Bloody Valentine Read online

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  1 CLERICAL TERROR

  2 THE WANDERER

  3 THE DEADLY SUITOR

  4 DO NO HARM

  5 FRENCH KISSES

  6 SHADOW OF THE NOOSE

  7 WHO LOVES MOST

  8 DEATH ON THE ROAD

  9 THE LOVE THAT DARE NOT SPEAK ITS NAME

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  BLOODY VALENTINE

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  There are always people you should thank – and always people you forget. So thanks to the following and apologies to those I’ve omitted. I didn’t do it on purpose. Or maybe I did.

  Thanks to the staff of Edinburgh Central Library Glasgow’s Mitchell Library, Inverness Library and the National Archive of Scotland for their assistance.

  To Mark Sweeney and Alan Muir of the Scottish Sun for all the help and information.

  To Sean Milne at the Scottish Daily Mirror for the same.

  To Gary McLaughlin for his help with the illustrations.

  To Eddie Murphy and Elizabeth McLaughlan because, if I don’t, there’ll be trouble.

  To Karin Stewart and Katie Bell for always being the first to buy these things.

  To my wife Margaret for the endless cups of tea.

  To the staff at Black and White who put up with my moaning and often haphazard ways.

  To the staff of the Cumnock Chronicle and others at the Ayrshire Weekly Press – and one in Paisley – too numerous to mention by name, who put up with a lot. You know who you are.

  DS

  INTRODUCTION

  They’re tricky things, emotions – can’t live with them and there’s no chance of any sort of life without them. It’s all a question of control. Some find keeping their emotions in check difficult while others find it all too easy. Some believe it would be better if there were no emotions at all but what a cold and soulless world it would be if that were the case. Others keep too tight a rein on their feelings, pushing them down in the belief that nothing can get through. Because, if nothing gets through, then nothing can touch you and, if nothing can touch you, nothing can hurt you.

  But they are still there – those feelings – building up, growing in power. And then, dangerously, they can burst out. All those pent-up emotions and frustrations – all the rage and fear and hurt and pain. In most folk, they escape as anger or black moods but, in some, they manifest themselves more physically. These people hurt themselves or others. They cause pain mentally – and physically. For those people, emotions are demons that whisper to them in the night, taunting them, urging them to do harm.

  Love, it is said, conquers all but the demons are more than a match for it. They have names too: Hate, Envy, Suspicion and Jealousy. These are the emotions that can twist a once-loving relationship into something dark and dangerous, something lethal. There are others that come not with a sly snarl but with a sigh. These are the demons that force us to turn against ourselves and they, too, have names: Shame is one, Regret is another. Like their whispering cousins, they are insidious, sneaking into the mind like a cancer, eating away at all reason and logic until there is nothing left but dark thoughts and darker deeds.

  In this book you will find stories of people who were visited by these demons and gave in to their murderous murmurs. The French have a term for such deeds – crime passionnel – and, in France, it is a recognised defence in cases where one spouse murders another after discovering infidelity. There is infidelity in these pages but I have taken a broader view of the term. Most of the crimes included here have one thing in common, though – most are murders committed by people who once meant something to each other until the demons came a-calling. There is passion here, certainly, but also calculation and cruelty. Breaking up may have been hard to do but murder was often easy. There are men who turned against wives or lovers or killed their rivals in love. And there are women who killed their men or were somehow involved in such desperate acts. One thing is certain – when it comes to murder, gender is no barrier. Not all men are thoughtless and callous, despite what some women may think, and women have not cornered the market on compassionate and caring natures – again, despite what some may think. The Y chromosome is not a prerequisite for cold hearts and bloody minds.

  A couple of the cases here are not quite so clear cut. In one, a woman was found strangled but the man ultimately convicted of the crime may not have laid his hands on her. In another, a learned man schemed to dispose of his wife but circumstances got in his way and the plan failed. In a couple of others, it could be argued that the victim got what he deserved.

