given us a deal of trouble while we have had charge of him;
continually breaking prison rules, and more than once he has tried to
commit suicide in the most determined manner by tearing open the veins
in his arms with his finger-nails.”
This account of matters was not, as may well be supposed, at all
enlivening; and when the governor added that the man was a perfect
giant, and had been a “navvy” before he fell into evil courses, I
began to fear that my work was cut out for me. However, there was no
help for it.
The inn where I had taken up my quarters stood right opposite the gaol
entrance, and as the street was somewhat of the narrowest, the most
complete view of all comers and goers could be commanded from the
front of my temporary residence.
Next morning found me seated at a very comfortable breakfast, and the
weather being fine, the window of the private parlour was open,
affording a perfect view of all that might take place at the prison
door opposite.
While I was absorbed in the good cheer before me, I was startled by an
exclamation from both the landlady and her daughter, which caused me
to look up and instinctively to glance across the street.
“Did you ever see such a big, coarse, and clumsy-looking woman?”
exclaimed the younger of my entertainers.
“Or is it a woman at all?” added her mother.
My attention was at once riveted upon the new comer, whom I somehow
could not avoid connecting with the criminal it would so soon become
my duty to apprehend.
Without saying a word to the two ladies, I carefully and closely
watched every movement of the party opposite during the remainder of
my morning meal. More than once I caught myself mentally repeating my
landlady’s query: “Is it a woman, after all?”
The “it” must be excused, as the point was so entirely doubtful. For a
woman, the individual was very considerably above the average height,
and her whole physique indicated far more than the average strength of
womankind.
There was a swagger in her walk, too, most unlike the carriage of a
female. I was fairly puzzled, and none the less so that I had twice
noticed her ringing the prison bell, and that I knew there was but one
individual to be discharged that morning, and that it was close upon
my time to go and look after him.
I had barely finished my last cup of coffee, when one of the prison
warders came across to say that the wife of my prisoner was waiting
outside, and had twice made a demand to see him; but that the governor
did not care to accede to the request without first consulting me.
After casting the matter over in my own mind for a minute, I told the
warder that I did not mind the woman being admitted, but that the two
ought to be very closely watched during the interview.
The man re-entered the prison, and within a few minutes I observed
that the woman was called in.
Punctual to my time, I crossed over to the prison, and found my charge
waiting for me, his wife being still with him, and no one in the room
but the governor.
Contrary to my expectations, the prisoner held up his wrists and
submitted to be handcuffed with the most lamb-like docility.
When we got out into the street, I suggested, as there was time to
spare, that the stalwart pair should have a bit of breakfast at my
expense before starting on the journey for town.
I thought the woman seemed a little taken aback at my invitation;
however, it was acceded to; and we entered the inn parlour, where I
requested the landlady to produce a plentiful supply of ham and eggs;
and as the pair preferred ale to tea or coffee, I ordered them a pint
apiece.
I had of course to unlock one hand in the order to allow my prisoner
the free use of his knife and fork; and, after what I had heard the
night before, I thought it was rather risky thing for me to do, as
though he might not attempt to do me any mischief, it was just
possible he might try to inflict some serious mischief on himself.
All, however, passed off safely, and when breakfast was finished, I
told him he must bid his wife good-bye, as I did not want to attract
any attention at the railway station. A kiss was accordingly
exchanged, the bracelets were again attached to the wrists, and we set
off at a brisk pace.
When we got to the station, I learned that the next “up” train was an
express, and that I would have to look sharp, as it might be expected
immediately, and made but a brief stoppage.
The train, in fact, came in almost to a minute after the information
was communicated to me; and I hurried across the platform, got my man
into a second-class carriage――the compartment I had only just time to
notice was empty.
The whistle sounded, and the train was beginning to move, when the
door was flung violently open, and in jumped the prisoner’s wife,
taking her seat right opposite me.
There was but time for the porter to slam the door, when we were off.
It need not be said that I was very far from being satisfied with the
look of things, and that I had made up my mind to be carefully on my
guard.
I said nothing, being fully determined not to show any uneasiness,
though it must be owned I felt much. Before we had gone any great way
my prisoner turned sideways to me and said: “Master, my missus and me
have some small matters of our own we would like to talk over; and as
they don’t concern you in the least, p’raps you wouldn’t mind looking
out of winder for a minute or two while we have our talk.”
“That I could not possibly do,” was my immediate answer. My duty is to
keep you always under my eye and control; and besides, as you have
just said, your domestic arrangements can be a matter of no concern to
me, so you can discuss them as freely as you please without minding my
presence.”
This answer seemed to disconcert both of them; but as if by way of
compromise, I at the same moment leant towards the window of the
carriage for a moment, and glanced outside.
My hearing is sharp enough now, but at the time I speak as was even
more acute. Just as I turned my head, I heard, or thought I heard the
man whisper the words: “Both together.” Instantly the suspicion
flashed across my mind that these words related to myself, and I
turned round and faced the couple in a moment.
What I saw in the expression of each of them seemed to warrant my
acting with immediate decision. I seized the man between his manacled
wrists so that he could not raise his hands.
With an instinctive thought I plunged my right hand into the pocket of
my pilot coat, pulled out the pistol my mate had handed to me, cocked
it with my thumb, and holding it within a few inches of the face of
the woman opposite, I looked steadily into her eyes, and said with
emphasis, “If you attempt to stir before we reach the next station you
will certainly be a dead woman!”
It was something fearful to notice the immediate change on that
woman’s countenance. She became of a pallid whiteness, and her lips
had the purple-bluish tinge that indicate so unmistakably an access of
deadly fear. In the highly-dramatic positions I have just described we
sped on until the next stopping station was reached, and that occupied
fully more than twenty minutes.
The moment the train came to a stop I thus addressed the woman,
keeping her “covered” with the muzzle of my pistol: “Leave the
carriage; and, if you value your liberty, make what speed you can to
get into hiding.”
She disappeared instanter; and I felt a heavy load of anxiety lifted
off my mind as she left us, for of all the encounters I most hate, an
encounter with a woman is to be classed foremost.
Not a word passed between my prisoner aad me during the remainder of
the journey to London, which we were no great while in reaching, and
where I duly delivered him into safe keeping at Bow-street
police-office.
Next morning I had to conduct my prisoner to Woolwich, there to
deliver him to the authorities of the hulks, from whom he had obtained
his ticket-of-leave. He seemed to have recovered from his scare of the
day before, and on our journey spoke freely enough, and with an
earnestness that left no doubt of the truth of his communication.
“Master,” said he, “I am main glad you kept your head yesterday, and
did not lean out of the winder. Had you done so, missus and I meant to
have pitched you out, and taken our chance afterwards of getting off.
“I was not very likely to be so easily put off my guard,” was the
laconic answer.
“Aye, but master, your danger was not over then for missus and I had
made it up that she was to pin your arms――and she could a done it
easy――while I was to smash your head with the ‘darbies.’ We should
then a took a key, got off the bracelets, and heaved you out of a
winder, afore you could come to yourself. That pistol fairly put us
out, for it cowed missus, and she isn’t easily cowed, I tell ye.”
“But the pistol was not loaded,” said I――“nothing but a cap and an
empty barrel.”
“All the same, master, I’m main glad we failed. Now I’ve thought it
over, I know I could not have escaped. It was known I left in your
charge, and that missus joined us. When your body was found, we’d a
been spotted at once, and most likely both on us would a swung for it.
I’m main glad, I tell you, that you got out o’ the mess, and I don’t
bear you no ill-will for having done your dooty as a man and a
hofficer.”
Never before, to my knowledge, had I been in such deadly peril, and
truly thankful did I inwardly feel for the providential escape I
learned I had just made. I was glad to hand my murderous-minded charge
over to the care of the officers of the “Defence;” and I am thankful
to add that I never heard more of him, or wished to do so.
Among the many persons who had been present at the examination of
Charles Peace was an old acquaintance――Shearman, the American
detective, of loquacious and anecdotal proclivities. After the
prisoner’s committal he adjourned to an adjoining house where good
entertainment was provided for man and beast. In the company of the
English detectives engaged in the case, police-sergeants, and
inspectors, Mr. Shearman was quite at home. A long, rambling
discussion took place, the leading subject being the merits, or rather
demerits, of our hero. Incidents in detective life became the order of
the day, and, as far as this was concerned, Mr. Shearman, as usual,
“went ahead.” He told a capital story, which, as this is the last time
we shall have to take notice of him, we give in his own words:――
TRACKING A FUGITIVE OVER THE OCEAN.
I am not Pollaky or Paddington Green, neither am I Inspector Webb, nor
Detective Bull of the City force, said Mr. Shearman. My status in
society is that of a banker’s clerk. I hold an appointment in a
Midland Counties firm, which I entered upon five-and-twenty years ago.
I had reached what is termed the “ripe middle age,” when some months
since the even current of my life was interrupted by the following
event:――
The establishment with which I have been so long associated is well
known, and has gained a reputation by the quiet, respectable character
of its business transactions.
It does not indulge in speculative ventures, and hence has escaped
many of the misfortunes and missed no little of the agitation which
some banking firms have had to encounter.
Occasionally we have been startled by the presentation of a bad note,
a forged cheque, and other cunningly-devised schemes of well-practiced
swindlers to impose on our simplicity and credulity, which
circumstances have forced us into the excitement of judicial
investigations.
Thus, from time to time, I was brought into contact with some of the
most celebrated detectives of the day. I still remember the feelings
of admiration with which I witnessed the skill and sagacity of such
men as John Forrister, Leadbeater, the Bow-street officer, Inspector
Wicher, and other police officers, in tracking and detecting a
swindler.
At that period I little dreamt that my quiet life would be disturbed
by an eventful episode, such as I am about to relate.
On the morning of the 28th of September, 186-, I was at my post as
usual, when a message from the bank manager summoned me to his
presence. I saw at a glance, on entering the room, that something had
happened.
My chief informed me that a customer of the bank, whom, for obvious
reasons, I will call Mr. Hooker, had absconded.
I was aware, not only that he was under an engagement to liquidate a
considerable claim we had against him, but that he had recently fixed
a day for the fulfilment of his promise, assuring us that he should be
in the immediate receipt of a large sum of money, which would enable
him to pay his debt, and leave a balance to his credit in our hands.
The statement of his expected funds was no fiction――he duly received
them――but instead of appropriating his newly-acquired wealth to the
honest discharge of our claim, he clandestinely left his home, and
before the intelligence of his departure had reached us, he was
half-way to Canada.
The manager’s indignation at the fradulent conduct of an individual
whom he had believed to be an honourable man, and had trusted as such,
did not surprise me. Neither was I astonished when he told me he would
do all in his power to punish the absconding debtor, if means could be
adopted to discover and arrest him in his flight.
It was a matter for serious deliberation. Ultimately, acting on an
impulse I could not control, I proffered my services to go in pursuit
of the defaulter. They were accepted.
The same evening, in company with one of our directors, I left by the
mail train for Liverpool, reaching that place some little time after
midnight. The object of this journey was to endeavour to ascertain,
through the Liverpool detectives, when and by what ship Mr. Hooker had
sailed, as well as his destination, in order that we might arrive at a
conclusion as to the propriety of my crossing the Atlantic in pursuit.
Early the following morning we were at the headquarters of the
detective police. We related the nature of our mission, and the
services of one of their most efficient officers were placed at our
disposal.
He was evidently well known at all the shipping offices. In less than
an hour he furnished us with every information we could obtain in
Liverpool. He ascertained that Hooker had sailed for Quebec seven days
previously in the Canada mail packet ship “Belgian,” and had booked
through to Montreal; and he added the still more important facts that
the delinquent had with him his wife, sister-in-law, and two children,
and further, that he was in possession of a roll of bank notes at the
time he secured the berths.
Had he gone alone I doubt whether I should have had the courage to
proceed farther; but the fact of his being encumbered with the ladies,
the children, and a large quantity of baggage was a set-off against
his seven days’ start, and considerably altered my views.
With such a drag on his movements, I felt there was a hope of success,
and at once accepted the responsibility of following him.
A berth was secured on board the “China,” of the Cunard line, and on
Saturday, the 30th of September, 4.30 p.m., I found myself afloat, and
the docks of Liverpool becoming fainter and fainter.
Fortunately the weather was extremely fine; and as we steamed down the
Mersey the scene and the event was one of unusual interest to me.
The interior of a first-class mail packet just starting on her voyage,
and its animated appearance, have often been described. I need only
say there were over two hundred passengers on board, and that my
[Sidenote: No. 90.] immediate companions were a French gentleman, a
Spaniard and his wife, a Scotch physician (who was in a state of
complete prostration three-fourths of the voyage), a ship-builder from
St. John’s, N.B., and his two daughters, the chaplain of the ship and
his wife, and Mr. Tucker, an intelligent man from Philadelphia, who,
during the voyage, gave me such valuable information, and introduced
me to some Canadian merchants on board. These gentlemen subsequently
rendered me great assistance in the prosecution of the object I had in
view.
