Amongst these melancholy relations of misery and death, I fancy it is
some ease to my readers, as well as to myself, when the course of my
memoirs leads me to mention a story as full of incidents, and followed
by a less tragic end than the rest. This woman, whose life I am about to
relate, was the daughter of an under-officer to one of the colleges at
Oxford. As the doctrine of making up small salaries by taking up large
perquisites prevails there as well as elsewhere, Alice's father made a
shift to keep himself, his wife and five children in a handsome manner
out of £60 a year, and what he made besides of his place.
An affectation of gentility had infected the whole family, the old man
had a good voice and played tolerably well on the fiddle. This drew
abundance of the young smart fellows of the university to his house, and
that of course engaged his three daughters to take all the pains they
were able to make themselves agreeable. The mother had great hopes that
fine clothes and a jaunty air might marry her daughters to some
gentlemen of tolerable fortunes, and that one of them, at least, might
have a chance of catching a fellow commoner with a thousand or two _per
annum_, for which reason Miss Molly, Miss Jenny, and Miss Alice were all
bred to the dancing school, taught to sing prettily, and to touch the
spinet with an agreeable air. In short, the house was a mansion of
politeness, and except the two brothers, one of which was put out
apprentice to a carpenter, and the other to a shoemaker, there was not a
person to be seen in it who looked, spoke or acted as became them in
their proper station of life. But it is necessary that we should come to
a more particular description.
Old Peter, their father, was a man of mean birth, and of a sort of
accidental education. From his youth up he had lived in Oxford, and from
the time he was able to know anything, within the purlieus of a college,
from whence he had gleaned up a few Latin sentences, scraps of poetry,
and as the masterpiece of his improvements, had acquired a good knack of
punning. All these mighty qualifications were bent to keep a good house,
and drinking two or three quarts of strong ale, accompanied with a song,
and two or three hours' scraping at night. The mother, again, was the
last remnant of a decayed family, who charged its ruin on the Civil
Wars. She was exceedingly puffed up with the notions of her birth, and
the respect that was due to a person not sprung from the vulgar. Her
education had extended no farther than the knowledge of preserving,
pickling and making fricasees, a pretty exact knowledge in the several
kinds of points and a judgment not to be despised in the choice of lace,
silks and ribbons. She affected extravagance that she might not appear
mean, and troublesomely ceremonious that she might not seem to want good
manners. Clothes for herself and her daughters, a good quantity of china
and some other exuberances of a fancy almost turned mad with the love of
finery, made up the circle of what took up her thoughts, the daughters
participating in their parents' tempers. But what was wonderful indeed,
the sons were honest, sober, industrious young men.
In the midst of all this mirth and splendour, the father died, and left
them all totally without support other than their own industry could
procure for them, slender provision indeed! Miss Molly, the eldest, was
about twenty-two at the time of her father's death, and her sisters were
each of them younger than her, and Alice a year younger than Jenny, and
about eighteen. The mother was at her wits' end to know how to procure a
living for herself and them, but an old gentleman in one of the
colleges, to whom Peter had been very useful, and who therefore retained
a grateful sense of his service, was so kind as to give fifty pounds
towards putting out the daughters, and took care to see the youngest
Alice placed with a mantua-maker in London. Molly fell into a
consumption, as was generally said, for the love of a young gentleman
who used to spend his evenings at her father's, and who marrying a young
lady of suitable birth and fortune to himself, was retired into
Shropshire. Jenny ran away with a servitor, and was lost to her mother
and her friends; so that Alice had it in her power to be tolerably
provided for, if she had inclined to have lived virtuously, and not to
have frustrated the offers of a good fortune. But she was wild and silly
from her cradle, born without capacity to do good to herself, and
indued only with such cunning as served her to ruin others.
