by John Hall
‘This was, what, twenty years ago? More. About ten years back, there was a bit of a fuss, some newspaper took up the cudgels on behalf of Clayton, said it was wrong to lock him up, the usual thing. And one or two prominent men took up the same cry. Then after a year or so, they persuaded the Home Secretary to offer Clayton a pardon. Not the other one, Jacobson, though, because everybody knew he was guilty, of course.’
‘Ah,’ said Holmes, ‘I do remember that. Clayton refused the pardon, did he not?’
‘He did.’
‘Why on earth should he refuse a pardon?’ I asked, puzzled. ‘I should have thought that he would grab at it with both hands.’
‘He said that a pardon was just that, that it meant that he’d committed the crime all right, but was being pardoned for it, excused, let off,’ said Lestrade. ‘And he said no, he hadn’t committed any crime, so he didn’t need pardoning, thank you very much. His supporters stuck at it, they took the matter up with every court that would listen to them. That part of it didn’t make any headlines, of course, it was all lawyers’ stuff, writs, and petitions, and appeals, and what-have-you. But they kept at it, from one place to another, for about five years, now.’ He drank more brandy.
‘And?’ asked Holmes.
‘And yesterday the Lords of Appeal set the verdict aside. Clayton is free as a bird, and innocent as a new-born babe.’
I leaned forward and looked at him, puzzled. ‘Can they do that?’ I asked.
‘They can,’ said Lestrade. ‘It’s not an everyday thing, for it’s unusual, and it’s complicated, and it rocks the legal boat, so to speak, and so it doesn’t often happen, but it can be done.’
‘And it is naturally a very considerable shock to you,’ said Holmes gently.
‘It is a great deal more than that, sir,’ said Lestrade grimly. ‘For I have been suspended from duty. And I know that this is only the beginning. I am done, Mr Holmes. Disgraced. Finished. Ruined, completely and utterly!’
TWO
‘Come now, Lestrade,’ said Holmes. ‘I feel that you are overstating the gravity of the situation. We are all human, we all make mistakes. Why, even I myself have had my failures, though mercifully few and far between.’
Lestrade shook his head. ‘With all possible respect, Mr Holmes, you did not talk to my superintendent this morning, and I did. Bad news travels fast, they say, and the duty inspector told me the outcome of the court hearing when I first set foot in the station this morning, and he also told me that the superintendent would like to see me. I knew what that was about, of course. Anyway, I goes along to his room, and he sits me down, asks have I heard about the appeal? I say, yes. He hums and haws, and then gets down to business. ‘
“There’ll be a fuss and a half about this, Lestrade”, says he. I agree with him. “That being the case”, he goes on, “it might be as well to consider our position”. I ask you, “our” position! He’s safe enough, whatever happens. “Clayton is already talking about suing the police for kidnap and wrongful arrest and I don’t know what else”, he tells me.
‘“Can he do that?” I asked him. He sort of looks at me, and he says, careful like, “I’m not sure about the police, as being part of the Crown, and so immune, although that’s for the lawyers to argue about. But he can take action against an individual officer”. Oh oh, I tells myself, so that’s it, is it? “And that being the case”, says he, “we don’t want to attract attention to ourselves, do we?” I must ’ave looked blank, as well I might, for I didn’t know what the devil he was talking about. He sighs. “There’ll have to be an enquiry, of course”, he tells me.
‘“I suppose there will, sir”, says I.
‘“Of course”, says he, “if the officer concerned wasn’t an officer at the time of any enquiry, that might be different. Do you follow?”
‘Well, I can’t have looked any less blank at that. He sighs again, and says, “How would you feel about retiring? Take your pension, for you’re not getting any younger, after all, buy a nice little pub out in the country, forget all about Clayton, and the rest of the bunch. How’s that sound?”
‘Well, it sounded grand, has done for a few years now, to be honest, but I wasn’t telling him that. Not when it was put to me in those terms, gents. “Would you go, sir, with your tail between your legs?” I ask him.
‘“Yes”, he says, all stern like, “if my conscience wasn’t absolutely clear, I would, and grateful for the chance.”
