EMANUEL BARTHÉLEMY
Emanuel Barthélemy was a villain of the melodramatic type. Throughout
his stormy and adventurous life he appeared to be fully conscious of
the fact that he was acting a part. He was theatrical in everything
he did; yet the touch of realism was seldom lacking, and he lived and
died without fear. He was tall, strongly-built, with a large head,
thick hair, an expressive cast of countenance; dark, flashing eyes,
and a mouth that was eloquent of the villain's vile, savage temper.
Barthélemy was a revolutionary by profession, utterly unprincipled;
killing because he loved it as a sport, and the times in which he lived
provided him with numerous opportunities to gratify his propensity for
murder. His luck was extraordinary until he ran counter to the English
law, and, although he escaped the death penalty once in England, on
the second occasion he stood his trial for murder he was sentenced and
executed.
Barthélemy was a Frenchman, and in the early part of the nineteenth
century he took part in many revolutions in France. Louis XVIII, who
had been restored to his kingdom by the victory of Waterloo, was
finding it difficult to maintain his dynasty, and Barthélemy was one
of those who objected to his reign. His objection took the extreme
form of shooting dead an unfortunate gendarme in cold blood. This was
Barthélemy's first big venture, and he was sentenced to the galleys for
life as a punishment, being lucky to escape with his life. But the
murderer did not serve his sentence. In 1830 the political party he
favoured succeeded in gaining the upper-hand, and Barthélemy's callous
crime was duly considered to be a "political offence," and accordingly
he was released, along with thousands of genuine victims of the
ruthlessness of the Bourbons.
This was, indeed, a matter for much satisfaction and enjoyment, and
Barthélemy, nothing daunted, threw himself into the fray again. He
became a sort of unofficial police spy, and for years haunted the cafés
where out-at-elbow politicians talked treason and other things.
When a new Chief of Police was appointed the spy lost his situation,
and was compelled to join an active organization which was opposed
to the ambitions of Louis Napoleon, but in 1848 there was again a
revolution, and Louis Napoleon became Napoleon III. The new emperor
treated his defeated opponents with ferocious cruelty, and with
hundreds of other refugees Barthélemy fled to England to live in exile
for the remainder of his life.
From the moment of his arrival in London he took a leading part in the
counsels of the French colony. The refugees never abandoned their hope
that Napoleon III would be driven from the throne of France. Day after
day in poverty they fed on hope and ambition, and Barthélemy was ever
the loudest and most swashbuckling of the optimists. It was observed
that he was never without funds, although he came of a poor and humble
family, but he was so outspoken against the new order of things in
his native country that those who whispered that he was a paid spy in
Napoleon's service were laughed to scorn.
In the course of time some of the refugees formed a small colony near
Englefield Green, Egham, Middlesex, where they established a sort of
country-house for the more respectable of the French exiles--men who
really desired to serve their country, and who believed that Napoleon
III was ruining it.
By some means Barthélemy found his way into the house at Egham, though
his aggressive manner and somewhat uncouth ways were abhorrent to the
majority, who were for the most part ex-officers of the French Army and
Navy. However, his whole-souled hatred of the Emperor of the French was
a passport to their society, and they tolerated him until he became
intolerable.
Barthélemy was by nature and instinct a bully, and his favourite
"argument" when anyone had the temerity to persist in contradicting him
was a blow from his heavy fist. He had a powerful voice, too, and few
persons could talk louder and longer than he, but, like all bullies, it
was the easiest thing in the world for him to lose his temper.
His readiness to murder on sight, however, made him a hero in the eyes
of the riff-raff amongst the refugees, but the better class regarded
him with distrust, and only put up with his "eccentricities" because
the movement was short of men.
Amongst the colony at Egham there was an ex-naval officer of the name
of Cournet. He had served his country well without enriching himself,
and in character and disposition he was the reverse of Barthélemy,
though Cournet, when provoked, was fierce and short-tempered. Still,
he was, as a rule, polite and courteous, and he never originated
a quarrel. The numerous revolutions in France had involved him as
principal in no fewer than fourteen duels, and on every occasion he
had hit his man. He was, therefore, a duellist of renown, and his
reputation amongst the exiles was second to none. Barthélemy did not
like this, and he resolved to depose Cournet from his leadership. To
do this he had to force a duel upon the ex-officer, and one night at
Egham, when Cournet was in his mildest humour, Barthélemy sprang to
his feet and swore that the older man had grossly insulted him. In the
circumstances he considered that Cournet ought to give him the "usual
satisfaction one gentleman owes to another," and that meant a duel.
