The Silk Train Murder (The Klondike Era Mysteries)

by Sharon Rowse

  “Now, we all heard Constable Myers testify that the defendant was carrying a baseball bat on the night in question. And you have just testified that the victim was bludgeoned to death. You did conclude it was the blow to the head that killed Mr. Jackson, and not the gunshot wound, did you not?”

  “That is correct,” the doctor replied.

  “Then let me ask about the nature of the wound itself. For instance, how big would it have been?”

  “How big?”

  “Yes.” Josiah Randall picked up the baseball bat from the table to the right of the witness stand where it had been resting and handed it to the doctor. “Could this have been the weapon, for instance?”

  “Of course it could. I already said so earlier, didn’t I?”

  “That’s right, you did. Then the wound was consistent with a blow from the wider part of the baseball bat?”

  Dr. Barwill looked at the baseball bat and slowly shook his head. “Well, no, it wasn’t that wide.”

  “Ah, I see. Then it was consistent with a blow from the narrower end.” And here Randall held up the bat so the jury could see the grip of the bat, with the larger rounded end.

  Dr. Barwill turned even redder. “Well, no, the wound was even in width. That end of the bat has a knob on it.”

  “Could you clarify that last statement for the jury, please? What do you mean by saying the wound was even in width? Do you mean that both ends of the wound were the same circumference?”

  “Yes. I suppose that is what I meant.”

  “You suppose? Doctor, we need you to be sure. Were the ends the same, or were they not?”

  “Yes, that is what I meant.”

  The jury was murmuring amongst themselves. Randall had just demolished that largest part of the prosecution’s case.

  Turning away from the witness stand, Randall looked around the courtroom, his gaze falling on Granville’s still-battered face. He walked over to where he sat, accompanied by a low excited buzz rising from the spectators. “Mr. Granville, if I might borrow your cane for a few moments?”

  “Certainly,” said Granville, handing over the polished black walking cane he had purchased for exactly this purpose the previous day. His injuries might just turn out to be useful.

  “Thank you, sir,” Randall said and strode back to the witness stand. “Now, Dr. Barwill, is this object the right size and shape to have left the wound you observed in the victim?”

  “I don’t know,” stated Dr. Barwill, probably seeing a chance to reclaim himself. “I’d have to examine it more closely, wouldn’t I?”

  Randall handed him the cane.

  The coroner rolled the long cane in his hands. “I don’t think so. It’s heavy enough, but seems too narrow to have caused the wound I saw.”

  “So you are saying a cane like this one could not have caused the wound that killed the victim?”

  “No. It would have to have been a much thicker implement.” Barwill looked pleased to be making such a definite statement. He glanced at Chief McKenzie, as if checking for his approval, too.

  Randall nodded. “I see. Thank you, doctor.” He picked up the cane and returned it to Granville with a nod, then strolled over to stand in front of Constables Craddock and Myers. “Constable Craddock, may I borrow your nightstick for a moment?”

  Craddock’s expression froze. “My nightstick? Well, I don’t know,” he said, looking to the Chief as if for direction. At McKenzie’s nod, he handed it over.

  “Thank you, Constable,” Randall said and strode back to the witness stand. “Now, Dr. Barwill, is this implement the right size and shape to have left the wound you observed in the victim?”

  “Well, I . . . I . . .” stammered the physician, his eyes darting from the barrister to the prosecutor to Chief McKenzie and back. “I suppose it could be.”

  “Look carefully now. You need to be certain,” Randall said, handing the nightstick to the doctor.

  Barwill turned the nightstick over and over in his hands. “It could have been. The dimensions seem correct, and certainly it is heavy enough. But you must understand, there are any number of objects that could have caused such a wound.”

  “So you are saying that a weapon like this one could have caused the wound that killed the victim?”

  “Yes. A weapon something like this one.”

  Randall nodded, and picked up the baseball bat again. “And a weapon like this one could not have caused such a wound?”

