Chapter III

As we drove on to the Muswell Hill Police Station, Holmes asked us a question. “How many possible weapons did you note in the room, gentlemen?”

I answered quickly, “I saw no gun of any kind. Just the lance next to the suit of armor and the swords on the wall.”

Lestrade thought a moment before speaking up. “There was also the fireplace poker and the letter opener.”

“But wasn’t Judge Mason shot?” I asked.

“We do not know that,” answered Holmes. “We only know his son made that statement. In addition, if the newspaper reports are correct, which I do not assume, there was no projectile found. This points more likely to a stabbing. There were also a pen, pencil, the pointed end of the axis of the small globe on his desk and the scissors under the folders of court cases in the center of his blotter.

“I trust, Inspector, that you will permit us to view the body itself. Dr.

Watson’s examination could prove most useful.”

The Scotland Yard man nodded emphatically, “Certainly, Holmes. I’ll make sure you get access to all the evidence collected.”

The Muswell Hill Police Station is a three-story brick structure on a corner in a residential area, approximately a quarter-mile from the East Finchley Underground Station. Upon entrance, Lestrade introduced us and asked to see Sergeant Mossgarden. We were shown back to an office, where he sat filling out paperwork.

Looking up to see whose shadow darkened his door, he bellowed,

“Lestrade, what the hell are you doing here? And who are these men?”

Our inspector stood his ground and replied, “This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. We are here about Judge Mason’s murder.”

“Oh no, you don’t!” cried Mossgarden, rising abruptly from his chair, the sudden motion causing it to fall backward to the floor. “This is my case and my arrest. I’m not letting you, or this amateur lapdog of yours, come

anywhere near it. You can just turn right around and go back the Scotland Yard. I’ve got my man and you’re not taking credit for it!”

I must admit, the size of this red-faced, red-haired officer, with his long muttonchops curling into a thick moustache, was quite imposing. He was taller than Holmes, possibly even six-and-one-half feet. His weight was in his barrel chest and tree trunk arms that threatened to burst the seams of his uniform.

“I’m not here for credit, you bloody fool!” Lestrade answered evenly.

“You know as well as I that C.I.D.[4] is required to investigate all crimes involving members of the court. I was ordered here by my superintendent.”

“I’ve investigated and I’ve got the murderer. It was his son. No doubt about it.”

Holmes cleared his throat and interrupted this debate.

“If, I may, Lestrade,” he said, and the inspector nodded. “Sergeant Mossgarden, I’ve no doubt you have made a reasonable investigation and come to a common sense conclusion. One does not reach your rank by making false accusations. As you say I am not an official policeman, but much of my small success has been due to the observations I have made while accompanying Lestrade, Gregson, Bradstreet, and other seasoned members of the Yard. I would sincerely appreciate the opportunity to glean what lessons I can from the way you solved this case so quickly. It may also interest you to know that Dr. Watson here, in addition to his little entertainments for the masses regarding my work, also writes reports worthy of publication in various newspapers around London. He would be happy to act as your agent in giving your career the type of boost it most certainly deserves.”

Following Holmes lead, I pulled out a pencil and notebook and nodded at the giant before me. Although I had never actually written such reports for the press, technically Holmes hadn’t lied, only saying my reports were

‘worthy enough’. The effect on the sergeant was quite phenomenal. His balled fists loosened, his puffed up chest relaxed, and the fierce expression on his face turned into a calculating smile.

“Hmm, maybe I’ll give you a try. But my name must appear prominently in every report, even those Lestrade has to sign,” he ordered, as he picked his chair off the floor with one hand and sat back down behind the desk.

Holmes smiled, “I promise you, Sergeant, your name will figure distinctively in the accounting of this case.”

The sergeant handed Lestrade a copy of his report. As the inspector perused it, Holmes asked Mossgarden, “How did you come to the conclusion that Edgar Mason killed his father?”

