by Robin Paige
“I’m sure it must have indeed been horrible,” said Sims sympathetically. “But you kept your wits about you, didn’t you, Mrs. Battle. You reported the conversatioin to the police, did you not?”
“I told ’em.” Mrs. Battle nodded so emphatically that the stuffed robin on her black hat began to bob back and forth. “I sart’nly told ’em. I wud ’ate t’ think—if the King an’ Queen wuz blowed up—that I might’ve pervented it!”
“Thank you,” Sims said. “I’m sure I speak for all of us when I commend you for doing your civic duty.” He made a magnanimous gesture toward the defense counsel. “Your witness, Counselor.”
Charles frowned, thinking that Sims must be confident of success, or he would not have been quite so careless with this witness. Savidge stood, hands in his pockets. “I don’t recall your saying, Mrs. Battle,” he remarked casually, “when this conversation took place. P’rhaps you would be so good as to tell us precisely when it was.”
Mrs. Battle assumed a searching look, as if she were trying to remember. “ ‘Fraid I can’t say for sartin’. Some time b’fore the King wuz crowned.”
“I see. Do you recall when you told the police what you heard? Was it after Coronation Day?”
“Yes,” she said definitively. “After that man blew ’imself up in the park.”
“I see. So you heard this threatening conversation before Coronation Day, but you failed to tell the police until after Coronation Day?”
Mrs. Battle frowned. “I ’spose, but I—”
“Thank you. Now, then, perhaps you can tell us what these men looked like. You say there were three of them?”
“I couldn’t see wot they looked like,” she said.
“Oh? Why?”
“’Cuz I can’t see through the wall,” she said, in scornful triumph. Several spectators laughed.
“Oh, of course,” Savidge replied, in a chagrined tone. “I do apologize. I had forgotten that you were listening through the wall.” He frowned. “On reflection, however, that seems a bit odd. Do you make a regular practice of applying your ear to the back wall of your shop?”
“Well, I does it sometimes,” Mrs. Battle replied reluctantly.
“Sometimes. When you are paid to do so, perhaps?”
Mrs. Battle’s glance went to the prosecutor, sitting at the table. He tented his fingers and glanced up at the ceiling. She looked back at Savidge. “Sometimes,” she said, now very reluctantly.
“And did the police pay you on this occasion?”
Mrs. Battle now looked to the judge for rescue. “Does I ’ave t’ answer?” she demanded.
The judge glanced at the prosecutor, frowned, and replied, “Yes,” quite firmly. Apparently, Mrs. Battle was not deemed as important as the Yard’s other informant, and was not to be protected.
“I wuz paid,” she acknowledged sourly.
“Thank you.” Savidge smiled. “I hope you feel that you were well paid for your trouble. Were you paid in advance, or when you provided the information?”
Mrs. Battle again glanced at the judge, who nodded curtly. “When I told ’em wot I ’eard,” she said in a low voice.
“I see.” Savidge paused. “And you are certain that these three men”—with a gesture to the defendants—“are the three you heard?”
“They are.”
“Since you couldn’t see them, I suppose you recognized their voices?”
Mrs. Battle nodded. “That’s right. They’ve got an accent, not like you ’n’ me. Furr’ners, all of ’em.”
“And Mr. Gould—he was speaking with an accent?”
“Right again.”
Savidge frowned. “But I don’t believe Mr. Gould is a foreigner. He was born, I believe, here in the City, of British parents.” He looked up at the box where the defendants were seated on wooden chairs. “Mr. Gould, say something, if you please, sir.”
Gould rose and spoke the words of the Royal anthem, distinctly and in cultivated English. “God save our gracious King, long live our noble King, God save the King.” He bowed and sat down again.
A wave of laughter swept the courtroom, and Kate heard several loud guffaws. Mr. Sims looked apoplectic. The judge banged his gavel. “Order!” he exclaimed angrily. “Mr. Savidge, you are not to try that trick again. This is not a theater.”
Behind Charles, a man said, “You could have fooled me,” and went on laughing.
