Gillespie and I (51 page)

‘Well,' said Miss Johnstone, timidly. ‘Perhaps.'

This was a catastrophe, especially since, during his cross-examination, MacDonald was yet again unable to eradicate the uncertainty that Aitchison had planted in the mind of the witness—and, at this point, alas, His Lordship decided that he had heard enough for one morning, and adjourned the proceedings for luncheon.

As the public began to scramble for the exits, I glanced up at the gallery, but Mabel must have already slipped out; there was no sign of her. Doubtless, she had hurried to the waiting room, to give a full account of the morning to Ned and Annie.

Mrs Fee and I sat out the recess in the stifling cell, under the watchful eye of Constable Neill. Caskie was elsewhere, closeted with MacDonald, and visited, only briefly, just before we were due to return to court. The Crown's ploy of trying to place me at the scene of the abduction was vexing him, and his bearing was morose.

‘We just don't know what that's all about, Miss Baxter. Pure mischief-making, most likely: he wants to plant suspicion in the minds of the jury, to implicate you as much as possible. I dread to think what else he's got up his sleeve—but you try not to worry, Miss Baxter. We know you were with Mrs Gillespie all afternoon, and Aitchison knows we'll show that, beyond a doubt, as soon as we get the chance.'

‘Let's hope Annie is clear about the time of my arrival,' I remarked.

‘Aye,' said the lawyer, looking, if truth be told, even more pessimistic.

Much of the afternoon was dedicated to medical evidence. We heard from Dr Frederick Thomson, police surgeon, who gave his considered opinion on how Rose might have died. Thomson had inspected Rose's body both at the shallow grave in the woods, and then during the post-mortem examination. It is unnecessary, here, to enter into the many ghastly details of his account. Suffice to say, he had found that the child's skull had been fractured in a way that, in all likelihood, proved fatal, if not at the time of injury, then shortly thereafter. The body showed no other wounds, breakages, dislocations, or marks, and he told Aitchison that the fracture appeared to have been caused by a single impact with a hard, flat surface.

‘Might a blunt instrument have caused this wound? A flat stone, say?'

‘That's possible.'

From the evidence table, the flat stone was produced: a stone that, according to Inspector Grant, was found ‘directly beneath the window of the room in which Schlutterhose lives with his wife'. A dark red stain was clearly visible on one side of this stone but, mysteriously, neither Aitchison nor Thomson made reference to it. According to Thomson, that stone, or similar, could have been used to inflict Rose's injuries—although he thought, on balance, that a heavier stone might be a more likely weapon. Irked by this qualification, Aitchison pressed his witness:

‘If not this stone, then—just to be clear—could the child's injuries have been caused if her head were dashed, deliberately, against a hard surface—a wall, perhaps, a table, a hearth—even a floor?'

‘That's also possible.'

Under cross-examination by Pringle, and then MacDonald, the doctor confirmed that there was no recognisable pattern or indentation to suggest that the wound had been made by repeated blows with a stone or other blunt instrument. Only a single blow was indicated.

‘Hmm,' mused Pringle. ‘Is it not the case, sir, that the child's head could have sustained such an impact in some other way—if she was being carried by a tall adult, who was then—perhaps—struck down by something moving at speed—a tram horse, say. The adult is knocked to the ground. The child is propelled into the air and lands a short distance away, hitting the back of her head on the hard surface of the road. In short—an accidental fall.'

‘I couldn't rule out that possibility.'

‘In other words, Dr Thomson, just to be clear, you—hmm—you agree that the injury could have been sustained by accident—yes or no.'

‘Yes.'

Moving on, Aitchison attempted to illustrate that Hans was relatively inoffensive when sober, but to be avoided when drunk. Various local residents had often heard him fighting with his wife. In fact, on the very night that Rose had disappeared, a young apprentice who lived next door to the couple had heard an argument coming from the apartment where they resided. Although no individual words could be distinguished, Belle was heard railing at her husband, then he bellowed at her until, in due course, only the sound of weeping could be heard.

Aitchison ignored this mention of weeping, but it was revisited, later, by Pringle: ‘Might I ask, was it male or—hmm—female weeping?'

