‘Extraordinary!’ I exclaimed.
‘Quite so. I am tempted I thank the Lord that I lack a supposedly sophisticated education, my good Doctor. Suffice to say that half a century ago, my sister was betrothed to a Christ Church man by the name of Bertram Rothwell. He died young and, if – unlike myself, Mr Holmes - you were of a romantic turn of phrase, you might say his death broke Alicia’s heart. She told Mueller that she had learned that his nephew, one Tobias Rothwell, is currently President of the Society and that, in her mind, was reason enough to bestow upon the organisation the bulk of her estate.’
‘The will was produced?’
‘I have it here, Mr Holmes.’
Stubbings withdrew a sheet of paper from his pocket with the flourish of a prestidigitator and pressed his nose close to it as he studied what was written. The document was written in Mueller’s careful yet inelegant hand. I saw that, apart from a few bequests to John Pawson, the gift of a brooch to the neighbour, and a donation of ten pounds to an alms-house in Kentish Town, all Alicia Stubbings’ worldly goods went to the Amateur Mendicant Society.
‘Alicia signed the will, and then the lawyer and I appended our signatures as witnesses. Even as the ink dried, my sister gave a little sigh and it was plain that death approached. I bent down to kiss her forehead and her own dry lips brushed my cheek. I’m not a sentimental man, Mr Holmes, but for an instant, I came close to shedding a tear. Nonsense, of course. I felt a little embarrassed, and Mueller said that he must summon the doctor. I offered to stay until Burr arrived, but Mueller would not hear of it. He whispered that Alicia had told him that she did not wish me to see her die. Whether that was true or merely a kindness, I shall confess that, on the lawyer’s assurance that he would keep me closely informed, I was glad to make my goodbyes to him and to my sister and leave that gloomy house.‘
‘Was Mueller as good as his word?’
‘He called on me again late the next morning to say that my sister had passed away within half an hour of my departure and to convey his condolences. He and Dr Burr had ensured that her body was taken to the funeral parlour, but he said that he was due to travel to France on behalf of a client the following day and would be away for a month. He had broken the news to John Pawson on his arrival back from Richmond. The man had asked if he and his wife might be permitted to stay in the house until they found alternative positions and I indicated my agreement to Mueller. When I asked about his bill of costs, Mueller said he was minded to waive his fees, given the limited nature of his involvement on behalf of my sister. Naturally, I took this for a hint that he hoped I might engage his firm’s services to assist me in discharging my duties as executor, but I explained that I intended to consult my own solicitor, should the necessity arise, and that I did not wish to feel under any obligation to him. At this, he said that, if I insisted, he would ask for five guineas to donate to a charitable foundation of which he was a trustee, and I paid up on the spot.’
‘Thus neatly were matters concluded,’ my friend murmured. ‘Pray, then, what brings you here on this rather miserable afternoon?’
‘Because,’ Stubbings said, bending his bald head towards us, ‘I have discovered that the man who called himself Peter Mueller was an impostor.’
***
‘Well, Watson, what do you make of that little tale?’ Holmes asked later as we each drank a cup of tea prepared by the landlady. Our visitor had left to attend a board meeting at the administrative offices of Stubbings’ Sauce hard by Russell Square, but my friend had agreed to accept his instructions to look into the matter, and proposed that we should meet again later that evening. Holmes at once suggested a rendez-vous at Alicia Stubbings’ house, and it was agreed that we would meet again at six o’clock that evening.
‘It is most perplexing,’ I confessed. ‘Do you believe that Stubbings is telling us the truth?’
‘Why should he lie?’
‘Perhaps he is more dismayed that he inherited nothing under the will than he is willing to concede.’
My friend permitted himself a wry smile. ‘Mr Stubbings is disinclined to courtesy towards lawyers and medical men, but that should not prejudice you against his veracity, Watson. For my part, I am prepared to accept his story at face value.’
‘Then you believe that the man who brought Stubbings to his sister’s bedside was no lawyer?’
‘I am afraid that I share my client’s scepticism. How often does a lawyer who charges by the word reduce the last will and testament of a client with some money to a single sheet of paper? Let alone need to be persuaded to render an invoice?’
