Anna Grey walked over to a sofa and flung herself upon it.
“And more the fools are they for doing it.”
“Then it is true.”
“Certainly it is true,” she snapped. “At least the Judge has the good sense to refrain from advertising it. It is obvious every time Burt is in the same room with her that he is smitten.”
“Was it obvious even to your father?” asked Holmes.
“Of course. My Father was very shrewd about people. He knew, he simply didn’t care.”
“That seems an odd attitude.”
“No, not really. Not if you knew Father,” she said a bit wistfully. “You see, Father simply couldn’t imagine Mother preferring another man to him. And beside that, Father knew that Burt was a true gentleman and would never violate the sanctity of his marriage.”
“And is Mr. Winfield a true gentleman?”
“Painfully so, Mr. Holmes. He had only eyes for Mother, in spite of the fact that an eligible woman was within his reach,” she said. “And, gentlemen, do not think me a wanton woman. I simply believe that if the person you love is gone, you must find another. Damn all the ghosts and lost loves of the world.”
I knew not what to say to that, and even Holmes appeared a bit taken aback. Anna Grey took the break in the conversation to pour herself a glass of brandy from a nearby decanter. She took a sip from the glass and then sat it back down.
“Gentlemen, please forgive that outburst. I am afraid my Father’s death has hit me rather more solidly than I had at first imagined. It has brought back memories of losing my own husband. Poor Roger.”
“You have done nothing to forgive, my dear,” I said. “This has been a trying time for you and your entire family.”
“Thank you, Doctor, but I’ve been a bit silly,” she said. “Now, Mr. Holmes, how can I help you to find Father’s killer?”
“It is difficult to say at this point of the investigation, Mrs. Grey, but hearing about the man himself is always useful.”
“What can I tell you?”
“Anything at all. What sort of a man was your father?”
“Oh, I see. You want me to draw a portrait of the man. Well, Father was a typical military man, I suppose. My own husband was a sailing man and they were much the same. Father was away a good deal, of course, but when he was home he was a loving parent. His own father, my Grandfather, was of the same cloth.”
“Did your grandfather reside on the estate?”
“Oh, yes. Grandmother died before I was born and Mother’s parents died quite young, as well. Grandfather was the only grandparent that I ever knew. He died while I was at school in Switzerland.”
“How very sad for you,” said I.
“Yes. He died after a short illness. Warren was away at school, as well, and Thomas had graduated and begun his travels in the Pacific. Thankfully, Father was able to get back home before he passed. I wanted to come home for the funeral, but Mother wouldn’t hear of interrupting my education.”
“So your mother was the typical army wife, staying home whilst her husband tramps the globe.”
“That’s just it, Mr. Holmes, but it was a full life and Father came back as often as he could. In fact, he gave up life in the service once his own father had passed. It was then that the Judge retired and moved next door.”
“And then Mr. Winfield settled with the Judge in a bachelor establishment.”
“The three musketeers reunited, one might say, Mr. Holmes. When they were together they would yarn often of the old days.”
“By the way, Mrs. Grey,” said Holmes. “How did your grandfather make his living?”
“Father told me once that Grandfather was a hat manufacturer. Apparently he made a good sum, and left it to Father upon his demise.”
“Was he alike to your Father in appearance?”
“Oh yes, he was a dashing tall man, but remember, Mr. Holmes, I was only a young girl. It was long ago.”
“How old was he when he passed?”
“I believe that he was sixty-five.”
“In fact, approximately your father’s age,” observed Holmes.”
“I suppose so,” she said.
I noticed as Mrs. Grey was speaking that Holmes had wandered near the door to the library. As the lady finished speaking, he suddenly leapt to the door and flung it open. Standing in the hallway was young Emily Grey in her nightclothes. She had a guilty countenance and looked shamefaced at her mother.
“Emily, this is the absolute limit!” cried Anna Grey.
“I am sorry. Really I am,” said the little girl as she ran into her mother’s arms.
“I know you are, my dear,” said Anna Grey as she stroked her daughter’s hair, “but you mustn’t eavesdrop on people anymore.”
“I promise, Mother.”
I wondered how many times before the girl had made the same promise.
“And what are you even up and about for anyway?” asked the mother. “I put you to bed a half an hour ago.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Well you’re going back, young lady, and right now. Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us.”
She made as if to rise.
“Half a moment, Mrs. Grey,” said Holmes. “I would like to speak to this charming young lady.”
“Well, of course, Mr. Holmes, if you wish.”
“Emily,” said Holmes to the girl, “my name is Sherlock Holmes. I would like to ask you a few questions. Is that all right with you?”
“I suppose so, sir,” said the girl looking to her mother.
“Fine. Do you know what has happened here this evening?”
“I know Grandfather is dead. Mother told me. I am very mature.”
“I am certain that you are,” said Holmes. “Have you heard your grandfather arguing with anyone in the past few days? Even, perhaps, a stranger.”
“No strangers, sir. I did happen to hear Grandfather and Grandmother arguing yesterday. He was quite cross with her. I wasn’t eavesdropping, Mother, I swear. I just happened by.”
