JOSEPH KING.
28th February 1887
Reference Numbert18870228-300
VerdictGuilty > with recommendation
SentenceDeath

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300. JOSEPH KING (41) was indicted for the wilful murder of Ann Sutton. He was also charged on the Coroner's Inquisition with the like offence.

MESSRS. POLAND and MEAD Prosecuted; MR. WARBURTON Defended.

RICHARD BARTHOLOMEW . I live at 19, Hart Street, Grosvenor Square—I was living there on 20th January—I occupied a bed in the back-room ground floor—the prisoner lived in that room with me, and occupied a bed there—he had lived in the house about eight months, not all that time in that room, but two storeys higher up—it is a six-roomed house—he had slept in the same room with me for about six months—Ann Sutton lived in the room above me, with a child, aged about a year and eight months—Ann Sutton was about forty years of age—Emily Sharp and Mary Elizabeth Coten lived in the same room on 20th January, and, Charles Stanfield and William Jewell lived in the front-room first floor—the prisoner was often speaking of Ann Sutton; I could not say how long before 20th January—he was merely talking about her most nights—he used to ask her to mend some of his clothes sometimes—he said once or twice, when he was cross and swearing, that if he could not have her nobody else should—I could not tell on what day he said that—there was somebody present at the time—up to the Saturday before 20th January the prisoner had been at work—I should say he was a bricklayer's labourer—he did not go to work on Monday, the 17th, or on the Tuesday and Wednesday—he was drunk all day on the Monday and Tuesday—he was drunk when he went to bed on Tuesday—on Wednesday he was sober—he went to bed on Wednesday about half-past 9, or a quarter to ten—he was quite sober then—I saw him on Thursday morning when he got up, about twenty minutes past 8—he dressed, and put on his wide-awake and greatcoat, and when he left the room he said "Daddy, I am going out for a little while"—in about twenty minutes, or a little more, I heard Mrs. Sutton scream in the passage—I jumped out of bed, and drew on my trousers—the prisoner rushed upstairs—I knew it was him because there was nobody in the passage but Mrs. Sutton and him—as soon as I had helped Mrs. Sutton to go downstairs I ran out for the police and for help—when I came out of my room I saw Mrs. Button standing opposite my door, with her neck bleeding very much—on the Wednesday night I had a razor on my dressing-table which I had kept there this four years, and on the Thursday a policeman showed it to me all stained with blood—there was no one but the prisoner and myself occupying the room during the night—Mrs. Sutton was not there—she might have come in by chance in the early part of the evening, but she never came in there after we retired—I do not sleep soundly—the prisoner was very quiet and cool and collected, and very pleasant on the Thursday morning, and he had been so on the Wednesday night, and when he went to bed he bid all good night.

Cross-examined. The prisoner was always exceedingly fond of this child—I said on another occasion "he always treated it as if he was its father"—if he says that on Wednesday night he did not sleep in my room, but elsewhere, it is an untruth—I am not a very sound sleeper, if anyone came and opened the door I should hear them—if he says that he passed the night with Mrs. Sutton in my room or elsewhere, it is an untruth.

By a JUROR. Q. Did the prisoner over say anything to you to load you to suppose he was mad? A. No, not the slightest.

