CAMILLA NICHOLLS.
25th April 1898
Reference Numbert18980425-329
VerdictGuilty > unknown
SentenceImprisonment > penal servitude

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329. CAMILLA NICHOLLS was indicted for the manslaughter of Emily Jane Popejoy.

MESSRS. OHARLES MATHEWS and HORACE AVORY Prosecuted; MESSRS: MARSHALL HALL and GUY STEPHKNSON Defended.

GEORGE POPEJOY . I am a carpenter, living at Bagshot in Surrey—the deceased, Emily Jane Popejoy, was my daughter—she was seventeen years of age in November last—in October, 1896, she went into the prisoner's service at 14, Pitt Street, Kensington—she had been in a situation for about twelve months prior to that, in October, 1896—when she left there she was in good health—there was nothing at all the matter with her—she was not stout, or particularly thin—I did not see her after she went to the prisoner's situation till she returned home on November 24th, 1897—I saw from time to time the letters that she wrote home—I used to see them and pass them on to her sister—I saw the first letter she wrote home—that was about a month after she had gone into the service—after reading it I sent it to my daughter-in-law (Emily) at Aldershot—I knew on December 23rd that Jane was coming home on the 24th—I knew that from this letter from Mrs. Nicholls—this is it—(read)—" 14, Pitt Street, Kensington. December 22nd. Poor Janey tells me she sent her Christmas letter and cards to you yesterday. Mrs. Popejoy enclosed some I gave her to send you. I am so very sorry at this time of all other to send you ill tidings, but she coughed so much last night that I insisted—in spite of her entreaties that I would not, upon sending for the doctor to examine her. I was shocked and distressed beyond measure to learn from him that she must always have been consumptive, and this was probably the cause of her ceasing to be as she should be monthly, She told us when she came here it had ceased five months previously, the beginning of the June, and she came here the following October. I was shocked upon her arrival to see her so thin, but she assured us she had always been so, and that it was not for lack of appetite, as she felt she could eat all day long and all night long and for ever and ever, and then felt she had not had half enough, and we found this to be a fact, the amount of food and drink she takes being most extraordinary, and the doctor says she never was able to digest or assimilate food, and the large amount she took therefore did her positive harm, and she always, of course, felt hungry. You must, the doctor says, fetch her home at once and see what native air will dp; it is the only possible chance for her. Poor, poor Janey. I am too distressed even to use a pen, and it will make our Christmas very sorrowful. I cannot leave my helpless child, or I would, unwell as I am myself, have taken her. She must not travel alone, and I have no one just now to send with her. Please telegraph me at once if you can be here by 4 or between 4 and 5 to-morrow, or by the same hour on Friday. She ought not, in her condition, to leave by a later train than 5 o'clock. I mean yourself or one of the family. If she were ever so well physically she could not be trusted to travel alone. There are reasons, which I cannot

pain you by entering into, why she must never be out of your sight whilst at home, poor dear. We are so very sorry for her and for you, poor Mrs. Popejoy.—Faithfully yours, C. NICHOLLS. P. S.—She took cold five weeks ago by leaving off her drawers. A week later she accentuated it by another most foolish act. We did everything we could, applied all the usual remedies, and wished her to have the doctor; but she so strongly objected, and begged so to remain on. She was sure, she said, it would be better in a day or two, and cried and implored me not to send for him, or to send her away; but she seemed to waste so rapidly that it frightened me. Thin as she was when she came, she is far more now, and her hair, she says, comes out in handfuls. There has always been great trouble to get her to comb and brush her hair, or to wash herself"—until the receipt, of that letter I had not heard a word about my daughter being ill, or anything the matter with her—my wife made arrangements for her going into service with Lady Harrowby—I saw her when she came home on the 24th—she then looked very pale and thin and very ill—she was put to bed at once, and remained there until she died, on the following Monday—on that day I heard certain statements made by my daughter—Nunn, the policeman, was there—I noticed her nose looked damaged and also her finger.

Cross-examined. I had not heard that she had been ill till I got that letter, nor had my wife—I knew that she had been ill some months before—she had been in several little places before this, for a month or so, with friends or relations—she was not at all a delicate girl—I had not called a doctor for her—there was no reason for it—I did not know that Dr. Twort had attended to Her in 1893 for influenza—one of my sons had broken a blood vessel and lost a great deal of blood—I remember her running about the garden in a passion—I don't remember her temper getting extraordinary—I don't remember telling Dr. Twort about it—I treated her as a father would do—I did not beat her, I spoke to her—this letter she wrote, and I wrote to her—(read)—"Dear daughter. Just a line or two to let you know we received the presant safe and you kindly thank your Mrs. for the card and the book she sent and we also wish them a mery Xmas and a happy new year except the same yourself mother sent this cape for you she let your sister have the other we can't get it back this one will do as well we are glad to you likes the place and hope you will stay year I think you will yearn the box be good and learn all you can as it is the only chance you have I will get it made your brother is gone to bob to spen is Xmas if the lady should hear of anything be pleased from your Mother and Father"—I don't know what I meant by "your only chance"—it was not her only chance of getting her livelihood—I don't know what it meant—I had had a little trouble with her—very little—not about her untruthfulness—I don't remember anything about it.

Re-examined. I don't say that there was any difference between this child and other children in that respect—she was not more trouble to me than any of the other children—I might have beaten her with a stick; that would have been three years ago, I think—that was for disobedience—I never beat her for fetching me from the public-house when drunk—I saw her once running along the garden in a temper—my son Arthur did

not suffer from consumption—he was thrown off a horse and that was the cause of his illness.

EMILY POPEJOY . I am the wife of George Popejoy, of 13, Lime Street, Aldershot—I am sister-in-law to Emma Jane Popejoy—I had known her from her infancy—in the summer of 1896 she was staying over a month with me—she was then in very good health—there was nothing the matter with her—she was a very well-nourished girl—she was a fine big girl—I knew of her going into the service of the prisoner at 14, Pitt Street—whilst she was there I received some letters from her—these (produced) are in her writing—the first of these are the first I saw—I did not see any earlier letter that went the round of the family—this one (No. 6) is something like hers—I don't know it—I did not see her from the summer of 1896 till Christmas 1897, on her return to Bagshot; she was then in bed—I should not have known her only by her voice—she was a complete skeleton, and seemed very ill indeed—I had gone to 14, Pitt Street, on Friday, December 24th, for the purpose of fetching her home, I got there about a quarter to seven—I went in consequence of some communication her mother had made to me—I had to knock five times before the door was opened by Edith Garrett I then learnt that she had gone home—I did not see Mrs. Nicholls on that occasion, I asked to see her—I then went back to aginst shot, and I remained there till Christmas night—I was at home at Aldershot when I received this letter, signed "C. Nicholls"—(read)—" 14, Pitt Street, Kensington. December 25th. I was so distressed, Mrs. Popejoy, to hear you had had to leave your little ones on a fruitless journey of poor poor Janey. I wrote three times to her poor mother, but receiving no reply made arrangements at very great expense and trouble for a lady from the Travellers' Society to take her the whole way home, and as there are no cabs or flys at Bagshot they were to get out at Ascot and take a closed fly home. I had had to go to bed before you got here with a severe attack of rheumatism to which I am subject, and everything has been disorganised and put out of gear by poor Janey's illness. I should have written to her mother long before, but she so begged and prayed me not, insisting that she had been much worse, at home in winter, but always pulled round again in spring. She had an unreasoning dislike to see a doctor, but I had at last to insist upon her seeing one, and I hope her mother will send at once for the doctor who, she says, attended her in childhood and ordered her cod-liver oil, etc. So she had, I conclude, the seeds of this awful disease from babyhood, indeed, the doctor here said she must have had, and it had taken an acute form months before she came here, which accounts for her having been thin and still wasting in spite of the most ravenous appetite and taking the enormous quantities of food she did, poor dear, and continued to take up to the moment of leaving this house yesterday. The doctor said she had no assimilative power, and so the more heavy meals she took the worse she became, and during the last five or six weeks she wasted away so rapidly, but neither appetite nor sleep failed her she said, and insisted the whole time that she had no pain—all she thought off or seemed to care for, poor dear, was eating and drinking, and almost her last words were her regret that she would not be here to help eat the Christmas turkey, so I am going to send her a little

by Parcel Post, as soon as the offices are open again, and also some V. H. Coca the same as she was taking before she left. She can tell her mother how my housekeeper made it; we are also sending some Christmas pudding, she took some mince pies with her. Her mother mustn't allow her to eat much at a time of such things she cannot digest, and it might have very serious results if she eats very ravenously to-day of beef and pudding. The doctor bays her disease makes her feel as if she never has enough, and it does her so much harm, so pray beg her mother to be careful, she must have milk, coca, beef tea, etc, and not the huge amount of solid food she has been alway taking. I enclose a booklet for you and some of your little ones as they would not, I fear, get any from poor Janey I sent home to her mother. I wonder if she got them. We have never heard from her. I am in too great pain to write. With much sympathy with you all I am, C. NICHOLLS."

Cross-examined. Jane was very pale, she had a clear skin and a little colour—when she wrote to me she called me "sister"—(several letters were here read by Counsel from the deceased to the witness, speaking of being very busy and happy)—she was at a Board school for some time—I don't know for how long—I don't know when she left—she was some time in service before she went to Mrs. Nicholls.

Re-examined.—I only know of one place, that was in Bagshot—I don't know the name, or how long she was there.

ADA POPEJOY . I am the wife of Frederick Popejoy, a brother of the deceased girl—I had known her for about six years—I remember seeing her shortly before she went into Mrs. Nicholls's service—about a fortnight or three weeks—she was then a strong, healthy looking girl, and very clean—as far as I knew she had nothing the matter with her—at Christmas, 1896, I had a card from her—beyond that I had no communication with her—she had been for short periods before she left for London—I was at her father-in-law's house at Bagshot shortly after she came home—on December 26th—she was up at that time, but had gone to bed—I then noticed a very great change in her—I really did not think it was her at first—I helped to partly undress her and put her to bed—she was in a very tilthy condition, also her clothes—she was bruised from head to foot—her arms and legs were very much bruised—her knees were bruised, also a bruise on her throat, and her hands very much, also her toes—two toes were matted together very much, looking as if something was done to them—sores were running from them—I washed the toes, at which she screamed very much, and we let her alone—a front tooth was broken—a piece of the tooth was gone—my mother and I washed her before putting her to bed—we were not successful in getting her clean that night—she did not seem to take much notice of anybody—she ate something, but very little—she had a little piece of fresh herring and a piece of bread and butter—she ate it, not ravenously, she drank a little of the tea—I remained in the house that night—next day, Christmas Day, I saw her again—she had a little bit of dinner—she was in bed all day—she seemed very low—she had not much that day—on Christmas Day my mother and I washed her again twice—I can't say she was left clean—I thought she was very bad—she did not

eat very much—next day, December 26th, I remained in the house—she got weaker day by day—she had nothing to eat, only a little brandy and milk on that day—Dr. Osburn was called in—the girl was conscious the whole of the Sunday, and she remained conscious till the end—on Monday the 27th, the day she died, she spoke to me that morning—she said she was going to rest that night, that she would not be much longer here—she meant she was going to die, but I do not think she liked to bay that word because of her mother—she asked that a clergyman, Mr. Lorrie, might be sent for about 3 p.m. that day—he was sent for and arrived about 4 p.m.—on that afternoon, in consequence of a communication from Dr. Osburn, I had a conversation with Mr. Nunn—he came to the house that afternoon—I noticed some hair was missing from the front of her head, as if she had grown bald in front

Cross-examined. I was in the room when Nunn was there—not all the time—I did not hear her say anything about dying to the. constable—she was a fine, strong, healthy girl, and quite noticeable for her extra size and extra strength—she was the ordinary size for her age—not of a particular good colour, but healthy looking—she was not particularly pale—she appeared to be strong—I do not remember her having influenza very badly—I had known her about six years—when she was a child she used to run up into the garden in a temper—her mother is getting old—you must not take notice of what she says—she was not particularly excitable—there was a little hair off each side—in front it was quite noticeable—I gave my evidence before the Coroner—there was a little excitement about the case—there was a crowd of people assembled at the railway station—there was an angry mob there—I daresay I felt indignant with regard, to the girl—her clothes, when she got home, were stiff and very dirty—the clothes in her box were all soaked with water, and her other clothes did not seem to have been washed for a long time—they smelt very bad—I said before that she was bruised from head to foot—not her body, but her legs and arms—I saw a bruise at the back of her shoulder, but I could not be certain that I saw any other on her body—I helped to undress her—one of her teeth was gone altogether in front, and a piece was left, it looked as if it had been broken off—she seemed to have very sound teeth—I cannot remember whether I said anything to the Coroner about her toes being matted together, but stuck together, with sores between—I think it was the left foot—they were so stuck together that pulling them apart hurt very much—it was not dirt, but sores—she did not have particularly bad diarrhoea—she certainly did have it a little once during the time she was in bed—she seemed to lay on her right side mostly—she seemed to understand what was said up to the end, right to the last, when Dr. Osburn came—she died on Monday, about eight o'clock—I did not leave her, only just to run down the village for the policeman—she was quite con scious and talking up to the end—I saw her die—she did not die suddenly—before she died she asked for my husband, and said goodbye to him—there were no convulsions, or anything of that kind—she was got home on the Thursday night—I did not send for a doctor—she came home on the Friday evening before Christmas Day—they meant to send for a doctor on the Saturday—they were going to stop him as he came through

the village—there was a misunderstanding about it—they intended to send.

Re-examined. The mistake was made on the Christmas Day, the Saturday, but for that mistake the doctor would have been called in on Christmas Day—he was called in on the Sunday—the diarrhoea appeared about the second day, I think, after she came home, on Sunday—I don't think it lasted more than a day—I cannot say if it was the Christmas Day or the day after that the doctor came—I do not know exactly how long the diarrhoea lasted—she did not suffer particularly from it—I saw the condition of the nose, the arms, the legs, and toes, and on that I founded my description that she seemed bruised from head to foot.

ROSE HANNAH POPEJOY . I am the wife of George Popejoy and mother of the deceased girl—she was sixteen years old—up to October, when she left home, she had always enjoyed good health—there was nothing the matter with her so far as I knew—I knew that her courses had stopped for two months—she had not been troubled with any cough or any symptoms of anything being wrong with her lungs before she left home. I used to see her undressed when she was washing sometimes—I used to assist her—her body was well nourished and in good condition—she kept clean—before she left home her head was perfectly clean—I assisted her to cleanse it—I made arrangements with a lady at Bagshot for her going into service—I arranged the wages—she was to have 1s. 6d, a week to start with, to be increased to 2s. a week—I got a letter from her the second day after she left—just a few lines—and I got another letter from her within about a week or ten days—I cannot state dates exactly—I cannot read—Mrs. Harding is a friend, and if I happened to see her I should hand her the letters to read to me—she is a near neighbour, and does my writing when I have no one at home to do it—I have given all the letters I can find from my daughter to the police—I could not find the letter which I had at the end of ten days or a week—she told me of the house and what she would have to do, and she began telling me how she lived, that she did a little work besides the lady, that she pushed the young lady out—she said she had dripping for breakfast, meat for dinner, she did not go so far as to say any other meal to my knowledge—she might have done so—that was the only letter I had from her in which she spoke of the food she had—she said she had too much washing to do—my son mostly read the letters to me—Mrs. Harding did sometimes—I heard there was nothing the matter with my daughter about three months before she came home—her letter was peevish—I thought it was her writing, but it did not all match with her child writing—I thought she was not well—I kept the letter a long time, but I have not got it now—the Sunday she died she said, about 7 or 8 a.m., when I first rose, something about her last sleep, she should sleep to-night—during the day she rallied round sometimes, then she seemed worse—I was in the room when the constable was fetched—she had done very little talking—we had told her about the condition her body was in—she knew that she was dying—she wished to see all her brothers and sisters—we asked her about the bruises and how she came to be so thin and so on before the Monday—I only knew about that by what she told Mr.

Nunn and Dr. Osburn—I heard what she told them—the constable told her she was dying, and she answered—she said, when he asked the question, "My mistress did it all"—that was on the Monday—she told Dr. Osburn on the Monday that she knew she was dying, when he told her she was dying—she knew she was dying, and all her treatment was her mistress's—when he asked her how she came by this on her nose, she answered, as well as she could, her mistress—she gave no answer to some questions put to her by Dr. Osburn.

Cross-examined. Nunn did not come into the room on Sunday—he only came into her room on the Monday, and I do not think I left the room—my daughter was inclined to be a fine girl with good limbs, but she was not stout—she was tall—she would have been very pretty—when she went away in October, I never saw her again until she came back, when she was dying—that was an interval of fifteen months—during that time she used to write about once a month—three months before she came home she wrote, and said she had got a bad cough—one letter was written from Southsea—that was not written after she complained of being ill—she said Mrs. Nicholls was going to take her to the seaside—she did not say she was ill—she took her to the seaside for a month about August, 1897—I believe she had got a bad cough, when she wrote about it—I asked Mrs. Harding to write for me—some of us were thinking of going to see her on Jubilee Day—I cannot write—I am not a good judge of writing—this signature, "Mother, E. Popejoy" is not unlike her eldest sister's writing—Mrs. Harding wrote that letter for me—it was about October, 1897, when I had heard she had had this cough—(Mrs. Harding was here interposed, and said on oath that she wrote the letter for Mrs. Popejoy)—I heard my daughter's wages were raised to 2s. a week at the end of the first month, and afterwards that they were raised to 2s. 6d.—when Jane's courses stopped about two months before she went away, she was a little bit excited at these times—nothing much—she wanted to go away to be alone—I am not sure it was only two months—she was irritated, and wanted to be alone—I never had any difficulty in managing her—I never had any difficulty with her when she grew up—she was a very quiet girl—I deny that I said before "I had at times some difficulty in managing Jane"—when she was put out, or anyone was angry with her, she wanted to go away and be quiet, and rest a bit—she was not easily put out—she never showed it—if her father came home very angry she used to go up the garden out of his way—it is not very likely she would get out of my way—she would get all right after coming in and lying down on the bed—she could not stand being put upon—I never told Dr. Twart she could—I never remember having him to her but twice—she had sometimes the influenza; but when the inspector came there was nothing the matter—I believe she only had one bottle of medicine—when she came home on Friday we talked about, sending for the doctor, but we missed him—we sent for him on the Sunday—she asked for Dr. Twart on the Christmas Day—I know him very well—he has attended me—we went to Dr, Osburn because he was the parish doctor—Dr. Twart was the doctor whom we paid—we wanted to put it on the parish, as I felt it was more than I could do—before she went away she had a very good

appetite—she was always ready for her meals—she was an independent girl, and knew how to take care of herself in a country place—I placed her with a good nurse—I sent her money once with a box to pay for it—when she came back my house seemed open to everybody, and there was a lot of family talk—I was over the child, and could not hear what was going on in the other room I suppose—what Ada Popejoy said to her was, "I am sure you have been ill-treated and starved"—the deceased did not want us to ask her any questions about it when she first came home—I do not remember her answering Ada, "Don't say that! I don't like to hear you say that"—I did not go to the coroner's inquest—she had no diarrhoea—there were three motions, not loose, that was only on the last day—you could not call it diarrhoea—she practically passed everything she took, but not loose—she was sometimes on one side and sometimes on the other—she did not like us to say anything to her about her body when she first came home—I first gave her some bread and butter, toast, biscuits, oranges, and honey, a little fowl, Brussel sprouts, and half a glass of elderberry wine—on the second day she had fresh butter and fresh herrings.

