THE TRIAL
It is a most terrible thing for a man of sensibility to stand in the
dock of the Old Bailey before the awful array of Judges, Lord Mayor,
Sheriffs and Aldermen. I know very well that most of the hardened
wretches that stand there have no sense of terror and little of anxiety.
For them the Judge is like that fabled Sister who cuts the thread of
life: they have come to the end of their rope: their time is up: they
are fatalists in a stupid way: the sentence is passed: they bear no
malice against the informer: the game has been played according to the
rules--what more can a man desire? Tyburn awaits them. And afterwards?
They neither know nor do they care.
Early on the morning of the trial, Mr. Dewberry came to see me. He was
cheerful, and rubbed his hands with great satisfaction. 'The case,' he
said, 'is complete. Never was a case more complete or more astonishing
as you shall see.' He would not explain further: he said that walls,
even in Newgate, have ears: that I must rely upon his word. 'Sir,' he
said, 'so much I will explain because it may give you ease. Never has a
man gone forth to be tried for his life, with a greater confidence in
the result than you ought to have. And, with that assurance enter the
Court with a light heart.'
They knocked off my irons before going into Court. Thus relieved, I was
marched along a dismal passage, leading from the prison to the Old
Bailey. The Court was crowded, not so much out of compliment to me, but
because it was bruited abroad among the rogues of St. Giles's that two
of their body were that day about to achieve greatness. They were,
truly: but not in the way that was expected. The crowd, in fact,
consisted chiefly of pickpockets and thieves, with their ladies. And the
heroes of the day were the Bishop and the Captain.
At first, a prisoner entering the court, sees nothing. When the mist
before his eyes clears away he observes the jury being sworn in--one
after the other, they lift the great chained Bible and kiss its leathern
cover, black with ten thousand kisses, and take their seats: he observes
the counsel arranging their papers: the officers of the court standing
about and the crowd in the gallery and about the doors: the box for the
witnesses--my heart sank when I saw sitting together my four enemies,
looking calm and assured, as if there was no doubt possible as to the
results. Nay, the Captain seemed unable to repress or to conceal the
pride he felt in imagination, at thinking of the figure he should cut.
Mr. Ramage, my own witness, I saw modestly sitting in a corner. Tom
Shirley, another witness for me, if he would prove of any use, was also
there. As I entered the dock Mr. Probus turned and his lips moved as if
he was speaking to Tom. I could not hear what he said, but I knew it,
without the necessity of ears. He said, 'Sir, I saw you in Newgate three
weeks ago. Your friend might have saved his life, had he accepted my
offer. It is now too late.' Then he turned his hatchet face to me and
grinned. Well--he grins no longer. Under the Dock stood Alice, and with
her, closely veiled, Jenny herself. They took my hands: Alice held the
right and Jenny the left. 'Courage, my dear,' said Alice. 'It will soon
be over now.' 'It is all over already,' whispered Jenny. 'There is such
evidence as will astonish you--and the whole world.' She kissed my hand
and dropped a tear upon it. I was to learn afterwards what she meant,
and what were her own sacrifices and perils in bringing forward this
evidence.
Then Mr. Dewberry came bustling up. 'That is your lawyer, Mr. Caterham,
King's Counsel, now arranging his papers. I was with him yesterday. He
will make a great case--a very great case--out of this. The attorney
arranges it all and the higher branch gets the credit of it all. Never
mind. That is your Junior, behind, Mr. Stanton. There's a head for you:
there's an eye. I can always tell what they think of the case by the way
they arrange their papers. The Counsel in front of him is Serjeant
Cosins, King's Counsel, an able man--oh, yes--an able man: he conducts
the prosecution. We shall open his eyes presently. He thinks he has got
an ordinary case to conduct. He will see. He will see.'
Then the Judges came in: the Lord Mayor, Mr. Justice Parker, the
Aldermen, the Recorder, and the Sheriffs. The Lord Mayor sat in the
middle under the great sword of Justice: but the case was conducted by
Mr. Justice Parker, who sat on his right hand. I looked along the row of
faces on the Bench. They all seemed white, cold, stern, hard and
unforgiving. Despite assurances, my heart sank low.