  Emotions can propel good people to do evil things. Good people can cause pain, anguish and grief. The whispering demons can take an ordinary person and force them to commit extraordinary acts. Jealousy can turn into rage and rage into frenzy and soon someone is lying dead. But these people are not evil. Evil, if it exists, lies in the careful planning of a death. The devil, as they say, is in the detail.

  So turn the page and meet the demons …

  1

  CLERICAL TERROR

  John Kello

  ‘Thou shalt not kill.’

  According to the King James version of the Bible, it’s up there at number six in the top ten of commandments. For centuries, it was number five but the Protestants relegated it when they split one commandment, the admonition about having no other gods and worshipping graven images, into two. It’s a perfectly straightforward commandment. You don’t kill – period. But there is another version. It states that ‘Thou shalt not murder’ and is there to excuse the pious for those unfortunate periods in history when they have been forced to slaughter all and sundry because they worshipped God in a different way or simply because they were a different colour and happened to be in their way. But the favourite version tells us simply that it is wrong to kill. There is no qualification to the effect that ‘Thou shalt not kill unless thy victim is of a different political persuasion/nationality/colour/religion to thyself’. There are, of course, scriptural justifications for killing that allowed religious leaders to exhort their armies to smite enemies hip and thigh. This led to all sorts of atrocities – not to mention genocide. At the battle of Doon Hill, the pious Oliver Cromwell, when faced with an attack by an equally pious Scottish force, told his men, ‘Trust in God, lads, but keep your powder dry.’ There were ministers of religion on both sides, some perhaps even in the thick of the fighting, for whom ‘Thou shalt not kill’ meant very little that day.

  There are many tales of warrior monks, priests and preachers who have struck hard for their God in battle. Thankfully, though, there are few tales of holy men who have turned to murder for their own ends.

  However, John Kello, who preached in an East Lothian village, was one who did.

  By the year 1570, the turbulent sea that was Scottish history had pitched and tossed its people back and forth in a storm of religious strife. The beautiful Mary, Queen of Scots had lost her struggle with the Scots lords. She was Roman Catholic and they were, in the main, resolutely Protestant. Murder and vengeance had marred her reign. Romance and rape had scandalised it. And rebellion and, ultimately, defeat had ended it. On 13 May 1568 her cause was well and truly lost when her forces were quashed at Langside and, two days later, she stepped aboard a fishing boat to cross the Solway Firth heading for what she prayed was sanctuary in England. But if the Lords hoped her flight would end the threat of a resurgence of the Roman faith then they were wrong.

  Her half-brother, James Stewart, Earl of Moray, became Regent of Scotland but he, too, had his enemies. In January 1570 he was gunned down in a Linlithgow street by J
ames Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh, a supporter of the Queen, by then under the dubious protection of Elizabeth of England. The assassin’s shot had been fired from the home of the Roman Catholic Archbishop John Hamilton who was later hanged without trial by Moray’s faction. The power of Regent then passed to Mary’s father-in-law, the Earl of Lennox, but the decision split the country and once again rumblings of armed rebellion could be heard in the mountains, glens and farmlands of Scotland.

  But, while all these political wranglings were going on, life continued much as normal in the nation’s towns and villages.

  And so did death.

  The village of Spott lies near the East Lothian coast, about four kilometres south of Dunbar. Even today it is small, with only around 200 inhabitants, but it and the area surrounding it has often surfaced in the historical ocean. Two battles were fought nearby. In 1296, Scotland’s King, John Balliol, was showing a bit of backbone – stiffened, it has to be said, by his nobles – and defying Edward of England’s demands for fealty. At Spott Burn, the Scots came off the worse in a bloody encounter with the English forces. And, in the battle previously mentioned, in 1650, the Scottish force loyal to King Charles II was cut to pieces by Oliver Cromwell’s Roundheads at the foot of nearby Doon Hill. Cromwell, it is believed, celebrated his victory in a mansion house in Spott itself.

