Sherlock Holmes - The Will of the Dead

by George Mann

“Then you knew Sir Theobald well?” I asked.

  “Well enough to call him a friend, Dr. Watson. I should think he might have said the same of me. As unlikely as it seems, the two of us had forged a strong bond over the course of the last two years.” His voice cracked as he spoke, and I felt a deep sympathy for the man. He seemed genuinely affected by the loss of his client, unlike Peter Maugham who had appeared more concerned with his own situation than the death of his uncle.

  Holmes paused for a moment while Edwards collected himself. “I fear I may need to try your patience a little, Mr. Edwards, by asking you to give account of what occurred that morning at Sir Theobald’s house.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Holmes,” said Edwards, with a sad smile. “I’m only too glad to be of service.”

  “Then pray continue,” said Holmes.

  “I fear there will be little I can add to the tale, Mr. Holmes, other than that which you have already heard from Peter Maugham. Nevertheless, I shall try,” said Edwards, taking a sip from a glass of water before continuing.

  “I arrived at the house just after ten. The whole place was in disarray. Servants were running about all over the place, and Annabel Maugham was wailing so pitifully that I barely knew what to do. Her brother had moved her to the drawing room in the hope that a stiff drink might help with her shock.

  “Annabel’s two cousins, Oswald and Peter, were both as pale as bedsheets, standing over Sir Theobald’s corpse like lions protecting a kill. They’d covered him with a sheet and were waiting for the police. I recall feeling terribly disconcerted at the sight of the blood stains seeping through the white cotton.

  “I’d only been at the house for a few minutes before Inspector Bainbridge arrived from Scotland Yard, along with a veritable army of uniformed constables. No sooner than he had arrived, order was restored. He co-opted the library and conducted brief but efficient interviews with everyone who had been at the house the previous night. He inspected the body, and then sent for the police surgeon, who arrived a short while later. He made his pronouncements and arranged for Sir Theobald to be swiftly removed to the morgue.”

  Edwards sighed. “I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Holmes, that I was more than a little shaken up by the time Inspector Bainbridge left. Simply being in the house at that time was a dreadful strain on my nerves, but I wished to offer my support in any way I could.”

  “Your sense of duty does you credit, Mr. Edwards,” I said.

  “I had given my word to Sir Theobald that I would ensure his estate passed into the right hands upon the eventuality of his death,” he went on. “There was no question that I would not have been there to see it through.”

  “What of the will?” prompted Holmes. “At what point in proceedings did you establish the document was missing?”

  “It was Peter Maugham, I believe, who - after the police had taken his uncle’s body away - urged me to retrieve the will,” replied Edwards. “At his insistence I went directly to Sir Theobald’s study, where I knew I should find the necessary papers. It was then that I discovered the will to be missing. I called for the others, and we searched the place from top to bottom. But the will was gone.”

  “There was no evidence the lock on the bureau had been tampered with?” suggested Holmes.

  “No evidence whatsoever, Mr. Holmes,” replied Edwards. “As I understand it, however, the bureau was rarely locked. Sir Theobald was a trusting man. Some would say a little too trusting at times.”

  “Indeed,” I said, glancing at Holmes. He was observing Edwards intently, reading the man’s every movement and expression. I’d seen him like this before; he was summing the solicitor up, weighing the truth behind his words.

  “Was the bureau locked when you went to retrieve the will, Mr. Edwards?” said Holmes.

  “No,” came the slightly exasperated response.

  “But you do have a key?” prompted Holmes.

  “Yes, I do. I keep it in the safe, just here.” Edwards rose from his seat on the other side of his desk and crossed the room to where a small, stout safe sat beside a cabinet. He withdrew a ring of keys from his jacket pocket, squatted for a moment, and carefully unlocked the safe. He fumbled around inside for a few seconds, withdrew a small cream envelope and then locked the safe, before returning to his seat. “There. This is the one,” he said, handing the envelope to Holmes, who folded open the unsealed flap and tipped the key out onto the surface of the desk. It clattered noisily upon the lacquered surface: a dull-coloured, ornate little thing about the size of my forefinger. I noticed the envelope, discarded by Holmes, had the legend: MAUGHAM written upon it in neat copperplate.