Re-examined. On the Sunday Dr. Osburn ordered me not to give her solid food—after that we gave her brandy—I think that was on Christmas Day—I gave her what was ordered—she had milk and brandy—on Christmas morning she had a motion, and on the last day there were three in all—I received a 6s. postal order from her for two cotton dresses, but no other money—I had no letter from Mrs. Nicholls about her wages—Dr. Twart drew some teeth for her about two years before she went away—she could not bear pain well—she did not make ado about it—but she would go out of the way—she did not get angry if anyone got angry with her she never answered anyone.

MRS. HARDING. I am the wife of William Harding, a labourer, living at Bagshot—I have known the Popejoy family very well and the deceased all her life—when she went away in October, 1896, she was a strong healthy girl—I saw a good deal of her up to the time she went away—I never saw her suffering from illness—I live 200 yards off—she never complained to me or anyone that I know as to suffering front her lungs—I don't know that she had missed her courses—after she had gone to London her mother showed me at different dates letters which were received from the girl, and I used to read them when they required an answer, and when there was no one else to do it I would write an answer at the mother's request—I only saw the letters when she wanted me to write the answer—within a month after she went I saw a letter in which the girl spoke of the food at 14, Pitt Street—she spoke about having a very hard place and having bread and dripping for her breakfast—she did not know whether her mother had agreed to that, and I answered it that day, and her mother said she did not think she had got the place on trial, and that she had had that sometimes at home, and she was to write and tell her what she thought of it in her next letter—that is the substance of the letter I wrote—I remember seeing a letter shortly after that written by the girl, in which she said she was very sorry for having spoken of the bread and dripping, but the other girl preferred it and she could have bacon if she liked, and of

having such a very good mistress—at subsequent dates I was brought letters purporting to come from the girl, and I answered them—that is my writing—on December 23rd, 1897, about 3 p.m., I wrote this letter about her coming home; before writing it Mrs. Popejoy had shown me a letter from Mrs. Nicholls, and I wrote this in answer—I saw the girl after her return, and noticed a great change in her condition—I saw her undressed, and I saw her in bed the day she died—she was greatly changed.

WILLIAM NUNN (15, Surrey Constabulary). I am stationed at Bagshot—I knew the deceased before she left home from a little girl, by sight—in October, 1896, when she left home, she was very clean and nice-looking, and appeared in very good condition—she did not look pale or delicate, but very healthy—on Monday, December 27th, I was sent for, and went to the house about three in the afternoon—I saw her in bed—her mother was present and her father—I asked the girl "What has made you ill or the cause of your illness"—she said, "I have been ill-used and starved by my mistress"—I saw wounds on her right hand, and also on her right foot and left—the mother showed them to me—I asked the deceased what had caused those wounds, and she said, "my mistress, Mrs. Nicholls"—I said I thought she was dying—in consequence of that I and the father went to a Magistrate, and about ten p.m. a Magistrate arrived and she was dead.

Cross-examined. It was between 3.30 and 3.40—she said, "I have been ill-used and starved by my mistress"—I told her I thought she was dying, in the presence of her father and mother—I swear it—I have been a policeman for over thirty years—I made a statement to the Coroner—Mr. Fray ling was at the Police-station within a week before the inquest was closed—I knew it was an important statement—I was not called before the Coroner—I reported the case to him on the next morning, and I told him about this conversation in my report, and he knew perfectly well the evidence I could give—Sir John Bridge asked me if anything was said about dying, to this girl, and I said that nothing was said about dying to her in my presence; it was a great mistake of mine—I have not seen Mr. Frayling or anyone about it since—I was present in court before the Magistrate when the discussion took place as to whether the conversation was admissible or not—I did not notice anything being said about the young mistress or young lady—not of ill-using her or anything of that sort, but only as being an invalid.

Re-examined. She spoke of the young lady that was in the house, the invalid—immediately after I had given evidence at the Police-court I made a statement to Mr. Frayling—I had made my statement to the Treasury on February 23rd.

GEORGE FREDERICK ROUMIEU . I am one of the Coroners for the County of Surrey—I held an inquest on the body of this girl at Bagshot, beginning December 30th, 1897—I received a report from the last witness calling my attention to the case—on December 30th the prisoner was present and tendered herself as a witness—I took down in writing what she said—that is what I wrote—I cautioned her first in the usual way—her deposition was not read over to her nor signed, but it accurately records what she

stated—it is not usual in our courts for witnesses to sign their depositions—(the deposition of Camilla Nicholls was here put in and read)—the inquest lasted five days, and at the end a verdict was arrived at.

Cross-examined. Nunn made a statement to me on the morning following the death—he brought the usual report, and I think he made a verbal statement to me as well about Mrs. Nicholls having starved this girl, and caused the bruises or something to that effect—I have to decide whether there will be an inquest, and whether there will be a post-mortem—I directed a post-mortem—I did not know that Dr. Twart had been the medical man attending the family previously—I directed Dr. Osburn to make a post-mortem—I suggested that Dr. Creasey should also be present—in the ordinary course I should not order a post-mortem to be made by more than one medical man—I considered the case was out of the ordinary course, and might implicate Mrs. Nicholls—I attached very great importance to the result of the post-mortem—Mrs. Nicholls had an opportunity to be represented by an independent medical man three weeks after—I have had bodies exhumed six months after, and a post-mortem made—I am not a medical man, but a barrister—I have had five years' medical experience—I did not think that, under these circumstances, there would have been very much advantage whether she was represented six weeks after the post-mortem or when it took place—it would have been some advantage at the commencement, of course—the possibility of a very serious charge being brought against her in connection with the girl's death passed through my mind—there was a considerable demonstration at the inquest—I gave her my personal protection twice, and ran considerable risk, and I thought it best, in the interests of everyone, that she should not come a third time—I cannot say that I have ever seen such a demonstration against an accused person—the inquest was held in the same village—I instructed my officer to go and see Dr. Twart, in consequence of something that was said—I knew a report had been made by him—whether it was verbal or in writing I do not think I knew—it never found its way to me—I directed my officer to go and find out from Dr. Twart, whether he knew anything about the history of the case—I did not subpœna him—I did not think it necessary—undoubtedly I should have called him if he would have thrown any light on it—I would have done my best to protect witnesses on behalf of Mrs. Nicholls—I had some private conversation will her at Bagshot—on the first occasion she told me, in answer to my question, that she did not suggest this girl had had immoral connection.

Re-examined. It was after the first adjournment, after I left Bagshot—after I had cleared the court—it was after she had given evidence—I did not quite understand her evidence, and I put a question to her—I had no application on her behalf to attend the post-mortem—that is the case developed before me—the suggestion of "death from natural causes arose, and then I made the suggestion of an examination if it was required—it was not accepted.

By the COURT. Dr. Creasey lives at Windlesham, about a mile or a mile and a-half from Bagshot—he is an independant man, not connected with Dr. Osburn—he has given evidence before me on several occasions—he is known to me as a gentleman of experience.

ELIZABETH CHARLOTTE CUDLIP . I am the wife of Benjamin Cudlip, High Street, Bagshot—on December 6th, 1896, the deceased came to my house to assist in housework and look after the children—she remained for about ten days, sleeping my days—during that time she did her work, and appeared to be in good health—I saw no sign of anything being the matter with her—she was clean in her person—if she made herself dirty with her work she would at once wash herself, comb her hair, and put on a clean apron—she was not a thin girl, and in fair condition.

EMMA TAYLOR . I am a widow, living at Bagshot—I am next door neighbour to the Popejoys—I knew the deceased from her childhood—I remember her leaving for London in October, 1896—during the whole time I knew her she enjoyed good health—she was a strong healthy girl, and, so far as I saw, very clean in her habits and person—as far as I saw she was a perfectly well-behaved girl—I saw her a little while before she went away.

ELIZABETH JANNAWAY . I am a domestic servant, and live with my aunt—in the beginning of October, 1896, I went into the service of Mrs. Nicholls at 14, Pitt Street—she arranged to pay me 12s. a month wages—there was no other servant there at that time—the cooking was done by Mrs. Harrington, who lived there—I had occasionally to attend to an invalid girl who was paralysed—I stayed in the house a month and three days—I left because I did not get enough food—I ran away at six in the morning without any notice—I had made a communication to my aunt at the end of the first week—I spoke to her—I remember Jane Popejoy coming into the service, after I had been there a fortnight—I slept with her in the same room, and in the same bed—she appeared to be strong and healthy looking, very healthy—I used to do her hair for her—her head was perfectly clean when she came there—she used to help me in the house-work downstairs in the morning, and to take the invalid out—we had our meals down in the kitchen—we had bread and dripping for breakfast, no milk, and scarcely any sugar—we had no milk at all with our tea—we had dinner at mid-day—that was boiled rice, and sometimes beef that was left from the beef-tea that had been made for the invalid—we did not have that every day—we did not have meat on other days, only rice and vegetables—for tea we had bread and dripping, no milk, and scarcely any sugar—the same as at breakfast—for supper we sometimes had crusts, and at other times nothing—it was about two or three times a week that we had the beef left from the beef-tea—on Sundays we had the same things for breakfast, and at dinner a small piece of mutton—one or two pieces—or a small piece of groin—sometimes a piece of plain pudding, and the same for tea as other days, and supper—in the week days we would not have food from the upstairs table—sometimes the mistress had it the next day—the rest was put in the larder, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Harrington, had the key—she had her meals in the same kitchen with us, and the same food, nothing better—Mrs. Harrington always had the key of the larder after Popejoy came—she did not appear to be satisfied with the food—we had no beer, nothing but tea and water—in consequence of what Jane said, at my suggestion she wrote a letter to her home, but she

had not then asked me—very shortly after that letter was sent an answer came—I took it from the letter-box—it was addressed to Jane, and I gave it to her—I took it up to Mrs. Nicholls—I called Jane up, and Mrs. Nicholls asked her for the letter, and she read it—Jane gave it to her—Jane said it was from her mother—I did not remain in the room; I went down stairs—mistress told me to go down—Jane was still there—Mrs. Nicholls said that I had done no good by letting Jane write home, as the mother said that bread and dripping was no more than she had before—Mrs. Nicholls told Jane to get some paper and envelope, and write home at once—she did so, and Mrs. Nicholls told her what to say—it was: "Dear mother,—I hope you will forgive me for writing all about the bread and dripping, as it is all false. I have bacon for breakfast, and the others have bread and dripping. I have a nice place and a kind mistress. I go out in the garden with the invalid"—Jane wrote that, the letter was stuck down, and Mrs. Nicholls said she would post it—I did not see it posted—soon after my aunt came to the house to see me—Jane was present when she came—Mrs. Nicholls asked Jane if it was not true that we had bacon for breakfast—Jane made no answer—Mrs. Nicholls said if she did not answer she must go down and go on with her work—she went down—my aunt and Mrs. Nicholls spoke, but I don't know what they said—it was about a fortnight and three days before I ran away—I complained to Mrs. Harrington, the housekeeper, but it got no better.

Cross-examined. went into Mrs. Nicholls's service at the beginning of October, 1896—for a fortnight and three days—I had been there that time when Jane came—I was badly fed before she came—my aunt lived close to me—I was not in service, at Hammersmith—my aunt can answer that—I was with a lady named Ashwood in Munden Street—I ran away from there, saying that I was badly fed—I was kept up all hours of the night—after that I went to Mrs. Lewis—I had no character from the lady in Munden Street—I don't know how long I was there—I can't remember at what time of year it was—it was before Christmas—a long time before—I suppose in the autumn—I went there in January, and left at the beginning of September—because there was a bit of an uproar over the cash-box—but there was no blame on me—I did not ask for a character—I did not have enough to eat at Mrs. Nicholls's—I do not remember anything about a silk cape at Mrs. Nicholls's—it had nothing to do with me—I don't think Jane had enough to eat, because she complained—I did not complain to her—I did not tell my aunt that this girl was being starved—I went away in November, and never thought any more about it—the only reason I left there was because my attendance was required at the Court—there was nothing to bring this matter to my mind—I never heard of Jane until I heard about this case—I heard of Jane, and heard that she was being starved—I took great interest in her—I never went there—I went to my aunt—I have a very good memory—I have learnt things that come into my head—I learnt this letter by heart—I never saw the letter, and never heard it, except on Mrs. Nicholls reading it—I know it by heart—Mr. Yeo, the detective, came to me about this—I think my aunt wrote to Mrs. Popejoy, and gave my name—he told me he wanted me to go on the case—he did not tell me what to say—he asked me to tell him all about the case—he asked me to find out all I could, and

I told him, when I told the inspector about the case—I was then bound to give evidence before the Coroner—I went down to Bagshot on the second or third occasion—we had bacon for breakfast on two occasions when Jane came, the first two mornings—on one occasion Mrs. Nicholls pushed me across the room because I left some smears on the looking-glass—there was no other reason—I never had any row with Mrs. Nicholls—she buckled me—she told me I was deceitful and discontended—that was one of the reasons why I left, and the food—I never quarrelled with her—she found fault with me about the letters—Jane wrote the same week as she came—I stayed very nearly a fortnight after—I talked of this matter with my aunt—I have not read over my evidence in the paper—I have not looked at the papers—I remember the words of the letter—(the witness repeated them)—I have left out the words "Kensington Gardens," and the words "a kind mistress," and "I go out with the invalid," and "am very happy"—I did not think of it—I did not tell the Coroner that I knew the letter by heart—I remember the letter—I was very good friends with Jane—she had no tiff while I was there—I never saw her write—she never wrote to me—Mrs. Nicholls said she suffered with her heart and the legs—the daughter was paralysed—she is eighteen—Mrs. Nicholls was with her all day long—Mrs. Harrington is very old—she said she was over eight-six—Mrs. Nicholls came downstairs the first day I went there—not again—she never got up till nine in the morning—the house was shut up when the last post had come—we waited up for that—I used to sit up for it, and then I had to go and bolt the door—Mrs. Nicholls used to go to bed about eight, a little after the invalid—she slept in Mrs. Nicholls's room—the invalid used to scream sometimes, not always, and she used to kick outside our door, and throw her arms about on the bed—when she was washed she struggled at times, she has not scratched me—she never tried to kick me, or anybody—she used to roll about when we made the bed—she was violent at times—Jane never complained to me about anything that Mrs. Nicholls had done to her—I never told her about my being starved—I did not tell her that I did not get sufficient to eat—I said we did not, both of us—I told my aunt about the letter after I had been before the Coroner—not before I told the Coroner about the letter—not all—I did not think of it—I have recollected it now—I have only been to Inspector Greet once—in November—he came to me—I saw him at Paddington Station—Mrs. Popejoy told me she did not recollect the letter—I have never talked to Mrs. Harrington about it—I have not said, "How came Janey to write such a letter?"—she did not know what was in it—it was dictated in the bedroom—when I went into the bedroom I stood by the bed—she dictated the letter while I was in the room—she said she would give me a flogging for telling Janey to write—the envelope was there—she was always in the bed-room unless she went out in the cart, and I pushed behind—it was Mrs. Nicholls who fetched my aunt to come and see me—I went back to my aunt—I had no other home to go to—I told her why I ran away—then I went to Mrs. Lewis in Silver Street—there was something about a cash-box—there was no blame on my part—a detective came and asked Mrs. Lewis if she had lost anything, and they charged me—but she said she had no suspicion—he said if she did not charge me she

would have to discharge me in his presence, and she did—no charge was made against me after that—I have never heard about Mrs. Nicholls losing a silk cape—I never heard of it till I was before the Coroner—I did not tell my aunt about it till afterwards, when I wrote home—I never discussed with Mrs. Popejoy or Mrs. Harrington what was in the letter—I have spoken to Mrs. Harrington, but not about the letter—she did not say why she wanted to know about it—I said the mistress asked her to do it—when Mrs. Nicholls pushed me across the room she was in a temper.

MARY JANE JANNAWAY . I am the wife of James Jannaway—the last witness is my neice—I remember her going into Mrs. Nicholls's service at 14, Pitt Street—I first went to get a message from her—I went and saw her and Mrs. Harrington—Mrs. Nicholls was very angry with Elizabeth because she caused her new servant to write this letter—I went to complain about Elizabeth not getting enough food—I did not tell her so—I told her she wanted to leave—she said she had plenty—Elizabeth said she did not—when I said she wanted to leave, Mrs. Nicholls said she did not wish to part with her—I said I wish her to leave at the end of the month—the next week I got another letter from Elizabeth and in consequence I went again to the house—Mrs. Nicholls said that Elizabeth bad taken a liberty with her new servant in asking her to write to her mother and she was very unhappy and cross about it—she called Jane Popejoy up—she was very tall, neat, and very good-looking—she looked healthy—we were in the passage—Mrs. Nicholls said they had fresh butter—half a pound—and good butter for their breakfast—she asked Jane to say that they did, and she did not answer—Mrs. Nicholls stamped her foot and told her to go to her work—I said I was very sorry that Elizabeth took the liberty—Mrs. Nicholls said it could not do any harm, and her mother had said she had plenty of tea and it would not hurt her.

