by Carol Baxter
‘Never before in the hundred year history of Australia has a female prisoner become so notorious as Louisa Collins.’—Evening News
Two inquests, four trials, three hung juries and the executioner . . . but was Louisa Collins really a husband killer? Was she the callous adulteress, drunkard and liar known as the Botany Bay Murderess and the Lucrezia Borgia of Botany Bay? Or was this mother of seven a spirited and defiant woman who was punished for breaching society’s expectations of womanly behaviour?
Compelling, freshly told and richly detailed, Black Widow uncovers the truth of a story that challenged the morality, the politics and the notion of law in an Australia on the edge of nationhood.
What the critics said
The Peculiar Case of the Electric Constable
‘As gripping and readable as any crime novel, but all factual and based on remarkable research.’—Sydney Morning Herald
‘Totally irresistible.’—The Independent, UK
‘As lively and readable as a crime novel.’—The Times, UK
‘A fascinating history, mystery and portrait of a complex, contradictory man.’—Daily Mail, UK
‘A fascinating reconstruction of a real historical case . . . You can’t beat a good courtroom scene, and the 50-page account of Tawell’s trial is as good as any I’ve read in a crime novel.’—Independent on Sunday, UK
‘A deftly woven tale.’—Maclean’s Magazine, Canada
Captain Thunderbolt and His Lady: The true story of bushrangers Frederick Ward and Mary Ann Bugg
‘This beautifully told story may change the way we see our history.’—Good Reading
‘This compelling book is a valuable contribution to our colonial history.’—Canberra Times
‘. . . a compelling yarn.’—Sun-Herald
Breaking the Bank: An extraordinary colonial robbery
‘Colourful characters, daring deeds, crime and punishment, cruelty and compassion: Carol Baxter’s meticulously researched book has it all.’—The Australian
‘A story like [Breaking the Bank] is a mine of historical information but rather than a dry retelling of the facts, Baxter writes it like a crime thriller . . . riveting.’—Adelaide Advertiser
‘A great story . . .’—Launceston Examiner
‘. . . an accomplished story-teller.’—Australian Historical Studies
‘. . . racy and packed with vivid descriptions and incidents that make for a compelling read and an incisive look into our brutal convict era.’—Newcastle Herald
An Irresistible Temptation: The true story of Jane New and a colonial scandal
‘. . . with a fine eye for the complex motivations of characters, both political and personal, [Baxter] paints a vivid picture of Jane New’s world.’—Sydney Morning Herald
‘A vivid social history.’—Canberra Times
‘[a] compelling work of popular narrative history.’—Courier Mail
‘. . . a work that captures the reader . . . an excellent example of how a good story can illuminate the past.’—Australian Literary Review
‘An Irresistible Temptation is just that—an irresistible mix of intrigue, scandal, crime, punishment tinged with romance and a dash of social history.’—Journal of the Royal Australian Historical Society
Other books by Carol Baxter
An Irresistible Temptation
Breaking the Bank
Captain Thunderbolt and His Lady
The Peculiar Case of the Electric Constable
First published in 2015
Copyright © Carol Baxter 2015
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia
www.trove.nla.gov.au
ISBN 978 1 74331 501 9
eISBN 9781 74343 227 3
Internal and cover design by Lisa White
Typeset by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Cover photograph: Louisa Collins, State Records of NSW, No.4335.p.84; Jul 1888; Series: NRS2138[3/6050]
Never before in the hundred years’ history of Australia has a female criminal become so notorious as Louisa Collins.—Evening News
Contents
Part 1: Suspicion
Part 2: Confusion
Part 3: Wrathfulness
Part 4: Retribution
Part 5: Justification
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Notes
Bibliography
Louisa’s favourite photograph, taken with her second husband, Michael Collins.
Suspicion cleaves to the dark side of things.
Publilius Syrus, The Moral Sayings of Publilius Syrus
Chapter 1
Be extremely mysterious, even to the point of soundlessness. Thereby you can be the director of your opponent’s fate.
Sun Tzu, The Art of War
The newspapers sitting on Sydney’s breakfast tables on Monday, 2 July 1888 contained little news from abroad. The two telegraph cables connecting Australia with the rest of the world—the umbilical cords that sated the public’s appetite for ‘instant’ international news—had fallen silent the previous Friday evening. Tests showed that each cable had ruptured in the Bali Strait; however, 600 miles of ocean floor separated the breakages. Could a volcanic disturbance or other natural phenomenon simultaneously sever cables as far apart as Sydney and Melbourne?
The authorities were concerned. They knew that the Chinese government was unhappy about Australian responses to the ‘Chinese question’, notably the agitation to have the ‘yellow hordes’ banned from landing on colonial shores because they were taking jobs and profits and destroying Australia’s Christian society. China was not the only nation of concern, however. The French had colonies in the Pacific, as did the Germans. And a Russian man-of-war had anchored in Sydney Harbour for the centenary celebrations only six months previously.
