by George Mann
“The party was in honour of my cousin Annabel’s birthday. Uncle Theobald rather doted on her, you see, and it was at his absolute insistence that we came together on the occasion to celebrate.” He glanced from one of us to the other as he spoke. “Well, it was a pleasant enough affair, and we all partook in an excess of wine and sherry. Even Uncle Theobald. Annabel enjoyed being the centre of attention, even if - I suspect - the whole gesture was rather lost on her.”
“How so?” prompted Holmes.
“I fear Annabel rather believes the world owes her attention,” replied Oswald. “She’s always been the same, ever since she was a little girl, and Uncle Theobald’s intolerable doting only made matters worse. She enjoyed the party, true enough, but only in as much as she’d probably been expecting it. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’d ordered a new dress for it before ever Uncle Theobald thought to organise the gathering.”
Oswald gave a sudden, startled cry. “Oh, do forgive me. I’ve been terribly remiss. Would either of you gentlemen care for a drink?” He started to rise from his chair, and I felt a pang of sympathy for the man. Clearly, he was telling the truth when he spoke of his lack of visitors, and in his haste to relate his story had forgone the usual social niceties.
“Fear not, Mr. Maugham,” I said, raising my hand to prevent him from getting up. “Do not trouble yourself. We both had tea before our cab ride.”
I glanced at Holmes, who smiled and fractionally inclined his head in acknowledgement of my white lie. “Pray continue, Mr. Maugham,” he said.
“Very well,” said Oswald. “As I recall, Peter saw Uncle Theobald to bed at around eleven o’clock. The rest of us stayed up a while longer, drinking in the drawing room. A while later -sometime after twelve - tired, and losing patience with Annabel’s self-aggrandisement, I turned in for the night.”
“And that was all?” said Holmes. “Nothing else until morning, when you woke to find Sir Theobald dead?”
“Not entirely, Mr. Holmes,” corrected Oswald, with a shake of his head. “I woke at the sound of a disturbance in the night: the sound of breaking glass, followed by a heavy thump. I lay there in bed for a while, listening for any sounds of movement, and when I heard a voice on the landing I climbed out of bed and went to investigate. I fully expected to find one of my drunken cousins stumbling about on their way to the lavatory.”
“And yet?” prompted Holmes.
“Well, it was Uncle Theobald. He’d spilled his water, knocking the glass off the bedside table. Being the considerate old fellow he was, he’d chosen not to wake Agnes - the maid - and was about to tackle the stairs to fetch himself another. Of course I stopped him and sent him straight back to bed. He was complaining of dizziness, and I didn’t want him taking a fall.” Oswald paused for a moment, dropping his eyes. I could see he’d been deeply affected by the loss.
“Well, he listened to me, that time at least,” he went on. “He returned to his room. I fetched another glass of water for my uncle myself. Then I went back to bed. The next thing I knew it was morning, and Agnes was screaming the whole house down.”
Holmes nodded thoughtfully, assimilating the facts. “Most interesting, Mr. Maugham. So, let me be clear. You prevented Sir Theobald from fetching himself a fresh glass of water, sending him back to bed and bringing him one yourself?”
Oswald seemed a little unsure of the question. “Precisely so, Mr. Holmes. Is that important?”
Holmes smiled. “As I explained, Mr. Maugham, in a case such as this one, every detail is important, no matter how small it may seem.” He rubbed his chin, studying Oswald intently. “Now, is there anything else you’d like to add? Any other details you believe I should be aware of?”
Oswald shook his head. “Not that I can think of, Mr. Holmes. I’m sure Peter has given you a full account of the events of the following morning.”
“Indeed he has,” said Holmes, levelly.
“To be honest, I’m still not clear exactly what happened in those few hours after Agnes discovered the body. It all passed in such a blur.” Oswald sighed forlornly.
“Shock will do that to a man,” I said. I knew this from years of experience on campaign. A man’s memory can play terrible tricks on him when it’s fractured by a sudden shock. The field hospitals in Afghanistan were proof of it.
“I...” Oswald started, and then trailed off.
