The Secret Life and Curious Death of Miss Jean Milne (4 page)

He lifted her arms, each in turn. “There are no visible cuts or wounds on the hands or forearms, no signs of a struggle or an attempt at self-defence.”

The professor nodded. “I concur.” And then he lifted up a knife and he cut her throat. He cut her throat. He cut her throat and he pushed his fingers into the wound.

“The hyoid bone is intact.”

He took his fingers out of her throat and Dr Templeman opened the wound and put his fingers in.

“I concur. That means, gentlemen, that this lady was not strangled. The hyoid bone is a small structure in the upper part of the throat. In the event of strangulation it is invariably broken.”

The professor said: “I can see no possible advantage in examination of the internal organs.”

Dr Templeman said: “I concur.” And then, as if to justify himself, he said: “There are no signs of any external injury other than the obvious blow to the head. She was not stabbed. Decomposition is advanced. The internal organs are unlikely to offer anything useful at this late stage.”

The Procurator Fiscal plucked up the courage to stop sucking on his pipe for just long enough to ask: “How long, exactly?”

“Hard to say,” said the professor: “Have you any idea when she was last seen?”

“We have witness statements confirming that she was definitely alive on the 21st.”

“Only eleven or twelve days. Not impossible.”

“I concur.” said Dr Templeman. “Not impossible.”

The Chief Constable said: “Dr Sturrock suggested she may have lain as long as three weeks.”

“Out of the question,” they said together. “Oh, out of the question.”

Dr Sturrock did not seem at all offended by that, but he took his pipe out of his mouth and pointed to the body with the stem of it, as he had with his silver pencil before, and he said: “Would you be good enough to examine the underside of the body?”

“The underside?”

“Aye. Her back.”

Dr Templeman and the professor gave each other a look and, gripping the poor woman by the shoulder, they tipped her over a little, but before they could turn her, the body gave a gurgle and a belch that had everybody puffing hard on their tobacco again. “There are a few minor, post-mortem injuries on the lady’s back.”

“Post-mortem?”

“Yes, Doctor, definitely post-mortem. Minor scratches, no doubt caused during the transportation of the body from the scene.”

“I concur,” said the professor.

“I see. And those wounds on the breast. There. Yes. Those. Those two holes there.”

“Maggots,” said the professor.

“Undoubtedly,” said Dr Templeman. “The emergence of maggots. The all-conquering worm.”

That gave me a shudder and then the Chief Constable leaned close and whispered in Dr Sturrock’s ear and the good doctor muttered: “You’re obsessed, man,” but then he said: “Is there any indication as to whether the deceased was criminally assaulted?”

They leaned across her body, the two of them, in a way that was indecent even for a doctor, and the professor said: “There is not.”

“There is not,” said Dr Templeman. “But you might have known that by her limbs being tied together. Gentlemen, we can say conclusively that this lady was murdered by a number of blows to the head, any one of which might have been fatal, almost certainly using the poker found at the scene. She was attacked from behind, the blows falling here and here,” he made chopping motions with the edge of his hand against his assistant’s head, “and here. She made no attempt to defend herself, so, mercifully, the attack came as a surprise for which she was unprepared. The cause of death is shock, occasioned by haemorrhage brought on by a series of blows to the head. And now, the last kindness we can do for this poor soul is to get her in the ground as quickly as possible.”

The great men got on with the business of dropping their rubberised gloves into buckets and dumping their aprons and scrubbing at their hands with great blocks of blood-red carbolic soap and the rest of us left Coullie to his work and went out into the clean and decent night, where the November wind scoured away at least something of the stink. Mr Mackintosh the Fiscal walked with Dr Sturrock and Chief Constable Sempill. Suttie and I stayed at an appropriately respectful distance, but I heard every word. Or almost every word.

Mr Mackintosh said: “You do understand the gravity.” And he said: “Must be seen to.”

The Chief Constable agreed, over and over, strongly and repeatedly.

Mr Mackintosh said: “I don’t think you’re equipped. I insist.”

And, at that, Mr Sempill flew up in a temper. “No. Absolutely not. No. Impossible.”

“I must insist.”