EMILY SHARP . I lived at 19, Hart Street—I am a domestic servant and had been there a fortnight while I was out of place—I occupied the same room with Mrs. Sutton and her child and Elizabeth Coten—I didn't know much about the prisoner—on Saturday, the 5th, between 6 and 7 p.m., as near as I can tell, I and Mrs. Sutton and the baby were in the room—I am not quite sure whether Miss Coten was there—the door was shut, and I was getting ready to go out—I heard a knock at the door,. and answered it, and saw the prisoner—I said "What do you want?"—he said he had come about his washing—Mrs. Sutton did the work for the house and the washing for the young men there—I said to Mrs. Sutton "He has come about his washing"—she said to the prisoner "They are not ready, go down"—he was just inside the doorway then—he came into the room and picked up the baby from the floor where it was sitting and kissed it several times, and said he loved it, and he said "I love Sutton, I am very. fond of her, if I don't have her no one else shall"—I told him he had better go out of the room and go down, as Mrs. Pearson, the landlady, would be very angry to find him there—he then left the room and went downstairs—Mrs. Button was busy ironing—the. prisoner appeared to be quite sober—I did not take much notice of him—I saw no more of him that night, as I went out—I was there on the Tuesday and Wednesday, but not on the Monday—on the Wednesday night I went to bed, as usual, with Mrs. Sutton and the baby, but I was asleep when she got up on Thursday morning, and did not hear her leave the room—as near as possible from half-past 8 to 9 I heard dreadful screams front downstairs as I thought, I thought it was a woman's. voice, and I was dreadfully frightened—the screams awoke me—I at once got up, and before I could get out of the room the prisoner rushed in and rushed to the bed where the little child was lying asleep—there were two beds in the room, one large one and one not so large—Miss Coten and myself slept in the large one, and Mrs. Sutton and the baby in the other—I could not see whether the prisoner had anything in his hand; he had his back to me—I said, "What on earth are you going to do?" and I rushed out of the room and called for help—I saw him doing something to the baby's head and neck—I called to Mr. Stanfield, a lodger, who slept in the next room to us, and said, "Take this man out of the room, for he is killing the baby"—he took hold of the prisoner, and there was a very great struggle between them, and he took the razor out of his hand and got him down into his own room—some time after that I went down into the landlady's kitchen, and found Mrs. Sutton bleeding very badly, and she was taken to the hospital—the prisoner never opened his mouth, when he rushed into the room.

Cross-examined. The prisoner could not have come into our room and slept there on Wednesday night under any consideration—I bolted the door myself, and I am certain Mrs. Sutton was not away from the room, because what she wanted I fetched for her.

MARY ELIZABETH COTEN . Some time previous to the 30th of January I had been lodging at 19, Hart Street—in December last, I cannot state the date, I and Mrs. Sutton and Mr. Bartholomew were in the prisoner's room—the prisoner used to say he would like to have Mrs. Sutton for his wife, and he would break her neck if she would not have him—she never used to say much to him; she used to tell him not to talk so silly to her—I should say he used those words about eight times—it was on the

Wednesday before this happened that he used those words—I remember a man named Rolf coming to see Mrs. Sutton on Sunday, the 16th, between 5 and 6 p.m.—he had formerly been a lodger there, and had come to Mrs. Sutton's room with reference to some washing—about 10 minutes, or it might have been 20 minutes, after he had gone the prisoner came into the room and said to Mrs. Sutton, "You would have been on the floor, and that man Rolf; you are my sweetheart; I have got my coat, pipe, and tobacco, ready to be locked up for you," and he said he would go up to his knees in blood for her—Mrs. Pearson was in the room at the time and heard the threats, and said to the prisoner, "You will leave my house, for I won't have such behaviour here"—between 6 and 7 the same evening the prisoner came up to our door—it was bolted, and I think he said, "Good night, my darling; I am going out"—on the next day, Monday, about 2, I went out with Mrs. Sutton for a walk—we left the house separately, because Mrs. Sutton was afraid of the prisoner—I left first with the baby, and the prisoner came out of his door at the bottom of the stairs and kissed the baby—I told him I was going to take the baby out for a walk, to mislead him—I then waited at the corner outside for twenty minutes for Mrs. Sutton, and then she came, and the prisoner followed her—she told him to go back, or she would have him locked up, but he took no notice—he said he thought she was going to see somebody else, and he said, "I am going to see where you are going to," and he continued to follow us until we returned home—on Thursday morning, 20th, Mrs. Sutton got up about a quarter-past 8, and went out to buy bread and milk, and about twenty minutes afterwards I heard her voice from the stairs say, "Get off the stairs, and let me pass; you have no business on these stairs; and keep your hands off me"—about four or five minutes afterwards I heard her scream, and my friend Emily Sharp and I jumped out of bed, and when I opened the door the prisoner was on the landing—I was going to shut it again, but he pushed it against my strength, and pushed past me to get to the baby—he had a dosed razor in his hand—I went into Mr. Stanfield's room—about half-an-hour afterwards I saw the prisoner in his own room, and when he saw me he said, "You little devil! you will be the next one"—a constable was with him then.

