Heaven Knows Who (18 page)

And through gloomy basement corridors, Jessie is being brought to sit two hours waiting in a cell beneath the court.

Representatives of the press from all over Scotland—more than had ever before attended a Glasgow trial—were assembled: placed in the court, however, one of them acidly reports, in as suitable a position for seeing and hearing nothing, as could conceivably have been devised. If the acoustics were anything like those of the present courts, they may, indeed, well have had difficulty in hearing, and the soft Highland voices, often heavily accented, would not have made matters easier. It may be for this reason that their reports in so many details differ. (Rather than irritate the reader with innumerable alternatives, we have in the following account, chosen in each case the version most likely to be correct, or taken from the most reliable source, except of course where the alternatives materially affect ‘the ishy'. The actual report of the evidence and speeches has been taken from that edited by Mr William Roughead in the Notable British Trials series; compiled by him with much care and toil from various sources. He notes that the reporting of old Mr Fleming's evidence in the vernacular is the only such instance he knows of.)

As the clock struck ten a blare of trumpets echoing through corridors and ante-rooms, heralded the approach of Lord Death. In the floor of the big dock, a trap door opened and the prisoner appeared, as though rising up out of some tomb to which, in too hasty anticipation of an adverse decision, she had been prematurely confined. The matron of the prison and a female turnkey attended her. She wore the lilac gown and little black shawl and the straw bonnet trimmed with white ribbons, a short black veil covering the upper part of her face. She was deathly pale and very thin and haggard after the long and anxious incarceration, the heart-rending separation from her delicate baby; but she was marvellously controlled, ‘a rare fortitude', scribbled the reporters, ‘magnificent resolution', ‘an iron strength'. This outward calm
she was to maintain throughout the four days, sitting quiet and still, looking down at her hands and, when obliged to face a witness, doing so frankly and steadily without any sign of shrinking.

Red robed, bewigged, the judge took his seat. The Sheriffs of Dunbartonshire, Lanarkshire and Renfrewshire were in attendance. The minister spoke a prayer beseeching the Almighty to grant that justice tempered with mercy might prevail in that court that day—as it transpired either God or Lord Deas was not listening, perhaps because his lordship had already made up his mind; but no one was to know that as yet. There were a few minutes of preliminary whispering and consultation, all eyes were on the ashen-faced woman in the dock. The clerk of the court gave the signal for the macer to read out the indictment.

The Indictment is a long and flourishing affair with some splendid bits of legal phrasing; accusing the Pannel that ‘albeit by the laws of this and of every other well-governed realm, murder, as also theft, are crimes of an heinous nature and severely punishable; yet true it is, and of verity, that you, the said Jessie M'Intosh or M'Lachlan are guilty of the said crime of murder, of the said crime of theft, or of one or other of the said crimes, actor or art or part' inasmuch as she did wickedly and feloniously attack the said Jessie M'Pherson ‘on the fourth or fifth day of July 1862 or on one or other of the days of that month or of June immediately preceding or of August immediately following'—they were taking no chances on any argument about the date: still, at least they got the year pinned down—‘in or near the house or premises in or near Sandyford Place, in or near Glasgow, then and now, or lately, occupied by John Fleming accountant, now or lately residing there'—nor was there going to be a slip-up as to where the crime was committed; though one might have thought ‘in or near Glasgow' was erring on the side of cautiousness. And that, having ‘with an iron cleaver or chopper or other similar edged instrument, to the prosecutor unknown' struck and killed the victim, she ‘farther had wickedly and feloniously stolen and theftuously taken away' a list of articles, to wit the silver found in Lundie's pawn and the seven articles of clothing belonging to the dead woman which had been left at Bridge Street Station in the black japanned box. ‘All of which or part of which', concludes the indictment, ‘being found proven or
admitted by the Pannel's judicial confession, OUGHT to be punished with the pains of law to deter others from committing the like crimes in all time coming.'

The Pannel, in her lilac gown, her straw bonnet and her little thin black shawl—either showing no trace of agitation, or flushed with emotion according to which newspaper was reporting her—pleaded not guilty: and without prejudice to that plea specially pleaded that the murder alleged in the Indictment was committed by James Fleming, ‘now or lately residing with John Fleming, accountant, in or near Sandyford Place, Glasgow.'

