CENTRAL CRIMINAL COURT
THIRD SESSION, HELD JANUARY 11TH, 1897.
MINUTES OF EVIDENCE,
TAKEN IN SHORT-HAND BY
Short-hand Writers in the Court,
THE POINTS OF LAW AND PRACTICE
REVISED AND EDITED BY
OF THE MIDDLE TEMPLE, BARRISTER-AT-LAW.
STEVENS AND SONS, LIMITED, 119, CHANCERY LANE,
Law Booksellers and Publishers.
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, January 11th, 1897, and following days.
BEFORE the RIGHT HON. GEORGE FAUDEL PHILLIPS, LORD MAYOR of the City of London; the Hon. Sir HENRY HAWKINS , Knt., one of the Justices of Her Majesty's High Court; Sir REGINALD HANSON , Bart., M.P., 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; Lieut.-Col. HORATIO DAVID DAVIES , M.P., ALFRED JAMES NEWTON , Esq., FRANK GREEN , Esq., JOHN POUND , Esq., WILLIAM PURDIE TRELOAR, Esq., GEORGE WYATT TRUSCOTT , Esq., and FRANK PRATT ALLISTON, Esq., other of the Aldermen of the said City; 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.
ROBERT HARGREAVES ROGERS, Esq.
WEBSTER GLYNES, Esq.
RICHARD CLARENCK HALSE, Esq.
CENTRAL CRIMINAL COURT.
PHILLIPS, MAYOR. THIRD 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.
108. The case of the Queen v. Maria Selina Elizabeth Scott (Lady Scott), John Cockerton, Frederick Kast and William Aylott, adjourned from December 7th, 1896, owing to the illness of the Defendant Kast, was resumed on Monday, January 4th, 1897, when it was proved that Kast was died in prison in the interval. At the close of the case for the Prosecution, after MR. LAWSON WALTON and MR. MARSHALL HALL had opened the cote for the Defendants, MR. JUSTICE HAWKINS ruled that Kast's statements could not be used as evidence. Counsel for the Defendants, upon that ruling, stated that, as they could not prove all the allegations in the plea of justification, owing to the exclusion of Kast's evidence, the Defendants would with draw the justification, and plead guilty to publication. SIR FRANK LOCKWOOD accepted a suggestion of MR. JUSTICE HAWKINS that the plea of justification should be amended by striking out all the allegations with regard to Kast, but Counsel for the Defendants did not consent to that course, as the Counts relating to Kast would still remain, and as, in their opinion, Kast's evidence contained strong corroboration of the case of the ether Defendants. The JURY thereupon returned a verdict of GUILTY, and the Defendants were sentenced to Eight Months' Imprisonment each.
OLD COURT.—Monday, January 11th, 1897.
Before Mr. Recorder.
MR. BODKIN Prosecuted.
GEORGE GRITTON . I am a clerk in the Consular department of the Foreign Office—I produce the original register of marriages which took place at the British Legation at Brussels, in 1878—I find an entry on October 24th, 1878, of a marriage between Thomas Haydon, bachelor, a native of Romford, and Marie Hoyez, spinster, solemnised by the Rev. J. C. Jenkins, at Her Britannic Majesty's Legation in Brussels—the signatures of the parties appear; it was a lawful marriage—this certificate is a correct transcript of the entry before me—I supplied it to
Doctors' Commons—there is a statement signed by Haydon—I have made no inquiries at the Legation at Brussels about any marriage lines lying there; I believe Mr. Williamson has done so—I know nothing of any marriage lines at Romford.
THERESE HAYDON . I am sixteen, and live with my mother at 6, Rue Bayard, Brussels—the prisoner is my father—I know his and my mother's writing—the signature, "Thomas Haydon," in this book is my father's, and "Marie Hoyez" my mother's writing—the signature, "Charles Hoyez," below, is that of my grandfather; he is very old, and unable to travel—I remember the prisoner before I went to England, when I was four and a-half years old—we lived in France then, I think—he lived with us then, from what I remember—I could not say if I saw him very often—I remember coming with my mother and the other children to England, and going into the Romford Workhouse—I don't think I saw my father directly after I went there, but I saw him there during the time—I lived in the workhouse till 1890, when I went back with my mother and the other children to Belgium—I did not see my father after I got back there in 1890 till 1895—in 1895 my mother was with me when my father came, and he saw mother—this letter, which is in my father's writing, was sent on to me by my mother. (This, dated July 18th 1895, from Sidney Road, Stockwell, acknowledged the receipt of a letter, stated that he was still suffering with his hand, and was signed, "Your affectionate husband and father, Thomas Haydon".) This draft telegram is in my father's writing; on it is written my grandfather's address.
Cross-examined by the Prisoner. I did not meet you on going to Belgium in 1890—after leaving Romford I next saw you two years ago, at the end of 1894—no one but you told me that you had married my aunt Therese previous to marrying my mother.
WILLIAM SMITH . I am clerk to the Guardians of the Romford Union—I first saw the prisoner, from my record, on October 19th, 1886, at the Romford Union—he was in the union for some time, and in the following April he asked to leave to make a home for his wife and family, who had tome into our union on November 6th, under a friendly order from the Dover Union, where, it was said, they had been deserted—another child was born at the workhouse on November 19th—the prisoner recognised his wife and children on their arrival; they had an interview—in April, 1887, the prisoner attended before the board, and asked permission to leave, with a view, he stated, of making a home for his wife and family—he made certain statements as to his connections in town, and, believing his statements to be genuine, he was allowed to leave—I saw no more of the prisoner till 1894, though I heard of him—in the meantime, in 1890, a letter came for Mrs. Haydon from Belgium, and, in consequence, she and her children were allowed to leave the workhouse, and assisted to go abroad to Belgium.
Cross-examined. I never heard that you had married Therese Hoyez till I went to the Police-court; I did not hear of your banns having been published in Romford—it was rather unusual for you to be allowed to leave the workhouse—from inquiries I made, I volunteered a statement to the board that they had done wrong, and that they would probably never hear of you again—I heard of you during the two years your wife
and children were left at the union; I heard you were at the Paris Exhibition.
Re-examined. I am also the Registrar of Births, Marriages, and Deaths; I could not find any notice being given of any such banns, or anything—notice of banns would not be given to the registrar's office; they would be giyen to the church clerk, and published in church—I should not necessarily have any notice if the marriage was by banns—I never heard of banns published at a registrar's office in England in view of a marriage abroad; from information furnished by Mrs. Haydon, we made inquiries to satisfy ourselve—I have made inquiries, and am satisfied, so far as I can be, that it is not true that the prisoner ever married her sister.
WILLIAM CLOVER (191 N). I am assistant gaoler At North London Police Court—on December 5th, when the prisoner was in custody, I saw him write this document and endeavour to hand it to his brother—I stopped it, and took possession of it.
Cross-examined. You did not hand it to me and ask if it could be handed to your brother—I took it at the wicket of the cell door.
ELIZABETH DEVERILL . I live at Clifton Road, Shefford, Bedfordshire—I first met the prisoner there—I married him on May 6th, 1891, at Trinity Church, Upper Tooting—I knew him six months before I married him—he said he was a widower—this is the certificate—he described himself as a foreign agent—he professed to be travelling with the latest patent in gas burners—after our marriage we lived at Tooting, and then at Shefford—before that we travelled in France, and lived in Guernsey for a year—I last saw the prisoner in October, 1894, when he said he was going to France—I did not hear from him after that—there were three children of the marriage—when I married him I had about £800; he lived a good deal on that money; none of it is left now.
Cross-examined. We travelled through France, and visited various places in France, Belgium, and Switzerland during about four months—we took apartments in Guernsey about eight months after our marriage, till I was delivered of my baby—I was married on May 6th, and my child was born on December 9th—it was a full-grown child—after that I wished you to take an eight-roomed house in Victoria Road, Guernsey—we furnished it completely—about September I wished to return to England, and the whole of the furniture was sold by auction—I had a bank book, and signed all the cheques—you were not unkind to me—we came to England; I had taken a six-roomed house in Tooting, which I furnished—after that you wished me to go to Sandown, and take a small house there, so as to have my own native air—I did not leave you with the two children—you have not seen my third child; it was born in January, 1895, and you left me in October, 1894—we were together for about three and a-quarter years—you were always kind to me—when you courted me I was living with my mother in Bedfordshire; you came there on a visit to see another lady.
ALFRED WARD (Detective N). On November 19th I took the prisoner into custody at this Court, on his being discharged on recognizances—I told him he would be charged with bigamy—he said, "The first marriage was illegal"—at the station, in answer to the charge, he said, "I am innocent"—I was present at this Court on December 17th last, when this case was commenced, and the Jury discharged from giving a verdict—the
prisoner then gave Inspector Nairn and me some information, which was written down and signed by the prisoner.
FREDERICK JAMES WILLIAMSON . I am in the Solicitors' Department of the Treasury, and had charge of this case—after the Jury were discharged last Session, the statement given by the prisoner to Nairn was put into my hands, and in consequence of an undertaking that inquiries should be made, I went to Belgium and made inquiries with reference to the matters contained in the statement, with a view of discovering whether there had been a marriage between the prisoner and Therese Hoyez at the place mentioned by the prisoner, and as to the date of Therese Hoyez's death—I procured this certificate of her death; she died on April 11th, 1878—I received it from Mr. Adams, the Charge d'Affaires at the British Legation at Brussels; he has certified it on the back, in consequence of my request.
Cross-examined. I ascertained where she was buried—I found nothing at the Legation to show that you and she were married—I believe banns of marriage between you and she were published twice, on December 30th, 1877, and on January 6th. 1878, but they were never completed, and she died in the hospital on April 11th, 1878; six months before your marriage with her sister—Therese Hoyez was buried in her maiden name, which I take to be her proper name—you gave the names of a number of people you alleged to be present at the wedding, but it was twenty years ago, and I could not get the information—I did not make inquiries of all the people you gave me; it was impossible; I could not hear anything of the marriage having taken place—I did not see your father-in-law, but he has made a statement with reference to the matter—the banns were published in Mons, not at Romford, so far as I can gather—the police have made inquiries at Romford, and they cannot find that they were published there—I heard a good many things at the Legation about you—you applied there from time to time for assistance; on one occasion assistance was refused, as some years before another woman who claimed to be your wife had been assisted by the Legation, and sent back to this country while you were living with another woman, Bennett, whom you claimed to be your first wife.
(The statement made by the prisoner to Inspector Nairn was read. It was to the effect that he married Therese Hoyez about twenty years ago at a Protestant minister's house, in the presence of an hotel-keeper and his niece as witnesses, after the publication of the banns at Romford, at the Registrar of Births, Marriages, and Death, and in the Romford newspapers; that the banns were sent to the Mayor at Mons, but the Mayor would not stamp them; that he was married according to the English law; that six or seven months after the marriage Therese died; that he was present with her father and mother at her burial; that he sent her belongings and the certificate of marriage to her father; and that subsequently he had married her sister Marie.)
Re-examined. The banns of which I heard at Brussels were the banns for the civil marriage—I heard nothing as to any English banns having been sent over—I made inquiries, and found that banns sent to England would have no effect in Belgium—a marriage between parties by a Protestant in a private house would be of no effect in Belgium unless the civil marriage had also taken place—I did not inquire about any private
house where it might have been solemnised, because a Minister of Justice informed me that such a marriage could not be valid even if it took place.
ALFRED WARD (Re-examined). I searched the Register of Births, Marriages, and Deaths at St. Edmund's, Rom ford, the parish church, from 1863 to 1886—I found no trace of any banns of marriage having been published there—I saw Mr. Allen, the clergyman, there.
THERESE HAYDON (Re-examined). Just before I came to England for this trial I heard a conversation between my grandfather and my mother; they talked about the question of the prisoner's marriage with ray aunt Therese, and my grandfather said my father had never been married to her.
Further cross-examined. My grandfather said he and my mother were at the funeral; I don't remember hearing anything about your being there—I never heard, though my uncles and aunts, that you married my aunt Therese; you told it me yourself when you came back in 1894; I never heard it anywhere else.
JAMES NAIRN (Police Inspector). I received these four letters from the prisoner—I only made inquiries in reference to the statements in one of them; copies of the others were handed to the Treasury, and after inquiries had been made at Brussels they did not think it necessary to go further—Ward inquired about Duck, a coffee-house keeper at Tooting, and on his return he told me that Duck (whose name the prisoner had given) declined to come here to say anything about it.
Cross-examined. You sent me a letter a fortnight ago, giving certain names, and it was laid before the Treasury, and after the result of the inquiries made at Brussels it was not 'deemed necessary to make farther inquiries.
The Prisoner, in his defence, asserted that he had married Therese Hoyez at Mons, and that the banns of marriage were published.
Inspector Nairn stated that the prisoner had married several other women by whom he had children, and having spent the money he had obtained with them, deserted them.
GUILTY .— Five Years' Penal Servitude.
111. WILLIAM HENRY MINDEN , to stealing a watch and chain, and other goods, in the dwelling-house of James Allen Brown; and to four other indictments for larceny from different persons; and to a previous conviction of felony in October, 1895.— Three Years' Penal Servitude.
112. WILLIAM LEACH (27) and JOHN WILKINSON (23) , to two indictments for burglary, and having in their possession burglarious instruments; also to having been previously convicted of felony; and other convictions were proved against Williams. LEACH— Twelve Months. WILLIAMS— Five Years' Penal Servitude. [Pleaded guilty: See original trial image.] And
113. FREDERICK LOSH MILLER (60) , to embezzling £2,260 8s. 1d., of William Howard Russell, his master; also for falsifying certain books and papers of his said master.— Four Years' Penal Servitude. [Pleaded guilty: See original trial image.]
NEW COURT.—Monday, January 11th, 1897.
Before Mr. Common Serjeant.
114. JOHN LEWIS BUTLER PLEADED GUILTY to forging anduttering the endorsement to a cheque for £1 6s.; also to forging and uttering a cheque for £5; also to forging and uttering another cheque for £5, with intent to defraud. Eight convictions were proved against him, including sentences of Five Years' and Seven Years' Penal Servitude.—Three Three Years' Penal Servitude. And
WILLIAM RAINEY . I am an artist of 13, Tufnell Park Road—on August 7th I left home with my family for a holiday, leaving the house locked up, and the key with my friend, Mr. Vernon—I returned on October 2nd and found it all right—I returned again on October 23rd, on receiving a telegram from my friend—I found a pane of glass had been broken, and, the house was in disorder—I missed a quantity of wearing apparel, and shirts, table-covers, silver, knives, forks, three bracelets, lockets, two pairs of solitaires, eighty-one books, and other articles—I identify all these things (produced); they are part of the property I missed; the value of all was £62.
GEORGE VERNON . I am manager to Mr. Partridge, a publisher, of Stroud Green—in August last I was looking after Mr. Rainey'a house; I kept the key—I went to the house on October 23rd, and could not get in; the key turned in the lock, but the front door was bolted inside—I went to a house in the rear, and got over the neighbours' gardens, and found that the glass of the back door was cut out—the houses are in a row; there is no public entrance at the back—I fetched a constable.
AMELIA JAKE HODGKINSON . I am the wife of Henry Hodgkinson, and live at Sizelet Street, Ring's Cross—I became acquainted with the prisoner by his going backwards and forwards—in the middle of July; I saw him again at an analytical chemist's; he asked my husband to give him employment, which he did for a day or two—after he had taken a house in Douglas Road he brought some of these things to our house at the end of August, and said that a gentleman friend had given them to him, and asked me to take care of them—he gave his name as Montague—he afterwards brought more articles—I identify this pink dress and muff and other ladies' wearing apparel—he also brought these books, a few at a time—the police communicated with me, and I gave up the property.
Cross-examined by the Prisoner. You came to our house several times after taking the house in Douglas Road in August—I know Heath Lammon, and another man who attended sales, which I attended—I bought things and hired men to take them home—I did not quarrel with them—you had £30 from us in money and value.
By the COURT. As to this wearing apparel, he said that he had lost his wife, and he was a woman-hater; that the books were his own, and he being a doctor, I thought so, and thought they were medical works—he gave me this card. ("Dr. Henry Montague, Douglas Road, Canonbury.")
who gave the name of Henry Montague—he gave me two references, which were satisfactory as far as they went.
HARRY WHITE (Detective Sergeant E). I arrested the prisoner on November 16th; some of this property (produced) was found at his house, 33, Douglas Road, Canonbury—they are identified by Mr. Rainey—I also found these documents there; all these things in Mr. Hodgkins' possession are Mr. Rainey's property, books and all.
Prisoner's Defence; Three men used to come backwards and forwards to the house, and they must have brought the property into the house; I met them several times, and they asked me if I would take a parcel to Mrs. Hodgkins, and I said that I would.
MR. HODGKINS. I am the husband of Amelia Hodgkins, and am a window cleaner—the prisoner brought this property to my house—I know nothing about these three men.
By the JURY. I have never cleaned any windows in Tufnell Park Road—other men are engaged with me—I have never seen the prisoner in that neighbourhood—I have only been engaged four or five weeks since this man went away, and I can prove by my daily books what jobs I was engaged on—the prisoner has nearly ruined me; I gave up my work to accept his situation, and he has been living on me ever since.
GUILTY .—He then PLEADED GUILTY to a conviction at the Surrey Sessions on June 1st, 1885. He had been sentenced to Five Years', and again to Fourteen Years' Penal Servitude, and was still on ticket-of-leave .—Five Years' Penal Servitude.
JOHN PATTERSON . I have been a sailor—I am a lock man, and live at 64, St. George's Street—on Sunday morning, December 20th, I was at the top of Dello Street; the prisoner came up and asked me for a light; I gave him one; he said, "All right, good-night", and turned round, and broke my chain from the swivel—he whistled, and two men came from the opposite corner just as I was falling, and I was kicked about my head and body—I missed my chain, value 18s., my hat, and a bunch of keys—I held the prisoner till the police came, but the others got away—I went to the London Hospital, and am still an out-patient; the wounds, are very sore yet.
JAMES SKIPPO (Policeman). On September 20th, about a quarter to one a.m., I was in High Street, Stepney, and heard cries of "Police"—I ran into Dello Street, and saw the prisoner and prosecutor struggling on the ground—I pushed the prisoner off him—he said, "That man has stolen my watch-chain"—he then became unconscious—I sent for an ambulance, and took the prisoner to the station; he seemed sober.
EYRE MORTIMER THURESSON . I am a Licentiate of the College of Physicians of Edinburgh—on this Sunday morning I was called to King David Station, and saw the prosecutor lying on an ambulance, insensible
from loss of blood—I took him into the station, and found a small wound on the left side of his head, and another irregular wound with torn edges, a punctured wound midway between the back of his head and the scalp, two punctured wounds on the scalp, and next to them an irregular wound, and a punctured wound on the left side, running in a slanting direction, and he had other wounds, about a dozen altogether, some done by a sharp instrument, and some by kicks—there was some blood on the prisoner's hands.
Evidence for the Defence.
DANIEL GREEN . I am the prisoner's brother, and live at 15, Lowder Street, Wapping—I. work at a beer-bottling store—I was going home on this night, and saw William Walker and Fred Tilley—Walker lives in King Joseph Street, the first house on the left-hand side; I don't know the number—he came to my house on Boxing-night, and said that it was not my brother who snatched the chain—I was present, and saw my brother and Patterson lying on the ground, both insensible—I did not think he was insensible when the policeman was there—the police-man was there when I got there.
Cross-examined. I did not hear anybody call "Police!"
Prisoner's Defence; I wished my brother good-night, and saw this gentleman, and asked him for a light, which he gave me, and I got a punch. I was taken to the station, and charged with felony. It is a thing I never did in my life.
GUILTY .— Twelve Months' Hard Labour.
OLD COURT.—Tuesday, January 12th, 1897.
Before Mr. Justice Hawkins.
WILLIAM HART (64, Sergeant E). I produce three plans of the locality, and this map I made to show the route taken by the prisoner from Chapel Street to the City—from Chapel Street to Remington Street is, roughly, a quarter of a mile.
Cross-examined. There is an incline from the Angel public-house along the City Road—there is a double line of tramway in the City Road, and the road is paved with granitecubes—the Sportsman public-house is about forty yards from the Remington Road—I attended the inquest; outside there was waiting a pony arid trap, which the Coroner's Jury visited—the prisoner was represented by a solicitor there—the pony was thirteen hands high, I should say; I did not measure it—it was not a young pony particularly, and I should not think it was a very old one either; I should think it was over eight; I am no judge of ponies' ages—I am not prepared to say it was not over ten—the trap was a four-wheeled light van, uncovered; something after the style of a trolley, rather shallow—I have made no inquiry about the prisoner, and know nothing of his antecedents.
the City Road, and I saw the van coming down the hill very fast, and I heard the cry, "Me," coming from the corner of Remington Street; and the van went a little way down, and I saw the red light from the lanten—the van came from the direction of Chapel Street, Islington—I had been at work in Chapel Street, and I had seen the prisoner selling oil-cloth from his van at the corner of Chapel Street; after that, when we were taking things into our shop, I saw the van go by, and it stopped at a public-house in Chapel Street—about twenty minutes after that I was on my way home, passing St. Matthew's Church, in City Road, near Remington Street, with a gentleman, when I saw the van come down the hill, and heard a woman cry "Me"—I heard no other cry—I went on in the direction of Remington Street, and at the corner of Remington Street I saw the woman—she was brought from the road on to the pavement—she was covered with mud, and had a big piece of flesh cut out of her head—there were three persons in the van; it did not stop at all; it went straight on.
Cross-examined. I and the gentleman were speaking together by St. Matthew's Church when the van passed; we were walking down the City Road—I should say I was about sixty yards from the horse and trap when I heard that cry—I don't know if the cry came from the spot where I afterwards saw the woman lying in the road—when I saw the woman lying in the road the van had got beyond her about forty yards; it was not going so fast then as it had been going; it drove straight on.
GEORGE PEARCE (86 G). On the night of December 14th I was on duty in the City Road, at the corner of Nelson Terrace, which is about 150 yards north of Remington Street, on the same side of the City Road—going down the City Road from Islington, Nelson Terrace is about 150 yards before you come to Remington Street—Nelson Terrace ia a few yards nearer Islington than the church—at ten minutes to twelve my attention was drawn to a four-wheeled van, drawn by a brown pony driven furiously down the City Road at fourteen miles an hour—the prisoner was driving, and another man and a boy were in the van—when I first saw it, it was about ten yards from me, coining towards me; it proceeded down the City Road—I saw it swerve, when opposite Remington Street, to the off-side of the road, away from Remington Street—then it went further down, and turned into Central Street on the off-side—it did not stop anywhere—I made no attempt to stop the driver; it went too fast—the incline down the City Road stops just by Remington Street, certainly not before.
Cross-examined. I have been about five years in the force—I have not driven myself—after the pony swerved, opposite Remington Street, it went on quite as quick; I cannot say it went any slacker—it had been raining during the day; there was mud on the road; it was not greasy, nor slippery—I tried it as I walked across—when the van passed me it was on the crown of the road; one of the wheels must have been on, or almost on, the tramway line—if anything, the van was on the left-hand side of the road—the road was absolutely clear, with the exception of a tram coming in the opposite direction; the tram was about by Central Street when the prisoner was passing Remington Street—there may have been a small weight in the cart, nothing noticeable; it went along like an ordinary van—I do not know whether it had a weight or not—it was
going at just about fourteen miles an hour—it was not going at fifteen miles an hour; I stick to the fourteen miles—when I went off duty I spoke to the inspector about it—I did not make any written report.
By the COURT. I did not see the woman on the ground—I did not go down to the spot—I heard nothing at the time—I have only the ordinary duty as to regulating traffic, or the speed of carriages; if I see furious driving, and can prevent it, I do so—a van must not exceed nine miles an hour in the City Road—an ordinary four-wheeled cab goes at about six miles an hour—I went into the road just after it passed; but this van went by so fast that it was impossible to do anything, and I watched it go down the road—I did not shout to the driver—there was a constable on duty in Nelson Terrace.
ALFRED ROUGH . I am a metal stamp maker, and live at 3, Nelson Place, Remington Street, City Road—I am twenty-one—on Monday night, December 14th, I was in the City Road at 11.50, looking into the Sportsman public-house (which is between the church and Remington Street, in the City Road), to see if any friends of mine were there, when I heard a noise as if a van or cart was coming along—I caught a glimpse of it as it went by—it went very fast—I saw at the back, on the left-hand side, a boy hanging on, when it passed me—when the cart got to the greengrocer's, just before coming to Remington Street, the boy jumped off—I looked again, because I thought the boy might have been knocked down by the van, and I saw him get up from the road, and walk on to the pavement; then my eyes went on to the road again, and I saw like a black bundle lying there—I ran from the Sportsman, and when I got up I found the bundle was a woman—with the help of a stranger, I carried her on to the pavement, and then I ran and fetched a policeman—it was after the van had passed Remington Street that I saw what appeared to be a bundle in the road—I will not be sure which way the van went; I thought it took the direction of Central Street at the time, but I was flurried—I had not seen the woman until I saw the bundle in the road; it was not above a few yards from where the boy dropped from the van—as I picked the woman up she said, "Help me, help me"—she was about four or five yards from the pavement, between the kerbstone and the tram line; I am not good at judging distances—this plan recalls the situation to my mind—the road was comparatively clear from traffic at the time—I saw the woman put into a cab by some constables.
By the COURT. I cannot tell how fast the van was going, but it was going very fast; about as fast as fire engines go, so far as I know, all the way I saw it; it had just come off the hill on to the level where I was standing—I did not notice a tramcar coming up the road—I did not see how the van was laden, but it seemed a bit heavily laden to me at the time.
WRAYSBURY NEAL (49 G). I took the woman to the hospital on the night of December 14th—I found her on the pavement at the corner of Remington Street and City Road—she was sitting—I saw nothing of the van or horse—when we were taking her out of the cab to put her into the ambulance, she said, "Don't put me in there," or "Don't take me in there"—that was all I heard her say.
with the prisoner, who was driving—I sat in the middle, with the prisoner on one side, and a little boy on the other—we came from Chapel Street, Islington, and drove down the City Road on the left-hand side—after we had got a little distance down the City Road, I saw a woman, about twenty yards from us, crossing the road from the right side to the left; she was about three yards to the right-hand side of the centre of the road—all three of us shouted "Hi! hi!" as loud as we could—she took no notice, but went straight across towards our right-hand shaft, and the side of that shaft caught her—she staggered back, and fell down—I don't know if she fell on her face or back—I looked round in her direction—we did not stop—we tried to ease up the pony the best we could; it was rather an obstropelous pony; we tried to pull it up on one side; he would not stop, and we went straight on—we had come from a public-house—I had been selling there for the prisoner—I went inside at 11.15, and had been there about twenty-five minutes—we were sober.
Cross-examined. The prisoner goes about with his pony and trap, selling oilcloth—I should think his pony is about twelve years old; I am not much of a judge of ponies—the prisoner and I occupy a pitch near a public-house, to sell oilcloth remnants—he has been, on and off, at that business for about fifteen years—we went into the public-house in Chapel Street to have a drink—we were sober—the prisoner had a glass of ale, I believe, and was perfectly sober—we had left home at four that afternoon to sell oilcloth—from four to 11.20 we had three or four glasses of ale each; that was all—there was a little fog, and it was dark—we had a good bright light on the off-shaft—the woman was about twenty yards off when I first saw her; I am no judge of distance—I should think the prisoner is about twelve yards from me now—when we shouted the woman took no notice; she did not turn her head, or anything—as she was walking across the road the side of the shaft caught her and knocked her back—I did not think she was seriously hurt—we had started out with 25 or 30 cwt. of oilcloth that evening; a pretty good load for the pony—we sold about half a ton, and were taking back 14 or 15 cwt. in the van—the prisoner started that day from Green Street, Bethnal Green; I met him at the stable there at four o'clock—we did not drive direct to the pitch, but went to other places first—I had not been there before myself—the pony was going home when the accident happened—the prisoner tried to pull up the pony after the accident, but you cannot pull it up exactly when you like.
By the COURT. After the woman had been knocked down we turned off the City Road to the right—I do not know Central Street—I saw the woman fall down—she was then about four yards from the left-hand side pavement—I thought she was not hurt—when the shaft caught her it was very slight; she staggered a little, as if she were intoxicated—she might have been slightly hurt—I thought we ought to have stopped or turned back—I thought she was rather the worse for drink—I first thought that after the accident, because she seemed to stagger before the shaft touched her—she was walking fast—we made the remark after it was all over—she was walking sharply across, as if she did not care where she was going; it occurred to me she did not care where she was going—I saw her first three or four yard from the right side; I did not notice at first that she was staggering, and not caring where she went—it did not
occur to me till we had run her down—we were going about six miles an hour—I am not accustomed to driving; I have not driven a pony for years—I think I am a good judge of speed—this pony cannot do more than ten miles an hour in a trap with anyone in it—fourteen miles an hour is very quick—it would be easier to stop a pony going six miles an hour than one going fourteen; you have more control over it—you could pull up and stop a pony in a very short distance, unless he was obstreperous, if he was going at six miles an hour, and has had a heavy day's work and a heavy load.
CHARLES PHILLIPS . I am eleven, and live at 15, Park Street, Globe Road, Bethnal Green—I was in the trap, with the prisoner and Fleeman, on Monday night, December 14th—the prisoner was driving—I had driven with him earlier in the day from James Street, Bethnal Green, to Chapel Street, Islington—we were driving home down the City Road, when I saw a lady about as far as half the way across the Court from us—she was in the road, walking across from the right to the left side—we were not going very fast—I was sittting on the left-hand side of the cart; we all three faced the pony—Fleeman was in the middle, and the prisoner on the right side—when we came up to the lady, the end of the right-hand shaft hit her on the shoulder, and she fell down—the prisoner did not stop—he was so much upset that he rode home—nothing was said to the prisoner, asking him to stop—the woman was walking slowly—I did not notice anything in her manner or walk.
Cross-examined by the Prisoner. Fleeman and I called out, "Hi! hi!" as loud as we could to the woman—she took no notice—I had joined the prisoner about four p.m., and I had been with him and the pony and van from then till the accident happened—we had sold a quantity of oilcloth—we were bringing home ten pieces—we had taken out about twenty pieces, and had sold ten—they are not large rolls—the prisoner was sober—I drove home with him—he drove all right—I go out with him to sell oilcloth—this is the first time, as far as I know, that anything has happened to the pony or the prisoner—I had not stopped outside, or been in a public house—he stopped at a public-house in Chapel Street, Islington—he did not stop at one on the road—we were going slow.
By the COURT. How came you to say before the Magistrate that you were going fast?(The witness did not answer.)
THOMAS PERCY LEGG . I am a registered medical practitioner, and one of the house surgeons at Bartholomew's Hospital—on Monday night, December 14th, when the injured woman was brought to the hospital, I received her—she was living, but died twenty minutes after—I appeared at the Police-court on two occasions, and between the two occasions I made a post-mortem examination—I found a lacerated wound over the left eye, three fractured ribs on the right side, and a rupture of the spleen and pancreas—the liver was fatty, enlarged, and unhealthy, but a there was no injury to it—the cause of the injuries was some violent accident—being struck by the shaft might have caused the injury over the eye—there was a faint bruise across the abdomen, which might have been caused by the wheels of a cart going over it; and the rupture of the pancreas might also hfcve been caused by that—she was unconscious, and did not recover consciousness prior to death—I did not observe any odour of drink—there was a bruise on the right arm, and one on left leg—they might
have been caused by the fall, or by being knocked over, or by the wheel—some of the wounds might have been caused by the fall, and others by more serious violence—the injuries were sufficient to account for death—I attribute the death to the injuries.
