_The Insanity of Crime--Lunatics without restraint--What happens at
the end--A dangerous monster--A craze for killing--Why the crime was
committed--Amiable lunatics--Children who are insane_
|IF to-morrow we were to read that the whole of the inmates of some
great metropolitan lunatic asylum had escaped, and were still at large,
the inhabitants of London would be seriously alarmed. There would be
a general feeling of insecurity, for among the inmates of all great
asylums there are many whose form of insanity is dangerous to the
community, even when it is not the most serious form of all--homicidal
mania.
And yet there are every day in London a sufficient number of lunatics
in full possession of their liberty to fill one of its greatest asylums
twice over, and many of them are homicidal maniacs.
Hardly a week passes that we do not read of some terrible act committed
by a man or woman who has either been in an asylum or has a family
history of insanity. But just before the tragedy these unfortunate
people were moving about freely among their fellow-creatures, and all
the time they were meditating murder, waiting for the opportunity to
take a human life.
The series of diabolical crimes in the East End which appalled the world
were committed by a homicidal maniac who led the ordinary life of a free
citizen. He rode in tramcars and omnibuses. He travelled to Whitechapel
by the underground railway, often late at night. Probably on several
occasions he had but one fellow-passenger in the compartment with him,
and that may have been a woman. Imagine what the feelings of those
travellers would have been had they known that they were alone in the
dark tunnels of the Underground with Jack the Ripper!
Some of us must have passed him in the street, sat with him perhaps at
a café or a restaurant. He was a man of birth and education, and had
sufficient means to keep himself without work. For a whole year at least
he was a free man, exercising all the privileges of freedom. And yet he
was a homicidal maniac of the most diabolical kind.
This horrible phase of insanity is not, fortunately, a common one. But
there are maniacs of the Ripper type still at large. There have been
several crimes of the Ripper character committed in low lodging-houses
during recent years, and the perpetrator has always succeeded in making
his escape and in retaining his liberty.
But the bulk of the dangerous lunatics at large are not systematic
assassins. They are only wrought to frenzy by a fancied grievance or the
stress of circumstance.
Many of the mysterious crimes of London which are apparently motiveless
are the deeds of men who are insane on the subject of persecution.
The victims of this form of delusion imagine that some person, often a
public character or a celebrity constantly referred to in the Press, is
secretly injuring them.
The murder of a popular actor some years ago was due to this cause. A
man to whom he was an utter stranger imagined that the actor was keeping
him out of an engagement, and he assassinated his imaginary enemy at the
stage door of a West End theatre.
If a list could be prepared of the people against whom some lunatic at
large has sworn to be revenged for a grievance which exists solely in
the imagination of the aggressor, it would be a very alarming document.
It would show the world that a large number of men and women who are
dangerously insane are living unrestrained lives, mixing with their
fellow-citizens without let or hindrance, and only waiting for the
opportunity to attack a supposed enemy.
Many of these people are looked upon by their acquaintances merely as
cranks. After the Beck case I received hundreds of letters from people
with a grievance; a large number of them were well written, and the
addresses at the head of them showed that the writers were in a good
position.
In some of these letters there was a threat of what would happen if the
"persecutor" was not compelled by the Press to abandon his course of
conduct. Some of them contained an unmistakable hint that murder
might be the result if the persecution were not stopped or the wrong
redressed.
And all these people, absolutely insane, were free from any sort of
guardianship or control. Three of them called upon me.
One came late at night. He rushed in directly the door was opened and
walked into my study, the door of which was open, before the astonished
servant could interfere.
I saw at once what I had to deal with, and I listened with the greatest
attention to the story my visitor had to tell. As he told it he worked
himself up into a frenzy. His features became convulsed, and he struck
my writing-table again and again with his clenched fist. I only got rid
of him at last by recommending him to a firm of solicitors, who would
take his case up and see that his enemy--a near relative--was legally
restrained from conspiring with an oculist to put his eyes out.
Only once before have I conversed with a man who declaimed with such
insane violence against an imagined enemy. I felt safer then, for the
interview took place at Broadmoor, and two stalwart keepers stood by
while the poor maniac foamed and raved.
A year after my visit to the Broadmoor patient--a gentleman whose case
had excited a good deal of interest--there was a movement to obtain his
release. His friends thought he was cured, and that it was quite safe
for him to be restored to his family. Fortunately the authorities took a
different view.
This gentleman had committed no actual crime. He had only pointed a
pistol at the head of his "persecutor" and threatened to shoot him. Had
he recovered in Broadmoor he would have been released. But his dementia
had increased during his stay. The actual murderer who becomes sane
leaves Broadmoor occasionally. It is not the King's pleasure to keep
the sane in a lunatic asylum. In such cases every precaution is taken
to insure control and comfort in the home to which the Broadmoor patient
returns. The same care is not, unfortunately, always exercised by the
authorities of non-criminal asylums, and every week scores of lunatics
whose mental health has only been temporarily restored are discharged
and return to the family and the home, and wander the streets of London
at will.
