The Mad Judge (A Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tale Book 3)

by Steven Ehrman

  With those words he quickly exited the room. His entire attitude was quite unlike the way I remembered my former companion. I thought of speaking, yet that night with Holmes about it. As I mused upon the vagaries of the night sleep overtook me, and I dozed heavily until the morning.

  A bright sunshine was pouring through the window as I awakened. It looked to be a beautiful day, though the air contained a distinct chill. Winter had not yet released the country from her frigid grasp and one final cold snap was merely a demonstration of the power Mother Nature possessed. I performed my morning toilet and went downstairs for the morning meal.

  The smells of the English country breakfast assaulted my nose as I was descending the stairs. I was the last of the household to come to breakfast, and my companions had not awaited my coming. The sideboard was groaning with sausages, bacon, eggs, and kidneys. The Withers men represented different spectrums of the morning meal. George Upton had a plate piled high with the various viands available, whilst his son John had a much more sparse approach to breakfast. He had only a single egg with fresh buttered bread and coffee.

  My friend Holmes cut a middle path between our two hosts. While his meal was not as austere as John’s was, it neither approached the massive amount of food as the father. I chose to emulate Holmes, and found a happy medium between gluttony and mere sustenance. We were being treated to a monologue on the superiority of country life from the senior Withers as we ate.

  “Only in the countryside are meals given the priority they deserve. Why, in my days in the city breakfast was coffee, toast and a bit of jam, I was in such a hurry to get to my office. And it was not just me, gentlemen, but all men of finance. The early bird, you know.”

  “Yes, Father, I have been told many times of your sacrifices,” said John, with a twinkle.

  “Just what was done in my age, my boy,” said the father. He did not appear to have noticed the slight mocking tone of his son. “Yes, indeed, it was just what was done. Today’s youth has none of the work ethic of the old days. More is the pity.”

  His own words seemed to have driven him into a brown study, and he ceased speaking and concentrated on his plate. John gave a wan smile and did the same. We ate in renewed silence for a time. Homes was the first to finish, and he rose, lit a cigarette, and peered through a window.

  “A clear day,” said he. “A wonder there was no frost this morning.”

  “The gauge is rising though, Mr. Holmes,” said George Withers, rousing himself from his meal. “It is nearly thirty and that means snow is on the way.”

  “Hardly that, Father,” exclaimed John. “It is nearly spring.”

  “Spring is often a longtime coming, my boy. Why I remember the year without summer.”

  “Father, come now, that was before you were born.”

  “Well my father remembered it and he told me,” he said, with a tone of irritation. “You never know when it will happen again.”

  “I think, perhaps, it was your grandfather who told you that tale, Father,” said John. “At university we learned that the weather is dependent upon a multitude of factors that cannot be predicted.”

  I expected Holmes to jump in at this point with a scientific explanation for the year without summer and for the changing of the seasons, but he continued to stare out of the window seemingly oblivious to the gentle quarrel between father and son. At length breakfast was consumed. The elder Withers excused himself, pleading correspondence that needed attention, while John mumbled something about a book and went to the library. Holmes and I found ourselves alone, and he suggested a stroll through the grounds.

  The estate had a marvelous, well kept lawn and garden, despite the season. My friend, and I, walked for some minutes without speaking. Holmes obviously had wanted to talk to me alone, but I let him choose his own moment. We found ourselves approaching a stone bench by a pond, and Holmes indicated we should sit.

  “I am having some scruples about sending you in my stead this evening, Watson,” he said finally.

  It was not like Holmes to second guess a decision and I waited for him to expound upon it.

  “The more I reflect upon the story we have been told, the more I grow uneasy. As the marionette feels, that is how I feel.”

  “I detect no strings about you, Holmes.”

  “Ah, but, Watson, some strings are hidden from view.”

