Gillespie and I

by Jane Harris

  Having travelled from Bardowie in silence, I began to come to my senses just as we were drawing up outside the Western Police Office in Cranston Street. It occurred to me that I had no idea what would happen next: I might be locked in a cell, and kept in seclusion for hours; some other officers might assume responsibility for me; Stirling and Black could disappear, never to be seen again. Of a sudden, I was gripped by a desire to learn all that I could about my circumstances, and so I sat bolt upright, and addressed the policemen, with some urgency.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to know exactly why I’ve been arrested.’

  Constable Black paused in the act of opening the carriage door, with his fingers on the handle. Stirling cast a glance at him, then turned back to me. His mouth puckered up, doubtfully, at one side. After a moment, he spoke: ‘You don’t know?’ When I shook my head, the detective sat back in his seat. ‘Aye, well,’ he said. ‘We found the body, you see, on Friday.’

  I looked at him, startled.

  ‘It was just off the Carntyne Road, outside the town,’ he continued. ‘A shallow grave—near an old quarry.’

  I had a horrible feeling that I knew the answer, but found myself asking: ‘Whose body? Who?’

  Stirling widened his eyes. ‘Why—Rose Gillespie.’

  For a brief interval, I was so shocked that I was aware of no feeling at all: no anguish, no grief, only a strange sensation of numbness, of somehow being suspended in that moment of time. It had grown very quiet inside the carriage. The only sound was the creak of Black’s boot leather, as he shifted his feet. He must have been impatient to get inside the police office. Perhaps he was cold. Or perhaps he wanted a cup of tea, or his breakfast. I thought of Agnes, back at Merlinsfield, and wondered whether she would have made my bed and laid the fires, as usual. Such were the banalities that passed through my mind. Strangely, I found myself considering the cast of my own features. I could sense that my face had frozen in a particular attitude, one that might be described as stunned. Tears had pricked my eyes, but they did not fall. For some reason, I could not imagine my expression without contemplating what Ned might think, were he present, staring at me, as the policemen were staring at me now. What thoughts would rush to his mind?

  Oh poor Ned! And poor Annie! The horror of it! No doubt, this notion of my friends in torment was too much for me to bear because my thoughts flitted away to trivial subjects, less harrowing to contemplate: Constable Black, for instance. Did he take porridge for breakfast, or a morning roll? Who prepared it for him? And was he possessed of a wife?

  Meanwhile, the constable had bent down to retie his bootlace. Stirling offered me a handkerchief, and when I shook my head, he returned it to his pocket, his eyes never once leaving my face. Perhaps half a minute had passed since he had told me the news about Rose. And still, I was numb. I told myself that, eventually, I would feel something. The pain would engulf me; perhaps even crush me; at some point, it would happen. Then, all at once, I flinched, as the door beside me flew open to reveal the driver, standing outside, looking impatient. A blast of icy air swept into the Clarence. Detective Stirling offered me his hand.

  ‘Shall we?’ he said, almost kindly, and then he assisted me out of the carriage and into the building.

  Thereafter, it is hard for me to remember much about the next few hours. At such times, the brain does not function as normal. I had been allowed to dress before we left Merlinsfield, but at the reception in Cranston Street, I believe that they took away my belongings, including some keys, my watch, and a purse containing a small amount of money. Various particulars were noted down, but what they asked me, exactly, I cannot bring to mind. I do have a vague memory of my height being measured but, now, this detail strikes me as incongruous, so perhaps I have invented it. I know that I was put into a cell: a small, dreary room, the stench of which would have sickened a goat. The door was closed and locked; and then, I was left alone.

  I recall collapsing, on the ground, in a heap. Stirling’s news about Rose must have propelled me into a kind of temporary madness for, as I lay there, on the cold, dusty floor, I felt an overwhelming pressure build up inside my head and body, and so great was this pressure within me, that it seemed as though I might implode, and disappear from the face of the earth. I would cease to exist: such was my state of mind that this unlikely prospect seemed entirely feasible.

