The exhumation took place very soon, on the Friday. Helen identified the body and she heard Bennison say that ‘he would not for ten pounds’ have had it raised. At some time, she went to Bennison and asked him where the rat poison was kept, and he said that it had been used; he had handed it over to Jane and then gone out to a meeting. The Macdonalds must have talked, because before then, Helen had never heard of rats in the house, or of poison being used. Nor had the neighbours, now that the truth was out, nor Mrs Porteous, nor sleepless Elizabeth Wilkie, whose coal cellar was situated immediately below Bennison’s and who had never seen a whisker in twelve years’ residence, even though she kept fowls in the area (next to Bennison’s store-pig [sic], presumably).
Sheriff officer George Ferguson was present at the exhumation, observing the suspect, William Bennison, as he identified the body as his ‘dear Jane’. Later that day, he proceeded to Stead’s Place where he found Bennison cowering in the illusory sanctuary of his own bed. He arrested him and removed him into custody, together with a small tub and a pot. In the press in the kitchen he found some powders, which were probably the chemist’s harmless remedies, untouched. In the cellar, however, he found in the ‘dross’ a piece of paper which did contain particles of arsenic. There was no sign of rat infestation.
The post-mortem showed no symptoms in any of the organs of recent acute disease, although the deceased had formerly suffered from ‘inflammation of the lungs’ and had been subject to asthma. Upon chemical analysis, sufficient arsenic (the quantity not stated) to cause death was traced in a gritty substance taken from the stomach, in the tissue of the stomach, and in the liver. The iron porridge pot seemed to have been carefully cleaned and there was no arsenic detected in it. Minute traces, however, were found in the tub. The piece of whitey-brown paper had been used for wrapping up arsenic. The doctors, on the same occasion, examined the body of Sandy’s dog, but found no evidence of arsenic. They did comment that dogs vomit with greater facility than human beings and are more efficient at eliminating poison. Another dead dog, belonging to a Mr Waldie, was also tested for arsenic, with negative results.
The trial of William Bennison for murder and bigamy began on July 25th 1850, at the High Court of Justiciary, Edinburgh. It was noticed that the accused looked ‘haggard and careworn’ but there was still enough power in his gaze for Mrs Porteous to falter in her evidence, whereupon the judge reprimanded him for the attempt to intimidate. He had emitted several loathsome declarations, and these were read in court at the close of the evidence for the prosecution, which had been strong and detailed. His statement was that on the Saturday he had set forth in quest of medical aid for his wife’s sudden illness but could not find a doctor. He wanted to try again in the afternoon, but his wife would not let him. He had told her to be careful with the rat poison. He denied his first true marriage, but later admitted the marriage to Mary Mullen. He had not actually deserted her: it was her suggestion that he should try Scotland since he could not get work in Ireland. Six months later, he heard that she was dead, and he believed himself to be a widower when he married Jane Hamilton. He was most surprised, when visiting his parents in Ireland, to learn that Mary was, in fact, still alive. He lived with her for two nights and they then left Belfast for Glasgow. The passage was very stormy and she suffered much. They went by coach to Airdrie, where she was taken ill and died in three days. Two doctors attended her. Because of the unfortunate mistake over the two marriages, he put no name on the coffin and was the only mourner at the funeral. What else could he do then but return to his dear Jane with the white lie about the death of his sister? Afterwards he did confess the circumstances of his first marriage to her and she begged him never to tell her sister, Helen.
The star witness for the defence was Margaret Robertson, who was defending her own reputation as much as Bennison’s life. She stated that she had a leaning to Methodism long before March, when she met Mr Bennison. None of her family was a Methodist, and they disapproved of her going to meetings. She knew that he was a married man and she never regarded him as a sweetheart. ‘I declare upon my oath that there was no courtship between us.’ He visited her home to offer up a prayer for her mother, who was poorly. She herself, she admitted, had thought that he ‘came too much about her’ but she lacked the courage to tell him so. Her own mother spoke to her about it when Mrs Bennison was alive.
