Searching For Bunty

Searching For Bunty

NOTES

Wherever possible I have used factual names. 

Florence Huestis has been renamed Maude to avoid confusion with Bunty’s mother Florence.
Violet Harrington has been renamed Vera to avoid confusion with Florence’s mother Violet. 

The Watts family lived on Boultbee and are being used for storytelling purposes only. 

Street names and locations mentioned are real. 

Claire Wallace was a reporter for the Toronto Star and wrote several stories about the case. However, in most instances, stories were published with no byline. I have, therefore, used Claire Wallace for storytelling purposes. 

Gordon Sinclair was the wandering reporter for the Star. 

Any reference to temperature or distance is given as imperial measurement as it would have been in 1933.

Factual information was researched through newspaper articles using newspapers.com and genealogy records at ancestry.com, irishgenealogy.ie and scotlandspeople.gov

 
Fictional information was created for the purpose of the story. 

Images credited to The Toronto Daily Star Oct. 26 - Dec. 10 1933 

Death record sourced from ancestry.com

 
In a full historical account I would use foot notes, for this project I have not.

SEARCHING FOR BUNTY

Introduction

IF ONLY 

   In the spring of 1932, in a quiet working-class neighbourhood of East Toronto, Alfred Hillier and his common-law wife Florence Alexander awaited the birth of their first child. They had recently moved into a tiny rental house at 6 Boothroyd Avenue and although the depression left thirty percent of Toronto unemployed, Alfred had steady work as a truck driver with the Hoar Transport Company. On April 28, 1932 they welcomed a daughter, Alfreda Dolores May, who they would lovingly call “Bunty”. The couple surely felt hopeful about their future as they anticipated the joy that a baby would bring.

The timing coincided with an event that would be referred to as the crime of the century. On March 1 in Hopewell New Jersey, the twenty month old son of American aviation hero Charles Lindbergh, was kidnapped and newspapers reported daily on the story. The baby’s body was ultimately discovered twelve weeks later on May 12, partially buried and severely decomposed less than five miles from the Lindbergh home. Throughout the remainder of 1932 and regularly through 1933 articles would appear in newspapers providing updates on the investigation and personal stories of the Lindberghs. The Toronto Star carried fifteen articles from October 1 to October 25 1933 and could likely have been the basis of a conversation between Alfred and Florence. In an interview with The Toronto Star following the event that would change their life forever, Alfred shared a moment from that conversation, saying, “Only a week ago my wife and I wondered how the Lindberghs felt when they learned their baby was killed, now we know.”

How easy it is in retrospect to say if only. If only Alfred hadn’t gone to work that day. If only Howard Every hadn’t been home from school that day. If only Jackie Marland had been at home with his father. And if only Florence hadn’t left an eighteen month old baby alone outside.

Alf lost his job with Hoar Transport in August leaving him unemployed until October 16. Out of desperation he took a job with Martin Transport. The pay was based on the number of deliveries he made each day; five cents for each delivery. No deliveries meant no pay. On the morning of October 25 Alfred left for work at 7:15, stopping by Bunty’s room to give her a kiss goodbye as she lay awake in her crib. He had no idea if he would actually make any money that day. It was a chance he had to take. He had a family to feed. He had to keep a roof over their head.

Seven year old Howard Every had been without boots when he cut his foot and needed stitches. Though his father had found the money to buy the boy new boots, his foot just wasn’t healed sufficiently to return to school. He was getting under foot so his mother sent him outside to play.

Young Jackie Marland was about to celebrate his fifth birthday. Since his mother had died that summer, and his father was working a night job, Jackie lived with the Banks family on Boothroyd Avenue just two doors away from the Hillier family. On most evenings he had dinner with his father at their house just around the corner on Boultbee Avenue, but on that Wednesday his father had to go to work early so Jackie was at the Banks house in the afternoon.

Wednesday October 25 1933 

THE SEARCH

The first alarm went out at eight sixteen that night. The message, sent by teletype to all stations read:

MISSING: Alfreda, nicknamed and answering to the name Bunty. 18 months old, fair, slight, thin face, blue eyes, 12 teeth, two feet six inches tall, weight 30 pounds, wearing pink coat, red pullover, red mittens, black shoes, pink and white bonnet.

At police headquarters on College Street, Inspector William Johnson received the message. He telephoned the Pape Avenue Station and spoke to Detective Sergeant Robert Greenlee who would be on the scene within ten minutes. Johnson offered to meet him there, but the two men decided Greenlee should assess the situation first. With officers from the station now conducting a search of the neighbourhood there was a feeling the lost child would be found quickly.

“I’ll be here if you need me, Bob.”

“Right. I’ll keep you posted.”

Greenlee then headed to his squad car, arriving at the scene at eight twenty five.

It’s too cold tonight, thought Johnson as he waited for his driver outside police headquarters. If she’s not found soon, it’s just too cold. He was thinking of other missing child cases he’d been involved with. Kids run away or they wander off and get lost, they hide, it’s always a relief when we find them but we don’t always find them. He was tormented by the cases that hadn’t ended well. The squad car pulled up, the driver reached across and pushed the door open. Johnson had few details beyond the teletype alarm. At ten o’clock, Greenlee called for backup. All available officers from across the city were sent to the neighbourhood. An eighteen month old missing since three o’clock, it was after ten now and a widespread search was just beginning. His driver soared across Gerrard Street, cranking the siren as he did. At Jones Avenue they turned north stopping just south of Boultbee Avenue where police and civilians were blocking the road, organizing into teams of searchers. Greenlee was overseeing the operation when he turned to witness Johnson throwing open the door of the car and jumping out, barely waiting for his driver to come to a stop.

Greenlee put one of his officers in charge of the search group while he provided Johnson with an update.

“Neighbours have been searching with us since I arrived,” he said, “We’ve covered a lot of territory, but this is a difficult area. Two brickyards, a builders yard and a city dump, forty feet deep, half a mile across and a mile long.”

Johnson requested details, especially questioning the hours long gap between the child’s disappearance and the concentrated search. Greenlee lay the blame for the delay directly on the mother.

“She alerted us three hours after the child went missing,” he reported. “We immediately dispatched Patrol Sergeant Reid, who reported the mother was not concerned.”

Johnson’s eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed.

“Not concerned? That raises some questions. The house has been checked thoroughly?”

“It has. Nothing alarming. Reid reported the mother was actually confident the child would come home on her own.”

Johnson shook his head in disbelief.

“For the love of God, man, the child is eighteen months old — little more than an infant. Sorry, I’m just thinking out loud, but it is possible the mother is complicit.

Something just seems off.”

Greenlee acknowledged that possibility.

He assured Johnson that an all-out effort was now underway to locate the child.

“The father and neighbours are combing the neighbourhood. They’ve been instructed to check every garage, alley, driveway, and backyard up to the Danforth from Jones to Greenwood. Our men are doing a deep search of the two nearby brickyards — Russell’s and Wagstaff's. We may need more hands there; it’s a massive area. We’ve got a half dozen officers covering a stretch of the rail track. The city dump behind Boultbee is being swept as well as Jupp Construction yard. Public appeals are being announced on radio.”

“What about the neighbours, Bob, what have they shared?”

“We’ve questioned several. Apparently the child is well known to all of them. We’ve been told she frequently spends time away from her home with neighbours. They take her for walks or shopping but always inform the mother first.” 

Johnson couldn’t shake his suspicions concerning the mother.

Greenlee shared another alarming detail.

“The mother told us the child sometimes walks to the corner store to buy candy, but she always comes home.” 

Johnson was horrified.

“Eighteen months old and she heads out on her own? To buy candy? Where’s the store?” He ran a hand through his hair, looking bewildered.

“Could be this one — Houghton’s Drugstore,” replied Greenlee, pointing to the corner store where the men were standing.

“There’s also a grocery store a few doors up from Boultbee. We’ve checked both; no one saw her in either store today. Apparently, the mother used the telephone in the grocery when she reported the child missing. A young lad, Russell Hutchison, who lives on Jones, told one of our officers he’s seen the child wandering alone up Jones Avenue plenty of times. A couple of neighbors say they saw her playing with two young boys — Howard Every and Jackie Marland — both of whom live on Boultbee.”

Johnson had been involved in plenty of missing person cases, but the worst always involved children. There was the Florence Costello case in 1926. It was December when the twelve-year-old schoolgirl disappeared. She left St. Monica’s School at Yonge and Broadway and was never seen alive again. Two weeks later, her body was discovered frozen in ice, just two hundred yards from her house. The case was never solved. But the most haunting investigation was Philip Goldberg’s case back in the summer of ’20. Johnson tried not to think about it — it haunted him. That one was solved, and the culprit was hanged for it. Tonight, time was running out.

“Investigate every square inch of this neighbourhood, thoroughly,” he ordered. “We will locate this child before we leave here. We have to. She could be hiding, or stuck somewhere. It’s twenty degrees and she won’t survive a night like this. Leave nothing unturned.”

Greenlee returned to the search team. Johnson went on his own search, heading first to the little house at 6 Boothroyd.

Florence Hillier was frantic with worry.

“I’ll come with you, Alf. Let me come too,” she begged.

But Alfred convinced her to stay put. “If Bunty finds her way back home, you need to be here — in case.”

Their closest friends, the Harringtons, were there to support them. Living several blocks south on Marigold Avenue, Alfred had driven straight to their home after leaving the police station. Vera Harrington stayed with Florence, while her husband, Beach, joined the search team.

Inspector Johnson walked across the front yard, scarcely larger than a postage stamp, and made his way up the overgrown footpath toward the back yard. He searched behind shrubs and peered beneath the porch before knocking on the back door. Vera answered, her expression tense. Johnson introduced himself, assuring the two women that the police were fully committed to finding the baby. When he asked if Florence might answer a few questions, she agreed, though her voice wavered.

“I’ll try,” she said quietly.

He pulled a chair closer and sat facing her, speaking in a low, sympathetic tone. As he settled across from her, he couldn’t help but notice her appearance — tiny, youthful-looking woman, clearly distraught. She was crying and trembling, desperate for answers.

“Mrs. Hillier, could you tell me what Bunty did today? I mean, what time did she wake up, did you have any visitors, did she have a nap, that kind of thing.”

She hadn’t made eye contact. Vera sat next to her, encouraging her to give as much information as she could to help the police find the monster who had taken Bunty from them. Florence slowly lifted her face to meet the inspector's gaze, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Bunty, my sweet little girl… She was awake when Alf left for work, around 7:30. She played in her crib for about an hour. She loved playing with her little dolls when she woke up. She did that until it was time for breakfast.” Florence paused, her voice faltering.

“Bunty followed me around the house while I did my chores — tidying up, cleaning the breakfast dishes. Just that kind of thing. She chatted away to me.” Johnson leaned in slightly.

“She could speak clearly?” he asked.

“No, no. Baby talk. She could say a few words mostly just baby talk. But I understood her. A mother understands her own baby."

“Did she go outside to play in the morning?”

“No, it was grey and cold. Too cold to be outside. She had a nap about noon, then woke up and I fed her. It was warmer after lunch so she went outside. About two or two thirty she wanted to go outside so I bundled her up and put her out on the veranda.”

“And did you go out with her? Did you go for a walk?”

Florence was having difficulty now. She wiped away her tears as she attempted to compose herself.

Vera encouraged her to continue, “You’re doing well Flo. I’ll get you something to drink. Water? Tea?”

“No, thank you. I’m okay. No. I let her out on the veranda. I was doing laundry and finishing my chores.”

“How long do you think she was outside?”

“Charlie came around. He’s the paperboy. He came by, I think it was about three. I can’t say for sure. Bunty came in then. She had some crackers. Then she went outside again.”

“Did Charlie leave too, or did he stay a while?”

“Oh, he left. He was delivering his papers. Charlie always made her laugh.”

“Do you think, maybe, could she have followed Charlie?”

“No, I heard her on the veranda after that. I heard her laugh.”

“What time was that?”

“I think it was 3:30. No, no I’m certain it was three thirty. The radio was on and they announced the time.”

“Was it usual that you would leave her outside, to play, alone?

Vera quickly jumped in.

“This is a very safe neighbourhood. Everyone looks out for each other.”

“Yes, I’m sure.” responded Johnson, “But the child is missing, I have to ask.”

“No, no,” Florence answered. “Bunty was safe on the veranda. She’s played out there before, and never went missing.”

“So you’ve left her outside before and she’s never wandered off?”

“She knows her way around. Sometimes she walks down to Jones to meet her daddy coming home from work. And she knows where the stores are, she can walk to the store for candy. All the children know her, if she ever was too far, they’d bring her home.”

“She walks alone to Jones Avenue?” Johnson paused to compose himself. He wouldn’t want to sound judgmental.

“Okay, so after you heard her laughing, and you think that was 3:30, when did you notice she was gone?”

“I know it was 3:30 when I heard her laugh. And it must have been four o’clock when I realized she wasn’t on the veranda. I was doing laundry all day. It was four when I went out to hang the clothes. I thought, I’ll finish up, then I’ll bring Bunty in. It was getting cold. But when I went around to the veranda, she wasn’t there.”

“That was about four. So after the paperboy left, Bunty was outside alone until four, is that right?”

“Yes, and I know she was there at 3:30. I heard her laugh.”

“What do you think she might have been laughing at? Do you think someone was talking to her? Playing with her?”

“I didn’t hear anyone else. Maybe there were other children. Maybe they were coming home from school. I don’t know.”

“Can you be sure it was her laughter you heard?”

