Heaven Knows Who

by Christianna Brand

  But Mr Clark cared nothing at the moment for the screams in the night. ‘You are quite sure, then, that you lay in bed till nine o’clock?’

  The old man had said so. He had lain from six o’clock to nine, waiting for Jess to bring him up his bit of porridge. He repeated now, ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were not out of your bed or dressed till nine o’clock or thereby?’

  ‘I didna leave ma bed till nine o’clock.’

  ‘Who was the first person you spoke to on that Saturday morning?’

  The first person Mr Fleming was known to have spoken to—or so Master M’Quarrie would later say in evidence—was the milk-boy, at twenty minutes to eight. But if he hadn’t got up till nine, he couldn’t have spoken to the milk-boy. ‘On Saturday morning? It was the girl for the len’ o’ the spade.’

  ‘Her name is Brownlie, I believe?’

  ‘I dinna ken. She’s Mr Stewart’s servant.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  This time Mr Fleming definitely said it was about eleven o’clock.

  ‘And until she came there was no one in the house that you had seen?’

  ‘No one that I saw.’

  ‘But was there anyone?’

  ‘No,’ said the old man.

  ‘When does the milk usually come?’

  ‘It aye comes betwixt eight and nine o’clock.’

  Mr Clark made a neat little swoop. He moved on to Monday. The old man had said he had risen at eight on Monday morning; if, as he now also said, the milk came after eight, he must have been up to receive it. ‘When does it usually come on Monday morning?’

  But Mr Fleming, though vague enough when he wanted to be, was not so slow either. ‘It came aye aboot one time [it always came about the same time], but I didna require any on the Monday morning as I had tae gang awa’ tae the toon.’ (The milk-boy’s evidence was that on all three mornings the old man came to the door—though he was for nae milk.)

  ‘Why did you not require any milk on Monday?’

  ‘I had tae gang awa’ to the toon,’ insisted the old man, ‘and there’s a milk shop in our property in the Briggate, an’ I went in there an’ got a ha’penny roll an’ a mutchkin of milk. That was a’ the breakfast I got on Monday morning.’

  But Mr Clark had his bird netted and they both knew it. ‘Did the milk come upon the Saturday morning?’

  ‘I don’t think it did,’ said old Fleming. What else was there to say?

  ‘It is brought to the front door?’

  ‘Always to the front door.…’ He embarked on one of his little diversions. ‘But it was not locked nor the chain on it nor anything but the latch.…’

  Mr Clark ignored the diversion. ‘Did you hear a ring at the front-door bell at the time when the milk should have come on Saturday morning?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Fleming, brought up short.

  ‘Do you swear—do you swear that you did not open the door before that woman—Mr Stewart’s servant—came for the spade?’

  ‘Yes,’ swore Mr Fleming.

  ‘Did you not open the door to the milkman that morning?’

  ‘No.’ But it sounded very bald. ‘I don’t recollect the milkman coming.’

  ‘Did you not open the door to the milk-boy and tell him that there was no milk required that morning?’

  The old man retreated into vagueness. ‘There was one that I told that to. I recollect that.’

  ‘You remember that now?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then it was not true that Mr Stewart’s servant was the first person to whom you opened that front door on Saturday morning?’

  ‘It was Mr Stewart’s servant to whom I opened the door first.’

  ‘Did you open the door for the milk-boy?’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ said the old man. ‘Mr Stewart’s servant was the first that I opened the door to, and then to the baker.’

  There is nothing like a nice muddle to confuse the issue in cross-examination, and Mr Rutherford Clark must have recognised with some despair that—intentionally or otherwise—the old gentleman was going to correct and contradict himself till he had them both in a splendid muddle now. He started all over again. ‘Did the milkman come to the door on Saturday morning?’

  ‘I’m sure I canna charge my memory particularly about the milkman on Saturday morning.’

  ‘Mr Fleming, you told me a little while ago that you remember him coming on Saturday.’

  Mr Fleming played for time. ‘I did not require any milk.’

