Criminal Historian

Working with dead people

Plagium: how stealing a child in Victorian Scotland was punished

from the Morning Chronicle, 3 August 1855

In 1855, the Morning Chronicle in London published a list of capital punishments in Scotland (see above). The English media often covered Scottish affairs in a similar way to how it would publish stories about mainland Europe – highlighting its difference and ‘foreignness’ rather than claiming common ground with it.

So here, the list of Scottish capital crimes included several ones specific to Scottish law, with the speechmarks round them emphasising their ‘un-English’ nature. So we have hamesucken – a felony relating to a premediated assault, whereby a person was attacked in his own home – for example, and notour adultery.

Notour adultery, as opposed to the other offence of simple adultery, was, according to Henry Tebbs’ Essay on the Scripture Doctrines of Adultery and Divorce and on the Criminal Character and Punishment of Adultery (1821) , ‘the conduct of open and incorrigible adulterers, unreformed by the censures of the church, where they keep company publicly together, and procreate issue’ – in other words, adultery that resulted in the birth of children.

Stouthrief, also mentioned in the article, was a form of theft committed by force – so where a person was threatened with violence, or had violence committed against him, during a housebreaking.

Whereas hamesucken was where assault was the primary motive for a housebreaking, stouthrief suggested that the assault was incidental, or a secondary motivation, to the actual theft.

Furtum grave was an aggravated theft, deriving from the Latin ‘furtum’ (theft), where the amount of goods stolen might be particularly high.

The lack of understanding about Scots law was clear in the inclusion of ‘flagium’ as an offence; this was actually plagium, which was again a form of theft, but this time the theft of a person!

Detail from ‘French peasants finding their stolen child’ by P Calderon (Illustrated London News, 15 October 1859)

Akin to modern-day abduction, it commonly involved children, such as a case in 1844, when Helen Wade was charged with plagium at Glasgow when she ‘did, wickedly and feloniously, steal and theftuously carry away’ three-year-old Catherine Hamilton.

Catherine, an illegitimate child, had been living with her mother (although possibly another relative), hand-loom weaver Betty Hamilton, renting rooms with Helen Fleming on the Main Street of Camlachie; she was snatched from that road on 5 April 1844.

The next day, Helen Wade inquired for a ticket to board a ship to Liverpool. Viewed with suspicion by the ticket agent, she was asked about the child with her, and ‘declared that the child was her own, and told a false story about its father’.

They were still given a ticket, though, and it was only in Liverpool that Catherine Hamilton was retrieved and returned to her mother in Scotland.

Helen Wade was found guilty of plagium, but it was noted that in several previous cases of its type, the death sentence had been commuted to transportation for life.

Helen’s case was considered not as serious as others, and this, plus the rarity of convictions for plagium by the 1840s, meant that this defendant was ‘lucky’ enough to receive seven years’ transportation instead (case reported in Archibald Broun, Reports of Cases before the High Court and Circuit Courts of Justiciary in Scotland during the years 1844 and 1845, vol 2 (T & T Clark, Edinburgh, 1846)).

The types of capital offence listed by the Morning Chronicle show the continuing importance placed on property by the law. Although this article tried to make Scots criminal law sound alien, it actually reflected concerns both in Scotland and the rest of Britain, about looking after one’s goods, one’s livelihoods – and one’s relatives, too.

 

NB: Sir George Mackenzie’s 1699 book, The Laws and Customs of Scotland in Matters Criminal, is a fascinating read if you’re interested in criminal offences in Scotland, and available for free on Google Books.

Corset Crime Week, Final Day: Electrocution by Corset

It’s the final day of my Corset Crime Week (every blog – in fact, every newspaper, and every nation – should have one). To mark this momentous occasion, I’ve not written a post about a crime, but am offering you a product that I am surprised didn’t cause something awful to happen, and its inventor to be charged with a crime.

I give you Mr Harness’s Electric Corset for Delicate Women – the Very Thing for Ladies from 1893.

Although designed as a ‘cure’ for sleeplessness, rheumatism, bad backs and depression, it’s hard to believe that the contraption would also cure a ‘lack of appetite’ – I suspect not wearing a corset at all would help with that.

In addition, the idea of wearing an electric corset does conjure up nasty images of being electrocuted by one’s underwear. Ouch.

Corset Crime Week, Day 4: How Mrs Dove is alive, thanks to a corset

In the second of this week’s stories involving a corset proving itself to be the superhero of the early 20th century, by preventing crime, a story from 1900 involved the undergarment’s key role in preventing a case of a work grievance becoming a murder case.

