Heaven Knows Who (4 page)

At eleven o'clock, Mr Littlejohn, who kept a liquor shop at the top of North Street, four or five minutes' walk from 17 Sandyford Place, closed his door and went off upstairs to bed.

A few minutes before that—there was a little dispute about the time here, but from the evidence it would appear that it was just before eleven—a Mrs Walker went out into Elderslie Street to take a breath of fresh air. Mrs Walker was in the family way and feeling not too well. She was expecting her husband home at any moment and thought she would wait at their ‘close-mouth' till he arrived; or it may well be that she simply thought she might have a gossip with a neighbour—Mrs Walker was to show herself adept at inventing little excuses of this kind. She suggests, for example, that as she was innocently passing the house of the neighbour, Miss Dykes, Miss Dykes popped out and opened a conversation with her and then came out on to the pavement and stood gossiping with her; Miss Dykes, however, says simply ‘It was at her request that I came out of my house and stood talking.'

Both Mrs Walker and Miss Dykes were proprietresses of shops in Elderslie Street and they both knew Jess M'Pherson. Miss Dykes had seen her that very evening, when she came in between six and seven for some washing powder. Jess had never said anything to her against old Mr Fleming, and Miss Dykes thought she had no appearance of being unhappy at No. 17: she had spoken with respect of John Fleming, his son. But one evening about a month ago she had come into the shop just as someone was leaving it after—unsuccessfully—trying to borrow money from Miss Dykes; and Miss Dykes had passed the remark to Miss M'Pherson that some people seemed to think one was made of money. Jess doubtless said the equivalent of ‘are you telling
me
?'
She said it was a bad thing to lend money, she herself had money owing from two different people and she couldn't get it back. Miss Dykes suggested it was a funny thing if Mr Fleming, who was a ‘writer'—an accountant—couldn't fix that for her, and Jess said she didn't dare tell Mr Fleming. Once before she had confided in him, and he had reproved her for lending money to fellow-servants and had kept back the money from the other woman's wages till it was repaid. She said that she was now owed four pounds by a former servant who had been married out of the house, and when she had asked it back she got the height of abuse, but she was going to ask again, come what would.…

Miss Dykes, by the way, said it was half-past ten when she joined Mrs Walker and that they stood gossiping not a quarter but three-quarters of an hour. This Mrs Walker ever after stoutly denied; and, as has been said, in this case it was probably Miss Dykes who was mistaken.

At any rate, it was as Miss Dykes emerged from her house that Mrs Walker casually observed—though she was seldom casual about observing her neighbours' business—that a woman had come out of the lane which ran along behind the houses of Sandy-ford Place—the back doors of their gardens opening into it—and went off across Elderslie Street in the direction of North Street. The ladies remained chatting for ten minutes or so till, at about a quarter past eleven, Miss Dykes heard a ‘skliffling' of feet behind her (from which she judges that the walker had bad shoes on, or very light ones) and they both saw a woman come down Elderslie Street from Sauchiehall Street towards the entry to the lane behind Sandyford Place. Mrs Walker described her as pretty tall and square shouldered: she could not be sure that it was the woman she had seen before. Both agreed that she wore a dark bonnet and a brown dress: Mrs Walker said she had a grey cloak, Miss Dykes couldn't be sure; they both thought she was carrying something.

The ladies were ready to be scandalised. ‘Whose servant is that going into the lane at this time of night?' asked Miss Dykes indignantly. (A Miss M'Intyre who was passing caught the words and hoped they would not be so censorious of
her
). But the married woman was more worldly wise than Miss Dykes. ‘You see that man that's just passed her? He looked right into her face. She'll meet him on the waste-ground.' But the man passed on, so the ladies were disappointed.

Miss M'Intyre was innocently on the way home to Sandyford Place from a visit to her brother; she was spending a few nights at No. 80. She passed by Mrs Walker and Miss Dykes; and she, also, saw the woman (in a grey cloak or grey shawl) as she turned off into the lane. At the corner of Sandyford Place there was a little group of people, apparently discussing something that had just occurred to surprise or alarm them; something they ‘had heard', some sound that they thought had ‘come from that house where the light is'. They broke up as she approached; and then as she passed No. 17 she too heard a sound that made her stop and listen: a low, wailing noise, like the moaning of a person in very great distress. ‘There was no wind that night, a calm night. The sound was quite distinctly audible to me, a moaning, doleful kind of sound which rather frightened me.' There was a light in one or both of the windows in the area.

She stood still for a little while listening, wondering whether she ought not to go and investigate; but she was frightened, and after the one long moan the sound did not come again. She walked on as fast as she could along Sandyford Place.

A quarter past eleven.

P.C. Campbell plodded on round his beat, plagued by those bothersome prostitutes and drunks on the waste ground, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, while the skirts of fame whisked by him.

Mr Stewart, a jeweller, lived at No. 16. The house adjoined No. 17, to the west of it, the lay-outs being similar; and Mr Stewart slept in the room corresponding to old Mr Fleming's on the first floor: overlooking the back garden, that is, and above, though not directly above, the Flemings' kitchen.

Mr Stewart got home at about half-past ten on the night of the murder. His family had just gone off to the country, but he called up the maid and a little girl who was keeping her company and they all ‘had worship'. He then went to bed and fell asleep at once, before he had even had time to settle himself comfortably—still sitting half upright, his head resting on the head-board, and therefore separated only by the board from the party wall between the two houses.

