A BOOK OF 
 REMARKABLE CRIMINALS 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/bookofremarkableOOirvirich 
 
A BOOK OF 
 
 REMARKABLE 
 CRIMINALS 
 
 BY 
 
 H. B. IRVING 
 
 Author of "The Life of Judge Jeffreys," "Studies of 
 French Criminals of the Nineteenth Century " 
 
 CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD 
 
 London, New York,iToronto and Melbourne 
 1918 
 
\^ 
 
 A 
 
 ^ 
 
 
To my Friend 
 E. V. LUCAS 
 
 39J294 
 
" 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. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 INTRODUCTION i 
 
 THE LIFE OF CHARLES PEACE : 
 
 1. His Early Years 29 
 
 2. Peace in London 50 
 
 3. His Trial and Execution • • • 79 
 
 THE CAREER OF ROBERT BUTLER : 
 
 1. The Dunedin Murders .... 99 
 
 2. The Trial of Butler . . . .111 
 
 3. His Decline and Fall . . . .124 
 
 M. DERUES : 
 
 1. The Climbing Little Grocer . . .130 
 
 2. The Game of Bluff .... 144 
 
 DR. CASTAING : 
 
 1. An Unhappy Coincidence . . . 158 
 
 2. The Trial of Dr. Castaing . . . 174 
 
 PROFESSOR WEBSTER 189 
 
 vii 
 
Contents 
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS MR. HOLMES 
 
 1. Honour amongst Thieves 
 
 2. The Wandering Assassin 
 
 PAGE 
 
 214 
 226 
 
 PARTNERSHIP IN CRIME : 
 
 
 I. The Widow Gras : 
 
 
 I. The Charmer 
 
 • 244 
 
 2. The Wounded Pigeon 
 
 . 255 
 
 II. ViTALis AND Marie Boyer 
 
 . 270 
 
 III. The Fenayrou Case 
 
 . . 285 
 
 IV. Eyraud and Bompard 
 
 . 305 
 
 INDEX . . . . . 
 
 . 329 
 
 Vlll 
 
A BOOK OF 
 REMARKABLE CRIMINALS 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 " The silent workings, and still more the explosions, of human 
 passion which hring 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 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 
 fellow-men by mental or physical peculiarities. 
 That comforting theory of the Lombroso school has 
 been exploded, and the ordinary inmate 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." 
 
 2 
 
Introduction 
 
 Convicts represent those wrong-doers who have 
 taken to a particular form of wrong-doing pun- 
 ishable by law. Of the larger army of bad men 
 they represent a minority, who have been found 
 out in a peculiarly unsatisfactory kind of miscon- 
 duct. There are many men, some lying, un- 
 scrupulous, 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 
 
 3 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 to-day 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 to-day. 
 
 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 so-called 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 mysteri- 
 ously 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 en- 
 
 4 
 
Introduction 
 
 deavoured in his actions to imitate the natural course 
 of things would be universally seen and acknow- 
 ledged 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 incon- 
 venient 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 
 the criminal element in 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 fight- 
 ing among ourselves ? By enlarging our conceptions 
 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 pro- 
 fessor 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 
 
 5 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 fellows for their pre-eminence in character or achieve- 
 ment. 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 ruth- 
 less 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 
 found extenuating circumstances in the murder of 
 Dyson. The fate of Peace is only another instance 
 of the wrecking of a strong man's career by his 
 passion for a woman. 
 
 In Robert Butler we have the criminal by con- 
 viction, a conviction which fincls 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 philosophy — he finds in the acts of unscrupulous 
 monarchs an analogy to his own attitude towards 
 life. What is good enough for Caisar 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 
 
 6 
 
Introduction 
 
 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 clan- 
 destinely; 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.^ 
 
 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 to-day 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 
 
 * 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. 
 
 7 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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, self-indulgent and spendthrift gentleman who 
 has landed himself in serious financial embarrass- 
 ment, seeking by murder to escape from an im- 
 portunate and relentless creditor. He has not, 
 apparently, the moral courage to face the con- 
 sequences 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 insig- 
 nificant in comparison with that entailed by com- 
 mitting 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 power- 
 fully 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 deter- 
 mine. Was it the hope of leaving the narrow 
 surroundings of Knaresborough, his tiresome be- 
 
 8 
 
Introduction 
 
 longings, his own poor way of life, and seeking a 
 wider field for the exercise of those gifts of scholar- 
 ship which he undoubtedly possessed that drove him 
 to commit fraud in company with Clark and House- 
 man, 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 prob- 
 ability 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 Rev. John Selby Watson, headmaster of 
 the Stockwell Grammar School, at the age of sixty- 
 five killed his wife in his library one Sunday after- 
 noon. Things had been going badly with the 
 unfortunate man. After more than twenty-five years' 
 service as headmaster of the school at a meagre 
 salary of ;^40o a year, he was about to be dismissed; 
 the number of scholars had been declining steadily 
 
 9 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 con- 
 dition. Those doctors callfed for the prosecution 
 could find no trace of insanity about him, those called 
 for the defence said that he was suffering from 
 melancholia. The ur^happy 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 appre- 
 ciation 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 
 
 lO 
 
Introduction 
 
 decision that, though not satisfied of the prisoner's 
 insanity, he recognised certain extenuating circum- 
 stances in his guilt. ^ 
 
 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 sensi- 
 bility, capable of domestic affection ; Holmes com- 
 pletely 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 
 
 1 Selby Watson was tried at the Central Criminal Court, 
 January, 1872. 
 
 II 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 son — was 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 over- 
 drawn 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 lago. 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 weak- 
 ness in the character of lago regarded as a purely 
 instinctive and malignant criminal ; indeed, it is a 
 weakness in the consistency of the play. On two 
 occasions lago states explicitly that Othello is more 
 
 12 
 
Introduction 
 
 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 
 lago's belief. If this belief be well founded, 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 hon- 
 ourable and high-minded man. If it be a morbid 
 suspicion, having no ground in fact, a mental obses- 
 sion, then lago becomes abnormal and consequently 
 more or less irresponsible. 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 lago's suspicion. If 
 Othello has played his Ancient false, that is an ex- 
 tenuating circumstance in the otherwise extraordinary 
 guilt of lago, 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 con- N 
 tingency 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 
 
 13 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 in all probability have ended his days in the cloister, 
 regarded with amiable contempt by his bustling 
 >,^^fellowmen. How Claudius got over the great 
 difficulty 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 con- 
 siderable 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 con- 
 vivial habits gave the lie to any suggestion of 
 criminality. Whatever may have been his inward 
 feelings of remorse or self-reproach, 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 sister-in- 
 law, 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 
 
 14 
 
Introduction 
 
 in which two persons have jointly committed heinous 
 crimes.' 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 r61es are clearly differentiated; it is easy, as in 
 the case of lago 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, "To-morrow — as he pro- 
 poses." 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 auto-suggestion, coming to them in- 
 dependently 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, 
 
 *"Le Crime k Deux,'* by Scipio Sighele (translated from the 
 Italian), Lyons, 1893. 
 
 15 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 but no foul thought of crime suggests itself for an 
 instant to his loyal nature. What Macbeth and 
 his wife lack at first as thorough-going 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 under- 
 taken 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 resem- 
 blance 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 them- 
 selves, and Macbeth's killing of the unfortunate men 
 in seeming indignation at the discovery of their crime 
 is a master-stroke 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 
 
 i6 
 
Introduction 
 
 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 lago 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 tempta- 
 tion 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, Barr^ 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 Gon- 
 court brothers, Besant and Rice, Gilbert and Sullivan, 
 Swan and Edgar leap to the memory. 
 
 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 
 
 g 17 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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. Man- 
 ning was never troubled with any feelings of this 
 kind ; after the murder of O'Connor the gratifica- 
 tion 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. 
 
 i8 
 
Introduction 
 
 In the case of the Pehzer 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 be- 
 come 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'er-do-well, 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 co-operation in his felonious 
 purpose. Armand Peltzer should have lived in the 
 Italy of the Renaissance. The crime was cunningly 
 devised, and methodically and successfully accom- 
 plished. Only an over-anxiety to secure the fruits of 
 it led to its detection. Barr6 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. Barr^ 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 Barr^ 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 
 
 19 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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; lago, Othello. Cassius is a criminal by 
 instinct. Placed in a social position which removes 
 him from the temptation to ordinary crime, circum- 
 stances 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 un- 
 scrupulousness 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 lago, 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 lago tempts 
 Othello, and with something of the same malicious 
 
 30 
 
Introduction 
 
 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, lago 
 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 psychologi- 
 cally 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 
 non-criminal 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 lago, 
 the patriotism of Brutusl 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 
 
 21 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 justifyably 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.* 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.' 
 Marie Boyer in the blindness of her passion and 
 jealousy believes God to be helping her to get rid of 
 her mother. 
 
 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 con- 
 sequences 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 
 
 * Case of Gamier and the woman Aveline, 1884. 
 •Case of the Comte de Cornulier : "Un An de Justice," Henri 
 Varennes, 1901. 
 
 22 
 
Introduction 
 
 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.* 
 
 There are some women, such as Marie Boyer 
 and Gabrielle Fenayrou, who may be described 
 as passively criminal, chameleon-like, 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 imprison- 
 ment, 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, "eff'ac^es" 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 
 
 * 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 
 Barr6 and Lebiez in my book "French Criminals of the Nineteenth 
 Century." 
 
 23 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 fs 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.^ 
 
 There are occasions when those feelings of com- 
 *Ca9e of Albert and the woman Lavoitte, Paris, 1877. 
 24 
 
Introduction 
 
 punction which troubled Macbeth and his wife 
 are well nigh proof against the utmost powers of 
 suggestion, or, as in the case of Hubert and Prince 
 Arthur, compel the criminal to desist from his enter- 
 prise. A man desires to get rid of his father and 
 mother-in-law. 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, *'3at 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 again — ten 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.^ 
 
 In a town in Austria there dwelt a happy and 
 contented married couple, poor and hard working. 
 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 
 
 * Case of Porcher and Hardouin cited in Despine, "Psychologie 
 Naturelle." 
 
 25 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 affec- 
 tion 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.' 
 
 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 seemeid to 
 him equal in intensity 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 
 
 * Case of the Scheffer couple at Linz, cited by Sighele. 
 26 
 
Introduction 
 
 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 remark- 
 able novel **Andr6 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, 
 
 27 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 about which our notions have bafen somewhat 
 obscured by too narrow a definition of what con- 
 stitutes 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. 
 
 a8 
 
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 
 VVhibley's "Book of Scoundrels." 
 
 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 every- 
 bcxly and his name never mentioned again. 
 
 Posterity, in calling over its muster-roll 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 
 
 29 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 the seventeenth, down to the Mannings, Palmer, 
 Arthur Orton, Morgan and Kelly, the bushrangers, in 
 the nineteenth century, many a criminal, far less not- 
 able 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 vain-gloriousness 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 Peabody 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 un- 
 fortunate 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 con- 
 siderably abated since the year 1757 when the 
 
 30 
 
His Early Years 
 
 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 un- 
 deniable 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 
 Burton-on-Trent. Losing his leg in an accident, he 
 joined Wombwell's wild beast show and soon ac- 
 quired some reputation for his remarkable powers as 
 a tamer of wild animals. About this time John 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 lion-taming 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 foufT When he grew to 
 
 31 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 boyhocxi 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 peep-show, 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 com- 
 memorating 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, 185 1, the house of a lady living in 
 
 32 
 
His Early Years 
 
 Sheffield was broken into and a quantity of her pro- 
 perty 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 one-stringed violin at fairs and public- 
 houses 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 adven- 
 ture 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 well-to-do 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 com- 
 pany, 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 
 ^ 33 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 ill-treating 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 take 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 
 
 34 
 
His Early Years 
 
 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 intemper- 
 ance 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 Wake- 
 field 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. 
 
 35 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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, how- 
 ever, 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. 
 
 36 
 
His Early Years 
 
 In 1875 Peace moved from Sheffield itself to the 
 suburb of Darnall. Here Peace made the acquaint- 
 ance — a fatal acquaintance, as it turned out — of a 
 Mr. and Mrs. Dyson. Dyson was a civil engineer. 
 He had spent some years in America, where, in 1866, 
 he married. Towards the end of 1873 or the begin- 
 ning 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 en- 
 gagement with the North Eastern Railway termin- 
 ated apruptly 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 unlooked-for 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 dis- 
 turbed by this same ugly little picture-framer who 
 lived a few doors away from the Dysons' house. 
 Peace had got to know the Dysons, first as a trades- 
 man, then as a friend. To what degree of intimacy 
 he attained with Mrs. Dyson it is difficult to deter- 
 mine. In that lies the mystery of the case. Mrs. 
 Dyson is described as an attractive woman, "buxom 
 and blooming"; she was dark-haired, and about 
 twenty-five 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 
 
 37 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 had been in the habit of going to music halls and 
 public-houses 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 perse- 
 cuted her with his attentions, and, when he found 
 them rejected, devoted all his malignant energies to 
 making the lives of her husband and herself unbear- 
 able. 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, some time about the end of June, 
 1876, Dyson threw over into the garden of his neigh- 
 bour's house a card, on which was written : ''Charles 
 Peace is requested not to interfere with my family." 
 On July I 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 
 
 38 
 
His Early Years 
 
 Peace left Darnall for Hull, where he opened an eat- 
 ing-house 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 mid- 
 night on August I, 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 w^arned 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 con- 
 trary. 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 
 
 39 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 
 been — unreasoning passion, spite, jealousy, or re- 
 venge — 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 Dysons' 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 enter- 
 taining 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 "litde bobby." Cock 
 was a zealous young officer of twenty-three years of 
 
 40 
 
His Early Years 
 
 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 i, 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 Wil- 
 liam 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 of 
 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 
 
 4' 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 summing-up the jury convicted 
 William Habron, but recommended him to mercy. 
 The Judge without comment sentenced him to death. 
 The Manchester Guardian expressed its entire con- 
 currence 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 Sheffield — now 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 
 
 42 
 
His Early Years 
 
 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 public-house at Eccles- 
 all, 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, grey- 
 haired, insignificant-looking 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 ex- 
 treme. He complained bitterly that by taking pro- 
 ceedings 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 
 
 43 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 hpuse, 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 passage-way 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 into the outhouse. 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, un- 
 daunted, 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 I You villain I 
 You have shot my husband." Tw'o 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. 
 
 44 
 
His Early Years 
 
 There he saw his mother and brother, told them that 
 he had shot Mr. Dyson, and bade them a hasty good- 
 bye. He then walked to Attercliffe Railway Station, 
 and took a ticket for Beverley. Something suspicious 
 in the manner of the booking-clerk 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 
 eating-house 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 lodg- 
 ing 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 im- 
 portunate 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 unre- 
 
 45 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 mitting. There was a price of ;^ioo 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 
 fifty-five 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 somewhat peculiarly as though his tongue 
 were too large for his mouth, and is a great boaster. 
 He is a picture^frame maker. He occasionally 
 cleans and repairs clocks and watches and some- 
 times 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 forty-six. As a matter of fact he was only 
 forty-four 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. 
 
 46 
 
His Early Years 
 
 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 £^0, Peace 
 and the sergeant discussed the case during the 
 journey. "He seemed a smart chap," said Peace in 
 relating 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 iden- 
 tity to the police. Her maiden name was Susan Gray. 
 
 She was at this time about thirty-five years of age, 
 described as "taking" in appearance, of a fair com- 
 plexion, 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 
 
 47 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 whisky. 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 be- 
 come 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 ;£ioo 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 
 
 48 
 
His Early Years 
 
 coat and trousers, top hat, velvet waistcoat, with 
 stick, kid gloves, and a pretty Httle 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 well-to-do 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 ;^5o 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 down- 
 stairs 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 
 
 E 49 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 achieve- 
 ment. 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 
 dependent 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 
 
 SO 
 
Peace in London 
 
 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 permis- 
 sion 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 sitting- 
 room. 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 
 
 51 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 drawing-room 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 Thomp- 
 son, 5 East Terrace, Evelina Road, Peckham Rye, 
 London, S.E., for an invention for raising sunken 
 vessels by the displacement of w^ater 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 car- 
 riages, 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 
 
 5* 
 
Peace in London 
 
 of burglars, this business of scientific inventions was 
 sufficient explanation. 
 
