by Greg Pyers
‘I’m not making things up!’ Rose’s voice was loud; Crawford looked about and held up his hands for calm.
‘David, please.’
Rose turned away, and pressed his forehead against the sandstone wall. Crawford came up by his shoulder and placed a hand on it.
‘David, many people will read your letter. But now I implore you — I beg you — please, you must prepare for the hereafter —’
Rose turned. His face was hard, his eyes wide and restless. Crawford shrunk back.
‘Why, padre? There is no day named for hanging.’
‘No, but it will come.’
‘No! I want to say more. I want them to know the lies of Michael Wolf.’
Crawford looked into the eyes of a desperate, deluded man. He weighed the situation, and relented.
‘Very well, David. I will take another letter today, but it will be the last. So mind you take care to say all you wish to say.’
78 ELIZABETH STREET, MELBOURNE
OTTO BERLINER RETURNED HOME, feeling more than a little self-congratulatory. In fact, given how pleased he was with his progress in Auckland, he made a mental note that some humility ought to attend any reporting of developments, lest he be seen as smug. Still, there was no denying he’d been well received across the Tasman Sea, and this could only encourage the view among potential clients that the service he would be offering had broad appeal and imprimatur. There could be no doubt that he had made the right decision, that his Private Inquiry Office should not solely be a Melbourne — or Victorian — enterprise; it should have, right from its inception, agencies far and wide. A branch office would open in Sydney within months, and soon thereafter, agencies in all Australian colonies, and New Zealand of course. In time, he had no doubt, connections would be made in the largest cities of the world. Even sooner, though, would be his retirement from the Detective Department. That day was fast approaching, as the demands of establishing a fledgling business were growing.
Right now though, he was in the mood for celebrating, but not in the fashionable way. For Otto, celebration meant sitting and reading or taking a bath. He might go out for coffee and cake, or take a walk through the Botanic Gardens, or see a play. To Otto, there was no greater reward than the freedom to enjoy solitary pursuits. Nonetheless, even this didn’t come simply to him; it was always easier to get back to work, to tell himself he hadn’t quite done enough to earn his treat. He was sure he cherished his visits to Linden’s Gentlemen’s Salon in large part because he had no choice but to submit to the pleasure of the enforced hiatus in the barber’s chair.
Some time after three, Otto entered his rooms on the first floor to find that the mail box which hung on the inside of the door was full. Among various items of official correspondence was a letter from his sister, Helga, and another from Tom Chuck. Otto hadn’t forgotten the David Rose case; word of the verdict had reached him in New Zealand. As for the details, it was to be his recreation to catch up on newspaper reports just as soon as he was settled at home. But now these letters, of course, took precedence.
First, his sister. Helga was his junior by a year, and lived in Sydney, as she had since the family came out in 1848. She was widowed, and a homebody who, in Otto’s opinion, seemed to have redirected her frustrated wifely instincts to the care of their frail mother, and thank heaven for it, because that would be no easy assignment. Sending money each month was Otto’s side of the contract, and he never once failed to honour it. This made it all the more irritating to him that Helga should still be soliciting — however subtly — his return to Sydney. ‘Mother misses you,’ was a regular example, and there it was again, an unnecessary remark in a letter of otherwise welcome news and gossip. Perhaps, though, he was being too harsh; once the office was up and running, and the Sydney branch open, it would be a good time to pay a visit. He put Helga’s letter aside and opened Chuck’s, which had arrived almost a month ago. It was brief, no more than a paragraph, which made finding out the subject of it all the more tantalising.
July 28th 1865
Dear Otto,
I have this very minute come from court to my hotel room in Castlemaine. If you are returned from New Zealand I expect you will have learned of the probable fate of David Rose and if so, you may be assuming that evidence was forthcoming that precluded any verdict other than guilty. However, in all good conscience, and despite my ignorance in court matters, I am deeply troubled that an innocent man may be sent to his death. I take some courage that I am not alone in my view. Some comment in the press has pointed to inadequacies in the prosecution’s case. That said, I feel that I should very much like to share my concerns with you.
