Heaven Knows Who (26 page)

Mr Rutherfurd Clark let it all go by with hardly any cross-examination at all.

And Miss M'Crone described how on the morning after the murder, a woman—she could not identify her as the prisoner—had brought in the cinnamon merino dress to be dyed black and the grey cloak to be cleaned, giving the name of M'Donald. And Mrs Rainny told how she had first redeemed the blue and black poplin and how Mrs M'Lachlan had changed into it before taking the cinnamon merino to be dyed. Shown the merino she would not swear to it as the same dress, but ‘by the shape and the make' she thought it was. ‘This is dyed, ye ken. It was a brown one then.'

Robert Lundie gave evidence of the pawning of the silver from the house in Sandyford Place on the morning after the murder.
He agreed with counsel for the defence that when confronted with the prisoner, he had had some difficulty before he finally identified her. She had given the name of Mary M'Donald and said she had been sent by her mistress—she was alone, she had no child with her. She came in some time between twelve and one. On the following Tuesday he saw an account of the murder in the papers (he had meanwhile been out of town) with a description of the missing plate. He examined the silver, found it was marked with an ‘F', and immediately handed it over to the police. His assistant confirmed very positively that the plate had been pawned after midday.

And William Smith Dunlop recognised the black japanned box as having come from his shop—it had their private mark on it. It was sold on the morning after the murder by an assistant called Nish who had since gone off to Antigua. He did not see the woman at the time the box was sold, but recognised the prisoner as having come in several days later; she either took the box away with her or it was ‘by her orders sent after her to some station'. She said she was sending the box by some railway—not going with it herself.

Mr Rutherfurd Clark embarked upon another of his adventures—he appears to have specialised somewhat in mixed-up witnesses. ‘You say that this is a common box of which you sell numbers?'

‘Yes.'

‘Now, how can you tell us that that (Exhibit 28) is the box that the prisoner spoke about on the Tuesday or Wednesday when you saw her?'

‘I beg your pardon? I don't understand the question.'

‘How is it that you know that it is the box to which the address was affixed of which you spoke?'

Had Sir Winston Churchill been present he would doubtless have muttered that this was sheer pedantry up with which he would not put. William Smith Dunlop simply looked blank and said nothing.

‘How is it that you know that this is the box that left the shop on Wednesday?'

Mr Dunlop took refuge in an alibi and said that James Fullerton had been beside him and seen the whole.

‘No, no, never mind what James Fullerton saw. You have
said that this is the box which was sent out of your shop on Wednesday. How do you know that it is?'

‘I know it because it has our private mark on it.'

‘Have the other boxes that you sell not the same private mark?'

‘No, they have not,' said Mr Dunlop, vaguely triumphant.

The judge interposed to try to straighten things out. ‘Is there a private mark on the other boxes that you sell?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, is the mark on that box different from the private mark on the other boxes?'

‘No.'

‘Do you put the same private mark on other boxes of that description?'

‘We do on boxes of that size.'

‘Then what the gentleman is saying now is this—if you put the same private mark on the other boxes of the same size that you make, how do you know that that is the very box you sent out that Wednesday afternoon, and not some other box made in your shop?'

It was all too much for poor Mr Dunlop. ‘I don't think I can answer that question.'

Mr Clark came back into the fray. ‘Do you say anything more than that this box was made in your shop?'

‘I can say nothing more than that, and that the prisoner at the bar is the person who came in that day.'

‘And that she took away a box of that description?'

‘Yes.'

‘That, surely, is not sufficient to warrant you in saying that it is the box which she took away?'

‘It has our private mark,' insisted Mr Dunlop.

‘I suppose all your boxes are marked in the same way?'

‘In just the same way.'

‘Dear me,' exclaimed Mr Clark, by now so exasperated that he began to double back on himself. ‘Can you say nothing more than that it was made in your shop?'

‘I can say that it was made in our shop.'

‘And that the prisoner took a box
of that description
away; or that it was sent after her?'

‘Yes.'

‘And even of that you are doubtful?'

‘I have no doubt the box was taken or sent away.'

‘Then don't say that that box is the box that the prisoner took away,' said Mr Clark, angrily; and angrily sat down. Poor Mr Dunlop was doubtless a sadly puzzled man as he made his way thankfully back to his place. Whatever had he done to offend? After all, all their boxes did have that private mark.…

Mr Fullerton, his assistant, identified the prisoner as the woman who had bought a box on the Saturday morning; as to the rest he was uncertain, having left the matter with Nish, but he thought she had altered the address first put on the box, and he thought she had arranged for them to send it to the station for her, and he thought it had now been addressed to Ayr.

