The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty

The Box Steve Cavanagh

If you are reading this poor account, which is drafted in the full knowledge of its total inferiority in every material respect, in comparison to the work of my father, the late Charles Dickens, you should bear in mind that in all likelihood I am quite assuredly dead and literary criticism is the very least of my concerns. As I sit in my study of late, my career and middle age firmly behind me, I have been increasingly possessed of the notion to record my part in the most ordinary, and yet extraordinary, legal case of my career. By now you may have deduced that my name is Henry Fielding Dickens, King’s Counsel and Common Serjeant, retired, and that whilst a practising counsel I was well known for my involvement in a brace of sensational murder trials conducted in that most august theatre, the Old Bailey.

The case I refer to is not one of murder, or treason, or any remotely sensational crime. Instead, the minor criminal act in this case could hardly have been more pedestrian in its nature or execution. It concerned a box. And I have for nearly forty years kept my silence about me with regard to the true nature of this offence. For if it were not for the intervention of fate, I shudder to behold the blight it may have left upon the very foundations of the British Empire.

I can hold my pen still no longer.

On the twenty-ninth of January in the year 1894, I stood before the prisoner, in his cell at the Old Bailey. His appearance was that of a despicable, young wight. Only a fortnight before had I met him, at Police Court; his trousers pressed, and a clean handkerchief in his breast pocket. A bright chain, which had once led to a gold watch, flirted about his stomach from the pocket of his waistcoat. Hardly a gentleman. Even then, his moustaches were matted with dirt, his shoes encrusted with mud and his shirt a stained casualty of his labours and circumstance.

“My name is Mr Dickens,” I said.

The prisoner, at that time, lay down on the wet, black floor of his cell and said, “I have no coin for a brief. My apologies, sir, for I cannot pay you.”

I regarded him as one would regard a rather foolish, but otherwise good-natured child.

“Mr Ruthnick, you need not concern yourself with the trivialities of payment. My brief fee, and that of my instructing solicitor, have been paid in full by your Italian benefactor,” I said.

Whatever remained of his shoe leather shuffled and slicked across the slime coating the stone floor as he rose, staggered, and gathered his body beneath his skitting feet. A countenance of bemused delight appeared behind his dirt-ridden moustaches.

“Sir? A benefactor?”

“Come, come. Don’t tell me your wits have deserted you completely. Sir Kenneth Horatio Rochesmolles, of Turin, lately returned from his properties in Piedmont, discovered your arrest and charge and immediately instructed my friend Mr Deery, of Deery, Nook and Bond, Solicitors, to have your downfall professionally attended.”

My gallows humour failed to find favour with the prisoner.

“Downfall? You mean you cannot help me?”

“Forgive me, Mr Ruthnick. My attempts to lighten even the darkest of predicaments serves as an endless source of embarrassment for Mrs Dickens. No, I shall not oversee your downfall. I rather fancy that I can see a way to your emancipation.”

A flush of crimson fought to emerge through the layers of grime that besmirched his youthful cheek.

“I remember your appearance at the Police Court, and Mr Deery recalled my remarking upon your case at the time and sought out my services.”

“Dear heavens, thank you, sir. Thank you … and my thanks to Sir Kenneth and to God Almighty,” he said, in a tone of welcome surprise.

“Mr Ruthnick, God, his ways and mysteries, have yet to penetrate the Central Criminal Court. However, between Mr Deery and myself, we may be able to conjure a miracle. Let’s hope for your sake that we can. You understand the charges that you face?”

“Not entirely, sir.”

“I suspected as much. You are studying fine art at the Royal College?”

“I am, sir, and it is my fervent dream to return to my studies, if I am permitted. And, if that be the case, I shall explain to the Dean that I no longer wish to attend upon our esteemed visitors.”

“Ah, now we come to the rub of it. It was your accompaniment of a visitor to the college that led to your incarceration, was it not?”

“Indeed, sir. And it may be the ruin of me.”

The poor fellow sank to his knees, as if the very memory of those recent events were a great weight in his mind. Or perhaps his conscience? I recalled my meeting with Mr Deery, following my perusal of the brief in this case, and my recommending to him that he return the retainer to Sir Kenneth, as the defence of Mr Ruthnick was a lost cause.

“Mr Dickens, may I say that I arrived at an identical conclusion. That is, until I reread our letter of instruction from Sir Kenneth, and his particular, and rather unusual suggestion with regard to the defence of the prisoner.”

