The Knackerman: A Tale of the Whitechapel Ripper

© Copyright 2012 H. R. Underwood.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4669-5060-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-5062-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-5061-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012913948

Trafford rev. 08/13/2012

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Contents

Chapter 1    March 1888: A Visit to Leeds

Chapter 2    April 1888: Storm Clouds Gather

Chapter 3    May 1888: The Storm Approaches

Chapter 4    June 1888: A Visit to London

Chapter 5    July 1888: Winds of Change

Chapter 6    August 1888: Blood on the Moon

Chapter 7    September 1888: The Game’s Afoot

Chapter 8    October 1888: In the Shadow of Death

Chapter 9    November 1888: And Hell Followed With Him

Chapter 10  December 1888: The Sky Is Falling

Chapter 11  January 1889: Death Ends the Game

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

T he following sources have made significant contributions to the research and writing of this historical novel.

James Maybrick—Jack the Ripper: The Final Chapter by Paul H. Feldman and The Diary of Jack the Ripper: The Discovery, The Investigation, The Debate by Shirley Harrison.

Jack the Ripper—Jack the Ripper: The Uncensored Facts by Paul Begg; The Jack the Ripper A to Z by Paul Begg, Martin Fido, and Keith Skinner; The Crimes, Detection and Death of Jack the Ripper by Martin Fido; Jack the Ripper: The Mammoth Book of Jack the Ripper edited by Maxim Jakubowski and Nathan Braund; The Final Solution by Stephen Knight; Jack the Ripper: The Complete Casebook by Donald Rumbelow; and The Complete History of Jack the Ripper by Philip Sugden.

City of Liverpool—Mersinet Ltd. furnished the information on various historical and tourist attractions in the City of Liverpool.

Additional sources—Family Medical & Prescription Drug Guide by the Editors of Consumer Guide (Ira J. Chasnoff, Jeffrey W. Ellis, Zachary S. Fainman, and Cheryl Nunn-Thompson); The Alarming History of Medicine by Richard Gordon; The Best Restaurants of Great Britain 1994 edited by Tom Jaine; The Best Hotels of Great Britain 1994 edited by Patricia Yates.

My thanks to these individuals who without their efforts this story would not have been possible.

Most men are within a finger’s breadth of being mad.

—Diogenes

Chapter 1

March 1888: A Visit to Leeds

O n Friday, 16 March, the 12.10 express train from Manchester came rolling to a stop in Leeds City Station. The large station clock read 1.30 on an overcast and steel gray afternoon. The eighty mile journey from Liverpool, including the hour stopover in Manchester to take the Midland Railway express, had taken three hours and fifty minutes. The passengers, enveloped in hissing clouds of steam, disembarked from the Pullman coaches. Porters scrambled for customers or struggled with push carts piled high with baggage. John Stuart Meyerson emerged from a billowing cloud of steam as he walked along the elevated platform toward the Neville Street exit. His dress and demeanor exuberated a confidence that befitted a well-respected and successful commodity broker. Comfortably well-off is how Meyerson put it. He loved children and was a devoted father. A cordial host to friends and fastidious about his appearance, Meyerson was career-minded and always eager to improve his social standing. He had a reputation for being a conscientious and prudent businessman. Friends and associates believed John Meyerson to be a very decent fellow with a marvelous impish sense of humor.

Meyerson favored the Midland Railway over competing rail lines such as the Lancashire & Yorkshire Railway because the Pullman coaches, imported from America, were more comfortable and luxurious. John Meyerson was visiting Leeds at the request of his brother, Arthur, who managed Thorny & Bridgers, a stock-jobber specializing in coal mining shares. Arthur had moved from London to Leeds in 1884 to take over the managerial duties of the firm. Meyerson was fond of Arthur, but his meticulous nature sometimes got on his nerves. Meyerson had been puzzled by the degree of urgency expressed in his younger brother’s letter. After all, the business was flourishing. Upon reaching Neville Street, in a sudden gust of cold wind, Meyerson adjusted the Harris Tweed inverness and pulled the matching deerstalker hat down tighter on his head. The pungent and fetid odor of the horse manure lying in the street greeted his nostrils as Meyerson hailed a hansom cab for Arthur’s six-room flat at Pennington House Terrace. Before climbing into the cab, Meyerson glanced at the building across the street and noticed the huge yellow advertisement for Colman’s Mustard.

