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

  “Very well then, Mr. Holmes,” said Withers. “Where did the murderer go?”

  “That is the question, Mr. Withers, isn’t it? I assure you that I am striving to discover just that.”

  Holmes then kneeled down to the broken compact that Evanston had shattered. Once again he examined it thoroughly with his glass. It was some minutes before he arose and spoke.

  ”Gentlemen, I believe we can do nothing more here. Watson, will you please shut and latch the window. It is merely a blind at any rate.”

  At this moment Meadows returned to the room.

  “I have sent for the Inspector, gentlemen. He should arrive within the hour, with any luck. He is an energetic man.”

  I saw a momentary look of surprise on Meadows’s face as he saw Holmes. Whether or not he processed the change from Reeves to Holmes was impossible to say, but Holmes took him to one side and they had a short conversation. They spoke only for a few moments and Meadows left the room without a further word.

  “Gentlemen,” said Holmes. “I suggest that we have seen all that there is to see here and that we vacate the room, and secure it for the police.”

  It was agreed and we all left the study. Holmes brought up the rear and closed the doors as well as he could. Our combined assault on them earlier had made locking the room impossible, but the authorities were due shortly, so it seemed an inconsequential item.

  We gathered in the great hall. Colonel North and John Withers both sat down on a sofa next to each other. Robert Evanston had lit a cigarette and was lounging against a table. Holmes, meanwhile, had taken a position next to the fireplace and I stood next to him.

  “On what errand have you sent Meadows on?” I asked.

  “There has been murder in this house, Watson,” he said steadily. “I have sent Meadows to ascertain if everyone is in their respective rooms, and if everyone is well.”

  It suddenly occurred to me that with a murderer loose in the house we had unprotected women. In a flash the Colonel and John Withers came to the same conclusion.

  “My God, Cecilia,” shouted Withers. He dashed off up the stairs, with Colonel North close behind.

  Directly there was the sound of raised voices followed by quiet.

  “Holmes, should we join them? Perhaps, there is something untoward.”

  “Fear not, Watson,” said the taciturn detective. “I do not believe that we will find any further victims this night.”

  Holmes seemed serenely confident, but I admit I was greatly relieved to see both of the Woodsons, Harold Chandler, and Colonel North all coming down the stairs. The Woodsons were hand in hand, and the lady was in obvious shock. Harold Chandler evinced no great emotion and was calm.

  “Where is Cecelia and her mother?” asked Evanston with concern.

  “Cecilia is fine, my boy,” said Colonel North. “Honoria, however will not wake up. Doctor, I suggest you look in on her.”

  I needed no further encouragement. I immediately bounded up the stairs. The Upton’s bed chamber was the last one on the long ell shaped hallway. As I approached I saw Meadows leaving the room. With a nod at me, he continued past me. I walked in and found Honoria Upton in her bed, with her stepdaughter beside her holding her hand. John Withers was off to the side with his hands in his pockets looking worried.

  “Doctor, she seems fine, but she will not stir except to flutter her eyes,” said Cecilia.

  I took charge of the room. My first act was to order Withers back downstairs. He argued mildly, but saw that I was correct and that he could do nothing and left.

  Honoria Upton was breathing in a steady manner and her pulse was regular and strong. I discerned a bottle of sleeping draught upon her table.

  “Does she regularly take a sleeping draught?” I asked the young woman.

  “I really could not tell you, doctor. I have only recently returned home and I an not in my stepmothers confidence.”

  “It does not appear to be an overdose, yet she is deeply asleep. I cannot understand it.”

  “There is more, doctor,” said Cecilia. “When Meadows awoke me, I took it upon myself to wake Honoria and tell her the awful news. This was on the table next to the sleeping draught. I hid it before I allowed John in.”

  From under the bed she pulled out a half empty bottle of brandy and sat it upon the nightstand. She shrugged at my unspoken question.

  “I do not know her habits, doctor, as I say I am practically a stranger here.”

  I returned to my patient. She was in no distress and the explanation was clear. Brandy with her medication was a powerful sleep inducer and it was likely that we were not going to be able to wake her before morning.

  “I do not believe there is anything that needs to be done, but she should not be alone.”

  “I will ring for her maid,” said Cecilia. “Until she arrives I will stay with her.”

  I stood up to leave. I looked at Cecilia Upton’s calm face.

  “You have, of course, been informed of the tragedy,” I said.

  “Yes. John broke the news to me after Meadows had roused me. It is terrible news, of course.”

  The words were correct, but her emotions were not. She showed no evidence of tears or of sorrow. As if reading my thoughts, she spoke.

  “I am a modern educated woman, doctor. I am sorry that my father is dead, but burglaries happen everyday.”

  “It is only that your father was a most gracious host to me and I wish that I had known him better. To one as young as you your father must seem very old, but to me he was a man with many years yet ahead of him.”

  “Yes, I know he had many plans,” she said in a dreamy voice. “He only thought of his own plans, of course, as many men do. From my girlhood I can recall him wishing to retire to the country and break away from the city life.”

  “I can tell you that as a judge he was much admired. I actually saw him in court once. He was formidable to say the least.”

