 CHAPTER XIV. THE LAMPSON CASE. Thirty-five years ago Wimbledon was the scene of an exceptionally cruel and deliberate murder. At Blenheim House School, one of the students, Percy Malcolm John, died suddenly on December 3rd, 1881. It was suspected that his disease was due to the administration of aconitine, a very swift and deadly poison, and this suspicion proved correct. It was shown that John, a cripple, had been poisoned for the sake of his money by his brother-in-law Dr. George Henry Lampson, who was found guilty, ultimately confessed, and was hanged. This crime aroused intense interest at the time, largely because the doctor afforded a remarkable psychological study. This is the narrative of Mr. Charles A. Smith of the medical hall, Ventner Isle of White, who was an important witness for the crown. I knew Dr. Lampson well, for I had had many interviews with him in the way of business. My personal knowledge of him extended over a period of eighteen months, because he spent much of his time in this part of the Isle of White, where his father was living. The doctor was a slim young fellow, a little under thirty years of age, with a very pleasant manner, and he had the knack of making you feel at home with him directly. He was one of the last men in the world you would suspect of committing such a cruel and premenitated murder as that for which he was hanged. Dr. Lampson was a mystery. There is not the slightest doubt that he was possessed of great capacity for good. As an army surgeon in Serbia and Romania, he had done fine and humane work, and there were not a few who spoke from personal experience of him as a kind and gentle person. It is not easy in these cases to form a correct judgment, but such a consideration need not weigh, because all that one desires to do is to deal with questions of fact. One thing is certain, and it is that the doctor was condemned only after a scrupulously fair trial, when his guilt had been fully proved by the prosecution, and he had every opportunity to establish his innocence. In the late summer and the beginning of the autumn of 1881, I made up various prescriptions for the doctor, and some of these I have preserved as curiosities. Here is one, just as I received it more than thirty years ago. Many are on odd pieces of note paper, and this one is written on an envelope. A date I particularly remember is August 28, 1881. Between eight and nine o'clock on the evening of that day, Lampson, who was alone, came to my shop. I was then in business at 76 High Street, Ventner, a little distance from the medical hall, where I am now established. The door was shut, and the doctor opened it and entered the shop in just the ordinary way, precisely as he had come in on many previous occasions, either for a chat or to do business. He was quite normal. I did not notice the slightest difference in him. Yet events showed that he was then obtaining a particularly deadly poison with which he meant to take the life of his young and helpless brother-in-law. If I remember rightly, Lampson picked up a cake of pear soap and something else, and, having bought these, he said that he wanted three grains of sulfate of atropine and one grain of echinatine. Knowing him as a medical man, he was served without question and without suspicion, and the poisons were not entered in the poison's book. But I made an entry of the sales in what I called my waste-book, a sort of rough day-book, and this proceeding absolutely fixed the date of the purchase, and by doing so helped largely, I believe, in the conviction of the doctor. The small bottle from which the echinatine was taken that day is still preserved, but it is no longer used. There is still in it some of the identical poison from which the grain was sold. Echinatine is one of the swiftest and most deadly poisons known. An infinitesimal dose will cause agonizing suffering and death in a few hours. To show the powerful action of echinatine, I might say that the British pharmacopeia gives no dose, while Martindale's pharmacopeia gives one six hundredth to one two hundredth of a grain. To get the dose properly distributed, it is necessary to triterate it well with a gritty powder, such as sugar of milk. The doctor had got an entire grain and three grains of atropine, another intensely poisonous substance, of which the usual dose is a hundredth part of a grain. I had supplied these things in the usual way, without so much as the remote suspicion of anything being wrong entering my mind, nor had I any misgiving whatsoever, until a well-known local practitioner came into my shop and said, You know the name of Lampson? Of course, I replied that I did. Well, he continued, do you know that the police are after him? It is said that he has poisoned his brethren-law at Wimbledon, and that the poison used was echinatine. I was utterly taken aback and exclaimed, Why? I supplied him with some echinatine a few weeks ago. I instantly hunted up my waist-book, and there the entry was. The doctor advised me to communicate with the Treasury, and I did so, stating that I had supplied echinatine to Lampson. The result was that without the slightest delay, Inspector Butcher of Scotland Yard came to see me, and that began an unwilling association with the case, which ended only with the truly dreadful day, when I saw Lampson condemned to the death from which no effort succeeded in saving him. Naturally enough, I became acquainted with every detail of this famous case, from the opening of the inquest at Wimbledon, to the time when Mr. Justice Hawkins sentenced Lampson to death. They talk of his lordship as the hanging judge, but my own impression, gained from two famous trials with which I have been connected, one relating to a member of the Bonaparte family, is that he was a very kind and amiable gentleman. The facts of the case, as they were slowly ascertained, showed that the day after Lampson obtained the echinatine from me, he administered some of it to his brethren-law, Percy Malcolm John, who was then staying with his sister and her husband at Shanklin. The lad was taken violently ill, but the illness passed off. On that occasion no doctor was summoned, and in due course the lad was taken back to the school at Wimbledon. There is little doubt that after obtaining the echinatine from me, Lampson went to another chemist in Benton, Mr. Littlefield, and bought from him some quinine powders, into several of which, and into some quinine pills, he introduced the poison. Mr. Littlefield, who was called as a witness, was able to swear that he did not keep echinatine, and had never had any in his shop. Though paralyzed in the lower limbs, and suffering from curvature of the spine, yet Percy Malcolm John was free from actual disease, and was able to wheel himself about in specially made chairs. He had, however, to be carried both up and downstairs, a task which was frequently, and, we may be sure, kindly performed by his fellow students. Two or three days after visiting me on August 28, Lampson crossed to America, and from that country he sent to his brother-in-law at Wimbledon a box of pills, of which the lad took one, and, having done so, declared that he felt ill, just as he had felt at Shanglin after taking a quinine pill which Lampson had prepared for him. These pills it was proved contain poison. After staying a few weeks in America, Lampson returned to Ventner, and it was soon obvious that he was reduced to the last extremity to obtain money. On the voyage home on the city of Berlin, he borrowed five pounds from the ship's surgeon. Executions and rits were out against him. His household furniture had been sold. He had pawned personal belongings, and had cashed worthless checks, drawn on banks where he had no accounts. It was quite clear that he meant to spare no effort to get his brother-in-law out of the way, and so become possessed of a sum of about fifteen hundred pounds which would revert to him on the lad's death. Towards the end of November, Lampson bought two grains of a conitine from a firm of London chemists, having, without success, tried to get a quantity of the poison from another firm. He also bought a dundee cake, which figured prominently in the development of the case. On the evening of Saturday, December 3rd, Lampson went to Blenheim House. Percy Malcolm John was expecting him, for Lampson had sent a letter saying that he meant to call and see him before leaving for Paris and Florence. When Lampson called, just after seven o'clock, he was shown into the dining-room, and the crippled lad was carried up from the basement by a fellow pupil and placed in a chair. The pupil left the room, and Lampson, the lad, and Mr. Bedbrook, the proprietor of the school, were together. At Mr. Bedbrook's invitation, Lampson took a glass of sherry, into which he put some caster sugar to counteract, he said, the effects of the alcohol. He had asked for the sugar, and the housekeeper had brought it into the room. From a bag which he carried, Lampson took some cake and sweet-meats. He also produced a box of capsules, saying that he had brought them from America, and that they would be found very useful for the purpose of giving medicine to the boys. A capsule, of course, is a gummy envelope for a nauseous drug. He gave one to Mr. Bedbrook to try, and Mr. Bedbrook took it, noticing, meanwhile, that Lampson was putting some of the caster sugar into another capsule. Shaking this capsule, Lampson told the lad that he was a swell pill-taker, and asked him to swallow it, which Percy, unsuspecting, immediately did. Meanwhile, Lampson had been eating the cake, and Mr. Bedbrook and Percy also took some, as well as some sweets which Lampson had produced. Almost as soon as the lad had swallowed the capsule, Lampson hurried away from the house, saying that he had to catch a train for the continent. It is interesting to remember that when he had tried to poison his brother-in-law at Shanklin, Lampson lost no time in escaping to America. It is reasonable to suppose that he calculated that by the time he returned the death of his brother-in-law, if it had taken place, would have been completely forgotten, and the burial having taken place, there would be little or no probability of suspicion falling on the doctor. About four hours after Lampson hastily departed from the house at Wimbledon, Percy Malcolm John was dead. Within a few minutes of taking the cake and capsule, the lad was in agony, and despite the prompt attention of two doctors, one of whom was in the house at the time, nothing could be done to save him. Next day, Sunday, Mr. Bedbrook reported the matter to the police, and grave suspicion instantly attached to Lampson. The crippled student had died on December 3, and so early as the