by Greg Pyers
Maria hesitated.
‘Maria?’
‘John Pitman.’
‘John Pitman saw you arrive?’
Maria nodded.
‘Time?’
‘Time. I don’t know. It must have been soon after nine o’clock.’
‘And you went to bed?’
‘Yes.’
Otto scribbled in his notebook.
‘Then why did Mr Pitman tell the court that you and Mrs Pitman arrived home just after eleven?’
Maria’s face was blank. She shrugged.
‘Where’s Mr Pitman this evening, Maria?’
‘In Melbourne. He told me he’d be coming back tomorrow.’
A knocking set the door wobbling in its flimsy frame, and a woman’s voice barked. ‘Maria!’
‘I’ll be there in a moment, Mrs Pitman.’
‘It’s all right, Maria. I’ll be going now,’ Otto said. He handed Maria three shillings. ‘This ought to cover your time. Thank you, I’ll see myself out.’
30
SUNDAY AUGUST 20th
THE EVE OF THE DAY OF EXECUTION
‘YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE to be in this condition, David.’ Archdeacon Crawford gestured at the irons clamped to Rose’s ankles, and at the chains that linked them and clinked with his every movement. ‘But you do know you gave the governor no choice; all that screaming and cursing, burning your clothes and such.’
Rose looked up. He was sitting on his thin mattress, in convict garb, his back to the wall. ‘What do I care for a murderer and his rules?’
Crawford lowered himself and sat on the floorboards, his back against the wall, his legs drawn up —
The flap fell open, and a face appeared. The bolt squealed, and the door was swung in. Crawford was quickly to his feet.
Into the cell, stooping to avoid the lintel, stepped Governor McEwen and Sheriff Colles.
Rose drew his knees up to his chest, his chains rattling like coins in a sack.
‘Excuse us, Mr Crawford,’ McEwen said. He addressed Rose.
‘Prisoner Rose, I’m here to warn you that should there be a continuation of your violent conduct this evening — stamping about, cursing and the like — I will have to put you in handcuffs. Do you understand?’
Rose eyed his gaolers with a fierce look, and then in a transformation of his features, burst into convulsive laughter. The visitors watched, bemused, and waited for it to abate. Rose stood, and his ferocity was back. He stepped forward.
‘I understand all right,’ he spat, glaring at McEwen and Colles in turn, ‘that you are my murderers. Do you understand that?’ He looked at McEwen, and held out his wrists to him. ‘Cuff me. I don’t give a fuck!’
OTTO HAD SLEPT SATURDAY night on the floor at the London Portrait Gallery. He’d wanted to apprise Tom of all that had transpired that evening, of the inferences and deductions he’d made, of the uncertainties that remained. He’d wanted to discuss what was yet to be done on this last day, the day before David Rose’s scheduled execution. He awoke early, after a fitful night; for the first time in the three-and-a-half days since he’d arrived in Daylesford, he was feeling a sense of urgency, of dread that all his efforts would come to naught. Before today, there’d always been tomorrow; now, tomorrow would be too late.
‘Maria Molesworth and John Pitman have something more than an employer-employee association, I’m sure of it,’ Otto said over boiled eggs and black coffee. He consulted his notebook: ‘“He told me he’d be back tomorrow,”’ she said. That sounds intimate to me, something a wife or a lover might say.’ He knew he might be reading too much into Maria’s words, but the exigency of the situation called for him to trust his instincts, because never in his detective career had time mattered so much, and never had the consequences of failure been so grave. Besides, self-doubt was territory generally unfamiliar to Otto.
Tom was silent; he’d learned that when Otto was on a train of thought, he should be allowed to ride it uninterrupted to its destination.
‘Maria went home early from the theatre, and said John Pitman would attest to that. So why did he tell the court that the women returned at eleven?’
‘Because he had something to hide?’
‘Precisely — an affair. Which would seem to have nothing to do with Maggie Stuart’s murder, except that it was committed within an hour and a half of Maria leaving the theatre.’ Otto stood. ‘We know the knife was Pitman’s, but what possible motivation would either of those two have to use it on that poor young woman?’
