Birdcage Walk (34 page)

Windsor seemed satisfied by the response the answer had got, with some of the ladies on the public benches nodding their heads and conferring with each other, and sat down as the judge called order.

Muir approached the box.

“Mr. Woolfe, you have painted a heart-warming picture of your family but we must attend to the facts of this case, not memories a decade old. To return to recent months, then, is it true that the prisoner visited you after he had been missing for nearly a week and was wanted by police for questioning?”

Mr. Woolfe looked hard at the lawyer before answering. “He did.”

“And what was he wearing?”

“He was wearing his uniform. He had enlisted in the East Surrey Regiment.”

“Had you any previous knowledge of your son’s desire to enlist in the Army?”

Mr. Woolfe did not pause this time.

“I did. I didn’t want him to leave the family home, I feared he would be hurt or be killed, and I told him so. But he is a grown man and so when he came to me and said he’d enlisted, I told him it was alright by me.”

“Two police inspectors visited you later that same day, did they not?”

“I think so. My memory is not what it was.”

Muir smiled sourly. “Your daughter complained of the same affliction. Perhaps it is in the Woolfe family blood to forget afterwards what you have and haven’t done.”

The judge arched an eyebrow at this and looked to Windsor, who remained in his seat until he caught the glance.

“Objection,” he said feebly.

“Sustained,” explained the judge. “That was a particularly discourteous attack on a frail witness, Mr. Muir, and you will make no more of them.”

“I withdraw it,” said Muir meekly, with a small bow. “Mr. Woolfe, when the police inspectors visited you later on the same day the prisoner was seen close to your rooms on Wiltshire Row, Hoxton by a reliable witness, why did you not inform them of his visit?”

Mr. Woolfe spread his hands and looked towards the jury.

“I do not deny to this court that he came to see me, but George is my only son. I could not turn him over to those policemen when I knew to my core that he’d done no wrong to that girl.”

“So you admit you lied to them?”

Mr.Woolfe looked Muir straight in the eye. “I did lie and I would do it again.”

The ladies on the public benches sighed in unison and Muir involuntarily grimaced.

“But how could you be sure that he had not been involved in this brutal killing?”

Mr.Woolfe smiled sadly.

“I can’t explain it better or in big words. I just knew he couldn’t have done it and when I saw him he swore it too. There was no doubt in my mind then, and there is none today.”

George kept his teeth clamped down, his throat sore and blocked with tears. Dipping his head down where they couldn’t see, he swiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, but the fabric was rough and hardly absorbed any of the moisture that had leaked from his eyes. When he looked up, his vision blurry, he saw that Muir had given up with his father and was returning to sit down once again.

He looked up at his father, who looked intently back at him. For a second he thought he would wink at him, just as he used to when they’d arrived back home after a day of bird-catching, and he felt a lurch of fear for it in case the jury thought it looked dishonest, like they’d cooked up a plan together to get him off. Instead, his father just nodded and smiled at him before making his way slowly down the few steps of the box. As he passed by George, the constable now on his far side, Mr. Woolfe suddenly reached out and gripped George’s arm with his fingers, still strong from rolling and shaping the metal of his cages. It lasted a mere instant but George knew he would feel the pressure there for far longer.

As he laid his hand on the place his father had just touched, a familiar name penetrated his thoughts and Alf Jones shambled in, his face fearful. Once installed in the witness box, he kept his eyes lowered though George willed him to look up. The questioning began once Alf had muttered twice where he lived and what his occupation was, so the court might hear it.

Windsor nodded but then took his time to find the right piece of paper for his next question, the judge tapping his fingers with impatience. While he looked he repeated a question he’d already asked and George caught one of the jurors rolling his eyes.

“How long have known George Woolfe?”

Alf answered patiently for the second time.

“Two or three years, and I’d seen him around for years before that.”

“Would you say he has a good character?”

“Yes, I think of him as a firm friend of mine.”

“Did he ever mention the deceased in conversation to you?”

“He had, and I had seen them about a couple of times.”