But Barthélemy had forgotten one thing. He had challenged Cournet,
who, accordingly, had the right to name the weapons. Now, Cournet was
an expert with the pistol, and Barthélemy considered himself equally
expert with the sword. As the challenged party, however, Cournet
selected pistols, and Barthélemy had to abide by his choice.
The duel was fixed for the following day, and Barthélemy passed a night
of terror. He saw himself an easy target for the ex-officer's pistol.
In fact, he was perfectly certain that he was going to his death, and
he did not want to die.
His partisans meanwhile published abroad amongst the French colony in
London the news of the quarrel. It divided them into two camps, each
clamorous for its champion's superiority. Bets were made as to the
result, and at about the time the duel was to take place a crowd of
refugees assembled in Leicester Square to hear the result, just as in
the past the race for the Derby has caused crowds to assemble outside
the offices of sporting papers to await the name of the winner.
The duel was to determine who was the unofficial leader of the
Frenchmen driven into exile by Napoleon III. Cournet's friends,
however, were never uneasy as to the result. They knew that their
man would and must win, but, unfortunately for their principal, they
forgot to take measures to prevent his opponent fighting unfairly.
Barthélemy and his intimates actually tampered with his pistol, the
weapon which had won for him fourteen similar contests. To lessen the
chances of discovery they arranged that Cournet's pistol should go off
the moment the trigger was touched, but not in the direction intended
by its owner, and then when Barthélemy presented his weapon at his
opponent it would misfire, proving that his pistol was defective too.
The misfiring, however, would not forfeit his turn to shoot, and at
the second attempt Barthélemy would have no difficulty in making the
pistol do his bidding. These were the final arrangements, and they were
carried out without a single flaw.
The duellists assembled on Englefield Green, and Cournet won the right
to the first shot. To his astonishment and anger the charge in his
pistol exploded, and the bullet went harmlessly into the air. The
ex-officer was not, however, afraid. He stood rigid whilst Barthélemy
levelled his weapon. It misfired, and Barthélemy had to devote a little
time to setting it right. Then he remembered that the episode provided
him with a chance for a theatrical display. In the best manner of the
stage hero he offered to forego his shot if Cournet would consent to
continue the duel with swords. The ex-officer instantly rejected the
offer, pointing out that if Barthélemy missed he would be entitled
to another shot, and then, he grimly added, he would not miss again.
Barthélemy knew quite well that his opponent spoke only the barest
truth, and without another moment's delay he levelled his pistol and
shot Cournet dead.
It was murder, and murder of the most brutal and disgraceful type, but
none of the seconds realized that. From first to last they had treated
the English law against duelling with the utmost contempt, although
they knew that according to the law of the land they were all murderers.
But they regarded themselves as a French colony owning the laws
of France only, and, leaving poor Cournet lying stark and stiff,
the seconds and Barthélemy went off to London with the intention
of celebrating the victory in the Soho Cafés frequented by their
fellow-countrymen. However, they were not at liberty for long, for at
Waterloo Station they were met by detectives who took them into custody.
That was in 1852, not many years after the abolition of duelling in
England, and, in the circumstances, it was considered wiser by the
authorities to place Barthélemy only on trial for the murder of Cournet.
When the case came on at Kingston-on-Thames all the facts mentioned
above were cited by the prosecution. It was clearly proved that the
contest had not been a duel at all, but a cold-blooded murder on the
part of the prisoner and his accomplices. The tampered pistols were
produced, and the whole of Barthélemy's villainy laid bare; indeed,
Counsel for the prosecution had the easiest of tasks. When the jury
retired there was considerable surprise in Court, for no sensible
person having heard the evidence should have wished for time to
consider his verdict.
The Surrey jury, however, were evidently of opinion that the case
"wasn't so simple as it looked," and they spent some time in their
private room, eventually returning to astound a packed Court by
declaring their verdict to be one of manslaughter. Of course, there
was no help for it, and instead of the scaffold Barthélemy received a
nominal sentence, and was free again shortly afterwards.
