The Case Of Mary Bell: A Portrait of a Child Who Murdered

by Gitta Sereny

  “What were the rumors about tablets?”

  “People were just saying there was a bottle of tablets and things spilled out of them. It was just to make it look better and that.”

  “How do you think he died?”

  “I don’t know. He might have fell through the roof and rolled into that room.”

  “But when you made up a nasty story about Norma to Irene F. and Pat Howe, you said that Norma took hold of him by the throat, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but that was only because I had had an argument with Norma that day and I couldn’t think of nothing else to say.”

  “You wanted to say that she had killed this little boy?”

  “I could have said something else, but I never.”

  “But you didn’t know if you were right—you didn’t know that he had even been killed by somebody else?”

  “No.”

  “And even if somebody kills a little boy, there are different ways of killing a little boy, aren’t there?”

  “Yes.”

  “What you said to those girls was that Norma had got hold of him by the throat and you showed how that had happened?”

  “I cannot remember showing her.”

  “But you mentioned ‘throat.’ You didn’t say, did you, that Norma had hit him on the head and killed him?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you decide to talk about throat?”

  “Well, you see . . . you see that on the television, on the ‘Apache’ and all that.”

  “Didn’t you also see on television people being killed by being hit on the head with something?”

  “It does not kill them, it just knocks them out.”

  “Had you ever played with Martin Brown?”

  “Well, not played with him, but sometimes I gave him a swing.”

  “Do you remember Mr. Dobson asking you if you had ever . . . do you remember Mr. Dobson asking you if you ever played with Martin?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “What did you tell Mr. Dobson?”

  “Er—no, or yes, I’m not sure what I told him.”

  “Didn’t you tell Mr. Dobson that you had never played with him?”

  “But I had played with him.” When she was tired and felt driven into a corner, her voice took on a querulous quality, waspish rather than childish.

  “Didn’t you tell Mr. Dobson that you had never played with him?” Mr. Lyons drove home his point.

  “I might have done.” She always seemed to know when to concede a little. The Judge searched in his papers for the relevant page. “My Lord,” said Mr. Lyons, “Page 121 of the statement.”

  Mary tried to divert their attention. “Pat showed him that trick with the dog leash,” she started in an informational tone of voice, but Mr. Lyons was not to be diverted.

  “I want to ask you about the last time Mr. Dobson questioned you,” he said. “Do you remember, your solicitor and your parents were there once when Mr. Dobson asked you some questions about Martin Brown?”

  “Where was it, sir, please?”

  “When?”

  “Where?”

  “At Police Headquarters on 18 September. I think the last time you were ever questioned. And your father and mother were there, and Mr. Bryson, your solicitor?”

  “I cannot remember, sir.”

  “Well, do you remember Mr. Dobson saying this: that when he had seen you on a previous date, 21 August, you said this; ‘I will tell you something. I saw Martin once that day. He was coming out of Rita’s. I didn’t see him again.’”

  “That’s when I gave him a swing, when I never saw him again.”

  “Didn’t Mr. Dobson ask you, ‘Did you play with him when he came out of Rita’s’?”

  “He may have done, sir.”

  “Didn’t you say, ‘No, I didn’t play with Martin’?”

  “Yes, I never played with him, I just gave him a swing.”

  “Did you say, ‘The first time I met him I was at Rita’s sister’s June, with Pat. That . . .’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Mr. Dobson ask you, ‘Had you ever played with Martin’?”

  “Well, I have never played with him, but I gave him a swing.”

  “Did you say, ‘No, I’ve never played with him’?”

  “That’s right,” she said coldly, “but I have never played with him. I have only given him a swing.” She stuck firmly to her own interpretation and to those who watched, at the time, it sounded credible.

  “Did you tell Mr. Dobson about the swing?”

  “No.”

  “No. Isn’t the reason you mentioned giving Martin a swing today because of the evidence you have heard about your gray wool dress?”

  “No.”

