Sherlock Holmes - The Will of the Dead

by George Mann

  Presently, however, there seemed little chance of him interceding with anything. He had not altered his posture in the slightest as I’d finished reading the article, although it was clear that he knew I was there. I decided to broach the matter with him directly. “If you’re going to ignore me all evening, Holmes, I should rather head home for an early night. This bothersome weather has left me feeling damned uncomfortable.” I did not attempt to disguise the note of annoyance in my voice; he had not yet deigned to so much as look at me since I’d arrived.

  “What?” he murmured, distractedly. He inclined his head a fraction and regarded me through half-open lids. “You’re wet, Watson. And spattered with mud. Evidently, you were ill-treated by the elements at Sir Theobald’s funeral.” He closed his eyes again, as if that were the end of the matter.

  “Indeed,” I sighed, made impatient by his games. “But what of you, Holmes?”

  Holmes offered me a wry smile. “Not at all, Watson. I have taken every precaution to avoid the inclement weather.”

  “Holmes,” I said, exasperated. “Did your research bear any fruit?”

  “Indeed it did, Watson,” he said, with a most annoying chuckle at my expense. “Indeed it did.” He leaned forward in his chair, and at last it appeared as if I had his full attention. He took his pipe from the corner of his mouth and held the bowl in the palm of his right hand. “This Hans Gerber character appears to be genuine. Miss Maugham was quite correct in the details of her tale. According to my information, Gerber is the only child of Frances Maugham, Sir Theobald’s disinherited sister. The man is as real as you or I, it seems.”

  I couldn’t resist a quiet chuckle of my own. “I could perhaps have saved you some time, Holmes,” I said. “I saw him today, this Gerber chap. He was at the funeral. Or at least, I’m convinced it was him. A tall chap, dressed in a thick woollen overcoat, who was lurking on the periphery, watching the funeral from afar.”

  Holmes stabbed the stem of his pipe in my direction, urgent now. “Did you speak with him, Watson?” I saw there was fire in his eyes. His interest was piqued.

  I shook my head. “I fear not. He fled when I approached him. I gave chase, but regret to report that I lost him in the damn fog.”

  Holmes frowned, and took a long, thoughtful pull on his pipe. He allowed the smoke to curl from his nostrils, and for a moment his eyes glazed over and he stared away into the middle distance. Then, all of a sudden, he snapped back to attention. He turned his gaze upon me once again. “Then it was surely him,” he declared, assuredly. “Who else would flee in such a way?”

  “Precisely my thought,” I said, containing my small grin of triumph.

  “So he’s in town,” said Holmes. “That changes things.”

  “How so?” I asked, spreading my hands before the fire as I attempted to imbue them with warmth; the effects of a morning in the freezing rain had taken more of a toll on me than I’d imagined. I was feeling my age. “You fancy him for the murderer, Holmes?”

  “It’s a possibility, Watson, but a remote one. I rather think, however, he may have something to do with the disappearance of the will,” said Holmes, somewhat cryptically.

  “If only I’d been able to catch him,” I said, airing my frustration.

  “Fear not, Watson,” said Holmes, not unkindly. “You’ll have your chance yet. We shall know Hans Gerber before this case is out. Mark my words.”

  I nodded, reaching for my glass, only to realise it was already empty.

  “Fetch another, Watson. And pull your chair closer to the fire. You must remain here until you’ve dried off.” The sudden change in Holmes was remarkable. One minute he’d been lackadaisically resting in his chair, lost in dream-like thought, the next he had uncoiled like a spring and was up pacing the room as if suddenly charged with a bolt of lightning. He stood by the window for a moment, holding aside the curtain and staring out at the rain-drenched streets, and then he was at the door, calling for Mrs. Hudson to bring food. “Are you hungry, Watson?” he said, with a grin.

  “Well... yes.” I suddenly realised I’d not eaten since breakfast, and my belly was grumbling at the thought of warm food.

  “Excellent! Then we shall encourage Mrs. Hudson to prepare one of her excellent meals. I’m sure she’ll be delighted to oblige.”

