by Greg Pyers
THE ALBERT HOTEL ACROSS the street had been a favourite lunch venue of Otto’s on the occasions when he appeared in court. It was also a regular haunt of Pearson Thompson’s, so Otto’s decision to dine there this day wasn’t entirely without design. He ordered corned beef and salad, and found a table by a window overlooking the Court House. He didn’t see Thompson emerge from his meeting, but the man was true to his habits anyway, and came in.
The dining area was too small for patrons to escape the notice of their fellows, and the detective and lawyer nodded to each other in mutual recognition. Otto stayed busy with his food; Thompson, with a waitress. He was chatting easily with her, encouraged by her coquettish looks and chuckles. As was the barrister’s predilection, she was young, and with the kind of innocent muliebrity to which vain men of mature years readily fall captive. They finished their intercourse with what looked like Thompson’s relating of an amusing anecdote before she disappeared through to the kitchen, and he looked about for a free table. Catching his eye, Otto invited him to his. Thompson came over.
‘Berliner,’ he said, offering his hand.
‘Thompson.’ They shook, Thompson as limp-wristed as Otto remembered.
Thompson sat and smoothed his moustache with a parting of thumb and forefinger.
‘I didn’t expect to see you up here. I thought you were going private?’
‘I am, but until the office opens I remain a public servant.’
‘Well, old man, public or private, Nicolson tells me your sleuthing came through.’
Otto affected not to be appreciative of the compliment, lest it appear he was surprised by it.
‘Not that it did my client any good,’ Thompson added.
The purpose of the meeting with the magistrate and superintendent was now clear to Otto.
‘Drummond turned your application down?’
‘Only because Nicolson objected to it.’
‘This is no surprise.’
‘No, Nicolson wants to keep both suspects detained because he has nothing but circumstantial evidence against Rose, and Bonetti has not explained himself — neither his whereabouts on the night, nor the blood on his clothing, though he did say it was sheep’s blood. But how can anyone tell?’
‘Bonetti has no alibi?’
‘He has, but won’t say. The man’s a fool.’
‘A married woman, then.’
‘Of course. And no, Bonetti does not want her to come forward.’
‘Once more, this is no surprise; her husband will be embarrassed, and she will be disgraced and without means.’
‘That’s about the size of it.’
‘Does Sergeant Telford know what his wife’s been doing?’
‘Good God! How do you know — ?’
‘Bonetti built the new extension to Telford’s quarters at the Police Camp, and it is not unknown that very red blood flows through Mrs Telford’s veins. So it seems to me the man had what I call motive and opportunity. And, by the way, I didn’t know — until you just confirmed it.’
Thompson seemed impressed, if not irritated. ‘Well, I didn’t actually tell you.’ His sausage and mash was set down by the woman he’d been speaking to earlier. He smiled at her. ‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said, with a light touch on her forearm. She smiled and left.
‘Lola,’ Thompson said, leaving it for Otto to interpret in whichever direction he chose. He loaded his fork. ‘With Rose remanded, Bonetti was assuming he’d be a free man. And I think it’s a reasonable assumption; they can’t both be guilty. It’s an indictment of police competence and an affront to justice. But I’m wasting my breath telling you.’ Thompson’s mood had soured. Otto resented the implication; he had his own differences with his colleagues, but he wasn’t about to sympathise with a defence counsel’s beef. He watched Thompson chew, reload his fork, and then point it at him as he spoke.
‘Bonetti’s innocent, Berliner. That’s undeniable. The irony is, I think I want him released more than he does!’
‘So you can represent Rose, I take it.’
Thompson paused his eating.
‘I really hadn’t thought of that. It has some appeal to a man at the twilight of a long career. Straightforward, undemanding —’
‘Payment government-guaranteed.’
‘No expectation of victory.’
‘You think Rose is guilty?’
Thompson chuckled. He shrugged.
‘Let’s say that if he hangs, no one’s going to be surprised, or grieved!’
‘What shall you do about Bonetti?’
Thompson smiled. ‘Goodness me, Berliner, I thought that would have been obvious. I shall have a little chat with Mrs Telford, of course.’
WITH AN HOUR AND a half to while away before the coach, Otto thought to take himself on a walk through town, to see who was about — in particular, a fellow who had arrived in Daylesford well after he himself had left, and whose involvement in the murder investigation was to Otto as fascinating as it was revolutionary. At the bottom of Albert Street, in Burke Square, just past Doctor Doolittle’s consulting rooms and Tognini’s Hotel, Otto found the man’s premises: The London Portrait Gallery. He entered to a tinkling of a bell and a warm greeting from the proprietor. On first impression, he was a man of disarming manner.
‘Good afternoon, Sir. Thomas Chuck,’ he said, and offered his hand.
Otto accepted it and they shook. ‘Otto Berliner,’ he said.
‘Detective Otto Berliner?’
‘Yes.’
‘I had heard one of Daylesford’s finest was returning,’ the photographer said.
‘Only for a day, Mr Chuck.’
‘And it proved that a day was all that was required.’
Otto smiled. How gratifying it was to hear that one’s abilities were appreciated, admired even.
