The Unbelievers

by Alastair Sim

  “So the Chief sent Jarvis to interview the Danube Street prostitute?”

  “Yes, Allerdyce. I’d had to admit to the Chief that there was another, more distant, suspect as well as the Duke. He chose to send Jarvis to see her.”

  “And?”

  “She didn’t tell him anything except her alibis for the nights of the first two murders. Quite amusing really. Her Majesty’s Secretary for Scotland and Lord McLaren of the High Court.”

  “Nothing about the Bothwell-Scotts?”

  “No. That’s what got Jarvis riled. The prostitute was apparently a lady of some strength of character who absolutely refused to tell him anything more. Jarvis tried to beat the story out of her – so badly that she needed stitches. She managed to get away from him for an instant to her window and attract the attention of the beat constable who’d been watching the house. When the constable came in Jarvis asked him to help him restrain the whore, but the constable took one look at what had been going on and decided to arrest Jarvis for assault. I think he rather enjoyed subduing Jarvis with his truncheon and bringing him in.”

  “And the Chief’s reaction?”

  “He absolutely detests violence against the weaker sex. He called Jarvis up to his office as soon as he heard – Jarvis was still staunching a bleeding nose from his arrest – and told him he was a disgrace and that he was suspended pending a full investigation.”

  Allerdyce couldn’t help imagining Antonia, kicked and bruised by Jarvis’s frenzied anger. It wouldn’t have happened if I’d just kept quiet, he thought. What a bloody awful thing to bring down on a friend. Another betrayal in the name of duty.

  “Cheer up, Allerdyce,” said Burgess, “I thought you’d have been pleased.”

  “Yes. Yes of course. So what happens now?”

  “The Chief’s accepted that the charge against Arthur Bothwell-Scott has to stand. The trial goes ahead without delay.”

  Chapter 32

  This must be how aristocrats felt during the French Revolution, thought Arthur. Taunted by the mob on their way to condemnation.

  He’d been spared the humiliation of being transported from the jail to the High Court of Justiciary in the Black Maria along with the common criminals. Instead, he sat in the Governor’s closed carriage, with a prison warder sitting either side of him and the Governor sitting opposite. Two mounted policemen rode ahead in anticipation of trouble.

  That morning’s newspaper had mentioned that his trial was about to begin. It had brought out a crowd of the worst sort of people, ready to jostle and jeer at a Duke who had been brought so low. Going up the North Bridge there had been rough-looking workmen, and rougher-looking women, who’d shouted abuse as the carriage went by. Turning into the High Street the crowd thickened. Instantly, the coach was surrounded by grinning, leering faces. He started as an egg was thrown against the window and as he looked back he saw a criminal-looking vagrant, with practically no teeth in his grimacing mouth and one scarred eyelid stitched crudely shut, trying to pull the carriage door open. A warder held the door firmly closed from the inside. They’d come to a complete halt and, as if by the co-ordination of some demonic organiser, the crowd started to rock the body of the carriage from side to side.

  “Hang the bastard!” shouted a woman in the crowd.

  “Let him eat shit!” shouted a man.

  “Sentence him to poverty!” cried a woman further back. “Let him live like the rest of us!”

  As the carriage rocked crazily, throwing him against the bodies of the warders, he thought he might die there and then, torn limb-from-limb by the rabid, envious mob. A tumbrel that never even got as far as the guillotine, he thought. But the mounted police rode round the sides of the carriage and were lashing into the crowd with their truncheons, cracking the heads of men and women alike. He saw the leering one-eyed man struck down by a policeman, falling under the scrabbling hooves of the frightened horse. At last the carriage moved forward, cutting through the dispersing crowd to reach the sanity of the cobbled courtyard between St Giles and the law courts.

