The Viking General (A Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tale Book 9)

by Steven Ehrman

  The young man trailed off.

  “But why isn’t the brute barking?” asked the Inspector. “I should think that the gunshots would have set him to making an awful clamour.”

  “I can answer that, Inspector,” said Richard Compton. “The dog has been mute from birth. I seem to recall there was some talk of putting him down, but Jonah would not hear of it. I can tell you that he is the terror of the young lads in the area. They tell stories of the dog creeping up behind unsuspecting travelers and devouring them. It is a tall tale, of course.”

  I imagined walking down a country lane, worried that the silent beast was behind every tree, with dripping fangs. The idea raised the hairs on the back of my neck, and I shuddered.

  Leaving those thoughts aside, I turned and saw that the Judge had found a blanket somewhere and he was covering the body of his old friend. I saw a deep tenderness in his face, as he managed to bend down and touch the brow of the General. He stood back erect, somewhat stiffly, and noticed that I was watching.

  “I hope it is all right to cover Jonah,” he said. “I simply could not stand to see him so.”

  At the old man’s words, the Inspector turned towards him.

  “I am through with the body,” Cavendish said. “Mr. Holmes, are you finished with your examination?”

  “Quite finished,” replied Holmes. “The cause of death is, of course, obvious and the man had only matches and a watch in his pockets.”

  Holmes displayed the matches and the watch. He had evidently taken them from the body, but I had not seen him do so. I sometimes thought that Holmes could have been the greatest pickpocket in all the empire, had he been inclined in that direction. He handed the watch to the Inspector.

  “Inspector,” said Holmes, “I would like to speak with Mr. Warren Compton.”

  “Is there any special reason, Mr. Holmes?” asked Cavendish with a quizzical look.

  “I should like to have all three men that forced the door when the body was discovered. We have Mr. Richard Compton, as well as the good doctor; Warren Compton will round out the set.”

  Inspector Cavendish nodded his agreement.

  “If you do not require my presence any longer, I will speak to Warren,” said Thomas Compton.

  “That would be splendid,” replied Holmes.

  The tall, slender man left the room quickly. Within minutes, his somewhat portly brother joined us. He went at once to Richard Compton.

  “Uncle, I am worried about Mother,” he said.

  “Has she taken ill?” asked a concerned Burton Winfield.

  “That is just it,” said Warren. “She has not even cried.”

  “She is most certainly in shock,” I said. “I’ll go to her at once.”

  I began to leave, when Holmes stopped me with a raised hand.

  “I should prefer that you remain, Doctor,” said he.

  “But, Holmes, I have my professional duty.”

  “I realize that, Doctor, but the lady has her daughter and daughter-in-law to minister to her. Please, stay. I may need you to corroborate testimony.”

  “Very well, Holmes. I will defer to you for now, but if the lady calls for aid or swoons, I will have to attend to her.”

  “Of course, Doctor. Now, sir,” he said to Warren Compton, “I understand that you and your Uncle were playing billiards during the time in question.”

  “That is so. We had been playing for about an hour, I would judge.”

  “Were you together during the entire time until you heard your mother call out?”

  “Certainly,” replied the man.

  “Is that your recollection as well, sir?” asked Holmes to Richard Compton.

  “Well, yes. I mean no. I mean we were together almost the entire time.”

  “Pray elaborate, sir,” said Holmes mildly.

  “Well, it is just that we were separated for a short time,” said Richard Compton. “You ran out of cigarettes, Warren. Surely you remember.”

  All eyes turned towards the man.

  “Of course, I remember,” he said, flushing. “But it happened long before this business occurred. Uncle, we were together when the shots were fired.”

  “Wasn’t there some question as to whether those shots came from outside the house?” asked Holmes.

  “Well, yes,” said Warren, “but Mother began screaming right afterwards, so they must have been the shots that we heard. My Uncle and myself were certainly together at that time.”

  “Just when did you leave the billiards room, Mr. Compton?” asked Holmes.

