The Noon Lady of Towitta (13 page)

‘Let me help you, Mary,' and Sister Kathleen led me inside and put me to bed.

17

It was about a fortnight before I saw Sister Kathleen again. She had spent her annual holiday at home in the Barossa Valley with her parents. Every night after she left me, I would have worrying dreams. Nightmares had not plagued me for more than seven years following Father's death, but now I began to dream about the stories I was telling her. Sister Kathleen was keen to hear the end of the story and she was determined I should continue. When she returned from the Barossa she brought me jam and biscuits that her mother had made. I thanked her and we reminded ourselves where my story had finished. I told her it was at the first inquest, and we made ourselves comfortable on the verandah.

The days dragged by after the funeral. In the following week, on the Thursday morning, the second inquest took place. All this time the wind had blown without letting up and the heat was like that coming from a baker's oven. In the night before the inquest the wind dropped and it rained lightly, but this only made conditions heavy and sultry. The temperature remained high and unpleasant.

As we hadn't been allowed to sleep in the house since Bertha's death, we camped in the small shed where Father stored his tools and machinery, while August and Willy shared their barn with several troopers. That morning, as usual, our family ate breakfast together sitting on benches and logs outside. We waited to be called over to the largest barn where a courtroom was once more set up for an inquest. This time it seemed hundreds of people from all around the district had turned up to see what they could learn firsthand about Bertha. It was unnerving to see so many local people walking about on our farm, virtually where they liked.

Mr Cockburn, a keen journalist from the
Register
newspaper, arrived for the inquest in an automobile. This became the main attraction for the locals; many of them had never before seen a motor car. I was told it was a Lewis model that had been hired from its proud Adelaide owner. It was driven by Mr O'Grady who rushed the messages relating to the inquest to Angaston. From there they were telegraphed to Mr Cockburn's newspaper office in Adelaide. We were told it was the very first automobile ever used by a newspaper in South Australia.

News of the motor's arrival in the district spread rapidly. German farmers arrived and discussed the new form of transport with admiration and envy. August told me that some of the farmers saw it flying through the countryside at between twenty and thirty miles per hour. One farmer reported he had actually seen it jump the Rhine Creek, from one bank to the other. At the time the creek was nothing more than a dry sandy hollow in the road. Farmers hung around for hours, seemingly with nothing better to do. They laughed and chattered, spending their time inspecting and touching the motor.

There were other means for newspapers to race their news from Towitta to the telegraph office in Angaston, or directly to Adelaide. Each day bicycles were ridden up the treacherous hills to Angaston by some of the best cyclists in the state. There were horses and riders and a man with carrier pigeons that flew directly to Adelaide.

After dawn and before the inquest got underway, I rinsed out some clothes and was hanging them on the washing line when Mr Cockburn asked me whether I wouldn't mind giving him my thoughts about the events the week before. Naturally enough I was wary about saying anything but he was determined I should be interviewed and he reassured me it was for the public interest. I obliged.

‘Did your sister not wake when you were scuffling with the man?' He made notes as I spoke.

‘Oh yes. She was awake and calling out “August”.'

‘Did she get out of bed?'

‘No, I don't think she did.'

‘How long did your struggle last?'

‘About ten minutes, I should think.'

‘Did you call for your sister?'

‘No, I called for August.'

‘Could she not have helped you?' he asked, looking puzzled.

‘I don't think she got out of bed while I was in the room.'

‘Had your assailant any beard?'

‘I don't know, it was too dark to see.'

‘What sort of a coat – holland or tweed, rough or smooth – did he wear?'

‘I don't know, I couldn't see.'

‘But you did feel his clothes?'

‘Yes, it was a rough felt.' He was silent while he recorded this information.

‘Why did your sister not run through your mother's bedroom while you were struggling?'

‘I don't know; I thought that myself.'

‘What clothes did you wear in bed?'

‘A blouse, chemise, and stockings.'

