Gillespie and I

by Jane Harris

  ‘It was around the time that you befriended Miss Baxter, was it not, that the behaviour of your eldest daughter, Sibyl, began to deteriorate?’

  ‘About that time, aye, although she’s always been a high-spirited child. She went through a difficult period, but she’s now much better behaved.’

  ‘And this improvement in her behaviour dates from when?’

  ‘Eh—she’s been getting much better these past few months.’

  ‘A period that coincides, rather neatly, don’t you think, with Miss Baxter’s incarceration in prison?’ Ned simply looked troubled, and so Aitchison continued without waiting for an answer. ‘How did Sibyl and Miss Baxter get along with each other?’

  Ned gave a shrug of his shoulders. ‘Sibyl is a child. They got along well enough. Harriet was always kind to her, and brought her presents.’

  ‘Ah, yes—the many presents of Miss Harriet Baxter. And you yourself, Mr Gillespie, how do you feel about your daughter—about Sibyl?’

  A shadow passed across Ned’s face. There was a pause, and then, when he spoke, his voice was cracked, gruff with emotion.

  ‘She means everything to me.’

  Aitchison acknowledged Ned’s grief with a deferential bow of his head.

  ‘Understandably so, Mr Gillespie, understandably so.’ Here, the prosecutor paused, and took a sip of water, before resuming: ‘But sir, did it ever seem to you that your affection for your daughters or your wife might have vexed Miss Baxter?’

  ‘I don’t follow what you mean.’

  ‘Let me put it more plainly—did you ever suspect that Miss Baxter might be jealous of Sibyl, or jealous of your wife or, indeed, of anybody who might have been close to you, or the recipient of your affection?’

  Here, I turned to stare at MacDonald, expecting to see him rise to his feet but, to my dismay, he did nothing. He just sat there. Aitchison continued with his questions, in a coaxing manner, his voice full of spurious concern.

  ‘Mr Gillespie, on the 31st of December 1888, you held a Hogmanay celebration at which Miss Baxter was one of the guests, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I believe that punch was served that evening, and everyone who drank that punch fell ill, is that so?’

  ‘Yes. To my mind, it was bad wine that caused the trouble.’

  ‘Indeed? Please tell us what was found, the following day, in your daughter Sibyl’s room, in the pocket of her apron.’

  Ned coughed, before replying: ‘An empty packet of rodent poison.’

  ‘And did Sibyl get the blame for what had happened, with the punch?’

  ‘Not from me, anyway. My wife and mother thought different.’

  ‘On the night of the party, did Miss Baxter have access to Sibyl’s room?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And would she have had an opportunity to put the packet of poison in your daughter’s apron?’

  ‘She had the opportunity, but you can’t blame Harriet. She herself got ill that night. If she knew there was poison in the punch, then why would she drink it? Like I said, it was just bad wine.’

  ‘Did you see Miss Baxter drink the punch, Mr Gillespie?’

  ‘I think so. I saw her with a glass of it, at one point.’

  ‘Did you see her take a sip from the glass?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Did you see her being ill?’

  ‘Not exactly. But she looked terrible, and complained of a stomach ache.’

  ‘And was she seen by a doctor, like the others who became ill that night?’

  ‘No. She didn’t want to make any fuss—very typical of Harriet.’

  Aitchison raised his brows and widened his eyes.

  Really, I need hardly interject here to defend myself, or make any justification, for Ned said it all. His stubborn refusal to believe that I could have been responsible for any of Sibyl’s crimes speaks volumes. Realising that he was on a hiding to nothing with this folderol about the poison, Aitchison moved on.

  ‘Did it never cross your mind, Mr Gillespie, that Harriet Baxter might have had some malign intent with regard to certain members of your family—that she could, for her own complicated reasons, have been trying to punish Sibyl, or cause a rift between you and your wife?’

  Ned hesitated before replying. ‘Harriet—Miss Baxter—is so kind, she seemed like a good friend to us. My wife may have her doubts. But nothing of the sort ever entered my mind, until—’

  ‘Until when, Mr Gillespie?’