morning of December 8, Scotland Yard had sent a police sergeant to Paris to make inquiries concerning the whereabouts of Lampson. But on that very morning a haggard and distressed man, accompanied by a woman, presented himself at the yard and said to Inspector Butcher, who saw him in a room there, I am Dr. Lampson, whose name has been mentioned in connection with the death at Wimbledon. He said that he had come from Paris by way of Haber and South Hampton, though he was unfit to travel, being unwell and much upset by this affair. Lampson evidently expected to be allowed to go after reporting himself, but he was detained at Scotland Yard, and after being formally charged with causing the death of Percy Malcolm John, he was taken to Wandsworth Police Court in a cab. Bell was applied for and refused, and from the moment Lampson surrendered himself at Scotland Yard, though there was no actual warrant or charge against him, he was a prisoner, and in his heart of hearts he must have known that he was doomed. There were the preliminaries of the inquest and magisterial inquiry to be gone through before the trial came on at the Old Bailey, which meant life or death to the unhappy prisoner. On March 8, 1882, just three months after Lampson surrendered at Scotland Yard, his trial began and ended after five long days. His leading counsel was Mr. Montague Williams, and if mortal man could have secured an acquittal, I am certain that that famous barrister would have done it, for he made a powerful and almost irresistible speech on behalf of the accused man whose interests he had watched throughout since the preliminary inquiry. Extraordinary public interest was shown in the case, especially in relation to the effect of such a deadly poison as aconitine, and the tests that were made to establish the cause of the death of the crippled lad as being due to the administration of this particular alkaloid. Aconitine, which had been taken from the body of the murdered lad, was administered to mice, which died very quickly. That was one experiment which was carefully carried out to prove the deadly nature of the poison, but the principal test was that of taste, that is to say, the expert witnesses had to place a minute quantity of the aconitine on the tongue, and in that dangerous and unpleasant manner ascertain its real character. That the poison extracted from the lad was aconitine was established beyond any possible doubt. The case for the prosecution rested on the assumption that the prisoner had given the poison through the medium of the capsule, which he had prepared either before going to see his brother in law or while actually in the lad's presence and that of Mr. Bedbrook. There was, I believe, another theory that the aconitine had been introduced into a piece of the cake, and that the prisoner saw to it that this particular piece was eaten by his brother in law. Mr. Williams, in his speech for the defense, did his best to destroy the theory of the prosecution and discredit the case for the crown, but he did not succeed, nor was any evidence offered on the prisoner's behalf in itself a significant proceeding. The closing hours of the trial were extremely painful, largely owing to the impression created by the speech for the defense, and more so because of the presence in court of the prisoner's wife, the thin spare figure, as Mr. Williams called her, who had gone up to the dock and taken her husband by the hand to encourage him and show that she at least believed him to be innocent, however guilty he might be reckoned by the world. It was six o'clock at night when the judge finished his summing up and the jury retired to consider their verdict. They were absent for only half an hour, then they returned a verdict of guilty. What followed was not, mercifully, witnessed by the thin spare figure, for she had been gently taken away by friends from the crowded court. Few words were spoken by Mr. Justice Hawkins in passing sentence of death he merely alluded to the crime as being cruel, base and treacherous, and as soon as the final words of doom had been uttered and the chaplain had exclaimed, A. Ben, Lampson was removed from the dock. He had been, it seems, confident of an acquittal and was terribly dejected at the finding of the verdict of guilty. My own recollection of the doctor's appearance at the finish of the trial is that he would have collapsed in the dock while being sentenced if the warders had not stood very close to him and supported him. Before being removed, Lampson said nothing except to declare solemnly that he was innocent. In the ordinary course of things he would have been hanged on April 2nd, but the execution was twice postponed and the prisoner was respited to give every opportunity of affidavits coming from the United States to prove his insanity and for testimony to be obtained in England that he was not capable of knowing what he was doing because of his habit of taking drugs. Numerous affidavits were sworn that the condemned man was an opium taker and that, owing to the influence of this drug, he was not responsible for his actions. Lampson had been taken to Wandsworth Prison and there, on April 28th, he was hanged, all efforts to save him having failed. There were those who believed in his innocence and were very sorry for him and I believe that sympathetic women actually took flowers to the prison and left them for him. The vast majority of people, however, were satisfied that he suffered very justly for an uncommonly cruel and premeditated crime, even before he confessed that he had committed the murder. He did not, however, explain how he had done it. Most of us have read Mr. Montague Williams' Leaves of a Life. In that book, the famous counsel dealt, of course, with the Lampson case and made some remarks which must have set finally at rest any lingering doubts as to the murderer's guilt. From the circumstances which came to his knowledge after the trial, Mr. Williams said that Mrs. Lampson full well knew her husband to be guilty and knew more than was proved before the legal tribunal. This meant that she was probably aware that her other brother, by whose death Lampson came into a considerable sum of money, was also murdered by him. What happened to Mrs. Lampson? I cannot say what her ultimate fortune was, but I believe that, after the dreadful tragedy with which she had been so closely and unhappily associated, she started a boarding-house. That was the last I heard of her. Chapter 15 Of Survivors' Tales of Famous Crimes This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Survivors' Tales of Famous Crimes, edited by Walter Wood. Chapter 15. Crippen's Callous Crime With the possible exception of the Palmer case, no crime that has been committed within living memory has aroused such excitement and interest as the murder of Mrs. Crippen by her husband, Dr. Holly Harvey Crippen. Mrs. Crippen was a well-known music hall artist, whose professional name was Ms. Bell Elmore, and she was poisoned, cut up, and buried in the house in which she had been living with her husband. In that house he continued to live with his wife's supplanter, his typist, with whom he had for a long time conducted a liaison. Ms. Elmore was closely associated with the music hall Lady's Guild, and it was through the exertions of that society that suspicion of Crippen was aroused, a suspicion which ended in a thoroughly well-deserved death on the gallows. At the time of the crime, Ms. Melinda May was secretary of the Guild. She was a witness at the trial of Crippen and also of Ethel Leneve, and it is her story which is told. I was one of a small party of visitors at Crippen's house on New Year's Eve, 1909. I had been invited to go to see the old year out and the new year in, but I had excused myself on the ground that I was untidy. The doctor and his wife, Bell Elmore, however, must have telephoned to Ms. Hawthorne and her husband, Mr. Nash, to call for me, for they came round in Ms. Hawthorne's car and took me to 39 Hill Drop Crescent, Holloway. We reached the house at about eleven o'clock, and Ms. Elmore went downstairs and made an American cocktail. Time passed quickly, and Midnight was soon with us. The old year was nearly dead, and the new year almost born. At Midnight the street door was opened, and there, at the top of the flight of steps, which led up to the entrance from the garden path, we stood. The doctor, his wife, Ms. Hawthorne and her husband and myself, to listen to the hooting of sirens, the ringing of church bells, the hammering of trays, and the rest of the strangely moving noises that are made by the watchers who hail the new year. Ms. Elmore had handed round the cocktail, and we had taken it and had expressed the usual good wishes for the new year. I'm so glad you're here, Ms. May, Ms. Elmore said, turning to me. I'm so glad that we're together now, and I do hope that we shall all be together again this time next year. Poor soul, she uttered those kind and friendly words while she was standing over the very spot where her mutilated remains were buried a month later by the cold blooded murderer, her husband. Belle Elmore was at all times kindness and generosity itself. She was a large-hearted woman, and she showed her kindness while we were standing on the top of the steps, for she called up to the chauffeur and a constable, who happened to be outside, and invited them to take some refreshment, which they did, joining in the good wishes for the year 1910. After letting in the new year, we went downstairs to supper. Then, at about half past one in the morning, we left the house. Ms. Hawthorne, taking me in the car to my residence and afterwards going home. So the new year was ushered in, and we settled down to continue and extend our music hall ladies' guild work, in which Ms. Elmore was greatly interested. The guild had been founded in the autumn of 1906, and for eighteen months she had acted as honorary treasurer, and had regularly attended our committee meetings. Here, in this book, are the pages on which she signed her name for the last time as a worker with us. The headquarters of the guild, at that time, were at Albion House, New Oxford Street, London, where also Crippen had his place of business. The guild has won very special object, and that is to help the poorer women and children of the music hall profession, so that it is particularly a work for women. Ms. Elmore was devoted to the work, and on the first day of the new year, she came to the office at Albion House. I remember that visit so well, because it threw such a clear light on one phase of her character. We had a little talk about a man who had just been to see me, and whom I had sent onto the Variety Artist Benevolent Fund, because we do not