by Greg Pyers
‘Well, Sir, I think that as the coroner may well return from Woodend within an hour or two, we might best be advised to wait. Nothing we do, after all, will bring the woman to life, or this inquiry to a conclusion today. And the police will have additional information to bring to bear, and so might not wish to hurry the case. However, as I said, I am happy to leave the matter in the hands of the bench.’ He sat down.
‘Thank you, Superintendent Reid,’ Stanbridge said, with a hint of a smile, ‘then we shall proceed.’
Stanbridge took a moment, sufficient to distance Reid’s misgivings from the serious business at hand. When the gallery was silent and all attention directed his way, he began, and on the front foot.
‘The delay that has occurred in this case is a disgrace to this district. Here we have the body of a murdered woman corrupting for thirty-six hours with nothing done. Nothing. I don’t blame the police — they have their orders — but they have not shown due respect to the local magistracy, which, instead of communicating with, they have telegraphed all over the country. The police well know magisterial inquiries are conducted every day, but why not in this case? And now, the coroner has ordered a post-mortem —’ He paused to consult Reid. ‘Completed last evening?’
Reid nodded. ‘Yes, Your Worship, as the body lay in the Stuart bedroom. It was around seven, I believe.’
Stanbridge continued, ‘A procedure which will have resulted in such mutilation of the body that no jury would be able to tell the cause of death, whether by suffocation or otherwise. In effect, the coroner has done away with a jury.’
Stanbridge’s exasperation was apparent in his tone, and was now openly expressed in every word. He took the opportunity to indulge.
‘It seems that local magistrates are deemed efficient only in the signing of summonses or dealing with drunken men. It is my feeling that out of respect for ourselves, and in defence of the locality that has so grossly been neglected, we shall go on without further delay!’
Cheers and applause erupting from the gallery were promptly suppressed by a disapproving glare from the speaker.
Reid got to his feet, looking a little chastened.
‘Sir, in reference to the “mutilation of the body”, referred to by the bench, means have been taken to obviate this; a photograph has been taken of the deceased woman as she was found. This has been received as evidence.’
Stanbridge twitched with irritation at this circumvention of procedure. Reid sat down, as Stanbridge resumed. ‘Even so, a coroner’s jury would now be a farce. No twelve men could go now and look at the body and form any idea of the cause of death. In my experience, I have never heard of a body being moved before a jury had seen it. I do not blame the police, mind.’ He addressed this remark to Reid, who nodded his acceptance of it. ‘I mention this only so that we have a more defined course of action. If the Minister of Justice himself would line up here and defend us, well and good; but if our men are to be murdered, and our women violated, it is our duty to protect ourselves, and so this inquiry will go on.’
Mr Dunne took the floor in support. ‘It is my belief that this magisterial inquiry will be thoroughly effectual, and given that the body has been moved, any subsequent inquiry by the coroner and a jury would likely, in my opinion, be unnecessary. I, for one, will render any assistance to the bench without fee, reward, or emolument.’
Stanbridge nodded his appreciation, and after a brief pause in proceedings to mark the end of the preliminaries, called the first witness, Doctor Frank Wadsworth Doolittle.
Murmurs in the gallery faded, and the men and women who comprised it fixed their gaze on the young man rising to give his testimony. At last, what many had been waiting for would be presented: the grisly details.
Doolittle was a native of New York, and for those in attendance his experience on the bloodiest of civil-war battlefields leant him credibility and gravitas beyond his years. This, they understood, was a man who knew the horrors that men do.
Having been duly sworn, Doolittle took out a notebook, to which he referred as needed to recall details. Stanbridge led the questioning.
‘Describe, doctor, how you came to be at the house of the deceased.’
‘It was half an hour after midnight, on the morning of the 29th, that I was called by Mr Pitman, who told me a woman at Albert Street had had her throat cut. I went with Pitman to the house at the extreme end of Albert Street, arriving there at ten minutes to one, to find George Stuart and Joseph Mounsey in the house.’
