Gillespie and I

by Jane Harris

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I put it to you, Mrs Watson, that you’ve embellished your story, and told sensational lies, in order to make your tale more satisfying for readers of this paper.’

  ‘No!’ She glanced at me, and then shook her head. ‘I may be getting paid, but I’ve told the truth here today.’

  ‘How much have you been paid, Mrs Watson?’

  Esther seemed reluctant to name the sum; MacDonald helped her out.

  ‘Is it forty pounds?’

  ‘… Yes,’ said Esther, closing her eyes.

  There was a gasp from the public benches, for this was a large sum to most of those present, who might never see such an amount of money all at once.

  ‘Forty pounds—let it be recorded—forty pounds—to tell a sordid story, to ruin the reputation of your former friend.’

  The advocate turned to the bench and addressed the judge—who could not, at that moment, have looked more surprised had MacDonald thrown up his gown and danced a cancan on the evidence table.

  ‘My lord, not only is the relevance of Mrs Watson’s evidence in question, but this is a most flagrant case of a witness being promised a reward for her story. I move that her entire testimony be excluded from the jury’s consideration.’

  Kinbervie scratched beneath his wig.

  ‘Madam, is this true? You’ve sold your story to a newspaper?’

  Esther looked suitably shamefaced. ‘Yes, my lord,’ she said, and then added, with a girlish simper: ‘I didn’t think it would matter.’

  ‘Well,’ said Kinbervie. ‘It does—and you needn’t flutter your eyelashes at me.’ Then, he turned to address the jury. ‘Gentlemen, I must ask you to disregard the evidence of this witness.’

  Subsequently, he took Esther to task, most sternly, for wasting the time of the High Court of Justiciary. I scarcely heard a word that he said to her. It was such an overwhelming relief that my former friend had shown herself to be an out-and-out liar (as well as a non-entity). And yet, I wondered how effective the judge’s instruction to the jury could be. After all, whether he told them to disregard her or not, the fact remained that they had listened to every word of her scurrilous account, and it seemed inconceivable that they would not have been swayed, in some degree.

  Caskie was preoccupied when he came to see me, during the recess. He and MacDonald had been discussing Aitchison, and the way that he had conducted his prosecution thus far. MacDonald was convinced that the Advocate Depute would leave his key witness, Christina Smith, to the very last, in order to produce her, with a flourish, and end on a dramatic note, with her testimony that she had, at my request, set up a meeting between her sister and brother-in-law and myself.

  ‘Aitchison’s clever, you know,’ Caskie told me. ‘But it’s a risky strategy. He’s saved all his most damning evidence until the very last few hours. He wants to swirl his cape and leave the stage with a bang, for he only has this afternoon to wheel on his linchpins: Christina, and this blasted bank evidence.’

  ‘I do wish we’d been able to trace those builder’s receipts,’ I muttered.

  ‘Aye well, we didn’t, and I don’t doubt Aitchison will make it look as though you went to the Bank of Scotland in St Vincent Place to withdraw money which you then paid to our German friend.’

  ‘I certainly did no such thing. In fact, I don’t believe I’ve ever set foot in the Bank of Scotland.’

  Caskie looked startled. ‘But, Miss Baxter, there’s no question you’ve withdrawn money from there. Your name appears in the ledger, many times.’

  ‘I doubt that it features in the Bank of Scotland’s ledger, Mr Caskie. I use the National Bank of Scotland.’

  He thought for a moment, and then clicked his tongue. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Foolish of me, but the names are so similar, and everyone knows that Bank of Scotland.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s such an ugly lump of stone. The National is just up the street, and has a very charming façade, which is why I chose it.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Caskie, frowning, as though trying to remember something. Certainly, this conversation had troubled him, but he simply hurried back upstairs, without saying anything further.

  Later, as I resumed my place in the dock, I glanced up at the spectators. A terrible sense of foreboding was growing within me, not helped by the possibility that Ned’s wife might decide to join Mabel in the gallery, now that she had testified; I did not relish the notion of spending the next few hours beneath her gaze. However, there was no sign of Annie, as yet.

