ALFRED CHIPPERFIELD.
3rd February 1896
Reference Numbert18960203-219
VerdictGuilty > unknown
SentenceDeath

Related Material

ActionsCite this text | Print-friendly version | Report an error
Navigation< Previous text (trial account) | Next text (trial account) >

219. ALFRED CHIPPERFIELD (25) was indicted for and charged on the Coroner's Inquisition with the wilful murder of Maria Chipperfield.

MESSRS. HORACE AVORY and BIRON Prosecuted, and MESSRS. GEOGHKGAN,

MOORE and ROACH Defended.

ANN BRANDON . I am the wife of George Brandon, and live at Leighton Buzzard—on 19th December I went to the Holloway Mortuary and there identified the body of Maria Chipperfield—I had known her all her life as Maria Clarke—my husband and I had adopted her when she was two years old—her mother lived in London—the girl lived with us as our daughter until December, 1893, for fifteen years; she then went up to London to take a situation as barmaid—she came down to see us at Leighton Buzzard and stayed with us for a few days, and the prisoner came to see her from time to time—she came to us again on the 13th, and stayed till some time early in December, and on the 7th she left and went to London—I next saw her on the 17th December, when she returned to us with the prisoner as her husband—I had previously received a telegram from her—they said they had just come from Cork, that they had been married there—they stayed with us that night—in the course of the evening he showed us a razor, which he said he had bought at Cork-next morning she was not very well; she went back to bed, but ultimately they went to London by the 1.40 train—I saw them off to our station—they then seemed to be on very good terms—she was a right-handed girl.

Cross-examined. She was then wearing a fur boa round her neck—she never told me that her mother greatly disapproved of her marriage—she never said anything about her mother.

Re-examined. She appeared to be happy in her marriage; she seemed to be all right.

By the COURT. She called me "Mother"—I had said that she was, too young to be married—her uncle and aunt did not live at Leighton Buzzard Grove.

GEORGE BRANDON . I am the husband of last witness, and lived at Leighton Buzzard—the prisoner came down there before December 6th; he had been staying for a day or two; while there she just gave him a slap in the face—I told him if I had been there I should have punched his face—I remember their coming back on December 17th; they sent a. telegram—they said they had been married in Cork—he showed me a razor; it was not in a case.

Cross-examined. He said he had bought it in Cork; he did not say as a present to his father.

ALICE STROUD . I am the wife of William Stroud, a wheelwright, and live at Westminster—the deceased was my niece—I last saw her alive about three weeks before the inquest, the day she left the Star to go to Leighton Buzzard—I knew at that time that she was engaged to be married—I did not know the prisoner; I had never seen him—on December 6th I received this letter from her from Leighton Buzzard. (Read: "My dear Uncle and Aunt,—Just a line to say I am coming up to London. Alf wants me to be married in London. I have asked him to put it off till Sunday as I want a few things—mother is so nasty; she won't advise me; indeed, if she knew where, she would stop it—we are going to Ireland if we are married, for ten days, etc., your loving niece, Maria.") This letter (A) is in" the' deceased's handwriting. (Read: "The Lodge, Leighton, Beds.—My dear Alf—Just a line to say I will be at Euston, as arranged, to-morrow Friday; shall come by the 11.20 from Leighton; but, Alf, dear, I think it best to wait until Sunday before we are married, as there are one or two things I should like to get, for instance, a coloured dress—if I am ever married at all it shall not be in a black dress, as you know time is so short that I cannot get one here. If you had told me a week or two ago I could have had everything ready, so I hope you will consider this as best, and postpone it for two days, it will not make much difference, will it? Mother is very nasty about it; I shall be glad to get away from here again. I hope you got home all right last night, as I did. I don't think I have any more to say until I see you to-morrow, so will conclude with fondest love.—Yours very truly, ANNIE."

