Gillespie and I (50 page)

Any mild relief that I experienced, however, was short-lived. When I raised my eyes to the bench, I saw that Kinbervie had turned his head away from the court and was staring into one of his fires with an expression of irritation on his face: clearly, he was annoyed with MacDonald for playing to the gallery. As for the jury, one or two of them were smiling, but the rest, perhaps taking their lead from the judge, remained stony of countenance. All at once, I began to appreciate the degree to which my fate rested in the hands of these gentlemen.

After the theatrical opening afforded by the carrier's grisly account of discovering the body, Aitchison called his second witness, Detective Inspector Grant, who subjected us to the whole terrible story, from the very beginning: the discovery that Rose was missing, the fruitless searches for her, the ransom note, the shallow grave, the bloodstained jacket with the forgotten wage slip in the pocket, the dramatic capture of Hans and Belle, the stone that was found beneath their window, their subsequent statements, the discovery that Belle's sister Christina had once worked for the Gillespies, the seizure of my bank's records, and my own arrest. Somehow, the Detective Inspector made himself seem responsible for every breakthrough in the case. It struck me as duplicitous that he spoke so knowledgeably about events in which his colleague, Stirling, must surely have been more closely involved. Indeed, Grant's main intervention had been to take men off the case. The Detective Inspector had always struck me as a sly, self-satisfied creature, and I was surprised that Aitchison seemed to hold him in great esteem. The prosecutor's respectful manner had the unfortunate effect of making Grant's responses seem plausible, even though, to my certain knowledge, some of them were untrue. I was disappointed that neither Pringle nor MacDonald wished to cross-examine him. Not once, during his testimony, did the detective look in my direction: his intention, I believe, was to make me feel trifling, worthless, beneath contempt; and, as he left the stand, the smirk on his gammon-pink face was like a deliberate rebuke.

No doubt, we would soon hear from Schlutterhose and Belle themselves, when their declarations would be read aloud to the court. I shuddered to think what hideous slanders these documents might contain.

In the meantime, much of that first morning was a battle between Aitchison and Pringle, as the Crown tried to establish Schlutterhose as the primary abductor. To this end, Aitchison called numerous witnesses who had seen him, in the Woodlands area, on the day that Rose had disappeared. For instance, Mrs Mary Arthur, of West Prince's Street, testified that she had seen the German hurrying down the road with a small girl in his arms. According to her, he was drunk.

‘Now—hmm—he was drunk, you say?' Pringle reminded her, when he took the floor. ‘What made you think so?'

Mrs Arthur adopted a world-weary expression. ‘I'm three times married, sir, three times a widow; I know a drunk man when I see one.'

‘You said he was unsteady on his feet, and staggering. Did you—looking at him—did you fear for the child's safety?'

‘I felt sorry for her.'

‘In case he might drop her?'

‘Aye—but more that she had such a bad father, blind drunk in the middle of the day—disgraceful behaviour.'

Moving on, Aitchison called Robert Dickson, foreman at the Loch Katrine Distillery, who testified that he had employed Hans Schlutterhose for about two months, during the early part of 1889. He told the court that Hans had appeared at the distillery on the afternoon of Wednesday, the 8th of May, when he had handed in his notice, claiming to have come into an inheritance. Dickson said that this had merely saved him the trouble of firing Schlutterhose, whom he suspected of pilfering, and who had not put in an appearance at work since he had left the yard several days previously, complaining of ill health. Questioned by Aitchison, Dickson could remember little about Hans's usual clothing, and failed to recognise the brown jacket. However, Thomas Holland, a foreman at the Dennistoun Bakery, was convinced that the garment strongly resembled one that Schlutterhose habitually used to wear. Holland verified that the dates upon the wage slip found in the pocket of the jacket matched the dates that he had employed Hans. He asserted that, despite an initial good impression, the German's behaviour had quickly deteriorated and, ultimately, he had been dismissed after only three weeks, for arriving late, in a state of intoxication. At this statement, Schlutterhose muttered something, and made an obscene gesture at his former employer, behaviour that, I suspected, would not help his case to any great degree.

