Sherlock Holmes - The Will of the Dead

by George Mann

  “Then you knew of Mrs. Hudson’s letter?” I prompted, resignedly. The fight had already gone out of me. Now, I could think only of how I might assist my friend, to set him once again on the path from which he had strayed.

  Holmes removed his feet from the table and set the violin down in their stead, fetching up his briar and tobacco slipper. He began filling the pipe, tamping the weed down into the bowl with his thumb. “Yes, yes, Watson. Mrs. Hudson is nothing if not predictable, and you, my good doctor, are a creature of simple habits. The letter was the least of the matter.” He struck a match, puffing on the end of the pipe as the flame took to the tobacco with a dry crackle.

  “What on earth are you talking about, Holmes?” said I, more than a little frustrated by his games. I wished to speak earnestly with him regarding his recent behaviour. I couldn’t help but feel he was engaging me in such trivialities in order to distract me from my goal. “Stop being so dashed opaque. I haven’t called in weeks. It could only be the letter that gave you warning.”

  “It really is a trifling matter. Hardly worthy of discussion,” he said, with a shrug. Yet his tone of barely suppressed superiority belied his true intention - to toy with me.

  “Holmes...” I said, testily.

  He emitted a playful sigh. “Mrs. Watson is away visiting her mother in Sussex, is she not?”

  “Yes...” I said, perplexed. “But... how did you know?”

  Holmes laughed. “Really, Watson. It’s a simple deduction. Was it not the happy occasion of your mother-in-law’s birthday this last week? As it has been, on the twelfth of October, every year for the last seventy-three?”

  “Indeed it was...” I confirmed.

  “And since I am aware that you and Mrs. Watson were away taking the air in Northumberland last week - you mentioned your impending constitutional in your last letter - it seems only logical that Mrs. Watson should wish to pay a visit to her mother directly upon your return.” Holmes took a long draw on his pipe, and allowed the smoke to curl from his nostrils as he regarded me. “Therefore,” he went on, “knowing you are a conscientious man, and that you would feel obliged to return forthwith to your patients, it is but a simple leap to assume you would take the decision not to join your wife on her call.”

  “I cannot deny it,” I said, with a shrug.

  “Left, then, to your own devices, I’d wager that yesterday evening you dined alone at your club, enjoying the company of your fellow medical men. Then, this morning, having discharged your duties - and before you had ever set eyes on Mrs. Hudson’s no doubt rather melodramatic missive - you had already decided to take the opportunity to pay a visit to your old lodgings, and to your friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” He finished his oratory with a flourish of his hand, before clamping his briar once more between his teeth and sinking back into the depths of his armchair, his gaze fixed upon the leaping flames in the grate.

  I let out a heavy sigh. “As usual, Holmes, you explain it in such a logical fashion that it seems entirely obvious you should expect my call. But listen here, this destructive behaviour has got to stop. And as for that poison you insist on sinking into your veins... well, you know my feelings on the matter. I mean...look at this place. Look at you!” I gestured around me in dismay, aware that the timbre of my voice had altered as I’d spoken. It was not often that I found myself raising my voice to another -particularly a dear friend - yet I believe Holmes understood that my agitation stemmed purely from my concern for his health and wellbeing.

  Holmes took his pipe from his mouth, cradling the bowl in the palm of his left hand, as if weighing it. He glanced up at me, his eyes shining with amusement. When he spoke his voice was level, his manner genial, as if my outburst had already been forgotten. “Calm yourself, dear Watson. You wouldn’t want to scare away our visitor. He’s evidently a rather indecisive example of his class.”

  “Visitor, Holmes?” I mumbled, somewhat flustered.

  “Indeed, Watson,” replied Holmes, with a flourish of his pipe. “Your timing is, once again, impeccable.”

  “This is too much, Holmes. You mean to say you’re expecting a caller? Other than myself, I mean.” I found this somewhat hard to believe, given Holmes’s careless appearance and the state of his rooms. I couldn’t believe that even he would countenance admitting a client to the premises with the place in such disarray.