“Of course, dear,” said her mother. “Tell Mr. Holmes what you heard.”
“Grandfather was telling Grandmother that he wasn’t going to let it happen again.”
“Go on, my dear,” said Holmes.
“He was very angry. He said it was a mistake that he wouldn’t see repeated.”
“Did you hear anything else?”
“Yes, sir. There was something about a big moor. Grandfather was very upset about it.”
“Are there any fens or marshes in the area, Mrs. Grey?” asked Holmes sharply.
“Not that I am aware of, Mr. Holmes.
“Has your Grandfather argued with anyone else lately?” asked Holmes of Emily.
“Not that I know of, sir. Grandfather was very kind.”
“I think that is enough, Mr. Holmes,” said Anna Grey. “I need to put this one to bed.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Grey. And, Miss Grey, it has been a pleasure to meet you.”
Both mother and daughter smiled and said goodnight. As they left, I turned to Holmes.
“What do you suppose the General meant when he raged against a big moor?”
“I cannot say with any surety, Doctor, but a moor can be more than a marsh, it could be a person of Moorish descent.”
“At any rate, Holmes, the girl is a witness to a disagreeable scene between husband and wife. And it was on the day before the killing. Matters look increasing black for the General’s wife, Holmes.”
“I agree, Watson, but there are enough unanswered questions in this case to still cause me to doubt her tale. I am certain that she is not telling the truth, at least, not the entire truth. Let us return to the study. I wish to examine the room again.”
We left the library and took the short walk to the study. The room was in darkness. I lit a lamp and immediately saw that the body had been removed. I supposed the General was lying in state at the local coroner’s office by now.
“It would appea
r that since Mrs. Compton confessed, Cavendish felt no need to leave a sergeant on guard in this room, as he promised,” said Holmes. “Well, no matter. He obviously feels the affair is a closed one.”
Holmes began a meticulous examination of the entire room. I watched him for some time and then wandered to the now closed window. Outside, in the moonlight, I saw that the mastiff was still on guard. Once again, he presented me with his mute growl and bared fangs.
“Watson,” called Holmes, “come here. I need you.”
I saw that Holmes was in front of the wall where the five bullets from the General’s revolver had gone in.
“Should we try and retrieve the spent bullets?” I asked as I reached his side.
“That will not be necessary, Doctor. I would like to perform a demonstration and I should like to use you as my test subject.”
“Anything I can do in aid is at your disposal.”
“I see that Cavendish has left the revolver,” said Holmes as he picked up the weapon from the desk. “Cavendish likely thinks it was not to be needed as evidence, since the lady had confessed. At any rate, it will make our experiment all the more precise as it is available.”
He handed the revolver to me.
“Now, Watson, what I wish for you to do is to point the gun at the wall as if you are about to fire it.”
“But, Holmes, a gunshot will rouse the entire house,” I protested.
“Calm yourself, Doctor. I wish you to merely pantomime the action. The gun is unloaded at any rate. Now, step close to the wall until the barrel is nearly touching it.”
I followed his instructions to the letter and heard him let out a sigh of exasperation.
“What is it, Holmes?”
“It is simply that in the search for exculpatory evidence, we have found another damning piece of inculpatory evidence.”
“I do not quite see your point,” I said.
“Compare where your barrel is in height relative to the gunshots in the wall.”
“They are roughly six inches lower on the wall than where my shot would have hit.”
“Exactly, Watson, which proves that the person who was holding the gun was some six inches shorter than you. Or to put it another way, someone the same height as Sara Compton.”
“Half a moment, Holmes. How do we know that the person who fired the shots did so at shoulder height?”
“Because it is the natural manner in which a gun is fired amongst both amateur and seasoned shooters. When I asked you to mimic firing a gun, I mentioned nothing about firing it at shoulder level, yet you did so instinctively.”
“True, “ I conceded. “Now that you call attention to it, I can hardly recall seeing it done any other way.
“And if that is not enough, during Mrs. Compton’s confession she actually demonstrated how she fired the weapon.”
“You’re absolutely right, Holmes. I suppose, then, that Sara Compton did kill her husband.”
“Not at all, Doctor, merely that someone her height fired the shots.”
“Well, in that case then the field expands to Judith Compton and Anna Grey.”
“Do not forget Mr. Warren Compton. He too is in the general height range, but there is one other person who would fire the shots at the that height.”
“Who besides a short person, Holmes?”
“A tall man bent with age.”
Chapter Eight
I stared at Holmes in mystification at his statement.
“A tall man bent with age,” I repeated woodenly.
“That is what I said, Doctor.”
“But, what man are you speaking of? I have heard of no old man, tall or otherwise, associated with the household.”
“Then you were not listening, Watson. We have been told explicitly of an old man and I can even show you what he looks like.”
Holmes took me by the arm and guided me into the hallway. We took a few shorts steps, and he came to a halt.
“Here is the man of which I speak.”
Holmes pointed at the enormous portrait of Harold Compton.
“Harold Compton?” I asked incredulously. “But, Holmes, he died ages ago.”
“What you mean to say, Doctor, is that we have been told he died ages ago.”
