The Day She Cradled Me Read online

  ‘Without doubt we will,’ I say, listening intently for her footsteps.

  ‘Without doubt,’ Mrs Dean repeats behind me.

  ‘Darling, you should not have waited.’

  Jessie laughs softly at this, the small lines about the corners of her eyes creasing easily into their accustomed smile. ‘How could I have given you your supper?’

  I follow her into the manse kitchen and sit down at the table. She places a steaming bowl of stew in front of me and then disappears, returning after a few moments with a glass of red wine.

  I take a sip and lift my fork, but my appetite is all but gone.

  ‘You look exhausted,’ she says, rubbing her fingers across my shoulders. ‘Do not eat if you are not hungry. I can save it. I am sure the boys will do it justice in the morning … George?’

  ‘Sorry. It is nothing.’ I force down several mouthfuls to show my appreciation, and then take another sip of wine.

  ‘Did Samuel Dickson reach you? He called by this morning, not long after you left.’

  ‘That is why I am late. Sarah Dickson is ill. I have left them just now, in good hands. Though we must expect the worst.’

  ‘Oh, the poor man. With what — how many? Six? Seven?’

  ‘Seven now. Yes, he is brave. Doctor Macleod believes tonight will be telling.’

  ‘I will call on them in the morning. Perhaps take the children out for distraction.’

  ‘That would be appreciated, I’m sure.’ I turn in the direction of the fireplace and lean down towards it, resting my elbows on my knees and my face in my hands. ‘I went to see the woman prisoner today.’

  ‘Oh, George, how terrible.’ Jessie kneels and takes my hands in her own. ‘Little wonder you seem so tired.’

  ‘I wish I could say it was successful. But I fear I got nowhere with the woman.’

  ‘No remorse?’

  I shake my head. ‘No.’

  ‘Yet she made the call to God.’

  ‘She made the call to me. They are not always one and the same.’ I rest my head deeper into my hands. ‘She has closed her mind to her sins.’

  Jessie sighs, stands, and begins clearing my dishes from the table. ‘Then she is lost. The woman is devoid of normal thought.’

  ‘I cannot pretend to understand her, no. But I have a responsibility. Not just to her, but to God also —’

  ‘— and the children.’

  ‘Yes. That is right. Perhaps I should go back over the papers tomorrow, see what details I can glean. If I find out a little more of what happened, then I might better understand —’

  ‘George, the woman murdered children. Who can possibly fathom it?’ The plates clank together.

  ‘Yes, but I must try. It is my duty. Should she be sentenced to d —’

  ‘With the good will of God, that is exactly what will happen.’

  ‘Jessie!’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry,’ she says, standing over me, one hand resting upon her hip. ‘But babies? Who could ever understand? It breaks my heart just to think on it. And there are so many others who need you a great deal more.’

  I pull out a chair, and she sits down beside me. ‘The way of God is hard,’ I say. ‘You know that.’

  ‘All I am saying is, you can only do so much. You can’t save everyone. Especially those who do not want to be saved.’ She lifts my hand and brings it to her lips. ‘Even by you.’

  I watch as she sets about filling the tub with hot water. When it is done, she refills the pot and hooks it back above the fire.

  ‘The inquest was adjourned again today, I hear,’ she says.

  ‘Where did you learn that?’

  ‘Mrs Roche returned the jelly mould, and her husband is on one of the juries. It was put off until Monday so the defence lawyer can arrive from Dunedin.’ She gathers the dishes and carries them to the steaming pan. ‘Though he will be busy with the other inquest tomorrow. Isn’t it ghastly? Mrs Roche was quite incensed that they didn’t just use a lawyer from Invercargill. And obviously the jury are impatient with the number of delays. Did you know that their decision holds no legal consequence? Mr Roche is furious and asked that the entire jury be discharged. But then they would need to exhume the baby.’ She turns to me and wrinkles her nose. ‘Awful business, however you look at it. Mr Roche even refused to sign the bond, only to be told that he would face imprisonment. Can you imagine such a thing? And if he doesn’t appear, there will be a twenty-five pound fine. Twenty-five pounds. Mrs Roche is beside herself with worry.’ She pauses. ‘George?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you listening?’

