I arrived in Inverness on the 23rd day of August 1869, and spent the night at an inn where I was met by Mr Andrew Sinclair, advocate to a young crofter accused of murdering three of his neighbours. Mr Sinclair had written to me expressing his desire to have my opinion, as the country’s pre-eminent authority on such matters, as to the sanity or otherwise of his client. We are none of us entirely immune to such appeals to our vanity and, as the case had several interesting features, not least the alleged intelligence of the perpetrator, I consented and travelled from Perth as soon as my duties permitted.
From the beginning I found Mr Sinclair not to be a man of the highest calibre, which was hardly unexpected given the limited opportunities for educated discourse in a backwater such as Inverness. He was entirely unversed in current thinking in the field of Criminal Anthropology and I spent much of the evening outlining to him some of my continental colleagues’ recent innovations in this discipline. Naturally, he was anxious to discuss his client, but I bound him to silence, wishing to reach my own conclusions unencumbered by prejudicial thoughts, no matter how ill informed.
The following morning I accompanied Mr Sinclair to Inverness gaol to inspect the prisoner, and I again directed the advocate not to speak of his client before I had the opportunity to examine him. Mr Sinclair preceded me into the cell, in order, he said, to ascertain whether his client was willing to receive me. I found this a most irregular occurrence as I have never before heard of a prisoner being consulted about who may or may not enter his cell, but I attributed it to the advocate’s lack of experience in dealing with cases of this nature. Mr Sinclair remained some minutes inside the cell before informing the gaoler that I might be admitted. From the first instance, I found the relations between advocate and client to be quite unorthodox. They conversed together, not as a professional man and a criminal, but rather in the manner of two acquaintances somehow in cahoots. Nevertheless, the dialogue between them provided me with an opportunity to observe the prisoner before commencing my examination proper.
My initial impression of R—— M—— was not entirely negative. In his general bearing, he was certainly of low physical stock, but he was not as repellent in his features as the majority of the criminal class, perhaps on account of not breathing the rank air of his urban brethren. His complexion, however, was pallid, and his eyes, while alert, were close-set and capped by thick eyebrows. His beard grew sparsely, although this may have been due to his relative youth, rather than any hereditary deficiency. In his discourse with Mr Sinclair, he appeared quite lucid, but I noted that the advocate’s questions were frequently of a leading nature, requiring the prisoner only to offer confirmation of what had been suggested to him.
I dismissed the advocate and in the presence of the gaoler directed the prisoner to remove his clothes. This he did without protest. He stood before me quite without shame, and I commenced a detailed examination of his person. He stood 5 feet 4½ inches tall, and was of smaller than average build. His chest was disproportionately protruding – what in layman’s terms would be called ‘pigeon-chested’ – and his arms longer than average. The upper- and forearms were well developed, no doubt as a result of his life of physical labour. The hands were large and calloused, with exceptionally long fingers, but there was no evidence of webbing or other abnormalities. His torso was hirsute from the nipples to the pubis, but he was quite hairless on the back and shoulders. His penis was large, though within the normal range of dimensions, and the testicles properly descended. His legs were scrawny, and when asked to walk the length of the cell (admittedly not a great distance) his gait appeared somewhat rolling or lop-sided, suggesting an asymmetry in his bearing. This may have been due to some injury sustained at an earlier time, but when asked, the prisoner was unable to furnish me with any explanation.
I carried out a detailed inspection of the subject’s cranium and physiognomy. The forehead and brow were large and heavy, while the skull was flat on top and markedly obtruding to the back. On the whole, the cranium was quite mis-shapen and not dissimilar to many of those I had examined in my capacity as prison surgeon. The ears were considerably larger than average, with large, flattened lobes.‡‡
As to the visage: the eyes, as already noted, were small and deep-set, but alert and darting. The nose was protuberant, though admirably straight; the lips thin and pale. Likewise, the cheekbones were high and prominent as, it has recently been pointed out, is often the case among the criminal breed. The teeth were quite healthy and the canines not preternaturally developed.
R—— M—— thus shared a certain number of traits with the inmates of the General Prison (these being chiefly, the mis-shapen cranium, unappealing facial features, pigeon chest, elongated arms and ears). In other respects, however, he was a healthy and well-developed specimen of the human race and if one were to observe him in his natural environment, one would not instinctively mark him out as a member of the criminal class. From this point of view, he formed an interesting subject and one which I was curious to study further.
I allowed the prisoner to dress and put a few simple questions to him. He was entirely unresponsive. He appeared at times not to have heard my questions, or pretended not to have done so. I suspect he was well aware of what was being asked, but refused to answer, for motives of his own. Such a strategy did, however, suggest that the subject was not an outright imbecile and was capable of some reasoning, flawed or otherwise. Nevertheless, I saw no purpose in prolonging my enquiries in the face of this stubborn attitude, and had the gaoler release me from the cell.
Mr Sinclair was waiting outside and questioned me impatiently as soon as I emerged. His manner was less that of a professional man than of a nervous parent eager for information about his child’s health. As we advanced along the passage I outlined my findings to him.
‘But as to his state of mind?’ he asked.
I was aware that the advocate was anxious for me to pronounce on this question, so that he might offer a plea of insanity to the court, thus saving his client from the gallows, and perhaps not incidentally garnering a good deal of renown for himself. Nevertheless, at this point, I refused to venture an opinion.
I explained that as a man of science, I could not be guided by speculation or conjecture. What matters, I told him, are facts – facts and instances!
‘Your client exhibits a number of the physiological characteristics of the criminal class with which my work has acquainted me. However, while he might share some of their features, without acquainting myself with the stock from which he has issued, I cannot venture an opinion as to whether he has acquired these traits through heredity. If one’s cup of water is foul, one must first ascertain if the well is poisoned. If we find that the well is indeed polluted, it may have some bearing on whether or not he is responsible for his deeds.’
