The Trial

The following account has been compiled from contemporary newspaper coverage and the volume A Complete Report of the Trial of Roderick John Macrae published by William Kay of Edinburgh in October 1869.

* * * * *

First day

The trial opened at the Circuit Court of Inverness on Monday the 6th of September 1869. At eight o’clock Roderick Macrae was conveyed to the court from his cell in Inverness gaol to a holding room in the basement of the building. He was transported in a windowless carriage, flanked by police horsemen, and the presence of this little convoy in the streets excited great passions among passers-by. According to John Murdoch, covering the case for the Inverness Courier, some who saw it ‘called out offensive words, while others made missiles of whatever came to hand’. Such was the interest in the case that a crowd of several hundred people had gathered outside the court and enterprising vendors had set up stalls to provide for the throng. When the procession arrived, a great cheer went up and the out-riders were unable to prevent the crowd from surging forward and beating the sides of the cab. The carriage was brought to a halt and a number of men were injured as the police fought off the mob with batons. An elderly woman, Mary Patterson, was trampled underfoot and had to be attended by doctors. On subsequent days, barriers were erected and the police presence increased to ensure the safe passage of the convoy.

Special accommodation had been made in the court-room for the large number of reporters wishing to attend the trial and these were admitted by prior arrangement through a side entrance. Admittance to the public gallery was organised by the issue of special hand bills, which, it was later discovered, changed hands for considerable sums of money. By half past nine the public gallery had been filled and the Lord Justice-Clerk Lord Ardmillan and Lord Jerviswoode took their places on the bench. At the bar, the Crown was represented by the Solicitor-General Mr Gifford, a Mr William Crichton and assisted by Mr Gordon Frew, Crown-agent. For the defence, Andrew Sinclair was assisted by his colleague, Edward Smith. The Lord Justice-Clerk began by issuing a stern warning to those in the public gallery. No one would be permitted to enter or leave the court-room during evidence and any person disrupting the proceedings would be peremptorily ejected and their bill of admission confiscated.

The Lord Justice-Clerk then addressed counsel. He was aware, he said, of the existence of the ‘so-called memoir’ written by the prisoner. As the account had not been produced under the proper cautions and contained admissions which the prisoner might not wish to make in the course of his defence, ‘neither the document nor any portion thereof’ were admissible in evidence. He further sternly advised both sides against making any reference to the document in the course of their examination of the witnesses. The case would be decided on the basis of the evidence heard in court and this evidence only. Neither the Solicitor-General nor the defence raised any objection to this ruling, which was no doubt intended by the judge to pre-empt any later discussion in the presence of the jury.

At five minutes past ten, accompanied by a ‘great uproar which the repeated striking of the Lord Justice-Clerk’s gavel did nothing to quell’, the prisoner was brought up to the dock. James Philby, reporting for The Times, described the moment:

Those awaiting the appearance of a monster were sorely disappointed. Once the initial tumult had died away, the most oft-heard remark was to the effect that the prisoner was no more than a boy. And, in truth, it was a most accurate observation. Roderick Macrae would be no one’s idea of a murderer and certainly did not appear capable of the monstrous acts of which he is accused, being of small stature, though well-built around the shoulders and chest. His hair was unkempt and his complexion, no doubt on account of the weeks spent in his cell, pallid. On entering, his dark eyes surveyed the court-room from beneath his heavy brow, but he appeared quite in possession of his senses and made no reaction to the hullabaloo from the public gallery. His advocate, Mr Andrew Sinclair, stood by the dock and instructed him to take his seat there and this he did, adopting a respectful posture, with his hands resting in his lap and his head bowed. He generally remained in this attitude throughout the proceedings.

The Clerk of the Court then read the indictment:

Roderick John Macrae, now or lately a crofter of Culduie, Ross-shire, and now or lately prisoner in Inverness, you are indicted and accused at the instance of James Moncrieff, Esq., Her Majesty’s Advocate for Her Majesty’s interest: that albeit, by the laws of this and of every other well governed realm, murder is a crime of an heinous nature, and severely punishable: yet true it is, and of verity, that you, the said Roderick John Macrae, are guilty of the said crime, actor, or art and part: In so far as, (1.) On the morning of the 10th day of August 1869, within the dwelling-house of Lachlan Mackenzie in Culduie, Ross-shire, did wickedly and feloniously assault and attack the said Lachlan Mackenzie, and did, with a croman and flaughter, strike the said Lachlan Mackenzie several blows about the chest, face and head, and did fracture his skull, by all which, or part thereof, the said Lachlan Mackenzie was mortally injured and immediately died, and was thus murdered by you the said Roderick John Macrae.

The indictment went on to similarly detail the assaults on Flora and Donald Mackenzie.

The Lord Justice-Clerk then instructed the prisoner to rise and addressed him:

‘Roderick John Macrae, you are charged under this indictment with the crime of murder. How say you: are you guilty or not guilty?’

Roddy stood with his hands at his sides, and after glancing towards his counsel replied in a clear, but quiet voice, ‘Not guilty, my lord.’

He resumed his seat and Andrew Sinclair rose to submit the Special Defence of Insanity. This was read by the Clerk of the Court: ‘The panel pleads generally not guilty. He further pleads specially that at the time at which the acts set forth in the indictment are alleged to have been committed he was labouring under insanity.’

Mr Philby wrote, ‘For a young man who had never previously ventured more than a few miles from his village, he did not seem unduly unsettled by the array of learned faces which now scrutinised him from the bench. Whether this was due to the insanity claimed by the defence or merely spoke of a certain sang-froid, it was not at this point possible to venture an opinion.’

The jury of fifteen men was then empanelled. The Lord Justice-Clerk instructed the jurors to dismiss from their minds anything they might have read or heard about the case and reminded them of their obligation to consider only the evidence to be set forth in the court-room. He then asked the jurors if any of them had formed a settled opinion about the case or laboured under any prejudice about it. The jurors replied in turn that they had not, and, at half past ten, the case for the prosecution was opened.

The first witness to be called was Dr Charles MacLennan, who had carried out the post-mortem examination of the bodies. The practitioner was dressed in a tweed suit and yellow waistcoat, and boasted drooping moustaches, which leant him a suitably sombre air. It was unlikely that, as a rural doctor, he had ever been called upon to take part in such proceedings and he appeared nervous as he entered the witness box. As he began his evidence, wrote Mr Murdoch for the Courier, ‘the festive atmosphere in the public gallery quickly dissipated and the gravity of the occasion overtook the room’.

To a hushed court-room, Mr Gifford led Dr MacLennan through a meticulous account, lasting some thirty minutes, of the injuries sustained by each of the three victims. At the conclusion of his testimony the doctor was shown Productions No. 1 and No. 2, a flaughter and a croman. The appearance of the murder weapons elicited gasps from the gallery. The blade of the flaughter was badly bent out of shape, testifying ‘to great force with which it had been wielded’.

The Solicitor-General then asked the witness, ‘Have you seen these items before?’

Dr MacLennan: ‘No, sir.’

‘Can you tell us what they are?’

‘They are a flaughter and a croman.’

‘And what would be their normal use?’

‘They would be used for breaking ground or otherwise tending a croft.’

Mr Gifford, a tall and distinguished man, impeccably attired in a black suit, here paused to give full weight to the question he was about to ask.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘in your professional opinion, and given your careful examination of the three victims in this case, would the injuries sustained be consistent with the use of these weapons?’

‘Most certainly,’ the doctor replied. ‘If used with sufficient force.’

Mr Gifford nodded solemnly.

‘If I might put one further question to you,’ he said, ‘how would you characterise the injuries to the deceased, I mean, in comparison with other cases you have examined?’

Dr MacLennan exhaled sharply, as if the answer was self-evident. ‘They were without question the most brutal I have ever had the misfortune to encounter,’ he said.

Mr Gifford then indicated that he had concluded his examination. If his intention had been to leave the jurymen in no doubt about the seriousness of the case before them, he certainly succeeded. Several of them, it was reported, looked quite ashen.

Mr Sinclair had no questions for the doctor and the witness was excused.

Roddy had listened to this evidence with some attention, but no show of emotion, ‘quite as if,’ wrote Mr Philby, ‘he were no more than an interested spectator’.

The next witness was Carmina Murchison. She wore a green taffeta dress and would not, The Scotsman noted, ‘have looked out of place in the salons of George Street’. Not a single newspaper omitted mention of Mrs Murchison’s striking appearance and Mr Philby was even moved to note that ‘no juryman with blood in his veins could doubt a word which emerged from such lips’.

Led by Mr Gifford, Mrs Murchison related how she had met Roderick Macrae on the morning of the 10th of August and exchanged a few words with him as he passed her house. A map of Culduie had been drawn up and was displayed on an easel in the court-room and Mrs Murchison indicated the position of her own house, that of the prisoner and that of Lachlan Mackenzie.

‘Did you find,’ Mr Gifford asked, ‘the prisoner to be in a state of agitation?’

‘No, sir.’

‘He did not appear nervous or anxious?’

‘No.’

‘Did you believe him when he told you that he was going to break some ground at Mr Mackenzie’s property?’

‘I had no reason to disbelieve him.’

‘And he was carrying some tools for this purpose?’

‘Yes.’

Mrs Murchison was then shown the Productions. She covered her eyes at the sight of the weapons and they were swiftly removed.

The elegant Mr Gifford apologised with a little bow, before asking, ‘Were these the tools that the prisoner was carrying?’

Mrs Murchison: ‘Yes.’

‘And these would be the normal tools to carry out the work stated?’

‘Yes.’

‘But this was not the normal time of year to break ground, was it?’

‘Not for the purpose of planting crops.’

‘But this did not sound any alarm in your mind that this might not have been the prisoner’s true purpose?’

‘Roddy had lately been carrying out a good deal of work for Lachlan Broad.’

The Lord Justice-Clerk: ‘Lachlan Broad is the name by which Mr Mackenzie was known in your community?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Mr Gifford: ‘Why had the prisoner been carrying out work for the deceased?’

Mrs Murchison: ‘It was in repayment of a debt owed to Mr Mackenzie by Roddy’s father.’

‘And what was the nature of this debt?’

‘It was in compensation for a sheep which Roddy had killed.’

‘A sheep belonging to Mr Mackenzie?’

‘Yes.’

‘What was the extent of this debt?’

‘Thirty-five shillings.’

‘And Mr Macrae – the prisoner’s father – was unable to pay this sum?’

‘I believe so.’

‘So, in lieu of payment the prisoner was labouring for Mr Mackenzie?’

‘Yes.’

‘And, in view of this arrangement, there was nothing untoward in your exchange with the prisoner?’

‘No.’

‘Nothing which might have alerted you to what was about to occur?’

‘Nothing whatsoever.’

Mrs Murchison then related how, some time later – she estimated half an hour – she saw Roderick Macrae walking back through the village, now covered from head to foot in blood. Thinking an accident had befallen him, she ran to help. When she asked what had occurred, he replied that he had killed Lachlan Mackenzie. He made no mention of the other victims. Mrs Murchison then described the general commotion in the village and how Roderick Macrae had been imprisoned in the Murchisons’ outbuilding.

Mr Gifford: ‘How would you describe the prisoner’s demeanour at this time, Mrs Murchison?’

‘He was quite calm.’

‘Did he make any attempt to abscond?’

‘No.’

‘Did he not struggle with your husband or the other men who imprisoned him in the outbuilding?’

‘No.’

‘Did he express any remorse for what he had done?’

‘No.’

Mr Gifford then turned to the matter of motive.

‘How,’ he asked, ‘would you describe relations between the deceased, Mr Mackenzie, and the prisoner?’

‘I could not say.’

‘Were they friends?’

‘I would not say so.’

‘Enemies, then?’

Mrs Murchison made no answer to this question.

Mr Gifford expressed some surprise that in a village of a mere fifty-five souls the state of relations between two members of that community could be concealed.

Mrs Murchison: ‘I never heard Roddy express any ill feeling towards Lachlan Broad.’

‘You were not aware of any vendetta between Mr Mackenzie and the Macrae family?’

‘I was aware that there had been some disputes between them.’

‘What was the nature of these disputes?’

‘There was the killing of the sheep.’

‘Anything further?’

‘There was the matter of the allocation of land in the village.’

Mr Gifford asked Mrs Murchison to elaborate.

‘In his capacity as village constable, Mr Mackenzie allocated a portion of Mr Macrae’s croft to his neighbour, Mr Gregor.’

‘You are referring to Mr John Macrae, the father of the prisoner?’

‘Yes.’

‘On what grounds was this re-allocation made?’

‘Mr Macrae’s wife had died and Mr Mackenzie argued that as the household was reduced in number they needed less land.’

‘And this was felt to be unjust?’

‘Yes.’

‘So there was the matter of the killing of the sheep and the matter of the re-allocation of farming land. Anything else?’

‘It is difficult to express.’

‘Difficult to express because it did not exist or because you cannot explain it?’

Mrs Murchison was silent for some time and had to be prompted to answer by the Lord Justice-Clerk.

‘There was a general air of oppression,’ she said eventually. ‘Mr Mackenzie often acted in a high-handed manner and in particular towards Mr Macrae.’

‘I see. Perhaps if you have difficulty explaining the relations between Mr Mackenzie and the prisoner, you could tell us your own opinion of the deceased?’

‘I did not care for him.’

‘Please tell us why you did not care for him.’

‘He was a bully.’

‘A bully?’

‘Yes.’

‘By which you mean what?’

‘He took pleasure in wielding power over those around him and especially over Mr Macrae and his family.’

‘He tormented them?’

‘I would say so, yes.’

Mr Gifford then concluded his questioning and Mr Sinclair rose for the defence, appearing, at first, quite flustered. ‘It must,’ wrote Mr Philby, ‘be an unusual occurrence for a provincial pettifogger to be involved in a case of such notoriety, or perhaps he was merely bedazzled by the enchantress in the witness box.’ In any case, after some obsequious enquiries about Mrs Murchison’s comfort, he commenced his examination.

‘For how long have you lived in Culduie, Mrs Murchison?’

‘For eighteen years. Since my marriage.’

‘So you have known the prisoner all his life?’

‘Yes.’

‘And how would you describe your relations with him?’

‘They were quite normal.’

‘You were on friendly terms?’

‘Yes.’

‘Before the acts for which he is here accused, have you ever known him to be violent?’

‘No.’

‘And you were on good terms with his family?’

‘Generally, yes.’

‘Generally?’

‘Yes.’

‘Could you elaborate?’

‘I was very close to Una Macrae.’

‘The prisoner’s mother?’

‘Yes.’

‘And his father?’

‘Less so.’

‘Was there any reason for this?’

‘We were not on bad terms, it is only that I had less to do with him and he with me.’

‘But there was no particular reason for that?’

‘No.’

‘But you were on intimate terms with the prisoner’s mother?’

‘Yes. We were very close.’

‘And her death occurred when?’

‘In the spring of last year.’

‘This must have been a quite traumatic event.’

‘It was a terrible thing.’

‘For you?’

‘For me, and for her children.’

‘How would describe the effect of her death on her children?

‘They were quite changed.’

‘How so?

‘Jetta –’

‘The prisoner’s sister?’

‘Yes. She became morose and terribly concerned with charms and otherworldly things.’

‘Superstitious things?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the prisoner?’

‘He seemed to withdraw into himself.’

‘Could you explain what you mean?’

Mrs Murchison looked towards the bench, as if for some assistance. The Lord Justice-Clerk indicated with a gesture of his hand that she should continue.

‘I am not sure I can properly explain it,’ she said. ‘Only that perhaps Roddy sometimes seemed quite separate from the world.’

‘“Quite separate from the world”,’ Mr Sinclair repeated meaningfully. ‘And this change,’ he went on, ‘took place after his mother’s death?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Did you ever observe in the prisoner any signs of insanity?’

‘I do not know if it is a sign of insanity, but I now and again saw him talking to himself.’

‘In what manner?’

