“If you must,” he said.
With some degree of apathy, the constable returned to the witness box.
“Constable, you subsequently discovered that Mr Loffler and the prisoner had met before the events of that evening had taken place?” I said.
“Yes, I believe that Mr Loffler is a German painter, and visitor to the Royal College. I understand that the prisoner was tasked by the Dean to attend to Mr Loffler during his visit.”
“That is so. Now, the prisoner, at the very first opportunity, told you that he had been instructed to retrieve Mr Loffler’s box from a restaurant in Saint Katherine’s Way and return it to the college. He told you that he received this instruction from a tall, thin man in a black coat. Tell me, what efforts did you make to find this tall, thin man in black?”
The Dock Constable appeared as if he had been struck, his head slipped back on his shoulders and his mouth popped open. His appearance was not unlike one of Mr Roderick’s stupefied salmon.
“Well, er … none, sir.”
“None?” I said, with an inflated air of incredulity.
“It was plainly a lie, sir. Mr Loffler told me that he had given no such instruction to any man. According to Mr Loffler’s account, the man in black did not exist.”
“And you believed him?” I said, inviting a common response from constables of the law.
“He gave me his word as a gentleman,” was the reply. The precise answer that I had intended to solicit.
“Constable, come now, under English Law gentlemen are treated no differently from any other man. Waif, stray, baron and beggar are equal under the eyes of this jury, bound as they are to uphold the common law of England,” I said, with a dramatic flourish.
I could see the twelve men of the jury positively beaming with the weighty responsibility of equality. It is a shame that they needed reminding of it at all, even through the prism of patriotism. Judge Campbell stifled a groan and gave me a most foul look. He knew I was attempting to wrestle the jury from his control, and he didn’t care for it.
“So, Constable Robinson, you carried out no investigation to verify the prisoner’s contemporaneous and consistent explanation?”
The good peeler shied a little, and said, “No. I did not. I had no cause to doubt Mr Loffler’s word at that time.”
“At that time. A most excellent choice of words. Constable, if you were, at this time, to begin to doubt the word of Mr Loffler, you admit that the case against the prisoner must fail?”
“That is a matter for the jury,” said Judge Campbell.
“Of course, my apologies, Your Honour. Constable Robinson, your evidence was that when you met Mr Loffler and the prisoner in Saint Katherine’s Way, Mr Loffler did not at first seek your professional assistance?”
“I’m not sure I understand the question, Mr Dickens,” said the witness.
“Ah, well let me put it this way – according to Mr Loffler, the prisoner had attempted to steal his property in a devious, calculated and premeditated manner. Forgery is a serious offence is it not?”
“Indeed it is,” conceded the witness.
“And yet, Mr Loffler, a gentleman as you say, did not insist on your arresting this vile criminal?”
“No, he appeared satisfied that the box had been recovered.”
“And when you arrested Mr Ruthnick, and took him to the station, did you or your colleagues have need to press Mr Loffler for a formal complaint against the prisoner?”
He cleared his throat and said, “Now that you mention it, sir, Your Honour, my fellow officer did have to encourage Mr Loffler to make a written statement of complaint.”
I chanced a quick look at the complainant. He shifted in his seat, and pulled at his collar. It is possible that I may have been mistaken, but at that time I formed the distinct impression that Mr Loffler was considering whether to make a charge for the door.
My moment’s pause had given the judge an opportunity to grasp for the jury’s mind once more.
“Gentlemen of the jury, giving evidence can be a daunting prospect. It is natural for one to have qualms before one commits to becoming a prosecution witness. May I remind you, gentlemen, Mr Loffler is not the person on trial here,” said the judge.
“Your Honour, this case rests on the credibility of the complainant. He is not on trial, but I am at liberty to test the strength of his evidence,” I said.
“Why of course, Mr Dickens, but see that it goes no further than that,” said Judge Campbell.
I returned my labours to the Dock Constable in the witness box.
“You were present at the Police Court?” I said.