‘I saw your photographs, Mr Chuck. Who would have thought that Daylesford, of all places, would be at the forefront of crime photography? An exciting future, I think.’
‘Maybe, but I think I shall keep to landscapes and portraits.’
‘No challenge when your subject keeps so still, I suppose.’
Chuck forced a faint smile, and Otto was immediately appalled at his making light. He hastened to atone.
‘Tell me, Mr Chuck, you took two photographs?’
‘I was asked to take two.’
‘By whom?’
‘Detective Walker. He wanted one of the deceased on her bed, and one of the locality.’
‘Well, you’re clearly a master of the craft.’
‘Thank you. I wonder, though, Detective, how much use they are.’
‘To which side: prosecution or defence?’
‘To the side of justice.’
The answer took Otto by surprise, and agreeably so. Here was a fellow he could grow to like very much.
‘Quite right. Anyway, I’m no longer part of the investigation; it’s back to Melbourne for me now. I plan to leave the police department this year, to begin my own practice.’
‘In that case, may I ask what you think of David Rose?’
Otto thought a moment. A glib reply would be an insult to this man of manifest compassion and integrity. ‘I think only that he’s a man, and a man no less deserving of justice than any other.’
‘And you think he will get justice?’
‘It pains me to say, Mr Chuck, that from what I’ve seen so far, I don’t know. It was a horrible crime, and people want to unleash their anger over it. It would be easy to believe that whoever killed Mrs Stuart is a creature not like the rest of us.’
In the softening of his face, Chuck conveyed his acknowledgement of the honesty of the observation. And then he hung his head.
‘I’m sorry. That scene at Stuart’s. It was … the smell, the flies. So many flies. I’ll never forget it.’
>
‘No. Dreadful.’
‘I keep imagining that poor woman’s last thoughts.’ He pressed fingertips into his forehead and made his scalp white. He looked up, and Otto saw that his eyes had reddened. ‘I saw David Rose yesterday, when he was brought in. I had to go, to see for myself what kind of a man would do that to a beautiful young woman. I shouldn’t have gone. It was horrifying, shameful, to be one of the mob.’
‘Rose might well be the murderer, Mr Chuck. People are angry.’
‘Yes, but do they want revenge more than they want justice?’
The two men were silent in a moment of mutual understanding. The tension in Chuck’s face eased.
‘I’m glad to have met you, Detective Berliner.’
Otto smiled and turned for the door, and then thought of something. ‘If you were so inclined to share your thoughts further, you might write to me. Or if ever you’re in Melbourne, we may meet over lunch perhaps. I’d be delighted to learn more about photography. It would seem to have great application in my profession. You do come to Melbourne?’
‘On occasion. And thank you, Detective Berliner, I shall certainly write.’
‘Please, it’s Otto.’
‘Tom.’
THE FORESTS TO THE east of Daylesford flashed by in shadows and shafts of light. A crowded coach of ten passengers it was for the return journey to Malmsbury, and on a trying road Otto was glad of a window seat for the support the chassis afforded. He had expected also to be glad to be heading home; instead, he was troubled. Why had he accepted Nicolson’s request, he wondered? He had nothing to prove; his record of achievement was already legendary: the Tibbets and La Franchi murders, the forgeries, the burglaries … so many crimes, so many plaudits in the press, and official reports for ‘skill and zeal’ in bringing perpetrators to book. That Nicolson made the request ought to have been ample affirmation. What need was there to demonstrate to former colleagues his prowess yet again? None, of course, and now he was left with an uneasiness that he been compromised. Yes, thanks to him, a man had been apprehended, but Otto had simply been a bloodhound, brought in to sniff out a suspect and then to be sent home to his kennel. This wasn’t how a good detective worked! It certainly wasn’t how he worked. Alas, he despaired that his colleagues, however inept, did not share his assiduity, nor even subscribe to it.
What evidence was there against this David Rose? Against Serafino Bonetti? What evidence had been missed, contaminated, destroyed? What other suspects had been overlooked? What investigations were underway? It was an indictment of his fellows that he should have so little confidence in their abilities — but worse, he feared, an indictment of himself that he would suspend his standards for cheap vanity.
On the upside of the ledger, and there usually was an upside if he cared to look for one, was making the acquaintance of Tom Chuck. Yes, Otto thought, it had been a brief meeting, but he was sure he’d met a man of like mind there, a man of integrity, a man he could trust.
17
THURSDAY 26th JANUARY
BUSH FLIES WERE AT their summer height. They rose in clouds from street dung, and dispersed to lips, eyes, sweaty backs, and sugar bowls. A month before, they had gathered on Maggie Stuart’s corpse, animating it with their ceaseless scuttling and swirling. For nearly two days they feasted and reproduced on her bloating body, until it was denied them. And then, when the police turned their backs, the human scavengers arrived in their stead.
