Heaven Knows Who

by Christianna Brand

  ‘When I jumped out of ma bed and heard the squeal, I thocht it might be on the street. Next a squeal followed, and then I heard it was down below.’

  ‘How long would it be between the first and last squeal?’

  ‘I think it would be a bare minute; then all was quiet as if it never had taken place.’

  ‘Was it the same voice that squealed each time, so far as you could judge?

  ‘Yes, but not so strong.’

  ‘Was it a squeal as of distress?’

  ‘It was a squeal like as if somebody was in distress.’

  ‘Did you recognise the voice?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What did you think at the time?’

  ‘I thocht that Jessie had got some person in to stop wi’ her, after I had gone to bed.’

  ‘And what did you think had caused the squeal at the time?’

  ‘Och, I couldna say what had caused it; but I heard it, just as if some person was in great distress. It was by in a minute.’

  ‘Why did you not go down?’

  ‘It was all quiet afterhind and I didna think of going doon.’ If the noise had continued any time, he added, it would have been alarming and ‘we’ would have had to call in the police. But a couple of ‘lood squeals’ apparently seemed to him too trivial to worry about. Nobody seems to have observed the plural ‘we’.

  ‘When you found in the morning that Jessie was not there and her door locked, why did you not send for the police?’

  It had never occurred to him to send for them, said the old man; he was aye thinkin’ she was awa’ wi’ some o’ her freens; it had not entered his head that there was murder or anything else o’ that kind gaun on in the hoose.

  ‘In the course of the night you had heard squeals indicating that some person was in great distress, and you did not see your servant in the morning. Can you tell me why you didn’t in these circumstances give information to the police?’

  ‘I didna think aboot anything at the time. I was aye lookin’ for her coming back, and if any drink or anything had been gaun she might have been induced to go out and would be back and I never thocht of calling for the police. I was looking for her back every other minutes,’ rambled the old man, ‘I thocht she would be back and it never occurred to me—trouble or murder or any such thing.’

  ‘Her going away was a very unexpected thing to you, was it not?’

  Yes, it was, he said; so, pace Lord Deas, evidently young Fleming was not the only person who had heard nothing of any such plan.

  ‘When she didn’t come back all Saturday,’ insisted Mr Clark, ‘why didn’t you send for the police?’

  ‘I didn’t think of sending for them.’

  ‘And when she did not come back all Sunday—why didn’t you send for the police?’

  ‘I kent Mr Fleming would be home on Monday,’ said the old gentleman happily, ‘and would put a’ things richt.’

  They passed on to the basement where he had admittedly spent a good part of the three lonely days. ‘Was there anything in the kitchen that attracted your attention on the Saturday?’

  ‘There was naething.’

  ‘Nor upon the Sunday?’

  ‘Nae, nor upon the Sunday.’

  ‘Nor upon the Monday?’

  ‘Nor upon the Monday.’

  ‘You were a great deal in the kitchen during these three days?’

  ‘It was gey wat they days’ (so much for the promise of that fair Saturday morning!), ‘and I was glad to go doon to heat ma cauld feet. I mended the fire in the morning. But it was in, so I just had to put on some coals.’

  ‘You kept the fire burning?’

  ‘Ay, and I put on a gathering coal at night.’ A gathering coal was a large lump of coal for keeping in the kitchen fire overnight; we may recollect that Elizabeth Brownlie, sleeping in the basement next door, could sometimes hear the big coal being broken in the grate.

  ‘Did you see any blood in the kitchen?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Did you see any blood on your shirts?’

  ‘When I was laying them by, there were two which were marked.’

  ‘Did you not think that queer?’ said Mr Clark.

  ‘I never thocht of blood, or murder or ony trouble of that kind. It never struck me there would be anything which would cause blood.’

  ‘How do you account, Mr Fleming, for the blood on your shirts?’

  Mr Fleming did not answer directly. ‘I know I mentioned to the Fiscal and them, him who was examining me, that I saw on one of the shirts something like paint or iron ore.’ The two shirts were shown to him. ‘I see two of them marked red.’

