the warder. Peace, whose vitality seemed to be unbounded, was
struggling with all his might, quite reckless of the consequences of
falling headlong on the rails, or of being caught in the train and
dashed to pieces. The warder held on to him like grim death;
determined not to let go of him, but unable to secure a firmer grip of
his prisoner.
The passengers all down the train had had their attention arrested by
what was going on, and were craning their necks out of the windows,
astonished at the spectacle which met their gaze.
The train, it is stated, ran a distance of nearly two miles whilst
this exciting scene was being enacted; and then Peace succeeded in
kicking off his left shoe, which remained in the warder’s hand; and he
fell with all the force of his own weight and the impelling motion of
the train.
In his fall his head struck the footboard of the carriage, and he
rolled over into the six-foot between the up and down lines.
The train ran on about a mile further before it could be stopped, and
then the warders and others jumped out and ran back along the line in
pursuit of their prisoner.
They found him in the six-foot, near to where he had fallen,
insensible, and blood flowing from a wound in his head.
They assisted him up, and the down slow train, which was due shortly
after, was stopped, and he was lifted into the guard’s van.
In a few minutes he recovered so much consciousness as to say, “I am
cold; cover me up.” Rugs were placed upon him, and in a little while
he arrived in Sheffield.
NARRATIVES BY EYE-WITNESSES.
Mr. W. Barlow, fruiterer, of Retford, who attends Sheffield market,
was a passenger on Wednesday morning by the fast train by which Peace
was travelling.
Between Shireoaks and Kineton Park he heard a noise, and looking out
of the window saw one of warders with a shoe in his hand. The train
was stopped as soon as possible, but it had run nearly two miles
before it came to a stand, and was brought up near the malt-kiln at
Kineton Park.
The two warders and Mr. Barlow at once got out and ran back along the
line, and when they neared the spot where Peace made his plunge they
found him lying insensible on the line.
He appeared much hurt, but when he was moved to the side of the road
consciousness returned, and he begged them to cover him up as he was
very cold.
Shortly afterwards a slow train came up, and this was stopped. Peace
was put into the van and brought on to Sheffield.
It seems that the escape was managed in this way. As the train was
flying on at full speed Peace induced the warder to allow him to open
the window.
No sooner was this done than the convict flung himself head first
through the opening. The warder seized him by the leg, and held on for
some time, but the prisoner struggled so violently that his shoe came
off in the warder’s hand, and the wretched man fell upon the line.
One of the first persons who reached Peace after his desperate leap
was a blacksmith, named William Stephenson, who is at present working
at Kineton Park.
He says:――About a quarter to nine o’clock I was standing close to
Kineton-park station, when the fast train from London came slowly into
the station. Almost everybody was at the carriage windows, and some
were craning their necks out, and looking back up the line. We asked
what was the matter, and they shouted excitedly “Peace has escaped; he
has jumped out of the train.”
We knew all about Peace at Kineton Park, and there was a general rush
from the platform up the line after the warders, whom we could see
just ahead of us.
The guard said they had just stopped for the warders to get out, and
we rushed on.
We came up to the warders as they got to Peace, who was lying by the
side of the up line about a mile from Kineton-park station in the
direction of Shireoaks.
At that point the line runs almost on a level with the surrounding
country.
Peace appears to have jumped out of the window on the right hand side
of the train, and when the slipping off of his boot released him from
the grasp of the officer he fell in the six foot between the up and
down metals.
The velocity he received from the motion of the train then rolled him
over, and he must have fallen where we found him, or have crawled off
the metals of the up line.
He was lying on his back, and was to all appearance unconscious.
Blood flowed freely from a large gash over his right ear, and he did
not speak.
Just then a slow train came up from Shireoaks for Sheffield, and that
was stopped. We lifted Peace into the guard’s van, and laid him on the
floor.
He did not say anything about his attempt to escape, but merely said
that he was cold, and asked for a rug to be put over him. He was
brought to Sheffield.
The people in the train were wonderfully excited, and had seen the
struggle from their carriage windows.
After Peace’s arrest frequent references were made to the large black
rimmed spectacles which he had worn with so much ostentation for the
purpose of concealing his identity.
Indeed, they had played almost as conspicuous a part in his case as a
certain pair of elegant gold-framed spectacles did when their owner
was under the searching cross-examination of a gentleman who on
Wednesday occupied a seat on the bench.
Precious as the spectacles of Mr. Peace are to him, they have narrowly
escaped destruction. After he had been picked up on the line on
Wednesday morning, and taken on to Sheffield, two men named George
Hewitt and Wm. Turner walked down the metals to see what could be
seen.
Peace had fallen at a place called Harrycroft, between Brancliffe
siding and the canal siding, near to Kineton Park; and when the men
reached the place and were looking round they saw lying on the line
Peace’s spectacles. They handed them over to the station-master at
Kineton Park.
The warders had evidently been too much occupied with their re-capture
of Peace to notice that he had lost his spectacles, or to think about
them.
Probably there never was more excitement caused by the expected
arrival of an individual who had gained notoriety, through whatever
source it might be, than was manifested at the Victoria Station on
Wednesday.
Notwithstanding the bitter cold, a concourse of perhaps some thousand
persons of all ages and both sexes assembled in the square opposite
the court, intent on seeing Peace if possible, and though a large body
of police, under the charge of Inspector Bird, did their utmost to
keep the crowd from gaining ingress to the platform, the station was
crowded.
It was generally believed that Peace would be removed from his cell to
Pentonville, and brought down by what is known as the newspaper train,
leaving King’s Cross at 5.15, and due in Sheffield at 8.58.
When the train steamed into the station some twelve minutes late the
crowd had increased very considerably.
Those outside commenced shouting and yelling in a most excited manner,
and the utmost confusion prevailed.
The prisoners’ van, which was awaiting to convey Peace and the
warders, was drawn up opposite the large hall door. The train being
brought to a standstill, a surprising announcement was made by the
guard.
“Peace has jumped out!” cried that official; and to see the amazement
that came over the countenances of Inspector Bird and his men were at
once painful and amusing in the extreme.
The affair was for the moment treated by the crowd as a hoax, and
meant as a “blind” in order to get the platform cleared; but when,
instead of Peace, a sword, a bag, and a rug belonging to one of his
warders were handed over by the guard to Inspector Bird, it was
generally believed that Peace had really escaped, and that the warders
were on his track.
It was rumoured at the station that Peace had escaped through the
railway carriage window, just after passing through Welwyn, and that
he was once more at large.
Passing from mouth to mouth, this version of the story soon spread far
and wide. Several of the more knowing, however, would have it that
Peace had been taken out of the train at Darnall, and would be from
there quietly conveyed in a cab to Sheffield.
Many lingered on the platform, however, in order to satisfy themselves
of his non-arrival, for they seemed to entertain the idea that it was
probable he had been secreted in one of the carriages till the course
was clear for his conveyance from the train into the van.
But when the latter was driven away without its expected charge, and
the police returned to the Town Hall, the crowd commenced to disperse,
and by and by the station assumed its normal appearance.
Peace was carried to the first cell to the right of the stairs on the
second landing. Under ordinary circumstances a police cell is not the
most luxuriously furnished room in the world; but the Sheffield police
cells have the advantages of ample space, light, and warmth.
The “furniture” in each cell consists of a wooden bench, and that
answers all the purposes of a bed, a chair, a sofa, and so forth. On
this bed the convict was laid, rugs were rolled up for his pillow and
a heap of rugs was thrown over him.
Mr. Harrison, who was a witness in the case, was at the court, and he
was asked to see Peace, but he manifested a decided reluctance to do
so; and, indeed, said he would as soon attend upon――well, somebody
else, as he would see Peace.
Dr. Spowart, Police-Surgeon of the Walkley Division, and Mr. Hallam of
the Central Division, were promptly in attendance, and they found that
he was suffering from a severe scalp wound in the head and concussion
of the brain; and he appeared in a very exhausted state.
He vomited freely, and it was with some difficulty that stimulants
could be administered to him. His wound was carefully dressed; he was
laid on the cell bed and covered with rugs. There were some officers
present who were dubious as to the extent of the injuries he had
sustained, and believed that he was up to his old cunning and shamming
a bit.
When at intervals a little brandy was given to him, he was lifted up
and the bottle placed to his lips. He ground his teeth, clenched his
fists, and appeared to be struggling in a fit.
He was laid on the bench, and force was about to be used to make him
take the stimulant, when one who knew him well said, very sternly,
“Now, Charley, it’s no use. Let’s have none of your hankey pankey
tricks here. You’ll have to take it.”
Charley recognised the voice; opened his eyes, and replied, “All
right: give me a minute.”
A knowing wink passed amongst the officers, and presently he sat up
and took the brandy. Afterwards he took stimulants when offered to
him; and he even went so far as to express a preference for whiskey
over brandy.
After being thus attended to, he would immediately lie down and curl
himself up under his rugs, scarcely leaving even his little grey head
visible.
Mr. Hallam visited him at frequent intervals during the afternoon and
evening, and on each occasion he found him steadily improving.
The vomiting had long ceased; he took stimulants and food readily, and
was indeed going on “as well as could be expected.”
When Mr. Hallam saw him late at night, he said he should not come down
again unless he was sent for.
I was infected for once by the common curiosity, and instead of
waiting patiently to read your report of the final hearing before the
magistrates, of the charge of murder against Peace, I betook myself to
the Town Hall in good time, in the hope that, if I should escape being
squeezed as flat as a red herring in the process of effecting an
entrance, I might see the noted prisoner, and admire the tact with
which my friend, Mr. W. E. Clegg, would cross-examine Mrs. Dyson.
It soon appeared that I was out in my calculations. I gather from your
second edition that this morning “the early birds did not catch the
worm,” though they did receive the next best thing, the shock of a
surprise.
“Peace has escaped” was the cry. I had made up my mind to the
disappointment of my expectations, and supposed I should hear in an
hour or two that the mangled body of Peace had been picked up on the
line, or that the prisoner, maimed and battered, had been found and
sent to hospital.
However, I betook myself to the Court to try what was to be heard and
seen. We sometimes hear how hard it is to get together magistrates
enough to do the business. There was no such difficulty this morning.
I should think some of these excellent gentlemen were there to perform
a work of supererogation and score an attendance that might count in
the scale of merit.
And they were in capital time too. For a quarter of an hour several of
them, with sundry non-magisterial friends, were on the bench.
A few moments before the stroke of ten entered Mr. Welby, the able,
mild, and unpretending stipendiary. On his left was Mr. Overend, Q.C.,
whose genial and ruddy countenance seems to defy the power of years;
and on the right was Mr. T. W. Rodgers, with a patriarchal aspect. The
audience was curious and excited.
The Mayor did not put in an appearance, but a fair majority of
aldermen and councillors were present, and had established themselves
in the best places they could get before the doors were opened to the
common public.
Mr. H. E. Watson talked last week of “the governing families of the
town,” but these were, I suppose, the governing men, and as they serve
the public assiduously it was meet that they should have a sort of
priority. A few minutes after ten enters Mr. Pollard, Treasury
solicitor, bland and cheerful, and bowing to the Bench, takes his
seat.
A little later appears the prisoner’s solicitor, Mr. W. E. Clegg, with
no marks of fussiness or anxiety, such as would make a client nervous,
but with the self-contained look, assuring those who were interested
that all the resources of an active, acute, and trained legal mind
were at their service.
Everybody looked and listened. There was the prisoner’s dock empty. It
contained several chairs, with a pitcher of water and a glass.
The whisper went round that the prison surgeon was in attendance on
Peace, and the speculation was――Is he in condition to be brought up?
Or, if not, will Mr. Pollard offer the prisoner’s advocate the
opportunity to cross-examine Mrs. Dyson in his client’s absence?
Everybody expected to see Mr. Pollard rise, state to the Bench what
had happened, and make a suggestion as to the course to be pursued.
