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It seemed to Mrs. Bernard that she had been sitting there for an eternity—it was really only about fifteen minutes—when her official acquaintance returned.
“Better come along now,” he whispered, his voice like a ghostly breeze. “It’ll begin soon.”
She followed him out into a dimly lit passage, up a row of steep, cold stone steps, and into the Coroner’s Court.
The courtroom was a large, well-lit room, with an eerie resemblance to a chapel. A gallery ran halfway around, clearly meant for the public, as it was now filled to bursting with curious faces. Mrs. Bernard glanced timidly at the sea of eager spectators. Had she not met the man she was now trailing, she would have been among them, struggling to find a place. She would have failed. The crowd had surged in the moment the doors opened, pushing and shoving in a manner she could never have matched.
Among the throng were a few women—determined, unyielding, driven by their hunger for sensation and their ability to force their way into any space they desired. But they were a minority; the bulk of the crowd was men, a cross-section of London society.
The center of the court was like an arena, sunken a few steps below the surrounding gallery. It was relatively empty, save for the benches occupied by the jury. Some distance from them, huddled together in a large pew, stood seven people—three women and four men.
“See the witnesses?” whispered the inspector, pointing them out. He assumed she recognized one of them, but she made no sign.
Between the windows, facing the room, was a small platform with a desk and an armchair. Mrs. Bernard guessed correctly that this was where the coroner would preside. To the left of the platform was the witness stand, raised high above the jury, adding to its intimidating presence.
The scene was starkly different, far more grim and imposing than the inquest that had taken place long ago in the bright village inn. There, the coroner had sat at the same level as the jury, and the witnesses had simply stepped forward to speak.
Looking around nervously, Mrs. Bernard felt she would die if ever subjected to the ordeal of standing in that confining, box-like stand. She gazed at the witnesses with sincere pity in her heart.
But even she soon realized her pity was misplaced. Each woman witness appeared eager, excited, almost giddy with the attention. They reveled in their roles as key players in the drama captivating all of London—indeed, the whole world.
Mrs. Bernard wondered which witness was which. Was it that rather bedraggled young woman who had almost certainly seen The Rose Killer within seconds of the double murder? The woman who, alerted by a victim’s scream, had rushed to her window to see the murderer’s shadowy form pass swiftly in the fog?
Another woman had given a detailed description of The Rose Killer, claiming he had brushed past her as he fled. These two had been interrogated and cross-examined countless times by police and reporters alike. From their conflicting accounts, the official description of The Rose Killer had emerged: a good-looking, respectable young man of twenty-eight, carrying a newspaper parcel.
The third woman, Mrs. Bernard supposed, was likely an acquaintance or companion of the deceased.
She turned her gaze from the witnesses to another unfamiliar sight. Prominently running through the center of the court was an ink-splattered table, at which three men had been sketching when she first arrived. Now, every seat was occupied by tired, intelligent-looking men with notebooks and loose sheets of paper.
“Them’s the reporters,” whispered her friend. “They don’t like to come till the last minute, for they have to be the last to leave. At an ordinary inquest, there might be two or three, but now every paper in the kingdom wants a place at that table.”
He looked thoughtfully down into the well of the court. “Now, let me see what I can do for you—”
Then he beckoned to the coroner’s officer, a man with a gaunt face and a dour expression. “Perhaps you could put this lady just over there, in a corner by herself? Related to a relation of the deceased, but doesn’t want to be...” He whispered a few words, and the officer nodded sympathetically, casting an intrigued glance at Mrs. Bernard.
“I’ll put her just here,” he muttered, his voice a gravelly rumble. “There’s no one coming there today. You see, there are only seven witnesses—sometimes we have a lot more than that.”
With surprising gentleness, he guided her to an empty bench opposite where the seven witnesses stood and sat, their faces taut with a mix of eagerness and dread, ready—almost too ready—to play their part.
For a moment, every eye in the court was on Mrs. Bernard, a spotlight of curiosity and suspicion. But soon, the interest waned as the spectators realized she was just another onlooker, albeit one with a “friend at court,” allowing her the rare privilege of a seat.
Her solitude didn’t last. Soon, the important-looking gentlemen she had glimpsed downstairs entered the court, some ushered to seats near her, while a few, including a famous writer whose face was so familiar it felt like an old friend’s, were seated at the reporters’ table.