The first intrigue she had after her coming up to London was with a
young fellow who was clerk to a Justice of the Peace in the
neighbourhood. Before be saw Alice he had been a careful, industrious
young man, and through his master's kindness had picked up some money;
but from the time that his master had a suit of clothes made up with
Alice's mistress, and which occasioned her first coming about the house,
poor Mr. Philip became the victim of her charms, and moped up and down
like a hen that had lost her chickens. It was not long before the
Justice's daughters found out his passion, and having communicated their
discovery to the maids, exposed him to be the laughing stock of the
whole house. Never was a poor young fellow so pestered! One asked him
whether he liked the wife with three trades? Another was enquiring
whether he had cast up the amount of remnants of silk, shreds of lace,
and the savings that might be made out of linings, facings, and robings?
The Justice took notice that Philip had left off reading the news, and
the old lady wondered whether he had forgotten playing upon the organ in
her husband's study. But all this served rather to increase than to
abate his passion, so that he neglected no opportunity of meeting and
paying his addresses to his mistress.
Alice was no less careful on her side, and in a short space it was
agreed that she should run away from her mistress, of whom she was grown
heartily weary, and that Philip should counterfeit most excessive grief
at his loss, in order to prevent the least suspicion of his being privy
thereto. Having adjusted this, it was not long before they put their
design into execution, and Philip first having provided a lodging for
her in Brewer Street, she, on a Sunday in the evening, when all the rest
of the family were out, removed from her mistress's house in a court
near the Strand, taking all that belonged to her in a hackney-coach,
leaving the key at an alehouse. Philip had so good a character that the
grief he affected on this occasion passed for reality upon all the
house, and the flight of Alice had no other effect than to excite a new
spring of railery on the loss of his mistress. He laid out the greatest
part of what he had saved during five years' service in furnishing out
two rooms for her very neatly, passing himself, where she lodged, for
the son of a gentleman of fortune in the country, who had married
against his friends' consent, and was therefore obliged to keep his wife
in a place of privacy until things at home could be made easy.
For some time the lovers lived mighty happily together, and nothing was
wanting to complete Philip's wishes than that they were married, for
Alice never making such a proposal, now and then disturbed his thoughts,
and put him a little out of humour. Things remained in this state with a
little alteration for about five months, until an Irish captain coming
to lodge pretty near where Philip had placed Alice, he found a way to
see her twice or thrice, and being a fellow of a smooth tongue, a
handsome person and an immoderate assurance, it was not long before he
became master of her affections. The temper of Philip having been always
too grave for her, in about three weeks' time she let the captain into
the truth of the whole story, and at his persuasion, during the time
Philip was at Surrey assizes, sold off the furniture of her lodgings,
and directing a letter to be left for him at his master's house by the
Penny Post, moved off with her new gallant.
It would be impossible, should I attempt to describe it, to describe the
agony the poor young fellow was in at the receipt of Alice's epistle, in
which she told him flatly she was weary of him and had got another
gallant; and saying that if he tried to look after her or give her any
other uneasiness, she would send a full account of all things to his
master. The jilt was sensible this would keep him quiet, for as he
depended solely upon his favour, so a story of this sort would have
inevitably deprived him of it for ever. It answered her intent, and the
force he put upon his passions cost him a severe fit of sickness.
Alice, in the meanwhile, indulged for about a week with her Irish
captain, at the end of which he beat her and turned her out of doors. It
was in vain for her to talk of her goods and her clothes; the captain
had carried her amongst a set of his acquaintance, who on the first
quarrel called her a thousand foolish English whores, and bid her go
back to her Justice's clerk again. In the midst of her affliction, with
nothing on but a linen gown, and about three shillings in her pocket,
the watchman coming his rounds, found her sitting on the steps at the
door where the captain lodged. He asked her what she did there, she said
her husband and she had quarrelled and he had shut her out. The watchman
was going away, satisfied with the answer, when the captain called out
at the window, told him she was a street-walker, and bid him take her
away. The landlady confirmed this, and the fellow laying fast hold of
her shoulder, compelled her to go with him to the watch-house. However,
a shilling procured her liberty and a favourable report to the constable
that she was an honest young woman, who had the misfortune to be married
to a bad husband, who turned her into the street, and she was afraid
would not suffer her to come in again that night. Upon hearing this, the
constable bid her sit down by the fire, gave her a glass of brandy and
promised her she should be as safe and as easy as the place would allow
her for that night.
