THE CROWN CASE.
The girl, who, so far as is known to the public, was a modest,
obedient, intelligent, quiet child, between 12 and 13 years of age,
left her aunt’s home at Jolimont between half-past 12 and a quarter
to 1, to go to Bennet and Woolcock’s butcher’s shop in Swanston St.,
Melbourne, where her uncle acted as secretary. She wore a navy blue
box-pleated overall, a white blouse with blue spots, and a Panama
hat with a conspicuous badge of a high school on it. At about a
quarter past 1 she arrived at the shop, went upstairs to her uncle’s
room, returned shortly afterwards without seeing her uncle, and left
the shop about a quarter of an hour after her arrival at it, carrying a
parcel of meat some eight or nine pounds in weight. She was next seen
in Little Collins Street, and she evidently went up Little Collins
Street to Russell Street, and down Russell Street into Bourke Street,
because “well after a quarter past 2” she was noticed by Mrs. and Miss
Edmonds about 50 yards from the entrance to the Eastern Arcade. She
went into the Arcade in front of the ladies, and when she was about
half-way through they turned up the stairs to the right, and did not
see her again. Colin Ross at this time, according to Mrs. Edmonds, was
standing in front of his door. In cross-examination, Mrs. Edmonds fixed
the time at which she last saw the girl at a quarter to 3, because, she
said, “I looked at the clock on the balcony.” Between half-past 2 and 3
o’clock Mr. and Mrs. Stanley Young saw the girl come out of the Arcade,
walk across Little Collins Street, and stand at what they described as
the Adam and Eve corner.
[Illustration]
This means that she was standing near a lodging-house kept by a witness
named Ellis, in the delicensed premises which was formerly the Adam
and Eve Hotel. It is on the corner of Little Collins Street and Alfred
Place, Alfred Place being a rather pretentious right-of-way running
through to Collins Street. Had she desired to go to her destination,
which was the Masonic Chambers at the east end of Collins Street,
she might have gone either along Alfred Place to Collins Street, or
up Little Collins Street to Exhibition Street, and thence to Collins
Street. According to Mrs. Young, the girl looked frightened, and she
was seen to drop and pick up her parcel. The Youngs walked on down to
Russell Street, which would take her two or three minutes, they said,
and when they looked back the girl had disappeared. She might have
still been standing in Alfred Place, or she could have returned to the
Arcade, but they do not think she would have had time to have got to
Exhibition Street. That is the last seen of the girl by any witness
whose evidence is admitted by both sides to be credible. It should
be noted that she was then within an easy 10 minutes’ walk of Bennet
and Woolcock’s, and she had taken an hour and a quarter to cover the
distance.
ROSS INTERVIEWED.
The detectives first saw Ross on the morning of the 31st. He said that
he had seen a child answering to the description of the murdered girl,
but in reply to a direct question by Detective Piggott, “Ross, how much
do you know?” he replied: “I do not know anything.” On January 5th they
again saw Ross at his home, and brought him to the Detective Office,
where he was detained for eight hours, and made a statement, which was
taken down in writing. To show how consistent Ross was throughout as to
his movements on the fatal day, it is well that this statement should
be given in full. It is as follows:—
COLIN CAMPBELL ROSS states:—
“I am at present out of business. I was the holder
of the Australian Wine Shop license in the Eastern
Arcade for about nine months past. The license expired
on the 31st December, 1921. I reside at ‘Glenross,’
Ballarat Road, Footscray. On Friday, the 30th December,
I came into the shop about 2 p.m. It was a very quiet
day. Between 2 and 3 p.m. I was standing in front of
my shop, and looking about I saw a girl about 14 or 15
years of age in the Arcade. She was walking towards
Bourke Street, and stopped and looked in a fancy dress
costume window. I later saw her walking back, and she
appeared to have nothing to do. She wore a dark blue
dress, pleated, the pleats were large, light blouse,
white straw hat with a colour on it (looked like a
college hat), wore dark stockings and boots—she may
have had shoes on. I went back into the cafe. I cannot
say where she went. I was about the cafe all the
afternoon.
“About 4 o’clock, a friend of mine, Miss Gladys
Linderman, came to the saloon front. I spoke to her for
about an hour. She came into the private room, and we
had a talk in the room off the bar, the one in which
the cellar is which is unused. She and I went into the
Arcade at 4.45; remained talking for about 10 minutes.
I then saw her out into Little Collins Street. I made
an appointment to meet her again at 9 p.m. at the place
I left her. I went back into the cafe, and remained
until 6 p.m., when I left for home, got home about 7
p.m., had tea, left home at 8 p.m., came into the city,
waited at the corner of the Arcade in Little Collins
Street. Miss Linderman came to me at 9 p.m., and we
went straight into the cafe. We remained in there till
10.45, then left, locked the place up, went to King
Street. She went to her home, 276 King Street. After
leaving her I went to Spencer Street Station, took a
train, arrived home at 11.50 p.m., and remained there
all night.
“I know the shop opposite, No. 33. It is occupied by
a man named McKenzie. Several men visit there. I have
seen a stout, foreign man go there. I don’t know his
name—I never spoke to him in my life. I am sure he
has not visited the saloon. He has come to my door and
spoken to me. On one occasion, about four months ago,
I went over to that shop by his invitation. He desired
to explain a certain signalling patent. He unlocked the
door, and I went inside with him. I saw a box affair,
a couch, and nine or twelve chairs. I did not see the
patent—it was locked. I have never possessed a key of
that shop, and no person has ever loaned me one. I have
two keys of my wine saloon. I had one, and my brother
Stan had the other. On Friday I possessed one, and my
brother had the other. These keys are Yale keys. No
person could enter that wine shop unless let in by my
brother or myself. I think my brother was in the city
that night with his friends. I can’t say where he was.
“On the Saturday I was again in the saloon. It was
the last day of the license. I saw Mr. Clark, manager
of the Arcade, about 11 a.m., and arranged with him to
get me a key of the back gate of the Arcade, which is
locked by means of a chain and padlock. He gave me a
key about noon, and I left there about 6.15 p.m. I came
back to the Arcade at 6.50 a.m., Monday, and a van came
at 7 a.m., and then took my effects from the saloon,
which consisted of 26 chairs, 6 tables, a small couch,
a counter, 2 wooden partitions, shelves, and linoleum
off the floor, about 20 bottles of wine, and 9 flagons
of wine. There were two dozen glasses, and about 18
pictures. My brothers Stanley and Tom were with me. I
left there at 8.30 a.m., and went home. I handed the
keys to the caretaker.
“I cannot say what goes on inside No. 33 in the
Arcade, but I have seen several women going in and out,
and in company of McKenzie. I have never seen the other
man, who looks like an engineer, take women in there.
The ages of the women would range from about 20 years
and upwards. I cannot say if any person saw me with
Gladys Linderman while at the Arcade. I was not in the
company of any other woman that afternoon or evening
at the saloon. Close to the saloon, and about 36 feet
distant, is a man’s lavatory, the door of which is
generally locked. At night time it is occasionally left
open. I had a key of that lavatory. The water used in
my saloon was obtained from a tap in a recess adjoining
the cafe.”
“COLIN CAMPBELL ROSS.”
Witness: FREDERICK J. PIGGOTT.
This statement was obtained largely, as all police statements are, by
question and answer, and committed to paper in narrative form. When it
was concluded, further questions, more disjointed, were put to Ross,
and his answers being given, the question and answer were committed
to writing, and were signed by Ross. The supplementary statement thus
obtained is as follows:—
“I admit I did walk up and down Little Collins Street
in front of the Arcade from about 8.45 until 9 p.m.
