Gillespie and I (53 page)

‘Does she often come to Lockhart's?'

‘No, sir, it was just that one time.'

‘Do you remember what date it was that you served her?'

‘It was December, sir, early in December, I think. We were very busy.'

‘Can you remember the date, or the day of the week?'

The waitress paused, and then said: ‘No, sir. It might've been a Saturday.'

‘And what did Miss Loftus order?'

‘Erm—I think it was high tea she had, sir.'

‘Anything else?'

‘I can't remember anything else.'

MacDonald consulted his notes. ‘In fact, Miss Loftus has been spoken to, and she gave us her receipt from that day. Would you mind looking at it?'

A piece of paper from the productions table was carried to the witness.

‘Is that the receipt you gave her?' MacDonald asked. ‘Is it your signature?'

‘Aye, sir.'

‘And what does the receipt say that Miss Loftus ordered?'

‘Just an aerated drink. I remember now, that's what she had.'

‘An aerated drink. Not high tea, then. Yes, I gather that Miss Loftus prefers to dine at home. And what date does it say on the receipt?'

‘Monday, the 18th November, sir.'

‘The 18th of November—not December, at all—and not a Saturday. So, Miss Strang, it seems you can remember every detail about some anonymous customers you say you served almost a year ago, including the date and time, and what you served them. Yet you have a very poor recollection of a customer you served less than four months ago, a person who is famous, someone—moreover—whom you idolise. You can't even remember what she ordered. Can you explain this anomaly?'

‘Like I said, sir, we were busy that day.'

‘No more questions, my lord,' said MacDonald, returning to his seat.

Hardly surprisingly, Aitchison chose to re-examine his witness. In his hands, Strang remembered being so flustered by serving Miss Loftus that she failed to notice what the actress had ordered. However, it was an unconvincing challenge. On balance, I felt that although we had not managed to tarnish Strang completely, a question about whether she had been schooled in her answers must have been raised in the minds of all present.

However, she had pointed at me, along with the other two. I dreaded to think what the jury might make of her story, as they brooded on it overnight and, as I sat in the holding cell at the end of the day, it was difficult not to feel prematurely defeated. When Caskie called to see me, on his way out, I tried to hide my despair.

‘Well,' I said. ‘At least three-quarters of the day went in our favour.'

‘Aye,' said Caskie. ‘Bar Aitchison's japes in trying to place you at the scene.'

‘And that waitress! And what about that dreadful declaration?'

‘Never mind the declaration, Miss Baxter. As the judge said, it's not evidence against you. Our German friend could have said anything about anybody, in his declaration, if he thought it might save his rotten neck, but that doesn't make it true.'

Caskie meant to reassure me; instead, his words only made me consider my own frail neck. Of all my physical attributes, it was the one that I minded least, for it was slender and graceful. How ironic that my one decent feature might be the very thing to be ruined. What, exactly, happened when a person was hanged? Did the neck break from the fall, or was the windpipe slowly crushed until one suffocated? I pictured a noose tightening around my throat, the fibres of the rope cutting into my skin. Or might I be sent back to gaol, for the rest of my days? I strongly suspected that I would not survive a long term in Duke Street.

Caskie was still speaking. ‘Now, tomorrow, we must counter the Crown's production of your bank's ledger. If we don't do that, then we're in big trouble.'

‘But how are we to do it?'

Although both Agnes Deuchars and Mrs Alexander had been kindly co-operative, neither they nor Caskie's agents had been able to find a single one of the missing receipts that might have exonerated me.

‘Well, to be honest, I'll admit, we're currently bereft of ideas,' said Caskie. ‘There's also Belle's sister, and she'll treat us to some blatherskite about having set up a meeting between you and that pair of rascals. So we have that to look forward to. Many a lawyer would tell you there's no case against you, Miss Baxter, and I'll admit, there's not much of a one. But unless we manage to tarnish both Christina Smith and the bank evidence, well…' He paused, and, perhaps reading the anxiety on my face, tried a different line: ‘In my experience, Miss Baxter, it's usually the second day that marks the low point in the case for the defence, but we seem to have gone against the convention and had our worst day first.'

