7th January 1901
Reference Numbert19010107-142
VerdictGuilty > unknown

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142. SAMPSON SILAS SALMON (32) , For the wilful murder of Lucy Smith. He was also charged on the Coroner's Inquisition with the like offence.

MR. C. MATHEWS, MR. MUIR, and MR. STEPHENSON Prosecuted; and

MR. BIRON, Defended.

FRANK GEORGE WAYLETT .(76 K). I prepared these plans of 23 and 25, Venour Road—this shows the scullery and the pavement and coal cellar of No. 23, and this of No. 24 shows the pavement, the kitchen behind, the passage leading from the back, and the door from the back yard—at the extreme back of the yard there is a dust-pan, and entering from the yard is the W.C.—on the same plan I have shown a wall which can be approached from Forrester's Road; it would be possible for anybody to get from there to the dust-bin, and so on into the yard—the second plan shows Forresters Road and 25 and 23 Venour Road, and the road along which persons come from No. 25 to No. 23.

SAMPSON SMITH . I did live at 23, Venour Road—I now live at 24, Canal Road—the deceased was my wife; her name was Lucy—the prisoner was her first cousin—he came to live at 23, Venour Road, last April, when I was occupying the house with my wife and my little daughter Minnie, and there was occasionally there a child cousin,

named Billings—when the prisoner first came we had lodgers on the first floor, Mr. and Mrs. Bennett; they only stayed a short time after the prisoner came—they were succeeded on the first floor by Mr. and Mrs. Baker—the prisoner came in May, I believe—the arrangement was for him to live there, he was not in work then, but he got work after that, but not continuously—he went away in September, I believe, to Tanbury North, to seek work—my relations with him were of a very friendly character—my wife and I and the little girl slept in one room on the ground floor, and the prisoner slept on the same floor—behind the kitchen ran the yard, and there were two or three steps leading to the prisoner's bedroom—you get to his bedroom by a passage, at one end of which is the front door, and the yard door at the other—my wife's relations with the prisoner were affectionate and friendly, and mine also—there was no quarrel of any kind—the prisoner drank lemonade, and, as far as I know, up to September he did not take any alcohol, and I never saw any sign of it—this letter is in my wife's writing, and is addressed to the prisoner (Dated October 11th, 1900, stating that she was glad that he had arrived safely, but sorry he had not obtained work, and that they were quite willing that he should come back, and requested him to let them know when to expect him—Signed. "Your loving cousin, Lucy Smith")—that represents our feeling towards him—he returned after that, and took up his residence—I think he was in work till November with the exception of two or three days—we never took any notice if he did not meet his payments—things went on so down to Monday, December 10th. Up to that morning there was the utmost affection and confidence between my wife and him—I went out to work on that day as usual, and came back about dinner time, about noon—as I entered I saw the prisoner coming downstairs, as though from the Bakers' room—he looked so strange that I said, "What does this mean?"—I cannot remember his answer, but he called me a miserable old b—; I had gone into the kitchen, and he took up a knife and held it over my head, and said that he would take one of our lives—he said that more than once—he gave no reason—he did not say that I had taken a cup of tea to Mrs. Burdett when she was a lodger in the house, but I have done so—he did not draw any inference from that—he did not mention anybody's name, that I am aware of—there was nothing in the smallest degree improper in my relations with Mrs. Burdett—he said to me, "I want a cup of tea"—I said, "I will make it for you"—he said, "Lucy shall make it," and called up to my wife to come downstairs—she was in Mrs. Baker's room—she came down at once, and put some water on the fire—I think I went out then, leaving them alone; I went back in two or three minutes, and she told him that if he did not leave off talking she would not make it—a short time afterwards she left the kitchen and went up to the Bakers' room, and the prisoner and I were left in the kitchen—he commenced making words again, but I do not remember what he said—he pushed me by the arm with his hands, and gave me a slap in the face, but said nothing—he took a knife again and lifted it up over my head, and said that he would have one of our lives—that second scene lasted up to dinner-time—he did not have no dinner—there was no dinner through the upset—I did not go back to my work; I kept at home for my wife's protection—it struck me that he was very strange, and I

