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

by Steven Ehrman

  “But these two things work against one another,” said the Inspector.

  “You delight me, Cavendish. They do indeed.”

  “I am in the dark, Holmes. Just what is it that you, and the Inspector see, and I do not?

  “Simply this, Doctor,” began Holmes. “The fact that Sara Compton is the same height as the shooter of the gun goes along nicely with her confession, but her lie, and lie it is, about the order of the shots works against the theory of her guilt.”

  “Have you any theory for the discrepancy?” asked I.

  “There is only one, Watson,” said Holmes. “She couldn’t tell the truth.”

  “I do not see that at all,” said I, throwing up my hands.

  “No matter,” said Holmes. “We move on next to whom she would be willing to shield.”

  “The children are the obvious answers,” I said. “Or perhaps Richard Compton.”

  “I believe we can rule out the idea of her covering for her brother-in-law,” said Holmes. “And as for the children, shielding one leaves the others with the loss of both parents. Such a thing would be distinctly unfair to two of her children, if one is guilty. I cannot see the lady doing that.”

  “That is the entire household, Mr. Holmes,” said Cavendish.”

  “There is one more theory that would explain everything. Perhaps Sara Compton is shielding the man that she loves.”

  “What evidence do you have of such a thing?” asked Inspector Cavendish.

  Holmes seemed lost in thought for a moment, so I explained to the Inspector about the battle for the hand of the lady.

  “So the Judge and Burton Winfield were lovers of Sara Compton,” chuckled Cavendish.

  “More exactly, I would describe them as erstwhile would-be lovers,” said Holmes, coming out of his reverie.

  “So, let me see if I have your theory of the murder,” said the Inspector. “Burton Winfield is in love with Sara Compton all these years. He eventually settles in the house of Judge Banner, who has conveniently purchased the house next to her. He renews his wooing of her, and this time he wins her. They begin an affair, but that is not enough for Winfield. He decides to eliminate the General. Sara Compton is either complicit or catches him in the act. Once the deed is done, she feels guilty over her part and confesses to save her lover, and to shield her children from a truth more awful then her confessing to the crime. Is that your theory of the crime, Mr. Holmes?”

  “It is certainly one theory, Inspector. Adultery can be a powerful motive, but I am also concerned with another base motive.”

  “What is that, Holmes?” asked I.

  “Who benefits from the crime?”

  “Well, that is easily answered,” said Cavendish. “I learned from Winfield last evening that the General employed a local man for his legal needs, one Percy Woodcourt.”

  As that was the name we had learned last evening, we gathered directions to the man’s offices. A short trip brought us to our destination, and we found ourselves seated across from Percy Woodcourt. He was a florid man with a bluff manner. He was behind an enormous desk, with a large bookcase behind him, filled with legal casebooks, as well as many weighty tomes on a variety of scientific subjects. He was smoking a large cigar as he learned the purpose of our visit.

  “I heard of the General’s death, of course,” he said. “Nasty business that. I was going to speak to the family this week about the will. Hard to believe that Mrs. Compton would do such a thing.”

  “We are interested in the disposition of the General’s assets, Mr. Woodcourt,” said Holmes.

  “There we have a problem, gentlemen. I really should not divulge such a thing before the will is read. Ethics, you know.”

  “Mr. Woodcourt, there has been murder done, and it is possible that the General’s will could contain a clue as to the motive for the crime. I am a Scotland Yard Inspector and Mr. Holmes is acting as agent to the family. I ask your indulgence.”

  I am not certain if it was the presence of the Inspector or the name of Sherlock Holmes, but Woodcourt immediately acquiesced.

  “Very well, gentlemen,” said the solicitor. “It will be no secret in the coming days, in any event. The will names Warren Compton as sole beneficiary of General Jonah Compton’s estate and assets.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Perhaps I should not have said sole beneficiary,” Woodcourt admitted. “Sara Compton was to have use of the estate for her lifetime and a small annuity. Thomas Compton and Anna Grey were given nothing at all. There were also the usual small bequests to servants and the like, but the vast majority of the estate, and it is a large one, goes to Warren Compton.”