I must say that this reassurance hardly bathed me in relief.

20

The following morning, I was plunged further into gloom when I saw that
The Scotsman
contained the headline ‘
Gillespie Girl Trial
' and proceeded to describe me thus: ‘
Miss Baxter was dressed in a grey silk frock, dark gloves and charcoal bonnet, with no veil. In appearance, she seems a typical old maid, thin, erect, with fine features, but a Roman nose. While the German's declaration was read aloud, she glanced at him, once or twice, with no visible emotion
.'
The Mail
had published a sketch of the three prisoners in the dock, featuring Belle and myself most prominently, above the caption: ‘
Who was the Mysterious Veiled Lady?
' The artist (not Findlay, this time) had been rather unkind to me, I felt.

It was as though the entire country was against me. Noticing that I hung my head, Mrs Fee cleared the newspapers off the table, and chastised Constable Neill for bringing them into the cell. Neil simply gave a shrug of his shoulders, which seemed, to me, an unnecessarily callous gesture.

My mood did not improve as the morning got underway. Once again Mabel was there to monitor proceedings from the gallery. On this second day, I knew that most of Aitchison's volleys would be aimed in my direction. I was only too aware how concerned my lawyers were about the potential testimony of the Crown's key witness, Christina Smith. The bank ledger also loomed large. I felt sure that Aitchison would begin with one of these dreaded pieces of evidence, but the first witness he called was Mrs Annie Gillespie. This announcement caused a marked sensation in the court, as well it might: we were to hear from the dead child's mother. I myself felt very strange indeed, simply at the sound of Annie's name. Here was a prospect that I had been dreading. Ever since her outburst in Duke Street gaol, I was aware that she harboured some unwarranted doubts about me, and I knew not whether she had seen sense in the intervening weeks. No doubt, Mabel would also have told her all about yesterday's events: the German's declaration, and Helen Strang's piffle. Consequently, I found it hard to look at Annie as she entered, and, for the most part, I kept my eyes downcast while she was on the stand.

Here, I find myself pausing, because I am wondering what to say about Annie's testimony. Most importantly, it must be borne in mind that she was a grieving mother, in a fragile state. In some respects, I would argue that her courage was to be commended. Always an unworldly creature, who was, by nature, as vague as a wisp of smoke, she seemed not only distracted, that day, but also frail and, at times, slightly unhinged. Yet, despite this, she refrained from histrionics and shed not a single tear in court, even though, as Rose's mother, she had good reason to be distraught. I have often tried to put myself in Annie's shoes, and can imagine that, for months, all sorts of people had been pouring poison into her ear, misleading her, and distorting her opinion of me. In all probability, she no longer knew which way to turn, who to rely upon, what to believe. In her position, I might well have reacted in the same way, becoming suspicious, distrustful—even delusional, as I must admit that she seemed, at times, on the stand.

Her words are there, preserved for ever, in
Notable Trials
, and in Kemp's pamphlet, if anyone cares to read it. Had I been able to speak in my own defence, during the trial, I would have had something to say about a few of her inaccuracies and misapprehensions. Time is a great deceiver, and Annie's memory had always been notoriously bad. For instance, our main hope was that MacDonald's cross-examination would place me alongside her, at Stanley Street, at the approximate time that Rose was kidnapped. Nobody was sure of the exact hour of the abduction, but the police had calculated that it had taken place at some point between three o'clock, when Miss Johnstone had seen the abductors from her window, and half past three, when Mrs Arthur saw Hans hurrying down West Princes Street with Rose in his arms.

However, Annie was exasperatingly vague about when I had arrived at number 11. She did confirm that I had been with her for most of the afternoon, but could not, or would not, be specific about the exact time of my arrival.

‘It might have been about three o'clock,' she told Aitchison. ‘But it might have been later. I didn't look at the time.'

‘Could it have been four o'clock?' asked the prosecutor.

‘Perhaps not as late as four—but I can't be certain.'

She also misremembered the early days of our friendship, deponing that it was on the afternoon that we met that I had engaged her to paint my portrait, which, of course, was not the case.