‘Both, sir,' replied the apprentice.

‘Both parties were crying? Both Mrs Schlutterhose and her husband?'

‘Yes, sir.'

Pringle gave the jury a significant look before returning to his seat.

The proprietor of McGuire's public house on the Gallowgate testified that she had served Hans and Belle on the evening in question, and that later, they had begged her for writing materials, before spending some time, in a corner, composing a letter. We heard from a handwriting expert who had compared various samples of Hans's writing with the letter found in the close on the morning after Rose went missing and, having analysed the writing style and the German's characteristic errors in spelling and grammar, the expert had concluded that Schlutterhose was, in all probability, the author of the ransom note. George Graham, a Gallowgate pawnshop keeper, identified the button boots on the evidence table, and testified that Belle, a regular customer, had pawned them, according to his ledger, on the 7th of May 1889, three days after Rose had gone astray.

‘And how did Belle Schlutterhose act upon giving you these boots?' Aitchison asked. ‘Was there anything strange in her behaviour?'

‘She seemed fine,' replied Graham. ‘We even had a laugh about something.'

At this, there were a few gasps of disapproval from the crowd.

And so it went on. Witness after witness gave statements that were undeniably damning for Schlutterhose and his wife. We were encouraged to form a picture of them as not only feckless, dishonest, unreliable, and tempestuous, but also cold-hearted and immoral. Despite Pringle's efforts in cross-examination, Aitchison prosecuted with formidable skill. It seemed an indisputable fact that Hans Schlutterhose had snatched Rose and run away with her, and that his wife had colluded with him. The most ambiguous evidence concerned the tram accident. In pursuit of his murder conviction, the Advocate Depute had done his best to cast doubt on the identity of the man and child who had collided with the tram horses. He had also managed to raise questions about the person witnessed with Hans at, or near, Queen's Crescent gardens, on the 4th of May, and he had left all those present with just one question in mind: which woman was it—Belle, or the English one?

Towards the end of the afternoon, Aitchison asked for the declarations of Belle and Schlutterhose to be read to the court. Belle had done little more than confirm her identity, and had nothing to say to the charges. Hans, by contrast, had spoken at length. The judge advised the jury that the statements put forward in the declaration would all have been made in answer to questions asked by the Procurator Fiscal or Sheriff-Substitute, and that all oaths and imprecations would have been deleted from the text. In order to elucidate some of what is to follow, I must here include a transcription. Of course, I could easily preface this preposterous document with a thousand caveats and denials. However, let it be noted that I set it here, without comment. No doubt, the reader will be able to judge for himself how silly it is, at a glance.

The Prisoner's Declaration

At Glasgow, the 18th day of November 1889, in presence of Walter Spence, Sheriff-Substitute of Lanarkshire. Compeared a prisoner, who being duly cautioned and examined, declares—

My name is Hans Schlutterhose. I took the child but it was no murder. It was an accident. It was not my idea to take her. We would have looked after her. Dear God, it was only supposed to be for one night.

I am aged thirty-six years. I reside with my wife, Belle, at number 8, Coalhill Street, Glasgow. My wife has nothing to do with this, nothing.

I was born in Bremen, Germany, and have been in Glasgow for seven years. I came first to London in 1879, when I was aged twenty-three years. I came to Glasgow in 1883. Presently, I am not in work. My last employment was about six months ago. I worked at the Loch Katrine Distillery in Camlachie. I did odd jobs, mainly moving barrels. It was horrible work. I was there two or three months but exactly how long I cannot recall. It did not pay well and my health was not so good.

I took the child, in May, the first week, a Saturday. I cannot recall the date. I am now shown a calendar and I can confirm that it was on the 4th of May. To begin with I only went to Queen's Crescent to take a sight. By take a sight I mean get the lay of the land. I was to get the lay of the land first and not take the child until a week or two later when all was ready.

It was about half past two o'clock when I arrive at Woodside. The two Gillespie girls were in the gardens playing. The roads all around the gardens were quiet, there was no man in the street. I saw that it was already a good opportunity not to be missed. The child could be taken and no man would see. We could take her easily, right away. We could carry her as far as the Grand Hotel and take a cab from there.