Presently there was a move, and the chief constable made a private
communication to the stipendiary.
Mr. Welby left his seat and went out, followed by Mr. Overend and Mr.
Rogers.
Then Mr. Clegg, and next Mr. Pollard, were called out. For five or ten
minutes there was nothing to do but look round and speculate.
There is but one female in court. How is this? Is female curiosity
defunct? Don’t the ladies want to see Peace and the woman whose name
has been so unhappily mixed up with his, and who may be regarded as
one of his victims?
No doubt they do. Never was female curiosity more lively, and this
morning there were many early breakfasts, and there was a decided
resolution, to be in time.
Soon after nine o’clock, quite a bevy of ladies had made their way
into the police offices, never doubting that their potent claims would
carry them into the court, and secure them the gratification they
longed for.
It was a painful duty for the chief constable to make the ladies aware
that the examination of the day was likely to take a very delicate
turn indeed――so delicate that the presiding magistrate would have to
point out to any ladies who might be present the propriety of
retiring.
I will not undertake to say that there were not applicants who could
have run the risks of all this, but the case was to put to the group
so plainly as to induce them all to retire.
But, as I have said, there was one woman in court and the whisper went
round “That is Mrs. Dyson.”
“Is that lady a widow? I should not have guessed it,” was the remark.
Certainly she was out of mourning.
I have the pleasure to remark that the lady appears quite to have
recovered the shock of her bereavement of two years ago, and that her
two voyages across the Atlantic with her sojourn there, seem, judging
from her rosy visage, quite to have restored her spirits and
established her health.
With every desire to be as complimentary as possible, and to paint
female charms with the liveliest colours, I cannot borrow the
imaginative language of a pretended interviewer of New York, who has
soared into the realms of fiction to find Mrs. Dyson’s version of her
husband’s murder, and to discover the grounds surrounding his mansion,
and the servants who were brought to the spot by the screams of their
horrified mistress.
The Bannercross cottage is capable of development when seen through a
New York telescope. The American interviewer enlists the sympathies
and stirs up the credulity of his readers at the outset, by saying
Mrs. Dyson is “a young and extremely handsome lady.”
One does not want gratuitously to take the edge off so very pleasant a
compliment. But if the said interviewer had seen, instead of
imagining, Mrs. Dyson, I fancy he would have given us a guess at her
weight in pounds――for that is a common ingredient in an American
description――and if he had been a good judge, he would have put the
figure pretty high.
However, I may satisfy your readers by saying Mrs. Dyson is buxom and
blooming; and when Mr. Dyson’s heart was pierced by her youthful
charms he no doubt showed himself a good judge of female beauty.
It was remarked last week that when she was examined for the
prosecution, she wore a veil, and Peace remarking that she kissed the
book without raising her veil, insisted that she should take the oath
“without a veil between” her lips and the calfskin binding.
To-day she had provided against such an objection, and had discarded
the veil, her headgear being a hat with a feather, jauntily set on.
As I am not a milliner, and only saw her sitting, I cannot tell you
anything about the rest of her dress, but that her general appearance
was stylish and cheerful, and it did not appear that the prospect of
being put through the small sieve by Mr. W. E. Clegg had alarmed
her――certainly it had not blanched her cheeks.
Well, but while I have been noting Mrs. Dyson and the less notable
persons, the magistrates and advocates have concluded their
consultation out of court. They resume their places, and then Mr.
Welby makes the brief announcement that ends all questions for the
day.
A very large proportion of the public were glad to hear that Charles
Peace had recovered very satisfactorily from the injuries he had
received.
As previously stated, he first refused to take any stimulants, and
only seemed to desire to be left alone curled up under a heap of rugs.
Later in the day he revived a good deal; took stimulants freely, and
when Mr. Hallam, surgeon, saw him late at night, he found him so much
improved that he expressed his intention not to come down again unless
sent for.
The necessity did not arise for Mr. Hallam to be again called in.
Peace continued to improve during the night, and on Thursday morning,
when the surgeon saw him again, he was much better. Peace spent a very
restless night.
He tossed about a good deal, and his conduct was altogether so marked
as not to escape attention.
The two warders who brought him from London had never both left him
since they picked him up on the railway on Wednesday.
One of them sat close by Peace’s side throughout the whole night
watching his every movement, and not for an instant having his gaze
averted from his now more than ever remarkable and distinguished
prisoner.
At intervals Peace, as already stated, tossed about a good deal, and
then he became quiet, and apparently dropped into a sound slumber.
Presently the watchful eye of the warder has seen him peep stealthily
up from under his rugs, evidently to ascertain whether he might risk
any move without being watched.
Of course there was not the slightest chance of his escaping from the
cells; but if opportunity offered he might make an attempt upon his
life. He frequently took stimulants――brandy and milk; and when Mr.
Hallam saw him on Thursday morning he found him very much better, and
ordered him tea and bread and butter.
When asked “What sort of a night he had had?” by one of the officers,
he replied in that hypocritically whining tone which he knew so well
how to simulate, “Not very good. I can’t sleep.”
He remained lying down under a good supply of rugs, and although
hitherto extremely talkative and effusive in his efforts to recognise
all who approached him, he now said but little, even when roused to
take stimulants.
On Thursday night two members of the borough force were told off to
assist the warders in their care of the convict. Two lamps were placed
in his cell in such positions as to throw their light full on his
face; and near him sat one of the warders and the two policemen.
The second warder rested on a “shake-down” in the corridor while the
first kept his watch, and at intervals they changed.
On Thursday night, Peace was reported to be much better, and he asked
for soup and other stimulants, which were supplied to him.
Peace’s career continued to be one series of surprises, not the least
astonishing of which came to light on the morning after his attempted
escape. His object in jumping from the train appears to have been not
so much to escape as to destroy himself.
He was often heard to express a strong desire to be buried at Darnall.
It was there, it will be remembered, that he occupied a little villa
residence standing in its own grounds, and the garden attached to
which he cultivated with so much care; it was there he unhappily made
the acquaintance of the Dysons, and became so offensive in his
friendship that they had to leave the village to escape from him; it
is there his married daughter lives; it was there his wife was
arrested on a charge of being in possession of goods the proceeds of
his burglaries; and to Darnall she returned immediately after her
acquittal on the charge at Newgate.
These and perhaps many other associations appear to have endeared the
place to him. It is also a remarkable fact that the spot selected by
Peace at which to make his daring leap from the carriage was, measured
by the rate at which an express train travels, within a very short
distance of Darnall Church.
At first it was supposed that the only and real purpose in his mind in
endeavouring to give his custodians the slip there was that――hoping to
escape unhurt――he knew the country well, and could take short cuts
across the fields and find safe and friendly shelter at Darnall. His
object, however, appears not to have been to regain his freedom, but
to destroy himself.
On Thursday morning, Mr. W. E. Clegg, visited the convict in his cell,
for the purpose of receiving instructions from him as to his defence,
and before he left Peace drew from his pocket a scrap of crumpled
paper, and handed it to him.
As it was contrary to the rules of the Pentonville establishment that
a prisoner should have any letter or anything of the kind upon him,
the warders asked that the paper might be handed over to them. The
note was written in pencil, and read as follows:――
“BURY ME AT DARNALL. GOOD-BYE. GOD BLESS YOU ALL. C. PEACE.”
It appears that when a Pentonville convict has a letter sent to him,
it is opened and read by one of the officials, and if there is nothing
in it objectionable it is initialled and passed on to him.
The scrap of paper upon which Peace had written, and which he had kept
treasured up in his pocket, was part of a letter which had been so
handed over to him. Where he got the pencil from to write the note,
and when he wrote it, is unknown.
From its contents it would certainly appear that his deliberate object
in springing through the window when the train was going at express
speed was to destroy himself; and, bad beyond description as he is, he
seems to have possessed sufficient human feeling to desire that his
remains might lie amongst those whom he had known in life.
At intervals during Thursday morning he seemed to suffer much mental
distress, and exclaimed with great intensity of feeling, “I do wish I
was dead!”
In the face of all these facts the warders, it may be readily
imagined, redoubled their already vigilant watch over him, and his
slightest movement did not pass unobserved.
Peace’s escape from instant death when he leaped out of the railway
carriage window was a matter of surprise to everybody. His custodians
never expected to see him alive after his fall.
CHAPTER CLVI.
OUTSIDE THE POLICE-COURT――EXTRAORDINARY SCENES.
As was generally expected, there was a most exciting and most unusual
scene outside the police-court on the morning appointed for the
examination.
On Friday comparatively few people knew that Peace was to be brought
before the magistrates, but almost as soon as it was opened the court
was crowded to its utmost capacity, the approaches were lined with
excited people eager to gain but a glance at the prisoner or Mrs.
Dyson, and in the hall on the ground floor were several hundred people
who were unable to get upstairs.
Outside a mob surged to and fro, obstructing the traffic in
Castle-street, and several free fights occurred between people whose
only object seemed to be to get nearer the Town Hall door without the
faintest hope of getting in.
This was the state of things when it was not generally known that the
proeedings of the Police-court presented a feature of unusual
attraction.
But when it had been announced by the stipendiary, and announced in
the papers, and was known by everybody, that the prisoner had been
“remanded until Wednesday morning at ten o’clock,” and that Mrs. Dyson
was to be cross-examined, it was generally anticipated that a crowd
such as had never before been attracted to the Police-court would
besiege the building. Some fears were entertained even that serious
results might follow from the immense crush when the doors were opened
and everybody in the large crowd made an almost superhuman individual
effort to occupy one of the small number of places set apart for the
gratification of the public.
The Chief Constable accordingly took every precaution to guard against
the rash and ill-judged violence of an excited crowd.
A large staff of police-officers were marshalled in front of the Town
Hall, their instructions being to keep the crowd moving as long as
possible.
They found on arriving that they had been forestalled by the public,
who had already assembled to the number of about 200, and were being
rapidly reinforced.
Some of the people who were there had, it is said, taken up their
positions as early as five o’clock, and verily they looked it. The
cold, raw air had exercised to the full its nipping influence upon
them.
Their faces were pallid, with just a dash of blue in the lips, and a
dab of carnation on the tip of the nose. Their shoulders were raised
almost to their ears, and their coats drawn carefully round their
throats.
They shivered occasionally in a most complete and uncompromising
manner, but there was even in that shiver an expressed determination
to stand their ground to see Peace, even though an insidious fox, in
the form of a biting wind, were gnawing to their very vitals.
The unmistakeable meaning conveyed in the shiver was echoed in the
ceaseless stamp of feet upon the pavement, as the people endeavoured
by that means to keep up something like circulation in their benumbed
extremities. There could be no doubt of their intentions.
They had come to see Peace, and they would see him however much they
suffered.
But waiting was very monotonous work, and despite the excitement of
the occasion, the time passed slowly and wearily along.
The individuals who composed the crowd must have been those “with whom
time ambles withal,” for the minutes dragged themselves along in the
style supposed to be appropriated to “linked sweetness,” and each
succeeding minute seemed to be longer drawn out than its predecessor.
The crowd was not large enough to get up any enthusiasm, and it was
not until towards eight o’clock that anything like life and fun were
observable.
Then the new arrivals were frequent and numerous, and what had been
the fringe of the crowd became a compact mass.
Castle-street, near the Town Hall, was crammed full of people, and now
that it was evident that the whole of them could not get in, an
excited and determined struggle for places began and was carried on
with vigour up to the time when it was known that their labours had
been in vain.
It was an intensely and essentially selfish crowd, and its composition
was a medley of a motley character.
Nearly all classes of society were represented in that mass of people,
and one extraordinary feature was the immense number of women amongst
them.
Men, women, and children were huddled together as closely as it was
possible for human beings to be packed.
They were crushed and crushed and crushed again until almost all the
compressibility contained in their individual bodies had been
utilised, and they were contorted into angular portions of humanity,
all of whose sides geometrically corresponded with the sides of other
portions of humanity presented to them.