“I apologize to your lordship,” Savidge said with a bow. He turned to the witness. “Mr. Gould doesn’t sound like a foreigner to me, Mrs. Battle,” he said mildly. “He sounds very like a Londoner. Was his one of the foreign voices you heard and recognized?”
Mrs. Battle looked confused. “Well, maybe ’e wuzn’t one of ’em, then. Or maybe ’e wuz there but wuzn’t talkin’.”
“I see. It does seem to me, though, that if Mr. Gould were silent, you could not know whether he was among the men—the three men—you claim to have overheard. But never mind. Let us focus on the others. You must have frequent contact with them—enough to know what their voices sound like. Are you on friendly terms with Mr. Mouffetard and Mr. Kopinski?”
Mrs. Battle bristled at this suggestion that she might be affiliated with Anarchists. “I sees them most ever’ day. I’m sart’nly not friends with ’em.”
“And do they make a practice of engaging you in conversation?”
Mrs. Battle considered. “No, they us’ally ignores me.” She sniffed. “Hoity-toity like.”
Savidge turned away from her and spoke in a low but audible voice. “How is it, then, that you are able to identify their voices?”
Mrs. Battle leaned forward, the robin bobbing frantically. “Wot’s that ye said? Speak up, if ye please. I’m a little ’ard o’ ’earin’.”
The significance of Mrs. Battle’s response was not lost on the audience, which chuckled. Members of the jury exchanged smiles and glances. The prosecutor was sitting quite still, his lips tight, his face set.
Savidge turned. “You couldn’t hear my voice, Mrs. Battle, when it was perfectly audible to members of the jury and, I daresay, to his lordship. And yet you testify that you were able to identify voices you heard through a wall?” He stepped around to the front of the table, his expression fierce. “And that you heard the very words these voices were speaking, so that you could report the information to the police and be paid for it?”
Mrs. Battle reddened. “Well . . .”
“Justice may be blind,” the judge remarked sternly, “but it is not hard of hearing. You can go to jail for perjury, Mrs. Battle. And giving false information to the police is a crime.”
Mrs. Battle shrank back, her eyes growing large. “I . . .”
“Perhaps, now that you have had time to think about the matter,” Savidge said, “you are not certain that these three men are the men you might have heard through the wall.”
Mrs. Battle swallowed hard. “I . . . I guess maybe they’re not,” she said painfully. “It wuz hard t’ tell. Through the wall an’ all.”
“And perhaps,” Savidge persisted, “given your difficulty in hearing, you are now not positive that you heard anyone even mention the word bomb. Is that possible?”
Mrs. Battle’s pockmarked face was dully mottled. She lowered her head. “It’s possible, I ’spose,” she said in a low voice. “S’pose I might’ve misunderstood.”
“And perhaps it is even possible that you heard nothing at all through the wall?”
“I . . .” Mrs. Battle applied her handkerchief again. “Yes,” she whispered.
Savidge, his lips tight pressed together, his eyes narrowed, glanced deliberately at the jury, as if to ask, You do understand that this witness lied, don’t you? He turned back to the bench. “I have no more questions, my lord.”
The judge’s jaw was set, his expression angry. “The jury will disregard the testimony of this witness,” he growled. “Mr. Sims, do you have any other witnesses?”
Sims rose and shook his head, his face nearly as red as Mrs.
Battle’s. “This completes the case for the prosecution, Your Honor,” he said. Charles could almost feel sorry for him—but not quite.
“The defense may proceed,” the judge said. “Call your first witness, Counsel.”
“Call Adam Gould,” Savidge said.
Adam, sworn and under Savidge’s questioning, testifed that he had been employed by the Amalgamated Society of Railway Servants for five years. He was not an employee of the Clarion, but on the day of his arrest, he had come to the newspaper office in order to take Miss Conway to lunch. No, he was not an Anarchist, although he believed in the importance of social change. Yes, he was slightly acquainted with the man who had been killed in Hyde Park, but he knew nothing of any plot concerning bombs. He had absolutely no idea (said with great emphasis) how a ginger-beer bottle containing nitric acid came to be found in his flat.
