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

by Steven Ehrman

  “Indeed,” said Holmes. “This is most instructive. What has happened to your father’s money?”

  “Well, he never had all that much,” said Cyril grimly. “You see, Mother had the money and when she died she left most of it in a trust for Cecilia and myself. Father, of course, inherited the property along with its income, but when Cecilia and myself reached our maturity, it came to us in its entirety.”

  “That must have been most difficult for your Father,” said I.

  “Indeed it was, doctor. My understanding is that the contents of my Mother’s will were unknown to him before her passing. At any rate, he never complained about the distribution. He had all that he needed until…”

  “Until what?” prodded the Inspector.

  “Well, the last year or so my Father has become more erratic in his investments and has lost much of his capital. He has become a victim for every wild scheme that comes his way. He made a plea for money for another investment last evening. He became so insistent on the loan that I fear I quite lost my temper, and yelled my refusal at him and stalked from the study.”

  I recalled the words, “no more money” that had emanated from the room. Cyril’s explanation dovetailed perfectly with them.

  “That all seems in order, Mr. Upton,” said Inspector Wallace. “Mr. Holmes, do you have anything further?”

  “Just one question. Mr. Upton, this new scheme that your father wanted to invest in. What was it?”

  “Oh, just another silly mining interest.”

  “And where did the idea come from.”

  “I am not sure I follow, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Oh, I think you do,” said Holmes blandly. “I am asking who was behind this latest investment scheme?”

  “I don’t see how that has any relevance.”

  “Come now. There has been murder done in this house. All information is potentially relevant, but if it eases your conscious, everyone in the household has heard Mr. Harold Chandler propose an investment to your father. He is the person behind your father’s latest investment idea. Is that not so?”

  “You are correct, Mr. Holmes. Now, mind you the investment may be sound. I make no accusation against Mr. Chandler. It is simply that I had no more patience for my Father’s wild schemes.”

  After a few more questions the Inspector dismissed Cyril and he rejoined the company in the hall.

  “This business grows more Byzantine,” cried Inspector Wallace. “Mr. Holmes, do you believe the young man’s story?”

  “It was told in a plain, direct manner. Of course, Mr. Upton has had some time in order to formulate a story that absolves him of a monetary motive in the death of his father.”

  “So you think young Upton was deceiving us? I must say, Holmes, I am positive it was him refusing to loan anymore money, and not the father.”

  “I think you are likely correct, Watson. The story he told, as it pertains to finances and his mother’s will, is too easy to confirm. No, I believe he was truthful in what he told us. The difficulty, of course, is determining whether someone has told the entire truth.”

  “So you believe that there are people holding back information, Mr. Holmes?” asked the Inspector earnestly. “If we could discover who, we would be able to find our man.”

  “Perhaps,” mused Holmes. “But, people hold back things for their own reasons, and it does not always follow that they are involved in the crime.”

  “Well, I plump for Mr. Harold Chandler,” said the Inspector. “He is a stranger to all, except Mrs. Upton, and she has not seen him for many years. He could be a desperate man. In the morning I will send out some telegrams in order to look into his business practices. Perhaps, he has an unsavory reputation. That would go a long way towards solving this murder.”

  I must admit, I was moved by the Inspector’s words. Harold Chandler did seem a figure that had loomed in my mind since the beginning. His unctuous manner had immediately put me off, although he had done nothing untoward. He had been deep in conversation with Colonel North, and I made a note to feel out the old soldier on his opinion of the adventurer.

  Holmes was in a familiar repose, with his head to his breast and his hands in both pockets. I knew this posture as one that he was in intense thought.

  “What are the most pressing questions in your mind, Holmes?” I asked.

  “There are several unanswered questions that need to be resolved. I believe I know the answer to most of them, but not all. How did the killer leave the room? Where did the cigars come from? Who does the compact belong to? Who wrote the note to you, Watson, and what was the purpose of the note? Was the Judge truly in the throes of madness? And finally, why was the door to the study locked? When all of these questions are answered, and perhaps one more, we will know the identity of the killer.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Inspector exchanged a look with me as Holmes finished. I was at sea myself, and could not help him. Holmes evidently had no more to say at the present and we proceeded out of the study.

  The others were gathered in the hall and were in quiet conversation. All eyes turned toward Holmes and the Inspector. As we came near even the quiet conversation ended and all were in keen attendance at our approach. I noted with some surprise that Cecilia Upton had left her stepmother’s bedside and was sitting next to Robert Evanston. Her freckled nose and her eyes were red. Holmes stood off to one side as the Inspector began.

  “Now, as you all know there has been a tragedy here this evening,” he said, in an official tone. “There are questions I wish to ask of all of you. No guilt is implied by these questions and I ask all to answer to the best of your abilities.”

  There was a silent agreement and he continued.

  “Now, first of all, I wish to know if any of you came downstairs after retiring.”

  There was a slight pause before Harold Chandler spoke. “I came down around midnight, Inspector. I went to the library for a book, and returned to my room.”

  “Did you see anyone else about?”

  “I did not. The house was in darkness and I heard nothing.”

  “You say the house was in darkness, but was a light visible under the door in the study?”