  Eventually, I crawled over to the bed, where I remained for—perhaps—two or three hours, weeping bitterly, at intervals. Loath to let the policemen overhear me, lest they should think that I was merely lamenting my arrest, I tried to smother these cries by pressing my face, hard, into the coarse blanket. All that I could think of was poor little Rose, and Ned and Annie, and how I longed to be able to comfort and reassure them. Every hour or so, I would hear the turn of the key in the lock, which gave me a few seconds to dry my eyes and recover my composure, before the door would open, to reveal a constable at the threshold, peering in, to ask if all was well. Presumably, he brought me food and drink, and, at some point, I was given a list of solicitors, and told to write a note, requesting legal representation, but of these events I have scant recollection.

  In due course, I found that I could cry no more, and the sensation that I might implode or disappear began to recede. That afternoon, I was escorted to an interview room, seated at a table, and told to wait. The table was made of cheap boards, nailed together, the wood so soft that it was possible to mark it with a fingernail, and I passed the time by staring dumbly at the various words that had been scraped into its surface; not all of them were obscene. Eventually, Detective Stirling entered, along with another officer whom I had not previously encountered: a short-legged, curly-haired man with cold little eyes and an insincere smile. Stirling introduced him as Detective Inspector Grant. From this, and from Grant’s relaxed demeanour, I gathered that he was Stirling’s superior officer. His voice had a drawling, obstinate quality and—perhaps because I distrusted and disliked him on sight—I snapped out of my stunned state, and have a reasonable recollection of what transpired during our interview.

  ‘Now then, Miss Baxter,’ Grant began. ‘This will be a blow to you, no doubt, to be caught and arrested for the plagium. But the child was found dead, in a shallow grave, so we know there’s more to it than that—so you might as well just tell us the whole story, in your own words, and then we can keep this short. I know that you, in particular, won’t want to appear foolish, by trying to bamboozle us, or by lying.’

  This was his tactic: to imply that he was some sort of Delphic Oracle, well acquainted with me, my character, habits, preferences and aversions, and my supposed crimes. However, Grant was no different from most other know-alls, in that his words were mere self-important swagger; the reality was that he knew precisely nothing about me. One of the words that he had used was unfamiliar to my ears but, unwilling to make myself vulnerable, I declined to ask for an explanation.

  Since I had not yet replied, he gave a dry chuckle.

  ‘I suppose you’ll be finding all this very trying, Miss Baxter. After all these months, I know you must have thought you’d got away with it.’

  Presumably, this conversational style of his was an attempt to fish for some sort of response. However, thus far, the only impulse that his every utterance elicited in me was the desire to slap him. That seems a shameful admission, now, but do bear in mind that I was grieving, and worried about Ned and Annie, and fearful of my own fate, and I am afraid that I found Grant’s sly and unctuous manner insufferable. Stirling was gazing at me, calmly, across the table. When I looked into his eyes, something passed between us, and I would be willing to wager that he agreed with my low opinion of his boss. However, with great professionalism, he betrayed no exterior hint of this; he simply picked up his pencil and inspected the point.

  ‘Might there have been a mistake?’ I asked. ‘Whatever poor soul was in that grave—might it not be—another child?’

  My question had been addressed to Stirling, but Gr
ant butted in: ‘Rose Gillespie has been identified, by several means. There’s no question that it’s her.’

  The edge of the table had been worn smooth by the hands of countless prisoners. I stared at the greasy wood, lost in futile thoughts. There was no Justice in the world: little children lay cold in the grave, while men like Grant, and this cheap, ugly lump of furniture continued to flourish.

  ‘… Miss Baxter?’

  I looked up. Both men were staring at me.

  ‘What about Mr and Mrs Gillespie?’ I asked. ‘Do they know about Rose? Is Annie back from Aberdeen? How is Ned? Who is there to look after them?’

  Grant gave me a smarmy smile. ‘I could have predicted you’d be concerned for the Gillespies, above even your own predicament. Always so selfless!’

  ‘They’re my friends,’ I told him. ‘I’d simply like to know how they are.’

  ‘I’m sure they’re as well as can be expected, under the circumstances. But never mind about them now. Tell me about the German.’

  ‘… What German?’

  ‘Schlutterhose.’

  ‘Schlutter—?’

  ‘—hose—Hans Schlutterhose. We know exactly how and where you met him, of course, but I’d be interested to hear some more details.’

  ‘Hans Schlutterhose?’

  ‘Yes—tell me about him.’

  ‘I’m not familiar with any person of that name.’

