Gideon Smith and the Mask of the Ripper

by David Barnett

  Herbert looked over his half-moon glasses at the court list in his gloved hand. “The Right Honorable Edwin Stanger.”

  Bent groaned. Stanger the Hanger. They said he had his black handkerchief permanently on his lap when sitting at the Old Bailey, couldn’t wait to pass the death sentence. “What about the silk?” They’d definitely be putting up a hot-shit Queen’s Counsel for this one. He crossed his pudgy fingers behind his back. Please let it not be—

  “Angus Scullimore,” said Herbert.

  “Oh, eff,” said Bent, as the huge doors began to swing inward. Scullimore. As bad as it could be. He ducked under the wooden barrier and melted in with the journalists as they began to file through the porch. Willy Siddell better have had a hearty breakfast, that was all.

  * * *

  Bent crossed the marble floor beneath the huge, vaulted ceiling of the court foyer, weaving between knots of people hanging around the wide doors to each of the individual courtrooms. Rowena Fanshawe, for all her fame, was just one of dozens of defendants who would pass through the Old Bailey today. Justice was a great leveler. Or so they said. Lady Justice, arms outstretched and sword in one hand, scales in the other, providing a handy perch for London’s ragtag pigeons on the dome above their heads, was as fallible and corruptible as any street thug, in Bent’s experience. She wore a blindfold because the law, like love, was supposed to be blind. More like she couldn’t bear to look, half the time.

  Outside the shuttered court number one Bent spied Siddell, looking a little more harried than he would have liked. Still, at least he’d dragged himself out of his pit on time. Bent hailed him and pushed through the crowd to the door. There was a handwritten notice slid into a brass frame on the wall: Regina v Fanshawe.

  “Siddell! Have they brought Rowena over? You been down to see her?”

  “Shit, Bent!” said Siddell. He was clad in his robes and held his powdered wig in one hand, running the other through his unruly hair. “I’ve been down in the cells since before dawn.”

  “Well? How is she?”

  Siddell bit his lip, his eyes roving around the hall. “A little … on edge, Bent. As you’d expect, given the charges laid against her.”

  “Out with it, Siddell!” said Bent impatiently. “What are they saying she’s supposed to have done?”

  Siddell deposited his wig haphazardly on his mop of curls and retrieved a buff folder from where it was wedged in his armpit. He flicked it open to the first sheet. “Murder, on Saturday night. The victim is one Edward Gaunt, found dead at his home in Kennington. Mean anything to you?”

  “Never heard of him. Should I have?”

  Siddell shrugged. “Not necessarily, though it might help if you had. He was strangled with a length of rope. Found by his housekeeper, who’d come by late Saturday to drop off some milk and bread.”

  Bent narrowed his eyes. “Why would it help? What’s Rowena saying?”

  “Nothing, pretty much. Other than to say she didn’t do it.”

  “Of course she didn’t effing do it! What have they got on her, anyway?”

  Siddell perused the charge sheet again. “The prosecution is planning to call five witnesses. The housekeeper, the constable who attended, a girl who saw Miss Fanshawe outside the house, a watchman who saw her return to Highgate Aerodrome two hours after the killing is said to have taken place. And some Swiss fellow … Miescher?”

  Bent rubbed his chin. “So Rowena was at the scene? Why?”

  Siddell made a face. “She won’t say.”

  Bent stared at him. “Well, she’s going to have to bloody say! You know who’s sitting, I take it?”

  “Stanger,” said Siddell miserably. “And Scullimore for the prosecution.”

  Bent sighed. “Has she given you anything to go on?”

  “Just that she didn’t do it,” said Siddell. “That she never went in the house.”

  Bent had heard defenses built on foundations as fragile, but he’d never heard them succeed. And not against a bulldog like Angus Scullimore. He said, “She must have given you something. Someone must have seen her somewhere at the time of the murder, we must be able to subpoena a witness who can vouch for her.”

  “She says she did go to Gaunt’s home, but just watched the house. Then she went to Highgate, where she stayed all night in her office. Alone. If we’re having witnesses, Bent, then they’re going to have to be character witnesses. I presume your Mr. Gideon Smith is our best bet?”

