CENTRAL CRIMINAL COURT
SIXTH SESSION, HELD APRIL 2ND, 1894.
MINUTES OF EVIDENCE,
TAKEN IN SHORT-HAND BY
JAMES DROVER BARNETT
Short-hand Writers to the Court,
ROLLS CHAMBERS, No. 89, CHANCERY LANE.
THE POINTS OF LAW AND PRACTICE
REVISED AND EDITED BY
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OF THE MIDDLE TEMPLE, BARRISTER-AT-LAW.
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On the Queen's Commission of
OYER AND TERMINER AND GAOL DELIVERY
The City of London,
AND GAOL DELIVERY FOR THE
COUNTY OF MIDDLESEX AND THE PARTS OF THE COUNTIES OF ESSEX, KENT, AND SURREY, WITHIN THE JURISDICTION
CENTRAL CRIMINAL COURT,
Held on Monday, April 2nd, 1894, and following days.
BEFORE the RIGHT HON. GEORGE ROBERT TYLER, LORD MAYOR of the City of London; the Hon. Sir WILLIAM RANN KENNEDY, Knt., one of the Justices of Her Majesty's High Court of Justice; Sir JOHN WHITTAKER ELLIS, Bart., and Sir JOSEPH SAVORY , Bart, M. P., Aldermen of the said City; Sir CHARLES HALL , Q.C., M.P., K.C.M.G., Recorder of the said City; Col. Sir WALTER WILKIN , Knt., Lieut.-Col. HORATIO DAVID DAVIES , Esq., FRANK GREEN , Esq., MARCUS SAMUEL , Esq., WALTER VAUGHAN MORGAN , Esq., and WILLIAM PURDIE TRELOAR, Esq., Aldermen of the said City; and Sir FORREST FULTON, Knt., Q.C., Common Serjeant of the said City; Her Majesty's Justices of Oyer and Terminer and General Gaol Delivery, holden for the said City, and Judges of the Central Criminal Court.
JOHN VOCE MOORE, Esq., Alderman.
JOSEPH COCKFIELD DIMSDALE, Esq., Alderman.
CLARENCE R. HALSE, Esq.
CENTRAL CRIMINAL COURT.
TYLER, MAYOR. SIXTH SESSION.
A star (*) denotes that prisoners have been previously in custody—two stars (**) that they have been more than once in custody—a dagger (†) that they are known to be the associates of bad characters—the figures after the name in the indictment denote the prisoner's age.
LONDON AND MIDDLESEX CASES.
OLD COURT.—Monday, April 2nd, 1894.
Before Mr. Recorder.
334. FRANCIS THOMAS ELWOOD (60) , PLEADED GUILTY to stealing a hat and other articles of Sydney Smith; also to forging and uttering an order for the payment of £3; also to three other indictments, two for stealing two clocks, and the other for obtaining money by false pretences; and also to a previous conviction of felony on 19th October, 1891; eight other convictions were proved against him.— Five Years' Penal Servitude.
335. CHARLES ALFRED CASTLE (52) , to unlawfully forging and uttering a certificate of illness, and obtaining five sums of 8s. each by false pretences from the Hampshire Friendly Society. The secretary of the society stated that altogether about £160 had been fraudulently obtained by the prisoner.— [Pleaded Guilty: See original trial image.] Twelve Months' Hard Labour.
336. JOHN CHARLES DAVIS (74) , to eleven indictments for embezzling the sums of £248 11s., £19 12s. 4d., and other sums. He received an excellent character.— [Pleaded Guilty: See original trial image.] Judgment respited.
337. ALEXANDER DOUGLAS (39) , to unlawfully obtaining £80 by false pretences from Annie Elizabeth Crump; also to stealing a ring and other articles from the same person; and also to feloniously marrying the said Annie Elizabeth Crump, his wife being then living; also to a previous conviction at this Court; other convictions were proved against him.— [Pleaded Guilty: See original trial image.] Four Years' Penal Servitude.
339. ALBERT SPENCER (26) , to a burglary in the dwelling-house of Matilda Rickard, and stealing a cloak and other articles, value £5; also to a previous conviction, and three other convictions were proved against him.— [Pleaded Guilty: See original trial image.] Three Years' Penal Servitude.
340. RICHARD CURTIS (15) , to unlawfully and indecently assaulting Beatrice Buckles. The prisoner's mother gave him a good character. The prosecution did not press for punishment.— [Pleaded Guilty: See original trial image.] Discharged on recognizances.
SHEPHEARD— [Pleaded Guilty: See original trial image.] Four Months' Hard Labour. KING— Six Months' Hard Labour.
MR. MORESBY Prosecuted, and MR. LAWLESS Defended.
MAX HIRSCH . I am cashier of the Anglo-Continental Guano Works, 8, Osbaldiston Road, Stoke Newington—this is my overcoat, and this my cigar tube—on 20th March, between one and two, I went into the City Arms Restaurant, St. Mary Axe, and hung up my overcoat on a peg; the cigar tube was in the coat pocket then—after dinner I could not find my coat—next day I went with Holmes to a pawnbroker's in the Mile End Road, and identified my overcoat—there was a letter in a blue envelope addressed to me, with my business address, in the coat pocket.
Cross-examined. This cigar tube has been broken since I lost it—I know it is mine by the biting—I have not the least doubt it is mine.
FREDERICK HOLMES (Detective Sergeant, City). On 20th March, I received information of this coat being stolen from the City Arms Restaurant, St. Mary Axe—the following day, the 21st, I went to Mr. Ashbridge, pawnbroker, 50, Mile End Road, with Hirsch—I there saw this coat, which Hirsch identified as his—from what I was told, about 6.15 that night I went with Detective Shepherd to 170, Mile End Road, and asked to see Mr. Benjamin—the prisoner came forward—I said, "We are police officers. I want you to give me an account of how you came into possession of that coat you pledged at Mr. Ashbridge's, over the way, this morning"—he said, "That is my own coat. I have been wearing it for months past"—I said "Where did you get it from?"—he said, "I bought it some time ago of a gentleman that has gone abroad"—I said, "What is his name?"—he said, "We don't ask gentlemen their names when we buy a coat of them"—I said, "How long is it ago?"—he said, "It might be four, it might be six, months ago"—I asked him again, twice over, whether he could not give me any other account of it—he said, "No"—I said, "I shall charge you with stealing and receiving this coat from the City Arms, St. Mary Axe, yesterday afternoon"—he said, "I have got the diarrhoea. I want to go in the back garden closet"—I said, "You can go, but I will go with you"—he went to the back garden, and I went with him—he did not go to the closet—he said, "Do you mean to say you are going to take me?"—I said, "Yes"—he said, "Then it will take a dozen b—like you to take me"—I caught hold of him; he began to struggle very violently—as we took him through his house his wife and three other women (his daughters, I believe) were there—one got hold round my neck, another held my legs; the prisoner kicked me in the stomach; we got him in the street; he bit Shepherd in the wrist—he was taken to the station—he made no reply to the
charge when it was read to him—when searching him I found, among other articles, this cigar tube—I accidentally broke it after the prosecutor had identified it; it was on my desk, and rolled off and broke—on Thursday, 29th, on the remand at the Police-court, I charged the prisoner with stealing the cigar tube at the same time as the coat, and receiving it—I cautioned him—he said, "I know nothing about it"—the articles were pawned in the name of John Benjamin.
Cross-examined. On the way to the station in a cab the prisoner produced this pawnticket, dated 6th February, for two coats and two pairs of trousers, pledged in the name of John Benjamin—he said, "I thought you meant that coat"—he was not shown the coat in question till he was charged at Guildhall on the next day, 22nd—the City Arms is in St. Mary Axe, which runs from Leadenhall Street to Houndsditch; at the other end of it is an old clothes market—the prisoner lives at a wardrobe dealer's shop, which is in his wife's name, not his—it is a female clothier's shop—they are not allowed to deal in men's clothes, because there is another shop next door—there were men's clothes at the back of the shop, not exposed for sale—it is an old clothes shop for women's clothes—I never saw the prisoner to my knowledge before I arrested him—I believed from what I heard that he dealt in clothes in the old clothes market; but since then I have reason to believe he does not, but that he travels the country.
CLEMENT SHEPHERD (Detective Constable). On 21st I went with Holmes to 170, Mile End Road, where the prisoner's wife's name is over the door—she keeps an old clothes shop there—I assisted to take the prisoner into custody—Holmes said to him, "You pawned a coat this morning on the opposite side, at Mr. Ashbridge's, and I want you to account for it"—he said, "It was my coat. I have been wearing that coat six months"—Holmes asked him from whom he bought it—he said he bought it from a gentleman—Holmes asked his name, and he said he did not know—he wanted to go to the w.c, and we followed.
HERBERT TURNER . I am assistant to Mr. Ashbridge, pawnbroker, of 49 and 50, Mile End Road—prisoner pawned this overcoat with us on 21st, together with another overcoat, one jacket, two waistcoats, a coat, and three pairs of trousers—the name on the ticket is John Benjamin, 170, Mile End Road—the other overcoat pawned at the same time was a new one—it has had very little wear, if any, and this one in question was almost new—I had done business with the prisoner before for a few months.
Cross-examined. I knew him well—he always gave the same name—he gave me his correct name and address—he is a wardrobe dealer, dealing in new and second-hand clothes—his shop is about one and a half miles from the old clothes market—we are near his shop.
By the COURT. I have always taken his correct name as John Benjamin—Israel Benjamin is his proper name—when I said he gave his right name I was forgetting his Christian name—we gave the prisoner £2 for the two overcoats, a coat, two vests, and three pairs of trousers because I believe that was all the prisoner wanted on them—he simply wanted £2 to go and do some more business during the day—he has always given us the name of John Benjamin—I did not write this ticket, but I was there when the articles were pledged—his wife's shop is for all
sorts of things, not only for women's clothes—I made no inquiries—I do not know whether she was forbidden to trade in men's clothes by an agreement with a shop next door.
He then PLEADED GUILTY to a conviction of felony in May, 1888, at this Court in the name of Benjamin Benjamin. A police inspector stated that at the time of that conviction the proceeds of five recent burglaries were found in his possession; that in 1878 he had been sentenced to eighteen, months for receiving stolen property, and in 1882 to nine months for keeping a brothel; that he was supposed to meet thieves in different neighbourhoods, and then drive round the country disposing of the property.
Five Years' Penal Servitude.
MR. NELSON Prosecuted.
MORRIS WARCHAUFSKI (Interpreted). I live at 23, Marlborough Street—on Friday night, 9th March, I closed my premises, and shut my windows and doors—next morning about 3.30 the police called me up; they had the prisoner by the collar—my hat was on his head—my first floor front window was open—I missed this candlestick and this silk handkerchief, which had been on the table near the window in the front room on the bottom floor—I found the prisoner's hat on the table, where I had left my hat the night before.
THOMAS TICKNER (116 H). About 3.30 a.m. on March 10th I saw the prisoner at the window of No. 23, Marlborough Street—on seeing me he walked away—I asked him what he had been doing—he said, "Nothing"—I asked him to go back with me and look—he went back a short distance and then ran away—I followed and caught him, and took him back—I saw the window was pushed up about a foot, and the shutters inside pushed back—I called the prosecutor, who got up—he said he could not find his hat—the hat left inside was not his—the prosecutor identified the hat which the prisoner was wearing as his—I took the prisoner to the station and searched him—I found this cold chisel in his left-hand trousers pocket—the candlestick had been moved from the table to near the window—I have not found the silk handkerchief—he said nothing at the Police-station in my hearing.
JAMES NEWMAN (Inspector H). I examined the prosecutor's premises—I found that the window of the ground floor front room had been opened about a foot, and a sliding shutter inside pushed back over eighteen inches the fastening had been broken—I was present at the station when the prisoner was charged; he appeared to understand all that was said—he said in English, the hat which was found in the room was his—he was asked if he understood what was being said, and he said, "Yes."
The prisoner's statement before the Magistrate: "The window was open; the hat laid outside the window, and also this chisel. I thought the other hat better than mine, so I fitted it on, and the policeman caught me."
The prisoner, in his defence, made in effect the same statement.
GUILTY .—He was further charged with having been convicted of felony at the Mansion House on 17th July, in the name of Levy Woolf.
when the prisoner was sentenced to six months' hard labour for larceny; he was charged with breaking and entering—on 23rd June, 1892, he was sentenced at the Mansion House to four months for larceny of a trolley in the name of Levy Woolf—on November 8th, 1892, he was sentenced to three months for frequenting—there were also two other convictions against him for wilful damage and assault; he received three months and one month for those—I have known him about eighteen months—I know him well—I have no doubt he is the same man—I saw the police description of him—I saw him at Holloway, and identified him.
GUILTY .— Fourteen Month's Hard Labour.
NEW COURT.—Monday, April 2nd, 1894.
Before Mr. Common Serjeant.
345. ROBERT ARTHUR WILKES (19) , PLEADED GUILTY to stealing, while employed under the Post Office, a letter containing two postal orders for 4s. each, the property of Her Majesty's PostmasterGeneral.— Ten Months' Hard Labour.
346. JOHN REEVES (28) , to stealing, while employed under the Post Office, a post letter and two £5 bank notes; also a post letter and cheque for 21s., the property of Her Majesty's Postmaster-General; and LUCY COBBY (27) , feloniously receiving the same, and to forging and uttering an endorsement on the said cheque.—
REEVES— [Pleaded Guilty: See original trial image.] Eighteen Months' Hard Labour. COBBY Nine Months' Hard Labour.
347. JOHN LAZENBY BOSITO (22) , to three indictments for stealing, while employed under the Post Office, letters containing foreign stamps, the property of Her Majesty's Postmaster-General.— [Pleaded Guilty: See original trial image.] Eighteen Months' Hard Labour. And
348. FREDERICK MATTHEWS (29) , to two indictments for stealing, while employed under the Post Office, two letters containing coins, the property of Her Majesty's Postmaster-General.— [Pleaded Guilty: See original trial image.] Twelve Months' Hard Labour.
MR. WILKINSON Prosecuted.
CONSTANCE FLEMMING . I keep a florist's shop, 1, Thomas Street, Oxford Street—on 8th March, between four and five, the prisoner came in and asked for a "button-hole"—I supplied him with one; the price was sixpence—he gave me a crown piece—I put it in my pocket, where there was no other crown, nor did I put one in afterwards—in the evening, as. I went home, I paid it to a booking-clerk at the Swiss Cottage Railway Station—he broke it; these are the pieces (Produced)—on March 17th, I had a flower stall at 90, New Bond Street, the Ladies' Tea Association—the prisoner came in about six o'clock, and asked for a "button-hole"—the price was ninepence—he offered me either a sovereign or a half-sovereign,—I felt rather suspicious, and said I had not change—he then gave me a crown piece—I called Miss Dennis, a waitress, and asked her to give me change for it, and out of the change she brought I gave prisoner his change, and he left—two or three minutes afterwards I saw the coin in
the office, and Miss Lambert took it to the bank—on her return I asked her to give it to me if it was bad, and she handed me the same coin broken—I was not quite sure when I saw him on the 17th that he was the man who passed the bad crown to me on the 8th, but I thought he was—on the following Thursday I picked him out at the Police-station from twelve or fourteen others.
Cross-examined by the prisoner. There might have been only eight men when I picked you out.
GERTRUDE MAUD DENNIS . On March 17th, I was at the Ladies' Tea Association, 90, New Bond Street—Miss Flemming handed me a crown piece, and I handed it to Miss Anderson—it was afterwards sent to the bank, and brought back and given back to her.
ANNIE MARIE LAMBERT . On 17th March, Miss Flemming handed me a crown piece, and I took it with other money to Messrs. Kings' Bank, Pall Mall, and paid it to the cashier—he bent it and gave it back to me—it was so bent that it broke in my hand—I took the pieces back and put them on the office table in a sealed envelope, and they remained there till Miss Flemming took them.
THOMAS WEBB (Police Sergeant D). On March 22nd Miss Flemming attended at the Police-court, and the prisoner was placed with eight other men—she immediately identified him—he said nothing—he was charged and made no reply—she handed some of the pieces to me (Produced).
By the JURY. Some of the men resembled the prisoner very much; none of them spoke—I do not know whether any of them were foreigners.
FRANK BURDEN . I am salesman to Mr. Standish, a bootmaker of a street in Portman Square—on March 19th, about 3.45, the prisoner came and asked what I should charge for making a pair of boots—he decided to come again, and then asked for a pair of laces, price twopence—I gave them to him, and he gave me a crown piece—I gave him a four-shilling piece, a sixpence, and fourpence—after he left I took up the crown from the desk and put it in the cash-box—I looked at it, tried it, and bent it with a pair of pincers—I went out, and about five minutes afterwards I saw the prisoner, with another man, outside Baker Street Railway Station—I communicated with a constable, and we followed them to Upper Baker Street—he turned round and saw the policeman, who was in uniform, and ran away—we followed—he was stopped, and I gave him in charge.
THOMAS JOHNSON (101 D.) On March 19th Burden pointed out the prisoner to me, and we followed him—he ran away—I caught him—he said he knew nothing about it—when he was charged he said he did not know it was a bad crown piece—I found on him a half-sovereign, three shillings, and ten pence, all good, a pair of bootlaces, and a pocket-knife—he gave his address—I went there the same night, and found eight pairs of new laces, a sheet of plain tissue paper, and an envelope.
Cross-examined. Burden was two yards behind me when I arrested you, and when you began to run.
WILLIAM JOHN WEBSTER . I am Inspector of Coin to the Mint—these three crowns are counterfeit, and the one uttered to Mr. Burden and the one uttered to Miss Flemming on the 17th are from the same mould—they are not well in made, but the third is batter made.
The prisoner's statements before the Magistrate: "I never bought any flowers at the shop; it is all a mistake."And in Burden's case: "I did not know it was a bad piece; I took it at Kew Gardens on Sunday, in change for a sovereign."
The prisoner, in his defence, stated that the took one of the coins at Kew Gardens, and contended that it was not likely he should know it was bad, as Mr. Burden did not. He denied the other two utterings, and stated that the ran away because a man who had asked him to buy a diamond ring was following him.
NOT GUILTY of the uttering on March 8th.
GUILTY of the other two utterings.—Twelve Months' Hard Labour.
KATE HEILMAN . I am married, and keep a boarding-house at 21, Montague Street, Russell Square—my husband is in America—in 1892 the prisoner took a room at 19s. a week, and was to pay monthly for his food—he did so for six or seven months, and then said that he used to have a registered letter every month from his uncle in Paris, and his letters were stopped, but his uncle would send it in time—when he left I rendered him this bill. (For £13 15s.)—I had also lent him £5, which made a total of £18 15s. 9 1/2 d.;—a fortnight before he left he gave me a cheque for £25, and said his uncle was very ill, he thought he was dying, and he was going, but he would pay me before he went; that a lady of title gave him the cheque for £25, but he was too late to cash it, and asked me to lend him £5 on it, and send the rest to Paris to the address he gave—I said I could not do that without consulting my husband, but I gave him the £5 and took the cheque—he did not go till next day, Sunday, and the first thing on Monday morning I received this post-card in his writing: "Victoria Station, Sunday night. My dear Mrs. Heilman—I have just had a very great surprise, which gives me pain beyond measure. I have just met Lady A. at the station, who is in a frantic state, and asked me not to present the cheque at the bank, as there was not enough to meet it. I will send you a cheque for £20 from Paris."Not signed—my husband presented the cheque—I received this letter from the prisoner from Paris. (Dated Paris, November 9th, 1893, stating that lie had just recovered from a serious illness which rendered it impossible for him to write; that lie found his uncle's illness was a ruse to induce him to return to Paris, who had turned him away without a penny, but he would send, the money as soon as he was able)—I next saw him on March 10th in custody.
Cross-examined by the prisoner. You may have suggested that you owed me for two months, but not for four months—the cheque did not look like your writing, but I did not look at it—I gave it to my husband, and did not see it afterwards, as I was laid up.
WALTER GRANT . I am in the employ of Messrs. Hickey and Co., bankers, of Waterloo Place—the prisoner had an account there for a short time; it was closed in 1891, and was overdrawn to a considerable extent—this cheque is taken out of his cheque-book, and the body, the signature, and the endorsement are all in his writing, slightly disguised; we never had any account in the name of Anson.
Cross-examined. I am the manager, and am well accustomed to writing, but I am not an expert—anyone would know your writing who had seen it before by the thick strokes—here are some of your cheques (Produced)—the cheque was returned, marked "No account," and the person went away—I never paid a false or forged cheque—I should not be likely to mistake the cheque of a person who is not a customer for that of a person who is.
ALFRED NICHOLLS (Detective Sergeant E). On March 10th I was called to 21, Montague Street, and saw the prisoner there—I told him I was a police sergeant, and held a warrant for his arrest for uttering a worthless cheque, and obtaining £5; I read the warrant to him—he said, "I am the man"—on the way to the station he said, "When I asked them to cash the cheque I thought it would be met, but when at Dieppe I asserted that the cheque would not be met"—I was present on December 22nd, when the information was sworn—I informed the authorities of Scotland Yard of the result of my inquiries.
The prisoner in his defence stated that although the cheque came from his cheque-book, and the indorsement was his, the filling up and the signature were not his. That he met a lady of title who owed him money, and also took him to the Cafe Monico, where she filled up one of his cheques at his request, payable to tier order, but in a fictitious name; that he borrowed £5 on it of his landlady, who promised to send him the balance to Paris, but that when he was starting, the lady met him at Victoria Station, and said that she had been disappointed in getting the money, and that lie then wrote the post-card and went to Dieppe, where he saw a gentleman, who told him his uncle was not ill, and he did not go to Paris.
GUILTY of uttering.—Eight Months' Hard Labour.
OLD COURT—Tuesday, April 3rd, 1894.
Before Mr. Recorder.
THORPE— Six Months' Hard Labour. HESCOTT— Five Years' Penal Servitude, having still to serve his time under a sentence of three years' penal servitude.
DR. B. O'CONNOR Prosecuted, and MR. GEOGHEGAN Defended.
There being no legal evidence of the age of the girl, the RECORDER directed a verdict of
NOT GUILTY .
MR. BURTON Prosecuted.
NOT GUILTY .
MR. BURROWS Prosecuted.
JAMES EDWARD LAWLER . I am agent to Mr. Allcard, of Sheffield—I carry on business at 36, Lime Street, City—these spanners and engineers' taps (poduced) are the property of Mr. Allcard—I identify them mostly by the name stamped upon them," Easterbrook, Allcard and Shepherd"—I had missed these things for some time past—the prisoner was in the employment of Mr. Spear, to whom I had sublet a portion of the premises at Lime Street—in order to get into those premises of Mr. Spear's the prisoner would have to pass through my office; these things were kept in a storeroom—on 14th March Mr. Spear brought these spanners and taps to me—the prisoner was not present at that time—he was afterwards present when I identified them—I then said to him, "What is the meaning of this, Harry?"—he hesitated, and after a minute he said, "It is no good denying it, Mr. Lawler, I took them; for God's sake give me a chance"—I sent for a constable, and gave him in charge—I believe the constable was at the door at the moment, and would hear what passed.
Cross-examined by the prisoner. I have missed tools for the last nine months; these (produced) are part of those I missed; they had been in my stock—I was first acquainted with the fact that they were stolen when Mr. Spear brought them to me—I had not had any previous communication from the witness Hampton, or from his friend Brookbank—I have known you nearly four years—I had every confidence in you—I can swear that these articles must have been stolen before Christmas—I took stock at that time—you were constantly at Mr. gear's place—I know you were there every Saturday to receive your wages.
MUARRAY HINCKLEY SPEAR . I am a mechanical engineer, of 36, Lime Street—I act as liquidator of the Patent Lock Sash Factory at Dalston—the prisoner was in my employment, with his son and a person named Sansom—on 14th March, in consequence of information, I went to the works at Dalston, and looking under the casting machine there was a hole—I reached my hand in, and felt a parcel done up in newspaper—I took it out, and laid it on a bench, and a person in my employ opened it while I went to a desk, in which I found six or eight of these taps—I took them up and put all the tools together, and came away from the factory, locking it up—I sent the prisoner to Millwall—on his return to the office I called in Mr. Lawler, and said to the prisoner, "Harry, how can you account for these taps?"—after looking at them a minute he said, "It is no use my telling lies, I stole them"—the prisoner came to, the office for the purpose of taking instructions from me, to take messages and clean up tools—in doing so he would not have to pass the place where these tools were kept—he would only have to go where he was sent—I have a right to use the cellar where Mr. Lawler keeps things, but the prisoner would not go there.
Cross-examined. These tools are not in complete sets—they are kept in sets; but in putting a hand in you could only take out what you could reach—I had a communication about these things from a person, not from Brookbank—the desk in which these taps were found is a place
where you kept your books; anybody had access to it, they were not hidden—those under the engine were hidden.
ARTHUR ERNEST HAMPTON . I am a mechanic, employed by Mr. Spear at Lime Street and at Dalston—about a fortnight previous to 15th March, I was at the works at Dalston, and saw the prisoner standing by the engine—he aroused my suspicion by his glancing over to where I was, looking rather suspiciously—after he had gone out, I went to see what there was under the engine, and then I found these spanners—I first told my sister about this in confidence, and then I told Mr. Brookbank, a friend of mine, and Mr. Spear heard of it from him—these spanners were in a dark place under the engine—I was friendly with the prisoner.
Cross-examined. I have been working there since about the 4th or 5th December—I had never looked at this place under the engine until the day I saw you standing there—I used to have to go to the engine to oil it—the glance you gave me was as much as to say "He is looking"—I did not tell Mr. Spear about this; I told somebody else, so as to let them tell him—I know Dan, the engineer—I was not anxious to steal his tools—I did have a file of his—it was left about, and I took it—I used it, and I sent one back for it.
The prisoner, in his defence, denied having stolen the tools, and also denied having made any confession of his guilt.
GUILTY .— Three Months' Hard Labour.
MR. ROBINSON Prosecuted, and MR. HOME Defended.
WALTER BEX (Detective G). On 5th March the prisoner was given into my custody by Robert Henry Aldridge, and I charged her with going through a form of marriage with Aldridge, her husband being alive, and she said she had received a letter saying her husband had died in Brighton Hospital, but she had her suspicions about it, and told Aldridge about it at the time—when charged at the station she said, "He knew it as well as I did myself."
Cross-examined. I made inquiries about the prisoner—she bears a good character—she is an earnest worker in a temperance lodge—I have not made inquiries about Aldridge; I don't know if he is a confirmed drunkard.
Re-examined. I produce copies of the certificates of the two marriages. (The first was a certificate of a marriage between William Terry, bachelor, and Mary Jane Simkins, spinster, at Sussex Street Baptist Chapel, Brighton, on 26th September, 1880; and the second was the certificate of a marriage between Robert Henry Aldridge, widower, and Mary Jane Terry, widow, at the parish church, Camden Town, on 31st July, 1892.
WILLIAM RANDALL . I live at 6, Harrington Street, Hove, and am a bootmaker—I was present at the marriage of the prisoner to William Terry, at Sussex Street Chapel, Brighton, in September, 1880—I signed the register—they lived together for about ten years, I think, up to about 1890—then he left her and went to America—he came back about six months afterwards—I last saw him Saturday three weeks, the 10th March
—I do not say he deserted his wife; he left her unprovided for, I believe.
Cross-examined. I don't know about Terry's habits; I know he had a violent temper—he was a retired seaman—he returned from America about August, 1890—I never heard that he sent his wife any money to support herself—I don't know anything about Aldridge.
ROBERT HENRY ALDRIDGE . I am a coal porter, and live at 3, Haverstock Street, Chalk Farm—on 31st July, 1892, I went through a form of marriage with the prisoner at the Parish Church, Camden Town—she told me she had been married twice previously, and that her second husband was killed in a stone quarry in America.
Cross-examined. She might have told me she received an anonymous letter saying her husband had been killed in a stone quarry, but that she had also received another anonymous letter saying that he had died in England—when I went through the ceremony with her I was lodging with her—I cannot say I pressed her to marry me; on the contrary. I wrote her a letter telling her to keep away from me, and I even introduced my cousin as my wife for her to keep away—I lived in the same house with her and her grown-up daughter—I did not beg her in her daughter's presence to marry me—I first found out on or about 19th August that her husband was living—I was ignorant of the law, and did not know the marriage was void—I could not find her after that—I did not know her address, and have not found it out yet—I was never married before; I described myself as a widower at her request, as she was a widow—after she left me I addressed letters to her to "Mrs. Terry, 62, Crowndale Road"; that was her daughter's address—I put "Private' across the corner—I wrote this letter because she was detaining my clothes. (The letter advised her to meet him to-morrow, as if not he might get a summons against her, and it might be very awkward for her to explain where die got the trousers, which she had no right to keep, and it might get some of her Good Templar friends into trouble)—I did not mean to blackmail her; I wanted her to return my property—she had a pair of my trousers, two or three shirts, and other things—I left her because we were unable to agree, and I allowed her 6s. a week—I would not have done so had I known her husband was alive—before I married her she told me she honestly believed her husband was dead—after I found her husband was alive I wrote to her, "Will you intimate to me what time will be convenient, and what place to sign certain papers"—I wanted her to sign a paper to the effect that she had a husband alive, and that I was free—she would have signed that, but she would not sign a clause I wanted, that she would keep away from another man she was going about with—I said if she signed that, she should go free; I would not prosecute her—I wrote and told her if she returned a ring and presents I had given her it would save her a lot of trouble—I was ignorant of the law—her name has been linked with another man, and I have seen them together repeatedly—I did not tell the Magistrate that she had deserted me when I lost my work through the coal strike, and that she took with her another man and nearly all my earthly possessions; I cannot conceive how that got into the newspaper.