  “I didn’t have it with me when I went to the house that morning. I’d gone there directly from home, having received word from Peter Maugham as to what had occurred in the night,” said Edwards, regarding Holmes, who had picked up the key and was turning it over in the palm of his left hand.

  “Yet you still went to find the will,” said Holmes. It was a statement of fact, rather than a question.

  Nevertheless, Edwards felt the need to respond. “At the behest of my clients, yes, Mr. Holmes. I suspected the bureau would be unlocked, as I have already set out. It was.”

  “Were you alone, Mr. Edwards?”

  Edwards bristled slightly at Holmes’s question - and the potential implications behind it - but Holmes’s demeanour had not changed. He was simply establishing the facts. There was no judgement in his tone.

  “Yes. Until the point at which I realised the will was missing and I called for the others to join me,” replied Edwards, with a shrug. I had the sense that the casualness of the gesture was somewhat affected. Clearly, he was concerned that Holmes might suggest some wrongdoing on his part; that he had not been as thorough in upholding his duties as perhaps he should have.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Edwards, but is it not standard practice for a gentleman’s solicitors to maintain copies of his will at their offices, in case of any such eventuality?” said Holmes, with the wrinkle of a frown. “Surely it is but a simple matter to look out the copy?”

  “Indeed, Mr. Holmes, and if you care to inspect the cabinet behind you, you will see that is exactly the policy of this practice.” I turned at Edwards’ insistence to see a tall, glass-fronted cabinet containing row after row of neat files, each clearly labelled. “However, Sir Theobald had a mind to manage his own affairs, and engaged me only to offer legal advice. The key was the only article with which he entrusted me, in case it became necessary for me to recover the will on behalf of the family.”

  Holmes nodded, although his frown deepened. “Nevertheless, you knew the content of the will, I presume?”

  “Quite so,” said Edwards, reaching for his glass of water. “Sir Theobald’s three nephews and niece - Joseph, Oswald, Peter and Annabel - were each to inherit equal amounts, one quarter of the estate’s worth and a share of the property.”

  “There were no... irregularities?” Holmes paused, and I admit, I could not for the life of me see what he was getting at.

  “Such as...?” prompted Edwards, apparently as bemused as I.

  “Names that you did not recognise or instructions that you had to query with Sir Theobald? Bequests of an unexpected nature?” said Holmes, leaning forward, as if he were beginning to lose patience with the man.

  Edwards shook his head emphatically. “No, Mr. Holmes. Not at all. It was a very straightforward document, with little room for misinterpretation.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Edwards. Your recounting of the events has proved most useful.” Holmes sat back in his chair, wearing a contemplative expression.

  “I do hope so, Mr. Holmes. I wish to uphold my promise to Sir Theobald to do what is right,” said Edwards, visibly relaxing now that Holmes’s questions had come to an end.

  “What will happen now?” I asked Edwards, anxious to clarify the consequences of the missing will.

  “Unless the will can be located, the entire estate will pass into the hands of Sir Theobald’s old
est living relative,” said Edwards, with a shrug.

  “Joseph Maugham?” I said.

  “Indeed,” confirmed Edwards.

  I sighed. “Will he do the right thing, Mr. Edwards?”

  “If you mean, Dr. Watson, will he abide by the intentions of his uncle and divide the estate - then no, I don’t believe that he will. I imagine he would extend his new fortune to his sister, Miss Annabel, but Joseph is not the most... thoughtful of men. He’ll care little for what becomes of his cousins.” Edwards shook his head in resignation.

  “Just as Peter Maugham feared,” said Holmes.

  “Yes. As things stand, he and Oswald stand to lose their entire inheritance,” replied Edwards.

  We sat in silence for a moment, as if the weight of the news lay heavy upon us all. Eventually, Holmes stood, and I took my cue, levering myself up out of the chair and straightening my jacket.

  “Very well, Mr. Edwards,” said Holmes. “Dr. Watson and I will take our leave. Again, my thanks.”

