Gillespie and I

by Jane Harris

  Inexplicably, as if to further deepen the mystery, the sender of the ransom note seemed to have fallen silent. After the arrival of the first letter, there had been every expectation that another would swiftly follow, with instructions about where and when the money should be delivered. Yet, subsequently, the abductor made no further communication, and a month after Rose’s disappearance, there had still been no second letter.

  One Saturday in early June, I happened to be passing through the Blythswood district: a disciplined grid of streets to the west of the city, crowned by the square on Blythswood Hill. I was returning to my lodgings, having just spent the afternoon helping to distribute handbills, advertising Rose’s disappearance. My feet and legs were weary from standing, all day long, at the corner of Buchanan and St Vincent Streets. Only a handful of ladies from the art class had taken part in the distribution of leaflets that day; it was now almost five weeks since Rose’s disappearance, and some members of the class had given up hope. There seemed to be a general, unspoken, opinion that the longer Rose remained missing, the less likely it was that she would be found.

  I had become ever more concerned about Ned’s and Annie’s well-being and would have liked to call upon them every day, simply to check on how they fared. However, they had made it known to their friends and neighbours that, after the mayhem of the previous month, they now wished for some degree of privacy. With this in mind, I had restricted myself to visiting only every third day or so, much though I would have liked to call upon them more often. I had seen Elspeth during that period, of course, and was able to keep abreast of developments but, as you may imagine, time weighed heavily upon all of us.

  I was in the habit of walking everywhere, taking the opportunity to glance down side streets and up lanes, always in the hope that I might catch a glimpse of a small child in a blue dress. And so it was, that afternoon, that I was about to turn onto West Campbell Street, when I noticed a small crowd of people, standing on the pavement, up ahead. As I drew nearer, I realised that they were queuing outside Hamilton’s gallery, where Ned’s exhibition was still ongoing. I had heard from Elspeth that attendances had crept up over the course of May, and that Hamilton had extended the show. Several of the recent articles in the press had reported that Rose’s father was an artist; a few had mentioned that his paintings were currently on display in a well-known Bath Street gallery; and The Evening Times, which had previously ignored his existence, had suddenly decided to send an expert to appraise the exhibition, and an article had appeared in the paper, just the previous day. Evidently, the critic had been struck by Ned’s recent paintings of Co’path, particularly the picture of the woods, with two children, who appear to be fleeing from some unspeakable terror or monster. ‘Could the bairns in this picture resemble the artist’s own?’ asked the reviewer, concluding: ‘We are left to reflect that these eerie paintings may well have been hauntingly prescient.’ On the whole, his comments were favourable, which, perhaps, might have accounted for some extra gallery visitors that afternoon.

  Curiosity aroused, I decided to wander past Hamilton’s. As I approached, I noticed various men slouching around in the queue, some smoking, some spitting, some leaning against the railings with their hands in their pockets. There were several families present, which was a surprise, since children are not often to be seen in small, private art galleries. Some of the boys and girls, clearly bored with waiting, had sat down on the steps, whilst others played at the roadside. A fat, red-faced woman was eating peanuts and throwing the shells underfoot, while her friend tried to calm a screaming baby. As a group, they did not in the least resemble the usual sort who would attend an exhibition; indeed, many of them would have looked more at home on Glasgow Green, amongst the hordes who swarm between the freak shows and whisky booths on a Saturday night.

  The queue carried on up the steps, and disappeared inside the front door of the gallery. Since I had last walked along Bath Street, handwritten notices had appeared in Hamilton’s windows. One said: ‘Gillespie show extended’. The other sign advertised Hamilton’s offer of a £20 reward for information leading to the discovery of the artist’s daughter.

  At the foot of the steps, two amiable-looking women of about my own age stood talking. Simply to see what they would say, I paused and asked them why such a queue had formed. One lady, who was a be-dimpled soul with apple cheeks, gestured at the building. ‘It’s an exhibition of paintings—did you hear about the wee lassie that got lost, wee Rose?’ I nodded. ‘Well, her father’s the artist, and seemingly, there’s pictures he painted of her inside, his daughter, the one that went missing.’