The prisoner's statement before the Magistrate: "Aldridge did tell me
he had been a married man when I married him; he always told me if I gave him up what he asked me for he would not take proceedings against me."
The prisoner's daughter deposed to her good character.
The prisoner was allowed to make a statement to the JURY before MR. HOME addressed them. She stated that she really and truly believed herself to be a widow when site married Aldridge.
NOT GUILTY .
356. JAMES DALY (19,) and JAMES COSGROVE (18) , PLEADED GUILTY to burglary in the dwelling-house of Ernest Simmonds, and stealing a quantity of tobacco and other articles and tenpence; also to previous convictions of felony, Daly in October, 1891, and Cosgrove in February, 1893, at this Court.— DALY— Twelve Months' Hard Labour. COSGROVE Three Years' Penal Servitude.
357. HENRY DARBY (24) , to forging and uttering an endorsement on an order for £5 2s. 6d., having been convicted of obtaining property by false pretences in September, 1893, at this Court.— [Pleaded Guilty: See original trial image.] Nine Months' Hard Labour. And
358. ELIZABETH HOLLAND** (22) , to stealing a watch and other articles and £4 15s., the property of Ida Edith Ablett, her mistress; also to stealing a watch and other articles and 15s., the property of Thomas Clarke, her master; also to stealing three watches and other articles and £9 9s. 10 1/2 d., the property of Arthur East, her master; also to stealing a watch and other articles and £20, the property of Amelia Holland, her mistress, and to a previous conviction of felony at Westminster in April, 1890, in the name of Blanche Tapscott.— [Pleaded Guilty: See original trial image.] Four Years' Penal Servitude, having also to complete the term of her former sentence.
NEW COURT.—Tuesday, April 3rd, 1894.
Before Mr. Common Serjeant.
MR. PIGGOTT Prosecuted, and MR. GEOGHEGAN Defended.
GEORGE HENRY COX . I am an assistant to Messrs. Benson, jewellers, of Ludgate Hill—on February 17th, between three and four o'clock, the prisoner came in and asked to see some diamond horseshoe pins about £8 or £10—I produced two trays of pins; there was not one there he liked—he wanted one like his father bought some years ago with four stones on one side and three on the other—I said I could make one for him—I left him, to speak to another assistant, and he said, "Very well, I will leave you the order"—the other assistant came up with the loose stones, and he said that they would do—I asked if he would leave a deposit—he said, "Yes," and gave me 5s. in the name of Mitchell, 18, Russell Square—after he left we missed a diamond cluster from the same tray—
I have no doubt the prisoner is the man—I picked him out from about a dozen on March 14th.
Cross-examined. I had never seen him before—the shop has the electric light—this was well down the left side as you go in—loose diamonds are kept in a drawer in the diamond counter, and Mr. Webb was standing there—the man's side face was towards Mr. Webb—I gave a description of him to the police, and so did Mr. Webb; he and I had talked it over—I went to Bridewell on the 13th, and was there ten minutes before Mr. Webb came—I went into the room first and saw some men in the middle of the room wearing their hats, and the moment I saw the prisoner I said, "That is him"—some of the men had whiskers, and some beards—there was no hair on the customer's face.
Re-examined. I had a good opportunity of seeing the prisoner, and there was a good light to see him by, and I have not the slightest doubt he is the man.
JAMES HENRY WEBB . I am assistant to James Benson, a jeweller, of Ludgate Hill—on February 17th the prisoner came in—I was engaged with some other customers, after which I showed him some loose stones—he said that some were larger than others—I said that I would pick them out the same size—his hurried manner aroused my suspicion—he was leaving the shop, and the other assistant called him back, and said he would give him a receipt for the deposit—while he was doing so I had a good opportunity of seeing him—he was there a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes—while the assistant was making out the receipt, I picked up one of the trays, and missed a diamond cluster pin, value £31—I have not the least doubt that the prisoner is the man.
Cross-examined. I put him down as twenty years old—I am not a judge of height—he had no hair on his face—I saw a dozen people at Bridewell Station—some of them had beards, some moustachios, some were a good deal over twenty—I walked up to the prisoner and touched him.
CHARLES BRYANT (City Detective Sergeant). I took the prisoner purchasing something in a jeweller's shop on Ludgate Hill—I said, "I am a police officer, will you kindly tell me your name?"—he said, "Henry Hickson"—I asked his address; he said Baldwin's Place, Gray's Inn Road, and that he was a tailor, employed by his father—I said, "I am going to take you for stealing a diamond scarf-pin on the 17th of last month from Benson's—he said, "Where is Benson's?"—I said, "Lower down"—he was taken to Bridewell, and Cox and Webb picked him out from twelve others—I found on him six sovereigns and a silver pencilcase, which he had bought—some of the others were young men, and some had moustachios and beards.
Cross-examined. I kept him at the station about an hour before he was identified, while I was trying to get persons from the streets to place with him.
GUILTY .**— Six convictions were proved against the prisoner.—One Year and Eight Months' Hard Labour.
MR. SHERWOOD Prosecuted, and MR. PURCELL Defended.
THOMAS TADMAN . I am' an undertaker and jobmaster, of 422, Cable Street, Shad well—on August 29th, at 8.45 p.m., I was near the railway arch in Johnson Street, and saw five men—the prisoner was one of them—I have known him a long while, and have drank with him, and you tried Gardner and gave him five years; he wanted me to be bail for him—I had a gold lever watch, value £20, and a big Albert chain, and one of them, Gardner, said, "Give me this; if you don't, I will murder you"—I got knocked on my hands and knees by a man named Soldier, and kicked—I let go and they ran away—I called "Stop thief!" and when I got into the next street they knocked me down again, and the prisoner kicked me and broke my arm in two places—I halloaed "Stop thief"—I went to the London Hospital, and they told me I should have to have my arm taken off—I was an in-patient about a fortnight, and two portions of bone were removed—I cannot use my arm now; I cannot bend it—I continued an out-patient three months—there was a lamp—I have not seen my watch since—on October 5th, about ten a.m., my wife was driving me in the Mile End Road, and I saw the prisoner and said, "That is the man I want"—he went up one street and down another, and when he got to Jack's Hill, where a lot of bad characters live, he gave a parcel to someone and ran away, and I lost sight of him—I saw him again in the Commercial Road, and not again till I saw him at Dalston Station about six weeks ago with about twenty others, and I identified him—I said, "You know me, Joe"—he looked at me and said nothing.
Cross-examined. Mrs. Le Fevre was with me when I was robbed; I had been with her about a quarter of an hour—I never go to the George Public-house—I gave evidence against Gardner on November 15th—I never said, "I did not get to the George till ten minutes to nine. I did not go into the George; I am not a teetotaler. I had two-pennywort of whisky with Mrs. Le Fevre"—if I stated that, and it was taken down by the shorthand writer and printed in the Sessions Paper, it was a mistake—Gardner ran away into Thursby's arms—there was a witness who lives at Dr. Bernardo's who saw a man running—Mrs. Le Fevre is not here, nor is Henry James Thursby or Ann Newdrop—Johnson Street, where I was robbed, is a very lonely street, all private houses, and the only light was from the lamp—I should have had all the men that night if I could have got out of the hospital—I know Gardner's brother—I was asked to be bail for him, but I refused—that was at the Mansion House—it came here, and I saw Gardner in a public-house outside this Court—I did not mention when Gardner was tried that one of the men was George Elliott—that is not the prisoner's right name—his wife told me his right name—I saw her yesterday—when he was in custody I had told the police that I knew him by sight, and they placed him with nineteen strangers—I did not know anything about them—I am quite sure the prisoner is one of the men who robbed me—I am quite sure he kicked my arm and broke it in two places—when I was attacked I ran after my watch, and lost sight of Mrs. Le Fevre.
Re-examined. I was in the habit of seeing the men at a beershop, and that is where they spotted my watch—the Gardners were there, and
another one who has got fifteen months—I was in the habit of seeing Gardner—I buried his father-in-law.
By the COURT. Between August 9th and the time the prisoner was taken, excepting the time he ran away, I could never find him in any of the places where I used to see him; he left all those places.
The prisoner's statement before the Magistrate: "I can produce plenty of witnesses to prove where I was that night."
ARTHUR HENRY WATERHOUSE . I keep the Bedford Hotel, South Hackney—on September 20th I closed at 12.30, and went to bed between one and two o'clock leaving everything safe—the cellar flap was fastened by a bolt on either side—I was called between four and five o'clock, and the street door and the bar parlour were open—the cellar flap had been forced open; that was the way they got in—I missed 506 cigars, two umbrellas, a bottle of beer, and a bottle of whisky was removed and put on the doorstep—I have only seen the umbrellas since; one was my wife's and the other the barmaid's—I found this walking stick on the doorstep—it is not mine.
LUCY LILIAN NELSON . I am married, and live at 3, Trafalgar Square, Stepney—I know the prisoner by the names of Dan Sharpe and George Elliott, and I know his brother Herbert Sharpe—the prisoner brought me the umbrella with a white handle, and asked me to pledge it—I pledged it at Ashbridge's, the pawnbroker's, for 2s., and gave the prisoner the money, who was waiting outside the shop—I saw him carrying this walking stick three or four days before—he had not got it with him when he came on the 23rd—I got the other umbrella from his brother on the 26th as a present, and afterwards pawned it, and told the prisoner so—he said, "If anyone says anything to you say it was Bertie, and not me; if they take me I shall say it was Bertie who did the robbery"—I said before the Magistrate, "Bertie," meaning his brother, "gave them to me"—I did not know they were stolen—the prisoner knew me as Lily.
Cross-examined. That was the first time I saw them—I have been parted from my husband six years—I lived with Bertie some time after this, but when they came with the umbrellas I had only just known them,—I was never asked to pawn jewellery—I do not know a man whose familiar name is Dad, or Dan—I was in a case at Reading where some stolen property was pawned—I pawned a ring, I did not know it was stolen—I gave evidence—it is not true that the umbrellas were given me by someone else to pawn—Best was tried at Reading about two months Ago—when Kemp came to me and said he had traced the umbrellas to me, that was a long time after the ring—I did not know the umbrellas were come by dishonestly—I pledged them in the name of Rogers, my mother's name.
LEWIS HERBERT TURNER . I am assistant to Mr. Ashbridge, a pawnbroker—I produce an umbrella pawned by a young woman named Clark—I recognise the witness as a customer, but I do not know whether she pledged it.
WILLIAM KEMP (Police Sergeant J). I arrested the prisoner on February 12th—as soon as I seized him he said, "What is this for?"—I said, "I am a constable, and am going to take you for a burglary at the Bedford Hotel"—he said, "Who has put me away? A thousand to one, Mill has."
GUILTY .—He then PLEADED GUILTY **†to a conviction of burglary in the name of George Norris in July, 1890.— Five Years' Penal Servitude and Twenty Strokes with the Cat on the First Indictment , and Five Years' Penal Servitude on the Second Indictment, to run concurrently.
MARY JANE NORTHAM (In custody). I lived with the prisoner at 2, Dorset Street, Spitalfields—on March 27th he came home at four a.m. very drunk—he had been drinking for a fortnight, and I think he was out of his mind—he did not know what he was about; he hurt me with a knife on my hands, and very slightly on my leg—it bled—I stayed in the room—I met Holloway outside the door about a quarter of an hour afterwards—I hope you will make it as light as you can for the prisoner.
GEORGE HOLLOWAY (Policeman). On March 27th I was on duty in Dorset Street, and met the last witness about 5.30, bleeding from her hand—she said she would charge her husband with stabbing her—I went to her room and found the prisoner; he was not drunk, but he may have been drinking over night, and got over the effects of it—I found in the back room two knives stained with blood on the mantelpiece—his nose and hand were scratched with, I think, a finger nail.
GEORGE BAXTER PHILLIPS . I am divisional surgeon of Commercial Street Station—I examined Northam—she had a cut on the palm of her hand reaching to the back, and exposing the bone; it had bled very much—one of these knives would do it if used with violence—she also had a slight wound on her leg three inches long, but only about skin deep—the prisoner had a clean cut across his nose, and on the corner of it, which seemed to have been done by a finger nail, because it was scooped out at the bottom—that is consistent with the fact of his attacking her with a knife, and she defending herself by scratching his face.
The prisoner's statement before the Magistrate: "I do not remember anything of it; I was intoxicated four hours before she tried to stab me."
Prisoner's defence. I was very much intoxicated; I have no recollection of it. She is a very violent woman, and I tried to defend myself when she attacked me. I would not have hurt a hair of her head if I had been sober.
GUILTY of unlawfully wounding.— * Nine Months' Hard Labour.
OLD COURT.—Wednesday, April 4th, 1894.
Before Mr. Justice Kennedy.
MR. C. F. GILL Prosecuted, and MR. GEOGHEGAN Defended.
FRANCES ELIZA EATON . I am a married woman; I have been living apart from my husband four or five years—I have known the prisoner about eighteen months—I made his acquaintance when we were in the same employment, at the King's Head Public-house, in Brewer Street, Piccadilly—he was a billiard marker there—we both left there together about ten months ago—I went and lived at 11, Alfred Place, with the prisoner, in the name of Collins—after leaving the situation in Brewer Street I got another situation at the Old King's Head, at the corner of Hampstead Road, on 5th March—I stayed there about six months—after that I took up my abode at 11, Alfred Place—I did not live with him there, but he visited me there—I was there four weeks; up to 13th March—he knew I was married—he did not approve of my going into the bar at the King's Head—he remained in his employment an a billiard marker in Brewer Street—he has been in the same situation seventeen years, and has a very good character, very much respected by everyone—on Saturday, 3rd March, I was spending the evening with friends, and did not get home till about one, or soon after—at that time I was living by myself—someone walked home with me that night—when I got to the house I saw the prisoner at the door—he asked me who I had been with, and I told him—he said if he had seen us he would have gone for the two of us—on Tuesday morning, the 6th, the prisoner came into the bar at the Bull's Head—he said I was looking very bad, and he was very sorry, and he told me he was awfully fond of me, and said he would never hurt me—he asked me if Arthur had been to see me—I said "No" (Arthur is the gentleman who had walked home with me)—he stayed about an hour on that occasion—he had a brandy and soda—he then left the bar; he bade me good-bye, and said he should not return—he left from about half-past ten to eleven—after dinner, about half-past two or a quarter to three, on going into the bar, I saw the prisoner in front of the bar speaking to two customers; I don't know who they were; I was attending to my work—after the two persons left the prisoner came up to the counter in front of where I was, and he placed a revolver on the counter, and momently it went off—I think the revolver came from his pocket, but I am not sure—it did come from his right-hand pocket, I suppose—the revolver was pointed past me; I don't think the bullet would have struck me; I could not exactly say the direction of it, it was towards me—he said, "Look"—I don't know if he intended to show it me or not—I said, "Oh! Charlie, don't do anything rash"—as I said that I felt a ringing in my ears—I put my hands up to my head, and the bullet went through my shoulder—as soon as the report took place my master, Mr. Thompson, came into the bar—the prisoner said, "It is all right, I don't want to hurt anyone"—I said, "Why did you do it?"—he said, "I could not help it, I love you so much"—at that time blood was coming from my wound—I don't know exactly what I said—of course, he was very kind to me—I put my hand to my shoulder, and saw blood on my hand—a constable came in, and the revolver was taken from him—I was taken to the hospital, and the
bullet was extracted; I remained there two days—the prisoner was very fond of me, and was very jealous of this other man.
Cross-examined. I knew that he had been in one situation seventeen years—when this happened I was standing quite close to the counter, and quite close to the prisoner—the revolver went off and caught me in the arm—he had never been guilty of any violence to me—when he said he was going for the pair of us, it was nothing but a joke; he told me so afterwards—he was with me the whole of the succeeding day, until he had to go on duty—he left me about half-past five on the best of terms—only one shot was fired—he had time to fire another before the barman rushed in; but I don't think he meant to hurt me—he did not take aim at me; he only showed me the revolver—he had had four brandies and soda that day—he appeared perfectly sober at this time, but very excited; he is a very excitable man—I am perfectly recovered now.
Re-examined. He did not see the gentleman who saw me home on the Saturday night—the prisoner is passionately fond of me.
TOM CULLY . I am employed at the Bull's Head, in Oxford Street—on Tuesday, 6th March, about half-past two, I heard a report of firearms—I went into the private bar, and saw the prisoner in the act of placing the revolver into his left-hand pocket—the prosecutrix was behind the bar, holding her left hand up to her right shoulder—I saw blood on her fingers—she said, "Oh, Charlie, I never thought you would do this to me; you have got me out of two places, and now you have come to ruin me from this"—a constable was sent for, and he was handed over to him—I took the revolver from him; this is it; it was in his left-hand outside pocket, the same I had seen him put it into.
Cross-examined. He let me take it without any resistance.
RICHARD TAYLOR (179 D). I was called to the Bull's Head, and saw the prisoner there—he said, "It's all right, I done it"—I took him to the station—on the way he said, "It's all through love; I loved the woman, but she has been wrong to me, and I meant to do it"—he did not seem any the worse for drink, but very excited—this revolver was given to me when I took him—he was not searched till he got to Bow Street—I found on him forty-two pin-fire cartridges in a box.
Cross-examined. He went quietly.
JOHN RECORD (Detective-Sergeant E). I was at Bow Street Policestation when the prisoner was brought there—this revolver was handed to me—I examined it; it is a six-chambered revolver—four of the barrels were loaded; one contained a discharged cartridge, and one was empty—after seeing the woman in the hospital I returned and said to him, "You will be charged with attempting to murder Eliza Eaton, at the Bull's Head, Oxford Street, by shooting her through the right arm"—he said, "I did not want to hurt her, but I wanted to prevent her having any other man; I cannot help loving her; I would sooner have done it to the man than her"—the charge was entered and read over to him—he made no reply—next morning, at the Police-court, he said, "Is she dead?"—I said, "No, she is getting on all right"—he said, "I did not buy the revolver to shoot her, I bought it to shoot myself; but I wanted to see her before I died."
Cross-examined. I have made inquiries about him; until now he has
borne the character of a quiet, peaceable man—he has lived in one situation seventeen years.
JOHN HERBERT WHITEHEAD . I was house surgeon at Charing Cross Hospital on 6th March when the prosecutrix was brought in—she was bleeding from a pistol wound about two inches below the point of the shoulder—the bullet had lodged at the back of the shoulder; it had passed through the muscle in front and lodged in the skin, and was found just beneath the skin at the back—I extracted it, together with a small portion of the dress which had been carried through with the bullet—she was detained at the hospital two days, and was then made an outpatient, but she only came once—it was not a dangerous wound.
Cross-examined. The course of the wound was straight.
JOHN MILLER . I am assistant to Mr. Baker, gunmaker, of 88, Fleet Street—on Tuesday, 6th March, about half-past twelve, I sold this revolver and a box of cartridges to the prisoner—I explained to him how to load it—the price was 7s. 6d.; the cartridges were 5s.—he appeared perfectly sober.
The prisoner received a good character.
GUILTY on the Second Count.— Seven Years' Penal Servitude.
NEW COURT.—Wednesday, April 4th, 1894.
Before Mr. Recorder.
366. PERCY BRAND (17) , Feloniously shooting at Albert Clark, with intent to do him grievous bodily harm. The prisoner stated in the hearing of the JURY that he was guilty of unlawfully wounding, upon which they found that verdict. He received a good character.— Discharged on recognizances.
The prosecutor having gone to sea, did not appear.
MARY ANN CAMPAGNE . I am the wife of James Campagne, of 16, Station Place, Shadwell—on March 13th, about 10.30, I was in Station Place, and saw Stewart, a sailor, whom I knew by sight, and about ten men—the prisoner was one of them—he never hit him, but he was with those who did, and he put his hand in Stewart's pocket—Stewart did not seem drunk—the men ran away, and I ran and halloaed "Stop thief!"
Cross-examined by the prisoner. You turned round to me, and said, "You have made a mistake"—I said, "I have made no mistake."
JANE UNDERWOOD . I am the wife of Henry Underwood, of 12, Station Place—I do not know Stewart, but on March 13th, about 10.10, I was in Station Place, and saw the prisoner and a man with a walking-stick knock a man down, and put his hand in his pocket—I gave an alarm—they walked to the top of a court, and then towards Cable Street, and two left the others and ran—the other four went to the Dock Road, and the prisoner and a man with a walking-stick walked some distance, and then ran—I followed them, but got exhausted.
Cross-examined. I did not see the man strike him with the stick, but
I saw the man with the stick strike him and leave him on the ground—you said to Mary Ann Campagne, "You have made a mistake," and I said, "No, I have made no mistake."
ALICE STARR . I am the wife of John Starr, of 24, Station Place—on March 13th, about 10.10, I was in Station Place and saw about a dozen men there—the prisoner was one of them—he was by the side of the man who put his hand in the sailor's pocket, but he did not do it—I did not see any money taken—I had seen the prisoner and the other man watching the sailor before that—the sailor was with a woman—the prisoner made signs to show which way the prosecutor had gone.
Cross-examined. There were about a dozen of you at the top of the court—you did not put your hand in his pocket; you were by the side of the man who did it.
MAURICE COOPER (390 H). On March 13th, about 10.30, I found the prosecutor in Station Place on his back, insensible—there was a bruise about two inches long at the back of his head, which might have been given with a stick or by falling on the back of his head—the prisoner was brought back—he said, "You have made a mistake; I am not the man; I only went to see what was the matter"—on lifting the prosecutor up I found two cakes of tobacco and a penny.
WILLIAM HUDSON (31 HR). On March 13th, about 10.30, I was called to Station Place and saw a man lying insensible—I went into Dean Street and saw the prisoner running, and several men following him—I took him back to Station Place, and the three female witnesses identified him as one of the men—he said he had done nothing, and at the station he said, "I was passing Station Place, and heard a disturbance; I went to see what it was, and got a kick on the jaw."
Cross-examined. You were running away, and I called out "Stop him!" and you were stopped, and turned round—about twenty of them were following you—you did not ask what was the matter.
Tine prisoner's statement before the Magistrate: "The kicking on the jaw was done 300 yards from the place. I was knocked down, and was insensible; a dock constable picked me up." He repeated this statement in his defence.
GUILTY of assault, with intent to rob. He then PLEADED GUILTY **to a conviction at the Thames Police-court on June 22nd, 1892.— Nine Months' Hard Labour.
MESSRS. BESLEY and GILL Prosecuted.
ELLEN EDMUNDS . I was in the employ of Mr. Antony Coats, of 24, Mildmay Grove—I formerly knew the prisoner as Fanny Bartolomei—she has recently been living with Mr. Ricketts, and passing as Mrs. Ricketts—on February 26th I went to see her and Ricketts, and we went public-house at Kind's Cross—I was talking of my master and my place, and of his having cheques, and Ricketts told me to get one, and an old one, to copy—the prisoner was present, and could hear that, but she
did not take much notice; we were standing close together, and there was nothing to prevent her hearing what he said—I took a cheque from my master's book in March, and got an old cheque and put them in an envelope—I got out that evening, and went to the prisoner's house, and said that I had posted a letter that day containing a cheque and an old one; she did not say anything, because she was in a fit, and had only just got over it—I did not get any answer.
Cross-examined by the prisoner. You and I did not talk about the cheque.
ANTONY COATS . I am a lace manufacturer, of Silver Street, and live at Mildmay Grove—Ellen Edmunds is in my service—my cheque-book was in a drawer, not locked—I afterwards found a cheque form had been torn out—I know nothing of the writing or of the prisoner—she was brought to my place, and gave her address 90, Judd Street, and spelt her name Ricketts, and said she found the cheque in an envelope in the street the previous evening.
ARTHUR POWELL . I am a cashier at the City Bank, Threadneedle Street—on March 7th a cheque for £2 12s. 6d., purporting to be signed by Mr. Coats, was presented—it is a clumsy imitation of Mr. Coats' signature—I asked her from whom she received it; she made no reply—I asked her to wait a minute, and spoke to the chief cashier—the word "cancelled" was on it, copied from an old cheque.
GEORGE N. CLARK . I am chief cashier at the head office of the City Bank—on March 7th Mr. Powell brought me this cheque, and I asked the prisoner where she got it—she said from Mrs. Cook—I asked her for what purpose—she then said it was not given her by Mrs. Cook; she picked it up—I said, "You have got yourself into a very awkward position," and sent her round to Mrs. Cook.
Cross-examined. I do not remember your saying, "By legal right; I picked it up."
THOMAS BUTTERIDGE (181 City). On March 7th, about one p.m., the prisoner was given into my custody at Moor Lane Station—I took her to Bishopsgate Street Station—she was charged with uttering the cheque, and said, "I picked it up in an envelope on Tuesday evening; I did not know it was any good"—she gave her name, Frances Rickard, 90, Judd Street—she said at the station that she could neither read nor write.
----HOLMES. I went to 90, Judd Street—the mother of the man the prisoner lived with occupied a workshop there—I was unable to find him.
Prisoner's defence. I did not know the cheque was stolen or forged; the man told me to take it to the bank. I asked him why; he said, "Never mind, you take it to the bank."
GUILTY of uttering. Recommended to mercy by the JURY, believing it to have been done at the instigation of the man, and censuring Ellen Edmunds.— Two Months' Hard Labour.
MR. MACKAY Prosecuted.
on March 29th, about eleven p.m., I was in a public-house in Stepney, and saw the prisoners there—I had seen them before—I gave them several drinks, and then said "I am going home"—I was a little on, and as I went out I was followed by two men—Buckley held me by my arms from behind, and put one hand on my mouth—they took 17s. 6d., which was all I had, and left me without a penny—they ran up the first turning—I could not catch them, and went back to the beer-shop and gave information—I saw Buckley next day outside the Bull and Mouth, and gave him into custody—he said, "I only did it for your goodness"—I saw Hudson next morning at the Court.
Cross-examined by Buckley. The governor did not refuse to serve me; he refused to serve you and two others, because he thought you came in for a row—you took all the money I had, and 8s. was my wife's, and she and I have been out of work ever since—I came out with £2; I had spent the rest.
Cross-examined by Hudson. When I met you I did not say I had been fighting with some Germans—I did not take you to a house where I had been rowing—I did not go to the Mulberry Tree that night—I could not have been so very drunk, for I knew you.
WILLIAM GILL (Detective N). I took Hudson on March 31st in bed at a common lodging-house—I said I was going to take him in custody for being concerned with Buckley in stealing 17s. 6d.—he said, "I was with him, but I know nothing about it"—at the station he said he knew nothing about the robbery.
SIDNEY KENDAL (Policeman H). On March 31st I took Buckley—I was with Sepp, who said, "That is the one who held my arms at the back while the other took the money"—Buckley said, "I was with him last night, and tried to save him; he knows who done it"—when charged he said, "The prosecutor knows the other man."
The prisoner's statement before the Magistrate: "They refused to serve him. He had a row with some Germans. He must know I could not hold him in the way he said."
Hudson's defence. If I had committed this robbery I should not have gone home to bed, because I should be sure to be arrested. I went one way, and this man went another. We both live in one lodging-house, but I went a different way because I had to see a gentleman. I know nothing of the robbery.
NOT GUILTY .
THIRD COURT.—Wednesday, April 4th, 1894.
Before Mr. Common Serjeant.
For cases tried in this Court this day, see Surrey Cases.
OLD COURT.—Thursday, April 5th, 1894.
Before Mr. Justice Kennedy.
The prisoner received a good character; and it was stated by MR. MATHEWS, who defended her, that in writing the letters she, acted entirely under the control of her husband.— Six Weeks' Imprisonment.
MESSRS. HORACE AVORY and BANCROFT Prosecuted; MR. GEOGHEGAN
HENRY HUTT . I am a coalman, and live at Lower Place Farm, Willesden—I am the father of the deceased—she had been married to the prisoner about three years—they had no family—she lived with him at 10, Steel Road, Willesden—there was a little variance between them sometimes, and sometimes they were on good terms; sometimes they lived together, and sometimes not—I never saw her drunk; a little in liquor, but not drunk—the prisoner was fairly sober; sometimes he had a little too much—I last saw my daughter on 26th December, at my house; when I went in from work she was there—she spent the evening with us—she left my house alone—my wife accompanied her just to the door, and came back—that was about a quarter-past six—she was then sober; she had nothing to drink then except her tea—I did not see her again till I saw her at the mortuary on 29th December.
Cross-examined. The Junction Arms is about half-a-mile from my house; she would pass it in going home; it is in Acton Lane—she used to work at a laundry; for the last four or five weeks she was too ill to go there—she told me she was going to work next morning—I don't know what she was suffering from—she had been attending a hospital off and on for the last twelve months.
