by George Mann
“What? Oh, be my guest, Holmes,” I replied, retreating from the side of the mortuary slab to stand beside Bainbridge.
We watched for a few moments as Holmes set about examining the body in minute detail. He withdrew his magnifying glass from his pocket and leaned in so close that his own face was nearly touching that of the dead man. He peered at it closely for a few moments.
Next he pulled a small paper bag and wooden toothpick from a leather wallet and began scraping beneath the man’s fingernails, catching any resulting detritus in the bag.
Bainbridge leaned closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. “What’s he doing, Doctor?”
“Oh, don’t worry, Inspector,” I replied, laughing. “This is quite typical of Holmes. Volunteers me to do the examination but can’t resist taking a look himself.”
Holmes had begun muttering beneath his breath. “...no obvious signs of poison, no puncture wounds, no -” he stopped suddenly, beckoning me over. “Ah, Watson! Look here! Bruises on the upper arms.”
“The poor chap is covered in bruises, Mr. Holmes,” said Bainbridge. “I really can’t -”
“No, indeed you can’t, Inspector,” interrupted Holmes, brusquely. He abandoned his examination of the corpse and strode across the room to where Bainbridge stood watching. “Your police surgeon has once again offered up a slapdash job. The bruises here are entirely consistent with two people grasping hold of Sir Theobald, their hands beneath his arms, just so...” He reached out and grabbed Bainbridge, hoisting him up onto his tiptoes and causing him to splutter and flush in consternation.
“Yes,” I said, intrigued now by Holmes’s findings. “You can see how they must have taken his weight.”
“Meaning?” said Bainbridge, smoothing down the front of his suit and eyeing Holmes nervously.
“Meaning the case is not quite as cut and dried as it at first appeared,” said Holmes. “Wouldn’t you agree, Inspector?”
“It certainly sounds that way, Mr. Holmes,” replied Bainbridge, with a heavy sigh. “Although I admit, I rather wish it wasn’t. I have my work cut out as it is, what with this iron men business. Let alone another murder enquiry.”
“The iron men case,” said Holmes, “how interesting.”
“Oh, believe me, you’re welcome to it, Mr. Holmes, if the matter’s taken your fancy,” said Bainbridge, with feeling. “It’s a damnable business, make no mistake.”
Holmes smiled. “I fear not, Inspector. I deal with men, not phantoms. Such as the men who saw to it that Sir Theobald fell to his death.” He appeared to make a decision. “Watson, I think we’ve seen enough. Let us make haste to St. John’s Wood, and the late Sir Theobald’s home.”
“Right you are, Holmes,” I said.
Holmes was already making for the door, and I rushed to keep up with him. “Er... my thanks to you, Inspector,” I called over my shoulder to Bainbridge, who stood watching us leave, wearing something of a bemused expression.
“Right! Yes. Good day to you, Doctor,” he called in response. “It sounds as if I’ll be seeing you again very shortly.”
He did not seem overly amused by the idea.
CHAPTER FOUR
The late Sir Theobald Maugham’s house had once been grand, but was now dilapidated and rundown, like so many of the former great houses of the capital. Such was the curse of the very rich: dilettante children who cared little for the upkeep of their father’s estates, born into riches and intent only on spending them.
The same wasn’t true of Sir Theobald, of course. His was rather the opposite problem. He had no children upon which to prevail, dilettantes or otherwise, so in his later years he had been forced to abandon many of the more challenging aspects of maintaining a large house. It appeared neither his niece nor his nephews had been forthcoming in taking on the administration of any of the work, and, as soon became apparent to Holmes and I, the house had been very much neglected.
Nevertheless, it was still a rather impressive abode, and it was clear that Sir Theobald had been wealthy, if not scrupulous in the care of his property.
