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

by Steven Ehrman

  “That will be all, I believe, Mr. Withers,” he said.

  Before John could rise Holmes roused himself and spoke.

  “Mr. Withers, this is a capital crime and the police take a dim view of those who would obstruct justice. Is there nothing you wish to add to your statement, or perhaps withdraw?”

  “Whatever are you talking about?” he asked, in a bewildered tone.

  “You have deliberately been deceptive with us.”

  For a moment I saw a flash of fear cross Withers’ face, but it was quickly replaced by the urbane smile of my old friend.

  “Now, I know you’re not a fool, Mr. Holmes, but I’ve been as honest as I can with you gentlemen.”

  “Mr. Holmes, just what are you talking about?” asked Inspector Wallace.

  “No one notices servants,” Holmes said sotto voce.

  Wallace exchanged a puzzled glance with me.

  “What has this business to do with the servants?” asked the Inspector.

  “Nothing,” said Holmes. “In fact, they are often nearly invisible to many people. Tonight in my guise as a servant it was possible to observe the intimates of the household quite closely, and yet it was as though I was invisible until needed.”

  “Yes, you said something to that effect earlier, Holmes,” I said. “What of it?”

  “Simply this, doctor. Because Mr. Withers was drinking steadily all night you, and everyone else, assumed that he was quite intoxicated by the end of the evening.”

  “Wasn’t he?” asked Wallace. “My information is that he was three sheets when the doctor took him upstairs.”

  “That is what Mr. Withers wanted everyone to think. You see, after the first drink he dispensed with Meadows and poured his own. I was watching carefully, cloaked in my servants anonymity, and observed that he used much soda at the expense of his whiskey. The subterfuge is an old one, but the reason behind it only John Withers can tell us. Do you deny this, sir?”

  Withers had said nothing during Holmes’s recitation and was regarding him now with something between admiration and anger. The fairer emotion won out and he spread his arms wide and smiled faintly.

  “You are indeed correct, Mr. Holmes. There was no malice, and it has nothing to do with this crime, but I did as you described.”

  “This is a serious matter, Mr. Withers,” said Wallace.

  “But, Inspector, it has nothing to do with the events of this evening. It was a purely personal matter.”

  “Mr. Withers, I will thank you to allow me to decide what is a material matter, and what is not. What was the reason behind this deception?”

  “I have said all that I am going to say on the matter,” said Withers firmly. He crossed his arms over his chest and his face was set in a determined manner. He looked almost like a truant, and unrepentant, schoolboy and I would have laughed were it not for the gravity of the situation. To my surprise Holmes gave in at once.

  “Very well, Mr. Withers,” said he. “If that is your attitude, then you are dismissed. I have nothing further.”

  I could see that the Inspector felt the matter was far from closed, but he acceded to Holmes and allowed John Withers to leave with no further questions. He turned with feeling upon Holmes as soon as Withers had left the room.

  “Really, Mr. Holmes, we should have pressed him with more vigor. He would have spoken, eventually.”

  “There is a certain type of man who will not cross a line, if he feels honor bound not to. I believe that John Withers is that type of man. The concept of honor can blind such a man to all else.”

  “But we are in the dark,” protested the Inspector.

  “Not really, Inspector,” said Holmes. “You see, I know why the Captain acted as he did. Surely, it is obvious.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Wallace and I both stared blankly at Holmes.

  “If it is so obvious, Mr. Holmes, then perhaps you will enlighten me,” said the Inspector. “Perhaps I am painfully dense, but I do not see an obvious answer.”

  “I am in the dark, as well, Holmes,” said I. “I hadn’t supposed John capable of deception and this turn is rather shocking to me.”

  “It is, perhaps, out of character for Captain Withers, but he is a man who has seen long laid plans fall at his feet. He was desperate, and he took a chance. Surely, you can see that he is in love with Cecilia Upton.”

