‘I was.’
‘And did you do so?’
‘I did.’
‘And did you examine the prisoner with a view only to assessing his physical condition?’
‘No. I was requested by the Fiscal to assess the mental state of the prisoner.’
‘In order to ascertain whether the prisoner was of a sound state of mind?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you tell the court something about the physical condition of the prisoner?’
‘I found him to be in generally good health, although suffering somewhat from scurvy, no doubt precipitated by poor diet.’
‘But he was otherwise in sound health?’
‘Yes. He was quite vigorous.’
‘Now, as to his mental condition, can you tell us by what means you sought to assess this?’
‘I conversed with the prisoner at some length.’
‘About the crimes for which he is here indicted?’
‘About these crimes, yes, and about his circumstances in general.’
‘And did the prisoner converse with you in a civilised manner?’
‘A most civilised manner, yes.’
‘And what was your assessment of the mental condition of the prisoner?’
‘I found him to be fully in possession of his reason.’
‘“Fully in possession of reason”,’ Mr Gifford repeated, placing great emphasis on these words. ‘And on what basis did you reach this conclusion?’
‘The prisoner was aware of his surroundings and why he was there. He answered my questions in a clear and deliberate manner and exhibited no signs of delusion or disorder in his reasoning. I would go as far as saying that he is among the most articulate and intelligent prisoners I have encountered.’
‘“Among the most articulate and intelligent prisoners you have encountered” – that is quite a statement, Dr Munro.’
‘It is my truthful opinion.’
‘And did you ask the prisoner specifically about the crimes with which he is charged?’
‘I did.’
‘And what was his response?’
‘He freely admitted responsibility for them.’
‘Might he have done this out of some desire to please you – because he might have believed that this was what you wanted to hear?’
‘I cannot speak to the prisoner’s motives, but, if I recall, I put the question to him in a quite neutral manner.’
‘In what manner?’
‘I told him that I heard about some crimes which had occurred in his village and asked him if he knew anything about them.’
‘And what was his response?’
‘He replied without hesitation that he was responsible.’
‘And did you ask him why he had committed these crimes?’
‘I did. He replied that he had committed these crimes in order to deliver his father from the tribulations which had been caused to him by the victim.’
‘The victim, Lachlan Mackenzie?’
‘Yes.’
‘And those were his words: “to deliver his father from the tribulations which had been caused to him”?’
‘I believe so, more or less.’
‘And did you ask him about the other victims?’
‘Not specifically.’
‘And did you think him truthful in his responses?’
‘I saw no reason to disbelieve him.’
‘Did you ask the prisoner any further questions relating to these crimes?’
‘I asked if he felt any remorse for what he had done.’
‘And how did he reply?’
‘He replied that he did not.’
‘He felt no remorse for the murder of three people?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Did this not strike you as unusual? Perhaps even as a sign that he was not fully in possession of his reason.’
‘In my experience, prisoners rarely express remorse for what they have done. Any feelings of regret they might feel are generally limited to the fact of their being apprehended.’
This last remark lightened the atmosphere in the court for a moment and the Lord Justice-Clerk allowed the ripple of laughter to subside of its own accord.
‘This lack of remorse, then, is not, in your opinion as a medical man, a symptom of loss of reason?’
‘Not in the least, sir.’
‘You are aware that the prisoner has lodged a Special Defence of Insanity – that he was, at the time of committing these acts, alienated from his reason?’
‘I am.’
‘Did you find the prisoner to be labouring under a state of insanity?’
‘I did not.’
‘Is it possible that when he committed these acts, he was labouring under a state of insanity?’
‘Given the account of his crimes he provided to me and the rational manner in which he spoke, I do not believe that he was insane at the time of these acts.’
Mr Gifford then thanked the witness and concluded his questioning. Mr Sinclair rose for the defence.
‘How long,’ he asked, ‘have you been employed in the capacity of medical officer to Inverness gaol?’
‘Some eight years.’
‘You must have examined a great many prisoners in that time.’
‘Indeed I have.’
‘And what proportion of the prisoners you have examined would you consider to be insane?’
‘I am not sure I could say with any certainty.’
‘Half? More than half? Less than half?’
‘A great deal less than half.’
‘Could you be more specific?’
‘A very small proportion.’
‘Ten out of a hundred? Five out of hundred?’
‘Perhaps one out of a hundred.’
‘One out of a hundred! That is indeed a small proportion,’ Mr Sinclair exclaimed. ‘And the other ninety-nine men – what has brought them to your gaol?’
‘They have committed some crime or other, or have been accused of doing so.’
‘And why do these men – this ninety-nine per cent of men – commit their crimes?’
Dr Munro appeared somewhat bemused at this line of questioning. He looked towards the Lord Justice-Clerk, who merely indicated that he should answer the questions put to him.
‘If I was pressed to venture an opinion, I would say that they are there because they are unable to control their baser instincts.’