  ‘Pardon? Oh, of course.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Yes. I can understand her concern.’

  Jessie is silent, and it takes me several moments to realise she is standing idle, watching me intently across the table. I look away, but she knows me too well, and I sense she has already read my thoughts.

  ‘Promise?’ she says softly, coming to stand beside me.

  ‘Promise what?’

  ‘Promise me, Reverend Lindsay, promise me now that you won’t go doing anything senseless to help this woman?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I force a smile, and she turns back to resume her chores, singing softly as she works.

  ‘Will the courtroom please rise.’

  I stand awkwardly. It is now too late for escape. To leave would simply provoke more curious glances than I have already received this morning.

  Mr William Hall enters, and we take our seats. I lean my left shoulder against the wall in an effort to pass unnoticed by him or indeed any of the jurors, all of whom attend regular mass at St Paul’s. I am here, and I shall have to face the consequences. I am intensely aware of the conspicuous figure I make in my garb.

  ‘Now,’ Mr Hall begins, clearing his throat, ‘here we are again. Good to see the defence counsel are able to join us today, Mr Hanlon.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I trust there is nothing more to delay proceedings? No? Well let’s get under way then, shall we? Let it stand on the record that we hereby begin the inquest into the death of Dorothy Edith Carter, today being the twenty-eighth day of the fifth month, eighteen hundred and ninety-five. Let it stand also that the body was viewed by the coroner on the fourteenth day of the fifth month, eighteen hundred and ninety-five. Mr T. M. MacDonald will be acting on behalf of the Crown; Mr Hanlon will watch proceedings for the supposed accused. Mr MacDonald?’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I should like to call the Crown’s first witness.’

  I look back hopefully towards the entrance door, but my vision is obscured by the crowd of onlookers, some of whom have taken to standing. It will be impossible to return outside without creating all manner of a spectacle. I must remain where I am, resigned to spending at least a half hour. That I am seated near the back is not necessarily a refuge. I am acutely aware of Mrs Parsons and her daughter, whose bonnets continuously swivel in my direction.

  ‘I am Louisa Cox, wife of Henry Cox, of Christchurch. My daughter, Mary Louisa Carter, had a child on the twenty-third of May, eighteen ninety-four — a girl.’

  ‘What was the child called, Mrs Cox?’

  ‘Dorothy Edith. I left Christchurch on the twenty-seventh of April last, on the SS Manapouri, and I arrived at the Bluff on the thirtieth. I went on shore with the baby, and enquired for Mrs Browne’s Private Hotel, which I found. I saw a young lady at the door and I asked for Mrs Grey. I saw her in the sitting room by herself, so I asked if she was Mrs Grey and she said she was.’

  ‘She said she was Mrs Grey?’

  ‘I understood her to say so, yes.’

  ‘Hmm. Carry on.’

  Mrs Dean is seated on a bench with her husband. When I move right, just a fraction, I can see her face, framed by the same floral hat she was wearing yesterday and looking just as composed.

  ‘And how would you describe the baby’s health when you handed it over?’

  ‘Very good.’

>   Mrs Dean reaches forward and whispers to her lawyer. He listens intently, and then takes a pen and writes something upon a piece of paper.

  ‘Yes,’ the witness continues, ‘I am sure that is the red dress the baby had on when I gave her to Mrs Grey.’

  ‘I would like to call Miss Mary Browne, daughter of Mr and Mrs Browne of Browne’s Hotel at the Bluff.’

  Mrs Parsons turns, and this time raises her hand in greeting. I acknowledge her with what I hope is a stately raise of my chin. Then, to avoid the stare of those seated between us, I try to concentrate on Miss Browne’s evidence.

  ‘You went to the gaol last Monday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who did you see?’

