Gideon Smith and the Mask of the Ripper (33 page)

The boy nodded again, his mouth still hanging open. “I’ll take it to him. But what shall I tell him?”

Smith growled in frustration. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.” There were shouts from Kalanath again, and the German sailors who were gaining on them. “Look, I have to go. But you promise you will do this?”

The boy nodded again, and Smith ruffled his hair then ran after the two Thuggees. As he burst through the doors he saw them lowering the pigs into a manhole, waving frantically at him. Just as the pursuing sailors piled through the doors after him, Smith slid into the manhole and pulled the cover over his head with an echoing clang.

*   *   *

The boy watched the Germans running around comically in the street, looking for the men who had stolen their cargo. His name was Tom, and he was still unsure what had happened, other than that he had in his arms a stack of
World Marvels & Wonders
that he’d be reading by candlelight until Easter. Apart from one, of course. He looked down at it, wondering why it was special. But he’d promised he’d take it to Fleet Street, though he’d never been there before, and he would. He’d find the fat man and give it to him, like he’d been told.

And he’d tell him that Gideon Smith had sent it.

23

G
IDEON
S
MITH
I
S
A
LIVE
!

Bent had watched his former colleagues furiously scribbling out their copy for the late editions with some measure of detached envy. He missed the days doing the real work of newsgathering. True, his life now was immeasurably more exciting and comfortable, but he still, on occasion, pined for the rush of excitement at getting a really good story, the scramble to write copy on the spot and have a waiting copyboy run with it back to Fleet Street to be set in hot metal for the next edition. If things had turned out differently, it would have been him elbowing the others out of the way for space in the pressroom, scrawling out in longhand the events of the morning’s hearing.

And what copy it would be. “Good,” Rowena Fanshawe had said upon being told of the fate of the deceased. And with that, thought Bent morosely, she might well have hanged herself. In the lunchtime break he had told Siddell that he needed to see Rowena in the cells, but the lawyer had shook his head wildly.

“Shine a light, Bent, you’re the only bloody witness we’ve got at the moment, and you’re hardly likely to win the jury over as it is, even just as a character witness.” He paused, scratching his hot head under his wig. “No offense intended, of course.”

“Every effing offense taken, you gog-eyed shag-bandit,” growled Bent, but more out of frustration than slight. Siddell was right, of course; Gideon would only have to breeze in and he’d have the bloody jury eating out of his hand, but the Hero of the Empire had taken it upon himself to go missing at the worst possible time. But Bent was all they had, and if he started visibly mixing with the defendant before his own testimony, it would hardly be taken as impartial.

His stomach grumbling—he’d only managed to get a bag of hot chestnuts from a vendor who’d pitched up outside the Old Bailey to take advantage of the growing crowd of ghouls and bystanders here to watch Rowena’s trial—Bent followed Siddell into the courtroom just as the usher called order and silence for Judge Stanger to return to his perch.

“Who are the prosecution dragging up next?” he whispered.

Siddell consulted his notes. “Inspector George Lestrade.”

*   *   *

Lestrade gave Bent the merest of nods as he took the witness stand, swearing as to the truth of his evidence and waiting for Scullimore to begin his examination.

“Inspector Lestrade,” said the prosecutor. “You are attached to the Commercial Road police station, that is correct?”

Lestrade said, “I am.”

“And what is your involvement in this case? Commercial Road is a long way from Kennington.”

“Certain aspects of the case came under my jurisdiction due to the linked charge of burglary at the premises belonging to Professor Stanford Rubicon,” Lestrade said to the jury. “I have since been to examine the crime scene.”

Scullimore looked at his notes. “Yes, the house in Kennington where Mr. Gaunt, the deceased, resided.” He looked up at Lestrade. “Mr. Gaunt was a well-respected businessman, is that right, Inspector?”

Lestrade’s mustache waggled. “He was a businessman, correct, sir. I believe he had been having some troubles lately in that regard.”

Scullimore nodded. “Troubles upon troubles for Mr. Gaunt. Inspector, can you tell us the situation regarding Mr. Gaunt’s domestic setup, including the sad news of which you have recently been informed.”

Lestrade looked at the jury. “Mr. Gaunt was married to a woman who has had to be confined to a sanatorium for some years.”

Scullimore said, “That must have put an enormous strain upon him.”

“I cannot say, sir.”