Meyerson closed the cab doors over his legs and told the driver, Eighteen Portland Crescent, please driver.

As the cab lurched away from the station, it began to drizzle rain. Meyerson hated this cold, damp weather. It was the same in Liverpool. He longed for summer. The warmer weather would do him good. His hands were cold. He drew out a 20K gold Waltham pocket watch from a waistcoat pocket and checked the time.

Nine past two.

The cab went north on Neville Street to Park Row. Crossing over The Headrow, the cab entered Cookridge Street and turned left onto Great George Street. After traveling one short block, the cab turned right from Great George Street into Portland Crescent. Portland Crescent a quiet, cobbled avenue ran north and south from Woodhouse Lane to Great George Street. Near the General Infirmary, Portland Crescent was lined with continuous rows of tenement buildings, mostly Jacobean and English baroque dating back to the early seventeenth century.

Pennington House Terrace was a four-story building with a facade of weathered Jacobean red brick and stood on the east side of the street. A faded white cornice streaked with black by the elements adorned the parapet wall on the roof. The voussoirs of white limestone that formed the arches of the exterior windows had turned gray. Arthur’s flat, situated on the third floor, consisted of a sitting room, two bedrooms, kitchen, and dining room. The flat had been renovated to also include a water closet. The bedrooms overlooked Portland Crescent. After Meyerson arrived at the flat, he unpacked in the guest bedroom and used the washstand to freshen up. He cleaned his hands with a bar of Regina toilet soap and splashed water on his face. After toweling himself dry, Meyerson joined Arthur in the sitting room.

Glenmorangie, John? asked Arthur.

Yes, please, Artie. That would be lovely, said Meyerson sniffing.

Meyerson sat down in a comfortable armchair and stretched his legs. Arthur stepped over to a side table where a collection of Stuart and Galway crystal decanters stood. Arthur was slender in build with fine dark brown hair that he kept neatly trimmed and combed. Arthur had handsome chiseled features with alluring blue eyes. He was single and very popular with the ladies. Arthur was conscientious and thorough, a stickler for details and he liked to dress well. Arthur always wanted to please and worked hard at it. Arthur had attended University College in London, the same university as his older brother. He took a baccalaureate degree in 1871 graduating four years after Meyerson. Arthur poured the drinks and handed Meyerson the single-malt scotch whisky. Meyerson and Arthur relaxed and chatted leisurely while sipping their whisky. Later, the two brothers went to afternoon tea at the elegant Park Place Hotel at 3-5 Park Place.

Two hundred miles south of Leeds, Mary Ann Polly Nichols slumped lethargically in the Queen’s Head pub in the Spitalfields district of London. Mary Ann was the daughter of Edward Walker, a locksmith in the Lambeth borough of London. In 1864, Mary Ann married William Nichols, a printer in Bouverie Street. The couple had five children. In 1877, the marriage began to break up. Mary Ann began drinking heavily and left home several times. William briefly eloped with another woman. In 1880, the couple separated. Mary Ann had no real means of support. She moved from workhouse to workhouse. Mary Ann stood five feet two inches tall with small features, graying hair, and gray eyes. Prostitution furnished her drink and lodging.

Although only forty-two years old, she looked at least ten years older. Haggard, snaggle-toothed with two bottom teeth and one top front tooth missing, she was old before her time. The alcoholism, the abject poverty, the squalor, and the arduous struggle to survive on the street had taken a heavy toll. Mary Ann Nichols was tired and disheveled from a poor night’s sleep. She shared a room with Ellen (Nelly) Holland in Wilmot’s Lodging House at 18 Thrawl Street. Mary Ann was broke and badly in need of a drink to get her system going.

Ian McCavey, a local wagoner, earned as much as twenty shillings or £1 a week hauling grain, lumber, or rubbish. Ian ambled over to where Mary Ann sat.

Ello, ’ello, Polly, me girl.

Mary Ann slowly raised her head and squinted, Ello, Ian. Can ya spare thruppence? Mary Ann inquired. I need a large gin ta get meself goin’.

Thruppence? Thruppence, you’re askin’? Well, ol’ girl, luves ya as I do. Ya’ll not get it from me, no sir, and wit’ nottin’ to show for it?

