The Resurrection Fireplace

by Hiroko Minagawa

  When his half-brother Henry Fielding had accepted the post of magistrate, one thing he had firmly declared was that he would never sell justice for money.

  Of course, Henry, also a well-known novelist, could hardly be called a paragon of virtue. He had run wild in his youth; spending freely but refusing to pay any of his numerous debts until a debtor brought suit; involved in duels and elopements; always needing to be the centre of attention… . His critics never lacked for material. There were even rumours of incestuous relations with his younger sister, although Sir John was too widely separated in age from him to have witnessed any such thing himself.

  Nevertheless, Henry had been well loved by many friends. After being commissioned as magistrate, he had stayed true to his pledge, impartial and conscientious in his efforts to maintain the peace in London.

  Sir John Fielding, who had inherited Henry’s position, had in turn stayed true to the principles his brother had adopted.

  But London was still far from safe. Even the owners of fairgrounds had to hire guards to watch over their customers.

  Neither was the odious habit of offering justice to the highest bidder on the wane. Money could sway a jury with ease, and prosecutors and judges alike were known to respond to such incentives. Lawyers also employed unscrupulous means to have black declared white.

  Sir John remembered the way a certain lawyer at the Old Bailey had undermined the testimony of an eyewitness at the murder scene by pointing out someone sitting in the gallery who closely resembled the accused—having located the person in advance and arranged for him to sit there.

  Edward Turner’s mistrust of the courts was not unwarranted.

  To ensure a guilty verdict for Robert Barton, they would need evidence that presented not a sliver of doubt.

  No such evidence existed in the case of Nathan Cullen and Thomas Harrington, but Evans was more promising. If they could arrest and question Robert Barton, they should be able to obtain confessions for the first two murders as well. In any event, the murder of Evans alone would merit the death penalty.

  Were they missing anything? They could not allow a corrupt lawyer to ruin it all in court.

  He thought of the matters that had yet to be resolved.

  First, the scrap of paper Al had found.

  W-36753

  A. Opp…

  What could it mean?

  Both Al and Nigel had known, and both had tried to conceal that knowledge. Moreover, both were so stubborn he doubted they would be more forthcoming under duress. Al had been cooperative otherwise, but regarding the scrap of paper he insisted he knew nothing.

  Could it somehow concern the Professor?

  Al, at least, had no connection with Evans’s death—but he had lied about the paper anyway.

  W-36753 appeared to be some sort of reference number. The number of a preparation? Who had signed it? And why write the date?

  There was one other matter that had yet to be fully explained: Cullen’s letter. That the boy had written it himself had been confirmed. But the ink-stain on it did not match the stain on the pocket that was supposed to have contained it. Where had the letter actually been found? What reason can there have been to lie about such a thing?

  Nor could Sir John fully accept the explanation he had been given for Cullen’s dismemberment. The reason offered for dumping the legs in the Thames, too, seemed plausible perhaps—but the idea of their being discarded because they bore evidence identifying the killer seemed more so.

  What else was there? Ah, yes—Hume’s unnatural manner when he claimed never to had met Nathan Cullen. Even this upright-seeming gentleman—in charge of the Temple Bank, no less—was hiding something.

  There was also Turner’s wound, which seemed likely to have been inflicted on the orders of someone unidentified.

  Who—and why?

  Sir John’s first thought had been that Turner himself had planned the attack in order to exclude himself from suspicion. Perhaps, however, it had actually been to draw the attention of the investigation to Evans’s crimes—to the fact that he was eliminating those with any knowledge of Cullen’s talents.

  Anne’s voice broke into his thoughts unexpectedly. “Wood said that Turner was something of a libertine. Perhaps he was a devotee of cock-fighting, too.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because on hearing the word ‘Cocks,’ he understood it to refer to the Tom Queen at once.”

  “‘Cocks’? Did Abbott not tell Nigel the name of the establishment?”

  “I was remiss in my report, I see. Evans’s message for Robert Barton was the word ‘Cocks,’ nothing more. That was what Abbott had conveyed to Hart. Neither he nor I understood what it meant until we had followed Robert to the Tom Queen ourselves.”

  Chapter 20

  Professor Barton let out a long sigh. He was about to finish a glass of wine when he noticed a visitor at the rear entrance.

  “Al,” he said. “What is it? Ben and Clarence told me about visiting the magistrate, to deliver evidence of Charlie’s gluttony, and you being asked to stay behind. What did he want with you?”

  “He had me accompany him to a pub called the Tom Queen.”

  “What for?”

  “To help with the investigation.”

  “Good! Your ability has been recognized by Sir John himself!”

  “I am not quite sure why he chose me, to be honest.”

  “All my pupils are exceptional. Were you able to be of use to him?”

  “To an extent, I think.”

  “A tribute to you. And yet you sound subdued.”

  “He said that Edward is innocent.”

  “Really!?” Barton rose from his seat. “Why did you not say so at once, man?” he demanded, shaking him by the shoulders.