  Why did MacDonald not do something? He was just sitting there, as though he had been glued to his seat. His expression was as calm as ever, but his eyes had glazed over in a way that made me suspect, of a sudden, that he had lost confidence.

  Turning back to the stand, I was shocked to realise that, for the first time since he had entered the room, Ned was looking directly at me. It quite took me by surprise, for I had been glaring over at MacDonald, trying to will him, by dint of brainpower, to leap up and intervene. And now, Ned’s eyes were upon me: staring, questioning, wanting to know. He seemed, almost, to be pleading with me, in silence. The seconds ticked by: how many, exactly, I could not say. What oceans of meaning can be contained, within one look! Held in his gaze, I stared back at him, for as long as I was able and, in the end, it was not any sense of guilt on my part that made me glance away (put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr P. E. Dant—or whatever your name was—of The Scotsman); quite the contrary. It was simply that Ned looked so tortured, so haunted, so wounded, and I could not bear to see my dear friend in such a wretched state, knowing all the horrors that he had gone through. It cracked my heart in two. I bowed my head and stared at the floor beneath my feet, the waxy green linoleum of the dock.

  ‘Mr Gillespie?’ Aitchison prompted.

  I heard Ned clear his throat and then, after a moment, he continued.

  ‘I suppose, after Harriet’s arrest, once we’d got over the shock of it, I did begin to wonder, and think back. I remembered that one of our maids, Jessie, had said some vile things about Harriet, when she was dismissed, about a year ago. Of course, we didn’t believe a word then, because Jessie had stolen something from us and we thought she was just trying to worm her way out of a tricky situation.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I’m not sure what to think any more. I don’t know what to think about anything or anyone, including Harriet Baxter.’

  After that, I could not look at him again. It was as though something very heavy had landed on my heart, squashing it, and crushing all the breath out of me. Of a sudden, I ceased to care what happened. They could find me guilty, if they wanted. They could tear me, limb from limb.

  Too late—too late. Outside, the bells are ringing. Christ Church, St Giles in the Field, St George’s. And all of them say, too late.

  The next few witnesses are but dim in my memory. As I came back to my senses, I was aware of Aitchison summoning the dreaded Christina Smith to the stand and then a lull, as we waited for her inevitable arrival. Everything around me seemed dull and dampened. It was as though I was shut away from my surroundings. Straight ahead of me, Aitchison had puffed himself up in preparation for his star witness. As he turned to survey the court, his gaze met mine. His green eyes glinted. Unable to bear the sight of him, I bent my head and focused on the little vial of smelling salts in my hand. At some point, I came back to my senses, when the hiatus was broken by the return of the Macer. He entered alone, and shook his head in response to a questioning look from Aitchison. There was a pause, whilst the prosecutor carried on whispered conversations, first with the Macer, and then with various legal colleagues. Presently, he turned to address the judge.

  ‘My Lord, for the moment, I’m afraid we’re unable to locate one of our key witnesses. We hope to produce her, at any minute. She did answer her citation this morning, and we believe she’s in the vicinity, somewhere.’

  Kinbervie slid a sideways glance at the clock. It was ten minutes short of seven. ‘Might I remi
nd you of the hour, Advocate Depute? Have you no one to produce, in the meantime? If I’m not mistaken, you’re in no position to delay, for this trial must conclude tomorrow.’

  ‘You are never mistaken, my lord,’ said Aitchison. ‘If I can just beg your patience in waiting for Miss Smith.’

  Kinbervie clucked his tongue. ‘It’s now ten minutes to seven. You have until the hour to place her in the witness box.’

  ‘Very good, my lord.’

