Sherlock Holmes - The Will of the Dead

by George Mann

  “Thank you, Inspector,” said Holmes. I stood back as he jostled his way through the gaggle of uniformed policemen that had formed in the doorway of the sitting room.

  Bainbridge boomed at the men to get out of the way, and soon enough they had skulked off to the kitchen en masse, away from his acerbic gaze. I was impressed by the manner in which he handled his men; they appeared to have a respect for him that was far from the simple, begrudging loyalty typically paid to senior officers by the men under their command.

  I waited in the doorway with the Inspector while Holmes set to work, withdrawing his magnifying glass and setting about the scene, picking over everything in exacting detail.

  Peter Maugham’s body lay sprawled on the rug before the hearth. He was dressed in a black evening suit, and the white linen of his shirt was stained a deep crimson with spilled blood. It had pooled on the floor around him, congealing into a sticky morass. His face was pale and twisted into a visage of horror such as I had rarely seen. His lips were pulled back from the teeth in a terrified snarl, and there was rage in his expression, as if he’d died in the midst of committing a violent act of his own. His eyes were still open and seemed to stare right at me, as if even in death he remained defiant. I noted they had taken on a cloudy, milky sheen. Experience told me he’d been dead since the previous night, for at least twelve hours, perhaps more.

  The manner of his death had been exceedingly brutal. His chest had been punctured by multiple stab wounds, and from what I could see of his hands and forearms they had been slashed to ribbons where he had attempted to defend himself. The murderer’s choice of weapon was not in any dispute: it still protruded rudely from the victim’s chest, from just below the heart: a long-bladed huntsman’s knife.

  Blood had liberally spattered the hearth and surrounding furniture during the violent episode, and had trickled down the walls, staining the paper with dark, gruesome tributaries.

  We stood in silence as Holmes dropped to his haunches beside the body, studying the man’s grisly visage with fascination.

  “What do you make of it, Watson?” he said, his voice low and even.

  “It’s a damn mess, is what I make of it, Holmes,” I replied, privately ruing the moment I had agreed to forgo my day in the surgery to accompany my friend. “This was more than a simple execution or a bungled robbery. Whoever killed this man had a deep-seated hatred of him. That’s evident from the sheer ferocity of the attack.”

  “Very good, Watson!” exclaimed Holmes, evidently impressed with my reasoning, if perhaps a little patronising. “And do you see here?”

  “What’s that?” asked Bainbridge, stepping further into the room.

  “A partial footprint in the blood,” said Holmes. “A man’s boot, size nine...” He trailed off, before turning and rising once again to his full height. “Inspector, is there any sign of forced entry?”

  Bainbridge nodded. “Indeed there is, Mr. Holmes. The sash window in the kitchen has been jimmied. The maid discovered it this morning when she rose to clean the house. The poor woman must have been working for an hour before she discovered the corpse. It seems she always begins her chores in the kitchen.” He shook his head in apparent dismay.

  “She thought nothing of the forced window?” I said, incredulous. “She didn’t think to raise the alarm, or at least to raise the issue with Mr. Maugham?”

  “It’s a professional job, Dr. Watson. On first appearance it seems that the window has only been propped open to air the room. A casual inspection would not show where the wood had splintered under the duress of a crowbar.” Bainbridge was not in the least bit defensive as he offered up this explanation for what I saw as a grave oversight on the part of the maid. It was hardly the weather to be airing the room at that time in the morning. I simply couldn’t see how the woman had failed to note anything suspicious. Nevertheless, it was what it was.

  Holmes stepped carefully over the blood stains on the hearth rug, and I stood aside to let him pass, following him into the kitchen where the four uniformed constables stood in a huddle, discussing the circumstances of the crime in hushed tones.

  “Is this just as it was found, Inspector?” asked Holmes, approaching the window.

  “Quite so, Mr. Holmes,” said Bainbridge, nodding. “The maid assumed that Mr. Maugham must have opened it earlier that morning.”

  “Very good,” said Holmes. “Has anyone been around the rear of the premises?”

