CHAPTER 19
‘I AM GALL’
The smart way to approach the Peter Queen mystery – the classic discussion case – must be with temperance, not in the spirit of Sir Bernard Spilsbury, who was liable to stalk off in high dudgeon, refusing to speak to fellow-experts after a trial in which, as here, the jury did not believe him. Appearing unusually for the defence, he held to his adamantine opinion that suicide, not murder by Peter Queen, was the explanation for the death of his common-law wife, Chrissie Gall, on November 20th or 21st, 1931.
Had Queen strangled her, driven beyond endurance by her difficult, drunken behaviour, on an impulse, perhaps, or had she felt, indeed, in Gerard Manley Hopkins’ searing words, that ‘I am gall, I am heartburn. God’s most deep decree/Bitter would have me taste’ and decided to end it all, on an impulse, perhaps?
It was regarded by those who had the conduct of the matter as a most difficult case, full of mysteries at every turn. The verdict of Not Proven was widely expected. The learned judge suggested, in terms, that the opposing medical experts cancelled one another out. The defence resented that comment. Professor Sidney Smith, called by the defence, felt that the facts did not warrant a definite opinion either way. The judge directed the jury to the circumstantial evidence in preference to the scientific views.
The scene of crime, strikingly photographed with only the bedclothes over the corpse altered by the investigators by folding back, should have been more productive of non-equivocal clues. The place was number 539 Dumbarton Road, Partick, Glasgow, that being a ‘house’ in a tenement, ‘two stairs up’, of a superior type, with a ‘room’ as well as a kitchen, both small. There is an extant plan, from an exhibit in court, showing the disposition of the furniture in the kitchen, which, typically was the actual, warmer living area, with bed recess, kitchen range, sink, four chairs, a table, two ‘carpets’, and a luxury – a gramophone cabinet.
This is by no means, unless the camera lies, a sordid setting for a sudden death. The wallpaper, which extends around the bed recess, is flower-sprigged, the valance of curtaining below the bed has a decorative border, the upper curtain, pulled back, is of some shiny material, and the bed-clothing is ample and comfortable. On the table in the foreground, which nearly abuts the bed, except for an upright chair set closely in the runnel between bed and table, there is a pale tablecloth with a hint of seersucker. Two potted plants, one of which looks remarkably like an aspidistra, and some remnants of a meal lie on the table: closest to the head of the bed, there is a shiny, rectangular tray bearing a plate with some discarded food to one side, of the consistency of mince or Christmas pudding. Other items visible are a large jug, probably for milk, a sugar bowl, a tall jar of relish type, two glasses, three cups and saucers with two of the cups not on their saucers, three spoons, one knife, and perhaps another, a small cluster of pearly bead-like objects, like a Christmas bauble or an ornament, an ashtray with one or two butts sticking up and an opened packet of cigarettes. It is impossible to see if there are any cigarettes left. The indications are not of a home where all hope had been abandoned.
There are no signs of a struggle on the bed or in the room. The young, slim body of Chrissie Gall lies on the outer side of the double bed (her usual place) half on her back, but with her legs drawn up and turned towards the wall. On the well-plumped up, very white pillow, her head is still neatly coiffed with a lacy cap, variously described as a mob-cap or a boudoir cap. Its purpose was, I believe, to preserve the hairstyle of the ’30s. On the other pillow, to her left, apparently placed in an upright position, slanting at an angle of 45 degrees to the floor, is a bottle, nowhere designated, but almost certainly designed to hold alcohol. It looks as if some hand has deliberately planted it there. It may be full or empty or at some stage in-between.
The body is fully clothed in a garment, which, although said to be pyjamas looks more like a spangled, shiny kimono. It is not the bedtime apparel of a woman who has given up. Chrissie cared about appearances and there is a sad, jazz-age glamour about her death-bed. It is a famous photograph, and rightly so.
