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The Murder of Julia Wallace (1931) - Full DPP case files

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  • The Murder of Julia Wallace (1931) - Full DPP case files

    As we speak I am reading and photographing every page. I am currently photographing the pages written by William himself as to why he deserves an appeal.

    Watch this space. I'll digitize ALL of this and upload here for all to view.

    Also reports of an anonymous letter received by the home office by a man claiming to be the murderer of Mrs. Wallace.

    LOTS to come this file is huge.
    Last edited by WallaceWackedHer; 01-16-2020, 12:37 PM.

  • #2
    Omfg I have a 12 page witness account that's NEVER been published anywhere ever. It's titled:

    "The Great Wallace Murder Mystery
    Should The Murder Have Been Solved Certainly?

    The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth

    By The One Who Knows"

    Received by the home office around December 1933. There's a lot about Amy and Wallace in this.

    When I get home there's gonna be TNT tier blowing up of this case. Wait for it guys.
    Last edited by WallaceWackedHer; 01-16-2020, 01:10 PM.

    Comment


    • #3
      Credit where it's due WWH.
      Them's the vagaries.

      Comment


      • #4
        Okay so here goes. I will start with the John Bull articles, there are 5 in total, and a prologue.


        JOHN BULL, April 16, 1932

        #1 - The Man They Did Not Hang

        WHAT has become of William Herbert Wallace? It is a question that is often being asked. A year ago he was the most-talked-of man in the country. His name was on all lips and on every placard in the streets.

        Wallace was a new phenomenon. He was the only person living who had ever been set free as guiltless after being sentenced to death for murder.

        His case, almost unique in legal history, set the whole world talking. He was a nine days' wonder-this man snatched at the eleventh hour from the scaffold and given back to the world.

        And how has the world received him? What has been his existence in the twelve months since the three judges in the Court of Criminal Appeal upset the death sentence passed upon him last April at Liverpool Assizes by Mr. Justice Wright, for the murder of his wife?

        A Soul Laid Bare

        HAS he conquered the inevitable prejudices which accumulate against one who has spent three weeks under sentence of death in a condemned cell?

        It is a fascinating subject for speculation. And only one person can supply the answers-William Herbert Wallace himself.

        He will do so in JOHN BULL. Beginning next week he will tell the story of his life since release.

        Wallace's narrative of these months of torture is the most amazing human document ever presentec to the public. Here is a tormented soul lad bare, a human spirit refusing to be subdued by circumstances that would have crushed any ordinary man.

        William Wallace is a man of exceptional attainments. Apart from holding responsible posts in the insurance world, he has been a lecturer on science and chemistry at technical institutions. He was one of the chief members of a leading chess club and a masterly player.

        Mrs. Julia Wallace, to whom he had been married eighteen years, was brutally battered to death in the sitting-room of their home at Anfield, a liverpool suburb, on the evening of January 20, 1931.

        On the night of the crime, Mr. Wallace arrived home just after 6 p.m. He had a hurried meal. The remains of which were afterwards discovered in the house. He left at 6.45 to keep an appointment in Sefton Park. When he returned at 8,45 it was to find his wife dead.

        Accusing Finger

        MEDICAL evidence proved that she had been dead for two hours, and as she had been seen by a milkboy who called at the house at 6.30, this narrowed down the time of the crime-so far as Mr. Wallace was concerned-to within a period of fifteen minutes.

        A cabinet downstairs had been broken open and a sum of 4 was missing. But four treasure notes were eventually found in an ornament in an upper room, which had been ransacked.

        Suspicion finally rested upon Wallace, and it was suggested at his trial that he had planned each move with the exactness of a game of chess.

        He had gone to his chess club on the evening preceding the crime to take part in an important tounament.

        He was met by the captain of the club, who told him that a telephone message had been received, asking him to call on the following evening at an address in Menlove Gardens East, in the Sefton Park district of Liverpool, where a Mr. Qualtrough wished to discuss a prospective insurance.

        Mr. Wallace, who knew the district well, remarked at the time that the address must be Menlove Gardens Westm as there was no Menlvoe Gardens East to his knowledge.

        Next night as we have said, he went to keep the appointment and failed to find any Mr. Qualtrough in the district.

        it was suggested that he himself had sent the telephone message to create an alibi; and though, ont he surface, there seemed support for this theory, the actual sequence of events, and particularly the timings of Mr. Wallace;s movements, raised astounding problems.

