Gillespie and I

by Jane Harris

  We had known for some time that Christina Smith had been telling the Procurator Fiscal all sorts of ‘baloney’, as our colonial cousins would now put it, primarily—and crucially, for the prosecution—that she had set up a meeting between myself and the kidnappers.

  ‘Aitchison’s case hinges, more or less, on that one statement from her,’ said MacDonald. ‘That’s his masterstroke. And our best hope is to counter her allegations by demonstrating that she’s not to be trusted. We know she was dismissed by the Gillespies. And one of the downstairs neighbours is more than happy to confirm that she saw Christina emerging, several times, from public houses in Woodside, while the girl was meant to be taking her turn at the wash-house.’ He smiled at me, reassuringly. ‘The jury won’t approve of that, Miss Baxter, and we can call the girl’s character into doubt.’

  ‘Or so we hope,’ added Caskie.

  Christina Smith’s allegation that she had introduced me to her sister and that German was absurd—which you may also have concluded, if you are familiar with Mr Kemp’s scribblings on the subject. Of course, very little of his recent essay is true: for one thing, I hardly knew Christina. We were, by no means, friendly, and I was certainly not as intimate with her as Kemp would like to imply. I suppose that Miss Smith must now be in her seventies—younger than myself, though still advanced in years—and I can only imagine that the poor dear has lost her mind in her dotage: there can be no other explanation for the balderdash that she appears to have confided in Kemp when he visited her last summer, in Liverpool (where, it seems, she has resided for many years). At any rate, Mr Kemp ought to be ashamed of himself: bothering a doting old woman, and setting down her addled ramblings in a book, as though they were facts.

  Early on Thursday morning, I was taken from my Calton-hill cell to a courtyard at the back of the gaol. There stood yet another coffin on wheels (although, this being Edinburgh, the vehicle was more highly polished, with fancier gilt-painted insignia). I was locked inside with Mrs Fee, and two policemen stood guard on the back step during our bone-shaking journey across North Bridge and up the High Street.

  Such was the notoriety of our case that a huge crowd was expected in Parliament Square, where the public doors would open early, at nine o’clock. I learned later that upward of two thousand persons had thronged the plaza in front of the Court that day. The hordes had already begun to gather as early as eight o’clock and, on the approach to the High Court, the wagon reverberated like thunder. At one stage, some mad fool even leapt from a vantage point onto the roof of the van. There was a thud overhead, and then a leering face appeared in one skylight, whilst a meaty hand came groping in at the other, pulled off my hat, and grabbed at my hair. I gave a shriek, and even the impassive Fee looked startled for a second, before she jumped up and began to batter the intruder’s arm with her umbrella, and then the policemen dragged him off the roof. The horses trotted on without delay until, presently, the noise of the crowd abated, the wagon jerked to a halt, the doors flew open, and Fee and I dashed into the building, through a side entrance.

  Inside the Parliament House, another policeman led us to a staircase, whereupon we descended one stone step after another, going deeper and deeper into the vaults and cellars of the building. Eventually, we arrived at a strong-door with a wicket-gate and passed through, into the semi-subterranean police offices. There, I was taken into a dark, low-ceilinged room, where we were to wait, under the watchful eye of a corpulent policeman, PC Neill.

  The room had a fireplace, but no window, and candles, but no gaseliers. When the door was pulled shut, the atmosphere grew stuffy in an instant. Despite my pre-trial nerves, I soon found myself growing drowsy. One could not help but imagine that the air had been trapped in that cell for centuries, and breathed, ten thousand times over, by scrofulous felons.

  Mrs Fee sat, rubbing her raw pink thumbs together. Since our first encounter in Duke Street, she and I had established a tolerable relationship. I had seen a different side to her on the day that the indictment had been served upon me, back in early February. In fact, it was Fee herself who had handed it to me, in the cell. The sight of my name written down, along with those of Schlutterhose and his wife, made me realise, of a sudden, that I was now well and truly lumped together with these two miscreants, and presumed, by the Crown, to be no better than them. It was most distressing, and I am afraid to say that the moment got the better of me. Fee was extremely kind that day, although she had since made it clear that she did not intend to befriend me. That morning, as we sat in the Parliament House cell, waiting for the trial to begin, I was surprised to notice a tear on her cheek, as she pressed a bottle of smelling salts into my hands, and said, briskly: ‘You might need that.’