  “Objection.” Arthur Morris, the Crown Prosecutor, leaped to his feet. “The witness cannot make such a statement.”

  “My lord, the Crown brought the doctor in as a witness precisely because he has the expertise to speak to the nature of the wound that killed the victim.”

  “Overruled,” said Judge Thomas. “Please answer the question, doctor.”

  “Well, no,” said Doctor Barwill. “The narrowing proportions of the bat do not match the shape of the wound.”

  Randal nodded again. “I see. Thank you, Doctor. I have no further questions.” He returned the bat to the table and the nightstick to Craddock with a nod of thanks.

  Granville grinned to himself at the unhappy look on Craddock’s face.

  Judge Thompson leaned forward and addressed the doctor. “You may step down now, Dr. Barwill.” Looking relieved, Barwill scrambled down and headed straight for the door. And the nearest bar, Granville was willing to bet. “Call your next witness, Counselor.”

  “The Crown calls Chief McKenzie,” Morris said.

  Once McKenzie had been sworn in, Morris led him through the evidence against Scott. Without the weapon, the case was thin. The defendant had borrowed money from the victim, had had several loud arguments with him, and was known to have hated him. When Morris finished, there was a sheen of sweat on his narrow forehead, and McKenzie’s face was pale.

  Randall stood up, then paused and stooped slightly to read his notes on the table in front of him. The courtroom was absolutely silent except for the drip, drip, drip of the leaks. Finally Randall straightened, strode over to the witness and gave him a smile. “I have one or two questions for you, Chief McKenzie. Now, you have told the court the reasons my client was arrested for the murder of Clive Jackson. However, there was another murder in the same week, was there not? A Mr. Walter Blayney?”

  “Blayney was killed the same week, yes.”

  Randall nodded. “And how was Mr. Blayney killed?”

  “By a blow to the head, just over the right ear.”

  “The same manner in which Mr. Jackson was killed?”

  “Mr. Jackson was shot first, but otherwise, yes, that is my understanding.”

  “I see. And we have heard from Dr. Barwill that it was the blow to the head that killed Mr. Jackson. Is it your understanding that Mr. Jackson and Mr. Blayney were killed by a similar blow, with a similar weapon?”

  The police chief hesitated for several long moments before speaking. “Dr. Barwill has told me that Mr. Jackson and Mr. Blayney were killed by a similar blow. About the weapon, I can’t say.”

  “And your own perception in this matter?”

  “The wounds appeared similar.”

  “Thank you. Now, can you confirm for us where Mr. Scott was on the night Mr. Blayney was killed?”

  There was no answer.

  “Sir?”

  McKenzie’s looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Yes. Mr. Scott was in jail that night.”

  “There is no possibility that he was anywhere else?”

  “None.”

  At Chief McKenzie’s reply, the clamor in the courtroom was so loud that Judge Thompson had to call out for silence.

  “I see,” said Randall when the noise had died down. “And can you tell us where Constable Craddock was that night?”

  “Objection.” Morris bobbed up out of his chair. “I fail to see the relevance.”

  “Objection sustained. The jury will disregard the question.”

  Randall nodded. “Very well. Thank you, Chief McKenzie. You may
step down.”

  There was more noise in the courtroom when Morris stated he had no further witnesses to call. It became almost deafening when Randall stood and called Scott’s name.

  Granville watched his friend walk to the witness stand. As he passed in front of Granville, one eye closed in a wink. Granville nodded back. It was going well.

  When Scott had been sworn in, Randall stood back for a moment, as if sizing up his client. The courtroom grew very still. Granville darted a glance at Craddock, who sat with narrowed eyes and a grim expression. Several of the spectators were leaning forward, as if afraid they’d miss something.

  Josiah Randall was not one to waste words. “Mr. Scott, did you kill Clive Jackson?”

  “No, I did not,” stated Scott clearly. There was a collective gasp at his words.