  “You are treading on Charlie’s tail, sir.”

  He hurriedly moved his foot. Charlie’s eyes conveyed a silent protest at the injustice of it.

  “It was your brother who did the deed. It has become apparent, too, that he had an accomplice.”

  “I see. So Edward and Nigel are both innocent! We must give Edward the news. Come—you must tell us the details. I thought that it might have been Robert. I suppose you found proof in this pub you went to with Sir John.”

  Barton kept talking as he strode up the stairs, until he was stopped at Edward’s door by the constables.

  “We know now that Edward is innocent,” he told them. “You need watch him no longer. Unlock the door.”

  “Not without orders from the magistrate himself,” said one. “Detainees are not allowed visitors.”

  “It is precisely the magistrate’s orders that I am here to convey!”

  “If that were so, you should have a signed document to that effect.”

  Barton cursed them for their obstinacy, then raised his voice and called through the door: “Edward! Can you hear me? You have been declared innocent!”

  “We will unlock the door when ordered to. In the meantime, please hold your peace, sir.”

  “I shall obtain those orders now. Did the magistrate remain at the pub, Al?”

  “No, he went home. Professor, I am sure that Edward’s release will be ordered tomorrow.”

  “Al, I beg you, run to Bow Street and bring Nigel back tonight. As well as orders for Edward’s release. You are faster on your feet than I.”

  “That much is true,” said Al. “I had better go, then.”

  “Be careful. Covent Garden by night is—”

  “A perilous place.”

  After seeing him off at the rear exit again, Barton turned to go back inside, but then decided to head for the magistrate’s office as well. He was too agitated to sit and wait.

  In the faint starlight, he could still see his pupil—but the path he was taking did not lead to Bow Street.r />
  Al kept close to the buildings as he proceeded down a narrow lane. Barton followed him. He felt things squelch beneath his feet. This was the alley behind his own residence, but he seldom if ever had cause to come here.

  Al stopped and crouched to pick up a pebble, then threw it high up to strike the rear window of Edward’s room.

  Edward poked his head out. The deep shadows on his face in the candlelight made him look like someone whose illness had almost been fatal.

  “We need to talk,” Al called.

  “Come up,” Edward replied, leaning out of the window and pointing at something down below. He was weak in both voice and gesture.

  The damned fool, thought Barton. No matter how unpleasant Edward found the surveillance under which he had been placed, he should never have moved that bed. Take better care of yourself!

  A ladder lay on its side in the alley. As Barton watched, one end seemed to rise into the air of its own accord, but it was only an illusion caused by the darkness. A rope was tied to the top rung. The other end of the rope disappeared through the window of the room above, where Edward was using it to pull the ladder up, hand over hand.

  Al helped from below, guiding the thing so that it stood straight, then leaned against the window.

  “Do you often use this exit?” he asked Edward. Barton was interested in the answer himself.

  “From time to time.”

  Al scrambled lightly up the ladder and disappeared.

  As their custodian, Barton felt he should follow. The climb was a trial. Holding the sides with both hands, he trod gingerly on the rungs until he finally arrived at the window himself. It was still wide open, so he could hear the voices inside.

  “What happened to the bed?” That was Al.

  “They kept opening the door to peer in. I pushed the bed against it to block it completely, then moved it back a fraction for Professor Barton’s sake.” Edward.

  What Al said next gave Barton a jolt.

  “Robert’s accomplice was you, then.”

  There was no reply.

  “I know you go to that pawnshop sometimes,” said Al. “Oppenheimer’s.”

  Another silence.

  “Why should someone like you need to pawn anything?” asked Edward.

  “There are things I cannot ask my father to buy.”

  There was a long pause

  “What if I do go to pawnshops?” said Edward.

  “Have you lost any tickets lately?”

  Silence.

  “W for ‘Watch,’” said Al. “Signed by ‘A. Oppenheimer.’ I know that scrawl myself. You mentioned putting your watch in hock, as I remember.”

  He let this sink in, then went on.

  “I found the ticket on the floor in the room next to the one Evans died in. I intended to hide it until I could ask you about it, but Sir John confiscated it. I did not tell him it was a pawn ticket, and neither he nor Miss Moore seemed to guess. I doubt that either of them know the first thing about pawnshops.”

  “What does it matter?” said Edward. “The fact is, I was in that room. I helped Robert escape after he killed Evans.”

  Barton barely kept himself from crying out.

  “They know about the cord. I helped them work it out.”

  “No one ever said you were not sharp-witted.”

  “Did you plan it all with Robert in advance?”

  “No. When I learnt what he was going to do, I went to the room ahead of him and waited.”

  “None of which is good for that wound of yours,” said Al. “Where did Robert escape to?”

  “Here. With me.”

  “What?” Al exclaimed. Barton almost did the same, but fortunately stifled the sound.

  “I hid him in that wardrobe.”

  “And then confessed to murder with Sir John as witness. What made you do something so foolish?”

  “This did.”

  There was another protracted silence.