  “In a manner of speaking. It is my belief that within the next few minutes a man will call at the door, seeking my advice. A man with a grievous problem indeed. He is around six feet tall, in his thirties, and walks with a limp. He was never a soldier, suggesting his leg was afflicted by a childhood illness or accident. He is indecisive and of a nervous disposition. Two days ago, something terrible occurred that has today caused him to take a cab across town to seek my assistance.” Holmes had grown steadily more animated as he spoke, and was now sitting forward on the edge of his seat, clutching the bowl of his pipe between thumb and forefinger, eyeing me intently.

  “You know this man?” said I, wondering at his game.

  “Not at all, Watson,” said Holmes, with a chuckle. “We have not yet been introduced.”

  “Then what gives you cause to anticipate his arrival?” I sighed, resigned now to indulging my friend in this little bout of sparring. At the very least, it had stirred him from his brooding. “Really, Holmes, your games can be quite infuriating.”

  Holmes grinned wolfishly. “All in good time, Watson. All in good -” He stopped short at the sound of the doorbell clanging loudly from the street below. He sprang from his chair, suddenly animated. “Ah-ha! There he is.” He threw open his dressing-gown, thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets, his pipe clenched between his teeth. He paced back and forth before the fire for a moment. The doorbell rang again, and I heard the sound of Mrs. Hudson’s hurried footsteps in the hallway below. A moment later the front door creaked open and the sound of a man’s voice -indistinct but most definitely hesitant - followed.

  Holmes almost leapt over a pile of heaped leather-bound tomes, crossed the room towards me, and clapped his hand heartily upon my shoulder. “Now Watson,” he said, around the mouthpiece of his pipe, “be a good fellow and keep him busy for a moment, while I slip away and change.”

  “I... I...” I stammered, but to no avail; he was already making a beeline for the bedroom door. “But Holmes!” I cried after him, despairingly. “The state of the place!”

  My pleas fell on deaf ears, however, and the door slammed shut in abrupt response, leaving me standing amidst a scene that felt more akin to the battle-scarred ruins of Kabul than a British gentleman’s drawing room. I was surrounded by detritus, with the sound of our visitor’s footsteps already starting up the stairs.

  “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to do it myself,” I muttered, in abject consternation. I glanced around in dismay. I have never been one to relish domestic chores, and the condition of Holmes’s quarters was decidedly shameful. Nevertheless, someone had to make the place presentable if Holmes was going to secure himself another case to investigate.

  I set about hurriedly tidying away the filthy plates, stuffing them into the sideboard to hide them from view. I hoped that poor Mrs. Hudson would forgive me. I then gathered the abandoned newspapers into a large, irregular heap, and dumped them unceremoniously behind the sofa. There was very little I could do about the dust, but I crossed to the window and heaved it open, inviting a gust of cold - but clean - air into the room.

  “There. That’ll have to do,” I muttered beneath my breath.

  As if our visitor had read my thoughts, there was a polite rap at the sitting room door. I smoothed down the front of my jacket, took a deep breath and tried to dispel the harried feeling within me. I crossed to the door and opened it to see a man almost exactly matching the description Holmes had given. I smiled politely. “Oh, ah... come in,” I said, standing to one side and ushering him past me.

  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” he asked nervously, extending his hand.

 
“I rather fear not,” I replied, with an apologetic shrug. “My name is Watson, Dr. John Watson, an associate of Mr. Holmes.”

  The newcomer looked relieved, and turned back towards the stairs as if to depart. “Oh. Then perhaps I should call another time...?”

  “Not at all,” I said, reassuringly. “Mr. Holmes will be along presently. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

  To my relief, I heard footsteps behind me and turned to see Holmes, looking immaculate in a black suit and white shirt. He smiled brightly. “Good evening to you, Mr...?”

  “Maugham,” replied the man, his shoulders dropping in what I took to be either relief or resignation. “Peter Maugham, sir.”

  “Well, Mr. Maugham,” said Holmes. “Pray take a seat by the fire and warm yourself. Dr. Watson here will fetch you a drink for your nerves.”

  “What?” I said, caught off guard. “Oh, yes. Quite.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I fear my nerves are, indeed, in tatters. I am close to the end of my endurance,” said Maugham, unbuttoning his overcoat and handing it to Holmes. He lowered himself into the seat I had previously occupied, and I sighed.

