MYSTERIOUS MURDERS.
Days and weeks passed over, but no clue was found to the murderer of
Philip Jamblin. Every effort was made by the police, both London and
provincial, but with no satisfactory results.
No one appeared to know where Giles Chudley had gone to after leaving
Broxbridge, and nobody seemed to understand how it was that he had
returned so suddenly on the night of the murder, and then be spirited
away in such an extraordinary manner.
Many of the rustics were under the impression that Nell Fulford might
have made a mistake as to the identity of the man behind the hedge in
Dennett’s lane.
They did not say much, but shook their heads and muttered――
“No gell could make certain sure of any one behind such a thick
hedge.”
“Maybe she’s mistaken,” suggested another.
After short detached observations like these the rustics in Brickett’s
parlour would lapse again into silence.
Men who are employed from dawn to dusk in such a solitary occupation
as ploughing or spreading manure, without perhaps hearing the sound of
a human voice all the time, are not likely to be voluble or ready
speakers.
They contract silent and ruminating habits, and taciturnity is one of
their most marked characteristics. There is no analogy between the
“men of the plough” and the British workmen in manufacturing towns.
A group of agricultural labourers will sometimes sit together smoking
and drinking for a whole evening, and the nearest approach to a
sociable chat will be occasional jerky observations, few and far
between, fired off like conversational minute guns.
It is an inevitable consequence of the occupation and mode of life of
the men in question.
The farming population of Broxbridge and the surrounding neighbourhood
were, however, aroused from their wonted apathy and inactivity by the
murder in Larchgrove-road.
Every minute particular was retailed at the village alehouse or
elsewhere, and the oft-repeated question was asked――
“Be the man found out yet?”
And when the answer was given in the negative the countenance of the
questioner was expressive of regret and disappointment.
Miss Jamblin, for the first few days, was in so serious a condition as
to cause the greatest anxiety to those around her.
When the terrible news reached Oakfield House, John and Maude Ashbrook
at once started off for Stoke Ferry Farm to administer what comfort
they could to the old farmer and his daughter.
They did much, by their presence and kindness, to assuage the grief
and melancholy which had found its way into the farmer’s homestead.
To say the truth, the Jamblins and Ashbrooks were almost like one
family, and Patty was never suffered to be alone: either John Ashbrook
or his sister was by her side, and very frequently both were with her.
Lord Ethalwood had been most kind and considerate to the Jamblins.
He sent round Henry Adolphus every day to inquire how Patty
was――whether she was progressing favourably or otherwise――he also sent
his own family physician to see her.
In addition to all this, he had handbills printed, offering a hundred
pounds reward “to any person or persons who would give such
information as would lead to the conviction of the murderer of Mr.
Philip Jamblin.”
Notwithstanding all this, no one was arrested.
It is most extraordinary that so many crimes of this nature should
remain undetected; and it is still more extraordinary how soon public
interest ceases in cases of this sort. When we consider the number of
murders which are known to have been committed, the perpetrators of
which are at the present time at large, and who may, for aught we
know, be seated by our side in trains, in omnibuses, or places of
public resort, the reflection cannot fail to appal the most apathetic
and unimpressionable of her Majesty’s subjects.
No lesson can be more powerful to teach man the fallibility of his own
judgment than the success so frequently attending the efforts on the
part of guilt to baffle and mislead. How frequently have we seen a
chain of circumstances, pointing apparently with irresistible force to
some particular conclusion, suddenly disjoined and scattered by the
eliciting of a new fact, by which the pursuit is led away in a totally
different direction?
Providence, in its wisdom, has seen fit to limit man’s mental vision,
and has made many things mysterious to him. It has allowed the hand of
the assassin to cut short many a virtuous and valuable life, and
permitted the crime to go, in this world at least, undetected and
unpunished, and has even permitted the criminal to pass through life
without “compunctious visitings” one qualm of conscience. Mocking, as
it were, the wisdom of man, it has suffered life to be taken away in
the broad glare of noon, in the middle of the crowded city, in the
heart of a skilfully-trained police, without the faintest clue to the
murderer.
On the other hand, it has given to the criminal the silence of
midnight, and the solitude of the forest and plain, and every aid, as
it were, for concealment and escape, and suddenly, without even an
effort, human justice has laid a denouncing finger on the guilty head,
and pointed it out to the world where most unsuspected and unsought.
One slays his victim almost in the face of the ministers of justice,
and escapes without haste and rapid flight; another adopts measures of
precaution, and exhausts ingenuity in devising places of concealment,
and is detected with his victim’s warm blood on his hands.
How fruitless are the most elaborate devices for concealment when the
hand of heaven is raised to expose the guilt!
