by Greg Pyers
‘Of course.’
‘Trooper Brady said that Rose could easily have walked into Daylesford from Cheesbrough’s farm in the time available, and without being seen.’
‘Even though Brady walked the route in daylight.’
‘Pearson Thompson made nothing of that!’
‘Tell me about the shirt.’
‘The judge didn’t think it was as important as the pipe. But you know, if it was Rose’s shirt, and he’d hidden it to hide evidence, as the prosecution charged, there was scarcely any blood on it — and maybe not even human blood. And there was no soot or whitewash from the chimney. Thompson did make mention of this, but in the end the shirt wasn’t important, and neither were the hairs.’
Tom scanned further along his notes.
‘Witnesses said Mrs Stuart was frightened of David Rose.’
‘That wouldn’t have helped.’
‘And Sarah Spinks said she saw a man near Stuart’s around eleven on that night, but she wouldn’t swear that it was Rose. It was too dark.’ He looked up. ‘But this was good enough for the prosecution, and the jury.’
He flicked through the last few pages of his notebook, and his face suddenly lit up. ‘Goodness me, Michael Wolf. He was working with Rose at Coates’ farm. He said Rose told him his razor had cut a person’s throat.’ Tom looked at Otto. ‘Now, why would Rose say such a thing to a stranger? Anyway, Doolittle said the murder weapon was a knife, and Smyth agreed with him! So why even call Wolf?’
‘Not for the detail, Tom, but for the story.’
‘Oh, and then Judge Barry said …’ Tom searched again, for the words he’d copied verbatim, ‘… here we are, he said it was strange that, if Rose were innocent and knew of the murder, why he didn’t tell Dr Coates as soon as he arrived there, as — this is what Barry actually said — “bearers of startling news were usually well received out in the country”.’ Tom twisted his face. ‘Is that right?’
‘Well, every time I’m in the country and in want of hospitality, I make sure I have some startling news to tell. Don’t you?’
Tom looked at Otto. The detective had not impressed him as the kind of man who made jokes. Perhaps it was because Otto had always seemed so conscientious. Whatever it was, there could not have been a better lifter of spirits.
Tom continued, his confidence in Otto all the greater.
‘Earlier, Smyth had said that it was remarkable that Rose was able to give such minute particulars of the crime to Wolf on the Saturday, before any news had reached Coates’ farm.’
‘So, he said too little to Coates, and too much to Wolf.’
‘Judge Barry said Rose may have told Wolf all he did to ease his conscience. I think, Otto, that if I’d just murdered a woman in her bed, I might keep quiet about it.’
‘Maybe you would, Tom, but you’re no murderer.’
‘No, but if I were ever charged, I would not want Pearson Thompson to defend me. Otto, there were so many, many questions he should have asked. So many witnesses, and none of them rebutted. He didn’t even put Rose in the dock so he could explain how he came to know about the murder. There was not the slightest attempt to establish an alibi. Which makes me wonder whether there was one. And where were the witnesses for Rose?’
‘Pearson Thompson should have retired long ago.’
‘It really is too bad, Otto, this whole business. What’s to be done? Can evidence be found to prove Rose is not guilty? Or guilty even? I could be reconciled to that if the evidence showed it to be so.’ He fixed a look on Otto. ‘Do you think Rose is innocent? Or is it a case of the right man being convicted on insufficient evidence?’
‘Tom, if I had murdered Margaret Stuart, I would have left the district within the hour, not loitered outside to be seen by Mrs Spinks. I certainly wouldn’t walk back through Daylesford a day and a half later on my way to find work on the other side of town. And how determined, how enraged, would I have to be, to walk six miles into town, in the dark, to brutally murder a woman I did not know, who had done me no wrong? But like you, Tom, I’m not a murderer. David Rose is a strange man — a man I would not care to know, a man I would not like. He’s a convict, a loner, transported from his home at sixteen years of age. Who knows what demons he has in his head? You ask me if I think he is innocent. I think the question is, does the evidence prove that he is guilty, and I say no, it does not. At the very best, it shows that David Rose could have killed Mrs Stuart, and, sadly for Mr Rose, that was enough for the police, the jury, the judge, most of the press, and much of the general public.’