By a JUROR. Mrs. Sutton never gave the prisoner any encouragement to cause him to be jealous of her.

HARRIET PEARSON . I am the landlady—I know the prisoner very well—about two or three weeks, or it might have been a month, before the Sunday I heard the prisoner say he, meant to marry Mrs. Sutton at Whitsuntide, and he told me he was very fond of her I have seen them talking together, and sometimes the prisoner would have the baby in his room—Mr. Bartholomew used to like to have him for a little while sometimes to amuse him—Mrs. Sutton was very repulsive in her manner towards the prisoner—she did not seem to want him to take any notice of her or her child—I remember Rolf calling on the Sunday—I was in the back parlour sitting with Bartholomew and the prisoner—Rolf went upstairs to see Mrs. Sutton, and the prisoner said "There is a man upstairs in that room"—I said "Well, what business is it of yours if there is? they go to Mrs. Sutton to give her messages for me instead of troubling me"—the prisoner said if he was not allowed to go up there no other man should—after

sitting a little while he went out and shut the door, and I got up and followed him, and told him to come downstairs—he would not answer, and I went up—I pushed against him on the first landing—I told him to go down, I would not have him about the stairs, and he went down, and I went up into Mrs. Button's room—Rolf had gone then—I had just taken the baby in my lap, and the prisoner came into the room—he said "I put on my coat and put my tobacco and pipes in my pocket ready to be locked up for you; I meant to have done with you and him too"—I told him to leave the room, and he left and went downstairs—I went down soon after—I said I would not have any of the men upstairs in the rooms—at this time he was perfectly sober—he came up again afterwards about a front or something to be washed, but he did not come in—Mrs. Button did his washing—on the Tuesday, I believe, I told him I was tired of his following her about, and I would not have it and I didn't like his watching about the stairs; and I told him if he left at once I would return him his money, but he said he would not he should stop until the Monday—he always paid his rent in advance—I told him why didn't he pull himself together and get work—he was quite sober—this was in the afternoon—he had not been to work on the Monday—I had heard him on the stairs on previous occasions—I don't think he had been drinking on the Tuesday—he was very often the worse for drink after working hours, and I didn't take particular notice—on Thursday morning, about half-past 8 or a quarter to 9 o'clock, I was in the kitchen in the basement dressing myself, and heard dreadful screams, which appeared to come from the passage above—then Mrs. Button came downstairs—I thought—she had fallen from top to bottom by the noise, but I saw she had come step by step—I saw she was bleeding very much, and put a towel to her neck and gave her brandy—the police afterwards came, and she was token to St. George's Hospital and on the 24th I heard of her death there, and on the 28th I was taken there and saw her dead—the prisoner has lodged in my house altogether about seven months—I think he came in August—during that time I noticed nothing in his manner when he was sober to attract my attention—he paid 3,. a week rent—he last worked somewhere in South Audley Street—he is a bricklayer's labourer.

Cross-examined. He did not very often miss a day going to work; he told me he changed his work occasionally—I didn't notice anything particular about him on the Tuesday—did not look weary and excited—I did not hear the prisoner say about going up to his knees in blood—he was generally very kind to the child, and on one occasion he gave me some money to buy it some shoes, and he gave her some money once when she came from the baths, he said she looked so weary—he did not change his employment four or five times in six months—he was in work at Mayfair, and then he went to South Audley Street—he was generally successful in getting work.

Re-examined. He did not tell me what his wages were; he said he earned more one week than another, according to the hours—he had 6d. an hour I think.

