by Bob Biderman
Then looking into Z’s eyes, she told him that she had seen that man again today. She saw him, she said, sitting on the bench, with drooping jowls and eyes that spoke of languid reveries. It was the man Virginia had said was her uncle and who Maggie had recognised once more in the courtroom, overseeing a trial where he would eventually pronounce sentence on some poor unfortunate soul, perhaps dispatching him, with the full authority of her Majesty, the Queen, to a place where dreams no longer matter.
Back in the courthouse, Z thought of giving this information that Maggie had passed on to Hayward’s law clerk, Myers. But he was nowhere to be found and, Z thought, what end would it serve? Whatever Maggie felt the moral implications might be, there was nothing illegal the judge had done; nothing that would impact on the trial as no one was accusing him of being drugged while on the bench.
Still, it did cause Z to look at the judge differently as he watched him ascend to his director’s perch overlooking the courtroom playhouse, his belly full of blood rare meat, his lips still showing traces of spicy mustard, his crimson robe invisibly stained (Z imagined) with splatters of ruby wine – so well fed, well boozed and well pampered he was ready to get this shabby affair done. And yet what sweet, seductive memories rushed through the judge’s brain, relics of his commune with the angels? Or was it not that way at all? What else had been unlocked inside that aging head, nodding with torpor caused from such overabundance that only the fattest mandarins could ever imagine? Could it have been the fear that somewhere, sometime this whole charade would pass and, like Shelley’s Ozymandias, nothing would remain except the lone and level sands onto which the ruins of Empire have crumbled? Could it have been the terror that on those sands one day he would stand naked? What stark and dreadful thoughts went on inside that addled cranium? And in his mind Z imagined some future Macbeth holding it aloft, that skull now bleached bare to the bone, and sighing, ‘Alas, poor judge, I knew him well…’
These thoughts and images, however, quickly passed into oblivion as the sound of the judge’s gavel resonated sharply through the chamber bringing all and sundry to their senses with its emphatic thud, enforcing the dictate, by dramatic exclamation, that the court was now in session and this space, however small, was once again under the control of Her Majesty, the Queen, in her guise as head of state and ruler of the law.
CHAPTER 15
THE YOUNG LAD who took the stand had that gawky look of boyhood in the process of change but still in the chrysalis stage so that the metamorphosis hadn’t yet completely taken place. He was, according to his mother, only fourteen years of age though he, himself, had added two years to this figure in order to make himself employable. And, indeed, who was to quibble? He was willing and able and needed to work and so Katz had hired him to do the little tasks that boys are best at doing – running here and there on errands, sweeping up and generally making themselves useful without the need for life enhancing skills or (more importantly) a wage that was even semi-liveable. And, yes, it was there at Katz’s he had met the prisoner, Lipski, who, it seemed, had taken a liking to the lad – perhaps seeing in him the boy he never was allowed to be himself. But whether or not that was true, Z thought, was entirely irrelevant – though not entirely to him. What was relevant, to the court, was that Lipski had asked this lad – Pitman was his name – to come work for him and help with the tasks that were needed in creating a workspace in the Batty Street attic.
Looking back at his notes, Z recalled that Pitman was said by Rosenbloom to have been in the attic room that morning of the murder. He had gone out for his breakfast but then had returned and had remained with him until they heard the shouts from below after the discovery of the brutalised body of Miriam Angel lying lifeless on her bed. But how long had Rosenbloom been left upstairs alone? When he had been called as a witness, Rosenbloom could only estimate the time for he hadn’t access to a clock – or so he said.
The prosecution lost no time, however, in having Pitman confirm his statement: What time did he arrive at number sixteen? Eight o’clock. Was that his regular time for coming? Yes, it was. Did he go upstairs to the attic? Yes. Was the prisoner there when he arrived? No. Then who was there? Rosenbloom. Had he ever seen Rosenbloom before that morning? No, he hadn’t. How long had he remained with Rosenbloom before he left? About an hour. So he arrived about eight o’clock and stayed there till somewhere about nine? Yes. And during that time did the prisoner come into the room? Yes. What did he say? He said that he had gone to buy a vice but the shop was shut. Was there anything more that he remembered? Yes, that in a little while after that he went out again saying that he was going to have another try at buying the vice. And then did he go out? Yes. And what time was that? About five minutes past nine. And after Lipski had gone did a strange man come into the room? Yes…
Z watched as Schmuss was summoned into the room, escorted by a court attendant. He stood there, his large bulky figure, thick and heavy, trying to force an impression of studied nonchalance but projecting a sense of malice just by his very size.
