Criminals

A BOOK OF REMARKABLE

CRIMINALS
BY H.B. IRVING

TO MY FRIEND E. V. LUCAS

"For violence and hurt tangle every man in
their toils, and for the most part fall on the head of

him from whom they had their rise; nor is it easy for
one who by his act breaks the common pact of
peace to lead a calm and quiet life."

Lucretius on the Nature of Things.

NALANDA DIGITAL LIBRARY

REGIONAL ENGINEERING COLLEGE
CALICUT, KERALA STATE, INDIA
A Book of Remarkable Criminals By H.B.Irving

Contents

Introduction ................................................3

The Life of Charles Peace ..........................49

The Career of Robert Butler.....................164
M. Derues ................................................216

Dr. Castaing ............................................261

Professor Webster...................................312
The Widow Gras ......................................401

Vitalis and Marie Boyer ...........................443

The Fenayrou Case ..................................467

Eyraud and Bompard ...............................500

EText Conversion By Nalanda Digital Library 2

A BOOK OF REMARKABLE CRIMINALS

Introduction
"The silent workings, and still more the

explosions, of human passion which bring to light
the darker elements of man's nature present to the

philosophical observer considerations of intrinsic
interest; while to the jurist, the study of human

nature and human character with its infinite
varieties, especially as affecting the connection

between motive and action, between irregular desire
or evil disposition and crime itself, is equally

indispensable and difficult."_Wills on Circumstantial

Evidence_.

I REMEMBER my father telling me that

sitting up late one night talking with Tennyson, the

latter remarked that he had not kept such late hours
since a recent visit of Jowett. On that occasion the

poet and the philosopher had talked together well

into the small hours of the morning. My father
asked Tennyson what was the subject of

conversation that had so engrossed them.

"Murders," replied Tennyson. It would have been

interesting to have heard Tennyson and Jowett
discussing such a theme. The fact is a tribute to the

interest that crime has for many men of intellect and
imagination. Indeed, how could it be otherwise?

Rob history and fiction of crime, how tame and
colourless would be the residue! We who are living

and enduring in the presence of one of the greatest
crimes on record, must realise that trying as this

period of the world's history is to those who are
passing through it, in the hands of some great

historian it may make very good reading for

posterity. Perhaps we may find some little

consolation in this fact, like the unhappy victims of

famous freebooters such as Jack Sheppard or

Charley Peace.
But do not let us flatter ourselves. Do not

let us, in all the pomp and circumstance of stately

history, blind ourselves to the fact that the crimes of
Frederick, or Napoleon, or their successors, are in

essence no different from those of Sheppard or

Peace. We must not imagine that the bad man who

happens to offend against those particular laws
which constitute the criminal code belongs to a

peculiar or atavistic type, that he is a man set apart
from the rest of his fellowmen by mental or physical

peculiarities. That comforting theory of the
Lombroso school has been exploded, and the

ordinary inmates of our prisons shown to be only in
a very slight degree below the average in mental

and physical fitness of the normal man, a difference
easily explained by the environment and conditions

in which the ordinary criminal is bred.

A certain English judge, asked as to the

general characteristics of the prisoners tried before

him, said: "They are just like other people; in fact, I

often think that, but for different opportunities and
other accidents, the prisoner and I might very well

be in one another's places." "Greed, love of

pleasure," writes a French judge, "lust, idleness,
anger, hatred, revenge, these are the chief causes

of crime. These passions and desires are shared by

rich and poor alike, by the educated and

uneducated. They are inherent in human nature;
the germ is in every man."

Convicts represent those wrongdoers who
have taken to a particular form of wrongdoing

punishable by law. Of the larger army of bad men
they represent a minority, who have been found out

in a peculiarly unsatisfactory kind of misconduct.
There are many men, some lying, unscrupulous,

dishonest, others cruel, selfish, vicious, who go
through life without ever doing anything that brings

them within the scope of the criminal code, for

whose offences the laws of society provide no

punishment. And so it is with some of those heroes

of history who have been made the theme of fine

writing by gifted historians.
Mr. Basil Thomson, the present head of the

Criminal Investigation Department, has said recently

that a great deal of crime is due to a spirit of
"perverse adventure" on the part of the criminal.

The same might be said with equal justice of the

exploits of Alexander the Great and half the

monarchs and conquerors of the world, whom we
are taught in our childhood's days to look up to as

shining examples of all that a great man should be.
Because crimes are played on a great stage instead

of a small, that is no reason why our moral
judgment should be suspended or silenced. Class

Machiavelli and Frederick the Great as a couple of
rascals fit to rank with Jonathan Wild, and we are

getting nearer a perception of what constitutes the
real criminal. "If," said Frederick the Great to his

minister, Radziwill, "there is anything to be gained

by it, we will be honest; if deception is necessary,

let us be cheats." These are the very sentiments of

Jonathan Wild.
Crime, broadly speaking, is the attempt by
fraud or violence to possess oneself of something

belonging to another, and as such the cases of it in

history are as clear as those dealt with in criminal
courts. Germany today has been guilty of a

perverse and criminal adventure, the outcome of

that false morality applied to historical transactions,

of which Carlyle's life of Frederick is a monumental
example. In that book we have a man whose

instincts in more ways than one were those of a
criminal, held up for our admiration, in the same

way that the same writer fell into dithyrambic praise
over a villain called Francia, a former President of

Paraguay. A most interesting work might be written
on the great criminals of history, and might do

something towards restoring that balance of moral
judgment in historical transactions, for the

perversion of which we are suffering today.

In the meantime we must be content to

study in the microcosm of ordinary crime those

instincts, selfish, greedy, brutal which, exploited

often by bad men in the socalled cause of nations,
have wrought such havoc to the happiness of

mankind. It is not too much to say that in every

man there dwell the seeds of crime; whether they
grow or are stifled in their growth by the good that

is in us is a chance mysteriously determined. As

children of nature we must not be surprised if our

instincts are not all that they should be. "In sober
truth," writes John Stuart Mill, "nearly all the things

for which men are hanged or imprisoned for doing to
one another are nature's everyday performances,"

and in another passage: "The course of natural
phenomena being replete with everything which

when committed by human beings is most worthy of
abhorrence, anyone who endeavoured in his actions

to imitate the natural course of things would be
universally seen and acknowledged to be the

wickedest of men."
Here is explanation enough for the presence

of evil in our natures, that instinct to destroy which

finds comparatively harmless expression in certain

forms of taking life, which is at its worst when we
fall to taking each other's. It is to check an

inconvenient form of the expression of this instinct

that we punish murderers with death. We must
carry the definition of murder a step farther before

we can count on peace or happiness??{in}??this

world. We must concentrate all our strength on??

fighting criminal nature, both in ourselves and in the
world around us. With the destructive forces of

nature we are waging a perpetual struggle for our
very existence. Why dissipate our strength by

fighting among ourselves? By enlarging our
conception of crime we move towards that end.

What is anti social, whether it be written in the
pages of the historian or those of the Newgate

Calendar, must in the future be regarded with equal
abhorrence and subjected to equally sure

punishment. Every professor of history should now

and then climb down from the giddy heights of

Thucydides and Gibbon and restore his moral

balance by comparing the acts of some of his

puppets with those of their less fortunate brethren
who have dangled at the end of a rope. If this war

is to mean anything to posterity, the crime against

humanity must be judged in the future by the same
rigid standard as the crime against the person.

The individual criminals whose careers are

given in this book have been chosen from among

their fellows for their preeminence in character or
achievement. Some of the cases, such as Butler,

Castaing and Holmes, are new to most English
readers.

Charles Peace is the outstanding popular
figure in nineteenth century crime. He is the type of

the professional criminal who makes crime a
business and sets about it methodically and

persistently to the end. Here is a man, possessing
many of those qualities which go to make the

successful man of action in all walks of life, driven

by circumstances to squander them on a criminal

career. Yet it is a curious circumstance that this

determined and ruthless burglar should have

suffered for what would be classed in France as a
"crime passionel." There is more than a possibility

that a French jury would have ?? ing circumstances

in the murder of Dyson. ?? Peace is only another
instance of the wreck ?? ong man's career by his

passion for a ??

?? bert Butler we have the criminal by

conviction, a conviction which finds the ground
ready prepared for its growth in the natural laziness

and idleness of the man's disposition. The desire to
acquire things by a short cut, without taking the

trouble to work for them honestly, is perhaps the
most fruitful of all sources of crime. Butler, a bit of

a pedant, is pleased to justify his conduct by reason
and philosophyhe finds in the acts of unscrupulous

monarchs an analogy to his own attitude towards
life. What is good enough for Caesar Borgia is good

enough for Robert Butler. Like Borgia he comes to

grief; criminals succeed and criminals fail. In the

case of historical criminals their crimes are open; we

can estimate the successes and failures. With

ordinary criminals, we know only those who fail.
The successful, the real geniuses in crime, those

whose guilt remains undiscovered, are for the most

part unknown to us. Occasionally in society a man
or woman is pointed out as having once murdered

somebody or other, and at times, no doubt, with

truth. But the matter can only be referred to

clandestinely; they are gazed at with awe or
curiosity, mute witnesses to their own achievement.

Some years ago James Payn, the novelist, hazarded
the reckoning that one person in every five hundred

was an undiscovered murderer. This gives us all a
hope, almost a certainty, that we may reckon one

such person at least among our acquaintances.[1]
[1] The author was one of three men

discussing this subject in a London club. They were
able to name six persons of their various

acquaintance who were, or had been, suspected of

being successful murderers.

Derues is remarkable for the extent of his

social ambition, the daring and impudent character

of his attempts to gratify it, the skill, the
consummate hypocrisy with which he played on the

credulity of honest folk, and his flagrant employment

of that weapon known and recognised today in the
most exalted spheres by the expressive name of

"bluff." He is remarkable, too, for his mirth and high

spirits, his genial buffoonery; the merry murderer is

a rare bird.
Professor Webster belongs to that order of

criminal of which Eugene Aram and the Rev. John
Selby Watson are our English examples, men of

culture and studious habits who suddenly burst on
the astonished gaze of their fellowmen as

murderers. The exact process of mind by which
these hitherto harmless citizens are converted into

assassins is to a great extent hidden from us.
Perhaps Webster's case is the clearest of the

three. Here we have a selfish, selfindulgent and

spendthrift gentleman who has landed himself in

serious financial embarrassment, seeking by murder

to escape from an importunate and relentless

creditor. He has not, apparently, the moral courage
to face the consequences of his own weakness. He

forgets the happiness of his home, the love of those

dear to him, in the desire to free himself from a
disgrace insignificent{sic} in comparison with that

entailed by committing the highest of all crimes.

One would wish to believe that Webster's deed was

unpremeditated, the result of a sudden gust of
passion caused by his victim's acrimonious pursuit of

his debtor. But there are circumstances in the case
which tell powerfully against such a view. The

character of the murderer seems curiously
contradictory; both cunning and simplicity mark his

proceedings; he makes a determined attempt to
escape from the horrors of his situation and shows

at the same time a curious insensibility to its real
gravity. Webster was a man of refined tastes and

seemingly gentle character, loved by those near to

him, well liked by his friends.

The mystery that surrounds the real

character of Eugene Aram is greater, and we

possess little or no means of solving it. From what
motive this silent, arrogant man, despising his

ineffectual wife, this reserved and moody scholar

stooped to fraud and murder the facts of the case
help us little to determine. Was it the hope of

leaving the narrow surroundings of Knaresborough,

his tiresome belongings, his own poor way of life,

and seeking a wider field for the exercise of those
gifts of scholarship which he undoubtedly possessed

that drove him to commit fraud in company with
Clark and Houseman, and then, with the help of the

latter, murder the unsuspecting Clark? The fact of
his humble origin makes his association with so low

a ruffian as Houseman the less remarkable. Vanity
in all probability played a considerable part in

Aram's disposition. He would seem to have thought
himself a superior person, above the laws that bind

ordinary men. He showed at the end no

consciousness of his guilt. Being something of a

philosopher, he had no doubt constructed for himself

a philosophy of life which served to justify his own

actions. He was a deist, believing in "one almighty
Being the God of Nature," to whom he

recommended himself at the last in the event of his

"having done amiss." He emphasised the fact that
his life had been unpolluted and his morals

irreproachable. But his views as to the murder of

Clark he left unexpressed. He suggested as

justification of it that Clark had carried on an
intrigue with his neglected wife, but he never urged

this circumstance in his defence, and beyond his
own statement there is no evidence of such a

connection.
The Revd. John Selby Watson, headmaster

of the Stockwell Grammar School, at the age of
sixtyfive killed his wife in his library one Sunday

afternoon. Things had been going badly with the
unfortunate man. After more than twentyfive years'

service as headmaster of the school at a meagre

salary of L400 a year, he was about to be dismissed;

the number of scholars had been declining steadily

and a change in the headmastership thought

necessary; there was no suggestion of his receiving
any kind of pension. The future for a man of his

years was dark enough. The author of several

learned books, painstaking, scholarly, dull, he could
hope to make but little money from literary work.

Under a cold, reserved and silent exterior, Selby

Watson concealed a violence of temper which he

sought diligently to repress. His wife's temper was
none of the best. Worried, depressed, hopeless of

his future, he in all probability killed his wife in a
sudden access of rage, provoked by some taunt or

reproach on her part, and then, instead of calling in
a policeman and telling him what he had done,

made clumsy and ineffectual efforts to conceal his
crime. Medical opinion was divided as to his mental

condition. Those doctors called for the prosecution
could find no trace of insanity about him, those

called for the defence said that he was suffering

from melancholia. The unhappy man would appear

hardly to have realised the gravity of his situation.

To a friend who visited him in prison he said:

"Here's a man who can write Latin, which the Bishop
of Winchester would commend, shut up in a place

like this." Coming from a man who had spent all his
life buried in books and knowing little of the world
the remark is not so greatly to be wondered at.

Profound scholars are apt to be impatient of

mundane things. Professor Webster showed a

similar want of appreciation of the circumstances of
a person charged with wilful murder. Selby Watson

was convicted of murder and sentenced to death.
The sentence was afterwards commuted to one of

penal servitude for life, the Home Secretary of the
day showing by his decision that, though not

satisfied of the prisoner's insanity, he recognised
certain extenuating circumstances in his guilt.[2]

[2] Selby Watson was tried at the Central
Criminal Court January, 1872.

In Castaing much ingenuity is shown in the

conception of the crime, but the man is weak and

timid; he is not the stuff of which the great criminal

is made; Holmes is cast in the true mould of the

instinctive murderer. Castaing is a man of
sensibility, capable of domestic affection; Holmes

completely insensible to all feelings of humanity.

Taking life is a mere incident in the accomplishment
of his schemes; men, women and children are

sacrificed with equal mercilessness to the necessary

end. A consummate liar and hypocrite, he has that

strange power of fascination over others, women in
particular, which is often independent altogether of

moral or even physical attractiveness. We are
accustomed to look for a certain vastness, grandeur

of scale in the achievements of America. A study of
American crime will show that it does not disappoint

us in this expectation. The extent and audacity of
the crimes of Holmes are proof of it.

To find a counterpart in imaginative
literature to the complete criminal of the Holmes

type we must turn to the pages of Shakespeare. In

the number of his victims, the cruelty and

insensibility with which he attains his ends, his

unblushing hypocrisy, the fascination he can

exercise at will over others, the Richard III. of
Shakespeare shows how clearly the poet understood

the instinctive criminal of real life. The Richard of

history was no doubt less instinctively and
deliberately an assassin than the Richard of

Shakespeare. In the former we can trace the

gradual temptation to crime to which circumstances

provoke him. The murder of the Princes, if, as one
writer contends, it was not the work of Henry VII.in

which case that monarch deserves to be hailed as
one of the most consummate criminals that ever

breathed and the worthy father of a criminal sonwas
no doubt forced to a certain extent on Richard by

the exigencies of his situation, one of those crimes
to which bad men are driven in order to secure the

fruits of other crimes. But the Richard of
Shakespeare is no child of circumstance. He

espouses deliberately a career of crime, as

deliberately as Peace or Holmes or Butler; he sets

out "determined to prove a villain," to be "subtle,

false and treacherous," to employ to gain his ends

"stern murder in the dir'st degree." The character is
sometimes criticised as being overdrawn and unreal.

It may not be true to the Richard of history, but it is

very true to crime, and to the historical criminal of
the Borgian or Prussian type, in which fraud and

violence are made part of a deliberate system of so

called statecraft.

Shakespeare got nearer to what we may
term the domestic as opposed to the political

criminal when he created Iago. In their envy and
dislike of their fellowmen, their contempt for

humanity in general, their callousness to the
ordinary sympathies of human nature, Robert

Butler, Lacenaire, Ruloff are witnesses to the poet's
fidelity to criminal character in his drawing of the

Ancient. But there is a weakness in the character of
Iago regarded as a purely instinctive and malignant

criminal; indeed it is a weakness in the consistency

of the play. On two occasions Iago states explicitly

that Othello is more than suspected of having

committed adultery with his wife, Emilia, and that

therefore he has a strong and justifiable motive for
being revenged on the Moor. The thought of it he

describes as "gnawing his inwards." Emilia's

conversation with Desdemona in the last act lends
some colour to the correctness of Iago's belief. If

this belief be wellfounded it must greatly modify his

character as a purely wanton and mischievous

criminal, a supreme villain, and lower
correspondingly the character of Othello as an

honourable and highminded man. If it be a morbid
suspicion, having no ground in fact, a mental

obsession, then Iago becomes abnormal and
consequently more or less irre

sponsible. But this suggestion of Emilia's
faithlessness made in the early part of the play is

never followed up by the dramatist, and the
spectator is left in complete uncertainty as to

whether there be any truth or not in Iago's

suspicion. If Othello has played his Ancient false,

that is an extenuating circumstance in the otherwise

extraordinary guilt of Iago, and would no doubt be

accorded to him as such, were he on trial before a
French jury.

The most successful, and therefore perhaps

the greatest, criminal in Shakespeare is King
Claudius of Denmark. His murder of his brother by

pouring a deadly poison into his ear while sleeping,

is so skilfully perpetrated as to leave no suspicion of

foul play. But for a supernatural intervention, a
contingency against which no murderer could be

expected to have provided, the crime of Claudius
would never have been discovered. Smiling, jovial,

genial as M. Derues or Dr. Palmer, King Claudius
might have gone down to his grave in peace as the

bluff hearty man of action, while his introspective
nephew would in all probability have ended his days

in the cloister, regarded with amiable contempt by
his bustling fellowmen. How Claudius got over the

great dif
ficulty of all poisoners, that of procuring the

necessary poison without detection, we are not told;

by what means he distilled the "juice of cursed

hebenon"; how the strange appearance of the late
King's body, which "an instant tetter" had barked

about with "vile and loathsome crust," was explained

to the multitude we are left to imagine. There is no
real evidence to show that Queen Gertrude was her

lover's accomplice in her husband's murder. If that

had been so, she would no doubt have been of

considerable assistance to Claudius in the
preparation of the crime. But in the absence of

more definite proof we must assume Claudius'
murder of his brother to have been a solitary

achievement, skilfully carried out by one whose
genial good fellowship and convivial habits gave the

lie to any suggestion of criminality. Whatever may
have been his inward feelings of remorse or

selfreproach, Claudius masked them successfully
from the eyes of all. Hamlet's instinctive dislike of

his uncle was not shared by the members of the

Danish court. The "witchcraft of his wit," his

"traitorous gifts," were powerful aids to Claudius,

not only in the seduction of his sisterinlaw, but the

perpetration of secret murder.
The case of the murder of King Duncan of

Scotland by Macbeth and his wife belongs to a

different class of crime. It is a striking example of
dual crime, four instances of which are given

towards the end of this book. An Italian advocate,

Scipio Sighele, has devoted a monograph to the

subject of dual crime, in which he examines a
number of cases in which two persons have jointly

committed heinous crimes.[3] He finds that in
couples of this kind there is usually an incubus and a

succubus, the one who suggests the crime, the
other on whom the suggestion works until he or she

becomes the accomplice or instrument of the
stronger will; "the one playing the Mephistophelian

part of tempter, preaching evil, urging to crime, the
other allowing himself to be overcome by his evil

genius." In some cases these two roles are clearly

differentiated; it is easy, as in the case of Iago and

Othello, Cassius and Brutus, to say who prompted

the crime. In others the guilt seems equally divided

and the original suggestion of crime to spring from a
mutual tendency towards the adoption of such an

expedient. In Macbeth and his wife we have a

perfect instance of the latter class. No sooner have
the witches prophesied that Macbeth shall be a king

than the "horrid image" of the suggestion to murder

Duncan presents itself to his mind, and, on returning

to his wife, he answers her question as to when
Duncan is to leave their house by the significant

remark, "Tomorrowas he proposes." To Lady
Macbeth from the moment she has received her

husband's letter telling of the prophecy of the weird
sisters, murder occurs as a means of accomplishing

their prediction. In the minds of Macbeth and his
wife the suggestion of murder is originally an

autosuggestion, coming to them independently of
each other as soon as they learn from the witches

that Macbeth is one day to be a king. To Banquo a

somewhat similar intimation is given, but no foul

thought of crime suggests itself for an instant to his

loyal nature. What Macbeth and his wife lack at first

as thoroughgoing murderers is that complete
insensibility to taking human life that marks the

really ruthless assassin. Lady Macbeth has the

stronger will of the two for the commission of the
deed. It is doubtful whether without her help

Macbeth would ever have undertaken it. But even

she, when her husband hesitates to strike, cannot

bring herself to murder the aged Duncan with her
own hands because of his resemblance as he sleeps

to her father. It is only after a deal of boggling and
at serious risk of untimely interruption that the two

contrive to do the murder, and plaster with blood
the "surfeited grooms." In thus putting suspicion on

the servants of Duncan the assassins cunningly
avert suspicion from themselves, and Macbeth's

killing of the unfortunate men in seeming indigna
tion at the discovery of their crime is a masterstroke

of ingenuity. "Who," he asks in a splendid burst of

feigned horror, "can be wise, amazed, temperate

and furious, loyal and natural in a moment?" At the

same time Lady Macbeth affects to swoon away in

the presence of so awful a crime. For the time all
suspicion of guilt, except in the mind of Banquo, is

averted from the real murderers. But, like so many

criminals, Macbeth finds it impossible to rest on his
first success in crime. His sensibility grows dulled;

he "forgets the taste of fear"; the murder of Banquo

and his son is diabolically planned, and that is soon

followed by the outrageous slaughter of the wife and
children of Macduff. Ferri, the Italian writer on

crime, describes the psychical condition favourable
to the commission of murder as an absence of both

moral repugnance to the crime itself and the fear of
the consequences following it. In the murder of

Duncan, it is the first of these two states of mind to
which Macbeth and his wife have only partially

attained. The moral repugnance stronger in the
man has not been wholly lost by the woman. But as

soon as the crime is successfully accomplished, this

repugnance begins to wear off until the King and

Queen are able calmly and deliberately to

contemplate those further crimes necessary to their

peace of mind. But now Macbeth, at first the more
compunctious of the two, has become the more

ruthless; the germ of crime, developed by

suggestion, has spread through his whole being; he
has begun to acquire that indifference to human

suffering with which Richard III. and Iago were

gifted from the first. In both Macbeth and Lady

Macbeth the germ of crime was latent; they wanted
only favourable circumstances to convert them into

one of those criminal couples who are the more
dangerous for the fact that the temptation to crime

has come to each spontaneously and grown and
been fostered by mutual understanding, an elective

affinity for evil. Such couples are frequent in the
history of crime. Eyraud and Bompard, Mr. and Mrs.

Manning, Burke and Hare, the Peltzer brothers,
Barre and Lebiez, are instances of those

collaborations in crime which find their counterpart

in history, literature, drama and business.

Antoninus and Aurelius, Ferdinand and Isabella, the

De Goncourt brothers, Besant and Rice, Gilbert and

Sullivan, Swan and Edgar leap to the memory.
[3] "Le Crime a Deux," by Scipio Sighele

(translated from the Italian), Lyons, 1893.

In the cases of Eyraud and Bompard, both
man and woman are idle, vicious criminals by

instinct. They come together, lead an abandoned

life, sinking lower and lower in moral degradation.

In the hour of need, crime presents itself as a simple
expedient for which neither of them has any natural

aversion. The repugnance to evil, if they ever felt it,
has long since disappeared from their natures. The

man is serious, the woman frivolous, but the
criminal tendency in both cases is the same; each

performs his or her part in the crime with
characteristic aptitude. Mrs. Manning was a

creature of much firmer character than her husband,
a woman of strong passions, a redoubtable

murderess. Without her dominating force Manning

might never have committed murder. But he was a

criminal before the crime, more than suspected as a

railway official of complicity in a considerable train

robbery; in his case the suggestion of murder
involved only the taking of a step farther in a

criminal career. Manning suffered from nerves

almost as badly as Macbeth; after the deed he
sought to drown the prickings of terror and remorse

by heavy drinking Mrs. Manning was never troubled

with any feelings of this kind; after the murder of

O'Connor the gratification of her sexual passion
seemed uppermost in her mind; and she met the

consequences of her crime fearlessly. Burke and
Hare were a couple of ruffians, tempted by what

must have seemed almost fabulous wealth to men of
their wretched poverty to commit a series of cruel

murders. Hare, with his queer, Mephistophelian
countenance, was the wickeder of the two. Burke

became haunted as time went on and flew to drink
to banish horror, but Hare would seem to have been

free from such "compunctious visitings of Nature."

He kept his head and turned King's evidence.

In the case of the Peltzer brothers we have a

man who is of good social position, falling

desperately in love with the wife of a successful
barrister. The wife, though unhappy in her domestic

life, refuses to become her lover's mistress;

marriage is the only way to secure her. So Armand
Peltzer plots to murder the husband. For this

purpose he calls in the help of a brother, a

ne'erdowell, who has left his native country under a

cloud. He sends for this dubious person to Europe,
and there between them they plan the murder of the

inconvenient husband. Though the idea of the crime
comes from the one brother, the other receives the

idea without repugnance and enters wholeheartedly
into the commission of the murder. The ascendency

of the one is evident, but he knows his man, is sure
that he will have no difficulty in securing the other's

cooperation in his felonious purpose. Armand
Peltzer should have lived in the Italy of the

Renaissance.
The crime was cunningly devised, and

methodically and successfully accomplished. Only

an overanxiety to secure the fruits of it led to its

detection. Barre and Lebiez are a perfect criminal
couple, both young men of good education, trained

to better things, but the one idle, greedy and

vicious, the other cynical, indifferent, inclined at
best to a lazy sentimentalism. Barre is a needy

stockbroker at the end of his tether, desperate to

find an expedient for raising the wind, Lebiez a

medical student who writes morbid verses to a skull
and lectures on Darwinism. To Barre belongs the

original suggestion to murder an old woman who
sells milk and is reputed to have savings. But his

friend and former schoolfellow, Lebiez, accepts the
suggestion placidly, and reconciles himself to the

murder of an unnecessary old woman by the same
argument as that used by Raskolnikoff in "Crime and

Punishment" to justify the killing of his victim.
In all the cases here quoted the couples are

essentially criminal couples. From whichever of the

two comes the first suggestion of crime, it falls on

soil already prepared to receive it; the response to

the suggestion is immediate. In degree of guilt

there is little or nothing to choose between them.
But the more interesting instances of dual crime are

those in which one innocent hitherto of crime, to

whom it is morally repugnant, is persuaded by
another to the commission of a criminal act, as

Cassius persuades Brutus; Iago, Othello. Cassius is

a criminal by instinct. Placed in a social position

which removes him from the temptation to ordinary
crime, circumstances combine in his case to bring

out the criminal tendency and give it free play in the
projected murder of Caesar. Sour, envious,

unscrupulous, the suggestion to kill Caesar under
the guise of the public weal is in reality a

gratification to Cassius of his own ignoble instincts,
and the deliberate unscrupulousness with which he

seeks to corrupt the honourable metal, seduce the
noble mind of his friend, is typical of the man's

innate dishonesty. Cassius belongs to that

particular type of the envious nature which

Shakespeare is fond of exemplifying with more or

less degree of villainy in such characters as Iago,

Edmund, and Don John, of which Robert Butler,
whose career is given in this book, is a living

instance. Cassius on public grounds tempts Brutus

to crime as subtly as on private grounds Iago
tempts Othello, and with something of the same

malicious satisfaction; the soliloquy of Cassius at the

end of the second scene of the first act is that of a

bad man and a false friend. Indeed, the quarrel
between Brutus and Cassius after the murder of

Caesar loses much of its sincerity and pathos unless
we can forget for the moment the real character of

Cassius. But the interest in the cases of Cassius and
Brutus, Iago and Othello, lies not so much in the

nature of the prompter of the crime. The instances
in which an honest, honourable man is by force of

another's suggestion converted into a criminal are
psychologically remarkable. It is to be expected

that we should look in the annals of real crime for

confirmation of the truth to life of stories such as

these, told in fiction or drama.

The strongest influence, under which the

naturally noncriminal person may be tempted in
violation of instinct and better nature to the

commission of a crime, is that of love or passion.

Examples of this kind are frequent in the annals of
crime. There is none more striking than that of the

Widow Gras and Natalis Gaudry. Here a man,

brave, honest, of hitherto irreproachable character,

is tempted by a woman to commit the most cruel
and infamous of crimes. At first he repels the

suggestion; at last, when his senses have been
excited, his passion inflamed by the cunning of the

woman, as the jealous passion of Othello is played
on and excited by Iago, the patriotism of Brutus

artfully exploited by Cassius, he yields to the
repeated solicitation and does a deed in every way

repugnant to his normal character. Nothing seems
so blinding in its effect on the moral sense as

passion. It obscures all sense of humour,

proportion, congruity; the murder of the man or

woman who stands in the way of its full enjoyment

becomes an act of inverted justice to the

perpetrators; they reconcile themselves to it by the
most perverse reasoning until they come to regard it

as an act, in which they may justifiably invoke the

help of God; eroticism and religion are often
jumbled up together in this strange medley of

conflicting emotions.

A woman, urging her lover to the murder of

her husband, writes of the roses that are to deck the
path of the lovers as soon as the crime is

accomplished; she sends him flowers and in the
same letter asks if he has got the necessary

cartridges. Her husband has been ill; she hopes
that it is God helping them to the desired end; she

burns a candle on the altar of a saint for the success
of their murderous plan.[4] A jealous husband

setting out to kill his wife carries in his pockets,
beside a knife and a service revolver, a rosary, a

medal of the Virgin and a holy image.[5] Marie

Boyer in the blindness of her passion and jealousy

believes God to be helping her to get rid of her

mother.
[4] Case of Garnier and the woman Aveline,
1884. [5] Case of the Comte de Cornulier: "Un An

de Justice," Henri Varennes, 1901.

A lover persuades the wife to get rid of her
husband. For a whole year he instils the poison into

her soul until she can struggle no longer against the

obsession; he offers to do the deed, but she writes

that she would rather suffer all the risks and
consequences herself. "How many times," she

writes, "have I wished to go away, leave home, but
it meant leaving my children, losing them for ever . .

that made my lover jealous, he believed that I could
not bring myself to leave my husband. But if my

husband were out of the way then I would keep my
children, and my lover would see in my crime a

striking proof of my devotion." A curious farrago of
slavish passion, motherly love and murder.[6]

[6] Case of Madame Weiss and the engineer

Roques. If I may be permitted the reference, there

is an account of this case and that of Barre and

Lebiez in my book "French Criminals of the

Nineteenth Century."
There are some women such as Marie Boyer

and Gabrielle Fenayrou, who may be described as

passively criminal, chameleonlike, taking colour from
their surroundings. By the force of a man's

influence they commit a dreadful crime, in the one

instance it is matricide, in the other the murder of a

former lover, but neither of the women is profoundly
vicious or criminal in her instincts. In prison they

become exemplary, their crime a thing of the past.
Gabrielle Fenayrou during her imprisonment,

having won the confidence of the religious sisters in
charge of the convicts, is appointed head of one of

the workshops. Marie Boyer is so contrite,
exemplary in her behaviour that she is released

after fifteen years' imprisonment. In some ways,
perhaps, these malleable types of women, "soft

paste" as one authority has described them,

"effacees" in the words of another, are the most

dangerous material of all for the commission of

crime, their obedience is so complete, so cold and

relentless.
There are cases into which no element of

passion enters, in which one will stronger than the

other can so influence, so dominate the weaker as
to persuade the individual against his or her better

inclination to an act of crime, just as in the relations

of ordinary life we see a man or woman led and

controlled for good or ill by one stronger than
themselves. There is no more extraordinary

instance of this than the case of Catherine Hayes,
immortalised by Thackeray, which occurred as long

ago as the year 1726. This singular woman by her
artful insinuations, by representing her husband as

an atheist and a murderer, persuaded a young man
of the name of Wood, of hitherto exemplary

character, to assist her in murdering him. It was
unquestionably the sinister influence of Captain

Cranstoun that later in the same century persuaded

the respectable Miss Mary Blandy to the murder of

her father. The assassin of an old woman in Paris

recounts thus the arguments used by his mistress to

induce him to commit the crime: "She began by
telling me about the money and jewellery in the old

woman's possession which could no longer be of any

use to her"the argument of Raskolnikoff"I resisted,
but next day she began again, pointing out that one
killed people in war, which was not considered a

crime, and therefore one should not be afraid to kill

a miserable old woman. I urged that the old woman
had done us no harm, and that I did not see why

one should kill her; she reproached me for my
weakness and said that, had she been strong

enough, she would soon have done this abominable
deed herself. `God,' she added, `will forgive us

because He knows how poor we are.'" When he
came to do the murder, this determined woman

plied her lover with brandy and put rouge on his
cheeks lest his pallor should betray him.[7]

[7] Case of Albert and the woman Lavoitte,

Paris, 1877.

There are occasions when those feelings of

compunction which troubled Macbeth and his wife

are wellnigh proof against the utmost powers of
suggestion, or, as in the case of Hubert and Prince

Arthur, compel the criminal to desist from his

enterprise.
A man desires to get rid of his father and

motherinlaw. By means of threats, reproaches and

inducements he persuades another man to commit

the crime. Taking a gun, the latter sets out to do
the deed; but he realises the heinousness of it and

turns back. "The next day," he says, "at four o'clock
in the morning I started again. I passed the village

church. At the sight of the place where I had
celebrated my first communion I was filled with

remorse. I knelt down and prayed to God to make
me good. But some unknown force urged me to the

crime. I started againten times I turned back, but
the more I hesitated the stronger was the desire to

go on." At length the faltering assassin arrived at

the house, and in his painful anxiety of mind shot a

servant instead of the intended victims.[8]

[8] Case of Porcher and Hardouin cited in

Despine. "Psychologie Naturelle."
In a town in Austria there dwelt a happy

and contented married couple, poor and

hardworking. A charming young lady, a rich relation
and an orphan, comes to live with them. She brings

to their modest home wealth and comfort. But as

time goes on, it is likely that the young lady will fall

in love and marry. What then? Her hosts will have
to return to their original poverty. The idea of how

to secure to himself the advantages of his young
kinswoman's fortune takes possession of the

husband's mind. He revolves all manner of means,
and gradually murder presents itself as the only

way. The horrid suggestion fixes itself in his mind,
and at last he communicates it to his wife. At first

she resists, then yields to the temptation. The plan
is ingenious. The wife is to disappear to America

and be given out as dead. The husband will then

marry his attractive kinswoman, persuade her to

make a will in his favour, poison her and, the

fortune secured, rejoin his wife. As if to help this

cruel plan, the young lady has developed a
sentimental affection for her relative. The wife goes

to America, the husband marries the young lady.

He commences to poison her, but, in the presence of
her youth, beauty and affection for him, relents,

hesitates to commit a possibly unnecessary crime.

He decides to forget and ignore utterly his wife who

is waiting patiently in America. A year passes. The
expectant wife gets no sign of her husband's

existence. She comes back to Europe, visits under a
false name the town in which her faithless husband

and his bride are living, discovers the truth and
divulges the intended crime to the authorities. A

sentence of penal servitude for life rewards this
perfidious criminal.[9]

[9] Case of the Scheffer couple at Linz,
cited by Sighele.

Derues said to a man who was looking at a

picture in the Palais de Justice: "Why study copies

of Nature when you can look at such a remarkable

original as I?" A judge once told the present writer

that he did not go often to the theatre because none
of the dramas which he saw on the stage, seemed to

him equal in in
tensity to those of real life which came
before him in the course of his duties. The saying

that truth is stranger than fiction applies more

forcibly to crime than to anything else. But the

ordinary man and woman prefer to take their crime
romanticised, as it is administered to them in novel

or play. The true stories told in this book represent
the raw material from which works of art have been

and may be yet created. The murder of Mr. Arden
of Faversham inspired an Elizabethan tragedy

attributed by some critics to Shakespeare. The
Peltzer trial helped to inspire Paul Bourget's

remarkable novel, "Andre Cornelis." To Italian crime
we owe Shelley's "Cenci" and Browning's "The Ring

and the Book." Mrs. Manning was the original of the

maid Hortense in "Bleak House." Jonathan Wild,

Eugene Aram, Deacon Brodie, Thomas Griffiths

Wainewright have all been made the heroes of

books or plays of varying merit. But it is not only in
its stories that crime has served to inspire romance.

In the investigation of crime, especially on the

broader lines of Continental procedure, we can track
to the source the springs of conduct and character,

and come near to solving as far as is humanly

possible the mystery of human motive. There is

always and must be in every crime a terra incognita
which, unless we could enter into the very soul of a

man, we cannot hope to reach. Thus far may we
go, no farther. It is rarely indeed that a man lays

bare his whole soul, and even when he does we can
never be quite sure that he is telling us all the truth,

that he is not keeping back some vital secret. It is
no doubt better so, and that it should be left to the

writer of imagination to picture for us a man's
inmost soul. The study of crime will help him to that

end. It will help us also in the ethical appreciation

of good and evil in individual conduct, about which

our notions have been somewhat obscured by too

narrow a definition of what constitutes crime. These

themes, touched on but lightly and imperfectly in
these pages, are rich in human interest.

And so it is hardly a matter for surprise that

the poet and the philosopher sat up late one night
talking about murders.



The Life of Charles Peace

"Charles Peace, or the Adventures of a
Notorious Burglar," a large volume published at the

time of his death, gives a full and accurate account
of the career of Peace side by side with a story of

the Family Herald type, of which he is made the
hero. "The Life and Trial of Charles Peace"

(Sheffield, 1879), "The Romantic Career of a Great
Criminal" (by N. Kynaston Gaskell, London 1906),

and "The Master Criminal," published recently in
London give useful information. I have also

consulted some of the newspapers of the time.

There is a delightful sketch of Peace in Mr. Charles

Whibley's "Book of Scoundrels."

I
HIS EARLY YEARS
Charles Peace told a clergyman who had an

interview with him in prison shortly before his

execution that he hoped that, after he was gone, he
would be entirely forgotten by everybody and his

name never mentioned again.

Posterity, in calling over its musterroll of

famous men, has refused to fulfil this pious hope,
and Charley Peace stands out as the one great

personality among English criminals of the
nineteenth century. In Charley Peace alone is

revived that good humoured popularity which in the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries fell to the lot

of Claude Duval, Dick Turpin and Jack Sheppard.
But Peace has one grievance against posterity; he

has endured one humiliation which these heroes
have been spared. His name has been omitted from

the pages of the "Dictionary of National Biography."

From Duval, in the seventeenth, down to the

Mannings, Palmer, Arthur Orton, Morgan and Kelly,

the bushrangers, in the nineteenth century, many a

criminal, far less notable or individual than Charley
Peace, finds his or her place in that great record of

the past achievements of our countrymen. Room

has been denied to perhaps the greatest and most
naturally gifted criminal England has produced, one

whose character is all the more remarkable for its

modesty, its entire freedom from that vanity and

vaingloriousness so common among his class.
The only possible reason that can be

suggested for so singular an omission is the fact that
in the strict order of alphabetical succession the

biography of Charles Peace would have followed
immediately on that of George Peabody. It may

have been thought that the contrast was too glaring,
that even the exigencies of national biography had

no right to make the philanthropist Pea
body rub shoulders with man's constant

enemy, Peace. To the memory of Peace these few

pages can make but poor amends for the supreme

injustice, but, by giving a particular and authentic

account of his career, they may serve as material for

the correction of this grave omission should remorse
overtake those responsible for so undeserved a slur

on one of the most unruly of England's famous sons.

From the literary point of view Peace was
unfortunate even in the hour of his notoriety. In the

very year of his trial and execution, the Annual

Register, seized with a fit of respectability from

which it has never recovered, announced that "the
appetite for the strange and marvellous" having

considerably abated since the year 1757 when the
Register was first published, its "Chronicle," hitherto

a rich mine of extraordinary and sensational
occurrences, would become henceforth a mere diary

of important events. Simultaneously with the
curtailment of its "Chronicle," it ceased to give those

excellent summaries of celebrated trials which for
many years had been a feature of its volumes. The

question whether "the appetite for the strange and

marvellous" has abated in an appreciable degree

with the passing of time and is not perhaps keener

than it ever was, is a debatable one. But it is

undeniable that the present volumes of the Annual
Register have fallen away dismally from the variety

and human interest of their predecessors. Of the

trial and execution of Peace the volume for 1879
gives but the barest record.

Charles Peace was not born of criminal

parents. His father, John Peace, began work as a

collier at BurtononTrent. Losing his leg in an
accident, he joined Wombwell's wild beast show and

soon acquired some reputation for his remarkable
powers as a tamer of wild animals. About this time

Peace married at Rotherham the daughter of a
surgeon in the Navy. On the death of a favourite

son to whom he had imparted successfully the
secrets of his wonderful control over wild beasts of

every kind, Mr. Peace gave up liontaming and
settled in Sheffield as a shoemaker.

It was at Sheffield, in the county of

Yorkshire, already famous in the annals of crime as

the county of John Nevison and Eugene Aram, that

Peace first saw the light. On May 14, 1832, there

was born to John Peace in Sheffield a son, Charles,
the youngest of his family of four. When he grew to

boyhood Charles was sent to two schools near

Sheffield, where he soon made himself remarkable,
not as a scholar, but for his singular aptitude in a

variety of other employments such as making paper

models, taming cats, constructing a peepshow, and

throwing up a heavy ball of shot which he would
catch in a leather socket fixed on to his forehead.

The course of many famous men's lives has
been changed by what appeared at the time to be

an unhappy accident. Who knows what may have
been the effect on Charles Peace's subsequent

career of an accident he met with in 1846 at some
rolling mills, in which he was employed? A piece of

red hot steel entered his leg just below the knee,
and after eighteen months spent in the Sheffield

Infirmary he left it a cripple for life. About this time

Peace's father died. Peace and his family were fond

of commemorating events of this kind in suitable

verse; the death of John Peace was celebrated in the

following lines:
"In peace he lived; In peace he died; Life

was our desire, But God denied."

Of the circumstances that first led Peace to
the commission of crime we know nothing. How far

enforced idleness, bad companionship, according to

some accounts the influence of a criminally disposed

mother, how far his own daring and adventurous
temper provoked him to robbery, cannot be

determined accurately. His first exploit was the
stealing of an old gentleman's gold watch, but he

soon passed to greater things. On October 26,
1851, the house of a lady living in Sheffield was

broken into and a quantity of her property stolen.
Some of it was found in the possession of Peace,

and he was arrested. Owing no doubt to a good
character for honesty given him by his late employer

Peace was let off lightly with a month's

imprisonment.

After his release Peace would seem to have

devoted himself for a time to music, for which he

had always a genuine passion. He taught himself to
play tunes on a violin with one string, and at

entertainments which he attended was described as

"the modern Paganini." In later life when he had
attained to wealth and prosperity the violin and the

harmonium were a constant source of solace during

long winter evenings in Greenwich and Peckham.

But playing a onestringed violin at fairs and
publichouses could not be more than a relaxation to

a man of Peace's active temper, who had once
tasted what many of those who have practised it,

describe as the fascination of that particular form of
nocturnal adventure known by the unsympathetic

name of burglary. Among the exponents of the art
Peace was at this time known as a "portico thief,"

that is to say one who contrived to get himself on to
the portico of a house and from that point of

vantage make his entrance into the premises.

During the year 1854 the houses of a number of

welltodo residents in and about Sheffield were

entered after this fashion, and much valuable

property stolen. Peace was arrested, and with him a
girl with whom he was keeping company, and his

sister, Mary Ann, at that time Mrs. Neil. On October

20, 1854, Peace was sentenced at Doncaster
Sessions to four years' penal servitude, and the

ladies who had been found in possession of the

stolen property to six months apiece. Mrs. Neil did

not long survive her misfortune. She would seem to
have been married to a brutal and drunken

husband, whom Peace thrashed on more than one
occasion for illtreating his sister. After one of these

punishments Neil set a bulldog on to Peace; but
Peace caught the dog by the lower jaw and punched

it into a state of coma. The death in 1859 of the
unhappy Mrs. Neil was lamented in appropriate

verse, probably the work of her brother:
"I was so long with pain opprest That

wore my strength away; It made me long for

endless rest Which never can decay."

On coming out of prison in 1858, Peace

resumed his fiddling, but it was now no more than a

musical accompaniment to burglary. This had
become the serious business of Peace's life, to be

pursued, should necessity arise, even to the peril of

men's lives. His operations extended beyond the
bounds of his native town. The house of a lady

living in Manchester was broken into on the night of

August 11, 1859, and a substantial booty carried

away. This was found the following day concealed in
a hole in a field. The police left it undisturbed and

awaited the return of the robber. When Peace and
another man arrived to carry it away, the officers

sprang out on them. Peace, after nearly killing the
officer who was trying to arrest him, would have

made his escape, had not other policemen come to
the rescue. For this crime Peace was sentenced to

six years' penal servitude, in spite of a loyal act of
perjury on the part of his aged mother, who came

all the way from Sheffield to swear that he had been

with her there on the night of the crime.

He was released from prison again in 1864,

and returned to Sheffield. Things did not prosper

with him there, and he went back to Manchester. In
1866 he was caught in the act of burglary at a house

in Lower Broughton. He admitted that at the time

he was fuddled with whisky; otherwise his capture
would have been more difficult and dangerous.

Usually a temperate man, Peace realised on this

occasion the value of sobriety even in burglary, and

never after allowed intemperance to interfere with
his success. A sentence of eight years' penal

servitude at Manchester Assizes on December 3,
1866, emphasised this wholesome lesson.

Whilst serving this sentence Peace emulated
Jack Sheppard in a daring attempt to escape from

Wakefield prison. Being engaged on some repairs,
he smuggled a small ladder into his cell. With the

help of a saw made out of some tin, he cut a hole
through the ceiling of the cell, and was about to get

out on to the roof when a warder came in. As the

latter attempted to seize the ladder Peace knocked

him down, ran along the wall of the prison, fell off

on the inside owing to the looseness of the bricks,

slipped into the governor's house where he changed
his clothes, and there, for an hour and a half, waited

for an opportunity to escape. This was denied him,

and he was recaptured in the governor's bedroom.
The prisons at Millbank, Chatham and Gibraltar were

all visited by Peace before his final release in 1872.

At Chatham he is said to have taken part in a

mutiny and been flogged for his pains.
On his liberation from prison Peace rejoined

his family in Sheffield. He was now a husband and
father. In 1859 he had taken to wife a widow of the

name of Hannah Ward. Mrs. Ward was already the
mother of a son, Willie. Shortly after her marriage

with Peace she gave birth to a daughter, and during
his fourth term of imprisonment presented him with

a son. Peace never saw this child, who died before
his release. But, true to the family custom, on his

return from prison the untimely death of little "John

Charles" was commemorated by the printing of a

funeral card in his honour, bearing the following

sanguine verses:
"Farewell, my dear son, by us all beloved,
Thou art gone to dwell in the mansions above. In

the bosom of Jesus Who sits on the throne Thou art

anxiously waiting to welcome us home."
Whether from a desire not to disappoint

little John Charles, for some reason or other the

next two or three years of Peace's career would

seem to have been spent in an endeavour to earn an
honest living by picture framing, a trade in which

Peace, with that skill he displayed in whatever he
turned his hand to, was remarkably proficient. In

Sheffield his children attended the Sunday School.
Though he never went to church himself, he was an

avowed believer in both God and the devil. As he
said, however, that he feared neither, no great

reliance could be placed on the restraining force of
such a belief to a man of Peace's daring spirit.

There was only too good reason to fear that little

John Charles' period of waiting would be a prolonged

one.

In 1875 Peace moved from Sheffield itself to

the suburb of Darnall. Here Peace made the
acquaintancea fatal acquaintance, as it turned outof

a Mr. and Mrs. Dyson. Dyson was a civil engineer.

He had spent some years in America, where, in
1866, he married.
Toward the end of 1873 or the beginning of

1874, he came to England with his wife, and

obtained a post on the North Eastern Railway. He
was a tall man, over six feet in height, extremely

thin, and gentlemanly in his bearing. His
engagement with the North Eastern Railway

terminated abruptly owing to Dyson's failing to
appear at a station to which he had been sent on

duty.
It was believed at the time by those

associated with Dyson that this unlookedfor
dereliction of duty had its cause in domestic trouble.

Since the year 1875, the year in which Peace came

to Darnall, the domestic peace of Mr. Dyson had

been rudely disturbed by this same ugly little

pictureframer who lived a few doors away from the

Dysons' house. Peace had got to know the Dysons,
first as a tradesman, then as a friend. To what

degree of intimacy he attained with Mrs. Dyson it is

difficult to determine. In that lies the mystery of the
case Mrs. Dyson is described as an attractive

woman, "buxom and blooming"; she was

darkhaired, and about twentyfive years of age. In

an interview with the Vicar of Darnall a few days
before his execution, Peace asserted positively that

Mrs. Dyson had been his mistress. Mrs. Dyson as
strenuously denied the fact. There was no question

that on one occasion Peace and Mrs. Dyson had
been photographed together, that he had given her

a ring, and that he had been in the habit of going to
music halls and publichouses with Mrs. Dyson, who

was a woman of intemperate habits.
Peace had introduced Mrs. Dyson to his wife

and daughter, and on one occasion was said to have

taken her to his mother's house, much to the old

lady's indignation. If there were not many instances

of ugly men who have been notably successful with

women, one might doubt the likelihood of Mrs.
Dyson falling a victim to the charms of Charles

Peace. But Peace, for all his ugliness, could be

wonderfully ingratiating when he chose. According
to Mrs. Dyson, Peace was a demon, "beyond the

power of even a Shakespeare to paint," who

persecuted her with his attentions, and, when he

found them rejected, devoted all his malignant
energies to making the lives of her husband and

herself unbearable. According to Peace's story he
was a slighted lover who had been treated by Mrs.

Dyson with contumely and ingratitude.
Whether to put a stop to his wife's intimacy

with Peace, or to protect himself against the latter's
wanton persecution, sometime about the end of

June, 1876, Dyson threw over into the garden of
Peace's house a card, on which was written:

"Charles Peace is requested not to interfere with my

family." On July 1 Peace met Mr. Dyson in the

street, and tried to trip him up. The same night he

came up to Mrs. Dyson, who was talking with some

friends, and threatened in coarse and violent
language to blow out her brains and those of her

husband. In consequence of these incidents Mr.

Dyson took out a summons against Peace, for whose
apprehension a warrant was issued. To avoid the

consequences of this last step Peace left Darnall for

Hull, where he opened an eatingshop, presided over

by Mrs. Peace.
But he himself was not idle. From Hull he

went to Manchester on business, and in Manchester
he committed his first murder. Entering the grounds

of a gentleman's home at Whalley Range, about
midnight on August 1, he was seen by two

policemen. One of them, Constable Cock,
intercepted him as he was trying to escape.

Peace took out his revolver and warned Cock
to stand back. The policeman came on. Peace

fired, but deliberately wide of him. Cock,

undismayed, drew out his truncheon, and made for

the burglar. Peace, desperate, determined not to be

caught, fired again, this time fatally. Cock's

comrade heard the shots, but before he could reach
the side of the dying man, Peace had made off. He

returned to Hull, and there learned shortly after, to

his intense relief, that two brothers, John and
William Habron, living near the scene of the murder,

had been arrested and charged with the killing of

Constable Cock.

If the Dysons thought that they had seen
the last of Peace, they were soon to be convinced to

the contrary. Peace had not forgotten his friends at
Darnall. By some means or other he was kept

informed of all their doings, and on one occasion
was seen by Mrs. Dyson lurking near her home. To

get away from him the Dysons determined to leave
Darnall. They took a house at Banner Cross,

another suburb of Sheffield, and on October 29
moved into their new home. One of the first

persons Mrs. Dyson saw on arriving at Banner Cross

was Peace himself. "You see," he said, "I am here

to annoy you, and I'll annoy you wherever you go."

Later, Peace and a friend passed Mr. Dyson in the

street. Peace took out his revolver. "If he offers to
come near me," said he, "I will make him stand

back." But Mr. Dyson took no notice of Peace and

passed on. He had another month to live.
Whatever the other motives of Peace may

have beenunreasoning passion, spite, jealousy, or

revenge it must not be forgotten that Dyson, by

procuring a warrant against Peace, had driven him
from his home in Sheffield. This Peace resented

bitterly. According to the statements of many
witnesses, he was at this time in a state of constant

irritation and excitement on the Dyson's account.
He struck his daughter because she alluded in a way

he did not like to his relations with Mrs. Dyson.
Peace always believed in corporal chastisement as a

means of keeping order at home. Pleasant and
entertaining as he could be, he was feared. It was

very dangerous to incur his resentment. "Be sure,"

said his wife, "you do nothing to offend our Charley,

or you will suffer for it." Dyson beyond a doubt had

offended "our Charley." But for the moment Peace

was interested more immediately in the fate of John
and William Habron, who were about to stand their

trial for the murder of Constable Cock at Whalley

Range.
The trial commenced at the Manchester

Assizes before Mr. Justice (now Lord) Lindley on

Monday, November 27. John Habron was acquitted.

The case against William Habron depended
to a great extent on the fact that he, as well as his

brother, had been heard to threaten to "do for" the
murdered man, to shoot the "little bobby." Cock

was a zealous young officer of twentythree years of
age, rather too eager perhaps in the discharge of his

duty. In July of 1876 he had taken out summonses
against John and William Habron, young fellows who

had been several years in the employment of a
nurseryman in Whalley Range, for being drunk and

disorderly. On July 27 William was fined five

shillings, and on August 1, the day of Cock's

murder, John had been fined half a sovereign.

Between these two dates the Habrons had been

heard to threaten to "do for" Cock if he were not
more careful. Other facts relied upon by the

prosecution were that William Habron had inquired

from a gunsmith the price of some cartridges a day
or two before the murder; that two cartridge

percussion caps had been found in the pocket of a

waistcoat given to William Habron by his employer,

who swore that they could not have been there
while it was in his possession; that the other

constable on duty with Cock stated that a man he
had seen lurking near the house about twelve

o'clock on the night of the murder appeared to be
William Habron's age, height and complexion, and

resembled him in general appearance; and that the
boot on Habron's left foot, which was "wet and

sludgy" at the time of his arrest, corresponded in
certain respects with the footprints of the murderer.

The prisoner did not help himself by an ineffective

attempt to prove an alibi. The Judge was clearly not

impressed by the strength of the case for the

prosecution. He pointed out to the jury that neither

the evidence of identification nor that of the
footprint went very far. As to the latter, what

evidence was there to show that it had been made

on the night of the murder? If it had been made the
day before, then the defence had proved that it

could not have been Habron's. He called their

attention to the facts that Habron bore a good

character, that, when arrested on the night of the
murder, he was in bed, and that no firearms had

been traced to him. In spite, however, of the
summingup the jury convicted William Habron, but

recommended him to mercy. The Judge without
comment sentenced him to death. The Manchester

Guardian expressed its entire concurrence with the
verdict of the jury. "Few persons," it wrote, "will be

found to dispute the justice of the conclusions
reached." However, a few days later it opened its

columns to a number of letters protesting against

the unsatisfactory nature of the conviction. On

December 6 a meeting of some forty gentlemen was

held, at which it was resolved to petition Mr. Cross,

the Home Secretary, to reconsider the sentence.
Two days before the day of execution Habron was

granted a respite, and later his sentence commuted

to one of penal servitude for life. And so a tragic
and irrevocable miscarriage of justice was happily

averted.

