Gillespie and I (45 page)

I had imagined, now that my mother was dead, that Ramsay would take me to live with him in Scotland, since I was too young to reside alone. It was a surprise and disappointment, therefore, after the funeral, when he informed me that he had made arrangements for me to remain, in London, with my aunt. He did drive me back to Eaton Square, later that day, in his carriage, but he had no time to come into the house, because of an appointment in St James's. A few days later, my belongings were moved across town, to the rather more humble circumstances of my aunt's home. My stepfather had a few relatives in the south and, from time to time, I used to be invited to family gatherings, whenever I was remembered, but my connection to the Dalrymple clan was tentative: I was related only by marriage—moreover, by a marriage that had dissolved—and, following my mother's death, the invitations came less frequently. Ramsay did not always make the effort to attend these events and so, until my arrival in Scotland in '88, I had seen him on only three further occasions: once at a christening, once at a wedding, and once at a funeral: an all-encompassing triumvirate of ceremonies.

I had always thought that I would never feel so desolate as I did, after my mother's funeral, when I learned that Ramsay had declined to take me to live with him in Scotland. However, in the days that followed Rose's burial, my spirits sank extremely low, and I will admit that I was as unhappy, then, as I had ever been.

None the less, I would like to make something clear, in this document. At the time, due to my circumstances, I had no means of responding to what was printed in the papers, and thus various inaccurate stories proliferated and were never contradicted. Although it was reported in the press that I attempted to take my own life shortly after Rose's funeral, this was not, in fact, the case. While it is true that I did sustain a slight injury that week, there was a simple enough explanation for the bruises on my throat, which, presumably, were the cause of all the rumours. It so happened that, one afternoon, as the light was fading, Mrs Fee had appeared at the door hatch, bearing a letter. I jumped up and, in my haste to cross the cell, my foot became entangled in a blanket that was trailing on the ground. I tripped so swiftly that I had no time to put out my hands to save myself. In falling, the upper part of my body landed on a three-legged stool. My throat took the worst of it, striking the edge of the seat, which resulted in severe bruising to my larynx. A straightforward, if painful, accident—but not, by any means, the attempt at self-strangulation, or hanging, that was widely reported at the time.

I suppose that I should also say something about the anonymous correspondence that began to be published in
The North British Daily Mail
at about this time. It caused quite a stir and, if you are of a certain age, and resided in Glasgow during that winter, you must certainly remember those letters, or perhaps your parents told you about them, in later years. The first letter arrived at the offices of the
Mail
in early December and was published the following day. Of course, the sender provided no address, but, apparently, the squared circle postmark on the envelope indicated that it had originated in Venice, Italy. As far as it was possible to tell, the spelling and grammar were those of a native English speaker. The writer avoided giving his name, and had signed himself, simply: ‘Yours Truly'. This Yours Truly purported to be a friend of Kenneth Gillespie, Ned's brother, who—you may recall—had disappeared, in the autumn of the previous year.

I first learned about this letter from my solicitor, who came to see me on the day after its publication. He assured me that it was probably the work of some poor devil who was desperate for attention. According to him, this sort of thing happened quite often, in cases that had attracted a good deal of publicity. All sorts of crackpots and loons crawl out of the woodwork with unlikely claims. While any sensible editor would have filed such dubious correspondence in the waste paper basket, Mr Ross of the
Mail
had decided to share the ramblings of Yours Truly with his readers. When I expressed surprise that the letter had come all the way from Italy, Caskie reminded me that British residents abroad often have newspapers sent from home; it was even possible that the Italian press (a more scholarly and sober breed than their British counterparts) might have mentioned the forthcoming court case.