I pass over the reading of the indictment, my pleading and the opening
of the case. The Prosecutor said that although it was a most simple
case, which would not occupy the attention of the court very long, it
was at the same time one of the most flagrant and audacious robberies
that had ever been brought before the court of the Old Bailey: that the
facts were few: that he was not aware of any possible line of defence:
'Oh yes,' observed my Counsel, smiling, 'a very possible line of
defence': that he, for one, should be prepared to receive any line of
defence that could be set up. But he thought his learned brother would
not waste the time of the Court.
He then rehearsed the history of the facts and proceeded to call the
witnesses. First he called Samuel Carstairs, Doctor of Divinity (I do
not intend to set down the whole of the evidence given by him or by the
others because you already know it).
The Doctor, with alacrity, stepped into the witness-box: he was clean
shaven, in a new wig, a silken cassock; snow white bands; and a flowing
gown. But that his face was red and his neck swollen and his appearance
fleshy and sensual--things which may sometimes be observed even among
the City Clergy--he presented the appearance of a prosperous
ecclesiastic. For my own part I can never satisfy myself whether he was
in Holy Orders at all. One hopes, for the sake of the Church that he was
not. After kissing the Testament with fervour, he turned an unblushing
front to the Prosecutor. He said that he was a Clergyman, a Doctor of
Divinity, formerly of Trinity College, Dublin, and some time the holder
of certain benefices in the neighbourhood of that city. He deposed that
on the night in question he was making his way through Leicester Fields
to Charing Cross at the time of nine in the evening or thereabouts: that
suddenly a young man rushed out of some dark recess and flourished a
cudgel over him, crying, 'Your money or your life!' That being a man of
peace, as becomes his profession, he instantly complied with the demand
and handed over his purse: that he also cried out either on account of
the extremity of his fear, or for help: that help came in the shape of a
stranger, who felled the ruffian: that they called the watch: carried
the senseless robber to the guard-house, and that the witness's purse
was found in his pocket.
My counsel deferred cross-examining this witness for the present.
Next came the Captain. He, too, stood unabashed while he poured out his
tale of perjury. He assumed the style and title of a Gentleman from the
North, Mr. Ferdinando Fenwick: and he entirely bore out the previous
witness's evidence. My counsel also deferred his cross-examination of
this witness.
Mr. Merridew was the third witness. He followed suit. He deposed that
he was a Sheriff's officer. He had seen the assault and the rescue: he
had also helped to carry the robber to the round house. This witness's
cross-examination was also deferred.
Mr. Probus, attired in black velvet with fine lace ruffles and
neckerchief, so that his respectable appearance could not but impress
the jury, said that he was passing the watch-house, by accident, about
midnight, having been summoned by a client, when he saw an unconscious
figure carried in: that he followed from motives of humanity hoping to
be of use to some fellow Christian: that he then perceived, to his
amazement, that the robber was none other than the son of his old friend
and employer the late Sir Peter Halliday, Alderman and ex-Lord Mayor:
that he saw the worthy clergyman's purse taken from his pocket so that
there could be no doubt of his guilt. He also added that it was four
years and more since Sir Peter had turned his son out of doors, since
when he believed that the young man had earned a precarious living by
playing the fiddle to sailors and such low company.
Then the cross-examination began.
My counsel asked him first, whether he knew any of the three preceding
witnesses. He did not: they were strangers to him. Had he never seen the
man Merridew? He never had. Did not Merridew owe him money? He did not.
He was now attorney to Mr. Matthew Halliday? Had he ever taken the man
Merridew to Mr. Halliday's counting-house? He had not. 'In fact, Mr.
Probus, you know nothing at all about Mr. Merridew?' 'Nothing.' 'And
nothing about the other two men?' 'Nothing.'
'I come now, Mr. Probus, to a question which will astonish the Court.
Will you tell me in what way the prisoner's death will benefit you?'
'In no way.'
'Oh! In no way. Come, Sir, think a little. Collect yourself, I pray you.
You are attorney to Mr. Matthew Halliday. You have lent him money?' No
answer. 'Please answer my question.' No answer. 'Never mind, I shall
find an answer from you before long. Meantime I inform the Jury that you
have lent him £25,000 on the condition that he pays 15 per cent.
interest on £40,000, the sum to be repaid. That is the exact description
of the transaction, I believe?'
