It was clear that Norma, like her aunts, had the energy and passion to help her community.
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So, I’d begun to develop a more distinct impression of Norma. But in the early stages of my research, I still didn’t know what she looked like. The only thing I knew about her appearance was taken from the pathologist’s report. She was of “slight” stature at five foot, three inches (about 160 centimetres), and slightly less than eight stone (about 50 kilograms). Only a grainy image of ‘the victim’ appeared in a couple of newspaper articles, and these looked like they’d been sketched from a photograph. I was desperate to ‘see’ Norma. There’s something powerful about looking into the eyes of someone who’s long since departed this world. Eyes are, as they say, ‘the windows to the soul’. I was desperate for the opportunity to see what Norma’s eyes might reveal.
One of my first archival interactions – with Caulfield Grammar – would indirectly lead me to what I’d longed for (not just one, but several photos of Norma and her family). I knew from the newspapers that Norma had taught at Caulfield Grammar, so the school archives seemed a good place to start. What I learnt through a brief ‘In memoriam’ piece held at the school, was that Norma’s tenure here had only been short, yet she was very well regarded. She’d held the position of Kindergarten Teacher for just two terms and had “natural gifts and enthusiasm … [and] the prospect of a very successful teaching career”.
Sadly, the archives had no photos of Norma. However, significantly, in terms of new avenues of investigation, I learnt that Norma’s brother, Rhys, had been a student at Caulfield Grammar and that after his death in 2000, family members had approached the school archives and donated some photos of his Caulfield Grammar days.
I’d tried before to trace family members and had very little joy. I’d discovered through a newspaper ‘Family Notice’ that Rhys had had a daughter, but her name was never printed and no avenue I explored had enlightened me. Now, thanks to the Caulfield Grammar archivist, I had a name and the Australian state in which she lived, but for obvious reasons of privacy, the archivist couldn’t give me an address.
It was a long shot, but using the fabulous power of Google, I found a potential match and an address for Norma's niece. I was so excited … and also a little scared – What would I say? What was I planning to do with the information I’d gathered? What was I expecting from Norma’s family? Was I just a voyeur, as scandal-hungry as the 1929 journalists? What were my motives? Until now, this had just been a fun hobby; a real-life game of Cluedo. Meeting Norma’s family would create a whole new dynamic. Was I ready for that? And what if I dredged up painful family secrets? And what if Norma’s niece didn’t want to talk? What would be worse – her not wanting to talk to me or her wanting to talk to me?
All these questions whirled around and around my head. But I’d come this far and I had to follow the lead. I needed to commit. So I sent her a letter. Little did I realise at this point that my commitment and determination would be strengthened, not just by the prospect of new research, but in response to tragedy …
Now forgive me here as I stray into the very personal, but this is integral to my connection to Norma’s story. Exactly a month after writing to Norma’s niece, my husband, John, was diagnosed with a brain tumour – it was terminal. It may seem weird, but chatting together about Norma helped us counterbalance all the awful but necessary talk of medication and ‘end of life’ stuff. And for John, it provided an opportunity to challenge me with some outlandish ‘solutions’ to the mystery. We laughed and cried and somehow Norma was always there. Ultimately, one of John’s many wishes for me was that I finish telling Norma’s story. He died in October 2015 and I took that wish and ran with it.
So here I was, with the overwhelming emptiness of grief … and a new lead to follow. I decided to fill one by following the other. It was as if John’s death had given me a new appreciation of the importance of ensuring the lives of the dead aren’t forgotten. And the timing of research and diagnosis meant that grief and Norma were now intertwined. In remembering Norma, I remember John, and vice versa.
Norma became my lifeline and I, her obsessive advocate.
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Having responded to my letter, in November 2015, Norma’s niece welcomed me into her home. A tall, slender woman with short grey hair, she was friendly, if a little reticent.
I think it was at this point that the reality of Norma’s death really hit me; made more powerful by my own recent loss. She was no longer just a name on faded paper. I was sitting opposite someone with a direct DNA connection.
While knowing little of her aunt’s death, and wishing to remain anonymous, she generously shared family photographs and stories. I finally had a picture of Norma and it created a powerful sensation. Prize winning photojournalist Renee Byer once said “a still photograph stops time. It gives the viewer a moment to think, to react, to feel”. So true. The impact of these images was incredible. The McLeod family were no longer one dimensional … everything about these photos told me something about them … their dress, their facial expressions … their personal interactions. And I could now see an uncanny resemblance between Rhys’ daughter – the woman who sat in front of me – and her grandmother, Edith McLeod.
Rhys’ daughter has continued to be part of the story, sharing her insights at various points in the journey. Most importantly, she gave me an entrée into Norma’s family, providing the contact details of a number of relatives I would later meet.
Someone once wrote that the only line of approach to a mystery was through “an intensive examination of the antecedents, background, temperament and development of those concerned in it”. The stories and pictures provided by members of Norma’s extended family would help me develop a fuller picture of her life and death. This would flesh out the little that I’d already learnt and lead me to new pathways of investigation.
The blurred image of Norma and the circumstances surrounding her tragic death were slowly coming into focus. Finally, Norma was becoming flesh and blood.
But before we look into what the family tales told me, I want to take us back to the case itself.
I’d already found the inquest files. I later discovered that the Victorian Public Records Office also housed police correspondence and reports in their enormous archives. Would Norma’s case be among them? And if so, what would they reveal?
Norma, taken around mid-1920s
Chapter Three
A tragic accident?
When I started looking through the Public Records Office database, I discovered there were 44 archived boxes of police correspondence for 1929 alone. My heart sank a little at the thought of possibly rummaging through 43 boxes before I got to what I was looking for. Even worse, what if I looked through them all and found nothing.
Oh well, it had to be done.
Days of trawling through mountains of ageing paper followed. My hands were dry from handling the dusty paper and my interest started to fade. Did the police files on Norma’s case really exist? Was I just wasting my time? Maybe, but I couldn’t stop … I kept thinking, just one more box and then I’d stop. One more box … and then … one more … THE box.
It was July 2015, just a few days before I’d found out about Norma having a living niece (and before I had an inkling that my life was about to change so catastrophically). I’d been through about a dozen boxes and there, in the middle of my