Let Loose the Dogs

by Maureen Jennings

  Murdoch followed close behind, and they slid into the bench. Murdoch looked around. The room could not in any way be termed majestic with its unadorned walls and plain wooden benches. The best feature was the tall windows that faced onto Adelaide Street on the north side and Toronto Street on the west. There was a new electric light hanging from the ceiling, but it was pale against the sunlight that was coming through the windows. The winter sun was putting in an appearance.

  “Oi, them’s our seats,” boomed somebody behind them. Two men, one of them big and wide-shouldered, were glaring at them. Newcombe was not in the least intimidated. “Finders keepers,” he said, cheerily. The man who had the weather-beaten face of a teamster looked as if he was about to make an issue of it, but fortunately, at that moment a woman on the end of the row stood up and relinquished her place.

  “You can sit here. I’m leaving.”

  “You haven’t heard the verdict yet,” said another spectator.

  She shrugged. “He’ll get off. They always do.”

  With a little angry swish of her skirts, she left.

  “Anybody want to take odds on it? Two to one, Not Guilty,” said one of the men, a sharp-nosed fellow who looked as if he’d make a wager on his own mother’s death hour if somebody would take him up on it.

  “Done,” said another man in front of him. There were no other takers, but a lot of reluctant shuffling as the row made room for the large man who had challenged Newcombe.

  Murdoch was squashed between a stout, rosy-cheeked woman on his left and Newcombe on his right. The woman’s hat was so wide it was virtually brushing his cheek, and he felt sorry for the man seated behind her who, he could see, was bobbing back and forth to peer around her.

  Murdoch had appeared as a witness on a few occasions in the court; and because he knew there was a risk of being recognised, he’d taken the precaution of wearing his brown fedora instead of his Astrakhan cap, and he had it pulled well down over his forehead. His muffler was up around his cheeks. He knew that many of the spectators were regular visitors, especially if the case was sensational, as he gathered this one was. All around him was the same air of anticipation and excitement you’d find at a music hall show just before the curtain went up. Nobody dared spit or break open nuts because of the court constable observing them, but they would have if they could.

  Murdoch pulled off his gloves and wiped his forehead under the brim of his hat. He was already sweating. The courtroom was heated by a large woodstove, and with so many people in their winter clothes, all jammed together, it was stifling. He wasn’t sure he could maintain his cover much longer.

  Newcombe nudged him. “We’re starting,” he said.

  The door at the far end of the room opened, and the clerk of the court entered, a tiny, bespectacled man in sombre black. A tall, shambling sort of man in the black suit and white collar and tie of a barrister followed him.

  “My, oh, my,” exclaimed Newcombe. “Look who it isn’t.” He nodded in the direction of the lawyer. “It’s Mr. Clement himself. He was Harry Murdoch’s counsel.”

  Murdoch’s heart thumped, and he stretched to get a better look at the man. Harry had spoken of him with some contempt, and Murdoch could understand why. Clement’s appearance was not impressive. He was beardless but his side whiskers were long and wispy, and the hair that was dragged across the crown of his head in a futile attempt to hide his baldness was greasy. His black gown didn’t fit him well, as if it were on loan from a shorter man. He took his seat at the lawyers’ table, which faced the jury section, and began to riffle through the papers.

  Unobtrusively, a man came down the centre aisle from the back of the courtroom and stepped into the prisoner’s box, which was next to them. Murdoch assumed this was the accused in the case. He must have been granted bail and was therefore under his own recognisance to show up for his trial. He was a trim-looking man, well-dressed in a dark grey morning suit and sober cravat. In contrast to his counsel, his hair and beard were neat. He was close enough for Murdoch to get a whiff of his pomade.

  The stout woman prodded Murdoch in the ribs with her elbow. “That’s the complainer. The woman in the brown cape.”

  She indicated the bench behind Mr. Clement. The woman was clearly under a strain, fiddling with her hair, repetitiously tucking strands up beneath her wide-brimmed hat. It was rather hard to place her, not quite respectable with a too lavishly beribboned hat, but her clothes were decent enough.

