 Whitehall 1-2-1-2. Scotland Yard. For the first time in history, Scotland Yard opens its official files to bring you the authentic, true stories of some of its most baffling cases. These have been changed. The stories are presented with a full cooperation of Scotland Yard. Research on Whitehall 1-2-1-2 is from Percy Hoskins, Chief Crime Reporter of the London Daily Express. The stories for radio are written and directed by Willis Cooper. Now, here is Chief Superintendent John Davidson of Scotland Yard, the curator of the famous Black Museum. To brief you on case number 330-220. If you're planning murder, which I sincerely hope you're not, a visit to the Black Museum here will most certainly, I believe, serve as a deterrent. Here we have a large collection of murder weapons, from the simplest to the most ingenious, and most of them have been used effectually. Now, here's a knife still stained with a murdered man's dried blood. The user of that knife was hanged. And here is a revolver bullet from a man's brain. The man who fired that shot was hanged. And the one-time possessor of this tiny file, which at the time contained poison, thought to murder her husband. The hangman ended her career, too. And this carton does malice here. The wheels of that one, through a trip to the execution shed for the unorthodox use of it, you know, most murderers are caught. And they die more ignominiously than their victims. And here in the Black Museum lie the instruments that encompass two deaths, the victims and the murderer's own. This innocent tool once fell into evil hands. It's all that remains. Now, Chief Inspector Nigel Loring knows a great deal about this case, number 330-220. The old heathens used to believe that their gods were the ones who inspired mortals to murder. This god has the bloodiest murder record of them all. Who was that Nigel Mars, the god of war? No, no, John. His name is Cupid. He was the god of love. When Thomas A. Beckett, Appleby, married Alma Virginia Farnestock in Canada, he was 70 years old. Alma Virginia was 39. They had both been married before. Her first husband was dead, and Thomas Appleby had divorced his first wife to marry the attractive middle-aged widow. The affair had been a nine-day scandal in their Canadian home, and they had shortly removed to Bournemouth near Southampton to take up what might be called life anew. When I was first assigned to the case, I asked Uncle Tom Cobley, the village ancient of Bournemouth, to describe the Appleby's to me. Appleby? Why, he'd be a better old man. No, he's a good scorer years younger than I'd be. Never pays no attention to nobody except in his money and his bottle. Forgot everything but that wife of his, even, mister. And Mrs. Alma Appleby? Huh? Mrs. Alma Appleby. Oh, she's pretty, even if she bay no chicken. He don't bay her no mind, even if half of the men in Bournemouth be in love with her, mister, including me. And so, when Thomas of Becket Appleby died at the age of 75 from the result of a broken skull, there was scant sympathy to be expected for him and much indeed for Alma Virginia, his wife. Until Alma Virginia opened her mouth and spoke to a sergeant of the Bournemouth police station who had been summoned by Dr. Owen Trelawney, the attending physician. I did it. Tell you I did it. Tell the coroner I did it. That's all I have to say. Madam, do you know what you're saying in the presence of witnesses? Certainly I know what I'm saying. I killed him. I hit him on the head with a mallet. I did down. Madam, you don't know what you're saying. You're drunk. I was assigned to the case the following day. You know as much about the case now as I did then. Thomas of Becket Appleby lay dead in a nursing home with his skull fractured in free places. The new maid widow, it was now near 10 the following morning, was awake after having slept nearly 12 hours after her confession to the Bournemouth sergeant. The maid Marjorie Bates brought her downstairs. There's nothing very attractive about Alma Virginia Appleby as she slumped into a chair in the disordered sitting room. I need some more tea, Marjorie. Cutland Yardé. Yes, Mrs. Appleby. I was hoping you'd care to amplify the statement you made last night, Mrs. Appleby. Statement? About your husband's death, Mrs. Appleby. Marjorie, how are you ever going to bring that tea? I was hoping you'd care to amplify that statement, Mrs. Appleby. How? We are wondering how your husband was murdered. I don't know. I... All I know is... I heard a noise. I came downstairs and turned on the light and was sitting in his easy chair all bloody. Hell's the tea. But I promised the detective some too, Marjorie. Oh, good. Thank you. Then I'm to understand, Mrs. Appleby, that you say he had already been struck when you saw him first. Oh, bloody red foot. I might point out that that statement hardly accords with the statement you made last night, Mrs. Appleby. I make a statement last night. You did, madam? To whom? To Sergeant Middleton of the Bournemouth Police. I don't remember it. I wonder... You shot him. Shot by the sight of poor old Tom. He'd been drinking his usual night, picked up the bottle and just swill down a great drink myself. Had I drank a great deal, honestly. I don't remember. Perhaps I said something when I... When you were drunk, madam? What did I say? You said that you had murdered your husband. I said I murdered him. It's in the Sergeant Middleton's report. Well, I killed my husband. You did? Well, then... Oh, I