‘So —?’
Otto held up a hand. ‘If evidence couldn’t be found after all this time, with so many men investigating, that Rose killed Mrs Stuart, then I say there is no such evidence to find. And I say that, knowing full well the local police force’s ineptitude.’
‘So we prove the evidence wrong?’
Otto was shaking his head. ‘Prove it wasn’t possible to walk to Daylesford from Glenlyon in the dark in under two hours, that burying a shirt doesn’t mean a man is a killer, that making enquiries about a dog doesn’t mean one is planning a murder? You see what I mean, Tom. Such evidence of this circumstantial kind can’t be disproved.’
‘What do we do, then?’
‘Find the killer, of course!’
26
OTTO LEFT THE LONDON Portrait Gallery late morning, comprehending all too well what a colossal ambition it was to overturn a murder conviction, never mind that he had yet to find a killer and prove the case — and that he had just four days in which to do it. And who, apart from Tom Chuck, would help him? Not the police, not the judiciary, not the government. Powerful men in authority, with their delicate egos, could never countenance the thought that they might be wrong, and though they would profess loudly to be defenders of justice, what they most feared was embarrassment. And anyway, what kind of an upstart would dare presume to know better than they? Well, an upstart like himself, of course!
So, yes, Otto conceded, the odds weren’t attractive, but great risk was worth taking for great reward. It presented a magnificent opportunity. Imagine, one man — well, two — taking on the machinery, and winning! Could there be a greater recommendation, a more convincing testimony, for the Private Inquiry Office?
Otto’s wont wasn’t to ponder the immutable, but he did wonder at the timing of his return to Melbourne from New Zealand. How many days would be too few? Five, he reckoned — if he counted since yesterday, and even with one a Sunday — was too many not to take up the challenge. He fully expected spiteful interference and non-cooperation by Daylesford police; but obstacles, as Otto reminded himself, were for overcoming. He would carry out his investigations alone — as was his usual, and preferred, practice — with Tom running errands from time to time as required.
It was fortunate that he had been granted these three weeks’ leave, a favour not usually so readily granted. He wondered whether the government had ever considered that his new agency might prove to be a very economically advantageous alternative to maintaining a costly stable of its own detectives for investigations of fraud, unpaid debts, and the like. Would it understand that salaried detectives were paid whether they solved a case or not, and whether they took a month to do a week’s work? His Private Inquiry Office, on the other hand, would depend for its very existence on getting the job done, and promptly. In any case, had leave not been granted, he was ready to resign, and he was sure the Detective Department knew that.
But now he had a job to do.
And what an opportune start to his investigations it was to catch sight of the familiarly gaunt form of Pearson Thompson, leaving the office of solicitor Thomas Geake, a few doors down from Chuck’s. As the old barrister was a man he had to speak to, Otto might also have taken this coincidence as auspicious, but he was a man of science, and confident in his judgement, so he knew already that he was on the righ
t track. He quickened his step and caught up with Thompson, taking the old man by surprise.
‘Berliner! When the devil are you finally leaving this town? It seems every time I’m here, your neatly trimmed head pops up.’
‘You know, Pearson, I was just thinking that very thought about you. Let me buy you a cup of tea.’
Thompson took out his watch. ‘Too late for a spot of breakfast? At the Vic?’
It was too late for Otto, actually, but if breakfast was the price of a conversation with the man, he was sure he could manage some bread and jam.
No more was spoken until they’d ordered at the counter and taken their seats by the window at the Victoria Hotel, one hundred yards up Vincent Street.
‘I always thought you’d be a sausage man, Berliner,’ Thompson said with a grin.
My God, the fellow was in a pert mood, and so soon after losing a murder case. Perhaps it was his way of compensating for the disappointment.
Thompson abruptly turned serious.