Peace liked attending trials. The fact that in

Habron's case he was the real murderer would seem
to have made him the more eager not to miss so

unique an experience. Accordingly he went from
Hull to Manchester, and was present in court during

the two days that the trial lasted. No sooner had he
heard the innocent man condemned to death than

he left Manchester for Sheffieldnow for all he knew a
double murderer.

It is a question whether, on the night of
November 28, Peace met Mrs. Dyson at an inn in

one of the suburbs of Sheffield. In any case, the

next morning, Wednesday, the 29th, to his mother's

surprise Peace walked into her house. He said that

he had come to Sheffield for the fair. The afternoon

of that day Peace spent in a publichouse at Ecclesall,
entertaining the customers by playing tunes on a

poker suspended from a piece of strong string, from

which he made music by beating it with a short
stick. The musician was rewarded by drinks. It took

very little drink to excite Peace. There was dancing,

the fun grew fast and furious, as the strange

musician beat out tune after tune on his fantastic
instrument.

At six o'clock the same evening a thin,
greyhaired, insignificantlooking man in an evident

state of unusual excitement called to see the Rev.
Mr. Newman, Vicar of Ecclesall, near Banner Cross.

Some five weeks before, this insignificant looking
man had visited Mr. Newman, and made certain

statements in regard to the character of a Mr. and
Mrs. Dyson who had come to live in the parish. The

vicar had asked for proof of these statements.

These proofs his visitor now produced. They

consisted of a number of calling cards and

photographs, some of them alleged to be in the

handwriting of Mrs. Dyson, and showing her
intimacy with Peace. The man made what purported

to be a confession to Mr. Newman. Dyson, he said,

had become jealous of him, whereupon Peace had
suggested to Mrs. Dyson that they should give her

husband something to be jealous about. Out of this

proposal their intimacy had sprung. Peace spoke of

Mrs. Dyson in terms of forgiveness, but his wrath
against Dyson was extreme. He complained bitterly

that by taking proceedings against him, Dyson had
driven him to break up his home and become a

fugitive in the land. He should follow the Dysons, he
said, wherever they might go; he believed that they

were at that moment intending to take further
proceedings against him. As he left, Peace said that

he should not go and see the Dysons that night, but
would call on a friend of his, Gregory, who lived next

door to them in Banner Cross Terrace. It was now

about a quarter to seven.

Peace went to Gregory's house, but his

friend was not at home. The lure of the Dysons was

irresistible. A little after eight o'clock Peace was
watching the house from a passageway that led up

to the backs of the houses on the terrace. He saw

Mrs. Dyson come out of the back door, and go to an
outhouse some few yards distant. He waited. As

soon as she opened the door to come out, Mrs.

Dyson found herself confronted by Peace, holding

his revolver in his hand. "Speak," he said, "or I'll
fire." Mrs. Dyson in terror went back. In the

meantime Dyson, hearing the disturbance, came
quickly into the yard. Peace made for the passage.

Dyson followed him. Peace fired once, the shot
striking the lintel of the passage doorway. Dyson

undaunted, still pursued. Then Peace, according to
his custom, fired a second time, and Dyson fell, shot

through the temple. Mrs. Dyson, who had come into
the yard again on hearing the first shot, rushed to

her husband's side, calling out: "Murder! You

villain! You have shot my husband." Two hours

later Dyson was dead.

After firing the second shot Peace had

hurried down; the passage into the roadway. He
stood there hesitating a moment, until the cries of

Mrs. Dyson warned him of his danger. He crossed

the road, climbed a wall, and made his way back to
Sheffield. There he saw his mother and brother,

told them that he had shot Mr. Dyson, and bade

them a hasty goodbye. He then walked to At

tercliffe Railway Station, and took a ticket
for Beverley. Something suspicious in the manner

of the bookingclerk made him change his place of
destination. Instead of going to Beverley that night

he got out of the train at Normanton and went on to
York. He spent the remainder of the night in the

station yard. He took the first train in the morning
for Beverley, and from there travelled via

Collingham to Hull. He went straight to the
eatinghouse kept by his wife, and demanded some

dinner. He had hardly commenced to eat it when he

heard two detectives come into the front shop and

ask his wife if a man called Charles Peace was

lodging with her. Mrs. Peace said that that was her
husband's name, but that she had not seen him for
two months. The detectives proposed to search the

house. Some customers in the shop told them that

if they had any business with Mrs. Peace, they ought
to go round to the side door. The polite

susceptibility of these customers gave Peace time to

slip up to a back room, get out on to an adjoining

roof, and hide behind a chimney stack, where he
remained until the detectives had finished an

exhaustive search. So importunate were the officers
in Hull that once again during the day Peace had to

repeat this experience. For some three weeks,
however, he contrived to remain in Hull. He shaved

the grey beard he was wearing at the time of
Dyson's murder, dyed his hair, put on a pair of

spectacles, and for the first time made use of his
singular power of contorting his features in such a

way as to change altogether the character of his

face. But the hue and cry after him was

unremitting. There was a price of L100 on his head,

and the following description of him was circulated

by the police:
"Charles Peace wanted for murder on the

night of the 29th inst. He is thin and slightly built,

from fiftyfive to sixty years of age. Five feet four
inches or five feet high; grey (nearly white) hair,

beard and whiskers. He lacks use of three fingers of

left hand, walks with his legs rather wide apart,

speaks some
what peculiarly as though his tongue were

too large for his mouth, and is a great boaster. He
is a pictureframe maker. He occasionally cleans and

repairs clocks and watches and sometimes deals in
oleographs, engravings and pictures. He has been

in penal servitude for burglary in Manchester. He
has lived in Manchester, Salford, and Liverpool and

Hull."
This description was altered later and

Peace's age given as fortysix. As a matter of fact he

was only fortyfour at this time, but he looked very

much older. Peace had lost one of his fingers. He

said that it had been shot off by a man with whom

he had quarrelled, but it was believed to be more
likely that he had himself shot it off accidentally in

handling one of his revolvers. It was to conceal this

obvious means of identification that Peace made
himself the false arm which he was in the habit of

wearing. This was of gutta percha, with a hole down

the middle of it into which he passed his arm; at the

end was a steel plate to which was fixed a hook; by
means of this hook Peace could wield a fork and do

other dexterous feats.
Marked man as he was, Peace felt it

dangerous to stay longer in Hull than he could help.
During the closing days of the year 1876 and the

beginning of 1877, Peace was perpetually on the
move. He left Hull for Doncaster, and from there

travelled to London. On arriving at King's Cross he
took the underground railway to Paddington, and

from there a train to Bristol. At the beginning of

January he left Bristol for Bath, and from Bath, in

the company of a sergeant of police, travelled by

way of Didcot to Oxford. The officer had in his

custody a young woman charged with stealing L40.
Peace and the sergeant discussed the case during

the journey. "He seemed a smart chap," said Peace

in re
lating the circumstances, "but not smart

enough to know me." From Oxford he went to

Birmingham, where he stayed four or five days, then

a week in Derby, and on January 9th he arrived in
Nottingham.

Here Peace found a convenient lodging at
the house of one, Mrs. Adamson, a lady who

received stolen goods and on occasion indicated or
organised suitable opportunities for acquiring them.

She lived in a low part of the town known as
the Marsh. It was at her house that Peace met the

woman who was to become his mistress and
subsequently betray his identity to the police. Her

maiden name was Susan Gray.

She was at this time about thirtyfive years

of age, described as "taking" in appearance, of a fair

complexion, and rather well educated. She had led

a somewhat chequered married life with a
gentleman named Bailey, from whom she continued

in receipt of a weekly allowance until she passed

under the protection of Peace. Her first meeting
with her future lover took place on the occasion of

Peace inviting Mrs. Adamson to dispose of a box of

cigars for him, which that good woman did at a

charge of something like thirty per cent. At first
Peace gave himself out to Mrs. Bailey as a hawker,

but before long he openly acknowledged his real
character as an accomplished burglar. With

characteristic insistence Peace declared his passion
for Mrs. Bailey by threatening to shoot her if she did

not become his. Anxious friends sent for her to
soothe the distracted man. Peace had been

drowning care with the help of Irish whiskey. He
asked "his pet" if she were not glad to see him, to

which the lady replied with possible sarcasm: "Oh,

particularly, very, I like you so much." Next day

Peace apologised for his rude behaviour of the

previous evening, and so melted the heart of Mrs.

Bailey that she consented to become his mistress,
and from that moment discarding the name of Bailey

is known to history as Mrs. Thompson.

Life in Nottingham was varied pleasantly by
burglaries carried out with the help of information

supplied by Mrs. Adamson. In the June of 1877

Peace was nearly detected in stealing, at the request

of that worthy, some blankets, but by flourishing his
revolver he contrived to get away, and, soon after,

returned for a season to Hull. Here this hunted
murderer, with L100 reward on his head, took rooms

for Mrs. Thompson and himself at the house of a
sergeant of police. One day Mrs. Peace, who was

still keeping her shop in Hull, received a pencilled
note saying, "I am waiting to see you just up Anlaby

Road." She and her stepson, Willie Ward, went to
the appointed spot, and there to their astonishment

stood her husband, a distinguished figure in black

coat and trousers, top hat, velvet waistcoat, with

stick, kid gloves, and a pretty little fox terrier by his

side. Peace told them of his whereabouts in the

town, but did not disclose to them the fact that his
mistress was there also. To the police sergeant with

whom he lodged, Peace described himself as an

agent. But a number of sensational and successful
burglaries at the houses of Town Councillors and

other welltodo citizens of Hull revealed the presence

in their midst of no ordinary robber. Peace had

some narrow escapes, but with the help of his
revolver, and on one occasion the pusillanimity of a

policeman, he succeeded in getting away in safety.
The bills offering a reward for his capture were still

to be seen in the shop windows of Hull, so after a
brief but brilliant adventure Peace and Mrs.

Thompson returned to Nottingham.
Here, as the result of further successful

exploits, Peace found a reward of L50 offered for his
capture. On one occasion the detectives came into

the room where Peace and his mistress were in bed.

After politely expressing his surprise at seeing "Mrs.

Bailey" in such a situation, one of the officers asked

Peace his name. He gave it as John Ward, and

described himself as a hawker of spectacles. He
refused to get up and dress in the presence of the

detectives who were obliging enough to go

downstairs and wait his convenience. Peace seized
the opportunity to slip out of the house and get

away to another part of the town. From there he

sent a note to Mrs. Thompson insisting on her

joining him. He soon after left Nottingham, paid
another brief visit to Hull, but finding that his wife's

shop was still frequented by the police, whom he
designated freely as "a lot of fools," determined to

quit the North for good and begin life afresh in the
ampler and safer field of London.

II
PEACE IN LONDON

Peace's career in London extended over
nearly two years, but they were years of copious

achievement. In that comparatively short space of

time, by the exercise of that art, to his natural gifts

for which he had now added the wholesome tonic of

experience, Peace passed from a poor and obscure

lodging in a slum in Lambeth to the state and
opulence of a comfortable suburban residence in

Peckham. These were the halcyon days of Peace's

enterprise in life. From No. 25 Stangate Street,
Lambeth, the dealer in musical instruments, as

Peace now described himself, sallied forth night after

night, and in Camberwell and other parts of South

London reaped the reward of skill and vigilance in
entering other people's houses and carrying off their

property. Though in the beginning there appeared
to be but few musical instruments in Stangate Street

to justify his reputed business, "Mr. Thompson," as
he now called himself, explained that he was not

wholly depen
dent on his business, as Mrs. Thompson

"had money."
So successful did the business prove that at

the Christmas of 1877 Peace invited his daughter

and her betrothed to come from Hull and spend the

festive season with him. This, in spite of the

presence of Mrs. Thompson, they consented to do.

Peace, in a top hat and grey ulster, showed them
the sights of London, always inquiring politely of a

policeman if he found himself in any difficulty. At

the end of the visit Peace gave his consent to his
daughter's marriage with Mr. Bolsover, and before

parting gave the young couple some excellent

advice. For more reasons than one Peace was

anxious to unite under the same roof Mrs. Peace and
Mrs. Thompson. Things still prospering, Peace found

himself able to remove from Lambeth to Crane
Court, Greenwich, and before long to take a couple

of adjoining houses in Billingsgate Street in the
same district. These he furnished in style. In one

he lived with Mrs. Thompson, while Mrs. Peace and
her son, Willie, were persuaded after some difficulty

to leave Hull and come to London to dwell in the
other.

But Greenwich was not to the taste of Mrs.

Thompson. To gratify her wish, Peace, some time in

May, 1877, removed the whole party to a house, No.

5, East Terrace, Evelina Road, Peckham. He paid

thirty pounds a year for it, and obtained permission
to build a stable for his pony and trap. When asked

for his references, Peace replied by inviting the

agent to dine with him at his house in Greenwich, a
proceeding that seems to have removed all doubt

from the agent's mind as to the desirability of the

tenant.

This now famous house in Peckham was of
the ordinary type of suburban villa, with basement,

ground floor, and one above; there were steps up to
the front door, and a bow window to the front

sittingroom. A garden at the back of the house ran
down to the Chatham and Dover railway line. It was

by an entrance at the back that Peace drove his
horse and trap into the stable which he had erected

in the garden. Though all living in the same house,
Mrs. Peace, who passed as Mrs. Ward, and her son,

Willie, inhabited the basement, while Peace and Mrs.

Thompson occupied the best rooms on the ground

floor. The house was fitted with Venetian blinds. In

the drawingroom stood a good walnut suite of

furniture; a Turkey carpet, gilded mirrors, a piano,
an inlaid Spanish guitar, and, by the side of an

elegant table, the beaded slippers of the good

master of the house completed the elegance of the
apartment. Everything confirmed Mr. Thompson's

description of himself as a gentleman of independent

means with a taste for scientific inventions. In

association with a person of the name of Brion,
Peace did, as a fact, patent an invention for raising

sunken vessels, and it is said that in pursuing their
project, the two men had obtained an interview with

Mr. Plimsoll at the House of Commons. In any case,
the Patent Gazette records the following grant:

"2635 Henry Fersey Brion, 22 Philip Road,
Peckham Rye, London, S.E., and John Thompson, 5

East Terrace, Evelina Road, Peckham Rye, London,
S.E., for an invention for raising sunken vessels by

the displacement of water within the vessels by air

and gases."

At the time of his final capture Peace was

engaged on other inventions, among them a smoke

helmet for firemen, an improved brush for washing
railway carriages, and a form of hydraulic tank. To

the anxious policeman who, seeing a light in Mr.

Thompson's house in the small hours of the
morning, rang the bell to warn the old gentleman of

the possible presence of burglars, this business of

scientific inventions was sufficient explana tion.

Socially Mr. Thompson became quite a figure
in the neighbourhood. He attended regularly the

Sunday evening services at the parish church, and it
must have been a matter of anxious concern to dear

Mr. Thompson that during his stay in Peckham the
vicarage was broken into by a burglar and an

unsuccessful attempt made to steal the communion
plate which was kept there.

Mr. Thompson was generous in giving and
punctual in paying. He had his eccentricities. His

love of birds and animals was remarkable. Cats,

dogs, rabbits, guineapigs, canaries, parrots and

cockatoos all found hospitality under his roof. It was

certainly eccentricity in Mr. Thompson that he

should wear different coloured wigs; and that his
dark complexion should suggest the use of walnut

juice. His love of music was evinced by the number

of violins, banjoes, guitars, and other musical
instruments that adorned his drawingroom. Tea and

music formed the staple of the evening

entertainments which Mr. and Mrs. Thompson would

give occasionally to friendly neighbours. Not that
the pleasures of conversation were neglected wholly

in favour of art. The host was a voluble and
animated talker, his face and body illustrating by

appropriate twists and turns the force of his
comments. The RussoTurkish war, then raging, was

a favourite theme of Mr. Thompson's. He asked, as
we are still asking, what Christianity and civilisation

mean by countenancing the horrors of war. He
considered the British Government in the highest

degree guilty in supporting the cruel Turks, a people

whose sobriety seemed to him to be their only

virtue, against the Christian Russians. He was

confident that our Ministers would be punished for

opposing the only Power which had shown any
sympathy with suffering races. About ten o'clock

Mr. Thompson, whose health, he said, could not

stand late hours, would bid his guests good night,
and by halfpast ten the front door of No. 5, East

Terrace, Evelina Road, would be locked and bolted,

and the house plunged in darkness.

Not that it must be supposed that family life
at No. 5, East Terrace, was without its jars. These

were due chiefly to the drunken habits of Mrs.
Thompson. Peace was willing to overlook his

mistress' failing as long as it was confined to the
house. But Mrs. Thompson had an unfortunate habit

of slipping out in an intoxicated condition, and
chattering with the neighbours. As she was the

repository of many a dangerous secret the
inconvenience of her habit was serious. Peace was

not the man to hesitate in the face of danger. On

these occasions Mrs. Thompson was followed by

Peace or his wife, brought back home and soundly

beaten. To Hannah Peace there must have been

some satisfaction in spying on her successful rival,
for, in her own words, Peace never refused his

mistress anything; he did not care what she cost

him in dress; "she could swim in gold if she liked."
Mrs. Thompson herself admitted that with the

exception of such punishment as she brought on

herself by her inebriety, Peace was always fond of

her, and treated her with great kindness. It was she
to whom he would show with pride the proceeds of

his nightly labours, to whom he would look for a
smile when he returned home from his expeditions,

haggard and exhausted
Through all dangers and difficulties the

master was busy in the practice of his art. Night
after night, with few intervals of repose, he would

sally forth on a plundering adventure. If the job was
a distant one, he would take his pony and trap.

Peace was devoted to his pony, Tommy, and great

was his grief when at the end of six months'

devotion to duty Tommy died after a few days'

sickness, during which his master attended him with

un
remitting care. Tommy had been bought in

Greenwich for fourteen guineas, part of a sum of

two hundred and fifty pounds which Peace netted
from a rich haul of silver and banknotes taken from

a house in Denmark Hill. Besides the pony and trap,

Peace would take with him on these expeditions a

violin case containing his tools; at other times they
would be stuffed into odd pockets made for the

purpose in his trousers. These tools consisted of ten
in alla skeleton key, two picklocks, a centrebit,

gimlet, gouge, chisel, vice jemmy and knife; a
portable ladder, a revolver and life preserver

completed his equipment.
The range of Peace's activities extended as

far as Southampton, Portsmouth and Southsea; but
the bulk of his work was done in Blackheath,

Streatham, Denmark Hill, and other suburbs of

South London. Many dramatic stories are told of his

exploits, but they rest for the most part on slender

foundation. On one occasion, in getting on to a

portico, he fell, and was impaled on some railings,
fortunately in no vital part. His career as a burglar

in London lasted from the beginning of the year

1877 until October, 1878. During that time this
wanted man, under the very noses of the police,

exercised with complete success his art as a burglar,

working alone, depending wholly on his own mental

and physical gifts, disposing in absolute secrecy of
the proceeds of his work, and living openly the life of

a respectable and industrious old gentleman.
All the while the police were busily seeking

Charles Peace, the murderer of Mr. Dyson. Once or
twice they came near to capturing him. On one

occasion a detective who had known Peace in
Yorkshire met him in Farringdon Road, and pursued

him up the steps of Holborn Viaduct, but just as the
officer, at the top of the steps, reached out and was

on the point of grabbing his man, Peace with

lightning agility slipped through his fingers and

disappeared. The police never had a shadow of

suspicion that Mr. Thompson of Peckham was

Charles Peace of Sheffield. They knew the former
only as a polite and chatty old gentleman of a

scientific turn of mind, who drove his own pony and

trap, and had a fondness for music and keeping pet
animals.
Peace made the mistake of outstaying his

welcome in the neighbourhood of SouthEast London.

Perhaps he hardly realised the extent to which his
fame was spreading. During the last three months

of Peace's career, Blackheath was agog at the
number of successful burglaries committed in the

very midst of its peaceful residents. The vigilance of
the local police was aroused, the officers on night

duty were only too anxious to ef fect the capture of
the mysterious criminal.

About two o'clock in the morning of October
10, 1878, a police constable, Robinson by name,

saw a light appear suddenly in a window at the back

of a house in St. John's Park, Blackheath, the

residence of a Mr. Burness. Had the lookedfor

opportunity arrived? Was the mysterious visitor, the

disturber of the peace of Blackheath, at his
burglarious employment? Without delay Robinson

summoned to his aid two of his colleagues. One of

them went round to the front of the house and rang
the bell, the other waited in the road outside, while

Robinson stayed in the garden at the back. No

sooner had the bell rung than Robinson saw a man

come from the diningroom window which opened on
to the garden, and make quickly down the path.

Robinson followed him. The man turned; "Keep
back!" he said, "or by God I'll shoot you!" Robinson

came on. The man fired three shots from a
revolver, all of which passed close to the officer's

head. Robinson made another rush for him, the
man fired another shot. It missed its mark. The

constable closed with his wouldbe assassin, and
struck him in the face. "I'll settle you this time,"

cried the man, and fired a fifth shot, which went

through Robinson's arm just above the elbow. But,

in spite of his wound, the valiant officer held his

prisoner, succeeded in flinging him to the ground,

and catching hold of the revolver that hung round
the burglar's wrist, hit him on the head with it.

Immediately after the other two constables came to

the help of their colleague, and the struggling
desperado was secured.

Little did the police as they searched their

battered and moaning prisoner realise the

importance of their capture. When next morning
Peace appeared before the magistrate at Greenwich

Police Court he was not described by namehe had
refused to give any but as a halfcaste about sixty

years of age, of repellant aspect. He was remanded
for a week. The first clue to the iden

tity of their prisoner was afforded by a letter
which Peace, unable apparently to endure the

loneliness and suspense of prison any longer, wrote
to his coinventor Mr. Brion. It is dated November 2,

and is signed "John Ward." Peace was disturbed at

the absence of all news from his family.

Immediately after his arrest, the home in Peckham

had been broken up. Mrs. Thompson and Mrs.

Peace, taking with them some large boxes, had gone
first to the house of a sister of Mrs. Thompson's in

Nottingham, and a day or two later Mrs. Peace had

left Nottingham for Sheffield. There she went to a
house in Hazel Road, occupied by her sonin law

Bolsover, a working collier.[10]

[10] Later, Mrs. Peace was arrested and

charged with being in possession of stolen property.
She was taken to London and tried at the Old Bailey

before Mr. Commissioner Kerr, but acquitted on the
ground of her having acted under the compulsion of

her husband.
It was no doubt to get news of his family

that Peace wrote to Brion. But the letters are
sufficiently ingenious. Peace represents himself as a

truly penitent sinner who has got himself into a most
unfortunate and unexpected "mess" by giving way

to drink. The spelling of the letters is exaggeratedly

illiterate. He asks Mr. Brion to take pity on him and

not despise him as "his own famery has don," to

write him a letter to "hease his trobel hart," if

possible to come and see him. Mr. Brion complied
with the request of the mysterious "John Ward," and

on arriving at Newgate where Peace was awaiting

trial, found himself in the presence of his friend and
colleague, Mr. Thompson.

In the meantime the police were getting hot

on the scent of the identity of "John Ward" with the

great criminal who in spite of all their efforts had
eluded them for two years. The honour and profit of

putting the police on the right scent were claimed by
Mrs. Thompson. To her Peace had contrived to get

a letter conveyed about the same time that he wrote
to Mr. Brion. It is addressed to his "dearly beloved

wife." He asks pardon for the "drunken madness"
that has involved him in his present trouble, and

gives her the names of certain witnesses whom he
would wish to be called to prove his independent

means and his dealings in musical instruments. It

is, he writes, his first offence, and as he has "never

been in prison before," begs her not to feel it a

disgrace to come and see him there. But Peace was

leaning on a broken reed. Loyalty does not appear
to have been Susan Thompson's strong point. In

her own words she "was not of the sentimental

sort." The "traitress Sue," as she is called by
chroniclers of the time, had fallen a victim to the

wiles of the police. Since, after Peace's arrest, she

had been in possession of a certain amount of stolen

property, it was easier no doubt to persuade her to
be frank.

In any case, we find that on February 5,
1879, the day after Peace had been sentenced to

death for the murder of Dyson, Mrs. Thompson
appealed to the Treasury for the reward of L100

offered for Peace's conviction. She based her
application on information which she said she had

supplied to the police officers in charge of the case
on November 5 in the previous year, the very day

on which Peace had first written to her from

Newgate. In reply to her letter the Treasury

referred "Mrs. S. Bailey, alias Thompson," to the

Home Office, but whether she received from that

office the price of blood history does not relate.
The police scouted the idea that any

revelation of hers had assisted them to identify

"John Ward" with Charles Peace. They said that it
was information given them in Peckham, no doubt

by Mr. Brion, who, on learning the deplorable

character of his coadjutor, had placed himself

unreservedly in their hands, which first set them on
the track. From Peckham they went to Nottingham,

where they no doubt came across Sue Thompson,
and thence to Sheffield, where on November 6 they

visited the house in Hazel Road, occupied by Mrs.
Peace and her daughter, Mrs. Bolsover. There they

found two of the boxes which Mrs. Peace had
brought with her from Peckham. Besides stolen

property, these boxes contained evidence of the
identity of Ward with Peace. A constable who had

known Peace well in Sheffield was sent to Newgate,

and taken into the yard where the prisoners

awaiting trial were exercising. As they passed

round, the constable pointed to the fifth man:

"That's Peace," he said, "I'd know him anywhere."
The man left the ranks and, coming up to the

constable, asked earnestly, "What do you want me

for?" but the Governor ordered him to go on with his
walk.
It was as John Ward, alias Charles Peace,

that Peace, on November 19, 1878, was put on his

trial for burglary and the attempted murder of Police
Constable Robinson, at the Old Bailey before Mr.

Justice Hawkins. His age was given in the calendar
as sixty, though Peace was actually fortysix. The

evidence against the prisoner was clear enough. All
Mr. Montagu Williams could urge in his defence was

that Peace had never intended to kill the officer,
merely to frighten him. The jury found Peace guilty

of attempted murder. Asked if he had anything to
say why judgment should not be passed upon him,

he addressed the Judge. He protested that he had

not been fairly dealt with, that he never intended to

kill the prosecutor, that the pistol was one that went

off very easily, and that the last shot had been fired
by accident. "I really did not know," he said, "that
the pistol was loaded, and I hope, my lord, that you

will have mercy on me. I feel that I have disgraced

myself, I am not fit either to live or die. I am not
prepared to meet my God, but still I feel that my

career has been made to appear much worse than it

really is. Oh, my lord, do have mercy on me; do

give me one chance of repenting and of preparing to
meet my God. Do, my lord, have mercy on me; and

I assure you that you shall never repent it. As you
hope for mercy yourself at the hands of the great

God, do have mercy on me, and give me a chance of
redeeming my character and preparing myself to

meet my God. I pray, and beseech you to have
mercy upon me."

Peace's assumption of pitiable senility,
sustained throughout the trial, though it imposed on

Sir Henry Hawkins, failed to melt his heart. He told

Peace that he did not believe his statement that he

had fired the pistol merely to frighten the constable;

had not Robinson guarded his head with his arm he

would have been wounded fatally, and Peace
condemned to death. He did not consider it

necessary, he said, to make an inquiry into Peace's

antecedents; he was a desperate burglar, and there
was an end of the matter. Notwithstanding his age,

Mr. Justice Hawkins felt it his duty to sentence him

to penal servitude for life. The severity of the

sentence was undoubtedly a painful surprise to
Peace; to a man of sixty years of age it would be no

doubt less terrible, but to a man of fortysix it was
crushing.

Not that Peace was fated to serve any great
part of his sentence.

With as little delay as possible he was to be
called on to answer to the murder of Arthur Dyson.

The buxom widow of the murdered man had been
found in America, whither she had returned after her

husband's death. She was quite ready to come to

England to give evidence against her husband's

murderer. On January 17, 1879, Peace was taken

from Pentonville prison, where he was serving his

sentence, and conveyed by an early morning train to
Sheffield. There at the Town Hall he appeared

before the stipendiary magistrate, and was charged

with the murder of Arthur Dyson. When he saw Mrs.
Dyson enter the witness box and tell her story of the
crime, he must have realised that his case was

desperate. Her crossexamination was adjourned to

the next hearing, and Peace was taken back to
London. On the 22nd, the day of the second

hearing in Sheffield, an enormous crowd had
assembled outside the Town Hall. Inside the court

an anxious and expectant audiience{sic}, among
them Mrs. Dyson, in the words of a con

temporary reporter, "stylish and cheerful,"
awaited the appearance of the protagonist. Great

was the disappointment and eager the excitement
when the stipendiary came into the court about a

quarter past ten and stated that Peace had

attempted to escape that morning on the journey

from London to Sheffield, and that in consequence

of his injuries the case would be adjourned for eight

days.
What had happened was this. Peace had left

King's Cross by the 5.15 train that morning, due to

arrive at Sheffield at 8.45. From the very
commencement of the journey he had been wilful

and troublesome. He kept making excuses for

leaving the carriage whenever the train stopped. To

obviate this nuisance the two warders, in whose
charge he was, had provided themselves with little

bags which Peace could use when he wished and
then throw out of the window. Just after the train

passed Worksop, Peace asked for one of the bags.
When the window was lowered to allow the bag to

be thrown away, Peace with lightning agility took a
flying leap through it. One of the warders caught

him by the left foot. Peace, hanging from the
carriage, grasped the footboard with his hands and

kept kicking the warder as hard as he could with his

right foot. The other warder, unable to get to the

window to help his colleague, was making vain

efforts to stop the train by pulling the

communication cord. For two miles the train ran on,
Peace struggling desperately to escape. At last he

succeeded in kicking off his left shoe, and dropped

on to the line. The train ran on another mile until,
with the assistance of some gentlemen in other

carriages, the warders were able to get it pulled up.

They immediately hurried back along the line, and

there, near a place called Kineton Park, they found
their prisoner lying in the footway, apparently

unconscious and bleeding from a severe wound in
the scalp. A slow train from Sheffield stopped to

pick up the injured man. As he was lifted into the
guard's van, he asked them to cover him up as he

was cold. On arriving at Sheffield, Peace was taken
to the Police Station and there made as comfortable

as possible in one of the cells. Even then he had
energy enough to be troublesome over taking the

brandy ordered for him by the surgeon, until one of

the officers told "Charley" they would have none of

his hanky panky, and he had got to take it. "All

right," said Peace, "give me a minute," after which

he swallowed contentedly a couple of gills of the
genial spirit.

Peace's daring feat was not, according to his

own account, a mere attempt to escape from the
clutches of the law; it was noble and Roman in its

purpose. This is what he told his stepson, Willie

Ward: "I saw from the way I was guarded all the

way down from London and all the way back, when I
came for my first trial, that I could not get away

from the warders, and I knew I could not jump from
an express train without being killed. I took a look

at Darnall as I went down and as I went back, and
after I was put in my cell, I thought it all over. I felt

that I could not get away, and then I made up my
mind to kill myself. I got two bits of paper and

pricked on them the words, `Bury me at Darnall.
God bless you all!' With a bit of black dirt that I

found on the floor of my cell I wrote the same words

on another piece of paper, and then I hid them in

my clothes. My hope was that, when I jumped from

the train I should be cut to pieces under the wheels.

Then I should have been taken to the Duke of York
(a publichouse at Darnall) and there would have

been an inquest over me. As soon as the inquest

was over you would have claimed my body, found
the pieces of paper, and then you would have buried

me at Darnall."

This statement of Peace is no doubt in the

main correct. But it is difficult to believe that there
was not present to his mind the sporting chance that

he might not be killed in leaping from the train, in
which event he would no doubt have done his best

to get away, trusting to his considerable powers of
ingenious disguise to elude pursuit. But such a

chance was remote. Peace had faced boldly the
possibility of a dreadful death.

With that strain of domestic sentiment,
which would appear to have been a marked

characteristic of his family, Peace was the more

ready to cheat the gallows in the hope of being by

that means buried decently at Darnall. It was at

Darnall that he had spent some months of

comparative calm in his tempestuous career, and it
was at Darnall that he had first met Mrs. Dyson.

Another and more practical motive that may have

urged Peace to attempt to injure seriously, if not kill
himself, was the hope of thereby delaying his trial.

If the magisterial investigation in Sheffield were

completed before the end of January, Peace could be

committed for trial to the ensuing Leeds Assizes
which commenced in the first week in February. If

he were injured too seriously, this would not be
possible. Here again he was doomed to

disappointment.
Peace recovered so well from the results of

his adventure on the railway that the doctor
pronounced him fit to appear for his second

examination before the magistrate on January 30.
To avoid excitement, both on the part of the

prisoner and the public, the court sat in one of the

corridors of the Town Hall. The scene is described

as dismal, dark and cheerless. The proceedings

took place by candlelight, and Peace, who was

seated in an armchair, complained frequently of the
cold. At other times he moaned and groaned and

protested against the injustice with which he was

being treated. But the absence of any audience
rather dashed the effect of his laments.

The most interesting part of the proceedings

was the cross examination of Mrs. Dyson by Mr.

Clegg, the prisoner's solicitor.
Its purpose was to show that Mrs. Dyson

had been on more intimate terms with Peace than
she was ready to admit, and that Dyson had been

shot by Peace in the course of a struggle, in which
the former had been the aggressor.

In the first part of his task Mr. Clegg met
with some success. Mrs. Dyson, whose memory was

certainly eccentricshe could not, she said, remember
the year in which she had been marriedwas obliged

to admit that she had been in the habit of going to

Peace's house, that she had been alone with him to

publichouses and places of entertainment, and that

she and Peace had been photographed together

during the summer fair at Sheffield. She could not
"to her knowledge" recollect having told the landlord

of a publichouse to charge her drink to Peace.

A great deal of Mrs. Dyson's
crossexamination turned on a bundle of letters that

had been found near the scene of Dyson's murder

on the morning following the crime. These letters

consisted for the most part of notes, written in
pencil on scraps of paper, purporting to have been

sent from Mrs. Dyson to Peace. In many of them
she asks for money to get drink, others refer to

oppor
tunities for their meetings in the absence of

Dyson; there are kind messages to members of
Peace's family, his wife and daughter, and urgent

directions to Peace to hold his tongue and not give
ground for suspicion as to their relations. This

bundle of letters contained also the card which

Dyson had thrown into Peace's garden requesting

him not to interfere with his family. According to

the theory of the defence, these letters had been

written by Mrs. Dyson to Peace, and went to prove
the intimacy of their relations. At the inquest after

her husband's murder, Mrs. Dyson had been

questioned by the coroner about these letters. She
denied that she had ever written to Peace; in fact,

she said, she "never did write." It was stated that

Dyson himself had seen the letters, and declared

them to be forgeries written by Peace or members of
his family for the purpose of annoyance. Neverthe

less, before the Sheffield magistrate Mr.
Clegg thought it his duty to crossexamine Mrs.

Dyson closely as to their authorship. He asked her
to write out a passage from one of them: "You can

give me something as a keepsake if you like, but I
don't like to be covetous, and to take them from

your wife and daughter. Love to all!" Mrs. Dyson
refused to admit any likeness between what she had

written and the handwriting of the letter in ques

tion. Another passage ran: "Will see you as

soon as I possibly can. I think it would be easier

after you move; he won't watch so. The rg fits the

little finger. Many thanks and love to Jennie
(Peace's daughter Jane). I will tell you what I

thought of when I see you about arranging matters.

Excuse this scribbling." In answer to Mr. Clegg, Mrs.
Dyson admitted that Peace had given her a ring,

which she had worn for a short time on her little

finger.

Another letter ran: "If you have a note for
me, send now whilst he is out; but you must not

venture, for he is watching, and you cannot be too
careful. Hope your foot is better. I went to

Sheffield yesterday, but I could not see you
anywhere. Were you out? Love to Jane." Mrs.

Dyson denied that she had known of an accident
which Peace had had to his foot at this time. In

spite of the ruling of the magistrate that Mr. Clegg
had put forward quite enough, if true, to damage

Mrs. Dyson's credibility, he continued to press her as

to her authorship of these notes and letters, but

Mrs. Dyson was firm in her repudiation of them.

She was equally firm in denying that anything in the

nature of a struggle had taken place between Peace
and her husband previous to his murder.

At the conclusion of Mrs. Dyson's evidence

the prisoner was committed to take his trial at the
Leeds Assizes, which commenced the week

following. Peace, who had groaned and moaned and

constantly interrupted the proceedings, protested

his innocence, and complained that his witnesses
had not been called. The apprehension with which

this daring malefactor was regarded by the
authorities is shown by this clandestine hearing of

his case in a cold corridor of the Town Hall, and the
rapidity with which his trial followed on his

committal. There is an appearance almost of
precipitation in the haste with which Peace was

bustled to his doom. After his committal he was
taken to Wakefield Prison, and a few days later to

Armley Jail, there to await his trial.

This began on February 4, and lasted one

day. Mr. Justice Lopes, who had tried vainly to

persuade the Manchester Grand Jury to throw out

the bill in the case of the brothers Habron, was the
presiding judge. Mr. Campbell Foster, Q.C., led for

the prosecution. Peace was defended by Mr. Frank

Lockwood, then rising into that popular success at
the bar which some fifteen years later made him

SolicitorGeneral, and but for his premature death

would have raised him to even higher honours in his

profession.
In addressing the jury, both Mr. Campbell

Foster and Mr. Lockwood took occasion to protest
against the recklessness with which the press of the

day, both high and low, had circulated stories and
rumours about the interesting convict. As early as

November in 1878 one leading London daily
newspaper had said that "it was now established

beyond doubt that the burglar captured by Police
Constable Robinson was one and the same as the

Banner Cross murderer." Since then, as the public

excitement grew and the facts of Peace's

extraordinary career came to light, the press had

responded loyally to the demands of the greedy

lovers of sensation, and piled fiction on fact with
generous profusion. "Never," said Mr. Lockwood, "in

the whole course of his experienceand he defied any

of his learned friends to quote an experiencehad
there been such an attempt made on the part of

those who should be most careful of all others to

preserve the liberties of their fellowmen and to

preserve the dignity of the tribunals of justice to
determine the guilt of a man." Peace exclaimed

"Hear, hear!" as Mr. Lockwood went on to say that
"for the sake of snatching paltry pence from the

public, these persons had wickedly sought to
prejudice the prisoner's life." Allowing for Mr.

Lockwood's zeal as an advocate, there can be no
question that, had Peace chosen or been in a

position to take proceedings, more than one
newspaper had at this time laid itself open to

prosecution for contempt of Court. The Times was

not far wrong in saying that, since Muller murdered

Mr. Briggs on the North London Railway and the

poisonings of William Palmer, no criminal case had

created such excitement as that of Charles Peace.
The fact that property seemed to be no more sacred

to him than life aggravated in a singular degree the

resentment of a commercial people.
The first witness called by the prosecution

was Mrs. Dyson. She described how on the night of

November 29, 1876, she had come out of the

outhouse in the yard at the back of her house, and
found herself confronted by Peace holding a

revolver; how he said: "Speak, or I'll fire!" and the
sequence of events already related up to the

moment when Dyson fell, shot in the temple.
Mr. Lockwood commenced his

crossexamination of Mrs. Dyson by endeavouring to
get from her an admission; the most important to

the defence, that Dyson had caught hold of Peace
after the first shot had been fired, and that in the

struggle which ensued, the revolver had gone off by

accident. But he was not very successful. He put it

to Mrs. Dyson that before the magistrate at Sheffield

she had said: "I can't say my husband did not get
hold of the prisoner." "Put in the little word `try,'
please," answered Mrs. Dyson. In spite of Mr.

Lockwood's questions, she maintained that, though

her husband may have attempted to get hold of
Peace, he did not succeed in doing so. As she was

the only witness to the shooting there was no one to

contradict her statement.

Mr. Lockwood fared better when he came to
deal with the relations of Mrs. Dyson with Peace

previous to the crime. Mrs. Dyson admitted that in
the spring of 1876 her husband had objected to her

friendship with Peace, and that nevertheless, in the
following summer, she and Peace had been

photographed together at the Sheffield fair. She
made a vain attempt to escape from such an

admission by trying to shift the occasion of the
summer fair to the previous year, 1875, but Mr.

Lockwood put it to her that she had not come to

Darnall, where she first met Peace, until the end of

that year. Finally he drove her to say that she could

not remember when she came to Darnall, whether in

1873, 1874, 1875, or 1876. She admitted that she
had accepted a ring from Peace, but could not

remember whether she had shown it to her

husband. She had been perhaps twice with Peace to
the Marquis of Waterford publichouse, and once to

the Star Music Hall. She could not swear one way or

the other whether she had charged to Peace's

account drink consumed by her at an inn in Darnall
called the Halfway House. Confronted with a little

girl and a man, whom Mr. Lockwood suggested she
had employed to carry notes to Peace, Mrs. Dyson

said that these were merely receipts for pictures
which he had framed for her. On the day before her

husband's murder, Mrs. Dyson was at the Stag Hotel
at Sharrow with a little boy belonging to a

neighbour. A man followed her in and sat beside
her, and afterwards followed her out. In answer to

Mr. Lockwood, Mrs. Dyson would "almost swear" the

man was not Peace; he had spoken to her, but she

could not remember whether she had spoken to him

or not. She denied that this man had said to her

that he would come and see her the next night. As
the result of a parting shot Mr. Lockwood obtained

from Mrs. Dyson a reluc

tant admission that she had been "slightly
inebriated" at the Halfway House in Darnall, but had

not to her knowledge" been turned out of the house

on that account. "You may not have known you

were inebriated? suggested Mr. Lockwood. "I
always know what I am doing," was Mrs. Dyson's

reply, to which an unfriendly critic might have
replied that she did not apparently know with

anything like certainty what she had been doing
during the last three or four years. In commenting

on the trial the following day, the Times stigmatised
as "feeble" the prevarications by which Mrs. Dyson

tried to explain away her intimacy with Peace. In
this part of his crossexamination Mr. Lockwood had

made it appear at least highly probable that there

had been a much closer relationship between Mrs.

Dyson and Peace than the former was willing to

acknowledge.
The evidence of Mrs. Dyson was followed by
that of five persons who had either seen Peace in

the neighbourhood of Banner Cross Terrace on the

night of the murder, or heard the screams and shots
that accompanied it. A woman, Mrs. Gregory,

whose house was between that of the Dysons and

the passage in which Dyson was shot, said that she

had heard the noise of the clogs Mrs. Dyson was
wearing as she went across the yard. A minute later

she heard a scream. She opened her back door and
saw Dyson standing by his own. She told him to go

to his wife. She then went back into her house, and
almost directly after heard two shots, followed by

another scream, but no sound as of any scuffling.
Another witness was a labourer named

Brassington. He was a stranger to Peace, but stated
that about eight o'clock on the night of the murder a

man came up to him outside the Banner Cross

Hotel, a few yards from Dyson's house. He was

standing under a gas lamp, and it was a bright

moonlight night. The man asked him if he knew of

any strange people who had come to live in the
neighbourhood. Brassington answered that he did

not. The man then produced a bundle of letters

which he asked Brassington to read. But
Brassington declined, as reading was not one of his

accomplishments. The man then said that "he

would make it a warm 'un for those strange folks

before morninghe would shoot both of them," and
went off in the direction of Dyson's house.

Brassington swore positively that Peace was the
stranger who had accosted him that night, and Mr.

Lockwood failed to shake him in his evidence. Nor
could Mr. Lockwood persuade the surgeon who was

called to Dyson at the time of his death to admit
that the marks on the nose and chin of the dead

man could have been caused by a blow; they were
merely abrasions of the skin caused by the wounded

man falling to the ground.

Evidence was then given as to threats

uttered by Peace against the Dysons in the July of

1876, and as to his arrest at Blackheath in the

October of 1878. The revolver taken from Peace
that night was produced, and it was shown that the

rifling of the bullet extracted from Dyson's head was

the same as that of the bullet fired from the revolver
carried by Peace at the time of his capture.

Mr. Campbell Foster wanted to put in as

evidence the card that Dyson had flung into Peace's

garden at Darnall requesting him not to interfere
with his family. This card had been found among

the bundle of letters dropped by Peace near the
scene of the murder. Mr. Lockwood objected to the

admission of the card unless all the letters were
admitted at the same time. The Judge ruled that

both the card and the letters were inadmissible, as
irrelevant to the issue; Mr. Lockwood had, he said,

very properly cross examined Mrs. Dyson on these
letters to test her credibility, but he was bound by

her answers and could not contradict her by

introducing them as evidence in the case.

Mr. Lockwood in his address to the jury did

his best to persuade them that the death of Dyson

was the accidental result of a struggle between
Peace and himself. He suggested that Mrs. Dyson

had left her house that night for the purpose of

meeting Peace, and that Dyson, who was jealous of
his wife's intimacy with him, had gone out to find

her; that Dyson, seeing Peace, had caught hold of

him; and that the revolver had gone off accidentally

as Dyson tried to wrest it from his adversary. He
repudiated the suggestion of Mr. Foster that the

persons he had confronted with Mrs. Dyson in the
course of his crossexamination had been hired for a

paltry sum to come into court and lie.
Twice, both at the beginning and the end of

his speech, Mr. Lockwood urged as a reason for the
jury being tender in taking Peace's life that he was

in such a state of wickedness as to be quite
unprepared to meet death. Both times that his

counsel put forward this curious plea, Peace raised

his eyes to heaven and exclaimed "I am not fit to

die."

Mr. Justice Lopes in summing up described

as an "absolute surmise" the theory of the accidental
discharge of the pistol. He asked the jury to take

Peace's revolver in their hands and try the trigger,

so as to see for themselves whether it was likely to
go off accidentally or not. He pointed out that the

pistol produced might not have been the pistol used

at Banner Cross; at the same time the bullet fired in

November, 1876, bore marks such as would have
been produced had it been fired from the pistol

taken from Peace at Blackheath in October, 1878.
He said that Mr. Lockwood had been perfectly

justified in his attempt to discredit the evidence of
Mrs. Dyson, but the case did not rest on her

evidence alone. In her evidence as to the threats
uttered by Peace in July, 1876, Mrs. Dyson was

corroborated by three other witnesses. In the
Judge's opinion it was clearly proved that no

struggle or scuffle had taken place before the

murder. If the defence, he concluded, rested on no

solid founda

tion, then the jury must do their duty to the

community at large and by the oath they had sworn.
It was a quarter past seven when the jury

retired. Ten minutes later they came back into court

with a verdict of guilty. Asked if he had anything to
say, Peace in a faint voice replied, "It is no use my

saying anything." The Judge, declining very

properly to aggravate the prisoner's feelings by "a

recapitulation of any portion of the details of what I
fear, I can only call your criminal career," passed on

him sentence of death. Peace accepted his fate with
composure.

Before we proceed to describe the last days
of Peace on earth, let us finish with the two women

who had succeeded Mrs. Peace in his ardent
affections.

A few days after Peace's execution Mrs.
Dyson left England for America, but before going she

left behind her a narrative intended to contradict the

imputations which she felt had been made against

her moral character. An Irishwoman by birth, she

said that she had gone to America when she was

fifteen years old.
There she met and married Dyson, a civil

engineer on the Atlantic and Great Western Railway.

Theirs was a rough and arduous life. But Mrs.
Dyson was thoroughly happy in driving her husband

about in a buggy among bears and creeks. She did

not know fear and loved danger: "My husband

loved me and I loved him, and in his company and
in driving him about in this wild kind of fashion I

derived much pleasure." However, Mr. Dyson's
health broke down, and he was obliged to return to

England. It was at Darnall that the fatal
acquaintance with Peace began. Living next door

but one to the Dysons, Peace took the opportunity
of introducing himself, and Mr. Dyson "being a

gentleman," took polite notice of his advances. He
became a constant visitor at the house. But after a

time Peace began to show that he was not the

gentleman Mr. Dyson was. He disgusted the latter

by offering to show him improper pictures and "the

sights of the town" of Sheffield.

The Dysons tried to shake off the
unwelcome acquaintance, but that was easier said

than done. By this time Peace had set his heart on

making Mrs. Dyson leave her husband. He kept
trying to persuade her to go to Manchester with him,

where he would take a cigar or picture shop, to

which Mrs. Dyson, in fine clothes and jewelry,

should lend the charm of her comely presence. He
of

fered her a sealskin jacket, yards of silk, a
gold watch. She should, he said, live in Manchester

like a lady, to which Mrs. Dyson replied coldly that
she had always lived like one and should continue to

do so quite independently of him. But Peace would
listen to no refusal, however decided its tone.

Dyson threw over the card into Peace's garden. This
only served to aggravate his determination to

possess himself of the wife. He would listen at

keyholes, leer in at the window, and follow Mrs.

Dyson wherever she went. When she was

photographed at the fair, she found that Peace had

stood behind her chair and by that means got
himself included in the picture. At times he had

threatened her with a revolver. On one occasion

when he was more insulting than usual, Mrs. Dyson
forgot her fear of him and gave him a thrashing.

Peace threatened "to make her so that neither man

nor woman should look at her, and then he would

have her all to himself." It was with some purpose
of this kind, Mrs. Dyson suggested, that Peace stole

a photograph of herself out of a locket, intending to
make some improper use of it. At last, in

desperation, the Dysons moved to Banner Cross.
From the day of their arrival there until the murder,

Mrs. Dyson never saw Peace. She denied altogether
having been in his company the night before the

murder. The letters were "bare forgeries," written
by Peace or members of his family to get her into

their power.
Against the advice of all her friends Mrs.

Dyson had come back from America to give evidence

against Peace. To the detective who saw her at

Cleveland she said, "I will go back if I have to walk
on my head all the way"; and though she little knew

what she would have to go through in giving her

evidence, she would do it again under the
circumstances. "My opinion is," she said, "that

Peace is a perfect demonnot a man. I am told that

since he has been sentenced to death he has

become a changed character. That I don't believe.
The place to which the wicked go is not bad enough

for him. I think its occupants, bad as they might be,
are too good to be where he is. No matter where he

goes, I am satis
fied that there will be hell. Not even a

Shakespeare could adequately paint such a man as
he has been. My lifelong regret will be that I ever

knew him."
With these few earnest words Mrs. Dyson

quitted the shores of England, hardly clearing up the

mystery of her actual relations with Peace.

A woman with whom Mrs. Dyson very much

resented finding herself classedinebriety would

appear to have been their only common
weaknesswas Mrs. Thompson, the "traitress Sue."

In spite of the fact that on February 5 Mrs.

Thompson had applied to the Treasury for L100,
blood money due her for assisting the police in the

identification of Peace, she was at the same time

carrying on a friendly correspondence with her lover

and making attempts to see him. Peace had written
to her before his trial hoping she would not forsake

him; "you have been my bosom friend, and you
have ofttimes said you loved me, that you would die

for me." He asked her to sell some goods which he
had left with her in order to raise money for his

defence. The traitress replied on January 27 that
she had already sold everything and shared the

proceeds with Mrs. Peace. "You are doing me great
injustice," she wrote, "by saying that I have been

out to `work' with you. Do not die with such a base

falsehood on your conscience, for you know I am

young and have my living and character to redeem.

I pity you and myself to think we should have met."

After his condemnation Mrs. Thompson made
repeated efforts to see Peace, coming to Leeds for

the purpose. Peace wrote a letter on February 9 to

his "poor Sue," asking her to come to the prison.
But, partly at the wish of Peace's relatives and for

reasons of their own, a permission given Mrs.

Thompson by the authorities to visit the convict was

suddenly withdrawn, and she never saw him again.

III
HIS TRIAL AND EXECUTION

In the lives of those famous men who have
perished on the scaffold their behaviour during the

interval between their condemnation and their
execution has always been the subject of curiosity

and interest.
It may be said at once that nothing could

have been more deeply religious, more sincerely

repentant, more Christian to all appearances than

Peace's conduct and demeanour in the last weeks of

his life. He threw himself into the work of

atonement with the same uncompromising zeal and
energy that he had displayed as a burglar. By his

death a truly welcome and effective re

cruit was lost to the ranks of the contrite
and converted sinners. However powerless as a

controlling forceand he admitted ithis belief in God

and the devil may have been in the past, that belief

was assured and confident, and in the presence of
death proclaimed itself with vigour, not in words

merely, but in deeds.
In obedience to the wishes of his family,

Peace had refrained from seeing Sue Thompson.
This was at some sacrifice, for he wished very much

to see her and to the last, though he knew that she
had betrayed him, sent her affectionate and

forgiving messages. These were transmitted to Sue
by Mr. Brion. This disingenuous gentleman was a

fellowapplicant with Sue to the Treasury for

pecuinary recognition of his efforts in bringing about

the identification of Peace, and furnishing the police

with information as to the convict's disposal of his

stolen property. In his zeal he had even gone so far
as to play the role of an accomplice of Peace, and by

this means discovered a place in Petticoat Lane

where the burglar got rid of some of his booty.
After Peace's condemnation Mr. Brion visited

him in Armley Jail. His purpose in doing so was to

wring from his coinventor an admission that the

inventions which they had patented together were
his work alone. Peace denied this, but offered to

sell his share for L50. Brion refused the offer, and
persisted in his assertion that Peace had got his

name attached to the patents by undue influence,
whatever that might mean. Peace, after wres

tling with the spirit, gave way. "Very well,
my friend," he said, "let it be as you say. I have not

cheated you, Heaven knows. But I also know that
this infamy of mine has been the cause of bringing

harm to you, which is the last thing I should have

wished to have caused to my friend." A deed of gift

was drawn up, making over to Brion Peace's share in

their inventions; this Peace handed to Brion as the

price of the latter's precious forgiveness and a token
of the sincerity of his colleague's repentance. Thus,

as has often happened in this sad world, was

disreputable genius exploited once again by smug
mediocrity. Mr. Brion, having got all he wanted, left

the prison, assuring the Governor that Peace's

repentance was "all bunkum," and advising, with

commendable anxiety for the public good, that the
warders in the condemned cell should be doubled.

Peace had one act of atonement to
discharge more urgent than displaying Christian

forbearance towards ignoble associates. That was
the righting of William Habron, who was now serving

the third year of his life sentence for the murder of
Constable Cock at Whalley Range. Peace sent for

the Governor of the jail a few days before his
execution and obtained from him the materials

necessary for drawing up a plan. Peace was quite

an adept at making plans; he had already made an

excellent one of the scene of Dyson's murder. He

now drew a plan of the place where Cock had been

shot, gave a detailed account of how he came by his
death, and made a full confession of his own guilt.

In the confession he described how, some

days before the burglary, he had, according to his
custom, "spotted" the house at Whalley Range. In

order to do this he always dressed himself

respectably, because he had found that the police

never suspected anyone who wore good clothes. On
the night of the crime he passed two policemen on

the road to the house. He had gone into the
grounds and was about to begin operations when he

heard a rustle behind him and saw a policeman,
whom he recognised as one of those he had met in

the road, enter the garden. With his wellknown
agility Peace climbed on to the wall, and dropped on

to the other side, only to find himself almost in the
arms of the second policeman. Peace warned the

officer to stand back and fired his revolver wide of

him. But, as Peace said, "these Manchester

policemen are a very obstinate lot." The constable

took out his truncheon. Peace fired again and killed

him.
Soon after the murderer saw in the

newspapers that two men had been arrested for the

crime. "This greatly interested me," said Peace. "I
always had a liking to be present at trials, as the

public no doubt know by this time." So he went to

Manchester Assizes and saw William Habron

sentenced to death. "People will say," he said, "that
I was a hardened wretch for allowing an in

nocent man to suffer for the crime of which I
was guilty but what man would have given himself

up under such circumstances, knowing as I did that
I should certainly be hanged?" Peace's view of the

question was a purely practical one: "Now that I am
going to forfeit my own life and feel that I have

nothing to gain by further secrecy, I think it is right
in the sight of God and man to clear this innocent

young man." It would have been more right in the

sight of God and man to have done it before, but

then Peace admitted that during all his career he

had allowed neither God nor man to influence his

actions.
How many men in the situation of Peace at

the time, with the certainty of death before him if he

confessed, would have sacrificed themselves to save
an innocent man? Coldblooded heroism of this kind

is rare in the annals of crime. Nor did Peace claim

to have anything of the hero about him.

