IN WHICH THE NOTORIOUS CRIMINAL GETS WHAT THE BRITISH LAW CONSIDERS TO
BE HIS DESERTS
Before we pursue further the psychic adventures of our hero and heroine,
it would be well to see how the British law dealt with that wicked man,
Mr. Tom Linden.
The two policewomen returned in triumph to Bardsley Square Station where
Inspector Murphy, who had sent them, was waiting for their report.
Murphy was a jolly-looking, red-faced, black-moustached man who had a
cheerful, fatherly way with women which was by no means justified by his
age or virility. He sat behind his official table, his papers strewn in
front of him.
“Well, girls,” he said as the two women entered, “what luck?”
“I think it’s a go, Mr. Murphy,” said the elder policewoman. “We have
the evidence you want.”
The Inspector took up a written list of questions from his desk.
“You ran it on the general lines that I suggested?” he asked.
“Yes. I said my husband was killed at Ypres.”
“What did he do?”
“Well, he seemed sorry for me.”
“That, of course, is part of the game. He’ll be sorry for himself before
he is through with it. He didn’t say, ‘You are a single woman and never
had a husband?’”
“No.”
“Well, that’s one up against his spirits, is it not? That should impress
the court. What more?”
“He felt round for names. They were all wrong.”
“Good!”
“He believed me when I said that Miss Bellinger here was my daughter.”
“Good again! Did you try the Pedro stunt?”
“Yes, he considered the name, but I got nothing.”
“Ah, that’s a pity. But, anyhow, he did not know that Pedro was your
Alsatian dog. He considered the name. That’s good enough. Make the jury
laugh and you have your verdict. Now about fortune-telling? Did you do
what I suggested?”
“Yes, I asked about Amy’s young man. He did not give much that was
definite.”
“Cunning devil! He knows his business.”
“But he did say that she would be unhappy if she married him.”
“Oh, he did, did he? Well, if we spread that a little we have got all we
want. Now sit down and dictate your report while you have it fresh. Then
we can go over it together and see how we can put it best. Amy must
write one, also.”
“Very good, Mr. Murphy.”
“Then we shall apply for the warrant. You see, it all depends upon which
magistrate it comes before. There was Mr. Dalleret who let a medium off
last month. He is no use to us. And Mr. Lancing has been mixed up with
these people. Mr. Melrose is a stiff materialist. We could depend on him
and have timed the arrest accordingly. It would never do to fail to get
our conviction.”
“Couldn’t you get some of the public to corroborate?”
The Inspector laughed.
“We are supposed to be protecting the public, but between you and me
none of the public have ever yet asked to be protected. There are no
complaints. Therefore it is left to us to uphold the law as best we can.
As long as it is there we have got to enforce it. Well, good-bye, girls!
Let me have the report by four o’clock.”
“Nothing for us, I suppose?” said the elder woman, with a smile.
“You wait, my dear. If we get twenty-five pounds fine it has got to go
somewhere--Police Fund, of course, but there may be something over.
Anyhow, you go and cough it up and then we shall see.”
* * * * *
Next morning a scared maid broke into Linden’s modest study. “Please,
sir, it’s an officer.”
The man in blue followed hard at her heels.
“Name of Linden?” said he, and handing a folded sheet of foolscap he
departed.
The stricken couple who spent their lives in bringing comfort to others
were sadly in need of comfort themselves. She put her arm round his neck
while they read the cheerless document:
TO THOMAS LINDEN of 40, Tullis Street, N.W.
Information has been laid this day by Patrick Murphy, Inspector of
Police, that you the said Thomas Linden on the 10th day of November
at the above dwelling did profess to Henrietta Dresser and to Amy
Bellinger to tell fortunes to deceive and impose on certain of His
Majesty’s subjects, to wit those above mentioned. You are
therefore summoned to appear before the Magistrate of the Police
Court in Bardsley Square on Wednesday next, the 17th, at the hour
of 11 in the forenoon to answer to the said information.