We had reached the end of the evil-smelling passage along which we had been walking and paused in our conversation while the gates were opened for us. Mr Sinclair, cowed by the superiority of my knowledge and intellect, assumed a more deferential manner. We continued in silence to the outer gate and, once released, breathed deeply of the warm summer air.
We then, at my suggestion, proceeded to the inn as I wished to put some questions to the advocate. When we were settled at a table with some refreshments, Mr Sinclair asked what I proposed to do. I told him we would revisit the gaol the following day in order for me to continue my examination of the prisoner.
‘Then,’ I said, ‘we must check the well.’
Mr Sinclair did not grasp my meaning.
‘We must,’ I explained, ‘pay a visit to whatever God-forsaken shanty the wretch has sprung from.’
‘I see,’ said the advocate, in a tone suggesting that the prospect of such an expedition did not greatly appeal to him.
‘What,’ I enquired, ‘do you know of your client’s background?’
Mr Sinclair took a long swallow of ale, no doubt gratified to be asked to furnish me with some information.
‘His father is a tenant farmer – a crofter – of good character. His mother was a respectable woman who died in child-bed a year or so hence. There are, or were, three siblings, an elder sister and much younger twins.’
‘“Were”, you say?’
‘The sister was found hanged in an outbuilding on the evening of the murders.’
I paused for a moment in my questioning. This information was certainly pertinent to my investigation.
‘And was this sister of sound mind prior to this event?’ I asked.
‘I cannot say,’ he replied. ‘In the confusion following the murders, her absence was not noticed for some time. A search was made and she was found, as I say, in the barn. The coroner was unable to establish a precise time of death.’
I nodded slowly. The existence of a suicide did not speak well of the family’s psychological constitution. Furthermore, in our day and age, for a woman to die in child-bed is likely indicative of some congenital weakness. In short, the picture emerging was not of a robust and healthy tribe.
‘And of the younger siblings?’
‘I know nothing,’ replied the advocate, slowly shaking his head. ‘They are no more than infants.’
‘And what evidence do you have of the father’s good character?’
‘Only what I have learned from my conversations with R——.’
‘My point precisely,’ I replied. ‘I am sure you would agree that we cannot accept the words of a devious and violent individual like your client. We must attempt to establish the truth about his background in an objective manner. Facts and instances, Mr Sinclair! It is to these we must attend.’
He protested that he had not found his client to be in the least bit devious, but I waved away his objections.
‘We shall depart for this Culduie the day after tomorrow. I shall leave the arrangements to you.’
Mr Sinclair asked if he might dine with me that night, but, knowing that we would be passing a great deal of time in each other’s company in the following days, I refused. I sent word to the prison in Perth that I would be absent for some days and wrote to my wife informing her of the same. I then perused a dossier of witness statements and medical reports, which Mr Sinclair had provided, and compiled my notes of the day’s events. I took my evening meal in my chamber, not wishing to associate with the habitués of the public rooms, who recalled all too keenly of the inmates of my own institution. The meal was quite adequate and I drank enough wine to counteract the effects of the uncomfortable mattress and the sounds of carousing from below.
The following day I instructed Mr Sinclair to have a hearty meal and bottle of wine delivered to the prisoner from a local inn. The advocate informed me that he had often proposed to have meals brought to his client, but these offers had, on every occasion, been refused. This was not, I advised him, because the prisoner did not want the meal; it was because he did not wish to place himself in his advocate’s debt. Acts of honest kindness are so alien to members of the criminal classes that they are invariably met with suspicion. However, my own proposal, I am compelled to admit, was not made out of kindness. It has been well established that hunger can induce in a prisoner a state of restiveness, irritability or even aggression. When I arrived, I wished R—— M—— to be in a state of indolence induced by the rich food he had consumed, and thus be in a frame of mind more conducive to interrogation. The meal was to be delivered at noon and I arranged to meet Mr Sinclair at the gaol at one o’clock, by which time I calculated that the victuals would have taken proper effect.
I arrived at the gaol somewhat earlier than I had stated, as I wanted first of all to put some questions to the gaoler. This I wished to do outwith the presence of my legal associate, as, in my not inconsiderable experience, those tasked with such menial labour tend to form an allegiance with the first educated man they encounter, in much the same way as an orphaned lamb attaches itself to the first hand that feeds it.
The gaoler closely conformed to the low physical type one routinely finds employed in the prisons and asylums of our land. He was of average height, but broadly built with powerful shoulders and forearms. His complexion was florid and scrofulous; his cranium somewhat mis-shapen, with large protruding ears. His hair was dark and wiry and grew low on his forehead. Likewise, his whiskers grew densely on his cheeks. His visage bore the singularly stupid and insensate look prevalent among those on the opposite side of the cell door, and I would have been not at all surprised to have encountered him there. He was, sans doute, entirely suited to his vocation, but in my present mission I was not looking to him for wit or intellect; he had a pair of eyes in his head, and it was these of which I wished to make use.
The gaoler showed no surprise when I indicated that I did not wish to enter the prisoner’s cell immediately. This class of being exists almost entirely in the present; they think little of the past nor project their thoughts into the future, and are thus incapable of being surprised by anything. They are similarly incapable of experiencing boredom and are accordingly well suited to undemanding and repetitive labour. I led the brute to the end of the passage in order that we would not be overheard by the subject of our conversation. I first ascertained that R—— M—— had been under the gaoler’s watch since his arrival; and that he was responsible for bringing the prisoner his meals, removing his faecal matter and periodically observing him through the aperture in the door. The gaoler answered my queries with difficulty and I had often to re-phrase them to make myself understood.
