21

WEDNESDAY 26th JULY, CASTLEMAINE COURT HOUSE

THE TRIAL, THE QUEEN V DAVID ROSE, BEGINS …

HIS HONOUR SIR REDMOND Barry sat wigged and gowned in his lofty chair, and waited with imperious forbearance for those below to be seated for the nine o’clock start. Tom Chuck was among them, third row back in a full public gallery. He’d been informed by the police that he might be called as a witness, just to attest to the photographs. But he had come the twenty-five miles anyway, for a reason of his own: simply, to know that a monster was not still at large, that the creator of the horror in the cottage was the man in the dock. He’d been watching David Rose closely, but saw no snarl, no angry gesture — just a stooped and impotent figure who’d shuffled to his place, where now he sat, blinking like a frightened child. He was as unshaven and as rudely garbed as Tom remembered him from January, but back then his face was coloured and full, not leached and drawn from having spent six-and-a-half months in the shadows and damp of a stone cell.

The crime and the man charged with its commission never seemed more at odds with each other, and Tom needed to see that the processes of justice would reconcile the two. Adeline, now with health restored, and being the understanding wife that she was, had given her blessing for him to set aside these few days; she’d suffered his nightmares, seen the lack of joy in his work, and wanted her husband’s melancholy done with. And he was honoured that Otto Berliner should suggest he be his eyes and ears in court. So now Tom took out his pencil and notebook, ready to record his observations.

To the left of the gallery sat a forbidding phalanx of policemen, Superintendent Nicolson the most notable among them in the uniform of his rank. To the right, the jury; save for their Sunday-best attire, they formed an unremarkable double row of twelve local men of various age. Two publicans, a blacksmith, a tinsmith, a boot-maker, a storekeeper, a gardener, a butcher, a fruiterer, a carpenter, a miner, and a puddler from the ironworks comprised the collective brain that would decide David Rose’s fate.

If appearances were to count in the jurors’ calculations, the Crown had more than a head start. Prosecutor Charles Alexander Smyth and his colleague, Butler Cole Aspinall, were bright men in their thirties, crisply dressed in fabric finer than was usually seen in Castlemaine. Even beneath their wigs, their hair was bouncingly clean, their eyes clear and wide, their postures assured and certain. And if by chance their youth and swagger might have irritated some, sober gravitas was lent to the team by the staid and grey-templed Crown Solicitor, Henry Gurner. This was a prosecution that looked ready for the contest, one that commanded respect and inspired confidence.

In opposition, at law and in look, was the defence. Led by the oldest man in the room — senior to Judge Barry by twenty years — stooped and deliberate of movement, was learned counsel Pearson Thompson. His suit was smart, if a little old, and of a cut superior to the crumpled tweed worn by his colleague, the lean-bodied Daylesford solicitor James Geake.

On the call of the clerk, Watkins, the respective teams broke from their huddles, allowing proceedings to begin.

Into the silence rose Smyth. He gazed about the room, as if to familiarise himself with the architecture, then, thrusting his right hand towards the dock, turned to address the jury.

‘The prisoner at the bar stands charged with the wilful murder of Margaret Stuart, the wife of a miner at Daylesford, on the night of the 28th of December 1864. I am well aware that the public has given great attention to this case and that the press has commented upon it on several occasions; and such being the case, it is almost impossible but that most persons have already arrived at some conclusion respecting it. I mention this because I want to impress upon you good gentlemen of the jury the necessity of banishing all foregone conclusions, if you have any, and rest your convictions on the evidence, and that alone. I hope you will consider the particulars, which will be elicited carefully and dispassionately, and discard all reports and comments. I believe you will do your duty both to the Crown and the public. And now, to the particulars of the case.’

He paused to consult his notes, then told a tale of innocence and evil.

‘The woman at the time of her death was seventeen years of age. She lived with her husband at Albert Street, Daylesford. The house was situated on the brow of a hill, and was a small wooden erection containing two rooms. The husband used to go to work at different periods of time; sometimes he was engaged at night, and at other times in the day. When engaged in the night shift, he usually left home at 4.00 p.m. and returned at midnight. I draw your attention now to this model of the house …’

JOE LATHAM’S LEFT ARM corralled a bowl of porridge, his right loading spoonfuls into his mouth. His wife bustled in, bearing lengths of wood for the fire.

‘I said I’d do that,’ he said.

‘Don’t trouble yourself; it’s done now.’

