The Amazing Mrs Livesey

by Freda Marnie Nicholls

  Mr Richardson looked down at his list. And so it went: another proven creditor, Civic Hire Services, for £126 18s? Ethel replied that she had given this sum to Mr Lander to pay the company.

  Household Supply, £149 8s 7d, for spirits and liquor? Yes, these Ethel had ordered, but never received, she claimed.

  ‘George Henry Lee & Co., a major department store in Liverpool, for £18 11s 7d, for goods supplied on 11 June 1945 to 6 July 1945?’ Ethel claimed no knowledge of these, saying she left England on the boat on 2 July; curiously, she knew these goods were books, even though she stated she had not ordered them.

  Lilian Alice Grindell, for £100? Ethel admitted she had given the woman a cheque for £200, post-dated 15 February, 1946. All her cheques were post-dated, she explained. ‘I had a cable from Layton to say the money would be there, and then I got a second cable saying the property could not be sold until the middle of February, and I asked them if they could wait until the middle of April.’

  ‘When did you first meet the Grindells?’ Mr Richardson asked.

  ‘Up at O’Hagan’s, December 1945.’

  ‘What has become of the money you got from Grindells?’

  ‘It has gone to Lander and Isaacs,’ Ethel replied, looking exasperated. ‘If I had taken Mr Grindell’s advice in the first place I would not have been in this position today,’ she declared, catching the angry eye of her creditor in the gallery.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Richardson asked.

  ‘Mr Grindell had repeatedly told me not to keep giving Isaacs and Lander this money. He was in the flat continually when Isaacs and Lander came and asked for money—he kept saying they were getting too much for what they were doing. I am sorry if I have missed some things out of my statement, but I have been very, very ill.’

  ‘Have you any jewellery or chattels in England?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You got some jewellery from Finnigans in Manchester?’

  ‘I got a gold set for £180, which I gave to Mr Johnson as security.’

  ‘A silver compact,’ Mr Richardson read out. ‘Who got that?’

  ‘Mr Livesey got that for his daughter.’

  ‘Three-piece military silver set?’

  ‘Mr Livesey got that—he chose it and bought it himself.’

  ‘A gold half-hunter watch, £48?’

  Yes, Ethel replied, she ordered the watch for Mr Livesey; the money came out of her bank account, from properties he originally owned.

  Mr Richardson again looked at his list. ‘Do you owe Dr Cunningham any money?’

  Dr Cunningham said he would never send her the bill, and that he would treat her as a friend, Ethel replied as earnestly as she could.

  ‘Do you owe Robert Cowell, a solicitor in England, any monies?’

  No, she replied: any amounts owing were to be paid by Mr Layton.

  Mr Richardson looked at her carefully, ‘Do you know a Mrs Sarah Stanbury?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you owe her any money?’

  ‘Yes, £10.’

  ‘Do you show her debt in your statement?’

  ‘I thought I told Mr Wheatley of Perth, who made out my statement of affairs, of her debt. I had to get out of my sick bed to go down to see him.’

  ‘Are you receiving any money from any source since your bankruptcy?’

  ‘No, only what I have worked for.’

  ‘What about all of these solicitors that you engaged in Adelaide, Melbourne and Western Australia?’

  Ethel vehemently explained that she had arrived in Western Australia with just £5, and when she saw the notice of committal against her in the paper, she consulted a solicitor, Mr Wheatley, who said he would help her prepare a statement; in return she would repay him £2 or £3 at a time, whenever she was able. ‘In every place I got a position for £2 a week or so,’ she said, turning to Justice Clyne, ‘but as soon as they knew that I was Mrs Livesey, they told me to pack up and go, and I was put out on the street.’

  She said an employment agency in Perth had lent her some money to join her son in Adelaide, who paid off the solicitor’s bill at £3 a week. But she couldn’t get a job in Adelaide, and instead went to Melbourne, where a solicitor, Mr Barber, offered to help her, saying she could repay him when she was back on her feet.

  ‘Are you working at present?’ Justice Clyne asked.

  ‘I am in Melbourne, but I may have lost my job again through coming here. I shall go back to my employment in Melbourne, if I can—I hope it will be there, but of course if they see this in the paper, I shall be out of work again,’ she said. ‘I am sick—I am under a doctor and specialist for cancer.’