did. You've come to take me to the jail. Well, I... I'm quite ready. Marjorie, fetch my cloak. Marjorie, bring my cloak, I said. I'm going to jail. But look here, Mrs. Appleby. What's going on here? I say, what's going on here? It's quite all right, George. It is not all right. Who is this man? Who are you, fella? I think I might ask the same question of you, young man. And I don't come that on me. Is he annoying you, Aunt Elmer? I'm Chief Inspector... This is Chief Inspector. I've forgotten your name. Loring, Scotland Yard. Oh, you are, are you? And what are you doing here? We've had enough policemen. May I ask who this young man is, Mrs. Appleby? This is your agent, Chief Inspector. George has been our chauffeur. George is... Your nephew, I gather? I am not. George has been almost one of the family. And it's my duty to protect George. Where's he taking you? Were you here last night, young George? When old Tom was killed by that burglar. Is that the way it was? He was drunk, as usual. Answering your question, I was out in the garage working on the car, Mr. George didn't know anything about it. He heard me scream. And I found Tom sitting there all bloody. Dead. I didn't know he was dead when you found him, Mrs. Appleby. He was... I thought you said you killed him. What? Oh, that's right. I did kill him, I'd forgotten. You did not. I did. You did not, Alma. She couldn't... She says she did, young man. Well, she did. I did, I did, George. I swear to you. You did not, Alma. I'm sorry, Mrs. Appleby. I detain you on suspicion of having been involved in the murder of Thomas Rebecca. No, I tell you. And I must warn you that anything you say will be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence. Very well, sir. Oh, my... Be quiet. Then I say that I alone am responsible for the death of my husband. I and I alone murdered him. But it's not... Let me be, George. I did it. Now, if you're ready, Chief Inspector, aren't you going to kiss me goodbye, George? The boy George Percy Emmons insisted upon accompanying Alma, Appleby and me, but there was nothing for it. He had to stay behind. Mrs. Appleby wept copiously as they parted and it was with some difficulty that the maid marjorie and I were able to separate them. I glanced at young George as I closed the car door. I was a little surprised to discover that he too was whimpering like a puppy left behind and his eyes were overflowing with childish tears. I was faintly revolted at the sight of this great hulking moon carves behavior. And I'm afraid I spoke my mind, bawling like a blasted baby, I said. Poor George is a baby. Poor Landon, the 18 off-road. Only 18, I thought. If I'd bawled like that when I was 18 I'd have had my truces well booted. It would have helped this great larrican too, I thought. Poor George. I'm so sweet. I glanced at her curiously, I suppose. I've seen her look like that on a woman's face before. Motive. The back of my mind said to me, motive, inattentive, grumpy, 75-year-old husband, I thought. Handsome, attentive, 18-year-old boy, and then I remember that unmanly blubbering that squalling like a spanked baby and I was ashamed of myself. And when she spoke again... My baby died when he was two. I keep thinking of George as my baby boy. But the love in her eyes, when she turned to me, I thought uneasily, wasn't exactly the kind of love one has for a son. According to the judge's rules one may not ask questions of a person who has been charged, except to clarify any statements made. There was no need to ask Alma Appleby any questions. Yes, I killed him. Yes, I had a reason. Reasons, rather. Tom was old and ill. He was always in poor spirits. He worried about money. He worked hard all his life and now his savings he thought were being spent. He knew he could never get any more money. He was an old man. He was afraid of dying, but he constantly taught suicide. He always sat alone in the sitting room and drank every night. Half a bottle every night. It's very simple. I couldn't stand it any longer. I'm not a young woman, but I'm not unattractive either, am I? I had a hard life too. I deserve another chance, don't I? Tied to an old man, a sick old man, a drunken old man, a worried old man who constantly threatened to kill himself. He'd be better off. I thought I'd be better off. He didn't know it. He didn't know anything. He was sitting there in his chair drunk like he was every night. So he wanted to die. I'd grant his wish. I'd be free. People would think a burglar or a tramp did it. So I picked up his bottle. I had to steal myself, didn't I? Yes, I drank. I drank quite a lot. He was sitting there staring at nothing at all as I drank out of his bottle. So I went out and got the mallet. George wasn't there. He didn't know anything about it. He was in the garage working. And I took the mallet and I hit Tom on the head just once I hit him. He didn't move or cry out or anything. I just smashed him once and he died. Then? Then I'm afraid I drank the rest of Tom's whiskey. It's all I remember. No, I don't remember telling anyone I'd murdered him. I expect I must have because I did kill him, you know. I'd been thinking about it a long time, you know, and... I made up my mind to it. I wouldn't do it and I did do it. He died very easily. Just one smash with the mallet and it was all over. He didn't even know it. And I feel he died happy. I'm sorry for him. I did rather like him while that's the whole story. All of it. I thought I was doing him a favor