Black Widow: The True Story of Australia's First Female Serial Killer

by Carol Baxter

  As the judge continued his summation, the Evening News reporter glanced at Louisa to see how she was reacting. While she continued to display an air of unruffled coolness, her eyes were alert as she watched the judge tip the scales one way then the other.

  Regarding the defence’s case, Foster remarked on Louisa’s two inquest statements, the first before there were suspicions that she had poisoned her husband, the second afterwards. ‘If she knew, when the inquest was held, that her husband had had a strange packet of powder in his possession, why did she not say so at the inquest? It was only after she was charged that she mentioned seeing him with such a paper. No trace of the powder has ever been found, and her statement is not corroborated by any other evidence.’ As for her claim that this explained Collins’ trouser-wearing, the jurors had to ask themselves if he was wearing them to keep warm or if, as the prisoner alleged, it was to conceal a packet of poison. As for the suicide argument, Foster said that Collins was unlikely to have repeatedly dosed himself because of his weak state and the additional suffering it would have caused him.

  Then there was the question of the arsenic-filled tumbler. ‘It is to this matter that you should give the most careful attention,’ he told the jurors. He reminded them that Louisa had told the police that she herself had supplied Collins with the milk in the tumbler and that Jeffes had testified that she had tried to stop him taking it away. ‘Why should she try to stop him unless she knew there was something in it?’ Foster challenged the jury. ‘But then again, if she did know there was anything in it, why did she not remove it? It is an extraordinary fatuity that, in many cases, poisoners do not do away with the traces of their guilt, which could easily have been done away with, and some stupid thing left undone is often the thing which brings the crime home. I cannot say it was so in this case, but such is the case in many criminal cases.’

  Of course, there were other points in the prisoner’s defence that they should equally consider, including her anxiety to have the doctor’s assistance. ‘This is a most important point for you to consider. This is contended on one side to be a sign of her innocence, but the Crown contended that she did this to screen herself in case of discovery. If the prisoner was committing a secret crime, why did she call in medical men, the men most likely to discover her? The fact that she did so must be considered in her favour.’ They should also consider the fact that she sent for a vomiting powder to help her husband. If she was trying to poison him, it was hardly likely that she would give him a powder that would rid his body of that very poison.

  Finally, three-and-a-half hours later, he concluded: ‘The responsibility rests on you, and I do not think I can help you very much. If, after you have given the matter your most careful consideration, you are unable to remove any doubt that may exist in your minds, then it is your duty to give the accused the full benefit of that doubt and find her “not guilty” even if you think the evidence is greater against her than in her favour. If, on the other hand, you come to the conclusion that she administered the poison, you will bring in a verdict of guilty.’

  • • •

  The spectators filed out of the courtroom at one pm to allow the functionaries a respite for lunch. They huddled outside in the rain for half an hour before being allowed back in. By that time, Justice Foster had retired to his room. He would be alerted as soon as the jury had reached a verdict.

  The clock struck two then two-thirty, three . . . three-thirty. Still there was no word. With weary determination, the spectators remained in their seats, knowing that the court wouldn’t wait for them to reappear if they took a ‘necessary’ break at an inopportune moment.

  At ten minutes past four, the judge’s associate and the Crown prosecutor entered the courtroom. The spectators’ chatter ceased as if a tap had been turned off. Eager eyes focused on the two men. Had the jury reached a verdict?

  Two minutes later, the judge entered the courtroom and took his seat on the bench. Louisa was returned to the dock. The reporters saw her watching the jurors as they took their places, all the while wearing her usual look of complacency.

  ‘Gentlemen, have you reached a verdict?’ asked the judge’s associate.

  The silence was so intense it was as if the air itself sizzled with expectation.

  ‘No, Your Honour,’ replied the foreman.

  The bubble had been burst. The spectators slumped in their seats. Strangely, the only person who seemed unmoved by the foreman’s response was Louisa herself.

  Justice Foster asked how they were positioned.

  ‘There is no likelihood of the jury reaching a verdict,’ the foreman advised. ‘We paid careful attention to the whole of the evidence, and one or two of us even took full notes throughout the trial, which we read over and fully considered after we retired last night, but we found it impossible to agree.’

  ‘I am very sorry that you could not arrive at a verdict,’ said the judge. ‘I would willingly release you now if I could, but it is not in my power to do so. By law I am compelled to lock you up for twelve hours before I can discharge you.’

  The foreman pressed for the jury’s discharge, but the judge said that he couldn’t change the law. The foreman pleaded, ‘If we were locked up for a week we wouldn’t be able to come to any agreement.’

  ‘Even if, as you have stated, there was no chance of agreeing, I would not be at liberty to release you until one o’clock in the morning. As many of you live out of town, it would not be convenient for you to be discharged at such a late hour. I will attend the court as early as possible in the morning—say nine o’clock—at which time I will discharge you.’

  • • •

  The crowds were smaller on the fourth day of the trial. The foreman’s unequivocal declaration that the jury hadn’t a hope of reaching a unanimous verdict had quenched much of the excitement of the previous day. Even so, many Sydneysiders were determined to see the finale for themselves. Perhaps some of the jurors might have experienced a Damascus-like conversion of opinion overnight.