‘“There’s nothing wrong with my conscience”, I tell him. “I can sleep as easy as yourself, sir, no offence intended”, says I.
‘“This is the second time in a week that your name has been bandied about”, he tells me. I sat there, said nothing. “Will you not reconsider your decision about retirement, before a third piece of nastiness comes to light?”
‘Well, gents, I’m afraid that did it. I’d sat quiet under the rest of his nonsense, but I wasn’t standing for that, and I turned round and told him as much to his face.
‘“In that case”, says he, “you’re suspended from duty, pending a summons to appear before a disciplinary tribunal. Hand over your warrant card!” says he, and that was that.’ And Lestrade broke off, and helped himself to brandy.
There was a long silence, which neither Holmes nor I ventured to break. Eventually, Lestrade began again. ‘Trouble is,’ said he, ‘for all my brave words I haven’t the ghost of a chance of excusing my conduct. You see now what I meant, sir?’ he asked Holmes.
There was another long silence. At last Holmes asked, ‘You were, as I understand it, the junior officer on the case?’
Lestrade nodded. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Mr Holmes, that I was doing nothing more than just obeying the orders of a superior. But Superintendent Buller’s dead, like I said, and Inspector White, well, I don’t rightly know where he is these days. He had a seizure of some sort, and that left him pretty well crippled. He was living with his daughter’s family over Hoxton way, last I heard. I meant to keep in touch, but you know how it is.’
‘Indeed,’ said Holmes. ‘So this Clayton has no other object upon which to vent his spleen, his quite understandable spleen, given the circumstances, than the unfortunate Inspector Lestrade?’
The unfortunate Inspector Lestrade nodded unhappily.
Holmes sat in silence for another long time, then said, choosing his words carefully, ‘I fear that I cannot hold out any great hope for you, Lestrade.’
‘I knew as much!’
‘But, Holmes — ’ I began, only to be silenced by an angry gesture.
‘There are two distinct difficulties,’ Holmes went on. ‘Firstly, the improbability of finding any new evidence after — what — twenty years? Had I been in London, and in practice, of course, things might have been otherwise. But I was not. Secondly, and perhaps more to the point, what good would new evidence be? The man has been tried and the verdict given; now that verdict is set aside, and he is pronounced innocent. But he has still been tried, and under our laws he cannot be prosecuted again for the same offence.’
‘Stay, though,’ I broke in. ‘Were they accused of only the one murder, that of the boy whose body was found, or of the others as well?’
‘Excellent, Watson!’ said Holmes, staring eagerly at Lestrade.
Lestrade shook his head sadly. ‘They were charged with all five murders, Doctor,’ said he. ‘At the time, it seemed fine, we were being ordered to do something, anything. And there was a lot of upset where the boys lived, the East End, you know what they’re like down there. Just as it was with those “Ripper” murders a few years back, only more so, with the victims being so young, and all,’ and he lapsed into a gloomy silence.
Holmes, too, sank back in his chair. ‘That would appear to have been the only hope, and a mighty slender hope at that, and even that is gone. I have said that I cannot help,’ he told Lestrade, ‘and I must repeat that statement, for it is true enough. I would not wish to excite any false hopes in you, for that would be quite wrong, cruel
in fact, and I would accordingly advise you to prepare for the worst that might happen. But we, Watson here and I, can listen to your version of events, and perhaps put the occasional question to you, so that you might be better ready to face the tribunal when the time comes. It may be that the process will stir in your mind something that might be material, though frankly I doubt it. You have given us the bare outline of events, but will you now tell us some of the details?’
Lestrade nodded. ‘That’s fair enough,’ said he. ‘Ask away.’
‘Well, to begin with, what sort of a man was this Jacobson?’
‘He was a rum one,’ answered Lestrade. ‘Odd. That sounds strange, I know. Any man who’d do a thing like that must be odd, you’ll say, and that’s right enough. But he was what my old mum would have called “slow”. Not an imbecile, or anything of that sort, but easily led, impressionable. You know the sort I mean, the kind who, as a lad, would hear someone say “To put a brick through the vicarage window, that would be something like fun”, and he’d go off and do it, with no thought for the consequences, whilst those who’d encouraged him were well out of it. The oddness, oddity, I should say, of the man, that was what struck you first. But then that very oddness, that was part of it, sir, with Clayton, I mean. You see, I couldn’t have imagined Jacobson dreaming up that sort of nastiness himself, but I could believe in him tagging along while someone else did it.’