ANN HUTT . I am the wife of the last witness, and the mother of the deceased, Ellen Doggrell—she spent the evening with us on 26th December, the day after Christmas Day—I had seen the prisoner three weeks before—she left our house about half-past six by herself—she was quite sober; she had not had anything to drink then—she was not in very good spirits—she was talking—I had not seen her with her husband for months—I have never been to their house to see them together—I never visited them, and they never visited our house together—I have seen them shopping together, that's all—she was about thirty-five years of age.
EMMA GREGORY . I live with my husband at 51, Disraeli Road, Willesden—I had known the deceased nine years, and the prisoner also—I frequently visited them—they quarrelled at times—on Tuesday, 26th December, she called on me about a quarter to seven, and stayed one hour in my room—I then went with her to the Junction Arms Public-house, and stayed there until closing time, eleven o'clock—there were other friends there, all drinking together—I left at eleven, leaving her there—she then appeared to be quite sober—I knew her well—the Junction Arms is in Acton Lane, about three minutes' walk from her house—coming from her father's house, she would have to pass my house to get to hers.
Cross-examined. I have visited them when they were living together—they quarrelled sometimes, and then made it up—I had not seen any recent quarrels in their home—I did not know until she told me that the prisoner had left her three or four days before Christmas—I did not know
that he was suffering from influenza, and afterwards from typhoid fever—at a quarter to ten on this night, in the public-house, I saw her standing by herself in a corner, and crying—her friends were in another compartment—she was very low-spirited; she said she felt too ill to work—I know that she attended a hospital—she said she was suffering from a tumour in the womb, and in consequence of that could not do her laundry work—she had no family—she told me that she would not have her husband again, and if ever he came near her she would die for him—she was strange in her manner on this occasion; I mean she looked strange, different from what she usually did—I noticed a difference in her appearance; she appeared despondent and very low down—she took one glass of stout, that was all she had in my presence—she was in and out of the compartment when I was talking to other people.
Re-examined. There were about sixteen or eighteen of us, friends of our party, drinking together on and off, and at some time in the evening we were dancing and singing—the deceased was taking part in it—that would be about ten o'clock when she commenced to sing and dance, after I fetched her from the compartment where she was crying—from ten to eleven she was in very good spirits—when she said this about her husband she said he had left his work, and spent his money, and gone to his mother's at 10, Steel Road, and she would not have him home again—the last time I knew her at work was three weeks before her death.
ALICE DOGGRELL . I now live at 10, Steel Road, Willesden—on 26th December I was living at No. 11, next door to where the prisoner lived with his mother—I am married to his brother—the prisoner and his wife had lived together at No. 10 between eleven and twelve months, in one room—they were both in the habit of coming in to see us at No. 11—the prisoner had been to our place a few days before the 26th, since the Thursday before; I mean he was lodging in our house—during that time I saw his wife once, at the back of her house—as far as I saw they were not together during that time—on the Thursday the prisoner knocked at the door, and asked mother if she would let him in—she asked what he wanted there, and he said his wife had locked him out—on the evening of the 26th I was at the Junction Arms—I saw the deceased and Mrs. Gregory there—I took part in the dancing and singing—I came away before eleven—I left the deceased there—she seemed merry there, once or twice, singing and dancing—sometimes she would cry, once and again—I saw her cry—when I left she had had drink—about half-past six that evening the prisoner came to No. 11, and asked me where Nell was—I told him I did not know.
Cross-examined. Until the deceased began to drink she was in very low spirits—when she had drink she began to dance and sing with the rest of us—when the prisoner stopped at our house four or five days he complained of a cold all over him—I did not know that he was suffering from influenza; he complained that he was too ill to go to work.
MARY BELL . I am the wife of Henry Bell—on 26th December last I was living at 10, Steel Road—we rented the whole house and let the back room ground floor to the prisoner and his wife; I slept in the front room
—I never heard any quarrelling, or anything between them before that night—I came home between seven and eight, and found the door of the prisoner's room burst open—I went to the door and looked in; the prisoner was there, in bed; I could only see his head—I told him I did not thank him for waking my children up—he said, "Me, Mrs. Bell?"—I said, "Yes, you"—that was all that was said at that time—I went away and pushed the front door to, and as I was coming back he came to the door with his trousers and shirt on, and said, "If I woke your children up, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Bell"—he seemed as usual; I could not see any difference in him to what he was at other times; he seemed sober—about eight I went to the Junction Arms, and stayed there till eleven—I saw the deceased there; I was not in her company—I got home about a quarter past eleven—I heard her in her room when I got home—I went straight up into the kitchen, which is upstairs—as I was going up I heard the smash of crockery, and I heard the prisoner say, "Nell, why don't you be quiet?"—it seamed to be two pieces of crockery broken, one after theother—I took no more notice, but went to bed and fell asleep—about ten minutes to five a knock came to my bedroom door, and the prisoner said, "Half a minute, Mrs. Bell"—I said, "All right"—I got out of bed and slipped on my clothes, and went upstairs to the prisoner's door—it was about five minutes after he knocked at my door when I got to his room door—it was open—when I got in I found him lying on the floor inside the door—his head was towards the fireplace and his feet towards the door—he said to me, "Nell has cut her throat, and I have cut mine"—I saw that his throat was cut—as I looked over him, I saw the deceased lying alongside the fireplace—there was a lamp alight in the room—the same lamp was there alight at half-past seven or eight—the prisoner asked me for some water—I gave it to him—I called the prisoner's brother, and then the police came—on following the doctor and the inspector I saw spots of blood on the stairs, on the left-hand side going up, more in the middle.
Cross-examined. I left the Junction Arms after eleven, after the turn oat—the deceased must have left before me—the first thing I heard when I got in was the crockery smashed—I did not hear her begin to curse and swear at him—if I said so before the Coroner it was a mistake; I don't remember saying it—after he said, "Nell, be quiet," I heard no more—the bed in the prisoner's room was a flock bed, and a mattress underneath.
FREDERICK HIGGINS . I am a carman, and live at Rose Villas, Steel Road—on 26th December I and my wife were staying at No. 10, in the front room upstairs—I knew the prisoner and his wife all the time they were there—I went to bed that night at half-past nine—I was awoke at half-past eleven by a noise of crockery breaking in the prisoner's room, which was next to ours, and I heard the deceased say, "You shan't stop here, you b—, I will die here, you b—,"—I heard no more—I got out of bed and locked my door—there were one or two sounds of breaking—I went to sleep again—I woke up once again in the night; I was lying awake—I heard a sound of chairs or something shifted in the next room—I went to sleep again—about ten minutes to five I heard the prisoner go upstairs and call out, "Mrs. Bell"—when she came down I spoke to her, and I put on my clothes and went and looked into the prisoner's room, and I
saw him lying with his feet towards the door and his head towards the cupboard, and his wife lying with her head up against the window and her feet pointing towards the prisoner's head.
Cross-examined. I did not notice the lamp—when the deceased said, "You shan't stay here, you b—, I will die here," she only said that once—I did not hear the prisoner make any answer—I said before the Magistrate, "I heard her swearing"—all the rowing and bad language was on her part—as far as I heard the prisoner said nothing.
LOUISA HIGGINS . I am the wife of the last witness—on December 26th I went to bad with him about half-past nine—I was awoke by the quarrelling in the next room, occupied by the prisoner and his wife—I heard her say, "You shan't stop here, you b—"—I did not hear any more, I went off to sleep—I heard the crockery smashing—my husband got up and locked the door, and I heard nothing more till five o'clock—I had seen the prisoner about twelve the day before in the house.
Cross-examined. When I said I heard them quarrelling, I did not hear the prisoner's voice; all I heard was Mrs. Doggrell, who appeared to be very angry, swearing at the prisoner.
MARGARET FROST . I am matron of the Willesden Cottage Hospital—the prisoner was brought there on 27th December—I saw him soon after his admission—I noticed blood on him all down the front, down to his legs—I could not say for certain, but I believe his hands were also covered—about two or three days after he was there I noticed a bruise on his head—he said, "My wife did that with the tongs; we had a bit of a row, and she hit me on the head with the tongs, and then we went to sleep. I woke up a little before five, and saw my wife take a razor,"I believe he said, "out of the drawer, and cut her throat, and when I saw what she had done I cut ray own."
Cross-examined. I was not examined before the Coroner or the Magistrate—I was first spoken to about this by Inspector Holton, about a week or ten days ago—my recollection was not at all perfect then—the prisoner was in the hospital quite two months; he was attended by Dr. Burgess—on the 29th he attended him for influenza, and on the 30th for typhoid fever—he made his statement to me when he was so suffering—from what I saw he had no doubt received severe injury on the top of the head, and he was in a very feeble condition indeed.
EDWARD HOLTON (Inspector X). On 27th December, about ten minutes past five, I was called to 10, Steel Road, Willesden—on entering the back room, ground floor, I saw the prisoner lying on the floor, with his head towards the fireplace and his feet towards the door, bleeding from a wound on the right side of the neck—by the side of the bed, lying on the floor, I saw the body of a woman, with a deep gash on the left side of her neck, her head slightly inclined to the left, dead—portions of a red earthenware pan were under the lower part of her body, by her right thigh, and about twenty-four inches from the prisoner's left hand I saw this knife, which I produce—it is called a butcher's knife; it was lying about six inches from the woman's thigh, and was wet with blood—she was fully dressed, except her outside bodice or blouse—the prisoner was fully dressed, except his coat and cap; he had his boots on—I took a sheet, which was lying loose on the bed, and bound it round his throat—I then awaited the arrival of Dr. Gibson—I then examined the room—under the dressingtable
were two broken saucers and a broken cup—at the foot of the bedstead was a woman's outside dress bodice, with a very deep collar, and splashed with blood, principally on the right front—it was hanging on the bed-post—it was an iron bedstead—there were several splashes of blood on the chairs and fireirons, one splash only on the tongs, which were partly standing, leaning against the jamb—the rest of the fireirons were lying down in the fender—the table drawer was partly open and empty—several knives, forks, and spoons were lying on the table, none of which had any bloodstains thereon—there was one small pool of blood at the foot of the bedstead, one larger one under the prisoner's head, and a very large pool under the woman's—the bed was smooth, as if it had not been laid in—the bedclothes were just turned down, as if the bed had been dressed—with the doctor, I examined the stairs, and on the right-hand side, going up, I saw about thirteen or fourteen drops of blood—there were about twenty-four stains altogether—outside Mrs. Bell's bedroom door, on the landing, were three drops, all about the size of a threepenny piece—prior to the arrival of the doctor, the prisoner said "Drink"—I gave him some water, and he relapsed into unconsciousness—both his hands were bloody—no razor was found in the room—on the 27th February, on the prisoner's discharge from the Infirmary, I arrested him, and charged him, first, with attempting to commit sucide—he made no reply to that charge—another officer charged him with the murder.
Cross-examined. The charge of murder was first preferred against him on or about March 8th—he was in custody from February 27th to March 8th—the word "razor" was first suggested to me about a week or fortnight ago—the body was removed from the room on the evening of the 27th, after which the room was left in charge of an officer; not altogether, he was patrolling outside—the Coroner's officer locked the room and sealed it—I searched for any weapons, but found none on the floor but this knife—other knives were lying on the table in a careless, loose manner—the broken red pan was under the body; that would fit into the washstand—I have no distinct recollection that there was a wash-basin; to the best of my recollection there was none—the room was badly lighted by a small lamp—I had to light a candle to assist me in searching the room—the tongs are not here—I didn't notice prisoner's head—the drops of blood on the stairs were on the right-hand side; there were none on the left—the staircase is about two and a half feet wide.
Re-examined. The spots of blood were on different steps, some at the top and some at the bottom—the lamp was a small paraffin lamp; it appeared to have been burning all night—there was no light on the stair-case.
JOHN GOUGH (Police Sergeant X). On December 28th I made this plan (produced) of the ground floor front room of 10, Steel Road—it is made to scale; I also produce tracings of the same—at the time I made the plan there were blood stains nearly under the window, partly under the table, and partly under the bed, a few inches—a large quantity had run towards the centre of the room—in another part of the room, between the arm chair and the fender, was another large pool of blood, and there were several smaller patches between that pool and the door—there were spots of blood on the valance of the bed and on the washstand—that was all I particularly noticed.
Cross-examined. I made the plan after the body had been removed.
GEORGE TREVERTON (197 X). On 27th December, at 5.45 a.m., I took the prisoner to Willesden Cottage Hospital—I arrived there at 7.20—after his throat had been dressed I noticed that his hands and arms were covered with blood—he had a tolerable sized bump on the centre of his forehead; the skin was not broken—I said to him, "I suppose you know all about it?"—he said, "Oh, yes; I returned home at 8.30 the night previous; she came home at 11.30. We had a bit of a row, and she struck me on the head with the tongs. I held her down on the bed to get the tongs away from her, and the blood from my head went all over the front of her body. She went to sleep in the chair all night; I only had about an hour and a half's sleep. At 4.30 I saw her sitting in the chair, with her throat cut; she fell backwards while in the chair, into the basin I had washed my hands in. She holloaed out, 'Jim and Mrs. Bell, come here.' I ran upstairs, and when I saw what she had done I took and got hold of the knife and cut my own throat"—this knife, he told me, lay on the right-hand side of her, but I have not got that in my notes—he said, "God Almighty knows what she done hers with."
Cross-examined. I had my notes in my possession when I gave evidence before the Magistrate, and I referred to them when I gave my evidence, as I have done to-day—I made the notes while I was conversing with him in the hospital; I afterwards went to the station and added further notes from my memory—I don't know whether I said before the Magistrate "We had a bit of a row;" that does not appear in my original notes—I made two sets of notes; I have got it down in my second notes—I did not examine his head; it appeared wet with water, not blood, as if he had washed it.
Re-examined. After I had given my evidence before the Magistrate, the prisoner was asked if he wished to cross-examine me—he said "No"; that it was quite right what I had said.
JOHN BURNS GIBSON , M.D. I am divisional surgeon of the X Division—between five and six on the morning of 27th December I was called to No. 10, Steel Road—I examined the prisoner; he was lying on his back, on the floor, with his feet towards me—he had a wound on the right side of his neck; it was a considerable wound, but no important vessels were cut; it was not bleeding when I saw it, it had ceased—I saw this knife on the floor; the wound might have been produced by it, and might have been self-inflicted—there was a considerable pool of blood just below the wound; it was not continuous from the place where his arms were; the pool was in an irregular circle—I did not notice any blood on his arms or hands at that time—I then examined the woman—she was lying on her back, slightly tilted towards the left side, but practically on her back, stretched out—she was lying parallel with the bed, with the feet towards the foot of the bed—I saw the fragments of an earthenware pan just appearing from under her skirt, below her waist—she was dead—I saw a wound on the left side of her neck; there was a large pool of blood immediately under the wound—there was no blood on her from the neck to the waist—she had on a white under-garment, what women call a bodice, I believe—I did not open the dress—two days afterwards I made a post-mortem examination, and dissected the wound—the effectual wound was a deep wound,
extending from the windpipe backwards four inches and a half—it was deepest behind, deepest near the spine, near the backbone, shallowing off towards the windpipe, but remaining at its maximum depth, two inches and a half, from its course forward, and its depth was down to the bone, through all the soft parts; it then sloped up rapidly forward, just touching the common carotid artery—the sheath of the artery was nicked, and it then just grazed or scratched the windpipe—that was the main or effectual wound; but from the windpipe towards the right side it was continued by a fine, long shallow skin cut, for two inches, terminating in a fine point—the boundary of the main wound behind was blunt and irregularly round—the point of the knife as it plunged down touched the spinus process of the backbone—the movement of the knife was evidently from behind, forward, and the wound went down at once to its full depth, to the spinus process, and not merely inwards and downwards, but backwards, so that the upper parts of the wound slightly overhung the lower parts; in fact, it was like an overhanging cliff—her hands were open and also flaccid, with no tension about them—the wound seems to have begun with something like a stab, and after running along to two inches and a half to its maximum depth, it ends as a cut—I do not think that the facts I observed are compatible with the hypothesis of suicide—in all probability, at the time the wound was inflicted she was lying as I found her, on her back; also, as I would have expected, blood ran down her front from the neck—if she had been sitting in a chair when her throat was cut I should have expected to have found blood on her front—it is not possible to say within an hour or two how long she had been dead; it might have been two hours or so; that would be the maximum—I noticed the bed; it was prepared for entrance, but had not been occupied—it was entirely smooth, neatly prepared; there was no pressure on the pillow or sheet, and no sign of any sort whatever—I noticed the blood on the stairs—I heard the description given by the inspector; we examined the stairs together with a candle—his description was just what I have now given, but, in addition, I found about thirteen tiny spots of blood on the right-hand side, going up, and two or three on the landing at the top, but no little pool of blood at the top against the land-lady's door, and no blood down the middle of the staircase; none on the right-hand side, coming down—the spots were fresh and liquid; they had formed evidently as drops, and then formed spots and spread—there were no spurts or jets; they were not spots that were consistent with the hypothesis of having come from the prisoner's throat.
Cross-examined. I gave evidence before the Coroner—since then I have had the advantage of a consultation with Mr. Stevenson and Mr. Burgess—I exclude altogether the possibility of suicide—I have always been of that opinion; I swore that before the Coroner—the Coroner's Jury returned an open verdict—I say that the facts I observed are not compatible with suicide—I said before the Magistrate, "I think the wounds on the woman highly improbable, and not at all likely to have been inflicted by herself"—I adopt that answer to-day; it correctly represents my opinion, if you take it with what I have said to-day and what I said before the Coroner—I did not say before the Coroner, "I think the facts may mean suicide, and also homicide"—the fact of the hands being open would show that rigor mortis had not set in; they were flaccid, loose—
I say, in all probability, she must have been in a recumbent position at the time the wound was inflicted—I infer that from the fact that there was no blood in front—the wound came from behind, forwards, and also from left to right—suicidal wounds are usually from left to right—if she inflicted the wound herself, I should expect her to fall forward—it is highly improbable that she would fall backward—if she did I should not expect to find blood in front; the hand being drawn away might bring blood with it—I did not make a full post-mortem of the body; I dissected the wound—I did not make any examination of the other organs—I had not heard that she had been attending a hospital—I have not had any case of homicide by cutting a throat before this—I have had many cases of suicide by cutting the throat—the deceased was about five feet five inches in height—there were no marks of violence except on the throat; there were no signs of a struggle about her—death must have been almost instantaneous—I have no doubt that the wound in the prisoner's throat was self-inflicted—the wound began about the middle of the neck, from before, backwards—I did not take especial note of his wound, I was very glad to get him away to the hospital—the spots of blood on the staircase were about the size of a threepenny piece; they were uniformly separate.
Re-examined. I stated before the Coroner that the facts I observed in the first instance seemed ambiguous; that is, they seemed to point two ways, but one of those ways I found to be impossible; that was the way of suicide—I expressed substantially the same opinion before the Magistrate—I expressed that opinion before I had any consultation with Dr. Stevenson.
THOMAS STEVENSON , M. D. I am Lecturer on Medical Jurisprudence at Guy's Hospital—I have been in Court during the trial of this case—I have heard the whole of the evidence—taking into consideration the position of the woman, I think it highly improbable that the wound was self-inflicted—that opinion is formed from the character of the wound, its situation, and the situation of the woman, as found immediately, and the state of the blood—if the woman had cut her throat while sitting in a chair I should expect to find blood in front of the body, unless she was leaning very far back in the chair, and then I should expect to find it on the chair—I should not expect her to fall backward flat on the floor if she was sitting in the chair; she might remain sitting in the chair, or she might drop oft' on one side—if she was standing at the time I should expect her to fall all in a heap; or forwards—she might fall back-wards if she leant very far back to do it—I have seen a person drop dead, and suddenly found; according to my experience they may always be expected to drop forward, the centre of gravity contributing to that—I entirely agree with Dr. Gibson as to the wound being in the nature of a stab at first; that is to say that the weapon, by whatever hand wielded, had been driven in, and then drawn along—having regard to all the appearances, I should judge that, in all probability, the woman must have been in a recumbent position when the wound was inflicted.
Cross-examined. I furnished a written report to the Treasury, in which I stated that the wound was very possibility of a suicidal origin, but that it was highly improbable.
Re-examined. I think that was part of the sentence in a paragraph—I am still of opinion that it was highly improbable.
WILLIAM MILNER BURGESS . I am a member of the Royal College of Surgeons, practising at Harlesden—I saw the prisoner after his admission to the Cottage Hospital, on 27th December; he was suffering from a wound in the throat—on the 29th I found he was suffering from influenza, and on the 30th from typhoid fever—on his admission I noticed on the right side of the head a swelling about the size of a two-shilling piece, with an incision about half to three-quarters of an inch long oh the top of it—that had bled—that was a wound that might have been produced by a blunt instrument, such as a pair of tongs or fire irons—his right cheek-bone was bruised, and the top of the skull was very tender.
Cross-examined. The bruise and marks were quite recent, apparently about the same time as the wound in the throat—the time of incubation in typhoid is three weeks—on the 26th he must have been suffering from influenza, and from typhoid within three days—there were no spots on the skin—he must have been in a high state of fever.
Re-examined. He was not delirious during the time he was in the hospital—I believe he was found one night walking about the ward; I cannot tell the date of that—on the 27th he would not probably be delirious, because he was suffering from hemorrhage—I saw no signs of delirium on the 27th, or anything approaching it.
Cross-examined. I have made inquiries about him—he is a peaceable man—this is the first time he has been charged.
NOT GUILTY .
The prisoner was also indicted for feloniously attempting to murder himself. To this he PLEADED GUILTY , and was sentenced to Six Weeks' Imprisonment.
NEW COURT.—Thursday, April 5th, 1894.
Before Mr. Recorder.
373. EDWARD MAMMOTH GREGORY and MAUD HARDING PLEADED GUILTY to maliciously publishing a defamatory libel on Henry Edward Aspinal. Gregory publicly stated that the aspersions in the letter were unfounded, and apologised to the prosecutor, and withdrew them. He had also undertaken to pay the costs of the prosecutor.— Discharged on recognizances.
MESSRS. BIRON and HEWETT Prosecuted.
AMY ROSA PIGOTT . I am Florence Stevenson's sister—we saw an advertisement on a Royal Music Hall programme, in consequence of which we went to I, Catherine Street, Strand, towards the end of August, 1891—outside the house was a board: "George E. Bishop, Theatrical and Music Hall Agent"—we went upstairs, and saw the prisoner on the first floor
—we told him why we had come, and asked his terms—he told us ten guineas—we said we could not pay the money down, but we could by instalments—he suggested we should pay half-a-guinea a week—for ten guineas he was to teach us step dancing, elocution, singing, the art of making up; give us six original songs, and procure us an engagement—he promised then to procure us an engagement—we went away and came again on 14th September, and this is the agreement I signed in the stage name I intended to take, Rosa Montagu—the prisoner and his manager, too, I believe, signed it in my presence—I called his attention to the fact that there was nothing in the agreement about procuring an engagement, and then the prisoner wrote in that he would procure it—I paid him ten shillings and sixpence, for which he gave me a receipt—I continued going three times a week till January or February, 1892—he said at first he would get us an engagement for Drury Lane Pantomime for Christmas, and he said it would give us stage experience if we went on the stage as an extra in a pantomime; and he intended to get us a music-hall engagement after that—the prisoner gave me four original songs, written by himself—I had dancing lessons, which lasted at most ten minutes at a time—Maud Hawthorne, his step-daughter, taught us that for the first fortnight—the prisoner played the piano himself for the first week, and then a young French girl played it afterwards—I had no real singing lessons; we only used to sing the songs, and the prisoner played the tune of it—he did not teach us elocution, or how to make up—he promised to bring me out—he said he was going to give a concert at an Athenaeum, in the Tottenham Court Road, and was going to bring out about a dozen of his pupils, and he advised me to get my dress ready, and pay for the band parts of the songs—I paid fifteen shillings for the band parts, and bought the material of the costumes, and had them made up—he introduced a dressmaker to me—I believed I was coming out at the Athenaeum—the prisoner called me in his office, and asked me what Mr. Graham had been saying, and I told him; Mr. Graham told all the girls that he was only a swindler, and was doing us girls out of our money, and he was not an authorised agent at all, and not known at the music-halls—the prisoner had told me he was an accredited agent—I paid £30 altogether for dresses; that includes the ten guineas—I got no engagement in pantomime or anywhere—the prisoner left, and went to 82, Waterloo Road; I continued my lessons there—I paid my last instalment at the end of January, or the beginning of February, 1892, before he left Catherine Street—some time after he left Waterloo Road; he did not tell us that he was going, or where he was going; we went to our lessons one day, and found he had gone—some time after in 1893 I found out he was in Kennington Road—each time I went there, and gave my name, they said he was not at home—I never found him there—I never went to the Strand office.
Cross-examined by the prisoner. The agreement I had with you was a music-hall agreement—if the word "elocution" was not on the agree-ment, it was an understood thing there was to be elocution—you said you taught elocution—I thought you were going to teach me to sing properly—you recommended me to a dressmaker; I don't remember her name—her address was 47, Fitzroy Street—she has since moved—my dresses and the money I paid you came to £30 altogether—I do not suggest that
you had any part of the money I paid for the costumes—you told us you were an authorised agent for Drury Lane, and had got thirty girls there the Christmas before—I do not remember receiving a letter from you dated Hercules Road, 7th May, 1892—a friend told me you were living at Hercules Road, and I was going there when I heard you had sloped again, and I did not call there—I went to see you at Kennington Road, and could not see you, and then I wrote to say I would call next day—I saw no advertisements stating your removal to Kennington Road—I was walking in Kennington Road one day, and saw outside a large board, which anyone passing could see—at first my sister and I came together for our lessons—I kept on paying 10s. 6d. a week because I did not like to lose what I had paid—I thought I had better go on to the end, and chance whether I lost it—I came to you regularly till you left Waterloo Road, and I could not come afterwards because I did not know where you were—I wanted to find where you were.
Re-examined. When I went on paying instalments, I still believed he would get me an engagement.
EDITH FLORENCE STEVENSON . I live at 47, Kenton Street, Brunswick Square, and am the wife of Reuben Thomas Stevenson, and the sister of the last witness—in August, 1891, I saw an advertisement in the name of Bishop on a Royal Music Hall programme—I went and saw him, and asked his terms for music-hall tuition—he said his terms were ten guineas for each pupil—I agreed to pay by instalments of half-a-guinea a week—he was to teach us step dancing, elocution, deportment, make up, six original songs, and procure us an engagement—I am sure elocution was mentioned—my sister asked him about the engagement, and he said "Yes"; and she said, "I would rather you wrote it down on the agreement," and he did so—I paid my first instalment and signed the agreement on that day—the prisoner wrote in the words "procure an engagement" on the agreement—I went three times a week for tuition—Mr. Romaine gave us step dancing lessons first—the prisoner did nothing towards the tuition—we took lessons at Waterloo Road after he moved there in Christmas, 1891—my last instalment was paid on 9th February, 1892—these are the receipts which the prisoner gave me—the last one is dated February 9th—we asked him when we first went if he could get us into a pantomime, and he promised to do so—he said his usual fee for an engagement in pantomime was ten shillings, but as we were his pupils he would not charge us anything—in March, 1892, he disappeared from Waterloo Road—I next saw him in the Kennington Road—I went there three times, and he was out—when I saw him, and asked him what he was going to do with the money I had paid him, he said, "Let it go a little while; come again in October"—I went in October, and he said, "Get some photographs"—I got some photographs—he said, "Come again in three weeks"—I went then, and found he had moved a fortnight before, and left no address—I next saw him in the Strand at the beginning of this year—I asked him what he was going to do—he said, "I don't know"—I said, "What are you going to do about the money I have paid you?"—he said, "I cannot do anything for you"—I said, "Why not?"—he said, "I don't wish to insult you, but I cannot get you anything to do"—I said, "Very well," and came away—that was the last I saw of him.
Cross-examined. I understood I was to be taught elocution; you mentioned
it to us—you said you could get us into the first Christmas pantomime, after we started with you, as extra ladies—the engagement I thought of when I signed the agreement was a music-hall, and not a theatrical engagement—that would be at the end of the training, when I was qualified—I did not see any advertisement of yours when you went to the Strand—you did not let me know where you were for the whole twelve months you were at Hercules Road—if you advertised whenever you moved, I did not see the papers—I used to go to have lessons, but you were out, and there was no one to give lessons, and I used to write, and you never answered me—you knew my address; I have been where I am now for fourteen months—I sent you four letters, one after another, and you did not answer them—Romaine gave me a number of dancing lessons—a lady played the piano—I had three songs—they were different ones—I practised them—I had a good many lessons altogether.
Re-examined. When I went, and the prisoner was out, there was no one there to give me lessons.
