Mr. Doyle & Dr. Bell

by Howard Engel

  “That is wonderful news! I must tell Louise at once!”

  “You might also tell Graeme, who, you will remember, brought us into this business in the first place,” said he with a twinkle. Then, changing his expression, he added:

  “But let me suggest that you do nothing of the kind. For the moment we’ll leave simpering Susan and amorous Moll to one side.” I was beginning to recognize Bell’s moods, but this was a new one.

  “You don’t look at all happy at this good news. Why?” Bell brought the decanter from the sideboard and poured a glass for me before replenishing his own.

  “There is not a word in this about immunity or protection for our friend Bryce.”

  “Still, it means that they are prepared to listen to him. They can’t very well ignore the opinion of such a senior man.”

  “I feel as you do, Doyle. I know where the nut of right belongs, but I’m not at all assured that it will find its way there by itself. We are thinking of the rights and wrongs of the case; a simple matter of justice. What could be easier? But, the Lord Advocate has other medicine clubs to juggle as well. Remember, he prosecuted Lambert. He must also pass judgment on the virtue of any appeal against his conviction. If wrong has been done, then the Lord Advocate is the cork in the bottle. He will either keep the secret in or he will let it out.

  “If we are right, if Bryce is able to explode the case against young Lambert, there will be many red faces in the police. Just imagine the Lord Advocate upon hearing the news that his prosecution has been criticized. It would make for an unquiet house, I tell you. And, you know that the Home Secretary normally seeks and gets advice from the Lord Advocate himself. He is the chief law officer of the Crown north of the Tweed. There is no mechanism for overriding his advice when he, himself, is involved.”

  “But such expressions of annoyance do them little credit. In their better selves they know that justice must be served.”

  “Ach, laddie! When I was your age, my head was filled with pretty notions of the right of things. Without shedding my fine notions, I have some experience to put to the other side of it. The chief constable will have allowed a serious error to have been exposed. The error that we detected at the pawnshop must have also been seen by both Bryce and Webb. M’Sween, the deputy chief, must have been informed. Why was the information of the pawnshop and the North-Western Hotel not made known? Why did the men who have uncovered so much crime in the city in the past not correct their bungle and proceed in a new and more profitable direction? There’s a question for you to ponder while I’ll be refilling my glass.”

  I did indeed ponder the question and turned up some further questions equally in need of answers. For some reason, this case was not like similar cases. Somehow, the authorities approached it with a difference. Even with kid gloves. What did that mean? There was a potential for embarrassment in the correct solution.

  I exchanged my reflections for another dash of wine and received my mentor’s approbation. “Capital! Capital!” said he, applauding my efforts by banging upon a silver dish-cover with a slipper. “You should try putting down the details of this case in your notebook, Conan. You might be able to make something in the way of fiction out of it. Certainly, in its first phase at least, it has shown itself to be stranger than fiction.”

  The bell sounded below, and almost at once Lieutenant Bryce’s large form again stood in the open doorway of Bell’s sitting-room. “I hope that you have used the utmost caution in coming here, Lieutenant. The house is being watched.”

  “I was not seen. I came round the back way. I know these lanes, wynds and closes as well as my eyes know the back of my son’s wee head.”

  “Have you come to a decision, Lieutenant Bryce? I told you about my fears.”

  “I’m out too far to swim back now, sir. I can only go on.”

  “Splendid! You are a brave man. I have put down a few points which you might include in what you send to Sir George.” Here, Bell handed Bryce a sheet of paper, a copy of an original in his hand, which he allowed me to see. For a moment both of his visitors read quietly and then reflected upon the content. In his usually clear hand, Bell had written:

  1. Did any witness to the identification on the night of the murders name a person other than Alan Lambert?

  2. Were the police aware that such was the case? If so, why was the evidence not forthcoming at the trial?

  3. Did Lambert fly from justice?

  4. Were the police in possession of information that Lambert had disclosed his name at the North-Western Hotel, Liverpool, stating where he came from, and that he was travelling to America according to a passage booked some time prior to the murders?

