Whisky, Wars, Riots and Murder

by Malcolm Archibald

  Catherine must have floated ashore, because not long after, her body was found on the shore of the loch. She had a woollen cloth around her body and her face and neck were marked, cut and bruised. Searchers also found scraps of a woman’s dress on a rock overlooking the sea. To clinch their theory of a murder, they found a depression in the ground from which a rock had been torn and a stone that fitted the hole.

  One of the men who found the body walked across to Maclellan’s house. ‘It is not agreeable, what I have seen’, he said quietly, speaking in Gaelic, of course.

  Maclellan tried to act innocent. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  ‘There has something wrong been done.’

  The local authorities were alerted and Maclellan was arrested. In September that year he appeared before the Circuit court at Inverness, but the jury disagreed with the verdict of the neighbours. In his summing up, Lord Meadowbank pointed out that the doctor who examined the body was not certain that the marks on Catherine’s neck were the result of Maclellan’s hands, and the other marks could have been caused when she fell off a rock. Maclellan walked free.

  It was much more common for matrimonial disputes to end in simple violence, but even that could end in a summons to appear in court. In July 1850 John Williamson, a Caithness farmer, attacked his wife, beat her up and broke her arm. He was arrested and ordered to come to the Inverness Sheriff Court in September. When he failed to appear, he was outlawed.

  Death of an Uncle

  Murder by poison was a favourite method in the nineteenth century. The trials of Madeleine Smith and Dr Pritchard in Glasgow were only two of the high-profile cases that shocked and possibly delighted the respectable people of the country, but in 1859 the Highlands had their own case of suspected poisoning.

  David Ross and his uncle Walter Ross lived together in the same house in Invergordon. On 16 April 1859 Walter Ross died and the police suspected that he had been poisoned over a long period, with David putting small quantities of arsenic in his tea, whisky and food. The motive for the suspected murder was property. Walter Ross had found himself a woman and was talking of marriage, and if so, then the house he lived in would have gone to his new wife and not to David.

  When Walter was still hale and hearty, David told a sheriff officer named William that his uncle was due to be married. Kennedy commented that the house would go to the new wife then. David Ross smiled and said, ‘Although my uncle may wish to do that, I have in my pocket what would hinder him.’ At that time the words meant nothing to Kennedy, but he remembered them later, after Walter Ross died and there were whispers of poisoning.

  On Thursday, 14 August 1859, both uncle and nephew visited John Ross, the local surgeon and doctor, as Walter Ross was unwell. Dr Ross recommended carbonate of soda and tartaric acid and sent them away. He visited the house on the Saturday and found Walter Ross lying in bed on his back, unconscious. Dr Ross was very surprised when Walter died about half an hour later.

  Dr Ross and Dr Vass of Tain both examined the body, and they decided that he had died from ‘excessive discharges from the stomach and bowels’ but neither could say the origin of the trouble. They consulted with Dr McLagan of Edinburgh, who said, ‘All the organs from the body of Walter Ross … were impregnated with arsenic; that the contents of the stomach contained a barely appreciable trace of this poison but that there was present in them an insoluble compound of mercury.’ He thought that ‘a dose of calomel had been administered to Walter Ross shortly before death’. He concluded that Walter Ross ‘must have received a considerable dose of arsenic … there can be no doubt that he died from poisoning by arsenic’.

  Naturally, suspicion fell on the nephew, and the police made enquiries. John Fraser, a chemist in Tain, said that David Ross had bought arsenic, claiming that it was for rats, although the next door neighbour, William Sutherland, was adamant there were no rats around at all. McGregor, the veterinary surgeon, said that David Ross had bought some powder to cure a sick horse. McGregor had warned that the powder could be very harmful if taken by a human.

  Even more damning was a statement by David’s sweetheart, Georgina Mackay. She claimed that David Ross had told her that his uncle had not long to live and that if she agreed to marry him he would ‘give me his hand that his uncle would not live long’. Georgina had asked what made him think that and David gave a mysterious answer: ‘There is none that knows that but one,’ and added, ‘Never you mind that. If you give me your hand, I’ll let you know that.’

