“Strange Tales, Dark Thoughts”
Volume III
by Adrian Scott
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 by Ian T. Foster, M.A.
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Table of Contents
“The Face of Justice”
by Adrian Scott
I
Crowds of people from all walks of life surrounded the Old Bailey that day as the prisoner was led from the courtyard in the rear of the building, through a small iron door set within a high stone wall, up a long flight of stairs, and into the court.
He did not walk, but shuffled, his movement restricted by heavy iron chains that ended in hinged brackets encircling his feet. The brackets were attached by a second iron-linked chain reaching to the manacles about his wrists.
Four broad-shouldered, truncheon-wielding Bow Street Runners surrounded the prisoner, but he seemed oblivious of them, lost in a world of his own – a world that brought him much pleasure and amusement, to judge by the wide smile on the ugly, broken-nosed face. Yet this man had nothing to be amused or pleased about: he had first appeared in the hallowed halls of the Old Bailey several days ago, charged with three of the worst crimes imaginable, and the crowds outside that spilled into the cobbled roadway and round the nearest corner were waiting to hear only one verdict pronounced from the steps before which they waited.
Six months ago, in a small house in Battersea, an old woman had been found in her bed, her skull struck with a heavy iron bar until the face was almost unrecognisable. She had been quite dead when discovered by neighbours who, concerned they had not seen the aged garden-fancier out and about, pruning her roses for some days, had battered down the front door of the cottage, made their way eventually to the bedroom, and found the ghastly remains.
Police had been fetched, an investigation conducted, and it was discovered that a large sum of money which the old woman had been known to keep in her house had been taken. This, then, had been nominated as the motive for her brutal and bloody murder.
Not three weeks later, a crippled old man in a wheelchair had been stabbed from behind, the blade penetrating straight through to the heart. His worldly possessions and wealth – which had generally been regarded as quite large – had disappeared along with the murderer.
In the following week, the only son of Sir Godfrey Hearns, industrialist, of the London shipbuilding firm of Hearns and Hearns, had been kidnapped; a large ransom had been paid over, but the police had only been informed of the crime when the body of the child – crippled in one leg from birth and suffering a brain disease that guaranteed the lad would never assume management of his father’s business – had been found in a roadside ditch, the skull battered to a bloody pulp.
Suspicion fell upon one Ernest Charles Gaunt, who had worked as general handyman to the Battersea widow; as personal assistant to the old man; and as gardener to Sir Godfrey Hearns. Yet he had disappeared from each locale almost immediately following the commission of each crime.
Further investigation found that the said Ernest Charles Gaunt was a violent man, with a plethora of petty convictions attached to his name, and that he had, most recently, appeared to have come into a small inheritance – which could not be explained.
His arrest had swiftly followed.
When court resumed on that final morning, there remained one final witness for the defence to be presented, and then London would hear the verdict it wanted to hear:
“Guilty!: There could be no other outcome.
His Honour peered nearsightedly about the packed courtroom, inspected his desk, ensured the square of black silk – which he must, by tradition, place over his wig before pronouncing the death-sentence, was to hand, and banged his gavel.
“Mr Cross,” he said to the Defence Barrister in the ensuing silence; “are you ready to present your final witness?”
The said Mr Cross, Queen’s Counsel, looked at the solicitor sitting to his left, smiled at the defendant seated in the dock, and rose. “We are, Your Honour. I call Sir James Morecombe.”
A loud murmur died away slowly at the gavel’s command, and a tall, well-dressed man with hair greying at the temples and whiskers neatly combed and trimmed, walked through the door. He bowed to His Honour, marched in a very military manner down the aisle, and took his place on the witness stand.
Sir James Morecombe! What on earth could he know about the case against the accused?
The Morecombe name was known throughout the horse-breeding world on every track where champions were run, and won. And seven times out of ten, the winning horse came from the Morecombe stables. He was also known as a heavy drinker, a gambler of note, and a womaniser to boot. But his title – inherited from his father, a well-known and greatly respected philanthropist during a long lifetime – and his untold wealth, spoke louder than mere rumours could shout.
Duly sworn in, Sir James took his seat, and faced the jury. Cowed by his fierce gaze and no-nonsense expression on the rugged face, most of them looked away.
“Sir James,” the esteemed barrister stood before the baronet; “you know of the charges brought against the accused, Ernest Charles Gaunt?”
“I do,” Sir James replied in a businesslike voice.
The Barrister turned and faced the jury, hands clasped behind his back: “And what can you tell us about these charges, Sir James?”
“Only what I have read in the European broadsheets – which is all the accused can tell you, by the way.”
