Gillespie and I

by Jane Harris

  Later that day, when I was sufficiently composed to show my face at Stanley Street once more, events had moved on apace. In my absence, Ned had returned, along with Detective Stirling, and they had escorted Sibyl around the corner to Queen’s Crescent, where it was hoped that she might be able to point out the house of the veiled lady stranger. However, it seemed that the woman had simply gestured in the general direction of West Princes Street, and Sibyl was unable to identify any residence in particular. Having failed to be of help, the child became upset, dismayed that she had, yet again, been a disappointment. Poor Sibyl! By this time, it must truly have been dawning upon her that the blame for her sister’s disappearance would be seen to rest, largely, upon her shoulders.

  By all accounts, she was inconsolable when Ned brought her home, and even though she had not eaten since the previous noon, she showed no interest in any food that was placed before her. Her heartbeat was raging; she trembled and perspired and claimed that she was unable to get enough air, even when her father sat her by an open window, and rubbed her back.

  ‘It’s not your fault, pet,’ he kept telling her. ‘It’s nothing to do with you.’

  By mid-morning, on the day after Rose’s disappearance, two constables had begun to make house-to-house inquiries across Woodside. Detective Sub-Inspector Stirling soon organised a party of volunteers to scour the district. Normally, the police might have waited a few more days to begin an official search but, apparently, the detective wished to take advantage of the fact that this was Sunday, a day of rest, hence more men ought to be available than would be the case during the week. Alas, the weather proved wet and misty, and any participants were destined to have a most uncomfortable and gruelling experience. Moreover, the search had been called at such short notice that there was no time to place an announcement in the newspaper, and the volunteers had to be recruited by word of mouth alone. Consequently, by noon, fewer than thirty local men had convened at the meeting place: the Stewart Memorial Fountain, in the West End Park. A few women and children who attempted to take part were advised to go home, since—with one child lost, or missing—it was deemed unsafe for them to be roaming the western fringes of the city in the fog, particularly those areas wherein the efforts were to be concentrated: the riversides, parks, canals, and waste-grounds.

  To cover as wide an area as possible, the men were divided into three sections. The first, led by the park-keeper, Mr Jamieson, concentrated on Kelvingrove and the University grounds; the second—under the command of Detective Stirling, and accompanied by Ned—went northwards by way of the Kelvin valley, past the old flint mill, and as far as the aqueduct; the third, headed by Sergeant McColl, turned east, along the streets and lanes of Garnethill, and then north, through the warehouses and works, towards the wharves of Port Dundas.

  In case Rose should return, Annie remained at home, accompanied by various neighbours and friends, and Elspeth and her cronies, many of whom came and went, between church services, during the course of the afternoon. The weather was wet, but not too cold, which was fortunate because the street entrance to number 11 was propped open all day long, and the front door of the apartment simply lay wide open to the landing. When I arrived, at four o’clock, about a dozen women were gathered in the parlour, presided over by Ned’s mother, who—reinstated in her old rocking chair—was the focus of much sympathy, now that her granddaughter had gone amissing.

  ‘Oh, Herriet!’ was her greeting. ‘What have I done to deserve this? What a terrible year it’s been!’

  Of Annie, there was no sign, and I was led to understand that, some time previously, she had gone upstairs to put Sibyl down for a nap, but had not yet rejoined the company: to my mind, a perfectly reasonable stratagem. I myself was in no mood to pander to Elspeth. That she would cast herself as the prime victim of Rose’s disappearance was not necessarily a surprise, but I will admit that I found it exasperating. Thus, I excused myself and went into the kitchen, which no one had tidied or cleaned since the previous day, and thus—to pass the time, while we waited for news—I tried to restore some order.

  Presently, I heard the creak of the attic staircase and, glancing into the hall, I saw Annie descend the last few steps. Her face was pale, and even in the few hours since I had last seen her, two vertical worry lines seemed to have etched themselves between her brows. After an initial flurry of greetings from Elspeth and the other women, they left her in peace and when I next saw her, she had taken a seat by the window, a little apart from the others.