  Perhaps the words scared Georgina, for she turned down David’s offer of marriage and walked away from the relationship and the chance of a share in Walter’s house. That fell to another woman, who coincidentally was also named Georgina, and he married her shortly after.

  When the case came to trial at the Inverness Circuit Court, David denied that he had ever possessed arsenic in Invergordon. He made two contradictory statements. His first statement was that ‘I never had any poison in my possession at any time to my knowledge’ but his second claimed ‘I bought three or four ounces of arsenic from a druggist in Tain in February last, for the purpose of killing some cats that were annoying me in my workshop and a dog that used to frighten me … and some rats which were in the back wing of my uncle’s house. But I lost that packet on my way from Tain to Invergordon.’ David also mentioned the white powder he had purchased from the vet, saying that he had bought it for his uncle’s horse. This powder was kept on the top shelf of a cupboard, beside the household store of medicines, and David presumed that his uncle had mistaken the horse powder for cream of tartar.

  The judge, Lord Cowan, summed up the evidence and concluded that there had been poison administered by some person, but left it to the jury to decide if David Ross had been the culprit. The verdict was eight to seven in favour of not proven and David Ross walked free.

  Breach of Promise

  It is not heard of much nowadays, if at all, but in the high Victorian age the courts heard a great number of breach-of-promise cases. These cases usually followed a familiar pattern: a man had promised marriage to his sweetheart, she had allowed him the freedom of her body and then, once he had taken advantage of her, he changed his mind or transferred his affections to some other trusting woman. Duncan MacGillivray, a sheep dealer of Strathnairn, was allegedly one such man. His sweetheart was a teenage girl named Ann Robertson, who lived in nearby Scaniport.

  Some few weeks before Whitsunday 1875, MacGillivray approached Ann and said quite bluntly, ‘Ann, will you marry me?’

  Ann did not reply at first, but kept MacGillivray waiting, either through reluctance to commit herself or simply to tease him. Eventually she agreed, and added, ‘But when?’

  MacGillivray replied, ‘At the term,’ meaning Whitsunday in May.

  Nothing much happened on the marriage front for three weeks, but the couple pursued the romantic pursuits that have occupied young people since time immemorial. As the term time drew closer, MacGillivray again mentioned his intention to marry Ann, but this time her mother was also present and no doubt listening to every word while pretending not to. On that occasion, MacGillivray also asked if Ann was thinking long-term or perhaps contemplating an early marriage. He also promised, quite soberly, to marry her when the term was over.

  A few days after that, MacGillivray drew up a contract of marriage between the two of them and actually brought it over to Ann’s house, but in the enjoyment of each other’s company, the business of signing was forgotten. He took it away with him when he left, unsigned. However, when the relationship reached its near inevitable conclusion and Ann fell pregnant, MacGillivray denied he had promised marriage. Ann took him to the sheriff court in Inverness in October 1876, and MacGillivray admitted he fathered her child. Ann won her case and hopefully made good use of the financial award to care for her child.

  Only the following year there was a similar case in Lewis that invoked much public interest, and again came to Inverness Sheriff Court. In this instance it was a dome
stic servant named Ann Macaskill from Stornoway, who was pursuing compensation after she had been let down, and a man named Donald Macleod, who was the man involved.

  Macleod was an interesting man. He had known Ann when she was only an eleven-year-old girl while he was a working blacksmith of twenty-five. They both lived in Harris at the time and were as friendly as any people of such different ages could be. However, like so many of his compatriots, Macleod found the lure of North America attractive and he spent eight years working for the Hudson Bay Company in Canada.

