The Study for the Artist.
If these conspirators against society had limited their operations to the waifs,—a wide enough field surely in a city like Edinburgh, renowned at the time for the extent of the wide tattered fringe of the social web,—they might have remained undetected for a lengthened period;—ay, even until they had cut off hundreds; and why they left this secure area can only be accounted for by that universal law whereby the doers of evil acquire a confidence which blinds them to all sense of danger. The bold and reckless case of the young cousin was the first indication of the coming change, and we will see with what rapidity the progress was pursued in terms of that inevitable decree of Providence.
It has been mentioned that Burke had a brother of the name of Constantine, who, having driven a desultory trade something of the nature of that followed by his brother and his associate, had become a street-sweeper or scavenger, and lived in Gibb’s Close in the Canongate. It never was satisfactorily established that this man was acquainted with the conspiracy, although many suspicions, especially arising out of the case of Mary Paterson, which is now to form the burden of our chapter, appeared to hang heavy upon him. For once the scene of death was changed from the old shambles to Gibb’s Close. Mary Paterson, a young girl of eighteen or nineteen years of age, of remarkably handsome form, as to which we will hear more by and by, and who turned her attractions to no other use than that of the old abuse, had been, along with a companion named Janet Brown, lodged in the Canongate Police-office, on Tuesday the 8th of April 1828. They were kept till four or five o’clock next morning, when they repaired to the house of a person called Mrs Laurie, where they had formerly lodged together. They had been for some time constant friends, and had more of affection for each other than is generally found among individuals of their class. The woman, who felt for them, expressed a wish that they should remain, but, for some reason unknown, they preferred another course, and went to the house of one Swanston, who sold drink. They got there a gill of whisky, and when they were drinking the spirits, their eye fell upon Burke, who was there even at that hour, busy drinking rum and bitters with the landlord. They had never seen Burke before, and made no sign of a wish to enter into conversation with him; but he, who appeared to have been watching them, came forward, and, affecting to be much taken with them, ordered an additional supply of the rum and bitters; nor did this drinking bout finish till three gills were consumed in addition to what they had drunk before. Of this drink Burke participated largely; and, indeed, it was supposed that he often wrought himself designedly up to his required point of courage by the means of liquor when he had any special work to accomplish.
In the course of the debauch, and when he discovered that the girls were of that kind who, when begun to drink, are regardless of limits, he proposed that they should accompany him to his lodgings, which he said were close by. Mary was willing enough, but her companion, Brown, shewed signs of reluctance, not probably being much enamoured of their new friend. Whereupon he roused himself to remove her scruples, by shewing money, and stating that he was a pensioner, and could keep her, Brown, handsomely, even make her comfortable for life; and that if she had any fears of the people in the house, he would stand by her against any insolence or abuse. All this attention, as Brown subsequently stated, was, as she thought, directed to her in preference to Mary—with whom, as for personal recommendations, she could not compete—in consequence of her shy and backward nature wherein she was a contrast to her friend, who was of a disposition fearless and forward. Besides, he knew from their apparent affection for each other that the one would not accompany him without the other. At length Brown gave up her scruples, and all the more readily that he made the additional offer to provide a good breakfast for them, as an earnest of all that which he had promised to do for them. Matters being now arranged, he bought from Swanston two bottles of whisky, one of which he gave to each of the two girls to carry. He then conducted them to the house of Constantine Burke, where they found that man and his wife already up, but with the fire as yet unlighted. Whereupon Burke got into a great fury, abusing the woman for negligence in not paying more attention—a feint with a meaning of which some supposed she was not altogether ignorant.
Straightway the gloomy aspect of the miserable house, the residence of so rich a pensioner, was removed by the new-lighted fire, and the woman with all activity set to work, in which she was joined by her handy brother-in-law, to produce a hearty breakfast for her lodger and guests. Tea, bread and butter, eggs and finnan haddocks, covered the table. They were now merry: the effects of the previous drink had not yet died away, while the breakfast before them, and the promises of the new friend, all tended towards a state of happiness to which the poor girls were total strangers. Meanwhile the brother, who joined in the breakfast, left shortly to proceed to his work; and the meal having been finished, with the cups and other things left remaining on the table, the two bottles of whisky were produced. The drinking again commenced, Burke still participating to a large extent, at the same time that he pressed glass after glass profusely upon the girls. The impulsive and reckless Mary, still true to her character, shewed no scruples. One glass followed another, till by and by the drug began to shew signs of a speedy triumph; but Brown was more chary, often refusing the proffered poison; not that she had any suspicions of evil design on the part of the generous pensioner, but simply because she did not wish to get drunk—a consummation so clearly impending, with two bottles on the table, and only three participants.