  ‘That is what you saw?’

  ‘That is what I seed.’

  ‘Did you not think at the time that it might be blood?’

  ‘I thought at the time,’ the old man admitted, ‘that it might be blood.’

  ‘When did you notice this blood on your shirts?’

  ‘On Saturday night, when I was laying them by.’

  ‘But then, Mr Fleming, when you saw the blood upon your shirts, how did you account for it being there?’

  The old gentleman gave up the uneven struggle. ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Did you not think something was wrong?’

  ‘No, I didna,’ he insisted. ‘It never entered ma heid.’

  ‘When you heard squeals of great distress and could not see Jessie, had not even seen her for a day, and also found her door locked as well as blood on your shirts—did you not, Mr Fleming, think that something was wrong?’

  But no, said Mr Fleming; he had never thocht that anything was wrong.

  ‘It never occurred to you that anything was wrong?’

  ‘The squeals were only for a minute and I did not give heed to them. I never thocht on the matter.’

  Mr Clark left it there and turned to more practical matters. ‘Why didn’t you get Jessie’s door opened?’

  ‘Mr Fleming opened it,’ pointed out the old man, reasonably.

  ‘Why didn’t you get it opened?’ insisted Mr Clark, unimpressed by this argument.

  ‘I never had the recollection to take that key off the ither door. If I had thocht of it, I would have done it.’

  ‘Why didn’t you send for someone to open it—you who are accustomed to this sort of thing: to get doors opened and locks repaired …?’

  This was a shrewd one. ‘All I can say is,’ said Mr Fleming lamely, ‘that I didn’t.’

  ‘When Darnley came upon Saturday, did you know he was a friend of Jessie’s, and did he tell you that he was from Falkirk for the purpose of seeing her?’

  ‘He had been in toon along wi’ ither twa young gentlemen who were waiting upon him when he came to the door’—this in fact was true; Mr Clark was not quite correct here, Darnley had not come specially to Glasgow to see Jessie—‘and he said he had to go away in the train at half-past eight o’clock. He, however, called again upon the Sunday, as I told you.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell Darnley Jessie was a-missing for so long a time?’

  ‘I did not tell him. I had no business to tell him.’

  ‘Weren’t you anxious about Jessie?’

  ‘I was looking for her every minute to come back.’

  ‘Did he say he had stopped overnight to see Jessie?’

  ‘No, he never mentioned that.’ And it had not in fact been the case; he said himself he had simply changed his mind and stayed the night with a friend. Mr Clark seems to have been in a slight muddle about Darnley.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell him on Sunday night that she’d been away for two days?’

  ‘He only stopped a minute and I had no occasion to tell him.’ (He stopped long enough, however, to ask where Jess was, whether she had gone to church, and if so, which way she was likely to come home: Mr Fleming himself had said so in answer to Mr Gifford.)

  ‘Was she ever out such a length of time before?’

  ‘She had often been out to see her friends; been out for the day.�
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  ‘But she told you where she was going?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you make enquiry at the shops about her?’

  But Mr Fleming had not; nor had he mentioned her to Mr M’Allister whom he had met on Sunday on the way to church, nor had he said a word during his visits to the office to anyone, not even to his son’s confidential clerk. ‘I was expecting her every hour and every minute.’ But he had shared his hopes of her return with no one.

  ‘When did you see your son first?’

  ‘Upon Monday after he came to his dinner, about four o’clock. I saw ma grandson at the same time—they both cam’ hame togither.’

  ‘Yes. Now, Mr Fleming—did you look for silver spoons when you wanted to take your meals?’

  ‘No, I did not. I did not require them. I had a teaspoon; it was enough for me.’

  ‘What sort of a teaspoon was it?’

  ‘A silver teaspoon.’

  ‘Was that the teaspoon left in the house afterwards?’

  ‘I ken naething aboot it. I had no charge of the silver at a’—Jessie had the whole charge.’

  ‘Where did you get that silver teaspoon?’

  ‘There was always a silver teaspoon in the kitchen. I sometimes have seen tablespoons there too.’