[Illustration: A ROPE IS FLUNG OVER LAURA’S HEAD, AND HER ARMS ARE
CLOSELY PINIONED.]
One of the most agreeable interludes of our voyage occurred during our
detention at Queenstown for the mail bags.
A delay of the mail train enabled us to pay a visit to the lovely Cove
of Cork. We landed at the pleasant quay, ascended Lookout Hill, and
partook of the hospitality of the Queen’s Hotel.
The jaunting cars, negro minstrels, mendicants, men-of-war’s men,
yachtsmen, and hawkers occupied the foreground, while the cove itself
was studded with vessels, among which some of our ironclads and
gunboats were conspicuous.
The view was bounded by the islands of Spike and Haulbowline, and the
famous lighthouse that marks the entrance to the harbour.
It was about half-past four on the following day week when I was
aroused from sleep by the report of a cannon close to our saloon. The
first idea that I had on awakening was, that we had struck upon a
rock, but my neighbour informed me it was a salute we were firing on
entering Halifax harbour.
We had made one of the quickest passages on record; for before five
o’clock a.m. on Monday, the 9th of October, we arrived at Halifax,
being only seven days and twelve hours from the time of our departure
from Queenstown.
I proceeded to Boston, where I remained one day. I left that city for
Montreal. I reached the St. Lawrence Hall Hotel in that place at ten
a.m. on Thursday, the 12th of October.
I confess that the three hundred miles of night travelling, following
so closely on the voyage out, caused me great bodily fatigue, and I
suffered much from mental depression.
As I sat alone that morning, some three thousand miles away from home,
and as far distant from any friend, I began to reflect whether I had
not undertaken a task of too great magnitude.
I was weak enough to regret having left the shores of England upon
what now appeared so Quixotic an undertaking. It was too late for
regret, and I immediately dispelled my doubts by action.
My first step was to collect my credentials and call upon the
solicitors whose advice was to guide my future proceedings. Messrs
Roberts & Roe are one of the most eminent firms of _avocats_ in
Montreal.
On making the acquaintance of the senior partner I felt that I stood
in the presence of a gentleman of no ordinary ability――one whose
verdict would go far to decide whether my mission would be stamped
with “success” or endorsed with “failure.”
I related to him as briefly as possible the circumstances which
brought me to him; I handed him the power of attorney, and, being
desirous of securing his unlimited confidence, I also exhibited to him
my letter of credit and introduction to the eminent Canadian house,
Messrs. Gillespie, Moffat, & Co.
When I had finished my recital, Mr. Roberts took a few moments for
reflection. I watched him narrowly, and I fancied I read distinctly in
his countenance that his honest conviction was adverse to my cause.
I found that such was the fact; for, addressing me very deliberately,
he said, “I fear your case is hopeless, and that your journey will be
a fruitless one.”
He explained to me the law of Canada in reference to such cases, and
pointed out, that even if I found Hooker, which was in his opinion,
doubtful, I could only treat him as a debtor; I could not touch either
his person or his goods; that I might bring an action against him for
a common debt, with the consolatory thought that after I had spent
some weeks in litigation and obtained judgment, Mr. Hooker would run
across to the United States and snap his fingers at me and my
judgment.
Mr. Roberts was kind enough to say he could not but admire the spirit
which had been evinced by our bank, in taking such prompt and
energetic action in the matter, and expressed a desire that other
large mercantile firms in England would adopt a similar line of
conduct, which would prevent Canada, and more particularly Montreal
(from its proximity to the United States), becoming the resort of so
many swindlers to the mother country.
Naturally I felt for the moment cast down by the revelation of the
“hopelessness of my case,” and for an instant I contemplated
relinquishing all further proceedings; but happily, in a few minutes,
this feeling vanished, and I became, as it were, fortified with
unusual strength and energy.
I was enabled calmly to reflect upon the formidable difficulty I had
to encounter, and instead of abandoning my mission, I resolved to
prosecute it to the utmost.
I told the legal adviser that my first step must be to discover the
fugitive, and next to give him into “pretty safe” custody, until I
could come to a satisfactory settlement with him――disregarding for the
time all the terrors of the Canadian law on the question of false
imprisonment.
At this period I was introduced to the junior partner of the firm, who
subsequently undertook the management of the affair, and by his advice
I shut myself up in my hotel, in case Hooker should see me and abscond
whilst the _avocat_ undertook to send during the day to all the hotels
to examine the books of arrivals.
After a wretched time of inactivity I again sought my solicitors to
ascertain the result of the search.
It was altogether unsuccessful. I subsequently found that had the
official to whom the duty had been intrusted exercised an ordinary
amount of vigilance, he would have been able to have furnished me with
most welcome intelligence.
His search, however, had been a very superficial one, and I was
consequently compelled to return to my hotel sadly disappointed, and
wearied both in body and mind.
The following morning I was introduced to the Chief of the Montreal
detective police, Mr. O’Leary, a remarkably acute and intelligent
Irishman.
He regretted that for a day or two he could not give me much personal
assistance, as he was engaged in several important criminal cases at
the assizes, which were then being held in Montreal.
I briefly put him in possession of the facts of my mission, and he
consoled me with the assurance that, if Hooker were there or in the
neighbourhood, he should have no difficulty in finding him.
As I was deprived of the detective’s active assistance, I resolved to
take a line of action of my own.
I suggested to Mr. Roe that we should make inquiries at the offices of
the Canadian Mail Steam Packet Company, in one of whose ships (the
Belgian) Hooker and his family had sailed from England.
Mr. Roe acceded to my suggestion, and accompanied me at once to the
office, where I was introduced by him to Mr. Allan, the principal
partner in the firm.
My object was to ascertain whether, from the official list of the
passengers of the Belgian, they could furnish me with any information
as to the arrival of the fugitive either in Quebec or Montreal. Mr.
Allan at once communicated with the officials at Quebec, where the
passengers had landed.
I was employed during Friday in visiting my solicitors and the
detective’s officers, as well as in making inquiries at banks,
post-office, and smaller hotels, but without acquiring the least
information likely to prove serviceable.
At an early hour the next morning I started out with a conviction that
if Hookor were in Canada I should obtain some clue of his whereabouts
before night.
This presentiment did not mislead me, for before three o’clock I
effected his “capture,” and had him closeted in my solicitor’s office
in Little St. James street, with O’Leary and a brother-detective in
close attendance.
I will record the events as they occurred that day, which was one of
much anxiety and excitement.
When I reached Mr. Allan’s office I was informed by the head clerk
that a letter had been received from their establishment at Quebec, in
reply to their inquiries, containing some important and satisfactory
information.
It is true they had lost all traces of the fugitive on his landing at
Quebec, and consequently could not have rendered any assistance but
for a singular coincidence which occurred a few days previously at
Toronto.
The purser of the Belgian had occasion to visit the City of the Lakes,
and whilst there he saw and had recognized Hooker as one of the
passengers.
The latter believed himself to be perfectly safe, and, not having the
slightest idea that any one was in pursuit of him, he invited the
purser to take some refreshment, and then voluntarily entered into
conversation about himself and family, mentioning, among other things,
that his wife, sister-in-law, and children were at the Montreal Hotel,
in Montreal, where he intended shortly to join them.
The purser returned to Quebec, and, fortunately for me, was at the
office when the letter of inquiry from Montreal was opened. He
immediately communicated the above facts to Mr. Allan.
I hastened with the welcome intelligence to my solicitors. It was
difficult to decide upon the best course to adopt.
If any direct inquiry were made, Mrs. Hooker would probably
communicate with her husband and prevent his return; after a short
consultation we decided to leave the matter in the hands of O’Leary,
the detective.
I went for him at once, and fortunately found him at the chief office
of police. As I have previously stated, he was a sharp-witted
Irishman, of gentlemanly bearing.
After deliberately reading the letter which had been intrusted to me
by Mr. Allan’s clerk, he took my hand in his own, and, grasping it
warmly, he said in his native accent, “My dear sirr-h――it’s all
right――lave it to me.”
On our way to Montreal House he informed me that he knew, and had the
greatest confidence in, the landlord, from whom he could obtain every
information without exciting suspicion.
We entered the house by the public bar, and of course were at once the
object of that curiosity which is invariably manifested when a
detective officer appears in company with a stranger in a public place
of that description.
The character of O’Leary was too well known for any one to venture
upon a remark beyond an inquiry as to the state of his health, and
“what would he drink?”
One cadaverous-looking Yankee put the latter question to me, but, as I
was a stranger to him; I politely declined to take anything.
I soon discovered that I had committed rather a grave sin, for the
Yankee appeared much irritated at my refusal, and advised me if I were
going to New York, never to decline such an offer if it were made to
me in that city, or, said he, “I guess it will be worse for you.”
On returning to O’Leary, I found him carelessly glancing at the names
in the arrival book of the hotel.
Suddenly he closed the book, took it in his hand, and gave me a sign
to follow him into an inner office.
When the door was closed he opened the book, and putting his finger on
Hooker’s signature, inquired if that was the man. I replied in the
affirmative.
The landlord was then admitted into our council, and a cautiously
whispered conference took place.
The landlord informed us that Hooker’s wife and children were up
stairs in the apartment above us, and that he had stowed large
quantities of baggage in an adjoining room.
At that moment Mrs. Hooker was expecting her husband by the first
train from Toronto, after which they intended leaving, but where they
intended to go he had no idea.
O’Leary advised me to change my quarters from St. Lawrence Hall Hotel
to the Montreal House, and keep a watchful eye on the movements of the
family, so as to be ready to confront the husband on his arrival.
I hastened to the hotel, removed all traces of my address and railway
tickets from my luggage, and entered my name on the arrival book of
the Montreal Hotel as Mr. V. Robinson, from Boston.
I lounged about the place with a view to picking up any stray piece of
information I could. I heard, among other things, that Hooker had
lodged his money in the Merchants’ Bank.
I thought this of sufficient importance to communicate to my solicitor
at once.
On my return I was somewhat startled by the announcement that Hooker,
who had just arrived, was then sitting down to dinner in the public
room.
There was evidently no time to be lost, as he had ordered his bill,
and would leave in half an hour.
I knew my only chance consisted in playing a bold game.
With the “hopelessness of my case” ringing in my ears, I had not the
courage to confront him myself, and yet in half an hour he would be
gone.
It was just a question of finding O’Leary and bringing him on the
scene of action in those thirty minutes. There was no vehicle at hand.
I ran hastily to the head office of the police, and found to my dismay
that O’Leary was not there, nor was there anyone who knew where he
could be found.
I retained the services of the chief officer present, secured a cab,
and went at full gallop to O’Leary’s private residence, where we were
fortunate enough to find him.
He immediately entered the cab and we returned to Montreal House,
whilst I related to him all that had occurred since I last saw him.
As I told him we should probably find our man quietly taking dinner,
his face lighted up with pleasure, and he exclaimed, “It’s one of the
most beautiful little affairs I have been engaged in for sometime
past!”
I feared that his zeal might get the better of his discretion.
I again explained to him the full nature of the case, that I could not
legally give him into custody, and my only chance of recovering any
portion of the money with which he had absconded from England, was to
frighten him into some concession before he could procure legal
advice.
O’Leary appeared delighted with the prospect of his game, and
requesting me to “lave it entoirely in his hands,” assured me that in
case he were obstinate he would terrify him out of his life.
Ere we reached the hotel I was wrought up to a high pitch of
excitement; the time for decisive action had arrived.
Preceded by the landlord, and in company with the two detectives, I
ascended the principal staircase, at the top of which was the entrance
to the dining-saloon.
The door was open, thus affording us a view of some twenty of the
guests, and, among them, of the man in search of whom I had crossed
the Atlantic.
He was sitting with his back to us, his wife and sister-in-law being
on each side of him.
He appeared in high spirits, and was chatting with the various guests
at the table, little dreaming who was standing at the open door,
prepared to denounce him, if necessary, as a fugitive swindler from
England.
I pointed him out to O’Leary, who calmly remarked, “That’s enough,”
and then, as a second thought struck him, he added, with a spice of
Irish humour, “but we’ll let him finish his dinner first, for he seems
to be enjoying it so much.”
In accordance with so odd a request we allowed him a minute’s grace.
He was then touched on the shoulder by the head waiter and informed
that a gentleman was waiting to see him.
Still unsuspecting he arose from his seat and came towards us with a
smiling countenance.
O’Leary met him, and with a slight inclination of the head, said, “Mr.
Hooker, from England, I believe.”
“Yes,” was the apparent firm reply.
I thought I could discover an anxious nervous twitching in his face,
betraying an under current of guilty consciousness, and a fear that he
had not escaped pursuit, as perhaps only a few minutes previously he
was flattering himself he had.
