by George Mann
We spilled out into the cold night to find ourselves in a quiet, empty street. The other cab was drawing to a halt behind us, the horses whinnying and stamping their hooves. Sweat lathered their flanks, and steam billowed from their nostrils like the smoky exhalations of dragons.
Once the five of us had assembled, Holmes sent the drivers on their way and led us on in silence, across a small square, past a church with a tumbledown spire, and down another side street that smelled of rotten vegetables, and worse. This, I realised, was the Whitechapel district, home to all manner of unsavoury denizens.
I clutched the handle of my revolver in my pocket as we walked, wary of being set upon by those who wouldn’t take kindly to our presence, or others who might see an opportunity to enrich themselves with the contents of our wallets.
Nearly ten minutes later, we came upon the rundown shell of a terraced house, and Holmes stopped to indicate we had reached our destination. It was a rum sort of place, with boarded-up windows and detritus strewn across the front garden: a damaged bicycle wheel, the remains of a wooden box, scraps of threadbare carpet. The neighbouring buildings were just as grim but at least they showed signs of human habitation - a flicker of light in an upstairs window, the sound of hushed voices within.
Holmes mounted the first step up to the front door, and Bainbridge caught his arm. “This is it? This is where you found Hans Gerber?” He appeared somewhat baffled that our villain might be found in such an impoverished place. I’ll admit, it did seem rather at odds to even the circumstances in which Oswald Maugham eked out his existence, let alone the faded grandeur of Sir Theobald Maugham’s house.
Holmes nodded. He gave a tight-lipped smile. “Quite so, Inspector. I have no doubt that inside we will find the man we are looking for, along with evidence of his crimes.”
Bainbridge released Holmes’s arm. “Very well. Lead on, Mr. Holmes..”
I hurried to the foot of the short set of stone steps. “Surely you’re not simply going to knock, Holmes?” I hissed, trying to keep my voice down, despite the urgency. I did not want to alert anyone inside to our presence, lest they deem it a warning and take the opportunity to escape.
Holmes, however, appeared to have no such hesitation. I watched, surprised, as he bunched his gloved hand into a fist and used his knuckles to shatter a small glass pane in the door. The fragments tinkled as they struck the ground. “Indeed not, Watson,” he said, as he reached in and unlatched the door from the inside. Then, standing back, he gave the door a quick, sharp shove, and it yawned open, revealing the cavernous darkness within.
“I warn you, gentlemen,” said Holmes, addressing the assembled men. “This is no trifling matter. The man we are dealing with will prove a formidable opponent if engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Arm yourselves if you have the means. He will not come quietly.”
I followed Holmes into that stinking pit of a house expecting Gerber to leap out on us at any moment. The building was in a terrible state of disrepair, although signs of habitation were everywhere - abandoned food wrappings, the stubs of burned-out candles, evidence of a recent fire in the grate. There were also signs of damp, and of rodents, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck bristle at the thought of rats scuttling beneath our feet.
Holmes led us deeper into the house by way of candlelight, producing a book of matches and taking up one of the half-used stubs. It soon became apparent, however, that Gerber was not there. As Holmes had predicted, though, there was clear evidence that he had been, and recently, too. In the kitchen a black coat had been thrown over the back of a chair, stained in great splashes of rust-coloured blood. A packet of cigarettes rested on the rickety table, along with a box of matches. Holmes held the former aloft when he saw me looking.
“The same German brand as was found at the scene of Peter Maugham’s murder, Watson,” he said, “as well as in the grounds of Oswald Maugham’s apartment, following the intrusion.”
“And no doubt this is the coat Gerber was wearing when he murdered Peter Maugham, too,” I said.
“Yes,” said Bainbridge, understandably impatient. “But where is he?”
“Patience, Inspector,” replied Holmes, quietly. “Our quarry will be along soon. He’s expecting a visitor.”
“What are you playing at here, Holmes?” I asked. Cold, tired and more than a little jumpy, I had little time for Holmes’s cryptic games. We had willingly put our lives at risk to accompany him here in pursuit of Gerber. I fully intended to get the full story.