One witness was there to attest to rats in Stead’s Place. Alexander Murray, who lived 19 yards from the Bennisons’ home, gave evidence to the effect that his premises were overrun with rats. He had caught eleven in his coal-bunker and had seen one a few days ago. A valiant attempt was made to refute the charge of bigamy; James Gibson, an Irish barrister, had stated for the Crown that a marriage celebrated by a dissenting clergyman between two dissenters, without proclamation of banns, would, in 1838, have been a good and valid marriage as the law stood. The defence tried to show that the first marriage was invalid, because Bennison was a baptised member of the Church of England, but the judge indicated to the jury that the prisoner had failed to prove that fact.
After 20 minutes’ deliberation, the jury returned verdicts of guilty of murder and bigamy. Bennison reacted with his usual pragmatism, remarking to the officer beside him in a matter-of-fact way, as if he were a mere observer, ‘It is of both the charges’. The Lord Justice-Clerk before formally pronouncing the death sentence, deliberately cast off the obligation to say something of improving import, because of the peculiar nature of the case. He addressed the prisoner: ‘When we find that you had professions of sanctity in your mouth even at the time that your unhappy wife was dying before your eyes as the result of poison administered to her by you, I feel it were vain to hope that anything I could say would have any effect upon your mind.’
William Bennison, very composed, then fully ratified that elegant and measured summation of his mentality as his strong Irish tones rang out in the shocked courtroom: ‘I do not blame the Court or the jury for their verdict but I say that I can here solemnly declare before God that I am innocent. I do solemnly before God pray earnestly for those that came up yesterday against me. I do solemnly forgive them this day.’
The Reverend Mr Hay, feeling the awkwardness of his wrong opinion of the man, was, however a match for Bennison and wrought upon him unremittingly until a confession was obtained, and sent to the Home Office. It was leaked to the Courant for all to savour:
His child having previously gone to bed, and Bennison having on the score of illness excused himself from eating anything that night, his wife was the only one that partook of the porridge, and to that her death is to be ascribed. He states that the girl Robertson had not the most remote idea that he had any interest in her except that of a religious kind [which would appear to be a confession of the nature of his interest in her] and that he never spoke to her unless in respect to her spiritual welfare.
The Courant hoped that there might be a confession of murder of the first wife – arsenic was strongly suspected – but Bennison drew back from that. No later writer seems to have searched for a record of that coffin without a name lost in a graveyard in Airdrie. On August 16th, William Bennison was publicly despatched by hoary old Murdoch of Glasgow, and a minor Oscar Wilde described the occasion in a street-ballad:
They led him out all clad in black –
Black coat and vest so white –
A mocking smile was on his lips,
He wore a nosegay bright.
‘Holy Willie’ they called him, with perhaps a touch of Shakespearean bawdy, and on the edge of death he ‘joined in the devotions with apparent fervour and at intervals uttered a deep response, his face wearing almost an habitual smile’. He left the world after a severe struggle.
CHAPTER 10
A TRYST WITH DR SMITH
To appreciate the perfidy of Dr William Smith (for the modern mind revolts against the jury verdict of Not Proven) we must first envisage the trusted family doctor, sole practitioner in a remote rural community i
n the 1850s, struggling with dire matters of life and death, attending frightening home confinements, facing up to ‘lunatics’ stricken with ‘mania’, preparing tinctures and potions, and driving out in all weathers to isolated farmsteads. A married man, he was London qualified, but had chosen to live and work in a far corner of Aberdeenshire, in the old village of St Fergus, lying back behind the coastline, five miles to the north-west of Peterhead. Perhaps a farmer manqué, he had bought up three fields around the village, in which he will have grazed stock for profit. His ‘offices’ or surgery were in the demesne of his house in the village, where he kept a pig and interested himself in the garden. He grew dahlias. Two servants, Martha Cadger and Eliza Park, made up the modest establishment. There was no affluence.
For some reason, in 1852, perhaps desiring to increase his agricultural holdings, or even (and this is pure speculation) to redress some gambling debts, he conceived the urgent need to lay his hands on a substantial sum of money. The perfect murder demands proactive measures, especially if an insurance fraud is contemplated. For a full seven years the doctor had looked after the medical needs of the McDonald family – widowed mother, daughter Agnes, and three sons, Charles, Robert and William – farming at Burnside, about two miles out from the village.