  ‘Do you know what has become of that silver teaspoon?’

  ‘I tell you, I ken naething aboot it. I took nae charge.’

  ‘What had you to your dinner on Saturday?’

  ‘I was not verra particular for ma dinner. I had a dish of ling fish that I had steeped. It served me baith Saturday and Sabbath.’

  ‘Had you no other teaspoon than the silver teaspoon?’

  ‘I had none.’

  ‘You didn’t look for any?’

  ‘I did not need them.’

  ‘Or fork?’

  ‘I used a fork.’

  ‘What kind of fork?’

  ‘Just a table fork. It served the table many a time.’

  In fact there was nowhere much to be got with the silver. He had not gone up to the dining-room to get some—that was the burden of his answers, and it was sufficiently consistent with his innocence. An old man, used to sitting over bowls of porridge and cups of tea in the kitchen with the servants, would probably not fuss much about his utensils. But to have acknowledged going to the dining-room—of course that would have been fatal.’ Even old Mr Fleming could hardly have missed the open sideboard and all those spaces where the familiar pieces of silver should have been. (But who, if he never visited the dining-room, put out the lighted gasolier the M’Lean girls saw?)

  They were coming to the end. Mr Clark ran over one or two small points. ‘What sort of dress had you on that Friday? Had you a brown dress at that time at all? And the coat?’ The old man had worn his everyday clothes, he said: a pair of ‘mixed’ trousers, black waistcoat and black coat. The trousers were brownish. He had had a brown coat but he had sold it to an old-clothes man.

  ‘When was it sold?’

  ‘It might have been twa-three weeks afore this took place.’

  ‘To whom did you sell it?’

  ‘I sold it to a person named Paton, one of the tenants; along wi’ some ither clothes.’

  ‘Is that Daniel Paton, of the Bridgegate?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you never have a brown coat after that?’

  ‘No.’ It had presumably never been brought to anybody’s notice that Daniel Paton, the old-clothes man, had long ago declared before Jno. Gemmel that Mr Fleming had sold him his brown coat two or three years ago and at the time of the murder was in the habit of wearing a blue coat. He was subsequently to declare that what the old man now said in court was absolutely untrue. But the whole subject of Mr Fleming’s wearing apparel at this time was to be allowed to fall into a curious pool of silence. No investigation as to bloodstains was ever brought forward—a solitary button in the grate, a pair of (innocent) old socks in a corner, and a description by one or two witnesses of what he had on at this time or that—and that was all. Whether or not any of his wardrobe was missing, no one seems to have enquired, or if they had, the answers did not appear.

  So Mr Clark changed tack. ‘Are you quite certain that you never saw the prisoner within twelve months?’

  ‘Unless at the examination in the County Buildings,’ said the old man, ‘yes, I am.’

  ‘Had you any quarrel or dispute with Jess M’Pherson?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Of any kind?’

  ‘No.’

  And again. ‘You read the newspapers regularly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you use your spectacles when you read?’

  ‘I have got a pair of new ones,’ said the old man.

  He had got the new spectacles—yesterday.

  ‘Did you ever use them before?’

  ‘I got a present of them and have got a pair of new glasses put in.’

  ‘When you read, did you use spectacles—till yesterday?’

  ‘No. I could see weel eneuch tae read without them—at least gey weel,’ admitted Mr Fleming. Was he conscious that a claim to need spectacles would have been convenient in respect of all the blood-stains he had missed seeing, during those three days spent largely in the basement?

  And so once more back to Mr Rutherfurd Clark’s trump card—the milk-boy. ‘Was no milk taken in till the Tuesday?’

  Mr Fleming’s last words in the witness box are variously reported; he said either that on the Sunday he had opened the door for milk but that none was taken on Monday; or ‘There was nae milk taken on Sunday, Monday or Tuesday. Sometimes I did not even open the door when the milk came.’ (The milkman later gave evidence that he delivered milk twice daily except on Sundays; but no mention is anywhere made of a second visit on the Saturday.)

