Classic Scottish Murder Stories (29 page)

That Christmas, 1930, Queen left home and joined her in her lodgings. They lived as husband and wife, and Chrissie wore a wedding ring, telling the Burns' that Peter's wife had died, but it was too late, she was damaged and dejected and the drink had taken a vicious hold. She sneaked bottles into the house and hid them. Her days were idle and bleak when Peter was out at work. She herself was incapable of holding down a job. Having a baby was not an option. Alcohol is a depressant and she was seen to be ‘at it' nearly all the time. When she was under the influence, she was awkward and quarrelsome, and then ‘very low'.

Threats of suicide began to occur, although the Burns' did not tell Queen about them, thinking, perhaps, that they were only sick fancies, and not wishing to worry him. Sitting by the fire one day in a state of agitation, she suddenly made for the
door, announcing that she was going to ‘make a hole in the Clyde'. Mrs Burns prevented her and put her to bed. She was always being put to bed.
‘some day some of you will come in and find me strung up!'
she threatened when scolded for breaking her vain promises to reform.

‘The gas' is always a problem in these situations. You don't put a kettle on the unlit gas if you intend to kill yourself, but you could, I suppose, be heedless that it was there, or you could even be overtaken by suicidal impulse in the very act of preparing to make a pot of tea. It was probably an accident, and a dangerous one, when Mr and Mrs Burns smelt gas in the middle of the night and found the gas ring in the kitchen full on under the kettle. At 2.00am, Fay Burns went to her lodgers' room to complain – ‘She has just about gassed us all' – and found them
arguing
– a rare glimpse. Normally, in his small, private, domestic hell, Queen was seen to be ever kind, patient, and affectionate, quick to excuse and hide Chrissie's faults. This time, he said that he had been chasing her about all night and turning off the gases. He had found her in the lavatory with the gas full on and unlighted.

Mr Burns came to the conclusion that the relationship was absolutely hopeless, and advised Peter Queen to finish it and make Chrissie an allowance, even leave the country if that was the only way to extricate himself. Queen refused: he loved her and would never give her up. This was surely the ultimate declaration of regard, when another had offered him and as it were sanctioned an escape route. It was, though, high time to try a change of scene. No one has ever suggested that with extreme premeditation he deliberately transferred her to a more isolated setting where she was at his mercy – as can happen.

In August, 1931, the couple moved to their new house at 539 Dumbarton Road. There was no Fay Burns to supervise Chrissie during the day, and she was not a prisoner, continuing to go out to obtain alcohol by some means, and to
visit relatives when she was sober enough. She kepSSup her practice of going to see her father and sisters every Wednesday, pretending that she was well placed in service in Kelvinside, and that was her day off. Queen rationed her household allowance to £3 per week, and she was supposed to keep up the rent of £2 per month. No alcohol was allowed in the house except for an occasional gill (quarter-pint) of whisky for social purposes. A supportive team of Mr and Mrs Burns, and other friends, Mr and Mrs Leonard Johnston (she being a sister of Fay Burns) kept an eye on Chrissie, coming in with bracing words.

A fortnight before the end there was an actual, unambiguous suicide attempt, unless Queen, who said that he witnessed it, was lying, and unless Mr and Mrs Burns were also lying. Chrissie herself, according to the Burns', heard them all discussing the incident and did not deny it. James and Fay Burns were invited to tea. As the husband went to hang his coat behind the kitchen door, he said, he noticed that the peg was broken. ‘Who has been breaking up the happy little home?' he jested with a remarkable lack of tact. Peter said that it must have happened during the night (with the meaning that he did not know it was broken) when Chrissie had tried to do herself in. There is a rather strange nonchalance about his response, or perhaps embarrassment. Chrissie, who was in the kitchen, heard this exchange and merely remarked that she was a damn fool and was going to make an effort to stop the drinking.

Howsoever they all made light of it at the tea-party, the happening that night, if it did take place, had been truly appalling. Queen speaks: ‘I was sleeping and was wakened up with a noise. I did not see anybody in bed, and I then got up and lit the gas to see what the noise was. I saw Chris sagging at the knees against the door, and I saw the two ropes, with a rope twisted round her neck. I immediately got her up as quickly as I could and took the rope off her neck. When I got
her straightened up she fell against me, and I could see she was very much dazed. I put her to bed. I did not know what to do, but I got some water and moistened her lips, and I got into bed and stayed with her there and got her to be as quiet as I possibly could.'

