Whitechapel Conspiracy

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.”