“I’m sure. I know my own baby’s laugh.”

“Once you realized she was gone. Then what did you do?”

“I went up and down the street, looking in backyards. I thought she might be with Isobel, a little girl she plays with. But she was nowhere. Then I thought, maybe, she was with Howard Every. She often plays with him. So I went around to Howard’s house and asked where she was.”

“And what time was that?”

“It was maybe four thirty.”

“Did Howard know where she was? Had he seen her?”

“He said he didn’t know, but he put his coat on and said he would look for her.”

“Did he? Look for her?”

“His mother wouldn’t let him go out, it was dark. She offered to help me look, so we went out and talked to some neighbours so they started looking too.”

“It was dark at 4:30?” Johnson recalled looking at his own watch at five fifteen, the sun was just setting. 

“It was getting dark.”

“Did you think to telephone the police for help?”

“Well of course I did. Would you be here if I hadn’t?” Florence snapped. “When I realized it was getting late, I went around to Mr. Hutchison’s grocery store on Jones to use the telephone there.”

“Hmm. Just curious, would he have a son named Russell?”

“Yes, Russell is his boy."

“Okay. And what time was that? When you were at Hutchison’s grocery?”

“It was five thirty. I telephoned the Pape Avenue station and then I telephoned Alfred at work. He was out on a delivery, but the dispatcher said he would let him know.”

“After you telephoned the station, did they send a constable?”

“Yes, very quickly, a nice young policeman was sent. He asked if I had a photograph of Bunty, and what she was wearing, what time I last saw her. I gave him a photograph but I was sure she would come home soon. I thought maybe a neighbour had her, or she toddled off. Alf didn’t get the message. He got home, it must have been almost eight. He went straight to the station.”

Inspector Johnson thanked Florence for her patience in answering his questions in such difficult circumstances. He was naturally suspicious — a trait shaped as much by his job as by his personality. He knew from experience to make no judgement. Just get the facts. He asked where the paperboy lived. That would be his next stop.

Florence watched until she was sure he was gone.

“Vera, he thinks it’s my fault. I could tell by the way he looked at me.”

“I didn’t get that impression at all Flo. He’s just doing his job.”

“They’ll have questions about the night before. Vera, don’t tell them we stayed up all night. If they ask, please don’t tell them. That will seem suspicious.”

“We weren’t doing anything wrong. If they ask, just be honest. We lost track of time."

"It’s nothing to hide. Why does that worry you?”

Florence paced nervously, wringing her hands, clearly feeling panicked.

"Were you tired today? I was. Maybe I dozed off... I don’t know. Vera, was it my fault?” “You’re not thinking straight Flo, try and sleep now. You’ll be fresh when Bunty comes home.”

Young Charlie Watts confirmed he had delivered the newspaper that afternoon, but he couldn’t pinpoint the time. He estimated it was sometime between two thirty and three o’clock. Bunty was on the veranda and while he chatted in the front hallway with Mrs. Hillier, Bunty followed him inside. He didn’t notice whether she followed him out. By the time he finished his paper route he didn’t recall seeing her outside again.

There never was such a search conducted in Toronto. Through the night three hundred police officers from across the city dispatched to the surrounding area. A group of neighbours was commissioned to assist in the search of the two brickyards, spreading out over the quarter-mile long pits of clay. At one point someone shouted, “It looks like there’s been a cave-in over here!” Alfred rushed to the spot digging frantically with his bare hands. It proved useless. Although he was losing hope himself, Beach Harrington encouraged his dear friend to stay positive.

Alfred’s mind was racing. Bunty, you’ve been missing too long. It’s too cold. Where could you be. Dear God, where is my baby?

While the men in the neighbourhood searched, the women kept their homes open, serving tea and coffee and providing a warm respite for the team. Every house near the Hilliers’ remained lit through the night. Some of the women chatted with a reporter from the Toronto Star, sharing their observations and opinions, ensuring their names were spelled correctly in the notepad he was writing in with his little blue pencil.

Mrs. Boothroyd shared that the street was named for her husband’s family.

“He’s helping with the search,” she said, “as are so many of our husbands.”

Several of the woman reported they had seen Bunty on her veranda before three o’clock but none of them could confirm if she was there after that. They all agreed that Bunty was well-loved in the neighbourhood and that her father was just crazy about her. When he was home, the two were inseparable.

The reporter asked if they had seen any unsavoury characters in the neighbourhood in the last few days.

Mrs. Boothroyd was positive.

“I haven’t seen anyone suspicious in the last few days. And I certainly haven’t heard of any children being molested.”

The women all agreed - nothing suspicious, nothing out of the ordinary.

(They weren’t disappointed — their names were spelled correctly.)

At one point in the darkness, as police and volunteers searched the nearby dump, Alfred stood at the edge of the cliff surrounding the area. Light fell on an image and he was convinced it was the baby. He was about to jump in, but police held him back while they searched, only to discover it was just a cardboard box. They widened the search of the railroad track out of fear that Bunty may have found her way through an opening in the fence.

While Alfred searched for his little girl, Florence fretted that Bunty wasn’t dressed warmly as she recalled exactly how she had bundled her up to play outside. Vera spent the long night giving her comfort and hope while neighbours dropped in to check on her. They listened to her stories about Bunty and her desperate wish that her baby would soon be home. Suddenly she had a hopeful thought.

“She loves dogs. You’ve seen her playing with Prince. Where’s Prince? Could he be with her?”

The little fox terrier seemed to sense that something was wrong. He ran back and forth whining and barking from the Hillier house to the corner of Boothroyd and Boultbee. A police officer was assigned to watch him in the hope he would lead them to the child.

At nine o’clock, just as the story was breaking, The Star’s wandering reporter, Gordon Sinclair, was scheduled to appear on CFRB Radio for his nightly report. He shared the news of a missing child in the Jones Avenue and Boultbee area of Toronto, appealing to listeners to be on the lookout for the missing child and providing a description.

During the eleven o’clock news hour, with the extensive search underway, an urgent message was broadcast. Police were seeking information from anyone who may have information. Maude Huestis was listening to her radio before retiring for the night.

With no evidence, no facts to rely on, she began to speculate.

 

Thursday October 26

 THE DISCOVERY

The following morning, the search team was relieved by a fresh group of men. Greenlee remained at the site and continued to oversee the operation while Johnson attempted to create a more accurate timeline of Bunty’s day. He spoke briefly to Howard Every’s father but it was apparent he was clueless to what involvement his son may have had. He returned to the Hillier house where Vera Harrington was having a cigarette on the veranda.

“Is there news, have you found her?’ she asked desperately.

“I’m afraid not. The search will continue, we’re not about to give up. I do have a few more questions though.”

“Florence just dozed off. I really don’t want to wake her.”

“Let her rest. It’s really you I’ve come to talk to.”

“I don’t know how I can help, but I’ll certainly try.”

Remember Florence begged you to say nothing of the sleepless night.

“How well do you know Mrs. Hillier?”

“I’ve known her a few years. She came from Scotland about ten years ago. I’m really the only serious friend she’s had since she arrived.”

“Does she have family here?”

“Oh yes. Her mother and sister, she’s very close to them. She has other sisters and brothers, but she doesn’t see them often. They don’t live in the city.” 

“Do you know when she last saw her mother?

“Yes, they went to her mother’s house just this past Sunday.”

“And when did you last see Mrs. Hillier?”

Oh dear, there’s nothing to hide. We did nothing wrong. I have to be honest.

“I was here on Tuesday night. I gave Bunty her bath before she went down for the night.”

“And what time did you leave?” 

There’s nothing to hide.

“I didn’t go home until morning. Me and Florence, we sat up doing a jigsaw puzzle. We lost track of time and before we knew it, it was seven o’clock. That’s when I went home.”

“I see. Was Bunty awake when you were leaving?”

“She was just beginning to stir. She was still in her crib. I peeked in at her, but didn’t want to excite her. If she saw me, she would’ve wanted me to pick her up.”

Johnson thanked her and suggested she should get some rest too, commenting, with some sarcasm, on the fact that she must be feeling very tired having not slept for two nights. He returned to Boultbee and was catching up with Greenlee when the discovery was made.

Police Constable Frank James reported for duty at 6:15 and was detailed to search the dump area behind Boultbee Avenue. At 7:55 a.m. beneath a clump of dried bushes and partially covered by a car door, P.C. James discovered the lifeless body of the missing baby. Her clothes had been removed and placed in a basket nearby. Inspector Johnson brought Alfred to the scene but until the city coroner arrived, he would not allow him to view his baby’s body. By 8:45 the city coroner and police photographer completed a preliminary investigation and Alfred was then led to the spot where his daughter lay.

Weeping, he cried out, “Oh God, who has done this. She’s all I had in the world.”  

Alfred and his neighbours were convinced her body must have been placed there after the area was searched

“I would have seen her. I could have saved her,” he cried out.

As he and the searchers watched in shocked silence, the coroner removed her body to the morgue.

Word of the discovery was quickly spreading and Alfred realized Florence may hear the appalling news before he got back to the house. He ran back, rushed through the front door and found Florence inconsolable. She hadn’t learned yet of the discovery, but following the night of sleepless anxiety she had dozed briefly on the sofa waking suddenly to say she had a horrible premonition her broken baby had been discovered.  

 “How do I tell her? God give me strength,” Alfred prayed. 

She knew. By his face. By his posture. She just knew.

He told her how Bunty had been found, that he had seen her little body. Florence was overwhelmed with grief. He held her tightly, he dried her tears but he could find no words to comfort her.

“I want to see her,” Florence cried. Desperately she begged for details.

“Where was she? How did she look when they found her?”

Alfred was weeping. Too overcome with grief, he couldn’t find his voice.

Inspector Johnson had arrived. He guided Alfred and Florence to the sofa, for safety sake, afraid one or both may collapse. Vera and Beach Harrington sat next to them in shocked disbelief.

Johnson crouched down on one knee, speaking in a gentle sympathetic tone, he provided details.

“She was found under an old car door, part way down the dump between the railroad tracks and Boultbee. Her clothes had been removed.” 

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Why? Why?”

“She had scratches and welts on her face and body.”

“Dear God, she’s been hit with a strap,” cried Florence.

“Were her feet dirty, as if she’d been walking? As if she’d been walking in her bare feet?” she asked.

Alfred found the strength he needed to answer her desperate plea.

“No, no, they were clean. All her clothes were off, including her shoes and stockings but her little feet were clean.”

“Fiend,” cried Florence as she collapsed into his arms.

 

FEAR MONGERING BEGINS

Maude Huestis couldn’t sleep as she anticipated the horror that may be coming. She tuned in to CFRB news at 7:45. The search had continued through the night with no new information. She left the radio on, hoping for an update. The discovery was reported toward the end of the eight o’clock breakfast hour program.

“My worst fear. What is happening in this city?” cried Mrs. Huestis.

She immediately telephoned her friend Margaret.

“Have you heard the news Margaret? Have you heard about the Hillier baby?”

“Yes, I’ve just heard. Such a tragedy.”

“Exactly what we’ve been predicting. The authorities in this city have delayed too long in dealing with these types. Weak-minded people are on the increase and there is no telling when such a crime may occur again. Weak-minded people should long ago have been put where they can do no harm — behind bars.”

Margaret disagreed, “Behind bars isn’t good enough for their kind. We’ve been trying to get our point across, and this just proves it. They’ll make every effort to apprehend the perpetrator, at any cost, but just think if that money would have been used in preventing such an atrocity. How many are there in this city who might commit such a crime at any moment? When this criminal is captured he should be treated as a sick man. This was the action of a diseased mind. Sterilization, Maude, sterilization would put an end to these crimes”

“Indeed, you know I agree wholeheartedly. The best way to deal with people of that nature is not to have them. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. We must use this instance to raise the subject once again. I’m certain we will get the public on our side now. The weak minded should not be reproducing.”

“Let’s bring the group together, Maude. I suggest we waste no time. Strike while the iron is hot, I always say.”

The “group” was the Local Council of Women, a group known for its charitable efforts on behalf of the poor, particularly women and children. But the group also had a reputation as wealthy, old busybodies. Always eager to push their extreme belief that the city was overrun with deviants, they claimed to have the solution. Their shared passion for the eugenics movement had solidified their bond.

That afternoon, the “group” gathered at Maude’s stately home in the upscale Rosedale neighbourhood. The house, once belonging to her whisky baron father, had been bequeathed to her upon his death. The faint aroma of his cigars still lingered in the oak-panelled library where tea and finger sandwiches were served. Margaret, the group’s secretary, was the first to arrive, soon followed by the others. That day, the group appointed Maud as their spokesperson, should any reporters inquire. Her task was clear: express condolences to the grieving parents and assert the group’s stance — that every neighbourhood harbours weak-minded individuals, and it was the public's duty to question such neighbours. Where were they last night? What had they been up to? Deviants must be identified and dealt with decisively to prevent further horrors.

Toronto Star reporter Claire Wallace did reach out to the Council of Woman as well as one of her police sources.

“You didn’t hear this from me,” he warned. “They’re searching for a convict who escaped from an Ontario institute during the summer. He was convicted several times of indecent assault involving young children. And up to now he’s evaded police. But today they’ve begun a determined effort to round up a number of perverts who’ve escaped or recently been released from Ontario institutions.”

Claire then contacted mental health experts at institutes near the city to have them weigh in for her story. She posed the same question to each expert. “Are any patients missing from your institution?”

Each assured her they had no escaped or missing patients. But most agreed, if the culprit is not apprehended, it was very likely he would attack again. It could be anyone’s neighbour. The killer was obviously suffering from some form of mental disability.