  “I’m sure she will,” I replied, knowingly.

  Holmes had returned to pacing the room, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “I see there have been further developments in the matter of these ‘iron men’,” I said, proffering the newspaper.

  Holmes gave a single nod of his head in acknowledgement.

  “It’s becoming quite an epidemic,” I continued. “I wonder how Inspector Bainbridge can manage, juggling two high-profile cases at once.” I eyed Holmes as he sought out his Persian slipper from beside the fire and began extracting little tufts of tobacco with which to fill his pipe. “Have you considered volunteering your services?” I ventured.

  Holmes fixed me with a sharp, disapproving gaze, causing me to wince at the sudden alteration in his demeanour. Then his features softened, and he offered me a gracious smile. “No,” he said, with a dismissive wave of his pipe. “No. I must remain focused on the case in hand.” He balanced the pipe between his teeth and fetched a wooden spill from his dressing-gown pocket, stooping to light it from the fire. He straightened up and presented the flame to the bowl of the pipe, puffing steadily until the tobacco took. He discarded the still-burning spill into the grate. “Besides,” he went on, jovially, “I have every confidence in Inspector Bainbridge. He seems like a most able chap, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Well, yes. I would. But nevertheless...” I stammered, unused to hearing such words of praise from Holmes, particularly for a policeman. I was quite thrown for a moment, and found myself unable to voice an objection.

  “Well then. That’s settled.” Holmes exhaled slowly, fountains of smoke billowing from his nostrils. “Ah, and here comes the indubitable Mrs. Hudson. Let us hope it bodes well for lunch.”

  I sighed in exasperation, and, still feeling a trifle damp and uncomfortable, set about pouring myself another drink.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  FROM THE TESTIMONY OF INSPECTOR CHARLES BAINBRIDGE

  “Coincidence and luck, that’s all it was.” Lord Roth, Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, twirled the thin, sickly, sweet-smelling cigar in his fingers and glowered across his desk. “Nothing has ever been clearer to me.”

  He paused, as if waiting for me to refute his statement. When I didn’t, he continued. “And now this. Your lack of progress in this matter is embarrassing, Bainbridge. I may even be forced to hand the investigation to Lestrade, and you know how much that would gall me.”

  I bunched my fists, but forced myself to remain calm. Lord Roth was not a man renowned for his restraint, nor for keeping his thoughts on any given matter to himself.

  I was clear, for example, regarding his feelings towards me -he considered me an upstart, promoted above my station despite his best efforts to the contrary. His hand had been forced by the Home Secretary, who’d been impressed by my handling of the Curzon matter, during which I’d apprehended the members of a sordid ring of prostitute murderers, including a high-ranking Member of Parliament, Harold Curzon. The Home Secretary had seen to it that I was rewarded with a promotion to the rank of inspector, despite Roth’s protests over my lack of suitability.

  Consequently, Roth did everything in his power to assign me the thankless cases, the investigations no one else wanted - the crimes he deemed unsolvable or difficult. I believe he hoped to prove my inadequacy through such underhand means, in order to effect a demotion, or at least to discredit me to his superiors.

  The problem for Roth, of course, was that I kept solving them. Whatever he threw at me, I bounced back and gave him the results. This was a reflection of nothing more than my sheer tenacity and willingness to roll up my sleeves and get on with the hard work - more than could be said of Roth hi
mself, or many of the other inspectors in his employ. This is what set myself - and to some extent Lestrade - apart from those others. We got things done, despite the difficulties, and Roth detested us for it.

  The iron men situation, however, was a different matter altogether. I barely knew where to start. I was floundering. Whoever was behind these crimes was not only brazen and bold, but knew how to cover their tracks. My only hope lay in the possibility that an industrialist by the name of Percival Asquith might be able to offer me a lead.

  It had come to my attention that the man had called at the Yard the previous week, claiming to have been the victim of a robbery, during which four prototype automatons - or “artificial men” as he called them - had been stolen from his workshop. His complaint had been duly recorded by the desk officer, but no further action had been taken regarding the matter. Yet it seemed too much of a coincidence. I had sent word a few hours earlier that I wished to make an appointment with Asquith for later that afternoon.

