The New Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes (11 page)

‘Pray proceed.’

‘Mueller admitted us to the house himself. He explained that Effie, the housemaid, had been dismissed that very afternoon. When Dr Burr announced that Alicia was unlikely to survive another twenty-four hours, Effie was unable to contain her distress and dropped a teapot, smashing it into little pieces. It is typical of my sister’s habitual contrariness that she gave the poor woman notice on the spot and insisted that she leave her house at once, rather than recognising her genuine concern. John Pawson felt he had no choice but to accompany his wife to her brother’s home in Richmond and was not expected back until the morning. My sister had not bargained for that, Mueller said. She retained her confidence in Pawson, despite the dismissal of his wife, and pleaded with him not to leave her, while refusing to allow his wife to remain in her home for a moment longer. Ridiculous behaviour, sir! At all events, the lawyer had arranged for a woman who lived next door to sit in the house while he fetched me, in case Alicia raised the alarm in his absence. The neighbour scuttled off as soon as we arrived and Mueller led me upstairs.’

Stubbings mopped his brow. ‘Alicia’s room was in darkness. The atmosphere was musty and unpleasant. As we entered, I feared we might be too late, but she was still alive. Her breath rasped dreadfully, however, and I did not doubt that the end was near.’

‘Was she able to speak?’ I asked.

‘Faintly,’ Stubbings replied. ‘I had to bend over the bed to catch her words. She was well wrapped up, but even so, she was shivering. She whispered that she would never feel warm again.’

‘She recognised you?’

‘When I told her my name, she inclined her head and murmured her thanks. Merely to speak was an effort that cost her dear. I asked if she was sure that she wished to make a change to her will, and she said that she was.’

‘You had no cause to suspect that she was of unsound mind?’

‘No more than ever,’ Stubbings said with a grimace. ‘She was a sick woman, but her mind was no more addled than it had ever been, to that I would swear.’ 

‘Did she speak about the provisions of the will?’

‘No, save to murmur the name
Bertram.
All was clear to me, however, because Mueller had outlined the main provisions to me, in confidence. Of course, as a witness, I had no right to such information, but I suspect he felt the need to justify dragging me from my fireside.’

‘Who inherited the estate?’

‘Previously, it was divided into ten parts. One-tenth went to Effie Pawson, in recognition of her loyal service. Ninety pounds, Holmes, a handsome sum for a servant! The remainder was bequeathed to the Amateur Mendicant Society.’

Holmes arched his eyebrows. ‘An organisation with which you are familiar?’

‘Certainly, Mr Holmes. Alicia told me about it almost half a century ago. I have little time for the Society, but I cannot help but respect its longevity, as well as its discretion. It is one of London’s best kept secrets.’

Holmes contented himself with a nod.

Tantalised, I said, ‘Well, then? What is this Society?’

‘Membership,’ Stubbings said, with a self-made man’s frown of disapproval, ‘is confined to students of Christ Church College in Oxford – mind, for some unfathomable reason, the term ‘student’ does not mean the present generation of scholars, but rather the fellows of the college. Their objects are twofold. First, to masquerade as beggars in the streets of London and thereby to raise money for charitable causes dear to their heart. Second, and at least as important, to indulge their taste for the finest wines in civilised company – which they deem to be the company of their college peers. How much the good causes actually receive, as compared with the city’s vintners, is no doubt a matter for conjecture.’

‘Extraordinary!’ I exclaimed.

‘Quite so. I am tempted I thank the Lord that I lack a supposedly sophisticated education, my good Doctor. Suffice to say that half a century ago, my sister was betrothed to a Christ Church man by the name of Bertram Rothwell. He died young and, if – unlike myself, Mr Holmes - you were of a romantic turn of phrase, you might say his death broke Alicia’s heart. She told Mueller that she had learned that his nephew, one Tobias Rothwell, is currently President of the Society and that, in her mind, was reason enough to bestow upon the organisation the bulk of her estate.’

‘The will was produced?’

‘I have it here, Mr Holmes.’