Dated the 10th day of November.
(_Signed_) B. J. WITHERS.
On the same afternoon Mailey called upon Malone and they sat in
consultation over this document. Then they went together to see
Summerway Jones, an acute solicitor and an earnest student of psychic
affairs. Incidentally, he was a hard rider to hounds, a good boxer, and
a man who carried a fresh-air flavour into the mustiest law chambers. He
arched his eyebrows over the summons.
“The poor devil has not an earthly!” said he. “He’s lucky to have a
summons. Usually they act on a warrant. Then the man is carted right
off, kept in the cells all night, and tried next morning with no one to
defend him. The police are cute enough, of course, to choose either a
Roman Catholic or a materialist as the magistrate. Then, by the
beautiful judgment of Chief Justice Lawrence--the first judgment, I
believe, that he delivered in that high capacity--the profession of
mediumship or wonder-working is in itself a legal crime, whether it be
genuine or no, so that no defence founded upon good results has a look
in. It’s a mixture of religious persecution and police blackmail. As to
the public they don’t care a damn! Why should they? If they don’t want
their fortune told, they don’t go. The whole thing is the most absolute
bilge and a disgrace to our legislature.”
“I’ll write it up,” said Malone, glowing with Celtic fire. “What do you
call the Act?”
“Well, there are two Acts, each more putrid than the other, and both
passed long before Spiritualism was ever heard of. There is the
Witchcraft Act dating from George the Second. That has become too
absurd, so they only use it as a second string. Then there is the
Vagrancy Act of 1824. It was passed to control the wandering gipsy folk
on the roadside, and was never intended, of course, to be used like
this.” He hunted among his papers. “Here is the beastly thing. ‘Every
person professing to tell fortunes or using any subtle craft, means or
device to deceive and impose on any of His Majesty’s subjects shall be
deemed a rogue and a vagabond,’ and so on and so forth. The two Acts
together would have roped in the whole Early Christian movement just as
surely as the Roman persecution did.”
“Lucky there are no lions now,” said Malone.
“Jackasses!” cried Mailey. “That’s the modern substitute. But what are
we to do?”
“I’m damned if I know!” said the solicitor, scratching his head. “It’s
perfectly hopeless!”
“Oh, dash it all!” cried Malone, “we can’t give it up so easily. We know
the man is an honest man.”
Mailey turned and grasped Malone’s hand.
“I don’t know if you call yourself a Spiritualist yet,” he said, “but
you are the kind of chap we want. There are too many white-livered folk
in our movement who fawn on a medium when all is well, and desert him at
the first breath of an accusation. But, thank God! there are a few
stalwarts. There is Brookes and Rodwin and Sir James Smith. We can put
up a hundred or two among us.”
“Right-o!” said the solicitor, cheerily. “If you feel like that we will
give you a run for your money.”
“How about a K.C.?”
“Well, they don’t plead in police courts. If you’ll leave it in my hands
I fancy I can do as well as anyone, for I’ve had a lot of these cases.
It will keep the costs down, too.”
“Well, we are with you. And we will have a few good men at our back.”
“If we do nothing else we shall ventilate it,” said Malone. “I believe
in the good old British public. Slow and stupid, but sound at the core.
They will not stand for injustice if you can get the truth into their
heads.”
“They damned well need trepanning before you can get it there,” said the
solicitor. “Well, you do your bit and I’ll do mine and we will see what
comes to it.”
* * * * *
The fateful morning arrived and Linden found himself in the dock facing
a spruce, middle-aged man with rat-trap jaws, Mr. Melrose, the
redoubtable police magistrate. Mr. Melrose had a reputation for severity
with fortune-tellers and all who foretold the future, though he spent
the intervals in his court by reading up the sporting prophets, for he
was an ardent follower of the Turf, and his trim, fawn-coloured coat and
rakish hat were familiar objects at every race meeting which was within
his reach. He was in no particularly good humour this morning as he
glanced at the charge-sheet and then surveyed the prisoner. Mrs. Linden
had secured a position below the dock, and occasionally extended her
hand to pat that of the prisoner which rested on the edge. The court was
crowded and many of the prisoner’s clients had attended to show their
sympathy.