Tom was to his feet. ‘Surely John Pitman is the killer? Surely now, we know this?’
Otto thought to observe that only yesterday Tom had been just as certain of Latham’s guilt.
‘If a pipe can hang an innocent man, Tom, a knife could do the same. Just because the knife is Pitman’s —’ Tom was nodding that he understood, and grimacing to show his frustration.
‘Nothing is sure, Tom, not yet. But we do know at least that the murder weapon was John Pitman’s, and we can assume that Maria Molesworth would not have been strong enough to hold down Maggie Stuart with one hand and cut her throat with the other.’
‘Not on her own.’
Otto nodded. ‘There is that possibility, yes. Let’s just see how this string unravels. But Tom, we’ll have our killer, I’m sure of it!’
He pulled the photo of the knife from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘You know, I should have asked you to make a photograph of the clothes. Scheisser!’
Otto was so caught up in this annoyance at himself that he didn’t wonder why Tom now dashed from the room. He was back suddenly, and beaming like a naughty child who has been very, very good.
‘There,’ he said, placing on the table a photograph of the bloody garments. ‘Will this help?’
Otto’s mouth fell open, and his eyes sparkled. ‘Tom, you are — well, words fail me!’
‘I did wonder why you didn’t ask me.’
Otto took the paper in his hands. ‘I wonder myself, now that I have it. I thought the knife would be enough. They are unremarkable clothes, after all; anyone could be wearing these.’ He gazed at the image and shook his head. ‘Tom, you remind me that a good detective must always keep up with new methods!’
Tom smiled. A compliment from Otto was a rare delight, and what was more, he had never before felt so confident that Margaret Stuart’s killer would be found and that David Rose would have justice.
VINCENT STREET EARLY ON Sunday morning was the scavenging ground of crows and stray dogs. That humans frequented the streets was evident only in the footprints and wheel ruts pressed into the winter mud. Soon, as beaks and maws cleared away Saturday’s scraps, even the animals would abandon the town centre. But people would reappear at ten o’clock, when tolling church bells summoned them to services. As the Pitmans were sure to be among one congregation or another, Otto would delay his visit to their premises until midday. He understood that with time so tight, such forbearance would seem to some an unaffordable luxury; but Otto knew that where time was concerned, tight and ample were not mutually exclusive. It seemed that the unexpected photograph, the nourishing breakfast, and the sharp morning air had cohered to bring about this optimistic perspective. He could even see how the day would unfold to its satisfactory conclusion; it would begin now with a visit to the police station.
Otto found Sergeant Telford in the mounting yard, polishing a saddle slung over a railing. The big man looked up as Otto arrived, applied more oil to his rag, and continued. Otto stood by silently; he knew better than to submit to a petty power play. He also knew Telford couldn’t hold out, and in less than half a minute the sergeant stood and spoke.
‘This about the Stuart murder?’
‘It is.’
‘I’ve something to show you. Follow me.’
Telford seemed tense, which Otto found hard to fathom. He would
have thought that news unpalatable to Telford had to be welcome news for David Rose.
Inside the station house, Telford handed Otto a sheet of paper on which was written, ‘Schedule of Reward Payments’.
Otto looked down a list of names, alongside each of which was an amount presumably adjudged to be commensurate with each recipient’s contribution to the apprehension of David Rose. He saw his own name, with ‘£5’ written alongside it, and felt revulsion, which Telford misread.
‘Not enough, Berliner, eh? I never thought I’d say it, but I’m on your side. I mean, you were the one who pointed the search in the right direction, after all. And look at the thanks I get: three lousy quid! Jesus Christ! It’s bloody criminal, that’s what it is. Brady gets thirty-five, Walker thirty. Fuck! Even those scoundrels Hathaway and Wolf get ten apiece.’
Otto handed back the sheet without comment. In this mood, Telford had to be handled carefully. He waited for the jealous pique to abate, and then spoke.
‘I’m not here about the reward money, Sergeant. I don’t want any part of it; I’m sickened that police should profit from the execution of an innocent man.’
This brought a smirk to Telford’s face.