He replied unwillingly, 'If you please to say so.'
'Very well. Now your client has spent, or lost, the whole of his money
and yours--do not deny the fact because I am going to prove it
presently. He cannot pay you one farthing. In fact, before long the firm
of Halliday Brothers will become bankrupt.' (There was a movement and a
whisper among the Aldermen and Sheriffs on the Bench.) 'Is this true or
not?' No answer.
'My Lud, I press for an answer. This is a most important question. I can
find an answer from another witness, but I must have an answer from the
witness now in the box.'
'Answer the question immediately, Sir,' said the Judge.
'I do not know.'
'You do not know? Come, Sir, have you been informed, or have you not, by
Mr. Matthew Halliday himself, of his position?'
'I have not.'
'You have not. Mark his answer, gentlemen of the Jury. Do not forget his
statement. He says that he knows nothing and has been told nothing of
his client's present unfortunate condition. Let us go on. The late Sir
Peter Halliday left a large sum of money--£100,000, I believe--to the
survivor of two--either his son or his nephew?'
'That is true.'
If Halliday Brothers becomes bankrupt, your claim would rank with those
of the other creditors?'
'I suppose so.'
'In which case you would get little or nothing of the £40,000. But if
the prisoner could be persuaded to sell his chance of succession before
the declaration of bankruptcy, your client could raise money on that
succession out of which you could be paid in full, if he consented?'
'Yes, if he consented.'
'You have already made three several attempts to make him sell, have you
not?'
'Acting by my client's instructions.'
'The first time, when he refused, you threatened revenge, did you not?'
'I did not.'
'You then clapped him in a debtors' prison on a trumped-up charge of
debt?'
'It was a debt due to an estate placed in my hands.'
'The prisoner denied the debt: said that the instrument was given to him
by the owner, did he not?'
'Perhaps.'
'But you put him in prison and kept him there?'
'I did, acting for my clients, the executors.'
'The next time you called upon him and offered to buy his share was
about six weeks ago?'
'It was, acting on instructions from my client.'
'He refused. You then threatened him again?'
'I did not.'
'Two days afterwards the alleged robbery took place at which you were an
accidental observer?'
'Accidental.'
'I said so--accidental. Now, if this case should prove fatal to the
prisoner, on his death your client, not a bankrupt, would take the whole
of the £100,000?'
'He would.'
'You would then expect to be paid?' No answer. 'I say, you would then
expect to be paid?'
'I should hope to be.'
'In full?'
'I should hope so.'
'Then you would be the better by £40,000 by the execution of the
prisoner?'
'If you put it so, I should.'
'You made a third and last attempt, a few days ago, to obtain his
consent?'
'I did, acting on my client's instructions.'
'When he was in Newgate. There were present two other friends of the
prisoner. You then offered, if he would sign the document, to withdraw
the principal witnesses?'
'I did not.'
'I put it in another way. You promised, if he would sign, that the
principal witnesses should not appear?'
'I did not.'
'You swear that you did not?'
'I swear that I did not.'
'You say that you have no power to withdraw witnesses?'
'I have no power to withdraw witnesses.'
'You have no power over the case at all?'
'None.'
Mr. Caterham sat down. Serjeant Cosins stood up.
'You might be the better by the prisoner's death. You are not however in
any way concerned with the case except as an accidental observer?'
'Not in any way.'
'And you are not in any way acquainted with the witnesses who are
chiefly concerned?'
'Not at all.'
Mr. Probus sat down.
Mr. Caterham called again, the Rev. Dr. Samuel Carstairs.
'My Lud,' he began, 'I must ask that none of the witnesses in this case
be allowed to leave the court without your Ludship's permission.'
The Bishop entered the box, but with much less assurance than he had
previously assumed. And the cross-examination began.
I then understood what Jenny meant when she talked of making the case
complete. He swore again that his name was Carstairs: that he had held
preferment in the county of Dublin: he named, in fact, three places: he
had never used any other name: he was not once called Onslow, at another
time Osborne: at another Oxborough: he knew nothing about these names:
he had never been tried at York for fraud: or at Winchester for
embezzlement: he had never been whipped at the cart-tail at Portsmouth.