  “And the fibers that were found on Martin’s clothing? . . . On that occasion Mr. Dobson went on to ask you this, didn’t he? ‘Can you remember what you were wearing on the day Martin Brown died’?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Do you remember Mr. Dobson asking you ‘Can you remember what you were wearing on the day Martin Brown died’?”

  “Er—” She had not understood.

  “Mr. Lyons,” said Mr. Justice Cusak, “this could be approached much more directly.”

  “Yes, My Lord. Didn’t you tell the police that you had not been wearing your gray dress on the day that Martin died?”

  Mary sounded completely bewildered. “I cannot understand him,” she said to the Judge.

  “May,” he tried to help, “didn’t you pretend that you were not wearing your gray dress on the day Martin died?”

  “Er . . .” she hesitated. “When my solicitor was there,” she said, “I said I was not certain.”

  “Didn’t you earlier pretend you were not wearing that dress and hadn’t worn it for a long time?”

  “I cannot remember, sir,” she said, still sounding honestly puzzled.

  “Are you sure about that?” asked the Judge.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember saying to Mr. Dobson you had not worn it for a fortnight?” Mr. Lyons specified.

  “No,” Mary answered at once. “That was about Brian Howe, wasn’t it, sir?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Lyons agreed, “Brian Howe.”

  “That was about Brian Howe,” she pointed out again.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Lyons again, “about Brian Howe.”

  “I says there I had not worn it for a fortnight . . .” she stopped for a moment, and then continued, “I thought you were on about Martin Brown, sir.”

  “Sorry, you are quite right,” said Mr. Lyons. “I had gone on to Brian Howe . . .”

  It was neither the first nor the last time that in the charged emotional atmosphere of the court the names of the two murdered boys were mixed up.

  The prosecution called four scientific witnesses: Roland Page, handwriting expert from the Forensic Science Laboratory in Cardiff, Dr. Bernard Knight, forensic pathologist and barrister, from Cardiff (both re Martin), Dr. Bernard Tomlinson, Senior Consultant Pathologist from neighboring county Durham (re Brian), and Norman Lee, principal scientific officer of the Forensic Science Laboratory, Gosforth, Newcastle.

  The defense for Norma called Dr. Ian Frazer, Physician Superintendent of the Prudhoe Monkton Mental Hospital. The defense for Mary called two psychiatrists: Dr. Orton and Dr. David Westbury.

  Mr. Page, questioned by Mr. Lyons about the “We Murder” notes found in the Nursery, said that he had examined four of them. He concluded that some words on these notes were written in Norma’s handwriting, some in Mary’s, and again in other words consecutive letters had been written by both girls.

  “This case is unusual,” he said in reply to a question from Mr. Smith, “insofar as I have had to compare every letter by itself in isolation and this has presented a difficulty. Therefore I cannot say looking at this word particularly that it has been done by Mary or Norma. I can just suggest and point out the difficulties I face.”

  The notes (to remind us) read:


  I MURDER SO THAT I MAY COME BACK. (Exhibit 12)

  BAS . . . FUCH OF. WE MURDER. WATCH OUT. FANNY AND FAGGOT. (Exhibit 13)

  WE DID MURDER MARTAIN BROWN. FUCKOF YOU BASTARD. (Exhibit 14)

  YOU ARE MICEY. Y BECUASE WE MURDERED MARTAIN GO BROWN YOU BETTER LOOK OUT. THERE ARE MURDERS ABOUT. BY FANNYAND AND AULD FAGGOT YOU SRCEWS. (Exhibit 15)

  The prosecution maintained that these notes amounted to a confession by the two girls that they were the killers of Martin Brown.

  The defense, for both girls, replied that, however vulgar and unpleasant the wording of these notes, they were simply childish fantasy and could not be regarded as confessions of guilt by either of the girls.

  R. P. Smith, Q.C., questioned Norma about the notes after taking her through the events of the day Martin Brown was found dead. Throughout her examination, Norma’s eyes, again and again, swiveled to Mary’s face.

  “Norma . . . I want to ask you about the next day, the Sunday. You were in May’s house, is that right?”

