Gillespie and I (56 page)

If I close my eyes now, I can still picture him. Had his name not been called out, I might not have recognised my dear friend. His complexion had as much life and colour as cold ashes in a grate. His hair was almost entirely grey. Despite the chill in the Parliament Building, a sheen of perspiration lay clammy upon his skin. He walked slowly, deliberately, and looked neither right nor left as he crossed the room, towards the stand. A clerk passed him the Bible, and Ned gazed at the floor, grimacing every so often, while he was sworn. For anyone who knew him, it was most disconcerting to watch. It occurred to me that he might actually be physically ill, in some way.

Aitchison was asking him a question.

‘Yes,' answered Ned. ‘At the Grosvenor Gallery. I had a painting in an exhibition there. We met only briefly.'

‘And then you encountered her again, in Glasgow, at the International Exhibition, in the May of 1888.'

‘Aye. By then, she'd become acquainted with the women in my family.'

‘Where was she residing, at this time?'

‘Round the corner from us, in Queen's Crescent.'

‘The very same Queen's Crescent from where your daughter was snatched?'

‘Aye,' said Ned.

‘And when did Miss Baxter's visit to Glasgow become permanent?'

‘I don't know. I think, to begin with, she only meant to stay for a few months, but as time went by, she talked less and less of going back down south.'

‘And you became close to her.'

A frown creased Ned's brow. ‘Well, the women in my family did. My wife painted Harriet's portrait, and—eh—she was often in our home, or across the street, with my mother and sister. And, of course, that first summer, we all spent time together, at the Exhibition.'

‘So, if I may repeat the question, you became close to her?'

‘Only in the sense that she was a friend of my wife.'

Here, of necessity, Ned was being cautious and discreet. Of course, we were close friends—as many men and women are, nowadays—but it would have been inappropriate to advertise the fact, back then. Moreover, there had been all those rumours, after Findlay's sketch of us had appeared in
The Thistle
.

‘And—you would sometimes bump into Miss Baxter, in the park and street?'

Ned thought for a moment before replying: ‘Yes, we did.'

‘How often did that happen?'

‘Quite a lot. Harriet's lodgings were only a few minutes from our building. Where we live, you can't walk down the street for bumping into people you know.'

‘I see. And did you bump into Miss Baxter rather more frequently than might be explained by simple coincidence?'

‘No. As I said, we were neighbours. It was perfectly normal.'

Aitchison cast one of his looks of mild disbelief towards the jury box, and then remarked: ‘You personally must have bumped into Miss Baxter from time to time, when you were alone?'

Ned scowled. ‘What do you mean to imply, sir?'

‘Nothing at all. I simply would like to know whether you ever bumped into Miss Baxter, accidentally, when you were unaccompanied?'

As though it were an effort to contain his temper, Ned set his jaw, and replied, tersely: ‘Aye.' His manner was brusque, but I could tell that he was simply in a highly emotional and anxious state.

‘How often? Once—twice? Half-a-dozen times? Fifty?'

‘I would say in the region of a dozen.'

‘A dozen times? Does that not seem rather a lot to you, Mr Gillespie?'

‘Is it your intention to ask further questions on this matter?' Ned snapped. ‘Or shall we talk about something more pertinent to the death of my daughter?'

Taken aback—as we all were—the judge coughed and spluttered, then intervened.

‘Mr Gillespie. We all realise you must be very upset, but be so kind as to answer the Advocate Depute's questions. I shall be the one to dictate the pace, in this courtroom, and I do not require your assistance.'

Ned looked somewhat chastened. ‘I beg your pardon, my lord.' Poor Ned! It was only the strain that made him sound so impatient and irritable. In other circumstances, I would have applauded his riposte to Aitchison, for I was sick of seeing witness after witness treat the man with fawning deference.

Kinbervie gestured to the prosecutor. ‘Please continue.'

‘Thank you, my lord. Now then, Mr Gillespie, did you not think it coincidental that you met Miss Baxter in London, and then, a few months later, she turns up in Glasgow, residing not three minutes walk from your home?'

‘It was a coincidence—but coincidences do happen.'

‘And you never felt bothered by Miss Baxter, or pestered by her?'