Her contact at the Toronto psychiatric hospital encouraged her to wait until the case had been fully examined before drawing any conclusions.

“It need not even have been done by an insane person,” he told her. “It may have been done by a perfectly normal person. There may be a perversion angle to it, but I don’t know the facts yet so I can’t tell you.”

Even before the grim discovery, Joseph Atkinson and his son-in-law Harry Hindmarsh began discussing how they would report the story. Atkinson was the publisher and editor of the Toronto Star, Harry the managing editor. Instinctively they knew this was a story that would sell papers. “Nothing improper,” winked Atkinson. “This is our Lindbergh story Harry, don’t let me down.”

Both agreed that pushing the local human interest story would be good for business. Harry committed to cover every possible perspective by dispatching a group of reporters and photographers to the area. They would speak to anyone and everyone, take photos of every potential point of interest. Harry had his reporters on the story as the search was proceeding. They were there when the body was discovered.

Claire’s story ran in the Star the day of the discovery warning “ESCAPED CONVICT ‘CHILD ATTACKER’ SOUGHT BY POLICE”. Neighbourhoods were gripped by fear. Panic spread across the city. Atkinson and Hindmarsh had their angle. For the next six days they played up their theory that a lunatic child killer was on the loose.

 

A SUSPECT EMERGES

Inspector Johnson found it curious that Mrs. Hillier had approached Howard Every while searching for Bunty, since his name was one of the two linked to sightings of Bunty the previous afternoon. Just hours after the baby had been discovered, he and Detective Greenlee arrived at the Every home on Boultbee Avenue to question the boy. 

The seven year old was a small, scrawny child. He seemed shy and spoke with a lisp, making him sometimes difficult to understand. He claimed he had seen Bunty with a big boy on Boultbee in the afternoon and he saw the boy take her away. Mrs. Every confirmed she had seen Bunty playing with Howard between three and three-thirty. But she also urged them not to take him seriously.

“He has an overactive imagination,” she warned, “He’s just a small boy. Don’t take too much notice of him, it’s only baby talk. No boy took Bunty away, did he, Howard?”

Howard insisted, “Yes, he did.”

Greenlee questioned him further.

“Did you ever see the boy before?”

“Yes.”

“Would you know him if you saw him again?”

“Yes.”

“How was he dressed?”

“In a brown suit.”

“Where does he live?”

“Up on the hill.”

He then pointed up Jones Avenue.

“Do you know where exactly?” Greenlee continued.

Howard shook his head.

“When did this happen?”

“Right after lunch.”

With that his mother interjected.

“That’s silly Howard, Bunty wasn’t down here until three o’clock and you had to come in at three thirty.”

Johnson and Greenlee thanked Howard and his mother for their time.

Johnson wondered aloud, “Mrs. Every is certain the baby was with Howard between three and three thirty. So how did the child’s mother hear her laughing at three thirty?” The conflicting timeline would prove to be Johnson’s greatest frustration.

BUT WAS IT MURDER

Outside the city morgue on Lombard Street, less than four miles from the location of discovery, and less than twenty four hours since Bunty had gone missing, the result of the autopsy was released. Chief Coroner, Dr. Malcolm Crawford and pathologist, Dr. W. L. Robinson, appeared outside the morgue to provide a statement to waiting reporters.

Dr. Robinson spoke briefly.

“There are no gross lesions that would in any way account for death. There are no signs of violence to lead one to think the child had been violated. From what has been so far learned at the autopsy it would appear that the child probably died from exposure.”

When asked directly whether it was murder, Dr. Crawford's response appeared to contradict the pathologist’s remarks.

"Too early to say for certain," he replied, "but it is very peculiar that the body was found naked while the clothes were neatly placed in the basket. The child’s body had been hidden under an automobile door, concealed by bushes, but the basket was left out in the open. According to the mother, she had pinned the child's mittens to her sleeves using safety pins, yet the mittens were found in the basket without the pins. The child couldn't have removed them herself. Even stranger, the sleeves of her undervest had been fastened together with her suspenders. Despite this odd arrangement, the clothing showed no signs of tearing or being forcibly removed.”

Reporters pressed for more information, and Dr. Crawford, known for accommodating newspaper men, was willing to share what little he knew.

When asked if a motive had been uncovered, he admitted it was impossible to draw any conclusions. He was then encouraged to describe the scene where the child was found and whether there were any visible wounds.

“You’ll no doubt visit the location yourselves,” he remarked. “The child was lying face down in a very awkward position, with a rusted old car door across her back. Bricks and tin cans were scattered around. It’s clear the child didn’t assume that position on her own. She had to be unconscious or dead, deliberately placed there by someone attempting to hide the body.”

As for visible injuries, Crawford explained, “The body showed scratches on both sides, from forehead to ankle. These weren’t consistent with a body being dragged, where the marks would run in one direction. Instead, they ran in various directions, suggesting the naked body had been thrust back and forth through the bushes. However, the scratches were superficial and not fatal.”

A reporter asked, “How long had she been dead?”

“Due to the frozen condition of the body, estimating the time of death is difficult,” Crawford responded.

Concluding the discussion, he thanked the reporters.

“That’s all I can share for now. The investigation is ongoing, and we’ll inform you of any new findings. Thank you.”

With that, Dr. Crawford and Dr. Robinson turned and stepped back inside the morgue.

 

 

THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

 

Late on the evening of the horrifying day, Alfred was asked to endure the overwhelming task of officially identifying the body of his little girl. As he sat in the chief coroner’s office attempting to compose himself for the sake of Florence, Dr. Crawford broached the subject of the funeral. He apologized for seeming to pry into the family’s affairs then asked, “How are you fixed, financially?”

Alfred hesitated to answer. “I’ve got eighty cents between me and starvation.”

Dr. Crawford advised him that his little girl would remain in the mortuary overnight. “Tomorrow,” he assured the distraught father, “we’ll discuss what comes next. We would normally apply for a city burial but we don’t want to do that.”

Alfred wept inconsolably, “Surely I can find a job that will pay me enough to give my little girl a decent funeral. We won’t have a pauper’s burial." 

 Dr. Crawford relieved his fear. “I’ve been receiving phone calls from people eager to help. You needn’t worry about the cost.”

The two men came to an agreement. Crawford would handle the funeral arrangements with undertakers who had volunteered their services. Expenses would be payed through the donations of strangers. Everything would be approved by Alfred. Bunty would receive a proper burial.

Florence was comforted to hear that a burial plot had been donated at Park Lawn Cemetery.

“It’s big enough for all three of us to be buried,” Alf promised —“Bunty, Daddy, and Mummy.”

 

 

EXTRA EXTRA READ ALL ABOUT IT

Fourteen year old Charlie Watts, the paperboy for the friendly, quiet Boultbee neighbourhood, received his bundle of newspapers late that afternoon. He had thirty regular customers, but his bundle was much heavier than usual. He counted out seventy copies.

“What should I do?” he asked his mother as he loaded the papers into his wagon. “Mr. Hillier is one of my customers. Should I deliver his paper?”

Elizabeth Watts was visibly upset by the baby’s death. She knew Florence, though not well. They had exchanged occasional pleasantries. However, she was familiar with the baby, often seeing her play with other children. She wasn’t sure what Charlie should do, but after some thought, suggested he probably shouldn’t deliver the paper.  

An artist’s portrait of the baby graced the front page and under it the caption;

“Murdered by Person Unknown”

Yet the headline told a different story;

“Child Died of Exposure, Coroner Says”

“Why do you think they give me so many papers Mum?” 

 Elizabeth could only guess. “Some neighbours, besides your regular customers, may want a copy,” she told Charlie. “But be sure they pay the two cents. Otherwise it will come out of your pocket.”

He headed out to make his deliveries, and just as his mother had predicted neighbours approached him for a copy. Some complained about the cost but ultimately Charlie was paid for all of them. As he headed up Boothroyd, passing number six, Alfred Hillier was standing at his front door.

“I’ll take one Charlie,” he shouted.

The boy took a paper from his wagon, turned it over so the picture and headline weren’t showing, and brought it up to the house. Alfred stepped out his front door and as Charlie handed the paper to him he could see he was crying.

“You were one of the last to see our Bunty,” he told Charlie.

“Yes, sir,” the young boy said. “When I delivered your paper yesterday, she was right here on the porch.” Charlie found he was suddenly fighting back tears. “She always laughed when I made funny faces at her. I’ll miss her Mr. Hillier. I’m sorry.” Alfred put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder and thanked him for his kind words.

By the time Charlie returned from his deliveries his wagon was empty. And had they sent him twenty more copies, he likely could have sold them.

Charlie’s father, Joseph, arrived home from work to find Elizabeth sitting at the kitchen table, pouring over all the information the Star had printed. Four pages of stories, photos and interviews. Stories about the search and discovery. Stories about the Hilliers. She was struck by the number of stories saying the baby had been murdered while also reading that there was no evidence of murder at all. Mayor Stewart was offering a substantial reward for the capture of the slayer. He offered his sympathy to the Hilliers and any assistance within his power. He promised to find a job for the distraught father. Stories about two neighbourhood children seemed to indicate they had some involvement in her death. These were children Elizabeth knew and doubted that a five year old and a seven year old could be involved.

Joseph was a carpenter working on construction for the city. He told Elizabeth everyone was discussing the murder.

“But it wasn’t murder,” Elizabeth informed him. “The coroner says it was exposure.”

The Watts family continued the conversation over dinner. Their daughter Edna worked at a busy diner and their older son Herbert, was a car mechanic. They both had the same experience as their father. Bunty was the topic of every conversation. 

“Did you read about Howard Every and little Jackie Marland?” Edna asked.

“I read it but I don’t believe it. They couldn’t be involved,” answered their mother. “I mean, we all know Howard is an unusual little fellow, but he’s really very sweet if you take the time to talk to him. And for heaven’s sake, Jackie is only five years old.”

They all agreed but then had to consider the theory that a murderer was in the neighbourhood.

Elizabeth advised her family to avoid the reporters.

“They’re everywhere, looking for anything to print. Some of our neighbours have already spoken to them. No doubt they’ll be chuffed to see their name in print.”  

“Mrs. Blackley said she left Sammy on the porch practically all day and checked on him every three hours,” Charlie commented.

“Well, I guess little Sammy Blackley won’t be alone on the porch all day after this,” Herbert responded with a hint of sarcasm.

“Mrs. Boothroyd told the reporter she hasn’t seen any strange characters in the neighbourhood.”

Joseph chimed in, chuckling, “Well, that’s not altogether true. There are some strange characters in the neighbourhood.”

Elizabeth scolded them for making light of the situation. She had no time for gossips or for the fear-mongering that was being spread with the Star’s contrasting stories.

 

Friday October 27 

FACT FINDING

Based on the results of the autopsy indicating the child had not died of violence but rather exposure, Dr. Crawford made the decision to concentrate his questioning on children.

“I’m not yet convinced,” Inspector Johnson advised. “I’ll continue to investigate other avenues.”

“You’re leaning towards the mother?”

“No Malcolm, I’m not leaning either way. I’m just not convinced a seven year old, much less a five year old, could be responsible.”

“Mark my word. It’s not the mother.”

Crawford believed Howard Every was the best hope for uncovering the mystery. He and five year old Jackie Marland had been seen with Bunty on the afternoon she disappeared. Both boys lived on Boultbee Avenue, though Jackie was cared for by the Banks family on Boothroyd. Several neighbours confirmed they had seen Bunty that afternoon, on her own veranda, in front of her house, and on Boultbee with Howard and Jackie.

Dr. Crawford contacted Johnson early on the Friday morning, “I’d like to speak to the boys. I believe they’re key to resolving this. And I think if you come with me, you’ll be convinced.”

Johnson suggested they meet on Boultbee later that morning. Dr. Crawford agreed.

Before meeting with Crawford, Johnson stopped by the local grocery store and spoke to Mr. Hutchison. Yes, the lady came in that evening to use the telephone. It was between 5:30 and 6 — he couldn’t say for sure. He corroborated his son Russell’s comment that Bunty was often seen alone on Jones Avenue.

Johnson and Crawford approached the Every house before noon hour. Looking haggard, as one might from lack of sleep, Mrs. Every answered the door, followed closely by her husband and the young boy. Johnson introduced Dr. Crawford then addressed Howard directly.

“Do you remember we talked yesterday?”  

Howard nodded.

“If your parents will allow us, we’d like to talk again.” Then, addressing Mr. Every he continued.

“We’re hoping your son can help with our investigation. Could we come in and speak to him?”

The parents agreed, though Mr. Every said it was unlikely Howard could share anything new, adding, “This whole thing gave Howard a very restless night.”

Howard told the two men he and Jackie Marland had been playing at the dump with Bunty on Wednesday afternoon. He said Bunty fell down the cliff into the dump.  

“I went down to her, she wasn’t moving, so I went home and I didn’t go back again.” “What about the older boy? The boy in the brown suit?” Crawford asked.

Howard admitted he hadn’t seen an older boy. He was wrong about that.

Dr. Crawford asked if they could bring Howard to the dump to point to the last place he saw Bunty. Mr. Every agreed, on condition he would go with them. 

“Certainly,” the doctor assured him, “no reason you shouldn’t be with us.”

Together the three men and Howard walked to the dump. Howard took them to a spot between Boultbee Avenue and the railway tracks where he declared,

“That’s where Bunty fell from.”

