And the Band Played On (31 page)

‘About two or three years ago was there a very sad blow to the family in the death of one of the members?’

‘Yes, sir, that was my son John.’

‘He died well. He was one of the men who went down on the Titanic?’

‘He was, sir.’

‘And attention was called to the loss of your son particularly by the fact that he was the leader, I think, of the band?’

‘Yes, sir.’

[This was Andrew Hume’s first lie: Jock had not been the leader of the band].

‘And the band went down playing the hymn, “Nearer my God to Thee”?’

‘Yes.’ Andrew Hume became very emotional at this point, his voice breaking up. ‘There were five of the family altogether, and Kate, the accused, is now seventeen. John was just over twenty-one when he was drowned.’

‘It is the case that Kate and he were bound up in each other?’

‘Very much so.’

‘And did she take the death of her brother very badly?’

‘Yes.’

‘Looking back upon the last two years, has she ever been the same girl since?’

‘She has not, sir. I remarked that from time to time.’

‘You are a musician yourself?’

‘Yes.’

Now the QC led Andrew Hume into repeating on oath and elaborating upon, the lie about his grandfather. Did Wilson know the truth, I wonder, that Andrew’s grandfather was not Alexander Hume but a farm labourer called Robert Hume?

‘Is it the case that for some generations the family has shown marked musical talent?’

‘They have, sir, except my father.’

‘So the talent missed your father, but your grandfather was the author of several of the best known Scotch tunes like “Afton Water”. He wrote music to that?’

‘Yes, the new edition.’

‘And “The Emigrant’s Farewell”?’

‘Yes’

‘And am I wrong in saying also some of the psalm tunes?’

‘Quite a few of them.’

‘And others?’

‘Yes.’

‘With regard to your own family, is there one of them who has the promise of musical talent as bright as your grandfather’s?’

‘Yes, two of them. Kate herself is one, and her younger brother.’

‘Has Kate shown marked musical talent already?’

‘Very much so.’

Having extracted from Kate’s father an admission that his daughter was a talented young musician, Wilson used his cross-examination of Alice Hume to paint a picture of Kate as an abused child.

Alice Hume: ‘I am fifty years of age, and I am the wife of and reside with Andrew Hume, the last witness, in Dumfries. I was married in 1907. I found it rather difficult to get on with the stepchildren who were in the house. Kate was rather headstrong. Our relations became strained a little bit within the last year.’

John Wilson QC: ‘Did she approve or resent interference on your part?’

‘Oh, well, sometimes she rather resented it, of course.’

‘And she left your house in August of this year and went into lodgings? Why? As you understood at the time?’

This was a trap laid by Wilson to undermine Alice Hume’s credibility as he knew the judge and jury would shortly hear from Clouston about the beatings.

‘Well, I think perhaps she wanted more liberty. She attended to her duties fairly well while she was living in my house. What led up to the differences between us was that sometimes, of course, she perhaps did not do things exactly in the way I wanted them, and I had to check her sometimes for being a bit careless, just like other young girls.’

‘What I want to get at, Mrs Hume, is what led up to the strong step of your daughter leaving the house?’

‘Well, I think the real reason was that she wanted more liberty to get out.’

The next stage of Wilson’s defence strategy was to demonstrate that Kate’s elaborate hoax would have had no effect whatsoever had it not been for the irresponsibility of the
Dumfries & Galloway Standard
in publishing the letters. The editor, Mr Dickie, took the stand.

‘I understand that you got these two letters from your reporter, Mr Dickie?’

‘Yes, from Mr Whitehead on Monday 14th September.’

‘What did you do with them when you got them?’

‘I had a copy made of number 1 for our own use, and got a clerk in the publishing office to send the original to be lithographed. I did that on the Monday, and I got the block on the Tuesday afternoon before Mr Hume called.’

‘So you had so far committed yourself?’

‘Yes. The irrevocable decision to publish was not arrived at until after Mr Hume had been there. We have to cut out columns frequently after that time.’

‘But you had your editorial written?’

‘As a matter of fact I was beginning to write a note on the subject when Mr Hume came in.’

‘So it must have been painful for you not to publish it?’

‘On the contrary it would have been a great relief if we had seen any reason to doubt the truth of the story and to withhold it from publication.’

