Gillespie and I

by Jane Harris

  When the clerk had finished reading, Lord Kinbervie explained to the jury that a confession of guilt in a declaration was not, of itself, a sufficient ground of conviction; nor was Mr Schlutterhose’s declaration to be considered evidence against any other person, except himself. It was all very well to point this out, but rather too late; for, surely, now, the jury would have countless images in their minds, many of which involved me. I could hardly bear it. I wanted nothing more than to curl up into a ball, and hide myself away, in some quiet corner.

  Meanwhile, the slick machine of the court proceedings did not miss a beat; there was no pause to accommodate my trifling emotions, or to allow me to recover; Detective Sub-Inspector Stirling had already been called. As we waited for his arrival, I glanced to my right, only to realise that the kidnappers had been stealing a look at me. Belle turned away, giving me the ‘cold shoulder’, just as Schlutterhose lowered his fist, and shook it at me: a deliberate, artificial gesture, designed to dramatise, for the benefit of anyone watching, the supposed enmity between us.

  I had thought that Detective Stirling was quite an intelligent man, capable of independent thought but, presumably, there was enormous pressure upon him to corroborate the line of argument being pursued by the Crown. It was a shame that he chose to put a certain emphasis on his testimony. As for what had happened in the Clarence on the way into the police office, I must stress that I was terribly alarmed, not to mention stunned, at having been arrested. Hence, the short laugh that I gave, after a long silence, a laugh that was simply the product of nerves and incredulity, a laugh of exasperation, if you will. There was nothing malign about it, and certainly nothing that was ‘chilling’—as Stirling was encouraged to comment, by Aitchison. However, to my dismay, MacDonald failed, once again, to challenge this statement.

  After Stirling had quit the stand, and with the hour advancing, Kinbervie suggested that the prosecutor call his last witness for the day. I could tell from the way that Aitchison’s fingers were twitching that he was determined to finish on a high note and, following a brief hiatus, he asked for Helen Strang to be called. Miss Strang, a waitress from Lockhart’s Cocoa Rooms, turned out to be a doughy-faced woman, with thick, dark eyebrows, uneven teeth, and a blotchy complexion. After a few initial questions, the Advocate Depute asked her whether she had been at work on the 20th of April, the previous year. Strang confirmed that she had.

  ‘And what do you remember from that day?’ asked Aitchison. ‘Do you remember any customers in particular?’

  ‘Aye, there were three folk in the inglenook, at the side, a foreign man and two ladies. They came in about three o’clock.’

  ‘Did these people arrive as a group?’

  ‘One woman and the man came in together—they seemed like a married couple. And then the other lady arrived about five minutes later.’

  ‘Why do you remember these customers in particular?’

  ‘Well, they didnae seem to belong together. The couple didnae look quite respectable, if you know what I mean. Then the woman who came in, on her own, she was definitely what you might call a lady, and she was English as well.’

  ‘How do you know she was English?’

  ‘She spoke to me. She asked for coffee. Coffee with milk. The other pair had ordered tea. Mind you, the man did ask, before the other woman arrived, if we sold ale, but his wife told him not to be daft.’

  ‘But these people did know each other?’

  ‘I think so, aye. They were huddled over talking, for near enough an hour.’

  ‘Huddled over, you say? Did they talk loudly, or quietly?’

  ‘Quietly, sir.’

  ‘And did you hear anything they said?’

  ‘No, sir, except when they gave their orders.’

  ‘Is there anything else you remember?’

  ‘Aye, sir. After they’d been there about an hour, I went over to ask if they wanted anything else. Well, see as you walk over, you can see into the inglenook. You cannae see the customers very well, and they cannae really see you, but you can see the table in the middle. And while I was walking over, I saw the English lady pass something across the table to the man.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘It looked like a sort of package.’

  ‘A sort of package you say? Was it large, or slim?’

  ‘Slim, sir.’

  ‘And what did the man do with this slim package?’

  ‘He put it in his pocket. By the time I got to the table, he’d put it away.’

