Criminal Historian

Working with dead people

Category: 19th century (page 1 of 13)

A Tale From Bleeding Heart Yard

Bleeding Heart Yard in the 1870s

In the early to mid 19th century, Bleeding Heart Yard was the beating heart of working class life in London. It was synonymous with the slums, with criminality, and with poverty. In the 1850s, Charles Dickens wrote about it in Little Dorrit, as a place ‘inhabited by poor people’  and reduced in fortune – a fact that alerted the press to its horrors.

When journalists wrote about the precursors of benefits cheats and scammers, they wrote about the inhabitants of Bleeding Heart Yard, who they accused of being prolific writers of begging letters and adverts in the press that proclaimed their own poverty and hardship in order to get financial help.

They pondered how people who claimed to be ‘utterly destitute’ could afford to pay for newspaper adverts that set out their distress, and commented:

‘You may assist them to emigrate to Australia half a dozen times, but they are always to be heard in Bleeding Heart Yard…imprisonment and hard labour have been tried in vain with these incorrigible rogues.’

These ‘rogues’ lived in a crowded yard within Saffron Hill, part of Clerkenwell, within the district of Holborn. Its notoriety stemmed as much from its name as from its inhabitants; there was much speculation about where the name derived from, but it was commonly believed that it stemmed from a murder.

One such story was that the Devil threw Lady Elizabeth Hatton, from a second-floor window in nearby Hatton Gardens in 1626, ‘dashing her to pieces’ and causing a water-pump to pump blood rather than water every year on the anniversary of her death. It was said that Bleeding Heart Yard was so named because it the violence of her death led to her heart being flung out of her body, landing in the yard.

The Bleeding Heart Tavern today

Other, more prosaic, people knew that the yard was simply named after the Bleeding Heart Tavern next door, and that the name was either the result of a pre-Reformation Catholicism that presented the ‘mystery’ of the rosary as the Virgin Mary’s heart being pierced by five swords, or a misspelling of ‘hart’, the pub name therefore denoting a wounded deer in some bucolic rural past.

This rural idyll was, by the 1860s, well and truly past. As the comments from contemporary newspapers suggest, it was now a rough, poor, urban area; it was also a centre for Italian migrants. There was antagonism from both the English-born residents, and from earlier Irish immigrants, towards these ‘strangers’, and even when some of these individuals had lived in London for some years, the resentment towards them by the English and Irish failed to abate.

The Italian men tended to work hard and play hard – but they had respectable jobs, and worked to keep their families afloat. Yet it was reported that the English residents regarded every ‘foreigner’ as ‘a knife-bearing, commandment-breaking scoundrel’ and therefore meted out harsh treatment towards these individuals.

On Boxing Day 1864, this antagonism between English-born locals and the Italian arrivals spilled over – and in turn, blood was also spilled. Around 20 Englishmen, resident in the area, had gone to the Golden Anchor pub in Saffron Hill in the late afternoon, seemingly intent on trouble. A small group of Italian men then arrived, arguments started, and a mass brawl then erupted in the bagatelle room. By the end of it, one man, Michael Harrington, was dead.

A man was arrested at the scene, and taken into custody, where he was charged with murder. The arrested man was one of the Italians, 32-year-old Seraphini Polioni. On 30 January 1865, he appeared in the Central Criminal Court on an indictment of murder.

An early C19th trial at the Old Bailey, later the Central Criminal Court

The landlord of the Golden Anchor, Frederick Shaw, told the court that Polioni had been known to him for around three months, but that around 6pm on Boxing Day, he had come to the bar of the “very busy” pub, and said something along the lines of “I could settle any such six Englishmen as Shaw”. He then wandered off.

Shaw then said he was hit by someone who then walked off to the taproom; Shaw went to follow and noticed that “there were several foreigners in the taproom” before he was pushed into the bar’s parlour by several others. When he looked out of the door, he saw ‘some of the Italians rushing out of the house.’

It was clear that the pub landlord saw the entire affair as being the fault of ‘the Italians’. He later said that Polioni had said he could kill six Englishmen, and was pulled up on it in court – causing him to splutter, “I might have made the mistake in the confusion – I should think it is to the same effect!”

He had no idea how many Italians there were in the pub; there were around 12 to 15 men in the bagatelle room, all English, and no Italians, yet he was clear that “Italians were distributed about the room, they go in and out of the taproom very freely…there were only Italians in the taproom, no English at all to my knowledge”, but was then forced to admit that he hadn’t actually gone into the taproom so really had little clue as to who was in there, and of what nationality.