HERBERT AUSTIN . I am manager to Austin and Co.—the prisoner has been in our employ from early in 1891 till December 6th last year—on the morning of December 6th, he asked to be allowed to go into the City on business of his own, and as he was going I gave him a number of cheques to pay into the bank, and, in addition, I gave him an open cheque for £15 to pay wages and other things—this (produced) is the cheque—as he had not returned about half-past three I went to the bank and made inquiries, and found that that cheque had been cashed—these letters marked "D," "E," "F," "G," written on our business paper are in the prisoner's handwriting—he never returned to business.

The following letters were put in and read:

" June 22nd, 1895.—To Miss Clark,—Dear Annie,—If you only knew how I feel you would be sorry for writing to me like this. I love you from the bottom of my heart, and no one else shall have you. I am not

going in the Ram any more, and don't tell people all you know, because it only comes back. That May is a devil; don't you trust in her for a friend; do write to me. Trusting you are quite well, with love, yours faithfully, A. CHIPPERFIELD. I had a telegram come to me half-an-hour after you had arrived; it cost me over 30s. I have a nice present for you, if you are good. It is no use trying to put me off. I can never forget how good you have been to me."—"126A., Bermondsey Street, S.E., London, July 23rd, 1895.—Dear Annie,—I am sorry I was late this morning, and could not come and see you, as the bridge is all up. It makes it so late when I get over the other aide. I shall not be in to-night, as I have some business to do at Stratford after I have finished. I hope you will not go with anybody else of an afternoon. I shall not take May out again in a hurry. I always told you that she was no class. Trusting you are quite well, with best love, yours, etc., A. CHIPPBRFIBLD."—"126A, Bermondsey Street, S.E., London, July 29th, 1895.—Dear Annie,—You greatly upset me last night. I thought when I came in on Sunday morning there was something on, else for my not wanting to take you out in the afternoon. I should only have been too pleased to do so; but as it was such a wretched day, and being a short Sunday, I did not think you would care to come. I have 'turned over a new leaf, and feel much better for it. I want you to meet me at the Bank to-morrow at 2.30, I have something I wish to ask you. It is not very nice for me to come and see you when you are making arrangements with other fellows. It it just the same; if I were in your place you would not like it. Anybody would think I was a fool. I thought after what you told me last Sunday you would be all right. I had no sleep all last night through you. I think it is very unkind of you to go on like this, when I am trying to do my best for you. I have been greatly upset lately without you making more trouble. I was going abroad, only I put it off for you. You know I love you, and would do anything for you. Of course, if you do not like me, I would rather you tell me than to make a fool of me. I can assure you that since we made it up I have not been with one girl. I shall not say any more at present, so trusting you are quite well, I remain, yours truly, A. CHIPPBRFIELD."—"126A, Bermondsey Street, S.E., London, November 13th, 1895.—Dear Annie,—It was unkind of you not to turn up the other afternoon. It was not because you could not come, because I saw you looking out of the window, and the same when I was on the 'bus coming back. One thing, I was not put out, as I had to come to the City Road. I do not know why you want to be so nasty towards me lately; I know I have said some nasty things to you when I have been half drunk, but it is no use to keep thinking about old sores. I have apologised to you, and I am sure it will not happen again. Will you write, and let me know, per return, if you will come out on Sunday if fine, or, if not, Tuesday next, so as I can make arrangements? You know very well that I love you, and it greatly upsets me by your being so off-handed. Do not forget to write. Trusting you are quite well, with best love, yours faithfully, A. CHIPPERFIELD."

ANNIE MARTIN DROYER . I live at 82, Tiverton Road—the prisoner lodged with me from August last year till December—I remember his going out on the morning of December 6th, and returning about one with a young lady, in a hansom cab—he went upstairs to his room and

changed his linen, and went away in the cab with the young lady—he said he would return in a few days—he had a bedroom and the use of my sitting-room to have his meals in—he did not say anything as to how he was coming back, or where he was going to live.