“Go on,” said Holmes, not unkindly.
“I only hope you can assist us in locating my uncle’s will, Mr. Holmes,” said Oswald, hesitantly. “Without it, I fear I’ll be ruined.”
“I believe I’ll soon be able to bring matters to a satisfactory conclusion,” said Holmes. His expression gave little away. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Mr. Maugham, I believe we have everything we need. At least for now.” He stood, and I followed suit, beginning to wish that I had requested a warm drink, after all; the rain had started up again and was battering against the windowpane.
“Of course,” said Oswald, fetching our coats from the stand in the hall. “Allow me to show you out.”
We made our farewells and ventured out into the inclement weather. We huddled beneath Holmes’s umbrella on the pavement as we waited for a passing cab, and I took the opportunity to pose a question which had been playing on my mind. “Did you mean what you said, Holmes? That you’ll soon bring everything to a satisfactory conclusion?”
Holmes laughed, freely and loudly, and I caught a glimpse of that familiar, manic gleam in his eye as he turned to regard me. “Oh yes, Watson,” he said, darkly. “I’m convinced of it. We shall have our satisfaction. Cabbie!” He called out suddenly, startling me and causing me to step backwards into a puddle. I cursed loudly as the icy water spilled into my boot.
I looked up at Holmes, thinking to admonish him for giving me such a fright, but he was already clambering up into the brougham and barking instructions to the sodden driver. Sighing, I followed my companion.
CHAPTER SEVEN
FROM THE TESTIMONY OF INSPECTOR CHARLES BAINBRIDGE
I was dragged from my bed by a rap on the door at around six o’clock that morning. With a low groan, I pulled back the sheets and reached bleary-eyed for my dressing-gown. The house was icy cold, and I noticed with dismay that the sun had not yet begun to peek around the curtains.
Beside me, Isobel barely stirred. We’d been married for some months, and already she’d grown used to her lot in life: marriage to a policeman brought with it disturbances in the night, unsociable hours and frequent, unexpected absences.
I watched her for a moment, dreaming easily, her placid face upon the pillow. She wore the burden well. I felt a momentary pull of envy. Then the rap sounded again from the front door, more insistent this time, and I jammed my bare feet into my boots and bustled from the room, down the stairs and along the hallway in the gloaming, with only the ticking of the clock to accompany me.
With a sigh - for I anticipated the nature of the call - I slid free the bolts and pulled the door open. Cold, damp air swept in, and I stamped my feet to stave off the sudden chill.
True to my expectations, it was a uniformed man who awaited me, Constable Harris from the Yard. “Morning, sir,” he said, as bright as a button.
“You could at least do me the honour of appearing a little sheepish for having dragged me from my bed at so ungodly an hour,” I said, but not unkindly.
Harris grinned. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” He cleared his throat. “The thing is, sir, there’s been an incident.”
“An incident?” I echoed.
“Yes, sir. Another of these ‘iron men’ robberies, over in Belgravia. A house belonging to a banker named Mr. Hillingsborough. All of his wife’s jewellery’s gone, just like before. You’re needed, sir.” Harris glanced at his boots as he spoke, as if he somehow expected them to help him state his case.
“Very well, Harris,” I said. “I must get over there straight away.”
“Yes, sir. I have a carriage waiting,” replied Harris, with a satisfied nod.
I adjusted the collar of my dressing-gown, wishing I were already dressed in my usual suit and coat. The cold was penetrating, chilling my bones. “Tell me, Harris,” I said. “Was anybody hurt?”
“Well, sir, I have it on good authority that Mr. Hillingsborough took it upon himself to attempt to defend his home from the attackers, and has a lump the size of a cricket ball on the back of his head for his trouble,” said Harris. He was a portly man, with bushy whiskers and red cheeks, and I knew him for his reliable cheerfulness, even in the face of such overwhelming horror as was faced almost daily by the men of the Yard. Yet now he looked serious, distracted, and I feared for what that might signify.
“But we’re not looking at a murder enquiry?” I asked, perhaps a little too hopefully.