‘Could you describe the house, briefly. And then what you saw.’
‘Yes. The house is about 20 feet by 12 feet, containing two rooms — one a sitting room, and the other a bedroom, where I found the deceased. She was lying across the bed, on her back, her head somewhat inclining to the head of the bed, her legs hanging over the side. The bed was about six feet by four feet. She had on a chemise and stockings. The chemise extended down to her knees. Her legs were in that recumbent position which might have been expected from that prostrate posture. The left arm was lying nearly by her side, the hand firmly clenched — violently clenched, I should say. The right arm was extended at nearly right angles with the body, the right hand open. The head was upon a bolster and slightly turned towards the left shoulder. The eyes were about half-open and looking straight ahead; there was a glaze over the eye. The mouth was open, conveying to my mind the act of screaming —’
Gasps and stifled shrieks emanated from the public gallery. Stanbridge admonished the observers with a stern look, and returned to the witness. With a nod from the bench, and a brief look at his notes, the doctor continued.
‘I noticed that the tongue seemed natural in the mouth. The deceased was about eighteen years of age, well formed and healthy. Her hair was dishevelled. In her throat was a combination of wounds, forming one jagged wound about three-and-a-half inches in length and an inch-and-a-half in depth. There was a second wound on the left side of the neck merely under the skin, making, as it were, a sheath for the blade; the weapon had then been drawn back till it cut into the other wound. I believe that this second-mentioned wound was made after the larger injury. From the position of the wounds, I would consider it barely possible that she could have inflicted these injuries herself. The wounds were made with considerable violence.’
A cry of ‘monster!’ came from the gallery.
Stanbridge swept a schoolmaster’s gaze across the faces of this cross-section of Daylesford citizenry.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, notwithstanding the graphic and appalling content of the testimony, I will ask the constable to eject those who are unable to restrain themselves. These proceedings are not to be disrupted further.’ He turned his eyes to the witness. ‘Did you form an opinion as to the kind of knife used to inflict such grave wounds?’
‘I did, Sir. From a close inspection and probing of the wound, I believe it may have been caused by a sailor’s sheath knife, or a butcher’s knife. It must have been a sharp knife; a common house knife would not likely make such a wound. It would seem as if the party using the knife had made several cuts, as though to make assurance doubly sure, by cutting down deeper with a fresh cut.’
‘Thank you, doctor. And there was much blood?’
‘There was, Your Worship. Much had been partially absorbed by the bedclothes, but the deceased had probably lost three quarts of blood.’
‘And did you form an opinion as to a time of death, or at least the time these injuries were inflicted?’
‘The extremities were cold, but the heat had not entirely left the body. So, from the appearances presented, I am of the opinion that the injuries were inflicted between half-past ten and half-past eleven p.m. Death would have been almost instantaneous; the carotid artery on the left side and both jugulars were severed.’
Here, even Stanbridge had to suppress an urge to cry out in horror at such brutality. He paused a moment, then raised his
hand to invite Doolittle to proceed. The doctor obliged, with reference to his notes.
‘The face of the deceased was greatly disfigured, as if scratched by a hand being held over the mouth; a piece of skin had been torn off the upper lip. There was also a cut upon the second finger of the left hand, and one on the first finger; the hand was so clenched as to cover these cuts. They had been made apparently by the knife being grasped, and then drawn through.’ He demonstrated the action. ‘Upon the inside of the left hand were two bloody finger marks, which I can confidently swear could only have been made by a second person. These marks presented evidence of sufficient pressure to prevent the action of her arm. Both wrists had been grasped by bloody hands. Her thighs were marked with blood.’
‘And there was a struggle?’
Doolittle nodded. ‘Yes. The bed presented the aspect of a fierce struggle having taken place. The bedclothes were gathered in a heap at the foot of the bed.’