  ‘I don’t care about that. You told me that you remembered that the milkman came upon that Saturday. Did the milkman come on Saturday or did he not?’

  There was a long pause; the Court, and Mr Clark too, must have held their breaths. But, ‘I’m sure I canna answer that,’ said the old man.

  Mr Clark tried again. ‘Mr Fleming—can you tell me whether you opened the door to any person before that servant of Mr Stewart who came for the spade?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I opened the door to any person till she came. I am sure of that,’ said Mr Fleming, taking heart. ‘It was about eleven o’clock that she came, and the baker came shortly after.’ (Elizabeth was to say that it was two o’clock in the afternoon.)

  ‘Are you sure, therefore, that the milk did not come that morning?’

  But the old man dodged again. ‘I am sure I did not get any milk that morning.’

  ‘Never mind that. Are you sure it did not come?’

  ‘I rather think it did not come.’

  ‘Could it have got in that morning without you opening the door?’

  ‘There was no milk brought in.’

  ‘Did you refuse to take milk that Saturday morning?’

  What must have been Mr Clark’s feelings when the old man at last simply answered ‘Yes.’

  He pressed his advantage, eagerly; ‘Did you refuse to take in the milk that Saturday morning?’

  ‘I refused to take milk. I did not require it.’

  But Mr Fleming was getting into deepish waters. The judge hastened to his aid. ‘Are you sure, Mr Clark, that he fully understands the question?’

  Mr Clark doubtless felt little gratitude for this judicial interruption of the keen flow of his examination, now that he really had things moving. ‘I am persuaded that he does, my lord. Did you say to anyone, Mr Fleming, that you did not need any milk that morning, that Saturday? Did you say it to the milk-boy?’

  ‘I told him that I did not need it,’ said the old man.

  It must have been a moment of tremendous excitement. ‘Now, Mr Fleming, don’t let us make any mistake about this matter. Did you say to the milk-boy that you required no milk that day?’

  ‘Yes, I think I did. This was the morning that I got no milk at all.’

  A juryman here interrupted to ask counsel to make sure that there was no mistake about the day. ‘I am very anxious that there should be no mistake,’ Mr Clark replied fervently, and put the question again. ‘You understand, Mr Fleming, that the morning I am speaking about at present is the Saturday morning?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Fleming.

  He hammered it home yet again. ‘Just attend, Mr Fleming. On that Saturday morning you said to the milk-boy that you required no milk at that time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Down came the trap. ‘Well—at what time of day did you say this?’

  Old Fleming took refuge in vagueness once more. The boy would have rung the bell and he would just have said he needed no milk. Lord Deas kindly prompted him: he could have said that without ever opening the door.

  ‘Could you have said that without opening the door?’

  ‘Yes; I could take the front door off the sneck [the latch], leaving the chain fastened, and speak to the milk-boy. I think I left the front door on the chain.’

  ‘Are you sure, Mr Clark,’ insisted the anxious judge, ‘that he fully understands the question?’

  ‘I am trying to make it as plain as I can, my lord,’ said Rutherfurd Clark. He
added—with what degree of scorn, irritability or umbrage we must judge for ourselves—that he had no wish to take any advantage.

  ‘I have no doubt of that,’ said Lord Deas pacifically.

  Cross-examination resumed. ‘Had the door a chain?’ asked Mr Clark—literally and metaphorically in words of one syllable.

  Yes, it had a chain.

  ‘Could you have opened the door and spoken to the milk-boy without taking off the chain?’ (‘Misunderstand’ that if you can!)

  Yes, he could.

  ‘Did you do so?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Well, that was unequivocal enough; except that Donald M’Quarrie was to say that the first thing he heard that morning was the chain being taken down from the door.

  ‘Now, Mr Fleming—do you remember going to the door that morning and opening it to the milk-boy?’

  Mr Fleming took refuge in one of his non sequiturs. ‘No, I did not let him in.’

  ‘Did you see him at the door?’

  ‘It’s likely I would.’

  ‘Mr Fleming, do you remember speaking to the milk-boy on that Saturday morning?’