Cross-examined. The condition of the liver and kidneys led me to the conclusion that the woman was a hard drinker, and that her death was accelerated by the condition of those organs, and that of the heart—the liver was fatty—she was unconscious, and I could not say whether she was under the influence of drink or not—I received her into the ward, and was with her till she died—she never recovered consciousness—she was not a healthy subject—she was about 5 ft. 4 in. high—the injury over the left eye might have been caused by a violent fall to the ground—if the shaft struck the woman on the back, and threw her forward, it would account for the injury over the left eye.
Re-examined. There was nothing to show that the woman was drunk at the time she was admitted.
TOM KIEK (Detective Sergeant G). At noon on December 15th I arrested the prisoner in Bonner Road, Green Street, Bethnal Green, where he was selling oilcloth—I said, "I am a police officer; is your name Yetton?"—he said "Yes, it is"—I said, "You must come with me to the Old Street Police-station for causing the death of a woman in City Road last night, whom you knocked down while driving a horse and van"—he said, "I called out to the woman, and she stood back like this" (making a motion)—"I thought she was all right, or else I should have stopped to see what was the matter"—when he was charged at Old Street Police Station, and the charge was read over by the inspector, the prisoner said, "I was so much confused at the time I did not know what I was doing, and I drove away"—I made this note of what he said.
Cross-examined. It is a rule with us to make a note—I had it with me at the Police-court, and read from it there—my note is, "I was too much upset at the time; I did not know what to do, and I drove away"—the inspector read the charge to him; I don't think he asked him what answer he had to make to the charge—I have made inquiries about the prisoner—for the last ten or fifteen years he has been selling floor and oilcloth, and driving occasionally—I found that out from a man who was employed with him, and a man who bailed him out; those persons were respectable and trustworthy.
Cross-examined. I saw a pony and trap outside the hospital—I have no experience in driving—I do not know the pony's age.
JESSIE WARD . I live at 2, Pickard Street, City Road, and am the wife of William Ward—the deceased, Emma Reid, was my sister—she was forty-four—she was a mantle finisher—she was not subject to any illness—she had good sight and hearing,
Witnesses for the Defence.
WILLIAM REDWIN . I am an umbrella maker, living at 250, Goswell Road, Clerkenwell—the deceased was an acquaintance of my wife—when I returned from work at 9.5 on December 14th I saw the deceased and my wife, who were both considerably the worse for drink—I spoke to them
and went out—when I came back after five minutes, the deceased had gone—she left my house between 9.10 and 9.15.
EDWARD CUTTLE . I am a costermonger, of 20, Sidney Road, Goswell Road—on the night of December 14th I was selling fish at my stall in the Goswell Road, and I saw Emma Reid with'another woman, about nine o'clock—they were both drunk, and were talking to two gentlemen.
Cross-examined. They walked to my stall—the deceased was drunk.
The prisoner received a good character
NOT GUILTY .
NEW COURT.—Tuesday, January 12th, 1897.
Before Mr. Recorder.
MR. BIRON Prosecuted.
GUILTY .— Eighteen Months' Hard Labour. There were three other similar indictments against the prisoner.
ALICE BUTLER . I live at 1, Turner's Court, and am a general servant—on January 2nd I was with my mother, and left her and went through Drury Court; somebody came from behind, and I had a blow on my mouth, and cannot remember more—I saw the prisoners when I was on the ground, not before; the boy was kneeling down, and the girl fell with me—I knew them by sight; I know the boy as William Davis and also as Ings—when I came to, I missed my purse and 15s. 6d., and my mother and sister came up—I saw the prisoners next on the Monday morning at Bow Street, and charged them with robbing me—I had last seen my purse at the Stores in Blackmoor Street, ten minutes before.
Cross-examined by Ing. I had the purse, not my mother; she never got the things; I got them myself.
CLARA BUTLER . I am the wife of Alexander Butler, a fanner, of 1, Turner's Court—on January 2nd I met my daughter and left her, and when I came back I saw her on the ground, calling "Mother," and the prisoners with her—Ing hit me on my mouth; I knew him before; he bears more names than one—some of the neighbours brought water to bathe my daughter's face, and the prisoners ran away—I saw them next at Bow Street on Sunday.
Cross-examined by Ing. I did not go up to you and say "Halloa," and strike you on the side of your face—my daughter did not say, "Did you hit my mother?" nor did I strike her—I did not pick my daughter up, and, being intoxicated, fall on top of the two of you.
HARRY CALLAGHAN (Detective Sergeant). On January 2nd, about eleven o'clock, I received information from Mrs. Butler—I saw the prisoners at 12.30 next morning, and said I should take them for robbery and stealing
15s. 6d. from Alice Butler's pocket; Ing made no reply, but, going to the station, he said, "They have been accusing me of stealing money all the week, and what I did was in self-defence."
Ing's Statement before the Magistrate: "They have been accusing me all the week; when she has a drop of drink she quarrels."
Evidence for fng.
ELIZA GLOVER . I am a book-folder, of Brook Street—on January 2nd I was standing at my door in Drury Court, and the mother began a row, and caught hold of the prisoner Ing by the throat and struck him, and soon afterwards up came the prosecutrix's daughter, and hit Roberts; the mother was the worse for drink, and, instead of hitting Roberts, she hit her own daughter on her mouth—I was not called at the Police-court.
Cross-examined. The mother looked excited; she began by striking Ing; he told her to get away; he could not talk to a woman that would not protect her husband—I know them by sight; I have never spoken to Roberts, but I have always seen the two prisoners together.
Ing's Defence: I was at her house, and her husband came home intoxicated, and fell on the floor asleep; he woke up and said, "If you come here again I will invite you"—he went to the clock, took out two half-crowns and one shilling, and said, "My old woman has had six shillings out of my pocket, and kept it all the week." Alice Butler asked her to fight; she said she did not want to fight, and on the Saturday her mother came and said, "Halloa! I respect you, but I do not respect the other; he is a thief; she struck me, and I struck her back." I said, "Is the girl locked up?" The mother went to pick her up; I pushed her away, and picked the girl up.
NOT GUILTY .
No evidence was offered.— NOT GUILTY .
THIRD COURT.—Tuesday, January 12th, 1897.
Before Mr. Common Serjeant.
MR. BODKIN Prosecuted, and MR. HUTTON Defended.
The evidence, as far as was necessary, was interpreted to the prisoner.
OSCAR WARREN . I am assistant to Messrs. Morgan and Co., money changers, of 26, Coventry Street—on October 5th last I cashed this order at the office for 100 fr. for a man I do not identify—we generally ask for the envelope in which the order arrived—I did so on this occasion—the man gave me this envelope. (Addressed to M. Louis Durant, 49 Hanway Street, and bearing the stumps of Dieppe and London.) I gave the man £3 18s., the current exchange—the order was signed "Louis
Durant," as it is now—the order was paid away in the course of business to Mr. Smart.
BOLTON VALENTINE SMART . I am a money changer, of 9, Wardour Street—on October 6th the prisoner produced this French P.O.O. for 100fr., signed as it is now, and in the name of Charles Bruselle—I asked, in accordance with the usual practice, for the envelope, and he showed me this one—I handed him £3 18s. 4d.—he came again on October 7th with another French P.O.O. for 100 fr. (produced)—he showed me this envelope, addressed to Maurice Lubnau, 30, Goode Street, London—I handed him £319s.—the exchange often varies—there is no fixed Paris standard tariff—I paid the orders into the bank—I got them back—I also received this note from Morgan and Co., with this order for 100 fr., which was also returned unpaid—on December 2nd I picked the prisoner out from seven or eight men at Maryborough Street Police-court—I had not seen the prisoner between October 6th and December 2nd.
Cross-examined. I had never seen the prisoner before October 5th to my knowledge—the first time he came in the morning, about 9.30—the following day he came in the evening—I only conversed with him with regard to the notes—I find I gave him £3 19s., and the second time he came £7 1s. 9d.—I communicated with the Post Office, and the police told me to come to Marlborough Street—they told me they had arrested a man—I could not remember whether it was a Frenchman or not—I could not say I knew I was going to pick out a Frenchman—the prisoner spoke broken English—I spoke English—he could understand it—I took him to beaforeigner—he did not speak when I picked him out—I believed him to be a foreigner—I could not say if other foreigners were at Marlborough Street for identification—I could not remember if he was dressed the same at Marlborough Street as when he came to me—he was wearing a beard—I could not say whether he wore a moustache when he came to me; I took more notice of his face—he appeared to have a beard—I could not say how he was dressed.
Re-examined. I heard none of the men speak before I picked the prisoner out—I have no doubt he is the man who changed the two notes—I did not hear him speak afterwards till he was in Court—I have no doubt he is a Frenchman.
WILLIAM SHABMAN . I am manager to Messrs. Henry Gaze and Sons, tourist agents, Piccadilly Circus—about October 7th the prisoner presented this French P.O.O. about four p.m.—I picked him out at Vine Street Police Court, early in December, from twelve or thirteen men—he put it down in the ordinary course of business, and I picked it up and cashed it—it is to Louis Durant, Tottenham Court Road—I think he spoke French—I told him it was worth £3 18s.—I asked him, in French, if he was satisfied—he said, "Yes"—the envelope was attached—it has been destroyed—I took it to Gaze's office, and it could not be found—on the envelope was Louis Durant, Hanway Street—the order went to the Post Office, and was returned—I have no doubt the prisoner was the man who tendered the order.
Cross-examined. When he came to the office was the only time I have seen him—I knew I was going to identify a Frenchman—I had no conversation at Vine Street before selecting the prisoner, or afterwards—I did not know the nationality of the other men; several were like the
prisoner—when he came to the office he wore a moustache only—he had not a beard when I picked him out, but a thick, heavy moustache—he was not mixed with men who had beards—when he came to the office there was nothing remarkable about his dress, except that he was shabby—I gave no description of what he was wearing to the police; the principal part of men who come to Piccadilly Circus are not foreigners—I get a few—many orders are changed by foreigners, but only French orders are changed in this particular way—the German system is quite different.
Re-examined. When I picked the prisoner out I heard no one speak; the detectives would not permit it.
EMILY BLAGDEN . I keep a stationer's shop at 49, Hanway Streets—I take in letters—I have known the prisoner two years—he has been in the habit of calling for letters in the name of Durant—I have handed him four or five; I do not remember the dates he used to call.
Cross-examined. I have seen him once or twice a week—another lady handed him the letters, but I was always in the shop—he wore a moustache in September and October (I saw him every day, or nearly) not a beard—he spoke broken English—I did not understand it well—he could understand me well.
JANE GRIMSDALE . I keep a newsagent's shop at 36, Mortimer Market—I know the prisoner—he asked if he could have letters addressed there—he wrote this name, "Charles Bruselle," on this piece of paper, about the end of last September—three letters came—the envelope marked "A" is one of them—they all seemed the same—I picked the prisoner out from other men at Marlborough Street—I am quite sure he it the man.
EMIL PELLETIER . I keep a newsagent's shop at 30, Goode Street—no one named Maurice Lebnau has lived there during the last ten months—I receive letters—I do not recollect any coming for Lebnau—I do not recognise the prisoner.
ROBERT JOHN SANDERSON . I am a clerk in the Money Order Office of the General Post Office—the four French postal orders produced are payable in London—the practice of the French Post Office is to send letters of advice corresponding to the postal-orders sent to the proposed payee, similar to those with the English post-office orders—the General Post Office will not pay till they get it—I have the advices of these orders produced from Dieppe—they are all for one franc, except one for 1 franc 26 centimes.
LOUIS CHARON (Interpreted.) I am a licensed messenger at the railway station at Dieppe—I was at Dieppe the beginning of October last, when two men spoke to me—the prisoner was one—I asked him whether he wanted a commissionaire—he said, "Yes"—I asked him if he wanted a small hand-cart—he said, "No"—it was to go to the Post Office to take out eight post-office orders for one franc each, one shilling each, and eight envelopes—he gave me a gold 10-franc piece and a piece of paper with a name written on it—I got the orders, and brought them back in the envelopes to the prisoner—I left him in the café—about December 15th I identified the prisoner at a London Police-station.
got five postal orders for 1 franc, and three for 1 franc 26 centimes—he showed me eight envelopes with names on, and a piece of paper with the name of the sender written on it—these produced are four of the orders and four of the letters of advice.
GEORGE SMITH INGLIS . I am an expert in handwriting, practising at 8, Red Lion Court, Holborn—I have carefully examined the four postal orders produced—I find faint original letters and figures erased by chemicals—my son enlarged them—" cent." is written on a lower level than "franc," showing it was not done at the same time and by the same hand; "franc" having been written by the postmaster—"cent." is written afterwards on the space, and, being larger, comes lower on the line. (An enlarged photograph of orders was produced, and shown to the JURY.)
Cross-examined. The prisoner wrote it before he was identified, and when he was detained for identification—it is not our habit, and it was not done to prove forgery.
GEORGE SMITH INGLIS (Continued). I have examined the three envelopes produced, and the names of the payee, with the writing on this piece of paper which Sexton has proved—they are the same writing as is the "Charles Bruselle" spoken to by Blagden—the writing is better on the envelopes than the signatures—the "c" and "t" are alike—two noughts are added to make 100 francs, which are a different form of "0" from that of the postmaster—the poundage is altered to correspond.
Cross-examined. The forged word is "cent."—in one it is "180 francs," written over the erasure.
CORNELIUS SEXTON (Continued). About 12.30 on November 24th I went with Sergeant Williamson to Walton Street, Brompton—I asked the prisoner his name—he said, "Chapelle"—speaking in French, I told him we were police officers, and I was going to take him to Vine Street Police-station for the purpose of identification, as he answered exactly the description of a person who was circulating forged French postal orders—the prisoner replied, "You are mistaken"—on the way to the Police-station he said, "If I changed any postal orders they were received by me from my parents; I have not had any for three months"—he was subsequently identified and charged—when the charge was read orer to him, speaking in French, he said, "You have made a mistake; I do not know that man," and pointing to the witness Sharman and pointing to Blagden: "I have been in her place"—he gave his name and address on this piece of paper—it was correct.
The Prisoner's Statement before the Magistrate: "I am not guilty. I reserve my defence, and will call witnesses at the trial if necessary."
GUILTY **— Five Years' Penal Servitude.
NOT GUILTY .
125. GEORGE BROWN ** (28) PLEADED GUILTY to breaking and entering the shop of Alfred Ernest Marshall, with intent to steal; and to a conviction of felony at this Court in March, 1894.— Eighteen Months' Hard Labour.
MR. CHORLEY Prosecuted.
PATRICK MURPHY . I am a plasterer—I was living, on January 3rd, at 206, Shaftesbury Avenue—coming home I went into a passage way to make water—I had been delayed talking to a tailor whom I had paid 5s. on a suit of clothes, and I had lost my way; I saw three or four men come sharp after me—Jones struck me, and knocked me senseless for a couple of minutes—when I got up I saw a policeman holding Jones—when I was getting my senses I found Jones's hand in my pocket—I was not able to get up—I had 18s. in my pocket—it was all gone—I had been paid on the Saturday—I worked at the India Office—I had not seen the prisoners before—I was sober.
Cross-examined by Dean. I was taken to Bow Street—you looked like one of the men—my head is yet sore from the blow.
JOSEPH BENNETT (67 E). On January 3rd I was on duty in Neale's Yard, Great St. Andrew's Street—I saw the prosecutor go into the yard, Jones being with him—I kept observation behind a van—I was in uniform—I heard a scuffle, and saw Jones knock the prosecutor down, and, in a stooping position, take something away from the prosecutor, and pass it; three men rushed back; the others ran in another direction—I sprang out and caught hold of Jones—he said, "All right, we are only having a game; this is all the money I have got"—I took him to the station—he was charged—the charge was read over—he replied he had been drinking with the prosecutor—I searched him, found 6s. 8d., a pawn-ticket, a book, and two keys—when I took Jones back the prosecutor said he had been robbed by him—I identified Dean the following morning at the station from seven or eight men.
Cross-examined by Dean. The constable did not keep pulling you about—I was told to touch the one I thought was the man.
HENRY BRITTON (30 E R). I was on duty, and passed Neale's Yard—I heard a scuffle in the yard, went in, and saw Dean and two more coming out to the right—I said, "Holloa! what is the matter?"—Dean said, "All right, we are only having a bit of fun"—I saw Barnett in charge of Jones, and said, "What is the matter?"—Barnett said, "This man has been knocked down and robbed," pointing to the prosecutor—the next morning I met Dean, and took him into custody on suspicion—he said, "All right, governor, I suppose I shall have to go through it"—I took him to the station—he was identified from seven men—on being charged he made no reply—I do not know him.
The Prisoners' Statements before the Magistrate: Jones: "I took the man's money. I spent 1s. with him, and he was not ill-used." Dean: "I was not there at all."
Witness Jor Dean.
the George to go and have supper—I came back at 10.45—he waited for me at the George public-house, and from 11.15 I never left him till two a.m. at my mother's street-door in Rose Street—he was still in the George, talking to some friends, when I returned from supper—I left the George about 11.55—I stood at mother's door because she had taken the key of the room door, and she came home at 1.55 to 10, Minetta Street, late Rose Street—I said, "It is a nice time to come home, mother"—the clock had just struck at St. George's Church—my sister was ill, and she was there—I do washing and ironing at St. James's Baths.
Cross-examined. My mother was at home when I got my supper there—I have the street-door key, but not of my room—I left my mother at home—I knew she was going to see a relative—she told me, but did not say what time she would be back again—I did not like to go inside, and sit on the stairs and wait; I would sooner stand outside.
JOSEPH BENNETT (Re-examined by the COURT). I said before the Magistrate, "When I was holding the prisoner Jones, I caught a glimpse of the prisoner Dean as he was passing"—I had not seen him before—I picked him out among eight men—I did not know Britton had arrested him on suspicion—I was called out of bed, and when I got to the station I was told someone had arrested a man on suspicion of being one of the three men who ran from the yard—I knew a man was in custody, but did not know who he was.
By MR. CHORLEY. I saw Jones stooping over the prosecutor, then the three men rushed back, and Jones passed something, and I just caught a glimpse of Dean as he ran out of the yard—Jones ran into my arms.
Jones' Defence: I wish to see if there are any marks on the prosecutor; I say I have not assaulted him. Dean knows nothing of it. I never saw him before.
Dean's Defence was that he was not there, and would have called his employer if he could have come. He stated that he did not mix with people about there, but was living in a lodging-house through a little trouble.
DEAN— NOT GUILTY .
JONES**†— GUILTY .
He also PLEADED GUILTY to a conviction of felony at Bow Street on October 1st, 1894, in the name of Thomas Nichols.— Twelve Strokes with the Cat and Twelve Months' Hard Labour.
OLD COURT.—Wednesday, January 13th, 1897.
Before Mr. Justice Hawkins.
WINNIFRITH— Eighteen Months. HERN— Six Months.
(For the case of George Daws, see Surrey Cases.)
NEW COURT—Wednesday, January 13th 1897.
Before Mr. Recorder.
128. GEORGE EDWARDS** (63) PLEADED GUILTY to stealing an overcoat and a coat, the property of Harry Hamer, and to a conviction of felony at Clerkenwell in February, 1894.— Sixteen Months' Hard Labour, and to complete his former sentence
130. ROBERT SIDNEY HUDSON** (26) , to stealing a pair of boots, a watch and chain, and other goods, the property of John Davies; also to burglary in the dwelling-house of Walter Gay, and stealing an overcoat and other articles; and to a conviction of felony at Stratford on October 22nd, 1896.— Three Years' Penal Servitude. [Pleaded guilty: See original trial image.] And
131. FRANCIS ROBINS (32) , to forging and uttering transfers of shares, with intent to defraud; and WALTER GOULD KEMMICH (26) , to having aided and abetted Robins to utter the same;also to conspiring to make false entries in a book.
ROBINS— Twelve Months' Hard Labour. KEMMICH*†— Three Years' Penal Servitude. [Pleaded guilty: See original trial image.]
MR. DEAN Prosecuted.
WILLIAM RECORD (Police Sergeant V). On December 1st, in consequence of a communication from the Police-court, I went to 11, Portman Market, St. Pancras, and saw the prisoner—I told him I was a police officer, and said that the prosecutrix, who was with me, wished to give him in custody for feloniously marrying her, his wife being alive—he said, "That is correct; how did she know it?"—I said, "Your wife sent this certificate of your marriage," and handed it to him; he looked at it, and said, "Yes, that is right; I am very sorry; I don't care what they do with me"—I took him to the station, and charged him; he made no reply.
LIZZIE MARIA BARHAM . I am a laundress, of 32, Mortimer Market, Tottenham Court Road—in 1890 I was in service at Portsea, and went through the ceremony of marriage with the prisoner—this is the certificate—he heard himself described as a widower—I have lived with him till August 31st last year, when he went away in search of work, and came back on December 1st—while I was alone I communicated with his son, and received this letter—he had told me where his son lived—I went to a Magistrate, and the prisoner was arrested—my first child was born in September, 1891—there were three children, but only one is living, a boy five years old—I received his son's letter on the 9th, and one from the prisoner on the 10th, which I gave to the police—in it he said that he had got work, and would I send him a parcel of things he wanted—he wrote from Ludlow, in Shropshire.
old—I live at West Moran, in Shropshire—I had not seen my father for twelve years before I saw him at the Police-court—up to twelve years ago, I lived with him and my mother, up to the time he left—we then lived in Nottingham, and stayed there three months, and then moved to Leicestershire, leaving no address behind us; we then went to West Moran—on November 11th I received a letter from the second Mrs. Bow berry—it was addressed to Clegley, the place we went to after we left Nottingham—I did not write to my father, and say that my mother was dead—I heard him say so, but I did not, because I did not know where to write—my mother is alive—the letter was forwarded to our old address at Cragley, where we went from Nottingham—I was between twelve and thirteen when my father left—I have been to school.
By the COURT. I am prepared to say that it is not thirteen years since my father left us; my youngest brother was two years old, and now he is fourteen—I have been keeping my mother ever since my father left her.
Cross-examined by the Prisoner. I shall be twenty-five next July—Willie was not turned four when you left—as far as I know, my mother did not receive a letter from you after you left.
Prisoner's Defence: I wrote kindly to her, and I had a letter from my son, saying she was dead, and that the grandfather and he had to take care of them.
GUILTY .—The Prosecutrix stated that the prisoner had treated her "rather indifferently" and that he told her that his wife had been dead for Jive years.
THIRD COURT.—Wednesday, January 13th, 1897.
Before Mr. Common Serjeant.
MR. HEWITT Prosecuted, and MR. BIRON Defended.
The JURY were unable to agree, and were discharged from giving a verdict. (See next page.)
(For other cases tried in this Court this day, see Essex Cases.)
OLD COURT.—Thursday, January 14th, 1897.
Before Mr. Justice Hawkins.
MR. BURNIE, for the Prosecution, with the approval of the COURT, offered no evidence.
NOT GUILTY .
(For other cases tried in this Court on this day, see Surrey Cases.)
NEW COURT.—Thursday, January 14th, 1897.
Before Mr. Recorder.
MR. HEWITT Prosecuted, and MR. BIRON Defended
RAFFAEL BENOIST . I am a partner in Cave and Benoist, of 136, Cheapside—on November 20th I was looking out some silk at 1s. 10d. a yard—I went to lunch, leaving the silk on the counter—I was absent twenty-five minutes or half an hour—I returned at two, and missed the silk—it was on cardboard, and was about twenty inches wide and four inches deep—on December 31st I was in the office; I was sent for, and saw the prisoners—they asked for some umbrellas, and wanted to see some silk, as they were beginning business—they gave no address, but said they would pay cash for anything they bought—I showed them three pieces of silk; they asked for a pattern of one of them—I said that we did not give patterns, and asked them to give references; they said they would, and left.
Cross-examined. Harris is a porter; he does not sell goods; he takes them out—we only sell wholesale—a considerable number of people would be in the shop between October 26th and December 31st.
WILLIAM HARRIS . I am light porter to Cave and Benoist—on October 26th I saw the prisoners in the front room, between 1.30 and two—they showed me some satin and silk, and asked if we had anything like it—I took them into the front room, and they were alone about two minutes before Mr. Veare came—they spoke with a foreign accent—I saw them again at the office on December 31st, recognised them, left the office, saw Mr. Veare, who came down, and I fetched a policeman.
Cross-examined. I did not notice whether the woman had a veil on—I did not look close enough to tell—they were ordinary people—the rest of the interview was with Mr. Veare—the silk was not missing till some time afterwards; I knew of it about two o'clock—I was anxious to identify the people who had robbed Messrs. Benoist—the principal fact I remember is that they were two foreigners by their features; I think they were Jews.
THOMAS VEARE . I am clerk to Cave and Benoist—on October 26th, about 1.45, Harris spoke to me, and I went into the front room of the warehouse and saw the prisoners; I have not the least doubt about them—they produced a pattern of black silk, and asked if I could do anything like it—I said, "No"—the female prisoner asked if we could do a pattern at 5s. 6d. a yard; I said that we had nothing near the price; she said that she was very sorry I could not do anything she asked for, and they left without doing any business—they talked with a foreign accent, broken English—we were talking about ten minutes; Mr. Benoist returned about half an hour afterwards—on December 1st I saw the prisoners again in the same room, and recognised them at once, and went out and gave information to Sergeant Bryant.
Cross-examined. The woman might have worn a veil on the 26th, but, if so, it did not cover her face; if she did not have it down I should not have noticed it—it was not over her face; I saw her mouth—she had no veil to cover her features—it was a foreign accent; I have heard Yiddish; which the low class of Jews speak.
CHARLES BRYANT (Sergeant Detective, City). On September 11th I went to 137, Cheapside—Veare had made a communication to me—I saw the prisoners come downstairs; they looked in at some shop windows—I said, "We are police officers; you must come back with me"—they came back; the female described her residence, but said she did not know the number—I said, "We are going to take you for stealing 136 yards of silk on October 26th"—he said, "I was not here"—she said, "I have only been here two weeks," and afterwards she said, "It is impossible; I have only been in England two weeks; I have been in France."
Cross-examined. When they got out of the shop they did not hurry away; they looked in the other shop windows—I searched Farsht's rooms, but could not get into Lewis's—I did not find any stolen property; I found a number of invoices, which showed that the prisoners had been dealing with some shops in London, and paying cash—there was an invoice for £1 1s. or 25s.
By the COURT. I found no silk there, and no evidence of umbrellas being manufactured—I understood that Lewis had a husband at the address she gave; he appeared at the Police-court, but did not give evidence.
FLORENCE FRENCH . I searched Lewis at the station, and found this apron under her dress—it is not a thing which women usually wear—there is a long slit in front of her dress—the apron was tied in front, and she could loosen it easily, and put it in front.
SAMUEL BACON (City Detective). I arrested Lewis at the station—when she was charged I took this hand-bag from her, and found this purse, containing 1s., and this black Italian cloth bag, neatly folded up—on Farsht was 17s. 6d., and a watch and chain, and a ring.
GUILTY .—FARSHT then PLEADED GUILTY** to a conviction at Clerk-unwell, in February, 1894, of stealing serge, and two other convictions were proved against him.
FARSHT— Twelve Months' Hard Labour.
LEWIS— Judgment Respited.
MR. KERSHAW Prosecuted.
JAMES DUGGAN . I am a ship's fireman—last Friday I was living at 6, Leman Street, and went into the Bricklayers' Arms, Cable Street, about three p.m.—a man was waiting alone, about three minutes' walk off; he spoke to me, and followed me in, when I had not been in a moment—I had just drunk a sip of porter—the prisoner Hutchings followed him in, and they both said, "Has he done it yet?" the third man said, "No"—another man, who is not here, then came in, and the prisoners were not there when the first man spoke to me—I mentioned before the Magistrate that a fourth man came in—the fourth man said, "Is he put it up put him up"—I belong to a ship, but I had let the ship go—I had been paid ray wages the day before this: Thursday—this occurred on Friday—I came ashore at a little after two o'clock—the public-house is a good way from where the ship was—the fourth man got hold of me by my right arm, and Hutchings by my left—I
asked the barman to blow a police whistle—he said, "Don't do anything like that, or take him outside and do it"—I am an Irishman—the first man took my money out of my pocket and said, "I have got to let the b——go; if you let him get outside he will make an alarm and get away"—Callaghan said, "I will see he don't b——y well get away," and hit me above my ears; there is a lump there—I said to the barman, "Get some assistance"—I was knocked through the door, and fell down; I picked myself up and spoke to the first policeman I saw—I returned with him, out the prisoners were gone—next day I was taken to the station, and shown a number of persons, and picked out Callaghan; I have no doubt about him—I went later in the day and picked out Hatchings, but he had changed his scarf, and I said, "No, that is not the man; that is the man over there"—Hutchings is the man.
Cross-examined by Callaghan. No men were in my company; there was only one man when I went in, but fourteen or fifteen afterwards—no one was in my company when I was robbed.
PATRICK LYNCH (189 H). On January 8th, in the afternoon, I was on duty about one hundred yards from the Bricklayers' Arms—Duggan complained to me, and I went back with him to the public-house—it has been a respectable house for some time; I did not see the prisoners there; Duggan described them at the station.
FREDERICK WENSLEY (Detective H). On January 9th, I saw Callaghan in Leman Street, and said, "I shall take you for assaulting and robbing a man in the Bricklayers' Arms yesterday"—he said, "I know what you want"—he was taken to the station, placed with a number of men of the same rank in life, and Duggan picked him out—I was present when Hutchings was placed with eleven other men; he stood at the further end, and Duggan was brought in; the inspector asked him to walk round, and see if there was anyone there he knew—he said, "There is a man there who looks very much like the man who put his hand in my pocket"—the inspector told him to pass on, and he said, "Here is the man who held my arm"—Duggan said several times that he wanted a man who had a cut face; he described him to me, and it was in consequence of that that these two men were arrested—this public-house is frequented by sailors—if ten people were in the bar, none of them would be able to move—Duggan was perfectly sober when I saw him.
Cross-examined by Hutchings. I did not know whether you had a scar on your head or not—you did not say that it was two other men.
HENRY WHITBRBAD (Police Sergeant). I took Hutchings in January, at ten p.m., and told him he would be charged with assaulting a man—he said, "Where?"—I said, "At the Bricklayers' Arms"—he said, "I was not there; I am innocent."
WILLIAM STEVENS . I am barman at the Bricklayers' Arms—Mr. Cholmondeley is the landlord—I do not know the prisoners or Duggan; he came in with thirteen or fourteen others—a customer, whose name I do not know, was there—Duggan ordered two pots of ale for the other people; I have no doubt about that—he was sober—loafers never come into the house—after that they had another pot, and were talking—they caught hold of Duggan by his arm—there was no reason to send for the police; he was leaning against the partition, and he reeled outside—the prisoners are not the two men—I did not see Callaghan there that day—Inspector
Wensley did not give me a description of the prisoners, or ask me whether I had seen them in the house the night before—I cannot give you the names or addresses of any of the men in the bar.