Among the many unavenged murders and failures of justice in the great
city of London, around the history of which hang so many mysteries in
its many phases of life, where frequently the helpless children of
hard poverty fall victims to the lust of the wealthy, the death of the
young unfortunate girl, Eliza Grimwood, occupies a prominent place.
On the 26th of May, 1838, the whole metropolis of London was startled
and horrified by the discovery of the murdered body of Eliza Grimwood,
a remarkably handsome young woman, one of the gay belles of London of
that period, who by some misfortune or other had been allured from the
path of virtue.
She was found terribly mutilated lying on the floor of a house of
doubtful repute, at No. 12, Wellington-terrace, Waterloo-road.
At the inquest held at the “York Tavern,” before Mr. Carter, it was
elicited that the unfortunate woman, who was about twenty-five years
of age, lived with George Hubbard, a bricklayer, but that the deceased
went out of an evening to the various theatres, for the purpose of
forming the acquaintance of gentlemen to bring home and pass the night
with her, and by this means she maintained herself and her paramour.
From the evidence it appeared that some person had gone home with her
on the night in question.
The man was, to all appearance, a foreigner, and there was every
reason for believing that he had committed the murder, but from that
day to this the scoundrel has escaped detection. Not the slightest
clue was ever found which might serve to lead to his detection.
The year 1837 was characterised by a large number of atrocious
murders, and also by the frequency of brutal garotte robberies.
On the 3rd of November in that year, as Mr. Isaac Butcher, a
well-to-do farmer, of Colne Engaine, Essex, was returning from
Colchester market he was pounced upon by two men in a lonely part of
the road, murdered, and robbed.
One very shocking feature in the case was that his own brother came up
shortly afterwards, and was the first who recognised him.
It was believed at the time that the murderers were probably tramping
labourers, but no one was ever arrested, and the matter has ever
remained a mystery.
A diabolical murder was committed at Chingford Hatch, Woodford, Essex,
on Sunday morning, the 21st of June, 1857.
The unfortunate victim was an aged woman, seventy-two years of age,
who acted as confidential housekeeper to Mr. and Mrs. Small, farmers
of that place.
On the morning in question the house was left in charge of the poor
old lady whilst her master and mistress went to attend divine service
in the parish church of Chingford. On their return the deceased, whose
name was Mary White, was found weltering in her blood. A man named
Geydon was suspected. A reward of £200 was offered by Government for
his apprehension; but from that day up to the present period no clue
to the commission of the murder has ever been discovered.
The celebrated Waterloo-bridge mystery, which caused such a stir in
the metropolis, cannot be readily forgotten. On the 9th of October,
1857, a carpet bag was found upon one of the stone ledges of an
abutment of Waterloo-bridge. It contained portions of the mutilated
remains of a person, evidently murdered and deposited thereon,
together with a portion of wearing apparel saturated with gore.
The toll-keeper at the bridge said he remembered seeing a person,
dressed as a woman, come up from the Strand side on the previous
night, about half-past eleven. She had a carpet bag with her――to the
best of his belief the bag in question was the one she had, as he
particularly noticed a large flower in the centre of the pattern. The
remains were examined, the clothes were hung up in Bow-street station,
where thousands of persons inspected them; but, notwithstanding, this,
like the other crimes, has remained a mystery.
On the morning of the 9th of April, 1863, a very atrocious and
mysterious murder was discovered in a house of evil repute, No. 4,
George-street, Bloomsbury, St. Giles’s, one of the very worst parts of
the metropolis.
The unfortunate girl in this instance was a shirtmaker, named Emma
Jackson, who resided usually with her father, mother, and brother, at
No. 10, Berwick-street.
The unhappy girl used to maintain herself as long as she could solely
by her needle; but when this failed her, through shortness of work,
she occasionally stayed out at night to eke out a livelihood by
prostitution.
The inquest, which was holden at the “Oporto Stores,” Broad-street,
Bloomsbury, before Dr. Lankester, coroner, showed that the deceased
went as early as seven in the morning, on the day in question, to the
brothel, at No. 4, George-street, with a man, and on asking for a
bedroom, were at once shown to one by the young servant in charge,
which they then took possession of.
As she did not come down in the course of the day, the parties
belonging to the house went upstairs, and on going to her room were
horrified to find her lying across the bed with her throat cut.
Dr. Weekes was the first witness called. He stated that he had made an
examination of the body of the deceased, and in addition to finding
her throat cut discovered that both her arms and legs were smeared
with blood. There were also stains of blood on both thighs. On the
left buttock was a mark of the grasp of two fingers. In the neck there
were four punctured wounds, two in the front and two behind. There was
a considerable effusion of blood on the membrane of the vertebrae,
particularly to the right of the spine. There was a very clean cut
three-quarters of an inch long. He thought deceased must have been
asleep when the first cut was inflicted. The cause of death, he
believed, was partly owing to suffocation, and partly owing to loss of
blood, as blood had been diffused in considerable quantities both from
wounds in the internal jugular, and the veins in part of the trachea.
