Classic Scottish Murder Stories (7 page)

The defence favoured the theory that the
cheese
had become contaminated by the arsenic, accidentally, on the pantry shelf, even though William, giving evidence, floated the idea that the spilled arsenic was lying on the shelf on which the stale
bread
(i.e. that left over from tea-time) was put when taken out of the crock.

The Crown suggested that there had been no intent to harm Mrs King. The meaning here is that only Father's slice of bread was (lavishly) poisoned. It was sheer bad luck that Mother snaffled his rejected half-slice. This theory then requires that William sat mute and let her eat it. The judge would say, perhaps, that such was his character. Or could the boy, if
wickedly inclined, have thought, ‘So what?' In the alternative, Mother's first, whole slice was poisoned, too, and she increased the dose by taking Father's. In that case, why did she not, too, complain about the taste?

Arsenic is, famously, a tasteless poison. Why should Mr King have said that the cheese (put on the slice of bread) burned his throat? Judging by the chemical analysis of Mrs King's organs, a large quantity of arsenic was ingested. Taylor's
Medical Jurisprudence
states that in cases where a large quantity has been taken, the powder is described as having a roughish or bitter taste. This is not the same as burning. Dry or burning feeling about the mouth is one of the first symptoms of arsenical poisoning, and that might have been what Mr King was experiencing.

The defence made the rather good suggestion that William might have contaminated the food accidentally by first putting his hand in his pocket, but the Dean of Faculty, for the accused, was shot down in flames by Professor Harvey Littlejohn, who opined that such a route would not bring up enough arsenic to poison anybody. (If his hand had been wet, might he have dredged up more? Could he have sneezed, wiped his mouth or his eyes, or touched coffee?) Much was made of the failure to obtain medical help at the right time, but this was not adequately proved. Even the judge allowed that young people were habitually unobservant, especially of symptoms of illness.

The Crown ridiculed William's explanation for his acquisition of arsenic. Dr Drinkwater, who had analysed various items taken from the Kings' house, stated that he had never heard of the use of arsenic for wireless. (Some readers might know better?) It was very difficult to make crystals from arsenious oxide (and therefore a challenge to William King, perhaps!) and the crystal thus produced was no bigger than a millet seed, and far too small.

As for photography, Dr Drinkwater went on, arsenic had no use in that field. Using arsenic for the purpose of making a
magenta dye was ‘quite beyond the scope of an amateuW/As we have seen, however, and the opinion was already in evidence in cross-examination, a practising chemist had said that William knew more than he did. It appears that magenta dyes were used routinely in colour photography, but, against William, Taylor says that
arsenates
(salts of arsenic acid) were used in the manufacture of magenta colour, i.e. not white arsenic.

Ferricyanide was a part of the colour process in photography. We know that William had in his possession a bottle which had once (presumably) contained ferricyanide, and it is reasonable to assume that it had been used in photography. Potassium ferricyanide (as on the label) or red prussiate of potash, is formed of dark red crystals, and it was, therefore, guileless to place white arsenic in the bottle. There was no attempt to disguise arsenic as something else. It is not patent from the report available that the defence put up a spirited reply to Dr Drinkwater, but the jury believed William anyway.

The learned judge summed up largely for the defendant, in spite of his reservations as to his moral character, which, he felt, explained many features of William King's actions and explanations. He referred to the absence of motive (since the conflict over his career had been resolved). There was the absence of opportunity to administer the poison. (He obviously did not go with the ‘sleight of hand' suggestion.) It was, also, a very serious point that the lad, according to the evidence, himself suffered from sickness. (Perhaps, but there was no evidence that he was seriously ill, nor that he had eaten less bread than his parents.)

If he had intended murder, the judge continued, why would he have left a bottle containing the article that would convict him, in his jacket hanging openly in his bedroom? That was a very difficult fact to square with guilt.

Loud applause greeted the unanimous verdict of Not Guilty and William King returned to his motherless family. Did he
abandon chemistry, raze his miniature laboratory to the ground, and embrace his father's profession, in an attempt to make amends for the accident?