He offered to climb down to the exact spot, but his father was concerned he could fall and wouldn’t permit it. Dr. Crawford asked if he had removed Bunty’s clothes. He said he had not. Had he touched her clothes? He said he had not.

He then thanked the boy and his father for their help

“For now we’re done, but we may need to speak to you again, Howard, would that be okay with you?”

“Sure, I don’t mind,” Howard said.

The group separated. Crawford and Johnson watched as Howard skipped along the path holding his father’s hand.

 

Elizabeth Watts had a few errands to run in the afternoon and hoped she could avoid being drawn into a conversation with the neighbours, who had spent the best part of the day gathered at the corner of Boultbee and Boothroyd sharing uninformed opinions on the events of the past two days. As she passed the group she nodded politely, but continued on her way. Closer to Jones Avenue she found herself face to face with Mrs. Every.

“Hello Mrs. Watts,” Mrs. Every greeted her, speaking barely above a whisper. “This is all very tragic.” She looked up the street to where the neighbours were congregating. “They’re all pointing their finger at my Howard.”

“It’s my opinion we should wait until the police have finished their investigation. I’m doubtful the two boys were involved,” Elizabeth reassured her.

“I’m afraid it was all a horrible accident.”

Mrs. Every continued to whisper, fearing a newspaper reporter could be lurking nearby.

“Howard says he saw Bunty fall down the hill at the dump, and even showed the police the exact spot where she was found.”

She knew Mrs. Watts would not gossip, unlike so many of the other women in the neighbourhood. She asked if she would like a cup of coffee, and Elizabeth, sensing she needed someone to confide in, accepted. The two women walked up the laneway to the little house at 58 1/2 Boultbee. Howard and his father had gone to Riverdale Park to escape prying eyes. Three older children were at school and her oldest son was out collecting old papers to sell for pulp, the family’s only means of income.

Mrs. Every was emotional as she continued to reveal all to her compassionate neighbour.

“Howard’s a good boy, and smart as can be. Sometimes it’s hard to understand what he says, he’s had a lot of sickness. But he’s sharp — much sharper than any of my others were at his age.”

Once inside, Mrs. Every took a seat at the kitchen table. The offer of coffee seemed to have been forgotten.

Elizabeth asked how the other children were holding up.

“We’re all sick about it,” She confided. “If only Howard had been at school he would have been out of this whole thing. He cut his foot last week and needed stitches.” She got up and looked out the window. “All day, strangers stopping, staring at the house, it makes me nervous.” She returned to her chair, fidgeting with the corner of the tablecloth. “He had no boots to wear, that’s how he cut his foot. We got him some boots, but his foot isn’t healed. Oh, if only he had been at school.”

“You haven’t lived here long. Maybe five months now?”

“Since April. Seven months. If only we hadn’t moved.” Tears began to flow. “I’m so sorry for Mrs. Hillier, but there’s nothing I can do. I don’t even have money to buy a wreath for the little girl. We’ve had such hard luck, so much illness, now we have this worry.”

Elizabeth offered to make the coffee, but Mrs. Every seemed oblivious and continued to pour her heart out.

“Howard wouldn’t hurt anyone and as for undressing Bunty, he can’t even do that for himself. Oh sure he can put on his shirt and pants, but he can’t work the buttons and he couldn’t possibly manage a safety pin.” Mrs. Every dabbed her eyes.

“Howard would much rather play with other boys. Sometimes Bunty would call for him and they played together. He’s not very strong, but he’s no sissy. He doesn’t like to play with dolls or toy animals. He likes trains and fire engines. No, he doesn’t play with the girls.”

Her distraction with the tablecloth resumed.

“I never met Mrs. Hillier until she showed up at our house on Wednesday evening looking for Bunty. I offered to help look and Howard grabbed his coat. He said ‘I’ll find her’. Oh, if only I had let him, we might have found her. If only he had told me then that he saw her fall. But I told him it was dark and too cold so I would go with Mrs. Hillier to help her search and when I came home, Howard didn’t say any more about it.”

“Did you ask Howard anything about seeing Bunty?” Elizabeth inquired.

“No. And he didn’t say anything until the police came around the next morning. He doesn’t say much unless he’s asked questions, and we didn’t think of asking him.”  

“Don’t blame yourself, Mrs. Every, you weren’t to know.”

As Elizabeth prepared to leave, she patted her neighbours hand and suggested she should try to rest.

Mrs. Every thanked her for her kind words, and added, “My girl left for school yesterday morning. Then she came back in and said they found the baby. I was heartbroken. Oh I do feel so bad for the Hilliers.”

 

Leonard Marland had been informed that Inspector Johnson and Malcolm Crawford would be calling on his son Jackie as part of their investigation. He couldn’t fathom why they would want to speak to a five year old child. They arrived shortly after speaking to Howard at the dump. Mr. Marland led them through the narrow hallway to the tidy little kitchen at the back of the house where Jackie was playing with a kitten. He explained he was a widower since Jackie’s mother had died of heart trouble in the summer. He did the best he could for his son, but since he worked nights, Jackie lived with the Banks family on Boothroyd.

“He calls them ‘aunt’ and ‘uncle’, they’re very good to him. I have Jackie home for dinner most days, then bring him around to Mrs. Banks by seven o’clock. He gets ready for bed and says his prayers and I tuck him in, then I go to work.”  

Jackie said hello to the visitors, but showed no interest in them.

His father appeared bewildered. “I know so little about the whole business, but I’ll tell you all I know, and let you talk to Jackie.”

Dr. Crawford promised the wouldn’t take too much of his time.

“Could you give us an idea of what Jackie was doing on Wednesday?” he asked.

“On Wednesdays, I have to be in work by five. Jackie was with Mrs. Banks earlier than usual that day because I had to do the shopping. I saw Jackie when I left for work in the afternoon. It was shortly after four o’clock. He was playing in front of the Banks house. When I returned from work, I noticed a lot of activity in the neighbourhood, but I slept nearly all day Thursday and when I heard the little girl had been found, I didn’t think of it being connected with Jackie in any way.”

“Did you ask Jackie if he had seen her?”

“No, I never thought of it. He plays with some of the boys around here, but he seldom plays with girls.”

“Did he seem excited or agitated that evening?”

“Not a bit. We had our dinner together, just as usual. And when he went to bed he said his prayers and went off to sleep.”

“Had he said anything about Bunty?”

“He said ‘Bunty’s dead dad. She’s gone. Where did she go?’”

“I told him Bunty had gone to heaven, just as his mama had. I didn’t want to talk to him about the terrible event, so I didn’t say anything more.”

“What have you learned since then?”

“I only learned this morning that you had questions. I am completely puzzled over Jackie’s connection with the case. He thinks a boy who plays with girls is a sissy.”

Leonard turned towards Jackie and asked, “Are you a sissy, Jackie?”

Glaring at his father he hissed, “I am not a sissy.”

“He gets mad if you say he’s a sissy or tell him to play with girls. He’s a real boy, even if he is so young. I’m not aware he ever played with the poor child.”

Dr. Crawford began chatting with the young boy to draw out any information he could provide. Eventually Jackie shared that he had seen Howard bump into Bunty, knocking her down.

“Then I saw Howard go down into the dump. He took Bunty’s clothes off and put a door on her. There was a basket and Howard put her clothes in it.” 

“Do you remember what you did after that?” Johnson asked.

“We walked home.”

“Could you take us to the dump now?” Asked Crawford

Jackie walked ahead of the three men, leading them down the lane from Boultbee to the dump.

He wandered down the pathway, stopping at some bushes, he said, “Here’s the place where Bunty fell.”

Then pointing to a spot about eight feet away he added, “Over there was a basket and that’s where Howard put her clothes and he put a door on her back and then we went home.”

Jackie and his father had nothing more to provide.

Crawford was now fully convinced the death was the result of the boys’ activity. Whether accidental or intentional he had not determined.

“What are you thinking now, Bill? Still not convinced?”

“I’ll admit, they couldn’t both be fabricating the same story.” 

“So you agree? It’s not the mother?” Crawford asked.

“I’m baffled by the timeline. She’s adamant she heard the baby laughing at 3:30. But yes, I’d have to agree. Sadly though, she is guilty of very poor judgement. That’s not a crime. But she’ll live with that for the remainder of her years. Poor woman.”  

“My thoughts exactly,” said Crawford. “My thoughts exactly.”

With both men resolved that the baby’s death occurred as described by the two boys, they reported their decision to Inspector of Detectives John Chisholm who requested that both boys appear at police headquarters where an official statement would be taken. At four o’clock that afternoon, Jackie arrived with his father; Howard with both his parents. The children played together in a third floor office before repeating what they had previously shared.

Crawford announced that he would open an inquest the following Tuesday afternoon where the two boys would be asked to retell their story. The parents refused to accept that their boys had any involvement in the little girl’s death.

 

Saturday October 28 

SYMPATHIZERS OR BAND-WAGONERS

PART I

Norman Higgins was an old man with little energy for anything beyond puttering around his modest room at the Parkview Hotel on Strachan Avenue.

He read about the Hillier baby in the papers — the tragedy, the notice of her remains resting at Bates & Dodds Funeral Parlour which was directly across the street from The Parkview. He could walk over to pay his respects, but he wouldn’t. It was a grey, chilly Saturday, colder than usual for late October. Instead he would spend the day as he often did, drinking beer, smoking cigarettes and watching the world unfold outside his second storey window.

From his viewpoint, Norman observed the crowds starting to gather early in the morning. When the sidewalk could no longer contain them, and they spilled onto the road, police arrived, directing them to Trinity Park on the north side of Queen Street to wait their turn. Norman wondered if they were there out of grief or simply for the morbid satisfaction of saying they’d seen the baby in her casket.

By noon, Norman watched as the undertaker closed the chapel doors. The crowd grew restless, pounding on the doors, rapping on windows and shouting to be let in. The arrival of more police managed to calm the chaos, briefly. But when the doors reopened, just thirty minutes later, the scene erupted once more. People surged forward, and police and staff fought to maintain order, allowing only small groups inside at a time.

The sight unsettled Norman, the frenzy and spectacle across the street was appalling and he wanted no part of it. He drew his curtains tightly, shutting out the commotion, determined to ignore the circus outside.

Dressed in an outfit her mother had chosen and wearing a tiny gold ring that belonged to Florence as a child, Bunty lay in a little white coffin with a red rose in her hands. The chapel was adorned with flowers donated by local florists. Dr. Crawford and his staff had finalized the arrangements, approved by Alfred. They agreed that the public deserved the opportunity to pay their respects.

“It’s a way for us to thank everyone for their support,” Alfred explained to Florence. But they did not go to the funeral parlour.

“I can’t face the strangers,” Florence cried.

Alf could not convince her to appear publicly. In their place, her mother and half sister would stay with Bunty during the public visitation. No one expected that thousands would pass through the chapel to gaze upon the baby.

The doors were opened at 10:30 and very soon after, the undertaker telephoned the local police station requesting assistance.

“We don’t have sufficient staff to control the crowd,” he pleaded. “Could we have some police support?”

Two officers were quickly dispatched. At noon hour, the noise of the crowds shuffling across the floor disrupted a service that was taking place in the adjoining chapel. Now the undertaker had to make the decision to stop the public visitation until the service was over. More police reinforcements were summoned to control the unruly crowd.

Most visitors were women, many bringing their own small children with them. Some speaking in whispered tones about their own losses. Some discussing the investigation, the two boys and the newspaper reports. And some wondering how a mother could let this happen.

Florence’s mother Violet Bowerman and half sister Mary Atherley performed their duties well. They remained by the tiny coffin, watching over Bunty as strangers passed by. Some stopping to say a prayer, some reaching into the coffin to touch the baby’s cheek. When a woman was witnessed attempting to remove Bunty’s tiny gold ring, the undertaker escorted her from the chapel. For the remainder of the public visitation, two staff members remained by the coffin.

At six o’clock the chapel was closed to the public. Bunty would be brought home later that evening. Alfred insisted on a private funeral service at the house, to be conducted by the minister who had christened the baby only a year earlier.

Violet Bowerman and Mary Atherley said their goodbyes to Bunty, then made their way home. They walked the forty minutes to Augusta Avenue.

For several blocks they trudged along in somber silence, arms linked, both absorbed in their own thoughts. Mary, concentrating on the events of the day, Violet, on the events of her life.

Violet broke the silence.

“That tiny gold ring. I gave it to Florence when I left Scotland. I gave each of the children a little something to hold on to ‘till we were back together. It’s not valuable, but it sure is sentimental.”

Mary knew very few details of her mother’s life. Just seventeen, she had never been terribly interested. She knew that her mother had come to Canada about eighteen years ago, leaving behind her eight children. Mary’s father left for the war as soon as she was born and returned with a new wife and family and no interest in knowing his daughter. Over the next decade most of her half sisters and brothers followed their mother, leaving Scotland and reuniting briefly, then moving on to build their own lives. Only Florence remained near by. 

“Why did you leave Scotland?” she asked.

“We had a plan, me and Tom did. I was to come over first, see what opportunities there were. Tom was a lazy one, though. Whether here or there it would make no odds. It would always be a struggle.” 

“Tom was your husband? Flo’s father?”

“He was. And he coulda made summat of himself. When I married him he was a blacksmith. But pretty soon I realized he was work-shy. Spent the best part of his day at the local, always talking about the big plans he had.”

“Was Canada one of his plans?’

“Oh aye, it was. He had it all figured out. But sure he was too lazy to pursue his own dreams. That’s why he sent me ahead.” Violet laughed thinking how ridiculous it sounded.