‘Quite as if he was in conversation with himself or with an unseen person.’

‘When did you see this?’

‘Often, when he was working on the croft or walking through the village.’

‘And what was the substance of these conversations?’

‘I could not say. If you drew near, he would cease.’

‘Did you ever hear him raving or behaving as if under some delusion?’

‘No.’

‘Did you ever hear of him being restrained because he was a danger to himself or to others?’

‘No.’

‘You did not feel that he was a dangerous character?’

‘No.’

‘He was not thought in the village to be a dangerous character?’

‘I don’t believe so.’

‘So it was a surprise to you when he carried out the acts which have brought us to this court-room today?’

‘Oh mercy, yes, a terrible shock,’ replied Mrs Murchison.

‘So these acts were quite out of character?’

‘I would say so, yes.’

Mr Sinclair then thanked the witness and concluded his questioning. Before Carmina Smoke could step down, the Solicitor-General rose for a second time.

‘If I might clarify one point,’ he began, ‘on the morning of the murders, did you see the prisoner engaged in this mumbling to himself?’

‘No, sir.’

‘And when you conversed with him did he seem quite rational?’

‘Perfectly rational, yes.’

‘He did not – and this is a point of utmost importance – appear alienated from his reason?’

‘I don’t believe so.’

‘It is not, if you will forgive me, a matter of “belief”, Mrs Murchison. Either he did or he didn’t.’

At this the Lord Justice-Clerk intervened, stating that the witness had answered the question in a satisfactory manner and it was not for the Crown to badger witnesses into providing the responses he desired. Mr Gifford begged the judge’s pardon and Mrs Murchison was excused, ‘with the gentlemen of the jury,’ Mr Philby noted, ‘closely observing her exit.’

The next witness to be called was Kenny Smoke. Led by Mr Gifford, Mr Murchison described the events of the morning of the 10th of August. He confirmed that the prisoner had been quite calm, had openly admitted to his deeds and had offered neither resistance nor made any attempt to flee.

Mr Gifford then asked him to describe the scene he had discovered in the home of Lachlan Mackenzie. At this point, according to Mr Murdoch, the court-room assumed a most sombre atmosphere: ‘Mr Murchison, a most vigorous and hearty fellow, visibly struggled to describe the horrors to which he had been witness, and he is to be commended for the sober account with which he was able to provide the court.’

‘Lachlan Mackenzie’s body,’ Mr Murchison testified, ‘was face down on the floor somewhat to the left of the door. The back of his head was entirely shattered and pieces of skull had been strewn some distance from the body. His brains had spilled out to the side of his head. His face lay in a great pool of blood. I lifted his wrist to see if there was a pulse, but there was none.’

Mr Gifford: ‘Was the body warm?’

‘Quite warm, yes.’

‘And then?’

‘I stood up and then saw the boy lying on the floor between the door and the window. I went to him. I did not see any signs of injury, but he was dead.’

‘The body was warm?’

‘Yes.’

‘And then?’

‘I saw the body of Flora Mackenzie laid out on the table.’

‘You say, “laid out”. Was it your impression that the body had been placed there quite purposefully?’

‘It did not appear that she had fallen there.’

‘Why do you say that?’

Mr Murchison here hesitated for some moments. ‘It was not a natural posture. Her feet did not reach the ground and I thought that she must have been lifted onto the table.’

‘Please describe, if you can, what you saw.’

‘There was a great deal of blood. Her skirts had been lifted up and the private parts had been mutilated. I examined her for signs of life, but she was quite dead. It was then that I noticed that the back of her head had been opened up. I pulled down her skirts to cover her decency.’

‘What did you do then?’

‘I went to the door, thinking to prevent anyone else from entering.’

Mr Murchison then described the arrangements made to remove the bodies to the outbuilding and how in the process of this, Catherine Mackenzie, the mother of the deceased, had been discovered in the gloom at the back of the room. She was taken to the Murchisons’ house, ‘quite gone in the head’, and attended by his wife.

Mr Gifford then moved onto the motives for the murders. Kenneth Murchison described the meeting at which the compensation for the killing of Lachlan Mackenzie’s sheep had been decided.

Mr Gifford: ‘And this was in the amount of thirty-five shillings?’

Mr Murchison: ‘Yes.’

‘Why was this sum settled on?’

‘It was the price that the animal would have fetched at market.’

‘And was it the deceased, Mr Mackenzie, who demanded this sum?’

‘The sum was proposed by Calum Finlayson, who was at that time serving as constable for our villages.’

‘Did Mr Mackenzie agree to this sum?’

‘He did.’

‘And Mr Macrae, the prisoner’s father, also agreed to this sum?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did Mr Mackenzie demand that this sum be paid immediately?’

‘No.’

‘What arrangements were made for the payment of this compensation?’

‘It was agreed that the sum would be paid at a rate of one shilling per week.’

‘This out of consideration for the straitened financial situation of the Macrae family?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did Mr Macrae fulfil his obligations with regard to these payments?’

‘I believe he attempted to do so, but it may be that they were not made regularly.’

The Lord Justice-Clerk: ‘Do you know if the payments were made or not?’

‘I do not know, but I know that Mr Macrae did not have a great deal of income and that the payments would have been quite burdensome.’

Mr Gifford continued: ‘But the arrangement was reached amicably?’

‘I would not call it amicable.’

‘But you have stated that both Mr Macrae and Mr Mackenzie accepted the proposal of the constable.’

‘It was accepted, yes, but Lachlan Broad made it clear that he was not satisfied.’

‘How so?’

‘He thought that there should be some additional punishment of the boy.’

‘The “boy” being the prisoner here?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did he propose what this punishment should consist of?’

‘I cannot recall, but he made it clear that he would like to see the boy punished.’

‘Even although the compensation agreed upon was acceptable to both sides?’

‘Yes.’

Mr Gifford here paused and raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner, but the witness did not add anything.

‘Would it be fair to say that Mr Mackenzie and Mr Macrae were not the best of friends?’

‘It would be fair.’

‘And this enmity between them, if I can put it in such a way, pre-dated this incident with the sheep?’

‘Yes.’

‘So how did this enmity arise?’

Mr Murchison held out his hands. ‘I cannot say.’ He puffed out his cheeks and let forth a ‘baffled sigh’. ‘Mr Macrae lived at his end of the village and Mr Mackenzie lived at his.’

Mr Gifford appeared content not to labour this point. ‘Nevertheless, an agreement was reached which left Mr Macrae indebted to Mr Mackenzie?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

Mr Gifford then led the witness through the process of Lachlan Broad’s election to the position of village constable.

Mr Gifford: ‘Would it be fair to say that this role in your community was not a popular one?’

Mr Murchison: ‘In what sense?’

‘In the sense that it was not a position which members of your community sought out?’

‘I would say so, yes.’

‘Then you must have been pleased that Mr Mackenzie took it upon himself to shoulder this burden?’

Mr Murchison made no reply.

Mr Gifford: ‘You were not pleased?’

‘I was neither pleased nor not pleased.’

‘But is it not true that you and some other members of your community made great efforts to find an alternative candidate to oppose Mr Mackenzie?’

‘Some effort was made.’

‘Why did you feel the need to do that?’

‘It did not seem right that Mr Mackenzie should be elected unopposed.’

‘That was the only reason?’

Kenny Smoke hesitated for a few moments, before responding, ‘There was a perception that Mr Mackenzie might use his powers to advance his own interests.’

‘You mean, the powers inherent in the role of village constable?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did he do so?’

‘To some extent.’

‘To what extent?’

‘He enjoyed wielding power over the community.’

‘Can you be more specific?’

‘He instituted a scheme of works whereby the men of the community were obliged to give their labour for a certain number of days.’

‘And what was the purpose of this scheme of works?’

‘General improvements to the roads and drainage around the villages.’

‘Were these schemes, as you put it, in advance of his own interests?’

‘Not specifically.’

‘Not specifically?’

Mr Murchison made no reply to this.

Mr Gifford continued: ‘Were these improvements to the benefit of the community in general?’

‘They were of benefit, yes.’

‘So Mr Mackenzie instituted a scheme of improvements beneficial to the community and the men of the community contributed their labour towards this scheme?’

‘Yes.’

‘And this you describe as being in advance of Mr Mackenzie’s own interests!’ Mr Gifford at this point directed an expression of bewilderment towards the jury.

‘Now,’ he continued, ‘if I can turn to another incident, would it be true to say that arable land is in short supply in your village?’

‘It is not plentiful.’

‘And how is the land allocated?’

‘Each family has their rig.’

‘“Each family has their rig”,’ he repeated. ‘The rig being their portion of the available land?’

‘Yes.’

‘And is this land allocated on a yearly basis, for five years, or for how long?’

‘In practice, each household farms the land which lies between their house and the Toscaig road.’

‘That portion being regarded, to all intents and purposes, as their land?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, in effect, each strip of land belonged to the property to which it was adjacent?’

‘In effect, yes.’

‘Without regards to the population or make-up of the household?’

‘Generally, yes.’

‘Shortly after Mr Mackenzie’s election to the position of village constable some of the arable land in Culduie was re-allocated, was it not?’

‘Yes.’

‘Could you describe that re-allocation?’

‘A portion of Mr Macrae’s land was given to his neighbour, Mr Gregor.’

‘Why was that?’

‘As there were more people in Mr Gregor’s household than in Mr Macrae’s, it was decreed that they required more land.’

‘I see. And how many people were in Mr Macrae’s household?’

‘Five, including the two infants.’

‘That would be Mr Macrae himself, the prisoner, his daughter and the two younger children, aged three years?’

‘Yes.’

‘And in Mr Gregor’s household?’

‘Eight.’

‘And how was that household constituted?’

‘Mr Gregor and his wife, Mr Gregor’s mother and their five children.’

‘So their need for land was greater than that of the Macrae household?’

‘Yes, but –’

‘Did Mr Mackenzie personally benefit from this distribution of land?’

‘No.’

‘So, it was quite fair to re-distribute this land in accordance with the greater need of the Gregor household?’

‘You could say that it was fair.’

‘I am asking if you would say it was fair, Mr Murchison.’

Before answering Mr Murchison drew his hand across his moustaches and surveyed the court-room.

‘It was not right,’ he said.

‘But you have stated that the Gregor family’s need for land was greater than that of the Macraes.’

‘It might have been fair in law,’ said Mr Murchison, clearly by now becoming aggravated, ‘but it was not done. Crofts are not divided up in this way. Each family works their portion of land and it passes from one generation to the next.’

‘I see. So Mr Mackenzie’s action was unprecedented?’

‘It was vindictive.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr Gifford, as if he had finally succeeded in reaching the nub of the matter. ‘“Vindictive” is a strong word, Mr Murchison. So rather than using his powers for the general good, Mr Mackenzie was perceived to be pursuing some kind of vendetta against Mr Macrae?’

‘Correct.’

Mr Gifford directed a meaningful look to the jury, then thanked the witness and concluded his questioning. The Scotsman noted that Mr Murchison ‘seemed a fine fellow, but his baffling adherence to the idea that land should be allocated on the basis of tradition rather than utility was yet another example of how the intransigence of the Highland tribes is bringing about their own demise’.

Mr Sinclair then rose for the defence.

‘For how long have you known the prisoner?’

Mr Murchison: ‘All his life.’

‘And how would you characterise your relationship with him?’

‘I like him well enough.’

‘Would you describe him as feeble-minded?’

‘Feeble-minded? No.’

‘Then how would you describe him?’

Mr Murchison puffed out his cheeks and looked towards Roddy, who looked back at him with a faint smile.

‘Well, there’s no doubting he’s got a brain in his head. He’s a clever lad, but –’

‘Yes, Mr Murchison?’

The witness cast his eyes towards the ceiling as if searching for the right words. He shook his head and then said, ‘He’s daft.’

‘“Daft”?’ repeated Mr Sinclair. ‘Could you explain what you mean?’

Again Mr Murchison seemed to struggle to express himself. ‘He sometimes seemed like he was in a world of his own. He was always a solitary boy. I never saw him playing with other children. He could be sitting amongst folk, but, for all the world, it was like there was nobody else there. You never knew what was going on in his head.’

‘And he was always like this?’

‘I believe so.’

Mr Sinclair allowed some moments to pass before putting his next question. ‘Did you ever observe the prisoner speaking to himself or appearing to be in conversation with another person who was not there?’

Mr Murchison nodded. ‘Aye, now and again, I saw him muttering to himself.’

‘Frequently?’

‘Not infrequently.’

At this point the Lord Justice-Clerk intervened. ‘How often do you mean by “not infrequently”?’

‘Quite often.’

The Lord Justice-Clerk: ‘Every day, every week or once a month?’

‘Not every day, but certainly every week.’

‘So it was quite normal for you to observe this behaviour?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Mr Sinclair: ‘And did you ever overhear what he was saying to himself?’

‘No.’

‘Why was that?’

‘He would cease whenever anyone came near him. And, in any case, it was more of a muttering, rather than a speaking out loud.’

‘I see. And had the prisoner always behaved in this way?’

‘I could not say.’

‘Did you observe him talking to himself in this way when he was a child?’

‘I don’t believe so.’

‘Can you remember when you first observed him behaving in this manner?’

Mr Murchison shook his head and was instructed to answer by the Lord Justice-Clerk.

‘I cannot recall.’

‘Was it ten years ago, five years ago, or one year ago?’

‘More than one year ago.’

‘But not five years ago?’

‘No.’

‘Did you ever see the prisoner behave in this way before his mother’s death?’

‘I could not say with any certainty.’

‘In conclusion, would it be fair to say that you did not regard the prisoner as completely normal?’

‘That would be fair.’

Mr Sinclair then concluded his questioning and Kenny Smoke was excused. The next witness to be called was Duncan Gregor. Mr Gifford began by questioning him about the morning of the murders, but the Lord Justice-Clerk intervened, putting it to him that since the events in question were not in dispute, there was no need to waste time going over ground that had already been established. Mr Sinclair did not demur and for the rest of the day, proceedings moved along at a more rapid pace. A pattern emerged whereby the Crown sought to establish rational motives for the murders, while Mr Sinclair attempted, with varying degrees of success, to portray the accused as not being in his right mind. Ironically, the defence’s best moments were provided by the testimony of Aeneas Mackenzie. Mr Philby described him as, ‘a porcine fellow [who] did not appear to grasp that his derogatory statements about the accused were in greater service of the defence than the Crown’.

When asked for his view of the prisoner’s state of mind, he bluntly replied, ‘He was a lunatic.’

‘A lunatic?’ Mr Sinclair repeated mildly. ‘Could you explain to the court what you mean?’

‘Just that. Everyone knew he was off his head.’

‘“Everyone” being who?’

‘Everyone in the parish.’

‘You mean he had something of the status of “village idiot”?’

‘Aye, that and more.’

‘What more?’

‘He had always a stupid grin on his face. He would always be sniggering about something when there was nothing to be sniggering about.’

‘I see. So would you say that he was not of sound mind?’

‘Aye, I most certainly would. There was many a time I’d have happily wiped the grin off his face and I’d do it now if I had the chance.’

When Mr Sinclair concluded his examination, it took Mr Mackenzie some moments to grasp that he was excused, and he left the stand ‘mumbling to himself in a manner that suggested it was he whose sanity might be in question’.

The final witness of the day was the schoolmaster, Mr Gillies, whom Mr Philby, clearly by this time enjoying himself, described as having ‘lady’s hands and a face one would struggle to describe – or remember’. Mr Gifford elicited a glowing testimony to Roddy’s abilities from the schoolmaster. He then questioned him about his visit to the prisoner’s father to suggest that he continue his education.

‘And what was the result of this visit?’

‘Unfortunately, Roddy was required by his father to work on the family’s croft.’

‘Were you in the habit of making such proposals?’

‘That is the only occasion I have done so.’

‘And why did you single out the prisoner in this way?’

‘He was without doubt the most gifted pupil I have taught.’