As these lies ran out glibly I began to take heart. I looked at Probus:
he was sitting on the bench, his fingers interlaced, cold drops of dew
rising upon his forehead and nose. But the Bishop held out bravely, that
is, with a brazen impudence.
'You know, Doctor, I believe, the Black Jack?'
'A tavern, is it? No, sir, I do not. One of my profession should not be
seen in taverns.'
'Yet surely you know the Black Jack, close to St. Giles's Church?'
'No, sir, I am a stranger in London.'
'Do you know the nickname of the "Bishop"?'
'No.'
'Oh! you never were called the "Bishop"?'
'No.'
'Do you know the gallant gentleman who rescued you?'
'No, I do not.'
'You do not know him? Never met him, I suppose, at the Black Jack?'
'Never.'
'Never? Do you know the other witness, Mr. Merridew?'
'No, I do not.'
'Where were you staying for the night when this romantic incident
happened?'
For the first time the Bishop hesitated. 'I--I--forget,' he said.
'Come, come, you cannot forget so simple a thing, you know. Where were
you staying?'
'It was in a street off the Strand--I forget its name--I am a stranger
to this city.'
'Well--where did you stay last night?'
'In the same street--I forget its name.'
'Not at the Black Jack, St. Giles's?'
He was pressed upon this point, but nothing could be got out of him. He
stuck to the point--he had forgotten the name of the street, and he knew
nothing of the Black Jack.
So he stood down. The Captain was called by the name he gave
himself--Ferdinando Fenwick. He said he had never been known by any
other name, that he had no knowledge of the name of Tom Kestever. He had
never heard that name. Nor did he know of any occasion on which the said
Tom Kestever had been ducked for a pickpocket: flogged for a rogue:
imprisoned and tried on a capital charge for cattle lifting. Oh! Jenny,
the case was well got up, truly. He, too, had never heard of the Black
Jack, and stoutly stood it out that he was a gentleman of Cumberland.
Asked what village or town of Cumberland, he named Whitehaven as the
place in which he was born and had his property--to wit, five farms
contiguous to the town and two or three messuages in the town.
When this evidence was concluded a juryman rose and asked permission of
the Court to put a question to the witness, which was granted him.
'Those farms,' he said, 'are contiguous to Whitehaven? Yes, and you were
born in that town? What was your father by occupation?'
'He was a draper.'
'My lord,' said the Juryman, 'I am myself a native of Whitehaven. I am
the son of the only draper in the town. I am apparently about the same
age as the witness. I have never seen him in the town. There is no
reputable tradesman of that name in the town, or anywhere near it. There
are gentlefolk of the name, but in Northumberland.'
'I wish, Sir,' said the Counsel, 'that I had you in the box.'
'The statement of a Juryman is not evidence,' the Prosecuting Counsel
interposed.
'I fear, my learned brother,' said the Judge, 'that when the Jury
retire, it will become a strong piece of evidence, whatever direction I
may give them.'
The Serjeant declined to re-examine this evidence.
Then my counsel called Mr. Merridew, who very reluctantly got into the
box again.
He denied solemnly that he knew either of the preceding witnesses. He
denied that he knew the Black Jack. He owned, with a pretence at pride,
that he had frequently served his country by informing against rogues
and had taken the reward to which he was entitled. He denied that he
encouraged young fellows to become highwaymen in hopes of securing the
higher reward. He denied that he knew Mr. Probus. He swore that he
should not benefit by the conviction of the prisoner.
You observe that the object of the Counsel was to make everyone plunge
deeper into the mire of perjury. His case was strong indeed, or he would
not have followed this method.
The Counsel then called half a dozen witnesses in succession. They were
turnkeys from York, Winchester, Reading and Portsmouth and other places.
They identified the Rev. Dr. Samuel Carstairs, D.D., as a person
notoriously engaged in frauds for which an educated person was
necessary. He had been imprisoned for two years at Winchester for
embezzlement: for a twelvemonth with a flogging at York for fraud: he
was whipped through the High Street of Portsmouth and down to Point and
back again for similar practices. They also identified the Captain as a
rogue from tender years: hardly a whipping-post anywhere but knew the
sound of his voice: hardly a prison in which he had not passed some of
his time.