Two days later, on November 14th, Leonard Johnston called and found Chrissie alone and perfectly sober. It seemed like a good time to reason with her: ‘Chrissie, why not try to stop this drink? ‘It is doing you harm.' He had excellent recall of her response, an outburst: ‘Don't I know that? But do you understand the position I am in? Do you understand the pretension
(sic)
of it all? I am fed up with life. I have to tell lies everywhere I go. I cannot go home to my own people but I have got to tell lies.
Some day Peter will find me behind the door.'
She talked to Johnston about Peter: he adored her, had given her a coat, a beautiful ring, and the gramophone. She did not say how much she adored Peter.

Worried, he said, about Chrissie's threats of suicide, Queen arranged a holiday, which, although presumably well-meant, could only have made her worse. It was mid-winter, and on Monday, 23rd, she was to be shipped off to bracing Aberdeen, where he had taken rooms for her with friends who would look after her. A medical opinion would surely have been more advisable, but his head, if he was genuine, was firmly embedded in the sand. Nessie, a niece, who had not been well, was to be her companion, although just a child, in the mistaken idea that a dependant other would be a therapeutic influence. Chrissie hated the whole plan, too passive with the weight of her illness to want to leave the warm haven of her small home, but too low to resist.

Thursday, November 19th, was the day before she died. It was a misspent time, bibulous, oblivious, surprisingly egged on by her own brother, Robert, who drank glass for glass with her. Perhaps he had no real knowledge of her problem. What it shows is that she was incorrigible, coming to the end of the
road, and that Peter Queen would have had to be some kind of saint – perhaps he was – not to be disillusioned. After Peter had gone to work, she went to see her father, also at work, to tell him about Aberdeen, but he was too busy to talk, and they arranged to meet the following evening at her married sister's home. We can see how dependent Chrissie still was on her own family, and they, incidentally, suspicious no doubt of Peter Queen, were to be anxious to play down the seriousness of Chrissie's illness.

After being somewhat rebuffed by her father, she proceeded instead to visit the married sister, Mrs Walker, at her house in Shettleston Road, where she also found Robert Gall, not at work. Her handbag contained whisky and a bottle of beer. The telegram from Aberdeen which confirmed her booking was produced. Drinking took place. At 5.00pm, brother and sister left. She was unsteady. They went to a nearby public house, where she downed two small whiskies, a bottle and a glass of beer, and a large port. Robert gave her best on the port. As a takeaway, she stowed a gill of whisky in her handbag. Robert thought that he ought to escort her home – the secret, shameful home to which no member of her family had been admitted.

In Dumbarton Road there was a last, tempting bar, but the waiter refused to serve them, objecting that the lady had had enough. Chrissie told him what she thought of him. Peter Queen was waiting on the landing when they reached number 539. It was 9.15, and Chrissie had promised to be back at 5.15. She lied an alcoholic's lie, and said that she had been all that time at her sister's. In a touching scene which just might have been rank hypocrisy, although the mind rejects the idea, Queen lit the fire, took off Chrissie's wet shoes, and dried her feet. He put the kettle on for tea and brought a half bottle of White Horse whisky from a cupboard. All three had a small glass. Chrissie passed Queen a note. He acted on it, saying to Robert, ‘You see, Bert, this is my aunt's house. I will have to
get a move on, as Chris has a good bit to go to get home.' Playing along, Robert politely announced, ‘I think I will need to be going before the aunt comes in.' Queen saw him to his car.

Chrissie was inconsolable about this incident, according to Peter Queen, blaming herself for letting it happen, revealed as a kept woman. And so she went to bed, with only the spectacle of the ordeal in Aberdeen ahead of her. The next morning, Friday, November 20th, she dragged her tottery body out of bed, dressed, and went out. At 1.00pm she rang Queen at his office from a public telephone and asked him to go home because she felt ill. He was back by 2.00pm, and found Mrs Johnston already there. She considered Chrissie to be very drunk, and left, advising him to get a doctor. At 4.00pm, she returned with her husband. Chrissie was in bed, asleep. They left. What was Queen doing all this time? Thinking, smoking, doing the housework? Leonard Johnston came back at 7.00pm. Chrissie was still asleep. He told Queen that he had just seen the doctor's car outside his surgery, so that he was available. Queen went off, but, he said, the doctor was inundated with patients, so he left a message for him to make a house call the following morning.