I say there was not a light in my saloon after 10.45
p.m., unless my brother was in there. My brother was
first to enter my saloon on the Saturday morning. I
came while the detectives were talking to my brother.
He did not make any complaint about the condition of
the shop when I arrived. I did have two blankets in the
saloon. They were used as a rug or cover for the couch
to lie down on in the afternoons. I was home all day
Thursday. I was not well. I did not leave the shop on
Friday and say that I was ill. I was not away from the
saloon during the afternoon of Friday. I can give no
reason why my brother should say I was away ill. I have
not been engaged in a telephone conversation with a man
named Williams. I have not spoken on a telephone since
Thursday, 29th. I remember, before Miss G. Linderman
came to the cafe, there were two young women in the
bar. They would be 19 or 20 years of age, and they left
the saloon in company with two men. That was on Friday,
30th. In my opinion No. 33 is a brothel. Several men
have keys of the room.”
“COLIN CAMPBELL ROSS.”
Witness: FREDERICK J. PIGGOTT.
Ross was still further interrogated, but this part of his statement
was not taken down in writing. Piggott said: “Where did you have lunch
on Friday, December 30th?” and he replied: “At home,” and question and
answer proceeded as follow:—
What time did you get into your wine bar?—About 2 o’clock.
Who was in the bar?—A man named Allen and a woman.
Who was the woman?—I do not know, but Detective Lee ordered her out.
What time did you see Gladys Linderman?—About 4.45, and I remained
talking with her about three-quarters of an hour.[2]
[2] By comparing this question and answer with the statement, it will
be seen that Piggott was slightly in error here. What Ross said was
that it was 4.45 when he and Gladys left the saloon.
What time did you leave her?—About 6 o’clock, but I had to meet her
again.
Did you meet her?—Yes, I met her at 9 o’clock, as arranged.
What time did she leave?—About half-past 10.
Where did she go?—I saw her home. I got the train, and got home about
midnight.
This was the material that the police had to work on up to that time,
but about Tuesday, January 10, they received an important addition to
their stock of knowledge from a girl named Olive Maddox. This girl,
an admitted prostitute, said that, being a bit “potty” on Monday,
January 9, she had a conversation with Ivy Matthews, who advised her
to go and tell the police what she knew. What she told the police will
appear from her evidence to be given later. It is important to remember
that at this time, according to the police, Ivy Matthews had herself
given no information to them. In fact, she had been interrogated by
the detectives on January 5, and had told them that she knew nothing.
More than that, she met certain members of the Ross family outside the
Detective Office on that night, and indignantly protested against being
brought there to be catechised, saying that she knew nothing about the
matter. On the day of Ross’s arrest she was again at the Detective
Office, and seems to have hinted at something, because, while declining
to make any statement, she said: “Bring me face to face with Colin, and
I will ask him some questions.” She was never brought “face to face”
with Colin Ross. There is ample reason for believing that though the
police knew that when she came to give her evidence Matthews would
advance their case, they did not know exactly what she was going to
say. The position, therefore, is that, on January 23, the police had
practically no evidence against Ross. On that day Harding disclosed his
“confession,” and by January 26 Matthews had given to the world her
account of what she alleged she had seen and what she alleged Ross had
told her.
THE TRIAL.
Ross was committed at the Coroner’s inquest on January 26, and came
up for trial before Mr. Justice Schutt on February 20. Evidence was
given, as indicated above, as to the movements of the girl on the day
of her death. Medical evidence, to be dealt with later, was also given
and then the Crown called a succession of witnesses, who deposed as
to certain extraordinary “facts,” and as to certain admissions or
confessions supposed to have been made by Ross.
THE BLOODY BOTTLE.
The first of these was a man named Francis Lane Upton. Upton had not
been called at the inquest. The defence had been served with notice
that he would be called on the trial, and a short summary of his
evidence was given, according to practice. His evidence is remarkable,
not so much for its glaring improbability as for the fact that it was
dramatically abandoned by the Crown Prosecutor in his closing address
to the jury with the contemptuous intimation that he would not ask the
jury to “swing a cat on it.” How it has been assessed by the police is
shown by the fact that, in the distribution of the reward offered by
the Crown, Upton has not shared. That his evidence was prompted wholly
by a desire to share in the reward, or gain notoriety, was revealed by
his cross-examination. When that is borne in mind, it supplies its own
comment on the Crown’s contention that it is incredible that witnesses
like Olive Maddox, Ivy Matthews, Sydney Harding, and Joseph Dunstan
would have been so wicked as to come forward with false testimony to
swear away the life of an innocent man.
The story told by Upton was that he was a labourer out of work, that he
had been about the town on December 30, fell asleep in the Flagstaff
Gardens, walked through the Victoria Markets “and all round trying
to rake up a drink,” and found himself, at about half-past 12 or 1
o’clock, at Ross’s saloon, which he had heard of some months before. By
this time he was sober, but very thirsty. Entering the Arcade by the
little Collins Street gate, and seeing a light in the saloon, he went
to the second door of the establishment—the door nearer Bourke Street.
It was not locked, and he pushed it, and it came open. As he did so he
heard a woman’s voice saying: “Oh, my God, darling, how are we going to
get rid of it?” Just then Ross said: “There is somebody here,” and he
rushed out like a lunatic. Upton said to him when he got to the door:
“What about a bottle?” Ross had a bar towel or some such thing on his
arm, his hands were covered with something that looked like blood; he
rushed back, and seized a bottle from behind the bar, thrust it into
Upton’s hands, and pushed him from the room, without even waiting to
take the money which Upton had ready in his hand. Upton walked down
Little Collins Street to Russell Street, where he discovered that there
was blood on the bottle. He walked on down Little Collins Street to
William Street, thence down to Flinders Street, and at the corner of
William Street and Flinders Street he disposed of the bottle (out of
which he had had one drink) in what he described as a culvert or sewer.
In cross-examination it was disclosed that Upton had come from the
Mallee a day or two before the tragedy. He read of the murder in the
Footscray Gardens on the Monday, and he immediately returned to the
Mallee, worked in several places, drank the proceeds of his labour,
heard about the reward, and, when he was without money, went to the
Donald Police Station and told the officer in charge that he “was
connected with Alma Tirtschke’s murder.” He was detained, and a
detective went up from Melbourne to bring him down. Upton’s evidence
may be dismissed with the remark that it was physically impossible for
him to have seen from where he said he was the things he said that he
did see (for a glance at the plan will show that, from the second door,
he could not see the cubicle), and with the further observation that
his evidence having been formally repudiated by the Crown, no notice
whatever was taken of it in either Court of Appeal. He was a derelict,
a drunkard, a wife deserter, a notorious romancer, a convicted
criminal, and his evidence was a fitting prologue to that which was
immediately to follow.
OLIVE MADDOX’S EVIDENCE.
Olive May Maddox was the next witness. She was living at the time of
the inquest at Cambridge Street, Collingwood, and when asked, “Have you
any other means of livelihood but prostitution?” she answered: “No,
not exactly.” She said she knew Ross well, and she used to visit his
premises every day up to the time of the shooting affray. (That was
in the previous November, and up to that time Ivy Matthews had been
employed there.) Since the shooting affray she had only visited the
cafe “once, sometimes twice, sometimes three times or four times or
five times a week at the most.” She went to the wine cafe on December
30 at five minutes past 5, walked straight into the bar with another
girl named Jean Dyson, and ordered two drinks at the counter. She then
looked into the parlour through the curtains hanging from the arched
doorway between the two main rooms in the saloon, and seeing a girl
named Lil. Harrison in that room she went in. As she passed the beaded
curtains of the small compartment on the right she saw the little
girl in it—that is to say, she described the girl she saw, and if her
evidence is true there can be no doubt the girl was Alma Tirtschke.
