The Hanging of Margaret Dickson (26 page)

‘Let God be the judge, Maggie. I'm here to offer you my support and say a few prayers.' He lowers his head and begins to recite a prayer.

‘I have sinned,' she sobs. ‘Many, many times – and I've had impure thoughts…'

‘Hush…'

‘Please let me continue, Minister Bonaloy. I've been a slatternly witch – and I have strayed from my wifely duties many times. But I did not kill it. I could never murder my own child.'

The minister shakes his head and his eyes fill with sorrow. ‘Your crime is one of ignorance, Maggie. And ignorance is the source of all evil. The knowledge of God is easily obtained. Your ignorance made you a faithful factor to the devil and evil. As a consequence you will be punished. But take comfort in the Lord, Maggie, because if you repent, He will forgive you. Have you anything to say?'

‘Nae, my fate is in God's hands.'

***

The hunchback gaoler does not attach himself to prisoners. But one prisoner is suddenly a concern. She is a bonny one; well, she was once he thinks, still is – in a way. As he peers down at her scrawny frame, he realises she's been in exactly the same position for days. He shakes his head with frustration and wonders how she's got beneath his skin, this fisher lassie at death's door. With his boot he nudges her, but there is nothing, no noise or movement. He nudges her again and is relieved to hear her moan. In haste, he shuffles off into the darkness, his ghastly hunchback shadow falling behind him.

‘Ague,' says the hunchback to the gipsy, Black Bill. ‘Weren't you with the girl at Jedburgh gaol? She has a fever. I'm afraid she won't last much longer.'

‘Let me tend her.' The gipsy stands his ground and hands him a coin.

‘It's up to you, gipsy. It is gaol fever, I tell you. You could go the same road as she's going if you go to her, and you'll be no use to anybody then.'

***

The hunchback takes him to Maggie, and as he does so, Black Bill wonders what compels him to her – this strange lass he barely knows. Once he fixes his gaze upon her, he speculates no more. His eyes linger on her slender ankles; he steadies his rough hands and gently lifts them before turning her feet to examine the wounds.

‘Oh, lassie,' he winces. Her feet are festering. ‘I wish I could take you away from this wretched gaol.'

Somehow he manages to obtain a damp sponge to press against Maggie's face. Afterwards, he strokes her hair and holds a cup of water to her parched lips. And slowly and carefully he cleans the wounds around her ankles, all the while keeping one eye on her.

Suddenly Maggie cries out in delirium. ‘I can't bear it any longer. William, please help me. I need you.'

‘It is I, Black Bill. Who's William?' He can't help feeling irritated, jealous even.

‘The child, William. I want to tell you…'

‘Shush, Maggie.' Bill holds her hand.

‘It's you I love, only you. I can't see past you.'

In a couple of days, thanks to Bill's intervention, Maggie's fever breaks and she's able to sit up and take a little refreshment. But nevertheless, Black Bill stays by her side, and with his care and devotion, Maggie is soon feeling much better.

‘Drink the broth.' He places a protective arm around her shoulders, and guides the bowl to her mouth.

***

A clerk arrives with news of her trial again.

‘How long will the trial last and who will be there?' Maggie enquires; she wrings her hands and gazes ahead. She's never set foot in a court in her life and she wonders if folk will be allowed in there to witness her humiliation and shame.

‘These things take time. Lord Advocate Robert Dundas will be there. I don't expect you've heard of him, well never mind he's a very important man, having said that he is the most important man in court. Have you met your advocate yet?'

‘Advocate?' Maggie frowns.

‘Yes – counsel for your defence?'

‘Nae.'

‘Well, you will, no doubt. Warrants have been issued for those people attending the trial, witnesses. Do you understand?'

Maggie nods her head, but she really has no confidence in the matter. In short, she is perplexed; foreboding has left her crumpled and weak. She hasn't the faintest idea what he is talking about. All she can fathom is that her first court appearance is sometime in June, and she knew that already.