In cross-examination, Sims inquired pointedly whether Mr. Gould’s belief in social change included the use of the strike as a means to achieve it. “Yes, sir,” Adam replied with great firmness, “as long as the strike is peaceful. I have never advocated violence.” Adam was followed to the witness box by a union leader who testified to his character and hard work and his moderate position as an advocate for change. When he was finished, Charles thought that Adam Gould, at least, had appeared in a rather good light.
“Call Mrs. Sharp,” Savidge said.
Mrs. Sharp, a tall woman with an uncompromising countenance, dressed in widow’s black, was Adam Gould’s landlady. She testified that Mr. Gould had occupied her second-floor flat for the past four years, and had always paid his rent on time. Unfortunately, however, his second-floor flat was not entirely secure, for the lock on the door was of the type that might be opened with a skeleton key. It would have been possible for some unknown person, unobserved, to have taken the back stair to the second floor and have entered the place, either to take something or to leave something.
Under the prosecutor’s cross-examination, however, Mrs. Sharp had to admit that she could not say for a fact that anyone had entered Mr. Gould’s flat. And when the land-lord of the rooming house in Halsey Street had testified to the same effect—that neither Mr. Mouffetard’s room nor Mr. Kopinski’s was secure from entry and that any of the boarders in the house, or anyone from the outside for that matter, might have had access to the rooms—he, too, had to admit under Mr. Sim’s severe cross-examination that he could not declare for a certainty that the rooms had been entered. Charles thought that while the testimony might have raised a question in the minds of the jury as to how the so-called bombs had turned up in the rooms, it had not gone far enough. He knew, however, that Savidge had another trick or two up his sleeve, and that it was time to go after the ginger-beer bottles.
“Call Sergeant Charles Stockley Collins,” Savidge said.
Slowly, and with obvious discomfort, a pleasant-faced man of military bearing, wearing gray tweeds and neatly-trimmed gray chin whiskers, stepped into the witness box, was sworn, and gave his name. He was employed, he said, by New Scotland Yard, where he held the rank of sergeant. This announcement provoked a loud buzzing in the courtroom.
“Sergeant Collins,” Savidge said, “does not wish to testify for the defense. We request leave of the Court, therefore, to treat him as an adverse witness.”
The prosecutor rose to his feet, stood indecisively for a moment, then sat down again without saying anything. He leaned over to confer with his associate, who shook his head with apparent puzzlement. It appeared to Charles that Sims had not recognized Charles Collins’s name, which had been properly entered into the witness list. Inspector Ashcraft, seated behind the prosecution’s table, was staring darkly at Sergeant Collins, who seemed to be avoiding the inspector’s glance. The judge rapped his gavel. “Let the record so show.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Savidge replied. “Now, then, Sergeant Collins, you are, I believe, an expert in dactaloscopy—in the forensic science of fingerprinting.”
“I am,” the sergeant said. “I am the head of the Yard’s fingerprinting department.” Collins appeared more comfortable now that he had been declared an adverse witness, Charles thought, as if he could not be blamed for anything he might say. Charles hoped that were true, at any rate. He respected the sergeant and did not want him to suffer any professional disadvantage from his testimony today.
“Very good, Sergeant,” Savidge said. “Earlier, his lordship suggested that members of the jury might appreciate an explanation of the term fingerprint. I should much appreciate it if you would be so good as to explain this science.”
Sergeant Collins managed the explanation with skill and aplomb, explaining that the ridged lines that appeared in loops and whorls on the tips of the fingers, while they might be classified in a limited number of general patterns, were absolutely unique to each finger and, more importantly, to each individual, man, woman, and child. All people’s fingertips carried a coating of perspiration and oils. When the fingers came into contact with any relatively smooth surface, they left a print of the fingertip ridges, much like that of an inked rubber stamp. When the surface was dusted lightly with a powder, the prints became visible. These could be photographed and the photograph enlarged for easier study. Charles noticed that as Sergeant Collins spoke, the jurors and spectators were holding up their hands, inspecting the tips of their fingers and whispering to one another.
