Ill Met by Gaslight: Five Edinburgh Murders (15 page)

This was not quite accurate - it was her brother she told, not her mother; but the impression conveyed of a man desperately searching for money was supported by other evidence, and nowhere contradicted. True, there was no evidence beyond that offered by Mrs Baird, an old friend of Lizzie’s now settled in London, as to the decline in Chantrelle’s business, and it might seem to be contradicted by Mary Byrne’s account of his teaching hours. Still, it is, for reasons already adumbrated, likely enough that he was less in demand, partly perhaps from a growing disinclination on his part, this disinclination being fostered by his developing alcoholism. He had been teaching for a good many years; it would not be surprising if he was bored and disillusioned, especially since his particular branch of teaching is one which makes heavy demands on the instructor’s enthusiasm and persistence; both qualities which alcoholic addiction will dull.

Certainly that autumn he was looking for an alternative source of income. In September the Scottish manager of the Star Accidental Assurance Company advertised for agents. Chantrelle applied. He was appointed on the basis of his written application, without references being taken up. Yet, if he intended to make something of this, he lacked the necessary perseverance. He only did one bit of business for the Company, persuading an acquaintance, one William Reid, an upholsterer in George Street to whom Chantrelle had acted as medical adviser, to insure against accidental death. His only other contact with the Company was curious, and considerable emphasis was laid on it at the trial.

This was a conversation he had with Mr Macwhinnie, the manager, as to just what constituted an accident under an accidental insurance policy. He began by saying that he had recently met with an accident himself, which had turned his thoughts to the subject. (It was true; he referred to the occasion at Portobello, when young Eugene had inadvertently fired one of Chantrelle’s pistols, lodging a ball in his father’s thumb.) Chantrelle now told Macwhinnie of a friend who had died, in mysterious circumstances, after eating a Welsh Rarebit, Macwhinnie was certain that such a death would not be covered by the policy, even though the doctors had not been able to say what he had died of. There would have to be an ascertained cause of death. Chantrelle then brought up the case of a person who went out swimming, say at Portobello, caught cramp and drowned; how about that? Would that count as an accident? This time the answer was more satisfactory. Chantrelle recounted the pistol incident in greater detail and said he intended to insure himself and his wife against a fatal accident. Mr Macwhinnie suggested he should rather take out their ordinary form of policy, which offered so much for fatal accidents, and an allowance for injuries while the effect of such injuries lasted; Chantrelle was not interested; he `evinced a desire to be covered only against fatal injuries’. However, he did not fill up a form at the time, saying that he thought he should give the matter further consideration. Instead he went to another insurance company, the Accidental Assurance Association of Scotland, where he took out three policies. One, for Mary Byrne, their servant, was for £100 in the event of-death and an allowance of fifteen shillings a week during disablement. The second was in favour of Lizzie and was for one thousand pounds against accidental death only. The third, in his own favour, was in the same terms as Lizzie’s.

That was in the middle of October. There were some unusual features to the transaction. First, it was rare for `policies to be taken out in the name of females’. Indeed the manager of the Accidental Assurance Company stated that of the eight hundred policies they had issued in this the first year of operation, this was `the first and only application of the kind’. Then the Crown was to make Chantrelle’s eliciting of the information as to the exact meaning of the term `accidental death’ look sinister. It was strange that he had sought this information from one company, and then taken out policies with another - `an office’, as the Lord Advocate said pointedly, `where he asked no questions of the kind’.

It is not too much to say that the insurance policy hanged Chantrelle. On the one hand, it gave him a clear interest in Lizzie’s death (as long as it bore the appearance of an accident), and thus supplied a motive comprehensible to even the most unimaginative jury; on the other hand, if he was innocent of murder, it was to prompt him to an act of total folly. Yet there were good reasons why the thought of insurance should have occurred to Chantrelle. The pistol accident at Portobello had actually happened. He had been wounded. He might easily have been killed. So might Lizzie. So might Mary Byrne. `Was it wonderful’, as Chantrelle’s Counsel asked, `that the prisoner proceeded to insure his life and that of his wife against accident? That was the real reason he did it. It was a desperately unnatural reason to suggest that he insured his wife against accident because he wanted to kill her and make money to pay the butcher’s bill.’ Perhaps so; but murder, as the jury may have reflected, especially domestic murder, is itself a `desperately unnatural’ act. It was also, if Mrs Dyer was to be believed, a reason that had occurred to Lizzie.