"Lionhearted I've lived, And when my time
comes Lionhearted I'll die."

Though fond of repeating this piece of
doggerel, Peace would have been the last man to

have attributed to himself all those qualities
associated symbolically with the lion.

A few days before his execution Peace was
visited in his prison by Mr. Littlewood, the Vicar of

Darnall. Mr. Littlewood had known Peace a few
years before, when he had been chaplain at

Wakefield Prison. "Well, my old friend Peace," he

said as he entered the cell, "how are you today?" "Ì

am very poorly, sir," replied the convict, "but I am

exceedingly pleased to see you." Mr. Littlewood

assured Peace that there was at any rate one person
in the world who had deep sympathy with him, and

that was himself. Peace burst into tears. He

expressed a wish to unburden himself to the vicar,
but before doing so, asked for his assurance that he

believed in the truth and sincerity of what he was

about to say to him. He said that he preferred to be

hanged to lingering out his life in penal servitude,
that he was grieved and repentant for his past life.

"If I could undo, or make amends for anything I
have done, I would suffer my body as I now stand to

be cut in pieces inch by inch. I feel, sir, that I am
too bad to live or die, and having this feeling I

cannot think that either you or anyone else would
believe me, and that is the reason why I ask you so

much to try to be assured that you do not think I am
telling lies. I call my God to witness that all I am

saying and wish to say shall be the truththe whole

truth nothing but the truth." Mr. Littlewood said

that, after carefully watching Peace and having

regard to his experience of some of the most

hardened of criminals during his service in Wakefield
Prison, he felt convinced that Peace was in earnest

and as sincere as any man could be; he spoke

rationally, coherently, and without excitement.
Peace was determined to test the extent of

the reverend gentleman's faith in his asseverations.

"Now, sir," he said, "I understand that you still have

the impression that I stole the clock from your
dayschools." Mr. Littlewood admitted that such was

his impression. "I thought so," replied Peace, "and
this has caused me much grief and pain, for I can

assure you I have so much respect for you
personally that I would rather have given you a

clock and much more besides than have taken it. At
the time your clock was stolen I had reason for

suspecting that it was taken by some colliers whom
I knew." There was a pause. Mr. Littlewood

thought that Peace was going to give him the name

of the colliers. But that was not Peace's way. He

said sharply: "Do you now believe that I have

spoken the truth in denying that I took your clock,

and will you leave me today fully believing that I am
innocent of doing that?" Mr. Littlewood looked at

him closely and appeared to be deliberating on his

reply. Peace watched him intently. At last Mr.
Littlewood said, "Peace, I am convinced that you did

not take the clock. I cannot believe that you dare

deny it now in your position, if you really did." Once

more Peace burst into tears, and was unable for
some time to speak.

Having recovered his selfpossession, Peace
turned to the serious business of confession. He

dealt first with the murder of Dyson.
He maintained that his relations with Mrs.

Dyson had been of an intimate character. He
wanted to see her on the night of the crime in order

to get her to induce her husband to withdraw the
warrant which he had procured against him; he was

tired, he said, of being hunted about from place to

place. He intercepted Mrs. Dyson as she crossed the

yard. Instead of listening to him quietly Mrs. Dyson

became violent and threatening in her language.

Peace took out his revolver, and, holding it close to
her head, warned her that he was not to be trifled

with. She refused to be warned. Dyson, hearing

the loud voices, came out of his house. Peace tried
to get away down the passage into Banner Cross

Road, but Dyson followed and caught hold of him.

In the struggle Peace fired one barrel of his revolver

wide. Dyson seized the hand in which Peace was
holding the weapon. "Then I knew," said Peace, "I

had not a moment to spare. I made a desperate
effort, wrenched the arm from him and fired again.

All that was in my head at the time was to get away.
I never did intend, either there or anywhere else, to

take a man's life; but I was determined that I should
not be caught at that time, as the result, knowing

what I had done before, would have been worse
even than had I stayed under the warrant." If he

had intended to murder Dyson, Peace pointed out

that he would have set about it in quite a different

and more secret way; it was as unintentional a thing

as ever was done; Mrs. Dyson had committed the

grossest perjury in saying that no struggle had
taken place between her husband and himself.

It is to be remembered that Peace and Mrs.

Dyson were the sole witnesses of what took place
that night between the two men. In point of

credibility there may be little to choose between

them, but Peace can claim for his account that it

was the statement of a dying, and, to all
appearances, sincerely repentant sinner.

Peace then repeated to Mr. Littlewood his
confession of the killing of Constable Cock, and his

desire that Habron should be set free.[11] As to
this part of his career Peace indulged in some

general reflections. "My great mistake, sir," he said,
"and I can see it now as my end approaches, has

been thisin all my career I have used ball cartridge.
I can see now that in using ball cartridge I did wrong

I ought to have used blank cartridge; then I would

not have taken life." Peace said that he hoped he

would meet his death like a hero. "I do not say this

in any kind of bravado. I do not mean such a hero

as some persons will understand when they read
this. I mean such a hero as my God might wish me

to be. I am deeply grieved for all I have done, and

would atone for it to the utmost of my power." To
Mr. Littlewood the moment seemed convenient to

suggest that as a practical means of atonement

Peace should reveal to him the names of the

persons with whom he had disposed of the greater
part of his stolen property. But in spite of much

attempted persuasion by the reverend gentleman
Peace explained that he was a man and meant to be

a man to the end.
[11] William Habron was subsequently

given a free pardon and L800 by way of
compensation.

Earlier in their interview Peace had
expressed to Mr. Littlewood a hope that after his

execution his name would never be mentioned

again, but before they parted he asked Mr.

Littlewood, as a favour, to preach a sermon on him

after his death to the good people of Darnall. He

wished his career held up to them as a beacon, in
order that all who saw might avoid his example, and

so his death be of some service to society.

Before Mr. Littlewood left, Peace asked him
to hear him pray. Having requested the warders to

kneel down, Peace began a prayer that lasted

twenty minutes. He prayed for himself, his family,

his victims, Mr. Littlewood, society generally, and all
classes of the community. Mr. Littlewood described

the prayer as earnest, fervent and fluent. At the
end Peace asked Mr. Littlewood if he ought to see

Mrs. Dyson and beg her forgiveness for having killed
her husband. Mr. Littlewood, believing er

roneously that Mrs. Dyson had already left
the country, told Peace that he should direct all his

attention to asking forgiveness of his Maker. At the
close of their interview Peace was lifted into bed

and, turning his face to the wall, wept.

Tuesday, February 25, was the day fixed for

the, execution of Peace. As the time drew near, the

convict's confidence in ultimate salvation increased.

A Dr. Potter of Sheffield had declared in a sermon
that "all hope of Peace's salvation was gone for

ever." Peace replied curtly, "Well, Dr. Potter may

think so, but I don't." Though his health had
improved, Peace was still very feeble in body. But

his soul was hopeful and undismayed. On the

Saturday before his death his brother and

sisterinlaw, a nephew and niece visited him for the
last time. He spoke with some emotion of his

approaching end. He said he should die about eight
o'clock, and that at four o'clock an inquest would be

held on his body; he would then be thrown into his
grave without service or sermon of any kind. He

asked his relatives to plant a flower on a certain
grave in a cemetery in Sheffield on the day of his

execution. He was very weak, he said, but hoped he
should have strength enough to walk to the scaffold.

He sent messages to friends and warnings to avoid

gambling and drinking. He begged his brother to

change his manner of life and "become religious."

His good counsel was not apparently very well

received. Peace's visitors took a depressing view of
their relative's condition. They found him "a poor,

wretched, haggard man," and, meeting Mrs.

Thompson who was waiting outside the gaol for
news of "dear Jack," wondered how she could have

taken up with such a man.

When, the day before his execution, Peace

was visited for the last time by his wife, his stepson,
his daughter, Mrs. Bolsover, and her husband, he

was in much better spirits. He asked his visitors to
restrain themselves from displays of emotion, as he

felt very happy and did not wish to be disturbed. He
advised them to sell or exhibit for money certain

works of art of his own devising. Among them was
a design in paper for a monument to be placed over

his grave. The design is elaborate but well and
ingeniously executed; in the opinion of Frith, the

painter, it showed "the true feeling of an artist." It

is somewhat in the style of the Albert Memorial, and

figures of angels are prominent in the scheme. The

whole conception is typical of the artist's sanguine

and confident assurance of his ultimate destiny. A
model boat and a fiddle made out of a hollow

bamboo cane he wished also to be made the means

of raising money. He was describing with some
detail the ceremony of his approaching death and

burial when he was interrupted by a sound of

hammering. Peace listened for a moment and then

said, "That's a noise that would make some men fall
on the floor. They are working at my own scaffold."

A warder said that he was mistaken. "No, I am
not," answered Peace, "I have not worked so long

with wood without knowing the sound of deals; and
they don't have deals inside a prison for anything

else than scaffolds." But the noise, he said, did not
disturb him in the least, as he was quite prepared to

meet his fate. He would like to have seen his grave
and coffin; he knew that his body would be treated

with scant ceremony after his death. But what of

that? By that time his soul would be in Heaven. He

was pleased that one sinner who had seen him on

his way from Pentonville to Sheffield, had written to

tell him that the sight of the convict had brought
home to him the sins of his own past life, and by

this means he had found salvation.

The time had come to say goodbye for the
last time. Peace asked his weeping relatives

whether they had anything more that they wished to

ask him. Mrs. Peace reminded him that he had

promised to pray with them at the last. Peace, ever
ready, knelt with them and prayed for half an hour.

He then shook hands with them, prayed for and
blessed each one singly, and himself gave way to

tears as they left his presence. To his wife as she
departed Peace gave a funeral card of his own

designing. It ran:
In Memory of Charles Peace Who was

executed in Armley Prison Tuesday February 25th,
1879 Aged 47

For that I don but never Intended.

The same day there arrived in the prison

one who in his own trade had something of the

personality and assurance of the culprit he was to

execute. William Marwoodunlike his celebrated
victim, he has his place in the Dictionary of National

Biographyis perhaps the most remarkable of these

persons who have held at different times the office
of public executioner. As the inventor of the "long

drop," he has done a lasting service to humanity by

enabling the deathsentence passed by the judge to

be carried out with the minimum of possible
suffering. Marwood took a lofty view of the office he

held, and refused his assent to the somewhat
hypocritical loathing, with which those who sanction

and profit by his exertions are pleased to regard this
servant of the law. "I am doing God's work," said

Marwood, "according to the divine command and the
law of the British Crown. I do it simply as a matter

of duty and as a Christian. I sleep as soundly as a
child and am never disturbed by phantoms. Where

there is guilt there is bad sleeping, but I am

conscious that I try to live a blameless life.

Detesting idleness, I pass my vacant time in

business (he was a shoemaker at Horncastle, in

Lincolnshire) and work in my shoeshop near the
church day after day until such time as I am

required elsewhere. It would have been better for

those I executed if they had preferred industry to
idleness."
Marwood had not the almost patriarchal air

of benevolent respectability which his predecessor

Calcraft had acquired during a short experience as a
family butler; but as an executioner that kindly old

gentleman had been a sad bungler in his time
compared with the scientific and expeditious

Marwood. The Horncastle shoemaker was saving,
businesslike, pious and thoughtful. Like Peace, he

had interests outside his ordinary profession. He
had at one time propounded a scheme for the

abolition of the National Debt, a man clearly
determined to benefit his fellowmen in some way or

other. A predilection for gin would seem to have

been his only concession to the ordinary weakness

of humanity. And now he had arrived in Armley Jail

to exercise his happy dispatch on the greatest of the

many criminals who passed through his hands, one
who, in his own words, "met death with greater

firmness" than any man on whom he had officiated

during seven years of Crown employment.
The day of February the 25th broke bitterly

cold. Like Charles I. before him, Peace feared lest

the extreme cold should make him appear to

tremble on the scaffold. He had slept calmly till six
o'clock in the morning. A great part of the two

hours before the coming of the hangman Peace
spent in letterwriting. He wrote two letters to his

wife, in one of which he copied out some verses he
had written in Woking Prison on the death of their

little boy John. In the second he expressed his
satisfaction that he was to die now and not linger

twenty years in prison. To his daughter, stepson
and soninlaw he wrote letters of fervent, religious

exhortation and sent them tracts and pictures which

he had secured from wellintentioned persons

anxious about his salvation. To an old friend,

George Goodlad, a pianist, who had apparently lived

up to his name, he wrote: "You chose an honest
industrious way through life, but I chose the one of

dis
honesty, villainy and sin"; let his fate, he
said, be a warning.
Peace ate a hearty breakfast and awaited

the coming of the executioner with calm. He had

been troubled with an inconvenient cough the night
before. "I wonder," he said to one of his warders, "if

Marwood could cure this cough of mine." He had
got an idea into his head that Marwood would

"punish" him when he came to deal with him on the
scaffold, and asked to see the hang

man a few minutes before the appointed
hour. "I hope you will not punish me. I hope you

will do your work quickly," he said to Marwood.
"You shall not suffer pain from my hand," replied

that worthy. "God bless you," exclaimed Peace, "I

hope to meet you all in heaven. I am thankful to

say my sins are all forgiven." And so these two

pious menon the morning of an execution Marwood

always knelt down and asked God's blessing on the
work he had to doshook hands together and set

about their business. Firmly and fearlessly Peace

submitted himself to the necessary preparations.
For one moment he faltered as the gallows came in

sight, but recovered himself quickly.

As Marwood was about to cover his face,

Peace stopped him with some irritation of manner
and said that he wished to speak to the gentlemen

of the press who had been admitted to the
ceremony. No one gainsaid him, and he thus

addressed the reporters: "You gentlemen reporters,
I wish you to notice the few words I am going to

say. You know what my life has been. It has been
base; but I wish you to notice, for the sake of

others, how a man can die, as I am about to die, in
fear of the Lord. Gentlemen, my heart says that I

feel assured that my sins are forgiven me, that I am

going to the Kingdom of Heaven, or else to the place

prepared for those who rest until the great

Judgment day. I do not think I have any enemies,

but if there are any who would be so, I wish them
well. Gentlemen, all and all, I wish them to come to

the Kingdom of Heaven when they die, as I am

going to die." He asked a blessing on the officials of
the prison and, in conclusion, sent his last wishes

and respects to his dear children and their mother.

"I hope," he said, "no one will disgrace them by

taunting them or jeering them on my account, but
to have mercy upon them. God bless you, my dear

children. Good bye, and Heaven bless you. Amen:
Oh, my Lord God, have mercy upon me!"

After the cap had been placed over his head
Peace asked twice very sharply, as a man who

expected to be obeyed, for a drink of water. But
this time his request was not compiled with. He

died instantaneously and was buried in Armley Jail.
Had Peace flourished in 1914 instead of

1874, his end might have been honourable instead

of dishonourable. The war of today has no doubt

saved many a man from a criminal career by turning

to worthy account qualities which, dangerous in

crime, are useful in war. Absolute fearlessness,
agility, resource, cunning and determination; all

these are admirable qualities in the soldier; and all

these Charles Peace possessed in a signal degree.
But fate denied him opportunity, he became a

burglar and died on the scaffold. Years of prison life

failed, as they did in those days, to make any

impression for good on one resolute in whatever
way he chose to go. Peace was a born fighter. A

detective who knew him and had on one occasion
come near capturing him in London, said that he

was a fair fighter, that he always gave fair warning
to those on whom he fired, and that, being a dead

shot, the many wide shots which he fired are to be
reckoned proofs of this. Peace maintained to the

last that he had never intended to kill Dyson. This
statement exdetective Parrock believed, and that

the fatal shot was fired over Peace's shoulder as he

was making off. Though habitually sober, Peace was

made intoxicated now and then by the drink, stood

him by those whom he used to amuse with his

musical tricks and antics in public houses. At such
times he would get fuddled and quarrelsome. He

was in such a frame of mind on the evening of

Dyson's murder. His visit to the Vicar of Ecclesall
brought him little comfort or consolation. It was in

this unsatisfactory frame of mind that he went to

Dyson's house. This much the exdetective would

urge in his favour. To his neighbours he was an
aweinspiring but kind and sympathetic man. "If you

want my true opinion of him," says Detective
Parrock, "he was a burglar to the backbone but not

a murderer at heart. He deserved the fate that
came to him as little as any who in modern times

have met with a like one." Those who are in the
fighting line are always the most generous about

their adversaries. Parrock as a potential target for
Peace's revolver, may have erred on the side of

generosity, but there is some truth in what he says.

As Peace himself admitted, his life had been

base. He was well aware that he had misused such

gifts as nature had bestowed on him. One must go

back to mediaeval times to find the counterpart of
this daring ruffian who, believing in personal God

and devil, refuses until the end to allow either to

interfere with his business in life. In this respect
Charles Peace reminds us irresistibly of our Angevin

kings.

There is only one criminal who vies with

Charley Peace in that genial popular regard which
makes Charles "Charley" and John "Jack," and that

is Jack Sheppard. What Jack was to the eighteenth
century, that Charley was to the nineteenth. And

each one is in a sense typical of his period. Lecky
has said that the eighteenth century is richer than

any other in the romance of crime. I think it may
fairly be said that in the nineteenth century the

romance of crime ceased to be. In the eighteenth
century the scenery and dresses, all the stage

setting of crime make for romance; its literature is

quaint and picturesque; there is something gay and

debonair about the whole business.

Sheppard is typical of all this. There is a

certain charm about the rascal; his humour is
undeniable; he is a philosopher, taking all that

comes with easy grace, even his betrayal by his

brother and others who should have been loyal to
him. Jack Sheppard has the goodhumoured

carelessness of that most engaging of all eighteenth

century malefactors, Deacon Brodie. It is quite

otherwise with Charley Peace. There is little enough
gay or debonair about him. Compared with

Sheppard, Peace is as drab as the surroundings of
midVictorian crime are drab compared with the

picturesqueness of eighteenth century England.
Crime in the nineteenth century becomes

more scientific in its methods and in its detection
also. The revolver places a more hasty, less

decorous weapon than the oldfashioned pistol in the
hands of the determined burglar. The literature of

crime, such as it is, becomes vulgar and prosaic.

Peace has no charm about him, no gaiety, but he

has the virtues of his defects. He, unlike Sheppard,

shuns company; he works alone, never depending

on accomplices; a "tight cock," as Sheppard would
have phrased it, and not relying on a like quality of

tightness in his fellows. Sheppard is a slave to his

women, Edgeworth Bess and Mrs. Maggot; Mrs.
Peace and Sue Thompson are the slaves of Peace.

Sheppard loves to stroll openly about the London

streets in his fine suit of black, his ruffled shirt and

his silver hilted sword. Peace lies concealed at
Peckham beneath the homely disguise of old Mr.

Thompson. Sheppard is an imp, Peace a goblin.
But both have that gift of personality which, in their

own peculiar line, lifts them out from the ruck, and
makes them Jack and Charley to those who like to

know famous people by cheery nicknames.
And so we must accept Charles Peace as a

remarkable character, whose unquestioned gifts as a
man of action were squandered on a criminal career;

neither better nor worse than a great number of

other persons, whose good fortune it has been to

develop similar qualities under happier

surroundings. There are many more complete

villains than the ordinary criminal, who contrive to
go through life without offending against the law.

Close and scientific investigation has shown that the

average convicted criminal differs intellectually from
the normal person only in a slightly lower level of

intelligence, a condition that may well be explained

by the fact that the convicted criminal has been

found out. Crime has been happily defined by a
recent and most able investigator into the character

of the criminal[12] as "an unusual act committed by
a perfectly normal person." At the same time,

according to the same authority, there is a type of
normal person who tends to be convicted of crime,

and he is differentiated from his fellows by defective
physique and mental capacity and an increased

possession of antisocial qualities.[13]
[12] "The English Convict," a statistical

study, by Charles Goring, M.D. His Majesty's

Stationery Office, 1913.

[13] Murderersat least those executed for

their crimeshave not for obvious reasons been made

the subject of close scientific observation. Their
mental capacity would in all probability be found to

be rather higher than that of less ambitious

criminals.
How does Peace answer to the definition?

Though short in stature, his physical development

left little to be desired: he was active, agile, and

enjoyed excellent health at all times. For a man of
fortyseven he had aged remarkably in appearance.

That is probably to be accounted for by mental
worry. With two murders on his conscience we

know from Sue Thompson that all she learnt of his
secrets was what escaped from him in his troubled

dreamsPeace may well have shown traces of mental
anxiety. But in all other respects Charles Peace

would seem to have been physically fit. In
intellectual capacity he was undoubtedly above the

average of the ordinary criminal. The facts of his

career, his natural gifts, speak for themselves. Of

antisocial proclivities he no doubt possessed his

share at the beginning, and these were aggravated,

as in most cases they were in his day, by prison life
and discipline.

Judged as scientifically as is possible where

the human being is concerned, Peace stands out
physically and intellectually well above the average

of his class, perhaps the most naturally gifted of all

those who, without advantages of rank or education,

have tried their hands at crime. Ordinary crime for
the most part would appear to be little better than

the last resort of the intellectually defective, and a
poor game at that. The only interesting criminals

are those worthy of something better. Peace was
one of these. If his life may be said to point a

moral, it is the very simple one that crime is no
career for a man of brains.


The Career of Robert Butler

There is a report of Butler's trial published
in Dunedin. It gives in full the speeches and the

crossexamination of the witnesses, but not in all
cases the evidenceinchief. By the kindness of a

friend in New Zealand I obtained a copy of the
depositions taken before the magistrate; with this I

have been able to supplement the report of the trial.
A collection of newspaper cuttings furnished me with

the details of the rest of Butler's career.
I

THE DUNEDIN MURDERS

On the evening of March 23, 1905, Mr.

William Munday, a highly respected citizen of the

town of Tooringa, in Queensland, was walking to the

neighbouring town of Toowong to attend a masonic
gathering. It was about eight o'clock, the moon

shining brightly. Nearing Toowong, Mr. Munday saw

a middleaged man, bearded and wearing a white
overcoat, step out into the moonlight from under the

shadow of a tree. As Mr. Munday advanced, the

man in the white coat stood directly in his way.

"Out with all you have, and quick about it," he said.
Instead of complying with this peremptory

summons, Mr. Munday attempted to close with him.
The man drew back quickly, whipped out a revolver,

fired, and made off as fast as he could. The bullet,
after passing through Mr. Munday's left arm, had

lodged in the stomach. The unfortunate gentleman
was taken to a neighbouring hospital where, within a

few hours, he was dead.
In the meantime a vigorous search was

made for his assailant. Late the same night

Constable Hennessy, riding a bicycle, saw a man in

a white coat who seemed to answer to the

description of the assassin. He dismounted, walked

up to him and asked him for a match. The man put
his hand inside his coat. "What have you got

there?" asked the constable. "I'llsoon show you,"

replied the man in the white coat, producing
suddenly a large revolver. But Hennessy was too

quick for him. Landing him one under the jaw, he

sent him to the ground and, after a sharp struggle,

secured him. Constable Hennessy little knew at the
time that his capture in Queensland of the man in

the white coat was almost as notable in the annals
of crime as the affray at Blackheath on an autumn

night in 1878, when Constable Robinson grappled
successfully, wounded as he was, with Charles

Peace.
The man taken by Hennessy gave the name

of James Wharton, and as James Wharton he was
hanged at Brisbane. But before his death it was

ascertained beyond doubt, though he never

admitted it himself, that Wharton was none other

than one Robert Butler, whose career as a criminal

and natural wickedness may well rank him with

Charles Peace in the hierarchy of scoundrels. Like
Peace, Butler was, in the jargon of crime, a "hatter,"

a "lone hand," a solitary who conceived and

executed his nefarious designs alone; like Peace, he
supplemented an insignificant physique by a liberal

employment of the revolver; like Peace, he was

something of a musician, the day before his

execution he played hymns for half an hour on the
prison organ; like Peace, he knew when to whine

when it suited his purpose; and like Peace, though
not with the same intensity, he could be an

uncomfortably persistent lover, when the fit was on
him. Both men were cynics in their way and viewed

their fellowmen with a measure of contempt. But
here parallel ends. Butler was an intellectual,

inferior as a craftsman to Peace, the essentially
practical, unread, naturally gifted artist. Butler was

a man of books. He had been schoolmaster,

journalist. He had studied the lives of great men,

and as a criminal, had devoted especial attention to

those of Frederick the Great and Napoleon. Butler's

defence in the Dunedin murder trial was a feat of
skill quite beyond the power of Peace. Peace was a

religious man after the fashion of the mediaeval

tyrant, Butler an infidel. Peace, dragged into the
light of a court of justice, cut a sorry figure; here

Butler shone. Peace escaped a conviction for

murder by letting another suffer in his place; Butler

escaped a similar experience by the sheer ingenuity
of his defence. Peace had the modesty and

reticence of the sincere artist; Butler the loquacious
vanity of the literary or forensic coxcomb. Lastly,

and it is the supreme difference, Butler was a
murderer by instinct and conviction, as Lacenaire or

Ruloff; "a man's life," he said, "was of no more
importance than a dog's; nature respects the one no

more than the other, a volcanic eruption kills mice
and men with the one hand. The divine command,

`kill, kill and spare not,' was intended not only for
Joshua, but for men of all time; it is the example of

our rulers, our Fredericks and Napoleons."

Butler was of the true Prussian mould. "In

crime," he would say, "as in war, no half measures.
Let us follow the example of our rulers whose orders

in war run, `Kill, burn and sink,' and what you

cannot carry away, destroy.'" Here is the gospel of
frightfulness applied almost prophetically to crime.

To Butler murder is a principle of warfare; to Peace

it was never more than a desperate resort or an act

the outcome of ungovernable passion.
Ireland can claim the honour of Butler's

birth. It took place at Kilkenny about 1845. At an
early age he left his native land for Australia, and

commenced his professional career by being
sentenced under the name of James Wilsonthe same

initials as those of James Wharton of Queenslandto
twelve months' imprisonment for vagrancy. Of the

sixteen years he passed in Victoria he spent thirteen
in prison, first for stealing, then in steady

progression for highway robbery and burglary. Side

by side with the practical and efficient education in

crime furnished by the Victorian prisons of that day,

Butler availed himself of the opportunity to educate

his mind. It was during this period that he found
inspiration and encouragement in the study of the

lives of Frederick and Napoleon, besides acquiring a

knowledge of music and shorthand.
When in 1876 Butler quitted Australia for

New Zealand, he was sufficiently accomplished to

obtain employment as a schoolmaster.

At Cromwell, Otago, under the name of "C.
J. Donelly, Esq.," Butler opened a "Commercial and

Preparatory Academy," and in a prospectus that
recalls Mr. Squeers' famous advertisement of

Dotheboys Hall, announced that the programme of
the Academy would include "reading, taught as an

art and upon the most approved principles of
elocution, writing, arithmetic, euclid, algebra,

mensuration, trigonometry, bookkeeping,
geography, grammar, spelling and dictation)

composition, logic and debate, French, Latin,

shorthand, history, music, and general lectures on

astronomy, natural philosophy, geology, and other

subjects." The simpler principles of these branches

of learning were to be "rendered intelligible, and a
firm foundation laid for the acquirement of future

knowledge." Unfortunately a suspicion of theft on

Butler's part cut short the fulfilment of this really
splendid programme, and Butler left Cromwell

hurriedly for the ampler field of Dunedin. There,

less than a fortnight after his arrivel{sic}, he was

sentenced to four years' hard labour for several
burglaries committed in and about that city.

On the 18th of February, 1880, Butler was
released from prison. With that consummate

hypocrisy which was part of the man, he had
contrived to enlist the sympathies of the Governor of

the Dunedin Jail, who gave him, on his departure, a
suit of clothes and a small sum of money. A

detective of the name of Bain tried to find him
employment. Butler wished to adopt a literary

career. He acted as a reporter on the Dunedin

Evening Star, and gave satisfaction to the editor of

that newspaper. An attempt to do some original

work, in the shape of "Prison Sketches," for another

newspaper, was less successful. Bain had arranged
for the publication of the articles in the Sunday

Advertiser, but when the time came to deliver his

manuscript, Butler failed to appear. Bain, whose
duty it was to keep an eye on Butler, found him in

the street looking wild and haggard. He said that he

had found the work "too much for his head," that he

had torn up what he had written, that he had
nowhere to go, and had been to the end of the jetty

with the intention of drowning himself. Bain replied
somewhat caustically that he thought it a pity he

had not done so, as nothing would have given him
greater joy than going to the end of the jetty and

identifying his body. "You speak very plainly," said
Butler. "Yes, and what is more, I mean what I say,"

replied Bain. Butler justified Bain's candour by
saying that if he broke out again, he would be worse

than the most savage tiger ever let loose on the

community. As a means of obviating such an

outbreak, Butler suggested that, intellectual

employment having failed, some form of manual

labour should be found him. Bain complied with
Butler's request, and got him a job at levelling

reclaimed ground in the neighbourhood of Dunedin.

On Wednesday, March 10, Butler started work, but
after three hours of it relinquished the effort. Bain

saw Butler again in Dunedin on the evening of

Saturday, March 13, and made an appointment to

meet him at halfpast eight that night. Butler did not
keep the appointment. Bain searched the town for

him, but he was nowhere to be found.
About the same time Butler had some talk

with another member of the Dunedin police force,
Inspector Mallard. They discussed the crimes of

Charles Peace and other notable artists of that kind.
Butler remarked to Mallard how easy it would be to

destroy all traces of a murder by fire, and asked the
inspector whether if he woke up one morning to find

some brutal murder had been committed, he would

not put it down to him. "No, Butler," replied the

inspector, "the first thing I should do would be to

look for suspicious circumstances, and most

undoubtedly, if they pointed to you, you would be
looked after."

In the early morning of this Saturday, March

13, the house of a Mr. Stamper, a solicitor of
Dunedin, had been broken into, and some articles of

value, among them a pair of opera glasses, stolen.

The house had been set on fire, and burned to the

ground. On the morning of the following day,
Sunday, the 14th, Dunedin was horrified by the

discovery of a far more terrible crime, tigerish
certainly in its apparent ferocity. In a house in

Cumberland Street, a young married couple and
their little baby were cruelly murdered and

un{sic}{an??} unsuccessful attempt made to fire
the scene of the crime.

About halfpast six on Sunday morning a man
of the name of Robb, a carpenter, on getting out of

bed, noticed smoke coming from the house of a

neighbor of his, Mr. J. M. Dewar, who occupied a

small onefloored cottage standing by itself in

Cumberland Street, a large and broad thoroughfare

on the outskirts of the town. Dewar was a butcher
by trade, a young man, some eighteen months

married, and father of a baby girl. Robb, on seeing

smoke coming from Dewar's house, woke his son,
who was a member of the fire brigade. The latter

got up, crossed the street, and going round to the

back door, which he found wide open, entered the

house. As he went along the passage that
separated the two front rooms, a bedroom and

sittingroom, he called to the inmates to get up. He
received no answer, but as he neared the bedroom

he heard a "gurgling" sound. Crawling on his hands
and knees he reached the bedroom door, and two

feet inside it his right hand touched something. It
was the body of a woman; she was still alive, but in

a dying condition. Robb dragged her across the
passage into the sittingroom. He got some water,

and extin guished the fire in the bedroom. On the

bed lay the body of Dewar. To all appearances he

had been killed in his sleep. By his side was the

body of the baby, suffocated by the smoke. Near

the bed was an axe belonging to Dewar, stained
with blood. It was with this weapon, apparently,

that Mr. and Mrs. Dewar had been attacked. Under

the bed was a candlestick belonging also to the
Dewars, which had been used by the murderer in

setting fire to the bed. The front window of the

sittingroom was open, there were marks of boot

nails on the sill, and on the grass in front of the
window a knife was found. An attempt had been

made to ransack a chest of drawers in the bedroom,
but some articles of jewellery lying in one of the

drawers, and a ring on the dressingtable had been
left untouched. As far as was known, Mr. and Mrs.

Dewar were a perfectly happy and united couple.
Dewar had been last seen alive about ten o'clock on

the Saturday night getting off a car near his home.
At eleven a neighbour had noticed a light in the

Dewars' house. About five o'clock on the Sunday

morning another neighbour had been aroused from

his sleep by the sound as of something falling

heavily. It was a wild and boisterous night.

Thinking the noise might be the slamming of his
stable door, he got up and went out to see that it

was secure. He then noticed that a light was

burning in the bedroom window of the Dewars'
cottage.
Nothing more was known of what had

occurred that morning until at halfpast six Robb saw

the smoke coming from Dewars' house. Mrs.
Dewar, who alone could have told something, never

recovered consciousness and died on the day
following the crime. Three considerable wounds

sufficient to cause death had been inflicted on the
unfortunate woman's head, and five of a similar

character on that of her husband. At the head of
the bed, which stood in the corner of the room,

there was a large smear of blood on the wall just
above the door; there were spots of blood all over

the top of the bed, and some smaller ones that had
to all appearances spurted on to the panel of the

door nearest to the bed.

The investigation of this shocking crime was

placed in the hands of Detective Bain, whose duty it
had been to keep an eye on Robert Butler, but he

did not at first associate his interesting charge with

the commission of the murder. About halfpast six
on Sunday evening Bain happened to go to a place

called the Scotia Hotel, where the landlord informed

him that one of his servants, a girl named Sarah

Gillespie, was very anxious to see him. Her story
was this: On the morning of Thursday, March 11,

Robert Butler had come to the hotel; he was
wearing a dark lavender check suit and carried a top

coat and parcel. Butler had stayed in the hotel all
Thursday and slept there that night. He had not

slept in the hotel on the Friday night, and Sarah
Gillespie had not seen him again until he came into

the house about five and twenty minutes to seven
on Sunday morning. The girl noticed that he was

pale and excited, seemed afraid and worried, as if

someone were coming after him. After giving her

some money for the landlord, he went upstairs,

fetched his top coat, a muffler, and his parcel.

Before leaving he said he would have a pint of beer,
as he had not breakfasted. He then left, presumably

to catch an early train.

Butler was next seen a few minutes later at
a shop near the hotel, where he bought five tins of

salmon, and about the same time a milkboy saw him

standing on the kerb in Cumberland Street in a

stooping position, his head turned in the direction of
Dewars' house. A little after ten the same night

Butler entered a hotel at a place called Blueskin,
some twelve miles distant from Dunedin. He was

wearing an overcoat and a light muffler. He sat
down at a table in the diningroom and seemed

weary and sleepy. Someone standing at the bar
said "What a shocking murder that was in

Cumberland Street!" Butler started up, looked
steadily from one to the other of the two men who

happened to be in the room, then sat down again

and, taking up a book, appeared to be reading.

More than once he put down the book and kept

shifting uneasily in his chair. After having some

supper he got up, paid his reckoning, and left the
hotel.

At halfpast three the following morning,

about fifteen miles from Dunedin, on the road to
Waikouaiti, two constables met a man whom they

recognised as Butler from a description that had

been circulated by the police. The constables

arrested and searched him. They found on him a
pair of opera glasses, the property of Mr. Stamper,

whose house had been burgled and burned down on
the morning of the 13th. Of this crime Butler

acknowledged himself to be the perpetrator.
Besides the opera glasses the constables took from

Butler two tins of salmon, a purse containing four
shillings and sixpence, a pocket knife, a box of

matches, a piece of candle, and a revolver and
cartridges. The prisoner was carrying a top coat,

and was dressed in a dark coat and grey trousers,

underneath which he was wearing a white shirt, an

under flannel and a Rob Roy Crimean shirt. One of

the constables noticed that there were marks of

blood on his shirt. Another singular feature in
Butler's attire was the fact that the outer soles of his

boots had been recently removed. When last seen

in Dunedin Butler had been wearing a moustache;
he was now clean shaven.

The same evening a remarkable interview

took place in the lockup at Waikouaiti between

Butler and Inspector Mallard. Mallard, who had
some reason for suspecting Butler, bearing in mind

their recent conversation, told the prisoner that he
would be charged with the murder in Cumberland

Street. For a few seconds, according to Mallard, the
prisoner seemed terribly agitated and appeared to

be choking. Recovering himself somewhat, he said,
"If for that, you can get no evidence against me;

and if I am hanged for it, I shall be an innocent
man, whatever other crimes I may have

committed." Mallard replied, "There is evidence to

convict youthe fire was put out." Butler than{sic}

said that he would ask Mallard a question, but, after

a pause, decided not to do so. Mallard, after

examining Butler's clothes, told him that those were
not the clothes in which he had left the Scotia Hotel.

Butler admitted it, and said he had thrown those

away in the North East Valley. Mallard alluded to
the disappearance of the prisoner's moustache.

Butler replied that he had cut it off on the road.

Mallard noticed then the backs of Butler's hands

were scratched, as if by contact with bushes. Butler
seemed often on the point of asking questions, but

would then stop and say "No, I won't ask you
anything." To the constables who had arrested him

Butler remarked, "You ought to remember me,
because I could have shot you if I had wished."

When Mallard later in the evening visited Butler
again, the prisoner who was then lying down said, "I

want to speak to you. I want to ask the press not to
publish my career. Give me fair play. I suppose I

shall be convicted and you will see I can die like a

man."

A few days after Butler's arrest a ranger on

the Town Belt, a hill overlooking Dunedin, found a

coat, a hat and silk striped cravat, and a few days
later a pair of trousers folded up and placed under a

bush. These articles of clothing were identified as

those which Butler had been seen wearing on the
Saturday and Sunday morning. They were

examined. There were a number of bloodstains on

them, not one of them larger in size than a pea,

some almost invisible. On the front of the trousers
about the level of the groin there were blood spots

on both sides. There was blood on the fold of the
left breast of the coat and on the lining of the cuff of

the right arm. The shirt Butler was wearing at the
time of his arrest was examined also. There were

small spots of blood, about fourteen altogether, on
the neck and shoulder bands, the right armpit, the

left sleeve, and on both wristbands. Besides the
clothes, a salmon tin was found on the Town Belt,

and behind a seat in the Botanical Gardens, from

which a partial view of the Dewars' house in

Cumberland Street could be obtained, two more

salmon tins were found, all three similar to the five

purchased by Butler on the Sunday morning, two of
which had been in his possession at the time of his

arrest.
Such were the main facts of the case which
Butler had to answer when, a few weeks later, he

was put on his trial before the Supreme Court at

Dunedin. The presiding judge was Mr. Justice

Williams, afterwards Sir Joshua Williams and a
member of the Privy Council. The Crown

Prosecutor, Mr. Haggitt, conducted the case for the
Crown, and Butler defended himself.

II
THE TRIAL OF BUTLER

To a man of Butler's egregious vanity his
trial was a glorious opportunity for displaying his

intellectual gifts, such as they were. One who had
known him in prison about this time describes him

as a strange compound of vanity and envy, blind to

his own faults and envious of the material

advantages enjoyed by others. Selfwilled and

arrogant, he could bully or whine with equal effect.

Despising men, he believed that if a man did not
possess some requisite quality, he had only to ape

it, as few would distinguish between the real and the

sham.
But with all these advantages in the struggle

for life, it is certain that Butler's defence would have

been far less effective had be{sic} been denied all

professional aid. As a matter of fact, throughout his
trial Butler was being advised by three distinguished

members of the New Zealand bar, now judges of the
Supreme Court, who though not appearing for him

in court, gave him the full benefit of their assistance
outside it. At the same time Butler carried off the

thing well. Where imagination was required, Butler
broke down; he could not write sketches of life in

prison; that was too much for his pedestrian
intellect. But given the facts of a case, dealing with

a transaction of which he alone knew the real truth,

and aided by the advice and guidance of trained

intellects, Butler was unquestionably clever and

shrewd enough to make the best use of such

advantages in meeting the case against him.
Thus equipped for the coming struggle, this

highbrowed ruffian, with his semiintellectual cast of

countenance, his jerky restless posturing, his
splayfooted waddle, "like a lame Muscovy duck," in

the graphic words of his gaol companion, stood up

to plead for his life before the Supreme Court at

Dunedin.
It may be said at the outset that Butler

profited greatly by the scrupulous fairness shown by
the Crown Prosecutor. Mr. Haggitt extended to the

prisoner a degree of consideration and forbearance,
justified undoubtedly towards an undefended

prisoner. But, as we have seen, Butler was not in
reality undefended. At every moment of the trial he

was in communication with his legal advisers, and
being instructed by them how to meet the evidence

given against him. Under these circumstances the

unfailing consideration shown him by the Crown

Prosecutor seems almost excessive. From the first

moment of the trial Butler was fully alive to the

necessities of his situation. He refrained from
including in his challenges of the jury the gentleman

who was afterwards foreman; he knew he was all

right, he said, because he parted his hair in the
middle, a "softy," in fact. He did not know in all

probability that one gentleman on the jury had a

rooted conviction that the murder of the Dewars was

the work of a criminal lunatic. There was certainly
nothing in Butler's demeanour or behaviour to

suggest homicidal mania.
The case against Butler rested on purely

circumstantial evidence.
No new facts of importance were adduced at

the trial. The stealing of Dewar's wages, which had
been paid to him on the Saturday, was the motive

for the murder suggested by the Crown. The chief
facts pointing to Butler's guilt were: his conversation

with Mallard and Bain previous to the crime; his

demeanour after it; his departure from Dunedin; the

removal of his moustache and the soles of his boots;

his change of clothes and the bloodstains found

upon them, added to which was his apparent
inability to account for his movements on the night

in question.
Such as the evidence was, Butler did little to
shake it in cross examination. His questions were

many of them skilful and pointed, but on more than

one occasion the judge intervened to save him from

the danger common to all amateur crossexaminers,
of not knowing when to stop. He was most

successful in dealing with the medical witnesses.
Butler had explained the bloodstains on his clothes

as smears that had come from scratches on his
hands, caused by contact with bushes. This

explanation the medical gentlemen with good reason
rejected. But they went further, and said that these

stains might well have been caused by the spurting
and spraying of blood on to the murderer as he

struck his victims. Butler was able to show by the

position of the bloodstains on the clothes that such

an explanation was open to considerable doubt.

Butler's speech in his defence lasted six

hours, and was a creditable performance. Its
arrangement is somewhat confused and repetitious,

some points are overelaborated, but on the whole

he deals very successfully with most of the evidence
given against him and exposes the unquestionable

weakness of the Crown case. At the outset he

declared that he had taken his innocence for his

defence. "I was not willing," he said, "to leave my
life in the hands of a stranger. I was willing to incur

all the disadvantages which the knowledge of the
law might bring upon me.

I was willing, also, to enter on this case
without any experience whatever of that peculiarly

acquired art of crossexamination. I fear I have done
wrong. If I had had the assistance of able counsel,

much more light would have been thrown on this
case than has been." As we have seen, Butler

enjoyed throughout his trial the informal assistance

of three of the most able counsel in New Zealand, so

that this heroic attitude of conscious innocence

braving all dangers loses most of its force. Without

such assistance his danger might have been very
real.

A great deal of the evidence as to his

conduct and demeanour at the time of the murder
Butler met by acknowledging that it was he who had

broken into Mr. Stamper's house on the Saturday

morning, burgled it and set it on fire. His

consciousness of guilt in this respect was, he said,
quite sufficient to account for anything strange or

furtive in his manner at that time. He was already
known to the police; meeting Bain on the Saturday

night, he felt more than ever sure that he was
susspected{sic} of the robbery at Mr. Stamper's; he

therefore decided to leave Dunedin as soon as
possible. That night, he said, he spent wandering

about the streets half drunk, taking occasional
shelter from the pouring rain, until six o'clock on the

Sunday morning, when he went to the Scotia Hotel.

A more detailed account of his movements on the

night of the Dewars' murder he did not, or would

not, give.
When he comes to the facts of the murder
and his theories as to the nature and motive of the

crimetheories which he developed at rather

unnecessary length for the purpose of his own
defence his speech is interesting. It will be

recollected that on the discovery of the murder, a

knife was found on the grass outside the house.

This knife was not the property of the Dewars. In
Butler's speech he emphasised the opinion that this

knife had been brought there by the murderer:
"Horrible though it may be, my conclusion is that he

brought it with the intention of cutting the throats of
his victims, and that, finding they lay in rather an

untoward position, he changed his mind, and,
having carried out the object with which he entered

the house, left the knife and, going back, brought
the axe with which he effected his purpose. What

was the purpose of the murderer? Was it the

robbery of Dewar's paltry wages? Was it the act of

a tiger broken loose on the community? An act of

pure wanton devilry? or was there some more

reasonable explanation of this most atrocious
crime?"

Butler rejected altogether the theory of

ordinary theft. No thief of ambitious views, he said,
would pitch upon the house of a poor journeyman

butcher. The killing of the family appeared to him to

be the motive: "an enemy hath done this." The

murderer seems to have had a knowledge of the
premises; he enters the house and does his work

swiftly and promptly, and is gone. "We cannot
know," Butler continues, "all the passages in the

lives of the murdered man or woman. What can we
know of the hundred spites and jealousies or other

causes of malice which might have caused the
crime? If you say some obscure quarrel, some spite

or jealousy is not likely to have been the cause of so
dreadful a murder, you cannot revert to the robbery

theory without admitting a motive much weaker in

all its utter needlessness and vagueness.

The prominent feature of the murder, indeed

the only feature, is its ruthless, unrelenting,

determined vindictiveness. Every blow seemed to
say, `You shall die you shall not live.'"

Whether Butler were the murderer of the

Dewars or not, the theory that represented them as
having been killed for the purpose of robbery has its

weak side all the weaker if Butler, a practical and

ambitious criminal, were the guilty man.

In 1882, two years after Butler's trial, there
appeared in a New Zealand newspaper, Society,

published in Christchurch, a series of Prison
"Portraits," written evidently by one who had himself

undergone a term of imprisonment. One of the
"Portraits" was devoted to an account of Butler. The

writer had known Butler in prison. According to the
story told him by Butler, the latter had arrived in

Dunedin with a quantity of jewellery he had stolen in
Australia. This jewellery he entrusted to a young

woman for safe keeping. After serving his first term

of two years' imprisonment in Dunedin, Butler found

on his release that the young woman had married a

man of the name of Dewar. Butler went to Mrs.

Dewar and asked for the return of his jewellery; she
refused to give it up. On the night of the murder he

called at the house in Cumberland Street and made

a last appeal to her, but in vain. He determined on
revenge. During his visit to Mrs. Dewar he had had

an opportunity of seeing the axe and observing the

best way to break into the house. He watched the

husband's return, and decided to kill him as well as
his wife on the chance of obtaining his week's

wages. With the help of the knife which he had
found in the backyard of a hotel he opened the

window. The husband he killed in his sleep, the
woman waked with the first blow he struck her. He

found the jewellery in a drawer rolled up in a pair of
stockings. He afterwards hid it in a wellmarked spot

some halfhour before his arrest.
A few years after its appearance in Society,

this account of Butler was reproduced in an

Auckland newspaper. Bain, the detective, wrote a

letter questioning the truth of the writer's

statements. He pointed out that when Butler first

came to Dunedin he had been at liberty only a
fortnight before serving his first term of

imprisonment, very little time in which to make the

acquaintance of a woman and dispose of the stolen
jewellery. He asked why, if Butler had hidden the

jewellery just before his arrest, he had not also

hidden the operaglasses which he had stolen from

Mr. Stamper's house. Neither of these comments is
very convincing. A fortnight seems time enough in

which a man of Butler's character might get to know
a woman and dispose of some jewellery; while, if

Butler were the murderer of Mr. Dewar as well as
the burglar who had broken into Stamper's house, it

was part of his plan to acknowledge himself guilty of
the latter crime and use it to justify his movements

before and after the murder. Bain is more
convincing when he states at the conclusion of his

letter that he had known Mrs. Dewar from childhood

as a "thoroughly good and true woman," who, as far

as he knew, had never in her life had any

acquaintance with Butler.

At the same time, the account given by
Butler's fellowprisoner, in which the conduct of the

murdered woman is represented as constituting the

provocation for the subsequent crime, explains one
peculiar circumstance in connection with the

tragedy, the selection of this journeyman butcher

and his wife as the victims of the murderer. It

explains the theory, urged so persistently by Butler
in his speech to the jury, that the crime was the

work of an enemy of the Dewars, the outcome of
some hidden spite, or obscure quarrel; it explains

the apparent ferocity of the murder, and the
improbability of a practical thief selecting such an

unprofitable couple as his prey. The rummaged
chest of drawers and the fact that some trifling

articles of jewellery were left untouched on the top
of them, are consistent with an eager search by the

murderer for some particular object. Against this

theory of revenge is the fact that Butler was a

malignant ruffian and liar in any case, that, having

realised very little in cash by the burglary at

Stamper's house, he would not be particular as to
where he might get a few shillings more, that he

had threatened to do a tigerish deed, and that it is

characteristic of his vanity to try to impute to his
crime a higher motive than mere greed or necessity.

Butler showed himself not averse to

speaking of the murder in Cumberland Street to at

least one of those, with whom he came in contact in
his later years. After he had left New Zealand and

returned to Australia, he was walking in a street in
Melbourne with a friend when they passed a lady

dressed in black, carrying a baby in her arms. The
baby looked at the two men and laughed. Butler

frowned and walked rapidly away. His companion
chaffed him, and asked whether it was the widow or

the baby that he was afraid of. Butler was silent,
but after a time asked his companion to come into

some gardens and sit down on one of the seats, as

he had something serious to say to him. For a while

Butler sat silent. Then he asked the other if he had

ever been in Dunedin. "Yes," was the reply. "Look

here," said Butler, "you are the only man I ever
made any kind of confidant of. You are a good

scholar, though I could teach you a lot." After this

gracious compliment he went on: "I was once tried
in Dunedin on the charge of killing a man, woman

and child, and although innocent, the crime was

nearly brought home to me. It was my own ability

that pulled me through. Had I employed a
professional advocate, I should not have been here

today talking to you." After describing the murder,
Butler said: "Trying to fire the house was

unnecessary, and killing the baby was unnecessary
and cruel. I respect no man's life, for no man

respects mine. A lot of men I have never injured
have tried to put a rope round my neck more than

once. I hate society in general, and one or two
individuals in particular. The man who did that

murder in Dunedin has, if anything, my sympathy,

but it seems to me he need not have killed that

child." His companion was about to speak. Butler

stopped him. "Now, don't ever ask me such a silly

question as that," he said. "What?" asked his friend.
"You were about to ask me if I did that deed,"

replied Butler, "and you know perfectly well that,

guilty or innocent, that question would only be
answered in one way." "I was about to ask nothing

of the kind," said the other, "for you have already

told me that you were innocent." "Good!" said

Butler, "then let that be the end of the subject, and
never refer to it again, except, perhaps, in your own

mind, when you can, if you like, remember that I
said the killing of the child was unnecessary and

cruel."
Having developed to the jury his theory of

why the crime was committed, Butler told them
that, as far as he was concerned, there were four

points against him on which the Crown relied to
prove his guilt. Firstly, there was the fact of his

being in the neighbourhood of the crime on the

Sunday morning; that, he said, applied to scores of

other people besides himself. Then there was his

alleged disturbed appearance and guilty demeanour.

The evidence of that was, he contended, doubtful in
any case, and referable to another cause; as also his

leaving Dunedin in the way and at the time he did.

He scouted the idea that murderers are compelled
by some invisible force to betray their guilt. "The

doings of men," he urged, "and their success are

regulated by the amount of judgment that they

possess, and, without impugning or denying the
existence of Providence, I say this is a law that holds

good in all cases, whether for evil or good.
Murderers, if they have the sense and ability and

discretion to cover up their crime, will escape, do
escape, and have escaped. Many people, when they

have gravely shaken their heads and said `Murder
will out,' consider they have done a great deal and

gone a long way towards settling the question.
Well, this, like many other stock formulas of Old

World wisdom, is not true. How many murders are

there that the world has never heard of, and never

will? How many a murdered man, for instance, lies

among the gumtrees of Victoria, or in the old

abandoned miningshafts on the diggings, who is
missed by nobody, perhaps, but a pining wife at

home, or helpless children, or an old mother? But

who were their murderers? Where are they? God
knows, perhaps, but nobody else, and nobody ever

will." The fact, he said, that he was alleged to have

walked up Cumberland Street on the Sunday

morning and looked in the direction of the Dewars'
house was, unless the causes of superstition and a

vague and incomplete reasoning were to be
accepted as proof, evidence rather of his innocence

than his guilt. He had removed the soles of his
boots, he said, in order to ease his feet in walking;

the outer soles had become worn and ragged, and in
lumps under his feet. He denied that he had told

Bain, the detective, that he would break out as a
desperate tiger let loose on the community; what he

had said was that he was tired of living the life of a

prairie dog or a tiger in the jungle.

Butler was more successful when he came to

deal with the bloodstains on his clothes. These, he

said, were caused by the blood from the scratches
on his hands, which had been observed at the time

of his arrest. The doctors had rejected this theory,

and said that the spots of blood had been impelled
from the axe or from the heads of the victims as the

murderer struck the fatal blow. Butler put on the

clothes in court, and was successful in showing that

the position and appearance of certain of the blood
spots was not compatible with such a theory. "I

think," he said, "I am fairly warranted in saying that
the evidence of these gentlemen is, not to put too

fine a point on it, worth just nothing at all."
Butler's concluding words to the jury were

brief but emphatic: "I stand in a terrible position.
So do you. See that in your way of disposing of me

you deliver yourselves of your responsibilities."
In the exercise of his forbearance towards

an undefended prisoner, Mr. Haggitt did not address

the jury for the Crown. At four o'clock the judge

commenced his summingDup. Mr. Justice Williams

impressed on the jury that they must be satisfied,

before they could convict the prisoner, that the
circumstances of the crime and the prisoner's

conduct were inconsistent with any other reasonable

hypothesis than his guilt. There was little or no
evidence that robbery was the motive of the crime.

The circumstance of the prisoner being out all

Saturday night and in the neighbourhood of the

crime on Sunday morning only amounted to the fact
that he had an opportunity shared by a great

number of other persons of committing the murder.
The evidence of his agitation and demeanour at the

time of his arrest must be accepted with caution.
The evidence of the blood spots was of crucial

importance; there was nothing save this to connect
him directly with the crime. The jury must be

satisfied that the blood on the clothes corresponded
with the blood marks which, in all probability, would

be found on the person who committed the murder.

In regard to the medical testimony some caution

must be exercised. Where medical gentlemen had

made observations, seen with their own eyes, the

direct inference might be highly trustworthy, but,
when they proceeded to draw further inferences,

they might be in danger of looking at facts through

the spectacles of theory; "we know that people do
that in other things besides sciencepolitics, religion,

and so forth." Taking the Crown evidence, at its

strongest, there was a missing link; did the evidence

of the bloodstains supply it? These bloodstains were
almost invisible. Could a person be reasonably

asked to explain how they came where they did?
Could they be accounted for in no other reasonable

way than that the clothes had been worn by the
murderer of the Dewars?

