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Ladies and Gentlemen, bored with Leander and all that?
Then I present to you, for the first time in the world ever, the compelling case of 'Mad Tom', who just might have been Jack the Ripper.
Please read and enjoy every word.
'ARTHUR LATTEY . I now reside at Banstead, Surrey, and am medical officer of that Union—I am L.C.P. and M.R.C.S., and have been in practice twenty years—I was formerly medical officer of the south-western
See original
district of the Maldon Union—in that capacity and in my private practice I have had to consider questions of mental disease, and to give certificates of lunacy as to persons under my charge—in January, 1887, I succeeded to the practice of Dr. Pearce—later in 1887, and also in 1888, I was frequently consulted by the prisoner for a continuation of that disease, and for more nervous disorders in 1888—the disease was in its secondary stage—he was very nervous for the first three months of 1888—he would come with some trifling little pimple, and want to know if that was not his malady coming back again, and when I told him it was nothing of the sort, he would dwell upon it, and insist upon it that it must be—then he had pains in his head, and restlessness, and sleeplessness—they were undoubtedly bond fide statements—I thought he was the most out-of-the-way curious tradesman I had ever met, because it was impossible to get him to pay attention when you wanted him to do anything; he came to my house to take orders for certain decorations, and instead of taking them he would talk about nothing but himself; at last one would apparently drive it into him, and a week afterwards you would meet him, and he had forgotten all about it—he would come again, and go over the same thing, and I had to take an extraordinary amount of trouble to get anything done; whenever he saw me be would talk about himself instead of my business—he had not a retentive memory, quite the reverse; he was most decidedly not a man of well-balanced mind; I should describe him as a most excitable, easily-upset man, a man who would greatly exaggerate any little ailment—I may give an instance: one of his children had an accident, and his state of distress was very pitiable; he would not be satisfied that the child was doing perfectly well, he would come worrying me three or four times about it, and was obviously distressed—where there is a latent hereditary mental taint, I have known marked cases of syphilis develop it—I have attended the prisoner's younger brother Richard; he is also very excitable, very wanting in self-control.
Cross-examined. I would not say he was violent-tempered; he was 28 in January, 1888—I left the neighbourhood at the end of 1888—syphilis is a terrible disease in its results, especially to a married man, but the advice I gave the prisoner was not to be anxious about the pimple, I told him it would go away in due course, but not rapidly—I told him it had nothing to do with the malady—if a person is worried in business, sleeplessness often follows, and the nervous system becomes affected, pains in the head and such symptoms are common in many maladies.
ERNEST FRY . I am an oil and colour man, at Haverstock Hill, next door to the prisoner's, where he lived with his wife and four children—I have known him twenty years—I have been very much struck by his eccentricity—I have on several occasions been away from home with him; once at Ramsgate, about three years ago, when I returned to the lodging about twelve at night he opened the door to me in his night-shirt, and instead of closing it he ran up the street in his night-shirt—I "spoke to him of it next day, and he remembered nothing about it—within the last twelve months or more I have noticed a marked differenceinhis manner—the walls between our houses are thin, and I have frequently heard him playing on the piano and shouting and singing; in feet, he would wake us up two or three times in the morning—I remonstrated with him next day, and he would apologise, and say he was very sorry, and
See original
say, "I don't remember anything about it; I suppose it was me"—it was him, there was nobody else there to do it—I have heard him running up and down stairs in the dead of the night—I have heard him spoken of as "Mad Tom," more than once; I have referred to him myself in the same terms—he used to complain of pains in his head—I saw him a week before this occurrence, he then seemed very much down; he said he did not know what was the matter with him, his mind had been disturbed, he had not known what he was doing for a day or two—he did seem very cast down—he used to ring my bell very frequently at all hours, two, three, and four in the morning; I have spoken to him about it, and he said he did not remember it, he was very sorry if he had disturbed me—he was a very excitable man; as far as I know he was a sober man.