 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 un- 
 successful 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, guinea-pigs, 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 com- 
 plexion should suggest the use of walnut juice. His 
 love of music was evinced by the number of violins, 
 banjos, guitars, and other musical instruments that 
 adorned his drawing-room. 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 con- 
 versation were neglected wholly in favour of art. The 
 host w^as a voluble and animated talker, his face and 
 body illustrating by appropriate twists and turns the 
 force of his comments. The Russo-Turkish 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 
 
 53 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 half-past 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 mis- 
 tress's 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 chatter- 
 ing 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. 
 
 54 
 
Peace in London 
 
 Throupfh 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 unremitting 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 
 bank-notes 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 all — a skeleton key, two pick- 
 locks, a centre-bit, gimlet, gouge, chisel, vice jemmy 
 and knife; a portable ladder, a revolver and life pre- 
 server 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 parts 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 com- 
 plete success his art as a burglar, working alone, 
 
 55 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 York- 
 shire 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 Shef- 
 field. 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 South-East London. Per- 
 haps 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 effect the capture of the mysterious 
 criminal. 
 
 About two o'clock on the morning of October lo, 
 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 looked-for opportunity 
 
 56 
 
Peace in London 
 
 arrived? Was the mysterious visitor, the disturber 
 of the peace of Blackheath, at his burglarious em- 
 ployment? 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 
 dining-room 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 
 would-be 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 two other constables 
 came to the help of their colleague, and the struggling 
 desperado was secured. 
 
 Little did the police as they searched their bat- 
 tered and moaning prisoner realise the importance of 
 their capture. When next morning Peace appeared 
 before the magistrate at Greenwicfi Police Court he 
 was not described by name — he had refused to give 
 any — but as a half-caste about sixty years of age, of 
 repellant aspect. He was remanded for a week. The 
 first clue to the identity of their prisoner was afforded 
 
 57 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 by a letter which Peace, unable apparently to endure 
 the loneliness and suspense of prison any longer, 
 wrote to his co-inventor 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 son-in-law 
 Bolsover, a working collier.^ 
 
 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 
 
 * 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 com- 
 pulsion of her husband. 
 
 S8 
 
Peace in London 
 
 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 ^100 offered for Peace's 
 conviction. She based her application on informa- 
 tion 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 
 
 59 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 Peck- 
 ham. 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, "Pd know him anywhere." 
 The man left the ranks and, coming up to the con- 
 stable, 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 forty-six. 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, 
 
 60 
 
Peace in London 
 
 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 w^orse 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 con- 
 demned 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 
 
 6i 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 forty-six 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 cross-examination 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 audience, among them Mrs. 
 Dyson, in the words of a contemporary 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 con- 
 sequence of his injuries the case would be adjourned 
 for eight days. 
 
Peace in London 
 
 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 commence- 
 ment of the journey he had been wilful and trouble- 
 some. 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 foot- 
 board 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 gentle- 
 men 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 com- 
 
 63 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 fortable 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 public-house 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 
 6* 
 
Peace in London 
 
 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 
 \vhich 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 c^lm 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 in- 
 vestigation 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 
 
 F 65 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 cer- 
 tainly eccentric — she could not, she said, remember 
 the year in which she had been married — was obliged 
 to admit that she had been in the habit of going to 
 Peace's house, that she had been alone with him to 
 public-houses and places of entertainment, and that 
 she and Peace had been photographed together dur- 
 ing the summer fair at Sheffield. She could not "to 
 her knowledge " recollect having told the landlord of 
 a public-house to charge her drink to Peace. A great 
 deal of Mrs. Dyson's cross-examination 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 opportunities 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 
 
 66 
 
Peace in London 
 
 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. Nevertheless, before the Shef- 
 field magistrate Mr. Clegg thought it his duty to 
 cross-examine Mrs. Dyson closely as to their author- 
 ship. He asked her to write out a passage from one 
 of them: "You can give me something as a keep- 
 sake 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 question. 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 
 r — g 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. 
 
 67 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 Hope your foot is better. I went to Sheffield yester- 
 day, 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 magis- 
 trate that Mr. Clegg had put forward quite enough, 
 if true, to damage Mrs. Dyson's credibility, he con- 
 tinued to press her as to her authorship of these notes 
 and letters, but Mrs. Dyson was firm in her repudia- 
 tion 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 
 
 68 
 
Peace in London 
 
 prosecution. Peace was defended by Mr. Frank 
 Lockwood, then rising into that popular success at 
 the bar which some fifteen years later made him 
 Solicitor-General, 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 my experience'* 
 — and he defied any of his learned friends to quote an 
 experience — ** has 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 I " as Mr. Lockwood went on to say that 
 "for the sake of snatching paltry pence from the pub- 
 lic, these persons have 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 proceed- 
 ings, more than one newspaper had at this time laid 
 
 69 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 itself open to prosecution for contempt of Court. The 
 Times was not far wrong in saying that, since Miiller 
 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 out- 
 house 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 v/hen Dyson 
 fell, shot in the temple. 
 
 Mr. Lockwood commenced his cross-examination 
 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 
 
 70 
 
Peace in London 
 
 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 to- 
 gether 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 Dar- 
 nall, 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 public-house, 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 Half-way 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 hus- 
 band'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 besidp her, and after- 
 wards 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 re- 
 member 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. 
 
 71 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 Dyson a reluctant admission that she had been 
 "slightly inebriated" at the Half-way 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 Mr. 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 com- 
 menting 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 cross-examination Mr. 
 Lockwood had made it appear at least highly 
 probable that there had been a much closer relation- 
 ship 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 Brassing- 
 ton. He was a stranger to Peace, but stated that 
 
 72 
 
Peace in London 
 
 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 morning — he 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 pro- 
 duced, 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 
 
 73 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 
 cross-examination 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'm 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 
 
 7.4 
 
Peace in London 
 
 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 foundation, 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 
 
 75 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 acquaint- 
 ance with Peace began. Living next door but one to 
 the Dysons, Peace took the opportunity of intro- 
 ducing 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 jewellery, should lend the 
 charm of her comely presence. He offered 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 
 
 76 
 
Peace in London 
 
 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 the 
 card over 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 demon — 
 not a man. I am told that since he has been sentenced 
 
 77 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 satisfied that there 
 will be hell. Not even a Shakespeare could 
 adequately paint such a man as he has been. My 
 life-long 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 classed — inebriety would 
 appear to have been their only common weakness — 
 was Mrs. Thompson, the "traitress Sue.*' In spite 
 of the fact that on February 5 Mrs. Thompson had 
 applied to the Treasury for ;£"ioo, blood money due 
 to 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 
 
 78 
 
His Trial and Execution 
 
 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 with- 
 drawn, and she never saw him again. 
 
 Ill 
 
 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 con- 
 duct 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 recruit was lost to the ranks of the 
 contrite and converted sinners. However powerless 
 as a controlling force — and he admitted it — his 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 
 
 79 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 betrayed him, sent her affectionate and forgiving 
 messages. These were transmitted to Sue by Mr. 
 Brion. This disingenuous gentleman was a fellow- 
 applicant with Sue to the Treasury for pecuniary 
 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 co-inventor an admission that the 
 inventions which they had patented together were his 
 work alone. Peace denied this, but offered to sell his 
 share for ;£'5o. 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 wrestling 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 
 
 80 
 
His Trial and Execution 
 
 *'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 
 well-known 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 oflRcer to stand back and fired his revolver 
 wide of him. But, as Peace said, "these Manchester 
 policemen are a very obstinate lot." The constable 
 
 G 8i 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 innocent 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 ? Cold-blooded heroism of this kind is 
 rare in the annals of crime. Nor did Peace claim to 
 have anything of the hero about him. 
 
 "Lion-hearted I've lived, 
 And when my time comes 
 Lion-hearted I'll die." 
 
 Though fond of repeating this piece of doggerel, 
 Peace would have been the last man to have attributed 
 
 82 
 
His Trial and Execution 
 
 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 to-day ? " "I 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 and 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 
 truth — the 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. 
 
 83 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 day- 
 school." 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 to-day 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 self-possession. 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. 
 
 84 
 
His Trial and Execution 
 
 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 con- 
 85 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 fession of the killing of Constable Cock, and his 
 desire that Habron should be set free/ 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 
 this — in 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 sug- 
 gest 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 ex- 
 plained that he was a man and meant to be a man 
 to the end. 
 
 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. 
 
 * Willi am Habron was subsequently given a free pardon and 
 ;^8oo by way of compensation. 
 
 86 
 
His Trial and Execution 
 
 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 erroneously that 
 Mrs. Dyson had already left the country, told Peace 
 that he should direct all his attention to asking for- 
 giveness 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 sister-in-law, 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 
 
 87 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 jail 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 some- 
 what 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 cere- 
 mony 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 
 
 88 
 
His Trial and Execution 
 
 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 good-bye 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. 
 
 8q 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 The same day there arrived in the prison one who 
 in his own trade had something of the personahty 
 and assurance of the culprit he was to execute. 
 William Marwood — unlike his celebrated victim, he 
 has his place in the Dictionary of National Biography 
 — is perhaps the most remarkable of those 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 death-sentence passed by the judge to be carried 
 out with the minimum of possible suffering. Mar- 
 wood 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 shoe- 
 shop 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 com- 
 pared with the scientific and expeditious Marwood. 
 
 90 
 
His Trial and Execution 
 
 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 fellow- 
 men 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 L 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 letter- 
 writing. 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 son-in-law he wrote letters 
 of fervent, religious exhortation and sent them tracts 
 and pictures which he had secured from well- 
 intentioned 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 dishonesty, villainy and sin " ; let 
 his fate, he said, be a warning. 
 
 91 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 Peace ate a hearty breakfast and awaited the 
 coming of the executioner with cahn. 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 hangman 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 men — on the morning of an 
 execution Marwood always knelt down and asked 
 God's blessing on the work he had to do — shook 
 hands together and set about their business. Firmly 
 and fearlessly Peace submitted himself to the neces- 
 sary 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 
 
 92 
 
His Trial and Execution 
 
 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, one and all, 1 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 I 
 
 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 complied 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 dis- 
 honourable. The war of to-day 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 
 
 93 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 ex-detective 
 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 consola- 
 tion. It was in this unsatisfactory frame of mind that 
 he went to Dyson's house. This much the ex- 
 detective would urge in his favour. To his neigh- 
 bours he was an awe-inspiring 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 de- 
 served 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 
 
 94 
 
His Trial and Execution 
 
 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 
 Sheppar<^has the good-humoured 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 mid-Victorian 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 old-fashioned pistol in the hands of 
 the determined burglar. The literature of crime, such 
 
 95 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 as it is, becomes vulgar and prosaic. Peace has no 
 charm about him, no gaiety, but he has the virtues of 
 his defects. He, unHke 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 
 felloe's. Sheppard is a slave to his women. Edge- 
 worth 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 in- 
 vestigation has shown that the average convicted 
 criminal differs intellectually from the normal per- 
 son 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 re- 
 cent and most able investigator into the character 
 
 96' 
 
His Trial and Execution 
 
 of the criniinaP as "an unusual act committed by a 
 perfectly normal person." At the same time, accord- 
 ing 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 
 anti-social qualities.' 
 
 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 forty-seven 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 
 dreams — Peace may well have shown traces of mental 
 anxiety. But in all other respects Charles Peace 
 would seem to have been physically fit. In in- 
 tellectual capacity he was undoubtedly above the 
 average of the ordinary criminal. The facts of his 
 career, his natural gifts, speak for themselves. Of 
 anti-social 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 phy- 
 sically and intellectually well above the average of his 
 
 »"The English Convict," a statistical study, by Charles 
 Goring, M.D. His Majesty's Stationery Office, 1913. 
 
 * Murderers— at least those executed for their crimes — have not, 
 tfor obvious crimes, been made the subject of close scientific 
 observation. Their mental capacity would in all probability be 
 found to be rather higher than that of Jess ambitious criminals. 
 H 97 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 last. 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. 
 
 98 
 
THE CAREER OF ROBERT BUTLER 
 
 There is a report of Butler's trial published in Dunedin. It gives 
 in full the speeches and the cross-examination of the witnesses, but 
 not in all cases the evidence-in-chief. 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 
 erf 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 walk- 
 ing 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 middle-aged 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 
 99 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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'll — soon 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 sup- 
 plemented 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 
 
 100 
 
The Dunediii Murders 
 
 the same intensity, lie could be an uncomfortably 
 persistent lover when the fit was on him. Both men 
 were cynics in their way and viewed their fellow-men 
 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 important thai 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 
 
 lOI 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 in war run, * Kill, burn and sink, and what you 
 cannot carry away, destroy.' " Here is the gospel of 
 {rightfulness 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 com- 
 menced his professional career by being sentenced 
 under the name of James Wilson — the same initials 
 as those of James Wharton of Queensland — to 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 in- 
 spiration 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 Dothe- 
 boys 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, 
 
 loa 
 
The Dunedin Murders 
 
 mensuration, trigonometry, book-keeping, geo- 
 graphy, grammar, spelling and dictation, com- 
 position, 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 founda- 
 tion laid for the acquirement of future knowledge." 
 Unfortunately a suspicion of theft on Butler*s part 
 cut short the fulfilment of this really splendid pro- 
 gramme, and Butler left Cromwell hurriedly for the 
 ampler field of Dunedin. There, less than a fortnight 
 after his arrival, he was sentenced to four years' hard 
 labour for several burglaries committed in and about 
 that city. 
 
 On the i8th of February, 1880, Butler was 
 released from prison. With that consummate 
 hypocrisy which was part of the man, he had con- 
 trived 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 
 
 103 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 had torn up what he had written, that he had no 
 wl.ere to go, and had been to the end of the jetty with 
 * intention of drowning himself. Bain replied 
 roii'iewhat caustically that he thought it a pity he had 
 n : done so, as nothing would have given him 
 greater joy than going to the end of the jetty and 
 idrntifying 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 w^ould be 
 worse than the most savage tiger ever let loose on the 
 community. As a means of obviating such an out- 
 .break, Butler suggested that, intellectual employment 
 having failed, some form of manual labour should be 
 found him. Bain complied with his request, 
 and got him a job of levelling reclaimed ground in 
 the neighbourhood of Dunedin. On Wednesday, 
 March lo, 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 half-past 
 eight that night. Butler did not keep the appoint- 
 ment. 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 in- 
 spector, "the first thing I should do would be to 
 
 104 
 
The Dunedin Murders 
 
 look for suspicious circumstances, and most un- 
 doubtedly, 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 an unsuccessful attempt made to fire 
 the scene of the crime. 
 