Thus it may be imagined that space was economised at the expense of
comfort, but that was a trifling consideration.
The people had come to see Peace.
Comfort was a secondary matter――away with it! So they grinned――those
of them who had room to do so――and bore the discomfort good humouredly
so long as they did not lose a point in the struggle towards the door.
Those immediately round the door were, of course, the early risers.
They were, without exception, people in the lower classes of society.
Boys, who might fairly be classed as _gamins_, with a neglected look
and a suspicious air of having been out all night, had taken up front
positions, and, having become jammed in by the crowd, were unable to
get out, though there was not the slightest probability that the
police would let them into the court.
Many of the men were dressed in their working clothes, whilst some of
the women had only shawls thrown over their heads.
Further back in the crowd other classes were represented.
Not a few silk hats were observable, dotted about here and there, amid
the sober shoal of less demonstrative round felts, and one of the
former dodged about in a most amusing manner, as its owner made the
most heroic but unsuccessful attempts to defend a fair companion who
wore a beautiful sealskin jacket.
There was also a good sprinkling of young men, who would perhaps be
looked upon as “swells” by the lower classes, but these young
gentlemen did not show any of their distinguishing characteristics,
and kept quiet.
As nine o’clock approached the people began to be excited, and their
ebullitions of feeling found vent in a series of rushes which produced
a swaying, surging movement on the part of the crowd.
This placed in jeopardy the situation of some of the people who had
secured what they thought to be good chances of getting in, and they
fought manfully to retain any advantage they might have gained.
Their struggles, however, against the surging of the crowd were
puerile and utterly inoperative, and their vehement protestations
against the injustice of the dispensation was laughed to scorn.
As a natural sequence curses and blasphemy took the place of
protestations, but these were alike ineffective, and everybody seemed
to devote his attention to swindling everyone in front of him of his
position. The slightest rent in the crowd caused by a rush called
forth numerous claimants, and angry passions were allowed to rise,
without stint in the breasts of those who allowed their chances to
pass.
Women as well as men struggled to the front, and as they asserted
their rights courtesy retired. _Place aux dames_ was an obsolete idea.
The women placed themselves on the same level as the men, and
demanding the rights extended to men, received courtesy in the same
ratio.
Judging by the looks of some of them they did not enjoy the working of
the principle, and they would have been only too glad to sink their
rights for a little comfort and convenience.
It was a case of every man for himself, and the hindermost, who were
supposed to be left in the care of the prince of darkness, were of
course the women.
Nine o’clock struck, and the excitement of the crowd reached fever
heat. It was pretty generally known that Peace was to arrive about
nine, and it was thought the doors now would soon be opened.
The people on the outside of the crowd saw that it would be hopeless
for them to attempt to get into the court, and in the hope of seeing
something to recompense them for their trouble they gravitated towards
the Castle-green and Water-lane entrances to the Police-offices.
Those who went to Water-lane had the satisfaction of seeing a number
of gentlemen pass in the portals of the offices, receive a military
salute from the numerous constables posted about the place, and
disappear in the long passage at the top of the steps.
Several other people came up the same way, and some having the
necessary credentials were passed in, and the others rejected and
turned back. One of the funniest scenes of the morning occurred here,
when a fat and self-sufficient landlord, accompanied by his
gaudily-dressed wife, sailed down Water-lane, and with an important
air strutted up the steps, throwing dignified nods at the
police-officers.
His wife waddled after him, and they successfully passed the gauntlet
of police until they came to the steps.
Here they were tackled in an apologetic but firm manner, and after
having been reminded, as they were loth to go, that they were
obstructing the passage, they, were unceremoniously ordered out.
The spectators who assembled in front of the Castle-green entrance
certainly had the best of the day. They were in the very thick of the
excitement. The prison van had gone down Castle-green to the station,
and Peace was momentarily expected.
He would be concealed in the inmost recesses of the van, but what of
that? He would be there. Time sped. It was ten minutes past nine. The
train must be late.
No, there was the jingle of the bells on the harness, and the heavy
rumble of the wheels was heard as the ponderous conveyance turned out
of Bridge-street into the Green. But what――what is this? Why does the
van come so slowly? Why does everyone seem so dejected?
Why does not the driver turn his pair cleverly round into the Parade
Ground with a triumphant and defiant crack of the whip? What does it
all mean?――he can’t have escaped.
The suspense for the moment is fearful, almost agonising, and then the
word is passed, “He has escaped――jumped out of the train, going at
full speed.”
A few incoherent sentences convey a world of information, and form the
groundwork of numerous rumours. The news spread like wildfire. The
crowd in front of the Town Hall is dazed. The strain is gone. No
longer do they struggle to get the best places. A feeling of
insecurity has come over them.
They think of Peace in the dock as an insignificant old man, but Peace
at liberty is a very different individual.
He is surrounded by an air of villainy with a dark background of
vengeful intrepidity, and his constant companion is a “six-shooter.”
Society feels unsafe, and though an additional lustre has been
imparted to the halo of glorious romance which surrounds his life by
his latest achievement, a universal hope is expressed that he will be
recaptured.
The wildest rumours are floating about as to his mode of escape, and
circumstantial details are not wanting as to his having overpowered
the warders, alighted uninjured, and, plunging into a wood, eluded
pursuit.
But these surmises are premature. Again the van was brought out, and
driven off to the station. These were anxious moments. More than half
the people declined to believe the rumour that Peace had escaped.
It was such a likely thing for Peace to attempt, that some one would
be sure to suggest it, and thus start a rumour. On the other hand, it
was so unlikely that a couple of London warders would allow a little
man like Peace to escape, that the majority of the people assembled
would not accept the statement.
However, the bringing out of the van a second time gave a foundation
to the first rumour, especially when it was now expected that he had
been retaken. The van was not long away.
Again the jingle of the bells. The horses came up Castle-green at a
smart pace. Triumph was written on the faces of the local police.
The van turned into the yard of the police-station; with a good swing,
the doors were banged to and locked, and once more Peace was safe.
Now came another struggle for places, and this was continued fiercely.
Traffic had been resumed, however, and every now and then the
consistency of the crowd was broken in upon by a vulgar cart, an
impertinent hansom, or a blundering ’bus.
The breaches were most trying to the people in the roadway. They must
either sacrifice their positions or be run over. As long as they could
they stuck to their places, but preferring not to be run over, they
relented and ran for it.
Women as well as men were in the way of the conveyances, and it was
most funny to see the terrified faces of the women as, after being
elbowed out of the crowd by men who coolly took their positions, they
suddenly found a horse’s nose within a few inches of their faces.
Flight was the first thing with them. Then when they were safely out
of the way they were frightened, and exhibited a tendency to screaming
and hysteria; and subsequently, when all was over, they became
vaguely, but virtuously, indignant.
Such scenes as these beguiled the minutes which crept slowly by, until
about a quarter-past ten, when it was known that a remand had been
granted. More vague rumours flew about for a few minutes, and then the
chief constable appeared at one of the upper windows.
Immediately there was a breathless silence, and Mr. Jackson announced
that Peace had been remanded for eight days in consequence of injuries
he had received. He had made an attempt to escape, but had been
recaptured.
A great shout greeted this latter statement, and society once more
breathed.
In spite of the obvious wish of the chief constable that it should
move on as well as breathe, society did not move on, and for hours
hung about the street in the hope of picking up gossip, reliable or
unreliable.
Now and then a wild rumour sent a thrill through the crowd. Several
times Peace had just expired. Others stated that he was so “smashed
that he had to be carried about in a sack.”
Then it was given out that he was very little hurt, and was “drinking
brandy like mad.” And lastly, as might have been expected, that “he
was not hurt at all, but was only shamming.”
Mrs. Dyson, though only a lesser light by the side of Peace, was
somebody, and her apparance was anxiously looked for. But here again
disappointment waited on the unhappy people.
[Sidenote: No. 88.]
[Illustration: PEACE IS VISITED BY HIS SOLICITOR.]
She got safely away, and the only thing in the way of a sensation that
turned up to gratify the crowd for long waiting was the appearance of
the Pentonville warders.
They had occasion to appear in the Haymarket, and, being identified by
their uniforms, were made the butt of much unpleasant chaff.
They were followed about by the people, laughed at, jeered, ironically
cheered, and asked the most pertinent, yet impertinent, questions.
Eventually they were protected by a strong body of police, and, amid a
discharge of chaff, succeeded in gaining the Police-offices.
After this nothing more happened, and as nothing seemed likely to
happen, first one and then another of the members of the crowd dropped
off, until finally the last man, sighing over the barren results of
all his struggling, scuffling, suffering, &c., cast a furtive eye at
the Police-station, and a perfunctory glance at the now lighted Town
Hall clock, and departed.
CHAPTER CLVII.
THE EXAMINATION OF CHARLES PEACE UPON THE CHARGE OF MURDERING MR.
DYSON――SCENES IN COURT.
Peace remained in a very prostrate condition, and, according to his
own account, he was not fit to make his appearance in a court of
justice. It was deemed, however, expedient to proceed with the charge.
Mr. Pollard, on Friday morning, put it to the Sheffield stipendiary
whether the “leap for life” which Peace, the burglar, made from the
express train was not inconsistent with his innocence of the crime of
murder.
Mr. Welby suggested that a convict under a life sentence might have
other reasons for the leap than the fear of hanging. No doubt it was
with the convict a case of mixed motives.
Had he been able to escape, even for a few days, a lease of life for
at least six months would have been secured, as his case would have
been kept over till the Leeds Assizes following those which open next
week.
Having been remanded for eight days, the desperado, like many less
deeply interested, believed that his respite had been secured. Perhaps
but for this knowledge the criminal would have played a deeper game by
not getting better so soon.
The brandy with milk and arrowroot, which from the first few hours of
his capture he took pretty freely, produced such an effect on his
sound and wiry constitution that by Thursday evening Mr. Hallam, the
surgeon specially in attendance, was able to say that if no change for
the worse occurred, he might be brought before the stipendiary on the
following morning.
The prisoner has proved such a troublesome and expensive “guest” that
the authorities seemed to entertain a strong desire to see him again
in Pentonville or such other place of security as it may seem fit to
assign him to.
The secret of the examination being held to-day was last night
divulged to the press, but only on condition that they should keep it
private till the prisoner had been actually brought up.
Of course it was kept yet more secret from the prisoner.
This helped him to sleep last night, and, though he showed himself
much more querulous than has been his wont, he took in the morning a
plentifully early breakfast.
The surgeon, having seen him, decided that he was fit to be brought
up. Soon after ten o’clock the prisoner was accordingly helped out of
his cell, but apparently had no idea of where he was being taken.
The warders presently placed him in a large armchair in the corridor,
and into this he sank with a lengthened sigh, leaning his head on his
hands, as if much exhausted.
Then suddenly, with an ugly expression in his eyes, he protruded the
lower part of his face across the long table which had been set in the
corridor, and exclaimed with clenched teeth, but in a low tone, “What
are we here for? What is this?”
The scene might well arouse the criminal’s curiosity. Unwilling to
cause excitement either to the prisoner or to the public, the
authorities had improvised a court in the corridor of the prison,
where the light was supplied by candles.
The stipendiary, with his clerks, sat ready to examine the prisoner.
The chief constable was present, also Inspector Bradbury and
Police-constable Walsh, who was in charge of Mrs. Dyson. Mr. Pollard
again appeared to prosecute, and Mr. W. E. Clegg conducted the
defence.
The scene was dreary and depressing, especially as there was no
audience for the principal actor to play up to, even had he been so
disposed, the public having been excluded.
After several half-whining protests from the convict the stipendiary
decided to go on, when, with a sudden change of voice, Peace exclaimed
in his old sharp tones, “I wish to God there was something across my
shoulders.”