  He would be if he’d come home last night, Bent thought. That was a problem he’d had to stuff to the back of his cranium for the time being; young Maria was beside herself and despite Bent’s forced jollity he was beginning to worry as well. Two nights without coming home, and after tackling Markus Mesmer? What the hell had Gideon gotten himself into?

  “I’ll make sure he’s here,” said Bent, though without conviction. “In the meantime, put me down as a character witness.” He remembered something and shoved his hand into his overcoat pocket. “Oh, and give her this, tell her to wear it.”

  Siddell unwrapped the rag, and his eyes widened. “The Conspicuous Gallantry Medal!” he said.

  “Yeah, Her Majesty gave Rowena one just like it, but I’ll bet she ain’t got it on her. She can borrow mine, might carry some weight with the jury and old Stanger.”

  Bent checked his pocket watch. They should be opening the court any minute. Siddell coughed and said, “I think there’s someone to see you, Bent. I’ll go and read through these notes once more.”

  Bent turned and almost farted in surprise at the thin, rangy figure standing there in an immaculate silk top hat and woolen overcoat, leaning lightly on a gold-tipped cane.

  “Mr. effing Walsingham! You’ve changed your mind, then? Come to put a stop to this farce?”

  “Would that I could, Mr. Bent,” said Walsingham with a mockery of sadness that Bent found offensive. “But I did think that perhaps I should … observe proceedings.”

  “Make sure Rowena doesn’t say anything to drag your name through the shit, you mean,” said Bent. He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps we should subpoena you, as a character witness for the defense.”

  Walsingham raised an eyebrow. “I am exempt, Mr. Bent, from such things. Besides, you don’t know my name, nor where I live. I am but a ghost to the ordinary world.”

  “I know enough,” said Bent. “I’d have it addressed to Mr. Walsingham and dropped off at your office.”

  “Where they would profess to ignorance of my existence. Walsingham is not so much a name, more a situation. A profession. A vocation, if you will. I exist outside the affairs of normal life.”

  “Got a pretty inflated effing opinion of yourself,” muttered Bent.

  Walsingham ignored him and looked around. “Is Mr. Smith not here? I would have thought—”

  “Gideon’s … missing,” said Bent.

  Walsingham arched a gray eyebrow. “Missing?”

  Bent sighed. “He ain’t been home for a couple of nights.”

  “And you are concerned? He is the Hero of the Empire, after all. And a young man in London, where there are many diversions and distractions for one of his looks and constitution.”

  “Perhaps,” said Bent. “But for all the remarkable things he’s done in the service of the Empire, he’s still a country boy at heart. He’s been in London for not yet six months. It’s a tough city out there, Walsingham. Besides…”

  “Besides…?”

  “He went to check something out with Markus Mesmer,” said Bent finally.

  Walsingham sighed. “Mesmer is a mountebank, a petty criminal, a con man. And a litigious one at that. If he has managed to best Gideon Smith, then perhaps Gideon Smith is not the man for the job with which he has been gifted. Why was he pursuing Mesmer?”

  Bent bit his lip. Should he tell Walsingham about the Elmwood girl and her striking resemblance to Maria? Something told him to hold off for a while, not show all his cards just yet. He shrugged and said, “You know what the boy
’s like. Reads those old Captain Trigger adventures like they’re the effing Bible. Gets all manner of stuff into his head.”

  Walsingham frowned, but said, “Well, please keep me informed, Mr. Bent. If Mr. Smith remains missing for very much longer, then I will have words with the Metropolitan Police.”

  “Why don’t you have words with the Prime Minister while you’re at it? I bet you could get this trial stopped just like that.”

  “Mr. Bent, Parliament is about to finish for the Christmas recess. There is the matter of plans for an underground railway in London to debate first; I think that the House of Commons has more on its plate than a murder charge.”

  Bent made a face as the doors began to open. “Even this one?” he said, nodding at the sign on the wall. “Regina v Fanshawe. In July the Queen gave Rowena a medal; now she’s prosecuting her on some trumped-up murder charge.”

  “I’m sure it is nothing personal,” said Walsingham. He took off his top hat and smoothed down his white hair. “Shall we?”

