2022 Thunderbolt Prize for Crime Writing: Winning Submissions
Dear Sir, by David Grey
Justice, by David Vernon
A Cautionary Tale, by Paris Rosemont
I Witness, by Jane O'Sullivan
Red Flags, by Dan Davies
Regret, by Kiki Chen
Justice, by David Vernon
A Cautionary Tale, by Paris Rosemont
I Witness, by Jane O'Sullivan
Red Flags, by Dan Davies
Regret, by Kiki Chen
Fiction
By Hand
Dear Valued Employee,
On behalf of COSA NOSTRA Inc, (‘the Company’) I would like to thank you for your sterling efforts on
behalf of the Company in the 2020-2021 financial year.
Firstly, please find attached your annual Payment Summary. You will note that, for the purposes of Jobkeeper funding, you were officially employed on behalf of the Company’s rural subsidiary, the Domenico Orange Farm in Oberon, NSW. Should the ATO feel the need to question how such a small family farm nominally employed more than five thousand employees located all over NSW, we encourage you to avail yourself of the services of the firm of Omerta and Partners, who we have copied into this letter. This firm has enjoyed previous success at acting as a check and balance against governmental overreach and intrusion into the privacy of decent, hard-working Australians such as yourself.
It is unfortunate that the Jobkeeper records could not actually reflect your true position at Cosa Nostra School for the Acquisitionally Inclined, fostering the curious minds and entrepreneurial spirits of young Australians. That it cannot is a sad indictment of the previous government’s misplaced priorities and tragic failure to appreciate and support the tertiary education sector.
Secondly, the Company would like to acknowledge and praise your efforts at educating not only yourself, but also others, during the various mandatory lockdown periods. The Company is proud of its origins as a boutique asset acquisitions and transferral business but is also conscious of the need for constant improvement and innovation in order to remain at the paradigm leading cutting edge of the niche market that we currently occupy. We must remain ever vigilant of any attempt to interfere with our position at the apex of legitimate scheme place of things whether that be Governmental overreach or attempted disruption field of play by interlopers or new players be they foreign or domestic. To that end, your lecture series on “Cybersecurity Systems and the Exploitation of their Fatal Flaws for Fun and Profit but mostly Profit” constituted an important contribution to the Company’s enterprise.
Unfortunately, it has come to our attention that series of extracts from those lectures went viral on the TikTok, whatever that is. The employee responsible was strongly informed by Mr “Knuckles” Reggio, VP of Human Resources, that it was the Company’s preference that its intellectual property not be shared with the general public, regardless of how many “likes” it might generate. Chastened, the former employee asked Mr Reggio, to convey his regrets for his inappropriate use of Company material and was able to use his remaining finger to remove the offending ‘TikTok’. It is regrettable that the former employee will not be able to apologize in person but Mr Reggio informs us that they passed away of what were, no doubt, COVID related abdominal injuries shortly after their exit interview. COVID truly is a scourge. In furtherance of the Company’s social engagement programs, the ‘69LegitimateBusinessman420’ TikTok handle shall henceforth extoll the Company’s support for
the widows, widowers and children of its employees who have paid the ultimate price.
Despite the Company’s characteristically swift, decisive and legitimately forceful actions to remove this perceived threat to its interests, we understand that the TikTok in question has lead to great interest in your work by others who would seek to occupy the same space as us. Whilst we have exercised our best endeavours to prevent them from importuning you and distracting you from your important work, we understand that you have been contacted by agents from the Fuyijama Saké and Cherry Blossom Horticultural Concern and that they have made certain representations about how lucrative it would be to transfer your allegiances over to them. Should you feel that, despite our long mutual history, that our cultural values no longer align and that you would prefer to pursue a greater synergy with another partner, we would urge you to consider the negative effects that this might have on the future career and health of not only yourself but also your immediate and indeed your extended family. In recent times, those who have felt the need to distance themselves from the Company have found themselves without a leg to stand on.
First and foremost, the Company considers itself to be one large family; we rejoice in our employees’ achievements and share their sorrows when life throws bumps in their path, we had hoped that you felt the same way. In order to ensure that birthday cards and cakes are always delivered promptly, we maintain comprehensive list of all of your family members, their birthdays and their preferred pronouns, for example, we trust that little Timmy (he/him) enjoyed the gluten-free chocolate cannoli that we had delivered to his day-care for his 4th birthday last week. It certainly looks that way in the attached photos. It would truly be tragic if things were inexorably set in motion leading to Timmy’s appearance on 69LegitimateBusinessman420’s next TikTok.
In order to facilitate a frank exchange of views, Mr “Knuckles” Reggio is here to escort you to an inperson meeting between yourself and the members of the Company’s board. We remind you that all employees must return a negative RAT test every 48 hours and that masks are to be worn while on Company property.
Kind Regards,
Angelo Reggio
Executive VP, Human Resources
Enc.
CC: “Knuckles” Reggio, Omerta & Partners
Dear Valued Employee,
On behalf of COSA NOSTRA Inc, (‘the Company’) I would like to thank you for your sterling efforts on
behalf of the Company in the 2020-2021 financial year.
Firstly, please find attached your annual Payment Summary. You will note that, for the purposes of Jobkeeper funding, you were officially employed on behalf of the Company’s rural subsidiary, the Domenico Orange Farm in Oberon, NSW. Should the ATO feel the need to question how such a small family farm nominally employed more than five thousand employees located all over NSW, we encourage you to avail yourself of the services of the firm of Omerta and Partners, who we have copied into this letter. This firm has enjoyed previous success at acting as a check and balance against governmental overreach and intrusion into the privacy of decent, hard-working Australians such as yourself.
It is unfortunate that the Jobkeeper records could not actually reflect your true position at Cosa Nostra School for the Acquisitionally Inclined, fostering the curious minds and entrepreneurial spirits of young Australians. That it cannot is a sad indictment of the previous government’s misplaced priorities and tragic failure to appreciate and support the tertiary education sector.
Secondly, the Company would like to acknowledge and praise your efforts at educating not only yourself, but also others, during the various mandatory lockdown periods. The Company is proud of its origins as a boutique asset acquisitions and transferral business but is also conscious of the need for constant improvement and innovation in order to remain at the paradigm leading cutting edge of the niche market that we currently occupy. We must remain ever vigilant of any attempt to interfere with our position at the apex of legitimate scheme place of things whether that be Governmental overreach or attempted disruption field of play by interlopers or new players be they foreign or domestic. To that end, your lecture series on “Cybersecurity Systems and the Exploitation of their Fatal Flaws for Fun and Profit but mostly Profit” constituted an important contribution to the Company’s enterprise.
Unfortunately, it has come to our attention that series of extracts from those lectures went viral on the TikTok, whatever that is. The employee responsible was strongly informed by Mr “Knuckles” Reggio, VP of Human Resources, that it was the Company’s preference that its intellectual property not be shared with the general public, regardless of how many “likes” it might generate. Chastened, the former employee asked Mr Reggio, to convey his regrets for his inappropriate use of Company material and was able to use his remaining finger to remove the offending ‘TikTok’. It is regrettable that the former employee will not be able to apologize in person but Mr Reggio informs us that they passed away of what were, no doubt, COVID related abdominal injuries shortly after their exit interview. COVID truly is a scourge. In furtherance of the Company’s social engagement programs, the ‘69LegitimateBusinessman420’ TikTok handle shall henceforth extoll the Company’s support for
the widows, widowers and children of its employees who have paid the ultimate price.
Despite the Company’s characteristically swift, decisive and legitimately forceful actions to remove this perceived threat to its interests, we understand that the TikTok in question has lead to great interest in your work by others who would seek to occupy the same space as us. Whilst we have exercised our best endeavours to prevent them from importuning you and distracting you from your important work, we understand that you have been contacted by agents from the Fuyijama Saké and Cherry Blossom Horticultural Concern and that they have made certain representations about how lucrative it would be to transfer your allegiances over to them. Should you feel that, despite our long mutual history, that our cultural values no longer align and that you would prefer to pursue a greater synergy with another partner, we would urge you to consider the negative effects that this might have on the future career and health of not only yourself but also your immediate and indeed your extended family. In recent times, those who have felt the need to distance themselves from the Company have found themselves without a leg to stand on.
First and foremost, the Company considers itself to be one large family; we rejoice in our employees’ achievements and share their sorrows when life throws bumps in their path, we had hoped that you felt the same way. In order to ensure that birthday cards and cakes are always delivered promptly, we maintain comprehensive list of all of your family members, their birthdays and their preferred pronouns, for example, we trust that little Timmy (he/him) enjoyed the gluten-free chocolate cannoli that we had delivered to his day-care for his 4th birthday last week. It certainly looks that way in the attached photos. It would truly be tragic if things were inexorably set in motion leading to Timmy’s appearance on 69LegitimateBusinessman420’s next TikTok.