  His legs were still shaking as he was led into the ante-room – with barred windows in case he took a notion to escape – where he’d meet his solicitor and the counsel who’d defend him. They weren’t there yet, so as he heard the locking behind him he sat down to try and compose himself. Josephine had given him a sealed envelope with, she said, some words of comfort for him to read when his trial started. He pulled the lightly-scented envelope out of his pocket, opened it, and unfolded the heavy cream-coloured paper.

  Josephine had copied out in a Bible verse in her neat, feminine hand.

  ‘But when they shall lead you, and deliver you up, take no thought beforehand what ye shall speak, neither do ye premeditate: but whatsoever shall be given you in that hour, that speak ye: for it is not ye that speak, but the Holy Ghost.

  Mark, Chapter 13, verse 12

  May God deliver you safely through this time of trial, to the happier times that are surely promised us. I shall pray for you without ceasing.

  Your most loving friend and sister in Christ,

  Josephine’

  He checked that no-one was watching before lifting the paper to his face. It had the soft, jasmine scent that he associated so strongly with her physical presence in a room. It was almost like having her here, speaking these words of comfort to him. He kissed the paper, before folding it and placing it in the inside pocket of his jacket, next to his heart.

  He took his little Bible out of his pocket. The books Josephine had given him had shattered his faith in its literal truth, but he still clung to it as a talisman. Maybe there was more comfort to be drawn from the chapter that Josephine had copied her verse from. He turned to the thirteenth chapter of the Gospel according to Mark, and read the next verse.

  ‘Now the brother shall betray the brother to death, and the father the son: and children shall rise up against their parents, and shall cause them to be put to death.’

  He shut the book and put it away again. If that was the word of God it was saying things he didn’t want to hear.

  Allerdyce had never ceased to be impressed by the solemn pomp of the High Court of Justiciary. It had always struck him that the law showed a proper sense of the awfulness of the deliberate taking of a human life – whether by some poor murderous wretch or by the inexorable judgement of the Court – by ensuring that the events were conducted with such a grave theatricality. Every element – the procession of the mace-bearer, the call to all present to rise and be silent, the entry of Scotland’s most senior judge Lord Justice General Forbes of Moulin whose heavy white wig disguised any weakness or humanity he might possess, the solemn swearing-in of witnesses on the great black Bible – spoke of the dispassionate and relentless progress of Justice. Even the crowd in the public gallery – packed out in anticipation of a good day’s entertainment – were quieted by the dignity of proceedings.

  What was more difficult to bear, though, was the ability of this solemn assembly to reach cruel and perverse decisions, from which there was no prospect of appeal. He thought again of the boy who’d struck the father who’d beaten and buggered him, and who within a week had been kicking and choking at the end of a rope in the Lawnmarket.

  At least Arthur Bothwell-Scott didn’t have to fear the public humiliation of a hanging in the Lawnmarket. If he was found guilty he’d be hanged in the modern scientific way, with precise calculations of how long a rope was appropriate to his height and weight, in the privacy of the Calton Jail.

  Allerdyce had already given his own evidence as a witness for the prosecution. He’d kept it utterly straightforward, telling the court about the evidence that the victim had been shot in the photographic darkroom, about the message found in handwriting which the accused had admitted was similar to his own, and about the accused’s admission that he had gone, armed, to Rock House to confront the victim and that he had struck the victim and then run away. He’d refrained from any speculation about the events in th
e darkroom.

  Ronald Cullen QC, counsel for the prosecution, had probed further.

  “Am I to understand that certain cryptic messages were also associated with each of the previous deaths?”

  How did he know that, thought Allerdyce?

  “Yes.”

  “Would you be so good as to tell the court the content of the messages?”

  The judge interrupted.

  “Is this course of questioning strictly relevant, Mr Cullen? His Grace is on trial only over the matter of the death of George Bothwell-Scott QC.”

  “With your indulgence, my lord, I believe my question may elucidate evidence relevant to this case.”

  “Very well, then.”

  “Inspector Allerdyce? What was the content of the messages?”

