I dreamt my clothes were covered in warm sticky blood after I chopped off the heads of animals. The blood, more than any parrot, pig or sheep could possibly spill, sprayed over my face, my hair and my feet. Then I woke inside another dream but it was not parrots’ blood spurting over me this time but Bertha’s. I screamed inside my night terror. I couldn’t see the blood for it was pitch black but I could feel it warm and sticky as I slid across the kitchen floor and Bertha was laughing hysterically at me. The parrot’s head that became a pig’s head became Bertha’s. I screamed for my life.
The nights I had a reprieve from this nightmare, I returned to my childhood one of waking, paralysed, to find a goblin-like creature sitting on my chest – the changeling, the strange intruder. Wasn’t this what happened to me on the night of the murder when I found the stranger lying across me attacking Bertha?
My blood-curdling screams invariably woke the women. They yelled curses at me to keep quiet. This sometimes brought the warden to see what the din was about. She’d tell me not to be so childish, that they were silly nightmares. She thought I was screaming because I was frightened of the intruder who I said murdered Bertha. But I never saw him in my nightmares.
Most of the prisoners were so kind and friendly that I wondered why they were there. Sometimes a woman’s children were also locked up, at the Magill Reform Institute, or fostered out, for there was no husband or family member to look after them. Several women worried about their poor little motherless children growing up in some cheerless institution or in an unkind foster home. There were plenty of tales being spread about the cruel foster homes.
The women grew flowers and vegetables around the prison yards and were allowed to knit, sew, tat and quilt. We were sometimes allowed to walk for exercise and some of the women carved pretty little scrimshaw-like pictures into the hard red bricks of the inner walls of the prison when no one was watching. Flowers and birds and images of the natural world that we missed were beautifully scratched into the bricks. I scratched a picture of a vase of flowers. Another woman carved a sailing ship like the one she’d sailed on to South Australia many years before.
I worked as hard as they did and I soon made friends. We worked from breakfast until teatime at five o’clock. After tea we were locked up again. The women did all the laundry for the Adelaide Hospital, the washing and the ironing. We often spent our afternoons in a vast room at a long table sewing the clothes we had to wear, as well as clothes for the male prisoners. The wardens were surprisingly relaxed and we were allowed to talk while we worked. Only when the language became too coarse were we reprimanded.
Each Sunday we trooped into the chapel for a religious service. It was on the first floor of the two-storey building at the entrance of the prison. We were separated from the men by a wooden partition, but we could see them through the cracks. I don’t know why we bothered but because we could see the men and we assumed they could see us, we all took care to preen ourselves before we visited the chapel.
We had some kindly regular visitors. Each week Caroline Maughan, a grand old lady from the Methodist Church, visited us for two hours or so in the sewing room. She brought us comfort and hope. She was the widow of a well-known minister and she was kind and gentle, which had a wondrous calming effect on us. She listened to our fears and hopes for the future without condemning our behaviour. All bad language stopped when she was in our midst.
I was allowed a special visitor from the Lutheran Church in Adelaide. Pastor Eitel, not much older than me, visited every week. I eagerly anticipated seeing him. Like Mrs Maughan he gave us reason to believe that our stay in prison would be brief. But while Mrs Maughan visited us all, Pastor Eitel was my own special visitor. I told him of my nightmares, but his calming words did not stop them.
When we sat together in little groups to sew I responded to the other women’s queries about my nightmares. I spoke about my life with Father and the fairytales we told each other at home which invariably frightened us to death. Of course they were curious about the more bizarre Wendish fairytales which I knew were capable of frightening adults. Some of the more popular tales about Cinderella, Rapunzel and Rumpelstiltskin they knew, but they had never heard of ‘The Girl with no Hands’, ‘How the Children Played Butchers’, or even ‘Bluebeard’. So I became a popular storyteller, the best they’d known. So around the sewing tables in the afternoon they would hush each other when they wanted me to begin a story. I would tell them about the Wendish witches and the terrible Waterman who drowned children by enticing them into lakes, rivers or water tanks. Even Mrs Maughan was shaken by the violence of some of the fairytales.