The verdict of the jury--which in plain language meant that, in their
opinion, the duel had been fairly fought--greatly enhanced Barthélemy's
reputation amongst his countrymen. The better-disposed, however,
avoided him, but in the purlieus of Soho it was considered an honour to
stand the "hero" of Englefield Green a drink, or, when funds permitted,
to offer him dinner. Barthélemy was undisputed king of the bullies now,
and he thoroughly enjoyed his triumph. For some months he was lionized,
and he did considerable entertaining in return, providing plenty of
food and wine, particularly the latter.
It was said that his object was to make certain men speak freely and
without thinking, and it was remarkable how well informed the Paris
secret police were of the movements and doings of the principal members
of the French colony in London about this time. But if Barthélemy was
suspected of being their agent there was no proof against him, and
the majority of those who knew him unreservedly accepted him as a
pure-minded and high-souled patriot.
But gradually Barthélemy's funds ran out, and his borrowing powers
showed signs of appreciable decline. The aggressive theatricalism of
his manner remained, and he began to be something of a lady-killer. But
most of the time he was vulgarly hard-up, and he detested poverty.
Some time in the year 1854 he came into the life of a tall, handsome
girl who spoke French with an English accent. Who this girl was has
never been discovered. She came on to the stage, as it were, with
Barthélemy to take part in a tragedy that was to cost the villain his
life, and when the drama was over she was never seen again, although
the police of half a dozen countries devoted weeks to searching for her.
The girl was undoubtedly pretty, and she fell in love with Barthélemy,
and, according to him, she told him a moving and pathetic story of
neglect and ill-treatment by her own father. Her father, she declared,
was Mr. George Moore, a well-to-do mineral water manufacturer, who
lived at 73, Warren Street, Fitzroy Square, in the dull and dreary
neighbourhood of Tottenham Court Road. She said he had promised to make
her a comfortable allowance, but had failed to keep his word, and she
implored Barthélemy to see that justice was done her.
Whether the murderer's statement was an invention or not we have no
means of knowing, but he did call on Mr. Moore, and he took the girl
with him, and the visit culminated in a terrible tragedy.
When the servant opened the door to the visitors she noticed that the
lady wore a thick mantle and was heavily veiled. They passed upstairs
to Mr. Moore's private room and were cordially received, for afterwards
three siphons of lemonade were found on a table with three glasses. It
may be mentioned that in addition to Mr. Moore and his female servant
the only other resident in the house was a young grandchild of the
tenant's.
For a few minutes Mr. Moore and his visitors chatted amicably--it was
never known what passed between them--Barthélemy gave his version, but
he was, amongst other things, a professional liar, and his word cannot
be accepted. Mr. Moore undoubtedly received them in the friendliest
manner, and he must have had a good reason for doing so. Who was
the mysterious girl heavily veiled? What part did she take in the
conversation that led up to the double murder?
Barthélemy's version was that he politely requested Mr. Moore to deal
fairly by his own daughter, whom he intended to make his wife. Of
course, as is the custom in France, the Frenchman pointed out that
the bride must have a dowry. It was essential to the success of the
matrimonial adventure that the wife should be in a position to support
her husband. In this case the husband-to-be was the type that does not
like work.
Perhaps Barthélemy's statement was true except in one particular. The
mysterious lady may not have been the daughter of the manufacturer, but
it is credible that Barthélemy may have planned the whole affair in
order to blackmail Mr. Moore. No doubt he induced the girl to pose as
the injured daughter, and it is conceivable that he coached her into
acting the part of the grief-stricken woman whose mother was betrayed
and deserted.
Mr. Moore listened to the demand for a settlement on the girl who
said she was his daughter and then curtly declined to pay a penny.
Barthélemy threatened him with loss of reputation and its twin,
respectability. What would his friends think of him? The older man
laughed contemptuously. He was not going to yield to a pair of
blackmailers, and he told them to clear out of his house as quickly as
possible.
