Sherlock Holmes - The Will of the Dead

by George Mann

  My anger consumed me, leeching away all sense. I barely knew what I was doing. I slammed the door shut behind me, and took off along the street towards him. This scoundrel deserved to be brought before a magistrate and I was not about to let the chance to apprehend him pass me by for a second time.

  I was still dressed only in my shirtsleeves and trousers, but barely felt the cold as I marched past a clutch of women out for an early morning stroll. They stared at me, wide-eyed, no doubt shocked by the wild look in my eyes and the fixed expression of determination in the set of my jaw.

  Gerber, of course, had seen me coming, and I watched him turn and slip away around the corner, disappearing from view, just as he had at the cemetery. I broke into a run, huffing noisily as I attempted to gain ground. My recently consumed breakfast sat ill in my stomach as I ran.

  I reached the lamp post where I had last seen him and flung myself around the corner, almost barrelling into an old man, who was shuffling along the street, his back severely stooped. He waved his cane at me and cursed as I danced around him, searching for any sign of Gerber.

  As before, however, he had gone - lost amongst the milling crowds of pedestrians, the stream of horse and carriages, the hansom cabs. He might have entered any of the numerous buildings, or ducked down an alleyway between two properties, scrambling out of sight. Perhaps he’d even bolted at speed along the street and was off somewhere, still running.

  “The damn coward!” I exclaimed, drawing interest from any number of passers-by, who turned to glare at me as if I were a madman. I glowered back at them, my heart still racing.

  Once again, I had lost him. I had missed another opportunity to bring the whole business to an early conclusion, and I cursed myself for letting the chance pass me by.

  My shoulders sagged in defeat, and I turned and slowly walked back towards my home, brooding and angry. I stopped only to apologise to the old man whom I had nearly sent flying a few moments earlier, but he seemed disinterested in anything I had to say, and turned his back on me hurriedly, shuffling off in the opposite direction.

  The letter was still waiting for me in the hallway when I opened the door, and I bent to retrieve it. I fought the urge to screw it into a ball and throw it into the fire, instead folding it and returning it to the envelope. It might, I realised, prove to be valuable evidence, and so I slipped it into my pocket for safekeeping.

  For a few moments I considered taking a cab directly to Baker Street, to show the letter to Holmes and relate my experience. In the end, however, I decided not to allow the morning’s events to upset my day. I had resolved to see to my patients, and see to my patients I would. Gerber’s note had not changed a thing. There was no new information here for Holmes, nothing that might alter the direction of his investigation or help to bring the elusive Gerber to justice. Nor would I be dissuaded from my part in proceedings. Indeed, more than ever, I looked forward to a time when I might have an opportunity to pose some questions to the man, and then the satisfaction of seeing him dragged away and tossed into one of Bainbridge’s holding cells. Gerber’s tactics might work to inspire fear in the hearts of innocent women such as Annabel Maugham, but I was made of sterner stuff.

  I returned to the breakfast room, where I had abandoned the detritus of my meal. There was still some lukewarm coffee in the pot and I poured myself another cup, downing it quickly. My hand was trembling - not with fear, but with barely repressed rage. I forced myself to calm down, breathing slowly, and then, with a quick stop before the hall mirror to make myself presentable, I snatched up my jacket and set out for my surgery.

  Gerber and Holmes would have to wait. Today, first and foremost, I would assume the mantle of my profession, and live up to my title as Dr. John Watson.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I barely saw anything of Holmes during the course of the following two days. I called at Baker Street early both mornings, only to be told by Mrs. Hudson that he had already left for the day and that she had very little idea of when - or if - he was expected back. This was typical of Holmes’s behaviour during his more manic episodes, and, I assumed, indicative of his engagement with the case. I’d seen him like this on any number of occasions, and was well aware of his tendency to exclude all else - such as the matter of his own whereabouts or need to eat - in his pursuit of the solution to a puzzle.