‘You see that fellow leading the horse by us just now, down Chancery Lane? To the livery stables out the back?’
‘Hathaway, wasn’t it?’
Thompson nodded. ‘He’d be expecting a slice of the reward for the Rose case, knowing so very much about that pipe. Walker’s up for a slice himself, and Williams, and that cocky little trooper Brady. You, too, no doubt, for bringing the fugitive in.’ He shook his head and grimaced. ‘Is it right, Berliner — morally, that is — that police should have their pockets lined with reward money?’
Otto was spared the requirement to give the obvious answer, for Thompson’s omelette had just arrived.
The barrister’s face lit up. ‘Ah!’ He held his fork over it a moment, and then stabbed it through the heart.
‘You were disappointed by the verdict, I expect?’ Otto said.
Thompson thought for a moment. ‘Well, yes, of course I was!’ He took a forkful and loaded his mouth.
‘Then you did believe your client was innocent?’ Otto said, with Thompson masticating like a machine. He swallowed.
‘I didn’t say that. He shouldn’t have been found guilty. There’s a difference. I strongly object to sloppy application of the law — no, actually, it is the law I object to. Seven months, Rose was in custody. Seven! It’s an outrage. Anyway, I’ve just come over today to tidy up with Geake, so we both get our dues; salvage something from the wreckage.’ He took another forkful. ‘So, Berliner,’ he said, ‘why are you here in Daylesford? Private enterprise not your cup of tea after all?’ A fleck of egg clung to the fringe of Thompson’s moustache, defying the threshing jaw beneath. Otto wouldn’t be steered from the topic.
‘I agree with you, Pearson. Rose should not have been found guilty, on the evidence.’
Thompson dabbed his lips with finger and thumb, and smoothed his moustache. ‘You know a lot about the trial, for a man who wasn’t there.’
‘My associate was. I read the papers.’
‘Associate?’ The implication seemed to amuse Thompson, or irritate him. ‘Well, well. And who might that be?’
‘That’s not important. What he told me is, because it leads me to want to ask you some questions.’
Thompson sat back sharply in his seat; the defence counsel was suddenly in a defensive mood. He wiped his chin and looked out onto the street for a few moments. Otto saw his larynx rise and fall, and his eyes dart. He faced Otto again, this time with a mien of forced indifference.
‘So, Detective, by all means ask away.’
‘You didn’t challenge the assertion that Rose could, or would, walk all the way into town, and at night, for example.’
‘I didn’t see the point. It was an assertion self-evidently preposterous. Go on.’
‘Maybe you should have pointed that out, nonetheless. But let’s not dwell on that now —’
‘Is that all?’
Otto was quickly on to his next point.
‘You didn’t put the suggestion that maybe it was Margaret Stuart who put the pipe on the meat safe. She may well have found it that afternoon.’
‘She may well have, though I preferred to disprove that the pipe was Rose’s. I maintain still that the Crown didn’t prove that it was, despite what Judge Barry said. I mean, Hathaway would say anything if there was a reward for his words. Any more?’
‘You didn’t mention George Stuart’s report of Joe Latham’s threats to his stepdaughter. In fact, you called no witnesses for the defence, didn’t even put up the three pounds that would have secured at least one, went on at length about the law of England — as if a jury of country shop-keepers and blacksmiths is interested — and, perhaps most important, didn’t invite your client to rebut any of the claims made against him, including offering an alibi.’
‘Good God, Berliner, that’s quite a barrage!’
Otto sat, stony-faced. Perhaps he’d come on a little stronger than he should have; he didn’t want Thompson to clam up, or walk out. Fortunately, he did neither. After a moment or two, Thompson spoke, and calmly.
‘Just what is your interest, Berliner? I know you brought Rose in. I thought you, as a policeman, would be satisfied, if not delighted, with the verdict. Or is there some guilt you’re carrying around under that fine head of hair?’
‘I’ve already said, Pearson, I agree with you that Rose shouldn’t have been found guilty on the evidence —’
‘Quite so.’