 About half-past 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 
 neighbour of his, Mr. J. M. Dewar, who occupied a 
 small one-floored 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 sitting-room, he 
 called to the inmates to get up. He received no 
 answer, but as he neared the bedroom he heard a 
 "gurgl'ing" sound. Cra\vling ion his hands and 
 knees he reached the bedroom door, and two feet 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 sitting-room. He got some water, 
 and extinguished the fire in the bedroom. On 
 the bed lay the body of Dewar. To all appear- 
 ances 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 belong- 
 ing also to the Dewars, which had been used by the 
 murderer in setting fire to the bed. The front 
 window of the sitting-room 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 dressing-table 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. Think- 
 ing 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 
 io6 
 
The Dunedin Murders 
 
 that morning until at half-past six Robb saw the 
 smoke coming from Dewars* house. Mrs. Dewar, 
 who alone could have told something, never re- 
 covered consciousness and died on the day follow- 
 ing 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 half-past 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 ii, 
 Robert Butler had come to the hotel ; he was wearing 
 a dark lavender check suit and carried a top coat and 
 a parcel. Butler had stayed in the hotel all Thurs- 
 day 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 worried and afraid, as if someone 
 were coming after him. After giving her some 
 money for the landlord, he went upstairs, fetched his 
 
 107 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 milk-boy saw him standing 
 on the kerb in Cumberland Street in a stooping 
 position, his head turned in the direction of Dewar's 
 house. A little after ten the same night Butler 
 entered an hotel at a place called Blueskin, some 
 twelve miles distant from Dunedin. He was wear- 
 ing an overcoat and a light muffler. He sat down 
 at a table in the dining-room and seemed weary 
 and sleepy. Someone standing at the bar ^aid, 
 "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 half-past 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 
 
 ic8 
 
The Dunedin Murders 
 
 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 lock-up 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 re- 
 plied, "There is evidence to convict you — the fire 
 was put out.'* Butler then 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 oflf on the road. Mallard noticed then the backs 
 
 109 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 the 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 
 
 no 
 
The Trial of Butler 
 
 three similar to the five purchased by Butler on the 
 Sunday morning, two of which liad 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 f^w 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, con- 
 ducted 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 de- 
 scribes him as a strange compound of vanity and 
 envy, blind to his own faults and envious of the 
 material advantages enjoyed by others. Self-willed 
 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 he been denied all pro- 
 fessional 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 
 
 III 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 trans- 
 action 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 high- 
 browed ruffian, with his semi-intellectual cast of 
 countenance, his jerky restless posturing, his splay- 
 footed 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 
 
 1X2 
 
The Trial of Butler 
 
 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 circum- 
 stantial 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 con- 
 versation 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 blood- 
 stains found upon them, added to which was his 
 apparent ihability 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 cross-examiners, 
 of not knowing when to stop. He was most success- 
 ful 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 
 I 113 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 over-elaborated, 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 dis- 
 advantages 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 cross-examination. 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 
 
 114 
 
The Trial of Butler 
 
 than ever sure that he was suspected of the robbery 
 at Mr. Stamper's; he therefore decided to leave 
 Duncdin 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 crime — 
 theories 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 dis- 
 covery 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 pur- 
 pose. What was the purpose of the murderer ? W^as 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 
 
 "5 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 motiveT "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 mur- 
 dered 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 ap- 
 peared' 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 
 
 116 
 
The Trial of Butler 
 
 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 an 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 well-marked spot some half- 
 hour 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 opera-glasses which 
 he had stolen from Mr. Stamper's house. Neither 
 of these comments is very convincing. A fort- 
 night 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 
 
 117 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 
 ner life had any acquaintance with Butler. 
 
 At the same time, the account given by Butler's 
 fellow-prisoner, 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 tragjedy, 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 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. 
 
 ii8 
 
The Trial of Butler 
 
 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 compli- 
 ment 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 to-day talking to you." 
 After describing the murder, Butler said: "Try- 
 ing 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 
 
 119 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 neigh- 
 bourhood of the crime on the Sunday morning; that, 
 he said, applied to scores of other people besides 
 himself. Then there was his alleged disturbed ap- 
 pearance 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 pos- 
 sess, 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 
 
 1 20 
 
The Trial of Butler 
 
 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 gum-trees of Victoria, or in the old abandoned 
 mining-shafts on the diggings, who is missed by 
 nobody, perhaps, but a pining wife at home, or help- 
 less 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 
 
 121 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 were 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 un- 
 defended prisoner, Mr. Haggitt did not address the 
 jury for the Crown. At four o'clock the judge com- 
 menced his summing-up. 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 
 
 122 
 
The Trial of Butler 
 
 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 
 science — politics, 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? 
 
 The summing-up was distinctly favourable to the 
 prisoner, and 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 imprison- 
 ment in Lyttleton Jail. There his reputation was most 
 unenviable. He is described by a fellow-prisoner as 
 ill-tempered, malicious, destructive, but cowardly 
 
 123 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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. 
 
 Ill , 
 
 His Decline and Fall 
 
 In 1896 Butler was released from prison. The 
 news of his release was described as falling like 
 a bomb-shell 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 Mel- 
 bourne 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' imprison- 
 ment 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 
 
 124 
 
His Decline and Fall 
 
 that his experience in the Supreme Court at Dunedin 
 had not been lost on him. At half-past six one 
 evening in a suburb of Melbourne an elderly gentle- 
 man 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 as he 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 posses- 
 sion 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 i8 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 unfavourably with those of the judge." 
 He was decently dressed and wore pince-nez, 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 witness-box 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 pos- 
 sibility of his identification by his alleged victim. 
 
 "5 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 eldlerly 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. 
 Buder handed to the judge a written statement which 
 Mr. Justice Holroyd described as a narrative that 
 might have been taken from those sensational news- 
 papers written for nursery-maids, and from which, 
 he said, he could not find that Butler had ever 
 
 126 
 
His Decline and Fall 
 
 done one good thing in the whole course of his life. 
 Of that life of fifty years Butler had spent thirty-five 
 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 
 subsequently 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 five-chambered revolver, a keen-edged 
 butcher's knife, and a mask. 
 
 Butler served hi^ 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 half-starved, bewildered, 
 despairing; in his own words, "if a psychological 
 
 127 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 sick- 
 ness; "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 Bris- 
 bane 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 ex- 
 pressed 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 
 
 128 
 
His Decline and Fall 
 
 of any pilot. In ilu\se matters I have for many years 
 carried an exempt flag, and, as it has not been carried 
 through caprice or ignorance, 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 good-bye 
 of any one 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 chapel organ in the prison ; and on the 
 scaflfold, 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. 
 
 IJ9 
 
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 C616bre9." 
 
 I 
 
 The Climbing Little Grocer 
 
 METIENNE SAINT-FAUST DE LAM- 
 OTTE, a provincial nobleman of ancient 
 •lineage and moderate health, ex-equerry to 
 the King, desired in the year 1774 to dispose of a 
 property in the country, the estate of Buisson-Souef 
 near Villeneuve-le-Roi, 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 Buisson-Souef. 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 XVL 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 
 
 130 
 
The Climbing Little Grocer 
 
 negotiate for the sale of Buisson-Souef. The legal 
 side of the transaction was placed in the hands of one 
 Jolly, a proctor of 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 I Very delicate to all appearances, strangely 
 pale, slight, fragile in build, with his beardless chin 
 and feminine cast of feature, there was something 
 cat-like 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 de- 
 lighted with their prospective purchaser. Everything 
 was speedily settled. M. Derues and his wife, a lady 
 belonging to the distinguished family of Nicolai, 
 visited Buisson-Souef. 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 ;^20,ooo) 
 for the estate, the payments to be made by instal- 
 ments, 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 i, 1776. 
 
 What could be more satisfactory? That M. 
 Derues was a substantial person there could be no 
 
 131 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 doubt. Through his wife he was entitled to a sum of 
 250,000 Hvres as her share of the property of a 
 wealthy kinsman, one Despeignes-Duplessis, a 
 country gentleman, who some four years before had 
 been found murdered in his house under mysterious 
 circumstances. The liquidation of the Duplessis in- 
 heritance, as soon as the law's delay could be over- 
 come, 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 dis- 
 tinguished. He had, no right to call himself de 
 Cyrano de Bury or lord of Candeville. His wife's 
 name was Nicolais, not Nicolai — a 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 pur- 
 chase of a large estate for 130,000 livres I 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 tw'elve 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 
 
 132 
 
The Climbing Little Grocer 
 
 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 non-commissioned 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, 
 B^raud 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 husband being the Marquis Desprez, and through 
 her B6raud had inherited the Marquis' property. 
 According to the custom of the time, B^raud, on 
 coming into his inheritance, took a title from one of 
 his estates and called himself thenceforth the lord of 
 Despeignes-Duplessis. 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 B^raud'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 her mother's share of the estate, that is, one- 
 
 133 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 ;^i 1,000 in English money. But five 
 years had passed since the death of Despeignes- 
 Duplessis, and the estate was still in the slow process 
 of legal settlement. If Derues were to receive the 
 full third of the Duplessis inheritance — a very unlikely 
 supposition after four years of liquidation — 66,000 
 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 money-lender, a money-lender 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 
 dressing-gown k 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 pre- 
 sence at the Rue Beaubourg so impressed the 
 wondering neighbours of the facile grocer. 
 
 This aristocratic money-lending proved a hope- 
 less 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 
 
 134 
 
The Climbing Little Grocer 
 
 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 I 
 Nothing — no fear, no disappointment, no disaster — 
 could check the little grocer's ardent and overmaster- 
 ing desire to be a gentleman indeed, a landed pro- 
 prietor, a lord of something or other. At the 
 beginning of 1775 he had purchased a place near 
 Rueil from a retired coffeehouse-keeper, paying 1,000 
 livres on account, but the non-payment of the rest of 
 the purchase-money had resulted in the annulment 
 of the contract. Undefeated, Derues only determined 
 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 Fran9ois de Cyrano 
 Derues de Bury, Seigneur de Buisson-Souef et Valla 
 Profonde." He is worthy of Thackeray's pen, this 
 little grocer-snob, 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 
 135 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 impecuniosity, Derues was a past master of the art of 
 duping others. From the moment of the purchase of 
 Buisson-Souef all his art was employed in cajoling 
 the trusting and simple de Lamottes. Legally 
 Buisson-Souef was his from the signing of the agree- 
 ment in December, 1775. His first payment was due 
 in April, 1776. Instead of making it, Derues went 
 down to Buisson-Souef 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 purchase-money of his new estate would be 
 promptly paid up. But as time went on and no pay- 
 ment 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, 
 
 136 
 
The Climbing Little Grocer 
 
 and then good-bye to Buisson-Souef and landed 
 gentility I 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 Buisson-Souef. 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 i6, 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 solved — how to keep 
 Buisson-Souef 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 purchase-money 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 Buisson-Souef. He would 
 then produce the necessary documents proving the 
 payment of the purchase-money, and Buisson-Souef 
 would be his for good and all. 
 
 The prime necessity to the success of this plan 
 was the disappearance, willing or unwilling, of Mme. 
 
 ^37 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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, 1776, 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, bustling, credu- 
 lous, 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 
 
 138 
 
The Climbing Little Grocer 
 
 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 ex- 
 claimed. 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 i, 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 
 
 139 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 con- 
 veyed 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. 
 
 140 
 
The Climbing Little Grocer 
 
 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. Mesvrel-Desvergers 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 da Mortellerie. 
 
 On Wednesday, February 12, a M. Beaupr6 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. Beaupr6 was a very 
 pale little gentleman, who seemed in excellent spirits, 
 in spite of the fact that his nephew was clearly any- 
 thing 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. Beaupr^ 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. Beaupr^ declared himself as 
 highly delighted with the success of his medicine. 
 The same night the boy was dead. The priest, 
 
 141 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 urgently sent for by his devout uncle, arrived to find 
 a corpse. On the following day "Louis Anotine 
 Beaupr^, aged twenty-two 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, Buisson-Souef 
 was his. He had seen Mme. de Lamotte at 
 Versailles and paid her the full purchase-money in 
 good, sounding gold. And, I>est 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 un- 
 doubtedly concluded the sale of Buisson-Souef to 
 Derues and received the price of it before disappear- 
 ing 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 pur- 
 pose from an advocate of the name of Duclos. As a 
 fact the loan from Duclos to Derues was fictitious. 
 
 142 
 
The Climbing Little Grocer 
 
 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, it 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 Buisson- 
 Souef 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 Buisson- 
 Souef 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 Buisson-Souef. 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 
 
 143 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 she should not have consulted him about the con- 
 clusion of the business with Derues, and that Derues 
 hiaiself should have been able to find so consider- 
 able 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 got possession 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 Buisson-Souef 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 
 three-cornered hat with considerably more than the 
 
 144 
 
The Game of Bluff 
 
 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 attorney — you 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 indigna- 
 tion. 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 some- 
 thing 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 Buisson-Souef to try 
 K 145 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 what "bluff" could do in this serious crisis in his 
 adventure. 
 
 At Buisson-Souef 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 Buisson-Souef 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 re- 
 ceived 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 Villeneuve-le-Roi, presented himself before 
 M. de Lamotte at Buisson-Souef. 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 dis- 
 appointed. 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 Buisson-Souef, he who had not a halfpenny a 
 
 146 
 
The Game of BIufF 
 
 short time ago? Derues replied that he had bor» 
 rowed 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 
 Buisson-Souef, 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, un- 
 dismayed by this outburst, reasserted 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 power- 
 ful friends to back him ; class against class, the little 
 grocer would be no match for him. It was immediate 
 possession of Buisson-Souef that Derues wanted, not 
 lawsuits; they were expensive and the results un- 
 certain. 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 Lamotte — her reappearance, 
 
 147 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 perhaps — would 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 Buisson-Souef, 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 purchase-money of 
 the estate of Buisson-Souef, 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 docu- 
 ment, 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. 
 
 148 
 
The Game of BlufF 
 
 Pourra to send it to the parish priest at Villeneuve- 
 le-Roi ; this he promised to do. Mme. de Lamotte 
 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 
 wine-cellar in which the corpse of hfs ill-fated 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 him- 
 self 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 Buisson-Souef. When the 
 new power of attorney purporting to be signed by 
 
 149 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 I'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 Chdtelet; 
 when, on April 18, information was received by the 
 authorities which determined them to explore the 
 wine-cellar in the Rue de la Mortellerie. Whether 
 
 150 
 
The Game of BIufF 
 
 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 magis- 
 trate, 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 im- 
 possible 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 them- 
 selves 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 con- 
 clusion 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 com- 
 menced 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 
 
 151 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 son ; his only crime, he said, lay in having concealed 
 their deaths. Mme. Derues said: "It is Buisson- 
 Souef that has ruined us ! I always told my husband 
 that he was mad to buy these properties — I am sure 
 my husband is not a poisoner — I trusted my husband 
 and believed every word he said." The court con- 
 demned Derues to death, but deferred judgment in 
 his wife's case on the ground of her pregnancy. 
 
 And now the frail, cat-like 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 re- 
 cognised 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 
 
 152 
 
The Game of Bluff 
 
 doctors declared him too delicate to undergo the 
 corture 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 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 re- 
 covered 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 emphati- 
 cally 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 innocent — as 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 
 
 153 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 sign the record of his last words, he re-asserted 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 Gr^ve, 
 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 Con- 
 ciergerie of a male child; it is hardly surprising, 
 
 154 
 
The Game of BIufF 
 
 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, de- 
 cided 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 con- 
 tent 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 pos- 
 
 155 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 sessed of the estate of Buisson-Souef, 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 Salpetri^re 
 Prison. On March 13, in front of the Conciergerie 
 Mme. Derues underwent the first part of her punish- 
 ment. 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 was excited 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 deter- 
 mined, and, taken from its 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 a^ain the supreme penalty? History does not 
 relate. 
 
 Ten years passed. A fellow prisoner in the 
 Salpetri^re 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 ex-soldier 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 re- 
 store her to her children. For three years he 
 persisted vainly in his efforts. At last, in the year 
 
 »56 
 
The Game of Bluff 
 
 1792, it seemed as if they might be crowned with 
 success. He was told that the case would be re- 
 examined; 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 Salpetri^re 
 Prison, and fifth among their victims fell the widow 
 of Derues. 
 
 157 
 
DR. GASTAING 
 
 There are two reports of the trial of Castaing : "Proems Com- 
 plet d'Edme Samuel Castaing,'* Paris, 1823 j "Affaire Castaing," 
 Paris, 1823. 
 
 I 
 
 An Unhappy Coincidence 
 
 EDME CASTAING, born at Alen^on in 1796, 
 was the youngest of the three sons of an 
 Inspector-General in the department of Woods 
 and Forests. His elder brother had entered the same 
 service as his father, the other brother was a staff- 
 captain 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 Angers — 
 the Alma Mater of Barr^ and Lebiez — where, intel- 
 ligent 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-and-twenty 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 
 
 158 
 
An Unhappy Coincidence 
 
 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 
 182 1 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 18 18, had 
 backed a bill for a friend for 600 francs. To meet it 
 when it fell due two years later w^as 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 aversion 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 
 
 159 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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, bad; 
 he became indolent and dissipated. His brother 
 Hippolyte, on the other hand, had justified the affec- 
 tionate 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 in- 
 herited 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 Eng- 
 hien. 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 in- 
 dependent means. After the death of their parents, 
 whatever jealousy Auguste may have felt at the un- 
 fair preference which his mother had shown for her 
 younger son, had died down. At the time of Hip- 
 polyte'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 
 
 160 
 
An Unhappy Coincidence 
 
 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 i, 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 brother-in-law, 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 w^as 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. Mme. Martignon insisted on going to 
 nurse her brother herself, but Castaing refused posi- 
 tively 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 bed- 
 room 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 
 L i6i 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 brother-in- 
 law'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 suffer- 
 ing, Hippolyte Ballet passed away. 
 
 A post-mortem 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, how- 
 ever 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 what- 
 ever 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, three- 
 quarters of it going to his brother Auguste, the re- 
 maining quarter to his sister, Mme. Martignon. 
 
