Gillespie and I (54 page)

Even as I write this, I find myself overcome by exasperation. As I have already made plain, if Annie refused such an invitation, she was perfectly within her rights so to do. I would never suggest that she was a liar, but perhaps this was a little scene that she had conceived, in her mind—perhaps even something that she wanted to be true—and she had somehow convinced herself that it was real. Personally, I have no recollection of the conversation. Yet Aitchison pursued the matter, like a magpie might stalk a fledgling.

‘And how did she react?'

‘I think she might have taken offence, taken against me. She was angry.'

‘Did she lose her temper?'

‘Oh no—Harriet would never lose her temper. But I could tell she was raging, underneath. She was holding a teacup, at the time, about to put it on the shelf, and it smashed between her fingers, she'd gripped it that hard.'

Again, Annie must be getting confused here: I did break a teacup at around that time, but by accident, not because I had gripped it hard, but because it had dropped from my fingers.

‘Did she change, in her attitude to you, over the next few weeks?'

‘Not that I could put my finger on, but she sometimes seemed—I thought I caught her looking at me once, in this funny way. Perhaps it was me—but it made me a wee bit wary of her.'

‘You say she regarded you in a “funny” way—how precisely do you mean?'

‘I don't know. Something in her eye—not nice.'

This rather unclear statement was left hanging, unexamined, despite the fact that Annie might have meant anything whatsoever by it.

I do intend to refute other parts of Annie's statement to Aitchison, line by line, but am rather too exhausted, at present, for some reason. Perhaps I shall return to this section later, once I have rested. No need to dwell on Pringle's cross-examination: he simply tried to get Annie to corroborate that I had acted strangely on the day of Rose's disappearance, and thereafter. The trouble (for him) was that on that fateful day, the poor dear had other concerns on her mind, and was not exactly paying much attention to me—quite apart from the fact that we must, all of us, have been behaving strangely, faced with the kidnap of a child upon whom everyone doted.

MacDonald kindly refrained from dealing with Annie too savagely but, in his hands, it became apparent that she was not exactly in her right mind. This fact may not be immediately obvious, from the transcripts, for they cannot conjure a visual picture of her, as she stood there, on the stand. I caught stolen glimpses of her, and remember her appearance well. She looked, in all honesty, like a wraith, a pitiful, tortured phantom. The overall impression was of someone who has lost control, someone for whom reality has slipped beyond reach.

Following Annie's testimony, Aitchison called Mrs Esther Watson of London to the stand. Mrs Watson had befriended me, several years previously, when my aunt was still alive, although in poor health. Esther and her husband, Henry, were instructors for the St John Ambulance Association, and I had met them at one of the ‘Ladies' classes in ‘First Aid for the Injured'. Neither of the Watsons had two pennies to rub together, but they were lucky enough to have inherited a charming old house in Chelsea. In addition to lecturing for the St John, Esther was an operatic soprano. Henry, who had originally studied the law, was something of a briefless barrister. I found them to be amusing company—at least, in the beginning. I dare say that they were rather full of themselves, as people can be, and they did tend to talk exclusively about their own concerns, but they were witty enough, and the three of us spent a lot of time together, and soon became the best of friends.

None the less, faced with Esther Watson on the witness stand, I knew to expect something scurrilous. The truth of the matter was that we had fallen out, rather badly, a few years before I had moved up to Glasgow. In hindsight, I should have known that something was wrong, on the day that Henry took me into the study to show me his stereoscope collection, which turned out to be a set of smutty photographs of some plump, half-clad maids. His expectation, I believe, was that I would find these images arousing, and that looking at them, together, would be the prelude to a steamy encounter on the chaise. A few weeks later, on another occasion when his wife had gone out, he attempted to put his tongue in my ear. It was all very embarrassing, and I was obliged, once again, to cut short my visit. Esther must have suspected something, for she came to see me, later, demanding to know what was going on between Henry and myself. Sadly, she seemed determined to blame me for what had happened, when it was her goat of a husband who was at fault. At any rate, I wondered what slant she might put on events, under questioning, for there was no doubt in my mind that this was the reason behind her appearance as a witness for the prosecution.

