by Jane Harris
Meanwhile, Ned had leaned forward in his seat, and was holding his head in his hands. He only looked up when the Macer returned, leading Sibyl into the courtroom. Every person present watched her cross the chamber. She looked more frail than ever. Her eyes were dull, her hair a few pale wisps hanging down below her plaid hat. She wore a matching coat, on top of a high-necked velveteen frock, trimmed with crape. The clothes swamped her and, beneath them, one could tell that her limbs were mere bones, draped in skin. Of course, the weather was still cold, and it was appropriate that she should be bundled up for warmth, but I could not forget that the layers of plaid and velveteen also helped to conceal her scars. When she climbed into the witness box, only her hat and the sallow little face beneath it were visible above the top rail. To begin with, she kept her eyes fixed upon the ground, and the cast of her countenance was so wary and full of foreboding that Kinbervie leaned forward and spoke to her, reassuringly:
‘Now then, young lady, be not afraid. These good gentlemen here just wish to ask you some questions. Then you can return to your mother. Is that understood?’
Sibyl looked up and nodded, timidly, her eyes huge in her pinched little face.
‘Good girl. Now you must tell the truth, dear. Do you understand what I mean by the truth? For instance, if I said I was wearing a wig on my head, would that be the truth, or a lie?’
Sibyl regarded him, dubiously, as though she feared that he might play a trick upon her. ‘The truth?’ she said, at length, in a small, uncertain voice.
‘That’s right. And if I said I was wearing—oh, let’s say—a haggis on my head, what would that be—truth or lie?’
The child simpered, then said, with more confidence: ‘A lie.’
‘Very good. And why must we tell the truth here, in court?’
Sibyl considered this question for a moment, before speaking.
‘Because we’re to find out what happened to Rose, and it’s important because if it’s proved then the people that took her can be punished, but if it isn’t proved, they won’t be punished—nor should they be.’
Inwardly, I could not help but smile, because it was as though Ned was speaking through her; no doubt, he would have seen it as his duty to try and explain to his daughter some principles of justice and the law. I glanced up at him, but his gaze was fixed, intently, upon Sibyl. Evidently, she had impressed the judge.
‘I’ve known, in my time, one or two lawyers who could not express it so succinctly,’ he said. ‘Thank you, young lady.’ He turned to my counsel. ‘Mr MacDonald, sir, if you would—be brief.’
MacDonald approached the witness box.
‘Now then, Sibyl,’ he said, in soft, yet audible, tones. ‘I won’t ask too many questions, and I just want you to answer each one as you see fit. Do you think you can do that for me?’ She nodded. ‘Good girl. Now then, I want you to think back to the day when your sister Rose went missing, last year. Do you remember that day? You can tell me “yes” or “no”, if you would?’
‘Yes,’ lisped the child.
‘Very good. Now, you and—’
‘Rose is dead,’ Sibyl said loudly, interrupting him.
‘Yes, that’s right—and we’re trying to find out how it happened. Now, Sibyl, you and your sister were playing in the gardens that day, weren’t you, at Queen’s Crescent? Do you remember playing in the gardens? You can answer “yes” or “no”.’
‘Yes.’
‘Good girl. And can you remember what else happened that day?’
Sibyl thought for a moment. ‘There was a dead bird on the ground—but I didn’t touch it.’
‘Good—and did you see anyone else at the Gardens? Any other person?’
‘There was a lady came to the gate.’
‘I see—a lady. And did she speak to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She asked me to go to the grocer to buy some sugar.’
‘And did she give you some money?’
‘Two pennies. One for the sugar and one for me, but—but—but I would have shared my penny with Rose—I would have.’
‘Of course you would. Now, Sibyl, I want you to think carefully, and tell me what the lady looked like.’
‘She had on a blue dress, and it was shiny.’
‘Anything else?’
‘She had a hat on, with a veil.’
‘And was she thin, fat, or average in size?’
‘I think she was quite a bit thin.’
‘Now then Sibyl, I want you to look over here.’ MacDonald came and stood in front of the dock. ‘Look at the two ladies sitting behind me. Now, does either of them resemble the woman you saw that day?’