A
girl, running. That is the emblem of the Christina Gilmour case. The fair girl running, running, in the home-fields by night in the autumn of 1842, heavy skirts bunched, one arm awkward, slightly crippled. She was in no danger at all, for no-one was chasing her. Her condition was, in fact, sexual frustration, or, to use that favourite Victorian euphemism, unrequited love. And so, restless, agitated and depressed, trying to relieve the tension, and sending out a message of her desolation, she floundered through mud and frost. Once she had feared the dark, but now her need for one man, and her repudiation of another, drove her out of the house when she should have slept.

This was dairy country, in Ayrshire, where Christina's father, Alexander Cochran, farmed at South Grange, Dunlop. The family had a long tradition of cheese-making, a circumstance oft mentioned by chroniclers, but tenuous to connect with the unco events which were to ensue. Christina was the eldest daughter, born on November 16th 1818, the year when
Northanger Abbey
and
Persuasion
were published. She was pretty and cheerful, and great things were expected of her. They sent her to boarding-schools and a dressmaking establishment in Paisley and Glasgow. It is a pity to disappoint the keen diagnostician, but the slightly impaired right arm, which she could not raise to her head, appears to have been present long before 1842, and was not, therefore, a hysterical conversion symptom.

The focus of all this wasted love was one John Anderson, ten
years her senior, whose father farmed at Broadley, about one mile away. They had known each other since childhood, when she had attended classes at the parish school, which was held in a house belonging to his father. There was an understanding, but it must be said that John Anderson was not a strong believer in the doctrine enshrined in the motto that
amor vincit omnia.
The received version of events was to the effect that he had delayed marriage because he was not in a fit financial position to support a wife, but when a rival appeared, he simply caved in, and Christina was left, for all he cared, like Andromeda chained to a rock.

There is no doubt that her parents were to blame. Alexander Cochran was a strict authoritarian, of his class and of his time. He approved of John Gilmour, a better match, younger, too, who farmed on his own account at Town of Inchinnan, near Renfrew. Ardently Gilmour wooed, ‘passionate and irrepressible', and when Christina drew back, he threatened suicide – an unhealthy element in the case, and not without its repercussions. The story is that no-one told him about John Anderson, who continued to visit Christina at the cheese farm. One day, she gambled, and lost, by revealing to Anderson that she was engaged to Gilmour. Anderson's only hope now, and Christina's, was an elopement, but he was no Robert Browning, and did the gentlemanly thing, and freed her.

This was when Christina became ill, but her morbid state was not recognised as such. There are old photographs of inmates of Victorian asylums, and they include victims of ‘disappointed love', defeated women with their mouths drawn down, their eyebrows crinkled: sometimes they did get better. Christina belonged with them, being looked after, for her own safety, and the safety of others. Father would not confront the truth, even when she began to eat voraciously, to gorge, and her mother had to set limits to her diet. Like a lamb, she was led off to choose her wedding dress. Twice there had to be a postponement, and finally, on November 29th, 1842, the
marriage took place, and the new Mrs Gilmour was installed in her matrimonial home, the lonely farm, Town of Inchinnan. The minister, Mathew Dickie, who performed the ceremony, perceived nothing unusual in the bride's demeanour, but then, if she had cried, he would have thought nothing of it.

The marriage was a nullity. Christina sat up in a chair by the fireside on the first night, and it was said that she never undressed during the short term of the marriage. Gilmour did not force her, to his lasting credit, and he did not know, at least at first, that she was pining for another John. During these stressful days, one would not have been surprised to hear that he again threatened suicide.

A curious incident was afterwards reported, to the effect that the newly-married couple, keeping up appearances, visited some neighbours and while they were there, Christina fell into a ‘stupor' from which she recovered with a ‘sort of epileptic start'. There is no other suggestion that she was an epileptic, and here there is, indeed, a strong intimation of hysteria.

It must not be thought that the unjoined couple lived in frigid isolation. Christina's sisters visited by relay to cheer and assist. By some quaint old custom, the guest dined in the kitchen while her host and hostess ate their meal in uncomfortable gloom in the parlour. There was one living-in maid, Mary Paterson, an old family servant of the Gilmours, who soon found herself the confidante of Christina's lament that she had married John Gilmour against her will, and only because it was the wish of her father: she had intended to take John Anderson. Outside, several men were employed about the farm, and they were loyal to their master.