They stopped walking, so Suttie and I stopped walking too, but Mr Sempill was no longer making any attempt to speak privately. “You can insist,” he said, “but you cannot instruct, and I may tell you no Dundee detective will set foot in Broughty Ferry. The magistrates will not tolerate it and I will not tolerate it. I will telegraph to Glasgow in the morning, but I’m damned if I will let a Dundee man anywhere near my investigation.”

Mr Mackintosh, standing on his dignity, said: “Then see that you do. I bid you goodnight,” and he walked off through the cemetery gates.

IN THESE MODERN times, I may assure you, the police make use of the most modern methods. Do not imagine that the Broughty Ferry Constabulary has no resources to draw upon beyond the boundary of the burgh. Nothing could be further from the truth.

First thing on the Monday morning, the 4th of November 1912, our own Mr Sempill communicated with Chief Constable Stevenson of Glasgow by the police telegraph, asking him to let us have the services of a detective officer to assist in investigating the murder.

Later in the forenoon Mr Stevenson communicated by telephone to inform us that he was despatching Detective Lieutenant John Trench with the train from Glasgow. Mr Sempill was highly delighted by the news since John Trench was a figure in police circles after his great success when he hunted down the killer of poor Miss Marion Gilchrist, a wealthy woman beaten to death in her own home in what the papers called “The Oscar Slater Case”.

“He has an enviable record,” said Mr Sempill. “Wasn’t he the very man who traced that vicious little Jew in just exactly the same circumstances? We must make every arrangement to welcome him.”

But we were not idle in the meantime. No indeed, very far from that. Along with the photographs recording the scene, Mr Sempill collected a
carte de visite
from the studio of the photographer Mr Rodger, which Mr Rodger had earlier prepared for Miss Milne, and he took it, together with the negative glass, along to the offices of the
Broughty Ferry Guide
and Gazette
, where they used it on a poster, produced at the expense of Burgh Police. I reproduce it faithfully below.

About 9.20 am on Sunday 3rd November, 1912, Miss JEAN MILNE was found murdered in the hall of her house at Elmgrove, a large mansion house standing in extensive grounds in this Burgh.

Miss Milne resided alone at the above address and was a lady of eccentric habits, having few friends or visitors. She frequently left home for long periods and went to London, sometimes without intimating her intention of doing so to any one. The last time she is believed to have visited London was on 9th April, 1912, when she remained away until 2nd August, 1912. On that occasion she stayed at the Palace Hotel, Strand. She was last seen alive on or about 21st October, 1912.

The murder appears to have been of a brutal nature, the deceased lady being badly battered about the head and arms with a poker which was found beside the body. Her feet were tied with a curtain cord and the wires of the telephone, which is situated in the hall where the body was found, were cut.

The whole affair is at present a mystery and, although a considerable quantity of valuable jewellery and money was found in the house and on the person of the deceased lady, nothing appears to have been disturbed.

Any information likely to lead to the elucidation of the murder will be gratefully received by the subscriber.

J. HOWARD SEMPILL

Chief Constable

Burgh Police Office

Broughty Ferry

4th November, 1912

Anybody looking at it might see for themselves that the picture of the late Miss Milne at the top of the handbill is worse than useless and may as well have been drawn in mud. I also disapproved, privately, of the terms in which it was written, for it was already obvious that Miss Milne had met her end long before October 21. There was the evidence of the
Evening
Telegraph
lying, unread, on the table under a half-eaten mutton pie. Was it likely she would have left that to lie about for days? And, forebye all that, had the Chief Constable not had me go through her letters? The postbox had been untouched for three weeks until I broke it open with my own hand, and the earliest letter in it was stamped October 15, the morning after the newspaper. Why would Miss Milne ignore the letters piling up for a week? No, if anyone had asked me I would have told them confidently that she died long before Dr Sturrock or the reporter claimed to have seen her on the street, but my opinion was not sought and, in any event, the content of that advertisement mattered but little. The whole of the Ferry was already abuzz with talk of the murder, long before the typesetters of the
Guide and Gazette
had their handbills on the street, and Mr Sempill’s efforts were, it must be said, far surpassed by the work of Norval Scrymgeour. His report, which in truth reported very little since there was very little to report, nonetheless filled up two full columns in the middle pages of that morning’s
Courier
. Nothing so vulgar as news has ever been known to figure on the front page of the
Courier
. That is reserved for commercial advertisements.