  “Well, I could not say for certain,” said Chandler slowly. “Now that you say so, I do seem to recall a bit of light from the study, but I could not swear to it. I would hardly have noticed, at any rate.”

  “And why not, Mr. Chandler?”

  “Because it has been my experience that the Judge is…err was a man of irregular habits. I have heard him traipsing about the house at all hours since my visit began.”

  “That much is true,” said Cyril. “My Father had a most notorious case of insomnia for much of his life. It had only grown worse in his declining years.”

  The Inspector listened to young Upton, but continued to bore down on Harold Chandler.

  “What is the purpose of your visit, Mr. Chandler?” he asked.

  “Why, to see my niece, of course,” said he. “What is the meaning of such a question?”

  “Was there no other reason for this visit?”

  “I don’t know what you mean and I don’t appreciate the tone, Inspector,” said Chandler, with some heat.

  “It is surely no secret that you wished for the Judge to invest in a mining scheme.”

  “It is no scheme, Inspector. It is an operation in the heart of a rich mining area in South Africa. I was giving the Judge an opportunity to invest as a favor. It was not a scheme, as you say, to defraud him. I am a reputable businessman as my past would indicate to any who wanted to ascertain.”

  “We will certainly be checking antecedents, sir,” said the Inspector. “Now, Colonel North,” the Inspector continued, “you were about yourself after hours. What was your reason?”

  “I simply could not sleep. I finally decided to get a book myself, much like Chandler. We had both toured it earlier and I saw some interesting novels I thought I might read.”

  “But, you did not actua
lly go to the library, did you sir?” asked Wallace.

  “I did not, Inspector,” he replied calmly. “Dr. Watson has the last room on the corridor before the stairs, and I saw that his light was on. I thought that he might wish to swap yarns with me until the insomnia passed. I knocked at his door and we were talking until the fight broke out downstairs.”

  “But you wanted more than to simply swap yarns, Colonel,” said Holmes. These were Holmes’s first words since we had left the study and all eyes turned towards him. “You had a specific purpose for knocking up the doctor.”

  “Of course, he has told you,” said the Colonel, with a wide smile. “It is true, Mr. Holmes, that I wanted to question the doctor as to his purpose here. Your name is widely known and I admit I was curious. Of course, at the time no one knew you were already here.”

  I noticed no startled faces at that pronouncement. It occurred to me that those present in the study earlier, who had seen the transformation of Reeves to Holmes, must have supplied that fact to those who had not witnessed it.

  “Now, Mr. Withers,” said Inspector Wallace, resuming the interrogation. “What can you tell us of your movements late in the evening, after the ladies had retired?”

  “Precious little I am afraid,” said Withers ruefully. “I must admit that I made rather merry with the whiskey this evening, and I do not remember much before I awoke and found the Colonel and Watson talking across from my room.”

  “What was your purpose in leaving your room?” interjected Holmes.

  “You see, when I awoke I felt rather as if I had been put away wet, if you know what I mean. I rather fancy that I was going to step out for some fresh air, but I cannot say for certain.”

  “That would explain why you were fully dressed,” said Holmes. “But, you were surprised to find the doctor and the Colonel awake, I take it.”

  “I certainly was. I joined them, and we talked for a while, until the commotion from the study, and we all rushed down.”

  It appeared that the Inspector wished to question Withers further, but at a gesture from Holmes he abruptly halted. He instead turned his attention to Robert Evanston.

  “Mr. Evanston, you were the first upon the scene after the study was broken into, correct?”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “Of course, I missed all the fun.”

  “That attitude is a bit flippant isn’t it, sir?” demanded the Inspector.

  “The old boy was a leech on society. Better they were all swept into the dustbin of history and let the next generation lead.”

  “Really, Robert,” said Cecilia. “This was my Father after all.”

  “Of course, my dear. When it hits close to home it is very unpleasant. My country is much younger and does not have the same regard for lords and knights.”

  “But Simon Upton was not a peer, Mr. Evanston,” said Holmes. “He was a judge, and all societies need judges. Even your United States is a land of laws.”

  “Judges are appointed by the landed,” declared Evanston. “They share in the same miserable system regardless of the title.”

  “That is an overbroad view, but young men might be excused for strong feelings.”

  “You’re no better, Mr. Sherlock Homes,” Evanston said with a sneer. “I know you. You’re a tool of the elite yourself. Would you be here if the baker had been murdered? I do not think so.”

  I thought that Evanston’s words were those of a callow youth, but I had to admit to myself that he cut a dashing figure dressed in black with his dark hair streaming before the fireplace. Holmes appeared to study the man for a moment.

  “I believe you’re nothing more than a mountebank,” declared the young man. “This bunk about the murderer being among us is pure rot. I think you’re off your rocker, old boy.”

  Holmes merely smiled and said nothing in return. The Inspector cleared his throat and continued.

  “All of this is beside the point, Mr. Evanston, and I would appreciate it if you will confine yourself to the case at hand. After all, a man has been murdered.”

  At the Inspector’s somewhat brutal summation I noticed Cecilia blanch and Colonel North winced visibly. I thought that perhaps, the modern daughter was not quite so modern as she liked to believe herself, and that the hardened old Colonel was softer than he would want people to know.