The jury, chosen after several rejections, three of which were upheld, were fifteen good men and true of Glasgow and the country round Glasgow: a commission agent, two grocers, a saddler, a ship's chandler, a brass founder, a coalmaster, a colour merchant, a cartwright, a farmer, a merchant and two dealers in spirits; and Messrs John Stalker and Alex. Phillips, occupations unknown or undeclared. We have the word of Lord Deas for it that the case received from them as great attention as ever he had seen paid by any jury. They were furthermore men of despatch. The trial had taken three days and a half, sitting from ten in the morning till nine at night, a total of nearly forty hours. They took just fifteen minutes to come to their verdict. And as has been said the verdict was both unanimous and unequivocal. There was no question of ‘not proven.'

The opening of a murder trial is, by any reckoning, an extraordinary moment. A life has been taken, a man, woman or child lies dead. It is as though a stone has been thrown at the mirror of a life smashing it to pieces; as though those pieces, correctly reassembled, would mirror, not the life that has been taken, but the image of the murderer. Piece by piece, the broken bits are gathered together, a great heap of fragments to be placed before the court. Rightly juggled—this discarded, that retained, this displaced, changed about, found to fit in another corner altogether—they begin to form a recognisable reflection. By subtle readjustments here or there, each side seeks to dull or heighten a resemblance. The last piece in place, the judge holds up the patchwork mirror to the jury. Chipped, scratched, clouded, cracked-across, a piece here missing, a piece there not well-fitting—is there yet enough for you to say without reasonable doubt that
here is a reflection of that man in the dock? If not—dismiss him: don't take any chances. But if you are reasonably sure—then this is the face, members of the jury, of a murderer. Just use your good sense, as ordinary people. Are you reasonably sure? It is for you to say. Yes or no? We will do all the rest.

Weeks, months, perhaps of patient assembling of the pieces of a giant patchwork that will take days to complete. And then—all of a sudden the moment has come and gone; almost before anyone noticed it, the first piece of the jigsaw has been placed on the board. It is the strangest mixture of excitement and anticlimax: not least to the quailing heart at the centre of it all. Guilty or innocent—for mistakes have been made before now—will this panel of men playing this fantastic game, declare that mirrored image to be my own?

In Scotland there is no opening address to the jury. The first piece in the game, Her Majesty's Advocate
v
. M'Lachlan, was thrown down therefore by the Sheriff-Substitute of Lanarkshire, Alexander Strathern. All he had to say was that ‘shown declarations of the prisoner, dated 14th, 16th, and 21st July, these were emitted by her in my presence, freely and voluntarily, in her sound sober sense and after receiving the usual warning.' The Court seemed settling down into the jog-trot of its opening stages. But Mr Rutherfurd Clark was up on his feet, fighting to have this very first piece removed altogether from the board. Had not the prisoner's husband been apprehended also, on a warrant? Were not husband and wife included in the same charge? Was it not true that the husband had left Glasgow on the morning before the murder was committed and did not return till late the following week? And:
when had it come to be known to the Sheriff-Substitute that this was so
?

Mr Strathern ‘could not answer that distinctly'. But a moment later, he did answer it at least fairly distinctly: he said he thought it was in the course of the husband's examination—which lasted something under an hour.

The examinations of the prisoners had been ‘taken in the usual way'. The Procurator-Fiscal asked the questions ‘as far as I allowed him, and I dictated the answers to a clerk'. Mrs M'Lachlan was a second time examined, some articles having been found in the interval bearing on the case. ‘The second examination was conducted in the same way as the first, but she
volunteered an explanation which I thought it right to take down.' It all sounded nice and smooth until Mr Clark pounced with his next question: at what stage was it made known to the prisoner that the articles had been found? Some introductory interrogatories were put first, admitted Mr Strathern, but these lasted only a few minutes.

They must have lasted, in fact, for at least two hours while poor Jessie painfully unfolded her gabble of lies about her movements up at Hamilton; they ended with her categorically denying, under questioning, that she had ever seen the articles—which at that moment the Sheriff-Substitute had in his keeping, in the black japanned box. Only then was she told that they had been found.

