Read Online Depth of Deception (A Titanic Murder Mystery) by Alexander Galant - Free Book Online
Authors: Alexander Galant
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favour of convicting him. Callum scowled . I n Scotland, the jury is made up of 15 peers and only a majo rity is needed for a conviction, even if the majority is by only one vote. That system is still in place today. Callum preferred the American concept of ‘reasonable doubt’ .
In the transcript, after hearing the verdict, Otto Slade had implored the court:
" My Lord Gunter , may I be permitted to speak? I kne w nothing about the crime until I was notified . You are convicting an innoc ent man. .. . I returned from America to Scotland, willingly , to get a fair trial . To prove my innocence because I kne w nothing about the horrid affair, absolutely nothing. I hadn't known the name of the victim. I had never met her . .. . I cannot understand how I can be condemned . "
Lord Gunter made no comment of any kind to the defendant’s statement. He apparently placed the dreaded ‘black cap’ upon his own head and sentenced Otto Slade to be hanged on Thursday, 27th May , 1911. The execution was to take place within the old Duke Street Prison in Glasgow.
There was enough of a public outcry about the verdict that Otto Slade’s sentence was postponed for nearly a year, and petitions were signed and presented to the Lord Advo cate. But pleas fell upon deaf ears, and Otto Slade was hanged on Wednesday , 17th of April, 1912. His execution went mostly unnoticed by the public, as all news was eclipsed by the sinking of the Titanic a few days earlier.
It was a travesty of justice to say the least, thought Callum. He knew without a doubt that Otto Slade had been set up as a scapegoat. Why? How could his own grandfather have botched up an investigation so horribly? Moreover, how could a conviction and death sentence be handed down with such circumstantial evidence?
Callum knew he could only learn so much from the files Percy had given him. Now he needed to find what wasn’t in the files. The truth. To that end he was going to Scotland, n ot sure of where to start. After almost 70 years would any of the witnesses still be alive? Would the flat where the murder took place still be there or would he find it demolished and a supermarket standing in its place?
Callum Toughill soon had his answer standing in front of him. It was a short walk from St. Georges Station. The corner where Molly Wheelman claimed to have last seen the victim alive now housed an Asian restaurant, but the rest of the street still looked much like the photo taken in 1909. Gone were the old flickering gas lamps and hitching posts for horses: modern streetlights and bike stands had taken their place. Asphalt had been paved over the cobblestones but the buildings themselves looked exactly the same. He counted his way to number 13 Queens Terrace, where the front steps were flanked by a low wrought iron fence on either side. The once elegant carved stone arches had eroded with age, and decades of rain had stained the columns. The photo in Callum’s hand had a brass plaque with the word thirteen affixed upon it in a graceful script ; whereas , today there was a weathered piece of wood with the number 13 painted upon it. Odd , he thought to himself, as most people thought the number thirteen to be unlucky. There was rarely a thirteenth floor in tall buildings and , as a child, he was often confused as to why the number 13 was never listed on the panels of any of the lifts he rode. Likewise on streets, the houses would skip from 11 to 15. It was an accepted superstition which he believed to be rubbish. It was, however, most certainly unlucky for Agatha Gilcrest.
Callum strode up the half-dozen steps to the front door. He raised his hand and was about to ring the buzzer, then paused. He hadn’t considered what he would say. Would the new owners of the flat know a murder had taken place? Good afternoon, I’m investigating a bloody murder that took place in your home seventy years ago. May I come in?
They would think him a nutter. He sighed. He’d just spent five
In the transcript, after hearing the verdict, Otto Slade had implored the court:
" My Lord Gunter , may I be permitted to speak? I kne w nothing about the crime until I was notified . You are convicting an innoc ent man. .. . I returned from America to Scotland, willingly , to get a fair trial . To prove my innocence because I kne w nothing about the horrid affair, absolutely nothing. I hadn't known the name of the victim. I had never met her . .. . I cannot understand how I can be condemned . "
Lord Gunter made no comment of any kind to the defendant’s statement. He apparently placed the dreaded ‘black cap’ upon his own head and sentenced Otto Slade to be hanged on Thursday, 27th May , 1911. The execution was to take place within the old Duke Street Prison in Glasgow.
There was enough of a public outcry about the verdict that Otto Slade’s sentence was postponed for nearly a year, and petitions were signed and presented to the Lord Advo cate. But pleas fell upon deaf ears, and Otto Slade was hanged on Wednesday , 17th of April, 1912. His execution went mostly unnoticed by the public, as all news was eclipsed by the sinking of the Titanic a few days earlier.
It was a travesty of justice to say the least, thought Callum. He knew without a doubt that Otto Slade had been set up as a scapegoat. Why? How could his own grandfather have botched up an investigation so horribly? Moreover, how could a conviction and death sentence be handed down with such circumstantial evidence?
Callum knew he could only learn so much from the files Percy had given him. Now he needed to find what wasn’t in the files. The truth. To that end he was going to Scotland, n ot sure of where to start. After almost 70 years would any of the witnesses still be alive? Would the flat where the murder took place still be there or would he find it demolished and a supermarket standing in its place?
Callum Toughill soon had his answer standing in front of him. It was a short walk from St. Georges Station. The corner where Molly Wheelman claimed to have last seen the victim alive now housed an Asian restaurant, but the rest of the street still looked much like the photo taken in 1909. Gone were the old flickering gas lamps and hitching posts for horses: modern streetlights and bike stands had taken their place. Asphalt had been paved over the cobblestones but the buildings themselves looked exactly the same. He counted his way to number 13 Queens Terrace, where the front steps were flanked by a low wrought iron fence on either side. The once elegant carved stone arches had eroded with age, and decades of rain had stained the columns. The photo in Callum’s hand had a brass plaque with the word thirteen affixed upon it in a graceful script ; whereas , today there was a weathered piece of wood with the number 13 painted upon it. Odd , he thought to himself, as most people thought the number thirteen to be unlucky. There was rarely a thirteenth floor in tall buildings and , as a child, he was often confused as to why the number 13 was never listed on the panels of any of the lifts he rode. Likewise on streets, the houses would skip from 11 to 15. It was an accepted superstition which he believed to be rubbish. It was, however, most certainly unlucky for Agatha Gilcrest.
Callum strode up the half-dozen steps to the front door. He raised his hand and was about to ring the buzzer, then paused. He hadn’t considered what he would say. Would the new owners of the flat know a murder had taken place? Good afternoon, I’m investigating a bloody murder that took place in your home seventy years ago. May I come in?
They would think him a nutter. He sighed. He’d just spent five
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