thought he had been drinking whisky, because I saw some on the drawers in his bedroom when I first went into the house at 4 o'clock, and it was in a half-pint bottle—it was about half full when I went into the house about noon—Mr. Baker came in about 1 o'clock; he went upstairs first and then came into the kitchen, where his boots were, and the prisoner wanted to fight him, and slapped his face with his open hand, and my face also—after that had gone on some time, I said that I should not stand it any longer; I should turn him out—he could hear that—he might have been a little better with regard to drink in the afternoon, I am not sure—Mr. Baker went in search of a constable, and one came—I spoke to him, and the result of that was that he went away—I think the prisoner had gone outside at that time—this was just in front of the house—I believe he walked away from the gate; he was away about half an hour; he then, returned, and let himself in with his latch-key—Mr. Baker and I both put our hands on his shoulders and turned him out—we did that on both occasions—he demanded a week's board; that would be 13s.—I gave him the whole of it, and he gave me up his latch-key and went away—there was a conversation about a week's notice about the middle of the passage, and he volunteered to give me the latch-key—that was about 4 or 7 p.m.—on the 10th I was again in the wash-house—when I heard something like the rippling of falling stones in the back yard—I went into the kitchen—I heard a noise in the back yard—I went to the back to see what it was—I saw the prisoner on the wall just above the water-closet—if I remember rightly, I said, "What are you doing here?"—I do not remember what answer he made, but he jumped off the wall—some old barbed wire fencing runs along the top of the wall—I went back into the house by the back door—the prisoner followed me into the passage—he said he was going to sleep in the house; that he would sleep in the cellar, and he went down to the cellar—his manner was the same as usual—I called Mr. Baker and whispered to him, and in the result we sent a second time for a constable, with whom we had some conversation—the constable left, and we went into the cellar—I told the prisoner he could lie as quietly in his own bed, meaning in his own room—he left the cellar and went upstairs to his room—he said that I could lock him in—at noon I had called his attention to a bottle of whisky—I said. "What does this mean?" pointing to the bottle with the spirit in it—I turned the key upon the outside of the door—I believe I took it out—he remained there that night, and was quiet—on the 11th I rose about 5.15 a.m.—as I passed his room door he asked for a drink of water—I took him some, unlocking the door—he wanted to know where Lucy was—I said that she was not in—as a fact, she did not stop there that night. She went to sleep at a cousin's in the Canal Road—that had been arranged after the prisoner had come back to the house—the prisoner only said he felt bad—I left him and went back to the room about 7 a.m.—I think I asked him if he would like a cup of tea, and he said, "Yes"—I fetched him a cup and gave it to him—then he said, "You had better bring Lucy round," or something to that effect, "and let us have it out, and bring all the witnesses you like"—I told him I did not want any witnesses—I said, "I will go and fetch her," and I went, to Canal Road, made some communication to her, and we returned to Venour Road—she followed me into

