Depth of Deception (A Titanic Murder Mystery) (8 page)

In the transcript, after hearing the verdict, Otto Slade had implored the court:

"
My Lord
Gunter
, may I
be permitted to speak?
I kne
w nothing about the crime
until I was notified
. You are convicting an innoc
ent man. ..
. I
returned
from America
to Scotland,
willingly
,
to get a fair
trial
.
To prove my innocence because I kne
w nothing about the
horrid
affair, absolutely nothing.
I hadn't known the name of the victim. I had never met her
. ..
. I
cannot understand how I can be condemned
.
"

Lord Gunter made no comment of any kind to the defendant’s statement. He apparently placed the dreaded ‘black cap’ upon his own head and sentenced Otto Slade to be hanged on Thursday, 27th May
,
1911. The execution was to take place within the old Duke Street Prison in Glasgow.

There was enough of a public outcry about the verdict that Otto Slade’s sentence was postponed for nearly a year, and petitions were signed and presented to the Lord Advo
cate. But pleas fell upon deaf
ears, and Otto Slade was hanged on Wednesday
,
17th of April, 1912. His execution went mostly unnoticed by the public, as all news was eclipsed by the sinking of the
Titanic
a few days earlier.

It was a travesty of justice to say the least,
thought Callum. He knew without a doubt that Otto Slade had been set up as a scapegoat.
Why?
How could his own grandfather have botched up an investigation so horribly? Moreover, how could a conviction and death sentence be handed down with such circumstantial evidence?

Callum knew he could only learn so much from the files Percy had given him. Now he needed to find what wasn’t in the files. The truth. To that
end he was going to Scotland, n
ot sure of where to start. After almost 70 years would any of the witnesses still be alive? Would the flat where the murder took place still be there or would he find it demolished and a supermarket standing in its place?

Callum Toughill soon had his answer standing in front of him. It was a short walk from St. Georges Station. The corner where Molly Wheelman claimed to have last seen the victim alive now housed an Asian restaurant, but the rest of the street still looked much like the photo taken in 1909. Gone were the old flickering gas lamps and hitching posts for horses: modern streetlights and bike stands had taken their place. Asphalt had been paved over the cobblestones but the buildings themselves looked exactly the same. He counted his way to number 13 Queens Terrace, where the front steps were flanked by a low wrought iron fence on either side. The once elegant carved stone arches had eroded with age, and decades of rain had stained the columns. The photo in Callum’s hand had a brass plaque with the word
thirteen
affixed upon it in a graceful script
;
whereas
,
today there was a weathered piece of wood with the number 13 painted upon it.
Odd
,
he thought to himself, as most people thought the number thirteen to be unlucky. There was rarely a thirteenth floor in tall buildings and
,
as a child, he was often confused as to why the number 13 was never listed on the panels of any of the lifts he rode. Likewise on streets, the houses would skip from 11 to 15. It was an accepted superstition which he believed to be rubbish. It was, however, most certainly unlucky for Agatha Gilcrest.

Callum strode up the half-dozen steps to the front door. He raised his hand and was about to ring the buzzer, then paused. He hadn’t considered what he would say. Would the new owners of the flat know a murder had taken place?
Good afternoon, I’m investigating a bloody murder that took place in your home seventy years ago. May I come in?

They would think him a
nutter.
He sighed. He’d just spent five hours traveling to Scotland to look for clues on a very, very cold case. It was no longer about the brooch he had been initially hired to find but rather a personal mission… because of his grandfather. Callum shook his head. He
was
a nutter.

"
How now,
"
a shrill voice in a thick Glaswegian accent called out.
"
What do you want? State your business.
"

The voice had happened upon him so quickly it startled him. Callum saw that the front door had opened ever so slightly, and an old woman was peering out at him. The woman kept the safety chain secured, preventing the door from opening further. For a brief moment, he entertained the thought that it might be the ghost of Agatha Gilcrest, but upon closer inspection he saw it was not so. This woman’s elderly face was longer and the eyes were very different, yet still full of life.
"
What do you want? You’ve been standing there, staring at my home for the past ten minutes. State your business before I summon the police.
"

"
My apologies,
"
stammered Callum, clearing his throat.
"
I’m an investigator and I’m investigating…
"

He paused. The words wouldn’t come out. He knew it would sound ludicrous to the old woman.

"
Investigator investigating what?
"
asked the old woman.

"
A murder,
"
the words came out of Callum’s mouth before he could stop them.

"
A murder?
"
asked the old woman nervously.
"
Whose murder?
"

"
It was an old woman…
"
began Callum. He could see the look of fear being replaced with an odd wide-eyed expression on the old woman before him.
"
I’m sorry, it happened a long time ago. You couldn’t…
"

Embarrassed that he hadn’t planned this better, Callum turned to leave without another word. As he started down the steps the old woman called out,
"
Toughill?
"

Callum Toughill froze mid-step,
then
he slow
ly turned back to the old woman.
The chain was off the front door and she stepped out towards him.