In spite of a summingup distinctly
favourable to the prisoner, the jury were out three

hours. According to one account of their
proceedings, told to the writer, there was at first a

majority of the jurymen in favour of conviction. But

it was Saturday night; if they could not come to a

decision they were in danger of being locked up over

Sunday. For this reason the gentleman who held an

obstinate and unshaken belief that the crime was
the work of a homicidal maniac found an unexpected

ally in a prominent member of a church choir who

was down to sing a solo in his church on Sunday,
and was anxious not to lose such an opportunity for

distinction. Whatever the cause, after three hours'

deliberation the jury returned a verdict of "Not

Guilty." Later in the Session Butler pleaded guilty to
the burglary at Mr. Stamper's house, and was

sentenced to eighteen years' imprisonment. The
severity of this sentence was not, the judge said,

intended to mark the strong suspicion under which
Butler laboured of being a murderer as well as a

burglar.
The ends of justice had been served by

Butler's acquittal. But in the light of after events, it
is perhaps unfortunate that the jury did not stretch a

point and so save the life of Mr. Munday of

Toowong. Butler underwent his term of

imprisonment in Littleton Jail. There his reputation

was most unenviable. He is described by a fellow

prisoner as illtempered, malicious, destructive, but
cowardly and treacherous. He seems to have done

little or no work; he looked after the choir and the

library, but was not above breaking up the one and
smashing the other, if the fit seized him.

III

HIS DECLINE AND FALL
In 1896 Butler was released from prison.

The news of his release was described as falling like
a bombshell among the peaceful inhabitants of

Dunedin. In the colony of Victoria, where Butler had
commenced his career, it was received with an

apprehension that was justified by subsequent
events. It was believed that on his release the New

Zealand authorities had shipped Butler off to Rio.
But it was not long before he made his way once

more to Australia. From the moment of his arrival in

Melbourne he was shadowed by the police. One or

two mysterious occurrences soon led to his arrest.

On June 5 he was sentenced to twelve months'

imprisonment under the Criminal Influx Act, which
makes it a penal offence for any convict to enter

Victoria for three years after his release from prison.

Not content with this, the authorities determined to
put Butler on trial on two charges of burglary and

one of highway robbery, committed since his return

to the colony. To one charge of burglary, that of

breaking into a hairdresser's shop and stealing a
wig, some razors and a little money, Butler pleaded

guilty.
But the charge of highway robbery, which

bore a singular resemblance to the final catastrophe
in Queensland, he resisted to the utmost, and

showed that his experience in the Supreme Court at
Dunedin had not been lost on him. At halfpast six

one evening in a suburb of Melbourne an elderly
gentleman found himself confronted by a bearded

man, wearing a long overcoat and a boxer hat and

flourishing a revolver, who told him abruptly to "turn

out his pockets." The old man did ashe was told.

The robber then asked for his watch and chain,

saying "Business must be done." The old gentleman
mildly urged that this was a dangerous business.

On being assured that the watch was a gold one, the

robber appeared willing to risk the danger, and
departed thoroughly satisfied. The old gentleman

afterwards identified Butler as the man who had

taken his watch. Another elderly man swore that he

had seen Butler at the time of the robbery in the
possession of a fine gold watch, which he said had

been sent him from home. But the watch had not
been found in Butler's possession.

On June 18 Butler was put on his trial in the
Melbourne Criminal Court before Mr. Justice Holroyd,

charged with robbery under arms. His appearance
in the dock aroused very considerable interest. "It

was the general verdict," wrote one newspaper,
"that his intellectual head and forehead compared

not unfavour
ably with those of the judge." He was

decently dressed and wore pincenez, which he used

in the best professional manner as he referred to the

various documents that lay in front of him. He went
into the witnessbox and stated that the evening of

the crime he had spent according to his custom in

the Public Library.
For an hour and a half he addressed the

jury. He disputed the possibility of his identification

by his alleged victim. He was "an old gentleman of

sedentary pursuits and not cast in the heroic
mould." Such a man would be naturally alarmed

and confused at meeting suddenly an armed robber.
Now, under these circumstances, could his

recognition of a man whose face was hidden by a
beard, his head by a boxer hat, and his body by a

long overcoat, be considered trustworthy? And such
recognition occurring in the course of a chance

encounter in the darkness, that fruitful mother of
error? The elderly gentleman had described his

moustache as a slight one, but the jury could see

that it was full and overhanging. He complained

that he had been put up for identification singly, not

with other men, according to the usual custom; the

police had said to the prosecutor: "We have here a
man that we think robbed you, and, if he is not the

man, we shall be disappointed," to which the

prosecutor had replied: "Yes, and if he is not the
man, I shall be disappointed too." For the elderly

person who had stated that he had seen a gold

watch in Butler's possession the latter had nothing

but scorn. He was a "lean and slippered pantaloon
in Shakespeare's last stage"; and he, Butler, would

have been a lunatic to have confided in such a man.
The jury acquitted Butler, adding as a rider

to their verdict that there was not sufficient
evidence of identification. The third charge against

Butler was not proceeded with. He was put up to
receive sentence for the burglary at the

hairdresser's shop. Butler handed to the judge a
written statement which Mr. Justice Holroyd

described as a narrative that might have been taken

from those sensational newspapers written for

nursery maids, and from which, he said, he could

not find that Butler had ever done one good thing in
the whole course of his life. Of that life of fifty years
Butler had spent thirtyfive in prison. The judge

expressed his regret that a man of Butler's

knowledge, information, vanity, and utter
recklessness of what evil will do, could not be put

away somewhere for the rest of his life, and

sentenced him to fifteen years' imprisonment with

hard labour. "An iniquitous and brutal sentence!"
exclaimed the prisoner. After a brief altercation with

the judge, who said that he could hardly express the
scorn he felt for such a man, Butler was removed.

The judge subsequentty reduced the sentence to
one of ten years. Chance or destiny would seem

implacable in their pursuit of Mr. William Munday of
Toowong.

Butler after his trial admitted that it was he
who had robbed the old gentleman of his watch, and

described to the police the house in which it was

hidden. When the police went there to search they

found that the house had been pulled down, but

among the debris they discovered a brown paper

parcel containing the old gentleman's gold watch
and chain, a fivechambered revolver, a keenedged

butcher's knife, and a mask.

Butler served his term of imprisonment in
Victoria, "an unmitigated nuisance" to his

custodians. On his release in 1904, he made, as in

Dunedin, an attempt to earn a living by his pen. He

contributed some articles to a Melbourne evening
paper on the inconveniences of prison discipline, but

he was quite unfitted for any sustained effort as a
journalist. According to his own account, with the

little money he had left he made his way to Sydney,
thence to Brisbane. He was halfstarved, bewildered,

despairing; in his own words, "if a psychological
camera could have been turned on me it would have

shown me like a bird fascinated by a serpent,
fascinated and bewildered by the fate in front,

behind, and around me." Months of suffering and

privation passed, months of tramping hundreds of

miles with occasional breakdowns, months of hunger

and sickness; "my actions had become those of a

fool; my mind and will had become a remnant
guided or misguided by unreasoning impulse."

It was under the influence of such an

impulse that on March 23 Butler had met and shot
Mr. Munday at Toowong. On May 24 he was

arraigned at Brisbane before the Supreme Court of

Queensland. But the Butler who stood in the dock of

the Brisbane Criminal Court was very different from
the Butler who had successfully defended himself at

Dunedin and Melbourne. The spirit had gone out of
him; it was rather as a suppliant, represented by

counsel, that he faced the charge of murder. His
attitude was one of humble and appropriate

penitence. In a weak and nervous voice he told the
story of his hardships since his release from his

Victorian prison; he would only urge that the
shooting of Mr. Munday was accidental, caused by

Munday picking up a stone and attacking him.

When about to be sentenced to death he expressed

great sorrow and contrition for his crime, for the

poor wife and children of his unfortunate victim. His

life, he said, was a poor thing, but he would gladly
give it fifty times over.

The sentence of death was confirmed by the

Executive on June 30. To a Freethought advocate
who visited him shortly before his execution, Butler

wrote a final confession of faith: "I shall have to

find my way across the harbour bar without the aid

of any pilot. In these matters I have for many years
carried an exempt flag, and, as it has not been

carried through caprice or igno
rance, I am compelled to carry it to the last.

There is an impassable bar of what I honestly
believe to be the inexorable logic of philosophy and

facts, history and experience of the nature of the
world, the human race and myself, between me and

the views of the communion of any religious
organisation. So instead of the `depart Christian

soul' of the priest, I only hope for the comfort and

satisfaction of the last friendly goodbye of any who

cares to give it."

From this positive affirmation of unbelief

Butler wilted somewhat at the approach of death.
The day before his execution he spent half an hour

playing hymns on the church organ in the prison;

and on the scaffold, where his agitation rendered
him almost speechless, he expressed his sorrow for

what he had done, and the hope that, if there were

a heaven, mercy would be shown him.


M. Derues

The last word on Derues has been said by
M. Georges Claretie in his excellent monograph,

"Derues L'Empoisonneur," Paris. 1907. There is a
full account of the case in Vol. V. of Fouquier,

"Causes Celebres."
I

THE CLIMBING LITTLE GROCER
M. Etienne SaintFaust de Lamotte, a

provincial nobleman of ancient lineage and moderate
health, exequerry to the King, de

sired in the year 1774 to dispose of a

property in the country, the estate of BuissonSouef

near VilleneuveleRoi, which he had purchased some

ten years before out of money acquired by a prudent

marriage.
With an eye to the main chance M. de

Lamotte had in 1760 ran away with the daughter of

a wealthy citizen of Rheims, who was then staying
with her sister in Paris. They lived together in the

country for some time, and a son was born to them,

whom the father legitimised by subsequently

marrying the mother. For a few years M. and Mme.
de Lamotte dwelt happily together at BuissonSouef.

But as their boy grew up they became anxious to
leave the country and return to Paris, where M. de

Lamotte hoped to be able to obtain for his son some
position about the Court of Louis XVI. And so it was

that in May, 1775, M. de Lamotte gave a power of
attorney to his wife in order that she might go to

Paris and negotiate for the sale of BuissonSouef.
The legal side of the transaction was placed in the

hands of one Jolly, a proctor at the Chatelet in Paris.

Now the proctor Jolly had a client with a

great desire to acquire a place in the country, M.

Derues de Cyrano de Bury, lord of Candeville,

Herchies, and other places. Here was the very man
to comply with the requirements of the de Lamottes,

and such a pleasing, ready, accommodating

gentleman into the bargain! Very delicate to all
appearances, strangely pale, slight, fragile in build,

with his beardless chin and feminine cast of feature,

there was something catlike in the soft insinuating

smile of this seemingly most amiable, candid and
pious of men. Always cheerful and optimistic, it was

quite a pleasure to do business with M. Derues de
Cyrano de Bury. The de Lamottes after one or two

interviews were delighted with their prospective
purchaser. Everything was speedily settled. M.

Derues and his wife, a lady belonging to the
distinguished family of Nicolai, visited BuissonSouef.

They were enchanted with what they saw, and their
hosts were hardly less enchanted with their visitors.

By the end of December, 1775, the purchase was

concluded. M. Derues was to give 130,000 livres

(about L20,000) for the estate, the payments to be

made by instalments, the first of 12,000 livres to be

paid on the actual signing of the contract of sale,
which, it was agreed, was to be concluded not later

than the first of June, 1776. In the meantime, as an

earnest of good faith, M. Derues gave Mme. de
Lamotte a bill for 4,200 livres to fall due on April 1,

1776.

What could be more satisfactory? That M.

Derues was a substantial person there could be no
doubt. Through his wife he was entitled to a sum of

250,000 livres as her share of the property of a
wealthy kinsman, one DespeignesDuplessis, a

country gentleman, who some four years before had
been found murdered in his house under mysterious

circumstances. The liquidation of the Duplessis
inheritance, as soon as the law's delay could be

overcome, would place the Derues in a position of
affluence fitting a Cyrano de Bury and a Nicolai.

At this time M. Derues was in reality far

from affluent. In point of fact he was insolvent. Nor

was his lineage, nor that of his wife, in any way

distinguished. He had no right to call himself de

Cyrano de Bury or Lord of Candeville. His wife's
name was Nicolais, not Nicolaia very important

difference from the genealogical point of view. The

Duplessis inheritance, though certainly existent,
would seem to have had little more chance of

realisation than the mythical Crawford millions of

Madame Humbert. And yet, crippled with debt,

without a penny in the world, this daring grocer of
the Rue Beaubourg, for such was M. Derues' present

condition in life, could cheerfully and confidently
engage in a transaction as considerable as the

purchase of a large estate for 130,000 livres! The
origin of so enterprising a gentleman is worthy of

attention.
Antoine Francois Derues was born at

Chartres in 1744; his father was a corn merchant.
His parents died when he was three years old. For

some time after his birth he was assumed to be a

girl; it was not until he was twelve years old that an

operation determined his sex to be masculine.

Apprenticed by his relatives to a grocer, Derues

succeeded so well in the business that he was able
in 1770 to set up on his own account in Paris, and in

1772 he married. Among the grocer's many friends

and acquaintances this marriage created something
of a sensation, for Derues let it be known that the

lady of his choice was of noble birth and an heiress.

The first statement was untrue. The lady was one

Marie Louise Nicolais, daughter of a
noncommissioned artillery officer, turned

coachbuilder. But by suppressing the S at the end
of her name, which Derues was careful also to erase

in his marriage contract, the ambitious grocer was
able to describe his wife as connected with the noble

house of Nicolai, one of the most distinguished of
the great French families.

There was more truth in the statement that
Mme. Derues was an heiress. A kinsman of her

mother, Beraud by name, had become the heir to a

certain Marquis Desprez. Beraud was the son of a

small merchant. His mother had married a second

time, the hus

band being the Marquis Desprez, and
through her Beraud had inherited the Marquis'

property. According to the custom of the time,

Beraud, on coming into his inheritance, took a title
from one of his estates and called himself

thenceforth the lord of DespeignesDuplessis. A

rude, solitary, brutal man, devoted to sport, he lived

alone in his castle of Candeville, hated by his
neighbours, a terror to poachers. One day he was

found lying dead in his bedroom; he had been shot
in the chest; the assassin had escaped through an

open window.
The mystery of Beraud's murder was never

solved. His estate of 200,000 livres was divided
among three cousins, of whom the mother of Mme.

Derues was one. Mme. Derues herself was entitled
to a third of his mother's share of the estate, that is,

one ninth of the whole. But in 1775 Derues

acquired the rest of the mother's share on condition

that he paid her an annual income of 1,200 livres.

Thus on the liquidation of the Duplessis inheritance

Mme. Derues would be entitled nominally to some
66,500 livres, about L11,000 in English money. But

five years had passed since the death of

DespeignesDuplessis, and the estate was still in the
slow process of legal settlement. If Derues were to

receive the full third of the Duplessis inheritancea

very unlikely supposition after four years of

liquidation66,000 livres would not suffice to pay his
ordinary debts quite apart from the purchase money

of Buisson Souef. His financial condition was in the
last degree critical. Not content with the modest

calling of a grocer, Derues had turned moneylender,
a moneylender to spendthrift and embarrassed

noblemen. Derues dearly loved a lord; he wanted to
become one himself; it delighted him to receive

dukes and marquises at the Rue Beaubourg, even if
they came there with the avowed object of raising

the wind. The smiling grocer, in his everlasting

bonnet and flowered dressinggown a la J. J.

Rousseau, was ever ready to oblige the needy scion

of a noble house. What he borrowed at moderate

interest from his creditors he lent at enhanced
interest to the quality. Duns and bailiffs jostled the

dukes and marquises whose presence at the Rue

Beaubourg so impressed the wondering neighbours
of the facile grocer.

This aristocratic moneylending proved a

hopeless trade; it only plunged Derues deeper and

deeper into the mire of financial disaster. The
noblemen either forgot to pay while they were alive,

or on their death were found to be insolvent.
Derues was driven to ordering goods and

merchandise on credit, and selling them at a lower
price for ready money. Victims of this treatment

began to press him seriously for their money or their
goods. Desperately he continued to fence them off

with the long expected windfall of the Duplessis
inheritance.

Paris was getting too hot for him. Gay and

irrepressible as he was, the strain was severe. If he

could only find some retreat in the country where he

might enjoy at once refuge from his creditors and

the rank and consequence of a country gentleman!
Nothingno fear, no disappointment, no disastercould

check the little grocer's ardent and overmastering

desire to be a gentleman indeed, a landed
proprietor, a lord or something or other. At the

beginning of 1775 he had purchased a place near

Rueil from a retired coffeehousekeeper, paying

1,000 livres on account, but the nonpayment of the
rest of the purchasemoney had resulted in the

annulment of the contract. Undefeated, Derues only
deter

mined to fly the higher. Having failed to pay
9,000 livres for a modest estate near Rueil, he had

no hesitation in pledging himself to pay 130,000
livres for the lordly domain of Buisson Souef. So

great were his pride and joy on the conclusion of the
latter bargain that he amused himself by rehearsing

on paper his future style and title: "Antoine

Francois de Cyrano Derues de Bury, Seigneur de

BuissonSouef et Valle Profonde." He is worthy of

Thackeray's pen, this little grocersnob, with his

grand and ruinous acquaintance with the noble and
the great, his spurious titles, his unwearied climbing

of the social ladder.

The confiding, if willing, dupe of aristocratic
impecuniosity, Derues was a past master of the art

of duping others. From the moment of the purchase

of BuissonSouef all his art was employed in cajoling

the trusting and simple de Lamottes. Legally
BuissonSouef was his from the signing of the

agreement in December, 1775. His first payment
was due in April, 1776. Instead of making it,

Derues went down to BuissonSouef with his little
girl, and stayed there as the guests of the de

Lamottes for six months. His good humour and
piety won all hearts. The village priest especially

derived great satisfaction from the society of so
devout a companion. He entertained his good

friends, the merry little man, by dressing up as a

woman, a role his smooth face and effeminate

features well fitted him to play. If business were

alluded to, the merry gentleman railed at the delay

and chicanery of lawyers; it was that alone that
postponed the liquidation of the Duplessis

inheritance; as soon as the lawyers could be got rid

of, the purchasemoney of his new estate would be
promptly paid up. But as time went on and no

payment was forthcoming the de Lamottes began to

feel a little uneasy. As soon as Derues had departed

in November M. de Lamotte decided to send his wife
to Paris to make further inquiries and, if possible,

bring their purchaser up to the scratch. Mme. de
Lamotte had developed into a stout, indolent

woman, of the Mrs. Bloss type, fond of staying in
bed and taking heavy meals. Her son, a fat,

lethargic youth of fourteen, accompanied his
mother.

On hearing of Mme. de Lamotte's
contemplated visit to Paris, Derues was filled with

alarm. If she were living free and independent in

Paris she might find out the truth about the real

state of his affairs, and then goodbye to

BuissonSouef and landed gentility! No, if Mme. de

Lamotte were to come to Paris, she must come as
the guest of the Derues, a pleasant return for the

hospitality accorded to the grocer at BuissonSouef.

The invitation was given and readily accepted; M. de
Lamotte still had enough confidence in and liking for

the Derues to be glad of the opportunity of placing

his wife under their roof. And so it was that on

December 16, 1776, Mme. de Lamotte arrived at
Paris and took up her abode at the house of the

Derues in the Rue Beaubourg Her son she placed at
a private school in a neighbouring street.

To Derues there was now one pressing and
immediate problem to be solvedhow to keep

BuissonSouef as his own without paying for it? To
one less sanguine, less daring, less impudent and

desperate in his need, the problem would have
appeared insoluble.

But that was by no means the view of the

cheery and resourceful grocer. He had a solution

ready, well thought out and bearing to his mind the

stamp of probability. He would make a fictitious

payment of the purchasemoney to Mme. de
Lamotte. She would then disappear, taking her son

with her. Her indiscretion in having been the

mistress of de Lamotte before she became his wife,
would lend colour to his story that she had gone off
with a former lover, taking with her the money

which Derues had paid her for BuissonSouef. He

would then produce the necessary documents
proving the payment of the purchasemoney, and

BuissonSouef would be his for good and all.
The prime necessity to the success of this

plan was the disappearance, willing or unwilling, of
Mme. de Lamotte and her son. The former had

settled down quite comfortably beneath the
hospitable roof of the Derues, and under the

soothing influence of her host showed little vigour in
pressing him for the money due to herself and her

husband. She had already spent a month in quietly

enjoying Paris and the society of her friends when,

towards the end of January, 1770, her health and

that of her son began to fail. Mme. de Lamotte was

seized with sickness and internal trouble. Though
Derues wrote to her husband that his wife was well

and their business was on the point of conclusion, by

the 30th of January Mme. de Lamotte had taken to
her bed, nursed and physicked by the ready Derues.

On the 31st the servant at the Rue Beaubourg was

told that she could go to her home at Montrouge,

whither Derues had previously sent his two children.
Mme. Derues, who was in an interesting condition,

was sent out for an hour by her husband to do some
shopping. Derues was alone with his patient.

In the evening a friend, one Bertin, came to
dine with Derues. Bertin was a short, hustling,

credulous, breathless gentleman, always in a hurry,
with a great belief in the abilities of M. Derues. He

found the little man in excellent spirits. Bertin asked
if he could see Mme. de Lamotte. Mme. Derues said

that that was impossible, but that her husband had

given her some medicine which was working

splendidly. The young de Lamotte called to see his

mother. Derues took him into her room; in the dim

light the boy saw her sleeping, and crept out quietly
for fear of disturbing her. The Derues and their

friends sat down to dinner. Derues kept jumping up

and running into the sick room, from which a
horrible smell began to pervade the house. But

Derues was radiant at the success of his medicine.

"Was there ever such a nurse as I am?" he

exclaimed. Bertin remarked that he thought it was
a woman's and not a man's place to nurse a lady

under such distressing circumstances. Derues
protested that it was an occupation he had always

liked. Next day, February 1, the servant was still at
Montrouge; Mme. Derues was again sent out

shopping; again Derues was alone with his patient.
But she was a patient no longer; she had become a

corpse. The highly successful medicine administered
to the poor lady by her jolly and assiduous nurse

had indeed worked wonders.

Derues had bought a large leather trunk. It

is possible that to Derues belongs the distinction of

being the first murderer to put that harmless and

necessary article of travel to a criminal use. He was
engaged in his preparations for coffining Mme. de

Lamotte, when a female creditor knocked insistently

at the door. She would take no denial. Clad in his
bonnet and gown, Derues was compelled to admit

her. She saw the large trunk, and suspected a bolt

on the part of her creditor. Derues reassured her; a

lady, he said, who had been stopping with them was
returning to the country. The creditor departed.

Later in the day Derues came out of the house and
summoned some porters. With their help the heavy

trunk was taken to the house of a sculptor, a friend
of Derues, who agreed to keep it in his studio until

Derues could take it down to his place in the
country. Bertin came in to dinner again that

evening, and also the young de Lamotte. Derues
was gayer than ever, laughing and joking with his

guests. He told the boy that his mother had quite

recovered and gone to Versailles to see about

finding him some post at the Court. "We'll go and

see her there in a day or two," he said, "I'll let you

know when."
On the following day a smartly dressed,

dapper, but very pale little gentleman, giving the

name of Ducoudray, hired a vacant cellar in a house
in the Rue de la Mortellerie. He had, he said, some

Spanish wine he wanted to store there, and three or

four days later M. Ducoudray deposited in this cellar

a large grey trunk. A few days after he employed a
man to dig a large hole in the floor of the cellar,

giving as his reason for such a proceeding that
"there was no way of keeping wine like burying it."

While the man worked at the job, his genial
employer beguiled his labours with merry quips and

tales, which he illustrated with delightful mimicry.
The hole dug, the man was sent about his business.

"I will bury the wine myself," said his employer, and
on one or two occasions M. Ducoudray was seen by

persons living in the house going in and out of his

cellar, a lighted candle in his hand. One day the

pale little gentleman was observed leaving the

cellar, accompanied by a porter carrying a large

trunk, and after that the dwellers in the Rue de la
Mortellerie saw the pale little gentleman no more.

A few days later M. Derues sent down to his

place at Buisson Souef a large trunk filled with
china. It was received there by M. de Lamotte.

Little did the trusting gentleman guess that it was in

this very trunk that the body of his dear wife had

been conveyed to its last resting place in the cellar
of M. Ducoudray in the Rue de la Mortellerie. Nor

had M. Mesvrel Desvergers, importunate creditor of
M. Derues, guessed the contents of the large trunk

that he had met his debtor one day early in
February conveying through the streets of Paris.

Creditors were always interrupting Derues at
inconvenient moments. M. MesvrelDesvergers had

tapped Derues on the shoulder, reminded him
forcibly of his liability towards him, and spoken

darkly of possible imprisonment. Derues pointed to

the trunk. It contained, he said, a sample of wine;

he was going to order some more of it, and he

would then be in a position to pay his debt. But the

creditor, still doubting, had M. Derues followed, and
ascertained that he had deposited his sample of

wine at a house in the Rue de la Mortellerie.

On Wednesday, February 12, a M. Beaupre
of Commercy arrived at Versailles with his nephew,

a fat boy, in reality some fourteen years of age, but

given out as older. They hired a room at the house

of a cooper named Pecquet. M. Beaupre was a very
pale little gentleman, who seemed in excellent

spirits, in spite of the fact that his nephew was
clearly anything but well. Indeed, so sick and ailing

did he appear to be that Mme. Pecquet suggested
that his uncle should call in a doctor. But M.

Beaupre said that that was quite unnecessary; he
had no faith in doctors; he would give the boy a

good purge. His illness was due, he said, to a
venereal disorder and the drugs which he had been

taking in order to cure it; it was a priest the boy

needed rather than a doctor. On the Thursday and

Friday the boy's condition showed little

improvement; the vomiting continued. But on

Saturday M. Beaupre declared himself as highly
delighted with the success of his medicine. The

same night the boy was dead. The priest, urgently

sent for by his devout uncle, arrived to find a
corpse. On the following day "Louis Anotine

Beaupre, aged twentytwo and a half," was buried at

Versailles, his pious uncle leaving with the priest six

livres to pay for masses for the repose of his erring
nephew's soul.

The same evening M. Derues who, according
to his own account, had left Paris with the young de

Lamotte in order to take the boy to his mother in
Versailles, returned home to the Rue Beaubourg. As

usual, Bertin dropped in to dinner. He found his
host full of merriment, singing in the lightness of his

heart. Indeed, he had reason to be pleased, for at
last, he told his wife and his friend, BuissonSouef

was his. He had seen Mme. de Lamotte at Versailles

and paid her the full purchasemoney in good,

sounding gold. And, best joke of all, Mme. de

Lamotte had no sooner settled the business than she

had gone off with a former lover, her son and her
money, and would in all probability never be heard

of again. The gay gentleman laughingly reminded

his hearers that such an escapade on the part of
Mme. de Lamotte was hardly to be wondered at,

when they recollected that her son had been born

out of wedlock

To all appearances Mme. de Lamotte had
undoubtedly concluded the sale of BuissonSouef to

Derues and received the price of it before
disappearing with her lover. Derues had in his

possession a deed of sale signed by Mme. de
Lamotte and acknowledging the payment to her by

Derues of 100,000 livres, which he had borrowed for
that purpose from an advocate of the name of

Duclos. As a fact the loan from Duclos to Derues
was fictitious. A legal document proving the loan

had been drawn up, but the cash which the notary
had demanded to see before executing the

document had been borrowed for a few hours.

Duclos, a provincial advocate, had acted in good

faith, in having been represented to him that such
fictitious transactions were frequently used in Paris

for the purpose of getting over some temporary

financial difficulty. On the 15th of February the
deed of the sale of BuissonSouef had been brought

by a woman to the office of a scrivener employed by

Derues; it was already signed, but the woman asked

that certain blanks should be filled in and that the
document should be dated. She was told that the

date should be that of the day on which the parties
had signed it. She gave it as February 12. A few

days later Derues called at the office and was told of
the lady's visit. "Ah!" he said, "it was Mme. de

Lamotte herself, the lady who sold me the estate."
In the meantime Derues, through his

bustling and ubiquitous friend Bertin, took good care
that the story of Mme. de Lamotte's sale of

BuissonSouef and subsequent elopement should be

spread sedulously abroad. By Bertin it was told to

M. Jolly, the proctor in whose hands the de Lamottes

had placed the sale of BuissonSouef. It was M. Jolly

who had in the first instance recommended to them
his client Derues as a possible purchaser. The

proctor, who knew Mme. de Lamotte to be a woman

devoted to her husband and her home, was
astonished to hear of her infidelity, more especially

as the story told by Derues represented her as

saying in very coarse terms how little she cared for

her husband's honour. He was surprised, too, that
she should not have consulted him about the

conclusion of the business with Derues, and that
Derues himself should have been able to find so

considerable a sum of money as 100,000 livres.
But, said M. Jolly, if he were satisfied that Mme. de

Lamotte had taken away the money with her, then
he would deliver up to Derues the power of attorney

which M. de Lamotte had left with him in 1775,
giving his wife authority to carry out the sale of

Buisson Souef. Mme. de Lamotte, being a married

woman, the sale of the property to Derues would be

legally invalid if the husband's power of attorney

were not in the hands of the purchaser.
II

THE GAME OF BLUFF

To Derues, on the eve of victory, the
statement of Jolly in regard to the power of attorney

was a serious reverse. He had never thought of

such an instrument, or he would have persuaded

Mme. de Lamotte to have gotten permission of it
before her disappearance. Now he must try to get it

from Jolly himself. On the 26th of February he once
again raised from a friendly notary a few thousand

livres on the Duplessis inheritance, and deposited
the deed of sale of BuissonSouef as further security.

His pocket full of gold, he went straight to the office
of Jolly. To the surprise of the proctor Derues

announced that he had come to pay him 200 livres
which he owed him, and apologised for the delay.

Taking the gold coins from his pockets he filled his

threecornered hat with considerably more than the

sum due, and held it out invitingly to M. Jolly. Then

he proceeded to tell him of his dealings with Mme.

de Lamotte. She had offered, he said, to get the
power of attorney for him, but he, trusting in her

good faith, had said that there was no occasion for

hurry; and then, faithless, ungrateful woman that
she was, she had gone off with his money and left
him in the lurch. "But," he added, "I trust you

absolutely, M. Jolly, you have all my business in

your hands, and I shall be a good client in the
future. You have the power of attorneyyou will give

it to me?" and he rattled the coins in his hat. "I
must have it," he went on, "I must have it at any

price at any price," and again the coins danced in his
hat, while his eyes looked knowingly at the proctor.

M. Jolly saw his meaning, and his surprise turned to
indignation. He told Derues bluntly that he did not

believe his story, that until he was convinced of its
truth he would not part with the power of attorney,

and showed the confounded grocer the door.

Derues hastened home filled with wrath, and

took counsel with his friend Bertin. Bertin knew

something of legal process; they would try whether

the law could not be invoked to compel Jolly to
surrender the power of attorney. Bertin went off to

the Civil Lieutenant and applied for an order to

oblige M. Jolly to give up the document in question.
An order was made that Jolly must either surrender

it into the hands of Derues or appear before a

referee and show cause why he should not comply

with the order. Jolly refused still to give it up or
allow a copy of it to be made, and agreed to appear

before the referee to justify his action. In the
meantime Derues, greatly daring, had started for

BuissonSouef to try what "bluff" could do in this
serious crisis in his adventure.

At BuissonSouef poor M. de Lamotte waited,
puzzled and distressed, for news from his wife. On

Saturday, 17th, the day after the return of Derues
from Versailles, he heard from Mme. Derues that his

wife had left Paris and gone with her son to

Versailles. A second letter told him that she had

completed the sale of BuissonSouef to Derues, and

was still at Versailles trying to obtain some post for

the boy. On February 19 Mme. Derues wrote again
expressing surprise that M. de Lamotte had not had

any letter from his wife and asking if he had

received some oysters which the Derues had sent
him. The distracted husband was in no mood for

oysters. "Do not send me oysters," he writes, "I am

too ill with worry. I thank you for all your kindness

to my son. I love him better than myself, and God
grant he will be good and grateful." The only reply

he received from the Derues was an assurance that
he would see his wife again in a few days.

The days passed, but Mme. de Lamotte
made no sign. About four o'clock on the afternoon

of February 28, Derues, accompanied by the parish
priest of VilleneuveleRoi, presented himself before

M. de Lamotte at BuissonSouef. For the moment M.
de Lamotte was rejoiced to see the little man; at last

he would get news of his wife. But he was

disappointed. Derues could tell him only what he

had been told already, that his wife had sold their

estate and gone away with the money.

M. de Lamotte was hardly convinced. How,
he asked Derues, had he found the 100,000 livres to

buy BuissonSouef, he who had not a halfpenny a

short time ago? Derues replied that he had
borrowed it from a friend; that there was no use in

talking about it; the place was his now, his alone,

and M. de Lamotte had no longer a right to be

there; he was very sorry, poor dear gentleman, that
his wife had gone off and left him without a shilling,

but personally he would always be a friend to him
and would allow him 3,000 livres a year for the rest

of his life. In the meantime, he said, he had already
sold forty casks of the last year's vintage, and would

be obliged if M. de Lamotte would see to their being
sent off at once.

By this time the anger and indignation of M.
de Lamotte blazed forth. He told Derues that his

story was a pack of lies, that he was still master at

BuissonSouef, and not a bottle of wine should leave

it. "You are torturing me," he exclaimed, "I know

something has happened to my wife and child. I am

coming to Paris myself, and if it is as I fear, you
shall answer for it with your head!" Derues,

undismayed by this outburst, re

asserted his ownership and departed in
defiant mood, leaving on the premises a butcher of

the neighbourhood to look after his property.

But things were going ill with Derues. M. de

Lamotte meant to show fight; he would have
powerful friends to back him; class against class, the

little grocer would be no match for him. It was
immediate possession of BuissonSouef that Derues

wanted, not lawsuits; they were expensive and the
results uncertain. He spoke freely to his friends of

the difficulties of the situation.
What could he do? The general opinion

seemed to be that some fresh news of Mme. de
Lamotteher reappearance, perhapswould be the only

effective settlement of the dispute. He had made

Mme. de Lamotte disappear, why should he not

make her reappear? He was not the man to stick at

trifles. His powers of female impersonation, with

which he had amused his good friends at
BuissonSouef, could now be turned to practical

account. On March 5 he left Paris again.

On the evening of March 7 a gentleman, M.
Desportes of Paris, hired a room at the Hotel Blanc

in Lyons. On the following day he went out early in

the morning, leaving word that, should a lady whom

he was expecting, call to see him, she was to be
shown up to his room. The same morning a

gentleman, resembling M. Desportes of Paris,
bought two lady's dresses at a shop in Lyons.

The same afternoon a lady dressed in black
silk, with a hood well drawn over her eyes, called at

the office of M. Pourra, a notary.
The latter was not greatly attracted by his

visitor, whose nose struck him as large for a woman.
She said that she had spent her youth in Lyons, but

her accent was distinctly Parisian. The lady gave

her name as Madame de Lamotte, and asked for a

power of attorney by which she could give her

husband the interest due to her on a sum of 30,000

livres, part of the purchasemoney of the estate of
BuissonSouef, which she had recently sold. As

Mme. de Lamotte represented herself as having

been sent to M. Pourra by a respectable merchant
for whom he was in the habit of doing business, he

agreed to draw up the necessary document,

accepting her statement that she and her husband

had separate estates. Mme. de Lamotte said that
she would not have time to wait until the power of

attorney was ready, and therefore asked M. Pourra
to send it to the parish priest at VilleneuveleRoi; this

he promised to do. Mme. deLamotte had called
twice during the day at the Hotel Blanc and asked

for M. Desportes of Paris, but he was not at home.
While Derues, alias Desportes, alias Mme. de

Lamotte, was masquerading in Lyons, events had
been moving swiftly and unfavourably in Paris. Sick

with misgiving and anxiety, M. de Lamotte had come

there to find, if possible, his wife and child. By a

strange coincidence he alighted at an inn in the Rue

de la Mortellerie, only a few yards from the

winecellar in which the corpse of his illfated wife lay
buried. He lost no time in putting his case before

the Lieutenant of Police, who placed the affair in the

hands of one of the magistrates of the Chatelet,
then the criminal court of Paris. At first the

magistrate believed that the case was one of fraud

and that Mme. de Lamotte and her son were being

kept somewhere in concealment by Derues. But as
he investigated the circumstances further, the

evidence of the illness of the mother and son, the
date of the disappearance of Mme. de Lamotte, and

her reputed signature to the deed of sale on
February 12, led him to suspect that he was dealing

with a case of murder.
When Derues returned to Paris from Lyons,

on March 11, he found that the police had already
visited the house and questioned his wife, and that

he himself was under close surveillance. A day or

two later the advocate, Duclos, revealed to the

magistrate the fictitious character of the loan of

100,000 livres, which Derues alleged that he had

paid to Mme. de Lamotte as the price of
BuissonSouef. When the new power of attorney

purporting to be signed by Mme. de Lamotte arrived

from Lyons, and the signature was compared with
that on the deed of sale of Buisson Souef to Derues,

both were pronounced to be forgeries. Derues was

arrested and lodged in the Prison of For l'Eveque.

The approach of danger had not dashed the
spirits of the little man, nor was he without partisans

in Paris. Opinion in the city was divided as to the
truth of his account of Mme. de Lamotte's

elopement. The nobility were on the side of the
injured de Lamotte, but the bourgeoisie accepted

the grocer's story and made merry over the
deceived husband. Interrogated, however, by the

magistrate of the Chatelet, Derues' position became
more difficult. Under the stress of close questioning

the flimsy fabric of his financial statements fell to

pieces like a house of cards. He had to admit that

he had never paid Mme. de Lamotte 100,000 livres;

he had paid her only 25,000 livres in gold; further

pressed he said that the 25,000 livres had been
made up partly in gold, partly in bills; but where the

gold had come from, or on whom he had drawn the

bills, he could not explain. Still his position was not
desperate; and he knew it. In the absence of Mme.

de Lamotte he could not be charged with fraud or

forgery; and until her body was discovered, it would

be impossible to charge him with murder.
A month passed; Mme. Derues, who had

made a belated attempt to follow her husband's
example by impersonating Mme. de Lamotte in

Paris, had been arrested and imprisoned in the
Grand Chatelet; when, on April 18, information was

received by the authorities which determined them
to explore the winecellar in the Rue de la Mortellerie.

Whether the woman who had let the cellar to
Derues, or the creditor who had met him taking his

cask of wine there, had informed the investigating

magistrate, seems uncertain. In any case, the

corpse of the unhappy lady was soon brought to

light and Derues confronted with it. At first he said

that he failed to recognise it as the remains of Mme.
de Lamotte, but he soon abandoned that rather

impossible attitude. He admitted that he had given

some harmless medicine to Mme. de Lamotte during
her illness, and then, to his horror, one morning had

awakened to find her dead. A fear lest her husband

would accuse him of having caused her death had

led him to conceal the body, and also that of her son
who, he now confessed, had died and been buried

by him at Versailles. On April 23 the body of the
young de Lamotte was exhumed. Both bodies were

examined by doctors, and they declared themselves
satisfied that mother and son had died "from a bitter

and corrosive poison administered in some kind of
drink." What the poison was they did not venture to

state, but one of their number, in the light of
subsequent investigation, arrived at the conclusion

that Derues had used in both cases corrosive

sublimate. How or where he had obtained the

poison was never discovered.

Justice moved swiftly in Paris in those days.

The preliminary investigation in Derues' case was
ended on April 28. Two days later his trial

commenced before the tribunal of the Chatelet.

It lasted one day. The judges had before
them the depositions taken by the examining

magistrate. Both Derues and his wife were

interrogated. He maintained that he had not

poisoned either Mme. de Lamotte or her son; his
only crime, he said, lay in having concealed their

deaths. Mme; Derues said: "It is BuissonSouef that
has ruined us! I always told my husband that he

was mad to buy these propertiesI am sure my
husband is not a poisonerI trusted my husband and

believed every word he said." The court condemned
Derues to death, but deferred judgment in his wife's

case on the ground of her pregnancy.
And now the frail, catlike little man had to

brace himself to meet a cruel and protracted

execution. But sanguine to the last, he still hoped.

An appeal lay from the Chatelet to the Parliament of

Paris. It was heard on March 5. Derues was

brought to the Palais de Justice. The room in which
he waited was filled with curious spectators, who

marvelled at his coolness and impudence. He

recognised among them a Benedictine monk of his
acquaintance. "My case," he called out to him, "will

soon be over; we'll meet again yet and have a good

time together." One visitor, wishing not to appear

too curious, pretended to be looking at a picture.
"Come, sir," said Derues, "you haven't come here to

see the pictures, but to see me. Have a good look
at me. Why study copies of nature when you can

look at such a remarkable original as I?" But there
were to be no more days of mirth and gaiety for the

jesting grocer. His appeal was rejected, and he was
ordered for execution on the morrow.

At six o'clock on the morning of May 6
Derues returned to the Palais de Justice, there to

submit to the superfluous torments of the question

ordinary and extraordinary. Though condemned to

death, torture was to be applied in the hope of

wringing from the prisoner some sort of confession.

The doctors declared him too delicate to undergo the
torture of pouring cold water into him, which his

illustrious predecessor, Mme. de Brinvilliers, had

suffered; he was to endure the less severe torture of
the "boot."
His legs were tightly encased in wood, and

wedges were then hammered in until the flesh was

crushed and the bones broken. But never a word of
confession was wrung from the suffering creature.

Four wedges constituting the ordinary torture he
endured; at the third of the extraordinary he fainted

away. Put in the front of a fire the warmth restored
him. Again he was questioned, again he asserted

his wife's innocence and his own.
At two o'clock in the afternoon Derues was

recovered sufficiently to be taken to Notre Dame.
There, in front of the Cathedral, candle in hand and

rope round his neck, he made the amende

honorable. But as the sentence was read aloud to

the people Derues reiterated the assertion of his

innocence. From Notre Dame he was taken to the

Hotel de Ville. A condemned man had the right to
stop there on his way to execution, to make his will

and last dying declarations. Derues availed himself

of this opportunity to protest solemnly and
emphatically his wife's absolute innocence of any

complicity in whatever he had done. "I want above

all," he said, "to state that my wife is entirely

innocent. She knew nothing. I used fifty cunning
devices to hide everything from her. I am speaking

nothing but the truth, she is wholly innocentas for
me, I am about to die." His wife was allowed to see

him; he enjoined her to bring up their children in the
fear of God and love of duty, and to let them know

how he had died. Once again, as he took up the pen
to sign the record of his last words, he reasserted

her innocence.
Of the last dreadful punishment the

offending grocer was to be spared nothing. For an

aristocrat like Mme. de Brinvilliers beheading was

considered indignity enough. But Derues must go

through with it all; he must be broken on the wheel

and burnt alive and his ashes scattered to the four
winds of heaven; there was to be no retentum for

him, a clause sometimes inserted in the sentence

permitting the executioner to strangle the broken
victim before casting him on to the fire. He must

endure all to the utmost agony the law could inflict.

It was six o'clock when Derues arrived at the Place

de Greve, crowded to its capacity, the square itself,
the windows of the houses; places had been bought

at high prices, stools, ladders, anything that would
give a good view of the end of the now famous

poisoner.
Pale but calm, Derues faced his audience.

He was stripped of all but his shirt; lying flat on the
scaffold, his face looking up to the sky, his head

resting on a stone, his limbs were fastened to the
wheel. Then with a heavy bar of iron the

executioner broke them one after another, and each

time he struck a fearful cry came from the culprit.

The customary three final blows on the stomach

were inflicted, but still the little man lived. Alive and
broken, he was thrown on to the fire. His burnt
ashes, scattered to the winds, were picked up

eagerly by the mob, reputed, as in England the

pieces of the hangman's rope, talismans.
Some two months after the execution of her

husband Mme. Derues was delivered in the

Conciergerie of a male child; it is hardly surprising,

in face of her experiences during her pregnancy,
that it was born an idiot. In January, 1778, the

judges of the Parliament, by a majority of one,
decided that she should remain a prisoner in the

Conciergerie for another year, while judgment in her
case was reserved. In the following August she was

charged with having forged the signature of Mme.
de Lamotte on the deeds of sale. In February,

1779, the two experts in handwriting to whom the
question had been submitted decided in her favour,

and the charge was abandoned.

But Mme. Derues had a far sterner, more

implacable and, be it added, more unscrupulous

adversary than the law in M. de Lamotte.

Not content with her husband's death, M. de
Lamotte believed the wife to have been his partner

in guilt, and thirsted for revenge.

To accomplish it he even stooped to suborn
witnesses, but the conspiracy was exposed, and so

strong became the sympathy with the accused

woman that a young proctor of the Parliament

published a pamphlet in her defence, asking for an
immediate inquiry into the charges made against

her, charges that had in no instance been proved.
At last, in March, 1779, the Parliament

decided to finish with the affair. In secret session
the judges met, examined once more all the

documents in the case, listened to a report on it
from one of their number, interrogated the now

weary, hopeless prisoner, and, by a large majority,
condemned her to a punishment that fell only just

short of the supreme penalty. On the grounds that

she had wilfully and knowingly participated with her

husband in the fraudulent attempt to become

possessed of the estate of BuissonSouef, and was

strongly suspected of having participated with him in
his greater crime, she was sentenced to be publicly

flogged, branded on both shoulders with the letter V

(Voleuse) and imprisoned for life in the Salpetriere
Prison. On March 13, in front of the Conciergerie

Mme. Derues underwent the first part of her

punishment. The same day her hair was cut short,

and she was dressed in the uniform of the prison in
which she was to pass the remainder of her days.

Paris had just begun to forget Mme. Derues
when a temporary interest wasexcited in her

fortunes by the astonishing intelligence that, two
months after her condemnation, she had been

delivered of a child in her new prison. Its
fatherhood was never determined, and, taken from

her mother, the child died in fifteen days. Was its
birth the result of some passing love affair, or some

act of drunken violence on the part of her jailors, or

had the wretched woman, fearing a sentence of

death, made an effort to avert once again the

supreme penalty? History does not relate.

Ten years passed. A fellow prisoner in the
Salpetriere described Mme. Derues as "scheming,

malicious, capable of anything." She was accused of

being violent, and of wishing to revenge herself by
setting fire to Paris. At length the Revolution broke

on France, the Bastille fell, and in that same year an

old uncle of Mme. Derues, an exsoldier of Louis XV.,

living in Brittany, petitioned for his niece's release.
He protested her innocence, and begged that he

might take her to his home and restore her to her
children. For three years he persisted vainly in his

efforts. At last, in the year 1792, it seemed as if
they might be crowned with success. He was told

that the case would be reexamined; that it was
possible that the Parliament had judged unjustly.

This good news came to him in March. But in
September of that year there took place those

shocking massacres in the Paris prisons, which rank

high among the atrocities of the Revolution. At four

o'clock on the afternoon of September 4, the

slaughterers visited the Salpetriere Prison, and fifth

among their victims fell the widow of Derues.


Dr. Castaing

There are two reports of the trial of
Castaing: "Proces Com

plet d'Edme Samuel Castaing," Paris, 1823;
"Affaire Castaing," Paris, 1823.

I
AN UNHAPPY COINCIDENCE

Edme Castaing, born at Alencon in 1796,
was the youngest of the three sons of an

InspectorGeneral in the department of Woods and
Forests. His elder brother had entered the same

service as his father, the other brother was a

staffcaptain of engineers. Without being wealthy,

the family, consisting of M. and Mme. Castaing and

four children, was in comfortable circumstances.

The young Edme was educated at the College of
Angersthe Alma Mater of Barre and Lebiezwhere,

intelligent and hard working, he carried off many

prizes. He decided to enter the medical profession,
and at the age of nineteen commenced his studies

at the School of Medicine in Paris. For two years he

worked hard and well, living within the modest

allowance made him by his father. At the end of
that time this young man of two or three andtwenty

formed a passionate attachment for a lady, the
widow of a judge, and the mother of three children.

Of the genuine depth and sincerity of this passion
for a woman who must have been considerably older

than himself, there can be no doubt. Henceforth the
one object in life to Castaing was to make money

enough to relieve the comparative poverty of his
adored mistress, and place her and her children

beyond the reach of want. In 1821 Castaing

became a duly qualified doctor, and by that time had

added to the responsibilities of his mistress and

himself by becoming the father of two children,

whom she had brought into the world. The lady was
exigent, and Castaing found it difficult to combine

his work with a due regard to her claims on his

society. Nor was work plentiful or lucrative. To add
to his embarrassments Castaing, in 1818, had

backed a bill for a friend for 600 francs. To meet it

when it fell due two years later was impossible, and

desperate were the efforts made by Castaing and his
mother to put off the day of reckoning. His father,

displeased with his son's conduct, would do nothing
to help him. But his mother spared no effort to

extricate him from his difficulties. She begged a
highly placed official to plead with the insistent

creditor, but all in vain. There seemed no hope of a
further delay when suddenly, in the October of

1822, Castaing became the possessor of 100,000
francs. How he became possessed of this

considerable sum of money forms part of a strange

and mysterious story.

Among the friends of Castaing were two

young men of about his own age, Auguste and

Hippolyte Ballet. Auguste, the elder, had the
misfortune a few days after his birth to incur his

mother's lasting dislike. The nurse had let the child

fall from her arms in the mother's presence, and the
shock had endangered Mme. Ballet's life. From that

moment the mother took a strong aver

sion to her son; he was left to the charge of

servants; his meals were taken in the kitchen. As
soon as he was five years old he was put out to

board elsewhere, while his brother Hippolyte and his
sister were well cared for at home. The effect of this

unjust neglect on the character of Auguste Ballet
was, as may be imagined, had; he became indolent

and dissipated. His brother Hippolyte, on the other
hand, had justified the affectionate care bestowed

on his upbringing; he had grown into a studious,
intelligent youth of a refined and attractive

temperament. Unhappily, early in his life he had

developed consumption, a disease he inherited from

his mother. As he grew older his health grew

steadily worse until, in 1822, his friends were

seriously alarmed at his condition. It became so
much graver that, in the August of that year, the

doctors recommended him to take the waters at

Enghien. In September he returned to Paris
apparently much better, but on October 2 he was

seized with sudden illness, and three days later he

was dead.

A few years before the death of Hippolyte
his father and mother had died almost at the same

time. M. Ballet had left to each of his sons a fortune
of some 260,000 francs. Though called to the bar,

both Auguste and Hippolyte Ballet were now men of
independent means. After the death of their

parents, whatever jealousy Auguste may have felt at
the unfair preference which his mother had shown

for her younger son, had died down. At the time of
Hippolyte's death the brothers were on good terms,

though the more prudent Hippolyte disapproved of

his elder brother's extravagance.

Of Hippolyte Ballet Dr. Castaing had become

the fast friend. Apart from his personal liking for

Castaing, it was a source of comfort to Hippolyte, in
his critical state of health, to have as his friend one

whose medical knowledge was always at his service.

About the middle of August, 1822,
Hippolyte, on the advice of his doctors, went to

Enghien to take the waters. There Castaing paid

him frequent visits. He returned to Paris on

September 22, and seemed to have benefited
greatly by the cure. On Tuesday, October 1, he saw

his sister, Mme. Martignon, and her husband; he
seemed well, but said that he was having leeches

applied to him by his friend Castaing. On the
Wednesday evening his sister saw him again, and

found him well and with a good appetite. On the
Thursday, after a night disturbed by severe attacks

of vomiting, his condition seemed serious. His
brotherinlaw, who visited him, found that he had

taken to his bed, his face was swollen, his eyes were
red. His sister called in the evening, but could not

see him. The servants told her that her brother was

a little better but resting, and that he did not wish to

be disturbed; they said that Dr. Castaing had been
with him all day.

On Friday Castaing himself called on the

Martignons, and told them that Hippolyte had
passed a shockingly bad night. Madame Martignon

insisted on going to nurse her brother herself, but

Castaing refused positively to let her see him; the

sight of her, he said, would be too agitating to the
patient. Later in the day Mme. Martignon went to

her brother's house. In order to obey Dr. Castaing's
injunctions, she dressed herself in some of the

clothes of the servant Victoire, in the hope that if
she went into his bedroom thus disguised, Hippolyte

would not recognise her. But even this subterfuge
was forbidden by Castaing, and Mme. Martignon had

to content herself with listening in an adjoining room
for the sound of her brother's voice. At eight o'clock

that evening the Martignons learnt that Hippolyte

was better, but at ten o'clock they received a

message that he was dying, and that his brother

Auguste had been sent for. Mme. Martignon was

prostrated with grief, but her husband hastened to
his brotherinlaw's house. There he found Castaing,

who said that the death agony of his friend was so

dreadful that he had not the strength to remain in
the room with the dying man. Another doctor was

sent for, but at ten o'clock the following morning,

after protracted suffering, Hippolyte Ballet passed

away.
A postmortem was held on his body. It was

made by Drs. Segalas and Castaing. They stated
that death was due to pleurisy aggravated by the

consumptive condition of the deceased, which,
however serious, was not of itself likely to have

been so rapidly fatal in its consequences.
Hippolyte had died, leaving a fortune of

some 240,000 francs. In the previous September
he had spoken to the notary Lebret, a former clerk

of his father's, of his intention of making a will. He

had seen that his brother Auguste was squandering

his share of their inheritance; he told Lebret that

whatever he might leave to Auguste should not be

placed at his absolute disposal. To his servant
Victoire, during his last illness, Hippolyte had spoken

of a will he had made which he wished to destroy. If

Hippolyte had made such a will, did he destroy it
before his death? In any case, no trace of it was

ever found after his death. He was presumed to

have died intestate, and his fortune was divided,

threequarters of it going to his brother Auguste, the
remaining quarter to his sister, Mme. Martignon.

On the day of Hippolyte's death Auguste
Ballet wrote from his brother's house to one

Prignon: "With great grief I have to tell you that I
have just lost my brother; I write at the same time

to say that I must have 100,000 francs today if
possible. I have the greatest need of it. Destroy

my letter, and reply at once. M. Sandrie will, I am
sure, accommodate me. I am at my poor brother's

house, from which I am writing." Prignon did as he

was asked, but it was two days before the

stockbroker, Sandrie, could raise the necessary

sum. On October 7 he sold out sufficient of

Auguste's stock to realise 100,000 francs, and the
following day gave Prignon an order on the Bank of

France for that amount. The same day Prignon took

the order to Auguste. Accompanied by Castaing and
Jean, Auguste's black servant, Auguste and Prignon

drove to the bank. There the order was cashed.

Prignon's part of the business was at an end. He

said goodbye to Auguste outside the bank. As the
latter got into his cabriolet, carrying the bundle of

notes, Prignon heard him say to Castaing: "There
are the 100,000 francs."

Why had Auguste Ballet, after his brother's
death, such urgent need of 100,000 francs? If the

statements of Auguste made to other persons are to
be believed, he had paid the 100,000 francs which

he had raised through Prignon to Lebret, his father's
former clerk, who would seem to have acted as legal

and financial adviser to his old master's children.

According to Auguste's story, his sister, Mme.

Martignon, had offered Lebret 80,000 francs to

preserve a copy of a will made by Hippolyte, leaving

her the bulk of his fortune. Castaing, however, had
ascertained that Lebret would be willing, if Auguste

would outbid his sister and pay 100,000 francs, to

destroy the will so that, Hippolyte dying intestate,
Auguste would take the greater part of his brother's

fortune. Auguste agreed to accept Lebret's terms,

raised the necessary sum, and handed over the

money to Castaing, who, in turn, gave it to Lebret,
who had thereupon destroyed the copy of the will.

