The Vice Society (2 page)

Mr Bowes held up the letter for all to see and the silence seemed to intensify still further. He then passed it to the jury, who examined it closely. The writing was a strong and clear copperplate on fine paper.

The coroner – I draw the jury’s attention to the fact that the note is not directed to a particular person. I also have the Bible Mr Jenkins has described. It has been examined and the folded pages relate to passages concerning the act of self-murder.

The Bible was handed to the jury, who handled it with even greater reverence and wonder than the note. No juror wanted to ask a further question, so Mr Jenkins was thanked for his testimony and allowed to sit.

The next witness was the surgeon, Mr Blackheath of Fish-street-hill. A sober gentleman with a balding pate, he seemed not the least cowed and had no doubt attended many such inquests.

The coroner – Could you give the jury your medical findings on the deceased?

Mr Blackheath – The body was quite extinct when I examined it. There was a compound fracture of the scull; the spine was fractured in multiple places and there were compound fractures of both legs and the right arm. The left arm was separated at the elbow and held to the upper arm by skin only. The right leg was also dislocated from the pelvis.

The coroner – Have you made an internal examination?

Mr Blackheath – I have not. The injuries are consistent with a fall from considerable height. The cause of death was the fracture to the scull combined with the spine fractures.

The coroner – Do you know whether the deceased was
enceinte
?

Mr Blackheath – I have not ascertained whether she is with child, no.

The coroner – Did the deceased have any other injuries that could not be explained by her fall?

Mr Blackheath – I detected nothing suspicious.

The coroner asked whether the jury would like to question the surgeon further, producing one rather inappropriate question from a man with a glistening red face:

The juror – I have heard that blood shot from her eyes, nose, ears and mouth. Is this normal in such a fall?

Mr Blackheath – The sudden impact of the brain inside the cranium causes colossal damage and haemorrhaging. The consequent pressure can indeed lead to dramatic bleeding from the orifices of the head. I understand that much of this was wiped away by the attendant, Mr Jenkins. [Mr Jenkins confirmed with a nod.]

Alfred White, a coffee-seller of Fish-street-hill, was the next to stand before the jury and explain what he had seen. As the only witness to have seen the woman actually fall, he was questioned closely by the jury.

A juror – Did the deceased jump, or did she step from the parapet?

Mr White – In truth, I did not see the precise moment she left the railing. She was in the open air as I first glimpsed her.

A juror – From her position, did she appear to jump from the top of the railing itself, or from the stone coping outside the railing?

Mr White – I cannot say.

A juror – Then, did she fly outwards from the edifice?

Mr White – No, she fell quite vertically and without movement for the duration of the drop.

The coroner – The deceased did not let out a cry or manifest signs of fear or distress?

Mr White – No, sir. The body seemed quite lifeless as it fell.

The coroner – Did you see the three gentlemen who entered the Monument shortly after the deceased?

Mr White – I did not. Nor did I see them leave. The fuss took all of my attention. I dare say it took everyone’s attention.

The coroner asked if anyone present had seen the gentlemen enter or leave the Monument, but nobody came forward. He suggested to the jury that they might like to adjourn the inquest in order to find further information about these gentlemen, but that in the meantime there was one final person to call: the deceased’s husband.

A respectful hush settled over the room and the red-faced juror who had asked the gruesome question looked most sheepish. The coroner explained that the husband, a Mr George Williamson, had volunteered to be examined by the jury in the interest of justice, but that the jury might choose not to submit the gentleman to questioning due to his distressed state.

The foreman consulted with his fellows and they returned the opinion that they owed it to their oath to explore every source of information on the incident and that they would keep their questioning as mercifully brief as possible.

There was a shuffling of chairs at the side of the room and Mr George Williamson stepped into the close, smoky space with his eyes downcast. His face was pitted with the scars of a previous attack of the smallpox and he walked with a heavy, shuffling gait as if grievously fatigued. He was clad entirely in dark blue, and, even in that brilliantly lighted room, he seemed to carry a darkness with him that was sufficiently saturated with sadness to repel any further feeling of pity bestowed upon him.

The coroner – Sir, could you tell us of the circumstances regarding your discovery of this tragedy.

The husband covered his mouth to cough and then spoke with a clear, authoritative voice.

Mr Williamson – I returned home to find my wife not at home. This was unusual, so I asked a neighbour if he had seen Katherine. He had not, but he had already heard of the incident and told me of it. Knowing that Katherine liked to visit the Monument, I felt a sense of foreboding and went there directly to see if she had been caught up in the
mêlée
.

The coroner – Then you did not assume that the decea— that your wife had precipitated herself from the summit?

Mr Williamson – No. Katherine would never do such a thing.

The coroner – What state of mind was your wife in when last you saw her?

Mr Williamson – I have told you that she would not commit suicide, whatever her state of mind. She was a good Christian and a happy woman.

The coroner – May I show you some items related to the case?

The jury foreman passed the Bible and letter to the coroner, who handed them to Mr Williamson. The unfortunate husband looked at them for a moment, opening the Bible at the marked pages. His face was a mask of impassiveness that belied the turmoil of emotion that must have been within him. Only a tensing of the jaw indicated his inner state.

The coroner – Do you recognize either of these items?

Mr Williamson – I do not.

A commotion here erupted in the room and the foreman had to shout repeatedly for quiet. Even after order had been retained, there was a constant muttering of speculation.