CHARLES STANFIELD . I am an omnibus driver, and live at 19 Hart Street—I occupied the next room to Mrs. Button—on the morning of 20th January, about a quarter to nine, I was in bed, and was aroused—I got up in a hurry, and hearing a female's voice say a man was killing the child,

I rushed into Mrs. Sutton's room and seized the prisoner's arm and took the razor from him, and threw it over my head, and the top of my finger was nearly cut off—he fought and kicked to get into the room again, and when he got to the door he said, "You b—I will treat you the same," and I had great difficulty in getting him to his room—I saw the razor lying inside the door upstairs afterwards, when I went to see how the child was, and I ordered no-one to touch it.

FRANCIS PEARCE (Policeman C 309). I was called on Thursday morning, about quarter to nine, to 19, Hart Street, and went at once to the back room on the ground floor, and saw the prisoner sitting down in a chair—he spoke first—as soon as he saw me he said, "I have killed the woman whom I loved, also her dear child"—I heard what had happened, and sent for a doctor, and went down and saw the woman Sutton bleeding in the kitchen—four men were taking care of the prisoner—from what I was told I went up to Mrs. Sutton's room, and saw the child lying dead on the bed with its throat cut—I searched the room, and on the floor I found the razor partly open with blood on it—I showed it to Bartholomew, and he identified it as his property—I then took the prisoner to Marlborough Street Police Station—the inspector saw him there, and the prisoner made a statement to him, and was seen by Mr. Spurgin and Mr. Kemp, two police surgeons—the inspector also came to the house, and had some conversation with him.

Cross-examined. He was sitting in the back room on the ground floor quietly smoking his pipe, and he was smoking the whole time he made this statement.

JAMES BENNETT (Police Inspector). On 20th January, at about quarter past nine, I went to 19, Hart Street, and saw the prisoner in the back parlour sitting down at the fire smoking a pipe—when he saw me he said, "I have committed two murders this morning, inspector"—I said, "It is a very serious matter"—he said, "I lived with this woman, and slept with her in this bed last night," pointing to the smallest of two beds in the room—"we had a quarrel this morning; it was all about 5s.; I cut her throat, and the child's also, I felt very strong, and felt as if I could commit lots of murders—three men came to me, one was a big fellow, but I knocked him off"—this is my note (produced), which I wrote at the time—I left the prisoner there, and went upstairs and found the child dead.

Cross-examined. I don't know of my own knowledge how many men went to him—I followed him to the station shortly afterwards, after I had made a search of the house—I was present at the police-court when some one asked the prisoner if he would have any food, as he spoke of having had no food, and he took some money out of his pocket, and some meat and vegetables were sent for—his hands were one mass of blood, and he was asked if he would not like to wash them, but he said, "I won't have them washed, these were the hands that did it"—he was perfectly sober—he then proceeded to eat his dinner with his hands one mass of blood—I then went to the hospital.

By a JUROR. He seemed to be recovering from the effects of drink, not from delirium tremens.

FREDERICK WILLIAM SPURGIN , M.R.C.S. I am divisional surgeon of the E Division of Police—about 9 on this Thursday morning I went to 19, Hart Street—I went up to the room on the first floor, and there saw

the child, quite dead—there was a very serious Wound in the throat, which had caused instantaneous death—I saw the prisoner a little before 9 the same morning, sitting in the back room ground floor—I asked him some questions as to where he came from, and after some general conversation he made a statement—I had previously felt his pulse and looked at his tongue, and asked him to hold out his hands to see if they were steady or if there were any indications of delirium tremens—he then said, "I have been keeping company with Mrs. Button, she has drank with me and I have given her money,; but she has treated me very cruelly and has turned me up; a week ago I told her I would cut her throat, and she said, 'If you do so, kill the child, and don't leave it to the mercy of the world,' and I have done so"—that was all he said—he was perfectly calm, and I saw no indication of insanity—he appeared like a man recovering from the effects of drink, who had had a drinking bout—I had never seen him before—I afterwards saw that Stanfield's thumb had been cut.