Castaing, according to the evidence of Auguste's
mistress, an actress of the name of Percillie, had

spoken in her presence of having himself destroyed
one copy of Hippolyte's will before his death, and

admitted having arranged with Lebret after
Hippolyte's death for the destruction of the other

copy.
How far was the story told by Auguste, and

repeated in somewhat different shape by Castaing to

other persons, true? There is no doubt that after

the visit to the Bank of France with Prignon on

October 8, Auguste and Castaing drove together to

Lebret's office. The negro servant said that on
arriving there one of them got out of the cab and

went up to Lebret's house, but which of the two he

would not at first say positively. Later he swore that
it was Auguste Ballet. Whatever happened on that

visit to Lebret'sand it was the theory of the

prosecution that Castaing and not Auguste had gone

up to the officethe same afternoon Auguste Ballet
showed his mistress the seals of the copy of his

brother's will which Lebret had destroyed, and told
her that Lebret, all through the business, had

refused to deal directly with him, and would only act
through the intermediary of Castaing.

Did Lebret, as a fact, receive the 100,000
francs? A close examination of his finances showed

no trace of such a sum. Castaing, on the other
hand, on October 10, 1822, had given a stockbroker

a sum of 66,000 francs to invest in securities; on

the 11th of the same month he had lent his mother

30,000 francs; and on the 14th had given his

mistress 4,000 francs. Of how this large sum of

money had come to Castaing at a time when he was
practically insolvent he gave various accounts. His

final version was that in the will destroyed by

Auguste, Hippolyte Ballet had left him an income for
life equivalent to a capital of 100,000 francs, and

that Auguste had given him that sum out of respect

for his brother's wishes. If that explanation were

true, it was certainly strange that shortly after his
brother's death Auguste Ballet should have

expressed surprise and suspicion to a friend on
hearing that Castaing had been buying stock to the

value of 8,000 francs. If he had given Castaing
100,000 francs for himself, there was no occasion

for surprise or suspicion at his investing 8,000. That
Auguste had paid out 100,000 francs to some one in

October the state of his finances at his death clearly
proved. According to the theory of the prosecution,

Auguste believed that he had paid that money to

Lebret through the intermediary of Castaing, and

not to Castaing himself. Hence his surprise at

hearing that Castaing, whom he knew to be

impecunious, was investing such a sum as 8,000
francs.

No money had ever reached Lebret. His

honesty and good faith were demonstrated beyond
any shadow of a doubt; no copy of any will of

Hippolyte Ballet had ever been in his possession.

But Castaing had shown Auguste Ballet a copy of his

brother's will, the seals of which Auguste had shown
to his mistress. In all probability, and possibly at

the instigation of Castaing, Hip
polyte Ballet had made a will, leaving the

greater part of his property to his sister. Somehow
or other Castaing had got possession of this will. On

his death Castaing had invented the story of Mme.
Martignon's bribe to Lebret, and so persuaded

Auguste to outbid her. He had ingeniously kept
Auguste and Lebret apart by representing Lebret as

refusing to deal direct with Auguste, and by these

means had secured to his own use the sum of

100,000 francs, which Auguste believed was being

paid to Lebret as the price of his alleged destruction

of his brother's will. The plot was ingenious and
successful. To Lebret and the Martignons Castaing

said that Hippolyte had made a will in Mme.

Martignon's favour, but had destroyed it himself
some days before his death. The Martignons

expressed themselves as glad that Hip

polyte had done so, for they feared lest such

a will should have provoked resentment against
them on the part of Auguste. By keeping Auguste

and Lebret apart, Castaing prevented awkward
explanations. The only possible danger of discovery

lay in Auguste's incautious admissions to his
mistress and friends; but even had the fact of the

destruction of the will come to the ears of the
Martignons, it is unlikely that they would have taken

any steps involving the disgrace of Auguste.
Castaing had enriched himself considerably

by the opportune death of his friend Hippolyte. It

might be made a matter of unfriendly comment

that, on the first day of May preceding that sad

event, Castaing had purchased ten grains of acetate

of morphia from a chemist in Paris, and on
September 18, less than a month before Hippolyte's

death, he had purchased another ten grains of

acetate of morphia from the same chemist. The
subject of poisons had always been a favourite

branch of Castaing's medical studies, especially

vegetable poisons; morphia is a vegetable poison.

Castaing's position relative to Auguste Ballet
was now a strong one. They were accomplices in

the unlawful destruction of Hippolyte's will. Auguste
believed it to be in his friend's power to ruin him at

any time by revealing his dealings with Lebret. But,
more than that, to Auguste, who believed that his

100,000 francs had gone into Lebret's pocket,
Castaing could represent himself as so far

unrewarded for his share in the business; Lebret had
taken all the money, while he had received no

recompense of any kind for the trouble he had taken

and the risk he was encountering on his friend's

behalf. Whatever the motive, from fear or

gratitude, Auguste Ballet was persuaded to make a

will leaving Dr. Edme Samuel Castaing the whole of
his fortune, subject to a few trifling legacies. But

Auguste's feelings towards his sole legatee were no

longer cordial. To one or two of his friends he
expressed his growing distaste for Cas

taing's society.

Dr. Castaing can hardly have failed to

observe this change. He knew Auguste to be
reckless and extravagant with his money; he learnt

that he had realised another 100,000 francs out of
his securities, and that he kept the money locked up

in a drawer in his desk. If Auguste's fortune were
dissipated by extravagance, or he revoked his will,

Castaing stood to lose heavily. As time went on
Castaing felt less and less sure that he could place

much reliance on the favourable disposition or thrift
of Auguste. The latter had fallen in love with a new

mistress; he began to entertain expensively; even if

he should not change his mind and leave his money

away from Castaing, there might very soon be no

money to leave. At the end of May, 1823, Castaing

consulted a cousin of his, Malassis, a notary's clerk,
as to the validity of a will made by a sick man in

favour of his medical attendant. He said that he had

a patient gravely ill who, not wishing to leave his
money to his sister, whom he disliked, intended to

leave it to him. Malassis reassured him as to the

validity of such a will, and gave him the necessary

instructions for preparing it. On May 29 Castaing
sent Malassis the will of Auguste Ballet with the

following note, "I send you the will of M. Ballets
examine it and keep it as his representative." The

will was dated December 1, 1822, and made
Castaing sole legatee. On the same day that the will

was deposited with Malassis, Castaing and Auguste
Ballet started to

gether on a little two days' trip into the
country. To his friends Auguste seemed in the best

of health and spirits; so much so that his

housekeeper remarked as he left how well he was

looking, and Castaing echoed her remark, saying

that he looked like a prince!

During the afternoon the two friends visited
Saint Germain, then returned to Paris, and at seven

o'clock in the evening arrived at the Tete Noire Hotel

at Saint Cloud, where they took a double bedded
room, Castaing paying five francs in advance. They

spent the following day, Friday, May 30, in walking

about the neighbourhood, dined at the hotel at

seven, went out again and returned about nine
o'clock. Soon after their return Castaing ordered

some warmed wine to be sent up to the bedroom.
It was taken up by one of the maidservants. Two

glasses were mixed with lemon and sugar which
Castaing had brought with him. Both the young

men drank of the beverage. Auguste complained
that it was sour, and thought that he had put too

much lemon in it. He gave his glass to the servant
to taste, who also found the drink sour. Shortly

after she left the room and went upstairs to the

bedside of one of her fellowservants who was ill.

Castaing, for no apparent reason, followed her up

and stayed in the room for about five minutes.

Auguste spent a bad night, suffering from internal
pains, and in the morning his legs were so swollen

that he could not put on his boots.

Castaing got up at four o'clock that morning
and asked one of the servants to let him out. Two

hours later he drove up in a cabriolet to the door of

a chemist in Paris, and asked for twelve grains of

tartar emetic, which he wanted to mix in a wash
according to a prescription of Dr. Castaing. But he

did not tell the chemist that he was Dr. Castaing
himself. An hour later Cas taing arrived at the shop

of another chemist, Chevalier, with whom he had
already some acquaintance; he had bought acetate

of morphia from him some months before, and had
discussed with him then the effects of vegetable

poisons. On this particular morning he bought of his
assistant thirtysix grains of acetate of morphia,

paying, as a medical man, three francs fifty

centimes for it instead of the usual price of four

francs. Later in the morning Castaing returned to

Saint Cloud, a distance of ten miles from Paris, and

said that he had been out for a long walk. He found
Auguste ill in bed. Castaing asked for some cold

milk, which was taken up to the bedroom by one of

the servants. Shortly after this Castaing went out
again. During his absence Auguste was seized with

violent pains and sickness. When Castaing returned

he found his friend in the care of the people of the

hotel. He told them to throw away the matter that
had been vomited, as the smell was offensive, and

Auguste told them to do as his friend directed.
Castaing proposed to send for a doctor from Paris,

but Auguste insisted that a local doctor should be
called in at once.

Accordingly Dr. Pigache of Saint Cloud was
summoned. He arrived at the hotel about eleven

o'clock. Before seeing the patient Castaing told the
doctor that he believed him to be suffering from

cholera. Pigache asked to see the matter vomited

but was told that it had been thrown away. He

prescribed a careful diet, lemonade and a soothing

draught.
Dr. Pigache returned at three o'clock, when
he found that the patient had taken some lemonade,

but, according to Castaing, had refused to take the

draught. He called again that afternoon. Ballet was
much better; he said that he would be quite well if

he could get some sleep, and expressed a wish to

return to Paris. Dr. Pigache dissuaded him from this

and left, saying that he would come again in the
evening. Castaing said that that would be

unnecessary, and it was agreed that Pigache should
see the patient again at eight o'clock the next

morning. During the afternoon Castaing sent a
letter to Paris to Jean, Auguste's negro servant,

telling him to take the two keys of his master's desk
to his cousin Malassis. But the negro distrusted

Castaing. He knew of the will which his master had
made in the doctor's favour. Rather than

compromise himself by any injudicious act, he

brought the keys to Saint Cloud and there handed

them over to Castaing.

When Jean arrived his master complained to

him of feeling very ill. Jean said that he hoped he
would be well enough to go back to Paris the

following day, to which Auguste replied, "I don't

think so. But if I am lucky enough to get away
tomorrow, I shall leave fifty francs for the poor

here." About eleven o'clock that night Castaing, in

Jean's presence, gave the sick man a spoonful of the

draught prescribed by Dr. Pigache. Four or five
minutes later Auguste was seized with terrible

convulsions, followed by unconsciousness. Dr.
Pigache was sent for. He found Ballet lying on his

back unconscious, his throat strained, his mouth
shut and his eyes fixed; the pulse was weak, his

body covered with cold sweat; and every now and
then he was seized with strong convulsions. The

doctor asked Castaing the cause of the sudden
change in Ballet's condition. Castaing replied that it

had commenced shortly after he had taken a

spoonful of the draught which the doctor had

prescribed for him. Dr. Pigache bled the patient and

applied twenty leeches. He returned about six;

Ballet was sinking, and Castaing appeared to be
greatly upset. He told the doctor what an unhappy

coincidence it was that he should have been present

at the deathbeds of both Hippolyte and his brother
Auguste; and that the position was the more

distressing for him as he was the sole heir to

Auguste's fortune. To M. Pelletan, a professor of

medicine, who had been sent for to St. Cloud in the
early hours of Sunday morning, Castaing appeared

to be in a state of great grief and agitation; he was
shedding tears. Pelletan was from the first

impressed by the suspicious nature of the case, and
pointed out to Castaing the awkwardness of his

situation as heir to the dying man. "You're right,"
replied Castaing, "my position is dreadful, horrible.

In my great grief I had never thought of it till now,
but now you make me see it clearly. Do you think

there will be an investigation?" Pelletan answered

that he should be compelled to ask for a

postmortem. "Ah! You will be doing me the

greatest service," said Castaing, "I beg you to insist

on a postmortem. You will be acting as a second
father to me in doing so." The parish priest was

sent for to administer extreme unction to the dying

man. To the parish clerk who accompanied the
priest Castaing said, "I am losing a friend of my

childhood," and both priest and clerk went away

greatly edified by the sincere sorrow and pious

demeanour of the young doctor. About midday on
Sunday, June 1, Auguste Ballet died.

During the afternoon Castaing left the hotel
for some hours, and that same afternoon a young

man about twentyfive years of age, short and fair,
left a letter at the house of Malassis. The letter was

from Castaing and said, "My dear friend, Ballet has
just died, but do nothing before tomorrow, Monday.

I will see you and tell you, yes or no, whether it is
time to act. I expect that his brotherinlaw, M.

Martignon, whose face is pockmarked and who

carries a decoration, will call and see you. I have

said that I did not know what dispositions Ballet may

have made, but that before his death he had told

me to give you two little keys which I am going to
deliver to you myself tomorrow, Monday. I have not

said that we are cousins, but only that I had seen

you once or twice at Ballet's, with whom you were
friendly. So say nothing till I have seen you, but

whatever you do, don't say you are a relative of

mine." When he returned to the hotel Castaing

found Martignon, Lebret, and one or two friends of
Auguste already assembled. It was only that

morning that Martignon had received from Castaing
any intimation of his brotherinlaw's critical condition.

From the first Castaing was regarded with suspicion;
the nature of the illness, the secrecy maintained

about it by Castaing, the coincidence of some of the
circumstances with those of the death of Hippolyte,

all combined to excite suspicion. Asked if Auguste
had left a will Castaing said no; but the next day he

admitted its existence, and said that it was in the

hands of Malassis.

Monday, June 2, was the day fixed for the

postmortem; it was performed in the hotel at Saint

Cloud. Castaing was still in the hotel under
provisional arrest. While the postmortem was going

on his agitation was extreme; he kept opening the

door of the room in which he was confined, to hear if
possible some news of the result. At last M. Pelletan

obtained permission to inform him of the verdict of

the doctors. It was favourable to Castaing; no trace

of death by violence or poison had been discovered.
The medical men declared death to be due

to an inflammation of the stomach, which could be
attributed to natural causes; that the inflammation

had subsided; that it had been succeeded by
cerebral inflammation, which frequently follows

inflammation of the stomach, and may have been
aggravated in this case by exposure to the sun or by

overindulgence of any kind.
II

THE TRIAL OF DR. CASTAING

Castaing expected, as a result of the

doctors' report, immediate release. In this he was

disappointed; he was placed under stricter arrest

and taken to Paris, where a preliminary investigation
commenced, lasting five months. During the early

part of his imprisonment Castaing feigned insanity,

going to disgusting lengths in the hope of convincing
those about him of the reality of his madness. But

after three days of futile effort he gave up the

attempt, and turned his attention to more practical

means of defence. In the prison at Versailles,
whither he had been removed from Paris, he got on

friendly terms with a prisoner, one Goupil, who was
awaiting trial for some unimportant offence. To

Goupil Castaing described the cruelty of his position
and the causes that had led to his wrongful arrest.

He admitted his unfortunate possession of the
poison, and said that the 100,000 francs which he

had invested he had inherited from an uncle.
Through Goupil he succeeded in communicating with

his mother in the hope that she would use her

influence to stifle some of the more serious evidence

against him. Through other prisoners he tried to get

at the chemists from whom he had bought acetate

of morphia, and persuade them to say that the
preparation of morphia which he had purchased was

harmless.
The trial of Castaing commenced before the
Paris Assize Court on November 10, 1823. He was

charged with the murder of Hippolyte Ballet, the

destruction of a document containing the final

dispositions of Hippolyte's property, and with the
murder of Auguste Ballet. The three charges were

to be tried simultaneously. The Act of Accusation in
Castaing's case is a remarkable document, covering

a hundred closelyprinted pages. It is a
wellreasoned, graphic and unfair statement of the

case for the prosecution. It tells the whole story of
the crime, and inserts everything that can possibly

prejudice the prisoner in the eyes of the jury. As an
example, it quotes against Castaing a letter of his

mistress in which, in the course of some quarrel, she

had written to him saying that his mother had said

some "horrible things" (des horreurs) of him; but

what those "horrible things" were was not revealed,

nor were they ever alluded to again in the course of
the trial, nor was his mistress called as a witness,

though payments of money by Castaing to her

formed an important part of the evidence against
him. Again, the evidence of Goupil, his fellow

prisoner, as to the incriminating statements made to

him by Castaing is given in the Act of Accusation,

but Goupil himself was not called at the trial.
During the reading of the Act of Accusation

by the Clerk of the Court Castaing listened calmly.
Only when some allusion was made to his mistress

and their children did he betray any sign of emotion.
As soon as the actual facts of the case were set out

he was all attention, making notes busily. He is
described as rather attractive in appearance, his

face long, his features regular, his forehead high, his
hair, fair in colour, brushed back from the brows; he

wore rather large sidewhiskers. One of the

witnesses at Saint Cloud said that Castaing looked

more like a priest than a doctor; his downcast eyes,

gentle voice, quiet and unassuming demeanour, lent

him an air of patience and humility.
The interrogatory of Castaing by the

presiding judge lasted all the afternoon of the first

day of the trial and the morning of the second. The
opening part of it dealt with the murder of Hippolyte

Ballet, and elicited little or nothing that was fresh.

Beyond the purchase of acetate of morphia previous

to Hippolyte's death, which Castaing reluctantly
admitted, there was no serious evidence against

him, and before the end of the trial the prosecution
abandoned that part of the charge.

Questioned by the President as to the
destruction of Hippolyte Ballet's will, Castaing

admitted that he had seen a draft of a will executed
by Hippolyte in favour of his sister, but he denied

having told Auguste that Lebret had in his
possession a copy which he was prepared to destroy

for 100,000 francs. Asked to explain the assertion

of Mlle. Percillie, Auguste's mistress, that statements

to this effect had been made in her presence by

both Auguste Ballet and himself, he said that it was

not true; that he had never been to her house.
"What motive," he was asked, "could Mlle. Percillie

have for accusing you?" "She hated me," was the

reply, "because I had tried to separate Auguste from
her." Castaing denied that he had driven with

Auguste to Lebret's office on October 8. Asked to

explain his sudden possession of 100,000 francs at a

moment when he was apparently without a penny,
he repeated his statement that Auguste had given

him the capital sum as an equivalent for an income
of 4,000 francs which his brother had intended to

leave him. "Why, when first asked if you had
received anything from Auguste, did you say you

had received nothing?" was the question.
"It was a thoughtless statement," was the

answer. "Why," pursued the President, "should you
not have admitted at once a fact that went to prove

your own good faith? If, however, this fact be true,

it does not explain the mysterious way in which

Auguste asked Prignon to raise for him 100,000

francs; and unless those 100,000 francs were given

to you, it is impossible to account for them. It is
important to your case that you should give the jury

a satisfactory explanation on this point." Castaing

could only repeat his previous explanations.
The interrogatory was then directed to the

death of Auguste Ballet. Castaing said that Auguste

Ballet had left him all his fortune on account of a

disagreement with his sister. Asked why, after
Auguste's death, he had at first denied all

knowledge of the will made in his favour and
deposited by him with Malassis, he could give no

satisfactory reason. Coming to the facts of the
alleged poisoning of Auguste Ballet, the President

asked Castaing why, shortly after the warm wine
was brought up on the night of May 30, he went up

to the room where one of the servants of the hotel
was lying sick. Castaing replied that he was sent for

by the wife of the hotelkeeper. This the woman

denied; she said that she did not even know that he

was a doctor. "According to the prosecution," said

the judge, "you left the room in order to avoid

drinking your share of the wine." Castaing said that
he had drunk half a cupful of it. The judge reminded

him that to one of the witnesses Castaing had said

that he had drunk only a little.
A ridiculous statement made by Castaing to

explain the purchase of morphia and antimony in

Paris on May 31 was brought up against him.

Shortly after his arrest Castaing had said that the
cats and dogs about the hotel had made such a

noise on the night of May 30 that they had disturbed
the rest of Auguste, who, in the early morning, had

asked Castaing to get some poison to kill them. He
had accordingly gone all the way, about ten miles,

to Paris at four in the morning to purchase antimony
and morphia to kill cats and dogs. All the people of

the hotel denied that there had been any such
disturbance on the night in question. Castaing now

said that he had bought the poisons at Auguste's

request, partly to kill the noisy cats and dogs, and

partly for the purpose of their making experiments

on animals. Asked why he had not given this

second reason before, he said that as Auguste was
not a medical man it would have been damaging to

his reputation to divulge the fact of his wishing to

make unauthorised experiments on animals. "Why
go to Paris for the poison?" asked the judge, "there

was a chemist a few yards from the hotel. And

when in Paris, why go to two chemists?" To all

these questions Castaing's answers were such as to
lead the President to express a doubt as to whether

they were likely to convince the jury. Castaing was
obliged to admit that he had allowed, if not ordered,

the evacuations of the sick man to be thrown away.
He stated that he had thrown away the morphia and

antimony, which he had bought in Paris, in the
closets of the hotel, because, owing to the

concatenation of circumstances, he thought that he
would be suspected of murder. In reply to a

question from one of the jury, Castaing said that he

had mixed the acetate of morphia and tartar emetic

together before reaching Saint Cloud, but why he

had done so he could not explain.

The medical evidence at the trial was
favourable to the accused. Orfila, the famous

chemist of that day, said that, though the symptoms

in Auguste Ballet's case might be attributed to
poisoning by acetate of morphia or some other

vegetable poison, at the same time they could be

equally well attributed to sudden illness of a natural

kind. The liquids, taken from the stomach of Ballet,
had yielded on analysis no trace of poison of any

sort. The convulsive symptoms present in Ballet's
case were un

doubtedly a characteristic result of a severe
dose of acetate of morphia.[14] Castaing said that

he had mixed the acetate of morphia and tartar
emetic together, but in any case no trace of either

poison was found in Auguste's body, and his illness
might, from all appearances, have been occasioned

by natural causes. Some attempt was made by the

prosecution to prove that the apoplexy to which

Hippolyte Ballet had finally succumbed, might be

attributed to a vegetable poison; one of the doctors

expressed an opinion favourable to that conclusion
"as a man but not as a physician." But the evidence

did not go further.

[14] It was asserted some years later by
one medical authority in Palmer's case that it might

have been morphia and not strychnine that had

caused the tetanic symptoms which preceded Cook's

death.
To the young priestlike doctor the ordeal of

his trial was a severe one. It lasted eight days. It
was only at midday on the sixth day that the

evidence was concluded. Not only was Castaing
compelled to submit to a long interrogatory by the

President, but, after each witness had given his or
her evidence, the prisoner was called on to refute or

explain any points unfavourable to him. This he did
briefly, with varying success; as the trial went on,

with increasing embarrassment. A great deal of the

evidence given against Castaing was hearsay, and

would have been inadmissible in an English court of

justice. Statements made by Auguste to other

persons about Castaing were freely admitted. But
more serious was the evidence of Mlle. Percillie,

Auguste's mistress. She swore that on one occasion

in her presence Castaing had reproached Auguste
with ingratitude; he had complained that he had

destroyed one copy of Hippolyte Ballet's will, and for

Auguste's sake had procured the destruction of the

other, and that yet, in spite of all this, Auguste
hesitated to entrust him with 100,000 francs. Asked

what he had to say to this statement Castaing
denied its truth. He had, he said, only been in Mlle.

Percillie's house once, and then not with Auguste
Ballet. Mlle. Percillie adhered to the truth of her

evidence, and the President left it to the jury to
decide between them.

A Mme. Durand, a patient of Castaing, gave
some curious evidence as to a story told her by the

young doctor. He said that a friend of his, suffering

from lung disease, had been persuaded into making

a will in his sister's favour. The sister had offered a

bribe of 80,000 francs to her brother's lawyer to

persuade him to make such a will, and paid one of
his clerks 3,000 francs for drawing it up. Castaing,

in his friend's interest, and in order to expose the

fraud, invited the clerk to come and see him. His
friend, hidden in an alcove in the room, overheard

the conversation between Castaing and the clerk,

and so learnt the details of his sister's intrigue. He

at once destroyed the will and became reconciled
with his brother, whom he had been about to

disinherit. After his death the brother, out of
gratitude, had given Castaing 100,000 francs.

President: Castaing, did you tell this story
to Mme. Durand?

Castaing: I don't recollect.
AvocatGeneral: But Mme. Durand says that

you did.
Castaing: I don't recollect.

President: You always say that you don't

recollect; that is no answer. Have you, yes or no,

made such a statement to Mme. Durand?

Castaing: I don't recollect; if I had said it, I

should recollect it.
Another lady whom Castaing had attended

free of charge swore, with a good deal of reluctance,

that Castaing had told her a somewhat similar story
as accounting for his possession of 100,000 francs.

Witnesses were called for the defence who

spoke to the diligence and good conduct of Castaing

as a medical student; and eighteen, whom he had
treated free of expense, testified to his kindness and

generosity. "All these witnesses," said the
President, "speak to your generosity; but, for that

very reason, you must have made little profit out of
your profession, and had little opportunity for saving

anything," to which Castaing replied: "These are
not the only patients I attended; I have not called

those who paid me for my services." At the same
time Castaing found it impossible to prove that he

had ever made a substantial living by the exercise of

his profession.

One of the medical witnesses called for the

defence, M. Chaussier, had volunteered the remark

that the absence of any trace of poison in the
portions of Auguste Ballet's body submitted to

analysis, constituted an absence of the corpus

delicti. To this the President replied that that was a
question of criminal law, and no concern of his. But

in his speech for the prosecution the AvocatGeneral

dealt with the point raised at some lengtha point

which, if it had held good as a principle of English
law, would have secured the acquittal of so wicked a

poisoner as Palmer. He quoted from the famous
French lawyer d'Aguesseau: "The corpus delicti is

no other thing than the delictum itself; but the
proofs of the delictum are infinitely variable

according to the nature of things; they may be
general or special, principal or accessory, direct or

indirect; in a word, they form that general effect
(ensemble) which goes to determine the conviction

of an honest man." If such a contention as M.

Chaussier's were correct, said the AvocatGeneral,

then it would be impossible in a case of poisoning to

convict a prisoner after his victim's death, or, if his

victim survived, to convict him of the attempt to
poison. He reminded the jury of that paragraph in

the Code of Criminal Procedure which instructed

them as to their duties: "The Law does not ask you
to give the reasons that have convinced you; it lays

down no rules by which you are to decide as to the

fullness or sufficiency of proof . . . it only asks you

one question: `Have you an inward conviction?'"
"If," he said, "the actual traces of poison are a

material proof of murder by poison, then a new
paragraph must be added to the Criminal

Code`Since, however, vegetable poisons leave no
trace, poisoning by such means may be committed

with impunity.'" To poisoners he would say in
future: "Bunglers that you are, don't use arsenic or

any mineral poison; they leave traces; you will be
found out. Use vegetable poisons; poison your

fathers, poison your mothers, poison all your

families, and their inheritance will be yours fear

nothing; you will go unpunished! You have

committed murder by poisoning, it is true; but the

corpus delicti will not be there because it can't be
there!" This was a case, he urged, of circumstantial

evidence. "We have," he said, "gone through a

large number of facts. Of these there is not one
that does not go directly to the proof of poisoning,

and that can only be explained on the supposition of

poisoning; whereas, if the theory of the defence be

admitted, all these facts, from the first to the last,
become meaningless and absurd. They can only be

refuted by arguments or explanations that are
childish and ridiculous."

Castaing was defended by two
advocatesRoussel, a schoolfellow of his, and the

famous Berryer, reckoned by some the greatest
French orator since Mirabeau. Both advocates were

allowed to address the jury. Roussel insisted on the
importance of the corpus delicti. "The delictum," he

said, "is the effect, the guilty man merely the cause;
it is useless to deal with the cause if the effect is

uncertain," and he cited a case in which a woman

had been sent for trial, charged with murdering her

husband; the moral proof of her guilt seemed
conclusive, when suddenly her husband appeared in

court alive and well. The advocate made a good

deal of the fact that the remains of the draught
prescribed by Dr. Pigache, a spoonful of which

Castaing had given to Auguste Ballet, had been

analysed and showed no trace of poison. Against

this the prosecution set the evidence of the chemist
at Saint Cloud, who had made up the prescription.

He said that the same day he had made up a second
prescription similar to that of Dr. Pigache, but not

made out for Auguste Ballet, which contained, in
addition to the other ingredients, acetate of

morphia. The original of this prescription he had
given to a friend of Castaing, who had come to his

shop and asked him for it a few days after Ballet's
death. It would seem therefore that there had been

two bottles of medicine, one of which containing

morphia had disappeared.

M. Roussel combatted the suggestion that

the family of Castaing were in a state of indigence.

He showed that his father had an income of 10,000
francs, while his two brothers were holding good

positions, one as an officer in the army, the other as

a government official. The mistress of Castaing he
represented as enjoying an income of 5,000 francs.

He protested against the quantity of hearsay

evidence that had been admitted into the case. "In

England," he said, "when a witness is called, he is
asked `What have you seen?' If he can only testify

to mere talk, and hearsay, he is not heard." He
quoted the concluding paragraph of the will of

Auguste Ballet as showing his friendly feeling
towards Castaing: "It is only after careful reflection

that I have made this final disposition of my
property, in order to mark the sincere friendship

which I have never for one moment ceased to feel
for MM. Castaing, Briant and Leuchere, in order to

recognise the faithful loyalty of my servants, and

deprive M. and Mme. Martignon, my brotherinlaw

and sister, of all rights to which they might be

legally entitled on my death, fully persuaded in soul

and conscience that, in doing so, I am giving to each
their just and proper due." "Is this," asked M.

Roussel, "a document wrested by surprise from a

weak man, extorted by trickery? Is he not acting in
the full exercise of his faculties? He forgets no one,

and justifies his conduct."

When M. Roussel came to the incident of the

noisy cats and dogs at Saint Cloud, he was as
ingenious as the circumstances permitted: "A

serious charge engrosses public attention; men's
minds are concentrated on the large, broad aspects

of the case; they are in a state of unnatural
excitement. They see only the greatness, the

solemnity of the accusation, and then, suddenly, in
the midst of all that is of such tragic and surpassing

interest, comes this trivial fact about cats and dogs.
It makes an unfavourable impression,

because it is dramatically out of keeping with the

tragedy of the story. But we are not here to

construct a drama. No, gentlemen, look at it merely

as a trivial incident of ordinary, everyday life, and

you will see it in its proper light." M. Roussel
concluded by saying that Castaing's most eloquent

advocate, if he could have been present, would have

been Auguste Ballet. "If Providence had permitted
him to enter this court, he would cry out to you,

`Save my friend's life! His heart is undefiled! He is

innocent!'"

M. Roussel concluded his speech at ten
o'clock on Sunday night, November 16. The next

morning Berryer addressed the jury. His speech in
defence of Castaing is not considered one of his

most successful efforts. He gave personal testimony
as to the taste of acetate of morphia. He said that

with the help of his own chemist he had put a
quarter of a grain of the acetate into a large

spoonful of milk, and had found it so insupportably
bitter to the taste that he could not keep it in his

mouth. If, he contended, Ballet had been poisoned

by tartar emetic, then twelve grains given in milk

would have given it an insipid taste, and vomiting

immediately after would have got rid of the poison.

Later investigations have shown that, in cases of
antimonial poisoning, vomiting does not necessarily

get rid of all the poison, and the convulsions in

which Auguste Ballet died are symptomatic of
poisoning either by morphia or antimony. In

conclusion, Berryer quoted the words addressed by

one of the Kings of France to his judges: "When

God has not vouchsafed clear proof of a crime, it is a
sign that He does not wish that man should

determine it, but leaves its judgment to a higher
tribunal."

The AvocatGeneral, in reply, made a telling
answer to M. Roussel's attempt to minimise the

importance of the cats and dogs: "He has spoken of
the drama of life, and of its ordinary everyday

incidents. If there is drama in this case, it is of
Castaing's making. As to the ordinary incidents of

everyday life, a man buys poison, brings it to the

bedside of his sick friend, saying it is for

experiments on cats and dogs, the friend dies, the

other, his sole heir, after foretelling his death, takes

possession of his keys, and proceeds to gather up
the spoilsare these ordinary incidents of everyday

life?"
It was nine o'clock at night when the jury
retired to consider their verdict. They returned into

court after two hours' deliberation. They found the

prisoner "Not Guilty" of the murder of Hippolyte

Ballet, "Guilty" of destroying his will, and "Guilty" by
seven votes to five of the murder of Auguste Ballet.

Asked if he had anything to say before judgment
was given, Castaing, in a very loud voice, said "No;

but I shall know how to die, though I am the victim
of illfortune, of fatal circum

stance. I shall go to meet my two friends. I
am accused of having treacherously murdered them.

There is a Providence above us! If there is such a
thing as an immortal soul, I shall see Hippolyte and

Auguste Ballet again. This is no empty declamation;

I don't ask for human pity" (raising his hands to

heaven), "I look to God's mercy, and shall go

joyfully to the scaffold. My conscience is clear. It

will not reproach me even when I feel" (putting his
hands to his neck). "Alas! It is easier to feel what I

am feeling than to express what I dare not express."

(In a feeble voice): "You have desired my death;
you have it!" The judges retired to consider the

sentence. The candles were guttering, the light of

the lamps was beginning to fade; the aspect of the

court grim and terrible. M. Roussel broke down and
burst into tears. Castaing leant over to his old

schoolfellow: "Courage, Roussel," he said; "you
have always believed me innocent, and I am

innocent. Embrace for me my father, my mother,
my brothers, my child." He turned to a group of

young advocates standing near: "And you, young
people, who have listened to my trial, attend also

my execution; I shall be as firm then as I am now.
All I ask is to die soon. I should be ashamed to

plead for mercy." The judges returned. Castaing

was condemned to death, and ordered to pay

100,000 francs damages to the family of Auguste

Ballet.
Castaing was not ashamed to appeal to the
Court of Cassation for a revision of his trial, but on

December 4 his appeal was rejected. Two days later

he was executed. He had attempted suicide by
means of poison, which one of his friends had

brought to him in prison, concealed inside a watch.

His courage failed him at the last, and he met his

death in a state of collapse.
It is not often, happily, that a young man of

gentle birth and good education is a double
murderer at twentysix. And such a soft, humble,

insinuating young man too!good to his mother, good
to his mistress, fond of his children, kind to his

patients.
Yet this gentle creature can deliberately

poison his two friends.
Was ever such a contradictory fellow?


Professor Webster

The best report of Webster's trial is that
edited by Bemis. The following tracts in the British

Museum have been consulted by the writer:
"Appendix to the Webster Trial," Boston, 1850:

"Thoughts on the Conviction of Webster"; "The
Boston Tragedy," by W. E. Bigelow.

It is not often that the gaunt spectre of
murder invades the cloistered calm of academic life.

Yet such a strange and unwonted tragedy befell
Harvard University in the year 1849, when John W.

Webster, Professor of Chemistry, took the life of Dr.

George Parkman, a distinguished citizen of Boston.

The scene of the crime, the old Medical School, now

a Dental Hospital, is still standing, or was when the

present writer visited Boston in 1907. It is a large
and rather dreary redbrick, threestoried building,

situated in the lower part of the city, flanked on its

west side by the mud flats leading down to the
Charles River. The first floor consists of two large

rooms, separated from each other by the main

entrance hall, which is approached by a flight of

steps leading up from the street level. Of these two
rooms, the left, as you face the building, is fitted up

as a lecture room. In the year 1849 it was the
lectureroom of Professor Webster. Behind the

lectureroom is a laboratory, known as the upper
laboratory, communicating by a private staircase

with the lower laboratory, which occupies the left
wing of the ground floor. A small passage, entered

by a door on the lefthand side of the front of the
building, separated this lower laboratory from the

dissectingroom, an outhouse built on to the west

wall of the college, but now demolished. From this

description it will be seen that any person, provided

with the necessary keys, could enter the college by

the sidedoor near the dissecting room on the ground
floor, and pass up through the lower and upper

laboratory into Professor Webster's lectureroom

without entering any other part of the building. The
Professor of Chemistry, by locking the doors of his

lecturerooms and the lower laboratory, could, if he

wished, make himself perfectly secure against

intrusion, and come and go by the sidedoor without
attracting much attention. These rooms are little

altered at the present time from their arrangement
in 1849. The lectureroom and laboratory are used

for the same purposes to day; the lower laboratory,
a dismal chamber, now disused and somewhat

rearranged, is still recognisable as the scene of the
Professor's chemical experiments.

On the second floor of the hospital is a
museum, once anatomical, now dental. One of the

principal objects of interest in this museum is a

plaster cast of the jaws of Dr. George Parkman,

made by a wellknown dentist of Boston, Dr. Keep, in

the year 1846. In that year the new medical college

was formally opened. Dr. Parkman, a wealthy and
publicspirited citizen of Boston, had given the piece

of land, on which the college had been erected. He

had been invited to be present at the opening
ceremony. In anticipation of being asked to make a

speech on this occasion Dr. Parkman, whose teeth

were few and far between, had himself fitted by Dr.

Keep with a complete set of false teeth. Oliver
Wendell Holmes, then Professor of Anatomy at

Harvard, who was present at the opening of the
college, noticed how very nice and white the doctor's

teeth appeared to be. It was the discovery of the
remains of these same admirable teeth three years

later in the furnace in Professor Webster's lower
laboratory that led to the conviction of Dr.

Parkman's murderer. By a strange coincidence the
doctor met his death in the very college which his

generosity had helped to build. Though today the

state of the college has declined from the medical to

the dental, his memory still lives within its walls by

the cast of his jaws preserved in the dental museum

as a relic of a case, in which the art of dentistry did
signal service to the cause of justice.

In his lifetime Dr. Parkman was a wellknown

figure in the streets of Boston. His peculiar personal
appearance and eccentric habits combined to make

him something of a character. As he walked

through the streets he presented a remarkable

appearance. He was exceptionally tall, longer in the
body than the legs; his lower jaw protruded some

half an inch beyond the upper; he carried his body
bent forward from the small of his back. He seemed

to be always in a hurry; so impetuous was he that, if
his horse did not travel fast enough to please him,

he would get off its back, and, leaving the steed in
the middle of the street, hasten on his way on foot.

A just and generous man, he was extremely
punctilious in matters of business, and uncom

promising in his resentment of any form of

falsehood or deceit. It was the force of his

resentment in such a case that cost him his life.

The doctor was unfailingly punctual in taking

his meals. Dr. Kingsley, during the fourteen years
he had acted as his agent, had always been able to

make sure of finding him at home at his dinner

hour, halfpast two o'clock. But on Friday, November
23, 1849, to his surprise and that of his family, Dr.

Parkman did not come home to dinner; and their

anxiety was increased when the day passed, and

there was still no sign of the doctor's return.
Inquiries were made. From these it appeared that

Dr. Parkman had been last seen alive between one
and two o'clock on the Friday afternoon. About

halfpast one he had visited a grocer's shop in Bridge
Street, made some purchases, and left behind him a

paper bag containing a lettuce, which, he said, he
would call for on his way home. Shortly before two

o'clock he was seen by a workman, at a distance of
forty or fifty feet from the Medical College, going in

that direction. From that moment all certain trace of

him was lost. His family knew that he had made an

appointment for halfpast one that day, but where

and with whom they did not know. As a matter of

fact, Professor John W. Webster had appointed that
hour to receive Dr. Parkman in his lectureroom in

the Medical College.

John W. Webster was at this time Professor
of Chemistry and Mineralogy in Harvard University,

a Doctor of Medicine and a Member of the American

Academy of Arts and Sciences, the London

Geological Society and the St. Petersburg
Mineralogical Society. He was the author of several

works on geology and chemistry, a man now close
on sixty years of age. His countenance was genial,

his manner mild and unassuming; he was clean
shaven, wore spectacles, and looked younger than

his years.
Professor Webster was popular with a large

circle of friends. To those who liked him he was a
man of pleasing and attractive manners, artistic in

his tasteshe was especially fond of musicnot a very

profound or remarkable chemist, but a pleasant

social companion. His temper was hasty and

irritable. Spoilt in his boyhood as an only child, he

was selfwilled and self indulgent. His wife and
daughters were better liked than he. By unfriendly

criticics{sic} the Professor was thought to be selfish,

fonder of the good things of the table and a good
cigar than was consistent with his duty to his family

or the smallness of his income. His father, a

successful apothecary at Boston, had died in 1833,

leaving John, his only son, a fortune of some
L10,000. In rather less than ten years Webster had

run through the whole of his inheritance. He had
built himself a costly mansion in Cambridge, spent a

large sum of money in collecting minerals, and
delighted to exercise lavish hospitality. By living

consistently beyond his means he found himself at
length entirely dependent on his professional

earnings. These were small. His salary as Professor
was fixed at L240 a year;[15] the rest of his income

he derived from the sale of tickets for his lectures at

the Medical College. That income was insufficient to

meet his wants.

[15] I have given these sums of money in

their English equivalents in order to give the reader
an idea of the smallness of the sum which brought

about the tragedy.

As early as 1842 he had borrowed L80 from
his friend Dr. Parkman. It was to Parkman's good

offices that he owed his appointment as a Professor

at Harvard; they had entered the University as

undergraduates in the same year. Up to 1847
Webster had repaid Parkman twenty pounds of his

debt; but, in that year he found it necessary to raise
a further loan of L490, which was subscribed by a

few friends, among them Parkman himself. As a
security for the repayment of this loan, the professor

executed a mortgage on his valuable collection of
minerals in favour of Parkman. In the April of 1848

the Professor's financial difficulties became so
serious that he was threatened with an execution in

his house. In this predicament he went to a Mr.

Shaw, Dr. Parkman's brotherinlaw, and begged a

loan of L240, offering him as security a bill of sale

on the collection of minerals, which he had already

mortgaged to Parkman. Shaw accepted the
security, and lent the money. Shaw would seem to

have had a good deal of sympathy with Webster's

embarrassments; he considered the Professor's
income very inadequate to his position, and showed

himself quite ready at a later period to waive his

debt altogether.

Dr. Parkman was a less easygoing creditor.
Forbearing and patient as long as he was dealt with

fairly, he was merciless where he thought he
detected trickery or evasion. His forbearance and

his patience were utterly exhausted, his anger and
indignation strongly aroused, when he learnt from

Shaw that Webster had given him as security for his
debt a bill of sale on the collection of minerals,

already mortgaged to himself. From the moment of
the discovery of this act of dishonesty on the part of

Webster, Parkman pursued his debtor with

unrelenting severity.

He threatened him with an action at law; he

said openly that he was neither an honourable,

honest, nor upright man; he tried to appropriate to
the payment of his debt the fees for lectures which

Mr. Pettee, Webster's agent, collected on the

Professor's behalf. He even visited Webster in his
lectureroom and sat glaring at him in the front row

of seats, while the Professor was striving under

these somewhat unfavourable conditions to impart

instruction to his pupilsa proceeding which the
Doctor's odd cast of features must have aggravated

in no small degree.
It was early in November that Parkman

adopted these aggressive tactics. On the 19th of
that month Webster and the janitor of the College,

Ephraim Littlefield, were working in the upper
laboratory. It was dark; they had lit candles.

Webster was reading a chemical book. As he looked
up from the book he saw Parkman standing in the

doorway leading from the lectureroom. "Dr.

Webster, are you ready for me tonight?" asked

Parkman. "No," replied the other, "I am not ready

tonight." After a little further conversation in regard

to the mortgage, Parkman departed with the
ominous remark, "Doctor, something must be done

tomorrow."
Unfortunately the Professor was not in a
position to do anything.
He had no means sufficient to meet his

creditor's demands; and that creditor was

unrelenting. On the 22nd Parkman rode into
Cambridge, where Webster lived, to press him

further, but failed to find him. Webster's patience,
none too great at any time, was being sorely tried.

To whom could he turn? What further resource was
open to him? There was none. He determined to

see his creditor once more. At 8 o'clock on the
morning of Friday the 23rd, Webster called at Dr.

Parkman's house and made the appointment for
their meeting at the Medical College at halfpast one,

to which the Doctor had been seen hastening just

before his disappearance. At nine o'clock the same

morning Pettee, the agent, had called on the

Professor at the College and paid him by cheque a

balance of L28 due on his lecture tickets, informing
him at the same time that, owing to the trouble with

Dr. Parkman, he must decline to receive any further

sums of money on his behalf. Webster replied that
Parkman was a nervous, excitable man, subject to

mental aberrations, but he added, "You will have no

further trouble with Dr. Parkman, for I have settled

with him." It is difficult to see how the Professor
could have settled, or proposed to settle, with his

creditor on that day. A balance of L28 at his bank,
and the L18 which Mr. Pettee had paid to him that

morning, represented the sum of Professor
Webster's fortune on Friday, November 23, 1849.

Since the afternoon of that day the search
for the missing Parkman had been unremitting. On

the Saturday his friends communicated with the
police. On Sunday handbills were issued stating the

fact of the Doctor's disappearance, and on Monday,

the 26th, a description and the offer of a

considerable reward for the discovery of his body

were circulated both in and out of the city. Two

days later a further reward was offered. But these
efforts were fruitless. The only person who gave

any information beyond that afforded by those who

had seen the Doctor in the streets on the morning of
his disappearance, was Professor Webster. About

four o'clock on the Sunday afternoon the Professor

called at the house of the Revd. Francis Parkman,

the Doctor's brother. They were intimate friends.
Webster had for a time attended Parkman's chapel;

and Mr. Parkman had baptised the Professor's
granddaughter. On this Sunday afternoon Mr.

Parkman could not help remarking Webster's
peculiar manner. With a bare greeting and no

expression of condolence with the family's distress,
his visitor entered abruptly and nervously on the

object of his errand. He had called, he said, to tell
Mr. Parkman that he had seen his brother at the

Medical College on Friday afternoon, that he had

paid him L90 which he owed him, and that the

Doctor had in the course of their interview taken out

a paper and dashed his pen through it, presumably

as an acknowledgment of the liquidation of the
Professor's debt. Having communicated this

intelligence to the somewhat astonished gentleman,

Webster left him as abruptly as he had come.
Another relative of Dr. Parkman, his

nephew, Mr. Parkman Blake, in the course of

inquiries as to his uncle's fate, thought it right to see

Webster. Accordingly he went to the college on
Monday, the 26th, about eleven o'clock in the

morning. Though not one of his lecture days, the
janitor Littlefield informed him that the Professor

was in his room. The door of the lecture
room, however, was found to be locked, and

it was only after considerable delay that Mr. Blake
gained admittance. As he descended the steps to

the floor of the lectureroom Webster, dressed in a
working suit of blue overalls and wearing on his

head a smoking cap, came in from the back door.

Instead of advancing to greet his visitor, he stood

fixed to the spot, and waited, as if defensively, for

Mr. Blake to speak. In answer to Mr. Blake's

questions Webster described his interview with Dr.
Parkman on the Friday afternoon. He gave a very

similar account of it to that he had already given to

Mr. Francis Parkman. He added that at the end of
their interview he had asked the Doctor for the

return of the mortgage, to which the latter had

replied, "I haven't it with me, but I will see it is

properly cancelled." Mr. Blake asked Webster if he
could recollect in what form of money it was that he

had paid Dr. Parkman. Webster answered that he
could only recollect a bill of L20 on the New Zealand

Bank: pressed on this point, he seemed to rather
avoid any further inquiries. Mr. Blake left him,

dissatisfied with the result of his visit.
One particular in Webster's statement was

unquestionably strange, if not incredible. He had,
he said, paid Parkman a sum of L90, which he had

given him personally, and represented the Doctor as

having at their interview promised to cancel the

mortgage on the collection of minerals which

Webster had given as security for the loan of L490

that had been subscribed by Parkman and four of his
friends. Now L120 of this loan was still owing. If

Webster's statement were true, Parkman had a

perfect right to cancel Webster's personal debt to
himself; but he had no right to cancel entirely the

mortgage on the minerals, so long as money due to

others on that mortgage was yet unpaid. Was it

conceivable that one so strict and scrupulous in all
monetary transactions as Parkman would have

settled his own personal claim, and then sacrificed in
so discreditable a manner the claims of others, for

the satisfaction of which he had made himself
responsible?

There was yet another singular
circumstance. On Saturday, the 24th, the day after

his settlement with Parkman, Webster paid into his
own account at the Charles River Bank the cheque

for L18, lecture fees, handed over to him by the

agent Pettee just before Dr. Parkman's visit on the

Friday. This sum had not ap

parently gone towards the making up of the

L90, which Webster said that he had paid to
Parkman that day. The means by which Webster

had been enabled to settle this debt became more

mysterious than ever.
On Tuesday, November 27, the Professor

received three other visitors in his lectureroom.

These were police officers who, in the course of their

search for the missing man, felt it their duty to
examine, however perfunctorily, the Medical College.

With apologies to the Professor, they passed through
his lecture room to the laboratory at the back, and

from thence, down the private stairs, past a privy,
into the lower laboratory. As they passed the privy

one of the officers asked what place it was. "Dr.
Webster's private lavatory," replied the janitor, who

was conducting them. At that moment Webster's
voice called them away to examine the storeroom in

the lower laboratory, and after a cursory

examination the officers departed.

The janitor, Ephraim Littlefield, did not take

the opportunity afforded him by the visit of the

police officers to impart to them the feelings of
uneasiness; which the conduct of Professor Webster

during the last three days had excited in his breast.

There were circumstances in the Professor's
behaviour which could not fail to attract the

attention of a man, whose business throughout the

day was to dust and sweep the College, light the

fires and overlook generally the order and
cleanliness of the building.

Littlefield, it will be remembered, had seen
Dr. Parkman on the Monday before his

disappearance, when he visited Webster at the
College, and been present at the interview, in the

course of which the Doctor told Webster that
"something must be done." That Monday morning

Webster asked Littlefield a number of questions
about the dissectingroom vault, which was situated

just outside the door of the lower laboratory. He

asked how it was built, whether a light could be put

into it, and how it was reached for the purpose of

repair. On the following Thursday, the day before

Parkman's disappearance, the Professor told
Littlefield to get him a pint of blood from the

Massachusetts Hospital; he said that he wanted it

for an experiment. On the morning of Friday, the
day of Parkman's disappearance, Littlefield informed

the Professor that he had been unsuccessful in his

efforts to get the blood, as they had not been

bleeding anyone lately at the hospital. The same
morning Littlefield found to his surprise a

sledgehammer behind the door of the Professor's
back room; he presumed that it had been left there

by masons, and took it down to the lower
laboratory. This sledge hammer Littlefield never

saw again. About a quarter to two that afternoon
Littlefield, standing at the front door, after his

dinner, saw Dr. Parkman coming towards the
College. At two o'clock Littlefield went up to Dr.

Oliver Wendell Holmes' room, immediately above

Professor Webster's, to help the Doctor to clear his

table after his lecture, which was the last delivered

that day. About a quarter of an hour later he let Dr.

Holmes out, locked the front door and began to clear
out the stoves in the other lecturerooms. When he

reached Webster's he was surprised to find that both

doors, that of the lecture room and that of the lower
laboratory, were either locked or bolted. He could

hear nothing but the running of water in one of the

sinks. About halfpast five Littlefield saw the

Professor coming down the back stairs with a lighted
candle in his hand. Webster blew out the candle and

left the building. Late that night Littlefield again
tried the Professor's doors; they were still fastened.

The janitor was surprised at this, as he had never
known such a thing to happen before.

On Saturday, the 24th, though not lecturing
that day, the Professor came to the College in the

morning. He told Littlefield to light the stove in the
lower laboratory. When Littlefield made to pass

from the lectureroom into the Professor's private

room at the back, and so down by the private stairs

to the lower laboratory, the Professor stopped him

and told him to go round by the door in front of the

building. The whole of that day and Sunday, the
Professor's doors remained fast. On Sunday

evening at sunset Littlefield, who was talking with a

friend in North Grove Street, the street that faces
the College, was accosted by Webster. The

Professor asked him if he recollected Parkman's visit

to the College on Friday, the 23rd, and, on his

replying in the affirmative, the Professor described
to him their interview and the repayment of his

debt. Littlefield was struck during their conversation
by the uneasiness of the Professor's bearing;

contrary to his habit he seemed unable to look him
in the face, his manner was confused, his face pale.

During the whole of Monday, except for a
visit from Mr. Parkman Blake, Professor Webster

was again locked alone in his laboratory. Neither
that night, nor early Tuesday morning, could

Littlefield get into the Professor's rooms to perform

his customary duties. On Tuesday the Professor

lectured at twelve o'clock, and later received the

visit of the police officers that has been described

already. At four o'clock that afternoon, the
Professor's bell rang. Littlefield answered it. The

Pro
fessor asked the janitor whether he had
bought his turkey for Thanksgiving Day, which was

on the following Thursday. Littlefield said that he

had not done so yet. Webster then handed him an

order on his provision dealer. "Take that," he said,
"and get a nice turkey; perhaps I shall want you to

do some odd jobs for me." Littlefield thanked him,
and said that he would be glad to do anything for

him that he could. The janitor was the more
surprised at Webster's generosity on this occasion,

as this turkey was the first present he had received
at the Professor's hands during the seven years he

had worked in the College. Littlefield saw the
Professor again about halfpast six that evening as

the latter was leaving the College. The janitor asked

him if he wanted any more fires lighted in his rooms,

because owing to the holidays there were to be no

further lectures that week. Webster said that he did

not, and asked Lit
tlefield whether he were a freemason. The

janitor said "Yes," and with that they parted.

Littlefield was curious. The mysterious
activity of the Professor of Chemistry seemed to him

more than unusual. His perplexity was increased on

the following day. Though on account of the

holidays all work had been suspended at the College
for the remainder of the week, Webster was again

busy in his room early Wednesday morning.
Littlefield could hear him moving about. In vain did

the janitor look through the keyhole, bore a hole in
the door, peep under it; all he could get was a sight

of the Professor's feet moving about the laboratory.
Perplexity gave way to apprehension when in the

course of the afternoon Littlefield discovered that
the outer wall of the lower laboratory was so hot

that he could hardly bear to place his hand on it. On

the outer side of this wall was a furnace sometimes

used by the Professor in his chemical experiments.

How came it to be so heated? The Professor had

told Littlefield on Tuesday that he should not be
requiring any fires during the remainder of the

week.
The janitor determined to resolve his
suspicions. He climbed up to the back windows of

the lower laboratory, found one of them unfastened,

and let himself in. But, beyond evidences of the

considerable fires that had been kept burning during
the last few days, Littlefield saw nothing to excite

peculiar attention. Still he was uneasy. Those he
met in the street kept on telling him that Dr.

Parkman would be found in the Medical College. He
felt that he himself was beginning to be suspected of

having some share in the mystery, whilst in his own
mind he became more certain every day that the

real solution lay within the walls of Professor
Webster's laboratory. His attention had fixed itself

particularly on the lavatory at the foot of the stairs

connecting the upper and lower laboratories. This

room he found to be locked and the key, a large

one, had disappeared. He recollected that when the

police officers had paid their visit to the col
lege, the Professor had diverted their

attention as they were about to inspect this room.

The only method by which, unknown to the
Professor and without breaking open the door,

Littlefield could examine the vault of this retiring

room was by going down to the basement floor of

the college and digging a hole through the wall into
the vault itself. This he determined to do.

On Thursday, Thanksgiving Day, Littlefield
commenced operations with a hatchet and a chisel.

Progress was slow, as that evening he had been
invited to attend a festal gathering. On Friday the

janitor, before resuming work, acquainted two of the
Professors of the college with his proposed

investigation, and received their sanction. As
Webster, however, was going constantly in and out

of his rooms, he could make little further progress

that day. The Professor had come into town early in

the morning.

Before going to the college he purchased

some fishhooks and gave orders for the making of a
strong tin box with firm handles, a foot and a half

square and a little more than a foot in depth; during

the rest of the day he had been busy in his rooms
until he left the college about four o'clock. Not till

then was the watchful janitor able to resume his

labours. Armed with a crow

bar, he worked vigorously until he
succeeded in penetrating the wall sufficiently to

admit a light into the vault of the lavatory. The first
objects which the light revealed to his eyes, were

the pelvis of a man and two parts of a human leg.
Leaving his wife in charge of the remains,

Littlefield went immediately to the house of
Professor Bigelow, and informed him of the result of

his search. They returned to the college some
twenty minutes later, accompanied by the City

Marshal. The human remainsa pelvis, a thigh and a

legwere taken out of the vault, and on a further

search some pieces of bone were removed from one

of the furnaces in the lower laboratory. The City

Marshal at once dispatched three of his officers to
Cambridge, to the house of Professor Webster.

