Anne Perry - The Whitechapel Conspiracy

He had waited years for his chance to get revenge for the frustration he had felt, for Pitt’s insubordination, for the flouting of rules Pitt had viewed as petty restrictions, for the cases Pitt had worked on without keeping his seniors informed. Pitt had been at fault. Even Pitt knew it now, when he had command of the station himself.

“Would arrogant be a fair word to describe him?” Gleave enquired.

“A very fair one,” Donaldson answered quickly.

“ Opinionated !” Gleave went on.

Juster half rose, then changed his mind.

The foreman of the jury leaned forward, frowning.

Up in the dock, Adinett sat motionless.

“Another good one.” Donaldson nodded. “Always wanted to do things his own way, never mind the official way. Wanted all the glory for himself, and that was plain to see from the start.”

Gleave invited the witness to give examples of Pitt’s arrogance, ambition and flouting of the rules, and Donaldson obeyed with relish, until even Gleave decided he had had enough. He seemed a trifle reluctant to offer Donaldson to Juster, but he had no choice.

Juster took on his task with some satisfaction.

“You did not like Constable Pitt, did you, Mr. Donaldson?” he said ingenuously.

It would have been absurd for Donaldson to deny his feelings. Even he was sensible of that. He had shown them far too vividly.

“Can’t like a man who makes your job impossible,” he replied, the defensiveness sharp in his voice.

“Because he solved his cases in an unorthodox manner, at least at times?” Juster asked.

“Broke the rules,” Donaldson corrected.

“Made mistakes?” Juster stared very directly at him.

Donaldson flushed slightly. He knew Juster could trace the records easily enough, and probably had.

“Well, no more than most men.”

“Actually, less than most men,” Juster argued. “Do you know of any man, or woman, convicted on Mr. Pitt’s evidence, who was subsequently found to be innocent?”

The foreman of the jury relaxed.

“I don’t follow all his cases!” Donaldson objected. “I’ve got more to do with my time than trace cases of every ambitious constable on the force.”

Juster smiled. “Then I’ll tell you, since it is part of my job to know the men I trust,” he replied. “The answer is no, no one has been wrongly convicted on Superintendent Pitt’s evidence in all his career in the force.”

“Because we have good defense lawyers!” Donaldson glanced sideways at Gleave. “Thank God!”

Juster acknowledged the point with a grin. He knew better than to display temper before a jury.

“Pitt was ambitious.” He allowed it to be a statement more than a question.

“I said so. Very!” Donaldson snapped.

Juster put his hands in his pockets casually. “I presume he must be. He has reached the rank of superintendent, in charge of a most important station, Bow Street. Rather higher than you ever reached, isn’t it?”

Donaldson flushed darkly. “I didn’t marry a well-born wife with connections.”

Juster looked surprised, his black eyebrows shooting up. “So he excelled you socially as well? And I hear she is not only wellborn but intelligent, charming and handsome. I think we understand your feelings very well, Mr. Donaldson.” He turned away. “Thank you. I have nothing further to ask you.”

Gleave stood up. He decided he could not retrieve the situation, and sat down again.

Donaldson left the stand, his face dark, his shoulders hunched, and he did not look towards Pitt as he passed on his way to the door.

Gleave called his next witness. This man’s opinion of Pitt was no better, if rooted in different causes. Juster could not shake him so easily. His dislike of Pitt was born of Pitt’s handling of a case long ago in which a friend of the witness had suffered from public suspicion until being proved not guilty rather late in the affair. It had not been one of Pitt’s more skilled or well-conducted investigations.

A third witness recited instances that were capable of unflattering interpretation, making Pitt seem both arrogant and prejudiced. His early years were described unkindly.

“He was the son of a gamekeeper, you say?” Gleave asked, his voice carefully neutral.

Pitt felt cold. He remembered Gerald Slaley, and he knew what was coming next, but he was powerless to prevent it. There was nothing he could do but sit still and endure it.

“That’s right. His father was deported for stealing,” Slaley agreed. “Always held a grudge against the gentry, if you ask me. Gone after us on purpose, made something of a crusade of it. Check his cases and you’ll see. That’s why he was promoted by the men who chose him: to prosecute where the powerful and well-to-do were concerned… where they thought it politic. And he never let them down.”

“Yes.” Gleave nodded sagely. “I too have been examining Mr. Pitt’s record.” He glanced at Juster, and back to Slaley again. “I’ve noticed how often he has specialized in cases where people of prominence are concerned. If my learned friend wishes to contest the issue, I can rehearse them easily enough.”

Juster shook his head. He knew better than to allow it. Too many of them had been notorious cases and might well be resented by members of the jury. One could not know who had been their friends, or men they admired.

Gleave was satisfied. He had painted Pitt as an ambitious and irresponsible man, motivated not by honor but by a long-held bitterness and hunger for revenge because his father had been convicted of a crime of which he still believed him innocent. That was one issue Juster could not retrieve.

The prosecution summed up.

The defense had the final word, again reminding the jurors that its case hung upon Pitt’s evidence.

The jury retired to consider their verdict.

They did not find one that night.

The following morning they finally reappeared four minutes before midday.

“Have you reached a verdict?” the judge asked grimly.

“We have, my lord,” the foreman announced. He did not look up at the dock; or at Juster, sitting rigidly, black head a little bowed; or at Gleave, smiling confidently. But there was an ease in his bearing, an erectness in the carriage of his head.

“And is it the verdict of you all?” the judge asked him.

“It is, my lord.”

“Do you find the prisoner, John Adinett, guilty or not guilty of the murder of Martin Fetters?”

“Guilty, my lord.”

Juster’s head jerked up.

Gleave let out a cry of outrage, half rising to his feet.

Adinett was set like stone, uncomprehending.

The gallery erupted in astonishment, and journalists scrambled to get out and report to their newspapers that the unbelievable had happened.

“We’ll appeal!” Gleave’s voice could be heard above the melee.

The judge commanded order, and as the court finally settled to order again, and a kind of terrible silence, he sent the usher for the black cap he would place on his head before he pronounced sentence of death upon John Adinett.

Pitt sat frozen. It was both a victory and a defeat. His reputation had been torn to shreds for the public, whatever the jury had believed. It was a just verdict. He had no doubt Adinett was guilty, even though he had no idea why he had done such a thing.

And yet in all the crimes he had ever investigated, all the hideous and tragic truths he had uncovered, there had never been one for which he would willingly have hanged a man. He believed in punishment; he knew it was necessary, for the guilty, for the victim and for society. It was the beginning of healing. But he had not ever believed in the extinction of a human being, any human being-not John Adinett.