GEORGE HENRY GARTNER . I am now undergoing a sentence of imprisonment passed on me here on February 7th this year for fraud in connection with a theatrical agency—about the end of 1891 or the beginning of 1892, I saw an advertisement in a paper, and in consequence I went and saw the prisoner at 1, Catherine Street, Strand, and told him I wanted to go on the stage—he said "Yes," I had a good face and a good square jaw, which was a good thing among music-hall artists; it was well known it gave them a good cut—he asked me ten guineas—I said I could not afford it, it would be too much, and ultimately he came down to £7 10s.—for that I was to get elocution, stage deportment, step dancing, and three or six original songs and melodies, and engagements—I asked him if he included procuring engagements—he said, "Yes"—he took me into a room and showed me portraits on the wall—he said they were old pupils, and two or three were people who taught for him—I went to him on 23rd February, and signed this agreement, and paid him £5 on account for music-hall training—this is the receipt he gave me—on 29th February I went again and paid £2 10s., the balance—he gave me this receipt—before I signed the agreement I said I should like to do something after Charles Godfrey's style, character and descriptive work—before this I had been employed by Mr. Potter, at Wimpole Street, as his cashier—when I signed the agreement I left his employment—after 29th February I went to Catherine Street for lessons—sometimes I had them, sometimes I had none, because there was no one there to give them to me—I had dancing and singing lessons; I had no elocution lessons—I got the verses of two songs by degrees; sometimes two or three weeks would elapse between the verses—I got the beginning of a third song three or four months after-wards—after I had been there about four months, I called one day when the prisoner was out, and after that I received a telegram to meet him at the Hercules Tavern—I went, and he asked me to lend him £10, as he was in a little financial difficulty—he said he would repay me—I asked him if he would get me an engagement, and that was really why I lent him the money, because he promised to get me something to do—I had not got £10 at that time, but I let him have it shortly afterwards—he gave me a bill of exchange for it—he did not pay me back the money when the bill
became due—I afterwards received this letter of 28th March. (Requesting a loan of 30s. till Wednesday)—I lent him that money—the same day I received another from him suggesting that I should send him another 10s., which would be repaid on Wednesday—I was only repaid 16s.—I ceased going to attend for lessons because I found it was no good; there was no one there to give me lessons, and I did no good, so I went somewhere else.
Cross-examined. I believe when I came to you first I was a smartlooking young fellow, clean-shaven, well dressed, and with a good appearance—I don't know that you mentioned you took me for £7 10s. because I had a good idea of music—I am a pianist—there is nothing about elocution in the agreement, but you mentioned I was to learn it—the three songs had different tunes—I was rehearsed in those songs sometimes—in the "Ladder of Life" Mr. Harrington assisted me in impersonating a female, introduced into the song—I understood I was to have a musichall engagement—I expected to have that as soon as I was qualified—I had something for my money; it was no use to me; I have never done any dancing on the stage—I bought different songs of other people—I was satisfied sometimes with the training I had, if it had gone on satisfactorily—I wrote you this letter—you said you were getting some testimonials together to have printed, and asked me to write you one out, and I wrote this on 25th March: "I have much pleasure in stating that I am a pupil of Mr. Bishop, and that I am perfectly satisfied with the tuition I am receiving at his academy."
Re-examined. I first went to him about the end of February, and that was written in March.
ELIZABETH ANN DAVIS . I live at 15, Chester Street, Kennington Road—in September, 1892, I was in domestic service as a cook at Acton—I saw an advertisement in the Daily Telegraph, and, in consequence, I wrote to Bishop—on September 5th I received this letter from him. (Asking her to call, and stating that she would find him a straightforward and Honourable man. It enclosed a lithographed circular, stating that his terms for unlimited tuition for Theatre and music-hall were ten guineas, to include for the theatre instruction in elocution, stage deportment, making up, etc., and for the music-hall, step dancing and singing, and that he had an excellent staff of teachers)—besides that, I received this printed document, "Practical Hints to Aspirants." (This warned aspirants against many socalled agencies, and stated among other matters that he had a staff of wellknown professional men as teachers)—after that, I called at 289, Kennington Road, and saw the prisoner there—I told him I wanted to go on the stage at a theatre, not a music-hall—he persuaded me to take to the music-hall; he said I was tall and stout, and he said he thought it would suit me better than taking a part in a theatre—he said his terms were ten guineas—I said I should not be able to pay it all at once, but I would do what I could—he said he would charge me thirty shillings to come for a month on trial, and then he would tell me at the end of the month whether I should be suitable for the stage or not—I went to see him again in March, 1893—he tried my voice, and said he was quite satisfied—there was a stage in the room, with a piano on it—I said I would come on April 6th for my lesson—I was to be taught step dancing and singing—I went on April 6th and paid
the prisoner 15s.—this is the receipt, which states it is for music-hall training—during the next fortnight I took some half-dozen lessons—on April 17th I paid a further fifteen shillings, and on the 21st a further fifteen shillings—these are the receipts—on April 24th I received this letter from him. (Asking her to come to-morrow, and to do the best she could for him)—that referred to his wanting me to bring him the balance of the money—I gave him £4 5s.—when I first went there he said he would get me an engagement on June 1st—when it came near June 1st I spoke to him about the engagement, and he told me to be quiet, that he was sure to get me one next week, or some time after—I was to have an engagement to sing and dance at a musichall—he went away in June for a fortnight—I asked him when he came back, and he said he would get me an engagement and he might get one next week; afterwards he said he would be certain to get me an engagement on the first August—I am Welsh—he said Mrs. Bishop, his wife, would get me the dresses, and I should pay her weekly for them—I got no dresses—he told me I wanted a prince's suit and three dresses besides—I got no engagement on 1st of August—towards the end of August he said he might soon get it; it might be that week or the week afterwards—he told me not to be so foolish as to look for a situation, because I had done the worst of the drudgery, and he thought he would get me three engagements a night—I had learnt the words—he said I should be a success on the stage—after he moved to 364, Strand, I went to him there till these proceedings were taken—I read "Hints to Aspirants" before I went to him—I did not see any well-known professional gentlemen attending to give lessons; there were only the step-daughter and step-son—about the end of August I told him I had been down to see some theatricals, and they said the dancing he had shown me was not worth twopence—I told him a good many times he was a fraud, and he said I must bring them on to prove he was a fraud, and I must be careful what I was saying about him, because he was a straightforward and generous man.
Cross-examined. I have the same voice now as I had when I went to you—I had a few dancing steps shown me—I was shown a little how to walk on the stage—you taught me the tunes of the songs—the songs had different words, but the same tune—I had never learnt singing before I went to you—the singing lessons ceased because you went away for ten weeks—I did not have dancing lessons every day; you promised to see me every day, but when I came up you were not at home, or excuses were made—no one in connection with you has ever tried my voice or seen me dance to see whether I was fit to perform—I paid 15s., 15s., 15s., £4 5s., and 10s. on account of tuition—I paid nothing for dresses; I never saw them—you showed me a letter from my mother, but I had nothing to do with her—I said I would not go back; if you did not go on teaching me I would go to someone else—you said you were a straightforward man, and would get me an engagement—you had a stage which you used—I knew where you went to in the Strand, after I told you I would give you in charge if you did not tell me where you had gone to—that was about November—I saw this advertisement in the Daily Telegraph asking old clients to note that you had removed to 364, Strand, after you had been at the Strand for about a month or so.
Re-examined. After the prisoner told me my voice would be a success I had nothing the matter with my throat except a slight cold.
HAROLD AUGUSTUS WELD . I lived at 20, Anerley Road, Shepherd's Bush, in 1893—I am of no occupation at present—I am eighteen next June—in January, 1893, I saw an advertisement in the Daily Telegraphy and I wrote to Mr. Bishop—I got in reply, "Practical Hints to Aspirants," and a prospectus—I read a part, in which he said that if at the end of a month it was evident that the student was not adapted for the profession, a portion of the money would be returned—Mr. Jordan was my guardian—I received this letter from the prisoner. (This stated that he had written to Mr. Jordan, telling him the total cost would be thirty pounds, ten guineas his fees, and the rest to be spent on stage clothes, band parts, make up, etc.)—I had had a conversation with him before that; he said the charge would be £30, which included ten guineas for unlimited tuition, and twenty guineas for outfit—after that I went to my guardian's office; the prisoner was present—he told my guardian it would cost £30—I was to take ordinary music-hall business—£30 was paid—on 13th April I signed an agreement with the prisoner—there was an undertaking in it to procure me an engagement when proficient—about a week after I went, and began to receive lessons in dancing and singing—the prisoner taught me singing, and Will Granville dancing—I had three songs given to me—for a short time I went regularly three times a week—occasionally, all through that summer, the prisoner put my lessons off, by letter or telegram, from time to time—when I asked him to get me an engagement he said he would see about it; he was giving a students' concert, and I was to appear at it—he asked me to send in a stage name—that concert never took place, to my knowledge—the only part of a costume I had was a pair of dancing shoes—the piano disappeared from Kennington Road; I understood it was for rates and taxes, I did not know—the prisoner said I was getting on very well in dancing—he never got me an engagement; he said he would get me one when I was proficient—he never said whether I was proficient.
Cross-examined. I had three different songs—I went to Kennington Road to learn them—I was perfectly satisfied with the progress I was making—I did not attend regularly in the hot weather last year; illness prevented me from coming—I received a communication from you asking me to come—I called at the Strand office on Tuesday, 29th January, and said I would resume on the following Monday; I could not come on that day—no definite time was fixed when I was to have the dresses—I expected to have them as soon as the money was laid out for them—I do not consider they were necessary for practice—when I asked for them you kept putting me off—I received in all a fair number of lessons—after the piano was seized for rates at Kennington you hummed the melodies of my songs to me—I had no music for my dancing lessons at first—I did not expect you to get me an engagement before I was qualified to take one; I expected it at the end of my training.
Re-examined. My first appearance was to be at a students' concert, in July, I believe—nothing was said about dresses for that.
me about him before. (This letter stated that his terms for the tuition of Weld would be £10 10s., and that with costumes, etc., the total cost would not exceed £30; but that the money for dresses would not pass through the prisoner's hands)—he enclosed a draft copy of agreement—I saw a friend and made inquiries about the prisoner, and then made an appointment with him—on 13th April he came to my office with Weld, and the agree-men was signed—he led me to believe he could get Weld an engagement when he was proficient; I wrote it in the agreement—I then paid him this cheque for £15 10s., £10 10s. for unlimited tuition and £5 on account of the other £20—this is the receipt—on 4th May I received this letter asking me to remit the remaining £15, and in consequence I sent £15. (The prisoner's letter stated that Weld was making good progress, and that he hoped to bring him out soon)—about June I wrote to the prisoner asking him how Weld was getting on, and I had this reply. (Stating that Weld was making good progress as a dancer; that he was better than the prisoner ever expected, and that Weld could never be a failure)—I expect I wrote asking why Weld did not come out—I received this from the prisoner. (stating that Weld had been taking a short holiday; that he would make his debut with some fellow students in a short time.)
Cross-examined. I thought he would receive the costumes as he went on.
CLARA WAIT . I live at 24, Tichbourne Street, Edgware Road—in May last I saw an advertisement in the Daily Telegraph in which Bishop said he gave lessons in dramatic art, and so on—I wrote and got from him a prospectus and a copy of "Practical Hints for Aspirants"—I read it—believing it to be true I came from Yorkshire to see the prisoner in September—I asked him if he thought I should get on on the stage—he said "Yes," he thought I should very well—he gave me a part to learn for comedy, but he never heard me say it, and then he gave me a part to learn in a tragedy, "Lady Audley's Secret"—he said I should do very well for the tragedy part—he undertook to train me thoroughly for the stage, and get me an engagement at a theatre—on 3rd October I signed this agreement with him, to pay ten guineas for unlimited preparation for the theatrical profession, elocution, stage deportment, and so on—I was to pay five guineas down, and the other five guineas when he got me an engagement, out of the salary I received—I had two or three lessons at Kennington Road—very soon after I signed the agreement, he wrote asking for money. (The letter stated that the piano would be sold on Monday evening, and asked her to help him as far as she could, as he wanted to buy it in if possible; but not to discontinue her lessons if she could not help him)—the piano was seized—I lent him £2 10s.—he wrote again on 19th October asking for help—I did not lend him any more/—after I had lent him the £2 10s. I received letters, putting me off, and telling me not to come to him—I think I had about two lessons after that—altogether I had about half-a-dozen perhaps—I paid him five guineas for stage training.
Cross-examined. I did not very often stay away of my own free will or through illness—if you did not write to me you were away or could not see me that day—I had no occupation at this time—I never knew when you would be there to give me lessons—I do not say you were never there—I stayed away at Christmas time when I was ill for a little while
—it was understood you were to teach me to read music—I paid you two shillings for a copy of the agreement, which you never gave me—you went on with the singing lessons—you only used the piano to sound the key note—I had two or three lessons at the Strand—twice I went for lessons and was left with the other person who was taking a part with me—I don't know it you left me to give lessons to other persons—I did not hear the piano playing—the £2 10s. was taken off the £5; but you promised to pay it on the 23rd, and you never did—I said I did not care for the part in the "Happy Pair," which you read through, and then I suggested "Lady Audley," which we read through together.
By the COURT. I lent the prisoner the £2 10s.
WILLIAM PERCY BOLLAND WYATT . I live at 78, St. Jude's Road, Anerley—on 9th October last I saw an advertisement in the Daily Telegraphy in consequence of which I went to see the prisoner at 289, Kennington Road—I was, and am, a journalist—I had acted in several pantomines before that—I took Mrs. Crusoe, and the Genie of the Lamp, at the Theatre Royal, Croydon—I told the prisoner I wanted a comic part in a forthcoming pantomime in London—he suggested that he could get me a part at Drury Lane., as he was an authorised agent for that theatre, and that his fee was a guinea before I could get the engagement—I said I had not got the money with me, but I would call next day—I did so, and paid him half-a-guinea, which I had borrowed—he assured me he was an agent for Drury Lane, and had influence there, and that I should find him a most honourable man—he said my salary would be £2 a week, or not lower than 30s., and he was to have ten per cent, on my salary—he gave me this receipt, which shows the 10s. 6d. was half booking fee—I had no answer, and a fortnight afterwards went to see him and asked him whether he could get me the part at Drury Lane, as I was in deep distress and solely dependent on it—he said his business was so increased that he was going to remove to the Strand, and he offered me a twelve months' agreement as manager at 12s. a week salary and commission, which he represented would be £2 2s. to £3 a week for my introducing people to him and introducing his pupils; I was content to take that as I could get nothing else—I asked him for my 10s. 6d. back, and he refused to give it back to me—on 13th November I assisted him to remove to the Strand—I remained there about eight days and then had a conversation with him—during that time I acted as his manager—twelve or fourteen people were coming to him, looking most like ware-house young men and servants, and young ladies getting their employment behind shop counters, not people fitted for the stage—Miss Davis came many times, and she used to wait three or five hours at a time—he prisoner was principally out drinking at that time, while she waited—at the end of eight days I told him it seemed to me that I could only get 12s. a week under my agreement, and it was not good enough, as my railway fare was 8s., and I got no commission—no professional men were giving lessons; only the prisoner and his step-son and step-daughter—I cannot say if they were qualified to give proper instruction to fit people for Drury Lane—I know they could not get engagements themselves.
Cross-examined. I left you because I was disgusted—I offered to come back afterwards for the sole reason of getting my agreement from you—you have it still—I wished to get it stamped, and contest it at law—you
had no commission to pay—you inserted advertisements to old clients, saying you were at the Strand—you only played one time—the music you played only had treble and no bass, and you made up the bass—you only had one chord—it sounded to me mostly like one tune—you paid me 12s. for the week I was with you, and refused to return me 10s. 6d.
ARTHUR COLLINS . I am the manager of Drury Lane Theatre—the prisoner has never been a specially authorised agent for that theatre—in October, 1893, he had no engagement there as an agent to my knowledge—I should know as manager—we do not employ agents for the people for the ballet, and so on, only for star artists.
Cross-examined. I have had some letters from you with reference to people for whom you wanted to get engagements—I said that on one occasion you sent me a number of useless people whom I did not engage; they were a lot of riff-raff, no good at all—I also said your card carried no weight—I answered a letter you wrote to me, instructing you to send up ladies with your card—if anyone sent saying he had useful supers I should tell him to send them up, and I would see what they were worth—I should not engage them unless they were worth their salt—I might engage people even if they were not qualified if they were sent by agents I know, like Blackmore, Victor, or Warner—you frequently wrote to me, and tried to get me to engage people—I remember a good many of your cards coming; I cannot say if I engaged several people from you in 1890 and 1892—your card would not have any weight; anyone might send people—I don't remember having seen you till I saw you at Bow Street.
Re-examined. If I engaged any persons sent by the prisoner I did so on their own merits, and not on his recommendation—this is the form of agreement we enter into with our authorised agents, and they would have a copy of this agreement.
THOMAS HOLBROOK . I am a builder, at 5, Catherine Street—in 1891 I was landlord of 1, Catherine Street—the prisoner rented three rooms of me there, from about January 12th, 1891, to 15th February, 1892, at £1 a week—he left owing £16 or £17—I asked for the rent a good many times, and threatened to put the brokers in—he said it was no good doing that; the furniture was not his, and was his wife's—I did not put the brokers in, but let it go—one evening, about ten o'clock, I saw him moving away his goods, and sent a lad to see where he went to—I did not trouble after that, but gave it up as a bad job—I never got my money.
Cross-examined. When you owed me about £7 rent, I said, "If you will be good enough to clear out, I will give you that £7," but you would not go—Mr. Graham did not take the office from me—I knew you had gone to 289, Kennington Road.
PERCY JOHN DRIVER . I am a provision merchant, of 90, Waterloo Road—in March, 1892, the prisoner took part of 86, Waterloo Road from me, occupying two rooms on the ground and first floors—we arranged that he should pay the rent in advance—when he got a fortnight in arrears, I put the brokers in—I took the piano—I got my money.
JAMES HARDING . I am a builder and contractor, of 291, Kennington Road—the prisoner rented 289, Kennington Road from me at the end of 1892—he stayed about twelve months, till the following November—he put up a board and brass plate, with on it, "Theatrical agent," and his name—he paid pretty fairly, but he left owing me £8—I sued him for
that, and recovered all but £2, which I forgave him—he moved, saying it was for his health, and that he was going to Dulwich; and I found he had let my house out in apartments, and was taking the money for it—he moved his furniture out about ten weeks before he went, I think—I knew he was going.
Cross-examined. I do not suggest you moved your furniture without my knowing you were going to do so; I knew you were going.
The prisoner called
EDWARD CARLTON . I was your pupil at Kennington Road and the Strand—I am a comedian and dancer—I have no engagement at present—I took lessons for about ten or twelve months in singing and dancing—you taught me the tunes of my songs, and Will Granville taught me dancing—I paid £5 5s. down, and afterwards another £5 5s.—I was perfectly satisfied with the way I was coached—I am not related to you I came to your academy through passing your place in Kennington Road to go to Mr. Lebrun, and seeing your board, which was large enough for anyone to see—I had six songs, all with different airs; I believe you wrote them; I saw you write two—I got an engagement at the Swansea Theatre pantomime last Christmas at £3 a week—I did my own songs, and then I played harlequin and dog in the kitchen scene—I learnt some of my harlequin's business on your stage with Granville, and the rest with Kegan and Elvey, professional teachers—I learnt my singing and dancing with you.
Cross-examined. I never did anything particular before I went to the prisoner—I was a sketch artist with Kegan and Elvey before I went to him—I had no engagement before I went to him, except to play a very small part in a sketch—I learnt tumbling with them—the prisoner did not teach me to jump through a wall as a harlequin; I learnt that with Kegan and Elvey—I went to the prisoner till these proceedings were taken—I got the Swansea engagement through being introduced by the prisoner to Mr. Melville, the manager of the Standard Theatre, Shoreditch, and the Swansea New Theatre—I should say the people who went to Kennington Road were warehousemen, clerks, and so on—I saw Harry Berlino there, taking dancing lessons—Granville, who gave lessons, is younger than I am, I think—Maud Hawthorne, who is twenty-one, I should say, gave lessons—I believe she is the prisoner's step-daughter—I do not know that she has got any engagement anywhere—Kate Hawthorne gave lessons—she is about sixteen—I don't think anyone else gave lessons.
SAMUEL CATTI . I was your pupil at Kennington Road, at the end of February, 1893, for about six months—I learnt dancing of Mr. Will Granville, and was perfectly satisfied with the way he instructed me—I paid two guineas—I came to you through an advertisement in the Entr'acte—I attended regularly, and always found someone there to instruct me—I was present when different songs were being practised by students in the next room—the songs did not all have the same air—the piano never stopped while you were going through the songs—you did not undertake to get me an engagement—I am a clerk in the City.
Cross-examined. I did not get that situation through the prisoner—I appear at smoking concerts.
Maud Hawthorne personated parts in the same song—I am a moneytaker at the Vaudeville.
Cross-examined. I am the prisoner's son-in-law, and was his clerk—I only know of the prisoner writing to put off Miss Wait three times—I wrote letters to her by his direction, putting her off, because I believe business carried him further away—I believe he was in the country house hunting—I was not with him when he left Kennington Road—business was going on pretty fairly in the Strand.
Re-examined. I never heard you represent yourself as authorised agent for any theatre or music-hall—you represented yourself to be a professional teacher and variety agent.
GEORGE MERRYWEATHER . I worked for you at 364, Strand, for five or six weeks—you paid me what you agreed to, 12s. a week—it is not true that pupils coming there all had songs with the same tune—I wrote for you, and was outside agent—I was to have ten per cent, commission, but it was a dull time of year, and I did not earn much; I had some—if another appointment had not been offered me I should have remained with you, because I hoped to earn commission—if I had not thought your business was conducted in an honourable way I should not have remained with you; my name was too good for that—you sent me to try and get engagements at the Oxford, Tivoli, Drury Lane, and Covent Garden—your inner private office door at the Strand was glass, partly broken, and I could hear everything said in it—I never heard you say you were an authorised agent to any establishment—if I had been in the room I should have heard it—I should not think it would have been true if you had said so—if you had told me you were an authorised agent I should have asked where.
Cross-examined. I thought when he moved into the Strand, being known in the profession, and I having a little ability, we might work up a business—I knew of him from a friend—I did not know he had been with Roberts before—I knew he lived at Stamford Street—I never heard that Roberts was wanted for frauds similar to this—I succeeded to Wyatt's position; I don't remember him; I might have seen him in the office—I told one of the pupils, with the prisoner's permission, that the sooner she got out the better; she would never be able to earn her living at singing and dancing, and was wasting her time; I could see that at once—two young men were getting on very well—I don't know if they are here to-day—I was poor, and twelve shillings a week was better than nothing, and I thought I had the chance of commission.
Cross-examined. In 1891 I was sixteen—I was not a well-known professional gentleman at that time—one of the sisters Maythorne, the prisoner's step-daughter, and Burton taught dancing also—Burton was there as a clerk; he had been on the boards—Miss Maythorne has sung and danced on the boards at the Middlesex, the Washington, the Bedford, and lots of halls—the prisoner taught elocution; I taught the gentlemen make-up—I did not think Miss Davis was likely to be a success; far from it—I did not see it at first; she was all right, but she went off at the last.
Re-examined. At Catherine Street, Charles Romaine and Maud Hawthorne taught dancing, and Graham did so occasionally—Miss Speering played the piano.
The prisoner, in his defence, stated that he had struggled hard to get a living; that he did what he could for his pupils and clients; that he did not take a penny from them with the intention of defrauding them, and that it was through no fault of his that they had not continued their lessons down to that day.
A detective officer stated that the prisoner lead been assistant to Roberts, a Theatrical agent, and that Roberts, who was now in Africa, had been assistant to Gartner, who was convicted at this Court in 1892.— Twelve Months' Hard Labour.
MR. JOSEPH, Prosecuted.
The injury was caused in the course of a fight, and as it appeared by the evidence of the principal witnesses for the prosecution that the injured man and his friend had first struck the prisoners, MR. JOSEPH, for the prosecution, stated that he should not ask the JURY to convict.
NOT GUILTY .
THIRD COURT.—Thursday, April 5th, 1894.
Before Mr. Common Serjeant.
MR. H. AVORY stated that the prisoner had gone through the farm of marriage with five other women since lie married his wife. He had also been convicted of rape.— Twelve Months' Hard Labour. And
378. CHARLES FREDERICK BABB (21), WILLIAM TAYLOR (33), and EDWIN FELSTEAD (20) , Breaking and entering the warehouse of Joseph Rag, and stealing twenty dozen tobacco pipes, to which FELSTEAD PLEADED GUILTY .
MR. BOND Prosecuted, and MR. WARBURTON appeared for Babb.
WILLIAM PALMER (140 City). On March 19th, about nine p.m., I saw Taylor in Homerton, and told him I was a police officer, and I found, he had been dealing with pipes, the proceeds of warehouse breaking on 13th of last month, and I was going to take him to his apartments and search him—Mr. Rag was with me—we searched the prisoner's apartments at 1a, Church Road, Homerton, and found nine and a half dozen pipes in the original boxes, which Mr. Rag identified—the prisoner said nothing—I said, "You had best tell the truth," and he made a statement—I went to 36, Windsor Terrace, where Babb had apartments, about 12.45 a.m. on the 20th, and saw Babb come home with his wife—he was just about to open the door; I said, "Babb," and he turned round
and recognised me, and said, "Good God, have mercy on me!"—I said, "Go inside; don't make any bother here. I am going to search your apartments"—Taylor and Mr. Rag were with me—we went upstairs, and I found ninety-one boxes, each containing one dozen pipes, which Mr. Rag identified, and in a black bag under the bed I found forty-seven new telephone receivers—I said, "Babb, these are valuable; how do you account for having them in your possession?"—he said, "The same person brought them who brought the pipes"—he had said that the pipes were brought to the house by a man named Felstead—I knew who Felstead was—I then took Babb in custody, and conveyed both prisoners to Moor Lane Police-station and searched them—I found on Taylor this letter, which I read, and said to Babb, "This is a letter from you to Taylor"—I knew his writing, and it was signed "Charley"—he said, "Let me look at it"—I allowed him to do so, and he said, "Quite true." (Letter read: "Dear William,—Enclosed find ticket for the parcel at Broad Street cloak-room. Do your best this week with what you have, and we might have a big week next week. I have had the offer of £5 of goods for next week. If you cannot sell the frames let me know, and I may be able to sell them myself to a party. I must sell the frames by Saturday evening at the latest, as the party who is going to let me have the £5 will be able to let me have them on Saturday. I expect he will want a big sum. Has my friend, Mr. Baker, been to see the overmantle yet?—Yours, CHARLEY ")—on March 22nd I returned to Babb's—the premises had not been in the possession of the police—I found twenty-four photo frames, nine metal ornaments, and a flower stand—the telephone receivers were identified by Mr. Phillips, the manager of the National Telephone Company—they bore the company's name and number on them.
HENRY MITCHELL . I am warehouseman to Joseph Rag, of 120, Fore Street, City—on March 24th I locked up the premises and took the key home—my employer occupied one room on the first floor and a room on the second floor, and when I came in the morning the padlock was gone but the staple was there—the place was in confusion, and I missed a quantity of pipes in boxes like these, arid I am able to say that these are our pipes because each box is numbered—I reported it to Mr. Rag—the property in Mr. Babb's possession and at Taylor's place, is all his.
CHARLES BURKE . I am a storekeeper to the National Telephone Company, Oxford Street—these telephone receivers are their property—they were never sold; we issued them to No. 1 division, to be fitted up all over London, as required—Mr. Phillips is the manager of No. 1 division.
CHARLES JOHN PHILLIPS . I am divisional manager of the Telephone Company, 51, London Wall—I identify these forty-seven telephone receivers—Palmer and Wise, policemen, brought them to us, and we took stock, and found the stock fifty-one short—I do not know how they went—these are consecutive numbers; they are delivered to us in parcels of fifty—ray impression is that one parcel has been carried away—there is always some slight discrepancy when we take stock, possibly from an entry being omitted of those which are brought back—I got them in two consignments, on 2nd and 10th March, at London Wall—these were transfers to London Wall on those dates.
Babb, in his statement before the Magistrate, said that he pleaded guilty
to taking some things; but as to the others, Felstead brought them to his house, when he was away at work, who afterwards said that they were a bankrupt's stock, upon which he bought them, and asked him if they were stolen, and he said "No, if anything is wrong refer to me," and that he thought the receivers were paper-weights.
Taylor stated that he received the articles on sale or return, and disposed of them in the way of business.
MR. WARBURTON called
EDWIN FELSTEAD (the prisoner). I have pleaded guilty to this charge with regard to the pipes—I took them to Babb, and told him they were a bankrupt's stock—he was not there when I brought them in—he asked me if they were all right—I said "Yes," and told him the same about the receivers that I got them off a barrow, and a man asked me to get rid of them—he said he was willing to do so.
Cross-examined. Babb gave me £3 for the ninety-one dozen pipes—I had known him a long while—I have been out of work nine or ten months—Babb knew that I was doing jobs.
By the COURT. I had never sold him goods before—I got nothing for the telephone receivers; I got them to sell—I got a halfpenny apiece for the pipes, but that was only a deposit—I do not know Taylor—I did not take goods out for him.
By the COURT. I have known Babb two and a half years; he worked where I work—I did not sell goods for him; this was the first transaction.
Taylor's defence. The goods found at my apartments belonged to Charles Babb. I knew he had them on sale or return. I always gave a billhead receipt with all transactions. No doubt Mr. Babb will explain if required.
TAYLOR— NOT GUILTY .
