The Day She Cradled Me Page 8

‘Yes, on Sunday morning.’

  ‘Were they opened in your presence?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Dean opened them.’

  ‘What was inside the shawl parcel?’

  ‘There was baby’s clothing.’

  The poor child. The poor, dear wee innocent child. I can hardly bare to look in Mrs Dean’s direction. Her face, so totally void of expression.

  ‘Could you remember if any of them had been worn by Dorothy Edith?’

  ‘Some of them.’

  ‘Was there anything in that parcel that did not belong to Dorothy Edith?’

  ‘There were two lots of baby’s clothes in the red shawl parcel. Some were clothes for a smaller child.’

  ‘Was there a pink shawl inside?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you ever see Dorothy Edith wearing that pink shawl?’

  ‘Yes, she wore it when she was taken away.’

  ‘Where is the pink shawl now?’

  ‘It’s at the Old Men’s Home, on a baby that used to be at The Larches — a boy.’

  Mr MacDonald holds up something else, but I cannot see it over the woman’s bonnet in front of me. ‘Do you recognise this shawl?’

  ‘That is the red shawl that was round the parcel.’

  ‘Had you seen the red shawl before then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What was inside the brown paper parcel?’

  ‘A new dress piece for Mrs Dean.’

  The woman beside me shudders. Her face is pale, and covered in a sheen of perspiration.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘A new shirt for Mr Dean and a new dress piece for myself. I am wearing my dress now,’ she adds proudly.

  I fear the woman beside me may be in need of attention; her body is swaying like a willow in the breeze. I place a hand upon her shoulder to steady her, and she leans heavily against me. Her breathing is raspy.

  Mr MacDonald continues.

  ‘Were you asked to go with Detective Herbert that day?’

  ‘Yes. I went to the police station at Winton.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I saw two bodies there.’

  ‘Did you recognise either of the two bodies?’

  ‘One was the body of Dorothy Edith.’

  Dear God.

  ‘Did you know the second body?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Were you shown the two bodies again?’

  ‘Yes, at the Southland Hospital in Invercargill.’

  ‘When you saw the body of Dorothy Edith, did it have on any clothing?’

  ‘There was a piece of oil cloth round it.’

  ‘Had you seen this piece of oil cloth before?’

  ‘It had come off the kitchen table at The Larches.’

  Again there are gasps of disbelief. I look about for assistance and attract the attention of young Master Goodwin standing in the aisle.

  ‘Miss Wallis, let me ask you this. How much closer to home would you have been if Mrs Dean had got out at Winton instead of the Gap Road station?’

  ‘We should have been some three miles nearer home.’

  ‘Yet Mrs Dean still chose the Gap Road station on the evening of the thirtieth.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Master Goodwin helps the woman beside me to her feet and takes her as far as the door, where she collapses in a faint.

  I can barely take in much of what follows. A guard on the train saw Mrs Dean … she purchased a first-class ticket … she had a baby with her.

  How can I possibly help her, when I am sickened to my soul by her sins?

  There is another witness now, a rabbit inspector.

  ‘And what were you shown at the morgue?’

  ‘Two bodies.’

  ‘Did either of these two bodies look like the baby you saw on board the train with Mrs Dean?’

  ‘The biggest one looked about the age of the baby I saw with her.’

  It is vile, truly vile. Without doubt, the woman is guilty.

  And yet another witness, a painter.

  ‘Please tell the Court where you were on the morning of the second of May.’

  ‘I was at the Dipton station.’

  ‘What happened on that morning?’

  ‘I saw a woman leave the train from the first-class carriage, near the guard’s van.’

  ‘Did she have anything with her?’

  ‘She had an infant with her, and a box.’

  ‘Is this the box here in court?’ Mr MacDonald holds it up.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What happened to this woman?’

  ‘She spoke to me and asked me if I would take it to the hotel for her.’

  ‘She could not carry it herself?’

  ‘She had a handbag and a child in her arms.’

  ‘How would you describe the weight of the box?’

  ‘It was quite light.’

  ‘It is empty right now.’ Mr MacDonald picks up the box and hands it to the painter. ‘Was it as light as it is now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you say anything more to this woman?’

  ‘I asked if she had anyone to meet her. I said, “Where did you come from?” She said, “Off the boat.”’

  ‘Did she say where she was going?’

  ‘She said she was going on to Lumsden.’

  ‘Where did you take them?’

  ‘I showed her into the private parlour of Aylin’s Hotel.’

  ‘And when did you see her next?’

  ‘I saw her again in the evening, somewhere between six and six-thirty.’

  ‘Was the child with her?’

  ‘I heard the child crying.’

  ‘You saw her leave by train, with the child?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You carried the box to the train for her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was it the same weight as in the morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  And then there’s another witness — despite myself, I strain to get a good view of him over the heads of the people in front of me.

  ‘Mr Aylin, you are landlord of the Dipton Railway Hotel?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘What happened on the morning of Tuesday the second of May?’

  ‘That was the morning the last witness brought a lady off the boat and wanted me to give her accommodation till the evening train.’

  ‘Did she have anything with her?’