  ‘Indeed?’ I replied, before thanking her, and continuing up the street, with a strange, heavy feeling in my chest.

  It would seem that, within only a month, Gillespie had become a roaring success.

  13

  Throughout June, visitors continued to flock to the gallery. Ned’s success meant that Hamilton’s principal room was also busy, since the public spilled from one space into the next, and there, too, sales had improved. Having first extended the Gillespie show for a fortnight, Hamilton prolonged it for another few weeks, meanwhile mounting a second companion exhibition, of local artists, in the main room. Ned’s gloomy style suddenly seemed to find favour, and by the end of month, even his most resolutely grim landscape had been sold. Reviews of his work continued to appear in the press. One gazetteer from The North British Daily Mail took a dander around the gallery and, in a subsequent article, he described Ned’s canvases as the ‘heart-rending work of a gifted but haunted man’. Following the publication of this piece, attendance numbers soared, yet again, as more persons with scant interest in art, but unmistakable ghoulish tendencies, came to ogle the paintings of the tragic father. Perhaps some visitors even hoped to bump into Ned himself, but he had not shown his face at the gallery since his daughter had gone missing.

  Ever the man of business, Hamilton wrote to Ned in July, and, after repeating his condolences for the family’s recent troubles, tentatively expressed a desire to extend the show yet again. Ned let it be known that he cared not one whit whether the exhibition continued. I happened to see his reply to Hamilton on the hallstand, where it lay, just before it was sent. The note was written on what appeared to be a scrap of torn wallpaper. In it, Ned expressed his indifferent opinion, which was that he had neither the time nor the inclination to take down his pictures, and that the paintings might as well ‘hang there until they rot’. Thus, the exhibition was quietly extended, this time for an indefinite period.

  Hamilton had also managed to negotiate over a dozen new commissions on the artist’s behalf, mostly for portraits, which suggested that Ned’s new-found notoriety outweighed any earlier concerns that the public might have had about how sympathetically he might portray them as subjects. Unfortunately, it was not at all certain when he might be in a fit state to resume painting. He had not so much as glanced at a brush in weeks, and his teaching position at the School had been taken over by another gentleman, who was perfectly pleasant, I believe, but not really in the same league as Ned, either as teacher or painter. Needless to say, I had not attended any of the classes that remained before the end of term.

  As for Ned, when he was not distributing handbills, or looking for his daughter, he spent the time locked away in his studio, having pinned a black cloth over the skylight to block out any sign of the day. Although he insisted upon darkness, sleep eluded him and (as he told me later), for several weeks, he was subject to hallucinations, in which his missing daughter appeared to him. Once, as he was climbing the stairs to the attic, he thought that he saw her on the landing. It was getting rather dark, but the child seemed to shine out, strangely distinct, in the shadows. She stood up on tiptoe (a posture very characteristic of Rose), smiled at him, and then was gone.

  In many respects, Ned appeared to be grieving. His speech and movements had become markedly slow, and—one day, when I happened to be standing near him—I was startled to notice, amon
g his mane of hair, a single strand of white. Then, a moment later, I saw another. As the summer drew on, these white hairs proliferated, until they were too numerous to count.

  Tortured by guilt and the belief that she, alone, was responsible for what had happened, Annie took to wandering the streets on the far side of town, in search of her daughter. Try as I might, I was unable to dissuade her from this futile quest. She and Ned would take it in turns to leave the apartment, and, while one of them kept an eye on Sibyl, the other carried out any necessary errands and continued to search for Rose. Ned tended to concentrate on the local area, whereas his wife had fixed upon the theory that Rose was being held captive somewhere in the East End. No doubt various newspaper reports had fuelled this notion, with their salacious references to White Slavery, and the endless sightings of little girls with fair hair. Throughout the summer, no matter what the weather, Annie haunted the side streets along the Gallowgate, flitting in and out of dank wynds and vennels, and searching filthy yards. With a doggedness that became almost mechanical, she would venture inside the closes, and climb the stairs, to question the inhabitants. Sometimes, she was greeted with honest courtesy and compassion; at other times, she had to flee in the face of harsh words; but always, the answer was the same: nobody knew the whereabouts of her child.