All three by now would be on their feet, Barthélemy and Mr. Moore face
to face, the former's eyes flashing, his pose theatrical; and the girl
in the background watching, her face hidden by the heavy folds of her
veil. The two men would be exchanging angry words, their tempers rising
every moment until it would seem that they must be overheard by anybody
in the street. But the blackmailer did not wish matters to go as far
as that, and he suddenly ended the altercation by smashing Mr. Moore's
head in with a blow from a loaded stick.
The unfortunate merchant collapsed in a heap on the floor, but he was
by no means unconscious, and he shouted for help until his servant
realized that her master was in danger. Throwing open the front door,
she screamed in terror until the whole street was roused. A policeman
came running towards her, and she gasped out what she knew.
It was obvious that the murderer would not attempt to leave by the
front door, and as the only other means of exit was by way of the
backyard and over certain walls the officer--Collard by name--who had
served in the army and was a very brave man, without thinking of the
risk or waiting for assistance, dashed round to the back of the house
to intercept the Frenchman and his female companion. A small crowd
guarded the front of the building, all of them valiantly prepared to
take any risk because there were fifty of them to share it.
Meanwhile Barthélemy, realizing that he had killed Moore, and that the
whole neighbourhood was roused, sought desperately for a way of escape.
In the crisis he thought only of himself, and, without a word to the
girl, he rushed from the room, darted downstairs and into the yard,
climbed a wall at the back and jumped over, to find himself in the arms
of the policeman.
The two men rolled and struggled in the road, the officer undismayed by
Barthélemy's superiority in height and strength. Collard more than held
his own, but Barthélemy, as in the case of his duel with Cournet, was
not going to fight fairly. He drew his pistol the moment he was able to
release one hand, and with the greatest deliberation fired twice into
the body of his opponent.
There were several eye-witnesses of the crime, but no one appears to
have attempted to detain the murderer, and Barthélemy would have got
away if, just as Collard had fallen back with a groan, more police had
not arrived on the scene. The Frenchman was speedily overcome by them
and disarmed.
It had been a breathlessly exciting time from beginning to end, and it
was not until Barthélemy was being taken to prison that it occurred to
his captors to search for his female companion. She had not left the
house by the front door, for there had been some one on guard there all
the time, and now the police entered, expecting to find her hiding in
one of the rooms at the top. Every possible exit was closed before the
search began, but despite the protracted efforts of the officers of the
law to locate her she was not found. In the room where the interview
with Mr. Moore had taken place they discovered lying near the body of
the murdered man a woman's mantle, the very one which she had worn when
admitted by the servant, as the latter confirmed.
How had she escaped? If she had gone by the back way she could not have
failed to attract the attention of the crowd which had assembled when
Collard had tackled Barthélemy. Besides it was almost impossible for a
girl to climb the wall unaided.
The authorities quickly discounted the theory of escape by the back,
and in the end it was generally believed that the girl had come
prepared for the tragedy, and that she had dressed herself in such a
way that by discarding her outer garment she would look absolutely
different from the person who had entered with Barthélemy. She must,
therefore, have slipped off her cloak, and mingled with the crowd in
the hall, unobserved in the general excitement.
It was a most extraordinary feature of the case that the girl was never
seen again. Not a trace of her could be found, and the united exertions
of the English and Continental police failed to furnish a clue to her
identity. It was conjectured that the girl had left England within a
dozen hours of Barthélemy's arrest. As the only person who could have
told the story of Mr. Moore's murder and the reasons which led up to
it, she would have been a most valuable witness, but, as she did not
come forward, the tragedy remained enveloped in mystery.
Collard, the brave policeman, was in a dying condition when taken to
the hospital, and as his end was approaching it was deemed advisable
that he should give his version of the struggle in the presence of
Barthélemy. The prisoner was conveyed to the hospital where Collard,
barely conscious, denounced him as his assassin.
The Frenchman stood with arms folded, and steadily surveyed Collard's
face. It was merely a pose, of course, but it was a carefully prepared
one, for Barthélemy never admitted that the unlucky officer had any
ground for disliking him! He described the firing of his revolver as an
accident, and declared that when a man is trying to make his escape he
is justified in using any weapon to further his ends.
The policeman briefly told how he had tried to arrest Barthélemy, and
when the statement had been taken down in writing and read over to the
dying man Barthélemy was removed.