I was standing a little in the rear of O’Leary, and thus was partially
hidden from observation.
Stepping on one side, and extending his hand towards me, O’Leary said,
“Allow me, Mr. Hooker, to introduce you to a gentleman from England,
with whom I believe you are well acquainted.”
Making an effort to appear calm and unconscious of danger, the
swindler deliberately disowned all knowledge of me.
Looking at me, and then turning to O’Leary, he replied, “I do not know
the gentleman. He is a perfect stranger to me.”
I was unprepared for such a barefaced disavowal from a man with whom I
had so often and so lately transacted business.
For a moment I felt staggered by this fresh evidence of guilt.
At length I stepped forward and said, “Mr. Hooker, you know the ――――
Bank, and you know me as the cashier of that establishment, and you
know, too, perfectly well the nature of the business which has brought
me to Canada in search of you.”
These words, uttered with all the menace and determination I could
throw into them, had a marked and striking effect on the
conscience-stricken man to whom they were addressed.
His courage instantly forsook him. He trembled as stricken with ague.
Uttering all sorts of miserable excuses for his conduct, he requested
that we should retire to a private room, with a view to an explanation
and settlement.
I readily acceded to this, and now felt somewhat hopeful of bringing
the business to a satisfactory conclusion.
I soon discovered that in this I was fated to be disappointed; for,
shortly after we were closeted, he again assumed a bold appearance,
and seemed disposed to justify his conduct rather than make any
reparation for what he had done.
His principal anxiety appeared to be to avoid exposure before the
inmates of the hotel.
This afforded me an opportunity for suggesting a movement I was
anxious to effect――viz., an adjournment to the office of my legal
advisers.
Taking his arm in mine, and requesting the detectives to follow
closely, we left the hotel.
After we reached Mr. Roe’s office, nearly two hours were expended in
vain attempts to induce the delinquent to accede to some equitable
terms of settlement.
He at first appeared very penitent, and, in the midst of his tears,
declared that it was his intention, as far as lay in his power, to act
honourably to everyone; he begged again and again to be allowed to
return to his wife, who, being ignorant of the state of affairs, would
be suffering great anxiety from his prolonged absence.
He seemed so sincere in his protestations, that Mr. Roe suggested that
I should accede to his request.
This was a moment of great difficulty to me. I did not wish to be
unnecessarily severe; neither did I wish to act in opposition to the
advice given me by Mr. Roe.
Still I felt sure that I should be losing some of the vantage ground I
had gained through the day, if I released him whilst matters were in
their present position.
At last I said, “I have a duty to perform, and I cannot shrink one
step therefrom.
“You absconded from England, and having incurred expense in finding
you, I cannot and will not release you until you have given me some
material guarantee that the funds which you have deposited in the
Merchants’ Bank in this city, shall not be touched until you have made
a satisfactory settlement with me.”
My determination had the effect of again making him change his
tactics. He upbraided me for bringing two detectives to his hotel,
threatened vengeance against me for having been given into their
custody, and asked me indignantly what I required.
An idea flashed across my mind. I confess it was a piece of strategy,
and, conceived as it was in a minute, I could hardly hope that my
prisoner would fall into the trap I wished to lay for him.
I replied――
“You are anxious to get back to your family, and I am equally anxious
to terminate this painful interview. I will release you on the
following conditionss:――You shall draw a checque for the funds (with
the exception of a few pounds for your immediate use), which you have
placed in the Merchants’ Bank, payable to your order and my order
jointly, and deposit the same with my solicitor. As a man of
business,” I continued, carelessly, “you are aware that I shall not be
able to touch this money without your endorsement to the check.”
I confess I did not draw his particular attention to the fact that he
would be equally helpless without my signature.
Neither could he have given one moment’s consideration to this feature
in the transaction, or he certainly would not have so readily acceded
to my terms. He appeared lost to every idea but that of his present
escape; he immediately drew up the cheque, which he signed and handed
to Mr. Roe.
I was now as anxious to get rid of him as I had been a few hours
previously to effect his capture.
It was necessary to have the cheque “initialed” at the bank, which
would place such an embargo on his funds as would prevent the
possibility of his tampering with them by other means.
It was Saturday afternoon, and a half-holiday. Hurrying away as
quickly as we could, we proceeded to the Merchants’ Bank. It was
closed.
After some little delay we gained admission by the private door. The
clerks were leaving, but informed us that no further business could be
transacted until Monday.
Monday would be too late; the full nature of my compromise with Hooker
would be laid before him by a legal authority, and, perhaps, was at
that moment being divulged to him.
Steps might be taken to remove his funds from my grasp. He, too, would
be told of the “hopelessness of my case,” and would, doubtless, set me
at defiance.
I felt that if we failed now I should never recover one shilling of
the money; that I should have to return to England beaten and
disappointed, with a heavy bill of costs to add to the amount of which
my firm had already been swindled.
With desperation I urged my solicitor forward, and we soon found
ourselves in the interior of an inner office, where one of the chief
tellers and junior still remained.
Fortunately for me and those whom I represented, the principal was a
friend of my solicitor.
The cashier had his hat on, the junior was in the act of placing the
last huge ledger in the iron safe, when he was stopped by Mr. Roe.
“One minute,” he exclaimed to his friend the cashier; “I will not
detain you long, but in that ledger you will find an account opened,
within the last few days, by a Mr. Hooker from England. He has just
given me a cheque for nearly the whole amount, payable to the joint
order of himself and this gentleman,” pointing to me. “We do not
require the cash, but simply to have the cheque accepted by the bank.”
The cashier, anxious to oblige his friend, opened the ledger, turned
to the account, attached his initials to the cheque, and returned it
to us.
The thanks we tendered him were neither few nor cold; and, as we
hastily left the bank, Mr. Roe warmly congratulated me on the success
of my plot.
I was too overpowered to say much myself.
Begging him to take especial care of the cheque, and under no
circumstances to part with it without my authority, I left him,
promising to see him on Monday morning.
I wandered down Notre Dame-street, in a state of complete abstraction
and bewilderment.
I was overjoyed at the result of the day’s proceedings, the exciting
events of which had passed so rapidly in succession that I could
scarcely realise the agreeable change which during the last few hours
had taken place in the aspect of my Canadian affairs.
Of one circumstance I have a vivid recollection. I sat down to dinner
that evening with a heart full of thankfulness; and, for the first
time since I landed in America, I really and truly enjoyed the viands
which were placed before me.
Although I had virtually brought Mr. Hooker to a strait which would
compel him to accede to my own terms of settlement, still he evinced
at times, more obstinacy than ever; and it was not until after a week
that I finally closed with him.
It was early on the morning of Saturday, the 21st of October, that I
sought an interview with Mr. South, the solicitor who had been
consulted by Hooker.
Fortunately for me he was a highly respectable man. He had, on one or
two occasions, intimated his contempt for his client, and that he was
heartily sick of the transaction.
I told him that I had fully made up my mind to leave Montreal that
night by the mail-train for Quebec, and to take passage in the North
American, which would sail from the latter place on the following
morning for England.
“If,” I said to him, “your client does not accept my terms, I will
take his cheque back with me, and make a bankrupt of him――his
assignees shall endorse the cheque _per procuration_, and the whole of
the funds will then be sent to England for the benefit of his estate.”
The reply was satisfactory.
“I admit,” he said, “that the terms you propose are such as my client
ought to accede to. He will be here shortly. I will inform him of your
ultimatum; and if he still remains obstinate, I shall decline to have
anything further to do with him. Will you call on me again at twelve
o’clock?”
I kept the appointment punctually. The guilty man was there too, and
quite crestfallen. Under the heavy pressure that had been brought to
bear upon him he had at length given way. He accepted my terms,
indorsed the cheque; and in a few hours, with a draft for the
“salvage” money drawn by the City Bank of Montreal on Messrs. Glyn and
Co., of London, safe in my possession, I was steaming rapidly towards
Quebec.
I landed in England on Thursday, the 3rd of November.
Notwithstanding the hopelessness of my case, I had effected my
“capture in Canada,” and was enabled to report the same personally at
headquarters in less than five weeks from the date of my departure.
CHAPTER CLIX.
SCENE AT STOKE FERRY――LAURA STANBRIDGE LED INTO AN AMBUSCADE――A LOVE
STORY TO UNWILLING EARS.
It was the nineteenth of November, and it had been a cold, gloomy day,
and the night descended black and noiseless as a funeral pall upon a
corpse.
The railway station was built of red bricks, which the storms of
winter had almost turned brown. One gas-light flickered feebly within
its case of glass. Two travellers were waiting for the train――one of
them reading the advertisements on the walls, the other walking
quickly, to keep himself warm.
A bell was rung――two red stars appeared in the distance――there was a
low hum, which became a roar, and the train stopped by the trembling
platform.
There had been only one passenger. It was a lady neatly dressed,
without luggage or attendants.
She was not young, but her features were very handsome, albeit her
grey eyes, which had a cold and cunning look, and her low, receding
forehead, together with the thinness of her lips, robbed her of half
her beauty.
A red-haired man, with a whip in his hand and a copper badge upon his
breast, came up and spoke to her, touching his hat. As he spoke he
pointed to a large close carriage in the road outside the station, to
which were harnessed a pair of strong brown horses.
“I wish to go to Broxbridge Hall,” said she. “Do you know the place?”
“Yes, ma’am――the seat of Earl Ethelwood. I know it well enough. I knew
it when the old Earl was alive. Ah! me――things are changed since then,
surely.”
As she stepped into the carriage, she glanced anxiously towards the
western sky, where a few rays of light showed that the sun had lately
set.
These rays resembled streaks of blood, and cast a lurid glow upon the
purple and copper-hued clouds around them.
She drew down the blinds, and, throwing herself back at full length in
the vehicle, gave herself up to the meditation of her schemes.
She was roused by the stopping of the carriage. She draw up the blinds
and opened the windows. It was now nearly dark, and distant flashes of
lightning betokened a storm. The wind also had risen, and moaned among
the distant trees.
They were upon the banks of a broad river, which was covered with
small but white-crested waves.
The driver gave a peculiar kind of shout, which was answered from the
other side by another shout and the ringing of a bell.
The lady began to understand.
They were about to cross a ferry.
She looked back on the road they had come, and which merely consisted
of two huge ruts.
She could faintly distinguish the road on the other side, and it
appeared to improve but little.
“Is this the only road to Broxbridge?” said she, in a tone of anxiety.
“Well, ma’am, it be,” returned the red-haired man, “unless we’ed gone
by the pike, which is five miles round. Cattle and men are both used
to these roads hereabouts.”
“But I thought the station was close to Broxbridge.”
“There is a station close by it, but not the one I’ve brought you
from.”
“Then they have deceived me, and I booked for the wrong station.”
“It can’t be altered now, ma’am. We must make the best of a bad job,
but you’ll be all right enough.”
She walked to the brink of the river, and eyed the dark sullen torrent
as it ran swiftly past.
She heard the rattling of chains, and, looking up, saw a man crossing
the river in a large punt.
In the dusk of the evening the mass glided towards her like some
monster ghost, and the noise of the chains added strongly to this
impression.
The boat was moored to a post in the bank, the horses were led
carefully in, the driver assisted the lady with rough courtesy into
the boat, then the ferryman, having unloosed the chain, drove his long
iron-pointed pole into the gravelly bottom of the river.
The boat moved slowly and silently through the water, which it cleaved
into ripples with its broad bow. The sky was covered with clouds, some
long, some narrow and streaky, floated irregularly over the general
mass.
They are called mare’s tails, and generally forebode rain. The
lightning flashes still continued, and once they heard a peal of
thunder, faint and dull as an echo.
“The storm is coming up,” said the driver, and he patted his horses,
which were sniffing the air nervously, and soothed them with those
signs and words which form a language between men and the lower
animals.
The ferryman appeared to be old and feeble. He bent his face over his
pole as he drove it into the ground at the bow of the boat, and
followed it into the stern.
“Aye,” said he, “the storm is coming up quickly and from what I can
see of it at present we shall have it pretty sharp and no mistake.”
When the boat grounded upon the sandy shelving bank on the other side,
the ferryman stepped out and fastened the chain, averting his face
from the boat.
The driver led the horses out of the craft and up the bank, the
carriage jolting and rumbling as he did so. As the lady passed out her
dress touched the hand of the ferryman.
At this touch he started suddenly and trembled all over, and his eyes
followed her savagely.
As soon as she was reseated in the carriage, and had pulled the blinds
down, the driver looked back at him significantly.
He nodded and climbed into the rumble, where he sat with his arms
crossed, and his head upon his breast.
Laura Stanbridge――crouched within the vehicle, which she had made dark
as if her thoughts were too evil to bear the light――did not hear the
wind which now howled fiercely above her head, nor the thunder peals,
which every moment grew more long and loud.
