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

  I hoped he was right, and I pulled my collar up to my neck and shivered involuntarily. The looming building was indeed the hall. We turned down the long drive to our destination and I marveled at the structure. It was a huge country estate of the type that was dying out through heavy taxation. The judge, I thought, must have amassed great wealth above his station as a magistrate.

  The walk had invigorated me, but I was anxious to stand before a fire with a warm brandy and a cigarette. John Withers clapped his hands together as we approached the door, so I gathered he was chilled as well. We halted before the great entrance, and I stood with my hand on a knocker when John stopped me.

  “Any special instructions, Watson?” he asked, with a smile. “This is my first investigation after all, old boy.”

  “Holmes merely asked me to observe all and I would advise the same to you. I know his methods.”

  With that I clanged the knocker to the door and it echoed off the stone entryway. I heard footsteps approaching and presently the door was opened. Light streamed through the opening blinding me momentarily.

  A swarthy looking man with an olive complexion, a great greasy mustache, and jet-black hair plastered to his skull stood before us. He looked at we two with an air of mild distaste. The man had an unpleasant manner of squinting, bad teeth, and oddly blue eyes.

  “Was it something?” he asked, in an insolent husky voice.

  If this was the celebrated Meadows, I was already disappointed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Withers was the first to regain his composure.

  “We are expected, my good man,” he said, with authority. “I am Captain Withers, and this is Dr. Watson. Please, let our hosts know that we have arrived.”

  Withers thrust his hat and gloves onto the slouching servant and I followed suit. The man took our things and scuttled off without a further word. We made our way into the hall and were greeted with a huge roaring fire. Several couches and chairs were strewn about the enormous hall, and it had a comfortable and welcoming décor of leather and dark browns. Two older men were standing before the fire smoking pipes. Two ladies were seated upon a divan in earnest conversation and two young men, one dressed all in black, were standing by a large globe talking quietly. The group seemed to take no notice of our arrival. I was observing the room when I found a man at my elbow. He was a stately older man with a ramrod straight posture. His face betrayed no emotion as he spoke.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “May I serve you a drink? A brandy or port perhaps.”

  “Why, Meadows, you old dog you,” said Withers with a chuckle. “You gave me quite a start.”

  “My apologies, sir.”

  “None necessary, I assure you. I am glad to see you. My companion and I were startled when you did not meet us at the door. Who the devil was that?”

  “That would be Reeves, sir. He is a new hire of madam’s.”

  “Doesn’t seem quite up to the Upton snuff old boy.”

  Meadows did not reply and simply maintained a serene attitude.

  “I suppose you are aware of my companion then, Meadows.”

  “Yes, sir. We were notified that yourself and Dr. Watson would be joining the family for dinner. You are both most welcome. Now as to the refreshments, what can I serve you?”

  After the uncouth Reeves, Meadows was a welcome change. Both Withers and myself passed on port and brandy, for whiskey and Meadows melted away. As he did our presence was finally noted by the occupants of the hall.

  “Hallo, hallo,” cried one of the young men by the globe.

  He rushed across the room and vigorously shook the hand of John Withers and clapped him on the shoulder in a friendly manner.

  “You are a sight for sore eyes, old top,” the man continued. “And this must be Dr. Watson. We have heard of you, and your celebrated companion, doctor. Will we have the honor of meeting Mr. Holmes before you depart our section of the country?”

  “Perhaps, although I cannot say. Holmes is recovering after weary labours and in fact has had a small set back this day”

  At this point Withers joined in. “Where are my manners? Dr. John Watson, allow me to present Captain Cyril Upton late of the Coldstream Guards.”

  “Very late of the Guards,” said Cyril Upton ruefully. “I am a humble civilian, doctor. Unlike Captain Withers here I am not on leave, but rather I have been mustered out as an invalid.”