deal with the cases of men, only those of women and children. After we had discussed this matter, Ms. Elmore said, I have just been round to the little church in Soho Square. That was a Catholic church, for she was a Roman Catholic. Have you been? I smiled and said, No, I haven't had time. Besides, you know, I'm not a Catholic. What does the church matter, she answered quickly, so long as it is the house of God. I often think of that remark, which indicates the religious side of Bell Elmore, just as her interest in the guild showed her kindness of disposition. It is important to bear that kindness in mind, and to remember that Ms. Elmore was in the prime of life and an attractive woman. She was always well-dressed and wore a very good jewelry, and with it all, had an exceedingly pleasant manner. It is strange indeed that such a woman should have been usurped in any man's mind by such a person as Ethel Neve, to give her her real name. About a fortnight after that visit to Albion House, Ms. Elmore came again. That was about twelve o'clock noon, and I noticed that she looked very unwell. Almost before there was a chance of saying anything, she exclaimed, I am so ill, I do feel so bad. I am very sorry, I replied. Is there anything I can get you? What's the matter? No thanks, she said. I dare not touch anything. I awoke in the night and roused Peter, as she always called Crippen, and said, Get up and fetch the priest, I am going to die. Nothing, however, was done. But as to the cause of that illness and the excruciating pain she felt, there is no doubt that it was the result of an attempt which Crippen had then made to murder her by administering poison. How the truly deadly poison which did soon afterwards cause Bell Elmore's death was given, no one knows, and Crippen took that awful secret to the scaffold with him. On the last day of that month of January, Crippen ceased to have any association with the business at Albion House, a patent medicine business it was, but he continued to have an interest in a dental concern, and on the day that he finished with the patent medicine business, his wife disappeared, and was never again seen alive. The last persons to see her were Mr. Paul Martinetti and Mrs. Martinetti, the latter a member of the committee of the Guild. They were invited to dine with the Crippans, and they went to the house and were there till half past one in the morning. There was no one else present, just the Crippans and the Martinettis. The party attended to their own wants and then quietly played wist. During the evening Mr. Martinetti, who had not been well, was taken ill, and Crippen went out to get a cab, but he was absent at unnecessarily long time, and there seems to be little doubt that he was hoping to return and find his wife dead from the effects of the poison, which must have been then given to her, and that finding her dead he would be able either to avert suspicion from himself or to attach it to someone else. Certain it is that he was capable of any diabolical act that would conceal his Guild, just as he proved to be a deliberate and cunning liar when the police had got him, and he knew that day by day his doom was being surely sealed. A meeting of the Guild was held on February 2nd, and it was expected that Miss Elmore would attend, but she did not appear. Just before one o'clock Ethel Neve came to the office and gave me a passbook and a paying-in book, which Miss Elmore had charged of his treasurer, saying, I think these are yours. Ethel Neve also gave me two letters, one for myself and one for the Guild. In the letter to myself, which was signed hastily yours, Bell Elmore, P.P.H.H.C. It was stated that Bell Elmore had been called to America at a few hours' notice owing to the death of a near relative. She asked that her resignation should be brought before the committee, so that the new treasurer could be elected without delay. You will appreciate my haste, the letter added, when I tell you that I have not been to bed all night, packing and getting ready to go. I shall hope to see you again in a few months later, but cannot spare a moment to come to you before I go. The letter to the committee was to the same effect, and stated that the checkbook and the deposit book were enclosed for the use of the writer's successor. A suggestion was made that a new treasurer should be elected at once. That letter bore the signature Bell Elmore, but neither it nor the letter to myself was in her handwriting, which I knew quite well. The two communications were, as a matter of fact, forgeries by Crippen, and were foisted off upon us for the time being with the help of Ethel Neve. The matter was puzzling and terribly suspicious, because Miss Elmore had not given a hint of going to America, and she would hardly have left in such a hurry and with practically no clothes, for she had a very large wardrobe. But there was the explanation of her absence, and for the time being we had to be content with it. I saw Crippen practically every day, and time after time I asked him for news of his wife. At first he told me she was in California, in the hills. Then he said she was very ill, and warned me that we must expect worse news of her. Terrible indeed was all this lying and hypocrisy, and view of what had actually happened and what he really knew. Do let us know all you can, I said. It is an awful suspense for us. Yes, he answered, and being that to you, you can understand what it is to me. Then the time came when in answer to a question Crippen said, Corry is dead, she died in my son's arms, meaning his son by his first wife. I had already asked Crippen what had become of two beautiful cats which Belle Elmore had, and of which she was very fond, and he replied that it was strange, but that they had disappeared at about the same time as the mistress left for America. So they had, for the brute had done away with them. We were now determined to see what had really happened to solve if we could the mystery of Belle Elmore's disappearance, and among other things we wrote to the son of the first wife in America, and to our amazement he answered and said that he had neither seen nor heard of Mrs. Crippen. Meanwhile the committee was not letting the matter rest. At that time the president of the Guild was Mrs. G. H. Smyson, and on March 31st she went to the Scotland Yard authorities and asked them to help in tracing Miss Elmore, and have Crippen watched. But Scotland Yard said that they could do nothing unless a charge was made against Crippen. There was not then, however, any conclusive evidence, and all the committee could do was to go on observing and making inquiries. By this time Ethel Neve had taken up her residence at Hildrop Crescent, and she was working with Crippen. Once they asked at the office if she was there and he promptly answered no, though I actually saw that she was, and that was a trivial lie for him to tell. Almost daily I saw Crippen, and he feigned grief at the loss of his wife and constantly wore a black hat hand and a black armlet. He still had the quiet, studious manner that always characterized him. He was never taken off his guard and was always ready with satisfactory answers. Though he well knew what had been done to Belle Elmore, and knew that there was a strong and growing suspicion against him, yet he never faltered, and went about as if nothing had happened except in the ordinary way. His wife had gone to America and had died there. That was a tale he told, and people must accept it. He discharged ordinary obligations in the ordinary way, and I well remember that he paid me an amount which was owing with a ten-pound note taking the change quite placidly. At that time summer had come. Crippen was wearing a white linen suit. He remained just the same as ever, quiet, studious, and calm, and never gave one the impression of being the cold blooded murderer he really was. Occasionally I went to the house to make inquiries, and saw Ethel Neve there. But whatever Crippen was present he always remained downstairs until they had gone. He never joined us. It must be remembered that even now there was no suspicion of the real terrible truth. For Crippen, to all outward appearances, had been at all times particularly kind to his wife. By the end of June matters had gone further, and the story that was now told by Crippen was that his wife had died in Los Angeles, that she had been cremated, and that her ashes had been brought over. That was a story he told to Mrs. Martinetti and Mrs. Meissen. But when they wanted details he could not give them, not even the name of the ship in which his wife had sailed for America. By the last day of June so strong had the suspicion grown that Mr. Nash went to Scotland Yard with the result that on July 8th Inspector Dew went to Hill Drop Crescent where the door was opened by Ethel Neve, who was actually wearing a brooch in the form of a rising sun which had belonged to Bell Elmore. The inspector persuaded the girl to go with him to Albion House, and there they saw Crippen, and who can tell what his feelings were when he knew that at last the police were after him, and that the house on Hill Drop Crescent was to reveal its ghastly secret. Calm, consummate liar that he was, Crippen now boldly admitted that he had given a false account of his wife's disappearance. She was not dead, he said, so far as I know she's alive. Then he told a long story which was at variance with all that he had previously said. According to this new account his wife had gone to join an old friend of hers in America. Mr. Bruce Miller. But this statement with many more proved a deliberate lie. The main feature of the story was that Bell Elmore had disappeared in consequence of quarrels, and her husband had tried to hush up the matter so as to avoid a scandal. With that long explanation the police for the moment had to be satisfied. But now things moved with amazing and dramatic swiftness. The very day after that memorable visit to Albion House the police circulated a description of the missing woman, and two days later they went again to Hill Drop Crescent. But neither there nor at Albion House was there a sign of Crippin and his typists. Both had fled. The moment the police appeared Crippin saw that his desperate game was up and that only by prompt and uncommon action could he escape. He was equal to the terrible emergency. He must have prepared for it long in advance to be able to carry it out as he did. When the police had left he sent his clerk to buy a suit of boys' clothes and other things. His typist put the suit on and disguised as a boy she left Albion House, going down more than eighty steps and getting away with an exciting suspicion. Though how she managed to do so passes my