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

“No, no, no, my good fellow. I wish to see evildoers punished, of course, that is my duty as a citizen.”

“So the constable is lying?”

“He is merely mistaken,” he said.

“When you discovered the prisoner had made off with your box from your hotel, under false pretences, you did not ask Mr Triebel to alert a constable, is that correct?”

The anxious percussion of Mr Loffler’s fingertips began beating to a higher tempo.

“I … I did not wish to inconvenience my host.”

The jury were transfixed by Mr Loffler’s curious worriment. Even Judge Campbell’s ample visage had taken interest in the complainant’s palpable distress.

I took it upon myself to test his resolve and identify the source of this solicitude. So I turned, quite slowly, and set my eyes upon the box. It was clearly an artist’s portable easel. Once opened at the hinge, it would allow one to sit with the box on one’s knees, have ready access to paint and materials and a secure, properly angled canvas from which to work. Such items were neither expensive nor uncommon. The dents, scrapes and paint stains on this box were evidence of its heavy use and history of travel.

“Your box, Mr Loffler, seems to be in a rather sorry state, does it not?”

At the word “box” the complainant’s eyes widened. “It has been in my possession for some time.”

“It is hardly worth ten pounds?” I said.

“Your Honour, I object to my friend’s question,” said Mr Roderick. “The value of this item does not address the matter of its illegal procurement by the prisoner.”

“My question, Your Honour, may prove relevant should the jury find against my client. The value of the property is something Your Honour will no doubt bear in mind in relation to the issue of penalty.”

“I’ll allow the question,” said the judge, who no doubt had begun to question the hefty valuation placed upon the item by Mr Loffler.

“It was a mere guess, Your Honour. If Mr Dickens is of the view that my box is worth less than this amount, so be it.”

A pair of fat eyebrows shot beneath Judge Campbell’s wig in astonishment.

“You conceded to my view very quickly, Mr Loffler. Perhaps I do you a disservice. Whilst the box itself may be estimated at a lesser amount, the contents could be worth considerably more, could they not?”

“No! Forgive me, I … I merely … Mr Dickens, the box is of little value,” pleaded the complainant.

“I would like to view the contents of this exhibit, Your Honour. This witness has reneged on his earlier evidence, and the court cannot be convinced of his credibility on this issue. The court should observe the full contents of this exhibit.”

A cry from the witness box was quickly silenced by the judge, who called forth Mr Roderick, box in hand, so that a judicial eye could pass over the disputed exhibit.

As the judge opened the box, the witness hung his head.

I watched the judge remove pots of paint, charcoal, paper, canvas and a host of brushes as he searched. I suspected he would discover beneath the artistic paraphernalia, at least one large five-pound note from the Wisbech and Lincolnshire Bank. I was sure of it. I did not believe Mr Loffler’s visit to the docks, and his keen curiosity regarding the police search were in the least coincidental. This man was a courier for the bank robbers.

The judge threw up his hands, almost as if something within the complainant’s box were lethal, and may strike at him at any moment.

I could tell, by the white dot of foam at the corner of his lips, that Judge Campbell was not best pleased with his discovery. He produced the offending item from the box and held it aloft.

A piece of paper. White.

But not a five-pound note.

Instead, he held a single page.

He flung it from the bench with all his might and it careened through the air to land on my bench. I saw then what had so enraged the unlearned judge. And I recalled the evidence of Mr Loffler.

Whist the prisoner and Mr Loffler had sampled the pseudo-Germanic beer in the Docks tavern, Mr Loffler had taken up his charcoal and drawn a sketch of the clientele. In the foreground was a serving girl bent over a table to retrieve a half-empty plate. And while Mr Loffler had sketched her serving frock, he had taken care to ensure that the frock was transparent. And his heavy scrawls left little to the imagination concerning the shapely form that inhabited the dress.

“Filth! Depravity!” screamed Judge Campbell. “Never have I seen such levels of debauched indecency represented on the page. Mr Loffler, you are no artist. You are a base pornographer. Your work, and the devilish tools you employ to manufacture these indecent images, are entirely worthless in this court. Case dismissed. The prisoner is free to leave the court. And Mr Loffler, you are very lucky not to find yourself in irons. The audacity!”

“All … all rise,” said the clerk, stifling a chuckle as the judge gained his feet and departed.

The relief set upon Mr Ruthnick’s face proved a perfect carnival reflection of the complainant’s expression, which was pure, red shame.

I gathered my papers and glanced again at the sketch. It seemed to me, although erotic to the point of criminal indecency, not unskilled work. The table that the serving girl leant over had been perfectly drawn and delicately shaded. The patrons surrounding her had been well captured – indeed the fellow beside her who sat at the table was very well drawn indeed. He would’ve been a tall man, considering the length of his legs. And certainly an individual not ruled by his appetite, judging by his thin arms, legs and the half-full plate of food that was being taken away. His face was perhaps not too well realised. A high forehead, angular features, but one side of his face appeared in strange shadow. When I examined the remainder of the sketch, one could clearly delineate the angle of light that the artist had controlled, but the darkness on one side of this man’s face was incongruous to the angle of daylight from the window. I surmised that it was not shadow, but perhaps a birthmark or an injury carried home from a military campaign.

I passed the sketch back to the constable, but not before I saw Mr Ruthnick point at the sketch as he descended from the dock. According to Mr Ruthnick, the tall, thin man in charcoal bore a striking resemblance to the fellow that had given to him the note and the instruction to retrieve the box.

I heard little more from Mr Ruthnick, post acquittal. He had returned to his studies, as he’d hoped, and went on to become a minor watercolour artist.

From memory, it was May when Mr Deery approached me in the Library. In fact, at the very desk I sit at now.

He gave me a letter, marked for my attention. And left without another word.

I still have that letter. Although its contents I can recite easily.

Dear Mr Dickens,

Congratulations on your triumph. I wish to apologise for not being entirely forthcoming with you during my initial correspondence. I do so now upon your word that this letter be destroyed as soon as it is read and that you maintain your silence.

I have heard from my contacts that Mr Ruthnick is prospering, and is engaged to be married. This is good news.

In relation to Mr Loffler, he was not prosecuted, even though I understand the judge pressed the prosecutor to do so. No, Mr Loffler had had quite enough of London, and required the funds to sail back to the continent sooner than he had envisaged. I acquired the sketch for a small stipend.

Although it is customary in these situations not to thank one who has performed a service for one’s country, I make an exception in this case. Even though Mr Loffler was quite embarrassed to have his erotic visions, which he himself realised in charcoal, so publicly revealed – he has also unwittingly served his British hosts well. The tall, thin gentleman in the sketch was at one time believed to be dead. Resurrection is not so uncommon these days. He had taken up a position at that table in order to survey the full disarray of the police investigation, first hand. He must have realised that Mr Loffler recorded his image, and sought to retrieve it. He could not do so by force, that day, because he did not wish to draw attention to himself. Suffice to say, the sketch of this man is extremely valuable to a number of international police agencies. Already, it has proved useful in detecting his cohorts who so brazenly robbed the Wisbech and Lincolnshire Bank.