There was a glass in front of her, “but you couldn’t tell whether the
contents were white or whether it was empty.” There were, she said,
a couple of strange men also in the room. The two men were near the
entrance, and the girl was near the corner. After talking to Harrison
for a time, she came back into the bar to her friend, and seeing Ross,
she said, “Hello, Col., she is a young kid to be drinking.” He replied:
“Oh, if she wants it she can have it.”
At a quarter past 5 Maddox left, and she returned about five minutes
to 6. She ordered drinks, and went again into the other room. Lil.
Harrison was still there, but the little girl was no longer in the
beaded room. Maddox left soon after 6, and she did not see Ross on that
occasion. She next saw him on Thursday night, January 5, “down where
the old Repatriation was in Jolimont, just off Flinders Street.” Maddox
had been there with some girls, and Ross, when she saw him, was with
“a girl named Florrie Dobson and another named Pauline Warburton, and
their two young chaps.” “We started talking about different things,”
she said, “and then Ross said: ‘What do you think about this case,
Ol.?’ I said: ‘I don’t know; if I knew anything I wouldn’t tell the
police.’ He said: ‘You don’t want to tell them if you know anything.
The papers all say that she was a goody-goody, but that is only for the
sake of the public. She was a cheeky little devil, and’”—and he added a
disgusting comment. He said also, the witness added: “I tried to pool
the b⸺ b⸺ of a Madame Ghurka. The police came to me and asked me if I
saw anything about the little girl, and I told them I saw her looking
in Madame Ghurka’s window, and I tried to pool the b⸺ b⸺ because she
decoys little girls when they are missing away from home.”
In her cross-examination Maddox admitted that she knew from the papers
the description of the little girl’s dress, and that it was after
she had had a conversation with Ivy Matthews on the subject that she
informed the police. That conversation took place on the Tuesday,
January 10. She told Matthews she was afraid to go to the police on
account of her convictions, and Matthews asked her whether she really
had any doubt it was the little girl, and she said she was positive.
Matthews said: “The police cannot touch you,” and she replied: “Well, I
will chance it, and go and do it.” She also admitted that on Saturday
afternoon, December 31, she was arrested for absconding from her bail,
and she remained in the watchhouse until the Sunday afternoon. It is
worthy of note that no proceedings have been taken against Olive Maddox
on that charge. She admitted also that the meeting on the Thursday
evening was purely by chance, as far as she was concerned. Asked how
many people were in the saloon when she was there at 5 o’clock, she
said she did not know how many were in the bar, but in the parlour
there were two girls she knew, and one she didn’t know, and two or
three men, and there were two other men in the beaded room with the
little girl.
Therefore, there were seven or eight persons who were in as good a
position as Maddox to see the little girl, if, in fact, she had been in
the saloon.
THE MATTHEWS CONFESSION.
Ivy Matthews was the next witness. She “didn’t quite know” what to say
her occupation was, as just at present she was out of employment, but
she had been a barmaid. She had been employed by the accused from the
23rd of December, 1920, up to some time in November, 1921. She left the
day following Ross’s acquittal on the shooting charge. She described
minutely the interior of the wine saloon as it was in her time, and on
being shown two blankets, said that one of them—a greeny-blue military
blanket—was on the couch in the cubicle in her time, but not the
other, a reddish brown blanket. On the afternoon of Friday, December
30, she was at the bar door, she said, talking to Stanley Ross, who
had beckoned her up while she was talking to a friend in the Arcade.
Whilst she was talking to Stanley, Colin Ross came out of the little
room at the end of the bar, and as he opened the curtains to come out
she saw a child sitting on a chair. Colin came along the bar and poured
out a drink. She saw the glass, but did not see what was poured into
it. Colin returned to the little room, and as, he did so he must have
said something to the girl, because she parted the curtains “and looked
straight out at me.” She gave a very minute description of the child’s
hair and clothing, considering the very cursory glance she admitted
having had. Colin, she said, must have noticed her, but he did not
acknowledge her in any way.
Matthews said nothing of how long she stayed. Next day, at the
Melbourne Hotel, at 3 o’clock, where she had an appointment, she read
in “Truth,” so she said, of the murder of the little girl, and she
went straight to Ross’s wine cafe. “He was busy serving behind the
bar,” she continued, “and I walked past the wine cafe door twice. I
mean that I walked past and I came back again. The second time he saw
me and he came to the door without a coat, and he spoke to me [although
he wouldn’t acknowledge her on the previous day]. I was the first
to speak. I said, ‘I see about this murder; why did you do it?’ He
said,‘What are you getting at?’ I said, ‘You know very well; why did
you do it, Colin?’ He said, ‘Do what?’ I said, ‘You know very well what
you did. That child was in your wine cafe yesterday afternoon, for I
saw her.’ He said, ‘Not me.’ And with that he said, ‘People are looking
at us; walk out into Little Collins Street, Ivy, and I will follow
you.’ He returned to the wine cafe and put on his coat. I stood at the
corner in Little Collins Street for perhaps two minutes, and then he
followed me. Before that, when he said, ‘I did not do anything like
that,’ I said, ‘Don’t tell me that, because I know too well it is you,
for I saw the child in your place yesterday.’ It was then he passed the
remark that people were looking.”
“When he came into Little Collins Street what did he say,” she was
asked.
“I cannot think of the exact words,” she replied.
“Well, tell us the substance of it,” said His Honour.
Mr. Macindoe: What did he say when you resumed the conversation?—First
of all he tried to make out that I did not see the girl.
His Honour: Well, what did he say?—He said it was not the child. He
simply said: “You know I did not have that child in there.” I said,
“Gracious me, I looked at the child myself, and I know it was the same
child by the descriptions given,” and for a long while he hung out that
this was not the child.
Mr. Macindoe: How did he hang out?—He said it was not the child. I
cannot tell you exactly every word he said.
This was in the Arcade?—It was in Little Collins Street, just at the
corner of the Arcade.
Well, what then?—I was so sure it was the child, and I would make him
know it was the child.
Will you tell us what he said?—I am trying to explain it.
His Honour: You have been told several times that you are only supposed
to tell what was done, or what was said, between you and the accused,
instead of telling your inferences, or assumptions, or suppositions.
Tell us now what took place—what was said.
Mr. Macindoe: Don’t tell us why he said things; just tell us what
he said.—Well, at last he told me that it was the child. He told me
that the child came to him while he was at the door, on the Friday
afternoon. He said there was no business; there was no one there and
he was standing at his door, and when the child came up and asked him
for a drink he said, “I took her in and gave her a lemonade.” I said,
“When the child came and asked you for a drink of lemonade why didn’t
you take her into the bar? Why did you take her to that little room?” I
said, “I know you too well. I know what you are with little children.”
He said: “On my life, Ivy, I did not take her in there with any evil
intention, but when I got her there I found that she knew absolutely
what I was going to do with her if I wanted her. Assuming that this⸺”
Mr. Macindoe: Never mind the assumption. Did he say what he
assumed?—Well, you cannot expect me to say it just the way he put it to
me.
His Honour: No, it is the substance of it we want.—Well, I am trying to
tell you to the best of my ability.
I am not saying that you are not, but tell us what he said.—He said
that after taking the child in there he gave her a drink of lemonade.
He did not say wine; he said lemonade. And she stayed on there talking
to him for a while. She stayed there until about four. He said a girl
named Gladys came to see him and he told the child to go through to
the little room with curtains and he kept her in there until Gladys
Linderman left, and he then brought her back into the little private
room.
Mr. Macindoe: What did he say then?—After that, he said he stayed with
her during the rest of the afternoon, with the full intention at six
o’clock of letting her go; but when six o’clock came she remained on.