“I arrived in Canada and got work as a housekeeper. I was happier than I’d ever been and I realized I didnae want to go back, but I didnae want him coming over. So I wrote him a note and told him to stay where he was. Told him to send the little ones over when they were old enough to travel alone. And I wrote the older ones and told them to come when they could.”

“That sure took some courage Mum.”

“Aye, I had courage or I was a daft eejit. Sure I soon met your father. A hard worker he was. A butcher. He had good, steady work, nothing like Tom. When I told him you were coming along he said he had to marry me.” Then she whispered, “But I didnae tell him I was already married.”

“He didn’t know you had other children?”

“Nae. Not when he married me he didn’t. Then you were born, and sure my conscience said I had to tell him. It wasnae right for me to deceive the man. He didnae take it too well. So he signed up to go overseas, joined the war effort, and he just left us. When the war ended, he wrote me that he had married an English lass with a couple of boys of her own and one of his. She lived in Canada before the war, married a Canadian lad — he was killed, in France. So they were coming back to live on the first husband’s farm and he wasn’t interested in seeing us.”

“Were you disappointed?”

“I couldnae expect he’d come back to us. Not after what I’d done. By then some of your sisters and brothers were here. We made do alright.”

“I think I remember when Flo came. I was about six.”

“Aye, Florence and Winnie and Robert had a rough time of it. They were put in care back home. Tom died and sure there was no one could take them in. Tom’s mother wasnae interested and mine was getting on in age. One by one they came over. My boy Harold is the only one who stayed behind. He took good care of his granny. My mother, not Tom’s.”

They were walking up Augusta Avenue now, nearly home.

“Sure we’ll have a cuppa to warm us up. I’ll ask Sam to make it for us. Now there’s a decent man.”

“Does Sam know about all this?”

“Aye, most of it.”

Violet’s new husband, Sam, put the kettle on as soon as he heard the doorknob turn. He had already set out the cups and sliced some bread and cheese. He asked about the day, how did Bunty look? Had many people turned out? Were Violet and Mary okay? They told him about the crowds and the little gold ring, the comments they heard people making and the sadness of the women who had lost a child of their own. And all the young ones that came.

“So much more respectful than a lot of the adults,” Mary told him.

Mary was anxious to hear the rest of her mother’s story. She surprised herself that she had an interest in learning about her mother’s past, just realizing it was her past too. But she didn’t know how much her mother would want to say with Sam hanging about. Her mother told Sam they had been talking about the old days. Sam told her not to dwell on the past, too many sad memories.

Mother and daughter sat in the kitchen drinking the tea Sam had prepared for them. The conversation had ended, but there was one thing Mary needed to ask.

“Are you sorry you came to Canada?” 

Violet pondered the question.

“I guess if I hadnae left, none of this would have happened.” 

“But you wouldn’t have me,” teased Mary.

“Aye,” Violet smiled at her youngest daughter. “My sweet Mary. Sure you mean the world to me.”

 

At the little house on Boothroyd Dr. Crawford was waiting with Alfred and Florence for Bunty’s arrival. The furniture in the sitting room was rearranged to make room for the tiny coffin and the flowers that had surrounded her at the funeral parlour. Outside, strangers waited.

“Why don’t they go home?” cried Florence. “We just want her to ourselves.” 

At eight o’clock the undertaker arrived and Bunty was home. The strangers who thought they would have a chance to view the baby, were turned away.

“I don’t want them,” Florence demanded.

“They’ve moved on,” Alfred assured her.

They moved on from 6 Boothroyd, but many remained in the neighbourhood, making a pilgrimage to the Every home and the city dump.

Alf had worried that Bunty’s return would be unbearable for Florence. Instead she seemed calmer, more settled to have her baby back home. She fell into a short but restful sleep for the first time since the nightmare had begun. Alfred however, couldn’t sleep. Bunty's coffin remained closed, but he was tempted to open it; to lift her out and hold her in his arms one last time. He didn’t. Instead he pulled a kitchen chair next to the coffin and sat beside her through the night. On a little table next to her coffin, a wreath was propped up, across it a sash with the words; Love, Mommy and Daddy. This was the last gift they would give her and without the charity of strangers, they couldn’t have even done that.

Alf remembered hearing that before you die your life flashes before your eyes. He wondered what Bunty would have seen.

And then he felt certain he must be dying as he saw his life laid before him.

Memories once buried surged back into his thoughts. He had been a troublesome kid growing up in London, causing his parents no small amount of grief. At just fourteen, he was sent off to a boys' training ship as punishment for some misdeed. Barely more than a child, he found himself swept into the Great War, earning medals that awarded him for surviving. After the war, he made the journey to Canada with Harry Whitmarsh, an army buddy whose friendship had long since faded. Harry had introduced him to Emma Dubois, a kind-hearted girl — but they married too quickly. Those years were miserable. Perhaps the war had soured his spirit, or maybe it was homesickness. Either way, he couldn't make the marriage work and headed back to England to be with his family. But he’d been away too long. In his family, he was an outsider. He returned to Canada thinking he might pick up where he left off. Emma had moved on. She was living with his old pal Harry on Augusta Avenue. He found work, driving for DeLuxe Cabs — the money wasn’t great, but he felt hopeful for the future. One night, at Queen and Coxwell, he picked up a fare that changed his life. She needed a lift home to Augusta Avenue, of all places. It was Flo. She was sweet, beautiful — and married. He knew he should keep his distance, but she wasn't living with her husband. She was with her mother; the husband was out of the picture. When he and Florence moved in together, life was good. He got a new job with better pay and steady hours. Flo was pregnant, and they were both overjoyed. But here they were, being punished now for that happiness. He thought back to the first time he held Bunty, so tiny and perfect. He had sworn to protect her forever.

"Why did I fail you?" he asked himself. "If only I had been here."
 

 

Sunday October 29 

SYMPATHIZERS OR BAND-WAGONERS

PART II

Sunday morning on Augusta Avenue, Violet was resting in the sitting room after a sleepless night. Mary was curled up in an arm chair with her cat, Susie.

“It was just last Sunday Bunty was here playing with Susie,” Violet reminded Sam as he handed her a cup of tea.

“You have a faraway look about you, Vi. Don’t be dwelling on the old days.”

“I don’t know if Flo and Alf can survive this. It broke my parents when they lost my sister.”

Mary’s interest was aroused. She had never heard about an aunt, never knew her mother had a sister. 

“Your sister?” she asked with a note of surprise in her voice.

“Aye. We were still in Dublin. Harriet was born when I was just about four. Now I haven’t any remembrance of her, but I do recall it was a terrible time for my mother. Little Harriet was about the same age as Bunty. We were visiting my uncle. George was his name. They were very close, my mother and her brother. My father wasn’t with us. There was a long staircase. I remember those stairs. I counted them every time, I’ll never forget that, fifteen steps. Half-way down, my mother tripped, she fell all the way down to the bottom with Harriet in her arms. There was screaming and crying, I remember that so clearly. Harriet cut her head, there was blood everywhere. Uncle George ran for a doctor. He said she would be fine, there was no need to worry. The next morning she was in a bad way. Father didn’t know, he never came home that night. Sometimes he stayed away for days on end, maybe he was drinking with his buddies. Mother was alone and took her to the hospital. Harriet died the next day.

They said she had a fractured skull. Father blamed mother. But maybe if he’d been there, maybe it would have been different. He couldn’t forgive mother. A few years later we left Ireland. Moved to Scotland. Me and my mother. She had to get away from him — from the bad memories. I’m afraid Alfred and Florence won’t survive this.” 

“That’s so sad, Mum. But Alf and Flo are crazy about each other. It sounds like your parents had other troubles.”

“You’re right, of course. Yes, Alf and Flo will be okay.”

Sam told Violet not to dwell on the past. Too many sad memories.

As promised, the little house at 6 Boothroyd was opened to the public on Sunday morning. Florence stood at the foot of the coffin, gazing at the baby, occasionally glancing at the people filing past, mostly trying to understand their fascination. Would I join a queue to stare at a stranger’s dead baby? Why are these people here? Why do we have to share Bunty with strangers?

“Please leave my baby alone,” she cried out several times as strangers attempted to touch her.

Florence lunged towards one woman who appeared as if she was going to lift Bunty right out of the coffin. The undertaker stepped in. 

 

Monday October 30 

SYMPATHIZERS OR BAND-WAGONERS 

PART III

“I just want this day to end,” thought Florence. “Just close my eyes and it’s over.”

The funeral service was scheduled for two o’clock. Family had begun to arrive. The sisters and brothers and in-laws Flo rarely saw. Her mother and Sam. And Mary, her half sister, but the one she felt closest to. Six of Bunty’s little playmates, all girls, were chosen as pallbearers. Alfred suggested the two boys, Howard and Jackie, he was that confident they had nothing to do with the baby’s death.

But Florence insisted, “Only girls.”

By nine o’clock in the morning, crowds were once again gathering outside the home. Frustrated neighbours begged the police to send the onlookers away.  

“We feel like prisoners in our own homes,” Mr. Boothroyd complained to the police officers posted to control the crowd. “Of course we all feel sympathetic towards the Hilliers, but it’s been very trying.”

“Robert, you sound terribly thoughtless,” chastised his wife. “Our temporary inconvenience doesn’t compare to what that poor family is going through. Do forgive my husband, we’re all feeling very stressed.”

Police acknowledged it was quite a disruption to the residents of the street, but permitted the crowd to stay. Strangers knocked on the door at number six, hoping to get in for one last chance to see the child. Inside, the family desperately tried to ignore the commotion as they prepared to say their final goodbye. Florence stood over the coffin.

“The minister will soon be arriving,” she said, “There isn’t much time left.”

Boothroyd was overflowing on to Boultbee when a police officer requested they once again open their home to strangers.

“I can’t do it, Alf, not again,” cried Florence.

But Alfred gave in to the demand.

“The undertaker will be here at eleven o’clock and the doors will be opened for the final public viewing,” he advised the police officer who had made the appeal.

“I won’t do it,” Florence announced.

When the doors were opened, and the public was invited in, she disappeared to their bedroom. She shut the door and sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the muffled sounds of voices. She was alone with her guilty thoughts. I was so tired that day. Just a few minutes rest. Did I close my eyes for a few minutes. Did I fall asleep? But she laughed. I know I heard her laugh. If only I hadn’t put her outside. If only, if only…and then, for a short time, Florence curled up on the bed and slept. 

Alfred woke her. “We’ve closed the door,” he said, “Reverend Robinson is here.”

Florence and Alfred had a few moments alone with their baby. They couldn’t say goodbye. They cried. They promised that one day they would be together again. They would never forget her. They would love her forever. Only they were present when the minister performed the service. Family and close friends waited in the small kitchen.

Outside, the strangers remained, quietly now, hoping for a glimpse of the grieving family and clearing the roadway for the parents, pallbearers, family and friends to be ushered into waiting vehicles. Mourners lined the route to Park Lawn Cemetery in the west end of the city where thousands awaited their arrival.

“Alf, I can’t do this. Why are these people here? Why can’t they leave us alone?” Florence cried as they entered the gates of the cemetery.

As Bunty was laid to rest, surrounded by strangers, her parents waited in the automobile. Florence, overcome with grief, shook with fear as the vehicle was quickly surrounded by inquisitive faces peering through the windows, And once again the parents were given no privacy.

Claire Wallace, observing from the sidelines, carefully prepared her story for the upcoming issue of the Toronto Star. She concluded with a poignant message:

Bunty Hillier now rests eternally. Never before in this city’s history has a funeral drawn what seemed like the entire population. Those who viewed her in her coffin will never forget the baby daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Hillier. Thousands braved hours in the cold autumn wind at the undertaker’s parlour; thousands more gathered on Boothroyd Avenue for a glimpse of the baby doll; and countless others travelled to the city’s west end to witness her little white casket lowered into its final resting place. Her tragic story and innocent face remain etched on the hearts of the public, who fervently hope the mystery of her death will be solved and justice served.

She was too late for that day’s edition. The story appeared in Tuesday’s paper as the inquest was beginning. 

 

Monday October 30 Continues 

BETWEEN THE BEGINNING AND THE END

 

Dr. Crawford sat in his second-floor office at the city morgue, his notes spread across his polished mahogany desk as he prepared for the inquest he would lead. He glanced at his watch — exactly two o’clock.

“The funeral is just beginning,” he murmured to the empty room.

Then he offered a silent prayer.

James McFadden was the newly appointed crown attorney and felt the pressure of the highly publicized case. He was anxious to see a finale that would allay the suspicions created by newspaper stories that there was a monster at large, liable to strike again. He tapped on Crawfords door and pushed it open. The two had discussed the evidence with both reaching the same conclusion. But it wasn’t for them to decide. The jury had been chosen and once the evidence was presented those nine men would reach a determination. The coroner and crown attorney discussed and disagreed on the order in which they would call witnesses. McFadden argued, it was logical that Florence Hillier should be first, followed by the two young boys at the centre of the investigation, Howard Every then Jackie Marland. Crawford disagreed, preferring to get the testimony of the baby’s father, two neighbourhood women who could provide first hand evidence, then the two boys. He would hold Florence Hillier until the end. McFadden gave in, allowing Crawford to set the schedule and admitted he was trepidatious about the testimony of the two boys.

But Crawford assured him, “I have a way with children. I’ll just have them repeat what they’ve already told us.”

“No surprises,” McFadden said with a nervous laugh. “I don’t like surprises.” 

Crawford remained confident it would be straightforward.

