“Can you explain how it came to be in the locked study, madam?” asked Holmes.
“I cannot, except that, perhaps, Father found it and carried it in there himself. I feel very embarrassed to have told such a lie.”
“Do not worry overmuch about it, Miss Upton. I knew it was yours, of course, and I already know how it came to be in the study, and who put it there.”
Holmes waited to see if anyone else would speak and when it became apparent that no one would he continued.
“From the beginning of this case the crux of the mystery has been the key found on the missing man. Why was the door to the study locked, and how did the murderer escape the room? By the testimony of three men, Watson, John Withers, and Colonel North, the room was locked. This is important, as it would have let everyone in the house in the clear, were it not for the recent snowfall.
“At any rate, the struggle is overheard and the door is forced and the murder is discovered. In many cases the mystery is hampered by a lack of clues, but that is not so in this case. Rather there are too many clues. The compact discovered by Mr. Evanston tends to incriminate a lady, while the two smoldering cigars indicate the presence of another man. Further the note, with the infamous game of noughts and crosses, would lead one to think that it was a crime of revenge.
“Most of these clues were, of course, a mere blind. The murderer is a clever person and left these clues in order to obfuscate what is actually a simple crime. The criminal approached the Judge after all had gone to bed. The Judge was still in his study, and willingly admitted his killer into the room. They smoked two cigars that the killer had brought as a gift. The crime was not likely premeditated, as the choice of weapon would indicate, but an argument ensued at some point.
“There was a physical struggle. The testimony of the three men who forced the door tells us that. The killer stabs the Judge in the heart with the blade, killing him almost instantly. There is quickly a pounding at the door and he realizes that he is trapped. There is no time to dispose of the cigars, so he leaves them where they are. He opens the window as a blind before the men break down the door, and it suddenly occurs to him how he will escape the room without being discovered.”
Holmes paused at this point and the tension in the room was palpable. The Inspector broke the silence.
“You have said several times that the killer is a he, Mr. Holmes. I demand that you name this person.”
“Very well, Inspector. The man I am describing is, Mr. Robert Evanston.”
The room was as silent as a graveyard for some moments, and then exploded into a frenzy of noise. Several people cried out and Robert Evanston jumped from his seat. He was shaking with rage and was pointing at Holmes.
“I knew you were a fraud, but I did not think that you would venture into slander!” he cried. “What absolute nonsense. Why, I was in my room when the struggle was heard, and I came down to the study just after the others.”
“He is correct, Mr. Holmes,” said Colonel North calmly. “He was hard on our heels to the study and I will swear that no one was in the room when we forced the door. The boy may be a bit of a bad hat, but I cannot see him committing murder.”
“I am forced to agree, Holmes,” I said. I noticed John Withers nodding in assent. “The room was empty, save for the body.”
“Precisely, Watson, save for the body,” said Holmes. “I have listened carefully to the testimony of you three men who broke into the study. The room was cloaked in almost total darkness, but you all saw a body splayed out over the desk, and rushed over to it. You did not truly search the room until the lamp was lit. By that time Mr. Evanston had made good his escape.”
“But how was it done, Holmes?” I asked in bewilderment.
“What everyone has overlooked is the manner in which Robert Evanston was dressed last night, and indeed again today. Before the door gave way Evanston realized that his black suit and dark hair gave him an opportunity. He simply pulled his jacket up over his face and waited, pressed into the corner of the room closest to the door. When you three rushed by him, he quietly exited the room. Once in the hall, he waited a few minutes and pretended to have heard the scuffle and walked back into the room.”
“It’s a lie!” shouted Evanston. “You will regret this, sir. By heavens, you will regret this.”
“Do you have any other evidence besides your supposition as to the method by which this man may have escaped the room undetected?” asked Wallace. “What of motive for instance?”
“I believe that the argument was about the impending marriage of Mr. Evanston to Miss Upton. The Judge recognized Evanston as an opportunist and rejected him as a suitor. In a rage he snatched up the letter opener and killed him.”
“What of the other clues, Holmes?” I asked.
“The cigars were purchased as a present for the Judge, by Evanston. It was he that smoked with the dead man.”
“That’s another lie,” said Evanston, in a quieter voice than before.
“Careful, sir,” cautioned Holmes. “These cigars are unique and can no doubt be traced back to you upon inquiry in New York.”
“What of it?” barked Evanston. “I’ll admit Cecilia told me the old man liked a good smoke, so I purchased them for him to get on his good side, but it doesn’t mean I killed him.”
“Then why conceal the fact?”
“Well…because…well at first I was just so shocked. And then I saw them, and I didn’t want to get all caught up in this affair. The window was open after all, and I still think the criminal left by that way.”
“What of the compact?” Holmes asked.
“What do you mean?” said Evanston warily. “Cecilia admitted to it. It’s hers.”
“Oh, it is indeed hers, but she has testified that she misplaced it, and that she often misplaces it, which you are surely aware of.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Evanston stubbornly.