“Gentlemen, the Coroner.”
The jury stood, a restless shuffle of feet, then sat down again. A hush fell over the room, a silence so profound it seemed to echo.
The proceedings began with the ancient call: “Oyez! Oyez!“—a ghostly echo from the past, summoning all to witness the solemn inquiry into the sudden, inexplicable, and horrifying death of a fellow human.
The jury—there were fourteen of them—stood again. They raised their hands, chanting the words of their oath with solemn gravity.
A brief, informal exchange followed between the coroner and his officer. Yes, everything was in order. The jury had viewed the bodies—no, the body, as technically this inquest concerned just one.
In the ensuing silence, so complete that even a whisper could carry through the room, the coroner began to speak. He was younger than Mrs. Bernard had expected, his eyes sharp and his demeanor serious as he recounted the grim history of The Rose Killer’s reign of terror.
He spoke clearly, each word a precise note in a dirge, building a narrative that gripped his audience. He mentioned attending an inquest for one of The Rose Killer’s earlier victims out of professional curiosity. “Little thinking, gentlemen, that the inquest on one of these unfortunate souls would ever be held in my court,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
On he went, though the information was familiar to all present. Mrs. Bernard caught a whispered exchange between two older men nearby: “Drawing it out all he can; that’s what he’s doing. Having the time of his life, evidently!”
“Aye, aye,” the other replied, his voice a conspiratorial murmur. “But he’s a good chap—I knew his father; we were at school together. Takes his job very seriously, you know—he does today, at any rate.”
Mrs. Bernard listened intently, her heart pounding in her chest, waiting for a word, a sentence that might dispel her fears or confirm them. But the word, the sentence, never came.
Yet, at the very end of his lengthy speech, the coroner offered a cryptic hint. “I am glad to say that we hope to obtain such evidence today as will in time lead to the apprehension of the miscreant who has committed, and is still committing, these terrible crimes.”
Mrs. Bernard stared uneasily up into the coroner’s firm, determined face. What did he mean by that? Was there any new evidence—evidence that Jerry Chandler, for instance, was unaware of? Her heart gave a sudden leap as a big, burly man took his place in the witness box—a policeman who had not been sitting with the other witnesses.
But soon her uneasy terror was stilled. This witness was simply the constable who had found the first body. In quick, business-like tones, he described exactly what had happened to him on that cold, foggy morning ten days ago. He was shown a plan, and he marked it slowly, carefully, with a thick finger. That was the exact place—no, he was making a mistake—that was the place where the other body had lain. He explained apologetically that he had gotten rather mixed up between the two bodies—that of Johanna Cobbett and Sophy Hurtle.
The coroner intervened authoritatively. “For the purpose of this inquiry,” he said, “we must, I think, for a moment consider the two murders together.”
After that, the witness went on far more comfortably. As he proceeded, in a quick monotone, the full and deadly horror of The Rose Killer’s acts came over Mrs. Bernard in a great seething flood of sick fear and—and, yes, remorse.
Up to now, she had given very little thought—if any—to the drink-sodden victims of The Rose Killer. It was he who had filled her thoughts—he and those trying to track him down. But now? Now she felt sick and sorry she had come here today. She wondered if she would ever be able to get the vision the policeman’s words had conjured up out of her mind—out of her memory.
Then came an eager stir of excitement and attention throughout the whole court, for the policeman had stepped down from the witness box, and one of the women witnesses was being conducted to his place.
Mrs. Bernard looked with interest and sympathy at the woman, remembering how she herself had trembled with fear, just as that poor, bedraggled, common-looking person was trembling now. The woman had looked so cheerful, so—so well pleased with herself until a minute ago, but now she had become very pale, and she looked around as a hunted animal might have done.
The coroner was kind, soothing, and gentle in his manner, just as the other coroner had been when dealing with Ellen Green at the inquest on that poor drowned girl.
After the witness had repeated, in a toneless voice, the solemn words of the oath, she began to be taken, step by step, through her story. At once, Mrs. Bernard realized that this was the woman who claimed to have seen The Rose Killer from her bedroom window. Gaining confidence as she went on, the witness described how she had heard a long-drawn, stifled screech and, aroused from deep sleep, had instinctively jumped out of bed and rushed to her window.
