CENTRAL CRIMINAL COURT
SIXTH SESSION, HELD APRIL 3RD, 1905.
MINUTES OF EVIDENCE,
TAKEN IN SHORTHAND BY
ALFRED FITZGERALD DALTON,
Official Shorthand Writer to the Court,
(For many years with the late firm of Messrs. BARNETT & BUCKLER.)
STEVENS AND SONS, LIMITED, 119, CHANCERY LANE,
Law Booksellers and Publishers.
On the King's Commission of
OYER AND TERMINER AND GAOL DELIVERY
The City of London,
AND GAOL DELIVERY FOR THE
COUNTY OF MIDDLESEX, AND THE PARTS OF THE COUNTIES OF ESSEX, KENT, AND SURREY WITHIN THE JURISDICTION
CENTRAL CRIMINAL COURT,
Held on Monday, April 3rd, 1905, and following days.
Before the Right Hon. JOHN POUND, LORD MAYOR of the City of London; the Hon. Sir ARTHUR RICHARD JELF , Knight, one of the Justices of His Majesty's High Court; Sir JOHN WHITTAKER ELLIS, Bart.; Sir DAVID EVANS , K.C.M.G.; Lieutenant-Colonel Sir HORATIO DAVIES , K.C.M.G., M.P., Aldermen of the said City; Sir FORREST FULTON, Knight, K.C., Recorder of the said City; Sir WILLIAM PURDIE TRELOAR, Knight; Sir JOHN KNILL , Bart.; and DAVID BURNETT , Esq., other of the Aldermen of the said City; FREDERICK ALBERT BOSANQUET , Esq., K.C., Common Serjeant of the said City; and his Honour Judge RENTOUL, K.C., Commissioner; His Majesty's Justices of Oyer and Terminer and General Gaol Delivery, holden for the said City, and Judges of the Central Criminal Court.
THOMAS VENEY STRONG, Esq., Alderman.
CENTRAL CRIMINAL COURT
POUND, MAYOR. SIXTH SESSION
A star (*) denotes that the prisoners have been previously in custody—two stars (**) that they have been more than once in custody—a dagger (†) that they are known to be the associates of bad characters—the figures after the name in the indictment denote the prisoner's age.
LONDON AND MIDDLESEX CASES.
OLD COURT.—Monday, April 3rd, 1905.
Before Mr. Recorder.
298. JOHN BERRYMAN (26) PLEADED GUILTY to stealing two boxes and seventy-two pairs of gloves, the property of Alfred Weil, having been convicted of felony at Clerkenwell Sessions on February 19th, 1901. Two other convictions were proved against him. Six months' hard labour. —
(299) CHARLES HOPKINS (40) , to stealing two dead fowls, the property of Hudson Bros., Ltd., having been convicted of felony at the Guildhall on January 6th, 1904. The police stated that there were other convictions against him. Six months' hard labour. — [Pleaded guilty: See original trial image.]And
(300) THEODORE DE MAIN (37), to stealing, whilst employed under the Post Office, a post letter containing a postal order for 7s., the property of the Post-master-General. One day's imprisonment. [Pleaded guilty: See original trial image.]
MR. HENDERSON Prosecuted.
(The evidence was interpreted where necessary.)
FRENK WALHE . I am cashier to Messrs. Woollans, of Lowndes Terrace, Knightsbridge—on March 10th I drew this cheque for £14 15s. 6d. in favour of Messrs. Whincup & Co.; it is crossed—I enclosed it in an envelope and posted it to 55, Berners Street—it has been paid by our bankers—I never knew the prisoner till after the cheque was returned—we are customers of Messrs, Whincup.
HENRY RYDER SHIPTON . I am manager to Charles Redcliffe Leedham trading as S. Whincup & Co., 55, Berners Street—we did not receive this cheque; it is not endorsed by us—I know nothing of the prisoner—on March 17th Messrs. Woollans & Co. were in our debt to the amount of £14 15s. 6d.
CAMILLO VISCONTI . I am manager to Mrs. Hart, a licensed victualler—I speak French—I am an Italian—I know the prisoner as a customer—I saw him on March 13th, when he came about noon and asked me whether I would like to pass this cheque, dated March 10th, through my bank for him—I said, "I will," thinking I would do a turn to a customer—he told me he was in the motor car business—I passed the cheque through—I did not give the prisoner any money—I had had a previous cheque for £2 9s. 5d. from him, which had come back as the endorsement was irregular, and I asked him where he took this one—he said it was given to his masters by the drawers in the course of business—it went through and J received £14 15s. 6d.—I found out that the cheque was stolen—I stopped payment and informed the police.
FLORENCE TRENCH . I work for Whincup & Co. in Berners Street—at 9 a.m. on March 13th I noticed that the door of their premises was half shut—I saw the prisoner getting letters out of the box—I did not know him—he had no business there—he is not in Messrs. Whincup's employ—I said, "What do you want?"—he said, "Mr. Whincup"—I spoke in English—I got hold of his arm, and held him for a little while, but he struggled and got away—Mrs. Jones came in—I next saw him at Tottenham Court Road police station on the 17th, when I identified him from eight other men—I cannot say what sort of men the others were; I hardly looked at them because I saw the prisoner and recognised him at once—when I was struggling with him he had a letter half out of his pocket—he had not got one in his hand.
EMMA JONES . I work for Messrs. Whincup in Berners Street—on March 13th, about 9 a.m., I went there and saw Florence Trench holding the prisoner behind the door—I went to get help, but when I came back he had gone—I saw him next at Tottenham Court Road police station on March 17th, when I picked him out from others—I am sure he is the man.
ALFRED SCHOLES (Police-Sergeant.) At 12.35 a.m. on March 17th I saw the prisoner in Frith Street, Soho, in conversation with Visconti—I told him I was a police officer and should arrest him for stealing a letter which contained a cheque, from 55, Berners Street—he said something in French which I did not understand—I took him to the station and told him a further charge would be made against him—he can speak English and understood me—I told him he would be charged with uttering a cheque for £14 15s. 6d., knowing the endorsement to be forged—he said in English, "A gentleman gave it to me; I took it to Visconti, who has the money for it in his pocket"—at 1 p.m. that day I showed him the cheque—he said, "That is the cheque, but it is not my writing," pointing to the endorsement—he was afterwards placed with eight others for identification by Sergeant Grey, who speaks French, and I saw him identified by Trench and Jones—they seemed to have no difficulty in identifying
him—they had given an accurate description prior to that of the man who had escaped from the house.
HERBERT GREY (Police-Sergeant). I was at Tottenham Court Road police station on March 17th, when the prisoner was placed among six foreigners and two Englishmen—he was immediately picked out by Visconti and Trench—I explained the charge to him in French—he said in French That he knew it was stolen, and, "I never signed the signature"—I showed him the endorsement.
The prisoner's statement before the Magistrate: "I reserve my defence."
The prisoner, in his defence on oath, said that he was employed for seven months by a Mr. Gillia, where he met a man, Leon Nepell, who had no profession, but was well known to Visconti, and who had on previous occasions entrusted him with cheques to change; that Leon asked him to change the cheque for £14 15s. 6d. with Visconti; that Leon said it came from clients of his, but he (the prisoner) had suspicions that it must be stolen, as he knew Leon did not work.
CAMILLO VISCONTI (Re-examined.) There were also cheques for £2 5s. and £4 10s.—I went to the owners of the £2 5s. cheque and they told me the endorsement was forged—the £4 10s. cheque went through and the prisoner had the money—I do not know if it was forged or not.
GUILTY of uttering . It was stated that Leon was an associate of the prisoner's, and was wanted by the police. Fifteen months' hard labour.
302. ADA ELLEN SHACKELLS WHITE, Feloniously marrying Michael O'Connor, her husband being alive, and MICHAEL O'CONNOR, Feloniously aiding and abetting Ada Ellen Shackells White in the commission of that offence.
WHITE PLEADED GUILTY .
MR. DUNNETT Prosecuted; MR. BLACKWELL Defended O'Connor.
EDWARD DARBY (Detective-Sergeant N.) I know O'Connor—at 10.30 a.m. on March 18th he came to the Borough police station and said that he had ascertained that the husband of the woman, with whom he had gone through the form of marriage at Bermondsey Church, had put in an appearance on March 1st, and he wished to lock her up for committing bigamy—I asked him if he could tell me where I should be likely to find her—he said, "Before I married her she informed me she had been married before at a registry office at Romford to Harry Shackells White"—White is a book-keeper in the City, and they went to live at Manor Park—O'Connor said that Ada White's husband had been married before, and he was dead—the same evening I arrested Ada Ellen Shackells White—I was with Detective Camp, and she came and accosted me—I took her to the station and on March 19th O'Connor charged her—on the 27th he gave evidence before the Magistrate, when he said he already knew that his wife had been married—he had told me that the book-keeper had al-ready got a wife alive and therefore could not marry again, and that he understood he had died before they were married—he told that to the Magistrate—on leaving the Court I told him I should arrest him for aiding and abetting—I took a statement from Mary Gibbs, his grandmother—I then arrested him—that was not by order of the Magistrate; it was on my
own initiative—I then said, "Mary Gibbs has made a statement," and I read it to him—(Read): "Statement of Mary Gibbs. I am a widow and reside at 94, Abbey Street, Bormondsey, S.E. Saith: Ada Ellen Shackells White is my grand-daughter, and in December of 1903 was living with her mother, Mary Ellard, at No. 33, Hamilton Buildings, Long Lane, Borough. About a week before Christmas of above year James Carpenter, a man my daughter, Mary Ellard, was living with, brought Michael O'Connor to my fruit stall, at the corner of Denman Street, between 10 a.m. and 11 a.m. and said, 'This is Ada's young man.' I replied, 'Why, Carpenter, she is a married woman; you can't walk out with her neither can you many her,' turning to O'Connor. Michael O'Connor, replied, 'I don't care; I will take her and marry her, and will look after her.' I replied, 'If you do, you will get into trouble over it' He replied, 'I don't care,' and walked away with Carpenter. I next saw Michael O'Connor on or about the 23rd of December, 1903, when he called with Ada about 1 a.m. I came down and opened the street door, when O'Connor stated that James Carpenter had turned her out, and won't let her sleep there any more. I then took Ada in and gave her a bed. The following evening O'Connor called at my house and asked for Ada. I said, 'You are carrying on a fine game with my grand-daughter, you will find it will end very serious. You are leading her astray informing her that you can marry her when you know that she does not know whether he is dead. O'Connor then replied, 'It is all right, I shall marry her.' Ada came up to us at this remark, and she replied, 'Oh, Mike, don't get me in trouble, because I am married. I have not seen my husband for two years, and I don't know if he is dead or alive.' O'Connor then said, 'Come along, Ada, you will be all right; you will never see your husband any more.' They then both left the house. On the morning of February 1st, 1904, O'Connor called at my house, and said, 'Is Ada ready? I asked him in the passage, and said, 'You are going to do a nice thing for yourselves.' He replied, 'She will be all right, don't worry; it is nothing to do with you.' He then called out, 'Ada, are you ready?' and they both left the house to get married at St. James' Church, Bermondsey. I followed shortly after to the church and found that they had been married"—he said, "That is all right," or "Quite right"—the prisoner was charged and made no reply—I obtained the marriage certificate of Harry Shackells White and Ada Ellen Ellard before the registrar at Romford on September 1st, 190I—the witnesses were Mary Gibbs and J. A. Ellard—I also obtained the certificate of marriage on February 1st, 1904, between Michael O'Connor and Ada Ellen Ellard at St. James, Church, Bermondsey, and the witness James Ellard was present.
Cross-examined. When he said, "That is all right" I had charged him—I did not ask him if he understood the charge—I did not say, "you understand the matter," and he did not say, "That is all right"—when I arrested the woman she said she had not seen her husband for two years and was under the belief that he was dead—she went off into hysterics and you could not understand what she said—she did not say that she
believed that White had got a wife living when she married him—I got that from O'Connor—I have not heard other members of the family say that he had got a wife living—I have seen the girl's mother—I have not taken a statement from her—I do not know if she was present at the ceremony on February 1st; I have not inquired—I have not found out that the ceremony was after the publication of banns in a church—the prisoner did not come into the station to ask advice as to what he was to do—I have not talked the matter over with the inspector—there is no doubt that in the first place he came to ask advice—the inspector called me out of our room and said, "Will you see this young man, and see what he wants done?"—I said, "What do you want done?—he said, "I want to give my wife in charge for committing bigamy"—from what subsequently came to my knowledge, I decided on March 27th to charge him with aiding and abetting—I did not suggest to him that he should prosecute the woman—I told him if there was a case we should take the matter up at once, which we did—I do not know if the inspector told him that if the woman had gone through a bigamous marriage, he could give her into custody, but that is the advice I should have given—he did not say, "I want to know what I ought to do"—I took down what he said there and then.
MARY GIBBS . I am a widow and reside at 94, Abbey Street, Bermondsey—Ada Ellen Shackells White is my grand-daughter—she was married to Mr. Shackells White on September 1st, 1901—I was present at the wedding, which was before the registrar at Romford—my grandson, James Ellard, was also present—I do not know how long my grand-daughter and Mr. White lived together—sometimes we did not see her for twelve months—he was a book-keeper—I cannot tell you where she was living in December, 1903—I know O'Connor; I became acquainted with him about three days after Christmas, 1903—a Mr. Carpenter brought him to me at my stall—Mr. Carpenter said to me, "This is Ada's young man"—I said, "Why you know, Jim, that she is a married woman"—Michael walked up to me and said, "I intend to walk out with Ada"—I said, "You cannot marry her; she is married already, but we do not know whether her husband is dead or alive"—I know now that he is alive; we have seen him—he came to my house a week before Ada was charged—the prisoners were married on February 1st, 1904—I did not know then if Ada's husband was dead or alive, only that she told me she had not seen him for two and a half years.
By the COURT. I went and saw White's aunt, who told me that White's marriage was not legal, but she did not say that White had got a wife living, so could not marry again—I said, "In what way is it not legal?" but she would not say.
The RECORDER pointed out that according to the evidence it was not proved whether the female prisoner's marriage with White was legal or not, and that if he then had a wife living the female prisoner's marriage with O'Connor was not bigamous, and they were therefore man and wife at the present time, and held that there was no evidence that the prisoner in contracting the marriage, had a guilty mind, and directed the Jury to return a verdict of
NOT GUILTY . WHITE— Discharged on recognisances.
NEW COURT.—Monday, April 3rd, 1905.
Before Mr. Common Serjeant.
303. ANNIE O'BRIEN (33) PLEADED GUILTY to unlawfully being in possession of counterfeit coin, knowing the same to be counterfeit, and with intent to utter, having been convicted of feloniously uttering counterfeit coin at the Surrey Assizes on December 7th, 1901, in the name of Emily Chapman. Numerous previous convictions of a similar character were proved against her. It was stated that she had six months still to serve. Eighteen months' hard labour.
MR. PARTRIDGE Prosecuted.
ALBERT ROBERTS . I manage the Roebuck, Great Dover Street, Borough—about 6.45 p.m. on March 11th I saw the prisoner, for the first time that day, come in with another man, and I served them with two sodas, of which the price was 4d.—the prisoner gave me this 2s. piece (Produced), which I put on the till—I gave him 1s. 8d. change—we have a Cox's till, which has separate partitions for 2s. pieces, shillings, and sixpences, and I put it in one of the small spaces separate from the rest—almost directly I received it I had a suspicion of it, which made me take it out again—I tested it a few yards away with acid—the prisoner and the other man could see me take the coin off the till—I found on testing it that it was bad, and I jumped over the bar as quickly as possible to try and catch the men, but they had gone away too quickly—I gave their description to the police—on March 21st I was taken to the police station—I saw there the prisoner with several other men drawn up in the yard—I went up at once and touched him as the man who had passed this 2s. piece—he said nothing when I touched him—the barman took this florin (A second florin produced).
Cross-examined. You were not a customer of ours—I had never seen you before—I did not see you in the public-house after you passed the 2s. piece.
Re-examined. If I had seen the prisoner afterwards, I would have given him in charge.
HARRY BURTON . I am barman at the Roebuck, Great Dover Street, Borough, of which Mr. Roberts is the manager—on Saturday, March 11th, the prisoner with another man came in and called for a glass of ale and a pony of Burton, the price of which is 2d. for the two—the prisoner put down this 2s. piece (Produced) and I gave them the beer and 1s. 10d. change—I put the 2s. piece on the Cox's till in a separate compartment—I did not notice anything about it at the time—half an hour afterwards they came again and Mr. Roberts served them—I saw him put a florin on the Cox's till, which I saw him afterwards take off and test—while he was doing that the two men went out of the house—after Mr. Roberts had tested it he jumped over the bar, and came back in a
few moments and said they had gone away too quick—directly he jumped over the bar he said to me, "You had better look and see if you have not taken a wrong 'un"—I went to the till and took off the coin which was found to be a bad one—I gave a description to the police of the man who had passed it, and I went to Bow Street police station, where I identified the prisoner as the man from about ten to fifteen people.
GEORGE JOHN BEARD . I am a barman at the Marlborough Head—I was on duty serving there on March 21st, about 6.45 p.m., when the prisoner came in and asked for a glass of ale, which I gave him—he paid me with this 2s. piece (Produced) which I examined—in consequence of what I saw, I called up the guv'nor, Mr. Chapman—it is a bad coin—I did not give him any change.
EDWARD JAMES CHAPMAN . I keep the Marlborough Head in Drury Lane—on March 21st Beard, who is my potman, brought a florin to me—we examined it, and found it was bad—I saw the prisoner in the house, and asked him if he had any more counterfeit coins—he said that he had not, and I asked him if he had sufficient money to pay for the ale, and he gave me a penny—I then went for a constable and found one pretty handy—before fetching the constable I asked the prisoner where he had got the coin from, and he said he had been working at Chamberlain's Wharf.
GEORGE YATES (117 E.) About 6.45 p.m. on March 21st I was called to the Marlborough Head, Drury Lane—I went there and saw the prisoner and Mr. Chapman, who told me in the prisoner's presence that he had had a bad florin tendered to him by the prisoner—I asked the prisoner if he had any more, and he replied, "No"—I asked him where he had got that one, and he said, "I have been paid with it to-day by a clerk in Chamberlain's Wharf, Borough; that and a sixpence for five hours, work"—I took him to the station—on the way he said nothing—he was charged with this one uttering, to which he made no reply—I did not see him identified—I heard him charged with uttering bad florins twice on the same day at the Roebuck, and I did not hear him say anything in reply—he did not deny he was there—I found on him 1d. and a brass key.
ARTHUR AMOS . I am foreman at Chamberlain's Wharf, Tooley Street, Borough, and am responsible for the employment of the men, and they are all under me—I know the prisoner—he was not in the employment of Chamberlain's Wharf in March—I have been there eight years, and I think it must be eleven months or two years ago since he was there—a clerk gives the men a ticket and I take them to get the money for their work—his name was not in the book, and as he had not got a ticket he would not get any money—I am there every day and I know every man who is there—three days of the week I do not take the men.
By the COURT. I am sure he was not there on March 21st or the day before—a man could not have done five hours' work there without my knowing it.
WILLIAM JOHN WEBSTER . I am Inspector of Coins at His Majesty's Mint—I have examined these three coins and find them to be counterfeit—they are all from the same mould—I have seen as many as forty or fifty coins made from the same mould—the number depends on the maker's
ability—a bad maker would not get anything like that number—I do not know what the exact full number is that you can get from a mould.
The prisoner's statement before the Magistrate: "I know nothing about the two florins at the Roebuck, and I was there last Monday when Mr. Roberts served me."
GUILTY . Three previous convictions were proved against him. Fifteen months' hard labour.
MR. WILKINSON Prosecuted; MR. PURCELL Defended.
MICHEL DINERSTEIN . I carry on business as a money exchanger at 13, Brick Lane, Spitalfields—on 'March 22nd I was with my father in the office when at 8.45 p.m. the prisoner came in and put these five roubles (Produced) on the table and asked my father to exchange them for 2s. each—the price is 1s. 11d., and we offered him 1s. 10d.—we looked at the coins and on examination we found them to be lighter than they ought to have been, and that they were bad—we sent for a policeman and when he came we told him that two mens had been in on the Saturday and exchanged three bad coins—we told him that the roubles were bad after the policeman had come, and he said that it was good money—we asked him where he had got them from, and he said they were given to him by a man who had left London—we wanted to lock him up and he said to my father, "You have not lost hundreds of pounds; you have only lost 6s. I will give you back the 6s. and you let me go"—he showed us 6s., but my father would not take it—the policeman took the roubles from his hands—when he offered us the 6s. we had not said anything about the amount of the coins that had been exchanged on the Saturday before.
Cross-examined. My father and I were standing together, and he put the roubles in front of us—Russian roubles are made of silver—my father looked at them and then offered him 1s. 10d.—I have been in the money exchanging business about five months—I have recently come from Russia—I was not a money changer there—my father has been in London nine years, but he has been a money changer only eight months—we offered him 1s. 10d. only to keep him waiting for a minute—I was not in the office when the two mens came in the Saturday before, and my father is not sure that the prisoner was one of them—my father was not at the Police Court—it was after we told him about that that he paid, "You have not lost hundreds of pounds"—one rouble was lying on the table, and the other four the policeman took from his hands.
