Heaven Knows Who (21 page)

Mr Gifford sat down and Mr Rutherford Clark rose to cross-examine.

The opening question in a cross-examination is often of paramount importance. The witness has come through his examination-in-chief—a little battered, it may well be if he be not telling the truth, and thankful to have such an ordeal safely over. He relaxes, breathes a sigh of relief; and before he has had time to brace himself for the shocks in store, calmly, without sign or ceremonial
of change-over, the next question comes. One man has sat down, one man has risen to his feet, and that is all. But it is his friend who has sat down; the man he now faces is his enemy.

Mr Rutherford Clark's first question was: ‘Was your watch right that Saturday morning?'

The old man must have been taken a little aback; such a casual general question, not apparently leading to anywhere in particular. He answered ‘Yes.'

‘You know that?'

‘Ay, it gangs very regular,' said old Mr Fleming.

‘Therefore you are sure about the hour you have given us?'

So that was it!—a point of no particular importance (of no particular danger his heart must have said, if his heart held guilty secrets). He thought counsel referred to the screams he had heard in the night. ‘Yes, exactly four o'clock and a fine clear morning.'

But Mr Clark cared nothing at the moment for the screams in the night. ‘You are quite sure, then, that you lay in bed till nine o'clock?'

The old man had said so. He had lain from six o'clock to nine, waiting for Jess to bring him up his bit of porridge. He repeated now, ‘Yes.'

‘You were not out of your bed or dressed till nine o'clock or thereby?'

‘I didna leave ma bed till nine o'clock.'

‘Who was the first person you spoke to on that Saturday morning?'

The first person Mr Fleming was known to have spoken to—or so Master M'Quarrie would later say in evidence—was the milk-boy, at twenty minutes to eight. But if he hadn't got up till nine, he couldn't have spoken to the milk-boy. ‘On Saturday morning? It was the girl for the len' o' the spade.'

‘Her name is Brownlie, I believe?'

‘I dinna ken. She's Mr Stewart's servant.'

‘What time was that?'

This time Mr Fleming definitely said it was about eleven o'clock.

‘And until she came there was no one in the house that you had seen?'

‘No one that I saw.'

‘But was there anyone?'

‘No,' said the old man.

‘When does the milk usually come?'

‘It aye comes betwixt eight and nine o'clock.'

Mr Clark made a neat little swoop. He moved on to Monday. The old man had said he had risen at eight on Monday morning; if, as he now also said, the milk came after eight, he must have been up to receive it. ‘When does it usually come on Monday morning?'

But Mr Fleming, though vague enough when he wanted to be, was not so slow either. ‘It came aye aboot one time [it always came about the same time], but I didna require any on the Monday morning as I had tae gang awa' tae the toon.' (The milk-boy's evidence was that on all three mornings the old man came to the door—though he was for nae milk.)

‘Why did you not require any milk on Monday?'

‘I had tae gang awa' to the toon,' insisted the old man, ‘and there's a milk shop in our property in the Briggate, an' I went in there an' got a ha'penny roll an' a mutchkin of milk. That was a' the breakfast I got on Monday morning.'

But Mr Clark had his bird netted and they both knew it. ‘Did the milk come upon the Saturday morning?'

‘I don't think it did,' said old Fleming. What else was there to say?

‘It is brought to the front door?'

‘Always to the front door.…' He embarked on one of his little diversions. ‘But it was not locked nor the chain on it nor anything but the latch.…'

Mr Clark ignored the diversion. ‘Did you hear a ring at the front-door bell at the time when the milk should have come on Saturday morning?'

‘No,' said Mr Fleming, brought up short.

‘Do you swear—do you
swear
that you did not open the door before that woman—Mr Stewart's servant—came for the spade?'

‘Yes,' swore Mr Fleming.

‘Did you not open the door to the milkman that morning?'

‘No.' But it sounded very bald. ‘I don't recollect the milkman coming.'

‘Did you not open the door to the milk-boy and tell him that there was no milk required that morning?'

The old man retreated into vagueness. ‘There was one that I told that to. I recollect that.'

‘You remember that now?'

‘I do.'