The sergeant continued his explanation. Some fourteen years previously, Sir Francis Galton had developed a system for classifying and identifying fingerprints; the system had been recently improved upon by the Assistant Commissioner of London Police, Edward Henry, and was now in place. Many convicted prisoners had been fingerprinted; every suspect was fingerprinted upon his arrest; and the prints kept on file for possible future use.
Savidge nodded. “Thank you, Sergeant. That was enlightening. However, you have not mentioned the use of fingerprints in a court of law.” He paused. “It is true, is it not, that fingerprint identification was recently validated—only two days ago, in fact, and in this very courtroom. Is that not the case?”
Collins nodded, speaking now with an eager pride. “Yes, indeed it is, sir. I am glad to say that Henry Jackson was convicted of burglary on the strength of his left thumb. Put it into paint that was not quite dry on the windowsill of a house he was trying to burgle.” He grinned, straightening his shoulders. “I checked the print in the paint against Mr. Jackson’s left thumb, which was taken when he was having a bit of a rest in Newgate last year, and it matched. Got seven years, he did, and deserved it, too.” The spectators, enjoying Sergeant Collins’s pleasure in the conviction of Mr. Jackson, broke into scattered applause.
Savidge chuckled. “Congratulations, Sergeant. You are to be commended for your careful investigation. Without your expertise, a dangerous thief might still be roaming the streets. Clearly, fingerprints deserve special attention in every police investigation.” He paused for a moment to let the jury consider this, then went on. “Now, Sergeant, with regard to the defendants in this case. I have entered their fingerprint records as Exhibits E1, 2, and 3. You are familiar with these records?”
Collins became serious again. “Yes, sir. The prints were taken at Holloway Prison, sir.”
“And you have examined the ginger-beer bottles entered as Exhibit B.”
“I have.”
“Since these bottles were discovered in the defendants’ rooms, one would quite naturally expect that the defendants had handled them and left their fingerprints. Is that not the case?”
“It is, yes.”
“Then tell us what you found, Sergeant. Did all three of the bottles show evidence of the defendants’ fingerprints?”
“No, sir.”
“No?” Savidge put on a show of being surprised. “Well, then, on which of the bottles did you find the defendants’ fingerprints?”
“None, sir.”
Members of the jury were seen to frown. Savidge appeared even more greatly surprised. “None,
Sergeant Collins? None at all? How do you account for that fact?”
“Well, sir, they might have handled the bottles with gloves, or wiped them afterward to prevent leaving fingerprints.”
“They might, I suppose, although that’s not likely, since most persons do not even know of the existence of these prints. Is there another explanation for an absence of prints?”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant seemed perturbed. “They might not have handled the bottles at all.”
“Thank you. Yes, I think we must consider that as a possibility. Now, Sergeant, I should be most grateful if you would tell the jury whose prints you did find on these three bottles.”
Sergeant Collins took a deep breath. “There were several of Detective Finney’s finger- and thumbprints on each one, especially on the necks.”
“Mr. Baker, who performed the chemical analysis, testified that he wore gloves when he handled the bottles, to avoid possible burns from the nitric acid. I don’t suppose you found his prints?”
“No, sir.”
“Right. Well, then, were there any other fingerprints—other than those belonging to Detective Finney, I mean?”
“Yes, sir. There was a partial fingerprint on the bottle found in Mr. Gould’s room.”
“That would be Exhibit B3. And where on the bottle did you observe this partial print?”
“Adjacent to the identifying label.”
“That would be the label that Detective Finney applied. In fact, it is possible to see only half of the print, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“Where is the other half of the print to be found, then?”
“Under the label.” The sergeant seemed to speak with increasing reluctance. Charles noticed that several members of the jury were sitting forward in their seats, their attention fastened on the witness.
“And how do you know this, Sergeant?”
“The label was loose enough at the edge to permit me to lift it with a knife blade and dust the surface of the bottle.”