By the COURT. The man who took hold of Duggan's arm was more stout than Callaghan, and was not like him—before the Magistrate I said "height" and "stamp"—Duggan did not appeal for help, or ask me to blow a whistle for the police—I said to the policeman, "He has not been robbed here; it is the first I have heard of it"—I told the police that I saw him reel against the partition; I swear that that is pure invention—he did not say to me, "You see, this man wants to rob me"; that is pure invention—I said, "Outside, none of that here"—I did not tell the Magistrate that I had seen Duggan struck; I said I had seen him reeling—I believe I told the inspector that—a woman did not come to me on Hutchings' part after he was arrested, or on anybody's part—no woman has asked me about giving evidence for these two men; I swear it is untrue.
FREDERICK WENSLEY (Detective H). It is my duty to go into various public-houses—I have looked into the Bricklayers' Arms, and have seen Stevens behind the bar, and the two prisoners in the bar, almost daily during the last three weeks, while he has been barman, but I don't mean all day long—I accompanied the inspector on the evening of the 8th, and asked Stevens about all four men, and if he knew Callaghan, because I knew that he was a frequenter of the house—he said, "I don't know him, I have never seen him before"—I looked into the bar on the morning of the robbery, and the barman was behind the bar and Hutchings in the bar.
Cross-examined by Hutchings. I have frequently seen you in the bar when Callaghan was there.
Evidence for Hutchings.
DANIEL SULLIVAN . I am a licensed victualler, of 119, St. George's-in-the-East—I keep the Half-Moon and Seven Stars—the police came and asked me whether the man was in my house on Friday—I said that he came about two and stopped till 2.15; it is about half an hour from my house to the other house.
JOHN GAMBLE . I am a potman—I saw Hutchings several times on January 8th; the last time was about three o'clock, with two men named Flemming and Green—he called at my door at 2.30; I came out, and he was standing in the tap-room—I would sooner have my dinner at one o'clock, but sometimes I do not get it till three—I am sure it was not 2.30 that day—Green had his face blackened; he frequented that house—I have not seen him with Callaghan.
Cross-examined. Green is not here, he is at work; he is a bricklayer's labourer—I do not know the number of his house—no one does my work when I go away—Mr. Poley was about the house; he may have been in the cellar—it is about a quarter of an hour's walk from there to the Bricklayers' Arms.
By the COURT. If my master has sworn that he never saw him after 2.15 I should not be astonished; he does not go into the tap-room unless he is going out and wishes to give me orders.
Callaghan's Defence: On the very same day that this happened to be done I was at work; I went in there to have a drink, and this prisoner
and his mate were there, I own I was in his house, but not in his company.
Hutchings' Defence: It was past 4.40 when I came out.
GUULTY .—They both then PLEADED GUILTY to previous convictions; Callaghan on April 24th, 1883, at the Thames Police Court, and Hutchings On September 13th 1891. Four previois convictions were proved against Callaghan and six against Hutchings.
CALLAGHAN— Twelve Months' Hard Labour. HUTCHINGD— Fifteen Months' Hard Labour.
MR. GODWIN Prosecuted, and MR. K. FRITH Defended.
MARGARET CAIRNS . I am housekeeper to Mr. Milner, of 1, Wilton Street, Belgravia—on December 5th I went to the drawing-room to see to The windows and doors; all was safe there—I brought some things down-stairs, And then stopped ten minutes, and was in the act of setting the Door open, when I saw a light in the dining-room which flickered About—I waited for a few seconds, and in a moment a man Came to the electric light, with something in his hand—I was as near to him as I am to you, and saw his face as plainly as I see yours—it was the primer; I have not the least doubt of him, but his face alter very much—I went along a long passage to the door, and made a noise—I went to the top of the area steps, and a man jumped out at the window—two men, about the same height as the prisoner, came towards me—I called to somebody to stop them, but they did not—I gave a description to the police.
Cross-examined. I am certain he is the man; he has haunted me ever since—I was a little excited—my memory of his face improves by keeping—I did not wish to swear to him, but I do it now because it is necessary—I did so at the Police-court—I am prepared to swear he is the man, but I thought he might be acquitted—I never said that I could not swear to him, I said that I would not then—I have got my reasons for not doing it—I said quite sufficient, I did not like to swear.
JOHN WATTS (Police Sergeant A). I arrested the prisoner about 9.15 on the 6th—he was with two other men—I said, "I am a police officer; I am going to take you in custody for burglary"—he struck at me with his fists, and I struck him across the head with a walking-stick—he ran three or four yards, and I took him, and said, "You may as well go quietly, or I shall strike you with a stick"—I searched him, and found a match-box with a few matches, two files, a knife, and a little pocket-book—when he was charged he said, "All right, I do not know anything about it; I can call six witnesses to prove I was in bed last night"—he did not call any witnesses before the Magistrate—he was placed with several other men in the station; the prosecutrix came in and touched him, and said, "I believe that is the man, but I believe he had a soft felt hat on," or "a hard felt hat."
Cross-examined. I did not take a note of what she said—her words did not suggest that she was not quite certain of him—I did not hear her say The prisoner's features correspond with the man I saw."
By the COURT. The impression on my mind was that she was satisfied.
ALFRED CAMBER (Police Sergeant B). On December 6th I went to 1 Wilton Street, with Inspector Porter—an entry had been made by climbing some houses six feet high, passing over the roof of the scullery, raising the dining-room window, entering it and leaving in the same way—a knife like this (produced) would force the window-catch back.
MR. FRITH having complained of the absence of witnesses for the prisoner, the RECORDER re-called.
The Prisoner stated that he applied in the prison for witnesses.
GUILTY .—He then PLEADED GUILTY to a conviction of burglary on May 20th, 1895; and five other convictions were proved against him.— Four Tears' Ptnal Servitude.
THIRD COURT.—Thursday, January 14th, 1897.
Before Mr. Common Serjeant.
MESSRS. GRAIN and KERSHAW Prosecuted.
During the progress of the case the Prisoner stated in the hearing of the JURY that he desired to PLEAD GUILTY, and the JURY thereupon found him GUILTY . Sergeant Record stated that the prisoner had been in the employment of six other firms of solicitors, and had embezzled moneys of each firm.
Three Years' Penal Servitude.
MR. BURROWS Prosecuted.
MALCOLM CLARKE . I am a tinsmith, and live at 175, Manchester Road, Millwall—on December 9th, about one a.m., I was crossing Gray's Inn Road, when the prisoner, whom I knew before, came up, shook hands, and asked me how I was getting on—as I was shaking hands some person came from behind and pulled me right back, and I could not help myself—the prisoner wrenched my watch and chain from my waistcoat pocket and handed them behind me—then they let go of my arms; the prisoner punched me on the head, and I fell down—I picked myself up, and after a little bit of a toft we had he ran down, and I ran after him—I came upon him at the first turning on the right-hand side with a police-man, into whose charge I gave him for stealing my watch and chain—I went to the station with them—I had had a few drinks, but I was not the worse for drink—I knew what I was about.
Cross-examined by the Prisoner. I did not see you at a coffee-stall—I was not at a coffee-stall with two women; I did not tell the Magistrate I was—I did not cut your nose open—I punched you on the nose after I got up—I told the constable I had known you a long time; I did not say I should make it warm for you—I don't remember you saying to the constable, "Search me; I have no watch and chain"—this is part of my chain;
it was too long, and I cut this piece off and left it at home—all the chain I wore that night was taken.
THOMAS HANSON (272 G). I was on duty in Wicklow Street, at a little past midnight, on December 9th—I heard a cry of "Police," and saw prisoner and another man running towards me from the direction of Gray's Inn Road—the prosecutor was running after the two men—I stopped the prisoner and held him till the prosecutor came up—the prisoner said, "All right, governor, he has split my nose open"—I did not notice that his nose was cut at the time—the prosecutor came up and said the prisoner had stolen his watch and struck him in the eye, and he gave him into custody—I took him to King's Cross Police-station; on the way he said, "I did not steal your watch"—he made no statement when charged at the station—I did not find the watch—the other man got away—the prosecutor seemed excited—he did not appear to me to have been drinking.
Cross-examined. You said the prosecutor had struck you—you denied stealing the watch—I don't remember if you asked me to search you.
By the COURT. The prisoner was searched at the station; no watch was found on him.
Cross-examined. When the prosecutor came to the station he was excited and confused—he made two or three different statements about when you struck him—I asked him whether it was at the time the watch was stolen, or before or after—he said it was after the watch was stolen, and then he contradicted himself, but he was perfectly clear otherwise—the prosecutor said he had been struck in the eye, but there was no mark—he said there were five of you there—he was quite positive that the prisoner was the man who took the watch.
The Prisoner, in his statement before the Magistrate, said that he was coming home from the Excelsior Hall, and that the prosecutor punched him on the nose, and that he never remembered the prosecutor wearing a watch and chain.
In his defence, he stated that, on his way home, he stopped at a coffee-stall; that the prosecutor, who was drunk, argued about the loss of 2s. and that he afterwards ran up, and hit him (the prisoner) on the nose, and that he (the prisoner) went up to a constable.
He then PLEADED GUILTY** to a conviction of felony in August, 1895. Two other convictions of felony and eight summary convictions for tree-pass and disorderly conduct were proved against him.— Twelve Months' Hard Labour.
MR. MORGAN Prosecuted.
JOHN COOK . I am a labourer, of 49, Tufton Street, Westminster—on December 19th, about eight p.m., I was in the Two Brewers, Tufton Street—the prisoner was in the bar—I had known him previously—I said, "Good evening, Mike; have you started work yet?"—he jumped off his seat, and said, "What has that to do with you?" used a foul expression, and challenged me to fight—the publican came up—the prisoner told hold of my collar, pulled me to the door, and when we got out a constable
came up—the prisoner made a blow at me—the constable parted us—the prisoner seemed to be drinking—I was sober—I went away—the prisoner followed—the constable asked him to leave me—he followed me in Church Street and Smith's Square, calling me foul names, and challenging me to fight him again—I told him I did not care about having anything to do with him—the policeman took him away, and told him to go home, or he would take him in charge—I went away—I returned to the public-house to have my usual glass of beer before going to bed, with other men—they were in the bar, calling for drink—the prisoner rushed in—I was facing the bar—he rushed at me, and struck me with a knife, first touching me on the shoulder—I saw something; it cut my left eye—it bled—he rushed out of the place, saying he had got his own back—I fell forward when I got the blow—I gave him into custody—I gave him no provocation—we had fought previously with our hands; I was the better man, and thought I had done with it—I did not interfere with him, simply wishing him good evening.
ROBERT MILTON . I am a labourer, of 2, Hudson Terrace, Page Street, Westminster—on December 19th, about eight p.m., I was in the Two Brewers public-house, in Little Tufton Street, with the prosecutor—the prisoner was with four or five men in the house—when the prosecutor came in he said, "Good evening, Ted," and we talked and drank—when he saw the prisoner sitting in the corner, the prosecutor went to him, and said, "Hallo, Mike, not jolly well started working yet?"—the prisoner used some disgusting language, words followed, and the landlord ordered them out—the prisoner said, "Come outside and fight, and I will make you talk French"—when I got outside, a constable came up; the prosecutor walked away through Smith's Square; the prisoner followed him, calling him names, to Church Street, where the constable stopped the prisoner—I returned to the public-house—the prosecutor came in, and we had two glasses of ale, and had been there three or four minntes, when the prisoner rushed in, and tapped the prosecutor on the shoulder—I saw something glitter in his hand—the prisoner felled the prosecutor, and ran to the door, holloaing "I have got my own back"—the prosecutor was picked up off the ground—he was bleeding from the eye—when the prisoner got outside he was given in charge of a constable—the prosecutor was sober—the prisoner had been drinking, but was not drunk.
Cross-examined by the Prisoner. I never saw "Long Joe" there—the prosecutor put his handkerchief to his eye—I did not say to Cook, "I think he has stabbed you; lock him up"—I do not know Cook's brother he has worked on the same job five or six weeks—I have known him three months.
GIFFARD DANE (523 A). About 7.45 p.m. on December 19th I saw the altercation between the prosecutor and the prisoner outside the Two Brewers—I requested them to go away—the prosecutor went away—they afterwards commenced another altercation in Church Street—I told the prisoner if he did not go home I should take him into custody—he said he would, and he did so he was sober; he had had something to drink—about 8.15 my attention was attracted by a crowd—I saw the prisoner, who appeared very excited—he was shouting, "Come outside!" "Fight me!" and "I have got my own back now!"—I saw the prosecutor come out of the door of the public-house—he said he had been
stabbed—I took him away—I took the prisoner into custody—I asked the prisoner what he had stabbed him with—he said, "I have not stabbed him at all, I hit him with my bare knuckles"—I took him to the station—he resisted at first, but afterwards came quietly—the prosecutor was sober—I looked for, but could not find, a knife.
Cross-examined by the Prisoner. I told you to go indoors; I did not know your name—you went in, saying you were going to have a wash, and came out about half an hour afterwards.
FRANK RICHARD PROCTOR SIMS . I am Divisional Surgeon at Rochester Row Police-station—I was called to attend the prosecutor—I found an incised wound, about one inch long, on the prominence of the left cheek—it went through the skin, showing the muscles beneath it—it could have been produced by a sharp instrument, or by a sharp blow of the knuckles, but more likely by a knife—I put a stitch in it—the prisoner appeared sober; I did not examine him particularly—there was nothing about him to strike me.
Cross-examined by the Prisoner. I believe the gaoler examined your hand the next morning.
GIFFARD DANE (Re-examined). The prisoner was brought before Mr. Sheil—he called the Magistrate's attention to his eye and knuckles—there was a slight mark under his eye, and a couple of swellings on his knuckles.
Cross-examined by the Prisoner. I did not see the prosecutor fall—you had had words with him, I cannot tell you how often—your wife told me you were in trouble, and I paid your fine, 3s.—you paid me back—your mate, Dick Flinn, took charge of your watch and chain, but I do not know anything about your troubles—I did not see the assault.
The Prisoner's defence was, that he had been constantly annoyed by the prosecutor, who was a pugilist, and merely struck out with his fists to defend himself: no knife was found, and if he had intended to stab him he would not be likely to touch him on the shoulder first; but, before God and the COURT, he declared he did not stab him. NOT GUILTY .
(For the case of Thomas Watts, tried this day, see Surrey Cases.)
NEW COURT.—Friday, January 15th, 1897.
Before Mr. Recorder.
MESSRS. GILL, BODKIN and HUMPHREYS Prosecuted; MR. KNOWLES
appeared for Ward, and MR. WILLES for Lea.
JOHN BAKER . I am shopman to Offord and Son, carriage builders, of George Street—on September 27th the prisoner Barton called and gave his name, "Barton Hylfield, of Windsor"—he wanted a second-hand brougham, which had been advertised—it was sold, and I showed him several others—he picked out one, 165X, at sixty-five guineas, and said he would let us know if it suited, by Thursday or Friday, if we would put brass lamps—he was to send for it—on September 14th a man came with a horse, and took the brougham away—I went to 107, Praed Street, Paddington, a shop with two bicycles in the window, and saw Barton outside the shop—I told him I had got the trap lamps, and touched the carriage up—he said, "I will return it in eight days if it has to be changed colour," and that he was going to show it to his wife at Wimbledon—I agreed to that, and went away, leaving the brougham there—I next saw it on the Friday after these proceedings were taken, in Mr. Maddock's possession, in the warehouse of Mr. Harrison, pawnbroker—he never informed me that he was an undischarged bankrupt.
Cross-examined by Barton. Your address was written down by my clerk—I would not have parted with the brougham without that—I had my orders verbally, but never saw any letter—the correspondence was done in the office.
SIDNEY HERBERT SIMONS . I am a salesman to Offord and Son—on December 8th I received this letter: "Dear Sir,—In reference to my call yesterday, I have determined to give it a trial; if you will send a pair of brass lamps, I will send for it to-morrow morning.—C. B."—I believed he wanted to purchase the brougham for the use of his wife—I sent this letter in reply. (Stating that the brougham was ready to be sent for.) That is in the writing of one of our clerks—we charged an extra five guineas for any extra work to be done—a man and horse were sent, and the brougham was sent to Praed Street—we applied for payment, and received this letter. (Stating that a month's trial was promised, and that it was on the hire-purchase system.) This was a cash transaction, and not on the hire-purchase system—we could not succeed in getting the money or the carriage, though we wrote to him several times—there was nothing in the state of the weather to prevent his trying it; it was a close carriage—here is another letter (Asking Barton to send a cheque for the money.), and another (Asking Barton to return the brougham, and stating that they must charge for a month' shire). I had no answer to that—here is another letter (promising to send a cheque at tfie end of the week).
Cross-examined by Barton. I wrote to High Street, Wembley—I never saw you personally—we applied for the money before we communicated with the police—we have found the brougham, but have been unable to get it back.
THOMAS SANSETT . I am manager to Mr. Harrison, a pawnbroker, of 43, Wardour Street—on October 4th Barton called; I had never seen him before—he said that he had a brougham which he had purchased a fortnight before for £65, and wished to raise a small loan on it—I said that I would if he would bring it down; he brought it the same evening, with the prisoner Hanns, and I gave him £15; it was warehoused with our carman—he came again on the 15th, and said
he had been disappointed in receiving money, and wanted a loan of £6 more, which I gave him—he called again about the 23rd, and said he wanted a further advance of, £10, which I gave him, and said that that was the limit, I could lend no more; he called again two or three days afterwards and asked for more, but I declined—on the evening he called with the brougham a coachman was driving it; I think he had a coachman's cape on; I am not certain—he said he bought the brougham for use in his business—he produced this paper, "G. Barton, Esq., to Messrs. Offord. Second-hand brougham, painting shafts and changing lamps, as agreed, £63"—he said that he was a wholesale caterer, of 4, Featherstone Buildings—this (Produced.) is the contract note I gave him on the last occasion of my making an advance. (Giving power of sale if not redeemed within a month.) It was afterwards shown to Mr. Baker, who said that he had a place at Wembley.
Cross-examined. Hanns took no part in the transaction; he never spoke—I only saw him once.
Re-examined. The first conversation took place in our office with Barton alone, and in the evening Hanns was in the brougham, and must have heard part of the conversation when Barton was standing outside.
FRANK MOORE . I carry on business with Mr. Clark, at 33, Chancery Lane—on November 2nd I met Lea, whom I knew, in Holborn, near Gray's Inn; he asked me if I was disposed to advance some money on a pawn-broker's contract—I refused—later in the day I met him again in Holborn, when he said that the contract note was for a brougham, and that the man wanted £3 10s. to make up an amount; he took me to a public-house, and introduced me to Barton—Hanns was not there—just at that moment my partner, Mr. Clark, came in; I introduced him to Barton and said, "Do you think this is all right?" and showed him the contract note which Lee had given me—I said, "Is it a new one?"—Barton said, "Not quite, but it is worth £60," and that he wanted £3 10s. to make up an amount to pay away—it was then 3.45 p.m.—my partner advanced £3, and got this contract note. (Dated November 2nd, in addition to former advances to Grant Barton, and endorsed to Clark.) This was carried out at the end of the bar, Lea and Barton being at the other end—I did not get my £3 back.
Cross-examined by Barton. I wrote a letter to Grant Barton, care of Barton, Esq., which would reach you by the first post on Saturday morning—I have a copy of it, if you choose to ask for it—this is it: "November 10th, 1896. Dear Sir,—I am not accustomed to such bad treatment; you do not keep faith and do not keep your appointments; unless you repay me, I shall claim the carriage from the pawnbrokers"—I do not know whether I got any answer to that.
Cross-examined by MR. WILLES. I knew Lea as a commission agent.
HOWARD COX . I am the Official Receiver in Bankruptcy for Brighton—I produce the file of proceedings in bankruptcy in the Brighton County Court—there was no petition; it was on a judgment summons—it was made originally to Charles S. Stanley, and was amended afterwards to Charles Bennett—I did not know him by the name of Barton—the amount of liabilities was £402; he put the assets down at £32; there was no dividend, and he is still an undischarged bankrupt.
Cross-examined by Barton. You carried on the business of a restaurant keeper or a publican; I do not know whether there was any licence.
WILLIAM JAMES RAY . I live at Fernhurst, Hamilton Road, Reading—in September last I was in charge, at the Agricultural Hall, of Meeley's stall, the biscuit manufacturers, and Barton came to my stall and asked if I would give him a price list—he gave me this card, "Barton Brothers, Wholesale Caterers, Feathers tone Buildings, Holborn," and said he wanted the biscuits for the hotel and restaurant trade—I asked what sort of trade it was—a person with him said that they did a very large trade with hotels and restaurants—I showed him such biscuits as were suitable—he said they were just fhe thing for him—about a week later I sent Barton some samples and a type-written letter from Reading.
CHARLES LEVI BUSBY . I am clerk to Meeley and Co., of Reading—in October I received this letter: "Barton Brothers, late Perry and Barton. Gentlemen—Please forward one hundredweight of fancy biscuits, and a quarter hundredweight of rocks, also three dozen Triticolar, BARTON AND Co."—we executed that order, in four cases, value £4 12s.—the tins were marked with our name—we sent an in voice, but were never paid.
PERCY RICHARD ROE . I am manager of a cycle manufactory at Wolverhampton—about October 23rd I received this letter: "Gentlemen, we have had several inquiries for machines at a moderate figure, for ladies. If you can do this, it may lead to further business, BARTON BROTHERS"—we had no knowledge of that firm, and our secretary wrote this letter. (Stating that they were able to do ladies' machines at two and a-half percent, discount under price list, sent by post, and asking for a trial order.) We then got this letter: "If you care to send us one model A and one model B and C, will you send us samples? If you do not care to do it, do not trouble to reply"—we sent three cycles in a crate to Messrs. Barton Brothers, 4, Featherstone Buildings—we afterwards received a communication from the police, and saw our machines in their possession at Wolverhampton.
Cross-examined by Barton. We sent an invoice—our man had instructions to see about your firm the following day—the machines would never have been delivered if he had gone to Featherstone Buildings.
THOMAS COKES . I am a cycle dealer, of 104, Kingsland Road—I know the three prisoners—towards the end of October Lee spoke to me about some biscuits—I had never dealt in biscuits before—he said that some of them were specially made for cyclists, and that he wished to sell, for someone else, ten large boxes of them and nine small, for £2 10s.—I saw samples of two kinds—they were delivered at my place on a cab, and I paid the £2 10s.—I afterwards heard that the biscuits came from Hanns, whom I have known thirteen months—I knew that Lee acted for Hanns; he acted as commission agent in various little matters—a few days afterwards Lee came and said that he knew someone who had some bicycles for sale, which I could have at practically my own price; I believe it was for taking up a bill of sale, which I did not see—they were three bicycles without tyres, and were said to be Mr. Barton's property—he came with them, and I knew they were his, and who he was, I never knew what his business was, he showed me an invoice in which they were invoiced to him, but the top was turned back, and I only saw the lower portion; this is it—I noticed that this is not a receipt—I saw on the
machines, where they were made—I did not think they would show me where they obtained them—I made an offer, which was not accepted, and eventually paid £12 for them—I did not then know that the police were keeping observation, but I knew it soon afterwards—I did not hear the names of Parker or Gregory mentioned—the bicycles were loose, not in crates.
By the COURT. When I first gave an account of this, Barton was standing in the dock; I cannot give any reason why I talked about him before the Magistrate as "the other man"; my answers were prompted by the questions put to me—I thought his name was Barber; I had seen him twice before—I did not think it necessary to say that they belonged to the man who was standing in front of me—I saw Lee a few days after I bought the bicycles, and made a few remarks which might cause him to keep away—I do not remember whether I said anything about Barton before I was asked whether he was "the other man."
Cross-examined by Barton. We very seldom sell bicycles in November; they would have to be kept till the spring; I did not notice where they came from; the trade-mark was on them, and the wrappings; they would show the maker, but not the dealer—you said something about them being your property—I first offered you £10 10s., and extended it to £12—you called on me a day or two afterwards, and said that you had a right to sell the bicycles to anybody you pleased.
Cross-examined by MR. KNOWLES. Lee did not introduce me to Barton; I had seen him before—I dealt with Barton, and paid him—I looked upon Lee as a commission agent, and not as the principal.
By the COURT. I did not know that I was buying the bicycles under their value; I am surprised to hear what they cost.
WILLIAM HENRY SLATER . I live at 327, High Holborn, and am land-lord of 4, Featherstone Buildings—I let a room there on the second floor to Barton in September last, for five weeks certain, at 14s. a week; he paid the rent in advance—this is the rent book; it is in my manager's writing—Barton remained over five weeks, and I got the rent weekly, except once, when two weeks were paid in advance—when I went for the rent I sometimes saw Barton, and sometimes the younger clerk—I do not recognise anybody here—there were two furnished offices on the second floor; one room divided.
ALBIN VERRALL . I am a shop assistant, and live at Highbury—in October I advertised, and Barton replied, and I entered into his employment at Featherstone Buildings—I was to be employed as traveller in the wholesale papering business—I deposited £5, and my salary was to be 25s. a week—I was to have a round, ready for me—the business was described on the letter paper as "Barton Brothers"—I saw Hanns there every day, and Barton not so often—I employed my time in writing and in taking in goods; I was never shown the round I was to go—I became suspicious, but stayed till I got my £5 back—I saw no sauce; there was no business done in supplying restaurants with beef-steak puddings; there were no beef-steak puddings there—a lot of tins of biscuits came, in ray absence—I saw them on the premises, and Lee took them away; I was told that they were for Mr. Parker, of Sevenoaks—Lee signed for them as Thomas Parker—this is partly in Lee's writing and partly in mine—I opened the biscuit cases; Hanns told me to
do so—I remember a crate coming with three bicycles, and Lee brought this note: "Mr. Verrall,—Please deliver the three bicycles without tyres, W. HANNS"—that is Hanns' writing—he gave me this receipt for them: "Received, per Gregory and Co.—W. L."—they were taken away on a cab—I never saw Parker with any of the firm of Gregory and Co.—this receipt (for £5) is in Hanns' writing, except the signature, and so are these three papers. (Letters to the Cycle Company, one of which was signed "A. C.") There is no person at that office whose initials are A. C.—I have seen cards like this in the place, "Barton Brothers, Wholesale Caterers"—the whole of these are signed by Hanns—during the last six days I was there, neither Hanns nor Barton came—Hanns used sometimes to come and take the letters away if Barton was not there—I believe this letter is Barton's writing; I got it while I was at the office: "Sir,—Should Mr. Hanns not be at the office, bring this letter to me; it is not necessary to mention to Mr. Hanns that I have written"—I did not know where the new office was—I asked Hanns about the works at Wembley he said he had never seen them—afterwards the police communicated with me, and I told them what I knew—whatever the business was, I conducted it.
Cross-examined by Barton. You were engaged by agreement; this (produced) is the one I signed; I have never asked you to return it—I asked you the second week when you were going to put me on, and whether you thought I was not competent to do it—I never communicated with the police; they first communicated with me about two weeks after I was there—Sergeant Hailstone asked me to give what information I could—he said I could do as I pleased about staying on in the situation—I considered I was merely getting my money back—I never asked you to return my £5—I felt certain I should never get it back, except by staying on—I might have frightened it out of you if I had asked for it—I don't remember the police giving me any instructions; they asked me questions—I thought at first Hanns was manager, but afterwards I thought he was in the swim—I thought the swim was getting what you could for nothing, as I saw no bills paid, and there were no works at Wembley—I think I heard of bills of which payment was refused—he called when I was out, and Mr. Hanns could not see him—he took orders from Mr. Hanns—I went down to Wembley, and found that you had a furnished house there—you were not at the office when the bicycles were taken away; both orders were given by Hanns—I made a memorandum in writing to Marcs; I believe it must have been about October 10th—I saw them there on the day they were delivered—I acted under instructions—I said that I did not, but I made a mistake—the inner office was kept locked—I saw two sample ovens for keeping the beef-steaks hot; Hanns explained them to me—I had to write a price list.
Cross-examined by MR. KNOWLES. If I had been asked, I would have written all the orders—I should have written the whole of the letters produced to-day if Barton had asked me—I should not sign "Barton" without putting my initials as well—this signature is not Hanns', it is more like Barton's writing, but the "B" is somewhat different to his.
Cross-examined by MR. WILLS. I started at Featherstone Buildings on October 5th—I wrote to Lee on the 19th—I had not seen Lee between the 15th and the 19th; October 21st was the first time I saw Lee—I
handed this receipt to him when he came—Lee took nothing away but the bicycles and the biscuits when I was there—he did not use the office; I did not look upon him as my employer, or as a servant—he brought a written order from somebody else on each occasion.
Re-examined. I did not see Barton during the last week—I believe the last time I saw him was the Friday or Saturday during the fourth week—I do not know whether there were such people as Parker, or Gregory and Co.—Hanns told me nothing about the business carried on at Praed Street.
JOHN MATHERSON . I am a clerk in the Alliance Company—I had a tenant named Hasseman at 7, Praed Street—I went there in June; Hanns was introduced to me, and I accepted him at £120 a year—he said that he was going to carry on a bicycle business as the Imperial Bicycle Bazaar—he remained four months—I went there in November, and found the place empty—he paid no rent for June or the other quarter—I did not know that he was an undischarged bankrupt.
Cross-examined by MR. KNOWLES. Hasseman had been in possession of the place two years, and he introduced Hanns, who bought Hasseman's business; it was simply the same business continued—it was an understood thing that £30 for rent due from Hasseman should be deducted from the purchase-money to be paid by Hanns—I have heard from several people that Hanns is interested in a reversion of about £1,700, and that on the strength of that he bought this business; I do not know that it was a good business when he sold it to Barton—I did not know that Hanns was going away, or that he was negotiating a sale to Barton—there was no knowledge of any change of tenancy—I made inquiries of his friends, and believe that before be got into trouble Hanns was a thoroughly honest man.
By the COURT. I supposed it was a bond fide thing, and I was satisfied—he never paid any rent; I have been in his shop several times.
CHARLES FREDERICK WOOD . I was employed at 107, Praed Street; I went there in June, and stayed till the prisoners were taken in custody—there were no clerks or book-keepers—the place was called the Imperial Cycle Bazaar—the stock in October was oil—I took the letters to the top of Praed Street, and met Mr. Hanns or Mr. Barton there, and let them have them—I recollect the police coming to the shop—I never noticed a nice new brougham come to the shop, with a horse and a man in livery.
Cross-examined by Barton. I have seen you there; you employed me as manager—a coachman came to ask for Mr. Barton, for orders—I went once to your house at Wembley—I did not go down to groom the horse—I have groomed a horse—I saw your horse in the stable, about September I think.
Cross-examined by MR. KNOWLES. Harris was my master—there was another servant there regularly, who used to do the repairs.
Re-examined. I thought Barton was manager—I do not know who the house belonged to.
HOWARD WILLIAM COX . I produce the file in the bankruptcy of Herbert and William Henry Hanns, brick-makers—they were adjudicated bankrupts on September 17th, 1887—William Henry did not obtain his discharge, but the other partner did.
A. VERBALL (Re-examined). I have seen the documents signed page by page in the name of Hanns—that is Hanns' writing.
Cross-examined by MR. KNOWLES. I am almost positive it is his, but it is nine years ago.