He was then plentifully supplied with coverings through which his
newly-bandaged head at times could hardly be seen. His high but narrow
forehead slopes rapidly upwards, and, though much of his apparent
weakness was evidently mere affectation, his wan and haggard aspect
was pitiable as well as repugnant.
Towards Mrs. Dyson, who was placed at some distance along the table,
he alternately glared, and scowled and leered, and more than once
became very excited in his demands for justice when the stipendiary
firmly refused liberty to press certain questions which he deemed
irrelevant.
Mrs. Dyson was tastefully dressed entirely in black, and without her
veil. She seemed in good health, and, though apparently suffering
somewhat from suppressed excitement, gave her evidence clearly,
calmly, and without a particle of flinching.
The whitewashed walls of the cold corridor did not look more stonily
at Peace than did the face of the woman whom he tried to claim as his
former paramour.
The absence of spectators was a relief to her, and she stood quietly
and without apparent weariness during her long and trying
cross-examination.
Mr. Clegg did the best he could for his client, but refused to take
any notice of the low mutterings or loud protests of the prisoner.
The stipendiary refused to let the letters be read aloud, but the most
exciting passages were given. These documents are a series of
comparatively dull communications written on old envelopes and dirty
scraps of paper.
Here is a specimen: “How well you never told that man I looked at you
out of the window you left me to find out for myself and would not put
me on my guard, as I do you. Hope you won’t do it again. Don’t talk to
little Willie much, or give him any halfpennies. Don’t be a fool; it
looks as if you want people to know the way and――”
A blank occurs here, and the remaining portion of the letter now
legible says: “If you are not more careful we will have to say quits.
I have told you not to say anything until――”
On the theory of the defence the Willie referred to is Mrs. Dyson’s
son, aged seven and William Henry by name. (Mrs. Dyson’s reply to
every question was a decided repudiation of the suggestion that the
letters had been written by her.)
At these repudiations the convict affected to be savagely indignant.
Also when Mrs. Dyson said the portrait had been stolen from her room
he muttered between his clenched teeth――
“Stolen――stolen――stolen!”
He glared towards the witness with a tragic air, and then buried his
head in his arms, which were stretched on the table.
At another time, when Mrs. Dyson was being questioned as to whether
any struggle took place between her husband and the murderer, and
replied in the negative, Peace, who had seemed comparatively quiet,
shot his head up and made his lower jaw protrude in a loathsome
manner, as he glared at the witness.
While Mrs. Dyson’s depositions before the coroner were being read the
prisoner caused another scene. On being removed to his cell, at the
end of the proceedings, his energy seemed quite to leave him; but when
his counsel visited him in his cell shortly afterwards the prisoner
seemed comparatively cheerful and careless, and gave his instructions
and suggestions in quite a business-like fashion.
Only passages from the letters alleged to have been written by Mrs.
Dyson were read aloud in court.
In spite of the policy of secrecy followed by the stipendiary and
Chief Constable Jackson, a large crowd gathered at the Town Hall, and
long before the usual time of opening the doors so great became the
pressure against them as to burst them open, and the courts were
rapidly filled.
The police were able, however, to clear them without any serious
trouble.
People knew that the ordinary business of the Court would commence at
eleven o’clock, and they settled down to wait as comfortably as
possible for that time, knowing that they would then be able to gain
admission.
When the doors were opened to the public, the two courts were soon
filled again, and the people rested in expectation till authentic word
came that the convict’s examination was well-nigh over.
Throughout the time there was greater excitement than at any period
since the great Sheffield flood, but the police were able to preserve
order.
Robinson, who captured Peace at Blackheath, after such a desperate
struggle was in Sheffield, on a visit to some friends, and his frank
and yet jovial bearing has impressed very favourably those who
happened to meet him.
A suggestion was made that a public testimonial should be presented to
him for his bravery, and, in spite of dulness of trade, was likely to
be received with favour. Robinson had not seen Peace in Sheffield.
Up to half-past ten at night the prisoner was behaving with
comparative composure, and had taken refreshments when he required
them.
The following is a fuller account of the particulars of this
examination:――
A few minutes after ten o’clock Peace was assisted out of his cell and
placed in an armchair in the corridor where the inquiry was held. He
seemed to be exhausted, and sinking into the chair he exclaimed, “Oh,
oh!” and leaned his head on his hand. He then looked about with an air
of surprise, and exclaimed, groaning deeply, “What are we here for?
What is this?”
The Stipendiary (Mr. Welby): This is the preliminary inquiry which is
being proceeded with after being adjourned the other day.
Prisoner (groaning again): I am not able to bear it. I ought not to be
brought here.
The Stipendiary: Then you must do the best you can. This is only the
preliminary inquiry. You are not absolutely obliged to be here――so you
must attend as well as you can. You are represented here, and the
preliminary inquiry is to be finished to-day.
Prisoner: I wish to God there was something across my shoulders. I am
very cold. Oh dear! oh dear! Then am I to be committed to-day?
The Stipendiary: The preliminary inquiry will be finished, and if the
evidence is sufficient you will be committed.
Prisoner: I want to have my solicitor here. Oh dear! and I want to
call my witnesses.
Mr. Clegg: You will have sufficient time for that; you will have
plenty of time to call your witnesses.
Prisoner (groaning): I am not able to go on. Oh, I am so cold! (A
thick rug was here thrown over him by one of the warders.) I am not
able to go on; I am not. (Groaning again.) This is not justice; it is
not justice.
The Stipendiary: You must take it for what it is.
The prisoner here uttered some words, which were taken to be “Oh,
never mind that;” and afterwards asked that his counsel should come
nearer. He seemed to suffer from the cold and the draught of air in
the corridor.
Prisoner (apparently recovering himself, and looking more alert, and
speaking with more energy): Then, I say, it is not justice; it is not
justice. Why does not my solicitor prevent this, and ask for a remand.
What is my solicitor doing not to prevent this? Tell my solicitor I
want him.
Mr. Clegg: Well, what do you want?
Prisoner (sharply): Why don’t you ask for a remand?
The Stipendiary: It is no use asking for a remand at all, I tell you;
the inquiry is going to be proceeded with.
Prisoner (piteously): It is not justice. I am not able to go on; you
know how I am. Oh, dear, it is no matter if I’d killed myself. It
would be no matter. You know how I am, and ought to have a remand. I
feel I want it, and must have a remand.
The Stipendiary: Remand will not be granted; and you had better attend
to what is said.
Mr. Clegg: If you want to say anything wait until I am cross-examining
Mrs. Dyson, and it can be done then. You had better save your energies
until then. The inquiry will be proceeded with to-day.
Mrs. Dyson was then called and sworn. She looked well, but spoke
slowly, as if labouring under suppressed emotion.
Mr. Pollard: Catherine Dyson, there were some papers produced the
other day in court. Bradbury, will you produce those papers?
Inspector Bradbury handed in the papers.
The Stipendiary: Those, I suppose, are the papers and the card.
Mr. Pollard: They are the papers produced by Bradbury. (To witness):
Have you seen those papers before?――Yes; at the coroner’s inquest in
December, 1876.
You have Seen the first card――the card numbered one. That, I think you
say, is the handwriting of your husband on the back of it?――Yes.
With reference to all the other papers, do you know the handwriting?――No,
I do not.
The Stipendiary: You had better look over them, every one of them,
before you speak to them all.
Witness then looked over them, prisoner meanwhile languidly saying:
They are not all there. I want to look at them.
Mr. Clegg: Be quiet.
Witness: I do not know whose handwriting it is.
The Stipendiary: You do not know whose handwriting it is on any of
them?――No.
The Stipendiary: You have looked at them?――I know none of them except
the post-card.
Prisoner (interrupting): I want the milkman called.
The Stipendiary: You had better be quiet. Your time for calling
witnesses will come.
Mr. Pollard (to witness): Were any of those written by your authority?
Do you know any of them?――Not by my authority. I know nothing of them.
What distance should you say it is from the house that you lived in at
Darnall to the house you removed to at Bannercross?――About five or six
miles, to the best of my knowledge.
Mr. Clegg: Before proceeding with the cross-examination I should like
to recall Mr. Inspector Bradbury.
The Stipendiary: Why so?
Mr. Pollard: I have a question to put to the inspector that I omitted
to ask the other day.
Mr. Bradbury was recalled, and was examined by Mr. Pollard.
Do you produce a bullet?――Yes (producing it).
From whom did you receive it?――From Dr. Harrison, on Dec. 8, 1876, the
day of the inquest.
Cross-examined by Mr. Clegg: You remember on the last time, Mr.
Bradbury, that I asked you if you had seen a photograph?――Yes.
Have you got that photo now?――Yes. (Produced a photo.) I got it from
Mr. Jackson, the chief constable.
The photo was then handed to the stipendiary, and Peace, eyeing it,
said in an aggrieved voice: “They have taken it out of the case.”
Mr. Clegg, addressing him, said: Will you be quiet?
Mr. Pollard: I want to ask one or two questions of Mrs. Dyson with
reference to these photographs.
The Stipendiary: Certainly.
Mr. Clegg: Perhaps it will be better if you let me finish my
cross-examination first.
Mr. Pollard: I prefer to do it now.
Mr. Pollard: Mrs. Dyson, have you any remembrance of being
photographed? First of all, whose photograph is this? (Handing a
photograph to the witness.)――It is the prisoner’s and mine.
Where was that taken?――It was taken in 1876.
The Stipendiary: What part of 1876?――I cannot remember the date. It
was summer.
When was it taken?――At Sheffield Fair.
Was it at the summer or winter fair?
Peace: It was the winter fair.
Mrs. Dyson: I won’t say, because I am not sure.
How near was it to Nov. 29, 1876?――It was some months before that
date; at the Sheffield Fair.
The Stipendiary: There is a name at the back of the photo.
Mr. Pollard: Will you look at that (handing a small photo to Mrs.
Dyson)?――That is mine.
Had you in the years 1876 or 1875 a photo like that, in that
position?――Yes; I had one in a locket.
Was it in 1875 or 1876?――I had it in 1875.
Can you say at all whether it was in 1875 or 1876?――Yes; I had it in
the early part of 1876.
You say you had it in a locket?――Yes.
Have you that photograph is the locket now?――No it was taken from me.
How do you mean?――It was taken out of the house without my knowing
how.
It was in the winter?――Yes, 1875, as well as I can remember.
The Stipendiary: Before the larger one was taken?――Yes it was.
Can you say it was the winter of 1875 or 1876?――Well, it was about
Christmas.
Do you say that the locket was stolen?――No, the photograph was then
out of the locket.
You were living at Darnall then, were you?――Yes.
Where was the locket when you missed the photograph from it?――It was
in my bedroom.
Did you speak about the loss?――Yes, I mentioned it to my husband.
Did you make any search for the photo?――Yes; I also told an officer
before I went to America.
You made a search for the photo?――Yes.
Did you ever find the photo?――No.
Mr. Pollard: Is that the locket, or a copy of the photograph that you
so lost?――That is not the original, because the one that I had was
taken in Cleveland, Ohio.
Mr. Pollard: And this is a copy of it――is it?――Yes.
Mr. Pollard: I see that this has the name of F. Barber, photographer,
Church-gates, Sheffield.――Witness: This is not the original. The
original was taken by Mr. Wragg, Cleveland, Ohio.
Mr. Pollard: Did you ever go to Mr. Barber’s to be photographed?――No,
no; I never had a photograph taken in this country except that one.
Mr. Pollard: Except the one that was taken at the fair.
Mr. Pollard (to the Stipendiary): That, you see, is done on glass.
That was done at the back of the other.
The Stipendiary: Oh, I see.
The Clerk: There was only one photograph taken then?――Witness: Only
one.
The prisoner here put his legs on the table, and the Stipendiary,
addressing him, said severely: You must not put your feet on the
table.――Prisoner (sharply): All right.
Mr. Pollard (to witness): Did you tell any other person at the time
besides your husband of the loss of the photograph from your
locket?――I told one of the officers.
