by Jane Harris
We had been expecting this news for some time but, none the less, I felt quite giddy, of a sudden. My throat was dry and tight.
‘You might want to avoid the newspaper for a while,’ said Caskie. ‘In case one finds its way into your cell. Reading about the funeral might be—painful.’
As it happened, the warders sometimes gave Cullen their discarded newspapers and, sure enough, a few days later, she acquired a copy of Friday’s Glasgow Herald. She stowed it, out of sight, under her bed, probably to spare my feelings. At first, I followed Caskie’s advice, but in the end, my curiosity got the better of me, and I did look at the paper.
‘Gillespie Girl Funeral’ dominated the local news: almost a quarter of a page had been dedicated to the story. A sub-heading quoted a line from the song: ‘Ring the bell softly, there’s crape on the door’ and, after a brief introduction, the article stated that there could be no sight more melancholy than a tiny white coffin in the arms of a grieving father. Apparently, Ned himself had carried the little casket of remains from the house to the hearse, and from hearse to the grave. It cannot have weighed very much. The article described the artist’s clothing: a dark suit, ivory gloves, and a white crape armband. Ned tended to reject conventions of dress and, as far as I was aware, he owned no white gloves but, perhaps, in this instance, he had not had the strength to stand up to Elspeth’s demands. Of course, it was even possible that, in his grief, these outward signs of inward sorrow may have seemed important to him, as the last token of respect and affection that he could pay to his daughter.
The child was buried at Lambhill Cemetery. Apart from the inscriptions, and a simple carving of a rose, her headstone was unadorned. At the graveside, her mother, Mrs Annie Gillespie, laid a posy of pale hothouse flowers upon the casket. Then, apparently, she and her husband held hands as the coffin was lowered into the earth. Mrs Elspeth Gillespie, the child’s grandmother, was inconsolable, and had to be comforted by her friends, many of whom attended the service. It was noted that Sibyl, the older sister of the deceased child, was not in attendance, since she was currently ‘recovering in the asylum’ after being ‘injured in a fire’. According to a source close to the family, Sibyl had been informed of Rose’s death, and was spending much of her time in prayer, or at the piano, playing hymns, in honour of her dead sibling.
The child’s mother remained dry-eyed until after the interment, when she broke down in tears. Mr Gillespie had to support his wife as they returned to the mourning carriages and she, in turn, helped him when he stumbled on the path and almost fell. The article said that they gave every appearance of being a devoted young couple who were supporting each other in the aftermath of a terrible tragedy.
Caskie was right: reading the newspaper profoundly upset me. That night, as I lay awake, in sheer misery, I was overwhelmed by a sense of profound isolation. Perhaps because of what I had read in the paper, I found myself lost in the memory of another funeral, that of my mother, which had taken place many years previously. Poor mother had always suffered with her health and eventually died of what was judged, by her symptoms, to be botulism, after having eaten some asparagus that we had preserved, the previous year. I was just fourteen years of age at the time, and beside myself with grief. On the morning of the funeral, I felt utterly alone in the world. Aunt Miriam, who was my mother’s unmarried sister, must have been as upset as I was, but she tried to conceal her own grief, for my sake. She gave me some sal volatile just before we got into the carriage, with the result that I felt strangely euphoric and highly strung on the journey to the cemetery.
My mother and Ramsay had been separated for several years, by then, and he had gone to live in Scotland. Aunt Miriam had written to him with news of his wife’s death, inviting him to the funeral, but, typically, had received no reply. I remember, above all, as we crept slowly up Swain’s Lane in the carriage, the nervous anticipation of wondering whether my stepfather would put in an appearance, and my overwhelming relief when I glimpsed him, standing amongst a line of other black-clad people, inside the cemetery gate.
