” I prompted.

  Edwards turned away from the graveside to glance at me. I could tell from his expression that the subject was weighing heavily upon his mind. “Not only Annabel, Doctor,” he said, wearily. “Peter, Oswald and Joseph have now received letters of their own. They informed me of the fact before the service. I fear, Dr. Watson, that Mr. Gerber intends to press the matter.”

  I stared at him for a moment, appalled. “Good grief. I judge from your tone that you’re convinced Gerber has a real claim on the estate?”

  “I fear so, if he can prove his identity and his lineage to Sir Theobald. His birth, of course, is a matter of record. I received a letter from Gerber myself this very morning, asserting his claim. I fear there is very little anyone can do to disprove it.” He shrugged, but his face betrayed his frustration.

  I shook my head, incredulous at the audacity of this Gerber fellow. “And you’d never even heard of the man until now?”

  “Indeed not. There was no provision for him in Sir Theobald’s will, and he was never mentioned during the many occasions upon which we discussed such matters,” confirmed Edwards.

  “But still you think the man might have a claim?” I asked.

  “Without the will, Dr. Watson...” Edwards trailed off, as if to underline his point. “If Gerber can prove he is Sir Theobald’s oldest living relative, there is no argument to be had. As things currently stand he’ll inherit everything. The entire estate.”

  “What of the others? Of their allowances?” I knew from listening to Peter Maugham what dire circumstances the surviving Maughams faced if the situation could not be satisfactorily resolved.

  Edwards shook his head. “Mr. Gerber will be under no obligation to honour such arrangements.”

  “Then they shall be ruined, unless he can be reasoned with,” I said.

  “That will be no easy task, Doctor,” replied Edwards. “Mr. Gerber has yet to show himself, and has not provided any address. I had thought we might see him here today, but it seems not.”

  “Happy enough to take his uncle’s money, it seems, but doesn’t deem it necessary to attend the man’s funeral,” I muttered, in disgust.

  “Ours is not to judge, Doctor,” said Edwards, quietly. He turned to regard the assembled family, and I realised the service had come to an end whilst we’d been talking.

  “Well, I see that things are being drawn to a conclusion here,” said Edwards. “I shall be on my way. Good day to you, Dr. Watson. I am sure we shall speak again shortly.”

  “Good day, Mr. Edwards. I imagine Holmes will be in touch to enquire after this letter you’ve received,” I said, by way of forewarning.

  “By all means,” replied Edwards, before turning and trudging away across the muddy graveyard.

  By this time the mourners had begun to drift away in small clusters, disappearing slowly into the enveloping mist. It was then, just as I was about to leave in search of a hansom, a pipe and a hot drink, that I caught sight of a lone figure, wreathed in mist and standing beneath the cover of a large tree about fifty feet from the graveside. He - for I presumed from the height and build it was a man - was wearing a black woollen overcoat and top hat, the brim of which was pulled down low so as to obscure his face from view. When he saw me looking, the man reached up and touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgement. I wondered how long he had been lurking there on the periphery, hidden by the mist. Had he been present for the funeral proceedings? Were the family aware of his presence?

  Tobias Edwards’ words of a few moments earlier came back to me, then. The solicitor had expected Hans Gerber to be in attendance. It was a reasonable enough assertion. Was this man, then, the same man who had written those letters? Was this lurking figure the long-lost nephew of Sir Theobald Maugham, come to claim his fortune?

  Unsure what else to do, but unwilling to miss this opportunity to confront the man, I started towards him. The figure, as if startled by this new development, turned and strode away into the mist, disappearing from view.

  Unperturbed, I pressed on, thinking I could catch up with the man. I picked up my pace, jogging across the sodden graveyard, my boots squelching in the sticky turf. The rain was still pelting down from the heavens, drenching my clothes and obscuring my vision, but still I pressed on, intent on my goal.

