Nineteen minutes later, they were back again.
Verdict unanimous.
GUILTY.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
‘The deathly pallor of her countenance seemed to increase,’ says the contemporary record, ‘but the same strength of will she had heretofore displayed was again shown. Nervous sweat covered her face; and she now and again lifted up her hands from under the black shawl beneath which during the day she kept them folded together, and pressed them over her face, wiping away the sweat. She for an instant leaned forward and covered her face with a handkerchief as if crying, but sitting upright again, she folded her arms together under her shawl, drawing it close around her.’
The Clerk of the Court had written out the sentence and now handed it to the judge for signature. The Advocate Depute rose to his feet. ‘My lord, I move for sentence.’
A rumour had run round the court while the jury were absent: an extraordinary statement was to be made, either by the prisoner or for her. And now Mr Dixon was seen to go over to the dock and speak earnestly to her, and Mr Rutherfurd Clark joined them. After a brief discussion she took a paper from his hand, stood up in the dock and put back her veil. Mr Rutherfurd Clark turned to the judge. ‘My lord, I understand that the prisoner desires to make a statement before sentence is passed, whether by her own lips or to be read by someone for her.’
Lord Deas: ‘She is at liberty to do so in any way she prefers.’ And much good may it do her, he doubtless added to himself. He had heard prisoners’ statements before.
Every eye in court was fixed upon her: the ‘poor pale prisoner’ standing there so slender and graceful in her straw bonnet and the lilac gown. She raised the paper as though to start reading. But her courage failed her. She gave it back to Mr Clark and raised her white face to the judge. ‘My lord, I desire to have it read.’ And she cried out, distinct and clear: ‘I am as innocent as my child who is only three years of age at this date.’
Mr Rutherfurd Clark took the paper from her and, still standing there, one arm propped on the high ledge of the dock, into ‘a thrilling silence’, clearly and coolly, every word articulate, read out Mrs M’Lachlan’s story of that night.… *
It had been just ten—the clock in the Broomielaw was striking—as, with Mrs Fraser and Tommy and the little girl, she set off down the stairs; carrying the basket with the biscuits and the rum. ‘I meant to give Mrs Fraser a dram, and have a dram for Jessie, and enough to taste with them.’
At ten minutes past ten she parted from her friends at the Gushet house, and went on alone. She went to the front door and rang. Jess answered the bell. She said to come away down to the kitchen; but the old man was still up.
He was sitting in a big chair by the kitchen table. There were two plates and two glasses on the table, and bread and cheese. ‘Oh, is that you, Jessie?’ he said. ‘How are you?’ She gave him a greeting and sat down opposite him. After a little while he rose and went off upstairs.
She gave Jess her little offering and Jess poured out a glass of rum for each of them and put the empty bottle away in the cupboard. They were settling down comfortably when the old man reappeared, carrying a bottle with some whisky in it and a glass. He poured a little whisky into the glass and handed it to Jessie. She took a sip. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘drink it up!’ But she couldn’t ‘drink it up’ on top of the rum, and he picked up the glass and poured the whisky back into the bottle. ‘What sort of way is that to treat a person?’ said Jess, disgustedly. ‘Why don’t you offer it round?’
He looked doubtful. ‘Well, ye ken, Jess, we’ve had twa three since the afternoon.’ He wouldn’t mind, he said, but his son had complained of the amount of drink they got through when he left them alone in the house together. Of course it was really young John who took it, said Grandpa, but Mr Fleming was accusing him. ‘However, haud your ill tongue, and I’ll gie ye half a mutchkin if ye’ll go and fetch it.’
‘Aye,’ said Jess, ‘I’ve a tongue that would frighten somebody if it were breaking loose on them.’ The old man muttered something to himself, tipped the remaining whisky into a tumbler on the table and handed the empty bottle to Jessie—a bottle with a long neck, it was, and a flat, round base. ‘Go and get half a mutchkin.’ He gave her a shilling and twopence. (A mutchkin was half a pint—Jessie herself had bought half that much rum for her sevenpence ha’penny.)