the kitchen—Salmon was there, and asked her how she was, or something of that kind, and I think she said, "Pretty well," but I cannot remember—he kept on talking and bringing up things, as if he was trying to annoy us—we took no notice of it—I think he threatened my wife, myself, and my little daughter Minnie—he said he would have one of our lives—that kind of talk lasted about an hour—I went into the back yard; my wife remained in the kitchen—he left about 11 o'clock—he appeared sorry—he was crying—I think he said he was sorry, but I am not sure—he said good-bye to my wife—he seemed to be sober—on Wednesday, the 12th, I went to my work and came back to dinner, as usual—about 12.45 the prisoner knocked at the front door—he said he had passed the night on a barge—he asked for a change of clothes and something to drink—I got him some lemonade and left him on the pavement outside—I told him he should not come into that house any more to sleep—my wife was with me—then he said he would have one of our lives—he then said good-bye to both of us, I believe—then he asked if he could kiss Lucy—I said, "Yes," and he kissed her—he showed some tears, and went away—after he had left I went to my work—going along Harford Street, I overtook him and walked by his side—I asked him not to come the house again—I told him he should go to the powder mills, and try to get work there—they are at Waltham—I knew he had been employed there a short time before I left him—I said, "Don't come again, on account of the children"—he said, "No, no"—I referred to Minnie and a little child we were taking care of—about 9 p.m. on Thursday, I received a letter which my wife read to me, and then threw it into the fire—it came from the prisoner, and bore the Waltham postmark on the envelope—the writer said he would let us know how he got on; it ended, "I do not know how to sign myself"—on the Saturday I left for my work as usual—from the Wednesday to the Saturday, another cousin of my wife, named Herbert, had occupied the prisoner's bedroom for three nights—I returned home to breakfast about 8 a.m.—I opened the door with a latch-key, and walked towards the kitchen—as I reached the steps leading to the room the prisoner had occupied, he came towards me and said, "Fetch a policeman, Sam"—as I looked through the kitchen door I saw my wife lying flat upon the floor, on her back, in what seemed to be a pool of blood—I said, "What have you done it for?"—he said, "It is all through you"—I left the house, and returned with a constable—I took him into the kitchen—the prisoner was sitting on a chair, near where my wife was still lying—a second constable was said to be requisite, and I went out for him—a doctor came soon afterwards, and I was told that my wife was dead—this is one of my knives which my wife would lay on the table—I do not know the clasp one.

Cross-examined. I believe my wife and the prisoner had known each other as children—they had grown up together—they were cousins—I had never had reason to complain of his conduct before December 10th—I had never before noticed anything strange in his manner—he was wild in appearance on the 10th—I cannot explain his condition—his talk was incoherent, and I have described it as "going on"—he was friendly with the little girl Minnie—Mrs. Burdett was a lodger—he complained to me of my taking her a cup of tea—he said, "I want a cup

of tea"—I had taken knives from him, I think three times, in the afternoon—he was violent towards Mr. Baker, and went on in an extraordinary way, and I had to turn him out on two occasions—when he came back in the evening I thought it best to humour him—he was violent, and then suddenly said he was sorry, and then again became violent—I believe he had been out of work after the August Bank Holiday, when he was with Pearce's, or a week after he came back from the country—with the exception of two weeks, he had not been able to pay for his lodging regularly, and for what we supplied him—he was very anxious to get work in October, and tried to get work on October 11th, and before that he was strange in his manner—one Sunday morning in October my wife told me she took a razor from him, as she thought he was going to cut his throat—I saw him afterwards quietly lying on the bed—a little time afterwards my wife told me he asked for the razor, and smashed it up before her—she told me that a member of the family, Thomas Salmon, died in a lunatic asylum.

Re-examined. The prisoner came to us in April—he worked at Pearce's Chemical Works, at Bow Common, as a labourer, I believe—he left home for work, and returned about the same hour—occasionally I came home to dinner in the middle of the day; he was there—he was regular in coming home in the evening and remained at home—I saw nothing to suggest that he was of unsound mind—he seemed perfectly rational before December 10th; then I thought he was drunk—I saw the half-pint whisky bottle in his hand, similar to this bottle—there was a little in it on the Tuesday, but less than on the Monday—I saw the empty bottle on the shelf in the cellar when I went down with the inspector—upon the Wednesday I saw nothing to lead me to believe he had been drinking—he was employed in the same gang with me for the Vestry in November—he left because he said the money, 25s. a week, was not sufficient—my wife's sister, Alice Parker, was a visitor at our house—she was there two or three times while the prisoner was living with us.