And now the case looked brighter. Everyone was interested, from the
Aldermen to the Jury: it was a case of surprises: only Serjeant Cosins
stood with his papers in his hand looking perplexed and annoyed. So far
there was no doubt about the two fellows, the authors of the charge,
being notorious and arrant rogues. A very pitiful figure they cut, as
they sat side by side on the witnesses' bench. Even their own friends in
the gallery were laughing at them, for the admiration of the rogue is
for successful roguery, while for detected roguery he has nothing but
contempt.
Then the Counsel called John Ramage. He said that he was an accountant
in the counting-house of Messrs. Halliday Brothers: that in that
capacity he knew the position of the House: that in two years the
managing partner, Mr. Matthew Halliday, had reduced the business to a
state of insolvency: that they might become bankrupts at any moment:
that creditors were pressing, and the end could not be far off. He went
on to state that he revealed the secrets of his office because he was
informed that the knowledge was necessary for the defence of Mr. William
Halliday, and that the safety and innocence of his late master's only
son were of far more importance to him than the credit of the House. And
here the tears came into his eyes. This, however, was the least
important part of the case. For he went on to depose that the position
of his desk near the door of Mr. Matthew's office enabled him to hear
all that went on: that Mr. Probus was constantly engaged with Mr.
Matthew: that every day there were complaints and quarrels between them:
that Mr. Probus wanted his money back, and that Mr. Matthew could not
pay him: that every day they ended with the regret that they could not
touch this sum of money waiting for the survivor: that every day they
sighed to think what a happy event it would be for them both if Mr.
William Halliday were dead. That, one day, Mr. Probus said that there
were many ways for even a young man to die: he might, for instance, fall
into the hands of the law: to this Mr. Matthew gave no reply, but when
he was alone began to drink. That Mr. Probus returned the next day with
Mr. Merridew, who said that the job was easy and should be done, but he
should expect to stand in: he said that the thing would cost a good
deal, but that, for a thousand pounds, he thought that Mr. Will
Halliday's case might be considered certain. 'When I heard this,' the
witness said, 'I hastened to Lambeth, where Mr. Will was living with his
wife. I could not see him because he was playing for Madame Vallance's
Assembly. I therefore went again to Lambeth the next day, which was
Sunday, and I told him all. While I was telling him, Mr. Probus himself
came. So they put me in the kitchen where I could hear what was said.
Mr. Probus made another effort to persuade Mr. Will to sell his chance
of succession. Then he went away in a rage, threatening things. So I
implored Mr. Will to get out of the way of the villains. He promised:
but it was too late. The next thing I hear is that he has been charged
with highway robbery. Mr. Will--the best of men!'
I now thought my case was going pretty well.
There were, however, other witnesses.
To my amazement Jenny's mother appeared. She was dressed up as a most
respectable widow with a white cap, a black dress, and a white apron.
She curtseyed to the Court and kissed the book with a smack, as if she
enjoyed it.
She said that she was a widow, and respectable: that she kept the Black
Jack, which was much frequented by the residents of St. Giles's. The
Counsel did not press this point but asked her if she knew the Rev. Dr.
Carstairs. She replied that she knew him, under other names, as a
frequenter of her house off and on for many years: that he was
familiarly known as the 'Bishop': that she did not inquire into the
trades of her customers, but that it was understood that the Bishop was
one of those who use their skill in writing for various purposes: for
threatening persons who have been robbed: for offering stolen property
for sale: for demanding money: for forging documents: and other branches
of roguery demanding a knowledge of writing. She showed her own
knowledge of the business by her enumeration of the branches. She said,
further, that the gentleman had slept at the Black Jack every night for
the last two months: that he had a bed there, took his meals there, and
carried on his business there. As regards Mr. Ferdinando Fenwick, she
knew him as the 'Captain,' or as Tom Kestever, and she identified him in
the same way and beyond any power of doubt. As for Merridew, she knew
him very well: he was a thief-taker by profession: he gave his man a
good run and then laid information against him: he encouraged young
rogues and showed them how to advance in their profession: and she
deposed that on a certain day Merridew came to the house where the
Bishop and the Captain were drinking together and sat with them: that
all their talk was about getting a man out of the way: that the Bishop
did not like it, but was told by Mr. Merridew very plainly that he must,
and that he then assented.
