by Chris James
‘No need,’ she said, and strode off across the road. ‘Follow me.’
I bade Giles and William wait with the carriage as I followed her on foot. A few yards from her house, an ornamental gatehouse appeared in the high wall. It was only then that I recognised what was protected behind the wall – ‘Highgate Cemetery’ a sign read. Mama was buried here recently. We had always arrived from the other end of that street.
I felt my heart falter.
Acknowledging the attendants at the gate, Mary Pollock led me along the pathways, between a plethora of headstones and mausoleums until we came to a less prestigious area where small plots lined the path. She stopped in front of a new headstone and bent down to adjust flowers in a vase.
‘Elizabeth Pollock ~ Died 29th September, 1894. Sadly missed’ – the stone revealed.
Betsy had died just over three months ago, on Michaelmas Day! And I felt every chance of saving Jacob had died with her. Looking over to where Mama was buried, I was heartbroken.
I had established that Betsy Pollock existed – but anything we might have learned from her had now turned to dust. Her sister, Mary, said she died suddenly on Michaelmas Day and the doctor attributed her death to heart failure – due to extreme overweight.
Mary had no knowledge of a Mr Jacob Silver, when I asked. Leaving her with my telephone number, in the hope that she might recall something later, however slight, I left that house certain that Jacob would hang.
The Trial: Day 10
I informed Mr Ecclestone of Betsy Pollock’s demise the following morning before the court opened, and he in turn informed me that the art gallery owner, Mr St Clair, had still not shown up. He was still the only witness who could testify as to the professor’s existence. I duly took my seat in the public gallery, hoping against all the odds that Jacob would be proved innocent by the end of the day.
Mr Ecclestone called his next witness.
‘Sergeant Joseph Phillips, Metropolitan Police stationed at Charing Cross,’ the uniformed officer announced after taking the oath. A mountain of a man, with a comically huge moustache, he towered above the witness box.
‘Sergeant Phillips, were you involved with the accused, Jacob Silver, in the summer of 1888, when he was quarantined in his home at Victoria Embankment?’
‘Yes, sir, I was a constable at the time. Jacob Silver had been in close proximity to an outbreak of plague.’ The officer drew out an old notebook and referred to it. ‘He was quarantined inside his home with a Miss Polly Daniels and a Nell Daniels, an eight-year-old child.’
It was commendable Mr Ecclestone had managed to trace him.
‘And from your notes taken at the time, can you confirm the dates that Mr Silver was quarantined?’
He flicked through the pages. ‘It began on the eighth of April and ended four months later, on the ninth of August, 1888.’
‘Can you be sure the accused remained inside the premises?’
‘Oh yes, sir. The doors to the front and rear, as well as the lower floor windows, were sealed by me, personally. Food and provisions were delivered by a small side window, too small for anyone to climb through.’
‘Did the accused make any excuse to leave, during this four-month period?’
‘No, sir.’ The sergeant smiled. ‘With Miss Daniels’ company, I’m sure he was quite comfortable enough where he was.’ A titter rose from the gallery.
‘No further questions, m’lud,’ announced Mr Ecclestone, taking a seat.
Mr Ponsonby leapt to his feet. ‘Sergeant, were you aware of a third exit to those premises?’
The witness looked perplexed. ‘Er, no, sir.’
‘One to the river, via the basement?’
‘To the Thames? No, sir, I was not.’
‘So, unbeknownst to you, Mr Silver could have used this third exit at his leisure, is that correct?’
‘Well, I suppose so, but he gave his word–’
‘He could have used it, yes or no?’
‘Yes, sir. He could.’
‘No more questions, my lord.’
‘The witness is excused,’ said the judge, after checking with Mr Ecclestone.
The importance of the officer’s evidence was obvious: if Jacob was in quarantine those four months, how could he have been responsible for desecrating Emily’s grave? I thought the jury would rightly give Mr Ponsonby’s suggestion of Jacob swimming in and out of the river access, presumably with a head in a bag, short shrift. Further, if Jacob did not take her head, then somebody else certainly did – and presented it to him, claiming Emily was still alive. That can only have been Betsy Pollock. But that lady was now dead.