  * * *

  The Right Honorable Edwin Stanger presided over court number one like a large black bird of prey, his robes spread about him like tattered wings, his shrewd, pale eyes casting about his aerie as the press and public filed in. Stanger sat in splendid isolation and elevation, only the portrait of the queen on the oak-paneled wall behind him in a higher position than he, the empty jury benches to his right and the full-to-bursting press bench to his left, the public galleries ranged around the borders of the room, which held the subtle scent of beeswax, authority, and despair.

  Directly beneath Stanger was the dock, in which Rowena Fanshawe sat, clothed in the plain gray shift and starched white bonnet that was the uniform of Holloway Prison. Bent was shocked to see her, the Belle of the Airways, sitting there with her shoulders slumped, her eyes downcast, her skin pale, her smoldering auburn hair trapped and tamed beneath the prison-regulation headwear. She looked broken already, a small and fragile thing about to be snatched up in Stanger’s claws.

  Before the dock were the lawyers; Siddell’s small file looked rather weedy beside Angus Scullimore’s stacks of ordered papers and depositions. Bent swallowed dryly. Another bad omen. Siddell straightened his wig and made to flick through the thick sheaf of notes, while Scullimore sat back, relaxed, tamping down his pipe and regarding Rowena with his dark eyes. Scullimore had a full head of black hair, which he liked to keep brilliantined under his wig, and a list of courtroom triumphs long enough to fill a book.

  Bent elbowed his way to the bench behind the lawyers, pushing Scullimore’s team of grumbling clerks along with his fat behind until he had positioned himself to the rear of Siddell. Walsingham, he noticed, lost himself in the murmuring crowd.

  Every available space in the large, square courtroom was taken as the black-robed ushers began to force closed the doors to a tumult of protest from those waiting outside. The clerk of the court, a large man with owlish spectacles, blinked at his papers then looked up and cleared his throat.

  “Silence in court. His Honor Judge Edwin Stanger is in session.”

  Stanger cast his icy gaze around the room and rumbled, “A packed house today. Hardly surprising, given the defendant we have before us.”

  There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd and an audible scribbling from the press bench. Stanger said, “I have not yet had the jury sworn in; I am going to take representations from Mr. Scullimore, for the Crown, and Mr.…” He glanced down at his papers. “Mr. Siddell, for the defense. I believe Mr. Scullimore has something of an unusual request to put before the court today.”

  Unusual request? Bent poked Siddell in the back, and the lawyer gave a half-turn and a shrug, his eyebrows dancing up to his wig.

  “I shall take a plea from the defendant and, depending on what that is, we shall either proceed to sentence or initiate a full trial, with witnesses, before a jury of twelve men good and true, as the law of the land dictates. Mr. Astin?”

  The clerk blinked again and stood. “The charges before the defendant are as follows. One, that sometime on the evening of Saturday just gone, she did willfully and with malice aforethought commit murder most foul upon the person of Mr. Edward Gaunt of Kennington in the city of London. The second charge is that she—alone or with compatriots unknown—did participate on Friday night in the burglary of premises on Bishopsgate, London, belonging to Professor Stanford Rubicon.”

  Rubicon? Bent leaned forward again, furiously poking Siddell in the shoulder. Siddell leaped to his feet, steadying his wig with one hand.

  “Objection, Your Honor! This is the first time that I have been told of this second charge. There has been no advance disclosure from the Crown—”

  Stanger raised his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Siddell. Objection sustained.” He appraised Siddell with his shrewd eyes. “Well done, sir. First blood to the defense. Yes, you should have had the papers on this. Mr. Scullimore, I will require you to provide Mr. Siddell with said details this afternoon.”

  Siddell grinned broadly. Stanger steepled his fingers and went on. “Though burglary is a far less serious offense than murder, Mr. Siddell. Should you not have a cast-iron defense for your client, the sentence the more serious charge carries with it will render the secondary charge somewhat moot.”

  Rowena looked up and blinked as though seeing the crowd for the first time. Her anguished eyes briefly met Bent’s, and he gave her as encouraging a smile as he could. She bit her lip and tried to return it, but her mouth trembled and her eyes filled with tears. Bent felt his heart suddenly break at the enormity of what she’d gotten herself into.

  Stanger turned his attention to the Crown. “Now, Mr. Scullimore. I believe you have a rather unusual request for the court.”