  “The first was a telegram saying ‘Mine all mine: meet at the well at midnight’. It was delivered shortly before the death of William Bothwell-Scott and the discovery of his body in an ornamental well – formerly a mineshaft – at Dalcorn House. The second, a note assembled from newsprint, said ‘Relieved of command’. It was found at the scene of Brigadier Sir Frederick Bothwell-Scott’s death.”

  “And what was that scene of crime, Inspector?”

  “The Brigadier’s private lavatory.”

  A laugh went up from the public gallery, and Allerdyce noticed that even some of the jurors were smiling.

  “So, taken with the note to which we have already alluded – ‘An interesting development’ – would it be reasonable to assume that the same person committed all three murders?”

  “That would be a matter of pure speculation. I am unable to make any such assumption.”

  “Very well, Inspector, no further questions.”

  Arthur’s counsel had then competently set out the defence arguments that the accused, a man of good character and peaceful habits, and that the sole reason for his having carried a firearm was the advice of the police that, following the recent suspicious deaths of two of his brothers, he should take due precautions for his own safety. The defence had argued that the identification of Arthur’s handwriting was inconclusive, that the messages associated with the previous deaths were an irrelevant distraction, and it was not credible that, after the altercation which the accused had admitted, he would have been able to entice George Bothwell-Scott to enter the darkroom after him to be shot. Arthur was called as a witness in his own defence and set out the series of events which he’d described when Allerdyce had interviewed him.

  Allerdyce looked across at the jury. A couple of them were taking notes. One was scratching his chin. If they were asked to make up their minds now, thought Allerdyce, it could go either way.

  Cullen, though, looked undaunted as he rose to cross-examine Arthur.

  “Your Grace, Reverend, it pains me to have to ask you some difficult and intimate questions, but I must do so. How would you characterise your relations with the dowager Duchess of Dornoch.”

  Arthur’s face appeared to flush as he paused before answering.

  “I hold a respectful admiration for her.”

  “And would it be fair to say that she has come to rely on you for comfort and support in her widowhood?”

  “Yes. I pride myself that I have been of some assistance to her.”

  “Most gracious. Would it be fair to say, in fact, that you were intimate with the Duchess?”

  The judge intervened.

  “Mr Cullen, again you stretch my patience. I believe you are trying to make an irrelevant insinuation against His Grace.”

  “My apologies, my lord, if I have given that impression. I do believe that the state of relations between the accused and the Duchess is of some relevance, to the extent that we might expect a man whose relations were in some way intimate or passionate with the Duchess would be moved to extreme jealousy by the victim’s alleged misconduct towards her. However, I shall move on.

  “Your Grace, the death of your brothers has made you the inheritor of their entire wealth, has it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “A situation dramatically different from your modest living at the beginning of this year?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where were you on the night of the 29th of January?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “The night of your brother William’s death? Surely you are able to recall that?”

  “I remember now. I received a message that a parishioner was sick. I rushed out to visit them but when I reached the house there was no-one there.”

  “What time was this?”

  “I received the message as I was preparing to go to bed. Probably about 11pm.”

  “So no-one can testify to your whereabouts at the time of the first murder. And, Your Grace, would I be correct in supposing that you are similarly unable to provide a witness for your whereabouts on the might of Sir Frederick’s death?”

  “That’s enough, Mr Cullen,” said the judge. “I hope I don’t have to warn you again.”

  Allerdyce looked towards the jury. They appeared to be paying rapt attention. It was starting to feel as if Arthur was standing on thin ice – or perhaps on a thin trapdoor.

  Cullen continued.

  “Your Grace, should I say Reverend, let me ask you a simple question. Do you believe in the Bible as God’s perfect Word for man?”

  What’s he getting at, thought Allerdyce. Arthur shifted uneasily in the witness stand.

  “That’s quite a complicated…”

  Cullen interrupted him.

  “It’s a simple question. Yes or no?”

  “I don’t think…”

  “Yes or no?”

  “No.”