After the second wound he believed that the deceased was dragged into
the position in which she was found. In answer to a question by a
juror he said he thought the deceased had no power to make any noise
after the first wound. In answer to the coroner he said he believed
that when he first saw the deceased she had been dead from nine to
twelve hours. His belief was that the wounds had been inflicted with a
common pocket-knife. In his belief he was decidedly of opinion that
the deceased did not receive the wounds in the position in which she
was found, but that she was placed in that position by her murderer.
She could have had no power of calling out after the wind-pipe had
been separated.
The jury, after hearing evidence, returned a verdict of wilful murder
against some person or persons unknown.
The matter was then left in the hands of the police.
Among the suspicious circumstances reported was the fact that on the
evening of the murder a man went into a draper’s shop at Stratford,
and bought a new shirt.
The one that he was wearing, together with his clothes, was smothered
with blood. When buying the shirt he, in course of conversation with
the shopkeeper, said that he had had a quarrel with his wife, and that
in the scuffle she had wounded him.
There was a general impression that this was the man and that he was
making his way through Epping Forest towards the sea-coast.
Nothing further was heard of the affair, and this also has remained an
unexplained crime.
The whole metropolis was thrown into a state of surprise and
excitement on the night of Wednesday, the 11th of April, 1866, by the
discovery of a terrible and mysterious murder at Messrs. Bevington and
Sods, leather merchants, of Cannon-street, City.
The unfortunate victim was an elderly widow lady named Mrs. Millsum,
who, together with a cook named Elizabeth Lewes, were always left by
the firm in charge of the premises at night. On the night of the
murder, it appears that she was discovered lying just inside the
passage leading from the street-door upstairs.
On examining her, she was weltering in her blood. It transpired that
while the two servants were upstairs, after the shop had been shut up,
and the firm gone to their country residence, the bell of the
street-door was rung.
The deceased said to her fellow-servant――
“Ah! that ring is for me. I know who it is,” and immediately went
downstairs.
She was down a considerable time without any suspicion being
occasioned in the mind of her fellow-servant, as the deceased was
often in the habit of going down and standing at the door for a
considerable time.
When she was first discovered it was surmised that she had perhaps
killed herself by falling downstairs, but a further examination
proved, beyond doubt, that a terrible murder had been committed.
Mr. May, surgeon, who examined the body, said that when he saw
deceased lying on the floor he observed two wounds on the head and
face. There was a very deep wound on the side of the head. There was
also a wound on the forehead, and one over the eye, and five stabs on
the face. He believed that the wounds had been inflicted by a small
iron poker or iron crowbar.
A man, who was suspected, was arrested; but there was no material
evidence against him, and he was discharged.
The murderer of this ill-fated woman has never been discovered.
A still more extraordinary crime was committed on Wednesday, July
10th, 1872.
Two persons, a mother and daughter, were murdered in a small shop,
situated in Hyde-road, Hoxton.
The ill-fated women were ruthlessly assassinated in broad daylight in
the very heart of a crowded thoroughfare.
What renders the case more remarkable is that a number of shops, the
owners of which drove a thriving trade, were directly opposite to the
one in the occupation of the two victims (Mrs. Squires and her
daughter).
At twenty minutes past one on the morning of the 10th of July a boy
went into a coffee-shop next door to Mrs. Squires’ house, and said he
had seen blood on the counter of the unfortunate woman’s shop.
Upon going in to ascertain the cause, a most horrible spectacle
presented itself.
Behind the counter was discovered the body of Mrs. Squires in a pool
of blood, with her hand to the right side of her head, which was
shockingly injured. The daughter was found with her head in the
parlour and her legs in the shop. She was also covered with blood, and
her head battered in.
The police at once reached the house, which they found ransacked from
top to bottom, and in the parlour was found a clock that had been
knocked down, which had stopped at twelve, at which time, no doubt,
the deed had been committed, as the doctor who was called in said he
should think they had been dead about two hours.
Inquiries were set on foot, and every possible means taken to discover
the perpetrators of this dreadful crime, but without avail――like the
rest it has been shrouded in impenetrable mystery.
The Ladbroke-lane murder will be remembered by most persons. A girl
named Margaret Clemson was found by a policeman in the lane in
question frightfully wounded; her skull was laid open in several
places (a portion of the brain was protruding from one of the wounds).
She was just able to exclaim――“Oh, let me die!”
She was conveyed to the hospital, where after several days of intense
agony, she expired. The murderer is at present at large.