Sibyl flicked a glance at us and then immediately turned back to MacDonald.
‘Please may I go closer?’
The advocate glanced at Kinbervie, who nodded assent. MacDonald hurried to the stand and led Sibyl down into the well of the court, bringing her directly in front of the dock, so close that I could see the downy hairs that grew along her jawline. The child was quaking. She stared, solemnly, first at Hans, then at Belle. It was all very unnerving. MacDonald tried to put her at ease.
‘Take your time,’ he said. ‘Tell me if you see the lady you saw that day.’
Sibyl tilted her head to one side and looked directly up at me, for the first time. Her eyelids narrowed and I saw her lips move, but she made no audible sound. I believe that she might have said my name to herself, under her breath. Then she smiled at me. I cannot tell what made me shudder: perhaps it was just the look in her eyes, a kind of cold deadness. Her gaze passed back along the dock to Belle, whose countenance showed plainly that she was sick with dread at this turn of events.
‘Take your time,’ MacDonald was saying.
The child looked from Belle to me, and back again. My entire body was rigid with anxiety. Every person in the room was silent and still, as we all gazed at Sibyl.
‘Look at the ladies, and if you recognise the one you saw at the Gardens, just tell me “yes” or “no”.’
‘Yes,’ said Sibyl, at length, her voice flat and expressionless.
‘Perhaps it would be easiest if you pointed. Just raise your arm and point at the lady who asked you to go and buy sugar. Which lady did you see?’
Sibyl raised her arm and extended her finger. To begin with, her hand hovered, so that she was not pointing at anyone in particular, except Schlutterhose or one of the policemen. I held my breath. Of a sudden, it was as though I could see more clearly. Everything in the courtroom was radiantly defined. Everything was brighter, more vivid. I could see the stitching in the seams of Sibyl’s coat. The colours of the plaid threads were lush to my eyes. Strangely, I felt that I had been granted supernatural powers, and that I understood, innately, how those threads had been woven together. Sibyl’s trembling hand became the focus of my newly razor-sharp mind. Her skin was so pale that it seemed to glow. Her nails were short and ragged but I knew, beyond doubt, that, at some future date, she would cease to bite them. Her bony little fingers trembled, but I was seized by the conviction that, one day, she would wear a wedding ring, and her hand would be held, and caressed, by her husband. She might seem fragile now, but, in the end, she would get well again, and lead a normal life.
The moment seemed to last for ever. Then, at length, Sibyl swivelled, and pointed directly at Belle.
‘Her there, in the middle. That’s the lady I saw.’
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Belle dropping her gaze to the floor, scowling, as though disgraced. The entire courtroom seemed to exhale, as one.
‘Good girl,’ said MacDonald. ‘Now you can—’
He was about to help the child back to the stand when Sibyl suddenly hunched over on the spot. She opened her mouth, as if to speak, and then her head tipped forwards. In a flash, she reached out and grabbed the dock, right in front of me, her hands gripping the bars of the balustrade, next to my feet. In the same moment, she made a faint w
hining noise, then her head jerked back again, and she stared me right in the eye.
‘Harriet!’ she cried.
Of a sudden, I heard a strange sound that I could not place. At first, it made me think of heavy cloth being ripped, and then I thought it might be rainwater, from a broken gutter, thundering on the roof. It was only when I glanced down to Sibyl’s feet, and saw the pool of liquid beginning to spread out from beneath the hem of her coat and across the floor, that I realised, exactly, what was happening.
MacDonald saw it, in the same moment, and took a step backwards. Aitchison sprang to his feet, with a horrified look on his face.
‘By thunder!’
‘Harriet!’ cried Sibyl. ‘Harriet!’
She gazed down at the pool of urine spreading out around her skirts, and her face crumpled. Having lost control of her bladder, she now seemed unable to marshal her emotions. She began to whimper, and the whimper soon turned into a wail. All of the advocates had frozen to the spot in horror. Kinbervie was peering down into the well of the court, bemused. Then, he saw the puddle on the floor.
‘Oh dear—no,’ he said.