 162 
 
An Unhappy Coincidence 
 
 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 to-day if possible. I have 
 the greatest need of it. Destroy my letter, and reply 
 at once. M. Sandri<^ 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, Sandri^, 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 good-bye 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 state- 
 ments of Auguste made to other persons are to be 
 believed, he had paid the 100,000 francs which he 
 had raised through Pignon, 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 
 
 163 , 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 Percillit^, had spoken in her 
 presence of having himself destroyed one copy of 
 Hippolyte 's will before his death, and admitted hav- 
 ing arranged with Lebret after Hippolyte's death for 
 the destruction of the other copy. 
 
 How far was the story told by Auguste, and re- 
 peated 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's — and it was the theory of the prosecution 
 that Castaing and not Auguste had gone up to the 
 office — the 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 medium 
 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 
 
 164 
 
An Unhappy Coincidence 
 
 October lo, 1822, had given a stockbroker a sum of 
 66,000 francs to invest in securities; on the nth of 
 the same montli he had lent iiis 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 insolverit 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 was 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 
 someone 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 Castaing, and not to Castaing him- 
 self. Hence his surprise at hearing that Castaing, 
 whom he ki^ew 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 
 
 165 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 Castaing, Hippolyte Ballet had made a will, leaving 
 the greater part of his property to his sister. Some- 
 how 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 success- 
 ful. 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 Hippolyte 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 awkwferd 
 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 
 
 166 
 
An Unhappy Coincidence 
 
 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 to- 
 wards his sole legatee were no longer cordial. To 
 one or two of his friends he expressed his growing 
 distaste for Castaing'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, he 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 
 
 167 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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. Ballet, examine it and keep it 
 as his representative." The will was dated December 
 I, 1822, and made Castaing sole legatee. On the 
 same day that the will was deposited with Malassis, 
 Castaing and Auguste Ballet started together 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 maid-servants. Two glasses were 
 
 168 
 
An Unhappy Coincidence 
 
 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 fellow- 
 servants 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 Castaing 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 
 thirty-six 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 morn- 
 ing 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 
 
 169 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 un- 
 necessary, 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 
 
 170 
 
An^Unhappy Coincidence 
 
 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 to-morrow, 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 uncon- 
 sciousness. 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 con- 
 vulsions. 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 dis- 
 tressing 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 Saint 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 
 
 171 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 post-mortem. "Ah ! You 
 will be doing me the greatest service," said Castaing; 
 "I beg you to insist on a post-mortem. 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 mid- 
 day on Sunday, June i, Auguste Ballet died. 
 
 During the afternoon Castaing left the hotel for 
 some hours, and that same afternoon a young man 
 about twenty-five 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 to-morrow% Monday. I 
 will see you and tell you, yes or no, whether it is 
 time to act. I expect that his brother-in-law, M. 
 Martignon, whose face is pock-marked 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 to-morrow, 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 
 
 172 
 
An Unhappy Coincidence 
 
 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 morn- 
 ing that Martignon had received from Castaing any 
 intimation of the brother-in-law'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 post- 
 mortem ; it was performed in the hotel at Saint Cloud. 
 Castaing was still in the hotel under provisional 
 arrest. While the post-mortem 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 over-indulgence of 
 any kind. 
 
 ^73 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 II 
 
 The Trial of Dr. Gastaing 
 
 Castaing expected, as a result of the doctors* 
 report, immediate release. In this he was dis- 
 appointed; he was placed under stricter arrest 
 and taken to Paris, where a preliminary investi- 
 gation 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 mad- 
 ness. 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 wrong- 
 ful arrest. He admitted his unfortunate possession of 
 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 
 
 174 
 
The Trial of Dr. Castaing 
 
 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 
 closely-printed pages. It is a well-reasoned, graphic 
 and unfair statement of the case for the prosecu- 
 tion. 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 "hor- 
 rible 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 pay- 
 ments of money by Castaing to her formed an im- 
 portant 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 de- 
 scribed 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 side-whiskers. One of the 
 witnesses at Saint Cloud said that Castaing looked 
 more like a priest than a doctor; his downcast eyes, 
 
 175 
 
Remarkable CHriminals 
 
 gentle voice, quiet and unassuming demeanour, lent 
 him an air of patience and humility. 
 
 The interrogatory of the prisoner 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 Mile. 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 Mile. 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 
 f)ossession 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 
 
 176 
 
The Trial of Dr. Castaing 
 
 Augustc, 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 onFy 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 the prisoner 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 re- 
 plied that he was sent for by the wife of the hotel- 
 keeper. 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 
 he had said that he had drunk only a little. 
 
 A ridiculous statement made by Castaing to ex- 
 
 M 177 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 plain 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 dis- 
 turbance on the night in question. Castaing now 
 said that he had bought the poisons at Auguste*s re- 
 quest, 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 
 w^as 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 con- 
 catenation of circumstances, he thought that he would 
 be suspected of murder. In reply to a question from 
 one of the jurv, Castaing said that he had mixed the 
 
 178 
 
The Trial of Dr. Castaing 
 
 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 undoubtedly a char- 
 acteristic result of a severe dose of acetate of 
 morphia.* 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 ap- 
 pearances, 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. 
 
 To the young priest-like 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 sub- 
 mit to a long interrogatory by the President, but, 
 after each witness had given his or her evidence, the 
 
 * 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. 
 
 179 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 prisoner was called on to refute or explain any points 
 unfavourable to him. This he did briefly, with vary- 
 ing 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. State- 
 ments made by Auguste to other persons about Cas- 
 taing were freely admitted. But more serious was the 
 evidence of Mile. 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 Hip- 
 polyte Ballet's will, and for Auguste's sake had pro- 
 cured 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 Mile. Percillit^'s house once, and then 
 not with Auguste Ballet. Mile. 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, in- 
 vited the clerk to come and see him. His friend, 
 hidden in an alcove in the room, overheard the con- 
 versation between Castaing and the clerk, and so 
 learnt the details of his sister's intrigue. He at once 
 
 180 
 
The Trial of Dr. Castaing 
 
 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. 
 
 Avocat-General : But Mme. Durand says that you 
 did. 
 
 Castaing: I don't recollect. 
 
 President: You always say that you don't recol- 
 lect ; 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 
 he had told her a somewhat similar story as account- 
 ing 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 Presi- 
 dent, "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 any- 
 thing," 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 de- 
 181 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 fence, 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, con- 
 stituted 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 Avocat-General dealt 
 with the point raised at some length — a 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 Avocat-G^n^ral, 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 con- 
 vinced 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 com- 
 
 182 
 
The Trial of Dr. Gastaing 
 
 mitted 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 I You have committed mur- 
 der 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 mean- 
 ingless and absurd. They can only be refuted by 
 arguments or explanations that are childish and 
 ridiculous." 
 
 Castaing was defended by two advocates — 
 Roussel, 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 use- 
 less 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 
 
 183 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 con- 
 taining morphia had disappeared. 
 
 M. Roussel combated 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 Govern- 
 ment official. The mistress of Castaing he repre- 
 sented 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 con- 
 cluding 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 Leuch^re, in order to recognise the faithful 
 loyalty of my servants, and deprive M. and Mme. 
 Martignon, my brother-in-law and sister, of all rights 
 
 184 
 
The Trial of Dr. Gastaing 
 
 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 in- 
 genious 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 im- 
 pression, 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 I ' " 
 
 M. Roussel concluded his speech at ten o'clock 
 on Sunday night, November i6. 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 
 
 185 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 symp- 
 tomatic 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 deter- 
 mine it, but leaves its judgment to a higher tribunal." 
 The Avocat-G^^n^ral, in reply, made a telling 
 answer to M. Roussel's attempt to minimise the im- 
 portance of the cats and dogs : " He has spoken of 
 the drama of life, and of its ordinary everyday in- 
 cidents. 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 spoils — are 
 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" 
 
 i86 
 
The Trial of Dr. Gastaing 
 
 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 ill-fortune, of fatal circumstance. 
 I shall go to meet my two friends. I am accused of 
 having treacherously murdered them. There is a 
 Providence above us I 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 I 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 I " 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 re- 
 turned. 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 
 
 187 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 twenty-six. 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? 
 
 8S 
 
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. Bigclow. 
 
 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 red-brick, three-storied 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 lecture-room of 
 Professor Webster. Behind the lecture-room is a 
 laboratory, known as the upper laboratory, com- 
 municating 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 
 
 189 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 the left-hand side of the front of the building, 
 separated this lower laboratory from the dissecting- 
 room, an outhouse built on to the west wall of the 
 college, but now demolished. From this de- 
 scription it will be seen that any person, pro- 
 vided with the necessary keys, could enter the college 
 by the side-door near the dissecting-room on the 
 ground floor, and pass up through the lower and 
 upper laboratory into Professor Webster's lecture- 
 room without entering any other part of the building. 
 The Professor of Chemistry, by locking the doors of 
 his lecture-rooms and the lower laboratory, could, if 
 he wished, make himself perfectly secure against in- 
 trusion, and come and go by the side-door without 
 attracting much attention. These rooms are little 
 altered at the present time from their arrangement in 
 1849. The lecture-room and laboratory are used for 
 the same purposes to-day ; the lower laboratory, a 
 dismal chamber, now disused and somewhat re- 
 arranged, 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 well- 
 known dentist of Boston, Dr. Keep, in the year 1846. 
 In that year the new medical college was formally 
 opened. Dr. Parkman, a wealthy and public-spirited 
 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 com- 
 
 190 
 
Professor Webster 
 
 plete 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 to-day 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 well-known 
 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 uncompromising 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. 
 
 191 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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, half- 
 past 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 half-past one he had visited 
 a grocer's shop in Bridge Street, made some pur- 
 chases, 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 half-past 
 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 lecture-i[pom 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 Geo- 
 logical 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. 
 
 192 
 
Professor Webster 
 
 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 
 tastes — he was especially fond of music — not 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 self- 
 willed and self-indulgent. His wife and daughters 
 were better liked than he. By unfriendly critics 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 ;£" 10,000. 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 collect- 
 ing 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 ;£'24o a year;^ the rest of 
 his income he derived from ^^q sale of tickets for his 
 lectures at the Medical College. That income was 
 insufficient to meet his w^ants. 
 
 As early as 1842 he had borrowed ;£'8o 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 under- 
 graduates in the same year. Up to 1847 Webster 
 
 * 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. 
 N 193 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 had repaid Parkman twenty pounds of his debt ; but 
 in that year he found it necessary to raise a further 
 loan of ;^490, 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 Pro- 
 fessor'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. Park- 
 man's brother-in-law, and begged a loan of ;^240, 
 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 con- 
 sidered 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 easy-going 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 mort- 
 gaged to himself. From the moment of the discovery 
 of this act of dishonesty on the part of Webster, Park- 
 man 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, 
 
 194 
 
Professor Webster 
 
 Webster's agent, collected on the Professor's behalf. 
 He even visited Webster in his lecture-room, and sat 
 glaring at him in the front row of seats while the 
 Professor was striving under these somewhat un- 
 favourable conditions to impart instruction to his 
 pupils— a 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 lecture-room. "Dr. Webster, are you ready for 
 me to-night?" asked Parkman. *'No," replied the 
 other, "I am not ready to-night." After a little 
 further conversation in regard to the mortgage. Park- 
 man departed with the ominous remark, "Doctor, 
 something must be done to-morrow." 
 
 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 un- 
 relenting. On the 22nd Parkman rode into Cam- 
 bridge, 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 eight 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 half-past one; to this the 
 Doctor had been seen hastening just before his dis- 
 
 195 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 appearance. 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 ;{^i8 
 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 aberra- 
 tions, 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, w^ith his creditor on that day. 
 A balance of £28 at his Bank, and the ;^i8 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 w^ere 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 
 
 196 
 
Professor Webster 
 
 Sunday afternoon Mr. Parkman could not help re- 
 marking Webster's peculiar manner. With a bare 
 greeting and no expression of condolence \Nith 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 after- 
 noon, that he had paid him £go which he owed him, 
 and that the Doctor had in the course of their inter- 
 view 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, 
 W^ebster 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. Accord- 
 ingly 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 lecture-room 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 oq 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 
 
 197 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 ;^20 on the New Zealand 
 Bank : pressed on this point, he seemed rather to 
 avoid any further inquiries. Mr. Blake left him, 
 dissatisfied with the result of his visit. 
 
 One particular in Webster's statement was unques- 
 tionably strange, if not incredible. He had, he said, 
 paid Parkman a sum of ;^90, 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 ;£"490 that had been sub- 
 scribed by Parkman and four of his friends. Now 
 ;^I20 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 trans- 
 actions 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 in to his own account at the 
 Charles River Bank the cheque for ;£'i8, lecture fees, 
 handed over to him by the agent Pettee just before 
 
 198 
 
Professor Webster 
 
 Dr. Parkman's visit on the Friday. This sum had 
 not apparently gone towards tiie making up of the 
 ;^90 which Webster said that he had paid to Park- 
 man 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 lecture-room. These were 
 police officers who, in the course of their search for 
 the missing man, felt it their duty to examine, how- 
 ever 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 
 w^as conducting them. At that moment Webster's 
 voice called them away to examine the store-room 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 
 
 199 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 dissecting-room vault, 
 which was situated just outside the door of the lower 
 laboratory. He asked how it was built, w^hether 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 Pro- 
 fessor 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 
 he found to his surprise a sledge-hammer be- 
 hind 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 he never saw again. About a quarter 
 to two that afternoon Littlefield, standing at the front 
 door, after his dinner, saw Dr. Parkman coming to- 
 wards 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 lecture- 
 rooms. When he reached Webster's he was sur- 
 prised 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 
 
 200 
 
 <r 
 
Professor Webster 
 
 running of water in one of the sinks. About half-gast 
 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 lecture-room 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 
 iaces 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 re- 
 plying 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 cus- 
 
 201 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 ternary 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 Professor asked the 
 janitor whether he had bought his turkey for Thanks- 
 giving 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 
 half-past 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 
 Littlefield 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 fol- 
 lowing day. Though on account of the holidays all 
 work had been suspended at the College for the re- 
 mainder 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 
 
 202 
 
Professor Webster 
 
 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 requir-' 
 ing any fires during the remainder of the week. 
 
 The janitor determined to resolve his suspicions. 
 He climbed up to the b^ck windows of the lower 
 laboratory, found one of them unfastened, and let 
 himself in. But, beyond evidences of the consider- 
 able 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 w^ould be 
 found in the Medical College. He felt that he him- 
 self 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 
 laWatory. 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 dis- 
 appeared. He recollected that when the police 
 officers had paid their visit to the College the Pro- 
 fessor 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 
 
 203 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 retiring room was by going down to tne 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 prof>osed investiga- 
 tion, and received their sanction. As Webster, how- 
 ever, 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 fish- 
 hooks and gave orders for the making of a strohg tin 
 box with firm handles, a foot and a half sqliare 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 crowbar, he worked vigorously until he suc- 
 ceeded 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, Little- 
 field 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 remains — a pelvis, a thigh and a leg — were 
 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 
 
 304 
 
Professor Webster 
 
 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 disturb- 
 ance 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 daughters. On Friday evening, about 
 eight o'clock, as the Professor was saying good-bye 
 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 infor- 
 mation oh 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 officers alighted, and 
 invited his companions to follow him into the office 
 of the Leverett Street Jail. They obeyed. The Pro- 
 fessor asked what it all meant ; he was informed that 
 he must consider himself in custody, charged with the 
 murder of Dr. George Parkman. Webster, some- 
 what taken aback, desired that word should be sent to 
 his family, but was dissuaded from his purpose for 
 
 205 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 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. 
 
 206 
 
Professor Webster 
 
 The whole night through the prisoner lay without 
 moving, and not until the following afternoon were 
 his limbs relaxed suflicienlly to allow of his sitting 
 up. As his condition improved, he grew more con- 
 fident. "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 Pro- 
 fessor's rooms on Saturday had resulted in the dis- 
 covery, in a tea-chest 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 fish-hooks 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 unwit- 
 tingly 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 yester- 
 day; 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. 
 