ARTHUR HAILSTONE (Detective Sergeant E). On November 2nd I commenced observations on the three prisoners, at 4, Featherstone Buildings, and at 10 a.m. I saw a crate containing three ladies' bicycles, with a piece of cardboard attached—I saw Barton go to a public-house, and leave at two p.m.—I followed him to Muller's public-house, where he joined Lee, and I placed myself near him in the bar, and heard him say, "The bicycles have come," and they both laughed—on November 3rd, at ten a.m., I saw Barton and Lee in the same public-house; they left it at eleven a.m.—I followed them to Imperial Buildings, Ludgate Circus—they returned to Mooney's, where they met Hanns and two other men—I followed them to Featherstone Buildings, and the bicycles were still standing in the passage—he returned to the public-house; Barton and Hanns stopped in High Holborn—one man disappeared, one stopped at Featherstone Buildings, and Lee went in—the bicycles were brought down and put on a cab; Lee got in; Barton and Hanns, who were standing further on, got into the cab—they went to Mr. Colson's shop, who took the bicycles off the cab, but they were put back—they looked about to see if they were being watched—I returned to Mooney's public-house, and saw Barton drinking—on November 7th, at eleven a.m., I went to 4, Featherstone Buildings, and saw Verrall; he took over my letters in the Imperial Buildings—Barton and Lee were standing in the doorway; they all went up to the second floor—on November 9th, a communication was received from the Wolverhampton Police, in consequence of which I went to Imperial Buildings, and saw Hanns and Lee go—they returned, and I followed them to the Punch Tavern—I went in and asked if their names were Hanns and Lee, and said, "You will have to go to Bow Street"—Lee said, "I have nothing to do with it; let me go; I have something in my pocket I will give you if you will promise to destroy it as soon as you have read it"—it was this letter—(Requesting Lee to meet him at the Punch, and saying, "Remember in all matters silence is golden")—addressed "At the Punch, Ludgate: Important.—G. B."—I handed him over to another officer, and arrested Barton—I said, "Your name is Barton?"—he said, "No"—I said, "Yes, you are Barton Brothers, of Featherstone Buildings"—he said, "No"—I told him again—he said, "I have nothing to do with the bicycles Hanns ordered them; the business I do is legitimate—they were taken to Wolverhampton, that they might be re-arrested and brought to London—I have been to Wembley; Barton has a private house there, but there are no works—I found the rent-book of Featherstone Buildings on Hanns, on his arrest, and these papers at the office on the day after they were arrested.
Cross-examined by Barton. I think they were closed; I don't think you had seen them. (There were from Clark, complaining that he had not been properly treated.) The man who walked away is named Richardson; he occupies No. 6, Imperial Buildings—something came to I my knowledge in October, in consequence of which I saw Verrall, and heard you had had £5 from him—I saw Verrall three or four times, and
requested him to take the names and addresses of firms—the bicycles were taken in in an open manner, but the way they were got is very funny.
Cross-examined by MR. KNOWLES. I first saw the bicycles on a railway van in Featherstone Buildings; they had not been delivered; then I next saw them at Featherstone Buildings, and there they stayed till Banns directed them to take them up to the office; I heard every word—these people did nearly all their business in public-houses—Moon's is a house where well-bred men do business—it is a house of high reputation—I call it very unusual to take letters there and not stop a moment and look round to see if they are being watched—one of the witnesses had communicated to them the knowledge that they were being watched by me—if there was a principal, it was Hanns; I look upon him as the leader—I have seen him go to Verrall, and ask him if he has seen Barton, when he has not left Barton two minutes—it is not consistent with innocence that, knowing they were being watched, they should take measures to secure themselves.
Cross-examined by MR. WILLS. I heard the first conversation on November 2nd, when the bicycles were delivered from the van—they were invoiced to Barton Brothers, not to Barton—I went to Bow Street as soon as they were delivered—they were not examined there—they remained in the office all that day, and all night.
Cross-examined by Barton. I found some letters from a firm at Ipswich among the papers, and some samples.
ARTHUR WALTERS (Police Sergeant E.) On November 26th, the three prisoners were brought up at Wdlverhamptom Police Court and discharged, and I re-arrested them on a warrant for obtaining the biscuits, and brought them to London; Barton and Hanns made no reply—Lee said, "I have a clear answer to the charge"—I went to 22, Powis Square, Bayswater, where Barton was living, and to 24, Hartland Road, Kilburn, where Hanns was living—I found two letters at Hanns' address; and at Barton's, the invoice for the brougham and two letters to him—I went to Sevenoaks, and inquired for Thos. Parker, but could find no such person.
Barton produced a written defence, stating that he did not personally and actually obtain the goods by fraud, and that the case was got up entirely by the police; that the monthly accounts were payable on the 10th of the month, and he was arrested on the 9th; that his office was raided, and all his papers taken away, and the Prosecution had manufactured evidence against him; that he intended to redeem the goods which he had pledged, but he did not pay for his goods before payment was due or even asked for; that if there was any fraud, it was not with his knowledge, as he intended to carry on a bonafide business; that if he intended fraud, he should have borrowed a larger sum on the brougliam; and that Hanns ordered the bicycles, and they were sold under pressure.
BARTON— GUILTY .— Four Years Penal Servitude.
HANNS— GUILTY .— Three Years' Penal Servitude.
LEE— GUILTY of Conspiracy.—Eight Months' Hard Labour.
THIRD COUR.—Friday, January 15th, 1897.
Before Mr. Common Serjeant.
MR. BOND Prosecuted, and Mr. GEOGHEGAN Defended.
HOWARD HAWKINS . I live at Broxbourne, and practise there as a medical man—I attend Mr. Horace Smith Bosanquet at Broxbournebury—I last saw him the day before yesterday; he is nearly seventy—he is in a very weak condition, having had an attack of influenza about Christmas—he has not yet recovered, and is not in a fit state to come here—in my opinion it would be dangerous to his life or health to travel here in this weather—he is a highly nervous man—he is not in bed.
FREDERICK WISE (Detective Inspector.) I was present at the Guildhall Police Court on January 11th, and heard Mr. Horace Smith Bosanquet give evidence, after being sworn—I saw him sign his deposition—this is his writing—the prisoner was represented by a solicitor, who had the opportunity to cross-examine Mr. Bosanquet.
The Deposition of Horace Smith Bosanquet was read as follows: " I am of no occupation. I reside at Broxbournebury, Hertfordshire. The cheque produced, marked C, for £8 2s. 6d., in favour of G. Tabor, Esq., dated October 9th, is signed by me. I put the cheque into an envelope with a letter addressed to Mr. Tabor, of 11, Copthall Court. I am not sure whether I did not address the letter to 8, Copthall Court. I crossed the cheque. It has passed through the bank, and been paid. I do not know the accused, I put the letter in our post-bag, for posting. The cheque was returned to me by my bankers; then I had a letter from Mr. Tabor, and I then sent him the cheque; that was after it had passed through my bankers.—HORACE SMITH BOSANQUET."
GEORGE ERNEST TABOR . I am a solicitor, of 11, Copthall Court—I received this cheque for £8 2s. 6d., payable to G. Tabor, Esq., after it was paid—the endorsement on the back is not in my writing—Mr. Bosanquet was to send me a cheque for £8 2s. 6d., for a payment I had made on behalf of his son, a client of mine—I wrote to him for it on October 8th—I received no immediate answer, and wrote again on November 13th, and then by post I received a letter, enclosing this cheque, and asking if it was my endorsement or not—it has not been through my bank; it was crossed generally—it was in its present condition when I received it—I bank with Barclay and Co.—this cheque was paid through the London Trading Bank, of which I had not heard before.
Cross-examined. There is not the slightest attempt to imitate my signature.
Re-examined. I do not know the prisoner; I have only seen him since these proceedings began; he is quite a stranger to me.
WILLIAM KEY . I live at 36, Penton Street, Islington, and have worked as a Sheriff's Officer for Hay ward and Odell, of King Street, Cheapside, for many years—I have known the prisoner for eighteen or twenty years, by the name of Charles Henry Yell—he was a clerk, I believe, at Round's Accumulator Company, Broad Street House—I know his writing—I received two letters from him in 1896—this is the second one; it is dated October 13th, 1896. (This was read as follows:—" Dear Key,—Sorry to have missed you to-day. I went everywhere in town, though it was my last day here, but could not come across you at all. Perhaps you thought you would not get pay for the time you lost, showing
me round. It's too late to get a post note, but I send you a cheque to my order, which you can get passed through, and then take £2 2s. 6d. for your pay; send the rest, £6, to me, addressed 'George Tabor, care of Mrs. Martiney, 227, Warburton Avenue, Jonkers, New York'; though I shall not want it for a week or two unless I go west. You know I had to leave by the midnight train, so as to get to Liverpool in time, and I quite thought to have seen you. Send me a Referee out now and then. Wishing you every good fortune, believe me, yours sincerely, GEOBGE TABOR.") This is the cheque, "C," enclosed in it—I had a letter the day before this; it is not here—I had seen the prisoner some days before—he said, "Can you pass a small crossed cheque through a bank for me?"—I said, "No doubt I could get it done if the cheque was all right"—he said,"The cheque is all right"—two gentlemen came in, and I left, and he told me to call later on—I did not call later on, and the next day I had this letter, with the cheque in it—I could not make out the name Tabor, and the day after I went and saw the prisoner—he said, "You recollect, eight or nine months ago, your showing my American friend around"—I said, "Oh, yes, perfectly, and I did not get paid for it"—he said, "Well, his name is Tabor"—I said, "I did not know his name was Tabor; I only knew him as Alfred"—I kept the cheque three or four days before I got it passed through, and previous to my getting it passed through I thought it was a bit funny, and I went to a solicitor I know, of the name of Robert Porteus, and showed him the cheque—finally, I showed the letter and cheque to George Gibson, a friend of mine, who passed it through the bank, and I received £8—Mr. Gibson told me the bank charged 2s. 6d. for clearing it—the money I received I took to the prisoner, less 10s. I gave to Mr. Gibson—when I gave the prisoner £7 10s., he gave me back £1 10s.; he said he was going to send the £6 over—he told me he wrote the letter at Tabor's dictation; I never knew the man as Tabor; he said that was his name—the letter is in the prisoner's writing—I did not expect to see him on October 30th—I did not understand the phrase in the letter, "But I could not come across you at all," to refer to him, but to his American friend—I did not ask him why Tabor could not write himself—I did not know Tabor—I thought it was very funny; he told me it was all right.
Cross-examined. I am well acquainted with the prisoner's writing—the cheque is payable to bearer—it is endorsed "G. Tabor"—I did not recognise that that was in the prisoner's writing—it is in his writing; there is no disguise—I thought the Tabor who wrote this letter was the American I had shown about London—the prisoner said he had written the letter at Tabor's dictation—I did not ask him why he, and not Tabor, had endorsed the cheque—Gibson is a financier, not a money-lender—he is not connected with the turf or the Stock Exchange—he has an office in Mansion House Chambers—I have known him for about eighteen months—I have not had any financial transaction with him, or asked him to cash a cheque before—he said, "What will you stand for it?" and I said, "Ten shillings"—he merely passed it through the bank—I never heard that by paying one shilling to a special messenger you could get a cheque cleared at once—I kept a public-house in Edmonton many years ago—I was not known as "Poacher Bill"; I might have been; I have done a bit of caching in my time—I had a licence to kill game—I know Frank Dale,
alias Hastings—he has been in trouble several times—I used to do a bit of running for him when he made a book, years ago—a runner goes and gets the winners out—I used to get the winner up quick for him—that was not that he might bet before the winner was known to other people—people might have said that he was a long firmer and welsher—I don't know that they said so while I was with him—I never posed as a racing tipster; I have got information, and I may have sold it—I have been a Sheriff's Officer for eight or nine years—while I was a Sheriff's Officer I unfortunately acted as door-keeper at a sporting club, and got into trouble—after being at Dowgate Street, I was door-keeper at a sporting club in Fetter Lane, for five years, with Henry Neville—it was a betting and gambling club—the police did not raid it—I was there for four years; and Neville had to give it up because there was a dispute there one night—they played chemin de for—I was at the Johnson Club, a sporting club; they used to call it a dinner club—people dined, and betted, and gambled there—I know Jim Good, a dog fancier—I have bought a dog and sold it—the police have not applied to me for stolen dogs that have passed through my hands—I have got back lost dogs, and have had some consideration—I do not know where to go and find them—I think you have exhausted every profession in which I have been engaged—I did not bring this cheque to the prisoner—the 13th in the date of the letter has not been altered to my knowledge—the prisoner did not owe me anything—I asked the American his name, and he said, "Alfred"—I was showing him round London for two or three days—he stood me drinks and dinner—he is not a fiction of my brain, evolved out of my inner consciousness—I really thought the cheque was from the American named Alfred—I did not say, "This cannot come from the American, because his name is Alfred, and this is signed George"—the prisoner told me the American's name was Tabor—I did not bring this cheque to the prisoner, and invite him to write this letter—it was not at my suggestion that he endorsed it.
GEORGE GIBSON . I live at Camberwell Grove, and am a commission agent—I received this cheque on October 17th from Mr. Kay, and paid it through my bank—Kay met me in the street on the 16th, and told me he had got a crossed cheque which he could not get cashed, and asked me to cash it—he handed me the letter and cheque together—I read the letter, and said he had better see me next morning—next morning he came, and I read the letter, and examined the signature to the letter and the endorsement on the cheque, and I went to Smith Payne's to see whether it was a genuine cheque, and then passed it through my bank and drew,£8 by my own cheque from my bank—I gave Kay,£7 12s. 6d.
Cross-examined. The bank did not charge me 2s. 6d.—I have known Kay for some months—I did not charge him anything; he said he would give me 10s., and I took it—I satisfied myself that the signature to the letter and the endorsement to the cheque were in the same writing.
FREDERICK WISE (Detective Inspector) (Re-examined.) On December 14th I went to Broad Street House—the accused was pointed out to me; he asked me to go into his office—I went there—I told him I was making inquiries as to a cheque that had been mislaid, or not rightly directed, and had not reached its destination, and that £8 2s. 6d. was the amount—he said, "I know nothing about it"—I went with him to his
office on the fourth floor, and showed him this envelope, A, and he said, "That is my writing"—I did not ask him if it was his writing—I showed him the letter B, and said, "Whose writing is that?"—he said, "That is mine"—I showed him the cheque, and asked him who put the endorsement on—he said, "I wrote 'Tabor,'" the first endorsement—I then took him into custody, and took him to Moor Lane Police-station, where he was charged—he asked to be allowed to write to his solicitor at his office before I took him to the station, and he wrote a letter.
Cross-examined. Before I saw the prisoner I had seen Key, and he had made a statement to me—I never had possession of the letter and cheque—the post-office detective who was with me when I saw the prisoner had them—I swear the prisoner said, "I know nothing about it"—I did not make a note of it—I did not point out to Mr. Saville that he had omitted it from the depositions—I had Key's statement, and went to verify it—Key was with me—I gave that in evidence at the Police-court—Key remained in the street, and was not present at my conversation with the prisoner—he came to show me which was the prisoner—I did not think it necessary to confront Key with the prisoner, and say, "This man says you gave him the cheque"—there was a remark between the Post-office detective and me, that the date, 13th, had apparently been tampered with—I did not point it out to Key, or ask him for an explanation of the matter—he told me he had,£1 12s. 6d. out of it—I did not ask why—he said he got this letter, signed "George Tabor," from the prisoner—I did not know the prisoner—I have made inquiries about him—he is a man of good character, undoubtedly—I know Key;" I should not say he was a man of good character.
Cross-examined. Before I received statements from the prisoner I had told him what I came about—Key remained below all the time—it appears that the first paragraph was entirely left out of my evidence in the depositions; I did not notice it—the prisoner is the Secretary of the Bound Accumulator Company.
GUILTY.—Recommended to Mercy by the JURY .— Judgment Respited.
144. HENRY SESSIONS (26) PLEADED GUILTY to burglary in the dwelling-house of Henry Leapman, and stealing a jacket and other articles; and JAMES WILSON (26) and ANNIE SMITH (18), to being found by night with housebreaking implements in their possession. Sessions PLEADED GUILTY** to a conviction of felony at this Court in November, 1894, and Wilson to a conviction of felony in January, 1895, Eight other convictions were proved against Sessions, and one other against Wilson.
SESSIONS— Five Years' Penal Servitude.
WILSON— Eighteen Months' Hard Labour.
SMITH— Six Months' Hard Labour. No evidence was offered against
OLD COURT.—Saturday, January 16th, 1897.
Before Mr. Justice Hawkins.
MR. JOSEPH Prosecuted, and MR. PURCELL Defended.
Road—about eleven p.m. on December 28th I was with the deceased, Thomas Kelly, crossing the Gray's Inn Road, near Holborn, from west to east—a hansom cab, driven by the prisoner, came quickly from Holborn into the Gray's Inn Road—Kelly was walking on my left, to the best of my belief, but a little behind—the near wheel knocked me down on my hands and knees—the next thing I saw, when I picked myself up, was the wheel going over Mr. Kelly—the prisoner may have called out; I did not hear him—the cab pulled up within four or five yards—I helped to pick Kelly up—he was taken to the hospital in the Gray's Inn Road, which we reached about 11.15 or 11.20—he died about 12.30.
Cross-examined. I did not notice an omnibus—there is about room for two vehicles between the refuge and the pavement where I was—I would not positively say, but I think Kelly wore glasses—we had been with some friends in Fleet Street, and in two public-houses from six to nine p.m.—the cabman was off the box when we were getting the deceased into the cab; he assisted in every way; the policeman assisted, and rode in the cab with deceased and Mrs. Willett—I rode on the step behind—I said before the Coroner the prisoner drove steadily and carefully; he did so—I got on the step after the others were inside—the deceased was put on the right-hand side of the cab, then the officer and the lady got in—I did not see the cab till the wheel struck me—I was then about three feet from the kerb.
Re-examined. There is a public-house at the corner, with a frontage in the Gray's Inn Road—we were a little beyond that when the cab came up—right on the crossing and opposite the refuge.
WILLIAM CAREW (423 E). About 11.30 p.m. on December 28th I was on duty in the Gray's Inn Road, near the Holborn end, standing on the west side—about twenty-one yards from the corner (I have said fifteen to eighteen, but I have since seen It measured) I saw the prisoner drive his horse and hansom out of Holborn, across High Holborn, into the Gray's Inn Road, from the direction of the Viaduct, at about eleven miles an hour—he drove the right side of the refuge, the proper side into the Gray's Inn Road—about a yard past the refuge he knocked down Campbell—the off-side wheel of his cab appeared to strike him, and about seven yards from the refuge he knocked down the deceased, who was crossing the road from west to east, about six feet from the kerbstone on the west side—the near-side shaft of the cab appeared to strike the deceased in the head, the near-side wheel knocking him down and resting on his body—I mean the wheel on the west side—his clothing seemed to have caught something, apparently the step; his body seemed to be dragged along the ground for two or three feet—then the wheel went over his ribs; his head was towards the west kerbstone—the prisoner then struck at, or struck his horse, and was about to drive, or was driving, away, when I stepped out into the road; on seeing me he pulled up, or had nearly pulled up, when I caught hold of the horse's head and asked him to come back—that was about twenty-two or twenty-three yards away—I furnished information to the last witness to make this plan—I have not seen it—B is about the position where I was
standing, A where the accident took place, and C where the cab was—when I asked him to come back he said he had got a fare, and could not—I took his number, and asked him to return—at first he declined to do so, but afterwards he did come back—the deceased, who was lying on the ground, was put into his cab and taken to the hospital—at the hospital I noticed he was under the influence of drink, and, in my opinion, drunk and unfit to drive, and as I had another charge I took him to Hunter Street Police Station, and charged him with the two charges of having knocked a man down and furious driving—he denied being drunk—the divisional surgeon was sent for—the prisoner said he had had nothing to drink since two o'clock that day—he, when crossing from Holborn, was not following a bus.
Cross-examined. Omnibuses stop in the Gray's Inn Road, a little beyond the crossing—an omnibus was there a minute or two before, but had gone away—there is no paved crossing—the refuge is about nine feet in length—I said before the Magistrate, "I stepped out into the roadway and pulled him up; as soon as he saw me he pulled up to within a yard"—that is correct—I do not recollect saying, "I stopped him between ten and fifteen yards from where the deceased was lying"—I say about fifteen to eighteen yards—I signed my deposition was correct—I might have said ten or fifteen yards, but, to the best of my belief, I said fifteen to eighteen—I say to-day twenty-three, because I have seen it measured since—whatever the measurement is, I know the spot—I was standing opposite No. 5—there is a post on the north, and another on the south side—I noticed the cab as it got near the boundary—the cab would steer between the refuge in Holborn and the refuge in the Gray's Inn Road, in a line with the western kerb—I supported the deceased in the cab, and the woman sat on my knee—at the hospital the prisoner said the deceased was drunk—he said to the surgeon, "I would like you to see whether I am more drunk than these people"—he had previously said we were all more drunk than himself—the doctor declined to have any more to do with him—the inspector told him he could see the surgeon if he liked—in reply, he said he would like to see him—the inspector refused to take either charge. The prisoner was allowed to drive away his own cab.
Re-examined. The refuges are some distance apart; there is a lot of room there.
ANN WILLETT . I live at 230, Camber well Road—about 11.10 p.m., on December 28th, I was standing at the corner of the Gray's Inn Road, waiting for some friends to catch a 'bus—I saw a cab come round the corner where I was standing, near a public-house, knock a gentleman down, and run over him—Campbell fell at my feet—I saw the deceased fall, and the wheel pass over his body—the cab was brought back—the constable spoke to the prisoner—when I asked the cabman to take the injured man to the hospital he said he could not, as he had a fare—I said he would have to, as he was not to be left on the pavement to die—I went with him, and the constable and Campbell, to the hospital in the Gray's Inn Road.
Viaduct, turn into the Gray's Inn Road, knock two people down, and run over one—the cab was going about twelve miles an hour; fast.
Cross-examined. I am not a judge of horses' pace—an ordinary four-wheel cab goes about six miles an hour.
JAMES BISHOP . I was potman at the public-house at the corner of Gray's Inn Road and Holborn on December 28th—about 11.10 p.m. on the 28th I was standing at the corner, looking towards the Viaduct—I saw the prisoner driving a cab from the Viaduct at a furious pace—coming round the corner, I saw him knock one man down, and then the wheel go over the deceased's body—I saw him strike the horse with a whip—I helped to pick the deceased up out of the road, and put him in the cab.
Cross-examined. The accident was just opposite the City boundary stone—the cab was on the slant, to come into the Gray's Inn Road—I was not potman; somebody called me that—I know the spot: I have been there three or four months—the cab would have to steer to the near side to get to the refuge in Holborn—he had no need to touch the Holborn refuge to come into the Gray's Inn Road—a straight line from the kerb of the Gray's Inn Road would shoot into the Holborn refuge—the two gentlemen were Crossing from the corner to the opposite side of the Gray's Inn Road—they would have to come to the Gray's Inn refuge—they would have reached the refuge if they had not been knocked down—the cab had indiarubber tyres—an omnibus had not passed before the cab; one was waiting at the opposite side of the road.
WILLIAM HEALEY (Inspector E.) On December 28th I was on duty at the Hunter Street Police-station, when Carew brought the prisoner in, about 11.50 p.m.—the prisoner was charged with being drunk with his horse and cab, and with furious driving—he said, "I have had nothing to drink since two o'clock, and I was not driving fast; I was following a 'bus; I did not see the man."
Cross-examined. He also said, "I have since driven those to the hospital," referring to the others; "and I want to see the doctor"—he seemed excited—I sent for the divisional surgeon, who saw him about twelve—I declined to take the charges—I have been inspector seven or eight years.
Re-examined. I had the cabman's number.
LEWIS MOYSEY . I was house surgeon at the Royal Free Hospital—on December 28th I saw the deceased at 11.30 p.m.—he seemed extremely ill, and suffering from fractured ribs—he died an hour after his admission—the cause of death was ruptured kidney, and internal bleeding—I saw the prisoner in the waiting room—I did not examine him, but he gave me the impression of a man who had been drinking.
Cross-examined. I formed that impression because he was excited and agitated, his eyes were bright, the pupils were dilated, and from, his general manner and behaviour—I do not think you often find dilation of the pupils under excitement; it comes at the first part of excitement, as in a fright, but passes off—the prisoner made a remark which suggested my examining him—he appealed to me to examine him, to see if he was drunk.
the prisoner at 12.30 p.m. on the 28th—I was of opinion he was not drunk, but that he had been drinking during the earlier part of the day.
By the COURT. Inspector Healey took my evidence—Healey was present when I told the prisoner my opinion.
NOT GUILTY .
OLD COURT.—Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, January 18th, 19th, and 20th, 1897.
Before Mr. Justice Hawkins.
146. EDWARD BELL, alias EDWARD J. IVORY , for feloniously conspiring with Patrick James Tynan, John Francis Kearney, Thomas Haines, and other persons unknown, to cause by an explosive substance an explosion, in the United Kingdom, of a nature likely to endanger life, and likely to cause serious injury to property.
The SOLICITOR-GENERAL (SIR R. B. FINLAY, Q.C.), MR. SUTTON, MR. C. F. GILL, and MR. BODKIN Prosecuted; MR. F, J. TAYLOR, MR. THEOBALD MATHEW, and MR. DWYER Defended.
JULIUS OPPHOLZER . I am a waiter at the Victoria Hotel, Rotterdam—it is on the quay, and close to where the Netherland steamers arrive—I remember the steamship Amsterdam, arriving on August 13th, 1896, from New York—two men came from that ship to the hotel; the elder spoke as a German, and the other as an American—they occupied the same room, No. 15—they had two bags—I find their names in this register of the hotel; I saw each write his name—the entry is, "13th Aug., John Wilkins, New York, U.S.A., and Hubert Wittges, Coblenz"—the American signed "John Wilkins"; his hand was withered—there is a train from Rotterdam to Antwerp at 9.6 a.m.—a carriage goes to that train from the hotel—the two men left at 8.45—Wilkins paid the bill.
GEORGE HURST . I am a reception clerk at the Midland Grand Hotel, St. Fancras—on August 26th a man named Bell arrived there—I gave him a room, No. 307—af he had any luggage, it would only be a small hand-bag, and for that reason it would be we asked a deposit of I—he deposited that—I did not see him after the first day—it does not come within my work how long a man stays.
ARTHUR BANKS . I am a clerk at the Midland Hotel, St. Pancras, and act as assistant cashier—on August 26th last the prisoner came to stay at the hotel, and paid a deposit—the charge for his room was 4s. a night—I am in the coffee-room as well as elsewhere—no meals were booked to him—a man might have meals there without their being booked—on August 31st the deposit was exhausted, and on that day he came to me at my office, and paid a second deposit of £1—he' remained up to September 3rd, I believe; I am not sure—when he left 8s. was returned to him out of his deposit—his deposit was exhausted on the 31st, when he paid me a second sovereign—about ten days after he left I saw him at the hotel again—I do not remember that date.
JOSEPH BAUMGARTEN . I am hall porter at the Midland Hotel, St. Pancras—I remember the prisoner being at the hotel at the end of August and beginning of September last—it was part of ray duty to attend to letters and telegrams arriving for guests—I believe he asked me three times if there was a letter in the name of Bell—the first time I said there
was none, and he asked me if I was sure there was none—a letter came; to the best of my belief it was a foreign letter—it came in the morning; I could not remember the date—I remember the day he left, but I did not see him leave—I believe he called the first day he was there for a letter, and it was not there, and he called the next day, and there was the letter for him.
FRANK MURRAY . I am a clerk in the office of the Midland Hotel, St. Pancras—on September 8th, about seven a.m., a man, giving the name of Edward Bell, came to the hotel—he had a small hand-bag—he was given a bedroom, No. 339—he left the same afternoon—he paid 4s. for the room.
FREDERICK ARTHUR PEREIRA . I am the senior assistant at a drug store, 39, Rye Lane, Peckham—on an evening in the week following August 24th, the prisoner came in, and made some trivial purchases, which I do not remember—he paid for them—he then wanted to know what quotation I could give him for a carboy of vitriol—I referred to the price lists of the firms which supplied us, and went and told my principal what we were charged, and asked him what we could charge the prisoner—I went back, and told the prisoner that in quantities of that kind we could do it at something between 1d. and 2d. per pound—a carboy, roughly speaking, is 156 pounds—asking for such a quantity is an unusual occurrence in the retail trade—when I told him the price he deliberated a moment, and then said he would let me know, or would call further, or something like that—he said he used a large quantity of vitriol; he bought it by the carboy—he said nothing as to the purpose for which he used it—I did not ask him—vitriol and sulphuric acid are exactly the same thing—on October 2nd I went to Bow Street Police-station, where I was shown some men standing in a row in a corridor—among them I recognized the prisoner—I am sure he is the man.
Cross-examined. He said, "What would you charge me for a carboy of vitriol?"—my principal was in the laboratory behind the shop, and he remained there—I gave the prisoner an exact figure, I don't remember it now; it was over one penny and lets than twopence—a detective afterwards came to our place, in my absence, and asked if anyone had been asking for explosives, or powerful acids, or anything of that sort—he called again later on in the evening, when I was in, and showed me a photograph—after seeing that I identified the prisoner—the detective said, "J understand from your principal that you saw the person who inquired for vitriol"—I said that I had just been roughly describing him from memory to my principal—he then showed me a photograph, and asked me if I knew it—I said I thought I recognised it—he said, "Do you think, if you went up to Bow Street, you could identify the prisoner?" and I said, "Yes," and it was then arranged that I should go up the following Friday—about a dozen men were brought before me at Bow Street—many of them were about the prisoner's age, and they all seemed about the same height, there was no very tall man—I recognised the prisoner by his face; that made the principal impression on me—I fix the date as being in the week after the 24th because my employer returned from a holiday on the 24th—it was the latter part of the week beginning 24th—I cannot be sure of the day—it is fixed in my mind as being that week because I associated the circumstances, which were fresh then—I did not hear, till the detective interviewed me, that the prisoner was in London at the end of August—I
think he said the prisoner had been in London about that time—it was after seeing the photograph and the mention of the date that I went to Bow Street—I did not see the prisoner alone in a eell—the first time I saw him he was in the row with the other men—the detective was Flood—he called on me about the last week in September, just about a week before I went to Bow Street and identified the prisoner—the detective said he would call for me on the Friday—I went through the cells into the gaoler's room—the cells were not open—two or three other witnesses, Inspector Quinn, and one or two more detectives, accompanied me—the men were paraded before me in a corridor outside the cells—I was called out when the men were in a row, with the prisoner among them—I did not see Bell till he was paraded with the others—I do not know if he had been brought up in Court the week before that, October 2nd—I heard of his arrest, and saw the proceedings in the papers—it was evening when the prisoner called at the drug shop, between 6.30 and 8.30 or nine, after tea; we had not thought of closing—I spoke to him for about two or three minutes, I should think—I cannot recall what he bought from me.
Re-examined. I saw his face when I spoke to him in the shop, and I recognised it again—I gave Flood the rough description I had given to my employer; I said the man was somewhat short and stoutish, and had rather a common look.