A Kent tailor had a grievance against his employer, a Mr Dove, of Faversham. This was Charles Dove, a 31 year old tailor, who lived with his wife Minnie, and their young children – Frederick, Gertrude and Grace – in the centre of Faversham. [1]

One morning in late September, he took his revenge – not by shooting Mr Dove, but instead, his wife, firing his revolver at her as she walked from the yard of her house into its hall. The bullet would have hit her heart (the tailor obviously being a good shot), if it had not been for the steel of her corset, which stopped the bullet still.

The tailor was arrested shortly after, and charged with attempted murder. He appeared at the Kent Assizes under his full name of Thomas Downs Collins, and he was described as a 20-year-old ‘working tailor, in the employ of Mr Dove, with prisoner at 14 East Street, Faversham.’

The court heard that he had gone to Sheerness on 23 September, where he bought the gun from gunsmith Joseph Barber. He showed it to Dove, saying he had ‘brought it to show Johnson [another of Dove’s employees], and intended to take it home.’ He and Charles then had breakfast together on the 24th.

The men had then started work; during the morning, Charles Dove had come into the tailors’ workshop and given out the day’s instructions, but did not see Collins. Others reported that Collins had later become a bit anxious; Johnson started to get concerned, thinking Collins had gone ‘queer’; Collins muttered something that could either have been “the pistol’s driving me mad” or “Dove’s driving me mad.”

When Johnson asked Collins if he was alright, his colleague retorted: “If you move I’ll shoot you,” and took the revolver from his pocket. Johnson, thinking he was just being silly, said, “Now, then, Tom.”

Collins then went to grab Johnson, who pushed him and ran through the door, bumping into Mr Dove. He told him what had happened, but then, they heard a pistol fire, and a scream. Minnie Dove had been shot, but had luckily been fully dressed, and armoured with her sturdy corset.

The two men had known each other for years; Collins had been apprenticed to Dove for five years, the apprenticeship having finished some five months before. The week before, it seems that Dove had given him ten day’s notice to leave, because he had interfered in Johnson’s work. This dismissal was presumably all the motive Collins needed to try and kill his employer’s wife.

Actually, he thought he HAD killed Minnie. He had even gone home at 10am, and when his sister Helen had spied him with pistol still in hand, he turned to her and shouted:

“Keep quiet, Nell. I won’t hurt you. I have shot Mrs Dove stone dead: thank God. I am going to swing for it. It was Mr Dove I wanted.”

He wasn’t at home for long, for the police soon found him. Although he tried to point his pistol at a hapless police constable, he was disarmed, and again stated that it was Charles Dove he had wanted to kill, not his wife.

Despite these clear admissions that he intended to murder someone, he had not actually done so. The jury at his trial found him guilty of intent to grievous bodily harm, but not to murder. He received just three years in prison.

Sources: South Wales Echo, 24 September 1900; Kent & Sussex Courier, 7 December 1900

  1. The 1901 census records the Doves as living at 14 East Street, Faversham. The 1911 census for Faversham shows the Doves still living in the town, but now at 2 Queen’s Parade. Gertrude was now 17 and helping her father, a master tailor; her sister Grace, 16, was a dressmaker’s apprentice.

 

 

Corset Crime Week, Day 3: Stealing corsets from the Berlei factory

Edward Devanny was a 50-year-old tailor from Burnham in Buckinghamshire, who came a cropper in 1938 when he broke into a bra factory and stole some ladies’ underwear.

The tailor was a serial offender in terms of theft, at least. He had been living a life of crime since he was around 10 year old, it was said, and had served a number of prison sentences. There had been sentences of three and seven years’ penal servitude before this latest offence.

It was the night of the 2 June 1938 when Duvanny had broken into the Berlei factory in Slough, stealing 121 pairs of corsets and 18 bras, valued at a total of £106. He had only been out of prison since April, and had, for those previous few months, been living ‘on the proceeds of crime’.

When he was tried, the chairman of the jury was incredulous at the offence, saying, “What would this man expect to do with 150 [sic] corsets?”

Detective-Inspector Rawlins, who was giving evidence, commented that he had “got rid” of some them – in other words, Duvanny didn’t have a fetish for women’s underwear; he simply stole in bulk in order to sell on his wares later.

He was still sent back to prison, though. It was clear the court didn’t know quite what to do with him; he had been stealing for decades, had received both small and large prison sentences, but still kept thieving. Although it was felt that prison was doing nothing to encourage him onto the straight and narrow, he was again sent there, this time for another three year stretch.