‘Their instincts to steal from or strike out at their fellows?’
‘For example, yes.’
‘But this inability to control their instincts is not, in your opinion, indicative of a loss of reason?’
‘No, sir.’
‘They are merely bad men.’
‘If you wish to express it thus.’
‘How would you express it?’
‘I would say that they are criminals, sir.’
Mr Sinclair paused rather theatrically and, while facing the gentlemen of the jury, asked, ‘So in ninety-nine per cent of the men you examine in your capacity as medical officer to the prison in this town, you find no signs of insanity.’
‘That is correct.’
‘Would it be correct to say, that in general, when you inspect the prisoners at the gaol, you are not looking for signs of insanity?’
‘My examinations are generally limited to a physical examination of the prisoners, yes.’
‘Do you consider yourself expert in the field of Criminal Anthropology?’
‘To the extent that I have been examining prisoners for eight years, I would consider myself to have some expertise.’
‘Would you consider yourself expert in the field of Criminal Psychology?’
‘I would.’
‘Could you exp
lain to the court the meaning of the term “moral insanity”?’
‘I am not familiar with that term.’
‘Could you explain to the court the meaning of the term “mania without delirium”?’
Dr Munro shook his head.
‘You are not familiar with that term either. Are you familiar with the works of Monsieur Philippe Pinel?’†††
‘I am not.’
‘Are you familiar with the work of Dr James Cowles Prichard?’
‘I have heard of him.’
‘Then you will have read his volume, A Treatise on Insanity and Other Disorders Affecting the Mind?’
‘I cannot recall.’
‘It is your testimony that you cannot recall whether you have read a work of the greatest significance in current thinking about the psychology of criminals; a field in which you profess expertise?’
‘My expertise is based on my experience examining members of the criminal population.’
‘A population which, by your own estimate, embraces only the minutest proportion of men labouring under mental disorders.’
‘Yes.’
‘Given that you have been called here today to provide testimony in the most solemn of proceedings, do you not think that as a professed expert it is your responsibility to acquaint yourself with the current thinking in that field?’
‘I do not believe that any medical man, if called upon to examine the prisoner, would reach a different conclusion to the one I reached.’
‘If you will forgive me, Dr Munro, that is not the question I put to you. The question I put to you is this: is it not your responsibility as a so-called professed expert in Criminal Psychology – the application of which is of crucial importance to this case – to fully apprise yourself of the thinking in this field?’
The good doctor was by this time, wrote Mr Philby, ‘becoming rather flustered and glanced about as if hoping to find a whisky bottle secreted in the witness box’.
Mr Sinclair did not press him for an answer, no doubt calculating that his silence was more damning than anything he might actually say. Instead he took a more conciliatory tone: ‘Perhaps I am being unreasonable,’ he began. ‘It might be more helpful if you could tell the jury what training or education you have received in the field of Criminal Psychology.’
Dr Munro looked beseechingly to the judge, who instructed him to answer with a gesture of his hand.
‘I have received no such training.’
Mr Sinclair, who was clearly relishing this revival in the fortunes of his case, directed an expression of great astonishment towards the jurymen.
‘Would it thus be more accurate to describe you as self-educated in this field?’
‘That would be more accurate, yes,’ replied the doctor.
‘In that case, perhaps, since you have read neither the works of Dr Prichard nor of Monsieur Pinel, you could tell the jury some of the volumes with which you have educated yourself.’
Dr Munro appeared to give this question some thought, before replying that he could not, at that moment, recall any specific titles.
‘You cannot recall a single volume which you have read on the subject in which, when asked earlier, you professed expertise?’
‘No.’
‘Are we then to understand, Dr Munro’ – he here made a sweeping gesture towards the jury – ‘that you are entirely unqualified to make any pronouncement on the state of mind of the prisoner?’
‘I believe I am qualified.’
‘But you have no qualifications!’
The witness did not appear to have the will to defend himself against the advocate’s onslaught, and with a meaningful shake of his head, Mr Sinclair concluded his examination.
Dr Munro, clearly relieved that his ordeal was over, made to exit the witness box, but was reprimanded by the Lord Justice-Clerk, as he had not yet been excused. Mr Gifford then rose to re-examine the witness. He apologised for detaining the doctor further, before asking him to remind the court how long he had been engaged in practice at Inverness gaol. He then asked the doctor how many prisoners he had examined in the course of his employment.
Dr Munro, clearly appreciating that he was being given an opportunity to redeem himself, replied that while it was impossible to put an exact figure on it, it must run to ‘many hundreds’.
‘And in your long experience only a very small proportion of those who pass through your care might be termed insane?’
‘That is my opinion, yes.’
‘Your medical opinion?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you recognise the signs, or symptoms, of insanity, Dr Munro?’
‘I do.’
‘Could you please enumerate those signs for us?’