  Cyril Upton appeared, to me, to be suffering from no malady or wound. I wondered what type of injury he had suffered, but it seemed impolitic to inquire. Upton took Withers and I by the arm and escorted us to meet our fellow guests. In short order he introduced the two ladies. They were, of course, his sister Cecilia and Jane Woodson, wife of the estate manager. Cecilia was a gorgeous woman with a cascade of blonde hair falling about her shoulders. She had a dazzling smile with unblemished alabaster skin, and I found myself quite captivated by her. Jane Woodson was not nearly so beautiful, but I felt a competence and intelligence in her. She was a slender woman with brown hair and skin freckled by a lifetime of exposure to the sun.

  The younger man that Cyril had been talking with as we had entered was introduced as Robert Evanston, the fiancé of Cecilia. He was a well built man with a firm handshake. He had the long hair associated with artists and he spoke with a rough American accent. He had a somewhat deep voice and had a careless air about him.

  “Another Captain,” he said, with a smile as John was introduced. “You could form a regiment if only you had a few enlisted men, but there does not appear to be any around. Isn’t that right, Colonel?”

  A tall older man with a military disposition was the target of Evanston’s jibe. He merely grunted a reply. Cyril Upton presented him as Colonel Edmund North. This was the judge’s old friend that I had heard of. He was a tall spare man with a great mustache and a prominent nose and hooded eyes. He shook hands with me stiffly.

  “You have a military carriage yourself, doctor,” he said. “Or could I be mistaken? I can usually spot a soldier.”

  I admitted my previous service and mentioned that I had been wounded and invalided out of the army. At the mention of my wound Upton winced visibly, and we quickly moved on to the last guest.

  That person turned out to be Honoria Upton’s uncle, Harold Chandler. Chandler was a man past middle age with a red face. He was a stocky gentleman of under middle height and spoke with a surprisingly reedy voice. His handshake was a flabby disinterested one.

  “A doctor, you say? Is someone here sick? Carpenters at the door usually means termites in the eaves, or so they say.”

  He laughed at what he obviously thought was a clever jibe, but halted when no one else joined him.

  “You are most welcome in our home,” said Cecilia Upton. Her voice ended the small embarrassment of Chandler. “How are you finding life in our remote part of the world?”

  “It is a bit different than London,” I confessed. “But a change of pace was exactly what we desired. It has been most restful. But what of you? Surely, this is also much different from America.”

  “It is that,” said Robert Evanston, walking to Cecilia’s side. She placed her hand in his. “We have no lords or dukes in the states. Did away with titles during the revolution.”

  “Every country has lords, my boy, whether they call them that or not,” said Colonel North evenly. “In America there are coal barons and cotton kings, are there not? I would think that you would know that.”

  Evanston flushed. “As you say, Colonel, there is always an aristocracy bleeding the people dry. Perhaps one day we will have another revolution. Jefferson talked of the need for bloody revolution.”

  “I believe Jefferson called for the tree of liberty to be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants,” said a man standing in the entryway. “Are you as prepared to shed your own blood or just the blood of others, Robert?”

  The man was standing grinning at his statement as Meadows helped him off with his jacket. He w
as a youngish man with short cropped brown hair and a square jaw. He was a fine figure of an Englishman and I couldn’t help comparing him with the dashing American. They were both undoubtedly attractive to the opposite sex, but the new speaker seemed to have a depth that Evanston lacked. I had supposed that Evanston would take violent issue with the statement of the other man, but he merely grinned.

  “As the only worker of the whole lot you, at least, will be spared in the revolution, Stanley,” said Robert Evanston.

  The new visitor roared a hearty laugh and walked towards the group.

  “Dr. Watson, allow me to present Stanley Woodson,” said Cyril. “Our esteemed estate manager, Judge’s dogsbody, and husband to the fair Jane. Woodson owns the dubious honor of being the only estate manager that my father hasn’t sacked within the first year. He’s a dreadfully amiable chap.”