In the event, however, Holmes wasn’t given a chance to answer my question before the sound of a creaking floorboard in the hallway caused us all to lapse into a hasty, attentive silence.
Someone else was in the house.
I slid my revolver carefully from my pocket and thumbed the safety catch.
Holmes handed the candle to Bainbridge and withdrew a small silver pistol from his coat pocket. He crept silently towards the kitchen door, glancing back at me just the once before reaching out, tentatively, and then grasping the handle and throwing open the door.
For a moment nothing happened. Then, with a ferocious roar, a shadowy figure from the hallway launched itself at Holmes, sending them both sprawling to the ground.
They landed with a heavy thump, the newcomer cursing defiantly as they struggled. In the gloom and chaos I could tell only that the figure was that of a man, dressed in a long black overcoat.
I saw Holmes’s pistol skitter across the tiles and rushed forward, but the man, realising his error - that Holmes was not the man he had come to meet and murder, and doubly, that he was not alone - leapt up from the floor and turned to bolt.
By now the constables were shouting and scrabbling for the door, as I hefted my revolver, took aim, and squeezed off a shot.
The report of the gun was deafening in the confined space of the kitchen, but my aim was true and the bullet caught the fleeing man in the upper arm, causing him to stagger and howl in pain, but failing to bring him down. Before I had time to take a second shot, however, the policemen were in the hallway, giving chase and blocking my line of sight.
“Get after him!” bellowed Bainbridge from the kitchen door.
I heard the front door burst open and Holmes’s assailant, hotly pursued by the two uniformed men, hurtled out into the night. I decided, this time, to allow the younger men amongst us to do the running.
I dropped my revolver on the table and turned to assist Holmes. I stooped low, caught him by the arm and hauled him to his feet. To my consternation, I realised he was laughing.
“What the devil is so amusing, Holmes?” I asked, wondering if he’d received a blow to the head in the fall.
“Good God, man,” said Bainbridge. “He could have killed you!”
“Fear not, gentlemen,” replied Holmes, still laughing. “The final part of the puzzle has now fallen into place. We will not lose our man. Call your men off, Inspector. I know where he is headed.”
In the thin light of the candle I could see Bainbridge’s concerned expression. He, as I, did clearly not enjoy feeling so many steps behind Holmes in his understanding of the situation.
“How could you possibly know that, Holmes?” I said, frustrated. “It’s taken you days to find this place. Now Gerber is loose again, and worse, he knows that we’re on to him. He’ll go to ground. We’ll never find him if he heads into the slums.”
Holmes shook his head. “He will not. Whatever he would wish us to believe, that man was not Mr. Hans Gerber.”
“You astound me, Holmes!” I cried. “I cannot fathom what you’re talking about. Not Gerber?” I sighed heavily. “Who was he, then? And what of Gerber?”
Holmes gave a deep and hearty rumble of a laugh. “My dear Watson,” he said, in the tone a schoolmaster might reserve for his slowest pupil. “I had thought you might have worked it out by now. You know my methods. I am - or rather, I have been - Mr. Hans Gerber all along.”
Bainbridge looked as if he were about to walk out in exasperati
on. His face had reddened, and he was staring at Holmes with such a look of incomprehension that my friend might have been a foreigner attempting to communicate with us in an entirely different language. “You’re Hans Gerber?” he finally managed to say. “Forgive me, Mr. Holmes, but you have me at a loss. Are you asking me to arrest you?”
Holmes chuckled amiably. “Not at all, Inspector. Hans Gerber - who was, indeed, a disenfranchised nephew of Sir Theobald - was reported dead six years ago, killed in action on military campaign in Afghanistan. I correctly assumed that none of the surviving Maughams would be aware of their cousin’s death - given their relationship with that part of their family - and therefore I decided to act in his name in an effort to provoke Sir Theobald’s murderers.”
“So it was you at the funeral, you behind the letters? You who called on Annabel Maugham while her brother was in town?” I said, shocked by this revelation.
“Indeed, Watson,” replied Holmes.
“But think of all the needless concern! Think on how harrowing those letters have proved for the innocent parties. Was it really necessary, Holmes?” I asked.
