“When a week had gone by, but Mr X had received no reply to his note, he sat down and wrote again.
Dear Wisdom,
— against —
I think, perhaps, you never received my note, saying that our costs in this case were five thousand pounds. May we have a cheque, please?
Yours sincerely,
Simeon X
“Again he received no reply. But two days later the following letter arrived.
Messrs. X and Y
Dear Sirs,
— against —
We shall be glad to receive your detailed bill of costs in this case.
Yours faithfully,
A and A
“This was extremely awkward. The making of bricks without straw nearly always is. Mr X was forced to the conclusion that Mr Wisdom was no gentleman.
“After a week’s Herculean labour, Messrs. X and Y rendered to Messrs. A and A the detailed bill of costs for which they had asked. This, of course, had been made to amount to five thousand pounds.
“Messrs. A and A acknowledged the bill and notified Messrs. X and Y that they would have it taxed.
“If a solicitor renders a bill of costs which his debtor considers excessive, the latter can require the former to appear before a Taxing Master and justify his charges. The Taxing Master will study the bill and listen to what each side has to say. If he thinks any charge excessive, he will reduce it. If he reduces the whole bill by one third, the solicitor has to pay the costs of the taxation.
“On receiving this notification, Mr X perceived that Mr Wisdom not only was no gentleman, but never had been and never would be a gentleman.
“The two firms appeared before a Taxing Master. The latter studied the bill, listened to all that was said and taxed off – that is to say, reduced it by – very nearly four thousand five hundred pounds.
“Mr X’s emotions may be imagined. In any event, the string of pearls went back to the jeweller’s shop and the option to purchase the mansion was not taken up.
“And here is a tail-piece, which I doubt if the defendant knew.
“About six months later the plaintiff consulted Mr N, a well-known and popular solicitor, whose office was in The Temple, as some solicitors’ are. She looked rather shabby and seemed very much depressed. ‘Yes, my girl,’ says N, ‘and what’s the trouble now?’ He had her measure all right. ‘Well, you know,’ says the lady, ‘I got — thousand pounds.’ ‘So I read,’ says N, grimly. ‘Well, X and Y won’t pay me. I’ve not had a penny yet.’ ‘D’you mean that?’ says N. ‘Well, look at me,’ says the lady. ‘Leave it to me,’ says N. ‘Your gains may be ill-gotten, but not the Pope himself may confiscate ill-gotten gains.’
“N got the money for her, and that was that.
“Now I knew X and Y: I knew Wisdom: and I knew N. I knew very well a personal friend of X: and a personal friend of Wisdom’s was a personal friend of mine. And that is how I was able to piece together this tale. I very much doubt if anyone else in the world knows the whole from beginning to end. But that is exactly what happened some forty odd years ago.”
“The iniquity of man,” said Berry, “passes belief. Why weren’t they struck off the Roll?”
“They should have been,” said I. “For that and for other things. But evidence in such cases is very hard to procure. And firms like that are very slippery. And in this case, their course was too easy: they would have got at the woman, and she’d have gone back on her proof. Why did Horatio Bottomley have the run he had?”
“I never could understand that, for he was the Prince of Rogues.”
“Let me enlighten you. Twice the Crown went for him. Each time, their case seemed copper-bottomed. Each time they firmly believed they’d got him cold. And if he had gone down, he’d have gone down for fourteen years. And each time, somehow or other, he slithered out of the net. I don’t know how he did it – I’d rather not think. The fact remains that he did. And were the Treasury wild? I’ll say they were. And, thereafter, they watched him like hell. But Bottomley went straight on and did as he pleased. For years, quite once a year – and I’m putting it low – the information they got was more than enough to convict any ordinary man. So a brief went to Treasury Counsel, asking him to advise whether or no another attempt should be made. And this was the answer which Treasury Counsel gave. ‘I will not advise proceedings against this man. Nothing short of the
fiat
of the Attorney-General, will induce me to draw the indictment in such a case.’”