But unluckily for Alice, as she went to take the glass out of the
constable's hand, he knew her face, and happening to be the baker who
served the mantua-maker with bread, where she lived, the next morning he
conducted Mrs. Alice, much against her will, home to her mistress. One
of her fellow-apprentices ran with the news to the Justice's, and one of
the daughters whispered it in Philip's ears, as he was writing a
recognizance in the Justice's book. Philip no sooner heard it but he
fell down in a swoon, and about half an hour was spent before they could
bring him again to himself. The young lady who had played him the trick,
immediately quitted the room, and he opening his eyes, and perceiving
her gone, pretended it was a sudden fit, and that he had been used to
them when a child.
Much as he had suffered by this ungrateful woman, he took the first
opportunity to go to a coffee-house within a door or two of her
mistress, in order to learn what had become of her. There was but one
person who had been trusted with his ever having visited her at all, and
they too, were ignorant that she had ever run away with him. Philip
therefore sent for his confidant, from whom he received information,
that after snivelling and crying for a hour or two, she took advantage
of being left alone in a parlour (although the door was locked), and
getting out at the window into the backyard, made a shift to scramble
over the top of the house of office into the court, and so made her
escape to the waterside, where her mistress found she had taken a pair
of oars. But though they followed her to Falcon Stairs, yet they were
not able to retrieve her. Philip at this news was exceedingly grieved,
and returned home again very disconsolate on this occasion.
Alice, in the meantime, lurked about in St. George's Fields till
evening, and then crossing the bridge, walked on towards St. James's.
However dirty and despicable her dress, yet as she had a very pretty
face and a very engaging manner of speaking at first sight, she drew in
a merchant's book-keeper, as she walked down Cornhill, to carry her to a
certain tavern at the corner of Bishopsgate Street; where, after a good
supper and a bottle or two of wine, she engaged him to take her to a
lodging, and by degrees to give her a great deal of fine clothes, in
return for which she flattered him so greatly that he grew as fond of
her and as much a fool as ever Philip had been.
In the meantime her sister, who was much of her disposition, had been
turned off by a young fellow she had run away with from Oxford, and in
a miserable condition had trotted up to town, in order to see whether
she could have better luck with another gallant. One night, as she was
strolling through Leadenhall Street in her vocation, she saw her sister
Alice and the book-keeper who kept her, walking home with a servant, and
a candle and lanthorn before them. Jenny did not think fit to speak to
them, but dogging them privately home, called upon her sister the next
day and was mighty well received. The couple now took every opportunity
(notwithstanding the allowance of the book-keeper) to enable Alice to
stroll out with her together, and wandered about nightly in quest of
adventures, till it began to grow towards ten o'clock, and the fear of a
visit from her keeper drove Alice to her lodgings.
This trade, without any remarkable accident, was practised for about
three months, when on a sudden the book-keeper vanished, and for three
weeks' time Alice heard not a word of him. This threw both the sisters
into a heavy peck of troubles, and the more because he had always kept
it a secret in whose family he lived and went to the people where Alice
lodged by another name than his own. However they got money enough by
sparks they picked up to live pretty easily together, and that no
misfortune might go too near their hearts, they fell to drinking a quart
of brandy a day. It seems the woman at whose house they lodged was
herself given to drinking, and so by treating her they fell into the
same vice. The landlady in return was mighty civil to them, and every
now and then invited them downstairs to drink with her.
One evening when they were below stairs, there happened to be some
discourse about a trial at the Sessions House, whereupon Alice expressed
her desire of seeing the trials, and her sister agreeing in the request,
their landlady agreed to carry them the next morning. Accordingly they
were at Sessions House by the time the Court was set, and the two young
sluts were exceedingly merry at the wretched appearances the poor
creatures made at the bar. In the midst of their mirth, a man was
brought up to plead to his indictment, who had only a blanket wrapped
over his shirt to keep him from the weather; they were laughing and
talking to some of the people behind them, when Jenny patted her sister
to take notice of what the man was charged with. Alice listened and
heard the indictment read, which was for breaking open an escritoire and
taking out of it ninety guineas, two diamond rings and a good tweezer.