John Roke, railway clerk at Bridge Street Station, had ‘a faint recollection' of the black tin box—if he looked up his entry of any article that passed through his hands it conjured up a faint recollection of that article. Somewhat roughly handled, he stuck by this very credible trick of memory; he could not recall and had never pretended to be able to recall the size, shape or colour of the box—but he did have a faint recollection that the entry on the relevant way bill referred to some sort of japanned tin box. He could not add, poor chap, that really it all couldn't matter less anyway—all he was saying was that he had a faint idea that the way bill referred to a tin box, and this could be amply proved by half a dozen different witnesses yet to be heard.

Messrs M'Millan, Craig, Blair and Young, railway employees, gave evidence of the pleasantly human arrangement by which they had obliged a fellow—now identified as James M'Lachlan—who had turned up at the Bridge Street Station on July 10 and asked them to get back a box for him which was lying at Ayr Station, addressed to ‘Mrs Darnley'. A porter wrote a note to the clerk in the office at Ayr and a guard delivered it for him, the box was handed over and brought back to Glasgow—and there was no charge. It was finally taken away by the fellow—who of course was James M'Lachlan.

There was difficulty over the evidence of James' sister, Elizabeth Reid, regarding his movements, since he himself was not to be called. Mr Clark fought every step of the way, but Lord Deas was as usual on the other side. Even when the prosecution offered
to withdraw a question, he replied querulously: ‘You can do as you please,' but continued to insist: ‘I consider the question competent.' Thus encouraged, Mr Gifford at last repeated the question: ‘Well, who brought the box?'—to Mrs Reid's house at Greenock.

Mrs Reid, distressed and weeping, acknowledged that her brother had brought the box, and it had been unpacked and the contents laid out on a bed—a velvet cloak, a cloth cloak, a black silk dress, a brown silk dress, a silk polka and a black plaid. ‘You saw the dresses less or more?' asked Lord Deas—it is difficult to see why, since she had just admitted seeing them all, as listed. That was on the Saturday, July 12, the day after the box was brought from the railway station.

Mr Gifford, for the prosecution: ‘Where did you see these things on the Saturday morning?'

‘I saw them lying on a bed in my house.'

‘Did you put them anywhere?'

‘Yes, I put them into a drawer.'

‘You did not put them into the bed?' enquired Lord Deas: no doubt the jury added a second blossom to their bouquet by conjuring up a hinney of respectful laughter. Mrs Reid simply said, ‘No.'

Mr Gifford: ‘Did you see anything done with them on Wednesday?'

Mr Clark interrupted. Would not this be the day after James M'Lachlan had been arrested with his wife, examined and released?

‘I don't think it matters,' said Mr Gifford.

‘I think it matters a good deal,' said Mr Clark. Lord Deas, however, could be relied upon to be satisfied that Mr Gifford's question had been perfectly competent and it was asked again.

Yes, Mrs Reid had seen the things put back into the box and an addressed label tied to the box. A porter called Laurie called for it and took it away.

Donald Laurie agreed that he had collected a box from that address on the date suggested—a box very much like the one shown to him in court. But he couldn't be sure for his eye-sight was not so good now—a rapid deterioration, for this had all happened only eight or nine weeks ago.

James Hughes, parcel deliverer at Greenock Station had
handled the box and there was another sharp tussle over a ‘faint recollection' of what it looked like; but Hughes, like John Roke at Bridge Street, stoutly defended his ability to recall, when he saw an entry in his own handwriting, a vague picture of the article it referred to. He had taken no particular notice of the box at the time, but he could be sure that it was about the same colour, size and shape as the one he saw in court, and his entry was ‘T. Box' which stood for ‘tin box'—and
not
for ‘tea box' as defence counsel suggested. John M'Intyre, also of Bridge Street, identified the box quite positively—he had handed it over when it was asked for by Superintendent M'Call; and what was more, the lock being then broken and the lid a little open, he had caught a glimpse of the clothes inside.