and everything would be all right. I could blame it on the burglar or whoever. I should have known I couldn't get away with it. Oh, yes. And be sure to put down that it was all my idea. Nobody at all had anything to do with it but me. Put it all down in writing. Just the way I've told you and I'll sign it. I murdered him. Oh, help me. I'm a Virginia Applebee. That was the gist of what you told the examining magistrate of Bournemouth who accordingly remanded her for trial of the Southampton Assizes later in the month. I wasn't satisfied. John Davidson, the black museum man, he was plain superintendent then, was in Bournemouth visiting his great aunt who was afflicted with sciatica. John, having escaped the ailing aunt for a morning, had attended the examination. After which he and I repaired to the nearest pub. John was not happy. None of my business lawing, but that woman's lying. She lied about the number of times old Tom Applebee was tapped on the head with a mallet. The doctor said three times. She insisted it was only once. Well, she was pretty drunk. Granted. So let's have some more pigs here, shall we? Right. Miss, two of the same, please. Right, sir. Granted that she has made a mistake there. Granted that she was undoubtedly a little script, that should probably be if I have much more of this beer. Thank you, miss. But one murderer ever forgets how many times he strikes as a victim. Cheers. Cheers, sir. More than meets the eye, say I. Well, that's the way I feel, too. Call me down here from Scotland Yard, first thing that happens, the woman confesses. Confess the Bournemouth policeman before, doesn't she? While she was drunk. Apparently not. Dr. Trelawney told me old Applebee did all the drinking in the family. Sir, at the risk of sounding like a fool, I'd say that circumstances are all the cases. Well, murdering one's husband can be said to be something of a circumstance, sir. Well, covering up a murder of a husband by somebody else could also have said to be circumstantial. Ah. Who's she covering up then? I don't know. Wasn't anybody who hated the old man, apparently? No. Don't you know? Well, after all, I've been here a very short time, sir, and the case is closed. Well, it's the hangman who closes murder cases long. I know that. Sir, I noticed another thing. What's that, sir? She seemed very anxious to impress on everyone the fact that this murder was her own idea. Yes. Ah, yes, sir? Shakespeare. Hamlet. Oh, what is it, sir? The lady does protest too much, me thinks. I seem to be full of wise souls and modern instances to tell a lie. Yes, yes, sir. You know, the French have a saying, s'est-ce la femme, if my pronunciation is right. Well, we've got the woman, sir. We don't have to look for her. Excuse me, I got my genders mixed up. In that case, look for the man, old boy. The man's dead, sir. Hmm. Is he the only one? The good grey superintendent drank up his beer and left for the bedside of his great aunt. I paid the score and set up a canary villa in the place where the tragedy had occurred, thinking to make certain discreet inquiries of the maid Marjorie. The doors were open. Marjorie was absent. I wandered through the silent dreary house looking in every room. The place was deserted. And I heard a noise. The garage I decided. I followed my ears. I watched young George for quite a while before he discovered me. What do you want? I'd like to ask you a few questions, George, if you don't mind. Oh. You're the policeman. Chief Inspector Loring, that's right. I've got nothing to say to you. You're trying to hang my Aunt Alma. No, I'm not, George. I don't think... She didn't do it. I told you she didn't do it. I know. You've got any suspicions, George? Well, of course. Some thief, some tramp or something done it. Really think so? Yes. I don't think a tramp did it. Well... Well, she didn't do it. I'm sure of that. Can you prove that, mister? Frankly, no. Look, George, I have an idea. It was someone that didn't like Mr. Appleby. Who? I thought perhaps you could tell me if he had any enemies. I don't know any. Go on with your work, George. We can talk. I'm almost done. Well, I'll help you. I'm a pretty good motor mechanic. Well, um... I was just straightening this thing. Well, I'll give you a hand. I suppose I should feel sorry for old Tom. You don't? No. I didn't like him. You didn't like me, either? You'd know, I suppose. If anybody ever indicated that he hated Mr. Appleby. Of course. I knew them both pretty well. Worked here six months. No, no, seven. She didn't hate him. Alma? Aren't Alma, you mean? No, she certainly didn't. Put up with an awful lot from him, though. He was frightful. Always grousing at her when I drove around the countryside in the car. Always drunk. Sheatering, too? No. Only that night. When she found him with those three holes in his head. Was his truck three times? Three jolly great smashes. And you don't have any idea who did it? This burglar. Burglar? Well, whoever it was. Where did the mallet come from that he was killed with? Well, it was ours. Cops took it away. Well, I hope they find whoever it was. Well, if you cops are any good... We're trying. That's why I'm talking to you, George. Huh? Why? Hope you might be able to help her. Listen, mister. I'd give my life for her. Well... I love her. She's been very nice to you, I understand. I love her. She's the sweetest, the most adorable. The most... Well... Huh? She's going to hang. No. She's not. She didn't do it. You confess, George. They