  I crossed to the sideboard and fumbled for a clean glass, hoping I wouldn’t have to open the doors and reveal the terrible mess of dirty plates inside. Thankfully, there was a clean tumbler beside the decanter on a silver tray. I splashed out a measure of brandy and handed it to our visitor, before finding a perch amongst the detritus on the sofa. Holmes offered me an amused grin.

  “Much obliged, Dr. Watson,” said Maugham. He sipped at the drink and nodded appreciatively.

  “Now, Mr. Maugham, I see that something is clearly preying on your mind. I can assure you that Dr. Watson and I will hear your case without prejudice, and we ask only that you speak frankly and with as much accuracy as you can muster,” said Holmes, returning to his own chair opposite Maugham. “Leave out no detail, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem.”

  “I shall do as you ask, Mr. Holmes, for I am indeed in need of your help,” replied Maugham, solemnly.

  “Very good. Now, in your own time, would you care to elaborate on the reason for your call?” Holmes retrieved his pipe and settled back to listen.

  Maugham cleared his throat. “Two days ago, Mr. Holmes, something terrible occurred to change my fortunes forever. I have lost everything. I am ruined.” He took another sip of brandy, and I noticed that his hand was trembling.

  “Two days ago, indeed...” Holmes shot me another glance, with a raised eyebrow. “Pray continue, Mr. Maugham.”

  “It was the occasion of my cousin’s birthday. The whole family, such as it is, was gathered at the home of my uncle, Sir Theobald Maugham. Sir Theobald is - was - a lonely man, with no children of his own. The Maughams, you see, have not been blessed with the sturdiest of constitutions. Sir Theobald’s siblings all died some time ago - my mother from a severe dose of influenza, an uncle from a wasting disease, and another to the war in Afghanistan.” Maugham looked pained as he listed the terrible fates that had befallen his relatives.

  “An unfortunate family indeed,” I said.

  “Quite so,” agreed Maugham. “As a consequence, Sir Theobald lived alone, rattling around in that big house of his. He doted on his niece, however - my cousin, Annabel - and on the occasion of her birthday he called us all together for a party.

  “Well, we had a pleasant enough time of it, Annabel, Joseph, Oswald and I. Sir Theobald had become a rather eccentric figure in his dotage, but it pleased us all to see him in such high spirits. We retired late, each of us rather rosy-cheeked and merry, and I saw Sir Theobald to his bed.” Maugham paused for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts.

  “The next morning, however,” he went on, “I was woken by the sound of the maid’s screams. The same was true of my cousins, whom I encountered on the landing as I came barrelling out of my room. What we found was a sight none of us will ever forget. Agnes was at the bottom of the stairs, kneeling over the twisted body of my uncle, her face stricken with shock.”

  Holmes was silent for a moment, respecting the gravity of the man’s words. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Maugham,” he said quietly. “Can you tell me, was it deemed that he had fallen?”

  “Yes,” replied Maugham, gravely. “Yes, absolutely. The police doctor who came out to the house said that it was clear he’d fallen during the night. A terrible accident. We were always warning him about that staircase. It’s particularly treacherous.”

  “You heard nothing to rouse you during the night?” asked Holmes.

  Maugham shook his head. “No. But then I had been rather over-zealous with the wine. We all had. When the police found the empty bottles from the party they were quick to conclude that it was likely Sir Theobald had tripped and fallen in a drunken stupor. The doctor confirmed as much when he examined the body. He said there was clear evidence that he’d stumbled and banged his head, breaking his neck on the way down. The smell of alcohol upon him served to support the theory.”

  “But you doubt this conclusion?” I prompted. It was clear from Maugham’s tone that he did not entirely agree with the police doctor’s report.

  “I don’t know what to think, Dr. Watson,” Maugham replied, unsure. “It’s just... given the events that followed... well, to be honest, I simply don’t know.”

  “Please, continue then, Mr. Maugham,” said Holmes.

