Gillespie and I (40 page)

My question had been addressed to Stirling, but Grant butted in: ‘Rose Gillespie has been identified, by several means. There's no question that it's her.'

The edge of the table had been worn smooth by the hands of countless prisoners. I stared at the greasy wood, lost in futile thoughts. There was no Justice in the world: little children lay cold in the grave, while men like Grant, and this cheap, ugly lump of furniture continued to flourish.

‘… Miss Baxter?'

I looked up. Both men were staring at me.

‘What about Mr and Mrs Gillespie?' I asked. ‘Do they know about Rose? Is Annie back from Aberdeen? How is Ned? Who is there to look after them?'

Grant gave me a smarmy smile. ‘I could have predicted you'd be concerned for the Gillespies, above even your own predicament. Always so selfless!'

‘They're my friends,' I told him. ‘I'd simply like to know how they are.'

‘I'm sure they're as well as can be expected, under the circumstances. But never mind about them now. Tell me about the German.'

‘… What German?'

‘Schlutterhose.'

‘Schlutter—?'

‘—hose—Hans Schlutterhose. We know exactly how and where you met him, of course, but I'd be interested to hear some more details.'

‘Hans Schlutterhose?'

‘Yes—tell me about him.'

‘I'm not familiar with any person of that name.'

‘You've never met Hans Schlutterhose?'

‘I've never even heard the name before.'

‘What about Belle?'

‘Belle?'

‘His wife. You know Belle. Tell me about her.'

‘On the contrary, Inspector, I don't know anyone called Belle.'

Grant stroked his chin, and adopted a thoughtful demeanour: all a charade, of course; nothing that the man did was genuine.

‘It must have been last year at the Exhibition, I suppose. You were very taken with our Ex., weren't you? You were a frequent visitor. Was that where you encountered Belle and Hans for the first time?'

‘I thought you said you knew exactly where and how we'd met?'

‘So—you're admitting that you've met them?'

‘As I said before, I'm not familiar with these people. I encountered nobody of that name at the Exhibition. Now, I'd like to know more about Rose, if I may.'

‘What about her?'

‘What happened to her? How did she die?'

Grant leaned across the table.

‘That's what we're hoping you'll tell us,' he said. Feeling his breath hot against my neck, I pressed myself back in the chair. He went on: ‘Mr and Mrs Schlutterhose have been extremely cooperative, and told us all about your plan, but if you would care to give us your version of events…'

I shook my head, exasperated. Grant flicked his eyes at Stirling.

‘She doesn't care to tell us,' he said. Then, he took a scrap of paper from the ticket pocket in his waistcoat, glanced at something written thereupon, and replaced it. ‘Now Miss Baxter, would you be so kind as to estimate—just so we can keep our records accurate—how much you paid them for what they did? We know that, so far, it's in the region of a hundred pounds.'

‘I assure you, Inspector, whoever these people are, they've misled you. I've never heard of them, and I sincerely hope they don't have access to my money.'

‘The German claims it was accidental, you know.'

‘What was?'

Grant barely paused, as though I had not spoken.

‘But something tells me Herr Schlutterhose is only worried about additional charges. Plagium could mean anything upwards of several years, of course, but with the child dead…'

This time, I had to ask: ‘That word—plagium. What does it mean?'

‘Kidnapping, Miss Baxter, abduction—simple enough. Or it would be, if things hadn't got out of hand.' He narrowed his flinty little eyes. ‘Make too much noise, did she? Try to run away? Or was it part of your plan, all along? What intrigues me, though, is why you wanted it done, in the first place. Of course, I have my own theories.' He allowed his gaze to run up and down the bodice of my frock in a way that I found disconcerting. ‘You're a spinster, no children of your own, you meet this happy family—perhaps that might explain it…'

‘Inspector, you're talking in riddles. What might it explain?'

He raised his eyes, and looked me in the face.

‘Quite simply, it might explain why you paid this German and his wife to abduct and murder Rose Gillespie.'

I stared at him, aghast. He sat back, giving me another of his self-satisfied smiles. Stirling's head was bent over his notebook.