The house in Partick was a love-nest, of sorts, but really a sham, lacking in joy and romance. The relationship was fundamentally marred by Chrissie’s heavy drinking and profound depressions. The doomed young couple had been secretly living in sin, at a time when the wedding ring mattered. She desperately wished to be taken as a married woman, which may explain her careful housekeeping, even though she was often incapacitated – unless Peter Queen saw to everything. He was quite capable of doing so. His inability to make a respectable woman of her, because he already had a living wife, was blamed for her poor mental state. All who observed the pair commented on his absolute devotion to her.
Peter Queen was born in Glasgow at the turn of the century to a life outwardly promising enough but mined with terrible unhappiness waiting for him to grow towards it. He was powerless, predestined. The son of a bookmaker, he worked for him as a clerk. At 19, he entered into a marriage and there was one son, but it was a failure, and the couple separated after only two years. He paid maintenance. In 1929, his wife was removed to Gartloch Mental Asylum. Her diagnosis was said to be chronic alcoholism, but I would not vouch for it. The son was cared for by relatives.
Queen himself was later seen by two psychiatric experts, and they concluded that he was hypersensitive and nervous, and that his margin of control was exceedingly small. Since he was condemned to death at the time, this may not be a fair assessment. Of the several who have written on the case, none seems, other than William Roughead, although even he relegates the information to a footnote, to appreciate the importance of his special knowledge: ‘I happen to know on high authority that he suffered from a minor form of epilepsy, with short periods of unconsciousness.[Author’s italics.] Some years earlier he had tried to commit suicide by shooting himself through the left breast with a revolver, “because he had been blamed for losing a pair of boxing-gloves”.’
The two doctors referred to above also stated that Queen had been taking bromide and chloral for a long time, as prescribed by his medical advisers. They do not specify the complaint, but those drugs were the medicament of choice for epilepsy in the ’30s. It was not until a memorial pleading for his reprieve was presented that his illness was brought forward. As we shall see, his epilepsy might well explain parts of his conduct before and after the death. It will be only a suggestion.
In 1925, Queen first met Christina Gall, who was born in 1903, when she came to his home to work as a nursemaid for his younger siblings. She left school at 14 and went out in service as a housemaid. Her family were described as respectable, and she certainly feared their disapproval. Love bloomed. In October, 1927, her mother died and she went home to look after her father for three years, while still seeing Peter Queen, who took her out regularly in his car. Mr John Gall took a moderate view: ‘I had made up my mind that nobody would be able to separate them; they seemed to be so much attached and had been meeting so long, that I thought it was impossible.’
Chrissie’s drinking began after the death of her mother, which underlines the strong depressive element associated with her alcoholism. I wonder, however, if her decision to leave the Queen household after two years, in order to keep house for her father was not in fact motivated by filial duty but rather arose out of a desire to use the opportunity to cause some kind of change or resolution of a deadlocked relationship? Now, as Queen still pursued her, her behaviour deteriorated. She spent her household allowance on drink and failed to pay the rent. She was nearly 30 and she had no prospects.
By September, 1930, Mr Gall had had enough and he decided to wind up the house and go to live with a married daughter. Chrissie was homeless, her position was insecure and she was a liability, but Queen did not abandon her. On the same night that she left her father’s roof, he transported her to live as a lodger with his friends, James and Fay Burns, at Hayburn Street. He was a tram conductor. They welcomed her and looked after her like a daughter.
She was drunk when she arrived, and Mrs Burns put her to bed.
That Christmas, 1930, Queen left home and joined her in her lodgings. They lived as husband and wife, and Chrissie wore a wedding ring, telling the Burns’ that Peter’s wife had died, but it was too late, she was damaged and dejected and the drink had taken a vicious hold. She sneaked bottles into the house and hid them. Her days were idle and bleak when Peter was out at work. She herself was incapable of holding down a job. Having a baby was not an option. Alcohol is a depressant and she was seen to be ‘at it’ nearly all the time. When she was under the influence, she was awkward and quarrelsome, and then ‘very low’.