‘What appeared in your paper was a sensational bit of news?’

‘It was a sensational occurrence being reported.’

‘And therefore good copy in common phrase?’

‘Certainly, but I did not consider it from the commercial stand-point, and had no occasion to do so.’

‘But you admit that the object of the father’s call on the Tuesday night was to get you to refrain from publishing these letters in the following day’s paper?’

‘That was the purpose, but about the motive I have my own views.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What his motive was in wishing it withheld.’

‘But whatever his motive was, his purpose was to get you to withhold publication?’

‘Yes, but I am not satisfied that he told me the truth when he said he had written to the War Office and wished publication delayed.’

‘Do you not now think it would have been reasonable, and prudent possibly, instead of going upon what your reporter said as to the consent of a young girl of seventeen, to have agreed to her father’s desire that you should delay the publication?’

‘No. I was not impressed by the father’s desire at all.’

‘In short, you were hostile to the father?’

‘No, I was not in the least hostile, but he did not give me any reason for delaying it, and I had his assurance that the letter was genuine. I did not say that he had seen the letter. I say that he said to me he had seen it. He told me he had seen the letter, and he was convinced the handwriting was Grace’s.’

‘When did he say he had seen it?’

‘He did not say either when or where.’

‘You had had it since the Monday yourself?’

‘Yes.’

‘So he could not have seen it since the Monday?’

‘No.’

‘Then when could he have seen it?’

‘Well, according to the girl’s statement it was received on the Thursday, and there were Friday, Saturday and Sunday for him to see it.’

‘How was he to see it? You said they were on such relations that you would not even take the letter to him?’

‘If I had had any doubt about it I would probably have taken it to him, but I had not any. I had no personal knowledge of their relations. It was public property that this girl was living away from her father’s house, and we know there had been litigation. It was not a personal matter. We know there was a state of antagonism between the girl and her father.’

‘How do you suggest he saw that letter if there was a state of antagonism which you say existed?’

‘The antagonism may be there, but even if a girl has an ill-will to her father and receives an account of a terrible tragedy concerning a member of the family, it is surely conceivable that she would overcome the feeling of resentment and go to her father and say that a letter had been received, or that she should send it by some friend, which I was told had been done.’

When the time came for Kate to give evidence, Wilson was keen for her to be questioned away from the dock, in the witness box where all the other witnesses had given evidence. The judge consented. Wilson knew how to appeal to a jury and played the
Titanic
card straight away. He knew that it would win their sympathy.

‘Looking back upon your life, Miss Hume, one of the hardest blows was the death of your brother John?’

‘Yes.’

‘You were awfully fond of him?’

‘Yes.’

‘In consequence of his tragic death you suffered very badly?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘As regards your leaving home, you thought, rightly or wrongly, that your stepmother was too careful about your getting out?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘One of your hardships, I think, was being sent early to bed?’

‘Not particularly.’ (This was a reference to evidence given earlier in the trial that her father had required Kate to be in bed by 8 p.m every night.)

‘In any case you wanted a little more freedom?’

‘Yes. In consequence I went to Mrs McMinn’s. I had known her daughter at school.’

‘Is it the case that before you left your father’s house you at times felt yourself greatly depressed?’

‘Long before I left my father’s house. I had headaches and could not sleep, and gave way to crying when left alone. I often went to bed crying. After I went to Mrs McMinn’s week after week passed without getting a letter from Grace.’

Now Wilson played the war card.

‘At Mrs McMinn’s you read everything you could get bearing on the war?’

‘Not everything. I read about the Germans being so cruel, and everybody was talking about it; and I thought at that time, seeing that my sister Grace was not writing, that she had really gone to the front. I wrote to her and tried to get a reply, but could get none. My father and stepmother did not come near me, as I did not go to them.’

Even before the judge, Lord Strathclyde, began his summing up, Wilson knew that he had won his client’s freedom, whatever the jury’s verdict. He had presented her as she was: a girl who had suffered two huge emotional blows, first the death of her mother, then the death of her brother. Her father and stepmother had been exposed as more than unkind, brutal even. In legal terms it all came down to a ‘degree of guilt’ and Wilson’s skilful revelation of Mr Dickie’s haste in rushing to press suddenly left Kate looking much less guilty. The jury had been won over. The judge encouraged them to take a compassionate view: