Maritime Murder

by Steve Vernon

  That left ten-year-old Johnny McGee at home alone with his mother who promptly—that Tuesday morning—sent him to the store with a penny to buy another box of matches. By Thursday morning, little Johnny McGee was gravely ill.

  Tea and Matches

  Meanwhile, Constable McCarron continued his investigation. He still wasn’t convinced of Minnie’s innocence.

  The truth came out when the clerks at the two local general stores testified that Minnie had been regularly purchasing an inordinate supply of wooden matches. When authorities looked into, it they discovered that Minnie had spent twenty-one cents during the week of April 11, 1912, and had purchased a total of twenty-one one-gross boxes of matches—over three thousand wooden matches. Twenty-one cents was a lot of money for a poor, working class family to spend back in 1912.

  Based on Constable McCarron’s findings the attorney general ordered young Johnny’s removal from his home on Thursday evening, but by then Johnny was already dying from a dose of the same bitter poison that had stolen the life from his brothers and sisters. Dr. Fraser attended to the boy at Minnie’s house, unaware of Constable McCarron’s new evidence against Minnie.

  “Your boy is in great agony,” Dr. Fraser told Minnie. “He must be given nothing to eat or drink until his condition improves.” Moments later, Fraser caught Minnie feeding Johnny a drink of warm, sweet milk.

  “He’s thirsty,” she argued. “A mother needs to feed her children.”

  By now, Fraser had begun to wonder if McCarron’s earlier suspicions had been true. In spite of Minnie’s protests, Dr. Fraser gently wrapped Johnny in a blanket and took him by wagon to Johnny’s Grandmother Cassidy’s home for safekeeping, but it was too late. By two o’clock that afternoon Johnny had slipped into a coma. He died on the evening of Friday, April 19.

  On April 23, toxicological studies in Montreal revealed that Johnny McGee had died from the very same poison that had taken the lives of his five brothers and sisters. It was also proven that the initial deaths of Minnie’s youngest two children had indeed been whooping cough.

  On April 26, Constable Thomas McCarron placed Minnie McGee under arrest, under the suspicion of having deliberately poisoned six of her children. She did not resist arrest, but continued to maintain her innocence in the matter. She took to life in a jail cell only asking for a set of curtains to be installed upon her cell window.

  On Tuesday, July 16, 1912, Minnie McGee was formally indicted and brought to trial by the grand jury. Finally, she would stand trial in the courthouse of Georgetown, pei, for the murder of young Johnny McGee.

  Minnie’s Trial

  Proceedings began when a court-appointed lawyer, A. J. Fraser of Souris, pei, pleaded Minnie not guilty before Justice R. R. Fitzgerald. Following Fraser’s statement, the crown prosecutor, J. A. Mathieson, raised the question of Minnie’s possible insanity.

  “While the Crown will make no move to prove or disprove this issue,” Mathieson stated, “the jurors should definitely keep this distinct possibility, of finding the defendant not guilty by reason of insanity, firmly in mind.”

  Later that morning, Minnie took the stand. She appeared calm and lucid. She explained, at great length and in minute detail, how the entire affair had been nothing more than the result of a series of unplanned accidents and coincidences. She alternately laid the blame on bad candy, bad fish, and a bad batch of oatmeal.

  “And what about the matches?” Crown Prosecutor Mathieson asked.

  “Visitors took them,” Minnie blurted. “Everyone who visited used my matches to light their cigars and their candles with. Some of them even stole my matches. I know that they did. Don’t try and tell me they didn’t do it.”

  Throughout her entire testimony, as she basically pointed out that every testimony but her own was somehow erroneous, Minnie’s facial expression never changed. “It was as if she had swallowed a bottle of fish glue,” one juror reported afterwards. “Her face might as well have been formed out of cold poured wax.”

  Defence attorney Fraser had this to say: “There is absolutely no motive for the crime. Minnie has an impeccable reputation as being a loving mother. It is beyond all possible doubt that no normal mother would willingly kill her own children. Therefore,” Fraser went on, “I must press the court to seriously consider the possibility of rendering a verdict of insanity in this case.”