‘Jesus, Berliner. You’re a mad fucking detective, you are.’
Otto smiled limply, a response too subtle for the sergeant, and proceeded with the business he had come to transact. But then he saw a constable by the door.
‘Your name?’
‘Constable Dawson.’
‘Stay there, Constable Dawson. I want you to witness what I am about to tell the sergeant here. Understood?’
‘Sir.’
Otto turned to Telford.
‘Later today, I will be arresting the murderer of Margaret Stuart, and the prisoner will be detained here until the arraignment.’
Telford was a picture of open-mouthed incredulity.
Otto pressed on.
‘What you are to do today, Sergeant Telford, is to alert Superintendent Nicolson or Commissioner Standish, and, I suggest, the governor at Castlemaine Gaol. There is to be a stay of execution.’
Inadequate rewards had suddenly fallen by the wayside in Telford’s head, which was now shaking in disbelief and, Otto suspected, contempt.
‘Are you serious, Berliner, or really just fucking mad?’
‘My advice to you, Sergeant, is to do as I say.’
‘But it’s too late, Otto! The trial, the guilty verdict, the death warrant from the bloody governor, the reward allocation … all there is left is the noose, and that’s tomorrow!’
‘Which is why you will act today, or have the death of an innocent man on your head.’
Otto sensed in Telford the slightest wavering. It was a good time to leave.
‘Just do your duty, Sergeant.’
OTTO’S STOMACH WAS SUDDENLY in his gullet. Joyce Pitman had just told him and Tom that her husband was in Melbourne, and that he wouldn’t be returning until the one o’clock coach, Monday morning.
‘There are no coaches on Sunday, Mr Berliner,’ Mrs Pitman said, wiping a bench top with a rag. ‘I thought you would have known that, being a detective.’
Otto knew he should have known that; it was careless of him. Coming back on Sunday was not the same as being back on Sunday. He gave Maria a reproving glance, at which she flinched. She knew the urgency, all right.
Mrs Pitman straightened, her face flushed from the effort. ‘But perhaps I can help you,’ she said. ‘This establishment is as much mine as my husband’s, though he might not tell you that!’ She laughed in a kind of squawk that had Otto thinking that the fewer times she was amused, the better.
‘Very well, Mrs Pitman. It is a grave matter, the murder of Maggie Stuart —’
Mrs Pitman’s hand was suddenly up, her face souring. ‘Look, Mr Berliner, I’ll not pretend any longer. I do know what you’re here for. Do you think working in a place like this, I don’t get to hear things? All your asking questions around town? I’ll tell you one thing, and you won’t like me sayin’, but you deserved to be dumped in that hole, stirring up things for poor Mrs Latham. I never had no time for Joe, but after what he did to you, I could kiss the man. And Maria here told me all about the knife, so I know why you want to speak with my husband.’ She moved to another bench and began to wipe.
Otto pulled out a chair and settled into it. Calmly, he said, ‘Mrs Pitman, I’ve made no allegations against your husband. I just want to ask him, and you and Maria, some questions. You have nothing to fear if you have nothing to hide, I assure you.’ He motioned to Tom for the photographs. He placed the first face up on the table for Mrs Pitman, if she would take the trouble.
‘This knife, I found in the shaft, wrapped up in these clothes.’ He placed the second photograph on the table. ‘The knife and the clothes were bloodstained. Maria tells me you bought the knife for your husband.’
Mrs Pitman had finished wiping. She made a desultory study of the pictures.
‘There must be hundreds of such knives, but yes, I did buy one like that as a birthday gift. But, you see, my husband was at home the night poor Maggie …’ she pulled out a chair and slumped into it, her face in her hands.
‘I can verify that,’ Maria said. ‘I already have. I told you, I had a terrible headache —’
‘Yes, I know,’ Otto said, ‘both you and Mr Pitman were here while Mrs Pitman was out. What I don’t understand is why Mr Pitman lied in court — why he said you, Maria, returned home at eleven.’
Otto noticed Mrs Pitman’s silence, and the furrowed look that revealed a mind busy either with confusion or calculation. It was Maria who took up the challenge.