“I believe it was, Watson. It was the only way to encourage Sir Theobald’s murderers to show their hand,” he replied.
“And why me? Why was it necessary for Gerber to threaten me in such a way?” I prompted, with some consternation.
“For that I can only apologise, Watson, and hope that you will forgive me.” Holmes put a hand on my shoulder. “It was, however, a necessary precaution. I had to ensure that the interested parties believed Gerber to be real. If you received a letter - and your concern was genuine - then it could only work to strengthen the illusion, to add veracity to my little scheme.”
“Well, I hope it was worth it, Holmes,” I muttered, but in truth I had already forgiven him. It was not the first time he’d been forced to deceive me in order to lure an unsuspecting villain into a trap, and I doubted it would be the last.
Bainbridge, who’d been listening to this exchange intently, suddenly started, struck by a question that I had not yet thought to ask. “Hold on, Mr. Holmes! If you’re Hans Gerber... then who is the killer?”
“Killers, Inspector,” said Holmes, emphasising the plural. “There is more than one party responsible for this sordid affair.”
“Then who was that man who just attacked you?” Bainbridge pressed.
“That, Inspector, was Mr. Joseph Maugham.”
“Joseph Maugham!” I exclaimed. “But...” I was unable to find the correct words to form my question.
“Quite so,” said Holmes. “The fortuitous bullet wound caused by your excellent shot, Watson, will be enough to prove it.” He paused, as if weighing his next words. “This whole encounter was a carefully laid trap. I’ve been following his movements for days, tracking him across London. When I discovered his hideaway, here in this derelict house, I knew I only needed enough evidence to prove my theory. I wrote to Joseph Maugham as Gerber, telling him I knew his secret and demanding that he meet with me tonight, here at his secret bolthole in Whitechapel. He believes Gerber to be real, and to have a very real claim upon Sir Theobald’s money.”
“So he came here tonight to kill that phantom!” I said. “To kill you!”
“Precisely, Watson! And now, when he shakes the constables, as he surely will, he will head home to his sister, thinking he is safe, thinking that we’ll assume it was Gerber we met in that house!” Holmes sounded damned pleased with himself, but I had to hand it to him - he’d woven a complex web of his own in order to entrap our villain.
“Holmes, you’re a sly old dog,” I said, ruefully. “But don’t think for one minute that I’m not furious with you for keeping me in the dark once again.”
“Come now, Watson,” he replied, in a conciliatory tone. “You know my methods well enough by now.”
“Indeed I do, Holmes,” I said, laughing. “Indeed I do.”
“Well, that’s enough prattle for now, gentlemen,” pronounced Bainbridge, heading for the door. “We must get after him!”
“Indeed we must!” agreed Holmes, elatedly. “Lead on, Inspector!”
And with that, we bustled out into the frigid night in search of a hansom, and Mr. Joseph Maugham.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
FROM THE TESTIMONY OF MISS ANNABEL MAUGHAM
I was feeling somewhat out of sorts when Mr. Edwards called upon me that evening. Or rather, to put it a little more bluntly, I was consumed by anxiety over my situation. I’d been pacing the house for hours, alone and restless, unable to see a way out of my present crisis.
Matters were becoming desperate. As things stood, I would lose everything within a matter of days. Uncle Theobald’s fortune and estate would pass into the hands of the despicable Hans Gerber, who continued to evade Scotland Yard, and I would be left destitute and alone, my allowance cancelled, my inheritance gone.
I knew that Joseph would not leave me to fend for myself -he might be a brute with a fearful lack of self-control, but he was not cold-hearted, and I knew that he cared for me. Nevertheless, the thought offered little comfort, for Joseph, too, had lived his entire life on the generosity of my late uncle, and so far as I knew, whatever mysterious “business” he pursued generated no real income or means of securing our future. Our only hope lay in the recovery of the will and the capture and subsequent prosecution of Hans Gerber for the murder of my poor cousin, Peter.
Time, however, was running out.
