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.”