The Killing of Louisa

by Janet Lee

  Janet Lee’s manuscript for The Killing of Louisa won the Emerging Queensland Writer category in the 2017 Queensland Literary Awards. She has a Doctor of Creative Arts from the University of the Sunshine Coast. Janet lives in south-east Queensland with her family.

  For my husband.

  Legislative Assembly

  19 December 1888

  Mr. MELVILLE called attention to the case of Louisa Collins, sentenced to be hanged for murdering her husband. He pointed out that, after two juries had disagreed, the Crown charged her with murdering the first husband, and the jury again disagreed. He challenged the Minister of Justice to give a parallel case in the history of New South Wales. She was then tried again on the charge of murdering her second husband.

  The Sydney Morning Herald1

  Prologue

  Darlinghurst Gaol, Sydney

  8 January 1889

  I dreamt I was walking in the tunnel, the one I walked from the gaol to my trials at the courthouse. I walked down the sandstone steps and into the darkness.

  There, my warder, Alice, was waiting for me. She smiled and beckoned me to walk on. Then both my husbands walked alongside me instead.

  I turned first this way and smiled at Charles and then turned and smiled at Michael.

  Michael carried our baby, John. The baby wasn’t crying any more, but laughing and gurgling, fat and healthy, as he never was when he was alive.

  There was a light at the end of the tunnel and by that light I could see May, and she ran towards me. She wore a white dress and new black boots. In her hair was a blue ribbon embroidered with bluebirds. She took my hand and she said, I love you Ma, and I bent down and kissed her. Then my other little children all appeared and together we walked down the tunnel, into the light, and I could see a table covered with food.

  They took treats from the table and ate them and laughed and danced as they did when I held the wake for Charles.

  When I came up to the end of the tunnel and into the light the other children ran back the way I had just come and I could see them disappearing into the darkness.

  Michael held out John in his arms and I bent to take him, but as soon as I held the baby he shrank back into the fretful child he had been in life and he began to cry and squirm. Charles reached down to the table and then turned to me with something in his hands. He smiled and held up a glass.

  Drink? he said.

  I handed John back to Michael, and the child was quiet.

  I looked at the glass which Charles held, and I nodded; the glass was a nobbler from the hotel. Just like the one the lawyers said had sat upon the shelf in the kitchen at home, the one they said sat in the courtroom each day.

  Charles reached over and took up a small jug from the table. He filled the glass with milk. I took the glass and lifted it to my lips.

  Drink, Charles said again.

  I drank.

  I tasted the milk, but it was off and I spat it out.

  They laughed at me.

  They tipped their heads back and roared.

  Too bitter for you, Louie? Michael asked.

  Charles shook his finger at me. Drunk again, Louisa, he said. This has to stop.

  Then May pointed at the table.

  I saw the box, she said. I saw the rats.

  I looked to where she was pointing, down at the table, and the treats were gone. The table was covered with rats, dead, lying on their backs, open boxes of Rough on Rats all around them.

  I dropped the glass and clutched my throat. The rats came alive and began chasing me. I started running, running back to my prison. The light faded, and the tunnel lengthened, but I kept running.

  When I wake, my heart is pounding and my skin is alive with sweat. I have a terrible pain in my guts, and hurry to the bucket which sits in my cell and serves as my privy.

  As the pain eases, and my bowels finish, I will my heart to slow and I calm myself that I am well.

  I tell myself that I’ve just had a bad dream and this has scared me into the pain I feel in my guts.

  I tell myself I did not drink the milk, that there was no poison, there was none in the glass.

  I tell myself there never was none.

  Then I realise, though I am awake, the nightmare has not yet ended.

  For today is the day I might hang.

  Prisoner’s Letters – Passed by Permission

  From Prisoner LOUISA COLLINS

  September 1888

  To The Sheriff

  Sir,

  Permit me most respectfully to address you, I implore you to take notice to these few humble lines. My religion is Church of England. The Church of England Minister visits me on occasions. The subject is not religion I wish to speak of tis about my late husband Michael Peter Collins, was a Roman Catholic and when he took ill I wanted to send for the preist in fact I begged of him to let me send for the preist. He said no my love I will neither see preist or parson. I only want you. I dont wish to see any body I could not in any way persuade him to see the preist while he was alive. So after his death I sent for the one at Randwick as there are none living in Botany. The preist came in his buggy to my place. He had scarcely alighted when the two Botany Police that was stationary on my house all that morning I certainly thought they were friends. But later on I discovered that Doctors Marshall and Martin had ordered them to do so. When the priest was about come to my door the police detained him for a considerable time talking to him. I wondered at the delay I then sent some one to invite the priest in. He came in and read prayers over the dead body of my husband that was laying on the bed, spoke a few kind words to me and then he left. What I want to find out is this. What was the police saying to the preist. And why delay him when I sent for him.

