JAMES GREENACRE
According to his own description of himself, James Greenacre was a
very respectable grocer, a lenient creditor, and one of the most
popular residents in the parish of Camberwell; and to prove the latter
statement he pointed to the fact that he had been elected one of the
overseers of the parish by a substantial majority.
But the plain truth is that, during the greater part of the
fifty-two years which comprised his span of life, Greenacre was a
hypocritical scoundrel who preached virtue and practised vice and whose
egregious vanity found an outlet in seconding the notoriety-seeking
eccentricities of politicians of the Daniel Whittle Harvey type.
Greenacre presided at Harvey's meetings when the latter was Radical
candidate for Southwark, and there is a certain grim humour in the
fact that three years after Greenacre was executed for murder his
political confrère was appointed commissioner of the metropolitan
police. Greenacre was prospering when an offence against the inland
revenue entailed unpremeditated emigration to America, and after a
brief sojourn in New York and Boston he returned to London in 1835 and
began the manufacture of "an infallible remedy for throat and chest
disorders." He was struggling to make this venture pay when he met
Hannah Browne.
Greenacre had regained his reputation for solvency when he astonished
his numerous friends by hinting that he would not mind undergoing the
ordeal of matrimony if a woman with plenty of money could be found for
him. He said that, as he was a rich man, it would be only fair if the
other party to the contract brought a fair fortune into the common
pool. In fact, with him marriage was a business deal and nothing else,
and he made no secret of his opinion.
[Illustration: JAMES GREENACRE.
SARAH GALE & CHILD.]
There were plenty of girls and matrons in Camberwell who would not have
objected to becoming Mrs. James Greenacre, but they all lacked the
necessary qualification for the partner of the prosperous quack and
politician, and their dreams of wealth soon faded. Greenacre, however,
kept a sharp lookout, and one evening he casually made the acquaintance
of a widow named Hannah Browne. She was between thirty-five and forty
and ever since childhood had toiled laboriously. Even a short spell of
married life had brought her no relief, for the late Mr. Browne had had
an incurable objection to work, and his unfortunate wife had been the
breadwinner for both of them. But Mrs. Browne was apparently a cheerful
and free-from-care person when she was introduced to the avaricious
rascal. If she was not exactly a beauty, she had features which were
pleasing, and she possessed sufficient womanly tact to make the most
of Greenacre's weak points. She flattered him as much as she could;
dwelt on his popularity and his fearlessness as a politician--he was a
stentor of the street-corner--and, doubtless, predicted that one day he
would be a Member of Parliament. He swallowed the flattery, large as
the doses were; but, while he liked Mrs. Browne for the sensible woman
that she was, he did not forget the qualification he demanded from
the person who aspired to become his wife. He had been particularly
touched, however, by her references to his fame as a politician, for
Greenacre was a self-styled champion of the people, and in Camberwell
his voice was often raised in denunciation of those eminent
statesmen with whose views he did not agree. It was a time of general
unrest in home affairs, and four years previously the great Reform
Bill of 1832 had started the movement which eventually was to give the
electors the complete control of Parliament.
Mrs. Browne resolved to marry the grocer and share his savings, and to
impress Greenacre she invented a story of house property which she, a
helpless widow, found difficult to manage. She told him she had been
left some houses by Mr. Browne and that these with her savings made her
fairly well off. Greenacre succumbed to the temptation; proposed and
was accepted.
It was now late autumn, Christmas was approaching, and Hannah Browne
complained of feeling lonely. Her only relative, a brother, who lived
near Tottenham Court Road, had his own interests, and she was without a
real friend. The widow's object was to get the marriage ceremony over
as quickly as possible, for every day's delay increased the danger of
Greenacre's discovery of her lies. She was confident that once she was
his wife she would be all right. He might be angry; perhaps threaten
her; but his standing in Camberwell would compel him to accept her as
his wife and give her the shelter of his house, and she and Time would
do the rest. Anyhow, the risk was small compared with the benefits to
be gained by a successful issue to her plot. She had had enough of hard
work, poverty and loneliness. So all through the courtship she lied
and lied, and the mercenary rogue believed her because he wanted those
houses and meant to have them at any price.
Urged by him Hannah Browne named a day for the wedding--the last
Wednesday of the year, 1836--and to celebrate her decision Greenacre
invited her to dine with him on Christmas Eve at his own house. He
promised her that his housekeeper, Sarah Gale, would prepare a meal
which would do credit to the occasion, and Hannah gladly accepted,
delighted as she was at the success of her scheme to secure a
well-to-do husband.