  Two days later, Justice R. R. Fitzgerald had this to say to the jury on the matter: “It is important that you as a jury must consider whether or not the woman Minnie McGee has willfully, and in her responsible mind, administered poison to her children.”

  Fitzgerald’s use of the word “children,” rather than just “child,” was particularly telling. It demonstrated that even though the Supreme Court was only trying her for the murder of little Johnny, in his mind, clearly, Minnie was standing before judge and jury for the murder of all her children. Whether that was merely a slip of the tongue on Fitzgerald’s part, or whether it was an error in transcription, it may have proved to be a telling blow.

  The jury was excused to consider the case. A mere ten minutes later, the members of the jury returned to the courthouse and rendered their decision.

  “We the jury find the defendant to be guilty of the charge of murder,” the jury foreman pronounced. “Therefore, we utterly reject the possibility of any verdict of innocence by insanity. However,” the foreman went on, “we would recommend strongly that the court’s final judgment should be tempered with considered mercy.”

  “The court will reserve sentence until the following Monday, after I have had time to consider the verdict,” Justice Fitzgerald stated. “Court dismissed.”

  The Verdict

  Minnie was declared guilty of the murder of her youngest son, Johnny, on July 19, 1912. Two days later, newspapers reported that she had formally confessed the killing of her children to Dr. Duncan Stewart of Georgetown.

  Minnie wrote the confession down while she was lying on her jailhouse cot following an hour’s conversation with the doctor. The confession was short and to the point:

  Georgetown Jail, July 21. I remember sending to Mahar’s [a local store] for five cents worth of matches before the five children died. I soaked the matches in weak tea and sugar and gave them to the five children about the middle of the week on which the children died. I think I gave the solution only once, but I am not sure. I saw Johnnie [sic] first on Sunday evening. I sent him Tuesday to Hicken’s store for a box of matches. I got some more matches at Mahar’s on Thursday but they were for my own use and not for Johnnie. I soaked matches for Johnnie between Tuesday and Thursday. I don’t know how many matches I soaked for Johnnie but I used whatever amount Johnnie got at Hicken’s on Tuesday. The matches I got at Mahar’s Store I intended to take myself.

  The confession was signed “Mrs. Patrick McGee.”

  It is perhaps particularly telling that Minnie misspelled Johnny’s name (Johnnie) throughout her written confession.

  A short time later, Minnie was reported as remarking to Constable McCarron that she had given the children poison in the form of matches. “Since the death of my two children from pneumonia, I have been feeling poorly,” she remarked. “I had decided to put an end to myself and the children. They will be better off. They will be in heaven.”

  On July 22, 1912, Minnie attended her sentence hearing.

  “Do you have anything to say before I pass sentence?” Justice Fitzgerald asked.

  Minnie closed her eyes and composed her thoughts. She took a long, deep breath.

  “Take mercy on me,” she began. “I have had a hard life. In January my head went all astray, and worse in February, and worse in April.”

  She pointed to her temple. “The pain in my head went right through. The last four months, the pain was dreadful. I was actually going to do away with my own life. I cannot do away with the pain in my head.”

  She looke
d up at the judge. “Before I would be sick, my husband, Pat McGee, would beat me, and when I would get sick he would beat me in bed. He would not get me a drink, no matter how often I begged for it. He would say I could stay there until I rotted. He would go around and say that he was going to shoot himself.”

  She thumped her finger hard against her skull. “There is a pain in my head that goes right through. I don’t know just what is the matter with it, but I am tired of all that pain. I would just as soon do away with my own life. There is terrible pain in my head. I warned him. He should have taken the children away. He had four months’ warning. It was his fault, not mine. It was all my husband’s fault. I dearly loved my children.”

  Very little of this final statement was true. By all reports, Patrick McGee was a loving father and husband who spent most of his time away from home trying to earn the means to support his family; but Minnie remained unshakeable, certain of the reality of her self-inflicted delusion.