comprehension. Crippin left a letter telling his clerk to settle up the household affairs, and he wrote another letter to his partner saying that he found it necessary to disappear for a time. Then there came upon me one of the most severe shocks I had ever known, the revelation that not only was Belle Elmore dead, but that she had been murdered in the most monstrous fashion. I happened to be traveling by a tram car making a journey in connection with the change of rooms and a stoppage was made at Kennington Road. The conductor bought an early edition of an evening paper. He eagerly glanced at the main contents which briefly told him an awful discovery in the cellar of a house at Heldrop Crescent. I got a paper myself, and as soon as I realized what the dreadful news implied I fainted in the car. That was the effect of the shock upon me, the realization of the tragic end of one we knew and loved so well. When I recovered I had just to explain to the conductor why I had been so overcome. Then I hurried to Albion House, to find a completely packed with an excited crowd of newspaper representatives and other people, a crowd so dense indeed that the building had to be cleared. The excitement over the discovery was indescribable, and it never died down, either here or in America, because of the dramatic developments in the case and the possibility that the guilt of Crippen might never be brought home to him. For there was such a possibility, and the mere thought of it to some of us was unendurable. I cannot and will not dwell on the discovery at Heldrop Crescent. It is too dreadful a subject. All I will say is that buried in the cellar of the house were found the mutilated remains of Bell Elmore, who had been murdered by the administration of Hyocene, a rare and deadly poison. There is no doubt that after the visit of the Martinetes on January 31st she died in great agony, that she was cut to pieces in the bathroom and buried in the cellar, a horrible night's work, after which the monster who had done it went about his business and lived with his typists as if nothing had happened, and she had taken the murdered woman's place and was wearing her clothes and jewelry. Time after time I and my friends had the truly painful task of trying to identify some pitiful relic of the murdered woman, but let that be forgotten. The very sight of those bits of clothing and personal fragments made me positively ill, my nerves were shattered, and I have never been the same since. What happened after the flight was made known in various ways at later stages, and Ethel Neve herself told the story of her association with Crippen. The changed Albion Hose from her own clothing to a complete boy's outfit, shirt, braces, waistcoat, trousers, jacket, collar, and tie, boots, and bowler hat, seemed a merry joke to Crippen, and the joke was crowned when Crippen said, now for the hair, and with one or two snips of the scissors, the typist's mop, as she called it, fell to the floor. She herself confessed that it was extraordinary that she went down all those steps at Albion Hose, where she had been known for years without being recognized, and that she should pass along the streets without a soul suspecting that she was a girl in disguise. They went separately to Chanceery Lane Tube Station, where Crippen joined her, and she then noticed that he had shaved off his mustache. From Chanceery Lane they went to the bank and then to Liverpool Street Station, where they meant to take train via Harwich for the Hook of Holland, but they had three hours to spare, and this was spent in a bus ride, apparently to and from Hackney. The two went to the Hook, then to Rotterdam, and on to Brussels, where they thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Then, from Antwerp, they sailed in the liner Montrose for Canada. The description of Crippen and his typist had been sent all over the world. The discovery at Hilldrop Crescent was a topic of the day, and so it happened that Captain Kendall, of the Montrose, knew of the crime, suspected Crippen, and got the wireless to work. That resulted in Inspector Dew armed with warrants, hurrying across the Atlantic in a faster steamer than the Montrose and being able, on July 31st, to board that steamer disguised as a pilot. It was a Sunday, and the murderer and his companion were expecting to land and seek safety in the new world, which had been reached with the proceeds of the sale of Bell Elmore's jewelry and clothing, and the money she had had in the bank. Crippen, as he told in his evidence at the trial, saw through the inspector's disguise at once, and he was amazed to find that he had been discovered by the police. What must his feelings have been when he felt the handcuffs on him, and knew that both he and his companion were to go back to England to be tried? After some delay the two were brought back, and then began the long and awful association with the trial. The preliminary hearing at Bow Street, then the trial at the Central Criminal Court before the Lord Chief Justice. Crippen fought desperately for his life. He and Ethel Neve had been in the dock together at the police court, but now he was tried alone, and a solicitor and counsel did their best. The solicitor, Newton, did all he could before the trial to damage the evidence of members of the guild, but we knew exactly what we were saying. We had nothing to tell but the truth, and Newton failed. One of the most tense periods of the trial was across examination of Crippen. He had dared everything in going into the box, though he knew that it must have been a fallore in hope indeed. But throughout that terrible ordeal, when the slip of a word might have put the rope around his neck, he never flinched. He was as cool and as calculating as ever. He told lie after lie in the hope of nullifying other lies that he had told, but the very untruth only served to make his position more fatal. A deadly bit of evidence against Crippen was the finding with the mutilated remains of some pieces of pajamas, which it was proved belonged to him. Strangely enough, Belle Elmore, who had bought these garments for her husband, asked me to go with her when she made the purchase. But as it happened, I was not able, owing to other engagements, to accompany her. I was not present in court during the whole of the hearing, and I was thankful to be out of it. But it was there when Crippen was found guilty, and I heard him sentenced to death. So far as I could tell, even then, he was as callous as ever. But in his heart of hearts he must have felt the unutterable horror of his position. He must have known from the Lord Chief Justice the solemn measured tones that for him, in this world, there was no more hope, and that when he stepped down from the dock he had almost done with life. Crippen appealed and was present at the law courts when the judges refused to interfere with the sentence. Then on the morning of November 22nd he was hanged at Pennington Prison. That was ten months after the murder. He made no confession and was a liar to the last. For in a farewell letter to the world he solemnly stated that he knew nothing whatever of the remains until he was told of their discovery by a solicitor on the day after his arrival at Bow Street. Two days after Crippen was condemned, Ethel Neve was tried at the Old Bailey, before the Lord Chief Justice, with being incessory after the fact of the murder of Bell Elmore. I was again called as a witness repeating what I had said at Crippen's trial. The prisoner was found not guilty and was discharged. He was very widely stated at the time that she had left the country and was making a fresh start far away. But I believe that, as a matter of fact, she remained in London and was engaged in a dressmaking business. This I do know, however, that I saw her myself on Easter Monday, 1918, and I saw her in an extraordinary manner. I had been staying at Eastbourne and had entered a compartment in a train for London Bridge. A young woman was sitting opposite to me, and to my amazement I recognized her as Ethel Neve. She saw me too and knew who I was, and she hung her head. I could not take my eyes off her all the time we were on the journey. XVI. Seddon's Greed of Gold. The most sinister, deliberate, and cruel of all murders are those which are due to the administration of poison. In many cases the motive for such crimes is avarice, and what the judge called Greed of Gold sent Frederick Henry Seddon to the scaffold for the murder of Miss Eliza M. Barrow. Seddon's wife was tried with him, but she was found not guilty and was acquitted. Miss Barrow, with a comfortable and assured private income, went to lodge with the Seddens. Seddon, an insurance superintendent of a grasping and bombastic nature, did not rest until he had the whole of Miss Barrow's fortune made over to him by his own craft and cunning in return for an annuity. Then, having secured her money, he took prompt and successful steps to poison her. The trial, which took place before Mr. Justice Bucknill, lasted ten days and aroused deep and widespread interest. One of the most important witnesses was Mr. Frank Ernest Von Der Hey, Miss Barrow's cousin who was largely responsible in bringing the murderer to justice, and whose story is here retold. Miss M. Barrow, who was murdered by Frederick Henry Seddon, was my cousin and was nearly fifty years old at the time of her death. She was very comfortably circumstance, as she had always been, for she had never in her life found it necessary to work. She had a great regard for money, and in the ordinary course of things would not give four farthings for a penny. She lived with us at one period, but left us to take up her residence with Seddon and his wife, who had a large house at sixty-three Tollington Park, and had advertised the upper part to let. There was a little boy named Ernie Grant, who lived with Miss Barrow when she was with us, and he went and lived with her at the Seddon's. My cousin was very much attached to the little fellow, and his association with the case became of much importance when it was a matter of finding a motive for what had been done. Miss Barrow had a public-house called the Buckshead, which brought her in one hundred five pounds a year. She had a barber shop adjoining the Buckshead which gave her another fifty pounds yearly, and she always had plenty of ready cash and money in the bank. It is perhaps a singular coincidence that both my cousin and Seddon had a very great regard for money, and I have no doubt that she was impressed by seeing him handle considerable sums of gold in the ordinary way of his business as an insurance superintendent. I never knew a meaner or more avaricious man than Seddon. Money was his