Mr Gifford then moved onto Roddy’s general behaviour and demeanour. ‘Was he an unruly pupil?’

‘On the contrary, he was well-behaved and attentive.’

‘You are aware, Mr Gillies, that my colleagues for the defence have lodged a plea of insanity in this case?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you ever detect any signs of insanity in the prisoner?’

Mr Gillies appeared to give this question serious thought before replying that he had not.

‘You never witnessed him raving or talking to himself?’

Mr Gillies shook his head. ‘Never,’ he said.

After a brief consultation with his team, Mr Gifford indicated that he had no more questions.

Mr Sinclair rose for the defence.

‘Was the prisoner popular amongst his schoolmates?’ he asked.

‘Not especially.’

‘What do you mean by “not especially”?’

‘Simply that,’ said Mr Gillies, looking somewhat bemused.

‘Did he play or socialise with his fellows in the normal way?’

‘I think he was a rather solitary boy, quite happy in his own company.’

‘Somewhat aloof from his peers?’

‘You could say that, but I saw nothing abnormal in it. Some children are naturally gregarious, others less so.’

Mr Sinclair seemed unsure whether to pursue his line of questioning, then decided that he had little to gain from providing a platform for a witness who seemed to have such high regard for his client.

As it was by then half past four, the proceedings were adjourned for the day. The Lord Justice-Clerk informed the jury that they would be accommodated in a hotel for the night and counselled that they should desist from discussing the particulars of the case or forming any opinion about it.

It had all, wrote Mr Philby, ‘made for excellent entertainment and every word was closely followed by those fortunate enough to have gained admission. Indeed, as if to corroborate the worthy Aeneas Mackenzie’s testimony, the only person who did not appear gripped by the spectacle was the prisoner himself.’

Second day

The trial resumed at half past nine the following morning. Roddy was brought in to cheers and catcalls from the public gallery, the occupants of which, wrote Mr Murdoch for the Courier, ‘appeared to believe that they were in a theatre rather than a court of law, and that the unfortunate prisoner was no more than a pantomime villain, brought forth for their entertainment’. Roddy did not once glance towards his tormentors. Mr Sinclair greeted him with a friendly pat on the shoulder as he took his seat in the dock. The Lord Justice-Clerk allowed the din to continue for a few minutes, perhaps reckoning it prudent to allow the spectators to let off a little steam before bringing the court to order. And indeed when he finally struck his gavel, the court-room was rapidly hushed.

This respectful silence was short-lived, however, as Mr Gifford rose to call John Macrae as the first witness of the day. Mr Philby of The Times described Mr Macrae as a ‘tiny, bent figure with the appearance of a man twice his forty-four years. He leaned heavily on a gnarled stick and stared out from the dock with an expression of bewilderment in his small, dark eyes. The prisoner kept his head bowed for the duration of his father’s evidence and the crofter did not look at his son.’ The judge then sternly warned those in the gallery to remain silent on pain of being taken below and held in contempt. It was agreed that, as he was more proficient in the ‘ancient language of the Highlands’, Mr Macrae’s examination would be conducted in Gaelic and a translator was duly brought forth. Mr Gifford, in deference to the apparent infirmity of the witness, commenced his examination in a mild tone.

He began by asking about the witness’s relationship with the deceased. Mr Macrae appeared confused by the questions put to him and there were murmurs of amusement in the gallery, which were quickly curbed by the bench. Mr Gifford then re-phrased his question, all this, on account of the translation process, taking a good deal of time: ‘Were you and Mr Mackenzie on friendly terms?’

Mr Macrae: ‘I know a good number of Mackenzies.’

Mr Gifford smiled patiently. ‘I am referring to your neighbour, Lachlan Mackenzie, or Lachlan Broad, as he was known.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Mr Macrae. This response brought a fresh outburst of laughter from the gallery. The judge then ordered that the macers eject one of the culprits, an act which, despite the disruption it caused, appeared to have the desired effect.

Mr Gifford then repeated his question.

‘I would not say that we were friends,’ replied Mr Macrae.

‘Why was that?’

‘I could not say.’

‘Was there any reason that you and Lachlan Mackenzie were not friends?’

Mr Macrae made no reply. The Lord Justice-Clerk then asked, through the translator, if Mr Macrae was having difficulty understanding the advocate’s questions. Then, having received assurance that he was not, reminded the witness that he was required to answer the questions put to him or be held in contempt.

Mr Gifford then asked Mr Macrae about the reduction of the croft. After a laborious series of questions regarding this incident, he asked, ‘Did you feel aggrieved about this settlement?’

‘No.’

‘You were not aggrieved that a portion of your croft, from which you derived the food to feed your family, had been taken from you?’

‘There were others who had greater need of the land.’

‘Did your son feel aggrieved about this settlement?’

‘You would have to ask him yourself.’

‘Did he show any sign of being aggrieved about this settlement?’

No reply.

‘Did you discuss this incident with your son?’

‘No.’

Mr Gifford appear somewhat exasperated and appealed to the Lord Justice-Clerk to compel the witness to answer his questions more fully. The judge replied that it was for the gentlemen of the jury to decide whether the answers given were satisfactory.

The Solicitor-General then moved to an incident which had not yet been introduced.

‘Do you recall,’ he asked, ‘a morning sometime in April or May this year when you were gathering sea-ware on the shore at Culduie?’

‘I do.’

‘Can you tell the court what occurred that morning?’

‘It is as you say,’ Mr Macrae replied, to stifled laughter from the gallery.

‘You were gathering sea-ware?’

‘Yes.’

‘With your son?’

‘Yes.’

‘For what purpose were you gathering this sea-ware?’

‘For the purpose of spreading on the croft.’

‘Did you speak to Mr Mackenzie that morning?’

‘He spoke to me.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He told me to return the sea-ware we had gathered to the shore.’

‘Did he give any reason for his instruction?’

‘We had not the permission to remove it.’

‘You require permission to remove sea-ware from the shore?’

‘It seems so.’

‘Whose permission did you require?’

‘The permission of Lord Middleton, to whom the sea-ware belonged.’

‘Lord Middleton being the laird of your district?’

‘Yes.’

‘Had you gathered sea-ware from the shore before?’

‘Yes.’

‘Frequently?’

‘On a yearly basis.’

‘And had you sought permission to do so on these previous occasions?’

‘No.’

‘But on this occasion Mr Mackenzie asked you to return the sea-ware you had gathered?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why do you think he did so?’

‘It was his role to enforce the regulations.’

‘And you accepted that?’

‘Yes.’

‘You did not feel aggrieved at Mr Mackenzie’s actions?’

Mr Macrae made no answer.

‘You were compelled to return a large quantity of sea-ware, which you had spent some hours harvesting, this in accordance with long-established practice, yet you did not feel aggrieved?’

The crofter looked at the advocate for a few moments, then replied, ‘I was not happy about it.’

Mr Gifford here exhaled theatrically, and was reprimanded by the Lord Justice-Clerk for doing so. He then excused himself, but was unable to resist a meaningful look towards the jury.

‘And is it true,’ he continued, ‘that on the following day, the village in its entirety gathered sea-ware for the purpose of spreading on their crofts?’

‘I do not know what their purpose was.’

‘But they gathered sea-ware?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you did not?’

‘No.’

‘Can you say why they were allowed to gather sea-ware and you were not?’

‘They had permission to do so.’

‘And you did not seek permission to join them?’

‘I did not wish to take what did not belong to me.’

There was some laughter in the gallery. Mr Macrae kept his eyes fixed on his left hand, which was gripping the edge of the witness box. Mr Gifford allowed a few moments to pass before proceeding.

‘So, if I may summarise,’ he said, ‘your testimony is that you bore no grievance towards the deceased, a man who had reduced the size of your croft, who had ordered you to return sea-ware to the shore, and to whom, on account of the incident with the sheep, you were indebted a considerable amount?’

Mr Macrae made no answer.

Mr Gifford pressed him for an answer.

‘It was not for me to hold a grievance towards Mr Mackenzie.’

The Lord Justice-Clerk at this point reminded Mr Gifford that it was not the witness that was on trial, and the question of whether he bore a grievance towards the deceased was immaterial. It was clearly important to the Crown’s strategy, however, that in order to prove the defendant had acted rationally, it was necessary to establish the existence of a grievance against the victim. It was thus a visibly infuriated Mr Gifford that concluded his questioning. A gleeful sketch in the following day’s Inverness Courier described how the ‘Crown’s finest legal mind had been bested by a simple crofter’.

Mr Sinclair rose for the defence and, addressing the witness in Gaelic, enquired whether he was quite comfortable.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘I must ask you about your son, who is here accused of the most dreadful crimes. Prior to the events which have brought us to this court-room, did you ever know your son to be violent?’

Mr Macrae made no answer.

‘Did your son ever strike you or threaten to strike you?’

Mr Macrae made no answer and was reminded by the Lord Justice-Clerk of his obligations.

‘No.’

‘Did he ever strike your wife or any of his siblings?’

‘No.’

‘Did he ever strike any of your neighbours?’

‘No.’

‘So you would not say that he was given to violence?’

‘No.’

‘So if he committed these acts of which he is here charged, you would say that it was out of character?’

Mr Macrae did not seem to understand this question.

Mr Sinclair: ‘Would you describe your son as a violent person?’

‘I have never had cause to describe him.’

Mr Sinclair smiled, in ‘a clear attempt to conceal his growing irritation’, and rephrased his question: ‘If you were asked to describe your son, would you describe him as a violent person?’

‘I don’t believe so,’ the witness replied.

‘Were you ever violent towards your son?’

‘I was not.’

‘You never struck him?’

‘I did strike him.’

‘When did you have occasion to strike him?’

‘When necessary.’

‘I see. And could you give an example of when you found it necessary to strike him?’

‘When he had disobeyed me or had caused some trouble.’

‘“Caused trouble” – so your son sometimes caused trouble? Could you describe to the court an occasion when your son caused trouble and obliged you to beat him?’

Mr Macrae did not reply.

‘We have heard testimony about an incident in which your son killed a sheep belonging to Mr Mackenzie. Did you strike your son on this occasion?’

‘I did.’

‘Can you tell the court why you did so?’

‘He had caused trouble.’

‘I see. And did you strike him once or repeatedly?’

‘Repeatedly.’

‘And with what did you strike him?’

‘With my stick,’ which he helpfully held up.

‘And on which part or parts of his body?’

‘On his back.’

‘You struck him repeatedly on his back with your stick?’

‘Yes.’

‘And was this an isolated incident?’

Mr Macrae did not appear to understand this question.

‘Were there other occasions on which you had cause to beat your son?’

‘Some.’

‘And did you always beat him with your stick?’

‘Not always.’

‘Did you strike him with your fists?’

‘Yes.’

‘And, when you struck him with your fists, where would you strike him?’

‘Around the body.’

‘On his head and face?’

‘Likely there, too.’

‘And this was a frequent occurrence?’

The Lord Justice-Clerk here asked Mr Sinclair to be more precise in his question.

‘Did you beat your son on a daily basis, on a weekly basis, or less frequently than that?’

‘On a weekly basis.’

‘And you felt it necessary to do so?’

‘The boy needed disciplining.’

‘And did this discipline improve his behaviour?’

‘It did not.’

Mr Sinclair then examined the papers in front of him and, after some consultation with his assistant, declined to ask any further questions.

At this point, Mr Gifford requested that an alteration to the scheduled order of witnesses be made. The Lord Justice-Clerk made no objection and Allan Cruikshank was called.

Mr Gifford commenced his examination of the witness. ‘Please state your occupation, Mr Cruikshank.’

‘I am factor to Lord Middleton of Applecross.’

‘And the village of Culduie constitutes part of Lord Middleton’s estate?’

‘It does.’

‘And, as such, you are responsible for the management of that village?’

‘I am responsible for the management of the estate. I am not concerned with the day-to-day matters in the villages.’

‘These would be matters for the village constable, would they?’

‘Indeed.’

‘And in the case of Culduie, this was Mr Lachlan Mackenzie?’

‘That is correct. He acted as constable for Culduie, Camusterrach and Aird-Dubh.’

‘These being the neighbouring villages?’

‘Yes.’

‘So in his capacity as constable to these communities you would have cause to meet with Mr Mackenzie and discuss their administration?’

‘We did meet, but not frequently.’

‘Did you direct him on the details of how the villages should be managed?’

‘We discussed the running of the villages in general terms, but I did not concern myself with the minutiae.’

‘“General terms” being what?’

‘The general upkeep of the road and by-ways, ensuring that tenants did not fall into arrears in their rent, that sort of thing.’

‘And did you find Mr Mackenzie to be competent?’

‘Mr Mackenzie was unquestionably the best constable that has served the estate under my tenure.’

‘You had confidence in his abilities?’

‘Great confidence, yes.’

‘Now, do you recall an occasion towards the end of July this year when Mr John Macrae and his son – the prisoner here – visited you?’

‘I do.’

‘Before this meeting, did you know Mr Macrae?’

‘No.’

‘Are you often visited by tenants from the estate?’

‘I am not. It was most irregular.’

‘Why is that?’

‘If a tenant wishes to discuss some matter related to the management of their village they should do so with their constable.’

‘In this case, Mr Mackenzie?’

‘Correct.’

‘Did you express this view to Mr Macrae?’

‘I did.’

‘And how did he respond?’

‘He told me that Mr Mackenzie was the subject of his visit.’

‘Could you elaborate?’

‘It appeared there existed some ill feeling between the two men, or at least that Mr Macrae felt he had been ill-used by Mr Mackenzie.’

‘Did you ask Mr Macrae why he felt this way?’

‘I did. He related some trifling incidents, but I am afraid I cannot recall the details.’

‘Nevertheless, it appeared to you that, rightly or wrongly, Mr Macrae harboured some grievance towards Mr Mackenzie?’

‘It appeared so.’

‘And what action did you take?’

‘I did not take any action. It was a matter of no concern to me.’

‘Did you inform Mr Mackenzie of what had occurred?’

‘I cannot recall.’

‘Did you see Mr Mackenzie between this meeting and the time of his death?’

‘I did.’

‘When did you see him?’

‘I saw him on the day of the summer Gathering.’

‘This was when?’

‘I believe it was the 31st of July.’

‘You spoke to him that day?’

‘Yes. We drank an ale at the inn in Applecross.’

‘I see. And can you recall if you mentioned this incident – the meeting with Mr Macrae and his son – to him?’

‘I believe I did.’

‘In what terms did you mention it?’

‘It was an amusing incident.’

‘Mr Mackenzie found it amusing?’

‘He appeared to.’

Mr Gifford then concluded his questioning. The defence had no questions for this witness.

Mr Macrae was then recalled and the evidence of the factor was put to him.

‘If, as you have testified, you felt no grievance towards the deceased,’ Mr Gifford enquired, ‘why did you feel the need to pay this visit to the factor and make these plaints against him?’

At this point, the occupants of the public gallery, some of whom, wrote Mr Murdoch, ‘must have keenly felt the humiliation which was to be heaped on the crofter’, were quite hushed. Mr Macrae’s eyes darted about the court-room as though seeking some assistance. The Lord Justice-Clerk found it necessary to prompt him to answer.

‘I wished only to know better the regulations under which we lived.’

‘And you did not feel that this was a question you could direct to the deceased?’

‘No.’

‘Why was that?’

After some moments of silence, he replied, ‘I was not on good terms with Mr Mackenzie.’

‘And you felt that he had acted in a vindictive manner towards you?’

Mr Macrae made no response.

Mr Gifford presumably feeling that he had made his point, moved on. ‘On Monday the 9th of August, the day before the murders took place, did you receive a letter?’

‘I did.’

‘Who was the letter from?’

‘From the factor.’

‘And what were the contents of the letter?’

‘It was a notice of eviction.’

‘You were to be put out of your house?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did you react to this letter?’

Mr Macrae made a vague gesture with the hand which was not gripping his stick.