Johnston went home. Mrs Johnston popped back at 8 o'clock, to relieve Queen of his watch. Leonard and Peter had a game of cribbage and two small whiskies and two half-pints of beer in the Windsor Bar. What relevance this episode holds must be grasped for; it seems to show that life was still going on, that Queen was bearing up well, not in despair, supported by kind friends. Mrs Johnston, who always took the firmest stand on Chrissie's drinking, was in charge. Soon after 8 o'clock, she woke up,
‘stupid with drink.'
She did not know where she was and asked if Mrs Johnston would go for a gill of whisky. This was refused, her friend saying that she had brought some, which of course she had not: she did find some whisky in the house, and gave Chrissie just a very little with
hot water and sugar. She went to sleep again.

The two men were soon back, between 9.00 and 10.00pm. Chrissie was now awake and taking notice. With his usual solicitude, Queen ascertained that she had had nothing to eat. Tea was made. He propped her up on the pillows and put on her dressing-jacket and cap, for decency. There she sat, presiding, swaying a little, in disgrace, poorly, yet still functioning and able to chime into the conversation. A kind of picnic took place, a communal effort, informed at least on some fronts by kindness and even enjoyment of the bizarre occasion.

‘By Jove! This knife is blunt,' quoth Leonard Johnston, sportingly sawing away at a loaf for sandwiches.

‘Peter, give him the right knife,' Chrissie told him, and Queen took the knife to her bedside to demonstrate that it was in fact the actual bread knife. She looked at the implement which was, so soon, to be a part of the apparatus of her death – according to the Crown. Hungry, she ate some sandwiches, and, rather sad to relate, asked for more. Queen gave her his own portion, since there was no bread left.

The visitors went home at 10.45pm. Mrs Johnston said that Chrissie was still stupid with drink, helpless, and unable to walk about. Mr Johnston thought the she
could
have got up and walked. Anyway, she would surely have needed to go to the lavatory, even if supported by Queen. Johnston's considered opinion was that there was a distinct improvement in her condition when he left, compared with her incapable state at 4 o'clock in the afternoon.

So it was midnight, and there she lay, knowing that the doctor was calling in the morning, and hoping, perhaps that he would say that she ought not to go to Aberdeen. She was going to see her father in the evening. People had been looking after her. There was food in her stomach. She had not had a real drink since the morning, just the little nip at 8 o'clock. It may be that she now slipped out of bed and found some more whisky.

The neighbours who lived above and below heard no
disturbance all night long, but a man who lived directly above said that he heard male voices talking in the Queens' kitchen. This is most mysterious, unless, of course, he was mistaken. Peter Queen could have been talking to another visitor, unexpected, or one brought in by Queen to help and advise.

The hours passed, and then at 2.45am Queen was seen in Crawford Street, near Dumbarton Road, where he asked a constable on his beat to direct him to the nearest police office. You would think that he would know, after ten weeks in the district. He was directed to Partick Police Office, where he arrived at 3.00am in a very agitated state and placed two house keys on the counter, saying, ‘Go to 539 Dumbarton Road; I think you will find my wife dead.' Two experienced police officers were on night duty. Three times they asked him what was wrong. Then, they swore, Peter Queen uttered the fatal words, ‘I think I have killed her.'

At his trial, in due course, Queen insisted that his actual words had been,
Don't think I have killed her.'
I am sorry to say that, to a lawyer, the neat, exonerative substitution of one vital word for another immediately arouses scepticism. It is a well-known device employed by accused persons. Queen had no criminal record, but, working as he did for a Glasgow bookmaker, he must have been no innocent. However, it was greatly in his favour that, as only disclosed at the trial under close questioning by the judge, Lord Alnes, the officers on duty had not recorded the so-called confession in writing.