The following narrative relates more to medical than to criminal
history; but as the affair came in some degree under my notice as a
public officer, I have thought it might not be altogether out of place
in these slight outlines of police experience. Strange and
unaccountable as it may at first appear, its general truth will hardly
be questioned by those who have had opportunities of observing the
fantastic delusions which haunt and dominate the human brain in
certain phases of mental aberration.
On arriving in London, in 1831, I took lodgings at a Mr Renshawe's, in
Mile-End Road, not far from the turnpike-gate. My inducement to do so,
was partly the cheapness and neatness of the accommodation, partly
that the landlord's maternal uncle, a Mr Oxley, was slightly known to
me. Henry Renshawe I knew by reputation only, he having left Yorkshire
ten or eleven years before, and even that knowledge was slight and
vague. I had heard that a tragical event had cast a deep shadow over
his after-life; that he had been for some months the inmate of a
private lunatic asylum; and that some persons believed his brain had
never thoroughly recovered its originally healthy action. In this
opinion, both my wife and myself very soon concurred; and yet I am not
sure that we could have given a satisfactory reason for such belief.
He was, it is true, usually kind and gentle, even to the verge of
simplicity, but his general mode of expressing himself and conducting
business was quite coherent and sensible; although, in spite of his
resigned cheerfulness of tone and manner, it was at times quite
evident, that whatever the mental hurt he had received, it had left a
rankling, perhaps remorseful, sting behind. A small, well-executed
portrait in his sitting-room suggested a conjecture of the nature of
the calamity which had befallen him. It was that of a fair, mild-eyed,
very young woman, but of a pensive, almost mournful, cast of features,
as if the coming event, briefly recorded in the lower right-hand
corner of the painting, had already, during life and health, cast its
projecting shadow over her. That brief record was this:--'Laura
Hargreaves, born 1804; drowned 1821.' No direct allusion to the
picture ever passed his lips, in my hearing, although, from being able
to chat together of Yorkshire scenes and times, we speedily became
excellent friends. Still, there were not wanting, from time to time,
significant indications, though difficult to place in evidence, that
the fire of insanity had not been wholly quenched, but still
smouldered and glowed beneath the habit-hardened crust which concealed
it from the careless or casual observer. Exciting circumstances, not
very long after my arrival in the metropolis, unfortunately kindled
those brief wild sparkles into a furious and consuming flame.
Mr Renshawe was in fair circumstances--that is, his income, derived
from funded property alone, was nearly L.300 a year; but his habits
were close, thrifty, almost miserly. His personal appearance was neat
and gentlemanly, but he kept no servant. A charwoman came once a day
to arrange his chamber, and perform other household work, and he
usually dined, very simply, at a coffee-house or tavern. His house,
with the exception of a sitting and bed room, was occupied by lodgers;
amongst these, was a pale, weakly-looking young man, of the name of
Irwin. He was suffering from pulmonary consumption--a disease induced,
I was informed, by his careless folly in remaining in his wet clothes
after having assisted, during the greater part of the night, at a
large fire at a coach-factory. His trade was in gold and silver
lace-work--bullion for epaulettes, and so on; and as he had a good
connection with several West-end establishments, his business appeared
to be a thriving one; so much so, that he usually employed several
assistants of both sexes. He occupied the first floor, and a workshop
at the end of the garden. His wife, a pretty-featured, well-formed,
graceful young woman, of not more than two or three-and-twenty, was,
they told me, the daughter of a schoolmaster, and certainly had been
gently and carefully nurtured. They had one child, a sprightly,
curly-haired, bright-eyed boy, nearly four years old. The wife, Ellen
Irwin, was reputed to be a first-rate hand at some of the lighter
parts of her husband's business; and her efforts to lighten his toil,
and compensate by increased exertion for his daily diminishing
capacity for labour, were unwearying and incessant. Never have I seen
a more gentle, thoughtful tenderness, than was displayed by that young
wife towards her suffering, and sometimes not quite evenly-tempered
partner, who, however, let me add, appeared to reciprocate truthfully
her affection; all the more so, perhaps, that he knew their time
together upon earth was already shrunk to a brief span. In my opinion,
Ellen Irwin was a handsome, even an elegant young person: this,
however, is in some degree a matter of taste. But no one could deny
that the gentle kindness, the beaming compassion, that irradiated her
features as she tended the fast-sinking invalid, rendered her at such
times absolutely beautiful--_angelised_ her, to use an expression of
my wife's, with whom she was a prime favourite. I was self-debating
for about the twentieth time one evening, where it was I had formerly
seen her, with that sad, mournful look of hers; for seen her I was
sure I had, and not long since either. It was late; I had just
returned home; my wife was in the sick-room, and I had entered it with
two or three oranges:--'Oh, now I remember,' I suddenly exclaimed,
just above my breath; 'the picture in Mr Renshawe's room! What a
remarkable coincidence!'