‘Miss Schippan, I don’t think your fairytales are proper. Fairytales are meant to be for children not for you women.’
‘Yeah, but aren’t Mary’s more thrilling – more real?’ one of the women said on my behalf.
Their favourite story was about the time I ran after a tree spirit in the Towitta Creek, and as he slipped down between the crevices of a rivergum root my fingers caught hold of his clothing. Long after he vanished my fingers glowed an eerie green in the dark. I asked the women to snuff out the candles or cover the windows to darken the room so they could see my fingers glowing green like fireflies in the darkened room. Showing them this trick never ceased to amaze them. They had no idea how it was done. And I was not about to enlighten them for it would destroy my standing among them. It never occurred to them that the copper coin I held in my hand and which I was rubbing vigorously into my hot sweaty hand, was creating the magic. Father had shown us this trick when we were young but it took many years to figure out how it was done. I was only able to tell the tree spirit story and undertake the trick after finding a copper penny in one of the vegetable gardens and hiding it in my pinafore. A couple of the older women were unnerved at this trick and thought me a witch, or something even more sinister. They were quite frightened of me and kept their distance.
All too quickly the remand period, one of the best times in my life, came to an end. It was March and the trial was to begin.
21
Detective Priest
16 January 1902
It came as no surprise to Priest when the inquest ordered Mary Schippan to stand trial. He’d hoped it might be her cruel father but there was no evidence to indicate it could be him. Once Mary was committed for trial, the matter of exhuming the body of Bertha became imperative. There needed to be a search for clues that implicated Mary, clues that may have been missed during the initial examination.
The government coroner, Dr Ramsay Smith, wanted to carry out his own investigations. So only a few days after the official inquest, having returned to Adelaide and disbanded the troops and equipment, Priest and an assistant accompanied Dr Smith back to the godforsaken country at Sedan to exhume the body of Bertha. When they eventually arrived at the Sedan cemetery they erected tarpaulins over the grave while the coffin was dug up. It was a gruesome affair seeing this beautiful young girl once more. Smith used a razor-sharp scalpel to scrape under Bertha’s nails and the specimens, including long light-brown hairs, were placed into a box. Dr Ramsay Smith proceeded to undertake further detailed examinations.
Priest looked puzzled. ‘Sir, I’m trying to get a clear picture of what went on between these sisters. I know Bertha was very unhappy about not being allowed to go to the New Year’s Eve dance in the Sedan Institute. Maybe she was planning to meet a young man there?’
‘Or maybe the accused’s sweetheart looked in the direction of this girl. You know, jealousy, revenge and so on. It’s all here somewhere. If there are clues that we can’t find now, then they will return to this grave.’
Priest asked, ‘Have you finished for now, Sir’.
Ramsay Smith replied, ‘I have, Priest, so we’ll cover the grave again and take the box of specimens to the hotel. I’ll ask the landlord to lock them up for us while we stay the night. Then we’ll make an early start in the morning for Adelaide.’
22
Mary
One evening about five days later, Sister Kathleen appeared at the start of her night shift. She promised she’d return later that evening when the hospital was quiet. I was in bed when she reappeared and she lit the lamp, settled in a chair by my bed and I continued the story as I remembered it.
On the night before the trial began, I was taken to a small room next to the sheriff’s office where my lawyer, Mr Anthony Foster from Kapunda, was waiting to speak with me. With him he had another lawyer, the smartest in town I was assured. Mr Josiah Symon came forward to greet me when I entered the room. He asked me to sit and he told me about himself and what he expected of me the next morning in court. He gushed with confidence.
‘You are fortunate, Miss Schippan. Your lawyer, Mr Foster, went to great lengths to retain me for you. Eighty pounds has been raised in and around Sedan and Angaston by a local farmer, Abraham Shannon, to pay the legal costs.’