“I must say that you are a suspicious devil, Holmes.”
“That I am,” replied Holmes. “My suspicions, though, are not random. Did it not strike you as odd that when the patriarch of the family supposedly passed away, that no one but Sara and Jonah Compton were present? The children were all away. Richard Compton was still traveling the globe and the Judge had not yet taken up residence next door, so he and Mr. Winfield were likely absent, as well.”
“I grant that when taken together it seems a bit odd, but do you seriously propose that Harold Compton has been in hiding all these years, comes back and kills his own son?”
“I merely posit his existence as a theory. Also, I did not say he killed the General, only that he might have been the person to fire the shots. I remind you that the General was not shot, but rather stabbed to death.”
“Granted, but it is still the most wild of speculation.”
Holmes’s reply was forestalled by the appearance of Parker, the butler, at the other end of the hall.
“Parker, I would like a word with you,” he called out, and then said under his breath to me. “Perhaps, we can clear up this matter right now.”
“Yes, sir,” said the proper butler when he finished coming down the hall.
“Parker, tell me, were you here when Mr. Harold Compton was in residence at the house?”
“I fear not, sir. I had not yet begun in service to the General.”
“Then you were, of course, not here when the man passed away.”
“No, sir. I only came into service for the General after he had retired from the army. May I be excused now, sir? I wish to speak with the footmen about the coming days.”
“Certainly, my good man, but one item further. I would like the door frame to the study replaced, as soon as possible.”
“I have already sent for a carpenter, sir. It will be done by tomorrow.”
“Very efficient, Parker,” said Holmes. “Once it is repaired, I wish the door to be locked.”
The butler raised an eyebrow at Holmes’s request.
“Please do not think me overstepping my bounds,” said Holmes. “I have been engaged by the family to solve the murder. They do not believe their mother capable of the crime. By the way, Parker, do you believe your mistress killed your master?”
“Of course not, sir. It is a tragic mistake of some kind, I am sure.”
“Then we are in agreement. If any of the family members ask why the door is locked, you can inform them that I ordered the action. Can you do that, Parker?”
“It will be done as you say, sir,” replied the man promptly.
I waited for the butler to leave, before I braced Holmes with a question.
“I say, Holmes, what is this business of locking the study about? You have examined the room twice. What secrets can it still hold?”
“It is only, Doctor, that I feel uneasy,” he said. “I feel somehow as though I have missed something very obvious.”
“Are you admitting that you are the inferior of Dupin?” I asked with a twinkle.
“Nothing quite as obvious as The Purloined Letter, Doctor, but still the feeling persists.”
“What shall we do next?” I asked.
Holmes suggested that we call upon the Judge, to see if he and Burton Winfield had returned as of yet. This call was not to be, as we were informed at the Judge’s home, by his butler, that the master was still out.
Holmes did not seem very chagrined at the news, and we proceeded to make our way back to our quaint inn. Our accommodating host provided us with a hot supper of mutton, and we soon retired to our rooms.
As I lay in bed, I reviewed the facts of the case. It was a bewildering mess, if we accepted Holmes’s view that Sara Compton’s confess
ion was a lie. Holmes was also working on the case, as I could hear his footsteps, pacing the floor in the next room. I fell asleep, listening to the steady cadence of his footfalls.
The following day dawned bright and sunny. After dressing, I knocked on Holmes’s door to no avail. I went downstairs and found my friend seated at a table having breakfast. I joined him. I had a hearty fare of two eggs and a rasher of bacon while Holmes had a more Spartan repast of toast and jam. As we finished our meal, I espied Inspector Cavendish enter the establishment. Ten minutes later found our company in a small sitting room of the inn.
“I understand that you have been engaged by the family to dispute Mrs. Compton’s confession,” said the Inspector. “After working the jewel case together, it distresses me to find us on opposing sides, Mr. Holmes.”
“Opposite sides? Surely not,” protested Holmes. “I am certain that you wish the murderer of General Compton to be brought to justice, as well as I.”
“But certainly that person has been arrested. Mr. Holmes, it was your own deductions that caused her to confess. I admit the business of the door bolt slipped past me, but when you brought it to bear upon her she saw all was lost.”
“No, Inspector, that is not what she saw,” said Holmes leaning forward in his seat. “What she did see was that with the deception of the door being discovered, and also, completely unbeknownst to her, the mastiff outside the window, that her family was now in peril. She confessed to forestall an investigation of her loved ones. She is an intelligent woman. She saw the consequences of continued denial of the crime.”
The Inspector rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“Let us grant that what you say is true, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “That being the case, then she must know who the actual killer is, and is shielding that person with her false confession.”
“That would follow, of course,” said Holmes. “The question then becomes, who is this unknown person, and why would Sara Compton be willing to shield this person from prosecution?”
“There is also the matter of the gunshots, Holmes,” I said in reminder.
“What about the gunshots?” asked Cavendish.
Holmes quickly explained that we had caught Mrs. Compton in a lie about the order of the shots, and that we had also found that the shooter was approximately the same height as Sara Compton.
The Viking General (A Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tale Book 9) Page 5