That you told us; but anybody else?――No.
Mr. Clegg: Besides, if you did it would not be evidence.
Mr. Pollard: Unless the neighbour was――I do not want to put it in her
mouth.
Mr. Pollard (to witness): Was your husband with you that day in
Sheffield Fair?――Yes.
On the day you were photographed?――Yes.
The Prisoner; Call Daird (meaning the policeman of Darnall)――will you,
please?
At Sheffield Fair the prisoner was a neighbour of yours?――Yes. I
believed him at that time to be a respectable man.
And a picture-frame maker, as you said?――Yes.
You said you had this (referring to the photograph) with you then.
Where was it kept?――On the mantelpiece, in the kitchen.
When did you miss it?――In a week or so after it was taken.
When did you next see this one (lifting another photograph)?――I cannot
exactly say the day. One day last week, in Mr. Jackson’s hands.
In the hands of the police?――Yes.
Did you give it to any one?――No; I did not give it to any one. It was
taken away without my knowledge.
Then with reference to the photograph which was taken from your
locket――what about it?――It was taken away without my knowledge.
When was that?
Mr. Robinson: I have got all that down as in the winter of 1875.
Mr. Clegg: I might as well take this photograph at once (showing the
double one to the witness). Was not that photograph taken in the fair
of 1876?――In 1876――I think so, as well as I can remember.
The photograph I am now holding?――Yes, I see.
Was this photograph taken in the fair of 1876?――I said I could not
remember the date.
Was it during the time that you were residing at Darnall?――Yes.
When did you leave Darnall, was it on Oct. 29?――On Oct. 25, 1876.
Was it at the fair preceding the time that you left Darnall?――It was
at the fair before I left Darnall.
I want now to know, for certain. Are you certain this was taken in the
preceding fair before you left Darnall?――I did not say the preceding
fair.
Well, I ask you now?――I cannot say. I am not quite certain, but I
should be able to find out, if necessary.
But I want to know now?――I cannot say.
You have already said you thought it was the Summer Fair of 1876?――I
think so, but I am not quite certain; but it was taken at Sheffield
Fair.
I will try and assist your memory. Did you not say before the coroner
that you had known the prisoner for about ten months?――I don’t
recollect exactly.
At the time you gave evidence before the coroner in December, 1876,
how long had you known the prisoner?――Perhaps near a year.
Had you been with him to more than one fair?――No.
Had you been with him to what is called a Winter Fair?――No.
Then the fair at which you had been with him was the Summer
Fair?――Yes.
You say you had only known him a year, and you had not been with him
to a winter fair. Now, then, cannot you now say that it was the summer
fair of 1876?――Oh, no; I cannot say, because I am not quite sure.
I will try and assist you a little further. How many months was it
before you took out the summons against him for threatening your life
that you had been with him to the fair? I cannot tell you how many
months. I cannot tell you exactly. It might be two or three months,
perhaps. I cannot be quite sure.
When were you married to Mr. Dyson?――I do not remember the date.
Don’t remember the date? What year was it?――I can’t tell you that.
Do you mean to swear that you can’t tell the year when you were
married?――No, I can’t say what year.
Not what year?――No; but I can find out.
Dou you mean to say you don’t know what year you were married in?――I
don’t.
Where were you married?――In Cleveland, Ohio; Trinity Church.
Mr. Clegg: Were there any witnesses present at your marriage?――Certainly;
my sister, Mrs. Thomas Mooney.
Mr. Pollard: I object to this. I can’t see the relevancy of it.
The Stipendiary: She says she can’t remember when she was married.
Mr. Clegg: I don’t wish to waste time; but I believe all the questions
I ask will have a relevancy to the case.
The Stipendiary: I must trust you to a great extent. I do not myself
see the relevancy.
Mr. Pollard: It will do no good to go into the whole history of a
person’s life from their first years.
Mr. Clegg: I am only starting the question of whether she was married,
and I have every reason for asking for full particulars of the facts.
The Stipendiary: If she could remember the year of her marriage I
should say the rest was not necessary.
Mr. Pollard (to Mr. Clegg): Ask when it was about.
Mr. Clegg: If she had told me the year I should have been satisfied.
(To witness): Your sister was one of the witnesses. Who was
another?――Dr. Sargent.
Did you get a certificate of your marriage? Certainly; it is with my
agent in America.
What is your agent’s name?――Booth, Barratt, and Co., St. Louis,
Missouri, United States.
Had you any object in leaving your certificate there?――I have left
other papers there. They are more safe then carrying them about.
The Stipendiary here interposed with reference to the manner in which
Mr. Clegg was cross-examining.
Mr. Clegg: In this case it is a question of credibility as to what
actually happened, and as this witness is the only person who actually
saw what happened I think I have a right to test her credibility in
every possible way. I have an object in asking these questions as to
her marriage, in consequence of what I am instructed she has told
somebody about it. I wish to inquire into it, whether it is true or
not.
Mr. Clegg: Was your husband friendly with the prisoner?――Yes.
Did he frame any pictures for you?――Yes.
(Prisoner muttered something which was not distinctly heard.)
Did he tell you what they were?――Yes. One was a portrait of my sister,
one of Mr. Dyson, and my brother, and my little boy.
Was your husband’s mother not amongst them?――I think not.
Will you swear he did not frame that?――No, he did not.
Had your husband a portrait or picture of his mother?――I had one.
The Stipendiary: What about your objection, Mr. Pollard?
Mr. Pollard: Of course I make my objection. I was leaving it in your
hands.
Mr. Clegg: Will you swear he did not frame a portrait of your
husband’s mother?――No, he did not. There was one in a pot frame.
The Stipendiary said something to Mr. Clegg, who replied, “I will show
the portrait to you, sir. I do not want to prove anything that is not
material.”
Mr. Clegg: This is a material object; a most material object.
The Stipendiary: It is not, in my idea, of sufficient importance to be
gone on with.
Mr. Clegg: I think you will see, when I bring out what I want to know
about this portrait, that it is a very material object.
The Stipendiary: Very well, I will say no more; but if it is merely a
question of general credibility, it is unnecessary.
Mr. Clegg: Did you ever ask him to frame this portrait――this picture
of your mother?――Yes. I was to get a large one of my mother. I
mentioned it to him about framing them, but I never got the
photographs.
Did you ask him to frame your mother’s portrait?――Yes; but he never
did it.
Mr. Clegg: Did you write him any letter?
Mr. Pollard: She gives a reason why she did not ask him.
Mr. Clegg: It is not an answer to my question. I do not care about her
reasons.――(To witness): Did you send him a letter about it?――No.
Mr. Clegg (holding a bundle of letters in his hand, and calling the
attention of the witness to one marked No. 6): Look at this letter. Is
it in your handwriting?――No.
Is it in your husband’s writing?――No.
Do you know whose writing it is?――No, I don’t.
Did any person know of your wish that he should frame the picture of
your husband’s mother but your husband and yourself?――Not that I am
aware of.
Except your husband and yourself?――Not that I am aware of.
Have you ever seen the prisoner write?――No.
You will swear that you never saw him write?――No, I never saw him
write. My husband used to write for him. I have seen him sitting at a
table with writing materials in front of him.
Can you tell his writing if you see it again?――I have not see him
write.
(Peace here leaned against the table, and looked with great interest
at the witness.)
Have you never seen letters purporting to come from him?――No, I never
have, for I did not know he could write, because he used to get my
husband to write for him.
As far as you are concerned in reference to this wish, that you wanted
the prisoner to frame your photo――
Mrs. Dyson: I did not ask him to frame mine.
I did not ask you that. I said your husband’s mother’s photo. You did
not tell anyone of that?――I do not remember that I did.
Now, just listen to this letter; will you take it into your hands and
follow it while I read a copy? Now listen: “Saturday afternoon――I
write you these few lines to thank you for all your kindness, which I
shall never forget, from you and your wife. She is a good one. Does
she know that you are to give me the things or not? How can you keep
them concealed? One thing I wish you to do is to frame his mother’s
photograph and send it in with my music-book; if you please do it when
he is in. Many thanks for your kind advice. I hope I shall benefit by
it. I shall try to do right to every body as far as I can, for I can
always look upon you as a friend. Good-bye. I have not much time. Burn
this when you have read it.”
Madame, will you still venture to swear that that paper is not in your
writing?――No, it is not.
Peace: I will prove it, though.
You remember you are upon your oath?――Yes, I do.
Peace: I want these witnesses of mine called.
You were very intimate with Peace, were you not?――Yes, I used to go
into his house with his wife and daughter.
Have you been together with him, and have you not been to places of
amusement together?――I have been with him, his wife, and daughter.
I did not ask you that. Have you not been alone to places of amusement
with him?――Not to places of amusement. I have been to one place in
Sheffield alone with him.
Where?――I don’t know where. Peace said there was a man there who was
his brother.
What sort of place was it?――A public-house.
Mr. Robinson: Did you see that man there?――Yes, we saw him.
Do you know the name of the street?
Prisoner (raising himself up, and addressing his solicitor, extending
his arm towards Mrs. Dyson): Ask her about going to the theatre with
me.
Mr. Clegg: Have you been to the theatre with him?――I was with him and
his daughter and wife.
Was your husband there?――No; but I had other friends along with me.
Have you been with him alone to the Albert Hall?――To the Albert Hall?
Yes, to the Albert Hall?――No, I never was with him alone; his daughter
was with me.
The prisoner again raised himself up, and exclaimed, “Send for Mr.
Cowen;” and then, as no attention was paid to his request, he leaned
back again on his rugs.
Have you been to any public-houses together?――I have already told you
I have been to one.
More than one?――No, not along with him; but he has followed me into
public-houses when I was with my husband. He followed me into one or
two at Darnall. I cannot tell you the names of them.
Was one the Duke of York?――I believe so.
Didn’t you use to go there alone?――I used to go there.
Stop a bit. Did you not sometimes go to that house to get something to
drink, and tell the landlord to put it down to Peace, the
prisoner?――No. (Peace muttered something about it being false.) There
was no landlord, only a landlady, in the house then.
Oh, you do remember that? The name is Mrs. Liversidge――is it not? I
ask you now, have you been to the Halfway House?――Yes.
Have you told the persons belonging to that house to put down the
drink you had to Peace?――Not to my knowledge.
Not to your knowledge?――No.
Will you swear you have not?――I cannot swear it but I say I never have
to my knowledge.
Did you frequent that house?――I called there two or three times, I
believe.
Did you know a person of the name of Goodlad?――Goodlad?
Yes. Did you know the pianist at the Star Music Hall, in
Spring-street?――No.
Mr. Goodlad was here called up.
Mr. Clegg: See, that is the man.
The Stipendiary: Do you know that man by sight or name?――Which one?
The Stipendiary: Come forward. See, that is him. (Mr. Goodlad
advanced.) Look at him, Mrs. Dyson.
Witness: I never remember seeing him before.
Prisoner (groaning): Call his master; call his master.
Mr. Clegg: Have you and the prisoner been to the Star Music Hall
together?――I don’t know it by that name.
Then I will ask you this question――have you been to a music hall
together, and to a public-house?――He called it a picture gallery. I
didn’t hear any music there. There was no music there.
The Stipendiary: You had been to a place he called a picture
gallery?――Yes.
Mr. Clegg: Where was it?――It was in Sheffield.
Can you tell me whereabouts it was?――I could not tell you the street.
I could not find it now.
Have you been to a public-house with him, where there was music and
singing?――We were at his brother’s public-house; and he said his
brother was in some music society. I believe so, I am not quite sure.
Have you been to music-hall held at a public-house where there was
some music and singing?――Not to my knowledge.
What?――It looked as if there was some music because there was a small
stage, but there was no music in our time. It was early in the
afternoon.
Have you not been at night, when there has been music and singing, and
that man who was called has been playing there?――No, I do not remember
to have seen his face.
The Clerk: You say you have not been there at night?――Witness: No, it
was in the afternoon.