  While the court waited for Kinbervie’s return from luncheon, I noticed that Caskie had drifted over to the evidence table. He was examining the bank ledger and some paperwork, with a puzzled look on his face. Before long, he hurried over to MacDonald, document in hand, and began to whisper urgently in his ear. The advocate frowned as he took the sheet of paper from Caskie and peered at it, but there was no time for me to fathom what the matter might be, because, just then, the judge returned, and the proceedings got underway.

  As it turned out, Aitchison’s first move, that afternoon, was to summon one Neil Ennitt, bank clerk. Mr Ennitt was a gangly young man with pimples, and I must admit that I felt inordinately apprehensive as he was sworn, given Caskie’s concerns about the bank evidence. Thus, as the prosecutor approached the evidence table and introduced the ledger, I braced myself, only to see my advocate surging to his feet, at once, with the words:

  ‘My Lord, I have an objection.’

  The judge looked startled. ‘Are you sure, Mr MacDonald?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord, there’s a matter I must bring to your attention, and it would require a recess.’

  Kinbervie gave a sigh. ‘Is that really necessary?’ He indicated the jury. ‘These good gentlemen have only just resumed their seats.’

  ‘Apologies, my lord, but I’ve an objection to the line of evidence.’

  With visible irritation, Kinbervie adjourned the jury and the witness. As they filed out, we all waited, on tenterhooks, to hear what my counsel might have to say.

  MacDonald nodded to the Macer, who handed up a piece of paper to Kinbervie—the same document that appeared to have troubled Caskie.

  ‘If Your Lordship would have before you Production Number 17,’ MacDonald began. ‘Your Lordship will see that it is a warrant. This was issued last year when detectives at Cranston Street undertook to examine Miss Baxter’s finances. As you’ll see, the document has been issued in the name of the Bank of Scotland, in Glasgow, at number 2, St Vincent Street.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Kinbervie, impatiently, glancing at the warrant.

  ‘My lord, in the first place, the correct address is number 2, St Vincent Place: at the George Square end, St Vincent Street becomes St Vincent Place.’

  ‘May I see the warrant?’ Aitchison interjected, coldly.

  The judge passed it to him, saying: ‘Mr MacDonald—what’s your point?’

  ‘In fact, my lord, Miss Baxter doesn’t even possess an account at this bank, nor at any branch of the Bank of Scotland. Her bank is the National Bank of Scotland—which, you’ll be aware, my lord, is a separate institution. The National is further up the road, on St Vincent Street itself, a smaller building. Now, it may be that, in filling out the details on this warrant, an understandable mistake was made: most Glaswegians, asked to name a bank on St Vincent Street, would immediately think of the Bank of Scotland, although it is, in fact, on St Vincent Place. Understandable or not, a mistake has been made and an inexcusable mistake at that. This warrant has been made out for the wrong bank.’

  ‘My lord,’ interrupted Aitchison. ‘The evidence from the ledger will show clearly that Miss Baxter withdrew large sums of money upon certain dates. It’s an integral part of the case against them.’

  ‘No doubt,’ said the judge, who seemed scarce able to believe his ears. ‘Mr MacDonald, what of the policeman who went to fetch this ledger? Surely he should have checked the details on his warrant?’

  ‘It appears he didn’t, my
lord, and this is definitely the warrant that was presented at the National.’

  ‘By some miracle, the fellow went to the correct bank,’ said Kinbervie, drily.

  MacDonald nodded. ‘My Lord, he was probably acting on verbal instructions from a superior. And then, the bank staff, no doubt flustered by the police presence, also appear to have failed to check the warrant properly.’

  Kinbervie raised a scathing eyebrow. ‘One tends to assume—naively, it seems—that police documents are beyond criticism.’

  ‘Indeed so, my lord, but the upshot is that the ledger was seized without any legal authority and therefore is inadmissible as evidence in this trial.’

  Aitchison affected boredom. ‘My lord, it’s hardly an egregious error,’ he said. ‘What matters is that we have the correct ledger.’

  ‘Pray give me a moment, Advocate Depute, in order to consider,’ said Kinbervie, and he fell to perusing the warrant, in silence.

