Whitechapel Conspiracy Read online

  “A billiard room,” Pitt replied. “Yes, I saw that there was a very recent scar on the edge of the door, thin and curving upwards, just above the latch.”

  “A curious place to damage a door,” Juster remarked. “Not possible while the door was closed, I should think?”

  “No, only if it were open,” Pitt agreed. “Which would make playing at the table very awkward.”

  Juster rested his hands on his hips. It was a curiously angular pose, and yet he looked at ease.

  “So it was most likely to be caused by someone going in or coming out?”

  Gleave was on his feet again, his face flushed. “As has been observed, it was awkward to play with the door open, surely that question answers itself, my lord? Someone scratched the open door with a billiard cue, precisely because, as Mr. Pitt has so astutely and uselessly pointed out, it was awkward.” He smiled broadly, showing perfect teeth.

  There was complete silence in the courtroom.

  Pitt glanced up at Adinett, who was sitting forward in the dock now, motionless.

  Juster looked almost childlike in his innocence, except that his unusual face was not cast for such an expression. He looked up at Pitt as if he had not thought of such a thing until this instant.

  “Did you enquire into that possibility, Superintendent?”

  Pitt stared back at him. “I did. The housemaid who dusted and polished the room assured me that there had been no such mark there that morning, and no one had used the room since.” He hesitated. “The scar was raw wood. There was no polish in it, no wax or dirt.”

  “You believed her?” Juster held up his hand, palm towards Gleave. “I apologize. Please do not answer that, Mr. Pitt. We shall ask the housemaid in due course, and the jury will decide for themselves whether she is an honest and competent person … and knows her job. Perhaps Mrs. Fetters, poor woman, can also tell us whether she was a good maid or not.”

  There was a rumble of embarrassment, irritation and laughter from the court. The tension was broken. For Gleave to have spoken now would have been a waste of time, and the knowledge of that was dark in his face, heavy brows drawn down.

  The judge drew in his breath, then let it out again without speaking.

  “Then what did you do, Superintendent?” Juster said lightly.

  “I asked the butler if Mr. Adinett had carried a stick of any description,” Pitt replied. Then, before Gleave could object, he added, “He did. The footman confirmed it.”

  Juster smiled. “I see. Thank you. Now, before my honorable friend asks you, I will ask you myself. Did you find anyone who had overheard any quarrel, any harsh words or differences of opinion, between Mr. Adinett and Mr. Fetters?”

  “I did ask, and no one had,” Pitt admitted, remembering ruefully how very hard he had tried. Even Mrs. Fetters, who had come to believe her husband had been murdered, could think of no instance when he and Adinett had quarreled, and no other reason at all why Adinett should have wished him harm. It was as utterly bewildering as it was horrible.

  “Nevertheless, from these slender strands, you formed the professional opinion that Martin Fetters had been murdered, and by John Adinett?” Juster pressed, his eyes wide, his voice smooth. He held up long slender hands, ticking off the points. “The moving of a library armchair, three books misplaced on the shelves, a scuff mark on a carpet and a piece of fluff caught in the crack of a heel, and a fresh scratch on a billiard room door? On this you would see a man convicted of the most terrible of crimes?”

  “I would see him tried for it,” Pitt corrected, feeling the color hot in his face. “Because I believe that his murder of Martin Fetters is the only explanation that fits all the facts. I believe he murdered him in a sudden quarrel and then arranged it to look like—”

  “My lord!” Gleave said loudly, again on his feet, his arms held up.

  “No,” the judge said steadily. “Superintendent Pitt is an expert in the matter of evidence of crime. That has been established over his twenty years in the police force.” He smiled very bleakly, a sad, wintry humor. “It is for the jury to decide for themselves whether he is an honest and competent person.”

  Pitt glanced over at the jury, and saw the foreman nod his head very slightly. His face was smooth, calm, his eyes steady.

  A woman in the gallery laughed and then clapped her hands over her mouth.

  Gleave’s face flushed a dull purple.

  Juster bowed, then waved his hand to Pitt to continue.