  The door facing them opened yet again and in strode two more barristers. Newcombe thumped Murdoch in his excitement.

  “Bull’s-eye, first time out. It’s him. The one in front. It’s our man White.”

  The teamster heard this of course, and he snorted with the contempt of those in the know for the ignorant.

  “No, it’s not. That’s Mr. Blackstock. He’s the junior defending counsel.”

  Murdoch glanced at Newcombe for confirmation, and the innkeeper nodded. “That’s the one we want all right. No matter what he’s calling himself, there’s no mistake.” The men were seated at the same table.

  “Are he and Clement partners then?”

  The teamster answered for Newcombe. “Yes they are, although Mr. Blackstock senior is the one who does most of the questioning. Sharp as a tack he is. Clement seems half asleep.”

  Newcombe shook his head. “Very strange. There wasn’t a whisker to be seen of Mr. Blackstock cum White at the trial.”

  “What trial are you talking about?” interrupted his neighbour. “I’ve seen most of them. I can’t work because I hurt my back. I come here whenever I can; gives me something to do.”

  Murdoch thought he’d throw some bread on the water and see where it floated.

  “Did you see the case of Regina v. Henry Murdoch? He was charged with the murder of John Delaney up in the Shaftesbury Road ravine this past August. Mr. Clement was his defence counsel.”

  “Murdoch? Is he a tall scrawny fellow, no hair on his head to speak of? Glum looking?”

  “Yes, I suppose that would describe him,” said Murdoch.

  “I did watch that case.” He stared at the innkeeper. “Hey, now that I take a closer gander at you, you were one of the witnesses. You’re a publican.” He tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. “I never forget a face.”

  “Yes, that’s me, Vincent Newcombe. And who are you?”

  “George Rogerson, at your service. And who’s your friend?”

  “Williams,” answered Murdoch.

  “Have we met before? You look familiar as well. Were you a witness?”

  “No, I don’t think we’ve met. I hear that all the time. I must have a common sort of mug.”

  They shook hands all round.

  “Why were you asking after the Murdoch case?”

  “Just curious. I understand there was doubt as to whether he was guilty or not.”

  Rogerson shrugged. “Don’t know where you get that from. Open and shut. I prefer a case that’s got a bit of drama to it. You know, is this poor man wrongfully accused? Yes he is, no he isn’t, well make up your mind because there’s a rope necklace to be fitted. But that fellow was a goner from the start. Got himself drunk as a lord then bashed the man he thought had cheated him. Mark my words, it happens all the time. He should have pleaded manslaughter. He’d have got a lighter sentence.”

  Murdoch felt an unreasonable desire to knock the knowing look off Mr. Rogerson’s face.

  “Did Mr. Clement do a good job, would you say?”

  “Not bad considering he didn’t have much to work with. But the prosecutor was better. A Mr. Greene. He’ll go far, that young man. Hungry as a shark for advancement. And jurors respect him. Don’t talk down to them or get too familiar. Mr. Clement mumbles, which in my opinion is bad for a barrister. Makes you think he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  Mr. Blackstock alias White was at the prisoner’s box talking to his client. He was medium height, young to be a barrister, with dark, full hair and a
luxuriant moustache. He ignored the spectators as if they didn’t exist, shook hands with the defendant, and sat down beside Mr. Clement. Murdoch knew Newcombe was not mistaken. Blackstock fitted the description Harry had given him. He could not mask his own air of confidence and privilege. He was a swell, there was no doubt about it.

  Suddenly, responding to some signal Murdoch could not detect, the clerk of the court picked up a bell from the table and rang it with vigour.

  “Oyez, oyez, oyez. All rise. The court is now in session, His Honour, Mr. Justice Falconbridge, presiding.”

  With much shuffling, the spectators got to their feet as in swept the judge, an imposing figure in his long, black robe. He mounted the steps to the judge’s bench, which was on a raised platform. Here he paused, surveyed the courtroom, nodded, and sat down.

  The clerk called out. “You may be seated.”