“What’s a
fiat
?” said Jill.
“
Fiat
is Latin, my darling, for ‘Let it be done’. And Treasury Counsel was right. He knew his man, and he knew very well it would only be riding for a fall. They got him at last, as you know. But I think he was failing then. In his prime, he was marvellous. In court, I mean: for action after action was brought against him, and he always defended himself. And he was a lovely lawyer. I’ve heard him follow F E Smith on a point of law: and, by God, he was just as good. And always most respectful. If that man had run straight, he could have done anything. I suppose he preferred to be a rogue. They said he was Bradlaugh’s son, but whether he was or not, I have no idea. But to hear him cross-examine… Rogue or no, you’ve got to admire genius. And he was immensely popular.”
“Did you come across Arthur Newton?”
“I did indeed. I met him, time and again. He was often against Muskett. And he was charming to me.”
“He was a pretty blackguard.”
“So he was. But he was a gentleman. He was at one of the very best public-schools. Then he became a solicitor. He had his offices in Marlborough Street. He’d done time before I knew him. He was sent down for getting witnesses out of the way. God knows what he was paid to do it: but he made one stipulation. ‘If I do it, they’ll prosecute me and I shall be sent to jug. Well, I don’t mind going to jug. But a solicitor who goes to jug is struck off the Roll. Well, I must be the exception.
I must not be struck off the Roll
.’ Don’t ask me how it was managed, but, though he went to prison, he was not struck off. And he came back and carried on. He had a most charming manner, was always well turned out: but I think he lifted his elbow – I can’t be sure. I was told – but I can’t vouch for this – that, because of Arthur Newton, the staff of Marlborough Street Police Station was always changed every month. Myself, I believe it to be true: but I can’t say that it was.”
“But why was that?” said Daphne.
“For fear that he’d get at them. You must get to know a man, before you can blackmail him.”
“Good God,” said Berry. “What company you have kept.”
“It takes all sorts,” said I, “to make a world. And you couldn’t help liking him. He had a most pleasing address. But I always had the impression that most of the work he did never came into court.”
“He saw to that?”
“Probably. Anyway, he was very able. And always nice to me.”
“The old school tie?”
I shook my head.
“The honour was not Harrow’s. He came from another place.”
“Any more friends like that?”
“I can’t remember one. And that’s enough for tonight.”
“Would you call that a side-light on history?”
“Frankly, no. But we needn’t put it in.”
“I don’t know,” said Berry. “It is not everyone that has a personality so dangerous as to compel the Commissioner of Police for the Metropolis to change the staff of one of his principal stations every month.”
“I can’t swear to that,” said I.
“But you believe it to be true?”
“I do.”
“Then bung it in,” said Berry. “Damn it, we must consider posterity. What wouldn’t we give today for such a reminiscence of the reign of Henry the Eighth?”
“I don’t want to damp your hopes: but I can’t see this book on sale four hundred years from now.”
“Neither can I,” said Berry. “But odd copies may survive. The Dark Ages will just be ending. The Barons will be hanging rich merchants up by their thumbs.”
“My God,” said Daphne, “I thought I told you I didn’t want to dream.”
Berry lighted a cigar and regarded his watch.
Then –
“What about half an hour at the Old Bailey? You know. Something worthy of Hogarth, just to take us to bed.”
“You are revolting,” said Jill.
“Not at all,” said Berry. “Hogarth was a great master. But he never left anything out. And that is what lends to his incomparable pictures a historical value which is beyond all price.”
“One day,” said I, “whilst I was still a solicitor’s pupil, I was at the Old Bailey. Why I was there, I can’t remember. But I had been sent up there about some case. I had done what I had to do and was just about to leave, when either some clerk or some policeman touched my arm. ‘If you want to see something, sir, which you’ll never see again, go into the Judge’s court.’ I thanked him, and made my way in. The court was pretty full, so I stood in one of the aisles just abreast of the dock. Bench, jury-box and dock were all empty: the jury was out. ‘Hullo,’ said a man that I knew. ‘Come to see some Grand Guignol?’ I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Somebody gave me a tip, and here I am.’ ‘Well, don’t be sorry for them: they’re pure-bred spawn of Satan – and that’s the truth.’