God, and it was his greed of gold which sent him to the gallows. If he had not been so hungry for money, if he had not been determined at all costs to get every penny that Miss Barrow had, it is possible, in fact probable, that his crime never would have been found out. If he had had the worldly wisdom to remember the poor little lad and put aside for him even two or three hundred pounds out of the money that he got from the murdered woman, I think it is likely that no suspicion of foul play would have been aroused, and that Miss Barrow's relatives would have been content to assume that, for reasons of her own, she had parted with everything she possessed to Seddon. As it was, the case from the outset was one of the gravest possible suspicion, and once we had begun to move in the matter it was obvious that we could not rest until the very strictest inquiry had been made. We had been in the habit of seeing my cousin about three times a week, but for some days we had not seen either her or Ernie Grant, and my wife said, Why don't you go round and find out how they're getting on? So I went down to sixty-three Tollington Park, which was only a few minutes' walk from where I lived. I knocked at the door, and it was opened by a young woman named Mary Chatter, who was general servant at the house. I asked if Miss Barrow was in, and to my amazement the girl replied, Miss Barrow is dead and buried, didn't you know? No, I told her. When was she buried? Last Saturday, Mary Chatter answered, and it was now Wednesday. I asked her when did she die, and she said last Thursday. I was, of course, completely taken aback, and I asked to see Seddon, but the girl said he was out and would not be back for about an hour. I came home and saw my wife and told her what I had heard, and an hour later we both went on to number sixty-three, arriving there about nine o'clock. This time we saw Maggie Seddon, the daughter, who told us that her father had not returned and that he had gone to the Finsbury Park Empire, and would not be back till late. We came away, and I went and communicated with my brother, who is now here with us as we talk, and we discussed the matter, and decided that our wife should go to Tullington Park and see Seddon, and try to learn something from him. Next morning they went, and Maggie Seddon opened the door to them, and they were shown into a sitting-room, where they were kept waiting for some time. Then Seddon and his wife entered the room, and Seddon at once announced that he had not much time to spare. He took out a watch and looked at it, a watch which subsequently proved to have belonged to Miss Barrow. At that interview Seddon was cool and calculating, but his wife was on the point of breaking down. He took care to do all the talking and said to her, Sit still, my dear, don't upset yourself. I can say all there is to say. She would have given everything away. After demanding to know who the visitors were, and being told, he handed them a copy of a letter addressed to me, but which I had never received. This letter to the effect that Miss Barrow had died, and that the funeral would take place on the following Saturday. It gave invitations to the funeral, and added that Miss Barrow had made a will three days before her death, leaving what she died possessed of, to Hilda and Ernest Grant and appointing Seddon's sole executor. That letter, I may say now, was never really sent to me, but was written by Seddon with the object of helping to conceal his crime and make everything appear to be in order. It was a black-edged letter, and in addition to it Seddon gave to the wives a letter addressed to the relatives, a copy of the will, and a memorial card. In quite a business-like way he put these letters into a large envelope and handed them to my sister-in-law. At the end of the interview they asked him if he would see me, but he answered, Oh, I've wasted enough time on you. I'm a businessman, and can't be troubled by people asking questions. My wife and sister-in-law had expected to take possession of Miss Barrow's effects, but nothing of this kind happened, and when they came away from Tollington Park they were so satisfied that Seddon's manner was suspicious that, after carefully considering the matter together, we decided that it was necessary to go farther with it. Very grave doubts had entered our minds. It was not until October 9 that I saw Seddon for the first time. He had gone to South End for a holiday as he said he felt run down. Before calling again at his house I had various inquiries to make concerning the property and investments which Miss Barrow had possessed. While these were being made, Ernie Grant called round to see us, about a week after the visit by my wife and sister-in-law at Tollington Park. But I saw at once that precautions had been taken to prevent the boy from being questioned, because he was accompanied by one of Seddon's sons. I did not ask any questions, but said to the boy Seddon, tell your father that I will call and see him in about a week's time. When, on October 9, I went round to 63, I was accompanied by a friend of mine named Mr. Thomas Walker. We were admitted to the house and kept waiting for about twenty minutes. At the end of that time, Seddon and his wife came into the room. And with all the assurance in the world, Seddon came up to me and said questioningly, Mr. Frank Ernest Vonder Hey? I answered yes, and he turned to my friend and said, Mr. Albert Edward Vonder Hey? But I explained that it was not my brother, who was not well enough to accompany me, but a friend. Seddon was in what I might call fine fighting form. He was smoking a cigar, and I am sure that while we were kept waiting, he was taking a drink or two to get himself up to the mark. At any rate, he at once asked, What do you want? And began to ride the high horse. I let him run on a bit. Then he said, I see that you've been making inquiries. And of course, I had. I told him that I wish to see my cousin's will. And he replied that he did not see why he should give me any information. He began to talk glibly about my going to see a solicitor and swearing in affidavit. And when I asked who was the owner of the Buckshead now, he promptly said, I am, and I own the shop next door. I'm always open to buy property. This house I live in, it has fourteen rooms, is my own, and I have seventeen other properties. I'm always open to buy property at a price. As he stood there, smoking his cigar, he looked thoroughly prosperous and well pleased with himself, and did not show a sign of suspecting what a hideous fate was soon to overtake him. His manner and speech indicated perfect self-confidence and assurance, and I could quite well believe the stories I had heard of him, which showed him to be a man of great resource, very ready in speech, and plausible to a degree. His business as an insurance superintendent gave him that confidence to a large extent. I understood he was excellent company, and amongst other things he was, or had been, a local preacher. This fluency of speech and readiness to explain things away might easily have put one off the track. But I had learned too much from my inquiries to be readily disposed of, and I persisted in my questions. I felt very much concerned that my cousin should have been buried in a common grave at Finchley, as she had been when there was a family vault available at Highgate. And I asked for enlightenment on this point. Seddon was ready with his answer, which was, I thought the vault was full up. As for the property, he declared that he had bought it in the open market. And when I got to the matter of the annuity and asked what Miss Barrow paid for it, Seddon at once replied, That is for the proper authorities to find out, and I am perfectly willing to meet any solicitor. I am prepared to spend a thousand pounds to prove that all I have done in regard to Miss Barrow is perfectly in order. That was about as far as I could get with Seddon at that time. But matters were advancing. For, amongst other things, I knew quite well that the buck's head had not been bought in the open market, and that my cousin would never have parted with the property in that way. Again, we talked the matter over amongst ourselves, and decided that it was best to communicate with the police. Accordingly, we wrote to the public prosecutor Sir Charles Matthews, and the next development in the case was the exhumation of my cousin's body. This took place in the middle of November, and I and my brother had the very unwelcome and painful task of attending the mortuary at the cemetery for the purpose of identifying the remains. I will not dwell on that dreadful experience beyond saying that we identified the body, which had been taken out of the coffin and placed on a slab, and we had an opportunity of seeing how shamefully the burial had been carried out, owing to Seddon's greed, for he had provided only the cheapest possible funeral, and had actually got a commission from the undertaker on even this mean expenditure. The post-mortem examination, which was carried out by Dr. Spilbury and Wilcox, showed that death was due to acute arsenical poisoning, and was not caused, as the certificate stated and Seddon declared, by Epidemic Diarrhea. Of this grim and terrible examination and discovery, Seddon knew nothing, and no doubt he thought he was perfectly safe. After Miss Barrow's death, he seemed to enter upon a period of fresh prosperity, and was constantly seen in the neighborhood tearing about in a yellow motor-car. He must have thoroughly enjoyed this experience, for he loved display, but it was not to last long. One night, pretty late, the coroner's officer appeared at the door of the house in Tollington Park, and served upon Seddon a summons to attend an inquest on the body of Miss Barrow. That was the first intimation he had received of the exhumation, and the document must have been taken by him in the light of a death warrant. Next morning, it was noticed that he seemed to be twenty years older. He had been sitting up all night, making notes and getting ready for replies to any questions that might be put. It is singular that the inquest opened on Miss Barrow's birthday, which was November 23. The inquest itself was likely to prove deadly enough, but even before it was concluded, after being adjourned, Seddon was arrested on a charge of willfully murdering Miss Barrow. That was on December 4, 1911. Ten days later, the adjourned inquest was held, and a verdict of murder by some person or persons unknown, given by the coroner's jury. On January 15, 1912, Mrs. Seddon was arrested on a charge of being concerned with Seddon in the murder, and on February 12, both the prisoners were committed for trial. The extraordinary