won't let me see her. Now, George... I've got to see her, I tell you. I've got to see her. Why is it so important? Why, George? Because they'll hang her. They'll hang, Alma. She didn't do it. She didn't murder Tom, and they're going to hang her for something she didn't do. But what good will it do for you to see her? I'll tell you what good it'll do for you. I'll tell you what good it'll do. I know who did it. I know, I tell you. Do you hear me? I know who killed Tom Appleby. Who? I know who murdered him, and so does she. I've got to talk to her, or they'll hang her. Alma Virginia Appleby's life was in desperate jeopardy. She had been remanded for trial, and no power on earth is sufficient to alter the slow, regular course of British justice before that trial takes place. Not even a confession by another person can change her status. That of a prisoner awaiting trial before a jury of her peers. I explained that to George Percy Emmons. You're coming to the rescue a trifle late young George, I said. It might be that you're too late. I've got to save her. I love her, and she loves me. This is George Percy Emmons' statement. I have worked as chauffeur and general handyman for about seven months for Alma and Tom Appleby. Alma, Mrs. Appleby, has been very good to me. She said I'm like what her dead son might have grown up to be. He did not like me. He didn't like anybody. He was always drunk, and he mistreated Alma, Mrs. Appleby. She tried to keep away from him. She always asked me to drive her to various places so she could be away from him and his tyranny. I love her very much. Three months ago, I asked her to marry me. First, she laughed at me. Then she cried. She said that she was old enough to be my mother. I said that I was old enough to become her husband. But she said she already had a husband. And I said he was a bad husband and old and ill-mannered, and she agreed. But she said he was her husband, and she'd sworn to be his wife. I told her I loved her, but she said, no, that is evil. I asked her if she didn't have Tom for a husband, would she marry me? She cried and said, you must not say that to me. I asked her many more times to marry me when Tom died. Six times. Tom was old and he was no good, and he mistreated her. And finally, the seventh time, I asked her if she would marry me if Tom was dead. She cried some more, and I begged her to answer me, and at last she said yes, and she kissed me, and said again she would marry me if I still wanted her to. After Tom was dead. And I thought about it a long time. On the night Tom was killed, on that night I'd brought her back from a trip in the country, and we were very happy. She kissed me when we came home, and she said she loved me. And my heart was breaking. And then when Tom got drunk that night, he hit her when she told him he shouldn't drink so much because it was affecting his health. And then I decided. I waited till she and Marjorie the maid went upstairs to bed, and then I got the mallet from the garage, and I stole into the house, and Tom was sitting in his chair, and he was in a stupor, and he didn't hear me. And I crept up behind him, and I hit him three times on his bald head, very hard, so I heard the bone crack. And he slid down in the chair, and he was dead, I thought. And I thought, now we can be married, Alma and me. But when I went to the staircase to go up and tell her, I looked up, and she was standing there, and she had seen it all. And everything I did, killing him, had come to naught. And I am a murderer, and Alma must not hang, although I surely shall. This is my confession. Write it down, and I will sign it. So help me, George Percy Emmons. George Percy Emmons was remanded for trial by the same magistrate who had examined Alma, Virginia, Appleby. They were tried together at the Southampton Assizes a little more than a month after Thomas Appleby had died. Both defendants pleaded guilty. Both seemed, as one crime reporter complained, to outdo the other in protestations, not of innocence, but of guilt. Unlike almost every case where a man and a woman had been accused of murder, they did not attempt to fix the guilt on one another, but each seemed determined to save the other's life at the cost of his own. This was the verdict of the jury. Members of the jury, are you agreed upon your verdict? Yes, sir. Do you find the prisoner, Alma, Virginia, Appleby, guilty or not guilty of murder? Not guilty. Do you find the prisoner, George Percy Emmons, guilty or not guilty of murder? Guilty. We should like to add a rider to that. We recommend him to mercy. George Percy Emmons, you stand convicted of murder. Have you to say anything why the court should not give you judgment of death according to law? I wish that. Let the prisoner, Alma, Virginia, Appleby, be discharged. And so they hanged 18-year-old George Emmons. On the day he was hanged, Alma, the woman who was old enough to be his mother, but young enough to have wanted to be his wife, sat down and wrote a letter. She sealed it, addressed it to the people of England. And standing in the room where Thomas the Becket Appleby had died by her lover's hand, she stabbed herself through the heart. Justice was done. You have heard another in the series White Hall 1212, compiled from the official files of Scotland Yard. Research on White Hall 1212 is by Percy Hoskins of the London Daily Express. The stories for radio are written and directed by Willis Cooper. Three times mean good times on NBC.