Re-examined. We knew the coins were bad when we offered him 1s. 10d.—it was only to get time to bring in an officer that we bargained with him.
By the COURT. We did not Say that we had lost 6s. over it on the Saturday before; we told him we had lost money by exchanging for bad money.
DAVIS DINERSTEIN (Interpreted). I am a money changer—on the night of March 22nd I was in the office with my son when the prisoner came in—I spoke to him myself—the conversation was carried on in Yiddish—he put the roubles on the counter—I offered him 1s. 10d. which is below the exchanged price, because I saw they were bad, and I wanted to gain time to call a policeman—when somebody went for a Policeman I asked him where he had got the money from, and he said, This is my money"—I told him it was bad money, and asked him where he had got it, and he said from somebody who had left England—I told him that I had been cheated once before with bad roubles on the Saturday evening—then the policeman came in, and asked me what I had lost—then the prisoner said, "You have not lost hundreds of pounds only 6s., and I will repay you"—he wanted to pay me 6s., counting the money out in the policeman's presence but I did not take it—I did not mention the amount; I simply said I had been cheated on the Saturday before.
By the COURT. Various people pay different sums for roubles—cook & Son pay 1s. 10d. and we pay 1s. 11d.—paper roubles pass current for 2s. 1d., but silver roubles have more value.
Cross-examined. I did not give an answer when the policeman asked me what the loss was—the prisoner did not ask me that—I said I should lose by this bad money being passed on me—I did not tell the policeman "I had three like these passed to me last Saturday"—I was not at the Police Court.
EDWARD BELL (317 H.) About 9 p.m. on March 22nd I was called to the office of Mr. Dinerstein—I went there and saw the prisoner—Mr. Dinerstein showed me these five counterfeit roubles (Produced), which I afterwards marked in his presence—I can see my marks now—I searched the prisoner in Mr. Dinerstein's office, and I found 5s. 6d. in English money, 11d. in coppers, and a groschen, a small Russian coin—I took him to the station, where the charge was interpreted to him—the interpreter is not here—when seeing Mr. Dinerstein in his office I did not notice anybody waiting outside—Michel Dinerstein was present when the prisoner was charged, and he could hear all that was said.
Cross-examined. There are a lot of people in Brick Lane—there were people walking by the shop.
MICHEL DINERSTEIN (Re-examined). I was present when the prisoner was charged—my father did not go with me—I preferred the charge—I heard the charge of attempting to change bad money interperted to him, and he said at first that he was very sorry and did not know the man who gave him the money, but afterwards he said to the interpreter, "I am very sorry; I have been in another exchange office, and the man told me it is bad roubles, and I should not change them, but I did not listen to him."
Cross-examined. They would not deceive me simply on account of their weight.
The prisoner, in his defence, on oath, said that while coming home from work he met a countryman of his, who asked him to change the roubles at 2s. a time, because he being a "greener" could get more for them than his friend, who had been some time in London; that in changing them he did not know they were bad; that Mr. Dinerstein had told him to refund him 6s. of which he had been defrauded the Saturday before; that he had not been to another money changing office that day, nor had he told the interpreter so; and that he did not say that the man from whom he had the money had left London. He received a good character whilst in England.
GUILTY . Four months hard labour.
OLD COURT.—Tuesday, April 4th, 1905.
Before Mr. Justice Jelf.
MR. MUIR, MR. BODKIN, MR. LEYCESTER and MR. SYMMONS Prosecuted;
MR. A. HUTTON and MR. CURTIS BENNETT Defended.
EMMA AMSDEN . I am a widow—my husband died last April—the deceased was my daughter—she was sixteen on August 8th, 1904—I first became acquainted with the prisoner when ho came to my hotel in August, 1902—I and my husband were then keeping an hotel at Aylesbury—the prisoner came to stay there, at first as an ordinary visitor—my daughter and my husband were then living with me—the prisoner did not stop long—he went away to a farm or somewhere for a little while to his relations—he came back and said ho had had a row with his father, and wished to stay at the hotel a little longer—that was a week or a fortnight after he first came—when he came back he told me he was going to pay me for what he had had, but he never did—he became manager of the hotel about one month afterwards, I think—my husband did not leave me—he wont away on a visit because his health was very bad—he went about a fortnight before the prisoner came—when he first came my husband was on a visit—we had not separated—I was allowing him so much a week—he came back several times, but I do not think ho ever stayed after the prisoner came—he only came on a visit in the day time—he knew the prisoner was manager, and told me to turn him out—he objected to his being there—I turned the prisoner out, and gave him his money the same evening, but he came back again—he would not go, and did not go—he remained there as long as I did, and longer—I left by myself I think, on November 21st, 1902—the house was sold—I had some rooms in Liverpool Road, Holloway—my daughter went with me—my husband stayed with his relations in the country—the prisoner came to my rooms a few days afterwards—he came to get some work, lie told me—he stayed at my rooms about a week—I had my own money—I had no business
there—after that I took a business at Holloway, I think, in February, 1903—the prisoner, in the interval, had been getting money from my daughter unbeknown to me—he was not at work at that time—he was living at the same place as I was—my daughter had money—she was fourteen and a half then—the prisoner became my manager at the corn shop I took in Hornsey Road, Holloway—that was the business which was opened in February—I lived at the shop, and the prisoner also—that went on for not more than three months—I sold the business and took a boarding house at Central Hill, Upper Norwood-my daughter went there with me—the prisoner had got a berth down there at the time—he came to my house as my lodger—it was about May or June, 1903, that we went there—while there in July I discovered that my daughter was in the family way—the prisoner said he had asked her to get married at Easter, and she refused because it was Lent—they were married on September 2nd, 1903, by licence, and went to live at Arundel Square, Highbury, I remaining at Norwood—they were there only a fortnight because the prisoner got out of work—my daughter came home to me, and the prisoner followed and lived in my house for a few weeks—he left, and she remained with me till after her baby was born—the prisoner went to his people, but they would not have him, so he came back to my place—he was in the house when the baby was born, which was, I think, in October, and about a month after they were married—the baby lived for three days—my husband came back, and he would not have the prisoner in my house—my husband was living with me at the time the baby was born—the prisoner smashed my home up before the baby was born, and he left about a fortnight afterwards—my husband had him locked up—my daughter remained with me after he had gone, until I sold my home up, which was, I think, in October—my daughter and I then went to Uxbridge, and then to Oxford without my husband or hers—we remained there three or four weeks—there was a man named Hopkins there—he was a soldier on furlough—I did not know him before—he came to the hotel where we were visiting—I then took some furnished rooms at 41, Stafford Street, High Street Marylebone—my daughter went there too—Hopkins called there on one or two occasions—the house was kept by a Mrs. Cheeswright—Hopkins never slept there—I did not know the terms he was on with my daughter—I remained there for five or six weeks, and then went to Chesterton Road—I saw the prisoner at Christmas, when he came to Oxford—that is why I left suddenly—we were at Uxbridge for a few weeks—we went to Oxford for Christmas—there was no quarrel when the prisoner came there—I met him, and he was very drunk—he did not see my daughter—he did not come to Stafford Street—we went to Chesterton Road about February, 1904—we were there six months—my daughter was with me there nearly all the time—Hopkins was in the habit of coming there, and he took a room in the same house because I had not got accommodation for him—I had three rooms—he only came there perhaps twice a week, and used it when he came—a friend of his used to come there—while we were there the prisoner came one Saturday, I think about May—Hopkins had just called in that afternoon
and was present—there was a quarrel between him and the prisoner—they came to blows—after that I did not see any more of the prisoner while we were there—my daughter went back to him in May or June for nearly a week—they were staying at some cottage, I do not exactly know where, so she came home again—he was working on a farm—she went back to him ever so many times, but usually stayed only a week, and then came back to me—from Chesterton Road I went to Shepherd's Bush—my daughter went down to my husband's relations—I still live at Shepherd's Bush—I have not always been at the same address there, because the prisoner found us out—he came to Burnham House—he did not come to Richmond Gardens—he went to our late landlord, and said he was a police officer, and told him he would have to tell him where we were—my daughter eventually went to stay with him at Wealdstone—I think that was a little before last Christmas—the prisoner stayed at my house last October or November for a night at a time—he was working at a farm, Mr. Hall's, I think he said—he came and spent Christmas with us, and my daughter went back with him afterwards—she stayed there with him for eight or nine days—I think he left his work on February 4th, but she left him before that, about February 1st—she came to my house by herself—I was then lodging in Selgrave Road, Shepherds Bush—she stayed there with me one night—the prisoner found us out again, and said he would stay in my house—I would not have him, so I took them a room in Netherwood Road—I remained in Selgrave Road—I was intending to move—I have a sister named Mrs. Alcock, who lives at 31, Shouldham Street, Marylebone—I sent my daughter's luggage there from my house, because she sent it to me, and I would not have it—I had arranged to take a fresh lodging with my daughter without the prisoner—she said she would not keep him, but she would keep herself—he was out of work, and said he was going to Harrow to see if he could get some—it was not settled if he was to go or not, but my daughter was to have moved on the 9th to her new lodgings, which I took on the 8th at John Street, Edgware Road—the prisoner said that would be near his work, as he could go by train to Harrow—I did not see the prisoner on Tuesday, February 7th, but on Wednesday I first saw him about 7.45 a.m., and I saw him at Mrs. Alcock's between 12 and 1 midday—I engaged a man who moved my daughter's things to her Edgware Road lodgings on the Wednesday—I do not know who he was—that morning my daughter and the prisoner were not on very good terms—he said he was going to look for work, but did not go—that made my daughter angry—after that there was no quarrelling—that was between 12 and 1—in the evening we were all at Mrs. Alcock's—there was Mrs. Alcock, myself, my daughter, the prisoner, a man named Murrell, and Mrs. Alcock's two daughters, aged eleven and thirteen—we all had supper there about 9 o'clock—the prisoner had supper with us—he seemed all right then—I thought we were all going back to Shepherd's Bush together—we were all quite sober—after supper the prisoner laid on the sofa—he seemed as though he was going to sleep—I said to my daughter, "Come along, let us get back to Shepherd's Bush, I am tired," and she got up to get her things—the prisoner lay on the sofa for about half an
hour—he joined in the conversation during that time if anybody spoke to him, but not unless—I did not notice anything at all out of the way—Mrs. Alcock was on the bed, lying down outside the clothes, and partly dressed—I did not see my daughter on the bed at all; she was nursing the cats on a chair in front of the fire—that is the last time I saw her alive—it was then 9.30 or 9.45—I did not see Murrel on the bed at all, I did not see any familiarities or improprieties between him and my daughter that night—he always treated her at a child—he was a barman and a friend of my sister's—I told my sister I would put her youngest girl to bed, and I went into the next room to do so—I told my daughter to put her things on before I left the room—I was going home as soon as I had put the child to bed—while I was in the next room I heard my sister scream, and then I heard my daughter say, "Oh, Ma, he has done it"—I rushed back to the room where they were, and saw my sister and my daughter on the floor—my daughter was bleeding from her neck—I did not notice the prisoner until the police and the doctor came—I then saw him on the sofa—I did not think my daughter was dead when the police and doctors came, but she was—I did not see how the prisoner got on to the sofa—I did not see if he was bleeding from the neck—I was afterwards shown a razor—I did not see it found—this is it (Produced)—I know it because it belonged to my husband—I am quite sure it is the same razor—when my husbands things came up from the country there were three razors in the box, and this was one of them—my daughter asked if she could have the box containing the razors, and I said I did not want it.—she had it and several other things—my husband was dead then—he died on April 15th, 1904—I last saw the razor when the things came up from the country—my daughter took a lot of things when she went back to live with the prisoner—I gave them to her at Christmas time, 1904—the prisoner fetched all her things to Wealdstone when I sent her things to Mrs. Alcock's—I am not sure if that box was amongst them because I did not unpack them—it would be inside another box—I have looked at her things since she died—there was nothing among them which had belonged to my husband—everything had gone—I knew that my daughter was in the family way at the time she died.
Cross-examined. When the prisoner first came to my hotel he came down without a ticket—I do sot know how he got through, but he did, and he smashed a chandelier and had his hand cut—he did not tell me that he had gone to sleep in the train and had been compelled to get out at Aylesbury—my husband was not in the hotel the first night he came—the following day ho went on to his people—he returned on a Saturday and stayed about half an hour—he came again about a week or fortnight afterwards—it was not agreed between us that he should come, I did not know that he was coming—it came to me as a great surprise—he did not bring any luggage then—he only stayed a week and then went away again—he went up to Hackney and stayed a week or fortnight—he stayed at the hotel for about two months before it was sold—when he came he did not tell me that he had £300 or £400—he told me that he had let his father or brother have some money—he did not tell me that he had
received a cheque from the Government for £75 for his pay while in South Africa—while he stayed in the hotel he did not pay me a halfpenny—he got about £60 from me altogether—I paid him two £5 cheques—I banked at Prescott's, at Aylesbury—when I came to London I had it removed to the Regent Street Branch. I closed my banking account altogether last year, and have not had one since—while the prisoner was at my hotel he did not give me £300 or £400 to take care of for him—I never paid into the bank any money that he gave me—he never spent any money on me—he never gave me a bracelet, and I did not pawn it at Shepherd's Bush a week before my daughter's death—he never gave me or my daughter a thing—before my hotel was sold I wanted to get rid of the prisoner—I did not want him to stay there, but he would not go away—I gave him his money as manager on two or three occasions, but he came back—I did not go to the police, my husband came several times while he was there, but he could not get rid of him—I took a corn shop at Chapel Street, that was a place the prisoner was going to manage for me—I only paid the rent and bought the stock—I opened it myself—the prisoner did not find the money to start it with—he managed it—I knew he had been in the corn business before—while he was managing it he was living in the house with my daughter, during the time I wanted to get rid of him, but could not—I had him locked up once for smashing my home, and knocking everything about in my shop—he did not knock me about—he was smashing the overmantles, and a man came down from upstairs, and the prisoner kicked him—I do not know the man, and the man did not know my daughter—the prisoner went away—my daughter paid his fine—I think he had 5s. to pay—I was there—I am not quite sure if the Magistrate dismissed the case; he has been locked up so many times—the Magistrate did not dismiss the case, because I was drunk—I have never been drunk in my life—I remember going to the Marylebone Police Court on the remand in this case on February 28th, and being taken into custody for being drunk, but I was not drunk—I do not know if the Magistrate ordered me into custody for being drunk—I was not a little overcome by drink—the Magistrate kept me in custody through the inspector—I was perfectly sober—I had had a little brandy that morning—I remember seeing a doctor—he agreed with the inspector and the Magistrate simply because I would not put my tongue out, and do what they asked me—on a former occasion when the prisoner was taken up for assault the Magistrate said I was drunk, because I would not lift my veil up—when I was locked up on February 28th Mrs. Alcock was locked up too, but she was perfectly sober—I had seen her that morning, it was only a got up affair—Mrs. Alcock does dressmaking for Mrs. Lever—she is a widow—my corn shop failed in a little while, and the prisoner then went to Messrs. Hood & Moore, corn dealers, at 25s. a week, and from there to Lyons in—Kensington—from that—time—till the marriage—I—did—not know that he was carrying on with my daughter; I had not the slightest idea of it—I do not know that he was very much upset before the marriage by her light behaviour—I heard that he attempted to commit suicide before the marriage, but I did not
know that it was through her—I think that was in April—he said it was through him having the sack from Hood & Moore—he had been living with us off and on for a year—he never carried on with me at Aylesbury or at any time—he stayed with us because he wanted money, that was all; because we had money, and I wish we never had—he was getting money from my daughter unbeknown to me—he got about £60 from her before he married her—he had a banking account in the Post Office—he used to ask her for money and say he would give it to her back, but he never did—she continued to give him money after the marriage as long as I would find it—he bothered her and me for money and was always sending letters taking for money, but I never saw them—I consented to the marriage because the prisoner said it would be all right afterwards—I described myself in her marriage certificate as a widow because I had not heard from my husband for a long time—I did not know that it was untrue—I knew my daughter had then just turned fifteen—I do not know if she was described in the certificate as seventeen—I did not see it—I was not asked her age by the person who married them—I signed the certificate, but I did not read it—the marriage was at a church—I had not to sign a paper saying how old my daughter was—I did not say at the marriage that she was seventeen, nor that I was a widow, in order that the marriage could take place—the prisoner told me afterwards that he had said she was seventeen—I swear that I never said anything about my daughter's age at the church—when we were at Oxford the prisoner sent for my daughter to go and stay with him—when we went to Chesterton Road I knew the prisoner had our address—he was doing six weeks' imprisonment at Oxford then—he was not doing it because he stole £6 to send to my daughter I had plenty of money—ho stole £6 from his sister—he did not send £5. of it to my daughter—he bought a coffee stall and spent it all—he said his father would give him £5, but he never did—my daughter said the prisoner sent £5—the only letter I saw from him to her was when he sent her 2s.—I cannot say if she received a great number of letters from him—I had a flat of four rooms with my daughter—if there were any letters for her she kept them—she read them first if they were for me—I did not read them afterwards—he never gave her £5—I first knew Hopkins when we were staying at Oxford, a twelve month last Christmas—he was a corporal then and used to come to my house in uniform—sometimes he was with my daughter—I never saw this letter from him: "Caterham Dearest Gwen,—Your welcome letter to hand this morning, for which accept many thanks. Did her get the hump because I hadn't written, and is she getting jealous? Well, you may, for I far away prefer Miss Simpson, and the quicker you get a divorce the better we shall be pleased you know the divorce I mean. If I were you I should stay where you are for a bit, or at least till they give you a hint to go, for there you are among friends and safe, besides saving your money and I mine. If you are bent on leaving, you shall come to Aldershot as soon as I get there. I saw Cowley last night; at least, he came to barracks to fetch a pair of boots I promised him and to get a pint. I treated him to the whiskey and soda; he hasn't treated me since. I knew him and I asked
him if he would have you down there for a month or two and he said they would be only too pleased. You see, the reason I asked him was that when I leave England I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that you are in good hands and I should also know where to write to for certain, and where nobody could come and worry you, for no one need know where you were except Cato's, and they wouldn't tell anyone. It may be another six weeks before I can get away, but all in good time. Slow but sure, you know, like the tortoise and the hare (not the one you eat). It is a good job you haven't heard from home; they will do you no good and don't want you. Have you got your clothes with you? If not, get them so that if you come with me to Aldershot, or when you come down here your mother won't know where you are. Get everything were you are now, and if I were you I would cut myself off from her altogether and have nothing whatever to do with her. She has lost all claim of mother to you, and besides, being known to all the people of Trying for what she really is, they won't think one quarter of you so much as if you kept away from her. Perhaps as you haven't heard from her she has done what she told me she would do; that is, take a flat in the West End If so, she won't let you know where she is. I wish that I was with you to-night just to celebrate November 9th, 1902. Now mind and be careful of your money and not spend it in waste, as you never know what might happen"—I never saw this letter: "Caterham, 28.11.04. My dear Owen,—Thanks very much for your long letter, which I received this afternoon, so I expect it is a day and a half post. It's a bad job about you, don't you think so, quickly getting rid of all the good things I give you, so if it occurs again 1 shan't give you any more (mind that). I have quite made up my mind to do what I told you, but I don't know when it will come off, not before I get a month's leave so as to get clear. I don't know yet when I go to Aldershot; sometime yet, I expect, as the superintendent is still on leave. I don't expect your ma will come down and kick up a row; if she does I would take no notice of her, and not see her. Ethel Kingham would be your sister in-law, not cousin. I am glad you are happy down there, but are you still looking out for a job? Don't forget, my girl, if ever you get into trouble of any description come at once to me, don't matter where I am, and I will look after you. Don't you sometimes wish I were with you in the bed? It looks a bit fishy about that key, doesn't it? but never mind, old girl, it'll all come out in the wash. Did anyone notice that regimental envelope? it was the only one I could find. I thought you had forsaken mo when I did not get a letter yesterday, but it is better late than never, isn't it, my love? Let me have a letter by return or I shall be worrying about you. I must shut up now, so with ever fondest love I remain, Yours for ever and ever, Topsy"—Hopkins did not come to my house for me—I never saw a regimental letter come—I never know that Hopkins was corresponding with my daughter—they did not sleep together while we were at Mrs. Cheeswright's—Mrs. Marsden did not see them in bed together—my daughter slept with me—Hopkins never slept in that house—the prisoner did not appear to be very fond of my daughter after the
marriage—he said he wanted to get rid of her, and he had got another girl he wanted to marry—he was always telling my daughter so—sometimes he appeared to be fond of her and at other times he would tell her she could go—that is the reason she left him—he wanted to go off with g woman he knew, before he went to South Africa—he did not go off with her because my daughter had money—I think he did go off with another woman when we gave him the slip from Chesterton Road, because my daughter saw him in Edgware Road with another girl—he used to like coming to my house so that he could steal what he could—while they were living together they disliked each other—I said at the Police Court, "I think the prisoner was fond of my daughter; when living together they were not always on good terms"—that is correct—I also said, "One of the causes of the quarrels was because she came to my house"—I would not have either of them there—I said nothing about the other woman at the Police Court—they would not let me speak there—they told me to be quiet—Mr. Freke Palmer would not let me speak—I did not tell the prisoner on February 8th that he would have to clear out, but I did not think it was right for him to be there—I did not say I had a friend coming—a friend was coming—I said we would all have supper together and then go home—my daughter did not say, referring to the prisoner, "Take him out, leave him somewhere and then come back here"—the prisoner had not the previous night gone and pawned something to pay my sister's fine—I found the money—he pawned the thing? for his own convenience—my sister was fined and I paid it—I do not think the prisoner gave my sister the pawn ticket, but I am not quite sure—I do not remember coming in the train from Shepherd's Bush on February 10th, we have been up so many times—I was in the train that day and every day—I cannot say if I saw my sister that day—I remember the tragedy—I hardly know if I remember the day afterwards, I had too much business to do—I do not know if I had any conversation with my sister, I was too much worried—she did not say to me, "If Percy gets better and talks about you and Gwennie both living with him, there will be something serious happen"—and I did not say, "We will contradict everything he says"—I do not remember anything of the sort being said.