Burke now saw that Mary, who had fallen back on the chair all but unconscious, was safe. The next step to be taken in his scheme, which, notwithstanding the enormous quantity of drink he had swallowed, he prosecuted deliberately, was to get Brown, still comparatively sober, out of the house; and he cunningly proposed to go along with her for a walk, to revive them after their potations. The girl at once agreed, and, leaving Mary in her narcotised condition, they sallied forth; but the purpose of a walk was changed, and, inconsistently enough, Brown soon found herself in another public-house with her generous and most persevering friend. Here two bottles of London stout were ordered, along with a pie, and the girl, whose natural caution and shyness were not proof against so much seduction, drank a large share of the porter, Burke himself shewing no reluctance to participate as well, knowing not only that he could stand a great amount of drink, but that the more he took, within the limits of consciousness, if not coolness, the better able he would be for the execution of his purpose—in this instance, as it appeared, a double one, involving both the girls at the same time, or, at least, with a short intervening interval. The porter having had its due effect upon Brown, who was yet, however, far from “the point,” he then induced her to accompany him again to the house they had left. Here the remainder of the two bottles of whisky was produced, Mary all the time lying almost unconscious, and only raising her head at times, and looking with stupid earnestness on the proceedings.
Now there comes up a new incident in the play, which has never been well explained. All of a sudden Helen M‘Dougal, whom we might have supposed to be in Log’s lodgings, who had not appeared at breakfast, and had not hitherto been seen by the girls, starts violently out of a bed. There is a whisper by Constantine’s wife in the ear of Brown, that the apparition is no other than Burke’s wife; and the latter immediately commenced, with all appearance of a jealous fury, to accuse the girls of having the intention of corrupting her husband. The part was so well acted, that Brown, getting alarmed, entreated forgiveness, on the plea that neither she nor Mary had known that he was married, otherwise they would not have remained in his company. The play proceeds. Helen M‘Dougal breaks down: she was, she said, not angry with them, only with her husband, who was continually deserting her, spending his money on loose women, and leading a life of dissipation. She then asked them to remain, and with such apparent sincerity that Brown was satisfied, but as for Mary she was incapable of understanding a much less complicated plot. M‘Dougal next turned against Burke, upbraiding him for his infidelity, taking up the things that were upon the table, dashing them into the fire, and otherwise exhibiting the height of a woman’s passion. Nor was Burke indolent or regardless of this fierce onset; he retaliated, and taking up a dram-glass hurled it against her face, hitting her above the eye, and cutting, even to profuse bleeding, her forehead. At this time, or a few minutes before, Constantine’s wife rushed out of the house, with the intention, as Brown subsequently supposed, of bringing Hare, but it is more probable, on the supposition of an art-and-partship, to the extent at least of knowledge, that she found some good reason for being merely absent. Immediately after her departure, Burke succeeded, with an apparent effort, in turning Helen M‘Dougal to the door, and locking it after her.
Pausing a little in the midst of our narrative, we may remark, that although it was generally supposed that this quarrel between Burke and Helen M‘Dougal was got up for the purpose of confusion, yet it is not easy to see how any end could have been served by it; while the cutting of the woman’s face had too much seriousness about it, even as a part of the terrible drama, to admit of the theory of an entire feint. The discrepancy may be reconciled by the introduction of another passion, jealousy, but this we cannot recognise, however true, except upon the assumption that M‘Dougal had some reason in her own mind to lead her to the suspicion that Burke could be unfaithful to her with the very women he intended to slay. Nor, however aggravating this may be, where aggravation seemed impossible, it cannot be held as transcending the potentialities of a nature altogether alienated from God, especially when we keep in remembrance the true character of the passion thus imputed to Burke, as being so often utterly independent of the emotion of love, in which a moral sentiment forms a necessary element. This collision, as it were, between the desire that Burke should kill, and another, that he should not possess, would produce that irregularity, as we term it, in the plot which imparts to the acting the incongruity so difficult to the analyses of the time. But while it in some measure interferes with the unity so congenial to the romancist, and which we unreasonably look for in nature, because it is more consistent with art, it presents us with a picture of human nature never before witnessed out of the domain of extravagant fiction.