In his cross-examination, Pringle managed to establish that Scotstoun Mills flour sacks were ubiquitous in Glasgow, and that any citizen might easily lay hands upon one, but this was the sole inroad that he made upon Aitchison's camp.

Laundry owner, Grace Lamont, deponed that, the previous spring, Belle Schlutterhose had worked as an assistant laundress for a few months before giving notice in May, also claiming to have come into an inheritance. Lamont told the court that she had been on the verge of dismissing her assistant, in any case, because of rumours that Belle had another source of employment.

Hearing this, Aitchison raised an eyebrow. ‘What other employment?'

Lamont pursed her lips. ‘I don't like to say, sir.'

‘Please madam, force yourself—what kind of employment?'

‘The immoral kind.'

Thereafter, several spirit merchants and publicans testified that Hans and Belle were amongst their regular customers. The couple were well-known drinkers, who were often on their uppers, but in the spring of 1889, it appeared that they had come into some money, and began to spend freely until the time of their arrest, although neither of them had appeared to be in work.

Next, Aitchison called Thomas Wilkie, a dentist, of St George's Road. On the afternoon that Rose had gone missing, the dentist had heard a commotion down in the street and, upon looking out of his window, he saw a man, sprawled in front of some tram-horses, with a child lying beside him on the ground.

‘What was your conclusion?' Aitchison asked.

‘There'd been an accident,' said Wilkie. ‘The man and his wee girl had been knocked down by the horses.'

‘Can you describe the child? Her hair? What was she wearing?'

‘She had brown hair, I think, and her frock was green.'

‘Brown hair and a green frock, you say? Are you sure about that? Not fair hair? Not a blue frock?'

‘Her hair was perhaps dirty fair, but the frock was definitely green.'

‘And do you recognise the man that you saw that day, here in court?'

Wilkie turned to the dock, and after staring at Schlutterhose for almost a minute, shook his head.

‘I'm not sure. The man I saw was about the same size, but he had whiskers and he was more shabby. This man looks different.'

Aitchison pointed at Hans. ‘You cannot swear this is the man you saw?'

‘No, sir.'

‘And did you see any blood, anywhere, on the child?'

‘No, sir, none.'

The prosecutor's expression betrayed little, but I could tell that he was delighted with Wilkie's responses. This confused me, momentarily, until I realised what impression this evidence was intended to produce on the minds of the jury. I knew from Caskie that Pringle would call several witnesses from the scene of this same accident who would testify to having noticed blood on the child's head. Since the Crown's murder charge rested upon proving that Rose's fatal injury was sustained later, as the result of a deliberate attack, presumably Aitchison wished to undermine Pringle's forthcoming evidence in any way possible.

Next, we heard from Peter Kerr, a cabman, who claimed to have driven Hans and Rose across town. He told Aitchison that the girl had seemed fine, except for a small amount of whimpering that might normally be expected from a tired child, which had ceased when she fell asleep soon into the journey. He too had noticed no blood, either on Rose's head, or on Schlutterhose's jacket.

‘No blood at all?' Aitchison pressed him. ‘No sign of any injury?'

‘No, sir.'

That seemed clear until Pringle's cross-examination muddied the picture, once more, when Kerr stated that his passenger's garments had been dark in colour.

‘Dark, dark,' muttered Pringle. ‘And—remind me—where was his jacket?'

‘Like I said, he'd it wrapped around the wee girl.'

‘Wrapped, you say. Where? Around her legs—hmm? Her body?'

‘More like her head.'

‘Her head was covered, his jacket dark. Is it not possible, then, Mr Carr—'

‘Kerr, sir.'

‘Kerr, I do apologise… Is it not possible, under those circumstances, that you might not have noticed that the child was bleeding from the head?'

‘Aye, I suppose I might not.'

How glad I was that Ned and Annie were not in court to hear all this talk of blood. With this thought, I cast a glance at the public seats and was startled to notice a familiar face in the back row of the gallery: it was Mabel. She must have crept in, at some point, during the morning's proceedings. Currently, she was leaning forwards, listening to Kerr's testimony. She was as slender as ever, and still a beauty, provided that she did not lead with her chin, which gave her a stubborn, pugilistic aspect. As the cab driver was dismissed from the stand, Mabel turned to the dock and, all at once, her gaze locked with mine. I feared that she might look away, avert her eyes. But no—she gave me an almost imperceptible nod, and I nodded in reply, greatly encouraged, for if Ned's sister had not lost faith in me then surely the rest of the family would feel the same?