And with that, Mr Deery, who always seemed to have the relevant document within ready distance of his counsel’s nose, produced the letter from one of his many paper-filled pockets and handed it to me. It was made in a strong, male hand. The correspondence identified the author as Sir Kenneth, born of English and Italian descent. He confirmed that he felt a great affinity with the arts and made several large donations to the college annually. The Dean had made him aware of young Mr Ruthnick’s plight, and he enclosed a cheque, drawn from his account in the Bank of England in the sum of £50 for the defence of Mr Ruthnick. The final paragraph was most curious.

“What do you make of it, Mr Dickens?” said Mr Deery.

“I think it dangerous, Mr Deery, for any counsel to ask a question in open court if he does not already know the answer. However, it has the singular effect of making an otherwise dreary case most interesting. We shall see, Mr Deery. We shall see …”

Court number three at the Old Bailey had almost exhausted its list. The presiding judge, his Honour, Judge Campbell, had at four o’clock sent a man of twenty-three years of age to Pentonville Prison, where he was to serve five years and submit to punishments under the Garrotters Act. Under this particular legislative provision the young man would receive up to fifty lashes in the presence of the press to aid his rehabilitation. His crime was the burglary of a ham from a private dwelling house. Judge Campbell filled his pipe whilst the convict was brought to the cells kicking and screaming.

“Now, case number twenty-six, the matter of Albert Ruthnick, may I have your appearances, gentlemen?” said the judge.

“If it please, Your Honour, I appear for the prosecution,” said Mr Roderick – a rather tall and cold brother at the Bar, who often smelled vaguely of fish. It was his wont, following his securing a sentence of death, for Mr Roderick to ply his fishing rod to the Thames in the vain hope of securing a reluctant salmon for his table. Mr Roderick stood with a straight back, his head tilted towards the judge, who in turn sat on an elevated bench far above the ordinary misdealings of his fellow Londoners. Beside the judge a single candle fluttered a devilish glow upon his features, framed by his dull, full-length judicial wig. If one had not been familiar with the judge, one could be forgiven for regarding him as a rather jovial soul. His plump cheek, wide smile and clear blue eyes were a perfect mask with which to conceal his delight in inflicting cruelty on those prisoners who were unfortunate enough to appear before him.

“Your Honour, I appear for the prisoner,” I said and, as I stood to announce my appearance, I caught the familiar odour of the Bailey: sweat, excrement and ink. Once that smell is in your nostrils, it is difficult to pass from one’s memory. The prisoner, Mr Ruthnick, appeared in the dock to my right – his whole body aquiver as he regarded the jury for the first time. The jury were seated to my left; twelve men of property whom, according to the clerk’s recollection, had yet to acquit a single prisoner that day. It is my unfortunate view that Judge Campbell’s court often seated hard juries. Or more accurately, Judge Campbell had a way of leading the jury along his particularly harsh path.

Mr Deery sat behind me, ready to take a careful note of the evidence.

The clerk of the court stood and addressed the prisoner.

“Albert Ruthnick, you have pleaded ‘not guilty’ to the charges on the indictment, namely that you, on the sixteenth day of January this year of our Lord 1894, did commit Forgery in the construction and use of a letter, and that you did utter such untruths in pursuit of said forgery and attempted to procure property to which you had no lawful claim. Are you ready for your trial?”

Gripped in a paroxysm of fear, it was all that Mr Ruthnick could do to look in my direction. I nodded.

“I … I am,” he said.

“Forgery and utterances,” growled the judge, and made his disapproval apparent to the jury with the wobble of his jowls as his great head shook in contempt for the prisoner.

“Call your witnesses, Mr Roderick,” he said.

At this prompt, a man of perhaps forty years of age, wearing a tweed suit, stood up in the public stalls at the rear of the court and made his way through those bloodthirsty members of the public who regularly attended the Bailey for their entertainment. Of course, not all of those gathered in the stalls were there for blood. A good deal of them attended simply for the warmth of the hearth and temporary respite from the snow.

The man in tweed made his way towards the witness box as Mr Roderick announced, “I call the Dock Constable, John Robinson.”

At this announcement, the man in tweed arrested his trajectory, took a few paces backwards and sat in the front row of the stalls. In his place, a large man in police uniform stepped forward. I rather guessed the eager gentleman in tweed was Mr Hugo Loffler, the complainant, whose haste to resolve the formality of the prisoner’s conviction struck me as rather more than the usual nerves of the stomach that afflict those who appear in court.

