11

FRIDAY 30th DECEMBER

WILLIAM STANBRIDGE LIVED BY a maxim of taking the initiative. Whether it was to emigrate at the age of twenty-four from England, to invest in property and mining, or even to live among the Boorong Aboriginal people to record their astronomical knowledge, he was never one to wait for instructions, permission, or approval. And so it was that now, as a Daylesford magistrate with a young woman viciously murdered within his jurisdiction, he wasn’t about to change a life’s habit just because the coroner happened to be out of town. No, Stanbridge decided that it fell to him to take charge, and at ten in the morning of Friday December 30th, at Daylesford Court House, before a packed public gallery, he began his magisterial inquiry into the death of Margaret Stuart. Joining Stanbridge on the bench were Mayor George Patterson and local solicitor Joseph Dunne. Representing the police was Superintendent Francis Reid from Castlemaine. Before proceedings could begin, Reid rose to seek leave to express an opinion.

‘Your Worship, while I am prepared to leave this case in the hands of the bench, I feel that as this is a case of such importance, and seeing as the coroner has already taken the initiative and ordered a post-mortem examination, and that I do have some doubts as to your power, Sir, with respect, to empanel a jury —’

‘Come to the point, Superintendent,’ Stanbridge urged.

‘Well, Sir, I think that as the coroner may well return from Woodend within an hour or two, we might best be advised to wait. Nothing we do, after all, will bring the woman to life, or this inquiry to a conclusion today. And the police will have additional information to bring to bear, and so might not wish to hurry the case. However, as I said, I am happy to leave the matter in the hands of the bench.’ He sat down.

‘Thank you, Superintendent Reid,’ Stanbridge said, with a hint of a smile, ‘then we shall proceed.’

Stanbridge took a moment, sufficient to distance Reid’s misgivings from the serious business at hand. When the gallery was silent and all attention directed his way, he began, and on the front foot.

‘The delay that has occurred in this case is a disgrace to this district. Here we have the body of a murdered woman corrupting for thirty-six hours with nothing done. Nothing. I don’t blame the police — they have their orders — but they have not shown due respect to the local magistracy, which, instead of communicating with, they have telegraphed all over the country. The police well know magisterial inquiries are conducted every day, but why not in this case? And now, the coroner has ordered a post-mortem —’ He paused to consult Reid. ‘Completed last evening?’

Reid nodded. ‘Yes, Your Worship, as the body lay in the Stuart bedroom. It was around seven, I believe.’

Stanbridge continued, ‘A procedure which will have resulted in such mutilation of the body that no jury would be able to tell the cause of death, whether by suffocation or otherwise. In effect, the coroner has done away with a jury.’

Stanbridge’s exasperation was apparent in his tone, and was now openly expressed in every word. He took the opportunity to indulge.

‘It seems that local magistrates are deemed efficient only in the signing of summonses or dealing with drunken men. It is my feeling that out of respect for ourselves, and in defence of the locality that has so grossly been neglected, we shall go on without further delay!’

Cheers and applause erupting from the gallery were promptly suppressed by a disapproving glare from the speaker.

Reid got to his feet, looking a little chastened.

‘Sir, in reference to the “mutilation of the body”, referred to by the bench, means have been taken to obviate this; a photograph has been taken of the deceased woman as she was found. This has been received as evidence.’

Stanbridge twitched with irritation at this circumvention of procedure. Reid sat down, as Stanbridge resumed. ‘Even so, a coroner’s jury would now be a farce. No twelve men could go now and look at the body and form any idea of the cause of death. In my experience, I have never heard of a body being moved before a jury had seen it. I do not blame the police, mind.’ He addressed this remark to Reid, who nodded his acceptance of it. ‘I mention this only so that we have a more defined course of action. If the Minister of Justice himself would line up here and defend us, well and good; but if our men are to be murdered, and our women violated, it is our duty to protect ourselves, and so this inquiry will go on.’

Mr Dunne took the floor in support. ‘It is my belief that this magisterial inquiry will be thoroughly effectual, and given that the body has been moved, any subsequent inquiry by the coroner and a jury would likely, in my opinion, be unnecessary. I, for one, will render any assistance to the bench without fee, reward, or emolument.’

Stanbridge nodded his appreciation, and after a brief pause in proceedings to mark the end of the preliminaries, called the first witness, Doctor Frank Wadsworth Doolittle.

Murmurs in the gallery faded, and the men and women who comprised it fixed their gaze on the young man rising to give his testimony. At last, what many had been waiting for would be presented: the grisly details.

