Maxim Jakubowski - The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty

The case I refer to is not one of murder, or treason, or any remotely sensational crime. Instead, the minor criminal act in this case could hardly have been more pedestrian in its nature or execution. It concerned a box. And I have for nearly forty years kept my silence about me with regard to the true nature of this offence. For if it were not for the intervention of fate, I shudder to behold the blight it may have left upon the very foundations of the British Empire.

I can hold my pen still no longer.

On the twenty-ninth of January in the year 1894, I stood before the prisoner, in his cell at the Old Bailey. His appearance was that of a despicable, young wight. Only a fortnight before had I met him, at Police Court; his trousers pressed, and a clean handkerchief in his breast pocket. A bright chain, which had once led to a gold watch, flirted about his stomach from the pocket of his waistcoat. Hardly a gentleman. Even then, his moustaches were matted with dirt, his shoes encrusted with mud and his shirt a stained casualty of his labours and circumstance.

“My name is Mr Dickens,” I said.

The prisoner, at that time, lay down on the wet, black floor of his cell and said, “I have no coin for a brief. My apologies, sir, for I cannot pay you.”

I regarded him as one would regard a rather foolish, but otherwise good-natured child.

“Mr Ruthnick, you need not concern yourself with the trivialities of payment. My brief fee, and that of my instructing solicitor, have been paid in full by your Italian benefactor,” I said.

Whatever remained of his shoe leather shuffled and slicked across the slime coating the stone floor as he rose, staggered, and gathered his body beneath his skitting feet. A countenance of bemused delight appeared behind his dirt-ridden moustaches.

“Sir? A benefactor?”

“Come, come. Don’t tell me your wits have deserted you completely. Sir Kenneth Horatio Rochesmolles, of Turin, lately returned from his properties in Piedmont, discovered your arrest and charge and immediately instructed my friend Mr Deery, of Deery, Nook and Bond, Solicitors, to have your downfall professionally attended.”

My gallows humour failed to find favour with the prisoner.

“Downfall? You mean you cannot help me?”

“Forgive me, Mr Ruthnick. My attempts to lighten even the darkest of predicaments serves as an endless source of embarrassment for Mrs Dickens. No, I shall not oversee your downfall. I rather fancy that I can see a way to your emancipation.”

A flush of crimson fought to emerge through the layers of grime that besmirched his youthful cheek.

“I remember your appearance at the Police Court, and Mr Deery recalled my remarking upon your case at the time and sought out my services.”

“Dear heavens, thank you, sir. Thank you … and my thanks to Sir Kenneth and to God Almighty,” he said, in a tone of welcome surprise.

“Mr Ruthnick, God, his ways and mysteries, have yet to penetrate the Central Criminal Court. However, between Mr Deery and myself, we may be able to conjure a miracle. Let’s hope for your sake that we can. You understand the charges that you face?”

“Not entirely, sir.”

“I suspected as much. You are studying fine art at the Royal College?”

“I am, sir, and it is my fervent dream to return to my studies, if I am permitted. And, if that be the case, I shall explain to the Dean that I no longer wish to attend upon our esteemed visitors.”

“Ah, now we come to the rub of it. It was your accompaniment of a visitor to the college that led to your incarceration, was it not?”

“Indeed, sir. And it may be the ruin of me.”

The poor fellow sank to his knees, as if the very memory of those recent events were a great weight in his mind. Or perhaps his conscience? I recalled my meeting with Mr Deery, following my perusal of the brief in this case, and my recommending to him that he return the retainer to Sir Kenneth, as the defence of Mr Ruthnick was a lost cause.

“Mr Dickens, may I say that I arrived at an identical conclusion. That is, until I reread our letter of instruction from Sir Kenneth, and his particular, and rather unusual suggestion with regard to the defence of the prisoner.”

And with that, Mr Deery, who always seemed to have the relevant document within ready distance of his counsel’s nose, produced the letter from one of his many paper-filled pockets and handed it to me. It was made in a strong, male hand. The correspondence identified the author as Sir Kenneth, born of English and Italian descent. He confirmed that he felt a great affinity with the arts and made several large donations to the college annually. The Dean had made him aware of young Mr Ruthnick’s plight, and he enclosed a cheque, drawn from his account in the Bank of England in the sum of £50 for the defence of Mr Ruthnick. The final paragraph was most curious.

“You may find, Mr Deery, that having taken instructions from Albert Ruthnick you are none the wiser as to a possible defence. The complainant, Mr Loffler, is known to me. Or at least his character is known to me. You may find that his prosecutorial energy will dissipate at once, if your counsel were to enquire as to the true nature and value of the items at the heart of this matter.”

“What do you make of it, Mr Dickens?” said Mr Deery.

“I think it dangerous, Mr Deery, for any counsel to ask a question in open court if he does not already know the answer. However, it has the singular effect of making an otherwise dreary case most interesting. We shall see, Mr Deery. We shall see …”

Court number three at the Old Bailey had almost exhausted its list. The presiding judge, his Honour, Judge Campbell, had at four o’clock sent a man of twenty-three years of age to Pentonville Prison, where he was to serve five years and submit to punishments under the Garrotters Act. Under this particular legislative provision the young man would receive up to fifty lashes in the presence of the press to aid his rehabilitation. His crime was the burglary of a ham from a private dwelling house. Judge Campbell filled his pipe whilst the convict was brought to the cells kicking and screaming.

“Now, case number twenty-six, the matter of Albert Ruthnick, may I have your appearances, gentlemen?” said the judge.

“If it please, Your Honour, I appear for the prosecution,” said Mr Roderick – a rather tall and cold brother at the Bar, who often smelled vaguely of fish. It was his wont, following his securing a sentence of death, for Mr Roderick to ply his fishing rod to the Thames in the vain hope of securing a reluctant salmon for his table. Mr Roderick stood with a straight back, his head tilted towards the judge, who in turn sat on an elevated bench far above the ordinary misdealings of his fellow Londoners. Beside the judge a single candle fluttered a devilish glow upon his features, framed by his dull, full-length judicial wig. If one had not been familiar with the judge, one could be forgiven for regarding him as a rather jovial soul. His plump cheek, wide smile and clear blue eyes were a perfect mask with which to conceal his delight in inflicting cruelty on those prisoners who were unfortunate enough to appear before him.

“Your Honour, I appear for the prisoner,” I said and, as I stood to announce my appearance, I caught the familiar odour of the Bailey: sweat, excrement and ink. Once that smell is in your nostrils, it is difficult to pass from one’s memory. The prisoner, Mr Ruthnick, appeared in the dock to my right – his whole body aquiver as he regarded the jury for the first time. The jury were seated to my left; twelve men of property whom, according to the clerk’s recollection, had yet to acquit a single prisoner that day. It is my unfortunate view that Judge Campbell’s court often seated hard juries. Or more accurately, Judge Campbell had a way of leading the jury along his particularly harsh path.