Heaven Knows Who

by Christianna Brand

  Miss Dykes, by the way, said it was half-past ten when she joined Mrs Walker and that they stood gossiping not a quarter but three-quarters of an hour. This Mrs Walker ever after stoutly denied; and, as has been said, in this case it was probably Miss Dykes who was mistaken.

  At any rate, it was as Miss Dykes emerged from her house that Mrs Walker casually observed—though she was seldom casual about observing her neighbours’ business—that a woman had come out of the lane which ran along behind the houses of Sandy-ford Place—the back doors of their gardens opening into it—and went off across Elderslie Street in the direction of North Street. The ladies remained chatting for ten minutes or so till, at about a quarter past eleven, Miss Dykes heard a ‘skliffling’ of feet behind her (from which she judges that the walker had bad shoes on, or very light ones) and they both saw a woman come down Elderslie Street from Sauchiehall Street towards the entry to the lane behind Sandyford Place. Mrs Walker described her as pretty tall and square shouldered: she could not be sure that it was the woman she had seen before. Both agreed that she wore a dark bonnet and a brown dress: Mrs Walker said she had a grey cloak, Miss Dykes couldn’t be sure; they both thought she was carrying something.

  The ladies were ready to be scandalised. ‘Whose servant is that going into the lane at this time of night?’ asked Miss Dykes indignantly. (A Miss M’Intyre who was passing caught the words and hoped they would not be so censorious of her). But the married woman was more worldly wise than Miss Dykes. ‘You see that man that’s just passed her? He looked right into her face. She’ll meet him on the waste-ground.’ But the man passed on, so the ladies were disappointed.

  Miss M’Intyre was innocently on the way home to Sandyford Place from a visit to her brother; she was spending a few nights at No. 80. She passed by Mrs Walker and Miss Dykes; and she, also, saw the woman (in a grey cloak or grey shawl) as she turned off into the lane. At the corner of Sandyford Place there was a little group of people, apparently discussing something that had just occurred to surprise or alarm them; something they ‘had heard’, some sound that they thought had ‘come from that house where the light is’. They broke up as she approached; and then as she passed No. 17 she too heard a sound that made her stop and listen: a low, wailing noise, like the moaning of a person in very great distress. ‘There was no wind that night, a calm night. The sound was quite distinctly audible to me, a moaning, doleful kind of sound which rather frightened me.’ There was a light in one or both of the windows in the area.

  She stood still for a little while listening, wondering whether she ought not to go and investigate; but she was frightened, and after the one long moan the sound did not come again. She walked on as fast as she could along Sandyford Place.

  A quarter past eleven.

  P.C. Campbell plodded on round his beat, plagued by those bothersome prostitutes and drunks on the waste ground, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, while the skirts of fame whisked by him.

  Mr Stewart, a jeweller, lived at No. 16. The house adjoined No. 17, to the west of it, the lay-outs being similar; and Mr Stewart slept in the room corresponding to old Mr Fleming’s on the first floor: overlooking the back garden, that is, and above, though not directly above, the Flemings’ kitchen.

  Mr Stewart got home at about half-past ten on the night of the murder. His family had just gone off to the country, but he called up the maid and a little girl who was keeping her company and they all ‘had worship’. He then went to bed and fell asleep at once, before he had even had time to settle himself comfortably—still sitting half upright, his head resting on the head-board, and therefore separated only by the board from the party wall between the two houses.

  He ‘wakened in a fright’. He couldn’t be sure what had waked him, but he thought it was a scream, and his first impression was that it had come from within the room—his second that it couldn’t have, because there was nobody in the house (he had presumably forgotten the maid and the little girl downstairs). He looked out of the window and saw that it was still pitch dark: he thought it must be about midnight or not later than one o’clock. He listened but he heard no more and he went off to sleep again.

  P.C. Campbell trudged on.