  Within moments I had crossed the graveyard and reached the tree beneath which the man had been standing. I set off in pursuit, taking the path I had seen him take through the foliage, but there was no sign of him, and in the thickening fog and inclement weather my luck was out. Frustrated, I paused, listening for the sound of his footsteps on the wet earth, but alas, he was gone. I knew it would be hopeless to pursue him any further, and so, with a heavy heart, I quit the graveyard.

  Within minutes I was ensconced in my waiting cab and rattling home towards Baker Street, dripping wet and convinced that Id just caught my first glance of the elusive Mr. Hans Gerber.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  When I arrived at Baker Street an hour later, I found Holmes sitting contemplatively in his armchair before the fire, puffing away on his pipe. He seemed lost in thought, and barely acknowledged me as I divested myself of my overcoat and poured myself a large measure of whisky. Within a few moments I had deposited myself in the chair opposite him to dry off by the grate. My clothes were sodden, and my collar stuck uncomfortably to the back of my neck. The warmth of the crackling fire was most welcome, however, and I sunk into the chair’s embrace with a heartfelt sigh.

  Holmes seemed hardly to have moved since I’d seen him last, late the previous evening. I wondered if he’d even eaten; a tray of untouched food on the sideboard suggested he had not. It was times such as this that I felt considerable sympathy for Mrs. Hudson, who had clearly gone to a great deal of effort to prepare a meal for Holmes, only to have her endeavours resolutely ignored. This had been the order of things for as long as I had known Holmes - often taking the poor woman for granted while lost in the intricacies of his investigations. He was an infuriating man to live with; both Mrs. Hudson and I could testify to that.

  Holmes was presently sitting with his hands steepled upon his lap, his pipe drooping from the corner of his mouth and his head lolled back against the upright back of his chair. His eyes were closed and his breathing was regular and even. For a moment I even wondered if he hadn’t drifted off to sleep, but the sudden crease of a frown upon his forehead told me he had not. He was musing on something, and no doubt he would choose to enlighten me later, when the opportunity presented itself for maximum dramatic
effect.

  I took a long draw of my whisky, enjoying the fiery warmth upon my palate as I swallowed it down, and then, unsure what else I should do in the face of such apparent apathy at my arrival, I took up Holmes’s discarded copy of the Evening Standard from the table.

  It was only by doing so that I became aware of the new events that had transpired in the other matter that still played somewhat on my conscience - the case of the “iron men” and their on-going campaign of criminal activity across the city.

  It seemed they’d been busy during the small hours of the morning - there were new reports of three burglaries at the homes of various socialites and peers, including eyewitness reports of the metal monsters forcing entry into a house in Belgravia by simply smashing down the door and marching inside.

  The descriptions of the machines were almost identical to those given previously: the things took the form of a man, but were bulky and sheathed entirely in iron plating. Their eyes glowed crimson in the gloom as they came out of nowhere, clanking and stomping, making no attempt at stealth. It was almost as if they wanted to draw attention to themselves, or perhaps simply that their creator - tucked up somewhere safely at home, with no means of being associated with the crimes - was so confident in his inventions that he did not concern himself with thoughts of failure.

  Indeed, as I read on I learned that a footman in the home of Sir Marshall Hargreaves had attempted to take on one of the intruders with a wooden hockey stick belonging to one of the daughters of the house. It seems his efforts were to no avail, as the metal man simply shrugged off the attack, and the footman was left with nothing but a painful wrist injury caused by the vibration of the wood as he’d struck the villain. In this particular instance, the iron men had marched straight into the dressing room of Lady Hargreaves and had made off with her diamonds before the police had even been alerted to the incident.

  I marvelled at the audacity of whoever was behind this campaign of terror. Clearly a similar thought had occurred to Holmes, for he had circled the article in thick, black ink, underlining a handful of choice words and phrases: “form of a man”, “bulky” and “diamonds”. I wondered if he planned to intercede, or to offer Bainbridge his services.