The big sergeant huffed, “It was obvious. The room was locked from the inside. No secret passages. The windows were too small for anyone to enter, yet there was no bloody weapon in the room. When I questioned the butler, I knew there was only one solution. The old Judge had tripped on the rug and while he lay unconscious, the son saw an opportunity to do him in. With his body blocking the view from the butler, he stabbed his father in the chest. When the butler went for help, he tried to dispose of the murder weapon by throwing it into the moat. That was the clincher. The moat was frozen over. The knife, which has been verified as belonging to the younger Mason, buried itself into the thin layer of snow on top of the ice. It was easily found when I searched the grounds below the windows.”

“Have you ascertained a motive?” I asked as I made notes.

Mossgarden leaned back in his chair, which squeaked in protest, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and proclaimed, “Take your pick. Come New Year’s Eve, he was about to get married to a woman of whom his father did not approve. Fortis Keep, while nowhere near the value of Alexandra Palace down the road, is located on prime land which certain developers are clamoring after. But the old Judge wasn’t willing to sell. As the only heir, Edgar can make a killing. Ha, ha!”

His laughter at his own pun was disturbing, but before I could protest, Holmes spoke up.

“I should like to see the murder weapon. I am making a study of knives, swords, and other cutting weapons for a monograph on the subject of murder by blade.”

“It’s with the body at the coroners in St. Pancras. Just a formality of course, but he needs to match it up with the wound for his report.”

Lestrade then spoke up again, “I’ll need to see the prisoner before we leave.”

The big sergeant leaned forward again, hands on his desk, “He’ll just deny everything.”

“Nevertheless...” parried the Scotland Yarder.

“Very well,” countered Mossgarden, “he’s in a cell in the back. The guard’s name is Fredericks.”

His beefy hand pointed in the general direction of the cell block, indicating that he did not deign to go with us. We soon found Constable Fredericks, and he unlocked the cell so that we could interview young Mason.

Edgar Mason was in his late twenties, clean shaven, with wavy brown hair. His appearance was a bit disheveled, as we learned that his arrest had come early that morning while he was dressing. The jacket of his grey wool suit hung on the back of the chair in his cell, where he sat in his waistcoat, but no necktie. He stood upon our entrance. I gauged him to be about five foot six inches tall with a stout body, leaning toward flabbiness that came with too much sedentary work.

Holmes took the lead in the conversation and made introductions. As there was only one chair in the cell, I sat on the bed to rest my aching war wound, which is always exacerbated by cold weather. Holmes indicated that Mason be seated while he stood over him. Lestrade leaned against the cell door.

The interview was brief. We learned that the younger Mason, like his father before him, had entered the practice of law. His studies and work as a beginning lawyer in a well-known legal firm in the City, had left him little time for social activities, but recently he had met the daughter of one of the firm’s partners and become engaged.

His father, exhibiting his prejudices against that particular law firm without ever having met the young lady, was opposed to the marriage on the face of it. They argued over that issue, but it had never become violent.

“Did your father ever threaten to disinherit you?” asked Holmes.

The young man seemed startled by the question. “The subject never came up, Mr. Holmes. I am his only heir. I can’t imagine he would do such a thing.”

“How do you explain your knife being found out the window in the snow?”

“I only carry my knife when I leave the house. It’s a small multiplex pocket knife, hardly suitable as a murder weapon. I thought I’d lost it when

I was out riding the other day.”

Holmes mulled that over, and in the brief silence I spoke up and asked a question which had been bothering me. “Forgive me, but since apparently your father has been stabbed, why did you exclaim to the butler that he had been shot?”

He shook his head, “I can only assume my mind jumped to that conclusion based upon the circumstances. He was near the window and the room had been locked. There was no knife. There was just...” He hesitated and caught his breath. “A hole in his shirt with a large blood stain.”

He put his head in his hands.

Holmes knelt down, “Just one last question. Are there any current enemies in your father’s life? Anyone with whom he was having a dispute?”

The young man took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes, then looked at Holmes’s face.

“My father made many enemies as a judge. Any man who has finished his sentence or is out on parole could hate him enough to do this. The only current dispute I am aware of is the land developer who wants to buy Fortis Keep.”

Obtaining this person’s name, Holmes stood and turned to Lestrade, suggesting, “That is sufficient for now. Let us be off to St. Pancras and see what we can learn there.”