Holmes and I learned from Mrs. Hawthorn - the dour housekeeper of middling years - that Sir Theobald’s niece and nephews had all returned to their own homes in the city, and that the door to Sir Theobald’s study had been locked, everything left in situ as directed by Inspector Bainbridge. Holmes had been delighted by this news, and I knew he was impressed with Bainbridge’s foresight. In his experience, Scotland Yard was wont to trample over the scene before he’d had a chance to examine it for any clues. He had often bemoaned as much to me, and I’d seen evidence enough to know it was true. The police were not, however, the simpletons that Holmes often made them out to be. It was simply that they were ignorant of his methods, and so could not see the value in such things. Bainbridge, it seemed, was a rare exception.
Holmes began by interviewing the poor maid, Agnes, who in every way corroborated the story told to us by Peter Maugham. She was clearly still distraught by the whole affair and had very little to add to that most unpleasant of tales.
Next, Holmes set about his examination of the hallway, scrutinising the treads on the impressive staircase, carrying with him an oil lamp in an effort to dispel the gloom. It cast his face in sharp relief as he muttered to himself, running his fingers back and forth across the wooden treads and the runner.
He found what he was looking for almost immediately.
“Blood, Watson. Here on the treads,” he announced triumphantly, indicating a step almost halfway up to the first floor.
I hurried to join him, the ancient wood creaking under my weight.
“What do you make of that?” he said, straightening his back and peering expectantly. I took the lantern from him and stooped to examine the step in question. Dark, dried blood was spattered unevenly across its worn surface, emanating from a single point in one corner, where Sir Theobald had clearly shattered his skull during the fall.
“Yes, that would be consistent with the injuries sustained by Sir Theobald, Holmes,” said I, returning the lamp to him.
“Quite so,” he said, in that manner that told me he had already drawn the same conclusion and was presently preoccupied with some other matter pertaining to the case.
“You sound troubled, Holmes,” I prompted, eager to offer any assistance I was able.
“Not troubled, Watson, no...” He glanced at me, as if sizing me up. “You weigh, what? A hundred and sixty-five pounds?”
“Well, more like a hundred and sixty,” I blustered.
“Come now, Watson. A hundred and sixty-five, I think,” countered Holmes.
“I... well - what the devil’s it got to do with anything, anyway?” I demanded.
“Humour me, Watson, if you will?” said Holmes, with a wry smile.
I shrugged. “I don’t suppose I have a great deal of choice.”
“That’s the spirit! Now, follow me...” said Holmes, as he charged energetically towards the landing above.
Sighing, I followed as he climbed the rest of the way to the landing.
It was dark at the top of the stairs, and turning back towards the steep incline, I began to get a sense of how a man might easily lose his footing in the dark, particularly a man in his dotage, such as Sir Theobald. “It does look rather perilous from up here, doesn’t it?” I ventured.
“Particularly if one has been rendered unconscious in advance of tackling it,” said Holmes.
“Well, quite.” I mused for a moment on the implications of his words. If Sir Theobald really had been rendered insensible and thrown down the stairs, wouldn’t someone have heard? “What?” I started suddenly at the sensation of someone grabbing me from behind, thrusting both hands beneath my arms and grasping me around the chest. “Now, hold on just a minute, Holmes!” I bellowed, shocked by his sudden imposition. “What the devil are you up to?”
“You’re quite safe, Watson,” replied Holmes, his voice loud in my ear. “Now, if you would simply relax in my arms.”
“If I’d wha
t?” I cried, struggling to free myself from his impertinent embrace.
“Allow me to take your weight for a moment, Watson, so that I may judge the manner in which you would fall,” said Holmes, sounding exasperated.
“Don’t be preposterous, Holmes!” I countered, but I knew it was a losing battle. He had me pinned, and if I were to struggle any more vigorously, we should both tumble down the stairs to our deaths.
“I would be terribly obliged,” said Holmes, as if making the most reasonable request in the world.
“Very well,” I snapped, feeling thoroughly put out. “But I feel like a damn fool. And be warned, Holmes - if you drop me, I’ll damn well come back to haunt you.”
I relaxed in his grip, and he grunted as he hefted me, swinging me back and forth on the landing as if preparing to launch me into the abyss. Then, after a moment, he dragged me back to safety and set me down.