His potman, Alfred Rebbeck, was also called to give evidence, where he stated that he saw “a great many Italians all together” in the taproom, including an Italian “named John”. He saw one Italian knock a woman down; and was clear that it was Seraphini who drew a knife and stabbed him, Rebbeck, with him. Rebbeck then hit him on the head with a broom-handle.

Rebbeck was clear that the English were in the bagatelle room, and the Italians gathered in the taproom. The pub was clearly segregated, albeit by the drinkers themselves rather than the landlord’s orders. There was also an Irish contingent – Alfred Rebbeck noted that there were ‘one or two Irishmen’ including one perhaps inevitably, given the racism present within this society, as ‘Pikey’.

Several witnesses with English names stated that Seraphini had been the man responsible for Harrington’s murder, and that they had seen no other Italians who could have been able to stab the man.

A statement by another Italian man, Pietro Mazzneli, who stated that another Italian at the pub that night, named Gregorio, looked very like Seraphini, seems to have been almost ignored; in fact, other Italian witnesses also put the blame onto this Gregorio with one, Pietro Maralizzi, who gave evidence through an interpreter, stating that he had seen this man with a knife in his hand, and that he had said to him, “For God’s sake, Gregorio, put away that knife.”

The trial also heard gossip from a woman at the pub that she had heard “three or four” of the Italians were using their knives – but this evidence was dismissed as ‘hearsay’. Reading the account of the trial, it seems a mish-mash of different stories being put forward by different people, but there seems little concrete evidence that Seraphini was involved in Harrington’s death. And yet he was convicted, and sentenced to death.

Seraphini now languished in Newgate Prison, awaiting his execution. Conditions were dire, and he soon began to lose his health. The end of this story seems clear.

Polioni sentenced to death (from Ancestry)

But things were not so straightforward.

The man named by several in Seraphini’s trial, his doppelganger Gregorio, had been in the pub that fateful night, and had fled to Birmingham. Henry Negretti – either a police constable or perhaps another member of the Italian community in London – had tracked him down to accuse him of having actually committed the murder for which Seraphini had been convicted – and Gregorio voluntarily surrendered to him, confessing to the murder of Michael Harrington.

On 27 February, 41-year-old Gregorio Mogni appeared at the Central Criminal Court.  He was asked if he was guilty or not guilty, and responded:

“It is my misfortune. I am guilty; but I did it in my self-defence.”

The first witness called at this new trial was the man who had been referred to as ‘John’ the Italian in the former trial – who was, in fact, Gregorio’s brother, Giovanni Mogni, a picture frame maker who stated that he had lived in England for the past ten years.

Contrary to much of the evidence heard at Seraphini’s trial, Giovanni said that he was in the bagatelle room of the Golden Anchor, together with his brother and another Italian, Pietro Marazzi – a looking glass maker who lived in Bleeding Heart Yard. They were outnumbered by nearly 20 Englishmen in the room.

Gregorio had an argument with Shaw, the landlord, and then the Englishmen started to beat Giovanni. His brother then drew a knife, shouting “They are beating my brother!” Marazzi saw the knife, and cried, “Gregorio, for God’s sake, put away that knife!”, grabbing him, but Gregorio demanded to be let go, “Otherwise we shall not go out of this room alive.”

After the melee ended, and the men had fled, Marazzi saw Gregorio in a nearby street. The latter put his arms around Pietro’s neck, and said,

“My dear Marazzi, what have I done? I stabbed three or four. Goodbye, I am going home.”

The greatest shock for Gregorio at his trial was the calling of Seraphini Polioni as a witness. He was ill and frail from his stay in Newgate, and his appearance in the witness box caused Gregorio to weep – realising, perhaps, what his prior silence had done to his countryman.

Now, Polioni gave his evidence, starting by saying that he was under sentence of death in Newgate, but had previously lived for some time in England. He said that he had been at another inn, Pietro Bordessa’s Three Tuns, the evening of 26 December, when another Italian had come in to tell him an argument had broken out at the Golden Anchor “between my two cousins” – perhaps simply a reference to fellow Italians rather than to actual relatives. Polioni had gone there to try and stop the fight between two of his countrymen, but instead found himself charged with murder.

Now, Gregorio found himself convicted – but of manslaughter rather than murder, with the jury believing that he acted in self-defence. The jury asked for mercy, and he was sentenced to five years in prison, a far more lenient punishment than poor, innocent Seraphini had received. He, in turn, was now tried for the felonious wounding of Alfred the potman, but was found not guilty.

Although Polioni and Gregorio Mogni remain elusive, I have found Giovanni – or John – Mogni on the 1901 census for Clerkenwell. He died in 1903 (via Ancestry).