Cross-examined, I have had a great deal to do with cases of insanity in connection with my public appointment and privately—I have never been at Broadmoor or served in any asylum—I am constantly called in as surgeon to the police and medical officer to certify in cases of insanity, for 25 years—I should say that insane persons have not a knowledge of the character of the act they commit—a madman may know that he has killed a person, he is not wholly bereft of knowledge, and he reasons from certain premises—it has not been my duty or vocation to attend persons charged with crimes in connection with insanity—I noticed nothing abnormal in the pupils of the prisoner's eyes—a violent act of insanity is often very suddenly produced—a person may for a long time not have excited any suspicion of insanity, and then suddenly commit an insane act—it is the disease of the mind which renders the person unable to control his actions—in many instances it is very difficult to diagnose insanity, but not generally—the border line between sanity and insanity is very narrow—it is very difficult to define the border line between eccentricity and insanity, almost impossible—you may define insanity as a morbid life growth from a diseased germ—serious injury to the head is a fruitful cause of insanity—I should expect it to show its effects at an early date, not necessarily immediately, not in a violent form—drink is a fruitful source of insanity, granting previous indication of it—drink combined with head injury would be likely to develope it—delusions, as a rule, come on at a comparatively early period—when insanity has once begun there is very often melancholia or eccentric action before delusions—the fact of a man not trying to avoid the consequences of his crime, or seeming proud of it, I should not consider an index to insanity—the exceedingly abnormal calmness in the prisoner after the act did point to insanity—the causes of insanity are exceedingly numerous; such as injury to the head, sudden mental shock, excessive fatigue, and drunkenness—paralysis is frequently a symptom of certain forms of insanity, but you cannot tell unless you know the character of the paralysis—the form of paralysis I have in my mind is a recognised paralysis of the insane—I should not like to say that insane acts of violence are more frequently directed against most intimate friends or dearest relations—I very much question that—one point in insanity is a total change of feeling towards persons—these impulses may come, on

very suddenly; delusions would be rather coexistent—easy sort of work, such as that of a bricklayer's labourer, may be properly discharged by a person who is not quite right in his head.

JOHN ROBERT KEMP , M.R.C.S. I am divisional surgeon of the C Division of Police—on the morning of 20th January, about quarter to ten, I was called to the police-station to see the prisoner—I examined him to ascertain the condition of his mind—as far as I could judge I found him quite of sound mind, able to answer any ordinary question—he said he found out that I was a doctor, and hoped I should not think he was insane, that this morning he had committed two murders and that he could die for it—he said he had been deceived in two women before, and that he did not intend to be so in a third—he said he had threatened the woman some time previously, and she had asked him if he killed her not to leave the child to the mercy of the world—he was quite sober—he had been drinking some days previously, I should say, and had not altogether recovered from the effects of it, but he had not been drinking within the last few hours—I said, "Have you been drinking?" and he admitted it.

Cross-examined. I have been in the profession 13 or 14 years—I have never done any special lunatic asylum work, but of course a surgeon of police must know a little about it.

ARTHUR HEYGATE VERNON . I am house surgeon at St. George's Hospital—I was there a little after 9 when Ann Sutton was brought in; she had a severe cut right across the throat—she never spoke—she died on 24th January—it was such a cut as would be done by a razor, and she died from its effects—it extended back to the spine.

