Death In Hyde Park

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

During the luncheon interval, Charles and Savidge had repaired to a nearby coffeehouse, where over steak-and-kidney pie, they reviewed Charles’s notes of the morning and discussed the strategy for the afternoon, when the defense, presumably, would present its witnesses. Savidge remarked that the prosecution’s case had gone very much as he had expected. Sims had put forward no surprises, and if the afternoon went well, he was optimistic. “Although,” he added, “one never knows about a jury. They do strange things.” And he went on, over coffee and dessert, to relate several recent cases in which juries had done the unexpected.

Charles agreed-one never knew about a jury. And the defense hadn’t been helped by the headlines in the morning papers, announcing a new terrorist bombing threat, contained in a letter sent to the governments of both France and Great Britain. It was within two days, as well, of the first anniversary of the assassination of the American president, McKinley, and another article rehearsed that terrible event. Those members of the jury who had read the newspapers might find it difficult to separate the facts of this case from the growing national fear-and their own personal fears-of anarchy and revolution. And the situation certainly wasn’t helped by the fact that Mouffetard was French and Kopinski Russian and that both of them looked the part of Anarchists. Worse, Savidge felt that neither could be put on the stand for fear that the prosecution might trap them in a damaging admission.

Back in the courtroom for the afternoon, Charles took a seat at the defense table, where he would be more readily available for consultation on the fingerprint evidence if Savidge needed him. He turned to look at the spectator sections, which seemed to include more working-class people this afternoon. He saw no one he knew, except for a rakish dark-haired man whose face looked vaguely familiar, although he could not place it. Charlotte Conway was nowhere in evidence, although he had half-expected that she might appear, perhaps disguised. Then he saw Kate, in the second row of the spectators’ section, with Nellie Lovelace. He lifted his hand in a wave, feeling that the room-ill-lit and oppressively formal in its show of judicial authority-was somehow brightened by her presence. Odd, that, he thought. Kate could do nothing to affect the outcome of the trial, but her being there changed his feeling about what was to come, and he settled back into his seat with a greater cheerfulness. The prosecutor swept into the room with a confident step, the judge entered and took his place at the bench, and court was convened.

Sims called his final witness, who proved to be Mrs. Georgiana Battle, a green-grocer and the landlady of the Hampstead Road premises where the Clarion was located. Mrs. Battle-a gray-haired woman of late middle age with a smallpox-scarred face and a buxom figure nearly bursting the buttons of her rumpled navy serge-claimed to have overheard the defendants discussing the use of a bomb to kill King Edward and Queen Alexandra on Coronation Day. She had heard this conversation, she testified, through the wall that separated her shop from the newspaper.

“‘We mean to kill ’em,’ wuz wot they said,” she reported, in ringing tones. “ ‘We mean t’ blow the Royal pair t’ bits.’” She took out a dirty white handkerchief and applied it to her nose, which was liberally laced with broken red veins. “That’s wot they said, egzacly, sir, ’orrible as it is t’ ’ear.”

“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.”

“If the print was under the label, that must mean-” Savidge broke off. “You’re the expert, Sergeant Collins. Suppose you tell us what it means.”

Collins’s reluctance was clear. “That the print was on the bottle before Detective Finney applied the label.”

“And Detective Finney testified that he applied the labels to the bottles as he found them in the defendants’ rooms. This print, therefore, must have been made at some point before Detective Finney discovered the bottle.”

“Yes.”

“It is mostly likely the print of the person who placed the bottle under the bed, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” the sergeant said. “Yes, sir.”

“And whose print is it?”

“I don’t know, sir. I did not remove the label to see the entire print.”

“You didn’t?” Savidge arched his eyebrows. “And why didn’t you remove the label?”

The sergeant dropped his glance. “I was instructed not to do so,” he said in a low voice.

Savidge leaned forward. “You were instructed not to do so. By whom, Sergeant?”

“By… by Inspector Ashcraft, sir.”