  Almost a century before, local laird George Home was accused of being part of the conspiracy to murder Lord Henry Darnley, Mary’s husband. He was cleared of the charge and later, in one of the many lunacies of Scottish justice, he was back in court to help decide the fate of Archibald Douglas who was now charged with the same crime. In 1543, a city burgess murdered local priest Robert Galbraith in Edinburgh. His successor was none other than John Hamilton, who later succeeded Cardinal Beaton following his death in St Andrews at the hands of the Protestant Lords. It was John Hamilton who found himself at the wrong end of a rope in Stirling for his part in the assassination of the Good Regent Moray.

  One John Kello followed him as shepherd of the Spott flock, this time using the Presbyterian cause as a crook. The reverend gentleman had no doubt been sponsored by the same George Home who had seen Scottish justice from both sides of the courtroom in the Darnley affair. Without knowing it, Kello’s decidedly unchristian behaviour would later be used as a club to batter the Protestant cause.

  Kello was an educated man of ordinary background. Born in Linlithgow, he was married to Margaret Thomson, a woman of common if not barren stock, for they had three children, son Bartilmo and daughters Barbara and Bessie. He performed his religious offices diligently and was a well-liked, respected, passionate and eloquent preacher.

  However, he was ambitious. His post brought him little financial reward and his wife, although she was a loving and loyal woman, did not have the background or disposition that would aid him in his yearnings to rise to the top. His stipend of £100 Scots per annum was not enough for him so he speculated in some Linlithgow property and received a dividend. As he later wrote, ‘This manner of dealing kindled in me a desire of avarice, which the Apostle Paul, not without cause, termed “the root of all evil”.’ Spurred on by the success of his initial venture, he bought some more land, this time nearer to home, but it failed to turn a profit and he found himself in debt. This, coupled with a disagreement with the Kirk over his income, created a certain degree of stress. He began to wonder if things might be easier for him if he were single. Without his wife he might subsist more readily on his meagre income. Without his wife he might even marry someone who could help further his career. Margaret was fine as wives go but, as wives go, he wished she would.

  And then his eye fell on the daughter of a local laird. If he could marry into that family then his future was assured.

  Demons, it seems, were murmuring in his ear. You can do better, they hissed. You can go further, they whispered. You can be more, they hinted – but not with Margaret on the scene. If you want the riches of the world, you have to be rid of her.

  And so the reverend gentleman began to tell people that his wife was not of sound mind. He began to spread rumours that ‘she was tempted terribly in the night’ to do herself a mischief. But, in reality, the only mischief being contemplated was in John Kello’s own fevered brain and murderous heart. Poison was his first choice but his wife proved too hardy a woman and the doses he tipped into her stew failed to have the desired effect. He was, however, not a cold-blooded murderer for, even as he began to prepare the way to her dusty death, he worked himself into such a state of anxiety that he fell sick. He confided the details of a dream that had plagued him to Dunbar minister Andrew Simpson. In the dream, he said, he was carried by a grim man before the face of a terrible judge and, to escape, he threw himself into a raging river. He was followed by ‘angels and messengers’ with double-edged swords. They struck at him with the swords but he ducked and dived out of the way until he escaped. That dream and his unwise urge to relate it to Mr Simpson would return to haunt him.

  However, his ambition proved stronger than his conscience and he still resolved to rid himself of his cumbersome spouse. With his wife remaining hale and hearty despite the administration of substances, it was clear the subtle approach was not going to work – a more direct means would have to found.

  On 24 September 1570, he saw his chance. It was a Sunday and, as she prayed in her bedroom, he throttled her with a towel. According to his own confession, even as he was squeezing the last breath from her body, she bore him no ill will. She was glad, he claimed, ‘to depart if her death could do me an advantage or pleasure.’ This sounds highly unlikely and smacks more of a man trying to reassure himself, if no one else, that his victim loved him so much she went willingly to her doom.

