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

by Carol Baxter

  While Buchanan failed to provide any reasons as to why ‘honest, upright’ jurors—or black sheep, for that matter—might deliberately hold out against a conviction, the public knew of one reason at least: the death penalty. ‘The opponents of the death penalty are now so many, and so determined, that it is very seldom that a jury does not include one or more of them,’ observed the Australian Star, ‘and when such men are included, the jury in capital cases degenerates into a debating society formed to argue the point as to whether capital punishment should be abolished. The question of guilt or innocence becomes of secondary consequence.’

  Was anyone aware that one of the jurors was in fact an opponent of capital punishment, a man named Henry Prior Palser who had helped found the Society for the Abolition of Capital Punishment two decades previously? No doubt he was one of the jurors who thought there was not enough evidence to justify an execution.

  The increasing aversion to capital punishment was a problem faced by many societies that retained death as the ultimate sanction. When the community that supplied jurors was not unanimous in its support for the law’s legislated punishment of death, it created not only a legal quandary, but a personal one. The power to order a judicial execution was put into the hands of ordinary individuals, men who had not asked for such a responsibility nor necessarily believed in the principle of ‘an eye for an eye’, lawful though it might be. Even those in favour of capital punishment soon realised that there was a gulf between stating in principle that one was willing to follow the law’s sentencing regulations and the reality of looking into the eyes of a person standing only a few feet away and ordering their execution. It was not just a question of society’s laws, but of individual conscience.

  Another parliamentarian declared that there would be more convictions if it were not for the death penalty, that jurors were more likely to err on the side of mercy for fear that the punishment might be too great. A letter-writer disagreed, saying that such a comment reflected poorly on the integrity of the juries in Louisa’s trials. ‘Doesn’t the honourable member know that these juries were sworn to give a true verdict and, if so, did he not insinuate that they infringed that dreadful oath?’

  But what did a ‘true verdict’ truly mean? In fact, what did ‘beyond reasonable doubt’—the grounds for a ‘true verdict’—actually mean?

  While both capital and non-capital cases should—in the eyes of the law—require the same degree of certainty, the term ‘beyond reasonable doubt’ was never defined in such a way that jurors had a simple set of rules to follow. It was ephemeral, elusive, an invisible fence positioned somewhere along the spectrum between certain guilt and undoubted innocence. In each trial, it was the jurors’ role to make a calculated guess as to where that fence might sit, a particularly difficult guess when only circumstantial evidence was available. Such a guess could be made with relative equanimity when the accused’s family and friends stood on one side of the fence and a gaolhouse door on the other. However, when the gaolhouse door was replaced by the gallows, that guess was a life or death decision. Inevitably, the jurors found themselves under another sort of pressure, with the result that one eye remained focused on the evidence, on trying to determine where that ‘reasonable doubt’ fence should be placed, while the other was drawn inexorably towards the grim spectacle of the gallows. Human nature being what it was, the ‘beyond reasonable doubt’ fence was inevitably positioned differently in a capital trial, so much so that a unanimous guilty verdict was harder to achieve. It was one of the many reasons why the cry against capital punishment would ultimately be heard.

  Certainly, the problems with hung juries didn’t end with their non-verdict. What about the right to a future fair trial? If the mere act of standing in the dock was prejudicial, what statement was being made to the jury when the accused was returned to the dock? Indeed, what statement was being made when Louisa was returned over and over again on what were almost the same charges? No person walking into the jury box could have been unaware of her story or of the authorities’ persistent attempts to convict her. No potential juror could have failed to hear the authorities’ silent scream: ‘Listen here! Do you think we would have brought her to trial for the second . . . or third . . . or even fourth time if we were not absolutely certain of her guilt?’

  There were further problems associated with bringing her to trial so many times. Each time the witnesses testified, their memories were reinforced through repetition. Yet it wasn’t repetition alone that acted as a reinforcement. Their moment of fame wasn’t limited to the witness box. The press printed their testimonies almost verbatim—not just a single newspaper, but many of them. What witness wouldn’t buy the newspapers to see what was written? What witness would limit his or her reading to a single instance? Indeed, some witnesses might even read the reports to friends and relations, or act out the original encounter so as to claim the limelight for an instant longer. As they read the reports, they wouldn’t restrict themselves to their own testimonies. They would read those of the other witnesses as well, accounts of statements they might otherwise have never heard. Each witness statement was like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle so, by reading the other statements, the witnesses could see where their own piece lay and what picture it helped to paint. The net effect wasn’t just the reinforcement of their own testimonies; rather, it perfected each link in the circumstantial chain. Each time Louisa was put to trial, the chain of evidence presented to the court was neater and stronger and harder to break and the chances of a conviction increased. Would the authorities attempt to do so enough times to obtain their desired result?

  So it appeared. Soon after the third hung verdict was announced, the newspapers reported that Louisa was to be tried a fourth time. Which husband? A third attempt would be made to convict her of the Collins murder. But if this prosecution also failed, the Crown would probably abandon the idea of putting her to trial for a fifth time.