“Oh, I think that you do,” responded Holmes. “You see, Mr. Evanston, it is my belief that earlier in the evening you had picked up the compact. Likely with no malice in mind, and you had it on your person when you came downstairs to the study. You had made your exit hastily from the room and you had no time to set the stage other than the window, which was an obvious blind. When you came back into the room it occurred to you that the cigars might incriminate you, so you decided to plant the compact to muddy the waters. You dropped it yourself, and then stepped upon it in order to make certain that it was noticed quickly. Who else could have had possession of the case besides yourself?”
I could see the bravado drain from Evanston’s face as Holmes outlined the case against him. He was a broken man and he crumpled back into his seat, and ran his fingers through his hair in despair.
“Is it true, Robert?” asked Cecilia. “Did you plant my case in the study?”
The shaken man looked up at the woman pleadingly, “It was not as he has made it out. I really was in my room when the struggle was heard and I came down, as I said, and found the judge dead with the others already there. When I walked into the study I had forgotten that I had the case. I had picked it up from the sofa earlier. I pulled it from my pocket without thinking and it dropped to the floor, accidentally. When I stepped on it I thought it would look bad if I said that I had dropped it, so I kept silent. I didn’t think it would matter anyway.”
“You, villain,” said Cecilia, in an icy voice. “You murdered my father and then, coward that you are, you attempted to incriminate whoever you could to save yourself.”
What courage that Evanston had left abandoned him at the words from the lady. His face was drained of all colour and he looked close to a total collapse.
“It’s a nightmare,” he muttered. “It’s a frame up. I’m no killer.”
“It is all circumstantial, Mr. Holmes,” said the Inspector. “I admit it looks black for him, but I suppose the motive a good one if the Judge thought he was after Miss Upton for her money.”
“Wait
half a moment!” cried Evanston. “There is no motive. I have money. My Father is simply lousy with it. He’s Luther Evanston, the steel baron.”
“What?” I cried. “I have heard of this Luther Evanston. You could not possibly be his son. Why he’s a very elderly man.”
“My Father had me with his third wife when he was well past fifty. I’m saved. You see, Mr. Holmes, you are wrong.”
“Not so, young man,” said Holmes. If Holmes thought he was defeated his manner betrayed no sign of it. “The fact that you are from wealth changes nothing. Such wealth can breed an overwhelming sense of entitlement. You, yourself, spoke of the rotten aristocracy. I still submit that the Judge found you unsuitable and that since you are a young man used to getting all that he wishes you, were enraged by his refusal and you stabbed him in your fury with the closest weapon that you could find.”
“This is truly a nightmare,” said Evanston, with a sob. “You twist everything until it suits your purpose. You hate me because I insulted you. You wish me to be guilty because of that.”
Holmes stared at the young man with an impassive face. It was hard to feel sympathy for a man such as Robert Evanston yet his pitiable display moved me in spite of myself. I was startled by Colonel North pounding his fist on a table next to him.
“It simply is not true, Mr. Holmes,” said the Colonel, with some heat. “I am positive that no one was in the room, save the Judge. I will testify to that and I will be believed. I have a sharp eye, Mr. Holmes. Besides your theory does not explain the noughts and crosses. If the murder happened as you say it did, Evanston would not have had time to fabricate a note and place it under the Judge’s body. And even if he did have the time, he had no knowledge of the Roberts gang. By heavens, I say that Robert Evanston did not murder poor Simon.”
It was a powerful speech and it had its intended effect. I could see doubt creeping into the faces of many of those gathered. It was only through long association with Holmes that I found myself somewhat immune to doubts. If Holmes stated something as a fact, I was inclined to give him the benefit of every doubt. Holmes had slowly turned his back to those assembled as the silence grew. He was facing the fireplace and his hands were placed on the mantle. The Inspector glanced at my friend and finally was moved to speak.
“Mr. Holmes, what of these objections?” he firmly asked. “Is Robert Evanston guilty of murder or not?”
“No, he is not,” said Holmes finally. “And I am not certain that anyone is.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I realized that I had been holding my breath, and I let it out in a rush at the words of Sherlock Holmes. He turned around to face us once more.
“Do you mean to say that Simon Upton committed suicide?” asked the Inspector, in an astonished voice. “Why, that is rubbish.”
“Not suicide, Inspector, but perhaps not willful murder either.”
“I don’t understand, Mr. Holmes,” said Honoria Upton. “Has the case against Mr. Evanston been a charade on your part?”
“It was necessary I assure you, madam. Believe me, when I state that it served a purpose. I wished to see if the killer was a man of conscious and I find that he is. There is one man that I have considered the prime suspect since the beginning. There were many clues that pointed in his direction, but there was nothing that would make the case complete until this morning. At dawn today it came to me that the identity of the guilty party was spelled out in blood.”
Colonel North winced in distress at the graphic description.
“I do not quite follow your line of thinking, Holmes,” said I. “Did the Judge attempt to give a clue in blood. He could not have. As Dr. Brown stated, death from the blade to the heart would have been instantaneous. I agree completely with that. There was little bleeding.”
“Exactly, Watson. The Judge bled very little. If we accept that as fact then where did the blood on the sofa and the floor come from?”
I was thunderstruck. It was true what Holmes said. “My goodness, Holmes, we all overlooked it. It was staring us in the face the entire time.”