I then put a series of questions regarding the prisoner’s behaviour and I here recount the substance of his responses:
The prisoner did not sleep excessively and was at all times alert and aware of his surroundings. He ate with good appetite and had made no plaint about the quality or quantity of his food. Likewise, he had not protested about excessive cold or heat in his cell, nor had he requested extra blankets or other items. He had never enquired about the wellbeing of his family or expressed any curiosity about the outside world. In short, no meaningful discourse had passed between the two men. R—— M—— was at all times permitted by daylight occupied with the preparation of the papers on his table, but the gaoler had expressed no interest in their contents. The prisoner had not once been seen or heard raving, or calling out as if in thrall to some hallucination. At night he slept soundly and did not appear disturbed by bad dreams or night visions.
At the end of our intercourse, I pressed a shilling onto the palm of the warden’s hand. He gazed stupidly at it for a few moments before pushing it wordlessly into the pocket of his greasy waistcoat. At this moment, Mr Sinclair arrived and appeared quite astonished to find me in congress with the brutish gaoler. Clearly, it had not occurred to him to thus make use of the individual – however limited in intellect – in closest proximity to the prisoner. No doubt, in common with the majority of his brethren in the legal profession, he preferred supposition and conjecture to evidence. I saw no reason to furnish him with an explanation for my actions and he did not have the temerity to question me.
When we entered the cell, R—— M—— was standing with his back to the wall opposite the door and I suspected that, despite my precautions, the discussion in the passage had alerted him to our presence. As Mr Sinclair had established some bond with the prisoner I allowed him to enter the cell ahead of me and kept my counsel while he engaged in some ludicrous pleasantries. I noted at once that the tray of food which I had requested from the inn had been placed on the floor, next to the writing table. A bowl which appeared to have contained a broth of some kind was empty, but a plate of mutton and potatoes was untouched. Likewise, the bottle of wine remained uncorked.
I asked R—— M—— in a friendly manner why he had not finished such a hearty meal and he replied that he was not accustomed to rich foods and had eaten an adequate sufficiency. He then added that if I was hungry I was welcome to what was left, an offer I politely declined. Mr Sinclair explained that I wished to put some questions to him and that it would benefit him greatly if he were to answer them fully and truthfully. R—— M—— replied that he could see no benefit to himself, but if it pleased Mr Sinclair he would answer any question put to him. I sat down on the chair next to the writing table and asked the prisoner to take a seat on his bunk, which he did. Mr Sinclair stood with his back to the door, his hands clasped over his abdomen.
The evidence I had so far gathered – that is, from my physical examination and from my conversation with the gaoler – was not sufficient to draw any conclusions regarding the sanity or otherwise of the accused, nor about his moral responsibility for the crimes he had committed. On a large number of points, he corresponded to the dreary procession of imbeciles who daily passed through my care, but on others, such as his general alertness and ability to apply himself to a task, he did not. I did not for a moment believe that the pages with which he appeared to have been so diligently occupied would contain anything other than gibberish and ravings, but the fact that he had thus applied himself was in itself noteworthy. In my long experience with the criminal classes I have never encountered a single individual capable of any aesthetic appreciation, far less of the production of any literary of artistic work. The literary ambitions of the average prisoner do not extend beyond scratching some vulgar phrases on the wall of his cell. A man of science must, of necessity, keep abreast of the theories and precedents of his chosen field, but he must not allow these theories to blind himself to the evidence of his own eyes, or to dismiss what does not accord with his expectations as aberrant or insignificant. However new and startling any evidence might be, it must be received honestly. As Mr Virchow has stated, ‘We must take things as they really are, and not as we wish them to be.’§§
It was quite clear that R—— M—— was not a raving maniac, the madman of popular imagination, but as has been well-established by Mr Prichard¶¶ and others, there exists another category of lunacy: that of moral insanity, whereby the grossest perversions of the natural impulses, affections and habits can exist with no concomitant disorder of the intellect or reasoning faculties. Certainly, from what I had thus far observed, R—— M——exhibited some degree of intelligence, an intelligence which in all probability could only be harnessed to deception or evil ends, but which nevertheless set him apart from the degenerate prototype. It was, therefore, with the intention of exploring the extent of the prisoner’s reasoning faculties that I set about my interrogation.
In order to foster the illusion that we were merely two men engaging in conversation, I did not take any contemporaneous notes and this account is based on the record I compiled from memory upon returning to the inn.
I began by telling R—— M—— that I was curious about the literary project upon which he had embarked. He replied that he was only writing the pages because Mr Sinclair had instructed him to do so. I retorted that that did not seem an adequate explanation for the dedication which he had shown towards the task. At this, the prisoner gestured around the cell and replied, ‘As you can see, sir, there is little else with which to amuse myself here.’
‘So it amuses you to write these pages?’ said I.
To this he made no response. He sat quite erect on the bench, his gaze directed at the wall in front of him, rather than at his interlocutor. I then told him I wished to ask some questions about the deeds which had brought him to this place. His little eyes flickered momentarily towards me, but other than that there was no alteration in his bearing.
‘I understand from Mr Sinclair that you do not deny responsibility for these crimes,’ I said.
‘I do not,’ he replied. His eyes remained firmly fixed on the wall in front of him.
‘May I ask,’ I said, ‘what led you to commit such violent acts?’
‘I wished to deliver my father from the tribulations which he had lately suffered.’
‘And what was the nature of these tribulations?’
R—— M—— then described a series of trivial disputes which had occurred over a period of months between his father and the deceased.
‘And you felt justified, in view of these incidents, in doing Mr Mackenzie to death?’
‘I could see no other course of action open to me,’ said R—— M——.
‘Might you not have sought out some authority in your community to act as an intermediary in these matters?’
‘Mr Mackenzie was the authority in our community.’
‘You seem to be an intelligent young man,’ I said. ‘Could you not have sought to resolve these disagreements through reasoning with Mr Mackenzie?’
R—— M—— smiled at this suggestion.
