Gillespie and I (62 page)

On and on, the prosecutor went, suggesting that I had, by various devious means, conspired to rend the family asunder. I must say that I barely recognised the picture that was painted of me. ‘What began as a few spiteful little actions grew in scale, until Miss Baxter sank to the lowest depths, all moral sense in her destroyed.' Aitchison asked us to imagine a painting, a portrait of family and friends, with all the children and adults gathered together. ‘And then, one by one, the figures in the picture begin to disappear. A brother vanishes, destination unknown, possibly Italy.' (Again, since Kenneth had barely been mentioned during the trial, I feel that some objection should have been raised.) ‘A sister and friend are married off, and sent packing to Africa. A child is victimised until she loses her mind. And, finally, gentlemen, the ultimate wickedness, another child is abducted and murdered.'

Here, he paused to contemplate me, with distaste. I was seized with a wildly inappropriate urge to make a face at him: if he could be ridiculous, then so could I. Thankfully, I quelled the impulse, and averted my gaze. On he went with his diabolical lies, the meat of his argument. According to his theory, I had spent months trying to make my ‘lair' (Bardowie!) attractive to the Gillespies, and when they declined to live there with me for the summer, I became incensed beyond reason. Fixing upon Annie as the person to blame for refusing my invitation, my rage rankled and grew, and I devised a ploy to take a hideous revenge upon her, by making her favourite child disappear. Not only would this cause her grief, it would be yet another opportunity to prove myself indispensable to the family.

‘But how could this lady accomplish such an abduction? Certainly not alone: the puppet master requires his marionettes. And so Miss Baxter was obliged to find accomplices, persons already so submerged in sin and iniquity that they would barely hesitate to do whatever they were asked, as long as they were well enough paid. Where to find such persons? It is a matter of fact that Belle Schlutterhose's sister, Christina, was a former maid of the Gillespies—we heard as much from Nelly Smith, Belle's and Christina's mother. In the spring and summer of 1888, while Christina was working in the Gillespie home, we know that Miss Baxter was a frequent visitor. Christina and Miss Baxter were well acquainted; this is a fact, indisputable, gentlemen, and here is the connection between the three prisoners, a connection to which Christina Smith would have testified had she taken the stand. She would also have thrown some light upon other matters, including a meeting that she set up, between Miss Baxter and her co-accused.'

Need I point out that none of this evidence had actually been produced in court? Yet again, Aitchison was on thin ice. Hurrying on, he reminded the jury that a nefarious meeting had taken place between the three prisoners, each of whom had been identified by Helen Strang, the waitress. Moreover, Strang had witnessed Miss Baxter handing over a slim package. ‘Could this have been a bundle of notes? We've heard evidence to suggest that it was, for, soon after this date, there was a change in the fortunes of Mr and Mrs Schlutterhose. They both gave notice at their places of employment—and yet, they began to spend more freely. This money must have come from somewhere. What sort of person has such resources? Presumably, those of independent financial means. And what is Miss Baxter but a woman of independent financial means?'

At this point, it would not have surprised me had he brought up the disqualified bank evidence, but perhaps even Aitchison felt that he had already chanced his luck enough. Instead, he advised the jury to disregard any testimony which placed Hans and Rose as victims of the accident on St George's Road. As far as he was concerned, this tale was unrelated: ‘Most of the witnesses to this incident have testified that Mr Schlutterhose looks nothing like the man who was knocked down by the tram. Indeed, it seems more likely that he was an Italian.'

Now this was a cavalier piece of chicanery, for at least half of the witnesses had said, under oath, that Hans did resemble the man that they had seen, and only one had supposed him to be an Italian! It was all that I could do to stop myself from jumping up to challenge Aitchison.

Next, he had the barefaced cheek to dredge up his notion about the veiled woman, still determined that the jury should believe me to be the person who had sent Sibyl to the shop. ‘Who was this mysterious female?' he asked—ludicrously disregarding the fact that she had, that very afternoon, been pointed out to the court, quite unambiguously, when Sibyl had identified Belle.

Turning his focus to the supposed murder, Aitchison proclaimed: ‘We can be sure of one thing: some time after her arrival at Coalhill Street, Rose Gillespie died. Did someone lose patience with her? Did she try to escape? Or was it always Miss Baxter's plan that little Rose should be silenced, once and for all?'