Collard died a couple of hours later, and when his death was notified
the authorities decided to place Barthélemy on trial for the murder of
the policeman, and not for the crime of having killed Mr. Moore. The
reason for this was that no one except the girl who had vanished had
seen the murder of Mr. Moore, whereas there were several persons who
had been spectators of the second murder.
The police now began to investigate Barthélemy's life, and by the time
the prisoner came to stand his trial at the Old Bailey were certain
that the motive for the murder of Mr. Moore was robbery and nothing
else. The mineral water manufacturer was in the habit of keeping a
fairly large sum of money in the house, and Barthélemy had evidently
brought his female companion with the object of using her as a bait
to draw Mr. Moore's attention away from himself. If the merchant
should become engrossed in the girl Barthélemy would be able to slip
out of the room unobserved and commit the theft. This was what he
intended should happen, but apparently Mr. Moore's suspicions had
been unexpectedly aroused before Barthélemy could act, and in a vain
effort to save himself, and also to obtain the plunder, Barthélemy had
committed murder, only to find himself compelled to take a second human
life. This was the official version of a tragic interview, but, as it
was based entirely on conjecture, it was not universally accepted.
To say that Emanuel Barthélemy enjoyed his trial for murder at the
Old Bailey is not an exaggeration. He revelled in the role of first
villain in a piece which drew all London. As the hero of the duel at
Egham and the subsequent trial at Kingston, he was already something
of a celebrity. His achievements in France as a revolutionary were the
subject of common gossip, and that they did not belie the character of
the man was obvious from the attitude of studied bravado he maintained
throughout the trial. He always referred to the double murder as "the
affair," and while he politely expressed regret that "the affair"
should have caused inconvenience to the policeman Collard, yet he could
not in justice to himself, admit that there was anything in his conduct
deserving of censure. He had only fired in self-defence, and no one
ought to blame him for that.
The decision of the authorities to make the murder of Collard the
only charge provided the defence with their one chance. Counsel for
the prisoner ingeniously argued that at the worst Barthélemy had been
guilty of manslaughter only. He had fired at Collard with the object of
facilitating his escape. There had been no quarrel between the prisoner
and his victim; they were perfect strangers, and the policeman's death
was really an accident, as Barthélemy had only intended to injure him.
Barthélemy held his head high all through the trial, and there
was plenty of the "flashing eye" business and gesture of contempt
interludes to enliven the proceedings. He took up the attitude of one
who does not fear death, and, considering that this was his third
trial for murder and that he had escaped twice, he had some reason for
assuming that he was not meant to die upon the scaffold.
The Old Bailey jury, however, proved somewhat more sophisticated than
the Kingston jury, and, without hesitation, they rejected the subtle
theories of counsel for the defence. The fact could never be obscured
that Collard had been murdered by Barthélemy, and their immediate and
unanimous verdict was that the prisoner was guilty. The usual sentence
of death followed, and Barthélemy received it with a mocking bow. He
did not care, and he was not afraid.
He knew that there was no chance of a reprieve, and while he awaited
execution he conducted himself quietly, giving no trouble to the
prison authorities. He declared himself an atheist and declined to
receive a priest of his own nationality. When the chaplain managed to
speak a few words of admonition he answered with a laugh:
"I don't want God to save my soul. If there is a God let him save my
body by opening the prison doors. That's all I ask."
As the time grew shorter, however, Barthélemy became anxious about
something, but it was not his soul. Sending for the Governor he
declared that the only cause of uneasiness was a fear lest after his
death his clothes should be exhibited at Madame Tussaud's! The Governor
reassured him by promising him that they would not, and once more the
convict's mind was at rest, and he faced eternity calmly.
Calcraft was the executioner, and Barthélemy made his acquaintance with
a cynical smile.
"I have one thing to ask of you--do it quickly," he said, on the
morning of his execution, January 22nd, 1855.
The grim-visaged executioner nodded. Barthélemy was undoubtedly a type
of murderer not often met with even by a man with Calcraft's experience.
When the Frenchman stepped on to the scaffold he surveyed the crowd
with a cool stare, slightly contemptuous of their interest and
excitement. In his opinion death was not worth all this display. He was
treating it with the indifference it merited.
"Now I shall know the secret," he said, as the rope was placed around
his neck. A few minutes later he was dead.