Stubbings withdrew a sheet of paper from his pocket with the flourish of a prestidigitator and pressed his nose close to it as he studied what was written. The document was written in Mueller’s careful yet inelegant hand. I saw that, apart from a few bequests to John Pawson, the gift of a brooch to the neighbour, and a donation of ten pounds to an alms-house in Kentish Town, all Alicia Stubbings’ worldly goods went to the Amateur Mendicant Society.

‘Alicia signed the will, and then the lawyer and I appended our signatures as witnesses. Even as the ink dried, my sister gave a little sigh and it was plain that death approached. I bent down to kiss her forehead and her own dry lips brushed my cheek. I’m not a sentimental man, Mr Holmes, but for an instant, I came close to shedding a tear. Nonsense, of course. I felt a little embarrassed, and Mueller said that he must summon the doctor. I offered to stay until Burr arrived, but Mueller would not hear of it. He whispered that Alicia had told him that she did not wish me to see her die. Whether that was true or merely a kindness, I shall confess that, on the lawyer’s assurance that he would keep me closely informed,  I was glad to make my goodbyes to him and to my sister and leave that gloomy house.‘

‘Was Mueller as good as his word?’

‘He called on me again late the next morning to say that my sister had passed away within half an hour of my departure and to convey his condolences. He and Dr Burr had ensured that her body was taken to the funeral parlour, but he said that he was due to travel to France on behalf of a client the following day and would be away for a month. He had broken the news to John Pawson on his arrival back from Richmond. The man had asked if he and his wife might be permitted to stay in the house until they found alternative positions and I indicated my agreement to Mueller. When I asked about his bill of costs, Mueller said he was minded to waive his fees, given the limited nature of his involvement on behalf of my sister. Naturally, I took this for a hint that he hoped I might engage his firm’s services to assist me in discharging my duties as executor, but I explained that I intended to consult my own solicitor, should the necessity arise, and that I did not wish to feel under any obligation to him. At this, he said that, if I insisted, he would ask for five guineas to donate to a charitable foundation of which he was a trustee, and I paid up on the spot.’

‘Thus neatly were matters concluded,’ my friend murmured. ‘Pray, then, what brings you here on this rather miserable afternoon?’

‘Because,’ Stubbings said, bending his bald head towards us, ‘I have discovered that the man who called himself Peter Mueller was an impostor.’

***

‘Well, Watson, what do you make of that little tale?’ Holmes asked later as we each drank a cup of tea prepared by the landlady. Our visitor had left to attend a board meeting at the administrative offices of Stubbings’ Sauce hard by Russell Square, but my friend had agreed to accept his instructions to look into the matter, and proposed that we should meet again later that evening. Holmes at once suggested a
rendez-vous
at Alicia Stubbings’ house, and it was agreed that we would meet again at six o’clock that evening.

‘It is most perplexing,’ I confessed. ‘Do you believe that Stubbings is telling us the truth?’

‘Why should he lie?’

‘Perhaps he is more dismayed that he inherited nothing under the will than he is willing to concede.’

My friend permitted himself a wry smile. ‘Mr Stubbings is disinclined to courtesy towards lawyers and medical men, but that should not prejudice you against his veracity, Watson. For my part, I am prepared to accept his story at face value.’

‘Then you believe that the man who brought Stubbings to his sister’s bedside was no lawyer?’

‘I am afraid that I share my client’s scepticism. How often does a lawyer who charges by the word reduce the last will and testament of a client with some money to a single sheet of paper? Let alone need to be persuaded to render an invoice?’

When Stubbings consulted his own solicitor with regard to the distribution of the late Miss Alica Stubbings’ estate, the lawyer happened to question the draftsmanship of the will. Stubbings presumed at first that any infelicities of wording were attributable to the fact that English was not Mueller’s first language. Nevertheless, his curiosity was aroused. He took a cab to Bedford Row and pay a call upon the offices of Messrs Mueller and Trott, obtaining an audience with the senior partner upon a pretext.

To his astonishment, he discovered that Peter Mueller was a thin and ascetic individual who spoke perfect English and bore no resemblance to the man he had met on the night of Alicia’s passing. The real Peter Mueller had been born in St Albans, although his grandfather came from Heidelberg. He found Stubbings’ story both alarming and extraordinary, but could cast no light on the identity of the man who had impersonated him. He confirmed that the wording of the will lacked what he described as legal elegance, but also that its provisions were, in principle, valid. Whether the position would be affected if it proved that one of the witnesses to the will had given a false name was, in his opinion, a nice point. He would need to study the precedents in detail before he could commit himself to a definitive view.