‘Then it was not true that Mr Stewart's servant was the first person to whom you opened that front door on Saturday morning?'

‘It was Mr Stewart's servant to whom I opened the door first.'

‘Did you open the door for the milk-boy?'

‘No, I didn't,' said the old man. ‘Mr Stewart's servant was the first that I opened the door to, and then to the baker.'

There is nothing like a nice muddle to confuse the issue in cross-examination, and Mr Rutherford Clark must have recognised with some despair that—intentionally or otherwise—the old gentleman was going to correct and contradict himself till he had them both in a splendid muddle now. He started all over again. ‘Did the milkman come to the door on Saturday morning?'

‘I'm sure I canna charge my memory particularly about the milkman on Saturday morning.'

‘Mr Fleming, you told me a little while ago that you remember him coming on Saturday.'

Mr Fleming played for time. ‘I did not require any milk.'

‘I don't care about that. You told me that you remembered that the milkman came upon that Saturday. Did the milkman come on Saturday or did he not?'

There was a long pause; the Court, and Mr Clark too, must have held their breaths. But, ‘I'm sure I canna answer that,' said the old man.

Mr Clark tried again. ‘Mr Fleming—can you tell me whether you opened the door to any person before that servant of Mr Stewart who came for the spade?'

‘No, I don't think I opened the door to any person till she came. I am sure of that,' said Mr Fleming, taking heart. ‘It was about eleven o'clock that she came, and the baker came shortly after.' (Elizabeth was to say that it was two o'clock in the afternoon.)

‘Are you sure, therefore, that the milk did not come that morning?'

But the old man dodged again. ‘I am sure I did not get any milk that morning.'

‘Never mind that. Are you sure it did not come?'

‘I rather think it did not come.'

‘Could it have got in that morning without you opening the door?'

‘There was no milk brought in.'

‘Did you refuse to take milk that Saturday morning?'

What must have been Mr Clark's feelings when the old man at last simply answered ‘Yes.'

He pressed his advantage, eagerly; ‘Did you refuse to take in the milk that Saturday morning?'

‘I refused to take milk. I did not require it.'

But Mr Fleming was getting into deepish waters. The judge hastened to his aid. ‘Are you sure, Mr Clark, that he fully understands the question?'

Mr Clark doubtless felt little gratitude for this judicial interruption of the keen flow of his examination, now that he really had things moving. ‘I am persuaded that he does, my lord. Did you say to anyone, Mr Fleming, that you did not need any milk that morning, that Saturday? Did you say it to the milk-boy?'

‘I told him that I did not need it,' said the old man.

It must have been a moment of tremendous excitement. ‘Now, Mr Fleming, don't let us make any mistake about this matter.
Did you say to the milk-boy that you required no milk that day?
'

‘Yes, I think I did. This was the morning that I got no milk at all.'

A juryman here interrupted to ask counsel to make sure that there was no mistake about the day. ‘I am very anxious that there should be no mistake,' Mr Clark replied fervently, and put the question again. ‘You understand, Mr Fleming, that the morning I am speaking about at present is the Saturday morning?'

‘Yes,' said Mr Fleming.

He hammered it home yet again. ‘Just attend, Mr Fleming. On that Saturday morning you said to the milk-boy that you required no milk at that time?'

‘Yes.'

Down came the trap. ‘Well—
at what time of day
did you say this?'

Old Fleming took refuge in vagueness once more. The boy would have rung the bell and he would just have said he needed no milk. Lord Deas kindly prompted him: he could have said that without ever opening the door.

‘
Could
you have said that without opening the door?'

‘Yes; I could take the front door off the sneck [the latch], leaving the chain fastened, and speak to the milk-boy. I think I left the front door on the chain.'

‘Are you sure, Mr Clark,' insisted the anxious judge, ‘that he fully understands the question?'

‘I am trying to make it as plain as I can, my lord,' said Rutherfurd Clark. He added—with what degree of scorn, irritability or umbrage we must judge for ourselves—that he had no wish to take any advantage.

‘I have no doubt of that,' said Lord Deas pacifically.