When Stubbings consulted his own solicitor with regard to the distribution of the late Miss Alica Stubbings’ estate, the lawyer happened to question the draftsmanship of the will. Stubbings presumed at first that any infelicities of wording were attributable to the fact that English was not Mueller’s first language. Nevertheless, his curiosity was aroused. He took a cab to Bedford Row and pay a call upon the offices of Messrs Mueller and Trott, obtaining an audience with the senior partner upon a pretext.
To his astonishment, he discovered that Peter Mueller was a thin and ascetic individual who spoke perfect English and bore no resemblance to the man he had met on the night of Alicia’s passing. The real Peter Mueller had been born in St Albans, although his grandfather came from Heidelberg. He found Stubbings’ story both alarming and extraordinary, but could cast no light on the identity of the man who had impersonated him. He confirmed that the wording of the will lacked what he described as legal elegance, but also that its provisions were, in principle, valid. Whether the position would be affected if it proved that one of the witnesses to the will had given a false name was, in his opinion, a nice point. He would need to study the precedents in detail before he could commit himself to a definitive view.
Unwilling to wait while legal research pursued its ponderous course, Stubbings proceeded to consult Dr Burr, but that gentleman professed himself to be equally baffled. Until the day of Alice Stubbings’ death, he had never encountered the man who called himself Mueller, although he readily confirmed that his patient was apt to change her lawyer as frequently as to adjust the terms of her will.
My friend allowed himself a smile, uncomfortably reminiscent of a cat contemplating a mouse. ‘Very well, Watson. What is your theory?’
‘You have warned me more than once of the dangers of theorizing without data,’ I temporised.
‘A lesson well learned, I am glad to hear. But courage, Watson! Already you possess much of the data required to solve Mr Stubbings’ pretty problem. Only one element of the puzzle appears to me to be missing.’
Nettled, I said, ‘This Society sounds devilishly odd. It will not have escaped your notice that its members profited from the change in Miss Stubbings’ will at the expense of the dismissed housemaid.’
The terms of the testamentary dispositions are by no means without interest, I agree.’
‘As for this Society, it is undoubtedly a singular organisation.’ I studied Holmes’ face in vain for a clue to his thoughts. ‘It is my opinion that a conversation with Mr Tobias Rothwell may provide us with the key to unlocking the mystery.’
‘You propose that we should call upon the Amateur Mendicant Society?’
Emboldened, I said, ‘Absolutely.’
‘Very well.’ Holmes consulted his watch. ‘We have time enough to visit their outlandish premises and see if by some happy chance the Society’s President is in attendance.’
His ill-concealed amusement irked me and I demanded, ‘What do you make of it all?’
Holmes shrugged. ‘The elements of the criminal scheme are apparent, but as I indicated, there is one important detail to be uncovered.’
‘And what might that detail be?’ I enquired stiffly.
‘The facts are before you, my dear fellow,’ he said in a dismissive tone. ‘Pray consider them.’
He declined to discuss the case further as we travelled in a four-wheeler to the Euston R
oad. Darkness had fallen by the time we arrived at a large, brick building, whose signboard bore the legend featherstonehaugh’s furniture
‘Granville Featherstonehaugh founded the Amateur Mendicant Society in the year that our gracious Queen ascended the throne,’ Holmes informed me, as he led the way around the side of the building into a gloomy alley-way. ‘Years later, as his furniture business prospered, he made the lower vault of this warehouse available for meetings of the Society and it rapidly became one of the most exclusive clubs in London. In so far, as a club reserved for Christ Church men may be deemed exclusive, that is.’
I raised my eyebrows at the irony, recalling that Holmes had been a pupil of Benjamin Jowett at Balliol. Certainly, nobody could match my friend for the tranquil consciousness of effortless superiority with which the alumni of that college are said to be endowed. Before I could speak, we reached an unobtrusive door with a bell-push. When Holmes rang, the door opened at once, creating the illusion that our visit was expected.