  Many were surprised that the Crown hadn’t already abandoned its pursuit. There were substantial financial costs associated with each of Louisa’s lengthy murder trials—unlike the majority of criminal trials that were completed within a day. Furthermore, there were rumbles in the community about the Crown’s repeated attempts to convict her. Many thought the authorities had already crossed the line.

  Meanwhile, the Crown seemed to be doing everything in its power to ensure a conviction in Louisa’s fourth trial. In fact, parliamentarian Thomas Walker would later claim that the Crown organised to have the scheduled trial judge replaced with one of its choosing. ‘Mr Justice Stephen has not power, eloquence, and force enough to convince a jury of this country,’ Walker said by way of explanation, ‘so arrangements were made to get a particular judge who, because of his force of language, his clearness of diction, and other qualities of a judge, would be able to get a jury to convict her.’ The scheduled judge, Matthew Stephen, was indeed replaced at the last minute, seemingly at the urging of the Crown according to a letter written by the prosecutor himself. And Stephen’s replacement was one whose position did indeed attest to his pre-eminence in judicial circles.

  Was this the only reason for the last-minute change? Another parliamentarian would reveal that Stephen had expressed concern about the impropriety of repeatedly bringing Louisa’s children to court to secure their mother’s conviction, particularly when they were forced to loiter among its population of undesirables. So was the Crown’s reason for ousting Justice Stephen partly founded on a fear that he might intercede in its decision to call the children as witnesses? The Crown knew that without May’s testimony it had no ‘means’ in addition to the problematic lack of motive. Without May’s testimony it had no case.

  Chapter 30

  The cursed crimes of the secret poisoner

  We must confess are the worst of all,

  You bless the hand that smooths your pillow

  But by that hand you surely fall.

  You put your trust in those about you,

  When
you lie sick upon your bed,

  While you are blessing they are wishing

  The very next moment would find you dead.

  Chambers’ Edinburgh Journal

  And so it began again, the extraordinary case that refused to go away. Trial four; hearing six. Another packed courtroom. This time the biggest wig of the legal bigwigs was presiding: Chief Justice Sir Frederick Darley.

  Darley was so distinguished in appearance, so dignified in his air of command, that he looked as if he were born to wear the robes of office. His was indeed a forthright voice of authority making pragmatic decisions that would serve society well for a quarter of a century. Yet history would also condemn his judicial pronouncements as sometimes lacking legal brilliance. Would his rulings reflect wisdom or imprudence when he presided over Louisa’s fourth trial?

  Charles Heydon was again the lead prosecutor when the trial began on Wednesday, 5 December; it had been delayed for two days to allow Darley to preside. Naturally, as Heydon began his opening address, he didn’t mention the Crown’s previously unsuccessful attempts to convict Louisa, the three abortive prosecutions that hovered like ghosts behind the jury box.

  Although paler than the last time, Louisa still appeared calm and collected according to the Evening News journalist—a praise of sorts, if she were a man. ‘Callous,’ spat other reporters, seeing her dauntlessness as ‘unfeminine’ and a sign of the cold-blooded nature of the killer they believed her to be.

  The Crown began its case by calling Dr George Marshall. The only time the courtroom regulars pricked up their ears was when Lusk asked why he had failed to find arsenic during his own testing procedures.

  ‘I did not strictly follow the rules for making the Reinsch test,’ Marshall admitted. ‘I did not allow sufficient time to elapse to allow arsenic to deposit on the copper.’ He added that, some weeks later, when he had looked again at the test tube and copper foil, he had noticed unmistakable traces of arsenic.

  The members of the prosecution recognised that Louisa’s counsel had just made their case easier for them.

  Constable Jeffes was the next to testify, followed by the government analyst, then by Louisa’s children. Heydon was determined to drive home the most damning evidence at the start of the proceedings. Both Fred and May told the court that, on separate occasions, they had each poured condensed milk from a jug into their cups of tea but that their mother had stopped them from drinking the brew, saying that the condensed milk was only for Collins.

  Louisa remained cool and self-possessed while her children hammered more nails into her coffin. Her pride wouldn’t let her show the court how betrayed she felt.

  • • •

  Heydon was pleased. The critical testimonies of the doctor, constable and government analyst had built a robust cage of circumstantial evidence. Louisa’s three children had succeeded in pushing her inside by offering opportunity, means and a motive of sorts. But could he lock the cage door? The prosecution hadn’t succeeded in the previous trials partly because of doubts about how the arsenic had found its way into the men’s bodies. Heydon hoped that his larger array of expert witnesses would succeed in quashing those inconvenient doubts.

  However, the prosecutor felt the key to the cage slip from his fingers when Dr Milford, who had conducted Collins’ post-mortem examination, returned to the witness box. Milford reported that he had noticed a considerable discharge from the wound on Collins’ leg and a disagreeable smell. If an open wound was dressed with arsenic paste, he explained, it would be absorbed more quickly than undamaged skin, which might account for the large quantity of arsenic found in Collins’ body. He mentioned cases in which such a situation had occurred.