 207 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 re- 
 ceived it. With many kisses to you all. Good night I 
 **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 Park- 
 man 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 
 
 208 
 
Professor Webster 
 
 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 magis- 
 terial 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 proceed- 
 ings 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 the 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 con- 
 
 o 209 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 ceived to be in his favour. The value of his state- 
 ments 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 disappearance. After 
 his condemnation Webster confessed to the author- 
 ship 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 hear- 
 ing 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 well-meaning 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 dis- 
 missed, 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 Park- 
 man 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, 
 
 aio 
 
Professor Webster 
 
 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 tea-chest 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 re- 
 plied " Never, before God 1 " He had, he pro- 
 tested, 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 
 is — all this I '* 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 be- 
 lieved implicitly 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 
 
 211 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 any- 
 thing 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 dissecting-room vault, the 
 appointment made with Parkman at the College, the 
 statement to Pettee, all point to some degree of pre-« 
 meditation, 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 
 
 212 
 
Professor Webster 
 
 his victim on a sudden and overmastering provoca- 
 tion, in which case he had better at once have 
 acknowledged his crime instead of making a re- 
 pulsive 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 re- 
 mains 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 following anecdote related by Charles Dickens in a letter 
 to Lord Lytton, and reproduced in Jolin Forster's "Life of 
 Dickens," would seem to show that there had been always a 
 strain of the "macabre" in Webster's character, which may have 
 made the contemplation of murder leas dreadful to one of his 
 morbid, if not, as Dickens suggests, secretly cruel, disposition : 
 
 "Just before Christmas of 1867, being in Cambridge on my 
 second American tour, I went over the Medical School in order 
 to see the exact localities where Professor Webster did that 
 amazing murder and worked so hard to rid himself of the 
 body of the murdered man. At the house where I after- 
 wards dined I heard an amazing and fearful story, told by 
 one who had been at a dinner party at Webster's less than a 
 year before the murder. They began rather uncomfortably in 
 consequence of one of the guests (the victim of an instinctive 
 antipathy) crying out, with the sweat pouring down his face : 
 • O Heaven ! There's a cat somewhere in the room ! ' The cat being 
 ejected, they were getting on a little better when, over the wine, 
 Webster suddenly told the servants to turn the gas off and bring 
 in ' that bowl of burning minerals ' which he had prepared. All 
 this was done. Some peculiar quality in the flames caused every 
 man to look, horror-stricken, at his neighbour, Webster being seen 
 bending over the bowl with a rope round his neck, holding up the 
 end of the rope, with his head on one side and his tongue lolled 
 out, to represent a hanged man 1 " 
 
 ai3 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS MR. HOLMES 
 
 "The Holmes- Pitezel 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 Phila- 
 delphia, had patented a new saw-set. 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 two- 
 storeyed 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 sug- 
 gested 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 storey. 
 
 A few days later Smith called at Callowhill Street 
 to ask Perry about the sale of the patent. He \yaited 
 
 ai4 
 
Honour Amongst Thieves 
 
 half an hour in the shop below, called out to Perry 
 who, he thought, might be in the rooms above, re- 
 ceived 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 up- 
 stairs, and in the back room of the second storey 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 con- 
 tained 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 re- 
 turned 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 insula 
 ance had been effected in Chicago in the November of 
 1893. Mr. Howe proposed to come to Philadelphia 
 
 215 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 news- 
 paper, which stated erroneously that the death of 
 B. F. Perry had taken place i/i Chicago. 
 
 On September i8 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 Phila- 
 delphia, 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. 
 
 216 
 
Honour Amongst Thieves 
 
 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 w^as 
 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 thumb-nail 
 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 
 
 217 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 Mr. Howe a cheque for 9,175 dollars, and to Mr. 
 Holmes ten dollars for his expenses. Smith, the car- 
 penter, 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 ^^^ Marion Hedgspeth, serving a sentence 
 of twenty years' imprisonment for an audacious train 
 robbery. On the night of November 30, 1891, the 
 "'Frisco" 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, Hedgspeth 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 JephthaD. 
 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 
 
 218 
 
Honour Amongst Thieves 
 
 to Pitezers description, and to be so treated as to 
 appear to have been the victim of an accidental explo- 
 sion, while Pitezel himself would disappear to Ger- 
 many. 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 trans- 
 actions. 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 con- 
 siderable hypnotic powers. Pitezel had a wife living 
 at St. Louis and five children : three girls — Dessie, 
 Alice, and Nellie — a boy, Howard, and a baby in 
 arms. At the time of Holmes' arrest Mrs. Pitezel, 
 with her eldest daughter, Dessie, and her little baby, 
 
 219 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 was living at a house rented by Holmes at Burlington, 
 Vermont. She also was arrested on a charge of com- 
 plicity 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 horse-steal- 
 ing, 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 children — Alice, 
 Nellie and Howard — to 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. vSince 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 
 220 
 
Honour Amongst Thieves 
 
 transferred from Boston to Philadelphia, and there, 
 along with Benjamin Pitezel and Jephtha D. Howe, 
 were charged with defrauding the Fidelity Life Asso- 
 ciation of 10,000 dollars. Soon after his arrival in 
 Philadelphia, Holmes, who was never averse to talk- 
 ing, was asked by an inspector of the insurance com- 
 pany 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 re-stiffen 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 storey 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 
 
 221 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 wediding. Nannie arrived, but unfor- 
 tunately 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 thirty-four 
 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 sub- 
 sequently 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 Sixty-third Streets, the 
 four-storeyed building known later as " Holmes 
 
 222 
 
Honour Amongst Thieves 
 
 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 trap-door, 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 appear- 
 ance 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 the children, and of one Edward Hatch, 
 
 223 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 whom Holmes had described as helping him in 
 arranging for their departure. The "great humilia- 
 tion " 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 un- 
 convicted prisoner, he could order in his own meals 
 and receive new^spapers 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 have liked to be 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, patfent, injured, the authorities puzzled, 
 suspicious, baffled — still 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 
 
 224 
 
vHonour Amongst Thieves 
 
 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 re- 
 sented 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 recol- 
 lected 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 
 
 p 225 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 package of nitro-glycerine from the Bottom to the top 
 of the house, and how one day she had found him 
 busily removing the boards in the cellar. 
 
 11 
 
 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 
 post 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 re- 
 mains 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 
 
 226 
 
The Wandering Assassin 
 
 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, ^hat Geyer commenced his search. 
 
 After calling at a number of hotels, Geyer found 
 that on Friday, September 28, 1894, ^ man, giving 
 the name of Alexander E. Cook, and three children 
 had stayed at an 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 the 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 inquiries 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 
 
 227 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 a newcomer, saw the wagon arrive, and was some- 
 what 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 an 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 i and stayed until the loth. 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 mother, 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 
 
 J«8 
 
The Wandering Assassin 
 
 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 know — Howard is two {sic) dirty to be seen out 
 on the street to-day." Sometimes they go and watch 
 a man who paints "genuine oil paintings" in a shoe 
 store, which are given away with every dollar pur- 
 chase of shoes — "he can paint a picture in one and a 
 half minutes, ain't that quick I " 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 I 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 boarding-house in Con- 
 gress 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 
 
 229 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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. At 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 parties — the two children, Mrs. Pitezel 
 and her baby, and the third Mrs. Holmes — were 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 
 
 230 
 
The Wandering Assassin 
 
 a man, identified as Holmes, had called every morn- 
 ing 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 house — No. 16 St. Vincent Street — 
 which had been rented in the previous October by a 
 man answering to the description of Holmes. The in- 
 formation 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 follow- 
 ing morning. The lady to whom the house belonged 
 
 231 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 recognised Holmes' portrait as that of the man to 
 whom she had let No. i6. 
 
 At last Geyer seemed to be on the right track. 
 He hurried back to St. Vincent Street, borrowed 
 from the old gentleman at No. i8 the very spade 
 which he had lent to Holmes in the previous October, 
 and got the permission of the present occupier of 
 No. 1 6 to make a search. In the centre of the 
 kitchen Geyer found a trap-door 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. 
 
 233 
 
The Wandering Assassin 
 
 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 dis- 
 appeared 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 
 PhiladHilphia, learnt of the discovery at Toronto. 
 "On the morning of the i6th 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 find- 
 ing 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 
 
 233 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 awful- 
 ness 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 
 them — felt 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 com- 
 mit 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 circum- 
 stances, 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 
 
 ^34 
 
The Wandering Assassin 
 
 these were followed up in vain. He then turned his 
 attention to the small towns lying around Indian- 
 apolis with no happier result. Geyer wrote in some- 
 thing 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 "pleasant-faced 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 
 
 235 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 neighbour had seen Holmes in the same October 
 drive up to the house in the furniture wagon accom- 
 panied 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 scarf-pin, 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 i he 
 returned to Philadelphia. 
 
 Holmes was put on his trial on October 28, 1895, 
 before the Court of Oyer and Terminer in Phila- 
 delphia, 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, contend- 
 ing 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 posi- 
 
 236 
 
The Wandering Assassin 
 
 tion 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 nitro- 
 glycerine, 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. 
 
 Before the trial of Holmes the police had made 
 an exhaustive investigation of the mysterious build- 
 ing 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 
 
 237 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 Potezel, under the name of 
 Lyman, had deposited at Fort Worth, Texas, a deed 
 according to which a man named Bond had trans- 
 ferred 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, where- 
 upon the two commenced building on Miss Williams' 
 land. 
 
 Other mysterious cases besides those of the 
 Williams sisters revealed the Bluebeard-like character 
 of this latter-day castle of Mr. Holmes. In 1887 a 
 man of the name of Connor entered Holmes' employ- 
 ment. He brought with him to the castle a hand- 
 some, 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 
 
 338 
 
The Wandering Assassin 
 
 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 twenty-seven 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 
 
 239 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 news- 
 papers wanted a sensation and they have got it." The 
 confession was certainly sensational enough to satisfy 
 the most exacting of penny-a-liners, and a lasting 
 tribute to Holmes' undoubted power of extravagant 
 romancing. 
 
 According to his story, some of his twenty- 
 seven victims had met their death by poison, 
 some by more violent methods, some had died a 
 lingering death in the air-tight and sound-proof 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 peripatetic 
 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 
 
 240 
 
The Wandering Assassin 
 
 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 appro- 
 priated 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 con- 
 trived 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 company — a 
 mistake, the unfortunate results of which might have 
 
 Q 241 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 unfor- 
 tunate position. Plausibility would seem to have 
 been one of Holmes' most useful gifts; men and 
 women alike — particularly the latter — he seems to 
 have deceived with ease. His appearance was com- 
 
 242 
 
The Wandering Assassin 
 
 monplace, 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. 
 
 243 
 
PARTNERSHIP IN CRIME 
 
 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 Mac6 in his 
 * ' Femmes Criminelles. ' •' 
 
 I 
 
 The Charmer 
 
 JENNY AMENAIDE BR^COURT 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 wine-merchant.*' 
 When she was eleven years old, her parents took her 
 away from her protectress and sent her into the 
 streets to sell gingerbread — a 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 JBaroness 
 consented, and found her employment in a silk 
 manufactory. One day the girl, now eighteen years 
 
 244 
 
The Charmer 
 
 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 sug- 
 gestion and, to the Baroness' surprise, insisted on 
 taking the grocer as her husband. Reluctantly the 
 good lady gave her consent, and in 1855 Amenaide 
 Br^court became the wife of the grocer Gras. 
 
 A union so hasty and ill-considered 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 mother-in-law. 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 long-suffering protectress, 
 and then she too disappeared. 
 
 When she is heard of again, Amenaide Br^court 
 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. Hence- 
 forth men are to make her fortune for her. Such 
 charms as she may possess, such allurements as she 
 can oflFer, 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 
 
 245 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 stepping-stones to me. 
 As soon as they begin to fail or are played out, I put 
 them scornfully aside. Society is a vast chess-board, 
 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 Courts 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 over- 
 doses of cantharides. On learning of the death of the 
 first, she reflected patriotically, "One German the 
 less in Paris I " That of the second elicited the matter- 
 of-fact 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 com- 
 pelled to enter a private asylum. There she is des- 
 cribed as "dark in complexion, with dark expressive 
 eyes, very pale, and of a nervous temperament, agree- 
 able 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 dis- 
 charged from the asylum as cured, and on the advice 
 
 246 
 
The Charmer 
 
 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 self-defence they are frightened 
 into acknowledging her. Admirers among men she 
 has many, ex-ministers, prefects. It was at Vittel 
 that occurred the incident of the wounded pigeon. 
 There had been some pigeon-shooting. 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 fore- 
 seeing, 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 
 
 247 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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, ieven the desperate 
 expedient of a supposititious child, all these she tried 
 as means of acquiring a competence. But fortune 
 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.* 
 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 
 * For obvious reasons the real name is suppressed. 
 248 
 
The Charmer 
 
 of the twenty years between them, Georges de Saint 
 Pierre idolised his middle-aged 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 w^ould 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 
 
 249 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 con- 
 gratulate 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 I The widow was greatly im- 
 pressed 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 "pro- 
 vidential 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, 
 
 250 
 
The Charmer 
 
 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, hard-working, his record un- 
 blemished. When he returned to Paris, Gaudry 
 renewed his friendship with the companion of his 
 youth. But Jeanne Br^court 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 the oil refinery. He could 
 only 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 
 
 251 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 be madly in love with the woman ; his passion, 
 excited but not gratified, enslaved and consumed him. 
 To some of his fellow-workmen who saw him moody 
 and pre-occupied, he confessed that he ardently de- 
 sired 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 en- 
 trusted 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 knuckle- 
 duster, 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 ballet-dancer, 
 had proved a veritable toxin in the intellectual system 
 of the Widow Gras. The poison of envy, disappoint- 
 ment, suspicion, apprehension had entered into her 
 
 252 
 
The Charmer 
 
 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 
 w^ounded pigeon, as long as it was dependent on her 
 kind offices, had been compelled 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 knuckle-duster, 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 
 
 253 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 clean- 
 ing 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 ballet-dancer 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 pre-occupa- 
 tion. 
 
 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 
 / 254 
 
The Wounded Pigeon 
 
 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 pro- 
 tested 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 accom- 
 plice his method of proceeding. The building in the 
 
 255 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 Rue de Boulogne, in which the widow had her apart- 
 ment, stood at the end of a drive some twenty-seven 
 and a half yards long and five and a half yards wide. 
 About half-way up the drive, on either side, there 
 were two small houses, or pavilions, standing by them- 
 selves 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 1 2th, 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 lago, 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, 
 
 256 
 
The Wounded Pigeon 
 
 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 half-past 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 
 drawing-room 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 thirty-fifth 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 con- 
 cealment, exhorted him to have courage, and pro- 
 mised 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 
 R 257 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 per- 
 fectly 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 affec- 
 tionate devotion. The unhappy patient was con- 
 sumed 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 
 
The Wounded Pigeon 
 
 part toward the friends of Georges, and a rumour 
 which reached the ears of one of them that she in- 
 tended 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 con- 
 fided his belief that there were suspicious circum- 
 stances 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 Mac^, then a commis- 
 sary 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. Mac^ 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 
 
 259 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 w^henever 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 corre- 
 spondence. 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 ii. Shortly 
 after the widow left Paris with Georges de Saint 
 Pierre for the suburb of Courbevoie. 
 
 Mac^ 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 
 
 260 
 
The Wounded Pigeon 
 
 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 to quickly on its 
 hinges and shut of its own accord — these 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 accom- 
 plice. 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, Mac6 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 
 
 261 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 was not going to deliver an honest father of a family 
 into the clutches of the police. What was the mean- 
 ing 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 more — nothing — 
 nothing." 
 
 Taken before the examining magistrate, her atti- 
 tude 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 
 Mac^ 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 sit down while the officers 
 made their search. Her letters and papers were care- 
 fully examined; they presented a strange mixture of 
 order and disorder. Carefully kept account books of 
 her personal expenses were mixed up with billets doux, 
 paints and pomades, moneylenders* circulars, bella- 
 donna and cantharides. But most astounding of all 
 were the contents of the widow's prie-Dieu, 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 black-edged card, on which was written the last 
 
 262 
 
The Wounded Pigeon 
 
 message of a young lover who had killed himself 
 on her account: *' Jeanne, in the flush of my youth 
 I die l^ecause 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 Mac(5 the current prices on the 
 Stock Exchange. 
 
