Gillespie and I (44 page)

Worse still than my sex and spinsterdom was my unfortunate nationality. With good reason, the Scots despise no race more than the English, and, beneath the façade of colonial co-operation, resentment simmers. It mattered not that my parents were Scottish by birth. I had been brought up down south; my accent was English; I had what were deemed fancy, southern ways: going hither and thither, unaccompanied, sometimes without a hat—not to mention the cigarette smoking. My final failing was that I was well-to-do, or, comparatively so. Humble origins would have served me so much better, since no species peeves the Scotsman quite so much as an English spinster of independent means: this is a truth, to my mind, universally unacknowledged.

But forgive me; I digress. My point is this: that, in accusing me, Schlutterhose and his wife had selected the perfect scapegoat for their purposes.

My next appearance before the Sheriff took place on Wednesday, the 27th of November. By then, the press was full of stories about the discovery of Rose's body, the capture of the kidnappers, and my own arrest. As yet, Ned had not replied to the letter that I had sent him, and I could hardly bear to contemplate what poisonous rumours he might have heard about me.

For the short trip from the prison to the Sheriff Court, I was, once again, transported in the windowless wagon, this time accompanied by a young female turnkey. I had slept badly, and my hazy thoughts kept drifting to images that I found comforting, such as the studio at Merlinsfield. In my note to Agnes, I had asked her to leave the birdcage where I had placed it, on the table next to the window; I wished with every fibre of my being that I could be there, beside it. Perhaps I would be, soon, for I was hopeful that the Sheriff would, this time, grant Caskie's application for bail. I closed my eyes, and tried to remember how the birdcage felt beneath my fingers, the rough surface of the carvings, and the smooth bamboo slats.

Of a sudden, I heard a din of voices and my eyes snapped open. The horses slowed down and, without warning, the wooden sides of the wagon began to boom and rattle, as dozens of unseen hands banged furiously upon them. The turnkey looked at me, in alarm, as the vehicle came to an abrupt standstill. I heard angry shouts, and more banging. Then, we lurched forwards for another minute or so, before finally coming to a halt. After a brief pause, the back door flew open to reveal a sea of angry faces: about a hundred people had gathered in the street in front of the Sheriff Court. A nervous constable guided us out, while his colleague tried to fend off the rabble. As we stepped onto the pavement, I was met with a hail of rotten eggs, several of which shattered upon my chest and shoulders. The crowd surged forwards, falling over each other, in an attempt to push closer. The policemen were soon overwhelmed. Someone managed to grab my collar, and a fist smashed into my face. The next few seconds are a blur but, somehow, the young warder was able to drag me away, and bundle me, through a side entrance, into the building.

My nose was pouring with blood and, by the time that we reached the basement, I had ruined my handkerchief in an attempt to staunch the flow. Caskie was already in the cell, clutching another Petition in his hand. I had never seen him look quite so grim. Without a word, he handed me the page, and my legs almost buckled when I saw what was written upon it: a second charge, of murder, had now been added to the original one of plagium.

Caskie shook his head.

‘This is a bad business—a bad business, Miss Baxter. I havenae a notion what evidence they've got against you on a murder charge, but up there today I'd advise you to say nothing at all, other than to vehemently deny these charges.'

So stunned was I, that I could do little other than nod my head. As it transpired, the proceedings were delayed. We waited, and waited. As the minutes ticked by, and I had still not been called, Caskie looked ever more distracted. I had come to realise that his vague demeanour masked a nature that was exceedingly cautious, almost to the point of pessimism. He tried to hide his anxiety from me, but I noticed that the more agitated he became, the more he hunched his shoulders. Presently, a rumour began to circulate. It was said that the crowd in the street had continued to cause trouble, and even the Sheriff-Substitute himself had been held up outside. Eventually, half an hour late, Caskie was summoned. Then, the constables escorted us upstairs, into the Sheriff's chamber. As I entered, McPhail, the Fiscal, gazed at me, coldly. Mr Spence, the Sheriff-Substitute, was reading a pile of papers that were stacked in front of him. Caskie caught my eye and tapped his finger against his lips, a gesture that might be interpreted as thoughtful, but I knew that he was reminding me to say nothing. And so, when the Fiscal began to question me, I held my tongue.

