The Durham deception

The Trial

The jury was out for less than half an hour. The shortness of the time they had been deliberating, the sombre expression on their faces as they filed back in, the clear-cut nature of the crime committed, all of this meant that the verdict could hardly be in doubt. But the formalities had to be gone through.

The clerk of the court addressed the jury but looked steadily at the foreman.

‘Gentlemen, have you agreed upon your verdict?’

‘We have.’

‘Do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty of wilful murder?’

‘Guilty.’

There was a sigh of satisfaction and a few whispered comments from the people crowded in the gallery, as if they had just witnessed some particularly successful trick on stage.

‘And is that the verdict of you all?’

‘It is.’

Turning towards the man in the dock, the clerk said, ‘Prisoner at the bar, you stand convicted of the crime of wilful murder. Have you anything to say why this court should not give you the judgement according to law?’

‘There is nothing to say.’

This prompted a fresh outbreak of whispering in the gallery for these were almost the only words which the prisoner had uttered during his brief trial. A court usher called for silence before going to stand next to Mr Justice Barnes. He placed a black cloth over the judge’s wig.

‘Anthony Smight,’ said the judge, ‘you have been found guilty of the heinous crime of murder upon evidence which is as stark and indubitable as any I have ever encountered in many years of passing judgement. You shot and killed a representative of the law as he was going about his duties. It was only the intervention of Superintendent Frank Harcourt and others that prevented you carrying out the wickedly planned murder of a lady, and we may say that Superintendent Harcourt gave his own life in the attempt to apprehend you. On the dreadful and abhorrent nature of the crime which you were about to commit and of other crimes which you have almost certainly committed in the recent past, I shall not dwell. I will only say that it must be particularly shocking to all honest men and women when a doctor who, by his oath, his training and, one would hope, his temperament, ought to be dedicated to the saving of life, turns to the destroying of it. Your counsel has done his best in your defence against almost impossible odds while you have chosen not to explain yourself in this court of law and instead maintained an almost Iago-like silence. I cannot but feel that your silence has been a mercy to us all since any attempt at explanation or mitigation would have been a further outrage to all decent feeling.

‘I tell you now, Anthony Smight, that you can and should entertain no expectations of evading the consequences of your actions. The sentence of this court is that you be taken from hence to a lawful prison and from thence to a place of execution, and that you be there hanged by the neck until you are dead, and that your body be buried in the prison where you shall last have been confined. And may the Lord have mercy on your soul.’

Anthony Smight bowed his head slightly before he was led out of the dock by two uniformed constables. The public craned to get their last look at him. What was his expression? Was he distressed, angry, remorseful? They could tell nothing from those lined, sallow features. But Smight did glance upwards for a moment to where Tom and Helen Ansell were sitting. Was that a tiny nod he gave them, a sign of acknowledgement?

Helen gripped Tom’s arm but when she rose to her feet with the rest of the court as the judge departed, she was quite composed and steady. As soon as Mr Justice Barnes had left, there was an outbreak of chatter, even some subdued laughter. Several gentlemen of the press pushed their way through the door to be first in telegraphing news of the verdict to their papers.

The same reporters had already called at Julia Howlett’s house wanting to speak with Helen and get her side of the story, the sensational account of her suffering and near-death at the hands of the ‘Demon Doctor’, as he had been christened in the headlines. The first reporter wormed his way into Colt House on false pretences and when Tom found out who he was he wanted to punch him in the face. It was fortunate that Aunt Julia was on hand to restrain Tom and turn the reporter out, saying firmly that Mrs Ansell required rest after her dreadful ordeal, and giving orders that no one else except the police was to be admitted under any circumstances.

This did not stop the press speculating or publishing quite unfounded stories. The death of the Seldons in Norwood was laid firmly at the doctor’s door, as was the murder of Eustace Flask in Durham, as well as various unsolved crimes in other cities which had no connection to him. The London journalists hared round to see Miss Ethel Smight – ‘the well-known phrenologist’ – in Tullis Street but they found her and her pinched-faced maid gone. The house was rented and Miss Smight had speedily decamped once her brother was arrested. Either she feared more attention from the police, who had threatened to charge her with being Doctor Tony’s accomplice, or she wanted to avoid the intrusions of the press. Nevertheless the pressmen talked to a client who had had his scalp felt by her and who claimed to have experienced ‘strange and sinister emanations’ coming from Miss Smight’s fingertips, but beyond that they discovered little.