Jess gave her the key of the back garden door and she went off, her grey cloak hung round her shoulders, into the lane behind the house. A woman was standing at the corner of Elderslie Street and another woman joined her as Jessie turned out of the lane and crossed Elderslie Street going towards North Street, and the two stood gossiping. She was making for a spirit shop in North Street on the right-hand side as you come up from St Vincent Street, and not far from M’Gaw, the fleshers (there is a spirit shop still in much the position she indicates. There is no M’Gaw’s, but it was something of a shock to the author to observe just opposite, a ‘flesher’s’ under the name James Lachlin). But by the time she got there it was two or three minutes past eleven and the shop was shut. There was a light in an upper window and she knocked a couple of times; nobody came, so she gave it up and started back, going on up North Street, left along Sauchiehall Street and this time down Elderslie Street to the mouth of the lane, completing the square. The two women were still standing talking and she saw now that one was Mrs Walker, the grocer’s wife. But they were on the other side of the road and she passed on without any greeting and turned into the lane. She had locked the garden door behind her and now she unlocked it again and went in, relocking it once more.
She had left the back door open—but now it was shut. She knocked at it but nobody came. She went round to the kitchen window—the gas was burning but there was no one in the kitchen. She went back to the door again and rapped at it sharply, using the key of the garden gate which she still held in her hand. At last the old man came. ‘I shut it against them brutes of cats,’ he said, and let her in, locking the door again behind her. She went into the kitchen and put the empty bottle on the table, and the unspent money. ‘I couldn’t get it,’ she said. ‘The place was shut.’ And she asked: ‘Where’s Jess?’ There was no use staying if the old man was going to be hanging about all the time. It was after eleven and she’d left her child alone. She might just as well go home.
He said nothing but turned and went out of the kitchen. She followed him and, standing there in the passage outside the bedroom door, she heard somebody moaning. He tried to stop her; but she pushed past him and, in the bedroom doorway, stood incredulously staring.
In the corner of the room opposite the door, Jess lay on the floor, supported on one elbow, her head drooping, her hair, hanging down over her face, saturated with blood. All round her, the bare boards of the floor were splotched with blood.
Jessie flew across the room and, tearing off her bonnet and shawl, knelt down by her friend. She was lying there, clad only in her petticoat and a dressing-gown, and she seemed in a stupor. When Jessie lifted her head she saw that there were three great wounds across her face, one across the forehead, two across the eyes and nose. She cried to the old man, sick with horror: ‘What have you done to her?’
‘I didn’t mean to,’ he mumbled. ‘It was an accident.’
She knelt by the injured woman, supporting the head and shoulders. ‘Bring some water. Lukewarm water.’ Holding poor Jess in her arms she implored, ‘Jessie, Jessie—what happened?’
Jess moaned and muttered but it was all unintelligible. Perhaps, she thought, he’s been trying to force himself on her and in the struggle she fell and cut herself. The old man came back with the water but it was too hot. ‘Get some cold,’ she said. ‘And bring a handkerchief.’ He went off again and got them and stood by while she tenderly bathed away the blood. ‘How could you do such a thing to her?’ she cried, seeing now for the first time the extent of the terrible wounds. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t know.’ He seemed anxious and distressed.
‘We must have a doctor,’ said Jessie, at last. ‘I’ll stay with her; you go and get one.’ But he demurred. He didn’t think Jess was as bad as all that. She’d be better soon, let them get her fixed up a bit and then he would go. He went out of the room and left her kneeling, holding Jess in her arms, and in a little while Jess opened her eyes. ‘Jess, what happened, what happened?’ But Jess only looked back at her, dazed and uncomprehending and though after a little while she seemed to begin to understand what was said to her, could give no coherent answer. They stayed so for a long time, Jessie just holding her friend in her arms, trying to staunch the bleeding, not troubling her with any more questions. But the old man did not return and after a while Jess seemed more rational and she said: ‘You ought to have a doctor. I must go and get a doctor.’