  When he was in Canada Macleod worked with Ann’s brother, and they spoke of her from time to time. Eventually Macleod returned to Scotland and settled in Stornoway in Lewis. After a while Ann called on him to hear news of her brother, and Macleod found that she was no longer a child but an attractive young woman of nineteen. The humorous friendship for a man for a young girl blossomed into a fully-fledged romance between a man and a woman. At that time Ann was out of a position, and as Macleod was also looking for work, the couple had plenty of time to spend on each other. They met frequently, walked out together and visited other people as a couple.

  One day Macleod put forward a leading question, ‘Are you not married yet?’

  Ann replied, maybe half in jest and whole in earnest, ‘No, I was waiting for yourself.’

  There was no more said at the time, but the mention of the topic revealed that the subject was in both their minds. After more than two weeks together, Macleod travelled south and found a job as a blacksmith in Coatbridge but now both people saw their relationship through different eyes. Whereas Ann was quite convinced that Macleod had proposed to her on a number of occasions, Macleod was equally adamant that he had not. He admitted that he had thought about marriage with her, but his mother had persuaded him that she was the wrong girl for him. There were stories of Macleod intending to give Ann a dress and a sealskin jacket that he may have brought back from Canada, and counter stories of Ann pondering taking a job in service in Aberdeen. There was certainly an exchange of letters between Macleod and Ann’s brother, although there does not seem to have been any further direct contact between Macleod and Ann herself. Macleod did not write the letters himself as he was no scholar, but he dictated them.

  When the case came to court the sheriff listened to all the evidence carefully. In his opinion, there had been a contract of marriage made, although no date had been set. He set damages at £120, payable by Macleod to Ann.

  Breach of Promise at Brora

  Georgina Elphinstone lived at Strathsteven, near Brora on the north-east coast of Scotland, with the Moray Firth a stone’s throw in front and the great brown hills rising behind her. In January 1878 she was a good-looking single woman of twenty-three, and that year she took a fancy to a contractor named Alexander Forbes, who lived at Redburn Quarry near Beauly, a good few miles to the south.

  Georgina lived with her father. She was a well-known person in the locality, and got on very well with a man named William Forbes, who walked with her sometimes on the road between Brora and Strathsteven. One cold day, William introduced her to his brother Alexander, who was then working on the railway that snaked its way northward from Inverness towards Wick and Thurso. Alexander was no stranger to the district, as his father was a local man who lived not far from Georgina. Alexander was a handsome and personable man and he was as attracted to Georgina as she was to him. When he saw her at a concert at the schoolhouse by Brora shortly after they met, he signalled to her to wait behind for him.

  They walked home together and their friendship grew. Every evening Georgina would go to the house of her uncle Angus Gunn for fresh milk, and Alexander just happened to be walking on the road at the same time. The pair did not make any formal arrangements to meet at this time but certainly they became close. On 1 January 1879 Alexander came to Georgina’s house and escorted her to a dance at his father’s house. It was a typical Highland Hogmanay dance that continued well into the wee small hours of the next day, and Alexander made the most of his opportunity to get to know Georgina even better. He said that he loved her and invited her outside the house into the cool crispness of the night.

  That was the beginning of a new stage in their friendship. They remained close until about mid-April 1880 when Alexander teased her by saying she was in haste to be married and Georgina laughed and said she was very happy as she was. In June that year when Alexander had to travel to Glasgow, he said, ‘Trust me Georgie, I will never forget you.’

  Alexander spent over a year in the Glasgow area, but the two kept in touch. Georgina sent him a string of letters and had a lock of her hair made into a chain, and sent him that as well. In return, Alexander sent her a book of Burns’ poetry, but few letters, if any. He claimed that he thought she would laugh at his letters. However when he came back to the Brora area for a couple of weeks he dropped a bombshell: he had seen another woman when he was in Glasgow. He also accused Georgina of being ‘cool in your demeanour’. She replied that she thought he had forgotten her as he never wrote. However, the relationship seemed to survive that blip and they continued as friends.

  Before Alexander returned to Glasgow he came to say goodbye to Georgina and said he would ‘claim you as my wife’ but admitted it could be years before he could do so. Georgina asked if he was sure he knew what he was doing, settling both their lives. Alexander said he was, and Georgina said that she would wait for him.