  At Holmes’s statement I recalled the conversation that John Withers and I had had. He confessed that the pair had been in love before Cecilia was sent to America. He had talked as if it was in the past, but it was true that his eyes had shown great pain at the separation.

  “That much is true, Holmes, or at least was true,” I said. I quickly shared the details of the conversation that had occurred before we arrived at Upton Hall.

  “I thought as much,” said Holmes.

  “But what did he hope to accomplish?” asked Wallace.

  “I believe that he hoped to catch Mr. Evanston off guard, and perhaps even induce his rival to become intoxicated and loosen his tongue in that manner.”

  I suddenly remembered John’s irritation that Evanston would not join him in drink. It fit in perfectly with Holmes’s deduction, and I related that small bit of information. Holmes nodded as I spoke.

  “As you see, it all fits together. I suspect that Withers intended on having it out with Evanston last night, after he thought that everyone had retired. It is possible that Evanston suspected something of that nature occurring. His door was open, by his own testimony. It must have given Captain Withers quite a shock to find you and Colonel North awake and alert. He came up with a clumsy explanation on the spot.”

  “And then the murder occurred,” said Wallace.

  “Yes. And then the murder occurred,” said Holmes.

  “Shall we have Woodson next?” asked the Inspector.

  Holmes agreed, and the estate agent was soon on the sofa, alert for questions.

  “Anything I can do to help gentlemen I will of course do, but I fear I have little insight of this crime.”

  Woodson denied any knowledge of the cigars or the note.

  “What of the handwriting, Mr. Woodson?” asked Holmes. “Several people have thought it looked like the Judge’s hand. As his agent, you are surely familiar with his handwriting.”

  “That is true, of course, and it may be the Judge’s hand. I cannot say for certain, you understand. I merely agree that the handwriting is similar.”

  “You are a careful man, Mr. Woodson,” observed the Inspector.

  “I am not disposed to make judgments that are outside my direct knowledge, Inspector.”

  “Just so,” said Holmes. “Now let us move on to this business of the noughts and crosses.”

  This was the first time Holmes had mentioned the note under the body in the individual interrogations and I leaned forward in anticipation of the answer. I was destined to be disappointed.

  “I know the game, of course, Mr. Holmes, but I have knowledge of the import of it.”

  “Have you ever heard of the Roberts gang?” asked Holmes.

  “Woodson frowned in concentration. “It is not a familiar name to me, sir.”

  “The judge never spoke of the Roberts case?”

  “No.”

  “You are certain?”

  “Absolutely. You see, the Judge never talked of his old cases. He considered that part of his life over.”

  “Surely you were aware of his fear of the cross symbol.”

  “This is the first I am hearing of it,” exclaimed Woodson. “The Judge was not a man for confidences. Are you saying that this symbol was something that he had a premonition of?”

  “Would that surprise you?”

  “Yes,” said Woodson slowly. “But as I say, the Judge would never have confided in me. Although he treated me well I was merely an underling to him. He may have confided in his wife or even an old friend like the Colonel. Perhaps you should ask them.”

  “Of course,” said Holmes. �
��Now, as I understand it you were the last person to retire. Is that correct?”

  “Well, not exactly. Evanston and I were playing at billiards and we went up together.”

  “Was anyone else in the hall at that time?”

  “No.”

  “Was the Judge still in his study?”

  “I really could not say. The door was closed.”

  “Was a lamp on?”

  “I do not recall for a certainty, but I rather fancy that there was no lamp. The light would have shown under the door and I do not recall it shining through.”

  Holmes was apparently through with his questions and he lapsed into silence.

  “One last question, Mr. Woodson,” said the Inspector. “This is a murder case and this must be asked. I am told that the Judge asked to speak with you about some possible discrepancies in the estate books. Can you tell us what the Judge had in mind?”

  “The books are in perfect order, I assure you, Inspector. The Judge did not have a good head for figures, and often needed help in understanding the books. I am certain it was something of that nature.”

  “Then an audit would show nothing untoward?”