As night falls Maggie succumbs to fatigue, ignoring the groans of prisoners and scratching rodents. In her miserable cell she allows her eyes to fill with the vision of a starlit sky, focusing on one bright burning star, letting its light grow bigger and brighter until it materialises into a halo of golden light.

‘William,' she sobs.

A large coat of arms dominates the back wall of the courtroom. Its sombre walls lined with long sheets of polished mahogany, a contrast to the dull slate floor. As Maggie enters the dock a strange sense of foreboding washes over her. A number of law men observe her, peering down their noses at her with haughty, self-important postures, most of them old men with pot bellies and sagging jowls. For some reason they remind her of Alexander and the bathhouse, though he was neither fat nor old.
Perhaps it is the wigs
, she surmises. A memory surfaces from the back of her mind: Alexander strutting around like a peacock in Dawney Douglas's, showing off his gold fob watch.

‘It's a beauty, a real work of art. Look at the movement.'

‘What movement?' she'd asked, trying to muster up some interest.

‘Never mind, silly girl,' Alexander had said. ‘This watch was designed by a master watchmaker in London. Oh what was his name again? I always forget it. Clarence or Marcus? Thomas. That's it. Thomas Tompian.'

That night, Alexander sipped too much claret and the small pocket watch slipped from his waist coat onto the cold floor. Once in her hand, the shimmering gold suddenly became interesting, so much so that Maggie had been unable to part with it.

The memory of Alexander and the watch fades…

In the dock, she stands directly facing the witness box, away from the partitioned spaces for jurors and privileged spectators. Maggie's chains cut into her ankles. She's barefoot and the ground is cold. Her face peers into the crowded galleries. A huge swell of sadness rolls through her as she glances around the room. She doesn't recognise anyone.
Why hasn't anyone come?
Her head hangs low until a flash of pale yellow hair juts out from a crowd, and all at once Maggie's face becomes ashen at the sight of it. A guard stretches out his hand to steady her.

‘Stand straight before you fall down,' barks the guard through gritted teeth.

On the other side of the room the Lord Advocate enters the courtroom and bangs down his gavel, the sound compelling the full power of the court. A hush fills the room as his monotone voice drones on: ‘Therefore, necessary it is for the complainer to have our warrant and diligence for citing that said Margaret Dickson come appear before the Lord Justice, General Justice Clerk and Commissioner of Justiciary, the said twentieth day of July next to come within the tolbooth or Criminal House of Edinburgh realm and ask that ye summoned are assessed here to not exceed the number of forty-five persons together with such witnesses as best know…'

Maggie's advocate takes her by the arm and leads her from the court. She follows as fast as she can in the chains, grimacing as he steps on her toes. They come to a private room, a dusty room at that – and he enquires if anyone could bear witness to her bringing forth the child.

Maggie's weary, hungry and parched. ‘No, sir, I cannot.'

The advocate groans.

‘I'm confused, sir. Might I enquire what is happening? I do not understand…'

The advocate throws down his papers. ‘The date for your trial has been set, woman – did you not take heed? Now, I will ask you again. Can anyone bear witness to you…?'

‘Nae.'

The advocate stares at her insolently. ‘Hear me well, I am a man of little patience and so I will speak plainly to you in the hope that you will see sense. The fact that you did not seek assistance in bringing forth a child is detrimental to your defence. Do you understand?'

Maggie glances at him, bemused by his frustration. The advocate is an average man, in as much that he is of average height, weight and appearance. But when it comes to questioning folk he is far from middling.

The advocate persists. ‘There must be somebody who knew of the birth – a friend you confided in perhaps?'

Maggie fetches a sigh. ‘Aye – Margaret Bell suspected I was with child, but she did not assist me with the birth. I had the baby alone and fainted. The child fell into a pool of blood, but I lifted him from it, quick, mind.'

The advocate screws up his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘So you gave birth alone, with no one to help you? You must know that is an offence in itself. What of the necessary preparations for the child? Did you buy linen or clothes for the future baby?'

Maggie wonders what on earth these questions have to do with anything; a nauseous feeling begins to swell in her throat.