When the clerk had done reading, the criminal answered with a low voice,
_Not Guilty_, and the keeper thereupon took him from the bar. As he
turned, his face being towards them, Alice saw that it was the
book-keeper who had lived with her, and in a low voice whispered her
sister, _As I hope to live, it is our Tom._ They did not stay much
longer, but began to consider as soon as they got home what was to be
done. Alice was sensible that the tweezer-case mentioned in the
indictment had been given her, and was under a thousand frights and
fears that it should be discovered and was above all wondrous careful of
her landlady, that she did not go any more to the trials that Sessions.
The day they heard that sentence was passed, Jenny went to one of the
runners at Newgate, and giving him a shilling, asked what had become of
such a person. The fellow answered that he was to be transported. Jenny
came immediately home with the news to her sister. She shed a few tears
and said, what if he should want in Newgate? _Nay_, says Jenny, _let him
want what he will, I'm sure you shall not be fool enough to pawn your
things to relieve him_; and as her fit of compassion was soon over, so
they determined to remove their lodgings for fear that if he were under
necessity, as they could not well doubt he was, considering the figure
he made at his trial, he might send to her. But they needed not to have
been under any apprehensions of that sort, for shame and grief had
brought him so low that the gaol distemper seizing on him, he died the
same week he had been tried, and the runner to whom Jenny had given the
shilling, remembering her face, stopped her in the street, and told her
the news. When Alice heard it, she pretended to fall into fits, and
express abundance of sorrow and concern. The sorrows were not, however,
so deep but that brandy and two days' time effaced them so well that she
dressed in the best manner she was able, in order to go out and look for
a spark.
Unfortunately for her, her amours produced the usual consequence, a
loathsome distemper, which seizing about the same both her sister and
herself, through want of proper care, ruined both their constitutions;
and the ill consequence being increased by the use of improper food,
they were soon after in such a condition that their infamous trade of
prostitution fell off, and they were in danger of starving and rotting.
In this distress they knew not what to do, till at last advising with an
old woman whom they had scraped acquaintance with, she readily offered
them the use of her house, and to engage for them a surgeon, who should
complete their cure. The sisters were overjoyed at this, and in a hurry
accepted her offer, removing themselves and what little valuable
movables they had the next week.
They were received with great courtesy and kindness, and the old woman,
from an acquaintance of three weeks, assured them that they were no less
dear to her than if they had been her own daughters. This treatment
continued until they were in the height of a salivation, and then they
were acquainted with usage of another sort. This distemper was very
expensive, their course of physic very troublesome, it required much
attendance, they were strangers to her, and so by degrees the old woman
got from them most of the trinkets they brought with them. So that when
they were come a little to themselves, and nourishing food was proper to
restore them to perfect soundness, they had no way left to procure it
but by pawning or selling their clothes, which being quickly done and
the money spent, nakedness and poverty became their companions.
Thus plunged in misery, they were exposed to the daily insults of the
bawd, who treated them with great cruelty now she had them absolutely in
her power. Alice was so very uneasy under it, that having one night got
a few clean things about her, she resolved to venture out in a thin
linen gown, to see what might be done to free them from these
difficulties. She had not got lower than Southampton Street, in the
Strand, before a gentleman well dressed, though much in liquor, invited
her to go with him to his chambers. He carried her as far as Essex
Street, and then turning down to the Temple, brought her into rooms up
two pair of stairs, richly furnished. She saw nobody that he had to
attend him, but everything seemed in very exact order, and so without
further ceremony to bed they went. His weight of liquor soon forced him
to sleep, but Alice, whose head was full of the miseries she had so long
gone through, arose, put on her clothes and searching his pockets, found
a gold watch, nineteen guineas and a large gold medal. She was so much
surprised with the richness of this booty, and yet this being her first
fact, so confounded within herself, that she knew not well what to do.