The confident smile Mr Cross had been displaying to the jury suddenly vanished, to be replaced by a look of utter surprise. He spun about, stared at the witness, and asked: “I beg your pardon, Sir James. Did you say – yourself and the accused can only tell us what you have read – in the European broadsheets?”
“That is precisely what I have said,” Sir James returned.
Sir James testified that he had been abroad, in Europe – France, to be precise – for the past seven months, and that the defendant had been in his employ as his guard and travelling companion, and had been with him for the entire time.
Mr Cross presented into evidence two tickets for the cross-Channel steamer ‘Orion’, dated seven months and one day previously, thanked the baronet for his service, and resumed his seat at the Defence table.
The Prosecutor, Mr Albert Entwhistle, QC; rose and stared for long, long seconds at the self-assured face of the man who was about to bring the case against this felon crashing down. Finally, in exasperation, His Honour asked: “Do you intend to question the witness, Mr Entwhistle, or simply seek to undo his testimony by staring at him?” – which brought a loud, raucous laugh from Gaunt, who appeared to be enjoying himself immensely – and Mr Entwhistle stepped around the table, strode slowly up to Sir James, and began his interrogation.
That the introduction of this particular witness had been a complete shock to the Prosecutor’s case was obvious from the outset: his questioning lacked the force and fury for which Sir Albert was feared and renowned by every felon in London; he stumbled over his words, mis-pronounced names, had to refer constantly to his files for confirmation of dates and places, and showed himself to be at a loss when facing the supreme, unshakeable confidence of Sir James Morecombe.
He would have dearly loved to introduce evidence of which the Prosecution was aware: evidence of a certain investigation that had been under way for some time by the detective division of the London Metropolitan Police – an investigation that, if successful, would show that the redoubtable Sir James made much of his fortune by means far outside the law of the day – including the reception and selling, on the Continent, of vast quantities of stolen property – but he could say nothing on this matter, even though he knew it would provide him with the necessary link between the defendant and his supposed employer, and would show, quite clearly, that reason existed for the baronet to wish to assist this bloody-handed murderer to shed the chains which bound him and step out from beneath the shadow of the gallows at Newgate which had, until Sir James’ intervention, hung over his head like an immovable black pall.
But, on this matter, Sir Albert could say nothing.
Faced with the unshakeable evidence of Sir James Morecombe – and a check on the ‘Orion’ tickets by the Police – which proved that they were genuine, and that a man fitting the description of the defendant had indeed accompanied Sir James on his trip to France – Sir Albert’s case, at the end of a long and tiring day, lay in tatters about his feet.
His closing argument to the jury clearly showed his frustration, his doubt, and his anger at the thought of this murderous villain slipping through the wheels of Justice unscathed, whilst his opponent spoke eloquently, forcefully, indeed magnificently. Finally, the jury returned the only verdict possible.
What they could not have known was that the man who always accompanied the baronet on certain business journeys to other lands bore a striking resemblance to the man who had stood in the dock. It was he, in fact, who had accompanied Sir James Morecombe on that seven months’ long trip to the port-city of Marseilles in order to dispose of many hundreds of pounds’-worth of gemstones and other valuables.
Edward Charles Gaunt had never left England in his long, criminal life. And he was, beyond all reasonable doubt, as is said in juristic circles, guilty of the crimes with which he had been charged.
But he was also one of the chief suppliers of stolen valuables to a certain baronet, who had no desire to see one of the principal sources of his wealth taken from the earth.
Luck had played a part, it is true – but the greatest luck in the world could not have saved Gaunt from the gallows were it not for the intervention of one Sir James Morecombe.
The crowds outside the Old Bailey cheered when the Court Bailiff appeared upon the steps, a scroll in his hands. But their cries of joy that justice had, at last, been done, quickly became silence, which gave way to anger, when the words of ‘Not Guilty’ were read out.
Mr Cross, QC; and his solicitor were first to exit the court, wide smiles on their pudgy faces. They were met by a barrage of slightly over-ripe tomatoes, cheerfully supplied by a nearby vegetable-seller, who judged his loss in stock was well worth the entertainment value of the morning. The legal men quickly retreated back into the safety of the Old Bailey whilst a hasty call was sent out for a contingent of ‘Peelers’, or gentlemen of the London Metropolitan Police, to exercise some form of crowd-dispersal – which they did, setting about the task with batons and fists – and slowly the barrage of flying red missiles trickled away, as did the crowd.
Mr Gaunt, meanwhile, was led from the court by a rear door, a coat hastily pulled over his head to disguise his identity from those still lingering in the vicinity, including a large group of Fleet Street news-hounds desirous of an interview with the fortunate man and, more especially, with Sir James Morecombe.