Ramsay removed his high hat when he saw me, and held it between us as he squeezed my shoulder and murmured condolences. I noticed a few more flecks of grey at his temples, the yellowish eyes, the waxy pallor of his skin. Then, while Aunt Miriam spoke quietly to him, he became very absorbed in replacing the topper on his head, turning it this way and that, altering its angle, to find the most comfortable position. Upon reflection, I believe that he did not care about the hat; he simply wanted some occupation for his hands.
At the graveside, I found a place next to him. The cuffs of our coats brushed against each other, my left against his right. For a moment, I thought that he might take my hand, but he did not and, in my naivety, I assumed that such a thing would have been bad form at a funeral. The gleaming wooden casket transfixed me: the ropes seemed too thin to support its weight, and then there was the impossible thought that a body—my mother’s body—was nailed up inside. There had been no rain for days, and the pile of earth before us was powdery, as dry as dust. Everything felt very precarious. As they began to lower the coffin, the ground seemed to shift beneath my feet, and the scent of early lilac was so piercing, that I thought I might faint and topple into the grave.
I had imagined, now that my mother was dead, that Ramsay would take me to live with him in Scotland, since I was too young to reside alone. It was a surprise and disappointment, therefore, after the funeral, when he informed me that he had made arrangements for me to remain, in London, with my aunt. He did drive me back to Eaton Square, later that day, in his carriage, but he had no time to come into the house, because of an appointment in St James’s. A few days later, my belongings were moved across town, to the rather more humble circumstances of my aunt’s home. My stepfather had a few relatives in the south and, from time to time, I used to be invited to family gatherings, whenever I was remembered, but my connection to the Dalrymple clan was tentative: I was related only by marriage—moreover, by a marriage that had dissolved—and, following my mother’s death, the invitations came less frequently. Ramsay did not always make the effort to attend these events and so, until my arrival in Scotland in ’88, I had seen him on only three further occasions: once at a christening, once at a wedding, and once at a funeral: an all-encompassing triumvirate of ceremonies.
I had always thought that I would never feel so desolate as I did, after my mother’s funeral, when I learned that Ramsay had declined to take me to live with him in Scotland. However, in the days that followed Rose’s burial, my spirits sank extremely low, and I will admit that I was as unhappy, then, as I had ever been.
None the less, I would like to make something clear, in this document. At the time, due to my circumstances, I had no means of responding to what was printed in the papers, and thus various inaccurate stories proliferated and were never contradicted. Although it was reported in the press that I attempted to take my own life shortly after Rose’s funeral, this was not, in fact, the case. While it is true that I did sustain a slight injury that week, there was a simple enough explanation for the bruises on my throat, which, presumably, were the cause of all the rumours. It so happened that, one afternoon, as the light was fading, Mrs Fee had appeared at the door hatch, bearing a letter. I jumped up and, in my haste to cross the cell, my foot became entangled in a blanket that was trailing on the ground. I tripped so swiftly that I had no time to put out my hands to save myself. In falling, the upper part of my body landed on a three-legged stool. My throat took the worst of it, striking the edge of the seat, which resulted in severe bruising to my larynx. A straightforward, if painful, accident—but not, by any means, the attempt at self-strangulation, or hanging, that was widely reported at the time.
I suppose that I should also say something about the anonymous correspondence that began to be published in The North British Daily Mail at about this time. It caused quite a stir and, if you are of a certain age, and resided in Glasgow during that winter, you must certai
nly remember those letters, or perhaps your parents told you about them, in later years. The first letter arrived at the offices of the Mail in early December and was published the following day. Of course, the sender provided no address, but, apparently, the squared circle postmark on the envelope indicated that it had originated in Venice, Italy. As far as it was possible to tell, the spelling and grammar were those of a native English speaker. The writer avoided giving his name, and had signed himself, simply: ‘Yours Truly’. This Yours Truly purported to be a friend of Kenneth Gillespie, Ned’s brother, who—you may recall—had disappeared, in the autumn of the previous year.