  ‘Now then,’ said Aitchison. ‘I must ask you, Miss Strang—can you see those three customers here today?’

  The waitress looked around the court, from face to face, for what seemed like an eternity until, at length, her eyes came to rest upon Schlutterhose. She stooped and peered over at him, then slowly pointed her finger, first at Hans, then at Belle, and, finally, at me.

  ‘These three here are very like the customers I saw that day.’

  How difficult can it have been to recognise us as the accused, I wonder, given that we were, all three, seated in the dock? I turned to the jury, to see if they might look as scornful as I felt, but, by the expressions on their faces, they all seemed to have treated this identification as valid. It was nothing less than ludicrous. To think that my fate rested in the hands of this crackpot. I am being unkind, of course, but only wish to convey how I felt, at the time. Lives were at stake; not that I cared two figs for Belle and her husband, but all the same, surely someone should have realised that this woman was simply desperate for attention, and prevented her from taking the stand?

  Pringle could not resist cross-examining Strang, but he failed to elicit much more from her than Aitchison had already done, and I was glad when he relinquished the floor. I wondered how MacDonald could possibly counter such apparently damning testimony.

  ‘Miss Strang, you say you saw these people on Saturday, the 20th of April last year. How is it that you remember that date, so precisely?’

  The waitress gave a shrug of her shoulders. ‘I don’t know, I just do.’

  ‘Did someone, in the course of your precognition, mention that date to you?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Aitchison jumped up, but was waved down by the judge.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Kinbervie. He gave my counsel a warning look and then advised him to continue. MacDonald’s next question took me quite by surprise.

  ‘You had a famous customer, a while ago, did you not, Miss Strang? Your colleagues at the Cocoa Rooms are still full of talk about it. Towards the end of last year, I believe it was.’

  Strang nodded. ‘Aye, sir, it was Miss Loftus, from the Theatre Royal. I served her, sir. We were all very excited to see her, right there, in the room.’

  ‘So I believe. You’re a follower of Miss Marie Loftus, are you? You’ve seen her on the stage in Robinson Crusoe, perhaps?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir, quite a few times. She’s one of my favourites.’

  ‘Does she often come to Lockhart’s?’

  ‘No, sir, it was just that one time.’

  ‘Do you remember what date it was that you served her?’

  ‘It was December, sir, early in December, I think. We were very busy.’

  ‘Can you remember the date, or the day of the week?’

  The waitress paused, and then said: ‘No, sir. It might’ve been a Saturday.’

  ‘And what did Miss Loftus order?’

  ‘Erm—I think it was high tea she had, sir.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I can’t remember anything else.’

  MacDonald consulted his notes. ‘In fact, Miss Loftus has been spoken to, and she gave us her receipt from that day. Would you mind looking at it?’

  A piece of paper from the productions table was carried to the witness.

  ‘Is that the receipt you gave her?’ MacDonald asked. ‘Is it your signature?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘And what does the receipt say that Miss Loftus ord
ered?’

  ‘Just an aerated drink. I remember now, that’s what she had.’

  ‘An aerated drink. Not high tea, then. Yes, I gather that Miss Loftus prefers to dine at home. And what date does it say on the receipt?’

  ‘Monday, the 18th November, sir.’

  ‘The 18th of November—not December, at all—and not a Saturday. So, Miss Strang, it seems you can remember every detail about some anonymous customers you say you served almost a year ago, including the date and time, and what you served them. Yet you have a very poor recollection of a customer you served less than four months ago, a person who is famous, someone—moreover—whom you idolise. You can’t even remember what she ordered. Can you explain this anomaly?’

  ‘Like I said, sir, we were busy that day.’

  ‘No more questions, my lord,’ said MacDonald, returning to his seat.

  Hardly surprisingly, Aitchison chose to re-examine his witness. In his hands, Strang remembered being so flustered by serving Miss Loftus that she failed to notice what the actress had ordered. However, it was an unconvincing challenge. On balance, I felt that although we had not managed to tarnish Strang completely, a question about whether she had been schooled in her answers must have been raised in the minds of all present.

