Kansas Physician Confirms Howard Report

[TradeName]

HO 45/9969/X27267 Memo Sandars to Matthews Aug 8, 1890 Scan 2 of 2

Scan 2

[TradeName]

HO 45/9969/X27267 Cover Sheet for Section 6

With minutes.

All items from section 6 were posted previously in this thread.

This is the last scan from HO 45/9969/X27267.

[TradeName]

Robert Anderson on Godfrey Lushington

The Lighter Side of My Official Life (New York: Hodder and Stoughton, 1910), link to various online versions
by Sir Robert Anderson, K.C.B., LL.D.

Page 131

With his many excellent qualities
Godfrey Lushington's intervention and influence
as Under Secretary were generally provocative,
and his manner was irritating.

Pages 190-191

[...]Lushington was a man of a different kidney.
By instinct and training he was a doctrinaire
Radical, and that means a good deal. I am
not speaking as a party politician -- for I am not,
and have never been, a party man -- but as a
student of human nature. For my experience
of men -- which is not a narrow one -- satisfies
me that the new idea of liberty which prevails
in that school is that of the Irish peasant who
emigrated to New York. Said he, in a letter
to his people at home, " This is a real free
country; every one does exactly what he likes,
and if he doesn't, begorra, we make him
do it."

But, whatever the reason, Lushington never
gave me any help in my official work ; and when
Mr. Monro left Scotland Yard I was thrown on
my own resources to an extent unknown by my
predecessors in the office. Naturally I made some
grave mistakes. But no man is fit to be head
of the C.I.D. if he is not clever enough to make
mistakes without being caught! And I can boast
that I never incurred a word of censure for a
single one of my errors; and in one instance --
it was matter that cost me much distress and
some searchings of heart, for it related to the
safety of the Queen -- I had a letter of thanks
from the Home Office!

[TradeName]

Forbes Winslow's Memoir

Here's a link to various digital versions of Forbes Winslow's Recollections of Forty Years, with a chapter on JtR and a photo of the "this week" letter.

Also, Winslow considered a run for East Middlesex coroner in 1886 but ended up throwing his support to Wynne Baxter.

The Hackney Mercury, December 4, 1886, Page 4

THE CORONERSHIP OF EAST MIDDLESEX

[...]

The name of Mr. Wynne E. Baxter, of Church-street,
Stoke Newingtpn, is also before the electors.
Mr. Baxter has had a long experience as deputy-
coroner for the City and North Middlesex. He has
three times served the office of Under-Sheriff, for 14
years a member of the Common Council, was first
Mayor of Lewes, and a Guardian of the Poor of
London. Mr. Baxter is 42 years of age, and is a
solicitor of 19 years' standing, and resides almost in
the centre of the district. Persons residing in
Eastern Middlesex (of which Hackney, Kingsland,
and Stoke Newington form part), having freehold
property of any description in any part of the county
of Middlesex, are entitled to vote at this election,
which is expected to take place in about a fortnight's
time. Duly qualified electors desiring to further the
candidature of Mr. Wynne Baxter are urgently requested
to communicate with Mr. J. G. Manton (Mr.
Baxter's election agent for Hackney), 109, Darenth-
road, Stamford Hill.

A proposition has been made to divide the district
into three separate areas, and to appoint a coroner
for each. Should this be done we are informed that
Mr. Macdonald, Mr. Collier, and Mr. Young would
in all probability contest the southern division
of the existing constituency. Mr. Beard would in
all probability secure the central division, as it is not
thought that Mr. Baxter would think it worth his
while to represent a portion of the present district.
The name of Dr. Forbes Winslow has been mentioned
in connection with the post, but no confirmation of the
rumour that he will take part in the contest has yet
reached us. It is generally felt that should a well-
known local legal or medical man come forward in the
northern division, in, the event of the district being
divided, he would receive the support of the electorate
of the sub-division.

The Hackney Express, December 11, 1886, Page 2

ELECTION OF CORONER

[...]

Copy telegram from Dr. Forbes Winslow to Mr. Baxter,
dated 8th December, 1886.

To Wynne Baxter, 9, Laurence Pountney-hill
"All my votes and interest transferred to you."-—Winslow,
Hammersmith.

[TradeName]

Text of Winslow and Howard Stories

The Morning Record (Meriden, CT), November 28, 1894, Page 3

'Jack the Ripper' Found

Found at Last--Still Living but Safe

Correspondence of the New York Press

London. Nov. 17.-- The Press
correspondent has found "Jack the Ripper."
He is now confined in a certain English
lunatic asylum, where for three years
he has been locked up.

It was Dr. Forbes Winslow, the most
celebrated insanity expert in the
United Kingdom, that revealed to the
Press correspondent the fact that the
famous murderer had been discovered
and is still alive, though in a place
where it is utterly impossible for him
to commit any more of his horrible
mischief. The revelation is particularly
interesting just now, as it sets at
naught the theory of some people that
the series of murders recently committed
in Denver were done by the same
hand that horrified London and defied
Scotland Yard.

FIRST NEWS OF THE RIPPER

Dr. Forbes Winslow is known to
every scientific man and body throughout
England. He is the author of
many works on nervous diseases, the
founder and head physician of one of
the largest insanity hospitals in the
city, the consulting physician of
many other similar hospitals, and is
altogether a household word when this
subject is under discussion. This
knowledge of Dr. Winslow, of course,
as any knowledge on such a matter
would be likely to, prevails among the
educated and semi-educated classes,
and it is hardly to be expected that
his name would sound familiar to the
ignorant resident of Whitechapel, or
to the lower class of criminals among
whom these Jack the Ripper murders
were committed. This observation is
made simply as one of the many
tributary evidences that the real Jack
the Ripper was an educated and intelligent
man who would be likely to
recognize in Dr. Winslow a scientific
and highly intellectual man, the same
as he would be likely to know the
names of Charcot, Mackenzie, Zaccharin
or other men of worldwide fame in
this field.

The application of this is found in a
letter received by Dr. Winslow before
the murders had attracted the public
attention they did later later on, which letter
was written and signed by Jack the
Ripper previous to the time this horrible
title had otherwise been used. It
thus becomes reasonably certain that
Jack the Ripper belonged to the
educated or semi-educated class. Otherwise
he would not have been acquainted
with the existence of Dr. Forbes
Winslow. Would a foreign sailor visiting
English ports periodically and
presumably ignorant of English scientific
men be likely to know of Dr. Winslow
and address a letter to him, indicating
his intention of committing these murders,
or would a denizen of the Whitechapel
district be any more likely to
do so? This logic supports Dr. Winslow's
statement very materially.

But, let Dr. Winslow tell his own
story, as he did to the writer of this
article in his private office near
Cavendish Square.

"One morning, opening my mail I
received that letter," said Dr. Winslow,
pointing to a frame hanging on the
wall of his office, in which was seen
half a sheet of ordinary sized note
paper and an envelope bearing a
stamp and a London postmark, addressed
simply to Dr. Forbes Winslow.
The letter reads:

"You will hear of me in a few days.
"JACK THE RIPPER."

The writing is evidently that of a
man who knows how to write but
who has disguised his style by using
his left hand, probably. The doctor
continued:

IT WAS HORRIBLY FULFILLED

"You see when it is postmarked,
which was previous to the first
intimation that any such man as Jack the
Ripper existed. I opened the letter and
read it without attaching the slightest
importance to it, or thinking for a
moment it would ever be worthy of
reservation, but as is my rather methodical
custom, I threw the letter and its
envelope with others into a drawer
I use for the purpose and gave no
further thought to the matter until
many weeks after, when the entire city
was startled by the horrible murder
of a woman and the discovery of a
line of writing on the wall over where
the dead body was found, and which
read:

"I will give myself up when I have
killed fifteen. Jack the Ripper."

"You will remember that a stupid
policeman rubbed this writing out, but
the marks that were left were
sufficiently distinct to show upon
comparing with my letter they were both
written by the same hand. At once, upon
the fact being published in the morning
papers that this murder had been
done, and the singular name of Jack
the Ripper being identified with it, of
course, recalled to my mind the letter
I had received.

"I hunted up the letter and went
to the commissioner of police and laid
the matter before him, and then I
went to the scene of the last affair
and made a comparison, between the
writing I had and the hardly
discernible outlines of that which had
been, upon the wall.

LONDON'S STUPID POLICE

"I formulated an idea of the murders;
it was sustained by later developments,
and I asked the police to
aid me or allow me to co-operate
with them in finding out who the
guilty party was, but for some
unaccountable and inexplicable reason
they refused to do this. They obtained
from me all the details of my idea
and then refused to make use of
them. Certainly I am not a detective,
but my theory was the correct one,
and while the police themselves had
no grounds upon which to work, I
felt they made a mistake in not
co-operating with me.

"However, time passed along and
more murders were committed all of
them marked by the same atrocious
peculiarity and bearing indications of
having been done by a man experienced
in the dissection or cutting up
of human bodies; there were the
evidences of an acquaintance with the use
of the knife that were unmistakable,
and while these cuttings were simply
for mutilation, yet they were made
with such a precision and clear
understanding of how they should be
made that there was no doubt left
in a physician's mind of the
acquaintance on the part of the
murderer with at least the rudiments of
practical surgery.

"The sensational stories of revenge
being at the foundation of these
crimes, or that they were the pastime
of some irresponsible foreigner who
occasionally reached our shores, were
well enough to amuse the masses, but
those who looked into the matter
understandingly realized that the
murdered victims were victims of a
monomaniac, a man who was insane upon
this one subject, and who had an
uncontrollable impulse to commit
murder come upon him at more or less
regular intervals.

THE MURDERER'S WIFE CALLED

"One day I was called upon by a
lady, the wife of a physician in this
city, and who herself had upon one
or two occasions been a patient of
mine. The lady was in great distress,
and I saw her nervous condition was
serious; she was unquestionably
laboring under great mental excitement
and could hardly control herself
while in my office so as to talk
connectedly with me. Much to my
surprise, instead of the usual conversation
that transpires between a physician
and his patient, this lady at
once, upon her being seated, talked
of the Jack the Ripper murders, asked
me whether I had studied them
at all, what my opinion was in the
matter and whether I had any theory
as to the guilty party. I replied to
her questions as clearly as possible
and told her all I had conjectured on
the subject. I explained the theory
that I had formed and then called her
attention to the letter, which just
previous to that time I had framed.
At the sight of this document she
became still more agitated, and
I realized there was something on her
mind she wished to make known to
me and I endeavored by gentle and
kindly words to encourage her to do
so.

"Finally she, after much hesitation
and violent feeling, told me she
believed her husband to be the man
who had committed the 'Jack the Ripper'
murders.

"At this information I naturally
was horrified and astounded. I
knew who her husband was and I
knew him to be a practitioner of
supposed responsibility, and so incredible
did her suspicion appear to me that
I thought she herself had become
crazed in some way and this awful
idea had taken possession of her. I
questioned her carefully on other subjects
until she had calmed down somewhat,
which the revelation of her
secret seemed to aid her in doing, and
then I asked her for the reasons she had
for this belief.

SHE WENT TO SEE HIM

"She recounted to me the singular
action of her husband at certain
periods, how he appeared for a day or
two to become irresponsible and how
she had finally noticed that upon the
occasions when these murders were
committed he had been absent from
home and had returned in such mental
exhilaration, followed by terrible
mental depression, that she felt
confident he had passed through some
extraordinary experience. There
were other evidence, she explained,
which became suggestive when the
thought occurred to her of his
connection with the 'Jack the Ripper'
incidents.

"Impressed with what she told me
and recognizing in it a verification of
the theory I had arrived at, I went
to see her husband and after a number
of interviews I became satisfied
that the lady's suspicions were well
founded. Upon every other subject
the man was thoroughly sane, but
upon this he was totally irresponsible.
He was possessed by a congenital
insanity, and the appetite for blood
to be satisfied in this manner was
growing upon him. Not only would
this growth influence him to more
frequent victims, but to an increased
number of victims at the same time,
and had he been permitted to remain
at large it would have been only a
comparatively short time before two
or three murders would have been
committed by him where only one
had been committed theretofore.

HAD HIM LOCKED UP

"After satisfying myself that the
man was responsible for these crimes,
I took steps to have him placed in
an asylum, where he could do no
more mischief. He was examined by
competent physicians and found to
be mentally unbalanced and then was
placed in an asylum, where he now
remains.