Mr Ecclestone took out his silver pocket-watch, before calling his next witness. He was running out of time. I presumed Mr St Clair had yet to arrive.
‘Mrs Agnes Levy, laundry assistant,’ she announced, her hair wrapped in a drab kerchief.
‘Mrs Levy you live in the Blackfriars district of London?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did you frequent the apothecary’s shop at Number 72, Victoria Embankment from time to time over the last two years or so?’
‘When it was open, yes.’
‘And who would serve you there on those occasions?’
‘The fat woman. Betsy she calls herself. She was usually the only one on duty. Occasionally the guv’nor, ’im over there, would be about, but it was mostly Betsy doin’ the servin’.’
‘Were you aware that Mr Silver, er, ’im over there, had a mistress living with him?’
‘Betsy kept saying we would meet her one day, when she was better. She was ’sposed to be poorly.’
‘You are absolutely sure a lady named Betsy was employed in the shop and she spoke of a mistress in the house?’
‘Certain of it. I was a customer for years. Of young Mr Silver and his father before him.’
‘Do you recall the mistress’ name, by any chance?’
‘No, sorry,’ she said, scratching her head under the kerchief. ‘Wait a minute…’ she looked skyward. ‘No. It’ll probably come to me, sooner or later.’
‘Wait there, will you, Mrs Levy,’ and to his lordship Mr Ecclestone said, ‘No more questions, m’lud.’
Mr Ponsonby jumped to his feet like a hound after a hare. ‘Mrs Levy, you only came forward a week ago, is that correct?’
‘Yes, after a bloke came knocking on our doors.’
‘A bloke?’
‘Said he was a solicitor.’
‘And you told him your story?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Do you read the newspapers, madam?’
‘Sometimes, yeah. Not the fancy ones, mind.’
‘And have you been following this trial?’
‘Hard not to, with all those headlines.’
‘Were you paid for your splendid efforts?’
‘Paid? What d’you mean by that?’
‘Paid to tell a good story?’
‘My lord!’ yelled Mr Ecclestone, leaping to his feet. ‘If the prosecution continue in this vein I will be obliged to reveal some of the more dubious facts about some of his witnesses’ careers.’
‘My lord,’ interrupted Mr Ponsonby, ‘it was a simple enough question? I’ll settle for a yes or no.’
The judge addressed the witness. ‘You were approached by a solicitor, madam. Did he offer any incentive for you to provide information?’
‘No, your lordship, he didn’t. And I resent that kind of remark coming from him,’ Mrs Levy added, referring to Mr Ponsonby. ‘Oh, an’ it’s just come to me. I remember now, your lordship, ’er name was Emily. The mistress? It was Emily.’
‘No more questions, m’lud,’ Mr Ponsonby offered, quietly sitting down, having failed entirely to discredit the witness.
It was approaching noon after Mr Ecclestone had called three more former customers of the shop who all swore that they were served there by a rather large woman they knew as Betsy. Although he tried, Mr Ponsonby was unable to find fault with any of t
heir testimonies.
If Betsy existed, then the psychiatrist had been proved wrong; the jury could be persuaded he was wrong about the professor, too. And wrong about Jacob taking Emily’s head. That was Mr Ecclestone’s plan of attack. Further, a witness stated Betsy described Emily’s condition, proving that Betsy was involved in the deception of Emily being alive. As I saw it, Mr Ecclestone was close to destroying all the prosecution’s claims – with or without the help of the art gallery owner.
The evidence of the shop customers seemed to cheer Jacob. Overnight, I had written him a short letter explaining my recovery and that I was alive and well and thinking of him, sitting up in the public gallery. I got the note to Mr Ecclestone that morning. I continually stared over to the dock, hoping to catch Jacob’s eye, but he was concentrating on the witness box.
‘I call my next witness, Mr Jean-Louis St Clair, m’lud.’
An usher opened a door and called his name – and I saw Jacob smile. But the witness was nowhere to be seen. The judge looked down at Mr Ecclestone implying that he need do something.