“Indeed I was present.”
“Mr Loffler’s statement of complaint at that hearing estimated the value of this box and its contents at approximately ten pounds.”
“Correct,” said Constable Robinson, with a knowing smile.
The box, preserved as a police exhibit, had been produced at Police Court and had also found its way on to the prosecution table at this hearing. I had been at Police Court when this case had been mentioned and I recalled the sheer audacity of the complainant’s inflated valuation for what appeared to me to be no more than a battered, dented and stained pine box. My suspicion at that time was that the complainant would shortly make a monetary claim for this egregious overvaluation from Lloyd’s of London, and pocket a healthy profit from the damage to his property, which he would no doubt claim had occurred during his struggle with the prisoner.
My theory, sound at that time, was to be proved quite wrong.
“Constable, the box in question is in court?”
Instead of answering, he pointed to the miserable item, around the same size and shape as a suitcase, which sat upon the prosecution’s desk.
The jury were not impressed with the valuation, their faces registering their doubt.
“Thank you, Constable, nothing further.”
It had taken the prosecutor, Mr Roderick, a short break and a good deal of persuasion to convince Mr Loffler to give evidence. I heard as much in the weeks following the case. However he managed it, Mr Roderick called Mr Hugo Loffler to the witness box and led him through his evidence in a brief and comprehensive manner.
Mr Loffler confirmed that he had been invited to lecture at the Royal College as a guest of the Dean. He had not long been in London, a mere month or two, and wanted to partake of the sights. The Dean had suggested that Mr Ruthnick should be the visitor’s guide, and so for two days the prisoner had carried Mr Loffler’s box as they traversed the great city.
On the afternoon of the sixteenth of January, Mr Loffler had asked to see Saint Katherine’s Docks, and sample the beer from the local brewery. Apparently, he did not care for English ale and had heard that the beer from this brewery was akin to that of his Germanic homeland.
“When did the prisoner make his interest in your box known?” asked the prosecutor.
“When we left the tavern briefly, to walk out upon the dock to watch the police,” said Mr Loffler, in a soft German accent.
“You mentioned the police, what were the police doing?”
“They were searching the vessels. Perhaps twenty constables. I had observed their arrival from the tavern window, and I wished to see their operations first-hand. The following day, I learned the constables were searching for the notes stolen from the Wisbech and Lincolnshire Bank.”
The robbery had been front-page news for weeks. A gang of armed villains had broken into the bank during the late hours of Christmas Eve and made off with many hundreds of five-pound notes. The Metropolitan Police had yet to make an arrest and suspected that a criminal network was attempting to smuggle the notes abroad.
Mr Loffler continued. “I suggested to the prisoner that as there were few people in the tavern, my box would be safe remaining at our table whilst we went outside. At that moment, the prisoner said that he would carry the box outside with us, as he was fearful of thieves.”
“And did you take the box wit
h you when you ventured to the dock?”
“No. I had been sketching in the tavern. I took my paper and charcoal with me. I fancied that I might want to sketch the scene. My box remained at the table, under the watch of the innkeeper.”
“And after you and the prisoner had viewed the police operation, what happened next?”
“I informed the prisoner that I cared to quarter in the area. We returned to the inn where the prisoner carried my box to the hotel of Mr Triebel. I told the prisoner that I should take a walk on my own, and that his services were not required for the remainder of that day.”
“I see, and did you venture out that day?” asked the prosecutor.
“Correct. I dined first then left the hotel for an evening stroll. When I returned after a few hours, the hotel manager informed me that I had just missed my companion, Mr Ruthnick, who had taken delivery of my box in accordance with my instruction. I explained that I had given no instruction and enquired in what direction the villain had departed. I then gave chase.”
“You chased after the prisoner?”
“Correct, Mr Triebel informed me that the prisoner had left only a few minutes before my arrival. I knew that he could not move swiftly with my box and I caught up with him quickly. I apprehended the thief with my property in his possession.”
