The Amazing Mrs Livesey

by Freda Marnie Nicholls

  Back in England, Ethel’s sister Mabel was surprised to see a reporter standing at her door. He was from the Daily Telegraph and had a few questions about her sister.

  ‘I frankly don’t know how many times my sister has been married,’ she told him on her doorstep. ‘It may be four or five times, or even more. I know she’s had the names of Coradine, Anderson and Livesey. I believe there may have been others.’

  When asked where Ethel had lived in England, she replied, ‘She had a house on the Isle of Man, which I understand was rented. She is a jolly woman, fond of getting about, but I know little about her private affairs.’

  A reporter from London’s Daily Mirror travelled to the Isle of Man and found Mrs Livesey’s father sitting in his room at the Howstrake Hotel Majestic, a rug over his knees, reading a shilling novel.

  ‘I don’t know what all this fuss concerning my daughter is about,’ Frank Swindells stated as the reporter sat opposite him. ‘First the police, and now you. Whatever it is, you can talk to her in Australia. I don’t wish to say anything.’

  The reporter handed him a copy of the Truth newspaper from Australia and watched as the old man slowly and carefully read the two full pages about the supposed cotton heiress and the wedding that didn’t happen. When he’d finished, he placed it down on his lap and looked over at the young man.

  ‘Before she left,’ he began, ‘she told me she was returning shortly, but now I read this.’

  The reporter left the old man staring out the window, refusing to say anything further. Gently closing the door behind him, the reporter went off to question anyone he could find on the Isle about the amazing Mrs Livesey.

  And he was thorough. As well as interviewing locals, he made enquiries about the Swindells family in Manchester. They were indeed into cotton in a big way, and were one of the largest and wealthiest manufacturing families in Lancashire—and even had big trade in Australia—but a family representative wanted it known that Mrs Livesey was not related to them. On returning to London, the reporter went to Australia House and interviewed the customs official who had processed Mrs Livesey’s application to travel to Australia just months before.

  ‘In her interview, she told me she had gone to Australia with her husband in 1919,’ the official stated, ‘and after his death she had married again in New Zealand in 1935, then returned to England, leaving two boys at Geelong Grammar School. She also stated that one of the boys joined the navy and the other enlisted in the RAAF, and that her second husband had died in 1943. She then told me that she desperately wanted to return to Australia to see her boys, and was given a visa on sympathetic grounds.’

  All wonderful fuel for the fire.

  27

  SOCIETY WOMAN ARRESTED!

  DC March’s appeal through the newspapers seemed to have paid off, with an anonymous tip that Mrs Ethel Livesey was hiding out in a boarding house in the western Sydney suburb of Chester Hill, fifteen miles from the city. It was the weekend, early Sunday morning, 23 December—two weeks since Mrs Livesey had left her Edgecliff flat.

  Driving the big black CIB car, Constable Bushby pulled up outside the ramshackle house at 19 Jocelyn Street. Both of the officers looked through the dawn light towards the front door.

  ‘Doesn’t look like a place a rich dame would stay in,’ the constable observed.

  ‘It might, if she’s on the run,’ replied DC March.

  ‘Just hope it’s not another wild goose chase,’ Constable Bushby said. ‘Those other three leads were duds—I think we’ve found every Jolly Nelly in Sydney so far,’ he remarked, referring to the local sideshow ‘fat lady’ people paid to see.

  ‘We have to look into them all,’ DC March replied, reaching for the car door handle. ‘Come on, let’s go.’ As he stepped out of the car, he heard Bushby muttering about working all the time and it being almost Christmas.

  DC March knocked on the door and a light in the front room came on. ‘Hello?’ he called out.

  The door opened and, to their surprise, standing in front of them dressed in an enormous silk nightdress and heavily embroidered silk dressing gown was Mrs Livesey, the woman they had been chasing for the last two weeks seemingly without a break. She stood in the dawn light blinking blearily at them.

  ‘Mrs Ethel Livesey, my name is Detective Constable March, and this,’ he said, indicating his still slightly stunned colleague, ‘is Constable Bushby. We have a warrant for your arrest.’

  The buxom woman nodded her head, as if she’d been expecting them.