DR. HENRY CHARLTON BASTIAN . I am a Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons, one of the Physicians of University College Hospital, and also Physician to the Hospital for Paralysed and Epileptic Patients—I have had a large experience in cases of insanity—on 11th, and also on 15th February I went to Holloway Prison and there saw the prisoner—I examined him for the purpose of ascertaining the state of his mind—I examined his head—I found a scar on the upper part of the right frontal region, about an inch and a quarter in length—there was a considerable irregularity of the bone in that situation, so much so that I thought it probable that the bone had been fractured—there was distinct tenderness on percussion, and none over other parts of the head—he said he frequently had very severe pains in that part, that about 17 years ago he had been thrown over the head of a horse, pitching on his head, that he was stunned for about half a day, that he remained in bed from two to three weeks, and that he had done no work for 67 weeks; he said his head had been cut, and bled very much at the time—from the state in which I found his head I should think that was a probable and correct account that he gave me—I think there had been actual fracture, from the irregularity of the bone, still that was not certain—there was some evidence of paralysis on the right side of the face, and some slight weakness of the right limbs, from those appearances I think it possible that there had been some injury to the brain—I could get no history from him of his having had any illness or any affection of the brain—I think it possible that he may have had damage to the brain which caused that slight paralysis—I could discover no evidence that he was of unsound mind, but he is an extremely weak-minded man, so weak-minded as to border upon imbecility—I spoke to him upon the subject

of the charge—he spoke freely on the subject—he seemed then to have no definite conception of the real nature of the acts, I mean the moral nature of the acts—for instance, he seemed to think that the fact that the woman had wished him to kill the child if he did anything to her, was a perfectly sufficient justification for his taking the life of the child—I gathered from him that the woman had had sexual relations with him for some time past, but not since the Thursday previous to the acts, and that he had quarrelled with her on the next day, Friday, about some request on her part to give her 5s. to go the theatre—he repeated over and over again that the woman was in the habit of coming to his bed in the night for an hour or two, two or three times a week—I said, "Did the man Bartholomew know of that?"—he said, "Oh! he is an old man, rather deaf, and didn't hear"—I discovered no evidence of delusions, my impression was that what he said was correct—he impressed me with the notion that he believed what he was telling me—I gathered from him that there had been several quarrels in the day between the commencement of the Friday and the Wednesday night, that he had been drinking a good deal also, that he had tried to get work on the Thursday morning, had failed in two places, and came back, as he termed it, "down on his luck"—that he came back depressed, that he took up the razor and went out, intending to commit suicide, that he met the woman in the passage, and then determined, as he said, to make a clean sweep of it, beginning with the woman, then going to the child, and he declared that if the razor had not been wrested from him, he should have cut his own throat—he seemed to recollect all the details of the occurrence—Mr. Gilbert, the surgeon of the goal, was with me at the time I examined him, and I had seen the same statement in the notes taken by Mr. Gilbert—I think the prisoner knew I was a doctor—I could certainly discover no evidence of insanity, but I considered that the man had had his brain damaged, and that he was on that account congenitally of very weak and feeble mind.

Cross-examined. When he told me this story about his having been out to two places to get work, he told it as if he believed it—I thought he was telling the truth—he did not mention the places he had been to—imbecility is one of the worst and most exaggerated forms of weakness, but this man was not imbecile—I said there was weak-mindedness bordering upon imbecility—there is a great distinction between the two—he was not to be described as an imbecile at all—imbecility is a very bad form of madness—there are other forms of insanity in which perhaps a man may have less consciousness than an imbecile—it is difficult to say where sanity ends and insanity begins—it would depend upon the definitions for what is sanity and insanity—I should not like to try to define it, many have tried and failed—I was at Broadmoor many years ago—the practice there then was very different to what it is now, all sorts of people were sent there then—I should scarcely think that injury to the head was one of the most fruitful causes of insanity—it is a frequent one, and also drink, and the two combined would be very likely—he didn't tell me that the woman had slept in that room, he merely said that she had been to his room—my impression was that he believed it, and that he was telling the truth—of course I could not tell that, but when one talks to a man for many hours one can get a shrewd notion whether he is telling the truth or not, and my impression was that he was telling the truth—certain

forms of insanity acts of violence are very sudden—I don't think that hard work would be apt to give signs of symptoms of insanity, not the ordinary work of a bricklayer's labourer—it would be very deplorable if that were so—the injury to the head was a bad one, I found traces of it 17 years afterwards—a man receiving a brain injury would be more likely to be affected by drink—acts of violence frequently spring from delusions—the paralysis I found was slight paralysis of the right side of the face, the cheek, and tongue—that is not connected with insanity—thousands of people are paralysed for life who are not insane—it does not give rise to insanity, or help to cause it—some forms of paralysis are of themselves indicative that a man may be of unsound mind, but certainly not the sort of paralysis that I found here—this was the common form of paralysis unconnected with mental.