"A London paper shortly after the
man was locked up contained a
paragraph on the subject and it doubtless
would have led to the entire matter
being thoroughly exploited and given
to the public, but this it was not
thought desirable to do, and at the
request of certain parties the paper
made no further reference to the matter,
and as the paragraph in question
escaped the eye of any one who was
interested in the case it never went
any further."

--end

The San Francisco Call, Wednesday, APRIL 24, 1895, Page 14

HE IS JACK THE RIPPER

The Author of the Whitechapel
Murders a London Physician.

CONFINED IN A MADHOUSE.

The Story Told by an Englishman
to William Greer Harrison.

Dr. Howard, a London physician of considerable
prominence, was the guest of
William Greer Harrison at the Bohemian
Club recently. He is one who has also
made a reputation in literature. The Englishman
told a singular story to his host
and vouched for its correctness in every
particular. It related to the mystery of
"Jack the Ripper," which the physician
declared was no longer a mystery among
the scientific men of London, or the detectives
at Scotland Yard. He said that
this atrocious assassin was a medical man
of high standing and extensive practice.
He was married to a beautiful and amiable
wife, and had a family. Shortly before the
beginning of the Whitechapel murders he
developed a peculiar and, to his wife, an
inexplicable mania— an unnatural pleasure
in causing pain.

This malady at last attained such growth
that his wife became afraid of him, and
used to lock herself and the children up
when she observed those paroxysms coming
on. Yet when the fits were over and
she spoke to him about them, he professed
perfect ignorance of their occurrence, and
actually laughed at her, and accused her
of being the victim of some strange hallucination.
Yet he acknowledged that he
had encountered in his practice cases similar
to those she attributed to him, and defined
them as a most dangerous form of insanity.

Then the Whitechapel murders filled
London with horror, and the physician, in
discussing them, freely expressed his opinion
that they were the work of a maniac.
The suspicions of the wife were aroused,
and as one assassination succeeded the
other she noted with heartbreaking dread
that at the periods when these murders
were supposed to have been committed
her husband was invariably absent from
home. There was blood on his clothes,
which seemed to puzzle him, and he accounted
to her for its presence by stating
that he must have got it while assisting at
some operation, but was annoyed that he
could not fix the time or place.

At last the suspense and fear of the
wretched wife became unbearable, and she
went to a few of her husband's medical
friends, stated the case, and asked their
advice and assistance. They were astounded
at her suspicions, but she cited so
many peculiar circumstances that they resolved
to make a quiet investigation into
the conduct and movements of their
brother physician. They called the Scotland
Yard force to assist them, and by
adding one fact to another the chain of
evidence pointing to the doctor as the
author of the murders became complete.

The sequel is the strangest part of Dr.
Howard's story, and conflicts with the
established ideas of English methods. The
physicians visited the murderer, and told
him they wished to consult him about a
remarkable case. Then they stated his own
in detail, and asked him what should be
done under the circumstances. He replied
promptly that, while the unmistakable insanity
of the person who could commit
these crimes would save him from the
halter, he should certainly be confined to a
lunatic asylum. Then they told him that
he himself was the maniac who had done
these fearful acts. He declared the impossibility
of the accusation, but confessed
that of late years he feared he had been
yielding to unusual promptings and that
there were gaps in the twenty-four hours
of which he positively had no recollection.
He said that he had awakened in his own
rooms as if from a stupor and found mud
upon his boots, indicating that he had
been in the streets, and stains of blood
upon his hands. This had distressed him
very much, and he had communicated
these incidents to his wife, in whom he
had the utmost confidence, but she
could not account for them. He had also
scratches upon his face, and his amputating
knives had shown signs of use,
though he could not recall having assisted
at any operation. He begged them in all
sincerity to unravel this mystery for him.

Kindly and sympathetically the doctors
assured him that most deplorably there
could be no doubt of his identity with the
Whitechapel assassin. They made an exhaustive
search of the house, led by
the accused, who assisted them in every
way with a calm stolidity, as if he were
helping to pile up the evidence against
some other individual. They found ample
proofs of murder, and so numerous and
unmistakable were the results of their investigation
that the unhappy man, whose
mind at that moment was in its normally
clear condition, pronounced his own sentence,
and begged to be removed from the
world as a guilty and dangerous monster.
He reproached himself with not having
communicated his suspicions of the extent
of this mania before to his medical associates,
but he was restrained by pride and
his dread of being removed from practice.

The necessary papers were made out and
the irresponsible murderer was committed
to an insane asylum. In a month or so he
lost all semblance of sanity and is now
the most intractable and dangerous madman
confined in that institution. His
mania has got to that extent that, incapable
of inflcting [sic] torture on others, he would
tear his own flesh but for the bonds that
confine him.

When asked why this discovery was not
made generally public, Dr. Howard said
that it would have a panicky effect, and
that if it became generally known that a
physician in good standing could be the
victim of a mania so murderous in its character
the entire profession would suffer.
Again, the result in the law courts would
lead to the only punishment possible under
such conditions, namely, the lifelong
confinement of the lunatic. This was not
done on the responsibility of the doctors
who examined him, or the detectives who
assisted them in completing their investigations.
Men high in authority were consulted,
and agreed that the methods they
adopted were the best for the public weal,
and with this discovery of the assassin all
murders in London of the Whitechapel
character ceased.

--end

[TradeName]

"Wild and Weird" Revisted

When I first posted about this book by Charles Clarke's friend Sir Gilbert Campbell I couldn't read the entire preface in Google books. Now it seems intact. Also, I noticed that in the first story the protagonist cuts a woman's face.

Wild and Weird: Tales of Imagination and Mystery: Russian, English, and Italian (London: Ward, Lock and Co., 1889), Page v
by Sir Gilbert Campbell

The story entitled " The Thief's Taper " has nothing at all to do with the recent hideous atrocities in Whitechapel, but is founded upon the revelations made in the Russian Criminal Courts, when certain peasants were sentenced to lifelong servitude for having committed murder in order to procure human fat for the manufacture of candles which, when lighted, had the property of sending the inmates of houses into which burglars had succeeded in penetrating into a deep slumber. The same superstition was at one time prevalent in England, and has been narrated in the "Ingoldsby Legends" under the title of "The Hand of Glory."

Page 51

Nepimoff's Father

"I hope so," answered Serge Nepimoff, "but as I turned I encountered the face of Conchita blazing with all the fury of a demon. 'Wretch, you have assassinated him,' cried she. 'I killed him fairly,' replied I, 'and now it is your turn.' As I spoke I grasped both her wrists in one of my hands and drew her towards me. She struggled violently, but I seemed to be possessed of the strength of ten men, and easily mastered her. When she felt that all her efforts were unavailing she lost all the haughty insolence of her manner and in tones of abject entreaty implored me to spare her life. She was not worth the killing, but I vowed that her fatal beauty should lead no more to destruction, and with half a dozen rapid cuts I scored her across the cheek and brow with my keen-edged weapon. She shrieked wildly, and flinging her from me I dashed her upon the body of her lifeless paramour, and fled from the accursed house. I know, however, that I have been followed, and in a few minutes the officers of justice will be here, but Serge Nepimoff shall never disgrace his family by standing in the felon's dock, for I have a little friend here that will save me from such a degradation."


Pages 56-96

THE THIEF'S TAPER

[TradeName]

More "Wild and Weird"

A werewolf eats human hearts, using a knife in an attempt to obtain one while in human form; in another story a woman is killed with a knife in a London theater. FWIW.

Wild and Weird: Tales of Imagination and Mystery: Russian, English, and Italian (London: Ward, Lock and Co., 1889)
by Sir Gilbert Campbell

Pages 97-133

THE WHITE WOLF OF KOSTOPCHIN

Section 2, Page 97

THE GHOST AT THE PROSCENIUM

They had gone to her dressing-room to ascertain the cause of her delay in making her appearance on the stage, and receiving no answer to their knocks, endeavoured to open the door. It was locked, but examination showed that, strangely enough, the key was on the outside. The door was thrown open, and a hideous spectacle presented itself to their eyes: the unfortunate girl lay on the floor bathed in blood, dressed ready for appearance on the stage. The face was quite calm, and her features in no way distorted: she had evidently been struck down from behind, for there was a deep wound where the neck joins the spine, which would have caused immediate death, whilst in a corner of the room lay the blood-stained knife with which the deed had been done. The assassin had done his hideous work cleverly, and the only traces he had left were the marks of a gory hand imprinted on the whitewashed wall of the dressing-room.

[TradeName]

The Avenging Hand

The Avenging hand

A Series of Thrilling Detective Stories
by Sir Gilbert E. Campbell, Bart.
Author of "The Mystery of Mandeville Square,"
"A Wave of Brain Power."

Hartford Weekly Times, August 28, 1890, Page 10

No. 1 -- A Knife Thrust in the Dark

The popular idea in many provincial
minds is that London is a series of busy
thoroughfares, where the rattle of vehicles
and the hum of passers-by is going on
continually, and the only lonely spots
to be found are in the city after the day's
business is over. The Whitechapel murders
and a few other outrages of a similar
nature, must, however, to a certain
extent, disturb this theory, but the
bucolic mind is hard to convert after
it has once come to a conclusion,
and so there are doubtless many
who still believe that busy London
never sleeps or rests, and that murderers,
burglars and hoc genus omne ply their
trade openly, under the glare of the gas,
and in the midst of a seething crowd of
foot-passengers. And yet there are places
in town, which, after daylight has faded
away, are as desolate and lonely, during
certain hours, as the great desert of
Sahara. Not the city, nor the dark,
narrow streets of the East End, not
transpontine London, but portions of the west and
west central districts. Some of the great
squares in the latter division of the town
are places which, after, the night has set
in, are full of black shadows, whilst the
gas lamps only cast a feeble light over the
few rods of pavement and roadway in
their immediate vicinity. The dark mass
of foliage, and the gloomy iron railings
which surround the ornamental grounds in
the center, add to the prevailing gloom,
whilst the tall houses on all sides, the
blinds of which are drawn down, appear
to close out the light of the moon and the
stars.

[...]

Hartford Weekly Times, September 11, 1890, Page 10

No. 2 -- The Forged Cheque


Hartford Weekly Times, September 18, 1890, Page 10

No. 3 -- A String of Pearls


Hartford Weekly Times, September 25, 1890, Page 10

No. 4 -- The Paymaster's Cashbox


Hartford Weekly Times, October 2, 1890, Page 10

No 5. -- The Serpent's Tooth


Hartford Weekly Times, November 13, 1890, Page 10

No. 6 -- The Mystery of the Palace Borgen


Hartford Weekly Times, November 20, 1890, Page 10

No. 7 -- An Indian Detective


Hartford Weekly Times, November 26, 1890, Page 10

No. 8 -- Off the Lizard


Hartford Weekly Times, December 4, 1890, Page 9

No. 9 -- Under the British Flag


Hartford Weekly Times, December 11, 1890, Page 10

No. 10 -- Across the Street


Hartford Weekly Times, December 18, 1890, Page 10

No. 11 -- A Strange Resurrection


Hartford Weekly Times, January 1, 1891, Page 10

No. 12 -- Lady Sophia's Sapphires


Hartford Weekly Times, January 15, 1891, Page 10

No. 13 -- The Man without a Head


Hartford Weekly Times, January 22, 1891, Page 10

No. 14 -- Beef Tea


Hartford Weekly Times, February 5, 1891, Page 10

No. 15 -- The Saratoga Trunk


Hartford Weekly Times, February 12, 1891, Page 10

No. 16 -- In a Four-Wheeled Cab


Hartford Weekly Times, February 19, 1891, Page 7

No. 17 -- Through the Post

[A character mentions that he had received a sentence of "eighteen hard",
the same sentence Campbell would later receive at the Literary Fraud trial.]


Hartford Weekly Times, February 26, 1891, Page 7

No. 18 -- A Strange Disappearance


Hartford Weekly Times, March 5, 1891, Page 7

No. 19 -- The Dorking Street Murder


Hartford Weekly Times, March 12, 1891, Page 7

No. 20 -- Shot in the Back

[TradeName]

"The Man without a Head" & "The Waterloo Bridge Mystery"

Sir Gilbert Campbell's 1891 story, "The Man without a Head" (#13 in the "Avenging Hand" series) seems reminiscent in ways of Robert Anderson' account of the "Waterloo Bridge Mystery" published 19 years later.

The Lighter Side of My Official Life, link
by Sir Robert Anderson, 1910.