  However, she had pointed at me, along with the other two. I dreaded to think what the jury might make of her story, as they brooded on it overnight and, as I sat in the holding cell at the end of the day, it was difficult not to feel prematurely defeated. When Caskie called to see me, on his way out, I tried to hide my despair.

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘At least three-quarters of the day went in our favour.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Caskie. ‘Bar Aitchison’s japes in trying to place you at the scene.’

  ‘And that waitress! And what about that dreadful declaration?’

  ‘Never mind the declaration, Miss Baxter. As the judge said, it’s not evidence against you. Our German friend could have said anything about anybody, in his declaration, if he thought it might save his rotten neck, but that doesn’t make it true.’

  Caskie meant to reassure me; instead, his words only made me consider my own frail neck. Of all my physical attributes, it was the one that I minded least, for it was slender and graceful. How ironic that my one decent feature might be the very thing to be ruined. What, exactly, happened when a person was hanged? Did the neck break from the fall, or was the windpipe slowly crushed until one suffocated? I pictured a noose tightening around my throat, the fibres of the rope cutting into my skin. Or might I be sent back to gaol, for the rest of my days? I strongly suspected that I would not survive a long term in Duke Street.

  Caskie was still speaking. ‘Now, tomorrow, we must counter the Crown’s production of your bank’s ledger. If we don’t do that, then we’re in big trouble.’

  ‘But how are we to do it?’

  Although both Agnes Deuchars and Mrs Alexander had been kindly co-operative, neither they nor Caskie’s agents had been able to find a single one of the missing receipts that might have exonerated me.

  ‘Well, to be honest, I’ll admit, we’re currently bereft of ideas,’ said Caskie. ‘There’s also Belle’s sister, and she’ll treat us to some blatherskite about having set up a meeting between you and that pair of rascals. So we have that to look forward to. Many a lawyer would tell you there’s no case against you, Miss Baxter, and I’ll admit, there’s not much of a one. But unless we manage to tarnish both Christina Smith and the bank evidence, well…’ He paused, and, perhaps reading the anxiety on my face, tried a different line: ‘In my experience, Miss Baxter, it’s usually the second day that marks the low point in the case for the defence, but we seem to have gone against the convention and had our worst day first.’

  I must say that this reassurance hardly bathed me in relief.

  20

  The following morning, I was plunged further into gloom when I saw that The Scotsman contained the headline ‘Gillespie Girl Trial’ and proceeded to describe me thus: ‘Miss Baxter was dressed in a grey silk frock, dark gloves and charcoal bonnet, with no veil. In appearance, she seems a typical old maid, thin, erect, with fine features, but a Roman nose. While the German’s declaration was read aloud, she glanced at him, once or twice, with no visible emotion.’ The Mail had published a sketch of the three prisoners in the dock, featuring Belle and myself most prominently, above the caption: ‘Who was the Mysterious Veiled Lady?’ The artist (not Findlay, this time) had been rather unkind to me, I felt.

  It was as though the entire country was against me. Noticing that I hung my head, Mrs Fee cleared the newspapers off the table, and chastised Constable Neill for bringing them into the cell. Neil simply gave a shrug of his shoulders, which seemed, to me, an unnecessarily callous gesture.

  My mood did not improve as the morning got underway. Once again Mabel was there to monitor proceedings from the gallery. On this second day, I knew that most of Aitchison’s volleys would be aimed in my direction. I was only too aware how concerned my lawyers were about the potential testimony of the Crown’s key witness, Christina Smith. The bank ledger also loomed large. I felt sure that Aitchison would begin with one of these dreaded pieces of evidence, but the first witness he called was Mrs Annie Gillespie. This announcement caused a marked sensation in the court, as well it might: we were to hear from the dead child’s mother. I myself felt very strange indeed, simply at the sound of Annie’s name. Here was a prospect that I had been dreading. Ever since her outburst in Duke Street gaol, I was aware that she harboured some unwarranted doubts about me, and I knew not whether she had seen sense in the intervening weeks. No doubt, Mabel would also have told her all about yesterday’s events: the German’s declaration, and Helen Strang’s piffle. Consequently, I found it hard to look at Annie as she entered, and, for the most part, I kept my eyes downcast while she was on the stand.