Daylesford remained excited by December’s tragedy but on edge no longer, now that David Rose was locked away. No one had seriously considered Serafino Bonetti to be the killer; he was that attractive and polite young man who worked at Colanchini’s Bakery in Vincent Street, who did the odd bit of carpentry and repairs on the side. And if he was the killer, why would the police have been expending so much effort in finding this other fellow? Even Detective Berliner had been called up from Melbourne to assist in the hunt; that’s how determined they were to bring Rose in, so the thinking went. And the reports from those who’d actually seen the man were hardly favourable — and most damning were the testimonies at the inquest, widely reported in the press and on the street.
All this, Pearson Thompson gathered, explained why Bonetti was in a quietly optimistic humour on this morning that he’d come to visit his client. But after his protracted resistance to sound advice, it was time the young fornicator sobered up.
‘Mr Bonetti. Serafino, my friend, surely enough is enough. He …’ Thompson pointed a finger over his shoulder to the adjoining cell, ‘has been there for more than two weeks now, yet you’re still here. Why? Because they have nothing on him but hearsay and prejudice. You, however, have blood-soaked clothes and no alibi. Except of course, you do have an alibi, and I have been remiss in my obligation to you not to reveal it to the police. Remember, your welfare is my concern — the honour of a lady is not.’
‘You’ve told the police?’ Thompson detected no particular note of annoyance in Bonetti’s tone. He supposed the poor fellow really had had enough of all this silly gallantry.
‘No, I haven’t. But I’ve taken it upon myself to let your lady friend know my views. So you can either tell the magistrate yourself, or leave it to her. Of course, I made it clear to her that, unlike yours, her word wouldn’t be doubted.’
Melbourne Argus
Telegraphic Despatches
Daylesford, 27th January
Serafino Bonetti, the suspected murderer of Mrs Stuart, was brought up at the Police Court this morning and discharged. Superintendent Reid explained that his detention had arisen from the untruthful and unsatisfactory nature of the alibi set up by the prisoner. It appears that the prisoner, on the night of the murder, was engaged in an intrigue, and had prevaricated in his answers to police in order to shield the woman’s reputation.
Otto Berliner put down his newspaper and considered the implications of this report. Bonetti had been in custody for over two weeks since Rose’s apprehension. The case against Rose was weak, of course, and remained just as weak now; Bonetti’s release not being due to evidence against Rose. The difference that Bonetti’s release made was the urgent need now for the police to make the case against Rose strong, to find evidence that was substantial, beyond the circumstantial case that had put him in gaol and kept him there almost a month. This ought not be enough for him to be held any longer, let alone for him to be hanged. Otto intended, was determined — compelled — to stay au courant with developments in Daylesford. He was, after all, entitled to regard himself as part of the ongoing investigation, even if his talents were currently and officially being applied to solving city crime. He thought to write to Tom Chuck, if only to let the man know that he’d been sincere in his wish to correspond.
18
TUESDAY 7th FEBRUARY
SOLICITOR JAMES GEAKE WAS all smiles and reassurances. Clients, he reckoned, particularly those on remand in dark cells, wanted counsel that raised their hopes. Dashing hopes was the prerogative of judges. With his loose-fitting suit and untidy brown hair, his physical presentation wasn’t the key in inspiring confidence — it was all in the talk.
Constable Dawson opened the cell door and let the lawyer through.
‘Mr Rose — James Geake.’ He extended his right hand, which Rose took for the duration of a single shake. ‘Thank you, Mr Rose, for taking the opportunity to speak with me … my God, isn’t it dark in here!’
Rose wasn’t in the mood for chit-chat, that was clear, so Geake suspended it.
‘Look, Mr Rose. David. The police have had you in here for, what, four weeks now? Three remands, and still no trial date has been set. It really is most unsatisfactory. But on the bright side, it tells me the case against you is built on the flimsiest of foundations. And what’s more heartening is that you’ve considerable support in the local community, and further afield — a lot of sympathy. People are saying, if there’s evidence, Mr Magistrate,
for pity’s sake, put the poor man on trial. If not, let him go!’
Geake shook his head and threw his hands up in disbelief at the manifestly unjust treatment of his client. When Rose sat there, indifferent to all this brightness and buoyancy, Geake’s eyes faltered. They swept about the cell, and back to the dark and brooding face looking back.
‘I’m sure you’re hoping that this time the magistrate sees sense.’
David Rose made no remark, and gave no expression.
‘Nonetheless, Mr Rose, as I’ve just said, you’ve had three remand hearings so far for no good result, so my advice is that you need legal representation.’
‘I didn’t kill the woman.’
‘That’s what you say, and I don’t doubt your word is true. But if, heaven forbid, you are committed for trial today, you will need a barrister in court. My firm recommendation is Mr Pearson Thompson, a man who once worked in chambers at Lincoln’s Inn. That’s in London. And, I hasten to add, if you are not in a position to pay, the government has funds set aside for such cases as yours.’
David Rose made no response. There had been times like this in his life, times when he had been locked up at the pleasure of authority, and he had found there was nothing to be done about it. He would get what the judge decided he would get, whatever the likes of this James Geake and his barrister friend said.
‘If things don’t go well for you today, Mr Rose — and I mean if — and you are committed for trial, Mr Thompson and I would do our utmost as your legal counsel. I say that to give you some comfort in this difficult time.’