To his immediate circle of friends and

relations the conduct of the Professor during this
eventful week had betrayed no unwonted

discomposure or disturbance of mind. His evenings

had been spent either at the house of friends, or at

his own, playing whist, or reading Milton's "Allegro"
and "Penseroso" to his wife and daugh

ters. On Friday evening, about eight o'clock,
as the Professor was saying goodbye to a friend on

the steps of his house at Cambridge, the three
police officers drove up to the door and asked him to

accompany them to the Medical College. It was
proposed, they said, to make a further search there

that evening, and his presence was considered
advisable. Webster assented immediately, put on

his boots, his hat and coat, and got into the hired
coach. As they drove towards the city, Webster

spoke to the officers of Parkman's disappearance,

and suggested that they should stop at the house of

a lady who, he said, could give them some peculiar
information on that subject. As they entered

Boston, he remarked that they were taking the

wrong direction for reaching the college. One of the
officers replied that the driver might be "green," but

that he would find his way to the college in time. At

length the coach stopped. One of the offi

cers alighted, and invited his companions to
follow him into the office of the Leverett Street Jail.

They obeyed. The Professor asked what it all
meant; he was informed that he must consider

himself in custody, charged with the murder of Dr.
George Parkman. Webster, somewhat taken aback,

desired that word should be sent to his family, but
was dissuaded from his purpose for the time being.

He was searched, and among other articles taken
from him was a key some four or five inches long; it

was the missing lavatory key. Whilst one of the

officers withdrew to make out a mittimus, the

Professor asked one of the others if they had found

Dr. Parkman. The officer begged him not to

question him. "You might tell me something about
it," pleaded Webster. "Where did they find him?

Did they find the whole body? Oh, my children!

What will they do? What will they think of me?
Where did you get the information?" The officers

asked him if anybody had access to his apartments

but himself. "Nobody," he replied, "but the porter

who makes the fire." Then, after a pause, he ex
claimed: "That villain! I am a ruined man."

He was walking up and down wringing his hands,
when one of the officers saw him put one hand into

his waistcoat pocket, and raise it to his lips. A few
moments later the unhappy man was seized with

violent spasms. He was unable to stand, and was
laid down in one of the cells. From this distressing

state he was roused shortly before eleven, to be
taken to the college. He was quite incapable of

walking, and had to be supported by two of the

officers. He was present there while his rooms were

searched; but his state was painful in the extreme.

He asked for water, but trembled so convulsively

that he could only snap at the tumbler like a dog;
his limbs were rigid; tears and sweat poured down

his cheeks. On the way back to the jail, one of the

officers, moved by his condition, expressed his pity
for him. "Do you pity me? Are you sorry for me?
What for?" asked Webster. "To see you so excited,"

replied the officer. "Oh! that's it," said the

Professor.
The whole night through the prisoner lay

without moving, and not until the following
afternoon were his limbs relaxed sufficiently to allow

of his sitting up. As his condition improved, he grew
more confident. "That is no more Dr. Parkman's

body," he said, "than mine. How in the world it
came there I don't know," and he added: "I never

liked the looks of Littlefield the janitor; I opposed his
coming there all I could."

In the meantime a further examination of

the Professor's rooms on Saturday had resulted in

the discovery, in a teachest in the lower laboratory,

of a thorax, the left thigh of a leg, and a hunting

knife embedded in tan and covered over with
minerals; some portions of bone and teeth were

found mixed with the slag and cinders of one of the

furnaces; also some fishhooks and a quantity of
twine, the latter identical with a piece of twine that

had been tied round the thigh found in the chest.

Two days later the Professor furnished

unwittingly some additional evidence against
himself. On the Monday evening after his arrest he

wrote from prison to one of his daughters the
following letter:

"MY DEAREST MARIANNE,I wrote Mama
yesterday; I had a good sleep last night, and dreamt

of you all. I got my clothes off, for the first time,
and awoke in the morning quite hungry. It was a

long time before my first breakfast from Parker's
came; and it was relished, I can assure you. At one

o'clock I was notified that I must appear at the court

room. All was arranged with great regard to my

comfort, and went off better than I had anticipated.

On my return I had a bit of turkey and rice

from Parker's. They send much more than I can
eat, and I have directed the steward to distribute

the surplus to any poor ones here.

"If you will send me a small canister of tea, I
can make my own. A little pepper I may want some

day. I would send the dirty clothes, but they were

taken to dry. Tell Mama NOT TO OPEN the little

bundle I gave her the other day, but to keep it just
as she received it. With many kisses to you all.

Good night! From your affectionate
"FATHER."

"P.S.My tongue troubles me yet very much,
and I must have bitten it in my distress the other

night; it is painful and swollen, affecting my speech.
Had Mama better send for Nancy? I think so; or

Aunt Amelia."
"Couple of coloured neck handkerchiefs, one

Madras."
This letter, which shows an anxiety about

his personal comfort singular in one so tragically

situated, passed through the hands of the keeper of

the jail. He was struck by the words underlined,"
NOT TO OPEN," in regard to the small bundle

confided to Mrs. Webster. He called the attention of

the police to this phrase. They sent immediately an
officer armed with a search warrant to the

Professor's house. He received from Mrs. Webster

among other papers a package which, on being

opened, was found to contain the two notes given
by Webster to Parkman as acknowledgments of his

indebtedness to him in 1842 and 1847, and a paper
showing the amount of his debts to Parkman in

1847. There were daubs and erasures made across
these documents, and across one was written twice

over the word "paid." All these evidences of
payments and cancellations appeared on

examination to be in the handwriting of the
Professor.

After an inquest lasting nine days the

coroner's jury declared the remains found in the

college to be those of Dr. George Parkman, and that

the deceased had met his death at the hands of

Professor J. W. Webster. The prisoner waived his
right to a magisterial investigation, and on January

26, 1850, the Grand Jury returned a true bill. But it

was not until March 17 that the Professor's trial
opened before the Supreme Court of Massachusetts.

The proceedings were conducted with that dignity

and propriety which we look for in the courts of that

State. The principal features in the defence were an
attempt to impugn the testimony of the janitor

Littlefield, and to question the possibility of the
identification of the remains of Parkman's teeth.

There was a further attempt to prove that the
deceased had been seen by a number of persons in

the streets of Boston on the Friday afternoon, after
his visit to the Medical College. The witness

Littlefield was unshaken by a severe cross
examination. The very reluctance with which Dr.

Keep gave his fatal evidence, and the support given

to his conclusions by distinguished testimony told

strongly in favour of the absolute trustworthiness of

his statements. The evidence called to prove that

the murdered man had been seen alive late on
Friday afternoon was highly inconclusive.

Contrary to the advice of his counsel,

Webster addressed the jury himself. He complained
of the conduct of his case, and enumerated various

points that his counsel had omitted to make, which

he conceived to be in his favour. The value of his

statements may be judged by the fact that he called
God to witness that he had not written any one of

the anonymous letters, purporting to give a true
account of the doctor's fate, which had been

received by the police at the time of Parkman's
disap

pearance. After his condemnation Webster
confessed to the authorship of at least one of them.

The jury retired at eight o'clock on the
eleventh day of the trial. They would seem to have

approached their duty in a most solemn and devout

spirit, and it was with the greatest reluctance and

after some searching of heart that they brought

themselves to find the prisoner guilty of wilful

murder. On hearing their verdict, the Professor
sank into a seat, and, dropping his head, rubbed his

eyes behind his spectacles as if wiping away tears.

On the following morning the Chief Justice
sentenced him to death after a wellmeaning speech

of quite unnecessary length and elaboration, at the

conclusion of which the condemned man wept

freely.
A petition for a writ of error having been

dismissed, the Professor in July addressed a petition
for clemency to the Council of the State. Dr.

Putnam, who had been attending Webster in the jail,
read to the Council a confession which he had

persuaded the prisoner to make. According to this
statement Webster had, on the Friday afternoon,

struck Parkman on the head with a heavy wooden
stick in a wild moment of rage, induced by the

violent taunts and threats of his creditor. Appalled

by his deed, he had in panic locked himself in his

room, and proceeded with desperate haste to

dismember the body; he had placed it for that

purpose in the sink in his back room, through which
was running a constant stream of water that carried

away the blood. Some portions of the body he had

burnt in the furnace; those in the lavatory and the
teachest he had concealed there, until he should

have had an opportunity of getting rid of them.

In this statement Professor Webster denied

all premeditation. Dr. Putnam asked him solemnly
whether he had not, immediately before the crime,

meditated at any time on the advantages that would
accrue to him from Parkman's death. Webster

replied "Never, before God!" He had, he protested,
no idea of doing Parkman an injury until the bitter

tongue of the latter provoked him. "I am irritable
and violent," he said, "a quickness and brief violence

of temper has been the besetting sin of my life. I
was an only child, much indulged, and I have never

secured the control over my passions that I ought to

have acquired early; and the consequence isall this!"

He denied having told Parkman that he was going to

settle with him that afternoon, and said that he had

asked him to come to the college with the sole
object of pleading with him for further indulgence.

He explained his convulsive seizure at the time of

his arrest by his having taken a dose of strychnine,
which he had carried in his pocket since the crime.

In spite of these statements and the prayers of the

unfortunate man's wife and daughters, who, until his

confession to Dr. Putnam, had believed implicity in
his innocence, the Council decided that the law must

take its course, and fixed August 30 as the day of
execution.

The Professor resigned himself to his fate.
He sent for Littlefield and his wife, and expressed his

regret for any injustice he had done them: "All you
said was true. You have misrepresented nothing."

Asked by the sheriff whether he was to understand
from some of his expressions that he contemplated

an attempt at suicide, "Why should I?" he replied,

"all the proceedings in my case have been just . . .

and it is just that I should die upon the scaffold in

accordance with that sentence." "Everybody is

right," he said to the keeper of the jail, "and I am
wrong. And I feel that, if the yielding up of my life

to the injured law will atone, even in part, for the

crime I have committed, that is a consolation."
In a letter to the Reverend Francis Parkman

he expressed deep contrition for his guilt. He added

one sentence which may perhaps fairly express the

measure of premeditation that accompanied his
crime. "I had never," he wrote, "until the two or

three last interviews with your brother, felt towards
him anything but gratitude for his many acts of

kindness and friendship."
Professor Webster met his death with

fortitude and resignation. That he deserved his fate
few will be inclined to deny. The attempt to procure

blood, the questions about the dissectingroom vault,
the appointment made with Parkman at the college,

the statement to Pettee, all point to some degree of

premeditation, or at least would make it appear that

the murder of Parkman had been considered by him

as a possible eventuality. His accusation of

Littlefield deprives him of a good deal of sympathy.
On the other hand, the age and position of Webster,

the aggravating persistency of Parkman, his threats

and denunciations, coupled with his own shortness
of temper, make it conceivable that he may have

killed his victim on a sudden and overmastering

provocation, in which case he had better at once

have acknowledged his crime instead of making a
repulsive attempt to conceal it. But for the evidence

of Dr. Keep he would possibly have escaped
punishment altogether. Save for the portions of his

false teeth, there was not sufficient evidence to
identify the remains found in the college as those of

Parkman. Without these teeth the proof of the
corpus delicti would have been incomplete, and so

afforded Webster a fair chance of acquittal.

The Mysterious Mr. Holmes

"The HolmesPitezel Case," by F. B. Geyer,

1896; "Holmes' Own Story," Philadelphia, 1895; and

"Celebrated Criminal Cases of America," by T. S.

Duke, San Francisco, are the authorities for this
account of the case.

I
HONOUR AMONGST THIEVES

In the year 1894 Mr. Smith, a carpenter, of

Philadelphia, had patented a new sawset. Wishing

to make some money out of his invention, Mr. Smith
was attracted by the sign:

B. F. PERRY PATENTS BOUGHT AND SOLD
which he saw stretched across the window of

a twostoried house, 1,316 Callowhill Street. He
entered the house and made the acquaintance of

Mr. Perry, a tall, dark, bony man, to whom he
explained the merits of his invention. Perry listened

with interest, and asked for a model. In the
meantime he suggested that Smith should do some

carpenter's work for him in the house. Smith

agreed, and on August 22, while at work there saw

a man enter the house and go up with Perry to a

room on the second story.

A few days later Smith called at Callowhill
Street to ask Perry about the sale of the patent. He

waited half an hour in the shop below, called out to

Perry who, he thought, might be in the rooms
above, received no answer and went away. Next

day, September 4, Smith returned, found the place

just as he had left it the day before; called Perry

again, but again got no answer. Surprised, he went
upstairs, and in the back room of the second story

the morning sunshine, streaming through the
window, showed him the dead body of a man, his

face charred beyond recognition, lying with his feet
to the window and his head to the door. There was

evidence of some sort of explosion: a broken bottle
that had contained an inflammable substance, a

broken pipe filled with tobacco, and a burnt match
lay by the side of the body.

The general appearance of the dead man

answered to that of B. F. Perry. A medical

examination of the body showed that death had

been sudden, that there had been paralysis of the

involuntary muscles, and that the stomach, besides
showing symptoms of alcoholic irritation, emitted a

strong odour of chloroform. An inquest was held,

and a verdict returned that B. F. Perry had died of
congestion of the lungs caused by the inhalation of

flame or chloroform. After lying in the mortuary for

eleven days the body was buried.

In the meantime the Philadelphia branch of
the Fidelity Mutual Life Association had received a

letter from one Jephtha D. Howe, an attorney at St.
Louis, stating that the deceased B. F. Perry was

Benjamin F. Pitezel of that city, who had been
insured in their office for a sum of ten thousand

dollars. The insurance had been effected in Chicago
in the November of 1893. Mr. Howe proposed to

come to Philadelphia with some members of the
Pitezel family to identify the remains. Referring to

their Chicago branch, the insurance company found

that the only person who would seem to have known

Pitezel when in that city, was a certain H. H.

Holmes, living at Wilmette, Illinois. They got into

communication with Mr. Holmes, and forwarded to
him a cutting from a newspaper, which stated

erroneously that the death of B. F. Perry had taken

place in Chicago.
On September 18 they received a letter from

Mr. Holmes, in which he offered what assistance he

could toward the identification of B. F. Perry as B. F.

Pitezel. He gave the name of a dentist in Chicago
who would be able to recognise teeth which he had

made for Pitezel, and himself furnished a description
of the man, especially of a malformation of the knee

and a warty growth on the back of the neck by
which he could be further identified. Mr. Holmes

offered, if his expenses were paid, to come to
Chicago to view the body. Two days later he wrote

again saying that he had seen by other papers that
Perry's death had taken place in Philadelphia and

not in Chicago, and that as he had to be in Baltimore

in a day or two, he would run over to Philadelphia

and visit the office of the Fidelity Life Association.

On September 20 the assiduous Mr. Holmes

called at the office of the Association in Philadelphia,
inquired anxiously about the nature and cause of

Perry's death, gave again a description of him and,

on learning that Mr. Howe, the attorney from St.
Louis, was about to come to Philadelphia to

represent the widow, Mrs. Pitezel, and complete the

identification, said that he would return to give the

company any further help he could in the matter.
The following day Mr. Jephtha D. Howe, attorney of

St. Louis, arrived in Philadelphia, accompanied by
Alice Pitezel, a daughter of the deceased. Howe

explained that Pitezel had taken the name of Perry
owing to financial difficulties. The company said

that they accepted the fact that Perry and Pitezel
were one and the same man, but were not

convinced that the body was Pitezel's body. The
visit of Holmes was mentioned. Howe said that he

did not know Mr. Holmes, but would be willing to

meet him. At this moment Holmes arrived at the

office. He was introduced to Howe as a stranger,

and recognised as a friend by Alice Pitezel, a shy,

awkward girl of fourteen or fifteen years of age. It
was then arranged that all the parties should meet

again next day to identify, if possible, the body,

which had been disinterred for that purpose.
The unpleasant duty of identifying the

rapidly decomposing remains was greatly curtailed

by the readiness of Mr. Holmes. When the party

met on the 22nd at the Potter's Field, where the
body had been disinterred and laid out, the doctor

present was unable to find the distinctive marks
which would show Perry and Pitezel to have been

the same man. Holmes at once stepped into the
breach, took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, put

on the rubber gloves, and taking a surgeon's knife
from his pocket, cut off the wart at the back of the

neck, showed the injury to the leg, and revealed
also a bruised thumbnail which had been another

distinctive mark of Pitezel. The body was then

covered up all but the teeth; the girl Alice was

brought in, and she said that the teeth appeared to

be like those of her father. The insurance company

declared themselves satisfied, and handed to Mr.
Howe a cheque for 9,175 dollars, and to Mr. Holmes

ten dollars for his expenses. Smith, the carpenter,

had been present at the proceedings at the Potter's
Field. For a moment he thought he detected a

likeness in Mr. Holmes to the man who had visited

Perry at Callowhill Street on August 22 and gone

upstairs with him, but he did not feel sure enough of
the fact to make any mention of it.

In the prison at St. Louis there languished in
the year 1894 one Marion Hedgspeth, serving a

sentence of twenty years' imprisonment for an
audacious train robbery. On the night of November

30, 1891, the "'Friscow express from St. Louis had
been boarded by four ruffians, the express car blown

open with dynamite, and 10,000 dollars carried off.
Hedgspeth and another man were tried for the

robbery, and sentenced to twenty years'

imprisonment. On October 9, 1894, Hegspeth{sic}

made a statement to the Governor of the St. Louis

prison, which he said he wished to be communicated

to the Fidelity Mutual Life Association. In the
previous July Hedgspeth said that he had met in the

prison a man of the name of H. M. Howard, who was

charged with fraud, but had been released on bail
later in the month. While in prison Howard told

Hedgspeth that he had devised a scheme for

swindling an insurance company of 10,000 dollars,

and promised Hedgspeth that, if he would
recommend him a lawyer suitable for such an

enterprise, he should have 500 dollars as his share
of the proceeds. Hedgspeth recommended Jephtha

D. Howe. The latter entered with enthusiasm into
the scheme, and told Hedgspeth that he thought Mr.

Howard "one of the smoothest and slickest" men he
had ever known. A corpse was to be found

answering to Pitezel's description, and to be so
treated as to appear to have been the victim of an

accidental explosion, while Pitezel himself would

disappear to Germany. From Howe Hedgspeth

learnt that the swindle had been carried out

successfully, but he had never received from Howard

the 500 dollars promised him. Consequently, he
had but little compunction in divulging the plot to

the authorities.
It was realised at once that H. M. Howard
and H. H. Holmes were the same person, and that

Jephtha D. Howe and Mr. Holmes were not the

strangers to each other that they had affected to be

when they met in Philadelphia. Though somewhat
doubtful of the truth of Hedgspeth's statement, the

insurance company decided to set Pinkerton's
detectives on the track of Mr. H. H. Holmes. After

more than a month's search he was traced to his
father's house at Gilmanton, N. H., and arrested in

Boston on November 17.
Inquiry showed that, early in 1894, Holmes

and Pitezel had acquired some real property at Fort
Worth in Texas and commenced building operations,

but had soon after left Texas under a cloud, arising

from the theft of a horse and other dubious

transactions.

Holmes had obtained the property at Fort

Worth from a Miss Minnie Williams, and transferred
it to Pitezel. Pitezel was a drunken "crook," of mean

intelligence, a mesmeric subject entirely under the

influence of Holmes, who claimed to have
considerable hypnotic powers. Pitezel had a wife

living at St. Louis and five children, three

girlsDessie, Alice, and Nelliea boy, Howard, and a

baby in arms. At the time of Holmes' arrest Mrs.
Pitezel, with her eldest daughter, Dessie, and her

little baby, was living at a house rented by Holmes
at Burlington, Vermont. She also was arrested on a

charge of complicity in the insurance fraud and
brought to Boston.

Two days after his arrest Holmes, who
dreaded being sent back to Texas on a charge of

horsestealing, for which in that State the
punishment is apt to be rough and ready, made a

statement to the police, in which he acknowledged

the fraud practised by him and Pitezel on the

insurance company. The body substituted for Pitezel

had been obtained, said Holmes, from a doctor in

New York, packed in a trunk and sent to
Philadelphia, but he declined for the present to give

the doctor's name. Pitezel, he said, had gone with

three of his childrenAlice, Nellie and Howardto South
America. This fact, however, Holmes had not

communicated to Mrs. Pitezel. When she arrived at

Boston, the poor woman was in great distress of

mind. Questioned by the officers, she attempted to
deny any complicity in the fraud, but her real

anxiety was to get news of her husband and her
three children. Alice she had not seen since the girl

had gone to Philadelphia to identify the supposed
remains of her father. Shortly after this Holmes had

come to Mrs. Pitezel at St. Louis, and taken away
Nellie and Howard to join Alice, who, he said, was in

the care of a widow lady at Ovington, Kentucky.
Since then Mrs. Pitezel had seen nothing of the

children or her husband. At Holmes' direction she

had gone to Detroit, Toronto, Ogdensberg and,

lastly, to Burlington in the hope of meeting either

Pitezel or the children, but in vain. She believed

that her husband had deserted her; her only desire
was to recover her children.

On November 20 Holmes and Mrs. Pitezel

were transferred from Boston to Philadelphia, and
there, along with Benjamin Pitezel and Jephtha D.

Howe, were charged with defrauding the Fidelity Life

Association of 10,000 dollars. Soon after his arrival

in Philadelphia Holmes, who was never averse to
talking, was asked by an inspector of the insurance

company who it was that had helped him to double
up the body sent from New York and pack it into the

trunk. He replied that he had done it alone, having
learned the trick when studying medicine in

Michigan. The inspector recollected that the body
when removed from Callowhill Street had been

straight and rigid. He asked Holmes what trick he
had learnt in the course of his medical studies by

which it was possible to restiffen a body once the

rigor mortis had been broken. To this Holmes made

no reply. But he realised his mistake, and a few

weeks later volunteered a second statement. He

now said that Pitezel, in a fit of depression,
aggravated by his drinking habits, had committed

suicide on the third story of the house in Callowhill

Street. There Holmes had found his body,carried it
down on to the floor below, and arranged it in the

manner agreed upon for deceiving the insurance

company. Pitezel, he said, had taken his life by

lying on the floor and allowing chloroform to run
slowly into his mouth through a rubber tube placed

on a chair. The three children, Holmes now stated,
had gone to England with a friend of his, Miss Minnie

Williams.
Miss Minnie Williams was the lady, from

whom Holmes was said to have acquired the
property in Texas which he and Pitezel had set about

developing. There was quite a tragedy, according to
Holmes, connected with the life of Miss Williams.

She had come to Holmes in 1893, as secretary, at a

drug store which he was then keeping in Chicago.

Their relations had become more intimate, and later

in the year Miss Williams wrote to her sister, Nannie,

saying that she was going to be married, and
inviting her to the wedding. Nannie arrived, but

unfortunately a violent quarrel broke out between

the two sisters, and Holmes came home to find that
Minnie in her rage had killed her sister. He had

helped her out of the trouble by dropping Nannie's

body into the Chicago lake. After such a distressing

occurrence Miss Williams was only too glad of the
opportunity of leaving America with the Pitezel

children. In the meantime Holmes, under the name
of Bond, and Pitezel, under that of Lyman, had

proceeded to deal with Miss Williams' property in
Texas.

For women Holmes would always appear to
have possessed some power of attraction, a power

of which he availed himself generously. Holmes,
whose real name was Herman W. Mudgett, was

thirtyfour years of age at the time of his arrest. As

a boy he had spent his life farming in Vermont, after

which he had taken up medicine and acquired some

kind of medical degree. In the course of his training

Holmes and a fellow student, finding a body that
bore a striking resemblance to the latter; obtained

1,000 dollars from an insurance company by a fraud

similar to that in which Holmes had engaged
subsequently with Pitezel. After spending some time

on the staff of a lunatic asylum in Pennsylvania,

Holmes set up as a druggist in Chicago. His affairs

in this city prospered, and he was enabled to erect,
at the corner of Wallace and SixtyThird Streets, the

fourstoried building known later as "Holmes Castle."
It was a singular structure. The lower part consisted

of a shop and offices. Holmes occupied the second
floor, and had a laboratory on the third. In his office

was a vault, air proof and sound proof. In the
bathroom a trapdoor, covered by a rug, opened on

to a secret staircase leading down to the cellar, and
a similar staircase connected the cellar with the

laboratory. In the cellar was a large grate. To this

building Miss Minnie Williams had invited her sister

to come for her wedding with Holmes, and it was in

this building, according to Holmes, that the tragedy

of Nannie's untimely death occurred.
In hoping to become Holmes' wife, Miss

Minnie Williams was not to enjoy an exclusive

privilege. At the time of his arrest Holmes had three
wives, each ignorant of the others' existence. He

had married the first in 1878, under the name of

Mudgett, and was visiting her at Burlington,

Vermont, when the Pinkerton detectives first got on
his track. The second he had married at Chicago,

under the name of Howard, and the third at Denver
as recently as January, 1894, under the name of

Holmes. The third Mrs. Holmes had been with him
when he came to Philadelphia to identify Pitezel's

body. The appearance of Holmes was
commonplace, but he was a man of plausible and

ingratiating address, apparent candour, and able in
case of necessity to "let loose," as he phrased it,

"the fount of emotion."

The year 1895 opened to find the much

enduring Holmes still a prisoner in Philadelphia. The

authorities seemed in no haste to indict him for

fraud; their interest was concentrated rather in
endeavouring to find the whereabouts of Miss

Williams and her children, and of one Edward Hatch,

whom Holmes had described as helping him in
arranging for their departure. The "great

humiliation" of being a prisoner was very distressing

to Holmes.

"I only know the sky has lost its blue, The
days are weary and the night is drear."

These struck him as two beautiful lines very
appropriate to his situation. He made a New Year's

resolve to give up meat during his close
confinement. The visits of his third wife brought him

some comfort. He was "agreeably surprised" to find
that, as an unconvicted prisoner, he could order in

his own meals and receive newspapers and
periodicals. But he was hurt at an unfriendly

suggestion on the part of the authorities that Pitezel

had not died by his own hand, and that Edward

Hatch was but a figment of his rich imagination. He

would like to have been released on bail, but in the

same unfriendly spirit was informed that, if he were,
he would be detained on a charge of murder. And

so the months dragged on. Holmes, studious,

patient, injured, the authorities puzzled, suspicions,
baffledstill no news of Miss Williams or the three

children. It was not until June 3 that Holmes was

put on his trial for fraud, and the following day

pleaded guilty. Sentence was postponed.
The same day Holmes was sent for to the

office of the District Attorney, who thus addressed
him: "It is strongly suspected, Holmes, that you

have not only murdered Pitezel, but that you have
killed the children. The best way to remove this

suspicion is to produce the children at once. Now,
where are they?" Unfriendly as was this approach,

Holmes met it calmly, reiterated his previous
statement that the children had gone with Miss

Williams to England, and gave her address in

London, 80 Veder or Vadar Street, where, he said,

Miss Williams had opened a massage establishment.

He offered to draw up and insert a cipher

advertisement in the New York Herald, by means of
which, he said, Miss Williams and he had agreed to

communicate, and almost tearfully he added, "Why

should I kill innocent children?"
Asked to give the name of any person who

had seen Miss Williams and the children in the

course of their journeyings in America, he resented

the disbelief implied in such a question, and strong
was his manly indignation when one of the

gentlemen present expressed his opinion that the
story was a lie from beginning to end. This rude

estimate of Holmes' veracity was, however, in some
degree confirmed when a cipher advertisement

published in the New York Herald according to
Holmes' directions, produced no reply from Miss

Williams, and inquiry showed that no such street as
Veder or Vadar Street was to be found in London.

In spite of these disappointments, Holmes'

quiet confidence in his own good faith continued

unshaken. When the hapless Mrs. Pitezel was

released, he wrote her a long letter. "Knowing me

as you do," he said, "can you imagine me killing
little and innocent children, especially without any

motive?" But even Mrs. Pitezel was not wholly

reassured. She recollected how Holmes had taken
her just before his arrest to a house he had rented

at Burlington, Vermont, how he had written asking

her to carry a package of nitroglycerine from the

bottom to the top of the house, and how one day
she had found him busily removing the boards in the

cellar.
II THE WANDERING ASSASSIN

The District Attorney and the Insurance
Company were not in agreement as to the fate of

the Pitezel children. The former still inclined to the
hope and belief that they were in England with Miss

Williams, but the insurance company took a more
sinister view. No trace of them existed except a tin

box found among Holmes' effects, containing letters

they had written to their mother and grandparents

from Cincinnati, Indianapolis, and Detroit, which had

been given to Holmes to dispatch but had never

reached their destination. The box contained letters
from Mrs. Pitezel to her children, which Holmes had

presumably intercepted.
It was decided to make a final attempt to
resolve all doubts by sending an experienced

detective over the route taken by the children in

America. He was to make exhaustive inquiries in

each city with a view to tracing the visits of Holmes
or the three children. For this purpose a detective of

the name of Geyer was chosen. The record of his
search is a remarkable story of patient and

persistent investigation.
Alice Pitezel had not seen her mother since

she had gone with Holmes to identify her father's
remains in Philadelphia. From there Holmes had

taken her to Indianapolis. In the meantime he had
visited Mrs. Pitezel at St. Louis, and taken away with

him the girl, Nellie, and the boy, Howard, alleging as

his reason for doing so that they and Alice were to

join their father, whose temporary effacement was

necessary to carry out successfully the fraud on the

insurance company, to which Mrs. Pitezel had been
from the first an unwilling party. Holmes, Nellie and

Howard had joined Alice at Indianapolis, and from

there all four were believed to have gone to
Cincinnati. It was here, accordingly, on June 27,

1895, that Geyer commenced his search.

After calling at a number of hotels, Geyer

found that on Friday, September 28, 1894, a man,
giving the name of Alexander E. Cook, and three

children had stayed at a hotel called the Atlantic
House. Geyer recollected that Holmes, when later

on he had sent Mrs. Pitezel to the house in
Burlington, had described her as Mrs. A. E. Cook

and, though not positive, the hotel clerk thought
that he recognised in the photographs of Holmes

and he three children, which Geyer showed him, the
four visitors to the hotel.

They had left the Atlantic House the next

day, and on that same day, the 29th, Geyer found

that Mr. A. E. Cook and three children had

registered at the Bristol Hotel, where they had

stayed until Sunday the 30th.
Knowing Holmes' habit of renting houses,

Geyer did not confine his enquiries to the hotels. He

visited a number of estate agents and learnt that a
man and a boy, identified as Holmes and Howard

Pitezel, had occupied a house No. 305 Poplar Street.

The man had given the name of A. C. Hayes. He

had taken the house on Friday the 28th, and on the
29th had driven up to it with the boy in a furniture

wagon. A curious neighbour, interested in the
advent of a newcomer, saw the wagon arrive, and

was somewhat astonished to observe that the only
furniture taken into the house was a large iron

cylinder stove. She was still further surprised when,
on the following day, Mr. Hayes told her that he was

not going after all to occupy the house, and made
her a present of the cylinder stove.

From Cincinnati Geyer went to Indianapolis.

Here inquiry showed that on September 30 three

children had been brought by a man identified as

Holmes to the Hotel English, and registered in the

name of Canning. This was the maiden name of
Mrs. Pitezel. The children had stayed at the hotel

one night. After that Geyer seemed to lose track of

them until he was reminded of a hotel then closed,
called the Circle House. With some difficulty he got

a sight of the books of the hotel, and found that the

three Canning children had arrived there on October

1 and stayed until the 10th. From the former
proprietor of the hotel he learnt that Holmes had

described himself as the children's uncle, and had
said that Howard was a bad boy, whom he was

trying to place in some institution. The children
seldom went out; they would sit in their room

drawing or writing, often they were found crying;
they seemed homesick and unhappy.

There are letters of the children written from
Indianapolis to their mothers, letters found in

Holmes' possession, which had never reached her.

In these letters they ask their mother why she does

not write to them. She had written, but her letters

were in Holmes' possession. Alice writes that she is

reading "Uncle Tom's Cabin." She has read so much
that her eyes hurt; they have bought a crystal pen

for five cents which gives them some amusement;

they had been to the Zoo in Cincinnati the Sunday
before: "I expect this Sunday will pass away slower

than I don't knowHoward is two (sic) dirty to be

seen out on the street today." Sometimes they go

and watch a man who paints "genuine oil paintings"
in a shoe store, which are given away with every

dollar purchase of shoes"he can paint a picture in
one and a half minutes, ain't that quick!" Howard

was getting a little troublesome. "I don't like to tell
you," writes Alice, "but you ask me, so I will have

to. Howard won't mind me at all. He wanted a book
and I got `Life of General Sheridan,' and it is awful

nice, but now he don't read it at all hardly." Poor
Howard! One morning, says Alice, Mr. Holmes told

him to stay in and wait for him, as he was coming to

take him out, but Howard was disobedient, and

when Mr. Holmes arrived he had gone out. Better

for Howard had he never returned! "We have

written two or three letters to you," Alice tells her
mother, "and I guess you will begin to get them

now. She will not get them. Mr. Holmes is so very

particular that the insurance company shall get no
clue to the whereabouts of any member of the

Pitezel family.

Geyer knew that from Indianapolis Holmes

had gone to Detroit. He ascertained that two girls,
"Etta and Nellie Canning," had registered on October

12 at the New Western Hotel in that city, and from
there had moved on the 15th to a boardinghouse in

Congress Street. From Detroit Alice had written to
her grandparents. It was cold and wet, she wrote;

she and Etta had colds and chapped hands: "We
have to stay in all the time. All that Nell and I can

do is to draw, and I get so tired sitting that I could
get up and fly almost. I wish I could see you all. I

am getting so homesick that I don't know what to

do. I suppose Wharton (their baby brother) walks

by this time, don't he? I would like to have him

here, he would pass away the time a good deal." As

a fact little Wharton, his mother and sister Dessie,
were at this very moment in Detroit, within ten

minutes' walk of the hotel at which Holmes had

registered "Etta and Nellie Canning."
On October 14 there had arrived in that city

a weary, anxious looking woman, with a girl and a

little baby. They took a room at Geis's Hotel,

registering as Mrs. Adams and daughter. Mrs.
Adams seemed in great distress of mind, and never

left her room.
The housekeeper, being shown their

photographs, identified the woman and the girl as
Mrs. Pitezel and her eldest daughter Dessie. As the

same time there had been staying at another hotel
in Detroit a Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, whose

photographs showed them to be the Mr. Holmes in
question and his third wife. These three partiesthe

two children, Mrs. Pitezel and her baby, and the

third Mrs. Holmeswere all ignorant of each other's

presence in Detroit; and under the secret guidance

of Mr. Holmes the three parties (still unaware of

their proximity to each other, left Detroit for
Canada, arriving in Toronto on or about October 18,

and registering at three separate hotels. The only

one who had not to all appearances reached Toronto
was the boy Howard.

In Toronto "Alice and Nellie Canning" stayed

at the Albion Hotel.

They arrived there on October 19, and left
on the 25th. During their stay a man, identified as

Holmes, had called every morning for the two
children, and taken them out; but they had come

back alone, usually in time for supper. On the 25th
he had called and taken them out, but they had not

returned to supper. After that date Geyer could find
no trace of them. Bearing in mind Holmes' custom

of renting houses, he compiled a list of all the house
agents in Toronto, and laboriously applied to each

one for information. The process was a slow one,

and the result seemed likely to be disappointing.

To aid his search Geyer decided to call in the

assistance of the Press. The newspapers readily

published long accounts of the case and portraits of
Holmes and the children. At last, after eight days of

patient and untiring investigation, after following up

more than one false clue, Geyer received a report
that there was a houseNo. 16 St. Vincent

Streetwhich had been rented in the previous October

by a man answering to the description of Holmes.

The information came from an old Scottish
gentleman living next door. Geyer hastened to see

him. The old gentleman said that the man who had
occupied No. 16 in October had told him that he had

taken the house for his widowed sister, and he
recognised the photograph of Alice Pitezel as one of

the two girls accompanying him. The only furniture
the man had taken into the house was a bed, a

mattress and a trunk. During his stay at No. 16 this
man had called on his neighbour about four o'clock

one afternoon and borrowed a spade, saying that he

wanted to dig a place in the cellar where his

widowed sister could keep potatoes; he had

returned the spade the following morning. The lady

to whom the house belonged recognised Holmes'
portrait as that of the man to whom she had let No.

16.
At last Geyer seemed to be on the right
track. He hurried back to St. Vincent Street,

borrowed from the old gentleman at No. 18 the very

spade which he had lent to Holmes in the previous

October, and got the permission of the present
occupier of No. 16 to make a search. In the centre

of the kitchen Geyer found a trapdoor leading down
into a small cellar. In one corner of the cellar he

saw that the earth had been recently dug up. With
the help of the spade the loose earth was removed,

and at a depth of some three feet, in a state of
advanced decomposition, lay the remains of what

appeared to be two children. A little toy wooden
egg with a snake inside it, belonging to the Pitezel

children, had been found by the tenant who had

taken the house after Holmes; a later tenant had

found stuffed into the chimney, but not burnt, some

clothing that answered the description of that worn

by Alice and Etta Pitezel; and by the teeth and hair
of the two corpses Mrs. Pitezel was able to identify

them as those of her two daughters. The very day

that Alice and Etta had met their deaths at St.
Vincent Street, their mother had been staying near

them at a hotel in the same city, and later on the

same day Holmes had persuaded her to leave

Toronto for Ogdensburg. He said that they were
being watched by detectives, and so it would be

impossible for her husband to come to see her
there.

But the problem was not yet wholly solved.
What had become of Howard? So far Geyer's search

had shown that Holmes had rented three houses,
one in Cincinnati, one in Detroit, and one in Toronto.

Howard had been with his sisters at the hotels in
Indianapolis, and in Detroit the house agents had

said that, when Holmes had rented a house there,

he had been accompanied by a boy. Yet an

exhaustive search of that house had revealed no

trace of him. Geyer returned to Detroit and again

questioned the house agents; on being pressed their
recollection of the boy who had accompanied

Holmes seemed very vague and uncertain. This

served only to justify a conclusion at which Geyer
had already arrived, that Howard had never reached

Detroit, but had disappeared in Indianapolis. Alice's

letters, written from there, had described how

Holmes had wanted to take Howard out one day and
how the boy had refused to stay in and wait for him.

In the same way Holmes had called for the two girls
at the Albion Hotel in Toronto on October 25 and

taken them out with him, after which they had never
been seen alive except by the old gentleman at No.

18 St. Vincent Street.
If Geyer could discover that Holmes had not

departed in Indianapolis from his usual custom of
renting houses, he might be on the high way to

solving the mystery of Howard's fate. Accordingly

he returned to Indianapolis.

In the meantime, Holmes, in his prison at

Philadelphia, learnt of the discovery at Toronto. "On

the morning of the 16th of July," he writes in his
journal, "my newspaper was delivered to me about

8.30 a.m., and I had hardly opened it before I saw

in large headlines the announcement of the finding
of the children in Toronto. For the moment it

seemed so impossible that I was inclined to think it

was one of the frequent newspaper excitements that

had attended the earlier part of the case, but, in
attempting to gain some accurate comprehension of

what was stated in the article, I became convinced
that at least certain bodies had been found there,

and upon comparing the date when the house was
hired I knew it to be the same as when the children

had been in Toronto; and thus being forced to
realise the awfulness of what had probably

happened, I gave up trying to read the article, and
saw instead the two little faces as they had looked

when I hurriedly left themfelt the innocent child's

kiss so timidly given, and heard again their earnest

words of farewell, and realised that I had received

another burden to carry to my grave with me, equal,

if not worse, than the horrors of Nannie Williams'
death."

Questioned by the district attorney, Holmes

met this fresh evidence by evoking once again the
mythical Edward Hatch and suggesting that Miss

Minnie Williams, in a "hellish wish for vengeance"

because of Holmes' fancied desertion, and in order

to make it appear probable that he, and not she,
had murdered her sister, had prompted Hatch to

commit the horrid deed. Holmes asked to be
allowed to go to Toronto that he might collect any

evidence which he could find there in his favour.
The district attorney refused his request; he had

determined to try Holmes in Philadelphia. "What
more could, be said?" writes Holmes. Indeed, under

the circumstances, and in the unaccountable
absence of Edward Hatch and Minnie Williams, there

was little more to be said.

Detective Geyer reopened his search in

Indianapolis by obtaining a list of advertisements of

houses to let in the city in 1894. Nine hundred of

these were followed up in vain. He then turned his
attention to the small towns lying around

Indianapolis with no happier result. Geyer wrote in

something of despair to his superiors: "By Monday
we will have searched every outlying town except

Irvington. After Irvington, I scarcely know where

we shall go." Thither he went on August 27, exactly

two months from the day on which his quest had
begun. As he entered the town he noticed the

advertisement of an estate agent. He called at the
office and found a "pleasantfaced old gentleman,"

who greeted him amiably. Once again Geyer
opened his now soiled and ragged packet of

photographs, and asked the gentleman if in October,
1894, he had let a house to a man who said that he

wanted one for a widowed sister. He showed him
the portrait of Holmes.

The old man put on his glasses and looked

at the photograph for some time. Yes, he said, he

did remember that he had given the keys of a

cottage in October, 1894, to a man of Holmes'

appearance, and he recollected the man the more
distinctly for the uncivil abruptness with which he

had asked for the keys; "I felt," he said, "he should
have had more respect for my grey hairs."
From the old gentleman's office Geyer

hastened to the cottage, and made at once for the

cellar. There he could find no sign of recent

disturbance. But beneath the floor of a piazza
adjoining the house he found the remains of a trunk,

answering to the description of that which the
Pitezel children had had with them, and in an

outhouse he discovered the inevitable stove,
Holmes' one indispensable piece of furniture. It was

stained with blood on the top. A neighbour had
seen Holmes in the same October drive up to the

house in the furniture wagon accompanied by a boy,
and later in the day Holmes had asked him to come

over to the cottage and help him to put up a stove.

The neighbour asked him why he did not use gas;

Holmes replied that he did not think gas was healthy

for children. While the two men were putting up the

stove, the little boy stood by and watched them.
After further search there were discovered in the

cellar chimney some bones, teeth, a pelvis and the

baked remains of a stomach, liver and spleen.
Medical examination showed them to be the

remains of a child between seven and ten years of

age. A spinning top, a scarfpin, a pair of shoes and

some articles of clothing that had belonged to the
little Pitezels, had been found in the house at

different times, and were handed over to Geyer.
His search was ended. On September 1 he

returned to Philadelphia.
Holmes was put on his trial on October 28,

1895, before the Court of Oyer and Terminer in
Philadelphia, charged with the murder of Benjamin

Pitezel. In the course of the trial the district
attorney offered to put in evidence showing that

Holmes had also murdered the three children of

Pitezel, contending that such evidence was

admissible on the ground that the murders of the

children and their father were parts of the same

transaction. The judge refused to admit the
evidence, though expressing a doubt as to its

inadmissibility. The defence did not dispute the

identity of the body found in Callowhill Street, but
contended that Pitezel had committed suicide. The

medical evidence negatived such a theory. The

position of the body, its condition when discovered,

were entirely inconsistent with self destruction, and
the absence of irritation in the stomach showed that

the chloroform found there must have been poured
into it after death. In all probability, Holmes had

chloroformed Pitezel when he was drunk or asleep.
He had taken the chloroform to Callowhill Street as a

proposed ingredient in a solution for cleaning
clothes, which he and Pitezel were to patent. It was

no doubt with the help of the same drug that he had
done to death the little children, and failing the

nitroglycerine, with that drug he had intended to put

Mrs. Pitezel and her two remaining children out of

the way at the house in Burlington; for after his trial

there was found there, hidden away in the cellar, a

bottle containing eight or ten ounces of chloroform.
Though assisted by counsel, Holmes took an

active part in his defence. He betrayed no feeling at

the sight of Mrs. Pitezel, the greater part of whose
family he had destroyed, but the appearance of his

third wife as a witness he made an opportunity for

"letting loose the fount of emotion," taking care to

inform his counsel beforehand that he intended to
perform this touching feat. He was convicted and

sentenced to death on November 2.
Previous to the trial of Holmes the police had

made an exhaustive investigation of the mysterious
building in Chicago known as "Holmes' Castle." The

result was sufficiently sinister. In the stove in the
cellar charred human bones were found, and in the

middle of the room stood a large dissecting table
stained with blood. On digging up the cellar floor

some human ribs, sections of vertebrae and teeth

were discovered buried in quicklime, and in other

parts of the "castle" the police found more charred

bones, some metal buttons, a trunk, and a piece of

a watch chain.
The trunk and piece of watch chain were

identified as having belonged to Miss Minnie

Williams.
Inquiry showed that Miss Williams had

entered Holmes' employment as a typist in 1893,

and had lived with him at the castle. In the latter

part of the year she had invited her sister, Nannie,
to be present at her wedding with Holmes. Nannie

had come to Chicago for that purpose, and since
then the two sisters had never been seen alive. In

February in the following year Pitezel, under the
name of Lyman, had deposited at Fort Worth, Texas,

a deed according to which a man named Bond had
transferred to him property in that city which had

belonged to Miss Williams, and shortly after,
Holmes, under the name of Pratt, joined him at Fort

Worth, whereupon the two commenced building on

Miss Williams' land.

Other mysterious cases besides those of the

Williams sisters revealed the Bluebeardlike character

of this latterday castle of Mr. Holmes. In 1887 a
man of the name of Connor entered Holmes'

employment. He brought with him to the castle a

handsome, intelligent wife and a little girl of eight or
nine years of age.

After a short time Connor quarrelled with his

wife and went away, leaving Mrs. Connor and the

little girl with Holmes. After 1892 Mrs. Connor and
her daughter had disappeared, but in August, 1895,

the police found in the castle some clothes identified
as theirs, and the janitor, Quinlan, admitted having

seen the dead body of Mrs. Connor in the castle.
Holmes, questioned in his prison in Philadelphia, said

that Mrs. Connor had died under an operation, but
that he did not know what had become of the little

girl.
In the year of Mrs. Connor's disappearance,

a typist named Emily Cigrand, who had been

employed in a hospital in which Benjamin Pitezel

had been a patient, was recommended by the latter

to Holmes. She entered his employment, and she

and Holmes soon became intimate, passing as "Mr.
and Mrs. Gordon." Emily Cigrand had been in the

habit of writing regularly to her parents in Indiana,

but after December 6, 1892, they had never heard
from her again, nor could any further trace of her be

found.

A man who worked for Holmes as a handy

man at the castle stated to the police that in 1892
Holmes had given him a skeleton of a man to

mount, and in January, 1893, showed him in the
laboratory another male skeleton with some flesh

still on it, which also he asked him to mount. As
there was a set of surgical instruments in the

laboratory and also a tank filled with a fluid
preparation for removing flesh, the handy man

thought that Holmes was engaged in some kind of
surgical work.

About a month before his execution, when

Holmes' appeals from his sentence had failed and

death appeared imminent, he sold to the

newspapers for 7,500 dollars a confession in which

he claimed to have committed twentyseven murders
in the course of his career. The day after it

appeared he declared the whole confession to be a

"fake." He was tired, he said, of being accused by
the newspapers of having committed every

mysterious murder that had occurred during the last

ten years. When it was pointed out to him that the

account given in his confession of the murder of the
Pitezel children was clearly untrue, he replied, "Of

course, it is not true, but the newspapers wanted a
sensation and they have got it." The confession was

certainly sensational enough to satisfy the most
exacting of pennyaliners, and a lasting tribute to

Holmes' undoubted power of extravagant
romancing.

According to his story, some of his
twentyseven victims had met their death by poison,

some by more violent methods, some had died a

lingering death in the airtight and soundproof vault

of the castle. Most of these he mentioned by name,

but some of these were proved afterwards to be

alive. Holmes had actually perpetrated, in all
probability, about ten murders. But, given further

time and opportunity, there is no reason why this

peri
patetic assassin should not have attained to

the considerable figure with which he credited

himself in his bogus confession.

Holmes was executed in Philadelphia on May
7, 1896. He seemed to meet his fate with

indifference.
The motive of Holmes in murdering Pitezel

and three of his children and in planning to murder
his wife and remaining children, originated in all

probability in a quarrel that occurred between Pitezel
and himself in the July of 1894. Pitezel had tired

apparently of Holmes and his doings, and wanted to
break off the connection. But he must have known

enough of Holmes' past to make him a dangerous

enemy. It was Pitezel who had introduced to

Holmes Emily Cigrand, the typist, who had

disappeared so mysteriously in the castle; Pitezel

had been his partner in the fraudulent appropriation
of Miss Minnie Williams' property in Texas; it is more

than likely, therefore, that Pitezel knew something

of the fate of Miss Williams and her sister. By
reviving, with Pitezel's help, his old plan for

defrauding insurance companies, Holmes saw the

opportunity of making 10,000 dollars, which he

needed sorely, and at the same time removing his
inconvenient and now lukewarm associate. Having

killed Pitezel and received the insurance money,
Holmes appropriated to his own use the greater part

of the 10,000 dollars, giving Mrs. Pitezel in return
for her share of the plunder a bogus bill for 5,000

dollars. Having robbed Mrs. Pitezel of both her
husband and her money, to this thoroughgoing

criminal there seemed only one satisfactory way of
escaping detection, and that was to exterminate her

and the whole of her family.

Had Holmes not confided his scheme of the

insurance fraud to Hedgspeth in St. Louis prison and

then broken faith with him, there is no reason why

the fraud should ever have been discovered. The
subsequent murders had been so cunningly

contrived that, had the Insurance Company not put

the Pinkerton detectives on his track, Holmes would
in all probability have ended by successfully

disposing of Mrs. Pitezel, Dessie, and the baby at

the house in Burlington, Vermont, and the entire

Pitezel family would have disappeared as completely
as his other victims.

Holmes admitted afterwards that his one
mistake had been his confiding to Hedgspeth his

plans for defrauding an insurance companya
mistake, the unfortunate results of which might

have been avoided, if he had kept faith with the
train robber and given him the 500 dollars which he

had promised.
The case of Holmes illustrates the practical

as well as the purely ethical value of "honour among

thieves," and shows how a comparatively

insignificant misdeed may ruin a great and

comprehensive plan of crime. To dare to attempt

the extermination of a family of seven persons, and
to succeed so nearly in effecting it, could be the

work of no tyro, no beginner like J. B. Troppmann.

It was the act of one who having already succeeded
in putting out of the way a number of other persons

undetected, might well and justifiably believe that

he was born for greater and more compendious

achievements in robbery and murder than any who
had gone before him. One can almost subscribe to

America's claim that Holmes is the "greatest
criminal" of a century boasting no mean record in

such persons.
In the remarkable character of his

achievements as an assassin we are apt to lose sight
of Holmes' singular skill and daring as a liar and a

bigamist. As an instance of the former may be cited
his audacious explanation to his family, when they

heard of his having married a second time. He said

that he had met with a serious accident to his head,

and that when he left the hospital, found that he

had entirely lost his memory; that, while in this

state of oblivion, he had married again and then,
when his memory returned, realised to his horror his

unfortunate position. Plausibility would seem to

have been one of Holmes' most useful gifts; men
and women alikeparticularly the latter he seems to

have deceived with ease. His appearance was

commonplace, in no way suggesting the

conventional criminal, his manner courteous,
ingratiating and seemingly candid, and like so many

scoundrels, he could play consummately the man of
sentiment.

The weak spot in Holmes' armour as an
enemy of society was a dangerous tendency to

loquacity, the defect no doubt of his qualities of
plausible and insinuating address and ever ready

mendacity.


The Widow Gras

Report of the trial of the woman Gras and
Gaudry in the Gazette des Tribunaux. The case is

dealt with also by Mace in his "Femmes Criminelles."
I

THE CHARMER
Jenny Amenaide Brecourt was born in Paris

in the year 1837. Her father was a printer, her
mother sold vegetables. The parents neglected the

child, but a lady of title took pity on her, and when
she was five years old adopted her. Even as a little

girl she was haughty and imperious. At the age of

eight she refused to play with another child on the

ground of her companion's social inferiority. "The

daughter of a Baroness," she said, "cannot play with

the daughter of a winemerchant." When she was
eleven years old, her parents took her away from

her protectress and sent her into the streets to sell

gingerbreada dangerous experience for a child of
tender years. After six years of street life,

Amenaide sought out her benefactress and begged

her to take her back. The Baroness consented, and

found her employment in a silk manufactory. One
day the girl, now eighteen years old, attended the

wedding of one of her companions in the factory.
She returned home after the ceremony thoughtful.

She said that she wanted to get married.
The Baroness did not take her statement seriously,

and on the grocer calling one day, said in jest to
Amenaide, "You want a husband, there's one."

But Amenaide was in earnest. She accepted
the suggestion and, to the Baroness' surprise,

insisted on taking the grocer as her husband.

Reluctantly the good lady gave her consent, and in

1855 Amenaide Brecourt became the wife of the

grocer Gras.
A union, so hasty and illconsidered, was not
likely to be of long duration. With the help of the

worthy Baroness the newly married couple started a

grocery business. But Amenaide was too
economical for her husband and motherinlaw.

Quarrels ensued, recriminations. In a spirit of

unamiable prophecy husband and wife foretold each

other's future. "You will die in a hospital," said the
wife. "You will land your carcase in prison," retorted

the husband. In both instances they were correct in
their anticipations. One day the husband

disappeared. For a short time Amenaide returned to
her longsuffering protectress, and then she too

disappeared.
When she is heard of again, Amenaide

Brecourt has become Jeanne de la Cour. Jeanne de
la Cour is a courtesan. She has tried commerce,

acting, literature, journalism, and failed at them all.

Henceforth men are to make her fortune for her.

Such charms as she may possess, such allurements

as she can offer, she is ready to employ without

heart or feeling to accomplish her end. Without real
passion, she has an almost abnormal, erotic

sensibility, which serves in its stead. She cares only

for one person, her sister. To her Jeanne de la Cour
unfolded her philosophy of life. While pretending to

love men, she is going to make them suffer. They

are to be her playthings, she knows how to snare

them: "All is dust and lies. So much the worse for
the men who get in my way. Men are mere

steppingstones to me. As soon as they begin to fail
or are played out, I put them scornfully aside.

Society is a vast chessboard, men the pawns, some
white, some black; I move them as I please, and

break them when they bore me."
The early years of Jeanne de la Cour's career

as a Phryne were hardly more successful than her
attempts at literature, acting and journalism. True

to her philosophy, she had driven one lover, a

German, to suicide, and brought another to his

death by overdoses of cantharides. On learning of

the death of the first, she reflected patriotically,

"One German the less in Paris!" That of the second
elicited the matteroffact comment, "It was bound to

happen; he had no moderation." A third admirer,

who died in a hospital, was dismissed as "a fool
who, in spite of all, still respects women." But, in

ruining her lovers, she had ruined her own health.

In 1865 she was compelled to enter a private

asylum. There she is described as "dark in
complexion, with dark expressive eyes, very pale,

and of a nervous temperament, agreeable, and
pretty." She was suffering at the time of her

admission from hysterical seizures, accompanied by
insane exaltation, convulsions and loss of speech.

In speaking of her humble parents she said, "I don't
know such people"; her manner was bombastic, and

she was fond of posing as a fine lady.
After a few months Jeanne de la Cour was

discharged from the asylum as cured, and on the

advice of her doctors went to Vittel.