  And so, I had been right in thinking that something had bothered Caskie, during the recess. Having checked the paperwork, he must have realised what had planted the notion in his mind that I was a customer of the Bank of Scotland: it was the warrant, which (I later learned) he had glanced at, only that morning. Being an old stager, versed in the technicalities of the law, he hoped that this tiny mistake could be exploited in our favour, and that there was a chance that we might be able to have the bank evidence disallowed. But would the judge be persuaded?

  Presently, after due consideration, Kinbervie looked up.

  ‘Advocate Depute, your production—the ledger—is from Miss Baxter’s bank, the National Bank, in St Vincent Street, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord. It’s from the correct bank, and it’s the correct ledger and can be spoken to by Mr Ennitt, the bank employee.’

  Disappointment began to sink through my stomach, as Kinbervie continued:

  ‘You’d agree with me, Advocate Depute, that this warrant relates not to the National Bank of Scotland, but to the Bank of Scotland.’

  ‘Yes, my Lord, but—’

  ‘Advocate Depute, there are rules to be followed in these matters, as you well know,’ said the judge and then, with a nod, to MacDonald, he raised his voice for the benefit of the general assembly. ‘This evidence was erroneously acquired, and is therefore inadmissible in this court, and must be withdrawn. I’m assuming, Advocate Depute, your witness was only going to speak to the ledger, in which case, no need to recall him.’

  It took me a moment to realise that we had won our point.

  Aitchison knew when he was defeated. With a curt nod, he returned to his table. There was a pause, as he stared down at his papers, one absent-minded hand fiddling with the ties at the back of his wig, the muscles in his jaw twitching and grinding, as though his face was changing gear.

  Well—that was, indeed, a highly unexpected stroke of luck. The prosecutor’s first real setback: we had won a crucial battle, one of two that we would have to win that afternoon, if we were to have even a chance of success. For the first time since the previous day, I felt a glimmer of hope.

  We had not long to relish the moment, however, before Aitchison galvanised his forces and resumed the offensive, with the reading of my declaration. I cannot say that it was worth his while, for there was nothing therein that helped his case: I had simply told the truth and, in listening to my own statement, read aloud, I felt that I had given a fair and eloquent account of myself. Perhaps the prosecutor agreed, for he moved on, swiftly, by calling Ned Gillespie, an announcement that knocked the wind out of me as surely as though I had been punched in the pit of my stomach. Here was a moment that I had been anticipating for weeks. Of course, prior to the trial, it was impossible to know exactly whom Aitchison might put on the stand. Witnesses have no choice in whether they appear for the prosecution or the defence and, although being summoned by the Crown does not necessarily imply that a person will speak ill of the accused, it had wounded me to see Ned’s name so casually recorded on the witness list of ‘the opposition’, alongside the likes of Esther Watson. I had attempted to ascertain whether my lawyer thought that Ned was likely to be called, but Caskie had seemed uncertain, saying: ‘Your man Gillespie wouldnae be at the top of my list, if I were prosecuting—but he wouldnae be at the bottom either.’

  As we waited for Ned’s arrival, a curious unreality seemed to creep into the High Court. I had a sense of being at unbearably close proximity to everybody in the room, and yet, simultaneously, I felt very far away. For the first time, I noticed a few peanut shells on the floor, near my feet, and an unaccountable whimsicality made me wonder who on earth, whilst in the dock—what murderer, what baby-farmer, what brute—would have been so cool-blooded as to munch on nuts whilst watching their own trial unfold before them, with the casual interest of a circusgoer, picnicking at the ringside? I began to feel dizzy. The faces of spectators in the public gallery swam before me. They seemed harsh and inhuman, as though they had been carved in wood. Were they really shouting? The clamour of voices was so loud that it drowned out the approach of Ned’s footsteps, but silence fell as soon as he entered the court.

  If I close my eyes now, I can still picture him. Had his name not been called out, I might not have recognised my dear friend. His complexion had as much life and colour as cold ashes in a grate. His hair was almost entirely grey. Despite the chill in the Parliament Building, a sheen of perspiration lay clammy upon his skin. He walked slowly, deliberately, and looked neither right nor left as he crossed the room, towards the stand. A clerk passed him the Bible, and Ned gazed at the floor, grimacing every so often, while he was sworn. For anyone who knew him, it was most disconcerting to watch. It occurred to me that he might actually be physically ill, in some way.