Threats of suicide began to occur, although the Burns’ did not tell Queen about them, thinking, perhaps, that they were only sick fancies, and not wishing to worry him. Sitting by the fire one day in a state of agitation, she suddenly made for the door, announcing that she was going to ‘make a hole in the Clyde’. Mrs Burns prevented her and put her to bed. She was always being put to bed. ‘some day some of you will come in and find me strung up!’ she threatened when scolded for breaking her vain promises to reform.
‘The gas’ is always a problem in these situations. You don’t put a kettle on the unlit gas if you intend to kill yourself, but you could, I suppose, be heedless that it was there, or you could even be overtaken by suicidal impulse in the very act of preparing to make a pot of tea. It was probably an accident, and a dangerous one, when Mr and Mrs Burns smelt gas in the middle of the night and found the gas ring in the kitchen full on under the kettle. At 2.00am, Fay Burns went to her lodgers’ room to complain – ‘She has just about gassed us all’ – and found them arguing – a rare glimpse. Normally, in his small, private, domestic hell, Queen was seen to be ever kind, patient, and affectionate, quick to excuse and hide Chrissie’s faults. This time, he said that he had been chasing her about all night and turning off the gases. He had found her in the lavatory with the gas full on and unlighted.
Mr Burns came to the conclusion that the relationship was absolutely hopeless, and advised Peter Queen to finish it and make Chrissie an allowance, even leave the country if that was the only way to extricate himself. Queen refused: he loved her and would never give her up. This was surely the ultimate declaration of regard, when another had offered him and as it were sanctioned an escape route. It was, though, high time to try a change of scene. No one has ever suggested that with extreme premeditation he deliberately transferred her to a more isolated setting where she was at his mercy – as can happen.
In August, 1931, the couple moved to their new house at 539 Dumbarton Road. There was no Fay Burns to supervise Chrissie during the day, and she was not a prisoner, continuing to go out to obtain alcohol by some means, and to visit relatives when she was sober enough. She kepSSup her practice of going to see her father and sisters every Wednesday, pretending that she was well placed in service in Kelvinside, and that was her day off. Queen rationed her household allowance to £3 per week, and she was supposed to keep up the rent of £2 per month. No alcohol was allowed in the house except for an occasional gill (quarter-pint) of whisky for social purposes. A supportive team of Mr and Mrs Burns, and other friends, Mr and Mrs Leonard Johnston (she being a sister of Fay Burns) kept an eye on Chrissie, coming in with bracing words.
A fortnight before the end there was an actual, unambiguous suicide attempt, unless Queen, who said that he witnessed it, was lying, and unless Mr and Mrs Burns were also lying. Chrissie herself, according to the Burns’, heard them all discussing the incident and did not deny it. James and Fay Burns were invited to tea. As the husband went to hang his coat behind the kitchen door, he said, he noticed that the peg was broken. ‘Who has been breaking up the happy little home?’ he jested with a remarkable lack of tact. Peter said that it must have happened during the night (with the meaning that he did not know it was broken) when Chrissie had tried to do herself in. There is a rather strange nonchalance about his response, or perhaps embarrassment. Chrissie, who was in the kitchen, heard this exchange and merely remarked that she was a damn fool and was going to make an effort to stop the drinking.
Howsoever they all made light of it at the tea-party, the happening that night, if it did take place, had been truly appalling. Queen speaks: ‘I was sleeping and was wakened up with a noise. I did not see anybody in bed, and I then got up and lit the gas to see what the noise was. I saw Chris sagging at the knees against the door, and I saw the two ropes, with a rope twisted round her neck. I immediately got her up as quickly as I could and took the rope off her neck. When I got her straightened up she fell against me, and I could see she was very much dazed. I put her to bed. I did not know what to do, but I got some water and moistened her lips, and I got into bed and stayed with her there and got her to be as quiet as I possibly could.’
Two days later, on November 14th, Leonard Johnston called and found Chrissie alone and perfectly sober. It seemed like a good time to reason with her: ‘Chrissie, why not try to stop this drink? ‘It is doing you harm.’ He had excellent recall of her response, an outburst: ‘Don’t I know that? But do you understand the position I am in? Do you understand the pretension (sic) of it all? I am fed up with life. I have to tell lies everywhere I go. I cannot go home to my own people but I have got to tell lies. Some day Peter will find me behind the door.’ She talked to Johnston about Peter: he adored her, had given her a coat, a beautiful ring, and the gramophone. She did not say how much she adored Peter.
