Gillespie and I (61 page)

Friday, 15 September 1933
LONDON

Friday, 15th September. In hindsight, the problems yesterday were partly my own fault. I should have thought things through more carefully, even though, to begin with, all seemed to go well. The girl was fast asleep by the time that I entered her room. Her curtains were drawn, but I could see well enough to creep forwards in the light that spilled in from the hall. The air smelt faintly of talcum powder. Her breathing was shallow, but regular. Softly, softly, I tiptoed across the carpet, relieved to see that she was lying on her back. I reached out and—ever so carefully—undid the top button of her nightgown. She did not stir. Taking confidence, I unfastened another button. Even then, she did not wake. As far I could tell, her throat and upper chest were free of scars, but further down, in the shadows of her bosom and at the tops of her arms, it did look as though the texture of her flesh changed, and the skin appeared darker. To make absolutely sure, I had to take a closer look. I undid a third button successfully enough, but my mistake was to switch on the bedside light, in order to inspect her properly, for as soon as I did so, her eyes popped open.

I realise now that I should have used at least four pills. The three that I gave her appear to have had a negligible effect. She lay there, momentarily, blinking at me, in confusion. I lifted my hands, in a gesture of appeasement.

‘Shh!' I whispered. ‘Go back to sleep.'

Instead of doing as I said, she glanced down at her chest, seeming to register, only then, that her nightgown was open, her bosom naked. An explanation was required, and quickly.

‘Don't worry,' I told her. ‘I'm just on the hunt for something.'

She looked up, and stared at me in a manner that is hard to describe. No doubt, she loathes me now, for having found her out.

‘You're not so clever as you thought,' I told her.

That was when she screamed and hit out at me. The violence of it took me quite by surprise—but then, I had always thought that Sibyl had the potential to be violent. As she sprang up and out of bed, she knocked over the lamp, which fell to the floor, and smashed. I grabbed the sleeves of her nightgown and there ensued an undignified scuffle, in which she manhandled me towards the door, whilst I grappled with her, attempting to disrobe her further, for I wanted to get a proper look at her arms, simply to confirm what I already knew. However, the act of reaching out to push me had yanked the nightgown back up over her shoulders, and the lamp was broken, with the result that I could see very little.

Of course, she is a good deal younger and stronger than I am and, in the end, she succeeded in thrusting me out of the room. Not content with that, she continued to shove me down the hall to the kitchen, where—to my great indignation—she shut me in, as though I was no more than a child. I threw myself at the door a few times, but she held fast from the other side and so, after a while, I gave up.

There happened to be a bottle of Scotch by the sink, and so, just to calm my shattered nerves, I poured myself a small glass, and then I started talking to the girl, through the door. I hoped to persuade her to let me out, but no matter what I said, she made no reply. After a few minutes, I tried the handle again, only to find that the door opened straight away: she had made herself scarce. In fact, she had gone back to her room. I could hear her in there, moving around. She had flicked on the ceiling lamp: a chink of light was visible around the door frame. Perhaps she had pushed the chest of drawers against the door on the inside, for it would not budge. As far as I could tell, she was dragging the furniture around and throwing things. In a rage, no doubt, that I had outfoxed her.

Off I went, into the sitting room. Various bangs and crashes could be heard, and then, after a few minutes, she emerged, wearing a coat over her nightgown, and carrying her cardboard suitcase. I remained where I was, looking at her through the open doorway, determined not to betray that I was afraid. She had put on her shoes but, for once, she wore no stockings. Her hair was in disarray. The Kensitas Flowers quilt dragged behind her; she was trying to fold it as she went, with one hand. When she caught sight of me, she paused.

‘I'm going—I have to go.'

‘Going where?' I asked. ‘The lunatic asylum?'

With a sigh, she headed for the door, pulling at the quilt. I realised, all at once, that I wanted her to stay. We could talk about old times; I never get to talk about old times. Perhaps I could detain her by pretending that nothing was wrong, by making it seem as though I had not, after all, guessed her secret.

‘Go back to bed, Sarah,' I told her, careful to use her fake name. ‘Get some sleep. In the morning, everything will be back to normal.'

‘I can't stay here. I'm giving notice.'

‘Strictly speaking, you aren't giving any notice at all, not if you go now. It's just a misunderstanding. Let me explain—'

‘No—no explanations. Don't you say nothing! Talk the hind leg off a horse, you would. You could make anyone do anything, just by talking to them.'

‘What on earth d'you mean, you silly?'

She glanced around, and then pointed to the barometer.

‘That thing there, I bet you could make me take it off the wall, even if I didn't want to. If you just talked at me for two minutes, you'd have me doing it.'

‘Why on earth would I want you to take the barometer off the wall?'

She made a strangled, agitated sound and, abandoning her attempt to fold the quilt, she bundled it under her arm.

‘I don't care what you say. I'm leaving. It's not right here, not right at all.'

‘But Sarah, dear, what about the poor birds? They'll miss you terribly.'

That hit the mark: her face fell.

‘I can't help that,' she said, presently. ‘You'll have to look after them again.'

‘And what on earth are you going to say to the registry—to Mrs Clinch?'

‘I'll just tell her I'm leaving, and I need another job.'

‘Perhaps you can go and work for your friend Miss Barnes again. She seems to be your greatest supporter. Why did you stop working for her, by the bye?'

‘Miss Barnes? If you must know, Miss Barnes could no longer afford me.'

‘Ah yes, very plausible,' I said. ‘But what about Clinch? She'll think it odd if you leave me. We're both going to look quite strange, you know. You, in particular, are going to look very strange. They'll wonder about you—you can guarantee it.'