SARAH ALCOCK . I am a widow, now living at 7, Howel Street, but in February I lived at 31, Shouldham Street—I am Mrs. Amsden's sister—I have known the prisoner and his wife for some time—I knew them before they were married—I remember seeing the prisoner some time before February, when he showed me some letters—it was on a Wednesday, but I cannot remember the date—I was then at 31, Shouldham Street—I did not read them—my daughter read them out to me—they were from Hopkins to the deceased—there was something about a bed in one of the letters, and the prisoner said it was a nice thing to have letters like that written to his wife—he put them into his pocket again—he did not tell me what he was going to do with them—I did not mention the incident to my sister, only to the deceased—on Monday, February 6th, I saw the prisoner and his wife and my sister at my house—they were not on friendly terms—Gwennie
and her mother quarrelled—I did not trouble what they were quarrelling about—Gwennie and her husband came on the Tuesday—nobody quarrelled on that day—I had some of Gwennie's things brought to my house on the Monday night from my sister's—they were to go on to their new lodgings—on the Monday night I took a razor out of the luggage—I only saw the one, it was on top of somethings—I put it at the back of my ornaments on my mantelpiece—I saw no more of it until after the occurrence—I did not notice it, so I cannot be sure if this is the one (Produced)—it had a black handle—on the Wednesday evening we were altogether in my front room, my sister, her daughter and the prisoner—Mr. Murrell came about 7—everybody stopped to supper, which we had about 10 or a little before—we all had supper together—my two little girls were there—after supper my sister took one of them into the back room to put her to bed—I said to them all, that they would have to go as it was getting late, and, "Good-night to you; I feel tired and want to go to bed"—my sister then went out of the door to put the child to bed—I did not hear her say anything to her daughter about putting her things on—Gwennie was sitting by the fireplace, and I was lying on the bed with my clothes on—the deceased got up and went to the door and stood in the corner—I got up to open the door—the prisoner stood in the corner against the door—Gwennie was going out—I was behind her—she reached over the bedstead to get her fur—she said, "Oh, let me get my fur, auntie"—as she reached over the prisoner got hold of her by her right arm with, I think, both hands, and pulled her towards him to the door and said, "come along, my duck"—he put his arm round her neck, held her face up and kissed her—I saw him kissing her and heard it also, loudly—I was standing close behind her—she turned round to me and gave a little scream and said, "Oh, ma, he has done it"—I never saw anything in his hand—I looked at her—she had her head down like that (Indicating)—I asked her what was the matter—her face looked dark—I caught her as she came round towards me—she looked as if she was going to fall—I shook her and said, "What is the matter with you?"—I thought the prisoner had stabbed her—I looked for some blood—as she fell in my arms I said, "What is the matter, Gwennie? Tell me, quick" and she held up her head and showed me a cut in her throat—blood came all over the door, everywhere, and over me as she held her head up to show me—the effect upon me was that I did not remember any more, as I fainted—I did not have time, before I fainted, to notice what the prisoner was doing—when I came to, my room was full of policemen—I had been there all day—there was no impropriety between the deceased and Murrell—I think she sat on the bed talking to me a little while, playing with her kittens—Murrell was then a little distance away, also talking to me—they were not on the bed together—the night before I had a little trouble about having had too much to drink—I was taken to the Police Court and next day was fined 2s. 6d.—the prisoner bad been in on the morning of the 8th to get some of the deceaseds things, which he pawned, and said it was to pay my fine in case a fine had to be paid—I paid the fine—I got the money from my sister.
Cross-examined. I had plenty of opportunity of seeing the prisoner with his wife—in my opinion, from first to last he appeared to be very fond of her, and as far as she was concerned, he seemed to be of an affectionate disposition—he read me bits of Hopkins' letters to his wife—that was about a fortnight before the deceased's death—I thought he appeared to be very much upset and terribly distressed about it—the deceased had told me she was in the family way—she said she was not certain if it was by Hopkins or her husband—the prisoner said that even then, he was so fond of her, that if she would come back to him, he would forgive her and make her a happy home—sometimes her mother wanted her to go back to him and sometimes not to—I do not remember a quarrel between the prisoner and his wife on the 7th—there may have been one, because the mother was trying to prevent her daughter going back to the prisoner—the prisoner told me that he had found other letters written by Hopkins—I knew that the prisoner had attempted suicide before and that he had thrashed Hopkins on one occasion—he was fined for that—Hopkins went and told the police—that was on account of the attention Hopkins was paying to his wife—I did not know the prisoner when he was at Galesburg—the deceased told me that her mother and the prisoner were on intimate terms before the marriage—when the corn chandler's shop was opened at King's Cross the deceased's mother and the prisoner were living together as man and wife, and I have, seen them in bed together at 61, Central Hill, Norwood—I have heard that Hopkins took the rooms at Chesterton Road for my sister—I have heard the deceased called "Mrs. Hopkins" while she and her mother were living there—I do not know if she was known there by any other name—I did not see Hopkins thee, but I did the deceased, and her mother—the mother was living there when the deceased was called "Mrs. Hopkins"—I do not know if another man known as a cigarette maker was living there with the mother, but the deceased told me he came and lived there with her mother—I remember on February 10th coming up in the train with my sister from Shepherd's Bush, when I said, "If Percy gets better and talks about you and Gwennie both living with him, there will be something serious happen, "and she said, "We will contradict everything he says"—when the police came into my room after the murder I was not lying on the bed in my chemise the worse for drink—I had not had anything to drink that night.
JAMES MURRELL . I am a barman at the Star and Garter, New Cross Road—on February 8th I was at Mrs. Alcock's at 31, Shouldham Street—I had supper there—Mrs. Amsden, Mrs. Alcock, and the prisoner and his wife were there—the prisoner had supper with us—I had never met him before—I had met all the others before—he was sober—none of us were the worse for drink—after supper the others got ready to go home—when they were ready and about to leave the room, I was winding up the clock on the mantelpiece—the door was behind me—I heard a shriek—I turned round and saw, the deceased and Mrs. Alcock fall to the floor together—I could only see that the prisoner was standing there—he was within an
arm's length of where the others fell—I could not see what they were doing at the time—I turned round to pick the deceased up—I saw the prisoner was cutting his own throat—I could not see what he was using—he fell forwards on to the sofa and laid there quite still—some one fetched the police, who came up almost immediately—before supper I had been sitting on the bed with one of the children, talking to Mrs. Alcock—I did not lie on the bed that night—I did not see the deceased on the bed at all—I was not at any time lying on the bed with her—there was no act of familiarity or impropriety between us—I only shook hands with her when she came in.
Cross-examined. While I was sitting on the bed the deceased was near the window—she did not come near the bed at all while I was there—I remember her talking about a pawn ticket, but I do not remember whether it was said that it fell down the neck of her dress—I remember her saying she had lost the return half of her railway ticket, but I do not remember her saying that it had slipped down her dress—I do not remember her opening her dress to see if it was there—I remember Mrs. Amsden saying she had taken a room for her daughter at the corner of John Street—she said she wanted her daughter to live there, and she did not want the prisoner to know it—he was in the room at the time and must have heard it—I remember him saying to his wife, "Come on, dear, let us be happy"—that was when he wanted her to come away with him—she said she would not go, and he appeared to be very worried, and very much distressed—this was about ten minutes before I heard the shriek.
FREDERICK COOPER (31 D.R.) On February 8th, about 10.20 p.m., I was called to 31, Shouldham Street—I went up to Mrs. Alcock's room and found the prisoner lying just inside the room with his throat cut, end the deceased half lying and half sitting in an armchair near the window on the opposite side of the room from the fireplace, also with her throat cut—they both appeared to be unconscious—I had sent for a doctor before I entered the house and Dr. Williams arrived about ten minutes after I got there, and shortly afterwards Dr. Spurgin arrived—we had some trouble bringing the prisoner back to consciousness—I had torn a pillow slip off the bed and bandaged him—we had to resort to artificial respiration—it took about forty-five minutes—I then took him to St. Mary's Hospital—before I left the room I found this razor—when we raised the prisoner it was lying under his left arm on the sofa—it was covered with blood—I found on him these four letters (Produced)—they are not all in the same writing—they are dated May 20th, October 28th, November 9th and 29th, 1904—I did not find the other letters found amongst the deceased's luggage.
ROBERT THOROLD WILLIAMS . I am a registered medical practitioner, of 10, Upper Dorset Street—about 10.30 p.m. on February 8th I was called to 31, Shouldham Street, where I saw the deceased half sitting, half lying, at the window—she was then dead—the prisoner was lying on a sofa by the door—they both had severe wounds in their throats, such as might be caused by this razor—in about forty-five minutes we brought the prisoner round—he was taken to the hospital and the deceased's
body to the mortuary—I afterwards made a post-mortem examination—the cause of death was bleeding from the blood vessels of the right side of her neck, severance of the wind-pipe, and syncope and from lose of blood, due to the wound on the right side of her neck—death would have been almost instantaneous—I found she was three months gone.
Cross-examined. The prisoner's wound was really serious—a most determined attempt had been made by him to take his life—I should say that he would have died if I had not arrived when I did.
Cross-examined. When I examined the prisoner there was no pulsation of the heart, and no breathing—it was only by artificial respiration that he was brought round—it had to be kept up or fifteen or thirty minutes.
ARTHUR SUMMERS . (47 d.) I was one of the constables in charge of the prisoner at St. Mary's Hospital—on the early morning of February 9th he said, "I know everything I have done; I am glad I did it. I did it to save her from going on the streets. There was another man there to sleep with her. They tried to get me away, but I would not go, so I cut her throat with a razor and my own too. I am very sorry I am not also dead. Her mother is the cause of it all."
CHARLES FIELD (335 d.) I was one of the three constables detailed to look after the prisoner in St. Mary's Hospital—I began duty at 2 p.m. on February 9th—about fifteen minutes later he said, "I suppose you know the cause of all this. There was a man there who they said was a publican, and he kept on playing about with my wife. I tried all I could to get her to go home with me, but she would not go. I am glad she is gone I would sooner see her dead than see her leading the life her mother is leading; she is the cause of it all"—on February 18th, about 6.30 a.m., he said, "Did you see what the papers said about the inquest, where she said I was always drunk or mad, and that we were always having rows? We never scarcely had a cross word the whole time we were married. And about me always being out of work, it is a lot of lies. I hope I shall have a chance to show her up. I never had Id. off my wife.
HENRY HARWOOD (282 d.) I was one of the constables watching the prisoner in the hospital—on February 13th, at 3.30 p.m., he said, "The reason I killed her was because I did not want to see her on the streets. If I had known I was not going to die, I should have served the mother the same, because she was the cause of her going wrong"—about 9 p.m. the same night he said, "My wife was rolling on the bed with that publican while I was en the sofa, and that was more than I could stand, and there is a soldier who has been very thick with her"—on February 14th, about 4.30 p.m., he said, "I told the old woman the same morning, that I should swing for her, and I got the razors in the afternoon"—on the 15th, about 6.30 p.m., he said, "I should like to tell old mother Henderson what I think of her, and then drop down. I should be satisfied"—on the 19th, at 7.30 p.m., he said that her mother allowed her to sleep
with him months before they were married, and it was his firm belief that she killed the baby three days after it was born—I understood the "she" to be the deceased's mother.
Cross-examined. The prisoner was very weak at first—he did not sometimes whisper or mutter so that I had difficulty in following what he was saying—he was very chatty; ho used to talk a lot—I was there alone and used to write down what he said a few minutes after he said it—he was not delirious—I remember the doctor visiting him while I was there—the doctor did not say he was delirious while I was there—I have won a delirious person—the prisoner was very quiet and apparently good tempered.
JOHN KANE (Detective-Inspector D.) On February 13th I was present at the inquest on the deceased at the Coroner's Court—on February 21st at 11 a.m. I saw the prisoner in bed at St. Mary's Hospital—I told him I was Detective-Inspector Kane of the D Division, and that I had come to arrest him for the wilful murder of his wife, and for attempting to take his own life on the night of February 8th at 31, Shouldham Street, Marylebone—he made no answer—I conveyed him in a cab to John Street police station, where I charged him with both offences—the charge was read over to him and he made no reply—on the way to the police station he said quite voluntarily, "Anything I have done wrong for the past two years has been all owing to Mrs. Amsden, my wife's mother. I am not at all sorry for what I have done, and I shall be glad when it is all over."
Cross-examined. I have seen all the letters written by the prisoner to his wife, but I have not read them all—I have been through them—I do not find any request in them on his part to get money from his wife or her mother—I noticed that they all commenced and ended in a most affectionate manner—I have caused inquiries to be made about him—I find that while he was employed at Harrow he was in regular work and gained a good character there—he was there for nearly a year—he was now and again addicted to drink—I have also caused inquiries to be made about the deceased and her mother while they were living at 41, Stafford Street, Marylebone—I found that Hopkins had been there several times while they were there—I cannot say if he was living there permanently but they were the people he went to visit.
GUILTY. Strongly recommended to mercy by the Jury. DEATH .
NEW COURT.—Tuesday, April 4th, 1903.
Before Mr. Recorder.
307. RICHARD HENRY SMITH , PLEADED GUILTY to feloniously marrying Margaret Beatrice Arundel, his wife being alive. It was stated that he had recently been made a sergeant of police, which position, with his pension, he would lose. Two days imprisonment.
308. EDMUND LOTCHO (22), ALBERT PAGE (22), FREDERICK BROOKS (20) , Stealing a large quantity of metal wire, the property of the Postmaster-General, and WILLIAM WOOD Receiving that property, knowing it to be stolen.
LOTCHO, PAGE and BROOKS PLEADED GUILTY .
MR. BIRON and MR. CHALMERS Prosecuted; MR. H. COHEN Defended Wood.
WILLIAM BARNES . I am a akin dresser, of 94, Chapman Road, Hackney Wick, and I am employed by Mr. Peachy, a farmer, of Chilman's Farm Hackney Marshes—on March 21st I met Lotcho, who asked me to get the pony and cart to take some stuff up to a rag shop, and to give him a hand—he lives in the neighbourhood, and I know him by sight—I took the pony and cart, and went with him to a heap of dung—concealed in it was a bag which contained copper wire—we put it on to the cart together, and 1 drove him to Wood's shop—he is a marine store dealer, of 35, Leytonstone Road—Lotcho asked me to lift the bag up, and he took it on his back, went into the shop, and put it on to the scale—Wood came in almost directly, and took the weight of it—it weighed throe quarters, fourteen pounds—Wood paid Lotcho £1in gold, 12s. and some odd coppers—I got Is. for my trouble and the loan of the cart.
Cross-examined. I have been with Mr. Peachy for about three weeks on weekly wages—I did not give him a character—I have known Lotcho about two years, but not as a friend—I did not go out with him—he hag come up and asked for the pony and cart before—he has been a sailor—during the time I knew him he was always mucking about at the shute—I did not know he was a thief, and I cannot say that I suspected he was—I did not know where this copper wire came from, and I did not enquire—I did not know it was stolen property, nor can I say I expected it was—I got my masters pony and cart from the White Hart after going and getting his permission—he did not ask me what I wanted it for, but I told him that Lotcho had got some stuff—I did not tell him that I thought it was a little doubtful whether Lotcho had any right to this stuff—I have known Wood eighteen months, and have sold rags and bones to him off the shute—I did not cheat him; it was Charles Skidmore—he did not say I cheated him—he said my stuff was all right—he told the others on the shute that they had cheated him—after February, or just about that time, he had no more business dealings with me.
Re-examined. I was in the habit of driving Mr. Peachy's cart—except 1s. from Latcho, and 1s. from Wood, I had nothing out of the 32s.
FREDERICK PEACHY . I live at Chilman's Farm, Hackney Marshes, of which my father is proprietor, and on which I work—on the morning of Saturday, March 25th, I saw Lotcho, who asked me if I had got any use for the pony, and I said "No"—he said he had got some stuff to go to the rag shop, and asked me to take it there—he directed me to drive to the rubbish shute, and on getting there I saw Page—Lotcho and Page then took a bag out of a dust heap, and put it on the cart—I did not see what was in it then, but I afterwards saw it contained copper wire—Lotcho told me to drive to Wood's, and on getting there Lotcho weighed the
bag—I do not know how much it weighed, nor what Lotcho and Page were paid—Lotcho paid me 2s. for the hire of the cart—on March 27th Brooks came to the farm and asked me to drive the pony and cart to take home stuff to the rag shop—I drove him to the same rubbish heap where I saw Lotcho and Page—they took out of the rubbish heap another bag of copper wire, and put it on the cart, and I drove to Wood's again—I saw Wood there himself—I have taken wire on other occasions at their direction to Wood's shop.
By the COURT. It has been always from the dust heap—I did not ask how it got there—it was a funny place to keep it.
Cross-examined. Barnes, who is in my father's employ, and I are very good friends, and we have done business together for a long time—he came one morning and asked my father if he could have the pony and barrow; he did not ask me—he told me one morning that Lotcho wanted him to do a job; that was the only permission he got to take the pony and cart that I know off—I did not know what it was for—I knew Lotcho was a thief—I have never done anything in this line myself, and I do not know that Wood has ever said that I have; he refused to have dealings with me, but I do not know why—I was once mixed up with Skidmore, who is working on the rubbish shute—I do not know that he has ever been in prison—I cannot tell you whether it was last February when Wood told us all that he would have nothing to do with us—we took him stuff before that—I do not know that he said he would have nothing more to do with Barnes—you may describe Barnes, Skidmore, and myself as a gang, and we worked and cheated together.
By the COURT. It would not be six months ago when Wood said he would have nothing more to do with us—we used to bring him rags and bones, and he complained that we used to put potatoes amongst the bones, and he did not like it.
Re-examined. I was in the same employment as Barnes, so he was naturally a friend of mine—I had the use of my father's pony and cart, and if Barnes required to use it he might have come and asked my permission in my father's absence.
WILLIAM SMITH (Sergeant J.) On March 27th I went with another constable to an office in Hackney Wick, where we saw Lotcho—on March 25th I went to Wood's premises at Leytonstone, where we saw Wood—we told him we were police officers and were making inquiries about some copper wire that had been stolen, and that we had reason to believe that he had purchased some that morning—he said, "No, I have not had any copper wire for some time, and what metal I had was taken away to-day"—I said, "Have you a yard or stable anywhere else?"—he said, "No, sir"—I asked him if he had a horse and van, and he said he had not—I then said, "Have you a book that you can show what metals you have purchased," and he replied, "No, sir; I know my customers very well. If you want to search you can do so"—I searched, but found nothing—at 9 p.m. the next day I went there and told him I was still making inquiries about the copper wire and that I had reason to behave that he had another shed—he said, "No, sir, you are mistaken
"—I said, "Very well, then, come across the road with me, "and I took him to Acacia Road, close by, and said, "My information is that you have a shed here"—he said, "My son had a shed here, but I thought he had given it up"—I said, "Do not you hire a horse?" and he replied "Yes, from Mr. Peachy. While you are here you had better look at the shed"—we had a look at the shed, and, failing to find anything else we left—at 12.30 pan the next day I went there with P.O. Stacey another officer, and I said to him, "We are still making inquiries about that wire, and we have reason to believe that you have received that wire"—h said, "No, I tell you again I have not had it"—I then sent for the two witnesses, Peachy and Barnes, and in his presence they said, indicating him, "That is the man who purchased wire on several occasions from Page, Brooks and Lotcho"—I said to Wood, "Now I must caution you. I am going to arrest you for feloniously receiving a quantity of copper wire, and I shall take you to the Victoria Park police station"—he said, "You have made a mistake; it is a put-up job. There is a spite against me because I refused to buy their stock some time ago"—I took him to the police station, where all the prisoners were put in the dock and charged—Wood said, "I plead not guilty. I know nothing about it. I have not had it"—Brooks said, pointing to Wood, "To save any further trouble, he did buy it, and gave us 4d. a pound for it"—Lotcho, also pointing to Wood, said, "He knew. it was stolen property and gave us 4d. a pound for the first lot, and 3 1/2 d. a pound for the second lot"—Page made no reply—on searching Wood I found a small book showing entries of goods purchased, which was handed to the Magistrate marked "A"—I think there is one receipt in it for metal.
By the COURT. They climb up the pole and cut the wire down at one end and roll it up as far as they can—we have 168 lbs. that was found in the possession of Page and Brooks on a cart.
CHRISTOPHER GLITHERO . I am a linesman in the service of the Postmaster General—I have been doing repairs along the Lea River by Hackney Marshes—from, time to time the copper wire has been cut and taken away—I left it in order on Saturday, March 25th, and when I Went there again on March 27th I found a large quantity of it missing.