  Edwards reached out and clasped first Holmes’s hand, and then my own. “Please, do not hesitate to call again if you have need. I am at your service, gentlemen. I am as anxious as the family to see this situation resolved.”

  “Good day, Mr. Edwards,” said Holmes. “We shall speak again.”

  I followed Holmes out through the reception area, and then quickly down the narrow staircase and out onto the bustling street below.

  The light was beginning to fade as we sought out a cab, and the air was damp and redolent of coming rain. Everywhere about us, people were hurrying home, barely taking note of one another as they bowed their heads and tramped away into the evening, or stared blankly from the windows of passing carriages.

  “Well, Holmes, what next?” I asked, turning up the collar of my coat against the chill.

  “Dinner, Watson, followed by a little Bach. Would you care to join me?” Holmes seemed in somewhat high spirits, which, after a moment’s consideration, I concluded to be the result of his being engaged, finally, on a new and intriguing case.

  “For dinner? Absolutely,” I said, with gusto. “But I think I’ll skip the performance, if I may?”

  Holmes turned to me, grinning, as a cab slewed to a stop just before us, its wheels sending a spray of foul gutter water up over the kerb, narrowly missing my boots. “Really, Watson,” he said, nodding to the driver and pulling himself up onto the footplate, “it’s a most splendid concerto...” He hauled himself into the back of the cab, disappearing completely from view.

  Sighing, I pulled myself up behind him, wondering once again what he was up to.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The following morning Holmes seemed bright and energetic, as we met once again at Baker Street with a view to spending the morning visiting each of the Maugham cousins in turn.

  He’d clearly enjoyed the concerto the previous evening, for he was sitting at his dining table humming a repeating melody when I arrived. He was slicing open a heap of envelopes with his old - but dangerously sharp - dagger, slowly extracting the contents of each, and then tossing the letters aside with barely a second thought.

  “Aren’t you going to read those, Holmes?” I said, pulling out a chair and reaching for the coffee pot.

  “What? Ah, hello, Watson! Good morning,” he replied, as if he hadn’t quite heard my question. He tossed another letter to the floor. I watched it flutter aimlessly, finally settling atop its fellows. The floor was covered with them, his chair a tiny island in a sea of discarded paper. All of them unread.

  “I say, Holmes. Whatever are you doing? There might be something important in one of those letters,” I said, frowning.

  Holmes ceased his humming and glanced up at me. “What’s that?”

  “The letters, Holmes,” I stressed. “You may wish to consider reading them?”

  “Not at all, Watson. Bills, bills and more bills. All terribly commonplace. I have no time for bills. These postmarks, however, are an altogether different proposition.” He held up one of the envelopes to illustrate his point, indicating the black, inky smudge over the stamp. “One might learn a great deal from the study of postmarks.” He reached for another envelope, readying his dagger, and resumed his melodic humming.

  Sighing, I sloshed coffee into an empty cup and sat back in my chair. Clearly, it was going to be a long morning.

  * * *

  A few hours later we stood on the doorstep of Oswald Maugham’s residence in the drizzling rain. I’d turned my collar up in an effort to stave off the damp, and Holmes was brandishing a large black umbrella. He rapped briskly on the door.

  At first I thought we’d come in vain, as the door remained decidedly shut, but just as I was about to give voice to such thoughts, I heard the muffled sounds of footsteps from inside, and suddenly the door swung open and a short, thin man peered out. He had beady, darting eyes and sand-coloured hair drawn back in a neat parting. He was wearing a black suit that was a little worse for the wear, thinning at the elbows and with a stain down one lapel. He looked up at us curiously.

  “May I help you, gentlemen?” he said, unsure. His voice was thin and tremulous, but his enunciation spoke volumes about his upbringing and education.

  “Mr. Oswald Maugham, I presume?” asked Holmes.

  “Yes,” said the man, clearly put out. He glanced back over his shoulder as if he was anxious to get back to something. “What of it?”

  “My name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Holmes, with as patient a tone as I had ever credited him with, “and this is my associate, Dr. Watson.”

