“It was a trifle. I became one of them. They were all still arriving and had not even finished introducing themselves to each other. I donned my old uniform and joined them. As you have likely deduced, I speak native German and told them that I had been assigned to guard the back entrance to the house. Now they have been dismissed. I would be surprised if any of them guessed for even a second that my intent was the opposite of theirs.”
I observed Holmes give a small shake to his head. Not that he doubted the truth of what he was being told, but that he never ceased to wonder at the gullibility of the members of the human race.
“And now your response to my question, Mr. Holmes,” said Sheridan.
“To your credit, sir, you were somewhat more astute that those who employed the guards. What revealed your identity was, in order: First, you had recently had your gardens replanted, but without a single rose bush; something no true Englishman would ever do. And no Englishman from Leeds would ever hire Brunhilde as a housekeeper and have her prepare strudel. Your accent betrays not a single trace of the North, something that even decades in Oxford cannot erase. You speak the English of a Junker who was raised by an English governess, although you, like all native German speakers, are so discourteous to your verbs, depositing far too many of them at the end of your sentences. An Englishman does not give a digital indication of his counting by beginning with his thumb. All of these observations make it obvious that you were not who you claimed to be. The final revelation was one for which I cannot take complete credit. Miss Bastien-Lepage brought to my attention a photograph of father and son Kellerman and some other Prussian army officers. You were not in that photograph, but in the small portrait of yourself which you display and I observed in your hallway—the one of you as a dashing young Prussian captain; one that you must find quite pleasing to look upon—you were standing in the same park as your fellow officers. There was no printing on the photographs to indicate that date and location, and the insignia on the uniforms was not easy to discern. But on close inspection, it could be seen that the uniforms were of the exact same style and cut and had identical markings. You were not only a fellow member of the Prussian army as the Kellermans, you were in the same company and the same unit. I do not know what your motive was. Revenge of some sort stemming from events that took place over a decade ago, perhaps. Nor have I discerned why you chose to take the actions you did last night. You must know that you are now on your way to the gallows, regardless of how much the Kellermans deserved to be punished. So, perhaps you will explain. And, whilst you are doing so, perhaps you could tell us just who you are.”
Up to this point, the man, whoever he was, could simply have denied all of Holmes’s accusations. I was bewildered as to why he had not done so. Now Holmes was asking him to incriminate himself whilst I recorded his words. I fully expected that the man would get up and walk away, knowing that there were no grounds on which to detain him. And yet, he did not move. He looked again up to the ceiling, gave a small nod, and continued.
“My name, sir, is Maxim von Witzleben. I am a member of a noble Prussian family that has a proud history of military service for the past three hundred years. As a young man, following my graduation from one of the finest gymnasia in Saarbrücken, I began my military service in the Prussian army, as my Vater and Großvater had done before me. To the rank of Kapitän and then Zugführer I was quickly promoted was honored to lead a Zug of fine men into the war with France. I served under Colonel Kellerman. Of all the soldiers I have even known, he was the most disgraceful and gave himself over to every form of evil, cruelty, and extortion. It is terrible to have to admit it, but several of my fellow officers went along with his vile activities. I refused to lower myself to their level and was ostracized for so doing. During the siege of Metz, our units were responsible for the provisioning of the troops and were we stationed in the village of Saint-Avold, where we organized the supply of food and ammunition so that the siege could carry on until we were victorious. It was during that time that the most terrible night of my life was experienced. It was the night of September 15 in the year 1870.”
Here he stopped his account to Holmes and turned and looked directly at Jeanne d’Arc Bastien-Lepage and spoke quietly to her.
“Vite, ma petite. Vite, vite. Cache toi, immédiatement. Outre le fait de quoi que vous entendez, ne bougez surtout pas. Me compendez-vous? Me compendez-vous?”
She gasped and for several seconds said nothing. Then she whispered, “C’était vous.”
“Oui, ma petite, c’était moi. Forgive me, mademoiselle. Please. I should have stopped them. I should have taken out my gun and shot them to make them stop. Had I been a better man I would have done so. I am sorry.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” she said. “You did the best you could. Because of you, I am alive.”
Her voice was no more than a whisper, and the blood had drained from her face.
“Tell these men, tell them what happened. They think I am crazy. They think I have imagined what happened. Tell them what happened.”
Over the next ten minutes, Maxim von Witzleban described in dreadful detail the gruesome and horrible events that took place in the Bastien-Lepage home seventeen years earlier. The details of what he recounted are far too inhuman and depraved to be recorded in this story. Suffice it to say, I, who had been a soldier myself, could not believe that any soldier, serving under any flag, could do what these men had done.
As he spoke, I looked over at Jeanne d’Arc. She was as pale as a ghost and appeared to have entered a trance-like state. Her face was completely blank, and I realized that although she had heard what had taken place in her home and listened to the torture of her parents, she had not observed it with her eyes. Now, in her mind, these events were coming to life. She had come out of her safe hiding place in her closet and was in the room with her family, watching them die.