“By Inspector Ashcraft?” Savidge frowned. “I must say, I find that puzzling, since one might imagine that the inspector would be anxious to learn whatever can be learned from the fingerprints on the bottles. However, we will leave that for the moment.” He turned to the bench. “With your lordship’s permission, I should like to ask Sergeant Collins to remove the label, study the fingerprint, and tell us, if he can, the identity of its maker.”

Sims jumped angrily to his feet. “Objection! This is pure theatrical show, my lord. And most irregular.”

The judge sighed. “Theatrical, yes. Irregular, perhaps. However, I see no reason why the fingerprint evidence should not be obtained, since it seems to be germane to the question of who handled the bottle. The defense may proceed.”

Sulkily, Sims dropped back into his chair. Sergeant Collins left the witness box and went to the table where the exhibits were displayed. With a thin-bladed knife, he lifted the edge of the label and peeled it off. Taking a fingerprint kit out of his pocket, he dusted the print with a black powder, revealing it to be continuous under the label. Savidge handed him a magnifying glass.

“Now, Sergeant Collins,” he said, “please study the print, and tell us anything you can about it.”

Collins bent to the task. After a few moments, he straightened. “I would say that it is a right thumbprint. It is of a class we call a right loop. The ridges all tend to the right and close at the top, you see.”

“I see. Well, then. Would you compare that print to Exhibits E1, E2, and E3-the fingerprints of the defendants, which were entered in evidence a few moments ago-and tell the jury whether it belongs to one of the men in the dock.”

The spectators stirred restlessly while Sergeant Collins compared the card in his hand to the print on the bottle. At last, he looked up. “It does not belong to any of the defendants. I can say that definitely.”

“I see.” Savidge went back to the table and picked up another card. “Do you recognize this, Sergeant?” he asked, handing it to the witness. “If so, please identify it.”

“It is a card used by Scotland Yard to register the fingerprints of all of the Yard’s officers, for the purposes of excluding them.”

“Very good. Please note,” Savidge said to the jury, “that one side of the card contains ten fingerprints. The individual’s name is on the other side of the card.” To the clerk, he said. “Enter the card, please, as Exhibit F.” He returned to the witness. “Now, then, Sergeant, I should like you to examine the right thumb print on this card and compare it to the one you just obtained from the bottle. Please do not turn the card over. You are not to see the name.”

The process took several minutes. Intent on his work and oblivious to the stirrings and whisperings that filled the courtroom, Collins examined the Scotland Yard fingerprint card with a magnifying glass, then returned to the card to which he had transferred the print from the bottle. He repeated the process, then looked up, his brow deeply furrowed.

“Are you ready to tell us what you have learned, Sergeant?” Savidge asked.

“There are sufficient points of comparison to lead me to believe that these prints were made by the same person,” the sergeant said slowly. He explained briefly that points of comparison occurred when certain ridges intersected or touched other ridges, and described six of these points on each of the two prints. “I am working under difficult conditions,” he added. “Once the print is photographed and enlarged, and working with leisure and a microscope, I would likely discover additional points of comparison.”

“We appreciate the difficulties, Sergeant,” Savidge said. “You remain confident, do you not, that these two fingerprints belong to the same individual?”

“I do.”

“Turn the card over, please, and read the name to the jury.”

The spectators watched breathlessly as the sergeant reversed the card, gulped, and turned pale.

The judge leaned forward. “Whose print is it on the bottle, Sergeant?”

“It belongs to Inspector Earnest Ashcraft.”

A loud murmur of voices rippled through the court. The prosecutor leaped to his feet, shouting objections. Ashcraft’s face was curiously mottled. The judge pounded his gavel. “Order,” he commanded. “I will have order in this court!”

“And what do you deduce from this evidence, Sergeant Collins?” Savidge asked, above the noise. The judge pounded his gavel again, and the spectators subsided.

“That Inspector Ashcraft handled the bottle at some point before Detective Finney applied the label.”