  Somehow, the day passed. Tea was brewed, and drunk; toast was made, and buttered, but remained, for the most part, uneaten. Every so often, news arrived, carried to us by one or other of the older neighbourhood lads, who had made it their business to run back and forth between the search parties, to gather information. At one point, Sibyl made an appearance, but was so overwrought that Annie was obliged to take her upstairs once again. As time wore on, some of the womenfolk departed, for evening service, or to dine with their families.

  Just after dusk, there was a clamour on the stairs, heralding the latest arrival of the neighbourhood boys. On this occasion, all five of them had turned up at once. A few of us, including Annie, hurried to meet them in the hall. The lads were damp, and out of breath, and they spoke at the same time, shouting over each other, but their message was simple enough to understand: no trace of Rose had been found, and the volunteers from all three parties were returning to the meeting point in the park, dispirited and depressed.

  I turned to look at Annie. She stood there, stock-still. Her face had a frozen, stunned look. As for myself, I felt rather confused. The best that could be hoped for was that Rose would turn up, unharmed, having sought shelter somewhere. Of course, it was a great pity that she had not already been found under those circumstances, but at least nothing truly horrific had come to light.

  ‘Thank you for your help, boys,’ said Annie, and then, all at once, she turned and stepped into her bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her, without a backward glance, which left us in no doubt that she did not wish to be disturbed.

  Forthwith, Elspeth summoned the messengers into the parlour, where she yelped a few questions at them, and exclaimed, excitably, at their responses. So busy was she interrogating the lads, and dissecting every detail, loudly, for the benefit of her audience, that she failed to notice her son’s return. I saw him, however, quite by chance. It so happened that I had not accompanied the others when they returned to their seats. Instead, I had lingered in the hall, having not quite decided what to do. Plainly, Annie wished to be left alone, and I could have set an example to the others by discreetly making myself scarce, but I was disinclined to desert her, altogether, and leave her at the mercy of those who remained. At any rate, I was standing, indecisively, at the threshold of the parlour, when I heard a soft footfall on the landing. I turned and—just as I moved forwards to peer into the close—Ned stepped into the hallway. He must have climbed the stairs very quietly, for he had made no sound at all until he was just outside.

  It suddenly occurred to me that I had not seen him for a few days, not since our painting class, earlier in the week. I had expected him to be pale, like Annie, but—perhaps because of the shadows in the hall—his face seemed dark; indeed, everything about him had a murky, brooding appearance. His hat was soaked and shone like sable; even his mackintosh was black with the rain. For a moment, he stood, quite still, at the threshold, listening to his mother’s voice, as she continued to criticise Detective Stirling. Instinctively, I said nothing. Having stepped away from the parlour door, I was no longer visible to the other women and so would not, by my actions, betray Ned’s presence. Instead of speaking, I clasped my hands together and gave him what I hoped was a look of profound sympathy. At first, he failed to react, until—finally—he looked at me. He looked at me for the first time, as though he had only just noticed me. I saw, of a sudden, how gaunt his face was, how lined and drawn. I stared back at him, into his tortured eyes. They were br
imming over, silvered with tears. As I watched him, he raised a finger to his lips, and then he turned, silently, and disappeared into the kitchen. I was about to follow him, on tiptoe—glad that we would, at least, have a few moments alone together—when he closed the door behind him, so gently that it made no sound at all.

  Of a sudden, I felt foolish. Having composed myself, I bade the ladies good evening and found my coat. In order to leave, I had to pass the kitchen. Inside, all was quiet. I imagine that, had I pressed my ear to the door, I might have heard some sounds from within: a breath; a muffled sob; the scrape of a chair leg against the floor—or, perhaps, nothing at all. Goodness only knows what I might have heard. As it was, I simply gave the door a sad glance, in passing, as I left the apartment.

