Episode 8. The Casebook of Dr Miller- Case 4, pt1. No50 Berkeley Square.

Upon his return from Topsham and not yet recovered from the significance of his meeting Grace Meriwether, Dr Oliver Miller finds himself re-examining the crime commited at No50 Berkeley Square.

Written, narrated and produced by Charles Walker

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Transcript

Case 4. No 50 Berkeley Square, London.

Part 1.

The days following my return from Borley found me so affected by the events of that short time I had spent there and of the confirmation that somehow there were tears in the very fabric of time itself, that I found an urgency in my purpose to get to the bottom of things.

John, contrary to my previous beliefs I now consider may not be dead. Grace was living proof that one could experience such a tear and yet not be affected. The body, of the still unidentified man seemed to be proof that one could travel through these rifts- I had to accept however that he had presumably already been dead as he passed though. I had intended to go to Exmouth to follow up on the pawn slip, but meeting Grace had pushed this out of my mind.

So it was that I spent every waking hour upon my return to London scanning the newspapers and on making visits to the library to trawl through back copies of the same to find anything that might provide a feasible or promising lead.

As I have previously mentioned, we live in a time of great danger even ignoring the supernatural. Murders and unsolved crimes being rife in London. Add to this the current preoccupation of the age with the paranormal, with hauntings and séance and there was much to be read. The difficulty was in deciding which had circumstances that made them firstly not of the common and explainable murder or crime and secondly that made them credible and not the imaginings or attention seeking of some bored individual.

It was, needless to say, a somewhat arduous and tiresome task. I made many notes while sat in the silence of the library archives by day and by the lamplight of my study working late into the evening and sometimes into the early hours of the morning.

My housekeep told me that I was looking drawn and that it would seem my sabbatical from my occupation of coroner was having the opposite effect to that it should. I could not privately deny the truth of this even if I could not explain the reason to her.

It was on one of my many visits to the library, sat at the small desk with its green shaded lamp casting its warm light onto the yellowing pages of the newspaper that I found a report that sparked my interest.

Only a year or so previous, on December the 24th two sailors had, for lack of money and any other options, broken into No 50 Berkely Square. They had experienced something in that house, the survivor said, that drove the other fellow to jump from one of the second-floor windows, and thereby impaling himself on the railings and in the act killing himself, he to run out of the house in terror to find the nearest constable.

I knew this story well once I was reminded of, for I was the coroner that had carried out the investigation.

I had examined the body, and I had found a number of areas of contusions, bruising to the skin, some quite recent in nature. The examination also showed a fair few bones had been broken and badly re-set over a number of years. The cause of death was the spiked iron railing that had punctured the man’s chest, through the heart and out of his back. Considering the man’s recent bruises and the state of his ‘friends’ hands which showed contusions to the knuckles, I and subsequently the courts had ruled that the man had not jumped, but rather that he had been violently pushed. His companion, the reporter of the incident, being the only other person in the house and less than reputable by both profession and by being guilty of breaking and entering was deemed to be guilty of murder and was sentenced to death.

At the time I did not have the insight that I have now of how strange the world can be and I also had no reason to take note or if I had, to believe any of the outlandish (as I would have then seen them) stories of the house.

However, this was now of interest to me for I had in my recent research read of more than one incident involving this house, and, as I say, I having now a very different outlook on unexplained phenomena. It would seem that no one who stayed there stayed for very long. All reported strange happenings, sounds, voices, indistinct shapes and the like.

The interesting thing to me was that none of the reports held much detail and once reported it would seem by the lack of any further statement the reporters did not say any more. These individuals it would seem were not looking for their few minutes of fame in the pages of the press.

Once focused on this thread I went back through the archive looking only for 50 Berkely Square. None of the reports pre-dated 1856. This was a find, considering the evidence that I had gathered so far as to the ritual that had so gone awry in Topsham. I found myself breathing hard, my heart pounding in my chest.

I had a lead. Turning back to the most recent newspaper I frantically searched for the accused man’s name. Frank O’Brien. A sailor, Irish in descent, American by birth. Being an American Irish sailor, I presumed had not been in his favour when judgement was passed.

As the coroner for the Greater London District, I was well aware that Mr O’Brien would have most likely been incarcerated in Newgate Prison and especially if being condemned to be hanged.  The last public execution at Newgate had been some forty years ago, however the Gallows being moved inside the prison and out of public view, the death sentences were still carried out there. My only hope that was that Frank O’Brien had not been hanged for his alleged crimes. He may well if still there have wished he had, for out of experience having visited Newgate I can attest to the conditions inside verging on the inhumane. Many unfortunate souls find themselves inside those walls and it is not just those accused of murder. Many women and children are incarcerated there for very small crimes indeed. I do not excuse the actions of any wrong doer, however some punishments do not in my eyes- fit the crime.