  More shuffling as everybody sat down; Murdoch was squashed even more against his neighbour as the spectators on his bench seized their opportunity to make more room for themselves. The judge indicated to the clerk that he could call the jury, and they soon filed in, thirteen men. All of them were neatly turned out, and Murdoch surmised they were predominantly merchants, one or two might even have been professional men. The counsel for the defence had done well by himself with this jury. They took their places in the jury section, which was on Falconbridge’s left-hand side at right angles to the spectators.

  The clerk had the commanding manner of the officious. “Foreman of the jury, please stand. Have you collectively reached a verdict?”

  “We have.”

  “And will you therefore speak for your fellow jurors. What is that verdict? Do you find the accused guilty or not guilty of the crime of rape?”

  The foreman smiled. “We find the accused to be not guilty.”

  There was an outburst of chatter in the court, which the judge immediately suppressed by hammering with his gavel. From the noise, however, Murdoch assumed this was a popular verdict. The man in the prisoner’s box actually gave a little wave of his hand in acknowledgement. However, Murdoch saw how the woman responded as if she had been slapped. Then she stood up slowly. There was a man in the first row of onlookers, and he came forward and took her arm. He did not comfort her, nor did she ask for comfort. She looked over at her own barrister, who said something to her then turned back to gather up his papers. She began to walk down the aisle toward the rear doors. Murdoch had the impression that if it was not a court of law, many of the men watching would have been jeering and shouting at her.

  “What was she charging him with?” he asked Rogerson.

  “Carnal knowledge. He’s a doctor and she says he fiddled with her when she was being examined.”

  “And?”

  The man tugged at the ends of his moustache. “Mebbe he did, but why’s she bringing it out in public I want to know? If she was my wife, I wouldn’t countenance it. Disgrace to the family. And look what happened. He got off. You can’t charge a doctor and expect it to stick. She was worse than foolish to even try.”

  There was quite a crowd around the doctor congratulating him, but Murdoch saw the younger Blackstock was walking towards the rear door.

  “Come on, Vincent, let’s go and have a word with Mr. White.”

  “I told you, his name’s Blackstock,” said their neighbour.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  MURDOCH WASN’T SURE HOW he was going to be granted access to Blackstock without admitting to the court clerk, and therefore to Newcombe, who he really was. Fortunately, a well-wisher was delaying the barrister in the courtroom, and by ruthlessly shoving through the crowd Murdoch was able to get close, Newcombe right behind him.

  “Mr. Blackstock, a word if you please.”

  The young man halted. He looked at Murdoch politely enough, ready for more congratulations, but then he saw Newcombe and an expression of utter alarm flitted across his face. Murdoch seized his chance and stuck out his hand.

  “My name is Williams.” He nodded over his shoulder. “I believe you already know Mr. Newcombe. I wondered if we could have a word in private.”

  Blackstock returned his handshake reluctantly and gave Newcombe a brief acknowledgement. The transparency of his thoughts was almost laughable. He was considering denying all knowledge of the innkeeper, refusing an audience to them, and vanishing into his chambers. This was swiftly followed by the realisation that Newcombe must know who he was and was seeking him out for a reason. Not a benign reason, if his nervousness was any indication.

  “Yes, of course. Come this way to my chambers. Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.”

  This last remark was to one more well-wisher. They were acting as if the Blackstocks had won a championship of some kind instead of the dubious victory of prejudice over truth. Murdoch was happy to follow him through the door into the calm of the adjoining hall.

  “I’m in here,” he said, indicating the door to the right. They followed him into the room.

  Mr. Clement either had a different chamber or was still being detained in the courtroom because, to Murdoch’s relief, he wasn’t present. Like the courtroom itself, the chamber was plain. No fancy panelling or lush curtains here. The floor was planked, the fireplace small and meagre, and the window was covered with a beige Holland blind. A single table sat in the corner, and a weather-beaten bookcase, crammed with papers, was beside the door. There were two armchairs, both in worse condition than the one Murdoch had in his own cubicle at the station.