Doolittle was a native of New York, and for those in attendance his experience on the bloodiest of civil-war battlefields leant him credibility and gravitas beyond his years. This, they understood, was a man who knew the horrors that men do.

Having been duly sworn, Doolittle took out a notebook, to which he referred as needed to recall details. Stanbridge led the questioning.

‘Describe, doctor, how you came to be at the house of the deceased.’

‘It was half an hour after midnight, on the morning of the 29th, that I was called by Mr Pitman, who told me a woman at Albert Street had had her throat cut. I went with Pitman to the house at the extreme end of Albert Street, arriving there at ten minutes to one, to find George Stuart and Joseph Mounsey in the house.’

‘Could you describe the house, briefly. And then what you saw.’

‘Yes. The house is about 20 feet by 12 feet, containing two rooms — one a sitting room, and the other a bedroom, where I found the deceased. She was lying across the bed, on her back, her head somewhat inclining to the head of the bed, her legs hanging over the side. The bed was about six feet by four feet. She had on a chemise and stockings. The chemise extended down to her knees. Her legs were in that recumbent position which might have been expected from that prostrate posture. The left arm was lying nearly by her side, the hand firmly clenched — violently clenched, I should say. The right arm was extended at nearly right angles with the body, the right hand open. The head was upon a bolster and slightly turned towards the left shoulder. The eyes were about half-open and looking straight ahead; there was a glaze over the eye. The mouth was open, conveying to my mind the act of screaming —’

Gasps and stifled shrieks emanated from the public gallery. Stanbridge admonished the observers with a stern look, and returned to the witness. With a nod from the bench, and a brief look at his notes, the doctor continued.

‘I noticed that the tongue seemed natural in the mouth. The deceased was about eighteen years of age, well formed and healthy. Her hair was dishevelled. In her throat was a combination of wounds, forming one jagged wound about three-and-a-half inches in length and an inch-and-a-half in depth. There was a second wound on the left side of the neck merely under the skin, making, as it were, a sheath for the blade; the weapon had then been drawn back till it cut into the other wound. I believe that this second-mentioned wound was made after the larger injury. From the position of the wounds, I would consider it barely possible that she could have inflicted these injuries herself. The wounds were made with considerable violence.’

A cry of ‘monster!’ came from the gallery.

Stanbridge swept a schoolmaster’s gaze across the faces of this cross-section of Daylesford citizenry.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, notwithstanding the graphic and appalling content of the testimony, I will ask the constable to eject those who are unable to restrain themselves. These proceedings are not to be disrupted further.’ He turned his eyes to the witness. ‘Did you form an opinion as to the kind of knife used to inflict such grave wounds?’

‘I did, Sir. From a close inspection and probing of the wound, I believe it may have been caused by a sailor’s sheath knife, or a butcher’s knife. It must have been a sharp knife; a common house knife would not likely make such a wound. It would seem as if the party using the knife had made several cuts, as though to make assurance doubly sure, by cutting down deeper with a fresh cut.’

‘Thank you, doctor. And there was much blood?’

‘There was, Your Worship. Much had been partially absorbed by the bedclothes, but the deceased had probably lost three quarts of blood.’

‘And did you form an opinion as to a time of death, or at least the time these injuries were inflicted?’

‘The extremities were cold, but the heat had not entirely left the body. So, from the appearances presented, I am of the opinion that the injuries were inflicted between half-past ten and half-past eleven p.m. Death would have been almost instantaneous; the carotid artery on the left side and both jugulars were severed.’

Here, even Stanbridge had to suppress an urge to cry out in horror at such brutality. He paused a moment, then raised his hand to invite Doolittle to proceed. The doctor obliged, with reference to his notes.

‘The face of the deceased was greatly disfigured, as if scratched by a hand being held over the mouth; a piece of skin had been torn off the upper lip. There was also a cut upon the second finger of the left hand, and one on the first finger; the hand was so clenched as to cover these cuts. They had been made apparently by the knife being grasped, and then drawn through.’ He demonstrated the action. ‘Upon the inside of the left hand were two bloody finger marks, which I can confidently swear could only have been made by a second person. These marks presented evidence of sufficient pressure to prevent the action of her arm. Both wrists had been grasped by bloody hands. Her thighs were marked with blood.’

‘And there was a struggle?’

Doolittle nodded. ‘Yes. The bed presented the aspect of a fierce struggle having taken place. The bedclothes were gathered in a heap at the foot of the bed.’