Ned pursed his lips, and frowned again. ‘Sometimes we did. My wife began to tire of her visits, at one point. But Harriet was always so very kind and helpful. To shun her, or avoid her, would have been awkward, even churlish. And she is an unmarried lady, living in solitary circumstances. Our feeling was that she was, perhaps, lonely, in Glasgow, and we tried to make her feel welcome.'

‘It was around the time that you befriended Miss Baxter, was it not, that the behaviour of your eldest daughter, Sibyl, began to deteriorate?'

‘About that time, aye, although she's always been a high-spirited child. She went through a difficult period, but she's now much better behaved.'

‘And this improvement in her behaviour dates from when?'

‘Eh—she's been getting much better these past few months.'

‘A period that coincides, rather neatly, don't you think, with Miss Baxter's incarceration in prison?' Ned simply looked troubled, and so Aitchison continued without waiting for an answer. ‘How did Sibyl and Miss Baxter get along with each other?'

Ned gave a shrug of his shoulders. ‘Sibyl is a child. They got along well enough. Harriet was always kind to her, and brought her presents.'

‘Ah, yes—the many presents of Miss Harriet Baxter. And you yourself, Mr Gillespie, how do you feel about your daughter—about Sibyl?'

A shadow passed across Ned's face. There was a pause, and then, when he spoke, his voice was cracked, gruff with emotion.

‘She means everything to me.'

Aitchison acknowledged Ned's grief with a deferential bow of his head.

‘Understandably so, Mr Gillespie, understandably so.' Here, the prosecutor paused, and took a sip of water, before resuming: ‘But sir, did it ever seem to you that your affection for your daughters or your wife might have vexed Miss Baxter?'

‘I don't follow what you mean.'

‘Let me put it more plainly—did you ever suspect that Miss Baxter might be jealous of Sibyl, or jealous of your wife or, indeed, of anybody who might have been close to you, or the recipient of your affection?'

Here, I turned to stare at MacDonald, expecting to see him rise to his feet but, to my dismay, he did nothing. He just sat there. Aitchison continued with his questions, in a coaxing manner, his voice full of spurious concern.

‘Mr Gillespie, on the 31st of December 1888, you held a Hogmanay celebration at which Miss Baxter was one of the guests, is that correct?'

‘Yes.'

‘And I believe that punch was served that evening, and everyone who drank that punch fell ill, is that so?'

‘Yes. To my mind, it was bad wine that caused the trouble.'

‘Indeed? Please tell us what was found, the following day, in your daughter Sibyl's room, in the pocket of her apron.'

Ned coughed, before replying: ‘An empty packet of rodent poison.'

‘And did Sibyl get the blame for what had happened, with the punch?'

‘Not from me, anyway. My wife and mother thought different.'

‘On the night of the party, did Miss Baxter have access to Sibyl's room?'

‘Aye.'

‘And would she have had an opportunity to put the packet of poison in your daughter's apron?'

‘She had the opportunity, but you can't blame Harriet. She herself got ill that night. If she knew there was poison in the punch, then why would she drink it? Like I said, it was just bad wine.'

‘Did you see Miss Baxter drink the punch, Mr Gillespie?'

‘I think so. I saw her with a glass of it, at one point.'

‘Did you see her take a sip from the glass?'

‘I can't remember.'

‘Did you see her being ill?'

‘Not exactly. But she looked terrible, and complained of a stomach ache.'

‘And was she seen by a doctor, like the others who became ill that night?'

‘No. She didn't want to make any fuss—very typical of Harriet.'

Aitchison raised his brows and widened his eyes.

Really, I need hardly interject here to defend myself, or make any justification, for Ned said it all. His stubborn refusal to believe that I could have been responsible for any of Sibyl's crimes speaks volumes. Realising that he was on a hiding to nothing with this folderol about the poison, Aitchison moved on.

‘Did it never cross your mind, Mr Gillespie, that Harriet Baxter might have had some malign intent with regard to certain members of your family—that she could, for her own complicated reasons, have been trying to punish Sibyl, or cause a rift between you and your wife?'

Ned hesitated before replying. ‘Harriet—Miss Baxter—is so kind, she seemed like a good friend to us. My wife may have her doubts. But nothing of the sort ever entered my mind, until—'

‘Until when, Mr Gillespie?'