The coroner looked down at something lying on his desk. “Let me see! Here is the plan. Yes—I think I understand that the house in which you are lodging exactly faces the alley where the two crimes were committed?”
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A quick, futile discussion arose. The house did not face the alley, but the window of the witness’s bedroom did.
“A distinction without a difference,” said the coroner testily. “And now tell us as clearly and quickly as you can what you saw when you looked out.”
There fell a dead silence on the crowded court. Then the woman broke out, speaking more volubly and firmly than she had yet done. “I saw ’im!” she cried. “I shall never forget it—no, not till my dying day!” She looked around defiantly.
Mrs. Bernard suddenly remembered a chat one of the newspaper men had had with a person who slept under this woman’s room. That person had unkindly said she felt sure that Lizzie Cole had not gotten up that night—that she had made up the whole story. The speaker slept lightly, and that night had been tending a sick child. Accordingly, she would have heard if there had been either the scream described by Lizzie Cole, or the sound of Lizzie Cole jumping out of bed.
“We quite understand that you think you saw the”—the coroner hesitated—“the individual who had just perpetrated these terrible crimes. But what we want from you is a description of him. In spite of the foggy atmosphere, you say you saw him distinctly, walking along for some yards below your window. Now, please, try and tell us what he was like.”
The woman began twisting and untwisting the corner of a colored handkerchief she held in her hand.
“Let us begin at the beginning,” said the coroner patiently, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade through fog. “What sort of a hat was this man wearing when you saw him hurrying from the passage?”
“It was just a black ’at,” the witness finally said, her voice husky, anxiety threading through her tone.
“Yes—just a black hat. And a coat—were you able to see what sort of a coat he was wearing?”
“’E ’adn’t got no coat,” she replied decidedly. “No coat at all! I remembers that very perticulerly. I thought it queer, as it was so cold—everybody as can wears some sort o’ coat this weather!”
A juryman, who had been idly examining a strip of newspaper, suddenly jumped up and raised his hand.
“Yes?” The coroner turned to him, a hint of irritation in his eyes.
“I just want to say that this ’ere witness—if her name is Lizzie Cole, began by saying The Rose Killer was wearing a coat—a big, heavy coat. I’ve got it here, in this bit of paper.”
“I never said so!” Lizzie cried passionately. “I was made to say all those things by the young man what came to me from the Evening Sun. Just put in what ’e liked in ’is paper, ’e did—not what I said at all!”
A ripple of laughter spread through the court, quickly suppressed by the coroner’s stern gaze.
“In future,” he said severely, addressing the juryman who had now sat down again, “you must ask any question you wish to ask through your foreman, and please wait till I have concluded my examination of the witness.”
But the interruption, the accusation, had utterly unsettled Lizzie. She began to contradict herself hopelessly. The man she had seen hurrying by in the semi-darkness was tall—no, he was short. He was thin—no, he was a stoutish young man. And as to whether he was carrying anything, a heated discussion ensued.
Most confidently, the witness declared that she had seen a newspaper parcel under his arm; it had bulged out at the back—so she claimed. But it was gently and firmly proved that she had said nothing of the kind to the gentleman from Scotland Yard who had taken down her first account—in fact, to him she had confidently stated that the man had carried nothing at all; she had seen his arms swinging freely.
One fact—if it could be called a fact—did emerge. Lizzie suddenly volunteered the statement that as he had passed her window, he had looked up at her. This was quite new.
“He looked up at you?” repeated the coroner, his eyes narrowing. “You said nothing of that in your initial statement.”
“I said nothink because I was scared—nigh scared to death!”
“If you could really see his countenance, for we know the night was dark and foggy, will you please tell me what he was like?”
The coroner’s question seemed casual, his hand straying over his desk. Not a creature in that court believed Lizzie’s story anymore.
“Dark!” she answered dramatically. “Dark, almost black! If you can take my meaning, with a sort of nigger look.”
A titter spread through the room. Even the jury smiled. The coroner sharply bade Lizzie Cole stand down, a note of finality in his voice.