Yes, he allowed, no spatters of blood were found in Coal-hill Street, and no sign of a struggle. He dismissed these trifles, reminding us that the killers had many months in which to cover their traces. Perhaps the flat stone produced in evidence had not, in fact, caused Rose's injury, but the lack of an obvious weapon should be no hindrance to the jury in their deliberations. ‘Look around you,' he extolled them. ‘In the right hands, anything can become a murder weapon: a wall, a cast-iron hearth, a floor. And any one of these prisoners could have caused the wound that killed Rose Gillespie.'

Here, Aitchison came to stand beside me, close to the balustrade of the dock.

‘But, gentlemen, did not Harriet Baxter have the most reason to silence Rose, for she was the only one of those involved that the child knew, and would recognise. She was the one most at risk, should Rose remain alive. Do not be fooled by Miss Baxter's genteel demeanour here in court. Beneath her clothing, she has a strong and unnaturally vigorous frame.'

Raising his arm, he held his hand in the air, like a claw. ‘As we've heard, she is so strong that she can smash a china cup, like that.' And he snatched at the air, closing his fingers with a snap that reverberated around the chamber.

‘Harriet Baxter could easily have overpowered a child of Rose's size, and dashed her brains out on the floor.'

At this, there was a murmur amongst the crowd, a few gasps, and one shriek (which, to my mind, must have been rehearsed in advance).

Bish bosh eyewash. I cannot bear to write down any more of the man's false and hysterical accusations. He closed by submitting that the prosecution had established, beyond reasonable doubt, that the prisoners were guilty of the crimes charged, and he asked the jury for their verdict accordingly. By the end, he had worked himself up to a perfect pitch of outrage. I can still see him now, as he took his seat, his eyes burning with intensity, his hands a-tremble as he adjusted his wig. Had I been able, I might have torn it from his scalp and dashed it in his face.

Next came Pringle, the absent-minded Poor's Roll advocate, who might well have had his own doubts about his prospect of success in defending the kidnappers. He was hampered from the first by his clients, who had insisted on pleading not guilty, despite the extent of the evidence against them. Since Aitchison had done his best to tarnish me, Pringle devoted his efforts, in summing up, to saving Hans and Belle by casting scorn upon the murder charge. He reminded the jury that no real weapon had been found, and there had been no witness to murder. The red stain upon the flat stone was not blood, but rust; the stone itself too light to wield as a convincing weapon. He insisted that the balance of the medical evidence showed that Rose's injuries were in keeping with the theories of the defence, and had been sustained at the scene of the tram accident. Lastly, he emphasised that it was incumbent upon the Crown to prove murder—and that had not been done.

Finally, it was the turn of Muirhead MacDonald, my counsel. I can still hear, to this day, the rich, honeyed tones of his voice as he paced the well of the court. He might have been small in stature, but his voice possessed great authority. His main argument hinged upon the lack of evidence pointing to any link between the kidnappers and myself. Helen Strang had supposedly seen us together—but had not her memory been proved to be imperfect? She could remember, in every detail, waiting upon three strangers, a year ago, and yet failed to recall the first thing about serving a famous actress, only in November. What might be concluded from this anomaly? Why did she recall one occasion better than the other? Was her memory faulty? Or had person or persons unknown helpfully provided Miss Strang with a date and various other details?

‘It would also appear that the Crown would have you speculate as to a link between the accused couple and Miss Baxter, in the form of Christina Smith, sister of Belle and former maid of the Gillespies. Well, gentlemen, the only real link which exists in the evidence is that between the accused couple and Christina Smith. Would that not explain how the kidnappers knew of Miss Baxter, and why they plucked her name out of thin air when they found themselves in a tight spot? The Advocate Depute might pretend to hint at revelations that might have been made, had his final witness taken the stand. But, gentlemen, his pretences are not evidence. This former maid has not even deigned to appear as a witness at this trial. There is no evidence whatsoever of any direct link between the accused couple and this lady, Miss Baxter, who sits in the dock before you.'

The truth of the matter was simple, MacDonald told us.