William, the eldest, aged 29, was the son that Dr Smith was interested in. Although so young, he was a widower, engaged to marry again, to a girl named Mary Slessor who lived at Hill of Mintlaw, some seven miles distant. They planned to marry as soon as he could find a suitable farm to rent, and had saved up enough funds from the wages paid to him by his mother. Sobered, no doubt, by his early experience of loss, he was thought of as hard-working, kind, and a great reader of the Bible. In spite of the difference in social class, a friendship had developed between the doctor and the young farmer. Let us hope that the liking had grown before the doctor’s plan had taken shape. It is difficult to imagine what they found to talk about, other than the land and animal husbandry. Latterly, William had been consulting the doctor as to likely farms. Dr Smith was his oracle and mentor, and he was completely under his influence. There are hints that his mother was not entirely happy about the unusual friendship. There is no strong indication that it was an amitié particulière.
A new element was beginning to creep into their conversation – the topic of life insurance. William understood none of it, but if Dr Smith told him to, he would sign anything. Dr Smith approached three separate insurance companies – the Scottish Union, the Northern, and the Caledonian – and insured the life of his young friend, William McDonald for the total sum of £2,000, in favour of the proposer, Dr William Smith. A person may only insure a life in which he can show that he has a pecuniary interest. For example, he may insure against the death of someone who owes him money. You cannot insure the life of anyone who takes your fancy.
James Hutchinson, agent for the Northern Insurance Company, scenting a rat, made further enquiries of Dr Smith, but he proved a wily fox and apparently satisfied Hutchinson by explaining that he had an insurable interest which was dependent on the life of a third party from whom he expected double the amount proposed to be insured. The real meaning of this mysterious mumbo-jumbo lay in the story that one William Milne, William McDonald’s uncle, owed the doctor £46 for professional attendance. William was expecting to succeed to his uncle’s farm. There is logic to it, and for good measure, the doctor sent up his fit, healthy body, William McDonald, to satisfy the insurers’ medical examiners at Peterhead. There was more to it, though: the general rule is that a policy fails if the life insured ends by suicide, but in this case the doctor saw to it that a special clause was written in to vitiate that possibility. It must be quite clear by now that Dr Smith intended to see to it that his protégé would become a felo-de-se. Meanwhile, Uncle William died but did not leave his farm to William McDonald. The policies stood and William’s disappointment could be grist to the doctor’s mill as a trigger to suicide. All oblivious, William continued to lean on his wise friend. ‘The Doctor’s a fine chiel, and I have always done as he bade me,’ he had told the insurance agents.
The dark day came on Saturday November 19th, 1853. From dawn to eve, William laboured on the farm, his head full of plans. In a few days’ time he was going to see his Mary Slessor at Mintlaw market, and on the following Tuesday he was going to see his brother, Charles, who had just left home to work on a neighbouring farm, Langside. That Saturday evening, he had an immediate appointment or ‘tryst’ with Dr Smith at his stable door in the village, and had to be there at 6 o’clock. He set off in the ‘gloaming’, on foot, before 5 o’clock and the tryst may be presumed to have taken place, because by 7 o’clock we can place him, perfectly happy, in the still open and lighted shop of James Smith, the village cartwright. Here he ordered some hames to be made (those being the two curved bars of a draught-horse’s collar), and also a grub-harrow for turnips. He said he would be needing some palings for the farm. For half an hour he stayed talking to some friends, in excellent spirits, before saying that it was getting late and he needed to be away home. It was just before 7.30pm when he left the shop.