  For my part, I wished to discuss with him the note I’d received from Gerber, but his business must have been pressing indeed, for despite my leaving a message with Mrs. Hudson, I heard nothing from him in return.

  Left to my own devices I returned to my patients, who I had been badly neglecting while gadding about with Holmes. The days passed quickly and quietly, although I admit I found it difficult to focus on anything but the Gerber matter, and not for the first time I found myself wondering how this errant German could have evaded the usually so indefatigable Holmes for so long.

  Gerber remained at large, and he continued to prosecute his campaign of terror against the Maughams, all the while staying - frustratingly - one step ahead of Holmes and the police. As well as myself, both the Maughams and Tobias Edwards received further letters, and a number of sightings were reported of men matching Gerber’s description. Inspector Bainbridge arranged for constables to be posted outside the homes of each of the surviving cousins, round the clock. So far as I knew, no further attempts had been made on the life of Oswald Maugham, but it felt to me as if everyone involved with the matter was holding their breath, waiting for Gerber to strike.

  Inspector Bainbridge relayed this information when, frustrated by my inability to speak with Holmes, I took my own note from Gerber to his office at the Yard. He considered Gerber’s threatening remarks to be more of a deterrent than a reflection of the man’s actual intent; being on the periphery of the investigation, it was perhaps unlikely that I should be made a target above, say, Holmes himself. Nevertheless, Bainbridge offered to provide a constable from his already stretched force to take up residence outside my house, and I agreed that if the affair was not concluded by the time my wife had arrived home from her mother’s, then I should gratefully take up his offer. It was one thing to willingly put myself at risk in the pursuit of the villain, but quite another to jeopardise the safety of my family.

  Still, as anticipated, nothing came of Gerber’s threatening missive, and so I pushed it to the back of my mind and pressed on with my work. There was little else for me to do, and so I turned my attentions once more to boils, infections, swollen ankles and gout. The life of a General Practitioner is not, alas, a glamorous one.

  When word finally came it was in the form of a short note, delivered to my surgery by a street urchin at around noon on the third day. It was written in Holmes’s characteristic scrawl and read simply:

  Watson

  Be at Baker Street tonight, seven o’clock prompt.

  Holmes

  Frustrated once again by his opacity, but nevertheless curious to discover what he’d been up to in the time since our last meeting, I made hasty plans to do as he requested. My wife was still absent, but was due to return in two days. It was looking increasingly unlikely that the case would be resolved before her homecoming - a fact that gave me no small cause for concern.

  I arrived at Baker Street a little before seven, only to find Holmes had still not returned. The unflappable Mrs. Hudson ushered me in, however, and I was soon ensconced by the fire with a brandy and a copy of the evening newspaper.

  The headlines were, as they had been for days, dominated by news of further “iron men” burglaries. I felt for Inspector Bainbridge, who - when I had visited him two days earlier - had seemed to be buckling a little under the sheer weight of the responsibility. I wished again that Holmes had been more prepared to consider assisting Bainbridge with his investigation, and decided to redouble my efforts in persuading him to help.

  The news was otherwise dominated by the usual political machinations and financial affairs, but one particular item caught my attention. It was
a brief report of a rich foreigner, Count Laszlo Ferenczy of Hungary, who had come to London bearing a magnificent jewel. The gem had been christened the Moon Star, and it purported to be a diamond of previously unseen proportions. The Count was displaying it in the house he had taken in Pimlico, and inviting interested parties to send their cards in advance if they wished to arrange a viewing. I gathered that the reason for the Count’s visit to London was that he wished to find a buyer for the stone.

  I couldn’t help thinking that the man was a fool to show such a complete disregard for the current situation in the capital, and the instructions issued by the police for people to ensure their valuables were well concealed or securely deposited at a bank. Granted, the man was a foreigner recently arrived in the city, but even so, he must have been aware of the on-going threat posed by the iron men. It was all the newspapers were talking about. By advertising his possession of the stone in such a way - not to mention its present location - he was simply asking for trouble, offering himself up as a prime target for theft.