“Ah!” said she, “I will see this proud earl, and let him know who and
what his father is. He little thinks what an amusing tale I have to
tell about Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Gatliffe. I will bring him to my feet,
and he will be but too glad to purchase my silence at a princely sum.
So, Mr. Gatliffe, you spurn me now like the rest――do you? Are
meditating mischief, I’ll dare be sworn. Well, we shall see. Fool that
you were to entrust me with your secrets!”
She uttered a cry of impatience as she saw, from the slow pace of the
horses, and the manner in which the carriage hung back, that they were
ascending a steep hill.
At the same moment a vivid flash of lightning darted past her eyes,
and a peal of thunder, which made the windows rattle, followed it
immediately――a sign that the storm was near.
The horses had stopped, and on peering through the front window she
saw that the driver was no longer on the box.
She opened the door, and, alighting, found that a tree had fallen
across the road. Upon this tree were seated two figures.
“Goodness me, how unfortunate!” exclaimed Laura. What must be done?”
The driver scratched his head, and seemed sorely puzzled.
“I don’t know how we are to get to the hall now, ma’am,” said he.
“But we must get there by some means or another,” cried Laura, in a
petulant tone. “How very unfortunate we’ve been to be sure! Everything
seems to go wrong. What do you propose, driver? Just think――there’s a
good fellow.”
“I am thinking, but can’t tell what to do for all that.”
One of the figures rose and approached them. It was a woman, in the
uncouth dress of a female peasant.
“If the leddy wants to see the Earl, a maun see ’im to-night――he’s off
to Lunnon early the morrow.”
“I do want to see him most particularly,” said Miss Stanbridge. “My
business is immediate. Can you tell me, my good woman, how I can get
to Broxbridge Hall? You know the neighbourhood, I dare say.”
“I do, indeed,” was the ready response.
“And can tell me what to do?”
“Well, marm, my zon and oi be goin’ that way, and we can show ’ee if a
doan’t moind goin’ by a rough road through the woods.”
“How far is it?”
“Oh, only a little bit of a step.”
“Very well; then I will go, and trust to you to guide me,” said Miss
Stanbridge. “I do not see any other course left open.”
Having paid the man for the distance he had brought her, she prepared
to accompany them.
The woman climbed the bank at the side of the road and passed through
an open gate into the footpath which led across a field.
The person whom the woman had mentioned as her son followed behind.
Laura Stanbridge turned round in the field to look at him, but the
night was so dark that she could only make out a shadowy form, which
appeared to be enveloped in a large cloak with a high collar, which
completely hid his features. Neither his dress, nor his gait were
those of a labouring man, and she began to think that she had acted
imprudently in trusting herself so implicitly to two strangers.
“However,” she thought, “if they belong to any London gangs, I have
only to speak to them in the thieves’ patter, and they will not dare
to touch me. If, on the contrary, they are yokels, they will be
content with robbing me, and I have not much to lose.”
They passed from the field into a small gorse common, across another
high road, past a couple of lights which, shining in the windows of
the cottages, showed that their inmates were already retiring to bed,
and over a stile into a shaw or small copse, which skirted the side of
the road.
Laura Stanbridge had addressed several questions to her conductress
without receiving a reply. She had spoken once to the young man who
followed like a phantom on her steps, and he had not chosen to make
any answer.
Laura, who possessed the courage of a man or rather of a demon, began
to be afraid. The night was miserably dark and cheerless, the way was
lonely, the rain descended with much violence and the thunder seemed
to shake the earth as it rolled from horizon to horizon.
Sometimes the lightning flashed through the trees and showed her three
outstretched branches and their ghastly trunks.
But they could not show her the features of that grey-haired woman,
who strode so swiftly before her, nor the face of that young man, who
followed with equal speed, and who watched all her movements with
glistening eyes.
She was trying to shake off her fears, which appeared to her idle and
reasonless, when the woman stopped and pointed to the trunk of a tree,
which had been stripped of its bark, and which lay like a naked giant
across her path.
“Sit down there, madam,” said she, in a voice which she seemed to
remember, “sit down, you must be tired.”
Laura hesitated. “Tut,” said she, “after all, what can be more
natural? One meets every day with people who will not answer
questions, and who will yet show every consideration for your
comfort.”
So she did as she was requested. As soon as she was seated a rope was
flung over her head, and her arms were closely pinioned to her side.
She struggled violently to free herself, but in vain. She therefore
became calm, and said some words in the secret language of thieves.
“You are mistaken,” answered the woman, in the same tongue, as she
seated herself on the trunk. “I do not wish to rob you. I wish to tell
you a story――that is all.”
Laura Stanbridge trembled. She began to suspect that she had fallen
into the hands of a mad woman. But by a miraculous effort she
recovered her self-possession and said quietly, “Very well, I shall be
glad to hear what you have to say, but you need not have tied me.
Unloose me first.”
“No, madam, I must not unloose you, for when you have heard my story
you will try to run away.”
“I swear I will not attempt to do anything of the sort. I pledge my
word as to this.”
“I do not choose to take your word.”
“Why not?”
“For many reasons. I do not intend to let you escape.”
Laura was bewildered.
The tones of this woman’s voice were firm and menacing, and she
fancied they were not unfamiliar to her.
She remembered also the rustic accent with which she had at first
cloaked her words, and which must have been used for the purpose of
deceiving her.
All this began to resemble a preconcerted scheme.
She waited anxiously, with dilating eyes, and ears bent forward, like
the stag which hears the first bay of the distant hound.
“Besides,” observed the woman, quietly, “if you tried to run away you
might meet with an accident.” She produced a dark lantern from
underneath her shawl, and flashed the light in front of them.
By the yellow stream of light she distinguished a black opening in the
ground, at the distance of scarcely three feet from where they were
seated.
She shrank back, shuddering. The woman smiled grimly.
“I do not understand your meaning, or what your purpose is,” cried the
miserable Laura.
“You will understand all presently, I dare say.”
“Gracious heaven! you are――――”
“Mrs. Grover, your old friend,” replied the woman. “A light suddenly
dawns upon you.”
“You do not mean to harm me?” cried Laura.
No answer.
The question was repeated.
“I have a story to tell,” said Mrs. Grover.
“Bah, silly woman! I have no desire to listen to your tales. I believe
you are half crazed.”
“No I am not; listen. Once I was a young girl, as innocent and happy
as a spring bird, but a gentleman saw my pretty face. He fell in love
with me――he wrote me letters. I could show you them if I wished, for I
have borne them on my heart ever since. We used to meet on this very
spot――it was here that I first felt his warm lips and the pressure of
his hand, so soft and small――it was here that I first learned what it
was to love――to have a beating heart when he came near me――to tremble
with delight when I heard him speak.
“He did not treat me at first as gentlemen treat poor girls. One day
he told me to meet him at Broxbridge. I made an excuse for leaving
home that day and night, and met him at the corner of a dark street as
he had appointed.
“I asked him no questions, I felt no fears. I loved him too well for
that.
“He took my hand in his, and asked me if I would go with him. I kissed
that hand, and said I would go wih him to the end of the world.”
“Goodness me, what have I to do with your early days? What care I for
your romantic love story?” ejaculated Laura Stanbridge. “Have you
brought me hither for no better purpose than this?”
“You will know all in good time. When it was quite dark he took me to
a little church which stands about half a mile from the town. In this
church there was only one person――it was a young gentleman, in a white
robe, who stood at the communion table between two wax tapers, with a
book in his hand.”
“The woman’s as mad as a March hare,” murmured Laura.
“My sweetheart drew me towards him, and again took my hand and made me
kneel with him. Then I knew that he was going to marry me, and I
almost swooned with astonishment and joy.
“The young clergyman read the service in a low and solemn voice. I
could hardly speak the answers, my lips were trembling so. A ring was
placed upon my finger――a hand pressed mine, and something like a soft
flower fell upon my forehead――it was my husband’s fond kiss.”
“Undoubtedly mad, but I must humour her,” thought Miss Stanbridge.
“Ah, how happy were we the first few months! We seldom saw each other,
but that only made us love each other more.
“We used to meet on this very spot, and often on that soft bank he
would crown me with a garland of fair wood flowers, and kiss me, and
enfold me in his arms, and tell me again and again that he loved me as
his life.
“And then,” she said, plaintively, “he deserted me, and died at sea.”
“Ah, it’s a sorrowful tale――very sorrowful,” said Miss Stanbridge,
still, however, thinking that the narrator was most decidedly off her
head.
“I had a child,” said the woman, continuing her singular narrative.
“The neighbours scoffed at me, and called me a wanton and my child
base-born. I did not tell them; so I kept my secret as my husband had
ordered me.”
“Oh! he wished you to do so, then?”
“Yes; made me promise not to divulge it upon any condition whatsoever.
After this I was ill awhile, and too weak to work out in the fields.
No one would take me into their house because I had a base-born child.
This made me mad. I cursed the poor infant for bringing its mother
into shame. I tried to destroy it, but my heart failed me, and one
night I abandoned it to its fate. Ah! there’s nothing like misfortune
to harden the heart; it will make a mother murder her own child, and
there is no worse crime in the world than that.”
CHAPTER CLX.
THE ACCUSATIONS MADE AGAINST LAURA STANBRIDGE.
Mrs. Grover, or, more properly speaking, Mrs. Kensett, relict of
Evershal Kensett, Esq., deceased, had spoken the words, which form the
conclusion of the last chapter, in a voice which was tremulous and at
times inaudible from emotion. After this she fell into a reverie.
The rain still pattered upon the leaves, the lightning still dashed
its gleams through the wood, the thunder still rolled menacingly.
By these flashes of lightning Laura Stanbridge might have been seen
pale, paralysed, and crouched rather than seated upon the log.
Now she knew by whom she had been captured, and she knew also that she
was in imminent danger.
“Help――help!” she cried, in a loud voice. “Help――help!”
Her companion was awakened by these cries.
“You may shout as loud as you like――nobody will hear you. At the same
time, if you do so again, I will kill you.”
This was enough; Laura became silent. It was evident that this woman
was remorseless, and that her best hope to protect her life lay upon
the chance of some one passing by.
It was a public footpath. Then she remembered that there was a young
man present. He might be corrupted with a look――with a whisper.
She stole a glance towards him; he remained motionless as a statue of
black marble, his face hidden by his cloak.
“Who can this man be?” she reflected, “whom she calls her son, and
whom I cannot recognise? It must be some one whom she has hired to
help her. If so, I may be saved.”
She darted another look piercing as a flame upon the mysterious
individual. At this look he hid his head.
“Ah, he knows me, and fears to be recognised. It is perhaps, one of my
old comrades. So much the better. He will understand that his employer
is less powerful than I am.”
She half turned her head and whispered――
“A hundred pounds for my liberty.”
Mrs. Grover burst into a hoarse laugh.
“She is trying to bribe you. That is because she does not know you.”
The figure nodded.
“Woman,” exclaimed Mrs. Grover, with sudden vehemence, which made the
other start, “what have you done with my son?”
“With your son?”
“Aye, don’t echo my words, but answer. Shall I tell you? Infamous
wretch, hateful fiend, you have murdered him, and for this as well as
for other crimes you have been brought here to die.”
“Oh, take pity on me! You do not mean to do anything so horrible. I
will give you money, all you may desire, but, oh, I am not fit to
die.”
“You are not fit to live, and I intend to have your life. Who was it
you pushed over the cliffs at Margate? Answer me that.”
Laura Stanbridge gave utterance to a piercing scream as these words
fell upon her ears. She trembled in every limb, and the first thought
uppermost with her was that she had been betrayed by Tom Gatliffe.
“Listen to me――be reasonable,” she cried, in piteous accents. “I see
now who has brought this about, and know who has charged me with this
odious crime.”
“Who?”
“Tom Gatliffe!”
The woman smiled sardonically, and shook her head.
“Who, then?”
“Ah, ah, my lady, you want to know too much. You can’t deny the
charge.”
“I do deny it.”
“You do!”
“Yes,” returned Laura, resolutely.
The man in the cloak passed slowly round the fallen trunk and stood in
front of her.
The yellow light of the lantern streamed upon him. He tore open his
cloak. Laura Stanbridge screamed with horror. She beheld the pale
features of Alf Purvis, who uttered but one word. It was――
“Murderess!”
[Sidenote: No. 91.]
[Illustration: LAURA STANBRIDGE HANGED IN ENDEAVOURING TO ESCAPE.]
The lantern was hooked upon a branch and flung its ghastly rays upon
the surrounding trees, and upon the young man who stood with his arms
folded, a cold stern light in his eyes; upon the convicted wretch who,
now cowering to the ground, uttered low moans of terror.
At the same time another figure also cloaked, and with features
concealed, issued from behind the trees and stood in the dark shadows
of the background, unheard and unseen save by Mrs. Grover, who however
seemed to be heedless of his presence.