The Dock Constable took his oath, stated his name as John Robinson and bowed to the judge.

“Constable Robinson, you were on duty at Saint Katherine’s Docks on the night of the sixteenth?” asked Mr Roderick.

“That is true.”

“And, in relation to the matter before the court, what did you observe?”

“I had completed my rounds, and was making my way to the station house when I heard two men arguing on Saint Katherine’s Way. As I approached them, I saw the complainant, Mr Loffler, and the prisoner in conversation.”

“What was the nature of the conversation?” said the prosecutor.

“They were exchanging high words, Your Honour. I could tell by their pitch and manner that violence was imminent.”

“Were you able to discern the nature of their dispute?” asked Mr Roderick.

“Indeed. At the time, the complainant, Mr Loffler, held a wooden box in his arms. I heard him say, ‘You tried to steal my box.’ At these words, I intervened, announced my station and presence and enquired if Mr Loffler required assistance?”

“And what was his reply?”

“He accused the prisoner of attempting to procure his box with a forged letter, but that was of no matter as the box had been recovered.”

“And did the prisoner answer this charge?” asked Mr Roderick.

“He said that he had been handed the letter by a tall, thin man in a black coat, on the steps of the Royal College. He was unable to name this mysterious gentleman. Nor could he describe his face. He stated that the fellow’s features were in shadow. However, he assured me that the man in the black coat knew of Mr Loffler, and that this man gave the prisoner a letter written by Mr Loffler, which authorised the prisoner to attend at the restaurant of Mr Triebel in Saint Katherine’s Way, collect Mr Loffler’s box and return it to the college.”

“Did the complainant confirm the accuracy of this account?” said Mr Roderick.

“Indeed he did not, Your Honour. Mr Loffler said that he had never written any such instruction and accused the prisoner of forging the letter in order to obtain his property under false pretences.”

A generous grumble erupted from the judge. It was well timed and several of the gentlemen of the jury nodded and answered the judge with disapproving grumbles of their own.

“What was your response, Constable?” asked the prosecutor.

“I ascertained the names and addresses of both men, and informed the prisoner that he was to accompany me to the station. I asked Mr Loffler to join me there, where he was to make a complaint.”

“And were you able to obtain the forged letter?”

“I was indeed, sir. The prisoner had it on him, said he would need the letter if he were seen walking through the streets, box in hand, by a constable, and might have need of it to lend legitimacy to his endeavours. I have the letter here, shall I read it to you?”

“Please do.”

“I am busy with my work presently. Please give my box to the bearer of this note, who shall ensure its safe return to me. Hugo Loffler.”

“Thank you, Constable,” said the prosecutor, taking his seat.

As the constable removed himself from the witness box, I heard murmurs from the jury as they spoke in unfriendly tones and pointed at the prisoner. Mr Ruthnick’s future appeared quite bleak at this moment.

“Call your next wit—” said the judge, before I interrupted.

“My apologies, Your Honour, I would like to ask a few questions,” I said.

A well-practised look of judicial astonishment appeared on Judge Campbell’s generously proportioned face.

“If you must,” he said.

With some degree of apathy, the constable returned to the witness box.

“Constable, you subsequently discovered that Mr Loffler and the prisoner had met before the events of that evening had taken place?” I said.

“Yes, I believe that Mr Loffler is a German painter, and visitor to the Royal College. I understand that the prisoner was tasked by the Dean to attend to Mr Loffler during his visit.”

“That is so. Now, the prisoner, at the very first opportunity, told you that he had been instructed to retrieve Mr Loffler’s box from a restaurant in Saint Katherine’s Way and return it to the college. He told you that he received this instruction from a tall, thin man in a black coat. Tell me, what efforts did you make to find this tall, thin man in black?”

The Dock Constable appeared as if he had been struck, his head slipped back on his shoulders and his mouth popped open. His appearance was not unlike one of Mr Roderick’s stupefied salmon.

“Well, er … none, sir.”

“None?” I said, with an inflated air of incredulity.

“It was plainly a lie, sir. Mr Loffler told me that he had given no such instruction to any man. According to Mr Loffler’s account, the man in black did not exist.”

“And you believed him?” I said, inviting a common response from constables of the law.

“He gave me his word as a gentleman,” was the reply. The precise answer that I had intended to solicit.