Worried, he said, about Chrissie’s threats of suicide, Queen arranged a holiday, which, although presumably well-meant, could only have made her worse. It was mid-winter, and on Monday, 23rd, she was to be shipped off to bracing Aberdeen, where he had taken rooms for her with friends who would look after her. A medical opinion would surely have been more advisable, but his head, if he was genuine, was firmly embedded in the sand. Nessie, a niece, who had not been well, was to be her companion, although just a child, in the mistaken idea that a dependant other would be a therapeutic influence. Chrissie hated the whole plan, too passive with the weight of her illness to want to leave the warm haven of her small home, but too low to resist.
Thursday, November 19th, was the day before she died. It was a misspent time, bibulous, oblivious, surprisingly egged on by her own brother, Robert, who drank glass for glass with her. Perhaps he had no real knowledge of her problem. What it shows is that she was incorrigible, coming to the end of the road, and that Peter Queen would have had to be some kind of saint – perhaps he was – not to be disillusioned. After Peter had gone to work, she went to see her father, also at work, to tell him about Aberdeen, but he was too busy to talk, and they arranged to meet the following evening at her married sister’s home. We can see how dependent Chrissie still was on her own family, and they, incidentally, suspicious no doubt of Peter Queen, were to be anxious to play down the seriousness of Chrissie’s illness.
After being somewhat rebuffed by her father, she proceeded instead to visit the married sister, Mrs Walker, at her house in Shettleston Road, where she also found Robert Gall, not at work. Her handbag contained whisky and a bottle of beer. The telegram from Aberdeen which confirmed her booking was produced. Drinking took place. At 5.00pm, brother and sister left. She was unsteady. They went to a nearby public house, where she downed two small whiskies, a bottle and a glass of beer, and a large port. Robert gave her best on the port. As a takeaway, she stowed a gill of whisky in her handbag. Robert thought that he ought to escort her home – the secret, shameful home to which no member of her family had been admitted.
In Dumbarton Road there was a last, tempting bar, but the waiter refused to serve them, objecting that the lady had had enough. Chrissie told him what she thought of him. Peter Queen was waiting on the landing when they reached number 539. It was 9.15, and Chrissie had promised to be back at 5.15. She lied an alcoholic’s lie, and said that she had been all that time at her sister’s. In a touching scene which just might have been rank hypocrisy, although the mind
rejects the idea, Queen lit the fire, took off Chrissie’s wet shoes, and dried her feet. He put the kettle on for tea and brought a half bottle of White Horse whisky from a cupboard. All three had a small glass. Chrissie passed Queen a note. He acted on it, saying to Robert, ‘You see, Bert, this is my aunt’s house. I will have to get a move on, as Chris has a good bit to go to get home.’ Playing along, Robert politely announced, ‘I think I will need to be going before the aunt comes in.’ Queen saw him to his car.
Chrissie was inconsolable about this incident, according to Peter Queen, blaming herself for letting it happen, revealed as a kept woman. And so she went to bed, with only the spectacle of the ordeal in Aberdeen ahead of her. The next morning, Friday, November 20th, she dragged her tottery body out of bed, dressed, and went out. At 1.00pm she rang Queen at his office from a public telephone and asked him to go home because she felt ill. He was back by 2.00pm, and found Mrs Johnston already there. She considered Chrissie to be very drunk, and left, advising him to get a doctor. At 4.00pm, she returned with her husband. Chrissie was in bed, asleep. They left. What was Queen doing all this time? Thinking, smoking, doing the housework? Leonard Johnston came back at 7.00pm. Chrissie was still asleep. He told Queen that he had just seen the doctor’s car outside his surgery, so that he was available. Queen went off, but, he said, the doctor was inundated with patients, so he left a message for him to make a house call the following morning.
Classic Scottish Murder Stories Page 22