  Here, I find myself pausing, because I am wondering what to say about Annie’s testimony. Most importantly, it must be borne in mind that she was a grieving mother, in a fragile state. In some respects, I would argue that her courage was to be commended. Always an unworldly creature, who was, by nature, as vague as a wisp of smoke, she seemed not only distracted, that day, but also frail and, at times, slightly unhinged. Yet, despite this, she refrained from histrionics and shed not a single tear in court, even though, as Rose’s mother, she had good reason to be distraught. I have often tried to put myself in Annie’s shoes, and can imagine that, for months, all sorts of people had been pouring poison into her ear, misleading her, and distorting her opinion of me. In all probability, she no longer knew which way to turn, who to rely upon, what to believe. In her position, I might well have reacted in the same way, becoming suspicious, distrustful—even delusional, as I must admit that she seemed, at times, on the stand.

  Her words are there, preserved for ever, in Notable Trials, and in Kemp’s pamphlet, if anyone cares to read it. Had I been able to speak in my own defence, during the trial, I would have had something to say about a few of her inaccuracies and misapprehensions. Time is a great deceiver, and Annie’s memory had always been notoriously bad. For instance, our main hope was that MacDonald’s cross-examination would place me alongside her, at Stanley Street, at the approximate time that Rose was kidnapped. Nobody was sure of the exact hour of the abduction, but the police had calculated that it had taken place at some point between three o’clock, when Miss Johnstone had seen the abductors from her window, and half past three, when Mrs Arthur saw Hans hurrying down West Princes Street with Rose in his arms.

  However, Annie was exasperatingly vague about when I had arrived at number 11. She did confirm that I had been with her for most of the afternoon, but could not, or would not, be specific about the exact time of my arrival.

  ‘It might have been about three o’clock,’ she told Aitchison. ‘But it might have been later. I didn’t look at the time.’

  ‘Could it have been four o’clock?’ asked the prosecutor.

  ‘P
erhaps not as late as four—but I can’t be certain.’

  She also misremembered the early days of our friendship, deponing that it was on the afternoon that we met that I had engaged her to paint my portrait, which, of course, was not the case.

  Aitchison seemed very interested in the portrait. Having established that my father had commissioned and paid for the picture, he asked Annie whether Mr Dalrymple had made the payment in person.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘It was Harriet who gave us the money, on his behalf.’

  ‘So, he commissioned and paid for the portrait, but you never met him?’

  ‘No.’

  With a sly glance at me, Aitchison asked her: ‘Where was the portrait hung?’

  ‘At his home in Helensburgh,’ Annie replied. ‘I think that’s where he lives.’

  ‘How do you know that—where it was hung, I mean?’

  ‘From Harriet. I think she said he’d put it in his drawing room.’

  ‘I see—in his drawing room. Now, moving on, tell me more about Miss Baxter. She became your friend, I believe, and you liked her?’

  ‘Yes, for some time, anyway.’

  ‘Did your feelings about her change?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was there an incident that provoked this change in your feelings?’

  ‘Not really, it just happened over time. She became a bit—intrusive. There was this one time I met her in the street and when she asked where I was off to I told her I was going to the shop to buy a bottle of pale ale for Ned, my husband, and Harriet asked me what kind of ale. And when I said I wasn’t sure, maybe Murdoch’s, she laughed and said: “Oh, don’t get Murdoch’s for Ned, he’s not so fond of that.” And I was taken aback, but I found myself asking her what kind of ale I ought to get him, and she suggested Greenhead. And, in fact, she was right because I asked Ned later, and he said he preferred Greenhead Pale Ale. She must have heard him say he liked it or—I don’t know. But it made me feel awkward—strange, that she should know his likes and dislikes.’