Cross-examined. Elizabeth's father is living—she has been living with me fifteen years—I am not aware that she has run away from any place before—I say I did not get sufficient food to eat at Mrs. Nicholls—I said both Jane and I did not get sufficient after I had been before the Coroner, not before—I told the Coroner about the letters, but not all—I did not think of it—I have recollected it now—I have been to Inspector Greet once—I never went to Yeo, he came to me—I saw him at Paddington Station—Mrs. Popejoy told me she did not recollect the letters she had—I have not talked to Mrs. Harrington about it—my aunt said, "How came Jane to write such a letter?"—she did not know what was in it—the dictation was in the bed-room—when I went into the room I stood by the bed, she dictated the letter while I was in the room—she said she would give me a flogging if I told Jane to write—the invalid was there—Mrs. Nicholls is very old—she said she was over 80—she came downstairs the day I went there, but not again—she never got up till 9 in the morning—we waited till the last post had come in, and then the house was shut up—Mrs. Nicholls used to go to bed about 8—I looked after the invalid girl—she slept in Mrs. Nicholls's room—she used to scream a good deal sometimes—not always—and used to kick out with her feet, and throw her arms out on the bed—when she was washed she struggled at times—she scratched me—she did not try to kick me or anybody—she used to roll about when we made the bed—she was violent

at times—Jane never complained to me about Mrs. Nicholls's violence to her—I never told my aunt that I was starved—I told her she had been in service just before at Mrs. Lewis's in Silver Street—before that she was in service at a baker's in Johnson Street—I don't know where she was before that—I don't remember her being in service at Hammersmith—she has lived with me about four years—I remember her being in Munden Street—I had forgotten that—it has just come into my mind—I don't know of her running away—she came to me—I went down the week before, and wanted to have her home—there had been a disagreement—the first time I went to Mrs. Nicholls—it was in consequence of a postcard—the second time Elizabeth sent a written message to Mrs. Nicholls—on the second occasion I don't know whether it was from Mrs. Nicholls—Elizabeth sent word that Mrs. Nicholls wanted to see me—I have talked this over with my neice, not with Mrs. Harrington—I wrote to Mrs. Popejoy—I did not know her address before, I took it out of The Daily Mail—I did not think that Jane was being starved—I have enough to do to look after two orphans—if I had thought she was being starved I should certainly have taken some course—I did not think she was being starved—when my girl came home I wrote to Mrs. Stevens that she had come home, and had not taken anything not belonging to her.

Re-examined. Mrs. Nicholls never sent any answer at all.

EDITH GARRETT . I am sixteen, and am living at North End, Town Moor, Maidenhead, with my mother—I was formerly in the service of Mrs. Nicholls—I went there on December 23rd, 1896—she paid me £6 a year—when I entered her service Jane Popejoy was there—Jane had to do Mrs. Nicholls's room and take the invalid out—I had to do the work downstairs—we did the sitting-room between us—for the first month I was there we had our meals downstairs—we had bread and dripping, and bread and butter, and hard-boiled pudding and rice to eat—for breakfast we had sometimes bread and butter, and sometimes bread and dripping—we drank water, because there was no milk, or sugar for the tea—we could have had the tea if we had liked—we breakfasted between eight and nine—dinner came next—sometimes at two and sometimes at three—we had sometimes rice and sometimes hard-boiled pudding—the pudding was made of flour and water—we had meat from the beef-tea, but not every day—about three or four days—tea was between six and seven—we had sometimes bread and butter and sometimes bread and dripping, with water to drink—we could have had lea—we had no beer—nothing else except tea, without milk or sugar—there was no other meal—during the earlier month the housekeeper had her meals with us—in the house she was called Mrs. Harrington and Nanna—she kept the key of the larder—there was a difference in the meals on Sunday—no difference at breakfast or tea—for dinner we had a leg of mutton, cabbage, and potatoes—that was the diet for the first month, while Jane had her meals with the housekeeper and me—after that Jane had her meals in Mrs. Nicholls's bed-room—on the third floor—the invalid slept there—I sometimes took her meals up to her, and sometimes Jane fetched them—Mrs. Nicholls had her meals there too—the meals I took up to Jane were the same as I had downstairs—Jane got the same as I did—that continued while Jane was in the

service—Mrs. Nicholls had the same number of meals as we did, but earlier—she had sometimes roast mutton twice a week, and sometimes 1/4 lb. of rump steak, and on Saturdays a slice off the fresh leg of mutton—for breakfast she sometimes had tomatoes and mushrooms or meat, and for tea bread and butter and jam sometimes—Mrs. Harrington sometimes had what was left from Mrs. Nicholls's meals, and sometimes it was put into the larder, of which she had the key, to be kept for Mr. Nicholls—Jane Popejoy did not always get the whole of the meals—it was Mrs. Nicholls's orders to the housekeeper that she was not to have them—she would send me down to the housekeeper to say she was not to have some particular meal—if she had her breakfast she would not have her dinner, and if she had had her dinner she would not have her tea—she was only deprived of one meal a day—it would happen two or three times a week, for the last part of the time, about four or five months—Jane complained of the food from the first, before she was cut off with the meals, she complained to the housekeeper—it was never followed by her getting any more food—in the early months we sometimes got two, and sometimes three slice of bread and butter—it was not enough—I managed on it—I could not have got more for the asking—the amount depended on the house-keeper—I could have eaten more if it had been better—in the spring of 1897 Jane's complaints still continued—she sometimes used to go out into the street and pick up the crusts—she did that about the middle of the last part of the time—it was after she had been cut off with a meal—I don't know if it was as a punishment—she bad a dirty head and Mrs. Nicholls used to throw it up at her—I have seen her pick up crusts—I saw her pick up crusts on our way to the post-office in Duke's Lane—it was close to Pitt-Street—she would sometimes eat them and sometimes put them into her pocket—she hid them in her apron until she had time to eat them—she took them home and eat them there—she would go into the scullery—I saw her eating them there—I remember her going out alone at night sometimes—once she was out an hour, but generally less than that—when she came in Mrs. Nicholls would ask her where she had been, and Jane would say she had been out to get food because she was hungry—Mrs. Nicholls would pull her into her room and begin fighting her with a stick—she would hit her across the back, and arms, and legs with the stick—I have seen her do it—it was a walking-stick—it was kept for beating, not for walking—I have seen it more than once—it began before we went to Southsea—we went there in the August of last year—whilst this was going on Mrs. Nicholls used to send me downstairs, and whilst going down I could hear screams—they were in Jane's voice, because the invalid screamed like a child—she submitted to it—I never saw her strike back, she was afraid because Mrs. Nicholls should beat her so—if she had beaten me I should have stood it because I am so easily frightened—Mrs. Nicholls has a very strong will—I was frightened of her—Jane did not give in like I did—I do not know why she did not strike Mrs. Nicholls—I do not know if she was strong at the time—she did not look as well then as she had looked—she was at first strong and healthy, but she was not so stout as I was when I went there—she got thinner, and also whilst we were at Southsea—she began to get thinner, not long before we went to Southsea—I saw her pulled into the room two or three times before we went to

Southsea, and it went on whilst we were there, and when we came back—afterwards she could hardly move about—that was the last month before she went away—at that time she did Mrs. Nicholl's bedroom—she had to go out—I sometimes went out to wheel the chair, and Jane had to walk by the side—if I did not push the chair Jane had to do it—just before we went to Southsea Mrs. Nicholls hit Jane on the left foot with a hammer—we were doing the room, so as to leave it tidy—Mrs. Nicholls was sweeping the walls and a picture fell down, and she told Jane to get a hammer and put a nail in—Jane put it in too high, and Mrs. Nicholls took the hammer out of her hand and gave her a blow on the foot with it—Jane was wearing house boots—she screamed, and said, "Oh, my foot"—Mrs. Nicholls did not do anything for her—I slept in the same bed as Jane, and I saw her foot that night—it was swollen and red, and two or three days afterwards it was bruised—I did not see it again—once we were coming in from Kensington Gardens, and when we got to the gate of 14, Pitt Street Mrs. Nicholls pulled her into the hall and began beating her with a dog-whip and an umbrella—it had been a dog-whip, but the thong was off—Jane screamed—it was in the afternoon—there was a man named Smallbones, who used to deliver milk on the other side of the road—the invalid had been out, too—I had pushed the chair—I do not know why Janie was beaten then—I forget if the invalid had been particularly ill that day—Mrs. Nicholls had been calling both of us names at the gate—she called us bitches, hogs, devils, and sows—she always used to call us names, unless both of us were there—she called us by our proper names before people—once she had a stick in her hand, and she called me a name, but I ran downstairs before she could strike me—Jane never ran away—I do not know why—the time we brought home the invalid Jane did not look well—she was not allowed to go out of the house without me or Mrs. Nicholls, but she did do so sometimes—Jane had some scratches on her face, a broken nose, and a black eye—the scratches were inflicted by the invalid—her nose was broken by Mrs. Nicholls with a stick in her bed-room—I do not know that Jane had been doing anything—I was present when the stick was used—I was close to the door, and I saw Mrs. Nicholls smack her across the face—it was done intentionally—it was not an accident—the girl cried out—I saw her with bruises on her legs and arms—they were inflicted by the stick and kicks—Mrs. Nicholls held the stick and gave the kicks—I did not see the black eye given, but she did it—I don't know how long she had it for—it could be seen, but Mrs. Nicholls made a shade to go over it, so that people could not see it—she had bruises before we went to Southsea—whilst we were there and when we returned—she slept with me up till the time she went away—she was thin and very ill, and could not get about to do anything—she went out of the house from time to time during the last fortnight—the chair was taken out, but Jane was too ill to push it and I had to do so—I have forgotten if she went out during the last fortnight—I remember on one occasion her coming in and falling on the stairs—I don't know when it was—I don't know if we had been to Southsea or not—I did not help her—she was up when I got to her—she was very ill and thin, and could scarcely walk—she smelt of drink at the time, but that was the only occasion I noticed it—I think it was at the end of

November—that was long after our return from Southsea—I think we were at Southsea a month—I remember being in the gardens when she fell down—that was not very long before she went away—I don't remember if it was before or after she fell up the stairs—when that happened Mrs. Nicholls was out with us—she saw her fall—the invalid was in her chair then—Jane fell again the same day in Duke's Lane on our way to the gardens—I was pushing the chair—we went to the Albert Memorial—Mrs. Nicholls was with us—she saw both the falls—in Duke's Lane Jane was on one side of the chair and Mrs. Nicholls the other, and she turned round and saw Jane fall—when we got to Kensington Gardens we were sitting down—I had the chair in front of me, but Jane had to walk about to keep her feet warm, and she fell down then—I have not seen any marks on other parts of Jane's body besides those I have mentioned—I remember Mrs. Nicholls saying that she put her hands-round her throat, and said that would afterwards save her trouble, and she left the print of her fingers on her throat—that happened at Southsea—and once before the girl left, about three days before she went away, she knocked her head against the bedstead—that was not at the time her head was dirty—she had a dirty head at the beginning, the first day she came—and, I told Mrs. Nicholls, and she and I cleaned it between us—after that she did not suffer from a dirty head—I remember on one occasion Jane saying something about writing to her mother—Mrs. Nicholls would stand and hit her across the hands if she did not write what she told her—she was to say she had a kind mistress and a comfortable place—sometimes the girl used to write it, and sometimes she stood with the pen in her hand, and Mrs. Nicholls would stand and hit her across the hands if she did not do it—I said, "You can write home"—she said, Yes, Mrs. Nicholls tells me what to say, and stands by my side to see if I have done it"—she used to tell me the same, and I used to write what she told me—that was to my mother—I used to see Jane do it sometimes—when I used to be putting the paper into the envelope—Mrs. Nicholls had told me and Jane to do some washing, as she said we had nothing to do, but we did not do it—she did not say we were to go without food if we did not do it—my wages were not paid when due—Mrs. Nicholls used to keep it in my book and give 5s. at a time to my mother—not to me—for stockings or shoes, and sometimes she would send sums home to my mother—Jane was not paid her wages—she never had any money, not as much as would pay her way to Bagshot—I remember Jane leaving with Mrs. Broughton—she was very ill that day—I had noticed her cough—not for very long—about the last part of the time—after she left I stayed on at Pitt Street for some weeks, then I saw my mother and she took me home—I had some talk with Mrs. Nicholls on leaving—she said nothing to me about leaving—I was called as a witness before the Coroner at Bagshot, and then told my story, and afterwards at Bow Street—I was not comfortable at Pitt Street—I had no money to go off with—my mother came to me in the Court—I had not seen her before—when Mrs. Nicholls spoke to me and Jane she spoke in a loud voice, not a kind voice—she called us names in a loud voice.

Cross-examined. I did not say she kept some of my wages—when I wrote home Mrs. Nicholls told me what to say, and she found the stamps

—I have said before that she told me what to write—she used to tell me what to put in my letters to my mother—I did not say she used to prevent it—I had not plenty of time to write—I was at work all the time—Mrs. Nicholls used to go to bed at eight o'clock, and she would get up again and sit up later—she used then to sit up till twelve o'clock—she did not go to bed till eight, because she used to sit up for the post in her bed-room—I never had time to write a letter by myself—I could not get any paper—sometimes Mrs. Nicholls posted the letter that I wrote, and sometimes I did—when I wrote home at first I did not show Mrs. Nicholls the letter—I did not tell her that my mother had diphtheria, or my brother—my mother told me that Miss Chambers had taken a letter to her stating that diphtheria was bad—my mother did not write it—that statement is not true—I know Miss Chambers by sight—the girl Jane was treated in this way the whole time—I was sixteen last July—I was born near Maidenhead in 1880—there was nothing the matter with me—I was perfectly healthy and strong—when I came away I was much thinner than when I went there—I suggest that I was starved—I was 28 inches in the waist, I am now 26 inches—that is a matter of complaint—I swear I was thinner than when I went there—I did not say before the Coroner that Jane did very well on it, and there was nothing the matter with her—on two occasions I went down for the purpose of giving evidence on behalf of Mrs. Nicholls—I was ready to give evidence for her—the people shouted and made a noise at me, and I was frightened—the police did not say that if I did not say the same as the other witnesses I should be prosecuted—I said if I did not say what was true I should he had up for perjury—the people told me that—I was not afraid of the people—I was afraid of Mrs. Nicholls—I remember Mr. Hazlewood coming to see me—I believe it was on a Monday, soon after I had gone away—it was after the first hearing, I think—I was then in Mrs. Nicholls's house—I had talked the matter over with her, and she had told me if I was asked I was to Ray so-and-so—Mrs. Nicholls was not present when Mr. Hazlewood came—Mr. Saurin was there—Mrs. Nicholls was by the door-way, and threatened what I should get if I said anything different—she said she would send Lord Justice Charles to put me in prison all my life—Mrs. Nicholls did not tell me to be sure to tell the truth, and not take any notice of what people said in the papers—Mr. Hazlewood did not come to me again and ask if I had talked the matter over with Mrs. Nicholls at all—I do not remember him asking me to Tell him all I know about the matter—I saw him write things down as I told him—they were untrue—I was still in lire. Nicholls's house—I had known Mr. Saurin before—I do not know if he would have protected me—they were all untrue except about the girl's head, all untrue except that—Mrs. Nicholls dared me to say anything—I told Mr. Hazlewood that Mr. Popejoy came while Jane was there, and Mrs. Nicholls said she looked ill and thin—she told him that Jane said she did not feel ill—I told him that Jane was a very dirty girl—Mrs. Nicholls told me to say that—I was not thinner before—Mrs. Nicholls told me to say that I slept with Jane for two nights, and afterwards in a different room because she was so dirty—Mrs. Nicholls did not say I might have the other room—she made me sleep in the same bed—I told Mr. Hazlewood that I saw the things in her head

and that I had told Jane about it, and that she had denied it—I told Mrs. Nicholls a few days afterwards I washed her head and cut the hair off—I said she had some sores on her neck and on her chest—I put some castor oil on them—that was true—I told Mr. Hazlewood that the girl stumbled about—I remember when she fell downstairs with a can; that was after the blow with the hammer—that was the only bad foot she had—that was caused by the hammer just before we went to Southsea—the last ten days before she went away she would fall down when she was not carrying anything—as she broke so many things, Mrs. Nicholls told me to carry the things—that was true, I said, "Jane made no complaint to me about Mrs. Nicholls"—that was not true—she complained when she had the beatings—I said, "And never asked to be sent home, and said she did not want to go home"—Mrs. Nicholls told me to say that, and that "she had plenty of food, exactly the same as I did"—she did have the same—it is untrue to say, "Besides that she had cocoa and milk; she told me she was alway hungry and could go on eating for ever"—I said that, but she told me she was hungry—Mrs. Nicholls told me to say she could go on eating for ever and ever, she had a very good appetite—she would eat four times as much as I did—Mrs. Nicholls told me to say that—and "when she went to bed I heard her crying once"—that was true—I asked her what was the matter, and she said her foot was hurting her and Mrs. Nicholls said she was crying because she did not want to go home—she told me to say, "Her father and mother beat her"—that was untrue, and also that "I do not think that she bad anything the matter with her nose or her body"—Mrs. Nicholls told me to say that—I do not remember it being taken down a second time—this is untrue: "I have never been away since I came to Mrs. Nicholls, and I have never seen her struck"—she would never wash her clothes—we did not quarrel—we only had a little squeeze once—I never used strong language to her—those expressions about "bitches, hogs, sows, and devils" were Mrs. Nicholls's own words—I do not know what they mean—I made that statement, but all that is important to Mrs. Nicholls is untrue, and I said it because I was afraid of her—I do not know if she was very poor—I know she was not a lady—it was a very small house—I know there was no furniture in the ground-floor rooms—they were shut up—on the basement there was a kitchen and a larder—the first floor was used as Mrs. Nicholls's bed-room—above that was our room—when I went there there was no other servant, only Mrs. Harrington—she is very old—Mrs. Nicholls sometimes went up to our room—she would sometimes send me down with messages to say that Jane was not to have some particular meal—I took the messages—I thought it was very unjust—Mrs. Harrington knew it—I told her—on those occasions she had not had a meal upstairs already—that was done two or three times a week for four or five months—Jane com plained, but only of the quantity, not of the quality—I have not been in service before—only obliging people—I never complained to Mrs. Nicholls that I was ill—I never asked to see a doctor—I never wanted one—I was never out alone—I mean to say that during the thirteen months I was there I never went out alone, only with Jane—we passed many policemen in the street, but we did not go up to one and