“Laura Stanbridge,” said she, “prepare to meet your fate. In a few
minutes you must die.”
“Why must I die?” exclaimed the wretched woman. “What have I done that
my life should be thus sacrificed?”
“Do not fear,” answered Mrs. Grover, “you shall be fairly judged, and
I will accuse you first.”
“You have me in your power, and can of course do as you please with
me. It is cruel and merciless to treat me thus.”
Heedless of this last observation Mrs. Grover proceeded. “I accuse
you,” said she, “of decoying my child into your house, of depraving
his mind and teaching him to steal, of driving me forth when I
attempted to save him. How say you, Laura Stanbridge? Is that true or
false?”
“It is true, but you must remember that I found him starving, and that
I gave him bread to eat, that I taught him to earn money as I earned
it, and as you earned it, and, at the time I parted with you, you did
not yourself know that he was your son, and could allege no good
reason for trying to thwart my schemes.”
“That I admit,” returned Mrs. Grover after a few minutes’ reflection.
“We are not likely to disagree as far as that point of your history is
concerned.”
Laura had a glimmer of hope.
“I accuse you,” said her relentless companion, “of urging my son to
all sorts of crimes. I accuse you of betraying him to the law. What
say you to this, Laura Stanbridge? Is it true or false?”
“It is false! it is false!” she cried “you cannot prove what you say.”
“Have you forgotten our conversation in the French café?”
“I have not forgotten it. I remember every word. I was jesting then;
you know that as well as I do myself. Would you condemn me for a few
empty words?”
The woman made no reply――but her son Alf Purvis, stepped forward and
scowled at the prisoner.
“Subterfuge and prevarication will avail you not murderess,” said he.
“Thrice guilty as you are any plea for mercy will be unavailing.
Miserably guilty woman, your hour has come.”
“Mercy, mercy!” exclaimed Laura Stanbridge “I never meant to harm you.
You drove me to desperation, and I know not what I did. You cannot,
you will not turn against me.”
Alf Purvis held up his hand deprecatingly. “Silence,” said he. “For
you I have no pity――you have made me what I am――a thief, and an
associate of thieves. This done, you betrayed me and my companions.
Not content with this, you hurled me from the cliff; but Providence,
more kind than my companions or friends, watched over me. Fate willed
that I was not to perish.
“Exhausted, and all but dead, I was picked up by a fishing-smack, and
saved to become your accuser, and the avenger of those whom you have
so deeply injured. Laura Stanbridge, are you prepared to die?”
“Gracious heaven, no! I am unfit to die,” said she, and she made the
tears rise to her eyes, and turned upon Alf Purvis, one of those
mournful and languishing looks by which the hearts of men are
destroyed.
But this look was lost upon him. He knew her but too well.
“Is this all?” she said, scornfully. “Am I to be murdered?”
“My son evaded your wiles,” said Mrs. Grover. “It is well for him that
he did so.”
“He offered me his hand and made me love him,” returned Laura. “Then,
not content with affronting me by a rejection, he became my most
bitter enemy. Is it in any way surprising that I should have striven
to have revenge for the injuries sustained?”
“I will not answer you, infamous and merciless woman!” exclaimed Mrs.
Grover. “But we have here another victim.”
The third accuser now advanced and bared his aged and weather-beaten
face. This was the old ferryman.
“And who is this? Who is this?” cried Laura Standbridge, her hair
undulating and rising over her head as if alive.
Mrs. Grover laughed.
“It is the faithful servant of the man you murdered――the man who
patronised and protected you――it is Henry Wincott.”
“Oh! no――no, it cannot be,” she cried.
“Yes,” said the old ferryman, “I am Henry Wincott――the faithful
servant of the gentleman whom years and years ago you robbed and
murdered.”
She uttered two or three wild cries, which produced a strange and
melancholy effect as they died away on the night wind; then she
swooned.
There was a consultation. The three accusers debated for some time.
They had intended taking summary vengeance on the woman who had so
deeply wronged them, but a better feeling at length prevailed, and
Laura Stanbridge, when she had in a measure recovered from the deep
trance into which she had fallen, was taken, bound as she was, to the
home of Mr. Kensett, the magistrate, where she was charged with the
murder of her paramour, and attempted murder of Alf Purvis.
A long examination took place, and Laura was taken to the lock-up in
the neighbourhood.
She was placed in one of the upper rooms of this station, and left
alone for the remainder of the night.
Her remorse and miserable thoughts would be difficult to describe. She
became duly impressed with the hopelessness of her condition, and
during the dark hours of the lonely night but one burning thought
possessed her.
This was to effect her escape.
She tore up the sheets of her bed, contrived to unfasten one of the
windows of her bedchamber, from which she flung herself, in the vain
hope of reaching the ground.
The circumstances connected with the attempted escape were never
rightly understood, but she was found in the morning hanging from the
open casement quite dead, with the shreds of the sheets around her
neck.
Whether she had purposely put an end to her existence, or her death
was the result of accident, never transpired, but the close of her
sinful life had this miserable ending.
CHAPTER CLXI.
PEACE’S LAST NIGHT IN SHEFFIELD――HIS REMOVAL TO WAKEFIELD――INCIDENTS
BEFORE THE TRIAL――A TRUE BILL FOUND.
We must now return to Charles Peace, who, the reader will remember,
was fully committed for trial upon the charge of murder, a report of
the examination of which appeared in a previous chapter. Peace entered
his cell, and there he soon recovered his spirits, and was more
cheerful than he had been since his recapture.
He spent a much better night, and on Saturday morning he appeared
refreshed and altogether a stronger man. It may not be, perhaps, out
of place to refer here to an extraordinary statement made by Peace at
this time.
His relative, who lives in Spring-street, made no secret of the fact
that Peace did call on him on the night of the murder. Peace came to
his door and found it locked.
He went into the public-house close by and asked for a glass of beer,
and seeing his brother there, called him out. They were together a few
minutes, and then Peace wished him “Good-bye,” and went on to the
Attercliffe-road station, and took train at Rotherham.
When he arrived at the Masbro’ station, he found there was no train to
Beverley for two hours; and he wandered about in the neighbourhood
during that time, and when the train came up, he procured his ticket
and went on, as stated, to Normanton.
At that time Peace was altogether unaware of the result of his
encounter with Mr. Dyson. He saw his victim fall, and he heard Mrs.
Dyson scream, and he had no doubt that the second shot had inflicted
injury, but it was not until the next morning, when he was at York,
and saw the papers, that he became aware that he had committed murder.
He further disguised himself, and took greater precautions than before
to avoid detection. In confirmation of Peace’s story about having been
seen in London, it may be mentioned that Mr. W. Fisher told Detective
Carswell――amongst other officers――that he had seen Peace in Holborn.
Peace further stated that in the course of his career he has stolen
thousands of pounds’ worth of property――diamond rings, gold watches,
and, indeed, valuable articles of every description.
On the Saturday succeeding his committal Peace was removed to the
county prison at Wakefield.
He was seen in the morning by Mr. Hallam, the police sergeant, for the
purpose of ascertaining whether he was in a condition to be removed,
and on his certifying that he could safely undergo the short journey
from Sheffield to Wakefield, it was decided that he should be taken
there in the afternoon.
This intention was observed with the utmost secresy. But, somehow or
other, a rumour got abroad that Peace was likely to be removed, and
small crowds hung about the station, and especially in close proximity
to the entrance in Castle-green.
The appearance of the prison-van horses on their way through the town
of course led to the supposition that the van was to be used, and the
crowds quickly increased. But there was a strong force of policemen on
duty in the neighbourhood of the station, and as their orders were to
keep the people “moving on,” they carried their instructions out very
literally.
The spectators indeed might as well have moved off altogether, for
nothing whatever could be seen; and when the prison van did come out,
it was driven off so rapidly that but a glimpse of it could be caught
as it quickly disappeared down Castle-green.
There was also but little to be seen inside the parade ground at the
police station, where the prison van was drawn up in readiness to
receive its very notorious occupant.
The first intimation that Peace was about to leave his cell was
furnished by some of the prison officials bringing down the mattress
upon which he had lain since his arrival here, and the rugs or
blankets which constituted his bed clothes.
These were placed upon the floor of the van, and an impromptu bed was
thus readily at hand. Soon afterwards Peace himself came down. But he
did not walk――whether he could not or because he was still “shamming,”
is entirely a matter of opinion.
One of his warders, a man of sturdy frame and powerful build, held him
underneath his arms, whilst the other warder and Inspector Bradbury,
carried him by his legs. In this way he was taken from his cell, down
the two flights of stairs, and then out into the parade ground.
If Peace were shamming, he did it admirably. He looked a miserable,
wretched object of humanity――a little limp bundle of brown-coloured
clothes, out of which peeped a face intensely wan and haggard.
It was noticed that he wistfully and almost pleadingly glanced into
the faces of those who were in the parade ground, probably in the hope
of seeing some one whom he knew; but there was no time for
recognition, for he was carried quickly across the space between the
bottom of the steps and the prison van, and placed upon the mattress
on the floor.
The warders followed him in. Inspector Bradbury and others joined
them; the door was then locked, and the van speedily driven out of the
station.
In some mysterious manner the news became known that Peace would go
from the Midland station, and a considerable number of people
assembled there.
They stood about near to the entrance, of course expecting that the
prison van would draw up there, and that a good view would be obtained
of the convict as he was brought in. They were disappointed.
Presently several policemen suddenly appeared at the Heeley end of the
platform, and immediately there was a rush in that direction.
Almost before the foremost of the crowd could get to the open beyond
the platform, the prison van was driven rapidly into the yard and
drawn up close to a passenger guard’s van, which was in waiting on the
siding.
That had been placed there in readiness to receive the convict and
those in charge of him. The movements of all concerned were
marvellously quick in what they had to do.
The doors of the guard’s van were thrown open, and at the same time
the doors of the prison van. Out of the latter stepped members of the
Sheffield force, and then came the warders carrying their burden.
He was promptly lifted into the guard’s van, moaning piteously, and
placed on the floor. Then his mattress and rugs were carried in, and a
bed prepared for him, and on it he was laid and covered up.
He appeared glad to curl himself up under the rugs and to hide himself
from the gaze of the bystanders; for notwithstanding the utmost
exertions of the police and the officials at the station, a great
number of people got near, and many hundreds more crowded the bridge
across the line and other points from which they could see what was
passing.
The warders, Inspector Bradbury, and Police-constable Capel, entered
the van with the prisoner, and the doors were then shut and bolted.
The people surged round the window, anxious to catch a glimpse of the
prisoner, but all that the most favoured could see was what was very
much like a heap of rugs on a mattress.
Amongst the crowd was Police-constable Robinson, who was shot by Peace
at Blackheath. He came forward and shook hands with the warders
through the window, and had a look at the man with whom he had had
such a deadly encounter.
After waiting a short time the train from London arrived in the
station, the guard’s van was pushed up from the siding to it, and the
train went on its journey.
The van was detached from the train at Sandal and Walton, and hooked
on to the train for Wakefield, where it arrived soon after three
o’clock. One of the warders left the van and called a cab, and into it
Peace was lifted.
Accompanied by his two warders and Inspector Bradbury, he was driven
to Wakefield prison, where he was safely lodged.
The warders were supplied with the necessary documentary evidence that
Peace had been handed over to the officials at Wakefield, and later in
the evening they set out on their return journey to Pentonville.
They were heartily glad to be released from any further charge of the
convict, who since his escape had been a source of great anxiety and
trouble to them.
Nothing of importance occurred during the journey. Soon after the
train had left Sheffield, Peace threw back his rugs, looked at his
custodians, and then asked, “Where are you taking me to?”
They told him he was going to Wakefield. He gave a groan, rolled
himself up in his rugs, and nothing more was heard from him throughout
the journey.
Peace, after his arrival to Wakefield, was watched with the utmost
jealousy by the officials, and as the convict recovered from the
effects of his leap from the railway carriage, he displayed a good
deal of irritation at this strict supervision.
He declared that never before was he so closely watched as he was
then. His system was recovering its tone, and the effects of the
injuries sustained by his leap from the train were becoming less
apparent.
REMOVAL OF PEACE TO LEEDS.
On the arrival of Peace at the Wakefield prison, on Saturday, a notice
was posted at the principal entrance lodge in Love-lane, warning the
officials not to divulge any information to the outside public, and
this order was most strictly complied with.
It may be mentioned that Peace was no stranger at the Wakefield House
of Correction, for he had been incarcerated there on three or four
different occasions, and one of his visits was rendered famous by a
most daring act.
A man named Roberts, who lived in Garden-street, Wakefield, and was
for many years an officer at the Wakefield Prison, informed a
correspondent on the occasion that in 1854 Peace was ordered to be
imprisoned for four years, and he was sent to Wakefield.