  12

  On Monday the 6th of May, The Glasgow Evening Citizen included a paragraph, on page 6, headed: Suspicious Disappearance of Artist’s Daughter. After a brief summary of the facts of the case, so far as known, the journal asked: ‘What has become of little Rose Gillespie? She has not been seen since Saturday afternoon, and there is a growing suspicion that she may have been abducted. Her family and their neighbours have been making anxious search of the local area and their quest is expected to gain momentum later in the week, if she remains unfound.’

  These were very eventful days, as you will be aware if you have ever heard about the case. The mystery of Rose’s disappearance was compounded by several other factors: the rumours of a man who had been seen running off with a child; the mysterious veiled lady; and the ransom note. In the meantime, an investigation, of sorts, got under way, and I was able to keep abreast of events during my visits to Stanley Street where the mood was sombre, yet chaotic. I would have dearly loved to have a proper conversation with either Ned or Annie, but the moment never seemed to arise because there was always at least one other person present, if not Elspeth—who seemed to have reinstalled herself in the parlour—then a police constable, or one of the neighbours.

  Gradually, as a result of house-to-house inquiries, a clearer picture of what had happened on Saturday afternoon began to emerge. As yet, no trace could be found of anybody who matched Sibyl’s description of the veiled stranger. However, the police did manage to track down the servant who had spoken to young Lily Alexander, that afternoon. Martha Scott was employed as a maid in one of the main-door houses on Queen’s Terrace, the stretch of West Princes Street situated directly opposite the gardens. She reiterated her story, about a man that she had seen hurrying along, carrying a child. At the time, she was returning to her employer’s house, having run out to buy a newspaper for her mistress. She was about halfway up West Princes Street, when she noticed a man on the opposite pavement, heading towards St George’s Road. He might have been drunk (Martha thought) because he staggered as he walked. The child in his arms was a girl, it seemed to her, for she caught a glimpse of longish fair hair. Unfortunately, she had not noticed which way the man had turned at the end of the road.

  Another witness was found, who claimed to have seen something similar. On the first floor of number 21 West Princes Street, Mrs Mary Arthur, a landlady, had been expecting a parcel, and had been going back and forth to her parlour window, all afternoon, on the lookout for the postman. On one of these occasions, she had noticed a tall, well-built man with a little girl in his arms. Mrs Arthur’s account reflected that of Martha Scott, in most respects. She said that the man was bound in an easterly direction and, by virtue of the fact that he was wandering across the street, it looked as though he intended to turn right onto St George’s Road. He wore a cap, and seemed drunk. The little girl was stretching out her arms, reaching behind ‘her father’, which gave the impression that she wanted to go back in the direction from which they had come. The child’s frock was of a blue material, with a lozenge-shaped pattern. This description of the garment was particularly chilling, since the frock that Rose had been wearing that afternoon was one that she often wore and it was, indeed, patterned with lozenge shapes.

  Witnesses continued to present themselves. On Wednesday night, Peter Kerr, a cab driver, walked into Maitland Street Police Office, saying that, on the previous Saturday afternoon, he had picked up a foreign man in Cambridge Street. The man had been in shirtsleeves, and was carrying a child, wrapped in his jacket. He had asked Kerr to take him across town, and had barely spoken, other than to give his destination. Due to the influx of visitors to the Exhibition the previous year, the driver had become familiar with various foreign accents, and he surmised that the man was either Austrian or German—an immigrant, rather than a tourist. The girl had whimpered during the journey, and something about the drunken foreigner had troubled Kerr, but he had driven them to the Gallowgate, as far as the steel works, at which point, the passenger had called out ‘Stop’. Apparently, he paid his fare in full and then, carrying the sleepy child, walked off towards Vinegarhill: a muddy, insalubrious showground site, situated in a singularly foul-smelling spot amongst skin yards, knackeries, and manure works.

