Gillespie and I (32 page)

I turned to look at Annie. She stood there, stock-still. Her face had a frozen, stunned look. As for myself, I felt rather confused. The best that could be hoped for was that Rose would turn up, unharmed, having sought shelter somewhere. Of course, it was a great pity that she had not already been found under those circumstances, but at least nothing truly horrific had come to light.

‘Thank you for your help, boys,' said Annie, and then, all at once, she turned and stepped into her bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her, without a backward glance, which left us in no doubt that she did not wish to be disturbed.

Forthwith, Elspeth summoned the messengers into the parlour, where she yelped a few questions at them, and exclaimed, excitably, at their responses. So busy was she interrogating the lads, and dissecting every detail, loudly, for the benefit of her audience, that she failed to notice her son's return. I saw him, however, quite by chance. It so happened that I had not accompanied the others when they returned to their seats. Instead, I had lingered in the hall, having not quite decided what to do. Plainly, Annie wished to be left alone, and I could have set an example to the others by discreetly making myself scarce, but I was disinclined to desert her, altogether, and leave her at the mercy of those who remained. At any rate, I was standing, indecisively, at the threshold of the parlour, when I heard a soft footfall on the landing. I turned and—just as I moved forwards to peer into the close—Ned stepped into the hallway. He must have climbed the stairs very quietly, for he had made no sound at all until he was just outside.

It suddenly occurred to me that I had not seen him for a few days, not since our painting class, earlier in the week. I had expected him to be pale, like Annie, but—perhaps because of the shadows in the hall—his face seemed dark; indeed, everything about him had a murky, brooding appearance. His hat was soaked and shone like sable; even his mackintosh was black with the rain. For a moment, he stood, quite still, at the threshold, listening to his mother's voice, as she continued to criticise Detective Stirling. Instinctively, I said nothing. Having stepped away from the parlour door, I was no longer visible to the other women and so would not, by my actions, betray Ned's presence. Instead of speaking, I clasped my hands together and gave him what I hoped was a look of profound sympathy. At first, he failed to react, until—finally—he looked at me. He looked at me for the first time, as though he had only just noticed me. I saw, of a sudden, how gaunt his face was, how lined and drawn. I stared back at him, into his tortured eyes. They were brimming over, silvered with tears. As I watched him, he raised a finger to his lips, and then he turned, silently, and disappeared into the kitchen. I was about to follow him, on tiptoe—glad that we would, at least, have a few moments alone together—when he closed the door behind him, so gently that it made no sound at all.

Of a sudden, I felt foolish. Having composed myself, I bade the ladies good evening and found my coat. In order to leave, I had to pass the kitchen. Inside, all was quiet. I imagine that, had I pressed my ear to the door, I might have heard some sounds from within: a breath; a muffled sob; the scrape of a chair leg against the floor—or, perhaps, nothing at all. Goodness only knows what I might have heard. As it was, I simply gave the door a sad glance, in passing, as I left the apartment.

12

On Monday the 6th of May,
The Glasgow Evening Citizen
included a paragraph, on page 6, headed:
Suspicious Disappearance of Artist's Daughter
. After a brief summary of the facts of the case, so far as known, the journal asked: ‘
What has become of little Rose Gillespie? She has not been seen since Saturday afternoon, and there is a growing suspicion that she may have been abducted. Her family and their neighbours have been making anxious search of the local area and their quest is expected to gain momentum later in the week, if she remains unfound
.'

These were very eventful days, as you will be aware if you have ever heard about the case. The mystery of Rose's disappearance was compounded by several other factors: the rumours of a man who had been seen running off with a child; the mysterious veiled lady; and the ransom note. In the meantime, an investigation, of sorts, got under way, and I was able to keep abreast of events during my visits to Stanley Street where the mood was sombre, yet chaotic. I would have dearly loved to have a proper conversation with either Ned or Annie, but the moment never seemed to arise because there was always at least one other person present, if not Elspeth—who seemed to have reinstalled herself in the parlour—then a police constable, or one of the neighbours.