  “But Warren Compton is not even the eldest son,” said I. “What would compel the General to disinherit his eldest?”

  “You were an intimate of the house, Doctor,” said Holmes. “Did you observe any tension between father and son?”

  “Quite the contrary, I should say. The General was most solicitous of Thomas.”

  “Mr. Woodcourt, who witnessed the will?” asked Holmes.

  “My secretary and my accountant,” said the man. “They can both testify to the authenticity of the document.”

  “That was not why I inquired,” returned Holmes. “Since the witnesses were both from your office, it is possible that the family was unaware of the contents of the will.”

  “I should think that quite likely, gentlemen. You see, this will was made less than three weeks ago.”

  “What?” cried Cavendish and I in unison.

  “That is right, gentlemen. The previous will had stood for some twenty years, with small periodic addendums.”

  “How was that will materially different then the one that superseded it?” asked Holmes.

  “It differed only in the disposition between his three children. In the old will, Warren and Thomas Compton were to split the estate, with Anna Grey receiving a very handsome annuity.”

  “Did the General confide to you his reason in making such a different will?” asked Cavendish.

  “I am sorry, Inspector, he did not and it was not my place to ask. As a matter of professionalism, I asked if he meant to specifically disinherit two of his children. He answered in the affirmative.”

  “Did he display anger towards those two of his children?” asked Holmes.

  “I should say not,” said Woodcourt. “He seemed a bit sad and perhaps even wistful, but I detected no animosity towards them.”

  “Has any other member of the Compton family come to see you since the new will was drawn?” Holmes asked.

  “Thomas was here just last week, but it was on an unrelated matter.”

  “What was that, Mr. Woodcourt?” asked Holmes.

  “I really cannot say,” replied Woodcourt.

  This reply drew a stern look from Inspector Cavendish and the solicitor wilted beneath it.

  “Very well,” he said glumly. “It was a matter of copyrights. Thomas is a published author and he wanted me to explore a copyright violation against another author, but I told him nothing of his father’s will.”

  “Are you and Thomas Compton social friends, Mr. Woodcourt?” Holmes asked.

  We are not. I admire his intellect and we have exchanged some correspondence, but we do not socialize. In fact, I think you would find that Thomas socializes with no one, outside his family. He is devoted to science.”

  The country solicitor seemed quite wounded by any suggestion of professional misconduct.

  “One last question, Mr. Woodcourt,” said Holmes. “Was General Compton in a hurry to have his will changed?”

  “Why, as a matter of fact he was very insistent that it be done with dispatch. I accommodated him, of course.”

  Holmes thanked him for his cooperation and we left on that note. Once in the street, Cavendish turned to Holmes.

  “I think we can believe him, Mr. Holmes. I have made some inquires into Mr. Woodcourt’s character and he is thought to be above reproach.”

  “I have no re
ason to doubt that, Inspector. It is merely that I thought it possible that Thomas Compton had paid a visit to our legal friend recently.”

  “What on Earth made you think that likely, Holmes?” asked I.

  “Thomas Compton made an aside about how trivial his copyright concerns were when compared to the tragedy we are investigating,” replied Holmes. “It occurred to me that he might have consulted with a legal mind over the issue.”

  “But why did you think Mr. Woodcourt the most likely person Thomas would turn to?” I asked. “Judge Banner may be retired, but he was reckoned to have a brilliant legal mind.”

  “That is true, Watson,” he conceded. “But Mr. Woodcourt has two of Thomas Compton’s books on his bookshelf in his office.”

  “I must confess, Mr. Holmes, that I did not notice that,” said Cavendish.

  “More is the pity, Inspector,” replied Holmes blandly. “I, however, am not in the habit of overlooking such things. At any rate, once I made that observation it made it more likely that our solicitor friend and Thomas Compton were at least acquaintances. Of course, we have only Woodcourt’s assurance that the relationship is not a deeper one.”