For some time he worked in the gardens which surround the gaol, and in
the evenings after work hours he was in the habit of whiling away the
time and amusing himself by cutting out figures and making designs in
tin, cardboard, &c., or in cutting tissue paper in various ways for
the decoration of rooms.
Subsequently he was employed in what is known as the beaming room in
connection with the manufacture of mats and matting, and one
afternoon, whilst in charge of Roberts, he succeeded in making his
escape out of the room, the door of which had been accidentally left
unfastened.
He succeeded in getting upon a wall, and then climbed upon the roof of
a house in the prison yard, which was occupied by the late Dr. Milner,
who was convict surgeon at the prison at the time of which we
speak――1854.
Peace removed some of the slates on the roof of the doctor’s house,
and made an aperture through which he descended into one of the
bedrooms.
Immediately he was missed from the work-room an alarm was raised, and
a most diligent search commenced.
In a very short time the daring fellow was found secreted on the top
of a wardrobe, out of which he no doubt intended to take a suit of the
doctor’s clothing and attire himself in them in place of the prison
dress he was wearing.
He was at once seized and placed in solitary confinement, when he
became violent and made a most determined attempt to destroy himself.
He inflicted a very severe gash in his throat, the mark produced by
which was still visible.
On the Tuesday night, Councillor Atkinson, cab proprietor, received
instructions from Captain Godfrey Armytage, the governor, to have two
coaches in readiness at half-past one o’clock the following afternoon,
for the purpose of conveying Peace to Armley, and the strict secresy
which was enjoined on him was observed to the very letter.
It may be safely affirmed that not a single other person in Wakefield
had the slightest idea of the time of Peace’s departure, and the fact
that all the trains departing for Leeds up to two o’clock on Wednesday
were closely watched, showed that the mystery remained as deep as
ever.
Even at half-past one on Wednesday morning, when the fast train leaves
for Leeds, people were found who, despising the cold, kept a steady
look-out for Peace, and frequented the approaches to Westgate Station
with the object of satisfying their insatiable curiosity.
Precisely at the preconcerted hour, one of the coaches arranged for
was driven into the prison yard, and pulled up in front of the main
entrance.
At that moment Peace was being conducted across the vestibule, heavily
manacled, and guarded by three warders; so that as soon as the coach
came to a standstill he was at the door.
The proceeding seemed to go altogether “against the grain” with him;
at one moment he twisted his face as if in pain, then changing to a
scowl, he at last flashed his eyes with evident anger as he was
ordered to step into the coach.
This he seemed to do with pain, making it appear that the lifting of
his legs was indeed a laborious task. When he had sat down within,
three warders, armed with cutlasses and revolvers, got in after him,
and then the windows being darkened by blinds drawn down, the coach
was driven out.
The whole proceedings, which were under the personal direction of
Captain Armytage, and were carried out in the presence of a
considerable body of the prison officials, did not occupy much over a
minute.
In the lane outside the prison scarcely a single person was stirring,
so that the coach got clear away up Back-lane and through St. John’s,
without any of the general public being any the wiser.
While matters were proceeding at the prison as we have just described,
another two horse coach was being quietly walked up Back-lane, and
destined to convey an extra body of armed warders to Armley along with
those in the first coach.
It was arranged that this second coach should wait at the West Riding
Police Depot until the other came up; but as it was thought that its
standing in the open street for some time might attract attention it
was driven on for some distance further.
When opposite St. John’s Church four warders, who had been sauntering
along, got into it, and were driven along in the wake of the convict
and his more immediate attendants.
Here another move was made to throw the public off the scent, for
instead of keeping the Leeds road, the drivers turned into the
Bradford road as soon as they had got out of the town.
Continuing on the route for four or five miles, when they got to the
“White Bear Inn,” at Ardsley, they turned into the Leeds and Dewsbury
road, by which they arrived at Armley Gaol.
CHAPTER CLXII.
THE TRIAL AND CONVICTION OF CHARLES PEACE.
The eventful day at length arrived upon which the most daring and
desperate criminal of modern times was to be tried upon the grave
charge of “wilful murder.”
“Let Charles Peace stand forward.”
There is a scuffling of feet, and a small, elderly-looking, feeble
man, in brown convict dress, is helped into the dock, and placed in a
chair by stalwart warders.
The Clerk of Assizes states the charge.
“How say you, Charles Peace, are you guilty or not guilty?”
In a feeble voice, hardly audible, the words “Not guilty” are uttered.
The prisoner’s face is impassive, but he takes in all the surroundings
with short, quick glances.
The jury is empanelled, the arraignment is opened, and Mr. Campbell
Foster rises to address the jury.
The scene is one of much interest. As early as nine o’clock the small
portion of the court allotted to the public had begun to fill with
eager spectators.
The press enters in force, considerable portions of the court, and
also of the gallery above the jury, being reserved for its
representatives.
Barristers drop in, eager as the people who are unfamiliar with the
courts, and quickly filling their seats, there accumulates a standing
group, which remains about the door all day.
The occupants of the court, with scarcely an exception, deport
themselves as men and women come to witness a comedy, not a grim
tragedy――talking, laughing, joking, and congratulating themselves on
their luck in gaining admission on so famous an occasion.
The judge takes his seat precisely at ten o’clock, and the case at
once begins.
Mr. Campbell Foster bespeaks the unprejudiced and impartial attention
of the jury, and enters upon a lengthened recital of the facts of the
case.
The tale is a plain and unvarnished one, but, to be quite candid, that
is all the praise that can be bestowed upon it.
A very frank critic might even say that it is somewhat dreary and
decidedly commonplace. However, it is listened to with silent
attention――by none is it followed with closer care than by the
prisoner, who occasionally indulges in a nod of assent, or a
remonstrating shake of the head, or now and then leans forward, his
head on his hand, and eyes fixed upon the speaker.
The learned council spoke for half an hour.
Then the evidence began, the first witness being Mr. Johnson, who
proved the plans put in of the Dysons’ house in Bannercross-terrace,
and was asked a question or two as to Mr. Dyson’s physical appearance.
There was “sensation” in court when Catherine Dyson was called. She
stepped into the witness-box, dressed in black, neatly, her jacket
trimmed with crape, the somewhat jaunty hat which she had worn at the
preliminary examination replaced by a modest bonnet.
She had a veil or “fall” over the upper part of her face, but it was
not enough to obscure it. She had a heightened colour, suggestive of
rouge, with a slightly sulky expression, and the look of a person who,
tensely strung, yet knows what she is about and is resolved to act on
the defensive.
She was examined by Mr. Shield, and spoke in a very low tone of voice.
The examination was uneventful; it only repeated the old familiar
account of the transactions which led to this trial; and when Mr.
Lockwood rose to cross-examine the witness, there was a feeling that
now, the preliminary details settled, the real engagement of the day
was about to be fought.
The first point on which the opposing forces came into conflict was as
to whether or not Mr. Dyson, on the night he was shot, got hold or
attempted to get hold of the prisoner.
Before the Coroner and before the magistrate, the witness had
professed her inability to say that her husband did not grapple with
the prisoner. She now declared positively that he did not, and there
was a long struggle on this point.
Mrs. Dyson maintained her composure, during the searching catechising
that ensued. Whatever she might have said before, she now said
positively that her husband did not get hold of Peace.
Pressed hard for admissions that there was some sort of a struggle
between the prisoner and Dyson, the witness adhered to her denial that
any thing of the kind did or could take place; and the cross-examination
then went on to deal with the photograph taken in the fair.
A good deal of fencing took place as to the precise fair at which this
photograph was taken, based partly upon the mistaken assumption that
the Peaces went to live at Darnall at the end of 1875, whereas they
went there at the beginning of the year.
The witness could not see her way through the puzzle, except that
there was some mistake in the dates――which was a very just conclusion
at which to arrive.
Nothing was made of this――except to render it evident that no reliable
dates could be got from the witness; and, with the positiveness
displayed on previous occasions, she repudiated any knowledge of the
letters found near Bannercross after the murder.
The journey to Mansfield, on the occasion when Peace followed her
there, next came under notice, and the gift of a ring by the prisoner.
Then the visits to Sheffield public-houses with Peace――she had been
once with him to the “Marquis of Waterford,” Russell-street, she said,
and might have been twice, but she could not say positively.
The keepers of several of these houses were called and confronted with
Mrs. Dyson, but she knew them not, nor did she know (though she
avoided positively swearing it) that she had ever had drink at the
“Halfway House,” Darnall, charged to the prisoner.
Mr. Lockwood was equally unsuccessful in his attempts to extract
confessions as to the transmission of notes between herself and Peace.
As before the Stipendiary, so now Mrs. Dyson was subjected to a trial
in caligraphy, and it may be assumed that the results were not very
encouraging to Mr. Lockwood, since he did not pursue the subject
further. But the incident elicited a curious example of Mrs. Dyson’s
composure.
She was passing to Mr. Lockwood the paper on which she had written,
with the ink wet. It had actually left her hands, when she took it
back and calmly rubbed a piece of blotting paper over it.
Coming down to the day before the murder new points of much interest
were opened up. The witness admitted that she was on that day at the
“Stag” Hotel, Sharrow. A little boy was with her――not her own child.
A man followed her in and sat beside her――she would almost swear that
the prisoner was not the man――upon which a sort of laugh ran through
the court.
She was cross-examined as to her other movements that night, and as to
going to a friend’s named Muddiman on leaving the “Stag.” She swore
that she did not tell Peace that she was going there――for she did not
see him.
A laugh was caused when Mrs. Dyson pleaded guilty to the soft
impeachment of having been “slightly inebriated” at the “Halfway
House,” but she denied that she had ever been turned out of that house
either for being drunk or for being “slightly inebriated.”
This concluded Mrs. Dyson’s cross-examination, which had lasted
exactly two hours, her examination in chief having previously lasted
half an hour.
The re-examination by Mr. Campbell Foster lasted only a few minutes,
and after a question or two from the Judge, the Court adjourned for
luncheon, the general opinion being that Mrs. Dyson had passed through
the trying ordeal with great firmness and self-possession, and that
the defence had not made a material mark upon the case.
After half an hour’s interval the trial was resumed by the production
of the Bannercross witnesses.
There were few new features in this, but Mr. Lockwood made a vigorous
attempt to damage the credibility of the young man, Brassington, whose
testimony went to establish malice and intent on the part of the
prisoner.
Peace himself, during this, departed from his customary air of stoical
calm, talking rapidly, in a low tone, and evidently challenging the
witness’s statements in no amicable mood or feeble terms.
The evidence of Mr. Harrison, the surgeon, went to show that the
direction of the shot was such as would be likely to be taken by a
bullet fired from the low level of the road at a person above, and the
questions of Mr. Lockwood, in cross-examination, pointed to the
suggestion that certain bruises on the deceased’s nose and chin were
caused by blows, in a struggle with the prisoner.
But Mr. Harrison did not take to this theory, though as the deceased
had fallen on his back when shot, he did not seem quite able to
account for these grazes.
Soon after this there took place between the learned counsel engaged
in the case a contention of which there had been one or two previous
indications. It was a struggle on the part of the defence to force the
prosecution to put in the letters found in the field at Bannercross.
Mr. Lockwood wanted the letters to be put as evidence, that he might
use them; but he did not wish to put them in himself, because that
would deprive him of the last word to the jury, and give it to Mr.
Campbell Foster. The point gave rise to much argument, but in the end
Mr. Lockwood had to abandon his contention.
After this the prosecution called witnesses who had not been before
the coroner or the magistrates. Then followed evidence as to the
capture of Peace at Blackheath, and this closed the case for the
prosecution.
Mr. Campbell Foster summed up the evidence he had produced in proof of
the charge of murder, Peace listening to everything he said with
unflinching attention.
Mr. Lockwood’s vigorous speech for the defence followed. It contained
powerful appeals to the jury, and animated attacks upon the
prosecution and the press; but it was an up-hill fight that the
learned counsel was so gallantly waging.
He claimed to have utterly discredited Mrs. Dyson’s testimony, and
urged that the jury could not send to execution any human being on
such evidence as she had given.
The theory set up by him as to the actual occurrences at Bannercross
on the night of the murder was, that Peace, finding himself pursued by
Mr. Dyson, fired his revolver to frighten him from pursuit; but this
not effecting its purpose, a struggle took place, and in that struggle
the revolver went off accidentally, with fatal effects.
But unfortunately Mr. Lockwood had no testimony behind him to back up
this ingenious attempt to reduce the crime to one of manslaughter; and
the glamour of feeling in which he had sought to invest the case was
quickly dispelled even in the breasts of the most sentimental in court
when the learned judge, in a summing-up of a marked fairness and
impartiality, placed the plain issues, and the unanswerable facts,
about which there could be no question, before the twelve men on whose
word the life of a human being hung.
