The Day She Cradled Me

by Sacha De Bazin

  He pauses and looks at the jury, lifting his shoulders in mock disbelief.

  ‘It is for you to consider the reasonableness of that. It appears, as I have said, that the child took its food, and there was nothing perceptible the matter with it. Esther Wallis had the child walking to the train, and it must have been a very few minutes after getting into the train that the accused decided to break the journey if she could.’

  ‘Completely unlikely,’ says the woman beside me. My throat cuts dry.

  ‘Now, it appears from the evidence of the guard that the time the train would take from Dipton to Lumsden is somewhat less than three-quarters of an hour. The evening train, he says, arrived at Dipton at 7.33 and arrived at Lumsden at 8.20 — in less than three-quarters of an hour — so that the baby, having been well at the start, must have taken so ill in the train that the journey could not have been continued for three-quarters of an hour.’ He halts again and raises an eyebrow at the jury, who start to shake their heads. ‘However, it is for you to consider whether the child’s health was the real reason of the accused breaking the journey at Dipton.’ He looks thoughtful. ‘It might be suggested that if the accused had a criminal intention, and if the accused had made up her mind to go to Lumsden that night, it would have been better for her to arrive at Lumsden in the dark than in broad daylight. That is a matter for your consideration.’

  He sits back upon his seat.

  ‘The accused did get out at Dipton, and when the tin box was carried by Baker, the painter, it was light. Inside the hotel, Mrs Dean told Christina Duncan, the servant, that she had just come from Melbourne, and might I observe that it is difficult to see what the necessity for this untruth was.

  ‘While she was at the hotel in Dipton we find that she had corned beef, potatoes and carrots for dinner. This is of some importance, because Professor Black found in the body of the child identified as Dorothy Edith a considerable quantity of undigested carrot and pieces of beef, showing apparently that the accused had stuffed the child with those things, although she said the child was sick and ill.’

  His mouth twists as he ponders this.

  ‘Then the accused leaves Dipton at 7.38. She arrives at Lumsden, and when she arrives there, there is a tin box and a handbag, yet there is no child.’ He shakes his head. ‘She was not only seen to have no child, but the tin box was said to be heavy by a number of persons who handled it.’

  The jury are now shaking their heads in unison with the Judge, and I can hardly believe what I am seeing. Have they changed their minds? And so quickly? Can they not remember what Mr Hanlon told them?

  ‘Referring to the transaction with Eva Hornsby, as I have said, it is impossible to disassociate the death of Dorothy Edith Carter from the dealings of the accused with this other infant. If a woman takes away a child, apparently healthy when she leaves home, and it mysteriously vanishes, and a day or two after the body of that child is found in her garden, it might be suggested, taking those circumstances by themselves, that the death of the child was due to natural causes or was accidental. But,’ he adds, ‘if during her absence she receives another child, and that child also mysteriously vanishes and the body is also found secreted in her garden, then obviously the suggestion that the cause of death of the first child was the result of nature or of accident is enormously weakened.’ He appears to have the jury in his hand. ‘And the suggestion that the death of the first child was wilfully caused is enormously strengthened, a consideration that will be manifest to the common sense of any ordinary man.’

  The courtroom hums with affirmations. Yes, people say. Of course it does.

  The Judge looks at Mrs Dean. ‘We have this then: the extraordinary disappearance of two children, Dorothy’s clothes all being brought back, and the tin box which was light when it went away being brought back heavy and stated to contain earth and bulbs when the accused had got no bulbs.’

  He rubs his forehead. ‘I put it to you that when the accused first started on her journey, what legitimate object can be assigned as to the necessity of taking Dorothy Edith away, and also what reasonable object can be suggested when the accused started on her journey in carrying an empty tin box?

  ‘It was suggested by counsel for the accused that the tin box was taken to put the napkins in that came off the infant, but the accused took no necessary napkins with her. The accused, when she started on her journey, took nothing with her at all in the shape of child’s clothing.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘You were asked, and properly asked by the counsel for the Crown, to lay great stress on the fact that this empty tin box had been taken when there was no assignable motive for taking it on such a journey. It is your duty to consider the facts in relation to that box very carefully, and also to consider very carefully what I mentioned to you before — what is the motive to be assigned for taking the child Dorothy Edith Carter on that journey?

  ‘Apart altogether from the evidence of opium being found in the body of one of the children — even if no opium had been found at all, supposing the body had been found and there was no direct evidence from the post mortem as to cause of death consistent with the post mortem appearance that death might have been either naturally or wilfully caused — even then there would have been plenty of evidence for the jury to consider whether the death had been wilfully caused because of the evidence of that almost simultaneous disappearance of the other infant Eva Hornsby, and of that infant having apparently died of suffocation.

  ‘In addition, there is evidence that four other children were received by the accused at different times, and had at one time or other disappeared. In all these cases it was said that the statement made by the accused was that they had all gone somewhere else.

  ‘Then on May thirteenth a skeleton was found in the garden and the inference the jury are asked to draw from this is that these statements, these similar disappearances are that they were merely a part of the accused’s course of business.