  5. Why did the police not abandon the clue of the diamond brooch when it was discovered that it had been in pawn prior to the murders, and that the owner of the pawn-ticket had nothing to do with the theft of some other diamond brooch from one of the murder victims?

  “I am sure that you have points of your own that you would like to add to these. But, I think that this list covers the essentials of what we have uncovered.”

  Bryce lowered the paper in his hand. There was the hint of a smile about his mouth. “What I add, sir, I must keep to myself at present. Such things have to do with breaches of proper police procedures both here and in New York. I might say, also, that there were witnesses interviewed by the investigating officers who were not called at the trial. The significance of these omissions I leave for you to plumb.”

  “Sir,” said my friend, “it is impossible to say now what the result of your action may be. A life, of course, may be saved. A great wrong, righted. But, whatever happens, I know that you have acted with credit to the long tradition of law enforcement in these islands. I would earnestly like to shake your hand. For I believe it belongs to an officer who is both gallant and brave.” Here Bell took Bryce’s hand in his own two and pressed it warmly. In a moment, moved and at a loss what to say, the policeman had turned and gone through the door. We heard him stumble on the stairs, recover himself and move towards the rear of the house.

  When he had gone, Bell looked out the bow-window long enough to satisfy himself that Bryce had used the back lane to make good his escape. At last he turned to me, shaking his head slowly. “I fear that he may yet suffer the fate of those who tell the secrets of the prison house. In cold practical terms, that might mean he’ll be turned out of his office, dishonoured and pensionless. A sad fate for a good, honest man. A damnable shame and a black mark against this land.”

  “But it hasn’t happened yet. Perhaps it won’t.”

  “Let’s hope you’re in the right of it, laddie. Let’s hope.”

  SIXTEEN

  It was a week before the hanging. Seven short days remained to young Lambert. Much had happened, but nothing to the good.

  Yielding to the demand made privately by Bryce, but independently echoed in the papers, the Lord Advocate, Sir George Currie, appointed Mr Fraser Montgomery, the sheriff of Midlothian, to enquire into the matter and quickly report back to him. What his secret instructions were, we may never know, but The Times and The Scotsman were quick to point out that the restrictions imposed upon the enquiry were enough to sink it. The proceedings were held in secret. The witnesses, who could not be compelled to come forward, were not examined under oath. The prisoner was not represented, nor was he allowed to attend. The commission was not allowed to enquire into the conduct of the trial. The final blow was this: although, as I have said, the prisoner was not present, the sheriff gratefully acknowledged the assistance he had received from Sir William Burnham, the Procurator-Fiscal, and from Sir Alexander Scobbie, the chief constable of Edinburgh.

  It was a disaster. As Bell remarked at the time, “These gentlemen being the officials responsible for the original prosecution, it is not uncharitable to suppose that their interests lay in sustaining the conviction.” Indeed, I wrote myself to one of the papers saying: “The police are as much on trial here as Lambert. If the methods of the pol
ice are not to be investigated the enquiry is futile.” It was a sentiment I had been harbouring for some time. I had often said as much to Bell. This was the first time I had sent in a letter to The Scotsman and I must say that it was gratifying to see the result in print.

  The chief constable and the Procurator-Fiscal were also gratified when a government White Paper, based upon the commission report, was made public on the 16th. The press, both in Britain and abroad, gave the White Paper a chilly reception. They demanded a reprieve for the condemned man, a new trial. Naturally, questions were asked in the House about what the Home Secretary intended to do about Lambert when it became his problem? The Secretary replied, over much noisy protest from the benches on both sides, that after careful consideration of the whole matter he proposed to do nothing.

  Of course, Lieutenant Bryce was destroyed by the White Paper. First, he was suspended from duty at the beginning of the week, before we had seen the contents of the document. He made an immediate appeal to the Lord Advocate, reminding him that he had sent his questions to him with the understanding that the information had been sent at his request and under his protection. There has been no communication from the office of the Lord Advocate up to the time of this writing.