McPhail soon grew frustrated.

‘Is that it?' he demanded. ‘Are you going to say nothing at all?'

To which I replied: ‘I deny these charges.' But my voice sounded so timid that I had to clear my throat, and repeat: ‘I vehemently deny these charges.'

Sheriff-Substitute Spence glanced up and then peered at me, startled.

‘In Heaven's name!' he cried. ‘What the—?'

Unfortunately, my nose had commenced to bleed once more. Great crimson drops fell upon my frock, and splashed the parquet floor. Spence appealed to his Clerk and the turnkey.

‘Quick—give her something!'

The Clerk gave me a handkerchief, and I did my best to wipe my face and bodice. Meanwhile, His Lordship was questioning my escorts.

‘Was this done by these folk outside?' When one of the constables replied in the affirmative, the Sheriff-Substitute shook his head, and then frowned down at the red stains on his parquet, muttering: ‘Blood all over the place!'

Alas, ‘blood all over the place', was perhaps my undoing, that day, for—with no further ado—Mr Spence set aside his pen and announced that bail was denied. My solicitor was already on his feet, but Spence waved aside his objections.

‘Save your breath to cool your porridge, Mr Caskie. You well know that there's no bail on a charge of murder, and your client, sir, looks as though she's gone six rounds with the Boston Strong Boy. We're not about to set her free, only to have her strung up from the nearest lamp-post. Miss Baxter, you are committed for trial, until liberated in due course of law.'

The following day, I received another visit from Caskie. This time, his demeanour was as gloomy as a wet Sunday afternoon. Apparently, he had now seen the warrant that the police had used to examine my bank's records, and the daybook or ledger that they had seized. Thus far, he had been unable to track down the builder's receipts that I had told him about, and he was beginning to fear that this particular argument would prove to be troublesome.

‘It's a bad coincidence about these dates,' he said. ‘Without the receipts…'

‘I shall write to Agnes again and ask her to look for them, more thoroughly.'

In the meantime, I ventured to ask him about another matter that had recently been on my mind.

‘Surely all these claims that I paid this man money on various dates, et cetera, are of no consequence? There can be no case against me, for the simple reason that I have—or had—no motive. Why would I want to harm Rose, or her family? The very idea is ridiculous. We all doted on her, and I was forever bringing her presents.'

‘Yes, so I'm told.'

‘Whereas Schlutterhose and his wife presumably
did
have a motive. For example, if they had seen something in the press about Ned's exhibition, might they not have thought—being ignorant, perhaps, of such matters—that an artist who features in the newspaper must necessarily be a wealthy man? And what better way to get his money than to kidnap his child? And why should I send a ransom demand? Financially speaking, I'm much better off than the Gillespies. The police must know that, by now. Is it not patently obvious to them that I don't have a single speck of motive—whereas this man and his wife most certainly do?'

‘The trouble is', said Caskie, ‘the judicial system of this country doesnae give two hoots about motive. The police and the Fiscal—they're not really interested in “why”, Miss Baxter. “Why” is of little consequence to them. What they really want to know is “who”.'

I sighed, in exasperation.

‘On another note,' Caskie went on: ‘I've been investigating an accident on St George's Road, something that Schlutterhose claims happened just after he took the child. Grant and the Fiscal want to disbelieve his story—or at least they want to disbelieve elements of it—but I'm not so sure, and I've yet to speak to any witness. We need to find out exactly what happened that afternoon. That's all for today, except…' He grimaced. ‘I'm sorry, but at the risk of upsetting you further, I ought to mention, before I leave, that they're to bury Rose, this afternoon.'

We had been expecting this news for some time but, none the less, I felt quite giddy, of a sudden. My throat was dry and tight.

‘You might want to avoid the newspaper for a while,' said Caskie. ‘In case one finds its way into your cell. Reading about the funeral might be—painful.'

As it happened, the warders sometimes gave Cullen their discarded newspapers and, sure enough, a few days later, she acquired a copy of Friday's
Glasgow Herald
. She stowed it, out of sight, under her bed, probably to spare my feelings. At first, I followed Caskie's advice, but in the end, my curiosity got the better of me, and I did look at the paper.