Tom
Otto walked to his window. Rain was herding Elizabeth Street pedestrians to the shelter of verandas, leaving the roadway to horses and carriages, and to caped drivers perched glumly on their seats. In a matter of days, surely, David Rose would be dead. Otto remembered reading the grim news of the guilty verdict and casually assuming, as Tom’s letter suggested he would, that evidence must have been presented which put the matter beyond doubt. It was the easiest, most convenient conclusion. But now, this letter. Tom Chuck was no fool. If Tom had misgivings, they wouldn’t be baseless. Could it really be that a pipe had condemned Rose? Otto recalled mention of the police finding a shirt —
He glanced up at the clock. Four p.m. It was too late now, but yes, tomorrow he would go to Daylesford. This matter, he decided, simply could not be ignored, not for another day; the execution order from the governor could not be far off. Of course, he gave himself a mild rebuke for thinking it, but an opportunity was not to be missed to demonstrate the superior detective skills his private inquiry office would bring to bear, should he be successful in saving Rose from the gallows. And yet there was another reason — one that was suddenly barking on the periphery of his thinking, like a dog at a fence. He wanted to ignore it, but it was real: a feeling of guilt and perhaps worse, of self-doubt, that it was he who had brought in the wrong man.
WEDNESDAY 16th AUGUST
DAVID ROSE SNATCHED THE newspaper as soon as Crawford entered the cell.
‘It’s in here?’
‘Yes, David. They published your letter. Your second letter in two days. I was surprised they —’ Crawford checked himself, but Rose’s attention was with the page, scanning the print for familiar words. He let out a chuckle and began to pant, excited, as if the printed word leant his words an authority that could not be denied. He looked up from the page, listening for an angry populace at the gates demanding his release. He turned a demanding gaze on Crawford.
‘It’s all here, as I spoke it?’
‘Every word. David —’
‘That I heard about the murder when I was at Blanket Flat, that I never told Michael Wolf that a razor cut the woman’s throat, that I didn’t say that was the price of her?’
‘Yes, David. Everything you told me.’ Everything your counsel should have made clear at the trial but didn’t, he thought to say.
Rose settled. He nodded. With a deep breath and a swallow, he brought his breathing down. He seemed satisfied, at last. Crawford was relieved, for he had grave news. He seized his chance to break it.
‘David, please, can you look at me?’ Rose obliged, and Crawford sensed that the man had more than an inkling of what he was about to be told. However slightly, it eased the burden. He could not have been more mistaken. ‘David, it falls to me, this solemn duty, to tell you that Governor Darling yesterday signed your death warrant —’
‘No! No! No!’ The news set Rose alight with rage. He hammered his fists against the wall and bawled to the ceiling. Crawford decided to press on; there was no imparting this gently, for Rose or for himself. ‘You are to be hanged next Monday morning, the 21st of August, at ten o’clock. David, I am deeply sorry to bring you such word. I do entreat you to calm yourself.’ This was a forlorn hope. David Rose was in a
world of demons: distressed, outraged, unreachable.
‘They cannot fucking hang me! I want to see the governor! I fucking will see the governor!’
‘Come, David, let us pray together.’ Crawford held out a hand and ventured towards the condemned man. Rose snarled and turned away.
‘David, let us pray to God to give you strength, so that you may come to Him with your conscience unburdened.’
Rose was tearing at his hair and beard. He screeched. The flap opened; Crawford waved the turnkey away.
‘I implore you, David. Your letters have spoken to the people. Now is the time to speak to God. Let his everlasting love comfort you and bring you strength … Please, David, let us pray together.’
Rose stopped his pacing. For the moment, he was composed. ‘There is no need to pray. Don’t you see?’ He held up the newspaper. ‘God has already answered.’