He said that after six o’clock, when Stanley went, he left us in there
together. I could not tell you just exactly what he said that led up to
the⸺
His Honour: No, you need not tell us exactly; just as far as you
remember the substance of it.—I can remember everything quite well, but
it is⸺
His Honour: I think if you would not go quite so fast you would
remember better.
Mr. Macindoe: What did he say then?—Just after that he said that he had
outraged the child; he said that between six and eight o’clock he had
outraged her.
What did he say about it?—What do you mean?
Well, I suppose he didn’t say, “I outraged the child”? No, that is the
hardest part of it.—I cannot say it.
His Honour: Is it because you cannot remember it, or because it is too
foul?—It is because the language he used is too foul. I cannot say it.
Will you write it down?—I will try to the best of my ability to say it.
Mr. Macindoe: What was it, as near you can remember?—He said, first of
all, “After Stan went, I got fooling about with her, and you know the
disease I am suffering from, and when in the company of young children
I feel I cannot control myself. It was all over in a minute.”
Are those his words?—That is just using my own language.
His Honour: Is that the substance of what he said?—Yes, that is the
substance, and he said: “After it was all over I could have taken a
knife and slashed her up, and myself too, because she led me on to it.
He tried to point out to me that, so he believed, she went there for an
immoral purpose. That is what he said to me. That is what he tried to
imply to my mind.”
The witness then wrote down the exact words used, which was a statement
in coarse language that the girl had previously been tampered with.
The witness went on to tell what happened after the girl’s death.
“After it had happened, he said that he had a friend to meet—a girl
friend. He took the body of the little girl and put it into the beaded
room, and left it wrapped up in a blanket, and at nine o’clock, or
half-past nine he brought a girl named Gladys Wain there. She stayed
until ten o’clock. He took her home at ten o’clock, and came back
between ten and half-past, after seeing her to the station or tram, and
removed the body from the beaded room into the small room off the bar.
He then went to Footscray by train, but came back again between one
and two a.m. I asked him how he got back, and he said he came by motor
car, and went in there and looked for a place to put the body. He first
thought of putting it in the recess alongside the wine cafe, but that
the ‘Skytalians’ would be blamed for a thing like that. Then he thought
he would put it in Mac’s room (that is room 33 opposite, occupied by a
man named McKenzie). I said what an awful thing to do. He said: ‘I did
the very best thing. I put it in the street.’”
It will be noted that up to this time the witness had not said a word
of the actual death of the child, and that great difficulty had been
experienced in dragging a consecutive story from her. She was brought
back to the main point by the question: “Did he tell you at any time
how the girl had died?” She answered: “I had better write it down. He
strangled her while he was going with her. He said he strangled her
in his passion. He said he heard or saw where they were saying a cord
had been round the child’s neck. He said that was not so. He said: ‘I
pressed round her with my hands. I did not mean to kill her; but it was
my passion that did it.’ He said she was dead before he knew where he
was. That was just his words to me.”
In cross-examination, the witness absolutely declined to say anything
that would let light in on her past life. She objected to saying where
she lived, and when that was forced from her she said at an apartment
house at 25 Rathdown Street. Asked if among the people who lived
there was a woman named Julia Gibson, she replied that she was the
proprietress. Asked if Julia Gibson was identical with Madame Ghurka,
she said she did not feel called upon to say anything as to the names
Mrs. Gibson assumed. She knew her as Mrs. Gibson, the proprietress of
the boarding-house, but didn’t know she was a fortune-teller, though
she knew her as a phrenologist. She had lived with her since the
previous November. She admitted that she had made several additions to
her evidence as given at the inquest, and these are so suggestive that
they will be referred to in more detail later. She admitted that she
had gone—or “may have gone”—at different times under the names of Ivy
Sutton, Ivy Dolan, and Ivy Marshall. She swore that she was married,
but declined to say what her married name was. She admitted that Ross
had dismissed her from his employ following the shooting case with
the intimation that, after the evidence she had given in the case, he
“would not have a bitch like her about the premises.” “Those were his
exact words to me,” she said. She admitted that, after her dismissal,
she claimed to be a partner, and that a lengthy correspondence ensued
between her solicitor and Ross, in which she demanded a week’s wages
in lieu of notice, and claimed a share in the partnership; that Ross
claimed £10 from her as a debt, and that her solicitors wrote to him,
in reply, accusing him of insulting her by calling her Miss Matthews,
instead of Mrs., “on account of not being able to force from her the
sum of £10 which he wished to obtain.” She admitted that Ross sued her
for the £10, but withdrew the case on the morning of the return of
the summons in petty sessions; that her solicitor wrote saying that,
if the costs were not paid, a warrant would issue. All these letters
were written with her authority, but she denied that there was any
ill-feeling whatever between her and Ross. She did admit, however, that
Ross and she had never spoken from the day she left his employ until
the day she spoke to him about the tragedy.
By comparing the evidence which Matthews gave at the inquest with
that which she gave at the trial, it will be seen that on the trial
important additions were made. The significance of the additions will
be discussed later when her evidence is being analysed, but here it
may be said that at the inquest she said nothing about Ross going back
for his coat; she never mentioned the name of Gladys Wain (or Gladys
Linderman), or anything about meeting with such a woman. She did not
say in the Coroner’s Court anything about the tragedy having happened
after Stanley left; she did not say anything about Ross having got the
murdered girl in the afternoon to go from the little room (the cubicle)
off the bar to the little room off the parlour (the beaded room), in
order to clear the way for Gladys Wain, or about having brought her
back when Gladys Wain was gone; she did not say that Ross had said
that, when Gladys was coming in the evening, he took the dead body from
the cubicle to the beaded room, and then came back between 10 o’clock
and half-past 10, and shifted it from the beaded room back to the
cubicle.
What is more important than all this, at the inquest Matthews made
the conversations all take place in Little Collins Street. In one way
this may seem a small matter, but it is very important, because when
one is retailing a conversation he can clearly visualise the place
where he was standing when certain things were said. Matthews’s exact
words at the inquest were: “After I passed the third time he came out,
and I spoke to him in Little Collins Street.” She gives some words of
the conversation, and then she added: “then he told me to walk along
a little bit, as people were looking at us from the Arcade. I walked
along a little bit, and several people went past, and they could
have noticed me.” On the trial the witness made the early part of
the conversation take place at the door of the saloon, and then the
suggestion came from Ross, she says, that they should walk out into
Little Collins Street, as people were looking at them. The significance
of this alteration will also be adverted to later.
HARDING’S STORY.
Deferring comment upon these matters for the moment, we will proceed
with the evidence of the next disreputable witness—the odious Sydney
John Harding, who now obtains £250 out of the reward and a free pardon
for his “services to the State.”
Harding at this time was awaiting trial on a charge of shopbreaking,
together with another man named Joseph Dunstan. He had a list of
convictions at the time so long that he could not remember them all. He
was a wife deserter, and was living in adultery with the so-called Ruby
Harding. A verdict of guilty against him might almost of a certainty
have been expected to result in an indeterminate sentence for him.
The “key,” as it is called, has a peculiar terror for criminals. As
he lay in the Melbourne Gaol awaiting trial he had a tremendously
strong inducement to try and render some service to the State. Harding
arrived in Melbourne from Sydney on January 4, a fugitive from
justice. He was on bail in that city, and he bolted. He was arrested on
the 9th, and lodged in the Melbourne Gaol. He was in the remand yard
with different persons, including Ross at different times, and on the
23rd of January was in the yard with four men, again including Ross.
The conversation was general for a while, he said, and then reverted to
Ross’s case.