‘Did you make any attempt to reason with Mr Mackenzie?’
‘I did not.’
‘Why not?’
‘If you had had the opportunity to meet Mr Mackenzie, you would not ask such a question.’
‘Did you carry out the killing of Mr Mackenzie at the behest of your father?’ I asked.
R—— M—— shook his head wearily.
‘Did you discuss your plan with any other person?’
‘I would not say that I had a plan,’ he responded.
‘But you proceeded to Mr Mackenzie’s house armed with weapons. You must have had it in your mind to do some harm to him.’
‘I did.’
‘Then that surely constitutes a plan, does it not?’ I spoke these words in an affable tone, as if we were merely engaged in a friendly discussion of a matter of mutual interest. I did not wish to set the prisoner against me by seeming to attempt to wrong-foot him.
‘I went to Mr Mackenzie’s house with the intention of killing him, but I would not say that I had a plan.’
I feigned some bemusement at the minute distinction he was making, and asked if he could explain what he meant.
‘I simply mean that while I had the intention’ – he gave this last word a special emphasis, as if it was he, rather than I, who was conversing with his inferior – ‘to do him harm, I had not formulated a plan as such. I went to Mr Mackenzie’s house thus armed only to discover what would happen if I did so.’
‘So, you believe then that you are not wholly responsible for Mr Mackenzie’s death – that it was, to some degree, a matter of chance.’
‘You might as well say that everything that happens is a matter of chance,’ said the prisoner.
‘But was it happenstance that put a croman in your hand and led you to enter Mr Mackenzie’s house?’
‘It was a matter of chance that I happened to have a croman in my hand before I set off.’
‘And this second weapon –’
‘The flaughter,’ Mr Sinclair interjected.
‘It was not,’ I continued, ‘chance that put the flaughter in your hand.’
R—— M—— replied in a bored tone, ‘The flaughter was propped against the gable of our house.’
‘Nevertheless,’ I insisted, ‘you took it up. It was not chance that put it in your hand. ’
‘No.’
‘Because you planned to kill Mr Mackenzie.’
‘It is true that I wanted Mr Mackenzie to die by my hand. If you wish to call that a plan, you are free to do so. I merely wished to give my undertaking every chance of success.’
I nodded sagely at this parody of logic. ‘And were you pleased by this success?’
‘I was not displeased,’ said R—— M——.
‘But you cannot be pleased to be incarcerated in this cell.’
‘That is a matter of no consequence,’ he declared.
‘You understand that your actions and your statements about them will likely lead you to the gallows?’
To this, R—— M—— made no response. Whether his diffident attitude was feigned or was the product of some misplaced bravado, I could not say. Nor could I say at this point whether the matter-of-fact answers he had given were entirely ingenuous, or due to some ploy to seem quite out of his mind; that he calculated that by admitting so openly to such brutal acts, he would be pronounced not to be in possession of his reason.
I then turned to the other victims of R—— M——’s assault.
‘You have stated that you wished to murder Mr Mackenzie and I understand that in your own mind you were justified in doing so, but to kill a young girl and an infant is a quite different matter. Did you also bear some grievance against Flora or Donald Mackenzie?’
‘I did not.’
‘Then to do them to death is quite monstrous,’ I said.
‘I acted only out of necessity,’ he replied.
‘Out of necessity?’ I repeated. ‘Would it not have been possible for a powerful young man like yourself to restrain a young girl and a small boy?’
‘With the benefit of hindsight it might seem so. Perhaps if I had had a plan, as you call it, that might have been possible. As it was, this was merely the way it transpired.’
‘So, in order to carry out your goal of killing Mr Mackenzie, you were willing to murder two individuals who, in even your own eyes, were entirely blameless.’
‘It was not my intention to kill them,’ he replied, ‘but I had no choice in the matter.’
‘You acted only out of necessity?’
The prisoner shrugged his shoulders as if he was growing weary of humouring me. ‘If you wish to put it that way, then, yes, I killed them out of necessity.’
At this point I took from my satchel the medical reports, quite ably compiled by a local practitioner, detailing the injuries sustained by the victims. I then read to the prisoner a paragraph detailing injuries to Flora Mackenzie too obscene to relate in these pages. ‘What is described here seems to greatly exceed the demands of necessity,’ I said.
R—— M—— had thus far sat quite motionless on his bunk, his gazed fixed on the cell wall. On hearing this account of the wounds he had inflicted, however, his eyes darted rapidly to and fro, and his hands, which until then had rested on his lap, began to worry at the material of his breeches.
‘Can you explain why you felt the necessity to inflict such injuries?’ I asked, maintaining an even and affable tone.
The colour rose to the prisoner’s cheeks. It is often the case that even inmates who are capable of exercising control over their verbal statements are unable to suppress the physical manifestations of anxiety. R—— M—— cast his eyes about the cell, as though searching for an answer to my question.
‘I do not recall inflicting such injuries,’ he replied after some moments and in a quieter voice than that with which he had previously spoken.
‘But you must have inflicted them,’ I said.
‘Yes, I must have,’ he said.
I did not feel the necessity to press the prisoner further on this point, having already achieved my purpose in thus confronting him. I returned the papers to my satchel and stood up to indicate that the interview was at an end. Mr Sinclair pushed himself from the wall against which he had been leaning and stood to attention. I indicated that we were ready to leave and he had us released from the cell. I instructed the gaoler to remove the tray of food brought from the inn and was quite sure that he would have no compunction about helping himself to the remains.