 One discovery, however, disturbed her equanimity. 
 In the drawer of a cupboard, hidden under some 
 linen, Mac^ found a leather case containing a sheaf 
 of partially-burnt 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 dining-room," 
 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 Mac^ 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 re- 
 fused 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." Mac^ told him of her past, of 
 
 263 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 the revelations contained in the prie-Dieu of this true 
 believer, but he could make no impression. "I for- 
 give her past, I accept her present, and please under- 
 stand me, no one has the power to separate me from 
 her." It was only when Mac^ 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 danger- 
 ously 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 Mac^ 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 con- 
 dition to lie to me, to betray me — it's infamous — 
 infamous I " His dream was shattered. Mac^ had 
 succeeded in his task; the disenchantment of M. de 
 Saint Pierre was complete. That nigfht 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 
 
 264 
 
The Wounded Pigeon 
 
 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 apprehen- 
 sive; she began to fear the worst. At length — the 
 widow always had an itch for writing — she deter- 
 mined 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 fellow- 
 prisoner, 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. 
 Mac6 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 
 
 265 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 widows 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 tor- 
 mented her. At last she gave up all hope, and twice 
 attempted suicide with pow^dered 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 I " 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, Troppmann, and Marshal Bazaine. M. 
 Demange (famous later for his defence of Dreyfus) 
 appeared for Gaudry. The case had aroused con- 
 siderable interest. Among those present at the trial 
 were Hal^vy, the dramatist, and Mounet-Sully and 
 Coquelin from the Com^die Fran^aise. 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 jet-black 
 
 266 
 
The Wounded Pigeon 
 
 eyes — the 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 any- 
 thing 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 I (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 half-past 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 in- 
 dignation and deny everything. You have the right. 
 I will read your examination before the examining 
 
 267 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 I 
 Defend me ! Defend me ! " "I state the facts," he 
 replied. 
 
 The prisoners could only defend themselves by try- 
 ing to throw on each other the guilt of the crime. M. 
 Demange represented Gaudry as acting under the in- 
 fluence 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 con- 
 tended 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 con- 
 demned 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 precipitancy 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 
 
 268 
 
The Wounded Pigeon 
 
 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 im- 
 placable. 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 ciUhres. I have compared 
 it with the report of the trial in the Gazette des Tribunaux. 
 
 IN the May of 1874, in the town of Montpellier, M. 
 Boyer, a retired merchant, some forty-six 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 im- 
 pure 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 ex- 
 pressed 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 
 
 270 
 
Vitalis and Marie Boyer 
 
 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 twenty-one. Her bedridden 
 husband, ignorant of her infidelity, accepted grate- 
 fully the help of Vitalis, whom his wife described as 
 a relative, in the regulation of his affairs. At length 
 
 271 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 capital 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 grow- 
 ing 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 in- 
 fluences 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 recom- 
 mendation, have the knack of making themselves 
 
 272 
 
Vitalis and Marie Boyer 
 
 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 second-hand bookseller. 
 This trade the enterprising and greedy young man 
 combined with money-lending and the 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 sur- 
 rendered 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 passer-by she and her lover 
 would bathe in a stream that passed through the pro- 
 perty, 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 
 
 s 273 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 book- 
 seller 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 
 
 ^74 
 
Vitalis and Marie Boyer 
 
 which she concealed some bearer bonds in landed 
 security, amounting to about ii,ooo 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 under- 
 standing 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 great pleasure, 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 
 marriage — all 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. 
 
 275 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 But I know too much of life to pledge myself 
 lightly. I assure you I think on it often. Some- 
 times 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 busi- 
 nesses as " going concerns" in the Rue de la R6pul> 
 lique. 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 drawing-room, 
 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 trap-door leading to a cellar. The two women 
 shared a bedroom in an adjoining house. 
 
 Vital is had opposed the scheme of his mistress 
 to start shopkeeping 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 
 
 276 
 
Vitalis and Marie Boyer 
 
 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 i, 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 unpro- 
 fitable. 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 together. 
 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 sur- 
 render. 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 I " said Vitalis. "Yes," 
 replied her daughter, "she has caused us so much 
 suffering ! " 
 
 To Madame Boyer her illness had brought hours 
 ^11 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 con- 
 sideration 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 
 
 278 
 
Vitalis and Marie Boyer 
 
 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 shop-boy, 
 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 shop-boy 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 sitting-room, 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 sitting-room, and was a witness 
 of the unsuccessful efiforts of Vitalis to strangle her 
 
 279 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 sitting- 
 room. 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 sitting-room. 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. 
 
 280 
 
Vitalis and Marie Boyer 
 
 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 
 Brussels — an admirable plan, which two unforeseen 
 circumstances defeated. The Rue de la R^publique 
 was built on a rock, blasted out for the purpose. 
 The shop-boy 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 in 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 key- 
 
 281 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 hole, saw them counting joyously money and 
 valuables, as they took them from Madame Boyer's 
 cash-box. When the shop-boy 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 accord- 
 ance 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 hand-cart 
 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 custom-house 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 shop-boy 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 
 
 282 
 
Vitalis and Marie Boyer 
 
 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 R^publique, where he found the young lovers 
 preparing for flight. At first they denied all know- 
 ledge 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, round- 
 backed, 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 murder, 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 disfinguished French judge and the 
 author of some important works on crime, acted 
 as the examining magistrate in the case of Vitalis 
 
 283 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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." 
 
 284 
 
THE FENAYROU CASE 
 
 There is an account of this case in Bataille, "Causes 
 Criminelles et Mondaines " (1882), and in Mack's book, " Femmes 
 Criminelles.'* It is alluded to in ** Souvenirs d'un Pr6sident 
 d' Assises," by B6rard des Glajeux. 
 
 THE murder of the chemist Aubert by Marin 
 Fenayrou and his wife, Gabrielle, was per- 
 petrated near Paris in the year 1882. In its 
 beginning the story is commonplace enough. Fe- 
 nayrou was tfie 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 son-in-law, 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 seventeen. 
 
 They were an ill-assorted 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 
 
 285 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 middle-class education, she despised and soon came 
 to loathe her coarse husband, and lapsed into a con- 
 dition 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 twenty-one, 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, hard-working 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 him — a character- 
 istic 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 mother-in-law. His innate 
 laziness and love of coarse pleasures had asserted 
 themselves. At first his wife had shared in the enjoy- 
 ments, 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 
 race-meetings. It was necessary, under these circum- 
 stances, 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 
 286 
 
The Fenayrou Case 
 
 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 the 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 son-in-law 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 Gouvion-Saint-Cyr. He 
 had obtained a post in a shady mining company, 
 
 287 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 in which he had persuaded his mother-in-law to 
 invest 20,000 francs. He had attempted also to 
 make money by selling fraudulent imitations of a 
 famous table-water. For this offence, at the begin- 
 ning 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 lijad 
 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 Mme. 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 wedding-ring, 
 her jewellery, removed from its frame her picture in 
 charcoal which hung in the drawing-room, 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. 
 
 288 
 
The Fenayrou Case 
 
 He preferred, for reasons of his own, to set about the 
 commission of a deliberate and cold-blooded 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 
 mother-in-law, 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 destruc- 
 tion 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, 
 
 T 289 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 be- 
 lieved also, though erroneously, that Aubert had 
 informed against him in the matter of the table-water 
 fraud. Whether his knowledge of Aubert's re- 
 lations 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, threat- 
 ening, 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 
 
 290 
 
The Fenayrou Case 
 
 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 XL, 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 resent- 
 ment 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 north-west of Paris lies the 
 small town of Chatou, a pleasant country resort for 
 tired Parisians. Here Madeleine Brohan, the famous 
 actress, had lived in a small villa, a two-storeyed 
 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 
 
 291 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 other than Fenayrou — the villa that had belonged to 
 Madeleine Brohan the scene chosen for Aubert's 
 murder. Fenayrou was determined to spare no ex- 
 pense 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 un- 
 necessary suffering to be avoided. At first he 
 favoured a pair of "infernal" opera-glasses 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 sword-stick, won the 
 day. An assistant was taken in 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 
 
 293 
 
The Fenayrou Case 
 
 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 twenty-six 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 be- 
 came 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 half-past eight in the evening. 
 
 On the afternoon of that day Fenayrou, his wife 
 and his brother sent the children to their grand- 
 mother and left Paris for Chatou at three o'clock. 
 Arrived there, they went to the villa, Fenayrou 
 carrying the twenty-six feet of gas-piping wound 
 round him like some huge hunting-horn. 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 conceal- 
 ment 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 
 
 293 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 sword-stick on the drawing-room table and returned 
 to Paris. 
 
 The three conspirators dined together heartily in 
 the Avenue de Clichy — soup, 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 second-class 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 half-past eight she met Aubert at the St. Lazare 
 Station, gave him his ticket, and the two set out for 
 Chatou — a 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 agitated — 
 ires emotionnee. It was about half-past 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 I " As he entered the hall, surprised at 
 the darkness, he exclaimed : "The devil ! it's precious 
 dark I iu 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 inefTectual. A struggle ensued. The room 
 
 294 
 
The Fenayrou Case 
 
 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 sword-stick, 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 holiday- 
 makers. When all was quiet they put it into the goat 
 chaise, wrapped round with the gas-piping, 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 I" exclaimed a night- 
 fisherman, 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 caf^. 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 meet- 
 ings, indulging in a picnic and a visit to the Salon. 
 
 295 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 tied 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, how- 
 ever, the body was discovered 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. Mac^, then head of the Detective Department, 
 called at their house. He found Fenayrou in a 
 dressing-gown. This righteous avenger of his wife's 
 seduction denied his guilt, like any common criminal, 
 but M. Mac6 handed him over to one of his men, to 
 be taken immediately to Versailles. He himself took 
 charge of Madame, and, in the first-class carriage full 
 of people, in which they travelled together to Ver- 
 sailles, she whispered to the detective a full confession 
 of the crime. 
 
 Mac^ 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 
 
 296 
 
The Fenayrou Case 
 
 present position?" asked the detective. "No, Tm 
 thinking of my mother and my dear children." 
 "They don't seem to care much about their father," 
 remarked Mac6. "Perhaps not." "Why?" asked 
 M. Macd. "Because of his violent temper," was the 
 reply. After some further conversation and the de- 
 parture 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,'* answered 
 M. Mac6; "she looks on the crime as one of revenge." 
 "But my brother-in-law," urged the woman, "could 
 have had no motive for vengeance against Aubert." 
 Mac6 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 Mac^ 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 
 Mac^ 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 cir- 
 cumstance, Mme. Fenayrou obeyed her mentor, and 
 calmly, coldly, without regret or remorse, told him 
 the story of the assassination. Towards the end of 
 
 297 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 prisoners — Lucien had 
 been arrested at the same time as the other two — were 
 brought to Chatou. Identified by the gardener as the 
 lessee of the villa, Fenayrou abandoned his protesta- 
 tions 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 impersonated Aubert, Fenayrou repeated the in- 
 cidents of the murder. The goat-chaise was wheeled 
 to the bridge, and there, in the presence of an indig- 
 nant 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 Seine-et-Oise 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 r61e of the wronged 
 husband ; his heavy figure clothed in an ill-fitting 
 suit of "blue dittos," his ill-kempt red beard and 
 bock-stained moustache did not help him in his 
 impersonation. Mme. Fenayrou, pale, colourless, 
 insignificant, was cold and impenetrable. She 
 
 298 
 
The Fenayrou Case 
 
 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. B^rard 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 I 
 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 
 suspected of fraud. Perhaps Aubert knew some- 
 thing against you. Some act of poisoning, or 
 abortion, in which you had been concerned ? Many 
 witnesses have believed this. Your mother-in-law 
 is said to have remarked, *'My son-in-law will end 
 in jail." 
 
 Fenayrou (bursting into tears) : This is too 
 dreadful. 
 
 299 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 slave — was 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 con- 
 demned 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 de- 
 ceiving your husband and teaching your children to 
 despise him you were covering him with caresses. 
 You have played false to both husband and lover — 
 to 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 drawing-room on the evening of the murder 
 you said loudly, "This is the way," so that your 
 husband, hearing your voice outside, should not 
 
 300 
 
The Fenayrou Case 
 
 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 I " 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 in- 
 verting the parts played by the husband and wife in 
 the crime must be a matter of opinion. In his 
 volume of Souvenirs M. B6rard 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 him- 
 self, nor could any motive for joining in the murder 
 beyond a readiness to oblige his brother be sug- 
 
 301 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 gested. In his Souvenirs M. Berard des Glajeux 
 states that to-day it would seem to be clearly 
 established that Lucien acted blindly at the bidding 
 of his sister-in-law, " qu'il avail 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, affection- 
 ate, 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 R^publique, M. Delegorgue : "Never has a more 
 thorough-paced, 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 extenuating circum- 
 stances. The woman was sentenced to penal 
 
 303 
 
The Fenayrou Case 
 
 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. 
 Btfrard des Glajeux describes his visit to Fenayrou 
 at Versailles. He was already in prison dress, sob- 
 bing. 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 court- 
 house waiting for the cab that was to take her to her 
 prison. Freed from the anxieties of the trial, know- 
 ing 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 self-possession, 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 
 
 303 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 person to whom these new proceedings brought no 
 benefit was Mme. Fenayrou, whose sentence re- 
 mained 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 
 licence and became a ferryman — a 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 fellow- 
 prisoners, 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. 
 
 304 
 
EYRAUD AND BOMPARD 
 
 There are accounts of this case in Bataille, " Causes Criminclles 
 et Mondaines," 1890, and in Volume X. of Fouquier, " Causes 
 C61ebres." "L'Affaire Gouff^," 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 Gouff^, 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 sur- 
 prising in the case of a man of regular habits even in 
 his irregularities, robust health, and cheerful spirits. 
 
 Gouff6 was a widower, forty-two years of age. 
 He had three daughters who lived happily with him 
 in the Rue Rougemont. He did a good trade 
 as bailiff and process-server, and at times had con- 
 siderable 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 hall-porter at Gouff^'s office in the 
 U 30s 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 Rue Montmartre heard someone, whom he had taken 
 at first to be the baihff 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, un- 
 touched. 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 Gouff^ 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 ex- 
 amined many persons, but without arriving at any 
 useful result. 
 
 However, on August 13, 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 im- 
 possible. M. Goron, at that time head of the Parisian 
 detective police, believed them to be the remains of 
 Gouff^, but a relative of the missing man, whom he 
 
 306 
 
Eyraud and Bompard 
 
 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 Gouff^, 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 
 Gouff^. 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 
 burying-ground. 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 Gouff^'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' im- 
 mersion, 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 pro- 
 cure the exhumation of the body. A fresh autopsy 
 was performed by Dr. Lacassagne, the eminent 
 
 307 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 medical jurist of the Lyons School of Medicine. He 
 was able to pronounce with certainty that the remains 
 were those of the bailiff Gouff^. 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 w^ere present in 
 the corpse, placing its identity beyond question. 
 This second post-mortem 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 Gouff^ 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 Gouffc 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 inquiries as to this Michel Eyraud. He learnt 
 that he was a married man, forty-six years of age, 
 once a distiller at Sevres, recently commission-agent 
 to a bankrupt firm, that he had left France suddenly 
 about the time of the disappearance of Gouff^, and 
 that he had a mistress, one Gabrielle Bompard, who 
 
 308 
 
Eyraud and Bompard 
 
 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 Gouff^ 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 boarding-house 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. Inquiries made 
 by the French detectives established the correctness 
 of this correspondent's information. An assistant at 
 a trunk shop in the Huston Road was able to identify 
 the trunk — brought over from Paris for the purpose — 
 as one purchased in his shop on July 12 by a French- 
 man answering to the description of Michel Eyraud. 
 The wife of the boarding-house 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 I " Gabrielle had 
 gone to Paris with the trunk on July 14, come back to 
 
 309 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 sus- 
 picions directed against himself ; they were, he wrote, 
 merely unfortunate coincidences. Gouff^ 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 
 310 
 
Eyraud and Bompard 
 
 his pledge, for on the day following the receipt of 
 his letter a short, well-made woman, dressed neatly 
 in black, with dyed hair, greyish-blue 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 inter- 
 view with the Prefect. Requested to give her 
 name, she replied, with a smile, "Gabrielle 
 Bompard." She was accompanied by a middle-aged 
 gentleman, who appeared to be devoted to her. 
 Gabrielle Bompard and her friend were taken to the 
 private room of M. Loz(^, the Prefect of Police. 
 There, in a half-amused way, without the least con- 
 cern, sitting at times on the edge of the Prefect's 
 writing-table, Gabrielle Bompard told how she had 
 been the unwilling accomplice of her lover, Eyraud, 
 in the murder of the bailiff Gouff^. The crime, she 
 stated, had been committed in No. 3 in the Rue 
 Tronson-Ducoudray, 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 detective-inspector who showed 
 
 311 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 Gabrielle Bompard a warrant for her arrest. After 
 an affecting parting, at least on the part of the middle- 
 aged 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 situation. 
 