I slumped as he retreated, dropping to one knee.
“Very good, Watson. You may stand,” said Holmes, dusting his hands.
“Oh, may I?” I offered, sarcastically. I stood, giving an embarrassed cough. “Right. Well then...” I stammered, only to see that Holmes was already off, heading towards one of the doors that opened off the landing.
I followed my companion to a room that transpired to be Sir Theobald’s bedchamber. It was a musty place, with dark, heavy curtains of red velvet and a large four-poster bed. Ancient portraits crowded the oak-panelled walls, staring down at us as if sitting in judgement. A glass case filled with a diorama of colourful stuffed birds rested upon the small mantelpiece above the empty fireplace.
Holmes must have spent half an hour picking the place apart, examining every inch of the walls, the windows, the floor beneath the bed. At one point, on his hands and knees before the bedside cabinet, he gave a brief exclamation of triumph, producing a fragment of broken glass from between two floorboards and proclaiming that a glass of water had been spilled in the vicinity in recent days. I admit that I had no notion of the import of what appeared, at the time, to be a triviality, but later, as Holmes surely knew it would, that tiny fact would help to corroborate his theory.
Unable to be of any real assistance - and chastised for prompting Holmes with too many questions while he worked -I made my way to the drawing room to talk to the maid, who elaborated a little on the events surrounding Sir Theobald’s death.
Her story confirmed all that Peter Maugham had told us - namely, that she, Agnes, had been the one to discover Sir Theobald’s body that fateful morning, and that her distraught cries had woken his niece and nephews and brought the other servants running.
The police had been sent for immediately, and within a few hours the doctor had been and the body had been taken away to the morgue. It was then that Mr. Tobias Edwards, Sir Theobald’s solicitor, had discovered that the will was missing.
I recorded all of this in my notebook for later reference, knowing that the girl’s testimony might prove useful if, later, there was any confusion over the sequence of events.
Holmes joined us a short while later and urged Mrs. Hawthorn to unlock the door to Sir Theobald’s study.
The room was in some disarray, despite all that Bainbridge had done to preserve it. Papers were scattered across the desk and the bureau hung open, its contents spilt across the floor as if it had spontaneously decided to divulge all its secrets. It smelled damp and musty, as if the place hadn’t seen much use in recent years.
“I see the family really did have a thorough search of the place,” I said, closing the door behind me and taking in the chaos.
“It was only to be expected, Watson. Despite the best efforts of the Inspector,” observed Holmes.
“But to leave it in such a state... I suppose they must have been desperate.” I could see no good reason to leave everything on the floor in such disarray. Holmes, of course, was hardly a scion of tidiness himself, but at least his own particular brand of chaos had some degree of order about it.
“Desperate is exactly the word, Watson. Desperate indeed. Without that will, they stand to lose everything. Or at least, all but one of them does.” Holmes stooped to examine a landslide of files by his feet. They appeared to contain archives of letters and personal papers.
“Joseph Maugham?” I prompted a moment later, when it seemed he had decided not to elaborate. “You think he might have something to do with it?”
“I do not wish to hurry to conclusions, Watson. I’ll need to speak with him. I’ll need to speak with them all. One thing is clear, however. I’m convinced you were right about the means of death. There’s foul play there.”
Somehow, those words filled me with a terrible sense of foreboding.
I watched as Holmes set about examining the lock on the writing bureau, studiously ignoring the raft of personal papers it contained. He did not appear to be looking for evidence of the will itself. In that, it seemed, he was satisfied to take the word of the family. Personally, I wondered if they had not simply misplaced the document amongst the chaotic mess they’d created in their haste to retrieve it. I wondered if the solicitor, Tobias Edwards, had also been involved in the search.
Holmes, evidently finished with the lock, crossed to the fireplace and snatched up a poker from the metal bucket. He used it to stir the remnants of a fire in the grate, turning over the cold ashes.
He knelt down by the hearth and reached in, rubbing a pinch of the ash between his thumb and forefinger. He sniffed it, and then stood again, wiping his fingers on a white handkerchief that he withdrew from his pocket.