  I heard the clock chime and realised it was seven o’clock. Holmes’s instruction to be prompt, it seemed, had been somewhat in vain. I was surprised a few moments later, however, to find Mrs. Hudson showing up another caller - a distraught Miss Annabel Maugham - who had apparently come to the door demanding to see Holmes. In his stead, I showed her to a seat and poured her a stiff brandy for her nerves.

  “There you are, my dear. That should help,” I said, as I handed her the drink.

  “Oh, thank you, Dr. Watson,” she said, the relief evident in her voice. She was perched on the very edge of her seat, and was toying nervously with the hem of her jacket with her left hand. Her face was flushed and, judging by the redness around her eyes, she’d been recently crying. She was clearly shaken, and as she took a series of steady gulps from her brandy glass, I began to suspect the worst.

  “Gerber?” I asked, wondering if she had, in fact, been subjected to an attack at the hands of the mysterious German. “Do I take it that there’s been a... new development of some sort?”

  She nodded quickly, lowering her glass. “Yes. Indeed there has. I had hoped to speak with Mr. Holmes...” She looked at me imploringly, as if hoping that I would somehow be able to conjure him up.

  “I’m afraid Holmes has not yet returned, but he’ll be along shortly. In the meanwhile, would you care to outline the situation for me?” I said, softly, in an effort to reassure her. “I would offer what services I can.”

  She was silent for a moment, as if weighing her options, and then made her decision. “Thank you, Dr. Watson. It’s my brother. I... I fear for his life.” She looked as if she were on the verge of breaking into tears again.

  “His life?” I said, surprised. “Does he not remain under the protection of the police?”

  She shook her head. “Alas, Joseph pays little heed to the constables posted outside our home. He goes about his business as he wishes, despite any concerns I may have for his safety.” She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. “He is a foolhardy man, Dr. Watson. As much as I am fearful of his changeable moods, he is, nevertheless, my brother, and I wish for him to be safe.”

  “Of course,” I said, wishing I had Holmes’s eye for understanding the complexities of our interview. It was all I could do to offer her some reassurance and attempt to understand the nature of her sudden fear. By now, Holmes would have ascertained the finer details of her journey here, the reason for her visit and a host of other pertinent facts. Most probably, he would have even discerned what she had eaten for luncheon from the crumbs upon her sleeve. I, on the other hand, was left to stumble through with a series of questions. “Now, what is it that gives you reason to fear for his life, Miss Maugham? A new threat from Gerber?”

  “Precisely that,” she said. “Joseph received a letter in the second post. Upon reading it he flew into a blind rage. He smashed his fist into a mirror and stormed out of the house, announcing that he was going to ‘meet Gerber and put an end to everything tonight’.”

  “To meet Gerber!” I exclaimed. My mind was racing.

  “You see, Dr. Watson, why I have cause for concern?” prompted Miss Maugham, with a sad smile.

  “Indeed so,” I replied. Was this our chance to bring the matter to a head? Could we intercept this meeting and finally bring Gerber to justice? “Do you have the letter?” I ventured.

  “No,” she replied. “Joseph took it with him.”

  “Then did he give you any indication of where he was to meet Gerber?” I asked, trying to keep the exasperation from my voice. It was hardly the fault of this poor woman that her brute of a brother was too hot-headed to consider his own actions.

  She shook her head. “He did not.”

  “If only he’d come to us!” I said, banging the heel of my hand against the arm of the chair in frustration. I could not see how we could help Miss Maugham secure her brother’s safety, and more, how we could seize this opportunity to finally learn the truth about Gerber.

  “No matter, Watson! I have located Gerber’s hideaway.” I turned at the sound of Holmes’s voice to see him framed in the doorway, still wrapped in his winter overcoat. He was wearing a fiendish grin as he regarded us from beneath the brim of his hat.

  “Holmes! You’re back!” I said, with a measure of relief.