“Is this case defended?” asked Mr. Melrose.
“Yes, your worship,” said Summerway Jones. “May I, before it opens, make
an objection?”
“If you think it worth while, Mr. Jones.”
“I beg to respectfully request your ruling before the case is proceeded
with. My client is not a vagrant, but a respectable member of the
community, living in his own house, paying rates and taxes, and on the
same footing as every other citizen. He is now prosecuted under the
fourth section of the Vagrancy Act of 1824, which is styled, ‘An Act for
punishing idle and disorderly persons, and rogues and vagabonds.’ The
Act was intended, as the words imply, to restrain lawless gipsies and
others, who at that time infested the country. I ask your Worship to
rule that my client is clearly not a person within the purview of this
Act or liable to its penalties.”
The Magistrate shook his head.
“I fear, Mr. Jones, that there have been too many precedents for the Act
to be now interpreted in this limited fashion. I will ask the solicitor
prosecuting on behalf of the Commissioner of Police to put forward his
evidence.”
A little bull of a man with side-whiskers and a raucous voice sprang to
his feet.
“I call Henrietta Dresser.”
The elder policewoman popped up in the box with the alacrity of one who
is used to it. She held an open notebook in her hand.
“You are a policewoman, are you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I understand that you watched the prisoner’s home the day before you
called on him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How many people went in?”
“Fourteen, sir.”
“Fourteen people. And I believe the prisoner’s average fee is ten and
sixpence.”
“Yes.”
“Seven pounds in one day! Pretty good wages when many an honest man is
content with five shillings.”
“These were the tradespeople!” cried Linden.
“I must ask you not to interrupt. You are already very efficiently
represented,” said the Magistrate severely.
“Now, Henrietta Dresser,” continued the prosecutor, wagging his
pince-nez. “Let us hear what occurred when you and Amy Bellinger visited
the prisoner.”
The policewoman gave an account which was in the main true, reading it
from her book. She was not a married woman, but the medium had accepted
her statement that she was. He had fumbled with several names and had
seemed greatly confused. The name of a dog--Pedro--had been submitted to
him, but he had not recognised it as such. Finally, he had answered
questions as the future of her alleged daughter, who was, in fact, no
relation to her, and had foretold that she would be unhappy in her
marriage.
“Any questions, Mr. Jones?” asked the Magistrate.
“Did you come to this man as one who needed consolation? And did he
attempt to give it?”
“I suppose you might put it so.”
“You professed deep grief, I understand.”
“I tried to give that impression.”
“You do not consider that to be hypocrisy?”
“I did what was my duty.”
“You saw no signs of psychic power, or anything abnormal?” asked the
prosecutor.
“No, he seemed a very nice, ordinary sort of man.”
Amy Bellinger was the next witness. She appeared with her notebook in
her hand.
“May I ask, your worship, whether it is in order that these witnesses
should read their evidence?” asked Mr. Jones.
“Why not?” queried the Magistrate. “We desire the exact facts, do we
not?”
“_We_ do. Possibly Mr. Jones does not,” said the prosecuting solicitor.
“It is clearly a method of securing that the evidence of these two
witnesses shall be in accord,” said Jones. “I submit that these accounts
are carefully prepared and collated.”
“Naturally, the police prepare their case,” said the Magistrate. “I do
not see that you have any grievance, Mr. Jones. Now, witness, let us
hear your evidence.”
It followed on the exact lines of the other.
“You asked questions about your fiancé? You had no fiancé,” said Mr.
Jones.
“That is so.”
“In fact, you both told a long sequence of lies?”
“With a good object in view.”
“You thought the end justifies the means?”
“I carried out my instructions.”
“Which were given you beforehand?”
“Yes, we were told what to ask.”