“I knew the case. The King against Reubens and Reubens: and the charge was wilful murder. The Judge was Jelf. In fact, I had been in court the day before, for five or ten minutes, perhaps – no more than that. But I was glad that I had, for I happened to see one witness in the box.
“Before I go any further, I’ll tell you about the case. I shall have to be very outspoken, but you must forgive me for that.
“Maurice and Mark Reubens lived in a house which they rented in a street in Whitechapel. They were Jews, as their name suggests, and they were brothers. They didn’t look like brothers, although they were. Maurice was slim, fair, pasty-faced, with, I think, a small moustache. He might have been a draper’s assistant at some rather low-class shop. Mark was animal: he was short, thick-set and dark, with one of the lowest foreheads I ever saw: he looked a hooligan. They did no work. Their income was derived partly from the immoral earnings of the women who lived with them – and others, and partly from the proceeds of the robberies which they committed upon the persons of those unfortunate seamen whom their particular women brought back to their house. Such robberies were lucrative, for the women had orders to concentrate upon sailors who had just been paid off.”
“In fact,” said Berry, “they were two of the idle rich.”
“Precisely.”
“Yet, with it all, a thoroughly nice-feeling pair.”
“Be quiet,” said Daphne. “Go on, Boy. I feel rather sick already, but I’ve simply got to know that justice was done.”
“So much for the men. Now for the two women, who at this particular time were living with them. One was an East-End drab: young, vulgarly attractive, coarse. The other was young, too: she was fair and her face was pretty: her voice was gentle: and, for all her tawdry finery she looked what she was – and that was a lady born.”
“Oh, my God,” cried my sister.
“A lady born. She was the witness I saw the day before. In the box. I was able to observe her manner and hear her voice. Jelf was pretty tough; but as she turned to leave the witness-box, I heard him say to the jury, ‘Gentlemen, this is a sight to make the angels weep.’ I cannot better that saying. What tragedy lay behind it, I never knew.
“And now for the case. One evening the women picked up two sailors. I think I’m right in saying that they had just been paid off. As usual, all four went to some public-house, for the sailors had to be sozzled before they brought them home. Now one of the sailors could carry a great deal of liquor: so more than usual was drunk, before he had reached the condition which Maurice and Mark desired. Please bear that in mind. Then the four repaired to the house in the Whitechapel street. Maurice and Mark were there, but were not to be seen. The usual routine was observed. After what the brothers had found was a sufficient interval, the two of them entered the room in which the four were. Mark was carrying a sjambok, just in case. A sjambok’s an ugly weapon, as you probably know: you can’t kill a man with a sjambok, but you can lay his face open, because it will cut like a knife. Now one of the seamen was out, according to plan: but the hard-headed one was not, and when he saw what was coming, he put up his fists and dared the two swine to come on. Mark did his best with the sjambok, but his best only made that gallant sailor see red. And things began to look ugly – for Maurice and Mark, I mean. Nobody knows what happened – exactly what happened, I mean. But Maurice Reubens had cause to fear for his life – or thought he had. Be that as it may, he whipped out an ordinary pen-knife and opened its blade. And then he thrust this into the sailor’s heart. Upon that, the great-hearted man burst out of the room. I imagine that he knew he had had it and hoped to publish the fact. Out of the house he staggered, and into the street, and he ran down the street for a little, with the knife still fast in his heart. And then he fell dead.
“His body was found very soon by a constable walking his beat. The constable knew his job – I’ll tell you later why. He didn’t blow his whistle: instead, he trailed the blood which led to the Reubens’ house. Then he ran like a hare to the station…
“Very soon the house was surrounded, and as soon as he knew that it was, Detective-Inspector Wensley made his way in.”
