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

by Steven Ehrman

  “She will no longer speak of the matter. She says it is closed. She is a most obstinate woman. She always has been.”

  “Of course, you are of long acquaintance with the lady,” said Holmes.

  “That is so. I remember meeting her for the first time like it was yesterday. Of course, she was Sara Wordsworth then.”

  The old man’s eyes took on a dreamy quality. I could tell that he was recalling his heady days of youth. It was difficult to imagine the retired judge as a young man, courting a beautiful woman.

  “Not to be indelicate, but you had hoped to make her your own wife, didn’t you, sir?” asked Holmes.

  “That is no secret, Mr. Holmes,” said the Judge with a short laugh. “Burt, Jonah, and myself all courted her. She made the proper choice. They were happy together and I was happy for them.”

  “What of Mr. Winfield? Did he likewise take his loss with good humour?”

  “Well, Burt did cut up rather rough at the time,” admitted Judge Banner. “But he rallied round after a bit and wished them well.”

  “Judge, I must speak plainly now,” said Holmes. “If Sara Compton is innocent then someone else is guilty.”

  “I appreciate that point,” said the Judge dryly.

  “Burton Winfield has no alibi for the murder. He is a man well conditioned. He could have murdered the General and then sprinted back to your home. Is it possible that Mr. Winfield is still in love with Sara Compton? Could he have done the General harm?”

  “Burt murder Jonah? Poppycock!” cried the man. “Mr. Holmes, even if Burt went completely round the bend and killed Jonah, do you think for a minute he would let Sara take the blame? Of course not, frankly, I am surprised he hasn’t confessed to it in order to protect her.”

  Holmes had taken to pacing in front of the Judge as he smoked his cigar. It was a foul-smelling cheroot and it was quite unlike Holmes to smoke one. He was waving it about as he spoke. He passed very close to the Judge and the cigar slipped from his hand and onto the Judge’s lap. The old man fairly sprang from his chair and leapt to his feet, swatting at his trousers with his hands.

  “Judge, dear me,” said Holmes. “Are you quite all right?”

  “No harm done, my boy. I assure you, I am fine.”

  “You have not been burned?”

  “Nothing of the sort.”

  Holmes apologized several more times. The Judge maintained a good-humour about the accident, but did declare, after glancing at his pocket watch, that he had to take his leave of us. Holmes assured the Judge that he would visit him if there were any new leads in the case. After the old man had left, Holmes took his cigar and flung it into the fireplace. He then sat, drew forth a cigarette, and lit it.

  “Well, Watson, what reason do you think the Judge had in visiting us?”

  “Why, just as he said. He is concerned about Sara Compton and wished to know if there was any hope for her.”

  “Perhaps, but I rather think that he wished to plant the seed of a thought in our heads.”

  “What seed?”

  “Simply that if Burton Winfield confesses to the crime, it will be out of love for Mrs. Compton and not actual culpability.”

  “That would never have occurred to me. Perhaps you would be so good as to tell me why you dropped your cigar on the Judge’s lap.”

  “Did you enjoy that performance?”

  “Then it was a performance.”

  “Yes, I must confess that I had a little idea that the Judge exaggerates his infirmity. As the lit cigar demonstrated, the Judge can move quite swiftly when he so desires.”

  “Do you suspect everyone, Holmes?”

  “Everyone with the exception of yourself, Doctor,” said Holmes with a smile. “I have found when murder is committed, it is wise to suspect everyone until they have been definitely ruled out.”

  “And you now consider it possible for the Judge to commit the crime?”

  I received a shrug in response to that question.

  “Then what do you propose that we do now?”

  “I suggest that you rest for the remainder of the afternoon, as we are liable to be out until the small hours tonight.”

  “Will you be resting, as well?”

  “I have several errands I must see to. I will call upon you at dusk.”