Stanbridge took a moment to complete his note-taking, then the three men of the bench conferred a moment. After some head-nodding, Dunne cleared his throat to address the gallery.

‘I must now warn the court that I have to put certain questions to the witness, questions of such a nature that any woman who has regard for her character should now leave.’

The gentlemen of the bench sat stonily, as if to convey that for the twenty or more females present, they had no choice in the matter. And so they stood, bankers’ wives and barmaids alike, with the men rising to allow them passage out along the rows. And when the last had left the building, and the courtroom was the exclusive domain of men, Dunne put his questions.

‘Doctor Doolittle, were you able, through your examinations, to form an opinion as to whether sexual intercourse had taken place with the deceased?’

Some in the gallery exchanged looks. Stanbridge reproached them with a glare.

‘Not at that time, Sir. I did take samples when I returned later, at 9.00 a.m., which have been sent for analysis. Until the results are known, I can’t be certain that coition took place. But it is a possibility, and the signs exhibited incline me to the opinion that some violence had been used.’

‘Violent connection, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘So to be clear, doctor, what samples did you take?’

‘Mucus from the vagina, Your Worship, and from the rectum.’ Doolittle’s bluntness took the bench aback a little. And then he added, perhaps unnecessarily, ‘For this I used my finger, not a spatula, lest blood be drawn and contaminate the sample, you see.’

Stanbridge consulted here with Mayor Patterson, and the questioning struck out on a different course.

‘You mentioned the dimensions of the cottage — the rooms and so on. Did you form an opinion as to how the murderer gained access to the building?’

‘Yes, Your Worship, I did. The end of the house, where the bed was, faced Albert Street. The chimney is on the upper side of the house. The barrel which forms the chimneypot had been removed and lain against the roof of the cottage. Inside, in the fireplace, there was a pole across the chimney for hanging pots on. A man coming down the chimney could have this to hold while he slid himself into the room.’

‘A man could fit down the chimney?’ Patterson said.

‘There was sufficient room for a man’s body to pass, yes, Your Worship. The back of the fireplace had been whitened to such an extent as to form a sort of crust. About two-thirds up the fireplace, there was a scale of the whiting knocked off, as if by the heel of a boot coming down, and in addition, for about a foot and a half in width, a cloth had apparently been rubbed over the surface. It was an irregular or corded substance that had so rubbed — evidently, indeed, made by the trousers of some person as he slid down.’

‘And having entered the building by way of the chimney, did you form an opinion as to how the murderer exited after the crime?’

‘I did, Sir. I observed finger marks of blood on both sides of the door leading from the bedroom to the sitting room. I observed the outside door. The knob had finger marks of blood on inside and outside. I saw no blood on the key in the lock, and nothing else in particular, except as regards the appearance of the husband. His face was very white, and I remarked to him that he seemed to be in a kind of trance; he was the first to discover the body, it must be said. And I learned later that his wife’s chemise had been pulled up, exposing her person. It was Mr Stuart who’d pulled it down before I arrived.’

Stanbridge shook his head, for want of a better expression of sympathy for the poor husband.

‘And then had you completed your initial investigation?’ he said.

‘Yes, Your Worship. It was nearly 2.00 a.m. when I left the place. I left the covering of the body precisely as I found it.’

Stanbridge held up a hand for Doolittle to pause. He motioned to Reid to hand a photograph to the witness.

‘As indicated in the photograph?’ he said.

Doolittle looked at the grisly image with professional detachment.

‘Yes, this accurately represents the position of the body as I saw it when I left the house. And again after 9.00 a.m. when I had taken the samples.’

‘Very well, thank you, Doctor. I commend you on your thoroughness. Your note-taking is an example to us all.’ Stanbridge glanced at Reid, as if to suggest that the police might sharpen their own practice in this regard. Reid averted his eyes from the magistrate’s accusatory gaze.

Stanbridge consulted his watch and then the mayor, and, given that it was midday, adjourned proceedings for an hour.

AS SERGEANT TELFORD LISTENED to Johanna Hatson’s story, an irresistible conclusion began to take shape in his head. In the wake of the horrific murder of her former colleague, she’d come to the police to report the very strange man she’d seen at the Boxing Day picnic, a man who had been ogling, among other ladies that day, poor Maggie Stuart.

‘Ogling?’ Telford said.

Hatson was irritated that the meaning seemed lost on the policeman.

‘Yes, ogling. Staring in a most unsettling manner. I’d look up, and there he was, his eyes all over our party. And again later.’