What would her brother and his family say now? She glowed with
gratification when she pictured their amazement when she told them that
she was the wife of a prosperous trader and property-owner! The years
of humiliation would be wiped out by her second marriage. Her first had
been a failure, but the second would more than compensate for it.
In the early part of the day before Christmas she met several
acquaintances, in whom she confided her secret, bubbling over with
pride as she told it. They congratulated her and passed on, probably
not giving the subject another thought. Hannah Browne had always been
ambitious, and her tale of a rich husband was received with disbelief.
Nevertheless, those casual meetings on Christmas Eve proved of more
than ordinary interest some three months later. She had already
intimated to her brother that James Greenacre was to be her husband,
and the grocer had met his future brother-in-law once. Greenacre,
however, was in a far better position than Gay, and did not trouble to
cultivate his acquaintance. On his part, Gay was only too pleased to
learn that some one was willing to take his sister off his hands, and
he felt indebted to Greenacre and did not resent his indifference to
him after their first meeting.
But something very important happened between the fixing of the date of
the ceremony and the dinner at Carpenters Buildings, Camberwell, and
that was the discovery by Greenacre that Hannah Browne was actually
penniless. It came to him with all the force of a knock-down blow, and
he perspired as he thought how near he had been to entering into a
contract to provide another man's daughter with board and lodging for
life. He trembled as he estimated how much that would have cost him;
but when his surprise and nervousness went a fierce hatred of the
deceiver took possession of his small and mean soul.
Hannah Browne had lied to him. She was penniless; indeed, she had been
compelled to borrow small sums of money from casual acquaintances on
the security of her forthcoming marriage to him. The respectable grocer
and popular overseer went black with rage. His housekeeper, who had
contemplated the marriage with dismay because it was certain that it
would lead to the disinheritance of her child, of whom her employer
was the father, fed his anger with the fuel of innuendo and jeers. She
blackened Hannah's character, declared that the widow would make him
the laughing-stock of Camberwell, and, if he declined to marry her,
would most likely either try blackmail or sue him for damages.
The ambitious street-corner politician winced at the prospect of the
public ridicule her disclosures would earn for him; the greedy grocer
shrank from having to pay out real red gold for breach of promise.
"She's coming to dinner to-night," whispered Sarah Gale, the tight
mouth and the small glittering eyes telling their own story of
insensate hatred of the woman who had been selected to supplant her.
Greenacre looked into the face of his temptress, and instantly realized
that if he wanted an accomplice in any crime here was one whom he could
trust, even with his life.
"I don't want to see her," he said, turning away from the woman.
"When she calls send her away. She'll guess by that that I've found
everything out."
"She will not go away quietly," said Sarah Gale. "And if I give her a
message like that she'll force her way in. What'll the neighbours say
if they find a woman screaming outside your house on Christmas Eve?
Better let her in. You can give her a good talking to. She deserves
something for them lies she's been telling you."
He would have laughed to scorn the suggestion that he was a criminal,
if the accusation had been made at that moment. Perhaps, he had been
guilty in the past of giving short weight to his customers, and now and
then in his anxiety to strike a bargain he may not have dealt fairly
with his friends, but these were venial sins, and he believed himself
to be a thoroughly respectable citizen; yet greed of gold was going to
turn him into a calculating and cold-blooded criminal that very night.
When Hannah Browne arrived wearing her best clothes she was admitted
by Sarah Gale, who must have smiled grimly when she saw the visitor's
pleased expression.
The table was already prepared, and nothing remained but to serve up
the banquet. But Greenacre, who had intended not to speak until after
dinner, was unable to restrain himself, and Hannah had not been two
minutes in the room when he burst into a torrent of angry words.
The widow started to her feet, listened for a few moments in silence,
and then laughed mockingly. Now that the truth was known she only
jeered at him, boasting of her success in having thrown dust in his
eyes for so long. She answered him with threat for threat, and swore
that she would make him keep his promise to marry her. Greenacre was
provoked to madness, and, losing control of himself, he picked up
a rolling-pin, and in a fury struck her with it. As she dropped to
the floor Sarah Gale stole into the room on tiptoe, and, coming to
the murderer's side, stood looking down at the corpse, elated by the
knowledge that Greenacre would never be able to get rid of her now;
in fact would be in her power all his life. He could not speak or
move. The blood on the floor hypnotized him. He was a murderer, and if
he were caught he would be hanged by the neck until he was dead. He
shuddered convulsively at the thought.
The woman touched him on the shoulder.
