The Surry Hills Children’s Court Shooting, 1932

Five shots shattered the stillness of Albion Street, Surry Hills, on June 8, 1932. Catherine O’Byrne’s hand trembled as Archibald Cecil Gibbs, a towering figure in a worn suit, lunged at her, his fingers twisting her wrist. Her 22-month-old daughter screamed in her arms, a piercing wail drowned by the gunfire.

By Elliot Lindsay

As Gibbs staggered, blood blooming over his heart, his hand clutching the revolver’s smoking barrel. He crumpled against the iron railings, eyes wide with shock, a final breath escaping as the crowd surged forward, aghast. Catherine stood frozen, the weapon slipping from her grasp, her baby’s cries the only sound she heard amid the chaos.

The story of the Surry Hills shooting began years earlier, in 1923, when Catherine met Gibbs in Queanbeyan. A Major in the 7th Light Horse Brigade, he carried a soldier’s swagger and a predator’s charm. She took his name, though never his ring, and bore his child — a daughter who’d become his curse. By 1930, his gallantry unravelled: he stole £60 she’d entrusted to him during a hospital stay, part of the £460 he’d plundered from her over time. Convicted, he served 12 months in Tuncurry prison, released just days before their fatal clash. Catherine, left destitute on the dole, summoned him to the Children’s Court at the corner of Albion and Commonwealth Street for maintenance, a desperate bid to secure her child’s future.

That June day, the court deferred the case to September. Outside, Gibbs erupted. “I don’t want her — I’ll kill her!” he roared, tearing the child’s photos to shreds. He grabbed for the baby, vowing, “I’ll never pay a penny!” Catherine, haunted by his friend’s warning — he’d bragged of pushing her off the Gap or under a train—drew an unlicensed revolver. “I came prepared,” she whispered, her voice steel. Gibbs charged, snarling, “I’ll blow your brains out — and the kid’s!” The struggle ignited, and the shots rang out, felling him instantly. His body lay in a pool of blood in front of 44 Albion Street.

Police swarmed — Sergeant Thomas detained her, Detectives Quinn and Hayes sifted through the crowd’s conflicting tales. At the C.I.B., Catherine insisted, “I only meant to scare him — to save my baby.” Charged with murder, she endured 16 days of torment, bail denied, until June 24. In court, her daughter watched from a relative’s lap, eyes locked on her mother. Sergeant Hayes recounted her story; Ernest Hudspeth swore Gibbs was the aggressor, the shots accidental. City Coroner Mr. May ruled: “This woman feared for her child. It’s a travesty to try her — no jury would convict.” He freed her, sparing her name, and later bound her over for £30 on a pistol charge, two years’ good behaviour.

The public devoured the saga, newspapers painting Gibbs as a fallen Lothario — brave in war, ruthless in love — while Catherine emerged a tragic heroine. Crowds had gawked at the scene, buzzing with shock; now, they split between pity for her plight and outrage at Gibbs’ villainy. The government, through the coroner’s leniency, signalled mercy over punishment, a rare nod to a mother’s desperation. Police earned praise for their gentle handling, but the case stirred debate: should a woman arm herself against such a man? In Sydney’s streets, whispers lingered — Gibbs, the soldier of love, met his end by the bullet, leaving Catherine to reclaim her child and a fragile peace.