HUGH CHRISTMAS PRICE . I live at Warwick Gardens, Ilford, and am a first-class engineer in the Postal Telegraph Department—I have examined the wire that has been produced at the Police Court, and find it to be wire similar to the property of the Postmaster-General—some of it is of a kind that the Postmaster-General in London only uses—the value of the wire stolen altogether would be about £36.
Wood, in his defence on oath, said that he had had honest dealings in rags and bones with the other prisoners and Barnes and Peachy almost daily, but on account of their stuff being so rough he refused to deal with them since about February, at which they swore and carried on; that Barnes and Peachy did not come with Lotcho to his place on the occasions they named with wire; that he had connived in no way with any dishonesty with regard to it; that he did not keep any record of the transactions he had, as it was merely rags
and bones; that he bought no metal and that he did not say to the detective that what copper wire he had, had been taken away that morning.
He received a good character.
NOT GUILTY .
LOTCHO then PLEADED GUILTY to a conviction of felony at Chelmsford on April 8th, 1903. A previous conviction was proved against him. PAGE.—to a conviction of felony at North London Police Court on March 14th 1905, and BROOKS to a conviction of felony at the same Court on February 18th, 1904. LOTCHO— Twelve months' hard labour. PAGE— Ten months' hard labour. BROOKS, who was stated to be the leader of the gang— Fifteen months' hard labour.
309. JOHN LIPSCOMBE (25), HERBERT ALFRED HARRIS (25), WILLIAM SMITH (25), GEORGE MARTIN and EMILY ROGERS (29) , Breaking and entering the shop of Charles Hewitt and stealing 176 pairs of boots, his property. Second count, receiving the same knowing it to be stolen.
LIPSCOMBE, HARRIS, SMITH and MARTIN PLEADED GUILTY .
MR. NOBLE Prosecuted.
LEONTINE CARTWRIGHT . I live at 73, Harrison Street, King's Cross, where Rogers lodges with me as my lodger—she has been with me thirteen months and Lipscombe has lived with her for six weeks, occupying the same room—at 6.40 a.m. on March 10th Lipscombe came to the house in a cab with another man—they had two sacks with them, but I could not see what they contained; they were half full of something—Lipscombe took them upstairs to his room—on March 12th detectives came to the house, and Rogers came downstairs and said, "Oh, Mrs. Cartwright, do not open the door; two detectives are at the door"—she had this fur and muff (Produced) over her arm and she threw it over the wall into the next yard—she did not tell me why she did that—I then opened the door and admitted the detectives.
Cross-examined by Rogers. I mentioned about your saying, "Do not open the door" on the Saturday before you were up at the Police Court.
Re-examined. When I was examined before the Magistrate it was in reference to some boots; nothing at all about the fur.
THOMAS GREGORY (Police-Sergeant S.) On March 12th I went with Sergeant Seymour to 73, Harrison Street, where I found Rogers in a room—I found a sack containing nineteen pairs of boots and eight pairs of shoes, all new, with the exception of three pairs of shoes which had been worn—one pair she was wearing—I said, "We are police officers, and we believe you have got some stolen property in your possession," and she said, "Yes"—I said, "Is this your room?" she said, "Yes. A man brought them here," meaning the boots—I said, "Where is he?"—she replied, "He has gone out"—I said, "What time is he likely to be in?"—she said, "He will be back about 4 o'clock; he said he would"—I said, "Do you know where he has gone?"—she said, "No"—I said, "Why, you have got a pair on"—she said, "Yes," and took them off—they
have been identified as part of the stolen property—I also found two wedges and a chisel—I asked her if they were her property, and she said, "No, a man brought them here"—in consequence of this conversation Sergeant Seymour went to find Lipscombe while I remained with Rogers—on March 15th I saw this fur (Produced), which was given to me by Mrs. Dyer, the woman who lodges next door, 71, Harrison Street—I showed Rogers the fur and muff, and said, "This fur and muff have been traced to your possession. Can you account for them?"—she said, "I bought it from a man outside the public-house on Saturday night. I gave 15s. for the fur and 3s. for the muff"—I said, "Can you give us a description of the man from whom you bought it, or the sign of the public-house?"—she said, "That is all I am going to tell you—on March 12th I went to her place—I saw her make a communication to the person next door—I said to her, "Have you passed anything over to the next door?"—she said, "No"—I said, "Very well"—I visited her place twice after that and on one occasion I found a letter and twelve pawn tickets relating to different property, coats, waistcoats, etc.
JOHN SEYMOUR (Detective S.) On March 12th I went to 73, Harrison Street, with Sergeant Gregory, where I saw Rogers—I told her we were police officers—she said, "I did not intend opening the door"—I said, "Is this your room?"—she said, "Yes"—I said, "We have reason to believe that you are in possession of property recently stolen"—she made no reply—Sergeant Gregory then searched the room and found about twenty-five pairs of boots in two sacks—this is one of the sacks (Produced), and these are some of the boots (Produced)—I took possession of the boots and conveyed them to Albany Street police station, meeting Sergeant Gregory there—before leaving I said, "How do you account for the possession of these?"—she said, "A man brought them here"—I said, "Where is the man?"—she said, "He has gone out"—in consequence of that I went off and arrested Lipscombe at 1.15 p.m. the same day—I found him wearing a pair of new boots similar to the boots in the sack, and I discovered his own boots in the sack which was in Rogers' room—he took them from the sack and put them on—I put a label on the boots he was wearing (Produced).
ELIZABETH DYER . I live at 71, Harrison Street, King's Cross, which is next door to Mrs. Cartwright's house, where Rogers and Lipscombe lived—on Sunday, March 12th, I saw these furs (Produced) lying in my backyard, which is next to 73, and I handed them to the police.
By the COURT. I did not know how they got there.
Cross-examined by Rogers. A little over a week previous to this Sunday I met you out, and you said you were going to get a fur out of pawn for 18s.—I said to you, "If you are going to buy a fur, I will buy the one that you have on now."
SIDNEY BUCKLE . I am a furrier, of 42, Great Castle Street, Oxford Street—my premises were broken into between February 24th and 25th, and about £250 worth of fur was stolen—these furs form a portion of the property.
by Charles Hewitt, 369, Way worth Road, bootseller—my employer's shop was broken into between March 9th and the morning of March 10th and about £80 worth of boots were stolen—I recognise these boots (Produced) as a portion of the property stolen on that occasion.
Rogers, in her defence on oath, said that Lipscombe, whom she had known about twelve months, went out on the evening of March 10th, saying he was going to buy some things at a sale; that on his return the next morning he brought with him the boots, a pair of which, at his request, she put on, but she did not know anything about the burglary; that as to the furs, she bought them from a man outside a public house, with whom she had previously made an appointment; that half an hour previous to the detectives arrival she had placed them on the garden wall with a view to showing them to Mrs. Dyer, when they fell into the next yard; and that she never asked Mrs. Cartwright not to open the door as the detectives were there.
GUILTY . She then PLEADED GUILTY to a conviction of felony at the Clerkenwell Police Court on June 21st, 1898. She was stated to be a notorious receiver. Twelve months, hard labour. LIPSCOMBE PLEADED GUILTY to a conviction of felony at the Marylebone Police Court on September 3rd, 1904. A large number of previous convictions were proved against him. He was stated to be an associate of dangerous thieves Three years' penal servitude. HARRIS PLEADED GUILTY to a conviction of felony at the North London Sessions on May 21st, A number of previous convictions were proved against him. Four years' penal servitude. SMITH PLEADED GUILTY. to a conviction of felony on June 23rd, 1903. A number of previous convictions were proved against him. Five years' penal servitude. MARTIN PLEADED GUILTY to a conviction of felony at this Court on October 23rd, 1899, in the name of George Martin. A number of previous convictions were proved against him. Four years' penal servitude.
THIRD COURT.—Tuesday, April 4th, 1905.
Before Mr. Common Serjeant.
310. FREDERICK HALES (25) PLEADED GUILTY to stealing a pair of boots, the property of Alfred Green, having been convicted of felony at Clerkenwell on February 9th, 1904. Seven other convictions were proved against him. Eighteen months' hard labour.
MR. PARTRIDGE Prosecuted.
MORRIS HERMAN . I am a tobacconist, of 148, Oxford Street, Stepney—on Tuesday, February 21st, I served the prisoner with a packet of Woodbines—he put a 2s. piece on the counter and I gave him Is. 11d. change—a few minutes afterwards I wanted to give change and found the coin was bad—I gave it to a policeman—on Friday, March 3rd, the prisoner came into my shop a second time—I came out of the parlour
behind the shop and said, "What do you want?"—he said, "A packet of Woodbines"—I noticed that he was the same person who had been in my shop before, and I had given a description of him—I gave him the packet of Woodbines, and he put another florin on the counter—I noticed the money was bad, and caught him by the sleeve, sent for a policeman, and locked him up—I said to him, "You have been last week in my shop"—he said, "Say me? I have not been in your shop."
Cross-examined by the prisoner. You came between 5 and 6 p.m.—I put the first coin in my pocket because I wanted to light the lamp, and afterwards found it was bad—another customer came in after I had served you.
CHARLES GEE (100 H.) I was called in to this tobacconist's shop on March 3rd—the prisoner was held by Herman, who said, "This lad came into my shop and asked to be served with Woodbines for Id. I put them on the counter, and he put down a 2s. piece. I saw it was bad, and I recognise him as the man who came into my shop the week previous, and passed a bad 2s. piece"—I searched the prisoner, but failed to find anything—I took him into custody—when charged he said, "I carried a gentleman's bag from Well Street to Liverpool Street Station, and he gave me the 2s. piece—at the station he gave his address as Hoyle's lodging house, Spitalfield—that is a good distance from where I arrested him.
Cross-examined. When I searched you I was going to let you go, and I said, "He has no more on him; "I have no power to take him."
FRANK GIRDLER (Detective H.) I know the East End of London—Well Street is in St. George's-in-the-East, at the bottom of Leman Street, where a large Sailors' Home is, and a little over a mile from Liverpool Street, or a good quarter of an hour or twenty minutes' walk—at the top of Leman Street you can get any number of cabs and other conveyances—it is a common thing to see people carrying bags to the station.
The prisoner's statement before the Magistrate: "I am not guilty. He started weighing the coin, and bounced me, then fetched four men and held me, and fetched a constable."
The prisoner, in his defence on oath, said that passing the Sailors' Home, a foreigner asked him to carry a pared to Liverpool Street, and offered him 1s., when he said, "That's not good enough; "and the man gave him the coin; that when he bought the Woodbines another customer came in; that no bad money was found on him; that he had intended to spend the evening at the Forester's Theatre with his friend, Arthur Leonard, who sells papers with him, but whose address he did not know; and that he was never in Herman's shop before the day he was arrested.
NOT GUILTY .
MR. PARTRIDGE Prosecuted; MR. METHVEN Defended White.
FLORENCE STURGEON . I am the daughter of Walter Sturgeon, who keeps the Maxwell Arms, King's Road, Fulham—I have seen the prisoners in the bar two or three times, once before Friday, February 24th, when Hillier called for a drop of port, 2d., and a pony of bitter, 1d.—she tendered this half-crown which I put in the till, and gave her 2s. 3d. change—it was the only half-crown in the half-crown compartment of the till—I went into the kitchen, where my father came and spoke to me, and showed me the half-crown—I went back with him into the bar, and then to the door, but the prisoners were gone—my father was in the kitchen speaking to me about two minutes—the till is in the middle of the bar, and can be seen from the public side of the bar from certain places, but not all—when I left the bar the prisoners were sitting on a seat—on Friday, March 3rd, I saw the prisoners come in—I spoke to dad and mother—I saw them receive drink, and Hillier put on the urn stand this half-crown—mother served them—when I spoke to her she gave the coin to dad—I saw him go out, and come back with a policeman—I said to the prisoners, "You are the two ladies what come in Friday last week, and gave me a bad half-crown"—they said, "Oh, no, I think you are mistaken; we was not in this place last Friday."
Cross-examined by Hillier. I am sure you were in the bar on Friday.
Cross-examined by MR. METHVEN. There is a private bar, and two public bars, and three entrances—I think I said, "This is the same woman," and not, "You are the two ladies"—Hillier called for the drinks, and said I had made a mistake—father tested the half-crown on the side of the till—the policeman told White at first that she need not come with him.
WILTER STURGEON . I keep the Maxwell Arms, Fulham Road—the last witness is my daughter—I have seen the prisoners in my house four or five times together—I saw them in the bar on Friday, February 24th, sitting together when I went to my till, a Cox's patent, with compartments for each coin—only one half-crown was in the half-crown row—I tested it on a piece of slate on the till—the prisoners were still sitting in the bar—the coin marked the slate like a pencil—a good coin would cut the slate—I went to the kitchen, spoke to my daughter, and came back into the bar—the prisoners had gone—I kept the coin, and afterwards gave it to the police—I was in the bar on Match 3rd, when the prisoners came in again between 8 and 9—Hillier was served with a pony of bitter, 1d., and a 1d. worth of stout—she tendered a half-crown to my wife, who handed it to me—I tested it in the same way, and it wrote on the slate—I told Hillier that she had passed a bad half-crown—my daughter said, "They are the two that passed one the previous week"—both prisoners said they were not there the previous week—I saw the constable ask them for their purses—I think White followed Hillier when she was taken to the station—these are the half-crowns received from the prisoners on February 24th, and March 3rd.
Cross-examined by Hillier. I am certain you were in my house on February 24th.
Cross-examined by MR. METHVEN. I did not speak to the prisoners on February 24th, because after I had seen my daughter in the kitchen and returned to the bar they had gone—before I went into the kitchen I did not know who passed the coin—I have two private bars, two public bare, three tills, and three counters—what my daughter said of Hillier was, "That is the woman who gave me the counterfeit coin last Friday"—both the prisoners said they were not there on the last Friday—I said so before the Magistrate.
FREDERICK SHARP (185 T.) About 8.30 on Friday, March 3rd, I was called to the Maxwell Arms by Mr. Sturgeon—I went into the private bar and saw the prisoners—Mr. Sturgeon, pointing to Hillier, said, "This woman has tried to pass a bad half-crown"—his daughter said, "She is the woman ho passed one here last Friday"—I asked Hillier if she had any more bad money, and to let me examine her purse—each of them said, "We were not here last week"—Hillier gave me her purse, and I examined it, and found in good money, three 2s. pieces and a sixpence—I asked Sturgeon if he would charge them—he replied, "Yes"—I took them into custody—I told them they would both have to come to the station—on the way White said, "I do not see why I should come to the station, as it has nothing to do with me, and I cannot do her any good"—I told her she would have to come—on arrival at the station they were handed over to the female searcher at once, who afterwards handed me this purse containing 11s. 2d., and the 6s. 6d. referred to, and another purse which contained 16s. 1d.
Cross-examined by MR. METHVEN. I did not say to White, "You need not come"—some coppers were found—I made no note—our instructions are to make a note—Sergeant Taylor made inquiry at an address given by the prisoners, which he found to be false—there is no number 174, Whitcliff Road—142 is the last one—I heard the prisoners say they were sisters—I know the mother lives at 138—I do not know that White lives at 130, Stanley Street, Battersea, nor that her husband is a foreman painter—White did not say the half-crown was given by her sister—she made no reply when charged—I heard at the Police Court that it was said that she did not know it was bad—her sister was in the dock at that time—there was no excitement when I arrested the prisoners, and no one followed us.
Re-examined. I took both the prisoners because they were together—I had been told they had been there before.
EDITH JIGGINS . I am matron at the South Fulham police station—my duty, amongst other things, is to search females who are brought in—on March 3rd I searched Hillier, and found on her a two-shilling piece and a 1/2 d. in her right-hand pocket, about 9s. in her left hand pocket, and 6s. 6d. in her purse in florins, and a sixpence—there was 4d. or 5d. in coppers, but I do not recollect all the coins; I think it came to 17s. 5d.—on White I found a two-shilling piece, and a 1d. in her right-hand pocket, two shillings and a 1/2 d. in her loft-hand pocket, and 2s. 2 1/2 d. in her dress
pocket, there was 16s. 1d. altogether—the money was handed over for her defence at the Police Court—inside her bodice I found this counterfeit half-crown—I said, "That is a bad one"—she said, "For pity's sake, if you are a mother, don't give me away"—I handed the half-crown to the constable with the other money—one of them said that she found the bad money, and gave one to her sister.
Cross-examined by MR. METHVEN. It was Hillier who said that she had found the bad coins and gave one of them to her sister—she was very distressed.
Cross-examined by MR. METHVEN. I have seen forty or fifty coins from one mould, but I do not know the exact number that can be produced; it depends upon the ability of the maker.
Evidence for White.
WILLIAM GRENFELL PASCOE . I am White's father, and live at 138, Whitcliff Road, with my wife—I only moved into the house about three weeks ago from No. 142—White is married and lives with her husband at 39, Stanley Street, Battersea—she manages a laundry, where she has been twelve years and where she was apprenticed—she occasionally works there—she has two children, one about two years of age and the other four—her sister-in-law lives in the same house and is expecting a child hourly—White was there on February 24th, as she has been in that condition for some time.
Cross-examined by Hillier. Your mother minds your four children since the death of your husband nine months ago, while I go to work—they were left with us on March 3rd.
Re-examined. There is no number 174, Whitcliff Road.
GUILTY . Six months' hard labour each.
MR. AUBREY Prosecuted.
EMIL BERGER . I am a cellar man, living at 56, Maiden Road—on March 9th I was in the Euston Buildings about 12.30 at night—they are flats—I came from Euston Street and was outside Euston Buildings—I had parted with a friend a few minutes, when two men stopped me—one hit me in the face, and I fell down—the prisoner struck me five or six times in the face and knocked three teeth out—there was plenty of light, and I could distinguish the men—the prisoner is the man that nicked my chain and watch—the chain is broken, but he ran away with the watch—I called "Police," and ran after him about twenty yards, when he dropped the watch in the street—this is the watch I was wearing that night—everything is broken—its value was 10s. 6d.—when I called
"Police," and "Stop thief," the police stopped the prisoner—I saw him all the while till he was caught.
Cross-examined by the prisoner. I did not give you my name and address on a piece of paper.
JAMES PICKLES (286 s.) I was on duty about 12.30, on March 9th, in the Euston Buildings thoroughfare—I heard a shout of "Police"—I saw the prisoner running, closely followed by the prosecutor—I stopped him, when he said, "It is all right; I am only running away from my mates"—I saw the prosecutor picking something up—he subsequently came to me with the watch in his hand and said, "This is the man who assaulted me, and stole my watch"—I took the prisoner to the station—he was charged—I saw a man running in the opposite direction, and the prosecutor said that man was with him when the prisoner assaulted him.
The prisoner, in his defence on oath, said that he saw three men "rowing," and went to part them when he was accused of stealing the prosecutor's watch, and taken to the station, after the prosecutor had given him his name and address.
GUILTY . He then PLEADED GUILTY to a conviction of felony at Clerkenwell on August 11th, 1903, in the name of John Mack. Another conviction was proved against him. Fifteen months' hard labour and eighteen strokes with the birch rod.
MR. CECIL LILLEY Prosecuted.
WILLIAM BARTLETT . I am the landlord of The Welsh Harp, Essex Street, Bouverie Street, and a licensed victualler—the prisoner was in my employment during the latter part of 1904—he left just before Christmas—he returned in January as a lodger—he occupied a bedroom in my house on the second floor—on February 2nd I put some spare cash in the safe—I am in the habit of keeping a certain amount of spare cash there—I went to bed between 9 and 10 p.m.—before doing so I put £25 in gold and 10s. in halfpennies in the safe in a little box—I locked up the safe—the money was in a little cigarette box about 4 inches square—I put it on a shelf in a little drawer—some other coppers, papers and bags were on the shelf, but ten shillings worth of halfpennies were in one bag—there was some silver, but it was not touched—that was in a little drawer underneath—the safe was in the bar parlour—I locked the safe and took the keys up to bed with me—between 9 and 10 my wife sent for the keys for the purpose of getting at the drawer where the daily cash goes in—I sent her down the keys, about half a dozen in all, about 10 p.m., by the girl—when my wife came up she spoke to me, but I was rather tired, and did not know what she said till the next morning—I came down between 6 and 7—my wife came down about 9 a.m.—in consequence of what she said I looked at the safe—the prisoner went upstairs—I found missing about £25 and 10s. in halfpennies—the prisoner
was also in the room when I locked the safe up at night, before going to rest—when I told my wife in the morning that some money wan missing the prisoner, who was there, went upstairs and I did not see him afterwards—I sent for the police—they went upstairs to his bedroom and found the door locked—I called out, but got no reply—afterwards, in the evening, I think, but I forget when, the door was forced—I found the prisoner's box there—I received from the prisoner this letter, in his writing, about a month afterwards: "Sir,—Will you be so kind as to give the bearer my box then I can get a job, then I can pay the missis what I owe her I After losing so much money I could not pay the missis, so I could not come back without paying. Will you be so kind as to speak for me; I won't back no more horses, then I shall soon get straight, and I won't forget you for your kindness. With be wishes from Albert"—that letter came by hand, but it bore no address—I would not let the box go.
Cross-examined by the prisoner. When you came down you did not say "Good-morning" the same as usual—I never heard you—when I went to bed I asked the girl to look after the bar, and you offered to, instead of letting the girl stop up—you said you were not tired.