You’ll get no bloomin’ knee trembler from me, Ian McCavey, so bugger off an’ leave me be. Mary Ann retorted in a flash of anger.

Mary Ann’s raised voice caused several patrons sitting nearby to turn and stare. She grimaced as a stab of pain shot from the left side of her head across to the right side.

Mary Ann had a wicked hangover, and in no mood to be harassed.

Ian turned to leave and then turned back around, Alright, Polly, alright! Don’t get your dander up, Ian replied as he turned toward the tavern door.

Sorry, I’m not meself today.

Ey, Polly, Ian said turning back toward her. Ave ya seen ‘Long Liz’ Stride? She still owes me, she does.

No, but Mary Kelly may ’ave, Mary Ann said painfully lowering her head and massaging her temples.

Ah, just as well then. Where can I find ’er?

Prob’ly the Ten Bells or Ringers, answered Mary Ann raising her head slightly to look at him.

Thanks, Polly, Ian said turning around.

He stepped out the door and climbed onto the delivery wagon.

See here, now, Polly, if you’re not buyin’, then be off with ya, chided the barman, Ned Williams. I gotta think o’ me customers. I run a respectable establishment, and I don’t need a bloody lot o’ dossers lyin’ about makin’ trouble.

Mary Ann Nichols struggled to her feet and weaved toward the door.

Pausing to turn toward Ned, Mary Ann scoffed, Ha! Don’t be puttin’ on airs with me Neddy, ol’ boy. I know better. Yes, I do!

She laughed and grimaced as another flash of pain shot through her head.

As she opened the tavern door, Ned yelled from across the bar, Go on, out with ya!

Mary Ann raised her chin in a defiant gesture and slammed the door closed behind her.

At 11.45 that evening, Betsy Kaye Maloney stumbled out from the Green Man public house on Kirkgate in Leeds. The rain had stopped. She turned and shook her fist at the doorway.

Toss me out will ya! Since when ’ave ya been too good for the likes o’ me, eh!

She threw her head back and laughed loudly.

Ya not seen last o’ me, Henry Meadows. See if I care, ya bloody ol’ sod!

Several passers-by stared at her. She spit at the doorway and reeled about drunkenly. Betsy Maloney was a forty-seven year old alcoholic. She was the daughter of Daniel Llywellyn, a Welsh coal miner. Betsy’s husband, Tim Maloney, had left her two years earlier because of the habitual drinking.

She supported her addiction by prostitution or when sober she worked as a seamstress. A stout woman, Betsy stood five feet three inches. Her mousy brown hair was disheveled and turning gray at the temples. She dressed shabbily and looked very down at heel. Having spent her doss money on gin, Betsy went in search of a punter, hoping to earn enough to buy a bed for the remainder of the night. She staggered off down the wet gleaming cobblestones of the moonlit street humming to herself. At Briggate, she turned right and walked north toward The Headrow.

While riding in the brougham back to Arthur’s flat, Meyerson noticed dark ominous clouds blotting out the moon.

Thank you for a splendid evening, Artie. The filet of sole with lobster sauce was superb and the gaming tables proved most profitable.

I am glad you enjoyed yourself, John. Maybe this will entice you to visit more often.

Meyerson and Arthur arrived at Pennington House Terrace shortly before one in the morning.

I think I’ll have a bit of a read before retiring. Good night Artie.

Good night, John, sleep well.

Meyerson stepped into the guest bedroom and closed the door.

Forty minutes later the bedroom door opened silently and Meyerson peered down the hallway toward Arthur’s bedroom. He could see the light was out beneath the door. While Arthur drifted off to sleep, Meyerson put on his inverness and took a bump of cocaine. He put on his hard felt hat and slipped deftly out of the flat. Meyerson quietly descended the stairs to the ground floor. A freezing drizzle fell as he walked out onto Portland Crescent. The temperature had dropped to 34°F. Meyerson stopped a passing hansom cab. He opened the doors and climbed inside. Meyerson was nocturnal by nature, a habit he cultivated while at university. During his college days, Meyerson went drinking and carousing until the early hours of the morning, frequently not returning to his digs until dawn. After leaving university, he continued to enjoy staying up into the early morning hours on weekends and holidays. Best part of the day, he liked to say. Meyerson also had bouts of heavy drinking, a source of friction between he and his wife, Emily. During these drinking sessions, Meyerson often became violent, particularly when Emily chastised him about his drinking. Although he never struck her, he would hurl and fling things about the room.