I first learned about this letter from my solicitor, who came to see me on the day after its publication. He assured me that it was probably the work of some poor devil who was desperate for attention. According to him, this sort of thing happened quite often, in cases that had attracted a good deal of publicity. All sorts of crackpots and loons crawl out of the woodwork with unlikely claims. While any sensible editor would have filed such dubious correspondence in the waste paper basket, Mr Ross of the Mail had decided to share the ramblings of Yours Truly with his readers. When I expressed surprise that the letter had come all the way from Italy, Caskie reminded me that British residents abroad often have newspapers sent from home; it was even possible that the Italian press (a more scholarly and sober breed than their British counterparts) might have mentioned the forthcoming court case.
Perhaps this Yours Truly had grown bored of living so far from home, in a waterlogged, crumbling city that forever teems with tourists. I can just imagine him, pacing the floor of his lodgings, staring at the damp stains on the stucco walls, or listening to the canal lapping at the sill. Even had this man made friends in Venice, the experience of living in a foreign city can still be lonely, and one has to be careful not to become a nuisance by pestering recent acquaintances with too many social calls. No doubt, he filled his solitary hours with visits to churches and galleries, the Piazza San Marco, the Ca d’Oro, and so on, until—perhaps in a newspaper sent from home—he read about the Gillespie case, and decided to give some meaning to his life, by creating a bit of mayhem.
At any rate, that was the mental picture that I formed of Yours Truly.
I no longer possess any copies of the Mail (and, for some reason, Sarah was unable to find any in the library). However, I can recall, more or less, the content of that first letter. Yours Truly began with the claim that he was writing on behalf of Kenneth Gillespie, late of Woodside, Glasgow, brother of the artist, Ned, and uncle to Rose Gillespie, the missing child whose body had only recently been discovered. Apparently, Kenneth would have loved to return to Scotland, to help his family in their time of need, but, for reasons that remained unspecified, this was impossible—both now, and for the foreseeable future.
The letter went on to say that Kenneth had confided in Yours Truly that he was well acquainted with the lady currently being held in connection with the disappearance of his niece. He and Harriet Baxter had become friends (the letter claimed) in the summer of the International Exhibition, a friendship that had developed because of a mutual enjoyment of the theatre. Apparently, Miss Baxter had often given the young man her tickets, if she found herself unable to attend a particular performance. In the autumn, when Kenneth had expressed unhappiness at certain aspects of his situation in Glasgow, the lady—who was financially independent—had encouraged him to leave the city and set up a new life for himself in Venice. Moreover, she had generously paid for his journey, and provided expenses sufficient to cover his first few months abroad. Although, to begin with, Kenneth had been of the opinion that this intervention was only a kindness on the part of Miss Baxter, he had since had time to reflect, and—particularly following recent events—was now beginning to question her motives in assisting him to leave his home town. However, the letter failed to specify what he now considered these mysterious motives to be.
As far as I can remember, Yours Truly concluded with various assurances to the Gillespie family that Kenneth was in good health, along with pleas that they would understand and forgive the young man’s inability to return home.
Despite various rumours that Kenneth himself might have been directly involved—that he might have written or, at least, dictated the letter—I suspect that most of its contents could simply have been pieced together from what had appeared in the papers. The part about the theatre was inventive, certainly, and a clever guess: perhaps, it did so happen, once or twice, that I had passed on Princess’s tickets to Kenneth, but no more than that. As for the rest, it was complete tosh, and all the more damaging for being so devilishly ambiguous. When I expressed concern, Caskie advised me that the prosecution could not and would not use anonymous correspondence in arguing their case. ‘Any fool might have sent it,’ he told me. ‘It shouldnae have been published at all.’
‘Do you think, by the time of the trial, it will have been forgotten?’
His mouth turned down at the corners. ‘Well, we can but hope,’ he replied.