‘These two lazy ne'er-do-wells decided to try and make some easy money—an old story—a familiar tale—and one that seldom ends well. In this case, the escapade indeed had a sorry end. This wretched couple stole Rose Gillespie. Here in court, this very afternoon, young Sibyl identified Belle Schlutterhose as the veiled woman who sent her to the shop that day. What happened next is unclear. Perhaps, the couple argued; it seems likely since—according to the owner of the Carnarvon bar—they were both in a state of inebriation. Let us assume that Belle Schlutterhose staggers off, leaving her husband to snatch Rose and carry her across town. Alas, Herr Schlutterhose had not the sense to refrain from drinking that day. In escaping with Rose, in his befuddled condition, he stepped directly into the path of a tram, with tragic results.

‘Once it became clear that Rose was dead, this pair of miscreants panicked. They buried the child's body and—overwhelmed by guilt at what had happened—even these despicable characters could not pursue their initial intention, to claim a ransom. Therefore, having sent their first note, they let the matter lie. Yes, gentlemen, they may have handed in their notice at work, whilst continuing to spend money freely—but the testimony of laundry owner Grace Lamont explains where and how that money was earned: immorally, on the streets, by Belle Schlutterhose. Knowing only too well that they might, one day, be tracked down and arrested, Belle and her husband concocted a story about the abduction, trying to shift the blame onto someone else. Gentlemen, they picked upon somebody whom they knew might be easily demonised: an English lady, unmarried, who, to their certain knowledge, was a friend to the Gillespie family. If they could only make Miss Harriet Baxter seem responsible for their failed plans, they might be able to inculpate her, and thereby escape punishment.'

Lord Kinbervie began his summing up at five o'clock. To his credit, he did direct the jury to ignore some of what had been mentioned by Aitchison: ‘Reference has been made to what Christina Smith might, or might not, have said, had she given evidence. I direct you, gentlemen, to disregard all such references, for the simple reason that you have not heard any evidence whatsoever from Miss Smith herself.' Thrice, during the course of his speech, the judge advised the jury to use their ‘common sense', an opaque piece of guidance, which mystifies me to this day, and which I am convinced that the jury found unhelpful, for is one man's common sense not another man's folly? I studied His Lordship's face as he spoke, trying to tell whether he meant what I hoped: that they should find me innocent, on both counts. Kinbervie gave every appearance of being a reasonable fellow, unruffled, tolerant, and squarely in the camp of decency and discernment, but it was impossible to tell whether, in his opinion, I was also in that camp.

Throughout his address, I was painfully aware that we inhabitants of the dock were under the close scrutiny of all those present in the courtroom. From time to time, during the course of the past few days, the focus of attention had wandered away from us, but now it had returned, and at greater intensity than ever. With all eyes upon me, I felt as fragile and exposed as a seedling that withers beneath the scorching gaze of the noonday sun. However, there was little I could do about it; I could not bow my head, or creep away to hide in a shady corner. I simply had to bear it, and maintain my composure. No matter what the outcome, I was determined to keep my dignity.

At ten past six o'clock, Lord Kinbervie sent the jury away to consider their verdict. As they filed out, he stood up, as though to stretch his legs, and then quietly left the room. Advocates, deputes and agents began to drift away through various exits. The custom in Scotland, at that time, was for prisoners to remain seated in the dock during the jury's final recess, and so there we remained, the three of us, between our guardians, the policemen, and turnkeys, sitting in silence, and avoiding each others' eye, whilst all around us, whispers became mutterings, and mutterings swelled into conversations, some of which became heated, until the buzz and hum of voices filled the panelled chamber. Hardly anyone remained in his seat, as the spectators began to roam about the public gallery, to speak to their friends.

Perhaps I was in a state of extreme agitation, but I found the torrent of noise almost insupportable. I wondered how long we would have to wait for the jury to reach a decision. Would it be a good sign if they returned after only a short interval—or would it be better if they toiled at length over their deliberations? Presumably, they would not need long to work out who was responsible for the abduction, given that Sibyl had identified Belle, and various others had recognised Schlutterhose. They might argue, for a while, about the tram accident: Pringle had worked hard to establish that Rose, and the child who had been seen to crack her head, were one and the same, but a few of Aitchison's witnesses had also been convincing. The jury's final discussion would almost certainly concern myself, and whether or not I had been involved. Surely, this issue would provoke the most discussion, given what we had heard during the course of the trial. On balance, I concluded that, as far as I was concerned, the longer they were out, the better.