  Blackstock took refuge behind the table, waving at them to sit down. He opened a wooden box and took out a cigar. As an afterthought, he offered the box to the two men.

  “No, thank you,” said Murdoch, but Newcombe accepted eagerly.

  “What can I do for you, Mr., er, Williams?” He didn’t look at Murdoch but busied himself with the ritual of clipping his cigar and lighting it. Newcombe did the same, and the air quickly filled with aromatic smoke.

  “I understand you were present at a ratting match after which one of the participants, John Delaney, was found dead in the creek.”

  “Oh, you do so understand, do you? And who told you that?” Even now he could not totally forsake his barrister’s attitudes.

  “I did, sir,” interjected Newcombe. “We came here to find a Mr. White, and we found a Mr. Blackstock. But you are one and the same, unless you perchance have a double.”

  He chuckled and Blackstock smiled nervously. “No, not that I know of.”

  Suddenly, he pulled out a red silk handkerchief from his inner pocket and wiped his forehead. “As you see, I am one and the same.”

  “Why did you not come forward, sir?” asked Murdoch. “The police put out advertisements for you. A man was charged with the murder.”

  “Right. As a matter of fact I never saw any such advertisements. I did read about the murder, shocking thing that, but the murderer was apprehended immediately so I saw no reason why I would be needed.”

  “It was a criminal case, Mr. Blackstock.”

  “I do realise that, but as I say, it seemed no concern of mine.”

  Again there was the hurried mopping of the forehead, and Murdoch saw it was no mere ritual. Blackstock was sweating profusely. Suddenly he seemed to realise what Murdoch was doing, and he scowled. “Why are you here? By what authority do you ask me such questions?”

  Murdoch hesitated but Newcombe gave him a reprieve. “Mr. Williams has been hired by the family of the accused man to do a further investigation – to make absolutely certain that justice has been served.”

  “What are you talking about? There wasn’t a shadow of a doubt. I, myself, saw the bad feelings between Harry Murdoch and John Delaney.”

  Murdoch interjected. “You’re a man of the law, Mr. Blackstock, yet you deliberately ignore a plea for your witness in a murder case. I find that reprehensible.”

  “I told you, I didn’t know anything about it.”

  “And yet your own partner was the defending counsel. Accord
ing to Harry Murdoch, he offered to take on the case, pro bono. I should say that normally you would only take a case that pays well, like the doctor today. Why did you agree to defend somebody who had no money at all?”

  “Clement and I don’t discuss everything. We work independently. If he wants to work for charity, it’s up to him.”

  Blackstock was sitting very still staring at Murdoch, a lamb watching the wolf circling.

  “Isn’t it more likely that you instructed him to take the case so you could keep close tabs on what was happening? Clement is not a particularly good lawyer. Is that why you had him take the case? So that the accused man would not get off?”

  Blackstock pushed his chair away from the desk, as far from Murdoch as he could.

  “That is preposterous. I really do insist you leave, sir. This entire harangue is an insult.”

  “An insult doesn’t measure up to the damage of a hanging, Mr. Blackstock. You can feel as indignant as you want, but you are not the one who will be dead before the week is out, insulted or not.”

  Murdoch could feel his own anger was barely in check. He’d actually spat, and there was a glistening dot of spittle on Blackstock’s chin. Newcombe intervened.

  “Gentlemen, I think we need to discuss this matter more calmly. Perhaps Mr. White, I mean, Mr. Blackstock, knowing the gravity and urgency of the matter, would be willing to make a statement, in confidence as it were.”

  Perhaps because he saw the innkeeper as his inferior, Blackstock managed to find some dignity again. He wiped his chin.

  “I repeat, I have nothing to add that would at all change the verdict of the case.”

  “Unless it was a confession,” said Murdoch.

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “Exactly that. You yourself could easily have murdered Delaney.”

  “What utter nonsense.” Blackstock picked up a silver bell that was on his desk. “I’m not going to listen to this. I shall have you removed at once, sir.”

  Before he could shake the bell, if that was really his intention, Murdoch leaned over and grabbed his hand.