  “It was about twenty minutes before this dreadful tragedy. I was only gone for a minute or two. I went to my bedroom for cigarettes, as I said.”

  “Then you actually passed the study twice,” observed Holmes. “Once in going to your room, and once in returning.”

  “That is so.”

  “Did you see your father either time?”

  “No. The door was closed, I believe.”

  The man paused and furrowed his brow in concentration.

  “I think I heard Father talking on my way back,” he said finally.

  “Did you hear any other voice?” asked Holmes.

  “No.”

  “Was your father in the habit of talking to himself?”

  “Of course not, Mr. Holmes,” said the man with irritation. “I assumed he was talking with a member of the family, if I thought about it at all. What difference can any of this make? Uncle and I were together when the deed occurred.”

  “How can you be so certain?” asked my old friend.

  Warren Compton seemed dumbfounded by the question, and was speechless for a time. Inspector Cavendish stepped in.

  “Mr. Holmes, are you saying that these two men,” he gestured towards Warren and Richard Compton, “were not together at the time of the crime? Their testimony seems quite straightforward that they heard the gunshots together. Furthermore, they arrived at the door to the study just after Dr. Watson. It is difficult for me to see that they were not together at the time. Are you accusing both men of withholding the truth?”

  “Inspector, I do not accuse the two of being dishonest,” said Holmes. “I have little doubt that they were together at the time the shots were fired.”

  “Then I am afraid I do not understand,” said Cavendish. “If they were together when the shots were fired, how could they be apart during the crime?”

  “Allow me to explain. What evidence is there that the gunshots happened at the time of the murder?”

  “What the devil do you mean?” growled Burton Winfield.

  “Simply this,” began Holmes, “I must point out again that the victim was not shot. He was stabbed with his own knife.”

  “But Mother said that she heard Father arguing with someone, and then she heard the shots,” said Warren Compton. “The crime must have occurred then.”

  “And your mother might have seen the killer had the door been unbolted,” said Holmes. “As it turned out, the culprit fled through the open window.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But, Mr. Holmes, you said yourself no one could have gotten by the mastiff,” protested Cavendish.

  “That is right, Holmes,” said I. “You said no one could have gotten by that beast.”

  “I never said that no one could get by the dog, I only said that no stranger could have done so.”

  The implication of Holmes’s statement was immediately apparent to everyone.

  “Why, Mr. Holmes, you are right, of course,” said the Inspector. “I do not know how I could have missed that. With the door being locked, it must have been a person of the household who killed the General.”

  “The door was bolted, Inspector,” corrected Holmes.

  “Of course, of course, but there is no real difference. Still, it seems as if the person we seek resides in this house.”

  “Not necessarily, Inspector. It could be someone with whom the dog was familiar. Say a neighbour even,” Holmes said softly.

  The J
udge looked as though he had not heard Holmes. His head was on his chest and his eyes were closed. Burton Winfield, on the other hand, flushed in anger at the words of my friend. I feared he would cross the room and strike Holmes in rage.

  “Do you accuse me of murder, sir?” he asked in a tightly controlled voice. His hands were balled in fists at his side.

  “I accuse no one, Mr. Winfield.”

  “Then where do we go from here, Holmes?” I asked.

  Holmes looked thoughtful and did not reply at once. I had earlier tried to picture the Judge climbing through the window of the study and dismissed it as ludicrous; but Burton Winfield was another matter. He had no real alibi for the time of death. I recalled that he was perspiring heavily when he had arrived at the Compton Estate. I had thought at the time it was from running from the Judge’s home, but perhaps that was the second run he had made that night.

  I looked over at the powerfully built, bald man. That he was a man capable of violence was not in question. He had been on the edge of rage ever since he had arrived, but why would he kill his best friend? I wondered if perhaps a woman was at the root of this business. Sara Compton was still a beauty, despite her years. Could a romance, real or imagined, have caused the trouble between the General and Winfield? Finally, Holmes stirred himself to answer my question.

  “Watson, we must first answer the question of the door being bolted,” he said.