  “To look like an accident,” Pitt finished. “I believe he then left the library, locking the door from the outside. He went downstairs, said good-bye to Mrs. Fetters and was shown out by the butler, and observed to leave by the footman also.”

  The foreman of the jury glanced at the man beside him, their eyes met, and then they both returned their attention to Pitt.

  Pitt went on with his description of events as he believed them.

  “Adinett went outside, down the road a hundred feet or so, then came back through the side entrance to the garden. A man answering his general description was seen at exactly that time. He went in through the side door of the house, upstairs to the library again, opened it, and immediately rang the bell for the butler.”

  There was utter silence in the courtroom. Every eye was on Pitt. It was almost as if everyone had held their breath.

  “When the butler came, Adinett stood where the open door would hide him,” he continued. “When the butler went behind the chair to Mr. Fetters, as he had to, Adinett stepped out, going across the hall to the billiard room in case the butler should raise the alarm and the other servants came up the stairs. Then, when the landing was empty, he went out, in his haste catching his stick against the door. He left the house, this time unseen.”

  There was a sigh around the room and a rustle of fabric as people moved at last.

  “Thank you, Superintendent.” Juster bowed very slightly. “Circumstantial, but as you said, the only answer which fits all the facts.” He looked across at the jury for a moment, then back again. “And while it would be convenient for us to tell the court why this dreadful thing happened, we are not obliged to—only to demonstrate to them that it did. That I think you have done admirably. We are obliged to you.” Very slowly he swung around and invited Gleave to step forward.

  Pitt turned to Gleave, his body tense, waiting for the attack Juster had warned him would come.

  “After luncheon, I think, my lord,” Gleave said with a smile, his heavy face tight with anticipation. “I shall take far longer than the mere quarter of an hour which is available to us now.”

  That did not surprise Pitt. Juster had said over and over again that the essence of the case depended upon his testimony, and he should expect Gleave to do what he could to tear it apart. Still, he was too conscious of what awaited him to enjoy the mutton and vegetables that were offered him at the public house around the corner from the court, and uncharacteristically he left them half eaten.

  “He will try to ridicule or deny all the evidence,” Juster said, staring across the table at Pitt. He too had little relish for his food. His hand lay on the polished wooden surface, moving restlessly as if only courtesy kept him from drumming his fingers. “I don’t think the maid will stand up to him. She’s frightened enough of just being in a courtroom, without a ‘gentleman’ questioning her intelligence and her honesty. If he suggests she can’t tell one day from another, she’s very likely to agree with him.”

  Pitt took a small drink from his cider. “That won’t work with the butler.”

  “I know,” Juster agreed, pulling his lips into a grimace. “And Gleave will know it too. He’ll try a different approach altogether. If it were me, I would flatter him, take him into my confidence, find a way of suggesting that Fetters’s reputation depended on his death having been an accident rather than murder. Gleave will do the same, I’d wager money on it. Reading character, finding weaknesses is his profession.”

  Pitt would have liked to argue, but he
knew it was true. Gleave’s subtle face was that of a man who saw everything and scented vulnerability like a bloodhound on a trail. He knew how to flatter, threaten, undermine, probe, whatever was needed.

  Gleave’s skill made Pitt angry. The hard lump inside which prevented him from eating was outrage as well as fear of failure. He was certain Martin Fetters had been murdered, and if he did not convince this jury of it, then Adinett would walk away not only free but vindicated.

  He returned to the witness stand expecting an attack and determined to face it, to keep his temper and not allow Gleave to fluster or manipulate him.

  “Well now, Mr. Pitt,” Gleave began, poised in front of him, shoulders squared, feet slightly apart. “Let us examine this curious evidence of yours, on which you hang so much weight and from which you draw so villainous a story.” He hesitated, but it was for effect, to allow the jury to savor his sarcasm and prepare for more. “You were sent for by Dr. Ibbs, a man who seems to be something of an admirer of yours.”

  Pitt nearly retaliated, then realized that was exactly what Gleave would like. Too easy a trap.