  As for PC Neill, he barely glanced in my direction. Once, when I did manage to catch his eye, he turned away, the trace of a frown between his brows, his chinstrap biting into the soft flesh of his jaw.

  A long interval passed, during which I could hear, but not see, a great deal of bustling to and fro in the offices beyond the door. Presumably, the kidnappers were amongst the arrivals, and I wondered whether they too would be ushered into this same small room. I supposed that there were other chambers in the building, where potential witnesses were being kept in seclusion. Perhaps, at that very moment, the Gillespies, and all the others, were waiting in one such room. Sadly, my stepfather had been unable to return to Scotland for the trial. Poor health meant that he was forced to remain in Switzerland for the foreseeable future: two physicians from different clinics had written to the lawyers, confirming that Mr Dalrymple was suffering from Addison’s anaemia, and should not attempt to make the journey home, under any circumstances.

  Of course, I should have dearly liked Ramsay to be able to speak in my defence, which we would have asked him to do, had he been able to return. And it might have been comforting simply to have the support of a patriarchal presence. But one must be philosophical. I told myself that one could not always have everything that one wanted. Indeed, that was something that Ramsay himself had drummed into me when I was small: ‘Compromise, Harriet,’ he used to caution me. ‘Compromise.’ And then, his other favourite saying, which was always the precursor to some form of punishment: ‘Sanctions will be brought to bear.’

  At any rate, the musings of my weary mind were cut short when a key turned in the lock and the cell door swung open. My breath caught in my throat. Some person outside must have signalled to PC Neill, for he nodded, and turned to me.

  ‘This way, ma’am,’ he said, indicating the open door.

  For a second, I wondered whether my legs would support me, and I had to lean on the table in order to rise to my feet. Mrs Fee waited for me to pass ahead of her into the hallway, where a few constables stood in sober-faced attendance. PC Neill led us along a dim-lit passage, with Fee and another policeman bringing up the rear. We walked quickly, and in no time at all reached the foot of a narrow, enclosed staircase, with steep, shallow steps, whitewashed walls, and an open trapdoor at the top. From beyond the hatch came the sounds of a large assembly of people packed into a cavernous room: coughing, shuffling of feet, and the cacophony of many excited voices echoed beneath a lofty ceiling. Desperate, illogical thoughts came to me: if only I were a soprano, in the wings, about to take the stage at the end of the Overture; if only I were in the Corps de Ballet. Expecting that we would pause, and wait, at the end of the passage, I hesitated, but PC Neill pressed on at the same pace, already mounting the worn, wooden steps. Simultaneously, the turnkey put her hand in the small of my back, and thrust me upwards, towards the light and the clamour. I am no claustrophobe, but I felt trapped in that white stairwell, with Fee shoving me from the rear and Neill’s boots and broad serge posterior in my face. I was unable to see past him until, all at once, he stepped aside and I emerged, blinking, from the hatch. A cold draught of air hit me in the face, along with the shocking realisation that I had ascended directly into the well of the court, like a pantomime genie.

  At
once, a hush fell upon the room, and a sea of inquisitive faces stared at me from all sides, and from the galleries above. I felt my knees go weak. In my panic, my vision blurred. I would, perhaps, have turned back, but with Fee barging out behind me, there was nothing for it but to be guided onto a surprisingly short and narrow platform, where Belle and Schlutterhose were already seated. Unfortunately, we had to share the same bench. To avoid the stares of spectators, I kept my head down, at first, but after a few minutes, I was able to glance at my surroundings.

  Directly in front of me, and to the right, was a surprising number of advocates, all dressed in black robes. Like a parliament of rooks, they chattered to each other, in the nest of the court. The three separate groups of legal representatives were present, along with their various associates. To avoid confusion, I will not bother to itemise the names and titles of all the advocates and agents and so forth involved in the case (a list of which can be found in the Notable British Trials series); but allow me to simplify matters by saying that amongst these legal gentleman was the notorious prosecutor, the Advocate Depute, Mr James Aitchison: a sleek, auburn-haired figure, with piercing green eyes and surprisingly feminine hands; Mr Charles Pringle: a gentle-faced, grey-haired man, the court-appointed Poor’s Roll advocate, who would defend Schlutterhose and Belle; and, appearing on my behalf, Mr Muirhead MacDonald.