‘How near was he?’

‘Near enough!’

‘Well, as near as you are to —’

‘Oh, across the lawn, twenty yards, I don’t know.’

‘Margaret Stuart was in your party?’

‘No, but I’m sure he would have been watching her, too; she is — was, a very attractive young —’

‘I assume you do not know this man’s name?’ Telford said.

‘Well, I’d never seen him before, much less know his name. But he sent a shiver down my spine, I can tell you!’

‘There were other ladies who noticed him?’

‘Yes, of course! Mrs Shier, for one, and Mrs Pitman, I’m sure —’

‘Describe his appearance.’

‘Well, I didn’t care to get any closer to him, but he had a very disagreeable look about him. His hair was black, or very nearly. Down to his neck. And curly, it was. I’d say he was an Italian.’

Telford took a moment to transcribe into his notebook.

‘Clothes?’

‘Filthy. Moleskin trousers, a crimson shirt, lace-up boots. He had on a hat the second time I saw him, a dark-plush one, high dome and wide brim —’

‘A billy-cock, or a wideawake perhaps?’

Hatson shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but he wore it low over his eyes. And I might add that Mrs Louchet was there, too, with her two poodles; this man was watching them, too, so I said to Mrs Louchet, I said, you’d better watch your dogs, because that man surely wants to steal them.’

‘You’d recognise this man if you saw him?’

‘Make no mistake of that, Constable!’

‘Sergeant.’

THE MAGISTERIAL INQUIRY RESUMED at one o’clock. Stanbridge had lunched on shepherd’s pie with Mayor Patterson at the Manchester Hotel in Vincent Street; but, given the intrusion upon their dining by inquisitive patrons, the men conceded that their choice of venue had probably been ill-advised.

‘This case, George,’ Stanbridge had said on their return to the Court House, ‘must be resolved if the public is to have any confidence in those charged with dispensing justice in this town, from the police to the borough council. Five unsolved murders, George, in five years. We can’t have a sixth.’

The mayor pulled a newspaper from his coat pocket. ‘Perhaps we should heed the ready wisdom of the press?’ He jabbed his finger at the print. ‘Yesterday’s Mount Alexander Mail.’

Stanbridge craned to read the words:

We have very little doubt that the miscreant who sacrificed to his depraved appetite the existence of a virtuous young woman will prove to be an offshoot of Vandiemonian stock …

Stanbridge tut-tutted. ‘Put it away, George. Wild speculation has no place here.’

The wooden benches of the public gallery were again fully occupied as Stanbridge recalled the first witness to the box.

‘Doctor Doolittle, you have completed a post-mortem examination?’

‘Yes, Your Worship, at the request of the police, and assisted by my colleague there, Doctor McNicoll. We commenced at five o’clock yesterday afternoon.’

‘Had the body lain unmoved since last you saw it?’

‘Yes, Sir, it had.’

‘Please now describe your examination to the court.’

‘We examined the wounds first, then the viscera. The organs were in a perfect state of health —’

Stanbridge stopped the witness with a lift of his hand. He looked to the gallery, where a young woman was finding her way along the rows to leave.

‘Now would be an opportune time for others so disturbed by such testimony to depart.’ He paused. ‘No one? Then I urge the gallery to remain silent, or I will have it cleared. Thank you. Now, please proceed, Doctor.’

Doolittle consulted his notebook a moment. ‘We opened the uterus and found it unimpregnated. We then examined the brain, and found it normal, without any effusion or disease of any kind. There was no indication of spiritous or fermented liquor in the stomach. I would judge that the deceased had been in a perfect state of health. I would go so far as to say you might examine a thousand and not find one in a more perfect condition.’

Stanbridge nodded and made a note. ‘And the cause of death?’

‘Severance of the carotid artery.’

‘Yes, you did say as much earlier. Please, continue.’

‘Next, I examined the nails of the deceased. There were indications of hairs attaching. I found in the grasp of the left hand two hairs, evidently not her own. They have the appearance of a man’s hair.’

‘You have the hairs?’

‘Not here, Sir. They are preserved, sealed up in an envelope.’

‘You examined the body of the deceased?’

‘In minuteness, Your Worship. I found no marks on the ribs nor the hips. There was blood on the left hand, from the cut there as the knife was pulled through.’ Doolittle paused here to clear a dry throat. ‘Pardon me, Sir, but might I have some water?’

‘Of course, Doctor.’ Stanbridge indicated with a finger and a raised eyebrow to the constable if he wouldn’t mind.