What I mean is, I could take her. I was alone. My wife was not there. She was at home. She knew nothing of all this. I refuse to continue.

I went to the gate of the gardens and gave money to the sister. I told her to go and buy something for me in the shop. I gave her a shilling. I don't remember what I told her to buy. It was tea perhaps. She ran off. Then I told to Rose her mother is waiting for her at Skinner's and we will buy hokey-pokey to eat. She took my hand and came quite willing. But she walked very slow. In the end, I picked her up and carried her down the street, West Princes Street.

All was good until the main road, St George's. One minute I was crossing the street; the next I was on the ground, knocked down. Some tram horses ran into me. The driver was going too fast. The horses came out of nowhere. It was not my fault. The girl, I could not hold her, she flew out of my arms and landed at a short distance. How far away, ten feet perhaps. I meant her no harm, it was the driver's fault. He jumped down and people came running to see if we were hurt. So I grab the child and ran away with her, up a street.

I am now shown a map and I can confirm that the street I ran up was Shamrock Street. At this point I am still carrying the child. When we are away from the people, I look at her and see some blood on her head at the back. Not much blood. She must have banged her head when she land on the ground. The place where she fell is cobblestones as far as I can remember. I wrap my jacket around her head to stop the blood and carry her until I see a cab at Cambridge Street. She fell to sleep in the cab.

We went to my home in Coalhill Street. When I came home the child is still asleep. Belle was not returned yet so I put the child on a mattress. I have put my jacket under her head for a pillow. There was still some blood, not much. I sat down and I fell to sleep also because I was tired. My wife came home about an hour later. I cannot say where she had been. She goes her own way. When she came in she took one look at Rose, and she tells me the child is dead. At first, I cannot believe her and I try to wake the girl. But she is gone, poor little thing. Oh dear God, I meant her no harm. Excuse me, please, I cannot say further at this time.

I am ready to continue. When we know for sure the child is dead my wife became very upset. I covered the body with a newspaper to hide it but I cannot make Belle calm down. In the end I have put the child in a trunk to get her out of sight. My wife did not want to be in the room with the body so we went out. First we go to the Coffin in Whitevale Street but it's so small there you cannot speak in private and so we went to McGuire's on the Gallowgate. McGuire's is a large house, and we are not so well known there, so we can talk.

Of course my wife was very confused because she knew nothing about the girl, why, because she was not involved. What is she saying? What has she said? She would do better to keep her mouth shut. (Prisoner lapsed into German.)

I am ready to continue. We had just a few drinks at McGuire's to calm our nerves. We were very sad. The child must have split her head when she hit the ground but I could not have stopped it. I was most shocked. I told my wife I would go to the police and tell the truth but she does not want to be left alone. In the end we decide to go to America to make escape. I knew we would need much money if we want a nice life and so because the child was gone I decided to take a ransom from her father the artist. I wrote him a note and paid a boy to deliver it to Woodside. He was just a boy on the street. I paid him one shilling to deliver the note and two shillings for to keep quiet. I never saw that boy since.

I am now shown a letter, it is marked number 1, and I recognise my handwriting and it was written and sent by me to Mr Gillespie.

On the morning after the child died, my wife went out about ten o'clock. She did not want to be there with the body. She will go somewhere else until the body is gone but I must wait until night to hide it somewhere. Soon after my wife is gone I hear a knock at the door. When I open it, I see the lady who paid me to take the child. She knew where I lived because—I cannot remember how she knew. I must have told her. Nobody else told her.

She stood on the landing. She refuse to come in because she thought the child was there and she spoke in a whisper. She tells me Rose is missing and wants to know did I take her, did I write a ransom note. I explain, we had gone ahead because the street was quiet and it was a good opportunity. Then the lady is unhappy. She tells me I should not keep the child there. She wants to know why I had not done as she asked and rented a nice room. She told me I had done wrong. I was to take Rose back to Woodside, at once, and put her at the corner, where she can find her way home.