  The Glasgow job ended and Alexander returned north, to work in a quarry near Beauly. Georgina hoped that things would continue as they had before, but unfortunately Alexander had other plans. He had met yet another woman and was writing to her. Georgina heard the stories and confronted Alexander on the road. He was honest enough to admit that he had another girl in Beauly, but as soon as she heard the news Georgina fainted. Alexander caught her as she collapsed; when she recovered he told her in apparent sincerity that she was his only girl and he would never see the girl in Beauly again.

  Reassured, Georgina thought that things would return to normal, but instead only a few weeks later she heard that Alexander was once again walking out with his Beauly girl. Shortly after that, she heard that he had asked the girl to marry him. Brave or stubborn, or unwilling to admit the unpalatable, Georgina confronted Alexander in his father’s house and he admitted everything.

  ‘All must be over,’ he said, ‘and you must forgive me.’ He offered to pay Georgina, presumably for the hurt he had caused her. The case came to court, but Alexander paid £40 to Georgina to settle matters.

  There were other occasions when there were rivals for a lover’s affection.

  Love Rivals

  In early 1899 John Sinclair was a respectable labourer in Inverness. He was a hardworking man and he had a fine-looking sweetheart, with whom he spent as much time as he could. Unfortunately, there was another man who was also interested in the same woman.

  Colin MacDonald was also a labourer in Inverness and he had taken a liking to Sinclair’s sweetheart. He believed the lady was far too good for Sinclair and told him so, publicly, and with some venom. Naturally, Sinclair objected and told MacDonald that it was none of his business, particularly as MacDonald was a married man with two of a family. MacDonald responded by lifting a poker and cracking it over Sinclair’s head. The poker broke with the force of the blow, and Sinclair was knocked to the ground.

  After the Northern Infirmary bandaged up Sinclair’s wounds, he reported the assault to the police. MacDonald ended up with three months’ hard labour to ponder his actions.

  Disputed Paternity

  In late 1877 and early 1878 Sheriff Hill at Tain Sheriff Court contemplated a perplexing case of disputed paternity. Back in 1874, John Skinner, a fisherman at Inver, married Mary Mackay from the same village. Skinner was a virtuous man and restrained himself from any sexual pleasures until after the marriage. However, only eight months later his wife gave birth to a little boy. Skinner swore that it was impossible for the boy to be his, and as his wife died not long
after the birth, she could not be questioned on the matter. However, Skinner claimed that just before she died she had told him he was not the father. He had brought in two kirk elders to listen to her confession, but they both gave slightly different tales. Mackay refused to accept responsibility for the child, who was handed to the care of the parish.

  When the child was four years old the simmering dispute reached the sheriff court at Tain, as the parish asked for Mackay to help pay for the child’s upkeep. The sheriff listened to evidence from various witnesses, who pointed out that Mary Mackay had worked as a fish gutter before she was married. The female gutters and packers followed the herring fleets around the coast, and it was not unknown for the women to become more than friendly with the fishermen. The witnesses spoke of Mary sharing accommodation with five other women, with some nights spent in singing and dancing, with fishermen keeping them company until the morning. There was no doubt that she had been a loose woman with poor moral standards, but even so the sheriff ruled that Mackay should pay the parish for the child’s upkeep.

  Sometimes affairs of the heart could take unexpected twists but only in the Hebrides could the following events take place.

  Raiders of the Lost Heart

  February in the Hebrides can be cold and bleak, or wild and spectacular. It can also be heart-achingly beautiful. Sometimes the weather is crisp and clear and sunshine glints from snow-smeared hills, while Atlantic waves break silver around black skerries and on deserted beaches. On days like that, the islands of the west may be seen as romantic. There was certainly some romance in the February of 1850 when the Isles were the backdrop to one of the strangest sequences of events that ever nineteenth-century Scotland saw.