“Of course not, Inspector. But there have been developments in that regard, I understand.”

Lestrade nodded. “Yes. I am afraid that Mrs. Gaunt was found dead in her bed at the sanatorium where she resided on Monday morning.”

There was a strangled cry from Rowena. Bent tried to catch her eye with a quizzical look but she had buried her face in her hands. Stanger leaned over his bench. “Miss Fanshawe? Are you quite all right?”

“Probably the defendant is only now realizing the full impact of her crime,” said Scullimore, shrugging.

Siddell leaped to his feet. “Objection!”

Stanger nodded. “Sustained. Careful, Mr. Scullimore.”

Scullimore nodded. “Poor Mrs. Gaunt. Died from a broken heart, no doubt.”

Siddell shrieked, “Objection!”

Stanger smiled. “Sustained again, Mr. Siddell. Mr. Scullimore, such fripperies have no place in a court of law. Do we know of what Mrs. Gaunt actually did die?”

“I’m afraid not, Your Honor. Presumably related to her long-running illness—”

“Actually,” said Lestrade, “I took the liberty of organizing a postmortem examination, and I had the results handed to me just before I came into court.”

Scullimore frowned; evidently he had not been aware of this, thought Bent. The judge asked, “And those results, Inspector?”

“According to the coroner’s report, Your Honor, it was mercury poisoning.”

“I knew it!” shouted Rowena from the dock. “He did it! Gaunt killed her!”

“Objection!” shouted Scullimore. “The deceased is not on trial here!”

“Sustained,” said Stanger. “Strike that from the record. Miss Fanshawe, you will be given ample opportunity to speak for yourself when your counsel examines you properly. Please refrain from such outbursts, or I’ll hold you in contempt.”

“It hardly matters,” said Rowena quietly, and for a moment Bent saw the flare of the old fire in her eyes. “I’m on a murder charge, remember?”

Stanger stared down at her coldly. “How could I forget? Mr. Scullimore?”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

Stanger gestured at Lestrade. “Your witness, Mr. Siddell.”

Before he could stand, Bent hauled on the back of Siddell’s gown. Mercury poisoning! Mercury effing poisoning! Of course! He whispered urgently in Siddell’s ear.

“Inspector Lestrade,” said Siddell when Bent finally let go of him, “can you tell us what you found at the home of Edward Gaunt?”

Lestrade shrugged, though he kept his eyes on Bent. “You wish a full inventory of the house, sir?”

The gallery laughed, and Bent took the opportunity to whisper again in the ear of Siddell, who said, “No, Inspector. I am particularly thinking of the cellar of the property.”

Was there a half-smile on Lestrade’s face, directed at Bent? He couldn’t be sure, but he sent up a silent prayer. This wasn’t much, in the scheme of things, but it might buy them some time and a little sympathy from the jury, at least.

“The cellar,” said Lestrade. “Yes, the cellar was full of a rather large quantity of smashed barometers.”

Scullimore riffled through his notes, and Siddell said, “And what is the principal ingredient of a barometer, Inspector?”

“Objection,” said Scullimore. “My witness is a police officer, not a meteorologist.”

“Overruled,” said Stanger. “You may answer, Inspector.”

Lestrade looked to the jury. “Mercury, of course.”

There was a loud gasp as the gallery and the jury finally caught up. Siddell said, “A huge number of broken barometers, Inspector Lestrade? Enough to obtain a considerable amount of mercury?”

Lestrade nodded. “I should say so.”

Siddell smiled. “Enough to poison a person with?”

Lestrade said, “Yes.”

Scullimore was on his feet again. “Objection, Your Honor! Once again, the deceased is not on trial here!”

“But he might have killed his wife,” mused Stanger, steepling his fingers at his chin. “That could be pertinent, Mr. Scullimore. Continue, Mr. Siddell.”

Siddell smiled broadly. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

*   *   *

There followed another two police officers who had been first on the scene when Gaunt’s body had been discovered, and a cab driver who had picked up Rowena Fanshawe a mile from Gaunt’s house and taken her back to Highgate Aerodrome, on the night of the murder. Then Scullimore said, “I call Maud Richards.”

Bent leaned forward as a young girl, dressed in her Sunday best, took the witness stand, barely peering over the wooden lip of the box with wide, terrified eyes. Stanger leaned forward and smiled with a kindness Bent would not have believed him capable of.