Source: Bucks Herald, 1 July 1938

 

Corset Crime Week, Day 2: Bad women are those without corsets

In 1913, the Sheffield Evening Telegraph was frank about the importance of corsets to women. It noted that when a woman lost her waistline, she lost her self-respect; and that, therefore, if she gave up wearing a corset, she couldn’t be ‘good’.

In all fairness, the Sheffield paper was merely reporting the views of a Mrs Jones, who had just given a lecture to the Illinois Women’s Reformatory League.

The lecture had been reported in the Daily Express, courtesy of its New York correspondent, and the provincial press were – as they often did – merely copying stories from the nationals rather than trying to spark a debate amongst the good women of Yorkshire as to whether they should drop their corsets or not.

But Mrs Jones’ comments were actually part of a wider discussion about female prisoners in the US, and whether prison life and incarceration destroyed their self-respect and therefore made it more likely that they would recommit after their release.

The Illinois Women’s Reformatory League discussed how the routine of Illinois‘ prison life failed female inmates by not providing corsets or ‘fine’ clothes, leaving them in ill-fitting, loose garb. As Mrs Jones commented:

“Self-respect is the first element toward the reclaiming of a woman’s soul. No woman can maintain her self-respect unless she wears a corset. Dress our women prisoners well and they will be reformed.”

Although one might raise an eyebrow at her conclusion – “Corsets would make good women out of many who are now delinquents” – the League’s comments were more valid than they might first appear. By giving female inmates a sense of pride in their appearance, they might feel valued, worth something; take the fundamentals away, and they would sag both physically and mentally, be devalued, feel like ‘just’ a prisoner.

By commending corsets, women such as Mrs Jones were not putting trying to undo the work of the suffragists; they were, instead, recognising that women inmates were just that – not just inmates, but women too, and that to get them to value themselves might lessen the chance of them reoffending once they left prison.

Sheffield Evening Telegraph, 1 April 1913

 

 

Corset Crime Week, Day 1: A crime saved by a corset

The scene is Ulverston, Lancashire,* and the year is 1907.

A young miner, William Causey, is known to keep company with a servant named Tamar Annie Wilding, who works at the Hazelwood Hydro in Grange-over-Sands. Recently, however, he has sensed a coolness between them; a feeling that Tamar is not as enamoured of him anymore as he was of her.

His feelings come to a head one Wednesday evening in September. He spots Tamar, whose 23rd birthday is coming up the following week, out walking – with another man.

Fired up with jealousy, he follows them, and continues as they wander into a dark lane, just outside of Ulverston. Causey draws a revolver, and shoots his paramour twice. Struck, she falls, senseless, to the ground.

The miner is confident he has killed the young servant, and wanting to rejoin her (as she would, of course, be without the new man in heaven), he immediately puts the gun in his mouth and blows his brains out.

The 25-year-old has not reckoned on Tamar’s undergarments, however. Her boned corset is strong, and protective. The bullets had been deflected by the boning of the corset, and she is uninjured – although, when she heard the gun fire, she had merely – in the manner of all good Edwardian heroines – swooned to the ground.

Source: Manchester Courier and Lancashire General Advertiser, 20 September 1907

*Ulverston was historically in Lancashire, but is now part of the modern county of Cumbria.

Announcing a week of corset crimes

Yes, corset crimes.

Starting tomorrow, and running every day this week, I’m going to be blogging about corsets, and their connection to crime.

There’s literally no reason for this, apart from the fact that it gives me the excuse to use some great images of corsets that I’ve found in on the British Newspaper Archive website, and it also might get you thinking differently about an item that some women saw as a form of punishment, an inflictor of pain.

So welcome to Corset Week on Criminal Historian, and stop in each day to hear, and see, some historical corsets in action…

How Emily, 13, got away from the Whitechapel kidnapper

One 13-year-old girl faced a double ordeal in 1885, after first being abducted, and taken across the Channel against her will – and then facing a cross-examination by her kidnapper when the case reached the Old Bailey.

Christina Fischer, known to her family as Emily, was born on 15 March 1872 in Germany. Her family had emigrated, like many other German residents, to London, where they settled at 59 Greenfield Street, off the Commercial Road in Whitechapel. Emily’s father, William, worked as a printer. The family spoke little English, and so it was understandable that many of their friends and acquaintances in the capital were other German immigrants.

One man they got to know sometime in 1883 was Julius Hahn, then aged 27, and working as a baker. On 24 October 1885, he had come to the Fischer house about 8am, with two of his own children. William Fischer’s wife, Mary, was at home and took the children upstairs.