  “I need results, Bainbridge,” said Roth, viciously stubbing out his cigar in the cut-glass ashtray on his desk. “I mean, these ‘iron men’ - they’re the talk of London. Plaguing my sort of folk in their sleep. Take the men at my club, for instance. They can’t rest. Don’t know whether to barricade the doors or send their wives away to the country. They’re all worried they’re going to be the next target. And for goodness sake - what am I going to tell the Prime Minister, hmmm?”

  I sighed inwardly. So, that was Roth’s real concern. He wasn’t so much concerned with apprehending the villains for the sake of upholding the law, but rather to save face amongst his peers. “Please assure them,” I said, as levelly as I could, “that you have your best man on the case, and that he’s giving the matter his full attention.”

  Roth raised both eyebrows dramatically. “Best man?” he scoffed, as I’d known he would. “Full attention? Is that so, Inspector? Then what of this little rebellion over the death of Sir Theobald Maugham?” He stared at me angrily for a moment. “Isn’t it time you put that little quest of yours to bed?”

  “I’m not sure that I understand, sir,” I said, feigning ignorance. I knew it wasn’t wise to bait him in such a manner, but at the time it felt as if it were the only way of retaining some measure of dignity.

  “Of course you don’t, Bainbridge,” Roth said. “What I’m saying is that the matter is clearly a case of accidental death. There’s no need for all this ridiculous complication. The old fool had obviously over-indulged on the claret and fell down the stairs. We’ve seen it all before.”

  “There is, of course, the missing will to consider,” I said, trying - but failing - to keep the exasperation from my voice.

  Roth waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “There’s nothing to it. He most likely squirrelled it away in a safe place and failed to tell anyone where to find it. You know how these old people get, absent-minded and doddery.” He leaned across the desk towards me. “If that meddling amateur, Sherlock Holmes, wishes to waste his time pursuing the matter, then let him. You, however, have more serious matters to attend to. Be mindful of your priorities, Bainbridge, and your allegiance. I want an end to this iron men business within the next week.”

  “A week?” I echoed in disbelief.

  “You heard me,” replied Roth, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Otherwise I’ll hand the matter to Lestrade, and you’ll be back to walking the streets of Whitechapel in uniform.” He reached for his cigar box. “Best place for you, in my view,” he added, muttering smugly under his breath.

  I fought the urge to stand up and strike the man.

  “Now, leave. I have work to do,” said Roth, indicating the door with a fresh cigar. He began pointedly shuffling papers on his desk.

  Disheartened, frustrated and not a little angry, I left his office.

  Harris was waiting for me in the hallway outside, wearing a somewhat anxious expression. “Ah, Inspector...” he said, almost as soon as he saw me.

  “Yes, Harris?” I replied, wearily. I needed time to consider how I was going to resolve the iron men robberies within the next few days. Anything else would have to wait.

  “You have a visitor, sir,” he said.

  “A visitor? Please tell me it’s someone wanting to give themselves up and provide a full confession for the iron men crimes,” I replied, as cheerfully as I could muster.

  Harris looked at me as if I’d just escaped from a lunatic asylum. “Not exactly, sir. It’s Percival Asquith, the industrialist.”

  “What?” I said, frowning. “He’s here?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Harris.

  “But I only sent word this morning that I intended to call on him,” I said.

  “He’s evidently very anxious to see you, sir,” said Harris, with a grin. “He says it’s to do with the iron men.”

  “Right,” I said, feeling buoyed, and thinking that perhaps, for once, my luck had changed. “Lead on, Harris.”

  I followed Harris through the winding, echoing corridors of Scotland Yard. As we walked I felt my mood lifting, as if simply being in the vicinity of Roth’s office was enough to cast a dark cloud over my day. Presently, we came upon a small interview room close to the main reception.