  ‘You’ve never met Hans Schlutterhose?’

  ‘I’ve never even heard the name before.’

  ‘What about Belle?’

  ‘Belle?’

  ‘His wife. You know Belle. Tell me about her.’

  ‘On the contrary, Inspector, I don’t know anyone called Belle.’

  Grant stroked his chin, and adopted a thoughtful demeanour: all a charade, of course; nothing that the man did was genuine.

  ‘It must have been last year at the Exhibition, I suppose. You were very taken with our Ex., weren’t you? You were a frequent visitor. Was that where you encountered Belle and Hans for the first time?’

  ‘I thought you said you knew exactly where and how we’d met?’

  ‘So—you’re admitting that you’ve met them?’

  ‘As I said before, I’m not familiar with these people. I encountered nobody of that name at the Exhibition. Now, I’d like to know more about Rose, if I may.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘What happened to her? How did she die?’

  Grant leaned across the table.

  ‘That’s what we’re hoping you’ll tell us,’ he said. Feeling his breath hot against my neck, I pressed myself back in the chair. He went on: ‘Mr and Mrs Schlutterhose have been extremely cooperative, and told us all about your plan, but if you would care to give us your version of events…’

  I shook my head, exasperated. Grant flicked his eyes at Stirling.

  ‘She doesn’t care to tell us,’ he said. Then, he took a scrap of paper from the ticket pocket in his waistcoat, glanced at something written thereupon, and replaced it. ‘Now Miss Baxter, would you be so kind as to estimate—just so we can keep our records accurate—how much you paid them for what they did? We know that, so far, it’s in the region of a hundred pounds.’

  ‘I assure you, Inspector, whoever these people are, they’ve misled you. I’ve never heard of them, and I sincerely hope they don’t have access to my money.’

  ‘The German claims it was accidental, you know.’

  ‘What was?’

  Grant barely paused, as though I had not spoken.

  ‘But something tells me Herr Schlutterhose is only worried about additional charges. Plagium could mean anything upwards of several years, of course, but with the child dead…’

  This time, I had to ask: ‘That word—plagium. What does it mean?’

  ‘Kidnapping, Miss Baxter, abduction—simple enough. Or it would be, if things hadn’t got out of hand.’ He narrowed his flinty little eyes. ‘Make too much noise, did she? Try to run away? Or was it part of your plan, all along? What intrigues me, though, is why you wanted it done, in the first place. Of course, I have my own theories.’ He allowed his gaze to run up and down the bodice of my frock in a way that I found disconcerting. ‘You’re a spinster, no children of your own, you meet this happy family—perhaps that might explain it…’

  ‘Inspector, you’re talking in riddles. What might it explain?’

  He raised his eyes, and looked me in the face.

  ‘Quite simply, it might explain why you paid this German and his wife to abduct and murder Rose Gillespie.’

  I stared at him, aghast. He sat back, giving me another of his self-satisfied smiles. Stirling’s head was bent over his notebook.

  ‘You think—you think I paid these people to—kidnap and murder Rose?’

  ‘Kidnap her, certainly. As you’ve been told, that’s what you’re arrested for, Miss Baxter. For the time being. But as for the murder—how exactly the child died, and at whose hands—that remains unknown, and that’s what I want you to tell me about. I can’t help thinking you had most reason to want her dead.’

  My mind kept going blank: it was as though my brain was controlled by a switch, which was being flipped, on and off, on and off. I half expected to faint. For the first time, I began to feel truly afraid.

  ‘These people must be insane!’ I cried. ‘It doesn’t make any sense. Are you inventing all this, for some reason?’

  Grant raised his eyebrows, unable to conceal his delight that he had succeeded in agitating me.

  ‘Not at all, Miss Baxter, we’re only interested in what you might have to say. We want to hear your side of the story. Now, I know that you’re a friend of Annie Gillespie. What do you think of her?… Miss Baxter?’

  ‘… Yes?’

  ‘What do you think of Annie Gillespie?’

  ‘Think of her? She’s my friend.’

  ‘You do like her,’ Grant offered.

  ‘Yes, I’m very fond of her.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. And I know that you’re also very fond of Mr Gillespie.’

