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

Mr Deery sat behind me, ready to take a careful note of the evidence.

The clerk of the court stood and addressed the prisoner.

“Albert Ruthnick, you have pleaded ‘not guilty’ to the charges on the indictment, namely that you, on the sixteenth day of January this year of our Lord 1894, did commit Forgery in the construction and use of a letter, and that you did utter such untruths in pursuit of said forgery and attempted to procure property to which you had no lawful claim. Are you ready for your trial?”

Gripped in a paroxysm of fear, it was all that Mr Ruthnick could do to look in my direction. I nodded.

“I … I am,” he said.

“Forgery and utterances,” growled the judge, and made his disapproval apparent to the jury with the wobble of his jowls as his great head shook in contempt for the prisoner.

“Call your witnesses, Mr Roderick,” he said.

At this prompt, a man of perhaps forty years of age, wearing a tweed suit, stood up in the public stalls at the rear of the court and made his way through those bloodthirsty members of the public who regularly attended the Bailey for their entertainment. Of course, not all of those gathered in the stalls were there for blood. A good deal of them attended simply for the warmth of the hearth and temporary respite from the snow.

The man in tweed made his way towards the witness box as Mr Roderick announced, “I call the Dock Constable, John Robinson.”

At this announcement, the man in tweed arrested his trajectory, took a few paces backwards and sat in the front row of the stalls. In his place, a large man in police uniform stepped forward. I rather guessed the eager gentleman in tweed was Mr Hugo Loffler, the complainant, whose haste to resolve the formality of the prisoner’s conviction struck me as rather more than the usual nerves of the stomach that afflict those who appear in court.

The Dock Constable took his oath, stated his name as John Robinson and bowed to the judge.

“Constable Robinson, you were on duty at Saint Katherine’s Docks on the night of the sixteenth?” asked Mr Roderick.

“That is true.”

“And, in relation to the matter before the court, what did you observe?”

“I had completed my rounds, and was making my way to the station house when I heard two men arguing on Saint Katherine’s Way. As I approached them, I saw the complainant, Mr Loffler, and the prisoner in conversation.”

“What was the nature of the conversation?” said the prosecutor.

“They were exchanging high words, Your Honour. I could tell by their pitch and manner that violence was imminent.”

“Were you able to discern the nature of their dispute?” asked Mr Roderick.

“Indeed. At the time, the complainant, Mr Loffler, held a wooden box in his arms. I heard him say, ‘You tried to steal my box.’ At these words, I intervened, announced my station and presence and enquired if Mr Loffler required assistance?”

“And what was his reply?”

“He accused the prisoner of attempting to procure his box with a forged letter, but that was of no matter as the box had been recovered.”

“And did the prisoner answer this charge?” asked Mr Roderick.

“He said that he had been handed the letter by a tall, thin man in a black coat, on the steps of the Royal College. He was unable to name this mysterious gentleman. Nor could he describe his face. He stated that the fellow’s features were in shadow. However, he assured me that the man in the black coat knew of Mr Loffler, and that this man gave the prisoner a letter written by Mr Loffler, which authorised the prisoner to attend at the restaurant of Mr Triebel in Saint Katherine’s Way, collect Mr Loffler’s box and return it to the college.”

“Did the complainant confirm the accuracy of this account?” said Mr Roderick.

“Indeed he did not, Your Honour. Mr Loffler said that he had never written any such instruction and accused the prisoner of forging the letter in order to obtain his property under false pretences.”

A generous grumble erupted from the judge. It was well timed and several of the gentlemen of the jury nodded and answered the judge with disapproving grumbles of their own.

“What was your response, Constable?” asked the prosecutor.

“I ascertained the names and addresses of both men, and informed the prisoner that he was to accompany me to the station. I asked Mr Loffler to join me there, where he was to make a complaint.”

“And were you able to obtain the forged letter?”

“I was indeed, sir. The prisoner had it on him, said he would need the letter if he were seen walking through the streets, box in hand, by a constable, and might have need of it to lend legitimacy to his endeavours. I have the letter here, shall I read it to you?”

“Please do.”

“I am busy with my work presently. Please give my box to the bearer of this note, who shall ensure its safe return to me. Hugo Loffler.”

“Thank you, Constable,” said the prosecutor, taking his seat.

As the constable removed himself from the witness box, I heard murmurs from the jury as they spoke in unfriendly tones and pointed at the prisoner. Mr Ruthnick’s future appeared quite bleak at this moment.

“Call your next wit—” said the judge, before I interrupted.

“My apologies, Your Honour, I would like to ask a few questions,” I said.

A well-practised look of judicial astonishment appeared on Judge Campbell’s generously proportioned face.

“If you must,” he said.

With some degree of apathy, the constable returned to the witness box.

“Constable, you subsequently discovered that Mr Loffler and the prisoner had met before the events of that evening had taken place?” I said.

“Yes, I believe that Mr Loffler is a German painter, and visitor to the Royal College. I understand that the prisoner was tasked by the Dean to attend to Mr Loffler during his visit.”

“That is so. Now, the prisoner, at the very first opportunity, told you that he had been instructed to retrieve Mr Loffler’s box from a restaurant in Saint Katherine’s Way and return it to the college. He told you that he received this instruction from a tall, thin man in a black coat. Tell me, what efforts did you make to find this tall, thin man in black?”

The Dock Constable appeared as if he had been struck, his head slipped back on his shoulders and his mouth popped open. His appearance was not unlike one of Mr Roderick’s stupefied salmon.

“Well, er … none, sir.”

“None?” I said, with an inflated air of incredulity.

“It was plainly a lie, sir. Mr Loffler told me that he had given no such instruction to any man. According to Mr Loffler’s account, the man in black did not exist.”

“And you believed him?” I said, inviting a common response from constables of the law.

“He gave me his word as a gentleman,” was the reply. The precise answer that I had intended to solicit.

“Constable, come now, under English Law gentlemen are treated no differently from any other man. Waif, stray, baron and beggar are equal under the eyes of this jury, bound as they are to uphold the common law of England,” I said, with a dramatic flourish.

I could see the twelve men of the jury positively beaming with the weighty responsibility of equality. It is a shame that they needed reminding of it at all, even through the prism of patriotism. Judge Campbell stifled a groan and gave me a most foul look. He knew I was attempting to wrestle the jury from his control, and he didn’t care for it.

“So, Constable Robinson, you carried out no investigation to verify the prisoner’s contemporaneous and consistent explanation?”

The good peeler shied a little, and said, “No. I did not. I had no cause to doubt Mr Loffler’s word at that time.”