Alice Latham emptied the pieces onto the hearth and brushed down her apron. She stood and sighed. She wanted to know nothing of the Rose trial until its conclusion, and even then she’d wait for word rather than seek it. She prayed only that it would all be over quickly and that no more would ever be said.

Behind her, Joe blew out a long breath. He stood, sending his chair squealing across the boards and his bowl wobbling like a coin. Alice turned.

‘What is it?’

A vein had filled in his neck; another bulged across his forehead. ‘This house. You. This fucking life. I’m sick of it!’

Two young daughters appeared at the door. On their father’s glare, they withdrew. Alice retreated to the trough to begin the dishes.

He was behind her now, cooing. ‘I’m sorry, love.’ She felt his hands at her buttocks, fingers kneading. His breath was in her ears now, his tongue at her neck.

‘Come on, Alice,’ he breathed. She closed her eyes and gripped the dishcloth as her dress was gathered and lifted. ‘God, you smell good. I’ve missed your smell.’ His breathing was hard; any appeal to desist was now futile. Her drawers were torn to the floor, and all she could do was brace herself and endure.

CROWN PROSECUTOR SMYTH HANDED a photograph to Frederick Beard, the foreman of the jury.

‘I want each of you now to study this photograph, taken of the victim as she lay, near nude and mutilated.’ The shocking image was passed along the two rows, variously to winces and frowns and faces that gave nothing away.

‘The question arises as to how you gentlemen of the jury are to connect the prisoner at the bar with the individual who so cruelly butchered this woman; and I say butchered, because it is the only word that seems to convey an idea of the manner in which the unfortunate victim was murdered.’

Smyth paused for silence to press his words deep into the jurors’ minds. He closed his eyes as if to lead them to picture the horrific scene for themselves … and then he resumed. ‘On the day following the murder, Dr Doolittle made a post-mortem examination of the body, and arrived at the conclusion that the deceased had been violated. If, gentlemen, you entertain this idea, you would, no doubt, come to the conclusion that the perpetrator of this dreadful act had entered the house with lustful intentions.’

Up to this point, Smyth had barely looked at the man in the dock. Now, he focussed his attention squarely on him, daring the jurors to examine the wretch before them and not believe what was being laid to his charge.

Smyth proceeded to give his account of the police investigation — Rose’s conversations with Maggie as reported by Louisa Goulding, the discovery of the pipe, the condition of the house — all of which Tom had heard before, albeit by less eloquent, and less persuasive, speakers. And so, he put his notebook away for now and sat there as a juror might, harkening to this clever salesman before him. When Smyth came to Rose’s movements after the murder, Tom resumed his note-taking.

‘Such precaution this stranger took on leaving the township,’ Smyth said with haughty disdain, ‘that he baffled the police, and evaded detection for upwards of a fortnight, although every exertion was made to track him out and arrest him. The Tuesday night prior to the murder, this man engaged with a farmer named Cheesbrough. The very next night, the murder took place. The prisoner had a conversation on the farm with respect to a dog, when he asked if the dog was accustomed to bark much at people at night; in fact, he took such precautions as a man would take who intended to commit a crime; every precaution he could take to evade detection, this man took. The day after the murder, on Thursday December 29th, the prisoner was more than an hour late in starting work, and he was subsequently on that forenoon dismissed.’

A picture of a devious scoundrel, a skulking fox, was thus being painted by Smyth, though it did come at the cost of characterising the police as dull-witted, to have been fooled by a man so unrefined. Tom wondered if it hadn’t occurred to anyone that evading detection might most effectively be achieved by leaving the district.

Tom had been watching the jury for clues as to how they were receiving Smyth’s version of events. From time to time, one juror or another would look away to the prisoner, as if to square the man with what Smyth was saying about him, to take David Rose’s physical appearance as corroboration. Smyth pressed on, describing Rose’s movements after his dismissal from Cheesbrough’s.

‘He next engaged with Dr Coates, at whose farm at Kingston, a distance of some twenty-five miles, he arrived at about four o’clock on the Friday evening, having apparently camped out and travelled through the bush in the interval …’ At Kingston, Tom thought. That would require him to walk through Daylesford, which is hardly the action of a man wishing to evade arrest. ‘… On the same day, while conversing with a man named Wolf, a fellow labourer at Coates’ farm, Rose pulled out a razor, and said to Wolf, “This razor cut a person’s throat.”’

Smyth paused here for the gallery to gasp and murmur at this horrific revelation. Tom sat up in his seat. Could this be the evidence, he wondered, which pointed undeniably to the man’s guilt, which ensured that justice would be done? He looked at Rose, and had to resist seeing the prisoner rendered differently by Wolf’s words. But if they proved true, Tom knew he would readily believe the man in the dock capable of such a monstrous crime.

