by Greg Pyers
‘Sir,’ Walker said, ‘while I think we should hear Berliner, it should be remembered that we are very busy, and manpower is limited enough without reopening cases that have been lawfully concluded.’
‘And I agree with you, Walker. Though I think you’ll find that what Berliner has to say at least warrants our attention. What happens thereafter is not under consideration. Berliner …’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
Otto lifted his bag and placed it on the table. With the others standing at each of the other three sides, he took out the bundle and unrolled it, until the knife was revealed at the hems of the trousers, the position in which it had been originally put.
‘These items, gentlemen, I recovered in the bundle I have just unrolled, from an old shaft up by the Stuarts. They used this shaft, as did others of the neighbourhood, as their cess pit. You’ll note the staining on the clothing and the knife. While it might not appear to be blood, it is blood, as I would expect it to appear eight months after leaving the body. Doctor Doolittle has examined the knife, and confirmed that it could well be the murder weapon.’
‘And these items were thrown down this shaft?’ Nicolson said.
‘Yes, Sir. The bundle snagged on the side of the shaft before it could reach the bottom.’
‘Why the devil wasn’t this discovered before?’ Nicolson said. ‘It would have brought Rose’s trial forward by months, and silenced this clamour that the evidence was inadequate. Was the shaft even searched? Walker?’
Walker shrugged. ‘Sir, I can only say that our investigations led to the pipe being the most promising evidence for a conviction. As for the delay in bringing Rose to trial, I think it was proved unnecessary anyway.’
Telford backed his colleague. ‘He’s right, Sir. It was the pipe that sealed it for Rose. The trial could have started weeks before. Months even.’
‘Precisely,’ Walker said, with a nod to the wisdom of the sergeant.
This, Otto thought, was the feeblest of arguments. But his concern was not with debating two petty men who would argue that black was white if it meant they wouldn’t have to agree with him; it was with Nicolson’s assessment of the evidence. He went to this now.
‘Sir, we ought not assume that these items belong to David Rose. The possibility remains that they are not his, and while it does —’
‘Detective Berliner, you seem to be implying that David Rose’s guilt is brought into question by these items?’
‘There have been questions about this, in the community. I think there may be more, if such evidence is not examined before sentence is carried out next Monday. And who knows what other evidence lies undiscovered?’
Walker scoffed elaborately.
‘You’re saying Rose has been wrongfully convicted!’ He turned to Nicolson. ‘I take offence at that, Sir.’
Otto paid no regard to this. He kept his remarks directed at the colony’s most senior detective.
‘Whether I think Rose was wrongfully convicted or not, Sir, is not important. I simply say that the ownership of the items, and how they came to be where they were found, ought to be investigated, and, while they are, there should be a stay of execution. After all this time, what is the hurry to despatch Rose?’ To this question, Otto well knew that from Walker’s point of view, the answer was a thirty or forty pounds reward.
Nicolson weighed Otto’s words a moment, but Otto saw no sign that they were swaying him.
‘Detective Berliner, you may not be aware that for three days the Executive Council — and that includes none other than Chief Secretary McCulloch and Attorney-General Higinbotham — have sat with Governor Darling, and Judge Barry, might I add, to ascertain whether there is any foundation for objecting to the verdict. They found none, which is why Governor Darling signed the death warrant on Tuesday last. Yet you expect all their deliberations, and those of the court, to be suspended because you found some articles down a shaft?’
‘But these items were not —’
‘Berliner! Enough! The whole of the evidence was meticulously reviewed: the clothes, the pipe, the movements of Rose, the words he spoke to the victim. Everything! Every pain was taken to arrive at a just decision.’
Otto could sense the movement of Walker’s nodding head, and the glee within it at this dressing down.
Nicolson walked to the window. It seemed to Otto that the man was trying to convince himself as much as anyone. ‘These items you’ve brought us don’t alter anything. I daresay they probably only vindicate the verdict.’ He crossed to the table and pointed to the trousers. ‘Rose was seen wearing moleskins by several witnesses. And this shirt fits a description by several witnesses. And the size is right.’
