“When you return to England,” he says, “there will be money waiting for you. A sum to more than compensate you for your assistance. You will not hear from me again.”
“You think yourself cured?”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. But it is better to cut one’s ties than become dependent, don’t you think?”
But there is something else, too. Something unsaid.
I stand and offer my hand.
He smiles and accepts the gesture. “Do not mistake this for friendship,” he says.
I leave without another word.
The following morning, I am preparing for my departure when I come across a commotion in the lobby of my hotel. I stop one of the stewards and say, “What is happening?”
“You are English?”
“British. Yes.”
“Then …” He hesitates for a moment. “You have not heard?”
“Heard what?”
“The detective. The great detective. Sherlock Holmes. He is dead.”
I gather the story through rumour and report. Make sense of what I can. But what I know is this: the great detective confronted his nemesis, and together they plunged into the waters at the Reichenbach Falls.
I send a telegram to my wife: “I am delayed by a few days, but I will be home.” I say no more than this. In the space of a telegram, it is impossible to convey my feelings about the death of the Professor whose name, I have learned at long last, was Moriarty.
That afternoon, I return to my room. It is my last night before I board the first of several trains that will take me home.
There is a knock at the door as I open my case and prepare to fold my clothes. When I answer, I see my friend from the train. He says, “When I heard there was an Alienist here, I hoped it would be you.” He extends his hand. “My name is Doctor John Watson. I believe that you may be able to offer some assistance to those overcome by traumatic events.” He talks with the restrained air of one desperate to keep a lid on some strong emotion.
I merely nod at his greeting. And feel strangely responsible for his current state of mind.
He says, “My friend, the one who was with me on the train—”
“Mr Sherlock Holmes?”
“Yes.”
“By all accounts, one of the finest minds the world has ever known.”
“And a dear friend.”
I invite him to take a seat beneath the windowsill. He does so. I find some water and pass it to him. He sips. The room is silent. From somewhere outside comes the sound of birds, chirruping almost joyously as though unaware of the clouds that myself and Watson can see.
“You, too, seem touched by sorrow.”
I smile, but it feels unconvincing. “My patient,” I say. “He also died yesterday.”
“I am sorry. I suppose in the excitement over a figure such as Holmes, the deaths of others whose names are not known to the public may appear to be lessened.”
I say nothing. I lean against the writing desk.
“How did he die? Your patient?”
“Obsession,” I say. “There is no other thing to say. I feel as though there was something I missed. But he was so guarded. In the end, I fear that the obsession he could not admit to was what led to his demise.”
“Holmes was much the same. Obsessive. The exclusion of all else. In that way, your patient and my friend, I suppose they were alike.”
I allow Watson to talk. The more he talks about Holmes, the more the great detective becomes the Professor in my mind, both men mirror images. As the Professor had remarked, himself.
The immovable object and the unstoppable force.
There are tears on my cheeks. My eyes burn gently.
I wipe the tears away with a subtle gesture. Wonder at their cause, briefly.
Watson, in his own grief, does not notice.
The Box
Steve Cavanagh
This document, a personal memoir of Sir H. F. Dickens K.C., is heretofore sealed before me, and deposited in the archives of the Inner Temple, London, this Fourteenth Day of April 1916. I shall not break the seal, or suffer others to break it, until at least one hundred years have passed from the date hereof.
Sworn on this date, by Thomas Clay, Keeper of Manuscripts, The Inner Temple Library, in the City and environs of Westminster.
If you are reading this poor account, which is drafted in the full knowledge of its total inferiority in every material respect, in comparison to the work of my father, the late Charles Dickens, you should bear in mind that in all likelihood I am quite assuredly dead and literary criticism is the very least of my concerns. As I sit in my study of late, my career and middle age firmly behind me, I have been increasingly possessed of the notion to record my part in the most ordinary, and yet extraordinary, legal case of my career. By now you may have deduced that my name is Henry Fielding Dickens, King’s Counsel and Common Serjeant, retired, and that whilst a practising counsel I was well known for my involvement in a brace of sensational murder trials conducted in that most august theatre, the Old Bailey.
