Maggie (7 page)

The earl sat with Mr. Farquharson near the front of the court. Maggie Macleod sat pale and silent in the dock. If she
had noticed him, she gave no sign of it.

Fog, that ever-present choking fog, laid its pale fingers across the gloom of the courtroom as Mr. Ian Macduff, Advocate-Depute, rose to present the case for the Crown. It was a damning summing up and the earl felt all his hopes of Maggie being acquitted ebb away.

Maggie Macleod had made the tea for her husband and carried it in to him. On her own admission, she had been alone in the kitchen. Two apothecaries had identified her as the young woman who had purchased a quantity of arsenic at their shops a week before the death of Mr. Macleod.

The servants had testified that Mrs. Macleod at no time showed any emotion towards her husband other than fear, and yet there was no evidence that Mr. Macleod had mistreated his wife in any way.

Maggie thought briefly of the humiliations of the marriage chamber and closed her eyes.

Crime reporter, Murdo Knight, had testified that Mrs. Macleod had often looked at her husband “as if she would like to kill him” and Mr. Macduff would remind the gentlemen of the jury of Mr. Knight’s reputation as being a fair and accurate reporter.

As it went on, Maggie withdrew her mind from the proceedings. She felt nothing now but a great empty numbness. The brief glimpse she had had of the earl had done nothing to her senses at all. He already belonged to the past.

Outside the fog began to swirl and stream alongside the black tenements as a rising wind blew all the way from the Gulf Stream. Although it was November, it was one of those warm damp winds which frequently descend on the streets of Glasgow, bringing with it a false taste of spring.

The wind rose higher outside the court. On the River Clyde, the tall masts of the shipping began to toss and sway as if some bare pine forest had come to life. Higher it rose,
tearing the fog to shreds, melting the frost from the roads and pavements, booming in the closes and wynds, scrubbing the city clean.

As Mr. Byles rose to speak for the defence, a watery sun shone through the grimy window panes, casting one broad band of golden light onto the pale oval of Maggie Macleod’s face.

It seemed as if hope and life and youth had come blowing all the way in from the Clyde estuary, all the way from the Atlantic.

Maggie felt the warm sun on her cheek and suddenly she seemed to be struggling in a nightmare. Destructive hope flew into her heart and she could hardly restrain herself from crying out, “I’m innocent! What are you doing to me? I’m innocent!”

Her wide, trapped eyes flew here and there about the court, seeking help, seeking freedom.

Mr. Byles was brilliant in his defence… or rather it would have been a brilliant defence had he not been constantly interrupted by Lord Dancer.

“The lady who bought the arsenic from the two apothecaries’ shops has been described as wearing a lavender wool gown with a black mantle trimmed with sable. Mrs. Macleod does not possess garments such as these, and this has been confirmed by her servants…”

“She would no doubt have got rid of the clothes which would help to identify her,” interrupted Lord Dancer in a conversational tone.

Mr. Byles faltered in his address to the jury, swore under his breath, and continued. He laid great stress on the fact that Mrs. Macleod’s signature did not match the signatures in the apothecaries’ books.

“Disguised handwriting?” murmured his lordship, cleaning his nails with a steel pen.

“Nor, had she been guilty, would she have signed her
own name,” pursued Mr. Byles.

“No one has said she was a
practised
criminal,” interrupted Lord Dancer impatiently.

And so it went on. Nonetheless, Mr. Byles did his best, and very good it was too. But the judge’s interruptions
did
flummox him and several times he had to pause and consult his notes, feeling that the sympathy of the jury had been lost.

When he finally sat down, Lord Dancer delicately cleared his throat and commenced his summing up. It was more like a speech for the prosecution thought the earl, gritting his teeth.

The jury of fifteen sat stolidly, staring up at the judge. It was impossible to know what they were thinking.

Lord Dancer’s cultured and charming voice went on and on.

“She’ll hang, as sure as eggs are eggs,” muttered Mr. Farquharson. The earl turned quite pale. Watching him out of the corner of his eye, Mr. Farquharson began to wish he had not brought his young friend to this trial. But who would have thought that Captain Peter Strange would be so squeamish?

Lord Dancer fingered the silk of his robes and turned his pale gaze on the jury.