The relative who is, or has been, in a lunatic asylum is the skeleton in
many a family cupboard. In wealthy homes every care is taken to keep the
mad member of the family under close observation, but among humble folks
such care is impossible. The lunatic is left to look after himself.
There was a man hanged recently for murdering a relative. The murder was
wanton and barbarous. The motive of it was a fancied grievance. No one
came forward at the trial to save the murderer from the gallows. The
barbarity of the crime had turned even his own relatives against him.
But the accused had for ten years been looked upon as a madman in the
neighbourhood in which he lived.
"He ought to be in an asylum," had been the criticism passed upon his
conduct more than once.
Too late to save this man I ascertained the facts. "I've looked upon
him as mad for years," said one of his neighbours to me, "and his people
_knew_ he was."
"Then why," I asked, "didn't they have him put under restraint?"
"Well, you see, he'd never murdered anybody before," was the reply.
That answer is typical of the public attitude towards lunatics at large.
Unless they have killed or attempted to kill it is nobody's business to
have them, in the interests of public safety, certified as insane.
We shudder at Caliban when we see him on the stage, and we tremble for
Miranda. But there are dozens of Calibans in London, and they are free
to roam where they like night and day.
Come down this court with me. Here is a monster deaf and dumb and
deformed. Look at the hideous grimaces he makes, listen to the horrible
sounds he utters. He is eight and twenty, and has lived in this court
for ten years with his mother and father. #
The children tease him. Occasionally they irritate him to such an extent
that with a series of wild howls he rushes at them. Then they run away,
and presently an aged woman will come out of her home in the court and
coax Caliban into a good humour, and lead him indoors. The aged woman
is Caliban's mother--she cannot be always looking after him, because she
has to make cardboard boxes for a living.
Some day there will be a terrible crime committed in that court, or
Caliban will wander away to do his deed, and there will be a shocking
story in the newspapers. Then everyone will wonder why Caliban was not
put in an asylum where he could be properly guarded and restrained. He
is a monster, likely to commit a brutal crime at any moment. But as he
has not, so far, done anything criminal, no one thinks it worth while to
limit the bounds of his freedom.
Some of the mysterious crimes which baffle the police, because they can
find no "motive" to give them a clue, are the deeds of homicidal maniacs
at large. The crimes are often committed without provocation. The victim
is unknown to them. The opportunity of killing occurs, and it is eagerly
seized. Then the maniac, if he has escaped observation, goes quietly
home, and thinks no more of his deed. In some cases he has no further
knowledge of it.
I spent an afternoon in his private apartment at Broadmoor some time ago
with a highly-cultured gentleman who left his chambers late one night,
went out on to the Embankment, sat down on a seat on which a tramp
was sleeping, and deliberately murdered the tramp. He shot him with a
revolver. People hearing the shot ran up, and the murderer was arrested.
But if he had throttled the man or stabbed him he would have gone
quietly home again, and the murder would have remained a mystery.
When the prisoner was questioned the next day he had no recollection
of what had occurred. He couldn't understand why he was detained. This
unfortunate gentleman had a large circle of friends and acquaintances,
many of whom had been his guests at the pleasant little dinner-parties
he used to give in his luxurious chambers. None of them had the
slightest suspicion that he was insane.
Nor would anyone suspect it who conversed with him to-day at Broadmoor.
As a matter of fact, he is perfectly sane until midnight. But at
midnight his entire nature changes, and he has to be approached with
the greatest caution. From midnight till the break of day he is a
maniac with a desire to kill. After that he is an amiable and cultured
gentleman with whom it is a pleasure to associate.
One of the most charming men I ever met, a man so benevolent in
appearance, so gentle in manner, that it seems to me even now impossible
to think of him as a murderer, waited with a revolver night after night
to kill a young fellow against whom he had an imaginary grievance. He
succeeded at last. He shot his "enemy" dead at the corner of a street,
and then walked quietly away. When he was seized he explained that he
had only performed an act of justice, and he requested his captors
to release him. He was anxious to get home at once, as he had friends
coming to supper.
Had no one been about to see the murder, this genial old gentleman would
have gone home to his little supper-party and played the host to
perfection. His "persecutor" settled with, he would probably have lived
a quiet and gentle life for the remainder of his days. The "stress"
being removed he might have become sane, and in his sanity he would have
forgotten all about the murder he had committed.
The lunatic at large may commit murder at any time, or he may go to the
end of his days without doing the slightest harm to anyone. The merest
accident may stir the smouldering fire to flame. The unfortunate barmaid
who was discovered murdered in a railway carriage at Waterloo Station
with a bloodstained pestle was, it is believed, the victim of her
resemblance to another young woman.