  Bell’s worst fears had been confirmed, and Lambert was not a whit better off than he had been weeks ago. I climbed the stairs to Bell’s rooms with a slow tread that Thursday afternoon, expecting to see a similarly despondent Bell. But, much to my surprise, he was ebullient. His friendly greeting banished my doubts and fears. I must confess he reminded me of the Act Five Macbeth: doomed, but making a good end, “At least we’ll die with harness on our back.”

  “Is there nothing we can do?” I asked. “I feel so helpless.”

  “There is a good deal. Now that the constabulary is showing Bryce its abundant power, Bryce may no longer feel bound to keep his counsel on the case. He may now tell us what we might never have learned.” There was a brightness in Bell’s cheeks that did not sort well with our situation. I suspected that he was less distraught than I was. Under it all, Bell was enjoying himself.

  “Conan, we have been busy these last few weeks trying to free an innocent man. All of our efforts were bent on demonstrating the foolishness of Lambert’s arrest and prosecution. Now, that approach must be abandoned, or at least buttressed by another. We must now concentrate on discovering the identity of the real murderer.”

  “How will that help poor Alan Lambert? He will be safely dead in a few days. Any discovery we make about the true killer will be of no practical use to him. Shouldn’t we press on with our first approach while there is still time?”

  “We are meeting with Bryce at Waverley Market in forty minutes. We will see what he has to say for himself.”

  “Aye, but…”

  “But what, Doyle? You must not admit despair. There are seven days left, remember, one hundred and sixty-eight hours. Mountains can be moved in half that time.”

  “I am afraid that we will still be too late. The best we may hope for is to clear the name of a man unjustly executed.”

  “Nonsense! We may have to resort to kidnapping Mr Marwood, but I doubt if it will come to that. Take heart. There’s many a shaw and glen twixt where we are and where we would be, but I think I know the way. With your help, I think we will have a great success.”

  In half an hour, we were wandering among the barrows and stalls of Waverley Market. Freshly killed meat hung from hooks on iron stanchions. Butchers were selling off the cuts as they came to them: legs before ribs, shoulders before the scrag end of neck, which was the last to go. Coils of fresh and smoked sausages festooned stalls dealing in preserved meats, hams, trotters, and sides and collops of bacon. Some brownish kale was to be seen along with beets, carrots, turnips, potatoes, parsnips. The quality was not good, but at this time of the year frosts had already killed much of what was in the ground. In addition to the vegetable and meat vendors, various craftsmen plied their trades: makers of sporrans, spoons made of horn, purses and bagpipes; cobblers; harness-makers; coppersmiths banging out kettles and porridge pots, making a great racket with their mallets on the yielding metal. Underfoot, one trod on the litter of the morning’s business, including the horseballs left behind by the carters’ horses. Above the sharp smells for the nose and a cornucopia of produce for the eye, there was everywhere a cacophony of shouts, curses and cries from the vendors. Bell bought a few pence worth of apples of a dusky, greyish tinge. I comforted myself with a lump of candy rock.

  Against the wall of the railway station, using that wall as a support for this much more flimsy structure, a tearoom beckoned. It offered a substantial breakfast for the vendors and their customers, who sat on joint stools with their elbows on small white deal tables. Against a back wall, a heavily built but comely lass was cooking fresh herring, bacon and toast over an iron stove, which was vented by a pipe going through the roof. When she wasn’t putting more wood to the fire, she was refilling cups of strong black tea and more or less keeping up with the demand. Apart from a little slavey carrying in wood and trying to clear the vacated tables, I could see no one else running the shop. The cook, whose face shone with the work she was doing, carried a heavy sporran on a wide leather belt around her waist, which incidentally kirtled up her skirts becomingly. Into this she put the pennies her customers paid, all the while keeping up a spirited banter with the salty lot of regulars.