‘Er, could we try just once more, m’lud?’
‘Mr Jean-Louis St Clair,’ the usher called out again, but to no avail.
Mr Ecclestone appeared to panic, turning to his juniors behind him and causing one of them to rush outside, no doubt to find the illusive Mr St Clair and drag him into the courtroom.
‘Might I suggest this is a good time for a recess, m’lud?’ Mr Ecclestone enquired, but the judge had a different view.
‘No. It is not. Find your witness or carry on with the next, Mr Ecclestone,’ the judge insisted, twiddling his thumbs.
‘Er, m’lud, his evidence is vital to my client’s defence.’ Turning over various papers and consulting those behind him, yet again, Mr Ecclestone knew he could delay no further. ‘Might I ask that Mr St Clair’s evidence, the statement he made to the police, be read to the court, m’lud?’
The judge turned to the prosecutor, ‘Mr Ponsonby?’
Mr Ponsonby could barely contain his amusement at the defence’s dilemma. ‘Certainly not, m’lud. This is a witness I need to cross-examine. There is hardly a line in his statement I agree with.’
I was sure he was exaggerating, making the most of it. The usher returned from the corridor without the witness and closed the door behind him, shaking his head to the judge.
‘If that is it, Mr Ecclestone, then so be it. Your witness has not bothered to turn up. What do you propose to do now?’ the judge asked, leaning back in his chair.
Mr Ecclestone hesitated and looked over to Jacob, then up to me, his palms outstretched implying: What more could I do?
‘That concludes the case for the defence, m’lud,’ he said solemnly and sat down.
Mr Ponsonby had a wide grin on his face.
‘Very well,’ said the judge. ‘We will adjourn until tomorrow morning at ten, when the prosecution will begin summing up.’
‘All stand!’ called an usher, and everybody bowed as the judge left the courtroom.
‘Where is he?’ Jacob shouted from the dock. ‘Where is that scoundrel from the gallery?’ he called over his shoulder, as two jailers fought to lead him away.
I almost collided with the enrobed Mr Ecclestone as he dashed from the courtroom.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Weston. But there was nothing else I could do,’ he pleaded.
‘What if I can find Mr St Clair before ten tomorrow? Would they allow his evidence.’
‘We could try. It would not be a precedent.’
‘Then I’ll go now and try to track him down,’ I told him, making my way out to the street.
Giles, my footman, pushed his way through a small noisy crowd gathered around my carriage and we immediately set off to the Strand, only a short distance away.
When I arrived the front door to the art gallery was ajar. I asked Giles to accompany me inside, calling out for Mr St Clair. But there was no reply. No one was there. Hundreds of valuable paintings adorned the walls, the front door open and yet no one was in attendance. I found the office door and knocked. Not receiving any response, I turned the handle. It was locked.
Giles asked me to stand back and leapt at the door, kicking it open.
We entered and found a man, later identified as Mr St Clair, stretched out on the couch.
The fool must have dozed off, I decided, and went over to shake him. I moved his arm. That was when I realised he would not be coming to Jacob’s rescue – he was dead.
I had no recollection of the next half hour until regaining consciousness in my carriage. By this time the art gallery was swarming with police and a detective inspector came to speak to me.
I ensured that the inspector was fully aware of the importance of the gallery owner’s death – the removal of an important witness in a murder trial. I begged that he urgently inform the court, hopefully to delay the trial.
But it was all of no use. Mr Ecclestone explained that the art gallery owner’s death was a separate matter, a new investigation. Only if it could later be proved the professor had killed an important witness in Jacob’s trial, could the two matters be connected – and an appeal could end in Jacob’s release.
The summing up began the following morning in my absence, and the jury would have to rely on what they had heard thus far before making a decision.
Meanwhile, the police established that Mr St Clair had died through suffocation and, after a post mortem, the cause was found – a number of gold Spanish doubloons were stuck in his gullet.