  The sun rose at 3.41 that morning. At about four o’clock three sisters came rolling happily home from their brother’s wedding celebrations—though one hastens to say that Peterina at least had had ‘only half a glass of wine at the marriage and no spirits nor any other liquor’, and there is no suggestion that the others had been less abstemious. They were Margaret, Jessie and Peterina M’Lean, and the eldest was twenty-four.

  It was ‘a lovely morning, still and calm’. In a tree outside one of the houses in Sandyford Place a whole flock of little birds had gathered and were singing their hearts out. Delighted, the three girls stopped to listen. As they stood there they observed that there was a light on in the house: the blinds of the front ground-floor room (the dining-room) were down, but in the centre of one several slats were open, and through these they could all distinctly see the gasolier hanging from the ceiling, in which one or two of the lights were burning. ‘How curious,’ said Margaret, ‘to have a light burning at this time of the morning!’ ‘Perhaps there’s sickness in the house,’ said Peterina, ‘or they have a late party.’ They could all clearly see the number of the house, No. 17; and Margaret, though she didn’t happen to mention it at the time, knew who lived there. On the Tuesday after the discovery of the murder she led another sister past it and pointed it out. ‘That’s the house where we saw the light after the wedding.’

  A little later—between four and five that morning—yet another reveller was said to have been passing Sandyford Place and to have seen ‘an old man resembling Mr Fleming’ at the door of No. 17. A Mr Sheridan Knowles, butcher, had been told so by a Mr Ritchie; or at any rate Mr Knowles thought it was Mr Ritchie who had told him, but he wasn’t sure. Nor, at the time of making his report to the authorities could Mr Knowles recall the name of the party who was said to have seen the old man, though he knew it was a short name. Mr Knowles had said to Mr Ritchie—if it was Mr Ritchie—that the party ought to inform the authorities, and Mr Ritchie—if it was Mr Ritchie—had replied that the party didn’t want to get mixed up in the case. Later, said Mr Knowles, Mrs M’Lachlan’s life being in danger, he had again spoken to Mr Ritchie, and Mr. Ritchie now denied ever having mentioned such an incident. Mr Knowles, however, had found Mr Ritchie ‘only middling truthful in matters generally’.

  Mr Ritchie, questioned, forthrightly repudiated all knowledge of the affair. He had known Jess M’Pherson when she had lived in Falkirk and used to come to his shop, but he had no recollection of ever conversing with Mr Knowles about the murder at all. ‘In point of fact, I don’t know any party who saw an old man resembling Mr Fleming at said door; nor did I ever hear of such a thing until now.’

  So that was the end of a beautiful friendship no doubt, but at any rate the end of any sort of proof that the old man had been seen up and about that night.

  At six o’clock P.C. Campbell was relieved and retired home to bed, having missed his chance of more than a very small share in the notoriety that was soon to surround everyone connected with Sandyford Place.

  P.C. Cameron succeeded him. One half of the day beat came on at six and the other half at eight, whereupon the first half had time off for breakfast, so that between eight and nine only half the day beat were operating and Cameron was the only man on duty—with his station at the head of North Street, where he stayed until nine. Between eight and nine, therefore, there was no eye of the law to remark any comings and goings round Sandyford Place.

  There was, however, one very sharp-eyed observer.

  Donald M’Quarrie, ‘the historic milkboy’, was thirteen years of age and was employed with three other boys in distributing the milk which was taken round by horse and cart under the supervision of George Paton, a young man of twenty-five. Paton had been on this round for nearly a year, calling ‘twice every lawfu
l day and once on Sunday’. M’Quarrie had been with him almost all that time and they were both well familiar with the habits of tenants at Sandyford Place, where they served sixteen houses. Many houses took no milk in the summer months or at week-ends, their occupants being out of town, but he had never known No. 17 to take none. A maidservant always answered the door and took in the milk, except occasionally on a Friday, when old Mr Fleming would appear, and on Monday afternoons, when he paid the account. Donald M’Quarrie knew Mr Fleming well from seeing him on these occasions. He would usually be wearing a black coat.