As the doctor sipped from the glass handed to him, Solicitor Dunne put a question to him.

‘Did you find the knife?’

‘A search was made by myself and a constable, but no knife could we find.’

Stanbridge nodded, and seeing that there were no further questions forthcoming, asked the witness whether he had concluded his evidence.

‘I have, Your Worship.’

‘Then, may I say, on behalf of the bench, how high an opinion we have of the zeal and interest, combined with the most observant care, exhibited by you, Sir, in these proceedings.’

‘Thank you, Your Worship,’ Doolittle said.

‘And might I add,’ Dunne said, ‘that in an experience of eleven years, I have never met with more professional ability and observation than that brought to bear by Dr Doolittle on the present occasion.’

‘Hear hear,’ chimed in Mayor Patterson and Stanbridge. Doolittle’s deposition was then read out to him, and, at a little before three o’clock, he was excused.

By now, Stanbridge had almost had enough for one day; indeed, he was feeling the burden of office more than he had at any other time in his two years as magistrate. ‘That poor, bloody woman,’ he muttered.

‘William?’ Patterson said.

‘I’m all right. Thank you, George. Has Mr Pitman arrived?’

‘He has.’

‘Good. It’s half-past three. We’ll adjourn for the day after his testimony.’

John Pitman had gone to some trouble to present as a respectable business proprietor, however unrespectable that business was. His dark-blond hair was clean and sharply parted down the middle, and his usually untidy beard had been neatly trimmed. Despite the heat of the day, he’d buttoned himself up in a smart vest and coat that the mayor himself might well have envied. When asked to state his name and occupation, he spoke as a man proud of his station.

‘John Pitman, Your Worship, owner and manager of Pitman’s Refreshment Rooms in Albert Street.’

‘And where were you, Mr Pitman, on the night of Wednesday last?’ Dunne asked.

‘I was in bed, Your Worship, about nine or ten.’

‘Can anyone vouch for that?’

Pitman was quick to answer, not pausing even a moment to recall whether there might have been someone.

‘No, Your Worship. My wife, and my employee Maria Molesworth, were out that night, at Jamieson’s Theatre to see the Christy Minstrels. They went out at eight o’clock, and came home at about five minutes past eleven.’

‘“About five past”?’ Stanbridge said. ‘That’s very precise, Mr Pitman. Tell the court what happened after five past eleven that night.’

‘Well, an hour later, at five past twelve, Mounsey came by. He wanted some ale. I let him in and went back to bed. I had a cold, you see, Your Worship. Then, about ten minutes later, there was a pounding on the door. I told the wife I’d see to it.’

Pitman paused here, looking across at George Stuart, sitting alone and expressionless.

‘And what happened then, Mr Pitman?’ Dunne said.

Pitman faced his questioner. ‘I heard George Stuart yelling, “Johnny, for God’s sake get up — my wife has had her throat cut.” He was agitated all right. He looked like he’d just come back from the mine, being in his work clothes. Anyway, I got up, put on my trousers, and went with him and Mounsey to his house.’ He paused, as if to give time for the bench to digest the story.

‘Go on, Mr Pitman,’ Stanbridge said, ‘and please face the bench when you’re speaking.’

‘Yes, Your Honour. Well, there was a candle burning on the table in the front room. George Stuart picked it up, and we followed him into the bedroom …’

‘Yes, Mr Pitman?’

‘Well, I saw the deceased on the bed. Her legs were over the bed, and her shirt was up to her breasts. Stuart pulled it down to hide her person. It wasn’t right that a lady should be so exposed. Whoever would do such a —’

‘What happened next, Mr Pitman?’

‘I went to the camp, for the police, and left the others behind. I saw Sergeant Telford and Doctor Doolittle, and we went back to Stuart’s house. Oh, and Constable Irwin came with us, too.’

‘Mr Pitman, did you hear any screams that night, around or before midnight?’

‘No, Your Worship. I should think I would have heard screams if there were any, because the wind was blowing towards my place, and I wasn’t asleep.’

At this point, with the clock showing four, Dunne leaned across to consult with his colleagues.

‘My main object today was the identification of the body, so the poor mother can get on and bury her daughter. So may I suggest that we now adjourn proceedings?’

The other two were of like mind. Stanbridge addressed the court, advising that the inquiry was adjourned till ten o’clock on Thursday next, January 5th.