‘So is the state of ’em,’ Walker said, with a smirk.
‘Rose did have a habit of discarding shirts,’ Telford added, lest he hadn’t made it clear that his position was with the other two. ‘The bastard has some standards then, eh Thomas?’
Nicolson ignored the levity; he was encouraged by the support, and seemed no longer agitated by Otto’s challenge. He pointed to the knife. ‘You say Doolittle confirmed this knife could have inflicted the wounds on the deceased?’
Otto nodded, but Nicolson pressed on.
‘We know Rose had a knife. So this is probably it. Walker?’
‘I’d say it was most likely, Sir, covered in blood like that, being found near the house —’
‘And what if it isn’t Rose’s?’ Otto knew, even before he’d said this, that no good would come of it.
‘Then it’s just a knife wrapped up in some clothes, and tossed down a shaft,’ Walker said, prompting Otto to consider how curious it was that no one had asked how the items were retrieved.
There was a pause in the discussion. Nicolson began to gather his things. Walker and Telford stood. But Otto wasn’t ready to end the discussion.
Hastily, he said, ‘I thought you might have asked me how I managed to retrieve these items, but then I suppose you must have assumed that I lowered myself down into that hideous pit by means of a rope —’
‘It’s a pity it didn’t break,’ Telford said, eliciting a chuckle from Walker. ‘I’m only jesting, Otto,’ Telford added with mock contrition. ‘That would have been no laughing matter.’
‘Thank you, Lawrence. Your concern is comforting. But, you see, there is a saying, I think, about truth in jest —’
‘Can we get to the point, please, Berliner,’ Nicolson said, loading a satchel. ‘I have ten minutes to be on the nine o’clock coach to Melbourne.’
‘Very well then, Sir. I was suspended in that shaft when the rope was cut.’
Looks were exchanged, and when the thinking behind them — Walker’s and Telford’s — was revealed, Otto could hardly have been surprised.
‘So you fell in?’ Walker said. ‘Into the shit?’
Telford was shaking his head, barely able to disguise his amusement. ‘Jesus Christ!’
Otto looked to Nicolson. ‘Well, Sir, of course you know what this means, surely?’
‘Yes, Berliner, it would seem you’re lucky to be alive.’
Otto’s exasperation was leaking from every pore. ‘Sir, someone doesn’t want me investigating. Surely that much is obvious!’
Nicolson was having none of Otto’s argument.
‘Berliner, I don’t want you investigating, but I won’t stop you, or you’ll be sure to be accusing me of a conspiracy. Though I must caution you, with these officers bearing witness, this investigation of yours has no official authority, and by its very nature only encourages speculation and disquiet in the community. The public must be confident in its police and judiciary. What you are doing casts doubt, and foments unease. The evidence presented established Rose’s guilt beyond all reasonable doubt. This knife, these clothes — your falling into the mire — change nothing.’
‘So why not prove
ownership then, at least for our own consciences?’
‘But my conscience is clear, Detective Berliner,’ Nicolson said.
Walker was quick to fall in behind his boss. ‘And mine.’
Telford stood and left the room, shaking his head.
OTTO HEADED TO THE London Portrait Gallery feeling disappointed, irritated, and outraged, though not surprised. This was the Daylesford police force, after all, fiercely incompetent and defiantly uncommitted. He knew there was no realistic prospect that police resources would be directed to follow up his investigation, much less that a stay of execution would be called. It was just that on finding Nicolson there — the Superintendent of Detectives, for heaven’s sake — he had entertained a small hope of eliciting a favourable response, if only because the superintendent might convey concerns about the case more easily to those who had the ear of the governor. But then, in Otto’s experience of the Victoria Police, rank was no indicator of ability or good judgement.