JOHN STANLEY . I drive a four-wheeled cab"—on the evening of December 18th last, I was at Euston Station—at the arrival of the 9.15 train, I was hired by the prisoner; he and a young lady got into my cab—they had one box outside, and two or three small packages inside—he told me to drive to Annette Crescent, Essex Road; he did give me the number, but I have forgotten it—on the way he told me to pull up just outside the station, at a refreshment bar—they both got out and went to the refreshment bar—we then went on to the White Horse, Liverpool Road, that would be five or six hundred yards from Annette Crescent, he there got out, went into the public-house, and brought out a glass of wine to the young lady who remained in the cab—and he asked me if I would have one, and I went in with him, and had a glass of ale—when we came out he took the glass back to the house and came out, and I saw him looking at two or three of the doors of the house, as if looking for somebody—he told me to wait a little while, and he went away for a considerable time—he turned towards the Angel way, that would be away from Annette Crescent—I only noticed him as far as looking in at the doors of the house, just round the corner—he was away very near an hour. I did not notice the clock, but judging the time—the young lady all that time was sitting in the cab—I had some coversation with her; she was cheery enough—she said she was getting cold, would I fetch her a glass of port and a sandwich, and I went in and got it, and she told me to get a glass for myself—at the end of about an hour the prisoner came back, he got in the cab and told me to drive on—the lady still continued sitting on the near side of the cab on the back seat—the luggage was on the front seat—we had got within a few yards of Annette Crescent when a man came running round the cab, and asked me to stop, he said there was something wrong—I had not heard anything; the road was very rough with large stones—I pulled up as quickly as I possibly could, and looked round and saw the young lady's head hanging out of the window of the door, dripping with blood—some persons lifted her out, and she was taken to a doctor's—I drove to the doctor's door a few doors off, the doctor was not at home—I afterwards took the luggage to the Police-station in Upper Street—they had another cab to take the prisoner to the hospital.

THOMAS BROWN . I am manager of a public-house at 86, Martin's Road, Islington—about four minutes to eleven I was in Essex Road, near Annette Crescent; I heard screams from a four-wheeled cab, between thirty and forty yards off; I saw nothing till the cab got nearly opposite me; I called on the cabman to stop, and I saw a lady at the window of the cab, slightly leaning out trying to grasp the handle of the door nearest the kerb with her right hand; I opened the door, and with slight assistance she stepped out—she was making a gurgling sort of noise, with her hands towards her throat, as if trying to draw attention to it; I saw blood coming from her throat, she was taken to a doctor's—I then looked inside the cab, and saw the prisoner leaning in the left-hand corner with his hands crossed as if asleep, I saw a red mark round

his throat, as if it was cut—when I first came up to the cab I saw that the lady had a fur boa round her neck; I could not say whether it was tied or loose—the throat was not exposed; I could only sea the blood oozing down.

ALFRED GRIFFITHS . I am a carman at Islington—on the night of December 18th I was near Annette Crescent when I heard a woman's scream—I did not see where it came from, but I thought it came from a cab—I ran immediately to the cab and saw a woman with her head out of the window, and with her hand trying to grasp the handle on the near side, the pavement side—I believe the last witness opened the door—I noticed blood on the black fur in front of her—she stepped out by herself and laid hold of my arm—I only saw the blood on the fur of her jacket; I could not say for certain whether the fur was round her neck—I took her to Dr. Richardson's, he was not in, and I went and fetched Dr. Gray, and when I got back she was dead—when I heard the scream I was between 100 and 150 yards off, just between Annette Crescent and Halliford Street.

Cross-examined. I did not measure it—I never saw Brown till I got up to the cab, he was there first—I was from sixty to seventy yards from the cab when I first heard the scream.

WILLIAM EDWARD WRIGHT . I live at Islington, and am employed at the Civil Service Stores, in Bedford Street—on the night of the 18th December I was near Annette Crescent—I heard screams, apparently of a woman—I saw the cab coming along the road—it pulled up on the opposite side of the road; the screams appeared to come from there—I crossed over, and by that time the woman was being led or carried away by two men; I assisted to get her to the doctor's—I first looked in the cab and saw the prisoner sitting in the back seat leaning towards the corner on the near side—I was about thirty yards from the cab when I heard the scream, just across the road, not quite opposite.