  She appeared deep in thought. With a shake of her head she brought herself back to the present.

  “Well that was ages ago, doctor. But, burglaries happen everyday, and though I am sad at my father’s passing, as I said I am a modern, educated woman who does not faint at bad news so there is no need to catch me as I fall.”

  “I applaud your strength of character, Miss Upton,” I said. “But, this was no burglary. You have the word of Sherlock Holmes on that. Your father was murdered by someone in this very house.”

  Upon hearing my words Cecilia Upton abruptly fainted. I caught her in my arms as she fell.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The lady lay limp in my arms. I struggled to a sofa, and was in the process of setting her upon it, when the maid entered. She expressed no surprise at the situation, and merely came to my aid and assisted me in comforting the prostrate lady. After a few moments Cecilia came to. I gave her a snifter of brandy and soon saw the color come back into her cheeks.

  “I cannot think of what might have gotten into me, doctor,” she said shamefaced. “I feel the perfect fool.”

  “There is no need my dear for an apology. You have had multiple shocks tonight, and the reaction was quite in line with the nature of the trauma.”

  She assured me that she was well enough for me to depart. After a short talk with the maid, I left the two of them in attendance to Honoria Upton and left the room.

  Coming down the stairs I saw that there was no new arrival. Evidently the police had still not made an appearance. The room was subdued and conversation was low. Holmes was standing by the fireplace talking with Colonel North. He greeted me and I joined the both of them.

  “And how is the lady, Watson?”

  I gave a brief summary of Honoria Upton’s condition, as well as the swoon that Cecilia had taken. Holmes seemed keenly interested in the exact conversation I had had with Cecilia, but nothing appeared to be untoward to me. Presently I requested that Holmes and I speak privately, and he assented. We left the hall and entered the library, leaving the door open so
that Holmes could make certain that the murder room was not disturbed. Once alone I let my fury loose upon my friend.

  “Holmes, how can you explain this scandalous behavior towards me? I feel completely betrayed and you have made me look foolish.”

  Holmes spread his arm and spoke quietly. “My dear Watson, the subterfuge was necessary, I assure you. I feared that something was afoot from the first moment that I heard the lady’s story. Had I come in the open it might have caused the crime to be driven underground until I was forced to suspend my holiday. As it was, I sent you in my stead, and I arranged with Honoria Upton to become a member of the staff. Only she and I, and Mr. George Withers, were aware of my true identity, though I could not completely fool Meadows. He discerned immediately that I was not of the servant class, but he said nothing.”

  As always, when he wished it so, the words of Sherlock Holmes had a soothing, pacifying effect. The logic of his argument was difficult to challenge, yet I still felt raw over his treatment. He looked as ever now. He had removed the accouterments that had gone into his disguise. I suddenly looked into his eyes and cried out. “My word, Holmes, but your eyes are blue!”

  The detective gave a short chuckle and leaned his head forward. With a quick hand motion to each eye Holmes detached two convex disks and displayed them to me. His eyes were now the familiar grey that I was used to.

  “It is an improvement on the work of Dr. Frick, of whom you are aware. I have introduced a dye into the process so as to achieve a different color. It has proven most effective as an aid to disguise.”

  “It was masterfully done, Holmes,” said I. My fury was submerged by my admiration that he could fool me in such close quarters. “It amazes me how you do it. I, who have known you for years, did not for a moment suspect anything.”

  “The psychology of the human mind plays an important part,” intoned Holmes, in the manner of a lecturer. “No one looks closely at a servant. You glanced at me briefly at our first meeting, but did you ever look closely afterwards?”

  I had to admit that he spoke the truth. The tendency was to treat servants as anonymous people, gliding in and out of the room. I confessed to Holmes that he was correct.

  “Did you even learn the name of the maid from Mrs. Upton’s chambers?” he asked.

  “Well…err…no I did not, Holmes, but I was concentrating on the ladies.”

  “Of course you were, doctor, and rightly so. My point is only that your powers of observation, and that of must people, excluding myself of course, are limited to what you believe is important. An intelligent person can use that to his or her advantage.”

  “Holmes, do you see every human interaction as a prelude to crime?”

  No, doctor, merely as an opportunity to observe. It is my craft, doctor.”

  I grunted my agreement with his general theory, but I did feel somewhat uncomfortable in Holmes’s use of the human race as laboratory animals to be used for experimentation. At times Holmes was not quite human, in my estimation. A further thought occurred to me.

  “Holmes, you were burning with fever when I left you at the Withers home. How did you manage to recover so quickly?”

  I feared another breakdown of his iron constitution, but he shook his head with a grin at my words.

  “The fever was a simple trick, doctor. A hot water bottle applied to my forehead for several minutes before our conversation was enough to convince you that I was too ill to accompany you. It is a subterfuge that many truant schoolboys across the country are familiar with.”

  He observed the crestfallen look upon my face and patted my shoulder indulgently.

  “Now, doctor,” he continued. “I was able to observe and listen to much of the conversation as I was tending my duties, but I wish for you to relate to me all that has happened since you entered this home.”

  “But, Holmes,” I protested. “I cannot give you verbatim of every conversation I have had.”