  We had not been seated long in the tearoom, when I saw Bryce sitting at a table in the back. He was nursing a stoneware mug between his large hands and breathing in the steam. Bell gave no sign that he had seen the suspended policeman, rather he slowly scanned the tearoom looking for spies. Satisfied that neither we nor Bryce had been followed, he picked up our own steaming mugs and made his way among the tables, crammed with stall operators, to the back wall. Bryce made an indication that he was about to rise, but in the end did not.

  “Lieutenant Bryce, I am glad you consented to see me again. As you know, time is of the essence.”

  “Doctor, I hope that you and your friend will address me no longer according to my rank on the force. In the navy, I was a chief petty officer. I see no harm in your calling me ‘chief,’ if you wish.”

  “I would like to think, Chief,” said I, “that you will soon be restored to your former rank. Indeed, if we are able to save Lambert, you may look for better.” When I finished speaking, Bryce looked at Bell, who slowly shook his head back and forth.

  “You’re but young yet, Conan. It is hard at your stage of life to recognize the fact that an organized group, like the army or the police, has a sense of itself that far exceeds the vanity of a single man. The force would rather serve our friend roasted as a Christmas goose than admit that he had the right end of the stick all the time. People are fallible and make errors, organizations never. That is true generally the world over, but never more vindictively than here in Edinburgh.”

  “You have the right of it, sir. And I canna be blaming you for my predicament. I made this berth long ago. Now I must lie in it.” Bryce saw the interest in our faces and went on to explain.

  “Years ago, in 1875, a young Canadian named Sennett was arrested for the murder of a Mrs M’Nabb, an elderly recluse, who kept in her house a fortune in gems. No less than a dozen eye witnesses came forward and swore that they recognized the young man as the murderer escaping the scene of the crime. The young man protested. The witnesses claimed their share of the one-hundred-pound reward. I discovered that, in spite of the solid case being built against the man—by now there were over one hundred who swore in their precognitions, or statements, that Sennett was the man—there was something to his story that he was not even in Scotland at the time of the woman’s death. The man was living rough, so it was hard to prove anything, but then he remembered that he had pawned a waistcoat in Antwerp for a franc or two. I went to Antwerp, found the pawn-ticket with the accused’s name on it. It was dated the day after the murder. Did I get a medal? Was I mentioned in de
spatches? No! I had cheated them of a first-class sensational murder trial. My days on the force were numbered from that time.”

  “It certainly tells a cautionary tale about dealing with witnesses who claim to have seen the murderer when what they see most clearly is a substantial reward that has been offered for information.”

  “Are you suggesting,” I asked in all naivety, “that people will willingly perjure themselves and send a man to the gallows for a few guineas? This is a sad comment on this country.”

  “On humanity,” corrected Bryce with a look at Bell.

  “This is a moving tale, Chief, but its lesson only confirms what we have just told our friend here. Let’s move to more practical matters. What are you now willing to tell us that your former position made impossible?”

  “There are several items. First, witnesses were shown photographs of the accused before they made their identifications. They simply picked out the man who resembled the photographs. In New York, the witnesses saw the prisoner in custody prior to making their identifications.”

  “This is abominable! Very doubtful practice in law, but, I doubt whether it is strong enough to stop the execution.”

  “Witnesses saw the prisoner in various places near his flat both before and after the time of the crime. The only witnesses called were those most easily discredited: Lambert’s mistress and his servant. Further, there were trial errors: the Lord Advocate spoke of things as though they had been entered in evidence, which were in fact only mentioned in his own opening remarks, saying that he intended to enter them in evidence. To make matters worse, the judge, in summing up, aggravated this error: he too was prepared to believe that saying a thing was in evidence was the same as having it in the record.”

  “Yes, I remember noting that in Doyle’s excellent summary of the proceedings. But, it won’t help us if we simply make the Lord Advocate and the judge look like ninnies. We need a major flaw in the case.”