Whitechapel Conspiracy

“I looked around the room to see if there was anything else that might be of relevance,” Pitt replied, remembering, describing exactly. “I saw a salver on the small table at the far side of the library, and a glass on it half full of port wine. I asked the butler when Mr. Adinett had left the house and he told me. I then asked him to replace the chair where it had been when he came in, and to repeat his actions as exactly as he was able to.” He could see in his mind’s eye the man’s startled expression and his unwillingness. Very obviously he felt it to be disrespectful to the dead. But he had obeyed, selfconsciously, his limbs stiff, movement jerking, his face set in determined control of the emotions which raged through him.

“I stood behind the door,” Pitt resumed. “When the butler was obliged to go behind the chair in order to reach Mr. Fetters’s head, I went out of the door and across the hall and in through the doorway opposite.” He stopped, allowing Juster time to react.

Now all the jurors were listening intently. No one moved. No one’s gaze wandered

“Did the butler call out after you?” Juster also chose his words with exactness.

“Not immediately,” Pitt answered. “I heard his voice from the library speaking in quite normal tones, then he seemed to realize I was not there, and came out to the landing and called me again.”

“So you deduced that he had not seen you leave?”

“Yes. I tried the experiment again, with our roles reversed. Crouched behind the chair, I could not see him leave.”

“I see.” Now there was satisfaction in Juster’s voice and he nodded very slightly. “And why did you go into the room opposite, Mr. Pitt?”

“Because the distance between the library door and the stairs is some twenty feet,” Pitt explained, seeing the stretch of landing again, the bright bars of sunlight from the end window. He could remember the red and yellow of the stained glass. “Had the butler rung the bell for assistance, I would almost certainly have met with someone coming up before I could have made my way out of the house.”

“Assuming you did not want to be seen?” Juster finished for him. “Which had you left rather ostentatiously some fifteen minutes earlier, and then returned through the side door, crept upstairs, and contrived to make murder look like an accident, you would …”

There were gasps and rustles around the room. One woman gave a muffled shriek.

Gleave was on his feet, his face scarlet. “My lord! This is outrageous! I …”

“Yes! Yes!” the judge agreed impatiently. “You know better than that, Mr. Juster. If I allow you such latitude, then I shall be obliged to do the same for Mr. Gleave, and you will not like that!”

Juster tried to look penitent, and did not remotely succeed. Pitt thought he had not tried very hard.

“Did you see anything unusual while you were in the room across the hall?” Juster enquired artlessly, turning gracefully back towards the jury. “What manner of room was it, by the way?” He raised his black eyebrows.

“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.”