  One theory was that the veiled woman might have lured Sibyl away by sending her to buy sugar, while her accomplice—the man seen hurrying down West Princes Street—had snatched Rose. The police deemed it possible that this man had later hailed Peter Kerr’s cab on Cambridge Street. However, they could not explain why Rose should have been taken, and not Sibyl—nor indeed, why either girl should be abducted for financial gain, since the Gillespies were hardly wealthy. Nevertheless, the police were intrigued by the ransom demand. They were fairly convinced that the person who had written the note was not a native speaker of English. For instance, the use of the word ‘gut’, in place of ‘good’, was of particular interest, because this might mark the writer of the demand as a German speaker, which would tally with the opinion of Kerr, the cab driver, that the passenger whom he had dropped off in the East End was of German or Austrian origin.

  At dawn on Thursday, a large party of constables and detectives descended upon Vinegarhill. The caravans, works buildings and sheds were searched over the course of the next two days, and the inhabitants—mostly itinerant horse dealers, performers and exhibitors—were questioned, along with the labourers from the various adjacent works. Vinegarhill’s residents were mostly of Irish or Romany origin, and they vehemently denied all knowledge of the missing child and any foreign fellow. Disappointingly, the man was nowhere to be found amongst the caravans, and although there were many little urchins running wild about the site, barefoot, none of them bore any resemblance to Rose Gillespie.

  Hardly surprisingly, the Gillespies were in a state of grief and horror, agitation and distress. Sibyl seemed to have turned in upon herself, and Annie’s eyes were constantly red from weeping. Ned, ever stoical, fought off his sense of helplessness by searching, relentlessly, for Rose. He never settled in one place, and if he and his wife found themselves in the same room together, they barely spoke. Annie was still racked with guilt, and believed that Ned always found excuses to avoid her company.

  To make matters worse, the family had come under the terrible scrutiny of the press. Only hours after the first report appeared in The Evening Citizen, journalists had begun to pester them for an interview. As an artist, and a public figure, of sorts, Ned was of particular interest. Each day, a handful of ink-slingers congregated on the doorstep at number 11, waiting for him to emerge, and then chased him down the street with their notebooks. Ned (who was only intent on finding his daughter) took to dodging out through the back court, but his pursuers soon foiled that trick, by posting one or two of their number at the rear of the terrace, in Stanley Lane, to give the alarm should Ned appear. In the end, he began to leave home in the early hours, before any of the reporters had taken up their posts. The poor man wore down his shoes, pounding the pavements, each day, while further small-scale searches were conducted by the police and various other concerned individuals and volunteers. Across the entire city, it seemed, groups of men carried out searches of their own districts, all to no avail.

&n
bsp; Horatio Hamilton, the art dealer, put up a reward of £20 for any information that might lead to the discovery of the missing child. Ned was excused from his teaching duties at the School of Art that week, in view of what had happened. However, we ladies of the evening class met, as usual, and used the facilities of the School to produce a handbill, with which to publicise the case. Once printed, several hundred copies were then passed to various groups, including Elspeth’s church, for distribution at prayer meetings, and so on, and a group of local lads undertook to hand out the leaflets on busy corners, from St George’s Cross to the Tron Steeple.

  By Friday night—almost a week since Rose’s disappearance—no trace of her had been found, and the police were left with no alternative but to go ahead with the organised searches. Thus, on Saturday, the 11th of May, any man fortunate enough to benefit from a half-holiday was asked to meet at the Stewart Memorial Fountain, in the park. Word of mouth, after the distribution of handbills and the publication of several newspaper items, swelled the numbers. Indeed, the unusual circumstances of Rose’s disappearance had aroused passionate interest among the population. Men came from all over town and, by three o’clock, despite a deluge of rain, a crowd of a hundred and fifty had gathered. There were only five hours or so remaining until dusk, but it was hoped that, with these greater numbers, the search would be more comprehensive, and that something would come to light. The volunteers searched all the areas that had been covered by the smaller group, on the previous Sunday, but, unfortunately, their endeavours were unavailing, and they returned to the park, disheartened, as night fell.