At the time that Burke returned, after the locking out, Mary was lying across the bed, not having been able, even during the heat and noise of battle, to lift her head to satisfy the natural curiosity of her sex, if the curiosity itself was not altogether sopited. Burke knew the prolonged continuance of these states, proportioned as they were to the quantity of poison he had seen swallowed. So Mary is laid up as a reserve, ready for his assault at any time within the period of hours. He therefore turned his attention to the less easy subject, her companion, expressing still greater kindness to her, and pressing her by all manner of solicitation to lie down along with him in the bed from which, shortly before, his wife had so unexpectedly sprung, and who, even yet, with continued inconsistency, persisted in knocking at the door. So strong were these solicitations, and so affected was Brown with the drink she had taken, that, according to her own statement afterwards, she would have complied with his request if it had not been that she was terrified by the noise made by M‘Dougal. Either supposition is possible, that he wished to gratify a purpose upon the one, and then execute his final intention upon her companion; or that he intended to immolate first the more difficult victim, and then take his own time with the other.
Fortunately the poor girl was able to resist his entreaties, as much probably through some instinctive feeling as from prudence. Anxious to get away, she expressed a wish to depart, to which Burke at first shewed no inclination, but at length, and probably under the pressure of an apprehension that, inebriated as she was, she might call for assistance, and thus deprive him of Mary, whom, as she lay still senseless, he already calculated upon as his own, he agreed to her request. He even conducted her past Helen M‘Dougal, who was still upon the stair, either under the influence of her jealousy or of the old delicacy which so often took her out of the view of the final catastrophes. In all this Brown made a narrow escape, for whether Mrs Constantine Burke had really gone for the other, and perhaps greater, arch-conspirator, Hare, or not, it is certain that that fearful man arrived at Gibb’s Close not long after the departure of Brown. The moment Hare arrived, and there being now no one in the house except themselves, and the unconscious Mary still lying in bed, they fell straight upon their victim. The old story again. The process was familiar to them—the energy at ready call—the execution easy. Burke springs upon the senseless victim—Hare is at his post—the heavy body pressing with the knees upon the soft bosom—the closing up of the mouth and nose—the gurgling—the long inspirations—the watchings to listen, and listen again, and examine if all was finished—the make-sure—the finish. So quickly had the process been gone through that, on Brown’s return, not more than twenty minutes afterwards, Mary Paterson was lying dead, but concealed from her observation by having been flung into a corner and covered up.
It may be of interest now to trace Brown. After getting past Helen M‘Dougal, who was on the stair, about, no doubt, to watch the process inside, she went straight to Mrs Laurie’s, and told her, with a laugh, that she would not remain with her, as she had got fine lodgings elsewhere; but after informing the landlady more seriously of the circumstances, she was advised to go back, along with Mrs Laurie’s servant, and endeavour to get Mary removed; not, however, that either the one or the other had any fears of her ultimate safety. The accompaniment of the servant was probably another of the apparently accidental means by which the life of this girl was preserved. Half stupified as she still was, she did not recollect the name of the close in which the house was situated, and being at a loss, but still anxious about her comrade, whom she loved, she applied to Swanston for a direction to the residence of the man whom she had seen there in the morning, and with whom she and her friend had gone. The man replied, that they ought not to have gone with him, because he was a married man, and did not keep company with women of their kind, but that she would probably find him in his brother’s house, in Gibb’s Close. Still, so stupified was she that, after getting into the close, she went into the wrong house, where she was told that the people there kept no company with such characters, but that she would probably feel herself in the right direction by going up-stairs. They accordingly ascended, entered, and found there Helen M‘Dougal, Hare, and Hare’s wife. The dead prey had collected the ravens even within so short a time. Burke was absent—no doubt in Surgeon’s Square; but those present, with the corpse within a few feet of them, were as unconcerned as if one among them had been engaged in throttling a chicken for dinner.