There was a commotion in the crowd and, looking up, I saw that Ned had jumped up, and was craning his neck, trying to see what had happened. I could hardly bear the thought of the misery and mortification that he would feel, once it dawned upon him. Of a sudden, I discovered that I was on my feet; I could not help myself. I was speaking aloud, intervening, taking charge. According to the following day’s Glasgow Herald, my voice was commanding but full of compassion, my face ‘the very glass and image of sympathetic concern’. In the opinion of the reporter from The Scotsman, my rapid and kind-hearted actions put the entire assembly of learned gentlemen to shame. The Mail wondered whether those gathered in the court had finally glimpsed my ‘true character’.
‘Gentlemen,’ I found myself saying. ‘Please be so good as to look after this poor child—can’t you see she’s unwell?’ I reached out across the balustrade, and leaned down to rest my hand on Sibyl’s shoulder, to reassure her. ‘Don’t worry, dear. These good gentlemen are going to look after you now.’
Thank Heavens, at these words, MacDonald suddenly snapped to his senses, and appealed to the judge: ‘My lord—may I beg your permission to remove this witness from the court, at once.’
‘Granted,’ said Kinbervie. ‘Take the poor wee thing away.’
The Macer hurried forwards and he and MacDonald led the child towards the exit, supporting her between them. Poor Sibyl was inconsolable, no doubt overcome by shame at the display she had made of herself, in public. As soon as the door had closed upon her, Kinbervie spoke, in aside, to his clerk.
‘A brief adjournment, I think, while we clear up this mess.’
I glanced up, but Ned was no longer in his place. Turning my head, I caught sight of him, just as he dashed through one of the exit doors of the gallery. However, I felt sure that he must have witnessed what had happened. I had helped his daughter, by coming to her rescue, boldly and without hesitation. Even if his faith in me had wavered of late, it seemed certain that this incident would help him to see me, once again, in a better light.
Friday, 15 September 1933
LONDON
Friday, 15th September. In hindsight, the problems yesterday were partly my own fault. I should have thought things through more carefully, even though, to begin with, all seemed to go well. The girl was fast asleep by the time that I entered her room. Her curtains were drawn, but I could see well enough to creep forwards in the light that spilled in from the hall. The air smelt faintly of talcum powder. Her breathing was shallow, but regular. Softly, softly, I tiptoed across the carpet, relieved to see that she was lying on her back. I reached out and—ever so carefully—undid the top button of her nightgown. She did not stir. Taking confidence, I unfastened another button. Even then, she did not wake. As far I could tell, her throat and upper chest were free of scars, but further down, in the shadows of her bosom and at the tops of her arms, it did look as though the texture of her flesh changed, and the skin appeared darker. To make absolutely sure, I had to take a closer look. I undid a third button successfully enough, but my mistake was to switch on the bedside light, in order to inspect her properly, for as soon as I did so, her eyes popped open.
I realise now that I should have used at least four pills. The three that I gave her appear to have had a negligible effect. She lay there, momentarily, blinking at me, in confusion. I lifted my hands, in a gesture of appeasement.
‘Shh!’ I whispered. ‘Go back to sleep.’
Instead of doing as I said, she glanced down at her chest, seeming to register, only then, that her nightgown was open, her bosom naked. An explanation was required, and quickly.
‘Don’t worry,’ I told her. ‘I’m just on the hunt for something.’
She looked up, and stared at me in a manner that is hard to describe. No doubt, she loathes me now, for having found her out.
‘You’re not so clever as you thought,’ I told her.
That was when she screamed and hit out at me. The violence of it took me quite by surprise—but then, I had always thought that Sibyl had the potential to be violent. As she sprang up and out of bed, she knocked over the lamp, which fell to the floor, and smashed. I grabbed the sleeves of her nightgown and there ensued an undignified scuffle, in which she manhandled me towards the door, whilst I grappled with her, attempting to disrobe her further, for I wanted to get a proper look at her arms, simply to confirm what I already knew. However, the act of reaching out to push me had yanked the nightgown back up over her shoulders, and the lamp was broken, with the result that I could see very little.