The Sydney newspapers reported that the Victorian and South Australian governments were taking precautionary measures to guard against a possible attack. Victoria had activated a war alert, sending its gunboat to patrol outside the Heads of Port Phillip Bay and ordering its fleet to put itself in fighting trim. Reinforcements had been sent to the Melbourne forts and submarine mines laid in the channels. If trouble was ploughing through the ocean towards Australia, Victoria was ready to defend itself.
The question preoccupying Sydneysiders on that rainy Monday morning was how their own premier, Sir Henry Parkes, would react. Were they too about to find themselves on a war footing?
• • •
Heavy rain pummelled Sydney throughout much of the miserable winter’s day, and by five pm the streets were largely deserted. In the lamplight, a woman could be seen hurrying towards 241 Elizabeth Street, the home and surgery of
Dr George Marshall.
When the doctor came to the door, she begged, ‘Can you come and see my husband Michael Peter Collins at Botany? He is no better.’
Marshall frowned at the woman in confusion. Her plea suggested that her husband was a patient and had received recent medical treatment, yet the man’s name sparked no memories. Nor was the woman herself familiar—a handsome woman, he observed, with heavy-lidded brown eyes and a sensual face framed by dark hair, although long past the bloom of youth.
‘I do not recollect the case,’ he replied cautiously.
‘He was the man who came into the waiting room to get his fee.’
An image came to mind of a youngish man, much younger than the woman standing in front of him, a new patient who had entered his surgery four days previously without explaining his choice of physician. The man said that he had a bad cold and cough.
‘How do you suffer?’ Marshall had queried automatically, a question he’d asked thousands of times during his years practising medicine.
‘I have a slight cough and no appetite and nothing will lie on my stomach. I also have a pain over my stomach and feel ill all over.’
‘How long have you been feeling unwell?’
‘I began to feel ill a few days ago. I felt a slight pain in my stomach upon coming home from work.’
Marshall had asked the patient to remove his shirt then listened to his lungs through a stethoscope. No suspicious rattles or bubbles or wheezes. His heart? No murmur or whooshing sound. Marshall reached for the man’s hand and counted his pulse: slow and steady. Temperature: normal. He then told the fellow to open his mouth and poke out his tongue. It was clean and healthy-looking. Going by this quick general appraisal, he decided that the man’s ailment was not serious. ‘You are suffering from general malaise preceding an attack of fever,’ he advised and wrote a prescription for expectorants to reduce the man’s bronchial symptoms and diaphoretics to alleviate the coming fever. Then he asked for his fee.
Collins’ response to that obvious request was the only odd note in the visit. He said that his wife was in the waiting room and that he would need to ask her for the money. It was duly produced.
Marshall had thought nothing more about the case between then and now. When Mrs Collins repeated her plea, he prevaricated, ‘I did not think him very bad then.’
‘He is very sick—worse than when you saw him before. He has been vomiting ever since and cannot keep the medicine down.’
‘I saw nothing alarming about his condition,’ the doctor assured her. ‘Will it not do if I visit him tomorrow?’ Botany was some eight miles to the south, so even a few minutes’ attendance at Collins’ bedside would take up hours of his time. ‘I have an engagement this evening and scarcely have time to travel so far.’
‘No!’ she cried. ‘I must have a doctor tonight! I am afraid my husband will die before morning.’
Faced with such desperation, he had little choice but to comply. He collected his medical bag and hurried with her through the rain to the nearby tram stop in Elizabeth Street.
Sydney was becoming increasingly familiar to the young Irish medical practitioner after six years beetling around the metropolis treating patients. The adventurous son of a County Tyrone medical family, he had gained his medical degrees from Dublin’s Trinity College in 1882 and had sailed for New South Wales soon afterwards. Initially, he had joined his uncle’s Liverpool Street medical practice before opening his own surgery on Elizabeth Street. Medical bags were a common sight here; indeed, medical practitioners had plaques on nine of the twelve properties lying between Marshall’s and Liverpool Street. The luck of the draw, more often than not, determined which door a new patient would step through. However, as the doctor boarded the tram on this bitter winter’s night, it seemed more like ill-luck that Michael Peter Collins had chosen his own doorway.
This particular tramline headed south to Botany Road, a lengthy thoroughfare that in its final stretch clung limpet-like to the north-eastern shoreline of Botany Bay. The history books said that Captain Cook had named Botany Bay after the wealth of plant-life collected by his botanists. A visionary, he had also wondered if the oyster-shaped bay might seed a future British settlement, another pearl in the necklace of the British Empire. Two decades later, the First Fleet had been ‘bound for Botany Bay’—until Governor Phillip took one look at the area and abandoned the plan. Insufficient fresh water; an unhealthy swampiness. His decision proved wise. Later settlers found it hard to scratch out a living. The land surrounding the bay was better suited to industry than agriculture, businesses that drew male workers and their families to the area, people like Mrs Collins and her ailing husband.