The coroner – Sir, do you mean to say that this Bible is not the property of your wife, and that the writing on the letter is not her hand?

Mr Williamson – Precisely that. Neither of these items is connected to Katherine. It is not her writing; it is not her Bible.

The coroner – I must say that your response has surprised us.

Mr Williamson – And I must say that the evidence here points clearly to a verdict other than suicide.

Disruption again fluttered through the room as the coroner and foreman struggled to subdue proceedings. Amidst the cacophony, a voice was heard to shout out a single word.

‘
Murder!
’

At this, Mr Williamson’s gaze darted into the corner whence the word had come and he speared a finger into the crowd. A sudden silence sliced through the noise and every pair of eyes fell upon the husband, his arm still outstretched.

Mr Williamson – Members of the jury . . . that,
that
is your verdict.

His face remained composed, but his intelligent eyes burned. Whether it was outrage or agony that was held within them, nobody could have discerned.

The coroner – It is the duty of the jury to decide on a verdict, Mr Will—

Mr Williamson – Will the foreman have me express myself freely?

The foreman acquiesced.

Mr Williamson – My wife did not kill herself. She had no reason to do so. There are evidently three gentlemen who could verify this, but the very fact of their absence should be a warning to us. A Bible and a note were left atop the viewing platform, but as neither belonged to my wife we must assume that they were placed there to create
the impression of suicide
. Quiet . . . quiet if you will . . . This was poorly executed: the note was addressed neither to me or to her mother. Why, even the name is wrong – Kathleen instead of Katherine – as if someone had misheard her. I would, indeed, like to ask Mr Jenkins if he saw my wife carrying the Bible as she entered.

Mr Jenkins (from the crowd) – In truth, I did not.

The coroner – What you say is certainly curious, Mr Williamson, but it does not, in itself, suggest murder.

Mr Williamson – I would like an internal examination to be made of my wife before she is laid to rest.

The coroner – We have heard from the surgeon that your wife was killed by the fall. Her injuries were quite consistent with—

Mr Williamson – No. We have heard that the injuries she suffered would have killed anyone – not necessarily that they killed
her
. The witness Mr White said that the body appeared ‘quite lifeless’ as it fell.

The coroner – A figure of speech.

Mr Williamson – I think not. I have seen the body of my wife and I believe I detected the faintest smell of prussic acid about her mouth. I have heard that other of the witnesses to her body at the watch house remarked upon the same thing. An internal examination would prove beyond doubt that—

The coroner – . . . that she took the poison before she jumped – a quite understandable act, I would assume, among suicides who fear the fall. Mr Williamson . . . we understand the magnitude of your suffering—

Mr Williamson – Hmm. Hmm. Understand it, do you? Understand your . . . your love dashed to the ground before the whole city and then exhibited as if a curious fish in a shop window?

The coroner fell under that piercing stare, opened his mouth to speak, and was rendered mute by the drained, accusatory face before him. Its expression was held rigid only by a preternatural effort of will. Two constables moved closer to Mr Williamson and one rested a hand on his shoulder, saying something into his ear. At this word, the husband seemed to sag and let his head drop. He remained like this for a moment, shaking his head as all looked on with piteous aspect. Then he allowed himself to be led from the place without a further word.

The coroner suggested to the jury in sombre tones that the inquest should be adjourned until the three gentlemen could be located, and that if this proved impossible a verdict of suicide would seem the most sensible.

And though a search ensued over the coming days, along with an advertisement in
the Times
, no trace of the gentlemen could be found. Evidently, nobody had seen them.

Thus, suicide was the verdict and the body itself was shortly after interred in unconsecrated ground at the Spa Fields burial ground.

And that would have been the end of the story but for two further pertinent pieces of information. The first was that the grieving husband Mr George Williamson, a constable in the Metropolitan Police at the time, would become, in the intervening years, Detective Sergeant Williamson of the Detective Force: the most gifted and lauded investigator ever to work within those ranks.

The second would come seven years later, when the death of Katherine Williamson would once again, in its own way, play its part in a story embroiling the husband and the police in an unprecedented case of murder, mystery and evil that would touch many with the cold fingers of death, from the most degraded gutter wretch to the finest personages in the loftiest positions . . .

ONE

‘Tell me everything.’

Metropolitan Police Commissioner Sir Richard Mayne closed the book he had been consulting and leaned back in his chair, looking over the broad surface of his sturdy oaken desk. His expression, as was invariably the case, was one of stern attention, fixing his interlocutor with a stare that doubted words before they were spoken and weighed them with a barrister’s reasoning as they were. A virtual stranger to the physical world beyond that Scotland Yard office, his face had the pallor of one accustomed to meetings and hearings
in camera
rather than the vagaries of the elements. His eyes were sharp and missed nothing.

Before him in that modestly furnished room, as was invariably the case, stood the celebrated Inspector Albert Newsome of the Detective Force, erstwhile superior to Mr Williamson and a man who had worked through the ranks from the earliest days of the police. Of a wiry build, and with his unruly thatch of red hair, he was a man of the streets rather than a legal theorist. He might not have had the education of his commissioner, but in a midnight alley off Ratcliff-highway, his own particular ‘schooling’ would have seen him home alive.
His
expression was perpetually sardonic – something he took great care to restrain in this office.

‘Yes, sir. As you may have heard, the incident occurred at three o’clock the morning before last on Holywell-street.’

‘That stinking alley. It is a moral sewer and a disgrace to modern London.’