“I remarked to Ross,” he said, “that a girl named Ruby, whom we both
knew, informed me that a woman was down in the female division of the
prison in connection with his case. He said: ‘I wonder if it is Ivy
Matthews?’ I said: ‘It could hardly have been her, for Ruby knows her,
and would have told me so.’ He said: ‘I wonder what she says?’ I said:
‘Can she say anything?’ and he said: ‘No.’ I said: ‘Why worry?’” Ross
and he meantime were walking up and down the yard, which is triangular
in shape, while Dunstan, because he had rheumatism, was sitting under
the shed on a form, “idly turning over the pages of a magazine.”
“After saying ‘Why worry?’” said Harding, “I said: ‘Did you see the
girl?’ He said: ‘Yes.’ I said: ‘How was she dressed?’ He said: ‘She
was dressed in a blue skirt and a white blouse, and a light-coloured
hat with a ribbon band around it, and black shoes and stockings.’ I
said: ‘Did you tell the detectives you saw her?’ and he said: ‘Yes,
but I told them she had black boots on.’ I said: ‘Did you speak to the
girl?’ and he said: ‘No.’ After a little while he said to me: ‘What do
you think of the case?’ I said: ‘I do not know any of the details of
the case, and, therefore, I am not qualified to offer an opinion.’ We
ceased talking on that for a little while, and continued walking up
and down, and then he said to me: ‘Can a man trust you?’ I said: ‘Yes;
I have known you a good time, and have not done you any harm, have
I?’ He said: ‘No.’ I said: ‘Did you speak to the girl?’ and he said:
‘Yes.’ I said: ‘Where?’ He said she was standing in front of Madame
Ghurka’s, and she came down the Arcade, and when she got in front of
his place he spoke to her, and she took no notice of him at first. He
said: ‘You have nothing to be afraid of. I own this place, and if you
are tired you can come in and sit down.’ I asked him what time this
was. He said about a quarter to 3, or a quarter past 3, I am not sure
which. I said: ‘Did you tell the detectives you spoke to her?’ and
he said: ‘No.’ I said: ‘Did you take her into the cafe?’ and he said
yes, she went in, and he took her into the cubicle near the counter. I
said: ‘Could not any of your customers see her?’ He said: ‘No; we were
not busy that day, and the customers were in the parlour.’ When he had
the girl in the cubicle, he said, he spoke to her for a few moments,
and then offered her a drink of sweet wine. She at first refused it,
but eventually accepted it and sipped it, and appeared to like it. He
said he gave her a second glass, and gave her in all three glasses.
He said about this time a woman whom he knew came to the door of the
cafe, and he went and spoke to her for about three-quarters of an hour,
that when she left he went back to the cubicle and the girl was asleep.
About this time his own girl came to the door of the cafe, and he went
and spoke to her until nearly 6 o’clock. I asked him who served his
customers while he was talking to the girl. He said his brother did. I
said: ‘Could not your brother see the girl in the cubicle when he went
behind the counter to get the drinks?’ He said: ‘No, the screen was
down, and when the screen was down no one dared to go into the cubicle.’
“At 6 o’clock, or a few seconds afterwards, he closed the wine cafe
and went back into the cubicle. The little girl was still asleep, and
he could not resist the temptation. I asked him did she call out, and
he said: ‘Yes, she moaned and sang out,’ but he put his hand over her
mouth, and she stopped and appeared to faint. After a little time
she commenced again to call out, and he went in to stop her, and
in endeavoring to stop her from singing out, he said, he must have
choked her. He further added that ‘you will hear them saying that she
was choked with a piece of wire or a piece of rope, but that was not
so.’ He said he picked up her hand, and it appeared to be like a dead
person’s hand, because it fell just like a dead person’s hand would
do. I said to him: ‘I suppose you got very excited when you realised
what had happened?’ He said: ‘No; I got suddenly cool, and commenced
to think.’ There was a great deal of blood about, he said, and he got
a bucket and got some water from the tap, and washed the cubicle and
around the cubicle, but seeing that, by comparison, the rest of the
bar looked dirtier than the cubicle, he washed the whole lot. I asked
him: ‘What time was this—7 or 8?’ and he said: ‘Yes, about that time.’
I said: ‘Was it before you met your girl?’ He said: ‘Yes,’ that he had
time to clean himself and go for a walk around the town before meeting
his girl. I asked him did he meet his girl, and he said he did. I said:
‘You took a risk, didn’t you, in meeting her?’ He said: ‘No, I would
have taken a bigger risk had I not met her, because I would have had a
job to prove my whereabouts.’ I said: ‘Could not she see the girl when
she went into the wine cafe?’ He said: ‘No, we had our drink in the
parlour.’
“He said he took his girl home at half-past 10, and caught the twenty
to 11 train to Footscray. When he got to Footscray he got on to the
electric tram for his home. Whilst on the tram he created a diversion
so as to attract the attention of the passengers and conductor, so that
he could have them as witnesses to prove an alibi. I asked him if he
went home, and he said: ‘Yes.’ I said: ‘Did you come back to Melbourne
by car?’ He said: ‘No,’ that he had a bike. I said: ‘A motor bike?’ He
said: ‘No, a push bike.’ I said: ‘Have you a push bike of your own?’ He
said: ‘No, but a man I know, who lives near us, had a push bike, and I
know where it is kept.’ I said: ‘Did you go straight into the Arcade?’
He said: ‘Yes.’ I said: ‘But the gates are locked there at night.’ He
said: ‘Yes, but I have a key.’ I said: ‘When you went to the Arcade did
you go straight in and remove the body?’ He said: ‘No. I went in and
took the girl’s clothes off,’ that he went out and walked around the
block to see if there was anybody about, that he came back and rolled
the body in a coat or an overcoat—I don’t know which—and carried it to
the lane. I asked him was he going to put it in the sewer, and he said
he did not know. I said: ‘Did you not know there was a sewer there?’ He
said he did, but he heard somebody coming, and he went from the lane
into Little Collins Street, and saw a man coming down from the Adam and
Eve Hotel. He added that, if they tried to put that over him, he would
ask what the old bastard was doing there at 1 o’clock in the morning.
I said: ‘Where did you go then?’ He said he went back to the cafe. I
asked him what he did with the clothes. He said he made a bundle of
them, put them on his bicycle, and rode to Footscray, that when he got
to the first hotel on the Footscray road he got off the bicycle and sat
on the side of the road and tore the clothing into strips and bits. He
went round with the bicycle and distributed the strips and bits along
the road, and when he came to the bridge crossing the river he threw
one shoe and some of the strips into the river, and then distributed
more strips, and went down the road and down Nicholson street to the
Ammunition Works, to the river, and threw the other shoe and some more
strips in. He then went back and got his bicycle and rode home to bed.
“Before this I said: ‘Supposing they open the girl’s stomach and find
wine in it?’ He said: ‘What do they want to open her stomach for when
they know she died of strangulation?’ I said: ‘Suppose they do open
it?’ He said: ‘I’m not the only one who could give her wine; couldn’t
I sell a bottle of wine over the counter in the Arcade to anyone, and
couldn’t they give it to her to drink?’ I said: ‘That is so.’ He then
said: ‘What do you think of the case?’ I said: ‘Pretty good; have you
told anybody else?’ He said: ‘No. Sonenberg told me to keep my mouth
shut.’ I said: ‘Why didn’t you keep your mouth shut?’ He said: ‘I can
trust you; anyhow, you are in here.’”
On the next day, said Harding, the conversation was resumed. “I asked
him did he always have a screen up in that cubicle. He said: ‘No; I
used the one in the parlour—the red screen.’” Ross also said (according
to the witness) that there was a good deal of blood about, and on being
asked by the Crown Prosecutor: “Did he say anything about the old man
again?” Harding replied: “He passed the remark that this old bloke,
about 70 years of age, was there, and if they put that over on him he
said: ‘I will ask what he was doing there, and that he is just the sort
of fellow they would pick for that sort of crime, and that they would
never think a young fellow like me would do it.’”