        His movements on leaving his home at 6.45 were fully accounted for.

        He was seen by various people, and had to board different trams, the drivers and conductors of which were able to testify where and when they had picked him up.

        There was also complete evidence to show that he was unable to locate the person he had said he had gone to see in menlove Gardens West; that he enquired at a district post-office, a newsagent's, and also questioned a plice-constable.

        All the various people whom he thus encountered testified to the fact that he was perfectly normal in his manner and speech, and bore not the slightest tracest of excitement.

        Yet, to fit the prosecution's book, he was supposed to have rushed away to Sefton Park after perpetrating what the judge described as the most violent and brutal murder in the annals of crime.

        It may sound very dramatic to picture a masterly chessplayer planning each move in a murder, working out times to the nth degree, setting the stage for a false alibi a day before; deliberately getting himself seen and recognized by tram drivers and confuctors, post-office officials, policemen and others.

        But the fact that Mrs. Wallace was definitely seen alive at 5.30 could not be disputed.

        In the subsequent fifteen minutes before his departure, Wallace (had he committed the crime) would have had to work at sperhuman speed.

        The prosecution's theory was that he committed the murder naked save for a mackintosh, the charred and bloodstained remains of which were discovered under the dead woman's body.

        Fifteen minutes

        THIS would mean that Wallace would have to undress, put on the mackintosh, lure his wife to a front room, only used by them on rare occasions; commit the murder; rid himself of the raincoat; attempt to destroy it by fire; rush upstairs and take a bath; remove all traces of his presence in the bathroom; dress; throw one of the upper rooms into a terrible state of disorder, to suggest that it had been ransacked; break open a cabinet downstairs to stage a fake burglary; and, of course, take a last look round to make certain he had left no damning clues behind him.

        Then after the ghastly struggle-evidence proved that nearly a dozen blowns must have been struck-and the incredible rush, he would have to leave the house calmly, normally, and board a tram as if nothing had happened.

        And all in the short space of fifteen minutes!

        And he would have to maintain his composure while conversing naturally with the various people he approached in his search for the mysterious Mr. Qualtrough.

        Every one of these declared that there was nothing suspicious in his manner; neighbours who spoke to him while he was actually re-entering his home two hours later were emphatic on this score.

        The bogus telephone message of the night before the crime was traced to a public call-box near Wallace's house, and often used by him. But he readily admitted this from the first. The captain of the chess club, too, was quite positive that the voice was not Wallace's.

        Sections of the bath, etc., removed for careful laboratory examination, yielded one small clot of blood. A dozen investigation officials had wandered in and out of the bathroom before the parts were removed, and the particle of blood might easily have been carried in by any one of them from the scene of the murder.

        Four Treasure notes, believed to have been taken from the rifled cabinet downstairs, were found stuffed into an ornament on the mantelpiece in the ransacked room upstairs. There was a speck on one, thought to be blood; but this could not be proved. Wallace admitted that both he and his wife had been in the habit of dropping odd cash into this receptable.

        He will tell-

        MOTIVE was entirely absent. Mr. Wallace and his wife were known to have enjoyed eighteen years of solid companionship; there had been no quarrels; no jealousies; neighbours and friend knew them as a devoted couple.

        Mr. Wallace has his own theory as to why the Assize jury found him guilty in the face of such flimsy evidence, and he will divulge this and discoveries about the supposed murderer in his narrative.

        As an unsolved murder mystery, this case ranks as one of the most amazing ever known.

        But the sequel to it-William Wallace's life in the past year-will be found to be an even more astounding story.

        Comment


        • #5
          JOHN BULL, April 23, 1932

          #2 - The Man They Did Not Hang Begins the Story of his First Year of Freedom


          I AM on the even of the first anniversary of the day when I stepped from the gloom of the Royal Courts of Justice into the bright sunshine of the Strand-the happiest man alive.

          I had just heard the judges of the Court of Criminal Appeal decide that I was not to be "hanged by the neck till I was dead" for the murder of my wife, of which crime I had wrongfully been found guilty.

          During the interval I had passed my days and nights in the condemned cell at Walton jail longing for the day when I should appear before the ultimate tribunal in my land and have removed from my forehead the brand of Cain which the jury at Liverpool had placed there.

          In the corridors of the court an ever-changing bevy of learned counsel clusterd about me and impreded my way out.