say that Mrs. Nicholls was ill-treating us, because she had dared us not to say anything—I often interfered to protect this unfortunate girl—I got a blow once across my arm—I don't know how often I went out without Mrs. Nicholls—we once went out after she had gone to bed—Mrs. Nicholls did not beat me, only on one occasion, I said, and it is, true, that I did not know why she did not beat me, but only Jane; on that single occasion I ran away—I never had any friends to see me—the butcher boys came to the house with messages, but I did not know them—the things were brought downstairs—I was too frightened to tell anybody who came to the house and let them make the trouble—I had never been in London before I came to this place—my mother did not take me away—she never saw the papers—I had seen the papers before I gave my evidence before the Coroner—I had not heard Dr. Osburne's evidence before I gave mine—I read it—Mrs. Nicholls told me to read it over her shoulder—I went down to give evidence on behalf of Mrs. Nicholls, and one day I was sitting in the Court and my mother came and spoke to me, and took possession of me—I saw a policeman, and the people told me if I did not tell the truth I should be tried for perjury—that was before I gave my evidence—I had an anonymous post-card sent me telling me to speak the truth, because I knew what was the truth and because I was in the house—every time I went out from Pitt Street the people shouted at me—I do not know that Jane hid the crusts from me because she was afraid of me—I do not know Mrs. Carter, the witness—if she says that I took the crusts away from Jane it is untrue—it was a dirty piece of crust, but not what she gave her—I did not like to see her eat it—I only thought the girl was going to die when Mrs. Nicholls told me so—I never heard about the mark on her foot until I heard of the hammer—I do not know that Mrs. Nicholls beat her except when she dragged her into the bed-room, but Jane said she did—I saw her being beaten—I said before the Magistrate: "Jane used to go out at night by herself—when she came home Mrs. Nicholls asked her where she had been—she said she had been out to get food, and Mrs. Nicholls used to pull her into the bed-room and send me downstairs, and then I heard screaming"—I heard her screaming and saw her beaten twice—I did not say once, I said twice—I saw Mrs. Nicholls strike her once in the face with a stick—it was not long before she left—I cannot say if it was about a month—I cannot say if it was before or after she began to tumble about—she did not fall down when the blow was struck—I do not know if it was before she got so weak that she could not stand—it was not five or six weeks, before—I do not know if it was more or less—I do not know if it was after we came back from Southsea—I forget—she had not got the bruises on her face when she went away—there was the mark where her nose was broken—I do not know if the blow broke her nose—there were two parts of her nose—her mouth or her nose bled—I said that there was blood before this once to Mr. Frayling—her nose stuck out in two parts longways—I do not know what the girl had done to merit the blow—I did not see anything—it was in Mrs. Nicholls's bed-room—it was a walking stick, but it had a piece off the end—it had a knob—no handle—I forget the colour—there was a stick in the house—I did know the colour, but I forget—the

dog whip was a short one—the thong was gone—the invalid girl was in the bedroom—Jane and the invalid screamed—I do not know if Mrs. Nicholls was very fond of her child—she seemed as if she was—I knew that the very least noise excited her and was very bad for her but she did it in spite of that—I cannot suggest any reason for it—Mrs. Nicholls was sweeping the room when she knocked down the picture—she told Jane to put in a nail—Jane put it in too high up and she seized the hammer out of her hand and gave her a blow on the foot—Jane was on the steps—the room is a little one—it is a sitting-room on the first floor—I am certain that Mrs. Nicholls hit her because she put the nail in too high up—I said before she put it in too high—Mrs. Nicholls took us both to Southsea—Jane was not in a very bad state of health when we went—she was ill, but not very ill—I do not know whether she was in a certain way at certain times—I do not knowr if her clothes used to get wet—she was not dirty in her habits—I did not notice that she made water in her clothes—I did not make complaints about her making water in bed—a lot of her clothes were wet—they had been put in a bath of water—it was a rusty bath—I do not know that her clothes were wet in another way—she slept with me in the bed—she was constantly getting up at night—when we went to Southsea we went in a cab from Pitt Street—the whole lot of us—young Harrington came afterwards—there was Jane and the invalid, and Mrs. Nicholls, Mrs. Harrington and myself—we went from Victoria—Mrs. Nicholls was very much engaged in looking after the invalid—the beatings had begun by then—there was no opportunity for us two girls to go away then—we could not make any communication to anyone then—we were close to her all the time—when Mrs. Nicholls pushed Jane into the gate and began to beat her, it was with a dog-whip and an umbrella—I said before there was a stick and there was also a dog-whip—there was a white terrier in the house—the whip was about two feet and not very thick—I don't know how long the lash had been off it—there was no lash on it when she beat Jane—she used one at a time—I don't remember whether it was the umbrella or the stick first—the umbrella broke and then she used the stick—I do remember that—I don't remember if she took the stick first—she got the stick from the hall table—the hall is dark and narrow—there is a little table near the door—she left the girl alone and then came back—I was getting the invalid out of the chair—Mrs. Nicholls gave her a poke with her umbrella and then went inside the hall with her—I was opening the gate and saw her take the stick off the hall table—I could see the table from the gate—she had the umbrella in her hand and put it down on a chair—Jane was standing in the hall crying—she had been struck then—Mrs. Nicholls gave her one blow with the umbrella and then laid it down—then with the stick and then with the umbrella, which broke, while I was at the gate—there was the invalid in the chair—I am quite sure she hit her on the back—the houses opposite are let in flats—this was between three and four in the afternoon—I do not know if Smallbones could hear what was said—Mrs. Nicholls was standing between the gate and the doorway—Jane was in the pathway—Smallbones was across the road and I suppose could have heard all the words—she did not speak very loudly, but she did not

whisper—Mrs. Nicholls helped me to take the invalid upstairs—Mrs. Nicholls used to make me lift the invalid out of the chair—I lifted her out on that day and she walked up the path—this took place near the time that Jane left—it was not dark—I don't remember if it was October or November—I am certain it was not getting dark—we had been in Kensington Gardens—she called us those names then—I don't know if the people in the houses could hear—if anybody was near she called us by our proper names—she never called me Edith when anybody was about—sometimes I let Mr. Saurin out, and sometimes he let himself out—I told him the people had frightened me—Mrs. Nicholls showed him a card I had had threatening me—he had an opportunity of seeing what was on that card—it said I was to speak the truth because I was in the house—there were several occasions on which I saw Mr. Saurin alone when he came to the houses—other people come to the house, Mrs. Webb-Peploe—I do not know if Mrs. Williams came—Lady Harrowby came—I did not complain to them—the marks on Jane's legs and arms were caused by Mrs. Nicholls kicking her—I remember her falling in Kensington Gardens, when the Policeman Marchant was there—she got up herself—Jane had the same to eat as Mrs. Harrington and I—I have told everything that Mrs. Nicholls did to this girl; there is nothing else—I interfered once and prevented Jane from being seriously hurt by Mrs. Nicholls—she might have been killed if I had Dot—I saw Mrs. Nicholls come at Jane with a rod-hot poker—I got in front of her and Mrs. Nicholls put the poker down—that is true—I did not think of it before the Coroner—I still say it is true—I was not very frightened on that occasion—I should not liked to have seen her hurt with a poker—I do not remember how long the cough lasted—she did not cough the whole time I was there—I said before, "Jane got thinner while I was there—she had a little cough all the time I was there—it got worse when we came back from Southsea—there was nothing else the matter with her"—that was true—she had a little cough all the time, and about three days before Jane left she was doing up Mrs. Nicholls's boots and knocked her head against the bedstead—Mrs. Nicholls kicked her—she was sitting in the chair—it, was just a few days before the girl died—she was in such a state that she could hardly walk about, and this woman kicked her and knocked her head against the bedstead—she did not do it violently—I do not know if Mrs. Nicholls was angry—Jane pulled some buttons off when she was fastening up her boots—she kicked her because of that—it would not have been sufficient to bruise her—the side of her head hit the bedstead—it was an iron bedstead—it was a push—it was her head not her face—she did not complain—my mother did write to Mrs. Nicholls.

Re-examined. The part of her head which hit the bed-stead would be covered by the hair—I first noticed that she had a cough not very long before we went to Southsea—it did not get better there, nor when we returned—during the last month the girl's cough got worse—I do not' remember when I first noticed the little cough—I do not remember how often Lady Harrowby came—she came last after Jane had left—she also came three days before Jane left, because I went to a take telegram—she came two or three days after the girl went home and three days before—I know that Lady Harrowby is connected

with the Travellers' Aid Society—I do not remember how often she came—I do not remember if she had been there since Southsea—I don't remember her ever being there before—Mrs. WebbPeploe did not come very often—Mr. Saurin came more often than the ladies—the gate is not very far from the passage door—it is a small garden—you can see it as you stand at the gate—the invalid can walk a little—the clothes which were in the bath wanted washing in the ordinary way—I did not know that this girl could not contain her water, or was passing water constantly—she got constantly out of bed at night—I do not know for what purpose—I slept in the same bed—I was never ill, and there was never any suggestion of sending for a doctor for Jane—just before she went, the night before, a doctor came to her—I had a conversation with Mrs. Nicholls after that—Mrs. Nicholls told me that Jane must be got home as quickly as could because she was not expected to live—I interfered once with Jane by taking away a dirty crust—I thought she was going to eat it—that was not very long before she went away—in regard to the evidence given by Mrs. Nicholls before the Coroner, the day before she was reading it from a newspaper and she told me to read over her shoulder—that was after the first hearing before the Coroner—I remained on with Mrs. Nicholls, and the next day went do with Mr. Saurin—Mrs. Nicholls spoke to me before she gave her evidence before the coroner—she spoke to me the same day that the Serjeant came and said the girl was dead—about giving evidence—I was alone with her at the time—she said, "You must keep from them that I ever beat her or ever touched her, or that there was a stick in the house"—I can read And write—I did not see any letter written by Mrs. Nicholls about this time.

By the COURT. Jane used to take food and things from off her mistress table and Mrs. Nicholls said she was to write a letter and ask forgiveness—Mrs. Nicholls said she was to write a letter about taking things—I did not see the letter until Mr. Frayling showed it to me—she used to take things from off her mistress' table and Mrs. Nicholls said she was to write a letter asking forgiveness—I did not know that Jane had taken things off the table—Mrs. Nicholls told me to say so before the Coroner.

MARY ANN GARRETT . I am the mother of the last witness living at Maidenhead—I have been living there ever since my daughter had been in the service of Mrs. Nicholls—on January 23th I went to Pitt Street and took her away—I had seen her down at the inquest and heard some of the evidence there—it was in consequence of that that I took her away, and in consequence of what she told me herself—I saw Mrs. Nicholls that evening and told her I had come to take the girl away, as I did not feel justified, after what I had heard and what my girl told me, in leaving her there—Mrs. Nicholls said it was not true, and begged me to leave the girl till the case had finished, as the doctor would be able to prove that the girl had died of consumption only—I said, "That may be so, madam, but I wish to take the girl home"—my daughter, Edith, was present at the last part of the conversation—Mrs. Nicholls appealed to Edith to confirm her statement that the girl not been starved or ill-used—at that time Edith had not given evidence before the Coroner—she said

only a few days she had knocked her bead against a place in the adjoining room—Mrs. Nicholls said it was her going to Bagshot on that day with Edith Garrett that they had tried to get hold of her, and told her what to say—she said she said to Edith, "Oh, Edith, if anyone had told me you would be so disloyal I would not have believed them"—from time to time I received letters from ray daughter while she was in the service—I have not the letters—Mr. Frayling has them—I received a portion of my daughter's wages in P. O. orders. Between my daughter going into the service and the inquest I never saw her—every letter I received was satisfactory—I thought she was all right, and I did notmind—Mrs. Nicholls wrote to me and I answered her—I remember Miss Chambers coming to see me—she brought a letter—I did not read the contents—I was told that we had diphtheria—I was shown the letter—it was not my writing—my eldest boy was in the house—we had not diphtheria—it was in January, 1897, that Miss Chambers came—she read part of the letter to me—it was a letter about my girl being ill—that was what was read to me—this letter looks like my writing, but I would not swear to it—(read)—"Madam,—I thank you for the letter telling me about Edith. I am pleased to say my boy is not ill. Please ask Edith to send me word. Yours respectfully, M. GARRETT"—that letter was to my daughter—I did not come up to see Mr. Nicholls—I sent 6s. to my daughter—that was before they went to Southsea—I never had any complaint from my daughter—I did not hear about this trouble in the papers—I heard it from Mrs. Netter to me—I read the letter while the inquest was going on—I received letters from my daughter, and received a portion of her wages by P.O. orders. Between the time of her going into the service and the inquest I never saw my daughter—every letter I received was satisfactory—I thought she was all right, and I didn't come—Mrs. Nicholls wrote to me and I answered her letters—I remember Miss Chambers coming, to see me on January 7th, 1897, and bringing a letter about my daughter—I did not see the contents—I was told it was all untrne—I was shown the letter—it was not my writing—it was about my girl being ill—Miss Chambers asked me if I had written a letter stating that my son had diphtheria—the letter looks like my writing, but I would not swear to it—I also wrote this letter: ("North End, Town Moor. January 16th, 1898. Madam,—I received your letter this morning, and I am very sorry to hear you have been ill. Although I do not wonder at it, as it is enough to break down the strongest person to have such terrible things said of you, after you had treated Jane with so much kindness, as it is not the lady in twenty who would have kept a girl on as you did Jane, when she must have been a great worry to you. I quite believe that Jane must have had reason to dread going home, or she would not have begged so hard for you to keep her on, as she must have suffered a deal of pain, although she would not own to it; and I do not believe it at all likely that a girl her age would have stayed fourteen months in a house where she was starved and beaten, as she would most certainly have Canted to go home, if she had a good mother and father to go home to. I shall be very glad to hear when it is all fettled, as I have never heard of such a case before. I am not at all afraid to trust you with Edith. Hoping

your health will improve.—I remain, yours respectfully, M. GARRETT.")—Mrs. Nicholls said she wanted me to leave Edith with her.

Re-examined. I also received this letter from Mrs. Nicholls—(Dated January 14th: "I have been too ill to thank you before for your most kind letter Mrs. Garrett. I shall never forget it as long as I live, or your faith and trust as regards your own child in face of this most cruel and unjust allegation. I am sorry to tell you the inquest has been postponed, and we had not to go yesterday. It is such a terrible ordeal for one in my state of health to be passing through, and every day it is prolonged gives rise to the fear that I may break down altogether, and this would be an awful calamity. I need all my strength and faculties to combat the awful lying allegations published in the weekly papers, I am told, though I am not allowed, by my legal advisers and friends, to read them. I know from what I saw at the inquest that they had gathered together very low persons whoever showed an enmity and illwill to give evidence against us. All this would matter nothing if the evidence could, as in a Court of Law, be rebutted as it arose, but a Coroner's Court is so different, and he seems to be taking all these witnesses first; Edith and my house-keeper, and a relative of my housekeeper's, who had lived in my house for a short time with Jane this year since Edith came, could all prove the poor creature's voracious appetite, and that far from ever missing a meal, she had five meals a day because she was so thin, one more than they ever had, and that far from ever being ill-treated, she was treated with the indulgence one would extend to a child. That was my only fault towards her, looking over, in answer to her prayers and entreaties, faults that no other human being would have excused, and, in time, compassion keeping her when others would over and over again have sent her away, and this is being brought against me now, as is the yielding to her entreaties not to see a doctor—she misled us altogether by her statements that she had no pain, that she slept well, and as she most certainly eat well up to the last moment, we never realised that she was in any serious condition, until the doctor saw her here on the 22nd, and told me, to my distress, that she was in the last stage of consumption, etc.")—Mrs. Nicholls said that the police had got hold of Edith and told her to say things against her—she said she wanted me to leave Edith with her.

EDWARD. JOSEPH SMALLBONES . I am a milkman in the service of Lund Brothers, Kensington—I have been in the habit of delivering milk at 16, Pitt Street—the next door to Mrs. Nicholls, who lived at No. 14—I knew Mrs. Nicholls—I knew the two servants Edith Garreet and Jane Popejoy—I saw them from time to time last year—when I first saw the deceased, Popejoy, she seemed very well in health—towards the end of the year she looked very ill—in November—I remember her pushing the perambulator along Pitt Street in the afternoon opposite No. 14—a scream attracted my attention—I saw Mrs. Nicholls pulling the deceased by the hair from the garden into the passage, and she then started knocking her about with a stick—the girl screamed, and I said to Mrs. Nicholls, "Why don't you leave the girl alone"—she said, "Mind your own business, or else I will call a policeman"—I stopped a few minutes—she slammed the door, ran to the front room window and started blowing a whistle—I remained about five minutes—I went on to my round—I afterwards saw the

deceased pushing a bathchair along the street—she could hardly posh it—Mrs. Nicholls walked beside her.

Cross-examined. I spoke to some other milkman about it the same afternoon—Mrs. Nicholls was just inside the passage by the mat—I heard Mrs. Nicholls going on, but could not hear what she was saying—it was about 2.30 p.m.—she blew the whistle loudly—I did not call a policeman because I did not want to get mixed up in it—seventeen milkmen are employed at Lund's—she was about five minutes before she went to the window—I did not see anyone else there—I used to gee them out with the invalid every day—it was not the invalid screaming, it was the girl—no crowd gathered—I gave evidence before the Coroner.

GEORGE HENRY TAYLOR . I am a page in service at 16, Pitt Street, next door to Mrs. Nicholls—I had been there five years—I knew the deceased as Janie—I first noticed her at Christmas, 1896—she was a strong robust girl—she went nearly every day with the invalid—I noticed a change in her about six months after she had been there—she began to look thin and weak—on two occasions I have seen Mrs. Nicholls strike her—the first was the end of October or the beginning of November, 1897—the girl was trying to get the chair from the road to the pavement with the invalid in it, and she did not appear to have strength to do it—Nicholls struck her across the back with an umbrella—no one was helping the girl—about three weeks later near the front gate I saw Nicholls take the girl into the hall by her ears, and strike her with a stick across the front of her body and in the face—the door was slammed, and the girl started screaming—the invalid was left on the pavement in the chair—it was about two p.m.—Edith Garrett came and took the invalid in—two or three weeks after this I noticed the deceased had a swollen nose, a black eye, and scratches on her face—I knew the difference between the deceased's voice and the invalid's voice from living next door—the wall is very thin—the girl screamed like a child—I have heard another scream, but could not say who it was—I heard it frequently—it was a woman's voice—I heard Mrs. Nicholls calling them brutal wretches, and fools and idiots—I have not heard any screams since Popejoy left—I have seen Popejoy and Garrett in the street—I have seen Popejoy picking up bread in the street that the people at the Carmelite Chapel throw away.

Cross-examined. I did not hear Smallbones give his evidence—I gave mine the same day—I made a statement to the detective—on December 29th he asked me if I had heard anything—I told him I had heard screams—I told about the cruelty to the Coroner—there was a great deal of feeling about Pitt (Street against Nicholls—crowds gathered—I heard screaming before eight a.m.—the passage was dark—I could not tee right along it—I never went for, a policeman, nor told anybody.

ELIZABETH CROXFORD . I am the wife of George Croxford, of 12, Pitt Street, the next door to 14—I remember the deceased coming there—she was a respectable, clean, nice-looking girl, and appeared in good health—after a time she got very much thinner—I saw bruises upon her face—in, October I told Mrs. Nicholls the girl looked as if she was being starved—she said she ate more than the other servants—I asked her if the girl had a father and mother, and she said "Yes"—I said if they knew the state she was in they ought to be ashamed of themselves—I heard screaming and words coming

from the house—the invalid cried sometimes—I could recognise that sometimes I heard the invalid, and at other times some one else—I heard some one fall down stairs, followed by a groan, one evening—I heard Mrs. Nicholls call them "cows and sows and a devil"—I saw the girl go away—she looked dreadfully bad.