ELIZA BAKER . I am the wife of Herbert Baker, of 23, Venour Road—we went to live there about May last—the prisoner was living in the house—on Monday, December 10th, between 10 and 10.30 a.m., I heard the prisoner call the deceased a foul name—she came upstairs—I called to her to come to my room—she was crying—the prisoner followed her—he sat down—soon after he had been in the kitchen he got up and smacked her face three or four times—she was mad drunk; he said if he had a revolver he would shoot the pair of us—I asked him what he smacked Mrs. Smith's face for—he said that if I interfered he would serve me the same—I tried to get him to go to bed, but he would not—he said the first man who came into the house he would black his eyes—Mrs. Smith asked what her husband had done that he was going to do that for—he said he would show him when he came in—he took a bottle of whisky out of his pocket, pulled the cork out, and threw the contents in Mrs. Smith's eyes—the bottle was like this one (Produced)—it was full—she cried, and asked him what he did it for—he put it back in his pocket; then he smacked her face with his open hand—he asked me for a knife—I told him I had not got one—I went clown to answer a knock at the door; Mrs. Smith followed me—the

prisoner still sac on the box in the kitchen—he called to us to come up, and we did so—I paid someone who called for the rent, and went upstairs again—the prisoner was still sitting where I left him—Mrs. Smith noticed a table-knife on the table, with a piece of brown paper over it—she called my attention to it—it was not there when we went downstairs—it was kept in the dresser-drawer—Mr. Smith came in to dinner about 12 o'clock—we had been with the prisoner from about 10.30 to 12 o'clock—he rushed downstairs—he said he was going to black Mr. Smith's eyes—Mr. Smith and the prisoner went into Mr. Smith's kitchen—I stopped upstairs with Mrs. Smith—then Mr. Baker came into his dinner—Mrs. Smith spoke to him, and he went downstairs—I could hear them expostulating—I saw the prisoner strike Mr. Smith in the passage; my husband saw it—a constable was fetched, and the prisoner was put out—I think I saw Mr. Smith give him half a sovereign—he came back and asked for another four shillings—on Saturday, December 15th, Mr. Baker went to work about 6 a.m—I did not get up—I heard Mrs. Smith scream about 7.40; just a scream—I did not feel well—I listened—I was too ill to go out of the room, but I got out of bed—hearing nothing more, I dressed and went outside my room, about 7.55—shortly afterwards Mr. Smith came in; I heard him say, "What are you here for?"—next I heard Mr. Smith rush out of the house; eventually the police came—I have heard the prisoner call Mrs. Smith a b—y wh—e.

Cross-examined. With this exception, I always found the prisoner to respect Mrs. Smith—he seemed an inoffensive man always—his condition at this time appeared to be due to something besides the actual consequences of drink; that is why I used the expression" mad drunk"—I had never seen anybody even under the influence of drink in such a state before—he apologised for assaulting my husband, and said he was sorry, in the passage—he seemed sorry, and then violent again.

HERBERT BAKER . I am a barge builder—I live on the first floor at 23, Venour Road—on December 10th, when I came home to dinner, my wife and Mrs. Lucy Smith were in the kitchen; the prisoner was downstairs, the worse for drink; Mrs. Smith said something to me, and I went downstairs—the prisoner came in from the back yard; he had an ordinary table-knife in his hand—I asked him what he was going to do with it—he made no reply, but went into the kitchen: I followed him; he then asked me what I meant by asking him about the knife—I told him I thought it was rather dangerous for him to have one in his possession—we tried to persuade him to go into the bedroom; after a while he went in there—he remained there not very long—I went upstairs—when he came out Mrs. Smith came down; then I heard Mr. Smith call out for me—I went downstairs, and saw him strike Mr. and Mrs. Smith with his open hand—he called Mrs. Smith names, and threatened to do for them—he went again into his bedroom—he came out, and the same thing was renewed; then he struck me—it appeared to be intenational; then he said he was sorry for what he had done, and asked me to shake hands—I shook hands—he again went into the bedroom, and we got Mrs. Smith out of the house—he came out of the bedroom; then Mr. Smith asked me to lend him 10s.; I did so—he