‘The someone else being this Clayton?’ suggested Holmes.
Lestrade nodded. ‘So I thought.’
‘The thought brings you little comfort, though?’ Holmes went on.
Lestrade looked embarrassed. ‘It’s this way, Mr Holmes. The lad we were sure of, the one whose body we found, he was the last but one, and the newspapers had carried the stories of the first three. Now, I can easily see Jacobson reading those reports, and thinking he’d go out and do the same.’
‘Are you suggesting that such was the case?’ asked Holmes. ‘If so, that would seem to indicate that possibly you believe in Clayton’s innocence?’
‘No, sir, Clayton was guilty right enough,’ said Lestrade obstinately. ‘But it bothered me, or I should say, it bothers me. Now. And back then, twenty years ago, but later, when it was over. When I was involved in the case itself, when the investigation was at its height, I just never thought of it.’
‘And later, when you did?’
‘Well, the jury had decided he was guilty. It was hardly for me to argue with that.’
‘Indeed, no. And what sort of man was, or is, this Clayton?’
‘He was odd, too, but in a different way. Cocksure, full of himself. That’s why he stayed silent, I’m sure of that. As much as saying, “I know what I know, but I’m not telling you!”’
‘He was of the same age as Jacobson?’
‘Early twenties, yes,’ said Lestrade.
‘Which would make him in his middle forties now?’ said I. ‘He must be very resentful at having spent the best years of his life in prison.’
‘You say he was “odd”, Lestrade?’ said Holmes with just a touch of impatience.
‘Odd is the word, sir. He had no friends, apart from Jacobson, that is.’
‘The two were friends? Not merely acquaintances?’
‘We established that,’ said Lestrade. ‘They’d been seen talking together in the pub, that sort of thing. Not that we could ever connect that with the disappearances, but they were known to be friends.’
‘But it seems to me,’ said I, ‘that if this Jacobson were of weak intellect, and being subject to some coercion — to put it no higher — he might simply have given you the first name that came into his head. If Clayton was his only friend, the only man he knew at all well, he might have clutched at his name.’ I shook my head, for things looked worse by the minute.
Lestrade looked unhappy.
Holmes looked thoughtful. ‘That is an excellent point,’ said he. ‘I interrupted you earlier, Lestrade; I was going to say that a conviction obtained solely on the basis of a confession by a third party seems very weak to me, and I can quite see why the death sentence was commuted. I am sure the appeal judges must have thought the same. And now Watson here provides one excellent reason for Jacobson’s naming Clayton. Though of course there are others which will have occurred to you. It looks bad. Very bad! But continue, Lestrade.’
Looking even more unhappy than before, Lestrade went on, ‘We searched Clayton’s rooms, of course. There was nothing. Now, I don’t just mean there was nothing that linked him to the crimes, though that’s true enough. I mean rather that there was nothing at all of a personal nature. A few clothes, neatly hung in the closet, and nothing more. No letters, no photographs. And that was interesting, too.’
‘How so?’ asked Holmes.
‘Well, first off, he had no wife, no lady friend. Wouldn’t it be natural enough for him to have a few postcards from Paris, a lithograph or two of society beauties, something of that sort?’
‘It is hardly a crime to be obsessively tidy,’ I burst out, looking ruefully round our cluttered sitting room. ‘Nor is it a crime not to possess pictures in dubious taste.’
‘No, Doctor, but it’s odd. That word again, you see,’ said Lestrade. ‘But my second point about photographs is just this. One of the few personal possessions we did find was a quarter-plate camera, with all the fixings, plates, chemicals, what have you. But the plates were all new, never — what do the photographers say? — never been exposed.’
‘He may have bought the equipment recently,’ said I.
‘He hadn’t. He’d bought it a couple of years before.’