Some short time after this the dismembered portions of a female were
found in the Thames. A murder of an atrocious nature had been
evidently committed, but neither the identity of the woman was
established, nor was her assassin discovered.
The body of a boy was found in a lane at Acton some years ago; he had
evidently met with a violent death, but the perpetrator of the foul
deed escaped discovery or punishment.
In addition to these we could cite numberless instances of crimes of a
similar nature.
The Wallaces, husband and wife, have never been arrested for the
alleged murder of a lady at Brompton.
The murderer of Harriet Buswell, who was found dead in a bedroom in a
house in Great Coram-street, is still at large.
Mrs. Samuels, an old lady whose head was battered in by a hat rail at
a house in Burton-crescent, her body being found in the kitchen by a
lodger, is another case which demonstrates but too clearly an escape
from justice. A woman named Mary Donovan was arrested on suspicion,
but after one or two magisterial examinations she was discharged.
Then again, more recently, we have the Euston-square mystery, as it
was termed. An old lady, of eccentric habits, named Miss Hacker, took
lodgings in Euston-square. She was missing for a year or more, when by
the merest accident, her body was found in the cellar of the house in
question. Suspicion fell upon a servant girl, named Hannah Dobbs, She
was tried at the Central Criminal Court and acquitted.
It would be manifestly unjust to allege that the jury were not quite
right in arriving at the conclusion they did. Nevertheless, it was
clearly established that the ill-fated woman had met with foul play,
and her murderer or murderers have escaped the doom they so justly
merited.
When we add to this list the number of murders in which the bodies of
the victims are never discovered at all, an appalling list of horrible
atrocities is presented to the imagination; indeed, it is hardly
possible to calculate the number of crimes of this nature which are
annually committed in the metropolis and other parts of the United
Kingdom.
It is quite time that some more stringent measures should be taken by
the executive.
It may startle many when we declare, according to the Government
statistics, that, during 1856 and 1865, one thousand eight hundred and
seventy-five murders were unpunished and unaccounted for. But the Home
Office publications disclose some serious discrepancies when the
number of murders found by coroners’ juries are collated with the
number of murders brought to punishment.
Speaking broadly, and assuming for the nonce that each murder has been
committed by a different individual, it would appear that more than
four-fifths of the murders pass unpunished.
This calculation, of course, only relates to crimes of this nature
which are discovered. The undiscovered ones would swell the list to an
extent altogeter incalculable.
In the interests of society it is requisite that crimes of this nature
should not go unpunished.
The very least to be expected, if a member of a community, fall by the
hands of an assassin, is that every means should be taken to bring the
offender to justice; and when his guilt is established, death should
follow as a natural consequence.
It is by the reliability only, and undeviating certainity that
punishment follows conviction, that we can hope that it will act as a
deterrent from the commission of crime.
But of late years the current seems to have been running in an
opposite direction.
There has been a tendency on the part of a certain section of society
to make heroes or martyrs of those whose infamous crimes have caused
them to be condemned by a jury of their countrymen.
But too frequently every possible excuse is offered for the guilty
man, no matter what the enormity of his crime might have been. There
are, therefore, a thousand chances of escape.
Sometimes there is an informality in the indictment――as in the case of
Charlotte Winslow, the wholesale child murderess; and owing to the
ridiculous blunder she escaped.
In other cases there is a doubt about certain evidence being
admissible; attorneys wrangle during the magisterial examinations,
which, in most cases, are of an unnecessary length. Witnesses are
bullied, all sorts of irrelevant and impertinent questions are asked
them by some audacious legal gentleman who thinks it a fine thing to
become the champion of a prisoner who is perhaps a disgrace to the
name of man.
Everything that is possible for the most ingenious advocate to suggest
to turn aside the sword of justice is not wanting, and even after the
jury have delivered their verdict and the judge has passed sentence on
the prisoner, a knot of busy bodies write letters to the newspapers
for the purpose of impugning the judgment of both judge and jury, and
the case has to be reconsidered or retried at the Home Office.
These irrational and illogical people are to be found everywhere, and
there are some who take a delight in piling stumbling blocks in the
way to impede the course of justice from the sheer spirit of
opposition, and being different to other persons.
It is really astounding the growing sympathy displayed for murderers
within the last few years. We do not remember a solitary instance of
pity being displayed on the part of the public for any murdered
person.
Strange to say this idea never enters anybody’s head. The central
point of attraction is the criminal himself, and of late the public
have gone further than this――they have subscribed liberally towards a
fund for murderers’ wives and relatives.
Some alteration in the mode of administering justice will have to be
made, as we are going on at present. The evil is beginning to assume
gigantic proportions, and nobody’s life will be safe.