My initial impression of R—— M—— was not entirely negative. In his general bearing, he was certainly of low physical stock, but he was not as repellent in his features as the majority of the criminal class, perhaps on account of not breathing the rank air of his urban brethren. His complexion, however, was pallid, and his eyes, while alert, were close-set and capped by thick eyebrows. His beard grew sparsely, although this may have been due to his relative youth, rather than any hereditary deficiency. In his discourse with Mr Sinclair, he appeared quite lucid, but I noted that the advocate’s questions were frequently of a leading nature, requiring the prisoner only to offer confirmation of what had been suggested to him.
I dismissed the advocate and in the presence of the gaoler directed the prisoner to remove his clothes. This he did without protest. He stood before me quite without shame, and I commenced a detailed examination of his person. He stood 5 feet 4½ inches tall, and was of smaller than average build. His chest was disproportionately protruding – what in layman’s terms would be called ‘pigeon-chested’ – and his arms longer than average. The upper- and forearms were well developed, no doubt as a result of his life of physical labour. The hands were large and calloused, with exceptionally long fingers, but there was no evidence of webbing or other abnormalities. His torso was hirsute from the nipples to the pubis, but he was quite hairless on the back and shoulders. His penis was large, though within the normal range of dimensions, and the testicles properly descended. His legs were scrawny, and when asked to walk the length of the cell (admittedly not a great distance) his gait appeared somewhat rolling or lop-sided, suggesting an asymmetry in his bearing. This may have been due to some injury sustained at an earlier time, but when asked, the prisoner was unable to furnish me with any explanation.
I carried out a detailed inspection of the subject’s cranium and physiognomy. The forehead and brow were large and heavy, while the skull was flat on top and markedly obtruding to the back. On the whole, the cranium was quite mis-shapen and not dissimilar to many of those I had examined in my capacity as prison surgeon. The ears were considerably larger than average, with large, flattened lobes.‡‡
As to the visage: the eyes, as already noted, were small and deep-set, but alert and darting. The nose was protuberant, though admirably straight; the lips thin and pale. Likewise, the cheekbones were high and prominent as, it has recently been pointed out, is often the case among the criminal breed. The teeth were quite healthy and the canines not preternaturally developed.
R—— M—— thus shared a certain number of traits with the inmates of the General Prison (these being chiefly, the mis-shapen cranium, unappealing facial features, pigeon chest, elongated arms and ears). In other respects, however, he was a healthy and well-developed specimen of the human race and if one were to observe him in his natural environment, one would not instinctively mark him out as a member of the criminal class. From this point of view, he formed an interesting subject and one which I was curious to study further.
I allowed the prisoner to dress and put a few simple questions to him. He was entirely unresponsive. He appeared at times not to have heard my questions, or pretended not to have done so. I suspect he was well aware of what was being asked, but refused to answer, for motives of his own. Such a strategy did, however, suggest that the subject was not an outright imbecile and was capable of some reasoning, flawed or otherwise. Nevertheless, I saw no purpose in prolonging my enquiries in the face of this stubborn attitude, and had the gaoler release me from the cell.
Mr Sinclair was waiting outside and questioned me impatiently as soon as I emerged. His manner was less that of a professional man than of a nervous parent eager for information about his child’s health. As we advanced along the passage I outlined my findings to him.
‘But as to his state of mind?’ he asked.
I was aware that the advocate was anxious for me to pronounce on this question, so that he might offer a plea of insanity to the court, thus saving his client from the gallows, and perhaps not incidentally garnering a good deal of renown for himself. Nevertheless, at this point, I refused to venture an opinion.
I explained that as a man of science, I could not be guided by speculation or conjecture. What matters, I told him, are facts – facts and instances!
‘Your client exhibits a number of the physiological characteristics of the criminal class with which my work has acquainted me. However, while he might share some of their features, without acquainting myself with the stock from which he has issued, I cannot venture an opinion as to whether he has acquired these traits through heredity. If one’s cup of water is foul, one must first ascertain if the well is poisoned. If we find that the well is indeed polluted, it may have some bearing on whether or not he is responsible for his deeds.’
We had reached the end of the evil-smelling passage along which we had been walking and paused in our conversation while the gates were opened for us. Mr Sinclair, cowed by the superiority of my knowledge and intellect, assumed a more deferential manner. We continued in silence to the outer gate and, once released, breathed deeply of the warm summer air.
We then, at my suggestion, proceeded to the inn as I wished to put some questions to the advocate. When we were settled at a table with some refreshments, Mr Sinclair asked what I proposed to do. I told him we would revisit the gaol the following day in order for me to continue my examination of the prisoner.
‘Then,’ I said, ‘we must check the well.’
Mr Sinclair did not grasp my meaning.
‘We must,’ I explained, ‘pay a visit to whatever God-forsaken shanty the wretch has sprung from.’
‘I see,’ said the advocate, in a tone suggesting that the prospect of such an expedition did not greatly appeal to him.