“Are you saying that the killer was wounded, and that the blood is from him?” asked Wallace.
“Precisely, Inspector. There was a struggle as we surmised originally. The Judge attacked the other person with the letter opener, and slashed a wound on his opponent. It was likely a chest wound that bled heavily, but in reality was a mere superficial wound. The killer managed to wrench the blade from the Judge, and in the struggle, stabbed him in the heart.”
“Who is it, Holmes?” I asked.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” said Cyril. “Who has done this?”
“There is one man who has been in physical distress ever since the murder was committed. One man, who has winced in pain visibly in my presence, on no less than three occasions. This morning he has appeared in a dark black suit, ostensibly in mourning, yet in reality to cover any blood stains that might still be seeping out from the wound. Is it necessary that I go on, Colonel North?”
All eyes turned to the Colonel. Honoria Upton had removed her hand from his arm and was staring at him blankly.
“Is this true, Edmund?” she asked breathlessly. She turned back to Holmes. “Tell me that this is another charade, Mr. Holmes. Edmund was Simon’s oldest friend.”
Holmes said nothing and I saw pity for the poor widow in his eyes. Presently Colonel North stirred. “It is true,” he croaked. “It happened much as he has said, my dear.”
“But, it couldn’t have been Colonel North,” I protested. “He was with me upstairs when we heard the struggle.”
“You heard no struggle,” returned Holmes. “What you heard was the breaking of glass, which is a much different thing indeed.”
“Even so, the Colonel was not in the room.”
“It was cleverly done, I admit,” said Holmes. “Allow me to set the scene for you. Colonel North is attacked by the Judge, and slashed. The killing was entirely accidental, but he is presented with a quandary. The judge is dead by his hand and there are no witnesses to what has occurred. He considers waking the house and confessing and then, because of the note to Watson, another choice appears to him. He realizes there is a way to fix the scene so that no guilt will fall on anyone within.”
“Why is the doctor’s note so important?” asked Wallace.
“Because he realizes that Watson will be up at the late hour. He concocts a tale of insomnia driven by after dinner coffee, but Meadows says none was served. The Colonel made up that story so that he could be with Watson when the so-called struggle is heard. With the door locked and the window open he feels confident that the police will look for the nonexistent gang member who has killed the judge.”
“Then who wrote the note?” asked I.
“Why the Judge did, of course,” said Holmes. “Nearly everyone agreed that it was the Judge’s handwriting, excepting Mrs. Upton, who curiously thought that it was Mr. Woodson’s handwriting.”
“But, why would the Judge want to meet with me at such an hour?” I asked.
“Jealousy, Watson.”
“But there was no reason for jealousy, Holmes.”
“Of course not, doctor. Jealousy is often a mistaken emotion. Remember that Mrs. Upton told you that her husband knew of her visit with us. Then you arrive without me, and still further he finds you alone with the lady in the library, nearly embracing.”
“But, it was all innocent,” I protested.
“I realize that, Watson, of course, but I observed Judge Upton’s face as he left the library. It was black with rage. His choice of Othello from the library is a, perhaps, unconscious window into his thoughts. Recall the poison words that Iago whispered to his master. The Judge decides to meet with you and have it out. The lateness of the hour, perhaps, meant that he had more sinister plans. His paranoia has driven him dangerously mad.”
“But, I still do not see how it was managed,” said John Withers. “The crashing of the glass and the key on the Judge’s person. It seems hard t
o believe that it was Colonel North.”
“The explanation goes back to the fakirs in India. The Colonel demonstrated his mastery of the rope trick this evening. When he performed the trick in miniature he proved that. The piece of string he used was tied to another nearly invisible piece of string. By puffing strongly on his pipe he further clouded the view of the onlookers and raised the string by pulling on the other string with his free hand.”
I recalled the trick in my mind and saw the cloud of smoke around the Colonel’s head, and how the string had risen as he pulled his other hand away.
“Using that thin, difficult to see thread, he stacked some glassware up and tied one end of the string to the bottom glass and the other to the minute hand of the grandfather clock. He adjusted the slack so that the hand would pull down the glasses some minutes before Watson was expected. He then exited the study, locked the door, and went quietly upstairs to his room. He changed clothes, the bloody ones likely went into the fireplace, and he went to arrange his alibi, and everyone else’s, with Watson. Captain Withers appearance was a surprise to him, but it merely gave him another witness. When the door gave way the room was dark, and your attention was on the body. When the doctor and Withers ran to the body immediately, as Colonel North knew they would, he quickly grabbed the incriminating thread and put it in his pocket.”
“But Holmes all three of us ran to the body.”
“No, doctor. Recall that you and John Withers went to the body, and you testified that the Colonel lit a lamp, and only then joined you.”
I cast my mind back and realized that Holmes was correct. “But, how did the key come to be on the body?” I asked. “Surely Colonel North did not have a duplicate prepared, if the crime was not planned as you say.”
“My dear, doctor, who was it that discovered the key in the Judge’s pocket?”
“Why, it was Colonel North,” volunteered Withers.
The Mad Judge (A Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tale Book 3) Page 13