“Constable, come now, under English Law gentlemen are treated no differently from any other man. Waif, stray, baron and beggar are equal under the eyes of this jury, bound as they are to uphold the common law of England,” I said, with a dramatic flourish.

I could see the twelve men of the jury positively beaming with the weighty responsibility of equality. It is a shame that they needed reminding of it at all, even through the prism of patriotism. Judge Campbell stifled a groan and gave me a most foul look. He knew I was attempting to wrestle the jury from his control, and he didn’t care for it.

“So, Constable Robinson, you carried out no investigation to verify the prisoner’s contemporaneous and consistent explanation?”

The good peeler shied a little, and said, “No. I did not. I had no cause to doubt Mr Loffler’s word at that time.”

“At that time. A most excellent choice of words. Constable, if you were, at this time, to begin to doubt the word of Mr Loffler, you admit that the case against the prisoner must fail?”

“That is a matter for the jury,” said Judge Campbell.

“Of course, my apologies, Your Honour. Constable Robinson, your evidence was that when you met Mr Loffler and the prisoner in Saint Katherine’s Way, Mr Loffler did not at first seek your professional assistance?”

“I’m not sure I understand the question, Mr Dickens,” said the witness.

“Ah, well let me put it this way – according to Mr Loffler, the prisoner had attempted to steal his property in a devious, calculated and premeditated manner. Forgery is a serious offence is it not?”

“Indeed it is,” conceded the witness.

“And yet, Mr Loffler, a gentleman as you say, did not insist on your arresting this vile criminal?”

“No, he appeared satisfied that the box had been recovered.”

“And when you arrested Mr Ruthnick, and took him to the station, did you or your colleagues have need to press Mr Loffler for a formal complaint against the prisoner?”

He cleared his throat and said, “Now that you mention it, sir, Your Honour, my fellow officer did have to encourage Mr Loffler to make a written statement of complaint.”

I chanced a quick look at the complainant. He shifted in his seat, and pulled at his collar. It is possible that I may have been mistaken, but at that time I formed the distinct impression that Mr Loffler was considering whether to make a charge for the door.

My moment’s pause had given the judge an opportunity to grasp for the jury’s mind once more.

“Gentlemen of the jury, giving evidence can be a daunting prospect. It is natural for one to have qualms before one commits to becoming a prosecution witness. May I remind you, gentlemen, Mr Loffler is not the person on trial here,” said the judge.

“Your Honour, this case rests on the credibility of the complainant. He is not on trial, but I am at liberty to test the strength of his evidence,” I said.

“Why of course, Mr Dickens, but see that it goes no further than that,” said Judge Campbell.

I returned my labours to the Dock Constable in the witness box.

“You were present at the Police Court?” I said.

“Indeed I was present.”

“Mr Loffler’s statement of complaint at that hearing estimated the value of this box and its contents at approximately ten pounds.”

“Correct,” said Constable Robinson, with a knowing smile.

The box, preserved as a police exhibit, had been produced at Police Court and had also found its way on to the prosecution table at this hearing. I had been at Police Court when this case had been mentioned and I recalled the sheer audacity of the complainant’s inflated valuation for what appeared to me to be no more than a battered, dented and stained pine box. My suspicion at that time was that the complainant would shortly make a monetary claim for this egregious overvaluation from Lloyd’s of London, and pocket a healthy profit from the damage to his property, which he would no doubt claim had occurred during his struggle with the prisoner.

My theory, sound at that time, was to be proved quite wrong.

“Constable, the box in question is in court?”

Instead of answering, he pointed to the miserable item, around the same size and shape as a suitcase, which sat upon the prosecution’s desk.

The jury were not impressed with the valuation, their faces registering their doubt.

“Thank you, Constable, nothing further.”

It had taken the prosecutor, Mr Roderick, a short break and a good deal of persuasion to convince Mr Loffler to give evidence. I heard as much in the weeks following the case. However he managed it, Mr Roderick called Mr Hugo Loffler to the witness box and led him through his evidence in a brief and comprehensive manner.

Mr Loffler confirmed that he had been invited to lecture at the Royal College as a guest of the Dean. He had not long been in London, a mere month or two, and wanted to partake of the sights. The Dean had suggested that Mr Ruthnick should be the visitor’s guide, and so for two days the prisoner had carried Mr Loffler’s box as they traversed the great city.

On the afternoon of the sixteenth of January, Mr Loffler had asked to see Saint Katherine’s Docks, and sample the beer from the local brewery. Apparently, he did not care for English ale and had heard that the beer from this brewery was akin to that of his Germanic homeland.