"Why should anyone know?" she said, in a whisper that sounded like
a croak. "Let us get rid of the body. Hannah had no real friends.
There'll be no one to make awkward inquiries."
Her voice roused him and he pulled himself together. The fear of
the hangman was the greatest terror of all, and now dread of the
consequences transformed him into a cunning, calculating villain.
With the help of Sarah Gale he divided the body into three parts--head,
trunk and legs. Each meant a separate journey to a different part of
London, for he believed that if he hid the remains in three places far
apart from each other discovery and identification would be impossible.
One or possibly two of the ghastly parcels might be unearthed, but it
was out of the question that all three would be found and put together.
For several hours the guilty couple laboured to remove all traces of
the crime, and Christmas Day dawned with the parcels ready for disposal.
Wrapping the head in a silk handkerchief, he journeyed by omnibus into
the city; from there he went to Stepney, and, reaching the Regent's
Canal, he took a walk along the bank until he came to a more than
usually deserted spot. Here he flung the head into the water, taking
care to retain the silk handkerchief, for even in the hour of danger
and stress he could remember that it had cost him several shillings.
No murderer ever spent a more ghastly Christmas than James Greenacre
did, but he was by now quite callous. The second journey enabled him to
dispose of the legs by flinging them into a ditch in Coldharbour Lane,
not very far from his house. The disposal of the trunk, however, was
the most difficult of all. It made a very heavy parcel, and Greenacre,
with extraordinary daring, did not pack it in a box and attempt to get
rid of it that way. He wrapped it up in cloth and paper, and, carrying
it himself into the street, found a passing carter, who gave him a lift
until he was a couple of miles from Camberwell. Then the murderer took
a cab, and, after two or three incidents which would have unnerved most
men, he reached a lonely spot in Kilburn which he considered would make
an ideal hiding-place.
The threefold task completed he returned home quite satisfied with
himself. If the worst happened and the three parcels were found, the
finder of the trunk at Kilburn would never dream of inquiring at
Stepney for the head, or at Camberwell for the legs. He argued that
the public would make three mysteries out of the three parts and never
think of associating all with one crime.
Greenacre began the new year with a feeling of relief and security.
His mistress, Sarah Gale, instead of being able to hold a threat over
him, found herself compelled to keep silent for her own sake as well
as his. She was his accomplice, and, therefore, equally guilty in the
eyes of the law. Thus she had the best of reasons for forgetting the
Christmas Eve tragedy, and the respectable grocer, quite unperturbed,
went to reside in another London suburb and continued to deal out
his "amalgamated candy" to the credulous and eloquently describe its
healing qualities.
Despite his first mistake, however, Greenacre had not abandoned the
idea of marriage, and he speculated in an advertisement in the "Times,"
taking precautions to disguise his real intentions. He advertised to
the effect that he required a partner with at least three hundred
pounds to help him to place on the market a new washing-machine, of
which he was the sole inventor. Of course it was a lie. Greenacre
wished to get into correspondence with a woman of means, and, in his
opinion, this was the surest way, for any female who answered his
advertisement would possess at least three hundred pounds, and the
chances were that the majority of correspondents would make a more
detailed reference to the means they possessed.
A lady with considerable savings did reply to the advertisement, and
Greenacre promptly changed his letters from business communications
into ardent protestations of respect and admiration. Encouraged by the
lady's failure to resent the freedom of his language, he boldly asked
her to marry him, but, fortunately for herself, she promptly rejected
his offer.
But, meanwhile, something had occurred elsewhere which was to have a
fatal result for the murderer. On December 28th, 1836, the trunk of
Hannah Browne's body had been found at Kilburn. There was nothing to
identify it, and it was ordered to be preserved for a certain time in
case anyone with a missing friend or relation should come forward and
recognize it. The only clue--and that a very tiny one--was that the
remains were wrapped in a blue cotton frock, which had evidently been
worn by a child.
Ten days afterwards a lock-keeper on the Regent's Canal pulled the head
of a woman out of the water. A preliminary examination showed that it
bore bruises which must have been inflicted before death. The most
important discovery, however, was that the head had been roughly sawn
from the body. Now, the trunk found at Kilburn bore similar traces
of sawing, and that drew the attention of the Stepney police to the
coincidence. They took the head to Kilburn, and there it was seen that
it fitted the trunk exactly. It was now possible to have the body
identified, but, although scores of persons came and viewed the legless
corpse, it remained unnamed.
Two months were to pass before the body was to be completed. A
basket-maker was cutting osiers in Coldharbour Lane when he saw
a parcel floating in the ditch at his feet. He recovered it and
examined the contents--two legs. These he conveyed to the police, who
immediately placed them in the mortuary where the rest of Mrs. Browne's
remains were.