A low, chuckling laugh, close at my elbow, caused me to turn quickly
towards the door. Just within the threshold stood Mr Renshawe, looking
like a white stone-image rather than a living man, but for the fierce
sparkling of his strangely gleaming eyes, and the mocking, triumphant
curl of his lips. 'You, too, have at last observed it, then?' he
muttered, faintly echoing the under-tone in which I spoke: 'I have
known the truth for many weeks.' The manner, the expression, not the
words, quite startled me. At the same moment, a cry of women rang
through the room, and I immediately seized Mr Renshawe by the arm, and
drew him forcibly away, for there was that in his countenance which
should not meet the eyes of a dying man.
'What were you saying? What truth have you known for weeks?' I asked,
as soon as we had reached his sitting-room.
Before he could answer, another wailing sound ascended from the
sick-room. Lightning leaped from Renshawe's lustrous, dilated eyes,
and the exulting laugh again, but louder, burst from his lips: 'Ha!
ha!' he fiercely exclaimed. 'I know that cry! It is Death's!--Death's!
Thrice-blessed Death, whom I have so often ignorantly cursed! But
that,' he added quickly, and peering sharply in my face, 'was when, as
you know, people said'--and he ground his teeth with rage--'people
said I was crazed--mad!'
'What can you mean by this wild talk, my friend?' I replied in as
unconcerned and quieting a tone as I could immediately assume. 'Come,
sit down: I was asking the meaning of your strange words below, just
now.'
'The meaning of my words? You know as well as I do. Look there!'
'At the painting? Well?'
'You have seen the original,' he went on with the same excited tone
and gestures. 'It crossed me like a flash of lightning. Still, it is
strange she does not know me. It is sure she does not! But I am
changed, no doubt--sadly changed!' he added, dejectedly, as he looked
in a mirror.
'Can you mean that I have seen Laura Hargreaves here?' I stammered,
thoroughly bewildered. 'She who was drowned ten or eleven years ago?'
'To be sure--to be sure! It was so believed, I admit, by everybody--by
myself, and the belief drove me mad! And yet, I now remember, when at
times I was calm--when the pale face, blind staring eyes, and dripping
hair, ceased for awhile to pursue and haunt me, the low, sweet voice
and gentle face came back, and I knew she lived, though all denied it.
But look, it is her very image!' he added fiercely, his glaring eyes
flashing from the portrait to my face alternately.
'Whose image?'
'Whose image!--Why, Mrs Irwin's, to be sure. You yourself admitted it
just now.' I was so confounded, that for several minutes I remained
stupidly and silently staring at the man. At length I said: 'Well,
there _is_ a likeness, though not so great as I imagined'----
'It is false!' he broke in furiously. 'It is her very self.'
'We'll talk of that to-morrow. You are ill, overexcited, and must go
to bed. I hear Dr Garland's voice below: he shall come to you.'
'No--no--no!' he almost screamed. 'Send me no doctors; I hate doctors!
But I'll go to bed--since--since _you_ wish it; but no doctors! Not
for the world!' As he spoke, he shrank coweringly backwards, out of
the room; his wavering, unquiet eyes fixed upon mine as long as we
remained within view of each other: a moment afterwards, I heard him
dart into his chamber, and bolt and double-lock the door.