LILIAN BARTLETT . I am the last witness's wife—on February 2nd my husband locked the safe in the bar parlour and took the keys with him upstairs—I wanted them and sent up to him for them between 9 and 10 p.m.—they were put on the table in the bar parlour, where the prisoner was—I was called to serve in the bar—while serving I heard the safe opened, but I was not able to go there for a few minutes—when I went into the bar parlour the prisoner went downstairs—when he came up again I said to him, "Did you open the safe?"—he had been down to the pothouse, which he had no occasion to do—he said, "Certainly not"—I took the keys from the table and went to the safe—I found that the safe door was ajar—I said, "Really the safe is open, when I had locked it"—he made no reply—inside things looked just the same, and I did not know what the safe contained, so I locked the safe up, put the keys on my waist belt, and took them upstairs—I spoke to my husband, but did not seem to make him understand—the next morning I came down about 9.30—the prisoner came down afterwards—I spoke to my husband, and he went and looked at the safe—I said to the prisoner, "The safe was opened last night, and there was no one in the room but you"—he made no reply—he left the room as I thought to go to his bedroom—I saw no more of him—the police were sent for—he owed me, at the time he left, about £2 10s.—I had not said anything to him that morning about paying.
Cross-examined. You went down and shut the beer off—you shut the door—nothing was mentioned about the money you owed, only about the safe—you were not in the kitchen about two minutes.
JOHN DIGBY (Detective-Sergeant, City.) In consequence of information received, I went with Bart let t and another officer to the Hollybush, South Norwood, on March 20th, and saw the prisoner—I said to him, "We arc police officers; this you know is Mr. Bartlett. We arc going to take
you back to the City, where you will be charged with stealing £25 10s. from his safe in the bar parlour of The Welsh Harp public-house"—he said, "Yes, I understand what you say"—I brought him to the City, where he was charged at Bridewell police station—when the charge was read to him he made no reply.
The prisoner, in his defence, denied hiving stolen the £2510s.; and said that after leaving The Welsh Harp he had been out of work for some time, and after he had got the situation at the Hollybush Hotel he was arrested.
GUILTY . He then pleaded guilty to a conviction of felony at the Thames Police Court on August 16th, 1902. Twelve months' hard labour.
FOURTH COURT.—Tuesday, April 4th, 1905.
Before J. A. Rentoul, Esq., K.C.
315. HENRY LENEY (30), PLEADED GUILTY to breaking and entering the dwelling-house of Walter Charles Huckelsby with intent to steal; also to assaulting Walter Charles Huckelsby and Thomas Knight, having been convicted of felony at Ipswich on November 4th, 1902. The police gave him a bad character. Five years' penal servitude.
MR. THORNE Prosecuted.
ALFRED KIRBY (802 City). On March 7th, about 5.30 p.m., I was on duty on Tower Hill—I saw the prisoner carrying a case on his left shoulder—I suspected him and went after him—I asked him where he got it from—he said, "I got it from a firm in Aldgate"—he afterwards said he had got it from a firm in Eastcheap—I asked him where he was going to deliver it—he said, "To the Railway Depot in the Minories"—not believing him, and believing he had got it unlawfully, I took him to the Minories police station—the loss of the case was reported and the prisoner was eventually charged—he said, "I don't care; this is not the first time."
The prisoner. I did not say that at all.
HENRY DILLIMORE . I am a oarsman to Henry Vile, Upper Street, East Smithfield, who does the carting work for the Orient Co.—on March 7th, at 5 o'clock, I was with one of my employers, carts—I collected two cases with a truck from the Orient Co.'s premises—they were lowered on to the truck and I went in to sign for them—when I came out again I missed one case—I informed the police—this label was attached to one of the cases—I identified the case to which it was attached.
SIDNEY MONK . I am forwarding clerk to the Orient Co.—this label was attached to a case belonging to my company—on March 7th I identified the case to which it was attached—the case contained four dozen half tins of cocoanut, valued 16s.
The prisoner, in his defence, stated that he was going home when a man asked him to carry the case for him, which he did, when the constable stopped him.
GUILTY . He then PLEADED GUITLY to a conviction of felony at this Court on October 19th, 1903. One summary conviction was proved against him. Eighteen months' hard labour ;
MR. SANDS Prosecuted.
FREDERICK BAKER . I am a scavenger employed by the Westminster City Council, and live at 18, St. Albans Street, Kennington Road—the prisoner has been working in the same gang with me—two days previously to the affair in question I had a dispute with him—on March 18th he had to go before the surveyor, who was going to investigate a complaint—on that day the prisoner came up to me and struck me on the temple with something bright in his hand—as soon as he saw I was bleeding he walked away—my foreman followed him and fetched a constable—the prisoner had previously said to me, "Look out for to-night, I shall wait on you to-night. I intend to do for you"—I kept out of his way—I was laid up for two days—I am now all right and able to go about my work.
Cross-examined by the prisoner. I did not black your eye—you struck me and I struggled with you.
By the COURT. We have both been about six years in the Council's service—there is no ill-feeling between us—he was reported by the foreman for something he had done.
JOSEPH SLEATH . I am foreman of scavengers employed by the City of Westminster Council, and live at 151, Drury Lane—the prosecutor and the prisoner were under my charge—there was a dispute between them on March 16th, and the prisoner was to go before the surveyor on the 18th—on the 18th I saw the prisoner strike the prosecutor in the face with something in his hand—I do not know what it was—the blow drew blood—I followed the prisoner and gave him in charge—I reported the prisoner for misconduct—the prosecutor had nothing to do with it.
Cross-examined. You asked me to speak to the prosecutor about taking stuff away which he had no business to do.
ALBERT TIMMS (19 C.) From information received I went to the prisoner's house and told him I should take him into custody for wounding a man—he said, "All right, sergeant, I will go along with you"—he was taken to the station and charged—he made no reply to the charge—he had been drinking, but he was not drunk—his right eye was blackened—at the Police Court he said the prosecutor had given him a black eye on the Thursday—I found no instrument.
The prisoner. I had nothing in my hand.
The Jury here stopped the case, and returned a verdict of
NOT GUILTY .
OLD COURT.—Wednesday, April 5th, 1905.
Before Mr. Justice Jelf.
MR. A. HUTTON Prosecuted; MR. JOHNSON Defended.
The COURT, considering that the evidence was insufficient, directed the Jury to return a verdict of NOT GUILTY .
MR. C. MATHEWS and MR. A. GILL Prosecuted; MR. CURTIS BENNETT
JOHN BALLARD . I live at 37, Compton Street, Church Street, and am a leather cutter—the deceased was my wife—we occupied two rooms at that address on the second floor—I have two daughters living with me, Mary and Elizabeth, and a married daughter, Mrs. Cooper, who lives away—I first made the prisoner's acquaintance about four or five years ago—he became engaged to my daughter Mary—he was in a Militia regiment, and went to the war about February, 1902—he was away for about nine months, and when he returned towards the end of 1902 I saw him from time to time, and was quite friendly with him—he continued to be engaged to my daughter until it was broken off soon after Christmas, 1904—I was present when it was broken off, and also my daughter and wife—my daughter said she did not like to go out with him if he attended boxing clubs—he seemed to take it all right—I saw him perhaps once or twice a week after that—he called to see me—I saw him, I think, on Friday, March 3rd—he appeared to be all right and friendly—I went and had a glass of ale with him, and parted friendly—that night we were all abed about 12.30—we heard a noise on the landing—I got out of bed, and saw the prisoner on the landing—he did not lodge in the house—I said, "Halloa, Alf, what are you doing here at this time of night? Your place is at home, not coming here and frightening me out of my life. You have been drinking; why don't you go home to your right place?"—my wife was there, and the prisoner wanted me to light the gas, which I would not—he said, "All right, then, I will see you to-morrow"—next morning I went to work in the usual way, and just before two o'clock I was fetched from the works to go home—I heard my wife was dead—I did not see her—I was asked if I would see her, but was advised not to.
Cross-examined. During the whole of the four or five years that I have known the prisoner he was engaged to my daughter—when he went to South Africa he continued to write to her—he seemed very friendly with
her—during the time he was engaged to her I found he was a hardworking, respectable man up to December 27th, when the engagement was broken off—I knew he had put something in the bank—when it was broken off he took it quite quietly—he did not show by any sign that he was feeling it very much—he still called upon us, and was on very friendly terms with all in the family—I saw him once or twice between December 28th and March 4th—he seemed friendly on March 3rd, when I met him at 6 p.m., but not when he came late that night—he did not seem unfriendly, but I think he had had a drink, and I advised him to go away—I had been doing his work for him—I had no grudge against him, and he had none against me—there was no possible reason why he should think of murdering me—the engagement was broken off because he had taken up boxing—I do not think drink had anything to do with it at that time—I thought he had had enough to drink once or twice.
Re-examined. When the engagement was broken off I think I said, "Well, settle it between yourselves, or something like that.
By the COURT. I have seen him once or twice when he seemed to be the worse for drink; that was after the breaking off of the engagement—before that he had been a sober man for all I had seen.
MARY BALLARD . I am the daughter of the last witness, and have known the prisoner for about five years—I was engaged to him until shortly after Christmas, 1904, when it was broken off, as he took to boxing and drinking, and I thought I would have no more to do with him—I only saw him once after it was broken off; that was one Saturday evening about a fortnight after Christmas—at the time it was broken off he seemed satisfied—I remember his coming on the early morning of March 4th—I corresponded with him when I was engaged to him—I know his writing—Exhibits 1 and 2 are in his writing.
Cross-examined. I was engaged to him for four or five years, and found him a hard-working young man—I was on terms of great affection with him—at the time the engagement was broken off he did not seem at all upset—he did not say he was troubled by it—I know he had been saving up money to get married with—he came upstairs on a Saturday evening to see the family—he was very drunk—that is the only time I saw him.
ALICE ELIZABETH COOPER . I am the wife of John Cooper, of 49, Kenton Street, and am a daughter of Mr. Ballard—on February 28th I saw the prisoner between 11.30, and 12 a.m.—he looked as if he had had a drink—I saw him next day, Wednesday, March 1st, when he had been to Hounslow to buy himself out of the Militia, as he wanted to keep himself straight and start work on Monday morning—he slept that night at my place—a friend of his named Farthing lodges with me—the prisoner slept there on March 2nd—on both nights he was drunk—on Friday, March 3rd, I see him between 1 and 1.30 p.m.—I did not see him in the afternoon—I saw him about 11 p.m. in a public-house, opposite where I live—I went into him and asked him to go home because he was very drunk—my sister Elizabeth and William Farthing were there—the prisoner said he knew where he was going, and that he meant murder—he said that a little later, outside the public-house, when I went there a second time—
I was by myself then—the prisoner had a large soda, which made him sick outside the public-house—I asked him to go to his home, which was in Shaftesbury Avenue, about fifteen minutes' walk from the public-house—he said he meant murder, and his life was a misery to him—I asked him to go home—he would not go, so I left him—he said he meant to murder my mother and father, and that he would make them drunk first—that is all that passed—t left him there—he did not sleep in my house that night.
By the Jury. He did not explain in what way his life was a misery to him, but he said he would sooner be in prison.
Cross-examined. When I saw him on February 28th he was the worse for drink—I did not see him on the Thursday night—I saw him on the Friday afternoon—he was sober then—when he made the statement about murdering my father and mother he was very drunk—on three occasions out of these four that I saw him, he was drunk.
ELIZABETH BALLRD . I am a daughter of John Ballard—I was in the Wheatsheaf with William Farthing on Friday, March 3rd, about 10.30 p.m.—the prisoner came in after we were there—he appeared to be very drunk—I had no conversation with him then—I did not hear anything said—he asked me to go outside with him, because he felt sick—I went out and he told me he had been to Gamage's to buy a revolver to shoot mother and father, and me, and my sister—he said they would not let him have one because he never had no licence—I told him to go home—my sister, Mrs. Cooper, came in afterwards.
Cross-examined. I have been living at home, and saw the prisoner once when he called, after the engagement was broken off—I knew he was on friendly terms with my father, mother, and me—he had no grudge of any sort against me—when he made the statement about taking our lives he was very drunk.
By the COURT. He had already been in prison when he said he was on friendly terms with me, and my father and mother.
GEORGE MILLS . I am a salesman to Mr. Walter Sharwood, pawnbroker, of 183, St. John's Street Road—I recognise the prisoner—he came into my shop on Saturday, March 4th, between 9 and 9.30 a.m., and asked to see a silver chain hanging in the window, which I showed him—he bought it, and said he wanted it for some silver medals—I also showed him a few medals—he selected two, and asked me to put them on the chain—while I was doing so he saw a razor hanging up in a case at the back of the shop, and asked me if it was hollow ground—I showed it to him; he examined it, and said he would have it—he took it away with him; this is it (Produced)—he also asked if we kept revolvers—I said yes, but we had not any handy then, so I could not show him one—at the same time I said I should have to see his licence if I did sell him one—he said he had a licence at home—he said he wanted it for self-protection, and that he had to get protection from the police, or something like that.
By the COURT. There may have been some razors hanging up in the front of the shop, to show that we sold them.
mine—on Saturday, March 4th, about 11.30 a.m., I was in my room—I heard three knocks—I went to Mrs. Shadbolt's window and looked out—she lives on the same floor; her window is in the front—I saw the prisoner at the door; he said, "Good-morning. Is mother up?"—he meant the deceased—he was in the habit of calling her mother—I said, "I do not know"—he did not come into the house then—I did not see the deceased, but just after the prisoner knocked I heard her go downstairs—about 1 o'clock I heard a scream come from the deceased's back room—before that I heard the prisoner's voice as he went downstairs saying, "I am going to the back, mother"—she said, "Do not let everybody know where you are going"—it was a few minutes after that, that I heard the scream—I went on to the landing with Mrs. Shadbolt—she looked over and said, "Oh, my God what is it?"—I went to the window and shouted out, "Stop him. Murder"—I saw the prisoner coming out of the street door—he rushed by, and put his hand on the stone work, and I see it was all blood—he ran through Compton Street to Kenton Street—I went to the police station.
Cross-examined. The prisoner did not come in at 11.30; the deceased went out to him—I did not see either of them come back again—I have seen him at the house on several occasions—he always seemed to be on friendly terms with Mr. and Mrs. Ballard—I have not observed his condition when he went out of the house on any of these occasions.
Reexamined. On March 4th there was nothing noticeable about his condition—he seemed sober.
DORKIE BURDIN . I am the daughter of the proprietress of the Wheatsheaf, in Kenton Street—I knew the deceased slightly—I saw her on Saturday, March 4th, between 12 and 12.30 midday, in the bar with the prisoner—they had two whiskies and two half-pints of ale—the deceased drank the whiskey, and the prisoner the ale—I cannot tell you who paid for them—they were there about twenty minutes—they were quite sober.
Cross-examined. We have a good many people in the Wheatsheaf—I have not much time to notice each person—there was nothing particular to draw my attention to these people—they appeared quite friendly—I know a man named Wheeler—I do not remember if he was having drinks with the prisoner on that day.
EMILY SHADBOLT . I live on the top floor at 37, Compton Street, and am the wife of George Shadbolt—I remember seeing the prisoner on Saturday, March 4th, about 1 o'clock, when he came in with the deceased—they went into her room—I heard her scream—I did not hear anything said before that—I recognised the deceased's voice when I heard the scream—after the scream the prisoner opened the door and came out—I was on my own landing up above—I looked over the banisters—the prisoner had blood all over his face and hands—I said, "Oh, Alf. What have you done?"—he did not say anything—he came up three or four of the stairs, and shut the door—he then went down again, running into the street—I rah after him, and followed him to Lansdowne Place, which is about five minutes' walk away—he was running all the time—on the stairs where he had walked I noticed footprints of blood.
Cross-examined. I nave seen the prisoner often at this house, and knew him to be on friendly terms with Mr. and Mrs. Ballard—I have never noticed anything wrong with his condition when he has been there—I only noticed him coming in and out.
REUBEN ROTH (300 E.) About 1 o'clock on Saturday, March 4th, Mrs. Wheeler came to Hunter Street police station—in consequence, I went to 37, Compton Street, and into the second floor back room—I found a woman lying on the floor partly underneath the bed, dead—she was partly on her face—there was a quantity of blood—I sent for Dr. Murphy and the inspector.
WILLIAM HAY . I am a hackney carriage driver, of 15, Bolsover Street—about 1 o'clock on Saturday, March 4th, I was driving a hansom cab in Kenton Street, when I was engaged by the prisoner—I was standing by the Hope public-house—he came to me and said, "Do you want a job, cabbie?"—I said, "Yes, sir"—he gets into the cab and said, "Mechanic's Larder, Gray's Inn Road"—that is the public-house where I set him down—I drove in that direction—as I was going through Judd Street and Regent Square I looked through the trap door and saw him lying in the well of the cab, that is the bottom, so that he would not be seen above the doors—the cab looked as if it was empty, the doors being closed—I thought he was an ordinary fellow left off work on Saturday, and had a drop of drink—I took him to the Mechanic's Larder; it was not very far—I pulled the doors open—he got up and gave me half-a-crown—I did not get down from the cab; there was an ordinary strap door opener—the distance was about a quarter of a mile—he got out and asked me to have a drink—I went in, and we both had Scotch—I did not notice anything to speak of about his appearance—he gave me no explanation of why he had assumed that attitude in the cab, and I did not ask him.
Cross-examined. When I saw him at the bottom of the cab I thought he was drunk—he gave me half a crown for a quarter of a mile; we should never live if we did not sometimes get good fares like that—it may be that we get good fares like that from people who have had too much to drink—in the public-house I said to him, Well, old chap, have you had a drinking fit?"—he said, "I do not know, cabbie"—I lifted him into the saloon bar—I thought he had been having a heavy drinking bout.
Reexamined. When he was served in the bar he showed no signs of being incapable—there was nothing noticeable about his appearance—I noticed no signs of blood about him.
THOMAS MURPHY . I am divisional surgeon of police—about 1.20 p.m. on March 4th I was called to 37, Compton Street, and found the body of the deceased in the second floor back room—she was lying face downwards, partly under the bedstead, in a large pool of blood—there were five wounds on the scalp, all of the same character, lacerated and contused, extending down to the bone—all the bones on the left side of the skull were fractured—on the left side of the throat there was a large gaping wound extending from the middle line about four inches backwards—all the structures were divided down to the spinal column—there were bruises on the outer side of both her arms—I have seen this shovel handle (Produced)—
I did not see it in the room at the time—such an instrument as this would cause the wounds I saw, and the fracture of the skull—considerable force would have to be used—the cut in the throat might be caused by this razor (Produced)—very considerable, force would have to be used for that also—I held a post-mortem examination—the cause of death was haemorrhage, fracture of the skull, and laceration of the brain—the injuries to the head were probably caused first—the throat was cut afterwards.
JAMES WHEELER . I am a carman, of 37, Compton Street—on Saturday, March 4th, I was in the Wheatsheaf from 12 till 12.30 midday, when I saw the deceased with the prisoner—I did not hear anything said between them—we had sundry drinks, and they left together about 12.20—as the prisoner was going out of the door he said to me, "I will say goodmorning, but I will not say good-day. 1 will see you in the evening, and we will go on the ran dan,"—he meant by that, that we would have sundry drinks together.
Cross-examined. I was only with him for twenty minutes, during which time I had three drinks—I understood that 1 was going to see him in the afternoon—I had been in his company once or twice the previous day, and we had been drinking together, but nothing out of the ordinary.
THOMAS BRYSON (Inspector E.) On Saturday, March 4th, about 1.10 p.m., I went to 37, Compton Street, and in the room where the deceased was lying I saw the handle of this shovel lying on the bed—the blade of the shovel is broken off, and it is almost like a poker—there were bloodstains on the sheets of the bed, but none on the shovel.
HENRY GALLARD (Detective E.) On March 5th, about 10.35 a.m., I saw the prisoner passing through Hunter Street, which is about 60 yards from 37, Compton Street—I told him I was a police officer, and should arrest him—before I could say what for he said, "Yes, I know what it is for; it is for murder. Here is the razor I done it with "and he handed me this razor—I cautioned him that what he said might be used in evidence against him—he said, "I know all about that; the job is done. I have been very good to them, and the mother rounded on me. I know what this means, and want my watch and chain given to William Farthing"—I took him to the station, and next morning he was taken before the Magistrate—while waiting to go in front of the Magistrate he said, "I am going to tell this to the judge, and want you to take it down, and tell him the same"—I again cautioned him, and he said, "The job is done, I know that. I went to Mrs. Ballard's on Saturday, and intended to make her drunk, and then cut her throat on the bed. I treated her several times, but could not make her drunk, so I took the poker when her back was turned, and was going to strike her, when she looked round and shouted 'Murder.' I then struck her on the head with the poker. She again screamed 'Murder,' but only faintly. I struck her again, and she fell on the floor. I then took the poker with both hands, and struck her on the head with all the force I could, which was enough to kill a bullock. I then cut her throat and intended to put her under the bed to hide her wipe the blood up, and wait for her husband. She always is very nice in front of your face, but has being saying a lot about me,
and called me a name which was disgraceful to my mother. I looked out of the door, and Mrs. Shadbolt looked over the banisters and said, 'Oh, Alf, what have you done? 'I then ran away. Mrs. Shadbolt saved Ballard's life, as I intended to kill him and then cut my own throat"—he was quite sober when I arrested him.