confidence which I had noticed in Seddon was maintained, and, outwardly, he gave the impression of feeling certain that in the end he would regain his freedom. Even when in custody, he willingly posed for the newspaper photographers and carefully arranged himself at a window for their convenience. I saw him doing this, and noticed his appearance. He looked smiling and full of health and spirits, a contrast indeed with the picture he presented at the trial, where he seemed literally to have shrunk and suddenly grown years older. It was almost impossible to recognize him as the bombastic person who had been so ready with his answers to my questions about the death of Miss Barrow and the disposal of her property. During the preliminary hearing, he was continually taking notes and leaning over to consult his solicitor. He laughed and smiled a good deal, but there was no heartiness in his laughter, and I feel sure that all this cheerfulness was put on. It was not until Monday, March 4, that the trial began at the Central Criminal Court, and that a wonderfully detailed and constructed story of the crime was told by the Attorney General, Sir Rufus Isaacs, who is now Lord Chief Justice. By this time I knew almost every circumstance of the case, and I was particularly struck by the astonishing fairness of the prosecution. The prisoners had every human chance of being acquitted because of this fairness and the care and skill of Mr. Marshall Hall, who defended Seddon, Mrs. Seddon, being defended by Mr. Rental. For ten days that calm and patient trial went on, for a great number of witnesses were called. There were some very long and exhaustive speeches, and Seddon himself was in the witness box a whole day and part of two days. Of course the chief interest of the trial centered in the efforts to prove the poisoning of Miss Barrow, though there was a good deal of time spent in showing that Seddon had a powerful motive in getting rid of her, so that he could fully enjoy the benefit of the money which he had secured. It was shown that Miss Barrow lived with the Seddens for fourteen months, and in that period she made over to Seddon sixteen hundred pounds of India stock, for which he arranged to give her an annuity of one hundred three pounds for Schilling's nine pence, just under two a week. And she also made over the Buckshead and the Barbershop for a further annuity of fifty-two pounds, so that for what he had got out of Miss Barrow, Seddon was paying three pounds weekly. This in any case represented a first rate investment for him, whereas if anything went wrong with him Miss Barrow was utterly roomed. She had given up government stock and sound leasehold property, and put her trust in a man of no great standing, for Seddon had a wife and five children dependent on him, and supported an old father. An important feature of the case was that no fewer than thirty-three five pound notes, which Miss Barrow had had, were proved to have been in the possession of the Seddens. The theory of the prosecution was that Miss Barrow had been poisoned by arsenic, which had been extracted from flypapers, and Mrs. Seddon had admitted that she bought such papers and put them in Miss Barrow's room. When two Seddon was arrested and told that he would be charged with poisoning Miss Barrow by administering arsenic, he said. Absurd! What a terrible charge, willful murder! It is the first of our family that has ever been charged with such a crime. Are you going to arrest my wife as well? If not, I would like you to give her a message from me. Have they found arsenic in her body? Has she not done this herself? It was not carbolic acid, was it, as there was some in her room. And Senitas is not poisoned, is it? Perhaps those were not the exact words he uttered. But it is significant that Seddon, even at that time, should have said anything about arsenic. It is strange, too, that, two days after he was arrested, he suggested that his daughter Maggie should be sent to buy some flypapers, because he remembered that there have been flypapers in the sick room, and it had struck him that some such papers might be bought and analyzed so that the quantity of poison on them could be discovered. It was clearly established in the course of the evidence that, as Miss Barrow's meals were prepared for her in a kitchen adjoining her bedroom, there was every opportunity for the Seddens to administer arsenic in her food, and it was proved that death was due to this poison, which must have been taken forty-eight hours before death. It was also shown that Miss Barrow did not take any medicine which contained arsenic. Day by day the trial went on. Weirdly enough at times, but there were breaks in the monotony when Seddon went into the witness box, and also when his wife gave evidence. The attorney general was wonderful in his calmness. But I think he was well matched in Seddon, who, with judge and counsel, as he had been with me, was instantly ready with a pat reply. There seemed to be no chance of tripping him up or trapping him. Yet it seems to be the fact that if he had not given evidence on his own behalf, he might well have been found not guilty and escaped that scaffold. In her own evidence Mrs. Seddon positively swore that she had never given arsenic to Miss Barrow in any shape or form, and her husband became indignant at the suggestions of greed and inhumanity made against him. Once or twice, when he was under cross-examination, he showed his anger at being taken for what he called a degenerate. But on the whole he kept amazingly cool, and it was hard to realize that either he or his wife was being tried for life. I think generally speaking that most people who heard the trial from start to finish imagine that whatever happened to the man the woman would be set free. On the tenth day of the trial, which was Thursday, March 12th, the judge summed up and finished just before four o'clock in the afternoon. I had been specially struck by the final scene, the huge dock with about eight people in it, the sedans, two warders, two wardresses, and I think two doctors, and the two prisoners looking almost as if they might have been spectators instead of the most important person present. There had been a long and intense strain on everybody. The jury were absent for an hour. Then they came back and after due formalities were asked for their verdict. First of all, in a terrible silence they said they found Seddon guilty. Instantly the warders were standing by him like soldiers, and it seemed somehow as if even then he had become the special property of the law. Within a few seconds the jury had announced that they found Mrs. Seddon not guilty, and I think that most people in the court breathed the easier for the statement. Instantly Seddon turned and passionately kissed his wife, who being a free woman was allowed to leave the dock immediately. She was in a state of collapse, though I believe that while she was in her cell during the police court proceedings she was quite cheerful and saying audibly to the astonishment even of the jailers, accustomed though they are to amazing things. Now came the most astounding and dramatic feature of the trial. Seddon was asked, according to form, if he had anything to say why sentence of death should not be passed upon him. Anything to say? Indeed he had. Plenty. And he began at once to say it. Already he had made unmistakable signs to the jury to try an influence such as them might be freemasons. Now, with a coolness and assurance which were nothing short of marvelous, he arranged himself in front of the dock, put some papers down, and placed his hands on the rail. And just like Lloyd George or anybody else might begin to address a meeting, he started a speech to the judge. It was perfectly wonderful to listen to him, and it seemed as if he would never stop. He went on declaring his innocence but in the same breath admitting that he did not think that anyone believed it. He spoke of the crime as being diabolical, which it was, and said, I declare before the great architect of the universe I am not guilty, my lord. It was truly distressing to see the end of the dreadful drama, for the judge was one of the kindest of men and himself a freemason, so that he must have felt the position acutely. Three times Seddon interrupted the judge while sentence was being passed, protesting perfectly calmly that he had a clear conscience, that he was at peace, and that his wife had done nothing wrong. And when he had been condemned, he turned quietly round and went below from the dock where he had spent so many dreadful hours, to know the world no more. He appealed, of course, but his appeal failed, and on April 18, 1912 Seddon was hanged at Pentonville Prison, an enormous crowd having assembled outside the jail, though nothing was to be seen. That there was a vast number of people who believed either in his innocence, or that his guilt had not been proved, was shown by the fact that more than three hundred thousand persons signed a petition for a reprieve. I myself, speaking I hope calmly and fairly, have no doubt whatever that he was most justly and properly condemned and hanged. End of Chapter 16 Seddon's Greed of Gold Recording by Tom Lennon Chapter 17 of Survivors Tales of Famous Crimes This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Read by Jules Hurlick of Mississauga, Ontario, Canada Survivors Tales of Famous Crimes Edited by Walter Wood, Chapter 17 The Hooded Man On the night of Wednesday, October 9, 1912, Inspector Arthur Walls, an old and well-known member of the Eastbourne Borough Police, was shot dead by a man who was known as John Williams. And also because of the steps that were taken to prevent mistaken identity as the Hooded Man. The murder was of a very cruel and deliberate nature, but in spite of this fact, a great deal of sympathy for the prisoner was aroused. Before he was hanged, however, it was realized that this sympathy was entirely misplaced and that a hardened criminal had been most justly condemned. This crime, this story of which is told by Chief Detective Inspector Leonard Parker of the Eastbourne Borough Police, who was associated with the case from start to finish, forcibly illustrates the peril to which the police are constantly exposed in dealing with dangerous characters. If, first of all, we go to South Cliff Avenue, we can see the house which, in October 1912, was occupied by a Hungarian lady named the Countess Starry, and from the doorway canopy of which the young man who had assumed the name of John Williams fired two revolver shots at Inspector Walls, one of which killed him almost instantly. Walls was an uncommonly fine man physically, and he was a universal favorite. We all felt his loss