Cross-examined. I heard more screaming before Jane Popejoy came than while she was there—Jane never complained to me of Mrs. Nicholls—I know Mrs. Nicholls, who frequently conversed with me and came in to see me—I did not mention the treatment of Jane to her, except what I have told you—I said nothing of the screaming.

ANNIE RODD . I am the wife of Norman Rodd, and keep a stationer's shop at 10, Holland Street, Kensington—I supplied Mrs. Nicholls with newspapers and periodicals—I handed them to her servants Garrett and Popejoy at the shop—when I first knew Popejoy she looked a healthy girl, the same as ordinary girls—towards the end of last year I noticed she was looking very bad—I spoke to my husband about it—when Mrs. Nicholls came to the shop I told her her girl was looking bad, and that I should be sorry to have a girl in the house looking like it—she told me she sent the girl away for a holiday, because she was so ill, to her home, and she told the people her mother had starved her, her mother heard of it and said, "I will tell your father," and the girl wrote to her dear mistress to come back again, that the girl ran away from her back to her dear mistress and the young lady—I again said she looked very ill; she looked starved—she had a voracious appetite, and that I knew her other girl, and she looked well enough—shortly before she left I saw her pass the shop with the invalid—she looked very bad.

Cross-examined. Mrs. Nicholls has dealt with us two years—the girls came to pay for the Sunday papers, generally in the afternoon—I never saw any marks of bruises on Jane—I often wondered the girls did not complain—Mrs. Nicholls did not say she had sent the girl to Southsea for a month—I know she had not been away except when she went to Southsea—I knew Mrs. Nicholls had gone to Southsea.

ELLEN LORD. I am the wife of William Lord, of Duke's Lane, Kensington—I knew Mrs. Nicholls and the deceased by sight last year—I used to see the girl Popejoy wheeling the invalid chair about—I first spoke to her in the autumn—she asked me for food one evening—I gave her some food—afterwards she came frequently to the house in the evening—twice a week—she asked for food, and I gave it to her—she always took it away, sometimes in her hand, except the last time, when the other servant came round the corner and she went away without it, and joined her.

Cress-examined. I did not tell the Coroner nor the Magistrate that she ran away—I did not see anything the matter with the other girl—neither of them looked very clean.

ANNIE POPPLEWELL . I am the wife of Charles Arthur Popplewell, of 2, Duke's Lane, Kensington—I used to see the deceased girl out with an invalid chair—I remember her coming to my house the second week in November for something to eat—that was the first time we had spoken—I gave her some bread and cheese or butter—she put it in her pocket—she came again one morning, and once about dinner-time—I gave her

some food every time she came—three times—the first occasion she knocked at the door, the third occasion I saw her looking up at the window—she looked very thin and miserable—the last time I saw her she had a black eye—that was about the end of November.

Cross-examined. She had no shade over her eye—I said before the Coroner she seemed frightened of the other girl—she was—I described the other girl as being all right, fat, well, and very impertinent.

Re-examined. I said to Edith Garrett once it was pouring with rain—that was the only time I ever spoke to her—Garrett was with Popejoy each time I saw her—not when I gave her food—she left her company to get it, and then rejoined her.

Friday, April 29th 1898.

ELIZABETH BENNETT . I am the wife of Harry Bennett, living at 4, Duke's Lane—I knew Jane Popejoy by sight—I first saw her in 1896—she seemed a very respectable girl—she looked very healthy and very clean—my attention was again called to her about three months before she left Mrs. Nicholls's service—I saw a large bruise on her left-hand over the back of the hand—she had come to ask me for food—she had never asked me before—I had never spoken to her before—I gave her some food—I had some conversation about the bruise—after that she came several times for food—about the last fortnight I noticed she had a cough—I gave her food and a halfpenny to buy cough drops—I have seen her out on several occasions with Mrs. Nicholls, and with the other servant, Edith Garrett—on the last occasion I saw her out she fell down—she seemed to fall as if she was very weak—it was at the end of Duke's Lane—Mrs. Nicholls and the chair, and the other servant were there—she got up by herself, and followed the mistress going in the direction of Kensington Gardens—I have also seen a scratch on her face—I have seen her with Edith Garrett on other occasions than this one—she seemed frightened of her, I think—I never spoke to Mrs. Nicholls about the condition of the girl—I had reason for speaking, and I was stopped.

Cross-examined. I live close, in Duke's Lane, No. 4—I knew the girl practically all the time she was there, and she looked pretty strong and healthy when I first knew her—I have children of my own—I have never had a girl who has had certain troubles in a certain way—I did not see this girl pretty often—she was sometimes with Edith Garrett and sometimes with the prisoner—she asked me for food, and I gave her some—I noticed she was getting very thin and very dirty—I thought she looked ill about three weeks before she went away—I do not remember them going to Southsea—there was a very marked change in the girl about November, about two months before she died—I did not notice it in October—there was a marked change, and when she changed she changed very fast—I noticed particularly that she seemed very weak on her legs—I noticed that she limped very much during the last two or three days—she did not shuffle like an old woman—there was an injury to one of her legs or her foot—I did not notice that she pushed her feet along instead of walking—I think she was frightened of Edith Garrett—I formed that opinion—I did not see her just a day or two before she went away.

Re-examined. She did not seem frightened of anybody else—she said

she was frightened of Edith Garrett, because Edith Garrett told the mistress—she first came to me for food about three months before she left—she did not then seem to be ill or lame—she looked as if she was getting very thin, but not ill in the way she was afterwards.

EDITH GARRETT (recalled by MR. HALL). I know that Jane burned her finger taking a coal off the fire—I do not remember that she had a broken finger when she came—I saw her take the coal out of the fire—Mrs. Nicholls told her to take some coal off her fire—there were some tongs, but she took it off with her fingers, and she burnt it then—that was not very long before she went away—I only wrote home to my mother when Mrs. Nicholls gave me the paper, and dictated the letters—those are the only occasions I wrote—that applies to the whole of the time—Mrs. Nicholls gave me the paper and envelopes—I could not get any paper because it was locked up—she gave me the ordinary sheets of note-paper,. I remember my mother sending me 6s., and Mrs. Nicholls, directly the parcel was opened, put it into her wardrobe—that is true—this piece of paper is not a sheet of note-paper (produced)—Mrs. Nicholls would give me any piece of paper—I said just now that she gave me ordinary pieces of paper—that is my writing—(read)—"Dear Mother and Father,—My mistress got these orders, and was going to send them to you yesterday, but I thought I would write and send them myself. Jane and I are going to the Natural History Museum with the ladies this week, and next week we are going with them to the South Kensington Museum, and before the weather gets too hot we are going to the Zoological Gardens, and I won't wait to write no more now, because the mistress is anxious for me to post the money.—Yours truly, from your loving daughter, E. GARRETT"—I did in fact post the money to my mother on that occasion in a postal order—this letter is also in my writing—(read)—"Dear Father and Mother, and all of them,—The mistress says I must get Post Order, and send you my money and send the children things I made, but it won't be to-morrow, because to-morrow we are going to see the Queen again, and last Monday the ladies took us in the carriage to see the Queen's State entry into London, and we was so close to her that we could have leaned over and touched her, and oh, it was a sight to see all the Life Guards and Grenadiers, and the other soldiers and thousands of police and as to people, well I couldn't have believed there was so many people in all the world, and to-morrow she is coming here to Kensington, and we got great doings, and I will buy a Kensington paper, and put it in the parcel when I sends it. We didn't go away after all as the weather wasn't very hot up to Jubilee Day. If it had been we should ha gone; I glad we stopped here to see the sights, and we shall go to the seaside at the end of next month, and tell all the little one I seen the Queen quite close, and how Jonny do in his suit.—love to all, from your loving daughter, E. GARRETT—I done my hat before Jubliee, and look very nice"—that was also written from the dictation of Mrs. Nicholls—I swear it—Mrs. Nicholls told me what to put in it—we went to 42, Granada Road, Southsea—(read)—"Dear mother,—This is a lovely place, there is so much a going on and to see, and oh, the sea is grand, I never could a thought it were like that We are quite close to the sea, and our windows looks right on to it, and the air do come in lovely at the open windows. There

is such a beautiful pier quite close, and the mistress is a going to take us all to a concert on it on Saturday, and this afternoon she is going to take us all for a drive in the carriage, and Jane will have to sit up with the coachman, like she did before, cause there ain't room for us all else and it all so beautiful, and I will send you my August money when it due 23rd and you can get me what you likes, and put the rest in the bank for me, cause the mistress likes us to be saving, but she thinks I ought to get some little presents for the children here, and send them when we get back at the end of September.—E. GARRETT"—That letter was written in the presence of Mrs. Nicholls, and from her dictation—she made me write it—she had not a stick in her hand—they are Mrs. Nicholls's words—the words, "Oh, the sea is grand, I never could have thought it was like that," are Mrs. Nicholls's—the 6s. which was sent she put into her wardrobe—(Another letter: "Dear Father and Mother and all of them,—I got the parcel quite safe yesterday, and I like the apron very much indeed, and thanks you much, and I shall make the linen aprons some day, but I ain't in no hurry for 'em; this ain't a place for wearing out many clothes; and I found the 6s. in the parcel, and the mistress say it were too kind of you to send, but she thought I might ha' let you keep that, hut I didn't ask you for it now, and I am going to put 6s. more to it on the 23rd, so that will be 12s. I shall have to put in the bank first start, and I think that is a good lot. The girl whose place I took started her book with 5s., but she didn't put more away the first year, and I haven't been a year yet, and got 12s. She were here five years, and had saved a good bit in that time, and she only had the same wages as I do when she left, and the mistress will arise mine when we get into the next house if I behaves well, and the young lady were so amused at George's pigs going to market, and they were very sorry to hear George were ailing again, and so be I, and love to all, and I were so sorry not to send to Johnny a card on his birthday; but Christmas is very near, and then they shall all have some.—From your loving daughter, E. GABBKCT Saturday."—Mrs. Nicholls dictated that letter to me, except "Dear Mother and Father, and all of them"—those are my own words—they are in pencil—it was written during the inquest—(Another letter: "Dear Mother and Father, and all of them,—I send back the papers, thank you very much for sending them; the books was ordered before Christmas, but we thinks it better not to send them off until this affair is settled, and I wants to ask you not to take any notice of any lying things you sees in the paper, 'cause there ain't a word of truth in it. That poor Jane used to eat a lot more than I did, and I got a good appetite, as you nows, and I looks well and feels well—if she didn't it were because she were in a consumption, and wasted away, and it is the most awful lies to say she were ever ill-treated in this house since I been in it, and that is over a year, you know, and she were only here fourteen months; when all comes out, and our doctors have a fair hearing, it will be proved clear enough she died of consumption, and she got her bruises and all that a falling about, as she used to, and she always used to pretend she fall over things she left on the stairs, she never would say it was from weakness. She had two bad falls out of doors about ten days or a fortnight afore she went home, but she wouldn't let us look to see if she were hurt, and when

she left here, just before Xmas Day, she walked down the stairs and along the hall by herself, and the lady that took her home says she walked across the line at one place were they changed trains; but she only lived four days after she got home, and now they wants to say, 'cause she was so thin, that she was starved, and 'cause she had bruises that she were beaten. I can swear that she were never either beat or starved, and so can the housekeeper. We all had meals together, and all had the same, only she eat so much more than we did and 'cause she were so thin she had cocoa with milk instead of always tea, and don't you take no notice of what's in the paper, nor get frightened about me. I mean to speak the truth. The mistress have always been very kind to me, and she was more so still to her, 'cause she wern't so strong as me. Have the little ones spoilt their things I sent just before Christmas yet? Tell them I shall send them another parcel soon, but I ain't got time to look up anything just now, and give my best love to all of them. And did Kate and Charley go to Sunday-school, as George said they were? And what about Johnny? The young lady were so amused with George's donkeys and trees as he drawed on his last letter. The mistress have always taken such an interest in George's case, 'cause I told her about his rumatics, and she suffers so with it herself, and she is so feeling with anybody that got anything the matter with them.—From your loving daughter, EDITH GARRBTT."—Mrs. Nicholls told me to write that letter also—I put in the words, "Have the little ones spoilt the things I sent them," etc., without my mistress telling me—I wrote that letter, and it is all untrue—I wrote it because I was afraid of my mistress—I also wrote this letter during the Coroner's inquest:—" Dear Father and Mother and all of them,—We are going down at the end of the week I think to Bagshot and don't you and father let nothing as they puts in them lying papers frighten you about me. Why one of them lying reporters came here and tried his very utmost to make me tell what evidence I was going to give, and told me I should have to say the same as Jessie, a lying cat, as was here afore Jane came. Jane took her place and Jessie left in awful disgrace, got about with soldiers and stole things and all that, and now in her spite as been and told the police that she was ill-used and all that. The housekeeper says it is an awful lie and I am sure it is; the mistress wouldn't hurt anyone. I'm sure of that and I shall tell the truth when I goes and don't care what anybody says, and don't you fear as anybody will hurt me. I shall be took good care of both here and down there. Why, the liars wants to make out that the mistress held her and to every letter she wrote home, and the mistress never ever see her write a letter, she done 'em all in the kitchen, and used to show me some of 'em and they was all full of the mistresses kindness to her, and oh mother she was good to her, helping her to clean her dirty stinking head and all that. I wouldn't sleep with her, and that's how the mistress found out her head was dirty and she gave her notice to leave directly, but Jane was so precious'artful and cunning she always managed to get over the mistress to keep her. Why, she had notice to leave a dozen times, and sorry enough the poor mistress must be now that she didn't make her go. If you are sent to about my wages please tell 'em that you asked £6 a year for me to be raised every 6 months, and now it is got to

£8 a year, and that my mistress wished when I first came I always sent my wages home to you to lay out for me, and both you and me is very satisfied ain't we, and she always begged Jane to send hers to her mother, but no not her though she did send the postal orders for any things they sent her, and she bought a lot of clothes, and oh the lots of sweets and apples and rubbish she used to buy, and she owed the mistress a lot of money when she left, but people seem so spiteful because she didn't go home with a pocket full of money, and I think that's enough about her, and how is all the little ones. Mistress want's to know how George is. She is very bad herself, and no wonder, and she says I urn to please thank you very much for your kind letter which she will answer when she is a little better. Tell the children I always ment to go home for a little holiday as soon as We had got comfortable settled in our new house. This will put it off a little, but I shall come tell them, and they may look out for a big parcel when I do, and I will get a postal order and send it in a few days out of this month's money, and from your loving daughter E. GARRETT. Tuesday. We only went out once." They were to deceive my own mother those letters—my mistress told me all except about my little brothers—one of the envelopes is addressed by Mrs. Nicholls—the rest are addressed by me—I still say I was unable to write home to my people without the supervision of my mistress.

MR. MATHEWS. The 6s. I spoke of in one of my letters I was going to put to a further sum of 6s., hut my mistress took it and put it in her wardrobe and locked it—the money was kept until some time in December—I do not remember the date—this is a post office savings bank book—it starts on December 16th—I went with Mrs. Nicholls to pay the money in.

By the COURT. We went once to see the Queen.

AMELIA CARTER . I am the wife of William Carter, of Duke's Lane Chambers, Kensington—I knew Jane Popejoy by sight—I noticed her 6 or 7 months before Christmas—I took my breakfast cloth one day to shake it and she picked up the crusts which fell from it—that was in the summer—I asked her if she was hungry and would she like something to eat—she declined at first, but after a time she returned and asked me if I would give her something to put in her pocket—I gave her something—she after that came to my house on two occasions in the afternoon and more often in the evening—she came for food, which I gave her—in the October of last year she came to me and her face was very much scratched—she had a black eye and a sore on the bridge of her nose—I know Edith Garrett by sight—she did not come with Jane to the house—I have seen her near my house.

Cross-examined. Jane Popejoy said on one occasion she was afraid of Edith Garrett—I did not see Edith take a crust away from Jane—I have no doubt Jane was afraid.

Re-examined. I say that because on several occasions she said, "Please do make haste before the other girl comes back"—I heard Edith say once, "You have got something in your pocket and I will tell her when we get in."

ANN EMILY BROUGHTON . I am a widow living in London, and am a visitor in the employment of the Travellers' Aid Society, of 3, Baker

Street, W.—that is a charitable society for the protection of girls passing about from place to place—Lady Harrowby is one of the committee of that society—on December 24th I received instructions and in consequence went the next day to 14, Pitt Street, Kensington—about 11.30 in the morning—I saw Mrs. Nicholls at the house—she wanted me to take Jane Popejoy home—she told me to have a cab to Waterloo Station, and go to Ascot, and then a cab to Bagshot—she made one or two complaints about the girl—she said she was untruthful, she stole things, that she was rather immoral and dirty—those are the words she used, "rather immoral"—she said she stole food, as far as I can remember—she said the larder key was once missing and it was found in Jane's pocket—she said the girl had had two breakfasts that morning, and that I was to be very kind and gentle—I took my own money—I was repaid by the society—she said the doctor had said she was a mere slip of a girl—I had not seen her then—she told me that the girl wanted the doctor and that her parents would beat her for going home—I do not remember her baying anything about a doctor after she got home—Mrs. Nicholls gave the girl some mince pies, oranges and sandwiches for her journey—I took the girl down by cab and train and then a second cab—she only had an orange, which I peeled for her—I did not notice any mark on her face—she had a veil on, and gloves on her hands—she had a high bridge to her nose—it stuck out—I took her to Bagshot and left her with her mother.

Cross-examined. I know that Mrs. Nicholls had seen Lady Harrowby about this—it was not the society but Lady Harrowby who did it, and she refunded the money to the society—Mrs. Nicholls told me to get a cab and a chair at Waterloo Station from the cab to the waiting room—she walked across at Ascot—MM. Nicholls told me the girl had had a fall and she thought it necessary to get a chair—she told me that the girl was untruthful, and about the key of the larder, and that she was rather immoral—the girl herself was warmly clad—she looked neat and tidy, with a tippet and muff—I was certainly in no way unkind to her—I have met more than 1,000 girls for the society—this girl never made the smallest complaint—Mrs. Nicholls told me to take a cab from Ascot, as there might not be one at Bagshot—we drove in a cab from Ascot to Bagshot—at Ascot she walked from the train to the cab, she took my arm, and walked slowly—I do not know' if the mince pies were for her or her mother—she carried them all the way—I did not hear that they were for her mother—she was very ill indeed—she stood the journey very well—Mrs. Nicholls told me there was one thing about the girl being afraid of being beaten—I don't remember if Mrs. Nicholls told me to send for a doctor at once—I said to the mother, "I have brought your daughter home; she is very ill indeed"—I sent this post-card to Mrs. Nicholls: "Jane Popejoy bore the journey very well indeed, and was quite cheerful when she met her mother."