  ‘We need you to accompany us to the Criminal Investigation Branch.’

  ‘I will need to get dressed,’ was her only reply, as she turned back into the house, the two officers following.

  ‘Where are the other members of the household?’ DC March asked her. ‘The landlady, are they sleeping?’

  ‘Mrs O’Hagan and the others were out at a party last night, I don’t think any of them returned,’ replied Ethel, as she turned into what must have been her room. ‘Excuse me gentlemen, I need to dress.’ And gently closed the door.

  ‘Bill, go outside and wait near her window in case she tries to do a runner.’

  The constable nodded and turned to go. ‘That would be a sight to see—don’t think she’d fit out the window!’ he mumbled.

  DC March paced up and down the hallway, pulled out his watch and looked at the time. How long does it take to get ready?

  ‘Mrs Livesey!’ he called through the door in loud exasperation. ‘Mrs Livesey, we do need to get to the station.’

  ‘I won’t be a moment Inspector,’ she called back sweetly. ‘I just need to make myself presentable.’

  ‘It is Detective, Mrs Livesey, not Inspector,’ he corrected her, as the door opened and her bulk filled the doorway.

  ‘Sorry Detective,’ she said. ‘I tried to be as quick as I could.’

  He looked her up and down; her robust figure was now enclosed in a neat blue and black frock, a well-cut edge-to-edge black jacket, her hair coiffured into place with a black pillbox hat sitting at a rakish angle on top. In one hand she held her clutch bag, the other a smart leather briefcase.

  ‘I will need to talk with my lawyer,’ she stated.

  DC March looked at her steadily. ‘You’ll be able to make a call from the station. I need to tell you that the arrest warrant is for … ’

  ‘I know, Detective, it’s been in all the papers,’ Ethel replied.

  Ethel had already employed the best lawyers money could buy. She had been in George Street, as had been reported to the police, to meet the banquet manager of the Australia Hotel, Baydon Johnson and his wife Ruby, to thank them for their help in preparing the wedding reception, and to apologise for the mess that had been left after Rex Beech called it all off. They had both been so supportive, and she told them she was glad to consider them true friends.

  She tried to contact several of her other society friends, and finally managed to talk with Lady French over the telephone, only to be told that no one wanted to associate with her. When Ethel hung up the phone, she had burst into tears of anger and frustration, turning to Mrs O’Hagan, the owner of the boarding house she was staying in. If only she could tell her society friends the truth—her truth—everything would be all right again. Mrs O’Hagan suggested she visit a solicitor she had heard was quite good, a Mr William Lander.

  Ethel disguised herself as best she could and again made her way into the city, to 79 Elizabeth Street, down the road from one of her favourite shopping haunts, David Jones. After hearing her version of events, Lander quickly got in touch with a barrister friend, Mr Simon Isaacs, and they worked out what she should do.

  It had been Ethel herself who rang and anonymously told the police where to find her. Sick of being on the run, she wanted to clear the air, tell her side of the story, get her life back. Her lawyers had assured her that if she faced up to the charges she’d more than likely get off the minor fraud charge, and she was now ready.

  Pulling up outside
the CIB headquarters after her arrest, Constable Bushby found to his annoyance that the press had been tipped off. Groups of reporters and photographers had gathered, but were unable to get a decent photograph or interview Mrs Livesey as DC March and Constable Bushby whisked her rather unceremoniously into the building.

  Mr Lander arrived not long after and sat in on the interview. All day was spent at CIB headquarters, and after several interviews Mrs Livesey was released on bail, into Mr Lander’s care, until a court appearance the following day. Lander drove his client to his office in the city, where they met a male reporter from the local Truth newspaper.

  As they sat in oversized armchairs in the reception area outside Mr Lander’s deserted office, Mr Lander served them, and himself, a stiff Scotch.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me Mrs Livesey,’ the reporter began. ‘I understand you would like to tell your side of the story?’

  Ethel took a sip of her Scotch and nodded. ‘Indeed, I have been far too trusting,’ she said. ‘Everyone has been telling me so.’ She paused and took a deep breath, ‘I do need to tell my side of the story.’