All was silent in the room, save for the soft rustling of paper as Mr Roderick produced the alleged forged letter and handed it to his witness.
“Mr Loffler, is this your handwriting, or your signature?”
“No, it is not.”
“Thank you, nothing further, Your Honour.”
Even as I rose, pulling my robes about me and ensuring that my wig had not slipped to a jaunty angle, I could see Mr Loffler’s complexion transform into pale water. His fingernails still carried the remains of dark paint and would not keep still. Each digit beat an anxious, erratic rhythm on the mahogany rail surrounding the witness box.
“Mr Loffler, it was Constable Robinson’s evidence that when he apprehended the prisoner you were somewhat reluctant to make a formal complaint. Is that a fair assessment?”
“No, no, no, my good fellow. I wish to see evildoers punished, of course, that is my duty as a citizen.”
“So the constable is lying?”
“He is merely mistaken,” he said.
“When you discovered the prisoner had made off with your box from your hotel, under false pretences, you did not ask Mr Triebel to alert a constable, is that correct?”
The anxious percussion of Mr Loffler’s fingertips began beating to a higher tempo.
“I … I did not wish to inconvenience my host.”
The jury were transfixed by Mr Loffler’s curious worriment. Even Judge Campbell’s ample visage had taken interest in the complainant’s palpable distress.
I took it upon myself to test his resolve and identify the source of this solicitude. So I turned, quite slowly, and set my eyes upon the box. It was clearly an artist’s portable easel. Once opened at the hinge, it would allow one to sit with the box on one’s knees, have ready access to paint and materials and a secure, properly angled canvas from which to work. Such items were neither expensive nor uncommon. The dents, scrapes and paint stains on this box were evidence of its heavy use and history of travel.
“Your box, Mr Loffler, seems to be in a rather sorry state, does it not?”
At the word “box” the complainant’s eyes widened. “It has been in my possession for some time.”
“It is hardly worth ten pounds?” I said.
“Your Honour, I object to my friend’s question,” said Mr Roderick. “The value of this item does not address the matter of its illegal procurement by the prisoner.”
“My question, Your Honour, may prove relevant should the jury find against my client. The value of the property is something Your Honour will no doubt bear in mind in relation to the issue of penalty.”
“I’ll allow the question,” said the judge, who no doubt had begun to question the hefty valuation placed upon the item by Mr Loffler.
“It was a mere guess, Your Honour. If Mr Dickens is of the view that my box is worth less than this amount, so be it.”
A pair of fat eyebrows shot beneath Judge Campbell’s wig in astonishment.
“You conceded to my view very quickly, Mr Loffler. Perhaps I do you a disservice. Whilst the box itself may be estimated at a lesser amount, the contents could be worth considerably more, could they not?”
“No! Forgive me, I … I merely … Mr Dickens, the box is of little value,” pleaded the complainant.
“I would like to view the contents of this exhibit, Your Honour. This witness has reneged on his earlier evidence, and the court cannot be convinced of his credibility on this issue. The court should observe the full contents of this exhibit.”
A cry from the witness box was quickly silenced by the judge, who called forth Mr Roderick, box in hand, so that a judicial eye could pass over the disputed exhibit.
As the judge opened the box, the witness hung his head.
I watched the judge remove pots of paint, charcoal, paper, canvas and a host of brushes as he searched. I suspected he would discover beneath the artistic paraphernalia, at least one large five-pound note from the Wisbech and Lincolnshire Bank. I was sure of it. I did not believe Mr Loffler’s visit to the docks, and his keen curiosity regarding the police search were in the least coincidental. This man was a courier for the bank robbers.
The judge threw up his hands, almost as if something within the complainant’s box were lethal, and may strike at him at any moment.
I could tell, by the white dot of foam at the corner of his lips, that Judge Campbell was not best pleased with his discovery. He produced the offending item from the box and held it aloft.
A piece of paper. White.
But not a five-pound note.
Instead, he held a single page.