  Here, he left a pause, and simply stared at me, in a provocative manner. The skin across my neck and shoulders began to prickle. I was not exactly sure what Grant was insinuating, but he certainly wished to imply something unpleasant. He turned to his colleague.

  ‘As you may observe, Bill—she doesn’t appear to be very pleased.’

  Stirling flicked a glance at me, and then returned to his notes.

  ‘Now, Miss Baxter,’ Grant continued. ‘You’ve visited the Gillespies’ apartment, frequently, and you’re familiar with the routines of the household.’

  Since this required no reply, I made none. My mind was racing. I had begun to realise that he might pounce on any response that I gave, however innocent, and make it seem suspicious.

  ‘You, more than most, are aware that when the weather was warm enough, Mrs Gillespie often sent her children around the corner, to play in Queen’s Crescent. Your rooms, in fact, overlook the street, and if one stands in either window one has a clear view down into the Crescent gardens. Hence, you must have seen the little girls, playing there, many a time.’

  It struck me that, perhaps, the only way out of this terrible situation was to say nothing: say nothing and hope that they would soon realise what a dreadful mistake they had made. Although unaccustomed to being deliberately impolite, I forced myself to fold my arms, and then I closed my eyes. This might seem a childish gesture but, at the time, I could think of no other way to demonstrate that I would co-operate no further. Apparently undeterred, Grant blustered on:

  ‘You knew the routines of the household; you knew that the children played in those gardens; you paid money to this German, who has admitted that—acting under your specific instructions—he abducted Rose Gillespie, assisted—possibly, we’re not sure—by his wife. Plagium is the charge, as it stands. But what I’m interested in now, is how the child died. Who did away with her? Was it Schlutterhose, Miss Baxter? Or his wife?
Or was it you, yourself?’

  Keeping my eyes closed, I dropped my head forwards onto my chest. The Detective trotted out a number of other statements and questions, in the interim, all of which were speculative. Difficult though it was not to protest at his ludicrous suggestions, I remained silent. On and on he droned, until I feared that he might never stop. Then, at last, there was a pause, and I heard him say:

  ‘Well, Bill, she doesn’t seem to want to enlighten us. That’s a pity. We’ll just have to see what she says when she goes before the court.’

  After a few seconds, Stirling’s notebook closed, with a snap. There was a loud scraping of chair legs on the floor, and then the two men left the room.

  Hearing no click of the latch, nor any turn of the key, I opened my eyes. The door had, indeed, been left wide open. The passageway appeared to be empty. Just for a second, I contemplated making my escape. I could picture myself tiptoeing along the corridor, slipping through some unguarded exit, and emerging into the street. Where would I go?

  But before I had time to consider, a sturdy constable appeared in the doorway, and escorted me back to my cell.

  Weary though I was that night, sleep eluded me. My skin itched, and I was gripped by a fear that insects had crawled from the thin mattress, and burrowed into my clothes. Perhaps I was hallucinating, but there could be no doubt that the place was filthy. The stink of the cell was all-pervasive, and comprised a number of foul odours: chiefly, the residual scent of previous occupants, their urine and fearful sweat, together with an undertone of drains. Even the cold air that wafted in through the bars of the tiny window was hardly refreshing, since it carried with it a sulphurous reek from the various works nearby. With every approach of footsteps, or jangle of keys, I prayed that the door would open to reveal Stirling, come to inform me that there had been a mistake: I ought never to have been arrested; I was free to go; moreover, Grant had been dismissed, in disgrace, from the police service. Would I accept the Chief Inspector’s humble apologies?

  Alas, no such visit came. From time to time, the door did open, but on each occasion, it was only the night constable, lantern aloft, conducting his routine inspection. After a quick glance to make sure that I had not ripped up my petticoats and hanged myself, he would depart, leaving me alone in the cell, with my thoughts. I doubt that they were in any way coherent, given the various shocks that I had received since morning. The interview with Grant had served only to make me yet more fretful and confused, in addition to my grief. I could scarce believe that the police were giving any credence to these wild and unfounded accusations. Whoever these Germans were, presumably they had panicked upon being arrested, and were attempting to foist the blame for their misdoings on some other person—although why they had seized upon me, Harriet Baxter, as their scapegoat, was yet to be revealed. At the time, that they even knew my name was a mystery to me.