Chapter IV

The year 1870 was marked by a good deal of activity in revolutionary circles. And the break up of the French Secret Service Department, on the fall of the Empire, brought me much useful and interesting information. For several of the secret agents of the Surete came to London, and some of them applied to me for employment. Among them was one of the most remarkable men I have ever met in this sort of work. Maxwell was the nom de guerre I gave him. His physique, and notably his head, might have gained him a living as an artist's model. He spoke many languages, and his experiences as a revolutionist, and afterwards as a Police agent, would have made a thrilling story.

Some of the matters he disclosed to me have an historic interest. Count d'Orsay was supposed to have died of spine-disease and a carbuncle in the back. As a matter of fact the carbuncle was a euphemism for a bullet aimed at the Emperor as they were walking together in the gardens of the Elysee. The facts were carefully suppressed, but Maxwell was in the secret. I received confirmation of this afterwards from the Chef de la Surety in Paris. The matter had a peculiar interest for me, as my father was Lady Harriet d'Orsay's lawyer, and the Count valued his friendship. Among his gifts to him, now in my possession, was a tortoise-shell and gold snuff-box bearing an exquisite miniature of Louis XVI.

Another of Maxwell's disclosures will be of interest to thousands of Londoners who have passed middle age. Of all the London horrors of our time, none ever made a greater sensation than the "Waterloo Bridge Mystery" of 1857. On one of the buttresses of the bridge a carpetbag was found on the morning of the 9th of October of that year, containing certain mutilated fragments of a human body. The evidence given at the inquest made it clear that a foul and brutal murder had been committed, but no clue could be discovered to the identity of either the victim or the assassins. Maxwell gave me the facts in full detail. And inquiries made through the Foreign Office and Scotland Yard brought confirmation of all the main points of his story.

The victim was an Italian Police agent who had been sent to London on a special mission. Posing as a revolutionist, he put up at a house in Cranbourne Street, Soho, frequented by Italians of that class. Revolutionists are proverbially suspicious of one another, and a glaring indiscretion cost the man his life. He not only preserved a letter of instructions about his work, but carried it in his pocket ; and this letter his companions got hold of by searching his clothes when he was asleep. As he mounted the stairs the next night in company with some of his fellow-lodgers, he received a blow on the head that stunned him, and his body was dragged to the basement. There he recovered consciousness, but a brief struggle was quickly ended by the use of the assassins' knives. They proceeded to cut up the body, and several nights were spent in efforts to get rid of the remains by burning them. This, however, proved a tedious and irksome task, and it was decided to jettison the rest of the corpse in the river.

[TradeName]

Text of "The Man without a Head"

Hartford Weekly Times, January 15, 1891, Page 10

The Avenging Hand

No. 13 -- The Man without a Head

by Sir Gilbert Edward Campbell, Bart.

Chapter I. -- What was Found in the Ruin

It was some hours since the night had fallen over a wild, dreary-looking portion of the marsh land upon the Essex bank of the Thames. All was wet, muddy and dreary. The coarse grass which grew in rare patches assumed a hideous hue beneath the rays of the moon which shone forth occasionally from between the rain-laden clouds. The whole surface of the marsh was intersected by narrow canals filled with muddy ooze, whilst here and there the rotting timbers of bridges and sluice-gates stuck out from the mire like the bones of some dead and gone giant, brought suddenly to light by a convulsion of nature. Not a tree was to be seen, and there was nothing to break the monotony of the wide extent of marsh save a half-ruined building, which rose, gaunt and ghost-like, some half a mile farther on. It was situated on the edge of a narrow creek, which ran from the great river, the course of which was marked by a long, sinuous bank of mist, which rose from its rapidly flowing waters. On the side next the land, the dismantled building was surrounded by a tall board fence, but in several places many portions of the paling had fallen, leaving great gaps which shone on the weather-beaten walls and the apertures in them, from which sash and glass had been torn away. A chilly rain was falling, and the whole night was not such a one as to induce any one to brave its inclemency who had a comfortable home and a warm fireside before which he could take his ease. Such inducements, however, appeared to have but little weight with a lithe and active figure, which was making its way through the marshy ground with as much speed as the nature of the soil would allow.

The figure was that of a man, some two-and-forty years of age, clad in a long ulster, whilst a cap of the same material as the coat, with long ear-flaps, was fastened underneath his chin. He walked with a quick springy step, and cleared the numerous cuttings, which barred his progress with a run and a jump, which showed that he was possessed of pedestrian powers of no mean order. His features, as far as the cap he wore would permit of their being seen, were full of intelligence; his clearly-shaved upper lip showed a good expressive mouth, with lines indicative of a strong will about it, whilst his dark, gray eyes peered round as if to take in every one of his surroundings with the rapidity of an instantaneous photograph. He bore a stout black thorn walking stick in his right hand and seemed otherwise unarmed, though a close search might have shown the existence of a bulldog revolver lurking in his breast pocket, and ready to his hand should occasion require him to make use of it. Anyone, who was at all acquainted with the stirring dramas of Scotland Yard, or the terrible tragedies of the Central Criminal Court, would have recognized in the solitary wanderer on the Essex marsh, Inspector Whitehall, one of the most astute detectives of the day, whose name had figured in more than one cause celebre. The reason for his presence upon this lonely spot was that information had been received that an organized system of tobacco smuggling had been for some time carried on along the river banks, and that the ruined factory which Whitehill was approaching, had been mentioned as one of the probable depots of the contraband trade. Although he knew that he would have desperate men to deal with, the detective had preferred to start upon his mission alone, trusting to his own sagacity to extricate him from any perilous position into which he might fall.

The mist from the river now began to roll up with increased volume, wrapping everything in its clammy embrace, and forcing Whitehill to move with more caution, least he should fall into one of the numerous cuttings, from which he might find it exceedingly difficult to extricate himself. All at once a faint, lugubrious howl was heard--a wild, weird sound, which caused the detective to come to a sudden halt and glance around him uneasily.

"If," muttered he, "I was with my old regiment in the Saugor district, I should know well enough what that cry meant; but here, in England, the idea is too absurd."

He was about to proceed on his way, when the same strange cry was heard, seeming to proceed from the cloud of mist which veiled the river.

"That is the howl of a tiger or panther," said the detective, decisively. "Where on earth can the brute be? Tut!--tut!--what a fool you are, John Whitehill. Of course the animal may be on board some homeward bound vessel which is making its way up stream. Fancy boggling for a moment over such a simple problem!" and with an impatient gesture the detective once more made his way towards the ruined factory. He had not, however, gone more than a couple of hundred yards when he stopped suddenly, for his keen ear had caught the plash of oars not very far ahead of him. Heedless of the uncertain nature of the ground, the detective started forward at a run, darted through one of the apertures of the fence and reached the little creek by the side of the ruined factory. He was, however, too late, for he only arrived there in time to see a boat with several men in it, whose figures were strangely distorted by the light, pull rapidly out into the river, where they were lost to sight as suddenly as if the boat and its freight had sunk to the bottom of the muddy waters.

“The rogues have been after no good,” muttered Whitehill. “Perhaps, after all, it was better that I did not come across them; the odds were decidedly against me and even my little friend here,” tapping his breast-pocket as he spoke, “might not have brought me off scathless."

The detective now turned his attention to the ruined factory, and drawing a small lantern from his pocket, lighted it, and proceeded to take a leisurely survey of the premises. These had evidently been disused for a long period, the doors had all been removed and such portion of the flooring as still remained was covered with a thick coating of dust. One glance was sufficient to show Whitehill that no one had recently entered the building, otherwise their footsteps would have been easily noticeable. He therefore turned his attention to the exterior, and began to make a circuit of the house.

Very soon, in an angle of the fence, he perceived a light colored object, upon which he directed the rays of his lantern. As he came up to the spot, he saw that it was a sack and not an empty one either. He passed his hand over it, and as he did so, started back with a stifled exclamation; then placing his lantern on the ground, drew a penknife from his pocket, and cutting away the string, with which the mouth of the sack was secured, turned down the edges. A tremor convulsed the iron nerve of the detective as he perceived that the sack contained a nude human body, which had evidently been thrust into the receptacle with some degree of violence, and what added to the horror of the discovery was that the head was missing, it having been inartistically severed from the body by some heavy implement, such as a meat chopper or a bill hook. The corpse was white and blanched, as though the blood had been drawn from it, and the chest and back were seamed with deep scratches evidently inflicted by some curved weapon with a very sharp point. The mutilated body with the moonlight pouring down upon it presented an inexpressibly ghastly spectacle, and Whitehill could not refrain from glancing uneasily over his shoulder as though he expected to see the missing head perched upon the top of the fence and glancing down upon him. No such terrible sight, however, met his eyes, and after a few moments reflection, he drew the sack over the naked body, and making his way down to the water's edge whistled three times in a peculiar key, swinging his lantern backwards and forwards, and then placing it upon the bank. In about ten minutes the sound of oars was heard, and a police galley pulled up to the spot. A few words from Whitehill explained how matters stood, and two of the crew landed and aided him to place his ghastly discovery on board, and then at a signal from the officer in charge, the men bent to their oars and rowed swiftly up stream, through the dark mist and falling rain.


Chapter II -- Condemned

Some distance beyond that gigantic network of docks, which stretches for many miles down the river, there is a collection of squalid dwellings, entirely tenanted by those who make their living along the banks of the Thames. A rough and ready population, not remarkable either for sobriety or honesty, and who, if they do make a haul in the shape of a boat which has gone adrift, or a floating corpse with money in its pockets, keep up a constant carnival as long as the coin lasts. On the outskirts of the little suburb habited by this reckless population stood a house which still betrayed some signs of having been the riverside retreat of some dead and gone magnate. It was surrounded by a high stone wall, with heavy entrance gates, the dwelling itself being almost invisible from the road. A kind of postern gate opened on to a half-ruined jetty, still, however, in sufficiently good order to permit of goods being disembarked from lighters. For many years the house had remained unoccupied, but it had recently been taken by a foreigner, a Polish Jew, who gave the name of Möise Slavoski, and whose ostensible occupation was that of a dealer in foreign birds and beasts.

Slavoski was a little man, but evidently endowed with muscles of iron. His small, blue eyes had a metallic glitter in them, bespeaking a power over the animal kingdom, which he doubtless found of inestimable service in his profession; the fingers of his huge hands, the backs of which were covered with coarse, red hair, had a knack of twisting and twining together when he became excited, though his voice never rose above the soft tones which seemed inseparable from it. The house he had taken had for some years been used as a private lunatic asylum, but a terrible tragedy which had occurred within the walls had caused it to be shut up, and it had remained untenanted for many years before the dealer in wild beasts had rented it. Many of the doors were double, the windows were all of them heavily grated, and a small courtyard, into which the great dining-room opened, was covered with a network of iron bars, stretching from wall to wall, and supported in the center by three massive masonry pillars. The gloomy look which these precautions imparted to the house, and which might have been objected to by any other tenant were evidently objects of congratulation to Slavoski, as being useful to him in his peculiar line of business.

The dealer in savage animals had not a very large stock on view. Several melancholy-looking baboons sat listlessly in cages placed along the wall of the dinning-room, two or three pythons, in a long shallow box, slumbered so peacefully amidst their blankets that they might have been taken for stuffed specimens of their kind, whilst a doleful-looking pelican and a couple of pensive storks strode about with the air of friends of the family who were permitted to have the run of the place. The only specimen which appeared to be of any value was a magnificent black panther, which lived in a rough but strong cage in the courtyard, and upon whom Slavoski lavished many tokens of affection. The animal seemed to appreciate these, and at a word from her master would sidle up to the bars of the cage and purr like a gigantic cat; to all other visitors, however, she manifested the unconquerable ferocity of her race. Many strange-looking men of foreign extraction, doubtless dealers in wild beats, or perhaps only their agents, were in the habit of visiting Slavoski, and sometimes remained with him for a day or two. They were, however, all of them sober, taciturn men, and what happened inside the house was a sealed book to those dwelling in the neighborhood.

The day before Whitehill had made his terrible discovery in the ruined factory, Slavoski and several of his associates were seated at a table in the center of the dining-room. There were, however, no signs of conviviality, for no bottles or glasses were visible upon the table, and though some of the company smoked cigarettes, it was evidently more from custom than from any pleasure they found in the fragrant weed. Every now and then a gust of wind, as it swept up the river, would tear savagely at the window shutters, then the panther in the court-yard would utter a lugubrious howl, the baboons would chatter, and the stork and pelican flap their wings uneasily. Silence had for some time reigned amongst the little party, and then Möise Slavoski, rising to his feet, addressed his companions, emphasizing his words with many strange twists of his muscular hands.