Why did MacDonald not do something? He was just sitting there, as though he had been glued to his seat. His expression was as calm as ever, but his eyes had glazed over in a way that made me suspect, of a sudden, that he had lost confidence.

Turning back to the stand, I was shocked to realise that, for the first time since he had entered the room, Ned was looking directly at me. It quite took me by surprise, for I had been glaring over at MacDonald, trying to will him, by dint of brainpower, to leap up and intervene. And now, Ned's eyes were upon me: staring, questioning, wanting to know. He seemed, almost, to be pleading with me, in silence. The seconds ticked by: how many, exactly, I could not say. What oceans of meaning can be contained, within one look! Held in his gaze, I stared back at him, for as long as I was able and, in the end, it was not any sense of guilt on my part that made me glance away (put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr P. E. Dant—or whatever your name was—of
The Scotsman
); quite the contrary. It was simply that Ned looked so tortured, so haunted, so wounded, and I could not bear to see my dear friend in such a wretched state, knowing all the horrors that he had gone through. It cracked my heart in two. I bowed my head and stared at the floor beneath my feet, the waxy green linoleum of the dock.

‘Mr Gillespie?' Aitchison prompted.

I heard Ned clear his throat and then, after a moment, he continued.

‘I suppose, after Harriet's arrest, once we'd got over the shock of it, I did begin to wonder, and think back. I remembered that one of our maids, Jessie, had said some vile things about Harriet, when she was dismissed, about a year ago. Of course, we didn't believe a word then, because Jessie had stolen something from us and we thought she was just trying to worm her way out of a tricky situation.'

‘And now?'

‘I'm not sure what to think any more. I don't know what to think about anything or anyone, including Harriet Baxter.'

After that, I could not look at him again. It was as though something very heavy had landed on my heart, squashing it, and crushing all the breath out of me. Of a sudden, I ceased to care what happened. They could find me guilty, if they wanted. They could tear me, limb from limb.

Too late—too late. Outside, the bells are ringing. Christ Church, St Giles in the Field, St George's. And all of them say, too late.

The next few witnesses are but dim in my memory. As I came back to my senses, I was aware of Aitchison summoning the dreaded Christina Smith to the stand and then a lull, as we waited for her inevitable arrival. Everything around me seemed dull and dampened. It was as though I was shut away from my surroundings. Straight ahead of me, Aitchison had puffed himself up in preparation for his star witness. As he turned to survey the court, his gaze met mine. His green eyes glinted. Unable to bear the sight of him, I bent my head and focused on the little vial of smelling salts in my hand. At some point, I came back to my senses, when the hiatus was broken by the return of the Macer. He entered alone, and shook his head in response to a questioning look from Aitchison. There was a pause, whilst the prosecutor carried on whispered conversations, first with the Macer, and then with various legal colleagues. Presently, he turned to address the judge.

‘My Lord, for the moment, I'm afraid we're unable to locate one of our key witnesses. We hope to produce her, at any minute. She did answer her citation this morning, and we believe she's in the vicinity, somewhere.'

Kinbervie slid a sideways glance at the clock. It was ten minutes short of seven. ‘Might I remind you of the hour, Advocate Depute? Have you no one to produce, in the meantime? If I'm not mistaken, you're in no position to delay, for this trial must conclude tomorrow.'

‘You are never mistaken, my lord,' said Aitchison. ‘If I can just beg your patience in waiting for Miss Smith.'

Kinbervie clucked his tongue. ‘It's now ten minutes to seven. You have until the hour to place her in the witness box.'

‘Very good, my lord.'

Gathering his assistants and the Macer around him, Aitchison whispered urgently to them, and then they hurried out of the chamber, one after the other. The judge sat back in his chair, pulling at his lower lip, with one eye on the clock. I myself watched the minute hand as it made its slow progress upwards, towards, and then beyond, the number 11. In the interim, the public remained remarkably quiet, aware that the court was still in session, and that Kinbervie would tolerate no more disruptions. Aitchison's demeanour appeared calm, and it was only by careful study that one could see how he betrayed his nerves in the twitch of his fingers. As the minute hand reached the hour, footsteps were heard scuttling along the corridor towards the court. The door flew open, and the Macer practically skidded into the chamber. Aitchison, as beady-eyed and irascible as an owl, stared at him.