Not having any luck on either The Headrow or Vicar Lane, Betsy turned onto George Street. Then, she turned right into St. Peter’s Street. Meyerson’s cab stopped in Vicar Lane. He climbed down and paid the driver. Meyerson entered Kirkgate from Vicar Lane and walked passed the Green Man pub. Meyerson sniffed several times as he walked along Kirkgate. As he reached New York Street, Meyerson saw Betsy Maloney approaching him. She wore an old black bonnet trimmed with red, a tattered black wool jacket with an imitation fur collar, a moth-eaten brown sweater, a dingy brown chintz bodice, a dark brown linsey skirt, a white stiff petticoat, a calico chemise, black ribbed stockings, and an old pair of black, scuffed up, high-topped leather shoes with brown laces. When she reached the corner of New York Street and Kirkgate, Meyerson stood under a gas lamp, his face hidden from view by a shadow cast from the brim of his felt hat.

Meyerson sniffed and doffed his hat saying in a low voice, Would you care to accompany a lonely gentleman, my lovely? I’m prepared to compensate you quite handsomely.

Betsy smiled at him. Several front teeth were missing.

Yeah? Well then, it’ll be me pleasure.

She moved toward him and Meyerson placed an arm about her shoulders. The pair moved away from the gas lamp and walked east along the dimly lit street in the cold breeze. The drizzle had stopped.

Betsy looked up at Meyerson and said, Where to luv?

She reeked of gin.

Meyerson smiled disarmingly and teased, Come and see.

The two crossed from New York Street, passed St. Peter’s Street, and into York Street. As they walked east in the dim light along York Street, Meyerson sniffed and said, Let’s step over here a moment, my love.

They stepped into the shadows of a recessed doorway. It was 2.19 a.m.

In the darkened doorway, Betsy stood beside a padlocked door with her back near a brick wall. Meyerson stepped close to her and asked softly, How about here, bitch?

Before Betsy could respond, Meyerson grabbed her by the neck and held her head firmly against the brick wall while his hands tightened around her throat. As he squeezed with all his strength, Meyerson forced Betsy down toward the wet, cold pavement and then pushed her to his left. He released his grip and Betsy crumpled in a heap against the brick wall. At 2.30 a.m., the clatter of a nearby train steaming into City Station thundered through the night air. Meyerson stumbled backward shaking his head. He ran back to St. Peter’s Street. He turned right and hurried north on St. Peter’s Street to Eastgate. Meyerson walked west on Eastgate to The Headrow. He turned north from The Headrow into Cookridge Street. At the corner of Cookridge Street and Woodhouse Lane, Meyerson turned left and walked along Woodhouse Lane one short block to Portland Crescent. He cautiously approached Pennington House Terrace, making sure no one followed him. He slipped into the side entrance and quietly climbed the stairs to Arthur’s third floor flat.

Upon entering his bedroom, Meyerson silently closed the door. He pushed the curtains aside and looked down into the street. The wet cobbles of Portland Crescent glistened in the moonlight. He turned from the window and took a bump of cocaine to calm himself. Meyerson was frustrated. It was not as he had fantasized. He felt empty and dissatisfied. Meyerson undressed by the dim light filtering through the window. He paced about the room for an hour before going to bed at 4 a.m. His sleep was erratic and troubled.

At 2.40 a.m., Police Constable Gerald Miller of the Leeds City Police turned from St. Peter’s Street and walked into York Lane. He had patrolled the street 30 minutes earlier, at 2.10 a.m., and noticed nothing out of the ordinary. In the feeble light of the bull’s eye lamp, something caught his eye a recessed doorway. Constable Miller went over for a closer look. At first, he thought she was huddled against the side of the building sleeping off a drunk.

Come on, old girl, get a move on. You can’t sleep here.

Constable Miller reached down and nudged Betsy Maloney but she did not respond. Upon closer examination, the bruises and abrasions about her neck told him that she had been brutally strangled. The high-pitched shriek of a police whistle pierced the crisp morning air.