The case I refer to is not one of murder, or treason, or any remotely sensational crime. Instead, the minor criminal act in this case could hardly have been more pedestrian in its nature or execution. It concerned a box. And I have for nearly forty years kept my silence about me with regard to the true nature of this offence. For if it were not for the intervention of fate, I shudder to behold the blight it may have left upon the very foundations of the British Empire.
I can hold my pen still no longer.
On the twenty-ninth of January in the year 1894, I stood before the prisoner, in his cell at the Old Bailey. His appearance was that of a despicable, young wight. Only a fortnight before had I met him, at Police Court; his trousers pressed, and a clean handkerchief in his breast pocket. A bright chain, which had once led to a gold watch, flirted about his stomach from the pocket of his waistcoat. Hardly a gentleman. Even then, his moustaches were matted with dirt, his shoes encrusted with mud and his shirt a stained casualty of his labours and circumstance.
“My name is Mr Dickens,” I said.
The prisoner, at that time, lay down on the wet, black floor of his cell and said, “I have no coin for a brief. My apologies, sir, for I cannot pay you.”
I regarded him as one would regard a rather foolish, but otherwise good-natured child.
“Mr Ruthnick, you need not concern yourself with the trivialities of payment. My brief fee, and that of my instructing solicitor, have been paid in full by your Italian benefactor,” I said.
Whatever remained of his shoe leather shuffled and slicked across the slime coating the stone floor as he rose, staggered, and gathered his body beneath his skitting feet. A countenance of bemused delight appeared behind his dirt-ridden moustaches.
“Sir? A benefactor?”
“Come, come. Don’t tell me your wits have deserted you completely. Sir Kenneth Horatio Rochesmolles, of Turin, lately returned from his properties in Piedmont, discovered your arrest and charge and immediately instructed my friend Mr Deery, of Deery, Nook and Bond, Solicitors, to have your downfall professionally attended.”
My gallows humour failed to find favour with the prisoner.
“Downfall? You mean you cannot help me?”
“Forgive me, Mr Ruthnick. My attempts to lighten even the darkest of predicaments serves as an endless source of embarrassment for Mrs Dickens. No, I shall not oversee your downfall. I rather fancy that I can see a way to your emancipation.”
A flush of crimson fought to emerge through the layers of grime that besmirched his youthful cheek.
“I remember your appearance at the Police Court, and Mr Deery recalled my remarking upon your case at the time and sought out my services.”
“Dear heavens, thank you, sir. Thank you … and my thanks to Sir Kenneth and to God Almighty,” he said, in a tone of welcome surprise.
“Mr Ruthnick, God, his ways and mysteries, have yet to penetrate the Central Criminal Cour
t. However, between Mr Deery and myself, we may be able to conjure a miracle. Let’s hope for your sake that we can. You understand the charges that you face?”
“Not entirely, sir.”
“I suspected as much. You are studying fine art at the Royal College?”
“I am, sir, and it is my fervent dream to return to my studies, if I am permitted. And, if that be the case, I shall explain to the Dean that I no longer wish to attend upon our esteemed visitors.”
“Ah, now we come to the rub of it. It was your accompaniment of a visitor to the college that led to your incarceration, was it not?”
“Indeed, sir. And it may be the ruin of me.”
The poor fellow sank to his knees, as if the very memory of those recent events were a great weight in his mind. Or perhaps his conscience? I recalled my meeting with Mr Deery, following my perusal of the brief in this case, and my recommending to him that he return the retainer to Sir Kenneth, as the defence of Mr Ruthnick was a lost cause.
“Mr Dickens, may I say that I arrived at an identical conclusion. That is, until I reread our letter of instruction from Sir Kenneth, and his particular, and rather unusual suggestion with regard to the defence of the prisoner.”