At last, with great difficulty she forced open the chamber door, which
he had locked (and laid the key where she could not find it). Next she
came to the outer doors of the chambers, in which the key was, and so
there was no difficulty in getting out; but then finding it impossible
to shut the door after her without locking it, she even did so, and
carried away the key.
She made all the haste she could home to her landlady, and without
considering the consequence, paid her six pounds which she demanded, and
got some clothes out of her hands, which she had retained as a security
for the money. Then she removed with her sister, as secretly as she
could, to an inn in Smithfield, and from thence, the next day, they
removed to a little lodging in narrow lane by St. John's, where
downright fear made them keep so much within doors that they had almost
spent all their money in six weeks' time, without thinking of any method
to get more.
At last, Jenny, as being least in danger, equipped herself as well as
she could, and ventured about nine o'clock one evening into the streets.
She walked about half an hour without meeting with any adventure, but at
last picked up an innocent country lad. They had not gone far towards a
tavern before the constable and his body-guard of watchmen surprised and
hurried them away to the Wood Street Compter. There she remained until
the next day, when it was intimated to her that if she could produce a
couple of guineas they would be looked upon as good bail. She sent for
her sister Alice, who not having so much money, foolishly offered the
gold medal as a security. Some of the limbs of the Law thereabouts, were
acquainted with the gentleman of the Temple who lost it, and it being
shown up and down to know its value, they declared it was stolen, and
Alice, instead of procuring her sister's liberty, was forced into the
same prison, and confined with her. As it was about three weeks to
sessions, they were permitted to remain at the Compter during that time.
This was a deeper plunge into misfortune than they had ever yet known,
and the fear of hanging was so strong that Alice, in order to avoid it,
resolved upon making an application to a person to whom otherwise she
would never have made herself known. Who should this be but Philip, who
was lately married, but still did the business of his old master the
Justice, and therefore was always to be met with at his house, though he
had now got a little place upon which he was capable of living pretty
handsomely. Alice's letter reached him just as he was sitting down to
dinner. The surprise he was in was so great that it could not be hid
from the company. However, to cover the cause of it, he pretended that
it brought him news of a person being gone off for whom he was bail, and
which obliged him not to lose a minute in going to see what might be
done. So putting on his hat, and entreating some gentlemen who were at
the table with him not to disturb themselves, for he should be back in
half an hour, away he went directly to the Compter. And having influence
over the people in power there, he prevailed to have her let out to an
adjacent tavern.
The affliction she had gone through had altered but not impaired her
beauty. Philip, ill-used as he had been by her, could not forbear
bursting into tears at the sight of the miserable condition in which she
was. As soon as his surprise was a little over, she acquainted him with
the true state of the case, and begged his assistance in prevailing on
the injured gentleman to soften the prosecution. He promised her all
that was in his power, but desired to know after what manner she
intended to live, in case her liberty could ever be regained. She cried
and promised to work hard for her living rather than fall into that
miserable plight again, and then told him how unfortunately it happened
that her sister also was involved in the same calamity. At parting,
Philip presented her with a guinea, and told her she should have the
same every week while she remained there, assuring her also that he
would not fail coming to her the next day at noon, and informing her of
the temper in which he found her antagonist.
It happened that the Templar was Philip's intimate acquaintance, and had
a seat near his father's house in the country. Philip told him the truth
of the story, and how he came to interest himself so far in the affair.
The gentleman was not hard to be prevailed on, and said he did not
conceive it would be of any service to the women to let them be set at
liberty, considering the course of life they would be obliged
immediately to fall into for bread; that for his part, he inclined
rather to procure them liberty to transport themselves, and that they
might not be destitute in a strange country, he was not averse,
notwithstanding his loss, to give them something towards putting them in
a condition of getting their livelihood when they got over. Philip
readily agreed to this, though he was fearful of its proving an
expedient little agreeable to the women. However, the next day, when he
went, he sent for them both to the tavern, and proposed it. Alice said
it was the most agreeable thing that could have befallen her. She was
sensible of the manner in which she had lived in her native country, and
of the difficulty there would be of her amending here, and though her
sister Jenny was at first very averse, yet she quickly brought her to be
as complying as herself and to wish nothing more than the possibility of
living honest in any of the plantations.