  “No,” replied Bainbridge. “We’ve confined ourselves to the house.”

  “Excellent!” said Holmes. “Excellent.”

  Bainbridge, the four constables and I all watched with increasing interest as Holmes stepped up to the window, running his index finger around the wooden frame, stopping to examine where the wood had split around the latch.

  Then, almost nonchalantly, he hoisted himself up onto the ledge, swinging his legs out of the open window and dropping out into the garden beyond.

  “Holmes!” I started in surprise.

  “Just a moment, Watson,” came his muffled response, followed a moment later by an exclamation. “How interesting!”

  “What is it, Holmes?” I called.

  “More footprints, Watson, here in the mud.”

  I dashed over to the window and leaned out, to find Holmes crouching over the flowerbed, sifting amongst the weeds and pansies.

  “You see here, Watson?” he said. “They bear the same tread as the shoe that left the imprint in the blood in the sitting room.”

  “So only one of them, working alone?” I ventured.

  “Yes,” said Holmes, standing and straightening his back. “One person, short, wearing size nine boots and surprisingly strong given their slight build. They came over the back wall, landing here in the flowerbed. They crossed to the window, wiped their feet and then discarded this cigarette-end before setting to work with their crowbar.” He held up the remains of a small, crushed cigarette for me to see. “They forced entry through the kitchen window as suggested by Inspector Bainbridge.”

  He paused for a moment, as if to ensure I was paying attention. “Once inside, the killer went directly to the sitting room, where they must have known Peter Maugham to be taking a whisky following his return from town. They surprised him there, and I’d wager he must have attempted to reason with them for a few moments, pacing back and forth and spilling his drink on the hearth rug. Our killer, however, so enraged, lashed out at him with their knife, stabbing him first in the stomach, then in the chest. Maugham attempted to defend himself, of course, as proved by the wounds to his hands and wrists, but by then it was already too late, and the third and fourth strokes of the knife penetrated his heart, killing him instantly.”

  He nodded to himself, as if approving of his brief soliloquy - for I knew from past experience that, as much as Holmes was setting out the sequence of events for me, he was also speaking it aloud in order to set it straight in his own mind. “The killer was immediately remorseful,” he added, “and fled the scene via the front door, leaving the corpse to be discovered the following morning.”

  “How do you know that, Holmes?” I asked, frowning. “That the killer was remorseful, I mean. The rest I can go along with, but how can you presume to know what the killer was feeling?”

  “They abandoned the murder weapon, Watson, leaving Maugham where he fell.” Holmes looked thoughtful. “Either that or they were panicked by the violence of their own actions. The murderer, contrary to what Inspector Bainbridge intimated, was no more a professional killer than you or I.”

  “And they left via the front door?” I asked, unsure.

  “Yes. There are no signs that they exited the building via the same means they entered. I have no doubt that a momentary inspection of the front door will prove there are traces of blood on the handle,” said Holmes.

  “Precisely!” I said, realising that Holmes had hit the nail on the head, explaining my unease with his postulation. “Wouldn’t the killer have been covered in blood? Just
look at the mess in there... they could hardly have been inconspicuous.”

  “Indeed, Watson,” replied Holmes. “Inspector Bainbridge and his men will need to mount a search for a blood-spattered coat, which I imagine has been dumped in the near vicinity. Find that, and we’re one step closer to finding our killer.”

  I stepped back from the windowsill to allow Holmes to reenter the kitchen. Bainbridge was leaning on his cane a few feet away, watching us both with interest.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Holmes,” he said, “but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with Dr. Watson just now. From what you said, am I right in thinking that you believe the victim knew his killer? The fact he tried to reason with them, that the killer was so incensed by what he said? These things point to a familiarity between the two.”

  “Without question, Inspector,” replied Holmes, clearly impressed with Bainbridge’s deduction. “The killer was known to Peter Maugham. What is more, this small, discarded cigarette-end may help to point us in the right direction.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “It is of a very particular brand, Watson. A German brand,” said Holmes.

  “Hans Gerber,” I said, with distaste.

  “Hans Gerber?” echoed Bainbridge, perplexed. “Do you know this man?”