  Oswald Maugham’s demeanour altered almost immediately, his expression softening. He smiled, and opened the door a little wider. “Oh, I do apologise, Mr. Holmes. My cousin Peter told me to expect your call, but with everything that’s been going on, I fear I’ve allowed myself to become somewhat distracted.” He stepped aside and gestured for us to enter. “Please, do come in.”

  I went ahead of Holmes while he shook out his umbrella, unbuttoning my drenched overcoat and handing it gratefully to Oswald. I looked around, summing the place up.

  The apartment was on the ground floor of a large terraced house - not at all the type of property one would associate with the nephew of a man as wealthy and well appointed as Sir Theobald. Compared with the rooms maintained by his cousin, Peter -which we had visited earlier that morning - Oswald’s apartment seemed meagre.

  Our interview with Peter Maugham had been brief, during which he had simply reiterated his account of the events surrounding his uncle’s death, confirming he had indeed insisted that Tobias Edwards make haste to secure the will that morning. I had mentioned to Holmes afterwards, as we’d struck out across town to Oswald Maugham’s residence, that this insistence so soon after the death of his uncle suggested to me a lack of trust amongst the cousins, and perhaps that Peter Maugham even secretly suspected one of them of wrongdoing.

  Holmes, however, had been largely withdrawn since the interview, and had sat in the back of the brougham, staring out of the window in silent thought as we’d trundled through the busy streets of the metropolis.

  Now, in Oswald Maugham’s apartment, I could once again see the glimmer of interest in his eyes.

  Oswald led us through to the sitting room, which was dominated by a large mahogany dining table, its scuffed surface covered by a vast array of chemistry equipment - bottles, rods, vials and burners - many of which formed a vast and complicated network, through which variously coloured fluids bubbled and dripped. The stench was positively sulphurous, and the noise of the liquid simmering on the still was most off-putting as we tried to talk.

  “Please, forgive the state of the place,” said Oswald, apologetically. “I’m something of an amateur chemist, and I’ve been dabbling again this morning. I live alone and tend not to receive many visitors, so think nothing of putting the dining table to what I consider to be much better use.”

  I could see from Holmes’s expression that he agreed wholeheartedly with this sentimen
t. Indeed, I knew that if it were not for Mrs. Hudson or the need to keep at least one of his Baker Street rooms suitable to receive visitors, he would long ago have done the same. “It’s a most impressive arrangement you have here, Mr. Maugham. I see that you do yourself a disservice. You are far more than an idle dabbler.”

  Oswald raised an eyebrow. “Do I take it you have an interest in chemistry, Mr. Holmes?”

  “A little,” replied Holmes, and I had to turn away to hide my smile.

  “How excellent to meet a fellow enthusiast,” said Oswald. “It’s been my passion for many years.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Holmes. “A most interesting and worthwhile pursuit. Nevertheless, I fear the reason for our call is somewhat graver, and far less savoury.”

  Oswald’s good humour dissipated almost immediately. When he spoke, his voice had taken on a morose timbre. “Ah, yes. Poor Uncle Theobald. I suppose you have innumerable questions for me, just like the police?”

  “Perhaps,” said Holmes. “But I should like to begin with your account of the events leading up to the death of your uncle.”

  “The party?” exclaimed Oswald, surprised.

  “Just so,” replied Holmes.

  “Very well, but I find it difficult to understand how that might assist you in your enquiries, Mr. Holmes,” said Oswald, who appeared genuinely perplexed.

  “I find it essential in these circumstances to have the full picture, Mr. Maugham,” said Holmes. “Sometimes even the slightest detail, often considered too trivial to mention, might help to shed light on the events that came after. If you could provide us with as full and frank account as you are able?”

  “Of course,” said Oswald. “Whatever I can do. Now,” he gestured for us to move through to the sitting area on the other side of the room, “please take a seat, both of you.”

  We did as he suggested, Holmes perching on the edge of the sofa while I took a chair by the window. Oswald joined us, sitting on a tatty-looking armchair by the fire. It seemed to dwarf him somewhat, and I was reminded again how diminutive a fellow he was.