Julius told William that he intended to travel back to Germany that day, after visiting the West End (different accounts state either that his wife was ill in hospital there, or that she had recently died there), and asked if he could leave his children there until he returned from his trip west. That was all fine, and so Julius left, returning some three hours later. He said his goodbyes, then, and went off with his children.

But shortly before his return, William had sent his daughter Emily out for a newspaper. She had returned with it, then went out again prior to Julius leaving the house. That was the last the Fischers saw of her for three days.

After she failed to return, later on that Saturday, William started to make inquiries as to her whereabouts, asking at the Blackwall Docks, where he thought Julius might have headed. He had clearly linked Emily’s absence with Julius’s departure soon after. There were no clues as to where she was, and after two sleepless nights, and two days searching, William finally went to the Thames Police Court in Stepney to obtain a warrant for Julius’s arrest.

**

So where was Emily during this weekend? As her father had suspected, she was with Julius Hahn. She had gone out the second time to meet a friend, and as she was coming back, she bumped into Hahn with his two children. “Will you come with me to carry the baby?” he asked, claiming that he could not manage the two of them on his own. Emily agreed, and carried the baby to the docks, some ten minutes’ away. Hahn then asked if Emily would come with him to his ship – “You cannot get out of this gate – you must go by a little boat on board.”

Emily went downstairs on the boat to put the baby to bed, when she realised the boat had started. Running back on deck, Hahn told her that she would now have to go with him to Rotterdam. She burst into tears, but his response, she said, was to threaten her, saying “if you tell anyone, you will see what I will give you”. Emily ran back below deck; Hahn followed her and told her he wanted a kiss. She would not let him. He tried to put his hand up her clothes; Emily, with great presence of mind, threatened to tell the captain.

Emily shouted out to a woman on board, and she reported matters to the steward. But it was too late for Emily to get back to the docks, and she ended up on board all the way to Rotterdam, arriving there on Sunday morning. Hahn then tried again, asking Emily to travel on with her to Bingen – she refused, thrust the baby back at him, ran away from the ship and leapt on board another that was travelling back to England. She reached London again the next day.

**

When Hahn was tried for abduction at the Old Bailey, he was allowed to cross-examine the 13-year-old girl he had tried to kiss. He tried to tell her that she had agreed to go with him if he paid her 20 shillings; suggested that she had wanted him to touch her, and that she had wanted to go to Bingen with him as another passenger had said it was nicer than England. She insisted that it was Hahn who had said Bingen was nicer than England, as part of a concerted effort to make her go with him.

The criminal register entry for Julius Hahn’s offence, from Ancestry

Hahn also cross-examined Mr and Mrs Fischer, suggesting that they had consented to him taking their daughter to Germany. They both indignantly denied that. But then another German man, again examined by Hahn, said that Hahn had claimed to him that Emily was his servant, employed to look after the children. Emily had gone to him saying she needed a ticket to return to England on the next boat, but said he had not seen her cry, or Hahn behave badly towards her.

Hahn also got this man, Theodore Peters, to say that Emily had never mentioned to him being touched in an indecent manner by Hahn. It would have taken some courage for a young girl to tell a male stranger that another man had been behaving indecently towards her.

Towards the end of the trial, Emily was re-examined, and asked again about the details of Hahn’s attempts to grope her. She said, clearly and calmly, that it was bedtime, and she was in the ladies’ cabin, lying down with Hahn’s five-month-old child. Hahn had come in and, despite Emily being with his own daughter, tried to put his hand up this girl’s clothes.

Hahn’s last words were “I did not touch her with any intention”, but despite his aggressive, insistent cross-examining of the young witness, and attempts to portray her and her parents as liars, Emily kept her cool. Julius Hahn was found guilty of taking Emily Fischer away without her parents’ consent – but not guilty on a charge of indecent assault.

This was a fair verdict; although Emily clearly stated that Julius had tried to put his hands up her clothes, and to kiss her, she never said he had succeeded; there had been an attempt, but not a successful one. He had certainly abducted her, though, and it was only due to her presence of mind and intelligence that she was able to see her home again.

Sources: Old Bailey Online (t18851214-84, 14 December 1885, Morning Post, 14 November 1885; South Wales Daily News, 16 December 1885, Criminal Registers on Ancestry.co.uk

Where Dr Crippen’s nemesis lies

Dr Crippen, from Wikimedia Commons

At the top of a windswept hill in Somerset, overlooking Brean Down one way, and the built-up bay of Weston-super-Mare to the right, is the small, appropriately-named, church of St Nicholas Uphill. It can be seen from the marshes, an isolated little building clinging to its hilltop like lichen.

