One Armed Liz and Toby - sketches and Liz's story 1889

[Chris Scott]

One Armed Liz and Toby were both involved in the investigation that followed the Stride murder. You will find versions of their evidence in the Press Reports section e.g.

http://www.casebook.org/press_reports/star/s881001.html

Attached below are crude drawings of Toby and One Armed Liz and also a fuller version of Liz's story which I had not previously seen. The sketches and text are from the Pittsburgh Dispatch of 13 July 1889, from a story called "The Abode of Crime"

I have seen versions where One Armed Liz identified Stride's body under the names of Annie Stride and Annie Morris. It's interesting that in this version of her story she refers to Stride as "Dark Annie," which was of course Chapman's nickname.

[Archaic]

Thanks Chris.

I particularly like the sentence "A fish sizzled uneasily in a skillet". Very evocative.

Best regards,
Archaic

[Hunter]

Yes, very good indeed.

These women seemed to engender nicknames in preference to their real ones. Most people at No 32 'Flowery Dean' didn't know Liz Strides name and couple that with Mary Malcolm's inference there was some confusion for a couple of days about 'Long Liz's' idenity, though most of these people did actually know her.

[Chris Scott]

The header for this story - "Abode of crime" - says that it was written by Lillian Spencer - does anyone know anything about who she was?
And the date given in my first post was incorrect - it was published on 13 Jan 1889 not 13 July
Many thanks
Chris S

[Chris Scott]

Here is the full article:

Pittsburgh Dispatch
13 Jan 1889

THE ABODE OF CRIME
Lillian Spencer Visits the Scene of the Whitechapel Murders
ONE ARMED LIZ TELLS HER STORY
A Phase of Human Life Worthy of the Pen of Dickens
INEFFICIENT LONDON DETECTIVES

(Correspondence of the Dispatch)
London, January 3.
If Charles Dickens were living today he would write a great novel on that part of East London known as Whitechapel, and thereby give to the world a pen picture of a phase of life which in no other city has a parallel for filthy squalor, brutal viciousness, depraved criminality and moral degradation. In no other city would such a foul precinct be tolerated. In none other could it have sprung into existence at all, for nowhere else is there such a heterogeneous mass of ignorant, unkempt, human beings, crowded together in such abodes of dirt and corruption as here; in the wretched shambles which, under the name of common lodging houses, go to form the dwelling places of Whitechapel.
There is a saying to the effect that one half the world does not know how the other half lives. This saying certainly ought to have originated in London, for nowhere else are people so singularly incurious regarding the very monuments in their midst.
Of course Whitechapel is known to Londoners, but Londoners (or rather inhabitants of the fashionable parts of London) are not known to Whitechapel. If the sordid characters of its murky confines were familiar to their eyes, the horror and frequency of its crimes would be less appalling to their ears.
Charles Dickens would have revelled in the Whitechapel of today. He would have found in it great field for his creative genius.

TALKING WITH TOBY.
One cannot wander through the dingy streets and mix with the jostling throng without vividly recalling to mind the works of the distinguished writer. Keenly alive to the impressions conveyed by the living, breathing mass of humanity sweeping by, one fancies him on the spot, stopping for a moment to look into the painted face of the woman in draggle tail, gaudy skirts and huge feathered hat, pushing her way along, and thereby creating another Nancy Sykes; of another standing within the shadows of Christ Church and finding another "Poor Joe" in the pale, hollow eyed, ragged urchin, whom the gruff policeman is by no means gently urging to "Move on." An entirely original character would have sprung from his facile pen, could he have come in contact with big hearted, frank spoken, generous, half starved Toby, a tattered, tramp like personage, who, with several other correspondingly tramp like companions is out hunting a clew to a famous murder recently committed, which offered a liberal reward.
"I didn't know'd her to talk to," said Toby, alluding no doubt to the victim, "but I know'd she'd git done some time. She wussent pertikler enuff, and I wussent a bit s'prised when'd I heerd as ow it wus 'er. And 'im that done 'er, I kin tell yer this 'bout 'im, 'e wussent none o' the kind thet puts hup at a sixpenny class; not 'e. Thet chap that done 'er, thet chap, 'ez got a room to wash hisself hin and ez got time to do hit too."
Another character worthy of Dickens with which I came in contact, and one he would have unquestionably made famous, was that of a woman known among her associates as "One Armed Liz."
Liz was also supposed to be in possession of evidence in the case Toby was at work upon; and the police were pleased to regard her testimony as important, which circumstance brought her into greater prominence in the eyes of her fellow followers. She was willing for the price of a bed to tell all she knew, and manufactured all she didn't. She occupied a bare room in a barrack like lodging house. She was not very beautiful to look at, nor agreeable to converse with, but the "heroine" of the hour, for all that. The ceiling of the apartment in which she held her court was so low that an ordinary sized man could not have stood erect under it. The walls were as black as the grime of many years could make them. The rough, unsteady planks of the floor were encrusted with dirt, and the small round windows were so thick with a like accumulation that to have seen three feet beyond them would have been an utter impossibility.

