by Jane Harris
The girl gave me a ferocious sideways glance. ‘You’re not crying, are you?’
‘No, dear, not really. I’m just concerned. You’re acting so strangely.’
‘Oh, blood and sand!’ she exclaimed, and then (although I was nowhere near her): ‘Get away from me!’
Instead of waiting for the lift to arrive, she grabbed her suitcase and quilt, and started running down the stairs. I called out after her:
‘Don’t be so contrary, dear! It’s after midnight. Come back when you’ve calmed down. I’ll leave the door open for you, just in case! Don’t you want to say anything to the birds—Sibyl? Sibyl?’
I only called her by her real name as a kind of last-minute test, to see if it would make her turn back. But there was no reply, only the scuttling of footsteps, fading away, as she sped downwards, towards the street, the quilt glimmering in the darkness, as it trailed on the steps behind her.
VII
March 1890
EDINBURGH
22
With Sibyl’s testimony, the case for my defence came to an end. For almost three days, the jury had listened and observed as dozens of witnesses had appeared before them. Some of those called to the stand had told the truth, and some, for their own reasons, had given a version of events that might not have been entirely honest. Various medical men had testified at length and yet, despite their knowledge and eloquence, and all their scientific experiments, they had succeeded only in confusing matters further. The advocates were now obliged to draw this muddle into some semblance of meaning in their closing addresses to the jury. These speeches are, by nature, lengthy, and I have no intention of typing my fingers to the bone in an effort to duplicate them here, particularly since the texts of the statements are in the public domain, but I shall attempt to summarise.
Aitchison was first to take the floor. He spoke for almost ninety minutes, and never once referred to his notes, which, in my opinion, may have accounted for a few of his many lapses and errors. However, I do not scruple to say that he knowingly made what might be called a ‘naughty’ speech, which included many matters that he should not even have mentioned. Frustratingly, at the time, I was unable to intervene or point these out, and so will now take the opportunity.
In order to gain attention, the prosecutor began in hushed tones, so that all present had to strain to hear him. Only as his argument progressed did he become more animated. His face turned pink, his green eyes gleamed and, the more his passion grew, the more spittle gathered in the corners of his mouth. Every so often, to emphasise his point, he would strike his right fist into the palm of his left hand. He told the jury that never before had he conceived that any person could commit such a dastardly outrage against a pure and innocent child. Equally shocking to him was the notion that any female could have had a hand in such crimes—and yet (according to him) this had been proved, without question, to be the case. He had no hesitation in asserting that the three persons in the dock had committed these hideous atrocities.
The motives for the crimes were not, initially, obvious, he told us. Why, he asked, had this particular child, this particular family, been chosen? If a ransom was the goal, then why had the abductors not selected one of the wealthy Glaswegian families who lived not a stone’s throw from Stanley Street in the grand terraces near the park? But financial gain had never been the primary motive; as it was, the ransom note was a mere afterthought, born out of panic, and never pursued. In that case, why Rose? Why the Gillespies? The answer was plain, according to Aitchison: ‘These two ne’er-do-wells did not choose their victim: she was chosen for them.’
Here, he had the audacity to gaze at me, long and hard, before continuing.
‘What do we know of Harriet Baxter?’ he asked. ‘We know that, only a few years ago, she inveigled her way into the London home of Mr and Mrs Watson, and—for complex reasons that perhaps she herself does not even understand—attempted to reduce their marriage to rubble.’
By rights, at this point, what should have been reduced to rubble was the prosecutor’s statement. Here was his first infraction: he should not even have mentioned Esther Watson, given that the jury had been instructed to disregard her testimony. I felt that Kinbervie ought to have stepped in to reprimand him, but it seemed that closing speeches were permitted to unfold, without hindrance, no matter how improperly an advocate behaved, and Aitchison was allowed to continue, uninterrupted.
‘We know that she met, in London, a handsome Scottish artist and, a few months later, she was found to be living in Glasgow, just around the corner from this artist and his family. Gentlemen, what a coincidence it was that she kept popping up, wherever the Gillespies happened to be. And how useful she made herself, how indispensable: solving problems, even saving the life of Mr Gillespie’s mother.’