  “I see. You have heard the case against you. Did you borrow money from the victim?”

  “No. I’d talked to Jackson about borrowing some money, but we hadn’t sealed a bargain yet.”

  “Mr. Scott, what was your relationship with the victim?”

  “I hated him.” Scott’s voice was clear and hard.

  “And why was that?”

  “Because he corrupted my youngest sister when she was only seventeen, sold her into prostitution, and took away their child.” There was an excited murmuring among the spectators at hearing such shocking revelations. Judge Thompson looked fierce and picked up his gavel, and the sound died away.

  “I see,” said Randall. “Then why did you try to borrow money from Jackson, if you hated him?”

  “It was business. I needed the money, and Jackson was the only one who would lend it to me.”

  “Why did you need the money?”

  Scott hesitated.

  “Mr. Scott?” Randall prompted him.

  Scott drew in a breath. “Because Constable Craddock said my sister Lizzie’s baby had been sold, and that he knew where she was. He said he could get the child back, but it would cost me. If I didn’t pay, he would make sure we never saw the child again.”

  At his words the court went silent.

  “So you were going to borrow money from Jackson and pay Craddock.”

  “Yes.”

  “But he was killed before you could do so?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you did not kill Clive Jackson?”

  “No, I did not kill Jackson.” The words were slow and clear and the hush in the courtroom deepened.

  “Thank you. I have no further questions.”

  “Mr. Morris? Do you wish to cross-examine?”

  Morris waved one hand.

  “Thank you, Mr. Scott. You may step down. Call your next witness, Mr. Randall.” With his sharp, bony profile, Judge Thompson looked like a falcon waiting for prey, Granville thought.

  “I call Constable Craddock.”

  The courtroom broke into a babble of sound. Granville ignored the noise, watching closely as Craddock collected himself. Over the man’s shoulder he caught sight of the psychic, Mrs. Merchant, her expression intent and her eyes fixed on Craddock as he swaggered up to the witness stand and took the oath. Well, well, Granville thought, shifting his attention between them. Under his bravado, Craddock looked shaken.

  “Constable Craddock, on the night of the murder, you were called to the scene by the defendant, were you not?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you found the body down by the CPR docks, as the defendant had told you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you recognize the victim?”

  “Yes, I knew right away it was Jackson.”

  “And how do you know Jackson?”

  Craddock’s expression said he hadn’t been expecting the question. “I knew who he was.”

  “You knew who he was. Do you mean you had no prior dealings with him? And I would caution you that you are under oath.”

  There was a movement from the bench, but Judge Thompson made no comment.

  “I . . . well, I knew him, of course.” Craddock tugged at his collar. “We may have done business together.”

  “In fact, you did business with him,” the lawyer’s words were polite, but his expression was skeptical.

  “He may have included me in a couple of his dealings.”

  “And you lost money on those deals, did you not?”

  Craddock scowled. “Yes, I lost money. A lot of money.”

  “I see. So would you say you were not on the best of terms with the victim?”

  “I guess not,” Craddock muttered.

  “And you knew the victim when you both lived in Denver,” Randall said.

  “Yeah. So?”

  “I believe you knew the defendant before as well, in Chicago?”

  “I don’t see what that’s got to do with it.”

  “Answer the question, please,” the judge cautioned him.

  “Yeah, I knew him.”

  “Well enough to extort money from him?”

  Craddock’s face slowly turned purple. “I . . . I . . . ,” his voice trailed away as his eyes ricocheted from Randall to Scott, to the judge and then to Gipson, seated in the second row. “I didn’t extort money from him.”

  “You didn’t receive money from him. But you attempted to extort money from him, did you not?”

  Craddock’s glanced at Chief McKenzie, seated in the front row, then looked away quickly. He said nothing.

  “Constable Craddock, answer the question please,” Judge Thompson said.