It was Jno. Gemmel's turn next. The Procurator-Fiscal came in for a pretty bad time, and wriggled most painfully on the hook of his knowledge or ignorance of James M'Lachlan's absence from Glasgow at the time of the murder. ‘It was not known, though reported.…' ‘We had no means of ascertaining it.…' ‘I did not personally make enquiries after her husband but I got reports from some of the criminal officers.…'

‘Had you not got reports from some of the criminal officers prior to the examination?'

‘I may; and personally I made some investigation before he was examined.' (No one seems to have commented that he had just stated the exact contrary.) ‘I had no reason to believe that he was out of town before that period.'

‘Had you any reason to doubt it?'

‘I cannot say that I had any reason to doubt it.'

The judge here intervened. ‘Can you state whether in fact you doubted it or not?' But Jno. said no, he couldn't. He was not satisfied that M'Lachlan was out of town. ‘It was stated by some persons in the house where the husband was. I had reason to doubt it, because I was not satisfied that he was out of town.'

Mr Clark: ‘Did you not say that you had no reason to doubt it? Didn't you say so?'

Mr Gemmel: ‘I think I did.'

Mr Clark: ‘And now you say you had!'

Lord Deas wound the whole thing into a not very neat cocoon. Would it be correct, he asked Mr Gemmel, to take him down as having said: ‘I heard he had been out of town from the morning
of the fourth, and I had no reason to doubt he had been so. I was not satisfied it was true.' Jno. grasping eagerly at any form of words which would end this back-and-forth argument, said yes, it would.

Mr Clark asked a few more questions, got him tangled up as to when he had made enquiries at the ship's agent in Glasgow and finally let him go. He must have been considerably the worse for wear.

Mr John Fleming succeeded the Procurator-Fiscal in the box and gave evidence of his return from Dunoon and the discovery of the body, his own precipate flight from the house in search of help and comfort, his return with Dr Ebenezer Watson. ‘He came with me and I took him downstairs and showed him the body. He put his finger on the hip and said, “Quite cold; has been dead for some time,” and asked me if I had sent for the police.'

Mr Rutherfurd Clark's first questions showed clearly how the defence was to be conducted. They related entirely to old Mr Fleming. Did your father attend your office? Did he collect rents for you? Was this his occupation early in July, at the time of the murder? What was his usual state of health? What was his state of health when you left for Dunoon on Friday? What was his state of health when you returned on the Monday?

His father was quite well, said Mr Fleming. ‘He was often ailing with cold, but he was quite well, I think, that morning. I think he was quite well when I returned on Monday.'

He described his first attempts to get through the pantry window and so into the area and in again at one of the bedroom windows: he had forgotten that those windows were barred. Then he had noticed the pantry key and tried that in the lock.

They came to the curious business of the key in the lock of the bedroom door.

Mr Clark: ‘When you put the key into the lock did you press out any key inside?' ‘I don't think so. The key went in freely; I didn't hear any key fall inside.'

‘Have you always thought so?'

‘I don't know how to answer that question.'

‘I will tell you how to answer—have you expressed that opinion to anyone?'

Mr Fleming had expressed that opinion to P.C. Cameron and also to Dr Watson as they hurried back to the house (and to Chrystal the grocer too, Mr Clark reminded him, which was rather naughty, as Mr Chrystal was not called to give evidence and therefore should not have been quoted). Mr Fleming now denied it, however, or rather, in his eminently fair and honest way, simply reiterated, ‘I don't think I did.' He could swear that the door was locked; but he really could not say whether or not there had been any key inside. Under re-examination by Mr Gifford, for the Prosecution, he repeated that he had seen no key of the bedroom door when he got into the room, and if there had been one, he thought he would probably have stepped on it. ‘I was a good deal excited and if it is thought I said anything about finding a key inside the servant's bedroom door I must have been misunderstood. I really cannot recollect saying anything at all about it.' It is an odd little incident; but probably, in the end, Mr Fleming's own explanation is correct enough—he was overexcited and was misunderstood. There seems no earthly reason to suppose that in fact there
was
any key inside the lock. It would, of course, have been to old Fleming's advantage to have proved that there was: but his son certainly did not suspect him at this time, nor was he sufficiently calm to have made up this incident to protect the old man. And now that it might be a point in his favour, we find the son nevertheless honourably denying it.