“The events of that night,” said Maxim, “could not remain a secret. The truth will out. An account eventually made it all the way to the Chancellor. A secret tribunal was ordered. All who were present were found guilty of cowardly and unlawful conduct and dismissed from the Prussian army. We should have been brought before a firing squad and executed. But the war had just ended, and the victory over the French was being celebrated. The noble and heroic Prussian army was being hailed as the finest in the world. All of Germany was coming together to form one great country. Had our case become public, it would have spoiled the parade. So, we were treated leniently and merely dismissed in disgrace.
“I defended myself, claiming that I had not participated, but the judges ruled, quite fairly, that I should have done more to stop the crimes as they were being committed, and that I should have informed our superior officers immediately afterward, which I failed to do. So, I was thrown out of the army, a humiliation to my family. Generations of the von Witzleban family had served with distinction, and I alone had brought shame. But I was fortunate. My family is well-to-do, and I have an income from our properties. The other officers who were present that night somehow held on to their ill-gotten gains and have prospered.
“I vowed that I would wreak revenge on the others and bring to them the justice that they had escaped. But the days passed, and the days became weeks, and then years and the horrors of that night faded. I kept telling myself again and again that I had to do something, but I did nothing. The Kellermans ran off to England, others left Germany and lived in France, others yet changed their names and led prosperous lives in Strasbourg, Bonn, and Berlin. For a decade, I did nothing. Then, last year, my life changed, and I set out on a path of action that culminated in my actions last night.”
Here he paused and took a small sip of his ale. Holmes continued to observe him intensely. Jeanne d’Arc sat stone cold motionless, still in her trance. I gave in to my curiosity.
“Very well, sir. What happened?”
“You are a doctor, ja? Reach your hand up and gently touch the side of my head. Just here, behind my
temple.”
I did what he asked and immediately recoiled.
“Merciful heavens. You have an enormous aneurism. If that were to burst, you would be dead in seconds.”
“That, sir, is what my doctors told me as well. Just about nine months ago, it appeared. I was told that it could not be operated on and that I had, at most, a year to live. There is, as your English writer has said, nothing that so concentrates a man’s mind as knowing he is about to die. It was bad enough for me that I had to stand before a panel of military judges and be found wanting. I did not want a repeat performance before Almighty God before being sent off into eternity. So, I determined that I must set my affairs in order and must undertake to do what I should have done seventeen years ago. I needed to bring divine execution to the leaders of our evil band of officers. I needed to execute the Kellermans.”
“I should have done the deed immediately but there was a part of me, my pride I admit, that wanted to torture the two villains with having to deal with me every day, knowing that I was giving news of their horrid pasts to the villagers and letting them be faced every day with the opprobrium of their neighbors. So, I purchased the estate adjacent to theirs. They thought they would divert my efforts with a lawsuit over property, but I am not a poor man, and I merely hired more expensive London lawyers than they did and frustrated their efforts.”
“You have owned your property now for over six months,” said Holmes. “What took you so long?”
“Procrastination, indecision, perhaps even cowardice. Deciding to commit a double murder is not a decision to make quickly. So those weaknesses combined with some affairs I had to complete. I suggest that tomorrow you inquire at the offices of Wyatt Curtis, Solicitor if you wish to know more precisely what I have been up to on that score.”
“Then why last night?”
“Because of you, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes said nothing but it was obvious that he was not pleased with that answer.
“You sent a warning to the Kellermans. A village has as many spies as does Alsace, especially when the villagers are united in a common cause of hatred of their would-be squires. The telegraph office duly passed along the news. Then you showed up and personally warned them. I knew that they were arrogant and stubborn, but they were not stupid. I knew that if they were convinced that danger had come too close, they would disappear. I also observed the arrival of their imperial guard of former Prussian soldiers. Those soldiers are not incompetent. It would be only a day or two before they organized themselves and began to provide impenetrable protection. Had I waited even until today, it might have been too late, and my plodding efforts would have been in vain. So, I thank you, Mr. Holmes.”
“Then why go to the bother of stabbing them in their sleep. You could just as easily have shot them with a rifle as they walked on the property. I am sure you have one, a Mauser most likely, and you know how to use it effectively.”
“Quite correct. But I had read the accounts in the newspapers from France and Germany of the murders of the other members of the evil band of officers. Copying the method of the fellow who was doing them in, one of the local masons, I assumed, might keep you and Scotland Yard off my scent. It occurred to me that I might be able to die in bed and not in a prison cell. It seemed like a good idea at the time, until they went and arrested poor Mr. Kirwan. I was terribly upset by that news and immediately wrote out a complete confession. It is in my box at my solicitor’s office. You can read it at your leisure. There is really no need for me to tell you anything else. You have all the information you need.”
“Yes. I do. So, you will kindly excuse me whilst I track down Inspector Lestrade and turn you over to him. I fear your wish to die in your bed and not a prison cell will not be granted.”
“Ah, just one moment, if you will, please Mr. Holmes.”
He then turned and spoke in a strong voice to Jeanne d’Arc.
“Mademoiselle Jeanne d’Arc Bastien-Lepage. Let my final words be a plea again for your forgiveness. May God grant you mercy and heal your pain.”
The young woman startled. Her blank eyes came back to life, and she nodded in response.