A tall and imposing Indian servant, clad from head to toe in white, stood in front of us. His arms were folded, his bearing was majestic. As he contemplated our faces, his brow furrowed, but he did not utter a word. Beyond him, I saw a square, windowless vestibule and the head of a flight of stairs leading below ground.
‘My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my companion, Dr Watson. I wish to speak with the President if the Amateur Mendicant Society, if he is here this afternoon.’
The servant stared at us impassively for a full minute. As I shifted from foot to foot, he suddenly turned on his heel and disappeared down the stairs. We remained on the threshold. My friend appeared remarkably sanguine, but I was seized by a sudden anxiety.
‘Holmes, I should tell you that I failed to bring my old service revolver with me today. I did not expect…’
‘When you visit your old quarters in Baker Street,’ my friend said with a touch of asperity, ‘you would do well to expect the unexpected. As it happens, I have my Webley revolver with me, but I do not expect to be called upon to make use of it here.’
‘If Tobias Rothwell..,’ I began, to be interrupted by the sound of boots tramping up the stairs.
‘You are aware of my existence, then, Dr Watson?’
The voice was so refined that it might almost be described as effete. Yet it belonged to a grimy man dressed in a torn and tattered ruffian’s coat. As he reached the head of the stairs, he halted, and studied us with an undisguised curiosity that I felt verged upon the indecent.
‘You are President of the Amateur Mendicant Society, I believe.’
‘You are well informed, sir.’ The man gave a little bow. ‘Tobias Rothwell, at your service. And how honoured I am to meet Mr Sherlock Holmes, the distinguished consulting detective. Gentlemen, may I welcome you to our little club. Would you like to accompany me downstairs?’
We followed Rothwell, our footsteps echoing eerily on the stone steps. The staircase seemed to wind down into the very bowels of the earth, and the air was dank and unpleasant. Cobwebs festooned the brick walls and I could hear the scurrying of unseen rodents. When at last we reached the bottom, we found ourselves in a narrow passageway lit by a single candle, facing a stout door. The dust in the air stung my sinuses and made me want to sneeze.
As we approached, the door swung back, on unexpectedly well-greased hinges, to reveal the white-garbed Indian who had admitted us to the building. He executed a graceful bow, and stepped aside. Rothwell moved forward, and with a wry smile, beckoned Holmes and myself within.
Nothing could have prepared me for the extraordinary sight that greeted our eyes. We had entered a long, low-ceilinged room and it was as if we had walked straight in from the pavement of Pall Mall and entered a subterranean pastiche of the Athenaeum. The walls were panelled in mahogany, the carpet on the floor felt as smooth as velvet. The room held a dozen chesterfields, as well as a generously stocked bar at the far end. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the low murmur of convivial conversation. Perhaps twenty-five men were present, including another couple of white-garbed Indian servants. Several of the club members held in their hands wine glasses of the most exquisite crystal; others smoked contentedly and perused the Court Circular in The Times. Their demeanour possessed the negligent assurance of men who ruled the Empire, yet every single man in the room, like Rothwell, was dressed as a beggar. Their faces were grubby, and there were rents in their rough shirts and trousers, while their footwear was worn and ill-fitting. A couple of them cast us an idle glance. Most paid no attention whatsoever to our arrival in their midst.
‘Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, I bid you welcome,’ Rothwell said. ‘May I offer you a drink? We make the immodest claim that our cellar is one of the five finest in London.’
‘Thank you, no,’ Holmes said. ‘We are here in connection with the will of the late Miss Alicia Stubbings.’
Rothwell frowned. ‘She is deceased?’
‘The name is familiar to you, I see.’
‘Certainly. Miss Stubbings was once engaged to be married to my uncle. Three months ago, she wrote to me at my home in Park Lane to say how much she had admired his work for charitable causes through this Society. She said she was coming towards the end of her life, and wanted to know if the Society still flourished, as she had it in mind to leave a portion of her estate to further its aims. I confirmed that the Society was still very much extant, and that I had recently been elected to the office of its President. Our correspondence ended at that point, and I was unaware that she had passed away.’
‘She died at home recently. After various bequests, the residue of her estate is given to the Amateur Mendicant Society.’
