by George Mann
“I bellowed for them to desist as Peters rushed to unlatch the bolt, just as a gauntleted fist burst through the door, flailing and grasping at the air.” Hillingsborough’s face had taken on a haunted expression. He was staring into the distance as he recited his tale. It was as if Harris and I were no longer there.
“I called again for them to stop, but it was clear by then that we were under attack. Furthermore, it soon became clear that there was more than one assailant. Our attackers had walked right up to the front door and were brazenly battering their way inside.
“Peters and I fell back, aghast, as the door finally gave way beneath the force of the blows and we were afforded our first true glimpse of our attackers. They were metal men.” Hillingsborough paused here, running a hand over his face.
“Describe them for us,” I prompted, utterly engrossed in his tale.
“In every respect they seemed to jerkily mimic the form and movements of a real man: two legs, two arms, a head upon a set of square shoulders. Yet in the same breath, they were like something from a feverish dream. Their appearance was bulky and they appeared to be constructed from a series of interlocking iron plates. Two large exhaust pipes jutted from each of their backs, emitting constant gushes of white steam, which, I assumed, was the power source by which they were animated. Their faces were smooth metal plates with two menacing holes for eyes, and a thin slot for a mouth. What struck me most about them, however, were the glowing, crimson lights behind their eyes, and the impassive expressions upon their terrible, inhuman faces.” Hillingsborough shuddered as he recalled the details of his horrifying ordeal.
“There were three of them. They marched noisily into the hall, stinking of machine oil and steam. They showed no concern for subtlety, nor did they appear in any way to be mindful of being captured or deterred from their goal.
“As you might expect any man to do when presented with such interlopers in his own home, I took up what arms I could - a stout wooden cane from the stand at the foot of the stairs - and made ready to defend my property.
“The metal monsters marched forward, either ignorant of our presence, or simply unconcerned by it. I went at their leader, swinging the cane wide and striking him solidly across the chest, but it rebounded from the iron plating without so much as leaving a dent, and causing me to wince in pain as my wrists absorbed the shock of the blow. The iron man did not so much as turn to regard me as he batted me away with a swipe of his left hand, hitting me hard in the ribs and sending me sprawling across the floor. Peters rushed at once to my aid and helped me, breathless, to my feet, but by then I knew we were impotent. I possessed no weapons that could defend us against such armoured brutes.
“The trio of iron men appeared to know exactly what they were about. They took to the stairs, ascending towards the first floor with so regimented an approach that they might have been marching soldiers. I shouted for Margaret to take cover, and heard her footsteps at the top of the stairs, followed by a shriek as she saw what was happening. I called to her again and she rushed immediately to gather up the children, as Peters and I cautiously followed the iron men up the stairs, unsure what else we could do.”
Hillingsborough fixed me with a look of absolute sincerity. “I don’t mind telling you, Inspector, that I feared then for the lives of not only myself and Peters, but for those of my wife and children. How could even I - a prize boxer in my youth - take on three men of iron? They had the run of my home, free to do whatever they wished without fear of reprisal. I was absolutely powerless.
“Thankfully,” he went on, “it transpired that these metal monsters did not have murder in mind. Assuming, that is, they even have minds of their own. One thing is certain: they appeared to know the exact layout of my home. They marched directly to my wife’s dressing room, where one of them began scooping up handfuls of her jewellery, throwing open drawers and tipping out their contents on the floor. I watched as he crushed a walnut box in his fist, before finding nothing of use to him inside and tossing the fragments away without a second thought.
“The remaining two iron men stationed themselves outside the door to the dressing room, keeping Peters and I at bay as their leader went about his business inside. I watched all of this unfold, unable to do anything to prevent it, frustrated and angry.