  “Of course not, doctor. I ask simply for you to relate to the best of your abilities. One of the reasons I sent you here was that I value you as an acute observer, in your own way. While there is much that you overlook, you have the stolid good sense of an Englishman. I wish for your intuition, as to the characters of those you have met this evening, rather than a stenographic record of the conversations.”

  That much, I felt, was certainly within my powers and I began to recall the events of the evening. Holmes asked few questions during my recitation and seemed to listen intently. By the end he was pacing back and forth with his hands thrust into his pockets.

  “Your recount scores with my own, Watson. Much of your evening I observed myself. What did you make of the argument that the Judge had with Cyril?”

  “I am not quite sure what to make of it. A family dispute obviously, but I was not certain exactly who it was that raised his voice. I thought it was Cyril, but others thought it was the Judge. A father and son often sound alike.”

  “What is your impression of the two older gentlemen?”

  “Well. Colonel North is one of the old school for certain. Perhaps not much imagination, but a good man in a fight I fancy.”

  “I am familiar with the English army officer,” said Holmes. “Every corner of the empire is inhabited by them. Honor, above all, yet as you say, generally not imaginative. What of Mr. Chandler, the uncle?”

  “Of him I am less certain. An adventurer of course, but he seems to be of the right sort as well. Honoria Upton certainly trusts him. She made that clear all evening.”

  “Yes, but how well can she know the man? By her own evidence he has spent much of his time overseas. He may be in need of money.”

  “But any money would go to his niece and not him.”

  “That is true, of course,” Holmes mused. “At least true for the present. Are you certain that the lady will recover?”

  “Certainly. She has merely mixed alcohol with a sleeping draught. It is a most dangerous combination, but from the reaction of her maid I do not think her condition is an unusual one. She will be fine in the morning though, of course, she will have a shock when she is told of her husband.”

  “What do you make of young Woodson and his wife?”

  “Nothing unusual there except perhaps, that the husband is rather striking to the ladies and the wife is a bit plain.”

  “You think that she pales in comparison to Miss Upton?”

  “Well, frankly yes, Holmes, though I dare say it is impolite to express it so. The lady is of undoubted good character, but is not destined to break many hearts.”

  “Perhaps,” said Holmes. “The Judge did make a point of discussing the books with Woodson. I suppose a motive could be found there.”

  “True, Holmes, but we still do not know how it was done.”

  Holmes was lost in his thoughts for a few moments and then continued.

  “Mr. Evanston also seems to be a favorite of the ladies.”

  “I think he is a bounder, Holmes, but ladies are often overawed by dashing looks. Mrs. Upton said that her husband thought him a radical, and I believe the Judge was correct. He has talked the most scandalous rot all evening. I doubt he has the strength to kill, but he is the worst sort of young man that is all too common today.”

  “The two Upton children would likely be in line for an inheritance. Did they impress you as dutiful children?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose, in the modern way. Cyril is disappointed that his career in the army is over and that seems to be his main preoccupation, at least before his father’s death. I believe he is a good chap. He has the old school tie.”

  “Cecilia has spent much time in America. She must have missed her father terribly.”

  “I don’t know about that, Holmes. I do not wish to betray a confidence, but she was not upset that her father died. She only fainted when she realized he had been murdered by someone other than a simple burglar.”

  “I did comprehend that, Watson, and it is instructive, but hardly unusual. To the young a person
the Judge’s age must have seemed ancient indeed. His death would be expected. However, to be murdered is quite another matter. No, I believe that her reaction was understandable. What is less understandable is the wife.”

  “Honoria Upton?”

  “The very one. Surely her actions tonight are suspicious?”

  “But I told you, Holmes, that my judgment is that she is a habitual user of alcohol and sleeping draughts. Her stupefaction would be a normal state.”

  “I agree under normal circumstances it might be usual, but the circumstances are hardly normal. The lady was in such distress that she unburdened herself to us. We are strangers to her, but her need was so great she was driven to contact us, without her husband’s knowledge, and ask for aid. She feared, if not murder, that something would happen. Would the lady I just described make herself insensible on a night such as this?”

  “My dear, Holmes. When you make the case in that manner it, of course, turns her actions into something else altogether. Do you think she was dosed without her knowledge?”

  “It is possible, Watson. Are you certain her condition was actual, and not feigned?”

  I considered it for a moment, and then shook my head in a frenzy of negation.

  “It is not possible, Holmes. I would stake my professional reputation on that fact. The lady is under the combined effects of two powerful sedatives. It could not be feigned to a physician.”

  “But, you could not say as to how long she had been under the effects, is that not true?”

  “Well no, but I hardly see how that matters,” I protested.

  “Likely not, doctor,” said Holmes placidly.

  I tried to divine what Holmes meant, but it was all blackness to me, and he would not be drawn further. It was a normal circumstance for Holmes to retain his own confidence until the denouement of the case, but it was still a bit galling. We fenced for some added minutes, with little result. There was a clatter at the door and we heard someone admitted to the hall. Meadows made an appearance at the door to the library.

  “Gentlemen,” he intoned with no inflection. “The Inspector is here, and wishes all to attend in the hall.”