  “Now, why were you about so late, Mr. Evanston?” asked the Inspector.

  “I was not about, as you say. I was in my room when I heard the noises from downstairs.”

  “Odd that you should hear them and no one else did?”

  “I wasn’t the only one that heard them, Inspector,” he said, with a sneer. “After all, these three other men were there first.”

  “Yes, but they were at the room closest to the stairs, and the door was open. Your room, as I recall, is nearer the other end of the corridor.”

  “Well, as a matter of fact I had my door open as well,” said Evanston lightly. “The air was a bit close in my room and I was having a last cigarette before bed. I heard a ruckus from downstairs and I went to investigate. I found the others there before me, standing around the body.”

  “Colonel North,” said the Inspector. “Does that statement concur with your memory of the events?”

  “Roughly yes, I should say. Evanston was upon the scene some moments behind my party. We were all staring at the body somewhat dumbfounded when Evanston appeared in the doorway.”

  “Very good,” said Wallace. “Now, Mr. Woodson, you and Mr. Evanston went upstairs together.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “We played a bit at billiards after everyone else went to bed and then we went up together.”

  “Did you see Evanston to his room?”

  “No. His was further on. I joined my wife, she was already asleep, and I went to sleep soon after.”

  “You heard nothing more until Meadows awoke you?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Now, as I understand it the ladies were the first to retire.”

  “That is not correct, Inspector,” I said. “Cyril was the first. The ladies retired soon afterwards.”

  The Inspector scanned his notes. “Ah, yes. I see that, but in any case did either of you hear anything of note after you went upstairs?”

  He looked from Jane Woodson to Cecilia Upton, but neither of them would admit to seeing or hearing anything. The Inspector checked his notes over again and appealed to Holmes.

  “Did you have any further questions, Mr. Holmes?”

  “There is, of course, the matter of the notes, Inspector,” said he.

  “Certainly, certainly,” said Wallace. “By all means proceed.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Holmes began, “I wish you to all examine this note, and tell me if you wrote it or, if you recognize the handwriting.”

  Holmes produced the note that had been slipped under my door. It passed from hand to hand. There was a murmuring, but no one admitted authorship.

  “If no one here wrote the note, can anyone hazard a guess at who wrote it?” asked Holmes.

  “It looks a bit like Fathers handwriting,” said Cecilia softly. “Don’t you think so, Cyril?”

  “It could be,” said her brother, knitting his brow. “Father and I write a bit alike, and I certainly did not write it so perhaps it is Father’s. Colonel, what do you think.”

  “My boy, I would not know, I am afraid.”

  “But you and Father corresponded frequently,” said Cyril.

  “True, but neither of us kept at it in these later years, as we did when I was flung across the empire. I am afraid I am an unreliable witness at present.”

  Cyril frowned and handed the note back to Holmes. “That’s the best I can say. Mother could look at it in the morning, I daresay.”

  “We will certainly ask the lady,” said Holmes. “Now, there is another note I wish to show you.”

  Holmes produced the paper that we had discovered under the body with a flourish. I had the feeling that he had wished to spring i
t upon those assembled in the hopes of drawing a reaction from someone. As he did so I heard a cry from the stairs. Honoria Upton was descending and had caught sight of the paper.

  “My God, it’s the crosses!” she cried. “He was right.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  There was a gasp from both of the younger ladies, and Cecilia Upton’s hand flew to her chest. Colonel North was the first to his feet, and he rushed to the stairs and took the lady in his arms, lest she faint.

  Honoria Upton rallied in the embrace of the Colonel and he led her gently down the stairs to the sofa.

  “What is this talk of crosses?” demanded Harold Chandler.

  “Indeed, Mr. Holmes,” asked Colonel North. “What the devil does this thing have to do with the murder?”

  “It was found under the body, Colonel,” said Inspector Wallace firmly. “There is no doubt it was deliberately placed there by the murderer.”

  “But it’s merely a children’s game,” protested Robert Evanston. “In the states it is called tic-tac-toe. What can it have to do with this?”

  “What indeed, Mr. Evanston,” said Holmes. “It must now be told that the Judge had demonstrated a dread fear of these symbols before his death, according to Mrs. Upton. Was anyone else aware of this fear? Mr. Woodson, you worked closely with the Judge, I ask you.”

  Woodson shook his head firmly. “I know nothing of any such matter. It is true the Judge seemed distracted, but he mentioned nothing of crosses and noughts to me.” He looked pleadingly at his wife, but she did not return his gaze.

  Holmes continued. “Mrs. Upton, I do not wish to over tax you. Are you well enough to remain?”

  “I will remain,” said the lady. “My maid told me of this tragedy when I awoke. I foresaw it, Mr. Holmes. So did Simon. I feel so foolish that I doubted his sanity. Whatever I can do to bring his killer to justice, I will do.

  The lady set a determined chin as she spoke, and I felt a great admiration for her fortitude. I saw Colonel North’s face brim with pride at her stance. He patted her hand and stood guard by her as a lioness over a cub.