  “The judge is a fine employer I assure you, Dr. Watson,” said Woodson. “Cyril here has been away so long he remembers the stern father of his youth and not the gentle country gentleman he has become.”

  Cyril merely smiled, but Cecilia Upton looked thoughtful.

  “It is true,” said she. “That Father does seem a bit different upon reflection. He told me the other day that my coming home reminded him of how beautiful mother was. It seemed quite out of character as Father never spoke much of mother after her death.”

  “He seems a jolly good chap to me,” said the florid Harold Chandler. “Of course I have no memories of the old boy before my visit to rely upon. Colonel North, you would appear to be the expert on Judge Upton owing to your long acquaintance. What say you?”

  Colonel North had been puffing away furiously on his pipe as the conversation had proceeded. For a moment I thought he had not heard the question, but then he withdrew the pipe and addressed the company.

  “I would say,” he declared slowly. “That Simon Upton is the man now that he has always been. Remember that I knew your father even before he married your dear mother Elizabeth.”

  “That’s true,” said Cyril. “She was by way of being a distant relative of yours was she not Colonel?”

  “No, not really. My family and hers were connected through several generations as friends, but there was no blood between us. She was a lovely woman. I still don’t quite understand how it happened,” he said wistfully.

  A gloomy silence enveloped the room. The pall of the death of the first Mrs. Upton was obviously still a subject little spoken of in the home. Stanley Woodson was the first to break the quiet.

  “As the only one without a drink, I suggest a fresh round for everyone,” he announced. “Meadows, what say I give you a hand?”

  Meadows appeared from nowhere. The man was positively catlike.

  “That will not be necessary, sir,” he said. With a snap of his fingers I saw Reeves step from the shadows at the back of the hall. Apparently he had been there the entire time. It was true, I supposed, that the Upton staff was remarkably attentive. The drinks were soon made and Meadows and Reeves distributed them. Reeves again disappeared, while Meadows stayed close by this time so as to be ready when needed. John Withers pulled me aside on the pretext of examining the enormous globe.

  “Really, Watson, you must see this,” he said in a loud voice. “The judge had this shipped in special from Stockholm. It is quite first rate. My old duffer has nothing like it I can assure you.”

  Once we were away from the group he spoke again in a softer voice. “You’ve had a chance to mingle, Watson. Do you think our mission is still unknown to everyone?”

  I looked around the hall and everyone had resumed chatting in small groups. All seemed normal, but I thought I detected an undercurrent of something. Just what I could not say, and I decided not to worry Withers with my stray thought.

  “All would appear to be normal,” said I. “But remember, it is the Judge that is at the center of our visit. We can hardly make a determination of his mental state without seeing him in person.”

  “Have no fear there, Watson. The dinner hour is approaching and the Judge would miss his own funeral rather than miss the evening meal at Upton Hall.”

  I thought John’s statement a frivolous one and one that was inappropriate considering the circumstances. I was about to remonstrate with him when I felt, rather than heard, a stir in the room. All eyes were drawn to the staircase. A man and a woman were descending the steps.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The twosome walked in a stately manner. The woman was, of course, Honoria Upton. She was dressed in fine evening wear and was adorned in modest jewels. She was holding the arm of an elderly man of great height.

  “Caesar approaches,” hissed Withers in my ear. “Remember thou art mortal.”

  The man could be no other than Judge Simon Upton. He was a gaunt figure dressed in fine country gentry tweed, which looked strangely inappropriate on him. I recalled him from his days on the bench. Even then, in his powdered wig and black robes, he had seemed like the grim reaper incarnate and now, in his declining years, he seemed even more wraith like. As he and his wife reached the bottom of the stairs, Cyril Upton stepped forward.

  “Father, may I present Dr. Watson.”

  I bowed slightly and the old man looked at me with frank appraisal. I felt like a defendant in the dock as his eyes ranged over me.

  “I understand you are a former military surgeon, doctor,” he intoned. “Are any of our men still in the service?”

