PART II.

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.

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.”