"
Do I know you?
"
asked Callum.

"
You look like Inspector John Toughill,
"
muttered the old woman.
"
But that’s impossible.
"

"
Inspector John Toughill was my grandfather.
"

She stepped closer.
"
Your hair is lighter than his was. Shoulders are broader. And he had a moustache, but your eyes are the same… steel grey… and your profile.
"

It was true—Callum had seen photos of his grandfather when he was a younger man and many a relative had made the same comparisons.
"
You knew my grandfather?
"

"
Aye. He was a good man. I remember him standing where you’re standing now, studying every detail with the same eyes.
"

Callum’s mind was reeling. She remembered his grandfather? Who was she? Suddenly a million questions raced through his head. He opened his mouth but all that came out was,
"
When?
"

"
The night that still haunts my dreams. The night poor old Mrs. Gilcrest was murdered.
"

Chapter
XI

Dr. Natalie Lindsay entered her new patient's room and was surprised to find her sitting up at the foot of the bed and looking at her reflection in the mirror. Natalie was impressed at the progress of her physical recovery. Earlier, the patient was so pasty, almost anemic-looking and physically weak. What a drastic change in just a few short hours.

"How are we today?" asked Natalie. Her patient slowly turned towards her. Natalie was once again taken aback by her intense blue eyes. The patient looked back at her reflection as she touched her own face.

"I don’t know… I look at myself in the mirror but it's a stranger looking back at me. I don't know who I am," she said in a trembling voice.

"It's not uncommon with amnesia patients," replied Natalie. "I'm here to help you get your memory back… If you'll let me."

"But I know I'm sitting on a
bed
... I'm looking into a
mirror.
I know what things are called... I know how to talk and how to walk... how is it that I know that I'm feeling
cold
but I can’t remember my own name?"

"Well," Natalie began as she s
at in the chair next to the bed,
"You
could be suffering from either
p
ost-traumatic amnesia
, which is usually a result from some sort of head injury. That is quite possible, since we have no idea how you got to where you were found. Unfortunately, I don't have your medical records so I haven’t been able to determine if you suffered a concussion or anything like that. The other possibility is that you are suffering from
dissociative amnesia
caused by some recent traumatic event, or perhaps some repressed memory from childhood."

The patient looked at Natalie and said, "You sound like a psychiatrist."

"I am a psychiatrist."

The woman looked at Natalie so intently, it was as if those blue eyes were trying to see into her soul. Finally she whispered, "Can you help me?"

"I would like to try," replied Natalie.

They spoke for over an hour—time enough for Natalie to gain some of her trust and study her body language, getting to know her better. There was no doubt the patient was suffering from amnesia, but the doctor needed to know the extent of it.

After lunch, Natalie proposed subjecting her patient to hypnoanalysis.

"What is that?" asked the patient.

"It's a one-on-one hypnosis treatment."

"Hypnosis? I'm not sure about that."

"Contrary to popular belief, in a hypnotic state you are not asleep or unconscious," Natalie smiled. She was used to this kind of reaction due to all the films and stories of people being controlled through hypnosis to cluck like chickens or become hired assassins. She leaned closer to her patient and explained, "Hypnotic patients are completely awake and able to focus attention, with a corresponding decrease in their peripheral awareness. You cannot be made to do something against your will. You see, the goal of hypnoanalysis is to find the root cause of a problem or symptom through regression techniques."

"This is the best way to help?" blinked the patient nervously.

"Yes," Natalie replied calmly. "Hypnoanalysis deals with cause and effect."

Myra stared at her blankly, obviously not comprehending. Natalie continued, "Simply put, we think, behave, and feel emotions in certain ways because of happenings in our past experiences. This type of hypnosis can achieve results in dealing with emotions far more quickly and efficiently than psychotherapy or psychoanalysis, which could take years. I've seen breakthroughs in three or four sessions, sometimes less, but I don't want to get your hopes up."

"I want to remember," replied the patient. "I’m not sure why, but I have a strong feeling that I can trust you."

"I'm glad."

It took three attempts to get the patient into a relaxed-enough state to be able to commence. Natalie asked her to lift her arm. The manner in which the arm floated up confirmed that the patient was, in fact, in a hypnotic trance. In this disassociated state, the patient would be able to talk freely. Natalie grabbed her note pad and pen, and leaned over to make sure that the tape recorder was running so she could review the session later. Natalie started by asking some establishing questions that she already knew the answers to, in order to get the patient used to responding, and to read her responses. "What color are your eyes?"

"Blue."

"Are you warm or cold?"

"Cold. Very cold," replied the patient. Natalie already knew that because she could still see her shivering.

After three more such superficial questions Natalie quickly asked,
"
What is your name?
"

"
Myra,
"
she replied without hesitation. Natalie wrote it on her note pad in short hand.

"
Thank you, Myra. What is your last name?
"