  I saw John Withers cover a smile with his hand and I noticed Cyril Upton visibly wince.

  “It is true, Judge, that I previously served, but I assure it was not my choice to leave.”

  “Still you found employment as a detective, did you not?”

  “Alas, I am merely the chronicler of a great detective. Sherlock Holmes sends his regrets that he could not attend this evening’s dinner. The invitation was gracious, but illness prevented his coming.”

  “How are you enjoying life with George Withers?”

  “We have been made quite comfortable, thank you. The Squire has a merry household and a restful one.”

  “Squire!” scoffed the Judge. “George Withers is a silly ass to call himself that. Not even a local man.”

  “And neither are you dear,” intoned Mrs. Upton, with a smile and a pat on the arm.

  “Quite right, my dear. Allow me to present my wife, doctor.”

  “An honor, Mrs. Upton. We were most grateful to receive your invitation today. Thank you.”

  “It is not often we have a visitor to our lonely county as esteemed as your Mr. Holmes. I hope his illness is not a serious one.”

  “I do not believe that it is, but rest is certainly indicated. Perhaps, before we depart for London, he will be able to call upon you.”

  “That would be wonderful wouldn’t it, Robert?” said Cecilia.

  Robert Evanston shrugged his shoulders and made an inaudible reply. Before anyone else could speak Meadows appeared and announced.

  “Dinner is served.”

  As is if on parade the occupants of the hall queued up behind our hosts and we made a stately entrance into the dining room. It was a large room with French doors and a chandelier over the table. The judge took his place at the head of the table, whilst Mrs. Upton was seated by Meadows at the other end. I found myself seated with Jane Woodson on one side, with Harold Chandler on the other. As the courses were served the conversation became general.

  “So, Judge, have you considered that prospectus I showed you. South Africa is simply teeming with investment opportunities,” said Chandler.

  “I have only glanced at it, but I will give it a thorough perusal yet tonight, I assure you.”

  “Uncle, really,” said Honoria Upton. “Must you men always speak of business?”

  “Ladies never want to speak about business matters, but they spend the money willingly enough eh, doctor,” said Chandler. He accentuated his statement with a short dig into my ribs with his elbow.

  “Well, I am not quite sure,” I
said noncommittally.

  “Stanley has a wonderful head for business,” said Jane Woodson.

  “Many a sharp estate manager has been known to line his pockets at the expense of his employer,” said Robert Evanston, with an evil smile. “Stanley strikes me as that sort. Knife the king and marry the queen. Just like Hamlet’s uncle.”

  “Robert, you will have your little joke,” said Woodson with a good-natured smile.

  “Damned poor taste, young man,” said Colonel North, with a growl.

  “And besides, old top, Hamlet’s father was poisoned, not stabbed,” said Cyril. “Since father has no brother, I would not think it likely he would be killed by one in any case.”

  “You seem to have a predilection towards violence, Mr. Woodson,” said I. “I am afraid that goes quite against the English gentility, or perhaps that is your intention.”

  “Doctor, please save your defense of English aversion to violence for children,” said Evanston. “Why we have four current or past members of the military at this very table. And where do these men serve? Why, they serve in conquered English lands oppressing natives. I tell you they will rise one day and kick the British out. It has been done, you know.”

  “If you are referring to your American Revolution, my boy, I will remind you that the American colonies were filled with Englishmen. The natives we have welcomed into our empire have no such lineage and must be administered by Englishmen,” said Chandler.

  “Bah!” spat Evanston. “The sun will set on this so called empire, and good riddance.

  A disapproving murmur went up from the assembled guests, but Evanston seemed to revel in the disapproval.

  “Mr. Evanston, you are being a child and I tell you I find your behavior boorish,” said Jane Woodson. The quiet wife of the estate manager was trembling with barely suppressed anger.

  “I agree, old boy,” said Cyril Upton. “Taken a bit of a step over the line.”