For the first time, the court heard that Stuart called laudanum ‘the Doctor’.
‘He said that by “giving the Doctor”,’ said Logan, ‘he meant that he would give it to any person who had money about them and he would set them asleep and he would rob them.’
Of course, the authorities already knew all of this and it is not beyond the realms of possibility that, to strengthen their case, the prosecution had recruited Logan. There was a suggestion that he too had killed a man with a dose of the drug, which Logan, of course, denied. But, apparently, he had argued with Stuart in jail and threatened that ‘he would see him hanging’. However, another prisoner, Archibald Anderson, corroborated Logan's story and a guard at Calton Jail testified that Stuart had asked him if anything he'd said to other prisoners could be used against him. According to the guard, Stuart told him he had been ‘very foolhardy in speaking his mind’ and that, if Logan and Anderson talked and their evidence was heard, he would be done for.
But, even without their evidence, the Stuarts were done for. The incriminating factors were: they had been drinking with Lamont; the beer served by Mrs Stuart tasted vile; a later test had showed that ale spiked with laudanum tasted similar; Lamont had an overdose of laudanum in his system; Stuart was found with money on him that could have come from Lamont's wallet; he was also found with the distinctive silk purse identified by Lamont's daughter as being the one she had made for her father; the small square bottle that stank of laudanum was found in the water closet that Stuart had just vacated.
The Lord Advocate said the deadly duo had been ‘charged with murder and murder committed under circumstances of the most atrocious and most aggrievable nature’. Despite defence objections to the contrary, Lord Gillies, one of the three judges, believed it was clear that murder had been committed. He conceded it was possible that the deceased had taken the laudanum himself but he could not have robbed himself. In his opinion, the female accused ‘cut by far the most conspicuous figure’ in this murder. It was she who had brought the ale containing the poison but she had not drunk it nor had she allowed her husband to drink it.
Of course, the case was viewed as a warning to the lower and middle classes of the dangers not just of laudanum but also of the demon drink. Men, it was said, were exposed to such dangers ‘by their passion for intoxicating liquors’.
Unsurprisingly, at the end of the twelve-hour trial the jury was out for only a few minutes. They returned with a unanimous verdict of guilty on both of the accused. On passing sentence, Lord Pitmilly said, ‘all that remained for the court was a duty of a most distressing and painful nature.’ Because of their acts, ‘an innocent man had been bereaved of life and for his murder they must now atone to the outraged laws of the country.’ He went on to say it was ‘a crime of the most novel, most dangerous, most subtle and most daring nature’.
Settling the black cap on his head, he got down to his distressing and painful duty, declaring they were to be taken to the jail and there fed on bread and water under the terms of the 1752 Act for Preventing the Horrid Crime of Murder. Then, on 19 August, they were to be hanged at the common place of execution in the Lawnmarket in Edinburgh and their bodies delivered to Dr Alexander Monro, Professor of Anatomy at the university, in order to be publicly dissected and anatomised. The judge urged the prisoners to ‘turn all their thoughts to the important concerns of another world and avail themselves of the attendance of pious people’.
At 8 p.m. on the night before their execution, the Stuarts were taken from their respective cells in Edinburgh's Calton Jail and moved to their new, if temporary, lodgings in the Libberton's Wynd lock-up house. Reunited in the same room for their final night, Mrs Stuart rushed into her husband's arms and he held her as well as he could, given that he was heavily chained. Those pious people, of whose services the judge had urged them to avail themselves, attended them. However, as the Edinburgh Weekly Chronicle reported, they did not seem to be sensible ‘to the truths of religion, or to the probability of their proceeding directly from the hangman to a place of everlasting bliss’.
The pair had, though, expressed regrets over their crimes and Stuart intimated that they were responsible for a number of other deaths as well. His wife wept continually through the night and, when she was asked by one of the ministers who was attempting to tend to her spiritual wellbeing if it was the fear of death that tormented her, she replied, ‘Oh yes, yes, yes, it is the fear of death.’