gave it to the prisoner—afterwards he gave the prisoner another 3s.—I turned the prisoner out, Smith, I, and a constable being present—I saw a bottle of whisky in the kitchen—the prisoner took that into the bedroom with him—he returned, letting himself in with a latch-key, about 3.30 or 3.45—we went for a constable about 5.30—he was turned out about 3.45—he got over the back way about 5.30, when we again sent for a constable—the prisoner was then down in the cellar—I remember Mr. Smith persuading him to go to his bedroom, and locking him in—I next saw the prisoner on Saturday, December 15th—that morning I left home about 6.5 and returned about 8 a.m., and found the door wide open—in the kitchen my wife told me something—I met Smith coming in with a policeman, and I followed into the back room—I saw the woman lying on her back, in a pool of blood—the constable asked Mr. Smith in the prisoner's hearing who had done it—Mr. Smith replied, "That man did it," pointing to the prisoner, who was sitting on a chair in the kitchen, within 2ft. or 3ft. of the dead woman—the prisoner did not appear agitated; he said, "I did it, and I will swing for it"—he was quite calm—I thought him quite sober—I thought it was done out of spite.

Cross-examined. I went to protect Smith—I remained in the kitchen, but not a couple of hours—I was in and out, and saw the prisoner's behaviour and his condition—he appeared to be mad drunk—I do not think I said before the Coroner, "He was like a madman"—his condition was unusual; he was very violent—I cannot say I have ever seen any man under the influence of drink behave so—(Read: "Nothing has come to my knowledge which would suggest a motive for such an act")—I used words to that effect before the Coroner.

HERBERT SMITH . I live with my father and mother at 22, Canal Road, Mile End—I am a cousin of Sampson Smith—on Monday night, December 10th, Mrs. Lucy Smith slept at my father's house—on Wednesday and Friday, December 12th and 14th, I slept, by Mrs. Smith's request, at 23, Venour Road, in the room which had been occupied by the prisoner—on Saturday, December 13th, I got up about 7 a.m. and went down to the kitchen—I answered the postman's knock, and gave a letter, which was pushed under the door, to Mrs. Smith in the kitchen—she put it on the mantelpiece—she was cleaning, the grate—there was an ash-pan on the left side of the fireplace, and the fender had been moved from its position—I looked at my watch; the time was 7.40—the table was laid for breakfast—two white-handled knifes were on the table, similar to these produced—I left by the front door at 7.40—I slammed it, and saw that it was closed—I left Mrs. Smith cleaning the grate—a candle was alight on the table, and the blind was drawn down.

Cross-examined. I slept there two nights—I did not notice any other knife like the knife produced—there was no black-handled knife there—I used the two white-handled knives myself, the other I did not see.

JOHN BRNSTED (618 K). About 8 a.m. on December 15th I was called to 23, Venour Road—I went into the back kitchen—I saw the deceased, Lucy Smith, lying on her back on the floor—there was a lot of blood there—the prisoner was sitting on a chair by her side—his manner was calm and quiet—I was in uniform—I examined the body and said, "Who did this?"—the prisoner replied, "I did it, and I will swing for

it"—I told him I should take him into custody for wilful murder—I stood by his side—he did not move—I sent to the station for the divisional inspector, who at once arrived, and we conveyed the prisoner to the station in a cab—the prisoner was formally charged with wilful murder—he made no reply—he appeared sober—on looking round the room I saw the fender was on the left of the fireplace, and the ash-pan was empty—there was no sign of a struggle.

Cross-examined. He rolled his eyes round at me at the time I entered—his manner was unnaturally calm—I saw his hands were covered with blood—these two knives were lying on the floor by the deceased, also covered with blood.

ARTHUR HALL (65 K). At 8.20 a.m. on December 15th I arrived at 23, Venour Road—I noticed that the back door was shut and bolted at the bottom.