WILLIAM CAPPER (326 N). I was on point duty in Essex Road on the night in question—I was called by Brown to a four-wheeled cab which was standing in the road opposite Annette Crescent—I looked in the cab and found a fur; the woman had been taken to the doctor's—I saw the prisoner sitting on the back seat on the left side, his head was in the corner in a drooping position—I noticed that he had a gash in his throat, I took him to Dr. Robinson's surgery—I was there when Mr. Gray came in—I took the body of the woman to the mortuary—in the course of the evening I searched the cab and found this razor—it was against the off-side door, across the cab, lying on the floor; it was wet with blood.

Cross-examined. Before I searched the cab, I opened the door and saw the prisoner sitting oh the left hand side—I spoke to him—I then directed the cabman to the surgery—that was about fifty yards off—the cab remained outside when the prisoner was taken in—he was in the surgery nearly two hours—the cabman remained outside till the constable came and took charge of it—that would be about twenty minutes or half an hour—Constable Trapper was in charge of the cab—the cab-was afterwards taken to the station by another constable—it remained outside the surgery about an hour before it was driven to the station—it was over a mile from the surgery—I found the razor while

the cab was standing outside the surgery—it remained there about twenty minutes—during that time the constable was with it—he is not here.

Re-examined. When I found the razor the cab was in the same place as I had left it.

HUGH HARLEY (Police Sergeant 45 N). I took the prisoner from Dr. Robinson's surgery to St. Bartholomew's Hospital—his clothing was searched in my presence—in the inside pocket of his great coat I found this razorcase—the razor fits it—£1 3s. 8 1/2 d. was found upon him—also a shaving brush and this letter (A) addressed to him from the deceased, beginning, "My Dear Alf."

JOHN ASHTON (427 N). On the evening of the 18th I went to Bartholomew's Hospital, and remained there in custody of the prisoner—he spoke to me that evening, I was in plain clothes—on the 19th he touched me on the arm, and said, "Have you seen my wife?"—I said, "No"—he said, "She is in the mortuary"—I said, "Oh!"—he then said, "I wish it was me instead of her, for she was a good girl—we were married on Monday, and came to London on Wednesday; took a cab from Euston and stopped at a pub. just outside the station, and had a drink, and then stopped again at the White Hart Public-house, Liverpool Road. I left my wife there some time, and went to try and find a pal of mine, Frank Cannon, but could not find him. I got in the cab again, and we drove down Essex Road. I remember we were all right when we passed the Brewers' Public-house, you know where I mean; but I don't remember anything after that, only drawing the razor across my own throat. I suppose I must have cut her throat; but, my God, I should not like to think I did. I bought the razor in Cork, as I had been there about a fortnight, and I had been shaving myself: I bought a brush, too. Did not you find it?"—I said, "Yes"—he said, "We were going to call at my father's house in Annette Crescent, and then go to where we were going to stay"—that was all that was said on the 19th—on the 21st he spoke to me again—he said, "The inquest on my wife was to-day, so my sister said. Do you know what the verdict was?"—I said, "No, I don't"—he said, "I wish they would let me see the papers, but they won't"—I said "Oh, won't they?"—he said, "I should be a lot easier in my mind if they would"—I don't suppose I shall be out of here before Christmas, shall I?"—I said, "I am sure I could not say"—"Ah, well," he said, "I don't want to be, for I can have my friends come to see me here, and they would not allow me to see any at Pentonville, would they?"—I said "I don't know"—he spoke to me again on the 2nd of January—he then said, "Well, there is one thing I like about you that are watching me, you policemen, I mean, you have never asked me any questions about this job, and I have not said anything particular to you; what I have said you are not going to say anything about it, are you?"—I said, "Yes, there are some things will have to be mentioned"—he said, "What I said to you?"—I said, "Yes"—he said, "Well, that is not much."