He flung it from the bench with all his might and it careened through the air to land on my bench. I saw then what had so enraged the unlearned judge. And I recalled the evidence of Mr Loffler.
Whist the prisoner and Mr Loffler had sampled the pseudo-Germanic beer in the Docks tavern, Mr Loffler had taken up his charcoal and drawn a sketch of the clientele. In the foreground was a serving girl bent over a table to retrieve a half-empty plate. And while Mr Loffler had sketched her serving frock, he had taken care to ensure that the frock was transparent. And his heavy scrawls left little to the imagination concerning the shapely form that inhabited the dress.
“Filth! Depravity!” screamed Judge Campbell. “Never have I seen such levels of debauched indecency represented on the page. Mr Loffler, you are no artist. You are a base pornographer. Your work, and the devilish tools you employ to manufacture these indecent images, are entirely worthless in this court. Case dismissed. The prisoner is free to leave the court. And Mr Loffler, you are very lucky not to find yourself in irons. The audacity!”
“All … all rise,” said the clerk, stifling a chuckle as the judge gained his feet and departed.
The relief set upon Mr Ruthnick’s face proved a perfect carnival reflection of the complainant’s expression, which was pure, red shame.
I gathered my papers and glanced again at the sketch. It seemed to me, although erotic to the point of criminal indecency, not unskilled work. The table that the serving girl leant over had been perfectly drawn and delicately shaded. The patrons surrounding her had been well captured – indeed the fellow beside her who sat at the table was very well drawn indeed. He would’ve been a tall man, considering the length of his legs. And certainly an individual not ruled by his appetite, judging by his thin arms, legs and the half-full plate of food that was being taken away. His face was perhaps not too well realised. A high forehead, angular features, but one side of his face appeared in strange shadow. When I examined the remainder of the sketch, one could clearly delineate the angle of light that the artist had controlled, but the darkness on one side of this man’s fa
ce was incongruous to the angle of daylight from the window. I surmised that it was not shadow, but perhaps a birthmark or an injury carried home from a military campaign.
I passed the sketch back to the constable, but not before I saw Mr Ruthnick point at the sketch as he descended from the dock. According to Mr Ruthnick, the tall, thin man in charcoal bore a striking resemblance to the fellow that had given to him the note and the instruction to retrieve the box.
I heard little more from Mr Ruthnick, post acquittal. He had returned to his studies, as he’d hoped, and went on to become a minor watercolour artist.
From memory, it was May when Mr Deery approached me in the Library. In fact, at the very desk I sit at now.
He gave me a letter, marked for my attention. And left without another word.
I still have that letter. Although its contents I can recite easily.
Dear Mr Dickens,
Congratulations on your triumph. I wish to apologise for not being entirely forthcoming with you during my initial correspondence. I do so now upon your word that this letter be destroyed as soon as it is read and that you maintain your silence.
I have heard from my contacts that Mr Ruthnick is prospering, and is engaged to be married. This is good news.
In relation to Mr Loffler, he was not prosecuted, even though I understand the judge pressed the prosecutor to do so. No, Mr Loffler had had quite enough of London, and required the funds to sail back to the continent sooner than he had envisaged. I acquired the sketch for a small stipend.
Although it is customary in these situations not to thank one who has performed a service for one’s country, I make an exception in this case. Even though Mr Loffler was quite embarrassed to have his erotic visions, which he himself realised in charcoal, so publicly revealed – he has also unwittingly served his British hosts well. The tall, thin gentleman in the sketch was at one time believed to be dead. Resurrection is not so uncommon these days. He had taken up a position at that table in order to survey the full disarray of the police investigation, first hand. He must have realised that Mr Loffler recorded his image, and sought to retrieve it. He could not do so by force, that day, because he did not wish to draw attention to himself. Suffice to say, the sketch of this man is extremely valuable to a number of international police agencies. Already, it has proved useful in detecting his cohorts who so brazenly robbed the Wisbech and Lincolnshire Bank.
The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty Page 19