Murderers they may have been but, during this last night together, it was made obvious that there was deep feeling between the couple – which, as one newspaper reported, ‘increased in strength as they approached the final hour’. John Stuart tried to comfort his wife throughout, at one point attempting to hush her tears by saying that they were now ‘only in the hands of the Almighty’. This thought failed to bolster her spirits and her weeping continued.
Naturally, the knowledge of what was to happen the following morning murdered any thoughts of sleep and guards heard them whispering throughout the night. Meanwhile, outside, heavy rain beat a solemn tattoo on the walls and windows. At 5 a.m. the following morning, a minister returned and prayed with them for two hours. Finally, word was received that they were to prepare themselves for their final walk. They were allowed to change into fresh clothes – decent black ones, it was noted, courtesy of the prison governor.
As they waited for the appointed hour, Stuart asked for a cup of tea to be brought to his wife and together they listened to further religious exhortations. Mrs Stuart asked for a pipe and filled it with her own tobacco, which she lit from the fire. She puffed away studiously while the ministers continued to appeal to their spiritual nature, tears still glistening in her eyes and on her cheeks.
Then their time came. The executioner wanted to place the hood over their heads before they ascended to the platform but Mrs Stuart shook her head saying, ‘No, no – you will surely allow us as much not to do that.’ The hangman put the hoods aside, pinioned his two charges and then led them to where the gallows had been erected.
The rain showers of the previous night had, by this time, turned into a torrent but this did not prevent a huge crowd of people from showing up to see them hang. Over 10,000 people huddled in the downpour, watching the notorious murderers being taken to the platform – Stuart walking with a steady gait. When they were positioned under the two nooses, a murmur ran through the crowd.
As the ropes were placed around their necks, John Stuart trembled, his first real sign of any emotion, and lifted his eyes to the skies. His wife, though, had apparently found her composure and stood, as one observer put it, ‘like marble’.
Stuart managed to stretch out one hand far enough for his wife to grip it and they murmured what could have been prayers. Then the hangman released the trapdoor and they fell together. Stuart died instantly, it seems, but his wife took longer, jerking and straining at the rope and her legs twitching. Her face, visible because she had opted not to wear a hood, was hideously contorted. The crowd watched this horrid spectacle for a few minutes before her body stilled and she once again joined her husband.
It would not be the last time Scottish courts would hear of poison.
8
LIFE AND DEATH ON THE FARM
Christina Gilmour, 1842–3
Christina Cochran's father wanted the best for his daughter. Although far from penurious – his family were respected cheese-makers with a long-established farm at South Grange in Dunlop, part of Ayrshire's rich dairy land – this was 1842 and, being the head of a Victorian household, Alexander Cochran wanted his eldest lass to be comfortable. The problem was that Christina, or Kirsty, had fallen in love with the son of a neighbouring farmer. John Anderson was older than her by ten years but they had known each other since childhood. However, he was proving somewhat hesitant in plighting his troth, popping the question or taking the plunge. Like Alexander Cochran, Anderson was also a man of his times and he was unwilling to plight, pop or plunge without first being
sure he could support a wife and, hopefully, a family.
But Christina loved him and wanted to marry him so she was willing to wait. Her father, though, had other ideas. Kirsty was now twenty-four and not getting any younger. All her life she had been trained to be a wife, even being sent off to Paisley for dressmaking lessons. It was time she was married – and married well.
Enter another John – Gilmour of that ilk. He was from successful farming stock and had his own land at Town of Inchinnan farm in Renfrewshire. He met Christina and immediately fell for her, for she was a bright and pretty lass, even though she had a slightly deformed right arm. In old Alexander's eyes, John Gilmour was a fitting match.
Naturally, Kirsty was not enthusiastic at the prospect of the union. Although he continued to show little sign of calling the bans, her heart was still set on John Anderson. Gilmour, meanwhile, was getting desperate and threatened suicide when the object of his affections remained cool. There was a lot of restrained passion going about in those days and suitors were prone to making such grand gestures. However, it is open to question whether a Central Scotland farmer, even one of the gentleman variety, would make such a threat unless he was suffering from some kind of mental illness.