Mr. Clegg: Do you know a public-house in Russell-street, Sheffield,
called the “Marquis of Waterford?”――No.
Mr. Clegg (to witness): The public-house that I am talking about now
is in the street where the prisoner’s brother lived?――I do not know it
by name.
But do you know it now I have given you the place? Do you know where
the prisoner’s brother lived?――I do not know where he lived. He was in
that public-house.
Mr. Clegg: Will you call a man of the name of Cragg? (Cragg was
brought before the Court.)
Mr. Clegg: Do you know that man?――No, I never remember seeing him
before.
That man is the landlord of the public-house that I have been talking
about?――I never remember seeing him, but he may have been there and me
not see him.
Have you been to several public-houses with him (the prisoner), and
had something to drink with him at those public-houses?――No, I had
soda water.
Mr. Clegg: Well, that is something to drink.
The Stipendiary: You do not deny that you have been at these
public-houses?――I have been there.
But you have not seen these men that have been produced, to your
knowledge?――Not to my knowledge.
Mr. Clegg: You have had some drink there?――I have had a bottle of soda
water or pop.
Have you had something stronger than either of those two?――No.
How many times have you been with him to these various houses?――Only
once.
Where?――The house where you speak of.
But I think you do not know it?――I have been to the house where his
brother was.
But I am not talking about the place you call the picture-gallery. I
am talking about another public-house altogether.――Oh, I did not
understand.
Have you been to more than one public-house with him?――I have been to
the picture-gallery and another place with him.
Those are two, and have you been with him to the “Halfway House?”――Not
with him.
Or to the “Duke of York?”――Not with him.
Have you and he been out of the town together?――Yes; he followed me
one day to Mansfield.
Was any one with you?――Mrs. Padmore and her three children.
When was that?――The summer before we returned.
Was that about the time you had your photograph taken with him?――No;
not about the time.
Was it before the fair or after the fair?――I cannot tell you exactly.
Don’t take refuge behind “Cannot tell exactly.”――I cannot remember the
date, and you don’t want me to tell a lie.
I don’t want you to tell me a lie.――It was in the summer some time.
Before or after the photograph was taken?――I cannot tell you exactly.
Was it immediately preceding or subsequently?――I can’t tell you
exactly.
Can you tell me whether it was before the fair or after the
fair?――Don’t remember.
Oh, please do try and remember?――Well, I can’t; but I will find out
for you.
Was it before or after you had taken out the warrant?――Why, long
before.
The Stipendiary: Was it a warrant or summons?
Mr. Clegg: Well, both.
Mr. Pollard: The summons was taken first, and then the warrant.
Mr. Clegg (to witness): It was long before that, you say?――Yes.
Then at the time you went to Mansfield with Mrs. Padmore had you had
any quarrel with the prisoner?――Yes; I didn’t want him to annoy me.
Had you had any quarrel?――Yes, because he was a nuisance to me.
That was before you had your portrait taken with him when you went to
Mansfield?――I don’t remember.
At this point the prisoner groaned loudly several times, and finally
caused his head to fall forward on the table, placing his hands
underneath. In this position he remained.
Examination continued: Do you say it was two or three months
before?――I didn’t say two or three months. I said a while before.
What do you call a while?――A month or so――two or three weeks. It might
be longer. I am not quite sure.
Before you took out this summons against him, had you any quarrel at
all?――Had I any quarrel?
Mr. Robinson: You summoned him for a certain thing. Had you any
quarrel before that certain thing?――Not a quarrel, only that he was
such a nuisance about the house, calling me a brute, and listening on
the doorstep to our conversation.
The prisoner here again groaned, and asked for the surgeon.
Mr. Hallam, the police surgeon, felt his pulse. He then suggested that
his feet should be raised by being placed on a chair. This was done,
and then the prisoner lay back in his arm-chair with his feet curled
before him.
Had you any unpleasantness before you went to Mansfield?――He was a
constant source of annoyance by his disagreeableness. He used to
listen at the door, and jump over the wall, and be very disagreeable
indeed. He was a constant annoyance.
What train did you go by when you went to Mansfield?――The afternoon
train.
Where did you go after you got there? Was he with you?――He followed
us, and came into the house just as we were sitting down to tea.
Do you know a person of the name of Kirkham?――Kirkham?
Mr. Clegg: Call Kirkham. (Kirkham a person about twenty years of age,
was brought into the corridor.)
The Stipendiary: Do you know him?――Yes; I remember his face.
Mr. Clegg: You know him now; there can’t be any doubt about it?――I
remember his face.
Mr. Pollard: Do you know him by name, or only know his face?――I only
know his face.
Mr. Clegg: He delivered the milk?――He and his father.
Have you never give him notes, with instructions to deliver them to
Peace?――I gave him two receipts.
Two receipts? What were they for?――For pictures, framing.
What were they written on?――On paper. I don’t know whether there was
an envelope. I think only a piece of paper.
Have you not given him notes or receipts?――I have given him two
receipts.
I ask you have you not given him notes?――No, no notes.
Little scraps of paper?――No, I have given him two receipts.
Where did your husband keep his address cards?――In his writing-desk.
Locked up?――No.
Where was the writing-desk?――In the sitting-room.
Had you no address cards?――I, myself? No.
Did you ever see your husband’s?――No.
The prisoner had a daughter named Jane――had he not?――Jane Ann they
called her.
Now, then, look at that (showing her a card).――It is in the same
writing as the other.
Mr. Pollard: It is an address card. What is its number?
Mr. Clegg: It is “No. 2.” (To witness): Read out what it says (handing
witness the card).――Witness: I cannot read it, and it is not written
very plain.
Then I will try and assist you. You can read?――Yes.
And you can write?――Yes.
This is what it says then: “After he is going out I won’t go if I can
help it――so see me. Love to Janey.”――I did not write it.
Has that card been altered from “Mr.” to “Mrs.” Look?
Mr. Vickers: Is there some alteration there?――Yes; there is an “s”
there.
Will you venture to say you did not use that address card and alter
that from “Mr.” to “Mrs.?”――I did not alter it.
It is on your husband’s address card?――I am aware of that.
Now, do you know a little girl named Hutton?――I don’t remember the
name.
Do you know a Mrs. Hutton living in Britannia-road?――No, I don’t
remember the name; but I might know her if I saw her. I can’t tell her
by name.
Did you not go and meet him there?――No, I never did.
Were you never together in Mrs. Hutton’s?――We called together one day,
when I was looking after a little girl to go errands for me.
Was it Mrs. Hutton’s little girl?――Yes, I believe that was the name.
Will you swear that you never gave notes to her little girl to give to
the prisoner?――I will.
Will you give her a pen? I should like to see her write what I shall
dictate to her. What do you write with generally――a steel pen or a
quill pen?――It does not make much difference, though I usually write
with a quill.
Well, write with a steel pen, “I will write a note when I can, perhaps
to-morrow.” Yes, that will do. Go on and write, “You can give me
something as a keepsake if you like, but I don’t like to be covetous,
and to take them from your wife and daughter. Love to all.” You have
not written this half as well as the first part.――It is the best I can
do.
Now, look at this first line, “I will write to you a note,” and look
at this card. Now, madame, will you swear that this is not your
writing?――That is not my writing.
Now, I will go over these letters. Did the prisoner ever give you a
ring?――Yes.
Peace: Did I give her what?
Mr. Clegg: Do you be quiet.
Did you write to acknowledge the receipt of that ring?――Not to my
knowledge.
Had you any envelopes in your possession like this?――I cannot say.
Look it well over. It is important.――I cannot say.
Was the prisoner living next door to you when he gave you the
ring?――Yes.
The attendant surgeon, Mr. Hallam, here went to feel Peace’s pulse,
whereupon the prisoner groaned a good deal, and seemed to be very ill.
He, however, found his invalid all right, and left him for a time.
Now, then, just look at that letter――that envelope with the writing
upon it. Is that your handwriting?――No; it is not my writing.
Did anybody besides you and the prisoner know he had given you a
ring?――I don’t know. I guess his daughter knew; at least he said so.
Did you know whether the daughter could write or not?――I don’t know. I
guess she could.
Do you know about when that writing was given to you?――No; I can’t
remember.
Very well. Now then, listen to me. I am going to read a letter, and
you follow me. “I don’t know what train we shall go by. I have a good
deal to do this morning. Will see you as soon as I possibly can. I
think it would be easier after you move; he won’t watch so. The r――g
(meaning the ring) fits the little finger. Many thanks, and love to
Jennie. I will tell you what I thought of when I see you about
arranging matters. Excuse this scribbling.”
Mr. Clegg: What is the next word――is it “hello?”――I don’t know, I
cannot tell.
Now, you admit you have received a ring from him?――Yes; he gave me a
ring.
Will you swear that is not a letter from you to him?――It is not from
me.
Not about putting the ring on, and trying it on and telling him the
ring fits?――The letter is not from me.
You will not swear the letter is not from you?――It is not from me.
Did the ring fit?――No.
Did you tell him not?――I did not keep it very long. It did not fit my
little finger.
Mr. Clegg: Did you try it on?――Yes, I tried it; but I could not put it
on.
What sort of a ring was it?――I could not tell you exactly. It was not
worth much.
Do you remember the prisoner’s foot being damaged?――No; I do not
remember anything about it.
(The prisoner groaned, and his solicitor had a consultation with him.)
Will you swear that you did not write this note to him (producing a
letter marked No. 5)? Is that in your handwriting?――No.
Mr. Clegg: I will read it to you.
Mr. Pollard: The witness keeps on saying she did not write the letter
to him, or the note. I object that, unless it is proved the thing is
connected with the case it cannot be used. She denies that she wrote
it.
Mr. Clegg: I submit, then, sir, that you have a most curious
coincidence. She admits that the ring is given to her by the prisoner,
and yet she denies writing the letter in which the ring is mentioned
to her.
The Sipendiary: What does it all lead to?
Mr. Clegg: It leads to this. This woman has sworn now, as she did
previously, that she did not write any of the letters, and I am in a
position to prove that she did.
The Stipendiary: She distinctly denies it. You have evidence quite
enough to damage her credit.
Prisoner (moaning): I demand that justice be done.
The Stipendiary (to prisoner): Don’t you interrupt.
Mr. Pollard: I will take your opinion on the subject.
[Sidenote: No. 89.]
[Illustration: EXAMINATION OF MRS. DYSON.]
The Stipendiary: I think enough has been gone into for the purposes of
the preliminary examination. You can reserve the rest for the trial. I
consider that enough has been gone into for the purpose of the
preliminary examination.
Mr. Clegg: Supposing that at the trial this man is not defended――a
state of things which is not at all unlikely.
The Stipendiary: You know very well that in that case the judge would
order some learned counsel to defend the prisoner. I am not going to
deal with a state of circumstances that may arise at the trial. It
would be presumption in me to provide for want of justice before the
judges.
Mr. Clegg: This is a preliminary inquiry, and I can put in whatever I
think is for the benefit of the prisoner. Though it is only a
preliminary inquiry I am bound to do it.
The Stipendiary: I rule that sufficient has been asked about those
lettters.
Mr. Clegg: I shall persist in asking these questions until I am
stopped.
The Stipendiary: Then I stop them now. You have quite enough for your
purpose.
Mr. Clegg: I don’t think I have.
The Stipendiary: You have quite enough. You can prosecute her for
perjury if she has spoken falsely as to what has been asked of her.
There are two very particular points, on which she has decisively
spoken in reference to these letters.
Prisoner: She has done more than that.
The Stipendiary: You may if you have cause, indict her for perjury; it
can lead to nothing else.
Mr. Clegg: Then at present I don’t think I have got sufficient, in my
opinion, to test this witness’s credibility.
The Stipendiary: In my opinion, you have. If what you have asserted is
shown to be true, you have more than sufficient to damage her
credibility, and more than sufficient to have a cause for indicting
her for perjury. Beyond that it is not necessary for you to go, and I
rule you shall not go.