  “Really, Inspector, I resent the implication behind that question.”

  “Murder has been done in this house, Mr. Woodson, and I assure you that many indelicate questions must be asked.”

  “Very well. And you are quite right, of course. For the record, the books are in proper order, as any audit will show.”

  “Thank you, sir. You may go now.”

  Woodson walked briskly from the room and shut the door.

  “Well, Mr. Holmes,” said the Inspector. “That leaves only Colonel North, Harold Chandler, and Robert Evanston. Which shall it be?”

  “I believe we have gotten all the information we need from the Colonel and Mr. Chandler, but I do have another question for Mr. Evanston.”

  Evanston was called for and strode into the room with the trace of a sneer across his face. Holmes had seated himself upon the sofa, and when Evanston crossed in front of him, their feet became tangled, and Evanston fell heavily to the floor.

  Holmes was at his side in a thrice, and helped him to his feet, dusting off his jacket as he did.

  “I’m fine,” said Evanston, pushing Holmes away. “Please remove your hands from me.”

  “I must beg your pardon, sir,” said Holmes sincerely. “That was entirely my fault.”

  “Of course it was, you fool. You deliberately stuck your foot out and tripped me.”

  “It was an accident, I assure you,” said Holmes.

  “Be careful that an accident does not befall you, Mr. Holmes. Now, Inspector, do you have more questions for me? I am quite tired and would like to go to bed.”

  “Mr. Holmes has a question for you,” said Inspector Wallace. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Holmes?”

  Holmes had seated himself again and was examining his ankle.

  “I believe that I have injured myself,” he said. “Are you certain you are all right, Mr. Evanston?”

  “For goodness sake, I am strong as a bull and unhurt. Now what question do you have for me?”

  “Question?” Holmes said, in a distracted manner.

  “Yes. The Inspector said you have a question.”

  “Oh, of course. Where were you born, Mr. Evanston?”

  “That is a relevant point?”

  “It is a simple question.”

  “Simple is right. Very well. I was born in Pennsylvania.”

  “And what town?”

  “Pittsburgh, but I see no relevance to this at all.”

  “How did you happen to meet Miss Upton, then?” asked Holmes. “I understand she was in the city of New York. That is some distance from Pittsburgh, is it not?”

  “You are thick, Mr. Holmes. How you obtained your reputation is beyond me. The answer is that I was born in Pittsburgh, but that I now reside in New York.”

  “And just what did you do in New York?”

  “Whatever I needed to do.”

  “That is hardly an answer.”

  “It is all that you are getting. Inspector, may I go?”

  The Inspector grunted an assent and Evanston left the room banging the door behind him.

  “That is a very unpleasant young man, Mr. Holmes, but I am inclined to agree with him that the line of questioning seems irrelevant.”

  “It served a purpose and it confirmed a suspicion of mine.”

  “Well, I see nothing in it, but I trust that you did. Shall we dismiss the household for the night?”

  Holmes agreed that that was the proper course. I expected a flurry of questions from those assembled, but weariness had overtaken them and even the shock of the murder was waning as their exhaustion waxed. They trooped up the stairs in pairs and singly leaving the Inspector, Holmes, the sergeant, and myself in the great hall.

  “Well, my mind remains unchanged,” said Inspector Wallace. “I still say that Harold Chandler is the most likely suspect. He is a stranger to most of the people here, and he has led a life of unknown circumstances abroad. What say you, doctor?”

  “I am inclined to agree with you, Inspector. He does seem to be the only real suspect to me. It is possible that the Judge discovered, somehow, that his wife’s uncle was attempting to defraud him. They had an argument and the Judge was killed in some sort of struggle. Chandler tries to make it seem as if a burglar has committed the crime, and he might have succeeded, were it not for the snowfall.”

  “How did he escape the locked room, doctor?” asked Holmes.

  “I admit that I have no answer for that, but I believe that you, indeed all of us, are overlooking one salient fact.”