This, according to Aitchison, was the beginning of a stealthy process of inveiglement. ‘But the real abomination was that, as Miss Baxter wormed her way into the bosom of the family, she simultaneously began to destroy it. Any person close to Ned Gillespie was her target, particularly anyone with whom the artist had a special bond. His favourite daughter, a mischievous child, became—mysteriously, by degrees—an apparently dangerous child. Could it be any coincidence that the deterioration in Sibyl Gillespie’s behaviour began soon after the arrival upon the scene of Harriet Baxter? Who really was responsible for all the mayhem that was created in the Gillespie household: belongings gone missing or found destroyed, a bowl of punch laced with poison, obscene drawings appearing on walls. We have heard from Jessie McKenzie who witnessed Miss Baxter in suspicious circumstances, in association with one of these drawings. Was this an isolated incident? Was Sibyl really a disturbed child, or had she simply been persecuted and then wrongfully accused, time after time, until she was driven beyond reason, out of her wits?’
On and on, the prosecutor went, suggesting that I had, by various devious means, conspired to rend the family asunder. I must say that I barely recognised the picture that was painted of me. ‘What began as a few spiteful little actions grew in scale, until Miss Baxter sank to the lowest depths, all moral sense in her destroyed.’ Aitchison asked us to imagine a painting, a portrait of family and friends, with all the children and adults gathered together. ‘And then, one by one, the figures in the picture begin to disappear. A brother vanishes, destination unknown, possibly Italy.’ (Again, since Kenneth had barely been mentioned during the trial, I feel that some objection should have been raised.) ‘A sister and friend are married off, and sent packing to Africa. A child is victimised until she loses her mind. And, finally, gentlemen, the ultimate wickedness, another child is abducted and murdered.’
Here, he paused to contemplate me, with distaste. I was seized with a wildly inappropriate urge to make a face at him: if he could be ridiculous, then so could I. Thankfully, I quelled the impulse, and averted my gaze. On he went with his diabolical lies, the meat of his argument. According to his theory, I had spent months trying to make my ‘lair’ (Bardowie!) attractive to the Gillespies, and when they declined to live there with me for the summer, I became incensed beyond reason. Fixing upon Annie as the person to blame for refusing my invitation, my rage rankled and grew, and I devised a ploy to take a hideous revenge upon her, by making her favourite child disappear. Not only would this cause her grief, it would be yet another opportunity to prove myself indispensable to the family.
‘But how could this lady accomplish such an abduction? Certainly not alone: the puppet master requires his marionettes. And so Miss Baxter was obliged to find accomplices, persons already so submerged in sin and iniquity that they would barely hesitate to do whatever they were asked, as long as they were well enough paid. Where to find such persons? It is a matter of fact that Belle Schlutterhose’s sister, Christina, was a former maid of the Gillespies—we heard as much from Nelly Smith, Belle’s and Christina’s mother. In the spring and summer of 1888, while Christina was working in the Gillespie home, we know that Miss Baxter was a frequent visi
tor. Christina and Miss Baxter were well acquainted; this is a fact, indisputable, gentlemen, and here is the connection between the three prisoners, a connection to which Christina Smith would have testified had she taken the stand. She would also have thrown some light upon other matters, including a meeting that she set up, between Miss Baxter and her co-accused.’
Need I point out that none of this evidence had actually been produced in court? Yet again, Aitchison was on thin ice. Hurrying on, he reminded the jury that a nefarious meeting had taken place between the three prisoners, each of whom had been identified by Helen Strang, the waitress. Moreover, Strang had witnessed Miss Baxter handing over a slim package. ‘Could this have been a bundle of notes? We’ve heard evidence to suggest that it was, for, soon after this date, there was a change in the fortunes of Mr and Mrs Schlutterhose. They both gave notice at their places of employment—and yet, they began to spend more freely. This money must have come from somewhere. What sort of person has such resources? Presumably, those of independent financial means. And what is Miss Baxter but a woman of independent financial means?’