“Within minutes it had quit the room, my wife’s jewellery clasped in both fists. I decided to make one last attempt to stop it, irrespective of the consequences. By this point I was so enraged by the sheer gall of these man-machines that I could see nothing but the red haze of anger before my eyes. I rushed forward and threw myself upon him, scrabbling for a ruby necklace that dangled from his metal fingers. But again the iron man simply batted me aside, bashing me hard across the back of my head and rendering me immediately unconscious.
“When I came round they had gone, and Peters had sent for the police. Margaret and one of the maids had fetched cold flannels, and the swelling on the back of my head was the size of an egg. The jewellery, or at least the valuable stuff, had all gone.” Hillingsborough rubbed his bruised skull unconsciously again as he talked. He had visibly slumped as he’d recited his tale, as if the weight of his failure to defend his home was visibly bearing down upon his shoulders. Clearly it pained him greatly that he’d been unable to protect his family from this dreadful invasion.
“You did everything you could, Mr. Hillingsborough,” I said, in an effort to reassure him. “You were the victim of a most terrible intrusion, and I have made it my business to get to the bottom of the matter. Tell me, did you have a sense that these iron men were being controlled in some way from afar? A remote operator?”
Hillingsborough shook his head. “I....” he faltered, and sighed. “I simply don’t know, Inspector. They were so inhuman, and yet mimicked in almost every way the actions of an intelligent man. The strength of them, though, to be able to brush me aside so easily - they were far more than men.”
“Quite so, sir,” I agreed. In truth, Hillingsborough’s tale was already familiar to me from at least three other similar incidents, where exactly the same pattern had been observed. A trio of iron men would smash their way into a home, always with apparent foreknowledge of where to find the most valuable belongings. They would take them and disappear, leaving a swathe of destruction in their wake. They had not yet, however, inflicted any serious harm on any of the inhabitants, and when they had raised their hands in violence, it had only been in response to the machines themselves coming under attack. I wasn’t yet sure if this was indicative of an attitude, or simply a degree of pragmatism on the part of whoever was controlling them.
“Thank you for your most lucid account, Mr. Hillingsborough,” I said. “May I take a few moments to examine the scene of the robbery?”
“Of course, Inspector,” replied Hillingsborough. “Peters will show you to my wife’s dressing room. I fear it is still in some disarray. Her private belongings have been exposed for all to see.”
“Fear not, Mr. Hillingsborough. You and your wife can both count on my discretion,” I said.
Hillingsborough inclined his head, and Harris and I both stood and left the room. Peters was waiting for us outside. He showed us upstairs, to a landing with a series of doors on either side, flanked by large potted plants, and decorated by innumerable paintings of English landscapes.
There was no sign of the struggle on the landing, but the dressing room was immediately apparent. The door was hanging off the hinges, and there was evidence of the disturbance within. I crossed the landing, stepped over the threshold and stood for a moment amongst the chaos, taking it all in. Drawers had been pulled from the chest and overturned on the floor, their contents spilled haphazardly across the carpet; brightly coloured fabrics, animal furs, scarves and underwear had been cast aside as the iron man searched for the jewellery.
“This place is a damned mess,” I muttered, beneath my breath. “Harris?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Make sure you get a list of what
’s missing. As comprehensive as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mrs. Hillingsborough will be best placed to assist you in that regard, sir,” said Peters, who was lingering behind Harris, clearly anxious to help in any way he could. “Allow me to take you to her now.” He gestured across the landing to one of the other rooms.
I turned and nodded in agreement to Harris, and with an almost imperceptible sigh, he left with Peters.
I stood in silence amidst the ruins of the woman’s private dressing chamber. I had no leads. No motive. No means of even beginning to understand who might be behind this plague of robberies and the dreadful metal monsters. Yet there and then, despite everything else, despite the numerous other matters vying for my attention, I resolved to bring an end to this reign of terror. I would find a way to stop these iron men before anyone else got hurt.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FROM THE TESTIMONY OF MISS ANNABEL MAUGHAM
My brother Joseph had always suffered from a disagreeable temperament, and recent events had inspired more than one tempestuous outburst. Despite the fact he was expected to benefit dramatically from the death of our uncle and the loss of the will, Joseph still found reason to complain. Indeed, his complaining was the least of the matter: he was given to violent episodes, during which his anger appeared to consume him utterly.