WILLIAM ANDREWS (Police Inspector, K). About 8.40 on December 15th I saw the deceased at 23, Venour Road, lying in the kitchen—there was blood on the floor—the prisoner was sitting in a chair opposite the kitchen door, and on the right of the fireplace—he was calm—his hands were covered with blood—I told Bensted in the prisoner's presence to bring him in the passage just outside the kitchen door, when the prisoner said to me, "Do you want me to show you the way I came in? I shan't never come in again"—he was then looking towards the back yard—"I got up on that wall in Forrester's Road, and came along that wall"—I said, "This can be given in evidence against you"—he said, "I do not care; I am going to tell you; I got down into the yard, stood in the closet till she opened the door, then I came in after her"—he was then taken to the Police-station—the fire-irons and the fender were between the fireplace and the window—the deceased's clothes were not disarranged—on the corner of the table-cloth nearest the door near which she was lying there were finger-marks of blood apparently, and there was a small white-handled table-knife lying near those marks—I produce a knife with one spot of blood on the handle, that was on the table in the corner—an empty ash-pan was in the passage—the prisoner was searched in my presence—on him were found this postcard, addressed to Mrs. Smith, 23, Venour Road, Burdett Road, Bow, E.: "My dear friends—I told you I would let you know where I was. I am at Waltham—I remain, very sorry, S.S.," and these two envelopes—(Read:) "My dear cousin, Alice Parker, If I am able to do what I have on my mind the cause is through your brother-in-law, Sam Smith. He shall never rest any more. Good-bye, Alice; pray for me, dear. Do not think me so bad in what I am to do. I remain your cousin, S.S. Give my love to all, for I cannot help what I have to do"—on the other side was, "I am out of my mind. My plan has been made out since last Wednesday, and all through Mrs. Burdett's fancy man, and that man is Mr. Smith, for he has been there. He was thought to be a true man to his wife, and that is your sister Loo, a good woman. I cannot stand it longer; I hope that I shall be dead when you get this. Good night, Alice"—then "W. Pearce & Sons, Limited, Chemical Works, Bow Common"—that was found on him—I also found a certificate of discharge from the Army—he appears to have been a private in the Royal Marines—it is

dated December 5th, 1900—this is a copy—there was also this good character from Mr. Andrews, the foreman at Pearce's, a letter from the deceased to him, of October 4th, and 12s. in money found on him—when charged at the station he made no reply.

ARTHUR WILLIAM ANDREWS . I am foreman to Pearce's Chemical Works—the prisoner was employed by us from April 4th to August 31st last in the manufacture of nitric acid—he was absent several days, and when he came back we had put another man in his place; he was not wanted on another plant, so he left through slackness of work—I gave him his character, "Steady, sober, and industrious," and that is what we found him.

Cross-examined. He was a quiet, inoffensive man.

RICHARD JOHN WHEELER . I am a Licentiate of the Royal College of Surgeons, and a medical practitioner, at 560, Mile End Road—on December 15th I was called to 23, Venour Road—I arrived about 8.5 a.m.—I saw the deceased lying on her back in the kitchen, fully dressed—her clothes were not displaced—she had a large severe gash in the throat, almost from ear to ear—she was quite dead—there was a pool of blood on her left, and another on her right, which had come from the wound—in the neck all the tissues of the vessels were divided right down to the spinal column, and there were three or four indentations in one of the vertebra—two knives were lying on the floor, with blood on both of them—I am certain they were not used in inflicting the wound—one was covered, and the other only bespattered with blood—I should say this other knife was used—I should think she had been dead half an hour—a man I did not know was sitting in a chair, and in getting near enough to view the body I said to him, "Who did this I"—he said, "I did it,"—he was quite calm—there was nothing to suggest a struggle—I made a post-mortem examination—the cause of death was injury to the neck.

Cross-examined. Extraordinary violence was used—I thought the person must have tried to sever the head from the body—very much less violence would have caused death.

EDMUND ARTHUR LIGHTBURN . I am divisional surgeon at Bow—I was called to 23, Venour Road on December 15th, between 8.30 and 9 a.m.—I have heard Dr. Wheeler's evidence—it is correct.

Cross-examined. I saw the prisoner in the dock at Bow Road Police-station between 11 and 12—I examined him—he was morose, quiet and dejected; he did not speak—on the 21st I gave evidence before the Coroner—I said, "I examined the accused in the dock; he seemed strange and dejected; he did not appear to realise the gravity of his position"—that is correct.

Re-examined. I was called by the inspector to examine a scratch on the prisoner's left cheek.

Evidence for the Defence.