  The judge banged his gavel.

  “Mr Cullen, you are in serious danger of being held to be in contempt of this court for your persistence in troubling His Grace with irrelevant and inadmissible questions.”

  “With respect, my lord, it is a well established principle that the religious opinions of an ordained minister are the legitimate concern of the civil courts. My lord is no doubt well aware of the ruling of the judicial committee of the Privy Council on 20 March this very year in the matter of Bishop Colenso versus the Archbishop of Cape Town.”

  “Oh, very well then.”

  Cullen continued.

  “So, Your Grace, you do not believe the word of God in the book of Genesis that the world was created in six days?”

  “No.”

  “Nor that the world was deluged for its sins in the time of Noah?”

  “No.”

  “And I will not presume to ask what you think of the redeeming work of Our Lord lest your answer corrupt the simple believers here.”

  The judge sighed audibly but let Cullen go on.

  “Your Grace, let me express myself plainly. You have admitted to this court the heat of your admiration for the dowager Duchess. You have admitted to this court the very great advantages which have come to you as a result of your brothers’ deaths, both materially and in terms of your opportunity to build a relationship of intimacy with your eldest brother’s widow. You have admitted that nobody is able to account for your whereabouts on the nights of your elder brothers’ deaths. You have taken an oath on a Bible you profess not to believe in. Your Grace, if we cannot believe your oath what can we believe?”

  Arthur opened his mouth to speak.

  “But…”

  “No further questions, my Lord. The witness may stand down.”

  Allerdyce looked across at Cullen, who had turned, smilingly, to receive the congratulations of his junior counsel. There was a murmur from the public gallery, as if they were pronouncing their verdict. He looked across to the jury box where 15 men of varying intelligence and impressionability were conferring seriously among themselves. He looked at Arthur, now sitting pale and shaken in the dock.

  That’s it, thought Allerdyce. He’s going to hang.

  Chapter 33

  Everything seemed so terrible and unbelievable.

&nb
sp; Arthur had felt like a spectator as the foreman of the jury pronounced the single word ‘Guilty’ and the judge donned his black tricorn hat to pronounce the inevitable sentence ‘…and be taken from here to a place of lawful execution, where you shall be hanged by the neck until you be dead…’ It surely couldn’t be him that they meant? Was he just watching some bizarre theatrical enactment in his own mind? Surely the court couldn’t honestly believe that he was a murderer?

  Reality had started to engage as soon as the judge had uttered his final fatal words – ‘Take him down’. Instantly, the warders who’d been guarding him in the dock seized his arms and pushed him ahead of them down the dark, chill staircase that led to the cells in the vaults of the building.

  He’d waited there for hours as the light in the tiny barred window faded into night. At last he’d been taken out and thrust into the Black Maria. He’d breathed a mouthful of the damp, smoky air of Edinburgh in the few feet between the courthouse door and the wagon, thinking it might be his last ever chance to smell and breathe the outdoors.

  The crowd had gone and his short journey to the Calton Jail was undisturbed by anything other then the torment of his own thoughts. It’s pathetic, he thought, my life’s being taken away but it’s not even enough of an event to anyone else to keep them hanging around for a few hours to shout abuse at me.

  Now, he sat in a whitewashed cell in the east tower of the jail, the heavy serge of the prison clothes chafing the skin of his neck. The condemned cell, as the warder had said before locking the heavy iron door.

  Other prisoners had sat here before on this thin, stained mattress and carved messages into the wall, their scratchings peeling the whitewash away to reveal the damp blackness of the stone. ‘Barney Armstrong: remember me to Aggie’. ‘Joe Johnson, innocent, 17 January 1865’. ‘Hamish Macilwaine: My Trust Is In The Lord’.

  Arthur sat on the edge of the bed, unwilling to lie down on the stains which spoke more eloquently of previous inmates’ fears. His own bowels felt like jelly too, and he prayed that he might at least be able to keep his dignity if not his life.