IF CORONER WILLIAM DRUMMOND was irritated by Stanbridge and his so-called magisterial inquiry treading all over his territory, he didn’t spend time voicing it; he simply started his own inquest as soon as he reached town. Within an hour of the five o’clock coach from Castlemaine pulling in, he had empanelled a twelve-man jury and had taken them off to the Stuart house to view the body, by then in its forty-third hour post mortem. William Stanbridge, well satisfied with his day’s work, and more than happy to hand back responsibility to the usual authority, gave the coroner the witness depositions on their return from the murder scene.

‘Not much to see?’ Stanbridge said. ‘A damaged body in a coffin, and a clean cottage.’

‘Yes,’ Drummond said with some resignation, ‘it seems the post-mortem might have been delayed until my return.’

‘Well, there ought to have been a jury, and had I been informed, steps might have been taken earlier. Instead, the poor woman lay there corrupting all day in the summer heat —’

Drummond raised a hand in surrender. ‘Thank you, William. I do concede the point. Despite the delay, what we — I — need to do now is ensure that a proper inquest is undertaken as expeditiously and as thoroughly as can be done. I’ve called the jury for nine o’clock tomorrow morning. I am indebted to you, William, for making a start.’

SATURDAY 31st DECEMBER

A HOT NORTH WIND threw grit and dust across the flat and treeless grid of Daylesford cemetery. Maggie Stuart wouldn’t have known most of the mourners who defied the gusts to see her buried that last afternoon of 1864. They came, two hundred perhaps, because they knew her. Not just as a sister or daughter, or as a friend, or as a shy young waitress, but as the precious embodiment of all that was soft and sweet in a coarse town. They came in protest, to renounce violence and murder. A covered wagon had conveyed the coffin the mile and a half from house to grave, followed on foot by husband, mother, stepfather, and four half-siblings. The cortege swelled as it progressed down the very street along which, not five days before, a dray had taken Maggie and Louisa home from the Boxing Day picnic.

When the rites were done, Louisa was the first to empty a handful of dry, dark soil into the grave. Behind her stood the minister, exchanging nods, contorted smiles, and solemn looks with mourners. Joe Latham was silent and motionless, perhaps still subdued by George Stuart’s charge, or simply trussed up by a suit in want of letting out. Stuart stood off aways, receiving condolences and avoiding the Lathams. Some — Maria Molesworth, Mr and Mrs Rothery among them — had to leave promptly to give testimony at the inquest.

Louisa stood and took her uncle’s hand. The wind eased as the congregation began to unravel and disperse. There was calm in the blessed release that ritual brings, but it rendered the unearthly screaming that followed all the more disturbing. All turned to the grave, to a bereaved mother bent double at the lip of her daughter’s tomb. Latham went to his wife to restrain her, but she would not be restrained. She reached into the void and toppled, the hollow thud of her landing resonating with the depth of the grave, and the comedy of the action heightening the distress in all who saw it. Latham at last found his mettle and grasped his wife’s arms, as he had so many times before, but this time to lift her from the ground, and then to hold her as she sobbed and wailed. People turned away to leave her to her grief, but she pulled free to stand back at the graveside, and in a moment of unlikely composure, declared, ‘I pray to God the assassin of my poor Maggie is brought to justice.’

AT DAYLESFORD COURT HOUSE, the jury had heard testimony from various witnesses, but, with no further evidence to present, and with the police investigation proceeding, Coroner Drummond decided it was appropriate to adjourn his inquest for four days, to reconvene the following Wednesday January 4th at 9.00 a.m.

GEORGE STUART RETURNED TO his cottage late in the afternoon. For two nights he’d bunked at a workmate’s house while his dead wife had lain in her coffin above the bed on which they had held each other. The police had assured him the place had been kept secure until their investigations were done and the body removed. Well, he thought, now that he was back there, they might have secured the place for a few hours more, because from the state of the place now it had been royally turned over. The furniture, modest at best, was all gone — taken while poor Maggie was still on the wagon to the cemetery. So, too, the crockery and cutlery; all of it. He went through into the bedroom. The bed remained, stripped of its blood-soaked mattress and sheets. Maggie’s crinoline wasn’t there, nor her trunk. He spun around, as if it were possible that in a tiny, bare room it had escaped his notice. All her clothes she kept in that trunk! He sat on the slats of the bed. The wood creaked; a sound so familiar, a sound to remember her by. They took her clothes. Who would so deny a grieving man? What was there left of Maggie? Not a petticoat or a blouse in which to bury his face and breathe her in. He collapsed to the floor and let his agony contort him how it would.