Letters and telegrams were flying to and fro between Colt House and Helen’s mother in Highbury. Mrs Scott had read, with mounting horror, the earliest accounts in the papers and had only been prevented from getting the first train north by Aunt Julia’s assurances that her daughter was coping well and needed fewer, not more, visitors.

In the event, the fatal shooting of Frank Harcourt was the only charge brought against Smight and it was this which dominated the proceedings. Smight’s twisted programme of revenge against those whom he believed to be responsible for his brother’s suicide was scarcely referred to. He was painted by the prosecuting counsel and by the press as a clever man whose mind had been turned by vindictiveness and whose moral sense had been sapped by his opium addiction. ‘For it has been well established by the leading authorities,’ said the prosecution, ‘that prolonged indulgence in opiates can lead to a monomaniacal state of mind in which the subject feels compelled to satisfy his desires, however bizarre, vicious or degenerate.’

Smight’s counsel tried to show that his client was not fit to plead because his sanity was in doubt, but the lawyer’s heart did not seem to be in the attempt. Nor was he helped by Smight’s demeanour in the dock. The doctor said almost nothing and seemed impassive, even indifferent to his fate. The public and the reporters scrutinized him for traces of remorse or moral degeneracy and, although they failed to find any sign of penitence, everyone agreed that he looked evil.

So when the guilty verdict and the sentence arrived they were regarded as a formality. But a very satisfying formality.

Meanwhile Helen was indeed coping well, remarkably well, with the aftermath of her experiences and it was she who sometimes had to soothe Tom, who was full of anger at Anthony Smight as well as blaming himself for having let Helen slip away from him.

Once he had discovered that Helen was not at the Assembly Rooms with Major Marmont, he had been plunged into a near panic. Sebastian Marmont had been nearly as concerned and once they established that Helen must have been tricked by a counterfeit letter, they asked each other where she had gone. Where had she been enticed to? Marmont mentioned the Palace of Varieties behind the Court Inn. It was where some of his magical equipment was stored. He was renting the place while he was performing in Durham and using it as a convenient space to refine his tricks. Anyone who was familiar with his movements might be aware of that.

He’d scarcely finished explaining this when Tom demanded that Marmont take him there, this instant. By now almost two hours had passed since he had last seen Helen. Marmont instructed his three sons to remain where they were but Dilip Gopal accompanied them as they ran through the streets of Durham and over the Elvet Bridge. A carriage pulled up by them on the bridge and Tom was relieved to see Harcourt and Traynor in the back.

Rapidly, all was made clear. The two policemen had arrived at the central station in Newcastle to be met by an officer of the city force, and informed that they were on a futile errand. The men apprehended in a swoop on a dubious area of the docks did not include Smight after all. The one thought to be the doctor had been identified – definitely identified – as a ne’er-do-well called Evans. It was unfortunate that the officer who arrested Evans was new to the force and had jumped to conclusions based on a slight physical similarity to Anthony Smight before he fired off the telegram to Durham.

When he heard the facts Traynor was immediately fearful of what might be happening back in the city and, remembering the assurances which he had given to Mr and Mrs Ansell, insisted they take the next train to Durham. Now he and Harcourt were returning to the police-house close by.

Tom breathlessly said that he very much feared that his wife had fallen into the hands of Anthony Smight. Major Marmont explained about the fake letter and his belief that Mrs Ansell and the murderous doctor might be together in the Palace of Varieties.

A force of half a dozen constables was speedily assembled and the bare circumstances outlined to them by Harcourt. They made an approach on foot to the variety hall. Tom was for running ahead and bursting into the place, but Inspector Traynor told him that this might cause the very thing they were desperate to avoid, a panicked or vindictive reaction by Smight. Sebastian Marmont held a set of keys to the theatre. He unlocked the double doors of the main entrance and a handful of men slipped into the lobby, where they were told to keep an absolute silence and not to enter the main auditorium until called for. Marmont himself, together with Dilip Gopal, Harcourt, Traynor, Tom and a couple more of the constables, crept down the alley that ran beside the wooden building. The side door, the performers’ entrance, was unlocked.

The Superintendent and the Inspector went first down a short gaslit passage until they came to the flight of steps leading to the backstage area. The group paused, hardly daring to breathe. All of them could hear the sound of a man’s voice. The words were indistinguishable but the low monotone carried from the stage. ‘It’s Smight,’ mouthed Harcourt.