‘You put your skirt on as you ran to your brother's room for help?'

‘Yes.'

‘How long was your brother away at Henke's?'

‘About half an hour.'

‘When he returned without Henke, you all came to the house. What did you do?'

I answered in detail, ‘We listened outside and then called Bertha but we heard nothing. We had pitchforks and a rifle so we went into the kitchen and lit the lamp. The door leading to our bedroom had been closed after I ran out earlier. As we were about to open the door we were suddenly afraid to go inside, so I blew out the lamp, and we all ran as fast as we could over to Lambert, the constable's place. We were gone about half an hour, I should think. They would not get up quickly, because they did not believe us at first. Then he came back with us.'

‘Did you see your sister's body?'

‘No, I have not seen her at all since.'

‘During the half an hour your brother was gone to Henke's, you stayed in your brothers' room in the barn?'

‘Yes.'

Our talk was very matter of fact and he seemed pleased by what I told him. He wrote what I said word for word in the newspapers and gave us a copy of several of them later. I still have the cuttings which I have read many times since. I had told that story of the event several times by then, I knew it word for word. And after all, telling stories was what I was good at.

After Mr Cockburn interviewed me he set up his fancy camera on a tripod and took photographs of me on my own. He also took them of me with my parents and brothers. Father had been reassured it was for the public interest and Mr Cockburn said he would make sure we got copies of the photographs of our family at a later date. I thought that was wonderful. We had never had any photographs taken in our family before, for we could not afford a camera or a photographer. He then went off and took pictures of the farm from all angles and of all the officials as they worked.

Father was angry when he discovered Mr Cockburn had interviewed me on my own before the outcome of the inquest.

‘What do you mean, my girl, by allowing yourself to be on your own with him. I don't think he had any right to ask you questions without me or your mother being present. Who knows what he will put in the papers. What will people think? This will do you no good, my girl.' Father said Mr Cockburn took great liberties with us all. We heard later that photographers were banned from taking pictures at the scene of a crime, of witnesses, suspects or inquests.

Mother said that the officials had begun the day by having breakfast at William Mulligan's house before the inquest took place at our farm. At around nine in the morning they arrived and our family was called to the barn and told where to sit. Just as I sat down I caught Gustave's eye and my heart missed a beat. I hadn't thought that he'd be there as a witness. I hadn't seen him for about ten days and now I wondered if all this trouble had broken our relationship for good. He was there for one reason only. Someone must have told of our affair. Surely they would not pry into our private business, the kind of things you don't talk about? What would that have to do with Bertha's death?

Gustave was sitting on the other side of the barn with a trooper and the sun filtered through the slats in the palings making his hair glint. When our eyes met he bowed his head and fiddled with his hat. I could see he was uncomfortable. I did not see him look in my direction again. This unsettled me for I could not gain friendly reassurance from him either by eye movement or smile. What tales was he going to tell? I felt my face flush and I wanted to die with shame at what he might say about us.

The many people who couldn't fit inside the overflowing barn hung about outside, many lingered around the motor. As I was close to one of the gaps in the walls, I strained to listen to what was being said by those crowded by the automobile and those listening through the palings. When someone outside couldn't hear properly, those who could passed on the latest facts as they heard them. Through the cracks I could see much nodding and shaking of heads, grimaces and scratching of heads, pulling of beards and sucking on old smelly pipes by the knowing crowd.

‘What he say?' one asked.

‘He said it was the stab to the back of the neck that killed her.'

About eighteen witnesses were called and the questions and answers went on hour after hour all day. Most of those who came to hear what was going on stayed all day fearing they'd miss some sensation if they left early. Some brought picnic hampers and at lunchtime locals sat together and shared their food. During lunch, while Mother and Father returned to the little shed to eat, I was taken over to our house and made to eat with Mr Mulligan and Detective Priest who said not a word throughout the meal break. I was surprised at being separated from the rest of the family.

