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I was researching the Coram Street murder of 1872 - the similarities to the Ripper case have been discussed on this site, and include the fact that the victim was a young prostitute who was found with her throat cut - and came across the following report in 'Famous Crimes: Past & Present'. I'm not convinced it means anything, but I thought the possible link to the art world (and perhaps to Oswald Sickert?) was intriguing nonetheless. Though the age given is wrong, the killer was described as 'a German'; Sickert, of course, was Danish-German. The writer was a man who knew murdered woman, Clara Burton, and was rushing to the house of some mutual friends to find out if she had indeed been killed:
"On leaving my residence in Camden Town I had hailed the first cab I saw, and instructed the man to drive me to Argyle Square, King's Cross, for I knew by calling at a certain house there I could ascertain positively whether the murdered woman was, as I suspected, the same Clara known to our set. I was proceeding down College Street when I recognised the burly figure of a man whose identity there was no mistaking. It was an old friend of mine, an artist, who since those days has made a name for himself. Should I here describe his appearance, many of my readers would have no doubt as to whom I refer, so let it suffice to say that in the '70s he was a very conspicuous figure in Bohemian circles, and a right jolly good and most entertaining fellow… My friend, I could see with half an eye, had been dining out and making a night of it, so I pulled up my cab, jumped out, and after the usual salutation offered him a lift. I shall never forget the expression on his face. He was as pale as death, and there was strange look about his eyes. Clutching me by the arm with his powerful grip, he bent down, and in a low, sepulchral tone said, 'Yes, give me a lift – give me a lift. Drive me to the nearest police station. I am going to give myself up for the Great Coram Street Murder!'
My feelings here may be better imagined than described. Here was one of my dearest old friends confessing such a crime. I hardly knew how to act. Could he be joking? It was hardly a matter for that, and his face was so white and his manner so earnest that I scarcely knew what to think. However, I soon made up my mind. Getting my friend into the cab, I told the man to drive to his address, which was only a mile or two away… All the way along he was muttering, "Blood!" "Murder!" "Coram Street!" "Poor girl!" "Police station!" and I soon discovered that he had been keeping up Christmas in a merrier manner than at first noticed. At length we arrived at his door, and I managed to induce him to enter and saw him to his room, giving instructions that he was by no reason to be disturbed until my return. He seemed dazed, and I left him sleeping on the couch. I shall never forget the state of mind I was in, for this had been a terrible shock, so I more than ever determined to clear up, as far as possible, the whole mysterious matter, and drove to Argyle Street."
[To find out more, he visited some mutual friends – who, it transpired, had been with Clara and the man thought to be her murderer on that fatal Christmas Eve.]
"It appeared that the poor girl went straight to the Alhambra, where she must have met her murderer. At Regent Circus two barmaids [one of them his friend] got into the same omnibus in which the deceased travelled with the man to Hunter Street, where they alighted. The girls were in conversation during the journey, and the barmaids were able to describe the murderer minutely. This was very thing I desired, and, with suppressed excitement, I listened. 'Our friends tell us,' said my Scotch hostess, between her sobs, 'that the wretch appeared to be about twenty-five years of age, was about 5ft 9in in height, and had a swarthy complexion, with blotches or pimples on his face. He wore a dark brown overcoat and a billy-**** hat, and although he only spoke once or twice in the omnibus, they both agreed that he was a foreigner.'
"Thank heaven! I muttered to myself, for this description of the girl's companion was as unlike my artist friend as it would be possible to imagine, and I left relieved."
"...When I arrived at [my friend's] residence I found that he had slept himself back to his senses, and when I upbraided him for his folly in his unpardonable self-accusation, he roared with laughter, considering it an immense joke. I learned afterwards, though, that he really had accused himself to the police, and the marvel is to this day that he was allowed to go at large."
"On leaving my residence in Camden Town I had hailed the first cab I saw, and instructed the man to drive me to Argyle Square, King's Cross, for I knew by calling at a certain house there I could ascertain positively whether the murdered woman was, as I suspected, the same Clara known to our set. I was proceeding down College Street when I recognised the burly figure of a man whose identity there was no mistaking. It was an old friend of mine, an artist, who since those days has made a name for himself. Should I here describe his appearance, many of my readers would have no doubt as to whom I refer, so let it suffice to say that in the '70s he was a very conspicuous figure in Bohemian circles, and a right jolly good and most entertaining fellow… My friend, I could see with half an eye, had been dining out and making a night of it, so I pulled up my cab, jumped out, and after the usual salutation offered him a lift. I shall never forget the expression on his face. He was as pale as death, and there was strange look about his eyes. Clutching me by the arm with his powerful grip, he bent down, and in a low, sepulchral tone said, 'Yes, give me a lift – give me a lift. Drive me to the nearest police station. I am going to give myself up for the Great Coram Street Murder!'
My feelings here may be better imagined than described. Here was one of my dearest old friends confessing such a crime. I hardly knew how to act. Could he be joking? It was hardly a matter for that, and his face was so white and his manner so earnest that I scarcely knew what to think. However, I soon made up my mind. Getting my friend into the cab, I told the man to drive to his address, which was only a mile or two away… All the way along he was muttering, "Blood!" "Murder!" "Coram Street!" "Poor girl!" "Police station!" and I soon discovered that he had been keeping up Christmas in a merrier manner than at first noticed. At length we arrived at his door, and I managed to induce him to enter and saw him to his room, giving instructions that he was by no reason to be disturbed until my return. He seemed dazed, and I left him sleeping on the couch. I shall never forget the state of mind I was in, for this had been a terrible shock, so I more than ever determined to clear up, as far as possible, the whole mysterious matter, and drove to Argyle Street."
[To find out more, he visited some mutual friends – who, it transpired, had been with Clara and the man thought to be her murderer on that fatal Christmas Eve.]
"It appeared that the poor girl went straight to the Alhambra, where she must have met her murderer. At Regent Circus two barmaids [one of them his friend] got into the same omnibus in which the deceased travelled with the man to Hunter Street, where they alighted. The girls were in conversation during the journey, and the barmaids were able to describe the murderer minutely. This was very thing I desired, and, with suppressed excitement, I listened. 'Our friends tell us,' said my Scotch hostess, between her sobs, 'that the wretch appeared to be about twenty-five years of age, was about 5ft 9in in height, and had a swarthy complexion, with blotches or pimples on his face. He wore a dark brown overcoat and a billy-**** hat, and although he only spoke once or twice in the omnibus, they both agreed that he was a foreigner.'
"Thank heaven! I muttered to myself, for this description of the girl's companion was as unlike my artist friend as it would be possible to imagine, and I left relieved."
"...When I arrived at [my friend's] residence I found that he had slept himself back to his senses, and when I upbraided him for his folly in his unpardonable self-accusation, he roared with laughter, considering it an immense joke. I learned afterwards, though, that he really had accused himself to the police, and the marvel is to this day that he was allowed to go at large."
- Postmortem again...]
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