  Again the jury filed in; again Louisa took her seat in the dock. The Echo reporter remarked: ‘Her appearance certainly did not leave the impression that she had passed an anxious night, and was not such as would have been presented by many undergoing such a trying ordeal.’

  Again the judge took his seat; again the question was posed: ‘Gentlemen, have you agreed upon a verdict?’

  ‘No, Your Honour. It is impossible to agree,’ said the foreman emphatically. ‘The opinions of the jury seem immovable. We have been considering the case for over twenty hours and there is no possibility of us reaching a unanimous decision.’

  The Daily Telegraph reporter watched Louisa as the foreman explained the jury’s predicament. His keen eyes noticed a momentary lifting of her mask of indifference as an air of relief settled over her, accompanied by a faint smile of satisfaction.

  Justice Foster asked the foreman about the division of opinion and was told that it was nearly equal. The judge then thanked and officially discharged the jurors. Before they departed, he added, ‘I think the case is one upon which conscientious gentlemen might hold different opinions.’

  Chapter 21

  Trial by jury has been termed the palladium of British liberty.

  Evening News

  With Louisa’s case again sub judice, the press refrained from commenting on her guilt or innocence, although the Evening News couldn’t resist publishing an editorial on the subject of trial by jury. The editor expressed concern about the fallibility of juries, saying that their verdicts were sometimes so incomprehensible that shocked judges had been known to recommend that names be struck off the jury lists. Many in the community thought that jurors left their commonsense outside the jury box, that their semi-superstitious sense of responsibility deprived them as a group from exercising the sound judgement they might have used as individuals. Stories had even been told of disagreeing jurors tossing a coin to decide whether the verdict should be ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty’, as i
f the fate of the person standing in the dock was of no more importance than a choice between beef or mutton for dinner.

  What really concerned the editor, though, was the significance of a hung verdict. He recognised that a defendant might sometimes end up with a friend or two on the jury, people whose personal feelings prevented the jury from reaching a unanimous verdict. Clearly, though, that was not the situation in Louisa Collins’ case. Twelve jurors had heard exactly the same evidence, yet half—or thereabouts—had reached one conclusion and the other half the opposite conclusion. What’s more, they had formed their conclusions based on their own judgements because the judge’s summing up had been so impartial that it was hard to know how he would have voted if he himself had been sitting in the jury box.

  This also raised the question as to whether a jury of twelve ordinary men was capable of reaching a unanimous verdict unless the judge provided a clear direction as to which way—in his opinion—they should cast their vote. That being the case, it was not only an unsatisfactory outcome, it was damaging to the prestige of trial by jury as a means of arbitration.

  • • •

  Meanwhile, frustration creased the brows of the Crown law officers. Where had they gone wrong? They had proven that Collins was killed by arsenic poisoning, that Louisa by her own admission was the only person giving Collins nourishment, and that arsenic had been found in a tumbler she had given him, one she’d tried to stop the constable from taking away. So what ‘reasonable doubt’ had led half the jurors to want to acquit her?

  Others were pondering the issue as well. Obviously, the Crown’s inability to establish a motive was a critical factor. When only circumstantial evidence was available, an apparent motive helped glue it all together. Instead, the Crown’s case had communicated the opposite. The fact that Louisa had married Collins so soon after her first husband’s death suggested that their relationship was based on passion rather than convenience, which was supported by the Crown’s own witnesses, who had testified that the couple lived on good terms. Moreover, Collins was a temperate man who was usually at home in the evening, so in her hasty remarriage Louisa hadn’t embraced a drunken bully she might later have wished to eliminate from her life. True, Collins was only an intermittent worker, but the Crown had been unable to demonstrate that Louisa would financially benefit from his demise. Worse, it had shown that Collins’ death had shut off Louisa’s primary source of income, the money she and her children needed to survive. The Crown had also shown that her behaviour reflected concern for Collins’ wellbeing rather than callousness and that there was no air of subterfuge in any of her actions.

  Additionally, the Crown’s witnesses had brought to light some odd behaviour from Collins himself—like his comments to the police that he was ‘all right’ and would be ‘up in a day or two’ even when he was on his deathbed. Did this suggest that he didn’t want people nosing around too much? Perhaps it wasn’t surprising that even the judge himself had recognised that there were grounds for reasonable doubt. So how would the law officers deal with these difficult issues when they brought the case to trial for a second time—if they decided to do so?

  The Crown’s next step was obvious when Louisa was brought before the Central Criminal Court on 15 August to be arraigned again on the same charge. They would delay retrying the case until the court’s next sitting, which commenced on 29 October. The law officers hadn’t yet arraigned her on the Andrews’ charge, so this would allow the Crown another two-and-a-half months to decide how to proceed with both cases.