  With that statement, Holmes took his leave of me and I was left to contemplate the coming night in solitude. I hardly thought that I could possibly rest, as the excitement from the murder was quite stimulating, however, I resolved to spend the day in quiet contemplation of the case. I closed my eyes in order to concentrate and promptly fell asleep.

  I was roused from my sleep, hours later, to find Sherlock Holmes standing in front of me, holding a dark lantern and a small pry bar.

  “The hour is nigh, Doctor. Are you quite ready?”

  “Of course I am, Holmes. I was merely resting my eyes.”

  “Very sensible. Shall we go?”

  Within minutes, we had slipped out of a side door of the inn and were tramping our way towards the Compton Estate. As the distance was less than a mile, we covered the ground quickly.

  Before we reached the estate, Holmes silently indicated that we must leave the road and he handed me the unlit lantern. It was a bright moonlit night, but we were swallowed by the trees of the thick forest. Holmes set a rapid pace and I followed in his wake. I was about to suggest that we light our lantern, when we broke through the trees and entered a small glen.

  In the middle of the clearing there was a small stone structure. It was obviously the Compton mausoleum that we were searching for. We were approaching from the rear of the structure, and I followed Holmes around to the front. I spied a path heading back to, what I was certain, was the Compton home. Holmes had evidently brought us by a more circuitous path for the purpose of stealth. Holmes was examining the door and called out to me softly.

  “Watson, now is the moment for the lantern. Shine it on the door, please.”

  I did as I was instructed. I lit the lantern and shined the beam of light on the door. There was a large padlock blocking our entrance to the mausoleum. Holmes was evidently prepared for such a circumstance, as he pulled two thin metal picks from his pocket and set to work on the locking mechanism.

  In less time then I would have thought possible, I heard a sharp click and the lock sprang open. I wondered, and not for the first time, what would have happened if Holmes had turned to crime, instead of the detection of it.

  Holmes opened the door and I saw complete blackness within, pierced only by the beam of the lantern. We entered, and Holmes closed the door behind us.

  He then took the lantern from me and removed the screen. The room jumped into view. Although this was a family mausoleum, Harold Compton was the only person interred to date. A single iron coffin, with his name on a brass plate, lay upon a stone table in the middle of the room. Holmes sat the lantern upon the floor and went to work on the lid of the coffin with his pry. In no time at all, he managed to raise the lid up enough so that we could get purchase on it with our fingers. It was very heavy, but we were able to slide it to one side. I could see only blackness within the coffin. I bent down to get the lantern and raised it above my head.

  The coffin was empty!

  “What say you now, Watson?” asked Holmes

  Chapter Eleven

  I was at a complete loss for words.

  “I hardly know just what to say,” I finally managed to blurt out.

  “Rather a startling development, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Well, that much I can say. How in the world did you know, Holmes?”

  “All such discussions can wait, Doctor. Let us leave this place at once.”

  We replaced the iron lid of the coffin and locked the doors once more. I doused the lantern and we wordlessly retraced our steps. We had almost reached the road again, when I heard the snapping of a branch. I turned to see a man holding a fowling piece pointed at Holmes and myself.

  “Halt, I sa
y,” said the voice.

  I immediately recognized the voice as belonging to Burton Winfield.

  “Please do not point that weapon at us, Mr. Winfield,” said Holmes. “Weapons have a nasty habit of going off.”

  “Mr. Holmes? Is that you and the Doctor?”

  “It is indeed, Mr. Burton.”

  The man lowered his gun and approached us. It was a warm night and perspiration gleamed off his bald head in the moonlight.

  “You gave us quite a scare,” said I. “What are you doing out here at this hour?”

  “I saw the flash of a lantern from my bedroom window. We’ve had some trouble with poachers, so I decided to see for myself. Glad to find instead that it was you, gentlemen,” he said. Suddenly his eyes narrowed. “Say, just what is it that you were doing prowling the countryside at all hours?”

  “Merely a theory that I wished to investigate,” said Holmes mildly.

  “Really?” said a clearly suspicious Winfield. “Just what was your theory, if I may ask.”