  Mr Clark sat down. The Judge would look enquiringly at Mr Gifford, but Mr Gifford too had had enough of old Fleming and did not rise to re-examine. ‘Have you any question to ask?’ asked his lordship of the jury; but they hadn’t, either. And even Lord Deas had nothing to add, so ‘Now,’ he said to Mr Fleming, ‘you may go.’

  One wonders whether the old gentleman was quite so nimble as he made his way down from the box; but ‘Lord Death’ doubtless beamed after him benignly as he went. Whatever we may think of Mr Fleming’s showing, one thing is a matter of fact and not opinion: his lordship had made up his mind in favour of old Mr Fleming before ever he entered the court, and through thick and thin, stood by him to the end.

  But it was not James Fleming who was being tried.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Court having adjourned for a fifteen-minute breather, Dr Ebenezer Watson followed James Fleming in the witness box. He described how John Fleming had called him in and the condition of the body as he saw it—the first expert witness to do so—lying on the bedroom floor. He had, with Dr Fleming, the police surgeon, examined the rest of the basement and noted the marks of blood in the kitchen and the trail where the body had been dragged through the lobby.

  Under cross-examination, with a good deal of interruption from the judge, he was taken through the business of the key on the inside of the bedroom door; John Fleming had told him about it as they hurried back to the house. He was the only one of the doctors to have observed the ‘remarkable’ bruise on the lower part of the back, and obliged by a physical demonstration on himself as to where precisely it was located. Lord Deas remarked that he couldn’t very well write it down but would ‘require to draw it.’ It is perhaps carping to suggest that from the description ‘the small of the back—the lower part of the backbone, near the spine’ we can really pretty well place the bruise for ourselves, without any need for a picture. In Dr Watson’s opinion, the bruise could have been caused by a blow from a blunt instrument or from a fall: he agreed that ‘a knock from a heavy shoe’ could account for it. If a blow had caused the bruise, it must have been a violent blow, and forcibly given.…

  ‘Must it have been given by a per
son with great force?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lord Deas: ‘If it was given by a person at all?’

  ‘Surely, my lord.’ (‘Surely’ was a great word of Dr Watson’s.)

  Mr Rutherfurd Clark: ‘Were any of the wounds in the head inflicted by a flat instrument?’

  Lord Deas: ‘You mean by the flat surface of an instrument?’

  Mr Clark: ‘I understand that the doctor has been speaking of the wounds on the head being inflicted by the cleaver?’

  Dr Watson: ‘One of the wounds on the head might be inflicted by that instrument, used laterally.’

  ‘Is a hammer not the more likely instrument?’

  ‘Quite as likely.’

  ‘To produce that wound?’

  ‘What wound?’

  ‘The wound behind the ear?’

  ‘If the wound behind the right ear, yes.’

  ‘Was the wound across the nose fitted to produce stupor?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘Was it likely?’

  ‘I should say it was rather likely but not necessarily.’

  ‘Is it the wound across the bridge of the nose you speak of?’

  ‘Both wounds. They might not necessarily lead to stupor.’

  Death, he thought, was the collective result of the wounds; none of which would have proved immediately fatal.

  Dr Fleming, surgeon of police, described how he had been called to Sandyford Place and there with Dr Watson examined the body. He read out the report agreed on between himself and Dr Macleod, after their post-mortem conducted the following day (apparently on the spot; the body remained in the house for some days) on ‘the body of Jessie M’Pherson which had been found under circumstances of great suspicion in a front room in the ground floor of the above house.’ Lord Deas here interjected that it was proper to state to Dr Fleming as a police surgeon that there was matter here not suitable to a medical report. Dr Fleming persevered with his reading, winding up with the eight inferences drawn by himself and Dr MacLeod, reproduced on page 72. Of these, numbers 3, 6, and 8 were to prove of particular interest: to wit, that a severe struggle had taken place before death, that all the wounds except the three on the nose and forehead had apparently been inflicted by a person standing over the victim as she lay on the ground, and that the body had been drawn by the head, with the face downwards, along the lobby from the kitchen to the bedroom.