Cross-examined, I have seen him drunk once or twice, I should not like to say more; I don't mean that he was drunk and incapable of taking care of himself; I never saw him incapable or unable to walk; I have not seem him very drunk, it did not strike me that he was drunk on the occasion of ringing the bell and playing the piano; I thought he was a little bit light-headed—he was not drunk at Ramsgate when he ran in his night-shirt; I led him back to the house, and said, "Come, Tom, this won't do"—he only ran a few doors down the road—I told him to go to bed—my opinion was that he was not quite responsible for his actions, because he did such a ridiculous thing—that was two or three years ago; that was the first time in my experience of such eccentric conduct of his—I think we returned home a day or two afterwards; he did not show any further sign—I did not mention this to anybody—I know his wife; I did not mention it to her or to anyone; I did not think it my business to do so; the first time I mentioned it was when I gave my evidence—I have mentioned it to my wife.
Re-examined. Except once or twice I have never seen the prisoner under the influence of drink; his wife has spoken to me about him more than once, as a neighbour.
ARTHUR SMITH . I live at 8, Orchard Road, Highgate, and am a commercial traveller—I have known the prisoner fifteen or eighteen months—I met him often, and have asked him what was the matter; his appearance struck me as extraordinary—on the 19th May, two days before this occurrence, he accused me of a breach of contract in not taking a house of him, which I had promised to do, but owing to circumstances I had declined it—I endeavoured to explain the reason to him, but he appeared to take no heed to what I was saying, and he suddenly said, "I posted the letter myself"—I said, "I have had no letter"—he continued talking in aloud tone, and suddenly seized me by the collar and said, "If you did not show me that letter, who did?"—I flung him off, and said, "I don't know what you mean"—he looked at me in a curious manner, and said, "I was not talking to you, I thought I was talking to somebody else"—I was astonished when I heard of the murder—I saw the report in the paper, and I sat down and wrote to Mr. Harding, sen., at twelve o'clock that night, and in that way the defendant's solicitor came to see me, and took my evidence—the prisoner was talking as if there was a third person present—I had no knowledge of his affairs, and the conversation did not relate to anything I knew of—his conduct attracted the attention of passers-by, and people stopped and watched us—he asked me to come to the corner; having
See original
been with him before to the Victory, I supposed he referred to that; I refused to go with him—at the very same moment I was about to make some excuse, when a girl who had been walking some distance ahead turned round as if to ask her way, when the prisoner darted after her; and when he got within a yard of her he suddenly came back to where he started from—we were going in the direction of the Victory; I left him standing there in the centre of the road—I offered to shake hands, but he took no notice of me—my impression was that he was out of his mind—I left him purposely, to avoid him; under other circumstances I should have gone with him to the Victory.
Cross-examined. This was about half-past eight in the evening; quite light enough to distinguish any features—he got within a few yards of the girl—he might have got near enough to distinguish her features.
JOHN STAPLES . I am a retired tradesman, and live at 42, Adelaide Road—I have known the prisoner between three and four years-his manner is generally very excitable, that was my impression from the first time I had business transactions with him—the first remarkable thing that attracted my attention was that he was always being taken for a detective; he told me so—about twelve months ago I had a tenant who left, shutting up the house and taking the key with him; I appointed the' prisoner to meet me there, to pick the lock—he said, "I will show you how to get into the house," and he went into the forecourt, and dashed his fist through the window of the breakfast parlour, and cut his hand severely, then he drew the catch back, threw up the window, and ultimately let me in, and said, "You will have to pay for this"—on another occasion, some few months afterwards, I was having some repairs done to the roof of a house in Manchester Square, and he said, "Would you like to go up and see what they are doing to the roof?"—I said, "No"—he said, "I will show you how to do it"—there was a ladder there, reaching from the ground to the roof, about forty feet, and he ran up the ladder, and sat on the parapet, swinging his legs for two or three minutes, and then came down again, and said, "It's all right; won't you come up and have a look?"—I said, "Certainly not"—on the Monday before the 21st May he came to my house, which he was decorating; the next door was empty, and he said, "I want to go next door, and take the blossom off those trees, or they will only rot;" he jumped to the top of a small fowl-house, and went through it—I said, "For goodness sake, take care what you are doing!"—he said, "I am only seventeen stone"—he asked me for a knife; I lent him my small pocket-knife, and he said, "I am going to cut off some of these, and take them home to my dad"—instead of cutting off the blossoms, he pulled them off recklessly, and never used the knife at all—my wife was there, and she shouted out, "If Mr. Harding is not a madman I never saw one before"; he was. acting like a madman.'
And there's a lot more where that come from. Tom Harding hung for the murder of a woman in 1890.