In order to facilitate a frank exchange of views, Mr “Knuckles” Reggio is here to escort you to an inperson meeting between yourself and the members of the Company’s board. We remind you that all employees must return a negative RAT test every 48 hours and that masks are to be worn while on Company property.
Kind Regards,
Angelo Reggio
Executive VP, Human Resources
Enc.
CC: “Knuckles” Reggio, Omerta & Partners
Non-Fiction
Trigger warning: content includes references to child sexual assault.
Monday 26 Oct 1914
The bell rang. After a ragged chorus of “Good Af-ter-noon Mist-ter Murray,” and the clatter of chairs on the timber floor the children tumbled into the warm afternoon.
“I’m gunna get some humbugs,” Mary grinned. “Comin?”
“Sorry, I’ve gotta get home,” said Gladys. “Mum’s expectin’ me.” She gave a little wave to her friend and headed homewards. Skipping along the road she crossed over as she gets close to the chemist shop, but it was too late. Dr Leighton-Jones called out, “Come over Gladys, I want to see you.”
Gladys tensed at his call but turned and reluctantly walked over to the town’s dentist,
pharmacist, and doctor. He smiled at her. Memories of the pain of her many visits to get her
teeth straightened, were still fresh.
“Your father asked me to check on how your teeth were going. Come inside. I’m just
going to have a look.” Without waiting for her reply, he ushered the twelve-year-old through
the chemist shop and into his surgery out the back, carefully closing the door.
“Now, let’s be looking at you.” Dr Jones gently placed his fingers on her lower jaw and
tenderly pulled her head up, so she was looking straight into his intense blue eyes. As he did
so, he raised her dress and put his right hand down her cotton drawers. Gladys flinched,
closed her eyes, and swallowed.
Monday 2 Nov 1914
A late storm threatened as the children headed home after sports day. Gladys had won the
three-legged race and the sack race. She couldn’t wait to show her father the blue ribbons that
the headmaster, Mr Murray, had given her. As the newest constable in Mittagong, her father
would be proud to see how his daughter had settled into the school. Her thoughts were
interrupted by a deep voice behind her.
“Gladys, I am so pleased to have caught you. I need to check your teeth again. Your father
asked.”
Gladys froze.
Dr Jones placed a hand on her shoulder and firmly guided her up the stairs and through
into his surgery.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Monday 9 Nov 1914
8am
“Yer got t’ go t’ school,” Mrs McDonald insisted. “Yer got t’ take yer brother. Your father’s in Moss Vale ‘e won’t be back ‘til late.”
“But…”
“No buts, Gladys. Yer like school…”
3.40pm
Keith held Gladys’ hand as they walked home that hot afternoon. Gladys was pleased to
have his company. Should Dr Jones again want to see her teeth she would have a witness. She could have gone the long way home, but Mother was always waiting at the gate and any long delay upset her. Listening to her little brother prattle on about his classmates distracted her until, as they neared the chemist, she looked up. Dr Leighton-Jones, hands in pockets, was standing outside, smoking a cigarette. It seemed he had been waiting for her.
“This your brother?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Gladys quietly.
“He’s not coming in. He’d better wait outside.”
The sound of the door locking behind her was loud in her ears.
3.55pm
His breath reeked of tobacco as he told her to open wide. She shut her eyes firmly but opened them in shock as she felt not only his hand between her legs but also his tongue in her mouth. She retched. He pulled back but left his hand in place. It hurt.
He had a wild look in his eyes and started muttering to himself, “I must wait, I must wait. You are too young. I must wait until you are fourteen.”
Gladys stood frozen to the spot. He suddenly seemed to realise she was there. “You’re too young … yet. I must not because stuff like condensed milk might come out and you might have a baby.”
Gladys stared wide-eyed at the man as he continued. “Now Gladys, don’t worry. All doctors must do it when you are fourteen but… but…” He stuttered and then stopped. With his spare hand he undid his trousers…
4.05pm
“What took yer?” piped Keith as Gladys walked tenderly out of the chemist. “Can we buy some raspberry drops?”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No! No! We’re goin’ home. Now!” Gladys dragged him, protesting, homewards. When
she saw her mother waiting at the gate, she burst into tears.
5.50pm
“Jeez Jim, you look like you’ve seen a bloomin’ ghost,” said Senior Sergeant George
Maroney with a quizzical look. “What’s up?”
James McDonald stood staring at his boss, who was sitting at the night desk, his feet up on
a stool. “I’ve… I’ve… got to report a complaint.”
“Righto. Nothin’ too alarming, I hope? I’d love to get home before midnight.”
Suddenly McDonald brought his fist down on the counter and shouted, “The bastard! The
evil, evil, bastard!”
George Maroney leapt up. “Steady on, Jim. Whose complaint?”
“Mine! Mine! … Well, no, Gladys’ actually.”
“Gladys? Gladys, your daughter?”
“Yeah. Gladys. She’s been raped.”
“Christ!” said Maroney, coming from behind the counter to stand by his mate. “She
alright?”
McDonald took a deep shuddering breath. “Yeah. She’s not too badly hurt. Doesn’t seem
to be. Shook up. Lots. I’ve got Dr Short examining her.”
“It’s good that you didn’t get Leighton-Jones.”
McDonald glared at Maroney. “What? Why? Jeez, he’s the bastard that did it.”
“Shit! You know, I’m not surprised.”
“Whatcha mean?”
“I’ve heard many complaints over the years.”
“What? Why didn’t yer tell me?”
“I don’t know. I’ve briefed you on so many residents that I think I forgot I hadn’t told you
already. I’m so, so, sorry.”
“Why’s ‘e still practisin’?” demanded McDonald.
“Nobody’ll take it further. Will you?”
McDonald stared long and hard at the etching of King George V that presided over the front counter. “Bloody oath I will. If ‘e gets away with rapin’ a copper’s daughter, what ‘ope does the Empire ‘ave?”
7.30pm
“Is the doctor in?” Maroney politely asked the housekeeper when the door opened.
“’E’s ‘avin’ ‘is tea. Is it urgent, Sergeant?”
“’Fraid so, Mrs James.”
“I’ll get ‘im.”
Maroney tapped the warrant against the door frame until Leighton-Jones came to the door,
a napkin still tucked neatly in his collar.
“I’ve come to arrest you, doctor.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Leighton-Jones, ruefully.
“I’ve a warrant here. I’ll read it to you.”
Leighton-Jones stood patiently as Maroney read the warrant. “I admit I fondled the girl, but I did her no harm.” Leighton-Jones put his hand in his pocket pulled out a wallet. “You say, any chance of settling the matter?”
“No, none whatsoever,” said Maroney staring pointedly at the wallet. “Put it away, doctor.”
“Is there any chance of getting McDonald to withdraw the charge?”
“No.”
“But this is awful. This means the ruination of me! I admit I fondled the girl and she said she liked it. I asked her to bring her little brother in, but she said she didn’t want him to.”
“Come with me, now Doctor. Save the rest for the station.”
7.45pm
“He wants to see me?” McDonald looked incredulous.
“Yes. He probably wants to flash his wallet.”
“Yer jokin’.”
“Will you see him?”
“Only to flatten the bastard.”
“I reckon you should … no, not flatten him, but see him. He might say something we can use.”
McDonald shrugged. “Bring ‘im in.”
When Leighton-Jones came in accompanied by Maroney, McDonald was writing in a journal. He didn’t look up. “Whatcha want… … Doctor?”
“Is there any chance of settling this?”
“No. Certainly not.”
“It will be the ruination of me!”
“Christ! What about me little girl? What does it mean to ‘er?” shouted McDonald jumping
to his feet.
“I did her no harm. She’s no worse for meeting me,” retorted Leighton-Jones.
“It’s not the first time, yer bastard. You’ve been at it sometime.”
“No, I have not.”
“She says yer ‘ave, and I believe ‘er.”
“Oh well, it's no use arguing the matter further if there is no chance of settling it. I have nothing else to say,” said Leighton-Jones.
There was a knock at the door and Dr Frederick Stevenson stuck his head around.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve been summoned to examine some clothes. What are you doing here, Henry?” he said smiling at his fellow colleague. “Are you free for billiards, as usual,tomorrow evening?”
“It’s ‘is clothes yer examinin’,” growled McDonald. “Can yer deal with this George? I can’t bear to be in the same room with ‘im,” he said savagely, pushing past Dr Stevenson.
Three weeks later
Tuesday 1 Dec 1914
2pm
“Sorry Mrs McDonald, but as a witness, you can’t go in,” said Maroney kindly. “She’ll be fine, I assure you. She’s a brave girl and Jim will be in the gallery — he isn’t being called as a witness.”
Mrs McDonald bent down and brushed a non-existent speck from Glady’s starched white pinafore.