          TO them I was a unique legal curiosity-the only living person in the world who has been sentenced to death and then set free as guiltless. And now as I passed from the Law Courts into the bright Spring sunshine and joined the crowds in the street, I could not but help feel exultant.

          The brand

          I was free-free of God's good air like the rest of men, instead of languishing in a narrow cell waiting for a shameful death.

          Yet it was not the actual thought of death that had appalled me.

          it was the dread that I, an innocent man, should pass out and only remain in other men's minds as the author of an atrocious crime. I craved to have my good name given back to me.

          Restored now to my fellow-creatures and the workaday world, I thought in my simplicity, that they would share my joy, would hasten, and never hesitate in the future, to congratulate me.

          Alas! I know now by the bitter experience of the past twelve months that the world is more willing to brand a man as guilty than to acclaim him as innocent.

          The greatest judges in the land might set me free. But in the streets, among my friends and acquaintances, there are those who still regard me as a creature to be shunned. The revelation fell like a thunderbolt upon me.

          From the surge and bustle of the world into which I descended from the Law Courts, Iw ent direct with the eagerness and excitement of a child to Kew Gardens. The calm and beauty of the place were entrancing, but it was not wholly for that reason I went there.

          To some the inspiration of the visit may seem petty ina man of fifty-five, but let me tell it.

          For twenty odd days I had been in a tiny condemned cell and had been formally notified by the prison governor of the date fixed for my execution.

          Always there were two warders with me and one of them was never more than a yard away from me. For one hour in the twenty-four I was allowed outside, and, with the warders in attendance, walked to and fro along a small garden path. By the edge of the path were growing irises and lupins.

          Premonition

          They became an obsession with me, these irises and lupins-in fact, my sole remaining interest in life. In my daily walks, my eyes never left them.

          The plants were in bud. Almost unceasingle I propounded to myself the question-Would they be in flower before I died? Somehow, I thought if I saw them bloom I would live.

          When I was taken from Liverpol to London for the appeal hearing, I left those flower buds still unbroken. During the tense hours I sat in the Appeal Court my thoughts often wandered far from the fight for my life. They came to rest on a prison path and a row of plants two hundred miles away. So now you see why I flew on the wings of liberty straight to Kew Gardens, straight to the irises and the lupins. I found them flowering. The tears filled my eyes.

          And it was amid that glorious sunshine in the gardens of Kew that I first realised the nipping frost of Life that would henceforth shrivel me up if it could.

          If I had known at that moment the mental tortures that were to be my lot from that day on, I believe I would have decided not to face it. I think I woul have preferred to choose death and oblivion.

          Hostile eyes

          There was nothing in my bearing to attract the attention of the groups of total strangers who were about me in the Gardens. They must have recognised me as "the man Wallace" from newspaper photographs. But recognise me they did, several of them-and their glances gave me my first chill of apprehension. I felt I had something to fear, though I did not realise yet what it was.

          Very soon, however, that something was to be defined for me sharply and in a manner atrociously cruel.

          At Kew also I experienced for the first time the strange sensation of becoming tinglingly aware that people who passed me had halted to turn round and stare at me. I felt instinctively I had an enemy behind me. Someone whose eyes and tongue were hostile.

          How well I was to get to know that sensation!

          From London I travelled home by road, and on the hourney I learned that a kind of public reception would await me in Liverpool. it may be remembered that when the assize jury returned the verdict of "Guilty" against me the gasp of astonishment that rose in the court was echoed and amplified in the Press and on the platform, and in cathedral and church special prayers were said for the guidance of my appeal judges.

          When my ultimate acquittal came, this outburts of criticism of the previous verdict had prompted a number of well-meaning citizens to organise a reception for me as a token that intelligent opinion welcomed me back to the city where I had been engaged in the insurance profession and had lived happily married for eighteen years.

          I appreciated the intended compliment, but rejected the idea. My wife's tragic death was still too recent and my sorrow too intense to allow participation in ceremony and acclamation.

          A public reception! Well it is, indeed, that no such thing ever took place. But I never dreamed that my private reception would be what it was.