  “I was in the next day. She was playing her recorder.”

  “. . . And when she stopped playing the recorder, what did she do? . . .”

  “At first we were playing drawings.”

  “Whereabouts, in her bedroom or downstairs, or where?”

  “Scullery.” Every time Norma answered with only a single word, or an ungrammatical, confused, or unfinished sentence it was an indication of her distress and her unwillingness to speak.

  “And when you had finished playing drawing, what did you do next?”

  “Wrote some notes.”

  “What with?”

  “A red Biro pen. . . .”

  “. . . I want you to look, Norma, please, at four notes,” Mr. Smith said, “Exhibits twelve to fifteen.” Norma looked around the room. “You have got the notes there, Norma, have you?” Mr. Smith tried to fix her attention.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you see the one which reads, ‘I murder so that I may come back?’ Exhibit 12?”

  “Yes, I wrote that one.”

  “You wrote that one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you write it?”

  “In the scullery. . . .”

  “. . . You just hold it up. The original is written in red. Why did you write that, Norma?”

  “Just for me and Mary.”

  “Whose idea was it? . . .”

  “. . . May wanted some notes to be written.”

  “May wanted some notes to be written?”

  “Yes, to put in her shoe.” She added something under her breath.

  “I did not catch that,” said Mr. Justice Cusack. “Did you say ‘the brown one’? Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did May write any notes herself?”

  “Yes.” Norma indicated Exhibit 15, Note No. 4 and held it up to the Court.

  “That looks like Exhibit 15,” said Mr. Smith. “She wrote that, did she?”

  “Yes,” she murmured.

  “. . . Can I ask you again whose idea it was to write these notes?”

  “It was in her scullery, it was her idea to get the paper and her idea for the red pen,” she said succinctly and angrily.

  “Whose idea was it to write the words?”

  “Mary’s, ’cos she first got scrap paper and I was writing a different letter on it and I wrote that and she put that in her shoe. I don’t know why. I didn’t know what she was going to do.” (Norma was never to be asked what this “different letter” was which she presumably wrote on her own initiative.)

  “Norma, how did you know what to write?” asked the Judge.

  “’Cos Mary says . . .”

  “Now there are four notes here, Norma,” continued Mr. Justice Cusack. “I want you to look at the other two. There is one that has got a number thirteen on it which has a very naughty word on it and then says, ‘We murder. Watch out Fanny.’ Do you see that one?”

  “Yes. . . .”

  “. . . But after the notes that were written in the scullery were put into May’s shoes, what did she do? Did she go somewhere?”

  “She went out. . . .”

  “. . . When May went out, did she say where she was going?”

  “No, but I knew she wanted the notes for the Nursery, but I didn’t know that she went.”

  “How did you know she wanted the notes for the Nursery?”

  “’Cos she said so. . . .”

  After taking Norma through their breaking into the Nursery, Mr. Smith returned to the notes. “When you had got into the loft,” he asked, “what did you do?”

  “Wrote the note. . . .”

  “. . . Can you see the note which you wrote? Is it any of those?”

  “Yes, that one. If it is any one of those, it is one of those two, 13 or 14. . . .”

  “. . . I want you to look at 13 first, which has the letters ‘B-A-S’ in capitals. Did you write those letters?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what it means.”

  “You never mind what it means,” said Mr. Smith. “Did you write them?”

  “No.”

  “And then ‘FUCK,’ did you write that?”

  “No. No. ‘Of’, I mean the ‘F’, not the other one, not the ‘O’.”

  “Who wrote that?”

  “Mary, because we were joining writing.”

  “You were joining writing?”

  “Yes.” Taking her then first through the words and then the individual letters of each word, Mr. Smith tried to establish which had been written by her and which by Mary.

  “. . . When the notes were written what did you do with them?”

  “Both me and Mary went downstairs.”

  “Do you mean out of the loft?”

  “Downstairs.”

  “Into the Nursery School?”

  “Yes. . . .”

  “. . . And what happened to the notes when you got downstairs?”