At least his conscience was clear; he’d simply had to inform the police of his discovery, and the circumstances of it. And now that he had, the burden of their inaction would be theirs. He was relieved that Nicolson hadn’t barred him from continuing his inquiries; just why the superintendent hadn’t was perhaps down to him being chary of provoking a man who might protest, take things to a higher authority, and embarrass him. It was a calculated risk, for Otto knew that if he were successful in saving Rose, the superintendent, and many others, would be wearing embarrassment aplenty, and what a day of triumph that would be!
But could he save Rose, in just three days?
Tom Chuck was sweeping the veranda boards when Otto arrived at the gallery.
‘Good news?’ he said.
‘In part. The police will not be interfering with my investigations; but, no, they will not be seeking a stay of execution.’
‘So what can we do?’
‘Find the owner of the knife.’
‘By Monday morning?’
‘If not sooner. How is the photograph?’
‘Very good, I must say. The detail is excellent.’
‘Of course! You are an artist. Show me.’
Tom led the way to his workroom. ‘And may I say, what a masterstroke of yours it was to ask me to take it.’
‘That is too generous; I knew the police would keep the evidence, so it was hardly —’
‘You also knew Nicolson would be unlikely to stand in the way of your investigations if he knows you don’t actually have the evidence.’
Otto hadn’t thought of this. ‘Quite right, Tom.’
They were at the table where the photograph lay. Otto bent forward to examine it closely.
‘You know, I think the black-and-white image shows details not readily apparent in the real article. Can this be the case?’
‘Indeed, Otto, it can. Colour can be a distraction, and the length of exposure can highlight certain features. Look at the grain in the hilt, and the chipped blade. I’d say it was dropped.’
Otto stood up. ‘Most important, I think, is that the knife is not of a common look, so there are likely very few about. Also, it looks to be quite new, and thus, we can surmise, purchased recently — which increases the odds that it was sold here in Daylesford.’
A broad smile formed across Tom’s face. ‘Henry!’ he called.
Footsteps rang on the floorboards, and presently the boy appeared in the doorway. On seeing Otto, he blushed.
‘Let’s show Detective Berliner what you found.’
Tom went to a drawer and took out a photograph. He brought it to the table.
‘I took this photograph almost a year ago,’ Tom explained. ‘It’s Kreckler’s, the tobacconist. That’s him there, with his assistant out the front of the shop. He wanted a portrait of his business.’
‘So why —?’
‘Isn’t it hanging proudly in Mr Kreckler’s shop? A good question. See that?’ Tom pointed to a ripple in the paper. ‘We had a little mishap, didn’t we, Henry?’
The boy hung his head, but his old man was kind. He tousled his son’s hair. ‘It’s all right now. We learned our lesson: no lemonade in the workroom! But now, my boy, show Detective Berliner your discovery.’
The boy set his embarrassment aside to explain, ‘I saw Pa’s photograph of the knife, and I remembered seeing this. Look there.’ Tom pointed to the Kreckler image, near where the illicit lemonade had done its work. Otto took the magnifying glass offered by Tom and craned forward to examine the image. And there, among the smoking paraphernalia on display in the window, was a knife.
‘My God!’ Otto said. ‘It’s the same! Perhaps not the very same, but the same make. It’s unmistakeable, no doubt about it: the hilt, the blade, the insignia …’ He stood back and put a hand on Henry’s shoulder. ‘You are indeed a detective, young man.’ He turned to Tom. ‘I shall go at once to Kreckler’s, and see if he can recall selling such a knife.’
Otto noticed Tom’s bewilderment. ‘You have something on your mind?’
‘Forgive my ignorance of police work, but we both agree that David Rose is not guilty?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘But we haven’t mentioned any other suspect. I was wondering whether we should have, by now? So that our investigation might be more focussed in a certain direction.’
On hearing this, Otto felt, of all things, a stab of irritation. Clearly, Tom saw himself as a partner, but in Otto’s eyes he wasn’t a partner; he was an assistant. There was a difference, and Otto knew he should have taken more care to delineate their respective roles. Now, he knew he had to be delicate lest he insult his friend or hurt his feelings, or, worse, lose his trust.