  The Sheriff

  Sir,

  I beg of you to grant me permission to see the two Sisters of Mercy that visits this gaol. I am sure they would only be too glad to take pitty on me and see the preist in Randwick. I am sure it would throw some light on the subject of the death of my late husband Collins which is schrouded in mystery at the present time. I asked Governor Reads permission to see the Sisters and have made several other requests of him since I have been in gaol. And he refuses me. In fact he most grossly insults me and speaks to me as though I was one void of feeling. I am only waiting trial as you know. If he is the gaoler over a few prisoners and captives he is a man ought to know better how to speak to a woman in my sad posistion.

  To The Sheriff

  Sir,

  I cannot write myself but if you will grant permission to the authoritys to allow me, a prisoner woman, for I have some awful disclosures to make before my trials comes of which will make things look very different to what they do at the present time.

  Praying that you may be pleased to grant my humble requests.

  Most Humble and respectfull,

  Louisa Collins2

  1.

  Darlinghurst Gaol, Sydney

  26 November 1888

  I am lying in the dark in my cell, straining my ears to hear the sounds of the birds waking in the pre-dawn. I think about how they fly wherever they might wish. And how I cannot fly.

  Other times when I wake, I lie and think of how it is only here, in prison, that I am really free. I am not woken by a baby wanting to be put at my breast, or by a man needing me. I do not have to wash and clean and cook, although there are those in the gaol who do. But I am not a convicted woman and I have been busy attending my many trials so I am not given these jobs to do every day, though I have attended to the needlework on occasion. In my cell, there is a small window which does nothing to bri
ng in fresh air or light and serves only to let in the flies and bugs that they might visit the slop bucket and then crawl over me.

  I’ve been convicted of no crime, but I have been locked up all the same. They are saying I killed my husbands. They say that I killed Charles Andrews so that I might marry Michael Collins. They say that then I killed Michael Collins. And at the inquest they tried to say I killed my own child John as well, but they could not prove that to the inquest jury.

  The inquest juries said I poisoned my husbands.

  And now they say in my trials as I done it with Rough on Rats.

  I have been talked about at two inquests and three trials, and though the juries at the inquests said they thought I poisoned my husbands, there has been no trial jury who will say I am a murderess. So the court keeps me locked here while they search to find some other men who will think I done it. How long can they hold me here and keep looking? I think they can hold me as long as they want, and even though I have written to the Sheriff in a most respectful way, he has not helped me. The Prison Governor treats me as though I done what they say I done.

  He holds me here in gaol.

  There are many who speak against me, but it is my own daughter, my May, whose words hurt me the most in court. May tells them that I kept poison in the house. But what good housewife in Botany doesn’t, on account of the rats coming for the blood from the sheep skins used in the tanning factories? I kept Rough on Rats, and I used it on occasion, as it was the best poison to kill. Everyone said so, including the Botany grocer, Mr Sayers.

  He did not sell it at his shop, but other shops did, and in some Sydney stores you could buy Rough on Rats when you bought your devilled ham or baking powder.

  They don’t charge everyone who buys a box at a shop with murder.

  May had talked to her little friend Florry and told her about finding the Rough on Rats box when May was in the kitchen and of how she told me so, and now everyone wonders whether I hid the box after that. Of course I hid it. I had thought I kept the box well out of the reach of the children, but after May found it, I took the box from the high shelf and put it somewhere else, where she would not find it again.

  That was my crime.

  I should never have done it.

  Then the police got my girl, who was only ten at the time, and the lawyers placed her in the witness box, though she could hardly see over the top of it, and then they made her words sound so she would damn her mother. She gave her testimony and whenever she stumbled over her words, they questioned her again and again and she is only a child.

  She said she had seen the box in the kitchen, and that she seen it the week before Michael Collins had died. And she said that it was a little round box with a lid. What was on the box? they said, and the lawyer spoke about it for a considerable time, and put the words into her mouth, asking if there were pictures on the box, and my May, well, first she said there was nothing on the outside. So they asked her again. Was she sure? they said and I think they prompted her to think of something she should say, so she nodded. Pictures of rats, she said, and the rats were red, lying on their backs. And the lawyer asked could she name the box, and she said she could, and that she had told me at the time. She told the court she said, Look what I’ve found on the shelf, Ma, and that she read the label to me: Rough on Rats.

  Now she just recites the story every time.

  And I have to watch while the lawyers and judges say, Thank you, May, and smile at her, smug as you like.

  The child would not know how her words make it look like I done it.

  But they never asked me about the box.

  And they never found the box when they looked in my house.

  Then when it came to the nobbler glass, they said it was full of arsenic, and that I had been the only one who had filled the glass and given anything to my husband Michael to drink. They said this as though it were a crime for a wife to care for a sick husband. They said that I had fought with the constable when he wanted to take the glass as evidence, which I did not, or I do not remember doing, as I was in a very great sorrow at the time, and I may have been drowning my sadness. And others who were there have also said I did not fight with him, or that they did not see that I did, which is the same thing.