  “Well, Mr. Holmes, as I have stated Woodcourt has a fine reputation,” huffed Cavendish, clearly annoyed that he had missed the clue of the books. “Furthermore, I believe this entire matter should now be considered closed. Sara Compton has confessed and I see nothing in this business of a change in the will that alters that fact.”

  “I will not argue the point, Inspector,” said Holmes mildly. “You can, however, aid me in one way.”

  “How is that, Mr. Holmes?” asked a wary Inspector Cavendish.

  “It is a trifle, I assure you, but I would assume that you have had your men speak with the neighbours.”

  “We have, Mr. Holmes, it is proper procedure.”

  “Splendid. I know, of course, that Judge Banner and Mr. Winfield are neighbours of the Comptons to the west, but I should like to know who the neighbour is to the east.”

  “Is that all, Mr. Holmes?” said a clearly relieved Cavendish. He pulled a notebook from his pocket. “Let me see here. Yes, here it is. A retired gentleman lives in that estate. His name is Henry Cornwell. He retired to the country several years ago.”

  “Is there any mention of a wife?”

  “No. He must be an elderly bachelor. You know the type, Mr. Holmes,” said Cavendish with a wink at me. “The kind of man who takes no notice of the ladies and is always buried in his work.”

  I must admit I smiled a bit at Cavendish’s jibe at my friend. Holmes would never take a wife. His work was his great love.

  With a laugh, Cavendish bid us good day and we parted company. We made our way back to the inn. I had thought that we would go directly to our rooms, but Holmes made a beeline for the public room of the inn. I followed and we seated ourselves at a table. The innkeeper made her way over to us. She was a plump rosy-cheeked lady by the name of Mrs. Harrison. She had a cheery smile on her face.

  “Mrs. Harrison, just the soul I wished to see,” cried Holmes. “It is a warm day and the road is dusty. A pint of your best.”

  I made the same order and the lady scurried away. She soon returned with two foamy glasses of ale.

  “Thank you, my dear,” said Holmes. “ I suppose you know most everyone in the area.”

  “I should say I do, Mr. Holmes,” she replied. “My dear departed husband and I have run this inn for more than fifteen years.”

  “Splendid. I heard mention the other day that a Henry Cornwell lives somewhere about here.”

  “Aye, he does, sir. In fact, he lives the next house over from General Compton. Awful thing, that.”

  “Oh, I agree. Terrible tragedy. Still, I believe I know this chap. He is an elderly man, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. A widower too, or so I hear.”

  “I am sure it is the same man. He was a man of finance in London for many years.”

  “Oh, then I don’t think he is your friend, sir. Mr. Cornwell owned a rubber plantation somewhere in South America. Lived overseas. He was brown as a nut when he settled here. If you gentlemen will excuse me, I have to see to the kitchen.”

  She left us in a rush. I looked over at Holmes with a bit of a frown.

  “I say, Holmes, what was that about?”

  “I merely wanted some information about this Henry Cornwell.”

  “I do not mean that and you know it. What I mean is, why the deception?”

  “Have I run afoul of your ethics, Doctor?” He said smiling.

  “Never tell the truth when a lie will do just as well. Is that your new motto, Holmes?”

  “Doctor, please stay your indignation.”

  “If you wanted information you could have simply asked Mrs. Harrison. I am sure she would help if she could. I would make a wager on that.”

  “And you would lose, Watson,” said he. “Although our innkeeper is a friendly person she is a local and we are mere outsiders. Had I questioned her in the manner you suggest, she would likely have told us nothing. In any case it was a small deception and she is none the wiser that she has been fooled, whilst we have more knowledge than we did before.”

  “Very well, Holmes,” I said with a sigh. “That you will take your own path is something I know well, and as you say, no harm was done.”

  “I am certain that you noticed that this Mr. Cornwell has the same initials as Harold Compton.”

  “I hadn’t noted, but why is that a point of interest?”