BABB PLEADED GUILTY , and MR. BOND offered no evidence against
TAYLOR. NOT GUILTY .
The police stated that Babb was a receiver of stolen property, and that van robbers sold goods to him.— Three Years' Penal Servitude.
FELSTEAD*— Twelve Months' Hard Labour.
OLD COURT.—Friday, April 6th, 1894.
Before Mr. Justice Kennedy.
MESSRS. BESLEY, MUIR, and GUY STEPHENSON Prosecuted; and
MESSRS. CHARLES MATHEWS and ROOTH Defended.
Jacobs' office, also a copy of the same, made to scale of one-eighth of an inch to the foot—I made the draught sketches at half-past three on the day of the occurrence—I took the measurements exactly—the room is fourteen feet two inches by thirteen feet ten inches—I also produce a perspective view of the room.
ELIZA LINDUS . I live at 31, Dunbar Road, Forest Gate—the prisoner is my husband—I was married to him on 15th November, 1881—he was then a widower, with three children, and I was the mother of eight children by the prisoner's half-brother; he was a solicitor in the City of London; he died in January, 1880, leaving me some property—the prisoner and I did not live peaceably together; there were several applications to the Police-courts, on the both sides—I filed a petition in the Divorce Court for a judicial separation—I separated from him several times—before October, 1891, there were two deeds of separation between us, in which Messrs. G. R. Brown and Co., solicitors, acted for me—it was Mr. Brown who attended to my business; he died three or four years ago—I never saw Mr. Jacobs till after Mr. Brown's death, then Mr. Jacobs attended to my business—in October, 1891, I entered into an agreement with the prisoner to settle some proceedings that were pending for a separation; I believe it was to go into Court to get a separation and allowance. (Mr. Jacobs here produced certain documents)—I remember signing this document—my husband also signed it in presence of Mr. Jacobs (This was dated 29th October, 1891)—I saw Mr. Jacobs sign it—it was read over in his office in my husband's presence; he was quite sober then—some time after that I got an allowance from my husband; it was not always paid regularly—I applied to Mr. Jacobs, and he paid me—I lived with my husband till November last year—I think that was the last time—I had not separated from him, I had written to say that I wished to leave him—he left me—he went away at the end of March last year, and left me at Forest Gate and went to Highgate—we did live together, because I used to go with him to Gravesend—I met him at Liverpool Street, and went with him to Gravesend; the last time was about November or December—I am almost sure it was the end of November—I left him at Liverpool Street Station; we did not part on friendly terms, because he had been drinking, and was very violent, and I thought I had better go home, as his son was not there to meet him—some time after that I went to see Mr. Jacobs, and appointments were made for me to meet my husband at Mr. Jacobs' office—I did not keep any of those appointments before 10th January—I think I once went to the office, and my husband was not there—he sent a telegram to say he could not come—on 10th January I went to Mr. Jacobs'office with my daughter Laura, not the prisoner's daughter—I got there about five minutes to twelve—I stopped a few minutes in the clerks' office—my husband went into Mr. Jacobs' room at the same time as I did—I sat in the second chair from the door; my husband sat near the safe, in the first chair nearer the door, side by side with me—Mr. Jacobs was sitting at his desk and there was no one else in the room but us three—my husband took the first chair and drew it in front of the door, and said, "This woman has robbed me," and he went over to Mr. Jacobs, and then I saw a pistol in his hand, and I screamed "Murder!" and ran across the room and opened the door—I found it was locked; I turned the key, it was in
the door, and I got out of the room—before I got out I heard a report and was shot in my back as I was trying to open the door—I heard no report before that—when I got outside I saw my husband standing in Ironmonger Lane—he appeared to be very sober—I know his handwriting—this document (marked J) is his writing, it is signed F. H. C. Lindus—those initials look a little different writing to what I have seen; the body is his writing—I received this document dated 25th December; that is his writing. (Read: "25th December, 1893. Mrs. Lindus—I shall be at Jacobs' office on Wednesday at three, according to the arrangement, and it is an understood thing you are to bring Wallie with you, for me to see him and wish him good-bye. Jacobs wrote you to that effect. C. E. Lindus.")—my husband had at times given way to drink ever since we have been married—there are two children by our marriage living: Harold, eight last August, and Walter, five last October—he is commonly called Wallie—I also had a still born—child two years ago last November.
Cross-examined. Ever since our marriage my husband has constantly given way to drink to excess, and there have been differences between us, and Police-court proceedings at different times—the last Police-court proceedings were at Worthing four or five years ago—that was before the last settlement of October, 1891—there was a petition in the Divorce Court, filed by myself, for a judicial separation; it was that that led up to the execution of the settlement in October, 1891—that petition was withdrawn by me at my husband's request—after that settlement we lived together as man and wife, and so continued down to March last year at Dunbar Road, Forest Gate—he then went to live at Southminster, that is some miles from Forest Gate—after that I met him from time to time at Liverpool Street Station, and went and spent some time with him at Gravesend, sometimes from Friday to Monday—the last time we were at Gravesend he was very kind to me, but not times before—the last time was at the end of November or beginning of December, 1893—on Wednesday, the 10th January, at Liverpool Street Station, he was rather cross; he used some bad expressions to me—he had been drinking very heavily, and I left him and went home—he came down to see me at Forest Gate in December; with that exception I did not see him until 10th January—nothing that I know of had occurred to alter his feeling towards me in the meantime—I should say there had been three or four appointments to meet at Mr. Jacobs' office, which he had not kept—I never noticed that he suffered from sleeplessness, only when he had been drinking he would wake up with his head had; and some years ago, when he had tooth-ache, I believe he lived with his eldest son at Southminster—he had a brother, Geo. Frederick D. Lindus—I never saw him, I heard of him—I do not know that he died insane; I know he was in a workhouse—I did not know that he was confined there as a lunatic—I did not know that in October last my husband was making arrangements for his own funeral, or that he was giving directions with regard to the disposal of his body—I never heard it—I never consulted a medical man about the state of my husband's mind; I have only complained to my doctor when he attended me in my confinement—I complained of his ill-usage to me—I never said that I should like him examined as to his mental condition—I have never been to Southminster
—from March to December I have slept with him at Dunbar Street, and also at Gravesend—he came to me at Forest Gate since his last outbreak of temper, but he did not sleep there—he always used to go to bed early when he had been drinking—he had periodical outbreaks of drink—when not in drink he was all right—our quarrels were principally because he would not provide food for the family—in October, 1891, my children by his half-brother did not live with me at Dunbar Street—the daughter did, for a little time—he did not object to that—he sanctioned her coming to assist me in the house—his eldest son was seventeen last November—I have never stated to him that I did not think my husband was in his right mind—I don't remember saying that—I don't remember ever making such a statement—I would rather leave it so—I do not remember saying to Mr. Ford, clerk to the prisoners solicitor in October, 1891, that I thought my husband was wrong in his head—I remember travelling with Mr. Ford to Portsmouth—I do not remember saying anything like that to him on the journey; if you please I will leave it there.
Re-examined. I am rather certain that I did not make such a statement—the journey to Portsmouth was after my husband came back to me—after the trust deed was made he came back in October—I could not say how long it was after that that the journey to Portsmouth occurred—never keep dates; my memory is very bad, I have had so much trouble—Mr. Ford and I talked about different things, about my husband's behaviour to me and not treating me as he ought.
GEORGE SAUNDERS JACOBS . I am a solicitor in partnership with Mr. Miller, carrying on the profession in the name of G. R. Brown and Co., at 3, Church Court, Old Jewry—Mr. Brown died on 4th July, 1891; prior to that date he attended to Mrs. Lindus' business in the office—I had nothing to do with it up to the time of his death, after that I attended to it—in reference to the deed of October. 1891, I saw the prisoner and also Mrs. Lindus at times separately, and afterwards together—I acted for Mrs. Lindus alone up to October—Mr. Bicknell acted for the prisoner—I saw Mr. Bicknell and his clerk with reference to the matter—the trust, deed was settled between Mr. Bicknell and myself—it was not completely settled—I had a meeting with Mr. Bicknell and Mr. and Mrs. Lindus at my office on 13th October, 1891—it was arranged that I should prepare the trust deed, and send Mr. Bicknell the draft, which I subsequently did—the 13th October was the first time I had seen the prisoner with his solicitor—we might have been together an hour—I saw him next, I think, on 22nd October, when he came to me with his wife, and requested me to act for both of them, and on 28th October the deed was signed—there is not the slightest question that on those occasions he was in his right mind—he was a business-like man—he purchased the investments that were settled, and brought me the broker's receipts, and acted in a business-like manner—up to the time of the execution of the deed, neither Mr. Bicknell or his clerk suggested that he was out of his mind—I never heard of such a suggestion till after the shooting—Mrs. Lindus consulted me from time to time after the deed was executed, and I saw the prisoner many times in relation to their affairs—I never called the prisoner's attention to his wife's complaint of his abusive language at Liverpool Street Station—I left them to settle their differences as well as
they could—an appointment was made for 12th December, on a notice he had received from his wife that she would no longer live with him—he came, and said he desired to see her, and to say good-bye—that appointment was broken by a telegram from him—on 18th December he called again—he then said that he could not stop in town, but he fixed another appointment for 27th December—he came on that day, but Mrs. Lindus did not—he then fixed the 29th, and asked me to communicate with his wife—she did not come—on 1st January the prisoner called again—I told him that his wife had been to see me the day before, and said she did not wish to meet him again, and if he would settle matters with me, she was willing to make any reasonable arrangement with reference to the children, the two children by their marriage—he said that he must see her, and he would discuss nothing with me unless she was present, and we made a further appointment for 10th January—he said if she did not come, we would go to Forest Gate—I did not promise to go to Forest Gate—on the 10th I got to my office a little before eleven—I found the prisoner in the outer office—I wished him good morning, and asked him into my room, and shook hands with him—he said, "Are you coming to Forest Gate?"—I said, "Mrs. Lindus was here on Monday, and I have arranged for her to be here at twelve o'clock"—he said, "There is an hour to spare, and I shall go out for a little while"—he appeared perfectly quiet and business-like—before he returned Mrs. Lindus came in at twelve, and they were announced together; Mrs. Lindus entered first, he came in a minute afterwards—my brother let him in, and went out and closed the door—Mrs. Lindus took her usual seat, the second from the safe; I was sitting at my desk—I invited the prisoner to take a seat; instead of sitting down, he took the back of a chair with his right hand, and drew it round in front of the door, and then leaned over and locked the door—I saw him do that—he then rose up slowly from his chair, with his right hand still on the chair, and commenced a speech, apparently as though he was speaking in the direction of his wife, as if he was going to give her a lecture—I don't remember fully what he said; it was something about "that woman at Penge, and settlement"—while he was speaking Mrs. Lindus shrieked; I sprang up in my chair; the prisoner turned towards me; I saw a flash, a smoke, and heard a report—he shot me in the right breast—I saw that Mrs. Lindus had been shot, and I was at the same time looking for some instrument for protection—I saw Mrs. Lindus at the door with her hand upon the key, and I saw the prisoner with a pistol, pointed to her back, smoke and flash, and heard the report—at the same time I seized an account-book with my left hand, leaned over my desk and broke the glass of the sliding panel with my right, and then seized another account-book and turned round to the prisoner, who at the same moment stood before me endeavouring to take aim again—e were a few seconds in that position when the door flew open, and my brother Albert rushed in with the clerk Zabell—Albert seized the prisoner by the collar, and drove him against the mantelpiece—I turned to assist him—Albert was grasping the prisoner's hands, in one of which was a pistol—the prisoner again turned the pistol upon me—I felt that I was bleeding internally, and thought I was dying, and I went to the office to get assistance and left the house—I was taken to the hospital, and remained there
five weeks—the bullet has not been extracted—I have not at any time, or on any occasion, seen any indication of insanity in the prisoner, or heard of any such suggestion—I know his handwriting. (Documents marked J., A., C, D., E., F., M., N., were handed to the witness who stated that they were in the handwriting of the prisoner.)
Cross-examined. At the interview on January 1st the prisoner said that if Mrs. Lindus did not come on the 12th we were to go down to Forest Gate—I instructed my clerk to make an entry in my diary—the diary is not here—the entry was not for Forest Gate at twelve, it was "Lindus at twelve," no mention of Forest Gate—when he came on the 10th I told him that I had seen Mrs. Lindus on the Monday, and had arranged that the meeting should take place at my office that day at twelve—he never complained in any way of my conduct as his solicitor—the settlement was made with his sanction and that of Mr. Bicknell—a modification was made at the prisoner's own suggestion; the draft was prepared on the terms arranged—it is a complete misconception that, there was anything fraudulent in it, or that the prisoner was drunk when he signed it, or that there was any persuasion to induce him to sign it—he had used no threat towards me prior to January 10th—as far as my efforts were concerned they were made on behalf of all the parties whose interests were entrusted to my care—I have brought an action for libel against the prisoner in relation to the letters that are produced, asserting the contents of them to be absolutely untrue, and have assessed the damages at £3,000—I have also an action on account of the personal injuries received on this occasion, damages £3,000—both those actions are down for trial, one of them in the near future—my brother and Zabell came in almost immediately, while the prisoner was endeavouring to take a second aim at me—the whole thing was momentary—when I left the room the revolver was in his hand, and my brother was holding his wrist.
Re-examined. Q. What was the modification in the deed which the prisoner suggested? A. Originally the settlement was to have been on Mrs. Lindus' life, estate, and her two children, but about three weeks after the deed had been executed Lindus came to the office and said he had been further considering the matter, and he did not see why his two youngest children should be left out, but that the eldest son should be left out entirely, as he had nothing further to do with him. I told him I could not alter the deed in any way, but he was so terribly violent that I prepared a subsequent document, giving the property to the two children by his first marriage. That was the modification that I concurred in. As the deed stood, it left out the two youngest children of the first marriage; he was determined to have it altered; he said he would ruin himself, and make himself bankrupt, that the deed should be upset; and he so frightened Mrs. Lindus that I had no other course open to me but to prepare the deed and leave it for future consideration. As the deed stood, the settle-ment was upon Mrs. Lindus and her two children, and all the three children by his first wife were excluded. As it was altered, the two younger children by his first marriage got a benefit, excluding the elder; that accounts for there being two trustees put in. It was after I came from the hospital that I issued the writ for libel. I think the action for
damages was commenced while I was in the hospital. I never heard of the letters till I saw them in the newspapers.
ALBERT AINSFORD JACOBS . I am a brother of the last witness, and am common law managing clerk to the firm of which he is a partner—I have known the prisoner since October, 1891, by his calling at the office—on 10th January I saw him there about ten o'clock—he asked if Mr. Jacobs was in—I said, "No"—he asked what time I expected him—I said, "Between eleven and twelve"—he said, "I have an appointment with him"—I said, "Where?"—he said, "Forest Gate"—I said, possibly he might not come to the office first—he appeared anxious that he should be at Forest Gate by twelve—I sent for a time-table, and he went out—a few minutes before twelve he came in with Mrs. and Miss Lindus—one of the lads took his name in to Mr. Jacobs—he stayed about a minute, and said, "I will be back in a moment," and went out—he returned in about two minutes—Zabell asked him to step into Mr. Jacobs' room—I preceded him, and announced him, and then went into my own room—while there I heard screams, and I ran back to Mr. Jacobs' room—as I got towards the door I saw a flash through the glass and heard a report—I tried to get in at the door, but could not open it; I then sprang to the sliding panel, and as I got there, there was another flash and report—I pushed the panel open, and saw Mr. Jacobs standing to the left beside the paper-stand, and the prisoner in front, pointing at him with a revolver in his hand—I went back to the door, and put my arm through the glass—just as I did so the door flew open, and I rushed in and seized the prisoner by the right wrist—he let the revolver drop-out of his hand—I put my arm round him, and caught his left wrist and held him—Zabell came in—the prisoner struggled violently, and Zabell called out that he was biting him—we called for help, and Mr. Millar came in, pulled the prisoner down, and held him till the police came—I have known the prisoner since 1891, coming to the office—I never saw any signs of insanity about him—on the morning of the 10th he appeared quite sober—he talked in a rational way.
Cross-examined. I saw the second flash and report instantaneously with my opening the window—that was the first opportunity I had of seeing into the room—as far as I could see, the prisoner and my brother always seemed on the most friendly terms.
Re-examined. I heard two shots—from the time I heard the last shot to the time I got in and seized the prisoner was about from fifteen to twenty seconds—when I pushed aside the panel I could see into the room, and I saw the prisoner standing in front of the fireplace, pointing the revolver towards Mr. Jacobs—that was before I entered the room, after the second report—I did not see Zabell till I had been struggling with the prisoner for a minute.
G. S. JACOBS (Re-examined). I have my diary here now—in the entry there is nothing about Forest Gate.
HORACE ZABELL . I am a clerk to G. It. Brown and Co., and have been so about four years—during the whole of that time I have seen the prisoner come to the office on many occasions—on 10th January I saw him come about ten—he did not speak to me; he spoke to Mr. Albert—he seemed alt right, rational and sober—he remained about a quarter of an hour—I saw him again about eleven—there was no difference in his
appearance and manner—I saw him after that at about a quarter to twelve—he went out, and came back in about three minutes—Mrs. Lindus came in with him the time before—she went into Mr. Jacobs' room first—he walked into the room—the daughter remained in the outer office—in about two minutes I heard a shriek, and then a report just as I rushed to the door; then I heard another one, and a breaking of glass—I went in, and saw the prisoner standing with a pistol in his hand—we closed with him, and I got the pistol from his hand—eventually the police came, and took him in charge—I never saw in him during the four years any indication of a disordered mind.
ERNEST BRUCE MILLAR . I am a solicitor, and member of the firm of G. R. Brown and Co.—I have known the prisoner about twelve years—during that time I have never noticed any sign of his mind being disordered—on the morning of 10th January I was in the office; I saw the prisoner there shortly before twelve—I had no conversation with him—a little after twelve I heard the report of a pistol, and screams, and went into Mr. Jacobs' office; I saw Mr. Jacobs standing by his desk, and the prisoner struggling with Albert Jacobs and Zabell—I assisted Mr. Jacobs, and called for assistance—I got him to the outer door, and went back to the office in two or three minutes; the prisoner was struggling with Albert Jacobs and Zabell—I seized the prisoner by the legs and threw him on to the floor, and held him down till the police came—one constable asked the other whether he had not better send for the handcuffs, and the prisoner said "No, I will go quietly."
Cross-examined. Before twelve I had no conversation with the prisoner; I merely wished him good morning when he came in; I had no opportunity of observing him.
ALFRED SLEDMAN (523 City). On 10th January I was on duty in the Old Jewry—about twelve I heard cries of "Murder!" and "Police!"—I went to whence the cries proceeded, No. 3, Church Court, and found Mr. Jacobs leaning against the doorway—he made a statement to me—I assisted him to a cab, and sent him to the hospital—I then went back and saw Mrs. Lindus—she made a statement to me, and she was taken by Oldhamstead to the hospital—I went back to the office, and saw the prisoner on the floor of Mr. Jacobs' room, being held down by the three witnesses—I said, "Get the handcuffs"—the prisoner said, "I will go quietly"—I took him to Cloak Lane Station, searched him, and found on him this revolver, with this tablet on it—it was in his right-hand top coat pocket; it was loaded in all the chambers—when I took it from him he said, "I do a little shooting sometimes in the country, you know"—I also found on him five bills of costs, a letter sending the same, four revolver cartridges which fitted both revolvers, and these papers marked "A" to "H" and "I"—I saw Mr. Zabell hand this other revolver to the inspector at the station; the one that had been fired—I took both revolvers to Mr. Johnson, the gunmaker.
GEORGE HITCHCOCK (525 City). On 10th January I was in the Old Jewry—I heard a whistle, and went to Mr. Jacobs' office—I saw him at the door; he was taken in a cab to the hospital by his brother—I then went with the other officer to a room and saw this revolver lying on the floor by the side of the prisoner; I picked it up and put it on the
mantelpiece; it was afterwards handed to Zabell, and brought to the station—it was half-cocked when I picked it up.
WILLIAM OLDHAMSTEAD (City Detective Inspector). I was at Cloak Lane Station when the prisoner was brought there—he was first charged with shooting Mr. Jacobs, with intent to murder; he made no reply to that—he was further charged with shooting Mrs. Lindus, with intent to murder—he made no reply—both these revolvers were handed to me—this one was handed to me by Mr. Zabell; it was not interfered with.
Cross-examined. I gathered from what the prisoner said to me that he expected to meet his wife at Forest Gate, and not at our office.
Re-examined. I referred to the diary, and said to him that I saw an entry there for twelve—he said, "I will go out and come back again," or words to that effect.
DONALD JOHNSON . I am manager to the London Armoury Company, 114, Queen Victoria Street—I am an expert in firearms—these two revolvers were brought to me by Constable Hitchcock—this smaller one was at full cock, the most dangerous condition to carry a revolver in; two of the chambers had been fired, and three were loaded—there were cartridgecases in the second, which had been recently discharged—the larger revolver has a double action; that was fully loaded—I have been shown four cartridges which fitted the larger revolver.
MALCOLM LANGTON HEPBURN . I was house surgeon at the Middlesex Hospital on 10th January, and saw Mr. Jacobs and Mrs. Lindus there—I examined Mr. Jacobs first—he was in a condition of collapse from a wound in the chest—the appearance was such as would be caused by a bullet from a revolver—we have not been able to extract that bullet—after five weeks he was sufficiently recovered to be discharged—with regard to Mrs. Lindus, I found a wound about the middle of the back—her general condition was not such as to cause any anxiety; I extracted the bullet, and produce it; it is flattened—it lodged in the muscles of the back—there is a large bone at that place which the muscles cover—she progressed rapidly and favourably.
Cross-examined. That bullet could not have penetrated far—I see no reason to suppose that the health of Mr. Jacobs should be permanently injured—I see no reason why he should not permanently recover.
CHARLES HENRY LINDUS . I am the eldest son of the prisoner; I was seventeen last November—I have been living with him for about ten month's at Southminster, since March, 1893, at a cottage—I was not en-gaged in any occupation, only doing a little gardening—this small revolver is mine; I bought it myself at Mr. Leach's, at Chelmsford—this larger one I have seen at home—I do not know where that was bought—the labels on the two pistols are not my writing; I never saw them till they were at the Police-court—I should say they are my father's writing—before I went to southminster I lived at Forest Gate with my stepmother and my father; as long as I can remember I always lived with them.
Cross-examined. I lived at Penge at one time, three or four years ago; it might be four years—after that I went to Portsmouth, and then to Forest Gate—my father went to Portsmouth; my step-mother did not—we lived together at Forest Gate until I went to Southminster, in March last year—for about six months or so before January last I have noticed a good deal of alteration in my father's manner—he has not always drank a good deal; not at all times—for some years he has; I can't say for how many—sometimes he drank to excess—there was a marked alteration in him about six months before January; he went on changing more and more towards the end of last year—he has become very reserved and morose and depressed—he spoke to me about the settlement which he had executed with my mother—it would be about six months before January that he first began to complain of that settlement—he did some rather strange things towards the end of last year—he could not sleep at night—sometimes he would come into my room and tell me he could not get sleep, and tell me to get up and get his breakfast about three or half-past three in the morning—he told me once to get up and get his dinner in the early morning—I did get up, and got something for him, about half-past two—that was a little before Christmas, 1893—about that time I remember his giving some strange and extravagant orders—he told me he had been and bought a colt—he had to sell it again at a loss of £4—early in January this year he gave an order for 16 lbs. of beef, eight shoulders of mutton, 2 lbs. of kidney, 9 lbs. of pork, and some sheep's heads—that order was complied with, and the things sent home next day—that was a day or two before Christmas—he would be very quiet sometimes, and then would get up and be violent, as far as I could Bee, without any occasion for it—he wanted to fight me—I heard him once say that he was going to be buried at Southminster—I told him I did not want to hear talk of that kind—his father's funeral took place when I was about five or six years of age—I do not remember it; Mr. May was the undertaker, I believe—I saw this letter to Mr. May, at the Mansion House, not before—I did not know of its existence—I have heard my father pace up and down his room at night—I have seen some empty laudanum bottles in the house at Southminster, one empty, and one half full—I don't know how long my father had had this larger revolver—I first saw it about a fortnight before Christmas—I knew of his having another, a seven-chamber revolver—I remember looking over a catalogue of revolvers with him one evening—he said he should like a revolver—I knew that he had one—he has been greatly changed from the middle of last year; that change was most marked just before Christmas—in coming from Southminster you would have to change at Romford to get to Forest Gate; you would not have to come to London—his sleepless nights continued up to the end of the first week in January—I did not come up to London with him on the 10th—I went to Southminstor Station with him—he called for drink that morning at the White Hart—I did not go in with him—I can't say what he had; I went down the yard—I don't know if he had anything; that was about a quarter to eight in the morning—I left him at twenty-five minutes past eight—about three or four months before I left Forest Gate I heard my step-mother say she did not believe my father was right—she did not say it to me—she said it to Mrs. Kent—I only heard her say it that once.
Re-examined. My earliest recollection of my father taking too much to drink was when he lived at Worthing; I was then about eleven or twelve—his wife was living there with him, and my sister Margaret, and Henry and Harold—I can't say how often he took too much to drink, I was not generally at home; I was at school then, not a boarding-school, a day-school—Margaret and Henry continued to live with my father and step-mother and myself at Forest Gate—Margaret is now fourteen, and Henry thirteen—they have also been living at Southminster—neither of them are here as witnesses—I was first asked to make a statement about my father's strangeness of manner I think on 13th or 14th January; Mr. Oldhamstead saw me once, and the doctor at Holloway saw me about a fortnight ago; I only saw him once—I never acquainted anybody about it before this—my step-mother never came to Southminster—my father had not been drinking when he gave the order for the things I have mentioned—I should say the last time he had taken too much was about a week before that, and it was about the same time that he had the dinner and breakfast at two in the morning—I got up to cook it for him—he was not always intoxicated; he often was—he was intoxicated when he spoke about the colt.
GEORGE EDWARD MAY . I am a member of the firm of May Brothers, undertakers, of 30, High Street, Peckham—I have some faint recollection of the prisoner following his father's funeral in 1883—I received this letter (J), and sent this reply. (Read: "Squeaks Road, Southminster, Essex, October 2nd, 1893. Messrs. May and Son. Dear Sirs,—I should feel obliged by your letting me know what you would charge for an open car with a pair of horses, and a carriage with two horses with velvets, and eight men to attend it. You have got to charge for sending men and horses down here and back. Let me know the amount; it must be low. You buried my father at Highgate eleven years ago. I am yours truly—C. H. T. LINDUS. ") (The reply stated that the price would be £2811s.)—I heard nothing more about the matter till January, when I saw one of the detectives from Scotland Yard.
HENRY BATE . I am a gunsmith at Maiden, Essex—I know the prisoner as a customer—about nine months ago he bought this larger pistol and a few cartridges to fit it—a week or so before Christmas I received this letter (M), and sent an answer. (Read: "Squeaks Road, Southminster. Dear Sir,—Have you got any revolvers smaller than the one twenty-seven shillings I bought? I want it on the same principle, price about eleven shillings or twelve shillings. Waiting an answer by return of poet. Yours truly, C. E. Lindus."—I quoted the price at 12s. 6d.—I did not send any revolver—I received a large revolver from him about the 5th January—this is it—this letter came with it. (This requested the revolver to be mended and returned immediately with two or three dozens cartridges to suit it)—the occurrence of 10th January happened whilst the revolver was in my possession.
ELIZA CREASY . I am the wife of Samuel Creasy, who keeps the Queen's Head Public-house at Southminster—I know the prisoner—I saw him at our house on 5th January, between seven and eight at night—I served him with a bottle of gingerade in the taproom, and we got into conversation—I said to him, "Why don't you have one of those pigs killed and cut up with the bones in?"—he said, "Oh, Mrs. Creasy, I shan't be here
I have to be in London on the 10th. On Wednesday I will call and treat you and your husband to anything you like to have for the last time; the next thing you will see Mr. Bishop" (The undertaker) "having me carried to the cemetery. If you don't, you will hear I am somewhere else."
JOHN MARTIN BELL . I am a solicitor's clerk—I know the firm of G. R. Brown and Co.—I knew Mr. Lindus as a client of that firm—I have known him about eight years—I had not seen him for some five or six years—I used to see him frequently when I was with Wilde and Brown, who used to act for him—he was a little bit eccentric at times, not to say the worse for drink—he had a little drop—shortly before eleven on 10th January, I was at the bottom of Church Passage, Old Jewry, and saw him standing in the street—we recognised each other—he asked how I was, and whether I was with the old firm, which is now Wilde and Wilde—he said he had an appointment down the passage at Jacobs' office, and he was going to meet his wife—on one occasion she had made him drunk and got him to sign some document—that was all—I said good-bye to him, he shook hands with me, and said I should hear something—he appeared collected and rational.