‘I did not, sir. I did not prepare linen or clothes because I wanted to push away the fact that I was with child and pretend that it was not happening, like it was all a bad dream. Do you understand? Can you understand? I was scared to death. My mind was not right.'

The advocate slaps his forehead. ‘So you just thought you could cross your legs and it would all go away?'

Maggie flashes her eyes at him, an uncontrollable rage building inside of her. ‘How foolish of me to think you might understand. You're a man, and a rich one at that. You've never had to give birth alone, have you? Or been so frightened that your hair falls out in great clumps? And am I correct in assuming that you've never gone hungry, or struggled in life, fearing for your job or your children, or the prospect of public humiliation and condemnation?'

‘Ah, so that was it. You killed the child rather than suffer public humiliation or denounce the father. I hope he was worth it, Margaret Dickson.'

A quiet descends on the room. The advocate glances at his fob watch and breaks the silence. ‘How long have you been separated from your husband?'

Maggie's eyes look upwards to the cobwebbed roof beams.
‘A year or more, perhaps, I cannot remember. And you need not ask me where he is, he never bothered to tell me. Just ran off, he did, to the fisheries or off to sea again, leaving me all alone with the children.'

The advocate pauses and seems to consider her words. ‘Well now, Mrs Dickson. I've listened to you and it's obvious that you are an able woman, so listen to me. A man
has
to provide for his family. You cannot blame a man for wanting to put food on the table.' The advocate rubs his long fingers over his chin. He scribbles a few notes onto a paper and curses as he smudges a quantity of ink on his fingers. ‘The reason I asked is that married women are not normally charged under the concealment of pregnancy act…'

‘Why not?'

‘Consider the facts my dear – does a married woman have to hide the fact that she's with child?'

Maggie shakes her head. ‘No.'

‘And why does she not need to hide the fact?'

‘Because a married woman has a husband, and everything is as it should be.'

The advocate stares into her eyes. ‘Correct. In any case – I am your counsel for defence and I will do my very best for you, rest assured. But bear in mind that although you are indeed a married woman, your husband was away when you concealed the child. So not only are you guilty of adultery, you are guilty of murdering your infant child. This places a great deal of pressure on me in terms of persuading the jury that you are innocent of this crime.' The advocate pauses for breath. ‘Do you understand?'

‘Aye.' Maggie nods.

‘Now then, please think of anyone who can help us in your defence.'

***

The voices in the courtroom grow increasingly hushed as Lord Advocate Robert Dundas arrives, and it is as though his formidable presence commands authority and respect from all present in the room. Upon his head he wears a white wig. His eyes are clear blue and sparkle with cleverness and his robes are fashioned in the traditional Scottish way.

Once court is in session, there is complete silence, and so the softest noises are audible. Thus, as the trial begins so do the whispers and muffled coughs as folk push and shove one another to catch a glimpse of the unfortunate fishwife accused of murdering her child, a married woman they say, pregnant while her husband was at sea.

‘Look at the state of her, so thin and scrawny,' whispers a peasant woman straining her neck.

‘I was told she was bonny. Is that her?' Another peasant woman points a bony finger in Maggie's direction.

‘Aye – pestilence has come upon her for her sins.'

A strange sound vibrates inside Maggie's ears, like the droning of honey bees. Her hair is stuck to her face with sweat and tears, she brushes the hair away and stares ahead, and all the while her fear grows.

The Lord Advocate reads out the circumstances of the case. Next the counsel for Maggie's defence calls witness after witness, not one of them helpful in terms of Maggie's defence. His Majesty's Advocate responds by producing several witnesses who reveal that Maggie has been frequently pregnant. And others state there were signs of her having delivered a child and that a new-born infant had been found near her place of residence.

The next witness for his Majesty's Advocate, a respected surgeon, deposes that, putting the lungs of the infant in water, they were found to swim, which was proof that the child was born alive. For it is the received opinion that if no air be drawn into the lungs, they will not swim. But alas, this circumstance is a matter of doubt and ambiguity, even among the gentlemen of the faculty.