In cross-examination, Harding was asked by Mr. Maxwell: “Did Ross tell
you that, on that night, he had had hard luck in that he was seen by so
many people?” “He did not,” said Harding.
“Did he not tell you that, when he was in the Arcade, a man had come up
and asked him whether he could lend him a pencil?”—No.
Mr. Maxwell was slightly in error there, for what Alberts had said was
that Ross came to him and asked him for a pencil.
“Did he not tell you that, while he was preparing the body for removal,
a man pushed his way into the wine cafe, and that he (Ross) went
out with his hand covered with blood, and served him with a bloody
bottle?”—“No.”
“Did he not tell you that he had told about the tragedy to Ivy
Matthews?”—“No; each time he mentioned Ivy Matthews it was with some
execration.”
Asked as to his record, Harding said he was 30 years of age, had been
convicted “about nine or ten times—it might be eleven.” His offences
included housebreaking, larceny, assault, wounding, escaping from
custody, and a fourteen days’ “solitary” while in prison for making
false statements against two warders. The confession, he said, was made
on Monday, January 23rd, and that same evening he sent for the governor
and asked him to send for Detective Walsh, and when Walsh came he
communicated it to them. The inquest was on the 25th and 26th, and it
finished about midday on the latter date. He thought he saw a report of
his evidence in the “Age” of the next day, and Dunstan might have seen
that report. When asked how long he remained in gaol after making his
statement to the Governor, he answered: “Until the 27th of January—no,
it was more than that, I think the 30th January.”
DUNSTAN’S CORROBORATION.
Dunstan was then called to corroborate Harding. He was awaiting trial
with Harding for housebreaking, and at the Police Court he had pleaded
guilty, and had exonerated Harding. It should be recalled here,
however, that when the two men came up for trial, and the same course
was adopted, the jury declined to accept the story that Harding knew
nothing of the charge, and he was found guilty of receiving. Dunstan
had twice previously been convicted of larceny, and he was one of the
five that were in the remand yard on January 23. His story was that
he heard certain answers made by Ross, but only one question put by
Harding. The answers were: “I was talking to the girl”; “if they do
find any wine inside her, that ain’t to say I gave it to her”; “my
brother was serving”; “I left my girl at half-past 10”; “I ain’t the
only man that has got a disease”; “no, a bike”; “I will ask the old
bastard what he was doing there at half-past 1”; “Ammunition Works.”
The only question he heard Harding ask was: “How was she dressed?”
Dunstan admitted that when Ross came back from the inquest Ross said
to him: “That is a nice cobber of yours, to go into the box and swear
a man’s life away.” Dunstan had not been called at the inquest. He said
that he first told the Governor what he had heard on the Friday or the
Saturday two or three days after the inquest. He had had opportunities
for quiet talks with Harding in the meantime, but there had been no
conversations on the subject of Harding’s evidence. He said he had
never read in the papers any account of Harding’s evidence. Harding had
asked him had he heard the conversation, and he had told Harding that
what he had heard he would tell to the governor of the gaol. He had not
told Harding, because he “didn’t have much time for him.” Being shown a
copy of the “Herald,” with Harding’s photograph in it, and being asked
if he had seen that before, he said: “I do believe I did.” He couldn’t
say when it was, but it was when it was in gaol. He had said that he
never read a paper in gaol, but that didn’t mean that he had never seen
one. It was only a passing glance of the “Herald” as he walked up and
down the yard.
Harding, who had been out of court, was then recalled, and further
cross-examined by Mr. Maxwell. He said that, on the day following the
inquest, he and Dunstan were reading a paper, either the “Age” or the
“Herald”—that is, he was reading it aloud, and Dunstan was looking over
his shoulder. He had often had papers lent from the adjoining yards,
and on these occasions Dunstan got the benefit of them.
ROSS’S MOVEMENTS.
We now come to a different class of evidence—the evidence which
purported to tell of the movements of Ross on the important dates. The
conflict between this evidence and the supposed confessions and the
inherent improbability of the evidence itself will be dealt with later.
David Alberts, an eccentric-looking individual, who described himself
as a vaudeville artist, residing at 47 Little Smith Street, Fitzroy,
said that he left home about half-past 6, and between half-past 7 and
a quarter to 8 he walked into the Arcade through the Little Collins
Street gate. Opposite the wine saloon he saw a man whom he now
recognised as Ross. The man asked him if he could lend him a pencil.
Alberts said: “I am sorry; I have not got one,” and walked on. He
went as far as the middle of the building, and seeing there was no
light in the office upstairs, he walked back, and the man was then
standing in the doorway of the wine saloon. He recognised Ross by his
gold teeth and by his hair, which was brushed neatly back. It would,
he said, be about three weeks after the incident that he went to the
Detective Office and reported it. He knew the reward was offered
in the meantime, “but,” he said, “I was looking for no reward.” It
should, however, be mentioned here that he has shared in the reward.
It may also be taken as certain that, if Alberts was honest, he was
mistaken, for the evidence that Ross was at home between 7 and 8, and
came back to Footscray on the tram with Mrs. Kee and George Dawsey,
may be accepted as being beyond question. Apart from that, however, it
is simply incredible that a man who was engaged in the gruesome task
of washing away the bloodstains of a murdered victim, and who would
have the deepest interest in keeping his presence in the Arcade at an
unwonted hour a close secret, should have gone out deliberately to ask
a passer-by for a lead pencil, which could be of no imaginable service
to him.
Alexander Olson, who described himself as a phrenologist, carrying on
business in the Eastern Arcade, said that, between 9 and a quarter
past 9, he walked out into Little Collins Street, to go to a Chinese
laundry, and he saw the accused man pacing up and down between the back
gate of the Eastern Market and the back gate of the Eastern Arcade. How
this evidence, so far from being damaging, supports the truthfulness
of Ross’s statement to the police, can be seen by a reference to the
statement, for this was the exact time that he was waiting outside the
Arcade gates for Gladys Wain.
Then we come to the evidence of George Arthur Ellis, “and very
important evidence it is,” said Mr. Justice Schutt in summing up to
the jury. Ellis keeps the “lodging-house” previously referred to as
the old Adam and Eve Hotel. On the night of the 30th December he was
sitting at his front door, at the corner of Alfred Place and Little
Collins Street. He saw Ross a little after 9 on that night. He next saw
him before 10 o’clock, then at 11, and two or three times after that,
until ten minutes to 1, when the witness wound his clocks and went to
bed. Ross was walking in and out of the Arcade. There was an arc lamp,
hung over the centre of the street, between where the witness sat and
where Ross was walking up and down. At a quarter to 1 two Italians
came out of the Arcade and bade him good-night. Some time after he had
gone in he heard a loud report, and he rushed out on to the pavement,
and looked up and down for a few seconds, but saw no one. He had never
before seen Ross until that night. The light was almost equal to broad
daylight, and he admitted that he would be as obvious to Ross as
Ross was to him. When the two Italians came out the man walked down
towards Russell Street. They went up to Exhibition Street, and when
Ellis turned to look again Ross was back at his post. He would walk in
and out of the Arcade. Half the gates were open, and it was very dark
inside. He first informed the police of what he had seen on the Sunday
after the tragedy. His house, he said, was a lodging-house—night and
day. Anyone could get a bed for the night; they paid in advance, and
were sometimes gone before he got up. He identified Ross on the day
he was arrested—January 12. He had known the wine shop for years, but
had never been in it, though he had seen some “terrible bad characters
there,” and had seen some “terrible carryings on” there as he had been
coming through from Bourke Street. It was his habit to sit outside his
lodging-house every night as long as it was fine.