There she assumed the rank of Baroness

and recommenced her career, but this time in a

more reasonable and businesslike manner. Her
comments, written to her sister, on her fellow

guests at the hotel are caustic. She mocks at some

respectable married women who are trying to
convert her to Catholicism. To others who refuse

her recognition, she makes herself so mischievous

and objectionable that in selfdefence they are

frightened into acknowledging her. Admirers among
men she has many, exministers, prefects. It was at

Vittel that occurred the incident of the wounded
pigeon. There had been some pigeonshooting. One

of the wounded birds flew into the room of the
Baroness de la Cour. She took pity on it, tended it,

taught it not to be afraid of her and to stay in her
room. So touching was her conduct considered by

some of those who heard it, that she was nicknamed
"the Charmer." But she is well aware, she writes to

her sister, that with the true ingratitude of the male,

the pigeon will leave her as soon as it needs her

help no longer.

However, for the moment, "disfigured as it

is, beautiful or ugly," she loves it. "Don't forget,"
she writes, "that a woman who is practical and

foreseeing, she too enjoys her pigeon shooting, but

the birds are her lovers."
Shortly after she left Vittel an event

occurred which afforded Jeanne de la Cour the

prospect of acquiring that settled position in life

which, "practical and foreseeing," she now regarded
as indispensable to her future welfare. Her

husband, Gras, died, as she had foretold, in the
Charity Hospital. The widow was free. If she could

bring down her bird, it was now in her power to
make it hers for life. Henceforth all her efforts were

directed to that end. She was reaching her fortieth
year, her hair was turning grey, her charms were

waning. Poverty, degradation, a miserable old age,
a return to the wretched surroundings of her

childhood, such she knew to be the fate of many of

her kind. There was nothing to be hoped for from

the generosity of men. Her lovers were leaving her.

Blackmail, speculation on the Bourse, even the

desperate expedient of a supposititious child, all
these she tried as means of acquiring a competence.

But for
tune was shy of the widow. There was need
for dispatch. The time was drawing near when it

might be man's unkind privilege to put her scornfully

aside as a thing spent and done with. She must

bring down her bird, and that quickly. It was at this
critical point in the widow's career, in the year 1873,

that she met at a public ball for the first time
Georges de Saint Pierre.[16]

[16] For obvious reasons I have suppressed
the real name of the widow's lover.

Georges de Saint Pierre was twenty years of
age when he made the acquaintance of the Widow

Gras. He had lost his mother at an early age, and
since then lived with relatives in the country. He

was a young man of independent means, idle, of a

simple, confiding and affectionate disposition. Four

months after his first meeting with the widow they

met again. The end of the year 1873 saw the

commencement of an intimacy, which to all
appearances was characterised by a more lasting

and sincere affection than is usually associated with

unions of this kind. There can be no doubt that
during the three years the Widow Gras was the

mistress of Georges de Saint Pierre, she had

succeeded in subjugating entirely the senses and the

affection of her young lover. In spite of the twenty
years between them, Georges de Saint Pierre

idolised his middleaged mistress. She was astute
enough to play not only the lover, but the mother to

this motherless youth. After three years of intimacy
he writes to her: "It is enough for me that you love

me, because I don't weary you, and I, I love you
with all my heart. I cannot bear to leave you. We

will live happily together. You will always love me
truly, and as for me, my loving care will ever protect

you. I don't know what would become of me if I did

not feel that your love watched over me." The

confidence of Georges in the widow was absolute.

When, in 1876, he spent six months in Egypt, he

made her free of his rooms in Paris, she was at
liberty to go there when she liked; he trusted her

entirely, idolised her. Whatever her faults, he was

blind to them. "Your form," he writes, "is ever
before my eyes; I wish I could enshrine your pure

heart in gold and crystal."

The widow's conquest, to all appearances,

was complete. But Georges was very young. He
had a family anxious for his future; they knew of his

liaison; they would be hopeful, no doubt, of one day
breaking it off and of marrying him to some

desirable young person. From the widow's point of
view the situation lacked finality. How was that to

be secured?
One day, toward the end of the year 1876,

after the return of Georges from Egypt, the widow
happened to be at the house of a friend, a ballet

dancer. She saw her friend lead into the room a

young man; he was sightless, and her friend with

tender care guided him to a seat on the sofa. The

widow was touched by the spectacle. When they

were alone, she inquired of her friend the reason of
her solicitude for the young man. "I love this victim

of nature," she replied, "and look after him with

every care. He is young, rich, without family, and is
going to marry me. Like you, I am just on forty; my

hair is turning grey, my youth vanishing. I shall

soon be cast adrift on the sea, a wreck. This boy is

the providential spar to which I am going to cling
that I may reach land in safety." "You mean, then,"

said the widow, "that you will soon be beyond the
reach of want?" "Yes," answered the friend, "I

needn't worry any more about the future."
"I congratulate you," said the widow, "and

what is more, your lover will never see you grow
old."

To be cast adrift on the sea and to have
found a providential spar! The widow was greatly

impressed by her friend's rare good fortune.

Indeed, her experience gave the widow furiously to

think, as she revolved in her brain various

expedients by which Georges de Saint Pierre might

become the "providential spar" in her own
impending wreck. The picture of the blind young

man tenderly cared for, dependent utterly on the

ministrations of his devoted wife, fixed itself in the
widow's mind; there was something inexpressibly

pathetic in the picture, whilst its practical

significance had its sinister appeal to one in her

situation.
At this point in the story there appears on

the scene a character as remarkable in his way as
the widow herself, remarkable at least for his share

in the drama that is to follow. Nathalis Gaudry, of
humble parentage, rude and uncultivated, had been

a playmate of the widow when she was a child in her
parents' house.

They had grown up together, but, after
Gaudry entered the army, had lost sight of each

other. Gaudry served through the Italian war of

1859, gaining a medal for valour. In 1864 he had

married.

Eleven years later his wife died, leaving him

with two children. He came to Paris and obtained
employment in an oil refinery at Saint Denis. His

character was excellent; he was a good workman,

honest, hardworking, his record unblemished. When
he returned to Paris, Gaudry renewed his friendship

with the companion of his youth. But Jeanne

Brecourt was now Jeanne de la Cour, living in

refinement and some luxury, moving in a sphere
altogether remote from and unapproachable by the

humble workman in an oil refinery. He could do no
more than worship from afar this strange being, to

him wonderfully seductive in her charm and
distinction.

On her side the widow was quite friendly
toward her homely admirer. She refused to marry

him, as he would have wished, but she did her best
without success to marry him to others of her

acquaintance. Neither a sempstress nor an inferior

actress could she persuade, for all her zeal, to unite

themselves with a hand in an oil mill, a widower with

two children. It is typical of the widow's nervous

energy that she should have undertaken so hopeless
a task. In the meantime she made use of her

admirer. On Sundays he helped her in her

apartment, carried coals, bottled wine, scrubbed the
floors, and made himself generally useful. He was

supposed by those about the house to be her

brother. Occasionally, in the absence of a maid, the

widow allowed him to attend on her personally, even
to assist her in her toilette and perform for her such

offices as one woman would perform for another.
The man soon came to be madly in love with the

woman; his passion, excited but not gratified,
enslaved and consumed him. To some of his

fellowworkmen who saw him moody and
preoccupied, he confessed that he ardently desired

to marry a friend of his childhood, not a working
woman but a lady.

Such was the situation and state of mind of

Nathalis Gaudry when, in November, 1876, he

received a letter from the widow, in which she

wrote, "Come at once. I want you on a matter of

business. Tell your employer it is a family affair; I
will make up your wages." In obedience to this

message Gaudry was absent from the distillery from

the 17th to the 23rd of November.
The "matter of business" about which the

widow wished to consult with Gaudry turned out to

be a scheme of revenge. She told him that she had

been basely defrauded by a man to whom she had
entrusted money. She desired to be revenged on

him, and could think of no better way than to strike
at his dearest affections by seriously injuring his

son. This she proposed to do with the help of a
knuckleduster, which she produced and gave to

Gaudry. Armed with this formidable weapon,
Gaudry was to strike her enemy's son so forcibly in

the pit of the stomach as to disable him for life. The
widow offered to point out to Gaudry the young man

whom he was to attack. She took him outside the

young man's club and showed him his victim. He

was Georges de Saint Pierre.

The good fortune of her friend, the

balletdancer, had proved a veritable toxin in the
intellectual system of the Widow Gras. The poison of

envy, disappointment, suspicion, apprehension had

entered into her soul. Of what use to her was a
lover, however generous and faithful, who was free

to take her up and lay her aside at will? But such

was her situation relative to Georges de Saint Pierre.

She remembered that the wounded pigeon, as long
as it was dependent on her kind offices, had

beencompelled to stay by her side; recovered, it had
flown away. Only a pigeon, maimed beyond hope of

recovery, could she be sure of compelling to be hers
for all time, tied to her by its helpless infirmity, too

suffering and disfigured to be lured from its
captivity. And so, in accordance with her philosophy

of life, the widow, by a blow in the pit of the
stomach with a knuckleduster, was to bring down

her bird which henceforth would be tended and

cared for by "the Charmer" to her own satisfaction

and the admiration of all beholders.

For some reason, the natural reluctance of

Gaudry, or perhaps a feeling of compunction in the
heart of the widow, this plan was not put into

immediate execution. Possibly she hesitated before

adopting a plan more cruel, more efficacious. Her
hesitation did not last long.

With the dawn of the year 1877 the vigilant

apprehension of the widow was roused by the tone

of M. de Saint Pierre's letters. He wrote from his
home in the country, "I cannot bear leaving you,

and I don't mean to. We will live together." But he
adds that he is depressed by difficulties with his

family, "not about money or business but of a kind
he can only communicate to her verbally." To the

widow it was clear that these difficulties must relate
to the subject of marriage. The character of

Georges was not a strong one; sooner or later he
might yield to the importunities of his family; her

reign would be ended, a modest and insufficient

pension the utmost she could hope for. She had

passed the meridian of her life as a charmer of men,

her health was giving way, she was greedy,

ambitious, acquisitive. In January she asked her
nephew, who worked as a gilder, to get her some

vitriol for cleaning her copper. He complied with her

request.
During Jeanne de la Cour's brief and

unsuccessful appearance as an actress she had

taken part in a play with the rather cumbrous title,

Who Puts out the Eyes must Pay for Them. The
widow may have forgotten this event; its occurrence

so many years before may have been merely a
sinister coincidence. But the incident of the

balletdancer and her sightless lover was fresh in her
mind.

Early in January the widow wrote to
Georges, who was in the country, and asked him to

take her to the masked ball at the Opera on the
13th. Her lover was rather surprised at her request,

nor did he wish to appear with her at so public a

gathering. "I don't understand," he writes, "why

you are so anxious to go to the Opera. I can't see

any real reason for your wanting to tire yourself out

at such a disreputable gathering. However, if you
are happy and well, and promise to be careful, I will

take you. I would be the last person, my dear little

wife, to deny you anything that would give you
pleasure." But for some reason Georges was

unhappy, depressed. Some undefined presentiment

of evil seems to have oppressed him. His brother

noticed his preoccupation.
He himself alludes to it in writing to his

mistress: "I am depressed this evening. For a very
little I could break down altogether and give way to

tears. You can't imagine what horrid thoughts
possess me. If I felt your love close to me, I should

be less sad." Against his better inclination Georges
promised to take the widow to the ball on the 13th.

He was to come to Paris on the night of the 12th.

II
THE WOUNDED PIGEON

On the afternoon of January 11, Gaudry

called to see the widow. There had been an

accident at the distillery that morning, and work was
suspended for three days. The widow showed

Gaudry the bottle containing the vitriol which her

nephew had procured for her use. She was ill,
suffering, she said; the only thing that could make

her well again would be the execution of her

revenge on the son of the man who had defrauded

her so wickedly: "Make him suffer, here are the
means, and I swear I will be yours." She dropped a

little of the vitriol on to the floor to show its virulent
effect. At first Gaudry was shocked, horrified. He

protested that he was a soldier, that he could not do
such a deed; he suggested that he should provoke

the young man to a duel and kill him. "That is no
use," said the widow, always sensitive to social

distinctions; "he is not of your class, he would refuse
to fight with you." Mad with desire for the woman,

his senses irritated and excited, the ultimate

gratification of his passion held alluringly before

him, the honest soldier consented to play the

cowardly ruffian. The trick was done. The widow

explained to her accomplice his method of
proceeding. The building in the Rue de Boulogne, in

which the widow had her apartment, stood at the

end of a drive some twentyseven and a half yards
long and five and a half yards wide. About halfway

up the drive, on either side, there were two small

houses, or pavilions, standing by themselves and

occupied by single gentlemen. The whole was shut
off from the street by a large gate, generally kept

closed, in which a smaller gate served to admit
persons going in or out. According to the widow's

plan, the young man, her enemy's son, was to take
her to the ball at the Opera on the night of January

13. Gaudry was to wait in her apartment until their
return. When he heard the bell ring, which

communicated with the outer gate, he was to come
down, take his place in the shadow of one of the

pavilions on either side of the drive, and from the

cover of this position fling in the face of the young

man the vitriol which she had given him. The widow

herself, under the pretence of closing the smaller

gate, would be well behind the victim, and take care
to leave the gate open so that Gaudry could make

his escape.
In spite of his reluctance, his sense of
foreboding, Georges de Saint Pierre came to Paris on

the night of the 12th, which he spent at the widow's

apartment. He went to his own rooms on the

morning of the 13th.
This eventful day, which, to quote Iago, was

either to "make or fordo quite" the widow, found her
as calm, cool and deliberate in the execution of her

purpose as the Ancient himself. Gaudry came to her
apartment about five o'clock in the afternoon. The

widow showed him the vitriol and gave him final
directions. She would, she said, return from the ball

about three o'clock in the morning. Gaudry was
then sent away till ten o'clock, as Georges was

dining with her. He returned at halfpast ten and

found the widow dressing, arraying herself in a pink

domino and a blonde wig. She was in excellent

spirits. When Georges came to fetch her, she put

Gaudry into an alcove in the drawingroom which was
curtained off from the rest of the room. Always

thoughtful, she had placed a stool there that he

might rest himself. Gaudry could hear her laughing
and joking with her lover. She reproached him

playfully with hindering her in her dressing. To keep

him quiet, she gave him a book to read, Montaigne's

"Essays." Georges opened it and read the thirtyfifth
chapter of the second book, the essay on "Three

Good Women," which tells how three brave women
of antiquity endured death or suffering in order to

share their husbands' fate. Curiously enough, the
essay concludes with these words, almost prophetic

for the unhappy reader: "I am enforced to live, and
sometimes to live is magnanimity." Whilst Georges

went to fetch a cab, the widow released Gaudry
from his place of concealment, exhorted him to have

courage, and promised him, if he succeeded, the

accomplishment of his desire. And so the gay

couple departed for the ball. There the widow's high

spirits, her complete enjoyment, were remarked by

more than one of her acquaintances; she danced
one dance with her lover, and with another young

man made an engagement for the following week.

Meanwhile, at the Rue de Boulogne, Gaudry
sat and waited in the widow's bedroom. From the

window he could see the gate and the lights of the

cab that was to bring the revellers home. The hours

passed slowly. He tried to read the volume of
Montaigne where Georges had left it open, but the

words conveyed little to him, and he fell asleep.
Between two and three o'clock in the morning he

was waked by the noise of wheels. They had
returned. He hurried downstairs and took up his

position in the shadow of one of the pavilions. As
Georges de Saint Pierre walked up the drive alone,

for the widow had stayed behind to fasten the gate,
he thought he saw the figure of a man in the

darkness. The next moment he was blinded by the

burning liquid flung in his face. The widow had

brought down her pigeon.

At first she would seem to have succeeded

perfectly in her attempt. Georges was injured for
life, the sight of one eye gone, that of the other

threatened, his face sadly disfigured. Neither he nor

anyone else suspected the real author of the crime.
It was believed that the unfortunate man had been

mistaken for some other person, and made by

accident the victim of an act of vengeance directed

against another. Georges was indeed all the
widow's now, lodged in her own house to nurse and

care for. She undertook the duty with every
appearance of affectionate devotion. The unhappy

patient was consumed with gratitude for her untiring
solicitude; thirty nights she spent by his bedside.

His belief in her was absolute. It was his own wish
that she alone should nurse him. His family were

kept away, any attempts his relatives or friends
made to see or communicate with him frustrated by

the zealous widow.

It was this uncompromising attitude on her

part toward the friends of Georges, and a rumour

which reached the ears of one of them that she

intended as soon as possible to take her patient
away to Italy, that sounded the first note of danger

to her peace of mind. This friend happened to be

acquainted with the son of one of the Deputy Public
Prosecutors in Paris. To that official he confided his

belief that there were suspicious circumstances in

the case of Georges de Saint Pierre. The judicial

authorities were informed and the case placed in the
hands of an examining magistrate. On February 2,

nearly a month after the crime, the magistrate,
accompanied by Mace, then a commissary of police,

afterwards head of the Detective Department, paid a
visit to the Rue de Boulogne. Their reception was

not cordial. It was only after they had made known
their official character that they got audience of the

widow. She entered the room, carrying in her hand
a surgical spray, with which she played nervously

while the men of the law asked to see her charge.

She replied that it was impossible. Mace placed

himself in front of the door by which she had

entered, and told her that her attitude was not

seemly. "Leave that spray alone," he said; "it might
shoot over us, and then perhaps we should be

sprinkled as M. de Saint Pierre was." From that

moment, writes Mace, issue was joined between the
widow and himself.

The magistrate insisted on seeing the

patient. He sat by his bedside. M. de Saint Pierre

told him that, having no enemies, he was sure he
had been the victim of some mistake, and that, as

he claimed no damages for his injuries, he did not
wish his misfortune to be made public. He wanted

to be left alone with his brave and devoted nurse,
and to be spared the nervous excitement of a

meeting with his family. He intended, he added, to
leave Paris shortly for change of scene and air. The

widow cut short the interview on the ground that her
patient was tired.

It was inhuman, she said, to make him

suffer so. The magistrate, before leaving, asked her

whither she intended taking her patient. She

replied, "To Italy." That, said the magistrate, would

be impossible until his inquiry was closed. In the
meantime she might take him to any place within

the Department of the Seine; but she must be

prepared to be under the surveillance of M. Mace,
who would have the right to enter her house

whenever he should think it expedient. With this

disconcerting intelligence the men of the law took

leave of the widow.
She was no longer to be left in undisturbed

possession of her prize. Her movements were
watched by two detectives. She was seen to go to

the bachelor lodgings of Georges and take away a
portable desk, which contained money and

correspondence. More mysterious, however, was a
visit she paid to the Charonne Cemetery, where she

had an interview with an unknown, who was dressed
in the clothes of a workman. She left the cemetery

alone, and the detectives lost track of her

companion. This meeting took place on February

11. Shortly after the widow left Paris with Georges

de Saint Pierre for the suburb of Courbevoie.

Mace had elicited certain facts from the
porter at the Rue de Boulogne and other witnesses,

which confirmed his suspicion that the widow had

played a sinister part in her lover's misfortune. Her
insistence that he should take her to the ball on

January 13; the fact that, contrary to the ordinary

politeness of a gentleman, he was walking in front of

her at the time of the attack; and that someone
must have been holding the gate open to enable the

assailant to escape it was a heavy gate, which, if left
to itself after being opened, would swing too quickly

on its hinges and shut of its own accordthese facts
were sufficient to excite suspicion. The

disappearance, too, of the man calling himself her
brother, who had been seen at her apartment on the

afternoon of the 13th, coupled with the mysterious
interview in the cemetery, suggested the possibility

of a crime in which the widow had had the help of an

accomplice. To facilitate investigation it was

necessary to separate the widow from her lover.

The examining magistrate, having ascertained from

a medical report that such a separation would not be
hurtful to the patient, ordered the widow to be sent

back to Paris, and the family of M. de Saint Pierre to

take her place. The change was made on March 6.
On leaving Courbevoie the widow was taken to the

office of Mace. There the commissary informed her

that she must consider herself under provisional

arrest. "But who," she asked indignantly, "is to look
after my Georges?" "His family," was the curt reply.

The widow, walking up and down the room like a
panther, stormed and threatened. When she had in

some degree recovered herself, Mace asked her
certain questions. Why had she insisted on her

lover going to the ball? She had done nothing of the
kind. How was it his assailant had got away so

quickly by the open gate? She did not know. What
was the name and address of her reputed brother?

She was not going to deliver an honest father of a

family into the clutches of the police. What was the

meaning of her visit to the Charonne Cemetery?

She went there to pray, not to keep assignations.

"And if you want to know," she exclaimed, "I have
had typhoid fever, which makes me often forget

things. So I shall say nothing morenothingnothing."

Taken before the examining magistrate, her
attitude continued to be defiant and arrogant. "Your

cleverest policemen," she told the magistrate, "will

never find any evidence against me. Think well

before you send me to prison. I am not the woman
to live long among thieves and prostitutes." Before

deciding finally whether the widow should be thrown
into such uncongenial society, the magistrate

ordered Mace to search her apartment in the Rue de
Boulogne.

On entering the apartment the widow asked
that all the windows should be opened. "Let in the

air," she said; "the police are coming in; they make
a nasty smell." She was invited to sitdown while the

officers made their search. Her letters and papers

were carefully examined; they presented a strange

mixture of order and disorder. Carefully kept

account books of her personal expenses were mixed

up with billets dous, paints and pomades,
moneylenders' circulars, belladonna and

cantharides. But most astounding of all were the

contents of the widows' prieDieu. In this devotional
article of furniture were stored all the inmost secrets

of her profligate career. Affectionate letters from

the elderly gentleman on whom she had imposed a

supposititious child lay side by side with a
blackedged card, on which was written the last

message of a young lover who had killed himself on
her account. "Jeanne, in the flush of my youth I die

because of you, but I forgive you.M." With these
genuine outpourings of misplaced affection were

mingled the indecent verses of a more vulgar
admirer, and little jars of hashish. The widow,

unmoved by this rude exposure of her way of life,
only broke her silence to ask Mace the current prices

on the Stock Exchange.

One discovery, however, disturbed her

equanimity. In the drawer of a cupboard, hidden

under some linen, Mace found a leather case

containing a sheaf of partiallyburnt letters. As he
was about to open it the widow protested that it was

the property of M. de Saint Pierre. Regardless of her

protest, Mace opened the case, and, looking through
the letters, saw that they were addressed to M. de

Saint Pierre and were plainly of an intimate

character. "I found them on the floor near the stove

in the diningroom," said the widow, "and I kept
them. I admit it was a wrong thing to do, but

Georges will forgive me when he knows why I did
it." From his better acquaintance with her character

Mace surmised that an action admitted by the widow
to be "wrong" was in all probability something

worse. Without delay he took the prisoner back to
his office, and himself left for Courbevoie, there to

enlighten, if possible, her unhappy victim as to the
real character of his enchantress.

The interview was a painful one. The lover

refused to hear a word against his mistress.

"Jeanne is my Antigone," he said. "She has lavished

on me all her care, her tenderness, her love, and

she believes in God." Mace told him of her past, of
the revelations contained in the prieDieu of this true

believer, but he could make no impression. "I

forgive her past, I accept her present, and please
understand me, no one has the power to separate

me from her." It was only when Mace placed in his

hands the bundle of burnt letters, that he might feel

what he could not see, and read him some passages
from them, that the unhappy man realised the full

extent of his mistress' treachery. Feeling himself
dangerously ill, dying perhaps, M. de Saint Pierre

had told the widow to bring from his rooms to the
Rue de Boulogne the contents of his private desk. It

contained some letters compromising to a woman's
honour. These he was anxious to destroy before it

was too late. As he went through the papers, his
eyes bandaged, he gave them to the widow to throw

into the stove. He could hear the fire burning and

feel its warmth. He heard the widow take up the

tongs. He asked her why she did so. She answered

that it was to keep the burning papers inside the

stove. Now from Mace he learnt the real truth. She
had used the tongs to take out some of the letters

half burnt, letters which in her possession might be

one day useful instruments for levying blackmail on
her lover. "To blind me," exclaimed M. de Saint

Pierre, "to torture me, and then profit by my

condition to lie to me, to betray meit's infamous

infamous!" His dream was shattered. Mace had
succeeded in his task; the disenchantment of M. de

Saint Pierre was complete. That night the fastidious
widow joined the thieves and prostitutes in the St.

Lazare Prison.
It was all very well to imprison the widow,

but her participation in the outrage on M. de Saint
Pierre was by no means established.

The reputed brother, who had been in the
habit of attending on her at the Rue de Boulogne,

still eluded the searches of the police. In silence lay

the widow's only hope of baffling her enemies.

Unfortunately for the widow, confinement told on

her nerves. She became anxious, excited. Her very

ignorance of what was going on around her, her
lover's silence made her apprehensive; she began to

fear the worst. At lengththe widow always had an

itch for writingshe determined to communicate at all
costs with Gaudry and invoke his aid. She wrote

appealing to him to come forward and admit that he

was the man the police were seeking, for sheltering

whom she had been thrown into prison. She drew a
harrowing picture of her sufferings in jail. She had

refused food and been forcibly fed; she would like to
dash her head against the walls. If any misfortune

overtake Gaudry, she promises to adopt his son and
leave him a third of her property. She persuaded a

fellowprisoner; an Italian dancer undergoing six
months' imprisonment for theft, who was on the

point of being released, to take the letter and
promise to deliver it to Gaudry at Saint Denis. On

her release the dancer told her lover of her promise.

He refused to allow her to mix herself up in such a

case, and destroyed the letter. Then the dancer

blabbed to others, until her story reached the ears

of the police. Mace sent for her. At first she could
remember only that the name Nathalis occurred in

the letter, but after visiting accidentally the

Cathedral at Saint Denis, she recollected that this
Nathalis lived there, and worked in an oil factory. It

was easy after this for the police to trace Gaudry.

He was arrested. At his house, letters from the

widow were found, warning him not to come to her
apartment, and appointing to meet him in Charonne

Cemetery. Gaudry made a full confession. It was
his passion for the widow, and a promise on her part

to marry him, which, he said, had induced him to
perpetrate so abominable a crime. He was sent to

the Mazas Prison.
In the meantime the Widow Gras was

getting more and more desperate. Her complete
ignorance tormented her. At last she gave up all

hope, and twice attempted suicide with powdered

glass and verdigris. On May 12 the examining

magistrate confronted her with Gaudry. The man

told his story, the widow feigned surprise that the

"friend of her childhood" should malign her so
cruelly. But to her desperate appeals Gaudry would

only reply, "It is too late!" They were sent for trial.
The trial of the widow and her accomplice
opened before the Paris Assize Court on July 23,

1877, and lasted three days. The widow was

defended by Lachaud, one of the greatest criminal

advocates of France, the defender of Madame
Lafarge, La Pommerais, Tropp

mann, and Marshal Bazaine. M. Demange
(famous later for his defence of Dreyfus) appeared

for Gaudry. The case had aroused considerable
interest. Among those present at the trial were

Halevy, the dramatist, and MounetSully and
Coquelin, from the Comedie Francaise. Fernand

Rodays thus described the widow in the Figaro:
"She looks more than her age, of moderate height,

well made, neither blatant nor ill at ease, with

nothing of the air of a woman of the town. Her

hands are small. Her bust is flat, and her back

round, her hair quite white. Beneath her brows

glitter two jetblack eyesthe eyes of a tigress, that
seem to breathe hatred and revenge."

Gaudry was interrogated first. Asked by the

President the motive of his crime, he answered, "I
was mad for Madame Gras; I would have done

anything she told me. I had known her as a child, I

had been brought up with her. Then I saw her

again. I loved her, I was mad for her, I couldn't
resist it. Her wish was law to me."

Asked if Gaudry had spoken the truth, the
widow said that he lied. The President asked what

could be his motive for accusing her unjustly. The
widow was silent. Lachaud begged her to answer.

"I cannot," she faltered. The President invited her
to sit down. After a pause the widow seemed to

recover her nerve.
President: Was Gaudry at your house while

you were at the ball?

Widow: No, no! He daren't look me in the

face and say so.

President: But he is looking at you now.

Widow: No, he daren't! (She fixes her eyes
on Gaudry, who lowers his head.)

President: I, whose duty it is to interrogate

you, look you in the face and repeat my question:
Was Gaudry at your house at halfpast ten that

night?

Widow: No.

President: You hear her, Gaudry?
Gaudry: Yes, Monsieur, but I was there.

Widow: It is absolutely impossible! Can
anyone believe me guilty of such a thing.

President: Woman Gras, you prefer to feign
indignation and deny everything. You have the

right. I will read your examination before the
examining magistrate. I see M. Lachaud makes a

gesture, but I must beg the counsel for the defence
not to impart unnecessary passion into these

proceedings.
Lachaud: My gesture was merely meant to

express that the woman Gras is on her trial, and

that under the circumstances her indignation is

natural.
President: Very good.

The appearance in the witness box of the

widow's unhappy victim evoked sympathy. He gave
his evidence quietly, without resentment or

indignation. As he told his story the widow, whose

eyes were fixed on him all the time, murmured:

"Georges! Georges! Defend me! Defend me!" "I
state the facts," he replied.

The prisoners could only defend themselves
by trying to throw on each other the guilt of the

crime. M. Demange represented Gaudry as acting
under the influence of his passion for the Widow

Gras. Lachaud, on the other hand, attributed the
crime solely to Gaudry's jealousy of the widow's

lover, and contended that he was the sole author of
the outrage.

The jury by their verdict assigned to the

widow the greater share of responsibility. She was

found guilty in the full degree, but to Gaudry were

accorded extenuating circumstances. The widow

was condemned to fifteen years' penal servitude,
her accomplice to five years' imprisonment.

It is dreadful to think how very near the

Widow Gras came to accomplishing successfully her
diabolical crime. A little less percipitancy on her

part, and she might have secured the fruits of her

cruelty. Her undoubted powers of fascination, in

spite of the fiendishness of her real character, are
doubly proved by the devotion of her lover and the

guilt of her accomplice. At the same time, with that
strange contradiction inherent in human nature, the

Jekyll and Hyde elements which, in varying degree,
are present in all men and women, the Widow Gras

had a genuine love for her young sister. Her hatred
of men was reasoned, deliberate, merciless and

implacable. There is something almost sadic in the
combination in her character of erotic sensibility with

extreme cruelty.


Vitalis and Marie Boyer

I found the story of this case in a brochure
published in Paris as one of a series of modern

causes celebres. I have compared it with the
reports of the trial in the Gazette des Tribunaux.

I In the May of 1874, in the town of
Montpellier, M. Boyer, a retired merchant, some

fortysix years of age, lay dying. For some months
previous to his death he had been confined to his

bed, crippled by rheumatic gout. As the hour of his
death drew near, M. Boyer was filled with a great

longing to see his daughter, Marie, a girl of fifteen,

and embrace her for the last time. The girl was

being educated in a convent at Marseilles. One of

M. Boyer's friends offered to go there to fetch her.

On arriving at the convent, he was told that Marie
had become greatly attracted by the prospect of a

religious life. "You are happy," the Mother Superior

had written to her mother, "very happy never to
have allowed the impure breath of the world to have

soiled this little flower. She loves you and her father

more than one can say." Her father's friend found

the girl dressed in the costume of a novice, and was
told that she had expressed her desire to take, one

day, her final vows. He informed Marie of her
father's dying state, of his earnest wish to see her

for the last time, and told her that he had come to
take her to his bedside. "Take me away from here?"

she exclaimed. The Mother Superior, surprised at
her apparent reluctance to go, impressed on her the

duty of acceding to her father's wish. To the
astonishment of both, Marie refused to leave the

convent. If she could save her father's life, she

said, she would go, but, as that was impossible and

she dreaded going out into the world again, she

would stay and pray for her father in the chapel of

the convent, where her prayers would be quite as
effective as by his bedside. In vain the friend and

the Mother Superior tried to bend her resolution.

Happily M. Boyer died before he could learn
of his daughter's singular refusal. But it had made

an unfavourable impression on the friend's mind.

He looked on Marie as a girl without real feeling, an

egoist, her religion purely superficial, hiding a cold
and selfish disposition; he felt some doubt as to the

future development of her character.
M. Boyer left a widow, a dark handsome

woman, forty years of age.
Some twenty years before his death, Marie

Salat had come to live with M. Boyer as a domestic
servant. He fell in love with her, she became his

mistress, and a few months before the birth of
Marie, M. Boyer made her his wife. Madame Boyer

was at heart a woman of ardent and voluptuous

passions that only wanted opportunity to become

careless in their gratification. Her husband's long

illness gave her such an opportunity. At the time of

his death she was carrying on an intrigue with a
bookseller's assistant, Leon Vitalis, a young man of

twentyone. Her bed ridden husband, ignorant of her

infidelity, accepted gratefully the help of Vitalis,
whom his wife described as a relative, in the

regulation of his affairs. At length the unsuspecting

Boyer died. The night of his death Madame Boyer

spent with her lover.
The mother had never felt any great

affection for her only child.
During her husband's lifetime she was glad

to have Marie out of the way at the convent. But
the death of M. Boyer changed the situation. He

had left almost the whole of his fortune, about
100,000 francs, to his daughter, appointing her

mother her legal guardian with a right to the
enjoyment of the income on the cap

ital until Marie should come of age. Madame

Boyer had not hitherto taken her daughter's

religious devotion very seriously. But now that the

greater part of her husband's fortune was left to

Marie, she realised that, should her daughter persist
in her intention of taking the veil, that fortune would

in a very few years pass into the hands of the

sisterhood. Without delay Madame Boyer exercised
her authority, and withdrew Marie from the convent.

The girl quitted it with every demonstration of

genuine regret.

Marie Boyer when she left the convent was
growing into a tall and attractive woman, her figure

slight and elegant, her hair and eyes dark, dainty
and charming in her manner. Removed from the

influences of convent life, her religious devotion
became a thing of the past. In her new

surroundings she gave herself up to the enjoyments
of music and the theatre. She realised that she was

a pretty girl, whose beauty well repaid the hours she
now spent in the adornment of her person. The

charms of Marie were not lost on Leon Vitalis. Mean

and significant in appearance, Vitalis would seem to

have been one of those men who, without any great

physical recommendation, have the knack of making

themselves attractive to women. After her
husband's death Madame Boyer had yielded herself

completely to his influence and her own undoubted

passion for him. She had given him the money with
which to purchase a business of his own as a

secondhand bookseller. This trade the enterprising

and greedy young man combined with money

lending and he clandestine sale of improper books
and photographs. To such a man the coming of

Marie Boyer was a significant event. She was
younger, more attractive than her mother; in a very

few years the whole of her father's fortune would be
hers. Slowly Vitalis set himself to win the girl's

affections. The mother's suspicions were aroused;
her jealousy was excited. She sent Marie to

complete her education at a convent school in
Lyons. This was in the April of 1875. By this time

Marie and Vitalis had become friendly enough to

arrange to correspond clandestinely during the girl's

absence from home. Marie was so far ignorant of

the relations of Vitalis with her mother.

Her daughter sent away, Madame Boyer
surrendered herself with complete abandonment to

her passion for her lover. At Castelnau, close to

Montpellier, she bought a small country house.
There she could give full rein to her desire. To the

scandal of the occasional passerby she and her lover

would bathe in a stream that passed through the

property, and sport together on the grass. Indoors
there were always books from Vitalis' collection to

stimulate their lascivious appetites. This life of
pastoral impropriety lasted until the middle of

August, when Marie Boyer came home from Lyons.
Vitalis would have concealed from the young

girl as long as he could the nature of his relations
with Madame Boyer, but his mistress by her own

deliberate conduct made all concealment impossible.
Whether from the utter recklessness of her passion

for Vitalis, or a desire to kill in her daughter's heart

any attachment which she may have felt towards

her lover, the mother paraded openly before her

daughter the intimacy of her relations with Vitalis,

and with the help of the literature with which the
young bookseller supplied her, set about corrupting

her child's mind to her own depraved level. The

effect of her extraordinary conduct was, however,
the opposite to what she had intended. The mind of

the young girl was corrupted; she was familiarised

with vice. But in her heart she did not blame Vitalis

for what she saw and suffered; she pitied, she
excused him. It was her mother whom she grew to

hate, with a hate all the more determined for the
cold passionless exterior beneath which it was

concealed.
Madame Boyer's deliberate display of her

passion for Vitalis served only to aggravate and
intensify in Marie Boyer an unnatural jealousy that

was fast growing up between mother and daughter.
Marie did not return to the school at Lyons.

In the winter of 1875, Madame Boyer gave up the

country house and, with her daughter, settled in one

of the suburbs of Montpellier. In the January of

1876 a theft occurred in her household which

obliged Madame Boyer to communicate with the
police. Spendthrift and incompetent in the

management of her affairs, she was hoarding and

suspicious about money itself. Cash and bonds she
would hide away in unexpected places, such as

books, dresses, even a soup tureen. One of her

most ingenious hiding places was a portrait of her

late husband, behind which she concealed some
bearer bonds in landed security, amounting to about

11,000 francs. One day in January these bonds
disappeared. She suspected a theft, and informed

the police. Three days later she withdrew her
complaint, and no more was heard of the matter.

As Marie and Vitalis were the only persons who
could have known her secret, the inference is

obvious. When, later in the year, Vitalis announced
his intention of going to Paris on business, his

mistress expressed to him the hope that he would

"have a good time" with her bonds. Vitalis left for

Paris. But there was now a distinct understanding

between Marie and himself. Vitalis had declared

himself her lover and asked her to marry him. The
following letter, written to him by Marie Boyer in the

October of 1876, shows her attitude toward his

proposal:
"I thank you very sincerely for your letter,

which has given me very greatpleasure, because it

tells me that you are well. It sets my mind at rest,

for my feelings towards you are the same as ever. I
don't say they are those of love, for I don't know

myself; I don't know what such feelings are. But I
feel a real affection for you which may well turn to

love. How should I not hold in affectionate
remembrance one who has done everything for me?

But love does not come to order. So I can't and
don't wish to give any positive answer about our

marriageall depends on circumstances. I don't want
any promise from you, I want you to be as free as I

am. I am not fickle, you know me well enough for

that. So don't ask me to give you any promise. You

may find my letter a little cold. But I know too

much of life to pledge myself lightly. I assure you I

think on it often. Sometimes I blush when I think
what marriage means."

Madame Boyer, displeased at the theft, had

let her lover go without any great reluctance. No
sooner had he gone than she began to miss him.

Life seemed dull without him. Mother and daughter

were united at least in their common regret at the

absence of the young bookseller. To vary the
monotony of existence, to find if possible a husband

for her daughter, Madame Boyer decided to leave
Montpellier for Marseilles, and there start some kind

of business. The daughter, who foresaw greater
amusement and pleasure in the life of a large city,

assented willingly. On October 6, 1876, they arrived
at Marseilles, and soon after Madame bought at a

price considerably higher than their value, two shops
adjoining one another in the Rue de la Republique.

One was a cheese shop, the other a milliner's.

The mother arranged that she should look

after the cheese shop, while her daughter presided

over the milliner's. The two shops were next door to

one another. Behind the milliner's was a
drawingroom, behind the cheese shop a kitchen;

these two rooms communicated with each other by

a large dark room at the back of the building. In the
kitchen was a trapdoor leading to a cellar. The two

women shared a bedroom in an adjoining house.

Vitalis had opposed the scheme of his

mistress to start shop keeping in Marseilles. He
knew how unfitted she was to undertake a business

of any kind. But neither mother nor daughter would
relinquish the plan. It remained therefore to make

the best of it. Vitalis saw that he must get the
business into his own hands; and to do that, to

obtain full control of Madame Boyer's affairs, he
must continue to play the lover to her. To the

satisfaction of the two women, he announced his
intention of coming to Marseilles in the New Year of

1877. It was arranged that he should pass as a

nephew of Madame Boyer, the cousin of Marie. He

arrived at Marseilles on January 1, and received a

cordial welcome. Of the domestic arrangements

that ensued, it is sufficient to say that they were
calculated to whet the jealousy and inflame the

hatred that Marie felt towards her mother, who now

persisted as before in parading before her daughter
the intimacy of her relations with Vitalis.

In these circumstances Vitalis succeeded in

extracting from his mistress a power of attorney,

giving him authority to deal with her affairs and sell
the two businesses, which were turning out

unprofitable. This done, he told Marie, whose
growing attachment to him, strange as it may seem,

had turned to love, that now at last they could be
free. He would sell the two shops, and with the

money released by the sale they could go away to
gether. Suddenly Madame Boyer fell ill, and

was confined to her bed. Left to themselves, the
growing passion of Marie Boyer for Vitalis

culminated in her surrender. But for the sick mother

the happiness of the lovers was complete. If only

her illness were more serious, more likely to be fatal

in its result! "If only God would take her!" said

Vitalis. "Yes," replied her daughter, "she has caused
us so much suffering!"

To Madame Boyer her illness had brought

hours of torment, and at last remorse. She realised
the duplicity of her lover, she knew that he meant to

desert her for her daughter, she saw what wrong

she had done that daughter, she suspected even

that Marie and Vitalis were poisoning her.
Irreligious till now, her thoughts turned to religion.

As soon as she could leave her bed she would go to
Mass and make atonement for her sin; she would

recover her power of attorney, get rid of Vitalis for
good and all, and send her daughter back to a

convent. But it was too late. Nemesis was swift to
overtake the hapless woman. Try as he might,

Vitalis had found it impossible to sell the shops at
anything but a worthless figure. He had no money

of his own, with which to take Marie away. He knew

that her mother had resolved on his instant

dismissal.

As soon as Madame Boyer was recovered

sufficiently to leave her bed, she turned on her
former lover, denounced his treachery, accused him

of robbing and swindling her, and bade him go

without delay. To Vitalis dismissal meant ruin, to
Marie it meant the loss of her lover. During her

illness the two young people had wished Madame

Boyer dead, but she had recovered. Providence or

Nature having refused to assist Vitalis, he resolved
to fall back on art. He gave up a whole night's rest

to the consideration of the question. As a result of
his deliberations he suggested to the girl of

seventeen the murder of her mother. "This must
end," said Vitalis. "Yes, it must," replied Marie.

Vitalis asked her if she had any objection to such a
crime. Marie hesitated, the victim was her mother.

Vitalis reminded her what sort of a mother she had
been to her. The girl said that she was terrified at

the sight of blood; Vitalis promised that her mother

should be strangled. At length Marie consented.

That night on some slight pretext Madame Boyer

broke out into violent reproaches against her

daughter. She little knew that every reproach she
uttered served only to harden in her daughter's

heart her unnatural resolve.

On the morning of March 19 Madame Boyer
rose early to go to Mass.

Before she went out, she reminded Vitalis

that this was his last day in her service, that when

she returned she would expect to find him gone. It
was after seven when she left the house. The lovers

had no time to lose; the deed must be done
immediately on the mother's return. They arranged

that Vitalis should get rid of the shopboy, and that,
as soon as he had gone, Marie should shut and lock

the front doors of the two shops. At one o'clock
Madame Boyer came back. She expressed her

astonishment and disgust that Vitalis still lingered,
and threatened to send for the police to turn him

out. Vitalis told the shopboy that he could go away

for a few hours; they had some family affairs to

settle. The boy departed. Madame Boyer, tired

after her long morning in the town, was resting on a

sofa in the sittingroom, at the back of the milliner's
shop. Vitalis entered the room, and after a few

heated words, struck her a violent blow in the chest.

She fell back on the sofa, calling to her daughter to
come to her assistance. The daughter sought to

drown her mother's cries by banging the doors, and

opening and shutting drawers. Vitalis, who was now

trying to throttle his victim, called to Marie to shut
the front doors of the two shops.

To do so Marie had to pass through the
sittingroom, and was a witness to the unsuccessful

efforts of Vitalis to strangle her mother. Having
closed the doors, she retired into the milliner's shop

to await the issue. After a few moments her lover
called to her for the large cheese knife; he had

caught up a kitchen knife, but in his struggles it had
slipped from his grasp. Quickly Marie fetched the

knife and returned to the sittingroom. There a

desperate struggle was taking place between the

man and woman. At one moment it seemed as if

Madame Boyer would get the better of Vitalis, whom

nature had not endowed greatly for work of this
kind. Marie came to his aid. She kicked and beat

her mother, until at last the wretched creature

released her hold and sank back exhausted. With
the cheese knife, which her daughter had fetched,

Vitalis killed Madame Boyer.

They were murderers now, the young lovers.

What to do with the body? The boy would be
coming back soon. The cellar under the kitchen

seemed the obvious place of concealment. With the
help of a cord the body was lowered into the cellar,

and Marie washed the floor of the sittingroom. The
boy came back. He asked where Madame Boyer

was. Vitalis told him that she was getting ready to
return to Montpellier the same evening, and that he

had arranged to go with her, but that he had no
intention of doing so; he would accompany her to

the station, he said, and then at the last moment,

just as the train was starting, slip away and let her

go on her journey alone. To the boy, who knew

enough of the inner history of the household to

enjoy the piquancy of the situation, such a trick
seemed quite amusing. He went away picturing in

his mind the scene at the railway station and its

humorous possibilities.
At seven o'clock Vitalis and Marie Boyer

were alone once more with the murdered woman.

They had the whole night before them. Vitalis had

already considered the matter of the disposal of the
body. He had bought a pick and spade. He

intended to bury his former mistress in the soil
under the cellar. After that had been done, he and

Marie would sell the business for what it would
fetch, and go to Brusselsan admirable plan, which

two unforeseen circumstances defeated. The Rue de
la Republique was built on a rock, blasted out for the

purpose. The shopboy had gone to the station that
evening to enjoy the joke which, he believed, was to

be played on his mistress.

When Vitalis tried to dig a grave into the

ground beneath the cellar he realised the full horror

of the disappointment. What was to be done? They

must throw the body into the sea. But how to get it
there? The crime of Billoir, an old soldier, who the

year before in Paris had killed his mistress in a fit of

anger and cut up her body, was fresh in the
recollection of Vitalis. The guilty couple decided to

dismember the body of Madame Boyer and so

disfigure her face as to render it unrecognisable. In

the presence of Marie, Vitalis did this, and the two
lovers set out at midnight to discover some place

convenient for the reception of the remains. They
found the harbour too busy for their purpose, and

decided to wait until the morrow, when they would
go farther afield. They returned home and retired

for the night, occupying the bed in which Madame
Boyer had slept the night before.

On the morning of the 20th the lovers rose
early, and a curious neighbour, looking through the

keyhole, saw them counting joyously money and

valuables, as they took them from Madame Boyer's

cashbox. When the shopboy arrived, he asked

Vitalis for news of Madame Boyer. Vitalis told him

that he had gone with her to the station, that she
had taken the train to Montpellier, and that, in

accordance with his plan, he had given her the slip

just as the train was starting. This the boy knew to
be false: he had been to the station himself to enjoy

the fun, and had seen neither Vitalis nor Madame

Boyer. He began to suspect some mystery. In the

evening, when the shops had been closed, and he
had been sent about his business, he waited and

watched. In a short time he saw Vitalis and Marie
Boyer leave the house, the former dragging a

handcart containing two large parcels, while Marie
walked by his side. They travelled some distance

with their burden, leaving the city behind them,
hoping to find some deserted spot along the coast

where they could conceal the evidence of their
crime. Their nerves were shaken by meeting with a

customhouse officer, who asked them what it was

they had in the cart. Vitalis answered that it was a

traveller's luggage, and the officer let them pass on.

But soon after, afraid to risk another such

experience, the guilty couple turned out the parcels
into a ditch, covered them with stones and sand,

and hurried home.

The next day, the shopboy and the
inquisitive neighbour having consulted together,

went to the Commissary of Police and told him of

the mysterious disappearance of Madame Boyer.

The Commissary promised to investigate the matter,
and had just dismissed his informants when word

was brought to him of the discovery, in a ditch
outside Marseilles, of two parcels containing human

remains. He called back the boy and took him to
view the body at the Morgue. The boy was able, by

the clothes, to identify the body as that of his late
mistress. The Commissary went straight to the

shops in the Rue de la Republique, where he found
the young lovers preparing for flight. At first they

denied all knowledge of the crime, and said that

Madame Boyer had gone to Montpellier. They were

arrested, and it was not long before they both

confessed their guilt to the examining magistrate.

Vitalis and Marie Boyer were tried before the
Assize Court at Aix on July 2, 1877. Vitalis is

described as mean and insignificant in appearance,

thin, roundbacked, of a bilious complexion; Marie
Boyer as a pretty, dark girl, her features cold in

expression, dainty and elegant. At her trial she

seemed to be still so greatly under the influence of

Vitalis that during her interrogatory the President
sent him out of court. To the examining magistrate

Marie Boyer, in describing her mother's mur der,
had written, "I cannot think how I came to take part

in it. I, who wouldn't have stayed in the presence of
a corpse for all the money in the world." Vitalis was

condemned to death, and was executed on August
17. He died fearful and penitent, acknowledging his

miserable career to be a warning to misguided
youth. Extenuating circumstances were accorded to

Marie Boyer, and she was sentenced to penal

servitude for life. Her conduct in prison was so

repentant and exemplary that she was released in

1892.
M. Proal, a distinguished French judge, and
the author of some important works on crime, acted

as the examining magistrate in the case of Vitalis

and Marie Boyer. He thus sums up his impression of
the two criminals: "Here is an instance of how

greed and baseness on the one side, lust and

jealousy on the other, bring about by degrees a

change in the characters of criminals, and, after
some hesitation, the suggestion and

accomplishment of parricide, Is it necessary to seek
an explanation of the crime in any psychic

abnormality which is negatived to all appearances by
the antecedents of the guilty pair? Is it necessary to

ask it of anatomy or physiology? Is not the crime
the result of moral degradation gradually asserting

itself in two individuals, whose moral and intellectual
faculties are the same as those of other men, but

who fall, step by step, into vice and crime? It is by

a succession of wrongful acts that a man first

reaches the frontier of crime and then at length

crosses it."


The Fenayrou Case

There is an account of this case in Bataille
"Causes Criminelles et Mondaines" (1882), and in

Mace's book, "Femmes Criminelles." It is alluded to
in "Souvenirs d'un President d'Assises," by Berard

des Glajeux. The murder of the chemist Aubert by
Marin Fenayrou and his wife Gabrielle was

perpetrated near Paris in the year 1882. In its
beginning the story is commonplace enough.

Fenayrou was the son of a small chemist in the
South of France, and had come to Paris from the

Aveyron Department to follow his father's vocation.

He obtained a situation as apprentice in the Rue de

la Ferme des Mathurins in the shop of a M. Gibon.

On the death of M. Gibon his widow thought she saw

in Fenayrou a man capable of carrying on her late
husband's business. She gave her daughter in

marriage to her apprentice, and installed him in the

shop. The ungrateful soninlaw, sure of his wife and
his business and contrary to his express promise,

turned the old lady out of the house. This occurred

in the year 1870, Fenayrou being then thirty years

of age, his wife, Gabrielle, seventeen.
They were an illassorted and unattractive

couple. The man, a compound of coarse brutality
and shrewd cunning, was at heart lazy and selfish,

the woman a spoilt child, in whom a real want of
feeling was supplied by a shallow sentimentalism.

Vain of the superior refinement conferred on her by
a good middleclass education, she despised and

soon came to loathe her coarse husband, and lapsed
into a condition of disappointment and discontent

that was only relieved superficially by an

extravagant devotion to religious exercises.

It was in 1875, when the disillusionment of

Mme. Fenayrou was complete, that her husband

received into his shop a pupil, a youth of twentyone,
Louis Aubert. He was the son of a Norman

tradesman. The ambitious father had wished his

son to enter the church, but the son preferred to be
a chemist. He was a shrewd, hardworking fellow,

with an eye to the main chance and a taste for

pleasures that cost him nothing, jovial, but vulgar

and self satisfied, the kind of man who, having
enjoyed the favours of woman, treats her with

arrogance and contempt, till from loving she comes
to loathe hima characteristic example, according to

M. Bourget, of le faux homme a femmes. Such was
Aubert, Fenayrou's pupil. He was soon to become

something more than pupil.
Fenayrou as chemist had not answered to

the expectations of his motherinlaw. His innate
laziness and love of coarse pleasures had asserted

themselves. At first his wife had shared in the

enjoyments, but as time went on and after the birth

of their two children, things became less prosperous.

She was left at home while Fenayrou spent his time

in drinking bocks of beer, betting and attending
racemeetings. It was necessary, under these

circumstances, that someone should attend to the

business of the shop. In Aubert Fenayrou found a
ready and willing assistant.

From 1876 to 1880, save for an occasional

absence for military service, Aubert lived with the

Fenayrous, managing the business and making love
to the bored and neglected wife, who after a few

months became his mistress. Did Fenayrou know of
this intrigue or not? That is a crucial question in the

case. If he did not, it was not for want of warning
from certain of his friends and neighbours, to whom

the intrigue was a matter of common knowledge.
Did he refuse to believe in his wife's guilt? or,

dependent as he was for his living on the exertions
of his assistant, did he deliberately ignore it, relying

on his wife's attractions to keep the assiduous

Aubert at work in the shop? In any case Aubert's

arrogance, which had increased with the

consciousness of his importance to the husband and

his conquest of the wife, led in August of 1880, to a
rupture. Aubert left the Fenayrous and bought a

business of his own on the Boulevard Malesherbes.

Before his departure Aubert had tried to
persuade Mme. Gibon to sell up her soninlaw by

claiming from him the unpaid purchase money for

her husband's shop. He represented Fenayrou as an

idle gambler, and hinted that he would find her a
new purchaser. Such an underhand proceeding was

likely to provoke resentment if it should come to the
ears of Fenayrou. During the two years that elapsed

between his departure from Fenayrou's house and
his murder, Aubert had prospered in his shop on the

Boulevard Malesherbes, whilst the fortunes of the
Fenayrous had steadily deteriorated.

At the end of the year 1881 Fenayrou sold
his shop and went with his family to live on one of

the outer boulevards, that of GouvionSaintCyr. He

had obtained a post in a shady mining company, in

which he had persuaded his motherinlaw to invest

20,000 francs. He had attempted also to make

money by selling fradulent imitations of a famous
tablewater. For this offence, at the beginning of

1882, he was condemned by the Correctional

Tribunal of Paris to three months' imprisonment and
1,000 francs costs.

In March of 1882 the situation of the

Fenayrous was parlous, that of Aubert still

prosperous.
Since Aubert's departure Mme. Fenayrou

had entertained another lover, a gentleman on the
staff of a sporting newspaper, one of Fenayrou's turf

acquaintances. This gentleman had found her a cold
mistress, preferring the ideal to the real. As a

murderess Madame Fenayrou overcame this
weakness.

If we are to believe Fenayrou's story, the
most critical day in his life was March 22, 1882, for

it was on that day, according to his account, that he

learnt for the first time of his wife's intrigue with

Aubert. Horrified and enraged at the discovery, he

took from her her nuptial wreath, her weddingring,

her jewellery, removed from its frame her picture in
charcoal which hung in the drawingroom, and told

her, paralysed with terror, that the only means of

saving her life was to help him to murder her lover.
Two months later, with her assistance, this

outraged husband accomplished his purpose with

diabolical deliberation. He must have been well

aware that, had he acted on the natural impulse of
the moment and revenged himself then and there on

Aubert, he would have committed what is regarded
by a French jury as the most venial of crimes, and

would have escaped with little or no punishment.
He preferred, for reasons of his own, to set about

the commission of a deliberate and coldblooded
murder that bears the stamp of a more sinister

motive than the vengeance of a wronged husband.
The only step he took after the alleged

confession of his wife on March 22 was to go to a

commissary of police and ask him to recover from

Aubert certain letters of his wife's that were in his

possession. This the commissary refused to do.

Mme. Gibon, the motherinlaw, was sent to Aubert to
try to recover the letters, but Aubert declined to give

them up, and wrote to Mme. Fenayrou:

"Madame, to my displeasure I have had a
visit this morning from your mother, who has come

to my home and made a most unnecessary scene

and reproached me with facts so serious that I must

beg you to see me without delay. It concerns your
honour and mine. . . . I have no fear of being

confronted with your husband and yourself. I am
ready, when you wish, to justify myself. . . . Please

do all you can to prevent a repetition of your
mother's visit or I shall have to call in the police."