“No, sir. Not that,” replied Harris. His smile returned, as if in understanding of my sudden relief. The so-called “iron men” crimes had yet to escalate to anything more serious than robbery and assault. I hoped it would stay that way, but experience told me it was only a matter of time before their modus operandi changed. These “iron men” - or whatever they were - would grow greedy, or else they would find themselves in the position of needing to cover their tracks. How they might respond to such eventualities remained to be seen.
Frustratingly, I had no idea what these things might be, where they had come from, or the nature of their ultimate aim. Someone had to be behind the business, pulling their strings - either literally or metaphorically - but I was damned if I’d been able to ascertain any clues as to who that might be.
I left Harris waiting in the lobby while I returned to the bedroom and dressed hurriedly in the dark; another skill swiftly perfected by a married policeman if he wished to maintain harmonious relations with his spouse.
We left a few minutes later in the police carriage, hurtling through the streets as the dawn slowly began to rise over London. By the time we reached Belgravia the city was cast in a weak half-light, and, as I clambered down from the carriage, I felt at last that I had started to regain my wits, and to cast off the last vestiges of sleep.
The house itself was just off Pimlico Road and was a suitably grand target for a robbery; three stories of exquisite townhouse in one of the most fashionable - and thus expensive - districts of London. It was well maintained, with tall sash windows and a white-painted exterior, now dulled by the constant attentions of the weather. I could see a scattering of uniformed constables guarding the entrance, deep in conversation. I glanced over my shoulder to see Harris speaking with our driver. He rapped on the side of the cab with the palm of his hand, and the carriage clattered off down the street, the horses whinnying as the driver struck their flanks with his whip. His lantern, dangling on the end of a staff like a bowed fishing rod, bobbed wildly as they bounced off into the dull morning.
“Come along, Harris,” I said, impatiently, as I started towards the house. I could see that the curtains were still drawn in all the windows, but assumed the household had been fully roused by the night-time incursion. At first I thought the front door was hanging open, too, but then realised that the door itself no longer existed - or rather, the remains of it hung from the frame in splinters.
“Good Lord,” I said, as I took in the extent of the damage. Harris came to stand beside me, also regarding the wreckage.
“It seems the iron men simply smashed their way into the property, sir,” said Patterson, one of the other young constables I recognised. “As brazen as you like. Just battered it until it shattered, and then forced their way inside.”
“That’s some show of strength,” said Harris, with a low whistle.
“They’re growing in confidence,” I muttered, concerned by where such boldness might lead. Perhaps they had already begun to escalate matters.
I stepped over the threshold, using the edge of my boot to push aside fragments of painted wood that still lay scattered upon the marble floor of the hallway. The door had once been a glossy, regal blue. There was barely any of it left intact.
The hall itself was narrow but grand, and seemed mostly in order; aside, that is, from a mahogany walking stick which lay on the floor, and a tall vase of dried flowers that had been overturned and shattered, the debris from which had been gathered into a neat pile but not yet cleared away. There was a faint tang of oil and steam in the air, such as one might encounter on a railway platform.
The butler, a pale-looking fellow in his late fifties, dressed in an immaculate black suit, his balding pate gleaming in the lamplight, was standing at the bottom of the stairs. He looked up as I entered. “Inspector Charles Bainbridge,” I said, by way of introduction.
“Ah. Yes, sir. Peters, sir,” he replied in a dolorous voice that nevertheless quavered slightly as he spoke. Understandably, the man was still quite shaken from his ordeal, but he was doing his best to maintain a stoic facade. “Here to assist you in any way I can,” he finished.
“Thank you, Peters,” I said. “I may need to interview you, but first, I think, I should like to talk to the family. Would that be possible?”
“Yes, sir,” said Peters, enthusiastically. “They’re in the drawing room. Allow me to show you the way.” I nodded and waved for Harris - who had remained in the ruined doorway, talking in a low voice with his colleagues - to join me. We followed the butler along the side of the staircase and down a passageway that led to the drawing room. He knocked briskly on the door to announce our arrival. It seemed strangely formal given the circumstances, but I understood that this was how people coped in these most desperate of circumstances, taking comfort in the familiar. He held the door open for us to enter, and then retired, returning to his silent vigil in the hall.