Of course I knew this name because he was once the local district council chairman and had a large farm, but I’d never met him. I was surprised that someone not close to me had done so much to help my case.
After ten minutes, Mr Symon assured me that the case was based on circumstantial evidence and explained to me what this meant. He assured me that I had nothing to worry about and that I would soon be a free woman. After discussion between the lawyers, but in front of me, they said their goodbyes and left.
I had a troubled night. During the meeting the lawyers had discussed the murder as though I wasn’t there. They talked about the large amounts of blood, the dust and the lack of evidence. Yet the reality of it all made my stomach lurch, especially when they discussed the possible but unknown differences between animal and human blood. This played on my mind after they had gone and the ensuing nightmare was one of the worst. In the deeper level dream I was in court where I was found not guilty and acquitted. Feeling relief I woke from the first dream to find myself in the condemned cell prior to being taken to the hanging tower. Just as the rope was put round my neck and I screamed with fear as the trapdoor opened with a thud, I really did wake up, still screaming and sticky with sweat.
The warden who rushed into my cell believed this time it was something more than just a nightmare. She put the lamp to my face and then put it down to take hold of my body. She was trying to calm me and wake me, and she showed sympathy for the first time. Usually it was a rattle on the door yelling, ‘For Heaven’s sake, Schippan, keep quiet.’
Through my hysteria I tried to tell her what had happened. ‘It’s the night terrors. Oh it was awful. I felt the hangman’s noose around my neck. I can still feel the tightening rope on my skin. I know now what it will feel like.’
The warder agreed, ‘Yes, I’m afraid that could happen to you, Schippan, but I hope for your sake it won’t come to that. Now try to sleep and not think of such horrible thoughts. There are still some hours to dawn.’
I was too terrified to go back to sleep. Around dawn I was taken from my cell and prepared for the ordeal of the day. I was allowed to dress in my own clothes, which had been beautifully laundered and steam pressed by the women in the gaol. My clothes looked better than I could remember them on the farm, where they were limp and dusty and smelt of old soap. They seemed like new clothes and they lifted my spirits somewhat after the terrors of the night before.
One of the women helped me do my hair and touch up my face. I know that since being confined in prison, my dress that had been loose was somewhat tighter and my once pale and pasty face had gained a bloom. I thought that this had to do with being away from Father and the unexpected pleasant companionship of other women while in a prison. One of the women said, ‘We all heard you last night, Mary. It was bloodcurdling and even frightened us hard-core women, I can tell you. It sounded as though you were being murdered.’
At nine o’clock Mr Farrell, the keeper from the gaol, led me out to the sallyport where I was placed in the back of a black cab with a woman warden. He sat in the front and we were driven to the Supreme Court. As I arrived in Victoria Square, I could see from behind the thick curtains of the cab, hundreds of people around the front of the building. Minutes before I arrived, the courtroom was opened to the public and there was a mad scramble by the crowds to grab a seat. It was hard to believe people were there just to see what happened to me.
I was ushered through the back entrance and into the courtroom where I was told to sit in the dock. As I walked in with my warder I felt all eyes on me and I felt my body flush with acute embarrassment at being put on show like a prize animal. I was thankful for the heavy black veil I was allowed to wear. It helped me in my efforts to distance myself from the events around me, as Mr Symon had instructed me. I was watching someone else’s show. When an elderly and sombre judge strode past me in his red robes, we all stood until he took his seat.
Mr Symon took his seat alongside the other lawyers acting on my behalf, Mr Solomon and Mr Foster. I had been told beforehand to watch out for the two crown solicitors, Mr Stuart and Mr Sinclair. They presented a steely and determined union that would have disheartened the most hardened criminal. With thanks for Mr Symon’s advice, I willed myself to appear calmer than I really felt and not to feel bullied by them with their knowing looks and cutting remarks.