"Brethren," said he, "you have been summoned on a business of the utmost importance. As you are aware, we are all actuated by the same motive, that of restoring and giving freedom to the great Muscovite empire, sweeping away the tyrant, and making all men free and equal. To do this we hesitate at nothing, and the midnight knife and the explosive bomb are looked on by us as legitimate means of warfare. Despots within their strongholds, and surrounded by their guards, tremble before us, for the terror of the unknown is upon them. Many are the perils we have to guard against, and I say it with shame, the greatest of these is treachery among ourselves."

"What," interrupted a slightly made native of Poland, with a fair and almost seraphic face, "have we a traitor amongst us, President? If so, let me deal with him," and as he spoke his hand glided into his breast as though in search of some hidden weapon.

"Softly, Vladamier," answered the president; "softly and you shall hear all. You know that it was I who organized the idea of the wild beast business and found out the sequestered dwelling, where we could meet in security. Look around, my brethren, now, and tell me who is absent."

"Guiseppe Malatesta," was the answer, in half a dozen different voices.

"Yes, Guiseppe Malatesta, the nihilist delegate from Naples, is the traitor; he has denounced our society and its meetings to the authorities of Scotland Yard."

An angry murmur broke from the assembled company, and there was a general uprising from table, whilst uneasy glances were cast around.

Möise Slavoski waved his hand reassuringly.

"There is no occasion for alarm at present. Providence watches over us. The official to whom Guiseppe Malatesta made his revelation is that member of our society whose real name is known to me alone, but whom you designate '349.'"

"We are safe for the present then," remarked a stalwart member of the society, whose home was at Nishni Novogorid, but who had only recently escaped from the terrible lead mine of Siberia, "but there must be no vacillation--the traitor must be cut off from amongst us."

"The man I have accused will be here in five minutes," answered the president. Do you, Paulovitch, and you, Kouzma, station yourselves on each side of the door and pinion him as he enters; then let him be heard, and if he is found guilty, then--"

"He shall never quit the room alive," broke in the young man, fiercely.

"Hush!" returned the president; "leave all to me. If we find my accusation is just, let us cast him out of our brotherhood, and bid him depart from amongst us. Let him pass through yonder door, and never attempt for the future to associate with patriots and men of honor." As Slavoski uttered these concluding words, he crossed the room, and laying hold of a chain which passed through a hole in the wall drew it forcibly towards him.

"I understand," said the man from the Siberian mines, looking around him, with a grim smile. "It is better so; I do not mind stabbing a tyrant, bust such carrion as a traitor would sully my dagger."

"He comes," shouted the president; "Kouzma, Paulovitch, make sure of him."

The two men nodded, and as the door opened, leaped upon the visitor, who, taken by surprise, was unable to offer any resistance.

"What is the meaning of this," cried he, glaring around him. "Are we here to play practical jokes?"

"We have met to punish a traitor, Malatesta," answered the president, looking keenly at him.

"Well," returned the last comer, "what has that to do with me?"

"Much," returned Slavoski, coldly, "for you, Guiseppe Malatesta are the vile thing I have just named. Do you dare to deny it? Here," and as he spoke he dashed a bundle of papers on the table, "are the names of the members of our society, the minutes of their meetings and various other particulars all in your handwriting, and sent by you to Scotland Yard."

A livid hue spread over the Italian's swarthy cheeks.

"How--how," stammered he, "did you obtain them?"

"Easily enough," answered the president. "Poor fool; did you think so meanly of us as to imagine we should take no precautions, and that we have not agents in every class of society? The man to whom you thought you were betraying our secrets was an affiliated member of the central committee, and is known as '349.'"

For a moment the Italian trembled, then casting aside his fear by a sudden effort, he exclaimed:

"I confess all, I have played a bold game, my life against revenge; I have lost and must pay up. Do not, however, think I am the cowardly cur who sells his comrades for gold. I had a more powerful incentive to act as I have done; but then, what use in talking? Let your butchers do their work."

"We are ready to hear all you have to say,” replied the president, mildly, "and will not condemn you even on your own confession."

"Listen, then,” said the Italian, "it was not many years ago since I was the happiest of men, possessing, as I fondly thought, the love of a fair young wife. A wealthy stranger saw her and tempted her away from me. I tracked them to Moscow, but there I lost all trace of the fugitive. I had spent all my money and had to seek for work. I saw the poverty and misery of the Russian people, I had many acquaintances amongst the socialists of my native land. I managed to get introduced to the nihilists, showed what I could do for them, became an affiliated member of their society, and was sent to England to aid in the great work of regeneration--." He paused for a few moments, and gasped for breath, as though his emotions were choking him.

"Proceed," said the president, in the same bland accents.

"When I was introduced to the head of the society here," resumed the Italian, what was my horror to find myself in the presence of the seducer of my wife. You, Möise Slavoski, were the villain, though you have another and a nobler name, which you bore when you tempted that poor girl to destruction. I did not stab you to the heart, for that would have been but a poor revenge, but from that moment I cast to the winds all the vows of fidelity I had sworn, and swore to overwhelm you and your associates in one universal destruction. Now you know all, and will soon silence the lips which have striven to denounce you."

"Brethren," said the president, the muscles of whose face had never moved beneath this terrible revelation, "you have heard the accused. What is your verdict?"

"Guilty!" was the unanimous reply. "Pass sentence."

"Guiseppe Malatesta," said the president, "you hear the judgment of your brethren. Truly do I confess that I have injured you, and for that I humbly solicit forgiveness. But the great duties you had undertaken should have raised you far above the recollections of such every-day occurrences as you have pleaded as an excuse for your crime. Still, however, we all are all human, and I will take the risk of letting you escape the penalty you have so justly incurred. Brethren, this conclave of the sons of freedom is dissolved; let us exchange the grip of friendship and depart, never to know each other again, unless our duties call upon us to do so, never to recall each others' names, and never to look upon each others' faces with the gaze of recognition. Let us pass each other by as utter strangers until the blow is to be given, and then let us unite together again, with the sharpened dagger clasped in the ready hand. Brethren, the conclave is dissolved, let each member seek security in the way best known to himself; but, as for you, Guiseppe Malatesta, perjured associate of a noble work, I, as the mouth-piece of the society you have disgraced, cast you out from it, and declare that you are unfit to associate with any men to whom a sacred oath is a binding obligation. Go forth from amongst us, and remember that though you take your life with you, you leave behind that honor, which is dearer to every right-minded man than mere existence. Yonder is the door," continued the president, pointing to an entrance in the other side of the room; "pass through it and never let us see your foresworn face again."

The convicted prisoner staggered, as though he had not expected this sudden withdrawal from the portals of death.

"What--you let me go free?" stammered he.

"Yes, free," answered the president. "Brethren, release his hands. I myself will undo the door by which the creature who has been adjudged to be an unfit associate for honest men, may take his exit. Go forth, none of us will lay a finger on you, and if you reach home in safety to-night, you may congratulate yourself, and say that Heaven frowns on our endeavors to free our country."

He was moved towards the door as he spoke, and laid his hand upon the heavy bolt which kept it closed. As if by common consent the members of the conclave hastily crowded to the other side of the table, as though to place it as a barrier between themselves and some unseen danger.

Guiseppe Malatesta moved with uncertain steps across the room.

"Free!" muttered he, "free and revenge still left open to me. Merciful Providence, I thank thee."

"Go forth," repeated the president once more, "go forth and if you reach home to-night in safety, you are blessed and [we?] are accursed." With some degree of violence he thrust him through the doorway and closed the strong barrier between them.

Möise Slavoski never moved from the door, and with awe-struck faces the reset of the society gathered round him. All at once a shrill shriek broke in upon the silence, and a cry of "Cowards, is this your promised freedom?" Then there was a tramping to and fro as of persons engaged in deadly conflict, the panting of a man mingled with the hoarse growl of a savage beast, then a silence, only broken by faint groans and a purring sound such as might have emanated from some gigantic cat.

"It is over," said Möise, wiping away the cold beads of perspiration that had gathered on his brow, "and we are safe."

"And what is to become of the body; surely that will betray us!" demanded the man from Nishni Novogorid.

"As soon as night falls we will ferry it across the river," retorted the president. "I know a place where it may not be found for months."

"Yes, and then it will be recognized," objected the young Pole who had been first to advocate the murder.

"I will arrange for that," answered Möise, and going to a cupboard he took from it a whip, with a heavily loaded handle, and a chopper. He threw open the door, closed it behind him, and stepped out into the yard. There was a whistling sound as of a whip sweeping through the air, the savage snarl of a wild beast, and the voice of a man was heard in tones of abjurattion [sic]. Then came the dull and heavy noise of blows struck upon some soft substance, and in a few minutes Möise appeared in the doorway, his hands spotted with blood, and his face and garments flicked with the same crimson hue. "It is all safe," said he, "come into the yard."

With pales faces and trembling limbs the members of the conclave followed.

"My God," exclaimed the man from Nishni Novogorid, stooping over a dark mass which lay in one corner of the yard, "you have taken it off. What do you intend to do with it?"

"This," answered the president, and lifting up a globular object from the ground, he thrust it beneath the bars of the cage in which the panther was moving restlessly to and fro. With a dull roar the wild beast darted upon the object thus thrown to it and grasping it between his forepaws began to attack it with tooth and claw. A hideous sound of crackling bone followed, which brought a sinister smile to the face of Möise Slavoski. "The panther," said he, "is the safe repository of all our secret."


Chapter III -- The Patch in the Sack

The hideous discovery of the mutilated body was the special feature of all the morning papers, and many were the sagacious surmises put forth by the editors. No one came forward to identify the deceased man, all that the medical evidence could assert was that the unhappy man had met his death from a heavy blow which had fractured the spinal column, and which appeared to have been inflicted by the pounce of one of the larger beasts of prey, such as a lion or tiger, and this was borne out by several severe scratches being visible upon the hip and shoulders. There were, however, no marks or bites, and the head had been entirely severed from the body by means of a rather blunt instrument wielded by an unpracticed hand. Whitehill had thrown himself into the search with all the energy of his nature. When he gazed upon the mangled remains, a kind of feeling came over him that the form was not unfamiliar to him, but beyond this his memory would not go. Many whose friends or relatives had disappeared came to view the body, but no one had succeeded in identifying it. One clue, however, remained in the detective's hands, and this he thought would lead him to the discovery of the perpetrator of the crime. The sack [into?] which the body had been thrust was evidently one which at some period had been used for flour, and the initials of a firm together with the name of a town in Essex was marked upon it. These, however, would not have been of much service had it not been for something which marked out the sack from other receptacles, and that was, that on one side of it there was a long tear, which had been carefully patched by a piece of sacking of some utterly different material.

Without any unnecessary delay, Whitehill journeyed down to Essex, and soon found the corn mill, the initials of the owner of which were legibly imprinted on the sack.

Mr. Flamerton, the manager, had of course, read of the terrible discovery, and was willing to give his utmost aid, but when the detective mentioned his errand he shook his head doubtfully.

"We send out thousands of sacks every year," said he, "and though I can give you a list of all our customers, I fear that will not aid you much."

"But there is a mark where the sack has been mended," urged Whitehill. "Will not that help?"

"We never send out patched sacks," replied Mr. Flamerton, with an air of some dignity, "but I tell you what I can do for you. I will send for Job Potter, who has been for years in the service of the firm, as a carman; if anybody can help you, he is the man."

In a few moments a shrewd-looking old man appeared in the office and made a rough bow to his master and the visitor.

"Job," said Mr. Flamerton, "this gentleman has come from Scotland Yard regarding the headless body which was found on the marshes. It appears that it was one of our sacks. Do you think that it will afford any clue?"

Job scratched his head reflectively. "A many of our sacks never comes back to us, sir," remarked he, "and one sack is as much like another as two peas, they ain't numbered you know; but blarm their impidence for a putting corpses into our bags."

"This sack had a tear in it, nearly eight inches long," said Whitehill, "which had been mended with some material of a darker and finer texture. Does that help you?"

"We don't send out mended sacks, sir," answered Job, unconsciously almost using the same words as his master, "but--oh, why blarm me, if it don't all come back to me. I don't know nothing of patched sacks, but I do know of one wot was torn, and that not a month ago."

"Indeed?" returned Whitehill. "Suppose you tell me about it."