Perhaps this Yours Truly had grown bored of living so far from home, in a waterlogged, crumbling city that forever teems with tourists. I can just imagine him, pacing the floor of his lodgings, staring at the damp stains on the stucco walls, or listening to the canal lapping at the sill. Even had this man made friends in Venice, the experience of living in a foreign city can still be lonely, and one has to be careful not to become a nuisance by pestering recent acquaintances with too many social calls. No doubt, he filled his solitary hours with visits to churches and galleries, the Piazza San Marco, the Ca d'Oro, and so on, until—perhaps in a newspaper sent from home—he read about the Gillespie case, and decided to give some meaning to his life, by creating a bit of mayhem.

At any rate, that was the mental picture that I formed of Yours Truly.

I no longer possess any copies of the
Mail
(and, for some reason, Sarah was unable to find any in the library). However, I can recall, more or less, the content of that first letter. Yours Truly began with the claim that he was writing on behalf of Kenneth Gillespie, late of Woodside, Glasgow, brother of the artist, Ned, and uncle to Rose Gillespie, the missing child whose body had only recently been discovered. Apparently, Kenneth would have loved to return to Scotland, to help his family in their time of need, but, for reasons that remained unspecified, this was impossible—both now, and for the foreseeable future.

The letter went on to say that Kenneth had confided in Yours Truly that he was well acquainted with the lady currently being held in connection with the disappearance of his niece. He and Harriet Baxter had become friends (the letter claimed) in the summer of the International Exhibition, a friendship that had developed because of a mutual enjoyment of the theatre. Apparently, Miss Baxter had often given the young man her tickets, if she found herself unable to attend a particular performance. In the autumn, when Kenneth had expressed unhappiness at certain aspects of his situation in Glasgow, the lady—who was financially independent—had encouraged him to leave the city and set up a new life for himself in Venice. Moreover, she had generously paid for his journey, and provided expenses sufficient to cover his first few months abroad. Although, to begin with, Kenneth had been of the opinion that this intervention was only a kindness on the part of Miss Baxter, he had since had time to reflect, and—particularly following recent events—was now beginning to question her motives in assisting him to leave his home town. However, the letter failed to specify what he now considered these mysterious motives to be.

As far as I can remember, Yours Truly concluded with various assurances to the Gillespie family that Kenneth was in good health, along with pleas that they would understand and forgive the young man's inability to return home.

Despite various rumours that Kenneth himself might have been directly involved—that he might have written or, at least, dictated the letter—I suspect that most of its contents could simply have been pieced together from what had appeared in the papers. The part about the theatre was inventive, certainly, and a clever guess: perhaps, it did so happen, once or twice, that I had passed on Princess's tickets to Kenneth, but no more than that. As for the rest, it was complete tosh, and all the more damaging for being so devilishly ambiguous. When I expressed concern, Caskie advised me that the prosecution could not and would not use anonymous correspondence in arguing their case. ‘Any fool might have sent it,' he told me. ‘It shouldnae have been published at all.'

‘Do you think, by the time of the trial, it will have been forgotten?'

His mouth turned down at the corners. ‘Well, we can but hope,' he replied.

My other concern, of course, was for the Gillespies. In all likelihood, they would see the
Mail
, for it was Elspeth's favourite journal and she took it daily. Indeed, later that afternoon, there was an envelope from Ned amongst the post that was pushed through our hatch. This was the first time that I had heard from him since he had visited the prison with Annie and his mother. As soon as I recognised his handwriting, my heart skipped a beat. I could have wished for some privacy in which to read what he had written, but Cullen and Mulgrew were both present, engaged at a game of Piquet (or ‘Picket', as they called it), the door was locked, and it was impossible to predict when I might next have a moment alone. Thus, I retired to my corner of the cell, sat on my bed, and opened the envelope. The letter is still in my possession and I will transcribe it here, just as it was written:

Dear Harriet
,

What a strange and terrible time this is. I don't know what to think. I don't know what to write. No sooner have we begun to recover from one dreadful blow than another is delivered. We've been hearing such unbelievable things. I can't bear to imagine they might be true. Annie keeps going over the time since we met you, almost two years ago now. She pores over every incident and every visit, every wee remark. So far she can't really fault you but seems determined to find proof you have meant us and our children harm all along. She and my mother are continually at odds on this point. Mother will never forget you saved her life that day in Buchanan Street. She keeps throwing this and all your other good deeds at Annie's feet, and insists you are what you seem, an Angel of Mercy, or at least a well-meaning and kind person at heart
.