  “After due consideration,” Justice Fitzgerald announced, “I find that I have no choice but to sentence the defendant to death by hanging. This sentence will be performed on the morning of October 10, 1912, at Georgetown. However, consideration of the prisoner’s sex, and her current mental state, and the jury’s recommendation for mercy, might materially modify her ultimate fate.”

  It was at this point that Minnie lashed out. “Hanged?” she shouted. “Hanged! Hanged, hanged, hang me here and now and be done with it!”

  Her wishes were never granted. A petition was brought forward by a group of concerned Prince Edward Island residents, asking that Minnie’s sentence, given her mental capacity, be commuted to life imprisonment.

  Minnie was briefly jailed in Kingston Penitentiary in Ontario. She was transferred to Dorchester Penitentiary in New Brunswick. Sixteen years later, following a gradual mental deterioration, she was transferred to the Falconwood Insane Asylum in Charlottetown, pei.

  In 1934, when Minnie’s father fell ill with a mental health condition, she was briefly discharged to see to his needs. Following his death a few years, later Minnie returned to the Falconwood Asylum.

  In 1953, over forty years since she had willfully poisoned her children, Minnie McGee finally died, peacefully in her sleep.

  “She’s in heaven now,” said the priest who was brought to her deathbed.

  “I wouldn’t bet on that,” the ward orderly was heard to reply.

  a right rough bunch

  The Boutilier Brothers

  Lunenburg, Nova Scotia

  1791

  George Frederick Eminaud grinned happily. It was good to have his godson and namesake, George Frederick Boutilier, as well as Boutilier’s elder brother, John Boutilier, over for an unexpected visit. After all, they had come all the way from their home in Tatamagouche to visit with Eminaud at his home in First Peninsula, just north of the town of Lunenburg.

  “We left on March 7,” George Boutilier explained to Eminaud. “And then we travelled by snowshoe for a week to Margaret’s Bay. We were going to sail across in our brother David’s schooner, but the wind would not help us.”

  “So,” John Boutilier continued, “after waiting two days, we would wait no longer. We borrowed a tuna flatboat and we rowed across. We would not wait another minute to see our good friend Eminaud.”

  Their visit was a good thing, in Eminaud’s opinion. He liked these boys and he also liked the fact that they seemed to like him just as much. It was March 18, 1791, and George Eminaud was a happy man. Their company had definitely raised his spirits.

  Eminaud lived with his wife and his daughter, Catherine, who was engaged to be married to George Boutilier. “There is a limit,” old Eminaud said, “to the amount of hen cackling my seventy-year-old ears can stand.”

  Unbeknownst to Eminaud, the two Boutilier brothers had travelled to Lunenburg for a completely different and darker purpose than to simply keep the old man company. They had overheard the rumour that Eminaud had recently received a sum of £200—almost $40,000 in modern day equivalence—and they wanted that money for their very own.

  “You must stay the night,” Eminaud said. “I will hear no argument from you. Come, let me fetch some fresh straw from the barn to soften your bed with.”

  Old Eminaud was still grinning happily as he gathered the straw. His grin turned to panic as he turned and received the first of many brutal blows.

  The two brothers had followed him quietly out to the barn. They each carried a good-sized chunk of discarded firewood. They clubbed the old man soundly. Then, as Eminaud fell to his knees, George Boutilier snatched a tomahawk from his belt and split the old man’s skull open.

  Alerted by the sounds of the fight, Mrs. Eminaud came running into the barn as her husband’s freshly spilled blood was still soaking into the strewn straw. She only had a chance to scream the once before the Boutilier brothers were upon her. John caught her and George used the tomahawk on her. By now, George was caught up in the horrifying act of murder. He struck her many times with the tomahawk. And then the two brothers made their way back to the house.

  They found Catherine trying to climb out the window. George looked at her strangely. “Catherine,” he began to say, the bloodlust momentarily abated. “I can explain this.”