My other concern, of course, was for the Gillespies. In all likelihood, they would see the Mail, for it was Elspeth’s favourite journal and she took it daily. Indeed, later that afternoon, there was an envelope from Ned amongst the post that was pushed through our hatch. This was the first time that I had heard from him since he had visited the prison with Annie and his mother. As soon as I recognised his handwriting, my heart skipped a beat. I could have wished for some privacy in which to read what he had written, but Cullen and Mulgrew were both present, engaged at a game of Piquet (or ‘Picket’, as they called it), the door was locked, and it was impossible to predict when I might next have a moment alone. Thus, I retired to my corner of the cell, sat on my bed, and opened the envelope. The letter is still in my possession and I will transcribe it here, just as it was written:
Dear Harriet,
What a strange and terrible time this is. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to write. No sooner have we begun to recover from one dreadful blow than another is delivered. We’ve been hearing such unbelievable things. I can’t bear to imagine they might be true. Annie keeps going over the time since we met you, almost two years ago now. She pores over every incident and every visit, every wee remark. So far she can’t really fault you but seems determined to find proof you have meant us and our children harm all along. She and my mother are continually at odds on this point. Mother will never forget you saved her life that day in Buchanan Street. She keeps throwing this and all your other good deeds at Annie’s feet, and insists you are what you seem, an Angel of Mercy, or at least a well-meaning and kind person at heart.
Harriet, this questionable letter in the Mail has caused yet further confusion. I’m to be shown it later this week to look at the handwriting and see if it could have been written by my brother. Annie seems convinced it will be him. She told me, today, the full story of what you and she know about Kenneth. I need hardly say how shocked I am. However, this is one point where Annie can’t fault you. Even she admits your actions last summer in protecting him were nothing short of miraculous. No doubt you saved us all from a good deal of bother and Kenneth from something far worse. I just wish somebody had told me at the time. Of course, mother knows nothing of this. We intend to keep it that way for it would kill her if she found out. Thank you for guarding the information so carefully, all this time.
At any rate, we’re advised to stop sending you letters so this will be my first and last. Mother won’t be writing any more either. She says to tell you she would keep up correspondence with you if it weren’t for these pestiferous lawyers. They want me to request that you please cease writing to us as well. Sorry about this but it seems we have no choice. I hope you keep in good health until the trial, at which point we will see what we will see.
After much discussion, we have resolved to bring Sibyl home. We need to be a family again and I’m convinced we can care for her here no matter how wrong in the mind she is. The doctors are p
rotesting it’s too soon and they mean well, but we’ve stopped paying our bill, so no doubt that will put an end to their objections. In fact, we’re going to collect her this afternoon since we don’t want them putting her in the paupers’ wing.
Harriet, my mother just wants me to let you know she is praying for you. Also Mabel and Walter are on their way back to Glasgow, due in a week or two.
As for me, I’d like to think that we were right to trust you, and allow you into our home, as our friend. I want to believe you’ve done no wrong. I don’t like to think of you being locked up in that dreadful place. You make a good show of appearing to be capable and robust, but those of us that know you can tell that, underneath all the polish, there are glimpses of someone sensitive, even fragile. In my mind, Harriet, be assured you have the benefit of the doubt unless it’s proven otherwise. I can only hope Annie’s worst fears are mistaken, and that the true culprits are found guilty (as it seems they must be, given what we’ve heard about the evidence against them).
Please God you are able to affirm our faith in you, as our friend, that you’ll clear your name and be allowed to walk free.
Yours, in great hope and with sympathy for your situation,
Ned
Having read this letter, I replaced it in the envelope. Then I crawled beneath the blankets and lay there, trying to take in the implications of Ned’s words. Did this mean that, from now on, the turnkeys would destroy any letters that I wrote to the family? The notion of being unable to contact the Gillespies was terrifying, for as long as I could keep writing to them it seemed to me that I had a chance to remain in their hearts. The trial would not take place for a few months; thus, week upon week was destined to pass without any contact at all between us. The bleak reality of this was just beginning to dawn on me when the door opened, and Mrs Fee appeared, with the words: ‘Baxter—somebody to see you.’