  Gathering his assistants and the Macer around him, Aitchison whispered urgently to them, and then they hurried out of the chamber, one after the other. The judge sat back in his chair, pulling at his lower lip, with one eye on the clock. I myself watched the minute hand as it made its slow progress upwards, towards, and then beyond, the number 11. In the interim, the public remained remarkably quiet, aware that the court was still in session, and that Kinbervie would tolerate no more disruptions. Aitchison’s demeanour appeared calm, and it was only by careful study that one could see how he betrayed his nerves in the twitch of his fingers. As the minute hand reached the hour, footsteps were heard scuttling along the corridor towards the court. The door flew open, and the Macer practically skidded into the chamber. Aitchison, as beady-eyed and irascible as an owl, stared at him.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded.

  ‘I’m sorry sir,’ replied the Macer. ‘I spoke to Miss Smith myself, this morning, in the waiting room, but it seems that one of the caretakers noticed her leave the building soon afterwards—and she hasn’t been seen since.’

  Aitchison turned to the judge. ‘My lord, if I may—’

  ‘Advocate Depute,’ interjected Kinbervie. ‘Can you produce your witness?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘Do you have another witness whom you wish to present?’

  Aitchison was seen to bow his head, a fraction. Then, he looked up, his expression so full of bile that I thought he might spit.

  ‘Call Jessie McKenzie,’ he announced.

  You may or may not remember that Jessie had worked as the Gillespies’ maid for about six months. Aitchison produced her as though he had just turned over a winning card. However, I saw MacDonald nod to himself, and smile. Evidently, he felt capable of dealing with McKenzie. It was no shock to learn that she was a witness: her name had been on the original list, and she had been precognosed, but I suppose that it was a slight surprise that, in the absence of Christina, Aitchison had called her. I had warned Caskie that Jessie had taken a dislike to me, simply because I was English, and I had told him about an incident that had turned out to be a misunderstanding on her part, but he was confident that, no matter what she said, we could discredit her testimony, because she was a thief.

  Led by Aitchison, Jessie began to describe certain events that she claimed took place in the March of 1889: the aforementioned misunderstanding. MacDonald was soon on his feet.

  ‘My lord, I object to this line of questioning.’

  The judge peered at him. ‘On what grounds, might I ask?’

  ‘On grounds of relevance, my Lord. This alleged incident took place weeks before the abduction, and appears to have little or nothing to do with this case. My learned friend is simply grasping at straws, to fill the gaping hole left in his case by his absconded witness.’

  The judge glanced at Aitchison. ‘Advocate Depute?’

  ‘My lord, I assure you that Miss McKenzie’s evidence will cast light upon the direct evidence in the case.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Kinbervie. ‘Let’s hear what the young lady has to say, and then we can decide whether or not it’s relevant.’

  Since Jessie’s testimony is printed verbatim in Kemp’s pamphlet, I will skip Aitchison’s examination of her—which was interrupted continually by objections from MacDonald—and simply take the opportunity to make my denials here: for instance, if what she said was true, then why did she not challenge me, at the time, like any sensible person would?

  MacDonald put this very question to her during his cross-examination, but she was evasive, saying that she had not wanted to confront me.

  ‘Miss Baxter was a friend of the family, sir. It would have been awkward.’

  ‘If, as you say, you spied upon her that day, can you explain why Miss Baxter failed to see or hear you?’

  ‘Well, sir, I didnae make any noise. Like I said, she went in the dining room, and I wondered what she was up to, so I crept across the hall, and the door was half open, so I peeked through the crack between the door and the frame.’

  ‘And afterwards, what did you do?’

  ‘Afterwards?’

  ‘After you’d spied on her.’

  ‘Just went back to the kitchen. And then later, when she’d went home, I had a look to see what it was she’d done.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said MacDonald, peering at his notes. ‘And please tell us what you found, exactly.’

  ‘I already said—’

  ‘Yes, but I’d like you to be more specific. What did you find on the wall?’

  Thus far, both Aitchison and Pringle had dealt with the issue in quite general terms, though I cannot decide whether this was due to prudery on their part or a desire to avoid, in the minds of the jury, association with something so crude.

  Jessie’s cheeks had flushed. ‘It was—I’d rather not say in public, sir.’