Finally, the young woman put her cards on the table regarding John Anderson. She told him about the other John and of his offers of marriage, no doubt hoping Anderson would sweep her off to the matrimonial bed. But there was no such sweeping in her immediate future, for John Anderson did what he thought was the decent thing and gave up any claim he had on Kirsty's hand.
And so, on 29 November 1842, an unwilling, even despondent, Kirsty Cochran became Christina Gilmour and went off to live on her new husband's farm, taking family servant Mary Paterson with her. She did not love her husband. There was no conjugal bliss – she spent their wedding night in a chair by the fire. Gilmour took this treatment stoically, little knowing that, in six weeks, he would be dead of apparent arsenic poisoning.
John Gilmour took ill for the first time on Thursday 29 December 1842. He was vomiting violently, his face and eyes were swollen, he was in tremendous pain and these symptoms persisted for seventeen days until, on 11 January 1843, he died – and the rumours began. His wife had tended to him throughout his illness, said the whisperers. She had personally prepared every bit of food and drink. Perhaps she had poisoned him.
The suggestions of foul murder continued to circulate long after the man's funeral. Servants spoke of mysterious purchases of arsenic for and by Mrs Gilmour. They whispered darkly of her indifference to her husband during their short marriage. Her love of John Anderson was also a motivating factor, they said.
Finally, by April, the words from those wagging tongues reached official ears and noses began to twitch. Superintendent George McKay of the Renfrewshire Rural Police Force was sent to sniff around. He smelled something rotten and an application was made for an exhumation order. This was granted on 21 April – along with a warrant to arrest Christina Gilmour.
However, by that time, she had fled the country. Her father had heard the gossip, was naturally concerned for his daughter's wellbeing and had convinced her that it would be best if she made herself scarce. And so, one dark April night, the flight of Christina Gilmour began. It would end four months later in a courtroom on another continent.
When she left her father's farm, she had no idea where she was being taken. Her brother, Robert, had apparently made all the arrangements but, as he was never called as a witness in the subsequent trial, this point was never firmly established. Her companion was a man she did not know and he, in turn, left her in the charge of a second stranger, who conveyed her by gig (a two-wheeled one-horse buggy) to a man named Simpson who was to accompany her to Liverpool by rail. From there, she learned they would take a ship to America.
They arrived in Liverpool, booked their passage on a ship named the Excel under the names of Mr and Mrs John Spiers – the name ‘John’ seems to have haunted the woman – and set sail for what Christina's family hoped would be the land of the free. But she could not shake John Anderson from her mind and wrote him one last letter, telling him of her flight and complaining that Simpson was proving far from a gentleman. It seemed that he was taking the concept of man and wife somewhat further than a ruse to avoid detection.
She also claimed to have turned to the ship's captain for protection from her companion's sexual overtures but this seems unlikely as the two of them were supposed to be married and no one would have come between a married couple in those days.
Meanwhile, the huge mortsafe – a holdover from the days of the resurrection men – had been hoisted from John Gilmour's grave in Dunlop kirkyard and the body disinterred. Although it was badly decomposed and the face was unrecognisable, undertakers officially identified the corpse as that of Gilmour and then delivered it into the waiting hands and scalpels of doctors to allow them to examine the necessary organs. Sure enough, they found traces of arsenic.
Superintendent McKay, now with the scent of murder strong in his nostrils, proved to be something of a bloodhound and traced the fleeing Christina's movements to Liverpool. A new warrant was obtained and the seemingly unstoppable Scottish policeman booked passage on a faster vessel, arriving in New York three weeks ahead of his quarry. When her boat finally docked, the dogged detective, intent on making his arrest, was among the first to go on board. The ungentlemanly Mr Simpson, however, managed to escape into the teeming streets of New York and subsequent obscurity.