          Relatives stopped me and told me that under no circumstances must I return to or enter the neighbourhood of my home in Richmond Park where my wife had been found murdered. Timidly and somewhat vaguely they tried to convey to me the warning that I would be the object of hostile demonstration

          It sounded like nonsese. I ridiculed their fears and made up my mind to go to my old home. Then my solicitor intervened. Bluntly, he told me that whatever public welcome had been planned in the heart of the city, he knew from observation and information that a vastly different reception would be accorded me at my suburban home. He forbade me to go there except at my own risk, and his advice was so emphativ that I took it.

          But what had happened? In the two weeks between the murder and my arrest I had received from my friends and neighbours all that sympathy and help that is best and most beautiful in human nature.

          Mental agony

          They had been gentle and charitable and labish in their bestowal of real consolation. Why had they turned against me while I lay condemned? Why had their kindliness turned to hostility and bitterness? It seemed impossible to me that any person could have heard the evidence against me as it was analysed and rejected bit by bit in the Appeal Court and yet believe that I had committed murder.

          With my brain bewildered and in torment I beseeched the people round me to say outright why I was now a figure for scorn and antagonism-I who had been cleared from guilty by the highest judges in the land.

          None could answer of explain. I believe they did not know. My hell was to be worse before the truth came to me. And from these early hours of revelation I knew that the justive that had been done me by the courts would live ever side by side with the injustice of the people in the street.

          Broken and humiliated, I sped to the solitude of my native Cumberland for the solace of the lonely dales and foothills.

          No one knew me in the solitary region which I chose, and warned by my Liverpool experience, I took every precaution against the disclosure of my identity. As well might my arrival have been heralded in the skies. Next morning wherever I strolled I was under scrutiny and could almost hear the whispering of tongues against me.

          In a few hours the quiet countryside rang with my name. The evil things said about me in the neighbourhood of my Liverpool home had spread far and wide. New sins were fastened on to me.

          Slanderous tongues were then, and have been ever since, damaging my moral character. Everyone seemed anxious to join in this feast of falsehood.

          Let me record here that never had I dishonoured the love my wife bore for me and I for her. From the day I was given notification of the date the gallows would receive me, I found some consolation in the knowledge that if I had to die no one could insult my memory by linking the death of Mrs. Wallace with any acts of disloyalty to her.

          Coming storm

          The explanation of the ostracism to which I was subjected when I returned to take my place in the community was that from mouth-to-mouth the lie had passed that I was a promiscuous adulterer and the father of illegitimate children. I had murdered my wife, these evil tongues said, in order to remove an obstacle to the pursuit of my illicit amourts.

          A month passed before I went back to my home in Liverpool. If in that time I had tried sometimes to deceive myself that I was exaggerating the volume of slander and magnifying hamless trifles, I was soon to learn otherwise. So far I had heard only the whispering of a coming storm.

          The tempest of hostility was already blowing strong in the first days I returned to reoccupy the house in which my wife died. My appearance in the streets about my home seemed to become a signal for the withdrawal of neighbours. They retreated into their doorward to avoid me. They watched me from behind the curtains. My dismay, after a time, became contempt. I could not resist laughing in derision when the spectacle was repeated daily of people scuttling behind their front doors into hiding and dodging down side-streets when they saw me coming.

          Now and then I would come upon someone unnoticed-one of the people with whom formerly I was accustomed to exchange cheery salutes.

          I hailed him or her as usual. A face would turn towards me and then as suddenly be averted in confusion. There was not even a mumbled response to my greeting. No human being, I believe, could have long endured the daily torture of that infernal and vindictive ostracism without some refuge for the mind.

          I found my salvation in wrok. It was work that gave me the gaven in which I could shut myself off from the bitter world outside. In this I count myself blessed. Modern commercial companies and institutations, it is said, are soulless. Well, I have had the chance to test the assertion-after the recent crisis in my life. I have found it is untrue.

          For sixteen years until my arrest I had been a member of the staff of the Prudential Assurance Company. An organisation like this is essentially a rigorously controlled machine, but it directed too sympathetically and humanely for an innocent man to be crushed. There was no hesitation on the part of the governors regarding the continuation of my engagement with the company when my conviction and sentence were quashed.

          Haven

          The machine gave forth charity and understanding at the moment when among the men and women around me the fount of sympathy had gone dry. The machine became my friend when men and women had become my enemies. My work has been the salvation of my mind and the confidence reposed in me by the mployers has inspired me with the courage to live and bravely face the future.

          At my desk I become oblivious to the slings and arrows of mankind. There I am safe from the malice of evil hearts and the venom of evil tongues.