Jess understood that. She muttered, ‘No,’ and insisted, ‘Stay here with me.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Jessie, reassuringly. ‘I’ll stay.’ She raised her to a sitting position, still kneeling on the floor beside her, still holding the wet cloth to the wounds. The old man came back again.
He was carrying a large tin basin with water and soap and a cloth and he went down on his hands and knees and began to mop up the blood all about them, wringing the cloth out into the basin. But in getting up he slipped and fell on his elbow and the blood and water slopped over Jessie’s feet as she knelt there. Her skirt and petticoats were soaked and her boots and stockings so wet that she had to take them off. She sent him to fetch another handkerchief and with it bandaged the forehead, and got Jess to her feet and helped her over to a chair beside the bed.
Jess was terribly weak. She murmured that she wanted to lie down and together they got her on to the bed just as she was and pulled up the covers over her. There was a crocheted nightcap hanging on the looking glass and Jessie fetched it and put it over the handkerchief-bandage to keep it in place. The wounds across the nose were still bleeding and while Mr Fleming went on cleaning up the room she sat by the bed still trying to staunch them. Jess lay still with her eyes closed. She seemed very weak and getting weaker. ‘We must get a doctor,’ said Jessie.
The old man came over and stood by the bed looking down at the wounded face. But no, he said, there was nothing to be alarmed about. It would be time enough in the morning—he’d go for a doctor then, himself.
She would have insisted but Jess opened her eyes and again whispered, ‘No.’ Torn with indecision, she sat on beside her and after a little while Jess fell asleep—so perhaps, after all, there was no immediate danger. Mr Fleming left the room again and she heard him moving about, upstairs and down. She went out to the kitchen a couple of times, once for fresh water, once to put her wet shoes and stockings by the fire to dry. On the second occasion she found him in there, making a pot of tea.
Jess woke, and now she seemed a little stronger and her mind was clear. Jessie sat on beside her and as the hours passed and the dawn grew near, with the old man coming in now and then to look at the sick woman appraisingly and go away again—in murmurs and snatches, with long pauses of exhaustion, there emerged the story of that night.
The old man was afraid, whispered Jess. It was because she had made that remark about having a tongue that would frighten ‘somebody’ if it were let loose. The fact was that three or four weeks ago a gentleman, a brewer, had come to stay and on the Friday afternoon, the family having left for Dunoon as usual, it fell to Grandpa to see him off at the station. He didn’t get back till eleven and then he was ‘gie ’en tipsy’. Jess helped him off with his coat and went away downstairs to her bed; but an hour later he came down to the basement and tried to get into her bed and ‘use liberties with her’. She turned him out of her room in a fury and next morning she said she would tell his son about him, as soon as he got back from Dunoon. He begged her not to—not even to say that he had been drunk; if he hadn’t been, this would never have happened. She’d had no intention of telling Mr Fleming really, she’d have been too much ashamed, but she thought she would make the old man pay for his sins; and when, in his terror he offered her money to keep quiet, she thought she might as well let him pay in that way too: she was set upon going to Australia now, and this would help to finance the expedition. They had been continually at war ever since, and already today they had had words about it. When Jessie left the house to go for the mutchkin of whisky, he had turned upon her—Jess—for hinting that there was something she could tell. She ‘gave him some word’ and flounced out of the kitchen. Her stays were uncomfortable and she went into her bedroom and got out of her dress and put on a polka, and began to unlace them. He stood in the passage outside, shouting abuse at her and she, with her hands behind her unlacing her corsets, gave back as good as she got and, when she was ready to take them off, went over and shut the door in his face. She had slipped off the corsets and was standing tying her petticoats, when the door burst open and he rushed at her, struck her three times across the face and felled her to the ground.
Jessie was appalled by this story. ‘What will you do now?’
‘Am I badly cut?’ asked Jess.
‘Yes, badly, very badly.’
‘Then I’ll have to see a doctor; and I’ll have to account to the doctor for the injuries.…’
The old man came back into the room. ‘How could you have done such a thing?’ Jessie said to him. ‘How could you strike a girl like this?—and after the way you’ve behaved to her already.’