Harriet, this questionable letter in the Mail has caused yet further confusion. I'm to be shown it later this week to look at the handwriting and see if it could have been written by my brother. Annie seems convinced it will be him. She told me, today, the full story of what you and she know about Kenneth. I need hardly say how shocked I am. However, this is one point where Annie can't fault you. Even she admits your actions last summer in protecting him were nothing short of miraculous. No doubt you saved us all from a good deal of bother and Kenneth from something far worse. I just wish somebody had told me at the time. Of course, mother knows nothing of this. We intend to keep it that way for it would kill her if she found out. Thank you for guarding the information so carefully, all this time
.

At any rate, we're advised to stop sending you letters so this will be my first and last. Mother won't be writing any more either. She says to tell you she would keep up correspondence with you if it weren't for these pestiferous lawyers. They want me to request that you please cease writing to us as well. Sorry about this but it seems we have no choice. I hope you keep in good health until the trial, at which point we will see what we will see
.

After much discussion, we have resolved to bring Sibyl home. We need to be a family again and I'm convinced we can care for her here no matter how wrong in the mind she is. The doctors are protesting it's too soon and they mean well, but we've stopped paying our bill, so no doubt that will put an end to their objections. In fact, we're going to collect her this afternoon since we don't want them putting her in the paupers' wing
.

Harriet, my mother just wants me to let you know she is praying for you. Also Mabel and Walter are on their way back to Glasgow, due in a week or two
.

As for me, I'd like to think that we were right to trust you, and allow you into our home, as our friend. I want to believe you've done no wrong. I don't like to think of you being locked up in that dreadful place. You make a good show of appearing to be capable and robust, but those of us that know you can tell that, underneath all the polish, there are glimpses of someone sensitive, even fragile. In my mind, Harriet, be assured you have the benefit of the doubt unless it's proven otherwise. I can only hope Annie's worst fears are mistaken, and that the true culprits are found guilty (as it seems they must be, given what we've heard about the evidence against them)
.

Please God you are able to affirm our faith in you, as our friend, that you'll clear your name and be allowed to walk free
.

Yours, in great hope and with sympathy for your situation
,

Ned

Having read this letter, I replaced it in the envelope. Then I crawled beneath the blankets and lay there, trying to take in the implications of Ned's words. Did this mean that, from now on, the turnkeys would destroy any letters that I wrote to the family? The notion of being unable to contact the Gillespies was terrifying, for as long as I could keep writing to them it seemed to me that I had a chance to remain in their hearts. The trial would not take place for a few months; thus, week upon week was destined to pass without any contact at all between us. The bleak reality of this was just beginning to dawn on me when the door opened, and Mrs Fee appeared, with the words: ‘Baxter—somebody to see you.'

It was my solicitor. He was not in the habit of coming to see me two days in a row. Moreover, his shoulders were up, his rather wispy eyebrows down.

‘What's the matter, Mr Caskie?'

He sucked his teeth, and stared at me, unsmilingly, for a moment.

‘I've just been speaking to the Detective Inspector. You're aware they've been trying to find some connection between yourself and Schlutterhose?'

I nodded.

‘Well, they've finally found something—something the German and his wife have been trying to hide. It probably explains a few things, and I can see how, on your part, it's perfectly innocent—but it may hinder us more than it'll help us.'

‘What on earth is it?'

‘You won't know this, but Belle goes by her married name—has done for several years. But, before she and the German were wed, naturally enough, she used her maiden name, which was Smith.'