Mr Gifford rephrased his question. ‘What did you propose to do about this notice?’

‘I did not propose to do anything.’

‘Did you intend to comply with the notice?’

Mr Macrae looked at the advocate for some moments.

‘It was not up to me whether I complied with the notice,’ he said.

‘Who was it up to?’

‘The powers-that-be.’

‘Did you discuss this state of affairs with your son?’

‘I did not.’

‘Did you ever express the view that you would be better off if Mr Mackenzie was dead?’

‘No.’

‘Did your son ever express the view that you would be better off if Mr Mackenzie was dead?’

‘No.’

‘Did you put it to your son that he should kill Mr Mackenzie?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sorry that Mr Mackenzie is dead?’

‘It is no concern of mine.’

At the end of this exchange, there was a collective exhalation of breath in the court-room. Mr Macrae was released from the witness box for a second time and, it was reported, refused the room at an inn which was offered to him, preferring to spend the night at the railway station, waiting for the train by which he would begin his journey home.

Allan Cruikshank was then recalled. Mr Gifford asked him to remind the jury of his employment, before resuming his examination of the witness.

‘We have heard,’ he began, ‘that you met the deceased, Lachlan Mackenzie, at the Applecross inn on the 31st of July and that in the course of your conversation you mentioned the visit paid to you by John Macrae and his son, the prisoner here.’

‘That is correct.’

‘Did you see the deceased on any other occasion after this time?’

‘I did.’

‘What were the circumstances?’

‘Mr Mackenzie visited me at my home on the evening of the 7th of August.’

‘Three days before his death?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what was the reason for his visit?’

‘He petitioned me to order the eviction of John Macrae from his croft.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘There were a number of issues.’

‘These being?’

‘The Macrae family were greatly in arrears with their rent. They were further indebted to the estate on account of a number of fines raised against them –’

‘These fines having been raised by Mr Mackenzie?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you recall the reason for raising these fines?’

‘I cannot. I believe they were large in number.’

‘Were there other factors?’

‘Mr Macrae had been negligent in his duty to properly maintain his dwelling and land. It was further felt that the Macraes’ continued presence was not conducive to the happy management of the village.’

‘In what way?’

Mr Cruikshank was unable to answer this question. After some moments he mumbled, ‘They were felt to be a bad influence.’

‘Did you take any steps to verify this?’

‘I did not.’

‘Why not?’

‘I had every confidence in Mr Mackenzie’s judgement.’

‘Is it not the case that a large number of tenants on the estate are in arrears in their rents?’

‘Regrettably, yes.’

‘So why was Mr Macrae singled out in this way?’

‘His debts were of such an amount that they had become unmanageable. There was no prospect of him meeting them.’

‘The court has heard that in the previous year the extent of Mr Macrae’s croft had been reduced. Might it have been the case that had he had more land, he might have been able to sell any excess crops in order to meet his debts?’

Mr Cruikshank replied, ‘I was not aware of any such reduction, but,’ he added, ‘you would have to sell a great deal of potatoes, or whatever these people grow, to tackle such arrears.’

‘You were not aware of the reduction in the size of Mr Macrae’s croft?’

‘No, sir.’

‘So it was carried out without your consent?’

‘Well, without my knowledge. I have no doubt Mr Mackenzie acted with the best motives.’

‘Would you have expected to be consulted on such a matter?’

‘As I say, I’m sure Mr Mackenzie acted out of the best motives.’

‘That is not what I asked. I asked if you would expect to be consulted on such a matter.’

‘I would expect to be consulted if it was to be a matter of a general re-allocation of land in the villages, but if this was a case of a small portion of a single croft, I’m sure it could be agreed between the villagers themselves. They are not children.’

‘Did Mr Mackenzie report an incident to you in which Mr Macrae had taken sea-ware from the shore without the proper authorisation?’

Mr Cruikshank laughed at the suggestion and replied that he had not.

‘Were you aware that Mr Macrae was also indebted personally to Mr Mackenzie on account of compensation for the sheep killed by the prisoner?’

‘I was not.’

‘Had you been aware of these things,’ suggested Mr Gifford, ‘might you have suspected that there was an element of malice in Mr Mackenzie’s proposal to have Mr Macrae evicted?’

Mr Cruikshank weighed his answer for some moments before replying, ‘I can only say that to my knowledge Mr Mackenzie carried out his duties as constable admirably. I had no reason to question his motives, and the evidence he presented supported his proposal.’

‘So you agreed with Mr Mackenzie’s assessment that he should be evicted?’

‘I could not see any other course of action.’

‘And you drew up the necessary papers?’

‘Yes.’

‘Immediately?’

‘Out of respect to the Sabbath the letter was drawn up and delivered on the following Monday.’

‘This being Monday the 9th of August, the day before Mr Mackenzie’s death?’

‘That is correct.’

Mr Gifford thanked the factor for his evidence and, as Mr Sinclair had no questions, he was excused.

The Reverend James Galbraith was then called. He was, Mr Murdoch reported, ‘every inch the staunch man of God that inhabits the remoter parts of our country and presides over his flock with unbending will. He was attired in the plain garb of his ilk, and it was manifest from his dour visage that he was untroubled by worldly pleasure. He looked upon Mr Gifford with the disdain he might reserve for a metropolitan dandy, and even the renowned advocate appeared to tremble a little beneath his gaze.’

Mr Gifford: ‘You are minister to the parish of Applecross?’

Mr Galbraith, with the ‘air of a teacher correcting a backward pupil’, replied, ‘My parish encompasses the villages of Camusterrach, Culduie and Aird-Dubh.’

‘And, as such, John Macrae and his family were among your parishioners?’

‘Yes.’

‘Indeed, John Macrae was an elder in your church?’

‘He was.’

‘Now, is it correct that Mr Macrae sent for you on the evening of the 9th of August?’

‘He did. He sent his daughter to ask if I would call on him that evening.’

‘And you did so?’

‘I did.’

‘And what was the reason for his request?’

‘He had received a notice of eviction from the factor.’

‘And how did you find Mr Macrae that evening?’

‘He was distressed.’

‘Did he ask for your help?’

‘He asked if I would intervene on his behalf.’

‘And did you agree to do so?’

‘I did not.’

Mr Gifford affected an expression of surprise at this response. ‘Could you tell the court why you did not do so?’

Mr Galbraith fixed the advocate with a withering stare. ‘It was not a matter with which I could involve myself.’

‘Surely the wellbeing of your parishioners is your concern?’

‘My concern is with my parishioners’ spiritual wellbeing. It is not for me to meddle in the management of the estate.’

‘I see. Did you offer any guidance at all to Mr Macrae?’

‘I reminded him that the tribulations of this life come to us in just payment for our sins and that he must accept them as such.’

‘But you offered him no practical advice as to how to deal with the situation in which he found himself?’

‘I led him in prayer.’ This brought a ripple of laughter from the gallery, which was rapidly quelled by a stern look from the preacher.

Mr Gifford thanked the witness and resumed his seat.

Mr Sinclair then rose for the defence.

‘Was the prisoner, Roderick Macrae, present during your visit?’

‘He arrived home as I was leaving.’

‘Did you converse with him?’

‘In the briefest terms.’

‘Did the prisoner attend your church?’

‘He did not.’

‘Had he ever attended your church?’

‘When he was a child.’

‘And he ceased attending when?’

‘I could not say with any certainty.’

‘One year ago or five years ago?’

‘Closer to one or two years ago.’

‘Would that be around the time of the death of his mother?’

‘Around that time.’

‘As you have stated that you are concerned with the spiritual wellbeing of your parishioners, can you tell the court what steps you took to persuade the prisoner to resume his attendance?’

‘It is not my role to compel parishioners to attend. I am not a whipper-in.’***

‘So you were not worried about his non-observance?’

‘A shepherd must concern himself with the wellbeing of his flock as a whole. If the flock contains black sheep, they must be cast out.’

‘And Roderick Macrae is a black sheep?’

‘We would hardly be gathered in this court-room if that were not the case.’

The remark was, observed the wry Mr Philby, ‘likely the closest the stern Presbyterian had ever come to making a joke’.

‘Quite so,’ replied Mr Sinclair. ‘But if I may press you a little, what was it that so marked out Roderick Macrae?’

‘The boy is a malevolent individual.’

‘“Malevolent” is a strong word, Mr Galbraith.’

The minister made no reply to this observation. Mr Sinclair tried again: ‘How did this malevolence manifest itself?’

‘Even as a child, the boy had no respect for the Lord’s House. He was shifty and inattentive to prayer. I once caught him relieving himself within the grounds of the church.’

The Lord Justice-Clerk here struck his gavel to subdue the laughter that emanated from the gallery.

‘I see,’ said Mr Sinclair. ‘Would you say that you saw signs of madness in the prisoner?’

‘I would say that I saw signs of wickedness in him.’

‘What signs were these?’

Mr Galbraith apparently did not think this question worthy of response. The judge instructed him to answer.

‘One need only to observe him. If it is not apparent to you, I would suggest that you are as Godless as he is, sir,’ he replied witheringly.

Mr Sinclair smiled thinly at the witness. ‘I am only seeking your comments as an educated man about the temperament of the prisoner,’ he said.

‘My observation is that the boy is enslaved to the Devil, and if proof is required we need only look to the deeds he has committed.’

Mr Sinclair nodded wearily and the witness was excused.

The next witness could hardly have struck a greater contrast to the clergyman. Archibald Ross’s appearance in the court-room caused a great deal of mirth in the gallery. He was dressed in the style of a country gentleman, in ‘a suit of yellow tweeds, quite obviously procured for the occasion’. He wore highly polished shoes with large square buckles and, round his neck, a green silk cravat. He was, wrote Mr Philby, ‘every inch the dandy, and his appearance might lead an observer to conclude that the far-flung village of Applecross, where he resides, must indeed be quite à la mode’.

After some preliminaries regarding Ross’s place of birth and occupation, Mr Gifford asked how he had made the acquaintance of the prisoner. Ross then described how he had met Roddy in the courtyard outside the stables of Lord Middleton’s house.

‘And what was the prisoner’s role that day?’

‘To carry a coffer up the mountain.’

‘And what did that coffer contain?’

‘Refreshments for the shooting party.’

‘And did the prisoner carry out this duty competently?’

‘That part of his duty, yes.’

‘After this day did you ever meet the prisoner again?’

‘I did.’

‘When did this meeting occur?’

‘Some weeks ago on the day of the Gathering.’

‘This was the 31st of July?’

‘If you say so,’ replied Ross with a grin.

‘Please tell us what occurred.’

Ross described how he had met the prisoner outside the inn at Applecross and how they had gone inside and drunk a quantity of ale. They had then walked to the Big House to watch the shinty match between the villages.

‘Were you inebriated?’

‘Perhaps to a small degree.’

‘Was the prisoner inebriated?’

‘I would say so.’

‘Did the prisoner divulge any intimacies to you?’

‘He told me that he wanted to go to Glasgow to make his fortune, but that he was reluctant to do so as he had become attached to a local girl.’

‘And who was this local girl?’

‘Flora Mackenzie.’

‘And this Flora Mackenzie was the daughter of the deceased Lachlan Mackenzie?’

‘Yes.’

This revelation caused an uproar in the gallery, which it took repeated threats from the bench to subdue.

‘And who is herself one of the victims of the crimes here charged?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did the prisoner tell you anything further concerning his relationship to the deceased Miss Mackenzie?’

‘He told me that she had rejected him and that, in any case, there existed some bad blood between their two families and their parents would never consent to them being wed.’

This brought further exclamations from the gallery.

‘You then watched the shinty match?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then what?’

‘We drank some whisky and then Roddy spotted this girl –’

‘Flora Mackenzie?’

‘Yes. He spotted her walking in the grounds of the Big House with a friend.’

‘And what did you do?’

‘I expressed the view that he should openly convey his feelings to the girl so that he might properly know where he stood with her.’

‘And did he agree?’

‘Not exactly, but I insisted and we caught up with the girls and introduced ourselves.’

At this point, Mr Philby reported, the ‘generally disinterested prisoner displayed some signs of agitation, hunching low over his knees, as if hoping that he might find a farthing on the floor of the dock’.

‘Then what happened?’

‘We walked a little way together.’

‘Where did you walk?’

‘To a small bridge among some trees.’

‘A secluded spot?’

At this point Archibald Ross made a ‘lewd wink’ to counsel and replied, to much laughter, ‘I construe that you are no stranger to such adventures.’

Mr Gifford ignored his remark.

‘And what happened there?’

‘In order that Roddy might be alone with the object of his affectations [sic], I led Flora’s companion onto the bridge and indicated to him that he should continue along the path.’

‘Then what?’

‘I made some conversation with the girl and then some time later, Flora Mackenzie came back along the path.’

‘Was she walking or running?’

‘She was running.’

‘And she was alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘How much time had elapsed?’

‘A matter of minutes.’

‘And what did she do?’

‘She took her friend by the arm and led her away.’

‘In which direction?’

‘Towards the Big House.’

‘And did she appear distressed?’

‘Perhaps. I could not say with any certainty.’

‘Was she weeping?’

‘I could not say.’

‘Were her cheeks flushed?’

‘Yes, but in my experience there are a good many reasons for a girl’s cheeks to be flushed,’ said Ross with a smirk.

The Lord Justice-Clerk at this point reminded the witness of the gravity of the proceedings and threatened to have him taken down if he made any more remarks of that nature. Ross made a low bow to the judge and offered an obsequious apology.

Mr Gifford continued his examination of the witness: ‘So, Miss Mackenzie went into the woods with the prisoner and returned – running – some minutes later, and took her friend with her back towards the Big House?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And where was the prisoner at this time?’

‘He was in the woods.’

‘And did he reappear?’

‘Yes.’

‘How many minutes later?’

‘Not many, one or two.’

‘And what was his demeanour?’

‘He seemed somewhat distressed.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘He was weeping.’

‘Did he tell you what had occurred?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Would you be so kind as to share what he told you with the court?’

‘He said only that his advances had been rejected and he was quite broken-hearted.’

‘“His advances” – were those the words he used?’

‘I cannot recall.’

‘But you understood that he had made some “advances”?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did the prisoner display any other sign of distress?’

‘His face was red on one side.’

‘And what was the cause of this?’

‘The girl had struck him.’

‘Did you see the girl strike him?’

‘No.’

‘So how do you know she struck him?’

‘Roddy told me.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘I tried to make light of what had occurred, but seeing that my friend was genuinely aggrieved, I proposed a glass of ale to cheer him up.’

‘And did he agree?’

‘He did.’

‘And you returned to the inn?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you there took some more ale?’

‘We did.’

‘And how was your friend – the prisoner – at this time?’

‘He was greatly revived in spirits.’

‘Did anything else of note occur that day?’

‘As we were enjoying a glass of ale, a great brute of a man set upon Roddy and gave him a fearful beating.’

‘Why did this man set upon your friend?’

‘For no reason that I could see.’

‘Did you hear any words spoken between them?’

‘No, sir.’

‘And who was this “great brute of a man”?’

‘I learned later that he was Lachlan Mackenzie.’

‘The deceased Mr Lachlan Mackenzie?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what happened next?’

‘I took Roddy outside and set him on the road back to his village.’

The Solicitor-General then concluded his questioning and Mr Sinclair rose for the defence. He explained that he wished the witness to cast his mind back to the day of the deer-stalking party.

‘Was the hunt that day successful?’

‘It certainly was not,’ Ross replied with a laugh.

‘Why was that?’

Archibald Ross then described how Roddy had ‘swooped down upon the deer, waving his arms like a great bird and squawking like a banshee’.

‘This in order to startle the deer?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you make of this behaviour?’

To loud laughter from the gallery, Archibald Ross pulled a comic face and tapped the side of his forehead with his finger. He was sternly reprimanded by the Lord Justice-Clerk and instructed to confine himself to verbal replies.

Ross then said, ‘I thought it was the most foolish thing I had ever seen.’