  With her unfortunate parents lost in their own desolation, poor Sibyl continued to starve herself. Every mealtime was a battle, in which Ned and Annie had to cajole and beg their daughter to consume even a morsel, while Sibyl found ever more inventive ways of avoiding sustenance. Having, in her own mind, contributed to the loss of her little sister, it was as though she wanted to make herself disappear.

  Early one morning in August, on his way downstairs from the studio, where he had spent a restless night, Ned happened to detect a change in the quality of light in the apartment. For weeks, in the interest of privacy, the curtains had been drawn at the front of the house, but now, he perceived that the hall was brighter than usual: a half-light spilled out from the parlour. His curiosity aroused, he entered the room, only to see that the curtains were open at one of the casements, and the sash window had been pushed up. Then, to his horror, he realised that Sibyl had climbed outside, onto the sill, as though intending to jump into mid-air. Indeed, as he crossed the threshold, the child rose up and leaned forwards, preparing to leap.

  Thankfully, Ned was too fast for her. In one bound, he crossed the floor and, grabbing her by the waist, dragged her back inside, in order to save her from a fall that could only have ended horribly, if not on the pavement or basement area below, then on the railings, which were trimmed, at close intervals, with low, thistle-shaped spikes. Sibyl squirmed and struggled in her father’s arms, attempting to lunge across the sill, crying, ‘No! No! Let me go!’, so that Ned was forced to drop down and cover the child with his own body, in order to restrain her.

  This was how Annie found them, moments later. Having spent the night in Rose’s bed, she was alerted to the emergency by Sibyl’s cries, and ran down to investigate. Upon entering the parlour, she saw her daughter writhing on the floor, pinned down by Ned, who was weeping, and stroking Sibyl’s head, to calm her.

  ‘What happened?’ Annie cried, and while her husband gave a rapid account of events, the child continued to wriggle beneath him, weeping.

  Somehow they managed to lift her onto the sofa. Then, Annie hurried over to close the sash and draw the curtains. Ned clutched Sibyl to his chest, rocking her back and forth, and whispering in her ear. The child sobbed, quietly, but seemed to have calmed down somewhat. Annie sank into the easy chair, and eventually, after what seemed like a very long time, Sibyl fell asleep. Carefully, Ned rose to his feet, and he and Annie carried the child next door to their own bedroom, which had the dusty, petrified atmosphere of a room that is seldom used. Then, while Annie kept vigil over her daughter, Ned went around all the rooms, hammering nails into the sash frames and skylights, so that the windows could no longer be opened.

  Following this perturbing incident, Ned finally acknowledged that they needed help with their daughter, and, that evening, he went around the corner to Lynedoch Crescent and paid a visit to Dr Oswald. Ned was shown into his study, where he explained the situation: Sibyl’s guilt, and her belief that she was responsible for the loss of Rose; her refusal to eat and subsequent weight loss; the nervous cough; the incident at the window; and then, all the child’s previous misbehaviour and wilfulness, a history that ranged back over a period of many months, and included all her various acts of sabotage: the obscene drawings on the walls; the stolen matches; the countless items, burned and destroyed; the unfortunate faecal incidents; and the attempted poisoning at Hogmanay.

  Having listened carefully to Ned’s account, Oswald asked permission to interview Sibyl alone, and an arrangement was made for him to visit Stanley Street. On the following afternoon, he arrived at the appointed time, and while Ned and Annie waited, apprehensively, in the parlour, the doctor spoke to Sibyl, in private, in the dining room. They emerged after ten minutes or so, and the girl was sent upstairs, while Oswald reported his findings to her parents.

  In his opinion, Sibyl was an extremely disturbed and anxious child, in desperate need of treatment, particularly if she was not to starve herself. Given Sibyl’s history, there was also the danger that she might not merely cause harm to herself, but also to others. Oswald offered to take her into the asylum, there and then, for a few weeks, to try to encourage her to eat, and to keep her under closer observation than might be possible at number 11.