  And in any case, if I had put arsenic in the nobbler glass, why would I have not thrown the glass away, before the constable even came there at all? There were plenty of those nobblers at the hotel, which is where the one I used to give Michael his last drinks on Earth had come from. I could have just nipped up to the hotel and got another. And with so many of these glasses about, how could the lawyer be certain that the glass shown as evidence in the trial was the same glass from my house?

  They asked my little May if she seen the glass which was on display in the court, and pointed to the glass that sat on a table right in front of her in the courtroom. And they said it as though they wanted her to answer in a certain way. So, of course May, she said yes, she had seen that nobbler glass and it might have been the very same one which had sat beside Michael’s bed. And that was exactly what the lawyer wanted her to say, so he smiled and thanked her, sure as you like, and said, No more questions, your Honour.

  Even with May’s story, the jury at the trial couldn’t agree that I done it. And when they told the judge that they could not agree, the judge said they could go home, and so home they all went and that night they slept in their own beds.

  But I got sent back to prison, to wait here while another jury was found, and I had to sit through another trial with them talking as though I murdered Michael with Rough on Rats.

  Then that second trial jury couldn’t agree.

  So the court went looking for another jury and sent me for another trial, although it was a different judge, and this time they charged me with murdering my first husband, Charles. My May came back into the court and gave her story, only this time they pestered her about the Rough on Rats and whether it was used to kill her own father and whether she had seen it before, when her father was alive, and she would have only been such a young thing then. She is still such a young thing. The trial courts are cruel to be doing this to my daughter and make her say her story at each trial, and even more so this time as they were saying it was her mother who killed her own father.

  And cruel to me as well, for I have to listen each time.

  The trial jury could not decide that I murdered Charles.

  So the judge sent me back here.

  And told me I am to wait while they find a new trial jury who says I done something to one of my husbands.

  Brevities

  In giving evidence against her mother, Louisa Collins, at the Central Criminal Court … a pretty child, named May Andrews, 11 ½ years of age, was much affected. The prisoner and several of the jurors felt the situation keenly.

  Evening News3

  2.

  Darlinghurst Gaol, Sydney

  28 November 1888

  This morning I wake early, before there’s any light, and I grope my way to the slop bucket. I dip my hands in the water bucket which sits alongside the slops and I wash my face.

  It is already hot and the cell is putrid with the smell of sweat and the privy bucket. I would like to sprinkle some water across the floor and lie there as it might afford some cool, but there is no room and if the warder comes and sees me lying down on the floor she would think I am mad.

  I can hear little noise from outside the female cell block. The walls of the building are thick. There is always noise from within the walls, though. The warders, as they walk up and down the steps, the clanging of doors and the sounds from within the cells. In my cell there are just two beds made of straw mattresses placed on pieces of timber to keep them off the floor, a slop bucket, a water bucket and the small slit window. Some of the cells have four or five women in them, and the cells are no bigger than this one.

  The ai
r must be stifling.

  Flora lies on the other bed in my cell and now I am awake her snoring makes it impossible to return to a state of sleep. She snores as though she has been down the hotel for the evening, gulping in her air with loud snorts, and then blowing it out with wobbling lips, making a ridiculous noise, one such as you make to entertain a baby by blowing bubbles at them. Between some of the breaths Flora holds the air, so the rhythm is not enough to hum you to sleep.

  She cannot blame the drink for her snoring, as she has been locked away for six months for stealing and no drink has been available, at least none that she has shared with me. Flora does not protest her innocence, and freely admits to me that she has stolen and that she has been doing this profession since she was a girl. She likes the lice in prison, she says, and then she tips her head back and laughs, and when she does this you can see her black teeth.

  She is due for release soon.

  The flies are crawling over my skin, licking the little drops of moisture which sit there. There are so many flies that even though the morning is already warm, I keep the blanket over me to stop at least some of my body from being walked upon.

  Flora’s snoring reminds me of the house I had at Botany and all the children and men who lived there and how loudly some of the boarders snored.

  When she is in the prison, Flora is always put to work in the prison laundry, her being a frequent visitor to the gaol. She says the warders know she can be trusted there, and has none who bear her a grudge and they don’t worry she would push an inmate into the boiling water, or hit them in the back of the head with the washing dolly, as she says has happened with others in the past. She just cleans the linens and does not mind the heavy lifting, or the extra laundry when she is washing the private underthings for the warders.

  Flora is wiry and strong. During the day, she soaks and boils and wrings and hangs, and so she comes back to our cell smelling fresh, which is a blessing in this small space, for there are those who share a cell with some who smell bad and who you can sniff out at the length of the dining table.