Somehow, I forced my attention back to the witness stand. Thomas Downie, proprietor of the Carnarvon Bar on St George's Road, identified the couple and testified that he had served them in the early afternoon. He had never seen them before, but he recalled their large capacity for whisky and ale, and the German's distinctive accent. According to Downie, they were both drunk when they left his establishment, and the bloodstained jacket on the evidence table strongly resembled the one that Hans had been wearing that day. Asked about Belle's veil—whether it was down or pinned back—he asserted that she had worn it over her face. Upon hearing this, Aitchison affected surprise.

‘How can you be sure that the lady with Mr Schlutterhose was his wife?'

‘It was one of those short veils, and you could see through it, a bit. Also, she has the same figure—skinny.'

Aitchison appeared to weigh these words before turning to stare at me in a manner that made my innards lurch with dread. Then, after a theatrical pause, he asked the witness:

‘How would you describe Miss Baxter's figure?'

I held my breath, realising, of a sudden, the prosecutor's intention. The publican flicked his eyes towards me with a shrug of his shoulders.

‘Thin, I'd say.'

‘She is—is she not—as thin as Mrs Schlutterhose? In which case, would you not also describe Miss Baxter as skinny?'

‘I might.'

‘Therefore—think carefully—could it have been Miss Baxter that you saw, that day, in the company of Mr Schlutterhose?'

Downie winced, but nodded, as he replied: ‘Possibly.'

Gracious Heavens! Ignorant as I was of the law, I could see what Aitchison intended. Not only was I to be portrayed as the instigator of this tragedy but, for some reason, he seemed set upon suggesting that I might even have physically assisted Schlutterhose to abduct my friends' daughter—and this was despite the fact that Annie would surely testify that I had been in her company for the entire afternoon. Aghast, I turned to look at MacDonald and Caskie, to see if this line of attack had also taken them by surprise. My solicitor was hunched down in his seat, with his hand clamped over his mouth, but MacDonald was gazing on, scratching the underside of his chin, and yawning, apparently unperturbed.

I prayed that, in cross-examination, he would be able to rescue the situation. However, as it transpired, the damage was done. Doubt had been planted in the mind of the publican and also, presumably, in the minds of the jury, and Downie now claimed that the veiled woman could have been either one of us.

For the first time ever, I allowed myself to contemplate the notion that we might not win our case, and that I might meet my end on the gallows. It may seem surprising that, in all my months in gaol, I had not considered the possibility that I might be hanged, but most innocent prisoners refuse to believe that the worst will happen, and I was no different.

Aitchison's next witness proved equally ambivalent. Miss Florence Johnstone, an elderly widow, who resided at number 63, West Prince's Street, told the court that she was in the habit of sitting at her parlour window and that, on the day in question, she saw a man and woman at the easterly corner of Queen's Crescent, where it meets her own road. The couple had appeared to be disputing something. Miss Johnstone readily identified the man whom she had seen as Schlutterhose.

‘He's shaved his whiskers since, but this man here is the very image of him.'

As for the woman she had seen, the widow was less sure: ‘Her veil was down, right enough,' she said. ‘But it was one of those thin, fine veils. I'm almost certain it was the lady there in the dock.'

Aitchison revealed his teeth, in what, I presume, was meant to be a smile.

‘Madam—we have two ladies in the dock. Which one do you mean? Feel free to point to her.' Again, inexplicably, he seemed determined to place me at the scene of the crime. Miss Johnstone raised her hand and, to my great relief, indicated Belle. Yet, the prosecutor persisted. ‘Are you absolutely certain it could not have been the other lady—Miss Baxter, here? Take a good look at her. Take your time.'

‘Well—now that you mention it, I suppose it could have been her—'

‘So you are saying,' thundered Aitchison, ‘that this lady in the dock before you, Miss Harriet Baxter, could have been the woman with Mr Schlutterhose that day, in West Princes Street?'