‘I think, Mr Berliner, that is a question for Mr Pitman. So perhaps you can come back tomorrow?’
‘By which time it will all be too late anyway, because the murderer will be dead,’ Mrs Pitman said. ‘And I’ve never seen my husband in these clothes,’ she added, stabbing the image with a blackened and chipped fingernail. ‘So, you two can piss off, or I’m going to call the police down here and make a complaint.’
Otto exchanged a look with Tom. They were agreed; they were washed-up here, and their investigation seemed to be lying in tatters.
SERGEANT TELFORD, DETECTIVE WALKER, and Constable Brady invited themselves into Otto’s room at the Albert Hotel. There was threat in their number and swagger, and, at eight o’clock on a Sunday evening, in their timing. Otto had just returned from Chuck’s, where the disappointment of the day had been put behind them with a discussion of strategy for the morrow. They would be at Pitman’s early in the morning, and an arrest would be made — of that, Otto was convinced. But for now, he had this tableau of folded-arm menace before him, and if he didn’t take care, there would be no tomorrow for his investigation.
‘We’ve had a complaint,’ Walker said.
‘Just the one?’
‘Don’t be clever, Berliner. Pitman’s ol’ lady says you’ve been making accusations about her husband.’
‘I’ve made no accusations. I simply asked her some questions about the knife and the clothes — which you have — and importantly, why her husband lied in court. Did you know he lied in court?’
‘Only yesterday, you were cautioned by Superintendent Nicolson not to go upsetting the public, undermining the court —’
‘I think Berliner’s in contempt of court, actually, Detective Walker.’
‘I think you might be right, Sergeant Telford.’
‘So, are you going to arrest me?’ Otto said. ‘Is that why you’re here?’
Walker and Telford exchanged a smirk. Brady stood by, wanting to join in, but too uncertain of his place. Otto fancied the young man was intimidated.
‘No, Otto, the sooner you’re out of town the better,’ Walker said. ‘Can you imagine, Lawrence, having Otto Berliner in the lock-up? Having to listen to his shit …’<
br />
‘Having to empty his shit,’ Brady ventured, and was rewarded by his colleagues with a snigger.
Walker let the smile slide from his face. He stepped forward so that he was toe to toe with his rival.
‘Tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, David fucking Rose will be dead, and you, Detective Berliner, will be where you can do no harm, on the Melbourne coach halfway to Malmsbury. Brady here will be with you, to make sure you get away all right.’ He donned his hat, and turned to Telford. ‘We done?’
Telford nodded and led Brady out.
‘Only three pounds reward for you, Lawrence, don’t forget.’ Otto called, to no response.
Walker was at the door.
‘So, the coach leaves at nine tomorrow morning, Otto. You be sure to be on it.’
31
MONDAY AUGUST 21st
THE DAY OF EXECUTION
DAVID ROSE AWOKE AT seven to a breakfast of sausages, fried eggs, and bread, and a mug of tea, brought by the turnkey who had kept watch over him overnight.
He also brought a bible, from which he began to read. With a grimace and a flourish of his fork, Rose bade him stop.
‘Not now.’
The turnkey closed the book.
‘So,’ Rose said, ‘this be the last morning I got to see.’ He chewed as he stared thoughtfully into the candle flame. Suddenly, he turned to the gaoler. ‘Mind now, you keep well away from women. It’s what’s brought me here.’
AT 7.00 A.M., WITH the dim glow of the rising sun at the back of Wombat Hill, Otto Berliner was striding down the hill through cold and thickening mist to the London Portrait Gallery. Despite the damp atmosphere and the urgency of his mission, there was a bounce in his step, for he had a plan that would catch a killer. It satisfied Otto that, for all their menaces, the three policemen had not caused the minutest waver in his resolve, and he would certainly not be departing on the nine o’clock coach. At the gallery, Tom was waiting outside, as had been arranged the day before.
‘What if Pitman wasn’t on the coach from Melbourne last night?’ Tom said.
‘But he was on the coach, Tom. I even know it arrived five minutes late.’ He brandished a scrap of paper. ‘A little note from the driver was awaiting me at breakfast.’