  Having finally done for his loving wife, it was time to make it look as if her fragile mind had finally forced her to take her own life – just as he had been hinting would happen for almost two months. He hooked a rope to the ceiling, tied it round her throat and hoisted her up. Then he locked the front door from the inside, leaving the key in the lock, and left the house through the seldom-used back door of his study.

  Next, he went to his church and preached to his congregation. Whether his blood was up after the brutal murder of his wife cannot be said. What can be said was that he was more passionate than usual in preaching against sin. After the service, he invited some prominent members of his congregation back to the manse. He may have used his wife’s fictional state of mind as an excuse for the visit, telling the would-be visitors that their presence would raise her depressed spirits. Only he knew that it would take a miracle of biblical proportions to raise her spirit. Naturally, when the small party reached the front door, they found it locked so he led them to the back door. Inside, they found his wife’s body dangling from the ceiling of her bedroom.

  ‘My wife, my wife!’ he cried. ‘My beloved wife is gone!’

  Affecting the demeanour of a grieving husband, Kello went into mourning. However, although his demons had led him to commit cruel murder, he himself was not so callous. His despicable act weighed heavily on his mind and he was not helped by a visit from Andrew Simpson, the Dunbar minister. Simpson told Kello he had analysed the dream and had come to the conclusion that he had murdered his wife. The terrible judge of the dream was God, the messengers chasing him represented Scottish justice and the water his own hypocrisy. Only by confessing would he save himself from the deep waters into which he had fallen. Of course, Andrew Simpson couched his analysis in spiritual terms but it is still an impressive piece of work – if it ever happened. What is more likely is that he had heard some rumour and witnessed Kello’s conscience niggling at him. The ability to spot troubled minds at work through dreams would later form the mainstay of psychoanalysis but, in this case, it is likely that this was tacked on later to support the strength of the still-struggling Protestant religion.

  John Kello considered his next move. After his conversation with his colleague from Dunbar, he knew there was some suspici
on over the death. Now he had to decide whether to go on the run or stay and tough it out. Finally, he convinced himself that God was speaking through Andrew Simpson and set off for Edinburgh to confess his crime.

  The wheels of justice may grind slowly nowadays but, in those days, they spun so fast they were in danger of coming off. His confession was heard and accepted. On 4 October 1570, without any further ado, he was sentenced to be hanged until dead and thereafter his body was to be cast into a fire and burned to ashes. The authorities were determined not hang around and the execution took place that very same day.

  From the scaffold, John Kello preached his final sermon. He claimed he was sorry for what he had done but he hoped that the enemies of his faith would not use his transgression to excuse the failings of the Queen. (It was commonly believed that Mary had conspired to have her husband Lord Darnley murdered in reprisal for the murder of her secretary David Rizzio and also to leave the way open for her to marry her alleged lover, Lord Bothwell.) Although the demons of ambition and avarice had led him to his present situation, he denied any suggestion that witchcraft was involved. At the time, citing possession by some demonic presence was a common defence in such matters. The grim-faced men of God saw Satanic worship at every turn but John Kello was determined to scotch those rumours.

  Finally, he exhorted the multitude who had turned up to see him die to ‘measure not the truth of God’s word altogether by the lives of such as are appointed pastors over you, for they bear the self same flesh of corruption that you do, and the more godly the charge is where unto they are called, the readier the enemy to draw them back from God’s obedience.’

  Soon after his death, ‘The Confessione of Mr Johnne Kello, minister of Spott; together with his earnest repentance maid upon the scaffold befoir his suffering, the fourt day of October 1570’ was published in Edinburgh. Kello had murdered so that he could perhaps better his position in life but he had inadvertently given the enemies of the Kirk a weapon to use against it. The idea behind publication was that the murderous minister’s abject penitence would serve the religion well and hopefully confound ‘the poisonous sect of the Antichrist’ who had been writing about the case in other countries.