The Trial: Verdict
Shaken and nervous after my discovery at the art gallery, I decided I was not ready to attend the court again and missed the next day’s proceedings. I arrived the following day, later than I expected. I was advised by an usher that the judge’s summing up had been completed a while before and the jury had just returned, having been out for two hours. I took my seat in the gallery just in time to hear:
‘And are these the verdicts of you all?’ the Clerk to the Court asked the jury foreman.
Clutching a folded cloth cap, the foreman looked nervously over to Jacob Silver. His croaking voice was barely audible as he nodded his head.
‘Speak up,’ demanded the clerk.
‘Yes,’ said the foreman, blinking rapidly and looking like he was eager to get the business over and done with.
‘And do you find the accused, Jacob Silver, guilty or not guilty of the murder of Polly Daniels?’
The foreman hesitated. A deathly hush urged he say the words. He stared about him then back at Jacob, as if to plead for forgiveness before blurting out:
‘Guilty.’
I gasped, along with all those around me. Prosecutor Mr Ponsonby turned to face everybody up in the public gallery, a broad smile on his face.
‘As to the second charge, the murder of Letty Norton, how do you find – guilty or not guilty?’
‘Guilty,’ the foreman announced more confidently.
And so it was on counts three and four – the murders of poor Nora Perkins and Rebecca Muxlow. Four counts of murder. Guilty as charged.
I was sickened to the core.
Old Mrs Muxlow, seated in the back of the courtroom below me, alongside other witnesses, smiled a twisted smile before dabbing her eyes.
‘I’m innocent!’ screamed Jacob from the dock.
In response the gallery broke into loud cheers, laughter and applause. Mr Ponsonby stood and took a bow to everybody’s amusement.
‘We’re not finished yet, Mr Ponsonby, if you please,’ the judge said angrily.
‘For the murder of Police Constable Albert Everett, how do you find? Guilty or not guilty?’
‘Guilty,’ said the foreman.
‘And on the count of robbing the grave of Emily Muxlow, how do you find?’ the clerk said.
‘Not guilty.’
‘Take the prisoner down,’ ordered the judge. ‘I will pronounce sentence tomorrow at noon.’ Turning to the jury, he added, ‘Members of the jury this ha
s been a particularly horrendous case and in the circumstances I am ordering that you not be recalled for jury duty for at least another ten years. You are now free to go.’
The members of the jury congratulated themselves and stepped down from the jury box as Jacob made one final taunt:
‘You’ll go to hell, the lot of you!’
Although Papa had warned me to expect the worst, my belief in Jacob’s innocence had me hoping the jury would believe his story to the very end, so sure was I of the professor’s guilt.
And I was still as sure.
The professor had led this innocent scholar to find the solution to an ancient potion – the promise of eternal life. In wickedly manipulating his eager student into unwittingly bringing him these women to extract their souls, he had only to remove evidence of his own existence to have committed murder.
Perfect murder.
And he was free to go and do it again. I was sure he also had something to do with Miss Pollock’s death on that fateful day – removing the only living witness to his crimes. Full of hope of winning an appeal, I had no idea then that these points would be impossible to prove.
As Jacob was dragged down and the public gallery cleared, I leaned over the rail and wept, vowing to prove his innocence.
The following day, although I arrived well before noon, my reserved seat in the gallery was occupied by a scruffy thug with whom I was in no state to argue. I summoned the attendant who had so graciously accepted my bribes for the duration of the trial but he said he could do nothing.
‘Trial of the century,’ he declared. ‘First come, first served.’
The gallery was packed to capacity. The best view I could gain was from standing at the back and I was just in time to catch a glimpse of the judge with a black square of silk over his head, and hear those words that I dreaded most:
‘. . . that you be taken hence to a place of lawful execution and you there be hanged by the neck . . .’
Chapter 26
‘Now, remember. You promised you would be on your best behaviour,’ Papa reminded me as the huge gates were opened and our carriage was waved through by the guardsmen in their crimson tunics and bearskin hats. ‘None of this nonsense about innocence and perfect murders. Her Majesty will not hear of it. Leave all the talking to me. Your job is to just sit there looking pretty. You understand?’