Cross-examination resumed. ‘Had the door a chain?' asked Mr Clark—literally and metaphorically in words of one syllable.

Yes, it had a chain.

‘Could you have opened the door and spoken to the milk-boy without taking off the chain?' (‘Misunderstand' that if you can!)

Yes, he could.

‘Did you do so?'

‘Yes.'

Well, that was unequivocal enough; except that Donald M'Quarrie was to say that the first thing he heard that morning was the chain being taken down from the door.

‘Now, Mr Fleming—do you remember going to the door that morning and opening it to the milk-boy?'

Mr Fleming took refuge in one of his
non sequiturs
. ‘No, I did not let him in.'

‘Did you see him at the door?'

‘It's likely I would.'

‘Mr Fleming, do you remember speaking to the milk-boy on that Saturday morning?'

‘I would just say to him that I would not require any milk.'

‘Do you remember seeing him at the door?'

‘Yes, I think I do.'

‘Did the bell ring when the boy came?'

‘It's most likely it would.'

‘But do you remember if it rang?'

‘Well, I wouldna have gone to the door if the bell had not rung,' said the old man.

‘Well, but do you remember if it rang?'

‘I canna mind everything.…'

He was retreating again. Mr Clark left him to it and opened a fresh attack from a slightly different angle. ‘What time of the morning was it that the milk-boy came?'

It was just about his usual time—between eight and nine.

‘Were you dressed?' said Mr Clark.

No doubt it sounded to the uninitiated innocent enough. Old Mr Fleming knew otherwise. He temporised as usual. ‘On Saturday morning, do you mean?'

‘Yes, on Saturday morning?'

‘I canna say that; I suppose I would.' He added: ‘I got up about nine o'clock that morning.'

Just what Mr Rutherfurd Clark wanted! ‘Well, if the milk-boy came about eight or nine o'clock, how could you be dressed if you didn't get up till nine?'

There was another of those long pauses that at a murder trial are filled, for the unaccustomed spectator at any rate, with a sort of vicarious terror. He said at last, slowly: ‘Whether I was dressed or not, I cannot charge my memory. I might not be dressed.'

‘But you said that you lay in bed till about nine—and then got up and dressed yourself?'

‘Yes.'

‘Is that true?'

There was nothing to say but yes again.

And we may imagine for ourselves, another pause. Mr Clark would stand for a moment—deliberately, perhaps, to create an ‘atmosphere', or simply collecting his thoughts, girding himself for the spring. For this was to be the question of questions, this was to be the point and focus of all that had gone before. Did he bark it out suddenly, or whisper it dramatically, or just put it casually, as if it hardly mattered at all?
‘Why did you not let Jessie open the door when the milk-boy came?'

And: ‘Jessie?' said the old man. ‘Jessie, ye ken—it was a' ower wi' Jessie afore that.'

Sensation in Court cried the papers next morning; and no doubt that was putting it mildly. Indeed, in the hubbub, the answer was partially lost, and the
North British Daily Mail
heard it as: ‘Jessie—we kent it was a' ower wi' Jessie afore that,' or, as they translated it for their readers, ‘We knew that Jessie was dead and could not go to the door.'

Into the hushing of the ushers, Mr Clark repeated his question. ‘Why did you not let Jessie open the door to the milkman when he came?'

‘There was nae Jessie to open the door that morning,' said the old man helplessly.

Lord Deas intervened. ‘You had better put the question another way. Ask him why he opened the door himself that morning.'

‘Willingly,' said Mr Clark, though it was not precisely the same question, even allowing for different phrasing. He got round that rather neatly. ‘Why did you open the door when the milk-boy came—in place of allowing Jessie to open it?'

The old man began to fluff badly. ‘I was just saying to him—the chain was on—we did not require any milk. She was deed afore that.'

Mr Clark was anxious to pursue his line of enquiry, but here was an admission that must be noted. ‘My lord, there is one matter in this answer which I think is very important. He says the chain was on.' Having got the fact safely into cold storage, as it were, he returned to the immediate attack. ‘Mr Fleming, I must have an answer to this question. Why did you go to the door and open it when the milkman came? Why did you not allow Jessie to open the door?'