He ‘wakened in a fright'. He couldn't be sure what had waked him, but he thought it was a scream, and his first impression was
that it had come from within the room—his second that it couldn't have, because there was nobody in the house (he had presumably forgotten the maid and the little girl downstairs). He looked out of the window and saw that it was still pitch dark: he thought it must be about midnight or not later than one o'clock. He listened but he heard no more and he went off to sleep again.

P.C. Campbell trudged on.

The sun rose at 3.41 that morning. At about four o'clock three sisters came rolling happily home from their brother's wedding celebrations—though one hastens to say that Peterina at least had had ‘only half a glass of wine at the marriage and no spirits nor any other liquor', and there is no suggestion that the others had been less abstemious. They were Margaret, Jessie and Peterina M'Lean, and the eldest was twenty-four.

It was ‘a lovely morning, still and calm'. In a tree outside one of the houses in Sandyford Place a whole flock of little birds had gathered and were singing their hearts out. Delighted, the three girls stopped to listen. As they stood there they observed that there was a light on in the house: the blinds of the front ground-floor room (the dining-room) were down, but in the centre of one several slats were open, and through these they could all distinctly see the gasolier hanging from the ceiling, in which one or two of the lights were burning. ‘How curious,' said Margaret, ‘to have a light burning at this time of the morning!' ‘Perhaps there's sickness in the house,' said Peterina, ‘or they have a late party.' They could all clearly see the number of the house, No. 17; and Margaret, though she didn't happen to mention it at the time, knew who lived there. On the Tuesday after the discovery of the murder she led another sister past it and pointed it out. ‘That's the house where we saw the light after the wedding.'

A little later—between four and five that morning—yet another reveller was said to have been passing Sandyford Place and to have seen ‘an old man resembling Mr Fleming' at the door of No. 17. A Mr Sheridan Knowles, butcher, had been told so by a Mr Ritchie; or at any rate Mr Knowles thought it was Mr Ritchie who had told him, but he wasn't sure. Nor, at the time of making his report to the authorities could Mr Knowles recall the name of the party who was said to have seen the old man, though he knew it was a
short name. Mr Knowles had said to Mr Ritchie—if it was Mr Ritchie—that the party ought to inform the authorities, and Mr Ritchie—if it was Mr Ritchie—had replied that the party didn't want to get mixed up in the case. Later, said Mr Knowles, Mrs M'Lachlan's life being in danger, he had again spoken to Mr Ritchie, and Mr. Ritchie now denied ever having mentioned such an incident. Mr Knowles, however, had found Mr Ritchie ‘only middling truthful in matters generally'.

Mr Ritchie, questioned, forthrightly repudiated all knowledge of the affair. He had known Jess M'Pherson when she had lived in Falkirk and used to come to his shop, but he had no recollection of ever conversing with Mr Knowles about the murder at all. ‘In point of fact, I don't know any party who saw an old man resembling Mr Fleming at said door; nor did I ever hear of such a thing until now.'

So that was the end of a beautiful friendship no doubt, but at any rate the end of any sort of proof that the old man had been seen up and about that night.

At six o'clock P.C. Campbell was relieved and retired home to bed, having missed his chance of more than a very small share in the notoriety that was soon to surround everyone connected with Sandyford Place.

P.C. Cameron succeeded him. One half of the day beat came on at six and the other half at eight, whereupon the first half had time off for breakfast, so that between eight and nine only half the day beat were operating and Cameron was the only man on duty—with his station at the head of North Street, where he stayed until nine. Between eight and nine, therefore, there was no eye of the law to remark any comings and goings round Sandyford Place.

There was, however, one very sharp-eyed observer.

Donald M'Quarrie, ‘the historic milkboy', was thirteen years of age and was employed with three other boys in distributing the milk which was taken round by horse and cart under the supervision of George Paton, a young man of twenty-five. Paton had been on this round for nearly a year, calling ‘twice every lawful day and once on Sunday'. M'Quarrie had been with him almost all that time and they were both well familiar with the habits of tenants at Sandyford Place, where they served sixteen houses.
Many houses took no milk in the summer months or at week-ends, their occupants being out of town, but he had never known No. 17 to take none. A maidservant always answered the door and took in the milk, except occasionally on a Friday, when old Mr Fleming would appear, and on Monday afternoons, when he paid the account. Donald M'Quarrie knew Mr Fleming well from seeing him on these occasions. He would usually be wearing a black coat.

On the Friday morning before the murder it was Jess M'Pherson as usual who opened the door. She handed M'Quarrie the jug and asked for two penn'orth. That afternoon Mr Fleming appeared and said they didn't want any more.

Next morning, Saturday, at their usual time—between half-past seven and a quarter to eight—the cart drew up almost exactly opposite No. 17, the last house but one in the row. M'Quarrie ran up the front steps with his can and rang the bell.

After only a small delay he heard the rattle of the chain coming off the inside of the door, and the door opened and old Mr Fleming appeared. He was fully dressed, Donald was to say later—in black coat and trousers: better dressed than M'Quarrie had ever seen him before (the inference would be that he usually wore up his old black suit in the house). He said briefly that ‘he was for nae milk' and shut the door again.