The Whitechapel Conspiracy

“Could they have had a conflict of any sort over it?” Cleave asked, and the certainty of the answer shone in his eyes.

Birkett was startled. “Good heavens, no! Fetters was a skilled man; Adinett is merely an enthusiast, a supporter and admirer of those who actually made the discoveries. He spoke very highly of Fetters, but he had no ambition to emulate him, only to take joy in his achievements.”

“Thank you, Mr. Birkett,” Cleave said with a slight bow. “You have reinforced all that we have already heard from other men of distinction such as yourself. No one has spoken ill of Mr. Adinett, from the highest to the most humble. I don’t know if my learned friend has anything to put to you, but I have nothing further.”

Juster did not hesitate. The jury was slipping away from him, and Pitt could see that he knew it. But the shadow of indecision was in his face for only a moment before it was masked.

“Thank you,” he said graciously, then turned to Birkett.

Pitt felt a tightening of anxiety in his chest; Birkett was unassailable, as all the character witnesses had been. In the last two days, by association with the men who admired him and were willing to swear friendship to him, even to appear in a court where he was accused of murder, Adinett had been placed almost beyond criticism. To attack Birkett would alienate the jury, not convince them of the few slender facts.

Juster smiled. “Mr. Birkett, you say that John Adinett was absolutely loyal to his friends?”

“Absolutely,” Birkett affirmed, nodding his agreement.

“A quality you admire?” Juster asked.

“Of course.”

“Ahead of loyalty to your principles?”

“No.” Birkett looked slightly puzzled. “I did not suggest that, sir. Or if I did, it was unintentional. A man must place his principles before everything, or he is of no value. A friend would expect as much. At least any man would that I should choose to call friend.”

“I too,” Juster agreed. “A man must do what he believes to be right, even if it should prove to be at the terrible cost of the loss of a friend, or of the esteem of those he cares for.”

“My lord!” Cleave said, standing up impatiently. “This is all very moral sounding, but it is not a question! If my learned friend has a point in all this, may he be asked to reach it?”

The judge looked at Juster enquiringly.

Juster was not perturbed. “The point is very important, my lord. Mr. Adinett was a man who would place his principles, his convictions, above even friendship. Or to put it another way, even friendship, however long or deep, would have to be sacrificed to his beliefs if the two were in opposition. We have established that the victim, Martin Fetters, was his friend. I am obliged to Mr. Cleave for establishing that friendship was not Adinett’s paramount concern, and he would sacrifice it to principle, were such a choice forced upon him.”

There was a murmur around the room. One of the jurors looked startled, but there was a sudden comprehension in his face. The foreman let out his breath in a sigh, and something within him relaxed.

“We have not established that there was any such conflict!” Cleave protested, taking a pace forward across the floor.

“Or that there was not!” Juster rejoined, swinging around to him.

The judge silenced them both with a look.

Juster thanked Birkett and returned to his seat, this time walking easily, with a slight swagger.

The following day Cleave began his final assault upon Pitt. He faced the jury.

“This whole case, flimsy and circumstantial as it is, depends entirely upon the evidence of one man, Superintendent Thomas Pitt.” His voice was heavy with contempt. “Discount what he says and what have we left? I don’t need to tell you-we have nothing at all!” He ticked off on his fingers. “A man who saw another man in the street, turning in towards one of the gardens. This man might have been John Adinett, or he might not.” He put up another finger. “A scratch on a door which could have been there for days, and was probably caused by a clumsily wielded billiard cue.” A third finger. “A library chair moved, for any number of reasons.” A fourth finger. “Books out of place.” He shrugged, waving his hands. “Perhaps they were left out, and the housemaid is not a reader of classical Greek mythology, so she put them back wherever she thought they fitted. Her mind was on tidiness of appearance, not order of subject. Very possibly she ca

There was silence in the courtroom.

Gleave nodded.

“I propose to call several witnesses who are well acquainted with Mr. Pitt and will tell you what ma

Pitt’s heart sank as he heard Albert Donaldson’s name and saw the familiar figure cross the open well of the court and mount the witness stand. Donaldson looked heavier and grayer than he had when he was Pitt’s superior fifteen years before, but the expression in his face was just as Pitt recalled, and he knew Donaldson’s contempt was still simmering just below the exterior.

The testimony went exactly as he expected.

“You are retired from the Metropolitan Police Force, Mr. Donaldson?” Gleave asked.

“I am.”

Gleave nodded slightly.

“When you were an inspector at the Bow Street station was there a Constable Thomas Pitt working there?”

“There was.” Donaldson’s expression already betrayed his feelings.

Gleave smiled. His shoulders relaxed.

“What sort of a man was he, Mr. Donaldson? I presume you had occasion to work with him often-in fact, he was answerable to you?”

“He wasn’t answerable to anybody, that one!” Donaldson retorted, darting a glance towards Pitt where he sat in the crowd. It had taken Donaldson only a moment to pick him out in the front rows. “Law to himself. Always thought he knew best, and wouldn’t be told by no one.”

He had waited years for his chance to get revenge for the frustration he had felt, for Pitt’s insubordination, for the flouting of rules Pitt had viewed as petty restrictions, for the cases Pitt had worked on without keeping his seniors informed. Pitt had been at fault. Even Pitt knew it now, when he had command of the station himself.

“Would arrogant be a fair word to describe him?” Gleave enquired.

“A very fair one,” Donaldson answered quickly.

“Opinionated!” Gleave went on.

Juster half rose, then changed his mind.

The foreman of the jury leaned forward, frowning.

Up in the dock, Adinett sat motionless.

“Another good one.” Donaldson nodded. “Always wanted to do things his own way, never mind the official way. Wanted all the glory for himself, and that was plain to see from the start.”

Gleave invited the witness to give examples of Pitt’s arrogance, ambition and flouting of the rules, and Donaldson obeyed with relish, until even Gleave decided he had had enough. He seemed a trifle reluctant to offer Donaldson to Juster, but he had no choice.

Juster took on his task with some satisfaction.

“You did not like Constable Pitt, did you, Mr. Donaldson?” he said ingenuously.

It would have been absurd for Donaldson to deny his feelings. Even he was sensible of that. He had shown them far too vividly.

“Can’t like a man who makes your job impossible,” he replied, the defensiveness sharp in his voice.