  Scullimore stood, his bearing confident and, yes, thought Bent, a little arrogant. He laid his pipe on the table and said, “Your Honor, I wish to call as a witness Doctor Friedrich Miescher, and to submit to the jury incontrovertible proof that places the defendant at the scene of the murder at the time of Mr. Gaunt’s terrible death.”

  Stanger frowned. “That is somewhat your job, Mr. Scullimore. I had been led to believe there was some measure of the extraordinary about this.”

  Scullimore nodded. “This will be the first time that evidence of such a nature has been submitted in a criminal prosecution in the entire world.”

  There was a gasp from the public galleries and a renewed scratching from the press bench. Stanger sat back in his chair and picked up his gavel, tapping it into the palm of his hand. “How very exciting. You are not attempting to blind the jury with science, I hope, Mr. Scullimore?”

  “Of course not, sir. Doctor Miescher has been employed by the Metropolitan Police to examine a number of crime scenes with a view to implementing what he is convinced will become a foolproof method of snaring criminals.” Scullimore smiled. “You would be something of a pathfinder by allowing this evidence, Your Honor. This trial will doubtless go down in history.”

  “Effing arse-licker,” breathed Bent. He made a face as the judge allowed himself the tiniest of smiles.

  “You have something for me to consider, an explanation?” said Stanger.

  “Of course,” said Scullimore, selecting one of his files and handing it to the usher, who flapped over to the clerk and laid it on his desk. Mr. Astin handed it up to the judge’s perch.

  Stanger glanced at the folder then laid it to one side. “Let us take a plea. Mr. Astin, put the charges to the defendant.”

  “Stand, please,” the clerk instructed Rowena. She got shakily to her feet, facing the empty jury bench and looking up to Stanger on her left.

  “On the count of burglary at the premises of Professor Stanford Rubicon, on or around Friday evening at Bishopsgate, how do you plead?”

  Rowena opened her mouth but only the slightest croak emerged. She swallowed, with obvious difficulty, and tried again.

  “Not guilty.”

  Mr. Astin adjusted his spectacles and made a note on th
e charge sheet. “And on the count that you did murder Edward Gaunt at his home in Kennington on Saturday night, what is your plea?”

  Rowena looked directly at Bent, who gave her his most winning smile.

  “I didn’t do it, Aloysius,” she said.

  “I never doubted you, girl,” he called back.

  Stanger banged his gavel sharply and Astin said, “Please direct your reply to the bench, Miss Fanshawe. Again, how do you plead?”

  She raised her head high, something of the old Rowena shining through her eyes, thought Bent.

  “Not guilty,” she said clearly.

  Stanger gathered his files and stood, and Astin hurriedly called for the court to rise. To the scraping of benches and the shuffling of feet, Stanger announced: “Then I shall retire to consider whether Mr. Scullimore’s new evidence will be admissible. We shall sit again at nine in the morning, when a jury shall be sworn in for the trial of Miss Rowena Fanshawe.”

  As Stanger disappeared through the door into the chambers, the press bench as a man made for the exit, the afternoon editions to fill with the scant but doubtless sensationalized business from the morning session. Rowena managed to give Bent a small wave before she was led down to the holding cells beneath the court.

  “Shine a light,” said Siddell. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Scientific evidence? What’s he talking about?”

  “I don’t effing know,” said Bent, keeping his eyes on Scullimore, who was talking to a short, mustachioed man whom he presumed was the mysterious Doctor Miescher. “But I want you to play your little heart out, Willy Siddell. Lay off the gin, keep your tripe in your trousers, and early to bed. And for God’s sake, be on top of your effing game tomorrow like never before.”

  INTERMEDIO: A VILLAIN BIRTHED IN THEIR OWN PRIMAL FEARS

  A costermonger wheeled a barrow up and down the busy sidewalk outside the pale edifice that was the Old Bailey, the framework erected on the barrow fluttering with copies of back issues of the penny dreadfuls.

  He wove through the crowd toward the man, who spied him and halted his lurching progress, pushing his half-moon spectacles up on his nose and enquiring if he would like to purchase some old adventures of Miss Rowena Fanshawe, from before she turned bad, as told in these very collectible editions of World Marvels & Wonders.