Mr Sinclair: ‘And had the prisoner given any indication prior to this act of what he intended to do?’

‘Not at all.’

‘It was quite sudden?’

‘Out of the blue.’

‘And prior to this act, what had been your impression of the prisoner?’

‘I had not formed any particular impression.’

‘There was nothing strange in his behaviour?’

‘No.’

‘Or in his speech?’

‘No.’

‘He was quite rational?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right up until the moment he scared off the deer?’

‘Yes.’

‘Now, you have testified to Mr Gifford that after the incident in the woods with Flora Mackenzie the prisoner was quite distressed?’

‘Yes.’

‘He was or had been weeping?’

‘Yes.’

‘And yet only a short while later, you testified that ...’ – he here consulted some written notes before him – ‘... he was “greatly revived in spirits”?’

‘Yes.’

‘What was the witness doing immediately before he was set upon by Mr Mackenzie?’

‘He was dancing a jig to a fiddle.’

‘Dancing a jig?’

‘Yes.’

‘And how much time had elapsed between the incident in the woods, which had apparently distressed the prisoner so much, and dancing this jig?’

Here Ross hesitated for some moments. ‘Perhaps an hour.’

‘More than an hour or less than hour?’

‘Less than an hour.’

‘And did it strike you as in any way strange that the prisoner might one minute be weeping and the next minute dancing a jig?’

‘I merely thought that his spirits had been enlivened by a glass of ale.’

‘You did not think that just as on the mountain when the prisoner was one moment entirely rational and the next doing the most foolish thing you had ever seen, that he was subject to quite extreme swings of behaviour?’

‘I did not think about it,’ said Ross. And with that Mr Sinclair concluded his questioning and Mr Ross was released from the witness box, not before, wrote Mr Philby, ‘waving flamboyantly to the gallery, quite as if he was an actor concluding a theatrical performance, which in a sense he was’.

The Crown then called Ishbel Farquhar, a girl, described in The Scotsman as ‘representing the best virtues of Highland womanhood, being of modest appearance and with a rosy hue to her cheeks’. She was dressed in a dark pinafore and had her hair neatly arranged in plaits. Her appearance seemed to cause Roddy some anguish. His eyes began to dart around the court-room, ‘alighting on everything besides the girl who then occupied the witness box’.

After some preliminaries, Mr Gifford asked, ‘Can you tell the court how you came to make the acquaintance of Flora Mackenzie?’

‘She came to work in the kitchens of the Big House.’

‘Where you were also employed?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you became friends?’

‘Yes.’

Miss Farquhar answered in such a low voice that she was asked by the Lord Justice-Clerk to speak up so that the jurymen might hear her replies.

‘And you were with Flora Mackenzie on the afternoon of the Gathering in Applecross on the 31st of July?’

‘Yes, sir, I was.’

At the mention of her friend’s name, Miss Farquhar began to weep and Mr Gifford gallantly produced a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to her. When she had composed herself, the Solicitor-General apologised for distressing her.

‘We are here, however, on the gravest business,’ he continued, ‘and it is necessary that you testify to those parts of the narrative which have a bearing on this case.’

‘I’ll do my best, sir,’ replied Miss Farquhar.

‘Did Flora ever speak to you about the prisoner?’

‘Yes, sir, she did.’

‘And what did she say?’

‘She had once or twice walked out with him and that she liked him well enough, but that he had some queer ideas and sometimes said strange things.’

‘What sort of queer ideas?’

‘I do not know.’

‘She did not tell you?’

‘No.’

‘Can you tell us what you were doing immediately before you met the prisoner and his friend, Archibald Ross, on the afternoon in question?’

‘We were taking a turn around the grounds of the Big House.’

‘And you were approached by Archibald Ross and the prisoner?’

‘Yes.’

‘And in what condition were they?’

‘They were drunk.’

‘Both of them?’

‘Roddy more so.’

‘How inebriated was he?’

‘He had difficulty speaking and he walked unsteadily.’

‘Nevertheless, you allowed them to accompany you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you went with them into the woods near the burn?’

‘Yes. There did not seem any harm in it.’ The witness again began to weep.

‘So you did not think of the prisoner as a dangerous character; as someone who might do harm to you or to Flora?’

‘I did not know him.’

‘Please tell the court what occurred in the woods.’

‘When we reached the burn, Mr Ross took my arm and told me that he wanted to show me something and led me onto the bridge.’

‘And did the prisoner and Flora Mackenzie accompany you onto the bridge?’

‘They continued along the path by the burn.’

‘What happened then?’

‘Mr Ross leaned over the bridge and started talking about the trout and salmon in the river and pointed to the water, but I could not see any fish.’

‘Yes?’

‘Then he tried to kiss me.’

‘Where did he try to kiss you?’

Miss Farquhar did not answer, but touched her neck with her hand.

‘And did you let Mr Ross kiss you?’

‘I did not.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I drew away from him, but he held my arm and would not release me and then he made …’

‘Please continue, Miss Farquhar.’

‘He made an improper suggestion.’

‘A suggestion of a sexual nature?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I see. And then?’

‘I was frightened because he was gripping my arm. Then Flora came back along the path and he released me and we went away together.’

‘Was she running or walking?’

‘She was running.’

‘And did Flora Mackenzie tell you what had occurred when she had been alone with the prisoner?’

‘She told me that Roddy had said some coarse things to her and that he had put her hands upon her and that she had slapped him.’

Mr Gifford apologised for pressing her and then asked, ‘Did she indicate where the prisoner had put his hands?’

At this point, reported Mr Philby, the prisoner ‘became more agitated than at any previous point in the trial. His cheeks became quite crimson and he twisted his hands in his lap and seemed to shrink inside his own skin. If he admitted to no remorse for the murder of three people, he certainly appeared to feel some for the advances he had made towards the unfortunate Miss Mackenzie.’

The witness kept her eyes cast down and refused for some moments to answer.

‘Did Flora say, Miss Farquhar, that he had put her hands on the intimate parts of her body?’

She nodded and the Lord Justice-Clerk ordered that the record show that the witness had answered in the affirmative.

‘Anything else?’

‘No, sir.’

Mr Gifford then thanked her and concluded his questioning. Mr Sinclair declined to cross-examine the witness and she was excused.

The final witness called by the Crown was Hector Munro, MD, ‘a small plump man with mutton chop whiskers and a ruddy complexion’. He gave every appearance, wrote the sly Mr Philby, of ‘being a close acquaintance of a certain Mr J. Walker, esq.’.

Dr Munro gave his profession as general practitioner and stated that he was employed on a regular basis as medical officer to Inverness gaol.

Mr Gifford: ‘And what are your duties in this employ?’

Dr Munro: ‘To attend to the general health of the prisoners.’

‘And in this capacity were you required to examine the current prisoner, Roderick Macrae?’

‘I was.’

‘And did you do so?’

‘I did.’

‘And did you examine the prisoner with a view only to assessing his physical condition?’

‘No. I was requested by the Fiscal to assess the mental state of the prisoner.’

‘In order to ascertain whether the prisoner was of a sound state of mind?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you tell the court something about the physical condition of the prisoner?’

‘I found him to be in generally good health, although suffering somewhat from scurvy, no doubt precipitated by poor diet.’

‘But he was otherwise in sound health?’

‘Yes. He was quite vigorous.’

‘Now, as to his mental condition, can you tell us by what means you sought to assess this?’

‘I conversed with the prisoner at some length.’

‘About the crimes for which he is here indicted?’

‘About these crimes, yes, and about his circumstances in general.’

‘And did the prisoner converse with you in a civilised manner?’

‘A most civilised manner, yes.’

‘And what was your assessment of the mental condition of the prisoner?’

‘I found him to be fully in possession of his reason.’

‘“Fully in possession of reason”,’ Mr Gifford repeated, placing great emphasis on these words. ‘And on what basis did you reach this conclusion?’

‘The prisoner was aware of his surroundings and why he was there. He answered my questions in a clear and deliberate manner and exhibited no signs of delusion or disorder in his reasoning. I would go as far as saying that he is among the most articulate and intelligent prisoners I have encountered.’

‘“Among the most articulate and intelligent prisoners you have encountered” – that is quite a statement, Dr Munro.’

‘It is my truthful opinion.’

‘And did you ask the prisoner specifically about the crimes with which he is charged?’

‘I did.’

‘And what was his response?’

‘He freely admitted responsibility for them.’

‘Might he have done this out of some desire to please you – because he might have believed that this was what you wanted to hear?’

‘I cannot speak to the prisoner’s motives, but, if I recall, I put the question to him in a quite neutral manner.’

‘In what manner?’

‘I told him that I heard about some crimes which had occurred in his village and asked him if he knew anything about them.’

‘And what was his response?’

‘He replied without hesitation that he was responsible.’

‘And did you ask him why he had committed these crimes?’

‘I did. He replied that he had committed these crimes in order to deliver his father from the tribulations which had been caused to him by the victim.’

‘The victim, Lachlan Mackenzie?’

‘Yes.’

‘And those were his words: “to deliver his father from the tribulations which had been caused to him”?’

‘I believe so, more or less.’

‘And did you ask him about the other victims?’

‘Not specifically.’

‘And did you think him truthful in his responses?’

‘I saw no reason to disbelieve him.’

‘Did you ask the prisoner any further questions relating to these crimes?’

‘I asked if he felt any remorse for what he had done.’

‘And how did he reply?’

‘He replied that he did not.’

‘He felt no remorse for the murder of three people?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Did this not strike you as unusual? Perhaps even as a sign that he was not fully in possession of his reason.’

‘In my experience, prisoners rarely express remorse for what they have done. Any feelings of regret they might feel are generally limited to the fact of their being apprehended.’

This last remark lightened the atmosphere in the court for a moment and the Lord Justice-Clerk allowed the ripple of laughter to subside of its own accord.

‘This lack of remorse, then, is not, in your opinion as a medical man, a symptom of loss of reason?’

‘Not in the least, sir.’

‘You are aware that the prisoner has lodged a Special Defence of Insanity – that he was, at the time of committing these acts, alienated from his reason?’

‘I am.’

‘Did you find the prisoner to be labouring under a state of insanity?’

‘I did not.’

‘Is it possible that when he committed these acts, he was labouring under a state of insanity?’

‘Given the account of his crimes he provided to me and the rational manner in which he spoke, I do not believe that he was insane at the time of these acts.’

Mr Gifford then thanked the witness and concluded his questioning. Mr Sinclair rose for the defence.

‘How long,’ he asked, ‘have you been employed in the capacity of medical officer to Inverness gaol?’

‘Some eight years.’

‘You must have examined a great many prisoners in that time.’

‘Indeed I have.’

‘And what proportion of the prisoners you have examined would you consider to be insane?’

‘I am not sure I could say with any certainty.’

‘Half? More than half? Less than half?’

‘A great deal less than half.’

‘Could you be more specific?’

‘A very small proportion.’

‘Ten out of a hundred? Five out of hundred?’

‘Perhaps one out of a hundred.’

‘One out of a hundred! That is indeed a small proportion,’ Mr Sinclair exclaimed. ‘And the other ninety-nine men – what has brought them to your gaol?’

‘They have committed some crime or other, or have been accused of doing so.’

‘And why do these men – this ninety-nine per cent of men – commit their crimes?’

Dr Munro appeared somewhat bemused at this line of questioning. He looked towards the Lord Justice-Clerk, who merely indicated that he should answer the questions put to him.

‘If I was pressed to venture an opinion, I would say that they are there because they are unable to control their baser instincts.’

‘Their instincts to steal from or strike out at their fellows?’

‘For example, yes.’

‘But this inability to control their instincts is not, in your opinion, indicative of a loss of reason?’

‘No, sir.’

‘They are merely bad men.’

‘If you wish to express it thus.’

‘How would you express it?’

‘I would say that they are criminals, sir.’

Mr Sinclair paused rather theatrically and, while facing the gentlemen of the jury, asked, ‘So in ninety-nine per cent of the men you examine in your capacity as medical officer to the prison in this town, you find no signs of insanity.’

‘That is correct.’

‘Would it be correct to say, that in general, when you inspect the prisoners at the gaol, you are not looking for signs of insanity?’

‘My examinations are generally limited to a physical examination of the prisoners, yes.’

‘Do you consider yourself expert in the field of Criminal Anthropology?’

‘To the extent that I have been examining prisoners for eight years, I would consider myself to have some expertise.’

‘Would you consider yourself expert in the field of Criminal Psychology?’

‘I would.’

‘Could you explain to the court the meaning of the term “moral insanity”?’

‘I am not familiar with that term.’

‘Could you explain to the court the meaning of the term “mania without delirium”?’

Dr Munro shook his head.

‘You are not familiar with that term either. Are you familiar with the works of Monsieur Philippe Pinel?’†††

‘I am not.’

‘Are you familiar with the work of Dr James Cowles Prichard?’

‘I have heard of him.’

‘Then you will have read his volume, A Treatise on Insanity and Other Disorders Affecting the Mind?’

‘I cannot recall.’

‘It is your testimony that you cannot recall whether you have read a work of the greatest significance in current thinking about the psychology of criminals; a field in which you profess expertise?’

‘My expertise is based on my experience examining members of the criminal population.’

‘A population which, by your own estimate, embraces only the minutest proportion of men labouring under mental disorders.’

‘Yes.’

‘Given that you have been called here today to provide testimony in the most solemn of proceedings, do you not think that as a professed expert it is your responsibility to acquaint yourself with the current thinking in that field?’

‘I do not believe that any medical man, if called upon to examine the prisoner, would reach a different conclusion to the one I reached.’

‘If you will forgive me, Dr Munro, that is not the question I put to you. The question I put to you is this: is it not your responsibility as a so-called professed expert in Criminal Psychology – the application of which is of crucial importance to this case – to fully apprise yourself of the thinking in this field?’

The good doctor was by this time, wrote Mr Philby, ‘becoming rather flustered and glanced about as if hoping to find a whisky bottle secreted in the witness box’.

Mr Sinclair did not press him for an answer, no doubt calculating that his silence was more damning than anything he might actually say. Instead he took a more conciliatory tone: ‘Perhaps I am being unreasonable,’ he began. ‘It might be more helpful if you could tell the jury what training or education you have received in the field of Criminal Psychology.’

Dr Munro looked beseechingly to the judge, who instructed him to answer with a gesture of his hand.

‘I have received no such training.’

Mr Sinclair, who was clearly relishing this revival in the fortunes of his case, directed an expression of great astonishment towards the jurymen.

‘Would it thus be more accurate to describe you as self-educated in this field?’

‘That would be more accurate, yes,’ replied the doctor.

‘In that case, perhaps, since you have read neither the works of Dr Prichard nor of Monsieur Pinel, you could tell the jury some of the volumes with which you have educated yourself.’

Dr Munro appeared to give this question some thought, before replying that he could not, at that moment, recall any specific titles.

‘You cannot recall a single volume which you have read on the subject in which, when asked earlier, you professed expertise?’

‘No.’

‘Are we then to understand, Dr Munro’ – he here made a sweeping gesture towards the jury – ‘that you are entirely unqualified to make any pronouncement on the state of mind of the prisoner?’

‘I believe I am qualified.’

‘But you have no qualifications!’

The witness did not appear to have the will to defend himself against the advocate’s onslaught, and with a meaningful shake of his head, Mr Sinclair concluded his examination.

Dr Munro, clearly relieved that his ordeal was over, made to exit the witness box, but was reprimanded by the Lord Justice-Clerk, as he had not yet been excused. Mr Gifford then rose to re-examine the witness. He apologised for detaining the doctor further, before asking him to remind the court how long he had been engaged in practice at Inverness gaol. He then asked the doctor how many prisoners he had examined in the course of his employment.

Dr Munro, clearly appreciating that he was being given an opportunity to redeem himself, replied that while it was impossible to put an exact figure on it, it must run to ‘many hundreds’.

‘And in your long experience only a very small proportion of those who pass through your care might be termed insane?’