This investigation would, it struck me, at least in the first part, be well within my expertise. As Coroner the police and the prison were a part of my daily routine- so gaining entry to Newgate Prison to speak to Frank O’Brien should not pose any great difficulty. I would just need some slightly plausible explanation, but in truth I doubted very much if I would be challenged for my reasons as I had been the appointed coroner and partly responsible for his being there. I could just say that I was tidying up some notes and I wished to ask the prisoner a few questions.

This was good news indeed, and it may just save an innocent man’s life, although I if I were to be honest with myself, I did not know what evidence I could provide that would not put suspicion on my capacity to carry out my duties or that would be accepted as proof of innocence. I had also to remind myself, that as yet, I had not proved anything that would out my original findings into doubt anyways.

IT was a harsh realisation that for the first time now, my current preoccupation and lines of investigation, could put my professional and personal good standing into question in the minds of others. I realised that I would have to walk a very fine line and that one step over that line could cost me everything. I then remembered John and Grace, they had had no choice, they had lost everything, and in the case of Grace she had borne it with grace and fortitude. Should I not be expected to do the same?

I presented at the austere and foreboding exterior of Newgate Prison at the corner of Newgate Street and Old Bailey Street early the next morning. I did not wish to waste any time in following up on what seemed to be an extremely promising lead. I asked to see the prison Governor and taken hence, I gave my brief description of my reason for the visit. I kept my explanation short, concise and official.

It proved that Frank O’Brien was indeed still alive. Being ‘American’ it had been deemed that it would be bad for transatlantic relations if he should be hanged here. He being of low standing in society however had delayed and possibly indefinitely any extradition to America for sentencing to be carried out there. So it was that he had remained alive and a prisoner in Newgate.

This seemed fortuitous for both Mr O’Brien and me.

I shall not describe the conditions in this place as they are well known, the prison having been notorious for many centuries and more recently immortalised in the pages of the novels written by Charles Dickens. I shall only say that the utter squalor, the attitude of the prison staff themselves towards the inmates, the shouts and screams and wailing that permeated this place at all hours should paint enough of a picture for the imagination to complete the rest.

Frank O’Brien proved to be older than I had presumed, probably by my estimation being in his 40’s. He had seemingly fared well in the prison having somewhat of a muscular build, his eyes were contrary to most of those that one would come across in such a place were bright.

Once the guard had left the small bare room, bare save a table and two chairs that we both now sat in, I without wishing to waste any more time than was necessary or being confident of the time I would be allowed, started straight into my reason for visiting.

I confessed that it was I that had investigate the corpse of his friend and had ruled that death had been brought about by foul means. I went on to say that I now had such evidence or rather experience as to make me reconsider my original pronouncement as incorrect- privately even if I could not prove anything professionally.

He stayed silent the whole time, his gaze keen upon me.

I continued to express that I now believed that such unexplainable events as detailed by him in his defence could have some truth in them and as such I wished to hear his recounting of the events again. I could not promise any justice if his word proved to be true, however I would make it my aim to ensure that no one else suffered the same experience and possibly a similar outcome as his friend and he himself had done.

Looking me directly in the eye he simply asked as to what it was that brought me to the conclusion that he had murdered his friend when the obvious cause of death was impalement and, on a fence, for all to see and there as could not be any other evidence.

I, now reconsidering the autopsy and investigation fully realised that I had in the lack of any other explanation had used circumstantial evidence and the status and heritage of the accused to come to my conclusion.

I took a deep breath and started my explanation. I informed him, that I had found numerous fresh contusions on the man's body, indicative of a fight or struggle. To add to this his own hands had been bruised, showing evidence of a fight. I had found it unlikely apart from the strange story given that anyone would have thrown themselves from a second story window. I finally added somewhat abashed that I had presumed between both of their occupations and status as sailors and adding in the fact of his background as American Irish, who were often known to be troublemakers. that I, putting all together had arrived in my mind of an act of murder. I added somewhat feebly that there had also been no evidence to the contrary found by the police to challenge this.

I had, as had the constabulary, arrived at a scenario where two ne'er-do-wells after breaking into an empty house to either pilfer from it or to hide out had come to blows over some matter, and as a result... I stopped. Frank O'Brien was laughing.