Cross-examined. I have arrested men for such a charge as this before; they are usually the same as this man was—I have not found that the ordinary man wants to make excuses and get away, and is excited when arrested—the prisoner was quite calm and cool, and gave me an account of what he had done—he gave as his reason for what he did, that somebody had said something disgraceful about his mother—that was the sole reason he gave.
MARTHA PALMER . I live at 4, Dyott Street, Shaftesbury Avenue—the prisoner lodged in my house for about two years—on the Tuesday before the deceased's death he came home about 9.30 a.m.—he slept in my house that night, but not afterwards—on Saturday, March 4th, he came in about 7 a.m., very excited—we could do nothing with him—he marched the place, and would not give us time to give him anything to drink—he wanted a cup of tea when he came in, but would not give us time to get it, and put the cold water in the tea pot before we could make the tea—I left him there because I had to go to work at 9.30—my mother made him a fresh cup of tea before I went, and he called out "Gran, make me a piece of toast"—he always called my mother Gran—she made it and he was so excited he only look a little piece of the inside of it and laid it down—I saw Inspector Dew come to my house on that Saturday dinner time, and saw a match box in the room that the prisoner had occupied—my mother passed it to him.
Cross-examined. On the morning of the murder he was not in his usual state, nor on the Friday evening—he was very excitable—he looked the appearance as if he had been drinking, but if he was worried he always looked like that—I have not noticed that he had been drinking more than usual lately—he has been a most steady, quiet, and well-behaved young man, and we have never seen him out of temper in the place—he slept at our house on February 28th, but not on March 1st, 2nd or 3rd.
Re-examined. There was no reason why he did not sleep there on those nights; he still kept on the rooms—I believe he has got the key with him now, and he paid for the whole time he was not in the place.
WALTER DEW (Inspector E.) About 1 o'clock on March 4th I went to 37, Compton Street, and heard what had taken place—I went to 4, Dyott Street, Shaftesbury Avenue, where the prisoner had lodged—I found a cash box, and amongst other things I took from it two envelopes (Read): "Carefully read this. I hereby leave £5 to Mrs. Palmer, the rest of my property to my dear mother. Determined to swing. My watch and chain to William Farthing, my pal. My medal to Mrs. Palmer if I succeed in murdering Mrs. Ballard. God bless those who have done good to me"—the other envelope reads, "I have been utterly deceived by those who I have tried to do good to, as sure as God is my judge. Utter strangers have told me all about this wicked—. When
the time comes for God to call me away I am prepared to die. 4th of March, 1905, A. Bridgman"—on March 5th, at 11 a.m., I saw the prisoner at Hunter Street police station—I told him I was a police officer, and said, "Your name is Albert Bridgman"—he said, "Yes"—I said, "You will be charged with the murder of Mrs. Ballard in the second floor back room of 37, Compton Street, about 1 o'clock yesterday, by cutting her throat," and I cautioned him—he said, "Yes, I understand"—he was charged, and when it was read to him he made no reply, but nodded his head—I observed that there were bloodstains on his clothing and I procured another suit and asked him to change—while he was doing so he said, "I went to get my discharge on Wednesday and intended to go straight, but I heard she had been saving things against me. I have been walking about all night in Islington and passed several policemen, and saw about this on the papers. I am ready to swing when the time comes."
Cross-examined. He seemed very matter of fact—I did not regard it as unusual when he said, "I am ready to swing when the time comes "—I have made inquiries about him—he was engaged on blockhouse duty on the lines of communication in South Africa, and has the medals and clasp for tint service—I should certainly say up to December 27th, 1904, he was a hard-working and saving man, with nothing against him—he has £14 to his credit now in the National Penny Savings Bank.
WALTER SCHRODER . I am Deputy-Coroner for Central London—on March 8th I was present at an inquest opened by Mr. Danford Thomas on the body of Mrs. Ballard—I saw the prisoner sworn as a witness—he was cautioned that any evidence he gave, would be taken down in writing—he elected to give evidence—I took down what he said and read it over to him, and he signed it (Read): "I am aged twenty-two years, and am a labourer. I live at 4, Dyott Street, St. Giles. I am a labourer and have been in the Militia. I at once admit inflicting the injuries that caused Mrs. Ballard's death. The cause of this matter was not for the murdered woman keeping me from her daughter, for as determined as I was to murder her, so was I determined to keep away from the girl. I came out from doing a month's imprisonment, and while I was in there, I heard that the murdered woman had inquired when I was coming out, and when she heard I was coming out she turned round and said to somebody who knows her well, 'Let the bastard stop there.' Before I heard this I was on good terms with the woman on account of her being good to me when I was out of work for five weeks. Her husband happened to fall out of work later on and I stuck to them, trying to lift them up and find him work. Those who told me that, can speak up if he likes. Well, I got myself ready to start work on the Monday, and got my clothes out and bought myself out of the Militia, £4, before I earned it. Before that I had heard what the woman had called me was a bastard. I said, 'When I am done with work I will kill her.' In answer to the Coroner, I have no question to ask the witnesses; what they have said is correct."
with him on several occasions, and I have heard the evidence in this case—I detected no evidence of insanity.
Cross-examined. He has been callous and apparently not minding any results which might come to him—he told me he was out in South Africa, and said that in one of the blockhouses his head was accidentally struck by a bar of iron—he said he was dazed at the time, and that some months afterwards, he could not fix the dates precisely, he began to suffer from a discharge from his ears—he said at times he had buzzing in his ears—a man who is not too strong in the mind, and who takes a great deal to drink, may be affected in his mental capacity—at times delirium tremens and alcoholic insanity is brought on—alcoholic insanity frequently gradually subsides with care and treatment—the prisoner told me that the cause of his doing this was that some disgraceful expression was said towards his mother.
Re-examined. His being callous does not throw any light, in my opinion, upon his mental condition—I have found that people who are perfectly sane are sometimes callous—he showed no very marked signs of having been drinking—there were one or two appearances consistent with it—there were no signs of delirium tremens or alcoholic insanity.
By the COURT. There is nothing from which I could form the opinion that he had got any disease of the mind which would prevent him from knowing the quality of his acts, or knowing that what he was doing was wrong.
The prisoner. "I did not know what I was doing of at the time, and I was not in my right mind. That is all I have got to say."
GUILTY . DEATH .
NEW COURT.—Wednesday, April 5th, 1905.
Before Mr. Recorder.
321. WILLIAM PROWSE, otherwise CRAWFORD otherwise PRICE (40), PLEADED GUILTY to obtaining cheques for £52 10s., £17 10s., £55 10s. and £50 by false pretences, and converting them to his own use and benefit. Three years' penal servitude. —And
322. CHARLES GREAVES , to converting to his own use and benefit, cheques for the payment of £580, £20, and other sums, entrusted to him in order that he might apply the same for a certain purpose. Judgment respited for the doctor to attend as to the prisoner's health. [Pleaded guilty: See original trial image.]
MR. MUIR and MR. BODKIN Prosecuted; MR. COHEN Defended.
WILLIAM LEWIS . I am a navy foreman, and live at 257, Mayall Road, Brixton—about 5.50 a.m. on March 11th I was in Finchley Road, Hendon, between the cross roads and the crematorium—I had a bag containing £120 in gold and silver, 10s. in 3d. bits and 10b. bronze with me
for paying my men—I was living at that time at 8, Hendon Park Villas, and had been lodging there since a week after Christmas—since Christmas I was always in the habit of carrying this bag of money on Saturday mornings to pay the men—I sometimes might vary about ten minutes in the time, but it was always on the same day of the week—I used to get the money on the Friday evening and take it to my lodgings, bringing it to work next morning—I worked at the Golder's Hill Tube Station, which is north of the crematorium—my route every morning would be along Finchley Road—on this morning I was walking towards London to my way from the north as usual—it was a windy and blowy morning, and I had my open umbrella in one hand and my bag in the other—opposite the crematorium Brown passed me—I just turned my umbrella on one side in case I should collide with him and I saw him for a few seconds—the next thing I knew was that I was struck—I did not see him turn round—I was knocked insensible, and I now know that Stratton came up and took me to the place marked "Tube Works "on the plan, which is not far from the cross roads—I have been attended since by the surgeon—the next day I went to the Albany Street police station, where I saw a row of about twelve men, from whom I picked out Brown at once as the man who had struck me, and I say now that he is the man—it was a brown leather bag, and the money was in two paper bags marked like this (Produced).
Cross-examined. It was dark at the time—I just saw a glimpse of his face, but never full face—I do not think I said at the Police Court that I would rot swear to him—it is a country road with a lamp here and there, but there was not one just there—I saw more of his stature than of his face—when I identified him his face came naturally to me—I felt a bit better towards the evening—I went to the police station at 3.30 p.m. the next day.
Re-examined. I was unconscious for about eight minutes—I walked to the Tube Works, with Stratton's assistance.
By the COURT. Brown struck me across the right cheek—I am still unable to open my mouth wide.
CHARLES STRATTON . I am a labourer, and was employed at the Tube Works in March—on March 11th, about 5.40 or 5.45 a.m., I was walking along Finchley Road, about fifty yards behind Lewis, just by the crematorium, going to work—I was a bit behind that morning and I was catching him up—when about fourteen or fifteen yards from him I saw a man who was coming in the opposite direction turn round and strike Lewis with something in his hand—he then took the bag from him and gave a whistle—then down came a costermonger's pony barrow with a man driving—I could not see anything of him, because it was done so quick—I noticed that it was a chestnut pony—then the man who took the bag jumped into the pony barrow, and they drove up the road as quick as they could towards London—I cannot say whether they turned at the cross road or not; I looked after Lewis—I saw a pony and barrow at the Albany Street police station the next morning similar to the one I saw, but I cannot swear they are the same—I did not notice any marks
on the pony—it is an ordinary low costermonger's barrow, of the same shape as those that are pushed about, only bigger—I noticed this iron bar (Produced) lying on the road, which I took charge of—Lewis fell with his head in the hedge and his feet on the path—he was lying stiff when I got up to him—I picked up the bar and said, "Mr. Lewis?" to make sure—after two or three minutes he moaned and tried to get up—I assisted him to do so—he asked me for his bag, and I told him I had not got it, and that it had gone up the road in a costermonger's barrow—he did not seem to take much notice, and looked along the hedge to see if he could find it—I went and fetched the umbrella, which had blown down the road towards me as I was coming up—I was about fourteen or fifteen yards from Lewis when the man who took the bag jumped into the cart—I picked the prisoner Brown out as that man the next day—I identified him by his general cut—day was just breaking at the time and there was an incandescent lamp on the other side of the road, not exactly opposite.
Cross-examined. The light was about two or three yards off—it is a wide road—I cannot swear to Brown as being the man.
GEORGE FITTS . The prisoner, who goes by the name of Brown, is my brother; that is the name he went under on account of not disgracing my father and mother; he has been called Brown before—I am married and live at 105, Bemerton Street, Caledonian Road, King's Cross, and am a painter—I was living there on March 11th, and my brother was lodging with us—he was arrested on March 12th, about 1 a.m., and we were both taken to the police station—they never charged me with robbing Lewis—they never told me what we were charged for—in the evening I made a statement to the police as to what I knew about Lewis—on the Friday evening, I think a week before March 11th, it may have been in a public-house, or at home, he said to me he was going to do a job at Golder's Hill—I do not think there was anybody else present at the time—he said he was going to rob a navy foreman of a bag—of course he did not know how much money was in it, but he said that it contained money that was going to pay the navvies at the Tube, and that somebody else put him up to it—I said, "Pray, Bob, don't go"—he said a man named Hinton was going with him—I saw him the next morning and he said he could not do it on account of two navvies being behind this man—I said nothing more to him then—the next I heard of it was the afternoon of the Friday before March 11th—he did not say anything to me until I saw Marshall, the other prisoner, call him out of a public house between 9 and 10 p.m.—I was in there with him—I did not go out with him—my brother came back again alone and said, "Me and Billy is going to do it," meaning Marshall—Hinton had been arrested two or three days before this—my brother asked me to call him at 4.30 the next morning, but I refused to do so, and he said he would not come in all night—he came in with me to have supper about 10 p.m., and afterwards he went out—I do not think there was anything said about this at supper—I saw him next between 4.20 and 4.30 next morning—I was waiting for him to come in; I could not rest—I was looking out of the window and
I heard him come upstairs and I said to my missus, "There he comes, thank God"—I was very upset at the time—he came in and sat in the armchair—I said to my wife in his hearing, "I think he has had a drop of tea," by that we mean beer, "If he goes to sleep let him"—he kept looking at the clock, and about 4.40 a.m. he went over to call on Marshall on the opposite side of the road, No. 66—I was looking out of the window, and I saw him go over there and knock at his door, and Marshall came out and went round by the stables with him—they went round the corner of the street to the stables—I could not see the entrance to the stables from where I was—I then saw them come driving by the place up Bingfield Street, about fifteen or twenty minutes afterwards—they turned round by the Pembroke Castle towards Camden Town northwards—my house is about ten minutes' walk from Kings Cross—I know Marshall's pony which he was driving—it is a brown one, but I did not notice what marks it had on it; I was too much upset by my brother to take any notice of them—it was an ordinary costermonger's cart—I had not seen it before; it was the first time I had noticed it coming out—I know Marshall drives that pony and curt with Joe Beach in the ordinary way—between 7 and 7.30 a.m. my brother came in and said he had done the job, and slung about £40 in gold and silver on the bed; he said he had hit the man on the neck with a bar of iron; he never intended to hit the man at the back there, but meant to hit him on the leg—he said, "We hit him with a bar of iron"—I know this iron bar (Produced), but he did not say he had hit him with that—the first time I saw it, was on the Friday evening that he and Marshall went out of my brother's room, but I did not know where it came from—he said, "He got up of his knees and tried to come after me; I jumped in Marshall's cart"—that is as far as I can remember what he said when he came home—of course, I was a bit upset—he did not tell me anything more about it at any other time—he gave me two sovereigns in the afternoon, and I did not ask him where he had got it; I guessed—that morning the bar of iron was not in my house—he said he was sorry, but they had left it behind.
Cross-examined. I have been convicted twice; first for stealing a lady's bag at Clerkenwell, where I got three months; and secondly for stealing a sovereign, when I got one month at Clerkenwell—I am not an associate of thieves—me and my brother have been good old pals together—I have never charged him in any matter concerning my wife, nor have I had any quarrel with him, or anything of the sort—I was in the police station fifty hours before I gave evidence against him—I have got a wife and a lot of children—I did so, I think, in the interest of justice, and I wanted to clear myself—Hinton is not honest, but I do not want to say anything about him at all—my brother used to bring him to my house—my animosity against my brother is only to be accounted for by my interest in justice—I have never had a fight with him in a public-house, and I do not know that we were turned out—I do not know what this has got to do with it—I hit him once with my fists; I did not use an iron bar against him; nor have I ever done so—I knew the £2 that he gave me was stolen, but I had kept my brother six or
eight weeks and I thought it was time something came to light—I was worried and did not know what I was doing at the time he gave it to me—I tried to persuade him not to commit this crime, but he was bent on doing it—I did not go to the police before he did it; I did not know he was mug enough to do a job like this—when I saw them going I thought they would be too late and that is why I did not go to the police—I generally go to bed at 10, 11 or 12 p.m., and get up at 5.30 a.m.—I got up at 4.20 a.m. this morning, because my brother had not come home all night—I could not go to sleep, and I was sure he had gone out, because he had told me he was going to do so—I was anxious for myself as well as him, because he never came in all night, and if he had come in and gone to sleep this job would not have been done—nothing was said about my meeting him at Covent Garden that morning at 6.30 a.m.—he had never done such a thing in his life—I have never said anything about his saying, "We hit him on the back of the neck," before to-day—I say now that I said it at the Police Court—it did not seem odd his confessing to me—I am sure he said, "We hit the man on the neck"—he said he had stolen £80 and that he and Marshall had cut it up between them.
MARY ANN FITTS . George Fitts is my husband—I was with him and Brown in the Pembroke Castle on the Friday evening before my husband was taken to the police station—Brown left the public-house—I did not see anybody go out with him—he came back again after a few minutes and asked my husband to call him early in the morning, at 4 or a little after, and my husband said, "Not me"—he had supper with us that night and after supper he went out—I next saw him soon after 4 the next morning in my bedroom—he was only indoors for a few minutes—I cannot tell you exactly the time; I was in bed—I did not look out of the window, but my husband did—the next I saw of Brown was soon after 7 a.m.—he did not give me anything or say anything then—in the afternoon he gave, me 18s. in 2s. pieces—I had not seen him have any money in his possession before that—a few days previous, while he had boon stopping with me, I had been giving him halfpence to go out with in the morning—early on Sunday morning my husband was taken to the police station—about 8.5 a.m. that morning I saw Marshall going down Bemerton Street in a pony barrow—I did not know until Sunday dinner time that he had been arrested—when I took my husband's dinner down to the police station I saw Marshall sitting there, but I did not speak to him—the next time I saw him was on the same night at 66, Bemerton Street, where he lodges—I did not expect to see him, and I said, "What, Billy you here!" and he said, "Yes"—I said, "How is that; have you not been identified?"—he said, "No"—I said, "Has Bob been identified?"—he said, "Yes, by four or five of them"—by Bob I mean Brown—I then said, "Where is George, my husband?"—he said, "He is coming"—I said, "Well, he is a long while coming; it is close on 11 o'clock now. Look here, Billy, if he is not herein the morning you will have to take his place. He is not going through it for you"—he offered to pay for a counsel for him, but I did not say anything; I walked out of the room.
Cross-examined. I occupied the same room with my husband on the night before this robbery—he came to bed, but he did not go to sleep—I went to sleep, but I know he was in and out of bed—he may have dozed off, but he could not rest—when Brown gave me the 18s. he said, "Take this "and nothing else—I have said before that I saw Marshall on Saturday morning.
JOSEPH BEACH . I am a general dealer, of 23, Risinghill Street, Pentonville, and have worked in partnership with Marshall—we used a pony and cart in the business, which we hired from a Mr. Green, at 5s. a week—I drove it to the Albany Street police station on March 12th, with Mr. Powell—the pony is a chestnut mare, with a white star on the forehead and a splash of white on the off-side of the nose, and two white marks on the hind fetlocks—it is stabled at the corner of Freeling Street, Caledonian Road, which runs into Bemerton Street—the yard is mostly locked up at night, but the stable is always open—I have got a key of the yard, but there is no key to the stable—Marshall had the key of the yard on Friday night, March 10t—between 7 and 7.30 p.m. I saw the pony bedded down, Charley Rich and Marshall being with me at the time—at 7.45 p.m. Marshall bid me good-night at his lodgings—I made an arrangement to meet him at the Midland Railway sheds about 7 the next morning—I got there about 7.45 a.m., but Marshall was not there—I met him at the Great Northern sheds—I thought he had misunderstood me, so I went there—it is more than 500 yards off—you have to cross in front of Midland Street and Great Northern Street, and turn up York Road to the left, to get there—it would be about 8.20 or 8.30 a.m. when I met him—the pony looked wet, because it had been raining very hard, and I noticed the reins had not been done up in the proper way—they were put through single rings instead of the double rings—I said to Marshall, "Who harnessed the pony?"—he said, "I did"—I said, "Why did you not do the bit ap properly?"—he said, "Look how pouring heavens hard of rain it was"—I noticed the traces also were not done up level; they were longer one side than the other—I also noticed that the pony seemed to go a bit sluggish, which I put down to the traces not being level and it had a nasty cold at the time—I left Marshall on the Great Northern, and I went and cleared half a ton of potatoes with the pony and cart—about 9.30 p.m. the same day I said to Marshall, "The pony went very sluggish. What do you say to giving him a bran mash?"—he said, "Well, I will give him a good rest tomorrow "—he gave me £1 0s. 6d. and we bid one another good-night.
Cross-examined. I found him waiting at the Great Northern, where we usually meet—it was very natural that the pony should look wet—I am very near sure that the pony was sluggish because of the way it had been harnessed—when I put the traces right, it seemed to go all right.
WILLIAM BEVAN . I live at 32, Rochford Street, Kentish Town, and am a pony driver at the Tube Works, Golder's Hill—at 5 a.m. on March 11th I left home to go to work in company with Bullard—we went up East Heath Road to get there—about 5.30 a.m. in East Heath Road I noticed a chestnut pony and a cart with two men in it—the pony had a
white star on its forehead, a white mark on its nostril, and two white marks on its hind fetlocks—there was no light on the cart—I made a remark to Bullard out loud as the cart was at the side of me—after that the tallest man turned round and looked at me, and I saw it was Brown—the other man was driving, but I did not recognise him as Marshall—he had a sack on his head—they then whipped up the pony and made it get into a gallop—we walked on towards the works and saw the pony and cart again between Jack Straw's Castle and the Spaniards Hotel—it was coming towards the Spaniard's—I did not notice the faces of either of the men on that occasion—on March 12th I went to Albany Street police station, where I saw the same pony and I identified Brown, who was the only one I recognised—I saw a barrow at the police station, which was similar to the one I had seen in East Heath Road.
Cross-examined. The cart was coming to meet us on the off-side—we were on the right side of the road—Brown was wearing a cap—the pony was going a steady trot when it passed us—I could not see very clearly or distinctly—I had never seen Brown before that day—they were going by a lamp-post and there was a light on the barrow—it seemed funny to us for a barrow to be out at that time of the morning.