The first Christmas at Town of Inchinnan was a mere counterfeit of goodwill as Christina presided over the festive fare and Yule logs crackled in the family hearth. Christmas causes emotional upset, confrontation, divorce. People resolve, reject, and scheme. On Boxing Day, all cooking done, Mary Paterson was given leave to visit her sister in Dunlop. Christina
gave her some complicated instructions for an unusual errand: on her way, she was to call in at a certain house in Paisley and ask the people there to send out a boy with twopence (supplied) to buy arsenic for rats.

The subterfuge went wrong, however, because the maid forgot the address of the house in Paisley (and would they really have done what was to be asked of them?) and on her way back on December 27th, obligingly bought the arsenic direct from Dr Vessey's chemist's shop in Paisley. She had to say that it was expressly for Mrs Gilmour of Inchinnan. The following afternoon, Christina enacted a charade, a damage limitation, in the outside boiling-house. While she had the attention of Mary Paterson, she threw a paper into the fire, which looked exactly like the arsenic package, saying that it was no use to her, and that she was afraid that she would not be able to use it properly.

Sharp and sudden the next evening, Thursday December 29th, John Gilmour's illness began, and dragged on, with remissions, until January 11th. His symptoms were of a repeated ‘throwing' of a ‘kind of brownish stuff', pains in the chest and abdomen, and a swelling of the face. Yet he lived, a strong young farmer of 30, and staggered from barn to byre, in and out of bed.

At the New Year, the sick man was hoisted into a gig for a visit to his parents and parents-in-law. While away from home, he vomited, more than once, and was ill in bed back at his farm on January 3rd. The next day, a farm-hand, John Muir, saw him in the stables, his face swollen and his eyes watering. That was the last day on which he walked his land and saw to his men and beasts. Yet still he lived.

On January 6th, Christina Gilmour (who is becoming, as we proceed, a character less and less sympathetic) left home early, telling Mary Paterson that she was going to Renfrew to fetch something for her husband. The farm workers were not to be told. She returned soon after breakfast. As she went into the house, she deposited, or accidentally lost, by reason of
unconscious motivation, an incriminating object which John Muir noticed at the corner of the boiling-house, as he came out from breakfast. It had not been there when he went in, and it was not carefully hidden. The strange find was a black silk bag containing a small phial of dark-brownish liquid with a sweet smell, like perfume, and a small paper parcel labelled POISON.

This incident is inexplicable unless seen as another message of distress from inside the mind of Christina Gilmour. You do not lightly lose something which you have obtained secretly, and which fills your thoughts. The farmhouse would have offered safer nooks and crannies for concealment. John Muir took the bag to Mary Paterson (who, incidentally, could not read) and she, in turn, offered it to her mistress. Christina said that she had got some turpentine to rub John with, and went off with the bag.

There was, later, no organised search of modern type for the supplying chemist of the contents of the black silk bag and he was never traced. The packet may be presumed to have been arsenic for rats. Mary Paterson said that it looked like the previous one which she had bought in Paisley. The phial has aroused little comment. There can be only speculation about it. John Muir said that the liquid did not smell like turpentine. Oil of turpentine is colourless, anyway. It could have been genuine perfume bought as a cover and a reassurance to the chemist. Cyanide, with its well-known odour of bitter almonds springs to mind, but prussic acid, too, is like water in appearance. The suspicion must be that Christina obtained a small amount of some other unidentified deadly poison, as much as she could get, on some pretext, in order to top up the arsenic.

That night, Christina went out again, on a public relations exercise, taking with her as witness to her solicitude a farmhand named Sandy Muir. She informed him that, as the master refused to see a doctor (a proposition dubious in itself) she was going to consult her uncle, Robert Robertson, at Paisley. Since that gentleman had not seen his niece for four years, and
scarcely recognised her, her choice of adviser was somewhat artificial. She did not turn to her own parents, but to someone removed, not likely to interfere. He did offer to send over his own medical man, Dr McKechnie, but she temporised, saying that she would be happier if her uncle would make a visit first, to see if her husband would agree. She did confide in him the unhappy truth (as she had done to her maid) that she was in a situation not of her own choosing, and that she had really preferred John Anderson. The uncle launched like a parson into a mini-homily on the sacred duties of marriage, concluding with the realistic reflection that many folk had not got the one they liked best. Christina received this wisdom meekly.