Margaret M'Lachlan (no relation) identified the contents of the black box as having belonged to Jess M'Pherson and was particularly positive about the black plaid—she had had it often in her hands, having been a servant at Sandyford Place for several months earlier that year. Mary Downie who had been in service together with Jess for many years and who was the friend with whom she set up her little grocery shop, was also positive in her identification—most of the things had been bought in her company. Margaret Fleming, John Fleming's sister who ran the house for him, also knew Jess well, of course, and ‘had often occasion to see her dresses'; but Lord Deas was evidently fed up with all this vain repetition for he ‘discouraged the re-opening of this line of evidence.' And anyway it was nearly nine o'clock. The Court adjourned again until ten the next morning. This was their second consecutive eleven-hour day.

The third day opened with the evidence of Andrew Sloan, clerk and cashier in John Fleming's office. He agreed that he knew old Mr Fleming—he didn't know his age but had heard him refer to it some time before this case as about eighty-five. He described the old gentleman's little job, collecting the rents of a small estate of about twenty tenants. Mr Gifford asked him: ‘What sort of man is he mentally?'

Lord Deas interrupted. He thought that the Court had as good an opportunity of judging as the witness, who was not a medical man. (The witness had observed the old man over a period of years and the Court for perhaps as many hours; but that apparently
didn't count.) ‘You may ask him this.' He put the question to the witness: ‘There is nothing wrong with his mind that you ever heard of?'

‘No,' said Mr Sloan, briefly.

‘And he has faculties as entire as you could expect at his age?'

‘Yes,' said Mr Sloan, briefly again. His not to make reply that in fact for a man of allegedly eighty-seven Mr Fleming's faculties were not ‘what you would expect' at all, but quite outstanding—sight and hearing practically unimpaired, health and agility excellent, and only some slight tendency to winter colds.…

Examination continued: ‘Yes, I remember the Monday when the murder was discovered.'

‘That is the day when Jessie M'Pherson was found dead in the house in Sandyford Place', explained Lord Deas kindly. It seems a little unlikely that anyone present let alone John Fleming's own clerk, should have confused it with any other. ‘I recollect that,' said he.

The old gentleman had been in the office on the Saturday and also on the Monday, but appeared just as usual and had mentioned nothing about the maid's being missing.

John M'Allister who had known old James Fleming for forty years had met him on the Sunday following the murder and exchanged a few words; nothing being said, however, of the missing servant. Yes, as far as he knew, Mr Fleming had always had a respectable character.

Mr Clark rose to cross-examine. Here was his opportunity to bring out the fact that old Fleming had, about ten years ago, confessed to the elders of his kirk—to which same church the witness belonged—that he had recently committed the sin of fornication and had a child by a servant maid. ‘At least you never
heard
anything against him?'

‘No; never till this case happened.'

‘Do you not know that he was before the kirk session?'

‘I did not know till this affair.'

‘Then you
have
heard something against him?'

‘Yes, in the newspapers I have.'

Lord Deas intervened once more. ‘Now, Mr Clark—this need not be opened up just now with the witness.'

Mr Clark appears not to have protested at all. He sat down meekly: and that was the last the Court ever heard of ‘the old
innocent's' confessed fornication and Indian summer of parenthood.

Evidence from the National Security Savings Bank of old Mr Fleming's little nest egg of a hundred and fifty pounds; evidence of a further thirty pounds in the Royal Bank of Scotland. Evidence of Elizabeth Brownlie, the maid next door, who had tried to borrow the spade on the Saturday afternoon and been sent away empty-handed because ‘the girl was out' and Mr Fleming didn't know where to find the key of the garden shed. She had seen Mr Fleming at ten o'clock on the morning after the murder, going down to the end of the garden for coals and had been struck at the time by the fact that he looked round to see if anyone were watching him. She had something to offer on the character of the old man—Jess had told her that he watched everything that went on in his own home, and next door. One night about a fortnight before the murder, she had had a word with Jess who was down at the garden door, admitting a man and a woman—presumed to be Mrs M'Lachlan who admitted such a visit, though she had no man with her. It was ten o'clock and Jess had remarked to Elizabeth that that auld deevil was only jist new awa' tae his bed. Lord Deas interrupted at this stage with a remark to the general effect that what the soldier said was not evidence but did not disallow the answer: and Mr Clark asked, ‘Did you understand the “old devil” to refer to old Mr Fleming?' It was at this point that Lord Deas admitted, ‘I suppose we all understand that.'