  ‘Are you receiving any income from any source whatsoever?’ Mr Richardson asked.

  ‘Only what I earn.’

  ‘Your father is still living?’

  ‘Yes, as far as I know.’

  ‘You are not receiving any money from him?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘I have finished with Mrs Livesey, for the present,’ Mr Richardson stated, placing his extensive creditors’ list on the table. ‘But I may get material for further examination from witnesses who are creditors, who are here in court, and whom I desire to call.’

  Representing his client, Miss Rewa Nicholson, Mac McDonald stood up to address the court; Ethel’s lawyer quickly stood up as well.

  ‘I shall object to Mr McDonald asking any questions,’ he urged. ‘I am instructed that Mr McDonald is acting for the gentleman who is alleged to have broken a contract of promise to marry Mrs Livesey, and I do not desire any question of that kind to be entered into.’

  ‘I think you will find that it is a matter for my discretion,’ Justice Clyne observed.

  Mac McDonald looked at Justice Clyne. ‘I shall not go into Mr Beech’s matter, I shall be asking questions on behalf of my client, Miss Nicholson.’

  ‘Then I shall allow Mr McDonald to ask questions,’ Justice Clyne remarked.

  Ethel bristled visibly as Mac turned towards her.

  ‘You told the court that Miss Nicholson took you to Mr Munro, the solicitor. Is it not the fact that you yourself located Mr Munro?’

  ‘No, Miss Nicholson and I went together to him,’ Ethel replied.

  ‘But did not Miss Nicholson, prior to that, come to your flat at Gowrie Gate?’

  ‘Yes, she stayed there on several occasions,’ Ethel confirmed.

  ‘And you told her you were pressed for rent?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You got in all £70 from her?’ Mac asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied.

  ‘And none of it was payment for rent?’

  ‘It was not specifically for that.’

  ‘Did you tell her that you had received a telephone message to say that your father was dead?’

  ‘No!’

  Mac looked at her a moment with a blank expression. ‘Miss Nicholson had told you that she had a block of land in the mountains?’ Mac asked.

  ‘She said that she would like to help me further.’

  ‘Did you arrange for her to get a mortgage?’ he asked.

  ‘No, she went and arranged it with Mr Munro.’

  ‘Did you offer Miss Nicholson a cheque for £100 to transfer the land to you?’ he demanded.

  ‘No, I did not have my cheque book with me.’

  ‘I am suggesting that you offered her a cheque and that you were going to post-date it.’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘I have no further questions,’ Mac said in disgust.

  When Ruby Johnson came to the stand, she looked like she was about to cry.

  ‘What is your name?’ Mr Richardson asked her kindly.

  ‘Ruby Katherine Johnson,’ she replied unsteadily.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘At Caroline Street, Kingsgrove.’

  ‘You have lodged a proof of debt in this estate for £717 6s?’

  ‘Yes, for a loan and to cover my legal fees,’ Ruby replied.

 
‘Did you pay the loan to Mrs Livesey?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, looking over at Ethel.

  ‘In cash?’ Mr Richardson asked.

  ‘I paid it to Mr Lander,’ she said, turning back to him. ‘The sum I loaned was £550, but Mrs Livesey offered me £700 … but I did not want to make a claim for £700,’ she added hurriedly, ‘although my solicitor advised me to—the £17 6s was to pay my solicitor.’

  ‘You advanced her a sum of £550, without any contract as to payment of interest or anything?’ Mr Richardson asked.

  ‘That is so,’ Ruby replied shakily.

  ‘Did you have any security for your advance?’

  No, Ruby replied, but Mrs Livesey gave her husband a gilt set she said was valued at £318. When they realised Mrs Livesey was going bankrupt, they took the gilt set to a valuer, who said it could be bought for £30–40 English money pre-war; they’d since sold it for £50, quickly adding that she would like that credited against her claim.

  ‘It did not turn out as good security as you thought?’ asked Mr Richardson.

  ‘No, a lot of things did not turn out that way,’ Ruby answered quietly, before attesting that she’d met Mrs Livesey through her husband, who worked at the Hotel Australia.