          But the instant I pass from the sanctuary of my office into the teeming streets I heard the whispers: "Look, there's Wallace. You know...the man..." I can hear them before they are spoken.

          I am a tall man and, perhaps, somewhat conspicuous. These men whom I used to call friends can see me from a distance. Confusion and indecision cross their features. Their pace and ever so slightly their direction change. They are upon me. They raise their glances almost imperceptivly but enough to detect that I do not intend to place myself in their path and force a meeting. I can almost hear their sigh of relief. That settles it for them. They pass me by.

          Days and days of this, remember. A whole year of days...

          I shall face them

          Take the case of the restaurant at which I always have lunch. It was revealed at my trial that the supposed murderer of my wife successfully got me out of the way at the hour of the crime by telephoning to the captain of my chess club a message asking that I should proceed to an address, which afterwards proved to be non-existent.

          The chess club rooms are in the premises of my luncheon restaurant, and there for years I had my mid-day meal with my fellow-members. Yet I was ostracised on the first day I came back-and still am. The men with whom I had won and lost at play so often, with whom I had lunched daily and exchanged views o topics of the day over our coffee and cigarettes, pass me with heads tilted away from me.

          Their eyes see me not when they enter the room; they look through me, a lone figure at my table, while I eat my meal. If I were invisible I could not be more completely ignored.

          This goes on day after day. But I won't be frozen out. Not once have I failed to go there. And I'll keep on going. These are my silent accusers. They must be faced. If I feared to encounter them I should know that I was a coward. I should despise myself. I gave in quite sufficiently to my detractors when I left my Liverpool house. And I gained nothing by it. I have far less contempt for those who show their hostility openly and shamelessly than I have for the conduct of these slinking and unseen accusers.

          I much prefer honest enmity, however misguided it may be, like that of the woman who, at the mere sight of me as we were about to board a tramcar, clutched her little girls closely to her sides just as a hen throws her protecting wings over her chicks when danger approaches.

          I never remembered having seen the woamn before, yet the moment I caught her glance I could see my name forming itself on her lips. She uttered a stifled cry of horror,stepped back off the tramcar and hurried away with the little ones, lest they should be contaminated by my touch-nat, even my presence.

          Poor, deluded, creature! I felt no anger-nothing but great pity for her. And not even that for myself, so hardened have I become to my never-ending torture.

          In the tramcar and suburban train which I use to reach my new home in a Cheshire village I have extraordinary experiences.

          Daily ordeal

          People whom I have known for years and with whom I have even transacted insurance business take seats opposite me and never show the slightest gleam of recognition. Other fellow-passengers peep at me from behind newspapers or the cover of hands held over their eyes. By this time I have become a skilled reader of the processes of their minds. I know exactly the thoughts that are passing through them. Their eyes give them away.

          I sit firmly in ym seat, my head up, I don't wince. They are the ones who shift their feet and drop their eyelids.

          So practiced have I become in observation that I can tell to the split part of a second when they will try to shrink into their seats away from me.

          it is a ten-mile journey from my office to my home. It takes about three-quarters of an hour. Twice every day for three-quarters of an hour I face that ordeal. Sometimes with a smile of contempt on my face...

          But often in the evening when I reach my lonely country home and shut the world out behind my front door, and when there is no longer need for me to maintain my stoicism, I sit down in my armchair, bury my face in my hands and weep like a little child.

          Comment


          • #6
            What we are supposed to feel sorry for this ### clown. What a joke. Who writes all that about themselves after their wife has been murdered. What a narcissistic low life.

            Respectfully
            MK114

            Comment


            • #7
              JOHN BULL, April 30, 1932

              #3 - Women's Poison-Tongues Pursue Me

              I HAVE learned a lot about human nature in the year since the Court of Criminal Appeal restored to me my liberty.

              They talk about "nature, red in tooth and claw." Well, I have experienced human nature red in tooth and claw. And I wouldn't wish my worst enemy the experience.

              Oh, yes, I have learned many things. One is that women can be utterly merciless and savage when they strike at the defenceless. In the game of vilification the weakest player among the sex can give any man a long start and beat him hollow.

              Dealiest enemies

              Can it be true, I often wonder to myself during my lonely evenings, that the sympathy, charity and pity which we are taught are natural attributes to women are only a sham, a myth?