OTTO ALIGHTED FROM THE coach in front of Jamison’s Hotel in Wills Square at 5.00 p.m. ‘My God, this weather!’ he muttered as he was reminded of how miserable a Daylesford winter’s day could be. And it wasn’t just the bite of the windblown mist, or the murky air, that affronted him: there was the mud, too. The rich volcanic soil that summer winds whipped up in eddies of red dust had been transformed by winter’s heavy rain to a wet plaster that bespattered hems and horses, and caked the undersides of vehicles. It so clumped to itself, and to anything that might come in contact with it, that crossing the street turned a man’s shoes into clods.
Fortunately, Otto had no need to venture from the kerb — not for now, at least — for he would be staying at the Albert Hotel, on this side of the road. This did, however, necessitate a walk of two hundred yards through the rain along a densely puddled footpath. He drew his scarf up across his face and set out for what he expected would be a warm room, a hot meal, and, after reading the newspaper reports he had brought with him, a sound sleep. Tomorrow, there was much to be done.
25
THURSDAY 17th AUGUST
FOUR DAYS BEFORE THE DAY OF EXECUTION
DAVID ROSE STOOD AGAINST the wall outside his cell. Gaol governor John McEwen took a few moments to run a narrow eye over his prisoner. A turnkey stood by with Archdeacon Crawford.
‘You’ve been very disruptive, prisoner Rose,’ McEwen said, his voice soft, his manner unruffled. ‘Making all your demands. Well, you wanted to see the governor, so here I am.’
A lengthy look was exchanged between McEwen and his charge, each knowing that of course it was the governor of the colony Rose had meant, and each knowing that this was a demand that wouldn’t be met.
‘I want more food,’ Rose said. ‘And I want brandy. Or wine.’
McEwen wore a wry grin at the temerity.
‘I’m not indifferent to your circumstances, prisoner Rose. Nor am I heartless. I will grant you additional food, on the condition that you conduct yourself with good behaviour. There will be no grog. In the few days you have remaining, I suggest you turn your mind to preparing to meet your maker. Any further disruption from you will not be tolerated. Good day to you.’
EIGHT O’CLOCK TO OTTO didn’t seem too early in the morning to arrive unannounced at the London Portrait Gallery. As it happened, given the warmth of Tom Chuck’s reception, he might have turned up before daybreak and been just as welcome. The man was positively effervescent at Otto’s appearance, and all the more so coming hard upon the news yesterday of Rose’s execution date.
‘He has been so troubled,’ Adeline confided when her husband stepped out of the sitting room to hang the ‘closed’ sign in the front window. ‘He saw that poor woman, lying there horribly mutilated, but when he saw that wretched man brought in, he felt not angry, only desperately sorry for him. He had hoped the trial would prove the arrest correct, that the monster had been caught —’
Otto was nodding. ‘Now he’s sure that David Rose is an innocent man — or, at least, a man who has not had justice.’
‘Yes. Yes, this is why he is so glad you’ve come. He trusts you, Mr Berliner. He knows you understand the ways of the law.’
Otto nodded, sagely. ‘He’s a very compassionate man, your husband, but he must know that he is not responsible for the shortcomings and inadequacies of others.’
‘But he does have such doubt about his own judgement. He asks, surely the jury and the judge and the police can’t all be wrong? Surely, they must know better than he?’
‘The short answer, Mrs Chuck, is yes, they can be wrong; so, yes, Tom may well know better. I tell you with no false modesty, Mrs Chuck, that I am often right when my colleagues are wrong.’
Adeline looked at him in a way that had him wondering whether he might have sounded a little too self-assured. Quickly, he added, ‘In seeking justice for Mrs Stuart, many have been blind to injustice to Mr Rose. Not Tom, which is to his eternal credit.’
Tom was in the doorway. ‘I’m not so wise, Otto. Besides, there is no small degree of public opinion, expressed in the street as much as in the press, that Rose should not have been found guilty on purely circumstantial evidence. That, at the very least, he should not hang.’ He came in and sat. Adeline smiled, touched her husband’s shoulder, and left the men alone.
Otto waited for Tom to speak. He took a few moments, not sure where to start, then opted for an expression of misgiving.
‘I am indebted to you coming all this way, Otto. I confess to wondering whether my letter had reached you, and then when I learned that you were still in New Zealand, I — and then yesterday, hearing the execution day — well, I thought all hope was lost. Still, you’re here now! But surely we don’t have enough time?’