"Lor bless you mister, their aint much to tell," answered the carman. "I took a lot of flour to Binks, the baker, in Witham street, Lumhouse. He's a rough and ready sort of a chap, and he and his men managed to tear one of the sacks, when they was a taking it down. 'There, mister,' sez I, 'don't you be a trying to give us the sack back agin, for we won't have it,' sez I. 'You're precious particular about your blooming sacks,' sez he, 'look at the waste all over the pavement.' So, Mister, perhaps Binks might tell you something, th' mind yer, I don't say as how it were the same sack."

The detective thanked Mr. Flamerton, tossed the carman a shilling, and after taking down Bink's address, started off afresh on his mission. He easily found Witham street, but the proprietor of the shop was not disposed to be very communicative, until he heard that the inquiry was made with reference to the mysterious murder. In common with most uneducated people, the deed of blood had a strange fascination for him, and he at once told all he knew.

"I recollect it well enough," said he, "and a bloomimg lot of flour I lost. The sack wasn't no good to me, and I gave it to our boy, Tom. I sent him about his business a week ago, the lazy young varmint, but you'll easy find him--his father and mother keep a coal and potato shed in Sand street, not 200 yards away. I daresay it is the old man wot has been cut up. He and the missus was always a jawing, and as for Tom, he was up to every devilment. Why I sent him off for--"

Not waiting to hear the recital of Tom's delinquencies, the detectives hurried away to Sand street and found the proprietor of the coal and potato business calmly smoking his pipe in front of the establishment. He was very communicative, which may have been attributable to his having just taken his third moderate refresher.

"It's all right, guv'nor," said he. "Tom brought home the sack from that old skinflint, Binks, and the missus mended it up as best she could. We didn't put no bodies in it howsomever, but filled it with good mealy potatoes, which we sold to a real gent, tho' he is a furineer. He asked to be allowed to keep the sack which he did, and giv me a shillin for it."

"And what might be the gentleman's name," asked Whitehill, wondering through how many more hands the sack would pass.

"Hanged if I can pronounce such a jawbreaker," answered the coal merchant, "but I've got it down on a bit of paper." And going to a rough desk, he produced an envelope, upon which was written in a fairly legible hand: "Möise Slavoski, importer of foreign birds and beasts, Cutter's Reach."

As the detective read these words, a ghastly pallor spread over his face, and had he not caught hold of one of the bins, he would have fallen to the ground. The address had made all clear to him.

"My God," muttered he, between his clenched teeth. "It is Guiseppe."

Hardly thanking the coal vendor, who stared after him with looks of surprise and wonder, he made the best of his way to his lodgings, a sickening feeling of horror gnawing at his heart. When he was alone, he thought over the future long and earnestly. He was in a perilous position. Long ago, before he enlisted, he had been induced to join a nihilist society, and though for many years he had heard nothing of his brotherhood, yet recently he had been brought into contact with then, and under the head of No. 349 was cognizant of the meetings in the house at Cutter's Reach, though he had never personally attended any of them. Guiseppe Malatesta, thinking that he was addressing a mere official of Scotland Yard, had confided to him the secrets of the brotherhood as well as his reasons for turning traitor, and Whitehill often wondered whether he should steer safely through the difficulties which foamed and raged around him. As he now sat musing, his eye fell upon a letter, placed upon the mantelpiece, which must have arrived during one of his numerous absences and escaped his notice. He opened it, and read the intimation of the closing of the secret conclave. "There is but one chance," muttered he, as he placed a revolver in his coat pocket, and putting on a pea jacket and a soft felt hat started off for Cutter's Reach.


Chapter IV -- Destroying the Clue

After some delay the door of the wild beast dealer's house was opened by the owner, who gazed with some surprise at his visitor. "I did not expect to see you here, 349," remarked he. "You got my letter, I presume."

"I have come on business," answered Whitehill, shortly.

"Of course, but as I am in a hurry, be as brief as you can," returned Slavoski. "I am getting rid of my menagerie. See," he added, showing his powerful hands tinged with blood. "I have been cutting the birds' throats. I have already shot the baboons, and I was just making a nice little medicated meal for the panther. I shall set fire to the place when darkness comes on, and leave England for good."

"I shall change your plans, I fear," remarked Whitehill, "for I have come to arrest you for the murder of Guiseppe Malatesta."

They had by this time entered the dining-room, and as the detective uttered these words Möise, by a sudden movement, closed the door and drew a heavy bar across it.

"Are you mad," growled he, "to talk thus? You are as deep in it as I am."

"Not so," returned Whitehall. "The poor fellow told me all his sad story, and although I was compelled to inform you of his denunciation, yet I pitied him and warned him not to go to his home again, intending to take measures for his future safety. All is clear to me now. You, the man who had so deeply injured him, decoyed him by some means within reach of the wild beast you are about to poison, the beast slew him, and after draining his life blood was taken off by you. The head was then severed and concealed. I know not where, and the body removed to the ruined factory on the marshes--"

"If you want to know what has become of the head, ask the black panther," broke in Möise, with a brutal laugh.

"Providence, however, willed that your guilty secret should be unveiled," continued the detective, "and I have traced the sack in which the body was placed to you. Möise Slavoski, you are my prisoner."

"Fool," returned the dealer in wild beasts. "Are you not as deeply in the mess as I am?" Do you think my tongue will hesitate to denounce you?"

I have weighed all chances and will take the risk," returned Whitehall. "Come, are you ready to go with me?"

"Take me if you can," retorted Möise savagely,” but I warn you that you are in deadly peril of leaving your bones here." And as he spoke he threw open the door leading to the yard, and pulled down the chain which opened the cage of the black panther.

Whitehill never flinched. "Your ally will not help you!" said he, with a slight sneer. "I suspected you might try and play a trick like this. Before coming I prepared a little sweet meat for the brute, and ere I knocked at your door, dropped it into the cage from the top of the wall. The panther will never act as your instrument of murder again."

"You play close," said Möise, grinding his teeth.

"I play to win," answered the detective, calmly.

"Come," remarked Slavoski, after a short pause. "I am a bon enfant after all. They say you have been a soldier, and I will give you a chance for your life. I shall kill you, but at any rate you will have the honor of crossing swords with a gentleman." He opened a drawer as he spoke, and drew from it a pair of cutlasses ground to the sharpness of a razor. "Take this," he continued, tossing one as he spoke towards the detective, who, without taking his eye from his adversary, stooped and picked it up. "Now, guard," said Möise, taking a step forward, and the two blades crossed with a dull grating sound.

Whitehill's experience in a cavalry regiment had made him a fair swordsman, but after a few minutes' sword play, he felt that he was in the presence of a master of the science. "I am lost," thought he, "if I permit him to keep me at arms' length," and acting upon this he stepped forward and made a sweeping cut at his opponent's face. With the agility of an acrobat Slavoski dropped on one knee, the blow whistled harmlessly over his head, whilst his own point pricked Whitehill's chest sharply, causing him to recoil a pace. In an instant Slavoski was on his feet, ready to renew the conflict.

"I could have run you through the body then," remarked he, calmly, "but I have nothing to do until dusk, and may just as well lengthen out my amusement."

Feeling that he was lost, Whitehill again attacked, and this time succeeded in inflicting a slight wound on his adversary's shoulder. In his haste to regain his guard, however, his foot slipped, and he fell to the ground, his weapon escaping from his grasp as he did so.

"Ah! my friend," said Slavoski, "you are quicker than I thought, and so all the more dangerous. I fear that I must put an end to you." As he spoke he drew back his arm, glancing downward for a vital spot into which to plunge his weapon.

Whitehill felt that death was very near, and glanced around to see if no chance of escape was open to him. The sharp point quivered, as if about to descend, when he thought of the pistol in his breast. In an instant he had drawn it forth, and fired it point-blank at his intending murderer. The threatening steel fell from the murderer's hand, and without a cry, Möise Slavoski staggered back a pace or two, and then fell heavily on his face. Hardly believing in his safety, the detective rose to his feet, and cautiously examined the prostrate man; the bullet, however, sped true to the mark, and the blood-stained soul of Möise Slavoski had gone to its account.

Whitehill felt no remorse for the dead he had just done.

"Guiseppe Malatesta is avenged," muttered he, as he proceeded to examine the house. Not a scrap of paper of any kind was to be found, and all the preparations for firing the house were completed. The storks and pelicans with their heads severed from their bodies, lay a mere gory heap of feathers in the kitchen, the poor baboons looking pitiably human in death were stretched upon their straw, cold and stiff, while the black panther, its spine contracted by the action of strychnine, looked like a black mass in the deepening shadows of the evening.

Whitehill had long ago made up his mind what to do. He set fire to the piles of combustibles stowed in a dozen parts of the house, then taking possession of the boat, moored along side of the old jetty, he pulled up the stream with the skill of a practiced oarsman. When about a quarter of a mile off, he rested on his oars and gazed at the fierce red glow, which had risen high in the air above the house of death.

"I think I have done well," said he, as he again bent to his oars. "I cannot blame myself for what I have done, and thank Heaven the clue is lost forever."

[TradeName]

Other Accounts of "The Waterloo Bridge Mystery"

Chronicles of Bow Street police-office: With an Account of the Magistrates, "Runners," and Police (London: Chapman and Hall, 1888), Volume 2, Pages 252-266
by Percy Hetherington Fitzgerald

CHAPTER XIII.

THE WATERLOO BRIDGE MYSTERY


Some accounts claim that the "Mystery" was a hoax.

Glimpses of Real Life as Seen in the Theatrical World and in Bohemia (Edinburgh: Nimmo, 1864), Pages 304-305
by James Glass Bertram

When I was starving in a cheap lodging-house in Pemberton Row, Gough Square, I became acquainted with a fellow in misfortune who was great at inventing for the newspapers occurrences that had never taken place. I was admitted to his confidence, and we once or twice contrived to set the town in a blaze. I was forcibly reminded of him at the time of the Waterloo-Bridge mystery, and guessed he had had a hand in that pie. I think my old acquaintance, Jim Blank, who had been a medical student, and was a contemporary of a clever gentleman-showman recently gone across the bourne, must have managed the matter from beginning to end. I was informed that about the date of that strange circumstance, my friend Blank had got married, and was rather in a flourishing way than otherwise. How it was all done, I can surmise. Blank, through the friendship of some of his old college chums, could easily procure the headless trunk of a human body; and the "liner,'' after encasing it in a suit of foreign-looking clothes, purchased for the purpose, would have it packed in a carpet-bag, and lowered from the bridge into the water. The body in due time is found, and the active reporter is thus enabled to grow many columns of matter out of the event for the morning' papers; and straight the wonderful circumstance of a headless body, apparently boiled and perforated with stabs, being found on the buttress of one of the Thames bridges, takes rank (by the careful cultivation of the reporter) as one of the mysteries of the age, and spreads over the country with wonderful rapidity. But it is no mystery to Blank and his confederates; with them it is just a good "lark." I have no doubt whatever of the whole plot having been invented in a garret of Bohemia over a modest supper of bread and cheese and beer. The "penny-a-liners," as they are called, are not slow in seasons barren of fires or murders to use their inventive powers; and many are the "Strange Circumstance" and "Mysterious Event" which they have chronicled,—the real place of their occurrence having been, in all likelihood, a public-house parlour.

