33. An Apothecary, a Dutchman, and a Jeweler
An Apothecary, a Dutchman, and a Jeweler
“I call forth Mr. Erik Francombe,” Creswell announced, “apothecary of Pennington Street, Wapping, and member in good standing of the Society of Chemical Inquiry.”
A man of unassuming height, gray at the temples and precise in manner stepped forward. Erik removed his felt hat and bowed to the bench and the jurymen.
Creswell awaited the man’s oath and then opened the questioning. “Mr. Francombe, you have, I believe, examined the bottle presented to you by the officers of Bow Street?”
“I have, my lord,” Francombe replied. “At my premises in Wapping, using controlled conditions and standard analytical methods. The contents, I regret to inform the court, were more akin to the chemist’s art than the vintner’s.”
A ripple of polite laughter swept through the gallery.
“Do elaborate,” Creswell said with a gracious nod.
“The wine, though appearing to be a tolerable claret, was found to contain a detectable measure of morphine—likely introduced as laudanum. I confirmed this through repeated trials with the customary alkaloid tests. The results were unequivocal.”
Creswell clasped his hands behind his back. “And to clarify, this was not the result of accidental contamination?”
“Unless the cellar was frequented by sleepwalking chemists, no.”
More laughter. Somewhere behind Erik’s expression, one had the impression that he might be smiling. Even Justice Holroyd allowed a lifting of the corner of his mouth.
Creswell continued, shifting his gaze to the defendants. “And the effect, were one to imbibe this concoction?”
“Affecting the nervous system with surprising swiftness,” Erik replied, “it would not render one unconscious, but muddled—loose-tongued, over-confident, and susceptible to suggestion. Poor judgment would be a near certainty. Bluntly put: they would prattle freely and wager more.”
“Just so,” Creswell said, turning to the bench. “My lords, we see the scheme laid bare. The defendants served a doctored vintage to their patrons, clouding their faculties and improving the evening’s takings. No further questions,” he concluded, returning to his seat.
“Mr. Pettigrew-Hill,” said Justice Holroyd, scribbling in his ledger, “your witness.”
From the defense came the sound of a paper sliding to the floor, followed by a muffled cough and the words, “No questions, My Lord.”
“Very good,” said Holroyd, making a tidy note. “Next Witness.”
“The court recognizes Count Johan van der Meer.”
A stir of whispers passed through the gallery as the tall, fair figure descended from the benches like a gentleman from a portrait. Johan bowed, all polish and hauteur, and stepped into the witness box to be sworn in with serene confidence.
Creswell began. “Are you a London resident, sir?”
“No. I am a proud Bruxellois , from the Kingdom of the Netherlands.”
Miles muttered, “Does he ever not boast?”
“Rarely,” Alex replied.
“How do you know the accused, sir?” Creswell continued.
“My knowledge of them is long-standing, sir.” Johan fixed Lilith with a challenging grin. “I had the misfortune of being a frequent visitor to their establishment in Brussels ten years ago. Back then, they called their place De Spelmeester . ”
“And what, if any, similarities can you discern, Count van der Meer, between their practices in Brussels and the Sixes & Sevens club in Covent Garden?”
“Their methods of devilry to trick men into heavy debt have not changed, sir. I was among those who instigated charges against the pair in Brussels in 1816, but they escaped the country before their court date.”
“Escape, did they?” said Creswell theatrically. “Constable, please ensure the accused are secure this time.”
The bailiff standing in attendance near the docks made an uncertain move before the Judge intervened.
“Lord Creswell, please refrain from your theatrics, you’re not in the House of Lords today!”
“Apologies, My Lord,” Creswell offered the bench a deferential bow before turning on Johan with a concise question.
“It is my understanding, Count van der Meer, that since arriving in our fair city, you have indeed been to the Sixes & Sevens club, and whilst there did seize, by sleight of hand, a pair of the house dice. Is that true?”
“ Yah , that is true!”
Attention then shifted to a set of dice introduced as evidence by the prosecution, placed in full view of the court on the clerk’s table. Johan, prompted by Creswell, described to the court how he had extricated the dice.
Justice Holroyd leaned forward, stroking his chin. “I should like to see such a feat, sir. A man may boast of his skill, but proof is a different matter.”
Johan was ready for this since Creswell had warned him that a demonstration might be requested.
Without hesitation, Johan reached into his pocket and produced two sets of dice—one ivory, the other deep red.
He held them up for the judge to see before picking up the ivory set and pretending to shuffle them in his palm.
His fingers moved with practiced ease, the motion smooth and unhurried.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, he rolled the dice across Holroyd’s desk.