  “You may ask, sir, but I am under no obligation to tell you.”

  A frown crossed the face of Winfield.

  “You know that I am really growing rather fond of this part of the country. I shall be sad to leave it,” said Holmes.

  “Are you already planning your departure?” asked Winfield.

  “I shall likely leave no later than the day after tomorrow. Perhaps, even sooner.”

  This was news to me, but I tried to cover my surprise.

  “But what of the case?” cried Winfield. “Are you admitting defeat?”

  “Nothing of the sort,” said Holmes. “I believe that I will be able to name the person responsible for General Compton’s death tomorrow.”

  Winfield approached Holmes menacingly.

  “I think you’ve failed and that you are going to throw Sara to the dogs,” he snarled.

  “Yes, it really is pleasant about here,” said Holmes in a detached voice. “I shall truly miss it. Well, we must be off. Good night, Mr. Winfield. Come, Watson, I think that we can persuade Mrs. Harrison to prepare us something hot for our supper.”

  With those words, we left. I looked back after we had covered thirty yards, or so, and saw the hulking figure of Burton Winfield outlined in the gloom, watching us.

  When we reached the inn, the ever-cheerful Mrs. Harrison was indeed about, and Holmes got his hot supper. We tucked in a measure of roast beef and boiled potatoes and retired to my room. Holmes lit a cigarette and leaned against the mantel of the fireplace. I sat in an armchair and watched my friend. We had not talked about the case since we had left Winfield, and I was curious about Holmes’s next move. I finally decided that I could wait no longer.

  “Holmes, do you really propose to unmask the killer by tomorrow?” I asked.

  “I do, Watson,” he replied. “There is a telegram that I must send yet this evening, but I believe the case to be solved.”

  “You have discerned more than I have,” said I.

  “You do yourself too little credit, Doctor,” said Holmes. “It was you that planted the seed of the truth today to me in this very inn.”

  “I planted the seed? What did I say?”

  “Why, what I needed to hear, of course.”

  That was an annoying non-answer; something my friend was adept at.

  “Can you at least tell me if Henry Cornwell is Harold Compton?”

  “He is not, Doctor. I made some inquires into Mr. Cornwell today while you were resting your eyes.”

  I ignored that jibe.

  “It would seem that Mr. Cornwell is a well-known businessman and traveler,” said Holmes. “His history goes back far longer than the supposed death of Harold Compton. He has coincidental initials and nothing more. Now, if you will excuse me I have a telegram to send. Indeed, perhaps several.”

  “But, Holmes, you cannot leave me in curiosity.”

  “Patience, Doctor, I will see you in the morning.”

  And with that, he was gone. Holmes had an absolutely maddening habit of holding his solution until the end of a case. I had thought that through my long association with him I was immune to the effects of this habit, but I found that I was not.

  Left to my own devices, I tried to recall just what I had said to Holmes that could have been of material aid to him. I wracked my brain, but could recall nothing of worth. I finally decided that I would sleep on the matter and hope that tomorrow would bring me clearer thoughts.

  I passed an easy night, and found my friend had once again beaten me to breakfast. I found him downstairs at a table, finishing his meal. I joined him as he lounged over a cup of coffee whilst I ate.

  Pushing aside my plates, I was about to question him on the case when a clearly agitated Inspector Cavendish entered the establishment. Spying Holmes and I at our table, he hurried over to join us.

  Ignoring any amenities, he went straight to his subject.

  “Burton Winfield has confessed to the murder of General Compton.”

  “Indeed,” said Holmes calmly.

  “You do not seem terribly surprised.”

  “Judge Banner predicted such an outcome only yesterday,” I said.

  We quickly informed the Inspector of our conversation with the retired jurist.

  “So that is why he did it,” said Cavendish. “I knew something was rotten in Denmark, as they say.”

  “What reason did Mr. Winfield give for the killing?” asked Holmes.

  “He will say nothing other than that it was a private matter.”