  ‘She had a baby, a tin box like the one in court and a handbag.’

  ‘Did she ask for anything?’

  ‘She had tea.’

  ‘Nothing for the child?’

  ‘I asked her twice if she would have corn flour and milk, or anything for the child. She said no, it was too sick and it had not been able to eat anything for two days.’

  ‘When did she leave your hotel?’

  ‘About seven-thirty.’

  ‘Is Mrs Dean that lady?’

  ‘Yes.’

  And still they come.

  … ‘I am guard on the Invercargill to Kingston Railway.’

  ‘Were you working the evening of May second?’

  ‘I was guard on the evening train from Invercargill to Lumsden.’

  ‘Do you know Mrs Dean?’

  ‘I know her by sight.’

  ‘Did she board your train that night?’

  ‘She joined at Dipton.’

  ‘Did she have anything with her?’

  ‘She had a child and a hatbox.’

  ‘Which carriage did she get into?’

  ‘It was first class, next to the van.’

  ‘What did she do with the box?’

  ‘It was taken with her into the carriage.’

  ‘Was it something like the box we have in court today?’ Mr MacDonald holds up the box once again.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When did you next see Mrs Dean?’

  ‘After leaving Dipton I went through the carriages and checked the passengers’ tickets.’

  ‘Who was in Mrs Dean’s carriage?’ />
  ‘No one but Mrs Dean.’

  ‘Did you see the child?’

  ‘Yes, it was lying on the cushion.’

  ‘Did you see the hatbox?’

  ‘The hatbox was between the child and Mrs Dean. I saw her ticket and passed on.’

  ‘Did you return to that same carriage?’

  ‘Yes, just before arriving at Caroline.’

  Mr MacDonald pauses.

  ‘Did you see the child?’

  There is an expectant hush.

  ‘I observed Mrs Dean, and the box, but I did not notice the child.’

  Surely not. On board the train?

  ‘Did you go into the carriage again?’

  ‘After leaving Caroline, I came back through the carriage.’

  ‘Was there anyone else in it beside Mrs Dean?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No. No one else.’

  I look at Mrs Dean. She is the only person inside this courtroom whose expression is not one of utter disbelief.

  ‘When did you next see Mrs Dean?’

  ‘I saw Mrs Dean on the following morning about ten minutes to eleven, on the platform at Lumsden.’

  ‘Did she have a baby with her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did she have the hatbox?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I shake my head and stand. I have heard enough.

  ‘Reverend?’

  I have made it outside and am hurrying towards my bicycle.

  ‘Sergeant Macdonnell, I am afraid I cannot wait.’

  ‘You are leaving?’

  ‘I … have a pressing matter at hand.’

  ‘But of course. I won’t keep you. Do tell me, though, what are your impressions thus far?’

  I pull my bicycle away from the tree. ‘I am not here as judge, Sergeant, only to try to understand more of what occurred.’ I turn towards the road, but am stopped from going further by the sudden arrival of a large and rather fearsome-looking policeman.

  ‘Ah. Here he is,’ Sergeant Macdonnell says. ‘Reverend Lindsay, may I introduce Constable Rasmussen?’

  ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Constable.’ I force the polite acknowledgement and extend my hand, though my spirit is already bicycling away.

  ‘Constable Rasmussen joins us from the Winton Police Station.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Caught the woman Dean almost single-handed.’

  Rasmussen nods. ‘Been following her for years.’

  ‘Very well done.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Sergeant Macdonnell shifts his weight to the other foot. ‘I think it would be in your best interest, Reverend, and, of course, the interest of Mrs Dean, if you were to stay and hear the testimony to the end.’

  I try to conceal my revulsion. ‘I am afraid I have other commitments.’

  ‘More important than this?’

  ‘I have heard enough today,’ I say, easing my bicycle forward.

  ‘More than enough.’

  ‘But you have not heard from the police, or from the coroner.’

  Rasmussen grins. ‘She won’t slip past me this time.’

  ‘And surely you will want to hear the proof?’

  Both men stare at me in silence.

  ‘Sergeant, I do not require proof,’ I say at last.

  ‘So you think she is guilty?’

  ‘I did not say that.’

  ‘So she is innocent? Despite all you’ve heard? You should very much hear the police accounts, Reverend.’

  ‘That is not what I said.’

  He stares at me intently. ‘You do want those innocent children to get justice?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then the only thing for it is for you to listen to all of the evidence so as to solicit the woman’s confession. You have heard the Court so far — there is no question of doubt. She took in those little babies coldly, with no thought of anything but money. She’s been doing it for years, killing them off, sneaking around so as not to be discovered. A more cruel and heartless woman you will never be unfortunate enough to meet.’ He looks thoughtful. ‘In fact, perhaps you are right, Reverend. Perhaps you should leave now. Because the truth is, someone like that does not even deserve forgiveness.’

  ‘We all deserve forgiveness, Sergeant, if we repent.’

  ‘If we truly repent.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then you would best heed my words. She’s as slippery and deceptive as a snake. The only ones worthy of our thoughts are those dead babies who never stood a chance. And wouldn’t a confession be good for all? Justice for the children, as well as the opportunity of forgiveness for Mrs Dean?’