  ‘Well thank you,’ the reporter replied, opening his writing pad. ‘The arrest must have come as a shock, did it not?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes, it was indeed, I don’t know how I endured the ordeal of the early morning surprise arrest, and the long day imprisoned in that cell, until dear Mr Lander here managed to get me out,’ she said smiling briefly at her solicitor, before turning back to the reporter. ‘It took forever, as you can imagine, to organise the formalities of securing the £200 bail on a Sunday, but it would have been so much worse if it hadn’t been for the kindness of the police matron.

  ‘That woman,’ she continued, leaning forward, ‘has seen so much trouble in her time that she is one of the most understanding persons I have ever met in my life …’

  The reporter tried to steer Ethel back to her own story. ‘We understand that you have been in Melbourne and Goulburn since you left the morning after the day arranged for your wedding?’ he enquired diplomatically.

  ‘I, as a free British subject, am entitled to travel wherever I care!’ Ethel declared. Mr Lander cleared his throat, and Ethel softened her tone. ‘I know a lot of people may feel inclined to give me a trial in their own minds, and in their own hearts. But I will say this about myself, that I am a woman who has had a heartbreaking experience, and that if I deserve nothing else, I at least deserve sympathy.’

  ‘How has your experience been heartbreaking, Mrs Livesey?’ the reporter asked, curious.

  ‘Well,’ Ethel replied, sitting back into her chair, ‘I have had a lot of adverse and humiliating publicity. Reporters and photographers have dogged me, and harassed me. I have been followed and worried. Every friend I’ve met seems to have been questioned and closely cross-examined about me, and so much suspicion and innuendoes cast. I have been almost frantic with distress. People I thought were my friends, and whom I had lavishly entertained, deserted me in my hour of need.’

  ‘But some believe that you courted publicity?’ the reporter remarked, thinking back to the articles before the wedding.

  ‘That is not correct. I am a very generous woman and I like to entertain my friends. Because of my hospitality, I attracted the attention of some sections of the press, which seemed to hang around the fringe of Sydney society,’ she stated, with barely hidden disdain. ‘I never encouraged anyone to photograph me or to discuss my life or become interested in my relaxation.’

  ‘Do you feel some bitterness, then, Mrs Livesey?’

  ‘Until tonight, I did feel hurt and bitter,’ she replied. ‘I felt that some people wanted to hurt me more than I have already been hurt in my life. I felt that some people wanted to pry into my private life. Surely that is unfair and unjust!’ she railed. ‘But, we are approaching the season of goodwill, so I wish to extend it even unto those who may feel unfriendly to me.’

  ‘I see,’ said the reporter as he finished jotting down his shorthand, then looked up at Mrs Livesey carefully. ‘You have had a varied life, then, Mrs Livesey?’

  ‘Yes, I have travelled the world, and I have had many vicissitudes. But though I have not hurt a man or woman in my life, I have been the butt of some people who seem to get cruel satisfaction by pointing the finger of scorn at anyone, no matter who they may be,’ she huffed, her blue eyes flashing in anger. She took a deep breath. ‘The only person I have ever hurt is myself, that is because—womanlike—I have been too trusting and generous.’

  She picked up her glass and looked straight at the reporter. ‘I have not the slightest doubt that I will be able to establish my entire innocence of the twelve-year-old charge in Adelaide, and that I will be clearly vindicated. But on the advice of my lawyers I prefer not to say anything on this subject.’

  She paused, then suddenly declaimed: ‘Perhaps I could add this. I would like to appeal to my hundreds of good friends out there, to withhold judgment until everything has been straightened out—then they may judge me, with an unbiased mind.’

  The reporter nodded and tried another question. ‘Have you any plans for Christmas, Mrs Livesey?’

  ‘No, how can I?’ Ethel retorted, then let out a long sigh. ‘Your question recalls, with a pang, that Christmas is with us, and that I am under a cloud.’ She paused a moment, looking earnestly at the reporter. ‘That cloud will soon pass away. All I ask is that I be allowed to lead my own life and that everyone will encourage me with some silent sympathy and that a fair proportion of the community will say, let the poor woman have an Australian “fair go” before passing any judgment on her … I would like to wish through your paper a Merry Christmas to everyone who can be kind enough to feel this way!’