  “What is his explanation for Mrs. Compton’s confession?”

  “He says that she was in shock and must have had a fit.”

  “Mrs. Compton did not strike me as hysterical or prone to fits,” mused Holmes.

  “I would tend to agree, Mr. Holmes, but what I am to do now? I now have two confessions to the same crime.

  “That is better than having no confessions,” observed Holmes.

  “This is no time for humour, Mr. Holmes. You are a private citizen, but I am charged with solving this case for the crown. I think I shall go mad if someone else confesses.”

  “What have you done with Mr. Burton?”

  “I have had him locked up.”

  “But you have not released Mrs. Compton.”

  “Of course not, and after hearing what the Judge told you, I am all the more skeptical. Do you think either of them did it, Mr. Holmes?”

  Holmes considered the question and took another sip of his coffee. Instead of answering the Inspector’s question, he posed one of his own.

  “Inspector, can you bring both of your prisoners to the Compton home this evening at eight?”

  “It is irregular. It can be done, but why?”

  “I have a solution to present to you, and indeed to all concerned.”

  “You know what happened that night?” asked Cavendish.

  “I believe that I do and I further believe that I can convince you of my case to your satisfaction. Do we have a bargain?”

  “Very well, sir, though blast you if you are wrong.”

  “Splendid,” said Holmes. “I will see you there at eight.”

  Cavendish did not seem content with that outcome, but he bowed and stalked from the room.

  “You have put yourself astride a limb, Holmes. I hope you have the goods.”

  Holmes gave me only a smile in answer.

  Holmes spent the rest of his day closeted in his room. I imagined he was putting the finishing touches on the case, but I did not know that of a certainty. Close onto seven-thirty he knocked on my door and hurried me downstairs. To my surprise, Holmes had arranged a carriage. With that conveyance, we arrived at the Compton Estate well before eight o’clock.

  The front door was opened by Parker.

  “Has all been made ready, Parker?” asked Holmes.

  “I have followed the instructions in your message to a T, sir,” intoned the butler.

  “That is well. May I have the key, please?”


  “Certainly, sir,” he said as he gave Holmes a large brass key. “And the room has been preserved as you asked. Nothing has been disturbed. I have seen to that.”

  “Fine. At eight, see to it that all of tonight’s guests are shown in.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Parker and he glided from the room.

  “Come, Watson, we must set the stage.”

  Holmes and I proceeded to the study. Holmes unlocked the door and we entered. With the exception of a missing body, the room looked as it did the night of the murder. Holmes went to the window and opened it. I followed him and saw to my shock that the mastiff was, again, staked by the window, his teeth bared at me. His silent growl was quite unnerving.

  “More of your handiwork, Holmes?” I asked.

  “I instructed Parker to have the dog put in the same spot as before. I wish all to be as it was that night.”

  I sat in an armchair by the General’s desk and Holmes remained standing behind it. As the clock neared eight, people began to arrive in the room. The first to enter was the Judge. He was followed by Thomas and Richard Compton, and finally Warren and Judith Compton. Holmes greeted each person as they arrived. Thomas Compton sat silently on a couch, but most everyone else had questions. Holmes asked them to wait until all of those invited arrived.

  “Who else is coming?” demanded Richard Compton. “Why are we even here? We’ve all heard that Burt confessed.”

  “Richard, surely you cannot be so blind as to believe that,” intoned the Judge.

  The conversation became general as people began to speak over each other. There was a sudden quiet as Inspector Cavendish and a police sergeant came into the room, escorting Sara Compton and Burton Winfield.

  “Mother,” said Anna Grey as she came to Sara Compton and embraced her.

  “I ask for everyone to be seated,” said Holmes. “I have some things to say and I believe it is in everyone’s best interest to listen.”

  “I will listen, Mr. Holmes, but you will pry no new information from me,” said Sara Compton. “I killed my husband, Burt’s silly confession aside, and that is all there is to it.”