“And may He be merciful to you as well, sir. I forgive you, and my saint has told me that Our Father will also.”
“Merci, mademoiselle. And now, gentlemen,” he said, turning to Holmes and me, “I pray that you also will forgive me if I do not accompany you to the police station. I have no desire to spend a single night in a jail cell. And please extend my apologies to my friend, the publican, for any inconvenience I cause him. And do not forget to visit the local solicitor.”
He smiled serenely at each of us in turn and then, suddenly and forcefully, he struck the heel of his right hand against the side of his head.
“No!” I involuntarily shouted.
“Ja, und Auf Wiedersehen.” His eyes blinked several times, then they closed. His head slumped forward, and his chin rested on his cravat.
For several seconds, the three of us sat in stunned silence. Then Miss Bastien-Lepage rose from her chair and walked over to Maxim von Witzleban, leaned down and planted a light kiss on is cheek. “Rest in peace, mon capitaine. Saint Michael told me he is waiting for you.”
Chapter Nine
Where There is a Will
WILLIAM KIRWAN was released from police custody later that evening. The following morning, Holmes, Lestrade and I paid a visit to the offices of Mr. Wyatt Curtis, the local barrister. Jeanne d’Arc accompanied us but maintained a trance-like silence.
“Please, gentlemen and lady,” said the barrister. “Do come in and be seated. And do excuse me if I seem somewhat distracted. The events of the past few days in the town have been frightfully disturbing. For ten years nothing particularly untoward took place and now we are invaded by a famous detective, Scotland Yard, and German war veterans and three men die tragically. It is a bit of a bother to our equilibrium. But enough of that, how may I be of assistance to you? I assume you are interested in the last wills and testaments recently filed by both Squires Cunningham and by Mr. Sheridan. Which one do you wish to see first?”
Not expecting this question, none of us immediately replied.
“All three,” said Lestrade. “Let’s have a look at them.”
“Of course, Inspector. I have all three on my desk ready for you. It may come as a surprise to you to learn that neither the Cunninghams nor Mr. Sheridan were living under their legal names. The father and son are actually named Kellerman, and Mr. Sheridan was a German aristocrat, a von Witzleban.”
“We were aware of that,” said Holmes.
“Ah, yes. Of course. I should have expected that a Scotland Yard inspector and our famous detective had done their homework. Yes, of course. Very well. Here they are.”
He handed them over to Lestrade who in turn kept one and handed the other two over to Holmes and me. As we were sitting beside each other, it was easy to glance at what the other was looking at as well as the document in our own hand. Within a few seconds, Holmes, Lestrade and I all looked up from the documents and exchanged glances with each other.
“These wills have been written in the same hand,” said Holmes.
“Yes, that is obvious, isn’t it?” said the solicitor. “But it is not surprising. They were neighbors and appear to have hired the same secretary. Quite practical. The wills are quite straightforward. The younger squire was the only son of the older man. Neither he nor Mr. Sheridan had any issue, and no other kin are named. The only unusual paragraphs are the specific and residual bequests. You can read them in section eighteen beginning on the fifth page. But allow me to summarize the for you.”
“Go ahead,” said Lestrade.
“Obviously there was a closer connection between the men than we local townspeople were aware of. Both estates have very considerable assets. There are many securities listed as well as the real properties here in Reigate, which were held free and clear of any liens or mortgages. Oddly, Mr. Sheridan leaves his entire estate
to the church of St. Michael in the village of Saint-Avold in Alsace with instructions that the funds be used for the support of any local families still impoverished following the last war. Both of the Cunninghams leave the residuals to the same church with the identical instruction. However, the older Cunninghams makes several specific bequests to a short list of widows here in Reigate, and the younger has a similar list of funds to be given to five local spinsters. It is unusual, but it is all in order.”
I did not have to be Sherlock Holmes to know immediately that the wills of the squires were blatant forgeries. Even my untrained eye could see the distinct similarity between the signature of Maxim von Witzleban and the handwriting of the body of the wills.
“Did you,” asked Lestrade, “personally witness the signing of these documents?”
“Me? No,” said the solicitor. “But they were witnessed by the postmaster, the vicar, and the constable. Their signatures appear on the final page. So, there is no question that they are legitimate.”
Mr. Wyatt Curtis looked at us, utterly stone-faced. It was clear to all present that the documents we were looking at were fraudulent and I waited for Holmes or Lestrade to say something.
“Very well, then,” said Lestrade. “if they have reliable witnesses, then they should be put to effect as expeditiously as possible. You would agree, would you not, Holmes?”
“I would agree,” Holmes replied.
“Excellent,” said Lestrade. “And who are the executors?”
“Mr. William Kirwan,” said the solicitor, “is named by all three parties. An excellent choice, I must say. Terrible mix-up he went through, but that is all behind him now. He will do a capital job disbursing the funds as directed and winding up the affairs of the estates.”
“I have no doubt he will,” said Holmes. “He is a good man.”
Lestrade departed to the train station without so much as bidding us a good day. Holmes, Jeanne d’Arc and I returned to the inn and sat down for a refreshing round of morning tea.
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