In this way Greenacre's plans were confounded. He had staked everything
against the possibility of the three parts ever finding their way into
the same room, but within three months of the crime the complete body
lay awaiting identification.
The police were not a highly-organized force in the year that
witnessed the death of William IV and the accession of Queen Victoria.
Out-of-date methods prevailed, and the most celebrated of the
detectives were now old men, the remnants of a system that was soon to
be swept away. But the treble discovery aroused the authorities. The
mangled remains of the poor woman were proof positive that there was a
dangerous beast at large in London, and the police concentrated their
efforts on the task of finding someone who could identify the corpse,
certain that once the woman's name was known the arrest of her murderer
would follow speedily.
However, the days went, and failure seemed certain when Gay, Hannah
Browne's brother, called to view the body. He had not seen his sister
for over three months, and he was getting anxious about her. At first
sight of the corpse he declared that it was his sister's and that when
he had last seen her she was going to dine with James Greenacre on
Christmas Eve.
"Did she keep that appointment?" asked the officer in charge of the
case.
"No, she didn't," answered Gay. "At least, Mr. Greenacre came to me
late on Christmas Eve and said that Hannah had not turned up. He
explained that she probably had been afraid to call and dine with him
because he had found her out in some lies."
"Then this Mr. Greenacre will be unable to help us to trace her
movements last Christmas Eve?" said the detective.
"I suppose so," said the brother of the murdered woman. "He and Hannah
quarrelled. He thought she had a lot of money, and when he learnt that
she was penniless he told her he'd never see her again."
Gay's conduct hitherto had not been creditable. He had accepted with
complacence Greenacre's account of his quarrel with his sister and
had not troubled to confirm it by a little independent investigation,
and his feeble excuse was that he was afraid that if he took too much
interest in Hannah she would insist on his keeping her, and, as he
found it difficult to provide for his own and his family's wants, he
did not wish to be saddled with additional expense.
The detectives now turned their attention to James Greenacre, and
several interesting facts instantly came to light. The people next
door said that they had been disturbed on Christmas Eve by the sound
of a scuffle in Greenacre's house, and the latter's unexpected removal
had caused some talk. Then the tenants who had taken his old house had
commented on the smell of brimstone when first looking over it. In
their opinion it had been thoroughly fumigated, and this was confirmed
by a woman who had seen Mrs. Gale giving the house a most drastic
cleaning a few days after Christmas, an unusual devotion to work which
had excited remarks.
There was no hurry on the part of the detectives to arrest Greenacre.
They believed that he did not know that suspicion had fastened on him.
His demeanour was one of unruffled confidence, and the semi-public life
he led favoured those whose duty it was to shadow him and rendered it
easy for them to carry out their instructions. But Greenacre was fully
aware of their designs on his liberty, and with considerable cleverness
he nearly succeeded in outwitting them, for the unruffled grocer by day
spent his nights preparing for flight, and he was arrested only a few
hours before he was on the point of leaving England for America. He
had booked his passage, and already some of his luggage was on board
the ship, but it was quickly recovered by the police, and a thorough
examination was made of his property.
The investigation produced a plentiful crop of clues. Several
incriminating articles were found, the principal one being the missing
part of the blue cotton frock which had been used to cover the trunk
of Hannah Browne's body. In addition to this and other unmistakable
evidence, his sudden resolve to leave the country told against him.
He was not the man to realize property at a heavy loss and decamp to
America without a very strong reason. It was proved that when he had
heard of the identification of the body of his victim he had hastily
sold his property and his business, binding the purchasers to secrecy
so that he might get away unobserved.
Greenacre did not waste time in denying that he was with Hannah Browne
on the night she died. He knew that the evidence against him was very
strong, and he thought it wiser to concoct a story of an accidental
death, due to horseplay--an explanation, which was, of course,
instantly rejected. Then he offered another version, which made the
woman's death the result of an accidental blow by himself which was
never meant to be fatal. This admission gradually led up to the truth,
and then the whole story, as told here, was disclosed.
The most remarkable feature of Greenacre's conduct after his arrest
was his concern for the woman who had been his mistress as well as
his housekeeper. She was the mother of his four-year-old son, but,
hitherto, Greenacre had treated neither with especial kindness, and it
was her arrest which developed his latent love for her. When he was
informed that she, too, had been taken into custody and would be placed
in the dock with him to answer the capital charge, he swore that she
was entirely innocent. When he was disbelieved he raved and carried on
like a madman, expressing his willingness to take all the blame for the
crime if the woman was set free; but the authorities were adamant. On
no consideration would they agree to release Sarah Gale; the woman was
held a prisoner; and when she and Greenacre met again they stood side
by side in the dock.