By MR. TAYLOR. I said he had a characteristic face; I meant the antithesis of refined—I thought, and think, that was a fair description.
MRS. COMMARINA JONES . I live at 682, Holloway Road, and keep a chemist's shop there—six or seven weeks before October 23rd (which was the day I was examined at the Police-court) the prisoner came in and asked if he could have a quarter of a hundredweight of chlorate of potash—I asked him what he wanted it for, and he said to make an experiment—I told him it was too large a quantity to come to a retail chemist's for, and I did not think he could get it there—he stayed in the shop a little while—I told him we kept it only for medicinal purposes—he asked for some preparation of soda; I cannot remember how much—he stood for a few minutes, and seemed disappointed that he could not have it, and I said, "You had better try the oil-shop opposite"—I next saw him at Bow Street, in a small corridor, with about nine or ten others—as soon as I saw him I knew he was the man—I have no doubt he is the man who was in the shop.
Cross-examined. When I went in I raised my eyes, and I thought there was a man at the end that looked something like the man, but, as soon as I saw the prisoner, I knew he was the man—I made no motion or sign when I saw the other man; I said he was something like him—the detective, or whoever he was, said, "Look again"—I was very nervous, and feeling poorly—he did not point in any direction—Flood did not take me there—Johnson came to see me about the man who called at my shop—he showed me a photograph—I did not pick out the man from that—I have no reason for fixing the time as six or seven weeks before that, except that I remember it was about that time; it might have been more or less, I cannot say—I cannot fix any date—as far as I recollect, it was six or seven—no one mentioned anything about the prisoner being in London, and I knew nothing about it—the detective came and asked, if anybody had been inquiring for anything of that sort, and then I recollected
that someone had been—he did not say within what time—I told him, as far as I knew, it was some weeks ago—it was six or seven weeks before, I cannot say any more—I believe, when I said it was some weeks ago, the detective said, "How many?" and I said six or seven—the prisoner did not buy anything of me—I was speaking to him a few minutes—I asked him what he wanted it for, as it was such a large quantity—it was before noon he came—I stated before the Magistrate I believed the prisoner was the man, and in cross-examination I said, "I am sure the prisoner is the man."
THOMAS BOND . I am a F.R.C.S. and Lecturer on Forensic Medicine at Westminster Hospital—on last Friday night, January 15th, I went with Sergeant Bryan to Antwerp, and to Mr. George Goll's house, the Café Rheingrau, at 31, Rue de Brézil, Antwerp—a man was there pointed out to me as Mr. George Goll—I examined him, and found him in a very weak and emaciated condition; his respiration was very feeble, his pulse 110, and very feeble—he was recovering from an attack of inflammation of the lungs, and was quite unfit to travel to this country—it would have endangered his life—the condition he was in would probably last some three or four weeks; he can only make a gradual recovery—I do not think he could travel for about three weeks.
DANIEL BRYAN (Detective Sergeant.) I am stationed at Antwerp—I know George Balthazar Goll, the landlord of the Café Rheingrau—I was at Bow Street Police Court on September 25th, when he was called as a witness on the inquiry against the prisoner before Mr. Vaughan—he was sworn, and gave his evidence in the prisoner's presence—his evidence was taken in writing, and afterwards read over to him, and he signed it—the prisoner was represented by a solicitor, who cross-examined Mr. Goll—this is the signature made by Mr. Goll in my presence—on January 15th I went, with Dr. Bond, to Antwerp, and pointed out to him at the Café Rheingrau, the Mr. Goll who signed this deposition in my presence.
The deposition of George Balthazar Goll mas read as Jollows: "I live at 31, Rue de Brézil, Antwerp, and keep a café there, called the Café Rheingrau. My wife's maiden name was Maria Wittges; she has a sister named Gertrude, married to John Francis Kearney. I have been at different times in New York, and from 1883 to 1886 I saw Kearney very often in New York. He was at one time a conductor of a car on Broadway. Both before and after he was a conductor he kept a saloon, and lately he had also a newspaper, called the Irish Nationalist. I last saw Kearney in New York, about four months ago. He said nothing then about coming to Europe. He has been shot through the right wrist, and his hand hangs loosely, but he writes with his right hand, holding his pen between the first two fingers. On Friday, August 24th, he arrived at my house at Antwerp. He was not expected. He arrived in a cab with Hubert Wittges (his wife's brother and my wife's brother). Kearney said he had come to see the old people, and go up the Rhine to Cobtenz, where they live. He said he had come from New York in the Amsterdam steamer to Rotterdam, and arrived at Rotterdam the day before. He showed me his Rotterdam hotel bill; it was either the Queen's Hotel or the Victoria, I am not sure which. He had as luggage a small brown leather hand-bag; it contained one change of linen. At ten o'clock on the next evening Kearney and my
wife and Hubert Wittges left Antwerp for Coblenz. (This was Satur day, August 15th.) Kearney and my wife came back on Thursday, August 20th. About six days afterwards Kearney brought another man to my house, a stranger to me. Kearney told me he had picked the man up on the Red Star landing stage, and added, 'I was expecting him here; he is an old friend of mine from New York.' I did not catch the man's name when Kearney introduced me to him, but Kearney told me to call him Tom. He had no luggage then, but afterwards he brought a small bag, smaller than Kearney's. He was poorly dressed, and bought a suit of clothes next day. He had two of his lower front teeth knocked inwards. The two photographs produced (exhibit 12 and exhibit 14) are photographs of the man Kearney brought to my house. The assistant steward of the steamer Kensington came to my house, and I learned that Tom had come from New York in that steamer; the assistant steward talked with him at my house. I had myself made voyages in the Kensington. Kearney and Tom always went about together. Tom occasionally slept at my house. Kearney told me that he (Kearney) was travelling for an American chemical company, and he wanted to buy raw material and send it to New York. He showed me some letters of introduction, and asked me if I knew where the firms were to which they were addressed. I gave him a directory of addresses. A few days later I asked him whether he had found the firms, and he said, 'Yes, I have found a couple of them.' I did not know what Tom's business was. Kearney was always drinking, and almost every night was under its influence. Tom drank very little; he seemed nervous, and as though he were in a fright. On Saturday, September 5th, I came home between four and five p.m., and found two men outside my door, talking with my wife; the prisoner (Mr. Bell) is one of those men. I did not know the men then, and I asked them who they wanted; the older man said, 'We want your brother-in-law.' He was a man between fifty and sixty, dressed in a grey suit of clothes; his hair had some white in it. He wore a soft felt hat. I replied, 'You will find my brother-in-law in a drinking saloon.' He asked me which saloon, and I said, 'Weber's, up at the station.' My wife offered to show them where it was, and she went to do so, and they went away with her. After they had gone, Kearney and Tom came in, and I said, There have been two Yankee fellows inquiring for you.' Kearney asked, 'Where are they?' and I said, 'I have sent them up to Weber's.' Kearney said he expected some friends from Paris. They waited, and prisoner and the other man came in shortly afterwards, with my wife. They shook hands, and called each other by name; they went into a room behind the saloon. The older man was introduced to me as George Garth, and he and Kearney went upstairs. Kearney's bedroom was on the first landing. I heard Kearney speak of something he had bought, and I heard him say to Garth,' Come, and I'll show it to you.' I do not know if prisoner and Tom went upstairs, but I saw all four together downstairs afterwards. All four were at my house together for about two hours, and then a carriage came, and prisoner and Garth and Tom drove away together. Kearney was too drunk to go with them, and remained at my house. Tom came back between eight and nine next morning (Sunday, September 6th), and told me that Bell and Garth were at the Hotel des Anglais, and that he had taken them home. Bell
and Garth came to my house towards the middle of the day, and saw Kearney and Tom, and I saw them all four together in my house that afternoon. That evening I saw Bell (prisoner) sitting outside my house on a chair; he was crying. My wife told him to come in. Prisoner and Garth and Tom went away together again that evening; Kearney was too drunk. On the next day (Monday, September 7th), Garth and prisoner came to my house, and saw Kearney and Tom. They spoke of having a ramble in Switzerland and France, and Garth asked me if I had been in Switzerland or Paris. They had told me, the day before, that they were going away. Bell and Garth then left my house, and Kearney and Tom remained behind. Prisoner told me he had a saloon up town in New York, and if I came there I should have a good time. Kearney and Tom had some plans of Antwerp, they said, 'so that they might not lose themselves.' Berchem is about two and a-half miles from my house. The plan produced is a plan of the city of Antwerp (exhibit 15A), and I think it is one of the plans they had. Garth had plenty of money. Kearney had some American paper money. Kearney was drunk on Monday and Tuesday, September 7th and 8th, and on Wednesday, the 9th, he was in bed, spitting blood. Tom went out each of those days by himself. He said he went to see a young woman. On Thursday, September 10th, Kearney got up, and in the afternoon he and Tom went out together; they came in at five o'clock in the afternoon, both sober. On Friday, September 11th, I was at home between 4.30 and five p.m., and I sat down with Tom in the inner room, and an open carriage drove up to the door, and the man in it got out and came into my cafe, and asked for a glass of beer. Tom said, 'He wants to see me,' and Tom at once left my house with the man. They went about ten steps off, and spoke together for four or five minutes, and the other man then got into the carriage again and drove away; and Tom then went upstairs, Kearney being in his room at the time. Kearney then sang out to my wife for his money; she held it because he had been robbed once. My wife asked, 'What is the matter?' and Kearney said, 'We are going.' I went up and asked, 'Why, and where they were going?' Kearney gave no direct answer, but said, 'It will only be for two or three days.' I pressed him as to where he was going, and he said, 'It is only for a day or two; we were going to the station; that is all I can tell you He said he would write for his clothes, if he did not come back; they seemed in a great hurry to go; they took their bags and walked to the cabs, and he said to me and my wife, 'You look like two great fools; there is nothing wrong.' While they were at my house they were always on the look-out for letters, and took their letters from the postman. After they had gone, a short note or letter came from Rotterdam to me from Kearney, and my wife, in reply, sent the letter produced (exhibit 13), addressed to 'Mr. John Wallace, Queen's Hotel, Rotterdam.' The letter from Kearney to me I have looked for, but cannot find; in that letter he asked us to send some clothes to him to the Queen's Hotel, Rotterdam, in the name of 'Mr. John Wallace.' When I first knew Kearney, ten years ago, in New York, he spoke of having been in Glasgow. I first made his acquaintance in Antwerp; he then told me he came from England. My wife's sister brought him to my house; he afterwards married that sister. She was servant at the Red Star Emigration House, in Antwerp, and sh
and Kearney and I went to New York together at the end of August, 1883. I was steward of the ship.
Cross-examined: Tom was after the girls; the others all drank a good deal—I never saw this prisoner until September 5th—Mr. Garth introduced him as 'My friend, Mr. Bell'—Bell told me on the first day that he was an hotel-keeper up town in New York—I never went to Kearney's room in my house with the other men—I never saw prisoner go upstairs—my opinion was that all the men were engaged on pleasure.—(Signed) G. B. GOLL."
MARIE VON GASKEL . In August of last year I was staying with my sister in Antwerp—we own the house No. 21, Veld Strasse, at Berchem—I was there from July—the house had been advertised in the papers to he let—Berchem is one of the suburbs. (The locality was pointed out on the plan.) Rue de Chien is the French name. (MR. TAYLOR objected to this evidence being given till a foundation had been laid to connect it with, the prisoner.)
FREDERICK GALWAY . I was manager of the Hotel des Anglais, at Ant-werp—its name has been changed to that of the Central Hotel—on September 4th last two men came with two brown hand-bags and a leather despatch box—on the despatch-box was a label, "Genoa"—the prisoner was one of the men—they asked for two rooms—they occupied Nos. 30 and 31—the rooms communicated—they arrived about four or five p.m.—they left their luggage in their rooms, and went out almost immediately—they returned very late—I saw them the next morning—the prisoner came down first—I asked him to fill up the slips for the police—the prisoner filled up both slips—I saw him do it—the slips were handed to the police, who called for them—the slips remained with the police—the prisoner wrote on the slips, "George Garth, United States" or "Brooklyn" for the other man, and "Edward Bell, England," for himself—Bell said they would stay a few days, orit might be a little longer—I saw them about nine or ten a.m.—they did not breakfast—they were out all day—they came back about one or two the next morning—the next day, Sunday, they did not breakfast at the hotel—Garth came back about five or six p.m., the prisoner between eight and nine—Garth had evidently been drinking a little—a man came in with the prisoner of about thirty years of age, very fair, and two or three front teeth missing—they joined the prisoner in the general drawing-room for fully half an hour—I could recognise the man—this is. the man. (Looking at a photoaraph of Haines.) Then all three went to their bedrooms—Haines remained more than an hour—he came down and left the house—the others did not come down that evening—the next morning (Monday, 7th) I went to Bell's room in answer to the bell being rung—I knocked at the door—I heard Garth say, "Tom, open that door, please"—the prisoner opened the door—he asked for some soda and whisky, which were served—they had a bottle of champagne about an hour afterwards—Sergeant Bryan was at the hotel—the prisoner went out about nine o'clock—I said, "Good morning, Mr. Bell"—Garth came down a little later, and went out—the prisoner came back in about half an hour—he asked me where his friend was—I told him he had gone out to get a shave, and should I give him any message from him?—he said, "Yes, tell him that I have gone to Madame Goll's, our mutual friend's"—he then went away—Garth came back; I gave him the message, and he went out—I'next saw them about three p.m., when they both came back, and the prisoner
asked for their bill, and paid it by two sovereigns and some French money—this is the bill—they told me they were going either to Cologue or Bingen, Germany—they left in a car about four o'clock—they drove to the Eastern Station, because they went past the place—that is the station from which they would go to Brussels—there is a train for Brussels about 4.30—Berchem is two and a-half to three miles from the hotel.
CHRISTIAN NEUJAHR . I am the proprietor of the Queen's Hotel, at the Quay, at Rotterdam—two men arrived on Friday, September 11th, about ten p.m.—they told me they had come from Antwerp—they had two small bags—I gave them a two-bedded room on the first floor—the older of the two men registered as John Wallace, the younger man as T, Haines—while they were having supper Wallace asked if there was a chance of sending a telegram away that night—I said, "Yes; there is a chance till eleven o'clock and past eleven, but you have to go up to the General Post Office"—I went with them to the General Post Office—Wallace wrote out a telegram—the younger man, Haines, looked at it, and wrote out another—the second telegram was sent away, the first one was destroyed—by the conversation it was sent to Glasgow; I could not hear the name—I think Wallace paid for the telegram—I cannot say in what, because he gave the money to the clerk, and I could not interfere with it; then we all three went to the hotel, where Wallace wrote a letter as soon as he came in—he said it was about some luggage he had left behind in Antwerp—on Sunday, September 13th, about 8.30 a.m., the police came, and arrested Wallace and Haines—I showed the police officers in front of the bedroom—about that time the post brought a letter from Antwerp.
Tuesday, January 19th.
CHRISTIAN NEUJAHR (Re-called.) These two letters (exhibits 14 and 15) arrived subsequently, on the Sunday afternoon—the two men said nothing as to where they had come from—from what they told me, they were going to America—one of the Netherlands boats was going on the following Wednesday; I don't know the name of it—they went by them-selves to the Steam Packet Office—I directed them to it—they went to see the directors, to find out whether they could not have a bed in the steerage and dine in the saloon.
BARBARA GREIG . I am book-keeper at the Victoria Hotel, Glasgow—the prisoner came there on Tuesday night, September 8th, about midnight—he had a hand-bag with him—he gave the name of Edward Bell—that night he shared the room of Mr. Cameron, the manager—that was the first time I had seen him—the next day, the 9th, he was given a room—he said he only intended staying a few days—he asked me to direct him to the post-office—he said he was expecting telegrams—I saw him write letters in the hotel—we have a letter-box in the hotel; I pointed it out to him—he said he could go across to the post-office—that would be only two or three minutes' walk—he went out—we have letter-paper and envelopes, with the name of the hotel printed on them, in the commercial room—on September 10th he asked if there was a telegram for him, morning and evening—he asked several times, and mentioned to Mr. Cameron, at the office window, that he was from America, and that he was on tour, and that he was in the same line of business as ourselves—he said that he had a few friends, that he had started along with a few friends, but they remained on the Continent—he gave Mr. Cameron the name of the hotel where he had been staying, the Folkestone Hotel,
Boulogne—he also mentioned something about his friends at Rotterdam, and that he expected wires or letters from them—he did not mention any particular place at Rotterdam—he generally remained indoors, and about the hotel that day—next day, the 11th, a telegram came, addressed to Bell—I put it in the rack; I did not give it to him—I afterwards saw him with a telegram in his hand; he was explaining to Mr. Cameron that it was from his friends; I heard him—he said that he had a wire from his friends that they were stopped—he said, "You won't know what that means, that they wanted some money"—Mr. Cameron asked if they wanted money—he said, "No, he was not going to send any money, as they had their ticket home"—next morning, Saturday, September 12th, the prisoner asked me if the letters were in yet—he expected a letter—the letters had then been delivered; there was no letter for him—during the morning he again asked me—he remained in the hotel that morning—he walked about in the billiard-room, and in the lobby—the letter rack was in the lobby, in the office which opens out of the lobby in the front hall—no letter came for him that morning—that evening he was arrested—on the morning after his arrival he paid £1 deposit—this (produced) is his bill; No. 34 is on it—34 was the number of his room—his bill was £1 18s.—he paid the balance, 18s., after his arrest—Mr. Carmichael gave me the receipt to give him—next morning, Sunday, the 13th, a letter came for the prisoner; this is it (exhibit 10)—it has the Boulogne postmark on it—I gave that letter to Mr. Cameron, the manager—during the time the prisoner was in the hotel I never saw anybody calling to see him.
Cross-examined. He always seemed to talk to Mr. Cameron—they were friendly—Mr. Cameron was the only gentleman that I saw him speak to—he mentioned about his friends being at Rotterdam—I don't remember it very distinctly—he mentioned the name of the Folkestone Hotel, where he had been staying; he mentioned where it was, and gave a card also to Mr. Cameron, and he showed it to me; I saw it—he said his friends had been spending their money foolishly in France—he said they were all on a tour; he said when he first came that he was a tourist, that he had come over with some friends; it was when he had the wire that he said his friends had been spending money foolishly in France—he was a good deal in the hotel—there had been a good deal of wet weather during that time.
Re-examined. I never heard him say what he was doing in Glasgow—he used to mention to Mr. Cameron about his friends being on the Continent and at Brussels.
WILLIAM CAMERON . I was manager of the Caledonian Hotel at Fort William—in September I was manager of the Victoria Hotel at Glasgow; the two hotels are in connection; I remember the prisoner coming to the Glasgow Hotel late on Tuesday night, September 8th; the hotel being full, he occupied a bed in my room—he had a room allotted to him the next morning, No. 34—he said he was remaining for three or four days; that he was on a holiday from New York, with three friends—the day after he arrived he got a wire from Rotterdam—we supply visitors with note-paper and envelopes in the commercial room and smoking room, with the name of the hotel printed on them—my brother is the proprietor of the hotel—the prisoner remained there on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday—I did not see anyone call to see him during that time; no one
spoke to him except the people in the hotel—I remember his receiving a telegram; I handed it to him; he said it was from his friends at Rotterdam—I saw a part of the telegram; I saw the name of Wallace on it—it was addressed to Edward Bell, Victoria—he was always expecting letters—he did not mention anything about telegrams to me—he read the whole of this telegram to me—he said his friends were stopped at Rotterdam—he said he did not think they were pressed for money—he did not say anything to me as to how he had come from America—he said he had stayed at the Folkestone Hotel—he said he intended leaving Glasgow on Monday for London—on Saturday, the 12th, I saw him writing a letter—the post-office is only a minute's walk from the hotel—there is a letter-box in the office and a rack for letters; you can see it from the hall—on the Saturday morning I was spoken to by a detective named Maguire—I did not know that the house was under observation until Maguire spoke to me about eleven that morning—during that morning the prisoner was a good time in the billiard saloon; he was between the billiard saloon and the front door most of the day till he was arrested—he did not explain to me why he was passing backwards and forwards—in the afternoon or evening of that day I was spoken to by a police officer, Mr. Carmichael—I told the prisoner that he was a Government detective—he spoke to the prisoner while he was on the steps by the front door, and he subsequently went with the detective to his room—Carmichael sent for me to go up to his room—no letter arrived for him on the Saturday, but on the Sunday a letter was handed to me by Miss Greig, and I handed it to Mr. Carmichael—this is it (exhibit 10).
Cross-examined. When he mentioned the Folkestone hotel, he did not say where it was, but I understood he said they were at Rotterdam—he did not say that when he left he was going back to New York—he did not say that he intended to go to Belfast by boat, and to go home on the following Tuesday—he did not mention the name of Mr. Coleman in my presence—he mentioned something about London—I was not asked about that before—he said he was returning to London—he said on the Monday following he would be going back to London—I mentioned that before the Magistrate—he said he had come from New York, and was returning—he did not say that he supposed his Rotterdam friends were spending their money foolishly in France—he said they were stopped; he did not, to my remembrance, say they were spending their money foolishly in France.
JAMES BURNS . I am thirteen years old—I live at 11, Parsons Street, Townhead, Glasgow, with my mother, Mrs. McCaffery, and my step-father, Mr. Pat McCaffery—he was for some months in the Cancer Hospital, in Hill Street, Glasgow—he was in the hospital in September last—I remember, one day in September, coming home from school to dinner; a knock came to the door, and my mother went to answer it, and I heard a voice ask her, "Is this where Patrick McCaffery stays?" she said, "Yes, he is in the Cancer Hospital, in Hill Street"—the man then asked for P. O'Hare—she said that I knew where P. O'Hare always stayed, and I would show him where it was—I then came forward and saw the man—I see him now; it was the prisoner—I went with him to P. O'Hare's, to a house in Park Terrace—the prisoner knocked at the door—nobody came—we did not wait much over a minute—the prisoner then said he wanted to go to
Daniel Meagher's, 20, Well Street, Carlton—I took him there—we went up some stairs and knocked at the door; a girl opened it, and we went into the kitchen, and the prisoner spoke to a big woman who was there; I did not know who she was—the prisoner asked her if this was where Daniel Meagher stayed—she said, "Yes"—I did not see any man in the room—the man asked if Daniel Meagher was at home—she said,' No; I think he is out at work"—I think she said he had got two or three jobs—she did not know where he was working, but she thought it was at Trongate or Gallowgate—I think the prisoner then asked when he would be in, and would he be able to see him—she asked why he wanted to see him—I think he said he had a letter for him; I think he said it was from America; I think he said it was from Kearney—I think she said, if she got that letter she would burn it—I don't remember his saying anything else about the letter—I think he then asked her if she knew where P. O'Hare had a public-house—she said she did not know, but there was a public-house, Mrs. Coyne's, over the way, and she might know—before that she said that Dan Meagher had been drinking, and it was late when he came in of nights, that he used to go to a hall in Watson Street—while we were in the kitchen I saw a letter in the prisoner's hand—we then went across to Mrs. Coyne; I saw a woman there: I knew her; I think we saw a young lady first, and then the mistress came; the young lady spoke first—she said to her mother that there was a young gentleman wanting to know where P. O'Hare's saloon was—the elder woman said that he had one in Clyde Street, and another one in Marlborough Street—the prisoner and I then went to the one in Clyde Street—we found some man there—the prisoner asked if that was P. O'Hare's saloon—the man said "Yes," but that Mr. O'Hare had some business in Ireland, and was not there; I did not know P. O'Hare myself; he had three boys at school—O'Hare had a farm—I then took the prisoner to No. 8, Watson Street—we went up one flight; a woman came to the door, and he asked if Mr. Daniel Meagher was there; she said, "No"; there were men coming there that night; it would be night before they came—I can't remember what the prisoner said to that—I do not know the name of the person who told me that—I did not know the place at all—I did not go to any other place with the prisoner; that was all—I left him at Glasgow Cross; he made me a present of 2s.; he gave me is at first, and another is at Glasgow Cross—a few days after I saw the prisoner at the Central Police Office, Glasgow—I afterwards went round with Mr. Carmichael and another gentleman to the same places that I had been to with the prisoner.
Cross-examined. O'Haro had two separate shops—he was not dealing with horses or cattle; his children were at school with me—he was a farmer; he had two spirit shops—I never saw his farm.
KATHERINE MEAGHER . I am the wife of Daniel Meagher, and live at 28, Well Street, Glasgow—my husband is a working joiner, working at weekly wages—on Wednesday, September 9th, I remember my daughter opening the door, and hearing somebody ask for my husband—I think it was about two o'clock, or after—I was getting up at the time; I had been ill; I had two nurses to get me out of bed—I called to my daughter to bring the man in; he came in with the little boy—I see the man here, the prisoner; I
had never seen him before; I was not expecting him—he said he wished to see my husband—he came into the kitchen; I occupied two rooms and a kitchen; bedroom and parlour—I told him he could not see my husband till night—he asked what time did he come home; I said, whenever he was all right, in twenty minutes or half an hour, but he had a long holiday, and drank, and he did not come home till late; nine when he had been drunk; when not drunk he came home about five or half-past, according to the distance he had to go—he asked what my husband worked at—I said he was a joiner—he asked where he worked—I said I could not tell where he worked, because he had lost three jobs in the holidays—he said he had a letter for him, and asked me would I give it to him—I said, "No," I would not give it to him; if I got it I would put it in the fire; for me and him were not on speaking terms—he did not say who he was or where he came from—I did not know what his name was—he said he had got the letter for my husband from a friend, who knew a man who had left England some years ago; there was a man who had lived in our kitchen, and I thought perhaps it was from him; he did not tell me who it came from—he said it was from a party in America, a friend—as far as I can remember, I think he said it was America—he told me that he had known nobody in England, that he had only just come across the Atlantic, and he had never been here before—I did not see the letter in his hand; I only looked at him as he came in, for I was only partly dressed—when I said I would burn the letter, he said then he would not give it to me, he would keep it—he said he might call about nine that night—I said perhaps my husband might be in by nine, or perhaps later—I knew the hall at 8, Watson Street; it was a hall for meetings on Sunday evenings, and other times—I knew that my husband had that hall on a lease or agreement, or whatever it was—I do not know Patrick O'Hare—the prisoner asked me if I knew a person of that fiame who kept a saloon—I said I did not know what a saloon was, and he said, "It is a public-house; they call it so in this country"—I told him to go to Mrs. Coyne's, across the road—I do not know Kearney—I told the prisoner that my husband was drinking and going on, and if he met him would he give him advice, for he was drinking more than he earned—he said he would—I said, "I hope you won't tell him what I have been telling you, for he would be wild," and he said, "Not I"—I had told him all about his habits—the meetings in Watson Street were Young Ireland and Amnesty meetings; it was called the Amnesty Committee; it was a Young Ireland Literary Society—the prisoner spoke about coming back that night—I did not ask him who the letter was from; he did not say who it was from, except that it was from a friend in America—I was sitting on the side of my bed at the time—he never came to the place again—my husband came home that night about ten—next day a letter came for my husband; my son gave it to him.
By the COURT. I did not see the letter—I only looked at it when he came in, being only partially dressed—I saw the letter for my husband next day on the table before he came into the room—the name of the hotel it came from was printed on it, the Victoria Hotel, Glasgow—I was not on speaking terms with my husband, because of his giving way to drink; that was the fact—on the Tuesday in the following week, the 15th, Mr. Carmichael asked me to go to the Central Police Station, and there I saw the prisoner.
Cross-examined. The meetings of the Young Ireland Society were public meetings—they are attended by some of the leading Irishmen in Glasgow—there is a large Irish population in Glasgow—my husband had a licence for dancing at 8, Watson Street—he had no trouble in getting a licence—I did not tell the prisoner that he might see him there—Watson Street was never mentioned—the house was held in my husband's name—there are a great many members of the committee, not hundreds; I could not tell you much about it—the Amnesty Society if a society in aid of the prisoners—I could not tell you whether the meetings are largely attended; they are public meetings—we have lived in Glasgow about twenty-six years—he is fifty-two years of age—I hare two in family out of eight.
ELIZABETH HARPER . I am a nurse in the Cancer Hospital, 163, Hill Street, Glasgow—on July 9th last I remember a man named Pat McCaffery being admitted to the hospital—he was suffering from cancer of the jaw—he was employed as a labourer at the chemical works in Glasgow—on September 10th a man came to see him at the hospital—the prisoner is the man; I took him up to the ward to see him—he did not tell me who he was: he did not give me his name—he said he did not know McCaffery, and McCaffery did not know him—he said nothing to me about how long he was staying in Glasgow—when I took the prisoner in I told McCaffery that he was a friend come to see him—the prisoner said he was sorry to find him sick in a hospital; then I left them—I subsequently saw the prisoner leave the hospital; he stayed about ten minutes.
Cross-examined. McCaffery was about fifty-six; I could not say exactly; as far as I remember, he was a middle-aged man; he had been there about four months; he is now dead; he left and went to Belfast—as far as I noticed, the prisoner had a friendly talk with him—he was not in bed; he sat in a chair—the prisoner gave me the impression that he was about leaving Glasgow in two days; he did not say where he was going—he did not appear to be a Glasgow man; I thought he was an American; he had an American accent—he did not mention America to me at all.
JAMES NICHOL . I was the boots at the Victoria Hotel, Glasgow, for about three and a-half weeks, from July to the end of October, 1896—I saw the prisoner at the hotel in September, 1896—he stopped there for two or three days—on Friday night, the night before his apprehension, a telegram came for him between 11.30 and 12, addressed "Ed. Bell, Victoria Hotel, Glasgow"—the prisoner had gone to bed; I took it up to his bedroom, and delivered it to him.
JAMES PAXTON . I am a clerk in the telegraph department of the General Post Office at Glasgow—I was on duty on Friday night, September 11th, till midnight—I received a telegram from Rotterdam via London about 11.47—a telegram from Rotterdam to Glasgow is telegraphed to London, and then repeated to Glasgow—this is the copy of the message I received: "To Ed. Bell, Victoria Hotel, Glasgow. We are hero; come right away; business stopped; wire Garth.—JOHN WALLACE, Queen's Hotel, Rotterdam"—that message was sent to the Victoria Hotel—the next day, September 12th, at 11.27 a.m., this message was handed in at our office. (MR. TAYLOR objected to this being read at present, as the prisoner had not been brought into privity with it.)
Office in London—a telegram from Rotterdam to Glasgow, or from Glasgow to Rotterdam, is first telegraphed from Rotterdam to the London central office—on Friday night, September 11th, I was on duty when this message came over the wire from Rotterdam, and was taken off the wire at 11.32 p.m.—it is "To Ed. Bell, Victoria Hotel, Glasgow. We are here; come right away; business stopped; wire Garth.—JOHN WALLACE, Queen's Hotel, Rotterdam"—I repeated that to Glasgow at 11.42—the form has a record made of the time.
CHARLES MERTLING . I am a clerk in the Central Telegraph Office, London—I was on duty on September 12th, and received the message (No. 45) over the wire at the time named on it—I put it in the rack for the purpose of its being transmitted to the destination shown on it—another clerk would transmit it.
HENRY JOSEPH BAMSDEN . I am a clerk in the Central Telegraph Office, London—I was on duty on September 12th—I took this message (No. 45) from the rack, and transmitted it to the destination shown on it.