‘You think—you think I paid these people to—kidnap and murder Rose?'

‘Kidnap her, certainly. As you've been told, that's what you're arrested for, Miss Baxter. For the time being. But as for the murder—how exactly the child died, and at whose hands—that remains unknown, and that's what I want you to tell me about. I can't help thinking you had most reason to want her dead.'

My mind kept going blank: it was as though my brain was controlled by a switch, which was being flipped, on and off, on and off. I half expected to faint. For the first time, I began to feel truly afraid.

‘These people must be insane!' I cried. ‘It doesn't make any sense. Are you inventing all this, for some reason?'

Grant raised his eyebrows, unable to conceal his delight that he had succeeded in agitating me.

‘Not at all, Miss Baxter, we're only interested in what you might have to say. We want to hear your side of the story. Now, I know that you're a friend of Annie Gillespie. What do you think of her?… Miss Baxter?'

‘… Yes?'

‘What do you think of Annie Gillespie?'

‘Think of her? She's my friend.'

‘You do like her,' Grant offered.

‘Yes, I'm very fond of her.'

‘Yes, indeed. And I know that you're also very fond of Mr Gillespie.'

Here, he left a pause, and simply stared at me, in a provocative manner. The skin across my neck and shoulders began to prickle. I was not exactly sure what Grant was insinuating, but he certainly wished to imply something unpleasant. He turned to his colleague.

‘As you may observe, Bill—she doesn't appear to be very pleased.'

Stirling flicked a glance at me, and then returned to his notes.

‘Now, Miss Baxter,' Grant continued. ‘You've visited the Gillespies' apartment, frequently, and you're familiar with the routines of the household.'

Since this required no reply, I made none. My mind was racing. I had begun to realise that he might pounce on any response that I gave, however innocent, and make it seem suspicious.

‘You, more than most, are aware that when the weather was warm enough, Mrs Gillespie often sent her children around the corner, to play in Queen's Crescent. Your rooms, in fact, overlook the street, and if one stands in either window one has a clear view down into the Crescent gardens. Hence, you must have seen the little girls, playing there, many a time.'

It struck me that, perhaps, the only way out of this terrible situation was to say nothing: say nothing and hope that they would soon realise what a dreadful mistake they had made. Although unaccustomed to being deliberately impolite, I forced myself to fold my arms, and then I closed my eyes. This might seem a childish gesture but, at the time, I could think of no other way to demonstrate that I would co-operate no further. Apparently undeterred, Grant blustered on:

‘You knew the routines of the household; you knew that the children played in those gardens; you paid money to this German, who has admitted that—acting under your specific instructions—he abducted Rose Gillespie, assisted—possibly, we're not sure—by his wife. Plagium is the charge, as it stands. But what I'm interested in now, is how the child died. Who did away with her? Was it Schlutterhose, Miss Baxter? Or his wife? Or was it you, yourself?'

Keeping my eyes closed, I dropped my head forwards onto my chest. The Detective trotted out a number of other statements and questions, in the interim, all of which were speculative. Difficult though it was not to protest at his ludicrous suggestions, I remained silent. On and on he droned, until I feared that he might never stop. Then, at last, there was a pause, and I heard him say:

‘Well, Bill, she doesn't seem to want to enlighten us. That's a pity. We'll just have to see what she says when she goes before the court.'

After a few seconds, Stirling's notebook closed, with a snap. There was a loud scraping of chair legs on the floor, and then the two men left the room.

Hearing no click of the latch, nor any turn of the key, I opened my eyes. The door had, indeed, been left wide open. The passageway appeared to be empty. Just for a second, I contemplated making my escape. I could picture myself tiptoeing along the corridor, slipping through some unguarded exit, and emerging into the street. Where would I go?

But before I had time to consider, a sturdy constable appeared in the doorway, and escorted me back to my cell.