Jenny's sister, Doll, next appeared. She was transformed into a young
and pleasing woman with a silver ring for greater respectability. Her
evidence corroborated that of her mother. But she added an important
particular, that one morning when there was no one in the place but the
Bishop and the Captain, Mr. Probus came with Mr. Merridew and sat
conversing with those two gentlemen for a long time.
Then the young fellow called Jack went into the box. By this time the
interest of everyone in the court was intense, because here was the
unrolling of a plot which for audacity and wickedness was perhaps
unequalled. And the wretched man Probus, still writhing in his seat,
cast his eyes to the door in hopes of a chance at flight: in his agony
his wig was pushed back, and the whole of his head exposed to view. I
confess that horror rather than revenge possessed me.
The young fellow called Jack gave his evidence in a straightforward way.
He confessed that he had run away from his native village in consequence
of an unfortunate love affair; that he had come up to town, hoping to
get employment: that he had been taken to the Black Jack by someone who
met him in the street: that he had there been introduced to Mr.
Merridew, who promised to find him work: that in fact he had been
employed by him in shop-lifting and in small street robberies: his
employer, he explained, would go along the street first and make a sign
where he could carry off something: that he was promised promotion to be
a highwayman by Mr. Merridew if he should deserve it: that he had been
told to keep himself in readiness to help in knocking a gentleman on the
head: that the thing was talked over with him by the Bishop and the
Captain: that at the last moment they told him they should want none of
his help. Asked what he should do after giving this evidence, replied
that if Mr. Merridew got off, he should have to enlist in order to save
his neck, which would be as good as gone. More he said, but this was the
most important.
Then Mr. Caterham called Mr. Halliday.
My unfortunate cousin entered the witness-box pale and trembling. In
answer to questions he acknowledged that he had lost the whole of his
fortune and ruined a once noble business in the space of three or four
years. He confessed that his bankruptcy was inevitable: that Probus had
been urgent with him to get his cousin to sell his chance of succession
in order to raise money by which he himself might recover his money:
that he was willing to do so if his cousin would sell: but his cousin
would not. He said that Mr. Probus had come to him stating that a man's
life might be lost in many ways: that, for instance, he might fall into
the hands of the law: that he had brought Mr. Merridew, who offered to
arrange so that his cousin might lose his life in some such way if he
were paid a thousand pounds down; that he would not listen to such
detestable overtures; that he heard of his cousin's arrest: that he had
informed his cousin's attorney of the offer made him by Probus and
Merridew: but he had neither paid nor promised a thousand pounds, or
anything at all: and that he had never been a consenting party to the
plot.
He was allowed to stand down: he remained in the court, trembling and
shivering, as pitiable an object as the wretched conspirators
themselves.
If there had been interest in the case before, judge what it was now in
the appearance of the next witness, for there entered the box none other
than Jenny herself, the bewitching Jenny. She was all lace and ribbons,
as beautiful a creature as one could expect to see anywhere. She smiled
upon the Judge and upon the Lord Mayor: she smiled upon the Jury: she
smiled upon me, the prisoner in the Dock. In answer to the questions put
to her, she answered, in substance: 'My name is Jenny Halliday. I am the
wife of the last witness, Matthew Halliday. I am an actress. I am known
by my maiden name, Jenny Wilmot. As an entertainer, I am known as Madame
Vallance.' There was now the most breathless attention in Court. 'By
birth, I am the daughter of the landlady of the Black Jack. It is a
place of resort of the residents of St. Giles's. Most of them, to my
certain knowledge, probably all, are thieves. I sometimes go there to
see my mother and sister, not to see the frequenters of the place.