  ‘You’ve already told us, have you not, that it was an obscene drawing?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Done in red and black crayon—low down—on the wall.’

  ‘Yes, like I said.’

  ‘Anatomical?’

  ‘Sorry, sir—I don’t understand the question.’

  ‘You said the drawing depicted a part of the human body—the male body?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘Let’s be clear—what you are claiming is that Miss Baxter—this lady you see before you now in the dock—got down on her hands and knees and—with a child’s crayons—defaced the wall of her friend’s dining room with an obscene drawing of the—excuse me, my lord, ladies, for this coarseness of terminology—the male private parts, executed in red and black?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘The red crayon, presumably, used to draw the outline of the male organ—is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the black?’

  ‘For the—for the hairs, sir.’

  ‘In your opinion, Miss Baxter would do this for what reason?’

  ‘Like I said before, sir, I don’t really know, but she must have wanted to get Sibyl into trouble, because Sibyl was always in trouble, at that time, for doing things like drawing on walls, and hiding things and breaking them.’

  ‘You didn’t confront Miss Baxter, at the time, and you didn’t express any concern to your employers?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Why did you not tell them? Surely that would have been the thing to do?’

  ‘Miss Baxter was their friend. She was always at the house. They spoke well of her—I didn’t think they’d believe me.’

  ‘Miss Baxter was helpful to your employers, wasn’t she?’

  Jessie gave a shrug of her shoulders. ‘She certainly made herself useful.’

  ‘And she was fond of the children?’

  ‘Rose, aye. Poor Sibyl, she’s not an easy bairn—you have to indulge her.’

  ‘Did Miss Baxter indulge her?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘And the children liked Miss Baxter?’

  ‘I suppose so. She gave them lots of presents.’

  ‘Were you jealous of Miss Baxter, Miss MacKenzie? Of her friendship with the family, her relationship with the children?’

  ‘No, not at all. I’m not jealous of her, no, I’m not, I’m quite happy, so I am.’

  MacDonald raised an eyebrow, eloquently conveying the thought that must have been going through the minds of all present. He might have remarked: ‘The lady doth protest too much’, but instead, he simply asked: ‘You’re sure of that?’

&nb
sp; ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘Now, tell me—think very carefully, back to that day—did you see the crayons in Miss Baxter’s hand, at any point?’

  ‘… No, sir.’

  ‘Did you see her, in fact, make any mark on the wall with a crayon?’

  ‘No, sir, she had her back to the door, and I couldn’t see, exactly. I just saw her crouched down in the corner, and then, after she left, I went and looked at what she’d drawn.’

  ‘That was your assumption—that she’d been drawing on the wall.’

  ‘There was a drawing, where she’d crouched down. It wasnae there before.’

  ‘Prior to that afternoon, how long was it since you entered the dining room?’

  ‘I don’t know—a day or so? The previous night, it might have been.’

  ‘And the children had access to the room in that time?’

  ‘Well—yes.’

  ‘Could one of the children, then—could Sibyl not have done the drawing?’

  ‘Well—I suppose so. But I saw Miss Baxter right there.’

  ‘Yes, but you didn’t actually see her make any marks on the wall, did you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Your own action, at the time, once Miss Baxter had gone, was to wipe away the drawing. Why did you do that?’

  ‘Because I knew Sibyl would get in trouble for it. She was always getting into trouble, and it wasn’t her that done it—not this time, anyway.’

  ‘Did it not occur to you, at any point, that Miss Baxter might have been trying to do exactly the same thing—that she might have been trying to wipe away the drawing, to get rid of it, in order to protect Sibyl, just like you’d done. Did that not occur to you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Was the drawing smudged at all?’

  ‘Not much—a wee bit.’

  ‘You mentioned that you wiped away the drawing with a scrubbing brush, and soap and water. Could you have wiped it off with your bare hand?’

  ‘I don’t think so—not very well.’

  ‘You’ve stated that, a few days later, you spoke to Miss Baxter, in private, and asked her what she’d been doing in the dining room. How did she respond?’