“Yer ‘eard the Senior Sergeant, Gladys, yer a brave lass. Yer just tell ‘em the truth and yer Da’s there keepin’ an eye on things.”
Gladys gave a tiny smile and holding tightly onto George’s hand walked through the mahogany doors. Inside it was stifling. There was a murmur from the men in the public gallery when she entered. As she looked around it was apparent there wasn’t a woman to be seen, ladies having been cleared out at the start of the trial.
Above her in a big square box were twelve men, one or two young looking and the rest middle aged or older. All were staring at her.
Justice Ferguson, his long grey wig contrasting with his red robes, looked down at her from on high.
“Do you go to Church?” he asked her in stentorian tones.
“Yes, sir,” said Gladys quietly. “I also go to Sunday school.” She added, remembering what George had said.
“Do you know what happens to those who lie?”
“Yes, sir. They go to hell.”
“Good,” said the judge. “You can be sworn in.”
2.10pm
Mr Gannon KC bent over to hear his instructing solicitor, Mr James, whisper “Surely the Crown Prosecutor isn’t going to get her to say what she saw? It will disgust the jury.”
“Good,” replied Gannon with a smile.
“Now Gladys,” said the man in a black gown and small, grey wig, “I want you to tell us what happened the third time you went into Dr Leighton-Jones’ surgery.”
Gannon stifled a snort when he heard the coordinated intake of breath from the jury when the words ‘india rubber tube’ and ‘like condensed milk’ came out of the young girl’s mouth.
“You know your jury,” James whispered to Gannon. Gannon winked.
2.18pm
“So, Dr Short. You examined the girl that night. What did you find?” asked the Crown Prosecutor, Mr Browning.
“Nothing much, Sir. There were no seminal stains. Her passage was a little larger than one would expect in one so young but perhaps could be normal. The girl has arrived at a certain stage of her life when it is possible, she could suffer from hallucinations. Occasionally at this period in their lives, girls develop hysteria, particularly about once a month.”
“Thank you, you can stand down.”
James McDonald glared furiously at the Crown Prosecutor. He mouthed “Hysteria? Hysteria? What? Three separate bouts? What about the blood? The scratches?” Mr Browning looked away and sat down.
2.24pm
“You admit, Dr Leighton-Jones, that this used French letter was in your purse the night you were arrested?” said Mr Browning, pointing delicately towards the brown rubber tube sitting on the evidence desk.
“Yes.”
“Is it yours?”
“It might be. I have used them.”
“How old are you?”
“Forty-six.”
“Are you married?”
“No, single.”
2.38pm
“When I said I fondled her and she ‘liked it’, you need to realise that fondling was the word I used for stroking her to calm her as I worked on her teeth. She has a peculiar, even feline nature, and liked to nestle into me when I soothed her this way, in a manner of a kitten.” Dr Leighton Jones, paused, smiled at the jury, and added, “Her claims are an absolute hallucination,”
2.50pm
“And in conclusion, gentlemen of the jury, you need to decide if a man, of Dr Leighton-Jones’ stature, a fully qualified, doctor, pharmacist, dentist, Mayor of Moss Vale for eight years, Treasurer of the Moss Vale School of Arts, President of the Moss Vale Progress Society, Chairman of the Fire Brigade… President of the Moss Vale Cricket Club…Treasurer of the Bong Bong Picnic Race Club for three terms…”
Constable McDonald swallowed the lump in his throat as Mr Gannon KC droned on to the jury, providing in exquisite detail Leighton-Jones’ civic activities. What hope did a twelve year-old schoolgirl, whose only claim to fame was winning the three-legged race, have against this behemoth of a man? It seemed the only hope now was the summing up of Judge Ferguson.
3.20pm
Nodding to the Defence and the Crown Prosecutor, Judge Ferguson took a breath and faced the twelve men.
“Gentlemen of the jury, this is a sad and shocking case from every point of view. If the charge stands, it is a shocking thing to think that a man of Dr Leighton-Jones position in life should be guilty of such terrible acts, and if it is not true then it is equally, if not more, a shocking thing to think that such a horrible charge has been levelled against a man of his stature. As Mr. Gannon has pointed out to you, it is the easiest thing in the world for a woman to level such charges against a man, and the hardest thing in the world for him to disprove such charges. You should weigh the evidence accordingly.”
Jim McDonald looked at the big clock hanging over the dock. 3.30pm. He had no idea which way the jury would go. In his book the evidence was cut and dried. His daughter’s description of assault, using descriptions that no little girl could ever have dreamt up, clinched it, along with the blood, scratch marks, the used French letter found in Leighton-Jones’ pocket. How could the jury conclude otherwise?
3.50pm
“Not Guilty, your honour.”
The Facts
On 1 December 1914, Dr Henry Leighton-Jones, ex-Mayor, doctor, dentist, pharmacist and civic luminary was found not-guilty of sexually assaulting, on three occasions, twelve year-old Gladys McDonald.
Only months after the trial, Leighton-Jones, sold up and moved to the Northern Territory where he was appointed Chief Medical Officer. He returned to NSW in the early 1930s to establish a practice that transplanted monkey testicles into men to improve their sex drive and longevity.
He died in 1943 aged 75. All court and witness related dialogue in this story comes directly from witness statements and the judge’s notebook. Character statements by the McDonald’s family priest and Glady’s headmaster that she was an honest and clever girl were not admitted at the trial. Dr Short who examined Gladys omitted any reference to her injuries from the rape.
References
NSW State Archives, Item #13 Jones, Henry Leighton 23/11/1914 NRS880 Box 9/7190. This item contains
witness depositions from: George Maroney, James McDonald, Gladys McDonald, Nellie McDonald, Dr Francis
Short, Alexander Murray, Edward Heffernan, plus file notes relating to the case, including a long note stating Leighton-Jones was well known for attempting carnal relationships with patients.
NSW State Archives, NRS-5933-1[7/10276] Notebooks: Criminal Darlinghurst [Justice D.G. Ferguson]
Container 7/10276 Item Nov 1914 This item is Justice Ferguson’s personal notebook where he has recorded
the court case (much of it in Pitman shorthand). It contains witness statements, cross-examinations, and
responses from Leighton-Jones
A Life Well Lived — Dr Henry Leighton Jones, David John Baxter, Self published, Mittagong NSW, 2019. This is a biography of Leighton-Jones written by a local historian with considerable input from Leighton-Jones’surviving son, John. Gladys McDonald’s assault merits one paragraph of the 130-page book.
DENTIST AND DAMSEL. (1914, December 12). Truth (Melbourne ed.) (Vic. : 1914 - 1918), p. 7. Retrieved
August 19, 2022, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article119785846
Acquitted. (1914, December 5). The Scrutineer and Berrima District Press (NSW : 1892 - 1948), p. 2.
Retrieved August 19, 2022, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article133380204
CENTRAL CRIMINAL COURT. (1914, December 2). The Daily Telegraph (Sydney, NSW : 1883 - 1930), p. 11. Retrieved August 19, 2022, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article238889322
The bell rang. After a ragged chorus of “Good Af-ter-noon Mist-ter Murray,” and the clatter of chairs on the timber floor the children tumbled into the warm afternoon.
“I’m gunna get some humbugs,” Mary grinned. “Comin?”
“Sorry, I’ve gotta get home,” said Gladys. “Mum’s expectin’ me.” She gave a little wave to her friend and headed homewards. Skipping along the road she crossed over as she gets close to the chemist shop, but it was too late. Dr Leighton-Jones called out, “Come over Gladys, I want to see you.”
Gladys tensed at his call but turned and reluctantly walked over to the town’s dentist,
pharmacist, and doctor. He smiled at her. Memories of the pain of her many visits to get her
teeth straightened, were still fresh.
“Your father asked me to check on how your teeth were going. Come inside. I’m just
going to have a look.” Without waiting for her reply, he ushered the twelve-year-old through
the chemist shop and into his surgery out the back, carefully closing the door.
“Now, let’s be looking at you.” Dr Jones gently placed his fingers on her lower jaw and
tenderly pulled her head up, so she was looking straight into his intense blue eyes. As he did
so, he raised her dress and put his right hand down her cotton drawers. Gladys flinched,
closed her eyes, and swallowed.
Monday 2 Nov 1914
A late storm threatened as the children headed home after sports day. Gladys had won the
three-legged race and the sack race. She couldn’t wait to show her father the blue ribbons that
the headmaster, Mr Murray, had given her. As the newest constable in Mittagong, her father
would be proud to see how his daughter had settled into the school. Her thoughts were
interrupted by a deep voice behind her.
“Gladys, I am so pleased to have caught you. I need to check your teeth again. Your father
asked.”
Gladys froze.