  By that stage, Annie feared for her daughter’s life, and was willing to try any solution, whatsoever. However, Ned had a horror of the asylum and would not be persuaded to place his child there, no matter how much Oswald reassured him that the Ladies Department was perfectly humane. After some further discussion, the doctor departed, without Sibyl, leaving the Gillespies with a final word of advice: if they were unwilling to put the child in his care, then they must urgently seek extra help. Both Ned and Annie acknowledged that, for the time being, they did require some assistance but, in their fragile state, neither of them could bear the notion of bringing a stranger into the apartment, and so, any thoughts of hiring a maid were instantly dismissed. Ned refused to ask Mabel to return from Tangier. Thus, Annie was obliged to swallow her pride, and disregard any antipathy that she may have felt for her mother-in-law, in order that Sibyl might spend the afternoon hours in the care of Elspeth and her maid Jean, at number 14, where all the rooms were at either basement or ground-floor level.

  One afternoon, while carrying out a few errands on behalf of my landlady, I happened to wander further east than I had anticipated, and ended up almost at Glasgow Cross. The day was cool and grey, beneath a sky full of hurrying clouds. Perhaps it was a Saturday, for the streets bristled with vehicles and pedestrians, and there was a sense of urgency in the air, as the great tide of humanity swept along the Trongate. I had just paused to admire the archway over the footpath at the base of the Tron Steeple, when the lone figure of a woman came to my attention. She was standing on the far side of the tower, at the edge of the pavement. The hem of her coat had come unstitched, and was stained with mud where it grazed the ground. She wore down-at-heel boots, and her hat had been carelessly pinned. At first, I thought that she was begging, until she turned her head, and I recognised Annie. Here she was, distributing handbills, repeating the same words, over and over: ‘Can you help me please? Have you seen this girl? Can you help me please?’

  All at once, I felt desolate, and mortified. You see, by this time, any realistic hope of finding Rose had all but evaporated. Even Ned had, more or less, given up the search: since mid-August, he had rarely gone out looking for the child. And yet, still, Annie persisted. It can only have been desperation and, perhaps, a kind of madness that kept her faithful to her quest. I found the situation—her futile persistence—quite upsetting and my impulse, when I saw her at the steeple, was to retreat, before she noticed me. I stepped behind som
e crates and, at length, when I dared to peek out from my hiding place, I was relieved to see that Annie had turned away without noticing me. I could have made my departure there and then, but found myself lingering behind the crates, to watch her, through the archway. She made such a mournful little figure, holding out her leaflets to passers-by, almost like an automaton.

  ‘Have you seen my daughter? Can you help me please?’

  The sight of her—engaged in such an earnest yet forlorn quest—was too painful and, in the end, I found myself hurrying away without speaking to her. I headed back along Argyle Street, and then made my way north-west, through the Blythswood District. As ever, of course, I kept my eyes open, but in my heart of hearts, I knew that the search for Rose was futile, and it was only force of habit that made me glance into the face of any passing waif or child. Somewhere, perhaps in Sauchiehall Street, a barrel-organ was playing ‘The Lost Chord’. It was an unusually jaunty version of the tune, and yet the stilted, tinny sound of the music that floated across the rooftops was unutterably mournful to my ears.

  14

  Difficult though it is to imagine, much of life elsewhere had gone on as normal during those terrible summer months. Across the world, people rose in the morning, and went about their daily business. For instance, at St Rémy, in the South of France, Vincent Van Gogh was painting wheat stacks and olive trees. In London, the Novelty Theatre reopened with a production of Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House. Even the criminally inclined were not at rest. There had been reports about the renewal of the Whitechapel murders, and the inquest of another possible victim had begun on the 17th of July. That same month, on the Scottish isle of Arran, Edwin Robert Rose, an English tourist, disappeared and, when his decomposing corpse was discovered, a week later, a manhunt for his murderer ensued. Meanwhile, the British people continued to occupy themselves, once their day’s work was done, with entertainments of one sort or another. Blackwood’s Magazine published a story by Mr Oscar Wilde. The Scottish National Portrait Gallery threw open its doors to the public. In London, diners queued for tables at the new Savoy supper rooms, beneath the blaze of electric lights. The Queen made a short tour of Wales on her way to Scotland, in August. And, in September, Port Glasgow Athletic beat Greenock Abstainers with a final score of 8—0: so much for abstention!