And with that, Mr Deery, who always seemed to have the relevant document within ready distance of his counsel’s nose, produced the letter from one of his many paper-filled pockets and handed it to me. It was made in a strong, male hand. The correspondence identified the author as Sir Kenneth, born of English and Italian descent. He confirmed that he felt a great affinity with the arts and made several large donations to the college annually. The Dean had made him aware of young Mr Ruthnick’s plight, and he enclosed a cheque, drawn from his account in the Bank of England in the sum of £50 for the defence of Mr Ruthnick. The final paragraph was most curious.
“You may find, Mr Deery, that having taken instructions from Albert Ruthnick you are none the wiser as to a possible defence. The complainant, Mr Loffler, is known to me. Or at least his character is known to me. You may find that his prosecutorial energy will dissipate at once, if your counsel were to enquire as to the true nature and value of the items at the heart of this matter.”
“What do you make of it, Mr Dickens?” said Mr Deery.
“I think it dangerous, Mr Deery, for any counsel to ask a question in open court if he does not already know the answer. However, it has the singular effect of making an otherwise dreary case most interesting. We shall see, Mr Deery. We shall see …”
Court number three at the Old Bailey had almost exhausted its list. The presiding judge, his Honour, Judge Campbell, had at four o’clock sent a man of twenty-three years of age to Pentonville Prison, where he was to serve five years and submit to punishments under the Garrotters Act. Under this particular legislative provision the young man would receive up to fifty lashes in the presence of the press to aid his rehabilitation. His crime was the burglary of a ham from a private dwelling house. Judge Campbell filled his pipe whilst the convict was brought to the cells kicking and screaming.
“Now, case number twenty-six, the matter of Albert Ruthnick, may I have your appearances, gentlemen?” said the judge.
“If it please, Your Honour, I appear for the prosecution,” said Mr Roderick – a rather tall and cold brother at the Bar, who often smelled vaguely of fish. It was his wont, following his securing a sentence of death, for Mr Roderick to ply his fishing rod to the Thames in the vain hope of securing a reluctant salmon for his table. Mr Roderick stood with a straight back, his head tilted towards the judge, who in turn sat on an elevated bench far above the ordinary misdealings of his fellow Londoners. Beside the judge a single candle fluttered a devilish glow upon his features, framed by his dull, full-length judicial wig. If one had not been familiar with the judge, one could be forgiven for regarding him as a rather jovial soul. His plump cheek, wide smile and clear blue eyes were a perfect mask with which to conceal his delight in inflicting cruelty on those prisoners who were unfortunate enough to appear before him.
“Your Honour, I appear for the prisoner,” I said and, as I stood to announce my appearance, I caught the familiar odour of the Bailey: sweat, excrement and ink. Once that smell is in your nostrils, it is difficult to pass from one’s memory. The prisoner, Mr Ruthnick, appeared in the dock to my right – his whole body aquiver as he regarded the jury for the first time. The jury were seated to my left; twelve men of property whom, according to the clerk’s recollection, had yet to acquit a single prisoner that day. It is my unfortunate view that Judge Campbell’s court often seated hard juries. Or more accurately, Judge Campbell had a way of leading the jury along his particularly harsh path.
Mr Deery sat behind me, ready to take a careful note of the evidence.
The clerk of the court stood and addressed the prisoner.
“Albert Ruthnick, you have pleaded ‘not guilty’ to the charges on the indictment, namely that you, on the sixteenth day of January this year of our Lord 1894, did commit Forgery in the construction and use of a letter, and that you did utter such untruths in pursuit of said forgery and attempted to procure property to which you had no lawful claim. Are you ready for your trial?”
Gripped in a paroxysm of fear, it was all that Mr Ruthnick could do to look in my direction. I nodded.
“I … I am,” he said.
“Forgery and utterances,” growled the judge, and made his disapproval apparent to the jury with the wobble of his jowls as his great head shook in contempt for the prisoner.
“Call your witnesses, Mr Roderick,” he said.