  For the moment, I was unable to catch MacDonald’s eye, as his attention was fixed on a table at the side of the court, upon which were laid out the ‘productions’, or evidence. Amongst these items were a flour sack, two hefty ledgers, various scraps of paperwork, a flat stone, and a bloodstained jacket. Beside this lay a little pair of boots and a mother-of-pearl pendant and, with a pang of my heart, I recognised these last exhibits as having belonged to Rose Gillespie. I had touched that very necklace with my own hands, and I had fastened those boots many a time. How pathetic and small her belongings looked, lying there, on the table. My vision began to mist over but then, abruptly, the Macer cried: ‘Court rise!’, and everyone scrambled to their feet, including myself. The hubbub of voices ceased, as all eyes turned towards the raised platform behind the well of the court, where the judge, Lord Kinbervie, had just entered the chamber. His Lordship made an impressive figure, resplendent in his white and scarlet robes. With a nod to the assembled advocates, he took his place at the bench. His gaze flitted along the dock and paused, momentarily, on my face, but I was unable to glean anything from his expression.

  As the initial formalities got underway, I took the opportunity to scan the public gallery for familiar faces. With a twinge of exasperation, I recognised Mungo Findlay, the caricaturist. He was seated in the third row, sketchbook in hand, and when I caught his eye, he saluted me, with a grin. Most other persons of my acquaintance might be called as witnesses, and were therefore forbidden to observe the proceedings until they had testified, but I knew that Mabel might be in attendance, because her name had not appeared on the witness list and thus she was free to spectate if she so desired. Here and there, amid the predominantly male crowd, I could see a few dozen ladies, but there was no sign of Mabel anywhere. Perhaps she had elected to remain with the rest of the family, in the waiting room; no doubt, she would have wanted to keep her brother company. During their empanelment, I chanced a few glances at the jury: fifteen good men of Edinburgh and true. My fate lay in their hands. Amongst their number were a coal merchant and a farmer, a commercial traveller, and a grocer, a fishmonger, a clerk, a saddler, a missionary, and a brewer. The remainder were assorted craftsmen, and all were got up in their Sunday best. I wondered how sympathetic these good gentlemen would be to a comparatively affluent female—and a Sassenach at that.

  While the Clerk read the indictment, I was able to get a glimpse of Belle and Schlutterhose. For the present, they were refusing to look at me: both of them kept their faces resolutely fixed, to the front. Their appearance was, once again, disconcertingly genteel. They were well dressed and groomed, commonplace and sober. The German sported a dark, double-breasted reefer with spotless collar and cuffs; his hair had been trimmed, his whiskers shaved. Belle looked almost prim, in a high-necked grey frock. Both she and her husband wore ingenuous, slightly wounded expressions: all in all, very unlike the public conception of kidnappers and killers. To the uninformed eye, they must have seemed hardly capable of scolding a child, never mind abducting or murdering one. It seemed to me that this façade might easily fool an honest jury.

  Both Schlutterhose and his wife pleaded ‘Not Guilty’ to the charges on the indictment: a surprising decision on their part, and no doubt a frustrating one for their lawyers, given what was soon revealed in the German’s declaration. However, according to what I had heard from Caskie, their counsel had been unable to persuade them to plead guilty, even to the lesser charge of plagium. Despite already having admitted to snatching Rose, Schlutterhose seemed determined that the lion’s share of the blame should fall upon me.

  According to the following day’s Glasgow Herald, I was ‘pale, but composed’ when I made my plea, and, in pronouncing the words ‘Not Guilty’, my voice was ‘soft and serene’. Pale, no doubt; soft-spoken, perhaps, but I felt neither composed nor serene. Every nerve in my body was alert, my throat was dry, my palms wet. Moreover, I was shivering. The only fireplaces in the room flanked the bench, for His Lordship’s comfort. I was cold; but, above all, I quaked with fear. And yet, it seems that I was able to conceal my disquiet, albeit unwittingly, as we humans often do.