In his first-class compartment, John Meyerson anxiously scanned through the Saturday edition of the Yorkshire Post as the Midland Railway Pullman carriage clattered along the tracks toward Manchester. His head throbbed and his mouth was dry. The paper reported nothing of the morning’s event.

Bollocks, missed the deadline, Meyerson thought.

He put the paper aside and rubbed his cold hands together for warmth. Meyerson sniffed and wiped his nose with a handkerchief taken from the breast coat pocket. He thought to himself, The whore is with her maker, and He is welcome to her. I felt nothing as I squeezed; no pleasure or enjoyment, only emptiness. Strangulation is a rather awkward and clumsy business. I must return to my original idea. Yes, that would be much more gratifying.

Meyerson rested his head against the seat cushion and thought, Next time, I will do the bitch proper.

The throbbing in his head had ceased, but his hands were still cold. Meyerson took a bump of cocaine as the train rattled along at forty miles per hour. After arriving in Liverpool’s Lime Street Station, Meyerson climbed aboard the waiting carriage driven by Peter Heath and went to his home, Prescot Manor.

Prescot Manor, a magnificent three-story Palladian style mansion, contained twenty-six rooms. The estate, on Aigburth Road in the Allerton section of Liverpool, was not far from the River Mersey. The basement consisted of two rooms. A wide stone stairway led down from the kitchen into a large open storage room. The only light in the room came from a small doorway above a wooden chute that led to the large coal bunker. To one side of the stairway, stood a heavy oak door that opened into a smaller second room that served as a cellar. The shelves and bins were stocked with fine wines and liquors. The ground floor of the manor contained a spacious sitting room, parlor, drawing room, secluded den, dining room, kitchen with butler’s pantry, ballroom, three lavatories, and four bedrooms used by the household staff. The second floor contained three large bedrooms, two lavatories, and nursery. The third floor consisted of two more spacious bedrooms, two lavatories, and a library with a connecting study; both paneled in a beautifully grained walnut. The library contained an extensive collection of the classical works in literature, philosophy, metaphysics, science, political thought, history, and economics that reflected Meyerson’s intellectual proclivity. Meyerson also kept a collection of medical textbooks from his student days including: James and William Braithwaite’s Retrospective of Practical Medicine and Surgery; William B. Carpenter’s Principles of Human Physiology; Robert Druitt’s Principles and Practice of Modern Surgery; Robley Dunglison’s Dictionary of Medical Science; Henry Gray’s Anatomy, Descriptive and Surgical; Robert Liston’s and Thomas Mutter’s Operations of Surgery, Diseases and Accidents Requiring Surgery; Joseph Maclise’s Surgical Anatomy with Descriptions; Edwin Maxson’s Treatise on Practice of Medicine; Henry H. Smith’s A System of Operative Surgery; and George B. Wood’s Therapeutics and Pharmacology, 2 volumes.

The study opened onto a rooftop terrace with potted plants and flowering shrubbery surrounded by an attractive stone balustrade. The Grecian tiled terrace offered a panoramic view of the estate. A detached red brick conservatory with large paned glass windows for plenty of sunlight stood near the manor house. Jacob Hensley, the gardener, nurtured the lush floral and plant growth that thrived in the conservatory. Delightful and stimulating fragrances filled the conservatory. Emily visited the conservatory often and she loved the colorful fountain roses that Hensley created using deep pink Handel, bright yellow Golden Showers, and crimson Climbing Ena Harkness. Emily used the flowers and plants to add color and elegance to the rooms of the manor house.

The grounds of the estate covered seven acres. The front garden contained numerous large graceful oak, elm, and beech trees providing a shady refuge from the summer heat. Dwarf Lilac trees and honeysuckle provided additional color and a wonderful fragrance in summertime. A graveled pathway led up from the street through the two acres of trees and neatly mowed lawn to the portico of the manor house. A large double set of French doors opened off the ballroom at the rear of the house onto an Italian tiled terrace overlooking the five-acre back garden. Several low-lying stone walls divided the back garden into a patchwork of luxurious landscaping that contained a neatly mowed lawn spacious enough for badminton, croquet, or lawn tennis; tall, stately Cyprus trees; well-manicured shrubbery and hedgerows; and carefully tended beds of Polyanthus, Daisies, Pastel Pansies, winter flowering Crocus, and Daffodils. The beautifully arranged rose gardens included a colorful variety of deep red, pink, yellow, orange, and white roses.