Dr Jones placed a hand on her shoulder and firmly guided her up the stairs and through
into his surgery.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Monday 9 Nov 1914
8am
“Yer got t’ go t’ school,” Mrs McDonald insisted. “Yer got t’ take yer brother. Your father’s in Moss Vale ‘e won’t be back ‘til late.”
“But…”
“No buts, Gladys. Yer like school…”
3.40pm
Keith held Gladys’ hand as they walked home that hot afternoon. Gladys was pleased to
have his company. Should Dr Jones again want to see her teeth she would have a witness. She could have gone the long way home, but Mother was always waiting at the gate and any long delay upset her. Listening to her little brother prattle on about his classmates distracted her until, as they neared the chemist, she looked up. Dr Leighton-Jones, hands in pockets, was standing outside, smoking a cigarette. It seemed he had been waiting for her.
“This your brother?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Gladys quietly.
“He’s not coming in. He’d better wait outside.”
The sound of the door locking behind her was loud in her ears.
3.55pm
His breath reeked of tobacco as he told her to open wide. She shut her eyes firmly but opened them in shock as she felt not only his hand between her legs but also his tongue in her mouth. She retched. He pulled back but left his hand in place. It hurt.
He had a wild look in his eyes and started muttering to himself, “I must wait, I must wait. You are too young. I must wait until you are fourteen.”
Gladys stood frozen to the spot. He suddenly seemed to realise she was there. “You’re too young … yet. I must not because stuff like condensed milk might come out and you might have a baby.”
Gladys stared wide-eyed at the man as he continued. “Now Gladys, don’t worry. All doctors must do it when you are fourteen but… but…” He stuttered and then stopped. With his spare hand he undid his trousers…
4.05pm
“What took yer?” piped Keith as Gladys walked tenderly out of the chemist. “Can we buy some raspberry drops?”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No! No! We’re goin’ home. Now!” Gladys dragged him, protesting, homewards. When
she saw her mother waiting at the gate, she burst into tears.
5.50pm
“Jeez Jim, you look like you’ve seen a bloomin’ ghost,” said Senior Sergeant George
Maroney with a quizzical look. “What’s up?”
James McDonald stood staring at his boss, who was sitting at the night desk, his feet up on
a stool. “I’ve… I’ve… got to report a complaint.”
“Righto. Nothin’ too alarming, I hope? I’d love to get home before midnight.”
Suddenly McDonald brought his fist down on the counter and shouted, “The bastard! The
evil, evil, bastard!”
George Maroney leapt up. “Steady on, Jim. Whose complaint?”
“Mine! Mine! … Well, no, Gladys’ actually.”
“Gladys? Gladys, your daughter?”
“Yeah. Gladys. She’s been raped.”
“Christ!” said Maroney, coming from behind the counter to stand by his mate. “She
alright?”
McDonald took a deep shuddering breath. “Yeah. She’s not too badly hurt. Doesn’t seem
to be. Shook up. Lots. I’ve got Dr Short examining her.”
“It’s good that you didn’t get Leighton-Jones.”
McDonald glared at Maroney. “What? Why? Jeez, he’s the bastard that did it.”
“Shit! You know, I’m not surprised.”
“Whatcha mean?”
“I’ve heard many complaints over the years.”
“What? Why didn’t yer tell me?”
“I don’t know. I’ve briefed you on so many residents that I think I forgot I hadn’t told you
already. I’m so, so, sorry.”
“Why’s ‘e still practisin’?” demanded McDonald.
“Nobody’ll take it further. Will you?”
McDonald stared long and hard at the etching of King George V that presided over the front counter. “Bloody oath I will. If ‘e gets away with rapin’ a copper’s daughter, what ‘ope does the Empire ‘ave?”
7.30pm
“Is the doctor in?” Maroney politely asked the housekeeper when the door opened.
“’E’s ‘avin’ ‘is tea. Is it urgent, Sergeant?”
“’Fraid so, Mrs James.”
“I’ll get ‘im.”
Maroney tapped the warrant against the door frame until Leighton-Jones came to the door,
a napkin still tucked neatly in his collar.
“I’ve come to arrest you, doctor.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Leighton-Jones, ruefully.
“I’ve a warrant here. I’ll read it to you.”
Leighton-Jones stood patiently as Maroney read the warrant. “I admit I fondled the girl, but I did her no harm.” Leighton-Jones put his hand in his pocket pulled out a wallet. “You say, any chance of settling the matter?”
“No, none whatsoever,” said Maroney staring pointedly at the wallet. “Put it away, doctor.”
“Is there any chance of getting McDonald to withdraw the charge?”
“No.”
“But this is awful. This means the ruination of me! I admit I fondled the girl and she said she liked it. I asked her to bring her little brother in, but she said she didn’t want him to.”
“Come with me, now Doctor. Save the rest for the station.”
7.45pm
“He wants to see me?” McDonald looked incredulous.
“Yes. He probably wants to flash his wallet.”
“Yer jokin’.”
“Will you see him?”
“Only to flatten the bastard.”
“I reckon you should … no, not flatten him, but see him. He might say something we can use.”
McDonald shrugged. “Bring ‘im in.”
When Leighton-Jones came in accompanied by Maroney, McDonald was writing in a journal. He didn’t look up. “Whatcha want… … Doctor?”
“Is there any chance of settling this?”
“No. Certainly not.”
“It will be the ruination of me!”
“Christ! What about me little girl? What does it mean to ‘er?” shouted McDonald jumping
to his feet.
“I did her no harm. She’s no worse for meeting me,” retorted Leighton-Jones.
“It’s not the first time, yer bastard. You’ve been at it sometime.”
“No, I have not.”
“She says yer ‘ave, and I believe ‘er.”
“Oh well, it's no use arguing the matter further if there is no chance of settling it. I have nothing else to say,” said Leighton-Jones.
There was a knock at the door and Dr Frederick Stevenson stuck his head around.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve been summoned to examine some clothes. What are you doing here, Henry?” he said smiling at his fellow colleague. “Are you free for billiards, as usual,tomorrow evening?”
“It’s ‘is clothes yer examinin’,” growled McDonald. “Can yer deal with this George? I can’t bear to be in the same room with ‘im,” he said savagely, pushing past Dr Stevenson.
Three weeks later
Tuesday 1 Dec 1914
2pm
“Sorry Mrs McDonald, but as a witness, you can’t go in,” said Maroney kindly. “She’ll be fine, I assure you. She’s a brave girl and Jim will be in the gallery — he isn’t being called as a witness.”
Mrs McDonald bent down and brushed a non-existent speck from Glady’s starched white pinafore.
“Yer ‘eard the Senior Sergeant, Gladys, yer a brave lass. Yer just tell ‘em the truth and yer Da’s there keepin’ an eye on things.”
Gladys gave a tiny smile and holding tightly onto George’s hand walked through the mahogany doors. Inside it was stifling. There was a murmur from the men in the public gallery when she entered. As she looked around it was apparent there wasn’t a woman to be seen, ladies having been cleared out at the start of the trial.
Above her in a big square box were twelve men, one or two young looking and the rest middle aged or older. All were staring at her.
Justice Ferguson, his long grey wig contrasting with his red robes, looked down at her from on high.
“Do you go to Church?” he asked her in stentorian tones.
“Yes, sir,” said Gladys quietly. “I also go to Sunday school.” She added, remembering what George had said.
“Do you know what happens to those who lie?”
“Yes, sir. They go to hell.”
“Good,” said the judge. “You can be sworn in.”
2.10pm
Mr Gannon KC bent over to hear his instructing solicitor, Mr James, whisper “Surely the Crown Prosecutor isn’t going to get her to say what she saw? It will disgust the jury.”
“Good,” replied Gannon with a smile.
“Now Gladys,” said the man in a black gown and small, grey wig, “I want you to tell us what happened the third time you went into Dr Leighton-Jones’ surgery.”
Gannon stifled a snort when he heard the coordinated intake of breath from the jury when the words ‘india rubber tube’ and ‘like condensed milk’ came out of the young girl’s mouth.
“You know your jury,” James whispered to Gannon. Gannon winked.
2.18pm
“So, Dr Short. You examined the girl that night. What did you find?” asked the Crown Prosecutor, Mr Browning.
“Nothing much, Sir. There were no seminal stains. Her passage was a little larger than one would expect in one so young but perhaps could be normal. The girl has arrived at a certain stage of her life when it is possible, she could suffer from hallucinations. Occasionally at this period in their lives, girls develop hysteria, particularly about once a month.”
“Thank you, you can stand down.”
James McDonald glared furiously at the Crown Prosecutor. He mouthed “Hysteria? Hysteria? What? Three separate bouts? What about the blood? The scratches?” Mr Browning looked away and sat down.
2.24pm
“You admit, Dr Leighton-Jones, that this used French letter was in your purse the night you were arrested?” said Mr Browning, pointing delicately towards the brown rubber tube sitting on the evidence desk.