Far more credence was given to the next witness. This was an older, quieter-looking woman, decently dressed in black. Being the wife of a night watchman whose work lay in a big warehouse about a hundred yards from the alley where the crimes had taken place, she had gone out to take her husband some food he always had at one in the morning. A man had passed her, breathing hard and walking very quickly. Her attention had been drawn to him because she very seldom met anyone at that hour, and because he had such an odd, peculiar look and manner.
Mrs. Bernard, listening attentively, realized that it was very much from what this witness had said that the official description of The Rose Killer had been composed—the description which had brought such comfort to her own soul.
This witness spoke quietly, confidently, and her account of the newspaper parcel the man was carrying was perfectly clear and positive.
“It was a neat parcel,” she said, “done up with string.”
“I thought it odd, a respectably dressed young man carrying such a parcel,” she murmured, her fingers twisting in her lap. “That’s what made me notice it. But it was a foggy night, so foggy I was afraid of losing my way, though I knew every step.”
When the third woman took the stand, sighs and tears punctuating her story of acquaintance with one of the deceased, Johanna Cobbett, a ripple of sympathetic attention passed through the courtroom. She had little to offer that could shed light on the investigation, reluctantly admitting that “Anny” would have been a respectable young woman if not for the drink.
Her examination was mercifully brief, as was that of the next witness, Johanna Cobbett’s husband. A respectable-looking man, a foreman in a big business house at Croydon, he seemed to feel his position acutely. He hadn’t seen his wife for two years; he hadn’t had news of her for six months. Before she took to drink, she had been an admirable wife, and yes, a mother.
Then came another painful few minutes when the father of the murdered woman took the stand. He had had more recent news of his daughter than her husband had, but he could shed no light on her murder or murderer.
A barman who had served both women with drinks just before the public-house closed for the night was handled rather roughly. He had stepped into the box with a jaunty air and left it looking cast down and uneasy.
And then the unexpected happened. It was an incident that the evening papers would sensationalize, much to Mrs. Bernard’s indignation, though neither the coroner nor the jury, the people who mattered, thought much of it.
There came a pause in the proceedings. All seven witnesses had been heard, and a gentleman near Mrs. Bernard whispered, “They are now going to call Dr. Gaunt. He’s been in every big murder case for the last thirty years. He’s sure to have something interesting to say. It was really to hear him I came.”
But before Dr. Gaunt could even rise from his seat near the coroner, a stir arose among the general public, particularly among those near the low wooden door separating the official part of the court from the gallery. The coroner’s officer, with an apologetic air, approached and handed the coroner an envelope. The court fell into an expectant silence.
Looking rather annoyed, the coroner opened the envelope and glanced at the note inside. He then looked up, “Mr.—” he glanced down again, “Mr.—is it Cannot?” he said doubtfully. “May come forward.”
A titter ran through the spectators, and the coroner frowned. A neat, jaunty-looking old gentleman, in a fur-lined overcoat, with a fresh, red face and white side-whiskers, was conducted to the witness-box.
“This is somewhat out of order, Mr.—er—Cannot,” said the coroner severely. “You should have sent me this note before the proceedings began. This gentleman,” he addressed the jury, “informs me that he has something of the utmost importance to reveal in connection with our investigation.”
“I have remained silent—I have locked what I knew within my own breast,” began Mr. Cannot in a quavering voice. “Because I am so afraid of the press! I knew if I said anything, even to the police, that my house would be besieged by reporters and newspaper men. I have a delicate wife, Mr. Coroner. Such a state of things—the state of things I imagine—might cause her death. Indeed, I hope she will never read a report of these proceedings. Fortunately, she has an excellent trained nurse—”
“You will now take the oath,” said the coroner sharply. He already regretted allowing this absurd person to have his say.
Mr. Cannot took the oath with a gravity and decorum that had been lacking in most of the preceding witnesses.
“I will address myself to the jury,” he began.
“You will do nothing of the sort,” the coroner interrupted. “Now, please attend to me. You assert in your letter that you know who is the—the—”
“The Rose Killer,” Mr. Cannot put in promptly.
“The perpetrator of these crimes. You further declare that you met him on the very night he committed the murder we are now investigating?”
“I do so declare,” said Mr. Cannot confidently. “Though in the best of health myself,”—he beamed around the court, a now amused and attentive court—“it is my fate to be surrounded by sick people, to have only ailing friends. I have to trouble you with my private affairs, Mr. Coroner, in order to explain why I happened to be out at such an undue hour as one o’clock in the morning.”