Whenever I do go there, I always find the two witnesses who just now
called themselves Carstairs and Fenwick: at the Black Jack they were
always called the Bishop and the Captain. I have always heard, and I
understand, that they are rogues of the deepest dye. The Bishop is not a
clergyman at all: he is so called because he dresses like a clergyman
and can write well: the Captain is a highwayman: most of his fraternity
call themselves Captains: he is the son of a butcher in Clare market.
His name is Tom Kestever. Both are Mr. Merridew's men: that is, they
have to carry out whatever he orders, and they live in perpetual terror
that their time is up. The last time I was in the Black Jack, Merridew
came in, drank a glass or two of punch in a friendly way, and so left
them. When he said that he did not know the men, it was flat perjury. He
was continually in the Black Jack looking up his people; admonishing the
young and threatening the elders. Not a rogue in London but knows Mr.
Merridew, and trembles at the thought of him.'
Asked about Mr. Probus, she said she did not know him at all, save by
repute. That he constantly threatened the prisoner with consequences if
he did not consent to sell his chance of succession: and that she had
been present on a certain occasion in Newgate when Mr. Probus visited
the prisoner and offered him there and then, if he would sign the
document offered, that the principal witnesses should not appear at the
Trial, which would thus fall through.
Asked as to her knowledge of the prisoner, she deposed that she found
him in the King's Bench Prison, sent there through the arts of Mr.
Probus: that she took him out, paying the detainers: that she then gave
him employment in her orchestra: that he was a young gentleman of the
highest principle, married to a wife of saintly conduct and character:
that he was incapable of crime--that he lived quietly, was not in debt,
and received for his work in the orchestra the sum of thirty shillings a
week, which was enough for their modest household.
Asked again about her husband, she said that she could not live with
him, partly because he was an inveterate gambler: and that to gratify
this passion there was nothing he would not sell. That he had gamed away
a noble fortune and ruined a noble business: that steps had already been
taken to make him bankrupt: and that it was to save his own money that
the man Probus had designed this villainy.
'Call Thomas Shirley.' It was the Junior Counsel who rose.
Tom went into the box and answered the preliminary questions. 'Do you
remember meeting Mr. Probus in Newgate about a month ago?'
'I do.'
'What offer did he make?'
'He offered my brother-in-law £5,000 down if he would sell his chance of
the succession, and further promised that the principal witnesses should
not appear.'
'You swear that this was his offer?'
'I swear it.'
The counsel looked at Serjeant Cosins who shook his head.
'You may sit down, Sir.'
'My Lud,' said Mr. Caterham, 'my case is completed. I have no other
evidence unless you direct me to sweep the streets of St. Giles's and
compel them to come in.'
When all the evidence was completed there was a dead silence in the
Court. Everybody was silent for a space: the faces of the rogues in the
gallery were white with consternation: here were the very secrets of
their citadel, their home, the Black Jack, disclosed, and by the very
people of the Black Jack, the landlady and her daughters. The Jury
looked at each other in amazement. Here was the complete revelation of a
plot which for wickedness and audacity went beyond everything ever
invented or imagined. What would happen next?
'Brother Cosins,' said the Judge.
He threw his papers on the desk. 'My Lud,' he said, 'I throw down my
brief.'
Then the Judge charged the Jury. 'Gentlemen,' he said, 'it has been
clearly established--more clearly than I ever before experienced, that a
wicked--nay a most horrible--crime, designed by one man, carried out by
three others, has been perpetrated against the prisoner, William
Halliday. It is a case in which everything has been most carefully
prepared: the perjury of the witnesses has been established beyond a
doubt even though the witnesses have been in part taken from the regions
of St. Giles's, and from actual criminals. Gentlemen, there is but one
verdict possible.'
They did not leave the box: they conferred for a moment: rose and
through their foreman pronounced their verdict--'Not Guilty.' They added
a hope that the conspirators would not escape.
'They shall not,' said the Judge. 'William Halliday, the verdict of the
jury sets you free. I am happy to say that you leave this court with an
unblemished character: and that you have the most heartfelt
commiseration of the court for your wholly undeserved sufferings and
anxiety.' Then the Judge turned to the four. 'I commit Eliezer Probus:
Samuel Carstairs alias what he pleases: the man who calls himself
Ferdinando Fenwick: and John Merridew for trial on the charge of
conspiracy and perjury.'