The theory of this crime, which still remains a mystery, is that the
victim was killed by a young man who had been jilted by a girl to whom
he was devotedly attached. The disappointment in love affected the man's
brain. One night he entered a railway carriage, and, finding himself
seated opposite the living image of the woman who had broken his heart,
roused to madness by the sight of _that face_, he fiercely attacked the
unfortunate young woman who was alone with him. Why, if the murder was
not _planned,_ he had a pestle with him, need not be argued. Whoever the
murderer was he could not have calculated at the time he armed himself
with a weapon that he would find himself alone with his victim in a
railway carriage. The police suspected various persons at first, but
later on obtained evidence which pointed strongly in the direction I
have indicated. But this evidence was not sufficient to justify the
suspected person being brought to trial.
Lunatics at large are not always unpleasant people; some of them
are exceedingly amiable. Their amiability is, however, apt to be
embarrassing. A popular tragedian who, on certain occasions, was in the
habit of having wreaths handed to him across the footlights, once told
me of a painful experience. An elderly lady who admired him exceedingly,
determined to make him a few wreaths herself and present them to him in
private life. She found out where he lived, and watched his front door.
As he came out into the street she would step forward with a smile and
slip a home-made wreath over his head. The tragedian didn't want to hurt
the poor old lady's feelings by flinging it away, so he took it off and
walked to the corner of the street with it in his hand, and then hailed a
cab and drove to the theatre.
After that the old lady waylaid him almost every week, and wanted to
cover him with flowers. She did succeed one day in slipping a chain of
wild flowers about his neck. The great actor became nervous. He couldn't
ask the police to protect him against an amiable old lady, and he didn't
care to denounce her as a lunatic for considering him worthy of wreaths
and garlands. Fortunately for his peace of mind the persecution suddenly
ceased. What became of the old lady he never knew.
There was a dear old lady once who made me very unhappy. She lived close
to me in Regent's Park, and every day she called at my house and left a
few daisies or buttercups, or a handful of simple flowers. That was very
nice, but when she began to stand in front of my door and make little
speeches about me, scattering floral offerings on my doorstep, and
putting buttercups and daisies into my letter-box, I began to feel
uncomfortable. One day she went into a flower-shop in Baker Street and
ordered garlands of flowers to be sent up and twined about my railings.
Fortunately the lady at the flower-shop saw that the dear old soul was
not right in her mind, and didn't execute the order. Some weeks after I
heard that the old lady had been taken away to an asylum.
This was an agreeable form of madness; much more agreeable than the form
insanity took with a young man for whom--believing the tale he told
me to be true--I bought a cornet. He assured me that he could earn
his living with it, and keep his poor old father and mother out of the
workhouse. He came outside my house every night late--sometimes at one
and two in the morning--and played that comet. And he played it very
badly.
It was only after I had put someone on to follow the comet-player to
his home that I discovered that he was in perfectly good
circumstances--independent circumstances, in fact--but imagined that he
was poor and earning his living as a street musician. He had been in
a lunatic asylum for eighteen months, and had only left it a fortnight
when he came to me.
Some years ago a madman took a fancy to me, with a much more painful
result. He wrote me the most extraordinary letters, to which at first I
replied, but I very soon discovered that my correspondent was a violent
lunatic, and I ceased to acknowledge his effusions. This made no
difference. They poured in upon me as freely as ever.
One day he wrote to me and enclosed the ticket of a travelling bag which
he had left at Charing Cross. "I shall commit suicide to-night," he said
in the letter; "I have left you my jewellery and all my securities. You
will find them in the bag at Charing Cross. I enclose you the ticket for
it."
When I opened my "Daily Telegraph" I found that my correspondent had
carried out his threat. He had shot himself--fortunately not fatally--in
Regent Street the previous evening. I gave the ticket of the bag to
the police, who handed it over to the poor fellow's relatives. The bag
contained jewellery and securities to the value of many hundreds of
pounds.
A painful feature in this phase of London life is the large number of
children who are not in possession of their mental faculties, and yet
are not under any proper control. Of the little boy who murders a baby
brother or sister we hear occasionally. Of the child who only _attempts_
to murder we hear rarely. But the schools for the feeble-minded which
are now established in every part of London have a large number of
dangerous children of both sexes passing daily from and to their homes
and enjoying the full liberties of life in the streets.
This is not the place in which to set forth the terrible dangers to
which society will presently be exposed by the ever-increasing numbers
of mental and physical degenerates for whose detention, after a certain
age, no provision is made by the State.
But before this series is concluded I may, with all due discretion, lift
a portion of the veil and give my readers some slight insight into one
of the most disquieting phases of life in this great city of packed and
seething humanity.
It is not a phase which can be ignored, for statistics show us that the
feeble-minded and the insane are increasing at a rate which is entirely
out of proportion to the rate of increase in the population.
For every lunatic at large to-day we shall have--unless legislation
finds a means of minimizing and dealing with the evil--five lunatics at
large in ten years' time.
And it is to lunatics at large that we owe some of the most gruesome,
the most appalling Mysteries of modern London.