His lordship, who began to speak at a quarter-past six, occupied
fifty-five minutes.
The jury, who retired at ten minutes past seven, were absent fifteen
minutes, and on their return the prisoner, who had been allowed to
leave the dock, was brought back and replaced in his chair, looking
limp and wretched.
The warders, who had hitherto sat beside him, now stood, one holding
either arm. The Judge resumed his seat, and the jury immediately
delivered their verdict of guilty.
Asked if he had anything to say why sentence should not be passed, he
replied very faintly, “It’s no use my saying anything.”
The learned Judge forthwith passed sentence in a few calm,
matter-of-fact sentences. There was an utter absence of feeling in
court.
The unhappy man heard the sentence with an apparent indifference, bred
either of stoicism or despair, and the warders at once raised him to
convey him from the dock.
As he stood up he clutched at the rail in front and appeared to wish
to speak, but his keepers paid no attention to the desire.
He bowed to his solicitor, and expressed in a word or two thanks for
his efforts; then disappeared to his doom.
THE TRIAL.
In the Crown Court, at the Leeds Assizes, Charles Peace, described as
a picture-frame dealer, forty-seven years of age, was placed upon his
trial, before Mr. Justice Lopes, for the murder of Mr. Arthur Dyson;
civil engineer, at Bannercross, Sheffield, on the 29th November, 1876.
It is almost unnecessary to say that the case has created the greatest
possible interest――an interest not felt simply in Sheffield, but
throughout the country.
This had arisen not so much because of the murder itself――for the
facts were exceedingly simple――but because of the extraordinary career
of the prisoner, his sudden disappearance after the murder, and his
subsequent identity as the notorious burglar who kept Blackheath in a
state of considerable excitement for some months.
Peace was already under a sentence of penal servitude for life for
shooting at Police-constable Robinson, who apprehended him whilst he
was endeavouring to escape from a house which he had burglariously
entered at Blackheath.
At that time Peace was known as John Ward, a half-caste, who had,
according to his own statement, recently arrived in this country. For
considerably more than a week this was all that was known of him.
Then information came to the police, through a woman with whom he had
been living, that the prisoner under remand at Greenwich was not Ward,
but Peace, who was wanted for murder, and for whose apprehension a
reward of £100 had been in vain offered for more than a couple of
years.
Subsequent investigations resulted in some extraordinary disclosures.
It was found that Peace had been living in a semi-detached villa at
Peckham, in company with a woman named Thompson, who was supposed to
be his wife; that he kept a pony and trap, and that he lived in a
style of considerable comfort.
It was found, too, that he was the perpetrator of most of the
burglaries which had for some months past been of almost nightly
occurrence at Greenwich and Blackheath.
After his sentence of penal servitude for life the Treasury
authorities decided to prosecute him for the murder of Mr. Dyson.
The chief witness, Mrs. Dyson, was then in America, having gone there,
to reside with some relatives, a few months after her husband was
shot.
A special messenger was dispatched in search of her, and on her
arrival in this country, Peace was taken to Sheffield to undergo an
examination before the stipendiary magistrate.
His attempt to commit suicide on the way down from Pentonville, by
jumping from the train, is too well-known an occurrence to need more
than a passing mention.
In consequence of the excitement prevailing, and the great desire to
obtain admittance to the court on the occasion of the trial at Leeds,
it was decided that only a limited number of seats should be thrown
open to the public, all other parts being reserved for those in
possession of tickets.
The public seats were taken possession of immediately on the opening
of the court at nine o’clock. The other parts of the building were
filled within the next hour, and when the Judge took his seat at ten
o’clock every seat was occupied.
In one of the galleries were Lord Houghton and a number of guests from
Fryston Hall. A large crowd remained outside the hall, but a strong
force of police prevented them reaching the doors.
Peace was removed from Armley Gaol on Monday evening, and was placed
in one of the cells at the Town Hall, under the care of four warders.
He passed a very restless night, and on Tuesday morning was in a state
of much weakness and depression. His appearance in the court, of
course, attracted considerable attention. He partially walked and was
partially carried up the step leading into the dock, and then was
placed in a chair in front of the dock.
A warder occupied a seat on either side of him. Unless he was
“shamming,” his condition was almost pitiable to behold. He seemed so
weak that he could scarcely sit up in his chair, but, notwithstanding
that, he appeared to take the keenest interest in the case as it
proceeded.
On the charge being read to him he pleaded “Not Guilty,” but he spoke
in so low a tone that he could scarcely be heard.
Mr. Campbell Foster, Q.C., and Mr. Hugh Shield prosecuted on behalf
of the Treasury; and Mr. Lockwood and the Hon. Stuart Wartley
(instructed by Messrs. Clegg and Sons, Sheffield), defended the
prisoner.
Mr. Campbell Foster, Q.C., in opening the case for the prosecution,
said he could not disguise from himself, nor from the jury, that the
case, from the great public comment which had been made upon it in the
various newspapers, must come before them under circumstances
calculated somewhat perchance to bias their minds, but before entering
upon it he would beg and implore them to put from their minds anything
they might have read about the case, and be guided entirely by the
sworn testimony which would be given by the witnesses as to the guilt
or innocence of the prisoner.
It would be shown, he said, that, previous to July, 1876, the man,
into whose death they had to inquire, lived at Darnall, a village
about three miles to the east of Sheffield, and now one of the
outskirts of the town.
He and his wife lived in a row of cottage houses, and next door, or
next door but one, lived the prisoner and a person who, so far as they
knew, was his wife.
From being so near neighbours the Dysons got to know the prisoner. He
was in the habit of framing pictures, and was employed by them to
frame two or three small prints and pictures which they had in the
house.
This led to an acquaintance between the prisoner and the Dysons, but
at last Mr. Dyson seemed not to like the persistent familiarity with
which the prisoner was in the habit of treating them, walking into the
house whenever he thought proper, at meal times, and generally
obtruding himself upon them.
This annoyed both Mr. Dyson and his wife, and, as a consequence,
shortly before the 1st July, 1876, Mr. Dyson wrote on the back of one
of his address cards――
“Charles Peace is requested not to interfere with my family.”
The card was thrown over the wall into Peace’s garden, and the sending
of it seemed to have created a bad feeling in the mind of Peace
against Dyson, for it would be shown that on the 1st of July, meeting
Mr. Dyson, he suddenly commenced an assault upon him, attempting to
trip him up and throw him down.
Late in the evening Peace found Mrs. Dyson talking to some neighbours
about his extraordinary conduct, and asked if she were talking about
him.
She replied that she was, and apparently in a sudden burst of passion
he produced a revolver and presenting it at her head said he would
blow her brains out――of course using an expletive――and subsequently he
threatened to blow her husband’s brains out as well.
In consequence of that a summons was taken out against him, but he did
not appear, and a warrant was granted against him. He seemed to have
known that a warrant had been obtained, and from that time until
October he was not seen in the neighbourhood.
To be quite out of the way of his annoyance the Dysons decided to
remove, and took a house at Bannercross, a village about three miles
to the west of Sheffield, and consequently about six miles from
Darnall.
They removed on the 29th, following the furniture by train, and when
they arrived at Bannercross the first person they saw was the
prisoner. Some conversation took place between him and Mrs. Dyson, and
the prisoner said, “I am here to annoy you, and I will annoy you
wherever you go.”
Mrs. Dyson told him there was a warrant out against him, and he
replied that he did not care for the warrant and he did not care for
the police. That sort of conversation would tend to show that there
was the same bad blood, the same ill-feeling, in the breast of the
prisoner against both Mrs. Dyson and her husband which had existed in
the previous July.
Mr. Campbell Foster put in a plan of Bannercross-terrace, and
described its surroundings to the jury. Prisoner, he added, went to
the shop of a man named Gregory at the end of October, and engaged him
in conversation, and at that time he was particularly noticed by Mrs.
Gregory.
In about a month afterwards he again called, asked if her husband was
in, and upon being answered in the negative, he went out and was seen
to be loitering about.
During that time he was seen by a Mrs. Colgrave, who was going to
Gregory’s shop. The meeting took place in the road.
The prisoner engaged her in conversation, and asked if she would take
him a message to Dyson’s house, asking Mrs. Dyson to come out.
Mrs. Colgrave objected, upon which he made use of a coarse expression
regarding Mrs. Dyson. At ten minutes to eight he was seen by a man
named Brassington, who met Peace walking in front of the Bannercross
Hotel.
They met under a gas-lamp, and prisoner inquired if he knew some
strangers who had come to live there.
Witness did not, he said, and Peace showed him a bundle of notes and
some photographs, but Brassington put them back, as he could not read.
They separated about ten minutes past eight. The jury would learn from
Mrs. Dyson that about that time she had occasion to go to the closet
in the yard. To do so she put on her clogs, and had to pass Gregory’s
back door.
After being in the closet a short time, she opened the door, and saw
standing before her the man Peace, who had a revolver in his hand.
He presented it in her face, and said, “Speak, or I will fire.”
The woman gave a loud and sudden shriek, and stepping back into the
closet, slammed the door and fastened it.
She next heard her husband’s footsteps, and Mrs. Gregory also came up,
but when she saw Mr. Dyson she went into her own house and fastened
the door. Hearing her husband’s footsteps, Mrs. Dyson became
emboldened, opened the closet door, and advanced towards the end of
the passage.
Mr. Dyson passed her, and she saw Peace going out of the passage by
the front. When he was a few steps from the gateway Mr. Dyson stepped
after him.
According to Mrs. Dyson’s statement, he was never near enough to touch
Peace. Having got into the road, Peace fired his revolver, apparently
at Mr. Dyson. The shot struck the stone lintel of the doorway at the
entrance to the passage.
Mr. Dyson continued to advance, and before he had got out of the
passage, Peace, who was on the road, again faced round and fired his
revolver, and Mrs. Dyson saw her husband instantly fall.
She shrieked out, and was heard by a young man named Whitting to say,
“Murder! You villain; you have shot my husband.”
The learned counsel then proceeded further to describe how Peace
escaped from Bannercross after the murder, and showed that Mr. Dyson
died two hours after the bullet entered his temple.
He laid much stress on the fact that in a field which the prisoner had
crossed over on his way from Mr. Dyson’s house, a packet of letters
was found.
In this packet was the very card which Mr. Dyson had sent to the
prisoner requesting him not to annoy his family.
There could, therefore, he said, be no doubt that the man who dropped
the papers was Peace――the man in whose mind the card had produced so
much ill-will and ill-feeling, and who had dogged the footsteps of the
Dysons in the way he had described.
Mr. Foster next proceeded to show that after the murder Peace made his
escape, and was not discovered until he was apprehended in the
commission of a burglary at Blackheath.
He next showed what took place after his apprehension, and was
proceeding to refer to the attempts made by Peace to escape on his way
to Sheffield, when Mr. Lockwood objected to the matter being gone
into. He said it would of course be affectation on his part to object
to its being mentioned, because it was notorious to everybody, but he
certainly strongly protested against the course his learned friend was
pursuing.
His Lordship said he considered the reference that Mr. Foster was
making was quite unnecessary.
Mr. Foster said he was quite content to leave the matter as it was.
He proceeded to say that if the jury believed the circumstantial
evidence which showed the prisoner to have been at Bannercross from
seven o’clock up to ten minutes past eight――which traced him across
that field, and found on his path a packet of letters, they could not
but believe that the prisoner was the man who fired the shot which
killed Mr. Dyson.
With what intent did he do it? Did he do it maliciously and with the
intent to do the full charge mentioned in the indictment? With what
object did he go from Darnall to Ecclesall, hanging about the house,
threaten Mrs. Dyson, and tell Brassington the scandalous story of
which they would hear?
Did all that point to malice, to malignity, to hate? He thought it
did. If the jury came to the conclusion that it was the hand of
prisoner who shot poor Mr. Dyson, and if they found that the motive
which prompted him to do it was a malicious and a premeditated motive,
then he thought they could come to no other conclusion than that the
prisoner committed the crime charged, and that he did it with malice
aforethought.
Mr. Johnson, of the firm of Holmes and Johnson, architects and
surveyors, of Sheffield, produced a plan of Bannercross, showing the
house in which Mr. Dyson lived, and the gardens and fields adjoining.
MRS. DYSON’S EVIDENCE.
Mrs. Dyson, whose appearance in the witness-box aroused great interest
in court, said she was the widow of Arthur Dyson, who was shot at
Bannercross in 1876.
She lived with her husband in Britannia-road, Darnall, and at that
time the prisoner resided in the next house.
She knew him then as Charles Peace, a picture-framer, and he
frequently visited their house until her husband, annoyed at his
visits, sent him a card requesting him not to annoy his family.
In July of the same year the prisoner threatened to blow out their
brains, and put a pistol within six inches of her face.
[Sidenote: No. 92.]