At this point, it would not have surprised me had he brought up the disqualified bank evidence, but perhaps even Aitchison felt that he had already chanced his luck enough. Instead, he advised the jury to disregard any testimony which placed Hans and Rose as victims of the accident on St George’s Road. As far as he was concerned, this tale was unrelated: ‘Most of the witnesses to this incident have testified that Mr Schlutterhose looks nothing like the man who was knocked down by the tram. Indeed, it seems more likely that he was an Italian.’
Now this was a cavalier piece of chicanery, for at least half of the witnesses had said, under oath, that Hans did resemble the man that they had seen, and only one had supposed him to be an Italian! It was all that I could do to stop myself from jumping up to challenge Aitchison.
Next, he had the barefaced cheek to dredge up his notion about the veiled woman, still determined that the jury should believe me to be the person who had sent Sibyl to the shop. ‘Who was this mysterious female?’ he asked—ludicrously disregarding the fact that she had, that very afternoon, been pointed out to the court, quite unambiguously, when Sibyl had identified Belle.
Turning his focus to the supposed murder, Aitchison proclaimed: ‘We can be sure of one thing: some time after her arrival at Coalhill Street, Rose Gillespie died. Did someone lose patience with her? Did she try to escape? Or was it always Miss Baxter’s plan that little Rose should be silenced, once and for all?’
Yes, he allowed, no spatters of blood were found in Coal-hill Street, and no sign of a struggle. He dismissed these trifles, reminding us that the killers had many months in which to cover their traces. Perhaps the flat stone produced in evidence had not, in fact, caused Rose’s injury, but the lack of an obvious weapon should be no hindrance to the jury in their deliberations. ‘Look around you,’ he extolled them. ‘In the right hands, anything can become a murder weapon: a wall, a cast-iron hearth, a floor. And any one of these prisoners could have caused the wound that killed Rose Gillespie.’
Here, Aitchison came to stand beside me, close to the balustrade of the dock.
‘But, gentlemen, did not Harriet Baxter have the most reason to silence Rose, for she was the only one of those involved that the child knew, and would recognise. She was the one most at risk, should Rose remain alive. Do not be fooled by Miss Baxter’s genteel demeanour here in court. Beneath her clothing, she has a strong and unnaturally vigorous frame.’
Raising his arm, he held his hand in the air, like a claw. ‘As we’ve heard, she is so strong that she can smash a china cup, like that.’ And he snatched at the air, closing his fingers with a snap that reverberated around the chamber.
‘Harriet Baxter could easily have overpowered a child of Rose’s size, and dashed her brains out on the floor.’
At this, there was a murmur amongst the crowd, a few gasps, and one shriek (which, to my mind, must have been rehearsed in advance).
Bish bosh eyewash. I cannot bear to write down any more of the man’s false and hysterical accusations. He closed by submitting that the prosecution had established, beyond reasonable doubt, that the prisoners were guilty of the crimes charged, and he asked the jury for their verdict accordingly. By the end, he had worked himself up to a perfect pitch of outrage. I can still see him now, as he took his seat, his eyes burning with intensity, his hands a-tremble as he adjusted his wig. Had I been able, I might have torn it from his scalp and dashed it in his face.
Next came Pringle, the absent-minded Poor’s Roll advocate, who might well have had his own doubts about his prospect of success in defending the kidnappers. He was hampered from the first by his clients, who had insisted on pleading not guilty, despite the extent of the evidence against them. Since Aitchison had done his best to tarnish me, Pringle devoted his efforts, in summing up, to saving Hans and Belle by casting scorn upon the murder charge. He reminded the jury that no real weapon had been found, and there had been no witness to murder. The red stain upon the flat stone was not blood, but rust; the stone itself too light to wield as a convincing weapon. He insisted that the balance of the medical evidence showed that Rose’s injuries were in keeping with the theories of the defence, and had been sustained at the scene of the tram accident. Lastly, he emphasised that it was incumbent upon the Crown to prove murder—and that had not been done.