At this prompt, a man of perhaps forty years of age, wearing a tweed suit, stood up in the public stalls at the rear of the court and made his way through those bloodthirsty members of the public who regularly attended the Bailey for their entertainment. Of course, not all of those gathered in the stalls were there for blood. A good deal of them attended simply for the warmth of the hearth and temporary respite from the snow.
The man in tweed made his way towards the witness box as Mr Roderick announced, “I call the Dock Constable, John Robinson.”
At this announcement, the man in tweed arrested his trajectory, took a few paces backwards and sat in the front row of the stalls. In his place, a large man in police uniform stepped forward. I rather guessed the eager gentleman in tweed was Mr Hugo Loffler, the complainant, whose haste to resolve the formality of the prisoner’s conviction struck me as rather more than the usual nerves of the stomach that afflict those who appear in court.
The Dock Constable took his oath, stated his name as John Robinson and bowed to the judge.
“Constable Robinson, you were on duty at Saint Katherine’s Docks on the night of the sixteenth?” asked Mr Roderick.
“That is true.”
“And, in relation to the matter before the court, what did you observe?”
“I had completed my rounds, and was making my way to the station house when I heard two men arguing on Saint Katherine’s Way. As I approached them, I saw the complainant, Mr Loffler, and the prisoner in conversation.”
“What was the nature of the conversation?” said the prosecutor.
“They were exchanging high words, Your Honour. I could tell by their pitch and manner that violence was imminent.”
“Were you able to discern the nature of their dispute?” asked Mr Roderick.
“Indeed. At the time, the complainant, Mr Loffler, held a wooden box in his arms. I heard him say, ‘You tried to steal my box.’ At these words, I intervened, announced my station and presence and enquired if Mr Loffler required assistance?”
“And what was his reply?”
“He accused the prisoner of attempting to procure his box with a forged letter, but that was of no matter as the box had been recovered.”
“And did the prisoner answer this charge?” asked Mr Roderick.
“He said that he had been handed the letter by a tall, thin man in a black coat, on the steps of the Royal College. He was unable to name th
is mysterious gentleman. Nor could he describe his face. He stated that the fellow’s features were in shadow. However, he assured me that the man in the black coat knew of Mr Loffler, and that this man gave the prisoner a letter written by Mr Loffler, which authorised the prisoner to attend at the restaurant of Mr Triebel in Saint Katherine’s Way, collect Mr Loffler’s box and return it to the college.”
“Did the complainant confirm the accuracy of this account?” said Mr Roderick.
“Indeed he did not, Your Honour. Mr Loffler said that he had never written any such instruction and accused the prisoner of forging the letter in order to obtain his property under false pretences.”
A generous grumble erupted from the judge. It was well timed and several of the gentlemen of the jury nodded and answered the judge with disapproving grumbles of their own.
“What was your response, Constable?” asked the prosecutor.
“I ascertained the names and addresses of both men, and informed the prisoner that he was to accompany me to the station. I asked Mr Loffler to join me there, where he was to make a complaint.”
“And were you able to obtain the forged letter?”
“I was indeed, sir. The prisoner had it on him, said he would need the letter if he were seen walking through the streets, box in hand, by a constable, and might have need of it to lend legitimacy to his endeavours. I have the letter here, shall I read it to you?”
“Please do.”
“I am busy with my work presently. Please give my box to the bearer of this note, who shall ensure its safe return to me. Hugo Loffler.”
“Thank you, Constable,” said the prosecutor, taking his seat.
As the constable removed himself from the witness box, I heard murmurs from the jury as they spoke in unfriendly tones and pointed at the prisoner. Mr Ruthnick’s future appeared quite bleak at this moment.
“Call your next wit—” said the judge, before I interrupted.
“My apologies, Your Honour, I would like to ask a few questions,” I said.
A well-practised look of judicial astonishment appeared on Judge Campbell’s generously proportioned face.
The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty Page 18