Much as it pains me, it should be noted that I give a comprehensive account of this part of the trial. A guilty conscience might seek to conceal allegations such as those made by Esther Watson, on that day. But, as I am sure is evident by now, my only wish is to be open, and honest, and above reproach.

Aitchison lost no time in getting to the crux of the matter.

‘You met Miss Harriet Baxter in the year 1883, is that correct?'

‘Yes. My husband and I lecture for the St John Ambulance Association. I teach ladies, and Miss Baxter attended my classes.'

‘And, outside the classes, how did your friendship with Miss Baxter evolve?'

‘Well, we bumped into her, a few times, here and there, at the theatre, and in the street. Then, after the First Aid classes had come to an end, we continued to see her. Usually, she called on us, in Chelsea. She was very curious about First Aid. As time went on, we became friendly, because she was so terribly nice and helpful and accommodating. For instance, she did over all our old sheets, cutting them up the middle and hemming the sides. And one day she went out to the garden, all by herself, and hacked back the shrubbery, where she said it cast too much shadow into the study. Henry was delighted at the difference.'

‘She made herself useful, you might say?' remarked Aitchison.

‘Yes.'

‘Do you have any children, Mrs Watson?'

‘No, I'm afraid we haven't been blessed, in that respect.'

It really was too galling. Esther was giving the performance of a lifetime: the soft-spoken voice, the impeccable diction, the neat hat and gloves, the modestly lowered gaze. She must have been forty-five years old, by that stage; still pretty, of course, but somewhat overblown, like a tulip in late May. As far as I was aware, her operatic career had stalled, and she was currently appearing in light musical comedies, something that I know would have rankled with her but, doubtless, she and Henry needed the money.

‘And did you and Miss Baxter remain friends?'

Esther glanced at me, and hesitated, before replying. I was dismayed by the coolness of her gaze.

‘No—my husband and I were forced to stop seeing her.'

‘Please explain.'

But before she could, MacDonald was on his feet.

‘My Lord, I must object. The evidence of this witness appears to bear no relevance to the charges Miss Baxter faces.'

The judge turned to Aitchison: ‘Advocate Depute?'

‘Rest assured, my lord, Mrs Watson's evidence will throw some light upon the direct evidence in the case.'

‘Up to the present moment I remain in the dark,' said Kinbervie, with heavy sarcasm. ‘But I'll allow you some latitude in your questions, Advocate Depute.'

‘Thank you, my lord. Mrs Watson, please tell us why you stopped seeing Miss Baxter.'

With a smile at the judge, Esther resumed her testimony.

‘Well, it's hard to explain, but we—I—began to think that she might be trying to inveigle her way into our home. And then I wondered whether she might, in fact, be trying to—to drive a wedge between us, between Henry and myself.'

The long pause that Aitchison then left was undoubtedly designed to allow the significance of this statement to register with the jurymen. Presently, he asked:

‘In what way?'

‘Oh, there were countless little incidents. I got the sense that, if ever my husband and I had a disagreement, she was secretly pleased. I remember once, when Henry had a headache, and he spoke sharply to me—he said something rather unkind—well, Harriet laughed, and rubbed her hands together, almost with glee. And she had a tendency, when she was with us both, to point out my faults, in front of him. I'm a few years older than she is, you see, and she kept drawing attention to my age. Once, when Henry was there, she stared into my face and said, ever so sadly: ‘Oh, Esther, d'you think I'll get horrid jowls, some day, like yours?' But it was always done in the sweetest fashion; she was so charming about it, and amusing, that one couldn't really protest.'

‘How long did this continue?'

‘Oh, months. Several months. It was all very subtle, you see. Harriet has a way of—she's very charming, and she has this way of wrapping you round her little finger. She can get you to do things, without you even realising. Henry didn't acknowledge it, at first.'

‘But, eventually, he did?'

‘Well—it was—eh—an incident with some photographs, that finally made him see that there was a problem.'