deeply, myself particularly, for we had been colleagues many years, having been in the East Sussex Constabulary, stationed at Eastbourne and being transferred to the Eastbourne Borough Police Force on the formation of that body in 1891. Walls was known as a parade inspector, and much of his duty was done on the front and in the beautiful and extensive gardens which are such a famous feature of Eastbourne. South Cliff Avenue is steep and short and leads to a sea front, from which the house can be reached in a few moments. On the day of the murder, I had seen Walls at the town hall at my office. He had left me laughingly and was his own fine cheerful self. When next I saw him, he was lying dead on a stretcher, and all that was then known as to the manner of his death was that it had been caused by a revolver fired by a man who had vanished in the darkness, and of whom the only description was that he was hatless, and the only clue to his identity was a trilby hat, which he was supposed to have left behind him in his flight. Here is the house. Later we will go and look at other places which are connected with the crime, which without much difficulty we shall be able to reconstruct. Over the doorway is a wooden canopy or coping. It was covered over now with sloping glass, which is just long and wide enough to allow a man to lie down or crouch upon it, and which at that time could be reached by an active man clamoring up the spout at the side of the doorway. On this October night, Williams, who for reasons of his own wanted to get into the house, had climbed on to the canopy and he was hiding here in the darkness at about seven o'clock. The Countess was dining out and probably he knew of this and had laid his plans accordingly. From his hiding place, it would have been an easy matter for him to enter the Countess's dressing room and carry out whatever purpose he had in mind. A brome drove up to the house and into this, the Countess and the lady friend got, and were driven off towards a hotel. But it had happened that the coachman, Daniel Potter, had seen the crouching figure on the canopy. He made no sign of his discovery, but after driving away a short distance, he stopped and told the Countess what he had seen. She directed him to return to the house, which she entered, and at once telephoned to the police station, urgently asking for help, as a man who was supposed to be a burglar was crouching on the canopy. The message was repeated with the request that a constable should be dispatched on a bicycle. The town hall is some distance from the avenue, and as Inspector Walz was on duty on the parade and near at hand, he was rung up and told of the Countess's appeal for help. Walz instantly hurried to South Cliff Avenue, and ten minutes after the first message was received, he was standing only a few feet away from the man who was lying on the canopy. There is a little garden at the front of the house, with a short pathway, and Walz had entered the gate, so that he should be ready to receive the man when he came down, as he was expected to do. Walz looked up in the darkness, and, being so close to the burglar, he must have seen him pretty clearly, and undoubtedly the burglar had a very clear view of the fine figure which was just below him. Now then, my man, said Walz, just you come down. That was all. There was no threat or anything of that sort about it. There was just a plain request from a police inspector to a man who was found in a very suspicious situation to give himself up. The man on the canopy said nothing. He saddled himself deliberately on his little flat platform, rested a loaded revolver which he carried so that he could take careful aim, and then fired at the big figure which was only a few feet away. There was a flash and a sharp report, and poor Walz was shot. Whether it was the first bullet or the second, which was fired that killed the inspector, is not known. But at any rate, he managed to reach the doorway, and even then he tried to warn the terrified women inside to close the door and so protect themselves. Then he left the doorway and was again a defenseless target for the crouching murderer. A second shot was fired and struck the inspector. The whole of the firing took place in a few seconds so that even if the first bullet was fatal, there was, according to the medical opinion, just time for Walz to stagger to the doorway and warn the women. For he was a man of uncommonly fine physique and perfectly healthy. Walz fell dead in the roadway, and instantly the murderer got down from the canopy and fled. At that time the avenue was very quiet. The first shot had made the horse restive, and the coachman had been forced to drive him off up the avenue. But a parlor made on the opposite side of the avenue had been alarmed, and she and a man who was passing hurried up and the two attended to the fallen inspector. The alarm spread quickly. The chief constable, Major E. J. J. Teal, who was at dinner not far from the avenue, hurried to the house, and at once took every possible step to trace the vanished murderer. There is now in force an arrangement by which, in case help is needed from Scotland Yard, it can be had, if asked for. In such cases as this, and after many preliminary inquiries had been made, and a good deal of information secured, I telephoned in the presence of the chief constable to the yard. I said one of our inspectors has been shot dead by a burglar, but the only description we can give is that he was a man without a hat. The help of an experienced officer was requested, and next morning, by the first train, Chief Detective Inspector Bauer and Detective Sergeant Heyman arrived at Eastbourne from the yard, and I met them. After a short conference, we started off without delay to the house, securing statements from the Countess and her lady friend, and making many other inquiries which proved of a very great value. I may say here that in the end, no fewer than 49 witnesses were called for the crown. Their evidence involving an enormous amount of patient, preliminary inquiry, and hard work. Amongst the first of the important facts to be discovered was that on the afternoon of the day of the murder, a man and a young woman had been seen in South Cliff Avenue. The woman remained at the top, while the man apparently was making himself familiar with the avenue and the arrangement of the houses. Undoubtedly, this man was Williams, and the woman was Florence Seymour, her name like his being an assumed one. At that time, as developments proved, Williams was prepared in every way for the burglarous entry of the Countess's house. Events now moved rapidly. There came upon the scene a young man named Edgar Power, who had been a medical student and lived at Herringay. He had known Williams for two or three months and was also acquainted with Florence Seymour and Williams' brother. To this brother from Eastbourne, Williams, after the murder, sent a letter card saying, If you would save my life, come here at once. Come to Fort Tideswell Road. Bring some money with you. Urgent, urgent. In consequence of what he'd learned, Power came to Eastbourne and called on Major Teal and said his name was well known in the medical profession, and he felt that whatever he said would be treated with discretion. And he told Major Teal that the brother and Florence Seymour were going to London by the 745 train that night. Chief Inspector Bauer, I and Sergeant Heyman, decided to go by the same train, taking Power with us so that we could keep the brother and the young woman under observation. We traveled in a compartment by ourselves, having seen that the pair had entered another part of the train. It was reasonable to assume that they would join Williams, and our plan was to see him and invite him to give an explanation of his movements at the time of the murder. But subsequently, on the strength of information, which was in our possession, we resolved to arrest him and charge him with the murder. It was a densely foggy night, and when we reached Victoria Station, we had the greatest difficulty in making anything out with certainty. But we saw the brother and the young woman and saw that they took the only taxi that was available and drove off. They quickly disappeared in the fog, leaving us quite helpless for that night at any rate. But Williams's haunts were known to power, and it was arranged that next morning we should visit some of them in the hope of meeting the man we wanted to get. Accordingly, we went to various places but had no luck until lunchtime, when we entered the buffet at Moorgate Street Metropolitan Railway Station. It was about a quarter past one o'clock, and there were a good many people in the place amongst them Williams, who was at the bar drinking. Power joined him and engaged him in talk. Inspector Bauer and I did not hesitate a moment. We just rushed up and called Williams, put a word or two in his ear, and at the same time made a pretense of a resting power. There was a tremendous commotion, of course, but we got Williams into a taxi and took him to Cannon Roll Police Station. On the way, Williams said, I'm perfectly innocent of this. I wouldn't do such a thing. Bauer asked him if he would care to say anything about his movements on the Wednesday evening. But Williams replied, I say nothing. Soon afterward he said, whoever did that did it to get the countess's papers for political purposes. That's what I think anyway. No doubt she's mixed up in some political business. At the police station, power was released and I formally charged Williams with the murder of Expector Walls. His only answer then was, very well, and he was locked up for the time being. On the following day, Saturday, when we were driving to Victoria Station, Williams said, if you inquire at Eastbourne Station, you'll find that I went there to catch a train just after five o'clock on Thursday. I just missed it and got 20 minutes afterwards. I paid excess fare on the third class ticket. It was a big chap, the collector. He must remember. On other occasions, Williams made statements which left no doubt whatever that he was at Eastbourne at the time of the murder, and it became less and less difficult to establish his direct association with the crime. At the time of the arrest, none of us had any idea who this man was that we had in custody, and we knew nothing whatever about his past. All we had to go upon was the word of power, but very soon we began to learn something of Williams' antecedents. For in reply to a message sent to Scotland Yard, an officer from the fingerprint department visited Cannon Row and took the prisoner's fingerprints. A very short time after that had been done, this officer who had gone back to the yard to make