  “A man who apparently wished to make sure he did not miss any significant fact,” Gleave went on, nodding very slightly and pursing his lips. “A nervous man, uncertain of his own abilities. Or else a man who had a desire to cause mischief and suggest that a tragedy was in fact a crime.” His tone of voice dismissed Ibbs as an incompetent.

  Juster stood up. “My lord, Mr. Pitt is not an expert in the morals and emotions of doctors, in general or in particular. He can have no expert knowledge as to why Dr. Ibbs called him. He knows only what Dr. Ibbs said, and we have heard that for ourselves. He believed the explanation of accident did not entirely fit the facts as he saw them, so he quite rightly called the police.”

  “Your objection is sustained,” the judge agreed. “Mr. Gleave, stop speculating and ask questions.”

  “My lord,” Gleave murmured, then looked up sharply at Pitt. “Did Ibbs tell you he suspected murder?”

  Pitt saw the trap. Again it was obvious. “No. He said he was concerned and asked my opinion.”

  “You are a policeman, not a doctor, correct?”

  “Of course.”

  “Has any other doctor ever asked you for your medical opinion? As to cause of death, for example?” The sarcasm was there under his superficial innocence.

  “No. My opinion as to interpretation of evidence, that’s all,” Pitt answered cautiously. He knew another trap lay ahead somewhere.

  “Just so.” Gleave nodded. “Therefore, if Dr. Ibbs called you because he was dissatisfied, then you surely have sufficient intelligence to deduce that he suspected that the death was not merely an accident but might be a criminal matter … one that would involve the police?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then when you said he did not tell you he suspected a crime, you were being a trifle disingenuous, were you not? I hesitate to say you were less than honest, but it inevitably springs to mind, Mr. Pitt.”

  Pitt could feel the blood heat up his face. He had seen one trap, and sidestepped it directly into another, making him seem evasive, prejudiced—exactly as Gleave had intended. What could he say now to undo it, or at least to not make it worse?

  “Discrepancy of facts does not necessarily mean crime,” he said slowly. “People move things for many reasons, not always with evil intent.” He was fumbling for words. “Sometimes it is an attempt to help, or to make an accident look less careless, to remove the blame from those still alive or to hide an indiscretion. Even to mask a suicide.”

  Gleave looked surprised. He had not expected a reply.

  It was a small victory. Pitt must not allow it to weaken his guard.

  “The scuff marks on the carpet,” Gleave said, returning to the attack. “When did they happen?”

  “At any time since the carpet was last swept, which the maid told me was the previous morning,” Pitt answered.

  Gleave assumed an air of innocence. “Could they have been caused by anything other than one man dragging the dead body of another?”

  There was a titter of nervous laughter in the court.

  “Of course,” Pitt agreed.

  Gleave smiled. “And the tiny piece of fluff on Mr. Fetters’s shoe, is that also capable of alternative explanations? For example, the carpet was rumpled at the corner and he tripped? Or he was sitting in a chair and slipped his shoes off? Did this carpet have a fringe, Mr. Pitt?”

  Gleave knew perfectly well that it did.

  “Yes.”

  “Exactly.” Gleave gestured with both hands. “A slender thread, if you will excuse the pun, on which to hang an honorable man, a brave soldier, a patriot and a scholar such as John Adinett, don’t you think?”

  There was a murmur around the room, people shifting in their seats, turning to look up at Adinett. Pitt saw respect in their faces, curiosity, no hatred. He turned to the jury. They were more guarded, sober men taking their responsibilities with awe. They sat stiffly, collars high and white, hair combed, whiskers trimmed, eyes steady. He did not envy them. He had never wanted to be the final judge of another man. Even the smooth-faced foreman looked concerned, his hands in front of him, fingers laced.

  Gleave was smiling.

  “Would it surprise you to know, Mr. Pitt, that the maid who dusted and polished the billiard room is no longer certain that the scratch you so providentially noticed was a new one? She now says it may well have been there earlier, and she had merely not noticed it before.”

  Pitt was uncertain how to reply. The question was awkwardly phrased.

  “I don’t know her well enough to be surprised or not,” he said carefully. “Witnesses sometimes do alter their testimony … for a variety of reasons.”