Some Account of the Parish of Saint Clement Danes (Westminster) (London: Diprose,Bateman & Co.,1876), Volume 2, Pages 173-175
by John Baker Hopkins

The Waterloo Bridge Mystery. The following is a statement which appeared in an Indian paper, and was copied into many of the London newspapers :—

"A statement having appeared in an Indian paper which has just reached England to the effect that a soldier at Lucknow had told the authorities at the military prison there that he was the person who, towards the end of 1857, placed on Waterloo Bridge the carpet-bag which gave rise to what was termed 'The Waterloo Bridge Mystery,' the following letter is published by a contemporary from 'An Old London Sub-Editor,' which explains the whole 'mystery.' He says :—' Sitting in the sub-editorial chair in an office in the Strand, on the night of the 9th of October (not November), 1857, a well-known 'liner' rushed in, and in an ecstasy of delight exclaimed, 'I have got something stunning for you tonight.' As things of interest were rather dull, I told him I was rejoiced to hear the good news. He then produced a sheaf of flimsy copy, all cut-and-dried, purporting to be a full report of what was afterwards designated 'The Waterloo Bridge Mystery.' The passage of a man with the carpet bag over Waterloo Bridge; the finding of the bag by the lads rowing in a boat on the Thames; the conveyance of the bag to Bow Street Police Station; the description of the human remains and the clothes found in the bag; remarkable disappearance of friends and relations; startling rumours and grave deductions, were all woven together with the cunning that distinguishes the London 'liner.' I knew this reporter; I knew he was in low water at the time of his visit; I knew he was a manufacturer of what he technically called 'the 'orrible'; I knew that from the time the bag was stated to have been found, and the time he brought me (if my memory serves me right) from one column and a half to two columns of copy, it was impossible to produce such a quantity ; and I at once came to the conclusion that the story had been cooked up for the newspaper market. Still, the 'liner' shook my credulity by declaring that the story was as true as gospel, and without one word of exaggeration. And so 'The Waterloo Bridge Mystery' appeared next morning in our paper and in all the other London papers from the pen of the same 'liner.' I still had my doubts of the authenticity of the story told by the 'liner,' and these doubts were very much strengthened when certain hints reached my ears to the effect that the police, newspapers and public had all been very cleverly done. Here is my version of the story; and I may say that the author of the 'mystery' and his companions—there were three in all—when pointedly asked by me if the 'mystery' was real or conco[c]ted, always evaded a direct answer to the question. The 'liner' who brought me the copy had chambers in an Inn now demolished to make way for the New Law Courts. These chambers were in close proximity to the rear of an hospital. A brother 'liner' was acquainted with one of the officials of this hospital. From this official a bag full of human remains and some human blood were procured from the dissecting-room, and carried to the 'liner's' chambers in the Inn. A suit of clothes was then got; these were cut about with a knife and smeared here and there with blood. After a full description of everything had been taken by the two 'liners,' the human remains and bloody clothes were placed in the bag. This was the transaction of one night. Early next morning the 'liners' set to work, and, taking the American papers as their model, wrote up a long account of what they said they had good reason to fear was a barbarous and cruel murder, entering into a full description of the mysterious contents of the bag which was afterwards found on the stonework at the base of one of the pillars of Waterloo Bridge. This report was duplicated, and left ready addressed for the morning papers. This was the work of a day. Night crept on, and the question of depositing the bag in some outlandish, yet conspicuous place, where it could be easily found, arose. An old man, who had seen better days, and acted as carrier for the two 'liners,' was let into the secret. This old man disguised himself as a female, and, with the bag in his hand, in the darkness of night, made for Waterloo Bridge. Tying a rope to the bag, he carefully swung it over the Bridge, and let it gently drop on the shelving mason-work at the foot of one of the pillars. He then watched ; but, no one appearing, he went home, and came again early in the morning. After waiting a while, he saw a boat being rowed towards the pillar of the Bridge, the bag taken into the boat, and the boat again propelled towards the shore. He immediately set off for the Inn, and informed the anxious 'liners 'how well their plans had so far succeeded. One set off to the river side, the other to Bow Steeet Police Station. The river side 'liner' having seen the bag safely in the custody of the police, waited till it was examined, and then sent a short paragraph, mentioning the finding of the bag and what it contained to an evening newspaper. This paragraph, which was intended as a decoy-duck to the managers of the morning papers, appeared in the second edition. By this time the Bow Street police were on the scent, the terrible discovery was in the hands of the officers of the law, and the 'liner's' triumph was complete. The 'liner' having set the mystery ball a-rolling, the police and that numerous class of persons in large cities with 'missing friends' did the rest. The 'liner-in-chief' having made assurance doubly sure by looking in at Bow Street on his way to the Inn, came round to my office with his already prepared bundle of copy having previously started off his old copy-bearer to the other morning papers with duplicates. From day to day the awful 'mystery' was elaborated by my friend the 'liner,' for, with the true instinct of his class, he reserved a few tit-bits of description for daily use over a full week. The three persons immediately concerned in concocting a plot and fabricating a story which spread the utmost alarm all over the country are now dead, and I believe died in possession of their secret. I am certain that, after a short while, the police found out that they had been duped, although they still laboured on in the work of discovery; for, 'the gentlemen of the force' cannot—-must not—-admit that they have been the victims of a daring imposition. At all events, this I know, the Scotland Yard authorities suffered the matter to gradually die out."

[TradeName]

Scenes from Life's Stage

More stories from Charles Clarke's associate:

Scenes from Life's Stage
Ten Original Stories
by Sir Gilbert E. Campbell, Bart., Author of "Detective Stories from Real Life," "The Avenging Hand," "The Mystery of Mandeville Square, Etc."

Pittsburg Dispatch, April 09, 1892, Page 12

1 -- A Black Pin


Pittsburg Dispatch, April 16, 1892, Page 12

2 -- The 9:45 Express


Pittsburg Dispatch, April 23, 1892, Page 12

3 -- The Clink of the Shoe


Pittsburg Dispatch, April 30, 1892, Page 12

4 -- In the Deer Park


Pittsburg Dispatch, May 07, 1892, Page 12

5 -- The Major's Bungalow


Pittsburg Dispatch, May 14, 1892, Page 12

6 -- A Distinguished Visitor


Pittsburg Dispatch, May 21, 1892, Page 12

7 -- The Lion's Bride


The Milwaukee Journal, August 10, 1892, Page 5

8 -- A Modern Frankenstein [Part 1]

The Milwaukee Journal, August 11, 1892, Page 5

8 -- A Modern Frankenstein [Part 2]


The Milwaukee Journal, August 17, 1892, Page 5

9 -- Three Lines [Part 1]

The Milwaukee Journal, August 18, 1892, Page 5

9 -- Three Lines [Part 2]


Pittsburg Dispatch, June 04, 1892, Page 12

10 -- A Suburban Drama

[TradeName]

Three Lines

This story seems to be inspired in part by the Maybrick case. The justice who presided over the Maybrick trial, James Fitzjames Stephen, was also the judge in Clarke v. Hart.


The Milwaukee Journal, August 17, 1892, Page 5

The Milwaukee Journal, August 18, 1892, Page 5

Scenes from Life's Stage
Ten Original Stories
By Sir Gilbert E. Campbell, Bart., Author of "Detective Stories from Real Life," "The Avenging Hand," "The Mystery of Mandeville Square, Etc."

Three Lines

Though Mr. Samuel Mengel had a great many acquaintances, it is very doubtful whether he possessed a single friend, for he was by no means the man to inspire such a friendship as sprang up between Harmodius and Arestogiton, or Orestes and Pylades. He did not seem to have a single virtue, or if he assumed one for the nonce it was always marred by the discovery sooner or later, that the act which looked like kindness and generosity was merely one of expediency from which he hoped to reap some future benefit. If he indulged in hospitality his guest was sure that there was some hidden motive in the invitation, and was clearly and equally certain that his host would speak of him afterwards as a fellow that was always sponging on him, and had grossly exceeded (“drunk as a beast,” was Mr. Mengel’s usual term) the bounds of moderation.

Mr. Mengel denied that he was a Jew, but he certainly indulged in no Christian proclivities. He was old but not in the slightest degree venerable, for he had dyed whiskers and moustache, which showed the hue of Tyrian purple in the sunlight, a set of shining false teeth, like miniature tombstones, and as many crows’ feet about the corners of his eyes as you see on a freshly-sown field after a shower of rain. He dressed expensively, but without taste, was profuse in his display of scarf-pins, rings and watch chains, had a set of chambers in the Albany, and a dingy little office in the city, where he carried on his many varieties of business, for Mr. Mengel had numerous irons in the fire. He dealt in diamonds and lent money, he did a little company promoting, and sometimes dabbled in journalistic ventures of the shadier sort. He was always loud and noisy at race meetings, and hung a good deal about the stage doors of theaters where “legs” were the chief feature in the programme. Women hated him, and the men agreed that he was a blatant cad, and yet for all that Samuel Mengel was seen everywhere except in respectable society.

It was a damp, foggy afternoon in November as Mr. Mengel sat in his office in close conversation with a man who looked like a dirty copy of himself. This was his brother, Reuben Mengel, who had all Samuel’s disagreeable qualities without the merit, which the other possessed, of being a successful man.

“I saw you come out of Kitt’s oyster rooms last night with Lord Maymanster and Sir Thomas Spooffer. Nice respectable company for a man of your age to be in,” growled Reuben.

“I am so sought after,” answered his brother with a cynical laugh. “Besides you are always jealous of my acquaintance with the aristocracy.”

“Nice aristocracy, indeed,” sneered Reuben. “Why, Maymanster would swindle a newsboy out of a halfpenny Echo, and as for Spooffer, why he has been about everything except a billiard-marker, and he could not get that post for fear he should collar the money for the tables.”

“Why, dear fellow,” returned the elder brother, “you are developing quite a talent for scurrilous description. I must positively introduce you to my friend Larry Barks, of the Monetary Monger; he may give you some work; but you are mistaken about those two toffs. They will do well enough for guinea pigs on a board of directors, and, besides that, they are hand and glove with old Maj. South, the millionaire.

Reuben snorted disdainfully, as if he did not think much of the major’s friends, and then continued, “But, as I was saying, Sam, you ought to take more care of yourself at your time of life. Why don’t you marry our cousin, old Jael Mengel, she has been fool enough to have been dying for you for the last twenty years. If you go on drinking and card-playing, keeping late hours, and running after Hilarity chorus girls--”

“I shall die and leave you my money, Reuben, my boy,” broke in Samuel. “Not I, and I’ll tell you for why.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” answered Reuben sulkily; but for all that, he listened eagerly to what his brother had to say.

“In the first place, Reuben,” continued Samuel, “Jael Mengel is going to act as my housekeeper, and I have taken a small house in Hammersmith.”

Reuben opened his eyes in surprise, but said nothing.

“And. In the second place, if I did die,” went on Samuel, “I should not leave my money to you because—“

“Because you would will it away to hospitals and almshouses and all that rot,” exclaimed his brother, angrily; “but if you do that, I give you fair notice, I’ll fight the will and prove that you were of unsound mind when you executed it.”

“Because,” went on Sam, a sardonic grin overspreading his face, “because, my boy, I am going to be married next week, and shall naturally leave all my property to my wife, or, perhaps, to my children.”

“Why, man, alive, you are not going to marry that painted Jezebee Violetta Montmerency, of the Royal Pandemonium!” cried Reuben, aghast.

“I am going to marry the daughter of Maj-Gen. Gilmadarroch, late of the service of the rajah of Kedgereeghurrrum,” answered Samuel pompously; “and , as I shall be rather particular about the company I keep, or, rather, what my wife keeps, I shall feel obliged by your not troubling yourself to call. A nod, you know, is a good as a wink, etc. Good-bye, brother Reuben, I’ll send you a piece of the cake.”

Samuel Mengel was right. He had played his cards so well and got the ex-officer of the rajah of Kedgereeghurrum into such a web of embarrassment that, like a modern Andromeda, his pretty daughter was offered up to propitiate the monster.

After a good deal of resistance and many tears and entreaties, sweet Jessie Gilmadarroch was induced to give her consent to the marriage, which accordingly took place at the date mentioned by Samuel in his truly fraternal communication to Reuben.

The unhappy girl, who was only 20 years of age, was carried away to the little house at Hammersmith, and consigned to the guardianship of grim Jael Mengel, who hated her with a slow, cold hatred, as the women who had supplemented her in the hopes she had for so many years cherished of securing Samuel Mengel for her husband.

Samuel had no faith in man’s honor or woman’s virtue, and so he had selected the disappointed spinster as a Cerberus, well knowing that Jessie’s slightest word or act would be faithfully reported to him. He did not give up the chambers in the Albany, and occasionally indulged in some extraordinarily high jinks there; but as a rule he remained at home, wearing out his wife’s heart with bad behavior and causeless jealousy.

He took to drinking a good deal in a quiet, solitary sort of way, and when after a time this excess brought on sleepless nights, he procured fictitious repose by indulgence in heavy doses of laudanum. Jael had more than once remonstrated with him on his conduct. “You will kill yourself, and leave every penny to that chit of a girl, who desires nothing better than your death,” said she to him one day as she caught him qualifying his brandy and water with a strong dose of the narcotic.

“I’m worth a dozen dead men yet, old Jael,” answered he; “and don’t you try and lead me by the nose, for you will have no chance of being Mrs. Mengel, whilst that ‘chit of a girl,’ as you call her, lives. I think I was a fool to marry her, and might have done better had I taken you, for after all you have five thousand of your own, whereas Jessie has not a brass farthing, and when I married her I had to give that beggarly old father of hers a heap of money.

Jael’s eyes flashed at this admission, but she said nothing, and the subject dropped.