“When he talked of her to you, what did he say?”

“I can’t think of any conversations in particular because he never said anything out of the ordinary, just where they’d been and perhaps something amusing she had said.”

“So he never mentioned his intention of marrying the deceased to you?”

Alf looked suddenly eager and leant forward.

“Oh yes, he did say something about that, I had forgotten. He said he would marry her as soon as he could save up a bit so they could get a place of their own. I said with her money from Freeman’s—she was in work at the time—and his from the print, they could get a place as they were but he said he wanted something a bit nicer for them and would hold out for it.”

“Did he ever say he was planning to ‘get rid of her’ as it says in the note that his sister mistakenly delivered? Did you know of any plan to replace her with another girl, perhaps?”

“No, he had never said anything like that to me and we talked most days. He never mentioned no other girl to me either.”

Windsor nodded, seemingly pleased.

“One last thing: in your statement to police it mentions a small file that the prisoner was in possession of when he left work on Christmas Eve.”

Alf nodded anxiously, his eyes flitting towards George, who wondered why Windsor had brought this up. Presumably the prosecution were going to make something of it. He had completely forgotten about it; Pearn had said nothing of it to him. It must have been found in the pocket of his trousers when the police searched the Wiltshire Row rooms.

“What did you think when you saw that the prisoner had taken it?”

“Oh, I knew he’d just forgotten it. I called after him but he was late for something.”

“And I suppose, Mr. Jones, it is quite a common thing for one to mistakenly take a tool home?”

Alf’s brow creased.

“Well, yes. Yes, it is, I’m sure.” He flushed and looked down.

“Thank you, no more questions,” said Mr.Windsor.

Muir stepped smartly up to the box.

“Before we begin can I just clarify, Mr. Jones, when you agree it is ‘quite a common thing’ to take a tool home by mistake, are we to take it that you yourself have done such a thing, quite commonly?”

Alf continued to look down at his hands.

“When I think about it I don’t think I have, but plenty have done.”

Muir shot an expression of incredulity at the jury.

“I see. So you have never taken a tool home before?”

“No,” the answer was barely audible.

“Thank you, Mr. Jones. Now, after working a shift with the prisoner on Christmas Eve, did you ask him to accompany you and some other men to a local pub?”

“I did, but he was in rush to get off. I couldn’t persuade him to come along with us.”

“Yes. In such a rush that he couldn’t be recalled to replace the tool you had noticed was missing. If it was such a very common occurrence why did you feel the need to call him back at all?”

“It was nothing much, nothing that unusual in it, but when I saw that George had gone off with it I thought he might get into trouble for it.”

“Remind the court what kind of tool it was?”

“A file, just a small file. He works on the machines, sometimes in one department, sometimes in another, as many of the men do. You put a tool in your pocket and forget to leave it on your bench when you’re let out for the day.”

“So when you saw the prisoner had neglected to leave his file behind on his bench, what did you do?”

Alf coloured and hung his head.

“I took another fellow’s file and put it on George’s bench. I thought Chas, who was the other fellow, could get a ticking off for it if anyone noticed; he deserved it more than George.”

“To summarise then, when the accused left the printworks he was carrying a file in his pocket. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” the reply was almost a whisper.

“Louder for the court,” cried the judge.

“Can you describe the file to the court?” asked Muir when Alf had repeated himself.

“It wasn’t a very large one, but quite heavy, about so big.” He held his hands about four inches apart. “Made of iron, it has rough sides for filing things down, of course.”

“Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“Did it have a flat end, for instance?”

Alf shook his head reluctantly.

“No, they’re sharpened, some of them at both ends.”

“Thank you. Now let me read something aloud. I quote directly from Dr. Wainwright’s autopsy report. ‘The injuries had been produced by a chisel or a gardener’s knife with a spring to it so it would not close.’ Here is another extract: ‘the wounds on the nose and eye were caused by a very powerful and stubby instrument—a file like this drawing, sharpened at both ends, would cause the wounds if it was very sharp.’ Here is the drawing again, for the benefit of Mr. Jones, who was not here yesterday when Dr. Wainwright was.”