The two Italians, Michaluscki Nicoli and Francisco Anselmi, had been
in the Italian Club until about a quarter to 1. The club is at the
Little Collins Street end of the Arcade, upstairs, and the stairs go
up close to the wine saloon. There was an electric light upstairs, and
as they came down they noticed a light in the wine shop. When they
got into Little Collins Street one of them saw a man walking towards
Russell Street. They said “Good-night” to Ellis, and walked up towards
Exhibition Street. A third Italian, Baptisti Rollandi, the caretaker
of the Italian Club, came down about a quarter of an hour or twenty
minutes after Nicoli and Anselmi had gone, to lock the back gate, and
he saw no light in the wine shop when he came down. It was his duty to
lock the gate when the last member had left the club, whatever time
that happened to be.
A curious piece of evidence came out quite incidentally whilst this
last witness was in the box. Ross, at about 3 o’clock, or half-past 3,
on the Friday, had asked Rollandi for the loan of a key of the back
gate. The witness said: “I can’t give my key to anybody; go to Mr.
Clarke, the manager; he might give you one.” This looked suspicious,
until it was revealed that Ross wanted the key in order to get into
the Arcade early on the Monday morning to remove his things from the
saloon, Saturday being the last night of the license, and Monday being
the New Year’s Day holiday. The prisoner did get the key from Mr.
Clarke on the Saturday afternoon, and did remove his things early on
the Monday morning. This was mentioned to the police in the statement,
was no doubt verified by the detectives, and was not challenged when
Mr. Clarke was called. So far, therefore, from the circumstances of
Ross wishing to borrow the key being incriminating, it was entirely
in his favor, for it showed he had no key of his own, and is almost
conclusive evidence against his having told Harding that he had a key,
or having told Matthews that he came back “between 1 and 2,” when he
could not have got into the Arcade unless he had a key.
THE SHEEN OF GOLDEN HAIRS.
Two other pieces of evidence, of still another class, were used against
Ross. One was that hairs, which it was claimed were identified as
Alma Tirtschke’s, were found on blankets taken from Ross’s house at
Footscray on January 12; the other was that pieces of serge, which it
was claimed were identified as being part of the child’s dress, were
found on January 27 on the Footscray road, thus confirming the supposed
confession to Harding.
The story of the hair is one of the most remarkable and one of the most
unsatisfactory, in a case every feature of which is unsatisfactory.
On January 3, the day Alma Tirtschke was buried, Constable Portingale
went to the house where the body was lying, and with a pair of scissors
he cut a lock of hair from the left side of her head, just over the
ear, “and about six inches from her head.” When the detectives went
to Colin Ross’s house to arrest him on January 12, nearly a fortnight
after the tragedy, they took two blankets from a sofa in a vestibule.
“Brophy and I,” said Piggott, “opened one of the brown blankets which
were folded up. I turned the blanket back, and I could see the sheen of
what appeared to be some golden coloured hair. I said to all present:
‘Fold those blankets, and carefully place them in the car; they must
go to the Government Analyst.’” They did go to the Government Analyst
next day. Where they were kept in the meantime was not disclosed on the
trial, except that Ross, at about 2 o’clock on the afternoon of his
arrest, saw them lying across the back of a chair in the clerk’s room
of the Detective Office. The detectives, in the room of the Government
Analyst (Mr. Price), next day, spread the “reddish brown blanket” over
a wooden screen, and removed from it in his presence twenty-two hairs.
Five hairs were taken from the other blanket by Mr. Price himself. Mr.
Price then took ten or twelve hairs from the envelope containing Alma’s
hair. They had an average length, he said, of 6½ inches, the longest of
them being 9 inches. Let it be remembered that these were cut 6 inches
from the girl’s head. He then took the twenty-two hairs, and found
they, too, averaged 6½ inches, but the longest of them were 15, 12, 10,
9 inches, down to 2½ inches.
“They were not identical in colour with the hairs in the envelope,”
said Mr. Price; “they were of a light auburn colour. They were not a
deep red; they were of a light red colour. They were not cut-off hairs;
they had fallen out, or had been taken from the scalp somehow or other.
They did not appear to have been forcibly removed. One had a bulb root,
but the others did not show the presence of any bulbous portion or
root, as they would if dragged direct from the scalp. I came to the
conclusion that they were hairs about to be cast off in the ordinary
process of nature.”
“If hairs were cast off,” Mr. Price was asked, “would there be any
distinction in their colour as compared with hair that was actually
growing?” “Well, I cannot say that directly,” he replied, “but the
conclusion I formed, as regards the hairs I found on the blanket, was
that they did not come from the frontal portion; that they had not
been exposed much to the light; that they came from the back portion
of the head, and that that is the reason why their colour was not as
deep as those on the front portion.” The two sets of hair, he said,
were “very similar.” Microscopically, they agreed, because there was a
kind of coarseness about them, and when treated with caustic soda it
tended to bring out the pith portion of the hair, “and that pith was
identical with the hairs on the blanket.” The five hairs from the grey
blanket, Mr. Price said, were “similar in colour” to the hairs on the
reddish brown blanket, but that was all he had to say about them. When
being re-examined, he said that his reason for thinking the front and
back of the hair would differ was that in one head he had tested “the
frontal portion was quite red, and the hair from the back of the head
quite dark.”
On cross-examination, Mr. Price admitted that it was “several years”
since he had last made an examination of hairs from any woman’s head.
“It does not often come under my notice,” he added. He had made very
few such examinations in his life. Not only did the hairs from the
child’s head and the hairs from the blankets differ in colour, he said,
but they differed in diameter, and it was possible, but not probable,
that the hairs on the blankets may have come from another head. He had
examined many hairs since he had conducted this particular examination,
and he had, in the course of his examination, found some hairs that
were as like Alma Tirtschke’s as the hairs on the blankets.
It will be shown later that Mr. Price might, on the facts which he
deposed to, have been called as a powerful witness for the defence.
Yet in the atmosphere that prevailed, it seemed to be assumed that his
evidence advanced the case for the prosecution.
THE FINDING OF THE SERGE.
The finding of some pieces of serge on the Footscray Road, on the 26th
or 27th day of January, was also relied on strongly by the Crown. Mrs.
Violet May Sullivan was on the Footscray Road on January 26, and she
saw certain strips of serge on the left-hand side going to Kensington.
She didn’t pick them up. On the next day she read, in the alleged
confession to Harding, that Ross had said that he had strewn the serge
of the girl’s dress on the Footscray Road, and Mrs. Sullivan went back
to the road, and on the opposite side to where she had seen it on the
previous day she saw a roll of serge. She picked it up and handed it to
the local police. One piece she left at home. The serge was produced in
court. One piece was fairly large, in no sense a strip, looked quite
new and fresh, and bore no signs, as Mr. Justice Isaacs indicated in
his High Court judgment, of having lain on a dusty and busy road for
nearly four weeks. Of the rest, one was a strip of a quite different
texture, and looked much older than the piece. There were also a couple
of other fragments. None of them appeared to have been four weeks in
the dust. The serge that she had seen on the first day, Mrs. Sullivan
said, resembled the fragments, but were not like the larger piece, so
that, whether it was the same bundle she saw on both days does not
appear. When Mrs. Murdoch, the girl’s aunt, was in the box, the serge
was handed to her for identification, and she was asked to say what
she had to say about it. “It is very similar to the serge she had on
on that day,” said the witness. “All of it?” she was asked. “That has
nothing to do with it, I should say,” said the witness, discarding the
larger piece. The three other pieces, she said, were “very similar”
to the material of which the girl’s dress was composed. When asked
further, she said she recognised a row of stitching on two of the
pieces. “Do you recognise it as a row of stitching you did yourself?”
she was asked, and she answered: “No; I =fancy= the stitching
there is from the old stuff I made up. I =believe= that is the
stitching. It did have stitching on.” She remembered the old stitching,
because she had had some difficulty in ironing it out. She made the
dress out of old material. It was box-pleated, and the stuff she had
in her hand =looked= to be box-pleated, =but= there was a
portion missing.