 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 liars — the woman perhaps the 
 greater liar of the two — their 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 " 
 
 312 
 
Eyraud and Bompard 
 
 Eyraud would appear to have given a most con- 
 vincing performance of the betrayed husband ; his 
 wife, he said, had deserted him for another man ; he 
 raved and stormed audibly in his bedroom, deploring 
 his fate and vowing vengeance. These noisy repre- 
 sentations 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 re- 
 turned 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, 
 Ulntransigeant, 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 dress- 
 maker and clothes-merchant named Puchen. In the 
 month of February a stranger, ragged and unkempt, 
 but evidently a fellow-countryman, 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 
 
 3U 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 into suspicion when she read in the American news- 
 papers a description of the Turkish garment stolen 
 by Michel Eyraud, the reputed assassin of the bailiff 
 Gouff^. 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 con- 
 fused, 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 I 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 half-joking way. The stranger laughed, and 
 shortly after went out, saying he would return. He 
 did return on May 15, bringing with him a num- 
 ber of the Republique Illustree that contained 
 an almost unrecognisable portrait of Eyraud. He 
 said he had picked it up in a caf6. "What a black- 
 guard he looks I " he exclaimed as he threw the paper 
 on the table. But the dressmaker's suspicions were 
 not allayed by the stranger's uncomplimentary re- 
 ference 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 
 inadmissible in fiction or drama, but occur at times 
 in real life, there happened to be in Havana, of all 
 
 314 
 
Eyraud and Bompard 
 
 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 watch- 
 ing 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 ex-employ^, 
 took him into a caf^, there admitted his identity and 
 begged him not to betray him. It was midnight when 
 they left the cafe. Eyraud, repenting of his con- 
 fidence, and no doubt anxious to rid himself of a 
 dangerous witness, took his friend into an ill-lighted 
 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 
 ill-fame, 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 
 
 315 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 good-night 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 known 
 to have passed as "Gorski," the Hotel Roma had 
 already been searched as one of his hiding-places. 
 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 Gouff^. 
 
 On June i6 Eyraud was delivered over to the 
 French police. He reached France on the 20th, and 
 on July I made his first appearance before the 
 examining magistrate. 
 
 It will be well at thfs point in the narrative to 
 describe how Eyraud and Gabrielle Bompard came to 
 be associated together in crime. Gabrielle Bompard 
 was twenty-two years of age at the time of her arrest, 
 the fourth child of a merchant of Lille, a strong, hard- 
 working, respectable man. Her mother, a delicate 
 woman, had died of lung disease when Gabrielle was 
 thirteen. Even as a child lying and vicious, thinking 
 
 316 
 
Eyraud and Bompard 
 
 only of men and clothes, Gabrielle, after being ex- 
 pelled as incorrigible from four educational establish- 
 ments, 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 who, 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 conscience- 
 less egoist, morally colour-blind, 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 sensa- 
 tions during this ghastly vigil, she replied with a 
 
 317 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 smile, " You'd never guess what a funny idea came 
 into my head ! You see it was not very pleasant for 
 me being thus tete-a-tete 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 baby — 
 even 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 Gouff^, 
 she met in Paris Michel Eyraud. These two were 
 made for each other. If Gabrielle were unmoral, 
 Eyraud was immoral. Forty-six at the time of 
 Gouff^'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 tempera- 
 
 318 
 
Eyraud and Bompard 
 
 ment, this strong animalism was not in his case ac- 
 companied 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. Unfor- 
 tunately 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, bank- 
 rupt 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 ex- 
 travagance, 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 in- 
 sufficient to replenish them. Confronted with ruin, 
 Eyraud and Bompard hit on a plan by which the 
 woman should decoy some would-be admirer to a 
 convenient trysting-place. There, dead or alive, the 
 victim was to be made the means of supplying their 
 wants. 
 
 On further reflection, dead seemed more ex- 
 319 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 pedient than alive, extortion from a living victim too 
 risky an enterprise. Their plans were carefully pre- 
 pared. Gabrielle was to hire a ground-floor apart- 
 ment, 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 packing-cloth, which Gab- 
 rielle, sitting at her window on the fine summer 
 evenings, sewed up into a large bag. 
 
 The necessary ground-floor apartment had been 
 found at No. 3 Rue Tronson-Ducoudray. 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 cross- 
 piece 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 Gouff'^'s existence, but on that day, 
 Thursday, in a conversation with a common friend, 
 Eyraud learnt that the bailiff GouflF6 was rich, 
 
 320 
 
Eyraud and Bompard 
 
 that he was in the habit of having considerable 
 sums of money in his care, and that on Friday 
 nights GoufT^ made it his habit to sleep from 
 home. There was no time to lose. The next 
 day Gabrielle accosted Gouff^ as he was going to 
 his dc^jeuner and, after some little conversa- 
 tion, agreed to meet him at eight o'clock that 
 evening. 
 
 The afternoon was spent in preparing for the 
 bailiflf's reception in the Rue Tronson-Ducoudray. A 
 lounge-chair 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.* 
 
 At six o'clock Eyraud and Bompard dined to- 
 gether, after which Eyraud returned to the apart- 
 ment, whilst Bompard went to meet Gouff6 near the 
 Madeleine Church. What occurred afterwards at 
 No. 3 Rue Tronson-Doucoudry 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. Gouff6 came 
 in. * You've a nice little nest here,' he said. * Yes, a 
 
 * 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 prac- 
 tical motive for the use of rope and pulley. 
 
 ^' 321 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 fancy of mine,' replied Gabrielle, ' Eyraud knows 
 nothing about it.' 'Oh, you're tired of him? ' asked 
 Gouffe. 'Yes,' she replied, 'that's all over.' Gab- 
 rielle drew Gouff^ down on to the chair. She showed 
 him the cord of her dressing-gown and said that a 
 wealthy admirer had given it to her. * Very elegant,' 
 said Gouff6, '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 re- 
 turned home and, in his own words, "worn out by 
 the excitement of the day, slept heavily." 
 
 The next day Eyraud, after saying good-bye to 
 his wife and daughter, left with Gabrielle for Lyons. 
 On the 28th they got rid at Miliary of the body of 
 Gouff^ and the trunk in which it had travelled; his 
 
 322 
 
Eyraud and Bompard 
 
 boots and clothes they threw into the sea at Mar- 
 seilles. 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 Gouff^ 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 bailiflf 
 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 
 
 323 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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 think- 
 ing that she had been acting under such influence 
 when she participated in the murder of Gouffe. In- 
 tellectually the medical gentlemen found her alert 
 and sane enough, but morally blind. 
 
 The trial of Eyraud and Bompard took place be- 
 fore the Paris Assize Court on December i6, 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 Gab- 
 rielle 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 imprison- 
 ment 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 admis- 
 sion 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. Falli^res, then Minister 
 
 324 
 
Eyraud and Bompard 
 
 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. Li^geois, 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 ad- 
 dress lasting four hours on hypnotic suggestion. He 
 undertook to prove that, not only Gabrielle Bompard, 
 but Troppmann, Madame Weiss, and Gabrielle Fen- 
 ayrou also, had committed murder under the influence 
 of suggestion.' 
 
 In replying to this rather fantastic defence, the 
 Procureur-Gen^ral, M. Quesnay de Beaurepaire, 
 quoted a statement of Dr. Brouardel, the eminent 
 medical jurist who had been called for the prose- 
 cution, 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 
 
 * Moll in his "Hypnotism" (London, 1909) states that, after 
 Gabrielle Bompard's release, M. Li^geois succeeded in putting her 
 into a hypnotic state, in which she re-aoted the scene in which the 
 crime was originally suggested to her. The value of such experi- 
 ments 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 post-hypnotic suggestion, though, 
 according to Moll, "the possibility of such a crime cannot be 
 unconditionally denied." 
 
 325 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 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. 
 Li^eois himself, in coming to this court to-day, has 
 fallen a victim to the suggestion of the young advo- 
 cate 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. 
 
 In sheer wickedness there seems little enough to 
 choose between Eyraud and Bompard. But, in ask- 
 ing a verdict without extenuating circumstances 
 against the woman, the Procureur-Gen^ral 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 occa- 
 sion, 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 to-day. The 
 jury rejected my demand ; they accorded extenuating 
 circumstances; though defeated, I left the court a 
 happier man. What are you going to do to-day, 
 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, re- 
 member that you have sworn to judge firmly and 
 fearlessly." The jury accorded extenuating circum- 
 stances to the woman, but refused them to the 
 
 326 
 
Eyraud and Bompard 
 
 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 firm- 
 ness that has not characterised some of his succes- 
 sors in office, he refused to commute the sen- 
 tence. 
 
 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 in- 
 telligence 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 
 
 3«7 
 
Remarkable Criminals 
 
 some resentment against the Minister who, by his 
 adroitness, had helped to bring about the General's 
 ruin. Whatever his precise motive, he suddenly ex- 
 claimed 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. 
 
INDEX 
 
 Adamson, Mes., and Peace, 47, 1 
 
 48 
 Aguesseau, M. d', a dictum by, 
 
 182 
 Albert -La voitte case, 24 
 Annual Register, the, curtails 
 
 its "Chronicle," 31 
 Aram, Eugene, the mystery of, 8 
 Aubert becomes Fenayrou's 
 pupil, 286 
 compromising letters from 
 
 Mme. Fenayrou, 289 
 intrigues of, 287 
 murder of, 295 
 
 reconstitution of the murder, 
 298 
 Avelinc and Gamier case, 22 
 
 Bailey, Mrs., meets Charles 
 
 Peace, 47 
 Bain, Detective, and Robert 
 Butler, 103, 104 
 investigates Dunedin crime, 
 107 
 Ballet, Auguste, 159 
 a post-mortem, 173 
 a will in Castaing's favour, 
 
 167 
 death of, 172 
 
 growing distaste for Castaing, 
 167 
 Ballet, Hippolyte, 159 
 death of, 160 
 his will destroyed, 164 
 Banner Cross murder, the, 44 
 
 Peace's trial, 68 et seq. 
 Barr^-Lebiez case, 19 
 Beaurepaire, M. Quesnay de, 
 and hypnotic suggestion, 
 325, 326 
 Beraud, M., murder of, 132, 133 
 
 Berryer defends Castaing, 185 
 Bertin, M., and Derues, 138, 
 
 142, 143, 145 
 Bigelow, Professor, 204 
 Blake Parkman interviews Wei>- 
 
 ster, 197 
 Blandy, Mary, murder of her 
 
 father, 24 
 Bolsover, Mr. (Peace's son-in- 
 law), 51, 58 
 last interview with Peace, 88 
 Bolsover, Mrs., visits her father 
 
 in prison, 88 
 Bompard, Gabrielle, 17 
 arrest of, 312 
 disappearance of, 308 
 fantastic defence of, 325 
 susceptibility to hypnotic sug- 
 gestion, 317, 324 
 trial of, and sentence, 324-327 
 vicious propensities of, 316 
 Boulanger, General, M. Con- 
 stans and, 327, 328 
 the Gouff6 murder attributed 
 to, 309 
 Boyer, Mme. (mother of Marie 
 Boyer), intrigues of, 271 
 murder of, 280 
 Boyer, Marie, 22, 23 
 arrest of, 283 
 
 her part in her mother's mur- 
 der, 279 
 quits a convent, 272 
 refuses her father's last re- 
 quest, 270 
 reply to Vitalis' proposal, 275 
 Boyer, M., and his daughter, 
 
 270 
 Brassington*s evidence in the 
 
 Peace trial, 72 
 Br^ourt, Jenny Amenaide, and 
 her protectress, 244 
 
 329 
 
Index 
 
 Brecourt, Jenny Araenaide, 
 marriage of, 244 
 {See also Gras, Widow) 
 Briant, M., Auguste Ballet's be- 
 quest to, 184 
 Brinvilliers, Mme. de, torture 
 
 of, 153. ^54 
 Brion, Henry Fersey, 52 
 
 and his condemned co- 
 patentee, 80 
 
 visits Peace in Newgate, 58 
 Brohan, Madeleine, villa at 
 
 Chatou, 291 
 Brouardel, Dr., and the in- 
 fluence of hypnotic sug- 
 gestion and crime, 325 
 Burke and Hare case, 18 
 Burness, Mr., his residence at 
 
 Blackheath, 56 
 Butler, Robert, a criminal iby 
 conviction, 6 
 
 acquitted of murder, 123 
 
 altercation with a judge, 127 
 
 an ex-prisoner's article in 
 Society, 116 
 
 birthplace of, 102 
 
 conducts his own defence, 114 
 
 eighteen years' imprisonment, 
 124 
 
 his Academy at Cromwell, 
 Otago, 102 
 
 his final confession of faith 
 and execution, 129 
 
 intellectualism of, 101 
 
 release, decline and fall, 124 
 et seq. 
 
 robbery under arms, 125 
 
 trial of, II X ei seq. 
 
 Calcraft as puiblic executioner, 
 
 90 
 Carlyle and Frederick the 
 
 Great, 4 
 Carnot, President, refuses to 
 
 commute sentence on 
 
 Eyraud, 327 
 Castaing, Dr., 11, 158 
 an ingenious plot, 163 
 an unhappy coincidence, 171, 
 
 17a 
 
 Castaing, Dr., feigns insanity, 
 
 174 
 his advocates, 183 
 his execution, 188 
 significant purchases by, 166, 
 
 169, 178 
 suspected of death of Auguste 
 
 Ballet, 173 
 trial and verdict, 174, 186 
 under arrest, 173, 174 
 unsuccessful appeal by, 187 
 Chaussier, M., evidence in 
 
 Castaing's trial, 182 
 Chicago, "Holmes' Castle," 222 
 
 discoveries in, 237 
 Cigrand, Emily, disappearance 
 
 of, 239 
 Clark, Daniel, murder of, 9 
 Clegg, Mr. J cross-examines Mrs. 
 
 Dyson, 66 
 Cock, Constable, murder of, 39 
 Connor, Mrs., disappearance of, 
 
 238 
 Constans, M., Eyraud and, 327, 
 
 328 
 Cornulier, Comte de, case of, 22 
 Cranstoun, Captain, 24 
 Crime and the influence of 
 hypnotic suggestion, 325 
 as a business, 6, 95 
 Butler's gospel of frightful- 
 
 ness in, loi 
 by instinct and conviction, 6, 
 
 lOI 
 
 causes of : a French judge 
 on, 2 
 
 definition of, 2, 3, 96 
 
 "honour among thieves,*' 242 
 
 influence of love and passion 
 on, 21 
 
 partnership in, 14, 17, 244 
 et seq. 
 
 psychical conditions favour- 
 ing, 16 
 Cross, Mr. (Home Secretary), 
 and William Habron, 42 
 
 Darnall, the Dysons at, 37, 76 
 Vicar of, and Peace, 83 et seq. 
 De la Cour, Jeanne, 245 
 
 330 
 
Index 
 
 De la Cour, Jeanne, enters a 
 private asylum, 246 
 tends a -wounded pigeon, 247 
 {See aiso Gras, Widow) 
 Delegorgue, M., oa Mme. 
 