The trial was one-sided, Greenacre's statement concerning the death
of Hannah Browne constituting, in reality, a confession. The defence,
such as it was, struggled feebly to win the sympathies of the jury. The
male prisoner's alleged respectability was dwelt upon by his counsel,
who endeavoured to prove that a man of his character and disposition
could not have been guilty of such a horrible crime. As Greenacre,
however, had admitted that he had dissected and disposed of the body
this plea was rejected, for only the most hardened of criminals could
have cut a human body up and carted it in sections about London. In
the circumstances, he never had a chance of escaping, and the verdict
of the jury was everybody's opinion, including that of the presiding
judges, Tindal, Coleridge and Coltman.
The woman was found guilty of murder, too, but the law was satisfied
with the execution of the actual murderer, and Sarah Gale's punishment
was transportation beyond the seas for life. Undoubtedly she took a
very prominent part in the crime, and but for her readiness to aid and
abet Greenacre the latter would not have murdered the woman who had
tried to trick him into marriage and paid for her failure with her life.
James Greenacre was executed publicly on May 2nd, 1837, and a
contemporary account of the scene makes it difficult to believe that
thirty-one years were to pass before such a spectacle became impossible.
"The Old Bailey and every spot which could command a view
of the spot were crowded to excess," wrote an anonymous
journalist. "From the hour of twelve on Monday night up to the
moment the execution took place, the Old Bailey presented one
living mass of human beings. Every house which commanded a
view of the spot was filled by well-dressed men and women, who
paid from five shillings to ten shillings for a seat. A great
number of gentlemen were admitted within the walls of Newgate,
by orders of the sheriffs, anxious to witness the last moments
of the convict. During the whole of Monday night the area in
front of Newgate was a crowded scene of bustle and confusion,
and the public-houses and the coffee-shops were never closed.
The local officers connected with the watch had plenty of
business on their hands in consequence of the thefts that were
committed, and the broils and pugilistic encounters of many
a nocturnal adventurer. Divers windows were broken and many
heads felt the force of a constable's truncheon. The language
of the vast multitude was vile in the highest degree, and songs
of a libidinous nature were chanted. At one period of the
night the mob bid open defiance to the whole posse of watchmen
and constables, and not only rescued thieves, but broke the
watch-house windows. Vehicles of every description drove up
in quick succession. The passengers, seemingly having their
curiosity gratified by the gloomy aspect of the walls, retired
to make way for another train. Occasionally a carriage full of
gentlemen, and, we believe, in some instances accompanied by
ladies, mingled for a moment amidst the eager crowd.... All
who had procured places in the windows commanding a view of
the place of execution made sure of their seats by occupying
them several hours before the dismal preparations commenced.
There was not at any time of the night less than two thousand
persons in the street. Several persons remained all night
clinging to the lamp-posts. The occupier of any house that had
still a seat undisposed of informed the public of the vacancy
by announcing the fact on large placards posted on the walls,
and forthwith the rush of competitors was greater than on any
former occasion."
Inside the gaol the condemned man was being exhibited to the
curiosity-mongers who had sufficient influence with the sheriffs to
obtain the right to inspect and torment the convict, and an hour before
his death Greenacre was cross-examined by an amateur theologian and
caused "great grief" to the company by hinting that Christ was not
divine.
The contemporary report continues:
"The culprit having been pinioned, Mr. Cope handed him over,
with the death-warrant, to the sheriffs to see execution done
upon him. About five minutes before eight the procession
was formed and began to move towards the gallows.... On his
appearance outside he was greeted with a storm of terrific
yells and hisses, mingled with groans, cheers and other
expressions of reproach, revenge, hatred and contumely.... As
the body hung quivering in mortal agonies, the eyes of the
assembled thousands were riveted upon the swaying corpse with a
kind of satisfaction, and all seemed pleased with the removal
of such a blood-stained murderer from the land."
In the condemned cell Greenacre wrote a euphemistic autobiography and
"An Essay on the Human Mind"--both these productions were added to
the archives at Newgate--and between outbursts of piety and blasphemy
he boasted of his popularity with the fair sex--he said he had been
married four times--and seemed to be concerned for the future of Sarah
Gale. She survived him by fifty-one years, eventually dying in 1888 in
Australia, a venerable, white-haired matron who had outlived her sins.