‘We have the time we have, Tom. By my reckoning, four days and one hour.’
‘I only hope my belief about the wrongness of the verdict is based on sound reasoning —’
‘Tom, I have no doubt of it. I have doubts about the police, and about Pearson Thompson. I’ve worked with these people; I know the way they think. Oftentimes, they don’t think at all. What you have told me is not inconsistent with my experience. And as you said just now to your wife, you — we — are not alone in our concerns.’ He grasped Tom’s forearm and gave it a quick shake. ‘Now, tell me what you know.’
Tom was cheered by Otto’s vote of confidence in him. He opened a notebook.
‘I’ve written down the main points where I think the evidence was poor, or at least where I couldn’t follow the argument.’
‘Good.’
‘And I did make notes several times where I thought Pearson Thompson was derelict, or plain incomprehensible. But I may have read him wrongly, or, for that matter, the evidence as well, so —’
‘That’s all right. I’ve read numerous trial reports in the press. Just tell me what you have.’
‘Very well. I can say, without doubt, that no one item of evidence proves David Rose murdered Mrs Stuart. The judge even said as much himself. But he said that because there were so many such pieces of evidence —’
‘It pointed to his guilt?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve heard that argument before, and to my mind it is deeply flawed. Many times it’s been said in court, and out, that it behoves the accused to rebut such circumstantial evidence, and if he doesn’t, or can’t, the evidence is lent further weight, or worse, that it is an admission of guilt. It’s preposterous! All sorts of wild accusations can be thrown about and … Anyway, do please continue. What about the pipe?’
‘Yes, the pipe. Detective Walker was the only one to see it that night —’
‘Yet, he left it there on the meat safe for a week — assuming, of course, that it was there in the first place to be left.’
‘That’s what Pearson Thompson implied, that Walker placed it there, but when Smyth said that that would be an admission that it was Rose’s pipe, Thompson withdrew. In any case, Rose swore it wasn’t his pipe, just as he di
d at his committal in February. But against him, several witnesses said they were certain they saw him smoking it.’
‘And the jury believed the witnesses.’
‘And so, too, the judge. So they believe Rose was lying, because they would never believe there was a terrible conspiracy.’
‘Of course, Tom, it really doesn’t matter whether or not the pipe was Rose’s.’
‘It doesn’t?’
‘Not at all. Let us say, for the moment, it was Rose’s pipe, and it was there on the safe, just as Walker said it was. Does this mean it was David Rose who put it there?’
‘No, I suppose not. But George Stuart said he didn’t see it when he went to work.’
‘Yes, and like everyone else, except Walker, he just missed it.’
‘You’re right. Judge Barry said if you were looking for a knife, you might not notice a pipe.’
‘Or it really wasn’t there when he went to work. That was at four o’clock, or just before. What if Margaret Stuart herself found the pipe that very afternoon, and she put it on the safe, thinking her husband might like it, or that it had been dropped by a friend of his, or even that it was his?’
‘Yes. Yes, that is possible. So why didn’t Thompson —?’
‘Because he’s old and careless. He might not even believe, for all his huffing and puffing in the paper, that Rose is innocent. You might even argue that even if it was David Rose who put the pipe on the safe, that doesn’t prove it was he who killed Mrs Stuart.’
‘It’s the conclusion of the court.’
‘Yes, a court that believes David Rose, having walked six miles in the dark, came down the chimney, puffing away on his pipe, and his first thought was to place it on the meat safe before going into the bedroom to cut the lady’s throat. He just forgot to retrieve his pipe on the way out.’
‘A pipe Rose said he wouldn’t give up for a sovereign, if you believe Hathaway.’
‘What else do you have?’
Tom turned the page.
‘Um … the Cheesbrough dog. The prisoner enquired whether it was a good watch-dog, and the prosecution contended this meant that he wanted to be sure that when he returned late at night, after killing Mrs Stuart, the dog wouldn’t wake the household.’