‘That is my opinion, yes.’

‘Your medical opinion?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you recognise the signs, or symptoms, of insanity, Dr Munro?’

‘I do.’

‘Could you please enumerate those signs for us?’

‘Firstly, a prisoner might be labouring under some delusion –’

Mr Gifford here apologised for interrupting the witness. ‘Could you please explain what you mean by the term “delusion”?’

‘I mean simply that the prisoner is suffering from some erroneous belief. Perhaps, he hears voices in his head, sees visions, or believes himself to be someone that he is not.’

‘Thank you. Please continue.’

‘A prisoner might be disordered in his thinking; that is, he speaks in an ostensibly reasonable manner, but one thought does not follow from another in the normal way. Likewise, his statements might simply bear no relation to reality.’

‘Anything more?’

‘I have encountered prisoners who spout incomprehensible gibberish; whose speech is nothing more than a stream of unintelligible, unconnected words, or is not even recognisable as language.‡‡‡ There are also prisoners who are unable to comprehend the simplest of statements put to them, or reply in an inappropriate or irrelevant way. Then there are those who might be termed as imbeciles, who are simply, for one reason or another, defective or childlike in their development.’

Mr Gifford encouraged the doctor to continue.

‘In a small number of cases, there are those prisoners who do not respond at all to their surroundings, who sit or lie in the corner of their cell and do not react to any stimuli, often muttering to themselves or repeating the same action ad nauseam.’

‘That is a most comprehensive enumeration,’ said Mr Gifford. ‘And this knowledge of the various forms of insanity you have gleaned how?’

‘From my experience in dealing with the prisoners at Inverness gaol.’

‘But you must at some moments have encountered cases which presented you with difficulties in providing a diagnosis?’

‘I have.’

‘And what would you do in such instances?’

‘I might confer with a colleague or consult some textbook or other.’

‘I see. And would you say that this process of consultation and your long experience in dealing with criminals qualifies you to pronounce on the sanity or otherwise of any given individual?’

‘I would.’

‘Now, before you leave the witness box, I beg leave to put one further question to you. During your examination of the prisoner here, did he exhibit any of the signs of insanity or conform to any of the behaviours which you have just now described?’

‘He did not.’

‘He was not delusional?’

‘No.’

‘He was not disordered in his reasoning?’

‘No.’

‘He was cognisant of his surroundings and the circumstances which had brought him there?’

‘He was.’

‘And in your medical opinion, can he be considered to be insane or alienated from his reason?’

‘No.’

Mr Gifford at this point offered a withering look towards the defence bench, and without any further theatrics, concluded his questioning. Dr Munro was now excused and, with a look of gratitude towards the Solicitor-General, ‘scuttled away, no doubt in search of the refuge of the nearest hostelry’.

At the conclusion of the prosecution case, this being the custom under Scots Law at the time, the Prisoner’s Declaration was read by the Clerk of the Court. This was the only statement permitted to the accused:

My name is Roderick John Macrae, aged seventeen years. I am native of Culduie in Ross-shire and reside at the northernmost dwelling in that village with my father, John Macrae, a crofter. And, the charge of having caused the death of Lachlan Mackenzie, aged thirty-eight years, Flora Mackenzie, aged fifteen years, and Donald Mackenzie, aged three years, by means of blows administered with a flaughter and croman in their home on the 10th day of August in this present year having been read over, Declares – I freely admit that I am responsible for the deaths of the persons named. On the morning in question I went to the house of Lachlan Mackenzie, armed with these weapons, with the intention of killing him. I killed Lachlan Mackenzie in repayment for the suffering he had caused to my father and to my family as a whole. It was not my intention to kill Flora Mackenzie or Donald Mackenzie. Their deaths were necessitated by their presence in the house and my wish to prevent them from raising the alarm. I believe that the success of my enterprise should be attributed to Providence, and I similarly accept whatever fate Providence dictates for me. I am of sound mind and make this statement freely and under no duress. All of which I declare to be truth.

[Signed]

Roderick John Macrae

The prosecution rested. As it was by then around four o’clock, there followed a discussion at the bar about whether the proceedings should be adjourned for the day. Mr Sinclair, no doubt anxious that the jury should not spend the night with Roddy’s declaration of his own sanity ringing in their ears, argued for a continuation. Mr Gifford contended that, as there was no possibility of the trial concluding that day, they should start afresh in the morning. The exchange, at least on Mr Sinclair’s part, became quite heated, but after a brief, whispered consultation with his colleagues, the Lord Justice-Clerk declared the court adjourned. Mr Sinclair, The Scotsman reported, ‘became quite red in the face and was heard to audibly mutter about a conspiracy against his client, a statement for which he was sternly reprimanded by the judge and for which he immediately apologised’.

Regardless of Mr Sinclair’s feelings about the judge’s perfectly reasonable ruling, such a display of petulance in the presence of the jury could hardly be said to be in his client’s interests. The judge repeated the previous day’s cautions to the jurymen and the court was emptied. Those in the public gallery left in an atmosphere, ‘somewhat akin to schoolboys being discharged for summer’.

The evening editions of the newspapers carried colourful accounts of the exchanges between the advocates and Dr Munro, and the Inverness Courier reported that ‘no other topic was discussed at the inns and street corners of the town. Those who had been fortunate enough to be present at the trial held court like great sages and arguments raged long into the night about whether the unfortunate prisoner was for the gibbet.’

Among the reporters, opinion appeared to be similarly divided. The Scotsman’s account of the day’s proceedings concluded that ‘the glimmer of hope provided by his advocate’s masterful demolition of Dr Munro was immediately extinguished by the declaration, from the prisoner’s own lips, that he was indeed of sound mind. It would now require a quite astonishing reversal to convince the jury that the wretched crofter is innocent of the crimes charged.’

For John Murdoch writing in the Courier, however, the case was not so clear cut: ‘While there can be no questioning the skill with which Mr Gifford has presented the Crown’s case, the jury will have heard enough along the way about the peculiar behaviour of the accused, to sow some seeds of doubt about his soundness of mind.’

In the following morning’s edition of The Times, Mr Philby wrote:

It is a most irregular occurrence for the defence in such a case to rest on a single witness, but it must be admitted that the trial of Roderick Macrae is no ordinary event. What is at issue are not the facts of the case, but the contents of the perpetrator’s mind and, thus far, this is something few, if any, could truthfully presume to know. The prisoner has at all times conducted himself in a respectful and modest manner, such that it is quite impossible to imagine him carrying out the brutal crimes with which he is charged. Yet carry them out he did, and that one capable of such a frenzy could then sit quietly as a mouse for two days, speaks, to this observer, of a kind of lunacy not enumerated by Dr Hector Munro. A great weight thus rests on the shoulders of the eminent James Bruce Thomson, in whose hands the fate of Roderick Macrae rests.

Third day

Mr Philby was not alone in grasping the importance of Mr Thomson’s evidence. His arrival in the court-room was anticipated with more excitement than any point since the first appearance of the prisoner himself. Mr Thomson, dressed in a tight-fitting black suit with the chain of a gold fob watch traversing his midriff, took his place in the witness box with an air of great solemnity. According to The Times’ man, he ‘cast a haughty gaze over the public gallery and then fixed, in turn, the judges, the Crown and defence with a no less arrogant air. The renowned alienist made it quite clear that he thought himself the principal player of this particular piece of theatre.’

The Lord Justice-Clerk brought the court to order and, once the formalities had been completed, Mr Sinclair commenced his examination by asking the witness to state his profession.

Mr Thomson: ‘I am Resident Surgeon to the General Prison for Scotland at Perth.’

‘And for how long have you held that position?’

‘Some fourteen years.’

‘And in that time how many prisoners have you examined?’

‘Around six thousand.’

‘And you have examined both the physical and mental condition of these prisoners?’

‘I have.’

‘And would it be correct to say that you have given particular attention to the psychological state of the prisoners under your care?’

‘It would be correct.’

‘And would you say that you have some expertise in the study of the mental condition of criminals?’

‘Modesty aside, I would say so, yes.’

‘On what basis would you claim this expertise?’

‘In addition to my experience in examining prisoners, I have made an extensive study of the literature on this subject. I have been elected as a member of the Medico-Psychological Association and been invited by this body to read a paper on the psychological effects of prison on the inmate. My article on epilepsy among prisoners has been published in the Edinburgh Monthly Journal and I will shortly publish further works on the psychological and hereditary aspects of crime in the Journal for Mental Science.’

‘That is most impressive, sir,’ said Mr Sinclair. ‘And would I also be correct in saying that those criminals found unfit to stand trial on the basis of insanity are accommodated in your institution?’

‘That is correct.’

‘So, as well your large experience with what might be termed the general prison population, you have had a good deal of contact with the criminally insane.’

‘Indeed.’

‘And would you draw any distinction between the general prison population and those deemed to be criminally insane?’

‘There is a similarity in that criminals of both creeds to a great extent are without the moral sense. However, the habitual criminal is generally disposed towards crime by heredity, and is for the most part incurable. There now exists a criminal class which dwells in the over-crowded slums of our cities. These people are born into crime, reared, nurtured and instructed in it. It might thus be argued that such criminals cannot truly be held responsible for their actions, since they are born to them and are powerless to resist the tyranny of their circumstances.’

There was, observed Mr Murdoch, ‘something of the incantatory quality of the Free Church preacher in the rhythm and intonation of the alienist’s oration’.

‘And is it possible,’ asked Mr Sinclair, ‘to identify members of this hereditary criminal class of which you speak?’

‘Most assuredly.’

‘How so?’

‘Due to the filthy conditions in which these colonies breed and their lack of regard for the rules on consanguinity, there is often found among them abnormal states, such as spinal deformities, stammering, imperfect organs of speech, club feet, cleft-palates, hare-lips, deafness, congenital blindness, epilepsy, scrofula, and so on. All this usually accompanied by weakness of mind or imbecilism. Those born in crime are as distinct from an honest working man as a black-faced sheep is from the Cheviot breed.’§§§

‘Now, is it correct that you travelled to Inverness to examine the accused in the present case?’

‘At your request, sir, I did.’

‘And did you examine the prisoner?’

‘I did.’

‘And what were the results of this examination?’

‘I found that in certain respects, he exhibited the low physical characteristics of the hereditary criminal class.’

‘In which respects?’

‘He is of less than average height; his skull is misshapen; his ears are abnormally large and pendulous. The eyes are small and close-set, and, as any observer can see, his brow is heavy and protruding. The skin is pallid and unhealthy, although this I would attribute to a deficiency of diet, rather than to any hereditary factors.’

‘And in your investigation into whether the prisoner should be regarded as a criminal through heredity, did you undertake any enquiries beyond this physical examination?’

‘I did. In your company, I travelled to the prisoner’s domicile in the village of Culduie in Ross-shire.’

‘And why did you feel it necessary to carry out this journey?’

‘As I believe I stated at the time, if one finds that one’s glass of water is foul, one must check the well.’

The Lord Justice-Clerk here intervened to request that the psychiatrist explain what he meant by this figure of speech.

‘I mean simply,’ said Mr Thomson, ‘that one cannot ascertain whether an individual’s characteristics have been passed to him by heredity merely from a physical examination. One must also check the source from which he has issued.’

Mr Sinclair: ‘And what were the findings of your visit to Culduie?’

‘The inhabitants there are generally of low physical stock, small in stature and generally unattractive in appearance, this no doubt engendered by the prevalence of inter-breeding attested to by the high incidence of certain family names in the area. The living conditions of the prisoner and his family I found quite unfit for human habitation, their hovel – I would hesitate to call it a home – lacking ventilation or sanitation and being shared with livestock. The father, with whom I conversed for some minutes, I found to be dull-witted to the point of idiocy. The prisoner’s mother died in childbirth, a likely indicator in our modern era of some congenital frailty. The prisoner’s sister had committed suicide, which is suggestive of some infirmity of mind running in this unfortunate clan. I did not have the opportunity to examine the younger siblings of the accused, those having been taken away to be cared for elsewhere. In summation, I would say without hesitation that the prisoner is derived from substandard physical stock.’

‘So you would conclude that he belongs to the hereditary criminal class which you previously described so eloquently?’

‘I am quite conscious, given the defence which you are putting forward in this case, that you wish me to answer in the affirmative. However, while the prisoner bears a certain resemblance to the urban criminal brood and this is undoubtedly due to his low breeding, I would not classify him as a member of the criminal classes; that is those classes who are born into crime and over whom crime exerts an irresistible pull.’

At this point, Mr Sinclair ‘gave every indication that the rug had been forcefully yanked from beneath his feet’. In a somewhat faltering fashion, he asked Mr Thomson to account for his conclusion.

‘It is quite straightforward, Mr Sinclair. One must look for the causes of crime not only in the hereditary material of the criminal, but also in his environment. While to educated men like ourselves, the Highland settlement might seem a squalid shanty, it is a paradise compared to the slums inhabited by the urban villain. The air is clean and free-flowing and, while the population lives in poverty, the vast majority of people labour honestly on the land or in some other low work. Petty thievery and swindling is to a great degree unknown in these parts. Thus the individual, no matter how base in their physical make-up or limited their mental capacity, is not brought up or nurtured in an atmosphere of criminality. The prisoner here may have been born into a life which would make a civilised man baulk, but he was not born into crime.’

There was a pause in proceedings while Mr Sinclair consulted with his assistant. Mr Gifford, it was reported, ‘leaned back in his seat, and, had it not been unseemly to do so, would likely have rested his feet on the table before him’. Those in the public gallery, perhaps not yet fully grasping the significance of the exchange, whispered among themselves. The Lord Justice-Clerk seemed content to allow a moment’s hiatus, before he asked Mr Sinclair if he had concluded his examination of the witness.

The advocate indicated that he had not and hastily put his next question to the witness: ‘We have heard the testimony of Dr Hector Munro, a general practitioner, who stated that the prisoner exhibits none of the normal outward markers of insanity or imbecility. Would you agree with this assessment?’

‘I would.’

‘But would you also agree that it is possible for a person who does not exhibit such signs to be regarded as insane?’

‘I would, yes.’

‘How could this be?’

‘Over these last decades our understanding of the functioning – or dysfunctioning – of the mind has been greatly augmented by the labours of my continental and English colleagues, such that there is now a general acceptance in the field of Criminal Anthropology of the condition of moral insanity, or “mania without delirium” as it is sometimes termed.’

‘Could you describe what is meant by this condition?’

‘Briefly put, it consists of a morbid perversion of the affections without any concomitant impairment of the intellectual faculties. Thus an individual might appear to be fully cognisant of reality and entirely rational in his discourse, and yet be entirely without the moral sense. This is manifested by the habitual nature of the petty criminal who is quite powerless to refrain from thievery and, in the higher criminal – those guilty of murder, ravishment or infanticide – of a complete absence of remorse. The morally insane are entirely incapable of resisting their violent or criminal urges. These unfortunates are distinguished by the prevalence of malicious feelings, which often arise at the most trivial provocation. They see enmity where none exists and indulge themselves in great fantasies of revenge and mischief; fantasies which they are then powerless to resist acting upon.’

‘Would you thus aver that such individuals are not responsible for the deeds which they commit?’

‘I cannot speak to the legal point of view, but from the perspective of the student of Criminal Psychology, they cannot be regarded as responsible in the normal way, for such individuals are born – for whatever reason – without the moral sense. They do not have within their make-up the normal checks and balances of civilised men and women. As such they cannot be regarded as fully responsible for their actions. They are moral imbeciles and no more culpable for their condition than a cretin is for his.’

At this point, the Lord Justice-Clerk intervened to prompt Mr Sinclair to progress his examination of the witness from these ‘no doubt fascinating’ generalities to the present case. Mr Sinclair acquiesced, although not without first remarking on the necessity of acquainting the jurymen with current thinking in the field of Criminal Psychology.