“It may create the greatest reluctance in your mind to take any other view of the matter than that she was guilty of administering arsenic poisoning. Now the great and invaluable use of a jury, after they direct their minds seriously to the case with the attention you have done, is to separate suspicion from evidence. And, therefore, if you cannot say we find here satisfactory evidence that the poison
must
have been administered by her—whatever may be your suspicion, however heavy the weight and load of suspicion is against her, and however you may have to struggle to get rid of it, you perform the best and bounden duty as a jury to separate suspicion from truth, and to proceed upon nothing
that you do not find established in evidence against her.

“But,” he went on, leaning forward, his shoulders hunched up in his robes creating the illusion of a bird of prey, “if, on the other hand you return a verdict satisfactory to yourselves against the prisoner, you need not fear any consequences from any future, or imagined, or fancied discovery which may take place. You have done your duty under your oaths, under God, and to your country, and may feel satisfied that remorse you can never have.”

Then he placed the black cap conspicuously on the bench in front of him, as if wishing to remove any last lingering doubt from the minds of the jury as to what their verdict should be.

The jury of fifteen men retired, heads bowed. Not one of them looked at Maggie. “A bad sign,” Mr. Farquharson was about to say until the sight of the earl’s tense face stopped him.

Maggie Macleod, it was noted, refused to retire, preferring to stay in the dock and wait for the sentence.

Mr. Farquharson drew out his enormous cigar case. “Let’s step outside and get a breath of air and a smoke,” he whispered. The earl shook his head. “You go,” he said, and Mr. Farquharson, after a worried look at his friend, arose and shuffled his way along to the end of the bench.

Peter, Lord Strathairn, sat with his arms folded across his chest, waiting for the bell to sound which would signal the return of the jury. He was glad the Marquess of Handley was not present. Things were bad enough without that horrible individual, sitting waiting like a vulture.

At that moment, the Marquess of Handley, Lord Robey and Alistair Ashton were playing billiards in a saloon in West Princes Street. The marquess had been in fine form, chatting of this and that before the game. But when it was over and they were putting their cues up on the rack, Alistair Ashton
said suddenly, “Robey and I got to talking about the other night, Handley.”

“Indeed,” said the marquess with his foxy smile. “You mean the night of Strathairn’s downfall?”

“Exactly,” chimed in Lord Robey. “You didn’t make him go through with it, did you Handley?”

“A bet’s a bet,” said the marquess, shrugging his shoulders into his coat.

“But not
such
a bet,” said Alistair Ashton. “The man was drunk and didn’t know what he was doing.”

The marquess laughed. “What a marvellous day. I’ll always remember it. Johnnie Robey and Alistair Ashton preaching morality.”

Lord Robey’s thin, weak face looked suddenly grim. He put his hand in his pocket and drew out an ace of spades and held the card up. “I took this as a souvenir of the game, Handley,” he said, staring at the marquess and running his thumb gently over the card. “See! Little pinpricks. Marked cards. And the porter at The Club handed this to me last night. Said you’d dropped it. It’s a bottle of chloral. So what Alistair and I want to know is why you marked the cards and why you drugged Strathairn?”

The marquess looked quickly around. “Nonsense!” he said. “It was just a bit of a joke.” His mind worked rapidly. Maggie Macleod would hang. No one would ever hear of his part in the marriage.

“I don’t see what you’re both looking so solemn for,” he laughed. “You don’t think for a minute that I made Strathairn go through with it.”

Alistair Ashton looked at the marquess thoughtfully. “I hope you didn’t,” he said. “But I’ll tell you one thing, Handley. Johnnie and me, well, we’ve decided we won’t be seeing you for a bit.”

“Suit yourselves,” said the marquess.

“And, furthermore,” put in Lord Robey, “I think it
would be a good idea if you resigned your membership of The Club.”

The wind howled and rattled along the street outside and a shop sign creaked mournfully as it swung to and fro.

The marquess ducked his head before a greenish mirror in the corner and adjusted his silk hat.

“Look here you two,” he said over his shoulder. “Before you start lecturing me on morals and demanding my resignation from The Club, just think on this. You have been my guests many times at a certain charming little house in Renfield Street. I am sure Madame Dupont remembers you both vividly. Now, you would not like your delightful wives to know what you get up to in that establishment?”