The tram stopped at the Lower Botany terminus, where the pair alighted. Ignoring the allure of the lights welcoming them to George Amos’s Botany Bay Hotel, they started walking through the darkness towards the Collins house. In daylight, the area might have seemed isolated. On a bleak winter’s evening, it was desolate. To their right, a split-rail fence separated the road from an expanse of sandy scrub, beyond which lay the waters of Botany Bay. To their left, lights gleamed from the windows of scattered cottages, the homes of fellmongers and wool-washers who worked in the local industries.
They crossed a small bridge spanning a swamp. This section of flat, marshy scrubland bore the name Frog Hollow, and the frogs’ mournful croaks filled the air.
Soon they reached Pople’s Terrace, a collection of free-standing and semi-detached cottages paying tribute to their owner, Edward William Pople. Around six pm they stepped through the front door of 1 Pople’s Terrace, a tiny cottage thrumming with the demands of children wanting their supper. Marshall found himself in a small sitting room with a window overlooking Botany Road. A fireplace featured on one wall, with glasses decorating its mantelpiece.
Mrs Collins pointed to a doorway and Marshall entered a small, grey-painted bedroom. A dressing table sat under the front window and the bed was pushed against the far corner. Collins lay on the bed, uncovered. Surprisingly, for someone reportedly on the verge of death, he was partially dressed, still wearing a shirt and trousers.
‘How are you?’ Marshall asked.
‘The vomiting won’t stop,’ Collins complained.
Marshall asked if he had any other symptoms.
‘I have diarrhoea and straining and am passing something like white of egg. I have a feeling of heaviness over my stomach, and I cannot get any sleep.’
Marshall cast a diagnostic eye over his patient and decided that Mrs Collins’ fears were unwarranted; her husband didn’t appear to be gravely ill. Commencing his physical examination, he noticed that Collins flinched slightly when his stomach was pressed but no more than the last time; otherwise, his pulse was still strong and regular and his tongue was clean. He asked Collins how his illness had begun.
‘It came on while I was returning from work a few days before I first saw you.’
Marshall recollected from Collins’ surgery visit that the fellow answered only the questions asked without volunteering any additional information. Needing more details, he probed, ‘Had you eaten anything unusual in your supper the night before, like tinned fish or anything else likely to have disagreed with you?’
‘No. I don’t know of anything.’
That being the case, Marshall decided that Collins’ continued illness without the onset of fever suggested that his initial diagnosis had been wrong. Seemingly, the fellow was suffering from a gastroduodenal catarrh, a congestion and soreness in the liver because of his body’s failure to eliminate toxic waste. Just to make certain, he returned to the sitting room where Mrs Collins hovered and asked if her husband had eaten anything that might have caused the vomiting. When she too could think of nothing, he advised her to administer lots of fluids, especially soda water, barley water and milky tea, and to dose her husband with the new medicine he was prescribing. It included Grey Powder (mercury), which would serve as a laxative, and Dover’s Powder, which included ipecacua
nha and opium. Collins was to take the medicine night and morning to relieve the straining and lessen the pain. ‘Let me know how he is tomorrow,’ he added, then hastened to catch the returning tram.
• • •
Overnight, the rain abated. Sydney awoke to a bright winter sun beaming from a cloudless blue sky. News-wise, though, it was the blackest of nights. ‘It is like a failure of the senses, a stoppage of hearing, an eclipse of sight,’ moaned the Sydney Morning Herald as the fourth day of international silence began. ‘We are cut off from that daily communication with the great world which has become to us something like a sixth sense. We are made to feel our isolated position.’ Of course, some people felt the impact more than others, as the Evening News pointed out. Cricket fans were devastated. How could they learn the result of the Australia versus North of England match?
The New South Wales press also reported that Premier Parkes had dismissed the notion of an enemy invasion as alarmist nonsense. Like a sibling taking delight in salting his rival’s wounds, he had boasted to Victoria’s panicking politicians that Sydney’s defences were more than sufficient to rebuff a surprise attack and that he would leave them to ‘catch the enemy’. The Sydney Morning Herald also mocked the southerners, asking what they were planning to do if it were indeed a Chinese attack force. Levy the hefty poll tax now imposed on all Chinese landing on Australian shores and force the captains to pay the legislated fine for carrying more Chinese than their tonnage allowed?
Meanwhile, the probable cause of the two cable ruptures had been determined. Further tests had shown that the damage occurred at points lying 889 and 859 knots from Port Darwin, in the vicinity of neighbouring Sumbawa and Sandalwood islands. Volcanic activity rather than enemy action was the likely culprit.
Still, it was a reminder of the dangers of complacency, that enemies always lurked and that the advances of modern society could not always detect and protect.