Smyth pressed on.

‘Now, I might be told that a man who had cut a woman’s throat would avoid making such remarks, but it is just possible that the crime was so impressed upon his mind that he would willingly converse with any person, so long as he thought he did not go too far, in order to lighten his over-burdened mind.’

Tom scribbled a note. Otto would know about these things, how the mind of a murderer worked. His own layman’s understanding was telling him that this was not what a killer would do. And if Rose was guilty, why was he still in the district? Smyth was pacing the space before the jury box, the jurors watching him, which Tom supposed was the point of the pacing … He put down his notebook and pencil; a feeling of nausea had suddenly reasserted itself in his stomach. It had been inchoate on the coach ride over that morning, but now in this stuffy courtroom it had seemingly fully gestated. There was nothing for it but to take a few minutes’ respite in fresh air.

MARIA MOLESWORTH SAT AT her window and stared into Pitman’s yard through water-blurred panes. She felt the draught on her ankles, and heard the blasts of wind-driven rain against the glass. So bleak a day it was, but not so bleak as she felt. What was she doing with her life, she wondered? What kind of person had she become? She knew the answers, and hated both. There was only one course open to her: she had to get out of Daylesford, and so she would, within the month.

TOM HAD RETURNED TO his seat to find that Smyth was describing events three months after the murder, and investigations not known at the time of David Rose’s committal hearing.

‘On April 9th, Detective Williams, with three black trackers, found a blue guernsey shirt, which was also found to be the property of the prisoner. There was blood on this shirt, too, and shown to have all the characteristics of human blood. This shirt was found rolled up and stowed away in the hollow of a tree, in a paddock adjoining that of Mr Cheesbrough, in whose employ, of course, the prisoner was engaged. Gentlemen of the jury, the prisoner was seen in the vicinity of that very tree on the morning after the murder, before his dismissal by Mr Cheesbrough.’

The significance of this evidence was not immediately apparent to Tom. Wouldn’t many a labouring man have blood on his shirt? He looked at the jury, seemingly comprehending everything behind their expressionless faces. Maybe as much of the weight of the prosecution was in the presentation as it was in the substance. He saw Pearson Thompson, jotting notes and wearing a face of incredulity, no doubt exaggerated for the jury. So, was this the jury’s challenge, to separate fact from performance? He looked back to Smyth, who, with his thumbs planted in his vest and rocking on his heels, was bringing his opening remarks to a close.

‘Here we have a man, who before the murder was known to have been making advances to the deceased; who made inquiries as to when her husband would be absent; whose pipe was found in the house of the murdered woman an hour after the murder; who was seen by Mrs Sarah Spinks hovering about Stuart’s house on the night of the murder about the very hour when, according to the medical testimony, it was committed. A man who was able to give minute particulars of the crime to Michael Wolf on the Saturday — before any news reached the Coates farm — who was seen in the morning after the murder in a paddock, where his business did not lead him and where his shirt was found hidden, clotted with blood, bearing all the characteristics of human blood …’

Tom let his eyes settle on a juror, perhaps the youngest of the twelve, and saw in his face how obliged he was to Smyth for this summation. Tom imagined himself to be that juror — who no doubt had more pressing things to be doing — and how readily he might be persuaded by its simplicity and by the authority of the man delivering it. Yes, if Tom were that young fellow, he well might not see the art in Smyth’s work …

A change in Smyth’s oratorial tone brought Tom’s attention back to the prosecutor.

‘Now, complaints have been made that the prisoner had been kept an unnecessary time in custody, but I contend that it is far better that the whole of the facts of the case should be collected before the prisoner was put upon his trial. Nay, it is even fairer to the prisoner, because if the inquiries which have been continued to the last moment had been favourable to him, he would have got the benefit of them …’

Was this brilliant or ludicrous, Tom wondered, to aver that David Rose had been done a great service in being locked up for almost seven months?

‘… If, when you hear the evidence, you have upon your minds a reasonable, a rational, doubt, it will be your duty to give the benefit of that doubt to the prisoner at the bar.’ Smyth made a sweep of his hand in the direction of the dock and held it there a moment, challenging anyone to entertain that there could be any doubt. Then, with a rise in volume, he delivered his climax.

‘But if, on the other hand, the evidence I will call is such as to leave upon your minds no such doubt, then I trust that, unmindful of consequences, you will do your duty to yourselves and the country, and however painful it might be, return a verdict of guilty!’