  “Doctor, we have been told that the General’s will was not talked about because the Compton men are all very long lived. They thought the General’s death was decades away.”

  “Yes. What of it? Even if the men of the family are long lived, that hardly takes a murder into account. The General may very well have lived several more decades.”

  “But I am not speaking of the General. I am speaking of his father, Harold Compton.”

  “We don’t know his age, Holmes.”

  “Ah, but we do, Doctor. Anna Grey told us he was the same age as the General. That would be roughly sixty-five.”

  “Yes, you are right,” I said. “Are you suggesting that the two deaths are connected?”

  Holmes did not answer my question, but rather posed one of his own.

  “I say, Doctor, are you up for a spot of grave robbing?”

  Chapter Ten

  “Have you become deranged, Holmes?” I nearly shouted, drawing attention from several people at a table across the room.

  “I assure you, I am quite sane, Watson,” said Holmes. “I fear that I posed the question with a bit too much whimsy, but I would appreciate your company tonight.”

  “Holmes, you don’t seriously propose that we despoil this man’s grave.”

  “It is not a grave, Doctor. As we have been told, there is a family mausoleum on the property. I have made inquiries and I understand that it is in the northwest corner of the Compton estate. The site was chosen for its tranquil isolation. I suggest that we visit this mausoleum tonight after dark, and see if Harold Compton lies in repose in his coffin.”

  “Holmes, this is beyond the pale. I will not be a party to it.”

  “Very well, Watson. I had hoped for your companionship in this matter, but if I must go alone, I will do so.”

  “Then you propose to go ahead with this mad scheme?”

  “Certainly,” replied Holmes calmly. “Doctor, I believe that you know that when my mind is set on a task I will allow nothing to halt me from completing it.”

  I was vexed with frustration with my friend. He, however, took no notice and sat serenely in his chair with his eyes half-closed, as if in deep thought. I grabbed my glass of ale and tossed back half of it in one long pull.

  “Very well, Holmes,” said I, wiping the foam from my mustache. “If you persist in this, and nothing good will come of it, then I will go by your side.”

  “Stout fellow!” cried Holmes with a smile. “I know that I can
count on you at need.”

  “I go with trepidation, I assure you. However, go I will,” said I. “Must we go at night though, Holmes?”

  “I fear so. Although the location is isolated, I do not wish to be observed.”

  I also did not wish to be observed and was about to say so, when I saw Judge Banner enter the public room. He saw Holmes and I at once, and made his way slowly to our table. He carefully settled himself into a chair, wincing in pain as he did so.

  “Good day, gentlemen,” he said. “I hope that you do not mind if I join you.”

  “Certainly not, Judge,” said Holmes, “it pains me to see you in physical distress. Do not forget that my friend is a doctor. Perhaps he can help you in some way.”

  “I would be more than happy to be of any aid, Judge,” said I.

  “My thanks to you both,” said the Judge, “but I am afraid my ailments are only the manifestations of old age. I am afraid science has no cure for that, at present.”

  “Even so, it is a happy accident that our paths cross,” said I.

  “It was no accident, Doctor. I came here to speak with you both, but most particularly you, Mr. Holmes.”

  “That being the case, perhaps we should find a more private room,” said Holmes.

  “Mrs. Harrison’s sitting room is usually empty this time of day,” I suggested, thinking that we were finding ourselves in that room quite often today.

  “Capital idea, Watson. You and the Judge proceed there without me. I believe I will purchase a cigar at the bar.”

  The Judge and I did as Holmes suggested. The Judge moved on unsteady feet by my side, and seemed decidedly happy to sit once again when we arrived at our destination. Holmes was close on our heels and entered the room smoking a large black cigar.

  “Mr. Holmes,” said the Judge, “I am terribly anxious about Sara. Richard came round this morning and told Burt and myself that they have engaged your services. Is there any hope for the dear lady?”

  “There is always hope, Judge. However, as long as Mrs. Compton insists that she is guilty, it will be difficult to prove her innocence. Does she still insist so?”