  As Louisa was returned to Darlinghurst Gaol to await the Crown’s pleasure, the law officers asked Coffey for his recommendations. Coffey mentioned the Crown’s failure to establish a motive but said that, in his opinion, the evidence had been strong enough to prove her guilt. Still, he suggested that the authorities attempt to trace the purchase of the Rough on Rats and also find out more about the Collinses’ relationship in the months before Collins’ death, perhaps by questioning May Andrews. Additionally, the Crown should question everyone who was at the house on the Saturday evening before Collins’ death to clarify when the liquid in the arsenic-filled tumbler was last changed and by whom.

  • • •

  Senior Constable Sherwood was charged with reinterviewing the witnesses. In mid-September, he forwarded a number of witness statements to his superiors, along with a summary of his newly discovered information. He had established that the arsenic-filled tumbler taken from the Collinses’ bedroom had first been used on the evening before Collins’ death and that Ellen Pettit had collected and thoroughly cleaned the tumbler before handing it over. He also reported that Louisa had obtained some paper, ink and a pen after the police left that same night and had put them on the table in the front room—although no one knew why.

  May had answered questions about her home life, saying, ‘Since my father died, my mother and Collins used to beat me and my little brothers with a walking stick, and tell me I was like my bloody father.’

  Sherwood offered no opinion about May’s remark. It was an ugly revelation. Yet perhaps they were acting merely on the Christian principle of ‘spare the rod, spoil the child’. Whatever their motives, it was clear that Louisa’s feelings about her first husband were bitter and long-lasting.

  • • •

  Those with a keen interest in Louisa’s case continued to keep an eye out for reports about her; however, the press maintained its silence. Before long, the Botany Poisoning Case was eclipsed by startling reports arriving from Britain.

  ‘Horrible murders in London,’ announced the Sydney Morning Herald on 10 September 1888. Some women of the ‘unfortunate class’ had been murdered in the Whitechapel area—horribly mutilated in fact. Who was the culprit? It was an anatomist who wanted organs for medical exhibition in America, declared the London coroner late in September, without stating why he was attributing responsibility to one of those upstart Americans.

  A day later, the Whitechapel Murderer was at it again, leaving two more mutilated bodies in his wake. By 22 October, the press was reporting that the police had practically abandoned all hope of catching the perpetrator unless he revealed his secret during an unguarded moment or was caught in a future act. Then there was another murder. Soon afterwards, a letter was published in the press, supposedly sent to the London police by the murderer himself. ‘I am down on whores,’ howled Jack the Ripper, ‘and I shan’t quit ripping them till I do get buckled.’

  It was a reminder that killers often keep killing until someone or something stops them in their tracks.

  Chapter 22

  I desired liberty; for liberty I gasped; for liberty I uttered a prayer; it seemed scattered on the wind.

  Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre

  Sitting in the dock had been frightening, but at least the eyes boring into her had testified to the reality of her existence. Behind the gaol walls, it was as if she were invisible. Although she hadn’t been convicted of any crime, she was being treated as if the verdict was already in, as if the clanging gates of Darlinghurst Gaol had screamed ‘guilty’ more loudly and authoritatively than any jury.

  Her letters to the law officers and the police were being ignored. Worse, she had discovered that her letter to her defence counsel had been redirected by the gaol’s governor to the sheriff. It was only forwarded to Lusk after he complained that he hadn’t received it. Lusk was horrified when he learnt of this breach in legally mandated confidentiality, more so when he discovered it was a customary practice. He warned the sheriff that, if the practice continued, he would be forced to raise the matter in the proper quarters.

  Her request to the Crown Solicitor for the inquest depositions relating to Andrews’ death was also ignored, as was Lusk’s reminder. It was only after Lusk sent another threatening letter to the Crown Solicitor that the office deigned to respond.

  Clearly, Lusk was her only conduit to the legal authorities. What chance would she have had of properly defending herself if she’d had no on
e on the outside to argue for her rights? Indeed, how many people had gone to the gallows because of the Crown’s reluctance to grant them their legal rights—or indeed the Crown’s breaches of those same rights? It was obvious why the sheriff was the automatic recipient of private letters from prisoners to their barristers: the Crown wanted him to assess the contents and communicate anything necessary to the relevant authorities. Did this include the Crown law officers who were trying her case, indeed trying all of the prisoners’ cases? Where was the ‘justice’ in that?

  • • •

  The days were slow and tedious, spent working silently in the laundry or sewing room. The food never varied: hominy and bread for breakfast, meat and potatoes for the midday meal, and hominy again for tea. Late each afternoon, she was returned to the female dormitory, a tall, rectangular, stone building known as D wing. It had three tiers of cells with an open area in the centre, which was sometimes used by charitable ladies who read to them once a week.

  Although still awaiting trial, she was incarcerated in the same building as the convicted women. She enjoyed some privileges in terms of diet, dress and visitors; however, similarly to the convicted women, she was locked in her cell every evening at five, where she remained until six the following morning. Her bed was a hammock: a strip of canvas attached to iron rings on the wall, which was rolled up during daylight hours. She could read until the light faded, but the nights were long—too long. There was little else to fill the mind but unwelcome thoughts and dreams.

  She began another letter to the sheriff, begging for an answer to a question that had troubled her. While she belonged to the Church of England, her husband was a Roman Catholic. Despite these differences, she had attempted to do the right thing for him before and after his death.