The Whitechapel Conspiracy - Anne Perry [7]
“My lord,” Gleave murmured, then looked up sharply at Pitt. “Did Ibbs tell you he suspected murder?”
Pitt saw the trap. Again it was obvious. “No. He said he was concerned and asked my opinion.”
“You are a policeman, not a doctor, correct?”
“Of course.”
“Has any other doctor ever asked you for your medical opinion? As to cause of death, for example?” The sarcasm was there under his superficial innocence.
“No. My opinion as to interpretation of evidence, that’s all,” Pitt answered cautiously. He knew another trap lay ahead somewhere.
“Just so.” Gleave nodded. “Therefore, if Dr. Ibbs called you because he was dissatisfied, then you surely have sufficient intelligence to deduce that he suspected that the death was not merely an accident but might be a criminal matter … one that would involve the police?”
“Yes.”
“Then when you said he did not tell you he suspected a crime, you were being a trifle disingenuous, were you not? I hesitate to say you were less than honest, but it inevitably springs to mind, Mr. Pitt.”
Pitt could feel the blood heat up his face. He had seen one trap, and sidestepped it directly into another, making him seem evasive, prejudiced—exactly as Gleave had intended. What could he say now to undo it, or at least to not make it worse?
“Discrepancy of facts does not necessarily mean crime,” he said slowly. “People move things for many reasons, not always with evil intent.” He was fumbling for words. “Sometimes it is an attempt to help, or to make an accident look less careless, to remove the blame from those still alive or to hide an indiscretion. Even to mask a suicide.”
Gleave looked surprised. He had not expected a reply.
It was a small victory. Pitt must not allow it to weaken his guard.
“The scuff marks on the carpet,” Gleave said, returning to the attack. “When did they happen?”
“At any time since the carpet was last swept, which the maid told me was the previous morning,” Pitt answered.
Gleave assumed an air of innocence. “Could they have been caused by anything other than one man dragging the dead body of another?”
There was a titter of nervous laughter in the court.
“Of course,” Pitt agreed.
Gleave smiled. “And the tiny piece of fluff on Mr. Fetters’s shoe, is that also capable of alternative explanations? For example, the carpet was rumpled at the corner and he tripped? Or he was sitting in a chair and slipped his shoes off? Did this carpet have a fringe, Mr. Pitt?”
Gleave knew perfectly well that it did.
“Yes.”
“Exactly.” Gleave gestured with both hands. “A slender thread, if you will excuse the pun, on which to hang an honorable man, a brave soldier, a patriot and a scholar such as John Adinett, don’t you think?”
There was a murmur around the room, people shifting in their seats, turning to look up at Adinett. Pitt saw respect in their faces, curiosity, no hatred. He turned to the jury. They were more guarded, sober men taking their responsibilities with awe. They sat stiffly, collars high and white, hair combed, whiskers trimmed, eyes steady. He did not envy them. He had never wanted to be the final judge of another man. Even the smooth-faced foreman looked concerned, his hands in front of him, fingers laced.
Gleave was smiling.
“Would it surprise you to know, Mr. Pitt, that the maid who dusted and polished the billiard room is no longer certain that the scratch you so providentially noticed was a new one? She now says it may well have been there earlier, and she had merely not noticed it before.”
Pitt was uncertain how to reply. The question was awkwardly phrased.
“I don’t know her well enough to be surprised or not,” he said carefully. “Witnesses sometimes do alter their testimony … for a variety of reasons.”
Gleave looked offended. “What are you suggesting, sir?”
Juster interrupted again. “My lord, my learned friend asked the witness if he was surprised. The witness merely answered the question. He made no implication at all.”
Gleave did not wait for the judge to intervene. “Let us see what we are left with