“Yes.”
“Is it yours?”
“It might be. I have used them.”
“How old are you?”
“Forty-six.”
“Are you married?”
“No, single.”
2.38pm
“When I said I fondled her and she ‘liked it’, you need to realise that fondling was the word I used for stroking her to calm her as I worked on her teeth. She has a peculiar, even feline nature, and liked to nestle into me when I soothed her this way, in a manner of a kitten.” Dr Leighton Jones, paused, smiled at the jury, and added, “Her claims are an absolute hallucination,”
2.50pm
“And in conclusion, gentlemen of the jury, you need to decide if a man, of Dr Leighton-Jones’ stature, a fully qualified, doctor, pharmacist, dentist, Mayor of Moss Vale for eight years, Treasurer of the Moss Vale School of Arts, President of the Moss Vale Progress Society, Chairman of the Fire Brigade… President of the Moss Vale Cricket Club…Treasurer of the Bong Bong Picnic Race Club for three terms…”
Constable McDonald swallowed the lump in his throat as Mr Gannon KC droned on to the jury, providing in exquisite detail Leighton-Jones’ civic activities. What hope did a twelve year-old schoolgirl, whose only claim to fame was winning the three-legged race, have against this behemoth of a man? It seemed the only hope now was the summing up of Judge Ferguson.
3.20pm
Nodding to the Defence and the Crown Prosecutor, Judge Ferguson took a breath and faced the twelve men.
“Gentlemen of the jury, this is a sad and shocking case from every point of view. If the charge stands, it is a shocking thing to think that a man of Dr Leighton-Jones position in life should be guilty of such terrible acts, and if it is not true then it is equally, if not more, a shocking thing to think that such a horrible charge has been levelled against a man of his stature. As Mr. Gannon has pointed out to you, it is the easiest thing in the world for a woman to level such charges against a man, and the hardest thing in the world for him to disprove such charges. You should weigh the evidence accordingly.”
Jim McDonald looked at the big clock hanging over the dock. 3.30pm. He had no idea which way the jury would go. In his book the evidence was cut and dried. His daughter’s description of assault, using descriptions that no little girl could ever have dreamt up, clinched it, along with the blood, scratch marks, the used French letter found in Leighton-Jones’ pocket. How could the jury conclude otherwise?
3.50pm
“Not Guilty, your honour.”
The Facts
On 1 December 1914, Dr Henry Leighton-Jones, ex-Mayor, doctor, dentist, pharmacist and civic luminary was found not-guilty of sexually assaulting, on three occasions, twelve year-old Gladys McDonald.
Only months after the trial, Leighton-Jones, sold up and moved to the Northern Territory where he was appointed Chief Medical Officer. He returned to NSW in the early 1930s to establish a practice that transplanted monkey testicles into men to improve their sex drive and longevity.
He died in 1943 aged 75. All court and witness related dialogue in this story comes directly from witness statements and the judge’s notebook. Character statements by the McDonald’s family priest and Glady’s headmaster that she was an honest and clever girl were not admitted at the trial. Dr Short who examined Gladys omitted any reference to her injuries from the rape.
References
NSW State Archives, Item #13 Jones, Henry Leighton 23/11/1914 NRS880 Box 9/7190. This item contains
witness depositions from: George Maroney, James McDonald, Gladys McDonald, Nellie McDonald, Dr Francis
Short, Alexander Murray, Edward Heffernan, plus file notes relating to the case, including a long note stating Leighton-Jones was well known for attempting carnal relationships with patients.
NSW State Archives, NRS-5933-1[7/10276] Notebooks: Criminal Darlinghurst [Justice D.G. Ferguson]
Container 7/10276 Item Nov 1914 This item is Justice Ferguson’s personal notebook where he has recorded
the court case (much of it in Pitman shorthand). It contains witness statements, cross-examinations, and
responses from Leighton-Jones
A Life Well Lived — Dr Henry Leighton Jones, David John Baxter, Self published, Mittagong NSW, 2019. This is a biography of Leighton-Jones written by a local historian with considerable input from Leighton-Jones’surviving son, John. Gladys McDonald’s assault merits one paragraph of the 130-page book.
DENTIST AND DAMSEL. (1914, December 12). Truth (Melbourne ed.) (Vic. : 1914 - 1918), p. 7. Retrieved
August 19, 2022, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article119785846
Acquitted. (1914, December 5). The Scrutineer and Berrima District Press (NSW : 1892 - 1948), p. 2.
Retrieved August 19, 2022, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article133380204
CENTRAL CRIMINAL COURT. (1914, December 2). The Daily Telegraph (Sydney, NSW : 1883 - 1930), p. 11. Retrieved August 19, 2022, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article238889322
Poetry
The loaded gun was pressed against my head
To nudge me down that narrow wedding aisle:
I should have worn a different skirt instead.
I’d always dreamed of baking gingerbread --
But never in a kitchen so defiled:
The loaded gun was pressed against my head.
I should have worked out where those breadcrumbs led,
But I just blindly followed him and smiled;
I should have worn a different skirt instead.
I did not wish to be confined to bed
Nor in a hothouse grow this ghastly child --
The loaded gun was pressed against my head.
I woke up one bare morning and I bled;
My favourite frock was permanently soiled.
I should have worn a different skirt instead.
One day a frenzied notion filled my head;
I snapped, the papers said, and then ran wild.
The loaded gun was pressed against my head --
I should have worn a different skirt instead.
To nudge me down that narrow wedding aisle:
I should have worn a different skirt instead.
I’d always dreamed of baking gingerbread --
But never in a kitchen so defiled:
The loaded gun was pressed against my head.
I should have worked out where those breadcrumbs led,
But I just blindly followed him and smiled;
I should have worn a different skirt instead.
I did not wish to be confined to bed
Nor in a hothouse grow this ghastly child --
The loaded gun was pressed against my head.
I woke up one bare morning and I bled;
My favourite frock was permanently soiled.
I should have worn a different skirt instead.
One day a frenzied notion filled my head;
I snapped, the papers said, and then ran wild.
The loaded gun was pressed against my head --
I should have worn a different skirt instead.
The New England Award
The form of this poem is unique and better appreciated if viewed as a document. Enjoy!
| I Witness by Jane O'Sullivan |
Emerging Author Award
The lone figure galloped across the Saumarez plain; only it wasn’t a lone figure, it was a horse and rider – Henry Winter’s horse to be precise – and the rider – a red blur; head down hunched over the lunging white mane of Captain Bob, urging the horse to greater speed.
The Winters were a wealthy pastoralist family of good standing in the community. They sponsored several local events, including boating picnics at Dangar’s Lagoon, and the Armidale Gala, which is where Eunice Winter had been judging the preserves competition. Apparently, she’d come home early to check on Henry. She’d arrived only moments before her husband’s horse was taken. It was her who sent for the police – who duly arrived from Armidale the next morning. They rarely had cause to visit Winterbourne but were aware of the occupants and their various roles. They poked about lazily asking questions, preferring to talk to the staff before facing Mrs Eunice Winter.
Old Fritz had seen them from the hill where he’d been fitting a new stay to the gatepost. He said the red rider rode as though they’d just robbed the bank. But the light had been dull, like Old Fritz’s eyesight, and he couldn’t provide any specific details, other than that they were headed in the direction of Uralla. (Fritz Egon Berkman – 59, Austrian immigrant. Widower. Labourer. No convictions.)
Thelma Vale was Winterbournes’ cook, cleaner, nurse, seamstress, maid, and nanny to the Emery children when they were small. She was a quiet woman, almost shy, but strong, orderly and efficient. She’d worked for the Winter’s since she was a child. She said she was in the cellar when the horse was taken and heard nothing but footsteps and hoofbeats. (Thelma May Vale – 44. Kamilaroi. Maid. Wife of Eddie Vale. No convictions.)
Little Tilly Emery came out from the chook pen where she’d been hunting for eggs and fairies. The police had not sought Tilly’s input, but she’d blurted out her information anyway. She said the horse looked like her uncle Henry’s, but maybe not. She said the rider flew like a red flag in the wind. She said the flag was on fire and the horse was smoke. She was sure she could be of help, and she followed the police like a shadow as they sought the stables, where she was chased off by Eddie. Tilly first insisted the police write down her name and her important details too. (Matilda Eunice Emery – 7. Henry’s niece. Youngest of five. Always in trouble.)
Eddie Vale had not been present at the time of the incident; he’d been at the Gala performing whatever duties Mrs Winter required of him. She’d been due to award the grand prizes later that evening but had found a replacement and made her excuses. Eddie had taken her home in the old sulky at around half-five – she hated the noisy new motorcar that Henry had insisted on buying. Eddie said he’d left Mrs Winter at the front entrance and gone on to the stables. He said he saw the ‘dust snake’ from Captain Bob. He showed the police where the trail started from the rear of the house, and he pointed south-west, across Saumarez Plains. (Edward Vincent Vale – 48. Anaiwan. Labourer. Husband to Thelma Vale. Numerous convictions for petty offences.)