By the JURY. Many persons of unsound mind have performed such labour as that of a bricklayer's labourer—there are always degrees of unsoundness.

PHILIP FRANCIS GILBERT . I am Medical Officer to Her Majesty's Prison, Holloway—since the 20th January the prisoner has been in the hospital of that prison under my care—he has been very well behaved and quiet—the conclusion I came to was that he was of weak intellect but showing no signs of actual insanity—I heard Dr. Bastian's evidence, and agree with it.

Cross-examined. I didn't take the prisoner to be insane when I first saw him, I didn't make a representation to that effect—I said at first that I didn't consider him responsible for his actions, because he was of such weak intellect.

EDWARD GRANT . I am hospital attendant at Her Majesty's Prison, Holloway—since the prisoner was admitted he has been under my care—I have been with him for hours, day and night—he has frequently spoken about this offence—he said that Mrs. Sutton had been repeatedly in his room, that they had quarrelled at different times and made it up again, that on the last occasion they quarrelled she refused to make it up with him, that on the morning that he committed the crime he went out to seek for work and could get none, that he came home, entered his room, and took the razor with the intention of committing suicide, but on going out to the door he met Ann Sutton, he asked her would she make it up with him; she said "No," that he kissed her, and said "Well then, my dear, I must put an end to you"; that he was very fond of the woman and child; that she had requested him on some former occasion, if ever he did anything to her that he would also kill the child, and not leave him to the mercy of the world—all the time he was under my care he was watched, he appeared to act rationally, and attended to my instructions—he gave no trouble—he acted like an ordinary patient; but in his conversation ho had very low ideas, such as that he had suffered enough in this world and there was no hereafter, and also Socialistic ideas—he did nothing strange or eccentric, and acted just the same as a rational man.

By the COURT. I made a note every day upon a slate, and passed it to the doctor—I have no order to keep any special record myself—I hand in my report every day.

CHARLES WHITE . I am a labourer, of 155, Pemberton Street, Caledonian Road—the prisoner was a follow-workman at Messrs. Patman's, contractors, of Theobald's Road—he was employed there for five weeks

up to the Saturday before this occurrence, when I discharged him—he worked as a labourer at various jobs—his earnings were 27s. a week; 6d. an hour.

Cross-examined. I noticed something curious in his conduct—I noticed that he was not right in his mind; because, when I asked him to do a thing, he used to do everything wrong—everybody on the building picked fun at him, because he was a bit looney; he was a general butt—he was not right in his mind while he worked with me—I don't believe he was ever right in his mind, and I don't believe it to this day—when I told him to do a thing he went and did it wrong—I can say no more—he left the employ on the Saturday before this occurred—I discharged him because I thought he was a very inefficient and clumsy workman—I was foreman—I could not make anything of him.

Re-examined. He was not earning 27s. a week for the five weeks—that was when he worked all the week—but it was short time, winter time, and frosty weather.

CHARLES STANFIELD (Re-examined). Jewell and another man came to my assistance when I was struggling with the prisoner on the stairs; Jewell was overcome, and went back to his bed; he had rheumatics in his hands—a boy, Mrs. Pearson's adopted son, came up to the room to tackle the prisoner, not knowing I was there, but he went down stairs to assist his mother—nobody else came.

RICHARD BARTHOLOMEW (Re-examined). After the prisoner left the room he did not come back for the razor.

EMILY SHARP (Re-examined). Q. Is there any truth in the statement that Mrs. Sutton, used to go out from your room at night to the prisoner's room? A. I don't know anything about that; when I was at home she did not—I was not generally at home—I was out chiefly in the day.

GUILTY. Recommended to mercy by the JURY on account of his weakness of mind.— DEATH .


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