It is clear that the Fenayrous attached the
utmost importance to the recovery of this

correspondence, which disappeared with Aubert's
death. Was the prime motive of the murder the

recovery and destruction of these letters? Was

Aubert possessed of some knowledge concerning the

Fenayrous that placed them at his mercy?

It would seem so. To a friend who had

warned him of the danger to which his intimacy with
Gabrielle Fenayrou exposed him, Aubert had replied,

"Bah! I've nothing to fear. I hold them in my

power." The nature of the hold which Aubert
boasted that he possessed over these two persons

remains the unsolved mystery of the case, "that

limit of investigation," in the words of a French

judge, "one finds in most great cases, beyond which
justice strays into the unknown."

That such a hold existed, Aubert's own
statement and the desperate attempts made by the

Fenayrous to get back these letters, would seem to
prove beyond question. Had Aubert consented to

return them, would he have saved his life? It seems
probable. As it was, he was doomed. Fenayrou

hated him. They had had a row on a racecourse, in
the course of which Aubert had humiliated his

former master. More than this, Aubert had boasted

openly of his relations with Mme. Fenayrou, and the

fact had reached the ears of the husband. Fenayrou

believed also, though erroneously, that Aubert had

informed against him in the matter of the tablewater
fraud. Whether his knowledge of Aubert's relations

with his wife was recent or of long standing, he had

other grounds of hate against his former pupil. He
himself had failed in life, but he saw his rival

prosperous, arrogant in his prosperity, threatening,

dangerous to his peace of mind; he envied and

feared as well as hated him. Cruel, cunning and
sinister, Fenayrou spent the next two months in the

meditation of a revenge that was not only to remove
the man he feared, but was to give him a truly

fiendish opportunity of satisfying his ferocious
hatred.

And the wife what of her share in the
business? Had she also come to hate Aubert? Or

did she seek to expiate her guilt by assisting her
husband in the punishment of her seducer? A

witness at the trial described Mme. Fenayrou as "a

soft paste" that could be moulded equally well to

vice or virtue, a woman destitute of real feeling or

strength of will, who, under the direction of her

husband, carried out implicitly, precisely and
carefully her part in an atrocious murder, whose

only effort to prevent the commission of such a deed

was to slip away into a church a few minutes before
she was to meet the man she was decoying to his

death, and pray that his murder might be averted.

Her religious sense, like the images in the

hat of Louis XI., was a source of comfort and
consolation in the doing of evil, but powerless to

restrain her from the act itself, in the presence of a
will stronger than her own. At the time of his death

Aubert contemplated marriage, and had advertised
for a wife. If Mme. Fenayrou was aware of this, it

may have served to stimulate her resentment
against her lover, but there seems little reason to

doubt that, left to herself, she would never have had
the will or the energy to give that resentment

practical expression. It required the dictation of the

vindictive and malevolent Fenayrou to crystallise her

hatred of Aubert into a deliberate participation in his

murder.
Eight or nine miles northwest of Paris lies
the small town of Chatou, a pleasant country resort

for tired Parisians. Here Madeleine Brohan, the

famous actress, had inhabited a small villa, a
twostoried building. At the beginning of 1882 it was

to let. In the April of that year a person of the name

of "Hess" agreed to take it at a quarterly rent of

1,200 francs, and paid 300 in advance. "Hess" was
no other than Fenayrouthe villa that had belonged to

Madeleine Brohan the scene chosen for Aubert's
murder. Fenayrou was determined to spare no

expense in the execution of his design: it was to
cost him some 3,000 francs before he had finished

with it.
As to the actual manner of his betrayer's

death, the outraged husband found it difficult to
make up his mind. It was not to be prompt, nor was

unnecessary suffering to be avoided. At first he

favoured a pair of "infernal" operaglasses that

concealed a couple of steel points which, by means

of a spring, would dart out into the eyes of anyone

using them and destroy their sight. This rather
elaborate and uncertain machine was abandoned

later in favour of a trap for catching wolves. This

was to be placed under the table, and seize in its
huge iron teeth the legs of the victim. In the end

simplicity, in the shape of a hammer and swordstick,

won the day. An assistant was taken in the person

of Lucien Fenayrou, a brother of Marin.
This humble and obliging individual, a maker

of children's toys, regarded his brother the chemist
with something like veneration as the gentleman

and man of education of the family. Fifty francs
must have seemed to him an almost superfluous

inducement to assist in the execution of what
appeared to be an act of legitimate vengeance, an

affair of family honour in which the wife and brother
of the injured husband were in duty bound to

participate. Mme. Fenayrou, with characteristic

superstition, chose the day of her boy's first

communion to broach the subject of the murder to

Lucien. By what was perhaps more than

coincidence, Ascension Day, May 18, was selected
as the day for the crime itself. There were practical

reasons also. It was a Thursday and a public

holiday. On Thursdays the Fenayrou children spent
the day with their grandmother, and at holiday time

there was a special midnight train from Chatou to

Paris that would enable the murderers to return to

town after the commission of their crime. A goat
chaise and twentysix feet of gas piping had been

purchased by Fenayrou and taken down to the villa.
Nothing remained but to secure the

presence of the victim. At the direction of her
husband Mme. Fenayrou wrote to Aubert on May 14,

a letter in which she protested her undying love for
him, and expressed a desire to resume their

previous relations. Aubert demurred at first, but, as
she became more pressing, yielded at length to her

suggestion. If it cost him nothing, Aubert was the

last man to decline an invitation of the kind. A trip

to Chatou was arranged for Ascension Day, May 18,

by the train leaving Paris from the St. Lazare

Station, at halfpast eight in the evening.
On the afternoon of that day Fenayrou, his

wife and his brother sent the children to their

grandmother and left Paris for Chatou at three
o'clock. Arrived there, they went to the villa,

Fenayrou carrying the twentysix feet of gaspiping

wound round him like some huge huntinghorn. He

spent the afternoon in beating out the piping till it
was flat, and in making a gag. He tried to take up

the flooring in the kitchen, but this plan for the
concealment of the body was abandoned in favour of

the river. As soon as these preparations, in which
he was assisted by his two relatives, had been

completed, Fenayrou placed a candle, some matches
and the swordstick on the drawingroom table and

returned to Paris.
The three conspirators dined together

heartily in the Avenue de Clichysoup, fish, entree,

sweet and cheese, washed down by a bottle of claret

and a pint of burgundy, coffee to follow, with a glass

of chartreuse for Madame. To the waiter the party

seemed in the best of spirits. Dinner ended, the two
men returned to Chatou by the 7.35 train, leaving

Gabrielle to follow an hour later with Aubert.

Fenayrou had taken three secondclass return tickets
for his wife, his brother and himself, and a single for
their visitor. It was during the interval between the

departure of her husband and her meeting with

Aubert that Mme. Fenayrou went into the church of
St. Louis d'Antin and prayed.

At halfpast eight she met Aubert at the St.
Lazare Station, gave him his ticket and the two set

out for Chatoua strange journey Mme. Fenayrou was
asked what they talked about in the railway

carriage. "Mere nothings," she replied. Aubert
abused her mother; for her own part, she was very

agitatedtres emotionnee. It was about halfpast nine
when they reached their destination. The sight of

the little villa pleased Aubert.

"Ah!" he said, "this is good. I should like a

house like this and twenty thousand francs a year!"

As he entered the hall, surprised at the darkness, he

exclaimed: "The devil! it's precious dark! `tu sais,
Gabrielle, que je ne suis pas un heros d'aventure.'"

The woman pushed him into the drawing room. He

struck a match on his trousers. Fenayrou, who had
been lurking in the darkness in his shirt sleeves,

made a blow at him with the hammer, but it was

ineffectual. A struggle ensued. The room was

plunged in darkness. Gabrielle waited outside.
After a little, her husband called for a light; she

came in and lit a candle on the mantelpiece.
Fenayrou was getting the worst of the encounter.

She ran to his help, and dragged off his opponent.
Fenayrou was free. He struck again with the

hammer. Aubert fell, and for some ten minutes
Fenayrou stood over the battered and bleeding man

abusing and insulting him, exulting in his
vengeance. Then he stabbed him twice with the

swordstick, and so ended the business.

The murderers had to wait till past eleven to

get rid of the body, as the streets were full of

holidaymakers. When all was quiet they put it into

the goat chaise, wrapped round with the gaspiping,
and wheeled it on to the Chatou bridge. To prevent

noise they let the body down by a rope into the

water. It was heavier than they thought, and fell
with a loud splash into the river. "Hullo!" exclaimed

a nightfisherman, who was mending his tackle not

far from the bridge, "there go those butchers again,

chucking their filth into the Seine!"
As soon as they had taken the chaise back

to the villa, the three assassins hurried to the
station to catch the last train. Arriving there a little

before their time, they went into a neighbouring
cafe. Fenayrou had three bocks, Lucien one, and

Madame another glass of chartreuse. So home to
Paris. Lucien reached his house about two in the

morning. "Well," asked his wife, "did you have a
good day?" "Splendid," was the reply.

Eleven days passed. Fenayrou paid a visit to

the villa to clean it and put it in order. Otherwise he

went about his business as usual, attending race

meetings, indulging in a picnic and a visit to the

Salon. On May 27 a man named Bailly, who, by a
strange coincidence, was known by the nickname of

"the Chemist," walking by the river, had his

attention called by a bargeman to a corpse that was
floating on the water. He fished it out. It was that

of Aubert. In spite of a gag tired over his mouth the

water had got into the body, and, notwithstanding

the weight of the lead piping, it had risen to the
surface.

As soon as the police had been informed of
the disappearance of Aubert, their suspicions had

fallen on the Fenayrous in consequence of the
request which Marin Fenayrou had made to the

commissary of police to aid him in the recovery from
Aubert of his wife's letters. But there had been

nothing further in their conduct to provoke
suspicion. When, however, the body was dis

covered and at the same time an

anonymous letter received denouncing the

Fenayrous as the murderers of Aubert, the police

decided on their arrest. On the morning of June 8

M. Mace, then head of the Detective Department,
called at their house. He found Fenayrou in a

dressinggown. This righteous avenger of his wife's

seduction denied his guilt, like any common
criminal, but M. Mace handed him over to one of his

men, to be taken immediately to Versailles. He

himself took charge of Madame, and, in the firstclass

carriage full of people, in which they travelled
together to Versailles, she whispered to the

detective a full confession of the crime.
Mace has left us an account of this singular

railway journey. It was two o'clock in the afternoon.
In the carriage were five ladies and a young man

who was reading La Vie Parisienne. Mme. Fenayrou
was silent and thoughtful. "You're thinking of your

present position?" asked the detective. "No, I'm
thinking of my mother and my dear children." "They

don't seem to care much about their father,"

remarked Mace. "Perhaps not." "Why?" asked M.

Mace. "Because of his violent temper," was the

reply. After some further conversation and the

departure at Courbevoie of the young man with La
Vie Parisienne, Mme. Fenayrou asked abruptly: "Do

you think my husband guilty?" "I'm sure of it." "So

does Aubert's sister." "Certainly," an
swered M. Mace; "she looks on the crime as

one of revenge." "But my brotherinlaw," urged the

woman, "could have had no motive for vengeance

against Aubert." Mace answered coldly that he
would have to explain how he had employed his

time on Ascension Day. "You see criminals
everywhere," answered Madame.

After the train had left St. Cloud, where the
other occupants of the carriage had alighted, the

detective and his prisoner were alone, free of
interruption till Versailles should be reached.

Hitherto they had spoken in whispers; now Mace
seized the opportunity to urge the woman to

unbosom herself to him, to reveal her part in the

crime. She burst into tears. There was an interval

of silence; then she thanked Mace for the kindness

and consideration he had shown her. "You wish

me," she asked, "to betray my husband?" "Without
any design or intention on your part," discreetly

answered the detective; "but by the sole force of

circumstances you are placed in such a position that
you cannot help betraying him."

Whether convinced or not of this tyranny of

circumstance, Mme. Fenayrou obeyed her mentor,

and calmly, coldly, without regret or remorse, told
him the story of the assassination. Towards the end

of her narration she softened a little. "I know I am
a criminal," she exclaimed. "Since this morning I

have done nothing but lie. I am sick of it; it makes
me suffer too much. Don't tell my husband until this

evening that I have confessed; there's no need, for,
after what I have told you, you can easily expose his

falsehoods and so get at the truth."
That evening the three prisonersLucien had

been arrested at the same time as the other

twowere brought to Chatou. Identified by the

gardener as the lessee of the villa, Fenayrou

abandoned his protestations of innocence and

admitted his guilt. The crime was then and there
reconstituted in the presence of the examining

magistrate. With the help of a gendarme, who

imper
sonated Aubert, Fenayrou repeated the

incidents of the murder. The goatchaise was

wheeled to the bridge, and there in the presence of

an indignant crowd, the murderer showed how the
body had been lowered into the river.

After a magisterial investigation lasting two
months, which failed to shed any new light on the

more mysterious elements in the case, Fenayrou, his
wife and brother were indicted on August 19 before

the Assize Court for the SeineetOise Department,
sitting at Versailles.

The attitude of the three culprits was hardly
such as to provoke the sympathies of even a French

jury. Fenayrou seemed to be giving a clumsy and

unconvincing performance of the role of the

wronged husband; his heavy figure clothed in an

illfitting suit of "blue dittos," his illkempt red beard

and bockstained moustache did not help him in his
impersonation. Mme. Fenayrou, pale, colourless,

insignificant, was cold and impenetrable. She

described the murder of her lover "as if she were
giving her cook a household recipe for making

apricot Jam." Lucien was humble and lachrymose.

In his interrogatory of the husband the

President, M. Berard des Glajeux, showed himself
frankly sceptical as to the ingenuousness of

Fenayrou's motives in assassinating Aubert. "Now,
what was the motive of this horrible crime?" he

asked. "Revenge," answered Fenayrou.
President: But consider the care you took to

hide the body and destroy all trace of your guilt;
that is not the way in which a husband sets out to

avenge his honour; these are the methods of the
assassin! With your wife's help you could have

caught Aubert in flagrante delicto and killed him on

the spot, and the law would have absolved you.

Instead of which you decoy him into a hideous

snare. Public opinion suggests that jealousy of your

former assistant's success, and mortification at your
own failure, were the real motives. Or was it not

perhaps that you had been in the habit of rendering

somewhat dubious services to some of your
promiscuous clients?
Fenayrou: Nothing of the kind, I swear it!

President: Do not protest too much.

Remember that among your acquaintances you were
suspected of cheating at cards. As a chemist you

had been convinced of fraud. Perhaps Aubert knew
something against you. Some act of poisoning, or

abortion, in which you had been concerned? Many
witnesses have believed this.

Your motherinlaw is said to have remarked,
"My soninlaw will end in jail."

Fenayrou (bursting into tears): This is too
dreadful.

President: And Dr. Durand, an old friend of

Aubert, remembers the deceased saying to him,

"One has nothing to fear from people one holds in

one's hands."
Fenayrou: I don't know what he meant.
President: Or, considering the cruelty,

cowardice, the cold calculation displayed in the

commission of the crime, shall we say this was a
woman's not a man's revenge. You have said your

wife acted as your slavewas it not the other way

about?

Fenayrou: No; it was my revenge, mine
alone.

The view that regarded Mme. Fenayrou as a
soft, malleable paste was not the view of the

President.
"Why," he asked the woman, "did you

commit this horrible murder, decoy your lover to his
death?" "Because I had repented," was the answer;

"I had wronged my husband, and since he had been
condemned for fraud, I loved him the more for being

unfortunate. And then I feared for my children."

President: Is that really the case?

Mme. Fenayrou: Certainly it is.

President: Then your whole existence has

been one of lies and hypocrisy. Whilst you were
deceiving your husband and teaching your children

to despise him you were covering him with caresses.

You have played false to both husband and
loverto Aubert in decoying him to his death, to your

husband by denouncing him directly you were

arrested. You have betrayed everybody. The only

person you have not betrayed is yourself. What sort
of a woman are you? As you and Aubert went into

the drawingroom on the evening of the murder you
said loudly, "This is the way," so that your husband,

hearing your voice outside, should not strike you by
mistake in the darkness. If Lucien had not told us

that you attacked Aubert whilst he was struggling
with your husband, we should never have known it,

for you would never have admitted it, and your
husband has all along refused to implicate you. . . .

You have said that you had ceased to care for your
lover: he had ceased to care for you. He was

prosperous, happy, about to marry: you hated him,

and you showed your hate when, during the murder,

you flung yourself upon him and cried, "Wretch!" Is
that the behaviour of a woman who represents

herself to have been the timid slave of her husband?

No. This crime is the revenge of a cowardly and
pitiless woman, who writes down in her account

book the expenses of the trip to Chatou and, after

the murder, picnics merrily in the green fields. It

was you who steeled your husband to the task.
How far the President was justified in thus

inverting the parts played by the husband and wife
in the crime must be a matter of opinion. In his

volume of Souvenirs M. Berard des Glajeux modifies
considerably the view which he perhaps felt it his

duty to express in his interrogatory of Gabrielle
Fenayrou. He describes her as soft and flexible by

nature, the repentant slave of her husband, seeking
to atone for her wrong to him by helping him in his

revenge. The one feature in the character of Mme.

Fenayrou that seems most clearly demonstrated is

its absolute insensibility under any circumstances

whatsoever.
The submissive Lucien had little to say for
himself, nor could any motive for joining in the

murder beyond a readiness to oblige his brother be

suggested. In his Souvenirs M. Berard des Glajeux
states that today it would seem to be clearly

established that Lucien acted blindly at the bidding

of his sisterinlaw, "qu'il avait beaucoup aimee et qui

n'avait pas ete cruelle a son egard."
The evidence recapitulated for the most part

the facts already set out. The description of Mme.
Fenayrou by the gentleman on the sporting

newspaper who had succeeded Aubert in her
affections is, under the circumstances, interesting:

"She was sad, melancholy; I questioned her, and
she told me she was married to a coarse man who

neglected her, failed to understand her, and had
never loved her. I became her lover but, except on

a few occasions, our relations were those of good

friends. She was a woman with few material wants,

affectionate, expansive, an idealist, one who had

suffered much and sought from without a happiness

her marriage had never brought her. I believe her
to have been the blind tool of her husband."

From motives of delicacy the evidence of

this gentleman was read in his presence; he was not
examined orally. His eulogy of his mistress is loyal.

Against it may be set the words of the Procureur de

la Republique, M. Delegorgue: "Never has a more

thoroughpaced, a more hideous monster been
seated in the dock of an assize court. This woman is

the personification of falsehood, depravity,
cowardice and treachery. She is worthy of the

supreme penalty." The jury were not of this opinion.
They preferred to regard Mme. Fenayrou as playing

a secondary part to that of her husband. They
accorded in both her case and that of Lucien ex

tenuating circumstances. The woman was
sentenced to penal servitude for life, Lucien to seven

years. Fenayrou, for whose conduct the jury could

find no extenuation, was condemned to death.

It is the custom in certain assize towns for

the President, after pronouncing sentence, to visit a

prisoner who had been ordered for execution. M.
Berard des Glajeux describes his visit to Fenayrou at

Versailles. He was already in prison dress, sobbing.

His iron nature, which during five days had
never flinched, had broken down; but it was not for

himself he wept, but for his wife, his children, his

brother; of his own fate he took no account. At the

same moment his wife was in the lodge of the
courthouse waiting for the cab that was to take her

to her prison. Freed from the anxieties of the trial,
knowing her life to be spared, without so much as a

thought for the husband whom she had never loved,
she had tidied herself up, and now, with all the ease

of a woman, whose misfortunes have not destroyed
her selfpossession, was doing the honours of the

jail. It was she who received her judge.
But Fenayrou was not to die. The Court of

Cassation, to which he had made the usual appeal

after condemnation, decided that the proceedings at

Versailles had been vitiated by the fact that the

evidence of Gabrielle Fenayrou's second lover had

not been taken ORALLY, within the requirements of
the criminal code; consequently a new trial was

ordered before the Paris Assize Court. This second

trial, which commenced on October 12, saved
Fenayrou's head. The Parisian jury showed

themselves more lenient than their colleagues at

Versailles. Not only was Fenayrou accorded

extenuating circumstances, but Lucien was acquitted
altogether. The only person to whom these new

proceedings brought no benefit was Mme. Fenayrou,
whose sentence remained unaltered.

Marin Fenayrou was sent to New Caledonia
to serve his punishment.

There he was allowed to open a dispensary,
but, proving dishonest, he lost his license and

became a ferrymana very Charon for terrestrial
passengers. He died in New Caledonia of cancer of

the liver.
Gabrielle Fenayrou made an exemplary

prisoner, so exemplary that, owing to her good

conduct and a certain ascendancy she exercised

over her fellowprisoners, she was made forewoman
of one of the workshops. Whilst holding this position

she had the honour of receiving, among those

entrusted to her charge, another Gabrielle,
murderess, Gabrielle Bompard, the history of whose

crime is next to be related.



Eyraud and Bompard

There are accounts of this case in Bataille
"Causes Criminelles et Mondaines," 1890, and in

Volume X. of Fouquier "Causes Celebres." "L'Affaire
Gouffe" by Dr. Lacassagne, Lyons, 1891, and Goron

"L'Amour Criminel" may be consulted.
ON July 27, in the year 1889, the Parisian

police were informed of the disappearance of one
Gouffe, a bailiff. He had been last seen by two

friends on the Boulevard Montmartre at about ten
minutes past seven on the evening of the 26th, a

Friday. Since then nothing had been heard of him,

either at his office in the Rue Montmartre, or at his

private house in the Rue Rougemont. This was

surprising in the case of a man of regular habits

even in his irregularities, robust health, and cheerful
spirits.

Gouffe was a widower, fortytwo years of

age. He had three daughters who lived happily with
him in the Rue Rougemont. He did a good trade as

bailiff and processserver, and at times had

considerable sums of money in his possession.

These he would never leave behind him at his office,
but carry home at the end of the day's work, except

on Fridays. Friday nights Gouffe always spent away
from home. As the society he sought on these

nights was of a promiscuous character, he was in
the habit of leaving at his office any large sum of

money that had come into his hands during the day.
About nine o'clock on this particular Friday

night, July 26, the hallporter at Gouffe's office in the
Rue Montmartre heard someone, whom he had

taken at first to be the bailiff himself, enter the hall

and go upstairs to the office, where he remained a

few minutes. As he descended the stairs the porter

came out of his lodge and, seeing it was a stranger,

accosted him. But the man hurried away without
giving the porter time to see his face.

When the office was examined the next day

everything was found in perfect order, and a sum of
14,000 francs, hidden away behind some papers,

untouched. The safe had not been tampered with;

there was, in short, nothing unusual about the room

except ten long matches that were lying half burnt
on the floor.

On hearing of the bailiff's disappearance and
the mysterious visitor to his office, the police, who

were convinced that Gouffe had been the victim of
some criminal design, inquired closely into his

habits, his friends, his associates, men and women.
But the one man who could have breathed the name

that would have set the police on the track of the
real culprits was, for reasons of his own, silent. The

police examined many persons, but without arriving

at any useful result.

However, on August 15, in a thicket at the

foot of a slope running down from the road that

passes through the district of Millery, about ten
miles from Lyons, a roadmender, attracted by a

peculiar smell, discovered the remains of what

appeared to be a human body. They were wrapped
in a cloth, but so decomposed as to make

identification almost impossible. M. Goron, at that

time head of the Parisian detective police, believed

them to be the remains of Gouffe, but a relative of
the missing man, whom he sent to Lyons, failed to

identify them. Two days after the discovery of the
corpse, there were found near Millery the broken

fragments of a trunk, the lock of which fitted a key
that had been picked up near the body. A label on

the trunk showed that it had been dispatched from
Paris to Lyons on July 27, 188, but the final figure of

the date was obliterated. Reference to the books of
the railway company showed that on July 27, 1889,

the day following the disappearance of Gouffe, a

trunk similar in size and weight to that found near

Millery had been sent from Paris to Lyons.

The judicial authorities at Lyons scouted the

idea that either the corpse or the trunk found at
Millery had any connection with the disappearance

of Gouffe. When M. Goron, bent on following up

what he believed to be important clues, went
himself to Lyons he found that the remains, after

being photographed, had been interred in the

common buryingground. The young doctor who had

made the autopsy produced triumphantly some hair
taken from the head of the corpse and showed M.

Goron that whilst Gouffe's hair was admittedly
auburn and cut short, this was black, and had

evidently been worn long. M. Goron, after looking
carefully at the hair, asked for some distilled water.

He put the lock of hair into it and, after a few
minutes' immersion, cleansed of the blood, grease

and dust that had caked them together, the hairs
appeared clearly to be short and auburn. The doctor

admitted his error.

Fortified by this success, Goron was able to

procure the exhumation of the body. A fresh

autopsy was performed by Dr. Lacassagne, the

eminent medical jurist of the Lyons School of
Medicine. He was able to pronounce with certainty

that the remains were those of the bailiff, Gouffe.

An injury to the right ankle, a weakness of the right
leg, the absence of a particular tooth and other

admitted peculiarities in Gouffe's physical

conformation, were present in the corpse, placing its

identity beyond question. This second postmortem
revealed furthermore an injury to the thyroid

cartilage of the larynx that had been inflicted beyond
any doubt whatever, declared Dr. Lacassagne,

before death.
There was little reason to doubt that Gouffe

had been the victim of murder by strangulation.
But by whom had the crime been

committed? It was now the end of November. Four
months had passed since the bailiff's murder, and

the police had no clue to its perpetrators. At one

time a friend of Gouffe's had been suspected and

placed under arrest, but he was released for want of

evidence.
One day toward the close of November, in
the course of a conversation with M. Goron, a

witness who had known Gouffe surprised him by

saying abruptly, "There's another man who
disappeared about the same time as Gouffe." M.

Goron pricked up his ears. The witness explained

that he had not mentioned the fact before, as he

had not connected it with his friend's disappearance;
the man's name, he said, was Eyraud, Michel

Eyraud, M. Goron made some inquires as to this
Michel Eyraud. He learnt that he was a married

man, fortysix years of age, once a distiller at Sevres,
recently commissionagent to a bankrupt firm, that

he had left France suddenly, about the time of the
disappearance of Gouffe, and that he had a

mistress, one Gabrielle Bompard, who had
disappeared with him. Instinctively M. Goron

connected this fugitive couple with the fate of the

murdered bailiff.

Confirmation of his suspicions was to come

from London. The remains of the trunk found at

Millery had been skilfully put together and exposed
at the Morgue in Paris, whilst the Gouffe family had

offered a reward of 500 francs to anybody who could

in any way identify the trunk. Beyond producing a
large crop of anonymous letters, in one of which the

crime was attributed to General Boulanger, then in

Jersey, these measures seemed likely to prove

fruitless. But one day in December, from the keeper
of a boardinghouse in Gower Street, M. Goron

received a letter informing him that the writer
believed that Eyraud and Gabrielle Bompard had

stayed recently at his house, and that on July 14 the
woman, whom he knew only as "Gabrielle," had left

for France, crossing by Newhaven and Dieppe, and
taking with her a large and almost empty trunk,

which she had purchased in London. Inquires made
by the French detectives established the correctness

of this correspondent's information. An assistant at

a trunk shop in the Euston Road was able to identify

the trunk brought over from Paris for the purposeas

one purchased in his shop on July 12 by a

Frenchman answering to the description of Michel
Eyraud. The wife of the boardinghouse keeper

recollected having expressed to Gabrielle her

surprise that she should buy such an enormous
piece of luggage when she had only one dress to put

into it. "Oh that's all right," answered Gabrielle

smilingly, "we shall have plenty to fill it with in

Paris!" Gabrielle had gone to Paris with the trunk on
July 14, come back to London on the 17th, and on

the 20th she and Eyraud returned together to Paris
From these facts it seemed more than probable that

these two were the assassins so eagerly sought for
by the police, and it seemed clear also that the

murder had been done in Paris. But what had
become of this couple, in what street, in what house

in Paris had the crime been committed? These were
questions the police were powerless to answer.

The year 1889 came to an end, the

murderers were still at large. But on January 21,

1890, M. Goron found lying on his table a large

letter bearing the New York postmark. He opened

it, and to his astonishment read at the end the
signature "Michel Eyraud." It was a curious letter,

but undoubtedly genuine. In it Eyraud protested

against the suspicions directed against himself; they
were, he wrote, merely unfortunate coincidences.

Gouffe had been his friend; he had had no share

whatever in his death; his only misfortune had been

his association with "that serpent, Gabrielle
Bompard." He had certainly bought a large trunk for

her, but she told him that she had sold it. They had
gone to America together, he to avoid financial

difficulties in which he had been involved by the
dishonesty of the Jews. There Gabrielle had

deserted him for another man. He concluded a very
long letter by declaring his belief in Gabrielle's

innocence"the great trouble with her is that she is
such a liar and also has a dozen lovers after her."

He promised that, as soon as he learnt that Gabrielle

had returned to Paris, he would, of his own free will,

place himself in the hands of M. Goron.

He was to have an early opportunity of

redeeming his pledge, for on the day following the
receipt of his letter a short, wellmade woman,

dressed neatly in black, with dyed hair, greyishblue

eyes, good teeth, a disproportionately large head
and a lively and intelligent expression of face,

presented herself at the Prefecture of Police and

asked for an interview with the Prefect.

Requested to give her name, she replied,
with a smile, "Gabrielle Bompard." She was

accompanied by a middleaged gentleman, who
appeared to be devoted to her. Gabrielle Bompard

and her friend were taken to the private room of M.
Loze, the Prefect of Police. There, in a halfamused

way, without the least concern, sitting at times on
the edge of the Prefect's writingtable, Gabrielle

Bompard told how she had been the unwilling
accomplice of her lover, Eyraud, in the murder of

the bailiff, Gouffe. The crime, she stated, had been

committed in No. 3 in the Rue TronsonDucoudray,

but she had not been present; she knew nothing of

it but what had been told her by Eyraud. After the

murder she had accompanied him to America; there
they had met the middle aged gentleman, her

companion. Eyraud had proposed that they should

murder and rob him, but she had divulged the plot
to the gentleman and asked him to take her away.

It was acting on his advice that she had returned to

France, determined to give her evidence to the

judicial authorities in Paris. The middle aged
gentleman declared himself ready to vouch for the

truth of a great part of this interesting narrative.
There they both imagined apparently that the affair

would be ended. They were extremely surprised
when the Prefect, after listening to their statements,

sent for a detectiveinspector who showed Gabrielle
Bompard a warrant for her arrest. After an affecting

parting, at least on the part of the middleaged
gentleman, Gabrielle Bompard was taken to prison.

There she soon recovered her spirits, which had at

no time been very gravely depressed by her critical

situ

ation.
According to Eyraud's letters, if anyone
knew anything about Gouffe's murder, it was

Gabrielle Bompard; according to the woman's

statement, it was Eyraud, and Eyraud alone, who
had committed it. As they were both liarsthe

woman perhaps the greater liar of the twotheir

statements are not to be taken as other than forlorn

attempts to shift the blame on to each other's
shoulders.

Before extracting from their various
avowals, which grew more complete as time went

on, the story of the crime, let us follow Eyraud in his
flight from justice, which terminated in the May of

1890 by his arrest in Havana.
Immediately after the arrest of Gabrielle,

two French detectives set out for America to trace
and run down if possible her deserted lover. For

more than a month they traversed Canada and the

United States in search of their prey. The track of

the fugitive was marked from New York to San

Francisco by acts of thieving and swindling. At the

former city he had made the acquaintance of a
wealthy Turk, from whom, under the pretence of

wishing to be photographed in it, he had borrowed a

magnificent oriental robe. The photograph was
taken, but Eyraud forgot to return the costly robe.

At another time he was lodging in the same

house as a young American actor, called in the

French accounts of the incident "Sir Stout." To "Sir
Stout" Eyraud would appear to have given a most

convincing performance of the betrayed husband;
his wife, he said, had deserted him for another man;

he raved and stormed au
dibly in his bedroom, deploring his fate and

vowing vengeance. These noisy representations so
impressed "Sir Stout" that, on the outraged husband

declaring himself to be a Mexican for the moment
without funds, the benevolent comedian lent him

eighty dollars, which, it is almost needless to add,

he never saw again. In narrating this incident to the

French detectives, "Sir Stout" describes Eyraud's

performance as great, surpassing even those of

Coquelin.
Similar stories of theft and debauchery met

the detectives at every turn, but, helped in a great

measure by the publicity the American newspapers
gave to the movements of his pursuers, Eyraud was

able to elude them, and in March they returned to

France to concert further plans for his capture.

Eyraud had gone to Mexico. From there he
had written a letter to M. Rochefort's newspaper,

L'Intransigeant, in which he declared Gouffe to have
been murdered by Gabrielle and an unknown. But,

when official inquiries were made in Mexico as to his
whereabouts, the bird had flown.

At Havana, in Cuba, there lived a French
dressmaker and clothes merchant named Puchen.

In the month of February a stranger, ragged and
unkempt, but evidently a fellowcountryman, visited

her shop and offered to sell her a superb Turkish

costume. The contrast between the wretchedness of

the vendor and the magnificence of his wares struck

Madame Puchen at the time. But her surprise was

converted into suspicion when she read in the
American newspapers a description of the Turkish

garment stolen by Michel Eyraud, the reputed

assassin of the bailiff Gouffe. It was one morning in
the middle of May that Mme. Puchen read the

description of the robe that had been offered her in

February by her strange visitor. To her

astonishment, about two o'clock the same
afternoon, she saw the stranger standing before her

door. She beckoned to him, and asked him if he still
had his Turkish robe with him; he seemed confused,

and said that he had sold it. The conversation
drifted on to ordinary topics; the stranger described

some of his recent adventures in Mexico. "Oh!"
exclaimed the dressmaker, "they say Eyraud, the

murderer, is in Mexico! Did you come across him?
Were you in Paris at the time of the murder?" The

stranger answered in the negative, but his face

betrayed his uneasiness. "Do you know you're

rather like him?" said the woman, in a halfjoking

way. The stranger laughed, and shortly after went

out, saying he would return. He did return on May
15, bringing with him a number of the Republique

Illustree that contained an almost unrecognisable

portrait of Eyraud. He said he had picked it up in a
cafe. "What a blackguard he looks!" he exclaimed

as he threw the paper on the table. But the

dressmaker's suspicions were not allayed by the

stranger's uncomplimentary reference to the
murderer. As soon as he had gone, she went to the

French Consul and told him her story.
By one of those singular coincidences that

are inadmissable in fiction or drama, but occur at
times in real life, there happened to be in Havana, of

all places, a man who had been employed by Eyraud
at the time that he had owned a distillery at Sevres.

The Consul, on hearing the statement of Mme.
Puchen, sent for this man and told him that a person

believed to be Eyraud was in Havana. As the man

left the Consulate, whom should he meet in the

street but Eyraud himself! The fugitive had been

watching the movements of Mme. Puchen; he had

suspected, after the interview, that the woman
would denounce him to the authorities. He now saw

that disguise was useless. He greeted his

exemploye, took him into a cafe, there admitted his
identity and begged him not to betray him. It was

midnight when they left the cafe. Eyraud, repenting

of his confidence, and no doubt anxious to rid

himself of a dangerous witness, took his friend into
an illlighted and deserted street; but the friend,

conscious of his delicate situation, hailed a passing
cab and made off as quickly as he could.

Next day, the 20th, the search for Eyraud
was set about in earnest. The Spanish authorities,

informed of his presence in Havana, directed the
police to spare no effort to lay hands on him. The

Hotel Roma, at which he had been staying, was
visited; but Eyraud, scenting danger, had gone to an

hotel opposite the railway station. His things were

packed ready for flight on the following morning.

How was he to pass the night? True to his instincts,

a house of illfame, at which he had been entertained

already, seemed the safest and most pleasant
refuge; but, when, seedy and shabby, he presented

himself at the door, he was sent back into the

street. It was past one in the morning. The lonely
murderer wandered aimlessly in the streets,

restless, nervous, a prey to apprehension, not

knowing where to go. Again the man from Sevres

met him. "It's all up with me!" said Eyraud, and
disappeared in the darkness. At two in the morning

a police officer, who had been patrolling the town in
search of the criminal, saw, in the distance, a man

walking to and fro, seemingly uncertain which way
to turn. Hearing footsteps the man turned round

and walked resolutely past the policeman, saying
goodnight in Spanish. "Who are you? What's your

address?" the officer asked abruptly. "Gorski, Hotel
Roma!" was the answer. This was enough for the

officer. Eyraud was know{sic} to have passed as

"Gorski," the Hotel Roma had already been searched

as one of his hidingplaces. To seize and handcuff

"Gorski" was the work of a moment. An

examination of the luggage left by the so called
Gorski at his last hotel and a determined attempt at

suicide made by their prisoner during the night

proved conclusively that to the Spanish police was
the credit of having laid by the heels, ten months

after the commission of the crime, Michel Eyraud,

one of the assassins of the bailiff Gouffe.

On June 16 Eyraud was delivered over to the
French police. He reached France on the 20th, and

on July 1 made his first appearance before the
examining magistrate.

It will be well at this point in the narrative to
describe how Eyraud and Gabrielle Bompard came to

be associated together in crime. Gabrielle Bompard
was twentytwo years of age at the time of her

arrest, the fourth child of a merchant of Lille, a
strong, hardworking, respectable man. Her mother,

a delicate woman, had died of lung disease when

Gabrielle was thirteen. Even as a child lying and

vicious, thinking only of men and clothes, Gabrielle,

after being expelled as incorrigible from four

educational establishments, stayed at a fifth for
some three years. There she astonished those in

authority over her by her precocious propensity for

vice, her treacherous and lying disposition, and a
lewdness of tongue rare in one of her age and

comparative inexperience. At eighteen she returned

to her father's house, only to quit it for a lover

whom, she alleged, had hypnotised and then
seduced her. Gabrielle was singularly susceptible to

hypnotic suggestion. Her father implored the family
doctor to endeavour to persuade her, while in the

hypnotic state, to reform her deplorable conduct.
The doctor did his best but with no success. He

declared Gabrielle to be a neuropath, who had not
found in her home such influences as would have

tended to overcome her vicious instincts. Perhaps
the doctor was inclined to sympathise rather too

readily with his patient, if we are to accept the

report of those distinguished medical gentlemen

who, at a later date, examined carefully into the

mental and physical characteristics of Gabrielle

Bompard.
This girl of twenty had developed into a

supreme instance of the "unmoral" woman, the

conscienceless egoist, morally colourblind, vain,
lewd, the intelligence quick and alert but having no

influence whatever on conduct. One instance will

suffice to show the sinister levity, the utter absence

of all moral sense in this strange creature.
After the murder of Gouffe, Gabrielle spent

the night alone with the trunk containing the bailiff's
corpse. Asked by M. Goron what were her

sensations during this ghastly vigil, she replied with
a smile, "You'd never guess what a funny idea come

into my head! You see it was not very pleasant for
me being thus teteatete with a corpse, I couldn't

sleep. So I thought what fun it would be to go into
the street and pick up some respectable gentleman

from the provinces. I'd bring him up to the room,

and just as he was beginning to enjoy himself say,

`Would you like to see a bailiff?' open the trunk

suddenly and, before he could recover from his

horror, run out into the street and fetch the police.
Just think what a fool the respectable gentleman

would have looked when the officers came!"

Such callousness is almost unsurpassed in
the annals of criminal insensibility. Nero fiddling

over burning Rome, Thurtell fresh from the murder

of Weare, inviting Hunt, the singer and his

accomplice, to "tip them a stave" after supper,
Edwards, the Camberwell murderer, reading with

gusto to friends the report of a fashionable divorce
case, post from the murder of a young married

couple and their babyeven examples such as these
pale before the levity of the "little demon," as the

French detectives christened Gabrielle.
Such was Gabrielle Bompard when, on July

26, exactly one year to a day before the murder of
Gouffe, she met in Paris Michel Eyraud. These two

were made for each other. If Gabrielle were

unmoral, Eyraud was immoral. Fortysix at the time

of Gouffe's murder, he was sufficiently practised in

vice to appreciate and enjoy the flagrantly vicious

propensities of the young Gabrielle. All his life
Eyraud had spent his substance in debauchery. His

passions were violent and at times uncontrollable,

but unlike many remarkable men of a similar
temperament, this strong animalism was not in his

case accompanied by a capacity for vigorous

intellectual exertion or a great power of work.

"Understand this," said Eyraud to one of the
detectives who brought him back to France, "I have

never done any work, and I never will do any work."
To him work was derogatory; better anything than

that. Unfortunately it could not be avoided
altogether, but with Eyraud such work as he was

compelled at different times to endure was only a
means for procuring money for his degraded

pleasures, and when honest work became too
troublesome, dishonesty served in its stead. When

he met Gabrielle he was almost at the end of his

tether, bankrupt and discredited. At a pinch he

might squeeze a little money out of his wife, with

whom he continued to live in spite of his open

infidelities.
Save for such help as he could get from her

small dowry, he was without resources. A deserter

from the army during the Mexican war in 1869, he
had since then engaged in various commercial

enterprises, all of which had failed, chiefly through

his own extravagance, violence and dishonesty.

Gabrielle was quick to empty his pockets of what
little remained in them. The proceeds of her own

immorality, which Eyraud was quite ready to share,
soon proved insufficient to replenish them.

Confronted with ruin, Eyraud and Gompard hit on a
plan by which the woman should decoy some

wouldbe admirer to a convenient trystingplace.
There, dead or alive, the victim was to be made the

means of supplying their wants.
On further reflection dead seemed more

expedient than alive, extortion from a living victim

too risky an enterprise. Their plans were carefully

prepared. Gabrielle was to hire a ground floor

apartment, so that any noise, such as footsteps or

the fall of a body, would not be heard by persons
living underneath.

At the beginning of July, 1889, Eyraud and

Bompard were in London. There they bought at a
West End draper's a red and white silk girdle, and at

a shop in Gower Street a large travelling trunk.

They bought, also in London, about thirteen feet of

cording, a pulley and, on returning to Paris on July
20, some twenty feet of packingcloth, which

Gabrielle, sitting at her window on the fine summer
evenings, sewed up into a large bag.

The necessary groundfloor apartment had
been found at No. 3 Rue TronsonDucoudray. Here

Gabrielle installed herself on July 24. The bedroom
was convenient for the assassins' purpose, the bed

standing in an alcove separated by curtains from the
rest of the room. To the beam forming the

crosspiece at the entrance into the alcove Eyraud

fixed a pulley. Through the pulley ran a rope,

having at one end of it a swivel, so that a man,

hiding behind the curtains could, by pulling the rope

strongly, haul up anything that might be attached to
the swivel at the other end. It was with the help of

this simple piece of mechanism and a good long pull

from Eyraud that the impecunious couple hoped to
refill their pockets.

The victim was chosen on the 25th. Eyraud

had already known of Gouffe's existence, but on that

day, Thursday, in a conversation with a common
friend, Eyraud learnt that the bailiff Gouffe was rich,

that he was in the habit of having considerable sums
of money in his care, and that on Friday nights

Gouffe made it his habit to sleep from home. There
was no time to lose. The next day Gabrielle

accosted Gouffe as he was going to his dejeuner
and, after some little conversation agreed to meet

him at eight o'clock that evening.
The afternoon was spent in preparing for the

bailiff's reception in the Rue TronsonDucoudray. A

loungechair was so arranged that it stood with its

back to the alcove, within which the pulley and rope

had been fixed by Eyraud. Gouffe was to sit on the

chair, Gabrielle on his knee. Gabrielle was then
playfully to slip round his neck, in the form of a

noose, the cord of her dressing gown and, unseen

by him, attach one end of it to the swivel of the rope
held by Eyraud. Her accomplice had only to give a

strong pull and the bailiff's course was run.[17]

[17] One writer on the case has suggested

that the story of the murder by rope and pulley was
invented by Eyraud and Bompard to mitigate the full

extent of their guilt, and that the bailiff was
strangled while in bed with the woman. But the

purchase of the necessary materials in London
would seem to imply a more practical motive for the

use of rope and pulley.
At six o'clock Eyraud and Bompard dined

together, after which Eyraud returned to the
apartment, whilst Bompard went to meet Gouffe

near the Madeline Church. What occurred

afterwards at No. 3 Rue TronsonDucoudray is best

described in the statement made by Eyraud at his

trial.
"At a quarter past eight there was a ring at
the bell. I hid myself behind the curtain. Gouffe

came in. `You've a nice little nest here,' he said.

`Yes, a fancy of mine,' replied Gabrielle, Èyraud
knows nothing about it.' Òh, you're tired of him,'

asked Gouffe. `Yes,' she replied, `that's all over.'

Gabrielle drew Gouffe down on to the chair. She

showed him the cord of her dressinggown and said
that a wealthy admirer had given it to her. `Very

elegant,' said Gouffe, `but I didn't come here to see
that.'

"She then sat on his knee and, as if in play,
slipped the cord round his neck; then putting her

hand behind him, she fixed the end of the cord into
the swivel, and said to him laughingly, `What a nice

necktie it makes!' That was the signal. Eyraud
pulled the cord vigorously and, in two minutes,

Gouffe had ceased to live."

Eyraud took from the dead man his watch

and ring, 150 francs and his keys. With these he

hurried to Gouffe's office and made a fevered search

for money. It was fruitless. In his trembling haste
the murderer missed a sum of 14,000 francs that

was lying behind some papers, and returned, baffled

and despairing, to his mistress and the corpse. The
crime had been a ghastly failure. Fortified by

brandy and champagne, and with the help of the

woman, Eyraud stripped the body, put it into the

bag that had been sewn by Gabrielle, and pushed
the bag into the trunk. Leaving his mistress to

spend the night with their hateful luggage, Eyraud
returned home and, in his own words, "worn out by

the excitement of the day, slept heavily."
The next day Eyraud, after saying goodbye

to his wife and daughter, left with Gabrielle for
Lyons. On the 28th they got rid at Millery of the

body of Gouffe and the trunk in which it had
travelled; his boots and clothes they threw into the

sea at Marseilles. There Eyraud borrowed 500

francs from his brother. Gabrielle raised 2,000

francs in Paris, where they spent August 18 and 19,

after which they left for England, and from England

sailed for America. During their short stay in Paris
Eyraud had the audacity to call at the apartment in

the Rue Tronson Ducoudray for his hat, which he

had left behind; in the hurry of the crime he had
taken away Gouffe's by mistake.

Eyraud had been brought back to Paris from

Cuba at the end of June, 1890. Soon after his

return, in the room in which Gouffe had been done
to death and in the presence of the examining

magistrate, M. Goron, and some fifteen other
persons, Eyraud was confronted with his accomplice.

Each denied vehemently, with hatred and passion,
the other's story. Neither denied the murder, but

each tried to represent the other as the more guilty
of the two. Eyraud said that the suggestion and

plan of the crime had come from Gabrielle; that she
had placed around Gouffe's neck the cord that

throttled him. Gabrielle attributed the inception of

the murder to Eyraud, and said that he had

strangled the bailiff with his own hands.

Eyraud, since his return, had seemed

indifferent to his own fate; whatever it might be, he
wished that his mistress should share it. He had no

objection to going to the guillotine as long as he was

sure that Gabrielle would accompany him. She
sought to escape such a consummation by

representing herself as a mere instrument in

Eyraud's hands. It was even urged in her defence

that, in committing the crime, she had acted under
the influence of hypnotic suggestion on the part of

her accomplice. Three doctors appointed by the
examining magistrate to report on her mental state

came unanimously to the conclusion that, though
undoubtedly susceptible to hypnotic suggestion,

there was no ground for thinking that she had been
acting under such influence when she participated in

the murder of Gouffe. Intellectually the medical
gentlemen found her alert and sane enough, but

morally blind.
The trial of Eyraud and Bompard took place

before the Paris Assize Court on December 16,

1890. It had been delayed owing to the proceedings

of an enterprising journalist. The names of the
jurymen who were to be called on to serve at the

assize had been published. The journalist conceived

the brilliant idea of interviewing some of these
gentlemen.
He succeeded in seeing four of them, but in

his article which appeared in the Matin newspaper

said that he had seen twenty one. Nine of them, he
stated, had declared themselves in favour of

Gabrielle Bompard, but in some of these he had
discerned a certain "eroticism of the pupil of the

eye" to which he attributed their leniency. A
month's imprisonment was the reward of these

flights of journalistic imagination.
A further scandal in connection with the trial

was caused by the lavish distribution of tickets of
admission to all sorts and kinds of persons by the

presiding judge, M. Robert, whose occasional levities

in the course of the proceedings are melancholy

reading. As a result of his indulgence a circular was

issued shortly after the trial by M. Fallieres, then

Minister of Justice, limiting the powers of presidents
of assize in admitting visitors into the reserved part

of the court.
The proceedings at the trial added little to
the known facts of the case. Both Eyraud and

Bompard continued to endeavour to shift the blame

on to each other's shoulders. A curious feature of

the trial was the appearance for the defence of a M.
Liegeois, a professor of law at Nancy. To the dismay

of the Court, he took advantage of a clause in the
Code of Criminal Instruction which permits a witness

to give his evidence without interruption, to deliver
an address lasting four hours on hypnotic

suggestion. He undertook to prove that, not only
Gabrielle Bompard, but Troppmann, Madame Weiss,

and Gabrielle Fenayrou also, had committed murder
under the influence of suggestion.[18] In replying

to this rather fantastic defence, the

ProcureurGeneral, M. Quesnay de Beaurepaire,

quoted a statement of Dr. Brouardel, the eminent

medical jurist who had been called for the

prosecution, that "there exists no instance of a
crime, or attempted crime committed under the

influence of hypnotic suggestion." As to the

influence of Eyraud over Bompard, M. de
Beaurepaire said: "The one outstanding fact that

has been eternally true for six thousand years is that

the stronger will can possess the weaker: that is no

peculiar part of the history of hypnotism; it belongs
to the history of the world.

Dr. Liegeois himself, in coming to this court
today, has fallen a victim to the suggestion of the

young advocate who has persuaded him to come
here to air his theories." The Court wisely declined

to allow an attempt to be made to hypnotise the
woman Bompard in the presence of her judges, and

M. Henri Robert, her advocate, in his appeal to the
jury, threw over altogether any idea of hypnotic

suggestion, resting his plea on the moral weakness

and irresponsibility of his client.

[18] Moll in his "Hypnotism" (London, 1909)

states that, after Gabrielle Bompard's release M.

Liegeois succeeded in putting her into a hypnotic
state, in which she reacted the scene in which the

crime was originally suggested to her. The value of

such experiments with a woman as mischievous and
untruthful as Gabrielle Bompard must be very

doubtful. No trustworthy instance seems to be

recorded in which a crime has been committed

under, or brought about by, hypnotic or
posthypnotic suggestion, though, according to Moll,

"the possibility of such a crime cannot be
unconditionally denied."

In sheer wickedness there seems little
enough to choose between Eyraud and Bompard.

But, in asking a verdict without extenuating
circumstances against the woman, the

ProcureurGeneral was by no means insistent. He
could not, he said, ask for less, his duty would not

permit it: "But I am ready to confess that my

feelings as a man suffer by the duty imposed on me

as a magistrate. On one occasion, at the outset of

my career, it fell to my lot to ask from a jury the

head of a woman. I felt then the same kind of
distress of mind I feel today. The jury rejected my

demand; they accorded extenuating circumstances;

though defeated, I left the court a happier man.
What are you going to do today, gentlemen? It

rests with you. What I cannot ask of you, you have

the right to accord. But when the supreme moment

comes to return your verdict, remember that you
have sworn to judge firmly and fearlessly." The jury

accorded extenuating circumstances to the woman,
but refused them to the man. After a trial lasting

four days Eyraud was sentenced to death, Bompard
to twenty years penal servitude.

At first Eyraud appeared to accept his fate
with resignation. He wrote to his daughter that he

was tired of life, and that his death was the best
thing that could happen for her mother and herself.

But, as time went on and the efforts of his advocate

to obtain a commutation of his sentence held out

some hope of reprieve, Eyraud became more

reluctant to quit the world.

"There are grounds for a successful appeal,"
he wrote, "I am pretty certain that my sentence will

be commuted. . . . You ask me what I do? Nothing

much. I can't write; the pens are so bad. I read
part of the time, smoke pipes, and sleep a great

deal. Sometimes I play cards, and talk a little. I

have a room as large as yours at Sevres. I walk up

and down it, thinking of you all."
But his hopes were to be disappointed. The

Court of Cassation rejected his appeal. A petition
was addressed to President Carnot, but, with a

firmness that has not characterised some of his
successors in office, he refused to commute the

sentence.
On the morning of February 3, 1891, Eyraud

noticed that the warders, who usually went off duty
at six o'clock, remained at their posts. An hour later

the Governor of the Roquette prison entered his cell,

and informed him that the time had come for the

execution of the sentence. Eyraud received the

intelligence quietly. The only excitement he

betrayed was a sudden outburst of violent animosity
against M. Constans, then Minister of the Interior.

Eyraud had been a Boulangist, and so may have

nourished some resentment against the Minister
who, by his adroitness, had helped to bring about

the General's ruin. Whatever his precise motive, he

suddenly exclaimed that M. Constans was his

murderer: "It's he who is having me guillotined;
he's got what he wanted; I suppose now he'll

decorate Gabrielle!" He died with the name of the
hated Minister on his lips.


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A BOOK OF REMARKABLE

NALANDA DIGITAL LIBRARY

The Widow Gras ......................................401

Vitalis and Marie Boyer ...........................443

The Fenayrou Case ..................................467

Eyraud and Bompard ...............................500

EText Conversion By Nalanda Digital Library 2

A BOOK OF REMARKABLE CRIMINALS

indispensable and difficult."_Wills on Circumstantial

I REMEMBER my father telling me that

sitting up late one night talking with Tennyson, the

poet and the philosopher had talked together well

asked Tennyson what was the subject of

EText Conversion By Nalanda Digital Library 3

"Murders," replied Tennyson. It would have been

historian it may make very good reading for

consolation in this fact, like the unhappy victims of

famous freebooters such as Jack Sheppard or

let us, in all the pomp and circumstance of stately

Frederick, or Napoleon, or their successors, are in

EText Conversion By Nalanda Digital Library 4

Peace. We must not imagine that the bad man who

in which the ordinary criminal is bred.

general characteristics of the prisoners tried before

him, said: "They are just like other people; in fact, I

be in one another's places." "Greed, love of

anger, hatred, revenge, these are the chief causes

EText Conversion By Nalanda Digital Library 5

rich and poor alike, by the educated and

them within the scope of the criminal code, for

punishment. And so it is with some of those heroes

of history who have been made the theme of fine

Criminal Investigation Department, has said recently

"perverse adventure" on the part of the criminal.

EText Conversion By Nalanda Digital Library 6

exploits of Alexander the Great and half the

minister, Radziwill, "there is anything to be gained

let us be cheats." These are the very sentiments of

belonging to another, and as such the cases of it in

courts. Germany today has been guilty of a

EText Conversion By Nalanda Digital Library 7

that false morality applied to historical transactions,

perversion of which we are suffering today.

study in the microcosm of ordinary crime those

instincts, selfish, greedy, brutal which, exploited

mankind. It is not too much to say that in every

grow or are stifled in their growth by the good that

EText Conversion By Nalanda Digital Library 8

children of nature we must not be surprised if our

of evil in our natures, that instinct to destroy which

finds comparatively harmless expression in certain

inconvenient form of the expression of this instinct

carry the definition of murder a step farther before

EText Conversion By Nalanda Digital Library 9

world. We must concentrate all our strength on??

punishment. Every professor of history should now

Thucydides and Gibbon and restore his moral

balance by comparing the acts of some of his

is to mean anything to posterity, the crime against