`About six weeks before her death’, said Mrs Dyer, `she told me that Mr Chantrelle wished to insure her life in an accident insurance company. He expected, she said, to get an agency, and said he meant to insure his own life and hers as well. My daughter said she did not care to have it done; that she did not see the use of it, as she was not travelling about anywhere…. On the Thursday before her death she reverted to the subject … she said to me, “my life is insured now, and, mamma, you will see that my life will go soon after this insurance.” I said, “you are talking nonsense; you should not be afraid of that; there’s no fears of that. ” She replied, “I cannot help thinking of it; something within me tells me it will be so…

Though asserting that her daughter seemed `under real apprehension’ the egregious Mrs Dyer did nothing. She was accustomed to Lizzie’s fears; they were her old friends. She had frequently communicated her husband’s threats: `that he could give her poison which the Faculty of Edinburgh could not detect. She was serious when she told me that - under real alarm’.

Mrs Dyer had not been able to respond with equal seriousness; perhaps she was simply bored by Lizzie’s apprehensions. She had cried `wolf’ too often, had been crying it for ten years, and there she still was. `Threatened people live long’ was a proverb quoted by Chantrelle’s counsel, Mr Traynor. Mrs Dyer seems to have agreed. She knew her Lizzie too well to be put out by her `real alarm’ and `real apprehension’. So she ignored her latest fears, just as she had never bothered to consult a lawyer about Lizzie’s rights. Mrs Dyer was anxious to avoid acandal.

Such then was the state of the Chantrelle household at the end of the year. The family had passed a merry and agreeable Christmas, during which financial problems seem to have been set aside. Lizzie’s health was generally good, though she was inclined to sleep badly. As a result sometime in December the,two older boys went through to sleep in their father’s room, even though they had all three to sleep in the same narrow bed.

On New Year’s Eve, Lizzie was in `very good spirits’, according to Mary Byrne, whose evidence gives a clear and largely reliable account of the course of events. Her mother had sent a cake and some shortbread. She busied herself doing some shopping and playing with the children. The baby was put to bed about half-past six, and, when Chantrelle came in a little later, they all had supper with a bottle of champagne, the survivor of a pair bought for Christmas. Lizzie gave Mary Byrne a glass, but she did not care for it, and gave it to little Louis. After supper the children were put to bed and Lizzie then went out to post two New Year cards, one to her mother and the other to her friend in London, Anna Baird; she promised Mrs Baird she would write a letter in a day or two. When she came back she sat with her husband in the parlour. At last twelve o’clock struck, the bands in the Castle began to play, and Lizzie called Mary from the kitchen to come into the dining-room and listen to the music. Chantrelle warned Mary not to lean out of the window -‘she might get a blow’ - she thought he might have been joking. Soon after, they all went to bed. A quiet, uneventful, domestic day; in deference to the occasion, Lizzie had stayed up a couple of hours later than she was accustomed to do.

That did not seem to have affected her the next morning, for she appeared downstairs at the usual time, between halfpast eight and nine. Eugene, the oldest boy, had come down earlier, about eight, with the baby, and had passed on a request that Mary prepare tea and toast. Lizzie took only one cup of tea and one slice of toast, though she usually had a bit of bacon or an egg. After breakfast she sent Eugene out to buy a duck for their dinner, and herself took the baby to the kitchen to wash him as usual. She told Mary to leave the teapot by the fire, as she would take another cup later. `She said she had a little touch of headache, but nothing to signify.’ Then, leaving the baby with the second boy, Louis, she went upstairs and into her husband’s room. He said later that she had come to fetch the enema machine, which she used frequently. Towards eleven o’clock she told Mary that she could go out for the rest of the day, it being a holiday. She was to be back by ten in the evening. `She did not complain to me, and she was not looking any different from ordinary’, said Mary. Mary then spent the day with friends or family, and returned between half-past nine and a quarter to ten. Chantrelle answered her ring. He told her that Lizzie was not very well. She had felt ill after washing the baby about half-past six, and had gone to bed. Mary at once went up to see her mistress, without taking off her outdoor things. She found her, `lying stripped and in bed below the clothes, the baby at her back’. What struck Mary about her appearance was that, `she was very heavy looking and did not look so well’. However, she asked Mary about her day, and, speaking in her usual tone, assured her that she felt better than she had done earlier. She said she would like some milk; Mary offered to go and fetch some, but Lizzie looked at her watch and decided it was too late - the shops would be shut. Mary noticed a tumbler of lemonade, three parts full, on the bedside table. Lizzie asked her to peel an orange for her. She did so, dividing it into quarters. She gave her one segment and put the others on a plate which already held half-a-dozen grapes. There were one or two grape skins there too. She could not tell whether Lizzie ate the piece of orange she had given her, for she now said that she was tired and would need nothing more that night. Mary left her there, with one gas lamp lit - the bracket over the mantlepiece - and, putting out the gas in the kitchen and the lobby, went to her own bed. All the time she had been aware of Chantrelle in the parlour, though she did not see him again after he opened the door for her. Next morning when she went in there to tidy up, she found a large empty whisky bottle and an ashtray full of cigarette stubs.