And then Esther went on to describe what had happened with the stereographs—except that she made it seem as though it was I who had brought them with me to their house, one day, and shown them to Henry.

‘So, just to be clear, Mrs Watson: at a time when she knew you would be absent from home, Miss Baxter brought some—let me say, vulgar—photographs, of ladies, to show your husband?'

‘Yes, and—as you might expect—it made him terribly uncomfortable, and he told me about it later. Then, we got to talking about Harriet, and when we cast our minds backwards, we realised that there was something—well—not quite right about all those times we'd met her in the street. She lived in Clerkenwell, you see, all the way across London, but we kept bumping into her in Chelsea. She always had a good reason to be in the neighbourhood, but … it happened so often. And we began to wonder whether, sometimes, she might have been lying in wait for us.'

‘You believe that she had followed you?'

‘Not—followed, exactly. But watched us, planned it, in advance, or found out where we were going, so that she could pretend to meet us, by accident.'

‘I see. What exactly made you suspect this?'

‘Just the number of times it happened. It was too much of a coincidence.'

‘And so, you broke off contact with her?'

‘Well, we wrote to her, and told her we were going away, and then we pretended to be out, if she called, and we didn't return any of her cards or letters. In the end, she got the message.'

‘Mrs Watson, I put it to you that Miss Baxter was infatuated with your husband—was that not the case?'

‘I don't know,' Esther replied.

Here, she paused—as well she might have done! I hardly dared to think what preposterous thing either she or the prosecutor might come out with next.

Aitchison prompted her: ‘How do you explain Miss Baxter's behaviour?'

‘Sometimes—oh, it was all very confusing. It was more as though—more as though she simply wanted to separate Henry and myself—to split us up, to ruin our marriage. You see, she'd always wanted to be her stepfather's little girl—a sort of papa's darling. I visited her once, in Clerkenwell, and her room was like a shrine to him. She'd arranged several daguerreotypes and photographs of him where they could be seen from her bed. Whereas there wasn't a single picture of her mother; you might have thought she hated her mother.'

MacDonald was on his feet to object, but Kinbervie was ahead of him:

‘My good woman, what we might or might not have thought is hardly pertinent. Kindly restrict yourself to the facts of the matter. We are perfectly able, here in Scotland, to form our own conclusions, if necessary—although, Advocate Depute, I am not at all convinced that there is sufficient relevance in all this.'

Aitchison apologised to his Lordship, and reminded his witness to stick to the facts. Esther Watson continued:

‘Mr Dalrymple, Harriet's father—her stepfather, I mean—he never wrote to her, or visited: a rather distant sort of man. I think it affected Harriet badly. And, it seemed to me that, somehow, in trying to split up my husband and myself, she was wreaking a sort of private revenge—on her mother—or her stepfather—or, I don't know—perhaps, just on Henry and I, simply for being happy together. Although, now that I say all this, I'm afraid it doesn't make much sense.'

She gave the judge her most endearing, dizzy smile.

Kinbervie, who had been listening to her, glassy-eyed and incredulous, raised his eyebrow. Then he cleared his throat and leaned forwards. ‘Advocate Depute, fascinating though all this may be—the relevance…?'

‘Of course, my lord. Thank you, Mrs Watson—that will be all from me, at the present time. Your witness, my learned friend.'

Once again, Pringle was content to hitch his sled to Aitchison's coat tails, and so the cross-examination passed directly to MacDonald. I was aware that my lawyers had something up their sleeves, but in the lead-up to the trial, they had given me no hint of how, exactly, we might counter Esther Watson's radical claims.

When MacDonald rose to his feet, he seemed irritable. In his hands, he held a newspaper, the front page of which he showed to the witness.

‘Mrs Watson, do you recognise this publication?'

At the sight of the paper, Esther looked first startled, and then positively dismayed. ‘Y—yes, I do.'

‘It's an English newspaper. Can you tell the court its name?'

‘
The News of the World
.'

‘And what kind of publication is it, Mrs Watson?'