* * *
Mr Sinclair and I arrived in Applecross on the evening of the 26th of August after an arduous journey. The inn where we were to stay the night was commendably clean with white-washed walls, simple furniture and a good fire burning in the hearth. We received a hospitable welcome and were served a meal of mutton stew by a well-proportioned girl with a healthy complexion. The local men were generally swarthy and of low stature, but were otherwise robust and did not display any apparent congenital deformities. They conversed in the barbaric tongue of the region, so I cannot attest to the content of their discussions, but despite the large quantities of ale they imbibed, their behaviour was not dissolute; nor did there appear to be any prostitutes on the premises. Our presence did not seem to warrant any special attention and when I questioned our hostess about this, she replied that on account of the great number of people who came to the Big House for the shooting, it was not in the least unusual for gentlemen to stop at the inn. I retired at the earliest opportunity, leaving my Mr Sinclair to his convivial surroundings, and slept soundly.
We rose early and were served a breakfast of blood pudding and eggs accompanied by a tankard of ale, which my companion drank with enthusiasm. There being no jig to convey us from Applecross, two ponies were provided and we set off for Culduie. The morning was bright and the air crisp and fresh. The village of Applecross was most pleasingly situated on the shore of a sheltered bay and the houses there, though primitive, were soundly built. Despite the early hour, a number of crones were seated on benches outside their houses, a good proportion of them, I would estimate, well into their eighth decade. Some of them puffed on small pipes, while others occupied themselves with knitting. All of them eyed us with curiosity, but none greeted us.
After a mile or so we passed through the village of Camusterrach, a ramshackle collection of huts arranged around a simple harbour. This village boasted a church of rudimentary construction, a fine stone manse and a school, and these latter buildings lent the place a little propriety. Certainly, neither Applecross nor Camusterrach – primitive as they were – prepared us for the wretched collection of hovels that comprised the domicile of R—— M——. The short ride between Camusterrach and Culduie afforded, it must be said, a magnificent vista of the isles of Raasay and Skye. The strait that separated these islands from the mainland sparkled agreeably in the sunlight. The contrast when we turned into the track which led to Culduie could not have been greater, and I can only imagine that the unfortunate natives of this place must daily avert their eyes from the beauty before them, so as not to be reminded of the squalor in which they dwell. The majority of houses, if they can be termed as such, were of such rude construction that one would have taken them for byres or pig-sties. They were built from a clutter of stones and turf, and topped with rough thatch, which despite the warmth of the day reeked with peat smoke, so that it appeared that each of the houses was gently smouldering. As we made our way along the track, a man at work on his crops paused and stared openly at us. He was a squat figure, thickly bearded, and quite repellent in his visage. Only the house at the junction of the village boasted a slate roof and looked fit for human habitation. It was here that we stopped to ask directions to the house of Mr M––, the father of the accused. We were greeted at the door, to my great surprise, by a most handsome woman, who, before we had the opportunity to state the reason for our visit, invited us into her home. I admit that I was curious to observe at first hand the living conditions of these people and I was pleasantly surprised by the interior of the house. Although the floor consisted of no more than earth, it was freshly swept and there was a general atmosphere of good hygiene. There were a number of items of crude but serviceable furniture and we were invited to sit in two armchairs arranged by the hearth. Mr Sinclair began to explain that there was no need for us to sit as we had only called to ask directions to the home of the M–– family, but I quieted him and said that we would be pleased to accept our hostess’s hospitality for a few minutes. As we had travelled a great distance to learn something of the community that had spawned R—— M——, it would be negligent not to take advantage of any opportunities to do so. The study of the criminal class should not focus exclusively on heredity, but must as well pay heed to the conditions in which the degenerate individual exists. Heredity cannot, in itself, account for the perpetration of a crime. The foul air of the slum, hunger and a general milieu of immorality must also be admitted as factors in the manufacture of the criminal. Numerous studies have been made of degenerate offspring who, having been removed from the squalid haunts of their parents, have been brought up to lead, within the limitations of their intellect, quite productive lives.
I was thus pleased to have this chance to learn a little about the well from which R—— M—— had issued. Once we had introduced ourselves, Mrs Murchison called two of her daughters to serve us tea and sat with us by the fire. Excepting her plain clothes, I would not have been ashamed to present Mrs Murchison in a drawing room in Perth. She had fine features and intelligent brown eyes. She bore herself with a dignity that suggested she was not unaccustomed to conversing with educated men. Her daughters, whom I judged to be around twelve and thirteen years old, moved with a similar grace and were pleasingly proportioned, both in body and countenance. Mrs Murchison explained that her husband, a stone mason, was that day away from home. I enquired how she had met him and she explained that they become acquainted in the nearby town of Kyle of Lochalsh, where her father was a merchant of good standing. Mr Murchison had thus avoided the great folly of the coastal tribes of Scotland, who through incessant intermarriage to those in closest proximity, perpetuate their physical peculiarities and deficiencies. The tea was served in china cups, along with scones spread with butter. I complimented Mrs Murchison on her well-bred children. She replied that she had four further daughters and I offered my condolences on her misfortune not to have been blessed with a son.
I then explained the nature of our mission in Culduie and asked her opinion of the accused. Mrs Murchison avoided my question, instead remarking on the tragic nature of the recent crimes and the effect it had had on their little community.
I noted her use of the word ‘tragic’, and asked why she characterised the events in this way.
‘I cannot see how else one might describe such events.’
‘I was only curious,’ I replied, ‘as to why you might term such deeds as “tragic”, rather than, say, evil or wicked.’
Mrs Murchison then glanced at both of us, as if seeking assurance that she might speak openly with us.
‘If you wish to have my opinion, Mr Thomson,’ she said, ‘I believe there is far too much talk of wickedness in these parts. The way some people talk, one would think that we existed in a state of perpetual debauchery.’
‘I can see that that would indeed be an erroneous view,’ I said, casting my hand about the room. ‘Nonetheless, one must endeavour to find some way to account for the actions of your neighbour.’