Pitman was asked to identify Schmuss as the man who had come up to the Batty Street attic. Did this man speak to Rosenbloom? Yes. They spoke together for a while? Yes. In a language he understood? No. So how long did Schmuss remain? About five minutes. And then what became of him? He went out. So you went out after him? No, before him…
Z looked over at the notes the man from the Times had taken to see if he had heard correctly. But he needn’t have bothered for the prosecutor, himself, noticed the discrepancy and reminded the lad, who had begun to look quite nervous, that he had just said Schmuss had remained in the attic about five minutes and then had gone out but that Pitman, himself, had left before him. Was that correct? Yes. So he had left Schmuss there behind him? Yes.
Then how could Pitman possibly have known how long Schmuss had stayed, Z wondered?
Once again the prosecutor asked Pitman to confirm his statement. Did he actually go downstairs, leaving Rosenbloom and Schmuss upstairs together? Yes. And then he went home for breakfast? Yes. And how far was his house from Batty Street? About a quarter of a mile. And he saw his mother when he returned home? Yes. And he had his breakfast? Yes. And he came straight back to Batty Street? Well, no…
No? No. Actually he stopped to play in the street for a while. He was only a boy, after all. He was only fourteen. So how long did he play in the street? Oh, about a quarter of an hour. And then he went back to Batty Street? Yes. And when he went back, did he go up to the workshop? Yes. And who was there at that time? Simon Rosenbloom. Anyone else? No. And how long did he stay there with Rosenbloom? About an hour. And then what happened? Was there anything to call his attention downstairs? Yes, in about half an hour Lipski came in…
Again the prosecutor stopped and stared at the boy. He clearly had expected Pitman to have said something about hearing a shout or some other disturbance indicating the discovery of Miriam Angel’s body. He asked the boy to confirm that’s what he meant – that a half hour after he got there the prisoner came in. Pitman, doggedly, stuck to his story.
So Lipski came up to the attic room about a half hour after Pitman returned from having his breakfast. What time was that? Z went back to his notes. Pitman left around nine. He walked back home, about a quarter mile, had his breakfast, walked back but stopped to play for around a quarter of an hour. Therefore he must have been away about an hour in total. That would have made it ten o’clock when he returned to Batty Street. Ten at the earliest, Z suspected. The boy then said he saw Lipski come up to the attic about a half hour later – 10:30 according to Z’s calculations.
What did Lipski say when he came back up to the attic? What did he do? According to Pitman, Lipski said nothing and did nothing. He just stood in the room. He stayed for about five minutes and then he left.
But what about the stranger? It was the chance for the defence to cross-examine the witness and McIntyre wanted to know about Schmuss, the m
ystery man. Did Rosenbloom know him? Pitman thought perhaps he did. Why? Because of the way they spoke to each other.
The Judge, however, wasn’t going to let that remark pass unquestioned. Did Rosenbloom actually tell Pitman that he knew the man Schmuss? From the boy’s expression, Z thought the Judge’s annoyance must have been interpreted by him as anger. He answered nervously, but firmly. No, Rosenbloom hadn’t said that.
But McIntyre had Pitman’s statement written down before him. Hadn’t Rosenbloom said, ‘I know that man; I have been in his company before’?
Pitman confirmed that was correct.
This annoyed the Judge even more. Didn’t the boy just tell the court that Rosenbloom didn’t say he knew the man? Flustered, Pittman admitted that he had forgotten his words.
So did he remember that Rosenbloom told him he knew the man Schmuss? Yes, yes, yes…
And did he tell him that in English?