Of course, she is a good deal younger and stronger than I am and, in the end, she succeeded in thrusting me out of the room. Not content with that, she continued to shove me down the hall to the kitchen, where—to my great indignation—she shut me in, as though I was no more than a child. I threw myself at the door a few times, but she held fast from the other side and so, after a while, I gave up.
There happened to be a bottle of Scotch by the sink, and so, just to calm my shattered nerves, I poured myself a small glass, and then I started talking to the girl, through the door. I hoped to persuade her to let me out, but no matter what I said, she made no reply. After a few minutes, I tried the handle again, only to find that the door opened straight away: she had made herself scarce. In fact, she had gone back to her room. I could hear her in there, moving around. She had flicked on the ceiling lamp: a chink of light was visible around the door frame. Perhaps she had pushed the chest of drawers against the door on the inside, for it would not budge. As far as I could tell, she was dragging the furniture around and throwing things. In a rage, no doubt, that I had outfoxed her.
Off I went, into the sitting room. Various bangs and crashes could be heard, and then, after a few minutes, she emerged, wearing a coat over her nightgown, and carrying her cardboard suitcase. I remained where I was, looking at her through the open doorway, determined not to betray that I was afraid. She had put on her shoes but, for once, she wore no stockings. Her hair was in disarray. The Kensitas Flowers quilt dragged behind her; she was trying to fold it as she went, with one hand. When she caught sight of me, she paused.
‘I’m going—I have to go.’
‘Going where?’ I asked. ‘The lunatic asylum?’
With a sigh, she headed for the door, pulling at the quilt. I realised, all at once, that I wanted her to stay. We could talk about old times; I never get to talk about old times. Perhaps I could detain her by pretending that nothing was wrong, by making it seem as though I had not, after all, guessed her secret.
‘Go back to bed, Sarah,’ I told her, careful to use her fake name. ‘Get some sleep. In the morning, everything will be back to normal.’
‘I can’t stay here. I’m giving notice.’
‘Strictly speaking, you aren’t giving any notice at all, not if you go now. It’s just a misunderstanding. Let me exp
lain—’
‘No—no explanations. Don’t you say nothing! Talk the hind leg off a horse, you would. You could make anyone do anything, just by talking to them.’
‘What on earth d’you mean, you silly?’
She glanced around, and then pointed to the barometer.
‘That thing there, I bet you could make me take it off the wall, even if I didn’t want to. If you just talked at me for two minutes, you’d have me doing it.’
‘Why on earth would I want you to take the barometer off the wall?’
She made a strangled, agitated sound and, abandoning her attempt to fold the quilt, she bundled it under her arm.
‘I don’t care what you say. I’m leaving. It’s not right here, not right at all.’
‘But Sarah, dear, what about the poor birds? They’ll miss you terribly.’
That hit the mark: her face fell.
‘I can’t help that,’ she said, presently. ‘You’ll have to look after them again.’
‘And what on earth are you going to say to the registry—to Mrs Clinch?’
‘I’ll just tell her I’m leaving, and I need another job.’
‘Perhaps you can go and work for your friend Miss Barnes again. She seems to be your greatest supporter. Why did you stop working for her, by the bye?’
‘Miss Barnes? If you must know, Miss Barnes could no longer afford me.’
‘Ah yes, very plausible,’ I said. ‘But what about Clinch? She’ll think it odd if you leave me. We’re both going to look quite strange, you know. You, in particular, are going to look very strange. They’ll wonder about you—you can guarantee it.’
‘Well, I don’t care!’ she retorted. ‘I don’t care if I look strange. You’re the one who’s strange. I just want away from you—you bloody mad bitch!’
Yes—those were her exact words. She was in such a heightened emotional state that she no longer knew what she was saying. I should have disregarded her cruel name-calling, but still, such things can be hurtful.
Then she was at the door, grabbing at the handle, stepping outside. The thought of her, charging out, at midnight, in such a vulnerable state, alarmed me. I followed her onto the landing, and found her frantically pushing the button for the elevator. Several floors below, the machinery clunked into life, and the lift began its usual lament as it ascended, squealing and groaning.