He held the sketch up for the court to see before laying it precisely in front of Alf.

“Does that drawing resemble the file the prisoner took from Carlisle & Clegg’s on Christmas Eve?”

Alf shrugged. “It is something like it, I suppose.”

He looked then to the constable who had escorted him in, thinking his duty might be discharged, but Muir was riffling through his notes again.

“We haven’t quite finished yet, Mr. Jones. Now, that wasn’t the last you saw of the prisoner on Christmas Eve, was it?”

“No, I saw him late on. We met by chance; I saw him walking past the Robert Peel and went out to see him. He came in for a drink and we were there when midnight was called.”

“Did he say where he had been?”

“No, I didn’t ask him.”

“Did you notice anything strange about his appearance?”

“Not really. He had a few scratches on him, that’s all.”

“Where were the scratches?”

“On his face.”

“Did you ask how he got them?”

“He said he’d got in a bit of a scuffle with someone earlier that night.”

“And did you believe his story?”

“Have you been to Hoxton on Christmas Eve?” retorted Alf. Someone laughed. Muir frowned.

“I would remind you that you are under oath now, Mr. Jones. This is no time for jokes. A young woman has been murdered.”

He paused while some of those on public benches and even one juror shook theirs heads disapprovingly before adding, “That will be all, thank you.”

Alf’s face was red with shame as he stepped down, and though George willed him to look at him as he passed by, he kept his eyes downcast. Once he had been escorted out of the courtroom, George felt any strength that had been transferred by his father’s touch to be diminishing. With it, the power of the afternoon sun was also waning, the light dwindling as the lawyers talked on, their shadows lengthening across the polished wood of the floor. At one point Mr. Windsor read out a brief letter from George’s foreman at Carlisle & Clegg’s, stating that he had been punctual and reliable and honest. Finally, the witness list had almost been exhausted.

“I have one last witness, your honour,” said Windsor, at which Muir leapt up.

“Your honour, I have had no warning of this.”

“Neither have I,” said the judge. “Please approach, both of you.”

The hushed conferral went on for some minutes, George puzzling over who the mysterious witness might be. Eventually Muir strode away from the bench with a scowl and Windsor moved slowly towards the stand.

“Call Mr. Charles Booth,” he said.

George started. It was not such an uncommon name that more than one or two of the others in the court looked up with interest at it. For his part, George didn’t believe it could be any other Charles Booth and watched the door of the courtroom intently.

When he came in, Booth seemed quite at ease, almost as though he was strolling down Aberdeen Park to pay an afternoon visit to the Drew house. All that was missing was his silver-topped cane or slender umbrella. Those who hadn’t wondered at the name now looked with surprise at the dapper gentleman in the dark grey suit.

Windsor was obsequious as he asked his first question, his hands flapping as he searched for the right phrasing.

“Mr. Booth, thank you for coming forward to speak today. Though many of us are aware of your work, can you please tell the court a little about it?”

Booth, looking faintly embarrassed, nodded. “As you now know, my name is Booth. Though I am a shipping merchant by trade, for the last decade or so I have conducted a study of London’s poor. The last of its thirteen volumes is due to be published next year.”

Windsor looked as though he wanted to pump Booth’s hand, but restrained himself and attended to his hastily prepared list of questions.

“Mr. Booth, what is your relationship to the prisoner?”

Booth looked towards George briefly then, though he didn’t smile.

“I do not pretend to know George Woolfe well, but I would say I know him a little. I met his father and sister first, whilst on a tour of Hoxton’s streets as part of my research. I bought a birdcage from his father and arranged for George Woolfe to deliver it to the house of some great friends of mine, Captain Drew, his wife and their daughter, my goddaughter.”

“What were your first impressions of Woolfe?” asked Windsor.

“I thought he seemed like a polite lad. Quite shy and unsure of himself, but well brought up. He was honest, too. I couldn’t remember how much I’d agreed to pay him for delivery of the birdcage and he asked for the lesser sum.”