At this point, Mrs Murchison sent her two daughters from the house, telling them to busy themselves with their chores. She then replied that it was not for her to venture an opinion, but she could only imagine that when he had perpetrated his terrible crimes, R—— M—— could not have been in his right mind. She then begged our pardon for offering an opinion in the company of two gentlemen who must know a great deal more about the workings of the mind than she.
I waved away her protestations and told her that although I had made a study of a great many criminals, I was a man of science and as such valued evidence over generalisations and speculation. It was precisely because I wished to know the views of those acquainted with the accused that I was here.
‘I have no doubt you will find no shortage of people eager to offer an ill opinion of him,’ she said, ‘but I never knew him to wilfully harm another person.’
‘You would not have thought him capable of committing such acts?’
‘I would not have thought any man capable of committing such acts, Mr Thomson,’ she replied.
I then asked her if she knew of any cause for R—— M—— to act as he had. She seemed reluctant to answer this question.
‘Certainly there had been some disputes between Mr Mackenzie and Mr M——,’ she said eventually.
‘And who, in your opinion, was at fault in these disputes?’
‘I do not believe it is for me to say,’ she replied.
‘Perhaps you do not wish to speak ill of the dead,’ I said.
Mrs Murchison looked at me for some moments. She truly was a quite striking creature.
‘I can say in all certitude that Flora and Donald Mackenzie were not at fault,’ she said eventually, before commencing to weep.
I apologised for upsetting her. She took a linen handkerchief from inside her sleeve and dabbed her eyes in perfect imitation of a woman of good breeding. I construed from the concealment of this handkerchief on her person that she was presently frequently given to such outbursts of emotion. When she had taken possession of herself, I asked what she could tell me of the character of R—— M——. She looked at me for some moments with her pleasing brown eyes.
‘He was generally of good character,’ she said vaguely. ‘Generally?’
‘Yes.’
‘But not always?’ I persisted.
‘All boys of R——’s age are sometimes given to mischief, are they not?’
‘No doubt,’ I said. ‘But to what kind of mischief do you refer?’
Mrs Murchison gave no reply and I was struck by her strange reluctance to speak ill of a person who had committed such monstrous deeds. I thus thought it better to make my questions more specific.
‘Was he given to stealing?’
Mrs Murchison laughed off this suggestion.
‘Did you ever know him to commit acts of cruelty to animals or small children?’
Mrs Murchison did not laugh at this proposition, but she answered in the negative.
‘Did you ever hear of him raving or labouring under some hallucination or fantasy?’
‘I would not say that I saw him raving,’ she replied, ‘but, on occasion, when walking through the village or working in the fields he might mutter to himself.’
‘Were these mutterings audible?’
Mrs Murchison shook her head. ‘He would be tight-lipped,’ – she here imitated what she meant with a twitching of her mouth – ‘as if he did not want to be overheard. If you approached him, or he saw that he was being watched, he would cease.’
‘So he must have been conscious of what he was doing,’ I said more to myself than to the company. ‘Did you ever speak to any other person about this tendency of R——’s?’
‘My husband also noticed it and remarked on it to me.’
‘And what was the substance of these remarks?’
‘No more than to state what he had observed. We did not think it a matter of any consequence.’
‘Nevertheless, it was unusual enough to be worthy of comment.’
‘Clearly,’ said Mrs Murchison. She took a sip of the tea that she was holding daintily in her lap. ‘You must understand, Mr Thomson, the great unhappiness which has afflicted R——. Since the death of his mother, his whole family laboured under a cloak of grief which was painful to observe and quite immune to the good offices of their neighbours.’
‘So you believe that the death of Mrs M—— wrought some change of character in her son?’
‘In the whole family,’ she said.
I nodded.
‘You should also know that John M—— is a severe man, who ...’ – she now lowered her voice and cast her eyes towards the floor as if she was ashamed of what she was about to say – ‘... who did not show a great deal of affection to his children.’
She then added that she did not wish to speak ill of a neighbour and I assured her of my discretion.
‘You have been of great assistance,’ I told her. ‘As I have said, our motives in making these investigations are entirely professional.’ I paused for a moment before continuing. ‘As you are clearly a woman of some education, might I make one further enquiry, an enquiry of a somewhat delicate nature?’
Mrs Murchison indicated that I could.
‘Forgive me,’ I said, ‘but did you ever know R—— M—— to commit any indecent acts?’
A little colour rose to the woman’s cheeks, which she attempted to conceal by touching her hand to her face. My suspicion on seeing this was less that she was discomfited by what I alluded to, but rather that I had struck upon something she might have preferred not to discuss. She at first attempted to deflect my query by asking what kind of acts I meant.
‘It is clear,’ I said, ‘that if the answer to my question was in the negative, you would have no need to ask for such clarification. I ask you to remember that I am a man of science and set aside your natural reticence.’
Mrs Murchison set down her teacup and looked around to confirm that her daughters were not present. When she spoke, she kept her eyes all the time trained on the dirt floor between us.
‘Our daughters – the eldest is fifteen – sleep in a chamber at the back of the house.’ She here indicated a doorway which presumably led to this room. ‘On a number of occasions, my husband surprised R–– outside the window.’
‘At night?’ I said.
‘At night or early in the morning.’
‘He was observing your daughters?’
‘Yes.’
‘If you will excuse my indelicacy, did your husband find the boy in a state of arousal?’
The colour now rose more vividly to the good lady’s cheeks.
‘He was engaged in onanistic activity?’
Mrs Murchison nodded faintly, and then shyly directed her eyes towards me. In order to dispel her embarrassment, I adopted a breezy tone and asked what action her husband had taken. She replied that he had been strenuously warned off, which I took to mean that he had at the very least received a forceful boxing of his ears.
‘Did you inform anyone about these activities?’
Mrs Murchison shook her head. ‘We instructed our daughters not to associate with R––, and to inform us if he behaved improperly towards them.’
‘And did he?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Did he persist in these visitations?’ I asked.