  ‘The lady called Mrs Grey.’

  ‘Is that what she was called in gaol?’

  ‘No. She was called Mrs Dean.’

  The next witness describes a Mrs Grey purchasing laudanum. ‘I am the chemist at the Bluff — the only chemist there,’ he says. ‘A woman came to my shop and purchased sixpenny worth of laudanum. She said she had had it before and was not going to poison herself. I asked her if she was going to Melbourne … she said no, she was going to Clifton.’

  ‘Did she tell you her name?’

  ‘She signed the register Mrs Grey.’

  Mrs Dean sits calmly, with her head tilted to one side and her eyes cast across the dock. It is difficult to fathom her behaviour. It would appear beyond doubt that she is the alleged Mrs Grey, and that she did indeed take possession of the child in question. Yet she appears unfazed. Perhaps she has become resigned to her guilt, knowing this is merely a formality. I watch her closely, marvelling at her demeanour, and it is not until a girl by name of Esther Wallis is called that an almost imperceptible grimace blights her composure.

  ‘Miss Wallis, can you please tell the Court how long you have been living with Mr and Mrs Dean at The Larches?’

  ‘Five years last April, sir.’

  ‘Can you tell us whether or not you remember Monday the twenty-ninth of April, and what occurred on that day?’

  ‘Yes, I do remember. Mrs Dean went to the Bluff that morning.’

  ‘Do you know the reason for that journey?’

  ‘She told me she was going to the Bluff for a child of about twelve months old that was coming by the Manapouri.’

  ‘When did she return home?’

  ‘It was Tuesday thirtieth.’

  ‘Did you go to meet her?’

  ‘Yes, I met her at the Gap Road railway siding.’

  ‘Can you tell the Court where the siding is, in relation to Winton?’

  ‘It’s a little to the south of Winton, on the Invercargill side.’

  ‘Did she have anything with her?’

  ‘Yes, she had a child.’

  Mrs Dean raises a hand to her mouth. Her gaze drops to the floor.

  ‘Did Mrs Dean tell you the child’s name?’

  ‘She said it was Dorothy Edith.’

  There are murmurings about the courtroom, and Mrs Parsons visibly wavers.

  ‘How long did the child remain at The Larches?’

  ‘Until Thursday morning, the second of May.’

  ‘Did you see the child leave?’

  ‘I went with the child to the Lady Barkly railway siding.’

  ‘Where is this siding?’

  ‘North of Winton.’

  ‘Were you and the child alone?’

  ‘No, Mrs Dean went with me.’

  ‘What else was taken?’

  ‘A tin box and a handbag.’

  ‘Did you carry the baby?’

  ‘I carried it part of the way.’

  ‘What about the tin box?’

  ‘I carried that part of the way also.’

  ‘Would you describe the tin box as heavy or light?’

  ‘It was light.’

  Mr MacDonald holds up a tin hatbox similar to the ones Jessie has at the manse. ‘Is this the tin box?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Here. Hold it now. When you carried it to the siding, was it any heavier than that?’

  The girl lifts the box up and down. ‘No.’

  ‘Thank you. Let me take it from you.’ Mr MacDonald places it back on the table. ‘What was Mrs Dean carrying when you left her at the siding?’

  ‘She had the baby, the box and the handbag.’

  ‘Did you know where she was going?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘She didn’t tell me.’

  Mrs Dean drops her hand and stares intently at the girl.

  ‘Did she say when she would be home again?’

  ‘She said she would be home on Saturday night. She said she would come up by the Invercargill train.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said I would be there to meet her.’

  ‘At one of the sidings?’

  ‘No. She said she would get out at the Winton station.’

  Mr MacDonald picks up a pen from the table and taps it upon the dock. ‘What time on Saturday did you expect Mrs Dean to arrive?’

  ‘The train from Invercargill usually arrives about six.’

  ‘Were you at the Winton station on Saturday evening when the train from Invercargill arrived?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did Mrs Dean arrive by that train?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did she have with her? Do you remember?’