Mr. Edwards knew all of this, of course, and tried his best to offer what comfort he could. I could tell from the look on his face when I went to the door that he knew I’d been weeping. He, too, looked harassed and anxious - as if affected almost as deeply as I by the events unfolding around my family - but his demeanour remained as calm and reassuring as ever as I led him through to the sitting room and bade him take a seat. It was a chill night, and I set about building a fire. Mr. Edwards, ever anxious to assist, took it upon himself to organise a pot of tea, and by the time he returned from the kitchen with a rattling tray, the fire was stoked and burning fiercely.
He sat, pouring out the tea in silence.
“Well, Mr. Edwards, what news do you bring?” I asked, finally, unable to restrain myself any longer. “Have there been any developments?”
He looked sheepish as he passed me my teacup and saucer. “I fear, Miss Maugham, that I bring only news of the worst sort. The matter of your uncle’s estate will go before a magistrate this coming Wednesday, and a decision will be made. The beneficiaries will be named.”
“Mr. Edwards, I must insist that you try to hold them off for a little longer,” I said, imploring him to help. “We cannot allow anyone to act hastily. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before the will is uncovered and everything is made clear. Mr. Holmes is still on the case, after all... I know you’ve been a great friend to this family, and a true comfort to me -” I placed my hand upon his as I talked, squeezing it gently “- and you must understand that a little more time would make all the difference to my situation. It cannot truly be necessary that they settle the matter so soon after my uncle’s death?”
Mr. Edwards looked pained. He withdrew his hand, rubbing nervously at his chin. “Miss Maugham, you speak nothing but the truth. I do appreciate the difficult situation in which you find yourself, but I fear the matter is no longer in my hands. Without the will, there is very little anyone can do. The magistrate will settle the case, and that’ll be the end of it.”
I stood, turning away so as not to display my frustration. I could not, however, prevent it from seeping into my voice. “And so Mr. Hans Gerber, wretch that he is, shall inherit my fortune. He walks free from prosecution, despite his murderous crimes, whilst I, innocent, shall be cast down into penury. I shall be rendered homeless, Mr. Edwards. Destitute.”
“Now, now, Miss Maugham!” exclaimed Mr. Edwards, scandalised by my outburst. “It will not come to that. I would never allow it to come to that.”
“But Mr. Edwards, a
s you so ably put it, the matter is no longer in your hands,” I replied, a little too sharply.
“My dear Miss Maugham -” he began in response, exasperated, but stopped short at a loud crashing sound in the hallway. He jumped to his feet in alarm. Moments later, the sitting room door banged open and my brother Joseph staggered in, clutching his shoulder.
His hands were covered in blood and his expression was a twisted grimace of pain. He was bleeding profusely from a wound in his upper arm, and swayed unsteadily on his feet.
“Joseph! I... I...” I stammered, rushing to his side.
“Good God, what happened to you, man?” exclaimed Mr. Edwards. “I’ll send for the police immediately.” He started towards the door.
“No!” bellowed Joseph, stopping Mr. Edwards in his tracks. His breath was ragged and whistling through his gritted teeth. “No police!” He staggered across the room, slumping into an armchair, his head hanging.
“Really, Mr. Maugham. You’re in a bad way. We should send for help. A doctor at the very least,” pressed Mr. Edwards, hovering indecisively in the doorway.
“We send for no one,” barked Joseph in reply, pulling off his coat and tossing it on the floor. Every movement caused him to wince in pain. I could see now that there was a wound in his shoulder, and the bloodstain was spreading like a blooming flower upon his shirt.
“Here, let me take a look,” I said, quietly, moving to unbutton the front of his shirt. I tried to remain calm, but my only thought was that Hans Gerber must have been responsible for this. But what of Gerber himself? What had Joseph done?
Joseph slapped me away angrily with his good hand, leaving a sticky crimson smear on my dress. “Get off me, woman! It’s superficial. I’ll be fine. Fetch me some hot water and linen.”
“Very well...” I said, unsure. While I readily admit that I am no expert in such matters, the wound looked anything but superficial to me. “But tell me, Joseph, is this the work of Hans Gerber?”
“It’s none of your business what it is,” he replied, bitterly.