  “What is that, Dr. Watson?” asked Wallace.

  “Harold Chandler is the last person known to have seen Judge Upton alive. He went into the study to talk with the Judge and we have only his word that the Judge was alive when he left.”

  I finished triumphantly and looked to Holmes. My friend was lounging against the fireplace mantle, lost in thought, but he glanced up at me as I finished.

  “I take it that you are not in agreement with the Inspector and myself,” I said.

  “It is well thought out,” Holmes conceded. “But it does not answer any of the questions that I laid before you earlier. They must each have an answer for this riddle to be solved.”

  “Well, I for one am going to begin sending out some telegrams as soon as I am back in town,” said Inspector Wallace. “If this Chandler is a wrong one, we’ll know soon enough.”

  With that, the Inspector left for West Grantham and instructed his sergeant to remain on guard in the study until he returned in the morning.

  Holmes had pulled a pipe from his pocket and was puffing away. He began to pace back and forth in front of the fire, in silence. I sat, lit a cigarette myself, and watched. His pace was hypnotic and I found myself drifting off to sleep. After nodding off at least twice. I excused myself and went upstairs. Knowing Holmes as I did, I was to get no further information from him this night, in any case. Meadows had informed Holmes that a room at the end of the corridor had been prepared for him, but I doubted that the great detective would put it to use that night. I had known Holmes to go without rest for days at a time when in the thrall of a case. I fell asleep almost immediately upon stretching out upon my bed and passed a dreamless night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Despite the strange bed, and the unusual circumstances, I arose quite late the following morning. I was startled when I realized it was nearly ten o’clock. I dressed and shaved quickly and went downstairs. There was no one about in the hall, but a cheery fire was burning. I discovered that I was famished and made my way to the dining room. Most of the household were within, and I made my way to a seat.

  I soon found a plate of eggs and ham before me and dug in heartily. The only people who were not present were Mrs. Upton, Colonel North, and Holmes. John Withers was seated next to me and he informed me in a low voice that the
body of the Judge had been removed, and that Holmes and Inspector Wallace were closeted away in the study. By silent acclimation all talk of the murder was taboo and the meal passed quickly with extreme politeness from all. As I was finishing a cup of coffee, after putting away a fine repast, the Inspector entered the room. He cleared his throat and began to speak.

  “If I could have your attention,” he began. “Mr. Holmes requests that everyone join him in the hall. He has an announcement.”

  This short speech was met with excited conversation from most at the table. Only Robert Evanston seemed blasé, and Cecilia Upton appeared pensive. It stood to reason that Holmes had solved the case, and I hurried out of the room first to find my friend with his back to the fire and his hands thrust into his pockets. I crossed the room quickly to his side.

  “Holmes, what is this announcement?” I asked.

  Before he could answer, if indeed he had any intention of answering, the room filled with the rest of the intimates of the house. I noticed that Colonel North and Honoria Upton entered the hall from the library, and that the lady was leaning heavily upon the arm of the dignified soldier. Colonel North was dressed in a somber black suit in obvious mourning for his friend. Honoria Upton was also in appropriate somber clothing, though I noticed no one else was. Robert Evanston was also in black, but that was not for the occasion I judged. I had seen the young man wear nothing else and it seemed to be an affectation of his. All sat and looked expectantly to Holmes. Cyril Upton rose from his seat and addressed Holmes.

  “Sir, have you made a discovery in this foul murder?”

  “I have,” said he. “I propose to outline my thinking in this matter and give to you the solution to the mystery before us.”

  He paused and looked to each person in the room and, I thought, paused somewhat on the face of Cecilia Upton.

  “Before you begin, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “I have a confession to make.”

  At the word confession I heard a sharp intake of breath from Honoria Upton.

  “Last night you asked me about a make up case that was found in the study. The case is indeed mine. I lost it yesterday, as I often do, and I was so startled by its appearance at the murder scene that I told a foolish lie and denied that it was mine.”