  I looked at the drawn face of my friend. Our short sojourn in the countryside had helped, but his face still looked pale and drawn. I made up my mind to forestall him from attending this evening, if I could. I had convinced him to come to the country, at great effort, in order to regain his health, and I determined that was my foremost task.

  “Holmes, I believe you were correct in your initial assumption of Mrs. Upton. Furthermore, I still feel some responsibility for your health. Allow John, and I to carry this burden. In the absence of a crime, I know not what would be expected of you at any rate.”

  “You speak my own words back at me, doctor, but I perceive your desire which is to protect me from myself. That is often a thankless task, Watson, but I do thank you. Very well. I put this in your capable hands. Let us return to the manor. I believe the old gentleman is correct and that we are in for some inclement weather.”

  The rest of the day was passed in an uneasy, brooding silence. The squire did not make another appearance until the dinner hour approached, and John had appropriated the carriage to make a run into the village. He did not make me aware of the purpose of the trip, yet he did inform me that he would be back in plenty of time for us to make our scheduled journey to Upton Hall.

  Holmes also disappeared, pleading fatigue, so I was left to my own devices. The library was at my disposal of course so I made my mind up to while away the hours in the pages of a pleasant book. As a boy I had often lost myself within the world created by Defoe. The squire had a fine illustrated copy of his seminal work, Robinson Crusoe, and I settled in for a pleasant read. I had not yet gotten to the point of Friday’s entrance into the plot, when I felt a bit drowsy. The servants had laid in the fire in the library and the heat, while welcome, caused my eyelids to grow heavy. I sat my book down on the arm of my chair and closed my eyes briefly. I had no intention of sleeping, but I quickly slipped into the arms of Morpheus and did not awake for several hours.

  At a start I opened my eyes and saw the grinning face of John Withers. He was standing with his back to the fire, with his hands thrust into his trouser pockets.

  “Babies sleep over twenty hours a day, Watson, but I am surprised a man of your years seeks to emulate them.”

  “I was simply resting my eyes,” I protested. “The strain from reading don’t you know.”

  “Of course, Watson. I should have seen that at once when I came in twenty minutes ago and you were snoring.”

  “Well, I suppose I might have drifted off for a few minutes, but never mind that. What time is it?”

  “Nearly six and we should think about leaving soon. I know the judge likes to eat promptly at eight, and if we arrive a bit early, we can mingle with the guests first. I assume as Holmes’s eyes and ears you will wish to interrogate everyone.”

  “Holmes did ask me to observe all the household, but surely the trip is a short one by carriage.”

  “It is, but I fear that our conveyance is not in top shape. One of the wheels was quite balky on the trip back from the village. Would you be adverse to a brisk walk? Two miles is merely a stretch of the legs in the countryside.”

  “I would like nothing better, but the walk back would be a lonely one in the dark.”

  “The road is well laid out, and nearly straight. With a moon it will be like a stroll in the garden.”

  “Then I am your man. I assume you have seen the younger Uptons since they have returned to the family hearth.”

  “Only Cyril, I’m afraid. He has been a morose man quite unlike my old chum of university days.”

  “Is he quite an invalid?”

  “No, not really.
The army has declared him unfit, of course, and that is what has him at sixes and sevens. The poor blighter doesn’t know what to do with his life.”

  I mulled this over and remembered my own feelings when I had been wounded. I was quite at loose ends as to how I was to proceed until I had made the acquaintance of Holmes. I smiled, as I recalled our first days together. A cough from John brought me back to the present.

  “Well, at any rate he has you as an old friend to lean on a bit,” I said hopefully. “What is the daughter like?”

  “She is a vision, Watson,” he smiled. “She was a magical girl as a youth and they say she has grown into a beautiful woman.”

  “Why did her father allow her to go to school in America?” I mused. “From what I know of the judge’s character, it would seem to me that he would want her close to home.”

  “The answer to that is easy enough,” said John. “The old man did it because of me.”