Hamish Emery could shed no further light. He had been repainting the stables. All the horses had been in the lower pasture – except Captain Bob. Hamish said Mr Winter was out riding that morning as far as he knew. Hamish did not ride himself due to a hereditary spinal condition. He saw Eddie come back with the sulky at six, but Hamish could not make out the ‘dust-snake’ he’d pointed to. (Hamish James Emery – 17. Henry’s nephew. Station hand. No police record.)
Henry Winter was a wealthy man of few, but fair words. He was known for his wealth, fine dress sense and thick, lustrous beard. Captain Bob was an extremely valuable horse, but Henry did not want an investigation. He said that Captain Bob knew his way home, but if they were to catch the blighter who’d stolen him, he’d be happy to administer the thrashing himself. He suggested it may have been some tipsy lad trying to get home from the Gala. He said he had not attended the Gala himself, as he’d been feeling a little weak and had been sleeping it off. He said he slept in snatches until his wife came home. (Henry Fortescue Winter – 43 of Winterbourne. Husband of Eunice. One previous conviction for lewd behaviour in 1921 – fourteen years previous. Sentence suspended.)
When Eunice Winter came in and found the police talking to Henry, she became crisp and curt. A robust and imposing woman, she wasted little time with details. She told the police to get Eddie to show them exactly where the horse went, and to stop wasting everybody’s time with trivialities. (Eunice Celeste Winter – 46 of winterbourne. Wife of Henry. President of the CWA. Patron of church and charity. No police record.)
What Eunice didn’t tell the police, was that when she arrived home, she’d found Henry flapping about in his nightgown, clearly in a state of heightened agitation. When she’d asked him what was wrong, he’d shouted at her to ‘stay there’, as he’d run upstairs. In a minute he’d returned, hastily attired, seeming a tad more composed. He’d told her that he thought Captain Bob might have been stolen.
All the other residents of Winterbourne had been absent on that day; the three other Emery children were away at boarding school, Henry’s sister, Beatrice Emery and her husband Thomas Emery were absent on business.
The police sipped their tea and enjoyed Thelma’s scones. So far, the best description they had of the thief was Tilly Emery’s fanciful report, hardly credible.
Then Captain Bob came home, wandering in from the south. Henry Winter’s saddle intact, bridle and reins folded into the saddlebag. Captain Bob was unharmed, though he’d thrown a shoe. The police were happy to leave the matter there, and Henry was inclined to agree – no need for a costly investigation.
Eunice suddenly announced that jewellery had been stolen as well and maybe more. She insisted they take Eddie and follow the previous afternoon’s trail, reminding them of the position her father held within the judicial system. She casually insinuated they they might earn themselves a propitious perquisite if they caught the fellow with a bullet.
That’s when Tilly popped out from behind the curtain and announced that it wasn’t a fellow they were looking for. Eunice’s eyebrows shot aloft, and her eyes bulged a severe glare at Tilly, who scampered immediately out of the house. Eunice directed the policemen to the rear of the house, then sent Thelma to fetch Eddie.
As the policemen waited for Eddie, they overheard the voice of Mrs Winter shouting – short outbursts followed by muffled tones of suppressed conviction. Tilly peered at the policemen from her roost in the honeysuckle, until she was spotted. The younger policeman asked her what she had meant before. She matter-of-factly stated that it was a lady who took the horse. She said she was beautiful in her red dress, and that she could ride like a cloud on the wind.
The older policeman chuckled, and Tilly frowned. She looked into the young policeman’s eyes, and in hushed, conspiratorial tones, told him that it was a beautiful lady with blond hair. She hesitated, bit her lip and added, I think she and Uncle Henry were dancing, that’s all. She began to look worried, her cheeks flushed, and tears welled. She darted a furtive look towards the house – the muffled shouting had stopped. Tilly took off through the honeysuckle like a sprung hare.
Eddie on foot, led the mounted policemen south-west at a good pace. Captain Bob had been ridden hard and had left a good trail, though only clear to Eddie. He found the broken string of pearls almost immediately. After four hours Eddie spotted Captain Bob’s thrown shoe.
Here, the rider had dismounted and headed barefoot towards John Johnson’s lease. Captain Bob had wandered to the east, but they did not follow that trail. Eddie returned to Winterbourne, and the police continued the half mile to John Johnson’s, still following a distinctly direct line from Winterbourne.
John Johnson’s property was a rugged patch of rocky, brown scrub, seemingly at odds with John, who was charming and fair. Clean shaven and well spoken, known for his propensity to gamble any profit made from his questionable mine. He was a cheerful sort, despite having lost most of his useful possessions to cards or dice. He made just enough coin, jockeying rich men’s thoroughbreds at the track, to keep him afloat. He said he hadn’t noticed Henry Winter’s horse, nor had he seen anyone come past, woman or otherwise. He said he had too much on his hands with the mine to be noticing such things. He poured the police hot tea and quipped that Captain Bob may have run from the sound of Henry’s wife battering the poor fellow with her cat-o-nine tongues. (John Wilbur Johnson – 28 of Box Hill. Mining lease foreclosed. Unemployed. Minor convictions for petty offences.)
The police left satisfied. There was no more they could achieve for Mrs Winter; the trail was cold.
They did not notice John’s badly-fitting, old shoes, or his shaven limbs and chest.
Eunice Winter did not tell them about her missing red, silk nightdress.
Tilly Emery decided not to show them the pair of boots and crumpled clothes she’d found stuffed behind the desk in Uncle Henry’s study – she was not supposed to be in there.
Thelma Vale did not mention the alterations that Henry had her make to the red nightdress – as a “present for one of his nieces” – in secret. She kept quiet about the music and the dancing and the laughter and the silence she’d heard coming from upstairs while Eunice had been at the Gala. She did not mention seeing John through the thin cellar window as he’d leapt onto Captain Bob’s back and taken off – the red nightdress swirling about his otherwise naked body.
John Johnson gazed across the landscape towards Winterbourne. He rubbed the red, silk nightdress across his cheek. It smelled of Henry. It was soft, sensual, and delicate – like Henry.
The Winters were a wealthy pastoralist family of good standing in the community. They sponsored several local events, including boating picnics at Dangar’s Lagoon, and the Armidale Gala, which is where Eunice Winter had been judging the preserves competition. Apparently, she’d come home early to check on Henry. She’d arrived only moments before her husband’s horse was taken. It was her who sent for the police – who duly arrived from Armidale the next morning. They rarely had cause to visit Winterbourne but were aware of the occupants and their various roles. They poked about lazily asking questions, preferring to talk to the staff before facing Mrs Eunice Winter.
Old Fritz had seen them from the hill where he’d been fitting a new stay to the gatepost. He said the red rider rode as though they’d just robbed the bank. But the light had been dull, like Old Fritz’s eyesight, and he couldn’t provide any specific details, other than that they were headed in the direction of Uralla. (Fritz Egon Berkman – 59, Austrian immigrant. Widower. Labourer. No convictions.)
Thelma Vale was Winterbournes’ cook, cleaner, nurse, seamstress, maid, and nanny to the Emery children when they were small. She was a quiet woman, almost shy, but strong, orderly and efficient. She’d worked for the Winter’s since she was a child. She said she was in the cellar when the horse was taken and heard nothing but footsteps and hoofbeats. (Thelma May Vale – 44. Kamilaroi. Maid. Wife of Eddie Vale. No convictions.)
Little Tilly Emery came out from the chook pen where she’d been hunting for eggs and fairies. The police had not sought Tilly’s input, but she’d blurted out her information anyway. She said the horse looked like her uncle Henry’s, but maybe not. She said the rider flew like a red flag in the wind. She said the flag was on fire and the horse was smoke. She was sure she could be of help, and she followed the police like a shadow as they sought the stables, where she was chased off by Eddie. Tilly first insisted the police write down her name and her important details too. (Matilda Eunice Emery – 7. Henry’s niece. Youngest of five. Always in trouble.)
Eddie Vale had not been present at the time of the incident; he’d been at the Gala performing whatever duties Mrs Winter required of him. She’d been due to award the grand prizes later that evening but had found a replacement and made her excuses. Eddie had taken her home in the old sulky at around half-five – she hated the noisy new motorcar that Henry had insisted on buying. Eddie said he’d left Mrs Winter at the front entrance and gone on to the stables. He said he saw the ‘dust snake’ from Captain Bob. He showed the police where the trail started from the rear of the house, and he pointed south-west, across Saumarez Plains. (Edward Vincent Vale – 48. Anaiwan. Labourer. Husband to Thelma Vale. Numerous convictions for petty offences.)