‘Firstly, a prisoner might be labouring under some delusion –’
Mr Gifford here apologised for interrupting the witness. ‘Could you please explain what you mean by the term “delusion”?’
‘I mean simply that the prisoner is suffering from some erroneous belief. Perhaps, he hears voices in his head, sees visions, or believes himself to be someone that he is not.’
‘Thank you. Please continue.’
‘A prisoner might be disordered in his thinking; that is, he speaks in an ostensibly reasonable manner, but one thought does not follow from another in the normal way. Likewise, his statements might simply bear no relation to reality.’
‘Anything more?’
‘I have encountered prisoners who spout incomprehensible gibberish; whose speech is nothing more than a stream of unintelligible, unconnected words, or is not even recognisable as language.‡‡‡ There are also prisoners who are unable to comprehend the simplest of statements put to them, or reply in an inappropriate or irrelevant way. Then there are those who might be termed as imbeciles, who are simply, for one reason or another, defective or childlike in their development.’
Mr Gifford encouraged the doctor to continue.
‘In a small number of cases, there are those prisoners who do not respond at all to their surroundings, who sit or lie in the corner of their cell and do not react to any stimuli, often muttering to themselves or repeating the same action ad nauseam.’
‘That is a most comprehensive enumeration,’ said Mr Gifford. ‘And this knowledge of the various forms of insanity you have gleaned how?’
‘From my experience in dealing with the prisoners at Inverness gaol.’
‘But you must at some moments have encountered cases which presented you with difficulties in providing a diagnosis?’
‘I have.’
‘And what would you do in such instances?’
‘I might confer with a colleague or consult some textbook or other.’
‘I see. And would you say that this process of consultation and your long experience in dealing with criminals qualifies you to pronounce on the sanity or otherwise of any given individual?’
‘I would.’
‘Now, before you leave the witness box, I beg leave to put one further question to you. During your examination of the prisoner here, did he exhibit any of the signs of insanity or conform to any of the behaviours which you have just now described?’
‘He did not.’
‘He was not delusional?’
‘No.’
‘He was not disordered in his reasoning?’
‘No.’
‘He was cognisant of his surroundings and the circumstances which had brought him there?’
‘He was.’
‘And in your medical opinion, can he be considered to be insane or alienated from his reason?’
‘No.’
Mr Gifford at this point offered a withering look towards the defence bench, and without any further theatrics, concluded his questioning. Dr Munro was now excused and, with a look of gratitude towards th
e Solicitor-General, ‘scuttled away, no doubt in search of the refuge of the nearest hostelry’.
At the conclusion of the prosecution case, this being the custom under Scots Law at the time, the Prisoner’s Declaration was read by the Clerk of the Court. This was the only statement permitted to the accused:
My name is Roderick John Macrae, aged seventeen years. I am native of Culduie in Ross-shire and reside at the northernmost dwelling in that village with my father, John Macrae, a crofter. And, the charge of having caused the death of Lachlan Mackenzie, aged thirty-eight years, Flora Mackenzie, aged fifteen years, and Donald Mackenzie, aged three years, by means of blows administered with a flaughter and croman in their home on the 10th day of August in this present year having been read over, Declares – I freely admit that I am responsible for the deaths of the persons named. On the morning in question I went to the house of Lachlan Mackenzie, armed with these weapons, with the intention of killing him. I killed Lachlan Mackenzie in repayment for the suffering he had caused to my father and to my family as a whole. It was not my intention to kill Flora Mackenzie or Donald Mackenzie. Their deaths were necessitated by their presence in the house and my wish to prevent them from raising the alarm. I believe that the success of my enterprise should be attributed to Providence, and I similarly accept whatever fate Providence dictates for me. I am of sound mind and make this statement freely and under no duress. All of which I declare to be truth.
[Signed]
Roderick John Macrae
The prosecution rested. As it was by then around four o’clock, there followed a discussion at the bar about whether the proceedings should be adjourned for the day. Mr Sinclair, no doubt anxious that the jury should not spend the night with Roddy’s declaration of his own sanity ringing in their ears, argued for a continuation. Mr Gifford contended that, as there was no possibility of the trial concluding that day, they should start afresh in the morning. The exchange, at least on Mr Sinclair’s part, became quite heated, but after a brief, whispered consultation with his colleagues, the Lord Justice-Clerk declared the court adjourned. Mr Sinclair, The Scotsman reported, ‘became quite red in the face and was heard to audibly mutter about a conspiracy against his client, a statement for which he was sternly reprimanded by the judge and for which he immediately apologised’.
Regardless of Mr Sinclair’s feelings about the judge’s perfectly reasonable ruling, such a display of petulance in the presence of the jury could hardly be said to be in his client’s interests. The judge repeated the previous day’s cautions to the jurymen and the court was emptied. Those in the public gallery left in an atmosphere, ‘somewhat akin to schoolboys being discharged for summer’.
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