  ‘Tell me about this conversation asking for money,’ Mr Richardson continued. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She asked if she could borrow it.’ Ruby looked straight into Ethel’s eyes, then quickly turned back to Mr Richardson. ‘She told me she had an income of £8000 (over $500,000) a year, or £1500 a quarter—a legacy from her grandmother. She had been spending so lavishly, I believed her.’

  Holding back tears, Ruby explained that she had only known Mrs Livesey for a few weeks, but they had become quite friendly, so she lent her the money, and had told her husband she was lending Mrs Livesey the money.

  ‘Did your husband lend her any money prior to that?’ enquired Mr Richardson.

  Yes, she stammered, tears threatening as she looked desperately towards her husband, who gave her a small smile of reassurance. ‘She gave him a post-dated cheque.’

  ‘What did she say she wanted the money for?’

  ‘To pay Mr Lander,’ Ruby replied.

  ‘Do you suggest that Mrs Livesey tricked you in any way?’ Mr Richardson asked.

  ‘Yes!’ she sobbed, tears slowly flowing down her cheeks. She pulled a lace handkerchief from her bag and quickly wiped them away. ‘She, she told me she had an income of £8000 a year!’

  Sniffling into her handkerchief, Ruby explained that after about a month, when she realised Mrs Livesey had no such income, she rang her to ask when they would get their money back. Mrs Livesey told her she was expecting it any day. ‘When I told her I must have it,’ Ruby said stifling a sob, ‘she became quite abusive. She said “I have enough to worry me without people chasing me for money!”’ Ruby stopped, wiping away her tears in annoyance.

  ‘Did she say that to you over the phone?’ asked Mr Richardson.

  ‘Over the phone,’ Ruby nodded, ‘just like that.’

  Justice Clyne asked her, ‘The post-dated cheque was no good, was it?’

  ‘No,’ she replied, looking up at him sadly.

  Mr Richardson then asked if Mrs Livesey had mentioned owning any property in England.

  ‘Yes,’ Ruby said urgently, ‘two houses in England!’

  ‘Did she say what they were worth?’

  ‘Some fabulous amount—she was expecting to get about £8000 for them.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’ Justice Clyne asked.

  Ruby nodded furiously. ‘Yes, that is what she said.’

  William Rignold Grindell was sworn in next, the 45-year-old standing prim before the court.

  ‘What is your occupation?’ Mr Richardson enquired.

  ‘I have been on compensation for years—I was crushed in a munition works during the war. My heart is affected and liable to go at any time.’

  ‘Are you a creditor in the estate of Mrs Livesey?’

  ‘Yes, for a small amount,’ Mr Grindell replied. ‘As well as spending money on her, I put in a claim for £15 that I advanced to her.’

  ‘Was the sum repaid to you?’

  ‘No,’ he said, staring at Mrs Livesey.

  ‘Did your wife Lilian Alice Grindell give her any money?’

  Yes, he replied, but he didn’t know of this until after Mrs Livesey’s bankruptcy. ‘My wife never told me,’ he said. ‘Mrs Livesey got it secretly without my knowing.’

  He said in return for her £100, Mrs Livesey had given his wife a post-dated cheque for £150, which was now in the possession of the court. ‘I knew nothing about the cheque,’ he added. ‘She got my wife to do everything secretly unbeknown to me, or I certainly wouldn’t have allowed her to give it to her without security.’

  The Grindells had met Mrs Livesey through boardinghouse proprietor Mrs O’Hagan. They had taken pity on her predicament and offered her the best room in their house, where she lived for two or three weeks.

  ‘Your wife was friendly with Mrs Livesey?’ asked Mr Richardson.

  ‘Too friendly.’

  ‘As regards your £15 that you advanced to Mrs Livesey, do you think she tricked you into giving it to her?’

  ‘She tricked everybody.’

  ‘Did you regard yourself as being deceived by her?’ Mr Richardson asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In what way?’ Justice Clyne interjected.

  Mr Grindell said Mrs Livesey had told them she had £5000 coming to the Bank of New South Wales, from England. Mrs Livesey then asked his wife if she could mortgage their home for £500, in return for a cheque for £700. Mr Grindell had told his wife they didn’t want £700—only the £500 they’d loaned—and that if Mrs Livesey’s bank manager could verify the money was coming, he’d be quite willing to let his wife mortgage the home as security, but only for a short time, as his pension had stopped and their home was all they had in the world.