Weary though I was that night, sleep eluded me. My skin itched, and I was gripped by a fear that insects had crawled from the thin mattress, and burrowed into my clothes. Perhaps I was hallucinating, but there could be no doubt that the place was filthy. The stink of the cell was all-pervasive, and comprised a number of foul odours: chiefly, the residual scent of previous occupants, their urine and fearful sweat, together with an undertone of drains. Even the cold air that wafted in through the bars of the tiny window was hardly refreshing, since it carried with it a sulphurous reek from the various works nearby. With every approach of footsteps, or jangle of keys, I prayed that the door would open to reveal Stirling, come to inform me that there had been a mistake: I ought never to have been arrested; I was free to go; moreover, Grant had been dismissed, in disgrace, from the police service. Would I accept the Chief Inspector's humble apologies?

Alas, no such visit came. From time to time, the door did open, but on each occasion, it was only the night constable, lantern aloft, conducting his routine inspection. After a quick glance to make sure that I had not ripped up my petticoats and hanged myself, he would depart, leaving me alone in the cell, with my thoughts. I doubt that they were in any way coherent, given the various shocks that I had received since morning. The interview with Grant had served only to make me yet more fretful and confused, in addition to my grief. I could scarce believe that the police were giving any credence to these wild and unfounded accusations. Whoever these Germans were, presumably they had panicked upon being arrested, and were attempting to foist the blame for their misdoings on some other person—although why they had seized upon me, Harriet Baxter, as their scapegoat, was yet to be revealed. At the time, that they even knew my name was a mystery to me.

I also found it alarming that this man Grant now seemed to be in command. Stirling gave every appearance of being a decent, intelligent fellow. According to Ned and Annie, he was a diligent man, of untiring energy and perseverance, and though he had failed to bring Rose home, they had no doubt that he had tried his utmost to discover her fate. Now that her body had been found, it seemed as though his superior officer had assumed responsibility for the case. Perhaps searching for a missing child was beneath Detective Inspector Grant's dignity: no doubt, only the prestige of a juicy murder inquiry was enough to drag him off the fairway at the Glasgow Golf Club. To my eyes, he was all façade, more concerned with conveying an appearance of sagacity, rather than with the pursuit of real Truth. This was obvious, from the very fact that he had sanctioned my arrest, based on such flimsy—even non-existent—evidence. Indeed, he already seemed convinced of my guilt. My only hope was that whoever presided over the court was a man of superior intellect, who would see, at once, that I was unconnected to these Germans, and insist on a summary dismissal of the case.

Above all, I was concerned about what poor Ned and Annie would make of my being in custody. I could hardly bear the notion that they might, even for a second, see me in a bad light. Another wave of shame passed through me as I imagined my stepfather receiving the news of my arrest. Mercifully, he was still in Switzerland, and I could only hope that—long before he ever got wind of what had taken place—the police would have discovered their mistake, and I would have been released, without charge.

All night long, my mind could only flit from one fretful notion to another and, by the early hours, exhaustion had set in. With no other option available to me, I tried to compose letters in my head. Over and over, I began with the words: ‘Dearest Ned, dearest Annie'—but, try as I might, I could not get beyond the first few lines. For all I knew, Ned was already attempting to secure my release. Cranston Street was barely a mile from Woodside, and I wondered whether he might even be present at the Police Court, in the morning. And yet, part of me did dread the prospect of being faced with Ned, in real life, and of discovering how he and Annie might react to the sight of me, in front of them, for goodness knows what stories the police were telling, or what kind of scurrilous picture they had painted of my character.

Perhaps I did fall asleep, momentarily. At one point, I found that I could slip between the bars on the window, and fly out, and up, across the rooftops. In my mind's eye, I flew directly to Stanley Street, where I was able to hover in the air, outside the top floor of number 11. The curtains were open in the Gillespie apartment. I peered through the parlour window—and there sat Ned, alone, his head in his hands. No sign of Annie. Flying closer, I reached out towards the glass. I longed for the comfort of familiar company, the reassurance of talking to him—and yet, I hesitated. I told myself that I had no desire to startle him: he would get the fright of his life, to see me hovering outside, and beating at the window, like a little bird. And so, at the last moment, I shrank away.