  ‘She had the tin hatbox, a paper parcel with her, a brown paper parcel, a newspaper parcel with flowers in — I could see the flowers — and a parcel wrapped in a red shawl. And she had the handbag with her.’

  ‘What about the baby she took away with her, Miss Wallis? Did she have that with her also?’

  ‘No. She had no baby.’

  The woman beside me catches her breath.

  ‘What happened to all those parcels?’

  ‘The red shawl parcel and the brown paper parcel I took to Mr Moore, a butcher in Winton.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘Mrs Dean told me to take them there. She told me to tell Mr Moore that Mr Dean would call for them that night.’

  ‘Ah, Mr Dean,’ Mr MacDonald exclaims, waving an arm towards the accused man. ‘I see.’

  Mr Dean shuffles in his seat.

  ‘Did Mrs Dean go with you to Mr Moore’s?’

  ‘No. She stayed on the railway station.’

  ‘After you had delivered the parcels as you were asked, what happened then?’

  ‘I returned to the station and found Mrs Dean there, and we went home.’

  ‘Who carried the tin box?’

  ‘I carried the tin box part of the way, and Mrs Dean the rest.’

  ‘Was it still light to carry?’

  ‘No. It was heavy.’

  ‘So would you describe the tin box as heavier, lighter, or the same as when you carried it to the station?’

  ‘Heavier.’

  ‘Did you say anything?’

  ‘I remarked to Mrs Dean, “The box is heavy.”’

  ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘She said, “Yes, there are bulbs in it with a lot of earth round them.”’

  Surely, dear Lord in Heaven, she did not put the baby inside her hatbox?

  ‘Did she say where they had come from?’

  ‘She said she got them from Mrs Fielding at Mataura.’

  ‘Did Mrs Dean help to carry the tin box?’

  ‘She carried it part of the way, and I carried the rest of the things.’

  ‘Tell us now what happened to the tin box.’

  Dear God.

  ‘We go through a paddock near the house to go to The Larches. In going through the paddock, Mrs Dean told me to put the tin box in the rushes until morning.’

  ‘Is that what you did?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were these rushes higher than the box?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I look about for the door, but there is no means of escape. Like i
t or no, I must remain where I am.

  ‘What about the other parcel?’

  ‘Mrs Dean put the newspaper parcel in the garden.’

  ‘And the handbag?’

  ‘That was taken into the house.’

  ‘Thank you. Now, did you learn what had happened to the baby that Mrs Dean had taken away with her?’

  ‘Mrs Dean told me she had given the baby to a lady.’

  ‘Did she tell you the lady’s name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where she lived?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When did you next see the tin box, Esther?’

  ‘I saw it again the next day. Mrs Dean told me to bring it in.’

  ‘Did you find it in the same place where you left it on Saturday night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did Mrs Dean go with you to get it?’

  ‘She met me at the gate and took the box.’

  ‘What did she do with it, do you know?’

  ‘She took it into the house into her bedroom, and put it under the bed.’

  ‘And where was Mr Dean while all this was happening?’

  ‘He was at home.’

  ‘Was the tin box secured in any way?’

  ‘It was locked and had some string around it.’

  ‘Was it locked when you took it from Mrs Dean at the Winton station?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you identify this?’ Mr MacDonald holds something up, but I am too far away to see it clearly.

  ‘It was padlocked and tied with string similar to that.’

  ‘Was it still locked and tied by the string when you handed it to Mrs Dean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you ever see the contents of that box?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When did you see it again?’

  ‘On the following Wednesday. It was lying open at the front door.’

  ‘Did you look inside it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was anything inside the tin box, Miss Wallis?’

  ‘There was only some soil in it — not much. Just a crumb or two.’

  ‘As now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Whatever happened to the other parcels, the ones you took from the station to the butcher’s?’

  ‘The parcels I left at Mr Moore’s were brought back to The Larches by Mr Dean that same night.’

  ‘Did you see those parcels again?’