  Gleave looked offended. “What are you suggesting, sir?”

  Juster interrupted again. “My lord, my learned friend asked the witness if he was surprised. The witness merely answered the question. He made no implication at all.”

  Gleave did not wait for the judge to intervene. “Let us see what we are left with in this extraordinary case. Mr. Adinett visited his old friend Mr. Fetters. They spent a pleasant hour and a half together in the library. Mr. Adinett left. I presume you are in agreement with this?” He raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

  “Yes,” Pitt conceded.

  “Good. To continue, some twelve or fifteen minutes later the library bell rang, the butler answered it, and as he was approaching the library door he heard a cry and a thud. When he opened the door, to his distress, he saw his master lying on the floor and the steps over on their side. Very naturally, he concluded that there had been an accident—as it turned out, a fatal one. He saw no one else in the room. He turned and left to call for assistance. Do you agree so far?”

  Pitt forced himself to smile. “I don’t know. Since I had not yet given my evidence, I wasn’t here for the butler’s testimony.”

  “Does it fit with the facts you know?” Gleave snapped above another ripple of laughter.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. This is a most serious matter, Mr. Pitt, not an opportunity for you to entertain the onlookers and parade what you may perceive to be your sense of humor!”

  Pitt blushed scarlet. He leaned forward over the rail, his temper boiling.

  “You asked me an impossible question!” he accused Gleave. “I was pointing that out to you. If your folly entertained the gallery, that is your own fault—not mine!”

  Gleave’s face darkened. He had not expected retaliation, but he covered his anger quickly. He was nothing if not a fine actor.

  “Then we have Dr. Ibbs being overzealous, for what reason we cannot know,” he resumed as if the interruption had never occurred. “You answered his call and found all these enigmatic little signs. The armchair was not where you would have placed it had this beautiful room been yours.” His tone of voice was derisive. “The butler thinks it sat somewhere else. There was an indentation on the carpet.” He glanced at the ju
ry with a smile. “The books were not in the order that you would have placed them had they been yours.” He did not bother to keep the smile from his face. “The glass of port was not finished, and yet he sent for the butler. We shall never know why … but is it our concern?” He looked at the jury. “Do we accuse John Adinett of murder for that?” His face was filled with amazement. “Do we? I don’t! Gentlemen, these are a handful of miscellaneous irrelevancies dredged up by an idle doctor and a policeman who wants to make a name for himself, even if it is on the death of one man, and the monstrously wrong accusation against another, who was his friend. Throw it out as the farrago of rubbish it is!”

  “Is that your defense?” Juster said loudly. “You appear to be summing up.”

  “No, it is not!” Gleave retorted. “Although I hardly need more. But have your witness back, by all means.”

  “Not a great deal to say,” Juster observed, taking his place. “Mr. Pitt, when you first questioned the housemaid, was she certain about the scratch on the billiard room door?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So something has caused her to change her mind since then?”

  Pitt licked his lips.

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder what that could be?” Juster shrugged, then moved on quickly. “And the butler was certain that the library chair had been moved?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has he since changed his mind?” Juster spread his hands in the air. “Oh, of course you don’t know. Well, he hasn’t. The bootboy is also quite certain he cleaned his master’s boots sufficiently thoroughly that there were no tufts or threads caught in them from the center of the carpet or the fringes.” He looked as if he had suddenly had an idea. “By the way, was the piece you found a thread from the fringe or a piece of soft fluff, as from the pile?”

  “Soft fluff, of the color from the center,” Pitt replied.

  “Just so. We have seen the shoes, but not the carpet.” He smiled. “Impractical, I suppose. Nor can we see the library shelves with their mismatched books.” He looked puzzled. “Why would a traveler and an antiquarian, interested most especially in Troy, its legends, its magic, its ruins that lie at the very core of our heritage, place three of its most vivid books on a shelf where he is obliged to climb steps to reach them? And obviously he did want them, or why would he have incurred his own death climbing up for them?” He lifted his shoulders dramatically. “Except, of course, that he didn’t!”