It was plain that lunacy, but partially subdued, had resumed its
former mastery over the unfortunate gentleman. But what an
extraordinary delusion! I took a candle, and examined the picture with
renewed curiosity. It certainly bore a strong resemblance to Mrs
Irwin: the brown, curling hair, the pensive eyes, the pale fairness of
complexion, were the same; but it was scarcely more girlish, more
youthful, than the young matron was now, and the original, had she
lived, would have been by this time approaching to thirty years of
age! I went softly down stairs and found, as I feared, that George
Irwin was gone. My wife came weeping out of the death-chamber,
accompanied by Dr Garland, to whom I forthwith related what had just
taken place. He listened with attention and interest; and after some
sage observations upon the strange fancies which now and then take
possession of the minds of monomaniacs, agreed to see Mr Renshawe at
ten the next morning. I was not required upon duty till eleven; and if
it were in the physician's opinion desirable, I was to write at once
to the patient's uncle, Mr Oxley.
Mr Renshawe was, I heard, stirring before seven o'clock, and the
charwoman informed me, that he had taken his breakfast as usual, and
appeared to be in cheerful, almost high spirits. The physician was
punctual: I tapped at the sitting-room door, and was desired to come
in. Mr Renshawe was seated at a table with some papers before him,
evidently determined to appear cool and indifferent. He could not,
however, repress a start of surprise, almost of terror, at the sight
of the physician, and a paleness, followed by a hectic flush, passed
quickly over his countenance. I observed, too, that the portrait was
turned with its face towards the wall.
By a strong effort, Mr Renshawe regained his simulated composure, and
in reply to Dr Garland's professional inquiry, as to the state of his
health, said with a forced laugh: 'My friend, Waters, has, I suppose,
been amusing you with the absurd story that made him stare so last
night. It is exceedingly droll, I must say, although many persons,
otherwise acute enough, cannot, except upon reflection, comprehend a
jest. There was John Kemble, the tragedian, for instance, who'----
'Never mind John Kemble, my dear sir,' interrupted Dr Garland. 'Do,
pray, tell us the story over again. I love an amusing jest.'
Mr Renshawe hesitated for an instant, and then said with reserve,
almost dignity of manner: 'I do not know, sir'--his face, by the way,
was determinedly averted from the cool, searching gaze of the
physician--'I do not know, sir, that I am obliged to find you in
amusement; and as your presence here was not invited, I shall be
obliged by your leaving the room as quickly as maybe.'
'Certainly--certainly, sir. I am exceedingly sorry to have intruded,
but I am sure you will permit me to have a peep at this wonderful
portrait.'
Renshawe sprang impulsively forward to prevent the doctor reaching it.
He was too late; and Dr Garland, turning sharply round with the
painting in his hand, literally transfixed him in an attitude of
surprise and consternation. Like the Ancient Mariner, he held him by
his glittering eye, but the spell was not an enduring one. 'Truly,'
remarked Dr Garland, as he found the kind of mesmeric influence he had
exerted beginning to fail, 'not so _very_ bad a chance resemblance;
especially about the eyes and mouth'----
'This is very extraordinary conduct,' broke in Mr Renshawe; 'and I
must again request that you will both leave the room.'
It was useless to persist, and we almost immediately went away. 'Your
impression, Mr Waters,' said the physician as he was leaving the
house, 'is, I daresay, the true one; but he is on his guard now, and
it will be prudent to wait for a fresh outbreak before acting
decisively; more especially as the hallucination appears to be quite a
harmless one.'
This was not, I thought, quite so sure, but of course I acquiesced, as
in duty bound; and matters went on pretty much as usual for seven or
eight weeks, except that Mr Renshawe manifested much aversion towards
myself personally, and at last served me with a written notice to quit
at the end of the term previously stipulated for. There was still some
time to that; and in the meanwhile, I caused a strict watch to be set,
as far as was practicable, without exciting observation, upon our
landlord's words and acts.
Ellen Irwin's first tumult of grief subsided, the next and pressing
question related to her own and infant son's subsistence. An elderly
man of the name of Tomlins was engaged as foreman; and it was hoped
the business might still be carried on with sufficient profit. Mr
Renshawe's manner, though at times indicative of considerable nervous
irritability, was kind and respectful to the young widow; and I began
to hope that the delusion he had for awhile laboured under had finally
passed away.