‘Now,’ he continued, ‘the court has been read a statement in which the prisoner freely declares himself to be of sound mind. In your long experience of dealing with the criminal population, is it possible that a person who might make such a statement could still be regarded as insane?’

‘Quite possible, yes,’ replied Mr Thomson.

‘How could that be so?’

‘If a prisoner is labouring under some delusion, that delusion is as real to him as this court-room is to us. If a person is insane, he is, by definition, unable to recognise himself as such.’

‘I see,’ said Mr Sinclair, pausing to allow the jury time to absorb this statement. ‘With that in mind, what value would you place on the prisoner’s own declaration about his state of mind?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘“None whatsoever”,’ Mr Sinclair repeated with a meaningful look to the jury.

The Lord Justice-Clerk here intervened: ‘For the sake of clarity, Mr Thomson, is it your evidence, that the prisoner is insane?’

‘My evidence is merely that if the prisoner were insane, he would not be aware of the fact. Indeed, were he to express the idea that he was insane, it would imply the opposite, since such a view would imply a degree of self-knowledge entirely absent from those not in possession of their reason.’

The Lord Justice-Clerk conferred for a moment with Lord Jerviswoode and then indicated that Mr Sinclair should proceed with his examination. He thanked him and continued. ‘Now, Mr Thomson, you have examined the prisoner with a view to ascertaining the state of his mind, have you not?’

‘I have.’

‘And what form did this examination take?’

‘I conversed with him at length on the subject of his crimes.’

‘And what were your findings?’

‘The prisoner is certainly of reasonable intelligence and he displayed a grasp of language exceeding what would be expected of one of such low breeding. To a large extent he conversed freely with me and without apparent discomfort. In common with the higher rank of criminal I have described, he showed no remorse for his acts; indeed, I would venture to say that he displayed a perverse pride in admitting them.’

‘And would you say that this is characteristic of those individuals suffering from the condition of moral insanity?’

‘This behaviour is indeed common to the moral imbecile, but it does not in itself signify moral insanity.’

‘In your answer to my previous question, you described the morally insane as ...’ – he here read from a note handed to him by his assistants – ‘... harbouring “malicious feelings, which often arise at the most trivial provocation”.’

‘Yes.’

‘Now, we have heard here in evidence testimony describing the provocations caused to the prisoner and his family by the deceased Mr Mackenzie.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Whether one regards these provocations as trivial or otherwise, would you regard the prisoner’s desire to avenge himself against Mr Mackenzie as indicative of this condition of moral insanity?’

‘If one was to accept the prisoner’s own version of events, then one could reasonably conclude that he was labouring under this condition, yes.’

This ‘being a point of utmost significance’, the Lord Justice-Clerk asked the witness to clarify his answer.

Addressing himself directly to the judge, Mr Thomson continued. ‘It is quite commonplace in many disciplines, my own included, for ideas to become accepted as fact merely by virtue of being oft-repeated. In the present case, I fear that a certain narrative – namely, that the prisoner committed these acts in order to deliver his father from what he perceived to be the oppressive acts of Mr Mackenzie – has, through force of repetition, been unthinkingly accepted by the court and various witnesses. And yet this story is entirely dependent on the statements of a solitary witness: the prisoner himself. I, myself, see no particular reason to accept that version of events, or at least not to subject it to thorough scrutiny.’

The Lord Justice-Clerk: ‘And have you subjected it to such scrutiny?’

‘I have.’

‘And what is your opinion?’

‘My opinion is that there is no reason to believe the words of an individual who, by his own admission, has committed the most sanguinary deeds. And furthermore, that an alternative explanation provides a more plausible account of his actions.’

Mr Sinclair was by this time unable to conceal his anxiety. He moved to interrupt the judge’s line of questioning, but was immediately silenced.

The Lord Justice-Clerk: ‘And do you have such an explanation?’

‘I do,’ said Mr Thomson.

‘Then I would ask you to share it with the court.’

‘My view is based on inconsistencies and omissions in the account the prisoner repeated both to Mr Sinclair and to myself. Specifically, these inconsistencies regard the injuries inflicted on Flora Mackenzie, which, to my mind, speak of an altogether different motive for the crimes committed. It would be my contention that when the prisoner embarked on his bloody project, his true purpose was not to avenge himself on Mr Mackenzie, but on this gentleman’s daughter, who, as we have heard, rejected his lewd advances towards her. In this account, Roderick Macrae was driven not by a quasi-noble desire to protect his father, but by his sexual urges towards Miss Mackenzie. I would thus contend that the prisoner set out in full knowledge that Mr Mackenzie was not at home and proceeded to violate his daughter in the most depraved way. Then, disturbed in his actions, a struggle ensued resulting in Mr Mackenzie’s death.’

There were a few moments of silence, followed by an outbreak of whispered commentary from the gallery. The judge struck his gavel repeatedly to restore order. Mr Sinclair appeared quite lost.

The Lord Justice-Clerk: ‘And why should one believe this version of events over the one previously given?’

‘Clearly I was not present when these deeds were committed,’ Mr Thomson continued, ‘but the injuries inflicted on Miss Mackenzie are entirely inconsistent with the motive described by the prisoner. Furthermore, when I questioned the prisoner in his cell, it was only at the mention of these injuries that he exhibited any sign of anxiety. A fissure appeared in the persona he had presented to the world.’

The Lord Justice-Clerk then looked to the crestfallen Mr Sinclair to continue his examination. The judge, no doubt conscious of the gravity of the witness’s statements, allowed him some moments to gather his thoughts. After some consultation with his associate, Mr Sinclair continued.

‘Were we to accept such a version of events, would it not speak even more profoundly of a loss of reason than the version that has previously been put forward?’

Mr Thomson gave the advocate a thin smile, aware that he was endeavouring to salvage his case from the implications of his testimony. ‘It may be that in a straightforward case of a sexually motivated attack, one may or may not deem the offender, in his inability to control his base urges, not to be fully responsible for his actions. This case, however, is distinguished not by the nature of the crime itself, but by the dissembling nature of the perpetrator’s statements after the fact. Had he admitted outright to the motives for his attack, he might, as you say, be deemed morally insane, as he would not have known that the acts he had committed were wrong. However, in fabricating an alternative explanation – an explanation which seeks to cloak his actions in a guise of righteousness – the perpetrator betrays his knowledge of the shameful nature of his real objective. It is the concealment of his true motives for these murders which reveals his knowledge that what he did was wrong. Those unfortunate persons who labour under the condition of moral insanity, are entirely unable to distinguish right from wrong. They sincerely believe whatever foul deeds they commit to be justified. In the present case, however, the motive claimed by the accused speaks not only of a desire to obscure the true purpose of his attack, but of an ability to deceive and dissemble which is not present in those whom one would deem insane.’

‘If, however,’ said Mr Sinclair, in a valiant attempt to rescue his case, ‘the version of events given by the accused, in the immediate aftermath of the assault, was accurate, you would judge him to be insane?’

‘I would.’

‘And since neither you nor any other witness was present at the attack, you cannot say with any certainty that the prisoner’s account is any less true than the one you have put forward.’

‘You are quite correct, sir, to point out that I was not present. However, the version of events I have presented accords more accurately with the physical evidence of the case. Had the defendant’s motives been as he has claimed, there would have been no reason to inflict such dreadful injuries on the unfortunate Miss Mackenzie. Even if he had felt the need to subdue her before lying in wait for her father to return, a blow to the head to render her unconscious would have been sufficient. Instead, he chose to wickedly defile her. I do not see any relation in this action to his professed desire to deliver his father from the tribulations he had supposedly endured at the hands of Mr Mackenzie.’

‘But you must admit that another interpretation of the prisoner’s actions is possible?’

‘Other interpretations may be possible, but they do not properly account for the facts of the case.’

At this point Mr Sinclair resumed his seat and it was necessary for the Lord Justice-Clerk to ask if he had concluded his questioning. The Crown declined the opportunity to examine the witness and Mr Thomson was excused. The court was adjourned until the afternoon, when the closing statements would be put to the jury.

The Crown summation did not last more than an hour and was delivered by Mr Gifford with ‘an air of complacency, which some jury members might have felt quite alienating’. The Solicitor-General asked that the jury attend only to the facts of the case. Roderick Macrae had carried out his acts in a pre-meditated manner – evidenced by the fact that he had gone armed to the Mackenzie home – and killed three blameless individuals in a ‘frenzied act of the utmost brutality’.

‘Mr Sinclair will try to pull the wool over your eyes,’ he said. ‘He will attempt to portray his client as an imbecile, given to talking to himself and hearing voices in his head.’ He reminded them that ‘while the prisoner might occasionally have been given to eccentric behaviour, not a single witness – excepting Aeneas Mackenzie – has been willing to testify that he was insane. And Mr Mackenzie’s opinion, for what it was worth, appeared to be based on no more than an understandable dislike of the prisoner and the fact that he sometimes laughed inappropriately. I would put it to you, gentlemen, that if that were all that was required as a diagnosis of insanity, we would all be in the asylum. Instead, I would suggest that far greater weight be placed on the evidence of Mrs Carmina Murchison, who testified that when she conversed with Roderick Macrae only minutes before he committed his crime, he was, in her words, “perfectly rational”.’

‘We have listened,’ he continued, ‘to an entertaining dialogue between Mr Thomson and Mr Sinclair regarding the motives for these crimes and their implications as to the state of mind of the accused. Nonetheless, fascinating as their discussion undoubtedly was, they are dancing on the head of a pin.’

He then re-counted the various incidents which had occurred between Mr Mackenzie and the prisoner’s father, culminating in the eviction of the Macrae family from their home. ‘It was this that provided the motive for the defendant’s actions; the motive but not the justification. We have heard also that the defendant harboured some romantic feelings towards Flora Mackenzie, feelings he expressed in the grossest manner, and perhaps his rejection by her contributed to the enmity he felt towards the Mackenzie family. It may be true that we do not know – that we cannot know – the true motives for this attack, but, gentlemen, it matters not.’

Mr Gifford then took pause before delivering his final remarks. ‘I would remind you of the facts: Roderick Macrae went fore-armed to the house of Mr Mackenzie with the intention to kill, and kill he did. The prisoner himself, as we have heard from numerous witnesses, has made no attempt to exonerate himself from blame and nor should you. And if you harbour any doubts as to his sanity, we have heard from not one but two experienced specialists, both far more qualified than you or I to pass judgement on this matter. We heard first from Dr Hector Munro, a man of great experience in dealing with the criminal population and with demonstrable knowledge of the signs of insanity. His verdict: not only is Roderick Macrae fully in possession of his reason, he is “among the most articulate and intelligent prisoners” the doctor has examined.

‘We have been privileged to hear also from Mr James Bruce Thomson, who you must bear in mind was the defence’s own witness; a man whose expertise in this field is indisputable. And his conclusion? That Roderick Macrae is fully in possession of his reason and no more than a wicked and dissembling individual.

‘Finally, we have the declaration of the prisoner himself, offered under no duress: “I am of sound mind.” Gentlemen, the only person in this court-room who believes – or professes to believe – the prisoner to be insane is my colleague, Mr Sinclair. But this belief flies in the face of the evidence presented to the court.’

The jury, Mr Gifford concluded, would be derelict in their duty if they returned any verdict other than guilty of each of three charges before them.

When Mr Sinclair rose to make his closing remarks to the jury, it was not with the air of a beaten man. He had, wrote Mr Philby, ‘rallied commendably from his humiliation at the hands of his own witness, and if there is an award for those who most zealously defend lost causes it should be awarded to the doughty advocate’.

‘Gentlemen, as my learned colleague has stated, the facts of this tragic case are not in question,’ he began, resting his hand on the partition of the jurymen’s benches. ‘The defence does not dispute that the unfortunate victims died at the hand of the prisoner. What is at issue here are not the bare facts of the case, but the contents of a man’s mind. I would aver that there are not three victims in this case, but four; the fourth being the wretched individual who has sat before you these three days. And who is this individual? A young man of a mere seventeen years; a hard-working crofter with a deep attachment and loyalty to his family. We have heard how deeply changed he was by the tragic death of his beloved mother, and how since that time his family have existed under a cloak of gloom. We have heard from the prisoner’s own father, the father to whom he is so devoted, that he regularly beat him with his fists. We have heard from his neighbours, Carmina and Kenneth Murchison, that he was in the habit of conducting animated conversations with himself, conversations which ceased whenever a third party drew near, a fact which perhaps speaks of the disturbing nature of the thoughts to which he was giving voice. Mr Murchison testified that the prisoner appeared to “exist in a world of his own”. Mr Aeneas Mackenzie was more forthright. Roderick Macrae, he testified, was regarded as the village idiot; an imbecile; an individual whose behaviour was often incongruous with his surroundings. I suspect that if other witnesses have been more reluctant to brand the prisoner insane, this is due only to the tolerance and good nature of the residents of Culduie. Mr Mackenzie in his blunt way was only giving voice to what everyone thought. We have heard too how Roderick Macrae was given to violent swings of mood and eccentric behaviour. By any measure, he was not of sound mind. And when Lachlan Mackenzie, in his newly acquired role of village constable, took to abusing his power to persecute – for there can be no other word to describe his actions – to persecute Roderick’s family, this disturbed young man was pushed beyond the edge of reason. At the very end of his tether, Roderick set out to kill Lachlan Mackenzie and in carrying out this terrible project, claimed the lives of two innocent bystanders.

‘These were dreadful acts, of that there is no question. But it is what happened in the aftermath of these acts which speaks to the state of Roderick Macrae’s mind. Did he behave as you or I would behave? As any sane person would? Did he attempt to flee, or to deny responsibility for the acts he had committed? He did not. He quite calmly gave himself up to capture and openly admitted what he had done. He expressed no remorse. And at no point since has he wavered from this stance.

‘Gentlemen, you must ask yourselves why he behaved in this way. The answer can only be that in his own mind he did not believe – he does not believe – he had done anything wrong. In the mind of Roderick Macrae the acts he committed were a just and unavoidable reaction to the harassment of his family. Of course, in this he is wrong. Every man and woman in this court,’ – he here gestured grandly around the room – ‘can see that what he did was wrong. But Roderick Macrae cannot. And herein lies the crux of the case. Roderick Macrae no longer knew right from wrong. In order for a crime to be committed there must be a physical act – which is not here in dispute – but there must also be a mental act. The perpetrator of the act must know that what he was doing was wrong. And Roderick Macrae did not know.

‘Now, you will have listened intently, as you should, to the evidence of the learned Mr Thomson. He speculated – I shall not shy away from it – that the true object of Roderick Macrae’s assault was not Lachlan Mackenzie, but his daughter, Flora. But I would put it to you, I would put it to you strongly, that Mr Thomson’s opinion of this detail of the case is nothing more than speculation. What would it entail to believe that he is correct? It would require us to believe that in the immediate aftermath of his assault – in the very moments after the commission of three bloody murders – Roderick was able to fabricate a falsified explanation for what he had done. It is inconceivable that any sane person could have the self-possession to do such a thing.’

Mr Sinclair paused, placing a finger to his lips and casting his eyes towards the ceiling, as if he was himself in the process of thinking this question through, before continuing.

‘One might contend that the accused had concocted this story in advance of his actions, that he went to the Mackenzie home to kill Flora, but intended afterwards to claim that he had gone there with the purpose of killing her father. But there is a fatal flaw in this narrative: Roderick did not know and could not know that Lachlan Mackenzie would return home and disturb him in his actions. To give credence to Mr Thomson’s version of events requires the most convoluted thinking, and, I would aver, a complete disregard for logic. Instead, all the evidence presented here in court points to the fact that the prisoner intended to kill Lachlan Mackenzie, an act which, in his own disturbed mind, was just and righteous. The fact that in the commission of this deed, he also took the lives of Flora Mackenzie and Donald Mackenzie, a mere child, speaks eloquently of the alienation of reason he experienced. Mr Thomson quite correctly drew your attention to the horrible injuries inflicted on the person of Flora Mackenzie, but I would ask you, are these the actions of an individual in possession of his reason? Quite clearly, gentlemen, they are not. And if one accepts the view – the view to which all the evidence points – that Roderick Macrae killed Lachlan Mackenzie out of an irresistible urge to avenge himself for the ills done to his family, then you must agree with Mr Thomson that Roderick Macrae was not in possession of his reason, that he was suffering from “mania without delirium” or “moral insanity” and thus cannot be deemed to be responsible in law for his actions.