The various documents produced in the course of the evidence were put in and read. That marked "A" was in a registered envelope addressed "C. E. Lindus, Esq., 31, Dunbar Road, Forest Gate," and in pencil were the words: "George Saunders Jacobs is nothing but a shinay, or thief; he has robed my children and I; I have to part with life for noting. Mrs. Lindus, otherwise Collins, is nothing but a Hore.—Signed, C. E. Lindus." "C." "Please inform my eldest son, Charles Henry Theodore Lindus, of Southminster, Essex, or Mr. Robery, the police sergeant. My son will immediately be brought to his house, he will have me berried there at Southminster.—CHAS. E. LINDUS, December 27th, 1893.""D "purported to be a dying statement signed "Chas. E. Lindus, December 27th, 1893," and was a lengthy, ill-spelt document, alleging a course of misconduct on the part of his wife, who he described as "a fean of Hell," and describing Mr. Jacobs as being guilty of one of the greatest frauds and swindles ever committed by a lawyer, etc."E." was of a similar character, chiefly complaining of his wife's ill-treatment of his children; and stating "a father will forfeit his life for his children to have satisfaction"
Witnesses for the Defence.
VALENTINE BORDEN . I am the master of the Brighton Workhouse—according to the record George Frederick Lindus was admitted into that workhouse on the 1st November, 1870—I have no knowledge of it apart from the record—I became master about two years ago, and that was the first knowledge I had of that workhouse—the books are here. (The COURT ruled that this evidence was inadmissible.)
ADA WATSON . I am married and live at 46, Munster Road, Fulham—I had a brother George Frederick Lindus, who died about thirteen years ago, I should think—I did not know of my own knowledge that he was in Brighton Workhouse.
Cross-examined. I did not know of his death at the time; I only heard of it—I could not say when I heard—I last saw him about twentyfour years ago—the prisoner is my brother—I had not seen or heard anything of him for the last five years.
(MR. MATHEWS proponed to put in a certified copy from the register of
the death of George Frederick Lindus. MR. BESLEY objected as there was no proof of the identity of the person named in the certificate. Held that it was not admissible.)
HERBERT ROBERT COOMBE . I am a licentiate of the Royal College of Surgeons, and a member of the Royal College of Physicians, practising at Southminster—I knew the prisoner during the time he lived there—on 18th October he came to consult me with regard to his daughter's condition—I saw him again on 24th October, and 8th November, and two or three days a week after that date down to about the first week in January, 1894—I did not so much notice on 18th October that his manner was peculiar—it was a slight interview, in which he asked me to see his daughter—on the 24th his peculiar noteless and vacant condition struck me—noteless is an Essex term—he had a pecular hesitation in answering questions—it struck me as peculiar—I think it was on 26th October that I operated on his daughter's tonsils—I saw him then, and for days and days afterwards—I did not notice him much on the 26th—I saw him between 26th October and 8th November—I cannot say whether the peculiarities existed between those dates—on 8th November, from ten to 10.30 p.m., I heard my door-bell violently rung—I answered the door, and saw the prisoner standing outside—he had a wine-bottle in his hand, and he was waving it about from side to side—he said, "I have been poisoned; I have got diphtheria, and all my family"—at the same time he grasped his throat violently, as if in pain there—he used some foul expressions with regard to what he had been doing; eating and drinking his own excretion—he threatened to shoot Tom Stammers and Allen Stewart the first time he met them—he was in a state of great excitement, perspiration was rolling off his head and down his face, and his eyes were almost starting out of his head—he did not give me the idea of being drunk—I asked him to come in, and took him into my consulting room, and talked to him for half an hour or more, with the result that he quieted down—I explained to him that there was no necessity for him to look on the case so badly, and I promised to see his children next day, and examine them—he was quiet when he left me—he left the bottle behind him—I promised to examine it and see if there was anything wrong with it, and see him about it next day—there was no poison in it—it was a bottle of water, I believe, that he had taken it from his cistern—I believed he supposed that had poisoned him—I cannot say I examined it—I called next morning, 9th November, at ten o'clock, and examined his children's throats and his own, and could find no evidence of diptheria, so I did not call any more—I saw him very irregularly throughout that month and December—his little boy was very seriously ill with inflammation of the eyes, and he used to come and see me very often, and once or twice the prisoner came with him—the peculiarity of his manner continued to some extent—I had some difficulty in getting answers to questions from him—he seemed to hesitate and to doubt whether he could express what he wanted to in the necessary words—he did finally get it out—I saw him about the end of the first week in January, before he left Southminster, and then I next saw him in Holloway Gaol, last Monday, 2nd April—I examined him there—Dr. Walker, the prison surgeon, was present at the time—I found the prisoner an altered man—externally he had
shrivelled considerably—there was great loss of flesh—he had the same vacant noteless condition that I had noticed when I first saw him, only that it had considerably increased—his articulation was very indistinct—the pupils of his eyes wore dilated, both equally—his gait was shuffling—he complained very much of sleeplessness and depression of spirits—his physical condition was consistent with the reality of those complaints—his loss of memory was the most important symptom in his case—his memory was gone—he did not recognise me; he took me for a clerk from the Home Office, and wanted to know what my business was—in conjunction with Dr. Walker I made a careful examination of him at that time—the symptoms I have described in my opinion pointed to his being insane—such symptoms are symptoms of alcoholic insanity—the symptoms I saw indicated disease of the brain, which was the cause of the alcoholic insanity—I could not form an opinion as to the length of the duration of those symptoms.
Cross-examined. We were perfect strangers until he came to Southminster—beyond meeting him every day, and passing him in the street, I had not noticed him until his daughter suffered from her tonsils—I had no conversation with him about his past history—my first real conversation with him was when I went to see his daughter Margaret, aged about fourteen—she did not explain her symptoms to me, and he said nothing about her throat—I looked at her tonsils—she made no complaint of inflammation of the throat—the prisoner recommended the operation, and asked for it to be performed, and I did it; I thought it was the right thing to do, or I should not have done it—he came for me, and said he had had his own tonsils cut—it is not a very uncommon thing to do—when I saw her I recommended him to have the operation done—he suggested that which I thought the proper thing to do—I did not attend much to him on the day of the operation—nothing struck me, as a medical man, for the necessity, for the safety of persons around him, to speak of his state of mind, till the incident of his coming with the bottle—except the day of the operation, my visits to his house lasted about ten minutes—I was not called in to see him at all—the boy's eyes got bad on 15th December—he was about ten or eleven years old—I do not know his name, nor the name of the other children—the boy came to my surgery about his eyes on every occasion—the bottle incident was before that—I did not warn Tom Stammers or Allen Stewart that the prisoner said he would shoot them—I cannot say that the symptoms then differed at all from those of delirium tremens, because you get very similar symptoms in delirium tremens, but the nervous excitement which I noticed, and the way in which the symptoms passed off before he left me, led me to think it was not delirium tremens—I don't think a man suffering from delirium tremens would be quietened down in half an hour—I formed the opinion from that that this was distinguished from delirium tremens—that is my opinion—I decline to admit that it is a scientific opinion—I went to Holloway Prison on 2nd April, because of instructions from the prisoner's solicitor, Mr. Ford—I don't know if he is Mr. Bicknell's clerk—he called on me on 19th February—I had then seen about the shooting in the paper—I had never seen Mr. Ford before—he wrote and asked for an interview, and then came and saw me—at that time I had not seen the prisoner since the crime—I would not have given a certificate to
incarcerate him in a lunatic asylum up to the last time I saw him at the end of the first week in January—I don't remember Mr. Ford telling me he was defending the prisoner—I daresay he referred to him as having lived at Southminster; I don't remember the exact conversation—the son did not come with Mr. Ford—I don't remember any conversation with Ford as to the family living at Southminster—I did not know Dr. Walker before—I did not ask him to assist in making observations; he was present—the interview lasted a little over an hour—when the prisoner left the room I and the doctor left together—I think our first words were, "What is your opinion of the case?" and I was under the impression at the time that Dr. Walker was on the other side, and I declined to answer—I don't know if we parted without finding out we were on the same side—I have only seen Dr. Walker once, on 2nd April, before to-day—I do not know of the prisoner being weighed before and after the crime—a man in prison with a charge hanging over him, and not having resort to drink, would naturally become depressed if he was in the habit of indulging in drink occasionally too freely—I should think that would make him lose in weight—his loss of weight was visible.
Re-examined. You could put something like a bushel under his waistcoat; there was a great difference—the symptoms I saw on 8th November might be indicative of delirium tremens, but I did not think it was the result of drink—I attend here on subpoena.
GEORGE EDWARD WALKER . I am medical officer of Holloway Prison, where the prisoner has been confined from 10th January till to-day—I have had him under my constant observation ever since his admission—he is dull and apathetic, he takes no interest in any of his surroundings; he has been very melancholic; he has suffered a good deal from gastric disturbance; his tongue has been tremulous; he has a hesitation in his speech, and his mind appears to be confused—I think his condition now is somewhat worse than it was when he first came under my notice, but the symptoms have been in existence since the date of his admission—I think those symptoms, combined with the history of his past, are consistent with, and indicative of, alcoholic insanity—there is another matter, the letters he has written to his son, which I have seen—the symptoms I spoke of certainly accompany a well-known form of insanity, melancholia, and are consistent with it—melancholia is frequently accompanied by homicidal and suicidal tendencies—delusions are a frequent accompaniment of melancholia—about the most common delusion in that form of insanity is that there is a conspiracy against the person who suffers from the delusion—I think it is a common accompanying delusion that a person is being poisoned by what he is given to eat and drink—my attention has not been directed to this case more than to all the other mental cases that come under my notice—I have seen the prisoner every other day—I did not know that a question would be raised in regard to the condition of his mind—I first knew it, I think, on the occasion of Dr. Coombe's visit on 2nd April—I had observed him every other day between 10th January and 2nd April—I was in the room when Dr. Coombe examined him—I expressed the opinion I had formed to Dr. Coombe—very often in such cases I believe an expert is called in by
the prosecution; that is the ordinary course—I received instructions last night from the Home Office to forward a report to the prosecution—I have done so. (After some discussion the report was handed to MR. MATHEWS)—the prisoner's memory seems to me much impaired—I fancy he is very suspicious still with regard to his wife's fidelity; he told me he was—I asked him the question, and the effect was to cause his face to twitch violently, and a wild expression to come into his eyes, and evidently he had great difficulty in controlling his feelings—he had written a large number of letters that have come under my observation—I was the medical officer at Chatham Prison, and I have been connected with convict prisons for twenty-one years, during which time I have had a large number of criminal lunatics pass through my hands—I have had to certify many. (MR. MATHEWS proposed to put the question whether, in the witness opinion, the prisoner had been and was certifiably insane; but the COURT ruled it could not be put:)
Cross-examined. I have been at Holloway since January, 1894—that is the first prison I have been at where I have had under my care persons waiting trial—there is an assistant medical officer there, who has been there for a good many years—he had equal opportunity to see the prisoner—Mr. Coombe did not consult with him—it was not his duty to be there—I am not aware of any order to the effect that an officer of Her Majesty's prisons may not converse with the medical men sent on behalf of persons waiting trial—this is the subpoena I received—it is dated 2nd April, but it was served on me yesterday morning at the Court—I was attending here in another case—the clerk who gave me the subpoena gave me a guinea conduct money—I make a note of all cases in the prison, and there is a note of this case—I have the official notes made in every case—I do not keep a pocket-book for notes; I have a few notes of this case I made for my own information—I have some notes on a piece of paper; I jotted those down yesterday from memory, after receiving the subpoena—these are the original notes I jotted down; they are not copied from anything—the prisoner is suffering from melancholia in the form of alcoholic insanity—alcoholic insanity takes the form of melancholia—I concur in saying that all the symptoms Dr. Coombe observed were consistent with the effects of drink—when I made those notes all the things did not occur to me at one time, and I put in some afterwards—he was very morose—gastric disturbance refers to his foul tongue, and his inability to take ordinary food—he had to live on milk diet principally—that is common to all drunkards to a certain extent—I have never been examined at a murder trial as to whether a man knew that what he did was a crime at the time of doing it.
Re-examined. The prisoner has had no stimulant since he has been in prison until lately, when he has had a little, because I thought he required it, as he had an attack of tonsilitis—the symptoms I spoke of as observable in him at the beginning have increased, although he was deprived of all spirituous liquors up to the attack of tonsilitis—I believe a person suffering from melancholia may have a knowledge of the right or wrong of an act; and so a case of alcoholic insanity may be accompanied with a knowledge of the right or wrong of conduct, I think; and in such cases I think it might be accompanied with the knowledge of the nature and quality of the act.
GUILTY .— Twelve Years' Penal Servitude.
NEW COURT.—Friday, April 6th, 1894.
Before Mr. Common Serjeant.
381. JAMES LEATHER PLEADED GUILTY to unlawfully omitting to make certain entries in the books of James Hooke, his master, who recommended him to mercy. He received a good character.— Discharged on recognizances.
MR. BESLEY, for the prosecution offered no evidence against him upon two indictments for embezzlement.— NOT GUILTY .
MR. PASSMORE Prosecuted, and MR. GEOGHEGAN Defended.
JAMES SLIPPER . I am vestry foreman at the vestry depot, Notting Dale—I live there—on 28th February, at about 5.20, I was standing outside the door of the depot tool-house, on the footway, in the Walmer Road—I saw a costermonger's barrow and pony coming along towards me just a little faster than the ordinary traffic, in the direction of Prince's Road, on the off-side of the road, the wrong side the opposite side to that on which I was—the prisoner was driving and two other men were in the barrow, which was about fifteen yards from me when I first saw it, and that would be about thirty yards from where the man was knocked down—it passed me, and then I heard shouting, and noticed a man walking across the road in front of the vehicle—the near shaft caught him about the shoulders, knocking him down and the near wheel parsed over his body—the barrow pulled up a, quickly as it possibly could—I ran to the spot, told the prisoner and the men in the barrow to remain, and sent for the police—the man on the ground was Isaac Mills, one of the Kensington Vestry's employes—he had just left off work, put his tools down at the tool-house, gone to Mary Place, and walked across the road—I saw him leave the tool-house a few minutes before, and proceed towards Mary Place—I did not go to him when he was on the ground; others picked him up—he was 73 years old—he was a hale man for his time of life; we always took his age as 66—the prisoner and his friends in the trap appeared to me as though they had been drinking—one of the friends took the pony away, and I did not see any more of the other—the deceased walked behind me to the station with a constable's assistance.
Cross-examined. The prisoner pulled up as soon as he possibly could, in between six and ten yards—stimulants were sent for for the deceased, I don't know who sent or paid for them—opposite Mary Place there was a barrow with a broom, shovel, and pick in it; it was opposite to where this took place, and on the prisoner's near side—I did not notice if the prisoner was driving a Russian pony—I cannot say if such pones are short-tempered; at times they are very hard-mouthed—a man would be driving properly if he pulled out to the off-side to clear something on his near-side—I did not see the pony shy across the road as he passed the barrow; I should not like to swear it did not—when I first saw the prisoner he was about thirty yards from the barrow and and at that time he was on the off-side—he was not near the crown of the road, but more towards the right-hand side footway—there was no traffic between him
and the lamp—he kept on the off-side all the way along—the deceased was looking towards the school wall, waiting straight across—I did not see the deceased till I heard shouting; the prisoner was then within four yards of the deceased—he walked to the station—I cannot say if he was upset by the accident—he was flushed, and staggered when getting out of the cart, and when he was down—I cannot say if he was capable of driving.
By the COURT. The deceased was three or four feet from the other side when he was knocked down—he had practically crossed the road; he had just turned the centre when I first saw him—there was nothing else in the road at the time to obscure my view—the deceased was not deaf; he was a wonderful man for his age—I should say the vehicle was travelling at eight miles an hour—nothing was coming up to make the prisoner go to the other side of the road.
CHARLES THOMAS SEAL . I live at 13, Hesworth Place, Notting Dale, and am a road boy employed by the Kensington Vestry—I knew Mills, who was employed by the Vestry—on 28th February, at 5.15 p.m., I was standing outside the vestry depot tool-house door, in Walmer Road—I saw the prisoner and two men coming in a costermonger's barrow, drawn by a pony, from the direction of the Castle beer-house; and the next I saw was that the near shaft hit Mills on the shoulder and knocked him down, and the near side wheel passed over him; then the cart balanced on one side towards the wall, and came down again over him and passed over—I ran after it and called out, and they pulled up—Mills was three or four feet from the kerb when he was run over—when I first saw the prisoner he was just against the beer-house—he had been drinking; he had that appearance—the prisoner sent for six pennyworth of brandy, and Mills drank a little—Mills was taken to the station.
Cross-examined. The barrow was between three and four feet from the pavement when the near shaft struck Mills; one wheel ran into the gutter, and the other across Mills' body—the barrow was about five yards from Mills when I first saw him; it was five yards from him when they holloaed out—I cannot say how far Mills was from the vestry depot—I said Mills was about ten yards from the tool-house door—there was a barrow, with brushes and spades in it, outside the tool-house door, on the near side, the same side as St. Mary's Place—I did not see the prisoner pull out to pass that barrow—when I first saw him he was outside the Castle beer-house, driving on the wrong side of the road.
BENJAMIN FOWLER . I live at 212, Walmer Road, Notting Dale, and am a road mender employed by the Kensington Vestry—on 28th February, about 5.20, I was in the Walmer Road in charge of a barrow with tools in it, which was stationary at the time, just on the other side of Mary's Place on the Vestry Depot side, the near side—Mills spoke to me just on the other side of Mary's Place, and then he went round my barrow to cross the road—I picked up my barrow, and was going away with it when I heard holloaing and shouting, and I turned round and saw the barrow driven by the prisoner, hit him on the left shoulder, knock him down, and the near wheel go over his body—he was then five feet from the kerb, I should say—that was all I saw of the matter.
Cross-examined. Mills had tried to borrow threepence of me, and then he started to cross the road—there were about three yards between the
prisoner's barrow and mine; my barrow was not in motion; he was on my off-side—my barrow was about four feet from the kerb, I should think, and it is three feet wide, so that I was seven feet from the kerb—the prisoner came behind me—he tried to avoid Mills and pulled the off rein and drove right into the kerb, and the near shaft knocked Mills down—he never passed me before he knocked the man down; I was in advance of him—if he had passed me I should think there would have been four yards between my barrow and his.
Cross-examined. Mills, after he was knocked down, said to me that he did not wish to lock anyone up.
Cross-examined. I had been with the prisoner for five hours that day—we had been in one public-house, the Zetland, which is in the same road as the depot—the prisoner had a glass of mild and bitter there; he had had one or two before he started out, but he only had one glass while he was in my company—I was not in his company all the time for five hours; I went in and out of the public-house—I was in his company while he was driving—when we came up towards this depot, I saw on the near-side a barrow containing brushes, and the prisoner, who was driving a Russian pony, had to pull out to the off-side to pass it, and as he was pulling to his off-side the pony shied at the barrow—Mills was then pretty near to the off-side—as the pony shied it knocked him down—the prisoner pulled up immediately, and sent for brandy for Mills, and went to the Police-station—I was sitting with the prisoner; I was in a position to see—he had had a glass or two; he was quite capable of taking care of the pony; he was as sober as I am now, and so was I—I gave evidence before the Coroner—I had never been out with this pony before that I know of—we had been driving it for about an hour—it was going at an easy trot of about six miles an hour.
By the COURT. We stopped at the Zetland about ten minutes—I had been with the prisoner for four or five hours, but the pony only came out of the stable about an hour and ten minutes before the accident happened—we started from Ascot Place, close by the Vestry Depot—it would take us two or three minutes to drive there; it is only just round the corner—we spent the time in the Bridport Public-house—that was before we started out with the pony—I might have been in there for two or three hours with the prisoner—I had nothing to drink there, and I did not see the. prisoner drink; we were playing at dominoes—I went in to see a friend, and he kept me there talking—no one paid for drink for me—we started for a drive an hour and ten minutes before the accident—we went down Goldhawk Road—we stopped at no other public-house besides the Zetland—before the pony shied we were on our near-side after passing the Castle, and then we pulled out to pass the barrow, and the pony shied—I do not know that the accident happened before we passed the barrow.
ALFRED HOCKADAY (159 X). On 28th February, about 5.30 p.m., I went to Walmer Road, and found Mills sitting on the kerb, with his back to a lamp-post—I found the prisoner in Hespeth Place, a short distance away—the pony and barrow had gone—I said, "Are you the driver of the pony and costermonger's barrow which has just knocked down a man
in the road?"—he said, "Yes; but I afterwards did my best for him"—he was drunk—I took him to the station, where he was charged with furious driving—he made no reply—I had no idea, then, that Mills was so seriously injured—he was taken to the station by another constable.
ROBERT ALEXANDER JACKSON . I am divisional surgeon to the police at Notting Dale Police-station—on 28th February I was called there, and I saw the deceased—he was suffering from dislocation of the right shoulder, abrasions on the right side of his face, and general shock—I ordered his removal to the hospital—he was taken to the West London—I do not know of my own knowledge that he was not taken in there—the injuries he had received were serious; that was why I sent him to the hospital—I formed no opinion as to the ultimate effect of them—I knew what was the cause of the occurrence.
Cross-examined. I cannot say if it would have been beneficial to him to have been immediately attended to at the hospital—I was before the Coroner's jury—no person was called there from the hospital—I send all cases to the hospital that cannot be attended to at the station—I had no means at that time of making a sufficient examination to see whether there were any internal injuries—there might have been.
JAMES DUFF MILLAR . I am a registered medical practitioner, of Norland Place, Notting Hill—on 1st March, about eight p.m., I was called to see Mills at his residence, 7, Treadgold Street, which is about five minutes' walk from the scene of the accident—I found him in bed, suffering from abdominal pains and constant vomiting—that was all he complained of—his head and shoulder were bandaged—I formed the opinion that he was suffering then from some abdominal trouble; I heard he had been run over in the street—I thought he was suffering from some internal injury, leading to peritonitis, which is inflammation of the peritoniem—that would cause great pain, and nearly always produce vomiting—I prescribed for him, and left him—he died early next morning, about four, I think—I did not see him again alive—I made a post-mortem on 6th March, and found evidence of peritonitis—I could not say what was the immediate cause of it, except, generally, injury sustained—there was no bone or anything that could have ruptured the peritoneum—I found a perforation in the bowel; I cannot say how that was caused, or at what time, but it was associated, no doubt, with the peritonitis—peritonitis was the cause of death, in my opinion—I was told he was a little over 70; he appeared to be in good health, apart from the peritonitis; he was rather a tine man for his years; I should have taken him to be about 60.
Cross-examined. I found no external signs of injury on the abdomen—the rupture of the bowel I found could not have been of longer standing than twenty-four hours, I think.
GUILTY.—Recommended to mercy by the JURY. HOCKADAY stated that he had known the prisoner for three years, that he was a hard-working man, that he was very much upset by this occurrence, and that he hid done what he could for the deceased's family.— Judgment respited.
MR. STEPHENSON Prosecuted, and MESSRS. FRITH and MORGAN Defended.
JAMES FULLER (City Police Sergeant). On Saturday, March 17th, about 1.10, I was in Houndsditch, walking north-east towards Aldgate, and saw four boys playing in the asphalted road—each had on one roller skate—just behind the boys I saw a pony and barrow coming towards me on its right side, two or three feet from the kerb—Rosenberg, the deceased, moved out into the road facing Gravel Lane, which was nearly opposite on my left—the other boys ran away, but Rosenberg was sideface to the pony, and did not appear to see it coming, and the pony's breast struck him and knocked him down—he fell over to the near side on the left side of his head, and the near wheel of the barrow passed over his head just above his ear—some people shouted, and the barrow was pulled up about a dozen doors further on—the boy was picked up and taken to the London Hospital—the prisoner was driving; I did not hear him or anyone call out—he was going eight or nine miles an hour—that is a faster pace than ponies usually go—he stopped just as I got up to him—I said, "Get down; I believe you have killed that boy"—he did not get down; he did not seem to realise what had happened—I called out to him two or three times to get down, and he did so—I was in uniform, and on duty—when he got down I saw that he was drunk; he could not walk straight, and he seemed dazed—he was certainly not in a fit state to drive—he said nothing—when I shouted to him to get down another man got up from the bottom of the barrow very drunk; he was helped out of the barrow, and he and the prisoner were taken to the station—Constable Webber returned from the hospital, and in consequence of what he said, I charged the prisoner with causing the death of the boy, and also with being drunk when in charge of a horse and trap—he said, "I was not drunk"—that was half-an-hour afterwards—the inspector said, "You are drunk now"—his voice was thick—he said, "The boy ran from behind a van"—there was no van between the prisoner and me—the road in front of him was clear of vehicles, but there were foot passengers walking in the road.
Cross-examined. This was Saturday afternoon, and Houndsditch is very much inhabited by Jews—I was twenty-five yards off when I first saw him—I know a man named Stevens—I did not see him—from what I have heard him say he was much nearer—I know Blane, the driver of the London Parcels Delivery Company—Stevens and Blane did not both tell me that it was a pure accident—I heard their evidence at the Police-court—when you cross-examined Stevens he said that it might have been an accident under the circumstances, but you did not ask him what the circumstances were—I believe the prisoner was not told that he could have a medical man to determine whether he was drunk or not—it is done in some cases—I said at the Police-court that I was fifteen yards away.
CHARLES STEVENS . I am a tailor, of Aston Street, Bow—on Saturday, March 17th, I was in Houndsditch, going from Aldgate to Bishopsgate, on the right-hand side going down; that is the same side as Gravel Lane—I crossed the road about six doors before I got to Gravel Lane, and was two and a half feet from the opposite kerb, when I saw the prisoner driving the barrow on the Aldgate side—I ran on the pavement to get out of his way—he was driving about eight miles an hour, and he had no sooner passed me than I saw a boy standing four or five feet off in the road,
gazing at his skate, which was on his right foot, and the pony struck him on his chest—he made one effort to get back just before the pony struck him, and knocked him down, and the left wheel passed over his head just above his right ear, and he fell towards the kerb—the police sergeant stopped the pony, and told the prisoner three times to get out, and the third time he got out—he was about half drunk, and I saw another man lying in the cart drunk and quite unconscious of what happened—he was lifted out by the bystanders—I did not hear the prisoner call out before the boy was run over—he did not call out to me.
Cross-examined. The boy was looking at his skate, and taking no notice of what was passing—I have had some experience of driving—the prisoner could have pulled up before—asphalte pavement is difficult to pull up upon—if I was driving, and was in the same state, it might have happened to me, but he could handle a horse—if I had been driving I should have pulled up at least three times before—if the asphalte had been greasy, it would have been difficult to stop, but it was perfectly dry.
By the COURT. I think I could have pulled up before if I had been in full possession of my faculties.
EDWARD BLANE . I am a driver in the employ of the London Parcels Delivery Company—on March 17th, about 1.10, I was in Houndsditch driving a van towards Aldgate, and saw a pony and a barrow, which contained two men and a few ferns, driving towards Bishopsgate, on its right side, in an opposite direction to me—a boy was standing in the gutter—when the pony and barrow were within a few yards of him he attempted to skate out into the road, and when he had got about six feet from the kerb, noticing that the pony was so close upon him, he appeared to realise his position, and became confused, and instead of going on he turned round, as if to go to the kerb, and the pony's breast knocked him down, and he fell face forward, with his head two feet from the kerb, the back of his head being nearer the pony, which passed over him, and the near-side wheel passed over his head—I called my boy to come to the front; he came and took the reins, and I jumped down and went to the boy; he was bleeding from the nose, and appeared to be dead—I took him to the hospital, and the doctor pronounced him to be dead—the prisoner was going at the rate of about seven miles an hour, not furious, but quite fast enough—that is as much as it was—I did not take much notice of the prisoner, and I did not recognise him at Guildhall—I did not notice what condition he was in; my attention was fully occupied by the boy.
Cross-examined. I have had eleven years' experience in driving, and saw no negligence; he drove perfectly straight, and not wantonly or furiously—the same accident could have happened to me—no carefulness could have foreseen it; it was purely an accident—if the boy had used right discretion, and had gone on, it would not have happened—it was the boy who caused the accident.
Re-examined. He fell face forwards—the police came to me.
By the COURT. With the asphalte in the condition in which it was that day I could have pulled up in about seven yards—I do not know whether I could have done so if I was half drunk, because I do not drink; but if he was half drunk I think he ought to have seen him—I should
call out if I saw a boy in front of me—there were shouts at the time of the accident, but I cannot say who called out.
LEOPOLD GEORGE HILL , M. R. C. S. I am house surgeon at the London Hospital—I was present at the post-mortem on Israel Rosenberg on March 19th—it was performed under the supervision of Mr. Carr—I noticed a bruise over the left eye, and much effusion of blood from both ears—the cause of death was fracture of the base of the skull.
Cross-examined. The boy's death could not have been caused by his falling through fright, and fracturing his skull before the wheel went over him; but, supposing he fell backwards, he might have got a fracture of the skull sufficient to cause death, and be dead before the wheel went over him—I cannot affirm that the fracture of the skull was caused by the passing of the wheel over his head—I say that, assuming he fell backwards on the back of his head, he might have fractured the base of his skull, but it would not be so extensive as it proved to be on the post-mortem—it is possible that such a fracture of the skull might occasion death—I cannot say whether he was dead or not before the wheel went over his head—it is quite possible that he may have fractured his head by a mere fall, but the wheel went over, because the parts were very much displaced—I can only repeat, that had he fallen backwards he might have fractured the base of the skull—bleeding from the nose, ears, or mouth are each important factors in the diagnosis of fracture of the skull; it could only be produced by the cart-wheel going over the head, but there may be two fractures, one after the other—death could be caused by a fall on the pavement, and the fracture be increased by the passing over of the wheel; it would depend on the amount of the first fracture.