Stanbridge took a moment to complete his note-taking, then the three men of the bench conferred a moment. After some head-nodding, Dunne cleared his throat to address the gallery.
‘I must now warn the court that I have to put certain questions to the witness, questions of such a nature that any woman who has regard for her character should now leave.’
The gentlemen of the bench sat stonily, as if to convey that for the twenty or more females present, they had no choice in the matter. And so they stood, bankers’ wives and barmaids alike, with the men rising to allow them passage out along the rows. And when the last had left the building, and the courtroom was the exclusive domain of men, Dunne put his questions.
‘Doctor Doolittle, were you able, through your examinations, to form an opinion as to whether sexual intercourse had taken place with the deceased?’
Some in the gallery exchanged looks. Stanbridge reproached them with a glare.
‘Not at that time, Sir. I did take samples when I returned later, at 9.00 a.m., which have been sent for analysis. Until the results are known, I can’t be certain that coition took place. But it is a possibility, and the signs exhibited incline me to the opinion that some violence had been used.’
‘Violent connection, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘So to be clear, doctor, what samples did you take?’
‘Mucus from the vagina, Your Worship, and from the rectum.’ Doolittle’s bluntness took the bench aback a little. And then he added, perhaps unnecessarily, ‘For this I used my finger, not a spatula, lest blood be drawn and contaminate the sample, you see.’
Stanbridge consulted here with Mayor Patterson, and the questioning struck out on a different course.
‘You mentioned the dimensions of the cottage — the rooms and so on. Did you form an opinion as to how the murderer gained access to the building?’
‘Yes, Your Worship, I did. The end of the house, where the bed was, faced Albert Street. The chimney is on the upper side of the house. The barrel which forms the chimneypot had been removed and lain against the roof of the cottage. Inside, in the fireplace, there was a pole across the chimney for hanging pots on. A man coming down the chimney could have this to hold while he slid himself into the room.’
‘A man could fit down the chimney?’ Patterson said.
‘There was sufficient room for a man’s body to pass, yes, Your Worship. The back of the fireplace had been whitened to such an extent as to form a sort of crust. About two-thirds up the fireplace, there was a scale of the whiting knocked off, as if by the heel of a boot coming down, and in addition, for about a foot and a half in width, a cloth had apparently been rubbed over the surface. It was an irregular or corded substance that had so rubbed — evidently, indeed, made by the trousers of some person as he slid down.’
‘And having entered the building by way of the chimney, did you form an opinion as to how the murderer exited after the crime?’
‘I did, Sir. I observed finger marks of blood on both sides of the door leading from the bedroom to the sitting room. I observed the outside door. The knob had finger marks of blood on inside and outside. I saw no blood on the key in the lock, and nothing else in particular, except as regards the appearance of the husband. His face was very white, and I remarked to him that he seemed to be in a kind of trance; he was the first to discover the body, it must be said. And I learned later that his wife’s chemise had been pulled up, exposing her person. It was Mr Stuart who’d pulled it down before I arrived.’
Stanbridge shook his head, for want of a better expression of sympathy for the poor husband.
‘And then had you completed your initial investigation?’ he said.
‘Yes, Your Worship. It was nearly 2.00 a.m. when I left the place. I left the covering of the body precisely as I found it.’
Stanbridge held up a hand for Doolittle to pause. He motioned to Reid to hand a photograph to the witness.
‘As indicated in the photograph?’ he said.
Doolittle looked at the grisly image with professional detachment.
‘Yes, this accurately represents the position of the body as I saw it when I left the house. And again after 9.00 a.m. when I had taken the samples.’
‘Very well, thank you, Doctor. I commend you on your thoroughness. Your note-taking is an example to us all.’ Stanbridge glanced at Reid, as if to suggest that the police might sharpen their own practice in this regard. Reid averted his eyes from the magistrate’s accusatory gaze.
Stanbridge consulted his watch and then the mayor, and, given that it was midday, adjourned proceedings for an hour.