  On the Friday morning before the murder it was Jess M’Pherson as usual who opened the door. She handed M’Quarrie the jug and asked for two penn’orth. That afternoon Mr Fleming appeared and said they didn’t want any more.

  Next morning, Saturday, at their usual time—between half-past seven and a quarter to eight—the cart drew up almost exactly opposite No. 17, the last house but one in the row. M’Quarrie ran up the front steps with his can and rang the bell.

  After only a small delay he heard the rattle of the chain coming off the inside of the door, and the door opened and old Mr Fleming appeared. He was fully dressed, Donald was to say later—in black coat and trousers: better dressed than M’Quarrie had ever seen him before (the inference would be that he usually wore up his old black suit in the house). He said briefly that ‘he was for nae milk’ and shut the door again.

  M’Quarrie was surprised and so was George Paton. No. 17 never took ‘nae milk’. Paton had been serving other customers but keeping an eye on his boys, and he had observed that the door of No. 17 was opened with very little delay, though only a ‘small bit’, so that he had not seen who was inside it. (A milkman’s ‘very little delay’ would allow for a minute or two—the customer would not commonly be crouching in the hall ready to spring out for milk: most of the maids on his round would have to make their way up from the basement). He asked M’Quarrie who it was that had answered the door and refused milk. M’Quarrie said it was old Mr Fleming.

  They had now finished in Sandyford Place and were ready to move on. George Paton looked at his watch and saw that it was just twenty to eight.

  And at 182 Broomielaw Street, Mrs. Campbell also was taking in the milk. The mistress of the house had not yet come home.

  1 See p. 31

  CHAPTER THREE

  At nine o’clock, Mrs M’Lachlan knocked at the door of her ‘house’ in the Broomielaw. Mrs Campbell opened to her and, with only a murmured greeting she passed straight on down the corridor to her own room. She was wearing her brown bonnet and the grey cloak; and under the cloak she carried a very large bundle.

  She reappeared shortly afterwards, carrying a clothes basket, and went downstairs to the cellar where she was in the habit of keeping some of her things—no doubt those displaced when she let her two rooms; and now Mrs Campbell saw that she was wearing a dress she had not been seen wearing before, a dress of reddish merino, trimmed with blue velvet, pleated at the back. She returned to her own room and later called out to Mrs Campbell asking her to kindle a fire in her room for her. She then went out, taking her little boy. It was hardly an hour since she had come home.

  She was back some time between one and two and Mrs Campbell followed her down to her room and asked for the return of the little black basket she had borrowed the night before. She was now wearing a dress of her own which Mrs Campbell recognised; a dress of blue and black shaded poplin.

  Poor Jessie had had a very active morning. She had been first to an ironmonger’s and there asked to see a bonnet-box, with a lock to it. She was shown several and chose one of them, a black japanned box, of a popular model. She was carrying a bundle and she put the bundle into the box and locked the padlock and kept the key. The assistant serving her was a young man named Nish who at the time of the trial was in Antigua; but the proprietor recognised their private mark on the bottom of the box and his son had overheard the whole transaction. She asked Nish to put an Edinburgh address on the box: the witness understood her to say that she would be taking it to Edinburgh or at any rate taking it to the Edinburgh station. Meantime, she said, she would leave it and come back for it later: before four o’clock—they closed at four on Saturdays. But she did not, in fact, come back for it that day.

  Mary Adams lodged with a Mrs Rainny. Mrs Adams was the woman who did Mrs M’Lachlan’s washing, who had pawned the looking-glass for her the evening before, and who had forgotten to give the message to the locksmith. She had been too unwell to keep her promise to go round and sit with the baby, but this morning by six o’clock she had duly got herself up and gone off out to work. She was still out when Jessie called at the house some time after eleven.

  A small child opened the door.