  “How astute of you to notice, my dear Watson. And back in quite the nick of time, it seems.” He took off his hat and cast it aside, with no regard for the location of the hat stand. It landed on the table amidst a heap of books. “Miss Maugham,” he went on, “did your brother state at what time he was due to meet with Mr. Gerber?”

  “Only that the meeting was to take place this evening,” she replied.

  “Then we have little time to waste. I shall begin preparations immediately. Watson, show Miss Maugham to her cab, and then send for Inspector Bainbridge. Tonight we shall have our man!” Holmes ended this remarkable address by rushing directly to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

  I glanced at Miss Maugham, quite unsure what to say. I was just about to speak when the strains of a violin - Holmes’s violin -came drifting through from his chamber. I shrugged and cleared my throat, embarrassed. “I do apologise if Holmes seems a little... abrupt. Such is his way when a case is upon him.”

  “Think nothing of it, Doctor,” countered Miss Maugham. “I am only pleased to hear that Mr. Holmes’s enquiries have met with some degree of success.”

  I smiled, grateful for her understanding. “Have no doubt, Miss Maugham. Holmes will see this matter through to its conclusion.” I stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must make ready for this evening’s outing and send for the police.”

  “Quite so,” she replied, rising from her seat.

  I walked her towards the door. “Will you be safe, Miss Maugham?”

  “My concern is for Joseph, Dr. Watson,” she said. “But you can rest assured that I have taken the necessary precautions. One of the constables is waiting for me downstairs in a hansom, and Mr. Edwards has agreed to call this evening.”

  “Very good. Then I bid you farewell,” I said, holding open the door.

  “Good evening, Dr. Watson. And good hunting.”

  I stood for a moment after shed gone, listening to the sounds of her footsteps on the stairs and the violent chopping of Holmes’s violin, and pondered what the night ahead might bring.

  Then, without further ado, I collected my coat and hat and set out with the intention of getting word to Inspector Bainbridge.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  It was dark when we finally left Baker Street.

  The evening was cold and clear, the sky a canopy of rich, dark blue, pinpricked with stars. London was retiring for the night - or at least, the more salubrious inhabitants were - and the streets around Baker Street seemed filled with the bustle of people making their way home from a hard day’s work, as we rumbled through the city, speeding towards our destination.

  Inspector Bainbridge had join
ed us in the back of our hansom, and two uniformed constables followed behind in a second cab. He sat now beside Holmes, staring contemplatively out of the window.

  I was carrying my service revolver in anticipation of the encounter to come, and was wrapped up against the brisk weather in a short, heavy cape. Holmes was dressed in a similar fashion, a hat pulled low over his brow. I watched him as we bounced over the cobbled roads, his forehead creased in a deep furrow. His eyes were closed, his long, thin fingers forming a steeple beneath his chin. He was brooding, and I knew better than to disturb him while he was lost in such deep thought.

  Bainbridge, on the other hand, was alert and ready for action. I could see from the manner in which he clutched his cane, his knuckles whitening around the shaft, that he was eager to draw a line beneath the whole, sorry business.

  Gerber, it seemed, was finally within our reach. Holmes would deliver him to us that very evening.

  We sat in considered silence, each of us preparing in our own way for whatever the evening might bring. I thought again of my wife, and how much I missed her company when she was away. All of this gallivanting about with Holmes was invigorating, of course - enjoyable, even - but in my book, there was nothing so comforting as being able to return to a warm home, where an even warmer reception would await me. I looked ahead to this whole Gerber affair being over, and my wife returning from her trip.

  Presently, I heard the driver call out to the horses, and the cab began to slow. I had no idea where we were; Holmes had refrained from giving us the address, and the fleeting glimpses of the city Id managed to catch through the windows had offered little in the way of clues - we might be anywhere amongst the numerous slum districts of the capital.

  Within moments the cab had come to a halt. Holmes’s eyes flicked open, and he looked across at me, his eyes hard. He leaned over and opened the door, and beckoned silently for Bainbridge and I to exit the hansom.