“When did the prisoner make his interest in your box known?” asked the prosecutor.

“When we left the tavern briefly, to walk out upon the dock to watch the police,” said Mr Loffler, in a soft German accent.

“You mentioned the police, what were the police doing?”

“They were searching the vessels. Perhaps twenty constables. I had observed their arrival from the tavern window, and I wished to see their operations first-hand. The following day, I learned the constables were searching for the notes stolen from the Wisbech and Lincolnshire Bank.”

The robbery had been front-page news for weeks. A gang of armed villains had broken into the bank during the late hours of Christmas Eve and made off with many hundreds of five-pound notes. The Metropolitan Police had yet to make an arrest and suspected that a criminal network was attempting to smuggle the notes abroad.

Mr Loffler continued. “I suggested to the prisoner that as there were few people in the tavern, my box would be safe remaining at our table whilst we went outside. At that moment, the prisoner said that he would carry the box outside with us, as he was fearful of thieves.”

“And did you take the box with you when you ventured to the dock?”

“No. I had been sketching in the tavern. I took my paper and charcoal with me. I fancied that I might want to sketch the scene. My box remained at the table, under the watch of the innkeeper.”

“And after you and the prisoner had viewed the police operation, what happened next?”

“I informed the prisoner that I cared to quarter in the area. We returned to the inn where the prisoner carried my box to the hotel of Mr Triebel. I told the prisoner that I should take a walk on my own, and that his services were not required for the remainder of that day.”

“I see, and did you venture out that day?” asked the prosecutor.

“Correct. I dined first then left the hotel for an evening stroll. When I returned after a few hours, the hotel manager informed me that I had just missed my companion, Mr Ruthnick, who had taken delivery of my box in accordance with my instruction. I explained that I had given no instruction and enquired in what direction the villain had departed. I then gave chase.”

“You chased after the prisoner?”

“Correct, Mr Triebel informed me that the prisoner had left only a few minutes before my arrival. I knew that he could not move swiftly with my box and I caught up with him quickly. I apprehended the thief with my property in his possession.”

All was silent in the room, save for the soft rustling of paper as Mr Roderick produced the alleged forged letter and handed it to his witness.

“Mr Loffler, is this your handwriting, or your signature?”

“No, it is not.”

“Thank you, nothing further, Your Honour.”

Even as I rose, pulling my robes about me and ensuring that my wig had not slipped to a jaunty angle, I could see Mr Loffler’s complexion transform into pale water. His fingernails still carried the remains of dark paint and would not keep still. Each digit beat an anxious, erratic rhythm on the mahogany rail surrounding the witness box.

“Mr Loffler, it was Constable Robinson’s evidence that when he apprehended the prisoner you were somewhat reluctant to make a formal complaint. Is that a fair assessment?”

“No, no, no, my good fellow. I wish to see evildoers punished, of course, that is my duty as a citizen.”

“So the constable is lying?”

“He is merely mistaken,” he said.

“When you discovered the prisoner had made off with your box from your hotel, under false pretences, you did not ask Mr Triebel to alert a constable, is that correct?”

The anxious percussion of Mr Loffler’s fingertips began beating to a higher tempo.

“I … I did not wish to inconvenience my host.”

The jury were transfixed by Mr Loffler’s curious worriment. Even Judge Campbell’s ample visage had taken interest in the complainant’s palpable distress.

I took it upon myself to test his resolve and identify the source of this solicitude. So I turned, quite slowly, and set my eyes upon the box. It was clearly an artist’s portable easel. Once opened at the hinge, it would allow one to sit with the box on one’s knees, have ready access to paint and materials and a secure, properly angled canvas from which to work. Such items were neither expensive nor uncommon. The dents, scrapes and paint stains on this box were evidence of its heavy use and history of travel.

“Your box, Mr Loffler, seems to be in a rather sorry state, does it not?”

At the word “box” the complainant’s eyes widened. “It has been in my possession for some time.”

“It is hardly worth ten pounds?” I said.

“Your Honour, I object to my friend’s question,” said Mr Roderick. “The value of this item does not address the matter of its illegal procurement by the prisoner.”

“My question, Your Honour, may prove relevant should the jury find against my client. The value of the property is something Your Honour will no doubt bear in mind in relation to the issue of penalty.”

“I’ll allow the question,” said the judge, who no doubt had begun to question the hefty valuation placed upon the item by Mr Loffler.