Wednesday, January 20th.
At the sitting of the COURT, the SOLICITOR-GENERAL stated that the Prosecution had only on the previous day ascertained that the delivery of the explosives at the house in Antwerp took place after Bell had left Antwerp, and they had no legal evidence to show that the prisoner was cognisant of the delivering or of the ordering of the explosives, and that, therefore, they fad come to the conclusion that they should not press the admission of the evidence as to those explosives. As to the other evidence, they felt that, while the correspondence, movements and actions of the prisoner gave room for the gravest suspicion, without the light thrown on it by the evidence as to the explosives, there was not sufficient evidence to justify them in asking for a conviction.
NOT GUILTY .
before Mr. Recorder.
EDITH PETHER . I am eighteen years old, and am a dressmaker—I live at Braoknell—on Boxing-day I came up to visit an aunt at 4, Francis Street, Canning Town—I reached Fenchurch Street at four p.m., and got into a train to go to Canning Town—the prisoner and a number of other people were in the same compartment—I told a woman that I was going to Tidal Basin, and had to get out at Canning Town, and that I had a box in the luggage van—the prisoner said, "I am going to Canning Town, too; I will look after your box all right"—we both got out at Canning Town, and he got my box, put it in the luggage van, took a ticket and gave it to me; I put it and my purse in my hand, and put my hand in my pocket, and went out of the station with him—I was going to Tidal Basin, but my ticket was for Canning Town—he said he was going to show me where my aunt lived, and I walked with him along the Barking Road—he took me into a public-house, where I head some lemonade—we went a long way
down Barking Road and down a side street, and he took the ticket from my hand—we went into another public-house, and brought some drink out; I would not drink it, and he threw it over me; we went on—he said, "Wait a few minutes," and went into a lavatory, and told me to wait outside—I did so, but never saw him again—I waited a quarter of an hour, and then went back to Canning Town Station—I got there at 8.30, wént to the cloak-room, asked for my box, and heard that it was gone to the Tidal Basin—I went there and found it, but the luggage labels and the label with my name and address were gone—I saw the prisoner at West Ham Police Station, and charged him with stealing my box and contents.
Cross-examined. I was travelling from Reading to London—the label was on my box at Reading; I left there about five o'clock—there were a lob of people in the carriage at Fenchurch Street, and I said, "Can you tell me where Canning Town is?"—the prisoner was the only person who said that he was going to Canning Town—I said that I should have to put my box into the parcel-office till I could find my aunt's address, and he said that I had better put it into the cloak-room to save carrying it about—we walked about in a very friendly way for an hour; I said that I had had worry enough in finding the place, and he said that I should find it in ten minutes—it was nearly an hour from my meeting him to my losing sight of him—I could have left him, but he said that he knew the way—he asked two or three little boys the way, but they could not tell him—he did not ask two or three men—Francis Street is not at Canning Town, it is at Tidal Basin—I did not spend half an hour with him after he got the ticket from me—when he went into the lavatory he had had about three drinks—there is no second entrance to the lavatory, so that I could have seen him come out—I was walking up and down, but did not see him come out—when I found my box, only my label was off; that said, "Passenger to Paddington," but nothing about Canning Town—I asked a porter, who told me that the man who left the box had taken it, and gone to the Tidal Basin.
Re-examined. While he was in the lavatory I was walking up and down; I went to the corner, but not out of sight of the lavatory, and I was on the look-out for him.
CHRISTOPHER LUCAS . I am booking clerk at Canning Town Station—it is my duty to superintend the deposit of luggage—on Saturday, December 26th, the prisoner brought a box, and I gave him a ticket—I did not notice a label on it—I gave it up to the prisoner about 9.30 or 9.45, and about 9.50 Miss Pether came.
By the COURT. I did not say to the Magistrate, "The box had been given up by me about a quarter to nine"—my evidence was read over to me before I signed it, and I have no doubt it is correct—this is the box (produced)—when Miss Pether came I made a communication to her—when the prisoner came for it he was perfectly sober.
Cross-examined. It was in this condition when it was taken away—there are two labels; one is an old label, "Fenchurch Street," and the other "Aid" for Aldgate, and there is a Metropolitan label on it—that was the only box that came in that night—he said, "Single; Canning Town"; I did not see the box afterwards—he had been drinking, and he had mud on him.
prisoner there on Saturday, December 26th, about 9.50—he had a box with him; it had no label on it—he asked me to carry it outside, and asked if there were any cabs; I said, "No"—he said, "T know where I live, but not my number"—I said, "Then it is no use my taking it"—he did not tell me the street; he asked me to have a drink—I said, "Thank you, I don't drink"—he said he had no change except a half-sovereign, which I could not change—he told me to let no one have the box but him—shortly after midnight he came again—I had then seen Miss Pether, and she had seen the box—the prisoner came on to the platform, and I said, "Do you want your box?"—he said, "Yes, please"—I went across the line with the box, and asked him where he wanted to go—he said, "To Fenchurch"—I said that the last train had gone, but he could go to Stratford Market—a constable then came and took him—Miss Pether's label was not on the box.
Cross-examined. He arrived about 9.50 by train—the distance is about two minutes—he returned for the box about 12.20—he mentioned no name of any street—the other label on the box was that of the Underground Bail way.
WILLIAM COLLINS (590 K). I am stationed at Canning Town—on December 27th, about 12.20, I was called to the up platform and saw the prisoner detained by the porter—he said, "A young woman identified the box, and asked me not to let anyone have it; I did not steal it, I only took it to take care of for her; I have got her purse and money, which I will return to her."
Cross-examined. I did not find a handkerchief, nor did he tell me that he had lost one—he gave his right name and address—he bears a very good character indeed.
The prisoner received a good character.
GUILTY.—Recommended to mercy by the JURY on account of his character. Discharged on his own Recognizances.
WILLIAM CLAHK . I am a jobbing bricklayer, of 16, Wells Street—on December 26th I was at work till 5.30, when I drew' ray wages, 17s.—I lost 16s. by the prisoners—I spent the remainder on my way home, which lay through Great Eastern Road, where I was at 6.30 met by two lads—I had not seen them before, to my knowledge—Peachey, who was one, came up, and said, "Shall I see you home, Clark?" or, "Are you going on home?" I am not certain which—I did not have time to answer; someone came behind me, and I was picked up, and knocked on the pavement on the back of my head—that is all I recollect—Prachey had hold of me when I was knocked down—I was kicked the instant I was clown, and all my recollection was gone after that—I can remember I had money before they attacked me, but not how it went—when I recovered consciousness
my trousers were torn over the pocket about nine inches—my money was in my left-hand pocket—the next day I identified Peachey at the West Ham Police Station from about fifteen to eighteen men—I have not done a day's work since; I was in bed for a week; I am giddy now; my wife put cool vinegar on my head—I dare not get on a scaffold; I might deal with it on the ground.
JAMES CLARK . I am a costermonger, of 6, James' Court, Maryland Point—I am nephew of the prosecutor—on December 26th, about 6.30 p.m., I was in the Great Eastern Road with my brother William—I saw my uncle lying down, and the prisoners—Moore had his right hand in my uncle's left-hand pocket; the other was punching him with his fist in the face—when they saw me they went to a shop window—I went to them, and said, "What have you been knocking my uncle about for?"—they went away, and I returned to my uncle—my brother and I took him home—he was unconscious—the next day I identified the prisoners at West Ham Police Station.
WILLIAM CLARK . I live with my brother—I was with him on Boxing-day in the Great Eastern Road—I saw the prisoners—one had his hand in the old man's pocket, the other was paying into him with his fist—I went up, and found it was my uncle, who was lying down insensible—the prisoners said, "Here come Clark's cousins, come on"—I knew both of them—they knew my uncle's name—they went to a tobacco shop window, and then went down the lane—the next day I went witb my brother to West Ham Police Court, and picked out the prisoners.
WILLIAM EUSTACE (Detective Sergeant). I am stationed at West Ham—on December 27th I saw the prisoners in the Broadway, Stratford—I had received information and a description about eleven that morning, in consequence of which I took them into custody—I said to Moore, "I am going to take you into custody for stealing 16s. from a man and assaulting him, with another, in the Great Eastern Road, on the 26th"—he said, "You have made a mistake"—I took him to the station, where he was identified by the two younger witnesses—he was subsequently charged—he made no reply.
EDWARD BELL (Detective Sergeant, West Ham). I was with Eustace when Moore was taken into custody—I told Peachey I should take him into custody on suspicion, as he answered the description of a man who was wanted for assaulting and robbing William Clark—he said, "All right, I know nothing about him"—I took him to the station—he was there charged—he made no reply.
The Prisoners' Statements before the Magistrate: Moore says: "I am guilty of stealing the man's money." Peachey says: "I am not guilty."
Moore's defence was that he met Peacliey, and saw the prosecutor standing against a railing, holding himself up, and he said, "Will you fetch my daughter, Emma?" Peachey went to fetch her, and he stopped and asked the prosecutor where he lived; he said, "Well Street." Moore said, "I am going on, come with me;" that the prosecutor asked him to drink, and gave him two half-crowns; that he met Peachey afterwards, but never robbed the prosecutor. Peachey's defence was to the same effect.
GUILTY .—MOORE**†then PLEADED GUILTY to a conviction of felony at West Ham in December, 1895.— Twelve Strokes with the Cat, and Eighteen Months' Hard Labour.
PEACHEY**†then PLEADED GUILTY to a convictionof felony at Stratford, in December, 1896.— Twelve Strokes with the Cat, and Twelve Months' Hard Labour.
MESSRS. METCALFE and PUKCELL Prosecuted, and MR. DRAKE Defended.
WILLIAM BRIDGEMAN LONDON . I am a joiner, living at 1, Trinity Street, Canning Town—on Saturday, December 12th, between four and five p.m., I went to the Angel, Stratford—I there saw the prisoner with another soldier—I asked them if they would have a quart of fourpenny ale—I stood them the quart—after that the prisoner, I think, said they would have one more, and I paid for a second pot of ale—I had a glass of fourpenny ale, and I had one drink from the prisoner's pot; I also had a twopenny glass of rum and water—then the prisoner said, "We had better have a stroll"—I said, "Yes," and we all three left the public-house, and strolled up the Angel Lane, and went into the public-house on the other side, where we each had a glass of beer—I had about £117s. 6d. about me in florins and half-crowns arid a half-sovereign (it was my week's wages) in a little leather purse in my right-hand trousers pocket—I took it out, and took from it some money in the first public-house—I had loose money enough to pay for the ale in the last public-house, find did not take the purse out—we stayed at the second public-house about ten minutes—I felt my purse safe as I left the last public-house—I came out with the prisoner and the other soldier about 5.45, and strolled further up Angel Lane towards the railway—we were sober—I walked between the soldiers—as we went on the prisoner took hold of my arms and held them over my head, and the other soldier took the purse from my pocket—it was a quiet place; people were passing occasionally—I knew my purse was in my pocket; I did not see it in the soldier's hand, but I felt him take it—the prisoner ran away—the other soldier stopped three or four seconds, and I made an oration about my purse being gone; I said one of the soldiers had got my purse and run away—when the purse was taken from my pocket the prisoner let go of my arms and ran away; I know he had my purse—when I said, "You have got my purse," the other soldier ran away too—people were looking on to see what was the matter, but they took no notice—I then went home, and got there about five p.m.—I told my son that evening; I did not tell the police till about two on Sunday—at 9.30 on January 1st I was sent for to the West Ham Police Court, and I there, within a minute, picked out the prisoner from others; he had no uniform on then—I said, "Is he here?" I thought I should see a soldier in soldier's clothes, and I looked round and touched the prisoner, saying, "This man is the man"—he was disguised; he had a false moustache on when I identified him, I think—the other soldier was a dark man—on the night I was robbed the prisoner seemed to have rough hair all over his face, no direct moustache—when I picked him out he had a projecting moustache.
Cross-examined. On that Saturday afternoon I left Mr. Bassett's, at Ilford, where I was working, at 12.45, after being paid—I called at a public-house, and had a glass, arid had my dinner—I met the prisoner
about 3.45—I took my purse out to pay for the first drink, when I was with the prisoner and the other soldier, and I put the loose money in my pocket—after I left the second public-house with them I kept foaling my purse—I daresay I had four glasses that afternoon—between four and five it would be getting dusk—I had never seen the prisoner before—I next saw him at the Police-station, nearly a fortnight after, on January 1st—I identify him—he was disguised when I went to identify him—the man who attacked me had a rough beard, as if he had been in the habit of shaving, and had not done so for a day or so—at the Police-station he had a fair moustache, which stuck out—Angel Lane seems one of the busiest thoroughfares about that neighbourhood; there are not so many people that end—people were passing—I made an oration because I had lost my purse, and the people paid no attention to me—the other soldier ran off as soon as I began to speak of my loss—I took £1 19s. 2d. when I left work that afternoon as my week's wages—after this happened I did not go to the police, but went straight home, and informed the police next day, about two o'clock—the prisoner was dressed entirely in civilian clothes when I identified him—I looked once, and said, "Is he here?"—I thought I should see him dressed in soldier's clothes—I had another look round, and said, "This man resembles the man"—the detective did not say anything to me before that—he said to me then, "Are you sure?" and I said, "Yes"—I did not drop my purse; I kept on feeling for it—I had not looked at it in the second public-house—I paid for the drink there out of money I had in my pocket.
Re-examined. The prisoner is the man—when I went to pick him out I made sure I should see a soldier—I should not have picked out any soldier I saw, but I should have been more sure then.
WILLIAM EUSTACE (Detective Sergeant). At twelve o'clock on January 1st I saw the prisoner outside the West Ham Police Court, in uniform—I had had a complaint lodged with me, and a description—I said, "I am going to take you into custody for stealing £1 17s. from a man at Angel Lane on December 12th"—he made no reply—I took him to the station—he made no reply to the charge there—at 9.30 that same morning I had said to him, "A man is coming to see if he can identify you; I cannot find any soldier; will you put on civilian clothes?"—he selected civilian's clothes, and put them on—he kept on his own trousers, but stood behind a table, so that they could not be seen—I placed him with seven others, and said, "Are you perfectly satisfied with these men you are with? If not, say so"—he said, "I am satisfied"—he was the only soldier—there was nothing to indicate that he was a soldier—London came in—he said, "Is he here?"—I said, "Look at all those men"—he looked at them, and said, "That man is most like him," pointing to the prisoner—I said, "Is it him"—he looked again, and said, "It is him, I am sure"—the other men were about the same height—the prisoner had a slight moustache, about the same as he has now—he shaves under his chin, but on January 1st he had not shaved for a week, I think—I do not think he had a false moustache; I noticed nothing strange—I have never known him shave his moustache.
Cross-examined. The prisoner has been in custody since January 1st. (The Warder stated that a man could shave if he chose while waiting trial, but that the prisoner had not shaved since he had been in custody.) London
hesitated for throe or four seconds before picking out the prisoner—I could not place the prisoner with five or six other soldiers that morning—the prisoner and another man stood behind the table.
Witnesses for the Defence.
ARTHUR BERRY . I am proprietor of the No. 1 beer-house, Windmill Street, Stratford; T know the prisoner as a customer; he is not a friend—on Saturday, December 12th, he was in my house from about two or 2.30 to 6.30, with others; he came back from eight to 8.30, and I missed him about ten—his brother, who is employed on the Great Eastern, was on his annual three days' holiday, and the brothers met at my house; the brother was a customer; he was inside when the prisoner came, and remained the whole time; four of them were having a game of Coddam two a side.
Cross-emmined. They left off playing at nine—the game began about three, after they had had a drink—my house is about fifty yards from the top corner of Angel Lane; you can get there in two minutes; I am about five minutes' walk from the bottom end of the lane—they were playing in the middle bar, at a table; I have three bars—I had a few customers in the afternoon, but more at night—the players were the same during the whole of the time—they left off play ing Coddam about six—they only left off between three and six to have a drink—they never went out of the house for any purpose; I can swear to that—the bar is only four yards long, and I can see into all the bars when anybody leaves or comes in—I was in the bar from two till six; I do not keep a barman—my wife was very queer, and lying down—I was first asked about December 12th on the 28th; I could not swear to a day; it was not later than the 29th—the prisoner's farther asked me about it; I was not at the Police-court—I knew that the prisoner was taken into custody on January 1st—he was not in custody on this charge before then, and I did not know till January 1st that he was going to be charged with stealing this man's watch; his father came to me on December 28th or 29th, and asked me what he was doing on December 12th, because I believe the prisoner was taken to West'flam Police Station on Sunday night, the 27th, for something else; he was charged with another offence—that was not committed on December 12th, I believe—his father came and asked if I knew where his son was on December 12th, and I said I could—the prisoner was charged with doing something else on another day—I had nothing to do with that—his father only asked me to speak about the 12th—I am not sure it was not about another day—I was only to be called with regard to one alibi, and that was about the 12th, this very charge—this charge had been suggested on the 28th or 29th at his trial at the Police-court—he was re-arrested after that charge.
WILLIAM EUSTACE (Re-called). The prisoner was arrested on another charge on December 27th—that offence was alleged to have been committed on the 26th—he was charged with robbery with violence, with another person, and was discharged—no alibi was set up; I can't rememlxsr whether he called witnesses—the other man was never arrested—I do not remember the last witness being called; I cannot say if he was there—I said nothing to anyone about the prisoner being charged with any offence on December 12th till January 1st, when I was told by the inspector who took the complaint—it was not known to me, nor
to the Court, when he was up on remand—I first heard that a soldier was suspected of having robbed this prosecutor on December 30th or 31st—the prisoner was discharged by the Magistrate about twelve on January 1st—he had been remanded from the 28th—the prosecutor in the other case was drunk—he identified the prisoner, but gave his evidence in an unsatisfactory way—I first told the prisoner that he would be tried for this offence at 9.15 a.m. on January 1st—when he arrived from Holloway at the Police Court I had not seen him between December 28th and January 1st—nothing was said about another charge when the remand was asked for.
ARTHUR BERRY (Re-examined). I did not give evidence as to a second alibi on December 26th—I told his father where he was on the 12th—I was not asked to go the Police-court when he was tried on the other charge—I did not give evidence at the Police-court about that offence, because I did not know of it till then.
JAMES RENNIK . I live at 153, Colegrave Road, Stratford, and am a stoker on the Great Eastern Railway—the prisoner is my brother—on Saturday, December 12th, I was having my annual three days' holiday—my brother was on furlough, and was living with my mother at 20, Wellington Road—on the morning of December 12th I went round for him—he was not out of bed—I told him to come round to me at the beer-house—he came round there about two, and stopped in my company till about half past six, as near as I could tell—all that time we were sitting in the bar-parlour—another soldier, who has gone back, was with us—the other soldier is something like my brother, but darker—Oliver Roland was with us; he was on the Great Eastern Railway, but he is not doing anything now—at half-past six the prisoner left me with the intention of going round to the other soldier's sister's to tea—he said he would be back directly, and he came back about eight to the public-house.
Cross-examined. The other soldier is Daniel Porteus; he is in my regiment, which is quartered in Glasgow—his parents live in Scotland—we were in the tap-room part of the time, and part of the time in the bar—the tap-room is not part of the bar; you open a door to go into it—we were playing Goddam—there was a table—we played Goddam in the bar when we first went in—when you are sitting in the tap-room, persons in the bar cannot see you, unless the door is open—we left off playing for a little while, and then went into the bar, and had a drink, and then sat down again; that was about five—up to five we were playing Coddam in the tap-room—Oliver Roland was not playing at Coddam with us all the time; we had another soldier—Roland left off, and did not play any more after we came out of the tap-room—the same four played up to the time we came into the tap-room, and then another man took his place; Roland stayed in the bar—we played in the bar after coining from the tap-room, after an interval of about a quarter of an hour—it was nearly 5.30 when we began to play there—I knew when my brother was taken into custody—I heard afterwards that he was charged with this offence—I knew he was charged with the other offence—I was in his company on that day, from just after two till 6.30—my mother told me he was charged with this offence on the night of the day he was discharged on the other charge, New Year's night—that was the first I heard of it.
Re-examined. Ho had been tried on the other charge three or four days before, and remanded—there were three soldiers—the third one played Goddam with us after Oliver left off—Oliver did not leave the house; he was in the bar, where we were playing—both of the other soldiers have gone back—the beer-house is small—the landlord can see in at any time he likes—there is a flap which he can lift up to pass the liquor through—the landlord was serving all that evening while I was there—the other soldier was a stiffish-built young chap, something like my brother—he was fair—he was not there all the time; he was not playing with us till five o'oclock—when we came out he was standing in the bar—he came into the bar about five o'clock, when I went in there; he was not in the tap-room previously.
OLIVER ROLAND . I am a fireman, living at 13, Windmill Lane, Stratford—I am not in any employment now; I was on the Great Eastern Railway, but left in August—I have known the prisoner for about five years, and his brother for nine years—on December 12th the prisoner's brother was having his holiday, and he and the prisoner were with me in the No. 1 beer-house, Stratford—I went in about 1.30, and they came in together about two—we played Coddam—I daresay there were six or seven of us—four of us were playing; sometimes we play a four and sometimes a six handed game—I left about six or seven—the prisoner left before I did.
Cross-examined. I was first asked where the prisoner was on December 12th by his brother—I was asked whether I could remember that I was in the house playing Coddam—wo were in the tap-room all the afternoon, not ail the time—we played in the tap-room all the time—we did not play in the bar—the other soldier who was there played Coddam—he was tall, and a bit dark—there was a third soldier there; a man in the Essex Regiment—he was about my stamp, but not so stout—I left the Great Eastern last August through getting drunk.
W. B. LONDON (Re-examined by the COURT). The second man was dark, and a little taller than the prisoner.
NOT GUILTY .
150. ROBERT STANNARD (22) and WILLIAM WALTON (18) , Breaking and entering the warehouse of Edmund Heughebaer. and stealing one hundredweight of fish-skins, his property. Second Count—Receiving the same.
MR. HARRISON Prosecuted, and MR. PURCELL Defended.
ARTHUR FORDER . I live at 82, Grove Green Lane, Leyton, and am a skin packer in the employment of Edmund Heughebaer—on December 10th the prisoners came to sell some skinp, and went into the warehouse—on December 11th I left the warehouse safe about 5.30—I returned about 9.30 the same evening, and found a window had been broken—I gave information to the police, and after that I missed about one hundred-weight of skate-skins, which had been with other skins on the premises,—they were in two bags; their value was about £6—the value of the skins that have been recovered is about 19s. 3d.—this (produced) is a skate-skin, prepared by Mr. Dunk—all skate-skins are not cured in the same way—these are laid the opposite way up to that in which other dealers cure theirs—they are cut and pressed in a different way—no one else cures skins in the same way as Dunk.
Cross-examined. I have been a packer in the business since August—the
prisoners showed me about 56lb. of skins when they came on December 10th to sell them—I had not seen them before December 10th—they told me they had dried the skins by the river at Homerton—Stannard did not toll me he had boats on the river in summer, and dried skins in the winter—I selected and bought 7lb. of skins from him—I think that the skins produced are the identical ones stolen from us; they are similar to them—I cannot swear they are the same—we get skins from Dunk and from other people—we buy skins from whomever brings them if they answer the purpose—they are used for beer refining—I should say we had a hundredweight of other skins on our premises.
Re-examined. The skins the prisoners brought were dressed in a different way to this one produced.
WILLIAM DOVE . I am a dealer in fish-skins at 148, High Street, Homerton—on December 15th these skins were left at my house—the next morning the prisoners came and, asked me to buy the skins they had left the night before—I said they were riot fit for me to buy; they were damp, and were of inferior quality—I said I would dry them—they said they would come the night after, and bring some more, and I said I would pay for them together—after they had gone the police saw me—the prisoners came in the evening, between seven and 7.30—Stannard said, "What about the skins?"—I said, "What do you want for the skins?"—he said, "10s.; I suppose they are worth 10s."—I said, "No; they are not worth 10s. to me; they are worth 8s."—he said, "Very well. come and give me a smoke; you shall have them at 8s."—we went to the Spread Eagle, at Homerton—a detective came in and asked me where I got the skins from—I pointed to the prisoners, and' said I bought them from them, but had not paid for them—the prisoners were taken into custody—the real value of the skins they offered me for sale was 19s. 3d.—Stannard told me he had started Walton in the business.
Cross-examined. I had seen Stannard before—about a week before December 10th I had bought 28lb. of skins from him—he told me he cured skins; I did not know it—on December 15th he left the skins, as I was out—the skins were the same kind as I had bought before, but damp, and of inferior quality—they were not badly cured—they had been dried, but had got wet afterwards by being put in a damp place.
Re-examined. It was about five or 5.30 p.m. when they brought me the 28lb. of skins—they were not dried and prepared in the same way as those they afterwards brought.
ALBERT HARRISON (Detective Sergeant). On the evening of December 16th I went to the Spread Eagle, Homerton, where I saw Dove and the prisoners—I asked Dove if he had bought any skins—he said, "Yes"—I said, "Frora whom?"—he pointed to the prisoners—I told them they would be charged with stealing and receiving a quantity of fish-skins from Claremont Road, Ley ton, on the 11th inst.—Stannard said, "I cleaned and dried them myself on the place by the river"—Walton said, "That is quite right, governor; we go out, and buy them and clean them"—I took them to the station, and charged them—they made no reply—I knew they lived at Bricklock Cottages, Riverside, Homerton—I went there, and saw a number of sheds—I saw no signs of any fish-skins, or of any having been recently cured there—some people put them on boards to dry; a few hang them up—there would be a fire in the drying-shed—I saw the prisoner's brother there.
Cross-examined. I saw about thrée boards, which could be used for putting skins on, in the yard, on the top of some boats—Stannard's brother showed me the outhouses, and pointed out the boards to me—he did not say for what purpose they were used—I said to him, "Where do they clean the skins?" and he pointed out a little creek, where the water was running—I said, "Where do they dry them?" and he pointed to the outhouses—he showed us through all the outhouses—a little time after he showed us the yards outside—I know Stannard is a boat proprietor on the river during the summer.
Re-examined. I believe there were one or two fire-places in one or two of the drying-rooms—there were no signs of their having been recently used.
GEORGE FRIEND (Detective J). On December 11th, about 10.30, I examined the prosecutor's warehouse at Ley ton, and found that a lot of boards nailed up inside the warehouse had been forced, and sufficient space made for a man to get through, and an entry effected—I found footmarks of two distinct people from there on to the railway embankment—I afterwards went with Harrison to the prisoner's residence.
ARTHUR DUNK . I am a manufacturer of brewers' finings, or dried fish-skins, at Upton Park—I have been in the trade nearly all my life—I have a special method of curing fish-skins—the skins produced are of my curing—I supplied a quantity to the prosecutor on December 11th—I do not know of anyone else who dresses skins in the way I do—you need a large place for the preparation of the skins; they are dried with a fire—I never sold skins to the prisoners—the skins were dry when delivered to the prosecutor—they soon get damp if put in a damp place.
Cross-examined. Mine is no special process—we are the only ones who cut the fish in this way that I know of—they are cut by hand with a knife—with practice, anyone who had seen a skin cut like that could imitate it—the drying is the other part of my secret process—I use an ordinary open furnace, such as anybody could procure—anyone could dry skins in the same way as I do with an open fire—they are cut and cleaned before being dried—my dressing process is known to me and my workmen—the drying is the dressing—there are only two processes, cutting and drying—any person with a knife and an open fire could cure a skin as I do—I don't know if the prisoners ever had a chance of seeing how mine are dressed; I don't know the prisoners.
Re-examined. I have no doubt these skins have been dried by my firm and by my process.
MARIA HEUGHEBAER . I am the prosecutor's wife—I live at Leyton—on December 11th a parcel of skins was delivered at our warehouse by Mr. Dunk—I last saw them safe at 5.30 p.m.—I missed them at 9.30—in the meantime the clasp of a window had been broken off—I identify these skins as those sold to me by Dunk—they are cured in a particular way—I do not know anybody but Dunk who prepares fish-skins in this way—we have been three years in this country—my husband had previously prepared fish-skins in France for about two years.
Cross-examined. We buy the skins of roker and skate when they are dried, and ready to sell—I only saw the prisoner once, on December 10th, when he sold me some skins.
Re-examined. He came with half a hundredweight of skins.
Stannard received a good character.
NOT GUILTY .
Before Mr. Justice Hawkins.
MR. HUTTON Prosecuted.
GUILTY of the attempt— Two Years' Hard Labour.
Before Mr. Etcorder.
MR. BICHAKDS Prosecuted.
THOMAS EVANS . I am a keeper of animals and live at 23, Mass House Lane Birmingham—in December, 1894, I was in Messrs. Sangers Circus—the prisoner was there—I knew him by the name of Green—I slept in a tent—I was a depositor in the Post Office Savings Bank, and kept my book in my inside pocket—I last saw the prisoner on December 4th, and then he left, and I missed my book on December 5th, and gave notice to the authorities—this money has been repaid to me by the authorities—I saw the prisoner next at a horse sale at Birmingham, and had him locked up.
Cross-examined by the prisoner. I never knew you to be a thief before that time, or a rogue, or to neglect your work, or to mix with thieves and rogues—I only knew you three months—I sent your likeness to Birmiagham alter missing the book, but they could not find you—I did not know that you bad gone to Brimingham; I did not know where you were—you joined the Cricus at Birmingham.
Re-examined. I saw Mr. Newman, the Post Office clerk, pick out the prisoner's photograph.
CHARLES'S FREDERICK NEWMAN . I am a clerk in the Post Office at Rotherhithe—on December 4th, 1894, the prisoner applied to me to withdraw £8 in the name of Thomas Evans, by telegraph—I gave him the necessary form—I drew up this wighdrawal notice, and saw him sign it—he came for the answer, and I paid him—when he came the third time I had not heard, and he came a fourth time, and drew out the £8—the matter was drawn to my attention about four o'clock—I was shown a group of photographs at the Post Office, and picked out the man I had paid the money to, from twelve or thirdeen others—I am sure the face I identify in the photograph is the prisoner's.
Cross-examined. I say that you received the money, and signed the receipt.
WALTER VAGG . (Detective Sergeant R). I went to Birmingham on December 11th, and found the prisoner in custody—I said to him, "Is your name Green?"—he said, "No, it is not Green it is Benton"—the warrant was in the name of Green—I saw him in the porsecutor's presence, and asked him if that was the man; he said, "Yes"; the prisoner said, "It is two years since I was at Sanger's Circus at Deptfort"—I said, "Yes, it is two years ago."
Cross-examined. I sent for a witness you mentioned; he said he knew nothing about the case, and refused to come—I produced the photograph to him, and asked if he remembered it; he said that he remembered the
man, but knew nothing about it—you did not suggest that you called a man to prove that you took your wages before you left.
FREDERICK WILLIAM MANN . I have been twelve years in the Secretary's department—it is my duty to compare handwriting—I have compared this notice with the blue sheet of paper, and in my opinion they are the same—the receipt is only the signature—the capital "C" and the small "a" in "Thomas" are the salient points, and there is a remarkable peculiarity in the "c"—the "a" in the forged document and the "a" in the signature are open, not joined at the top; the "a" in "peat" is open also—the "n" in "money" corresponds with the "n" in this.