He gave her no direct answer—it was done he said, and couldna’ be helped now, but he was sorry and of course he would ‘make everything right for Jess’, and he would make up for it to Jess, as she very well knew. ‘And for you, Jessie,’ he said, ‘if you’ll haud your tongue and say nothing about it, never mention what you’ve seen—I’ll not forget it to you, either.’
It was after two o’clock in the morning, she was worn out with the shock of what had happened, with anxiety and strain. She did not know what to reply, what Jess would want, what she ought to do. ‘I wish I had never got mixed up in it,’ she said. She felt she could not leave Jess, and yet—‘What am I to do? I can’t stay here all night, my baby’s all alone at home with no one to look after him.…’
‘Mrs Campbell will look after him,’ said Jess. ‘Stay with me till the doctor comes.’ But when the doctor did come, she added, she’d have to explain to him; and when Mr Fleming got back from Dunoon, ‘I’m afraid I’ll just have to tell him who did it—and why.’
‘No, no, Jess, ye’ll no need to do that,’ cried the old man, anxiously. ‘And you, Jessie, there’s no need to tell, say nothing about it, tell nobody and I’ll put all to rights.…’
‘Who should I tell?’ she said. ‘It’s no business of mine.’
‘You won’t tell?’
‘No,’ said Jessie. ‘I’ve got no occasion to tell—why should I? You and Jess can take your own way—it’s no business of mine.’
‘You promise?’
It cost her nothing to promise: as she had said, who should she tell?—it was all no concern of hers. But he would not be satisfied, he went off upstairs and came back with the great family Bible, in its black cover, and there, in Jess M’Pherson’s presence, made her swear. ‘Swear by the Almighty God that you’ll never tell anyone man, woman or child what you’ve seen or heard this night between me and Jess. And I’ll never forget it,’ he also swore, ‘to either of you. I’ll make Jess comfortable for the rest of her life.’
It meant nothing to her to tell or keep silent; and if there were to be some little alleviation to be got out of it in her ever-pressing money troubles, she doubtless thought—well, all the better. She put her hand on the Bible and swore the oath. He calmed down again; and sat down beside the bed and remained there, quietly.
At about three o’clock, Jess told him to go away. He said he was all right where he was. ‘She told me she wanted to rise and make water and she got up in bed.’ So Jessie sent the old man off and helped Jess out of bed. She was very stiff and cold and sa
id couldn’t she go by the fire? Jessie wrapped a blanket round her and called to the old man and together they helped her through to the kitchen—though she seemed pretty strong by now, she could have managed on her own—and she sat down on a small piece of carpet by the fire with the blanket hugged round her. Jessie sent the old man back to the bedroom for a pillow and bedclothes and made a sort of bed for her on the floor, and she dozed off again. But she woke and said she was now too hot, so they moved her, without raising her, away from the fire a little and turned her so that she lay with her feet towards the hearth and her head between the table and the corner cupboard, towards the sink, and there she lay, restlessly dozing. Mr Fleming went off again, upstairs and downstairs and once or twice into Jess’s room.
Another hour passed. Jess grew more restless and at last woke and now she said she felt very ill. Jessie fetched water for her but she grew rapidly worse and at last admitted that she thought she ought to have a doctor. The old man was upstairs. Jessie pulled on her stockings and boots and went into the bedroom where she had thrown down her cloak and bonnet when she rushed to help Jess. The skirts of her dress were still damp and draggled with the spilt water and blood and she took down Jess’s everyday brown merino from its hook and put it on over her own dress and got on the cloak and bonnet. As she hurried out again she met Mr Fleming coming down the stairs. ‘Jessie’s worse,’ she said. ‘I think she’s very ill, I’d better get the doctor right away.’
He said he didn’t know—to wait a minute and he’d see for himself how Jess was. But she’d wait no longer. She realised at last that he had no intention of calling a doctor if he could help it, he was afraid of what Jess would tell. But there was no more time to be lost. She knew of one doctor in the neighbourhood—she would go and get hold of him, without any more delay. She hurried off upstairs.
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