Re-examined. If he fell on his face that could not have caused the fracture of his skull.
JAMES BYFIELD . I am station inspector at Bishopsgate—on 17th March, at 1.30, the prisoner was brought to the station by Fuller, who charged him with the manslaughter of the boy Rosenberg, and also with being drunk when in charge of a trap—the prisoner said he was not drunk; that the boy stepped from behind a van—I said, "If you were not drunk then, you are drunk now"—he made no reply—he was charged half-an-hour, I should say, after being brought to the station—he was drunk.
Cross-examined. I say he was drunk from his appearance when he was brought in—he had a peculiar sleepiness about his eyes—I said that at the Police-court—I also judged by his demeanour in the dock, and the thickness in his speech—he could not stand up straight; he was weak on his legs—I was three or four feet from him—I did not smell his breath—we have no orders to tell prisoners that they can send for a doctor to see if they are drunk—if a prisoner asks to be medically examined he would be—I did not think it necessary to say to him "You can have a doctor."
CHARLES EVANS (923 City). I came up with Fuller—I took the other man and the cart to the station—he and the prisoner were drunk—I walked behind them from Houndsditch to the station, and had opportunities of forming an opinion.
NOT GUILTY .
384. JOHN DALBY (47) , Feloniously shooting at Walter Targett, with intent to murder; other Counts, for shooting at Walter Targett, with intent to do him grievous bodily harm, and with intent to resist his lawful apprehension.
WALTER TARGETT (Police Sergeant Y). On March 12th I was with Sergeant Summers and Constable Eason at the Great Northern Goods Railway Yard, Finsbury Park, at eleven a.m.—I saw the prisoner just by the side of the yard—I walked towards him, and asked what his name was—he said "Brown"—I said, "I believe you are John Dalby, wanted on a warrant at Leicester. You will have to come back this way with me"—I caught hold of his left arm—I said, "I am a police officer"—I held his left arm with my right hand, and we walked back towards the gates about a dozen yards—Summers and Eason came towards us—I said to Summers, "This is the man we want on the warrant"—we all four turned and walked towards the Police-station, I still holding his left arm; Summers walked on his right side, and Eason behind—I saw the prisoner put his left hand into his jacket left-hand outside pocket—he was wearing an overcoat, and this jacket under it; both coats were undone—I said, "What are you doing?" and immediately a report followed, and smoke came from the pocket—I put my hand in his pocket, and found he had hold of this six-chambered revolver, which I took from his hand—he was holding it with the muzzle pointing upwards in his pocket—five chambers were loaded, and one had been discharged—his pocket was burning, we put it out—I don't know what became of the bullet—I did not see it—it must have gone up through the coat, and out through the outside breast pocket, passing through this handkerchief, which was in that pocket, and which was burnt—I said to the prisoner, "You might have shot me"—he replied, "Good job if I had; I would have shot the b—lot if I knew you were coming as you did. It is all my own fault for coming near this place"—he was taken to the station, and charged with attempting to murder me by shooting at me—after the charge was read to him he said, "Did I point the revolver at anyone?"—I found six other cartridges in his left vest pocket—Summers had the warrant against him; it is for felony—these documents were found on him when he was searched at the station. (These were four letters addressed to his wife from different places, and contained expressions of regret at having to leave her and his children; admitting that he had done wrong in consequence of losing money at horse races, and containing these passages: "I cannot let them take me alive, and have bought a revolver for someone besides myself." "Let them look out, if I am on the alert at the time." "It would have been a lively time with them if they had come into close quarters, but I should never do anything to anyone if they did not do anything to me. It is neck or nothing with me.")
RICHARD HENRY CRABB (648 Y). On 12th March the prisoner was in my custody in the cells at Holloway—he was sitting on a bench, and he suddenly jumped up, and knocking his hands together, he said, "What a b—fool I must have been! If I had known at first he was a detective
I would have shot him and myself as well. I bought the revolver purposely. It is my wife and poor children I am thinking of. Let me get half a chance, and I will do for myself now. Neck or nothing is my motto, and has been all through the piece"—that was after he was charged with attempted murder, but two hours before he was taken to the Police-court—it was while he was waiting to be taken to the court.
The prisoner's statement before the Magistrate: "It would be impossible for me to shoot him in the way my hand was. The injury done would have been to myself."
NOT GUILTY .
OLD COURT.—Saturday, April 7th, 1894.
Before Mr. Justice Kennedy.
MR. HUTTON Prosecuted.
NOT GUILTY .
NEW COURT.—Saturday, April 7th, 1894.
Before Mr. Common Serjeant.
MR. WILLIS Prosecuted, and MR. OVEREND Defended.
ARCHIBALD JOHN JOSELYNE . I am an accountant, of 25, High Hol-born, in the name of Walter Wood, and occasionally lend money—on January 29th the prisoner called and said she wanted to borrow £25—I asked her if she was a householder, and if the furniture was her own; she said, "Yes," and that it was worth £80 at least—I asked if she was married—she said she was the wife of John Brown Smith, and pointing to a man who was with her, said, "This is my husband," and that the furniture was hers, and he said so as well—she said that it was wholly unencumbered, and the amount of her liabilities was only £5—this declaration was taken down, and I read it to her, and showed it to her husband, and they left to swear it, and returned, and I made an appointment for them to meet the next day for the £25—I did not give it her then, relying upon the declaration, because I wanted to see if it was true.
NOT GUILTY .
OLD COURT.—Monday and Tuesday, April 9th and 10th, 1894.
Before Mr. Justice Kennedy.
MESSRS. C. MATHEWS, BODKIN and HEWITT Prosecuted; MR. HUTTON and MR. ROOTH Defended.
GUILTY .— Twelve Months' Hard Labour.
OLD COURT.—Wednesday, April 11th, 1894.
Before Mr. Justice Kennedy.
MESSRS. C. MATHEWS, BODKIN and HEWITT Prosecuted; MR. BOOTH defended— GUILTY .— Three Years' Penal Servitude.
Before Mr. Justice Kennedy.
MESSRS. C. F. GILL and HORACE AVORY Prosecuted, and MR. MOYSES Defended.
MARTHA THOMPSON . I am a nurse at the Camberwell Infirmary—I knew the prisoner as an inmate there—on 24th January she was confined of a male child, which was registered in the name of Frederick—she remained in the infirmary under my care up to Wednesday, 14th February—she left between nine and half-past that morning, taking the child with her; it was dressed in the ordinary infirmary clothing, which all bears the stamp "Camberwell Infirmary," except a hat which I made and gave her; that was made of muslin of a heliotrope colour—I afterwards saw the dead body of that child on the following Monday, at Lewisham Mortuary, and recognised it—it then had no clothes on—I afterwards saw the clothes at the inquest, produced by a constable—I saw all the clothes that it had gone away in, except the hat.
FRANCES OWEN . I am the wife of Joseph Owen, of 72, Charles Street, Deptford—I am not living with my husband—the prisoner is my daughter—she had been in service from August to December, 1893—she has one boy five years old, which I have kept—she worked for her living at a laundry—when she came home from her situation in December I knew that she was in the family way; I made arrangements for her to go into the infirmary to be confined—at that time I was living at Peckham—I moved to Deptford while she was away—she went into the workhouse on 27th December—she took her boy with her—I did not see her until she came out; I did not know that she was coming out—on 14th February, about half-past ten in the morning, she came to me at Hill Street, Peckham, where I was working at a laundry—I went into the back yard, and spoke to her there—she had her boy and the baby with her—I said, "Oh, have you come out this morning?"—she said, "Yes; mother"—I said, "Have you discharged yourself?"—she said, "Yes, mother"—I said, You must go back and get your renewal; I can't afford to keep you all; I have not sufficient work"—she went away, and I went back to my work—I left my work at a quarter past eight that night, and went to the infirmary to look for her—I could find no tidings of her—I also went to
the Gordon Road Workhouse, and inquired there, and then went home to 72, Charles Street, where I had taken a room—I did not find her there; but about a quarter to ten I found her standing at my sister's door at 38, Charles Street—she had the little boy with her, but not the baby—I said to her, "Hallo, why where is the baby?"—she said, "A lady has taken it to adopt"—I said, "Who is the lady, and where does she live?"—she said, "She lives away, right up to London"—she said she did not know who the lady was, that she lived up the road, turned to the left, and that she kept one servant, and that on the road the lady had bought it all new clothes at a baby-linen shop—I said I should not be at home till Saturday morning, and if it was a fine morning we should have to go and find the lady—she said she did not think she should be able to find it, because it was such a long distance—next morning I asked her if she was telling me the truth about the baby, if it was true that the lady had it, and she had not done anything with it—she said it was quite true what she had said—she seemed all right—there was nothing unusual about her that I could see—on Saturday, the 17th September, Sergeant Pullen came and saw the prisoner, and she made a statement to him about the baby—he wanted to take her to Lewisham to see if she could identify the baby that was found—he said the clothes represented those that she had left the workhouse with—he said nothing about taking her to the Police-station; she went with him.
Cross-examined. I don't remember his saying, "I must take you to the Police-station to see the inspector"—I have not spoken to Inspector Pox about this—I saw him at the adjourned inquest—he spoke to the little boy, not to me; he gave the boy two penny pieces, I think.
EDWARD GOSS . I live at Gerard Street, Lewisham—on 15th February, about half-past three in the afternoon, I was passing over Lewisham Bridge, which goes over the Ravensbourne, and saw something in the water—I spoke to a man on the bridge, and we went down together, and found it to be the dead body of a child—another man fetched Constable Flood, and he took possession of the body—it was not floating; it was at the side against the wall, about fifteen yards below the bridge—the water there was about two feet deep—it is very shallow there at times—I had passed over the bridge about one o'clock; I saw nothing then, I did not look—it might have been there, without my noticing it—the river is about twenty feet wide there—the bridge has an iron railing about three feet high—there is a footpath at the left side, leading to a flourmill.
FREDERICK FLOOD (175 R). I was called by the last witness, and found the body of an infant lying on the edge of the water, partly on the right side—I took it out, and conveyed it to Lewisham Police-station—I could see the whole of its face before I took it out; there were no marks on it—there was mud on the clothing; it was very wet—this river at times is very high during the night—during the day there is a mill which uses the water; then it is very low—I should say it is more than six feet deep when very high—it gets very shallow in the day—at times there is a current, but very seldom—the mill is above the bridge—the child was nine or ten yards below the bridge—it was fully dressed, except the head and feet—there is a good deal of traffic across the bridge—I should say the bridge is about three miles from Peckham—after the body had been
seen by the divisional surgeon, I took it to the mortuary—I have the clothes here, marked "Camberwell Infirmary"—they have been seen by the nurse.
JOSEPH HAMMERSLEY . I am a surgeon at Catford—on 15th February I saw the dead body of a child at Lewisham Police-station—I could not at that time form an opinion as to how long it had been dead, or how long it had been in the water—on the 18th I made a post-mortem examination—the cause of death was suffocation from drowning—the organs were all healthy—there were no external marks of violence—there was milk food in the stomach, showing it had been recently fed—I should say it had been dead not more than two days from the time of my first seeing the body, on the 15th.
Cross-examined. It was fairly well nourished.
JOSEPH PULLEN (Sergeant P). I know this locality pretty well—Charles Street, Deptford, is about three miles from Camberwell Infirmary—from Charles Street, Deptford, to Hill Street is about two miles—from Hill Street to Camberwell Infirmary is about a mile, and from Hill Street to the bridge is about four miles—the fact of the body of this child being found was known to the police on the same day—Inspector Fox has had charge of the case—I received instructions from him on the 15th and 17th, on the night I went to Charles Street, Deptford, and there saw the prisoner and her mother—I told the prisoner I was a police officer, and said, "You left Camberwell Infirmary with your child, three weeks old, on the 14th inst; do you wish to tell me what has become of it?"—she said, "I left Camberwell Infirmary on Wednesday last, and took the child home to my mother, but as she could not afford to keep three of us, I went back to the infirmary, and applied for an order to go in again; that was about eleven in the morning. When I came out I met a lady, and she asked me whether the baby was a boy or a girl. I told her it was a boy, and she said she wanted a boy to adopt as her own. The baby was wearing a heliotrope hat, and the lady took that off and put a white hat on. She put a pink shawl on, and told me to keep the one I got from the workhouse"—I said to the prisoner, "Do you wish to say anything?"—she replied, "No, that is all I can say about the child"—I then told her I should take her to Lewisham Police-station to see my inspector—I found this shawl (produced) at the prisoner's lodging—it has been identified by Nurse Thompson—I took her to the station; that was on instructions from Inspector Fox—I wired to him, and he came—I communicated to him the statement the prisoner had made, and showed him the note I had made of it, and he spoke to her.
FREDERICK FOX (Inspector P). I instructed Pullen to go and see the prisoner, and on the evening of the 17th he brought her to Lewisham station—she made a statement to me—I subsequently formally charged her with the murder of her child.
NOT GUILTY .
Before Mr. Common Serjeant.
MR. HILL Prosecuted.
HENRY COUGHLIN . I am a hammerman—on March 8th, about eleven p.m., I met the prisoner Cain—I did not know him, but he said he knew me, and worked with my father at the Arsenal, and he had no money, or he would give me a glass—I said, "You can have a drink"—we went into the Duke of Sussex, and Wood came in, but only Cain and I drank—Cain said, "You are late home, and you had better come and sleep with me at my mother's"—I said, "No, I will go home"—he said, "Go home in the morning"—I went with him till we got to a dark place, where there is a passage leading from the street—Wood was on the path, walking about—I refused to go into Cain's house—he caught hold of me, and said, "Come on; what are you frightened of?"—I said, "I won't go in there"—Wood came behind me, and seized me with both hands by my throat, put his knee in my back and threw me to the ground; and Wood knelt on me, put his hand over my mouth, and held me there while Cain put his hands in my pockets and took my purse, which I had taken out in the public-house to pay for the drink, and they saw it—it contained a half-sovereign, a half-crown, and a watch key—he put his hand in another pocket, and took some sixpences and coppers—I had a watch on, but they did not take that—they went off, leaving me on the ground—I went to the Police-station and reported it—I knew Cain as a boy, and his father and mother before him—Wood was a stranger to me—I was with them in the public-house about an hour and a half—I was not altogether sober, but I was quite sensible—I saw both prisoners at the station, about an hour afterwards, and identified them—I was at the station, and one policeman brought in Wood and another Cain—they were charged with robbing me—neither of them made any reply.
Cross-examined by Cain. I did not say before the Magistrate that I only had a half-sovereign in my purse—I was not drinking with a woman when you met me—you took me straight to the place where I was robbed.
Cross-examined by Wood. You did not speak to me in the public-house, but you spoke to your comrade—I saw no doctor, as I had no money to go to one, but I am suffering still from my throat.
ALICE DUNBAR . I am deputy of a lodging-house, 10, Rope Yard Rails—on Thursday morning, March 8th, the prisoners came to my mother's at one a.m., and wanted a bed—I said, "We are full"—Cane asked me if I had change for a half-sovereign—I said I had not—I knew them both before.
ANNIE RICHARDS . I am under-deputy at this house—I do the work, and Dunbar takes the money—I was in bed when this occurred—I heard a man ask for a bed, then Dunbar said she had not got one—the man said, "Have you got change for a half-sovereign?"—she said "No"—I heard the man go to another lodging-house next door and ask for change for a half-sovereign—I heard no reply.
Cross-examined by Cain. It was between eleven and twelve o'clock—Miss White is the head of the house; she lives next door.
HENRY DIBELL . I am barman at the Duke of Sussex—on March 8th, about 10.45 p.m., Coughlin came in with Cain—they did not remain five minutes—Wood came in during that time, and I refused to serve him—I knew him before, and we never do serve him—they left, and Wood followed them; they did not return; Wood did not speak to either of
them—Coughlin did not seem intoxicated at all, but he was a bit muddled—he did not seem muddled when he came in, but when Wood came in he looked round, and wanted to go out again—Cain was not the worse for liquor—I told the Magistrate I could not say whether he was drunk or not, but I served him.
Cross-examined by Wood. You did not speak to either of them—I asked you to leave, and you left.
JOHN WILLIAMS (127 B). On Thursday, March 8th, about 12.50 a.m., Coughlin came to the station in an excited state, and covered with mud—his throat was discoloured from being seized—he had been drinking, but he gave an intelligible account of what had been done to him—he described Cane, and mentioned his name—I knew his room; it is in a house let out in furnished rooms—the door was locked outside with a padlock, which I removed, and found the room vacant—I got there about 1.30—I then went to 10, Rope Yard Rails, where Dunbar lives, which is a registered lodging-house, and visited by the police every day, and then to No. 21, where I found both prisoners sitting in the kitchen—I told them I should take them to the station on suspicion of robbing a man—I took Wood, and a constable with me took Cain—I found a sixpence on Wood, and immediately I took him into the station Coughlin said, "Yes, that is the man that knocked me down, and the other is the man who robbed me"—neither of them made any reply—they were both sober.
Cross-examined by Cain. I looked through the window; you could not have got away, because you had not time.
Cross-examined by Wood. You did not ask for a doctor, and we did not see that there was any necessity for one—I did not say to Coughlin, "Here they are."
Cain's defence. I met the prosecutor with a woman; he was the worse for liquor. We went with the woman into the public-house, and had a drink, and then we went to the Duke of Sussex, and he was going to take the bus to Eltham. I saw no more of him.
Woods defence. He says we came out of the public-house at nearly closing-time, but the barman says we left about ten o'clock. I met Cain, and he asked me if I had any money. We called at Dunbar's to get change for a half-sovereign. I asked for a doctor at the station to prove that the man had no injuries on him.
GUILTY .—CAIN then PLEADED GUILTY ** to a conviction at this Court on January 11th, 1886, and WOOD** to a conviction at Woolwich on March 13th, 1893. CAIN— Ten Strokes with the Cat and Six Years' Penal Servitude. WOOD— Ten Strokes with the Cat and Five Years' Penal Servitude.
Before Mr. Recorder.
MR. BOND Prosecuted.
bed about ten o'clock—Mrs. Bush was ill, and asked me to look at all the fastenings, which I did—about two a.m. I was disturbed in my bed-room; I jumped out of bed, turned the gas up, and found the prisoner standing at the foot of my bed, trying to hide himself—he was dressed in a jersey—I did not notice whether he had boots on, but I found some boots afterwards—the key was taken out of the door, and I found it on the floor—I got outside, and pulled the door to keep him in, and each time he pulled it open I could see his face—he got out, and almost jumped down the seven steps from the bedroom door to the window, and went out—there is a shed at the back of the house, and about twenty pots there—I handed the boots to the police—a box had been removed from the wash-handstand, and I picked up three brooches where he was standing, which had been in a box, which had been removed from the drawers to the wash-handstand—in the morning I found a hole cut in the parlour window, large enough to put a hand in and undo the window—a detective came, and I went to the station, and picked the prisoner out from seven other men.
Cross-examined by the prisoner. I have no doubt you are the man—I know your family, though I did not know you.
EMILY BUSH . I am a widow, of 58, Trafalgar Road, East Greenwich—on the morning of March 13th I heard a noise, and went down with my uncle, the last witness, to see what was the matter—I saw a man getting out at the window on the stairs.
LOUISA FLIDE . I am the prosecutor's wife—on March 13th I was aroused about two a.m., and saw a man in the room, but did not see his face—he went downstairs and out at the window—he was about the prisoner's size, and dressed in a jersey—I had a good look at him, and the gas was alight.
RICHARD HOWARD (Police Sergeant R). On March 13th, about nine a.m., I went to these premises and saw Mr. Flide—in consequence of what he told me I made inquiries, and saw the prisoner and two other men in East Street, Greenwich—I said, "I am going to arrest you on suspicion of breaking into a house last night"—he said, "Oh!"—I took him to the station and showed him the boots—he said, "They don't belong to me; they are too big for me"—they appeared to fit him—I called attention to the boots he was wearing, as the leather was very dry, and the nails were rusty—he said, "I went home last night after the houses were closed"—that would be about a quarter to one.
Cross-examined. You did not say you had been to a music-hall—you said that the boots shook on your feet.
MARY C. BUTTER . I am a boot repairer, of 49, East Street, Greenwich—one Saturday in February the prisoner brought these boots to be mended—I mended them, and a young man came next morning and fetched them away—the prisoner did not say that they were his boots, but he is a customer of mine—I am certain these are the boots he brought; here is my work on them.
The prisoner called
Cross-examined. Only he and I were in the room, because my father
had gone to the infirmary—the prisoner came in about 11.45, and by the time he got into bed the clock struck twelve—he usually comes in when the "houses" close; some close at eleven, some at twelve, and some at 12.30—I remember the particular night, because he was a little the worse for drink—he came home every night.
By the COURT. I am a waterside labourer—the last place I worked at was Mr. Ash ton's, at Greenwich, about three years ago, and Mr. Smith employed me about a fortnight back—before that I worked at the cement works, Greenwich—I have done no work for the last fortnight; I could not get any—I have never seen these boots before; they are not mine.
PRISONER'S DEFENCE . I came from a music hall about 11.30, and went straight to bed; I am innocent of the charge.—(Showing his feet, which were both much deformed: but the boots had been slit at those parts.)
GUILTY .—He then PLEADED GUILTY **†to a conviction at Greenwich on February 1st, 1892; and sixteen other convictions were proved against him, eight of which were for assaults on the police.— Fifteen Months' Hard Labour.
Before Mr. Common Serjeant.
MESSRS. C. F. GILL and BODKIN Prosecuted, and MESSRS. GEOGHEGAN and SANDS Defended.
GEORGE WEATHERLEY (301 L). About 9.30 p.m. on Saturday, 17th March, I was on duty in Sultan Street, Camberwell, in uniform—I saw Chappell and some women quarrelling—I went up and said to Chappell, "You had better go away"—I received a blow on the side of my face from behind—I turned and saw Linehan just behind me; he was the only person near at that moment—as I turned he struck me in the face again with his fist—I took him into custody; he became very violent, and started kicking me about the legs—I kept hold of him—we both fell to the ground; he was still very violent—as I struggled with him on the ground Chappell came right up and kicked me on the temple—when I spoke to him before I think some women had pulled him away—I still kept hold of Linehan—I tried to take out my whistle to blow it, but someone snatched it from me, and broke the chain—Linehan caught hold of it, but I cannot say who took it away—then Sheehan ran up, and, when I was on my knees trying to get up, he kicked me on the nose—I had not seen him before—that kick knocked me nearly senseless—I remember getting a lot of kicks after that about the head—I heard someone call out, "Look out, the coppers are coming"—I don't remember anything more—when I recovered another constable was standing beside me—I was assisted to the station—I was on the top of Linehan all the time, and I was still on him when I saw the other constable—my lips were cut inside, and my ears were injured—I found some cuts through my trousers when I got to the station—I noticed no one with any instrument or knife, or weapon of any kind.
Cross-examined. I knew all three prisoners by sight and name before this night—Bartlett was called as a witness for the prosecution at the Police-court—I had not seized Linehan before he struck me, or shaken him—when I came up there was not a crowd of thirty or forty people watching a woman dancing—I did not tell her to go away, nor did she take hold of my tunic—I did not strike Linehan in the face when he came up—I don't remember any instrument being used—Sheehan appeared to come from the direction of the Sultan Public-house—he was in his shirt-sleeves—Chappell was drunk; I could not say he was very drunk; he knew what he was about—I did not hear Linehan in the very beginning advise Chappell to go away, and not create a row, when I told him to go away—I heard some woman trying to get him to go away—before I identified Sheehan and Chappell as persons who assaulted me, I had been struck twice in the face and knocked down, and I had a struggle with Linehan on the ground—at the beginning, when I asked them to move on, there were seven or eight people—there were a good many people round me when I was struggling on the ground with Linehan, and a great deal of confusion—I did not call on anyone to assist me—one woman interfered on my behalf—I should say there were about twenty people there when I was on the ground.
ELIZABETH TUTTON . I am the wife of Thomas Tutton, of 6, Sultan Terrace, Camberwell—on Saturday night, 17th March, I was in Sultan Street, about 9.30, and noticed a disturbance—I went up and saw Weatherley standing up, with his helmet off, and the crowd round him—his face was bleeding—he was trying to take hold of Linehan—Linehan and Sheehan knocked him down—he jumped up, and he staggered; he was very silly—I said, "Come away, they will kill you"—when he was knocked down he fell on the top of me, and hurt my leg—I tried to take his part—when he got up again he again tried to take Linehan—I saw Sheehan there when I first went up—I did not see Chappell till Weatherley was on the ground—Linehan and Sheehan, who were both together, knocked Weatherley down a second time—he got up, and the same two prisoners knocked him down a third time—he had hold of Linehan; Weatherley was on the top of him, and they rolled over towards the gutter—while they were on the ground I saw Chappell kick Weatherley in the head, and he said, "Get up, you b—"—I saw him receive several other kicks when on the ground, but I cannot say who gave those—Linehan lay on the ground under the policeman, and did not appear to be doing anything—I said to all present, including Chappell and Sheehan, "Mind you, if you kill him, mind you, I am a witness"—I was in danger of my life—in trying to protect Weatherley's head I received a kick from someone—I don't think it was either of the prisoners—I was insulted for taking Weatherley's part—I saw my husband in the crowd, and I ran to him and told him to go and get a constable; I said, "They are killing the policeman; go quick"—a constable came, Linehan was taken into custody, and I saw Weatherley assisted to the station.
Cross-examined. There were a great many people there; it was a very rough crowd—I daresay others were kicking besides the prisoners; I cannot say—I saw Chappell kick—I was very much frightened; I am not used to rows of that sort—Linehan and Sheehan were there when I
came up—I did not see Sheehan come up while the constable was on the ground with Linehan—Sheehan was not in his shirt-sleeves—there were about forty people, men, women and children, there when I first came up, and others kept coming; no one seemed to take Weatherley's part—about twenty other men were there besides the prisoners—I had only seen Sheehan before passing my window; he is a neighbour—the other prisoners I did not know—I was afterwards taken to the station and picked out Linehan and Sheehan from other men—when they opened the door to bring Chappell in, in custody, I said, "That is the man that kicked the constable"—I don't know if he was with the men when I picked the others out; I did not see his face then; I hardly looked at the faces.
Re-examined. I saw Chappell after I saw Linehan and Sheehan.
HELENOR ELIZABETH GWYNNE . I live at 25, Crown Street, Camberwell—on Saturday night, 17th March, I went to Sultan Street, and saw a crowd—I pushed my way into it, and saw a man lying on his back in the roadway, and a policeman on the top of him, holding him down—I kneeled down, and looked at the man's face—I went away, and directly I did so I saw Chappell outside the Sultan Public-house, not far from where this took place, only a few yards away, talking to my sister, who is his mother; he is my nephew—he had this very small poker in his hand; I never saw it before—I went to take it from him, and he dropped it, and I picked it up and put it in my pocket—I went to take it from him because I was afraid the police might see him with it, and he might use it—I asked him to give it to me, and tried to persuade him to go home—he went into the Sultan, and a woman said she would give him half a pint of ale if he would go home—I took the poker home, and on the Sunday week Inspector Race came for it—Chappell was the worse for drink when I saw him.
Cross-examined. The other constable came up while I was there; as soon as he came up I left—I did not see Chappell at the row when I was there—I was told he had run away—I recognised no one in the crowd—I might have been there about three minutes in all; I went and saw the policeman, and as soon as the other policeman came up I walked away—I might have been there more or less than three minutes; I was too frightened.
JOHN BREWER . I live at 26, Arlington Street, Camberwell, and am ten years old—on 17th March I was in Sultan Street, and saw a row in the street—I went up and saw a constable on the ground on the top of Linehan—Chappell kicked the constable, and Sheehan hit him with the buckle end of a belt, in the face and on the head as well.
Cross-examined. I stood there about five minutes—there were a great many men there looking on, near the policeman—I was in front of the men—there were men and women in front of me—I did not see Mrs. Tutton nor Mrs. Gwynne there—I do not know them—I saw no woman stoop down and look at the man—I saw the other policeman come up—I do not know Bartlett—I saw no other men hitting the policeman—I was there all the time—the other people were screaming—I do not often see a row like this; I never gave evidence before—I cannot say whether Sheehan had his coat on or off.
By the COURT. He used the buckle, which was like this, three times hard.
ALFRED BARTLETT . I live at 17A, Beckett Street, Camberwell, and am a milk carrier—on 17th March I was in Sultan Street, outside the Sultan, about 9.30 p.m.—I saw Chappell, whom I knew before, standing with a woman on the pavement—a constable came up, and told him to shift up, and he did not move for a minute, and then Linehan, whom I knew before, came up, and the constable told him to shift on, and he did not—I was four or five yards off—the constable took hold of Lineham and shook him—he would not go away—then Linehan and the constable fell to the ground together, struggling—the constable had hold of him then—the constable took his whistle—it was taken from him and thrown away, and I picked it up and blew it to get assistance, because I was afraid the constable would get killed—the constable and the man were struggling—I did not see anyone touch the constable, but the people were screaming—the people were all round him—I could not see exactly what was being done to him, and I thought it better to blow the whistle.