‘What,’ I enquired, ‘do you know of your client’s background?’
Mr Sinclair took a long swallow of ale, no doubt gratified to be asked to furnish me with some information.
‘His father is a tenant farmer – a crofter – of good character. His mother was a respectable woman who died in child-bed a year or so hence. There are, or were, three siblings, an elder sister and much younger twins.’
‘“Were”, you say?’
‘The sister was found hanged in an outbuilding on the evening of the murders.’
I paused for a moment in my questioning. This information was certainly pertinent to my investigation.
‘And was this sister of sound mind prior to this event?’ I asked.
‘I cannot say,’ he replied. ‘In the confusion following the murders, her absence was not noticed for some time. A search was made and she was found, as I say, in the barn. The coroner was unable to establish a precise time of death.’
I nodded slowly. The existence of a suicide did not speak well of the family’s psychological constitution. Furthermore, in our day and age, for a woman to die in child-bed is likely indicative of some congenital weakness. In short, the picture emerging was not of a robust and healthy tribe.
‘And of the younger siblings?’
‘I know nothing,’ replied the advocate, slowly shaking his head. ‘They are no more than infants.’
‘And what evidence do you have of the father’s good character?’
‘Only what I have learned from my conversations with R——.’
‘My point precisely,’ I replied. ‘I am sure you would agree that we cannot accept the words of a devious and violent individual like your client. We must attempt to establish the truth about his background in an objective manner. Facts and instances, Mr Sinclair! It is to these we must attend.’
He protested that he had not found his client to be in the least bit devious, but I waved away his objections.
‘We shall depart for this Culduie the day after tomorrow. I shall leave the arrangements to you.’
Mr Sinclair asked if he might dine with me that night, b
ut, knowing that we would be passing a great deal of time in each other’s company in the following days, I refused. I sent word to the prison in Perth that I would be absent for some days and wrote to my wife informing her of the same. I then perused a dossier of witness statements and medical reports, which Mr Sinclair had provided, and compiled my notes of the day’s events. I took my evening meal in my chamber, not wishing to associate with the habitués of the public rooms, who recalled all too keenly of the inmates of my own institution. The meal was quite adequate and I drank enough wine to counteract the effects of the uncomfortable mattress and the sounds of carousing from below.
The following day I instructed Mr Sinclair to have a hearty meal and bottle of wine delivered to the prisoner from a local inn. The advocate informed me that he had often proposed to have meals brought to his client, but these offers had, on every occasion, been refused. This was not, I advised him, because the prisoner did not want the meal; it was because he did not wish to place himself in his advocate’s debt. Acts of honest kindness are so alien to members of the criminal classes that they are invariably met with suspicion. However, my own proposal, I am compelled to admit, was not made out of kindness. It has been well established that hunger can induce in a prisoner a state of restiveness, irritability or even aggression. When I arrived, I wished R—— M—— to be in a state of indolence induced by the rich food he had consumed, and thus be in a frame of mind more conducive to interrogation. The meal was to be delivered at noon and I arranged to meet Mr Sinclair at the gaol at one o’clock, by which time I calculated that the victuals would have taken proper effect.
I arrived at the gaol somewhat earlier than I had stated, as I wanted first of all to put some questions to the gaoler. This I wished to do outwith the presence of my legal associate, as, in my not inconsiderable experience, those tasked with such menial labour tend to form an allegiance with the first educated man they encounter, in much the same way as an orphaned lamb attaches itself to the first hand that feeds it.
The gaoler closely conformed to the low physical type one routinely finds employed in the prisons and asylums of our land. He was of average height, but broadly built with powerful shoulders and forearms. His complexion was florid and scrofulous; his cranium somewhat mis-shapen, with large protruding ears. His hair was dark and wiry and grew low on his forehead. Likewise, his whiskers grew densely on his cheeks. His visage bore the singularly stupid and insensate look prevalent among those on the opposite side of the cell door, and I would have been not at all surprised to have encountered him there. He was, sans doute, entirely suited to his vocation, but in my present mission I was not looking to him for wit or intellect; he had a pair of eyes in his head, and it was these of which I wished to make use.
The gaoler showed no surprise when I indicated that I did not wish to enter the prisoner’s cell immediately. This class of being exists almost entirely in the present; they think little of the past nor project their thoughts into the future, and are thus incapable of being surprised by anything. They are similarly incapable of experiencing boredom and are accordingly well suited to undemanding and repetitive labour. I led the brute to the end of the passage in order that we would not be overheard by the subject of our conversation. I first ascertained that R—— M—— had been under the gaoler’s watch since his arrival; and that he was responsible for bringing the prisoner his meals, removing his faecal matter and periodically observing him through the aperture in the door. The gaoler answered my queries with difficulty and I had often to re-phrase them to make myself understood.