  “There’s this kind of phone and the thing opens and one got put in there but I’m not sure whether it was one of these two . . .”

  “. . . And who put the note in there,” asked Mr. Smith. “You or Mary?”

  “Mary. . . .”

  “. . . Did you put any notes anywhere?” asked the Judge.

  “Yes, where the telephone is.”

  “You left a note near where the telephone is, is that right?”

  “Yes, and Mary left some.”

  One of the main objectives of many of the questions Norma was asked at whatever momentary cost to her peace of mind was to establish her truthfulness. (By the same token, R. P. Smith’s repetitive questions when examining Mary were frequently intended to show, for the benefit of the Jury, how exceptional Mary’s vocabulary was in contrast to Norma.) And there was soon no doubt that, although Norma may not have quite understood why it was necessary for her to tell what were frequently unpalatable truths, the combination of honestly concerned parents, a peaceful and therapeutic environment during her months of remand, and sympathetic but authoritative preparation by her legal advisers had enabled her to give truthful answers, certainly to specific questions.

  Mary’s approach to answering questions was very different. First of all, there was hardly ever any doubt that she understood perfectly what she was asked. Indeed, on several occasions her capacity to keep all the complex threads of the proceedings separated and in proper order must have exceeded that of many adults.

  Secondly, despite the incredible act of self-assurance she put on, and her undoubted enjoyment of the notoriety, she was terrified of the situation she found herself in: a consequence of her action which—because she was innately incapable of thinking ahead (a classical symptom of her condition)—she had never consciously envisaged. Her terror showed up increasingly clearly as the trial progressed: in the comments she made to the policewomen who guarded her, and in the nightmares she had on the rare occasions when she slept.

  Mary was constantly lying. But many of her lies wer
e embedded in a mass of extraneous information, a deliberate mixture of lies and truths, a measure which, briefly successful at times, was designed to deflect her listeners’ attention from the direct questions she was asked. In a way these embellishments, which she recounted with phenomenal fluency and expression, were meant to give credence and “body” to her lies. At the same time, they doubtlessly provided her with a badly needed antidote to her own terror.

  Of course she too, at times, told the truth, but one felt that it was done deliberately—because she believed that on the principle of “bend a little” it was momentarily to her advantage to speak the truth rather than lie.

  “. . . I want to ask you . . . first of all, about the notes,” Harvey Robson said. “Do you understand what I am referring to?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you remember how the notes came to be written?”

  “Well, we wrote—it was a joint idea.”

  “Yes, where were you?”

  “In our house. We only wrote—er—er . . . two in our house, I think.”

  “How did it begin? Norma, I think, has said something about you were playing a recorder?”

  “Oh well . . .”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes,” she began. “I can play a recorder. I was playing a recorder. I was playing, ‘Go To Sleep, Little Brother Peter’; I was playing that or ‘Three Blind Mice’. I was playing one of those tunes and I just put it back in the box because too much playing it makes the inside go rusty or something . . .”

  “Well, you had been playing with that,” Mr. Robson interrupted the elaboration. “And then what did you do?”

  “We went into the back scullery I think—no, I had a cat upstairs which was a stray cat and it was a black one and me and Norma were trying to think of a name for it, and we were thinking of names for it and it was a black cat . . .”

  “. . . Did you go upstairs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Into what room?”

  “My bedroom.”

  “And what did you do in your bedroom?”

  “We were thinking of a name for the cat.”

  “Yes?”

  “But the dog, it was coming up and sniffing under the door because it could smell the cat.”

  “And how did you come to make the notes?”

  “Well, the doll’s pram was at the side of my bed and Norma went over to it and looked under. It has . . . has got I think it is a red hood, I’m not sure what color hood, but it has got like a thing to cover it and it has got the two studs at one end, and Norma went in because she saw, she was looking at the doll . . . and she saw there was a red Biro pen and she got it out, and she was doing some drawings and it was a joint idea to write the notes, so we both wrote them, but we never wrote them in the bedroom, we wrote them in the scullery.”