GEORGE SALMON . I am 64 years of age—I am the prisoner's father; he s✗ one of eight—two of the eight children were born deaf and dumb—the prisoner lived at home with me till he was 18 years of age; then he went into the Marines—I was then about 45—I used to drinkat times—my son very seldom drank along with me—he drank sometimes—I have seen him excitable sometimes—I remember my father, Thomas, and worked

for him—he was affected in mind when he was about 40 years old—I took him to work with me—he was removed from Bishop's Stortford to an asylum—we did barge work—he came out of the asylum and tried to work again, but he got worse, and had to go back again—I remember my father's brother, William, very well—he had two sons, Thomas and Joseph—I recollect Joseph having a son—I do not know that he died of brain disease—I knew Thomas very well—he died in an asylum from insanity—I saw the accused last about September, on one of my days out from the workhouse—we are allowed one day out after being an inmate a month, and two days after two months—I might have, seen him a year before that—I have been in the Union two years last November.

Cross-examined. None of the eight children were insane, that I know.

LUCY THICKENS . Before I was again married I was the widow of Thomas Salmon, the son of William Salmon—I was married 22 years ago—I had 10 children—three died of paralysis in infancy, and six were born dead—my husband was sober and kind till a change came over him, and for three years he got worse and worse, and it was found necessary to remove him to an asylum—he was fond of his child, Lucy Elizabeth, until he was afflicted—when that child was about 10 months old, and was lying in its cot, my husband was standing over it with a table-knife—I had it out of his hand before he had time to do anything—he looked silly—I thought he was going to kill the child, but I did not give him the opportunity—he had always got his pocket-knife open, and he took it to bed with him—he was always rubbing up knives—he remained in the asylum from June 13th, 1895, till August 30th, 1897; then he was allowed to come home again; then he got worse and became quite ill, and was taken back to the asylum on February 22nd, 1900.

Cross-examined. My husband had three sisters and three brothers—they were all right, as far as I know—one brother was Joseph—he is here.

JOSEPH SALMON . I am the brother of Thomas Salmon, whose widow has just given evidence—I had a son Joseph—at 12 years old he was mischievous and troublesome—he was sent to a reformatory—he died in Hereford Infirmary after a fall—it was then discovered that he had brain disease—this is the certificate—(This certified death from tuberculosis of the brain).

WILLIAM EDWARD HODSON . I live at Bishop's Stortford—I remember attending Thomas Salmon, the cousin of the prisoner's father, of New Town, Bishop's Stortford, for eight years—he suffered from epileptic fits, which were followed by paralysis, which affected his brain—he was taken to the asylum; he was let out for about four years, but was taken back again—I heard that he died there—I do not know if he died raving mad—Dr. Morris, the parish doctor, signed the certificate.

JOHN EDWARD MORRIS . I have been parish doctor at Bishop's Stortford for the last 30 years—I certified Thomas Salmon as insane on June 12th, 1895; I had attended him privately previously—he was suffering from constitutional syphilis—I had attended him for some years for the secondary stages of that disease—it very often causes insanity; it did in

this case—it is more likely to do so if it is neglected—if a person suffered from that disease, and neglected it, drink would make it worse.

Evidence in Reply.

EUSTACE HENRY LIPSCOMBE . I am a medical practitioner, of St. Albans, and am a Bachelor of Medicine, of Cambridge—I visited the prisoner about once a week, from May, 1897, to June, 1898—I did not observe anything to raise any suspicion as to his insanity.

Cross-examined. I had no particular reason for inquiring into his insanity.

HENRY CHARLTON BASTIAN , M.D. & F.R.C.P. I am senior physician to the Hospital for Paralysis and Epilepsy—I was asked by the Director of Public Prosecutions, to report what my opinion was of the state of the prisoner's sanity—I made myself acquainted with the history of the case; I also conferred with Dr. Scott, the medical officer of Holloway Gaol—I saw the prisoner on January 4th and 7th—I discovered no evidence what ever of insanity; he seemed to be suffering from no delusion; there was no history of epilepsy—my opinion was that his mind on December 15th was perverted from the effects of drink after a long abstinence and trouble combined—I think he would know the quality of any acts that he did—I saw nothing to make me think that he would not know that the act he had committed was wrong.