The Prisoner's Statement before the Magistrate; "I am entirely innocent of this charge; these men must be falsely swearing against me. I wish the statement marked 'C' to be produced." (This was signed by the prisoner, and written on the foolscap paper identified by Saville, in which he stated that he had been trusted with hundreds of pounds, but never was a thief; that he took the place of Green, who had turned a wagon over, but had not taken Green's name; that he left the Circus two years ago at Deptford, as he saw no prospect of getting on, and went home, and that his character was "unbleachable.")
GUILTY .— Judgment Respited.
Before Mr. Justice Hawkins.
153. ARTHUR GREATOREX SMITH was indicted for feloniously using an instrument upon the person of Constance Fletcher, with intent to procure her miscarriage; in other Counts it was alleged that he used "other means, to the Jurors unknown," with the same intent.
MESSRS. CHARLES MATHEWS and HORACE AVORY Prosecuted, and MESSRS.
MULHOLLAND, Q.C., MARSHALL HALL, and GUY STEPHENSON Defended.
In the course of the case evidence was given that two inspectors, Russell and Fox, ivent to the residence of the deceased, who at the time was lying in bed very seriously ill, and obtained from her, in the presence of the prisoner and the girl's mother and sister, a statement which was made in answer to questions put by Fox, and was taken down by Russell. It was clear that the prisoner at once denied the, truth of tfo material part of the statement. MR. AVORY proposed to ask what passed between the inspector and the deceased in the prisoner's presence; he submitted that it was evidence, upon the ground that any statement made in the presence of a prisoner was evidence against him.
SIR HENRY HAWKINS ruled that a mere statement of the girl made in the absence of the prisoner was clearly inadmissible, but it would have been admissible if evidence had been given that 'the prisoner was present, and assented to it by his words, by his acts, or by his demeanour, and then only to the extent of such assent; that then it would have been admissible, not because the girl had so stated, but because the prisoner had, by his conduct, tacitly or expressly admitted its truth. The value of a statement made in the prisoner's presence was nothing unless the prisoner, by what he said or did, or omitted to say, or do, afforded evidence from which the JURY might reasonably draw the inference that he assented to the truth of the statement; à fortiori, it would not be admissible if the prisoner denied the truth of the
statement. If the prisoner dissented from a statement made in his presence, it would not be evidence. The affirmative ought not to be assumed without evidence from which the JURY might if they thought fit, draw the inference that the prisoner had assented to it. But it was for the COURT to decide whether there was any evidence from which such an inference could properly be drawn. There was no such evidence in the present case, for the prisoner Jiad positively denied the material part of the statement, and, therefore, the statement ought to be rejected. In short, the statement of the girl per se was inadmissible, and it could only be made admissible by evidence that the prisoner heard it, understood it, and by his words or conduct afforded reasonable evidence that he admitted its truth, and if a statement without such evidence were to be admitted, the only effect of it would be to unfairly prejudice the prisoner.
MR. MATHEWS, upon that ruling from the learned JUDGE, withdrew the statement, at the same time observing that without it he felt there was no case to go to the JURY.
NOT GUILTY .
Before Mr. Common Serjeant.
MESSRS. BODKIN and A. E. GILL Prosecuted, and MESSRS. DE MICHELE and KEITH FRITH Defended.
JAMES JUDD . I live at 525, Railway Arches, Botherhithe New Road—I am between seventy-seven andr seventy-eight—the prisoner live with my daughter—I have had no quarrels with him or other members of my family, to speak of—my son was prosecuted twice—the prisoner prosecuted him for stealing his own van—I was a witness for my son—on the morning of November 21st I had a row with the prisoner's man about taking water—between six and seven p.m. I was alone in my room, when the prisoner came in; it was dark—he caught hold of my hair and pulled me across the floor, and knocked my head against the ground—I hardly know if he bad anything in his hand—I do not know what he did after knocking my head against the boards—my son found me speechless on the ground—next day I found myself at the infirmary—I stopped there four or five weeks—I was not able to work when I came out.
Cross-examined. The prisoner lives with my daughter, and he has a wifb and children; he has been at my place for years, and paid no rent—I never said I would ruin him for prosecuting my son; nothing of the kind—I did not say I would prosecute him the first chance I had—my son got twelve months—I had given him the van—Donovan was just at the door when I told the man not to give the horses any water; he ran away—I think I said before the Magistrate, "I would rather not say how I got my injuries"—I know how I got them, only I did notliko my daughter to go before the Magistrate—I said the prisoner did it, and pointed to him.
JAMES JUDD (the younger). I live at Keaton's Road, Bermondsey, and am a decorator—at 8.20 p.m. on November 21st I went to the railway arch where my father lives—there was no light; the outer door was slightly ajar—I struck, a light—I found my father lying groaning, with his head near the cupboard door—he was blooding; his face was smothered with blood, and his eyesclosed—he was partially insensible—I did not hold a
conversation with him—I got a doctor and a constable—this fire shovel of my father's was picked up by a constable in the passage between the street door arid the room door, three or lour feet from my father's feet—I had always seen it in the fender.
Cross-examined. My father never suffered from giddiness, to my knowledge, and I can remember him for forty years—I never heard tell of it till the other day—I heard they had snid so at the Police-court, but it is untrue—one of my brothers was prosecuted for stealing the vans—I never heard my father say that he would do for the prisoner whenever he got a chance.
Re-examined. My father suffers from a slight attack of bronchitis.
DR. FRANCIH DUGAN . I practise at Kotherhithe—on November 21st, at 8.30 p.m., I was called to the prosecutor—he was in a chair, propped up, with a good deal of blood about his face and head—on the floor I found some of his hair, which had been torn out by the roots—I found on his head two scalp wounds; one was a lacerated and contused wound over the right temple, with some dirt in it—I think it had been caused with a dirty shovel—the injuries are consistent with their having been inflicted with this dirty shovel—the other was an incised wound on the top of his head, to the left of the median line, and above the ear—the wound over the temple was dented, as if it had been done with the edge of the shoulder of the shovel, and there was a bruise extending up from it, which looked as if it might have been done with the edge of the shovel—the edge of the shovel might have caused the inside part of the wound on the top of the head, and tnou that wound appeared to have been torn by the catching hold of the hair, and pulling it—there were a black eye and a bruise that indicated further knocking about—concussion of the brain had been caused by the whole thing—he was quite collapsed, and in such a serious state that I thought it advisable for the inspector next raorfling to go arid take his dying declaration with me—the injuries, serious in themselves, were more serious having regard to his advanced age—the actual wounds would not have been serious if he had been a younger man, but the concussion would have been—in my opinion, much violence wns used—the wounds wore inflicted about two hours before I saw him, I think—the next day I had him taken to St. Olave's Infirmary—I did not see him after that till I saw him at the Police-court—there must have been repeated acts of violence to cause all the wounds I saw—I should think a fall from giddiness would be impossible to cause them—I had attended him twice before for bronchitis—his heart in somewhat dilated, but I saw no giddiness about him—ho never complained to me of falling about through giddiness.
Cross-examined. He was unconscious when I first suw him—he was not hysterical when I first spoke to him—I cannot say when he recovered consciousness, for he went to the infirmary the following day, and I did not bew him till afterwards—I saw him on the 22nd at 8.30, and he was subconscious then—with great difficulty ue got a rambling mid incoherent story from him such us I should have expected undnr the circumstances—I thought he had been sober at the time—I may have asked if he had fallon down—it it is a stock question that is always asked.
By the COURT. I found the old man in a semi-comatose condition, bleeding from the head, and with blood on the floor—next morning he was slightly recovered—his injuries could not have been caused by his falling down; he would have had to keep ou falling down, and then he could not pull out his own hair.
FREDERICK NEWMAN (211 M). I was called about 8.30 p.m. on November 21st by James Judd to the prosecutor's railway arch—I found him sitting on a chair, bleeding—the doctor had not then arrived—from what the prosecutor said, I went in search of the prisoner—I could not find him that night—I saw Catherine Daly, the prosecutor's daughter.
Cross-examined. From the prisoner's house to South Berinondsey Railway Station it is between 200 and 300 yards, and to the prosecutor's arch it is 210 yards.
EDWARD WILLIAMS (Detective Sergeant M). About 7.20 a.m. on November 22nd, I arrested the prisoner at his house—I had seen Dr. Dugan—I took the prisoner to Judd's bedside at the infirmary—in the presence and hearing of the prisoner, Judd said: "That is the man that knocked me up"—the previous day Judd had made this statement to me; I read it over, in the hearing of Judd and the prisoner, by the bod-side: "I, James Judd, of 525, the Railway Arches, state that on 21st inst. Thomas Elliott, of 230, Rotherhithe New Road, came here and caught hold of my hair, and knocked me against the bedstead; but I don't know if he used any instrument, and he struck me more than once"—to that Judd said, "That is right,' and Elliott said, "I can prove where I was; I did not do it"—he was taken to the station and charged—in answer, he made a statement to the inspector—later on, in consequence of Judd's condition, I took the prisoner, and went with Mr. Draper, J.P'., and took a statement from Judd in the presence and hearing of the prisoner, who put questions to Judd upon it—it mentions no time—the inspector has that statement.
Cross-examined. I endeavoured to ascertain the time from the prosecutor; the old man was very bad; he said he did not know the time.
JOSEPH PEAROE (Inspector M). On November 22nd I was at Rotherhithe Police Station, when the prisoner was charged with an assault on James Judd—I read the charge to him, and he said, "Well, I was not there, and I did not do it; he was fighting with one of my men on that day; he wont after one of my men with a hammer, and my man picked up a wooden mallet and hit him (Judd) with it. Judd then ran indoors, and came out with two big sticks, and ran after him. The last time I saw Mr. Judd was outside the Half-way House, between two and 2.30 p.m. on the Saturday; there is plenty of people saw him there as well as me"—I said to him, "I have not cautioned you, but I warn you that what you say may be used as evidence against you"—he said, "All right. From the Half-way House I followed one of my vans up the Rotherhithe New Road, as far as Yoxton Road. I turned round, and went to the Sir William Gomm; me and Judd's daughter were together all that time. We went into the Sir William Gomm, and had a drop of brandy. I came out, and went towards home, the Raymond Road way. I met young Judd in the Rothnrhithe Road. We three came back into the Sir William Gomm. I was there three times or more. I had a fit there. I went home, and went to bod. I got up, and went for a stroll with my missus to see if I was all
right to go away. I came back and went to South Bermondsey Station, rode to London Bridge, and from London Bridge to West Croydou. (The Statement then described what he did at Croydon.) I had to wait till past eleven o'clock for a train. I came to London Bridge, and then to South Berniondsey. I believe it was about 11.40 p.m. when I arrived at South Bermondsey. When I got indoors my missus told me people had been there with Judd, jun., to accuse me of attacking his father. I have seen Judd, sen., this morning, and he said I was the man who knocked him up, but, of course, he has been threatening me that he would lock me up for getting the son twelve months"—I took down'the statement at the bedside, when Mr. Draper was there.
Cross-examined. I am not aware that the prisoner was ever told at what time this assault was alleged to have taken place; I did not know the time—the prisoner made the statement quite voluntarily—the prosecutor's son was prosecuted by the prisoner for selling a couple of wagons, and sentenced to twelve months—I have only heard from the prisoner that the prosecutor had threatened him.
F. DUGAN (Re-examined by the COURT). The injured man never made any statement to me as to the time at which the assault was made on him.
JAMES JUDD (the younger) (Re-examined by the COURT). My father is a manure manufacturer; he does not do muuh now—he carries on business at an arch thirty arches away Iroui llio one in which he lives—my sister Maggie used to live with him, but she has been at Elliott's house lately.
Witnesses for the Defence.
CATHERINE DALY . I am the prosecutor's daughter; I live with the prisoner—on November 21st lie got up at 9.30—I went with him to the stable, and we stayed there till past two, when we followed the last of our vans that went to Catford—the prisoner is a van proprietor—he prosecuted my brother lor stealing two of his vans, and he got twelve months—I have heard my father say that he had no business to be there, and to do what he had done—he said I should be all right if he was put away, and that he would get rid of my stuff for me—he said to the prisoner, "You will be there where he is before he comes home," referring to ray brother's conviction—he said my brother was falsely charged, and that he would get the prisoner put away where he was—he said that a fortnight ago, after he was injured, but all along, every day I have met him, he has said so—since he has been injured he has said that; the first occasion he said that was when he came from the infirmary—he had called the prisoner and me bad names before this occurred, but only since my brother was sent to prison—after two on November 21st the prisoner and I followed our last van, going to Catford, as far as the Yoxton Road, and then we turned into the Sir William Gomm public-house, in Abbey-ville Road, about 2.30—wecanio out and returned to that public-house a second time, about four—the prisoner had a fit there—he had had two or three drinks, and was excited—we left there about 4.30, and went towards home, which was ten minutes' walk—we live in Rotherhithe New Road, about three minutes' walk from my father's arch—we spoke to Cotter on the way home—when we got home my sister Maggie and the prisoner's mother were there—we had tea, and then I took the prisoner's
boots off, and he laid down for about half an hour—I am not positive of the time; we have no clock that will go—the prisoner got up about 5.30; I had a conversation with him about the time—he and I went out to do a little marketing for about ten minutes—we came home, and then went to the South Bermondsey Railway Station—I took two tickets to London Bridge; I saw the prisoner get into a second-class carriage, and saw the train start, and then, when I came downstairs, it was 6.40; it had just turned 6.30 by the station clock—it was about 6.40 when I got home—it is about a minute's walk to our house—I next saw the prisoner between ten and fifteen minutes to twelve, when he came home—he had been constantly under my observation, from 9.30 a.m. till he went by train, except the time when he lay down in the afternoon.
Cross-examined. I have lived with the prisoner for three years—we have two children—I pass as Mrs. Elliott—at the Police Court, Mr. Pook, a solicitor, represented the prisoner—as far as I remember, he put all these questions to me—since my brother's conviction my father has used threats to us when he has seen us—I only answered the questions asked me at the Police-court—I bolieve I have told Mr. Pook about the threats—I cannot say I told the Magistrate anything about the threats—I was not on good terms with my father at the time of the injury—he blamed me on account of my brother—I have been on good terms with him since; I have kept him since he came from the infirmary—I went to see him there—I first heard of his injury on the Saturday night after it happened—Constable Newman came, with one of my brothers, about the assault, and asked for the prisoner—I told him the prisoner had gone to Croydon by the 6.30 train; I did not say the 7.30 train—I next saw the prisoner at 11.45, when he came back; I knew where he had been—when he came home his mother and my sister Maggie were there—none of them knew of my father's injury at that time; I had not told them—I did not know what it was; there had been a bother in the morning—my sister was not there when the constable came—I asked the constable when it happened, and lie said, "Oh, not long"—when I went upstairs I said to Mrs. Elliott, "They have come to fight Tom, because of the bother in the morning"—they did not tell me what the assault was—the constable said, "This man charges Elliott with an assault on his father"—I went upstairs, and went on reading to Mrs. Elliott—I took it that the constable meant the prisoner was suspected of this assault—I did not tell that to Mrs. Elliott or my sister—I did not know it was an assault—I told Mrs. Elliott, he had come to fight him for the bother in the morning—I said to her the constable had come to ask where Tom was—we did not take any notice of it—I did not connect the constable's inquiry with the assault on Judd—when the prisoner came, back I told him of the constable's visit—we did not all talk it over—I did not mention it to my sister—the prisoner did not go to see Judd; we laughed about it; we thought it referred to the morning—the constable did not mention the serious nature of the injuries he had received; he did not stop two minutes, but went away with my brother—we were about ten minutes over tea on the Saturday night—-while the prisoner was lying down I went across the road to the station, leaving the other persons in the house—he got up about 5.45—I went out with him to an oil-shop not far off—I took two tickets, because I was going with the prisoner; it was not decided I was not to go till
the train was coming in, and then I determined not to go, because I could not very well Jeave the place—I took the ticket home; I could not go and ask for three-halfpence back again—the prisoner went to Croydon to get orders—since that day I have been every day with Mrs. Elliott and Maggie Judd; we have spoken about this matter—I was at home when the prisoner was taken into custody on the Monday morning—I had not seen my father on the Sunday—Mrs. Elliott and Maggie were with me on the Sunday night, after my father was taken to the infirmary—the prisoner was at home all that Sunday—the prisoner's doings were not thoroughly discussed between us that day—the constable had not said, the night before, what had happened to my father.
Re-examined. The constable had not told me the nature of the offence before I saw my mother-in-law; all he said was, "Is Elliott at home?"—I said, "No. Why? What do you want him for?"—he said, "This man charges him with an assault on his father"—I said, "When was this?"—he said, "Oh! not long ago"—I said he was not in—he said, "What time did he leave?"—I said, "Half-past six"—that was all that passed between us—my husband went to Croydon to get orders, and to sell a van—Bacon, of Croydon, is oar best customer—I was present at the bother on Saturday morning; the prosecutor was carrying on at Elliott and me—we met my father coming out of the house, and he said to us, "There is only £10 in there this time, and not £15"—I said, "What does he mean?"—he said he accused the prisoner before of taking £15 from him—I said, "If you have £10 in the house, you ought to be ashamed of yourself not to buy a bed for my sister, who laid on the floor for nine years," and while we were doing our work he called us names—Donovan cime that morning, and said he could not work; he had had a fight with my father; but I did not see it—when the policeman came I thougt it was with reference to the squabble with Donovan, and that my brother had come to fight—we are not a very happy family—I am not on very bad terms with my father, only about this last case.
F. NEWMAN (Re-examined by the COURT). I took no note of my conversation with the last witness on'the night the old man was injured.
MAGGIE JUDD , I am Judd's daughter—I live at 525, Rotherhithe New Road—on November 21st I left home between four and 4.30 p.m., and went to the prisoner's to see my sister—I got there at nearly 4.30—I had been there hardly ten minutes when the prisoner and my sister came in—he had been ill, and had had a fit, and he sat in a chair, and she took oft' his boots—his mother was there—we had tea and then he laid down for under an hour—he got up about five, I should think—I had not gone out during that time—he had a wash, and then he and my sister went out shopping between 5.30 and six, I should think—they came back with the things after 6.20 or 6.30—they stayed in about ten minutes, and then went to the station about 5.30 or 5.40, I should think; they have no clock—it was about 5.40 or 6.40 when they went to the station; I could not say—it was not 7.40—it was 5.40; I know it was no later.
Cross-examined. I am riot guessing as to the time; I was there the whole time—I only know the time by the time I went from home—I have no clock or watch; I saw the time at the public-house as I came from my father's; it was 4.30—there was no clock at the prisoner's, so I guess at the time—my sister came back, after going out at 5.40, at seven
o'clock—she said she had been to see the prisoner to the station, and had seen him in a second-class carriage, and he said it was not necessary for her to go any further with him, because he felt all right, and he could manage to go down to Croydon alone—she said she had come straight home from the station—it is two minutes' walk.
Re-examined. She came back about seven; she was out about twenty minutes; she had to wait for the train.
HANNAH ELLIOTT . I live at 38, Max Road, Southwark Park Road—the prisoner is my son—on the Saturday when Judd was injured I went to the prisoner's house at two o'clock, and I stopped there till 12.30—he and his wife came in in the afternoon, between four and five, I should say, just as it was getting dusk—we had some tea, and then the prisoner had his boots taken off, and he laid down to sleep for half an hour, I should say—I heard him call out to his missus, and she called out, "Don't lay too long, because you know where I have to go to"—he got up about six o'clock, and they went out together for not many minutes—they came back just after six—Mrs. Elliott came back alone, not many minutes afterwards, after seeing him off by train—she was out about ten minutes; I cannot say the time; they have no clock in the place—she came back with a pudding-basin in her hand and some onions and a railway-ticket, I think; they went out marketing—the fare from that station to London Bridge is 1 1/2 d.
Cross-examined. The time does not concern me much—when Mrs. Elliott came in the last time she said she had been to see the governor off by train, and had come straight back—I am quite sure she brought back the pudding-basin and other things with her then—she did not bring them at the same time as she brought the railway-ticket; she brought the pudding-basin and onions when she came in first, and afterwards she went out, and came back with the railway-ticket—I remember the police-man coming that evening—I did not hear what he said, but Mrs. Elliott came up, and said her brother Jim had come up to fight Tom on account of the annoyance in the morning; she did not say anything else—she said the policeman was with him—she said Jim had come round with the policeman to fight Tom—I waited till past midnight for my son to come Lome—I first heard that the prosecutor had met with these injuries on Sunday evening.
MR. BODKIN objected to evidence of what happened in the morning as immaterial, and the COURT upheld the objection.
GUILTY .—It was stated by the police that the prisoner had been once charged with wilful damage.— Three Years' Penal Servitude.
Before Mr. Justice Hawkins.
MESSRS. CHARLES MATHEWS and HORACE AVORY Prosecuted, and MESSRS. COLAM and SYMMONS Defended.
ELIZABETH DAWS . I am a daughter of the prisoner, and lived with him at 18, Oakwood Road, Thornton Heath—the deceased, Sarah Daws, was my step-mother—she was about thirty-eight years of age; my father had been married to her about twelve or thirteen years—there were five children of that marriage—my father is a plasterer; he had been at work at his trade up to Christmas last—on the day after Christmas Day, Boxing Day, he was at home with my step-mother and the children up to eight o'clock in the evening: he was at home all day and to tea—I had been out in the afternoon, and my step-mother said, in his presence, "Father has been towing again"—she said nothing else—then they went out they seemed very well together, and they seemed on friendly terms—they came back together about nine—they still seemed on friendly terms—when they came back father sent me out for two quarts of ale and half a pint of Irish whisky—he brought it, and mother had a glass of ale, and father had a little whisky—I went up to bed about ten, leaving the prisoner and my step-mother together—their bedroom was on the first floor, next to mine—I heard them go in at their door about two hours after I had been in bed—about twelve I was awoke by a bump; it sounded like something dropping on the floor—there was an infant three months old in their room at the time—I heard it scream—I got up and went to their bedroom door; I tried to open it; it was fast; I called out to my mother; I got no reply—my father then undid the door, and gave me the baby; he had it in his arms—he told me to go into the other room, and keep it quiet—as I took the baby from him I noticed blood on the front of its night-gown—I said to him, "Father, there is blood on the baby's night-gown"—he said, "Don't you tell stories"—he then went downstairs; I followed after him—I asked him, "What is the matter with mother?"—he said, "Mother has fainted, and I am going to get some milk"—he then left the house—he was fully dressed at that time, just as I left him—I saw that the whisky bottle on the table was open when he left; he had drank the rest of the beer—before he left he told me not to go into the bedroom—a few minutes after he left I went up into the room; I called to mother—I got no reply—I then went into the room—I put my hand on her face, and found that my hand was covered with blood—I afterwards saw a coal-hammer that was found by the police in the room—I recognised it; it was generally kept in the coal-cellar—I did not know Mr. Ward.
Cross-examined. I had heard my father speak about Mr. Ward; he quarrelled with my mother about him—he kept a public-house near—I never saw him at the house—I never saw him and my step-mother to-gether anywhere—she never went out without father—he did not want her to go out by herself, and she did not—I never saw any strange men come to the house, together or separately—I had noticed my father's behaviour was strange previous to this; he always seemed very strange at the change of the moon—a few days before Christmas mother said that he had been hanging rags in the window; that was said to me in his presence—I asked him what they had been put there for, and he said they were the signals—I saw a blue bag on the sash-line of the window—on Christmas Day I went out in the morning, about twenty minutes to eleven; I stopped at home all the rest of the day—my little
brother came in, and father searched his pockets to see if there was note from George—he was in the habit of searching the cupboard and under the beds as soon as he came from his work.
EMMA DAWS . I am the wife of Alfred Daws, the prisoner's brother, and live at 12, Gross Road—on December 27th, about half-past one in the morning, the prisoner came to our house and saw me and my husband—he said to my husband, "Alf., I want you a minute" and they went together into the back kitchen; I followed them—I heard the prisoner telling my husband that he had done it—I said, "What have you done, George?"—he said, "I have killed her"—I said, "You have not; tell me the truth, tell me what you have done"—he said, "I have dashed her brains out, and cut her throat"—I said, "For God's sake, tell me the truth; tell me what you have done"—he said, "Will this convince you?" and he showed me the wristband of his shirt, which I saw was stained with blood—after seeing that I went with my son Albert to 18, Oakwood Road, where the prisoner and his wife lived—I left the prisoner with my husband—when I got there I went into the prisoner's bedroom with the constable Wilson, and there saw my sister lying in bed on her right side, with her throat terribly cut, and two large gashes; she was quite dead—I did not see any injuries to her head; I never touched her—I saw this hammer at the bottom of the bed—I gave it to the constable—I remained at the house till one o'clock.
Cross-examined. The deceased was undressed; she was in her night dress—the room was not disturbed in any way; there were no signs of any struggle—the prisoner had accused her with reference to Mr. Ward; when he has been by himself, not in front of her; he has done so on several occasions—I could not fix any dates—as far back as last August—he has made the same accusation with regard to his own son George—there is not the slightest foundation for it—the prisoner has been a sober man, and very quiet—he was always very fond ef his wife, and very kind to her.
ALFRED DAWS . I am the husband of the last witness and brother of the prisoner—I remember his arriving at my house about half-past one on the morning of December 27th—he said, "Alf., come here; I want you a minute," and I went with him into another room—he said, "Alf. I have done it"—said, "Done what?"—he said, "'I have killed her"; I said, "Killed who?" he said, "Sarah," and he repeated the statement, "I have killed her"—after my wife had gone out, he called me into the wash-house—he was trying to wash the blood off the knee of his trousers—I said, "It's no use trying to wash it off, George; you can't get it out"; he said, "Never mind, let it go"—after my wife had left, I again asked him what he had done—he said he had dashed her brains out with a hammer, and cut her throat—he said he loved me, and he loved every hair of her head—I said, "I have never done you any harm, George"; he said, "No"—he said, "She had been a-worrying on at me, but I loved every hair of her head"—he then said, "Well, we cannot stop here"—he could not make himself contented there; he must go out—I took him down Cherry Orchard Road; we came back again, after being out a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes, and he then said, "Come along with me, and let me give myself up"—I took him out a second time for a walk—he said, "There ate plenty of goods trains there, and we can
soon do it there"—I took hold of his arm, and took him back again, and kept him there till the inspector came and took him into custody; he handed me his bank-book, that showed £210 to his credit; he also handed me about £60 in gold and some silver, and told me to keep it; that I should want it to help him over his struggle; he chucked his watch on the table, and said; "Keep that in memory of me," and he handed the chain to his daughter, and said, "Keep that for little 'Brent' in remembrance of me"—that was one of his children by this marriage.
Cross-examined. I remember going to his house on the Sunday before Christmas—the deceased was there; they were then apparently on good terms with each other—when I left I went with him to a public-house near, and we had some conversation about his wife—he said she had been carrying on the same game again—I understood what he meant—I had heard him make accusations against her before, many times, and I told him I thought it was very silly of him; I thought at the time it was a mere fad of his—he said, "What is the use of your talking like this? he has come down there now, two or three at a time"—he said at first he thought he should have a detective to watch the house; he told me she hung a rag in the window, "to tell when the b——was out," and it was taken out when he was out—six months before that, he told me to go and keep a watch on the timber yard at the back, and he would pay me for my time, for they came there two or three at a time—that was on an occasion when he was at the Police-station at Norwood Junction—I was sent for to my brother's house at that time—he had taken some laudanum, and tried to poison himself—I stopped there till the next day; he was then better—Dr. Warren asked him if he was not sorry for taking that stuff—he said, "No"—the doctor said, "Do you mean to say, if you had had more, you would have taken it?"—he said, "Yes"—that was two or three months after the incident of the timber yard.
WILLIAM FOX (Police Inspector). On the mornin of December 27th last, in consequence of information, I went to the prisoner's house, 14, Oakwood Eoad—I there saw-Constable Wilson and Dr. Henderson—I went into the bedroom, and found the poor woman lying dead, with her throat cut, and the bed saturated with blood, blood on the floor, spots of blood on the stairs leading downstairs—on a chair in the room I found this hammer, and on it were spots and smears of blood, and a single hair on the handle—I then went to the house of Alfred Daws, and there found the prisoner—I said to him, "I am going to arrest you for murdering your wife"—he replied, "I will go quietly; I know what it is for; let me get my coat"—he took his coat off a peg, and put it on, And I took him to the station—as we were going he said, "This is all through Mr. Ward, of the Bird-in-Hand; he has hounded me; he has paid them to keep me in tow while he went and had connection with her"—at the station he was charged with this crime, and on the charge being read over to him he said, "All right"—he was sober, but agitated.
WILLIAM LEMMY (Inspector W). I saw the prisoner at the station at six o'clock in the morning—later the same morning his son George came to the station, bringing a change of clothes for him—I said to the prisoner, "Your son George has brought you a change of clothing"—he said, "I don't want to see my son George; he is the cause of all this
trouble; I found him on the sofa with her, and ordered him to go out"—that same afternoon I found a razor in the bedroom in the fireplace in the prisoner's house, covered with blood.
Cross-examined. I went and looked at the house a second time; that was before the prisoner had been before the Magistrate—I went to find the razor, or some instrument—in consequence of what the prisoner said before the Magistrate I went to the house in Nevill Road, where the prisoner and his wife were living two months before—he had said that as he passed down the passage he saw his son George on the sofa, etc., and I went to see if that could be seen from the window, and it could not, unless you stood close to the window; then you could, but not in passing along the passage.
ROBERT HENDERSON . I am a medical practitioner, of 254, London Road, Croydon—on December 28th last I made a post-mortem examination of the deceased in the presence of Dr. Fowler—the throat was so cut as that the carotid and all the principal arteries of the neck were severed—I also found that the skull had been fractured—the cause of death was hæmorrhage, the results of the wound in the throat—the wound in the neck was such as might have been produced by the razor, and the injuries to the head by this hammer.
Cross-examined. I think the wounds to the neck were made first, because she had cuts on her hands—I do not think those would be done after the injury to the head—the wound on the throat must have been fatal.
GEORGE WARD . I keep the Bird-in-Hand beerhouse, Sydenham Road, and have kept it for thirteen years—I have known the prisoner about thirty years; he has not been in the habit of visiting my house for the last twelve months—before that he had occasionally—he never gave me any reason for not visiting me—I did not know his wife—I saw her in the mortuary, and could not recognise her then.
GEORGE DAWS (The younger). I am a son of the prisoner, and am nineteen years of age—in 1895 I was living with my father and step-mother—he then brought an accusation against me, in consequence of which I left the house—he accused me of being with my mother, and her coming to my bedroom—there was no truth at all in that accusation-later in the year I came back to live with him—last year he brought a similar accusation against me—in consequence of that I left the house a second time, and I was living away at the time this happened—there was no truth in that accusation; I was never on the sofa with her.
Cross-examined. He has several times spoken to me about men watching outside—he said that one used to watch while the others came in—he also accused me of watching, and bringing them in—I never told a fellow workman that my father had said he would catch me if he waited for seven years; nothing of the kind—I have on occasions seen him strange in his manner at times, and while he has been at work with me—I was in the same occupation, as a plasterer—he used to stand and think; while he was at work he seemed to lose himself for five minutes at a time.