Finally, it was the turn of Muirhead MacDonald, my counsel. I can still hear, to this day, the rich, honeyed tones of his voice as he paced the well of the court. He might have been small in stature, but his voice possessed great authority. His main argument hinged upon the lack of evidence pointing to any link between the kidnappers and myself. Helen Strang had supposedly seen us together—but had not her memory been proved to be imperfect? She could remember, in every detail, waiting upon three strangers, a year ago, and yet failed to recall the first thing about serving a famous actress, only in November. What might be concluded from this anomaly? Why did she recall one occasion better than the other? Was her memory faulty? Or had person or persons unknown helpfully provided Miss Strang with a date and various other details?
‘It would also appear that the Crown would have you speculate as to a link between the accused couple and Miss Baxter, in the form of Christina Smith, sister of Belle and former maid of the Gillespies. Well, gentlemen, the only real link which exists in the evidence is that between the accused couple and Christina Smith. Would that not explain how the kidnappers knew of Miss Baxter, and why they plucked her name out of thin air when they found themselves in a tight spot? The Advocate Depute might pretend to hint at revelations that might have been made, had his final witness taken the stand. But, gentlemen, his pretences are not evidence. This former maid has not even deigned to appear as a witness at this trial. There is no evidence whatsoever of any direct link between the accused couple and this lady, Miss Baxter, who sits in the dock before you.’
The truth of the matter was simple, MacDonald told us.
‘These two lazy ne’er-do-wells decided to try and make some easy money—an old story—a familiar tale—and one that seldom ends well. In this case, the escapade indeed had a sorry end. This wretched couple stole Rose Gillespie. Here in court, this very afternoon, young Sibyl identified Belle Schlutterhose as the veiled woman who sent her to the shop that day. What happened next is unclear. Perhaps, the couple argued; it seems likely since—according to the owner of the Carnarvon bar—they were both in a state of inebriation. Let us assume that Belle Schlutterhose staggers off, leaving her husband to snatch Rose and carry her across town. Alas, Herr Schlutterhose had not the sense to refrain from drinking that day. In escaping with Rose, in his befuddled condition, he stepped directly into the path of a tram, with tragic results.
‘Once it became clear that Rose was dead, this pair of miscreants panicked. They buried the child’s body and—overwhelmed by guilt at what had happened—even these despicable characters could not pursue their
initial intention, to claim a ransom. Therefore, having sent their first note, they let the matter lie. Yes, gentlemen, they may have handed in their notice at work, whilst continuing to spend money freely—but the testimony of laundry owner Grace Lamont explains where and how that money was earned: immorally, on the streets, by Belle Schlutterhose. Knowing only too well that they might, one day, be tracked down and arrested, Belle and her husband concocted a story about the abduction, trying to shift the blame onto someone else. Gentlemen, they picked upon somebody whom they knew might be easily demonised: an English lady, unmarried, who, to their certain knowledge, was a friend to the Gillespie family. If they could only make Miss Harriet Baxter seem responsible for their failed plans, they might be able to inculpate her, and thereby escape punishment.’
Lord Kinbervie began his summing up at five o’clock. To his credit, he did direct the jury to ignore some of what had been mentioned by Aitchison: ‘Reference has been made to what Christina Smith might, or might not, have said, had she given evidence. I direct you, gentlemen, to disregard all such references, for the simple reason that you have not heard any evidence whatsoever from Miss Smith herself.’ Thrice, during the course of his speech, the judge advised the jury to use their ‘common sense’, an opaque piece of guidance, which mystifies me to this day, and which I am convinced that the jury found unhelpful, for is one man’s common sense not another man’s folly? I studied His Lordship’s face as he spoke, trying to tell whether he meant what I hoped: that they should find me innocent, on both counts. Kinbervie gave every appearance of being a reasonable fellow, unruffled, tolerant, and squarely in the camp of decency and discernment, but it was impossible to tell whether, in his opinion, I was also in that camp.