A drunken fight between a couple of Italian men and a larger group of territorial Englishmen had led to one innocent man being put on trial twice, and once being convicted of a murder he didn’t commit. The man who actually committed that crime only received a five year prison term. Michael Harrington’s death shows how the Victorian criminal justice system could be flawed, and that anti-immigrant feeling caused violence and misperceptions about individuals, just as it still does today.

And what of the notorious Bleeding Heart Yard? By the 1880s, many of the tenants had been moved out, and the yard stood almost deserted, neglected, and waiting to be demolished. A couple of costermongers’ barrows stood there as remnants of the lives of those who previously peopled the area; a few petty criminals used the yard as a place to hide. But the Italian picture frame makers, one of whom gave evidence after the Golden Anchor death, and the advert-placing destitute ‘conners’ were no longer there.

Sources include: Glasgow Evening Post, 6 January 1885; Cheshire Observer, 8 August 1891; Newcastle Journal, 3 March 1865; Islington Gazette, 30 August 1897; Bristol Mercury, 2 January 1885; London Evening Standard, 3 May 1866; Old Bailey Online (refs t18650130-218; t18650227-333; t18650410-454; t18650410-455).

Distracted by a criminal past

One of the perhaps inevitable side-effects of being a crime historian is that wherever I go, I get distracted by a place’s criminal history.

Recently, I’ve been to both Hereford and Worcester on work trips, and both times, I’ve come across parts of its darker history by complete accident, with no knowledge beforehand of what I was walking towards.

In Hereford, Gaol Street is in the city centre, and is home to a building that is immediately obvious as a place related to law and order. This is the ‘new gaol’, built in 1841, but which only served as a gaol for some 30 years.

Most of it was subsequently demolished, but that which remained became part of the old city magistrates’ court (thanks to Herefordshire Past for this information).

Meanwhile, in Worcester, I stopped to take a photograph of the pretty Laslett’s Almshouses, only to spot a sign on the gate stating that these were built on the site of the old city gaol. British History Online notes that in the 17th century, Greyfriars was used as the gaol, before being pulled down and replaced by the almshouses.

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However, Greyfriars still exists today and is run by the National Trust; is this building what BHO describes as ‘a fine two-storied building of timber’ that was possibly the Greyfriars’ guest house? I’m not sure, as the NT describes ‘its’ Greyfriars as a medieval merchant’s house built by Thomas Grene, but perhaps a local reader could clarify this for me!

Lastly, there is a rather lovely building tucked away on Copenhagen Street in Worcester; this served as the police headquarters for the city from 1862 to 1941.

‘Police station’ is still clearly inscribed above the door, but there is also a plaque to the right hand side marking the formation of the City of Worcester Police Force in 1833 (info from Elliott Brown on Flickr).

Today, these sites are architecturally interesting and part of the ‘dark tourism’ that can be undertaken in many towns and cities in England; but it’s also possible to imagine these places, not so long ago, being busy and dramatic buildings, full of action and movement – where our ancestors may have spent time, whether as law enforcers or law breakers.

 

When Swedish Anna was beheaded

The beheading of Anna Mansdotter, as depicted in the Illustrated Police News of 23 August 1890 (via the British Newspaper Archive)

‘The beheading of a woman is, fortunately, a very rare occurrence in Sweden,’ the article in the Illustrated Police News started, with an unusual degree of restraint for the publication.

It was detailing the death of Anna Månsdotter in the summer of 1890, and it was not surprising that the salacious and gossipy IPN sounded so shocked in its report. Anna had apparently kept her eyes open right until the point of her death, refusing to look away from the axe.

Anna was convicted, with her son, of killing her daughter-in-law Hanna Johansdotter – her son Per’s wife – in Yngsjö. Per was sentenced to life in prison, being sent to Karlskrona Gaol, but Anna received the sentence of death after she confessed to taking the larger role in the crime. She took on the ‘whole guilt’ of the crime, in order to ensure that her son survived.

King Oscar II, who voted -twice – for Anna to be beheaded

Her offence and confession shocked Sweden; it had been some 30 years since a woman had died on the scaffold, but in this case, it was universally believed that Anna should suffer the ultimate fate for her crime.

Even the king, Oscar, who was allowed two votes in court as to her punishment, voted for the death sentence to be applied. From the start of the trial process, it was widely believed that Anna’s case was hopeless, and that there would be no chance of mercy.

Anna’s refusal to express emotion after her sentence was passed was seen as a sign of her inhumanity rather than of fear – one of the motives given for the murder was that she may have been in a sexual relationship with Per, and killed Hanna out of sexual jealousy.

She spent her time in prison, prior to being executed, being very still; she refused to express any remorse, and similarly refused to take Holy Communion the nighght before her death. The prison chaplain attempted to speak with her; she refused to listen, or to respond to him.