Re-examined. I have been a pony driver for ten or eleven months, and I noticed the marks on this pony.
By the COURT. We were just going on the hill when we saw it just before we got to Spaniard's Road—when we saw them a second time they were driving away from Jack Straw's Castle towards the Spaniards, and away from where the North End Road runs into the Spaniards Road—we were going up East Heath Road and they were going the same way.
GEORGE BULLAND . I live at 7, Eland Grove, Gospel Oak, and am a pony driver, working at the Tube Works, at Golder's Hill—I was walking to work on the morning of Saturday, March 11th, to Bevan, when in East Heath Road I saw a coster barrow, being drawn by a dark chestnut pony with two white hind fetlocks, a white spot on the off-side nostril and a white star on the forehead—two men were in the cart, of whom I recognise Brown—the other man, whose face I did not see, was driving—I saw the pony and cart a second time as it came along the road to the Spaniard's Road, which goes across the Heath—we were walking along to Jack Straw's Castle—I did not see which way it went—on March 12th I went to Albany Street, where I recognised the pony, but I could not swear to the cart—I saw a similar kind of cart—I picked out Brown, who was the only man I recognised.
Cross-examined. When I first saw the pony and cart it was coming up behind me and passed me—it was about 5.30 a.m. and daylight was just breaking—I had never seen Brown before that day in my life—he turned his face to us—the pony was walking and then they whipped it up and it started galloping—it would be untrue to say it was trotting before it got to us—it was walking as it passed us—we saw it behind Well Walk and the Vale of Health—it was level with us quite long enough lot me to take stock of it; I should not say it was a long time—I cannot
say what the other man was like—he had a sack over his head at the time—I do not know whether he was taller or shorter than Brown—being a pony man I am rather used to ponies, and my attention was fixed on the pony.
GEORGE BARKER . I live at 3, Hendon Park Row, Henden, and am employed as a pony driver at the Tube Works—between 5.45 a.m. and 5.50 a.m. on March 11th I was going with a man named Isaac Skuse along Finchley Road to work, coming from the direction of Hood Lane towards Hampstead Heath, when, just before we got to the cross roads, I saw a pony and barrow standing towards Finchley—there were two men in the barrow, neither of whom I can recognise—I noticed it was a chestnut pony with a white patch on its forehead, a white nostril on the oil-side, and its two hind feet were white just about the fetlocks—the men were sitting in the barrow, both covered up with one sack—we passed them by and they went towards Finchley—I did not see it again that day—on March 12th I went to the Albany Street police station, where I recognised the pony and barrow as the one that I had seen on the early morning of the previous day.
Cross-examined. We, being pony drivers, took notice of this pony; we always take notice of a pony in that way.
ISAAC SKUSE . I live at 6, Hendon Park Row, Hendon, and work at the Golder's Hill Tube Works as a pony driver—on the morning of March 11th I was walking with Barker to work along Finchley Road from Hendon, when about twenty yards from the cross-roads we saw a costermonger's barrow and a chestnut pony, which had a white star on its forehead and a white nostril—there were two men sitting in the barrow, with a sack across their shoulders—the next day I went to the Albany Street police station, where I saw the pony and barrow—I recognised the pony as the one I had seen before—I would not swear to the barrow, but it was the same kind that I saw.
Cross-examined. It was just getting daylight at the time—I noticed it particularly, because it seemed very strange to see a pony going that way so early in the morning—Detective Ballard asked me on the Sunday if I would come down to Albany Street and see if that was the pony—he never told me anything about what the pony was like—he came on the Saturday before while I was at work, and the time-keeper came and fetched me out—he asked me what I had seen on the road, and I told him all that I had seen and described the pony to him—I did not know what sort of pony there was at the Albany Street police station until I went and saw it.
WILLIAM NORMAN EVANS , M.R.C.S. L.R.C.P. I practice at 3, Thurlce Road, Hampstead—at 7.30 a.m. on March 11th I examined Lewis—he was suffering from contused wounds over his left eye and on his right cheek, and bruises on his left shoulder—the injury on his right cheek might have been inflicted by this iron bar—on March 21st I found it healed, but he cannot open his mouth wide due to injury, and it is pretty certain that an operation will be necessary—the bruises on his shoulder would have been caused by a fall.
THOMAS POWELL (Detective Y.) I saw the prisoners together on March 8th at the corner of Bingfield Street and Bemerton Street, and I have seen them together on several occasions—Bemerton Street is where both of them live, and at the corner is the Pembroke Castle—I took possession of a pony and barrow in a stable and took them to the station—I have seen Marshall and Beach about with it hundreds of times.
JAMES BALLARD (Detective-Sergeant). I was present on March 12th when Bower arrested Brown at 105, Bemerton Street—at 7 a.m. on March 13th I went with him and other officers to 66, Bemerton Street, where we saw Marshall—I told him that I was going to take him into custody for being concerned with Robert Brown, already in custody, for stealing a bag containing £120, and that he would be further charged with assaulting William Lewis, by striking him on the face with an iron bar with intent to do him grievous bodily harm—he made no reply—he was taken to Caledonian Road police station, where he was detained—afterwards at Hendon police station I was present when both prisoners were charged with the same offence—neither of them made any reply.
ELIAS BOWER . (Detective-Inspector). About 2 a.m. on March 12th I went with other officers to 106, Bemerton Street, where I saw Brown—I said to him, "We are police officers. A man was very seriously assaulted and robbed of £120 at Finchley Road, Hendon, at 5.50 a.m. on the 11th. Where were you at that time?"—he replied, "In bed here"—I said, "I do not believe that. I am going to search you. What have you got about you?"—he produced 10 sovereigns, 8s. 6d. silver and 1d. bronze—I said, "How do you account for the possession of this money?"—he replied "My father left it to me"—I said, "When?"—he replied, "In January"—I said, "Can you refer me to any one who can corroborate your statement?"—he replied, "My brother George, who is in the next room, knows where I got it"—I saw his brother, and in consequence of what he said, I returned to him and said, "Your brother does not know where you got the money. I believe it to be part of that stolen from William Lewis in Finchley Road early on Saturday morning. I am going to take you into custody for being concerned with another man in stealing a bag containing £120 from William Lewis at about 5.50 a.m. on the 11th, and further with unlawfully and maliciously wounding him by striking him across the face with an iron bar, thereby causing him grievous bodily harm"—he made no reply, and I took him to Albany Street police station—about noon on March 12th I saw Marshall and Beach at Freeling Street, Caledonian Road—I said to Marshall, "A man was assaulted and robbed yesterday morning in the Finchley Road, and your pony answers to the description of the one seen near the scene of the occurrence. Where were you that morning? "—he said, "In bed until I went to market"—I asked him if he knew if his pony had been out or not, and he said it had not been out—I took him, Beach, and the pony and barrow to Albany Street police station, and at about 4 p.m. that day Brown was picked out from eleven other men, amongst whom was Marshall, by Lewis, Stratton, Bevan and Bullard—Bevan, Bullard, Skuse and Barker identified the pony,
Stratton saying, "I believe it is the one I saw at Finchley Road" I told Marshall I was going to liberate him, and said I proposed to take a statement from him, and he said, "All right, I will tell you the truth"—he then made a signed statement—I liberated him about 6.30 or 7 p.m.—Fitts made a statement at 8 p.m., and I liberated him the next morning I went with Sergeant Holdoway and other officers to 66, Bemerton Street, and arrested Marshall.
Cross-examined. Fitts had been in custody since 2 a.m., when he made his statement.
Marshall's statement, read: "12th March, 1905, William Marshall states: I reside at 66, Bemerton Street, Caledonian Road, and am a general dealer. I am working in partnership with Joe Beach. I used to own a pony, but I sold it to Mr. Green, Arlington Road, Camden Town, for six guineas. Since that time Beach and I have hired it from Green with a barrow and harness, for 5s. per week. We rent a stall in a stable at the corner of Freeling Street and Bemerton Street. On Friday evening I left some time between 7 and 8 p.m. Before leaving him it was arranged that I should meet him at the Great Northern of Midland Potatoe Market at, I think, 7 a.m. on Saturday. It might have been 7.30, and I am not certain which potato market he said I was to meet him at first. I cannot say what time it was when I got up on Saturday morning, 11th inst., but it was dark. I did not look at the time. As soon as I got up I had a wash and then went and fed the pony. I believe this was before 7 o'clock, but how much, it is impossible for me to say. It might have only been a very few minutes, and it is possible it was after 7. It is impossible for me' to say accurately. I had no light in the stable; it was light enough for me to see what I wanted to do. There are no windows in the stable; they are all broken, and some sacks are nailed up there to keep the draught out. After feeding it I went back home and told the landlady I would have my breakfast after harnessing the pony. I then returned to the stable, harnessed the pony, put it in the barrow, and went and had my breakfast. I did not notice that the pony was wet. If it was I should not have taken any notice of it, as it is in the habit of kicking the bedding from underneath and laying in its own water. Sometimes it rolls over and gets smothered. After having had my breakfast I drove to the Great Northern Potatoe Market, which is five minutes' drive, and waited there about a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes before Beach arrived. I do not know what time he arrived, and if he says it was half-past eight I should not dispute it. I know I had only been there about a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes when he arrived. As we could not buy any potatoes to suit us it was arranged that Beach should go to Enfield New Town station, and take half a ton of potatoes from there to Mr. Hieber, High Barnet, which he agreed to do. I did not go with him as I had rheumatism in the ankle, and I had to wait to see if there were any potatoes cowing
up from the country. I did not see Beach again until about 10 o'clock on Saturday night. I have known Bob Fitts for some years. I also know that his brother lives almost opposite me. I last saw him (Bob) last Thursday or Friday, I did not speak to him, but nodded. I was present this afternoon when he was identified. If he took out my pony and barrow on Saturday morning, he did so unknown to me. I did not let it out to anyone on Saturday morning. Mrs. Pegg is my landlady."
GUILTY . Brown then PLEADED GUILTY to a conviction of felony at this Court on April 22nd, 1901, and Marshall to a conviction of felony at the Newington Sessions on October 13th, 1897, in the name of John Harris. BROWN, against whom eleven previous convictions were proved. Five years' penal servitude and eighteen strokes with the cat. MARSHALL, against whom a large number of convictions were proved. Seven years' penal servitude.
THIRD COURT.—Wednesday, April 5th, 1905.
Before J. A. Rentoul, Esq., K.C.
MR. COUNSEL Prosecuted; MR. PURCELL Defended.
The prisoner stated that he was guilty of unlawfully wounding, and the Jury returned that verdict. He received a good character. GUILTY . Discharged on recognisances.
OLD COURT.—Thursday, April 6th, 1906.
Before Mr. Justice Jelf.
(327). HENRY CORBETT JONES (45) , to embezzling cheques for the payment of £2,000, £2,750, and £9,070 10s. 6d., received on account of the Mayor, Alderman and Councillors of the Borough of Holborn, his masters. Seven years' penal servitude. [Pleaded guilty: See original trial image.]
NEW COURT.—Thursday, April 6th, 1905.
Before Mr. Recorder.
328. WILSON HORNE (40) PLEADED GUILTY to obtaining credit for £35, £7 10s., and £25, from Charles Macgregor Campbell by false pretences; also to stealing five bankers' cheque forms, the property of Charles McGregor Campbell; also to forging and uttering orders for the payment of £12 and £5 10s. with intent to defraud. Having been, convicted of misdemeanour at this Court, on April 7th, 1897. Two other convictions were proved against him. The police stated that the prisoner bore a very bad character. Three years' penal servitude, to run concurrently with a sentence of twelve months' hard labour at this Court on February 7th, 1905, for bigamy. —And
THIRD COURT.—Thursday, April 6th, 1905.
Before J. A. Rentoul, Esq., K.C.
MR. MUIR and MR. FULTON Prosecuted; MR. DICKENS, K.C, and MR. TRAVERS-HUMPHREYS Defended.
NOT GUILTY .
Before Mr. Recorder.
Old Court, April 3rd, 1905.
Before Mr. Common Serjeant,
Third Court, April 4th, 1905.
MR. ROGERSON Prosecuted; MR. NOLAN Defended.
ELIZA ANN MCGEEHAN . I am the prisoner's wife—he is a boiler-maker, and a most sober and respectable man—I have been married to him for fourteen years—since about eight years ago he said I was giving him poison in his food—he was really bad—I went to the police station with him, and he accused me there of poisoning him—there was no truth in it—before March 24th last he had not been well—that day I went to Dr. Debenham because my husband was very restless and could get no sleep—he followed me in what I was doing and could not stop watching me—he ate his breakfast, and after that he accused me of poisoning him, rinsing his mouth out, gurgling, and wringing his hands—that was about 10 a.m., after he was up and had had his breakfast—I asked him what it was for—he said, "To wash the poison out"—he went out for half
an hour or an hour in the morning, but except for that he never left me—he was with me while I was preparing dinner, walking up and down, but he would not eat his dinner—he said it was poisoned—I cleared the dinner away, and we sat down on the sofa, trying to have a little sleep, with his arms round my waist—I said, "A little sleep will do us both good"—he was very affectionate—there was no quarrel—we never had any quarrel—he never raised his hand to me till then, when we were sitting with his head on my shoulder, but all at once I felt a knife in my throat—I did not see it—I screamed; I slipped on to the floor; I could not get up—we have rooms in Mrs. Cook's house—she is the landlady, and she came and said, "What is this? What is this?"—my husband got up in an instant, left me, and stood still—I went downstairs and ran to the nearest doctor—I knew there was nothing fatal—the landlady ran for a policeman—the doctor stitched my throat up—when I slipped on to the floor my husband was still trying to cut my throat—he had his arm round my neck—he took hold of my chin and pulled my head back, but I put my hands up to my throat—my fingers were cut—I am sure he did not know what he was doing.
Cross-examined. He was always a good and affectionate husband—I have lived happily with him except for his delusions—I have done the best I could for him—the doctor told me eight years ago to humour him and said he would never get better—my husband said something about what he thought I had done and that he had forgiven me, and hoped that it would not happen again—both eight and six years ago he accused me, then he got better and then went on about the same; still, I had no fear that he would hurt me—at intervals he had these things on his mind—on the day of this occurrence when I put his vegetables on his plate he said, "Let me have yours"—he thought mine would be all right, but he did not eat it—he has frequently done that—at meal times or immediately after breakfast that idea was most pronounced—when we were resting after dinner we were expecting Dr. Debenham, he said he was not going to work—the doctor said he would call—the knife is an ordinary pen knife, an old one, and the point was broken—I did not see it, but I know it was his knife—he was taken bad about a week before this happened—he became mad after reading in the papers that a man he had worked with and had known for years had committed suicide on the Wednesday or Thursday week previous, by cutting his throat—he said, "I cannot realise it," and subscribed to the collection for the widow—one delusion was that his nephew in South Africa and I were trying to get him out of the way in order to get his property—that delusion came on suddenly—he told it to the police and I heard of it—he asked Mrs. Cook's daughters what their door was closed for—I asked him to go and open it and look in, but he would not do that—I heard that he had said I had locked a man in the room for the purpose of taking his life and that I had been to get a man next door to help him take his life—he never said that to me—only that morning he said I had been poisoning him—he would not take the doctor's medicine—and he said there was poison in that—he said, "If it is good for me it
is good for you; if you will take a dose I will take one after you"—I took a dose, but he would not take any—he did not mention the word "poison"—he has never raised a finger against me—he has always borne a good character and his discharges from ships were very good.
ELIZABETH COOK . I am the wife of Robert William Cook, of 50, Balaam Street, Plaistow—the prisoner has lived there with his wife for the last six years—on Friday, March 24th, the prisoner showed me his tongue—he said, "There is poison in it"—afterwards I heard a scream—I went upstairs—i saw Mr. McGeehan and his wife—I did not see the knife till he stood upright—she was on the floor and he was leaning over her—I saw the knife in his hand—I only saw the blade—I went for a policeman—when I came back I went behind the policeman and let him go upstairs.
Cross-examined. The prisoner was quite close to the sofa—his wife was in a position as if she had fallen off the sofa—that morning the prisoner pushed his tongue out and said, "Look at ray tongue"—he said his wife had been poisoning him—I had not heard of his delusions before that—he was excited—he has treated his wife very well and was respectable as far as I know since they lived with me.
WILIAM TOPHAM (174 K.) On March 24th, between 2 and 3, I was called to 50, Balaam Street—I went upstairs—I said to the prisoner, "Hulloa, Mack, what is the matter?"—he said, "We have had a bit of a scuffle"—I said, "How do you mean?"—he was wiping up blood on the floor with some paper—he said, "My wife has been trying to poison me for a long time past. The other day she had a man locked in the bedroom; he was going to cut my throat and now I have cut hers instead. There is another man coining over from South Africa very shortly, and they want my little bit of property, I suppose"—I took him to the station—he was charged—he made no reply—this is the knife which the sergeant found.
Cross-examined. It is an ordinary pen knife—I have known the prisoner fifteen or sixteen years—I never knew a more respectable man—I believe he was an affectionate husband—I have seen them in the street together—about eight years ago. I believe, he complained of his wife at the police station—he also said, "They want to get me out of the way," or words to that effect—I knew nothing of his delusions till this occasion—his fellow workman, Hedley, had committed suicide shortly before this.
ALFRED OSBORNE (61 K.) About 3 p.m. on March 24th I went to 50, Baalam Street—in the back room on the first floor I found the carpet in great disorder and a quantity of blood on the floor—in the scullery on the same floor I found this pen knife open on the mantelpiece, and a quantity of blood in a hand bowl and in the sink.
Cross-examined. I saw the prisoner at the police station—he said at the Police Court that his wife had tampered with him for years—about eight years ago he complained that his wife had tried to poison him—I know him by sight—his character is very good indeed.
his wife came to my surgery—I found the wife was suffering from a wound in the right side of her neck about four inches long, and from which blood was issuing—it was a ragged cut—the wound was shallow—there was no Injury to the important vessels only to the superficial ones—I stitched up the wound—there were scratches on her neck, and one or two cuts on her fingers.
Cross-examined. She may be well in two or three days—there is no permanent injury.
Evidence for the Defence.
JAMES SCOTT . I am the medical officer at His Majesty's prison, Brixton—I have had the prisoner under close observation since March 25th and have had several interviews to ascertain the state of his mind—I think ho was insane and under the influence of insane delusions when ho committed the offence with which he is charged—I found no evidence of ill will against his wife.
GUILTY, but not responsible for his actions at the time . To be detained during His Majesty's pleasure.
Before J. A. Rentoul, Esq., K.C.
Fourth Court, April 4th, 1905.
Discharged on recognisances on the surety undertaking to place him in an Inebriates' Home for three years.
MR. WARDE Prosecuted.
GUILTY on the second count . Fourteen days' imprisonment.
MR. SANDS Prosecuted.
GEORGE MAPLEY (299 J.) On March 18th I was on patrol duty in Leyton High Road—outside the Lion and the Key I saw the prisoner and a man who proved to be his brother Samuel—they were using obscene language—Samuel was very drunk—I asked them to go away—they refused—Samuel made a blow at me—I closed with him and we both fell to the ground—the prisoner tried to get his brother away—Flower then came to my assistance, got hold of Samuel's neckerchief and tried to get him up—the prisoner went back a yard or two and made a running kick at Flower, catching him under the chin—Flower fell down unconscious—the prisoner then kicked him three times about his head and face—
a constable in plain clothes came up and arrested the prisoner—I was fully occupied with Samuel—the prisoner was sober.
The prisoner. We were not using obscene language—I saw this constable and the other man struggling and did not like to see it; I lost myself altogether and I kicked the constable.
HARRY FLOWER (283 J.) I was on duty in High Road, Leyton, about 12 noon on March 18th—I came up to the Lion and Key and saw Mapley struggling on the ground with Samuel Chumbley—the prisoner was trying to get the constable away from his brother—I assisted Mapley with his prisoner when the prisoner tried to pull me away—then stepping luck a pace or two he made a running kick at me which I received on the left side of my jaw—I became unconscious—when I came to I went to the police station—I do not know what happened in the meantime—I am still on the sick list—I was in uniform at the time—I am still dizzy and suffer great pain in my head.
JOHN NUNN (47 J.R.) At 12 noon on March 18th I was in the Leyton Road in plain clothes—I saw two policeman lying on the ground—one was bleeding very much and the other was struggling with the prisoner—I arrested the prisoner—he was taken to the station and charged—he made no reply to the charge—prior to being charged he said he would blow the sergeant's brains out, referring to Sergeant Lovatt.
GEORGE HAROLD SMITH . I am a greengrocer at 11, Simpson's Terrace, High Road, Leyton—on March 18th I was passing along Leyton High Road and saw "Bluff" Chumbley, that is the prisoner, take a kick at the policeman—I knew the prisoner—there was a crowd and I then saw the prisoner run away with a policeman after him—the policeman was lying on the ground when ho was kicked—I picked him up and with help took him to a doctor's.
MARY WARD . I am housekeeper to Dr. Dawson, Grange Park Road, Leyton—on March 18th, noon, I was passing along High Road, Leyton, and saw two constables with a man struggling on the ground—I then saw another man come along and kick one of the coastal les who rolled over as if dead—he was taken to Dr. Dawson's surgery.