Tom pushed forward. His heart was beating hard and his mouth was dry. He felt a surge of hope. If Smight was there and if he was talking that could only mean that Helen was listening to him and that she was not… He didn’t finish the thought.

William Traynor tapped his chest to indicate he would lead the way. The party crept up the stairs and clustered in the cramped area at the top. They were surrounded by boxes and scenery flats and hanging drapes. A subdued light filtered from the stage, together with the droning tones. Tom thought he recognized the voice as that of the man who had accosted them on the riverbank several days earlier, trying to hand Helen her dropped handkerchief.

Then there was the most extraordinary sound, the sound of cheerful laughter. And Tom knew it was Helen. The laughter was followed by footsteps crossing the stage and then an odd metallic grinding. Tom could not be held back any longer and he pushed at the heavy curtains which formed the wings of the theatre. At his heels were the others.

Tom saw Helen tied down to a kind of platform which appeared to be floating unsupported several feet above the floor. On the far side of the stage, next to a piece of apparatus equipped with gears and handles was Anthony Smight. He had been bending over the machine but at the sound of stamping feet he straightened up. Tom darted towards Helen, only to hear a shout of ‘Don’t, Mr Ansell!’

With a thrill of horror, Tom realized that not only was Helen secured by her arms and feet but that there was a thin wire pressing into her neck. Her eyes were tight shut and her face was suffused with red. If the platform shifted upwards by only an inch more she would be throttled. He seized the platform to try and push it down but it remained firmly fixed in space, held by dozens of fine wires. Off to the side he was aware of shouts and curses and the thud of police boots. There was a flash and a violent bang which left him deafened.

A body was lying in the wings next to the winding apparatus and he hoped it was Smight but, no, the doctor was still standing, waving a revolver in the air. Smight took aim at another figure, possibly Sebastian Marmont, but simultaneously with his straightening his arm to loose off a second shot, half a dozen individuals smothered him and brought him to the ground. The gun flew up in the air.

Tom stood by, still trying to push the floating platform down. Then he attempted to loosen the wire about Helen’s neck but it was secured to a block underneath and he was terrified of increasing the pressure. He spoke to her, said her name, but did not know whether she heard. He grasped her hand and she opened her eyes, saw him and smiled. Then she closed her eyes again and seemed to lose consciousness.

Major Marmont took control of the winding mechanism and lowered the levitating platform so that the wire about Helen’s neck slackened. Others freed her from the bonds about her hands and feet. Anthony Smight stood to one side, his hands already cuffed behind his back and with two of the constables gripping him tightly by either shoulder.

William Traynor went up to Smight. By now Tom’s ears had stopped ringing. He heard the detective say to the doctor in a low but emphatic voice, ‘You’ll swing for this.’

At some point later Tom asked Helen if she remembered laughing out loud. At first she didn’t wish to dwell on her captivity at the hands of Doctor Smight but, by degrees, Tom heard most of the story; Smight’s explanation for his motives and actions, his desire to hurt Tom by taking her first. The crazily elaborate plan for murdering Helen.

‘I wondered why he did not use the gun,’ she said. ‘He must have had it in his pocket and when you and the police burst in, he was quick enough to shoot poor Superintendent Harcourt. But I believe that he wanted me to suffer a little of what his brother Ernest had suffered as he drowned in the Thames. To be deprived of air, to be gasping for life. Like the Seldons, only with them he employed gas.’

Tom could say nothing. In his mind’s eye, he saw Helen strapped to the levitation platform, the thin wire fastened tight about her white neck. The mark of that wire took more than two weeks to fade. Helen wore high-collared dresses to hide it. Tom turned cold at the memory as he did a dozen times a day. But now Helen was cheerful and wanted to talk.

‘I saw myself as Smight must have seen me, a woman, a young woman tied to a platform on stage, for whom a tortuous death had been conceived. I was in a theatre, Tom! Even though there was no audience to see us. But it was like a scene from a melodrama where the villain has his hands on the heroine and is about to despatch her in a very lurid manner. If you are watching you may be thrilled but you also know that it is not real, it is almost absurd. You have faith too that at the last moment, the very last moment, rescue will come. The hero will burst through the window or break down the door of the cellar. He will strike out at the villain with a manly blow from his fist. He will sweep the heroine into his arms. If I was laughing it was because it was like such a scene.’

‘But you did not know that rescue would come.’

‘I did not know but I hoped.’