I admit I often found him terrifying during such outbursts, and more than once I’d been forced to retreat to my room and lock the door in fear that he might strike me in his rage. He would often overturn a table in a fit of pique, or dash a vase against the wall, and he would frequently injure himself, on one occasion breaking two of his fingers as he beat his fists against a wall.
It was all I could do to keep the servants from handing in their notice in the aftermath of such miserable events, and our life together at that house was far from peaceful. I longed to marry and be away from the brute, but such was the weight of his overbearing presence that I’d begun to think that any man who might show an interest in me would be dissuaded by the prospect of Joseph as a brother-in-law.
The morning we received the letter from Hans Gerber, Joseph’s temper had been relatively subdued. We’d breakfasted together in the conservatory and discussed our plans for the day ahead. I’d even begun to hope that the worst of it had blown over, and with the impending funeral of Uncle Theobald, matters might be swiftly drawn to a close.
The letter, of course, put an end to such ideas. Within moments of reading it he was up out of his chair, his face reddening, his coffee cup crashing to the floor. “The goddamn gall of the man!” he bellowed, slamming his fist upon the breakfast table and sending the crockery crashing to the tiled floor.
“Calm yourself, Joseph!” I interjected hastily, attempting to calm the situation. “These wretched outbursts will get us nowhere! We need to consider -”
“Listen to me, little sister,” he cut in, through gritted teeth. “Do you realise what’s at stake? You might not feel so disposed to sit there and consider if you had any real concept of what we stand to lose.”
My own anger flared. “I assure you, brother, that I understand all too well. This letter is quite clear on the matter.”
“The letter is the least of it,” he barked, spittle flecking his lips.
“What would you have me do, Joseph?” I asked, exasperated. “This man is a stranger to us. Before we act rashly we should send for Mr. Edwards.”
“Edwards!” Joseph nearly spat the name. “What use is he? He can’t even manage to look after a bloody will!”
“At the very least we need to know whether this ‘Hans Gerber’ has a legitimate claim on our money,” I said, trying to keep my tone calm.
Joseph lashed out, toppling a nearby aspidistra. There was a loud crack as the pot shattered, and soil spilled out across the tiles. “How dare he! The gall of the fellow! He doesn’t know us. He isn’t part of this family. No matter what he says in his letter.”
“I know that, Joseph,” I said, soothingly. “I know that.”
“He wouldn’t have a leg to stand on if Edwards hadn’t lost that will. He should be liable.” He flopped back into his chair, his rage beginning to dissipate.
“There’s still time,” I said. “This could still work out. For all of us. And if it doesn’t, well, the loss of that will could be good for us too, Joseph. For you and I.”
“Not if this Gerber has anything to do with it,” he said, morosely.
There was a loud rap at the door. I knew the servants would have made themselves scarce at the first sounds of Joseph’s outburst, and so I stood to answer it.
“Tell them to go away, Annabel,” said Joseph. “Whoever it is. I can’t face anyone now.”
“Very well,” I said.
At the door I discovered a portly, smartly dressed man in a bowler hat, accompanied by a tall, gaunt man with a hooked, equine nose.
“Miss Annabel Maugham?” enquired the latter, studying me with bright, intelligent eyes.
“Yes?” I replied, a little flustered. I had no idea who these people were, or for what reason they might be calling. I didn’t wish to anger Joseph any further by lingering on the doorstep.
“I see that we’ve called at a difficult time, Miss Maugham, but I would appreciate a short interview. My name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Dr. Watson. Your cousin Peter has engaged our services on behalf of the family, and I would speak to you regarding the death of your uncle, Sir Theobald.” Mr. Holmes smiled genially. “I assure you, it won’t take very long.”