Upon inquiry for her friend, Mrs Hare rushed forward and attempted to strike Brown,—a movement not easily accounted for, except upon the supposition of a feminine way of repelling an intruder upon their secrecy, who might be dangerous; but this burst gave way to a quieter demeanour, the result of greater prudence, for the recklessness of passion is not exclusive of minor means of self-preservation. They told her that Mary had gone out with Burke, and invited her to sit down and take a glass with them, upon which the servant left. Brown now saw Hare’s eye fixed upon her, and no doubt her partial inebriation was a temptation which was touching; and Helen M‘Dougal continued her part of the play, by railing against her husband for going away with the girl whose dead body was actually in the room. Brown, surrounded by the three fiends, was again in danger; but, fortunately, Mrs Laurie, who had got alarmed at the report of the servant, upon what precise grounds is not known, sent back the girl to bring away Brown. No attempt was made to retain her in the presence of the servant, but she was invited to return,—a circumstance so adverse to the policy of keeping away so interested an inquirer as to be almost proof of their intention to send her after her friend, the double object of the price of her body and the seal of secrecy being the motive.
Meanwhile, changes had been going on in the house; and when Brown, in the afternoon, again called, Hare was gone—having given up his hope of the further prey, as he would calculate upon Brown’s gradual return to sobriety. She was now told that Burke and Mary had never returned. Further inquiries were made, not only by Brown, but by a Mrs Worthington, with whom the two girls lived, and then another story was trumped up, to the effect that Mary had gone on the tramp with a packman to Glasgow. This story pleased Brown less than the other, which carried the inconsistency of a recovery from drunken unconsciousness in so short a time; while the tramp to Glasgow, and no intimation from that quarter, were equally unlike the habits of the girl, who could write an intelligent letter, and would certainly have done so if for no other object than to inform Brown of her departure and to claim her clothes, which still lay in Mrs Worthington’s. No further intelligence was ever obtained till the great break up. The fate of Mary Paterson was meanwhile a mystery. But when we take into account the vagrant habits of these restless and changeful beings, we need make no reproach on the want of affection of friends or relatives.
We may state here that Brown believed firmly that Constantine Burke and his wife were cognisant of this affair, both from their manner at the time and the conduct of the man afterwards when she questioned him about Mary. Often, when he was at his work in the morning, she inquired if he had heard any further intelligence of her companion, but the answers were surly and snatchy,—“How the h—ll can I tell about you sort of people, here to-day and away to-morrow?” or, again, “I am often out upon my lawful business, and how can I answer for all that takes place in my house in my absence?” And so the inquiries for Mary Paterson died away for lack of satisfaction, and the only hope that remained was that some day she would cast up when weary of her wanderings with the packman.
The account which Brown gave of this unfortunate creature is touching. She admitted that she was irregular in her habits, but far from being low in her grade; and expressed her indignation at a paltry print which appeared of her, representing her in the garb of a servant, a dress in which she never appeared. She had been well educated for one in her sphere, and possessed, as we have already said, a fine person, for which she was remarkable. She was a native of Edinburgh; and her mother being dead, she was left to herself, driven along in her career by a frowardness of purpose and impulsiveness of feeling, not yet inconsistent with a warm heart and kindly affections.
The supplement of the story is given by one of the confessions of Burke. He cut the hair off her head when she was still warm. It will be remembered that he formerly dealt in this commodity, and Mary’s was too long and beautiful to be given to the doctors. It might one day figure as her own on a lady of rank;—and how little she would know of the fate of her whom it had adorned, as adorning it! But to what end? Even that of the poisonous flower of Paphos, which is said to have the most beautiful petals, and to throw them the soonest away. Within four hours Burke and Hare took the body to Surgeon’s Square. It was then cold enough, but had not yet got time to assume the stiffness of the dead. When uncovered, a tall lad who was along with Mr Ferguson, one of Dr Knox’s assistants, expressed surprise and said that he knew the girl, and had been with her a day or two before. Sharp questions followed as to where and how she had been got, when Burke satisfied the inquirers—wondrous facility!—that he had purchased the body from an old woman at the back of the Canongate. Nor did the story finish here; So struck was Knox with the beauty and fine proportions of the body of Mary, that he invited an artist to come to the rooms to see it, for the benefit of his profession; and with the conservative instinct of an old museum collector, the curious Professor kept his favourite specimen three months in whisky. No wonder that this case roused the suspicions of the public against the doctors,—a subject we will take up in a subsequent chapter. Opinions ran high, and both sides had their reasons and their arguments, upon all which we shall attempt a judgment.