Cross-examined. I watched him by night; I was relieved in the day by other constables belonging to the same division; they would report to the same station—the prisoner remained in the hospital till January 3rd—one of the other constables was called before the Coroner—I believe I am the only one who reported any conversation held with the prisoner—the others were also in plain clothes—I did not tell him that anything he

said would be used against him—he knew I was a constable—I don't think he expected I should repeat what he said.

Re-examined. I did not invite him to make any statement.

GEORGE BEADON ADAMS . I am house surgeon at St. Bartholomew's—I was there on the night of December 18th, when the prisoner was brought in by the police. I attended to him for the incised wound in his neck—in my opinion it was a wound produced by the razor, and done by himself—After I had dressed the wound he said, "It's no good; I wish I had taken strychnine, I had some"—he remained in the hospital until January 3rd.

Cross-examined. I never saw any strychnine.

FRANK CANNON . I am a diamond setter, and live at 30, White Lion Street, Clerkenwell—I have known the prisoner about five years—I did not see him on the evening of December 18th; I was at home till about nine, and then went out.

Cross-examined. I knew the deceased girl; I knew her when she was a barmaid at the Star; she and the prisoner kept company, and walked out together—I used to go to the Star with the prisoner; I never usred the house; I have seen her and the prisoner together, when she was behind the bar—I have never spoken to her about the prisoner when he has not been there; once I did—she did not say that sooner than marry him she would kill herself—I heard her say that she wished to Christ she was dead; that was not in connection with her marriage to the prisoner; some time before. I and a friend were speaking about how she was going on at the time the prisoner and her were keeping company—she did not say, "I wish I was dead "in reference to her approaching marriage with the prisoner; we said to her, "You are enjoying yourself all right" and she said, "No;*I wish to Christ I was dead"—that was about four months before she left her situation—I could not tell you about the date; I don't keep dates—when I heard she was found dead in the cab of course that expression came to my memory; I say that was about four months before her marriage—she did not seem excited when she said it; she seemed tome all right—I said, "What do you mean?" and she said, "All right," and nodded her head and walked away; that was the only time she said that in my hearing—she did not strike me as excitable—I have never been with them when they were walking out together; have been with them for a drive; I did not notice that a little thing would put her out—I can't say that I have ever seen her very cross, or out of temper—I had known her about two years; during that time I have never seen her out of temper—the prisoner did not tell me that he was going to get married—I have met him at the Star; I generally saw him at the Two Brewers; that is not far from Annette Crescent.

Re-examined. The prisoner knew the deceased when she was at the Ram and Teazle; we both used that house—she was an attractive girl, according to people's judgment; she was a nice sort of girl—the prisorier was fond of her and courted her very shortly after she came to the Ram and Teazle—as far as I know he was courting her during the last two years—it was about four months before she left the Star that she mode use of the expression referred to; it was one evening—Mr. Stanton was in the bar at the time, there might have been other persons; he was the only friend of mine there—I had only asked her how she was going on in

the ordinary way—the prisoner was not there—I said, "How are you going on with Alfred?"—I could not say exactly what she said—that was the only time I heard her say anything of that kind.

JAMES BUCKLE (Police Sergeant N). I remember on December 18th a tin box being brought to the station; I saw it on the morning of the 19th—I took out of it certain papers, which I afterwards produced, there are three of them, and an application for a situation—here is a certificate of marriage; I did not find that in the box; it is dated December 16th, 1895, between Alfred Chipperfield and Maria Clark, bachelor and spinster, of full age, before E. A. Bruce, Rector, Glanmire Road, Cork (one of the letters was from the deceased, addressed "Dear uncle and aunt" and one "Dear mother" but not posted)—I produce a glove which was given to me by the mortuary keeper.