On the day of her death, the executioner, Albert Gustaf Dahlman, and his assistant prepared outside the jail in Kristianstad. Unfortunately for Anna, she was the executioner’s first professional job, but there was no evidence of nerves as the large, muscly man, in his military-style uniform and white silk tie, prepared the scaffold. He looked confident, as he held his large axe in his hands.

At 8am, the magistrate read the judgement inside, before Anna, and then the prison doors were opened and she started to walk towards the scaffold, clad in a white belted dress. At 47, she still presented a striking figure, walking erect and lady-like, icy calm apart from the nervous twitching of her hands.

A depiction of Anna about to be executed, with her executioner shown on the left.

On the scaffold, the chaplain, who had accompanied her on her short walk, read the Lord’s Prayer. Anna then lay down and uttered a single moan as the executioner swung his axe, severing her head from her body in one motion. His assistant then lent down to pick the head up, displaying it to prove that justice had been served.

It was noted that Anna’s eyes remained open for several seconds after her death, and that her heart continued to pump blood; however, she was certainly dead, and the romantic retelling of her death ended with the more prosaic news that a professor from Lund claimed her body to use for the benefit of his medical students.

Anna was the last woman to be executed in Sweden; her son, Per, was released from prison in 1913, and died five years later.

Death of the Veiled Murderess

A depiction of the Veiled Murderess at her trial, taken from an account of her ‘life and confessions’ – from the Yale Law Library Flickr page

The British press in the 19th and early 20th centuries eagerly detailed accounts of women who killed. Unfortunately for them, there were relatively few British women convicted of more gruesome murders, so they had to look further afield for cases that were sufficiently gory or numerous to attract and entertain their readers. Cases from Rome and Paris were covered in depth, for example, and in 1905, the death of a particularly notorious American murderess was written about.

This was Mrs Henrietta Robinson, who had been convicted back in 1853 of poisoning two people with arsenic. Timothy Lanigan had been a neighbour of hers in Troy, New York. One night, he and his wife had hosted a dinner party at which both Mrs Robinson and a Catherine Lubin had attended. Their one guest had responded to their hospitality by killing both the male host and the other female guest.

Mrs Robinson attracted, and continued to attract, press attention not only because of her beauty and her refusal to behave by contemporary standards for women, but also because she consistently refused to tell anyone who she really was. Even during her trial, she had refused to remove her thick veil, leading to her becoming known as ‘The Veiled Murderess’. She was said to have only agreed to remove the veil once – and then only in a private cell, so that the jury could come and look at her.

Her argument had been, perversely, that she didn’t want any publicity – and that she would prefer death to having her face shown to others, including the press:

‘She was very handsome, but neither persuasion nor coercion could prevail upon her to unveil in open court.’

Even when she had agreed to show her face to the jury, she had first made efforts to thwart them, by  dressing a dummy as her and placing it in a chair. The jury came to see this ‘Veiled Murderess’ but when one of the jury members took offence at ‘her’ silence, he lifted the veil, to be greeted with a chuckle from underneath the cell’s bed. Mrs Robinson had hidden herself there to play a joke on the jury.

Her identity had long been the subject of much speculation, with the American ‘yellow press’ (as the British provincial press sniffily referred to it as) attempting to prove that she was the wife of a member of the British peerage.

The British press, in turn, argued that this ‘suggestion was entirely groundless’. It was one thing to eagerly report on this example of American lawlessness, but quite another to find a link to a member of the British peerage! Mrs Robinson, meanwhile, simply agreed that her name was an assumed one, but steadfastly refused to reveal her real name, even to her defence counsel.

Four decades after her conviction, a woman came forward to claim that Mrs Robinson was really Charlotte Wood, a schoolfriend of hers from New York State, the daughter of a Canadian merchant named William Wood, and one of four sisters, who spoke seven languages fluently.

The rest of the Wood family had a pact to deny that Charlotte was really a murderess, she claimed, but when rumours started swirling, got one of the other sisters to pose as Charlotte to ‘prove’ she couldn’t be a killer and be both in public and in jail at the same time.

The story was let down firstly by the inclusion of the ‘groundless’ story that the Veiled Murderess was married to an English peer – and the second fact that the informant hadn’t seen Charlotte Wood for a substantial amount of time, and had been told her ‘facts’ as a story from another friend. She even admitted that she had no idea how the Woods’ deception could have been achieved.

A view of Sing Sing prison

Although one other rumour was that Mrs Robinson had previously lived in Philadelphia, she had been convicted at Troy, and sent initially to Sing Sing prison – although one paper noted that two years after her conviction, Mrs Robinson had to be sent to the Matteawan lunatic asylum. Her identity continued to be a secret there, and she  also refused to say who the two people she had killed were – their names remained unknown to the authorities.