Cross-examined. There were a good many people all round him—I was afraid—I did not hear what the crowd was calling out—Chappell did not go away when the constable spoke to him—when he left, he walked towards Sultan Court—I did not see him again—I did not see Sheehan there—I did not see Brewer there—Linehan advised Chappell to go home—there was hardly anyone round them then; there were some people—I stopped there till another policeman came, and then I went home—I did not see anyone strike the policeman—when Linehan told Chappell to go away the constable caught hold of Linehan and shook him; Linehan did nothing; they fell to the ground together, and then people began to shout out.
Re-examined. I saw Chappell go away after the constable had spoken to him, and before the constable fell to the ground—I did not see him come back; I don't know where he went—I did not see him afterwards—more people kept coming up, when the constable was on the ground—Chappell lives in Crown Street.
HENRY TOLMAN (316 L). About 9.30 on Saturday night, 17th March, I was in Avenue Road, Camberwell, on duty—I was called to Sultan Street, where I found a crowd—I pushed my way in, and found Linehan on the ground, with Weatherley on the top of him—Weatherley seemed unconscious at the time; you could not see his head or face for blood; he was smothered in blood—I took hold of Linehan—he said, "I will go quietly with you"—he did so—he was quite sober—I did not see the other prisoners—another constable assisted Weatherley to the station—about three hours afterwards I received information, and in consequence I went and took Sheehan—I said I should take him into custody for assaulting Weatherley—he said, "All right, I will go down with you to the station, I don't know what I am coming here for"—I told him for assaulting Weatherley—he said at the station he was in bed, then he contradicted himself, and said he stood at the corner and saw it all—he was, quite sober—he was wearing this belt as an ordinary waist belt round his trousers—these are the trousers and pants Weatherley was wearing at the time.
Cross-examined. Weatherley was unconscious and very much dazed when I came up—I was by Sheehan's side in the dock at the station, when he said he was in bed—he did not say he was going to bed—the inspector said, "You have contradicted yourself; you said you were in bed at the time, and then you said you stood at the corner and saw it all"—he made the two statements within two or three seconds of each other; nothing was said to him between them—he said, "I was in bed at the time," and then he said he stood at the corner—he also said, "I did not have nothing to do with it"—Linehan had some blood on his face—he had received it from Weatherley—he was struggling to get up.
WILLIAM RACE (Inspector L). On March 18th, from information received, I took Chappell into custody, and told him he would be charged with two others for assaulting a constable on the day previous—he said, "All right; I know that you want me, I will go with you quietly, governor; I have no recollection of touching the policeman, and knew nothing of it till I was told this morning, as I was drunk"—I took him to the station; he was charged; he made no reply—on 25th March I went to 25, Crown Street, where Miss Gwynne lives, and had a conversation with her, and she gave me this iron poker; she went into the back yard, and brought it to me.
Cross-examined. I took Chappell from inquiries made—I did not get a message from him; Towey did not come to me about him—he saw someone at the station, but I had seen him before—no doubt, he knows Chappell—I arrested him at the house next to his aunt's—I was four hours finding him—I heard something about Towey, and followed him when he was taking Chappell some beer—I made inquiries of Towey.
FRANK REID . I am a surgeon, of 304, Walworth Road—late on Saturday night, 17th March, I saw Weatherley at the Police-station—he was covered all over his face and clothing with blood—I examined his wounds—on the right side of his head was a recent incised wound about one inch long, still bleeding—about two inches behind that was an abrased wound, about one inch in circumference, as if from a kick—there were four or five other swellings on various parts of his head, which might have been caused by the buckle of such a belt as this, or kicks—his left ear was very much battered; that injury could have been caused by this belt—the right ear was similarly injured, but not so severely; the cause might have been the same—both his lips were cut, swollen, and bleeding; his eyes were swollen and bloodshot, as if from a blow—I found two digs on his nose, which might have been caused by the point of a poker, or by the point of a buckle—the nasal bone was fractured—over the shin of the right leg was an incised wound about one inch long; that was probably caused by such a weapon as this poker, used obliquely in a sort of stabbing way—he had a similar wound on the inside of his right knee, which could have been caused in a similar way—those two wounds were both superficial—he was weak and exhausted—I saw him once afterwards, and after that the divisional surgeon attended him, but I saw him at the Police-court—he is recovering from his injuries; I think it will be some time before he will be able to return to active duty—he is still unfit for duty—I was called in because it was an urgent matter, and I live a few doors from the Police-station—I saw him yesterday and the day before—he is quite unfit for duty—is it
impossible to say when he will be able to return to duty; the shock to the system was very great, and the superficial wound on the leg is very painful; it would arrest his recovery to have to walk about—the fractured nasal bone will prevent him from really doing his duty till it is properly healed—I think the shock will pass off, and that he will fully recover, but it will take some time.
Cross-examined. He was not unconscious when I saw him, but in a dazed condition; after I had washed him he recovered a little.
Witnesses for the Defence.
ADA COPLEY . I live at 60, Hollington Street, Camberwell; my husband, Edward Copley, is a plasterer—on 17th March I was going through Sultan Passage, and I saw Chappell (whom I have known by sight and to speak to for a good many years) with a woman, standing outside the Sultan, dancing and singing together—there was no crowd round—a constable asked the woman to go away, and she turned and used obscene language to the constable, and got hold of his tunic—he said, "You had better go away; if not, I will take you"—Chappell, who had moved away while the constable was talking to the woman, came up, and the constable asked him to go away, too—the woman moved away; Chappell did not go—during the altercation between him and the constable, Linehan came from the opposite side of the way, and said to Chappell, "Why don't you go away, old man? Don't get into any bother"—he took him by the arm and said, "Come away, Jack; you don't want to get into any bother"—the constable said, "What has it to do with you?"—Linehan said, "I was only asking him to go away quietly"—the constable got hold of Linehan and moved him on into the road, talking to and pushing him at the same time—the constable then got Linehan by the collar, and struck him twice hard on the jaw with his fist—the blows were likely to leave a mark—in the struggle, before they fell, Linehan struck the constable once—then they fell to the ground, and I do not know anything more that took place—two women took Chappell away; I don't know where to—I went up the street when the constable and Linehan fell, and I saw Chappell's mother—when I came back to her Chappell was outside the Sultan—I did not hear the whistle blown, nor see the other policeman come up, nor Weatherley kicked when on the ground, nor struck with the buckle—I saw Sheehan once out there—I took no notice of him, as he usually did stand out there.
Cross-examined. I saw Linehan cross the road towards the constable—he came behind him, but he was not near enough to strike him—he was behind him while he was talking to Chappell—I am certain the constable struck Linehan first—the constable was quite unprovoked—I don't know that the woman lives with Linehan; I think not—she is married, I believe—I have not seen her since—a few people collected afterwards—I went away, leaving Linehan and the constable struggling.
Re-examined. I did not stop to see any of the people there.
ANNIE RADCLIFFE . My husband was a cowman and dairyman; now he is an inmate of St. Thomas's Hospital—I am acting as wardmaid at that hospital—I live at 51, Sultan Street, and on this night I was coming home from work, and I saw Chappell outside with a woman and a little boy—Chappell and the woman were larking, and a constable came up and told them to move then—Chappell said, "All right, governor, "speaking
very kindly—he appeared to be quite sober—the constable said, "No, you go on; I don't want any nonsense," and took hold of him and shoved him—Linehan, I think it was, was standing in the road, with his hands in his pockets, and he said, "Now, Chappell, go on, my man; you don't want to get into any trouble"—two women pulled Chappell away—the constable said, "What do you know about it?" and shoved Linehan, who said, "All right, governor"—before he had time to go away, the constable took him by the collar, and struck him twice on the right cheek with his fist; it appeared to be hard—I said, "What a shame to knock that poor man about! How ill he looks!"—Linehan turned and pushed the constable, and they fell; he did not strike the constable—a crowd came up, and I saw some men rush up to the constable, but I did not know who they were, for I was so frightened I went indoors—it all happened in two or three minutes—I did not see what happened when they fell to the ground—I heard cries when I got indoors that they were knocking him about.
Cross-examined. I was not at the Police-court—on Saturday night Mrs. Lineham stopped me coming from work, and said her husband heard me say what a cruel thing it was to knock him about, and two men came to me the night before last with a piece of paper—Sultan Street is a very rough and cruel neighbourhood, and there are very funny and rough people there, but I really think the policeman lost his temper before he ought to—I did not see Lineham strike the policeman in the face; he may have done so—I did not see the policeman's face bleeding—as soon as they fell I came away—I did not see much of it—the crowd collected at once, and I thought I had better be off—when I came down an hour afterwards I saw one of them standing outside the Sultan—on Sunday Inspector Race came to me—I did not tell him I saw the whole thing—I saw no one strike with a belt—I think I told Race that I saw someone run up to the constable when he fell—I saw a lot of men run up to the constable; I don't know who they were—a man ran up to the constable and struck him with a belt, I believe, over the shoulder, but I don't know whether he struck the constable; he was going to strike someone, no doubt—he was a big man; I don't know if he was Sheehan or not; he was very much like him—I think this is the belt; it was like this—I know Mrs. Linehan now; I did not know her before she came and spoke to me—she was not the woman who was dancing with Chappell on this night; she was not there—the woman with Chappell was named Shoe—she was very drunk, making a great disturbance, holding up her petticoats and dancing—the constable requested them to move on, and they would not do so—the same man that used the belt kicked the constable on his temple, I think, when he was on the ground; I had forgotten at first—I only saw one kick—I did not see the short poker; I heard afterwards that it was used—one of the witnesses, a woman, I think, said she heard there was a poker—I don't remember seeing Chappell there—I knew Sheehan by sight before this night; his mother lives opposite my house; I see him constantly when I am at home—I think he is the man that used the belt and kicked the policeman; I have no doubt about it—Linehan came up behind the constable when he first came up—he did not strike the constable from behind directly he came up.
Re-examined. I do not know Father Brown—two men came to me with a piece of paper, saying Father Brown sent them to me—I am a
Protestant—I was not able to recognise Sheehan at first; I was so frightened by it all—I came away immediately after I saw the man with the belt—I did not see his face for more than a minute—an hour after that I saw him standing outside the Sultan, when I went to get my grocery—all I saw of him was a momentary glance when this happened—I did not recognise him at the time—the man with the belt had his coat on.
EMILY HILL . My husband is a plasterer—on this evening I had just come out, and was outside a shop near the Sultan—I saw Linehan coming across the road, and the policeman pushed him and struck him twice, and then Linehan pushed the policeman, and they fell against the shop—it all happened in two or three minutes—I went on my errand, and saw nothing else—a crowd soon accumulated—Linehan called out for mercy; he said, "For God's sake, take him off me!"—the constable had him by the throat, and had one of his knees on his stomach, holding him violently—the policeman threw him down with great force on the back of his head on the road, which is paved with stone—that is all I saw.
Cross-examined. It was brutal conduct on the policeman's part; I thought it was very wrong—I did not think it was necessary for me to be called at the Police-court—I did not attach any importance to it—it is rather a roughish neighbourhood—I know Mrs. Linehan, by seeing her about—she was the first person who spoke to me about this—she said they had been locked up—I said I thought it was a great shame for a policeman to serve her husband as he did, and she asked me to come and say what I knew—I heard the constable had been very badly hurt; I did not know what had been done to him—I heard his face and body were covered with blood—I said if he had not been so rough with Linehan it would not have happened, because the man was going on quietly—I knew of it before the Police-court proceedings were finished—I did not think it necessary to go, because the men were remanded—Inspector Race saw me on Sunday, the 25th, in Wyndham Road—I told him what I had to say, and went on my business—I told him I knew nothing about it—I told him all I have said to-day—I said I saw Linehan roughly used by the policeman, but who struck the policeman I did not know—while I was speaking a constable came up and stood by Race's side—it was untrue to say I told Race I knew nothing about it.
Re-examined. I told Race I did not see the constable kicked—I said I knew nothing about that.
LINEHAN— GUILTY of unlawfully wounding; and SHEEHAN and CHAPPELL, [Guilty] of feloniously wounding. CHAPPELL then PLEADED GUILTY **†to a conviction of felony in January, 1888. Four convictions of assaulting the police were proved against Linehan, the last being in 1884. Four convictions of assaults and disorderly couduct were proved against Sheehan. The Police stated that for the last ten years Linehan had been a teetotaler, and had lived respectably, but that lately he had taken to drink again.
FATHER BROWN said that for about eight years Linehan had been connected with his Temperance Mission in Camberwell, and was a sober man and an energetic worker, but that he feared he had taken to drink since the Mission had been broken up lately.
LINEHAN— Nine Months' Hard Labour.
SHEEHAN and CHAPPELL— One Year and Ten Months Hard Labour each. The GRAND JURY and the COURT commended the conduct of Weatherley and Tolman. The COURT commended the conduct of Mrs. Tutton and Brewer, and awarded Mrs. Tutton £2, and Brewer £1.
MR. ELDRIDGE Prosecuted.
FANNY JONES . I am single, and live at 294, Walworth Road, a jeweller's shop, kept by my parents—I assist in it—between six and seven p.m. on 19th March the prisoner came in alone—I was alone in the shop—he said, "I have got a silver chain to sell; it is silver; will you give me 1s. for it?"—I tested it with acid, and it turned green—I said, "It is no good to me, it is not silver"—he said, "You are a liar"—he took up the bottle of acid and threw it at my face—I put up my hand, and the acid fell down my sleeve, but did not touch my face—the back and inside of my hand was burned, and it pained me very greatly—the prisoner rushed out, I rushed after him, and a constable caught him—there was a large glass case full of jewellery and optician's goods in the shop—no one was within call.
Cross-examined by the prisoner. You were two feet from me—you throw the bottle deliberately at my face—it touched my hand, and the stopper came out, and all the liquid went down my hand and sleeve—I was very much frightened—I saw no brooch with the chain.
WILLIAM CARTER (314 L). Between six and seven p.m. on March 19th I was in Walworth Road—I heard a shout of "Stop him"—I saw the prisoner run from Walworth Road into Carter Street, and ran after him—I said, "What is the matter?"—he said, "Nothing"—I caught him, and asked what was the matter; he said, "Nothing"—I took him back to No. 294, where the prosecutrix told me he had thrown a bottle containing nitric acid at her—the prisoner said, "I did not throw the bottle; the bottle was in her hands. I shall be able to defend myself in the morning"—on the way to the station he said, "I snatched the bottle from her in my temper and threw it at her"—after the charge was taken at the station he said, "I lost my temper in taking away the bottle from her."
GEORGE NICHOL HENRY . I am a divisional surgeon of police—I was called to the Police-station to examine the prosecutrix—I found stains of nitric acid on the back of her right hand and on the back of her first and second fingers; the tips of the fingers of both hands were stained also, but that, I think, was the result of her using acid for testing—there were stains on her dress, and some nitric acid in the bottle—nitric acid is a corrosive fluid—if any had got on her eyes it would have blinded her probably, and would have disfigured her face if it had got on it in any quantity.
Cross-examined. I should not have expected more injuries if you were two feet off; it would depend entirely on the quantity of acid in the bottle—her hand being put up would cause it to spread.
A witness deposed that the prisoner was a peaceful man.
The prisoner in his defence stated that he knew the chain was silver, and that he was snatching the bottle away when it upset over the prosecutrix's hand and dress by accident.— GUILTY.*—Recommended to mercy by the JURY, thinking it was done in a sudden fit of temper.— Six Weeks' Hard Labour.
MR. HUTTON Prosecuted, and MR. WATT Defended.
FLORENCE RANDS . I am the wife of David Rands, a joiner, of Acton—I have known the prisoner ten years—I remember her boy Herbert being born in July, but did not see him till about a week afterwards—he looked an ordinary healthy child—I saw her next in December, and she brought the child; it did not look in good condition, or to have enough clothes to keep it warm; it looked very cold, and it was not clean, it smelt—I have children—Rose Woodford afterwards brought it to me again; it was in a very bad condition—its ear was nearly off from a sore round the back—Rose Woodford brought its dirty clothes; they were very dirty, and smelt—the sores came from dirt; washing would have prevented them.
Cross-examined. I saw the child first about a week after its birth; I only saw its face—the prisoner was still in bed—there was no mark on its face—her husband used to send her money; he is a very good husband and father, and it was only through her neglect that he left her—he is a picture-frame maker—I told her the child was not wrapped up enough, and offered to give her a little cape for it—when Rose Woodford brought the child to me, she was living as housekeeper to the prisoner's husband—she brought its clothes, as she was taking them back to the mother—I thought the prisoner neglected her other children.
EMILY SARAH SHERMAN . I live at 31, Spencer Road, Acton—on August 26th the prisoner came to lodge at my house, she had eight children, and occupied three rooms—Herbert was always filthily dirty—I saw him every day; he never went out; he was always in bed—the bottle stank in which the milk was kept—I washed it, and it made me sick—she told me her husband gave her ten shillings a week—there was a gathering on the child's ears, but, if he had been kept clean, it would have got well; the ear was nearly off; it hung by one thread.
Cross-examined. She paid 6s. 6d. for rent, and out of the balance she had to keep the children, but she had other money coming, and she went out to work, but did not do much—the child was fed—the prisoner had her hands full—she gave her eldest girl, who is sixteen, orders to look after the child, but she went into the street as soon as her mother's back was turned—the prisoner did not stride the child—it had not enough clothes to keep it warm, but it had indoors; the room was kept close enough—I think she was able to do more for the child.
Re-examined. There was always plenty of water in the house.
Cross-examined. I was not on very intimate terms with the prisoner—I have spoken to her about the dirty state of the child; I said before the Magistrate that I did not, but I was confused.
housekeeper to the prisoner's husband there—he has a shop there—the prisoner came there in December with the baby Herbert, and on the 23rd she brought him again—she went away with her daughter Elizabeth, leaving the child with me—it was very dirty, and its clothes smelt; its head and ear were sore, and running with matter; its buttocks were very sore—I washed it, and on the 26th I took it to Acton to show it to Dr. Franklyn—I did not see him, but I showed it to another doctor, I don't know his name—I took its clothing to Mrs. Rands on the 23rd—I took the baby home again, and kept it till February 28th, when it died—in the mean time I washed the sores, and they went away.
Crow-examined. I have known the prisoner's husband about six years—my father and mother lived there first, and they went to business, and I remained as housekeeper with my brother, but he left afterwards—the prisoner's husband helped me to remove there, and then he remained—I knew he had a wife and family—he said his wife was such a dirty woman, he would not live with her any longer—he was in partnership with my father, but they lost money all the time—we lived on the stock—the housekeeping expenses were 18s. or 19s. a week—I attended to the child, and stopped up with it several nights, and it was bathed every day, but it got very little better—it did not waste after it got there; it was too far gone—I knew the prisoner before I went to see her at Acton—the prisoner did not see her husband when she came; he was out—when she came and left the baby on the 23rd, I took it back three days afterwards to live with her—I am twenty-one years old.
Re-examined. The children are still at our place—I am looking after them—three of them came about three months before Christmas; the mother brought them—nothing was said about who should look after the children when they separated.
HENRY JOHN THORNTON . I am a fully qualified medical man, of The Maples, High Street, Acton—I know the prisoner and her children—I went to her in Petersfield Road first in August to attend her elder daughter—the room was very dirty—I said to her that the room and the bedclothes were in a filthy state, and no wonder the children were ill—she sent for me on September 29th, as her child Elizabeth had bronchitis, but I did not go; I referred her to the parish doctor—a child being fed on milk from a dirty bottle would be likely to injure it, and being kept from August to December without being taken into the open air, would certainly be prejudicial to its health—the last time I saw it was on the 29th.
By the COURT. It was suffering from bronchitis and tuberculosis, which would be very likely to be brought about by improper food or food in a dirty bottle; the child would form a dislike to food—it had tuberculosis of the small intestines.
Cross-examined. My advice was taken—the room was clean and the children, too, at Spencer Road, but I paid several visits at Petersfield Road—children with care have tuberculosis sometimes, and will present a very emaciated appearance, however well treated—it is a very serious disease; the mortality is very high—she said she did the best she could, but she had to go out to work.
By the COURT. With children of that age it is very essential that the body should be kept very clean; if not properly washed it would be likel
to engender sores—the ear hanging by only a small portion of akin would be likely to be caused by neglect of cleanliness; and the sores on the buttocks disappearing by washing, strengthens my opinion.
JOHN JAMES JOSEPH . I am a registered medical practitioner, of 77, East Hill, Wandsworth—Rose Woodford brought the child to me on December 15th, suffering from bronchitis and consumption of the bowels—after I had seen it there was a marked improvement—I attended it till the 29th—I afterwards made a post-mortem—it died from acute bronchitis and consumption of the bowels—treatment such as the witnesses have described would aggravate the disease—if it had been properly fed it would not have died so soon, or not at all—it weighed 6 lbs. and a few ounces; that is half the normal weight—I should expect to find that from the wasting.
Cross-examined. Great weakness would be a cause of sores—an accidental abrasion of the skin might be aggravated by uncleanliness—I cannot tell whether the consumption of the bowels was congenital or acquired.
By the COURT. Its getting well when it was kept clean, leads me to believe that the sores came from dirt, and from no other cause.
WILLIAM PUGSLEY (Police Inspector V). I took the prisoner on March 5th, and in answer to the charge she said, "It is false; they took the baby from me at two months, I never saw it afterwards; they never came to see me, or wrote to me. I had to go to work and leave it with a girl fourteen years old. If anybody went short of food, I went short myself."
The prisoner's statement before the Magistrate: "I done my best for him while I had him."
MR. WATT called
MART ANN HOWLEY (The prisoner). I was married close upon 18 years ago, and have had thirteen children by my husband; he left me soon after Christmas, 1892, and went to Mr. Welford's to claim stock—I did not agree to his going—I asked him whether he was coming back—he said, "Yes, I shan't be more than six weeks"—he allowed me 10s. a week while he was away, and one week he gave me 5s., and said, "That is all I can give you this week," and two weeks he gave me 12s.; the smallest sum was 5s.—I worked at cleaning, but for six weeks I could not go down-stairs; that was before my baby was born; Herbert was born while my husband was away—I had to keep nine other children at that time; they did not bring in any money—I paid 7s. 6d. for rent, and when I moved to Spencer Road I paid 6s. 6d.—my husband did not come to see the child—my other children were healthy, and there is no reason why this one should be different from the others—I washed the child all over in a basin every morning, and rubbed it with cod-liver oil, which made it look dirty—no one told me to do so, but I rubbed the others with it, and that made it smell nasty—I gave it two teaspoonfuls of cod-liver oil internally as well, every day—I sometimes got dinner where I worked, but did not eat it; I used to bring it home for my children—I could not take the child out, because I was not strong enough—it had a cape and a blanket in bed to keep it warm—when I was out at work I left it with a girl of fourteen, and I generally said, "Look after the baby well; I shall only be two hours"—I fed it with Robbs'
biscuit, and oatmeal, and Nestle's milk, and beef-tea—it ate all day and night, but did not seem to get any fatter—it was like other children when it was born, but it was always crying—directly it was taken bad I sent for Dr. Thornton, and as I was going to move, my place was not so clean as it used to be—I washed the bottle the milk was in every time it was used, and I asked the person upstairs if she had a little brush, and she did it for me and brought it down—I am a total abstainer; I have never tasted beer—since my arrest I have been in the prison infirmary—the child had no sores when I had him, excepting round his ears, from his teeth—all my children had it, and I put sweet oil on it and syringed it—I took it to Wandsworth to my husband, and never saw it again, and they never wrote to me—I had to raise money on my things.
Cross-examined. I never went to make inquiries after the child, or to see it, from December 23rd to February 23rd, when it died—my husband had one child eight years old and another nine, and then I took the other—I only had four in October and November—Annie died, I think, in September—I had three at home in November and December—the biggest boy went over by himself a week after Christmas, when I left Herbert I did not say, "I have brought the baby, and have done with the lot of them"—I said, "I have brought the baby, and I don't want to see you any more"—I did not say to Rose Woodford that I wished Herbert had died when Annie did; that one coffin might have contained the two—Annie was not in a state of great neglect, she died in my arms—inquests were held on two of my children at Mitcham; one died, aged six months—none of my children were insured; I have not paid any premiums—after my husband had left a twelvemonth he said he would have the children; I did not refuse—I have a daughter named Kate; she is in service, and comes home once a week—she did not complain of the dirtiness of the children—she was too saucy.
Re-examined. When the other two children died, there was no reflection on me.
WILLIAM HOLT . I am the prisoner's brother, and am a street paviour, of 17, Hamlin Street—it is a little better than twelve months since I saw my sister—she treated the children to the best of her ability, but the husband always kept the place as short as he could in the way of food, and kept the children almost naked, and in my presence he put one child in a back room, and told his wife to feed it on bread and water—the prisoner has been an abstainer all her life.
Cross-examined. I did not threaten Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Sherman outside this Court, that if they gave evidence I would do for them—I spoke to them, but I did not say that.
H. J. THORNTON (Re-examined by the COURT). I said before the Magistrate that the tubercular disease was acquired and not congenital—I spoke from the statements of witnesses who were present at the birth—no human skill could diagnose whether the child was born with tubercular disease or not—if it was not so born it might be set up—rubbing the body with cod-liver oil would do no good; it is a delusion.
NOT GUILTY .
No evidence was offered.
NOT GUILTY .
Before Mr. Recorder.
There were two other indictments against the prisoner, who stated that he was induced to rob the house, St. Patrick's Home, by another boy, an inmate there. The Manager gave him a good character.
[Pleaded Guilty: See original trial image.] Judgment respited.
398. GILBERT SMITH (18), and JAMES COOK (19) , Burglary in the dwelling-house of John Hammond, and stealing 7s. 10d., his moneys, and an overcoat and other property, and 13s. 6d. the goods and moneys of John Jenning. Second Count, receiving the same.
MR. WILSON Prosecuted.
GEORGE HAMMOND . I am an oilman, of 239, Wandsworth Road—about 11.30 p.m. on 19th March, I left my premises perfectly safe, and went to bed—I have revolving shutters screwed up with a padlock inside—I was awoke about 2.30 by the police, and then found my front shutter in the doorway had been forced up—I missed 7s. 10d. in money and my assistant's overcoat, and some of his money—I know the coat.
JOHN JENNING . I live and am an assistant at 239, Wandsworth Road—at 11.30 on 19th March I went to bed, leaving the premises all secure—I was called by the police at 2.30 next morning; the shutter was then open—I found my overcoat gone, and 13s. 6d, pipe, pouch, and handkerchief, which were in it.
WILLIAM HALLETT (163 W). On this night, about 12.15 a.m., I was in Heenan Street, about forty yards from 239, Wandsworth Road, and I saw the prisoners and another man standing at the corner of Wilcox Road—I watched them for some time, then lost sight of them—at one a.m., when I went off duty, I saw them standing by the side of the shop door of No. 239.
WILLIAM HUNT (26 W). On Wednesday, March 21st, at 11.30, I was on duty in Wandsworth Road—I saw the prisoners and another man at the corner of Wilcox and Wandsworth Roads—I watched them for some time, and then lost sight of them—I saw them again about 12.50—about 2.30 I arrested them for loitering—I found on Smith a table-knife and box of matches—they were charged before the Magistrate and remanded till the 29th.
MICHAEL KEEN (Detective Sergeant W). On Tuesday, March 20th, I went to the prosecutor's premises—I found the door, which is on the revolving shutters, had been forced with great pressure from outside; there were marks of violence on the shutter, as if the pressure had forced the bolts in on the inside—I charged the prisoners on the 29th at Lambeth Police-court with the burglary; they made no answer.
GEORGE LEGALL . I am a labourer, of 3A, Bridge Street, Wandsworth—on Tuesday, March 21st, Cook asked me to have a drop of beer—he took off this coat in the public-house, and asked me to go and get what I could for it—I went to the pawnshop, and got three shillings for it, which I gave with the ticket to another man who was with him, but who is not
here; I should know him if I saw him; he gave me the ticket back—the prisoner gave me a drop of beer—I gave the ticket to West.
Cross-examined by Cook. The other man had no overcoat; he had a reefer coat—you were putting the coat on when I came into the public-house—the man said you might have it, if it would fit you.
WILLIAM WEST . I am a general dealer, of 16, Balfour Lane—Legall gave me the pawn-ticket on the 21st, and I took out the coat for three shillings, but I could not spare the money, and I pledged it again with Mr. Higginbottom for five shillings.
SMITH.— NOT GUILTY .
COOK.— GUILTY of receiving.
COOK then PLEADED GUILTY to a conviction of felony in March, 1892, in the name of James Dunn. Nine other convictions in different names were proved against him.— Eighteen Months' Hard Labour.
ADJOURNED TO MONDAY, APRIL 30TH, 1894.
The following Prisoners, upon whom the sentence of the Court was respited at the time of Trial, have since been sentenced as under:—
Page. Vol. ex viii. Sentence.
(See page 539.)