AS SERGEANT TELFORD LISTENED to Johanna Hatson’s story, an irresistible conclusion began to take shape in his head. In the wake of the horrific murder of her former colleague, she’d come to the police to report the very strange man she’d seen at the Boxing Day picnic, a man who had been ogling, among other ladies that day, poor Maggie Stuart.
‘Ogling?’ Telford said.
Hatson was irritated that the meaning seemed lost on the policeman.
‘Yes, ogling. Staring in a most unsettling manner. I’d look up, and there he was, his eyes all over our party. And again later.’
‘How near was he?’
‘Near enough!’
‘Well, as near as you are to —’
‘Oh, across the lawn, twenty yards, I don’t know.’
‘Margaret Stuart was in your party?’
‘No, but I’m sure he would have been watching her, too; she is — was, a very attractive young —’
‘I assume you do not know this man’s name?’ Telford said.
‘Well, I’d never seen him before, much less know his name. But he sent a shiver down my spine, I can tell you!’
‘There were other ladies who noticed him?’
‘Yes, of course! Mrs Shier, for one, and Mrs Pitman, I’m sure —’
‘Describe his appearance.’
‘Well, I didn’t care to get any closer to him, but he had a very disagreeable look about him. His hair was black, or very nearly. Down to his neck. And curly, it was. I’d say he was an Italian.’
Telford took a moment to transcribe into his notebook.
‘Clothes?’
‘Filthy. Moleskin trousers, a crimson shirt, lace-up boots. He had on a hat the second time I saw him, a dark-plush one, high dome and wide brim —’
‘A billy-cock, or a wideawake perhaps?’
Hatson shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but he wore it low over his eyes. And I might add that Mrs Louchet was there, too, with her two poodles; this man was watching them, too, so I said to Mrs Louchet, I said, you’d better watch your dogs, because that man surely wants to steal them.’
‘You’d recognise this man if you saw him?’
‘Make no mistake of that, Constable!’
‘Sergeant.’
THE MAGISTERIAL INQUIRY RESUMED
at one o’clock. Stanbridge had lunched on shepherd’s pie with Mayor Patterson at the Manchester Hotel in Vincent Street; but, given the intrusion upon their dining by inquisitive patrons, the men conceded that their choice of venue had probably been ill-advised.
‘This case, George,’ Stanbridge had said on their return to the Court House, ‘must be resolved if the public is to have any confidence in those charged with dispensing justice in this town, from the police to the borough council. Five unsolved murders, George, in five years. We can’t have a sixth.’
The mayor pulled a newspaper from his coat pocket. ‘Perhaps we should heed the ready wisdom of the press?’ He jabbed his finger at the print. ‘Yesterday’s Mount Alexander Mail.’
Stanbridge craned to read the words:
We have very little doubt that the miscreant who sacrificed to his depraved appetite the existence of a virtuous young woman will prove to be an offshoot of Vandiemonian stock …
Stanbridge tut-tutted. ‘Put it away, George. Wild speculation has no place here.’
The wooden benches of the public gallery were again fully occupied as Stanbridge recalled the first witness to the box.
‘Doctor Doolittle, you have completed a post-mortem examination?’
‘Yes, Your Worship, at the request of the police, and assisted by my colleague there, Doctor McNicoll. We commenced at five o’clock yesterday afternoon.’
‘Had the body lain unmoved since last you saw it?’
‘Yes, Sir, it had.’
‘Please now describe your examination to the court.’
‘We examined the wounds first, then the viscera. The organs were in a perfect state of health —’
Stanbridge stopped the witness with a lift of his hand. He looked to the gallery, where a young woman was finding her way along the rows to leave.
‘Now would be an opportune time for others so disturbed by such testimony to depart.’ He paused. ‘No one? Then I urge the gallery to remain silent, or I will have it cleared. Thank you. Now, please proceed, Doctor.’