“I think,” said the Magistrate, “that the policewomen have given their
evidence very fairly and well. Have you any witnesses for the defence,
Mr. Jones?”
“There are a number of people in court, your worship, who have received
great benefit from the mediumship of the prisoner. I have subpœnaed one
woman who was, by her own account, saved from suicide that very morning
by what he told her. I have another man who was an atheist, and had lost
all belief in future life. He was completely converted by his experience
of psychic phenomena. I can produce men of the highest eminence in
science and literature who will testify to the real nature of Mr.
Linden’s powers.”
The Magistrate shook his head.
“You must know, Mr. Jones, that such evidence would be quite beside the
question. It has been clearly laid down by the ruling of the Lord Chief
Justice and others that the law of this country does not recognise
supernatural powers of any sort whatever, and that a pretence of such
powers where payment is involved constitutes a crime in itself.
Therefore your suggestion that you should call witnesses could not
possibly lead to anything save a wasting of the time of the court. At
the same time, I am, of course, ready to listen to any observations
which you may care to make after the solicitor for the prosecution has
spoken.”
“Might I venture to point out, your worship,” said Jones, “that such a
ruling would mean the condemnation of any sacred or holy person of whom
we have any record, since even holy persons have to live, and have
therefore to receive money.”
“If your refer to Apostolic times, Mr. Jones,” said the Magistrate
sharply, “I can only remind you that the Apostolic age is past and also
that Queen Anne is dead. Such an argument is hardly worthy of your
intelligence. Now, sir, if you have anything to add....”
Thus encouraged the prosecutor made a short address, stabbing the air at
intervals with his pince-nez as if every stab punctured afresh all
claims of the spirit. He pictured the destitution among the
working-classes, and yet charlatans, by advancing wicked and blasphemous
claims, were able to earn a rich living. That they had real powers was,
as had been observed, beside the question, but even that excuse was
shattered by the fact that these policewomen, who had discharged an
unpleasant duty in a most exemplary way, had received nothing but
nonsense in return for their money. Was it likely that other clients
fared any better? These parasites were increasing in number, trading
upon the finer feelings of bereaved parents, and it was high time that
some exemplary punishment should warn them that they would be wise to
turn their hands to some more honest trade.
Mr. Summerway Jones replied as best he might. He began by pointing out
that the Acts were being used for a purpose for which they were never
intended. (“That point has been already considered!” snapped the
Magistrate.) The whole position was open to criticism. The convictions
were secured by evidence from agents-provocateurs, who, if any crime had
been committed, were obviously inciters to it and also participants. The
fines obtained were often deflected for purposes in which the police had
a direct interest.
“Surely, Mr. Jones, you do not mean to cast a reflection upon the
honesty of the police!”
The police were human, and were naturally inclined to stretch a point
where their own interests were affected. All these cases were
artificial. There was no record at any time of any real complaint from
the public or any demand for protection. There were frauds in every
profession, and if a man deliberately invested and lost a guinea in a
false medium he had no more right to protection than the man who
invested his money in a bad company on the stock market. Whilst the
police were wasting time upon such cases, and their agents were weeping
crocodile tears in the character of forlorn mourners, many other
branches of real crime received far less attention than they deserved.
The law was quite arbitrary in its action. Every big garden-party, even,
as he had been informed, every police fête was incomplete without its
fortune-teller or palmist. Some years ago the _Daily Mail_ had raised an
outcry against fortune-tellers. That great man, the late Lord
Northcliffe, had been put in the box by the defence, and it had been
shown that one of his other papers was running a palmistry column, and
that the fees received were divided equally between the palmist and the
proprietors. He mentioned this in no spirit which was derogatory to the
memory of this great man, but merely as an example of the absurdity of
the law as it was now administered. Whatever might be the individual
opinion of members of that court, it was incontrovertible that a large
number of intelligent and useful citizens regarded this power of
mediumship as a remarkable manifestation of the power of spirit, making
for the great improvement of the race. Was it not a most fatal policy in
these days of materialism to crush down by law that which in its higher
manifestation might work for the regeneration of mankind? As to the
undoubted fact that information received by the policewomen was
incorrect and that their lying statements were not detected by the
medium, it was a psychic law that harmonious conditions were essential
for true results, and that deceit on one side produced confusion on the
other. If the court would for a moment adopt the Spiritualistic
hypothesis, they would realise how absurd it would be to expect that
angelic hosts would descend in order to answer the questions of two
mercenary and hypocritical inquirers.