Aitchison seemed very interested in the portrait. Having established that my father had commissioned and paid for the picture, he asked Annie whether Mr Dalrymple had made the payment in person.

‘No,' she replied. ‘It was Harriet who gave us the money, on his behalf.'

‘So, he commissioned and paid for the portrait, but you never met him?'

‘No.'

With a sly glance at me, Aitchison asked her: ‘Where was the portrait hung?'

‘At his home in Helensburgh,' Annie replied. ‘I think that's where he lives.'

‘How do you know that—where it was hung, I mean?'

‘From Harriet. I think she said he'd put it in his drawing room.'

‘I see—in his drawing room. Now, moving on, tell me more about Miss Baxter. She became your friend, I believe, and you liked her?'

‘Yes, for some time, anyway.'

‘Did your feelings about her change?'

‘Yes.'

‘Was there an incident that provoked this change in your feelings?'

‘Not really, it just happened over time. She became a bit—intrusive. There was this one time I met her in the street and when she asked where I was off to I told her I was going to the shop to buy a bottle of pale ale for Ned, my husband, and Harriet asked me what kind of ale. And when I said I wasn't sure, maybe Murdoch's, she laughed and said: “Oh, don't get Murdoch's for Ned, he's not so fond of that.” And I was taken aback, but I found myself asking her what kind of ale I ought to get him, and she suggested Greenhead. And, in fact, she was right because I asked Ned later, and he said he preferred Greenhead Pale Ale. She must have heard him say he liked it or—I don't know. But it made me feel awkward—strange, that she should know his likes and dislikes.'

‘That Miss Baxter should seem more familiar with your husband's preferences than you were?'

‘Yes, it didn't seem—appropriate.'

‘Now, Mrs Gillespie, can you cast your mind back to Saturday, the 13th of April, last year. Can you remember what happened on that date?'

Despite my state of high anxiety, I almost laughed, for Annie could barely remember what day of the week it was, never mind what had happened almost a year ago. However, to my surprise, she replied, immediately, in the affirmative, making me wonder if the question might have been rehearsed.

‘Yes, we all went to Bardowie—that is, my husband and children and I went—with Harriet, to a property that belonged to her stepfather. Harriet wanted to show us the house. She was planning to live there, for the summer. She'd made an artist's studio out of one of the rooms, in a tower.'

‘An artist's studio? For your husband?'

‘No—she'd taken up painting—or that's what she said.'

‘You didn't believe her?'

Annie paused for a moment before replying: ‘I thought it was a bit odd. She liked art, but she'd never really shown much interest in the pursuit of painting. Not until my husband began teaching at the Art School.'

‘I see—and what did she do then?'

‘She joined his class.'

‘Indeed? And you thought that odd?'

‘Well, a bit.'

‘Why did you think it a bit odd?'

‘I don't know—we saw quite a lot of her, in those days. We thought of her as a friend, I suppose. I was just surprised that she would join Ned's class.'

‘And—to return to this day, out at Bardowie—what happened?'

‘Well, she invited us to live with her, there, over the summer. We could stay as long as we liked. She had this idea that we could all paint. She said Ned should have the studio, for his work, and she and I could make do, in other rooms.'

‘And did you accept this offer?'

‘No—not exactly. My husband's very polite, and he finds it difficult to say no. He said something like it was a lovely idea, and I think Harriet may have got the wrong impression, and assumed that we were going to go and stay with her.'

‘Did you want to accept her offer?'

‘No. We both knew we wouldn't go.'

‘Why not?'

‘It wouldn't have been right. It would have been too much. Besides, we were hoping to spend the summer on the East Coast. We didn't tell Harriet “no”, exactly, but we didn't say “yes” either and we hoped she'd forget about it.'

‘And what happened then?'

‘Well, we just went home that afternoon. But a few days later, Harriet brought up the house again, when my husband wasn't there. She wanted to know how long we'd stay for, at Bardowie. I didn't want her to be too disappointed. I thought it was better to refuse her, there and then, so there could be no mistake. I told her we wouldn't be going to stay with her.'