Philip carried this news at night to the Temple and the gentleman there,
who was a great humorist, was so much taken with the temper and spirit
of Alice, that he would needs see her again, and thereupon accompanied
Philip the next day to the place of her confinement. There everything
was soon settled, the Templar procured their discharge, put them to
board at a house which he could command, and bargained with a captain of
a New England vessel for their passage thither; not as for persons who
had been guilty of any misdeeds here, but as of young women of good
families, who were unwilling to go to service here, and had therefore
got their friends to raise as much money as would send them over there,
where perhaps they might meet with better fortune.
[Illustration: JOSEPH BLAKE ATTEMPTING THE LIFE OF JONATHAN WILD
(_From the Newgate Calendar_)]
In short, their two benefactors furnished then with things to the amount
of two hundred pounds, accompanied them themselves on board the
vessel, and recommended them to the captain with as much earnestness as
if they had been near relations. Coming in this light into the abroad,
they were received with great hospitality, and treated with much
kindness and respect; and in fine, after remaining here about a year,
Jenny married a gentleman of as good fortune as any in the country, and
her sister, not long after, had the same luck. Jenny did not indeed
survive it long, but Alice outlived her first husband, and marrying a
second, returned into England where she is still living in as much
respect and esteem as any gentlewoman in the county where she inhabits.
An Account of the horrid murder of MR. WIDDINGTON DARBY, committed in
his chambers in the Temple, on the 11th of April, 1727, for which one
HENRY FISHER was apprehended and committed to Newgate, from whence he
escaped.
The deceased Mr. Darby was a young gentleman who made an extraordinary
good appearance in the world. He generally wore fine rings, rich snuff
boxes, and an extraordinary gold watch about him. These things possibly
tempted a needy person of his acquaintance to be guilty of that
barbarous murder which was committed upon him. He lived in the chambers
belonging to Sir George Cook's office in the Temple. His servant lived
in another place, and went home every night. It happened the night
before, or rather in that wherein he was murdered, that Mr. Darby had a
good deal of company with him, who supping late, they did not go away
until eleven o'clock, when Mr. Darby's servant also retired to his
lodgings. The next morning, being Tuesday, about nine o'clock, Mr. Darby
was found dead in the said office, his skull penetrated with a pistol
ball, his ear and hand cut, his rings, watch and other valuables taken
away, besides his escritoire broken open, and his money and linen taken
from thence.
The next day the coroner's inquest sat thereon, but being able to make
no discovery of the murder, they thought fit to adjourn _sine die_, as
soon as the coroner had made an order for the interment of his corpse
which was done accordingly in a vault in the church of St. Andrew's,
Holborn.
Some time passed before any light was got into this affair. At length,
Mr. Moody, who had been upon the coroner's inquest who had sat on the
body of Mr. Darby, received information that one Fisher, who had been
in very bad circumstances, and as an acquaintance had been relieved
under him by the deceased Mr. Darby, was all on a sudden, since the
committing of that murder, observed to have a great deal of money. He
had paid some debts which had been troublesome to him and was observed
to have some valuable things about him which had never been seen before.
These circumstances appearing altogether very suspicious, Mr. Moody
acquainted Mr. York with it, who had been very assiduous in taking all
measures possible for the discover of this horrid assassination. He
falling readily into Mr. Moody's opinion, they agreed together that the
likeliest method to find out the truth was to go to Mr. Willoughby, who
was Fisher's landlord, and known to be a very honest man. Accordingly
they went to him in a tavern in Southampton Street, where they
understood he was, and falling into discourse about Mr. Darby's murder,
they insinuated to him the suspicions they had of his lodger.