The inquest stopped at dusk when the light faded. Next morning it continued as it had the day before. It was on this day that Gustave revealed to the public the most intimate details of our private affair and I was to be questioned too. I was shocked about this, but thankfully, before I provided private details of our friendship, Mr Foster, my lawyer from Kapunda, said I was not on trial and need not respond to these questions. So I didn't. By this time Gustave had said it all anyway. What was there left to say?

When the questioning finally turned to Bertha's death I started talking, ‘I woke to find a man on the bed lying across me with his head over my sister. The blade of the knife caught my arm when he grabbed hold of one of my wrists. I struggled out of bed bumping myself very heavily against the sewing machine. As I fought him I heard the knife falling and, in that instant, I dashed for the door in the pitch black. I grabbed hold of a skirt hanging on the back of a door and ran out the kitchen door screaming for my brothers. I was terrified.'

The questioning went on for hours about whether I was wearing a blue or pink blouse, because one of them had been found in pieces covered in blood. They wanted to catch me out on this fact of whether it was a blue or pink blouse. What did it matter? It was some time before I was permitted to sit down again.

In the late afternoon Dr Steel spoke of Bertha's death from a doctor's point of view. He went into scientific details of knife size and so on, looking my way for a response. I looked straight past him, never allowing a flinch or flicker of an eyelash. I knew if I let him into my mind, I might swoon. He spoke about how Bertha had been slaughtered like an animal and I couldn't believe anyone could do such a barbaric act. Yet I was supposed to have been there when the deed took place. Of course I hadn't seen a thing, it being in the dark. But I was there. I felt it happening but because it was pitch black, my imagination was making the pictures I couldn't see. So afterwards I wonder about what I know and what I imagined.

Then the questions were over and the officials huddled together comparing notes. My heart pounded and I hardly dared to take breath in the stifling heat. I sat rigid holding my only handkerchief. Several minutes passed while I watched someone produce a batch of papers and put them in some order in front of Mr Mulligan. Mr Foster leaned over and said I must go and stand in front of the bench being used as the jury table. This unnerved me. I wondered why only I had to stand in front of everyone. There was a hush as Mr Mulligan, looking very severe, stared straight into my eyes and announced, ‘We, the Jury, are of opinion that Bertha Elizabeth Schippan met her death on the first night of January, 1902, by having her throat cut by Mary Augusta Schippan. She stands charged before the undersigned, one of his Majesty's justices of the peace, that at Towitta, she did feloniously, wilfully and of her malice aforethought, kill and murder Bertha Schippan.' After two days of general questions and answers in friendly terms, what Mr Mulligan now said was imprinted into my memory forever.

There was a gasp of dismay from everyone in the shed. Then there was a noisy rush for the exit by journalists, keen to be the first to relay their telegraphs to Adelaide. I could see out between the palings of the barn as people scrambled for their bikes, horses and to release the carrier pigeons. And this included the driver and the Lewis car.

After such dreadful accusations and with all eyes on me, I wanted to swoon away. But I could not move from the spot. My story about the intruder had been ignored when I thought everyone believed me. As Father listened to the outcome I saw his hands pulling on his grey beard and his brow deeply furrowed. It must have been grim for him and Mother to hear that their last living daughter must now stand trial for the murder of her younger sister. Father's gaunt face was fixed, not a muscle moved except for the nervous twitching of his eyes. And as I looked at Mother, I saw the light in her eyes dim. I think I must have gone into one of my daydreams at that moment for what was being said around me drifted into the background and was like a din somewhere far off.

My life now took a new direction. For several days up to this moment everyone had rushed around collecting evidence and making pages of notes while being friendly toward me. For days I brewed endless cups of tea and baked numerous German cakes. No one ever refused when I topped up their tin mugs or offered a slice of cake. But all niceties towards me stopped when Mr Mulligan read the statement accusing me.