‘For a time,’ she said, ‘but they seem to have ceased some months ago. I suppose he outgrew such things.’
I expressed my admiration for Mrs Murchison’s charitable characterisation of R—— M——’s behaviour, and again begged her pardon for obliging her to speak of such matters. We then thanked her for her hospitality and asked for the directions which had been the original motive for our call.
We left our ponies tethered outside the Murchison house and walked the remaining length of the village. The M–– dwelling was by some distance the most poorly constructed in the township, resembling less a house than a smoking dung-heap. The land to the fore was ill-kempt and overgrown. The door was open and we peered into the chamber. To the left was what appeared to be a dilapidated byre. The stalls were empty of livestock, but the stench was nevertheless rank and few would have considered this a place fit for human habitation. No fire was lit and the chamber was cold and almost in darkness.
Mr Sinclair called out a greeting, to which there was no reply. He stepped into the room and repeated his salutation in Gaelic. A pair of hens, which had been pecking at the dirt, scuttled past our legs. Something stirred to our right and our eyes were drawn to a figure seated in a chair by the tiny aperture in the wall.
‘Mr M––?’ my companion enquired.
The figure got to his feet with some difficulty and took one or two steps towards us, leaning heavily on a gnarled stick. He spoke a few words in the language in which he had been addressed.
Mr Sinclair replied and the man approached us. I have rarely seen such a dismal specimen of the human race. Bent over as he was, he could barely have stood more than five feet tall. His beard and hair were thick and dishevelled, his clothing ragged. At my suggestion, Mr Sinclair asked him if we might step outside to converse for a few minutes. The homunculus looked at us with some suspicion and shook his head. He indicated that if we wished to speak to him we could sit at the table in the centre of the room. We seated ourselves on the benches around the table, the surface of which was speckled with droppings. As my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I studied Mr M––. He had the same heavy brow and darting eyes as his son. His hands, which busied themselves filling his little pipe, were large, with long, crooked fingers, somewhat flattened at the ends. I wondered if perhaps he had been asleep when we entered, as now he appeared to have shaken off some of his initial confusion. Nonetheless, the expression on his face was one of distrust, if not outright hostility. He did not offer us any refreshments, not that I would have wished to consume the merest morsel in that filthy hovel.
Mr Sinclair asked if he was able to converse with us in English and we proceeded in that language. The advocate then explained the nature of our mission in elementary terms. I was struck by the fact that at no point did Mr M—— ask after the wellbeing of his son. Mr Sinclair began by enquiring about the welfare of the crofter’s youngest offspring. He replied that they had been taken in by his wife’s family in Toscaig.
Mr Sinclair then offered his condolences for the death of his daughter.
Mr M——’s eyes hardened. ‘I have no daughter,’ he said.
‘I meant your daughter, Jetta,’ Mr Sinclair said by way of explanation.
‘There is no such person,’ the crofter said through tight lips.
My associate’s remarks, well-intentioned though they were, had done nothing to improve the atmosphere around the table.
‘So you are quite alone then?’ I said.
Mr M—— made no reply to this question, perhaps quite reasonably considering that the answer was self-evident. He lit his pipe and gave it a series of short puffs to get it going, his eyes flitting all the time between his two unwelcome guests.
‘Mr M——,’ I began, ‘we have travelled some distance to speak to you and I hope you will be good enough to answer a few questions about your son. It is of some importance that we try to understand his state of mind when he committed the acts of which he is accused.’
Mr M——’s expression did not alter and I wondered whether he had understood anything of what I had said. I resolved to put my enquiries in the simplest possible terms. My expectations of hearing anything of interest were not high, but I had, at least, learned something from observing the lamentable conditions in which R—— M—— had dwelt.
‘You recall, I am sure, the day the murders took place?’ I paused here in anticipation of some sign of affirmation, but receiving none, I continued. ‘Could you describe your son’s state of mind on that morning?’
Mr M—— sucked noisily on the stem of his pipe.
‘One man can no more see into the mind of another than he can see inside a stone,’ he said eventually.
I decided to frame my question in a more direct way: ‘Was your son generally of a happy disposition?’ I asked. ‘Was he a cheerful boy?’
The crofter shook his head, less, I construed, in disagreement, than to express that he had no opinion on the matter. Nevertheless, it did at least constitute some kind of response, and I took a little encouragement from it.
‘Did your son tell you of his intention to kill Lachlan Mackenzie?’ I said.
‘He did not.’
‘Did you have any inkling that he planned to do so?’
He shook his head.
‘Is it true that there had been some disputes between yourself and Mr Mackenzie,’ I persisted.
‘I would not call them “disputes”,’ he replied.
‘What would you call them?’
Mr M—— stared at me for a few moments. ‘I would not call them anything.’
‘But if you would not call them “disputes”, you must by necessity call them something else?’ I said.
‘Why must I?’ he said.
‘Well,’ I said, in a most affable tone, ‘if you wish to speak of something, it is necessary that you give it a name.’
‘But I do not wish to speak of it. It is you who wishes to speak of it,’ he said.
I could not help but smile at his response. He was perhaps not as dim-witted as I had first supposed.
Mr Sinclair then made an attempt of his own to overcome the old man’s obduracy.
‘Would it be correct to say that Mr Mackenzie was waging some kind of vendetta against you?’
‘That is a question you would need to be putting to Mr Mackenzie,’ said the old man.
Mr Sinclair looked at me with a defeated expression.
Mr M—— then leant a little over the table towards us. ‘Whatever my son has done cannot be undone. Nothing you or I might have to say about it is of any consequence.’
‘But Mr M——, I’m afraid that you are quite mistaken,’ said Mr Sinclair earnestly. He explained that his son’s prospects of escaping the gallows depended to a very large degree on determining the state of his mind at the time he committed his crimes, and it was, accordingly, not out of idle curiosity that we had travelled from Inverness to put these questions to him.