  “But . . . I . . . ,”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “Well, I might have raised the subject with him. With Scott. And he could have thought it was extortion. Maybe. But, damnit, I wasn’t trying to extort money from him.”

  “Constable Craddock, I’ll have no profanity in my courtroom.”

  Standing in front of the witness station, Randall steepled his fingers together and contemplated Craddock over the top of them. “I see. So you deny trying to extort money from the defendant. And what about the victim? Do you also deny blackmailing him?”

  The judge was watching the officer closely, and the look on Chief McKenzie’s face did not bode well for him.

  “I did not blackmail him.”

  “Are you sure? Remember, you are under oath.”

  “No. That is, yes, I’m sure.”

  “I see. Well, then, did you speak to the victim that night?”

  “I did not.”

  “Nor quarrel with him?”

  “Objection! Judge, this is harassment.” Mr. Morris stood up.

  Judge Thompson looked at Randall. “I assume you have a point here?”

  “If you will allow me to follow this line of questioning for a little longer, Judge, my point will become clear.”

  “Very well then. Proceed.”

  “Thank you.” Randall turned back to Craddock. “Could you show us your nightstick again, please?”

  Without comment, Craddock unclipped his nightstick from his belt and placed it on the ledge in front of him. A bead of sweat rolled unheeded down his cheek.

  “Thank you, Constable.” Randall stepped closer and picked up the nightstick. It was black, about a foot long with rounded ends. “It seems to be a very clean weapon. Tell me, do you clean it often?”

  Craddock flushed. “Well, no more often than anyone else.”

  “I see. Constable Craddock, can you tell the court where you were and what you were doing on the night of the twelfth between ten and eleven and on the thirteenth between those same hours?”

  “I want a lawyer,” Constable Craddock said.

  T H I R T Y – E I G H T

  Emily walked into the parlor, her eyes immediately seeking out Granville where he stood by the window, head bent in thought. When Mama had told her he was here, and that Emily should put on her best dress and come down, she hadn’t known what to think. It was the first time they had allowed her out of her room in two days.

  She paused just inside the doorway, feel
ing awkward. He must know what had happened, how her parents had behaved, like some mid-Victorian melodrama. The Queen might still be on the throne, but a new century was just weeks away, for heaven’s sake.

  He seemed to sense her presence, turning and grinning at her. His handsome face was still battered, and a purple bruise spread from his right eye nearly to his jaw. All Emily’s awkwardness dissolved.

  “Oh, Mr. Granville. Your poor face. And tell me, what happened at the trial?” she asked, advancing into the room with her hands held out.

  He took her hands and held them. Realizing what she’d done, Emily tugged at her hands, but he didn’t release them. “I thought I asked you to call me John,” he said softly.

  Blushing, Emily forced herself to meet his gaze. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea. Especially not now.”

  “Why not now?” His eyes twinkled.

  “Stop teasing me,” she scolded. “And tell me what has happened. The trial was to be today, was it not? Did you free Mr. Scott? Did my note help?”

  “Stop,” said Granville, laughing. “One question at a time.”

  Emily just looked at him, curious but cautious. His mood was so different, she hardly knew what to think.

  “In fact,” he said, “I think it was your insight that solved the case for me. It was indeed a policeman’s billy club that killed both Jackson and Blayney.”

  “It was?”

  “Indeed. And a policeman that killed them.”

  “Who? And why?”

  “Constable Craddock. A man of very bad habits, a tendency to gamble being among them, as well as an unseemly willingness to try extortion and blackmail, and a very evil temper when all else failed.”

  “Jackson undoubtedly deserved his death,” she said. “But why Blayney?”

  “Craddock still owed money. Gipson needed Blayney dead, and somehow learned that Craddock had killed Jackson.”

  “The blackmailer was being blackmailed?”

  “There is a certain justice to it, you must admit.”

  “But how did all of this come out?”

  “In court, before Judge Thompson. We hired Scott a very flexible barrister who is a demon in cross-examination.”