About a week afterwards, Miss Mengel informed her cousin at breakfast that her health required her to take a little change, and that she was going to Margate for a week.

“To Margate, old woman!” exclaimed Samuel, coarsely. “What are you going to have a spree at ‘All-by-the-Sea?’ For shame!—at your age you ought to know better.”

“Fie, Samuel,” returned the spinster, bridling up. You know very well I have an invalid aunt there, and—“

“From whom you have expectations, eh?” exclaimed Mengel. “Good old girl, good old girl, so you are going to do the amiable; look after the money and have a trip to the seaside all at once—kill two birds with one stone, eh?”

“You had better not say a word to Jessie about where I am going, or she may play all sorts of tricks if she feels that I am a long distance off,” replied Jael.

“Will she,” returned Samuel, savagely. “I caught her looking out of the window yesterday, just as no end of a swell was driving past, but I think my little remonstrance will cure her of trying that game on again.”

Jessie, indeed, was up stairs at that moment, suffering from the husbandly remonstrance which had taken the form of a black eye, and of course heard nothing of this arrangement.

Jael Mengel went off very quietly, and when Jessie ventured to ask what had become of her, she was told with a savage oath to hold her tongue, and to mind her own business.

Some three days later Jael again made her appearance as unexpectedly as she had left, and found Mr. Mengel in a very shaky condition.

“So you are back, are you?” growled he, “a pretty sort of a cousin you are to leave a fellow alone to get on the best way he can.”

“Where is Jessie?” asked Miss Mengel, paying no attention to her cousin’s churlish reception.

“Up in her room,” replied Samuel, “and there she may stay for all I care. I gave her a confounded good hiding this morning.”

“Samuel,” remonstrated Jael, “what did you do that for? There will be mischief one of these days if you let your temper get the better of you. Why did you strike her?”

“Because she made a fool of herself,” returned Samuel. “I was out of laudanum and felt too seedy to go up to town or out of the house at all, so I sent her out to get some. First of all she came back crying and saying that the chemist had refused to serve her with the quantity she wanted, and when I told her to go to a dozen different chemists and get two or three pennyworths at a time, saying she had got the faceache, hang me, if she didn’t break three or four of the bottles in her pocket, so that I hardly got enough to keep my nerves from jumping. Go and get me some, there’s a good old girl.”

“You know I have always declined to do anything of the sort, Samuel,” answered Miss Mengel. “Let me mix you a strong glass of brandy and water, then you can lie down on the couch and get a little sleep, for you look next to death’s door.”

Samuel Mengel grumblingly complied, and Jael, after seeing that he was comfortable, sought Mrs. Mengel’s room, and found the poor girl sobbing as if her heart would break.

Her husband had not exaggerated his statement, for he had beaten her in a most brutal manner. Her poor arms were sadly cut and bruised, and there was a cruel weale across her face where he had struck her with a riding whip in his savage fury.

Miss Mengel for once in her life expressed great sympathy. She went off to her room and returned with some cooling lotion with which she anointed the suffering girl’s bruises, then she insisted on helping her to undress and putting her to bed.

“I know Samuel will be very sorry for what he has done,” said she, “but really he is hardly himself. Today he is very unwell, but as you must not be disturbed, I will have a bed made up for him is his dressing room.”

But Jessie, though long-suffering, had a spirit of her own. “I will endure this treatment no longer,” sobbed she. “If I was not such a wreck, I would take action today, but by tomorrow I shall do something which will prevent his striking me again for the rest of my life.”

“There, there,” said Miss Mengel, soothingly. “You are excited, and are talking at random. When you have had some rest you will look at matters in a different light. See, I will put this little bottle by the side of your bed, if you wake up in the night and find yourself restless, drink it off, and it will compose your nerves.”

“Jessie was glad to be freed from the presence of the gaunt spinster, whose unexpected solicitude she could in no way account for, and after relieving her feelings by a fresh burst of tears, fell into a troubled slumber. How long she slept she did not know; she did not hear her husband come to bed in the dressing-room, which communicated with the bedroom, but in the still watches of the night, she was aroused by his voice calling, “Jessie, Jessie.”

Scarcely knowing what she did, she sprang out of bed and peeped cautiously into the room where her husband lay.

“What is it?” asked she, “are you not well?”

“I have got the horrors,” answered he, hoarsely, “and shall go raving mad if I cannot get some sleep. You she-devil, have you no laudanum?”

“You know I have none, Samuel,” replied she.

“Then get me some brandy, or I’ll get out of bed and cut your throat and my own,” raved he. “Quick, all the devils from hell seem to be about my bed; and flies—great buzzing bluebottles—who ever heard of flies at night, but here they are in myriads,” and as he spoke he darted his hands wildly about as if to drive away the intruding insects.

Jessie crept back to her room in order to slip on a few things, to enable her to go down the stairs and search for the brandy, when the sight of the little bottle which Jael had left caught her eye. “She said that would act as a composing draught,” thought the girl, and without further consideration poured the contents into a tumbler, and returned to her husband’s bedside.

The frightened girl crept back, and lay for some time awake, hardly daring to breathe, until her husband’s stentorious snoring assured her that he was asleep. In time this too ceased, and then, worn out with what she had gone through, Jessie managed to compose herself to rest.

“Lucky for you that you have been so sharp,” said he; “but you have brought me precious short allowance.” He took the tumbler from her hands, and applied his nose to it. “And so you had some, after all,” growled he; “what a lying devil you are,” and placing the tumbler to his lips he drained off the contents. “It is strong,” he muttered, “awfully strong, but it will do the trick, I expect. Now get back to your bed, and If I hear a sound I will break every bone in your skin.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Next morning there was terror and excitement in the little house at Hammersmith, for Mr. Samuel Mengel had been discovered by Jael, who had paid him an early visit, senseless in his bed.

With frantic cries the woman aroused the house, but when medical assistance was called in, the doctor declared life to be extinct, and that deceased had apparently died from an over-dose of some narcotic poison.

Jael Mengel seemed absolutely crushed by the occurrence, and shutting herself up in her room refused to see, or to speak to any one,

With Reuben Mengel, however, the case was different. By some underhand means he had contrived to learn his brother’s testamentary arrangements, and he was almost insane with disappointment at the fact that all the deceased Samuel’s property passed to his widow.

He came down to Hammersmith and made a terrible scene, but the servants, pitying their young mistress, called in the aid of the police, and Reuben was expelled, breathing out threats of legal vengeance.

Of course it was necessary to hold an inquest, but the day before that Jael emerged from her solitude, and, going up to town, had a long interview with Reuben, the result of which was that a warrant was obtained against Jessie Mengel for the murder of her husband, Samuel, by the administering to him of a narcotic poison.

The evidence produced before the magistrates was completely to the point. There had been violent quarrels between husband and wife, and the day before his death Mrs. Mengel had endeavored to purchase a large quantity of laudanum from a chemist in the neighborhood. On his refusing to supply her, she had gone to a number of chemists within a radius of two miles, and had been supplied by each of them with a small quantity. Mrs. Mengel was easily identified by the assistants at the various shops; and in addition Jael swore that the evening before the murder Mrs. Mengel was violently excited, and declared that she would take a step which would prevent her husband striking her for the rest of his life. Mrs. Mengel was violently excited, and declared that she would take a step which would prevent her husband striking her for the rest of his life. Mrs. Mengel was so overcome by this fresh calamity that she was unable to refute the evidence, and as the solicitor who appeared for her elected to reserve his defense, she was committed to take her trial at the next sitting of the central criminal court.

A certain Inspector Borthwick, of Scotland Yard, had been ordered by the treasury to make full inquiry into the matter, and he was consequently a good deal about the house, and learned many facts connected with the case which had not come out in the evidence before the magistrate. On the day of trial he was in court, and after giving his evidence, which was more formal than otherwise, he remained to hear the conclusion of a case in which he had taken a great deal of interest from the fact that he did not consider the prisoner guilty.

Jessie’s defense was but a poor one. Both Jael and Reuben, whose evidence was not to be shaken by cross-examination, declared that the deceased had never been in the habit of taking narcotics, and none were found in the house at Hammersmith or in deceased’s chambers in the Albany. The servants had certainly seen the master swallow liquids, which they classed under the name of physic, but could not say whether it was laudanum or not, that he was taking. The dead man’s solicitor proved that a will had been drawn up in favor of the prisoner, and that she would benefit very largely by her husband’s death.

Borthwick, the detective, listened with some eagerness for the speech of the counsel for the defence, but as the barrister went on he could hardly refrain from an exclamation of impatience and anger. “There he goes,” muttered he, “fitting a rope neatly around her neck as if he was the hangman himself. Going on about quarrels and illtreatment and all that, absolutely giving the jury the motive which prompted a poor little woman to put a brute out of the way, and then to go on harping about the fellow having died after imbibing the contents of the bottle which the poor little woman says Jael gave her for her own self, a fact which Jael steadily denies, naturally, of course. The jury will find her guilty as sure as my name is Jack Borthwick.”

Borthwick was right in his prognostication, for the jury, after a very brief absence, returned with a verdict of “guilty,” and the judge, who said that he entirely concurred with the finding of the jury, passed sentence of death in the most impressive manner. The Mengel case created a good deal of excitement, and the country was divided into two camps, each of which, according to their convictions, asserted the guilt or innocence of the convict.

Inspector Borthwick was extremely dissatisfied, and moved by an impulse for which he could not account paid a visit to the house at Hammersmith, which was now entirely empty, Reuben having cleared out all the furniture without any opposition being offered. As he came up to the door a dustman’s cart was just moving off, and the wind drove a small scrap of paper almost to his feet. Mechanically he stooped and raised it. On examining it he saw that it was a piece of paper which looked like a portion of a bill which had been thrown away, for there were the remains of three lines of print upon it.



“I don’t see what use this can be,” muttered he, “and yet I may as well keep it,” and placing it in his pocketbook, he walked musingly away in the direction of the Broadway, as there was no use in his making further perquisition in an empty house.

Today, however, the detective seemed destined to meet with something to bring the Mengel case to his mind, for as he was taking his ticket he saw Reuben and Jael Mengel about to enter the train, and evidently engaged in somewhat acrimonious conversation.

They got into an empty third-class carriage, and the detective slipping into the next compartment and applying his ear to the partition contrived to make out their conversation with tolerable ease.

“It’s no use talking, Jael,” remarked the voice of Reuben. “You can’t humbug me. What did you go down to Margate for, just before the murder? You were seen there, so there is no use in denying it.”

“I went to see my aunt,” replied Jael.

“Yes, over the left,” returned Reuben, sarcastically. “What I want to know is where that laudanum came from which finished off Sam. I know the little woman never gave it [to] him for you told me that he gave her a hiding for only bringing in a little, and spilling some of that. His own stock—with which I used to supply him, for he always made me do his dirty work—was out, and so, Jael, I ask you again, where did that stuff come from?”

Jael made no reply and Reuben went on: “Look here, Jael, I know you were sweet on that dead fellow, but remember, when the widow is hanged out of the way, I shall come into his money. A little bit more, however, never did any man harm, and you have got it. Now, look here, Jael, for you safety you had better take me as your husband, for I know where the snuff came from that did the trick, and I fancy that Jessie Mengel’s statement was a true one after all.”

Still pursuing the conversation, the pair got out at the next station, and the detective ruminating over what he had heard. “So she went to Margate, did she?” muttered he as he took the scrap of paper from his pocketbook and looked at it again, “that may account for the third line, by Jove, it will be worth my while to go down there, and see what I can learn about the lady’s movements.”

The first object that met his eye in one of the main streets was a chemist’s shop with the name,

JAMES MALLOW,
PHARMACEUTICAL CHEMIST,

over the door.

“That accounts for the ‘low’ and the ‘mist’ in the first two lines,” thought the detective, “and now to make sure.”

As soon as he mentioned his business and profession, Mr. Mallow was all attention. “Yes, certainly the scrap of paper was a portion of one of his bills. He had sold a bottle of a preparation of opium to a lady who said she came from Mrs. Fairlop, an invalid lady who was a good customer of his. He should certainly know the lady again. 14 Huntley Villas was Mrs. Fairlop’s address.”

The detective went thither, and Mrs. Fairlop, who was an irritable old hypochondriac, declared that she had never sent anyone to purchase laudanum for her, and would not have such nasty stuff in the house for a good deal.

Fortified with this information, Borthwick made his way back to town, and the next day called on Reuben Mengel.