  Mary Adams being out Jessie asked Mrs Rainny ‘if she had a wee boy to go a message for her.’ No suitable wee boy being available she asked if Mrs Rainny would go herself (she seems—perhaps because her constant ill-health had accustomed her to relying upon assistance, perhaps because she herself was always kind and obliging and she took it for granted in others—to have been very ready to ask such favours of people).

  Mrs Rainny agreed, and was given a pawn ticket and a ‘paper note’—a pound, or ten shillings—and instructed to go round to Hutchinson’s pawn in Argyle Street and ‘lift’ a bundle.

  It seems probable that it was while Mrs Rainny was away on this errand, or before she left, that Jessie went out again. Some time in the morning she bought herself a new bonnet—paying four and tenpence for it, which seems not expensive considering that ‘it was to be sent home to her’. She had on no bonnet while she was at Mrs Rainny’s; and it may be said here that the pale brown velvet she had worn when she set out the evening before, and still wore when she came home the next morning, was from that hour never seen again.

  According to Mrs Rainny it was between eleven and half past that Mrs M’Lachlan came to her house. It was after eleven but certainly before twelve—they banked their takings at twelve that day—that the accountants collecting the rents for the Broomielaw estate received a surprise visit from their habitually errant tenant, with four pounds to pay off on her arrears. She was at this time almost five pounds in their debt, but had been given till the end of August to settle.

  From their office in West Nile Street it was a fifteen minutes’ walk to Lundie’s pawnshop in Great Clyde Street—up through Mitchell Street and across the Cowcaddens. Jessie arrived there some time after twelve. She had at that time no child with her: she had perhaps left it at Mrs Rainny’s?—she had told her she was wearied with carrying the boy about the streets. She went into one of the booths and the pawnbroker’s son, Robert Lundie, attended her. She gave her name as Mary M’Donald of 5 St Vincent Street and said that her mistress was behind in her rent and had sent her to pawn some silver. She produced it—six silver tablespoons, six plated dessert spoons, six silver toddy ladles, a silver fish slice, a silver soup divider—whatever that may have been—and two silver teaspoons, a plated sauce spoon and six plated forks. She asked six pounds ten shillings for them but was offered and accepted six pounds fifteen.

  All the silver was marked with an ‘F’.

  Mrs Rainny, meanwhile, had been to the pawn and redeemed the bundle and brought it home unexamined. Mrs M’Lachlan opened it out in front of her. It contained a ‘black and blue shaded poplin gown’—this explains why it was later described by some witnesses as blue and by some as black—and she asked leave to change into it there: she was ‘going down the water wi’ her man’ and wanted to wear it, and besides she was taking the one she had on, to the dyer’s. Mrs Rainny thought this was a pity: it was a nice dress, a cinnamon brown merino—but Jessie said no, she would prefer it black. She gave Mrs Rainny a penny for her two elder children and a shilling for the youngest: presumably the small boy who had opened the door for her but was too young to be sent to the pawnshop.

  A glance at Jessie’s curious finances may at this time be profitable. She had t
he night before sent out to pawn a mirror for six shillings to raise money to redeem her cloak; because she couldn’t go out without the cloak. Of this she had paid out four shillings and sevenpence ha’penny to lift the cloak, sevenpence ha’penny for rum, and whatever was the cost of the biscuits. Since ten o’clock this morning, however, she had paid for the black japanned box (from later events one may deduce this to have cost four and six or five shillings) and four pounds off her arrears in rent. She had handed Mrs Rainny ‘a paper note’ to redeem the poplin dress from Hutchinson’s pawn; and she had probably bought her four-and-tenpenny bonnet, though this may have been done later. But all this had come before she went to the pawnshop with the silver; she herself in a statement made later agreed that it had happened before she pawned the silver. It was afterwards that she was able to be so liberal to the youngest Rainny; but in any event Mrs Rainny had had change to give her back from the paper note out of which she had paid the three shillings and a penny ha’penny on the poplin dress.