  ‘I would just say to him that I would not require any milk.’

  ‘Do you remember seeing him at the door?’

  ‘Yes, I think I do.’

  ‘Did the bell ring when the boy came?’

  ‘It’s most likely it would.’

  ‘But do you remember if it rang?’

  ‘Well, I wouldna have gone to the door if the bell had not rung,’ said the old man.

  ‘Well, but do you remember if it rang?’

  ‘I canna mind everything.…’

  He was retreating again. Mr Clark left him to it and opened a fresh attack from a slightly different angle. ‘What time of the morning was it that the milk-boy came?’

  It was just about his usual time—between eight and nine.

  ‘Were you dressed?’ said Mr Clark.

  No doubt it sounded to the uninitiated innocent enough. Old Mr Fleming knew otherwise. He temporised as usual. ‘On Saturday morning, do you mean?’

  ‘Yes, on Saturday morning?’

  ‘I canna say that; I suppose I would.’ He added: ‘I got up about nine o’clock that morning.’

  Just what Mr Rutherfurd Clark wanted! ‘Well, if the milk-boy came about eight or nine o’clock, how could you be dressed if you didn’t get up till nine?’

  There was another of those long pauses that at a murder trial are filled, for the unaccustomed spectator at any rate, with a sort of vicarious terror. He said at last, slowly: ‘Whether I was dressed or not, I cannot charge my memory. I might not be dressed.’

  ‘But you said that you lay in bed till about nine—and then got up and dressed yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  There was nothing to say but yes again.

  And we may imagine for ourselves, another pause. Mr Clark would stand for a moment—deliberately, perhaps, to create an ‘atmosphere’, or simply collecting his thoughts, girding himself for the spring. For this was to be the question of questions, this was to be the point and focus of all that had gone before. Did he bark it out suddenly, or whisper it dramatically, or just put it casually, as if it hardly mattered at all? ‘Why did you not let Jessie open the door when the milk-boy came?’

  And: ‘Jessie?’ said the old man. ‘Jessie, ye ken—it was a’ ower wi’ Jessie afore that.’

  Sensation in Court cried the papers next morning; and no doubt that was putting it mildly. Indeed, in the hubbub, the answer was partially lost, and the North British Daily Mail heard it as: ‘Jessie—we kent it was a’ ower wi’ Jessie afore that,’ or, as they translated it for their readers, ‘We knew that Jessie was dead and could not go to the door.’

  Into the hushing of the ushers, Mr Clark repeated his question. ‘Why did you not let Jessie open the door to the milkman when he came?’

  ‘There was nae Jessie to open the door that morning,’ said the old man helplessly.

  Lord Deas intervened. ‘You had better put the question another way. Ask him why he opened the door himself that morning.’

  ‘Willingly,’ said Mr Clark, though it was not precisely the same question, even allowing for different phrasing. He got round that rather neatly. ‘Why did you open the door when the milk-boy came—in place of allowing Jessie to open it?’

  The old man began to fluff badly. ‘I was just saying to him—the chain was on—we did not require any milk. She was deed afore that.’

  Mr Clark was anxious to pursue his line of enquiry, but here was an admission that must be noted. ‘My lord, there is one matter in this answer which I think is very important. He says the chain was on.’ Having got the fact safely into cold storage, as it were, he returned to the immediate attack. ‘Mr Fleming, I must have an answer to this question. Why did you go to the door and open it when the milkman came? Why did you not allow Jessie to open the door?’

  ‘On Saturday morning, ye ken,’ insisted the old man, ‘Jessie was deed. She couldna open the door when she was deed.’

  ‘Quite true. But why did you open it? Did you know that Jessie was dead when the milkman came?’

  ‘No, I did not,’ said the old man sharply.

  ‘If you didn’t know Jessie was dead, then why did you go to the door?’

  But he had collected his wits a bit by now. ‘I was up, ye ken, and I would just go and open the door to say that we did not require any.’

  ‘Did you leave Jessie time to open the door?’

  Lord Deas again. ‘You had better ask: Did you wait some time before you opened the door?’