  Aitchison was asking him a question.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Ned. ‘At the Grosvenor Gallery. I had a painting in an exhibition there. We met only briefly.’

  ‘And then you encountered her again, in Glasgow, at the International Exhibition, in the May of 1888.’

  ‘Aye. By then, she’d become acquainted with the women in my family.’

  ‘Where was she residing, at this time?’

  ‘Round the corner from us, in Queen’s Crescent.’

  ‘The very same Queen’s Crescent from where your daughter was snatched?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Ned.

  ‘And when did Miss Baxter’s visit to Glasgow become permanent?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think, to begin with, she only meant to stay for a few months, but as time went by, she talked less and less of going back down south.’

  ‘And you became close to her.’

  A frown creased Ned’s brow. ‘Well, the women in my family did. My wife painted Harriet’s portrait, and—eh—she was often in our home, or across the street, with my mother and sister. And, of course, that first summer, we all spent time together, at the Exhibition.’

  ‘So, if I may repeat the question, you became close to her?’

  ‘Only in the sense that she was a friend of my wife.’

  Here, of necessity, Ned was being cautious and discreet. Of course, we were close friends—as many men and women are, nowadays—but it would have been inappropriate to advertise the fact, back then. Moreover, there had been all those rumours, after Findlay’s sketch of us had appeared in The Thistle.

  ‘And—you would sometimes bump into Miss Baxter, in the park and street?’

  Ned thought for a moment before replying: ‘Yes, we did.’

  ‘How often did that happen?’

  ‘Quite a lot. Harriet’s lodgings were only a few minutes from our building. Where we live, you can’t walk down the street for bumping into people you know.’

  ‘I see. And did you bump into Miss Baxter rather more frequently than might be explained by simple coincidence?’

  ‘No. As I said, we were neighbours. It was perfectly normal.’

  Aitchison cast one of his looks of mild disbelief towards the jury box, and then re
marked: ‘You personally must have bumped into Miss Baxter from time to time, when you were alone?’

  Ned scowled. ‘What do you mean to imply, sir?’

  ‘Nothing at all. I simply would like to know whether you ever bumped into Miss Baxter, accidentally, when you were unaccompanied?’

  As though it were an effort to contain his temper, Ned set his jaw, and replied, tersely: ‘Aye.’ His manner was brusque, but I could tell that he was simply in a highly emotional and anxious state.

  ‘How often? Once—twice? Half-a-dozen times? Fifty?’

  ‘I would say in the region of a dozen.’

  ‘A dozen times? Does that not seem rather a lot to you, Mr Gillespie?’

  ‘Is it your intention to ask further questions on this matter?’ Ned snapped. ‘Or shall we talk about something more pertinent to the death of my daughter?’

  Taken aback—as we all were—the judge coughed and spluttered, then intervened.

  ‘Mr Gillespie. We all realise you must be very upset, but be so kind as to answer the Advocate Depute’s questions. I shall be the one to dictate the pace, in this courtroom, and I do not require your assistance.’

  Ned looked somewhat chastened. ‘I beg your pardon, my lord.’ Poor Ned! It was only the strain that made him sound so impatient and irritable. In other circumstances, I would have applauded his riposte to Aitchison, for I was sick of seeing witness after witness treat the man with fawning deference.

  Kinbervie gestured to the prosecutor. ‘Please continue.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord. Now then, Mr Gillespie, did you not think it coincidental that you met Miss Baxter in London, and then, a few months later, she turns up in Glasgow, residing not three minutes walk from your home?’

  ‘It was a coincidence—but coincidences do happen.’

  ‘And you never felt bothered by Miss Baxter, or pestered by her?’

  Ned pursed his lips, and frowned again. ‘Sometimes we did. My wife began to tire of her visits, at one point. But Harriet was always so very kind and helpful. To shun her, or avoid her, would have been awkward, even churlish. And she is an unmarried lady, living in solitary circumstances. Our feeling was that she was, perhaps, lonely, in Glasgow, and we tried to make her feel welcome.’