‘It is for this reason that I ask you to return a verdict of not guilty in this case. There is an onerous responsibility on your shoulders. But you must act in accordance with the law and not be swayed by any reasonable and human feelings of revulsion towards these dreadful acts. At the time of the commission of these crimes Roderick Macrae was suffering from an absolute alienation of reason and, for this reason, he must be acquitted.’

It was, wrote Mr Philby, ‘a bravura performance, delivered with great aplomb. No one present could doubt that the prisoner had received the ablest and most rigorous defence and that the finest spirit of justice is thriving beyond the boundaries of Scotland’s metropolitan hubs.’ As he resumed his seat, Mr Sinclair dabbed his brow with a handkerchief and received a clap on the shoulder from his assistant. From across the aisle, Mr Gifford offered a low bow of his head intended to convey his professional appreciation.

The Lord Justice-Clerk allowed a few moments of hubbub, before he brought the court to order. He commenced to charge the jury at three o’clock and spoke for some two hours. ‘His summation,’ wrote Mr Philby, ‘was a model of even-handedness and a credit to the Scotch legal system.’ After the customary introductory remarks and praising counsel for the manner in which they had conducted the case, he explained to the jury that ‘in order to return a verdict of guilty, in regard to any of the three charges contained in this indictment, there are four things of which you must be satisfied upon the evidence. In the first place, that the deceased died by the blows and injuries described; in the second place, that these blows were wilfully administered for the purpose of destroying life; third, that it was the prisoner in the dock who so administered these blows; and, if you are satisfied on these points, in the fourth place, that the prisoner was in possession of his reason at the time when he committed these acts. If the evidence is defective in any one of these particulars, the prisoner is entitled to an acquittal; but if, on the other hand, you are satisfied of these four things, there remains nothing for you but the stern and painful duty of conviction.’

There was, of course, little dispute over the first three points, but as was his duty in law, the Lord Justice-Clerk proceeded to recount over the next hour or so, the evidence first of the medical witnesses, then of those villagers who had seen or spoken to the accused in the aftermath of the crimes.

He then turned to the Special Defence of Insanity. ‘The test you must apply,’ he said, ‘is that a person may be found to be insane, if at the time of the act, or acts, he was labouring under such a defect of reason or from a disease of the mind, that he did not know the nature and quality of the acts he was committing, or that he did not know what he was doing was wrong. It is not for you, or for I, gentlemen, to question the validity or not of these guidelines. These are the rules in law and this is the assessment which you must make in this case.’¶¶¶

‘We have heard in the course of this trial from a number of witnesses who have known the prisoner for his whole life, and their accounts of his character are entitled to form part of your consideration. In particular, we heard evidence from Mrs Carmina Murchison and her husband, Kenneth Murchison. Both of these witnesses are to be commended for the clear and sober accounts of the most distressing aspects of this case. And both of these witnesses testified to the prisoner’s habit of appearing to converse with himself in an unusual manner. We do not, however, know the contents of these conversations, and while this behaviour can rightly be seen as eccentric, it is not adequate, in itself, to regard the prisoner as deprived of his reason. On the other hand, you may regard this behaviour as a fragment – though no more than that – in a larger picture which might, in totality, add up to a picture of insanity. We have also heard the testimony of the victims’ relative, Mr Aeneas Mackenzie, who was forthright in his view that the prisoner was not of sound mind. However, you are entitled to ask yourselves whether his evidence might be tainted by the understandable feelings of anger he clearly felt towards the prisoner. You must also consider the intemperate manner in which his evidence was given, and pay heed to the fact that Mr Mackenzie is in no way qualified to pass judgement on the sanity or otherwise of the prisoner. As such, Mr Mackenzie’s statements should be treated with caution. However, as with the evidence of the other residents of Culduie, it is for you to decide what, if any, importance should be placed on his testimony.’

The Lord Justice-Clerk then moved on to consider the evidence of the prisoner behaving in an unpredictable or eccentric manner. He summarised the incidents that took place during the deerstalking party and with Flora Mackenzie on the day of the Gathering. He was dismissive of both. The first, he said, ‘cannot be regarded as more than an act of silliness on the part of an immature young man, aged a mere fifteen years at this time.’ In the second, he continued, ‘the dual roles of youthful attachment and the effects of alcohol – to which the prisoner was unaccustomed – should not be overlooked.’ It was a matter for the jury to evaluate the importance of these incidents, but the judge cautioned against giving them undue weight in their deliberations.

He then turned to the evidence of the two expert witnesses. ‘Both sides in this case,’ he began, ‘have called witnesses who are experts in their field, either through study or through experience, and both these witnesses have passed judgement on the critical matter of the sanity or otherwise of the prisoner. You are obliged to give full weight to the opinions of both of these witnesses, but you are not required to agree with them. If you choose to disregard the evidence of one or either of these witnesses, you should do so only after the fullest consideration and with good reason.

‘Dr Hector Munro, called by the Crown, is a medical doctor of long experience both in general practice and at Inverness gaol, where by his own reckoning he has examined many hundreds of prisoners. Dr Munro conversed at length with the prisoner and found him to be “one of the most intelligent and articulate prisoners” he had examined. He enumerated various indicators of insanity and stated that he found none of these present in the prisoner. In view of his experience in dealing with the criminal population and his demonstrable knowledge of diseases of the mind, Dr Munro’s opinion deserves to be treated with proper consideration.’

The Lord Justice-Clerk then turned to the evidence of Mr Thomson, ‘a man of the highest standing in the field of Criminal Psychology. It was also the opinion of Mr Thomson that the prisoner was not insane and was cognisant of the wrongful nature of the actions which he committed. Now, while this opinion must, like that of his colleague Dr Munro, be afforded the fullest weight in your deliberations, it is my duty to evaluate his reasons for reaching this conclusion. This is of particular consequence because Mr Thomson’s opinion rests on a distinct interpretation of the facts of the case, an interpretation distinct from that put forward by the Crown. Mr Thomson contended that the prisoner went to the Mackenzie household not with the goal of murdering Lachlan Mackenzie, but with the intention of harming his daughter, Flora, for whom, we have heard, the prisoner had a strong attachment. Mr Thomson supported this view with reference to the obscene injuries inflicted on Miss Mackenzie’s person, injuries which, in his view, would not have been inflicted had Miss Mackenzie merely been an incidental victim in this crime. Moreover, what convinced Mr Thomson that the prisoner was not labouring under what we have heard called “moral insanity” was evidenced by the fact that in various statements the prisoner asserted that his motive had been to kill Lachlan Mackenzie. This disingenuous stance, Mr Thomson insisted, illustrated that the prisoner knew what he had done was wrong and can thus not be regarded as morally insane.

‘Gentlemen, these are complex issues about which you must reach your own conclusions. But I must introduce a note of caution. Mr Thomson’s opinion rests on a single piece of evidence – the nature of the injuries suffered by Miss Mackenzie – and his interpretation of the motives for inflicting these injuries. But this interpretation is no more than that. It is not fact. Mr Thomson was not a witness to the crimes and you are entitled to consider other interpretations of the evidence you have heard; in particular those parts of the evidence which suggest that the actions of Mr Mackenzie provided the prisoner with the motive for his assault. If you choose to disagree with Mr Thomson’s interpretation, you are entitled to consider his view that, if the true target of the prisoner’s assault was indeed Mr Mackenzie, he may, in view of his subsequent behaviour, be regarded as suffering from an alienation of reason.’

The Lord Justice-Clerk here gave pause as if to allow the jurymen to digest this complex section of his summation.

‘However,’ he continued, ‘even were you to disagree with Mr Thomson’s view, this must be set against the totality of the evidence that has been put before you. It is not enough for you to think that no man could commit such heinous acts and be deemed to be of sound mind. Sane men can and do commit such crimes, and the mere fact of committing such an act does not, in itself, place an individual outside the boundaries of reason. Regardless of your feelings in this matter, that is not the test in law. Your verdict must be reached solely through a dispassionate assessment of the evidence which has been presented to you in this court.’

The Lord Justice-Clerk concluded by reminding the jury of the solemnity of their task. ‘The charges before this court are of the very gravest nature and a guilty verdict will result in a capital sentence.’ He then thanked the jurymen for their close attention throughout the trial and charged them with delivering a verdict only after solemn consideration of the evidence.

The verdict

As it was by then after four o’clock, the Lord Justice-Clerk instructed the jury that if they had not reached their verdict by seven o’clock, they would be returned to the inn for the night and would resume their deliberations in the morning. He cautioned them that this constraint of time must form no part of their consideration and reminded them once more of the solemn nature of the task with which they were charged.

Roddy was taken downstairs and the court officials vacated the chamber. Not wishing to risk missing the climactic moment of the trial, those in the public gallery remained in their places, arguing among themselves with newly acquired legal expertise about the niceties of the case. The more worldly reporters retired en masse to the appropriately named Gallows Inn on Gordon Terrace, having first pressed shillings into the hands of waiting boys to fetch them if the bell was rung. Great quantities of wine and ale were ordered and drunk with alacrity, the presumption being that the jury would not be long in returning its verdict. The consensus was that, despite the valiant efforts of his advocate, Mr Thomson’s evidence had condemned the unfortunate prisoner to the gibbet. Only John Murdoch departed from the notion that the verdict was a foregone conclusion. His southern colleagues, he explained, overlooked the empathy the jurymen might feel towards an ill-used crofter. The resentment caused by centuries of ill treatment of the Highlander was keenly felt, and in Roderick Macrae, they might see an individual who had revolted against the vindictiveness of the powers-that-be. Mr Philby listened with interest to the Nairnshireman’s opinions, but argued that the jury could not allow such sentiments, no matter how valid, to colour their thinking. Others merely derided Murdoch, arguing that his radical views had blinded him to the facts of the case.

As the clock on the wall of the inn moved towards half past six, the mood altered, however. Clearly the members of the jury had found something to discuss. Then at ten to seven, the boy-messengers burst in: the bell had been rung. The reporters scrambled for the door, throwing coins on the table as they went. They received an admonishing stare from the Lord Justice-Clerk as they were admitted to the press box. The court-room was in any case already in a tumult of anticipation. After silencing the room, the judge warned in the sternest terms against any disruptions to proceedings. Roddy was then brought up, his demeanour, wrote Mr Philby, ‘barely altered from his first appearance, although his head perhaps sat more heavily on his shoulders’. The jury was then brought in and the foreman, a tanner named Malcolm Chisholm, rose.

The Clerk of the Court asked if they had reached a verdict.

‘We have not,’ replied Mr Chisholm.

This statement was greeted with as great an uproar as an acquittal, and it required the macers’ expulsion of two individuals from the gallery for order to be restored.

The Lord Justice-Clerk commended the jury for the earnestness with which they were treating their task and instructed them to re-convene in the jury-room at ten o’clock the following morning, adding that they should refrain from any dialogue about the case until that time.

The newspapermen once again decamped to the Gallows Inn, where the wine flowed ‘like the River Ness in spate’. Mr Philby later reflected that ‘the verdict which would only a short time before have seemed the most astonishing reversal, now seemed a great deal more likely’. If the jury had seeds of doubt in their minds, his logic went, these could only germinate overnight. He spent much of the evening in discussion with John Murdoch, who despite his previous statements, did not expect the verdict to be in the defendant’s favour. ‘Up here, we are too used to cowering before the authorities to go against the Crown,’ he told Mr Philby. In any case, even if the prisoner were to ‘jouk the gibbet’, a lifetime’s confinement in the General Prison under the supervision of Mr Thomson would be a dubious reward.

The evening degenerated into carousing, and Mr Philby confessed that he had ‘too freely taken advantage of the Highland hospitality’, so much so, that when roused by his landlady the following morning, he had no need to even re-tie his boots.

The public gallery was opened at ten o’clock. The fact that there was no more evidence to be heard had done nothing to diminish the numbers that gathered. Those who failed to gain entry remained outside the court building, wishing to be among the first to hear news of the verdict. Mr Philby and his colleagues loitered in the corridors of the court, nursing their hangovers with hipflasks. In the event, they did not have long to wait. At quarter past eleven, the bell was rung for the second time. Before the arrival of the jury, the Lord Justice-Clerk warned that he would not hesitate to empty the court-room if necessary, and, as if in deference to the solemnity of the moment, Roddy’s arrival was accompanied by an eerie hush. He was quite pale and his eyes were ringed with dark circles. Mr Sinclair, who looked similarly ashen, shook his hand. The jurymen then filed in. Roddy observed them, as if some interest in the proceedings had finally stirred in him. The men had a doleful air about them, as if taking their pews at a funeral. Not one of them met the prisoner’s eye. The Clerk of the Court rose and asked if they had reached a verdict. Mr Chisholm replied that they had.

The Lord Justice-Clerk put the question to them:

‘How say you, gentlemen, do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty?’

Mr Sinclair bowed his head.

The foreman replied, ‘My lords, in respect of the first count, the jury finds the panel Guilty. In respect of the second count, we find the panel Guilty; and in respect of the third count we find the panel Guilty.’

The court-room remained silent for some moments. Then the Lord Justice-Clerk asked, ‘Are your verdicts unanimous?’

‘They are by a majority,’ the foreman replied, ‘of thirteen to two.’

Mr Sinclair placed his head in his hands, then turned to look at his client. Roddy remained motionless in the dock. Nothing happened for a few seconds. There was no reaction from the gallery, as if it was only now the spectators grasped that what they had been watching was no mere pantomime.

The Lord Justice-Clerk thanked the jurors for their diligent attention throughout the proceedings. ‘You must,’ he said, ‘feel no compunction about the verdict you have delivered as it is in accordance with the evidence you have heard. All responsibility lies with the prisoner, whose acts have brought us to this place and the consequences of your judgement are a matter for the Law and the Law alone.’

The verdicts were then signed by the judges. Roddy was instructed to stand and the judge donned the black cap.

‘Roderick John Macrae, you have been found guilty by the verdict of the jury of the murders charged against you, a verdict which proceeds upon evidence which could leave no disinterested observer in any doubt. You have killed three people, one a small child, another an innocent girl in the flush of youth, and you have inflicted injuries on their persons of the most shocking nature. We have heard, as we should, a great deal of discussion of the motives for these wicked crimes, but having been pronounced guilty, these motives are of no consequence, and there is but a single sentence that can be pronounced. You are condemned to suffer the last penalty of the law. I hope that you will use the short time left to you to repent your actions and make use of the ministers of religion available to you, but I fear, from what I have heard in these proceedings, that you will not do so.’

He then formally pronounced that the prisoner would be executed at Inverness Castle between the hours of eight and ten o’clock on the morning of the 24th of September. He then removed the black cap and added, ‘May God have mercy on your soul.’

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*** A ‘whipper-in’ was an official who travelled round rural districts ensuring that children attended school.

††† Philippe Pinel (1745–1826) was a pioneer of criminal psychology. He coined the term ‘mania sans délire’ in his Nosographie philosophique ou méthode de l’analyse appliquée à la médecine (1798–1818).

‡‡‡* A mischievous sketch in The Scotsman suggested that the prisoners to whom Dr Munro referred might merely have been speaking Gaelic.

§§§ The ideas expressed here by Thomson are more fully set out in his article ‘The Hereditary Nature of Crime’, published in the Journal of Mental Science, 1870. They are an example of the then prevalent theory of ‘degenerationism’, a kind of reverse evolution.

¶¶¶ This is a summary of the M’Naghten Rules, which had been the accepted test of insanity for criminal cases in both English and Scottish courts since 1843.