Summarised, then, Mrs. Murdoch’s identification amounted to this, that
she remembered there was some stitching on the dress that she had made
up, and there was also a little bit of stitching on two of the three
pieces handed to her which she “fancied” was the same stitching, while
the fourth piece handed to her, which was part of the same bundle, “had
nothing to do with it.” It was on such “evidence” that Colin Ross was
hanged!
It will be remembered that Harding’s account of what Ross said was that
he “tore the clothing into strips and bits, and distributed them along
the road.” Yet we are asked to believe that, by some operation of the
laws of cohesion peculiar to the Footscray Road, four or more of them
had rolled themselves together by the 26th, and that they had succeeded
by the next day in crossing the road and joining up with another and
dissimilar piece of blue serge.
On January 23 the police knew that Ross was supposed to have said that
he scattered the fragments of the girl’s dress along the Footscray
Road. If this could have been verified it would have clinched the case
against Ross, for it would have established beyond question the fact
of some confession. Every effort should have been directed to clearing
up this point. The road Ross said he took was clearly indicated—so
clearly that it showed beyond question that Harding knew the locality
well. If that is doubted, let anyone who does not know the locality try
to describe Ross’s alleged route after reading the description once.
If one knows the locality, he has a mental picture, as the words are
spoken, which he can reproduce. If he does not, the words are words
merely, and cannot be repeated without rehearsal. But the point is
that, on getting this alleged confession, the detectives should have
got half a dozen men to take the road, or the two roads if necessary,
in a face in order to discover the serge. It was so plain, Mrs.
Sullivan said, that “it could not be missed.” The local police did not
find it, the detective’s agents did not find it, but a casual wayfarer
stumbles across it twice, because “you could not miss it.” Piggott’s
answers to questions were that, on learning of the confession, “we took
certain steps,” and “gave certain directions”; and his explanation of
the failure to find the serge was that his men searched the wrong road!
One would have liked to have heard the comments of, say, the late Mr.
Justice Hodges, on this extraordinary admission.
THE MEDICAL EVIDENCE.
The last class of evidence, though given first on the trial, was the
medical testimony. It showed that there was an abrasion on the left
side of the neck which extended across the mid-line, and measured
2½ inches in length by ⁷/₁₆ of an inch in breadth at its widest
part. Below this, on the left side of the neck, there was a narrower
abrasion, about ⅛ of an inch in width, and not extending across the
mid-line. There was another abrasion on the left side of the lower
jaw, an inch in length, and a quarter of an inch in breadth. There was
a small abrasion on the outer side of the right eye, a small abrasion
in the centre of the upper lip, another small abrasion at the back of
the right elbow, and the skin of the back of the left elbow had been
slightly rubbed. There was some bruising and lividity on the right
side of the face. The upper part of the chest was livid, and showed
small hæmorrhages. Hæmorrhages were also found in the scalp and on the
surface of the eyes. There were some small bruises on the right side of
the neck. Internally, there was a bruise on the left tonsil.
In view of absurd rumours that have been circulated as to the injuries
to the body, it is well to give Dr. Mollison’s next words as he uttered
them: “I think those were all the abrasions and bruises.” It has got
abroad that there were facts about this case that were unprintable.
There is no truth in the report. With the exception of one coarse
sentence said to have been used to Matthews, and one coarse word said
by Harding to have been used by himself, there was nothing in the case,
from start to finish, which has not appeared, either literally or
euphemistically, in the reputable press. The child had been violated,
but the cause of death, in the doctor’s opinion, was strangulation from
throttling. The violation would have led to a considerable amount of
blood being lost. The stomach was opened, and contained some thick,
dark-coloured fluid, mixed with food. No smell or trace of alcohol
was detected, but the doctor added that the smell of alcohol would
disappear fairly rapidly. In this, it may be here stated, Dr. Mollison
is not supported by a number of other medical men of standing. The
post-mortem examination was held within a few hours of the discovery
of the body, and within about sixteen hours of the child’s death,
if she died between 6 and 7. “Alcohol,” said the doctor, “starts to
be absorbed almost immediately it is swallowed.” This subject was
discussed at the British Medical Association Conference in Glasgow
at the end of July, 1922. Professor Mellanby, who has made a special
study of the effects of alcohol on heredity, said that, “after a good
carouse, it had taken from ten to eighteen hours for the alcohol to be
cleared out of the circulation of a man.” Now, three glasses of sweet
wine is a “good carouse” for a child who probably never drank a glass
of wine before. Sweet wine contains a very high percentage of alcohol.
Accepting the Harding story, the girl was dead within an hour or two
of taking them, and the process of clearing the alcohol out of the
circulation would cease, or be greatly retarded. And still the fact
remains that no trace of alcohol was found in the body.
DETECTIVE BROPHY’S BLUNDER.
That was the full case as made by the Crown against Ross, with the
exception of an admission said to have been made to Detective Brophy.
This admission may be stated and dealt with at once. Brophy said that,
on the 16th of January, he took a man named White to the Melbourne
Gaol, and confronted him with Ross. White said: “Yes, that is the man.”
Brophy then said: “This man has identified you as the man whom he saw
in the Arcade speaking to the little girl, Alma.” Ross said: “Oh,”
and then, turning to White, he said: “What time was that?” White said
about 3.30. Ross said: “Yes, that’s quite right.” Ross’s version of the
conversation, as given in evidence, was that Brophy said: “This man
says he saw you talking to a girl in the Arcade at 3.30, and he said:
‘That is correct.’” Brophy made no comment. It is not only clear that
Ross’s was the correct account, but it is extremely hard to see how an
intelligent man could have any doubt about it. Let us look at the facts.
Ross had denied on December 31, when first seen by the detectives, that
he had spoken to “the girl Alma,” but had said that he was speaking
to a girl at the door at about the time mentioned; in his written
statement on January 5 he denied that he had spoken to the girl; when
brought to the Detective Office, under arrest, on January 12, Piggott
said to him: “It will be proved that the little girl was seen in your
wine shop on December 30,” and he promptly answered: “That’s a lie.”
From first to last he had denied specifically that he had ever spoken
to the girl Alma, and from first to last he had said that he was
speaking to Gladys Wain at the saloon door about that time. Gladys
Wain, it should be remarked, though a married woman, is very small,
and extremely girlish in appearance. Yet we are asked to believe that
Ross, by a quite casual remark on January 16, made an admission, the
most important by far he had made during the course of the police
investigation, and that one of the detectives in charge of the case
turned away from him without the slightest comment on his startling
admission.
But there is the further fact that White cannot have said that he saw
Ross speaking to “the little girl Alma,” for the simple reason that
White did not know Alma. From that it follows that Brophy could not
have said, if he were speaking accurately—and a detective should be
accurate—that “this man saw you speaking to the little girl Alma.”
If Ross had intended to refer to Alma, he would not, and need not,
have inquired “What time was that?” The time would have been quite
unimportant. If he had another girl in his mind, the enquiry as to
the time was natural. In any case, the evidence never should have
been tendered or admitted, for if it was sought to be proved that
Ross was seen speaking to the murdered girl the proper way to prove
it, according to the “rule of best evidence,” was to call White to
prove it. And White was not called, not because he had disappeared,
but because it was known that he would not swear that he had seen Ross
“talking to the little girl Alma.”
[Illustration]