In prison, she had been allowed certain privileges not open to other convicts, such as being able to eat in private in her cell. It was only in 1873 that this privilege was revoked, on the grounds that it was ‘detrimental to discipline’ – presumably, other prisoners understandably took offence at this lady being treated better than them.

Some 44 years after her conviction, the Dundee Evening Telegraph reported that she had turned up in Troy in 1852, a ‘woman of wondrous beauty’ with lots of money, but no husband, children or friends. Yet it is clear that what had been ‘established’ was no more than the fact that this ‘strange, beautiful woman’ was something of a hermit, and had no desire for company.

When, a few days before her death in May 1905, it became clear that Mrs Robinson wasn’t going to recover, a curious physician at the asylum tried to find out the truth about this now elderly woman, but she refused to give him any information, ‘saying it should go to the grave with her.’

However, it was clear to the asylum staff that Mrs Robinson had some curious talents, as one obituary of her made clear:

‘In her old age, Mrs Robinson exhibited remarkable ingenuity in making exquisite lace, some good gloves, a pair of shoes, and even a set of false teeth out of buttons, which she wore for a long time.’

The Veiled Murderess died, presumably with her button-teeth in place, at the age of 89, her ability to generate headlines no less than fifty years earlier, when she was convicted of a double murder.

 

Sources: Huddersfield Chronicle, 13 September 1873; Dundee Evening Telegraph, 25 December 1897;  Cambridge Independent Press, 19 May 1905, p.5; The Salisbury Times, 19 May 1905

Capturing a Police Killer

 To mark the release of her latest book, Who Killed Constable Cock?, I’m very pleased to have a guest post from writer Angela Buckley today. Here, she takes us through the night a Manchester policeman tragically lost his life…

PC Cock

At midnight on 1 August 1876, 21-year-old PC Nicholas Cock was doing his nightly rounds in the quiet suburb of Chorlton-cum-Hardy, Manchester. The night was dark, with very little moonlight and the young police officer was almost at the end of his beat, at a junction of three main thoroughfares, known as West Point. As he was walking along, he was overtaken by a law student, John Massey Simpson, who was returning home after an evening out. The two men chatted as they neared the junction, where they were joined by another officer, PC James Beanland. After a few minutes, they all went their separate ways.

John Simpson had only walked a few yards when he heard two shots ring out, as if from a firearm. They were followed by cries of ‘Murder!’ He rushed back to West Point, where he found PC Cock lying on the ground in a pool of blood. He had been shot in the chest. PC Beanland had also run back and between them they managed to get the injured officer into a passing night soil cart to take him to a local surgery. An hour later, despite the doctor having tried to revive him with brandy, Nicholas Cock died.

The news of the shooting reached Old Trafford police station within minutes, and PC Cock’s superior officer Superintendent James Bent sent out his men immediately to arrest the culprits. He was convinced that the three Habron brothers were responsible for his officer’s death and now all he had to do was find the evidence to build his case against them.

Originally from Ireland, John, aged 24, Frank, 22, and William Habron, 18, worked in a garden nursery close to the spot where PC Cock was killed. Superintendent Bent and his officers surrounded the outhouse where they lived. On his command they rushed into the building, which was in darkness. The three brothers were in bed.

The crime scene

Bent ordered them to get dressed, after which he handcuffed them and charged them with the murder of PC Cock. The eldest brother, John, claimed that he had been in bed at the time, although the police hadn’t mentioned when the event had taken place. The younger brothers hung their heads down and looked ‘very nervous’.

Superintendent Bent observed that their boots were muddy and the candle on the table was soft, as if recently extinguished. Bent ordered for them to be taken to the police station while he went to West Point to examine the crime scene.

At the junction, near where PC Cock had been shot, Bent found several sets of footprints. Covering them with a cardboard box, as it had started to rain, he sent to the police station for the Habrons’ boots. He made impressions with them in the cinders next to the prints and found that William’s left book was a match – the rows and patterns of nails corresponded exactly. William Habron became his prime suspect.

Back at the police station, a search of the prisoners’ clothing yielded two percussion caps from a firearm, which were discovered in William’s waistcoat pocket. There were also the key eyewitnesses, John Simpson and PC James Beanland, who had spotted a man on the corner of the junction, as they were standing with PC Cock.

PC Beanland described the stranger as about 22 years old, of medium stature and dressed in dark clothing. He had walked quickly ‘in an ordinary way’. However, John Simpson thought that the man had been older and that he had stooped, walking ‘in a faltering, loose kind of way’. When the law student saw William Habron at the police station, he couldn’t say with certainty that he was the man he had seen on the night of PC Cock’s murder.