“Bastard,” said Lord Robey. “You have no proof.”

“On the contrary, I have plenty of proof. You have no idea how these girls will talk for a few shillings. It would amuse them to call on your wives and families.”

The marquess studied their faces and smiled. He swung round and held out his hand. “My property, I think, my
very
dear boy,” grinned the marquess, taking the ace of spades and the bottle of chloral from Lord Robey’s nerveless fingers.

“Run along, little boys,” mocked the marquess. “And before you think of cutting me in public, do remember that I enjoy revenge. Witness the downfall of the priggish Strathairn. Ah, sweet revenge. Quite my favourite pastime, I assure you…”

Mr. Farquharson edged his plump figure into the space next to the earl and whispered, “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to leave for a bit? They say the jury’s going to be a long while.”

The earl shook his head, his eyes straying to where Maggie sat in the dock. There was a faint sheen of tears in her eyes. The blustery wind which howled about the building was
making the courtroom full of people restless.

“Poor thing,” said a woman behind the earl. “She looks as if she’s jist realized she’s for the lang drop. I sweer, she didnae do it. My mither’s neighbour, Aggie Benson, said she kenned auld Macleod and it waud be jist like the auld scunner tae take the poison hisself just to spite folks.”

The wait seemed endless. “Maybe they’ll not be deciding anything until tomorrow,” said Mr. Farquharson in a louder voice. Like everyone else in the court, he was getting tired of whispering.

Perhaps it was Maggie Macleod herself who was causing the restless atmosphere as well as the change in the weather. When she had appeared numb and lifeless, it had been easy for the crowd to enjoy the drama of the court without considering that a young girl’s life was at stake. But now that she had come alive, the wait seemed doubly endless.

The earl no longer stopped to consider that an acquitted Maggie meant he would be a married man. His lips moved in soundless prayer, “Dear God, if there is a God, let her go free.”

The bell to announce the return of the jury rang suddenly and violently.

“This is it,” said Mr. Farquharson.

Maggie Macleod straightened her back and looked straight in front of her.

The jury had only been out for an hour. As they shuffled into their seats again, the earl studied their faces. All of them were looking ox-like, except the foreman who stood nervously, holding a piece of paper.

“Have you decided on your verdict, gentlemen?” asked Lord Dancer, one white, well-manicured hand reaching towards the black cap.

“We have, my lord.”

“And do you find the panel guilty or not guilty of the charge of murder?”

“Not proven, my lord.”

“
What?
” Lord Dancer leaned forward, his gorgeous robes hunched about his shoulders, his pale eyes boring into those of the foreman. “
What
did you say?”

“Not proven, my lord.”

A great cheer went up from the court. The earl, who did not know the sympathy of the spectators had swung in favour of Maggie, looked wildly at Mr. Farquharson for help.

“What does the verdict mean?” he demanded. “Is she guilty or not?”

“Aye, it’s very strange that England and Scotland should share one Court of Appeal—the House of Lords—and one Parliament for so long and yet maintain such different procedures,” said Mr. Farquharson. “England has never had a ‘not proven’ verdict.”

“But what…?”

“Oh, it means she goes free. Not proven is a peculiarly Scottish verdict which the cynics translate as either Go away and don’t do it again, or We know you’re guilty, but we can’t prove it.”

Maggie was turning her head this way and that as people reached up to seize her hand to congratulate her. Lord Dancer had slumped back in his chair in disgust. Mrs. Chisholm, the wardress on Maggie’s right, whispered something in the ear and she gave a wan smile.

Cheering sounded from the mob waiting outside the court.

“Aye, they love her today,” sighed Mr. Farquharson, “but by tomorrow the wind will change and they’ll always be wondering whether she did it or not. That’s the awful thing about a ‘not proven’ verdict. It doesn’t matter where she goes, people will always look at her sideways, and no man in his right mind is going to marry her.”

Inside the court, all was chaos. Reporters ran hither and
thither, each trying to find out by which door of the court Maggie meant to make her exit.

“I must see her,” said the earl, after Maggie had been led from the dock.