The hope was a fallacious one. We were sitting at tea on a Sunday
evening, when Mrs Irwin, pale and trembling with fright and nervous
agitation, came hastily in with her little boy in her hand. I
correctly divined what had occurred. In reply to my hurried
questioning, the astounded young matron told me in substance, that
within the last two or three days Mr Renshawe's strange behaviour and
disjointed talk had both bewildered and alarmed her. He vaguely
intimated that she, Ellen Irwin, was really Laura somebody else--that
she had kept company with him, Mr Renshawe, in Yorkshire, before she
knew poor George--with many other strange things he muttered rather
than spoke out; and especially that it was owing to her son reminding
her continually of his father, that she pretended not to have known Mr
Renshawe twelve or thirteen years ago. 'In short,' added the young
woman with tears and blushes, 'he is utterly crazed; for he asked me
just now to marry him--which I would not do for the Indies--and is
gone away in a passion to find a paper that will prove, he says, I am
that other Laura something.'
There was something so ludicrous in all this, however vexatious and
insulting under the circumstances--the recent death of the husband,
and the young widow's unprotected state--that neither of us could
forbear laughing at the conclusion of Mrs Irwin's story. It struck me,
too, that Renshawe had conceived a real and ardent passion for the
very comely and interesting person before us--first prompted, no
doubt, by her accidental likeness to the portrait; and that some
mental flaw or other caused him to confound her with the Laura who had
in early life excited the same emotion in his mind.
Laughable as the matter was in one sense, there was--and the fair
widow had noticed as well as myself--a serious, menacing expression in
the man's eye not to be trifled with; and at her earnest request, we
accompanied her to her own apartment, to which Renshawe had threatened
soon to return. We had not been a minute in the room, when his hurried
step was heard approaching, and Mrs Waters and I stepped hastily into
an adjoining closet, where we could hear and partly see all that
passed. Renshawe's speech trembled with fervency and anger as he
broke at once into the subject with which his disordered brain was
reeling.
'You will not dare to say, will you, that you do not remember this
song--that these pencil-marks in the margin were not made by you
thirteen years ago?' he menacingly ejaculated.
'I know nothing about the song, Mr Renshawe,' rejoined the young woman
with more spirit than she might have exhibited but for my near
presence. 'It is really such nonsense. Thirteen years ago, I was only
about nine years of age.'
'You persist, then, unfeeling woman, in this cruel deception! After
all, too, that I have suffered: the days of gloom, the nights of
horror, since that fearful moment when I beheld you dragged, a
lifeless corpse, from the water, and they told me you were dead!'
'Dead! Gracious goodness, Mr Renshawe, don't go on in this shocking
way! I was never dragged out of a pond, nor supposed to be
dead--never! You quite frighten one.'
'Then you and I, your sister, and that thrice-accursed Bedford, did
not, on the 7th of August 1821, go for a sail on the piece of water at
Lowfield, and the skiff was not, in the deadly, sudden, jealous strife
between him and me, accidentally upset? But I know how it is: it is
this brat, and the memories he recalls, that'----
Mrs Irwin screamed, and I stepped sharply into the room. The grasp of
the lunatic was on the child's throat. I loosed it somewhat roughly,
throwing him off with a force that brought him to the ground. He rose
quickly, glared at me with tiger-like ferocity, and then darted out of
the room. The affair had become serious, and the same night I posted a
letter to Yorkshire, informing Mr Oxley of what had occurred, and
suggesting the propriety of his immediately coming to London. Measures
were also taken for securing Mrs Irwin and her son from molestation.
But the cunning of lunacy is not easily baffled. On returning home the
fourth evening after the dispatch of my letter, I found the house and
immediate neighbourhood in the wildest confusion. My own wife was in
hysterics; Mrs Irwin, I was told by half-a-dozen tongues at once, was
dying; and the frightful cause of all was, that little George Irwin, a
favourite with everybody, had in some unaccountable manner fallen into
the river Lea, and been drowned. This, at least, was the general
conviction, although the river had been dragged to no purpose--the
poor child's black beaver-hat and feather having been discovered
floated to the bank, a considerable way down the stream. The body, it
was thought, had been carried out into the Thames by the force of the
current.
A terrible suspicion glanced across my mind. 'Where is Mr Renshawe?' I
asked. Nobody knew. He had not been seen since five o'clock--about the
time, I soon ascertained, that the child was missed. I had the house
cleared, as quickly as possible, of the numerous gossips that crowded
it, and then sought a conference with Dr Garland, who was with Mrs
Irwin. The distracted mother had, I found, been profusely bled and
cupped, and it was hoped that brain-fever, which had been apprehended,
would not ensue. The physician's suspicions pointed the same way as
mine; but he declined committing himself to any advice, and I was left
to act according to my own discretion. I was new to such matters at
that time--unfortunately so, as it proved, or the affair might have
had a less painful issue.