  “Not yet, Inspector,” replied Holmes, “but I should very much like to make his acquaintance.”

  Holmes, in a most animated fashion, took a moment to bring Bainbridge up to date with the situation regarding the mysterious letters and the appearance of the man in black at Sir Theobald’s funeral. He was like a bloodhound, now, on the scent of his quarry. It was fascinating to see the change that came over him, the sheer energy he derived from the slow unravelling of a case.

  “Do you believe that others may be at risk from this Gerber fellow?” asked Bainbridge, when Holmes had finished.

  “Indeed I do, Inspector,” replied Holmes. “Oswald Maugham would be his next logical victim. He, like Peter Maugham, is a bachelor. He lives alone and is unsuspecting. He also represents a threat - of sorts - to Gerber’s inheritance of the Maugham estate. You should dispatch some uniformed men to keep watch on his residence immediately.” Holmes glanced over at me, as if bringing me into his little conspiracy. “This evening, Dr. Watson and I, with Oswald Maugham’s permission, will lay a trap. We shall spend the evening in wait at his apartment. I do not think it will be long before our killer once again shows his hand.”

  Bainbridge frowned. “Mr. Holmes, as sound as I judge your intentions to be, I cannot in good conscience allow you to put yourselves in such immediate danger.”

  Holmes threw his head back and gave a hearty laugh. “I assure you, Inspector, we shall be quite safe.”

  “Then if you insist upon following this course of action, I shall of course accompany you,” countered Bainbridge. “I too wish to bring this matter to a swift conclusion.”

  “Very good, Inspector!” said Holmes, amiably.

  “Is it revenge that motivates Gerber, do you suspect, Holmes?” I said. I’d been pondering for some time on the motivation behind Gerber’s letters, but now, to add cold-blooded murder to his list of probable crimes, suggested perhaps an even stronger motivation than his desire to secure Sir Theobald’s fortune. “For all of those years of misery, abandoned by his family. I imagine only that could drive Gerber to so comprehensively destroy the Maughams.”

  Holmes sighed heavily. “Greed, Watson. The green-eyed monster of jealousy and greed has its fingerprints all over this sorry affair.”

  “And a sorry affair it is, too,” agreed Bainbridge. “What with this and the on-going iron men business, I’ve begun to lose all faith in humanity,” he said, quietly.

  “Ah yes, the iron men robberies,” said Holmes, perking up again. “How goes your investigation, Inspector?”

  Bainbridge shook his head. “Not well, Mr. Holmes. They continue to wreak havoc amongst the upper classes, and yet I have very little to go on. They seem to come out of nowhere and disappear again into the night, like the phantoms you accused me of chasing when we met at the morgue.”

  “Have you spoken with Percival Asquith, the industrialist?” asked Holmes.

  “Indeed I have,” said Bainbridge, with a satisfied smile. “I interviewed him only yesterday. You believe him to be involved?”

  Holmes shrugged. “Of that, I cannot say. I only wondered if there might be some connection?”

  Bainbridge nodded. “I’m convinced of it. Asquith represents my main line of enquiry.”

  “Excellent, Inspector,” murmured Holmes. “Most excellent.”

  Something appeared to catch Bainbridge’s attention over Holmes’s shoulder. “Ah, now, here’s that police surgeon again.” He lowered his voice. “The same man who did such a dreadful job at Sir Theobald’s house. I suspect he’s going to tell me Peter Maugham was clubbed to death, despite the ruddy great knife sticking out of his chest.” He laughed conspiratorially. “Until tonight, gentlemen?”

  “Until tonight, Inspector,” said Holmes. “Watson and I shall make all the necessary arrangements.”

  Bainbridge shook Holmes by the hand, and went off in search of the police surgeon.

  “Who’d have thought it, eh?” I said, laughing.

  “Thought what, Watson?”

  “That we’d ever happen upon a policeman whom you actually liked, Holmes,” I said, with a wide grin.

  “Tolerate is the word, Watson,” replied Holmes, smiling. “Tolerate.”