  “As I’ve already explained, Mr. Holmes, my uncle lived alone, and my cousins and I were his only remaining relatives. He’d set it out in his will that the estate was to be divided equally amongst the four of us upon the occasion of his death.” He looked at both of us in turn. “I hope you’ll forgive me for discussing such vulgar matters, gentlemen, and I assure you that - at the time - thoughts of such matters were far from my mind. Nevertheless, my cousins and I have all grown used to living on my uncle’s generosity, and my sole income these last years has been an annual allowance from Sir Theobald.”

  “We understand, Mr. Maugham,” I said, glancing at Holmes, who appeared to be observing Maugham intently.

  “Thank you, Dr. Watson.” He sighed. “So it was that, later the same morning, once the police had removed my uncle’s body, the family solicitor, Mr. Tobias Edwards, came to the house to offer his condolences and to begin the necessary proceedings.”

  “I assume that things proved not to be in order?” ventured Holmes.

  “Quite correct, Mr. Holmes,” said Maugham, with a sad smile. “Mr. Edwards discovered that the will had been removed from its place in my uncle’s writing bureau. We turned the whole house upside down, but there was no sign of it.” He drained the rest of his brandy, placing the empty glass upon the table.

  “Surely Mr. Edwards must maintain a copy at his offices?” I asked.

  Maugham shook his head. “I fear not. Mr. Edwards explained that my uncle was quite specific about the matter - the only copy of the will, the original, was to be held at the house.” Maugham’s shoulders sagged. “Without it, I am ruined. I stand to lose everything.”

  “Hmmm,” murmured Holmes, thoughtful. “I imagine your cousins must likewise have been frustrated by this unexpected development, Mr. Maugham?”

  “Oh yes, indeed,” confirmed Maugham. “It is on behalf of us all that I sit before you today, Mr. Holmes, to beg for your assistance in locating the missing document.”

  “It is this missing document that gives you cause to doubt the claims of the police regarding your uncle’s death?” asked Holmes.

  “It is,” replied Maugham.

  “You believe your uncle’s death and the missing will are connected, Mr. Maugham?” I queried, seeking clarification. “That the alleged thief is also a murderer?”

  Maugham frowned. “No... Well...” he said, searching for words. His shoulders slumped in defeat. “Oh, perhaps, Dr. Watson. The trouble is, as much of a coincidence as it seems, I cannot see to what end the two things are connected. Only Joseph would gain from the loss of the will. Being the olde
st surviving relative of Sir Theobald, he stands to inherit everything if my uncle dies intestate. Yet I cannot believe for a moment he was involved in my uncle’s death, even if he did prove to be responsible for the theft of the will. Even then, it is most unlikely, for he was the one who most strenuously supported my proposal that we come to Mr. Holmes for assistance in retrieving it.” He shook his head. “The entire matter is most distressing.”

  “I quite understand, Mr. Maugham,” said Holmes. He stood, folding his arms behind his back and adopting a reflective pose.

  I could see from the look on his face, and from the manner in which his brow furrowed in thought, that something about Peter Maugham and his story had captured my friend’s attention. I did not yet know what it was - why Holmes should deem this family’s affairs a worthy focus of his not inconsiderable intellect - but I knew at that moment that he would take the case on.

  “Your story is certainly intriguing,” said Holmes, removing the pipe from his mouth and holding it by the polished mahogany bowl.

  “Then you’ll take the case, Mr. Holmes?” replied Maugham, hopefully.

  “Indeed I will.” Holmes gestured in my direction with his briar. “First thing tomorrow morning, Dr. Watson and I will make haste to the morgue to inspect Sir Theobald’s body, following which I should like to pay a visit to his house. Perhaps if you could arrange for us to be granted full and unequivocal access, Mr. Maugham?”

  “Of course,” replied Maugham. “I’ll send word to Mrs. Hawthorn, Sir Theobald’s housekeeper, to expect you.”

  “Very good. There we shall no doubt begin to get to the root of your problem,” said Holmes.

  The relief on Maugham’s face was palpable. “My thanks to you, Mr. Holmes,” he said, hurriedly. “It is a great comfort to my cousins and I to know you are investigating the matter on our behalf.” He stood, extending his hand to Holmes, who took it and shook it firmly.