The man was a cur at heart, and when the detective, assuming a great deal more knowledge than he really possessed, threatened to have him arrested as an accessory after the fact, he became quite abject and made a clean breast of it. Jael, he said, had confessed to him that some words his brother had made use of had led her to hope that if his wife was out of the way he would marry her after all; and so she had procured the poison and laid a trap for Jessie, believing that the unhappy life she led would cause her death to be ascribed to suicide. When she described how she had been instrumental to causing Samuel Mengel’s death, she was for the time utterly crushed, but a few words with Reuben showed her how she could revenge herself, and at the same time prevent a woman she hated from enjoying the wealth she had been the means of giving her.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Jessie Mengel received a full pardon for a crime she never committed, and entered into possession of the dead man’s property. Her spirit was, however, crushed by the terrible ordeal she had passed through, and it will be long before she forgets the deadly peril in which she was placed.

Reuben, cursing his ill luck, returned to his money grubbing, but fate seemed against him, and he ended his days in the workhouse.

As for Jael, judge and jury found that there was some difficulties in the way of putting the rope round her neck, but she was condemned to penal servitude for life, thanks to Inspector Borthwick’s reading of Three Lines.

[TradeName]

Some squabbling in the letter columns of The Echo over whether the Carlist Committee of London is better than the English Carlist Committee of Sir Gilbert Campbell. I can't find the first letter referred to. I think the "Military Representative" mentioned is named Edward Kirkpatrick.

The Echo, August 20, 1874

The Carlist Atrocities

To the Editor of the Echo

Sir,—With reference to the letter in your paper of
yesterday, signed by Sir Gilbert Campbell, who styles
himself “Chairman of the English Carlist Committee,”
will you permit me to state that the so-called “English
Carlist Committee” has no authority whatever to represent
Don Carlos VII.; and that its claims on this head
have been officially repudiated? Don Carlos does
not want a flag or a sword; and as to
aiding the sick and wounded, a joint Committee,
composed of ladies and gentlemen of various
shades of political opinion--Carlist, Republican,
Alphonist, &c.--has already been collecting subscriptions
for the relief of the sufferers on both sides. The
third ostensible object of the “English Carlist Committee
“—to circulate a weekly bulletin of news—" is
nothing more than can be done by anybody.

I should have wished to abstain from any remarks
of a personal nature, but the unwarrantable attack
which Sir Gilbert Campbell has made on the
character of one who has done nothing whatever to
provoke it, and who enjoys the regard and esteem of all
who know him, demands some reply from me. The military
representative of Don Carlos VII received his appointment
direct from the King, whose complete confidence be enjoys,
and of whose favour he has received most distinguished
proofs. His title of ”General” he derives from rank in
the Carlist army, in which he has seen active service
during several campaigns. In the American Civil War
he commanded a brigade In the Northern army under
General Sherman, and was a member of Congress.

Now, Sir, although you have no sympathy with the
Carlist cause, I think you and your readers will agree
with me in a love of honesty and straightforwardness. I
ask you to judge as to the reality of Sir Gilbert Campbell’s
zeal for the cause of Don Carlos by the amount of
abuse which he has heaped upon Don Carlos’s official and
trusted representative.

In conclusion, I strongly advise the public not to trust
the ”English Carlist Committee” with any funds whatever.
Those who desire to aid the sick and wounded can do so
through another channel. As to the pretensions of this
Committee, I have already said enough. The Carlist
Committee of London, which has always worked in
harmony with the Military Representative, is, together
with its branches, the only organization in England
authorised to act on behalf of Don Carlos VII. As a
member of that Committee I ask you to find room for this
explanation. I enclose my card, and remain. Sir, your
obedient servant, AYMEZ LOYAULTE
Folkestone, Aug. 19.

Sir—This Committee is receiving daily, from all parts
of the country, offers of service In the combatant ranks of
the Carlist army and in the ambulance trains about to be
dispatched to the seat of war. Indeed, with regard to the
former offers, the love of adventure seems so deeply and
so universally implanted in the British breast and so
popular is the cause of Don Carlos among fighting men
that a complete division of all arms could easily be got
together in Great Britain, with a retired General of the
the English service (also a volunteer) to command it.

You will, therefore, perhaps, allow me to inform your
numerous readers that the provisions of the Foreign
Enlistment Act emphatically prevent this Committee
entertaining any offers of combatant service; that Don
Carlos has many more native soldiers than be has money
to arm; and that with a most gracious and praiseworthy
desire to avoid complications, he has seen fit to decline
the combative services of all foreigners, without exception.
I am informed by Colonel J. Rondot, his Majesty’s
financial envoy in this country, now an honorary member
of the Army and Navy Club, that, although Don Alfonso
has a few foreign officers (who are also his highness’s
private friends) on his Staff, the King has not a single
one in active service in his corps d'armee.

With regard to the ambulance trains, let me observe
that all the personnel we can send out must, in the purest
sense of the term, be Volunteers; and, with the exception
of rations in the field, that all expenses must be borne by
those practical philanthropists who desire to aid in this
good work.

It must not, for one moment, be conceived that the
remarks which have been made by the correspondents of
a certain section of the Press, are founded on fact. This
Committee has no sympathies whatever with "brigands”
and “assassins.” It emphatically denies that the Carlist
army deserves such epithets, and, on the contrary asserts,
with ample evidence, that the conduct of the Royalist
troops, both in proclamations and acts will bear
favourable comparison with the progress of the
Prussian army through France. As Englishmen,
the members of this Committee have and exercise the right
of sympathising with a cause they believe to be one of law
and order; but this sympathy will be expressed In a fair,
legal, and peaceable manner, totally regardless of the
howls and abuse of those who, directly or indirectly, have
Communistic and Revolutionary instincts.

In conclusion, permit me to acknowledge through your
columns a valuable contribution of linen bandages from
Herr B. de Reichel, a Knight Hospitaller of St. John of
Jerusalem, and a distinguished ambulance officer In the
Franco-Prussian war.

Thanking you for the insertion of this letter, I have
the honour to be, Sr, your obeiient servant,

GILBERT E. CAMPELL, Bart.,
President of the English Carlist Committee.
10, Great Queen-street, Westminster,
August 19

The Echo, August 21, 1874, P1

THE CARLIST QUARRELS

To the Editor of the Echo


SIR,—In the temporary absence of our respected President
a few words wll suffice to answer the anonymous writer
who signed himself “Aymez Loyaulte,” in whose letter
it is not difficult to trace the fine "Roman hand” of the
cute Yankee attorney himself. What was said In our
President’s letter was a condensation of an official report
made to this Committee by Colonel J, Rondot, Who
comes direct from the king, after an interview with
thus so-called “Military Representative,” on which occasion
the Yankee admitted he had no sort of authority (and
this Committee challenges him to produce credentials)
also that his gross misrepresentations (such as the denial of
the authenticity of Doriegaray’s proclamation and others
too numerous to recount) were mainly the emanations
from the fancy of his own brain, signed with a grandiose
appellation to “fetch” British Editors and Public.

If the person referred to, be in reality “Don Carlos'
official and trusted representative” how is it that the
Marquis de Sofraga who is in this country on a mission
to our Secretary for Foreign Affairs (and whose papers,
showing he is the sole agent of Charles VII are in perfect
order) has reported to this Committee no later than
to-day, that if any person, no matter Whom, describes
himself as “Military Representative of Don Carlos in
London,” he is not to be credited.

There is no such body as the “Carlist Committee of
London.” One under a similar title did exist, but it
was deserted by all respectable Englishmen who were
connected with it, more than two years ago.

Whatever may be the utility or otherwise
of the "English Carlist Committee,” let it be modestly hoped
that the funds entrusted to it may be faithfully disbursed,
and that it may never be infested by unknown foreigners
(by which I mean men neither Englishmen nor Spaniards),
whose names and addresses, on investigation, turn out
alike to be false.—I have the honour to be, Sir, your most
obedient servant,

The Assistant Secretary, English Carlist Committee.
10A, Great Queen-street. Westminster. Aug. 20th


The Echo, August 24, 1874

THE CARLIST COMMITTEE

To The Editor of the Echo

Sir,—The statement that the old Carlist Committte of
London has ceased to exist is simply untrue. In the
spring of 1873, however, two of its member, were by
a unanimous vote, expelled. Meanwile, the Carlist Committee
of London, working with the King’s Military
Representative has continued to conduct the King’s
business acting under constant instructions received from
head-quarters.

The King’s envoys at present in England, of whom
your correspondent, the “Assistant Secretary,” speaks
so glibly, and one whom I know to be excessively
indignant at the use thus made of his name, are working
in entire accord with the Military Representative who
received due official notice from the Queen's Secretary of
their mission to this country.

But I return to the discussion of the real issue, namely,
the pretence of the so-called “English Carlist Committee"
to act for the King. The plain fact is, that in consequence
of representations made to the King's civil secretary,
an envoy who happened just then to be coming
to London, was authorized to inquire into the formation
of this pretended Committee. The result of this inquiry
was, that the envoy informed the “president" of the
organization that is was entirely unauthorised, and that
they could not receive from her Majesty the Queen of Spain
any authority to act. He also advised them discontinue
their operations. Their subsequent course of conduct
stamps them, therefore, as enemies to the Carlist cause
which they pretend to represent.

I should like to add that both my last letter and this
one have been written without the knowledge of my friend
the Military Representative of Don Carlos VII, to whom I
almost owe an apology for the frequent use I have made
of his name.—Your obedient servant,

Folkestone, Aug. 22. AYMEZ LOYAULTE.

P.S.—.I have just learnt, since writing the above, that

the letter of the Assistant Secretary of the “English
Carlist Committee,” in your paper of Friday, In which the
writer pretended that he wrote with the sanction of the
King’s envoys, and of the distinguished nobleman who
has just arrived in England as the King’s Plenipotentiary,
has caused the most intense annoyance. I further understand,
although I am not authorized to publish the
statement, that an official report has just been sent to
head-quarters, to the effect that this new "Committee"
is nothing; and, further, that its President has received a
notification that he and his friends are not authorized to
collect money for the Carllst cause, or in any way to
represent it. Finally, the King’s Military Representative has
been confirmed in the exercise of his official functions.
As this action has been taken by an authority which, the
“Assistant Secretary” has himself publicly acknowledged
the question maý now be considered settled.

--end

Accounts and Papers of the House of Commons (5 March -- 7 August 1874), Page 10
by Great Britain. Parliament. House of Commons

Colonel Kirkpatrick to Earl Granville.—(Received August 16.)

My Lord, 16, Northumberland Street, Strand, August 16, 1873.

AS the Military Representative of Don Carlos VII in London, I have the honour to call the attention of your Lordship to the seizure, on the 13th instant, of the English

steamer "Deerhound " by a Spanish Republican man-of-war.

I am informed, by an official despatch just received from Biarritz, that the seizure took place in French waters.

I have, &c.
(Signed) EDWARD KIRKPATRICK,

Military Representative of Don Carlos VII. in London.

[Mayerling]

I can only say this has been one of the most throughly reserched pieces in te columns of this website I ever saw. I just wanted to make a point about Anderson and his accounts of the Waterloo Bridge Mystery of 1857. He did two accounts, one for his published book-form memoirs, and one in magazine form, and they are not quite the same, as the memoirs deal with a French police agent who gave Anderson the information after 1870 when the agent had to flee (probably the Paris Commune, but being an agent of Napoleon III's police it could have been any anti-Bonapartist of 1870). I wrote an article about this in The Ripperologist a number of years back, and noted Anderson's ridiculous reticence on his source in 1911 (about four decades after he got the information). I probed into the actual incident and noted that the possibiliy of an Italian society's assassination of a spy was not unlikely, but again that reticence did not make sense. If it were true, the killing would probably have tied in somehow with plotting of Felice Orsini, Dr. Simon Bernard, and other conspirators in London that led to the attempt in February 1858 to assassinate Napoleon III as he attended an opera with bombs bought in England Fourteen people were killed, and Empress Eugenie was slightly injured. Orsini and another were sentenced to death, and a third sentenced to prison (but escaped and ended up in the U.S.). Relations between France and England got bad, and Lord Palmerston's handling of the crisis led to his temporarily being ousted as Prime Minister.

It was not impossible for literature of the 1850s-60s-and later to make Italians conspirators or spies or traitors. In 1860, Wilkie Collins would write THE LADY IN WHITE, and Count Fosco, the villain, is not destroyed by the hero and heroines of the novel, but his hiding place in London is revealed accidentally to a "carbinari" group he betrayed and he is stabbed to death trying to flee England.

Jeff