Tomlins and I remained up, waiting for the return of Mr Renshawe; and
as the long, slow hours limped past, the night-silence only broken by
the dull moaning, and occasional spasmodic screams of poor Mrs Irwin,
I grew very much excited. The prolonged absence of Mr Renshawe
confirmed my impressions of his guilt, and I determined to tax him
with it, and take him into custody the instant he appeared. It was two
in the morning before he did so; and the nervous fumbling, for full
ten minutes, with his latch-key, before he could open the door, quite
prepared me for the spectral-like aspect he presented on entering. He
had met somebody, it afterwards appeared, outside, who had assured him
that the mother of the drowned child was either dead or dying. He
never drank, I knew, but he staggered as if intoxicated; and after he
had with difficulty reached the head of the stairs, in reply to my
question as to where he had been, he could only stutter with white
trembling lips: 'It--it--cannot be--be true--that Lau--that Mrs Irwin
is--dying?'
'Quite true, Mr Renshawe,' I very imprudently replied, and in much too
loud a tone, for we were but a few paces from Mrs Irwin's bedroom
door. 'And if, as I suspect, the child has been drowned by you, you
will have before long two murders on your head.'
A choking, bubbling noise came from the wretched man's throat, and his
shaking fingers vainly strove to loosen his neck-tie. At the same
moment, I heard a noise, as of struggling, in the bedroom, and the
nurse's voice in eager remonstrance. I instantly made a movement
towards Mr Renshawe, with a view to loosen his cravat--his features
being frightfully convulsed, and to get him out of the way as quickly
as possible, for I guessed what was about to happen--when he,
mistaking my intention, started back, turned half round, and found
himself confronted by Mrs Irwin, her pale features and white
night-dress dabbled with blood, in consequence of a partial
disturbance of the bandages in struggling with the nurse--a
terrifying, ghastly sight even to me; to him utterly overwhelming, and
scarcely needing her frenzied execrations on the murderer of her child
to deprive him utterly of all remaining sense and strength. He
suddenly reeled, threw his arms wildly into the air, and before I
could stretch forth my hand to save him, fell heavily backwards from
the edge of the steep stairs, where he was standing, to the bottom.
Tomlins and I hastened to his assistance, lifted him up, and as we did
so, a jet of blood gushed from his mouth; he had likewise received a
terrible wound near the right temple, from which the life-stream
issued copiously.
We got him to bed: Dr Garland and a neighbouring surgeon were soon
with us, and prompt remedies were applied. It was a fruitless labour.
Day had scarcely dawned before he heard from the physician's lips that
life with him was swiftly ebbing to its close. He was perfectly
conscious and collected. Happily there was no stain of murder on his
soul: he had merely enticed the child away, and placed him, under an
ingenious pretence, with an acquaintance at Camden-Town; and by this
time both he and his mother were standing, awe-struck and weeping, by
Henry Renshawe's deathbed. He had thrown the child's hat into the
river, and his motive in thus acting appeared to have been a double
one. In the first place, because he thought the boy's likeness to his
father was the chief obstacle to Mrs Irwin's toleration of his
addresses; and next, to bribe her into compliance by a promise to
restore her son. But he could not be deemed accountable for his
actions. 'I think,' he murmured brokenly, 'that the delusion was
partly self-cherished, or of the Evil One. I observed the likeness
long before, but it was not till the--the husband was dying, that the
idea fastened itself upon my aching brain, and grew there. But the
world is passing: forgive me--Ellen--Laura'----He was dead!
The inquest on the cause of death returned, of course, that it was
'accidental;' but I long regretted that I had not been less
precipitate, though perhaps all was for the best--for the sufferer as
well as others. Mr Oxley had died some five weeks previously. This I
found from Renshawe's will, where it was recited as a reason that,
having no relative alive for whom he cared, his property was
bequeathed to Guy's Hospital, charged with L.100 a year to Ellen
Irwin, as long as she lived unmarried. The document was perfectly
coherent; and although written during the height of his monomania,
contained not a word respecting the identity of the youthful widow and
the Laura whose sad fate had first unsettled the testator's reason.