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Clark, ‘did you wait some time before you opened the door?’

  ‘Oh, ye ken, I went down the stair and through the house before that, and got no answer.’

  ‘How long before the milkman came,’ said Mr Clark swiftly, ‘would you go through the house?’

  ‘Through the house? I suppose it would be nigh aboot the time. I knocked three times, ye ken, at her door and got nae answer, and this was after nine o’clock.’

  ‘Are you sure that it was after nine o’clock?’ Mr Clark pounced again. The milkman would say he called at twenty to eight, the old man himself had said it was before nine.

  The answer was muffled. ‘Put the question again,’ said Lord Deas. ‘Perhaps he misunderstood you.’

  ‘Are you certain that this was after nine o’clock?’

  ‘Yes, after nine. The milkman whiles doesna’ keep the appointed time.’

  ‘Did you go downstairs before you dressed that morning?’

  The old man said that he might well have done; he would be unwashed and unshaven, and might go down undressed. We may note here that ‘downstairs’ meant to the basement. One has an impression of coming downstairs from the bedroom floor, but James Fleming slept on the ground floor. It is of course quite possible that he might go down before dressing to get clothes from his wardrobe room, though he does not himself make this point.

  Mr Clark was not interested in vapourings about what might have happened. ‘I speak about Saturday morning—’

  ‘I can say no more than I have. I have told you everything in my heart. The memory of a man of seventy-eight is not so fresh as a young man’s. Be as easy as you can,’ begged the old gentleman humbly. ‘I am willing to answer every question.’

  It might have been more effective had not a juryman jumped up to point out that Mr Fleming had just stated his age to be seventy-eight, whereas he had formerly given it as eighty-seven. Mr Fleming hastily corrected himself. He was born the ninth of August, 1775, he was ‘eighty-seven past’. (Only just past; it was now September 17. But every little helps.)

  ‘On Saturday morning—were you down in the kitchen before you put on your clothes?’

  The old gentleman thought it over. ‘Before I put on ma claes? I might.’

  ‘Did you chap [knock] at Jessie’s door?’

  ‘Yes.’

 
‘Had you your clothes on then?’

  ‘I couldna say I was completely dressed. I might have had part of ma claes on. I tried the sneck, but the door was locked and the key awa’. What more could I do?’

  ‘When the milkman came on Saturday morning, was it before or after you had chapped at Jessie’s door?’

  ‘I could not, be pointed [exact or certain] wi’ that question, whether it was before or after.’

  Mr Clark went back to the milk. ‘Did you take in any milk on Saturday morning?’

  ‘No, I did not require it. I could take ma breakfast without milk as well as with it.’

  ‘Had you your breakfast on Saturday morning?’

  ‘I made masel’ a cup of tea.’

  ‘Had the refusal to take milk on Saturday morning anything to do with your not having got porridge that morning?’

  The old man was not to be caught with that one. ‘No, I could take ma porridge wanting ma milk, and can do so yet. The servant was in the habit of getting in the milk in the morning for her use. She would get a larger quantity when she was alive.’

  And that was the last of the milk for old Mr Fleming—except for one question at the end. He would surely have been a more comfortable man at that moment could he have known that this was so.

  Mr Clark moved on to other matters. ‘When you first saw the back door on that Saturday morning, was it locked on the inside?’

  It was locked on the inside said the old man, and the key either in or out of it—no one seems quite sure which he said. But it didn’t much matter.

  ‘And when you first saw the front door on that morning, how was it?’

  ‘It was on the latch. There was no lock or chain.’

  ‘You are sure of that?’

  ‘I could give my oath on it.’

  He had said, a few questions back, that the chain was positively on; but Mr Clark did not risk any rambling explanations in apparently innocent contradiction. ‘You never took the chain off that front door?’

  ‘There was no chain on it.’

  ‘And you did not take it off?’

  ‘No!’ said the old man firmly.

  ‘Now, you heard a squeal [a scream] about four o’clock on the Saturday morning. Where did this squeal come from?’