It was all too much for the boy, who now began to cry. But even through his tears he still managed to confirm that yes, Rosenbloom had told him that in English.
McIntyre was hardly moved by the boy’s sniffles. This was his moment and he wasn’t about to let it be undone by mere emotions. So looking down at his document again, he asked the boy to confirm that Rosenbloom hadn’t told him once, but twice, that he had known Schmuss before. And he asked him to again confirm that he had said those words in English. And that Rosenbloom had also told him Lipski had gone to buy another vice and he had said those words in English as well. This the boy did. And satisfied he had exposed Rosenbloom as a liar on at least three counts, McIntyre sat down.
Poland, however, wasn’t about to let the boy off so lightly. He rose from his seat, unfolding his angular body, uncoiling himself like a cobra that sensed its prey was within striking distance. And when he focused his fearsome gaze on the lad, now quite shaken from all that happened before, Z could almost see the shiver traversing the boy’s spinal cord, down through his legs to his twitching toes.
So Rosenbloom had told him that the prisoner was going to buy a vice, did he? Yes. And he spoke in English? Yes. What sort of English? Half his own language and half English. Could the boy understand him always? Not always. And when the boy said that he thought Rosenbloom knew the man Schmuss it was because they spoke the same language? Yes, that was right. And then when Rosenbloom told him, ‘I know that man because I have been in his company before where he used to work,’ did he say that all in English or part in the foreign language? Half in English and half in his own language.
Now the judge stepped in again. Could the boy tell him exactly which part he said in English and which part he said in his own language? The part he said in English was, ‘He had been in his own company before.’ And how about, ‘I know that man?’ What language did he say that in? The boy thought a moment and then offered that half was said in English and half in his own tongue. But the judge reminded him that he had said half of all Rosenbloom had said was in his own language. Yes, the boy agreed, that was correct. So did he mean that Rosenbloom talked like a foreigner or a man who did not know much English. And the boy confirmed that Rosenbloom did not know much English and only told him what he could understand but that he could make out what he meant.
Poland, following on from the judge (who may or may not have been helpful to him, Z thought), asked Pitman whether he could make out all of what Rosenbloom had meant. And the boy stated that he could. But how about the part in the foreign language? He couldn’t make that out, he supposed. No, the boy agreed, he couldn’t. So he was quite clear that they knew each other when they spoke a foreign language? Yes, he was.
Poland allowed a trace of smile to cross his arid lips. Then, nodding at the jurors, he sat down.
What had the jurors made of all that, Z wondered? Poland had twisted the boy’s words so that, in the end, the confusion had been compounded to a point of nonsense. Poland, of course, was trying to get the jury to see the boy as a child whose words were not reliable. But the fact was that Pitman gave the strong impression Rosenbloom and Schmuss had known each other previously and had been left in the attic room alone together while he went off to get his breakfast.
CHAPTER 16
THAT EVENING, BACK in his room, Z looked over his notes of the testimony from the various witnesses that had been called to give evidence that day.
After the boy, Pitman, came a man named Schmidt whose small shop on Backchurch Lane sold hardware goods of various descriptions mainly suited for the small artisan workshops that abounded in the area. Schmidt, himself, had been a stickmaker for seventeen years before evolving up the ladder from sweat-shop worker to sweat-shop merchant. According to Schmidt’s testimony, his shop also served as a makeshift hiring hall where odd-job men would come in hopes of finding a day’s employment. In fact Lipski had gone there that Monday before the murder not only to see about purchasing another vice but also to find a man to do the filing of the metal tips after they had been hammered into place on the bottom of the walking sticks which were to be produced in his workshop the very next day.
Lipski, Schmidt said, had come that Monday afternoon to ask for a man who could work as a filer. At the time, there were four men at the shop, hanging around, waiting for an offer of a day’s work. Schmidt said that Lipski could choose which one he wanted. Lipski then had gone outside with the four and had spoken with them so Schmidt hadn’t heard what he had told them. And then Lipski left and Schmidt hadn’t seen him again until Tuesday, the morning of the murder, when Lipski came by to offer him some money for a vice – too little, however, for Schmidt to release such a precious bit of his inventory to the young, inexperienced sweater.