Despite the circumstantial nature of the evidence against him, 18-year-old William Habron was convicted of the murder of Nicholas Cock. Due to his youth, his death sentence was commuted to life imprisonment. However, three years later, a startling confession by a notorious burglar, who was facing the gallows for the murder of his lover’s husband, challenged the foundation of the case and Constable Cock’s real killer was finally revealed.

Find out what really happened to PC Cock in Who Killed Constable Cock? by Angela Buckley, out now in ebook and paperback. There is more information about Angela’s work on her website, http://www.angelabuckleywriter.com/ and on her Facebook page Victorian Supersleuth.

Murder and Morality at the National Records of Scotland

I’ve just seen this advertised, and it looks a great event for anyone interested in 19th century murder and women’s involvement in crime.

Eleanor Gordon, the co-author (with Gwyneth Nair) of Murder and Morality in Victorian Britain: The Story of Madeline Smith (Manchester University Press, 2011), will give a talk this summer about the trial and life of Madeline  or Madeleine Smith (1835-1928), who in 1857 was accused of giving arsenic to her secret lover.

The subsequent murder trial  focused on the evidence of letters written by Madeline to her lover; it is no spoiler to say here that although the charge was found to be not proven, the case cast a long shadow over the rest of Madeline’s long life.

Madeline Smith in court

The talk will put the case within its wider context, looking at the stereotypes of the Victorian era in terms of gender relations, for example. There will then be the chance to to see some original artefacts from the case, including the arsenic bottle that Madeline was accused of having.

The talk will take place at General Register House, 2 Princes Street, Edinburgh, on Monday 14 August at 11am. You can book it on Eventbrite here; find out more about the location here.

 

A Hangman at the Music Hall

James Berry, as pictured in the Shipley Times & Express, 24 October 1913

It was on this day in 1896 that the Illustrated Police news covered a story that showed what new careers former hangmen could embark on, once they had finished playing with rope.

James Berry, one such former executioner, had started a lucrative series of speaking engagements after leaving his job in 1891, the Victorian public having an appetite for stories of crime and death.

In 1896, he had been engaged by Harry Hart, the proprietor of the Marylebone Music Hall in London, to deliver lectures entitled ‘Criminals I have met’. Berry would receive six guineas a week in return for telling enthralled audiences about ‘experiences of different executions of notorious murderers’ in which – the press coyly described it ‘ ‘he had taken part’.

The initial lectures went well – the audiences, more used to other types of Victorian novelty acts as well as song and dance, being much pleased with the subject matter. However, Mr Hart suddenly dismissed his famous speaker.

Mr Hart argued that he had had to sack Berry, after he had turned up at the music hall one night in such an ‘excited’ condition (drunk) that he had been unable to give his lecture. Berry promptly brought an action against Hart to get the salary he argued was due him.

The first person to be called to give evidence was theatrical agent Mr Beesley, but instead, his wife turned up. She said that she had written the letter of engagement between Hart and Berry on Hart’s behalf, despite apparently having no authority to do so.

She said she was in Hart’s employ, but when asked if she had been in partnership with her husband as agents, she was horrified: “No! There ain’t no female agents!”, her response provoking laughter in court. She then winked at the prosecuting solicitor, and was told off.

Mrs Beesley was clearly slightly squeamish about Berry and his former occupation, referring to him as “that man – the hangman – Berry, the hangman”.

The issue of the Illustrated Police News containing details of Berry’s case against Harry Hart

Now, Harry Hart was called, and was sworn in ‘in the Christian fashion’, before the judge remembered that he was Jewish, and demanded that he be re-sworn on the Old Testament, with his hat on.

Once this was done, Hart stated that he would never have agreed to pay Berry six guineas a week – ‘his was a very small house, and the usual run of salaries was £1 a week.’ He had not, despite Berry’s allegations, paid the ex-hangman £5 at the end of his first week, but £3, and he had sacked him after Berry had turned up drunk and threatened to shoot Hart.

Berry then alleged that Mrs Beesley was lying on oath, saying that she had been engaged to perform herself at the Marylebone Music Hall, under the name of Miss Wood. She had turned to Berry and said, “I’m not going to lose my living. I’d swear anything against you.”

Another exchange then took place in court, again attracting laughter:

Judge Bacon: What was his entertainment?

Mr Hart: A lecture on his hangings.

Judge Bacon: Who is he?

Mr Hart: The late public executioner.