Anna Pringle, the midwife, testifies that Maggie had the appearance of a woman who had brought forth a child. And William Pringle, the Baillie, testifies that Maggie revealed she had been involved in adulterous affairs with several men throughout her marriage to her husband, Patrick Spence. And thus, as the evidence mounts against her, Maggie squirms in her seat.

A loud voice calls: ‘I call William Bell.'

The crowd roars and all eyes turn to the witness box, curious eyes straining to catch a glimpse of the innkeeper's son whom the fishwife begotten a child by.

The King's Advocate stands proud and tall, but William dwarfs him as he stands opposite to take an oath to tell the truth. He looks uncomfortable and anxious, and several times he is warned to pay heed and stop looking at the accused.

The King's Advocate says in a loud and clear voice: ‘Several people, who were questioned during the course of the investigation, including your own mother, father and sister, admit that
you
had a close relationship with the accused, Margaret Dickson. Is this true?'

William nods. ‘Yes. It is true that I had a close relationship with Maggie Dickson.' He glances at the prisoner again, visibly distressed by her appearance.

The courtroom becomes quiet, the air pregnant with anticipation.

‘William Bell. Are you the father of the dead child found on the banks of the river Tweed?'

The courtroom bursts into a deafening noise, forcing the Lord Advocate to bang down on his gavel with all his might.

‘Aye,' William states. His gaze falls on Maggie so that their eyes lock. ‘It is quite possible that I am the father of Margaret Dickson's child.'

Incredulous gasps fill the courtroom. Maggie makes no noise because she has no breath. She struggles to draw air into her lungs and there is a throbbing in her heart.

‘You admit this and yet you have no doubt heard that Margaret Dickson is a married woman and has admitted to fornication with several men. So, in fact, the child might not be yours.'

William's face contorts, as though disgusted by the insinuation. ‘To the best of my knowledge she had carnal knowledge of one man at the Kelso inn, and that man was me!'

The King's Advocate waves a dismissive hand at William Bell. ‘Very well, Mr Bell. I have no further questions. Remove the witness. '

A pain fills Maggie's heart as he passes by. Unable to control her emotions, she lets out a grief stricken wail. And as they lead William from the courtroom they exchange one fleeting glance.

With each passing moment, Maggie's counsel for defence grows paler. In a vain attempt, ashen-faced and at times with a slight tremor in his voice, he tries to build a good case. But in truth – it's an impossible task. He leans in close to Maggie and whispers to her. ‘Counsel is not permitted to contradict the facts provided by the King's Advocate and word-of-mouth statements are perfectly acceptable. I'll defend you to the best of my ability, Mrs Dickson, but this is it now, this is our last chance.' He walks from the dock to approach the jury.

‘Ladies and gentleman of the jury, as you are aware counsel for the accused is allowed to sum up as much evidence as he can muster on his client's behalf, and be the last speaker before the jury withdraw to consider the verdict.' Maggie's advocate pauses for effect and then points to the accused. ‘Look at her. A poor fishwife abandoned by her husband, trying to find him all alone without a chaperone. And what is her defence you might ask? Well, let me tell you, Margaret Dickson has been separated from her husband for at least a year. And it is a well-known fact that the concealment of pregnancy murder act only applies to unmarried women, as those who have husbands are under no temptation to murder their children. Furthermore, as you may remember, the hydrostatsy test, which involves the child's lungs in the sink or swim theory, should be treated with much doubt as the results are indefinite.' The advocate clears his voice and removes his spectacles, turning away from the accused to face the jury. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have listened to the evidence and must come to the most logical conclusion. Margaret Dickson is innocent of concealment of pregnancy and the murder of her child.'

***

The wait is torturous, like she's coming to the end of a long hard journey, but in truth Maggie is terrified. Once the verdict is in, Maggie shakes uncontrollably, her stomach churning as the guards drag her from her filthy cell. Outside, her eyes adjust to a searing light and her leg chains clank and rub as she hobbles along the dusty street. A scorching sun burns in the summer sky, its hot rays beating down on her pale face.