  Finally, Al whistled. “I am impressed!” he said. “And surprised Robert agreed to write it.”

  “The man insisted that he did not kill Evans, that Evans was already dead when he arrived! Under those circumstances, however, suspicion would inevitably fall on him. I told him that if he wrote and signed this document, I would take the blame instead. He did not like the idea, so I warned him that I knew what he had done to Miss Roughhead—violated her, made her pregnant, then gave her arsenic and made it look like a suicide. ‘I have proof,’ I said, ‘and if you will not sign the document, I shall take my proof straight to the magistrate.’ A bluff, but it worked. Then I went a step further: ‘They strongly suspect you of Harrington’s murder, too. The way our fireplace is made was something you knew about.’ He started making excuses, saying Evans forced him to do it, but in the end he gave in. My offer of taking the blame for him was very tempting, after all. However, he insisted that he would only sign after I was made responsible in public. And for good reason, I suppose. After my false confession to Sir John, and Nigel was taken away, I let him out of the wardrobe and had him sign the papers. Even then, he was reluctant, so I made his situation clear to him. Two constables were right outside the door. If he would not sign, I would call them in to arrest him, retract my confession, and accuse him of Miss Roughhead’s death as well.”

  “The bed was to prevent anyone entering during all this, then”

  “Yes. Robert helped me move it.”

  “And the bruises on your throat?”

  “Second thoughts after he signed.”

  “He tried to strangle you?”

  “When the constables started banging on the door, he gave up, both on choking me and trying to get the papers back, and fled through the window.”

  “Edward!” wailed Barton. “I would never have allowed you to be wrongly punished… .”

  He then tried to climb inside, but slipped.

  “That wound of yours was planned, I think.”

  No, it was not… . I fell… .

  He hurt all over. Where had he fallen from? The ladder.

  As the fog in his head began to clear, he realized that the question had not been addressed to him.

  His circumstances finally became apparent to him. He was lying on the sofa in his own dissection room.

  “It was indeed.” The reply came from Edward.

  But what was Edward doing down here?

  “Why?” asked Al.

  “You already know why.”

  “To make your theory that Evans was eliminating those who might get in his way seem more likely?”

  “Correct.”

  “You overdid things.”

  “The person I hired was clumsy. It was supposed to be a flesh wound.”

  “Who was it?”

  “None of your business.”

  “I am on your side, Edward, come what may. But you can’t sacrifice yourself for Professor Barton’s sake.”

  “Just leave it alone.”

  “It seems to me the more I know, the better. Otherwise, what I do might accidentally work against you. Like your wound—I recorded it in detail, not realizing what you were up to. I suspect this led Sir John to deduce that it was intentional. If I had known, I would not have kept any notes.”

  “It was Peter.”

  “Peter?”

  “The messenger boy outside the Temple Bank.”

  Barton recalled the pimply youth reclining in his battered chair.

  “That was why you pawned your watch.”

  “Very perceptive of you.”

  “You could not have afforded his services otherwise.”

  So that had been who had stabbed Edward. In response, Barton tried to move, but a sharp ache in his lower back brought him to a halt immediately. He groaned.

  “Professor! Please, keep still.
We believe you may have hit your head.”

  “It was my back, actually.”

  “You were heavy. I carried you in myself. Edward is too weak to help.”

  “Thank you.”

  “One would never guess you were the younger brother,” said Edward with a caustic smile.

  “Even with a rope, getting from one window to another is quite a feat,” said Al. He explained how Robert had escaped.

  “Madness,” said Barton. “Edward, you should not be up and about. Back to bed with you.”

  He was prevented from giving a longer lecture by the arrival at a run of one of the officers from upstairs.

  “The accused has escaped through the window!” he announced. “I searched the lane, but found nothing. Mr. Barton, do you know—” Just then he caught sight of the accused on a chair in the room. His jaw dropped open. “Mr. Barton, did you help this man escape?”

  “If escape was his objective, he would hardly be sitting in my dissection room.”

  “Professor Barton tripped and fell in the rear lane,” said Edward innocently. “As his pupil, I felt I should use the ladder to attend to him. What other choice did I have with you blocking the door? But I shall return to my room now. Al, I leave the Professor in your good hands. He has not fractured anything, surely? With luck, a poultice should suffice.”

  Hunched over slightly as he favoured his wound, Edward climbed the stairs. The constables made a point of guarding him as he went, one in front and one behind.

  Chapter 21

  The magistrate had overslept.

  “I shall be absent from this morning’s session in court,” he informed Anne after a rather late breakfast.

  “An excellent idea, Uncle John, after working so late last night. Let us postpone it to the afternoon. I have one item to report: the Roughhead household has requested that Gobbin and Dick be set free. As you will recall, it was Sir Charles who originally brought them to book, but he now says he will drop the charges—on condition that they not say a word of the matter to anyone. He asks us to threaten them with immediate capital punishment should they start any rumours. It would not be difficult to justify. They are both inveterate thieves.”