“Maud, is it? Hello, Maud.”

“Hello, Mr. Judge,” she said in a tiny voice. The gallery roared with laughter, quieted only by Stanger’s baleful glare.

“You can call me Mr. Stanger, Maud. Now, Mr. Scullimore over there is going to ask you a few questions, and Mr. Siddell, who is sitting by the fat man”—the crowd guffawed again, and Bent snorted—“he might want to ask you some questions, too. Ignore everything else, Maud. But the most important thing is, you tell the truth. Do you understand that? You must tell the truth, whatever happens. Because you are in a court of law, before the eyes of God.”

Maud nodded slowly, and haltingly repeated the oath the usher murmured to her, her hand on the Bible. Then Scullimore stood. “Maud,” he asked, “how old are you?”

“Eleven, sir,” she said.

“And you are a good girl, Maud? You do what your mother and father tell you?”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“And you always tell the truth?”

Maud bit her lip, scratching her head under the bonnet that was a shade too big on her. “Most of the time. Last year I knocked one of Mother’s vases from the table in the parlor with my whip and top.” She looked guiltily at a couple whom Bent surmised were her parents. “I wasn’t supposed to play with my whip and top in the parlor. I told my mother that the dog knocked it off.” She began to cry. “I’m sorry. Will I go to jail?”

The gallery laughed again, half of them making “Ah!” noises. Scullimore said, “No, no, Maud, I don’t think you will go to jail for that, though your mother might have stern words with you afterward. However, I am not concerned with the vase. But I do need you to promise to tell the truth now.”

She nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. Scullimore pointed at Rowena and said, “Do you remember ever seeing that lady before?”

Maud said, “Yes, sir. On Saturday night.”

“And what was she doing, Maud?”

Maud looked at Rowena properly for the first time. “I don’t want to get her into bother. She’s in a lot of trouble, isn’t she? I want to be Rowena Fanshawe when I grow up.”

Scullimore scoffed. “There are better role models, child.”

Rowena cleared her throat. “Maud,” she said.

“Objection!” called Scullimore.

“Quiet,” instructed Stanger. “Miss Fanshawe, you have something to say to the girl?”

“If you want to be like me, Maud, you must tell the truth,” Rowena said, her eyes locked with the girl. “It’s all right. Tell the truth.”

Maud nodded. “I was getting ready to go home, because it was dark and cold, then I saw her on our street. I couldn’t believe it. I read the penny dreadful, you see.
World Marvels & Wonders
. With the adventures of Mr. Gideon Smith. But I like Miss Fanshawe best. She’s my favorite.”

“On your street, Maud? Whereabouts exactly?”

Maud began to cry quietly. “Outside the house of that man who died, Mr. Gaunt. She had her hand on the latch, like she was about to go in.”

“And did she go in?”

“I didn’t see, sir. She said I should go home because it was late. She was still there when I left.”

“What was she doing?”

Maud shrugged. “I turned around before I went into my house. She was just standing there with her hand on the gate, staring at the house.”

Scullimore smiled and sat down. “No further questions.”

*   *   *

As Maud Richards was the last of the prosecution witnesses, save for Miescher, Stanger decided that was a good point at which to halt proceedings for the day so they could approach all the new scientific evidence in the morning with sharp brains. As the reporters dashed off to file their copy, and Rowena was taken down to the holding cells, Bent said to Siddell, “Get down there before they cart her back off to Holloway for the night. Find out what Gaunt’s wife meant to her. She was obviously effing distraught at the news the woman was dead.”

“Is there any word of Gideon Smith?” asked Siddell, gathering his papers. “After this Miescher fellow has finished his evidence tomorrow, it will be our turn. And so far, all we’ve got is you.”

“I’m working on it,” muttered Bent. “But at the moment, no.”

Siddell opened his mouth to speak, but Bent cut him off. “I know, I know. Shine an effing light, and all that.”

*   *   *

This trial was costing him a small fortune in cab fares, thought Bent as he let himself into the warmth of 23 Grosvenor Square. But he couldn’t face freezing his effing nuts off in a hansom, and he certainly wasn’t hoofing it between the house and the Old Bailey. As soon as he was in the vestibule, Mrs. Cadwallader and Maria rushed at him, brandishing the late edition of the
Illustrated London Argus
.