JOYCE PITMAN STOOD AT her stove, turning a wooden spoon through the thick beef and vegetable stew she would sell to patrons. She’d been thinking often of George Stuart, lately — and today in particular, him being away in Castlemaine, having to relive that horrific night of eight months past. It had her wondering what she could do to help her neighbour in his time of trial. And lo, here was the answer, literally right under her nose! She was not one for superstition, or all that much for religion, but was this not a sign?

CONSTABLE IRWIN TOOK THE stand, his uniform and hair clean and sharp, his bearing and voice assured, as he answered Smyth’s question.

‘I made a search for a weapon and found none. I saw marks of blood on the pillow, bolster, door, and on the outside of the door, and on the bedroom door at the edges. I examined the chimney. There were marks in the whitening, like they could have been made by corded trousers of a man sliding down.’

Irwin’s manner inspired confidence in Tom, and, he imagined, in all those in attendance. He was sure of himself, and thorough in his observations.

Pearson Thompson rose now to test how attentive he was to a detail of particular import to his client.

‘Did you, Constable Irwin, see a pipe in your search?’

‘I did not see a pipe. I searched the safe, and did not see a pipe there. I removed the plates from the inside of the safe. I did not see a pipe, or any plates on the safe — none were there.’

Thompson smiled, nodded, and sat down as Smyth was promptly back on his feet with unforeseen supplementary questions for his witness.

‘Constable Irwin, what were you looking for on the top of the safe? A pipe?’

‘I was looking not for a pipe, but an instrument, a murder weapon.’

This seemed to satisfy Smyth and he made to sit, but Irwin hadn’t finished.

‘The pipe could not have been lying on the safe without my seeing it.’

Detective Thomas Walker was next in the box. He was a plain man, Tom thought, of a quality that would only be magnified in a photographic portrait. He seemed nervous standing there, as if facing a promotions committee, or a disciplinary hearing. But when he spoke, he gave a confident account of events as he saw them that fateful evening. He saw blood on the walls and the doors, and none on the key in the lock. He sounded particularly certain of himself when questioned by Smyth about the pipe.

‘I noticed the meat safe. There were a quantity of eggs, a pudding, a kettle, and sundry items inside. On the top of the meat safe was the pipe, and out of it had fallen the ash.’

At the direction of Smyth, clerk Watkins showed the witness a pipe.

‘I believe that to be the same pipe,’ Walker said. ‘I later picked up the pipe in the presence of Alice Latham. She said it could have been George’s, the deceased’s husband. So I left it on the meat safe. On January 3rd, Detective Williams brought me the pipe. I had seen it on the meat safe at Stuart’s frequently in the interval. When I first saw the pipe, I never knew of Rose, or that such a man was in existence.’

And then it was Pearson Thompson’s turn to cross-examine, and Walker’s mood soon turned testy.

‘You didn’t give testimony at the inquest, did you, Detective Walker?’

‘No.’

‘Though your evidence is presented as critical to the case.’

Smyth was quickly to his feet in protest here, but Thompson cut him off with an airy, ‘It wasn’t a question, Your Honour — just thinking out loud.’

It seemed to Tom that Pearson Thompson was feeling in fine fettle, and enjoying his work.

‘No witness today, until you, Detective Walker, has testified to having seen a pipe on the meat safe at Stuart’s cottage. Constable Irwin even stressed there was none to be seen. Do you have superior powers of observation, Detective?’

Walker seemed to bristle at this derision. His lips tightened, and he exhaled noisily before giving his reply.

‘I have heard Irwin’s evidence. He was there before I was there. He is not in a position, after saying there were no plates on the top, to say no pipe was there.’

Walker looked to Smyth, who acknowledged with a nod a point well made.

Thompson continued. ‘You suspected the prisoner of the crime, based on your belief that the pipe was his?’

‘As I said, I didn’t even know the prisoner existed. An Italian was locked up for this crime for more than two weeks after the pipe was found. I never was looking for a pipe; when I saw it, I was looking to see if any knives were missing. It was after I was told that the prisoner worked with Hathaway the stableman that I went to see Hathaway. He described the pipe as I’d seen it. Only then did I form the opinion the pipe belonged to the prisoner.’

At three, as Louisa Goulding was being called, Tom decided he’d had enough for the day, and when Walker stood down, he took the opportunity to make a discreet exit. He stood for a few moments on the courthouse steps, watching the bustle, and thinking how Maggie Stuart had also once been another face in the street. Not David Rose, though; Tom couldn’t place him in that busy scene.