Re-examined. I walked across the line because I did not think the girl could walk up the stairs—she made a few remarks on the journey—Mrs. Nicholls wrote me a letter afterwards—(read)—" 14, Pitt Street, Kensington. 25th Jan., '98. Dear Mrs. Broughton,—I have just heard that the inquest will be resumed at Bagshot on Friday. We shall be quite a large party. Are you going with us this time? It is really too ridiculous to make you wait about down there in the cold before any

one else goes. Why, all the witnesses the police have collected here, meet quite openly at the gate of the lodging house next door to this, the woman who keeps it being going it seems to speak to screams etc. They meet and compare notes, and so the monstrous and improbable story goes on being daily added to, but the truth must prevail in the end, of that all my friends and my legal advisers are quite convinced, and oh how good and sympathetic everyone is towards me, and I receive letters from people I have never even spoken too, but who say they have seen me about for 16 years with my helpless child and never saw me apart from her, and that they will never believe that one who gave up her whole existence to the good of her child would hurt anyone or anything, no matter what evidence might be brought forward by outsiders, and former servants who had left under most disgraceful circumstances, and were only too glad of an opportunity for revenge. You know how considerately I spoke of that poor girl the morning you come to fetch hen, and how anxious I was you should impress upon her mother that they must be very gentle and kind to her. I told you she had such a dread of going home, and had always told us her father was a great drunkard, and used to beat her for fetching him from public-houses, and because she always sent home from every situation at the month, and that her mother, who was an Irishwoman, and very violent in her tempers, also beat her and did not give her half as much food as she could eat, and that when she stole Arthur's and Frank's share they used to fight her. I also told her that that very morning she had been crying, and insisting that she knew they would beat her for going home; but I told her of course, no one would hurt her, and she musent fancy such things; but I added that I hoped you would impress upon the mother that they must be very gentle with her, and send for the doctor directly she got home, and this you did, you told me, and I am quite sure you would; yet, you see, they did not send for the doctor for forty-eight hours after she got home and gave her red herrings for "tea, and then she got diarrhoea so no wonder the poor creature was in the state that young doctor described as 'to the examination I mean'; she was, of coarse, very thin, and emaciated when she left this house; but she wasent as you know the skeleton they described her. Trusting to hear from you as to whether you are going down with our party on Friday.—Yours very sincerely (signed) C. NICHOLLS—Pray do not mix up with any of the witnesses on the other side, or talk to the police down here. You remember at the first hearing the Bagshot constable Wynn said to us as we were waiting in that room that the girl had not the slightest idea she was going to die. Burn this scrawl."

JOHN COSHAM VAUDRKY . I am an M. R. C. S. and L. R. C. P.—I was the prisoner's medical attendant for about five years, but not for the last two years, either professionally or otherwise—on December 26th last I was sent for to 14, Pitt Street to see the servant, she gave me a short description of the case—she said the girl had been coughing for some time, and was very unwell; that the wanted her to see a doctor but she would not consent; that she was very dirty, and she could not induce her to wash herself—that she ate a great deal more than the other servants—she implied that the girl was ill, but not very ill—I examined her for about three-quarteis of an hour on the upper pert of

the chest—she was dressed—I used the stethoscope and percussion—I found a cavity in the upper part of the right lung, and incipient tubercular mischief in the left side—consumption—she would have to be stripped to listen to the whole of the lungs—I did not see marks about her—the prisoner was present—I told her the girl was in the last stage of consumption, and could only live for a short time; perhaps a few days, and that if she fainted she might die immediately—I recommended that she should be removed to the hospital or infirmary without delay—I recommended ordinary milk diet—the prisoner asked me to look at the girl's legs, but I thought it was only because she was so thin, so I did not do so—I saw signs of emaciation on the chest, arms, shoulders, and face—it would be plain to anyone that the girl was very ill—she was anbrnic, and excessively weak.

Cross-examined. The prisoner said she did not know whether the girl would see me—it is not at all uncommon for girls to object to see a doctor who visits the house—I thought it dangerous to strip her—the cavity in the right lung was caseous, and about the size of a walnut—I have no doubt that she died of consumption, but that it was aided by cold—the consumption might have been of several months' standing—a large appetite is consistent with consumption, but not necessarily—I did not at first make an exhaustive examination, but I found sufficient, as I thought, to account for her state—it was merely a question of making the remainder of her days easy—I cannot understand one of the Doctors saying that tuberculosis had nothing to do with her death—it is impossible—emaciation increases pari passu with the complaint, and might continue, though the patient had sufficient to eat—I do not think it would be possible for a healthy girl to die of starvation with a diet of bread and dripping, beef tea, tea without milk and sugar, with a fresh joint of fresh mutton and vegetables on Sunday, though she were deprived of a meal three or four times a week—sugar is very nutritive—the above would not be a nutritive diet for a delicate patient—I frequently saw Edith Garrett before the inquest—she looked quite as healthy when she left Mrs. Nicholls as she does now—I am sure the girl died of consumption in an advanced stage—it might be that she was suffering from diabetes as well—she had a dry, harsh skin—the prisoner is devoted to her invalid daughter—she is suffering from confirmed cerebral disease—she would be likely to throw out her arms and kick and scream—she used to have fits, but not lately, I think—she would be, at periods, very violent, and would clutch anyone's arm or hand very tightly—I do not think the prisoner's physical condition is such as to enable her to take this girl by the hair and drag her into the house and beat her with an umbrella and stick—at present she is very ill—she has always been very lady-like as far as I know—I have not seen any indications of outbursts of violent temper in her—it would be very bad for the invalid daughter to have any disturbance going on in her presence—she is not capable of giving evidence.

Re-examined. I had not seen the prisoner for two years as far as I know—I suppose if she had wanted a doctor she would have called me in—I also attended the daughter; but she had no fits during that time requiring my attendance, I imagine—I have attended the girl since the inquest—I was examined as a witness before the Coroner and the

Magistrate—diabetes was not suggested to me—my first examination of the girl was confined to a quarter of an hour—she must have been consumptive for many months, but not in the condition in which I saw her—the food I speak of would be sufficient to prevent her being starved—it would not be proper food for a girl in that condition—of course the more care you take of a consumptive person, and the more choice the food is, the more likely you are to prolong life, or even to cure the patient—the absence of proper food would tend to accelerate the death of such a person—the kind of food given to consumptive patients fifty years ago is now known to be not proper food—a girl suffering from consumption, as this girl was, would require proper nursing—I do not think she should have remained in her situation for three or four months—I do not think her leaving service and having the same food would have prolonged her life; her work was not hard, as I understand—I was surprised to find her so ill—when there is malassimilation of food I should expect to find evidences of it at the post mortem in the glands of the stomach, or the mesenteric—when there was ulceration,. which would account for bad assimilation of food, you would probably find that ulceration in the colon or larger intestine.

By the COURT. I think if an expert had been present at the post mortem there would have been more particular attention paid to the glands of the stomach and the bowels—I have had many post mortem since my student days.

HAROLD B. OSBURN . I am an M. R. C. S. and L. E. C. P., practising at Bagshot—I was called to see the deceased on December 26th—she was in bed—I examined her, and made notes—I found her extremely emaciated, her skin very red, and discoloured in many places—several large and distinct bruises on both legs and the sides of both knees—the one on the side of the left knee was about 2 ins. by 2 ins., and about a week old—the backs of the hands were scored with sores and abrasions, large deep scratches and cuts—the little finger of the left hand was blackened—the bridge of the nose was broken—her temperature was 101, and pulse bad—I diagnosed bronchial pneumonia and slight diarrhoea—"her mind seemed quite clear when spoken to, although she lies huddled up in bed on the left side, and takes no notice except when roused"—I thought she was very ill, but would probably recover at that time—I saw her about five o'clock the next afternoon, and found her very much worse, and her pulse very bad—I did not think she would live through the night—she died about eight o'clock—a constable was in the house—I had made some communication respecting the police—I made a suggestion in regard to the attendance of the Magistrate before her death—I had no reason to think that she thought she was not going to die—(After objection and some discussion this evidence was ruled to be admissible.)—I said to the girl, "How did you hurt yourself?"—she replied by the one word, "Mistress"—I said to her, "How did she do it?" and she replied by the one word, "Stick"—I pointed towards her legs where there were bruises—my next visit was paid about 8.30, when she was dead—on December 29th I went with Dr. Greasy to make a post mortem examination on the body—I made these notes immediately afterwards—"the body of a well-proportioned girl in a state of extreme emaciation—there is no food at all in the body, and the muscles and

other structures are much wasted—rigor mortis very slightly marked"—that points to the fact that the death has been lingering, and no long struggle—active people who die a violent death have very intense rigor mortis—"post mortem, straining less than usual"—that points to the fact that the blood was in a rather poor condition—"height, 5 ft. 2 ins.; weight, 65 lbs.; measurement round the middle of upper arm, 51/4 ins.; round the middle of the thigh, 10 ins.; the calf of leg, 81/4 ins.—65 lbs. is only about half the weight that such a girl should be under ordinary circumstances—I measured the arm, thigh, and calf of another girl who was thin and delicate-looking of the same height, but perfectly healthy—she was sixteen years of age—her upper arm measured round 9 ins., the middle of her thigh, 16 1/4 ins., and the calf, 11 1/4 ins.—that was rather below than above the average—on examining the right arm I found diffused patches and bruising above the elbow on the outside of the arm 3 ins. by 2 ins.—"The right elbow—there are several small abrasions near the elbow—there is a large bruise on the inner side of the upper arm extending from the wrist 3 ins. up the arm—the whole of the back of the hand down to the finger tips presents the yellow-green colour of bruising of at least ten days previously—sixteen small wounds and abrasions"—they might be scratches—"Left arm—there is yellow staining of the skin—characteristic of bruising—some time previous, about fourteen days; from the shoulder to the finger tips there are round bruises and two abrasions on the outer side of the elbow—about three or four days old from the date of the death—there is a large distinct bruise" 2 ins. by 2 1/2 ins. on the wrist, and there is a black gangrenous patch 2 ins. long on the back and outer side of the first joint of the little finger—it might have been done by a burn—on the right leg continuous bruises of various dates, but not quite recent extending from the knee to the toes—most marked on the outer side of the knee, and a long welldefined patch extending 5 ins. by 2 1/2 ins., five distinct bruises on the outer side of the leg, and one rather recent one, 1 1/2 in., on the back of the foot"—we found no abnormal condition of the toes-sometimes a sore is not very noticeable after death, and we might have missed it—the cartilage of the nose was broken away from the bone, but there was no bruise there—it must have been caused by violence and done so long previously that the bruising had disappeared, there were no marks of violence on the head or on the trunk—the hair was normal—on opening the body we found the subcutaneous fat absent—that is the fat between the skin and the muscle—the muscular structure was small and pale—on opening the abdomen we found the peritoneum healthy—the great omentum—the fold of the peritoneum, which hangs down in front of the bowels, was remarkably thin and devoid of fat—it is one of the places in the body where food is almost invariably found—I could see through it, and could hardly detect its existence until we picked it up—the stomach was distended with what appeared to be liquid food given within the last three or four days, otherwise it was normal inside and out—the small intestine was empty and collapsed it seemed to us then; but is a point on which it is impossible to give an absolute statement—the small intestine usually contains a little liquid food—it never ought to be much distended—we found the colon very unusually small and contracted

—that is the great gut—there were no forces in the flectum or rectum—the whole of the large intestine was apparently empty—th liver was normal, and the kidneys were perfectly natural and small—the walls and mucous membrane of the bladder were thickened and a little congested—it contained no urine—that would be evidence of slight chronic inflammation—she would have the desire to pass water on a small quantity, accumulating—in the heart I discovered a soft yellow clot, and the muscular walls were thin and pale—the valves were perfectly healthy and natural—the pericardium—the membrane covering the heart, was natural—in the right lung we found one or two recent pleuretic adhesions, the result of pleurisy—there was no excess of fluid in the pleura cavity—the air cells near the lungs had been strained and burst one into another, so that instead of there being a large number of little air cells there were a few biggish air cells—that was caused by coughing repeatedly in a weak state of health—two-thirds of the lower lobe were consolidated by pneumonia—in the middle of the other lobe there was a caseous or cheesy cavity, and surrounding it a number of yellow tubular nodules—there were no tubercles in the apex of the lung—the lower lobe contained one patch of consolidation, about the size of an egg—no tubercles—the generative organs were those of a virgin—the brain was normal—the cause of death was failure of the hears action, the result of extreme weakness—the pneumonia probably would not have carried her off if she had been properly nourished—the bruises were not likely to have been caused by fails, but by blows or violence.

Cross-examined. I have practised for nine years, and have had very large experience in post mortem—I think Mrs. Popejoy was the first person I saw on being called in—I am parish doctor there, but I went in my ordinary capacity—I went straight to the room where she was—the mother was quite incoherent and weeping—she said something about rheumatism, and that was all I got out of her—a clergyman and a policeman were there—a question was raised about taking the girl's depositions by a Magistrate, but it was a wet night, and the police were a little shy about fetching him—in order to judge whether she was fit to be examined I went back to the room, and bent over her and asked the same questions again, and got the same answers—I found extreme emaciation, which would be consistent with starvation—the skin was dry, rough, and discoloured in many places—I do not think the bruises could be accounted for by purples—the injury to the nose might have taken place a year or months before—I heard the statement that three or four days before death her mistress kicked her, and then knocked or pushed her head against an iron bedstead, but no such bruises as I should expect from that were found—it is common for people to go about with their lungs riddled with tubercles, and they do not seem much the worse for it—I cannot say how long the caseous cavity had been dormant—the tissues were indurated—I am still of the same opinion that tuberculosis had no immediate connection with the cause of death—the great probability is she would have lived if she had been, properly fed, and possibly pneumonia would not have developed—we did not weigh the kidneys, but we cut them and stripped off the membrane—the pancreas was normal—the pneumonia did not resemble the pneumonia of phthisis for

a reason I can give—in diabetes the patient may die of acute pneumonia, diabetes coma, or of actual exhaustion—they generally die of comatose—in the cases I have seen they become unconscious—this girl was perfectly conscious—I arrived an hour or two before her death—at the post mortem examination the stomach was distended with liquid food—I opened the colon: slit it right up—it was chiefly contracted in the transverse portion—there were no hard pieces—there was a slight thickening in the bladder—it was smaller than usual—she had swallowed her food nicely—I saw a dose of milk and a dose of medicine—the spleen was perfectly natural—we made the post mortem examination within four days after she died—she had had slight diarrhoea on the Sunday—I asked the condition of the bowels to know whether she required medicine—I expected to find more matter in the large intestine—even milk would become hard—neuralgic pains are not a prominent symptom of diabetes—I saw the girl before her death and four days afterwards, and there was no suggestion of diabetes, and therefore it did not occur to us—post mortems are always made with the object of clearing up what has arisen during life, and there was not the least suggestion of diabetes, or of the passing quantities of water, which would be a prominent symptom of it—if there had been diabetes one would have expected to have heard of such a prominent symptom—starvation, and not diabetes, was present to our mind—when tubercles have formed there may be attacks of sweating, but there is not always perspiration—I saw no marks of violence on the trunk—the tubercular condition, whether chronic or malignant, would be affected by improper food—I saw the bruise on the foot—it might have been caused by a blow from a hammer in August, but I think it could not have existed more than a week or two.

Re-examined. There were no symptoms of comatose in the way this girl died—her mind was clear—I saw her about six o'clock—dryness, roughness, and discoloration of the skin are symptoms spoken of in connection with withholding of food—I have never heard of the contraction of the colon in diabetes—I cannot say positively that it is inconsistent with it—I would not describe this pneumonia as tubercular pneumonia.

ROLFE CREASEY . I am a Member of the Royal College of Surgeons and Licentiate of the Royal College of Physicians, London, of between twelve and thirteen years standing—I have had twenty years experience in making post mortem examinations, and I assisted Dr. Osburne to make this post mortem examination on December 29th—I have been listening to his evidence in chief—I agree with him substantially—death was due, in my opinion, from the aspect of the body to heart failure, due to exhaustion—due to pneumonia, or recurring in pneumonia in an emaciated girl who was evidently extremely weak—from the aspect of the body and the condition of things the emaciation was consistent with food having been withheld for a considerable time, the absence of sufficient food—there was no indication of want of power to properly assimilate her food—that strengthens the opinion I have formed.

Cross-examined. I said before the Magistrate: "In my judgment there was not sufficient tubercular mischief to account for so great an

emaciation; and looking at the condition of weakness, I say that condition was consistent with the absence for some time of food, and not merely want of food assimilation"—that is my opinion now—I think there was not sufficient tuberculosis and pneumonia to cause death in an otherwise healthy subject—the tubercles were dormant—they would not have caused death if the girl had not been emaciated—I think the emaciation was previous to the pneumonia—the tubercular cavity was quiescent—the nodules round the cavity were not active—I had not diabetes present in my mind—I said before the. Magistrate that there was nothing to show whether there was diabetes or one way or the other; that it is often attended by great emaciation, and that she might have suffered from diabetes without showing any signs of it in the post mortem examination beyond the emaciation—I hold to that—in diabetes I should not expect to find the kidneys enlarged; they are sometimes—in this case they were normal—there was no urine in the bladder—occasionally in diabetes you get that condition of bladder—the existence of nodules round the cavity is not evidence of the activity of the cavity, nor of the spreading of the disease.

Re-examined. In the event of a person suffering from diabetes I should expect those who lived in the same house to know of it—I should call it a remarkable case where the diabetes condition was concealed.