  Harris held the door open for me, and I entered to find a fidgeting Percival Asquith sitting at a table. He looked up as I entered the dimly lit room, and then stood, offering his hand with a nervous smile. He was a thin, wiry man in his late thirties, dressed smartly in a black tailored suit, with a yellow silk cravat. His blond hair was foppishly long, and I noted that he had a habit of constantly brushing it out of his eyes. I decided this was probably a nervous tic, rather than a simple affectation.

  I took his slender hand in my own and shook it. “Mr. Asquith,” I said, pulling out a chair. “Thank you for your haste in coming here to see me. I had intended to call upon you at your home, later this afternoon.”

  “Ah, yes, Inspector,” he replied, in a thin, reedy voice. “Your man told me as much. In truth, however, I’m just so glad to be heard that I found I couldn’t wait. I hope you don’t see it as an imposition. It’s just that I’ve been anxious to give a full and proper account.”

  I must have been frowning, for he sighed and gave a little shrug. “Ah, I see that perhaps the matter is unrelated,” he said. He looked crestfallen.

  “Please, go on, Mr. Asquith,” I said, lowering myself into the chair. I glanced at Harris, who was hovering by the door. “Harris, a pot of tea, I think.”

  Harris nodded and quickly left the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

  Asquith returned to his seat and sat forward, forming a steeple with his hands. “This, Inspector Bainbridge, is my second visit to Scotland Yard in as many weeks.”

  “Indeed?” I asked, fully aware of the facts.

  “And yet your colleagues think my situation a trifling matter, unworthy of investigation,” he continued.

  I admit my interest was piqued now, and although I had pressing questions for Asquith, I felt that by letting him speak, I might win his confidence and perhaps draw the best out of him. Moreover, Harris had said Asquith’s visit was related to the iron men crimes, and so I hoped he might help to shed some further light. “Well, if you’d care to outline the situation for me,” I said, “I’ll certainly see what I can do to help.”

  Asquith brightened immediately. He sat back in his chair and offered me a winning smile. “Thank you, Inspector. Most satisfactory.” He withdrew a silver cigarette case from his jacket pocket, popped the clasp and proffered it to me. I refused, but he withdrew one of the cigarettes and put it to his lips, lighting it with a match while I waited, patiently, for him to continue. “Well, here’s the long and the short of it,” he said after a moment, pluming smoke from his nostrils. “My property has been stolen, and I must have it back.”

  I was beginning to think that the two matters might be related, after all. “Go on,” I prompted.

  “My family, as you are no doub
t aware, are industrialists of some standing,” said Asquith, without a hint of irony.

  “Quite so,” I acknowledged.

  “Since I inherited the business from my father three years ago, I have been working to establish new methods of automation, with a view to developing a machine which I might export to other businesses or private buyers throughout the Empire,” he said.

  “And what is the nature of this machine, Mr. Asquith?” I asked, although I was sure I could already follow where the conversation was leading.

  Asquith became animated as he talked. “It’s an automaton, an artificial man, powered by a steam furnace and a series of intricate clockwork engines. I have great ambitions, Inspector, and I am very close to a breakthrough. My automata will revolutionise industry. No longer will men be forced to toil in fields, labour in factories or wait tables for others. In the future my automata will serve that function for society.”

  There was a polite knock at the door, followed by the appearance of Harris, bearing a tea tray. He set it down on the table, and then retired quietly to wait by the door in case I had further need of him.

  “But your prototypes have been stolen?” I prompted Asquith.

  Asquith’s face fell. The change was remarkable - from the evangelical only moments before, to the thoroughly downhearted. “Quite so. Four of them, almost complete. They were stolen from my workshop two weeks ago, and now I fear they are being put to nefarious use. I have seen the stories of the iron men in the newspapers.”

  “Indeed,” I said.

  “You see, the truth is, Inspector,” said Asquith, nervously, “I’ve ploughed everything I had into those machines. The whole family fortune. Without them I’m ruined. I don’t even have the necessary funds to build another prototype, and the bank won’t extend me a loan, not without evidence I can guarantee a return. Everything I own, everything my father built up, rests in your hands. Without those prototypes, I have no business.”