Such, in a short synopsis, was the general line of Mr. Summerway Jones’
defence which reduced Mrs. Linden to tears and threw the magistrate’s
clerk into a deep slumber. The Magistrate himself rapidly brought the
matter to a conclusion.
“Your quarrel, Mr. Jones, seems to be with the law, and that is outside
my competence. I administer it as I find it, though I may remark that I
am entirely in agreement with it. Such men as the defendant are the
noxious fungi which collect on a corrupt society, and the attempt to
compare their vulgarities with the holy men of old, or to claim similar
gifts, must be reprobated by all right-thinking men.
“As to you, Linden,” he added, fixing his stern eyes upon the prisoner,
“I fear that you are a hardened offender since a previous conviction has
not altered your ways. I sentence you, therefore, to two months’ hard
labour without option of a fine.”
There was a scream from Mrs. Linden.
“Good-bye, dear, don’t fret,” said the medium, glancing over the side of
the dock. An instant later he had been hurried down to the cell.
Summerway Jones, Mailey and Malone met in the hall, and Mailey
volunteered to escort the poor stricken woman home.
“What had he ever done but bring comfort to all?” she moaned. “Is there
a better man living in the whole great City of London?”
“I don’t think there is a more useful one,” said Mailey. “I’ll venture
to say that the whole of Crockford’s Directory with the Archbishops at
their head could not prove the things of religion as I have seen Tom
Linden prove them, or convert an atheist as I have seen Linden convert
him.”
“It’s a shame! A damned shame!” said Malone, hotly.
“The touch about vulgarity was funny,” said Jones. “I wonder if he
thinks the Apostles were very cultivated people. Well, I did my best. I
had no hopes, and it has worked out as I thought. It is pure waste of
time.”
“Not at all,” Malone answered. “It has ventilated an evil. There were
reporters in court. Surely some of them have some sense. They will note
the injustice.”
“Not they,” said Mailey. “The Press is hopeless. My God, what a
responsibility these people take on themselves, and how little they
guess the price that each will pay! I know. I have spoken with them
while they were paying it.”
“Well, I for one will speak out,” said Malone, “and I believe others
will also. The Press is more independent and intelligent than you seem
to think.”
But Mailey was right, after all. When he had left Mrs. Linden in her
lonely home and had reached Fleet Street once more, Malone bought a
_Planet_. As he opened it a scare head-line met his eye:
IMPOSTOR IN THE POLICE COURT
_Dog Mistaken for Man._
WHO WAS PEDRO?
Exemplary Sentence.
He crumpled the paper up in his hand.
“No wonder these Spiritualists feel bitterly,” he thought. “They have
good cause.”
Yes, poor Tom Linden had a bad press. He went down into his miserable
cell amid universal objurgation. The _Planet_, an evening paper which
depended for its circulation upon the sporting forecasts of Captain
Touch-and-go, remarked upon the absurdity of forecasting the future.
_Honest John_, a weekly journal which had been mixed up with some of the
greatest frauds of the century, was of opinion that the dishonesty of
Linden was a public scandal. A rich country rector wrote to _The Times_
to express his indignation that anyone should profess to sell the gifts
of the spirit. The _Churchman_ remarked that such incidents arose from
the growing infidelity, while the _Freethinker_ saw in them a reversion
to superstition. Finally Mr. Maskelyne showed the public, to the great
advantage of his box office, exactly how the swindle was perpetrated. So
for a few days Tom Linden had what the French call a “succes
d’execration.” Then the world moved on and he was left to his fate.