I then put a series of questions regarding the prisoner’s behaviour and I here recount the substance of his responses:
The prisoner did not sleep excessively and was at all times alert and aware of his surroundings. He ate with good appetite and had made no plaint about the quality or quantity of his food. Likewise, he had not protested about excessive cold or heat in his cell, nor had he requested extra blankets or other items. He had never enquired about the wellbeing of his family or expressed any curiosity about the outside world. In short, no meaningful discourse had passed between the two men. R—— M—— was at all times permitted by daylight occupied with the preparation of the papers on his table, but the gaoler had expressed no interest in their contents. The prisoner had not once been seen or heard raving, or calling out as if in thrall to some hallucination. At night he slept soundly and did not appear disturbed by bad dreams or night visions.
At the end of our intercourse, I pressed a shilling onto the palm of the warden’s hand. He gazed stupidly at it for a few moments before pushing it wordlessly into the pocket of his greasy waistcoat. At this moment, Mr Sinclair arrived and appeared quite astonished to find me in congress with the brutish gaoler. Clearly, it had not occurred to him to thus make use of the individual – however limited in intellect – in closest proximity to the prisoner. No doubt, in common with the majority of his brethren in the legal profession, he preferred supposition and conjecture to evidence. I saw no reason to furnish him with an explanation for my actions and he did not have the temerity to question me.
When we entered the cell, R—— M—— was standing with his back to the wall opposite the door and I suspected that, despite my precautions, the discussion in the passage had alerted him to our presence. As Mr Sinclair had established some bond with the prisoner I allowed him to enter the cell ahead of me and kept my counsel while he engaged in some ludicrous pleasantries. I noted at once that the tray of food which I had requested from the inn had been placed on the floor, next to the writing table. A bowl which appeared to have contained a broth of some kind was empty, but a plate of mutton and potatoes was untouched. Likewise, the bottle of wine remained uncorked.
I asked R—— M—— in a friendly manner why he had not finished such a hearty meal and he replied that he was not accustomed to rich foods and had eaten an adequate sufficiency. He then added that if I was hungry I was welcome to what was left, an offer I politely declined. Mr Sinclair explained that I wished to put some questions to him and that it would benefit him greatly if he were to answer them fully and truthfully. R—— M—— replied that he could see no benefit to himself, but if it pleased Mr Sinclair he would answer any question put to him. I sat down on the chair next to the writing table and asked the prisoner to take a seat on his bunk, which he did. Mr Sinclair stood with his back to the door, his hands clasped over his abdomen.
The evidence I had so far gathered – that is, from my physical examination and from my conversation with the gaoler – was not sufficient to draw any conclusions regarding the sanity or otherwise of the accused, nor about his moral responsibility for the crimes he had committed. On a large number of points, he corresponded to the dreary procession of imbeciles who daily passed through my care, but on others, such as his general alertness and ability to apply himself to a task, he did not. I did not for a moment believe that the pages with which he appeared to have been so diligently occupied would contain anything other than gibberish and ravings, but the fact that he had thus applied himself was in itself noteworthy. In my long experience with the criminal classes I have never encountered a single individual capable of any aesthetic appreciation, far less of the production of any literary of artistic work. The literary ambitions of the average prisoner do not extend beyond scratching some vulgar phrases on the wall of his cell. A man of science must, of necessity, keep abreast of the theories and precedents of his chosen field, but he must not allow these theories to blind himself to the evidence of his own eyes, or to dismiss what does not accord with his expectations as aberrant or insignificant. However new and startling any evidence might be, it must be received honestly. As Mr Virchow has stated, ‘We must take things as they really are, and not as we wish them to be.’§§
It was quite clear that R—— M—— was not a raving maniac, the madman of popular imagination, but as has been well-established by Mr Prichard¶¶ and others, there
exists another category of lunacy: that of moral insanity, whereby the grossest perversions of the natural impulses, affections and habits can exist with no concomitant disorder of the intellect or reasoning faculties. Certainly, from what I had thus far observed, R—— M——exhibited some degree of intelligence, an intelligence which in all probability could only be harnessed to deception or evil ends, but which nevertheless set him apart from the degenerate prototype. It was, therefore, with the intention of exploring the extent of the prisoner’s reasoning faculties that I set about my interrogation.
In order to foster the illusion that we were merely two men engaging in conversation, I did not take any contemporaneous notes and this account is based on the record I compiled from memory upon returning to the inn.
I began by telling R—— M—— that I was curious about the literary project upon which he had embarked. He replied that he was only writing the pages because Mr Sinclair had instructed him to do so. I retorted that that did not seem an adequate explanation for the dedication which he had shown towards the task. At this, the prisoner gestured around the cell and replied, ‘As you can see, sir, there is little else with which to amuse myself here.’
‘So it amuses you to write these pages?’ said I.
To this he made no response. He sat quite erect on the bench, his gaze directed at the wall in front of him, rather than at his interlocutor. I then told him I wished to ask some questions about the deeds which had brought him to this place. His little eyes flickered momentarily towards me, but other than that there was no alteration in his bearing.
His Bloody Project Page 18