The churchyard is small; on a bitingly cold, windy, January day it takes some time to reach, clambering up a muddy path (not a formal route, but one trodden into the grassy hill by previous ramblers) and slipping back a few times, while the wind forces tears from one’s eyes.

One might expect the relatively few graves here to be of Somerset folk who lived fairly quiet lives, but, in fact, there are several fascinating ones, from a man ‘killed’ (the gravestone fails to record how) to another who failed to come back from the battle of Passchendaele in World War 1.

But this is the most interesting find for a criminal historian, set near the back of the churchyard, with a vista of sea and marsh behind.

This is the final resting place of Frank Castle Froest, a former superintendent of CID at Scotland Yard. His obituary, on 7 January 1930, summarises why his achievements belie his quiet grave:

“Mr Froest was one of the most famous officers of his time, and established for himself an international reputation. It was while Mr Froest was Superintendent of the CID of Scotland Yard that the North London Police under his direction began the inquiries which led to the discovery of the few human fragments, which were subsequently identified as part of the body of Mrs Crippen.

Later [in 1910], Mr Froest received information from a liner in mid-Atlantic that Dr Crippen, with the young woman, Miss [Ethel] Le Neve, dressed as a boy, was believed to be on board, this being the first occasion that wireless had been used to effect the arrest of a criminal.

Mr Frost immediately communicated with the Canadian police, and he sent a detective-inspector by a faster boat, and Dr Crippen and Miss Le Neve were brought back to England, the former being tried at the Old Bailey, and hanged for the murder of his wife by the administration of a deadly poison, hyoscine.” (Lancashire Evening Post, 7 January 1930)

Froest, a Freemason, was also famous for arresting politician and fraudster Jabez Balfour in the early 1890s, having smuggled him onto a British ship in South America, and then charging him with fraud. He ‘specialised’ in dealing with confidence tricksters, including ‘Continental gangs of swindlers’, and on retiring, he became a magistrate and county alderman.

He retired two years after Crippen’s execution, the king, George V, commenting:

“Goodbye, Mr Froest, and Godspeed. The detective and police organisation in which you have served so long is, in my opinion, the best in the world.” (Western Gazette, 10 January 1930)

Frank moved to Weston-super-Mare, although he continued to travel – including trips to Algeria and Indonesia in the 1920s, by which time he was living at 2 Uphill Road, near the church where he would be buried in 1930. The records of the Old Bailey record his frequent presence

Frank was 73 when he died; his gravestone, placed at the top of the hill by his daughter [possibly Mabel, named in his will], ends with words that sum up his busy, exciting, dangerous, work for the CID in the late 19th and early 20th centuries:

“Fight the good fight.”

For more on Frank Froest’s career at Scotland Yard, the Old Bailey Online website records him as a witness in several trials from the 1880s onwards.

Did this murder case really change the law?

There was an interesting article on the BBC website today, looking back at the murder of a 10-year-old girl, Mona Tinsley, from Newark, in 1937.

It’s always interesting to read about old cases, and how they were investigated; but here, something more is being alleged. The headline of the piece states that it was a ‘murder that changed the law’, and includes a long quote from a legal historian, Benjamin Darlow, about the principle of ‘no body, no murder’ in English law.

Darlow states that after a man who had thought to have been murdered in 1660 turned up two years later, there would be no murder conviction based on a case where no body had been located for the following 294 years – i.e. until 1956.

The implication, though, is that Mona Tinsley’s case was the one that changed this situation, suggesting that a murder conviction was obtained in her case, despite her body not being found.

Yet that is not the case, as the article later states. The former Tinsley family lodger – who, it is suggested, was having an affair with Mona’s aunt – was charged and tried prior to Mona’s body being found… but only with abduction.

Although he was suspected of killing her, without a body, he could not be tried with murder, and so was convicted of abduction alone. It was only when Mona’s body was found, six months after her disappearance, that he could then be charged with her murder.

But this isn’t what the article seems to be trying to argue. There may have been public calls for the law to be changed given the suspicion attached to one individual; but nowhere in the article does it state that this was the case, or that it was the murder of Mona Tinsley that led to the law being changed some 20 years later.

Legal history and criminal history are fascinating areas for research and many are interested in reading about historic cases – but it would be useful to have a clearer exposition of what this case was – and indeed, wasn’t – about. I was left confused by what the article was purporting to say, and I don’t think I will be the only one.

 

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