              My own happy domestic life with my dear wife for eighteen years-did that mislead me as to the true nature of the sex? And are other men similarly misled?

              These are questions that force themselves on me as the result of the bitter lesson I have learned in the past twelvemonth-the lesson that women can become deadly enemies of a man, even though he has taken no part in their lives.

              Compared with their derocity, the words of the judge at Liverpool who sentenced me to death ring in my ears like compassion itself. Some of these women were once on the friendliest terms with my wife and myself. But that has not prevented them from spreading hate and slander against me. Indeed, the more friendly they used to be, the worse and more wicked has been the manner in which they have sought to pile up evil opinion against me.

              The women struck at me without delay immediately I returned to my old home in Richmond Park, Anfield, a free man, and, as I thought, with my character clear to the world. Walking slowly, I approached the house where I had spent so many joyous years of perfect companionship till that fatal night when I returned to find my wife battered to death.

              Travelling across my mind was a slow panorama of the terrible events that had happened in the five months since I last stepped across the threshold. There was that shattering moment when I first realised the police suspected and were determined to seize me.

              Then came, in turn, the knowledge that everywhere I went heavy men, whose figures proclaimed them policemen, were at my heels-the hours of fierce examination at the police station-my arrest-the cells. Then, day after day of police court proceedings...the trial at the Assize Court...the death sentence...weeks in the condemned cell-a journey to London-the verdict of the Appeal Judges-liberty-sunshine-space-home!

              I stood before the front door of the house. Suddenly I remembered that the police tore out part of the interior in their search for evidence. Will the damage have been repaired? In any case, there will be sad days ahead removing bloodstains from the walls of the sitting-room, the pictures and the furniture. The place was covered with blood on that evil night. I shuddered to think of those stained walls.

              My neighbours, as I have said before, were so kind and helpful in the days immediately following the tragedy that now I innocently relied on them to advise or assist me again. it was a sad, lonely homecoming for me, and to taste their sympathy once more would give me courage and confidence in the future.

              The friend!

              From the shadow beyond the street lamp three figures loomed up before me. Three laides. They carried what seemed to be Bibles or Prayer-books. I remembered-it was the night of the mid-week service at the local church. Two of them I did not recognize. But the third, the one speaking so vivaciously to her companions, surely it was Mrs ____, whom both my wife and I had known.

              They drew nearer. Yes, it was Mrs. ____! What a happy chance meeting! No face could have been more welcome to me just then than hers. Not she is quite close to me. I smile with pleasure. I stop. I go to raise my hat. By my hand is arrested. An icy chill nips my impulse and freezes my short-lived joy.

              Mrs. ____ stops speaking and stares at me. I walk to meet her. Ah, can a woman change so? Her features become hard and fixed. She looks right through me and then away from me. As though in the presence of some distasteful object from which she wished to protect herself, she tightenes her coat round her.

              Then, with a hard, forward jerk of her shoulders, she passes on. It has all occurred in a flash. My fingers are still at my hat brim. I hardly know what has happened. Her footsteps die away down the street. She never looks back. She, a friend! One of our closest friends.

              Condemned

              Dazed by the shock, I stumble inside my tragic, silent home. In the darkness I sit down at the kitchen table, bewildered, stunned. What does it mean? I am innocent, have been publicly proved innocent. Yet a friend passes me by! God in heaven! is it my destiny to become a Ishmael?...

              "And every man's hand shall be against him..."

              The blood runs cold in my heart. I can recall that in those stupefying moments I dragged myself to the room in which my wife was killed and stood in silent communian facing the portrait of her that hung on the wall.

              From a cabinet I took out and fondled the lock of her hair which I had kept. Her rings, a handful of her small personal belongings. Their touch restored my nerve at that critical time. Today I can seldom bring myself to look at them. They are associated too keenly with the agony of that evening when I first learned that I was an Ishmael.

              I record it as a fact, not with any melevolence or bitterness, that in the twelve months since then some of the most vindictive of my traducers have been women whose church and religious activities bound them in friendship with my wife.

              While Mrs. Wallace was a Church-woman and had an abiding belief in a hereafter, I have for long been an avowed agnostic. Her friends who visited us were aware of this, but never once did I obtrude my personal convictions upon her or them. These friends, I supposed from the cordiality with which we always met, were tolerant people with respect for the sincerity of my views. I have learned lately that very soon after my arrest and long before they had an opportunity to measure any evidence these women had condemned me.