inquiries returned with two or three photographs which showed the sort of man we had got and showed that he was a very well known, skillful and dangerous burglar. This revelation strengthened our arm a great deal, as it was pretty certain that the object of the man who was hiding on the canopy was burglary. Having been kept at Cannon Row for the night, we took Williams to Eastbourne on the following day. He was securely handcuffed and when we got to the end of our journey, Inspector Bauer made a suggestion which caused the prisoner to be known as the hooded man, and doubtless increased the enormous public interest which was shown in the case. In affairs like this, the question of identification is, of course, of the most vital importance and there are always excitable people who are wanting to come forward and make statements. The police were particularly anxious that there should be no unfairness done to the prisoner, and so it was that Inspector Bauer suggested that his face and head should be completely covered. This was done by putting over him a blue apron with spots, and when we reached Eastbourne Station, it was impossible for anyone to see his face, nor was it publicly seen until he was brought up in due course at the police court. There was an enormous crowd of people in the neighborhood of the station and a great many photographers, but no photograph was taken of Williams' face, and the chief constable issued strict orders against any photographing in court. By means of these precautions which were adopted time after time, there was no possibility of unfair identification. From the very beginning, this case excited uncommon public interest, and a very large numbers of people were unable to get into the police court to hear their preliminary proceedings. Amongst the visitors were many ladies, some of whom brought lunch with them, so that they should not have to lose time in getting refreshments outside. I must go back a little to the time just after the arrest to tell of what happened then. When Williams was in custody, Heyman went to Victoria Station to get the luggage, and Bauer and I went to Scotland Yard, where we decided to go to Victoria and see if we could find out anything of the movements of Florence Seymour. We got a taxi, and on the journey while we were looking out of the window, I spotted her. We stopped the taxi, jumped out, and followed her as she was going into a tea shop. Just as she was entering the doorway, Bauer spoke to her, and though she was quite taken aback, she stared steadily and tried to bluff it through, but he persuaded her to accompany us to the yard. She there made a statement which proved to be quite untrue. For one thing, she declared that she had not been in the neighborhood of the crime, though very soon after his arrest, Williams had declared that at the time of the murder, she and he were at a picture palace performance in Eastbourne. Subsequently, she made other statements which varied a great deal, and several of which she withdrew, alleging that they had been obtained under pressure, which was not the case. From time to time, Williams volunteered statements as to his doings, and some of these were very significant. On the way to Eastbourne, he asked us if we thought supposing that he had done such a thing as the murder, he would have left Eastbourne quite openly, knowing full well that the station would be closely watched. He declared that he was wearing a frock coat and a silk hat at Eastbourne, and asked if he would have had the cheek to lie on that small piece of board while the Countess was dressing for dinner. Wouldn't it have been easier he went on to watch the lights go down and the lady leave and then go in? As a matter of fact, Williams had been wearing a frock coat and silk hat at Eastbourne on the day of the murder, but he had changed these for a lounge suit and a trilby hat before leaving his lodgings in Tideswell Road to go to South Clifft Avenue. During the journey, he had also declared that he went to a picture palace with his wife and saw Dante, and that a man sang at the performance, but he did not remember his name. On the very morning after the murder, an important discovery was made on the parade, not far from the scene of the murder, by a corporation employee. While walking along, he saw lying on the seawall, a long new rope, and on picking it up and examining it, he found that there was a strong hook at one end. He took his fine to the police station, and there was little difficulty in assuming that this was just the sort of thing a burglar would use in helping him to climb to such a height as the canopy. He would throw the hook end up, and when it caught something and became secure, he would climb up it. Before very long, we knew that Williams was an expert climber that he had been to sea for a time, and that his special ability in this respect had earned for him the nickname of the monkey. Well, that rope was found in the immediate neighborhood of the murder, and it became one of the many important links which were forged from time to time during the long period in which Williams was brought on various occasions before the magistrates, and finally committed for trial on the capital charge. The evidence, it is true, was circumstantial, but it was of the strongest possible nature. Very soon after the discovery of the rope, there was found a revolver which was proved to be William's, and with which undoubtedly the murder was committed. Powers and Florence Seymour had returned to Eastbourne, and he had heard from her about the revolver. In the course of a walk, she showed him where the weapon was. It was buried in the shingle on the beach, just by the redoubt gardens. Two young officers from Scotland Yard had the pair under observation, and they made a careful note of the spot where the revolver had been buried. To that place, late at night, we went in a taxi, and having stopped at some distance away, we went to the redoubt gardens, and after hard digging in the shingle with a shovel, we came across the revolver which was in two pieces. It had been buried about a mile from South Cliff Avenue. Careful tests by experts showed that the bullets which had been fired at walls were just such as could be discharged from the revolver, and there was not a vestige of doubt that the weapon belonged to Williams. A significant circumstance which came out was that when Williams and Power met, Power chafed him about his inability to shoot. Well, that was a good shot anyway, said Williams. On power asking in which shot he meant, Williams answered, the shot that all this disturbance is about. This statement when he was in the witness box at the assizes, Williams denied. But at the same time, he readily admitted that he had told a fair lot of fairy tales to the police. He certainly had. As to the rope which he had so carelessly disposed of, and the revolver which, after breaking into two pieces, he had buried in the shingle just by the parade where so many people passed, one can hardly pretend to understand Williams' conduct, especially when he could by going down to the beach to the edge of the water have thrown the things into the sea and at least have had a much better chance of their non-discovery. Little by little, it was shown that Williams had come to Eastbourne from London with Florence Seymour. But he had been previously at Bournemouth where he had bought a soft Trilby hat. In his haste to escape, he had left this hat in South Clifft Avenue. But it was characteristic of his record that he was prepared for such an emergency as this. And having lost his ordinary headdress, he had in his pocket a cap so that he could put it on his head and thus throw off the scent any person who might have been prepared to say that he or she had seen a hatless man. The ownership by Williams of this particular hat was proved beyond possible doubt. And it became, therefore, a valuable link in the chain of evidence. Williams and Florence Seymour passed as man and wife, and the young woman was expecting to become a mother. Williams, who was constantly needing money, got it by systematic theft and burglary. And it was in carrying out this object that he came to Eastbourne and planned the visit to South Clifft Avenue, which ended in the murder of Inspector Walz. When the luggage which Florence Seymour deposited at Victoria Station was examined, it was found to contain a leather belt with a holster attached, a false mustache, and photographs of Williams and Florence Seymour, as well as a large number of tools such as a skillful burglar would use. In Williams' luggage were found a number of pawn tickets, which clearly connected him with big jewel robberies. The trial took place at the Assizes at Luz before Mr. Justice Chenel on December 12, 13, and 14, 1912. On the 14th, which was Saturday, Williams, who had given evidence on his own behalf and was in the witness box for three hours, was found guilty, the jury being only a few minutes in arriving at their verdict, and he was sentenced to death. Williams had tried hard to put the murder onto a continental thief who was known as Mike. But in this and other directions, he quite failed to convince the jury. He immediately lodged an appeal, and this was heard in London before the Lord Chief Justice Lord Averstone. Mr. Justice Ridley and Mr. Justice Fillymour, with the result that the sentence was confirmed and carried out. Williams, who was wearing a frock coat, walked firmly to the scaffold. Great efforts had been made to obtain a reprieve and to get permission for him to marry Florence Seymour, who had given birth to a child, and the question was raised in Parliament. But these attempts failed. Amongst those who thought that there was grounds for a reprieve was a well-known London clergyman, but subsequently this gentleman wrote a letter to the press in which he said, being now in full possession of the facts, I wish to bear witness to the justice and humanness of the Home Secretary and of the police throughout the whole matter. Williams had a consistently bad record. He began stealing at the age of nine years and committed offense after offense, finally becoming a confirmed burglar and serving various terms of imprisonment. He fought in the South African War, but was afterwards deported as an undesirable. His real name was made public at the time of the execution, and it was widely stated that he was the son of a Scottish minister of religion. But as a matter of fact, his father was a lay preacher, a respectable man of, I think, the gardening class. Williams himself, who had crowded so much wrongdoing into his career, was only 29 years of age when he was hanged for the murder of Inspector Walls. End of Chapter 17, The Hooded Man