  I looked up in surprise and saw something in John Withers’s eyes that I had never seen before. Hatred.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “What?” I gasped. I looked again at my friend and saw only an expression of sadness. I wondered if I had imagined the fierce look.

  “It’s true I’m afraid, Watson,” he said. “Cecilia and I were only youngsters, but her father was wildly against a match between us. I haven’t the faintest inference why. He and Father are old friends. You would think he would have approved the match, but nevertheless he did not. It is possible it was only a childish infatuation between the two of us, but the Judge would not allow it to expand into love. He sent her to America for her schooling and she has stayed all this time.”

  “But she is back now,” I said gently.

  “Yes, but with a fiancé,” he said despondently. “And even if she was not attached, I am just another broken down soldier with few prospects.”

  “Surely, you stand to inherit from your father,” I protested.

  “Watson, I will tell you something no one else knows. Father, bless him, has speculated heavily and lost much of his fortune. You remember the tin scare of last year? Well he plunged deeply in futures and lost everything he had put in.”

  I mulled this news over. It was a blow to John, but he seemed to be holding up well. I had always remembered him as a person determined to make his way in the world on his own merits. I admired his stoic appearance and felt somewhat aggrieved at the father who had squandered his fortune.

  “Please, don’t blame father,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “He has not been the same since he lost mother.”

  We lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. John Withers broke the spell after a few minutes by slapping his thigh and standing.

  “Let us prepare for our trip, Watson. Bundle up, as I believe that Father is right and a cold snap is in the offing.”

  With those words he strode from the room and left me alone with my thoughts. Presently I decided to take the advice of my friend, and I repaired to my room for the appropriate garments for the trip. I heard a tap at my door, it opened, and Holmes entered. His face was ashen.

  “Holmes, my word,” I cried out. “Have you taken ill?”

  Holmes smiled weakly. “I fear my constitution is not yet as strong as I had imagined. I do not feel myself at all, doctor.”

  I felt the detective’s forehead and found it was warm to the touch.

  “Why, Holmes, you are feverish. It is the excitement that Mrs. Upton brought. All my effort at recovering your health is in jeopardy.”

  Holmes sat heavily in a chair.

  “I merely need a rest, doctor. A full nights sleep will restore me to my usual self, I assure you. I only stopped by to remind you to exercise caution this evening and to tell you I would not be seeing you off.”

  “Holmes, perhaps I had better send my regrets to the lady and attend you. Surely, your health is my top priority.”

  “Watson, you have an admirable loyalty, but we have promised the lady your presence and you shall go. In the meantime I beg your pardon, as I must return to my rooms. I feel quite tired.”

  I dared not argue with Holmes for much longer as he seemed most fatigued, and I eventually acceded to his demand that John Withers and I follow through on the evening’s itinerary.

  As I readied myself for the walk to Upton Hall I must admit, that I was a bit disappointed in Holmes’s infirmity. I must admit that I had hoped that at the last moment he would change his previous position on the matter and accompany us. That was now a washout, but I rallied remembering his faith in me to stand in his stead. I promised myself that nothing would escape my eyes during the evening. I had been a student of the methods of Holmes over the years, and I flattered myself that I was a reasonable substitute when the great detective was not available. Perhaps, I was even the second best detective in England. With that heady thought, I made my way downstairs in search of John Withers.

  At the foot of the stairs I heard voices from the study and followed them. I entered the room and found John Withers deep in conversation with his father. The elder Withers was holding forth and pointing a finger at the son.

  “The damage is done, my boy,” he said. “Allow yourself no further pain.”

  “Really, Father,” he returned. “You act as if I am the same child who left here for the army. I have been halfway around the world.”

  “Just the same,” said the older man, and he halted as he noticed my presence.

  “My apologies,” said I. “I have no wish to disturb a father and son.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” said John. “Father was merely wishing us well tonight. Isn’t that so, Father?”