But nobody in the Ferry was reading the advertisements that day. We had a constant stream of callers at the front counter and telephone calls which must have numbered well into double figures, each and all of them with something to say about Miss Milne. We were nearly overwhelmed. It was all we could do to note down their names and addresses and record them for future interview, so we were not short of work.

And then at the back of three o’clock, Mr Sempill instructed me to accompany him to Dundee, where we were to meet Detective Lieutenant Trench off the train.

We arrived at the West station with plenty of time in hand and so, rather than stand out on the platform in the biting wind, I followed Mr Sempill into the waiting room, where there was a good fire going, but before we even had our gloves off, the better to warm our hands, Mr Sempill gave out a groan. He was standing, looking out the window, and I followed his gaze and there on the platform was the reporter Scrymgeour and that same photographer trotting along behind with his camera on its long stand.

“How in God’s name—”

“Dundee, sir,” I said. “They are no respecters of confidences.”

“Or the Fiscal. Between them they want to show us up any way they can, damn them.”

“Do you want me to see them off, sir?”

“I’m sure their platform tickets are in order, Sergeant Fraser. Leave them be.”

Mr Sempill got on with the business of looking deep into the coals, washing his hands over and over in the glow of them, while I kept an eye on the platform, and we had not long to wait before the Glasgow train arrived, trailing long bride’s ribbons of steam and mourning bands of smoke, and in among the throng of folk there was one we took at once for Detective Lieutenant Trench.

He was a fine, tall, well-set-up man, but that’s not unusual amongst the police, where a man is expected to be able to hold his own, and he could certainly grow a moustache. He carried an umbrella with a kind of military air and, well, he stood out. If you asked me to describe him in a phrase, the phrase I’d choose would be “beef-fed”. We should have been on the platform to make ourselves known to him, but since we were as good as hiding in that waiting room, the reporter Scrymgeour had already buttonholed him by the time we were out the door.

And that was where we got the measure of Detective Lieutenant John Trench, for while meeting Norval Scrymgeour had left Mr Sempill at a loss for words, Mr Trench met him with a laugh and walked past him with never a second glance. He put down his suitcase a step or two away from the Chief Constable, held out his hand and said: “Detective Lieutenant Trench reporting, sir.”

Mr Sempill shook his hand. “Glad to see you,” he said. “This is Sergeant Fraser,” and I shook his hand and knew him at once for a brother of the Craft.

But Scrymgeour was determined to intrude himself and he tried to draw attention, repeating “Chief Constable? Chief Constable? Detective Trench?” until Mr Sempill lost patience and snapped at him: “What do you want? You were told you’d be kept informed of developments.”

“Yes, Mr Sempill. And are there developments?”

“You might very well see for yourself that there are, indeed, developments. The investigation is continuing apace and with the assistance of this gentleman, trained in the most modern and scientific methods of detection, you may be assured that the culprit responsible for this dreadful crime will very soon be brought to justice and held accountable for his vile actions, to the extent of the direst penalty open to the law.”

It took Scrymgeour a moment or two to catch up with his scribblings, so, without even looking up from his notebook, he said: “You were responsible for the conviction of Oscar Slater for the murder of Miss Gilchrist, Mr Trench. The Glasgow tragedy has, in some respects, a great similarity to that now under review – an old lady of means cruelly done to death. Have you anything you would like to add, Mr Trench?”

“No.” And that was all he said, which increased him greatly in my esteem.

Then without so much as a tip of the hat, we left. “The next train is not for half an hour,” Mr Sempill said. “We’ll take the car and I will brief you on the way.”

There was a tram for Broughty Ferry waiting at the halt, and we sat outside, for the sake of privacy, Mr Sempill and John Trench in the very back seat while I sat two rows forward, discouraging anyone else from joining us.

When we were driving and as private and secluded on the top of that tram as if we had been locked in the back cell of Broughty Ferry police station, Mr Sempill said: “Your Chief Constable must have outlined to you the circumstances of the case already. Let me add a few things.”

He handed over a large brown envelope, which Mr Trench carefully opened. He took out a photograph of the murder scene, printed on heavy card, which Mr Rodger had stamped with “Rodger Photographic Studios, Brook Street, Broughty Ferry” in flowing gold script across one corner, just as he would have done with a lady’s portrait or a view of the castle. Mr Trench examined it intently for a few moments, paying especial attention to Miss Milne’s head.