But the baronet had exited the court immediately following his dismissal from the witness-box, and had hurried to a small inn several blocks away, where numerous large brandies were quaffed, and a certain amount of money left the possession of Sir James and passed into the hands of the man who usually escorted the knight on his overseas journeys: certain witnesses had proved unwilling to testify for the prosecution in the case of The Crown v. Gaunt, and he had been the principal reason for this strange occurrence. In addition to this, his employer felt the man deserved some recompense for being forced to take a rather extended journey to the wilds of Ireland, where he had remained from the day of Gaunt’s arrest until the day of the verdict, when all were assured that sufficient arrangements had been made to ensure the ‘right’ verdict was handed down.
The Bailiff was still busily directing the washing-down of the courthouse steps when the last attendant at the trial exited the court: she was an old, old woman, grey-haired and frail, and leaned heavily on a walking-cane as she stepped, slowly and most carefully, down from the portico. The Bailiff, believing – from the abject sorrow painted so clearly on the old woman’s face – that she had been a close relative of one of the deceased persons mentioned in the case, took pity upon her, and hurried to assist as her aged limbs threatened to yield to the great effort of stepping down onto the footpath, looked into two sorrow-filled grey eyes, and felt unaccountably prompted to apologise for the outcome of the matter. But he held his tongue, smiled sympathetically, pressed a small coin into the wrinkled hand over which a battered and weathered carry-all was draped, and watched as the aged one made her slow, painful way along the street, to disappear some moments later into a filthy and nondescript lodging-house that had, so far, withstood all attempts by the city to have it removed and replaced by a building more fitting to the area.
Night rolled in across the Thames borne on a thick layer of fog. Steamer-whistles hooted back and forth from one end of the filthy waterway to the other, as ships, small and large, sought to avoid each other in the rolling whiteness that smothered all, and hid from sight those bent on more nefarious deeds that would best not be viewed by the keepers of the law.
Constable Peter O’Riordan stepped carefully along the edge of the wharf outside Number Three warehouse, his eyes endeavouring to pierce the gloom both in front of him and in the water below: one never knew what one would find floating in the filth and muck of the Thames on such a night as this.
He heard a loud splash close at hand, paused, called out, and paced carefully on when he received no reply; then the splash was followed by the sound of running footsteps headed away from him.
O’Riordan dropped to his knees on the coaming running along the edge of the wharf and held his lantern over the water, searching for whatever had made the splash, for when one hears such a sound at night, by the river, followed by running footsteps, one’s suspicions are naturally aroused – especially if one is a Bay Street Runner finding the cold and boredom of night patrol along the riverfront a little harder to take with each passing hour.
Inches above the oily slick, his lamp showed only what one would expect: floating debris, the odd dead fish – and then a body.
His left hand, flat upon the heavy planking on which he knelt, came into contact with a long, thin spar of timber, and he used it to poke into the back of the coat the corpse wore. Then, with the lantern on the decking by his side and both hands gripping the spar, he manoeuvred the dead thing along the wharf to a point where a short flight of steps allowed him to reach down and grip the sodden material. He heaved, and managed to drag the unknown one up onto the lower steps; his eyes fell upon the hilt of the knife appearing from deep between the shoulder-blades, and he took out his policeman’s whistle and blew, loudly, shrilly, into the night.
The passing of one Edward Charles Gaunt was reported in the morning broadsheets. He had been found floating, face-down, in the Thames, the hilt of a knife with a nine-inch long blade protruding from his back; the blade had penetrated at an angle, downward and to the left, piercing the heart and bring almost instantaneous death.
Constable Peter O’Riordan, of the London Metropolitan Police, had reported hearing footsteps preceded by a splash, and it was assumed he had missed witnessing the murder of the unmourned man by a matter of seconds. Although the burly constable did not say as much, it was obvious from his demeanour that he was pleased to have avoided being present at the actual killing, for then he would have been duty-bound to arrest the murderer who – it was suggested by one outspoken member of the Lower House – should have received immediate elevation to the peerage at the hands of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, for having dealt out the justice so recently denied Gaunt by the Courts of the Old Bailey.
A second serious crime took place that same night, not two hours later than the murder of Gaunt: a champion stallion, brought from Ireland to service one of Sir James Morecambe’s thoroughbred mares, was found in its stall, its throat cut so savagely that the head was almost severed from the powerful neck. As the stayer, victorious in numerous races within the British Isles and currently set for the Grand National, had died on Sir James’ property and under his care, the baronet was forced to compensate the owner for the value of the horse, which ran into many thousands of pounds, both in worth and estimated future earnings at stud and on the track.