Mr. Clegg: How can I indict the woman for perjury unless I put the
letters in her hands?
The Stipendiary: She has looked at them, because I told her to look at
them myself. I said to her, “Look at each one, and see if it is not in
your handwriting.” That is in itself sufficient.
Mr. Clegg: Those letters have been already produced by the
prosecution. I have the right to call for those to be read, and if you
will not now let me cross-examine her in reference to them in detail,
then I ask that the letters be read; then I can cross-examine upon
them, and that comes to the same thing.
The Stipendiary: You should have done that before. It is too late now.
I cannot have them read now.
Mr. Clegg: Put that decision on the depositions. I ask that those
letters put in by the prosecution be read by the clerk of the court.
The Stipendiary: You have seen them.
Mr. Clegg: I have not seen them. I have not had the opportunity of
reading these original letters. By mere favour I have had copies of
them sent to me.
Prisoner: It is nothing but injustice.
The Stipendiary: You will take the ruling of the Court, Mr. Clegg, if
you please, and have done with it.
Mr. Clegg: I put it to you as a matter of law.
The Stipendiary: I have given my decision.
Mr. Clegg: I object to proceed until these letters are read.
Prisoner: Hear, hear.
The Stipendiary: You can proceed with your cross-examination.
Mr. Clegg: I have a right to have the letters read if I please.
The Stipendiary: You can read them over yourself if you like.
Mr. Clegg: If they are put into my hands I shall read them to witness.
The Stipendiary: Then you may read them.
Mr. Clegg: Very well, then; that is all I want. The witness has denied
that she has had anything to do with them. (To witness): Have you read
them?――Some of them.
Have you read them all?――Not all of them.
Then I will read them to you.
Mr. Pollard: There will be no necessity for their being read aloud.
Let the witness read them for herself.
Mr. Clegg: I will read this one to you now, if you please. (Reading):
“If you have a note for me send now whilst he is out, but you must not
venture, for he is watching, and you cannot be too careful. Hope your
foot is better. I went to Sheffield yesterday, but I could not see you
anywhere. Were you out? Love to Jane.” Did you write that letter?――No.
Mr. Clegg: Now I put that letter in. Have you had an envelope in your
possession like that (handing an envelope to the witness)?――I don’t
know; perhaps I might have. As regards the envelope, the prisoner used
to come for paper and writing materials to my house.
Prisoner: No, I did not; oh, no.
Mr. Clegg (holding a yellow envelope in his hand): Have you read the
contents of this?――Yes, excepting something I could not make out.
Will you swear that is not your handwriting?――I swear there are none
of them in my writing.
Mr. Pollard: I think you need hardly put it to her now, because she
has sworn over and over again that there are none of them in her
writing.
Mr. Clegg (to witness): Did you ever give the prisoner an American
cent?――No.
Did you ever borrow any money from him?――No.
Not at all?――I never did.
Mr. Clegg, reading: “Things are looking very bad, for people told him
everything. (Then there is something missing.) Pick out F. D.” Do you
know what that means?――No.
Mr. Clegg (again reading): “Do keep quiet, and don’t let any one see
you.” You did not write that? No; I did not write that.
The Stipendiary: She says she didn’t write these letters.
Mr. Clegg: Well, I wish to question her on the point.
The Stipendiary: I will not have it, and I will have my ruling
attended to. It shall not go down on the depositions.
Cross-examination continued: You had a son named Willie?――William
Henry.
How old is he?――Seven years old last December.
Did the prisoner ever give your son any halfpennies or coppers that
you know of?――No, not that I am aware of.
You have seen that letter as well (handing a letter to witness)?――Yes,
I have seen them all.
Do you know a woman named Norton?――Norton! I seem to remember the
name. I think I remember the name.
Did you ever write this to the prisoner, “Mrs. Norton is raising h――――
about what I――――(then follows a blank)――――. Can you settle it, and
send me the prints?”
Mr. Pollard: Witness denied that she ever wrote the letter, and the
magistrate has given a ruling.
Mr. Clegg (to witness): When you were before the magistrates last week
you said that you left Darnall in consequence of the prisoner annoying
you?――Yes, on account of his annoyance.
Had you seen him from July, 1876 up to the time when you left in
October?――No.
Did you know where he was?――No, I did not. He made himself scarce on
account of the warrant I had taken out against him.
Did his family leave the neighbourhood before you left?――I don’t know.
What do you now say was the reason for your leaving Darnall? Because
we were afraid of him. That was the reason. We thought he might come
in in the night. We thought we had better go where he would not know
where to find us.
It was because you were afraid of him?――Yes; he had threatened both my
life and that of my husband.
Was the sole reason you left because you were afraid of him?――Yes; and
we were told that he visited Darnall in female attire.
Did you say that the prisoner had threatened to blow your brains out,
and those of your husband?――Yes; I said that.
Will you say that he threatened to blow your husband’s brains
out?――Yes; I will swear that threatened to blow out both my brains and
my husband’s.
Did you state that before the coroner?――The case was not brought
before the coroner.
Were you not examined before the coroner?――Yes; on the case of murder,
nothing more.
Were you examined as to the death of your husband?――Yes.
Did you say then that the prisoner had threatened your life at
all?――Not that I remember.
The depositions of the witness were then put in by Mr. Pollard, from
which it appeared that before the coroner witness had said that Peace
had threatened to blow out both her brains and her husband’s.
Had there been any quarrel between prisoner and your husband?――I say
he had been very annoying.
Was there any quarrel?――I can’t say there was any quarrel, because my
husband would not speak to him.
Have you ever received a letter from the prisoner at all?――No sir. Oh!
yes. I have received threatening letters.
Have you got them?――Mr. Chambers has them, I think.
I am now talking about the night of the murder. Previous to your going
into the closet had your son been taken to bed, do you know?――Yes.
Did you see the prisoner when you were in the bedroom?――No.
When you were coming out of the closet did you see the prisoner?――Yes,
I did.
Did you say to him, “You old devil, what are you doing here now?”――I
don’t remember saying anything to him, but he said, “Speak or I’ll
fire.”
Will you swear that you did not say, “You old devil, what are you
doing here to-night? I should have thought that you had brought enough
disgrace upon me?――I don’ remember speaking at all. I was too
astonished.
Did he say to you, “I will let you have the notes back again if you
will get him to stay proceedings?”――No.
Did you say, “You know very well he won’t do it, as he has placed it
in the hands of the lawyers?”――No; I did not speak to him.
Your husband then came up?――Yes.
How far was he from you and the prisoner before you first saw
him?――About two or three feet.
How far is the passage from where you were to the closet? Close by.
Well, how many yards?――I can’t say.
How far were you from the closet door when you saw your husband?――Only
three or four feet; I was just at the end.
Whereabouts was the prisoner when he came up?――The prisoner was going
down the passage.
Was he walking or running away?――He was going at a rather quick pace.
Was he walking pretty quickly away from your husband?――He was going
down the passage.
Away from your husband?――Away from him.
When your husband was going towards the prisoner did you hear him say,
“If you don’t stop I’ll fire?”――No.
Did you see the prisoner on the ground?――How do you mean?
With your husband. Was there any struggling between your husband and
the prisoner?――No, no.
How far were you away from them when your husband was shot, did you
say?――A few feet off.
Did you hear the prisoner speak to your husband before he fired?――No,
I did not. There was no speaking at all.
Not from the time that he came out right up to the time he was
shot?――No.
Will you swear that your husband and the prisoner were not struggling
together on the ground?――No, they were not struggling. They were not
close enough together.
Mr. Clegg: What became of the lantern that you had?――What became of my
lantern?
Yes, had you it in your hand?――I threw it down.
Before you saw your husband come out had you the lantern still in your
hand?――Yes.
This concluded the cross-examination of Mrs. Dyson.
Mr. Pollard (re-examining): Are there some steps coming from the
passage into the roadway?――There are one or two steps.
When your husband fell in what direction did his head fall?――From the
side of the passage.
Did he take any step forward after the bullet struck him?――No, he
dropped instantly.
At the time the bullet was fired did you see whether Peace was down on
the pathway of the causeway?――Yes.
Therefore he would be some few feet below your husband?――Yes. He was
down off the steps on the causeway when he fired the second shot.
And you say he would therefore be some two or three feet below your
husband’s head at the time he fired?――Yes.
You were saying something about threatening letters. Between July and
October, 1876, did you see any threatening letters?――Yes.
How many?――I know of two, and there were perhaps more.
Have you those letters?――Mr. Chambers, solicitor, has them. Mr. Dyson
gave them to Mr. Chambers.
You gave them to Mr. Dyson, your husband, and he gave them to Mr.
Chambere?――Yes.
You don’t know whose writing they were?――They were signed as if from
prisoner, and seemed to come from Germany.
(Prisoner: I wish to call witnesses.)
The Stipendiary: It’s not time to call witnesses.
Prisoner: Am I going to be committed to-day? I want my witnesses
called before.
The Stipendiary: It’s not the time.
This concluded Mrs. Dyson’s evidence, who then retired.
Police-constable 235, John Pearson, was next called and examined by
Mr. Pollard. Do you know the prisoner?――I do, three or four years.
Prisoner: Let that person come up here, will you? I don’t know him.
Mr. Pollard (to witness): Three or four years from now?――Yes, I knew
him about two years before the murder.
You remember the date of the murder of Mr. Dyson in November,
1876?――Yes.
Did you receive some instructions from your superior officer to go in
search of the prisoner?――I did. I received instructions the same
morning at half past two o’clock.
That was Nov. 30?――Yes.
Did you go to any place in Hull which you had any reason to
know?――Yes, I went to 37, Collier-street.
Who was living there?――Peace’s wife, I believe. The same person who
had been locked up here in the name of Hannah Peace. She was keeping a
shop.
You failed to find him there?――Yes.
Mr. Pollard: I propose now to take the escape and recapture of the
prisoner on the last occasion.
Stipendiary: You have gone after the time.
Mr. Pollard: I put it on the ground of what it is worth, as an element
for a jury to consider, whether an innocent person after having been
examined, and hearing evidence such as was given on the last occasion,
would have attempted to escape as he did.
The Stipendiary: He was a convict, you know, suffering under sentence
of penal servitude for life.
Mr. Pollard: Well, I will not press it.
Mr. Pollard then said that was his case.
Prisoner here exclaimed: “I want my witnesses called. Why don’t you
call my witnesses?” and then fell down.
The depositions were now read over, Mrs. Dyson’s being taken first.
Whilst her depositions were being read the prisoner conducted himself
in an excited and somewhat insolent manner. Making a faint of jumping
from his chair, he fell back suddenly, calling to be taken to his
cell. The warders stepped forward, and he then refused to be removed,
and called for his counsel, to whom he began to give instructions in
an excited fashion. Mr. Clegg took little notice, and soon after Peace
put his arms on the table, laid his head between them, and moaned
loudly. He next drew the rug over his head, and made such
interruptions that the rug was drawn back, and he was asked to be
still. He paid little attention to this request, but kept moaning and
muttering till the deposition were read over.
Stipendiary (to Peace): Do you hear what is said?
Prisoner (whining): Oh yes, I hear.
The depositions were afterwards read over of Sarah Ann Colgrave, Mary
Ann Gregory, George Brassington, Thomas Wilson, Police-constable Ward,
Inspector Bradbury, and Police-constable Pearson.
Prisoner: Cannot you call my witnesses? What is the use of my having
witnesses if they are not called?
The Stipendiary: Listen to me.
Prisoner: I cannot have them called.
The Stipendiary: Oh, yes, you can, Listen to me. You first of all have
to make a statement, and then if there are any witnesses to be called
they can be called. Now listen to me. The charge against you is that
you wilfully and of malice aforethought did kill and murder one Arthur
Dyson, on Oct. 29, 1876. Having heard the evidence, do you wish to say
anything in answer to the charge?