Finally, clearly deciding he had seen enough, he came to stand beside me once again.
“Well?” I asked, anxious to hear his conclusions.
“I think it’s time we paid a visit to the office of Mr. Tobias Edwards,” said Holmes, neatly side-stepping my question. “I should very much like to hear his account of the events leading up to his discovery that the will was missing, and the details of what he knew it to contain.” He paused, tapping the index finger of his right hand upon his chin. “Not to mention his explanation as to why he had no copy of the document in his possession.”
“Very well,” I said, “I shall speak to Mrs. Hawthorn and make enquiries as to his address.”
Holmes shook his head. “No need, my dear Doctor. I believe you will find he maintains his office in the suite of rooms above a bookshop at 112 Charing Cross Road.”
I admit I was quite taken aback by the boldness of this statement. “Holmes, once again you astound me.”
“One makes it one’s business to know the address of London solicitors, Watson. And besides, it’s a very good bookshop.”
“You old devil, Holmes,” I said, laughing. “Come on. Let’s away.” And with that, we left the austere, faded home of the late Sir Theobald, and set off in search of a cab to take us to Charing Cross Road.
CHAPTER FIVE
Holmes, of course, had been right about the location of Tobias Edwards’ office. It was a relatively small set of rooms above what I took to be a reasonably busy esoteric bookshop, selling -I gathered from a quick glance in the window - a rum variety of occult grimoires, pagan treatises and astrological almanacs. I decided to afford the place a wide berth.
The firm, known as Barker, Smith & Edwards, appeared to employ at least three other people: a secretary and two further solicitors, each with their own, modestly sized offices. I assumed these to be the titular Barker and Smith, whose names adorned the plaque alongside Edwards’ on the street door below.
The secretary was a tall, softly spoken man in his mid-twenties, with a willowy, pale look about him. He glanced up from his desk as we entered, offering us a thin smile. “Good day, gentlemen,” he said, placing his pen neatly in the inkwell and standing. “How may I be of assistance?”
“We’re here to speak with Mr. Tobias Edwards,” said Holmes, matter-of-factly.
“And you are...?”
“Sherlock Holmes,” replied Holmes, glancing dismissively ou
t of the window at the busy street below.
“Ah,” said the man, coming round from behind his desk. “If you would like to follow me, gentlemen, I shall show you directly to his office.”
I grinned at Holmes as I fell in behind him. Upon hearing Holmes’s name the secretary had not so much as hesitated, or thought to question us as to the nature of our visit. It was almost as if Sir Theobald’s solicitor had told him to expect us. Either that, or Holmes’s reputation had yet again preceded him.
Edwards himself was sitting behind a large mahogany desk and he stood to greet us, beckoning us in. He was a severe-looking man, with a hard stare and raven-black hair, which he wore swept back from his forehead. He was thin, about six feet tall, and had a smouldering pipe clamped between his teeth. His complexion was pale, and his eyes were red-rimmed through, I presumed, tiredness. I placed him at around forty years of age. I noticed he was missing three fingers on his left hand.
The office itself was sumptuously appointed, with two Chesterfields, a drinks cabinet, a safe and a portrait hanging on the wall behind the desk. The man in the picture bore the same severe expression as Edwards and was standing in the foreground of an impressive landscape, on the banks of a river.
Holmes removed his hat, and we both took a seat.
“I must say, Mr. Holmes, what a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance,” said Edwards, with surprisingly upper-class inflection. “And you, of course, Dr. Watson,” he added quickly, as if as an afterthought. Holmes flashed me an amused smile. “Would either of you care for a drink?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Edwards,” said Holmes, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I wish to ask you some questions regarding the late Sir Theobald Maugham, if it is convenient.”
“I’ve been expecting your call,” said Edwards. “I received a visit from Peter Maugham this morning and I was cheered to hear he’d set you on the trail of his uncle’s missing will. It is such a sad state of affairs.” He averted his eyes. He seemed quite stricken with grief.