[Illustration: PEACE CONDUCTED BY THE OFFICERS TO THE PRISON VAN.]
A warrant was taken out against him for this, but he still continued
to annoy them; so they removed on the 25th of October to Bannercross,
where they hoped to be freed from his disagreeable visits.
But the very night they removed the prisoner appeared at Bannercross,
and said to her “You see I am here to annoy you wherever you go.”
On the 29th of November, about ten minutes past eight in the evening,
she went to the closet behind the house, and when she opened the door
to come out she was confronted by the prisoner, who stood near the
closet doorway with a revolver in his hand. He said, “Speak, or I’ll
fire.”
She screamed, and stepped back into the closet and shut herself in;
but, hearing her husband’s footsteps in the yard she came out.
Prisoner was then in the passage leading to the road; but, being
followed by her husband, he turned round and fired.
That bullet struck the wall, and on getting to the bottom of the
passage the prisoner fired again. The second shot struck her husband
in the temple, and he fell.
She screamed and the neighbours came, but in the meantime the prisoner
had scaled the wall on the opposite side of the road and fled.
Her husband did not speak after he was shot, and died the same night
about eleven o’clock.
Cross-examined by Mr. Lockwood: Before going to the closet I put my
little boy to bed. The bedroom is in the front. There was a light in
the room.
My husband at this time was downstairs reading, and when I went to the
closet I left him still reading. I said nothing to him before going to
the closet. I had to pass through the room where he was. When I heard
him coming I came out of the closet.
[A plan of the premises was then put into witness’s hands, and she
said she did not understand it very well.]
Cross-examination resumed: I was only four or five feet from the
passage leading to the closet when my husband passed me to go down to
the prisoner. I could see him plainly, and all that he did. He was
going rather slowly.
I am prepared to swear that my husband never touched the prisoner
before the shots were fired. He could not get near enough to him. Of
course I cannot say what he intended doing.
I remember being before the coroner, but I cannot remember that I said
to him that I could not say “whether my husband attempted to get hold
of Peace or not;” but if I did say so it is correct.
The account which I gave to the coroner is the correct one. I cannot
swear that my husband did not attempt to get hold of the prisoner, but
I can swear that he did not succeed in doing so. I distinctly swear
that he never touched the prisoner.
When were you first so certain of this?――I have been certain all the
time.
Were you certain about it on the 24th of January last?――Yes; as
certain as I am now.
When before the magistrates did you say this: “I cannot say. My
husband did not get hold of the prisoner?” I cannot say that he did
not try.
Mr. Lockwood contended that this was not an answer, and a conversation
took place between Mr. Campbell Foster and the judge on the matter.
On the question being repeated, Mrs. Dyson said: I cannot swear I did
not use the words just quoted. I will not swear I did not. Having
heard the words, I still pledge my oath that my husband did not get
hold of the prisoner. I don’t remember swearing before the magistrates
that my husband didn’t get hold of the prisoner.
What I said before the magistrate is correct. I noticed how my husband
fell. He fell on his back. Nothing touched him before he fell. I will
swear that after the first shot was fired my husband did not get hold
of the prisoner.
He did not catch hold of the prisoner’s arm which held the revolver,
and the prisoner did not strike my husband on the chin and nose.
I will positively swear that my husband was never touched on the face
except by the bullet which the prisoner fired.
How long have you known Peace?――Between three and four years. I never
saw him before I saw him at Darnall. I cannot say whether I or my
husband first made his acquaintance. He lived next door but one to us.
My husband began to dislike him in the spring of 1876.
Was he jealous?――No.
Do you remember showing your husband a photo of yourself and the
prisoner?――Yes. It was taken at the Sheffield fair.
How came you to be photographed together?――We went to the fair
together with some children. The children were photographed, but we
were in a separate picture. I cannot say whether it was the summer or
winter fair. It was summer fair, but I cannot say whether it was the
summer of 1876. It certainly was not in 1875.
If it was in the summer of 1876, how was it you were photographed with
a man of whom your husband disapproved in the spring of that year?――I
think there must be a mistake in the dates. I cannot say. I had known
the prisoner for more than a year in November, 1876. I may have known
him since the spring of the previous year, but I won’t be certain. I
cannot say when we went to Darnall. I mean the jury to understand that
I cannot tell within three or four months. When before the coroner I
stated that we had been in England three years, and that we lived for
a year with my husband’s mother. I also stated that afterwards we
lived at Highfield. We did not remain there more than four or five
months. We next went to Heeley, and remained three or four months.
From there we went to Darnall. I still say I do not remember when we
went to Darnall. We were there a few months before the prisoner. He
framed four pictures for us. I remember a conversation about his
framing the portrait of my husband’s mother. I asked the prisoner to
frame it. I mentioned the matter to the prisoner or his daughter, but
I cannot say when it was. I did not write to ask him to send the
frame. He never sent the frame. I never wrote asking him not to send
it. I know nothing about the matter.
Mr. Lockwood: Look at that letter.――Witness, after looking at it,
said: It’s not mine, and I don’t know whose it is.
Another letter was then handed to her, and she gave a similar answer.
Mr. Lockwood next handed to the witness a scrap of paper on which she
wrote some words when before the magistrates, and asked her to look at
it. This having been done, Mr. Lockwood asked: Did anybody know except
yourself, your husband, and the prisoner, that you wanted the portrait
of your husband’s mother framed?――His wife and daughter knew.
Did you talk to them about it?――I mentioned it to the daughter. I
remember going on one occasion to Mansfield. That was in the summer of
1876. I don’t recollect the month. Mrs. Padley went with me. I had not
told Peace that I was going. I went by an afternoon train to
Mansfield.
Did you ever write to the prisoner, telling him you were going by the
nine o’clock train?――No.
Did you tell him he must not go by train, “because he (Dyson) will go
down with me,” and also say, “Don’t let him see anything if you meet
me in the Wicker. Hope nothing will turn up to prevent it. Love to
Janie?” Did you write that?――No.
Just look at that (handing up the note just read).――That is not my
handwriting. I was not in the habit of dealing with Francis Walker,
wholesale and retail grocer and Italian warehouseman, at High-street,
Attercliffe.
At any rate, when you got to Mansfield he was there?――Yes.
And you told him you were going?――No.
Can you account for his being there?――No, I can’t. He was a constant
source of annoyance to me, and was always following me.
Do you remember the prisoner giving you a ring?――Yes. He gave it to me
in the winter; at least I cannot tell when it was, or the year.
Was it before or after you were photographed together?――That I cannot
say. I cannot say, too, if I showed it to my husband. I know I threw
it away. The ring did not fit me.
Did you ever write this: “I do not know what train we shall go by, for
I have a great deal to do this morning? Will see as soon as I possibly
can. I think it will be easier after you leave; he won’t watch so. The
ring fits the little finger. Many thanks. Love to Janey. I will tell
you what I think of, when I see you about arranging matters, if it
will. Excuse the scribble.” Now, did you write that?――No.
Did you ever tell him that the ring would not fit?――No.
Are you now prepared to swear that you did not write to acknowledge
the ring?――I did not.
Mr. Lockwood then asked the witness whether she preferred a steel or a
quill pen to write with, and Mrs. Dyson said it made no difference.
A steel pen was given to her, and she wrote as follows from the
dictation of the learned counsel: “I write to you these few lines to
thank you for all your kindness, which I will never forget. I will
write you a note when I can.”
Mr. Lockwood: That is your best writing?――Yes.
Witness continued: On one occasion I went to a public-house with the
prisoner, but I cannot remember the date. I cannot say where the
public-house is. The prisoner told me that there was a picture gallery
there. My husband became dissatisfied after that.
Was it in consequence of your going to the public-house with the
prisoner that he became dissatisfied?――No.
Are you sure of that?――Yes.
Did you tell him you had been to a public-house with the
prisoner?――Yes.
Was it after that he became dissatisfied?――I can’t say exactly. I know
a public-house in the same street as that in which the prisoner lived.
I don’t know it by name, nor do I know a man named Craig as the
landlord. I have been to a public-house where there was a picture
gallery, and there I had a bottle of “pop.”
Did you go to another public-house with the prisoner?――Yes.
Did you see Craig?――I don’t know him.
Craig was then called into court, and Mrs. Dyson was asked, “Have you
not been to the ‘Marquis of Waterford’ public-house, in Russell-street,
Sheffield, on several occasions, with the prisoner?”――I may have been
once or twice, but not more often.
When you have been with Peace has he not paid for drink for you?――I
have only had “pop” with him.
How many times have you been with him?――I am sure of once, but I don’t
know that I have been any more times.
Do you remember when this was?――No.
Did you tell your husband?――I told him that Peace had introduced me to
his brother.
Did you tell your husband that Peace had taken you to a public-house
and paid for drink for you?――Yes.
And after that he became dissatisfied?――Yes.
Do you know the Norfolk Dining Rooms in Exchange-street?――No.
Have you ever been to some dining rooms, near the Market-place, with
the prisoner?――Yes.
Alone, I mean?――Never alone.
Never alone, you say. Call in John Wilson. (Witness called in.) Now
look at that man. Did you ever see him in those dining rooms?――Not to
my knowledge.
Do you remember being introduced to that man by Peace?――I never
remember seeing him before.
Look at him again.――I have looked at him. I will swear I have not been
to some dining rooms with Peace on several occasions. I have been to
some near the market once. Then we were not alone. There were two
children with us. They were my own little boy, and a child of Mrs.
Padmore’s. I had refreshment there. That was at the time of the
Sheffield fair――the same fair at which I was photographed――the same
day that I had been photographed with Peace. And these children went
to the dining-room.
What had become of your husband?――He was away from home.
Was he not at the fair?――Yes. I saw him there and met him in the
evening after the photograph was taken. My husband did not come into
the fair until evening.
Do you know a music-hall in Spring-street, Sheffield?
Witness: What is the name of it.
Mr. Lockwood: The “Star.”
Witness: Is it a picture-gallery?
Mr. Lockwood: I don’t know.
A man named Goodlad was called into court, and Mr. Lockwood asked the
witness: Have you ever been to the “Star” music-hall with Peace?――I
don’t know it by that name.
Have you been to any music-hall with Peace?――I have been to a place
where there is a picture-gallery, and where it looked as if singing
went on. There was a small stage and tables and chairs.
Do you remember being introduced to that man by Peace at a
music-hall?――I never remember seeing his face before, except at the
Town Hall.
Have you not been three or four times to the music-hall in
Spring-street?――No; I have only been once. I know a public-house at
Darnall, called the “Halfway House.” To my knowledge, I have never had
drink there which was put down to Peace.
That won’t do. Are you prepared to swear that you have not had drink
there on Peace’s credit?――Never to my knowledge.
Though the witness was pressed severely on the point, this was the
only answer that could be obtained.
I have shown you some letters――have you written a letter to the
prisoner?――No.
Do you know a little girl named Elizabeth Hutton? Call Elizabeth
Hutton.
On the child coming forward, the learned counsel asked: Can you swear
you never sent that child with a note to Peace?――Not with a note.
What did you send her with?――I sent her with receipts for some
pictures which the prisoner had framed. He was in the habit of asking
my husband to write out his receipts and letters.
Now look at the child again. Will you swear that child has not brought
back notes from Peace to you?――She brought me one, and I returned it.
I can’t say when this was, but it was after Peace removed to the
opposite side of the street at Darnall. I never gave the child
anything for taking notes to Peace. I don’t know a man named Kirkham.
(Kirkham was here called.) I never gave him any notes for Peace, but I
gave him a couple of receipts. Those receipts were for picture-framing.
Kirkham has not brought notes from Peace.
Can you swear that?――Not to my knowledge, he has not.
Can you swear one way or the other?――I can swear he has not――not to my
knowledge.
Did you ever send that litttle girl for drink to the “Halfway
House?”――Not to my knowledge.
By that I understand that you won’t swear either one way or the
other?――I have sent her for beer, but not to the “Halfway House” in
particular.
Now I want to bring you to the night before the murder. Were you, on
the 28th of November, 1876, at the “Stag Hotel,” Sharrow?――Yes. I was
there with Mrs. Padmore’s little boy. He is about five or six years of
age.
Was anybody else with you?――No.
Mrs. Redfern, the landlady of “The Stag,” was called into the court,
and Mr. Lockwood asked: Was there not a man with you?――No; I was by
myself.
Now (looking at Mrs. Redfern), will you swear that?――A man followed me
in and sat down beside me.
Was that man the prisoner?――No.
Will you swear that?――I would almost swear that the prisoner was not
the man.
That will not do. On your oath, did not this man go into the “Stag” on
that night with you?――No, he did not.
Did he not follow you in?――I don’t know that he did, unless he made
himself different from what he is now.
On your oath was it not this man?――To the best of my belief it was
not. He seemed a man about thirty-five years of age.