  ‘Did you attempt to verify the funds coming from England?’ Justice Clyne asked.

  ‘We made an appointment the next morning,’ Mr Grindell replied. ‘Our solicitor was to meet us there at the bank, her solicitor Mr Lander was to meet us at her flat.’ They waited at the flat for some time, before Mrs Livesey asked if he would run to the chemist and get some aspirin, as she had a headache. As he was leaving the building, a young fellow pushed passed him and headed towards Mrs Livesey’s door. Mr Grindell kept walking towards the shops, but feeling a little suspicious, stopped, turned back and knocked on her door. ‘The door never opened and I had to force it,’ he explained. ‘When I got in this young fellow—I found out later it was Mr Lander’s brother—had a paper on top of the piano and he was trying to get my wife to sign it. I yelled out, “Don’t sign anything until we see the bank manager and our solicitor!” Young Lander said, “What has it got to do with you? This is your wife’s property.” Well, I told him, I have the deeds and it will take a better man than you to get them from me!’

  ‘Did you verify this £5000?’ Mr Richardson asked.

  Mr Grindell nodded. ‘This was the same morning we had to go to the bank. I said to Mrs Livesey, “Are you prepared to go to the bank? My solicitor is there waiting.” She said she could not go—she backed out of it. The young man put on his coat and cleared.’ The Grindells then went to the bank, where their solicitor was waiting, and explained that Mrs Livesey had refused to join them. Their solicitor told them it was just as well, as he’d seen the bank manager and advised them to have nothing to do with it. So they didn’t mortgage their property—nor did they get any of their money back from Mrs Livesey.

  When Mrs Livesey was recalled to the stand after the creditors had given evidence, she stated they were mistaken, or were not telling the truth.

  Every time Mr Richardson asked a question, she reputed everything said against her.

  Finally, she was allowed to leave the court.

  Perhaps not strangely, after that she disappeared again.<
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  38

  MRS NAN GLOVER

  Two and a half years later, Ethel’s name appeared in the papers again. She was living in Brisbane, and the mystery of where she had been hiding out since leaving the Bankruptcy Court began to emerge.

  Her notoriety and size had made her easy to pick out in a crowd, and a Brisbane police officer by the name of Voigt had been looking out for her for some time. Like most of the country, he had heard all about the supposed cotton heiress and her guilty conviction on fraud charges dating back to 1933, and he couldn’t help but notice similarities with an outstanding case in Brisbane back in early 1935 under the names of Balfour and Grey.

  The observant officer took her to the police station for questioning.

  ‘You are Mrs Florence Elizabeth Ethel Livesey?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied with a sigh. ‘Whatever is this about officer? I have a lot to do today and I have only accompanied you here out of the goodness of my heart.’

  ‘You are also known as Florence Elizabeth Ethel Gardiner?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘That was my name a long time ago now.’

  ‘In 1933, to be exact,’ he stated. ‘And you also used the aliases of Anderson, McEwan, Balfour and Grey?’

  Ethel didn’t immediately reply, and he thought she was looking at him in a tired but cautious manner. He was onto something, he was sure.

  ‘You resided in Brisbane late 1934 through to January 1935?’

  ‘Yes, I can explain,’ she began.

  ‘All in good time, Mrs Gardiner. I have an outstanding warrant for your arrest for passing valueless cheques in January 1935, and obtaining four hats without payment from a millinery salon.’

  ‘I had been ill, Inspector,’ she began.

  ‘Sub-Inspector,’ he corrected.

  ‘Sub-Inspector, and I had absconded from bail in Adelaide before coming to live in Brisbane with a man—a cruel man,’ she added. ‘All of my offences were brought about by the man I was living with,’ she reiterated.

  ‘You admit to these charges Mrs Gardiner?’ Voigt asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  On 12 November 1949, Ethel appeared at the Brisbane Police Court before Mr C.R. Noyes, and again told her story of the cruel man she was living with, who made her commit fraud, all for the sake of her children. This man had told her to cash valueless cheques and give him the money; in return he would get her children out of the welfare home in Adelaide.