“Has the body been removed?”

“That was necessary, yes,” said Mr Sempill.

“Nothing else?”

“No, it’s all exactly as you see it there.”

“Pardon me, sir. The carpet.”

“What about the carpet, Sergeant Fraser?”

“You ordered it should be rolled up and removed, sir.”

“But you’ve not done that already, man?”

“It was done last night, sir. While we were in Dundee for the post-mortem. On your order, sir.”

“But I didn’t mean there and then!” He turned to Mr Trench. “The Fiscal. It was the Fiscal who ordered it. He was there for the lifting of the body.”

“Of course.”

“I simply . . .”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s all recorded here. These things happen.”

Mr Trench dipped back into the envelope and came out with a folded sheet of paper: Mr Roddan’s plan of the murder scene, very neatly done in ink, with a proper scale marked down two sides.

Mr Trench said: “In the normal course of things, the first hours of an investigation are crucial, but since the lady has been dead for so long, that hardly applies. Your man is either long gone or so sure of himself that he has simply returned to the normal routine of his life. Either way, we’ll winkle him out.”

He folded the map again and laid it on the bench at his side with the photograph on top, the blank cardboard side uppermost to shield it from view, and then he took from the envelope the surgeons’ report. “Excuse me,” he said. “A moment, if you please.”

Mr Trench was absorbed in the report for a few moments and, in truth, a few moments was all it took. I had seen the report that morning, indeed I placed it in the envelope, and, aside from the lengthy preamble setting out the two doctors’ great number of qualifications, it said almost nothing beyond the fact that Miss Milne had died from a series of blows to the head.

“Is this all?” Mr Trench said.

The Chief Constable said: “Not at all. We have not been idle in Broughty Ferry. There is also this,” and he produced from his pocket a folded copy of the handbill which he had prepared that day. I’m near certain I saw more than one of them blowing past us on the chill November wind as we drove.

Mr Trench added it to his little bundle, saying: “This will be very useful,” in the indulgent tone of a disappointed father and then, with a little sigh, he added: “I see you’ve let it be known that the deceased lady was tied up.”

“Yes. Well. I. Was I wrong to do so?”

Mr Trench carefully folded everything back into the brown envelope. “What can you tell me about her?” he asked.

“Oh, I’d say a respectable woman, well known in the community, devoted to church affairs,” said Mr Sempill.

“Family?”

“No, a maiden lady.”

“Yes, I gathered as much, but had she family living nearby?”

“No, completely alone.”

“No staff.”

“Not even a lassie, nor a woman coming in.”

“That’s odd.”

“You might say that exactly,” said Mr Sempill. “But she was odd.” I think Mr Trench caught me giving the Chief Constable a look.

“But comfortably off?”

“Apparently so. As you may see from the report, we discovered quite a pile of cash in the house. So, yes, comfortably off, so far as we can tell. Thus far.”

“You’ve made no inquiry of her bankers?”

“The body was discovered on a Sunday, Trench. The banks were shut.”

Mr Trench took out his watch and consulted it. “And now it’s past four o’clock and the banks are shut for another day.”

“She certainly never gave any indication of being short of money. She liked to travel. She was always going away on trips here and there – wasn’t she, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“And she would alert your office before she left?”

“As a matter of routine. The house was regularly patrolled – several times every day. That’s how we know she’s been at home since August.”

“But she was gone for months. Was she visiting somebody?”

Mr Sempill looked at me with a frown. “Sergeant?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I have no idea.”

“Well, that’s something to be looking into, I suppose,” a remark which I thought remarkable for its generosity.

In the small number of minutes that it took for the car to reach the top of Fairfield Road, Mr Sempill and I explained all that we had discovered of the killing, the money found in the house, the great amount of correspondence which had first raised the alarm and which now must be gone through, all the tiny bits of circumstance which, together, amounted to almost nothing. And then, since ours was the next stop, we made our way downstairs with Mr Trench insisting on carrying his own bag. It was but a short step from Strathern Road to the gates of Elmgrove, where we saw Constable Suttie standing at his post with a fallen leaf stuck to his helmet.