Gillespie and I (46 page)

I looked at him, expectantly. ‘Yes?'

‘Does that name mean something to you?'

I thought for a moment, and then shook my head. ‘I suppose I've met several Smiths in my time. It's a very common name.'

‘Aye, indeed, and that's probably why it's taken this long for the police to make the connection. What about Christina Smith?'

‘Christina? The maid? She worked for Ned, and Annie. I remember her, vaguely. They dismissed her, in the end. A very pretty girl, but I understand that she was a slightly dissipated character.'

‘Aye,' said Caskie. ‘As it turns out, Christina has a sister, and that sister is Belle Schlutterhose. In fact, they are half-sisters, but that doesn't matter: they have the same father.' I gazed at him, unable to absorb the implications of his words. He continued: ‘That's why Schlutterhose has been so evasive and unconvincing about how he knew of your existence—and probably why Belle has said so little. It seems likely they were protecting her sister, to prevent her being arrested.'

He gazed at me, dolefully.

‘But, Mr Caskie, this is good news, is it not? Surely this must be how they fixed on me as their victim: they'd heard about me from Christina. She and I met many times, when I was visiting the Gillespies.'

Caskie scratched fractiously at his wrist. ‘Would that it were that simple.'

‘What d'you mean?'

‘Well, having finally worked out that the two women are related, the police apprehended Christina yesterday, but they've released her again, this morning, without charge. She was very talkative, apparently, but there's not much they can charge her with—all she did—all she says she did—was set up a meeting between yourself, and her sister and brother-in-law. Inspector Grant is very pleased with himself. He says she'll be much more useful as a witness than as an accused.'

‘In what respect, I wonder?'

Caskie stared at the floor for a moment before answering. ‘She seems to know more about you than either Schlutterhose or his wife—which would make sense, I suppose. Presumably, you had some dealings with her when you called upon the Gillespies?'

‘Only the normal sort of dealings that one has with a maid, no more than that. I may have bumped into her, once or twice, in the neighbourhood.'

‘Aye,' said Caskie. ‘Well, Grant says she's very convincing. She claims you befriended her, after she was dismissed from the Gillespie household. She says you and she became quite intimate.'

‘Good gracious!'

‘She says that once you hatched the notion to kidnap Rose, you asked her if she knew anybody who'd be willing to carry it out. Knowing her sister and brother-in-law needed money, she set up a meeting between them and yourself.'

‘And she expects people to believe this claptrap?'

‘It would appear so. Moreover, she claims to know—mind you, remember all these are only her claims—but she claims to know exactly why you wanted to have Rose Gillespie abducted.'

At this, I almost laughed. ‘Really? What on earth does she say?'

Caskie held my gaze. ‘Lamentably, Grant is playing games for the moment, dangling the carrot without telling me exactly what her story is. But I'm beginning to think that if they do put her on the stand, Miss Baxter, it could make life very difficult for us. We shall have to secure a very canny advocate.'

‘Forgive me for saying so, Mr Caskie, but one would have hoped that such was your intention from the outset.'

In need of air, I rose to my feet and moved towards the window. Of a sudden, the room pitched and tilted. I must have stood up too quickly. The blood had rushed to my head, and I was obliged to drop to my knees, and lean forwards, like a Moslem at prayer, in order to prevent myself from fainting.

18

So intense was the excitement and attention aroused by the case, that it was decided to hold the trial in the High Court of Justiciary, in Edinburgh. Ever since my arrest, the press had continued to pounce on every scrap of gossip; no insinuation—never mind how sordid or unlikely—was beneath them. It had been hinted, variously (and ludicrously), that I, Harriet Baxter, was the female mastermind of an international White Slave operation; that Schlutterhose was not only my minion, but also my paramour; that Rose had been strangled whilst attempting to escape our clutches; and that her corpse had been mutilated and inscribed with Satanic symbols. It is incredible what the newspapers are able to get away with printing.

The trial date was set for Thursday, the 6th of March, 1890. It was decided that I should be moved from Glasgow to Edinburgh at the beginning of the week, early in the morning, and by train, after being taken to the railway station in an ordinary cab. These precautions were designed to avoid attracting any attention, and they did prove successful, in that there was no baying mob awaiting us outside the gates of Duke Street when we emerged on that freezing cold Monday morning.