I detected eyebrows rising beneath the grime. ‘That is undoubtedly generous. Had she no family?’
‘There is a brother, Hubert, who is well provided for, but nobody else.’
‘Then there is no question of the gift depriving anyone of much-needed funds,’ Rothwell said. ‘Excellent. Our stocks of Imperial Tokay are running rather low and there is a particularly fine case coming up for auction shortly.’
‘Your aims are not exclusively unselfish, I gather,’ I said.
‘Nor have we ever pretended otherwise,’ Rothwell replied smoothly. ‘Tell me, Dr Watson, how much charity is practised without a hint of self-interest? The members of this Society are no hypocrites. We assist the unfortunate by collecting money in the streets of London, but we have never set out to do good at the expense of our own pleasure. Every member of this club can afford the finest dress-suit from Savile Row, but relishes the opportunity to escape from the quotidian – and the Society, sir, provides such escape. Each of us relishes the opportunity to mix with like-minded fellows over a glass of the finest wine in the comfortable dress of ruffians. This is a unique haven below the bustle of the streets. To go up and out into the city disguised as beggars adds a wonderful piquancy to our leisure. The combination of hedonism with altruism caters admirably for our tastes. I can only regret that neither of you gentlemen has the educational pedigree to entitle you to join our little gathering.’
‘We shall have to seek our consolations elsewhere,’ Holmes said briskly. ‘May I ask if you are familiar with an attorney by the name of Peter Mueller?’
Rothwell shook his head. ‘In common with the majority of my colleagues in the Society, I employ the services of Edgar Trump. He acts personally for the Chief Cashier of the Bank of England, and is an infinitely reliable fellow. You can see him over there, the short man at the bar enjoying a Havana in the company of the Queen’s Swan Warden?’
‘Mueller drew up the will which disinherited Alicia Stubbings’ housemaid and almost doubled the bequest to this Society,’ I said sharply.
‘Then we owe him a debt of gratitude for his professional services,’ Rothwell said coolly. ‘As well as to Miss Stubbings for her generosity.’
‘He is a large man with a guttural accent,’ I said. ‘Does the description tally with that of any of your members?’
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br /> ‘I trust, my dear Dr Watson, that you are not implying sharp practice on the part of this Society? I should warn you that Trump has a partner with a special practice in the law of slander.’
I was about to make an angry retort, but felt Holmes’ restraining hand on my wrist. ‘Come, Watson. Our business here is done.’
‘But…’
Rothwell gave me an ironic nod. I felt my cheeks burn. Even the Indian servants, I suspected, were smirking behind my back.
‘I am sure you would not wish to outstay your welcome, Doctor.’
‘Good day to you, Rothwell,’ Holmes said. ‘Watson, we must be punctual for our next appointment.’
He led me briskly through the door and back up the stone staircase. Soon we were standing outside in the alley-way and I gulped in the chill air of early evening. It seemed much fresher than the clammy and self-satisfied atmosphere in the lower vault of the warehouse.
‘Well, Watson?’
‘I am convinced that they are men with something to hide,’ I said.
‘Show me the man with nothing to hide,’ Holmes said, ‘and I will show you a cipher. Come, let us take a cab to the late Miss Stubbings’ house.’
We arrived at Dismore Street five minutes before the time we had agreed. It was a shabby thoroughfare in the vicinity of St Pancras and I heard the rumble and clank of trains as we dismounted. The wind was blowing fiercely now, and the street was deserted and forlorn. The house occupied the middle place in a terrace and it was plain that little attention had been paid to its upkeep since Alicia Stubbings’ middle years. Paint peeled from the front door and the window frames, and the net curtains were as ragged as Tobias Rothwell’s shirt.
Stubbings had agreed that John Pawson and his wife might remain in the house rent-free until either it was sold, or they found alternative accommodation, provided that they kept it clean and tidy. I wondered if it troubled his conscience that, by witnessing the will, he had deprived the dismissed housemaid of one-tenth of his sister’s estate. The sum was negligible in Rothwell’s eyes, but a small fortune to members of the working class. My heart went out to the penurious victims of an old woman’s moods.
The New Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes Page 9