The Whitechapel Conspiracy - Anne Perry [13]
“He was the son of a gamekeeper, you say?” Gleave asked, his voice carefully neutral.
Pitt felt cold. He remembered Gerald Slaley, and he knew what was coming next, but he was powerless to prevent it. There was nothing he could do but sit still and endure it.
“That’s right. His father was deported for stealing,” Slaley agreed. “Always held a grudge against the gentry, if you ask me. Gone after us on purpose, made something of a crusade of it. Check his cases and you’ll see. That’s why he was promoted by the men who chose him: to prosecute where the powerful and well-to-do were concerned … where they thought it politic. And he never let them down.”
“Yes.” Gleave nodded sagely. “I too have been examining Mr. Pitt’s record.” He glanced at Juster, and back to Slaley again. “I’ve noticed how often he has specialized in cases where people of prominence are concerned. If my learned friend wishes to contest the issue, I can rehearse them easily enough.”
Juster shook his head. He knew better than to allow it. Too many of them had been notorious cases and might well be resented by members of the jury. One could not know who had been their friends, or men they admired.
Gleave was satisfied. He had painted Pitt as an ambitious and irresponsible man, motivated not by honor but by a long-held bitterness and hunger for revenge because his father had been convicted of a crime of which he still believed him innocent That was one issue Juster could not retrieve.
The prosecution summed up.
The defense had the final word, again reminding the jurors that its case hung upon Pitt’s evidence.
The jury retired to consider their verdict.
They did not find one that night.
The following morning they finally reappeared four minutes before midday.
“Have you reached a verdict?” the judge asked grimly.
“We have, my lord,” the foreman announced. He did not look up at the dock; or at Juster, sitting rigidly, black head a little bowed; or at Gleave, smiling confidently. But there was an ease in his bearing, an erectness in the carriage of his head.
“And is it the verdict of you all?” the judge asked him.
“It is, my lord.”
“Do you find the prisoner, John Adinett, guilty or not guilty of the murder of Martin Fetters?”
“Guilty, my lord.”
Juster’s head jerked up.
Gleave let out a cry of outrage, half rising to his feet.
Adinett was set like stone, uncomprehending.
The gallery erupted in astonishment, and journalists scrambled to get out and report to their newspapers that the unbelievable had happened.
“We’ll appeal!” Gleave’s voice could be heard above the melee.
The judge commanded order, and as the court finally settled to order again, and a kind of terrible silence, he sent the usher for the black cap he would place on his head before he pronounced sentence of death upon John Adinett.
Pitt sat frozen. It was both a victory and a defeat. His reputation had been torn to shreds for the public, whatever the jury had believed. It was a just verdict. He had no doubt Adinett was guilty, even though he had no idea why he had done such a thing.
And yet in all the crimes he had ever investigated, all the hideous and tragic truths he had uncovered, there had never been one for which he would willingly have hanged a man. He believed in punishment; he knew it was necessary, for the guilty, for the victim and for society. It was the beginning of healing. But he had not ever believed in the extinction of a human being, any human being—not John Adinett.
He left the courtroom and went out and walked up to Newgate Street with no sense of victory.
2
“LADY VESPASIA CUMMING-GOULD,” the footman announced without requiring to see her invitation. There was no servant of consequence in London who did not know her. She had been the most beautiful woman of her generation, and the most daring. Perhaps she still was. In some people’s eyes she could have no equal.
She entered through the double doors and stood at the top of the stairs that led in a graceful curve