Returning to his house, Fisher being away, Mr. Willoughby went to his
room and broke open a box, and found in it the top and bottom of a
snuff-box, a vizard mask, and a pair of laced ruffles. The remains of
the snuff-box Mr. York knew to have belonged to the deceased, and had
reason to suspect the ruffles also to have been his, so that it was
immediately agreed to go before the Honourable Sir William Thompson,[77]
in order to procure a warrant. There they made an affidavit of the
several circumstances attending their discovery, and Sir William upon
the examination also of a lady (who produced a piece of lace before she
had seen the ruffle, and declared that if it were Mr. Darby's it must
tally therewith, which on a comparison it did exactly) granted a
warrant. It appeared also at the same time, upon the oath of Mr.
Willoughby, that the day Mr. Darby was murdered, Fisher borrowed
half-a-crown of him to pay his washerwoman, and was in the utmost
necessity for money.
A woman swore that a person very like Fisher was hovering about Mr.
Darby's chambers the night the murder was committed, and it was proved
by the oath of another person that Fisher came not to his lodgings till
two o'clock on Tuesday morning, on which Mr. Darby was murdered. About
eight o'clock a porter came and informed Fisher of Mr. Darby's being
murdered, at which he shewed little concern and locked himself up for
some hours.
Things being thus over at Sir William Thompson's, Mr. Willoughby, Mr.
York, and Mr. Moody, returned to Fisher's lodgings. About two o'clock
in the morning he came in, and they seized him, having a constable and
proper assistance for that purpose. On Sunday noon, he was carried
before Sir William Thompson in order to be examined, where he said:
That about the latter end of the week in which Mr. Darby was murdered,
as he was passing through Lincoln's Inn Fields, about four in the
afternoon, be took up under the wall of Lincoln's Inn Gardens, a white
paper parcel in which were contained several things of great value
belonging to the deceased; some of the diamonds he acknowledged he sold
to a jeweller in Paternoster Row for ten guineas, the watch he pawned
for nine guineas to a person at a brazier's in Bond Street, and sold the
gold chain and swivels to a person in Lombard Street. He absolutely
denied all knowledge of the murder, and said that at the time it
happened he was at a billiard table in Duke Street, by St. James's. When
taken there was found upon him two of Mr. Darby's rings with the stones
taken out, wrapped up in a paper, with his seal the arms of which were
taken out, and in these circumstances he was committed to Newgate.
Soon after this the coroner granted his warrant, and an order being
thereupon obtained from the Commons, Mr. Darby's body was taken up and
in the presence of several persons, his head opened by an eminent
surgeon, who found a large lacerated wound near the left ear, the
temporal bone on that side being very much fractured, several pieces of
which stuck in the brain on the same side. He found, likewise, the
temporal bone on the other side, exactly opposite, broken; the pieces
thereof were not removed from their places, but easily removed upon his
attempting to take them away. He took out the brain and the bullet
dropped upon the pillow which lay upon the ground under his head. It
appeared, upon comparing the said bullet taken out of the head, with
some other bullets found in custody of Henry Fisher (at that time in
Newgate on suspicion of the murder) that it seemed to have been cast in
the same mould; and when weighing it with one of these bullets, it was
very little lighter, and it fitted the bore of one of the pistols which
was found in Fisher's custody, even that pistol which by some signs were
looked on to have been discharged, though afterwards loaded again.
This Fisher was the son of a very eminent clothier in the West of
England, who had sent him to London, and put him out clerk to an
attorney, and had done everything in his power which he was able, and
which was reasonable for him to do. But he being extravagant, lived far
beyond the rate which was consistent with the supplies he received from
his father; so that when pressed by his necessities, he had often
applied to Mr. Darby for relief. When in Newgate he affected a most
unreasonable gaiety and unconcernedness in his behaviour, although the
circumstances were so strong against him as occasioned it to prevail as
the general opinion that he would be convicted. However, he and the
famous Roger Johnson took the advantage of the workmen labouring on the
cells which were then building, and by breaking a hole through a place
done up only with lath and plaster, they got down one of the workmen's
ladders, and so made their escape. Johnson was afterwards retaken and
tried for breaking prison, but alleging it was done by Fisher, he was
acquitted, and this Henry Fisher, the supposed murderer of Mr. Darby,
was never heard of since.