Hamish Emery could shed no further light. He had been repainting the stables. All the horses had been in the lower pasture – except Captain Bob. Hamish said Mr Winter was out riding that morning as far as he knew. Hamish did not ride himself due to a hereditary spinal condition. He saw Eddie come back with the sulky at six, but Hamish could not make out the ‘dust-snake’ he’d pointed to. (Hamish James Emery – 17. Henry’s nephew. Station hand. No police record.)
Henry Winter was a wealthy man of few, but fair words. He was known for his wealth, fine dress sense and thick, lustrous beard. Captain Bob was an extremely valuable horse, but Henry did not want an investigation. He said that Captain Bob knew his way home, but if they were to catch the blighter who’d stolen him, he’d be happy to administer the thrashing himself. He suggested it may have been some tipsy lad trying to get home from the Gala. He said he had not attended the Gala himself, as he’d been feeling a little weak and had been sleeping it off. He said he slept in snatches until his wife came home. (Henry Fortescue Winter – 43 of Winterbourne. Husband of Eunice. One previous conviction for lewd behaviour in 1921 – fourteen years previous. Sentence suspended.)
When Eunice Winter came in and found the police talking to Henry, she became crisp and curt. A robust and imposing woman, she wasted little time with details. She told the police to get Eddie to show them exactly where the horse went, and to stop wasting everybody’s time with trivialities. (Eunice Celeste Winter – 46 of winterbourne. Wife of Henry. President of the CWA. Patron of church and charity. No police record.)
What Eunice didn’t tell the police, was that when she arrived home, she’d found Henry flapping about in his nightgown, clearly in a state of heightened agitation. When she’d asked him what was wrong, he’d shouted at her to ‘stay there’, as he’d run upstairs. In a minute he’d returned, hastily attired, seeming a tad more composed. He’d told her that he thought Captain Bob might have been stolen.
All the other residents of Winterbourne had been absent on that day; the three other Emery children were away at boarding school, Henry’s sister, Beatrice Emery and her husband Thomas Emery were absent on business.
The police sipped their tea and enjoyed Thelma’s scones. So far, the best description they had of the thief was Tilly Emery’s fanciful report, hardly credible.
Then Captain Bob came home, wandering in from the south. Henry Winter’s saddle intact, bridle and reins folded into the saddlebag. Captain Bob was unharmed, though he’d thrown a shoe. The police were happy to leave the matter there, and Henry was inclined to agree – no need for a costly investigation.
Eunice suddenly announced that jewellery had been stolen as well and maybe more. She insisted they take Eddie and follow the previous afternoon’s trail, reminding them of the position her father held within the judicial system. She casually insinuated they they might earn themselves a propitious perquisite if they caught the fellow with a bullet.
That’s when Tilly popped out from behind the curtain and announced that it wasn’t a fellow they were looking for. Eunice’s eyebrows shot aloft, and her eyes bulged a severe glare at Tilly, who scampered immediately out of the house. Eunice directed the policemen to the rear of the house, then sent Thelma to fetch Eddie.
As the policemen waited for Eddie, they overheard the voice of Mrs Winter shouting – short outbursts followed by muffled tones of suppressed conviction. Tilly peered at the policemen from her roost in the honeysuckle, until she was spotted. The younger policeman asked her what she had meant before. She matter-of-factly stated that it was a lady who took the horse. She said she was beautiful in her red dress, and that she could ride like a cloud on the wind.
The older policeman chuckled, and Tilly frowned. She looked into the young policeman’s eyes, and in hushed, conspiratorial tones, told him that it was a beautiful lady with blond hair. She hesitated, bit her lip and added, I think she and Uncle Henry were dancing, that’s all. She began to look worried, her cheeks flushed, and tears welled. She darted a furtive look towards the house – the muffled shouting had stopped. Tilly took off through the honeysuckle like a sprung hare.
Eddie on foot, led the mounted policemen south-west at a good pace. Captain Bob had been ridden hard and had left a good trail, though only clear to Eddie. He found the broken string of pearls almost immediately. After four hours Eddie spotted Captain Bob’s thrown shoe.
Here, the rider had dismounted and headed barefoot towards John Johnson’s lease. Captain Bob had wandered to the east, but they did not follow that trail. Eddie returned to Winterbourne, and the police continued the half mile to John Johnson’s, still following a distinctly direct line from Winterbourne.
John Johnson’s property was a rugged patch of rocky, brown scrub, seemingly at odds with John, who was charming and fair. Clean shaven and well spoken, known for his propensity to gamble any profit made from his questionable mine. He was a cheerful sort, despite having lost most of his useful possessions to cards or dice. He made just enough coin, jockeying rich men’s thoroughbreds at the track, to keep him afloat. He said he hadn’t noticed Henry Winter’s horse, nor had he seen anyone come past, woman or otherwise. He said he had too much on his hands with the mine to be noticing such things. He poured the police hot tea and quipped that Captain Bob may have run from the sound of Henry’s wife battering the poor fellow with her cat-o-nine tongues. (John Wilbur Johnson – 28 of Box Hill. Mining lease foreclosed. Unemployed. Minor convictions for petty offences.)
The police left satisfied. There was no more they could achieve for Mrs Winter; the trail was cold.
They did not notice John’s badly-fitting, old shoes, or his shaven limbs and chest.
Eunice Winter did not tell them about her missing red, silk nightdress.
Tilly Emery decided not to show them the pair of boots and crumpled clothes she’d found stuffed behind the desk in Uncle Henry’s study – she was not supposed to be in there.
Thelma Vale did not mention the alterations that Henry had her make to the red nightdress – as a “present for one of his nieces” – in secret. She kept quiet about the music and the dancing and the laughter and the silence she’d heard coming from upstairs while Eunice had been at the Gala. She did not mention seeing John through the thin cellar window as he’d leapt onto Captain Bob’s back and taken off – the red nightdress swirling about his otherwise naked body.
John Johnson gazed across the landscape towards Winterbourne. He rubbed the red, silk nightdress across his cheek. It smelled of Henry. It was soft, sensual, and delicate – like Henry.
Youth Award
You must have felt excitement bubble inside you as you clambered out of bed and tiptoed out into the yard. The cool morning air was bitingly cold that day, but you ventured onwards anyways, too eager to care. The melodic warbles of a magpie greeted you, and you would have closed your eyes for a moment, absorbing the tranquil stillness. You called out to me, inviting me out to share this blissful moment with you.
I lay in bed, melting into layers of blankets and linen, too tired to care.
You hurried back inside and danced around the kitchen, humming one of your favourite radio songs as you twisted your honey-blonde curls into a messy bun. You snuck back into your room then, no doubt to pack a heap of snacks for the last day of school. When you bounded back out into the dining room for breakfast, your cheerful grin shone through the dimness in a soft glow.
I saw only a harsh light.
You hid a look of hurt as I growled at you to hurry, and munched on your toast with a petulant sulk. I
returned with a scathing comment about your outfit, so you snapped back at me and flounced out of the
house, marching defiantly to the bus stop while I turned away and shook my head in despair.
I didn’t even say goodbye.
You turned down the corner of our street, past the dog park with its overgrown bushes and dilapidated fencing. The little row of shops would have stood like silent ghosts, with their shuttered windows and locked doors. You walked down the path, meandering along as you scrolled through your phone and sent a blurry photograph of the sunrise to your friends.
That was the last we heard of you.
You would have stared longingly at the vinyl shop’s display and scowled at the closed cafe as you stood outside in the cold. Maybe you slipped your fingers into the coin return slot of the nearby vending machines, hoping to get lucky with a few extra dollars.
The bus would have rumbled down the street, its gaudy blue paint and neon screen emblazoned with SCHOOL announcing its arrival. You would have fumbled through your pockets for your Opal card ticket before slinging your bag over your shoulder and slouching to the back seats. You would have sat, huddled by the window like always, as the bus navigated its way through the twisted suburban streets.
But you never got on that bus.
You vanished with the wind, never to be seen again.
I went about my day as usual, blind to your plight. I emptied the laundry basket into the wash, then vacuumed the floors, cursing as the nozzle caught on one of your cheap bracelets. I slipped into the study at 9:00am precisely and sat down as my laptop blinked to life. I flicked through the browser tabs, opening email after email from disgruntled clients. I skimmed through manuals and printed documents to be read, fighting an impending migraine as I hurried about. In a rare moment of idleness, I daydreamed about the grilled cheese that I was craving for lunch. Not once did I spare a thought for you.
The phone began to ring.
I remember stifling a yawn as I swiped the green button. A robotic voice droned on in my ear, and I looked about the room, wishing that the day was over already. A mention of your name jolted me back to my senses.
“Sorry, could you please repeat that?”.
“Ma’am, this is Wattle Falls High School Reception calling.” The woman’s voice oozed with indifference.