  Christmas Eve saw Ethel arrive at the Central Police Court in style. Thanks to the Truth article, curious crowds had gathered along Central Lane, spilling out both ends onto George and Pitt streets in the hope of seeing Mrs Ethel Livesey, with the police having to clear the road several times before she pulled up in a big green sedan.

  She looked a million dollars, wearing her expensive brown dress embroidered with dainty blue flowers; a smart lightweight black coat; black kid gloves, with matching bag, hat and short veil; her only jewellery two rings, and large pearl earrings and necklace. At first she appeared upset by the number of cameras flashing around her when she alighted from the car.

  One woman in the crowd outside the police court entrance called for three cheers for Mrs Livesey from the crowd. ‘Come and show Mrs Livesey that there is a side of society other than those who dropped her like a hot coal!’ she called out, starting up the cheers.

  Mrs Livesey seemed delighted and managed to smile and wave to the crowd, shouting out, ‘My stepsons fought for you!’ to another cheer, as her solicitor and barrister led her into court.

  Ethel was charged as Florence Elizabeth Ethel Gardiner before Mr Duncan Parker SM (Stipendiary Magistrate, equivalent of a District Court judge today), who suggested she could sit behind her counsel. Her barrister Mr Isaacs glanced at the packed courtroom and replied, ‘I think she would prefer to stay in front of the dock, where she is more or less hidden from the public gaze.’

  Mr Parker looked at Ethel and nodded serenely, and with all eyes following her she made her way behind the wooden screen at one side of the court that shielded her from the view of the public gallery.

  Detective March was brought before the court and testified that Mrs Livesey had admitted in custody that she was the woman charged, and that she had failed to appear at the Adelaide Quarter Sessions in December 1933 to answer the charge.

  They then brought in Detective Constable Clement McGrath, who had travelled up from Adelaide with the original 1934 warrant issued after Ethel didn’t appear in court to answer the fraud charge on the third day of the case the previous December. DC McGrath told the court that he had issued the warrant to Mrs Gardiner in the hall outside the courtroom at 9.50 that very morning, and that she had admitted being the person named. ‘She
told me,’ DC McGrath started, pulling out his notepad and reading from it, ‘“If I am granted bail I will give you my assurance, I will appear. It was not my fault I absconded before.” I therefore ask the court that Mrs Gardiner be remanded into my custody to be taken to South Australia, to be further dealt with according to the laws of South Australia.’

  Mr Isaacs stood to question the Adelaide detective. ‘When did you leave Adelaide, Detective?’ he asked.

  ‘Monday night,’ DC McGrath replied.

  ‘And before you left, did you make enquiries as to when this charge would be heard?’

  ‘I did,’ he replied. ‘It could be listed in the January sittings for Monday 14 January.’

  ‘I see,’ Mr Isaacs seemed to contemplate, ‘three weeks away. And tell me, Detective, in a twelve-year-old case, are all of the witnesses available?’

  DC McGrath hesitated a little before replying. ‘I do not think all are available,’ he admitted.

  ‘Have some left South Australia?’ Ethel’s counsel asked.

  ‘We think so,’ replied DC McGrath, ‘and another may have died.’

  Mr Isaacs turned to address Mr Parker. ‘The fact that Mrs Florence Elizabeth Ethel Gardiner and Mrs Livesey are one and the same person will not be contested, and in fact is readily admitted by my client,’ he stated, looking towards Ethel, who looked back at him steadily. ‘My client has not the slightest doubt that she will be able to establish her innocence on this twelve-year-old charge,’ he attested, turning back to the court. ‘She has not been evading arrest, but has merely been living in quiet retirement so that she could have sufficient opportunity to straighten out a number of matters.

  ‘Your Honour,’ Mr Isaacs continued, ‘it is doubtful, after a lapse of twelve years, if any trial could be arranged earlier than 14 January, as stated by Detective McGrath. In these circumstances it would be unjust to return Mrs Gardiner immediately to South Australia,’ he stated. ‘Supposing she left tonight—Christmas Eve—and arrived on Monday, she would have to remain in custody from Monday to whenever the case sits.’