‘Tom, if this case has proved anything, it is that in gathering evidence, one should not be biased in that endeavour by a premature settling on any particular suspect. David Rose was suspected, and evidence was then gathered and manipulated to vindicate that suspicion. Now, in our investigation we will not make the same mistake. We are gathering evidence and pursuing legitimate and logical lines of inquiry, uncompromised and unprejudiced by preconceptions.’
Tom nodded, though Otto saw that he wasn’t entirely convinced by the verbosity.
‘When the time is right, I promise, we will have our suspects. Then we shall discuss how we proceed from there.’
Tom didn’t appear satisfied, and Otto was not a little peeved that he had the temerity to question him.
‘But what about Joe Latham?’
‘Latham does present as the most likely. But then, he always has, since even before Rose was arrested.’
‘But if he’s in Adelaide, he couldn’t have cut the rope. I’m very confused, Otto. I just want to feel some progress is being made.’
‘Actually, Tom, he’s not in Adelaide. His wife misled me. He was at the shaft this morning.’
Tom made a look that could only mean that he felt snubbed. Otto hastened to reassure him.
‘Tom, don’t be impatient. Impatience is the enemy. We collect evidence, and we build a picture. It may seem blurred, a confusion of contradictions, and then suddenly it’s all in focus, it all makes sense. I expect it’s a little like taking a photograph.’ He smiled. ‘We’ll talk tonight. Now, I should be on my way to Kreckler’s. I’ll have to take this.’ He held up the photograph of the knife.
Tom nodded.
Otto slapped his friend on the upper arm. He waved the photograph. ‘Never before did a detective have such an assistant!’
HAROLD KRECKLER’S TOBACCONIST STORE was near the top of Vincent Street. The front window, of which the owner was so proud, afforded passers-by a view into an Aladdin’s cave of smoking accessories and apparatus. Dozens of pipes, from cheap clay varieties for the workingman to deluxe cherrywoods for the discerning gentleman, were displayed in rows on wooden shelves. There were also shaving accoutrements �
� from hand mirrors to strops, razors to shaving brushes — filling still more shelf space. And here and there, in the gaps, were tobacco pouches, combs, brushes … and knives. Otto scanned the few on display, but there was none of the kind he’d found down the shaft. He stepped to the door and entered this crowded little world.
‘Good afternoon, Sir.’
Otto peered through the dim interior to see that the wiry man with the round spectacles he’d spied in the damaged photograph had just greeted him from behind the counter. Otto approached, and a hand shot to the man’s mouth.
‘Are you Otto Berliner?’ he said, with a remnant of a Westphalian accent. ‘The detective?’
‘I am.’
‘I remember your face. But I’d heard you were back in Daylesford, asking questions about the Stuart murder. You know, I was on the jury at the inquest. A terrible business.’
Otto had only the faintest recollection of Kreckler from his time in Daylesford, which now surprised him, given the man’s loquacity.
‘Anyway, Detective, how can I help you?’ Kreckler tilted his head, clasped his hands together, and stretched his mouth into a solicitous grin.
‘First, by looking at this photograph. Have you sold such a knife?’
Kreckler took the image, and was immediately nodding in recognition.
‘I did sell several of these. None left, I’m afraid.’ Suddenly, a change in mood came over Kreckler like a cloud passing across the sun. His smile fell, and his eyes widened. ‘Oh! Is this the knife that cut that poor woman’s throat — Oh mein Gott! I sat through all that testimony, and all along it was the knife I sold —’
‘Mr Kreckler, please. You are leaping to conclusions. Just calm yourself, and answer my questions.’
Kreckler nodded. ‘Yes, of course. I apologise. Anyway, I can tell you now that David Rose was never in this shop. So if it was this knife, he didn’t get it from here. And, you know, that pipe of his wasn’t from here either.’
‘Mr Kreckler, please, just answer my questions. Do you recall selling such a knife to anyone in particular sometime during last year, or even the year before?’