“We are inquiring about the absence of your daughter, Eve Spence. Do you have a doctor’s certificate for
her absence today?”
“A-Absence? But Eve went to school today?” I bolted upright, a sudden panic coursing through my veins.
There was a long-suffering sigh on the other end of the line.
“I’ll place her on unexplained absence for the time being. Have a nice day.”
I felt a wave of fear seize me as I dialled your number with trembling fingers. The phone rang on and on, its beeps taunting me as they repeated over and over. Anger and frustration replaced worry, and I clenched my fists, annoyed as you supposedly ignored me. It was all too easy to imagine you sneaking off to the city with your friends, chortling at your own ingenuity as all teenagers do. I blundered through the rest of the day, too consumed by agitation to focus.
Maybe if I’d calmed down, I would have seen the signs.
I stood by the gate all afternoon, craning my neck every time footsteps approached as I waited in vain for your return. When the last rays of sunlight slipped beneath the horizon, I called you again, this time clutching at the blank screen, praying for a response, until the beeps subsided.
You never came home.
For days afterwards, I did nothing but sit helplessly in your room, staring blankly out of the window. I
would look out into the garden, where cheerful sunbeams danced among the leaves. Sometimes, the laughter of children would drift through the open window. Every detail of life became a constant reminder of the small things that we all took for granted.
The police came and went, poking through your childhood diaries and snooping through your messages.
They took interviews, fixing a steely glare on our entire family as we mumbled and stumbled through complex questions and stuttered out appeals. They murmured chilling words in soft voices, and after they left, those words echoed in my mind until they were all that I could hear.
…appeal to any witnesses…
…suspicious vehicles…
…foul play…
I thought back to that fateful day, searching through small fragments of broken memories, but nothing ever seemed to come through. From the public, though, small things soon turned up. There were reports of strange cars passing by and supposed sightings of you hundreds of kilometres away. Eventually, we found small tidbits. A broken necklace clasp. A torn scrap of lilac, in the same cotton blend as your scrunchie. A glittery pen lid, matching your favourite stationery brand.
I cried every time they brought another piece of you back, curling into a ball in the corner of a room as I gasped for breaths in between sobs as the last slivers of vestigial hope began to drip away. There was no solace to be found in these clues, not when you are still gone. They only serve as confirmation of the cruel fate you must have suffered.
That was almost a year ago.
Every day, I wonder what happened. Were you snatched off the street by a faceless stranger? Or were you lured away by someone you knew and trusted? Did you struggle and make futile attempts to escape? Or did you crawl into a dark cocoon of fear until they killed you? Could you still be alive, somewhere out there, waiting for us?
I’ll never know the answers to these questions. I only know that we will probably never find you.
Someone stole you, your life, your future, took it all away from you. You are gone forever, just like that.
With knowledge, there is grief, regret, sorrow. The raw emotions tear through me until I become numb to the pain, but the pain is still inside me, unfurling like dark tendrils which threaten to choke me. Yet, without knowledge, there is a hollow feeling of emptiness which lingers tauntingly at the edge. A singular question which haunts me, day and night, refusing to leave me.
What if I could have saved you?
I couldn’t protect you.
I couldn’t help you.
I couldn’t save you.
I didn’t even say “I love you”.
I lay in bed, melting into layers of blankets and linen, too tired to care.
You hurried back inside and danced around the kitchen, humming one of your favourite radio songs as you twisted your honey-blonde curls into a messy bun. You snuck back into your room then, no doubt to pack a heap of snacks for the last day of school. When you bounded back out into the dining room for breakfast, your cheerful grin shone through the dimness in a soft glow.
I saw only a harsh light.
You hid a look of hurt as I growled at you to hurry, and munched on your toast with a petulant sulk. I
returned with a scathing comment about your outfit, so you snapped back at me and flounced out of the
house, marching defiantly to the bus stop while I turned away and shook my head in despair.
I didn’t even say goodbye.
You turned down the corner of our street, past the dog park with its overgrown bushes and dilapidated fencing. The little row of shops would have stood like silent ghosts, with their shuttered windows and locked doors. You walked down the path, meandering along as you scrolled through your phone and sent a blurry photograph of the sunrise to your friends.
That was the last we heard of you.
You would have stared longingly at the vinyl shop’s display and scowled at the closed cafe as you stood outside in the cold. Maybe you slipped your fingers into the coin return slot of the nearby vending machines, hoping to get lucky with a few extra dollars.
The bus would have rumbled down the street, its gaudy blue paint and neon screen emblazoned with SCHOOL announcing its arrival. You would have fumbled through your pockets for your Opal card ticket before slinging your bag over your shoulder and slouching to the back seats. You would have sat, huddled by the window like always, as the bus navigated its way through the twisted suburban streets.
But you never got on that bus.
You vanished with the wind, never to be seen again.
I went about my day as usual, blind to your plight. I emptied the laundry basket into the wash, then vacuumed the floors, cursing as the nozzle caught on one of your cheap bracelets. I slipped into the study at 9:00am precisely and sat down as my laptop blinked to life. I flicked through the browser tabs, opening email after email from disgruntled clients. I skimmed through manuals and printed documents to be read, fighting an impending migraine as I hurried about. In a rare moment of idleness, I daydreamed about the grilled cheese that I was craving for lunch. Not once did I spare a thought for you.
The phone began to ring.
I remember stifling a yawn as I swiped the green button. A robotic voice droned on in my ear, and I looked about the room, wishing that the day was over already. A mention of your name jolted me back to my senses.
“Sorry, could you please repeat that?”.
“Ma’am, this is Wattle Falls High School Reception calling.” The woman’s voice oozed with indifference.
“We are inquiring about the absence of your daughter, Eve Spence. Do you have a doctor’s certificate for
her absence today?”
“A-Absence? But Eve went to school today?” I bolted upright, a sudden panic coursing through my veins.
There was a long-suffering sigh on the other end of the line.
“I’ll place her on unexplained absence for the time being. Have a nice day.”
I felt a wave of fear seize me as I dialled your number with trembling fingers. The phone rang on and on, its beeps taunting me as they repeated over and over. Anger and frustration replaced worry, and I clenched my fists, annoyed as you supposedly ignored me. It was all too easy to imagine you sneaking off to the city with your friends, chortling at your own ingenuity as all teenagers do. I blundered through the rest of the day, too consumed by agitation to focus.
Maybe if I’d calmed down, I would have seen the signs.
I stood by the gate all afternoon, craning my neck every time footsteps approached as I waited in vain for your return. When the last rays of sunlight slipped beneath the horizon, I called you again, this time clutching at the blank screen, praying for a response, until the beeps subsided.
You never came home.
For days afterwards, I did nothing but sit helplessly in your room, staring blankly out of the window. I
would look out into the garden, where cheerful sunbeams danced among the leaves. Sometimes, the laughter of children would drift through the open window. Every detail of life became a constant reminder of the small things that we all took for granted.
The police came and went, poking through your childhood diaries and snooping through your messages.
They took interviews, fixing a steely glare on our entire family as we mumbled and stumbled through complex questions and stuttered out appeals. They murmured chilling words in soft voices, and after they left, those words echoed in my mind until they were all that I could hear.
…appeal to any witnesses…
…suspicious vehicles…
…foul play…
I thought back to that fateful day, searching through small fragments of broken memories, but nothing ever seemed to come through. From the public, though, small things soon turned up. There were reports of strange cars passing by and supposed sightings of you hundreds of kilometres away. Eventually, we found small tidbits. A broken necklace clasp. A torn scrap of lilac, in the same cotton blend as your scrunchie. A glittery pen lid, matching your favourite stationery brand.
I cried every time they brought another piece of you back, curling into a ball in the corner of a room as I gasped for breaths in between sobs as the last slivers of vestigial hope began to drip away. There was no solace to be found in these clues, not when you are still gone. They only serve as confirmation of the cruel fate you must have suffered.
That was almost a year ago.
Every day, I wonder what happened. Were you snatched off the street by a faceless stranger? Or were you lured away by someone you knew and trusted? Did you struggle and make futile attempts to escape? Or did you crawl into a dark cocoon of fear until they killed you? Could you still be alive, somewhere out there, waiting for us?
I’ll never know the answers to these questions. I only know that we will probably never find you.
Someone stole you, your life, your future, took it all away from you. You are gone forever, just like that.
With knowledge, there is grief, regret, sorrow. The raw emotions tear through me until I become numb to the pain, but the pain is still inside me, unfurling like dark tendrils which threaten to choke me. Yet, without knowledge, there is a hollow feeling of emptiness which lingers tauntingly at the edge. A singular question which haunts me, day and night, refusing to leave me.
What if I could have saved you?
I couldn’t protect you.
I couldn’t help you.
I couldn’t save you.
I didn’t even say “I love you”.