  “If you say so, Holmes...” I teased, setting off for the door. “Come on, it sounds as if we have some arrangements to make.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  If my wife had known the situation in which I found myself that night, she would have been struck rigid with anxiety. Far better, I considered, that she was left ignorant of the course of action that would shortly see me engaged in a hot pursuit through the backstreets of the city, on the tail of the enigmatic Mr. Hans Gerber.

  Holmes had formulated our plan. He was convinced that Peter Maugham’s killer would once again show his hand that very night by making an attempt on the life of Oswald Maugham. Now he, Inspector Bainbridge and I found ourselves in the darkened sitting room of Oswald Maugham’s apartment. I could see only by the light that seeped out from between the closed metal shutters of a hurricane lamp. It cast eerie shapes upon the walls and underlit Holmes’s face, obscuring much of his expression in shadow.

  It was close to midnight and we had been there for nearly three hours, deliberating in hushed tones the wisdom of our plan. Oswald Maugham himself was in his bedchamber, a uniformed officer posted outside his door. Two further men were hidden in the hallway, ready to pounce upon any intruder with their truncheons.

  I doubted very much that Oswald had managed to get any sleep. He had been distraught at the news of his cousin’s murder, and more distraught still when Holmes had outlined his concerns regarding Oswald’s own safety. Consequently, he had readily agreed to allow us to set our trap.

  And so there we were, lying in wait. My service revolver was clutched tightly in my fist, cold and hard. All about us the house was silent, save for the creak and sigh of ancient floorboards and the far-off ticking of a clock.

  “Well, Dr. Watson, this is a rum sort of affair, is it not?” whispered Bainbridge. He was standing opposite me on the other side of the open doorway. I could barely see him in the dark, other than the outline of his face and the gleam of his weapon, reflecting the thin light.

  “Indeed it is, Inspector,” I whispered in reply, grinning. “Holmes and I seem to have garnered a great deal of experience lying in wait for criminals during the dead of night. It is not something I ever thought I would make a habit of.”

  Bainbridge laughed. “And yet still you do, Doctor.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t do to allow Mr. Sherlock Holmes to go and get himself killed, would it, Inspector?” I said, jovially. “What choice do I have? I’d have nothing to write about.”

  �
�Watson, you do me a disservice,” said Holmes. I could not see his expression, but I guessed he was smiling. “I know how, secretly, you revel in these moments. The thrill of the hunt! Can you feel it? We are near to our quarry, gentlemen. Near indeed!” The excitement was evident in his voice.

  Deep in the bowels of the house, I heard the tinkle of broken glass, followed by the sounds of a door being opened.

  Holmes turned to us. “Quiet now! He’s here!”

  My mouth was dry. I kept my back to the wall, preparing myself for the encounter to come.

  I could barely believe the hour was upon us, that Holmes had been right in anticipating the villain’s movements so precisely -although experience told me I should have trusted his instincts. Here was our chance to bring an end to the entire affair, to capture - red-handed - the mysterious Hans Gerber, and to put him to the question. There was no doubt in my mind as I heard the footsteps in the hallway that Gerber was indeed our man.

  Behind me, I could hear Holmes’s breath in the near-palpable silence, the fluting of his steady exhalations. On the opposite side of the doorway, I saw Bainbridge raise his cane in the half-light, readying himself to strike the man as he came through the door.

  All of a sudden, however, there was a commotion in the hall. I heard a man cry out in surprise and an altercation erupted, accompanied by the grunting of scrabbling men and the dull sounds of fists hitting home. The constables had set upon the intruder before he’d even had chance to walk into our trap. Whether he’d discovered them lying in wait, or they had simply pre-empted our surprise, I did not know.

  Whatever the case, I knew that I had to act in order to prevent him from getting away. It had been our intention to lure the intruder into the sitting room and then block the only available exit. With the element of surprise lost, he had the opportunity to flee the way he had come.

  I threw myself out into the hallway, followed closely by the others. Too late to make sense of what was happening, and too slow to get out of the way, I took an elbow to my face for my trouble, and fell back, wincing.