Three guards accompanied me: Mrs Fee, and two of her male colleagues. Each of them was dressed in everyday clothes, rather than uniform, and so we passed across the concourse of the railway station, anonymously, like four companions, off on an outing to ‘Auld Reekie'. The train was already waiting at the platform, and a front carriage had been reserved for our sole use. I had thought that Belle and I might be transported together, but presumably the authorities did not trust that we would be able to refrain from tearing out each other's hair, and so, once again, I was sequestered from my ‘co-accused'. She and her husband were to be moved to the Calton-hill gaol later in the week. No doubt, I would see them at the trial, although this would not be my first encounter with them, for I had initially laid eyes upon the pair back in February, on the day of the First Diet. By then, having spent many idle hours in my cell, I had built up a grotesque picture of them in my mind, an image that had become exaggerated, until I viewed Schlutterhose and Belle as barely human. I fully expected them to be filthy creatures, yellow of fang and slack of jaw, perhaps even deformed. It was a surprise, therefore, to see how unremarkable they were, that day, at the Sheriff Court in Glasgow. When I was brought into the chamber, the kidnappers were already in the dock. How dreadfully ordinary they seemed: Belle turned out to be a scrawny creature, pretty, but less prepossessing than her sister, with thinner lips and a harder face, and her clothes were ill-made but clean. Schlutterhose had a square jaw and deep-set eyes. He was dishevelled and bewhiskered, and his frame was lumbering and large. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought that there was something of the Frankenstein's creature about him.

Since the First Diet is simply a hearing to confirm that all parties are ready to proceed, the session, that day, took no more than ten minutes. Nothing of note transpired until, just as we were about to be led away, Belle spat in my face, unprovoked, and then let fly with some colourful language, while Schlutterhose drew his hand across his throat, and made various other threatening gestures at me. Mercifully, the guards intervened, and whisked the couple away.

This vitriol, from two complete strangers, took me by surprise. Presumably, their outburst had been some sort of display for the benefit of Sheriff Spence, but if that had been their intention, they failed to impress him, for he merely shook his head as he gathered up his papers: no doubt, he was inured to such goings-on. In my experience, people are able to maintain a façade for only a limited amount of time. No doubt, Spence knew as well as I did that the couple's veneer of respectability had cracked, that afternoon; something of their true nature had been glimpsed. I wondered how the kidnappers would present themselves, later in the week, at the High Court in Edinburgh, before the jury, press and public, and Lord Kinbervie, the presiding judge.

Our train journey was remarkable only for the freezing temperature in the compartment. The turnkeys were ever present, but they talked quietly amongst themselves, leaving me alone with my troubled thoughts. We arrived in Edinburgh just after noon, and took a short cab ride up Waterloo Place to Regent Road. From the distance, at least, the Calton-hill buildings looked like palaces. I doubt that there has ever been another prison located in such spectacular surroundings: it was, indeed, as though I had arrived in my very own personal Athens, complete with Parthenon. Alas—if I may be forgiven an understatement—the interior of the gaol did not
quite
live up to these first impressions. My cell was an incomparably damp and draughty hole. I was kept there, alone, and saw neither hide nor hair of any other prisoner. However, I was always grateful for small blessings. There was some comfort to be had in the sound of the trains, down below, as they passed in and out of Waverley Station at all times of the day and night, and my old view of the blackened tenements beyond Duke Street's perimeter wall was now replaced with a stunning panorama of Salisbury Crags and Arthur's Seat. In order to see these sights, I was obliged to crane my neck and peer through a tiny grate. None the less, it was a dramatic vista, and the grand scale of this austere landscape seemed, somehow, appropriate for the occasion.