  “Of course, of course, “said the Squire. “You two should be off if you wish to make the hall on foot. Darkness comes early here in the country. But first a drink”

  “Father, it is the same sun as in London, but a brandy will warm us for the trip.”

  “Quite, quite.”

  We made small talk for some few minutes more as we consumed our brandies when George Withers made note of the time. He seemed satisfied as to something and announced: “Well, have a pleasant evening, and off you go.”

  The Squire accompanied the two of us to the door and we left with an amiable goodbye. As we walked down the drive of the estate and entered the lane, I looked back and saw the old Squire still in the doorway following our progress. John joined his arm in mine and we set a brisk pace in the fading light.

  John made an affable walking companion and we engaged in trading tales of our time in Afghanistan together. It was only in the latter part of our journey that the conversation swung back to the purpose of our visit.

  “Do you think there is anything to this business, Watson?” he asked.

  “I think it likely that we will spend a quiet evening with little out of the ordinary to report.”

  “Is that what Holmes believes? Tell me honestly.”

  “It is difficult to divine Holmes’s true feelings at any time,” I admitted. “Even as his long companion I find myself quite outside of his innermost confidence until he deems the moment ripe, but I will say this. If Holmes thought that there was the possibility of actual danger, he would have come himself, no matter what the consequences of his health might be. However, who can predict the vagaries of human nature? Not even Sherlock Holmes, I would say in answer.”

  “There is that I suppose,” came his doubtful reply. “Well in any event we are in for a bountiful meal. Judge Upton, whatever his other faults, is known to set a fine table. The cook is a treasure, and indeed the entire staff is one of renown in this part of the country. Meadows is the very vision of the old school English butler.”

  “Yes. I recall Mrs. Upton spoke of him specifically. It is a dying breed. What of the others we are to meet? Are you of acquaintance with them as well?”

  “Outside of Cyril and Cecelia, they are mostly strangers to me. The estate manager Woodson, I’ve spoken to several times. He’s a bit of a rip, they say. Good looking chap and I kno
w for a fact the local girls are in a swoon over him.”

  “But I understood he was married.”

  “Oh, rather,” said Withers absentmindedly. “I met her once as well. She’s a plain sort, as Father intemperately said in front of Mrs. Upton. Very devoted to her husband, I’m sure, and I believe he is devoted to her as well despite local gossip.”

  “The lady mentioned an uncle and an old friend of the judge.”

  “Mrs. Upton’s uncle I have not met. They say he’s a traveler. You know the sort. Brazilian rubber plantations, South African diamond mines, Australian cattle. Old England is too soggy and dull for them. The friend of the Judge’s I have met before. Old army man himself. A colonel he is. Spent most of his time in India. A real pukka sahib, don’t you know. He can spin a yarn. I don’t imagine he’s spent more than two years in England in the last thirty.”

  “And what of Cecilia’s fiancé?” I asked warily. “I take it you do not approve of him anymore than the Judge or your father do.”

  Withers laughed out loud and gave me a merry sidelong glance.

  “Don’t put me in the same pile as those two old duffers, Watson. If he makes Cecilia happy then that is good enough for me. I don’t mind radicals. Sometimes I think things need a bit of shaking up. I just hope those fellows are as good at building as they are at tearing down. In any case, old boy, you’ll be meeting them soon.”

  “I suppose everyone will be at dinner.”

  “You suppose correctly. They’d be out on their ear if they didn’t. The Judge is very particular about meals. You’ll see for yourself. Father and I are just two old bachelors, but at Upton Hall dinner is an event.”

  I thought I could make out in the gloom a large building several hundred yards ahead of us on the right. I heard hounds baying in the distance and thought of the lady’s testimony about letting the dogs run loose as a precaution against burglars. Once again Withers read my thoughts.

  “Have no fear,” he said. “It is not yet seven and the dogs are surely still penned. I doubt very much that they are released every night, in any case. The judge probably just threatened that during an intemperate moment.”