The Prisoner's Statement before the Magistrate: "I was bound over to keep the peace about six months ago—on the Monday afternoon my son George was at work with me; he got home before I did; he was some hundred yards ahead of me. As I passed down the passage I saw him
on the sofa with his mother, having connection with her, and they kicked up a row with me—they have tried their best to put me in an asylum. I heard him say to a workman,' He will catch me in seven years.' I have nothing more to say at present'"
Witnesses for the Defence.
CHARLES EDWARD WARREN , M.D., M.R.C.S., of Edinburgh. I reside at Dagnall Park, Lewisham—on September 1st, last year, I was called to 39, Nevill Boad, where the prisoner then lived—I found him suffering from opium poisoning—it was tincture of opium, laudanum—I judged from the bottle produced that he had taken about half an ounce—I administered an emetic—half an ounce would in many cases be a fatal dose to a man not used to the drug—I gave directions that someone should stop with him, that he was not to be left alone—I judged at that time that he was insane—I did not then know "about the delusions—I saw him for about a week—I heard afterwards of his delusions from his wife—that would, of course, strengthen my opinion.
JAMES SCOTT . I am medical officer of Hollo way Prison—the prisoner has been under my care there since January 4th—my attention has been called to his state of mind—I have kept a watch on him from that time to the present—I considered that he was the subject of insane delusions—in my opinion, he was insane at the time he committed this crime.
Cross-examined. He is still under the influence of insane delusions—in my opinion, he has still suicidal and homicidal tendencies—I do not think he was in a condition to know the nature and quality of the act he committed.
GUILTY of the act, but insane at the time.— To be detained until Her Majesty's pleasure be known.
MESSRS. GEE and SELLS Prosecuted; the Prisoner Defended himself.
MARGARET LOW . I am the landlady of the Surrey Arms public-house, Wilcox Road, South Lambeth—I have known the prisoner for some time—on December 29th, about 4.45 p.m., I was in the kitchen—I was not intimate with the prisoner—he lived in my house, and helped me to manage the business—I never paid him any wages—he took money as he wanted it—I could not tell you what he took—if I asked him he did not tell me—he was a cab proprietor, a month after he came to me, for the last two years he bought some cabs—he still helped me in the business, such as doing the cellar work—he got money from the cabs—I do not know the amount—he took money over the bar—he received money from the customers—he never kept any account of what he spent, or what he received, I never asked him to—this went on from when he came to my place on May 25th, 1894, till about two months ago—sometimes he had £1 a week—housed to go out with it—I found fault with his taking my money away—I let this go on for two years and seven months—it is not usual for proprietors to allow managers to help themselves, but I could not help myself—this relationship came to an end about December 29th, on my account—he shot a basin of hot soup over me on the Sunday night; on the Monday morning he ran after me through
the yard, saying that he would murder me—that was on November 16th—I issued a warrant for his arrest at the Lambeth Police Court—he got a month's hard labour—on December 29th, about five p.m., I was in the kitchen; my son ran in out of the stable, and in consequence of what he said I told him to bolt the back door—he did bolt it—I ran to help him—I had not seen the prisoner at that time—I saw him afterwards ootne up the back yard; that was about a quarter to five—he came to the kitchen window and pointed a revolver at me; I was standing at the gas-stove, right facing the kitchen window; he could see me, and I saw him quite plainly—he pointed the revolver at the window, saying, "Take that, you b——; I mean to do for you now"—he fired four shots through one pane, and another shot through a larger pane—one lodged in the ceiling, and another lodged in the wall—none of the shots struck me—they were coming the way I was standing; they were pointed in my direction—I could not tell how far he was from me, but I should think it was about as far as I am from his Lordship's desk when he fired the first shot—I saw the revolver pointed at me; he pointed dose to my face—I did not remain in the same position after the first shot; when the second shot was fired my son compelled me to move, and I was standing against a little wall which divided the kitchen from the scullery—the second shot was about five feet high; he was in the yard, about level with where I was standing—the window through which he fired was about four feet from the ground.
Cross-examined by the Prisoner. You first saw me, I think, in April, 1894, at the White Hart—my husband died in June, 1894; the landlord of the White Hart did not introduce me to you; he told me you were looking over the house to see if you would take it—you introduced yourself to me—I met you next morning; you did not go home with me—I advised you to take the house—I told you I had a husband, but was living apart from him—I did not say he had deserted me—the Magistrate granted me a licence on the understanding that my husband would not return to me; my husband held the licence; I did not steal it from him—I kept the Old Farmhouse, at Batteraea, when you were first acquainted with me—you did not come and live with me there; you brought some furniture there in a van—I did not agree to go into partnership with you—you bought a cab and two horses in my name—I was not jealous of the barmaid., (The Prisoner asked a number of questions as to the different public-houses he had taken, and as to his connection with the prosecutrix, which the COURT held to be irrelevant.) You did not look upon me as your wife—you assaulted me, and the Magistrate gave you a month—I had to call in three men to prevent you from murdering me—after you had done your month you came back—I had not a ruffian in the house—I am sure you meant to shoot me—I did not cast you off, and have another man—it was dark at the time this occurred; I was just lighting in the kitchen.
ISAAC ROSOMAN . I am thirteen years old; I am a son of Mrs. Low, of 13, Wilcox Road, South Lambeth—on December 29th, about five in the afternoon, I was in the stable at the rear of the house; I saw the prisoner—he came to the stable-door, and said to the plumber who was working there, "Are those boards varnished yet?"—the plumber replied, "They would be no good if they were not"—after that he came straight into the stable; with that, I ran out into the yard, because I knew if he caught
hold of me he would hit me—I ran into the kitchen to my mother, and said, "He is in the yard"; she said, "Bolt the door"—I did so—the prisoner came walking up the yard, and pushed the back-yard door—he pushed in the door, and pushed off nearly all the plaster—that was the door I had bolted; the scullery door, which leads into the wash-house and kitchen—he then came a little further, and saw mother standing against the table—he started firing—he had the revolver in his hand, and was pointing it at the window—mother was standing against the table—he fired in her direction; the first shot went just over her head, and I pushed her behind the wall—I heard four more shots fired, five altogether.
Cross-examined. It was not dark; it was dusk, getting dark—there was only a little glimmer in the kitchen—I saw you with the revolver—I was in the kitchen, not in the scullery; I have not got a revolver; it is an air pistol—mother had not time to get upstairs; you followed me up; there were no roughs about; they were respectable customers—no one threatened to throw you out—a gentleman told you it was time to go; that was Mr. Melville; he came to do mother's work, as she was not strong enough—he had not been in the house all the time—I never saw any policeman guarding the house—you and I have been out together—you have not given me clothes—I think you came there to shoot mother—I did not know that you had been wandering about for four or five nights, and could not sleep.
By the JURY. When he fired he was holding his hand about three feet six inches from the ground—he fired upwards—there was a mark about six feet high, where they took a bullet out.
MARK DENN . I am a plumber, of 29, Globe Eoad, Mile End—on December 29th I was working at the stable at the Surrey Arms—the prisoner came there—he pointed to a tricycle that was there, and said, "That is my machine"—I said, "Oh! is it?"—he said, "Yes, and this is my house"—I said, "That I know nothing about"—he then went through the back door into the yard—I thought he looked very strange; I thought, perhaps, he was going to make a disturbance—he advanced about two yards in front of me, and I saw him fire about four or five shots through the kitchen window—he was close to the window at the time.
Cross-examined. I had seen you before, in the morning, that was the only time, and you asked for a couple of eggs; you did not get them; in the afternoon you asked if the boards had been varnished—some of our men were about putting them up—you were as close as you could get to the kitchen window when you fired—I could not see Mrs. Low—I can't say whether you could see her—I never noticed any man about the bar to have you locked up, not while I was there—you looked excited; I should say you were drunk; you had a strange appearance—I know nothing about your suffering from influenza—I saw you fire about four shots—I believe the revolver had six chambers.
By the JURY. The shots were about five feet from the floor—I heard the first shot; I did not hear any screams after it; the shots were fired quickly.
botton corner of the window—on the right about four or six yards from the ground, there was another pane broken in the top left corner; it had a small round hole in it, as though a small missile had passed though it—the bottom 4ft. 6 in. from the ground—next morning I examined the kitchen; I produce the bullets which I found—one was 4ft. 8in. from the ground, one was 5ft. 5in., one was 5ft. 7 in., and one was found in the match-box which was lying on the table alongside the match-boarding—there was another bullet which had penetrated the ceiling, which was 9ft. high—the match-box was about 3ft. from the ground—two of the bullets were embedded in the match-boarding—one bullet went clean through the match-boarding, and I have been unable to trace it—this one seems to have struch the match-boarding and then dropped into the box.
Cross-examined. There is one entrace to the bar from the house and three entrances from the street—the only instructions received by the police as to the house were to see that there was no breach of the place—I was not present when you were taken—I saw you at the station—I should you in the street—I am not aware of your making any complaint.
JAMES NICHOLLS (poiceman V). I was called to the Surrey Arms on the afternoon of December 29th, about ten minutes to five—I found the prisoner in a dark coal-shed in the back premises, with this revolver in his hand—I lit a match, and myself after, but this b——thing failed me"—Poice Constable Watson came to my assistance, and together we took it away from him—he was very violent—I took from him a letter and about froty cartridges about his clothing, and some blank papers. (The letter was as follows:—"December 29th, 1896. At the inquiry it will be shown by Mrs. William Anderson, Lodge Street, Batterses, and Miss Jones, her servant, that I did cohabit with her as my wife for three years, and I dearly loved her. I gave her £30, and worked for her three years without wages, but now she has disgraced me by sending me to hard labour, and being bound over to keep the peace, I have wasted away to a shadow. I offered to go out without being seen by the police. I resolved to put an end to it. There was £150 paid to the brewer at Yarmouth; half of the £50 was mine," etc.
Cross-examined. I gave my statement before the Margistrate—you did not hold out the revolver and the cartridges to me—you were very violent—we sent for the ambulance, but you said you would go in a cab—I took the cartridges and letter from you in the street—I should say you had should to reload; I don't know that there were roughs in the house—I had been suffering from influenza.
BENJAMIN WATSON (Poiceman). I was called to the Surrey Arms on the agternoon of December 29th—I assisted the last witness in taking the prisoner into custody—I found the revolver in his left hand—he was very violent; I eventually got possession of it.
Cross-examined. You struggled, threw yourself of down, and threw your arms about; we received information from the Surrey Arms that they feared violence—not that they had ruffians there—I should say you had
been drinking—you did not tell me that you had been suffering from influenza.
---- STEWART (Police Sergeant). I was in charge at the station at South Lambeth on December 29th, when the prisoner was brought there—he appeared to me as having been heavily drinking; he was very violent—when I charged him he said nothing.
Cross-examined. I told the Magistrate you had been drinking—I said you had the appearance of a madman—you did not assault any of the men at the station—I thought you responsible for your actions; I do not know that you have been in the police.
The Prisoner's Statement before the Magistrate: "I was living with Mrs. Low as her husband, and was foolish enough to lend her money. When she went to the Surrey Arms, she claimed it; I struck her, and was convicted for it. When I came out I was told not to go to the house again. She was annoyed because I said I lived with her. £300 of mine has been wasted, and I had no home. I wanted her to let me have my share, but she said the money was all hers. I have had no rest for it. I have no recollection of being there that night. I was taken to the station."
The Prisoner, in his defence, gave a long history of his relations with the prosecutrix, which were to the effect that, finding she was separated from ker husband, and as his wife had deserted him, he added his savings to hers, and they invested in the public-house business, and lived together as man and wife, they made some profits, till they quarrelled, when she charged him with assault, with the result that he was sentenced to a month's hard labour. On returning he found another man in possession, and was ordered out of the house. Upon his insisting upon his right to go back, she got roughs to keep him away, leaving him without a home, and the result of his savings and work in the business. He resolved to go to Africa, and bought the revolver, which he thought would be necessary for that purpose, but took it with him when he called to see if she would be more reasonable; but he had no intention of shooting her, only to strike terror to the ruffians in the house.
MARTHA EVANS . I am a grocer, and live in South Wales—I am the prisoner's youngest sister—I have known him all the time he was in the police, and, on leaving, he received a clock and a purse of money—nothing has been known against him that I am aware of, nor any of the family.
WILLIAM MORNING . I am a seafaring man—I have lodged in the same house with the prisoner—he seemed very strange in his manner—I cannot speak anything of his previous character—I have not seen him lately.
GUILTY, with intent to do grievous bodily harm . The JURY added that they thought the act was done under very great provocation.— Judgment Respited.
Before Mr. Recorder.
MR. TURNER Prosecuted, and MR. DRUMMOND Defended.
MR. DRUMMOND stated that the prisoner was willing to plead guilty to
another indictment; upon which MR. TURNER withdraw from the prosecution.
NOT GUILTY . (See next case.)
PLEADED GUILTY .— To enter into his own Recognizances to appear for judgment when called upon.
MR. CALTHROP Prosecuted.
WILLIAM POWELL . I am a labourer, of Hanworth—on December 14th, shortly before eight p.m., I was walking at Old Hampton—in New Hampton I met the prisoners—I knew the two Bents—they called me by my Christian name, and asked me if I would treat them to a pot of beer, as they had no money—I said "Yes," as they had no money—"Come along, I will treat you to a pot of beer"—we went into the King's Anna and called for a pot of beer—I had a glass of beer, and walked out, leaving them; they walked in the other room with the pot of beer—I paid for the beer out of loose money from my left-hand pocket—I held the money in my hand—I went towards Hanworth—I was seized from behind—my waistcoat was torn open—William held my arms behind, with his knee in my back; Richard had his right arm round my neck, and Barnes said, when I began to holloa out, "If you make a noise I will knock your—head off," gave me a terrific blow on the side of my head, and unbuttoned my trousers pocket, and took 15s. and my bronze—I was glad to get away—when I got a little way away, I said I would go for the police—I went for the police—on my way back with Laws and Munton, we met all three prisoners in the road—I pointed them out as the men who had knocked me about—William pulled some money out of his pocket, and said, "Here, take this, and don't make a b——fuss about a little job like that"; I said. "No, I shall not; that won't pay me for my loss and knocking about"—I think it was 2s.; I could not see; it was dark—I charged the prisoners; the constable took Barnes, the others went away, and were apprehended at their own homes at Fellham—I was perfectly sober that night—I had had my tea—Barnes was the man who put his hand, in my pocket the other two held me, one under the chin, the other with his knee in my back.
Cross-examined by Barnes. You did not meet me in the King's Arma—I had not been in the house—I did not say, "I cannot treat you; I have only 2s."—Richard did not say, "I do not want you to treat me; I am just going to call for a pot"—when I had paid for the pot of beer you took it into the tap-room—skittles were not played while I was there; I was not in the house five minutes—you had robbed me before I fetched the constables from Hanworth, where I went to find them—I did not say, "This is the man who robbed me," pointing to you—I said. "These are the three men who robbed ine and knocked me about"—I did not say, "The other two have nothing to do with it"—the Bents went away; the police had a rough handful with you—at the Police-station the sergeant did not say, "Is there any more besides him?" and I did not reply, "No," nor "There were two more with him, but the other two men know nothing at all about that"—nothing of the kind.
Cross-examined by R. Bent I first saw you near the Queen's River Bridge, New Hampton, thirty or forty yards from the King's Arms, at about 7.45 p.m.—I did not go in first; I had not arrived before you asked me to treat you—the young woman did not give you 8d. change.
Cross-examined by William Bent. Your brother did not enter the King's Arms first, and Barnes afterwards—I did not address your brother, "Holloa, old Dick, how are you getting on?" in the King's Arms—the robbery was about a quarter of a mile, or a little more, from the King's Arms—I could not tell you how long it was from the robbery till the police came, because we had no time in front of us, and it was a dark place—I did not say, "This man," pointing to Barnes, "has taken my money irom me, and robbed me"—I gave you all in charge at the same time—you said, "I offered him 1s.," but it was too dark to see; I could see you had money, but not what it was.
FOREST LEAH BOULGER . I keep the King's Arms beerhouse, Hampton—I remember on December 14th, about eight p.m., the prisoners coming in, and the prosecutor going out—the prisoners, I believe, asked for a pot of beer—it was supplied—the prosecutor asked for a glass of beer, drank it, and left the prisoners in the house—about 8.30 I ordered the prisoners out, as they became riotous—the prosecutor was sober.
By the COURT. I said before the Magistrate, "They went into the tap-room and left, as near as possible, a quarter of an hour afterwards"—that is right.
Cross-examined by Barnes. I did not say at the Police-court I did not know who paid for the beer—I said the young lady staying with me served the beer in my presence.
Cross-examined by Richard Bent. All four came in together—you did not call for the pot of beer—you did not tender 1s., and receive 8d. change—I saw money tendered, and change given; what it was I don't know.
Cross-examined by William Bent. Powell was not standing in the bar when you entered—your brother did not call for a pot of beer as you came in—you were not more than about twenty-five minutes in the house—there were not five working men in the tap-room playing skittles—no one was there but yourselves; I heard a noise, and came in to turn you out—you threatened to put me on the floor; you had put the sawdust box on the fire, but I took hold of a broom handle, and it would have been a bad job for you if you had not gone; you would not have been here.
GEORGE MUNDEN (365 T.) On December 14th I was on duty in the Twickenham Eoad, Hanworth—the prosecutor came and complained to me—I went with him and another constable—we met the prisoners (I knew the Bents) against the Queen's River Bridge, in the Twickenham Road, Hanworth, about one and a quarter miles from the King's Arms—the prosecutor pointed out the prisoners as having robbed him—he" pointed to Barnes, and said, "That is the man that rifled my pockets while the other two held me"—then William Bent called him on one side, offering him something, and said, "Take this, and don't be a fool to make a fuss about a little job like this"—I said to Barnes, "You hear what this man, Powell, says; he accuses you of robbing him of about 15s."—Barnes said, "I know nothing about it; I never saw the b——man before"—I told them they would have to go to Hampton—Barnes
began to resist, and I said to the other constable, "This man is a stranger; we will make sure of him"—he was charged and searched—on him was found sixpence in silver, and fourpence in bronze, and a visiting order to H. M. Prison in the name of E. Campbell—the men were perfectly sober—Barnes made no reply—they were told they would be charged—I was present when Laws and White arrested the Bents.
Cross-examined by Barnes. The prosecutor did not say the other two knew nothing about it—the sergeant did not say, after you were charged, "Is this the only man there is?"—no such thing.
Cross-examined by R. Bent. You were arrested about 11.30 the same night—you were charged before 1.45 a.m.—your mother came to the door; you were in the passage—you went out into the back yard, but two constables were waiting—your mother opened the window, and said, "I'll be down in a minute," and she came down to the door.
Cross-examined by W. Bent. The Queen's River Bridge might be 300 or 400 yards from the Oak and Anchor public-house—Barnes did say, "These other two, I know them; they have nothing to do with it"—I did not say, 'You get on one side; you have nothing to do with it; you had better get on home about your business"—your brother said, "Come on, then, let us go back with him"—Barnes is a powerful man, and it was a long distance to take him, two and a-half miles, and a country road—you were with White in front; I could hear your conversation—I did not hear you say, "The prosecutor lives at Han worth; had we better not call on him there;" nor White say, "Come on, you know all about this; it is me what is doing this for you; I am going to see what I can do for you"—I heard no conversation after we left Feltham.
WILLIAM LAWS (43 T R.) I was on duty in the Twickenham Road—I went with the prosecutor and the last witness, and met the prisoners about 9.30—the prosecutor said they had robbed him, and, pointing to Barnes, "This man rifled my pockets, the other two helped to hold me"—the other two moved slightly away—he took Barnes to the station; he was charged—I afterwards went with White and Munden to Feltham, where we saw the Bents, at 22, Grove Eoad—I took Eichard Bent to the Police-station; he was charged—when it was read over he made no reply—I searched the prisoner, and found 6d. silver, and 61/2d. bronze.
Cross-examined by R. Bent. I could not say who opened the door when I got in the passage—I saw your mother there and you—your brother was just behind you—you went quietly—we came to you about twelve o'clock, or a little after.
Cross-examined by W. Bent. You were standing near the back room on the ground floor—you did not resist—I did not hear you make any comment.
THOMAS WHITE (Detective Officer.) I went with the other constables to the Bents—I knocked, and Richard opened the door; his mother was there—I told him he would be charged with being concerned in robbing Powell—he said, "All right"—I hurried past into the back bedroom, and found William getting out of bed—I told him I should arrest him for being concerned, with his brother and another man named Barnes, in robbing Powell of about 15s.—he made no reply—on the way to the station he said, "I offered Powell 1s. to save any further trouble"—at the station he said to the prosecutor, "I offered you a bob to save any further trouble"—the prosecutor was very exhausted—I saw him about
10.45 p.m.—he looked as if he had been badly used—I saw no traces of blood, but his clothes were torn.
Cross-examined by Barnes. I never heard the sergeant say, "Is there anybody else with this man?" or anything like it; nor the prosecutor say, "There are two more, but they have nothing to do with it"—on putting you in the cell I did not say, "Wait a minute, pal; I want you."
Cross-examined by R. Bent. We came to your mother's house between 12.30 and one a.m.—you opened the door—the prosecutor was in bed at Hampton then.
Cross-examined by William Bent. We should have passed the prosecutor's house if the road had been clean, but we went the cleanest way—you did not say, "Is the prosecutor at Hampton, waiting to charge us?" nor did I say, "You will know all about that when you get there"; nor you say, "It seems strange he did not give us in charge, but simply said we had nothing to do with it, and that was the reason we were let go"—I did not say, "Come on, William, I am doing this for you; I am just going to see what I can do for you"; nor did you reply," It is very kind of you, I am sure"—I found 3d. on—you at Hampton Police Station.
The Prisoners' defence was a reiteration of their statements put in cross-examination, and a denial of any knowledge of the robbery.
GUILTY .—BARNES then PLEADED GUILTY to a conviction of felony in February last, in the name of Frederick Tucker.— Fifteen Months' Hard Labour; and
WILLIAM BENT** to a conviction of felony in May, 1892 at the Middlesex Sessions.— Twelve Months' Hard Labour.
RICHARD BENT— Six Months' Hard Labour.
MR. HUNT Prosecuted, and MESSRS. THOMPSON and SANDS Defended.
JAMES BURGEN . I am a painter, of 2, Newbury Street, Smithfield—on January 1st, about 10.30 p.m., I had been in a public-house, and went over the road to make water; I was thrown over in the mud—I walked along the Waterloo Road, and was knocked down by three or four men—I was taken to St. Thomas's Hospital—when I came back the prisoner was being attended by the divisional surgeon, and I was kept all night on the charge of being drunk—my head being bad, I was more fit to be in bed the next day than in a Police-court—I recognised Irwin as one of the men who had struck and robbed me—he attempted to rob me—after I was pulled down I went into more public-houses, and got more drunk—coming along the Waterloo Road, I was knocked down by three or four more—I thought the prisoner was one, but give him the benefit of the doubt—the second occasion my pockets were torn down, and I was robbed of between 10s. and 12s.—I had 16s. or 17s. in my pockets—I found afterwards between 3s. and 4s.—I had a bit of a struggle—I called for assistance—two constables came—I was taken to the hospital, and had my head dressed—the next morning I was charged with being drunk—the case was put back for a week to hear the case against Irwin—on the first occasion I thought the prisoner was the man who knocked me down—I could hardly see—I do not think he was the man—I told the Magistrate the prisoner was the one who knocked me down the first time; then he came upon me a second time—I said I was sure—I did not feel sure.
Cross-examined. I had not seen the prisoner before, to my knowledge—before Friday week at the Police-station—I did not know his name—I had been out on New Tear's night—I had left the shop where I work about 5.30 to six—I had then 25s. 6d.—between then and 10.30 I was with friends, having glasses, treating and being treated—I bought no New Year's presents, but spent money in public-houses; I daresay I went into a dozen—no one has seen me about this case since giving evidence—three or four of them struck me.
NOT GUILTY .
MR. HUNT Prosecuted, and MESSRS. THOMPSON and SANDS Defended.
THOMAS OFFORD (103 L.) I was in the Waterloo Road on January 2nd, about one a.m.—I saw the prisoner strike the prosecutor—others were there—subsequently, in Westminster Bridge Road, I tried to arrest the prisoner—he became very violent, and, with other men, threw me to the ground several times—I became exhausted, drew my truncheon, and struck him, also some other men; they kicked me on my right knee—I struck the prisoner twice on his head, and made a blow for his arm; he was like an eel, all of a jelly—as soon as I struck him the second blow the other men ran away—I took the prisoner in custody—he went with me quietly.
Cross-examined. I never hit his arm, I hit his head—it was a darkish night, rather foggy—he was eight or nine yards from me when I saw him strike Bergen—I went to speak to the prosecutor—he said, "Irwin, Tabby Kish and two other men knocked me about, and robbed me of £3 17s."—he mentioned Irwin—he swore at the Police Court he did not know the prisoner's name—I know Irwin—I told him I should take him in custody on the charge of robbery" and assault in the Waterloo Road—he said he had not been there'that night—I knew his address, and his mother and father—I knew Bergen was drunk—I did not recognise the men who were with the prisoner when I arrested him—I cannot say if they were the same men who attacked Bergen—they were about five feet seven inches or eight, and from twenty-one to twenty-four years of age—I told the inspector I had been kicked—it was not necessary to tell the surgeon; there was no mark—I was kicked twice or three times—there was mud on my coat; the inspector saw it—the prisoner got away once; that is why I struck him down—I drew my truncheon and hit him to keep him there—I knew his mother's address.
Re-examined. I nad recognised the prisoner before I was told by the prosecutor it was Irwin—I am certain the prosecutor mentioned Irwin's name.
HENRY HANDS . I am surgeon of the L Division—I saw the prisoner—he was suffering from two small scalp wounds on the top of his head, one one and a-half inches long, the other two inches; both wounds divided the scalp down to the bone, and bled freely—I stitched them—there was a contusion on the top of his head—the wounds were, in all probability, inflicted by the constable's truncheon.
NOT GUILTY .
Before Mr. Common Serjeant.
THOMAS SMITH . I am a carman, living at 12, Clarence Street, New Town—I have a brother named Samuel Smith—on October 23rd last I was lodging at 13, Devonshire Street, Newington Causeway—I had been there about six or seven weeks—the prisoner was my landlord—he lived on the ground floor—I lived on the top floor, with my brother—there was no one else on the top floor—there were other lodgers on the first floor; I do not know their names; I know one man by sight—my brother is a porter in the General Post Office—I returned home about one or two o'clock three-parts drunk—I had a latch-key, but could not get in—as I stood trying to open the door a tall female spoke to me—I opened the door somehow, and stood just inside, talking to this woman—she stood on the doorstep, talking to me—Boyes rushed from his bedroom, I supposed; it was a room on the ground floor—I believe he had a stick; I heard something rattle on the partition—I ran round the corner—I do not know what became of the woman; I have not seen her since, that I know of—I fell down, but got up again—I went into a urinal for about a minute to make water—coming out into Newington Causeway, I walked about till a coffee-shop opened at four o'clock, near where I work—I went to work at six o'clock at Mr. Sedgeley's, in the Bethnal Green Road, a licensed carman—I have worked, on and off, for years there—the next morning I went to 13, Devonshire Street, between eight and nine—I saw my brother's wife; my brother was in bed; he works all manner of hours—I occupied one room on the top floor, my brother and his wife another—I was staying with him till I got work, when I left—I paid rent to my brother, not to Boyes—I had seen Boyes in the house several times, and spoken to him—he knew I was lodging there—I did not sleep there since—having got work, I got lodgings near to go to—I did not avoid the house because of what had taken place. (Read from Deposition: "I waited about a minute, and then went on, and went into the urinal. I never went back to 13, Devonshire Street, and have never been in the house since.") I have never been in the house since that day, only in the morning—I have seen Mary Ward, but do not recognise her—I saw her at the Southwark Police-court—Ward is shorter than the woman who talked to me, as near as I can remember—I heard about Boyes being charged two or three days before I was at Southwark Police Court; as soon as my brother told me there was a noise made about it, I said, "I will come up and say all I know about it"—I thought Boyes would recognise me, and laugh over it; but my brother came round to my house, and said a woman was locked up, and I said, "What a fuss is made about nothing!"—that was the 11th or 12th.
SAMUEL SMITH . I am a porter in the General Post Office—I lodge at 13, Devonshire Street, Newington Causeway—for some weeks before October 23rd the last witness, my brother, had been lodging there—I occupied the top floor, with my wife and two children—he was out of employment—at 1.20 a.m. I looked at the clock, when I heard a noise at the front door, and Boyes's voice calling out, "Stop her"—Thomas did not come in till after eight a.m.—I was in bed—my wife saw him—he said he had been looking for fresh lodgings—he went away, and has not been in the house since—I heard something from a policeman—I found my brother, and told him he would have to go to the police—I gave
evidence on the charge of burglary against Mary Ward before the Common Serjeant last Sessions—nothing was said to me about a man being likely to bring a woman home, or about my brother, or I should have said he was living there at the time.
JUSTINIAN PICKUP (85 M.) On October 23rd, between one and 1.30 a.m., I was on duty in Newington Causeway—I saw Mary Ward crossing from the Devonshire Street corner of Newington Causeway on the London Bridge side, and near the Anchovy public-house, and where the London, Chatham, and Dover Railway bridge crosses the road—I did not see her come out of Devonshire Street, but she might have come—I she was crossing the Causeway quietly—I next saw Boyes following, a few yards behind—I did not see him till he left the pavement—Boyes said, "Stop that woman"—I let her pass, but walked after her, when he said, "That woman and a man have been in my house"—I stopped her—Boyes then said that a few minutes before, whilst asleep in his front room, he heard the door open, and some person enter the passage; he thought it was a lodger; but not hearing anyone go upstairs, he got out of bed, put on his trousers and boots, and opened the door into the passage, where he saw a woman and a man, who ran down the Causeway, and he suggested I must have seen her; he made a grab at them, but the man escaped first through the door; the woman followed; he ran after them, but lost sight of the man, and followed the woman across the Causeway till he saw me—after that statement I took the woman back to 13, Devonshire Street—I examined the door—I called Boyes' attention to the fact that there were no marks on the door—he said they must have used a key, as one of his lodgers took away a key a short time ago, and lived in the Borough—I asked him whether he charged the woman, and he said he did.
MARY WARD . I am an unfortunate woman—before October 23rd I had been in the habit of walking in Newington Causeway—on that night I was at the Elephant and Castle—about one a.m. I passed through the Causeway, on my way home—I left the Elephant and Castle a few minutes before one, and was on the side of the Causeway where I should pass the street I now know as Devonshire Street—I did not know it then—I crossed over—as I, stepped on the pavement a man came behind me and gave me in charge—he said to the policeman, "Stop her"—then I went back, and he said, "She has been round at my house, and took a man in there"—I was taken in charge—I had not been up Devonshire Street—I was not in the house—I know nothing of it—I had not been on the door-step with a man—many women of my class are in Newington Causeway late at night.
NOT GUILTY .
162. ALFRED DE MAYO PLEADED GUILTY to feloniously sending to Henry Rowley a letter demanding money with menaces, having been convicted at Clerkenwell on October 12th, 1896. Several other convictions were proved against him.— Eighteen Months' Hard Labour.
ADJOURNED TO MONDAY, FEBRUARY 8TH, 1897.