Perched at intervals on top of the weathered garden walls were winged lions, Pans, cherubs, and gargoyles all sculpted from stone masonry. At the center of this mundane splendor, stood a magnificent ornate fountain consisting of a bronze statue of Atlas bearing the weight of the world upon his shoulders. The water streamed down the globe into a large round pool beneath the figure of Atlas. Pale green lily pads dotted the surface of the shallow pool. Scattered about the grounds were several pedestal birdbaths and airy gazebos with ivy-covered trellis and latticework. At the far end of the grounds, stood a weathered brown brick and stone carriage house with stables. The Meyerson estate on Aigburth Road stood just over a mile southeast from the sprawling grounds of the Liverpool Cricket Club.

John Stuart Meyerson, his wife, Emily Anne nee Henley, and their two daughters, Rachel Anne born in 1882 and Sarah Jane born in 1886, had recently moved into the manor after selling their previous residence, Ashford House, situated on Ullet Road north of Sefton Park in the suburb of Wavertree. Meyerson met Emily in July 1880 during his return voyage from America aboard the Cunard Liner SS Maratavia. He had just completed a month long holiday visiting Washington, D.C., Philadelphia, Boston, and New York City. Meyerson had always wanted to visit the United States after reading Tocqueville’s Democracy in America. Meyerson traveled from city to city on special trains called a Hotel Express. For an extra charge of $4 a day, he could take meals aboard the train rather than dining at stations along the way. The quality of food and service aboard these special trains rivaled the best restaurants of the day. Meals included oyster soup, beef steak, roasts, quail, fried eggs, and fried potatoes. While in New York, Meyerson purchased a handsome Waltham gold pocket watch from Bloomingdale’s on 56th Street.

Emily was returning to Liverpool with her parents after visiting an aunt and uncle in Philadelphia. Emily had moved to Liverpool in 1872 and lived comfortably in a fashionable five room flat on Church Street looking into Waterloo Place. St. Luke’s Church located in Berry Street at the top of Bold Street could be seen from her sitting room window. Although her father financed the flat, Emily worked in the Liverpool branch of the Taylor and Lloyd Bank on Victoria Street. There, she met Eleanor McCaslin who became her best friend.

John Stuart Meyerson and Emily Anne Henley were married in St. Peter’s Church on Saturday morning, 18 June 1881. When the Diocese of Liverpool was organized in 1699, St. Peter’s Church was the first church built in Liverpool. Emily wore an exquisite two-piece all silk wedding gown. The color was a beautiful eggshell white. The bodice was long and covered the abdomen in front. In the back, it extended down over the back of the hips and had a very becoming silk bow. The sleeves were decorated with a lovely embroidered net lace that extended from the shoulders to the cuffs. The collar had lace attached to the neck of the bodice that hung down three inches and then turned upwards at the neckline with a charming piece of soft pink velvet ribbon at the center for added design. The front of the bodice had 12 mother of pearl buttons with handsewn buttonholes. The long skirt had a bustle and a slight train in the back. The skirt flared out towards the back and had a lovely knife pleated ruffle all around the bottom. To complete the ensemble, Emily wore a veiled wide brimmed white silk hat. The brim of the hat swept upward in front and was trimmed with red silk ribbon. A soft pink velvet ribbon served as the hatband. Three tear-drop mother of pearl hatpins secured the hat.

Later that day, the couple left Liverpool and traveled to the Cornish Rivera in Cornwall for a week-long honeymoon in the resort town of St. Ives. On Monday, 27 June 1881, Emily and Meyerson moved into an attractive six room flat at Number 33 Grove Street opposite Falkner Square. Emily was an attractive dark complexioned, blue-eyed brunette with shoulder-length wavy curls of dark auburn hair. She was slender, petite, and stood five feet five inches tall. Emily was born on, 24 November 1847, to Joseph Bartholomew and Sarah Anne Henley. Joseph Henley, an executive vice president of the Clydesdale Bank in Glasgow, supervised commercial loans. The family lived in Glynhill House, a spacious seventeen room three-story house in Ballater Street south of the River Clyde.