  ‘Obviously, if one body is found and a person is charged with murdering the infant to whom the body belongs, taking that by itself there might be a reasonable suggestion that the death of that particular infant was either natural or caused by some accident. But if there are a number of other bodies found in the garden —’ he nods to the foreman, who returns the gesture — ‘that circumstance of course tends to show the suggestion that death is the result of accident is completely unfounded.

  ‘An accident may happen once, but if there are a number of cases of a similar class it is difficult to suggest that all of them were the result of an accident, and if they were not then was this particular one the result of an accident?’

  He shakes his head as if the answer were entirely self-evident.

  ‘It is said that in the case of Dorothy Edith there was no motive for the accused to commit the offence, that in fact it was the other way, that there was a motive in keeping her alive, at any rate until she had got the ten pounds. That is a question for your consideration. However, there is this to be said.’ He shakes a finger in the direction of the jury. ‘The parents of Dorothy Edith lived a long way away — they lived in Christchurch — and it was exceedingly unlikely that they would come down here to visit the child, and if Mrs Dean thought that the ten pounds was practically safe, whether the child was living or dead, there is the motive.

  ‘Of course it would have been open to her to write to them and suggest that the child was alive, as, in fact, she did suggest in the case of one of the children, Scoular.

  ‘With respect to Eva Hornsby, of course, she had the money. The motive in that case is obvious, and as I have said it is very difficult, in fact it is impossible, to dissociate the circumstances attending the death of one from the circumstances attending the death of the other.’

  He looks solemnly at the jury.

  ‘That, gentlemen, is a summary of the evidence that has been brought before you during the past three days. It is your duty to look at the evidence as a whole and be careful not to allow your attention to
be diverted by minute details.

  ‘What you have to determine is whether, looking at the evidence taken as a whole, the only reasonable conclusion is that the death of Dorothy Edith Carter was intentionally caused by the prisoner. I say the only reasonable conclusion.

  ‘You must look at the matter as men of practical common sense. If there is in your mind, looking at the whole of the evidence, a fair doubt, then no doubt it is your duty to give the accused the benefit of the doubt.

  ‘But such phrases as a shadow of doubt, and so on, are altogether out of the question. You must, as I say, look at the matter as reasonable, sensible men, determined to do your duty whatever happens.

  ‘It has been suggested to you that you could properly find in the present case a verdict of manslaughter. I must say that it seems to me such a verdict would indicate a weak-kneed compromise.

  ‘I don’t think, gentlemen, that I need trouble you any further. If there is any part of the evidence to which you wish me to refer, I shall be very happy to do so.’

  He nods and smiles. ‘You will kindly consider your verdict.’

  ‘Members of the jury.’

  ‘Yes, your Honour.’

  ‘You have reached a verdict?’

  ‘We have, your Honour.’

  ‘In the case of the death of Dorothy Edith Carter, how do you find the accused?’

  The silence is so loud it is deafening.

  ‘Guilty.’

  There is uproar across the courtroom.

  ‘Prisoner, what is your age?’

  ‘Forty-eight.’

  ‘Do you have anything to say as to whether sentence should not be passed upon you?’

  ‘No. I have only to thank Detective McGrath for his kindness.’

  ‘Prisoner at the bar,’ Justice Williams says, ‘the judgment of the Court is that you, Minnie Dean, be taken from the place where you now are to the prison from whence you came, thence to the place of execution, and that there, in manner and form by law appointed, you be hanged by the neck until you are dead.’

  Dear Lord, what have they done?

  ‘And may God have mercy on your soul.’

  The sound from her cell cannot possibly be human.

  ‘Mrs Dean?’ I can barely hear myself over her cries.

  I pick up the Bible from her bedside table and open the pages to read. But she sees it and reaches across to strike it from my grasp.

  ‘Where is your God?’ she screams. ‘Where is He now?’

  I clasp my Book tightly and run a finger beneath the words.

  Almighty God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who desireth not the death of a sinner …

  The Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who desireth not the death of a sinner, but rather that he may turn from his wickedness and live …

  I take a deep breath. Is it my purpose to save her soul? Or to save her life?

  ‘Mr Hanlon, surely you are not about to give up now? The woman is to be executed.’

  ‘I understand that, Reverend. This was, as we all know, a case of infanticide.’

  ‘Yes, but —’

  ‘You heard the Judge’s summation. You must accept the situation as it is. There is little hope —’

  ‘But there is hope.’

  He sighs. ‘I believe we have grounds for an appeal.’

  ‘But that’s excellent news.’

  ‘No, Reverend. And you must listen to me here. We can appeal, yes. We can do what we can. But the case against her is a strong one.’

  ‘Even still —’

  ‘Reverend, Justice Williams obviously concluded she is guilty. No one can say otherwise. I am saying that short of a miracle it will take more than just your prayers to convince an appeal court to defy that ruling. We will appeal, yes. But you need to remember that our odds of saving her now are minimal. Extremely minimal. And though there is a glimmer of hope, Mrs Dean should accept her likely fate. And so should you.’

  The air is heavy with cold as I walk my bicycle towards town. I cross the track and make my way in the direction of the station. The train stands stationary, puffing black smoke into cloudy sky. A woman vaguely familiar waits beside the platform, ready to board. I am sure it was she who had care of little Eva Hornsby.

