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

“ At that time. A most excellent choice of words. Constable, if you were, at this time, to begin to doubt the word of Mr Loffler, you admit that the case against the prisoner must fail?”

“That is a matter for the jury,” said Judge Campbell.

“Of course, my apologies, Your Honour. Constable Robinson, your evidence was that when you met Mr Loffler and the prisoner in Saint Katherine’s Way, Mr Loffler did not at first seek your professional assistance?”

“I’m not sure I understand the question, Mr Dickens,” said the witness.

“Ah, well let me put it this way – according to Mr Loffler, the prisoner had attempted to steal his property in a devious, calculated and premeditated manner. Forgery is a serious offence is it not?”

“Indeed it is,” conceded the witness.

“And yet, Mr Loffler, a gentleman as you say, did not insist on your arresting this vile criminal?”

“No, he appeared satisfied that the box had been recovered.”

“And when you arrested Mr Ruthnick, and took him to the station, did you or your colleagues have need to press Mr Loffler for a formal complaint against the prisoner?”

He cleared his throat and said, “Now that you mention it, sir, Your Honour, my fellow officer did have to encourage Mr Loffler to make a written statement of complaint.”

I chanced a quick look at the complainant. He shifted in his seat, and pulled at his collar. It is possible that I may have been mistaken, but at that time I formed the distinct impression that Mr Loffler was considering whether to make a charge for the door.

My moment’s pause had given the judge an opportunity to grasp for the jury’s mind once more.

“Gentlemen of the jury, giving evidence can be a daunting prospect. It is natural for one to have qualms before one commits to becoming a prosecution witness. May I remind you, gentlemen, Mr Loffler is not the person on trial here,” said the judge.

“Your Honour, this case rests on the credibility of the complainant. He is not on trial, but I am at liberty to test the strength of his evidence,” I said.

“Why of course, Mr Dickens, but see that it goes no further than that,” said Judge Campbell.

I returned my labours to the Dock Constable in the witness box.

“You were present at the Police Court?” I said.

“Indeed I was present.”

“Mr Loffler’s statement of complaint at that hearing estimated the value of this box and its contents at approximately ten pounds.”

“Correct,” said Constable Robinson, with a knowing smile.

The box, preserved as a police exhibit, had been produced at Police Court and had also found its way on to the prosecution table at this hearing. I had been at Police Court when this case had been mentioned and I recalled the sheer audacity of the complainant’s inflated valuation for what appeared to me to be no more than a battered, dented and stained pine box. My suspicion at that time was that the complainant would shortly make a monetary claim for this egregious overvaluation from Lloyd’s of London, and pocket a healthy profit from the damage to his property, which he would no doubt claim had occurred during his struggle with the prisoner.

My theory, sound at that time, was to be proved quite wrong.

“Constable, the box in question is in court?”

Instead of answering, he pointed to the miserable item, around the same size and shape as a suitcase, which sat upon the prosecution’s desk.

The jury were not impressed with the valuation, their faces registering their doubt.

“Thank you, Constable, nothing further.”

It had taken the prosecutor, Mr Roderick, a short break and a good deal of persuasion to convince Mr Loffler to give evidence. I heard as much in the weeks following the case. However he managed it, Mr Roderick called Mr Hugo Loffler to the witness box and led him through his evidence in a brief and comprehensive manner.

Mr Loffler confirmed that he had been invited to lecture at the Royal College as a guest of the Dean. He had not long been in London, a mere month or two, and wanted to partake of the sights. The Dean had suggested that Mr Ruthnick should be the visitor’s guide, and so for two days the prisoner had carried Mr Loffler’s box as they traversed the great city.

On the afternoon of the sixteenth of January, Mr Loffler had asked to see Saint Katherine’s Docks, and sample the beer from the local brewery. Apparently, he did not care for English ale and had heard that the beer from this brewery was akin to that of his Germanic homeland.

“When did the prisoner make his interest in your box known?” asked the prosecutor.

“When we left the tavern briefly, to walk out upon the dock to watch the police,” said Mr Loffler, in a soft German accent.

“You mentioned the police, what were the police doing?”

“They were searching the vessels. Perhaps twenty constables. I had observed their arrival from the tavern window, and I wished to see their operations first-hand. The following day, I learned the constables were searching for the notes stolen from the Wisbech and Lincolnshire Bank.”

The robbery had been front-page news for weeks. A gang of armed villains had broken into the bank during the late hours of Christmas Eve and made off with many hundreds of five-pound notes. The Metropolitan Police had yet to make an arrest and suspected that a criminal network was attempting to smuggle the notes abroad.

Mr Loffler continued. “I suggested to the prisoner that as there were few people in the tavern, my box would be safe remaining at our table whilst we went outside. At that moment, the prisoner said that he would carry the box outside with us, as he was fearful of thieves.”

“And did you take the box with you when you ventured to the dock?”

“No. I had been sketching in the tavern. I took my paper and charcoal with me. I fancied that I might want to sketch the scene. My box remained at the table, under the watch of the innkeeper.”

“And after you and the prisoner had viewed the police operation, what happened next?”

“I informed the prisoner that I cared to quarter in the area. We returned to the inn where the prisoner carried my box to the hotel of Mr Triebel. I told the prisoner that I should take a walk on my own, and that his services were not required for the remainder of that day.”

“I see, and did you venture out that day?” asked the prosecutor.

“Correct. I dined first then left the hotel for an evening stroll. When I returned after a few hours, the hotel manager informed me that I had just missed my companion, Mr Ruthnick, who had taken delivery of my box in accordance with my instruction. I explained that I had given no instruction and enquired in what direction the villain had departed. I then gave chase.”

“You chased after the prisoner?”

“Correct, Mr Triebel informed me that the prisoner had left only a few minutes before my arrival. I knew that he could not move swiftly with my box and I caught up with him quickly. I apprehended the thief with my property in his possession.”

All was silent in the room, save for the soft rustling of paper as Mr Roderick produced the alleged forged letter and handed it to his witness.

“Mr Loffler, is this your handwriting, or your signature?”

“No, it is not.”

“Thank you, nothing further, Your Honour.”

Even as I rose, pulling my robes about me and ensuring that my wig had not slipped to a jaunty angle, I could see Mr Loffler’s complexion transform into pale water. His fingernails still carried the remains of dark paint and would not keep still. Each digit beat an anxious, erratic rhythm on the mahogany rail surrounding the witness box.

“Mr Loffler, it was Constable Robinson’s evidence that when he apprehended the prisoner you were somewhat reluctant to make a formal complaint. Is that a fair assessment?”