  I cannot disagree.

  ‘I shall try,’ I say.

  ‘Then let us return in, shall we?’ Sergeant Macdonnell raises his eyebrows, and a smile touches the corners of Rasmussen’s mouth. ‘And Reverend?’

  ‘Yes?’ I turn reluctantly back towards the courthouse, wondering how I can possibly listen to more evidence.

  ‘Mark my words and mark them well. As God is my witness, Mrs Dean will swing. If I have to tie the noose around her throat myself, she will swing.’

  ‘Please tell the Court where it was that you went on the eleventh of May.’

  ‘I went to The Larches, beyond Winton, to the residence of Mr and Mrs Dean.’

  ‘Who accompanied you, Constable Barrett?’

  ‘Detective Herbert, Constable McDonough, Constable MacIlvene, and Constables Rasmussen and Burrows.’

  ‘Did you meet with any persons along the way?’

  ‘We met Mr Dean near his house. Detective Herbert had some words with him, and then we proceeded to the house.’

  ‘Did you enter?’

  ‘Yes, we went into the house.’

  ‘Was Mrs Dean there?’

  ‘No. She had been arrested.’

  ‘What did you do after that?’

  ‘We scattered over the grounds to search.’

  ‘Where did you search, Constable Barrett?’

  ‘In the bush and surrounding paddocks.’

  ‘After that?’

  ‘I returned to the garden and began to dig.’

  ‘Tell us what happened when you commenced digging.’

  ‘I was digging amongst the flowers in the front of the house, and I noticed there were flowers stuck in the centre of some black soil on top of the ground. I pulled, and the flowers came up. When I put the spade in a second time, the spade struck something.’

  ‘What was that something, Constable?’

  ‘I exposed the foot of a child.’

  Dear Lord in Heaven.

  ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘I directed the attention of the other constables and Detective Herbert. They gathered round and we removed earth from the top of a child.’

  ‘Was it clothed?’

  ‘It had a piece of oil cloth wrapped around its body.’

  ‘When did you realise there was a second child?’

  ‘After lifting the first child out — the larger child. Its head was resting on the hip of another child — a smaller child.’

  ‘In what position was the larger child?’

  ‘It had its head bent on its breast, and its feet drawn up in front, and its back was curved round.’

  My stomach turns. With not another thought I rise and leave the courthouse.

  The air in here is still and heavy. It smells of wood, leather and the dust of prayers. It carries the solitude of thought and the promise of answers. This is a place in which I often linger when troubles pursue me and resolutions evade. Perched on a small wooden stool, out of immediate sight and in the shadows of the wall, I am turned to face inwards so as to encompass St Paul’s in entirety, from her altar and pulpit to the curved wooden arch of her entranceway. How long it has been since I first sat down I do not know, though the darkening of the already dim light through the narrow windows suggests the day may be fading and night approaches. What is the answer? What is the answer?

>   My Lord in Heaven, I beg of thee; grant your humble servant the strength to overcome his fears, his weakness of spirit, his inability to see beyond the shallow of exteriors. Help him fulfil Your promise by showing him his purpose …

  The words have barely left my lips when a single ray of sunlight, strong and bright, shines in through the stained-glass window above the altar and down to the carved white stone in the centre of the pulpit. It shoots to the floor, striking its target and sending a myriad colours exploding across the receptacle, lighting it as a rainbow, aglow with light.

  The baptismal font.

  Thank you, dear Lord. Thank you.

  Mrs Dean is sat upon a chair in front of the fire, her teeth clenched and her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

  ‘I am innocent,’ she says, ‘no matter how it may appear to you, or anyone else. I won’t be confessing to something I did not do.’

  ‘I understand, madam. Only, please let me remind you that the Lord God is very forgiving.’

  ‘With due respect, Reverend, I know that already. Whatever you think of me, I’m still a God-fearing woman.’

  ‘I am neither judge nor jury, Mrs Dean.’

  ‘Well, plenty are. And I’ve been painted with a black brush. What you heard today was merely what they wanted you to hear. Not the full story.’

  ‘Then why not tell it me, Mrs Dean? There are just the two of us here. Tell me about your … story.’ I pause. ‘You can trust me. What you say to me here, it will remain with me.’

  She stares off into the fire.

  ‘All right,’ I say, trying a different approach. ‘What if I should begin by telling you something about myself? You may not know, but I was born in Thrums.’

  Still she does not look up.

  ‘It is near to Kirremuir. Have you heard of it? No? Well, that is where I attended school, right up until my father passed away and we moved to Glasgow.’ I watch her from the corner of my eye. Her head moves slightly. ‘Are you familiar with Glasgow?’

  Her face softens. I am making progress.

  ‘And it may surprise you to know that the man before you began his working life as an ironmonger. Now what do you make of that?’

  She smiles. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes, indeed I did. Until I met a man, a very special man. And it was his divine sense of God that led me to join the City Mission.’

  ‘My mother was a devout Christian,’ she says quietly.

  ‘That is pleasing to hear.’