‘So why was he? Do you take any responsibility? Could you have conducted the defence differently? Perhaps you could have reminded the court that it was a knife, not a razor, that killed Maggie Stuart. But then Smyth did that for you, didn’t he?’
Thompson sputtered like a lit fuse.
‘Listen to me, Berliner. You dare presume to tell me my job? I took the case because no one else would — the man was damned from the beginning.’ He leant forward and slapped the tabletop. ‘He’s a convict for heaven’s sake, from Van Diemen’s Land, the worst of the worst. Sent to Port Arthur, did you know —?’
‘I do, but to Point Puer boys’ prison nearby. He was sixteen, Pearson.’
Thompson waved this away as mere detail, and resumed his rebuttal. ‘And, Berliner, since coming to Victoria he’s been arrested — thrice that I know of — for molesting women up around Echuca, and elsewhere. Any hope I had of securing his release lay in the law. It was the law and its application that failed Rose. The police — your colleagues, mind you — had no proof.’
‘I see. Rose was destined for the gallows, whatever you said?’
Thompson considered this before answering.
‘No. I was naïve in thinking that the police case wasn’t enough to convict on; if I made a mistake, it was in overestimating the integrity of the legal system in this colony.’
Otto made a quick study of Thompson’s tone and manner. He’d heard himself several times being criticised as pompous; well, surely these detractors had never met this man!
‘Loath as I am to defend the police, Pearson, I am inclined to believe there was no direct evidence against David Rose because there was none to find.’
Thompson smiled. ‘Still a grain of loyalty there, I see.’
‘Hardly. My former colleagues made a case on hot air, and got away with it. Do you think there is evidence to be found against Rose?’
‘That’s not for me to say. In the end it didn’t matter, because we had a judge who prattled on about the circumstantial evidence being as valid as direct evidence — or even more valid — so the jury had all the justification it needed. And just as well; imagine the compensation Rose could claim should he have been acquitted. I mean, seven months’ incarceration of an innocent man would cost the government several thousand, I can tell you.’
In a brief lull, Otto watched Thompson look distractedly about the room, and then leant forward, his eyes fixed on Otto’s. He
spoke softly, drawing Otto closer.
‘Look, we all know Rose had it coming. His record is a veritable catalogue of iniquity. I’d go as far to say he probably did kill her — but whatever the jury’s verdict, the prosecution simply did not prove that he did.’
So there it was, the odious confirmation that even Rose’s own counsel didn’t believe him. Otto was speechless. He leant back on his chair and watched Thompson clean up the last of his omelette, seemingly unconcerned by his admission. Thompson looked up and dabbed his mouth with his handkerchief.
‘So, Berliner, all these questions. What are you up to?’
‘I don’t agree with you, Pearson. At all. I believe Mrs Stuart’s killer is still at large, and I intend to bring him in.’
Thompson raised his eyebrows, incredulous.
‘Well, if you do bring him in, you can tell him I’m unavailable. I’ve got my own cross to bear; I’m to be a father, again, in a few weeks. God help me, at my time of life.’
ALICE LATHAM WAS STRETCHING a linen sheet on a line when Otto found her. A grubby-faced barefoot girl in pigtails alerted her mother to the visitor’s arrival.
‘Mrs Latham?’ he said.
She swept aside a curtain of tablecloth, and eyed Otto as she might a hawker of health tonic.
Otto lifted his hat, a new bowler he suspected looked a little out of place away from the city. ‘Detective Otto Berliner, ma’am,’ he said. ‘May I have a brief word?’
‘Berliner? I’ve heard that name. You were workin’ in Daylesford, but you left.’
‘Yes, I did leave, two years ago now.’
‘But weren’t you in the search for my daughter’s murderer?’
‘That I was.’
‘Then I should thank you, Mr Berliner.’
‘A cup of tea would suffice.’
The woman seemed a little taken aback by the suggestion, but then nodded that a cup of tea was as good an idea as any.
