Bruce Alexander - Person or Persons Unknown

Mr. Donnelly ignored Sir John’s conclusion. “And we know that he uses it with the knowledge and skill of a surgeon. Those thrusts are simply too well placed to have been made by one ignorant of human anatomy and too sure to have been made by an unpracticed hand.”

“I suppose I must accept what you say. You, after all, are a medico. But what of his strength? Remember that he held and murdered a twelve-stone woman and then picked her up and walked with her some distance to hide her away.”

“Ah yes, that’s true, isn’t it?”

“And so we must find a gentleman surgeon with the size and strength of an ape. The parts make a strange whole, do they not?”

“I see what you mean.”

“But what about the one you have named the second murderer?” asked Sir John. “How would you describe him?”

“As a madman.”

“We know him thus by his work,” said Sir John with some assurance. “But even in his madness, he may show some logic. You argued convincingly last night that the same knife could not have been used in all the murders — that there was what you call the stiletto used in the first and third of the homicides and a sawtooth weapon in the second. I take it that the rougher, thick-bladed knife was used in this murder, as well?”

“Oh yes, I’d swear to it.”

“Perhaps he used the ugly weapon to do ugly things to those victims who had displeased him in some way. Perhaps Polly Tarkin had attempted to rob him, to pick his pocket — for we know now that she was a thief. Perhaps this poor woman, Tribble, had said something to offend him. Then, rather than simply killing, he mutilated, as well. He punished them.”

“You’re suggesting then that I’m wrong — that there could, after all, be a single murderer.”

“Yes, I’ve given it some thought, but I’m far from certain of it. You could indeed be right and I wrong. But consider this: Are we not, all of us, in our interior portions, so very different from beef, hogs, and sheep?”

“Well, of course there are differences, but in general, I suppose that, yes, that is true.”

“And so you will grant that a man could become familiar with human anatomy by analogy, so to speak, if he had come to know the interior anatomy of lesser animals quite well through years of experience?”

“I begin to see what you are aiming at.”

“Who is it works most commonly with sawtooth-bladed knives?”

“Why, a butcher, of course.”

“And who, of those you have recently seen, would be big enough and strong enough to throw a woman of twelve-stone over his shoulder and march away with her?”

“Again, the butcher — last night, of course. He’s as large as your Constable Bailey and no doubt as strong, throwing sides of beef about daily. But you do recall, Sir John, that I examined his knives, and not one of them had a blade narrow enough to inflict the wound on that girl in the passage.”

“Yes, certainly, but Mr. Bailey failed to frisk him, as he admitted to me afterwards. He is not always as thorough as he ought to be. And even if he had, the stiletto might well have been secreted away somewhere in the passage. A night search by lantern light would not likely turn up much. I believe I shall send Jeremy to look again this afternoon and perhaps also to drop in at the butcher’s stall and extend my invitation for an evening conversation.”

Ah, dear reader, you may suppose just how little I would welcome such a task. If I could have but talked to Sir John at some length, perhaps I could have persuaded him of Mr. Tolliver’s innocence. Yet he was such an intimidating presence that it was difficult for me to approach him in such a way. At such times as this I felt my youth as a terrible burden.

“By the bye, Mr. Donnelly, you have a timepiece, have you not? Could you tell me the hour?”

After a moment: “It is nigh on noon.”

“Then Jeremy and I must be off, for I have my session to attend to, and it should prove an interesting one. The key is in the door. I take it you will have further business here?”

“For some time to come.”

“I shall have a mortuary wagon sent for. They will bring a coffin. It would not do to carry her out in such a state.”

“I quite agree.”

Of all that has been said of Sir John Fielding in these years since he has passed on, that which has been said oftenest is also truest: He was a just man.

In the field of law, that is a quality, alas, far rarer than one might suppose. Upon Sir John, as magistrate, fell the duty of charging the wrong-doer. This was sometimes no easy matter, for it might happen that a deed has been done that is plainly a punishable offense, yet for which no precise law, neither felony nor misdemeanor, may exist. In such circumstances, and in the interest of justice, the magistrate must show ingenuity in fitting a proper law to the particular wrong that has been done. At meting out such rough justice, none did ever excel Sir John.

I know of no better example to put before you than his handling of those prisoners taken by Mr. Fuller at Number 6 King Street. Clearly, each had committed an offense of greater or lesser gravity, but was there anything in English Common Law to fit their crimes? I knew of nothing — but then, I was just a boy who hung about the court to learn what he might. Yet now I am no longer that boy but a barrister, and I would still say that I know of no laws that would have fit them exact.

That their actions had been most scandalous and shocking was evidenced by the reaction of the courtroom crowd when, at Sir John’s bidding, Mr. Fuller gave forth his discoveries upon reaching the premises of the murdered woman. Mistress Tribble. There were murmurs among the listeners, and again and again that sound of breath sharply taken in which is the commonest expression of horrified astonishment. Towards the end of his story, when he told of the actions of the victim’s putative husband, there were groans and shouts of anger from the assemblage. For once, Sir John withheld the gavel. I daresay he wished the prisoners to sense the outrage of all against them.

When the constable had concluded. Sir John banged down his gavel at last and called the court to order.

“Mr. Fuller,” said he, “remain where you are, if you will, for I expect I shall have some questions as I consider the matter of each of the prisoners you have brought me.” A pause, then: “Prisoners, stand before me.”

The five rose raggedly, and no doubt with some discomfort, for they were still attached at the neck, each to the other, with Mr. Fuller’s double-length of stout rope; the first and fifth of them wore hand-irons.

“First of all, you must identify yourselves for Mr. Mars-den’s record of these proceedings.”

That they did — as Albert Palgrave, Ezekiel Satterthwait, Thomas Cobum, Lemuel Tinker, and Edward Tribble. Mr. Marsden had a bit of difficulty with the second name; he asked Mr. Satterthwait to spell it, which the prisoner could not. The court clerk made do.

“Now, each of you,” said Sir John, “has behaved shamefully. There can be no doubt of that. Or would any one of you care to take serious issue with the account you have just heard from Constable Fuller? This is your opportunity to speak in your own behalf, if indeed anything can be said. I advise you to speak now.”

There was the briefest silence. Then did all five men begin talking at once.

Sir John gaveled them to silence.

“And so you all have something to say? Well enough, I shall hear you one at a time — Mr. Palgrave first. Sir?”

“Well, I fail to see why I am here at all,” said he. “I was not even informed of the charge against me when I was brought here so rude. It’s true I discovered the body of that trollop, but — ”