  “What question, Mr. Holmes?” asked Cavendish. “Surely the culprit locked the door to facilitate an escape, as we have said. You pointed out that the dog would allow a person it knew to pass.”

  “That is so, Inspector, but the door was not bolted.”

  “Of course, it was, Holmes,” I said. “I helped break it open and you can see for yourself that the bolt is shot out.”

  I drew Holmes’s attention to the door and pointed towards the bolt. For once, I had it over my friend. Cavendish took careful notice as to the position of the bolt.

  “Mr. Holmes, I must agree with the doctor,” said the Inspector. “The bolt was out.”

  “What you mean, of course, Cavendish, is that the bolt is out now,” replied Holmes. “Examine the door frame and you will understand why I am certain it was not bolted when Watson heroically forced the door.”

  The Inspector examined the frame and he saw, as I did as well, that doorframe was only damaged by the handle. The bolt hole was at least two feet higher on the frame, and was undamaged.

  Chapter Five

  “I do not understand, Holmes,” said I. “Then we could have simply turned the knob and walked in?”

  “Yes, Doctor, I am afraid so.”

  “How can that be?” asked Warren Compton. “Mother said it was locked.”

  “Did you try the door, sir?” asked Holmes.

  “Well, no,” said Warren.

  “Then how did the bolt come to be shot out, Holmes?” asked I.

  “When you first entered the room it was dark. It took Richard Compton a few moments to strike a match. In those moments, someone drew the bolt forth, hoping the undamaged frame would pass unnoticed,” said he.

  “Had you not been here, it would have gone unnoticed, Holmes,” said I.

  Holmes waved away the compliment and Inspector Cavendish looked extremely uncomfortable by my observation, his professional pride being somewhat bruised.

  “We must speak with Sara Compton at once,” said Cavendish.

  “I agree, Inspector, but I suggest that you assign one of the sergeants to guard this room,” said Holmes. “Nothing must be disturbed until this mystery is solved.”

  “I’ll see to it, Mr. Holmes.”

  Inspector Cavendish spoke to one of his men in the hallway as we all exited the room. As we walked down the long hallway, I noticed various wall hangings, which reflected both the General’s military life and his specific stationing in India. It was evident that the General’s wife had indulged him when decorating the house. Dominating the walls was a huge portrait of Harold Compton, the father of the dead man, with his name inscribed in brass on the bottom of the frame. I saw at once the resemblance between father and son. The elder Compton had been a man of tall stature, with wild, flowing blond hair. It was certain that a streak of the Viking ran within the blood of the Compton clan. I had slowed as I passed the painting and I hurried to catch the others.

  We finally came into the great hall of the home. The room was a large one, dominated by an enormous fireplace. I saw that Sara Compton was seated on a dark leather sofa, flanked on both sides by her daughter and daughter-in-law, respectively. The room was very subdued, with low conversation. Everyone seated himself with the exception of Holmes. He stood off to the side a bit, with his hands thrust deeply into his pockets. Inspector Cavendish was the last to arrive. He approached Sara Compton with something approaching kindness. Despite the evidence of her perfidy concerning the door, it was evident that he wished not to upset the recently widowed lady, if at all possible. She looked up at him expectantly.

  “Mrs. Compton, I am afraid we, that is to say I, have some questions concerning your account of the events leading to the discovery of your husband’s body,” he said finally.

  “Of course, Inspector,” she replied. “Naturally I wish to help in any way that I can.”

  The lady’s calm demeanour seemed to throw the Inspector off stride. Mrs. Compton appeared to be remarkably composed. Her son’s report to us was evidently correct. I could discern nothing that would indicate that the lady had cried as of yet. Her daughter, Anna Grey, likewise seemed unaffected, at least on the surface, by the crime. On the other hand, Judith Compton was crying freely and indeed, was being consoled by the widow, instead of the reverse.

  The Inspector appeared to be uncertain as to how to proceed when confronted with this lack of visible emotion. At last, after a few moments of confusion, he gathered himself.