So that’s how the great British justice system works is it. The Irish in his accent coming further to the fore in his exasperated cry. A man is judged in his trade and his ancestry rather than his deeds. I felt myself redden in the face. Is started to respond in defence, ‘Well..’ I was cut short.

Now, he continued- let me tell you the truth of things. He sat back in the chair, still holding my gaze.

John, for that was the other scoundrels name (he emphasised the scoundrel- I understood his intended rebuke), my ship mate, and friend- He stressed the word friend, had served passage as last-minute hands on a ship arriving late the previous day. We had nowhere to stay, and yes, we broke into what seemed to be an empty house. It proved to be not so empty as we had thought it to be, but I shall get to that little matter soon enough.

We had no drink and so we both set about searching the house, just for drink mind, we had no intentions of, how did you put it, pilfering anything else, well maybe a little bread and meat if any were to be found.

Would you believe it, the house was dry! Not a drop of even sherry to be found, which believe me we would have drunk if there was only that to be had.

John called to me that he would check out the cellars, as surely there must be something in there even if there was not up her. I went into the kitchen to scrape together what food could be found while John went to the cellar.

He was gone some considerable time; however, I deemed that if he had found anything he was probably making the most of it before bringing any back up into the house. It was after some time that I heard the noise. It was like a buzzing in the ears. I looked around for insects, but there were none and moving out into the hall the sound increased in its volume.

I could see the cellar door and it was half open and the sound was coming from there. I called out to John, and it was then that I heard him cry out. The incessant buzzing sound was fair filling my ears now as I moved closer to the cellar, and it was becoming hard to concentrate. I half remember running down the stone steps and finding John, kneeling on the ground hitting himself around the head. The sound was all around, and it echoed in this place, multiplying the effect, and then, out of the corner of my eye I saw a shape or rather darkness formed into a shape. I looked directly at it, but it seemed to lose form the harder I tried to see it.

The buzzing was incessant and John, in my distraction was now hitting his head onto the floor crying out that he had seen the face of a Daemon or maybe a vengeful Angel, I have the truth, he kept saying over and over, each time his head hitting the ground with sickening thuds.

I trying to hold onto my own consciousness, grabbed him and tried to pull him away, out of that cellar, away from that noise and whatever the shape was. He fought back at me and I admit that I tried to hit him hard to either knock some sense into him (although sense was also leaving me) or to knock him out as then I could at least drag him out of that accursed cellar. Finally, his eyes opened wide, and he stopped stock still. He smiled at me and shouting that he now knew what he had to do, he pushed me aside and ran past me. I in surprise was slow to act and by the time I gained the top of the steps I could hear him running further up in the house. I ran as fast as I could after him, not knowing what he meant by, I now know what I must do. I reach the second story room just in time to see my friend throw himself face first out of the window. I did not go to the window to see the result; I instead ran as quickly as I could back down the stairs and out of that house my own grip on reality now being dangerously thin.

I came to my senses once outside, almost instantly. I saw my friend's body, the railing impaled through his body, and I knew him to be dead and so I ran and shouted for someone to help.

The rest you know.

Hi tale told, he slumped down in the chair, he shoulders rounded forward and his head to his chest. He almost seemed to physically diminish in front of my very eyes.

I instinctively reached forward and touched the back of his hand, I believe you.

He looked up, once again looking me directly in the eyes, and his gaze seemingly searching there for the truth, he replied that he believed that I did.

Keeping his gaze his stated in a calm manner, that he had done the best he could under the circumstances to keep his health, mind and hope up. Maybe it was easier because of my trade, a sailor's life is a hard life anyway. I have spent my time in here keeping as physically and mentally fit as I could as I knew that I had to get somehow free and to burn that house down to the ground. He went on to say, I know that your newfound belief cannot be made public, and it cannot help me. However, it could help others to avoid the same fate. That households something terrible. Promise me that you will do something, anything about it.

I confirmed that I would as best as I could.

He smiled, and it was a warm smile that brightened his face. Then I have accomplished something and that is good enough or at least the best I can hope for.

He rose, thank you. I do not think that we will speak again and banging on the table he summoned the guard.

I nodded to the guard to affirm that our interview was over, and I left that forsaken place.

It was two days later back in my study as I sat to search the latest newspaper for any events of interest, that I found a few lines stating that; Frank O'Brien, inmate of Newgate Prison and convicted murder, had taken his own life, hanging himself in his cell.

It would seem that I would be destined in my searches and investigations to briefly meet a good number of souls that I would part from and never see again. One thing I did know- I had to get inside that house. Arson- well that was another matter entirely.