In the drawing room, Mrs. Hillingsborough sat beside the fire on a chaise longue, her two young children - a boy and a girl, neither older than five or six - gathered around her. She looked up as we entered and offered me a weak smile. She was a pretty woman in her early thirties, with long blonde hair and striking blue eyes. Her husband, Mr. Hillingsborough, was at least ten years her senior, and stood beside the fireplace, his arm on the mantel. He was wearing an expression of deep concentration. I noticed his left hand kept returning unconsciously to what I assumed to be the tender spot on the back of his skull.
“Good morning Mr. Hillingsborough, Mrs. Hillingsborough. My name is Inspector Charles Bainbridge of Scotland Yard. I understand you’ve been the victims of a most unfortunate incident during the night,” I said, diplomatically.
Mrs. Hillingsborough issued a short, nervous laugh. “That seems quite an understatement, Inspector,” she said, “although I imagine you probably find yourself in these sorts of situations quite frequently.”
I smiled in acknowledgement, but decided to avoid being drawn into that particular conversation. “I wonder if I might speak with you regarding the events?”
“Yes, of course,” said Mr. Hillingsborough, suddenly stirring into action. I was momentarily taken aback by his American accent. My untrained ear placed it as New York, but it might well have been from further afield. “Margaret, take the children to the nursery. I shall talk with the inspector.”
“Very well,” she said, and her relief was palpable. “Come along, children.” She swept them up into her arms and hurried out of the room.
“Please, take a seat, gentlemen,” said Hillingsborough. “Although I hope you won’t mind if I stand. I’m still a little woozy from the blow I received to my head.”
“Not at all,” I replied, taking a seat in one of the most uncomfortable chairs I had ever had the displeasure to encounter. “But tell me - has anyone sent for a doctor? It would be an advisable precaution.”
“Yes, yes,” said Hillingsborough, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I believe one is on the way.” He had begun pacing back and forth before the fire, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked tired and gaunt. “Now, what do you need to know?”
“As full an account of the events as you can give me, Mr. Hillingsborough,” I said,
“including as many details as possible. As you may or may not be aware, this attack on your property represents the latest in a series of incidents involving these so-called ‘iron men’. So far, the perpetrators of these crimes have eluded us. I would be grateful for anything that might aid our investigation. Even the slightest detail might help to complete our understanding of these unusual villains.”
“So you don’t hold much hope of retrieving my wife’s stolen jewellery?” asked Hillingsborough, levelly.
I sighed, glancing at Harris, whose face gave little away. “I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Hillingsborough. I suspect it is unlikely. However, if we could get to the bottom of precisely who or what these ‘iron men’ are, then perhaps we’d have a hope.”
“I understand,” said Hillingsborough. He continued to pace before the fire, stopping occasionally to warm his hands. “This country of yours is a cold one,” he said, feigning jollity.
“I’ll see to it that your door is secured within the hour, sir,” said Harris. Hillingsborough nodded gratefully.
“Very well then. I shall relate to you everything that I remember. The household was asleep. This was—” he glanced at his pocket watch “—two and a half hours ago.” I indicated at Harris, who took out his pocket notebook and began taking down the details.
“Everything in the house was silent, and I’d been asleep for some hours when I was startled by a loud banging from downstairs, as if someone was hammering urgently on the front door. Roused from sleep, I rose from my bed to investigate. I took up a lamp and fetched my dressing-gown.”
“Would it not be the role of your butler to answer such an early call?” I prompted.
“Typically, yes,” replied Hillingsborough, “but the insistence with which the caller was knocking suggested that there was an emergency of some kind. And so I hurried down the stairs, only to find Peters doing the same. I called out, ‘Yes, yes, we’re coming!’, but the thumping continued unabated. At first I thought they couldn’t have heard us calling to them, but then, to my horror, one of the door panels splintered.