But a surprise was already unfolding on Boothroyd Avenue. Amid the onlookers waiting for a glimpse of the funeral procession, an eight-year-old boy struck up a conversation with an elderly stranger.

The boy casually mentioned, “I was at the dump that day. I seen what happened.”  

The stranger asked if he had told the police.

“I told my mom. And I told the boarder at our house,” he responded. “I told them I seen the boy put the clothes in a basket.”

The stranger, being curious, let the boy share his story. By the end of their conversation he knew the boy’s name, his age, where he lived and went to school. But he didn’t know if the boy was being truthful.

“Is your mother here with you?” he asked

The boy looked around at the crowd gathered on Boothroyd.

“She’s here, somewhere,” he said, "I dunno where.”

“Well Stanley, I think we should talk to your mother. Could you find her for me?” Stanley went off to search for his mother. He didn’t return to the stranger.

Although it seemed an unlikely tale, the child’s mother would surely have contacted police if there was any truth to it, as he headed home, the story niggled at the stranger sufficiently that he went out of his way to the Pape Avenue Police Station to share Stanley Lott’s story. The station was busy. He asked to speak to someone in charge. “Take a seat,” he was told by a man who was not in uniform. “It’ll be a few minutes.” More than a few minutes later, closer to twenty the stranger guessed, a uniformed officer finally approached him. The stranger shared what the Lott boy had told him. He was thanked for his trouble, and went home.

The funeral service was over. The burial had taken place. Now what? wondered Florence. Now what? The undertaker arranged for Alfred and Florence to be driven home, like they had been to a party and friends were doing them a favour by dropping them off. Her older sisters could stay for a cup of tea, but would have to leave soon, it was a long drive home. Her mother brought a plate of biscuits. Isn’t this nice, Florence thought, they’re having tea and cookies, a cozy little family reunion. Her sisters were talking about their life in Bowmanville and Oshawa, about their children, and my how they’ve grown so, you wouldn’t recognize them, we really must get together more often, we’ll keep in touch. Goodness, look at the clock. Their husbands, who sat fidgeting, impatiently, discussing the weather, their jobs and the Leafs prospects for the upcoming season, were told it was time to leave. There were hugs and kisses and poor Florence, you and Alfred should come out some time. And just like that, they were gone. Now Violet and Mary and Sam sat in silence. No one knowing what to say. No one wanting to make eye contact. Everyone wondering, now what? Florence was relieved to say goodbye to them. There were hugs and kisses and poor Florence and keep the cookies and I’ll get my plate next time I’m here. And then Florence and Alfred were alone. Really alone. For the first time since Bunty disappeared. No friends or neighbours or strangers. And the house looked normal. Exactly as it looked a week ago. The little white coffin, gone. The flowers that had filled the sitting room, gone. The house felt empty. They would never hear Bunty’s sweet laughter again, dry her little tears, watch her grow. What would they do with her crib? Her clothes? Her toys? One sister had suggested they give them away. One suggested they keep them, after all, they would surely have more children. Now Florence and Alfred sat in silence. Neither knowing what to say to the other. A neighbour dropped by with a meat pie. Another with rice pudding. “Thank you, you’re very kind” Florence said. But she wouldn’t invite them in. She’d seen enough of friends and neighbours and strangers and family. Now what? Tomorrow they would answer questions at an inquest to determine what had happened. But Florence already knew what happened. Her baby died. Dr. Crawford said a car would pick them up at noon. The inquest would begin at two.

It was close to five o’clock when the uniformed officer gave the information to his Staff Sergeant. No one could explain the delay, but it was after one o’clock the next day, the first day of the inquest, when the surprising news reached Crawford and McFadden. The inquest was about to get underway.

Tuesday October 31 

THE INQUEST BEGINS

A police officer was dispatched with explicit instructions, “Check the address he gave. Track down the parents. And if you can’t find the parents, find the boy. Pick him up at school if you have to.”

He went directly to the Lott home; no one there. With no time to waste, he arrived at the school where he spoke to the principal, telling him, “It’s of utmost importance we locate a young boy by the name of Stanley Lott we believe to be a student here. He may have information relevant to the inquest into the death of the little Hillier baby.”  

“Yes, Stanley is new to the school,“ replied the bewildered principal. “Are his parents aware that you’re looking for him?.”

“We’re attempting to locate them, but the inquest has begun and it’s urgent we get his testimony.”

Stanley was called to the office. The officer questioned him and, to the satisfaction of the principal, confirmed that the boy had pertinent information to share.

“Under the circumstances I will permit you to take the child, but I expect you will get the parent’s permission,” agreed the principal. He could have attempted to contact Stanley’s parents himself. He did not.

It was now three o’clock. At the city morgue the inquest was in progress as Stanley Lott arrived. His parents had yet to be informed.

 

Violet Bowerman and Mary Atherley sat at the back of the courtroom behind the group of public spectators who were patiently waiting for the inquest to begin. While the gathered onlookers chatted quietly, Violet and Mary watched with great interest the activity taking place at the front of the room. Reporters were seated on the left side. Nine vacant chairs were located near the reporter. Mary reasoned those were for the jury. Several front rows on the right were reserved for witnesses. A witness stand was located at the front of the room next to a bulky wooden raised desk. A small table was placed next to the witness stand. Two men carried in the car door and placed it on the floor near the table, then one returned with the basket of Bunty’s clothes which was placed on the desk next to the witness stand.

Hushed whispers could be heard when Florence and Alfred entered the court room, arm in arm, just a few minutes before two o’clock. Florence scanned the room looking for Violet and Mary, acknowledging them with a slight nod when their eyes met. Howard Every had arrived earlier and was sitting with his parents in the front row. Florence approached Mrs. Every, their first encounter since the tragedy. They spoke quietly as Howard, wriggled nervously, sitting next to his father. Jackie Marland arrived with his father and sat at the opposite end of the row. Two women, Violet recognized as neighbours, sat in the witnesses area, along with a uniformed police officer and several men in suits. The nine man jury entered with Dr. Crawford and James McFadden. Crawford ordered all witnesses to be removed to the waiting room. All but Alfred Hillier, who was called to the witness stand.

The group exiting the courtroom was explicitly instructed not to discuss the case. After giving Alfred's hand a reassuring squeeze, Florence was escorted to Crawford’s office, where she waited with her friend Vera Harrington.

While Stanley Lott was being located, Alfred Hillier was providing his testimony.

He approached the witness stand, pale and drawn, his shoulders slouched and a distant, lonely look in his eyes. He was offered a drink of water, which he declined. Crawford introduced him to the jury as the father of "Alfreda Hillier, or perhaps Alfreda Campbell — the exact name under which she was registered remains undetermined."

Campbell? Whispered the audience.

Violet dabbed her eyes, struggling not to break down. Mary reached out and took her hand.

In response to McFadden’s examination, Alfred recounted the desperate search for his baby, from his panicked plea for help at the Pape Avenue Station to the discovery just after eight o’clock the following morning. For anyone who had read the Star since the baby was found, Alfred provided very little new evidence except to reveal that Florence was in fact married to a man named James Campbell and Alfred himself was still legally married to another woman.

Alfred was led from the courtroom as Stanley Lott was ushered in.

McFadden had warned Crawford he didn’t like surprises. Stanley Lott was an unwelcome surprise. They hadn’t taken the time to verify his story, but Crawford wanted his testimony presented prior to calling Howard Every and Jackie Marland.

Stanley Lott was grinning as he entered the room and was taken directly to the witness stand. Before a room of strangers, about to share what he knew, Stanley showed no sign of apprehension. When asked, “Were you in school today?” He gleefully announced he had been but, “when the detective came for me, I got to leave early.”

The onlookers chuckled.

He was prompted to tell what he knew and he shared his story with clarity and conviction. He had been at the dump that afternoon and saw the baby lying in weeds with no clothes on. He saw a man who looked like a railwayman walking near the tracks. Stanley said he folded his coat and put it under the baby, but the railwayman put his coat under her too, so Stanley took his back. He thought about putting the baby in his wagon. “I have three wagons at home,” he declared, “but I only had one with me that day.”

Chuckles from the spectators.

McFadden asked if he had seen Howard or Jackie that day.

“I don’t know who they are,” he replied.

The two boys were called in.

Pointing to Jackie, Stanley declared, “I saw him.”

Jackie protested, loudly, “You never did.”

“No, I mean the other one,” clarified Stanley.

When asked what he saw Howard doing, he claimed he saw him putting the clothes in the basket.

“Where was Howard when you saw him?”

“He was down in the dump putting the car door over her.”

“Why didn’t you take the door off her?’

“Oh, I’m weak as a little puppy, I couldna lifted it.” With that he stuck out his arms as proof for McFadden. “See, no muscles.”

More chuckles from the spectators.

Stanley was enjoying the attention.

“The railwayman asked what they were doing and the boy said it was none of his business.”

McFadden asked if he could describe the man.

“Sure, he was about your size,” he said. “Oh, and he had a moustache.” Dr. Crawford asked had he told anyone what he had seen.

“I told my mom. And Nick, the boarder who lives in our house. I told them both.” Then he added, “And an old man I talked to at the funeral. I told him too.”

Skeptical of the boy’s story, McFadden thanked him and arranged for him to be driven home.

Mrs. Lott was anxious. It was six o’clock and Stanley hadn’t arrived home from school. Was there a lunatic in the area? The same lunatic who had snatched little Bunty Hillier? Her older son was about to go looking for him when Stanley came bouncing through the front door.

“I’m not going to ask why you’re late,” his mother snapped at him, “you’ll have some farfetched excuse already created in that overactive brain of yours. Just eat your dinner and go to bed. I don’t want to hear a word from you.”

And with that Stanley thought best not to tell her where I’ve been. She won’t believe me anyway, she never does.

The inquest continued, with the questioning of two neighbours. One testified to seeing the child at two thirty on Boultbee Avenue with Howard and Jackie. She recalled telling the two boys, each holding a hand of the crying baby, “Take her home, she’s cold.” Another neighbour stated she saw Bunty with the boys at two forty, all headed towards the little girls house. When asked if she had anything more to say she shared a story of an event that occurred a year earlier.

“My three-year-old granddaughter came in one day with her coveralls off. She said ‘Jackie told me to take them off.’”

Dr. Crawford asked if there had been any further episodes.

“No,” she replied, “I’m very sorry for Jackie and his father but I felt I had to share that incident.”

Violet and Mary exchanged uneasy glances. “Oh, that’s very odd,” Mary whispered.

It was now time for the two boys to face questions. Taking his son by the hand, Leonard Marland walked him into the courtroom, leaving him with Dr. Crawford before returning to the witness waiting room. The sweet looking little boy wearing a blue sailor suit, immediately seemed to win the favour of the observers. Their muffled oohs and aahs made it clear that his dimpled cheeks and cheerful smile had charmed them instantly.

Violet whispered to Mary, “He’s such a lovely wee lad, isn’t he?”

He was lifted onto the table positioned near the witness stand. Dr. Crawford kept a supportive arm around him and began his questioning.

The boy was distracted, fidgeting with a coin he found in his pocket, tearing at a piece of paper he had carried in with him, and gazing out the window. In answer to the questions, when he could be persuaded to provide answers, he claimed that Howard had pushed Bunty down the hill at the dump, followed her down, undressed her, threw stones at her and placed the car door on top of her.

McFadden pointed to the rusted old car door and asked Jackie if he recognized it.

The little boy smiled and confirmed it was the door used to cover Bunty.

“Let’s see if you can lift that door,” suggested McFadden.

With little effort, Jackie was able to prop the door onto its side. Clearly proud of his strength, he grinned at McFadden, showing off his dimples to the sympathetic onlookers. A short break was taken and the coroner himself brought Jackie back to the witness room. Crawford told the five year old he had done very well, then gave him a bar of chocolate.

Following the break, Howard Every was escorted to the witness stand. His frail frame was swimming in an oversized jacket and his pants were patched at the knees. His skin was shockingly pale, accentuating his sunken eyes and the hollowness of his cheeks. His movements were slow and timid as if he carried the weight of the world on his tiny shoulders.

Dr. Crawford lifted him onto the table.

“Tell us what happened to Bunty,” he urged.

Howard squirmed in the coroners arms and wouldn’t answer. Dr. Crawford repeated his question, still Howard refused to answer. McFadden suggested they bring in Howard’s father to encourage him. Once Mr. Every entered the room, Howard relaxed and was willing to answer questions. His speech impediment made it difficult to understand some of what he said, requiring his father to interpret for him.

“He said he was playing with Bunty on the sandbank when she slipped and fell down the dump, then Jackie took her clothes off.”  

Howard yawned loudly.

As he was being asked about the basket of clothes, Howard was distracted by the traffic he could see through the window. McFadden asked the question again.

Howard responded loudly, “What?”

“Who put the clothes in the basket, Howard?” Crawford asked.

Howard sighed and answered, “Jackie did.”

“So you say Jackie did all that while you watched? Then what? You went home? Did you tell anyone what happened?” McFadden asked.

Howard frowned and gave no response.

Jackie Marland was called back. He was chewing on the last piece of his chocolate bar as his father escorted him to the witness stand. Once finished, he held out his sticky fingers, prompting his father to pull out a handkerchief to clean them. McFadden asked where he had gotten the chocolate treat. With a shy grin, his dimpled cheeks turning pink, he pointed to Dr. Crawford and said, ‘He gimme it.’” 

How cute, someone was heard saying.

McFadden suggested they allow Mr. Marland to remain since Howard’s father had been permitted.