Gradually, as a result of house-to-house inquiries, a clearer picture of what had happened on Saturday afternoon began to emerge. As yet, no trace could be found of anybody who matched Sibyl's description of the veiled stranger. However, the police did manage to track down the servant who had spoken to young Lily Alexander, that afternoon. Martha Scott was employed as a maid in one of the main-door houses on Queen's Terrace, the stretch of West Princes Street situated directly opposite the gardens. She reiterated her story, about a man that she had seen hurrying along, carrying a child. At the time, she was returning to her employer's house, having run out to buy a newspaper for her mistress. She was about halfway up West Princes Street, when she noticed a man on the opposite pavement, heading towards St George's Road. He might have been drunk (Martha thought) because he staggered as he walked. The child in his arms was a girl, it seemed to her, for she caught a glimpse of longish fair hair. Unfortunately, she had not noticed which way the man had turned at the end of the road.

Another witness was found, who claimed to have seen something similar. On the first floor of number 21 West Princes Street, Mrs Mary Arthur, a landlady, had been expecting a parcel, and had been going back and forth to her parlour window, all afternoon, on the lookout for the postman. On one of these occasions, she had noticed a tall, well-built man with a little girl in his arms. Mrs Arthur's account reflected that of Martha Scott, in most respects. She said that the man was bound in an easterly direction and, by virtue of the fact that he was wandering across the street, it looked as though he intended to turn right onto St George's Road. He wore a cap, and seemed drunk. The little girl was stretching out her arms, reaching behind ‘her father', which gave the impression that she wanted to go back in the direction from which they had come. The child's frock was of a blue material, with a lozenge-shaped pattern. This description of the garment was particularly chilling, since the frock that Rose had been wearing that afternoon was one that she often wore and it was, indeed, patterned with lozenge shapes.

Witnesses continued to present themselves. On Wednesday night, Peter Kerr, a cab driver, walked into Maitland Street Police Office, saying that, on the previous Saturday afternoon, he had picked up a foreign man in Cambridge Street. The man had been in shirtsleeves, and was carrying a child, wrapped in his jacket. He had asked Kerr to take him across town, and had barely spoken, other than to give his destination. Due to the influx of visitors to the Exhibition the previous year, the driver had become familiar with various foreign accents, and he surmised that the man was either Austrian or German—an immigrant, rather than a tourist. The girl had whimpered during the journey, and something about the drunken foreigner had troubled Kerr, but he had driven them to the Gallowgate, as far as the steel works, at which point, the passenger had called out ‘Stop'. Apparently, he paid his fare in full and then, carrying the sleepy child, walked off towards Vinegarhill: a muddy, insalubrious showground site, situated in a singularly foul-smelling spot amongst skin yards, knackeries, and manure works.

One theory was that the veiled woman might have lured Sibyl away by sending her to buy sugar, while her accomplice—the man seen hurrying down West Princes Street—had snatched Rose. The police deemed it possible that this man had later hailed Peter Kerr's cab on Cambridge Street. However, they could not explain why Rose should have been taken, and not Sibyl—nor indeed, why either girl should be abducted for financial gain, since the Gillespies were hardly wealthy. Nevertheless, the police were intrigued by the ransom demand. They were fairly convinced that the person who had written the note was not a native speaker of English. For instance, the use of the word ‘gut', in place of ‘good', was of particular interest, because this might mark the writer of the demand as a German speaker, which would tally with the opinion of Kerr, the cab driver, that the passenger whom he had dropped off in the East End was of German or Austrian origin.

At dawn on Thursday, a large party of constables and detectives descended upon Vinegarhill. The caravans, works buildings and sheds were searched over the course of the next two days, and the inhabitants—mostly itinerant horse dealers, performers and exhibitors—were questioned, along with the labourers from the various adjacent works. Vinegarhill's residents were mostly of Irish or Romany origin, and they vehemently denied all knowledge of the missing child and any foreign fellow. Disappointingly, the man was nowhere to be found amongst the caravans, and although there were many little urchins running wild about the site, barefoot, none of them bore any resemblance to Rose Gillespie.