The judge’s brows lifted. The dice gleamed a deep red. He leaned in, eyes narrowing. “Do that again,” he demanded.
Johan obliged, slower this time, tilting his wrist just enough to let Holroyd see the shuffle—but not quite comprehend the trick. Again, the dice tumbled across the desk, their color shifting in plain sight. The older man shook his head in admiration.
“Remarkable,” he admitted. “If I did not know better, I would swear you were in league with the devil himself.”
Johan chuckled. “In testifying against the accused, My Lord, I believe I am firmly on the side of the angels.”
Justice Holroyd nodded. “Thank you, Count van der Meer. You may return to the witness box.” He then eyed Lord Creswell, who shook his head and held a hand to his opposing counsel. “Does the defense wish to cross-examine?” asked Holroyd.
Mr. Pettigrew-Hill coughed weakly into his handkerchief. “I—ah—no, My Lord. No questions for this witness.”
The judge raised a single brow but did not comment. “Next witness,” he called.
Lord Creswell rose. “My lord, I now call forward an expert in fine craftsmanship. Mr. Nathaniel Gosse, jeweler of Bond Street.”
A wiry man stepped forward, clutching a small leather case in his gloved hands. He bowed to the Judge and jurymen, casting a wary glance toward the dock, where the Bittermanns stood in chilling stillness.
“Mr. Gosse,” Creswell said smoothly, “will you be so good as to demonstrate your findings for the court?”
The jeweler cleared his throat. “Certainly, my lord.” He stepped to the table where the evidence had been laid and collected the ivory dice.
“These,” he addressed the jury, “are no ordinary dice.” He cast them upon the tabletop. They bounced and tumbled before settling: a one and a two.
The Judge frowned. “And we are meant to find that compelling?”
“If My Lord pleases,” Gosse said hastily, “I shall conduct a series of throws, with the assistance of the court secretary.”
The clerk came forward at a nod from the bench. Gosse gathered the dice, rattled them briefly in his palm, and tossed them again.
“One and three,” the clerk intoned.
Again.
“A two and a one.”
The throws continued—four, then five in total—all yielding low combinations. A few knowing looks passed among the spectators—men whose pockets had been emptied under the Bittermanns’ roof. Rudi’s jaw flexed visibly.
Gosse lifted the die between thumb and forefinger. “As I was saying—these are carefully weighted. The deceit lies not in their smooth surface, but within.”
He affixed the die to a clamp and, armed with a small jeweler’s saw from his case, rasped the blade against ivory. The methodical sound carved its way into the stillness of the room.
While he worked, Creswell spoke to fill the silence, his voice easy and assured. “This particular method of fraud hinges upon a single principle: when a die is weighted on one side, it cannot help but fall with that side downward. The heavier the six, the more frequently the one will appear.”
The rasping stopped. Upon cleaving the die, Gosse exhibited the interior cross-section, revealing six embedded lead pellets that correspond with the former face configuration. He held it aloft for all to see.
“Here,” he said grimly, “it’s clear to see six tiny inserts of lead. Enough to tip the odds in favor of the house every time.”
A shocked gasp escaped the crowd. Someone muttered an oath.
Creswell turned, his voice now sharp with finality. “An undeniable proof of fraud, My Lord.”
From the dock, Rudi Bittermann stared at the jeweler with fury. Lilith, beside him, had dropped her eyes to the floor.
The judge took a long breath. “It is no small matter to tamper with the laws of chance.”
“No, My Lord,” Creswell agreed smoothly. “But then, the accused have made a science of it.”
Silence followed before Justice Holroyd turned his gaze toward the defense bench. “Mr. Pettigrew-Hill, do you wish to cross-examine the witness?”
The barrister, hunched over his notes, looked up—only to meet a menacing glare from Rudi Bittermann.
“Yes! Yes, My Lord,” he sprang forward as though prodded by a red-hot poker. “Just a minor clarification.” Clearing his throat, he adjusted his cravat. “Mr. Gosse, you are a jeweler by trade, are you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then on what basis should this court credit your evidence, sir?”
“My profession is irrelevant, sir. I merely possessed the tools to reveal the deceit within the dice. I urge the jury to assess the evidence before it,” he said, gesturing towards the dice, “rather than my occupation.”
“Mm. Yes. Well.” Pettigrew-Hill swallowed. “No further questions.”
Justice Holroyd knitted his brows—whether in disbelief or pity, none could say. “Very well. Mr. Gosse, you may step down.”
The jeweler bowed with confusion, gathered his tools, and slipped from the courtroom.