MALACHI JOSEPH ROBINSON . I am an M.D. practising in Essex Road—on December 18th, about eleven p.m., on returning from visiting, I found Dr. Gray at my surgery, and the deceased woman; she was then dead—the prisoner was also there; he was bleeding from a wound in his throat; it was such a wound as might have been self-inflicted, it went from left to right, just about the middle of the larynx, across the front of the throat, transversely—after attending to his wound I sent him to the hospital—afterwards, on December 21st, in conjunction with Dr. Gray, I made a post-mortem examination of the body of Maria Chipperfield—when I first saw her she was wearing gloves on both hands—they had been taken off when I made the post-mortem—there was a cut on the forefinger of the left glove—I found a wound on her throat, it was three inches and a-half in length, commencing an inch below the angle of the jaw on the left side, half an inch from the inner side, extending obliquely downwards, and to the left; it was deep at the commencement, and got shallower as it proceeded, and the skin was at last divided on the left—it was about half an inch deep on the right; it had divided the left vertebrae and the branches of the external carotid artery, and divided the windpipe—that wound was the cause of death—there was a wound on the forefinger of the left hand, commencing at the knuckle on the thumb side, a slice was taken off—it was difficult to say in which direction; I could not tell; looking at the glove, I should say it was from before, backwards; there is the flap of a cut in the glove, which shows that the cut must have been that way, away from the thumb, not towards it; from the general appearance of the wound I certainly say that it could have been self-inflicted—it could have been inflicted by another person—the cut on the finger might have been inflicted either way—from the character of the wound alone I should say it more resembled a self-inflicted wound than a homicidal one—it seems more probable that a woman would scream after having a wound inflicted upon her than having inflicted it herself.

Cross-examined. I was examined twice before the Magistrate—on the first occasion I was shown this glove—the scream leads to the opinion that the wounds were not self-inflicted—leaving out the scream, I am of opinion that they were self-inflicted—if the scream was after the cut, I should say it was self-inflicted, on the ground of the oblique direction from right to left—I have examined the glove, and the cut on the finger; if she took the razor in her left hand, and drew it across her throat, that would account for the appearance of the wound—the cut on the glove is

below the knuckle—the direction of the flap of leather alters my opinion, it could not very well be done in that way—I saw the glove before I gave my evidence before the Magistrate—I only said it might possibly have been done so, but very improbably; that bit of leather is the only thing that makes me change my opinion.

Re-examined. I said at the Police-court, "The wound on the left hand must have been done by the sharp part of the razor, and could have been done if the woman was holding the razor in her hand"—at the time I said that I had not in my mind the direction of the wound, as is now indicated by the flap of the glove—I now say that changes my opinion—in my judgment, the wound on the neck could have been inflicted by a person sitting beside her in the cab—I adhere to that—the wound on the finger might possibly be produced by her putting up her hand to protect herself—I adhere to that—I also say that the oblique direction of the wound from above downwards leads me to think it might have been self-inflicted, that it would be more probably caused by a self' inflicted wound.

By the COURT. That would entirely depend upon the position of the person—if a person was lying on a bed the cut would be right across; if otherwise it would be more obliquely upwards—if the person were higher than the person sitting by the side probably the wound would be more transverse than obliquely downwards—a wound inflicted by another person is generally horizontal; that would depend upon the position of the parties towards each other at the time—I was examined before the coroner before I gave evidence* before the magistrate—the coroner asked me, "Do you think a woman would scream after inflicting such a wound upon herself?" and I said, "I think it improbable"—I still say if it was self-inflicted it must have been done with the left hand; if inflicted by any one else I could not say whether it was with the right or left hand; if the woman was sitting on the left hand, it could be done—if sitting in that position it would be impossible to use her left hand, in that case I think it would be done farther back, it would depend upon how much he was in front of her; if the man got up and stood in front of her, that would account for it; there was luggage on the seat in front.