The crofter looked at him for some moments. His pipe had gone out and he tapped the contents onto the table in front of him and began to fumble in his pouch for whatever dregs remained there. I took out my own pouch and pushed it into the middle of the table.
‘Please …’ I said with a gesture of invitation.
Mr M——’s eyes looked from me to the pouch and then back again, no doubt weighing the extent to which he would feel in my debt if he accepted the gift. He then placed his pipe on the table and said, ‘I do not think I can be of any help to you, sir.’
I told him he had already been of great assistance and requested that I put a few questions to him about his son. As he did not object, I asked in turn whether his son had suffered from epilepsy; was given to violent swings of temper, or to raving or hallucinations; whether he was eccentric in his habits or behaviour; or if there was history of mental disorder in the family. To all these questions the crofter answered in the negative. I did not place a great deal of faith in his responses however, as despite the abject conditions in which he lived, he would have likely thought it shameful to admit to the existence of such propensities in his family.
As I could see no purpose in prolonging the interview, I stood up and thanked him for his hospitality. Mr M–– stood up. He glanced down at the pouch of tobacco which remained on the table between us. His hand darted towards it and he secreted it in the pocket of his jacket. He then looked at us as if nothing had happened. We bade him good day and, with some relief, stepped out into the uncontaminated air of the village.
We neither of us spoke as we walked back towards our ponies. I was conscious that the route we were walking mimicked that of R—— M—— as he had set out two weeks before on his bloody project. And I wondered if there might have been some inadvertent truth in the crofter’s remark about the difficulty of determining the contents of another man’s mind. Naturally, if a man is in possession of his senses, one need merely ask him, and, assuming the truthfulness of his replies, accept his account of what he might have been thinking at such and such a moment. The problem begins when one is dealing with those who exist in the border-lands of lunacy, and who, by definition, do not have access to the contents of their own minds. It is in order to look inside the minds of such unfortunates that the discipline of psychiatry exists. I have no doubt that Mr Sinclair wished to know the contents of my mind, but not wishing to hasten to an injudicious opinion, for the time being I kept my counsel.
I reflected, as we walked the short distance to the junction of the village, that such a place would seem a kind of paradise to the denizens of our city slums, and, were it not for the sloth and ignorance of its inhabitants, it might be one.
When we reached our ponies, Mr Sinclair expressed the view that it might be beneficial to pay a visit to Mr Mackenzie’s home, which was situated at the other extremity of the village. I could see no purpose in questioning the surviving members of the victims’ family as I was concerned only with the perpetrator, but Mr Sinclair stated that it might aid him in the court-room to familiarise himself with the layout of the scene of the crime. The Mackenzie house was of reasonable construction and appeared well maintained. A stout woman was at the threshold, vigorously working a large churn. She looked up from her labour as we approached. She had a ruddy complexion and thick brown hair, tied up in a bun at the back of her head. Her forearms were rugged and muscular and her general gait and demeanour quite mannish. Nevertheless, she did not exhibit any discernible traits of low breeding and appeared to be a healthy, if unattractive, specimen of the race.
Mr Sinclair, having ascertained that she was the widow of the deceased, offered his condolences and I bowed my head to indicate that I endorsed these sentiments. He informed her that we were concerned with the investigation of her husband’s murder (prudently avoiding mention of his precise role) and asked her if he might step inside for a moment, to ‘acquaint himself with the geography of the house’. The lady indicated with a gesture of her hand that he was welcome to enter, but did not follow us inside. A fire burned at the far end of the room and the temperature was quite oppressive. I stood inside the doorway as Mr Sinclair made a cursory inspection of the premises. The house furnishings made no concession to fashion, but stood, nevertheless, in stark contrast to the hovel we had lately departed. Mr Sinclair’s tour of the chamber took him around the large table where, no doubt, the family took their meals and I fancy he was attempting to reconstruct in his mind the gruesome events which had taken place there. It was only when he reached the far end of the table that his eyes were drawn to an old crone who, despite the heat, was bundled up in blankets in an armchair by the fire. The advocate at once excused himself for the intrusion, but the woman made no response. He repeated his apology in Gaelic, but her watery eyes remained fixed ahead of her and I concluded that she was in an advanced state of dementia.
I stepped outside the house and allowed my associate to complete his inspections in private. Mrs Mackenzie continued her churning, quite as if there was nothing remarkable about the appearance of two gentlemen in this remote shanty. I watched her for some minutes and reflected, as she went about her strenuous and repetitive labour, how little there was to distinguish her from a sheep at the cud. It is a shameful truth that the lower tribes of our country continue to exist in a state barely higher than livestock, deficient in the will to self-improvement which has brought progress to our southern regions.
Mr Sinclair emerged from the house, a light sweat having formed on his brow. He thanked the woman for allowing him to enter her home, then expressed his admiration for her ability to continue her toil in light of the events which had taken place. Mrs Mackenzie looked at him quite blankly.
‘There are still mouths to feed and crops to be taken from the ground, sir,’ she said.
Mr Sinclair nodded at the undeniable truth of this response and we took our leave, both from her and from Culduie, a place to which I shall be content never to return. The day being too far advanced to begin our journey back to Inverness, we returned to the inn at Applecross. I withdrew to my room to compile my notes and reflect on the findings of our excursion, while my associate took advantage of the hospitality below.
‡‡ As a point of interest for the future development of Criminal Anthropology, it might prove to be of great value for a study to be made of analogous structures in the physiology of criminals who have had no contact through interbreeding. [Footnote in original.]
§§ Rudolf Virchow (1821–1902) was a German scientist known as ‘the father of modern pathology’.
¶¶ James Cowles Prichard, Treatise on Insanity and Other Disorders Affecting the Mind (1835).