“Well, I suppose you’d better come in,” I said. “But I warn you, it’s not a good time.” I stood back, holding the door open and ushering them in. Dr. Watson removed his hat, and they followed me through to the sitting room, which adjoined the conservatory at the rear of the house.
“Joseph?” I called to him, knowing he’d be unhappy about this unannounced intrusion. “I think you should join us through here.”
“Didn’t you listen to me, Annabel?” came his hasty - and rather fiery - response.
Dr. Watson gave Holmes an embarrassed look.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” I said, my face burning. I walked hurriedly through to the conservatory, pulling the door shut behind me. “No, Joseph,” I said in a strained whisper. “It’s that detective fellow, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He has Dr. Watson with him. Peter sent them round to talk to us about Uncle Theobald.”
“What? Oh, very well. If we must,” he replied, scowling. He pulled himself up out of his chair, kicking at the shattered remains of the plant pot near his feet.
“Mind your temper, Joseph,” I said, as I led the way back to the sitting room with some trepidation. “And mind your words, too.”
All I wanted was to get the interview over and done with as quickly as possible, and get the detective out of our house before Joseph said or did something we both might regret. And yet I admit that a part of me was intrigued to learn what Mr. Holmes had discovered in the course of his investigation, and exactly what he might make of the letter we’d received from the mysterious Mr. Hans Gerber.
CHAPTER NINE
Upon our arrival at the home of Joseph and Annabel Maugham it was immediately clear that there had been a disagreement. The tension was palpable, and I glanced at Holmes, wondering for a moment if we might not be better served by retreating with a view to recommencing our interview the following day under more salubrious circumstances.
Holmes, of course, was having none of it. There was a case to be solved, and he was damned if he was going to let a familial argument get in the way of his investigation. Indeed, I imagined he was reading great significance into the situation, filing it all away for later consideration as he followed Miss Maugham into the sitting room, his jaw set firm, his eyes narrowed.
I was aware the fact the two siblings had been at loggerheads might simply have been a symptom of the acute grief they were suffering following the death of their uncle, but I also anticipated Holmes’s alter
nate train of thought - that perhaps there was some other, related cause for their disagreement. Getting to the bottom of what that might be, of course, was another matter altogether.
We stood in the sitting room for a few moments while Miss Maugham went to fetch her brother from the conservatory. It was decorated in an austere fashion, which to me suggested impeccable taste on behalf of the young lady. It was, however, clear that she suffered from inadequate means by which to properly do it justice: the furnishings were unusually sparse, with very little in the way of vases, candelabra, picture frames and the like.
The woman herself seemed amiable enough, although it was clear from the strained look on her face when she answered the door that she wished for nothing more than Holmes and I to leave. I could hear her arguing with her brother in hushed tones through the adjoining doors, although it was difficult to catch more than a few words. A moment later, a big man came barrelling into the sitting room, his face like thunder.
“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, this is my brother, Joseph,” said Miss Maugham hurriedly, darting into the room behind her brother. He was tall and broad, with dark hair brushed back in a parting, and striking blue eyes.
“Good day to you, Mr. Maugham,” I said.
“Thank you for making time to talk to us,” said Holmes. “I understand these are distressing times.”
“I fear that is a grave understatement, Mr. Holmes,” said Joseph, with a scowl.
“Indeed?” prompted Holmes.
“We’re in receipt of a letter, Mr. Holmes,” replied Annabel, when it appeared Joseph was not going to respond. “It came this morning, addressed to me. Its contents place us in a rather precarious position.”
“I’m most sorry to hear that,” said Holmes. Miss Maugham waved us to the sofa, and we both took a seat. Joseph remained standing. “If there is anything I can do to be of assistance, please do not hesitate to ask. After all, I have been engaged by your cousin on behalf of your family...”