Judge Bacon: Was it an attractive entertainment:

Mr Hart: [shrugs shoulders]

Berry, cross-examined, denied that he was ‘speechless drunk’ on the night in question – he argued that Hart had refused to let him speak in order to avoid paying with him, this being ‘a favourite trick of his with his artists’. The defence solicitor, however, then asked, “Is it not notorious that you used to drink when public executioner?”, but Berry denied this.

The defence then asked, “Were you not dismissed by the Under-Sheriff for drunkenness?” – to which Berry responded, “Certainly not. I left honourably.”

The attempts to smear the former executioner – which included Hart’s assertion that he was not friends with Berry, because ‘he is not my class’ – failed. Two constables who Hart had called on to eject Berry from the music hall gave evidence that he had been perfectly sober, and the Judge said that despite Hart’s denials, he believed that Berry HAD been engaged for the larger sum per week, and that ‘the allegation of drunkenness had been most effectually disproved’.

Berry’s obituary in the Illustrated Police News, 30 October 1913

Berry continued to make a living sharing his experiences of life as a hangman, publishing The Hangman’s Thoughts Above the Gallows in 1905 – his second memoir, having published his first, My Experiences as an Executioner, four years before he was engaged by Hart.

It’s clear that he relied on his memoirs, and associated talks, after retiring as public executioner, and Hart’s allegations of drunkenness could have impacted both on the money he could earn, and the trust the public placed in him. He needed both his salary and his reputation, and this court case ensured that he retained both.

The tale of the indecent actor on a Victorian omnibus

A London omnibus

William Alfred Elliott was a 40-year-old actor with a bit of a problem. A pornography problem. Of course, it being the 1890s, this was not porn as we would know it – William’s penchant was for indecent photographs, that he carried around with him. They weren’t of nubile young Victorian women – but of a naked William himself.

William was not ashamed of his predilection. In fact, he got particular enjoyment from getting his images out in public (although, luckily, he doesn’t appear to have got anything else out in public), and seeing people’s reactions to them.

One night in October 1897, Elliott got on a District Railway omnibus in central London, and sat on one side, at the top. The bus travelled along Regent Street, picking up passengers as it went. Joining William Elliott upstairs were two 16-year-old girls, who sat in front of another passenger, the wonderfully named Henry Le Butt Boss, a hotel keeper, who was in turn opposite Elliott.

After a while, the girls noticed something odd in the seat opposite, and became increasingly distressed. Henry Le Butt Boss noticed their distress, which seemed to be result of ‘suspicious movements’ being made by Elliott. Out of the corner of his eye, he started to watch the actor.

“He had something in his hand,” Boss later told a court, “which he thrust forward many times, evidently with the object of the ladies seeing it.”

The bus turned into Cavendish Place, and Boss leaned over to the extent that he could now see what Elliott had in his hand – he was exhibiting some indecent photos that he regarded as being ‘of a very gross character’.

Boss wondered what to do. He continued on the bus for a while, but when it reached Marylebone Lane, he got off, with the intention of finding a policeman. Elliott got off at the same stop, and immediately starting running, ‘as fast as he could’.

Boss got the attention of a police constable, who set off in chase, and caught Elliott at Queen Anne Street. As he was grabbed, the actor starting tearing something up and throwing bits away. As the constable took him into custody, another one was dispatched to pick up the discarded items. They were duly pasted together, and, as the magistrate who later heard the case commented, ‘I call them filthy’.

In court, Elliott’s counsel admitted that his client was ‘very foolish’ for looking at naked pictures of himself in public, but argued, rather unfeasible, that ‘he had no intention of showing them to the ladies’ because ‘Mr Elliott was most respectably connected’. Apparently, posh men couldn’t be perverts too.

The counsel went on to insist that Elliott had a ‘large circle of friends’ and therefore Boss must have been ‘mistaken’ in his belief that the actor had displayed such images. Victorian logic was a wonderful thing. Elliott had simply been indiscreet, and had already been punished sufficiently as a result of the ‘mental anguish’ he had suffered being taken first to a police station, and then to Holloway Gaol to await his appearance before the magistrate.

Luckily, this absurd defence was viewed dimly by the JP. Although he believed that it was nobody’s business if Elliott wanted to photograph himself in indecent poses, it was not much of a stretch to believe that someone who did this kind of thing might then want to show others the photographs too.

In conclusion, the magistrate said, this middle aged actor had been ‘guilty of an act of a very odious character’, and should be fined 40 shillings. Elliott promptly paid his fine, and made his ignominious exit.

If you’d like to know more about the private and professional lives of Victorian actors, my book, Life On The Victorian Stage, will be published on 30 August. You can pre-order it from Amazon now.

Sources: The Illustrated Police News, 16 October 1897; Reynolds’s Newspaper, 17 October 1897

 

 

New crime and punishment records online

The Findmypast search page for its crime collection

Findmypast added a final 68,000 records to its collection of England and Wales Crime, Prisons and Punishments records last Friday, with its collection now being the largest set of English and Welsh crime records available online.