Hardly surprisingly, the Gillespies were in a state of grief and horror, agitation and distress. Sibyl seemed to have turned in upon herself, and Annie's eyes were constantly red from weeping. Ned, ever stoical, fought off his sense of helplessness by searching, relentlessly, for Rose. He never settled in one place, and if he and his wife found themselves in the same room together, they barely spoke. Annie was still racked with guilt, and believed that Ned always found excuses to avoid her company.

To make matters worse, the family had come under the terrible scrutiny of the press. Only hours after the first report appeared in
The Evening Citizen
, journalists had begun to pester them for an interview. As an artist, and a public figure, of sorts, Ned was of particular interest. Each day, a handful of ink-slingers congregated on the doorstep at number 11, waiting for him to emerge, and then chased him down the street with their notebooks. Ned (who was only intent on finding his daughter) took to dodging out through the back court, but his pursuers soon foiled that trick, by posting one or two of their number at the rear of the terrace, in Stanley Lane, to give the alarm should Ned appear. In the end, he began to leave home in the early hours, before any of the reporters had taken up their posts. The poor man wore down his shoes, pounding the pavements, each day, while further small-scale searches were conducted by the police and various other concerned individuals and volunteers. Across the entire city, it seemed, groups of men carried out searches of their own districts, all to no avail.

Horatio Hamilton, the art dealer, put up a reward of £20 for any information that might lead to the discovery of the missing child. Ned was excused from his teaching duties at the School of Art that week, in view of what had happened. However, we ladies of the evening class met, as usual, and used the facilities of the School to produce a handbill, with which to publicise the case. Once printed, several hundred copies were then passed to various groups, including Elspeth's church, for distribution at prayer meetings, and so on, and a group of local lads undertook to hand out the leaflets on busy corners, from St George's Cross to the Tron Steeple.

By Friday night—almost a week since Rose's disappearance—no trace of her had been found, and the police were left with no alternative but to go ahead with the organised searches. Thus, on Saturday, the 11th of May, any man fortunate enough to benefit from a half-holiday was asked to meet at the Stewart Memorial Fountain, in the park. Word of mouth, after the distribution of handbills and the publication of several newspaper items, swelled the numbers. Indeed, the unusual circumstances of Rose's disappearance had aroused passionate interest among the population. Men came from all over town and, by three o'clock, despite a deluge of rain, a crowd of a hundred and fifty had gathered. There were only five hours or so remaining until dusk, but it was hoped that, with these greater numbers, the search would be more comprehensive, and that something would come to light. The volunteers searched all the areas that had been covered by the smaller group, on the previous Sunday, but, unfortunately, their endeavours were unavailing, and they returned to the park, disheartened, as night fell.

Another search was planned for the following morning, since Sunday is a day of rest for most men, and even greater numbers were expected to turn out. Ned took part on both days, at the side of Detective Sub-Inspector Stirling, who remained in charge of the case. Annie waited fretfully at home, surrounded by an ever-changing assembly of local women, including myself. Prior to Rose's disappearance, Elspeth and her cronies had been organising a ‘Happy Sunday Afternoon' for the canal boatmen, which had been supposed to take place that very day. Instead, about forty boatmen gave up the promise of buttered buns and Psalms, in order to take part in the search. Their involvement swelled the numbers to almost three hundred, and it was thought that the park had not seen such crowds since the previous year, at the time of the Exhibition. The police planned to comb an area of several square miles surrounding South Woodside: from Ruchill down to the Clydeside quays in the south; west, to the grounds of the Infirmary; and east, as far as St Rollox. A dozen large parties set out just after nine o'clock in the morning and the volunteers did not give up until nightfall. But once again, all their efforts were in vain.

One mild afternoon, about a week later, I made my way around the corner, to number 11. It had become my habit, now, whenever I left my lodgings, to avert my eyes from the little park at the centre of Queen's Crescent. In the days immediately after Rose's disappearance, clinging to the vain hope that I might spy her there, my gaze had been drawn, inexorably, to the gardens, much as a tongue will seek out a hollow tooth. Of late, however, the sight of the fountain and trees, encircled by railings, simply pained me.