“Wensley?” cried Berry.
“Yes. It was Wensley’s show. And, by God, he was a policeman. Rough, as you make ’em, but brilliant. He knew his job.”
“You’re telling me,” said Berry. “Sorry. Just go straight on.”
“The five were still there. Now only one would have been there; that is to say, only the drunken sailor, but for the fact which I asked you to bear in mind. And that fact was that more liquor than usual was drunk. As a result of that fact, one of the girls had passed out, and they could not bring her round. The Reubens dared not leave her, in case she had seen what occurred; and in any event, she might have talked to the police. Wensley found them working, drenching the girl with water, fighting like a couple of madmen to get her on to her feet. They’d heard no police-whistle, of course: that may have made them think that they still had time. But they hadn’t reckoned with Wensley…
“Well, that is what happened, so far as anyone knows. The two Reubens were charged with murder, and the two girls turned King’s Evidence. And that was that. It was a dead case. They duly appeared in the police-court, and they were committed for trial. And now the trial was over, and the jury was out.
“There was a sudden movement in court. I didn’t see what had caused it, but I knew what it meant. The jury were agreed upon their verdict. The Judge was sent for, and the jury began to file in. The prisoners were sent for, too. When the jury was back in its box, the Judge took his seat on the Bench. But the prisoners were not in the dock. The whole court waited in silence. And then, from the cells below came roars and yells of protest: these rose into the court, by the stair that led into the dock. The Reubens were showing reluctance to learn what the verdict might be. And the Judge and jury sat, waiting… The roars and yells grew louder: this meant that the brothers were being persuaded to approach the foot of the stair. Phrases could now be distinguished – ‘I won’t’ and ‘Let me alone’, howled, rather than spoken: but the bellowing was mostly incoherent, and you could hear its echoes beating against the walls of the corridors down below. And the Judge and jury sat, waiting… So they came to the foot of the stair, and the echoes died. But the noise was now much louder. The stair was of polished oak, and it was built to be used by one man at a time. It was, I should say, not more than two feet wide. To bring a man up that staircase, when he did not mean to be brought, presented difficulty. So the warders found. And the stair was slippery. I can’t say we heard them coming, for the screams and roars overwhelmed all other sound. But I saw the backs of two warders rising into the dock. I should say that five minutes went by, before they were up that stair. And then at last they were being held up to the bar. A giant warder was between them, with an arm about each of their necks. Four other warders supported him, two upon either side: these had hold of their arms. And four warders stood behind – nine warders in all. And, behind them, the prison doctor, wearing plain clothes. Happily the dock was capacious.
“The uproar suddenly ceased – for no reason that I could see. It was just as though a switch had been turned.
“The Clerk of Arraigns broke the silence, by calling the jurors’ names. When they had all answered, he asked the familiar questions. ‘Are you agreed upon your verdict?’ The foreman replied, ‘We are.’ ‘Do you find the prisoners Guilty or Not guilty?’ The foreman replied ‘Guilty’. There was a third question, ‘And that is the verdict of you all?’; but nobody heard it asked and nobody heard the reply, for the howls and yells of the Reubens filled the court. They roared and bellowed like beasts. The Clerk of Arraigns was shouting. I knew what he was saying: he was calling formally upon them, as is always done. But no one could hear a word. Suddenly, Mark went for Maurice. He never got him, of course: the warders saw to that. But both of them stopped howling, and Maurice drew himself up. He lifted two fingers at Mark, just as does a prelate of the Roman Catholic Church, when he is bestowing a blessing upon some reverent child. In dead silence, ‘Marky, Marky,’ he said, in a quiet, disapproving tone. ‘Please, please.’ His brother wilted. Then they looked at the Bench, and saw the black cap. And then they fairly let go. Beside the new explosion, its predecessors seemed pale. Had I not heard it, I never would have believed that only two pairs of lungs could have made so much noise. And it is the only occasion when I have seen the death sentence passed, but have never heard a word. I could see Jelf’s lips moving, but that was all. And then it was over, and they had to leave the dock. This they declined to do. They clung to the bar like madmen, they fought and struggled like beasts, and the warders – nine though there were – had all their work cut out to get them to the head of the stair. Not counting the prison doctor, eleven men in that dock, and all of them locked together into a press: and the press was swaying and staggering to and fro: for fear must have lent the Reubens a frantic strength. They hadn’t the breath now to roar and yell as before, but they were by no means silent, shouting incoherent refusals and sometimes desires. And, as before, the Judge and the jury sat, waiting… So they came to the head of the stair. There they found fresh hand-hold, and I was beginning to think that they’d have to send for stretchers, to get them down, for the cluster of men was jammed at the head of the narrow stair; when, all of a sudden, I think their strength gave in, for the whole lot fell down together and out of sight. It was just like pouring thick porridge out of a jug: it hangs for a moment at the lip, and then it goes with a rush.
