Whitechapel Conspiracy

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 jury 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!”