Then I present to you, for the first time in the world ever, the compelling case of 'Mad Tom', who just might have been Jack the Ripper.
Please read and enjoy every word.
'ARTHUR LATTEY . I now reside at Banstead, Surrey, and am medical officer of that Union—I am L.C.P. and M.R.C.S., and have been in practice twenty years—I was formerly medical officer of the south-western
See original
district of the Maldon Union—in that capacity and in my private practice I have had to consider questions of mental disease, and to give certificates of lunacy as to persons under my charge—in January, 1887, I succeeded to the practice of Dr. Pearce—later in 1887, and also in 1888, I was frequently consulted by the prisoner for a continuation of that disease, and for more nervous disorders in 1888—the disease was in its secondary stage—he was very nervous for the first three months of 1888—he would come with some trifling little pimple, and want to know if that was not his malady coming back again, and when I told him it was nothing of the sort, he would dwell upon it, and insist upon it that it must be—then he had pains in his head, and restlessness, and sleeplessness—they were undoubtedly bond fide statements—I thought he was the most out-of-the-way curious tradesman I had ever met, because it was impossible to get him to pay attention when you wanted him to do anything; he came to my house to take orders for certain decorations, and instead of taking them he would talk about nothing but himself; at last one would apparently drive it into him, and a week afterwards you would meet him, and he had forgotten all about it—he would come again, and go over the same thing, and I had to take an extraordinary amount of trouble to get anything done; whenever he saw me be would talk about himself instead of my business—he had not a retentive memory, quite the reverse; he was most decidedly not a man of well-balanced mind; I should describe him as a most excitable, easily-upset man, a man who would greatly exaggerate any little ailment—I may give an instance: one of his children had an accident, and his state of distress was very pitiable; he would not be satisfied that the child was doing perfectly well, he would come worrying me three or four times about it, and was obviously distressed—where there is a latent hereditary mental taint, I have known marked cases of syphilis develop it—I have attended the prisoner's younger brother Richard; he is also very excitable, very wanting in self-control.
Cross-examined. I would not say he was violent-tempered; he was 28 in January, 1888—I left the neighbourhood at the end of 1888—syphilis is a terrible disease in its results, especially to a married man, but the advice I gave the prisoner was not to be anxious about the pimple, I told him it would go away in due course, but not rapidly—I told him it had nothing to do with the malady—if a person is worried in business, sleeplessness often follows, and the nervous system becomes affected, pains in the head and such symptoms are common in many maladies.
ERNEST FRY . I am an oil and colour man, at Haverstock Hill, next door to the prisoner's, where he lived with his wife and four children—I have known him twenty years—I have been very much struck by his eccentricity—I have on several occasions been away from home with him; once at Ramsgate, about three years ago, when I returned to the lodging about twelve at night he opened the door to me in his night-shirt, and instead of closing it he ran up the street in his night-shirt—I "spoke to him of it next day, and he remembered nothing about it—within the last twelve months or more I have noticed a marked differenceinhis manner—the walls between our houses are thin, and I have frequently heard him playing on the piano and shouting and singing; in feet, he would wake us up two or three times in the morning—I remonstrated with him next day, and he would apologise, and say he was very sorry, and
See original
say, "I don't remember anything about it; I suppose it was me"—it was him, there was nobody else there to do it—I have heard him running up and down stairs in the dead of the night—I have heard him spoken of as "Mad Tom," more than once; I have referred to him myself in the same terms—he used to complain of pains in his head—I saw him a week before this occurrence, he then seemed very much down; he said he did not know what was the matter with him, his mind had been disturbed, he had not known what he was doing for a day or two—he did seem very cast down—he used to ring my bell very frequently at all hours, two, three, and four in the morning; I have spoken to him about it, and he said he did not remember it, he was very sorry if he had disturbed me—he was a very excitable man; as far as I know he was a sober man.