It was not until much, much later that the two separate crimes were seen as forming part of one act of vengeance on the part of a person or persons then unknown.
II
The three-shell game was as old as London itself, or so some believed. The trick lay, not in guessing under which shell the pea was hidden, for it was no doubt in the hand of the person running the game until such time as its presence was required elsewhere. No, the trick lay in keeping one’s eyes on the controller’s hand and trying to tell, from the slight movement of the knuckles and muscles, when it moved from hand to table.
The average ‘Bobby’ often ignored the presence of such a swindle, as long as the gathered throng did not become too large or rowdy: if people wished to bet their pennies on a game of chance in which the only chance lay in detecting the telltale movement of the hand, or perhaps in seizing the offending wrist and turning over the hand to reveal the pea in the palm, then so be it. But to set up such a game, and to try to drag in unwary hopefuls, virtually on the steps of the Old Bailey, was something the average policeman could not ignore.
And so Probationary Constable Smethers broke up the gathering quietly but efficiently and sent the controller and his ‘shill’ packing, then continued on his patrol.
When the young uniformed one was well out of sight and the crowd had dissipated, the ‘controller’ reappeared from the alley into which he had fled, minus the board on which the game had been played, and the stand on which the board had rested. Now decked out in a workman’s cap and not-too-clean overcoat, he mounted the steps of the court, and disappeared into the shadowed halls.
Inside Courtroom Number Three, one Ernestine Bingle, a.k.a. Ellie Sumner, a.k.a. Edwina Fortune, was on trial for the crimes of prostitution, and of spreading a certain disease known to originate with London’s ladies of the night. The disease was also known to be fatal, the only cure being the intervention, after a long and painful illness, of the grave. Miss Bingle was also charged with the murder and robbery of Mr Elroy Saunders, a client who had made the mistake of falling asleep in her bed after a night’s carousing. Should she be found guilty, she faced transportation to the colonies for life.
But Ernestine Bingle was not about to be found guilty.
The door to the court opened, and the workman’s cap and overcoat disappeared inside and took a seat far in the back, where he was noticed by one or two persons interested in the outcome of the trial – both men, both displaying pockmarked and disfigured features – and by nobody else.
The Defence Barrister, hired to defend Miss Bingle by a man who made his daily bread by governing more than a dozen such young women as the defendant – and doing so with a hard-knuckled fist, and rough and ready justice – rose, and began his address to the jury:
“Members of the jury – you have heard the evidence given in this long and arduous trial which, I might say, never should have taken place were it not for the over-zealousness and blind stupidity of our constabulary— “—here he paused whilst the presiding Judge issued a swift and angry reprimand— “—however, you have sat through six days of evidence, both for and against, and have heard and seen for yourselves that this poor young street-urchin is not guilty of the foul and despicable accusations which have been brought against her.”
The Barrister, the erstwhile Mr Cross, turned to the Defence table, picked up a white sheet of paper, and stated loudly: “I hold here a doctor’s report of an examination carried out upon Miss Bingle on the afternoon of June 5 last. That report states that Miss Bingle is suffering, and was suffering at the time, of nothing more than a rash in the lower parts of her anatomy – and the effects of a rather insidious and debilitating case of – having consumed too much alcohol on the night preceding.”
The jury, to a man, laughed, whilst Mr Cross passed the letter to His Honour to be marked into evidence. By all the rules of good jurisprudence, Mr Cross should have first ensured the Prosecution had received a copy of the said doctor’s report (which was false, although the doctor’s signature was not), and requested the certificate be admitted into evidence rather than simply passing it in an off-handed manner, to the judge. The Prosecutor, naturally, objected most strenuously to admission of the certificate, but to no avail; His Honour, though well aware of the tricks and little games Mr Cross constantly inflicted upon the members of the Court, could do nothing in order to be fair to the accused.
Miss Bingle smiled to herself. Now there remained only that other little matter.
III
Sir James Morecombe stood looking at a rough hummock of earth on the far boundary of his property, the owner of the Irish stayer Great Leaps at his side. The baronet would sooner have destroyed the nearly-decapitated corpse, but knowing the horse’s owner from many years of association, and knowing he was given to the typical Irish sentimentality, he had ordered the remains buried instead.
“And ye’ve nae an idea who coulda done sitch a thing, Sor James?” Dylan Murphy asked, wiping at a tear in the corner of one eye.
“Nary a clue,” Sir James replied disinterestedly; “no sign, no sight, no sound. But I intend finding out, you may take my word for it.”
“T’wont do any good;” the owner muttered; “best ta leave it in tha hands o’ St Patrick hisself.”