Cross-examined. The first time I saw him was about three weeks after the crime—the only direct evidence I can give is from what I saw of him on January 4th and 7th—I looked out for any possibilities indicating insanity, not especially for delusions—I talked to him about his act—if there are any delusions they generally come out—I should say the act was the act of a man whose mind was perverted by insanity or by drink and trouble combined—I know the prisoner was accusing the husband of having improper relations with a Mrs. Burdett—I have seen the letter from the prisoner; I consider it unreasonable to a certain extent—I see that it does not make sense, but that bears out my supposition that his mind was confused by drink—I think he was under the influence of drink when the act was done to a certain extent—I do not mean he was drunk in the ordinary sense of the word, but that his mind had been altered and warped by the effects of drink; I think that, looking at his history and his mental condition, on the 15th his mind was not in its normal condition—there is insanity, quite apart from any delusions at all, which may take a homicidal course—it may come on and go off very suddenly—I do not know Dr. Luff's book on Medical Jurisprudence—I agree that changes take place—I do not understand what he means by "The first alteration is the change of temperament"—I agree that emotions change, and persons may acquire a dislike or hatred for persons they were formerly attached to, especially when the insanity comes on slowly—impulsive insanity is implied in cases where the patent is driven to acts of violence, he being for the time overpowered—the characteristic feature of that form of insanity is an uncontrollable impulse to take life, and the impulse is frequently directed to those who are dearest, but they do the act through some delusions; there must be insanity in the minds of persons doing acts like that, but I think there must be

delusions at the back of it, and there must be a motive—if a person has a bad disposition, that must be taken into consideration, and it was so by me—I think that the majority of cases in which the persons give themselves up and confess to the crime are cases in which the act has been committed by an insane person—syphilis may be the cause of insanity if it affects the brain—I know the prisoner has been complaining of pains in his head, and I know he was discharged from the Marines suffering from syphilis, which had not been cured—syphilis was apparently the cause of the insanity of his uncle—if a man with a tendency to insanity in his family leads a sober and quite life, he may get through life without it developing—there have been cases in which people undoubtedly insane have committed crimes, although no trace of delusions has been found—I remember the case of Dr. Powell—I saw him at Broadmoor—no trace of insanity was found in him—I know Dr. Savage's book—I agree that in impulsive insanity there is oftentimes very little to be found wrong with the patient before or after a crime has been committed, but I believe careful investigation would always show that there was a change.

Re-examined. I have made a special study of insanity for something like 35 years, three years at Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum, where I was assistant medical superintendent—I always make an absolutely impartial inquiry—I should be unwilling to accept an act as an insane act in which no trace of insanity could be found either before or after.

JAMES SCOTT . I am medical officer at Holloway Gaol—I have had considerable experience in questions of insanity—I have been at Holloway for five years, and for 20 years in the prison service—the prisoner was received into Holloway Gaol on December 15th, eight or nine hours after the crime—I saw him almost immediately; I knew what he was charged with; I have seen him daily since then—I have not been able to detect insanity in him.

Cross-examined. I said in my report, "His impulsive nature"—I meant that he has a strong and violent temper—I have heard what sort of life he has led and of his family history; that would all tend to his impulsiveness—I have heard Dr. Bastian's evidence—I agree that an attack of insanity may come on and go without leaving any marked symptoms—I agree in the main with Dr. Bastian—I do not think that impulsive insanity has frequently a homicidal tendency—I should expect to find the prisoner with a bad family history—unusual violence in a crime like this would lead me to look very carefully for insanity; the presumption would be in favour of it, and assuming that there is an absence of motive, it would raise a similar presumption.

By the COURT. In forming my opinion I have taken into consideration all the familiar matters known to those acquainted with medical jurisprudence.

THOMAS HENRY PERRONS . I am a cleric in the Admiralty, and produce the official medical history sheet of the prisoner—he was a private in the Marines.


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