  He reached out to her, as if he were going to help her escape. Catherine turned from him in utter revulsion. John knew what needed to be done. He took the tomahawk from George’s hand and struck Catherine down.

  “No,” George said, stepping between his brother and his fiancée. “I can’t let you do this.”

  The two brothers stared at each other fiercely.

  “Let me explain to her,” George argued. “She will understand.”

  “What is there to explain?” John asked. “That we killed her father for his money? Do you think she will hug you for that?”

  Coming to his senses, George reluctantly held his fiancée until his brother finished grimly and methodically butchering her.

  “Let’s look for the money,” John said.

  George stared down at what remained of his fiancée.

  “She is dead now,” John said. “There’s nothing can be done about it. Let’s look for the money.”

  George remained unmoved.

  “That’s what we came for, isn’t it?” John pleaded. “Let’s look for the money.”

  The Boutilier brothers completely ransacked the old man’s house to absolutely no avail. After nearly an hour of frantic searching all they had found was about £10 in small coins, a few bits of cheap jewellery, the wedding rings, and a piece of small, red chalk that was in old Eminaud’s pocket.

  “Why keep that?” John asked.

  “It’s better than nothing,” George replied. “It will come in handy for something, you bet.”

  After the search, the brothers dragged the family together in the kitchen. They heaped straw over the bodies and doused the straw in oil from the lamps.

  “Let’s go,” John said. George threw the match that set the house afire.

  The two brothers strapped snowshoes backwards onto their moccasined feet. “This backwards trick will surely keep the trackers guessing,” John said. “It will drive them mad trying to figure out which way we went.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” George said. He followed his brother into the woods, not daring to look back at the burning farmhouse. If there were any tears lingering in his eyes, he blamed it on the winter cold.

  A Rude Awakening

  At four in the morning, Nicholas Eisenhaur awoke suddenly from a dream of falling autumn leaves. The walls of his bedroom were lit with an unholy orange glow. When he looked out of his bedroom window he realized that the home of his good friend, George Frederick Eminaud, was burning to the ground.

  Let me tell you a bit about the geography of the area. There are two peninsulas reaching out into the water, like the fin
gers of a dead man. Nicholas Eisenhaur lived on Second Peninsula, across the water from Eminaud, who lived on First Peninsula. Eisenhaur and his neighbour, Joseph Contoy, set out across the icebound stretch of water together.

  “By the time we arrived at Eminaud’s house, it was almost burned to the ground,” Contoy later testified. “Little remained besides the stone chimney, and even that was teetering.”

  As far as saving the house, there was nothing that could be done.

  The two men, Eisenhaur and Contoy, went to the nearby house of Eminaud’s son. Young Frederick followed the two men to his father’s home. By the early pre-dawn glimmer, they spotted the remains of old Eminaud, perched upon an unburned floor beam. The floorboards themselves had completely burned away.

  Eminaud’s arms and legs had been burned off from the severe heat of the flames. Only part of his skin remained, burnt and shriveled like a crumple of parchment. While the two men stood watching helplessly, the beam gave way and Eminaud’s remains spilled into the hollow of the cellar. After putting out the fire with the help of the locals who had gradually gathered, Eisenhaur and Contoy managed to drag Eminaud’s carcass from the cellar with the aid of a claw hoe.

  The body was a sad mess. Where Eminaud’s back had touched the beam, his clothes remained unburned. It appeared as if he had died while wearing his heavy black wool jacket.

  “He always wore that jacket,” Eisenhaur said. “On account of his rheumatism. Its warmth eased his aches a little.”

  “Well he is warm enough now,” Contoy said. “What do you think happened?”

  “Perhaps he fell asleep?” Eisenhaur suggested. “A poorly tended oil lamp may have been the cause.”

  Contoy shook his head grimly. “I never knew a man that would sleep in his coat,” he observed. “Nor was George Eminaud in the habit of sleeping in the middle of his kitchen floor.”