ARTHUR PEARSON LUFF , M. D. I am a Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians—I practise at 31, Weymouth Street—I am physician to St. Mary's Hospital, and lecturer there on Medical Jurisprudence—all the depositions before the Coroner and the Magistrate were submitted to me—I have been here during the trial, and have heard the whole of the evidence, and given my best attention to it—having regard to the medical evidence, I consider death to be due to heart failure, following on general debility and pneumonia—the general debility was due to starvation—I mean the ingestion of food which is either insufficient in quantity or wanting in quality—the conditions are: (1) skin rough, dry and wrinkled, and with stains on it, described as brownish stains; (2) the general absence of fat from the body; (3) the extremely thin condition of the momentum and the intestines generally; (4) the rather wasted and pale condition of the heart; and (5), which I consider important, the absence of tubercular disease in the intestines in a way which was visible to the naked eye—on the post mortem what is invisible to the naked eye in the intestines could not have been the causation of death—as regards the disease found in the right lung, the area was limited, as neither apex of the two lungs were affected; those are the dangerous parts to be affected by tubercular disease; there was this one cavity in the middle of the upper lobe of the right lung; that was chronic, and in a very stationary condition; it is all practically included as being a factor in the causation of death on account of its localised chronic stationary condition; the little deposits around the cavity, including those two nodules, are obviously not due to recent infection—the girl could not have been in an advanced stage of consumption of the lungs without there having been a considerable spitting of blood before her death, which would have increased to the end—it is not my experience that a voracious appetite is ordinarily found in consumptive patients—my experience is rather the other

way—it is rather difficult to get them to take sufficient food—her chances of recovery from tuberculosis, followed by pneumonia, would have been much greater if the body had been better nourished—I do not think medical attention would have effected much in the condition of the lungs—the pneumonia would have been very much ameliorated if it had been attended to earlier—under reasonably favour able conditions the girl would probably have lived for years if she had been in a position—gone to an ordinary institution, for instance—she would have died of consumption possibly—she would probably have lived to an ordinary age if she could have been sent away, but not in this country—I find no evidence of the existence of diabetes—I have carefully considered that—those symptoms have been accurately described: excessive thirst, the frequent passing of urine, being much wasted, dryness of the skin and mouth, emaciation, and the mind remaining clear till come supervenes before or at the time of death—those are the leading symptoms, and they are generally accompanied by constipation—here there was looseness, though there were symptoms of constipation just at the last—there was evidence consistent with diabetes only so far that death from diabetes may occur and there may be no post mortem indication of it; but there would be the indication of great pus some time before, and the passing of a great quantity of water—those are the most important factors, but there is one other, excessive low spirits, and in diabetes the mucous membrane is generally thicker than in this case it was—contraction of the colon I consider quite inconsistent with diabetes—I have never known a contracted colon in connection with diabetes in the way described—a cord-like one—that is a fairly constant sign of death from starvation—ill-usage accompanied with the withholding of food would undoubtedly tend to accelerate death—the mental operation, apart from the physical effect, would tend to increase the mischief—if the bruises described were produced by physical ill-usage they would be a factor in hastening death—the ill-usage would not be a strong factor—ill-usage, plus want of sufficient food, might be a factor in developing pneumonia, though not a strong factor—not so strong as the other.

Cross-examined. I have been engaged in several cases of this kind for the Treasury—I mean plus the deprivation of food—it would only be a small factor—the two together would be a factor—I practise as a physician, but I have done a good deal of taxicological work, but I have been more frequently engaged in these cases than in poisoning cases—the reason of my disagreement with Dr. Osburn and Dr. Creasy is partly that the tuberculosis is stationary, and partly that Dr. Vaudry did not ascertain whether she had the symptoms of spitting of blood and severe sweating at night—I do not discredit him; it is only a question of opinion—undoubtedly he did detect tuberculosis—spitting of blood and the non-appearance of that symptom is the strongest point against the accuracy of Dr. Vaudry's opinion—when Dr. Quain says that 50 per cent, of the cases are not attended with blood-spitting, he does not say acute cases—undoubtedly there are many cases of phthisis without spitting of blood, and there are cases that go on for years and years, but we are dealing with acute phthisis—Dr. Vaudry said the girl could not live more than a few years; but your extract will

not apply, because the word "acute" does not appear—the girl did not live more than a few days—I say that tuberculosis was quiescent and latent, partly because the tubercles were not in the membrane, and partly because of the condition of the little nodules surrounding it, and they were pale and of long standing, on account of their colour—I mean some months—the disease had reached a stop—there was a caseous cavity, with it distinct membrane lining—activity produced caviation, and further observation showed a certain amount of fibrous tissue in the periphery—the material inside was of a caseous character—there had been some softening down, but there was no action going on—there was no evidence of recent activity—a number of small patches might have produced originally one development of the cavity, the others remaining stationary round it—we call the apex of the lung the dangerous part in tuberculosis because it is the part from which it spreads more rapidly—we always call it the dangerous area—the chances of recovery are less—I do not think in this case that the tubercular area was materially added to—only a small area was shown to be in work in one lobe of the lung—I did not see starvation mentioned in the depositions, so that I may have been the first to mention it—one must always, before arriving at a conclusion that it is death due to starvation, think of the possibility of the presence of other diseases which might stimulate starvation, and I must eliminate their probability, or, if you like, possibility—I found it necessary to eliminate diabetes—that was only honest—the symptoms are not entirely the same—diabetes, commencing on persons of this age, would become more rapidly dangerous—there might be six months between its commencement and the death, or less—rapid emaciation is one of the leading symptoms, and great thirst right up to the death in acute diabetes within the last few hours of life—the passing of water may cease towards the last, but practically up to the end that goes on, say to within twenty-four hours—it depends upon when coma comes on—it varies—coma is not necessary, but one expects it—I recognise Professor Allbutt as a leading authority—I agree that the strength gradually diminishes, and the patient dies in a dazed condition without actually becoming comatose—I know the book very well—(Read: "Termination—Death occurs in many cases of one or other of the complications to be described of which pulmonary phthisis is perhaps the most common. Very often the patients strength becomes diminished, and be dies quietly in a drowsy condition without actually becoming comotose; but in many cases the accidents that precede death come on more or less suddenly from some slight cause such as fatigue, excitement, or a chill; and death is preceded by coma of a peculiar type. Any acute infectious process is peculiarly liable to terminate fatally in diabetes; this has been abundantly illustrated in the last few years owing to the great prevalence of influenza, which has proved fatal to many diabetics even where no special visceral complications such as pneumonia has been manifested; as a rule these cases have died comatose"—that is consistent with what I said before—I also agree with what he states with regard to diabetes, mellitus, broncho-pneumonia, and gangrene—in this case we nave a history of the broncho-pneumonia and slight pleurisy with any fluid; also tuberculosis mischief in the lungs; that the condition of

the lungs in diabetes is not always pancreatic—that would not point either way, but perhaps it would be a little against diabetes—menstruation in women is more frequently absent through other affections than diabetes—it is very common for young girls to suffer from the absence of menstruation—girls of this age do suffer, especially in a badly-nourished state—I agree that the appetite gets more and more voracious in diabetes except towards the very last, and that there is a great appetite, especially for starchy articles of food, and mainly for things which the patient ought not to have—I agree with Dr. Quain, and have seen cases where the patient will be still or do anything—that may indicate a change in the mental condition in acute diabetes—I agree that the satisfaction of the appetite produces no feeling of satiety; that even in diabetics the appetite will fail in the later stage—except for scratches the skin is not dry, and the scratches found may have been caused by something else—irritation between the toes might depend upon the cleanliness—this girl was in a dirty state when she died—there might have been the tendency to scratch—the itching would be about the genitals and all round her—the temperature might rise nine out of ten in acute, but not if one takes chronic, diseases—I agree that one of the symptoms is a weakness of mind and that heart failure occurs in most ordinary cases of diabetes—if there is constraint undoubtedly there would be evidence of diabetes—unfortunately, in this case, there was no opportunity to examine the water—there is the evidence that the girl was in the habit of getting out of bed during the night, but we do not know for what purpose; if we knew she did it to pass water we would be more suspicious—diabetes would be the theory if it were shown that she passed a large quantity, but it must be due to irritation of the parts—I should want the two things in order to admit your point—if you could satisfy me upon that, the theory of diabetes would be strengthened—one cannot possibly exclude diabetes, but the extreme possibility is it did not exist.

Re-examined. I saw no other symptoms consistent with diabetes but a voracious appetite—that may have been due to the fact that the girl wanted food—going to the post mortem signs in diabetics, the intestinal mucous membrane is generally thickened or enlarged—in the deceased it was not—in diabetics the kidneys are enlarged—in the deceased they were healthy and normal in size—in diabetics the heart is generally normal—in the deceased it was small, wasted and pale—there remains only emaciation as consistent with diabetics—in my opinion it was most consistent with starvation.

ALBERT YEO (Police Constable, Criminal Investigation Department) On December 29th last I went with Serjeant Scarterfield of the Surrey Constabulary to 14, Pitt Street, Kensington—Scarterfield knocked at the door, which was opened by Mrs. Nicholls—he said, "I am a Serjeant of the Surrey Constabulary—I wish to speak to you respecting a girl named Jane Popejoy"—she said, "I do not want to know anything at all about it"—he said, "The girl is dead"—she said, "I do not want to hear anything more about it"—he then served her with a summons to attend the inquest—he ascertained from her the name of Dr. Vaudry as having attended the deceased.

Cross-examined. Mrs. Nicholls did not give Jane's address—I have made enquiries about this case—Mrs. Nicholls has lived in the house between four and five years—I saw the invalid—Mrs. Nicholls was very excited.

FRANK SCARTERFIELD . I am a Serjeant in the Surrey Constabulary—I was with the last witness on December 29th, when we called at Pitt Street.

Cross-examined. I got a statement from Dr. Twort in writing (produced) on January 3rd, 1898—I served Dr. Twort with a subpœna to attend the inquest—I withdrew it because the Coroner told me he was not required.

Re-examined. I reported to the Coroner in substance what Dr. Twort told me—by the Coroner's instructions he was not summoned.

MR. MARSHALL HALL , with (MR. STEPHENSON), submitted there was not sufficient evidence to go to the JURY on the neglect of a responsible duty on the part of the prisoner towards the deceased to make her criminally liable; and that an affirmative case of negligence being the cause of death had not been sufficiently established. He referred to "The Queen v. Smith," 34 Law Journal (Magistrates' Cases), p. 163; 8 "Carrington and Payne;" and 3 "Russell on Crimes," 6th ed., and other cases in support of their contention. The COURT, however, held there was a case to go to the JURY.

Witnesses for the Defence.

DR. HUMPHREY DAVY EOLLESTON , M. A., M. D. (Camb.), F. R. C. P. I was formerly a fellow of St. John's College, Cambridge—I am senior assistant physician at St. George's Hospital, lecturer on pathology in the medical school there, and senior assistant physician at the Victoria Hospital for Children—my opinion on this matter was taken a week ago—I have read the evidence of the post-mortem examination given before the Coroner, the evidence of Dr, Luff and all the depositions at Bow Street, including the general evidence in the case—the roughness of the skin was compatible with quasi-starvation and with diabetes—I think in this case the condition of the skin would depend chiefly on the diabetes, rather than on the lung disease—I should expect it to be dry, scaly, and wrinkled—in diabetes there is a tendency to get a form of bronchial pneumonia which spreads along the bronchial tubes—if it affects one part of the lungs extensively it may become entirely consolidated; if the bronchial pneumonia is small in amount the areas of consolidation imitate very slightly the appearance of tuberculosis, and in some cases the microscope must be used to determine—the low caseous form of bronchial pneumonia, breaking down, is comparatively often met with in the terminal stage of diabetes—constipation is the ordinary and usual thing, but diarrhoea may appear towards the termination of the disease—two of the best recognised symptoms of diabetes are intense thirst and voidance of large quantities of urine, frequently during the night—the first may disappear ten days or a fortnight before death, and the second may diminish about a fortnight from the end—coma and lung complications are the two most frequent methods of death in diabetes, I have examined post mortem ten eases, and been present at nine, and have seen a good many cased during life—in my experience, the pulmonary disease is, perhaps, the

commoner cause of death; and then coma may occur on the top—in other cases death results from extreme exhaustion—when I speak of lung disease, I mean the destructive disease of the lung which occurs in diabetes, which has the appearance of pneumonia, but which is probably an acute tubercular pneumonia, specially liable to occur in diabetes—it is difficult to fix that appearance positively with the naked eye—the tubercles would be visible to the eye, but are often only distinguishable under the microscope, and are liable to be confounded with other tubercles—in a case of typical diabetes you would probably find parts of either one or both lungs solid, and of a yellowish-white colour, very apt to break down—it might occur in corresponding positions in both lungs—the breaking down produces a cavity—any person looking at the state of those lungs might form the opinion that it was croupous pneumonia, whereas it might possibly be tubercular pneumonia, and then it would be an ordinary complication of diabetes—there might be no naked eye positive evidence of tubercles—I think the appearances described are compatible with the view that this was a form of bronchial caseous pneumonia, in confluence with diabetes, and becoming permanent in the lower part of the lungs—croupous pneumonia frequently occurs in the cause of diabetes as well—I think the cavity by itself is unlikely to cause death—in the absence of any fibrous tissues round these caseous nodules, I should say there was no indication to regard them as being old—I think I am justified in drawing the conclusion that the cavity was recent, and that would rather strengthen my opinion that the caseating cavity was active—I have made over 1,150 post mortem examinations, generally—the nineteen I spoke of apply to diabetes—I agree with Dr. Luff that taking all the medical things in the case it is impossible to eliminate diabetes—I think there is a positive element in favour of its being the cause of death, and that is the hyperatrophy of the walls of the bladder—if the patient had not had sufficient to eat or drink the amount of water passed would have been diminished and that would lead to disuse of the bladder—if an excessive quantity of water was passed the bladder would have had more work to do, and would have got bigger to do its work, like other muscles, the bladder being a hollow muscle—I think on the evidence of the post mortem signs and death symptoms diabetes would be the more satisfactory cause of death—if it were shown that she got up for the purpose of passing water it would strengthen my opinion—ill-usage such as Edith Garrett has deposed to would be a factor—if the cavity and nodules were at the apex of the lung it would be in favour of its being ordinary tubercular disease, and would be consistent with the tubercular disease of the lung that accompanies diabetes; you do not find that tubercular disease elsewhere in the body as a rule—purpura is a rather rare accompaniment of diabetes—with purpura, it being a condition of the blood vessels in which the walls are brittle and the blood likely to leave the vessels, any slight force, such as grasping the arm in a friendly way will leave a mark—in her state of health the mere handling of the deceased for the purpose of lifting or washing her might possibly account for some of the bruises, especially on the arms, I could not pay it would—gangrene is a known combination in diabetes—the absence of subcutaneous fat is consistent with quasistarvation

and with diabetes—the muscular structures being small and pale is neutral, and so also is the healthy state of the peritoneum—the omentum generally contains a fair amount of fat—the fact that it was remarkably thin, almost transparent and devoid of fat is consistent with acute diabetes, I think—the small intestine being empty and collapsed points rather to quasi-starvation than to diabetes, but if the patient had but very little food during the last four days, and there was some diarrhoea, it would tend to explain the emptiness of the intestine—if she had an orange only on the Friday; then I should not expect necessarily to find any food in the small intestine—diabetes in an acute form may terminate fatally within six months with people of her age, and in that case the noticeable changes are most rapid—I should call acute diabetes cases which begin and end within six months; it is more rapid and fatal in young people—the fact of the colon being unusually small and contracted and practically empty is, on the face of it, in favour of quasi-starvation, but if the girl had diarrhoea it would tend to explain it—generally in diabetes the kidneys are larger, but not always—there is nothing against the diabetes theory in the described condition of the heart—the pancreas is not necessarily affected in diabetes—starvation is described as giving rise to atrophy of the pancreas; in quasi-starvation it would be diminished in size—from reading the account of the post mortem I consider the amount of change as described in the lungs was quite sufficient to bring about death in a person who was previously to that in a fair state of nutrition—if the tubercular disease was latent I think it would be less affected by bad food than if the tubercular disease were active, and voracious appetite occurs in diabetes—it is by no means rare in diabetes to get a change taking place in the nerves, especially, perhaps, in the nerves of the legs, which bring about a condition in which the person has a difficulty in moving the muscles of their limbs in a satisfactory way—I think it would be more pronounced as the disease advanced in virulence—the skin of a diabetic person is less tolerant of any injury than the skin of a healthy person—teeth may decay and drop out in diabetes—the voracious appetite may disappear just before death, and the amount of urine may diminish—on cessation of the menstrual flow I should lay no stress; it is consistent with diabetes—blood spitting may be latent in a diabetic subject—so far as I have any evidence to go upon I agree that it is impossible to eliminate diabetes as the cause of death.

Cross-examined. I did not say diabetes was the cause of death, or a contributing cause of death—I think the doctors who conducted the post mortem would be better judges than I of what was seen—my opinion is that the appearances as described were consistent with the view that they were the irregular caseous pneumonia, which is particularly likely to supervene in the course of diabetes, and which is probably of a tubercular nature—tubercular and croupous pneumonia are different, but they may under certain circumstances resemble each other—I think I could confound the one with the other from a naked-eye examination, under certain conditions—I think a competent and careful man might confound them in making a post mortem with some forms of tubercular pneumonia—I think the duration of this caseous cavity in association with the described condition

of the lower part of the lung indicates a late stage—the mere presence of an old cavity in the lung in a case of diabetes might show that previous to the onset of diabetes there had been consumption, but that I do not take to be the interpretation in this case—I should say the diabetes had lasted not less than perhaps 5 months, from the emaciation, not from the lungs—the leading symptoms of diabetes are, I think, thirst, the effort to appease it, and the passing of water in very large volume and at very short intervals—constipation is the ordinary accompaniment of diabetes—if it was diabetes, in this case at least, during some period of five months, there must have been thirst and passing of water in a marked degree—this was a very rapid case of diabetes—I should not say thirst would continue up to the very end—the disappearance of thirst 10 or 14 days before the end is not the rule—it might occur—so with the voidance of urine, it is not the rule, but it is rather commoner—the yellow colour of the nodules would be evidence of the consumption being less acute than if it were grey—I think the tubercles were comparatively recent because of the absence of fibrous tissue around them—they are not within a week or two if this is yellow—I put their possible age at 6 or 8 weeks—they are first grey and then yellow—if they were ordinary tubercles and there had been fibrous tissue they might have been any age—I consider the thinness of the omentum consistent with death from insufficient food—I do not think I can answer whether it is indicative of it—I should expect to find that condition if there had been long-continued deprivation of food, but it does not exclude diabetes—I do not think a case is recorded of the co-existence of this state of the omentum, colon, and intestines with death from diabetes—I think the thin and contracted condition of the colon is indicative of starvation—I should not call three motions in four days, one of them loose, diarrhoea—the absence of foeces is consistent with insufficient gestation of food—in diabetes you would expect, other things being equal, to find fences there—I should expect the walls of the bladder to become thin if starvation were accompanied by the deprivation of liquid, though the bladder might be contracted, and so its walls might appear to be thicker—the thickening in this case is consistent with slight inflammation, and cystitis is consistent with diabetes—inflammation of the bladder is a much more common cause—it is fairly common in diabetes—in about 40 per cent, of the cases—the cause ascribed by Dr. Osburn is quite consistent—inflammation of the bladder may be caused through exposure to cold reducing the resistance of the body and the bladder particularly, or from unclean habits accompanied by vermin, or a fall by a person with a full bladder—the more complete the deprivation of food the more marked would be the atrophy of the pancreas—the pancreas may be the last abdominal organ to atrophy—I do not feel I can express an expert opinion upon that—the kidneys are generally somewhat enlarged in diabetes—if purpura existed I should expect to find signs of it all over the body—I do not know that in most cases of diabetes the intestinal membrane is thickened—it is unusual on the diabetes theory that it was found in this case—I should rely on the weight of the liver rather than the size—in diabetes the heart is smaller than usual, except where there is some complication like disease of the arteries—I think in cases of acute diabetes it is generally atrophied if there are no complications that make it larger.