‘Well, perhaps he didn’t like to spoil it by using it? Odd, I allow, but not unknown.’
‘Again, no,’ Lestrade told me. ‘He’d bought the goods second-hand, from a chap who was getting married and needed the money.’
‘And what did he have to say about it?’ asked Holmes.
‘Said he used to be keen, but hadn’t done any photographing for some time.’
‘It could be so?’ I said.
‘Oh, come, Doctor. If he had been so keen, why was there not a single print, a single negative plate, from the days when he was using the camera?’
‘Well,’ said Holmes, ‘what was your theory?’
‘Mine, Mr Holmes?’ Lestrade looked startled. ‘I had no theory. I just know that it was part of his oddness.’
‘Again,’ said I, ‘odd though it may be, it is no crime to possess a camera which you don’t use.’
Holmes shook his head. ‘This is very insubstantial stuff, Lestrade. Were there other oddities to which you would draw our attention?’ he asked.
‘There was the relationship between Jacobson and Clayton,’ said Lestrade. ‘I have said that they were both loners, both solitary, each was the only friend the other had. Why should Jacobson, after holding out for so long under our questioning, then incriminate his only friend?’
‘Doctor Watson had already supplied one possible explanation as to that,’ said Holmes. ‘Another might be that they were friends no longer, that there had been some falling-out, and that Jacobson sought to incriminate Clayton out of hatred, or spite, or jealousy, or whatever you choose to call it.’
‘Agreed. But then why would he wait so long? Why not tell us right at the start?’
‘He may perhaps have thought that if you had to — well, to apply a little persuasion, let us say, it might sound more convincing than if he had blurted it out all at once?’ suggested Holmes.
Lestrade shook his head. ‘All very fine, Mr Holmes, all very logical, if you never met Jacobson. But I did meet him, and I can tell you that such a thing would never have occurred to him. A simple soul, like I say. Shallow. No guile, no deviousness in him.’
‘What of motive, then?’ I wanted to know. ‘I can see men killing out of hate, or for money, or perhaps even for love, in the right, or wrong, circumstances. Was there any reason for the killings?’
Lestrade gave another shake of his head. ‘No
reason on this earth,’ said he. ‘There was no question of robbery, or anything of that sort. Sheer nastiness, Doctor, that’s all the explanation I can give you, unsatisfactory though it is. Maybe Clayton had been beaten at school, and wanted to get his own back? Or maybe he’d been given the job of beating others, and acquired a taste for it? Or maybe he was just the sort of wretched little boy who enjoys pulling the wings off butterflies, and he never grew out of it?’
‘You say “Clayton”, as if you were sure of his guilt,’ said Holmes.
‘I am, sir, despite all the weighty evidence to the contrary.’
‘And why? We come back to the same old question, Lestrade: what facts have you?’
‘He was the sort,’ said Lestrade. ‘No women friends, indeed, no friends of any sort, apart from Jacobson.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I must echo Holmes and say that this is pretty flimsy stuff, Lestrade. After all, he is not the only man to be indifferent to women,’ I added, with a sidelong glance at Holmes.
‘Well, then,’ said Lestrade, with a touch of desperation, ‘there was his behaviour when the verdict was announced. Jacobson and Clayton were standing side by side, of course, in the dock. And Jacobson looked at Clayton, and he spoke to him. Quietly, of course, but I was there next to him, almost, so I could hear him right enough, and he says, “I’m sorry, Algy, I didn’t mean to tell them”, and guess what Clayton said?’ He paused. ‘Nothing. Never said a word, not even, “Yes, and thanks very much, you little so-and-so!” Now, that would have been understandable, would it not, either way? Innocent or guilty, you might have expected him to be angry, or abusive, something, anything. But no. Not a sign of any emotion. He just looked at Jacobson, with no sign of anything in his eyes. Like a dead cod on a fishmonger’s slab. And that’s when I thought to myself, “Yes, you beggar. You’re guilty all right!”’
‘But you had not thought that before?’ asked Holmes quickly.
Lestrade hesitated. ‘I — that is — yes. Yes, sir, I was sure enough.’
‘And yet you hesitated just now?’