Another titter ran through the court. Even the jury broke into broad smiles.
The courtroom held its breath as Mr. Cannot’s tale unfolded, each word dripping with suspense and the chill of impending doom. Mrs. Bernard clutched at her smelling salts, her heart racing in tandem with the old gentleman’s account.
“Yes,” Mr. Cannot began, his voice carrying the weight of a dark revelation. “I was with a sick friend—nay, a dying friend, for since then he has passed away. I shall not divulge my exact abode; you have it on my notepaper. But understand this, sir, that to return home, I had to traverse a portion of the Regent’s Park. And there, in the midst of Prince’s Terrace, a peculiar figure crossed my path.”
Mrs. Bernard’s hand trembled as she listened, a sense of foreboding settling over her like a shroud.
“He was a grim, gaunt man,” Mr. Cannot continued, his words painting a vivid portrait of terror. “An educated man, a gentleman—yet there was madness in his eyes. He spoke aloud, reciting poetry as if possessed by some unholy muse. In that tranquil neighborhood, his presence was an aberration, a portent of impending darkness.”
A sudden burst of laughter from the gallery drew sharp rebuke from Mr. Cannot, his voice quivering with indignation.
“I beseech you, sir,” he cried out, “to shield me from this mockery! I am here solely to discharge my duty as a citizen!”
The coroner’s patience wore thin, urging Mr. Cannot to focus on the crux of his encounter—the reason for his suspicion of the man as The Rose Killer.
“I am coming to that!” Mr. Cannot exclaimed, a sense of urgency gripping his frail frame. “Bear with me, sir. As we passed, this man, instead of continuing on his path, turned to face me. His words were cryptic, laden with sinister meaning. ‘A foggy night,’ I remarked. ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘a night fit for the commission of dark and salutary deeds.’ A chilling phrase, sir, that—‘dark and salutary deeds.’”
The courtroom hung on Mr. Cannot’s every word, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.
“And then?” prompted the coroner, his voice tinged with anticipation.
“And then,” Mr. Cannot continued, “he veered off, disappearing into the fog, a bag clutched in his hand—a bag that might well harbor a long-handled knife.”
Mrs. Bernard’s heart raced as she glanced over at the reporters’ table, a surge of relief washing over her. None of them had caught Mr. Cannot’s chilling final words. It was as if fate had intervened to shield her from the weight of his revelation.
The last witness raised his hand, demanding attention once more. A hush fell over the court, every eye fixed on him with a mix of curiosity and apprehension.
“One more thing,” his voice quavered, “may I have a seat for the remainder of the proceedings? There seems to be space on the witnesses’ bench.” Without waiting for confirmation, he swiftly made his way to the vacant seat.
Mrs. Bernard felt a hand on her shoulder, startling her. It was the inspector, his expression urgent.
“Perhaps it’s best you leave now,” he whispered. “You don’t need to hear the medical evidence. It’s not something a lady should be subjected to. And the rush after the inquest will be chaotic. I can get you out discreetly.”
She nodded, her emotions in turmoil. Tears welled up in her eyes as she followed him out of the courtroom, her veil pulled low over her face.
Descending the stone staircase, they reached the empty room below.
“I’ll lead you out the back,” the inspector offered. “You must be exhausted, ma’am, and in need of some tea at home.”
“Thank you,” she murmured gratefully. “You’ve been very kind to me.”
“It’s nothing,” he replied, a hint of awkwardness in his tone. “I can only imagine what you’ve been through.”
As they reached the back exit, Mrs. Bernard couldn’t help but ask in a whisper, “Will they bring back that old gentleman?”
“Absolutely not,” he chuckled. “Just an eccentric old man. We encounter many of them in the city, retired and looking for something to occupy their time. No cause for concern.”
“And his words?” she pressed.
“His words?” he repeated, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Pure imagination. But I’ll tell you what I do believe. If not for the time lapse, I’d almost think the second witness saw the real devil himself,” he lowered his voice conspiratorially. “But Dr. Gaunt and his colleagues have made it clear—the victims were long dead before they were discovered. Medical evidence doesn’t lie, you know. Well, mostly.” He chuckled again, leading her out into the quiet evening, leaving behind the echoes of the courtroom drama.