Cross-examined, I have seen him drunk once or twice, I should not like to say more; I don't mean that he was drunk and incapable of taking care of himself; I never saw him incapable or unable to walk; I have not seem him very drunk, it did not strike me that he was drunk on the occasion of ringing the bell and playing the piano; I thought he was a little bit light-headed—he was not drunk at Ramsgate when he ran in his night-shirt; I led him back to the house, and said, "Come, Tom, this won't do"—he only ran a few doors down the road—I told him to go to bed—my opinion was that he was not quite responsible for his actions, because he did such a ridiculous thing—that was two or three years ago; that was the first time in my experience of such eccentric conduct of his—I think we returned home a day or two afterwards; he did not show any further sign—I did not mention this to anybody—I know his wife; I did not mention it to her or to anyone; I did not think it my business to do so; the first time I mentioned it was when I gave my evidence—I have mentioned it to my wife.
Re-examined. Except once or twice I have never seen the prisoner under the influence of drink; his wife has spoken to me about him more than once, as a neighbour.
ARTHUR SMITH . I live at 8, Orchard Road, Highgate, and am a commercial traveller—I have known the prisoner fifteen or eighteen months—I met him often, and have asked him what was the matter; his appearance struck me as extraordinary—on the 19th May, two days before this occurrence, he accused me of a breach of contract in not taking a house of him, which I had promised to do, but owing to circumstances I had declined it—I endeavoured to explain the reason to him, but he appeared to take no heed to what I was saying, and he suddenly said, "I posted the letter myself"—I said, "I have had no letter"—he continued talking in aloud tone, and suddenly seized me by the collar and said, "If you did not show me that letter, who did?"—I flung him off, and said, "I don't know what you mean"—he looked at me in a curious manner, and said, "I was not talking to you, I thought I was talking to somebody else"—I was astonished when I heard of the murder—I saw the report in the paper, and I sat down and wrote to Mr. Harding, sen., at twelve o'clock that night, and in that way the defendant's solicitor came to see me, and took my evidence—the prisoner was talking as if there was a third person present—I had no knowledge of his affairs, and the conversation did not relate to anything I knew of—his conduct attracted the attention of passers-by, and people stopped and watched us—he asked me to come to the corner; having
See original
been with him before to the Victory, I supposed he referred to that; I refused to go with him—at the very same moment I was about to make some excuse, when a girl who had been walking some distance ahead turned round as if to ask her way, when the prisoner darted after her; and when he got within a yard of her he suddenly came back to where he started from—we were going in the direction of the Victory; I left him standing there in the centre of the road—I offered to shake hands, but he took no notice of me—my impression was that he was out of his mind—I left him purposely, to avoid him; under other circumstances I should have gone with him to the Victory.
Cross-examined. This was about half-past eight in the evening; quite light enough to distinguish any features—he got within a few yards of the girl—he might have got near enough to distinguish her features.
JOHN STAPLES . I am a retired tradesman, and live at 42, Adelaide Road—I have known the prisoner between three and four years-his manner is generally very excitable, that was my impression from the first time I had business transactions with him—the first remarkable thing that attracted my attention was that he was always being taken for a detective; he told me so—about twelve months ago I had a tenant who left, shutting up the house and taking the key with him; I appointed the' prisoner to meet me there, to pick the lock—he said, "I will show you how to get into the house," and he went into the forecourt, and dashed his fist through the window of the breakfast parlour, and cut his hand severely, then he drew the catch back, threw up the window, and ultimately let me in, and said, "You will have to pay for this"—on another occasion, some few months afterwards, I was having some repairs done to the roof of a house in Manchester Square, and he said, "Would you like to go up and see what they are doing to the roof?"—I said, "No"—he said, "I will show you how to do it"—there was a ladder there, reaching from the ground to the roof, about forty feet, and he ran up the ladder, and sat on the parapet, swinging his legs for two or three minutes, and then came down again, and said, "It's all right; won't you come up and have a look?"—I said, "Certainly not"—on the Monday before the 21st May he came to my house, which he was decorating; the next door was empty, and he said, "I want to go next door, and take the blossom off those trees, or they will only rot;" he jumped to the top of a small fowl-house, and went through it—I said, "For goodness sake, take care what you are doing!"—he said, "I am only seventeen stone"—he asked me for a knife; I lent him my small pocket-knife, and he said, "I am going to cut off some of these, and take them home to my dad"—instead of cutting off the blossoms, he pulled them off recklessly, and never used the knife at all—my wife was there, and she shouted out, "If Mr. Harding is not a madman I never saw one before"; he was. acting like a madman.'
And there's a lot more where that come from. Tom Harding hung for the murder of a woman in 1890.
Sink the Bismark
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