Re-examined. If the thirst ceased the voidance of water in excessive quantities would cease in relative proportions—diabetes, though perhaps commoner than it was, is not a common disease—when I expressed the opinion that it; was impossible to eliminate diabetes as the cause of death, the state of the colon, and intestines were present to my mind—it is quite possible for a person to live with one-half of the lung diseased and to keep fat inside—I do not say it is probable.

THE COUNTESS OF HARROWBY . I have known of the prisoner for a considerable time—I first came to know her through my cousin, Mr. Saurin, and his sister visiting her about fifteen years ago—I knew she had a paralysed daughter—I occasionally went to 14, Pitt Street—I saw Edith Garrett and Jane Popejoy there—I first saw Popejoy soon after she went there—in the autumn of 1896—she was tall and slight—I never thought she looked strong—I last saw her in May, 1897—I did not notice anything particular about her then—the prisoner spoke to me about her before, and in May, 1897, and since—she wrote to me in November—in or before May she said she considered the girl mentally weak—that she was very difficult to manage and unclean—I think she said that she ate more than the other girl—I am not sure whether she said that then or later—and that the food did not seem to do her good—I left London at the end of May—I came back when Mrs. Nicholls was at Southsea, and I did not see her then—I saw her next in the autumn—about the end of October—she said in the spring or the autumn that the girl did not wish to see a doctor—she said in the autumn that the girl took things from the larder, and that she picked up some crusts from the streets, and that she believed she was not happy at her home—this was mostly said in the autumn, but some may have been, in the spring—the prisoner frequently spoke of her troubles—in the autumn I think she said she had fallen in the park—I very often saw the prisoner with her daughter—she is devoted to her—I never saw the prisoner act unkindly towards her servants—I should never have thought from her conversation that she would be cruel.

Cross-examined. I left London at the end of October, and returned towards the end of December—I was not at Pitt Street between May and October—after May I was only there once or twice at the end of October—I did not see the girl after May to my knowledge—I believe she was in the house.

Re-examined. I knew the prisoner was in poor circumstances—I know for certain her income is £60 a year from a settled fund that was raised for her.

CATHERINE HARRINGTON . The prisoner, Mrs. Nicholls, is my illegitimate daughter—I have lived with her for many years—during the last eighteen years I have been acting as her housekeeper, and helping to take care of her house—I am generally known as housekeeper, and occasionally known as Nannie—I am eighty years of age—I remember Jane Pope oy coming to the service—she was slightly thin, and not very bright and intelligent—fairly, but slight and thin—I did the cooking for the house—I have done it so far as well as I could—I regulated the meals downstairs—with some exception I always had the same meals as the girls—Mrs. Nicholls's husband has been away for many years—he has turned up since this case has been going on—he has been away fifteen years—all

that time she has had charge of the invalid child—they had milk and sugar with their tea—when Jane first came she preferred dripping to butter, and, when there was any tea, to have it—there was no limit exactly to the bread and butter—I cut what they required, two or three slices each perhaps—I used my judgment to some extent—the dinner consisted of meat, vegetables, and pudding, and any meat there might be—there was fresh meat during the week—there was always a leg of mutton on the Sunday, and some other joint, perhaps a sirloin of beef or a leg of pork—the amount of meat on the Sunday was 7 or 8 lbs. perhaps—there was only the mistress and her daughter upstairs—the invalid always had everything minced and pounded—the rest of the mutton upstairs was made up in different ways, perhaps—beef for the invalid was not made every day, most likely on Saturday, and twice during the week—that which was left was used, sometimes the servant had it—the pudding was mostly suet—sometimes by chance when we had the roast meat we had suet—when it was a plain there was always a hot joint—on the Sunday they had vegetables generally—they very often had rice, and Janey asked me for it—there was a little tea, bread and butter, also dripping, no meat—there was a leaf supper, but I don't think they required much at that time of night—that was for the invalid herself—she did not need it as I did—have been all my life—the housekeeping book was not known to everybody until this case came on—Jane was never deprived of her meals—he sometimes had her meals upstairs, because the invalid was ill—I gave her what she could eat and what she required—Mrs. Nicholls had her meals in the room next to that in which Edith Garrett slept with her—I don't know what they did there—Edith Garrett did not always sleep there—it was not necessary—on the night before she left she came home in a very wet state—I gave her nothing but tea besides water—very often at Mrs. Nicholls's table—she was frequently drinking—I have seen her drink water, two or three pints at a time, and I told her not to do it—I did not think it was right for her to drink much water—there was a tap at the bottom, and possibly that could be got at—the water was always on—no one but Edith professed to go without sugar—she said it would spoil her complexion and her teeth—she was very hasty—some was very fond of sugar I know, or anything else—I don't know what there was that she would not eat—she had a very great appetite; still she was not dissatisfied with anything she had—I thought she was thin, but I did not think anything particular about it—I do not remember an occasion when Mrs. Nicholls used to shout down the stairs, or send a message that Jane was not to have any meal, and if she had I should have given it her the same—Jane did not care for Edith to be present when she had anything they did not get on very well together—Edith was very quarrelsome and very ordering, and very domineering—sometimes Jane resented, and sometimes she turned round—the invalid girl sometimes screamed, and Jane would scream for anything whether she was right or wrong—Edith spoke very unkindly to her at times—I never heard Mrs. Nicholls call her servants foxes and thieves—up to the time they went to Southsea Jane was not in very good health—she told me she always had cold in winter, but she said Mrs. Nicholls wanted her to see a doctor

—she did not wish to see a doctor, as she always had her cold in the winter—I also went to Southsea with a great nephew of mine, Mrs. Nicholls and the invalid—we all went together, and came back together—we had a little house there—we had exactly the same food there—it is not true to say that Jane was starved when at Southsea—her cough got a little better, but she was not right, and Mrs. Nicholls wished to have a doctor, which she would not—I did not see any noticeable difference in the girl, such as getting thinner—she was very absent and queer—sometimes she would let things fall, and she used to fall about the stairs—she always did that occasionally; but, of course, she got worse—she fell down not long before she left with an empty water-can—she slipped part of the way down on the kitchen stairs—I never heard Mrs. Nicholls say to her, "You are al ways screaming"—Mrs. Nicholls never hit her in my presence—I have heard Jane begging Mrs. Nicholls to forgive her for taking things, and she would never do it again—she took anything she could get to eat, and did not matter what it was—she has told me many times that she never was in any pain up to the last—I was never unkind to her—I never beat her—I don't believe that the invalid ever dragged her by the hair of her head—I never saw it—I can't see how it could be done—she had not a great deal of hair—the invalid had her hair done up—she was about eighteen—I have seen Jane write letters downstairs—I believe Edith Garrett also wrote letters, but I really did not care about what she did—they could write letters if they liked—Mrs. Nicholls sometimes got up late, but her health was very bad—she went to bed very early, perhaps about nine, or earlier—I have sometimes heard screams early in the morning from the front area—perhaps Jane has been taking things and Edith has been trying to take it from her, and there has been screaming in the passage before Mrs. Nicholls was out of bed—sometimes Jane was unkind to Edith, and Edith was very bitter to her—if Jane wanted a bath she could have it—there was plenty of water to wash herself with—she did very little work—she was supposed to do it, and to light the fire—she used to push the invalid in her chair—she was engaged for that, and to do anything—she never complained about it—she said she did not seem to have any strength in her legs—she had no idea that she was going to die—occasionally the invalid had fits of hysteria—they went on occasionally up to the present time, but not so bad—I kept the key of the passage—there was no larder—there was a small meat safe, and for some time after Jane came there was no key—and afterwards Mrs. Nicholls had a small key put to it—I don't remember anything about the key being found—I laid the key on the table, and it was not found for ten months—I had the same meals as the two girls—Jane had the same food as Edith—once when Jane fell down I asked her if she had hurt herself, and she said, No I hurt my face a little, not much"—I never saw Mrs. Nicholls strike Jane with the hammer—I saw something in the paper about it, but not in the house—Mrs. Nicholls and the invalid slept in the same room—Mrs. Nicholls was never away from her if she could help it—in September and November she was not well—she had sciatica, and her side was very bad—the two girls used to attend to the invalid with the chair, but Edith did it better—all the time Jane was there she never made any complaint about her or of her ill-treatment—Edith never complained—she was very hot.

Cross-examined. I never had a meal upstairs—breakfast I did and tea, but never meals, not as much as a cup of tea—we dealt at Harrod's Stores, but not for some time—I don't remember when we ceased to deal there—we chiefly got all the things there—there was certainly meat more than once a week—I am quite clear about that—certainly when it was required, which was very often—if there was not poultry or fish—between March, 1896, and October, 1897—meat was frequently got more than once a week—we did not also always send to Harrod's for it—we got it, perhaps, at Barker's or anywhere else—sometimes perhaps if mistress went out she would bring it in—I don't remember any particular bills, we don't keep all bills—(Counsel produced a number of weekly bills from harrod's and read them to the witness, showing meat supply once a week)—perhaps sometimes we had a great many rabbits and birds, and all kind of things—Jane used to scream a good deal—I think she could be heard by the neighbours—she could be heard all down the street—there was no reason for her screams—sometimes she screamed at Edith when she stopped her from taking things—I don't say that Jane stole the key of the safe, I only know I missed it and never found it—I did not see anything wrong with Jane's legs—she said there was something the matter—she used to walk very queer—I did not see her limp, but she always seemed to walk about and fall down even before she was not so well, before she went to Southsea—I never saw any scratches on her face—I saw a rash on it and between her fingers—I did not see anything wrong with her nose—if she had a black eye I suppose that was when she fell down the kitchen stairs with the can—I don't remember seeing the black eye—her head was dirty when Edith came—it was discovered then, but it must not have been clean when she first came—her hair had grown, but not much—I don't think I saw a champ in the girl during the first four months—she was slight and thin and had very thin arms—she had rather large hands, which made them look thinner—there was a chamber utensil in her room—I have gone into the girl's room—it was next to mine, and the door was always open—I believe the thing was cracked—it was not broken and thrown away—I did not know that they had to go down stairs for the purpose—perhaps they used the washing basin.

Re-examined. There is no water-closet at the top of the house, but there is on the first flight from the best bedroom—Jane could have come down to it—besides Hanod's Stores we dealt at Barker's and at the butcher's for fresh meat—we had bills sent in, and everything was paid for on delivery—the things were ordered from Harrod's and Barker's mostly on a Saturday—during the week the prisoner went out with the bath-chair and many times brought things home with her—plenty of things were sent to the house on other days besides Saturday, mostly from Barker's—if we wanted 1/4lb. rump steak we should send to Barker's, which is quite close, Harrod's is some little distance—(a number of weekly bills were put in)—we gave up Harrod's Stores at some time and took to Barker's—because it was nearer—but we were not always confined to that one shop—Jane's hair must have been dirty when she came—it was cleaned because Edith told me of it—Edith has repeatedly told me of what she could see on her night-dress and things, and I said "Put it on

the fire"—she was always having her hair cleaned—the prisoner and Edith did it once—Jane was not sent away because she used to pray "Forgive me and I won't do it again"—it was useless to tell her, because she would do the same thing again—she was always praying and begging to Mrs. Nicholls not to send her away, and saying she would not do it again—there was a fire in the parlour in the winter—I do not think there were any fire-irons in that room—there were fire-irons in the tad-room, or only a poker—we used to have the bread from Barker's, but for the last two or three months we bought it anywhere—when we came back from Southsea we had it from Barker's for a time—when we did not get it from there they used to go out and get it—but Barker's have a shop close by where they sell it over the counter and you pay for it—we had in about ten loaves a week—we don't have so much now—this is Barker's book with the bread account—(The average account was stated to be 2s. 6d. per week)—we had ten loaves, or something of that sort.

THOMAS JAMES HARRINGTON . I am 14—I am Mrs. Harrington's great nephew—about a fortnight after she and Mrs. Nicholls went to Southsea I joined them there—Edith Garrett, Jane Popejoy and the invalid were also there—I breakfasted with Popejoy and Garrett—we had bread and butter and tea and a relish, milk and sugar—we had eggs and now and then bacon—for dinner we had meat, vegetables, and pudding or apple tart or fruit tart—for tea we had bread and butter and tea—we used to have supper, a little relish, whatever was left from breakfast—Popejoy ate twice as much as anybody else—she seemed always hungry—she was not clean in her habits—her little finger on the right hand used to stick out when she wheeled the bath-chair—I have heard the prisoner tell Popejoy she must go as she was untidy in her habits—and she used to steal things from the larder, and things like that—Popejoy went directly on her hands and knees to the prisoner and implored her to keep her on—I never saw the prisoner strike Jane—Jane never complained to me about the prisoner—she always seemed to be so kind to her—at Southsea the prisoner thought Jane was ill and had a slight cold, and I was asked to fetch a doctor—then the invalid daughter started crying, and we were all sent out of the room—Jane said she would not have a doctor if we fetched him a hundred times.

Cross-examined. I am not aware that my father is the prisoner's brother—I once slept at Pitt Street, but it was after both Popejoy and Garrett had gone—I did not see Jane before I went to Southsea—I did not go to the house in London—I went to Southsea in my holiday time—she did not seem anything out of the way at Southsea—she was very dirty—that was out of the way—she had a dirty head, and that was out of the way—I meant she was not silly—there was no evidence of her mind being wrong—she did not seem particularly ill—she had a slight cough now and then, but it always went away in a day, she said—I was about a fortnight at Southsea—she only had the cough on her once—she would cough for a day or two and then it would go away—it would come back after a time of course—I could not say she was getting worse at Southsea—she always seemed all right while I was there, except for the slight cough—I saw no marks or scratches on her face, or anything in the shape of a burn—it was only during the fortnight that I saw her—my

father paid my fare to Southsea and back, but not my keep—the prisoner paid the rest.

MRS. HARRINGTON (re-examined by MR. HALL). The prisoner and the invalid ate a little bread—the invalid had also patent food—it was always the best bread we had—I think the rent and taxes were a good deal more than £50 a year—it was a heavily-rented house with heavy taxes.

BEVERLEY EDWARD SAURIN . I live at Princes Gate—I have known the prisoner twenty years, I should think—I knew her when her husband was there—a small sum was collected for her, of which I am trustee—I have been in her house when her husband was there—I got to know of her as in a distressed condition owing to an application she made to me to get some place for her husband—when I came back from America I happened to meet her and found she was no longer living with her husband, and was in great distress—the child was then three or four years old, so that would bring it to tenor twelve years ago—the first time I knew distinctly about her position was in December, 1884—I asked Lady Harrow by to interest herself in her—she interests herself in charitable matters—my sister took an interest in the prisoner—the fund of which I am trustee was the gift of a lady who is now deceased—it produces £60 a year, I think—that is not deducting income tax—the prisoner has no fixed income beyond that, but lives by the contributions of friends—I have given her money and have sent her game and poultry, and things of that kind—an old friend of hers has for many years given the prisoner carte blanche with some livery stables to have a carriage about once a week—when in town I was in the habit of going constantly to the house—it was principally her devotion to the child which induced me to help her—I know the names of others who have assisted her—I remember my sister getting Jane Popejoy for the prisoner—one of my servants met her at the station and took her to the prisoner's—I always considered the prisoner excessively kindhearted, particularly to the weak and defenceless—the evidence of Garrett is not consistent with the opinion I had formed of the prisoner—Garrett had an opportunity of speaking to me if she had any complaint to make—Garrett has spoken to me since this occurrence, but not before—I only saw the servants in the house, as I opening the door and letting me out—I did not know until the case came on of the relationship between Mrs. Harrington and the prisoner—the prisoner first spoke to me about Popejoy when I returned to town—after Popejoy had entered her service—that would be about the first fortnight of November, 1896, and she spoke about her up to May last year—I first saw Popejoy in November, 1896—she was then a nice pleasant girl, but very slight, and looked more like a town than a country girl—the prisoner first said about Popejoy that she was thin, and she did not think she was fitted to be a servant—about April or May last year she told me Garrett had twitted Popejoy about her inordinate appetite, and Popejoy had answered she could eat all day and eat all night, and still be hungry—I was told she had vermin about her—I have taken a great deal of interest in the prisoner, and have assisted her even up to the present moment.

Cross-examined. When I first saw Popejoy she was quite a clean-looking girl—I next saw her in November last year—I noticed a change

in her, but I cannot say what it was—I don't think my impression was that she had become very thin—what struck me particularly was that she wore such a curious close-fitting black bonnet—I did not see her in the house then—I met her out pushing the invalid in the chair and with the prisoner in the street close to the house—the other girl was not there—the rent of the house was originally assessed at £60, but I think it was lowered to £55—there were rates and taxes in addition.

HERBERT BEARING HAZLEWOOD . I am one of the firm of Hare and Company, solicitors—acting for the prisoner in this matter, on 3rd January I went to 14, Pitt Street, where I saw Edith Garrett—I went to take a statement from her—I took a rough proof from her—I went next day and repeated my questions—a week afterwards, about January 11th, I took a statement from the boy Harrington—these are bills found in the house from Barker's and Harrod's Stores—a list of them has been made.

ALFRED MITCHAM . I am assistant to Messrs. H. and R. Stiles, of 34, High Street, Kensington—upon instructions, I yesterday, about 2 o'clock, and with a good light, took these two photographs of 14, Pitt Street—one was taken from the other side of the street, with the door open; and the other from just inside the gateway—there is a window at the end of the passage—there is a curtain partly across the window, so far as I could see from the doorway.

WILLIE BISHOP . I am clerk to Hare and Company, the defendant's solicitors—I gave instructions for these photographs—I saw the window from the doorway—there was no curtain over it when I saw it one and a half hours after the photographs were taken—there is a corner where a table stands—the curtain was not more than an inch beyond the wall—standing in the street you can see through the passage up to the end, but you cannot see the table, because it is in the bend.

DR. OSBURN (re-examined). In a case of starvation the small gut would be reduced—I cannot say it would be extended in diabetes—a cow has three divisions of its stomach—the intestines are on the same plan—I cannot say if cows have diabetes.

GUILTY Seven Years' Penal Servitude.


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