  ‘Mrs Bennett?’

  ‘And who wants to know?’ She swings around and takes in the nature of my attire. ‘Oh, Reverend.’ She wipes her hand on her skirt and holds it out to me.

  ‘May I? This is your luggage?’ I lean my bicycle against a post and pick up her trunk. ‘Mrs Bennett, I have to admit I know you only because I have been present at the trial of Mrs Dean and recognise you from there. Let me offer my prayers; if there are any words of comfort —’

  She looks towards the gaol. ‘It’s that woman in there what needs those now.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. That is so.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Things don’t fit, is all I’m saying. I know that Mrs Hornsby. I know what she’s about. She didn’t care nothing for that child. Not a jot. Couldn’t stand the sight of it. Didn’t tell them that now, did she? She didn’t visit all those times she said she did, neither. Apart from picking up and dropping off the child she only came the once more, and that was ’cause I insisted.’

  ‘Surely though —’

  ‘At the morgue? Dead babe lying there. One of ’er own, no less. And couldn’t even tell it was ’er. I had to show ’er the markings.’

  ‘People react differently to grief.’

  ‘People react to grief. She despised that little girl. Couldn’t bear it.’ We are at the porter’s carriage now. I drop off the trunk, then take the woman’s arm and lead her to where there are fewer ears. ‘Mrs Bennett, it is difficult to know how anyone will react under emotion, we are none of us the same when it comes to —’

  ‘All I’m saying, Reverend, with due respect of course, is that there could’ve been a lot more looking into it when it came to that particular child’s end. A lot more. Who knows what they may have found if they had only thought to ask the right questions.’

  ‘Which are?’

  She looks at the ground. ‘I’ve been round. You can probably tell by the way I look I ain’t never been considered a lady. But even so, what troubles me most, and I know I ain’t no scholar neither, just a simple woman, but I know I gave Mrs Hornsby the bottle of milk that morning she came to fetch the child. I wanted to give her a shawl as well, so as to keep out the cold, it being such a chilly ’un, but that Mrs Hornsby would hear nothing of it. Had to wrap it round ’er as she fled through the door.’ Her grip on my arm tightens. ‘Mrs Dean had that wee child just a few minutes?’

  ‘So I believe.’

  ‘Then who minded her the rest of the day? Who looked after her? That Mrs Hornsby couldn’t be rid of the child fast enough.’ She shakes her head as the train whistles.

  ‘We had better see you back or you may miss your train, Mrs Bennett.’

  ‘Who cared for that little girl, Reverend?’ she says as we walk. ‘Kept her warm, held her when she cried? Fed her when she hungered …’

  ‘Do not upset yourself. As the child’s grandmother, Mrs Hornsby would have done all she possibly could.’

  We reach her carriage, and I take her hand so she might board.

  ‘Answer me this,’ she says. ‘That milk I gave her. Where did it go?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘The poor child’s stomach was empty and there was naught to show she’d been retching. But the bottle Mrs Dean got was full. Do you see what I mean? Do you see what I’m telling you, Reverend?’

  ‘All aboard please, madam.’

  She looks abruptly at the guard and then back to me. ‘I may not be smart as some,’ she mutters. ‘Lord knows I can’t read, nor write even my own name. But I have me a sense of right and wrong, and I know when something don’t fit.’ She steps up and turns back to face me. ‘What happens to a child,’ she says, ‘barely a month gone, should it hunger all the day and not be fed? What do you s’pose might come of
it, crying on and on, to her who just wants rid? Why was its wee stomach so empty when just sitting there was a perfectly good bottle of milk with which to feed it?’

  The train gives a small lurch and starts forward, but that does not stop her. ‘Just what state was that wee one in when it got given to that Mrs Dean?’ she calls. ‘Answer me that, Reverend. You answer me that.’

  ‘Can I entrust you to carry out one wish when I am gone?’ Mrs Dean says. She sits upon the edge of her bed with her hands clasped. ‘I have given this much thought.’

  I do not want to think on it while there is still the appeal to come. Yet I recall Mr Hanlon’s words.

  ‘You need have no doubt,’ I say.

  ‘I want to write a manuscript. So that …’ she takes a deep breath ‘… afterwards, when I’m not here to put people right, I can still be heard. I’m no monster, Reverend. And I will tell them, as I should have done at the trial. They’ll know then what a mistake this is and that I’m innocent.’

  ‘I will arrange for paper and pen.’

  ‘And if there’s money that comes from it, I want it to pay Hanlon his due.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And the rest shall go to Dean.’

  I nod and take hold of her hands; I am in awe of the woman’s courage.

  It is time I followed her example.

  ‘Mrs Hornsby?’ As I knock, several flakes of paint find their way loose and float to the ground by my feet. ‘Mrs Hornsby?’

  A young female voice answers. ‘She’s not at home.’

  ‘Perhaps Mr Hornsby might see me?’

  There is a long drawn-out silence. ‘No. He is away from home also.’

  ‘I see. When are they expected to return?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘I am Reverend George Lindsay of St Paul’s in Invercargill.’