 Fenayrou, 30a 
 Demange, M., defends Gaudry, 
 
 266 
 Derues, Antoine Fran9ois, 7, 26, 
 X31 */ seq. 
 arrest of, 150 
 execution of, 134 
 masquerades in Lyons, 149 
 purchases Buisson-Souef, 131 
 sentenced to death, 152 
 torture of, 152 
 turns money-lender, 134 
 Derues, Mme., a victim of the 
 Revolution, 157 
 arrest of, 150 
 
 publicly flogged, and im- 
 prisoned for life, 156 
 Deaprez, Marquis, marriage of, 
 
 Dickens, Charles, an anecdote 
 
 of Webster, 213 
 Duclos, M., a "loan" to 
 
 Derues, 142, 143, 149 
 Dunedin Murders, the, 99 
 
 et seq. 
 Durand, Dr., and Aubert, 300 
 Durand, Mme., her evidence 
 
 in Castaing's trial, 180 
 Dyson, Mr., domestic troubles 
 
 of. 37 
 murder of, 6, 44 
 warns Peace, 38, 73 
 Dyson, Mrs., and Charles 
 
 Peace, 37 
 cross-examination of, 66, 70 
 gives evidence against Peace, 
 
 62, 70 
 her account of relations with 
 
 Peace, 75 
 
 Eyraud, Michel, 17 
 arrest of, 312, 316 
 death sentence for, 327 
 delivered to the French 
 police, 316 
 
 Eyraud, Michel, disappears 
 
 with Gabrielle Bompard, 
 
 308 
 execution of, 328 
 letter to Vlntramigeant, 313 
 theft of a Turkish robe, 312 
 
 et seq. 
 trial of, 324 
 Eyraud-Bompard trial, a too 
 
 enterprising journalist, 
 
 324 
 
 FALLifcRES, M., restricts powers 
 of presidents of assize, 325 
 
 Fenayrou, Gabrielle, 23, 285 
 arrested for murder, 296 
 confession to a detective, 296 
 disillusionment of, 286 
 forewoman of fellow prisoners, 
 
 304 
 Fenayrou, Lucien,and the mur- 
 der of Aubert, 292, 293, 
 295. 297, 302 
 
 arrest of, 298 
 
 sentence — and acquittal, 303 
 Fenayrou, Marin, admits his 
 guilt, 298 
 
 an alleged confession by his 
 wife, 288 
 
 and the murder of Aubert, 
 293 et seq. 
 
 apprenticeship of, 285 
 
 arrest of, 296 
 
 condemned to death, 303 
 
 death of, in New Caledonia, 
 
 304 
 marriage of, 285 
 plans revenge, 290 
 result of second trial, 304 
 Ferri on psychical conditions 
 
 favourable to murder, 16 
 Fidelity Mutual Life Associa- 
 tion informed of Hedg- 
 speth's statement, 219 
 settles the Pitezel claim, 217 
 Foster, Campbell, Q.C., 68 
 Franc ia. President, Carlyla 
 
 and, 4 
 Frederick the Great, a dictum 
 of, 3 
 
 331 
 
Index 
 
 Frederick the Great, Carlyle's 
 
 Life of, 4 
 Frith, W. P., on a monumental 
 
 design by Peace, 88 
 
 Garnier and Aveline case, 22 
 Gaudry, Natalis, 21, 250 et seq. 
 arrest of, 265 
 sentence on, 268 
 trial of, 266 
 Geyer, Detective, investigations 
 
 of, 226 et seq. 
 Gi'bon, Mme., interviews Au-bert, 
 289 
 marriage of her daughter, 285 
 Gibon, M., his apprentice, 285 
 Gillespie, Sarah, 107 
 Glajeux, M. Berard des, in- 
 terrogates the Fenayrous, 
 299 et seq. 
 visits Fenayrou in prison, 
 
 303 
 Goodlad, George, a letter from 
 
 Peace, 91 
 Goring, Dr. Charles, defines 
 
 crime, 96 
 Goron, M., 306, 307 
 a clue to murder of Gouffe, 
 
 308 
 curious letter from Eyraud, 
 310 
 Gouff^, the Paris bailiff, 306 
 and Gabrielle Bompard, 321 
 disappearance of, 305 
 his body discovered, 306 
 murder of, as described by 
 Eyraud, 321 
 Goupil, the prisoner, Castaing's 
 
 confidences to, 174, 175 
 Gras, M., death of, 247 
 
 marriage, 245 
 Gras, Widow, the case of, 21, 
 244 et seq. 
 a conquest, 248, 249 
 attempts suicide, 266 
 becomes Jeanne de la Cour, 
 
 245 
 disenchantment of her lover, 
 
 264 
 Gaudry and, 250 et seq. 
 
 Gras, Widow, her philosophy ot 
 
 life, 245, 247 
 mysterious visit to Charonne 
 
 Cemetery, 260 
 police suspicions as to attack 
 
 on a lover, 259 et seq. 
 trial of, 266 
 under arrest, 261 
 {See also De la Cour, Jeanne) 
 Gregory, Mr., Peace's visit to, 
 
 44 
 Gregory, Mrs., evidence at 
 Peace's trial, 44, 72 
 
 Habron, John, arrest and 
 
 acquittal of, 39 
 Habron, William, a free par- 
 don and compensation, 86 
 [note) 
 arrest and trial of, 39, 40 
 condemned to death and re- 
 spited, 42 
 Haggitt, Mr., prosecutes Butler, 
 
 III, 112 
 Hardouin and Porcher case, 25 
 Havana, a clothes merchant and 
 a Turkish robe, 313 
 arrest of Eyraud in, 312, 316 
 Eyraud's meeting with an ex- 
 employee, 315 
 Hawkins, Mr. Justice, and 
 
 Peace, 60, 61 
 
 Hayes, Catherine, the case of, 24 
 
 Hedgspeth, Marion, a statement 
 
 resulting in arrest of 
 
 Holmes, 218 
 
 Hennessy, Constable, captures 
 
 Butler, 100 
 Holmes, H. H., 11 
 
 acknowledges insurance fraud, 
 
 220 
 and the Pitezel children, 220, 
 
 226, 227 
 arrest of, 219 
 charged with murder, 236 
 confidences to Hedgspeth, and 
 
 his after-regret, 218, 241 
 execution of, 240 
 extraordinary statements by, 
 221 
 
 332 
 
Index 
 
 Holmes, II. H., his attraction 
 for women, 222, 242 
 his "confession," 239 
 horse-stealing <by, 219 
 hypnotic powers of, 219 
 intercepted letters, 226, 228, 
 
 229, 233, 239 
 on trial for fraud, 224 
 real name of, 222 
 wives of, 223 
 Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 191, 
 
 200 
 Holroyd, Mr. Justice, 126, 127 
 Houseman, confederate oi 
 
 Eugene Aram, 9 
 "Howard, H. M." [see Hohnes, 
 
 H. H.) 
 Howe, Jephtha D., and the 
 death of "B. F. Perry," 
 215, 217, 218 
 Hypnotic suggestion, Gabrielle 
 Bompard's susc€4>ti«bility 
 to, 317, 324 
 M. Li6geois* experiment, 325 
 {note) 
 
 Insurance fraud, a remarkable, 
 
 215 ^/ seq. 
 Intransigeant, the, Eyraud*s 
 
 letter to, 313 
 Irving, Sir Henry, and Tenny- 
 
 JOLLY, M., a Paris proctor, 131, 
 Jowett, Benjamin, i 
 
 Keep, Dr., plaster cast by, 190 
 evidence at Webster's trial, 
 
 209 
 Kerr, Mr. Conmiissioner, and 
 
 Mrs. Peace's trial, 58 {note) 
 Kingsley, Dr., agent to Dr. 
 
 Parkman, 192 
 
 Lacassagne, Dr., and the re- 
 mains of Gouffd, the 
 bailiff, 307, 308 
 
 Lachaud, M., defends Widow 
 
 Gras, 266 
 Lamotte, Mme. dc, murder of : 
 
 her body exhumed, 139 
 Lamotte, M. de, his sale of 
 
 Buisson-Souef, 130 et seq. 
 Lavoitte and Albert case, 24 
 Lebiez and Barr6 case, 19 
 Lebret the notary, 162, 163, 165 
 and the will of H. Ballet, 164 
 Lecky and the romance of 
 
 crime, 95 
 Leuch^re, M., a bequest to, 184 
 Li^geois, M., his address on 
 
 hypnotic suggestion, 325 
 Lindley, Mr. Justice (Lord), 
 
 and Habron's trial, 40 
 Littlefield, Ephraim, 195, 197, 
 
 199 
 evidence at Webster's trial, 209 
 investigations of— and the re- 
 sult, 204 
 uneasiness of, at Webster's 
 
 conduct, 199 et seq. 
 unexpected present from Web- 
 
 ster, 202 
 Littlewood, Rev. Mr., visits 
 
 Peace in prison, 83 
 Lockwood, Sir Frank, defends 
 
 Peace, 69, 70 
 Lombroso theory of crime, 2 
 Lopes, Mr. Justice, tries Peace, 
 
 68, 74 
 Loz^, M., an interview with 
 
 Gabrielle Bompard, 311 
 
 MACf, M., and Mme. Fenayrou, 
 297 
 arrests the Fenayrou s, 296 
 visits Widow Gras, 259 
 Malassis (Castaing's cousin) 
 hears of Auguste Ballet's 
 death, 172 
 receives a will, 168 
 Mallard, Inspector, 104 
 interviews Butler, 109 
 Manchester Guardian, the, and 
 the conviction of William 
 Habron, 42 
 Mannings, the, case of, 18 
 
 333 
 
Index 
 
 Marti gnon, Mme., sister of the 
 Ballets, i6i et seq. 
 
 Marwood, William, public exe- 
 cutioner, 90, 92 
 
 Matin, the, 324 
 
 Mesvrel-Desvergers, M., and 
 Derues, 1.40 
 
 Mill, John Stuart, on crime, 4 
 
 Moll's "Hypnotism," and M. 
 Liegeois, 325 [note) 
 
 Mudgett, Herman W. {see 
 Hohnes, H. H.) 
 
 Munday, William, murder of, 
 99, 128 
 
 Neil, Mrs. (sister of Charles 
 
 Peace), 53, 34 
 Newman, Rev. Mr., visited by 
 
 Peace, 43 
 Nicolais, Marie Louise, marries 
 
 Derues, 133 
 
 O'CONNOK, murder of, 18 
 Orfila, M., evidence at Cas- 
 taing's trial, 179 
 
 Palmes case, the, medical evi- 
 dence in, 179 [note) 
 
 Parkman, Dr. George, 192, 195 
 discovery of his remains, 204 
 his unfailing punctuality, 192 
 loans to Professor Webster, 193 
 murder of, 189, 191 
 personality of, 191 
 
 Parkman, Rev. F., a letter from 
 Webster, 212 
 Webster's call on, 196 
 
 Parrock, ex-Detective, on Peace, 
 
 94 
 Payn, James, on undiscovered 
 
 murderers, 7 
 Peace, Charles, addresses re- 
 porters before execution, 92 
 attempts to break prison, 35 
 attends Habron's trial, 42, 82 
 becomes "Mr. Thompson," 50 
 birth of, 31 
 
 burglaries at Nottingham and 
 Hull, 48, 49 
 
 Peace, Charles, career in Lon- 
 don, 50 
 
 committed for trial, 68 
 
 confesses to Whalley Range 
 murder, 81 
 
 designs a monument, 88 
 
 early years, 29 
 
 execution of, 93 
 
 first exploit, 32 
 
 funeral card of, 89 
 
 his burglar's equipment, 55 
 
 his leap from a train, 63 
 
 his mistress, 47, 48 
 
 hue and cry for, 45 
 
 London burglaries of, 53 
 et seq. 
 
 love of birds and animals, 
 
 53 
 marriage, 36 
 meets Dyson, 37 
 murder of Dyson, 44 
 musical ability of, 33, 53 
 on trial at the Old Bailey, 
 
 60 
 patents an invention, 52 
 patents transferred by deed of 
 
 gift, 80 
 the Whalley Range murder, 
 
 39 
 type of professional criminal, 6 
 
 Peace, John (father of Charles 
 
 Peace), 31 
 death of, 32 
 Peace, Mrs. Charles, arrest and 
 
 acquittal of, 58 [note) 
 last visit to her husband, 89 
 Peckham, Peace's sojourn at, 51 
 Pecquet, Mme., 141 
 Pelletan, M., 171, 172 
 Peltzer brothers, the, case of, 19 
 Percilli6, Mile., 164, 176 
 gives evidence in Castaing 
 
 trial, 180 
 Perry, B. F., 214, 215 
 "identified " as B. F. Pitezel, 
 
 218 
 Pettee, Mrs., agent for Professor 
 
 Webster, 194, 196 
 Pigache, Dr., consulted by 
 
 Auguste Ballet, 170, 171 
 Pitezel, B. F., murder of, 215 
 
 334 
 
Index 
 
 Pitczcl, B. F., probable motive 
 of murder, 240 
 lemaias of his children dis- 
 covered, 23a 
 
 Pitezel, Mrs., arrested for com- 
 plicity in insurance fraud, 
 220 
 
 PlirasoU, Mr., Peace's interview 
 ■with, 52 
 
 Porcher and Hardouin case, 35 
 
 Potter, Dr., and Peace, 87 
 
 Prignon, M., business trans- 
 actions with Auguste 
 Ballet, 163 
 
 Proal, M., impressions of Vitalis 
 and Marie Boyer, 284 
 
 Puchen, Mme., Eyraud's visit 
 to, 313 
 
 Putnam, Dr., persuades Web- 
 ster to confess his crime, 
 210 
 
 QuiNLAN, janitor of the 
 "Hohnes' Castle," Chi- 
 cago, 238 
 
 Raskolnikoff, in " Crime and 
 Punishment," 20, 24 
 
 Robert, Henri, defends Gabrielle 
 Bompard, 326 
 
 Robert, M., conduct of, in 
 Eyraud - Bompard trial, 
 
 324 
 
 Robinson, Police-constable, ar- 
 rests Peace, 56, 57 
 
 Rochefort, M., Eyraud's letter 
 to, 313 
 
 Rodays, Fernand, description oi 
 the Widow Gras, 286 
 
 Roques and Mme. Weiss, 23 
 
 Roussel, M., defends Castaing, 
 
 his emotion at result of 
 trial, 187 
 Russo-Turkish War, the, 53 
 
 Salat, Marie, marries M. 
 
 Boyer, 271 
 Scheffers, the, case of, 25, 26 
 
 Segalas, Dr., and the death of 
 
 Hippolyte Ballet, 162 
 Shakespeare, criminals of, 11 
 
 ef seq. 
 Shaw, Mr. (Dr. Parkman's 
 
 brother-in-law), a loan to 
 
 Webster, 194 
 Sheffield, Peace charged with 
 
 Dyson's murder at, 62, 65 
 Sheppard, Jack, 95, 96 
 Sighele, Scipio, monograph on 
 
 dual crime, 14, 15 {note) 
 Smith, Mr., patents a saw-set, 
 
 214 
 present at exhumation of 
 
 B. F. Perry, 218 
 Stamper, Mr. (of Dunedin), his 
 
 house burgled and fired, 
 
 Tennyson, Lord, discusses 
 
 crime with Jowett, i 
 "Thompson," Mr. [see Peace, 
 
 Charles) 
 Thompson, Susan, betrays 
 
 Peace, 59, 78 {see also 
 
 Bailey, Mrs.) 
 Thomson, Mr. Basil, on crime, 3 
 Troppmann, J. B., 242 
 
 Vitalis, 271 et seq. 
 dismissed by Mme. Boyer, 278 
 execution of, 283 
 murders Mme. Boyer, 279 
 
 Ward, Mrs., marries Charles 
 Peace, 36 
 
 Ward, Willie (stepson of Peace), 
 36, 48, 51, 64, 88 
 
 Watson, Rev. John Selby, mur- 
 ders his wife, 9 
 
 Webster, Professor J. W., 7, 
 189 et seq. 
 borrows from Dr. Parkman, 
 
 193 
 
 confesses his crime, 210 
 
 in custody, 205 
 
 police search the Medical Col- 
 lege, 199 
 
 335 
 
Index 
 
 Webster, Professor J. W., 
 qualificatioiis and per- 
 sonality of, 192, 193 
 trial, verdict and execution, 
 209 et seq. 
 Weiss, Mme., and the engineer 
 
 Roques, 22, 23 
 Whalley Range murder, the, 39 
 Peace's confession, 81 
 the trial, 40 
 "Wharton, James" [see Butler, 
 Robert) 
 
 Williams, Mr. Justice (Sir 
 
 Joshua), and Butler's 
 
 trial, III, 122 
 Williams, Minnie, a discovery 
 
 in "Hohnes' Castle," 238 
 and the Fort Worth property, 
 
 219, 221, 238, 241 
 her mysterious disappearance-, 
 
 223, 234 
 Williams, Montagu, defends 
 
 Peace, 60 
 Williams, Nannie, 222, 223, 238 
 
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