  “I’ll come directly to the point, madam,” he said. “Is it your testimony that the door to the study was bolted?”

  “Of course that is my testimony, Inspector. Why do you ask such a question?”

  “Because the evidence shows that the door could not possibly have been bolted.”

  Inspector Cavendish quickly outlined the reason that the door must not have been bolted. Sara Compton listened calmly and said nothing when the Inspector finished.

  “What do you say to this, madam?” he asked. “You have evidently been less than honest with us.”

  “Careful, Cavendish,” said Burton Winfield in a low growl. “I’ll not have Sara browbeaten.”

  “There is no question of browbeating, Mr. Winfield,” said Cavendish, “however, questions must be asked.”

  “He’s right, Burt,” said Judge Banner. “You interrupting is only dragging this out further. Think of Sara and the children, for God’s sake.”

  Burton Winfield flushed at the words from the Judge, but he remained silent. The Inspector returned to Sara Compton.

  “I await your answer, madam,” he said.

  “You must be mistaken,” said the lady. “I tell you, it was bolted.”

  “That simply will not do,” said Cavendish.

  The lady met the Inspector’s gaze and did not quail from it, but neither did she reply. Finally, I heard Thomas Compton snap his fingers.

  “I have it,” he said suddenly. “Why, it explains everything.”

  “Well, out with it, Mr. Compton,” said the Inspector.

  “The door to the study has a tendency to stick,” he said, “and most especially when we have rainy weather. As the past week has had several showers, the door must have become stuck. Mother thought it was bolted when she could not open it. That explains it.”

  The man finished triumphantly and looked about the room for confirmation. I saw several people begin to nod their heads.

  “What Thomas says is true, Inspector,” said Richard Compton. “I know there have been several times when I have had to give the door a good shove in order to open it. Sara, being just a
slip of a girl, could easily have made an honest mistake. In fact, it is the only possible explanation.”

  There was general agreement to that point and Inspector Cavendish looked towards Holmes for guidance. In answer to the unspoken request, Holmes stirred himself from his post at the fireplace mantel and strode to the middle of the room. All eyes turned towards him.

  “There is a problem with the theory that the door was merely stuck,” said Holmes, to no one in particular.

  “I know what you are going to say, Mr. Holmes,” said Burton Winfield.

  “Indeed,” said Holmes with a smile.

  “Indeed. Now we all know your reputation, but you’ve gone astray here. Even the best hound will follow a false scent in the heat of the hunt.”

  “You intrigue me, Mr. Winfield,” said Holmes. “Please, continue. I am all attention.”

  “It is simply this, sir. I know something of the law and police work. There is no earthly motive for Sara to kill Jonah, but because you believed she had lied, you jumped to the conclusion that she is guilty. However, now that a reasonable explanation has been brought forth, you still hope to win the day, but you will not. The fact that the door is known to stick will cause doubt in the mind of a jury, if the police are foolish enough to bring charges. Face it, Mr. Holmes, your theory of Sara’s guilt is impossible to prove, given these facts.”

  Burton Winfield finished with a flourish and he appeared to smirk a bit at Holmes. I found myself taking an active dislike of the man, but I could not deny that he made a salient point about reasonable doubt. How could Holmes, or anyone, prove that Sara Compton was lying when she said she thought the door was bolted?

  “He’s right, Mr. Holmes,” said Inspector Cavendish. “Of course, you can prove the door was not bolted when it was forced, but beyond that I believe that we must accept Mrs. Compton’s account. Remember, this all happened in a trice.”

  I felt for Holmes at that moment. Whilst he would gainsay any mention of his ego, I knew him to be a prideful man, most especially of his skill at deduction. I had not often seen him tripped up on such a crucial point before. I was surprised that he had not considered the possibility of a sticky door in an ancient mansion, such as the Compton Estate. Perhaps he had been a bit too overconfident in his skills. It was a lesson to him, though a bitter one. I became aware that the eyes of Sherlock Holmes were upon me.