There are two accounts of how the day had gone in her absence, Chantrelle’s and young Eugene’s. In general they tally well enough, though, not surprisingly, Eugene’s memory of what had happened several months before he was called on to give evidence, was not very detailed and perhaps not always exact. Nevertheless the outline of the day is beyond dispute. Chantrelle went out about noon, taking little Louis with him. His intention was to go first to the Post Office to get a postal order with which to pay his Income Tax. If true, this would suggest that his financial position was not absolutely desperate; but he may of course have claimed this was his intention in order to create that very impression. However he found the Office closed, not surprisngly, since it was a public holiday. Meeting a friend, Herr Spanier, he repaired with him to the Hanover Hotel, where he spent most of the afternoon. `They were out a good long time’, said Eugene. While they were out, Lizzie vomited, sitting by the parlour fire. `It was like water what she vomited’, said Eugene. He told his father about this when he returned and Chantrelle asked if she had drunk any champagne. She said she had not, and he then sent Eugene out for some lemonade. Later the two boys were despatched again, this time for grapes. Chantrelle told his wife that she should `not put herself about’, and that he would finish preparing the dinner. They dined around five o’clock on duck and onions, but Lizzie took nothing. She fed the baby and then lay down on the sofa. Afterwards she said that she would wash the baby, which, as Chantrelle somewhat complacently put it, `showed that she was able to do it’. She and the baby were in bed together by six o’clock. She seems to have dozed on and off through the evening. The boys called on her to say good night before going to bed about half-past nine; Eugene saw no difference in her appearance. Chantrelle went out briefly to Hardy the tobacconist in Frederick Street, and stayed there, by his account, till about half-past ten; he probably had a drink there too. (This story conflicts with Mary Byrne’s version, though the difference is hardly important.) Afterwards he sat in the parlour with the whisky bottle till almost midnight. He went upstairs, undressed and called on Lizzie. He found her, he said, sitting up in bed. She had been reading The Family Herald. He stayed with her for about an hour and let it be understood that they had made love. This was probably untrue, merely an attempt to suggest that they were on good terms. It was not supported by any medical evidence; and, apart from her sickness, she was menstruating. When he left, he took the baby with him. He had said to Lizzie, `if you like I will give him to Jack (Eugene), who is a capital nurse’. Eugene soon lulled him to sleep, and Chantrelle returned to Lizzie. He found her out of bed, `as if she had got up for some necessary purpose’. He wanted to stay with her, but she was ready for sleep.

Mary Byrne was up early as usual the next morning, before a quarter to seven. She went straight to the kitchen and set about getting water for tea for her mistress, but when she was crossing the parlour (where she observed the empty whisky bottle) to get coal and sticks to light the fire, she was arrested by a strange sound. She described it as, `a moaning like a cat’s’. It was repeated two or three times. First she thought it came from the street, but then traced it to Lizzie’s room. She was surprised to find the door open and the gas out; both occurrences were unusual. Lizzie was lying near the edge of the bed, partly on her side, partly on her back. The bedclothes were thrown half off, and her head had slipped off the pillow. There was no sign of the baby. Mary Byrne thought her mistress `awfully pale-looking’; `she had never seen any person in that state before’. She noticed `a green brown-like stuff on the edge of the pillow and bed, like vomit’. She shook Lizzie, but, getting no response beyond the moaning, went through to the other room to call Chantrelle. She was surprised to find all the children in bed with him. `There was scarcely room for them in the small iron bed.’ Chantrelle got up at once, came through to his wife’s bedroom, and knelt beside her. He asked Mary if her mistress had spoken. Mary said she hadn’t and suggested that he should call a doctor at once. At that moment Chantrelle raised his head, apparently hearing something in the next room; he sent Mary through to see if the baby was all right. She obeyed of course, though she had heard nothing herself.