But that small piece of equipment, Z thought, was vital to Lipski’s operation. Certainly Schmidt must have realised that. And furthermore, Lipski was starting a business that would have meant more trade for him. So when Lipski had made him an offer for the vice, couldn’t a deal have somehow been struck? Couldn’t Schmidt have released the vice with the proviso that Lipski could pay him the balance later? Unless, of course, Schmidt felt that Lipski was bound to fail. In which case, it would have been money down the drain for him. For he could always sell a vice to some new greener who had big ideas and a few more shillings in his pocket. But to recoup a bad investment – that was another matter.
Z looked down at his notes again. There were four men Lipski spoke with outside Schmidt’s shop that afternoon. One was Schmuss. Another was a man called Barsook. The third was named Robinski and the fourth Schmidt didn’t identify. Schmidt had testified that three of the men had worked for him but Barsook didn’t – he was just with the others. Did Schmidt get a percentage of their wages for connecting them with work? And, if so, was it in Schmidt’s interest to protect his men’s reputation least his own good name be stained as a result?
The shopkeeper testified that he saw Schmuss once more on the Tuesday of the murder at about noon. By that time news had already swept the neighbourhood about Miriam Angel’s murder. But curiously Schmuss hadn’t heard about it even though throngs of people had been drawn to Batty Street and the crowd was still swelling as Schmuss made his way to Backchurch Lane. At least that’s what Schmidt testified. And yet, apart from that, there was no evidence of unusual movements or strangeness on Schmuss’s part. Nothing to indicate he had just helped to commit a vile murder – or two if the acid forced down Lipski’s throat hadn’t been pumped from his stomach that terrible day. In fact, according to the shopkeeper, Schmuss continued to come to his shop on a regular basis until he left for Birmingham that following Sunday.
But then there was that curious revelation McIntyre had brought out in his cross-examination. The four men who were at Schmidt’s shop all had a trade – they all had an expertise. McIntyre had suggested to Schmidt that as he seemed to know these men, perhaps he knew their business. And Schmidt agreed. He did. All four men had a similar craft. It seems they were locksmiths �
�� they knew all about locks, how to make them and how to fix them. But there were too many locksmiths in London so they were reduced to doing odd jobs for people like him.
And then Isaac Schmuss had been called to the stand and he had given evidence that he had recently come from Elisabethan Graff, near Odessa, that he was a locksmith by trade but now worked as a slipper maker in Birmingham after having left London a few weeks before.
Z studied his notes. Schmuss had testified that he had gone regularly to Schmidt’s hardware shop in Backchurch Lane in hope of finding employment. There he met with three other Russian Jews: Barsook, Robinski and the third was Totakoski. He said that Lipski had spoken with him that day – the Monday before the murder – and had asked him if he thought he could file sticks for him. Schmuss had never done that kind of job before but he said he would be happy to try as he was so desperate for work. Then Lipski had asked him to come along with him and they had walked to Batty Street, which wasn’t far, so Lipski could show him the door of number 16.
The next day Schmuss had come as arranged. The door to number 16 was open and he walked in. The time then was about a quarter past eight. Lipski had met him in the passage and sent him upstairs, asking him to wait there while he went out on an errand. Schmuss then went up to the attic where Rosenbloom and Pitman were already working. He spoke with Rosenbloom briefly in Yiddish, remained there for ten or fifteen minutes and then left, a minute or two after Pitman. At least that’s what Schmuss said to the court.
Why did he leave? Schmuss testified he left to eat his breakfast. But he never returned. Why was that? He needed work and there was clearly nothing else on offer – not that Schmuss said, anyway. When he was cross-examined by McIntyre he explained that he didn’t feel he had a great chance of work there, so he left. But Rosenbloom had remained. And Lipski had told him that there would be work. Why then did he decide there wasn’t work to be had? Clearly the workshop was being set up. Rosenbloom was already working on some sticks. Pitman was also busy. So how had Schmuss come to the determination that it wasn’t worth his while to stay? Was it something Rosenbloom had said? Or was it something else?