Unwilling to wait while legal research pursued its ponderous course, Stubbings proceeded to consult Dr Burr, but that gentleman professed himself to be equally baffled. Until the day of Alice Stubbings’ death, he had never encountered the man who called himself Mueller, although he readily confirmed that his patient was apt to change her lawyer as frequently as to adjust the terms of her will.

My friend allowed himself a smile, uncomfortably reminiscent of a cat contemplating a mouse. ‘Very well, Watson. What is your theory?’

‘You have warned me more than once of the dangers of theorizing without data,’ I temporised.

‘A lesson well learned, I am glad to hear. But courage, Watson! Already you possess much of the data required to solve Mr Stubbings’ pretty problem. Only one element of the puzzle appears to me to be missing.’

Nettled, I said, ‘This Society sounds devilishly odd. It will not have escaped your notice that its members profited from the change in Miss Stubbings’ will at the expense of the dismissed housemaid.’

The terms of the testamentary dispositions are by no means without interest, I agree.’

‘As for this Society, it is undoubtedly a singular organisation.’ I studied Holmes’ face in vain for a clue to his thoughts. ‘It is my opinion that a conversation with Mr Tobias Rothwell may provide us with the key to unlocking the mystery.’

‘You propose that we should call upon the Amateur Mendicant Society?’

Emboldened, I said, ‘Absolutely.’

‘Very well.’ Holmes consulted his watch. ‘We have time enough to visit their outlandish premises and see if by some happy chance the Society’s President is in attendance.’

His ill-concealed amusement irked me and I demanded, ‘What do you make of it all?’

Holmes shrugged. ‘The elements of the criminal scheme are apparent, but as I indicated, there is one important detail to be uncovered.’

‘And what might that detail be?’ I enquired stiffly.

‘The facts are before you, my dear fellow,’ he said in a dismissive tone. ‘Pray consider them.’

He declined to discuss the case further as we travelled in a four-wheeler to the Euston Road. Darkness had fallen by the time we arrived at a large, brick building, whose signboard bore the legend featherstonehaugh’s furniture

‘Granville Featherstonehaugh founded the Amateur Mendicant Society in the year that our gracious Queen ascended the throne,’ Holmes informed me, as he led the way around the side of the building into a gloomy alley-way. ‘Years later, as his furniture business prospered, he made the lower vault of this warehouse available for meetings of the Society and it rapidly became one of the most exclusive clubs in London. In so far, as a club reserved for Christ Church men may be deemed exclusive, that is.’

I raised my eyebrows at the irony, recalling that Holmes had been a pupil of Benjamin Jowett at Balliol. Certainly, nobody could match my friend for the tranquil consciousness of effortless superiority with which the
alumni
of that college are said to be endowed. Before I could speak, we reached an unobtrusive door with a bell-push. When Holmes rang, the door opened at once, creating the illusion that our visit was expected.

A tall and imposing Indian servant, clad from head to toe in white, stood in front of us. His arms were folded, his bearing was majestic. As he contemplated our faces, his brow furrowed, but he did not utter a word. Beyond him, I saw a square, windowless vestibule and the head of a flight of stairs leading below ground.

‘My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my companion, Dr Watson. I wish to speak with the President if the Amateur Mendicant Society, if he is here this afternoon.’

The servant stared at us impassively for a full minute. As I shifted from foot to foot, he suddenly turned on his heel and disappeared down the stairs. We remained on the threshold. My friend appeared remarkably sanguine, but I was seized by a sudden anxiety.

‘Holmes, I should tell you that I failed to bring my old service revolver with me today. I did not expect…’

‘When you visit your old quarters in Baker Street,’ my friend said with a touch of asperity, ‘you would do well to expect the unexpected. As it happens, I have my Webley revolver with me, but I do not expect to be called upon to make use of it here.’

‘If Tobias Rothwell..,’ I began, to be interrupted by the sound of boots tramping up the stairs.

‘You are aware of my existence, then, Dr Watson?’