It was explained to Jackie that Howard blamed him, for removing Bunty’s clothes, throwing stones at her and covering her with the car door after she had slipped and fallen into the dump.

“Aw I never,” shouted Jackie.

For each accusation, he was asked did he do it.

“No, it was Howard,” he responded to each question.

Both boys were excused and sat with their fathers in the section reserved for witnesses. They returned to the seats they had occupied earlier in the day, at opposite ends of the front row. As Jackie walked by the car door he stopped and lifted it to show his father how strong he was. He gave McFadden and Crawford one final dimpled grin.

With the witnesses recalled to the courtroom Dr. Crawford announced that no further testimony would be given until Thursday morning. The jury was asked to meet at eight thirty that morning at Jones and Boultbee where they would be taken to the scene of the discovery.

As Florence and Alfred were ushered from the hearing, they paused at the back row of seats, gesturing for Violet and Mary to follow. The group was taken to Crawford’s office and told he would join them shortly. Mary shared all the details that Florence and Alfred had been unable to hear. They were shocked that Stanley Lott had been allowed to testify. It seemed perfectly obvious to them his story was fabricated. They all agreed, it was the fault of the two young boys. The only question, was it an accident or intentional? When Dr. Crawford returned to his office, he was most apologetic for the Lott boy’s testimony and assured them he would look into it wholeheartedly.

“Until Thursday,” he advised, “try and get some rest. I am confident this will wrap up very quickly.”

A group of reporters lingered outside the coroners office as the four were quietly led out a back door where the overwrought parents hurried into a waiting police vehicle. Violet and Mary bid them goodnight promising to return on Thursday. Alfred and Florence were driven home.

Day one of the inquest ended with reporters submitting their stories for inclusion in the next day’s newspaper.

For six days, the Toronto Star had printed incredible stories of escaped lunatics, otherwise normal people with a penchant for insane behaviour and potential madmen lurking in quiet neighbourhoods. But the reports from the inquest pointed to the unsettling behaviour of two very young boys.

“The Lott story will sell,” proclaimed Atkinson.

Hindmarsh agreed they would refocus.

“The lunatic angle has run it’s course. Safe to say, Stanley’s story is just outrageous falsehoods, but the method of interrogation is certainly newsworthy.”

This led to several days condemnation of the inquest itself. While the busybody women’s league continued to demand that officials do something about the abundance of simple-minded children wandering the city, they also shifted their focus to the need for safe spaces for children to play.

Experts agreed, if truth was the desired outcome, Crawford and McFadden were failing miserably. The entire hearing was criticized as utterly ridiculous. When asked should children be examined before a laughing audience in open court, experts warned that a child’s imagination can be very vivid and the more often they tell a story, the more they convince themself they are telling the truth. The stories these boys told was highly doubtful and all agreed this should have been handled by experts.
 

Wednesday November 1

Following the first day of inquiry, the Star was delivered to the Lott house. On the front page appeared the story of Stanley’s testimony.

“Good God,” cried Mrs. Lott, followed by a long drawn out screech, “Stanleeee!”

“Uh oh,” muttered Stanley, as his mother rushed towards him with the folded newspaper.

His brother George glared at him. “What have ya done now ya little nitwit?” he mocked.

“He’s only claimed he saw the Bunty baby at the dump,” their mother shouted. “He testified yesterday. TESTIFIED! Oh dear God, Stanley, what have you done?”  

George grabbed the paper, read the article, and laughed.

“You’re not such a little nitwit after all Stanley, you’re a huuuge nitwit.”  

“Hey Nick, com’ere Nick,” George called out to the boarder.

Nick seldom weighed in on family conflicts, but in response to being summoned, he sauntered into the front room where the squabble had broken out. George was laughing as he tossed the paper to Nick, teasing, “Look-y here Nick, you’re in the paper.”

The newspaper story repeated Stanley’s testimony that he had told his mother and the boarder what he had seen at the dump. Nick did not appreciate being dragged into Stanley’s wild lie. His anger was apparent in his clenched jaw.

“Why would you say that, Stanley? You just made it up,” he howled at the boy with unrestrained fury.

Stanley denied saying anything about Nick, but seeing it right there in print he blamed the reporter for getting it wrong. George was still laughing. Their mother was fuming. Fuming that Stanley testified, fuming that it was done without her knowledge. “There’s not a word of truth to this. You’ve dragged us into this and now I’m going to have to talk to the police,” she shouted furiously at Stanley. George took great delight in poking holes in the ridiculous story.

“You were nowhere near the dump last Wednesday. And your wagon is in the basement, hasn’t been out of the house since summer. And what’s this, ‘I have three wagons’, you have one Stanley, one wagon. So how did you get over to that dump? You went straight from school? How, how did you get there, with your wagon?” 

Stanley claimed he rode his wagon on the railroad tracks.

“Oh come on Stanley.” George was both amused and frustrated by the lies.

He promised his mother, “I’ll get a confession out of this numbskull.”  

Nick, the boarder, took off for the police station.

“Whoever’s in charge of this Hillier investigation needs to speak to me, and Mrs. Lott, the kid’s lying,” he demanded.

Dr. Crawford and Inspector Johnson arrived at the Lott house later that evening apologizing for how they had handled Stanley’s testimony, but explained the urgency in getting his story. Johnson asked if Stanley had said anything to his mother about seeing the baby, the two boys or the railroad man.

“Absolutely not,” replied Mrs. Lott. “And I wouldn’t believe a word of what he told you. He was nowhere near that dump. He saw nothing.”

“If I’d been told, I would have gone directly to the police,” Nick the boarder assured them.

Dr. Crawford looked at Stanley, sitting sheepishly on the sofa beside his brother.

“Have you told us the truth, Stanley?” he asked.

George poked his little brother, urging an honest answer and finally Stanley admitted he made up the story.

“Well, this is awkward,” declared Crawford. “We’ll have to put Stanley back on the stand to retract his story. This is very awkward. You’ll have to testify as well Mrs. Lott.”

Crawford blamed himself. He should never have put the kid on the stand. McFadden will never forgive me.

Before leaving he advised Mrs. Lott and Stanley to appear at ten o’clock sharp the next day — day two of the inquiry.

Thursday November 2 

THE INQUEST CONTINUES DAY 2

Florence stood by the window of her quiet little house gazing through the lace curtains, secluded from the prying eyes of her neighbours. She watched the familiar scene unfold outside as mothers waived their children off to school. So often in the past she had imagined her little Bunty joining the group. Would I have tied her hair with ribbons and dressed her in pretty outfits? Or would she have been a tom-boy, climbing trees and chasing adventures? Was she chasing adventures last week when she fell to her death? Was it a horrible accident or the fault of two cruel little boys? The neighbourhood had moved on as if nothing had happened while Florence’s life lay shattered like a broken mirror.

Just one week since he discovering the body, PC Frank James returned to the scene where he was instructed to provide the jurors with details of his search and answer any questions they may have. The nine jurymen stood at the top of the dump watching a group of boys playing horseshoes. The men were struck by the proximity of the dump to the neighbourhood.

One man muttered quietly to the group, “I’m surprised there haven’t been more incidents here.”

“Not exactly a safe playground for kids,” added another.

“According to the information we have, this is where the fatality began,” Crawford explained. He then instructed James to point to where the body was found.

PC James proceeded down the incline, followed by the jury, and pointed to the spot beneath the clump of bushes where he had made the discovery and further along where the basket of clothes was found. He answered their questions, and when satisfied they had all the information he could provide they were taken to the Hillier house. There they stood on the front porch surveying the quiet neighbourhood, imagining Bunty’s final moments before she wandered off, skeptical of a toddler’s ability to find her way to the dump alone.

The group returned to the courtroom where witnesses were beginning to arrive. Spectators started to gather early, each hoping to claim one of the limited seats available to the public. Violet and Mary had been ushered in and were settled in the back row again for day two of the inquest.

The jury was seated. Mrs. Lott and Stanley remained when the courtroom was cleared of witnesses and Mrs. Lott was directed to the witness stand. She couldn’t believe that she had been dragged into this horrible event. Why had Stanley put her in this situation?

Dr. Crawford introduced her to the jury and asked her a few questions about Stanley’s activities on the day Bunty disappeared.

“He was at school all day and got home about 4:15.”

“What time does school let out?”

“3:30.”

“How can you be sure what time he got home?”

“I’m not blind. I looked at the clock.”

Laughter

“Why did you look at the clock?”

“Why do you think? I wanted to know what time it was. I looked at the clock.”

Laughter

“Stanley testified he told you and your boarder that he had been to the dump and saw the baby.”

“He did nothing of the sort. It’s rubbish. It’s all nonsense. Stanley came home after school, he could not have been to the dump.”

Stanley was called up. Gone was the unflappable young boy who had shared his story just two days earlier. He now shuffled uncomfortably as Dr. Crawford approached the witness stand.

“Stanley, I want to ask you, were you telling the truth when you said you were at the dump?”

And with that, his voice cracking, his eyes downcast, he admitted, the vivid story he had provided with such confidence was a fabrication of his imagination.

He and his mother were excused. She could not disguise the fury and shame she was feeling as she yanked Stanley by the hand and dragged him to the exit door. Each step echoed through the room, as all eyes followed her. I’ve never felt so humiliated in my entire life she thought. Stanley kept his head down, his chin practically touching his chest. As they passed Violet and Mary at the back of the courtroom, he sniffed loudly and Violet actually felt a tug at her heart, poor little lad. Finally escaping the humiliating ordeal, Mrs. Lott pushed open the door. The hinges squeaked loudly, and as the door slammed shut behind them she breathed a sigh of relief and yanked Stanley’s hand a little more forcefully.

Both of Howards parents and Jackie’s father were called to the stand. None of them provided new details, nor did they believe their boy was involved.

Inspector Johnson answered questions regarding the search. He provided the details of his investigation. His questioning of Florence and Vera, the neighbours, school-aged children, the paperboy and the butcher.

James Campbell was then called up.

There were whispers from the courtroom spectators, Florence’s real husband, nice looking young man, clean shaven.

They had separated in March of 1930 and neither had ever had any interest in making another go of it. He was content, just living his own life. He was asked if he could provide an alibi for where he was when the baby went missing. He was with friends at the Ukrainian hall, they would be happy to vouch for him.

Emma Hillier was called.

There were whispers from the courtroom spectators, Alfred’s real wife, tiny woman, very pretty, flaxen-coloured waved hair, nice wool coat with a fur collar, crying softly.

She admitted to being the lawful wife of Alfred Hillier but they had been living apart for nine years; she had been to the house to pay her respects to the child and saw Alfred for the first time in many years.

“No, I absolutely never wanted to get back with him.”

John Reid of the Pape station provided details of his visit to the Hillier home following the six o’clock call on the day the baby disappeared. It was six o’clock, he was certain of that. “The mother believed the child would come home, soon.” 

Finally Florence appeared.

Wearing a black coat with fur collar, a black felt hat with a green feather, a swipe of lipstick and a bit of rouge to cover her pale, drawn face.  

She spoke without hesitation.

“Your real name is Florence Campbell?”

“Yes.”

“What name do you go by?”

“I’m known as Florence Hillier.”

She repeated almost exactly the information she had provided on the day of the disappearance. When questioned about her timeline, especially hearing Bunty laughing at 3:30, she insisted she was reporting accurately.

McFadden delved a little deeper asking for confirmation about stories he had heard.

“Mrs. Hillier, What time did you go to bed the night before Bunty went missing?” 

She though for a moment. What will people think?

“I didn’t go to bed.”

“Were you up playing cards all night with Mrs. Harrington?”

“No, we were doing a jigsaw puzzle.”

“Were you drinking? Were you drinking alcohol?”

“Absolutely not. We just lost track of time doing a jigsaw.”

“Were you in the habit of leaving your eighteen month old child alone? Had you and your husband, had you and Mr. Hillier, ever left her home alone?”

“NEVER,” shouted Florence, “We almost never go out, and if we do, my mother or sister comes over to sit with Bunty.”

“Has the real Mrs. Hillier ever caused any trouble for you?”

Florence hesitated but shared a story, causing whispers among the public on-lookers. “The real Mrs. Hillier had been around telling neighbours I was living with her husband. That was last March. She banged on my door and said she knew I was married. Then she said Alf isn’t the baby’s father. She coughed on Bunty. She said her grandfather just died of consumption, and she was afraid she had it too. I told her to leave. I never saw her again after that until after Bunty was found.”

However, she assured the jurors, she had no reason to believe Emma Hillier had any involvement in Bunty’s disappearance. McFadden thanked her for her testimony and she left the courtroom in tears.

The final testimony of the day came from Dr. Rogers, a pathologist who was involved in the autopsy. He confirmed that no trace of poisonous material had been detected. The cause of death was determined to be exposure.

It was believed that this would be the final day of testimony. But James McFadden announced a final witness would appear the following Monday at noon hour. He provided no details but confirmed she had been interviewed by police and had important and reliable information to share. McFadden had driven home a message directed at the coroner. Crawford felt the sting of the jab. The two men never again discussed the Stanley Lott fiasco. 

 

THE LONGEST WEEKEND

The days of waiting were gut-wrenching for Florence and Alfred. The tiny house at 6 Boothroyd no longer felt like home. What little conversation transpired between the two was now stilted. They both realized life would forever be divided by the joy filled precious days with Bunty prior to October 25 and the painful, lonely days that came after. Florence suggested they look for somewhere else to live and Alfred agreed. They couldn’t remain in the house that had been their happy little family home or in the neighbourhood they had loved.