  There are no opening speeches in Scottish criminal trials, and so, following the preliminaries, Mr Aitchison, the prosecutor, called the first of his witnesses, thus embarking upon his mission to paint as ghastly a picture of events as possible.

  The trial had begun.

  Friday, 8 September 1933

  LONDON

  As yet, there is no reply from Mr Pettigrew of the Glasgow asylum. I wonder how long one ought to wait before telephoning again? Another letter could be sent, but my last foray to the pillar box was not an unqualified success. Having failed to post the letter at the surgery, I was obliged to try again, at our local box, the following day. In so doing, I met with a tiny accident—just a slight tumble; luckily, I had already put the letter in the box. Nothing broken, and no fuss warranted but several people ran out of Verrechio’s to come to my assistance. They were all very kind, of course, especially Signor Verrechio, although it was all quite unnecessary and a little embarrassing. I could easily have come back up in the lift by myself, but the Signor insisted that I wait for Sarah, and he kept a lookout for her, and called her over to the café when she came plodding around the corner.

  Needless to say, she wanted to know why I had left the apartment, and when I told her that I had intended to buy cigarettes, she asked where the cigarettes were—and where, for that matter, was my purse? And then I had to admit that I had left it upstairs. I could tell that she doubted my word. She seems to think that I passed out in the street, although I keep telling her that I simply tripped on a loose paving stone. And no wonder: the pavements in Bloomsbury are in an abominable state.

  Then, on Saturday, we had another slight mishap.

  I have come to realise that Sarah never emerges from her room in less than full garb: shoes, stockings and all. She bathes, of course, but I have never glimpsed her in a robe: she is always dressed when she enters and leaves the bathroom. If the roof blew off in the middle of the night, in a gale, I do believe that she would appear in the hallway, seconds later, decked out in mackintosh and galoshes.

  Having realised that she avoids baring her skin, I tried walking in on her, on Saturday night, after she had gone to bed, hoping to surprise her as she undressed. Once she had bid me good-night and shut herself away in her room, I left an interval of two minutes, which I judged to be just long enough for her to begin taking off her clothes. However, when I threw open her door and marched in, unannounced, it was to find her seated in the armchair, fully clothed, and stitching her quilt. She looked shocked
to see me there, striding into her chamber, as well she might, I suppose. I was then obliged to go through a little pantomime of having mistaken her door for that of the WC.

  She now seems to think that I am losing my wits. She keeps asking me if I feel quite well and, this evening, I noticed her checking the level of whisky in one of the bottles.

  Yesterday afternoon, I suggested to Sarah that we go for a swim.

  ‘This never-ending heatwave is oppressive,’ I told her. ‘It’s too stuffy. We must get out of here for a while. Have you ever swum at Hampstead Heath?’

  She had not. Neither had I, as a matter of fact, but I had read about Kenwood Ladies Pond, several times, in the Ham and High, which tends to paint a picture of the place as an oasis of bucolic tranquillity, where scores of women bathe all year round, even in blizzards, when restricted to a mere hole in the ice—and all this a scant few miles from Oxford Circus. Of course, I know the Heath well, and was aware of the Highgate Ponds, but had never ventured, bodily, into any of the waters.

  Sarah baulked at my suggestion of a swim, and I could tell that she was reluctant to go, because she kept asking me if I felt well enough, evidently hoping to discourage me. The trouble is, when Dr Derrett telephoned the other day, she was right beside me, trying to get a stain out of the rug, and so she heard every word. Apparently, Derrett does not like the look of my blood sample and wishes me to be X-rayed. I suspect that he is simply showing off and making himself feel important by sending patients for needless, horrible procedures. He offered to book a hospital appointment for me, next week, and I played along with him, but I have no intention of attending. I know all about the consequences of meddling with X-rays: during my time in America, Edison’s poor assistant died in agony because of them. At any rate, having overheard the conversation, Sarah has got it into her head that I am poorly, and she tried to use this as a reason why we should not go for a swim. However, in the end, I persuaded her. She toddled off to make sure that the birds had sufficient water and, ten minutes later, reappeared in the hall with a towel folded across the top of her bulging carpet bag.