"ONE ARMED LIZ" RECITES.
Liz stood by a broken stove, the chimney of which smoked suffocatingly, brandishing a long, crooked pronged fork in her thin, bony hand. A fish sizzled uneasily in a skillet. Occasionally she slapped it over, first on one side, then on the other. The atmosphere of the place reeked with stale tobacco and gin soaked, fetid breaths, for Liz was not alone! Her neighbors had dropped in to keep her company. Huddled in a heap together, they represented poverty in its every stage! She was telling what she knew of the murdered woman, and her eloquent discourse was eagerly drunk in by her morbid listeners.
"I know'd er in life, I'm a mornin' 'er in death," said Liz pathetically, as she slapped the fish over on its side, "an' I could pint my finger on the blarsted chap that done 'er ef 'e wus 'ere. But 'e ain't! 'E's walkin' up and down in the crowd out there and 'e's a cool un, 'e his. But I know'd 'er as soon es I see 'er. Its Dark Annie I sed and I stooped and kissed 'er poor cowld face!"
A halo of vapor arose from the fry pan and incircled Liz's head, as she delivered the last words of her harangue, and her hearers gazed spell bound and awe struck at the spectacle while the inspired prophetess continued turning the fish! The scene was at once gruesome and ludicrous but strongly suggestive of the people and the place!
The inhabitants of Whitechapel do not seem to have any particular occupation. The men loaf in the public houses, and the women parade up and down the streets. Most of them are known to each other by nickname only. Little heed is given their comings and goings. They may disappear from their accustomary haunts without being missed. The taking off of one, more or less, is a matter of little importance. The women are, if possible, more depraved than the men. If they have 4 pence they purchase a bed at night, if not they sleep in doorways or sheds. The thoroughfares of this district are infested with drunken ruffians and thieves, but the shops are brilliantly lighted and the passersby careless to a degree. Police in uniform and plain clothes patrol the bets; churches throw open their doors and ring out a welcome invitation, to which those invited do not respond. No one lays claim to being better than his neighbor. All are waifs of the same streets; frequenters of the same vile resorts; companions of the same malefactors; living the same dissolute lives, dying the same horrible deaths. The ignorance among this herd of humanity is almost savage - even the higher instincts and sensibilities of the brute are lacking. Superstitious, untaught, evil minded, they attribute their ups and downs in life largely to supernatural agencies, and nothing could induce them to "pal in" with none who had the "evil eye," even though (to express it in their own vernacular) he was spending the "swag" of a successful "bust," which, I take it, means well supplied with ill gotten gains.

THE WHITECHAPEL SENSATION.
The frequency of crime in this vicinity is such that no particular sensation was caused when the first, second, third, and even fourth, of the "Great Whitechapel Murders" came to light. While the world at large stood appalled with horror, the people of East London shrugged their shoulders, heavily burdened with their iron cares, and went unheeding on their way. The murders they assumed to have been the freak of some gang of cut throats known to infest in great numbers the neighborhood. As for the victims, who were they that honest folks should waste pity upon? Some such reasoning must have passed through the minds of the callous multitudes to render it so calmly impervious to the fate of the poor unfortunates who, even though the off scourings of the streets, still deserved some commiseration for their terrible deaths.
As for the attempts of the police to trace the criminals, they fell so far below the standard of foreign countries, and even below the level usually attained in such cases by the authorities of provincial towns, that a perfect hue and cry was raised against the force from all quarters, when another and still another ghastly murder was unearthed! "We have no clews, no basis to start from, no link to connect the woman with any known characters in the district," said the police. I don't know how it impresses other people, but it occurred to me, that with all the necessary facilities placed at their disposal they might, had they been endowed with the skill of the Parisian or American detectives, have succeeded in tracing a possible connection between victims and thus supplied the missing links and brought to light the hidden motive. The cause of a murder is not likely to be found floating upon the surface, nor the ingenuity of the average English detective of that originality which would lead him to dive under for it.
The continuation of the butcheries, of course, aroused the sluggish emotions of the of the people of Whitechapel. Then they went to the other extreme, and became frenzied, even forming themselves into bands and organizing clubs for their better protection. Finally a reign of terror settled down in the community.
I spent a considerable time in Whitechapel during my sojourn in London. As a result I came to the just conclusion that much is to be said for its homeless outcasts. In many cases no avenue by which they can honestly earn their bread is open to them. Consequently they are driven to earn it on the streets. They are indeed children of adverse circumstances and unhappy destiny, and it is no fault of theirs if they swell the population of the great city, one and all on the downward path, and a dizzy, precipitory path it is. Impossible to go down only on a run! They tell us, "There is a soul of goodness in things evil," that "out of evil comes good," and that "our poor bleeding humanity is groping its way over a sin smitten world to sublime destinies."
Let us hope this is the truth, particularly where such unfortunate beings are concerned.
LILLIAN SPENCER.

[Chris Scott]

Here are the two "interviews" in more normal English spelling!

Toby:
I didn't know her to talk to but I knew she'd get done some time. She wasn't particular enough, and I wasn't a bit surprised when I heard as how it was her. And him that done her, I can tell you this about him, he wasn't none of the kind that puts up at a sixpenny class, not he. That chap that done her, that chap, he's got a room to wash himself in, and he's got time to do it too.

Liz:
I knew her in life, I'm mourning her in death and I could point my finger on the blasted chap that done her if he was here. But he isn't. He's walking up and down in the crowd out there and he's a cool one, he is. But I knew her as soon as I saw her. It's Dark Annie, I said, and I stooped and kissed her poor cold face.

[Archaic]

The Actress Lillian Spencer?

Hi, Chris.

There was a Lillian Spencer who was an actress in the 1880's, 1890's and later. She was a close friend of Evelyn Nesbit, the beautiful American model who became notorious when her millionaire husband Harry Thaw murdered famous NY architect Stanford White.

In the late 1880's or so Lillian Spence wrote a book about her life as an actress called "Star-Crossed". I think she wrote theatrical reviews years later but I don't know of her writing newspaper articles. Maybe it's the same Lillian Spencer? I really don't know.

But the writer does seem to have a flair for drama.

Best regards,
Archaic

[alex]

Nice find, Chris.

I thought it might be of interest to post the sketches from the Star, 1 Oct. 1888 for comparison.

Best wishes
alex