On Wednesday morning, I was told that Caskie had arrived, and wished to see me. He had brought with him Mr Muirhead MacDonald, the up-and-coming advocate whom he had selected to act on my behalf. In truth, I would have preferred to be represented by the Dean of Faculty but, regrettably, he was unavailable, at the time. I must admit that my spirits sank when I first set eyes upon the youthful MacDonald: at twenty-eight years of age, he seemed hardly old enough to lead the defence in such a high-profile case. He was short in stature, with no neck to speak of; his features were small and squashed, his cheeks ruddy, and he had prominent ears that were set low and far forward on his head. The overall impression was gnomic, to say the least. Caskie had praised him, albeit in typical, muted fashion: apparently Muirhead was uppermost amongst the new young lawyers, possessed of a keen intelligence and cheerful outlook that would stand us in good stead. Yet, to my eyes, he seemed more like a callow legal clerk, and I wondered whether he had enough experience to get the better of the Crown, especially since the team for the prosecution was to be led by James Aitchison: a hawk-like Advocate Depute, notorious across the land for his showy style. I had seen his precise, dramatic gestures imitated a number of times, by Cullen, and a few of the more theatrically inclined inmates of Duke Street. Prison gossip would suggest that Aitchison was not averse to dirty tricks in the courtroom, and it was said that he would use all sorts of ploys to manipulate the jury.

‘Are you familiar with Aitchison, Mr MacDonald?' I enquired. ‘Have you faced him before?'

‘Not as yet, Miss Baxter,' said the advocate. His voice was surprisingly rich and mellifluous. ‘But I've studied him many times. Have no fear, Miss Baxter, I have the measure of the man.' And he rubbed his hands together, as though anticipating a jolly, athletic tussle.

‘Would that it were only Aitchison that need concern us,' said Caskie. ‘Dinnae forget your man Pringle.'

Schlutterhose, Belle and I were the collective ‘accused', but the couple were to have their own separate representation, in the form of Mr Charles Pringle, the court-appointed Poor's Roll advocate. He and my lawyers would not be working together: quite the contrary. Caskie had warned me that—given the weight of evidence against the two kidnappers—Pringle could hardly hope to save them from conviction. Thus, his only option was to demonise me, with the intention of making his clients seem like innocent dupes; he would try to evoke sympathy for them in the hope that the jury would recommend leniency in their sentencing, if they were convicted.

‘Pringle is bound to be a thorn in our side,' he reiterated to me. ‘I guarantee he'll portray his clients as lackeys in your pay—we'll hear that they were mere chimpanzees, turning somersaults at your whim.'

‘Yes, indeed,' agreed MacDonald. ‘But, of course, fortune is smiling upon us, because of the indictment.'

‘In what respect?' I asked.

‘Ah well, Miss Baxter, your name appears last upon the written indictment. Schlutterhose is named first, then his wife, then you. So that means that once Aitchison has led his witnesses for the prosecution, Pringle will cross-examine first, and then I'll take the floor, after him.'

‘I'm not sure I quite understand your point, Mr MacDonald.'

‘You see, my cross-examination of the witnesses will come last; that being the case, I'll be able to negate any damning suggestions put forward by Pringle.'

‘All being well,' added Caskie.

His junior colleague gave a laugh and slapped his hands upon his thighs. ‘But indubitably, sir!'

After so many weeks of my solicitor's cautious pessimism, the advocate was like a breath of air. Indeed, he even carried with him a refreshing scent, like that of new-washed linens. By contrast, Caskie now appeared to be relishing the role of wet blanket. I ventured to enquire about another issue that I found troubling.

‘Mr MacDonald, I gather that the usual day to begin a trial like ours is a Monday, and I wonder why a Thursday has been chosen, in our case.'

The advocate gave a quiet shrug of his shoulders. ‘It makes no difference.'

‘The Clerk of Court is adamant we're to finish on Saturday,' said Caskie. ‘That gives us only three days into which to compress our case.'

MacDonald smiled. ‘A reasonable concern, sir. But three days is ample.'

Of course, I was glad to hear that he envisaged no problems, but I still feared that beginning so late in the week might count against us. Just three days to prove my innocence—during at least half of which the prosecution would be at the helm! It scarcely seemed possible.

I also had misgivings about some of the prosecution witnesses that might be called. Back in early February, when I had first seen the list of witnesses for the Crown, there were one or two names that I had recognised as persons who might hold slight grudges against me.