LEWIS JEKYLL . I am divisional surgeon of police, living at Gainsborough house, Leytonstone—I attended Flower on March 18th about 2 p.m.—he was suffering from severe contused wounds, one on the point of his cheek, another at the root of his nose, and four slight contusions over his loft eye—they must have been caused by considerable' force—they could have been certainly caused by kicks—it may be another week or so before ho will be fit for duty.
SAMUEL LOVATT (67 J.) I was on duty at the Leyton police station on March 18th when the prisoner was brought in—I said to him, "You will be charged with causing grievous bodily harm to a constable—he said, "Blime, if you put that charge on me I will blow your b—brains out with a revolver"—when charged he made no reply.
Prisoner's Defence. "I was in drink and had been up from half-past six in the morning. My brother had been drinking spirits and I had
been drinking beer, and I did not like to see my brother knocked about by the police, and I felt very angry when I see him do it."
GUILTY . There were stated to be a great number of convictions against him. Two years' hard labour.
Third Court, April 5th, 1905.
336. WALTER BEALL (32) PLEADED GUILTY to unlawfully converting to his own use and benefit £2 10s., £10 15s., £2 12s. 6d., and £6 6s., received by him on behalf of the Salway Athletic Association. Judgment respited.
Before Mr. Recorder.
Old Court April 3rd, and New Court, April 4th, 1905.
337. FRANK HARRISON (38), otherwise WALTER LARKING , PLEADED GUILTY to stealing £36 0s. 9d., the moneys of Leonard Tressillian Jeffries and another his masters; also to stealing orders for the payment of £10 2s., £10 10s., £15 15s., £8 12s., £5 16s., £3 14s. 6d., £18 7s. (id., £8 12s. 6d., and money to the amount of £18 7s. 6d., and £12 9s. 8d., the property of Henry Woodcock Ryland and another, his masters. Fifteen months' hard labour. And
338. JAMES LEE (37) , to stealing a watchchain and other articles, the property of Emma Green, having been convicted of felony at Ipswich Quarter Sessions on April 9th, Two previous convictions were proved against him. Nine months' hard labour. [Pleaded guilty: See original trial image.]
Before Mr. Recorder.
Old Court, April 3rd, 1905.
339. CHARLES WOODHOUSE SHEPHERD (49) PLEADED GUILTY to obtaining by false pretences from the Rev. James Bowden an order for the payment of £2 and £2 in money with intent to defraud; also to forging and uttering an order for the payment of £2 with intent to defraud, having been convicted of felony at this Court on September 8th, 1903. Fifteen months' hard labour.
New Court, April 4th, 1905.
340. HERBERT JAMES (33), otherwise CHARLES CHEESMAN , Feloniously forging a notice of withdrawal for £4 5s. from a deposit account in the Post Office Savings Bank with intent to defraud; and LUCY SHUFFILL (29) , Feloniously inciting and procuring him to commit that felony. JAMES PLEADED GUILTY .
MR. CHALMERS, on behalf of the Prosecution, offered no evidence against SHUFFILL. NOT GUILTY .
MR. CHALMERS, on behalf of the Prosecution, offered no evidence. NOT GUILTY .
MR. CHALMERS Prosecuted.
JOHN BELLAMY SHUFFILL , who was stone deaf and incoherent, was understood to say that on reaching home on Friday, March 10th, at 8 p.m., he found his wife, Lucy Shuffill, out, as also was the prisoner, James, who was his lodger; that he waited till 11 p.m. for them and on their non-arrival went up to his bedroom when he discovered that all his household goods, including clothes, shirts, quilts, and other things with his Post Office Savings Bank book were missing, and that he then went to the police station and informed the police.
ALBERT WOODMAN . I am a porter on the London Brighton & South Coast Railway, South Bermondsey station—on March 11th James came and told me to fetch a box from 35, Ambrose Street, Bermondsey, and I fetched two tin boxes to the station—both the prisoners went together with the boxes to London Bridge.
JESSIE DAVISON . I am the wife of James Davison and live at 34 Rotherfield Street, Islington—on March 11th James came and engaged a room at my house for his wife and child, three years old—between six and seven p.m. he came with Shuffill and a child with two tin boxes and a parcel—I thought they were man and wife.
PERCY SAVAGE (Sergeant M.) On March 13th at 11.30 p.m. I went to No. 34, Rotherfield Street, Islington, where in the front room on the ground floor I found the two prisoners in bed together—I told them I was a police officer and they would be charged with being concerned together in stealing the property of John Bellamy Shuffill—I read them a list of articles stolen—James said, "I know nothing of the sheets, quilts, or shirts"—he then pointed to a clock on the table and said, "That is his clock"—he then pointed to a cushion and a pillow and said, "That is his cushion and pillow"—in the same room I found other articles of which I took possession—Shuffill said, "I did not know a woman could be charged with stealing her husband's things. What is his. Is mine"—I did not find a bank book among the other things—it has not been found.
James, in his defence, said that he honestly believed that Shuffill had no idea that she was stealing, and that neither did he, thinking that the goods were Shuffill's own property, and that he took no steps to conceal where he had gone.
Shuffill. I told my husband the truth and about everything I had taken away, and he says he is willing to forgive me, whatever I have done.
BOTH GUILTY . JAMES then PLEADED GUILTY to a conviction of felony at this Court on September 10th, 1901. One previous conviction was proved against him. Three years' penal servitude. SHUFFILL— Six months' hard labour.
New Court, April 6th, 1905.
Before Mr. Recorder.
MR. MUIR and MR. LEYCESTER Prosecuted; MR. WARDE Defended.
GEORGE EDWARD HUTTON . I am a wine and spirit merchant, of 121, Ferndale Road, Brixton—the prisoner has been in my service as a carman for about twelve months—it was his duty to take out goods and supply them to my customers, and he had nothing to deliver except what goods were ordered—he had this delivery book made out by me each day (Produced), and it states the amount that was to be delivered to each customer—some of my customers would be credit customers, and some cash—when he returned in the evening he would account and pay me the cash he bad received and tell me from whom he had received it—he entered it in this book and I checked it—it was quite understood which customers were cash and which were credit, as they were regular customers, and he would know—each morning I made out the books showing the amount he was to take out, and the customers to whom it was to be delivered—I send down a slip of paper to the cellarman, stating the amount that was to be delivered to the prisoner, and the cellarman sent it up from the cellar to the place where the prisoner's van was—it would be the prisoner's duty to load it on to the van himself—on January 18th the prisoner ought to have taken out twenty-eight crates of beer—I had no idea that he had got any more—in the evening he accounted for twentyfour and a half and returned three and a half full—he remained in my service until March 4th, when I gave him notice—his leaving me had nothing to do with this matter of January 18th; I did not know it at that time.
Cross-examined. I did not get a satisfactory character with him—I have no knowledge that he went out with goods that had not been ordered put down in his name in case he might be stopped; I should think the Revenue would have something to say if I sent out goods on sale—I did not send out goods in his charge entered in his name in the delivery book—I know that you cannot hawk out intoxicating drinks to customers—these are three books all having the date of March 4th in them, belonging to different carmen—the prisoner will identify which are his (The prisoner then examined a delivery book and stated that the page on which the entry of March 4th had been was torn out)—I know of no page that has been torn out of that book—the book will show the entry, "Ask Amesbury Avenue where 5, Fernthorne Road moved to" in red ink if it is there, but I have no recollection of it (The witness was handed a delivery book)—I see the
entry is hero in blue pencil in my writing on March 4th—I wrote it because the customer was moving—I do not know that the customer had not moved on March 4th—I wrote, it before the prisoner took his book out on March 4th, and, as far as I know, the customer had moved—there was nothing on this page that I know of before these words were written—I am quite positive that the prisoner's name was not there—I never put his name except when it is requisite at the head of the page, to identify him with the load for which he is responsible—about Christmas time McCarty went out with my horse and van—the prisoner and he went quite separate rounds—it is absolutely false that McCarty's van was loaded on that occasion with stuff that had never been bona fide ordered by customers—on January 18th the prisoner brought back a correct account—it is not the fact that the prisoner gave mo a week's notice and that I said ho could go.
By the COURT. I did not exactly give him notice—I told him I could not allow him to work any longer for me, as things appeared suspicious—I discharged him without notice at the end of the week.
Re-examined. The prisoner was defended at the Police Court by Mr. Sidney, a solicitor who, as far as I know, inspected the whole of my books at my solicitor's office, which were sent there for that purpose—on March 3rd or 4th there is no entry in these books in the prisoner's name nor on any other date that I know of. (The book was handed to the Jury in order that they could examine where it was alleged the leaf had been torn out.)
JOHN HOLLINGTON . I was employed as cellarman to Mr. Hutton up to February 25th—it was the custom to send a slip of paper to me showing what had to be sent up for each carman—on January 18th I had to send up twenty-eight crates—they are drawn up—you can just reach on to the pavement—when, as I thought, I had sent up twentyeight crates the prisoner said to me, "Send up four more; there is four short. I have only got twenty-four"—I came upstairs to count them and I counted twenty-four on the kerb—I noticed there were some empty crates by the side of the window close to the wall, which had been brought back by the prisoner's van—I did not inspect those at all at that time—I then went downstairs and sent him up four more.
By the COURT. I do not retain the slip of paper, as we do not use that any more.
Cross-examined. They are destroyed—the empty crates were some that had boon brought back the previous night—the prisoner was perfectly straightforward in asking for those extra four—there was nobody else there at the time—I looked carefully to see if there were twenty-eight.
HARRY HANDCOCK . I was a carman in the prosecutor's service on January 18th, and 1 am still—on that day I helped the prisoner to load up his van—I wont away for about nine, or ten minutes during the loading—when I came back I started helping the prisoner to finish his loading and he said, "There are some under there," pointing to the empty crates—I saw four full crates and I put three on the van, the prisoner putting on the other one—he then drove away with a man named McCarty, who is a carman, on his van.
Cross-examined. When I came back I found there Were twenty-eight crates on the kerb without the four under the empties—there were none in the van—I cannot say how many crates there were—I had my own van there—the prisoner did not help me to load up—I always helped him in order to get him away quick, as the guv'nor asked me to before he went to the market and before I went away for the nine or ten minutes—it is nothing to do with me how many he carried—I knew there were twenty-eight, because I was there when Hollington counted them—I believed Hollington counted them on other mornings—I cannot say how many the prisoner had on January 10th, nor on January 17th, but I can tell you on March 3rd—I took particular notice of this day, because there was a dispute about the empties being put up—I was there when the prisoner hollaed to Hollington to send up four more and I saw him count them—this was after I came back, having been away nine or ten minutes.
Re-examined. The place where we load up is outside the shop in the street—two vans can load up at a time—my guv'nor was in the shop when I saw him that morning.
PHILIP MCCARTHY . I am a carman in the service of the prosecutor, and on January 18th I went out with the prisoner on his van with his load—he was delivering things from amongst others, to some customers from whom was had got orders—I did not see him load up, but I was there when he started off—I know he ought to have had twenty-eight crates on his van by his book—on the way I counted thirty-two crates on his van and I told him that he had four more than he ought to have had—he never answered, but just turned round and laughed—I remained with him that day for about two hours—it all depends upon the distance how long it takes generally to deliver a load like this—he was still delivering when I left him.
Cross-examined. I saw that he had got thirty-two on his van at Clee Avenue, which is somewhere 'about Clapham and some distance from the prosecutor's place of business—I looked at his book from curiosity in Lime Road, Clapham, while he was serving—I had suspicions of the man—the van was going along when I told him there were thirty-two, and I am quite sure that he heard what I said—I knew he was stealing four—I said to my employer, I think, on the following Monday there was something going wrong which he never knew of—I never mentioned the prisoner's name, but I said it was in connection with the crates—he said that he would keep his eye open—I did not count the prisoner's crates on any other occasion, because I was not always on his van—it was not until March 4th, when the prisoner left, that I mentioned this incident to Mr. Hutton—I was canvassing at that time and did not do any driving except for a few weeks—I was with a firm named Patrick Macgregor before I went to Mr. Hutton—I got a minute's notice without any money, but certainly not for dishonesty—I sued him for a week's pay and got it through the Court—he never appeared against me—I had a written reference besides, which I have now—i brought the action in the Lambeth County Court and recovered 23s. and a written reference from the guv'nor of the firm (A reference was read from Patrick Macgregor.
233, Coal Harbour Lane, Brixton, dated November 15th, 1904, certifying that the witness was a clean, steady and civil man while in his employ from November 1903)—the man who discharged me was the foreman, who always had a dislike to me, and as soon as he got his managership he discharged me—I do not think it was in consequence of the prisoner that I got into Mr. Hutton's employ—I went to see Mr. Hutton myself as soon as I left Macgregor's and he told me to call in a week's time—I have now got the prisoner's situation—I cannot say f was very friendly with him—I did not call at his house on March 11th and I was not answered by a Mrs. Thomas, who lives in that house (Mrs. Thomas was then called in)—I never saw that woman and I did not ask her for the prisoner, nor did she fetch him—I did not have an interview with him in his house in the presence of his wife—I have seen her once and I saw her here this morning—I saw a woman standing at No. 43, which is next door to No. 45, where the prisoner lives, but I cannot tell you her name—I could not recognise her if I were to see her now—I did not go into the house and say when the prisoner came down, "I want to apologise for what I said on Wednesday at the Kennington Police Court, as it cannot be proved against you"—I never said anything of that kind—I gave my evidence before the Magistrate—I did not say to the prisoner's wife in his presence, "Mr. Hutton would like to see Hutchley in one way and yet not in another"—this conversation and this visit is pure imagination
By the COURT. On March 11th he came to me and asked me whether he could come round on my van, which I was on at the time, in order to pay the debts which he owed Mr. Hutton, without Mr. Hutton knowing it, and I said that I would not allow him on my van.
Re-examined. These are the three references I received from different people in whose services I have been (References were then read from Aspinall Enamel, Ltd., dated August 20th, 1900, certifying as to the witness' trustworthiness from September, 1899, to March, 1900; from the Victoria Cycle Works, dated January 8th, 1902; and from West & Sons, 316, New Cross Road, dated July 29th, 1903.)
WALTER GRESTEY (Detective W.) The prisoner was charged for larceny by the prosecutor and given into my custody—I was before the Magistrate and when the charge was read to him for stealing four crates of beer he said, "All right."
The prisoner, in his defence on oath, said that he had been in different situations since he was twenty, and had borne a good character throughout; that he knew nothing of the four crates, having on his van only twenty-eight; that Hollington was not speaking the truth as to that; that McCarty did not tell him that he had thirty-two instead of twenty-eight, nor did he turn round and laugn; that he did not point to four full crates under the empties; that the first he heard of the charge was on March 7th; that on March 11th, McCarty came to his house, and in his wife's brother's presence said, "I have come to apologise for what I said about you at the Police Court, because they cannot prove it about you. Mr. Hutton did say there were one or two shillings owing, but he says he will not prosecute you for that"; that he had always been
on good terms with Hollington, McCarty and Handcock; and that the prosecutor still owed him 11s. for commission and £1 in wages.
NOT GUILTY .
Before J. A. Rentoul, Esq., K.C.
Fourth Court, April 4th, 1905.
MR. RODERICK Prosecuted; MR. HAROLD MORRIS Defended.
FAIRBANK CAMPLIN . I am a bricklayer, of 223, Romney Road, West Norwood—the prisoner is my brother-in-law—on February 22nd my sister, the prisoner's wife, was seriously ill—she was living apart from him—about 11.40 p.m. I went with my brother Oscar to the prisoner's house to tell him that his wife had not many hours to live—I knocked at the door—the prisoner asked who was there—I said, "Only me, Jack"—he said, "Have you come round for a b—row?"—I said, "No, I have come round to tell you something about Mary Jane"—he said, "All right, then, half a minute; I will come down and let you in"—a few minutes afterwards he said, "It is all right, my old mate, I have opened the door; come in"—I walked in and when I got half way down the passage I heard the prisoner say, "You come any further and I shall blow your b—brains out"—I took no notice and walked on—at the door of the kitchen I saw him with a gun to his shoulder—I put my arm up and bobbed my head down, as I thought he was going to shoot over me—I heard a report and was shot in the hand and face—my overcoat had holes in it all the way through, and my hair was blown away—I said, "You cowardly b—, you have shot me"—my hand was covered in blood—I had nothing to do with giving the prisoner into custody.
Cross-examined. The only reason I went round was to let the prisoner know that his wife was dangerously ill—I have known the prisoner about twenty-eight years—I knew he had a gun—I have been out shooting with him—I am a bricklayer—I do a little boxing—if anybody says anything to me to annoy me I have a row with him—I went round to the prisoner's house on a Saturday night—it may have been February 4th—I went after my sister's linnet—I took my overcoat off—I asked the prisoner what he was going to do about my sister—he said, "What do you mean?"—I said, "You know what I mean; you have tried to cut her throat"—he denied it—he owned to it afterwards, and I put on my overcoat again—I had a little refreshment on the day in question—when I got into the house the prisoner said, "I will blow your b—brains out"—I took no notice—he had threatened to shoot other people—I never thought it was coming off, so I walked on—I was convicted some time ago of assault, and received twenty-one days' hard labour; also in 1897 I was convicted of being drunk and assaulting the police, and I have other small convictions against me—I have never been charged with theft in my life.
Re-examined. I had no stick with me that night.
OSCAR CAMPLIN . I am a mason, of 60, Hamilton Grove, West Norwood—the prosecutor is my brother—the prisoner was married to my sister—she died the day after the assault in this case—I went with my brother to the prisoner's house—I left him there while I walked down the street—I heard a report of a gun; that is all—I rushed up, and my brother called out he was shot—I went to a constable and handed him over—I did' not see the prisoner—it was dark.
Cross-examined. My brother was sober—I have never had an angry word with the prisoner.
Re-examined. There was unpleasantness between the prisoner and the prosecutor owing to alleged ill-treatment of the prisoner's wife.
THOMAS GODDARD . I am a bricklayer, of 16, Hamilton Grove—about 11.30 on February 22nd I was in bed—I heard a knock at the prisoner's house, next door—the prisoner asked who was there—the prosecutor, who was there, said, "I want to speak to you"—the door was opened—I heard the prisoner say, "If you come any further, I will b—well shoot you"—I heard the report of a gun—I did not know who was shot till I heard the prosecutor call out, "Oscar, Oscar, I am shot"—I heard no quarrelling.
Cross-examined. I have lived fourteen years at my present address—I believe the prisoner is a decent, respectable, hardworking man—the prosecutor may have kicked at the door two or three times.
WILLIAM WARD (176 P.) On February 22nd, about midnight, I was on duty in Hamilton Grove and saw the prosecutor—his arm was bleeding—f bandaged it as well as I could and sent for a doctor—I asked what was the matter and he told me—I went to the prisoner's house and told him I should arrest him for shooting his brother-in-law—he said, "All right, I know that; if I had not done him he would have done me. He put his hands up and made a dart and I let go," meaning he fired—I saw marks of blood on the passage and down the street—the gun was standing in the kitchen—it had been recently discharged.
Cross-examined. The prosecutor had been drinking—the prisoner was sober.
Re-examined. The prosecutor could walk along all right.
EDWARD BADCOCK (Inspector P.) About 5.30 on February 23rd I saw the prisoner at Knight's Hill police station—I cautioned him when I read the charge to him—he made this statement to me shortly afterwards: "My wife took some of my things away and we had a few words over them. She then left home and went to live with my daughter, Kate Barrett. A fortnight last Saturday Fairbank and another man got into my house and when I came home he took off his coat and wanted to fight me. At a quarter to twelve last night I was in bed when I heard someone knocking at the door. I called out and Camplin shouted, 'Come and see.' I was afraid of him. He tried to push the front door open. I heard him say to someone outside, 'I will put his b—light out'.
I got my gun and when I unlocked the door I rushed behind the table in the kitchen. He followed me. I told him if he came nearer I should stop him. He made a dart under the table, and, thinking he was going to catch hold of my leg, I shot him and the candle went out"—after that I went to the premises and found spots of blood leading from the path outside the house into the passage of the house through the passage into the kitchen, on the right-hand side of the kitchen, and half way along the back of the kitchen—I found shot marks on the table covered by a pool of blood, on a chair just inside the kitchen door and on the side of the passage immediately outside close to the floor.
Cross-examined. I know both the prosecutor and the prisoner—the prisoner has been convicted once for assault in company with the prosecutor—the prosecutor, I believe, has been convicted some six times—the family are all fairly respectable people, but the men give way to drink and become quarrelsome.
JOHN JOSEPH DOUGLAS ; I am a registered medical practitioner at 42, Central Hill, Norwood—at 1.30 a.m. on February 23rd I saw the prosecutor at the Cottage Hospital, Norwood—he was suffering from gunshot wounds on his right forearm—it was severely lacerated—on his left hand there were several smaller shot wounds and there was one shot wound on his chin—the skin was blackened, showing the gun was fired at rather close range.
Cross-examined. it must have been within a few feet—I did not notice that he smelt of drink.
Re-examined. As far as I could see, he was sober.
The prisoner, in his defence on oath, said that the prosecutor was very rough in his conversation; that he ran in after him, saying he (the prisoner) could do what he b—well pleased; that he (the prisoner) took the gun in his hand and fired it to frighten him, but had no intention of hurting him. He received a good character.
NOT GUILTY .
ADJOURNED TO TUESDAY, MAY 2ND, 1905.