All these new records have come from The National Archives at Kew, and are taken from five separate series:

  • Home Office (HO 8) – convict hulks, convict prisons and criminal lunatic asylums, quarterly returns of prisoners
  • Central Criminal Court (CRIM 9) – after-trial calendars of prisoners
  • Home Office (HO 140) – calendar of prisoners
  • Home Office/Prison Commission (PCOM 2) – prison records
  • Home Office/Prison Commission (PCOM 3) – male licences, 1853-1887

This image is from Findmypast’s collection, and originated in the HO8 files (HO 8/161). Part of the ‘Convict Hulks, Convict Prisons and Criminal Lunatic Asylums: Quarterly Returns of Prisoners’, it records names, ages, offences, where and when convicted, the sentence, and the convict’s health and behaviour during the quarter of the year in which the returns were compiled. So here, we can see that William Jeffs, a 22-year-old burglar, had displayed ‘bad’ behaviour, whereas another convict had shown ‘exemplary’ behaviour despite being a convicted rapist.

As you might be able to tell from this image, not all the names are written out in full – several are just initials and a surname – and the location and year are not evident from this simple search result, so you may need to do a bit of cross-referencing or scrolling back through images to give you more information.

FMP’s records have come from The National Archives at Kew

Also, do not assume that the place listed at the front of the entire document is the only one mentioned – for example, with this image, some prior pages are from the Attested List of the Convict Department, Criminal Lunatic Asylum, Broadmoor, and for the quarter ending on 30 September 1864 – but the last entries in the original book are for the Invalid Convict Prison at Woking.

But if you suspect you have a criminal ancestor, these online records may help you track them – and their crimes – down; and even if you don’t have a convict in your family tree, they make for fascinating reading!

You can access the Crime and Punishment collection on Findmypast here – a subscription is needed for full access.

The original Psycho

The inventor of Psycho – John Nevil Maskelyne

If I said the word ‘psycho’, what would be the first thing that came into your head? The Alfred Hitchcock movie? Or one of the many more recent serial killers who have been dubbed a psycho by the tabloid press? Would you immediately think of it as contraction of psychopath?

In reality, ‘psycho’ simply means relating to the soul or the mind, and in the late 19th century, psychiatry was concerned with issues around the psyche, using the older term psychalgia to describe mental pain, or melancholy.

But alongside such explorations of the mental state of individuals came the term psychopath. This was frequently used by Victorians to describe not an individual suffering from psychopathic behaviour, but as a description of doctors who specialised in the treatment of mental disorder.

It gradually changed to become the term for a person who exhibited psychopathic behaviour, rather than the person treating him or her (the OED gives the first written evidence for this as being 1885).

We’ve certainly witnessed stories involving psychopathic behaviour leading to criminal activity, yet in the 1870s and 1880s, the term ‘psycho’ did not have the negative connotations that we now see with it.

In fact, during this decade, perhaps the most famous psycho wasn’t a human at all. During the recent research I’ve been doing into the history of the theatre, I’ve been studying the life and work of Victorian magician John Nevil Maskelyne.

An advert for Psycho from the Scotsman, 20 March 1884

Together with John Algernon Clarke, Maskelyne created an automaton who they named Psycho – not because he was mentally disturbed, but because he was perceived by contemporary audiences to have human qualities – he could play whist, for example(!)

A newspaper advert for Psycho

Psycho intrigued and fascinated Victorian audiences, and appeared in over 4,000 performances at London’s Egyptian Hall alone. Maskelyne was a master of self-publicity; in one paper of February 1875, no fewer than seven adverts were placed, all promoting Maskelyne and Cook at the Egyptian Hall.

Readers were told that at 3.20 precisely, the ‘wonderful’ Psycho would perform, and that anyone wishing to see ‘him’ perform should buy tickets in advance or face disappointment. (Morning Post, 5 February 1875)

Psycho was described by his inventors as ‘the Great Mystery of 1875’ who would play whist with ‘any three gentlemen who may volunteer from the audience…and perform other astounding feats requiring the exercise of memory and skill of no ordinary character.’

Nine years later, reviews of Psycho were still glowing – ‘There can be no doubt whatever that Psycho is the most clever piece of mechanism that has ever been produced’ (The Scotsman, 20 March 1884)

So when we describe someone as a ‘psycho’, we’re actually using a term that has become a pejorative one over a relatively recent period of years – having, with Maskelyne’s automaton, been a positive term denoting cleverness and skill, yet today being used by parts of the press to denote evil and madness.

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