‘
Gillespie Girl Funeral
' dominated the local news: almost a quarter of a page had been dedicated to the story. A sub-heading quoted a line from the song: ‘
Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door
' and, after a brief introduction, the article stated that there could be no sight more melancholy than a tiny white coffin in the arms of a grieving father. Apparently, Ned himself had carried the little casket of remains from the house to the hearse, and from hearse to the grave. It cannot have weighed very much. The article described the artist's clothing: a dark suit, ivory gloves, and a white crape armband. Ned tended to reject conventions of dress and, as far as I was aware, he owned no white gloves but, perhaps, in this instance, he had not had the strength to stand up to Elspeth's demands. Of course, it was even possible that, in his grief, these outward signs of inward sorrow may have seemed important to him, as the last token of respect and affection that he could pay to his daughter.

The child was buried at Lambhill Cemetery. Apart from the inscriptions, and a simple carving of a rose, her headstone was unadorned. At the graveside, her mother, Mrs Annie Gillespie, laid a posy of pale hothouse flowers upon the casket. Then, apparently, she and her husband held hands as the coffin was lowered into the earth. Mrs Elspeth Gillespie, the child's grandmother, was inconsolable, and had to be comforted by her friends, many of whom attended the service. It was noted that Sibyl, the older sister of the deceased child, was not in attendance, since she was currently ‘recovering in the asylum' after being ‘injured in a fire'. According to a source close to the family, Sibyl had been informed of Rose's death, and was spending much of her time in prayer, or at the piano, playing hymns, in honour of her dead sibling.

The child's mother remained dry-eyed until after the interment, when she broke down in tears. Mr Gillespie had to support his wife as they returned to the mourning carriages and she, in turn, helped him when he stumbled on the path and almost fell. The article said that they gave every appearance of being a devoted young couple who were supporting each other in the aftermath of a terrible tragedy.

Caskie was right: reading the newspaper profoundly upset me. That night, as I lay awake, in sheer misery, I was overwhelmed by a sense of profound isolation. Perhaps because of what I had read in the paper, I found myself lost in the memory of another funeral, that of my mother, which had taken place many years previously. Poor mother had always suffered with her health and eventually died of what was judged, by her symptoms, to be botulism, after having eaten some asparagus that we had preserved, the previous year. I was just fourteen years of age at the time, and beside myself with grief. On the morning of the funeral, I felt utterly alone in the world. Aunt Miriam, who was my mother's unmarried sister, must have been as upset as I was, but she tried to conceal her own grief, for my sake. She gave me some sal volatile just before we got into the carriage, with the result that I felt strangely euphoric and highly strung on the journey to the cemetery.

My mother and Ramsay had been separated for several years, by then, and he had gone to live in Scotland. Aunt Miriam had written to him with news of his wife's death, inviting him to the funeral, but, typically, had received no reply. I remember, above all, as we crept slowly up Swain's Lane in the carriage, the nervous anticipation of wondering whether my stepfather would put in an appearance, and my overwhelming relief when I glimpsed him, standing amongst a line of other black-clad people, inside the cemetery gate.

Ramsay removed his high hat when he saw me, and held it between us as he squeezed my shoulder and murmured condolences. I noticed a few more flecks of grey at his temples, the yellowish eyes, the waxy pallor of his skin. Then, while Aunt Miriam spoke quietly to him, he became very absorbed in replacing the topper on his head, turning it this way and that, altering its angle, to find the most comfortable position. Upon reflection, I believe that he did not care about the hat; he simply wanted some occupation for his hands.

At the graveside, I found a place next to him. The cuffs of our coats brushed against each other, my left against his right. For a moment, I thought that he might take my hand, but he did not and, in my naivety, I assumed that such a thing would have been bad form at a funeral. The gleaming wooden casket transfixed me: the ropes seemed too thin to support its weight, and then there was the impossible thought that a body—my mother's body—was nailed up inside. There had been no rain for days, and the pile of earth before us was powdery, as dry as dust. Everything felt very precarious. As they began to lower the coffin, the ground seemed to shift beneath my feet, and the scent of early lilac was so piercing, that I thought I might faint and topple into the grave.