In his opening address, Mr Symon spoke about how he came to be acting on my behalf. He told the court that Mr Foster had contacted him earlier the day before about the case, and it was only last night, around six thirty, when he was waiting for his train to Manoah, his home in the Adelaide Hills, that he had been handed the brief. He had then followed Foster out of the station to visit me in gaol. Mr Symon said that as my life totally depended on a good defence, it was only fair that the court should be adjourned until at least this afternoon, so he could catch up with all the facts surrounding the case.
There was much muttering and loud sighs of disappointment over this, which prompted a booming, ‘Silence in court!’ Even Judge Way sighed so heavily that everyone in the court could hear and then he gave Mr Symon a stern look, but responded, ‘Till the afternoon is not enough, perhaps it is best that we adjourn until tomorrow morning, same time as now.’
With that he rose, picking up a large book he had been writing in during Mr Symon’s opening address, and hurried out in his flowing robes. We followed him. I was driven back to prison and some of the women clapped and cheered when I appeared back so soon, making jokes about the quick verdict. ‘That was quick, they must have found you guilty. So tomorrow, Mary Schippan, you’ll be hanged by the neck until you are dead.’ And they laughed heartily.
The warden instructed me to change my clothes for the prison garb and I was put to work in the laundry with the other women. I was told again, in case I objected, that as a prisoner on remand I wasn’t required to work. I told her that as I would be the only prisoner not working and would be left on my own, I would be happy to share their work with them. I was grateful for the noisy but cheerful company.
I thought I was too frightened to sleep that night but due to the lack of it the night before, I slept unusually soundly, free of nightmares. The next morning we followed the same procedure as the day before and when I arrived there were huge crowds again outside the court building and filling Victoria Square. Most of them were women, some armed with lunch bags and babies. The ordeal seemed worse than yesterday, perhaps because I had thought the trial would last only one day, and now there were several police holding back the crowds that heckled and jostled, excited about a woman being put on trial for murder.
The court session began punctually at ten o’clock and I was reminded once more that I had been formally charged with murder. Then I raised my eyes and saw Mother and Father. I had not given them any thought, but seeing my mother obviously suffering jolted my composure. Then there was a procession of witnesses giving evidence.
Practically everyone I knew had come to court to give some account of me. First, my family were called to the stand, followed by Detective Priest. This was followed by
friends and neighbours such as little Violet Henke, Mrs Matschoss, Ferdinand Henke, Alby Lambert the district constable, his mother and the journalist from the Register, Rodney Cockburn. This went on till the middle of the afternoon. Then Gustave was called to the stand to a hum of expectation, and as the noise grew louder the judge had to call, ‘Silence in court!’ There was a deadly silence when Gustave was asked if he knew the Schippan family and then how well he knew me.
‘I know the Schippan family. I had been keeping company with Mary for about twelve months. I remember being at Schippan’s farm on the Sunday before New Year’s Day. I came that afternoon and only Mary was home for Mr and Mrs Schippan were away over the hills and Bertha was out playing.’
‘How long did you stay?’ he was asked.
‘I stayed until late evening, until after Bertha had gone to bed.’
‘Were you intimate with Miss Schippan?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.’ Gustave looked around the court as if baffled.
‘I’ll ask you again. Did anything improper take place between you and Miss Schippan?’
Gustave found this probing question difficult to answer for he took what seemed to be a very long minute before he answered. He glanced at me and I shuddered in acute embarrassment. I’d never known him to lie and he certainly couldn’t now that he was on oath. He was to be damned if he lied and damned if he told the truth. Everyone in the courtroom seemed to be holding their breath and no one moved. A hatpin dropping would have been heard while we waited for his reply.
When he answered, ‘Yes,’ the courtroom erupted into disorder and the judge banged his gavel shouting, ‘Silence in court,’ as comments from around the courtroom of ‘Shame, shame on you’ and disapproving ‘tut tuts’ could be clearly heard. All eyes turned to me before they turned back to Gustave.
The Noon Lady of Towitta Page 12