‘Well, I don't care!' she retorted. ‘I don't care if I look strange. You're the one who's strange. I just want away from you—you bloody mad bitch!'

Yes—those were her exact words. She was in such a heightened emotional state that she no longer knew what she was saying. I should have disregarded her cruel name-calling, but still, such things can be hurtful.

Then she was at the door, grabbing at the handle, stepping outside. The thought of her, charging out, at midnight, in such a vulnerable state, alarmed me. I followed her onto the landing, and found her frantically pushing the button for the elevator. Several floors below, the machinery clunked into life, and the lift began its usual lament as it ascended, squealing and groaning.

The girl gave me a ferocious sideways glance. ‘You're not crying, are you?'

‘No, dear, not really. I'm just concerned. You're acting so strangely.'

‘Oh, blood and sand!' she exclaimed, and then (although I was nowhere near her): ‘Get away from me!'

Instead of waiting for the lift to arrive, she grabbed her suitcase and quilt, and started running down the stairs. I called out after her:

‘Don't be so contrary, dear! It's after midnight. Come back when you've calmed down. I'll leave the door open for you, just in case! Don't you want to say anything to the birds—Sibyl? Sibyl?'

I only called her by her real name as a kind of last-minute test, to see if it would make her turn back. But there was no reply, only the scuttling of footsteps, fading away, as she sped downwards, towards the street, the quilt glimmering in the darkness, as it trailed on the steps behind her.

VII

March 1890
EDINBURGH

22

With Sibyl's testimony, the case for my defence came to an end. For almost three days, the jury had listened and observed as dozens of witnesses had appeared before them. Some of those called to the stand had told the truth, and some, for their own reasons, had given a version of events that might not have been entirely honest. Various medical men had testified at length and yet, despite their knowledge and eloquence, and all their scientific experiments, they had succeeded only in confusing matters further. The advocates were now obliged to draw this muddle into some semblance of meaning in their closing addresses to the jury. These speeches are, by nature, lengthy, and I have no intention of typing my fingers to the bone in an effort to duplicate them here, particularly since the texts of the statements are in the public domain, but I shall attempt to summarise.

Aitchison was first to take the floor. He spoke for almost ninety minutes, and never once referred to his notes, which, in my opinion, may have accounted for a few of his many lapses and errors. However, I do not scruple to say that he knowingly made what might be called a ‘naughty' speech, which included many matters that he should not even have mentioned. Frustratingly, at the time, I was unable to intervene or point these out, and so will now take the opportunity.

In order to gain attention, the prosecutor began in hushed tones, so that all present had to strain to hear him. Only as his argument progressed did he become more animated. His face turned pink, his green eyes gleamed and, the more his passion grew, the more spittle gathered in the corners of his mouth. Every so often, to emphasise his point, he would strike his right fist into the palm of his left hand. He told the jury that never before had he conceived that any person could commit such a dastardly outrage against a pure and innocent child. Equally shocking to him was the notion that any female could have had a hand in such crimes—and yet (according to him) this had been proved, without question, to be the case. He had no hesitation in asserting that the three persons in the dock had committed these hideous atrocities.

The motives for the crimes were not, initially, obvious, he told us. Why, he asked, had this particular child, this particular family, been chosen? If a ransom was the goal, then why had the abductors not selected one of the wealthy Glaswegian families who lived not a stone's throw from Stanley Street in the grand terraces near the park? But financial gain had never been the primary motive; as it was, the ransom note was a mere afterthought, born out of panic, and never pursued. In that case, why Rose? Why the Gillespies? The answer was plain, according to Aitchison: ‘These two ne'er-do-wells did not choose their victim: she was chosen for them.'

Here, he had the audacity to gaze at me, long and hard, before continuing.

‘What do we know of Harriet Baxter?' he asked. ‘We know that, only a few years ago, she inveigled her way into the London home of Mr and Mrs Watson, and—for complex reasons that perhaps she herself does not even understand—attempted to reduce their marriage to rubble.'

By rights, at this point, what should have been reduced to rubble was the prosecutor's statement. Here was his first infraction: he should not even have mentioned Esther Watson, given that the jury had been instructed to disregard her testimony. I felt that Kinbervie ought to have stepped in to reprimand him, but it seemed that closing speeches were permitted to unfold, without hindrance, no matter how improperly an advocate behaved, and Aitchison was allowed to continue, uninterrupted.

‘We know that she met, in London, a handsome Scottish artist and, a few months later, she was found to be living in Glasgow, just around the corner from this artist and his family. Gentlemen, what a coincidence it was that she kept popping up, wherever the Gillespies happened to be. And how useful she made herself, how indispensable: solving problems, even saving the life of Mr Gillespie's mother.'

This, according to Aitchison, was the beginning of a stealthy process of inveiglement. ‘But the real abomination was that, as Miss Baxter wormed her way into the bosom of the family, she simultaneously began to destroy it. Any person close to Ned Gillespie was her target, particularly anyone with whom the artist had a special bond. His favourite daughter, a mischievous child, became—mysteriously, by degrees—an apparently dangerous child. Could it be any coincidence that the deterioration in Sibyl Gillespie's behaviour began soon after the arrival upon the scene of Harriet Baxter? Who really was responsible for all the mayhem that was created in the Gillespie household: belongings gone missing or found destroyed, a bowl of punch laced with poison, obscene drawings appearing on walls. We have heard from Jessie McKenzie who witnessed Miss Baxter in suspicious circumstances, in association with one of these drawings. Was this an isolated incident? Was Sibyl really a disturbed child, or had she simply been persecuted and then wrongfully accused, time after time, until she was driven beyond reason, out of her wits?'