The Every family was also suffering through the anxious wait. Feeling like prisoners in their home, the curtains were kept drawn and they sat in darkness, awaiting the verdict and the punishment that might follow. They were clearly unwelcome in the neighbourhood, receiving anonymous notes pushed through their mail slot threatening revenge. A petition had been circulated, signatures collected to demand the family move away. The family of paperboy Charlie Watts had refused to sign, but even they now felt certain the boys were responsible. Elizabeth had originally doubted their involvement, but closely following the reporting of the inquest, her opinion had changed. Even so, she also felt the heartache Mrs. Every must be experiencing. How horrifying for that little boy to be put on display, and his mother unable to prevent it. On Saturday morning she knocked on the door of her neighbour’s little house. Mrs. Every opened it just a crack, peering out nervously she felt a wave of relief to see Mrs. Watts standing there. She welcomed her in and quickly closed the door behind her.

Elizabeth immediately noticed how painfully pale and physically worn poor Mrs. Every appeared — her hair disheveled, her clothes wrinkled, and her eyes bloodshot. She had given great thought to the comforting words she would share, but quickly realized there really were no words to relieve the shock the family was experiencing. She did the one thing that seemed right in that moment, she reached out and hugged her. The desperate woman trembled in her arms until her daughters rushed to her side and thanked their neighbour for coming. They shared with Elizabeth the sorrow they all felt for the Hilliers, but also the fear of what was to become of Howard. Elizabeth encouraged them to have hope. But as she walked home, she felt hopeless herself.

Monday November 6

THE INQUEST DAY 3 

REVELATIONS AND RESOLUTIONS

In the days leading to the appearance of the mystery witness, anticipation had steadily grown. By midday on Monday, Alfred and Florence were back in the courtroom, sitting again in the second row, behind Howard Every and his father. The strain of the inquest was evident, and they each felt an obvious distance growing between them. While they may recover from the exhaustion, Florence doubted their broken hearts could be mended.

Crawford and McFadden entered the courtroom. The jurymen were seated. As the courtroom door opened, everyone turned to see the mystery witness, a middle-aged woman, being ushered in. She walked with purpose directly to the witness stand where she turned toward the spectators and caught a glimpse of Howard. She summoned her courage, determined to share her family’s unsettling encounter.

She was introduced as Mrs. Smith, a resident of Scarborough. McFadden asked her to describe the incident that had occurred.

“T’was August last year, I were holidaying with my daughter and granddaughter at Port Perry. We met the Every family there, including their son Howard. Their family’s got a house there so I been told. We, the three of us, me, my daughter and granddaughter, was at the beach…”

“How old was the baby at that time?” asked McFadden.

“She was almost twelve months,” the witness responded.

“The baby was on the beach ’n for a time, my attentions was distracted whilst my daughter was in swimmin’. Then, sudden like, my daughter rushes outta the water with the baby. She were stripped of her clothes, ‘n my daughter shouts ‘Look, ma, look what that Every boy done.’”

McFadden asked had they seen Howard with the baby and she admitted they had not, but there was no one else who would have done it.

“And when the boy sees we has the baby, he runs away. Then we don’t see him for a few days.”

Had they said anything to him, or his parents? They had not.

“After that my daughter keeps the baby fastened in the carriage down at the beach. A few days later, the next time we sees Howard on the beach, the carriage gets wheeled into the water with the baby in it. We never seen the Every boy do it, but it was him, and we sees him run away again.”

“Do you see the boy in the courtroom today?” McFadden asked.

Mrs. Smith pointed to Howard Every and announced, “That’s the boy all right, him sittin’ in the front row.”

A hushed murmur rippled through the room as Florence clutched her chest and bowed her head.

“Howard, do you know this lady? Have you ever seen her before?” Dr. Crawford inquired.

Howard shook his head while his father sat in shocked bewilderment.

Mrs. Smith was excused.

Dr. Crawford announced that no further testimony would be presented. He spoke directly to the jurors.

“Set aside any opinions you may have formed prior to the hearing and come to a decision based wholly on the evidence,” which he reviewed in great detail. He explained what he believed to be minor discrepancies in the time line as recalled by witnesses and Mrs. Campbell, now known as Florence Hillier. He dismissed Stanley Lott's testimony as nothing more than the product of an overactive imagination. He advised that the parent’s living arrangement was not on trial, reminding the jurors, “We are investigating the little girl’s death. Men and women living together under common law is not an unusual thing in Toronto.”

After a very brief deliberation, the jury returned with their verdict. Alfred and Florence took seats in the front row, with Violet, who now had Sam with her, and Mary sitting next to them. Howard and his parents sat in the row behind. Jackie and his father behind them.

Dr. Crawford read the verdict aloud.

“The death of the child, Alfreda Dolores Mae Hillier occurred on Oct. 25, 1933, from exposure in the area commonly known as the dump at the rear of the south of Boultbee Avenue, in the city of Toronto. That the clothing was removed from the child, put in a basket and the nude body placed under a nearby bush, while a discarded automobile door was placed upon the body thereby causing her death by exposure. That the exposure and death were caused by a child or children of irresponsible years. From the evidence adduced we recommend that Howard Every, one of the children associated in the case, be place under supervision of competent authorities.”

A collective gasp rose from the bystanders. Mrs. Every collapsed. Leonard Marland exhaled as if he’d been holding his breath throughout the entire inquest. Howard and Jackie were clueless about what was happening. Mr. Every wondered if Howard could stay at home, assuming he and is wife were considered competent authorities. He declared he would clear Howard’s name and questioned why Howard alone was being blamed, insisting, “That other child was just as bad.”

Alfred and Florence felt nothing from the verdict. Florence declared her sorrow that Howard would be taken away from his family, and Alfred stated, “No one must bear malice toward the children.”

Within hours, plans were underway to have Howard made a permanent ward of the Children’s Aid Society, a necessary first step before having him institutionalized. He was immediately removed from his family home and placed in a children’s shelter on Charles Street to await transfer to the government hospital in Orillia. His fourteen year old sister was sent with him to help him settle in.

At dinner that night the Watts family discussed the bleak future that lay ahead for young Howard and wondered why Jackie Marland would still be free. Joseph doubted Howard would actually end up in a mental institution.

“They say there’s no room. It’s frightening to think, but they have a waiting list of twenty kids just like Howard and nowhere to put them. I bet they send him home.” 

“Oh sure, that would be better,” objected Charlie. “Send him home and maybe he’ll do it again.”

“He wouldn’t be back here,” Herbert was certain. “He’d be in a shelter home.” 

“But still going to school, still playing with other children. Just another tragedy waiting to happen,” sighed Edna.

Elizabeth encouraged them to have compassion for the boy and his family. “We can’t imagine how they must be feeling,” she said.

Howard seemed happy that first night at the shelter. He and his sister spent the next day happily playing in the yard.

 

THE IMMEDIATE AFTERMATH

On Boultbee Avenue, Howard’s seventeen year old brother, Alex, watched as a Star reporter prowled around their property.

“Lookin’ for someone?” he shouted to him through an upstairs window.

The reporter asked to speak to his parents.

“Left at nine o’clock this morning to visit my little brother. Now get lost. Leave us alone.”

By noon, Howard’s parents had still not arrived at the shelter. They had taken the Queen Street Car, planning to transfer at Bay Street to the Bay Car, which would take them up to the Charles Street shelter. However, they were sidetracked by the Lincoln Tavern at Queen and Broadview, where they stopped to calm their nerves and drown their sorrows. They didn’t leave until they overheard other patrons discussing their son. They arrived at the shelter sometime after two.

Experts visited the Every home frequently over the next week, interviewing family members and preparing an official report. Not only did they determine Howard’s parents were not ‘competent authorities’, but the experts also suggested that their older son, Alex, posed a public risk. On November 15, the Toronto Children’s Aid Society applied for permanent guardianship of seven year old Howard. If the application was successful, Howard would be certified for admission to the government mental institution in Orillia. The decision was made quickly, and by the next day he was a permanent ward of the Children’s Aid. Howard would be locked up. Just two weeks later, he and his brother Alex boarded a train from Union Station for Orillia. Their parents made no attempt to challenge the decision. Somehow, the hospital had made room for the two boys, accepting seventeen year old Alex purportedly to provide companionship for his seven year old brother. The Every family received an eviction notice the following day.

By the end of November, Alfred was again unemployed after losing his part time delivery job. No one remembered the promise made by Mayor Stewart to ‘find a job for the distraught father.’ It had been an empty pledge made the day Bunty was found, and nothing came of it. He and Florence moved to Marigold Avenue, hopeful that a change of scenery would help them heal.

Their relationship ended before the first anniversary of Bunty’s death. 

SHADOWS OF THE PAST 

A Lasting Impact

In September 1934, less than a year after losing Bunty, Alfred was arrested for stealing two automobile jacks, a hammer, and a small quantity of gasoline. He pleaded guilty, receiving a sentence of three to six months in prison.

Throughout the 1940s, he lived in a rooming house on Jarvis Street, where he saved several children from a fire in 1941. By 1949, at the age of fifty, Alfred’s life included a new wife, nearly thirty years his junior and only five years older than Bunty would have been. He secured a permanent position at Atlas Engineering where he worked until his death in 1970. After the heartbreaking loss of his young wife in 1965, he moved into a room at the Eton Hotel near Danforth and Jones, just half a mile from the long-forgotten city dump behind Boultbee Avenue.

Florence lived with her half-sister Mary and brother-in-law until remarrying in 1939. That marriage was short-lived, as records indicate her new husband remarried in 1944. Little is known about Florence after her second marriage, except for a mention in the 1977 death notice of a sister living in Rhode Island, where Florence is listed as a surviving sibling. Neither she nor Alfred is buried with Bunty in her unmarked grave.

Howard returned to his parents’ home, causing them constant anxiety. In January 1945, he was charged with wearing a military uniform unlawfully and with possessing a beer permit while under 21. His mother had nearly lost all hope for her young son. “You can do what you like with him. He will not work and will take anything he can get his hands on,” she lamented.

Howard admitted to the crime and was fined thirty-five dollars or thirty days in jail. It is unclear whether he chose to pay the fine or serve the time.

Alex went overseas during World War II and was captured in August 1942 following the Canadian raid on Dieppe. He was liberated by the Russians in April 1945.

In a 1981 interview with Frank Jones for the Toronto Star, Alex Every shared his memories — the city's only reminder of the tragic event in nearly fifty years:

“Bitter, oh yes, we were bitter about it all right. We’ve always felt it was a terrible thing in our family. I was supposed to be in there to be with Howard, but after a couple of months they separated us anyway. I guess we were in there about a year or two before they let us out. Howard was a bit retarded, I suppose you’d say. But he done all right. He went out west and he raised a family. Me, I went into the army and fought all through the war. It was a terrible thing they done to us. We was inside — I knew that because they locked every door behind us. And I done nothing.”

When Alex died in 1982, Howard was still living out west, and it remains unknown when he passed away.

Leonard and Jackie Marland remained on Boultbee following the tragedy. In August 1935, the father pleaded guilty to stealing two stoves from his employer, the Coleman Lamp Co. He had used the stoves to pay for work done on his car. In court he admitted, “They were junk stoves — I know now I shouldn’t have taken them. I’ve lost my job too, I guess.” The judge replied, “I guess you have. We will give you a chance this time. Don’t be so foolish again.”

Jackie was nearly seven when they left Canada two months later and returned to Leonard’s family in England. He remarried in July 1936 and died in 1951. Jackie married in 1956. In January 1958, with his wife expecting their first child, Jackie was charged with stealing six pounds from a man’s wallet. He pleaded guilty, explaining that he “saw the man’s jacket fall to the floor, the wallet fell out, and he was tempted because he had some debts he was worried about.” He repaid the money, and in view of his good record and character, he was conditionally discharged for twelve months. His son, born later that year and named Leonard after his grandfather, inherited the same tendency for theft. In 1993, while working as a police station support worker, he was charged with eleven counts of taking property and cash held by the Warwickshire Constabulary. He pleaded guilty, received probation for twelve months and an order to attend regular psychiatric therapy. During the investigation Marland discovered threatening letters in his work locker. Handwriting experts determined he had written the letters himself. He admitted he had done so because he hated himself. He was ordered to pay compensation and costs and his employment was terminated.

Jackie died in 1995 in Warwickshire, England.

At the time of his death in 1937, Dr. Malcolm Crawford was the supervising coroner for the province of Ontario. During his final years he worked tirelessly for the extension of city playgrounds to reduce children’s injuries as a result of playing in the streets (and city dumps). Dr. Crawford faced criticism during the inquiry that continued over the next year. He defended his method of questioning the boys involved by arguing, “Psychiatrists who made statements during the inquest ‘knew little or nothing of what they were talking about’. But many of the experts to whom he was referring responded in defence of their profession. “Not only are we supposed to be qualified to make statements in reference to psychiatry, but I think we know something about children.” Dr. Hincks, who himself had shared opinions during the inquest, agreed to some extent with Crawford that conclusions reached without obtaining all the significant facts were simply general opinions. Where he disagreed was Dr. Crawford’s claim that he could learn more by interviewing children on his knee than psychiatrists who would grill the child in strange surroundings. Hincks opinion combined science and horse-sense. “Science is not sufficient, neither is common sense alone. A systematic study of children is the most revealing.”

In the end, the tragedy left a lasting mark on those it touched, shaping their lives with its remnants of loss and lasting consequences, a weight that never fully faded, while the story that captured the hearts of a city was forgotten to time.

Bunty Hillier rests eternally.