  A juror asked if anything about Collins’ leg sore suggested that arsenic paste had been applied to it. Milford replied that it did not appear to have been healed or treated but that Collins probably knew that arsenic paste would prevent a bad smell from arising so he might have treated himself in such a way.

  ‘Pardon me?’ said Mr Heydon. ‘I did not know that. Why must he have known it?’

  ‘Oh, pardon me,’ was Milford’s polite response. ‘I have given evidence in this case two or three times and have heard all that has been said about curing skins with arsenic. The deceased must have known that arsenic is used for curing skins.’

  Heydon had a witness lined up to counter any skin-absorption claims. Sydney University’s Dr Alexander McCormick told the jury unequivocally, ‘If arsenical paste had been applied to the wound on Collins’ leg, he would have died from poisoning before five grains of arsenic could have accumulated in his system. If the paste was strong, it would destroy the tissues; if weak, it would cause irritation at the place where it was applied. Considering the quantity of arsenic found in Collins’ body, I think it is impossible for it to have been absorbed by the wound on his leg.’

  • • •

  Dr Martin’s evidence was a crucial part of Heydon’s strategy. He asked the doctor detailed questions about Charles Andrews’ death in February 1887 and the conclusions he had reached then and now. He then questioned him about the death of the Collins infant, eliciting from Martin that the child was five months old when it died in April 1888 and was not premature.

  Lusk called out, ‘I object to the character of the evidence being adduced as it tends to show a motive for getting rid of Andrews. I cannot see how it can possibly affect the present case.’

  No one had the slightest doubt that he was objecting because he could see most clearly how the evidence would affect the present case. Heydon was attempting to repeat the strategy used in the Andrews trial, that of introducing evidence about the other husband’s death so as to suggest a pattern of murderous behaviour on Louisa’s part.

  The judge turned to Heydon. ‘Unless you intend to show a motive for Collins’ death, the testimony could be regarded as not pertinent.’

  ‘If light could be thrown on the relationship existing between the prisoner and Collins, light would be thrown upon the case,’ said Heydon.

  ‘Is there not in the evidence a suggestion that the motive was for the murder of Andrews and not of Collins?’ Darley asked.

  ‘The question is a difficult one to answer,’ Heydon said, sliding around the unwanted challenge. ‘Nevertheless, the course of the evidence in chief might tend to throw some light on the family history with regard to Collins.’

  Darley decided to allow Heydon to continue his line of questioning. Lusk accepted his ruling without asking that the point be reserved for later consideration, a request that a more skilled barrister—or a healthier one—would have made. Similarly to the previous day, he asked for an adjournment when the clock reached five-thirty pm. He had been feeling ill on the first day of the trial and was still unwell on this even more critical second day.

  • • •

  The prosecution finished with its witnesses the following day. Just before the midday break, a court official handed a telegram to a juror. The juror read it and called out ‘It is all right’ in an attempt to communicate a message to a spectator. The judge didn’t appear to notice, but Louisa did. She was paying closer attention to the proceedings than most people realised.

  In the afternoon session, Lusk called only two witnesses in Louisa’s defence: a boarder who testified that Collins and Louisa had lived on good terms, and one of Collins’ workmates who provided information about the day he fell ill. At four thirty-three pm, Lusk informed the chief justice that the defence had no further witnesses.

  It was a simple statement that spoke volumes to everyone in the courtroom. The end was nigh. After two inquests and three previous trials, the current trial had witnessed few startling revelations; yet, what might have seemed banal through repetition was still dramatic when set against the backdrop of the gallows. Moreover, whatever the verdict, Louisa Collins would not be seen in the dock again. Even if this jury was unable to reach a verdict, the Crown wouldn’t risk bringing her to trial for a fifth time. Four failures would not simply
be a misfortune; it would be politically mortifying.

  As the jurors moulded their faces into suitably solemn expressions, Lusk began his fourth closing address. No motive; an arsenic-filled tumbler that seemingly had been tampered with; reasonable doubt. The courtroom regulars had heard it all before. As for the Andrews evidence, Lusk said that the jury should discard it. ‘In Collins’ case, we are dealing with something substantial, inasmuch as the man died from arsenical poisoning; but in the case of Andrews we are simply dealing with vague suspicions. If Andrews was not proved to have died of poison, then all the evidence which has been submitted is completely thrown away.’ On the other hand, even if the jury was satisfied that Andrews had died from arsenical poisoning, it proved little as there was a reasonable possibility that some other person had committed the deed.

  After speaking for two hours, he offered his concluding remark: ‘I submit that the case admits of doubt from beginning to end and that it is your duty to give the accused the benefit of the doubt and acquit her.’

  With the courtroom dimming as night fell, Darley indicated that he would not begin his summing up until the morning. There was still time, though, to hear the prosecution’s closing address.