Prisoner: Yes; I wish to say that――――
Stipendiary: You are not obliged to say anything in answer to the
charge. What you do say will be taken down, and may be given in
evidence against you.
Mr. Clegg: If you take my advice you will simply say not guilty.
The Prisoner: I say I am not guilty, and that justice has not been
done to me so that I can prove I am not guilty. That is what I want. I
want that. I want justice done me. Why don’t they let me call my
witnesses, because you are asking me shall my witnesses be called? Why
should they not be called here? Why? because I have not the money to
pay the expenses.
The Stipendiary: What is it you complain of?
The Prisoner: I want my witnesses called to prove that I have really
not done this.
The Stipendiary: Are there any witnesses to be called?
Prisoner: Yes, sir.
The Stipendiary: Are they here?
Prisoner: Yes, sir.
The Stipendiary: Then you must ask your solicitor.
Mr. Robinson (reading): You say, “I say I am not guilty, and I want my
witnesses called to prove I am not guilty.”
Prisoner: That is what I said. I have lots of witnessses who can prove
that that base, bad, woman has threatened my life, and has threatened
her husband’s life; but I can’t talk to you, I am so bad. I feel very
bad. But she has threatened to take my life often.
The Stipendiary: Is this what you say?
Prisoner: I say I am not guilty, and I say I have not justice done me
to prove I am not guilty, and that I want my witnesses called.
(Loudly.) I say I can prove that I have not threatened her life. She
has threatened her husband’s, and she has pointed pistols and things
at me.
The Stipendiary: Have you any witnesses to-day? You are not taking
your trial to-day. This is only a preliminary examination.
Prisoner: I cannot have those witnesses without I pay for them.
Mr. Clegg: I say I don’t intend calling any witnesses to-day.
The Stipendiary: Do you care to sign your statement? Would you like to
put your name to the statement?
Prisoner: I will try.
Prisoner (to his warder, in a very rough tone of voice): Let me be.
Then, taking up the pen, he said, I cannot see.
Mr. Clegg: Just sign it there.
Prisoner then rested his head on one arm and signed his name very
deliberately, the capital “C” and “P” being particularly well
flourished.
The Stipendiary: You are committed to take your trial on this charge
at the assizes at Leeds.
The Prisoner (with eagerness): When are they?
The Stipendary: They are next week.
Inspector Bradbury was then bound over to prosecute, and the witnesses
to appear at the trial.
The Prisoner: Will you let me sit before the fire a bit before I go? I
am really very bad.
Mr. Clegg: He complains of being cold.
Prisoner: You can put me in irons if you like, but put me near a fire.
The Chief Constable: The cells are warm enough. It is only in this
corridor that there is so much air.
Mr. Clegg: You will be warm enough in the cell.
Prisoner: I want to see you.
Mr. Clegg: Yes, I will see you.
Prisoner was then removed to the cell, groaning and whining,
apparently overcome by the result of the day’s proceedings.
Mrs. Dyson laboured under suppressed emotion, but bore the ordeal
well. The utmost precautions were taken to keep down excitement in the
town, but popular feeling ran very high.
We have during the progress of this work had occasion to refer in more
than instance to the latitude allowed to counsel on police
examinations. A striking instance of this was made manifest on the
several examinations of the prisoner Webster for the Richmond murder,
and before then, in a lesser degree, perhaps, a similar instance
occurred in the examination of the witnesses brought forward to give
their testimony upon the Bannercross murder.
Peace was a daring and reckless burglar. An adept at disguising
himself in a style that eluded the scrutiny of the police, he set
small value on the vigilance of professional detectives.
The comparative immunity with which he had escaped the consequences of
his iniquity induced him to wax bold in transgression.
Even to the last there seemed an idea that he might still be able to
baffle justice. Everything a wicked ingenuity could do was done to
discredit the testimony on which he was convicted; but the utmost
license of counsel was unavailing.
We are not disposed to say anything severe about a barrister
struggling with the difficulties Mr. Lockwood was called to combat. In
such circumstances the old adage of “No case――abuse the plaintiff’s
attorney,” is a sufficient explanation of what might otherwise appear
unseemly.
On the present occasion, however, it was not the attorney, but the
press that got abused. In the recent trial of the directors of the
City of Glasgow Bank, a similar policy was pursued by a prominent and
really able advocate.
But the barrister to whom the defence of Charles Peace was committed
passed beyond the duty of counsel in the denunciation of newspapers.
It was thus that Mr. Lockwood delivered himself:
“Never in the course of my experience has there been such a cry raised
on the part of those who ought to be most careful of all others in
preserving the liberties of their fellow-men and the independence of
the tribunals of justice. I say that in this respect these parties
have proved false to the great duties entrusted to them, and have not
hesitated to raise a merciless cry for blood for the sake of the
paltry pennies which they have been able to extract from the public,
whom they have tried to gull.”
This charge against the press is false. There had really been no
attempt to stimulate public antipathy against the Bannercross culprit.
In point of fact, a judicious critic might with some show of reason
insinuate that the details of the life of Peace had been placed before
the public in aspects more attractive than just.
The convict was not at all averse to the notoriety which he had
recently achieved. But when his life is carefully scanned from the day
that he first enlisted in the “Devil’s Regiment of the Line” until
sentence of death was passed upon him, it is abundantly evident that
the way of the transgressor was hard.
Charles Peace commenced his criminal career before he was fourteen. He
was not yet fifty, but already there was unambiguous evidence that
premature old age was stealing over him.
Though devoted to crime, Peace never consorted with criminals. This
peculiarity in his career constituted his safety. It is mainly because
the haunts and habits of criminals are known that they are detected.
The impunity with which, for a very considerable period, Peace was
enabled to commit the Blackheath burglaries arose from the air of
mystery with which he was surrounded.
It must not, however, be assumed that there was anything heroic in the
kind of housebreaking with which he was identified.
Houses in the district that formed the scene of his depredations
afford every facility to the “cracksman.” But the good fortune which
had so often favoured Peace in this region at length deserted him.
A constable whom a revolver could not scare mastered the burglar.
When he was condemned to penal servitude, it was discovered that the
culprit had been guilty of a more serious crime. “Information
received” enabled the authorities to connect the Blackheath burglar
with the Bannercross murder.
That crime was fast fading from the memory of even those amongst whom
it had been committed, and every hope of arresting the murderer had
been abandoned.
Mr. Dyson’s widow was in America, and Peace, who knew this, thought
himself safe.
But, if “justice steals along with woollen feet, it strikes with iron
hands.”
Mrs. Dyson was brought back from the United States to avenge in the
witness-box the brutality of her tormentor.
Her evidence as to all that transpired on the eventful night that her
husband fell was too minute and circumstantial to be shaken by even
the severest cross-examination.
The line of evidence which counsel was instructed to take only
deepened the infamy of the accused.
Even had it been possible to prove an improper intimacy between Peace
and Mrs. Dyson, that would have done nothing to mitigate the atrocity
of Mr. Dyson’s murder.
A most persistent effort was made by Mr. Lockwood to show that,
previous to the firing of the shot from which Mr. Dyson fell, there
had been a struggle between the murderer and his victim.
On this point, however, the widow’s evidence was decisive. There was
indeed no necessity that Mr. Dyson should close with the culprit.
Moreover, inoffensive people are not usually anxious to fight ruffians
who are armed with “six-shooters.”
When Peace was in a difficulty or in a passion, recourse to firearms
seemed perfectly natural. Society was his legitimate prey, and in
presence of unarmed antagonists the burglar waxed valorous. Rarely has
a more wanton murder been perpetrated than that of Mr. Dyson.
The only offence of which that unfortunate man appeared guilty was his
abhorrence of the attentions of Peace. To escape them, he removed from
the neighbourhood in which the convict dwelt.
The scamp, however, followed the Dysons with a fiendish malignity.
When threatening to blow out Mrs. Dyson’s brains, Peace had the
effrontery to ask a bystander to “bear him witness that she had struck
him with a life-preserver.” This idea was a pure myth.
The preserver existed only in the foul imagination of the criminal,
and the struggle with Mr. Dyson on the 29th November, 1876, a still
bolder fiction. It is possible that the crime was unpremeditated, and
that annoyance rather than murder was intended. But a man who makes a
revolver the instrument of annoyance cannot guard against the most
dreaded contingencies.
Mr. Campbell Foster was justly enough precluded from making any
reference to Peace’s attempted escape from the railway train. But it
is not difficult to understand the motives under which the desperate
leap was taken.
If Peace had possessed any confidence in his ability to support the
plea set up in his behalf, there would have been no attempt to escape.
But he was awnre of what awaited him.
He knew enough of Mrs. Dyson to fear that her testimony was not likely
to be shaken. Every incidence in her career, so far as it was known to
counsel, was reproduced for the purpose of disconcerting and
discrediting her. Nevertheless, she left the witness-box with her
evidence unshaken.
Thus has Charles Peace been condemned. Hunted down while not yet
fifty, there is in every feature of his forbidding face evidence that
such a career is as unprofitable as it is criminal.
It is difficult to conceive what this malefactor might have been under
other and brighter auspices. But, dedicated to crime from his youth
upward, as years passed away, conscience, which in his case was never
tender, became “seared as with a hot iron.”
When the final stage in his trial was reached, and Peace was asked if
he had anything to say, he whimpered out, “Is there any use of saying
anything now?”
But in his cell the convict collapses, and his courage proves
melodramatic.
CHAPTER CLVIII.
PRISONERS AND THEIR CUSTODIANS.
One of the most remarkable and daring exploits of our time, and one
which more than any other of his adventures awakened the public mind
to the desperate and reckless nature of the man was his attempt to
escape while in the charge of his warders in the railway carriage.
This might be considered the culminating point of his lawless life,
and had he been without handcuffs, and possessed of his favourite
weapon――a six-chambered revolver――we would not have given much for the
lives of his two custodians. It was indeed fortunate for them that the
wild beast under their care was safely manacled, and, indeed, the
great body of the people had no idea of the risks run by the servants
of the law in dealing with ruffians of Peace’s type. We subjoin an
interesting account given by an officer, and printed in _Chambers’s
Journal_ of
A PERILOUS RIDE WITH A CONVICT.
One of my journeys called me away to a town in Suffolk, where I was
ordered to take charge of a prisoner to be discharged the next day
from one of the local gaols, in which he had been undergoing a year’s
imprisonment for a criminal assault.
The man had been let out on a ticket-of-leave from the “Defence” hulk
at Woolwich, and had speedily, as it appeared, got into trouble down
in the country.
As he was merely “wanted” to complete his original sentence――having
broken his ticket-of-leave――there could be no bother about
apprehending him inside the prison, and using such precautions for his
safe keeping as seemed best to my judgment.
Just as I was about to leave the office in Bow-street, one of my
comrades with whom I was rather intimate came in, having finished a
journey such as I was myself about to set off on.
“Going out, Tom?” he asked; and on my telling him where I was bound
for, he continued――“Better have this ‘barker,’ Tom――you may find it
useful.”
At the same time he produced a small pocket pistol, which he held out
for my acceptance.
“I have not got any powder,” he added; but here are some caps and
bullets.”
It seemed needless to remark that this was before the days of
revolvers and patent cartridges; we had then to load in the old
fashion, and had merely got as far as the introduction of the
percussion cap.
I had never before carried anything more deadly by way of protection
than a life-preserver, but as my friend seemed to mean a kindness, I
made no ado about accepting his offer; and having “capped” it there
and then, I consigned it to the side pocket of a pilot coat, which I
wore buttoned over my uniform.
My journey down to Suffolk calls for no particular notice. In due time
the railway deposited me at my destination, and left me with plenty of
leisure to call upon the governor of the prison over night, with a
view to my carrying off my charge the next morning. I asked what sort
of a customer I would have to deal with, and must confess that I did
not feel much encouraged with the reply,