“My lord, I object!” Sims cried, quite beside himself. “I most strenuously object! We have no assurance that the fingerprints on the card are those of Inspector Ashcraft. The card might have been substituted for or otherwise tampered with. It might-”

“If your lordship pleases,” Savidge interjected smoothly, “Inspector Ashcraft might be asked to supply his right thumbprint, to ensure that there has been no tampering.”

“I please,” the judge said crisply. “I most certainly do please. Inspector Ashcraft, your thumb, if you will.”

“But my lord,” Sims said in a pleading tone, “this is most irregular. It smacks of-”

“Sit down, Mr. Sims,” the judge said with a dark look. “The Court intends to get to the bottom of this matter. Inspector Ashcraft, if you please.”

Sullenly and with obvious reluctance, Inspector Ashcraft came forward. Sergeant Collins produced a fingerprint kit, opened the inkpad, and rolled the inspector’s right thumb, then printed it onto a card. Having examined it, he said, “It is the same print as that on both the bottle and the card.”

“Recall Inspector Ashcraft,” Savidge said promptly. Sims opened and shut his mouth several times, then sat down.

Sergeant Collins, his eyes averted from the inspector’s angry glance, left the witness box, and Inspector Ashcraft resumed it.

“Now, Inspector,” Savidge said. “You testified earlier that you did not handle any of the evidence in this case. Please explain to the jury how your thumbprint came to be found on the bottle in Mr. Gould’s room. Did you put that bottle there, so that Detective Finney could later find it?”

Charles saw that Ashcraft’s jaw muscles were working. “I must do my work as I see my duty,” he said. “I would deal with the devil himself, when it comes to that.”

The judge fixed cold eyes on the inspector. “Answer the question, Inspector. Did you put that bottle there?”

The inspector cleared his throat. “I claim privilege against self-incrimination,” he said in a surly tone.

The courtroom became suddenly noisy again, and again the judge gaveled it into silence. “Order!” he commanded. “There will be order in this courtroom!”

“Very well.” Savidge leaned forward. “Inspector Ashcraft, if you are not willing to speak, at least you may be able to hold up your right hand.”

Frowning, Ashcraft held it up.

“I see, sir,” Savidge said, “a faded yellow stain on your index finger, around where the skin appears to have peeled away. Mr. Baker told the jury that a nitric acid burn turns the skin yellow and causes it to peel. Did you burn your finger when you poured nitric acid into one of the bottles found by Detective Finney in the defendants’ rooms?”

The inspector put his hand behind his back. “Privilege against self-incrimination,” he growled.

With a heavy irony, Savidge said, “Thank you, Inspector Ashcraft. You have been most helpful.”

The prosecutor, his youth and inexperience all too evident now, seemed to have lost confidence in his case-understandably, Charles thought. His summation was brief, faltering, and unconvincing. Savidge, however, spoke with a fierce resoluteness, pointing out that the case against all three of the defendants consisted of nothing more than guilt by association; that the informant who believed Mr. Kopinski was a “dangerous man” could not be questioned nor his veracity tested; that Mrs. Battle’s testimony to an overheard conversation had been entirely discredited; and that the evidence of the ginger-beer bottles-the only direct evidence in the entire case-was seriously compromised. Inspector Ashcraft had testified that he had never touched any of the evidence, yet his thumbprint could clearly be seen on the bottle found in Adam Gould’s flat, in such a way as to suggest that he had put the evidence where the police found it. He sought refuge in the claim of privilege against self-incrimination when asked to explain to the jury how this had occurred, and how his right index finger had come to exhibit the stain and peeling consistent with a nitric-acid burn.

By the time Savidge was finished with his passionate appeal, Charles thought, he had most of the spectators in his corner. It was then the judge’s turn. His lordship spoke briefly (and fairly, Charles thought), laying before the jury the prosecution’s arguments and those of the defense, and charging them to consider the case on the evidence only. Then he withdrew and the jury retired to its deliberations. It was four o’clock.