That night, he did not come home, and on the Sunday morning, his brother Robert went out to look for him. The nearest way down to the village was by a path leading through Dr Smith’s six-acre field to a road which went toward the doctor’s stable. There was a break in the hedge which crossed the field, and in this sheltered place Robert found his brother lying dead in a ditch. There was what looked like a bullet wound in the right cheek, and the face was pitifully blackened with gunpowder. The body lay on its back in about one inch of water, and he pulled the head up on to the bank. When he did this, he found a pistol beside the ditch, four feet distant from the head in its original position. Robert McDonald ran to fetch the doctor, but he was out, so he left a message and returned to the ditch. He stood there, crying. Soon he saw Dr Smith and James Pirie, the village farrier, coming up from the main road. Dr Smith stood over the body. He seemed horrified. ‘God preserve us!’ he exclaimed, holding his hands to the sky. He picked up the pistol: ‘That’s the thing that’s done it.’ All three of them drew the body out of the ditch. The doctor said that William was ‘partly shot and partly drowned’. The wound was caused by a wad (the packing used to keep the charge in the gun), not by a bullet – that was his opinion, and it was a clear case of suicide. No-one (except the jury) ever accepted that opinion.
They carried the body to the nearest house, that of James Fordyce, where a preliminary search of the clothing was made. There was neither powder nor shot in his pockets, only a watch and snuffbox. William never carried money. He was wearing a kind of ‘polka’ (a tight-fitting jacket, often knitted, generally given as a woman’s garment) the pockets of which were too small to hold the pistol. A small point, but relevant. The body was trundled off home to Burnside by cart, and Dr Smith made for the farm on foot to break the news to Mrs McDonald. On the way, he met Mr Alexander Moir, Minister of the Free Church and informed him that William had shot himself. Bereaved Mrs McDonald would not accept it. Her son had never had a pistol. There had been no family quarrels (for the doctor kepttrying to insinuate that idea) and her son did not have a pistol. She must have been suspicious when she asked Dr Smith if he had met her son, as arranged, at the stable door at 6 o’clock, and he denied that there had been any such arrangement.
Dr William Smith, friend of the family, certified the death:
St Fergus, 20th November, 1853
I do hereby certify, on soul and conscience, that I was called upon this morning about half-past nine o’clock, by Robert McDonald, to see his brother William, who was found in a field near St Fergus and who had received a shot from a pistol in the right cheek, taking an upward and backward direction. There was a small quantity of blood coming from the ear and nostrils, the face completely covered with powder, so that the pistol must have been close to him, and from the direction it takes, I infer that it is not likely to have been done by any other than the dec
eased.
W Smith, M.R.C.S.L.
He took over all the funeral arrangements, pressing first for Tuesday, which was changed to Wednesday by forces outside his control. Rashly, he observed to the mother that if Boyd heard what had happened, he would soon be out. Boyd was the procurator fiscal, well known to the other professional man, and, sure enough he did arrive from Peterhead on the Monday morning. A post-mortem and an examination of the locus were carried out on that same day.
Dr Comrie, who practised in Peterhead, and Dr Gordon, a retired naval surgeon from New St Fergus, inspected the ditch and found that it was 18 inches deep with longish grass and decayed matter at the bottom, under about an inch of stagnant water. The impression of the body showed up clearly. The surrounding ground was hard and dry with no sign of any struggle. On the west bank, there was a mark of blood, which was incomprehensible if the deceased had stood in the ditch and shot himself. He had not suffocated or drowned. Death was instantaneous and the pistol must have been fired only a few inches from the head – say three to twelve. If shot by another, that person would have had to be at his side. On tracing the course of the wound to the cheek, the doctors found a pistol bullet lodged in one of the convolutions in the middle lobe of the left hemisphere of the brain. If the man had shot himself, he must have been sitting in the ditch. If he fell outside the ditch, it would have been a matter of a few seconds for another person to put the body into the ditch. An accident was inconceivable. (This had been one theory which Dr Smith had put about.)
Neither doctor would commit himself on the option between suicide or murder, except that Dr Gordon, who had actually known William McDonald, was in a position to give his professional opinion that he was not of suicidal disposition. He also shrewdly commented that, after making some experiments, he would have expected a suicide to have held the pistol closer to the head, and he thought it remarkable that the pistol had been aimed a little above the gums, whereas a suicide traditionally aimed at the ear or temple.
Classic Scottish Murder Stories Page 11