“It was a mere guess, Your Honour. If Mr Dickens is of the view that my box is worth less than this amount, so be it.”

A pair of fat eyebrows shot beneath Judge Campbell’s wig in astonishment.

“You conceded to my view very quickly, Mr Loffler. Perhaps I do you a disservice. Whilst the box itself may be estimated at a lesser amount, the contents could be worth considerably more, could they not?”

“No! Forgive me, I … I merely … Mr Dickens, the box is of little value,” pleaded the complainant.

“I would like to view the contents of this exhibit, Your Honour. This witness has reneged on his earlier evidence, and the court cannot be convinced of his credibility on this issue. The court should observe the full contents of this exhibit.”

A cry from the witness box was quickly silenced by the judge, who called forth Mr Roderick, box in hand, so that a judicial eye could pass over the disputed exhibit.

As the judge opened the box, the witness hung his head.

I watched the judge remove pots of paint, charcoal, paper, canvas and a host of brushes as he searched. I suspected he would discover beneath the artistic paraphernalia, at least one large five-pound note from the Wisbech and Lincolnshire Bank. I was sure of it. I did not believe Mr Loffler’s visit to the docks, and his keen curiosity regarding the police search were in the least coincidental. This man was a courier for the bank robbers.

The judge threw up his hands, almost as if something within the complainant’s box were lethal, and may strike at him at any moment.

I could tell, by the white dot of foam at the corner of his lips, that Judge Campbell was not best pleased with his discovery. He produced the offending item from the box and held it aloft.

A piece of paper. White.

But not a five-pound note.

Instead, he held a single page.

He flung it from the bench with all his might and it careened through the air to land on my bench. I saw then what had so enraged the unlearned judge. And I recalled the evidence of Mr Loffler.

Whist the prisoner and Mr Loffler had sampled the pseudo-Germanic beer in the Docks tavern, Mr Loffler had taken up his charcoal and drawn a sketch of the clientele. In the foreground was a serving girl bent over a table to retrieve a half-empty plate. And while Mr Loffler had sketched her serving frock, he had taken care to ensure that the frock was transparent. And his heavy scrawls left little to the imagination concerning the shapely form that inhabited the dress.

“Filth! Depravity!” screamed Judge Campbell. “Never have I seen such levels of debauched indecency represented on the page. Mr Loffler, you are no artist. You are a base pornographer. Your work, and the devilish tools you employ to manufacture these indecent images, are entirely worthless in this court. Case dismissed. The prisoner is free to leave the court. And Mr Loffler, you are very lucky not to find yourself in irons. The audacity!”

“All … all rise,” said the clerk, stifling a chuckle as the judge gained his feet and departed.

The relief set upon Mr Ruthnick’s face proved a perfect carnival reflection of the complainant’s expression, which was pure, red shame.

I gathered my papers and glanced again at the sketch. It seemed to me, although erotic to the point of criminal indecency, not unskilled work. The table that the serving girl leant over had been perfectly drawn and delicately shaded. The patrons surrounding her had been well captured – indeed the fellow beside her who sat at the table was very well drawn indeed. He would’ve been a tall man, considering the length of his legs. And certainly an individual not ruled by his appetite, judging by his thin arms, legs and the half-full plate of food that was being taken away. His face was perhaps not too well realised. A high forehead, angular features, but one side of his face appeared in strange shadow. When I examined the remainder of the sketch, one could clearly delineate the angle of light that the artist had controlled, but the darkness on one side of this man’s face was incongruous to the angle of daylight from the window. I surmised that it was not shadow, but perhaps a birthmark or an injury carried home from a military campaign.

I passed the sketch back to the constable, but not before I saw Mr Ruthnick point at the sketch as he descended from the dock. According to Mr Ruthnick, the tall, thin man in charcoal bore a striking resemblance to the fellow that had given to him the note and the instruction to retrieve the box.

I heard little more from Mr Ruthnick, post acquittal. He had returned to his studies, as he’d hoped, and went on to become a minor watercolour artist.

From memory, it was May when Mr Deery approached me in the Library. In fact, at the very desk I sit at now.

He gave me a letter, marked for my attention. And left without another word.

I still have that letter. Although its contents I can recite easily.

When I had finished reading that letter for the first time, all those years ago, I did something quite extraordinary. Even now, I cannot explain why I did it. Or how. It simply happened. I could not hold my hand still that day.

I took up my pen and ink and did this.