THOMAS UNDERWOOD GRAY . I am a licentiate of the College of Physicians and Surgeons, of 140, Essex Road—I was called into Dr. Robinson's surgery on this night, and afterwards in conjunction with him made a post-mortem examination—I have heard his description of the wound on the woman, I agree that that is accurate as to its direction; I also saw the wound on her finger—I have not seen the glove since it was on the woman's hand—I see it now; it does not look now as it appeared to me when on the hand; the glove was then fresh, and the whole of the flap filled the wound; it is not so now; the cut must have been from within outwards—I cannot say that it began at the thumb; it looks so from this flap, but it did not look so when I first saw it—there is a little tear on either side of the flap—I think the cut began from below, and went from within outwards; it does seem more up than down—if it had begun from the top, the first thing cut off would lie the very thing that is left—I saw the wound on the prisoner's throat—in my judgment that was self-inflicted, and with the razor held in the right hand—the wound in the woman's throat was oblique, downwards,

to the left—that was my opinion formed on the sight of the body, and that it was self-inflicted, by the left hand—it could not have been self-inflicted in any other way—I saw the wound on her finger; I thought at the time that it was done with the heel of the razor—I don't exactly see how I can think any differently now; it seems to me the wound was made as the razor was held in this direction (describing)—I think it was done in the act of grasping the razor.

THOMAS BOND . I am surgeon to the Westminster Hospital and lecturer on forensic medicine, of 7, The Sanctuary, Westminster Abbey—I have had a very large experience in surgery generally; I have heard the description of the wounds found on the deceased both on the throat and the finger, also of the wound on the prisoner's throat, also the evidence as to the woman screaming—in my judgment it was probably not self-inflicted—it was such a wound as might have been caused by a man sitting or standing by her side in the cab—in my judgment it was probably so caused—the obliquity of the direction of the wound does not, in my judgment, make it in the slightest degree improbable; it indicates nothing except the relative position to each other; I mean, if the man was above the woman at the time, the obliquity would be downwards, because he would cut away from himself; if he was on a level very likely it would be transverse, and if he was below the level it would be probably upwards—I have seen this glove, and heard the description of the wound there—in my opinion that was not a wound likely to have been caused by the woman herself on her own finger, in my judgment it would more likely to have been caused by the razor being drawn from above down-wards, across the finger from the thumb, from inside towards the end of the finger—if she had put up her hand and the razor had caught the hand before it had caught the throat, that would be the cut that would be made—the screaming does not help me in forming my opinion, inasmuch as I have never heard a woman scream after cutting her throat, and I have never seen it written.

Cross-examined. I say if the wound was self-inflicted it could only be done by the left hand, taking the wound alone; possibly a left-handed man might inflict such a wound—the incline particularly shows me it was not done with the woman's left hand—the glove was stained with dry blood a little, not much—I cannot imagine that such a wound would be caused by the razor being held in the left hand, not even if the razor slipped, I have tried it—my idea that the wound was not self-inflicted is not based upon a hypothetical position of the prisoner in the cab, my opinion is based upon the wound itself; it might have been caused by a person sitting or standing, either way—a person who saw the dead body, and saw the glove on the hand would be in a better position to form a judgment than one who had not seen it, if one had not had an accurate description—of course we do not know that all are skilled as to forensic medicine—I am not basing my opinion upon the evidence of persons not skilled—I consider they are not skilled in this matter; that is my opinion.

Re-examined. They may be excellent persons to attend upon their patients—I have seen a great number of deaths, both suicidal and homicidal.

JAMES MAYOR (Police Inspector). On January 3rd, I went to Bartholomew's Hospital, and there saw the prisoner—I said I was a police

inspector, and "I am going to arrest you on a warrant"—I read the warrant to him, and afterwards told him I should further charge him with attempting to murder himself by cutting his throat with a razor at the same time and place—he said, "I know nothing about it—I don't remember anything I would not do such a thing—are you going to take me to the Police-court?"—I said, "Yes."

GUILTY .— DEATH .


View as XML