“And now I can give you a tail-piece to this something grim account, and, unless Wensley related it in his reminiscences, I rather doubt if it’s ever been told before. It was told me by Wensley himself, and I’ll try to recapture his words.
“‘As I expect you know, after an execution, an inquest is always held. So someone must identify the body. Old Mrs Reubens, their mother, was still going strong, but we never ask a relative to do the unpleasant job. We get one of the neighbours to come along. But the name these two brothers had was so unsavoury that not a man or woman in Whitechapel would do the job. So the Coroner’s Officer comes to me and asks what to do. “Well, there’s nothing for it,” I said: “you’ll have to ask old Mrs Reubens.” So off he went. When I saw him again, “It’s all right,” he says; “she’ll do it. I don’t think she minds at all.” “What did she say?” I asked. And this was what she said: “I’ll come and identify them. And fancy that – my two sons to be hung. Well, it’s their own fault. Dreadful, awful, wicked lives they’ve led. And now it’s come to this. All I can say is, I do hope it’ll be a lesson to them.”
“My God,” said Daphne.
“No doubt it was,” said Berry. “A shade late in the day, of course. But what an astounding show! In court, I mean.”
“It was remarkable, for violence in the dock is extremely rare. Except in this case, I never saw it once.”
“You were very wise,” said Daphne, “to tell us their record first. I mean, that hardened our hearts. All the same, it is a most terrible tale.”
“I beg you to believe,” said I, “that I have exaggerated nothing.”
“I’m quite sure you haven’t,” said Daphne. “All the same, to see Fear rampant like that is a dreadful thing.”
“You said you’d tell us,” said Jill, “why the constable who found the body knew his job.”
“Because Wensley was then at Whitechapel. He knew what he had to deal with, and every man was told to do as he said. Wensley was a great officer. Had that constable blown his whistle, the Reubens would have heard it and would have left the house. And they would have gone to ground. I don’t say they wouldn’t have been taken – eventually. But the woman they left might not have given them away. She turned King’s Evidence, to save her life. But, had the birds flown, that inducement might very well not have been there. So you’ve got to hand it to Wensley – a splendid man.”
“How did the man who told you to go into the Judge’s court know that, if you did, you would see a scene?”
“I’ve no idea, my darling. I’d seen them the day before, but nothing then suggested that they would put up such a show. But they may have given trouble of which I never knew. The man in the aisle beside me clearly knew what to expect.”
Berry put in his oar.
“D’you remember Gilbert’s
The Hooligan
? He was an East-End Jew. And that master, Jimmy Welch, in the title role?”
“Shall I ever forget it? Women screaming and fainting all over the place. Scene –
The Condemned Cell
. A cut about twelve by eight in a great black cloth. At The Coliseum, not long before the first war. Which goes to show that Gilbert knew his world.”
“I’ll say he did,” said Berry. “And pray allow me to thank you. I did enjoy the vexation of Maurice and Mark. It is so seldom that evil comes by its own.”