But Christina Gilmour was not ready to go quietly. The Treaty of Washington, an extradition agreement between the US and Great Britain, had been formalised in August the previous year and her New York lawyer was determined to fight her case all the way. Under the terms of the treaty, a person charged with murder in either country could only be sent back home if evidence of criminality were proved. That meant that there had to be a hearing before the US Commissioner, during which Christina's American lawyer argued that Mrs Gilmour was insane. To back this up, a team of doctors was brought in to study her but, although she sat on the floor, spoke gibberish and even cut herself, they formed the opinion that she was faking. Undeterred, the lawyer battled on, objecting to the evidence produced by Superintendent McKay, claiming the extradition treaty was invalid and even appealing to US President John Tyler. None of this was successful and, in August 1843, Christina Gilmour was brought back to Scotland to face trial for her husband's murder.
But not everyone was convinced of her guilt. On Thursday 11 January 1844 – a year to the day after her husband died – she travelled by train from her jail cell in Paisley to Edinburgh. A report in the Glasgow Courier states:
This unfortunate woman, to stand trial on Friday first before the High Court of Justiciars for the alleged poisoning of her husband, passed through Glasgow on her way to Edinburgh per railway.
She was plainly but neatly attired and accompanied by the Matron of Paisley Prison and two officers.
Mrs Gilmour paid for her own railway ticket, seemed quite cool and collected, and walked through the station house as if unaccompanied by no other person.
She had about her none of that dejection or tremours which affects great criminals and is … rather a good-looking woman.
The trial excited great interest and spectators travelled from as far away as Ayrshire and Renfrewshire – no mean distance in those days. A contemporary record said that the ‘circumstances of the case gave it an appeal to the public that had been unparalleled for several years. The doors of the courthouse were crowded with people from the early hours of the morning …’ In fact, such was the crush of people eager to witness what promised to be a sensational trial that resourceful doorkeepers at the High Court saw a way of making some easy money and actually charged admission to the public gallery. On the second day of the trial, the Lord Justice-Clerk, Lord Moncrieff, one of the judges, heard about this spontaneous explosion of free enterprise and confessed to being ‘astonished’. He pointed out that this practice was not
only ‘reprehensible’ but also ‘decidedly illegal’ and urged anyone who had been forced to pay for a seat in the court to come forward and give evidence against the offending doorkeepers.
The trial lasted only two days – it may have taken them a year to bring the woman to court but they certainly weren't going to waste any time in having the matter resolved, at least in the eyes of the law. Christina Gilmour, dressed completely in black and wearing a plain gold wedding ring, listened to the evidence against her. She displayed no emotion during the testimony of prosecution witnesses, appearing indifferent – ‘if not with apathy’, as one reporter commented – to the legal battle raging around her.
The long and rambling indictment for murder claimed that Christina Gilmour did
wickedly, maliciously and feloniously … cause to be taken by the said John Gilmour, in some article or articles of food or drink, or in some other manner to the prosecutors unknown, several or one or more quantities of arsenic, or other poisons … and the said John Gilmour … did immediately or soon after … become seriously ill and died suffering under violent and increased illness and did linger in great pain until the 11th day of January 1843 when he died … and was thus murdered by you, the said Christina Cochran, or Gilmour; and you … being conscious of your guilt in the premises, did abscond and flee from justice …
When asked, at the end of the somewhat wordy indictment, how she pleaded, the accused said in a calm, clear voice, ‘Not Guilty, My Lord.’ They were the only words she would utter throughout the two days for, at the time, accused people could not speak in their own defence.
And so the evidence began. Servants and friends of the deceased told the jury of fifteen men that Christina was in the habit of making tea for her husband and herself and prepared all the food. The jury was told she gave Mary Paterson tuppence to buy a bag of arsenic, to be used, she claimed, to poison rats. Curiously, she instructed the girl to find a boy and get him to buy the arsenic for her. Was this a bid to cover her tracks? Did she intend to murder her husband? However, Mary Paterson did not follow her mistress's instructions and she bought the arsenic herself – even providing the druggist with Christina's name for the record he was bound by law to keep. On being told this, Christina promptly burned the bag of white powder because, she claimed at the time, she was too frightened to use it.
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