              It was an agnostic, a non-churchgoer, and, in their sight, therefore, just the sort of person to be guilty of a crime. What bigoted reasoning in this twentieth century! The fact that I had been acquitted by three great judges whose decision was unanimous and unhesitating meant nothing to these women.

              The remainder of the time I dwelt in my old home was a period during which my nerves were to be racked as they never had been since the night when I discovered my wife lying lifeliess in the sitting-room. A walk through the streets of the neighbourhood became an Arctic adventure. Everywhere was ice and a devastation cold...cold faces belonging to cold hearts.

              Sometimes I could barely refrain from crying out in bitter protest when I saw woman after woman scurry away at my approach. That was when they were alone. But if two or more happened to be together at a doorstep they were bolder and more explicit in their attitude towards me. They would break off their conversation to stare at me, "that villain Wallace."

              if they had shouted after me they couldn't have conveyed their sentiments more plainly... "Wallace, you may have escaped the gallows, but you are a villain and we don't want to know you."

              The smile

              Remember, all these women only a short time before professed sincere friendship for my dear wife and myself. They had known me long enough to have appreciated that in all my words and deeds I was a straightforward and honourable man. Why had they changed? I began to search for the answer after experiencing, first, a sense of ungovernable rage, and then floundering for a time in the impotency of dismay. When the explanation came, it staggered me.

              I was in a local grocer's shop making purchases for my solitaty evening meal. There entered a white-haired old lady who for long had been on visiting terms at our home. I was bracing myself for another rebuff when instinct seemed to tell me that this woman, at least, was not hostile. We exchanged glances and she smiled. When I looked her full in the face there came upon me a recollection of something my wife had once told me about this woman.

              Terrible truth

              It was that she had bravely lived her life in the face of dreadful accustions. Evil tongues had once wrongfully spoken against her moral character and she for long had been shunned by her sex. It was from this fellow-sufferer that I received my first grain of human sympathy.

              Timidly, she remarked that she was glad my trials were over.

              Over! I could have laughed in bitter irony. My oice quivered as I tried to convey to her that they seemed only to be beginning. her fingers touched my coat-sleeve. "Mr. Wallace, I understand," she said, quietly. I suggested that she could not possibly comprehend what I was enduring. "Believe me, I do," she replied, "I know what they are saying."

              "You know!" I almost screamed the words. "Tell me. Tell me what it is, for pity's sake!" The old lady was taken aback by my vehemence. Again I implored her. "Tell me. Do they still believe I killed my wife?" Next moment she was telling me the terrible truth. A stray incident at my trial had been seized upon by my former neighbours as the basis of a foul attack on my moral character. My counsel had made the point that for two weeks detectives had dogged my footsteps everywhere, presumably in the hope I would do something that could be used in evidence against myself.

              "Another Rouse"

              To this the prosecution replied with the subtle suggestion that the reason I had been so constantly shadowed was that the authorities feared for my personal safety amid a savagely-incensed public. Now, this frail and white-haired old soul was telling me in a grocer's shop what the women in the district had made of that innuendo. They had interpreted it, she explained, as meaning that I must have been in peril from the vengeance of husbands or fathers of women or girls whose honour I had outraged!

              I was not only "the man Wallace," but "another Rouse." So now I knew the truth. This was the enemy I had to fight in the future. I had no three judges to clear me of this vile accusation. No one by myself-and how was I to begin? How can a man fight against dark rumour? Still, I did try to trace the authors of these slanders. Not until women had jeered at me, slammed doors in my face, or flatly denied my appeals for information did I realise the futility of my quest.

              I am alone...

              For twelve months I have been a special targed for poisoned pens. These anonymous letter-writers may like to know that now I never read their communications but wrap them in bundles and pass them to my solicitor. I am firmly convinced that the writers of some of the letters I did read ought to be confined in a mental institution.

              Only a few days ago I learned that unknown tongues were spreading a new calumny against me. I am now supposed to have married again in secret and my second wife is alleged to be hidden in my new and lonely home in rural Cheshire.

              No, there is no woman, mistrss, or servant, in thsi house, and has not been since I came to it for asylum. Not will there be. Do you wonder after I have told you of my twelve months' experience of the evil women can do?

              Comment


              • #8
                These are the newspapers if the links work.

                John Bull magazine, April-May 1932

                https://www.dropbox.com/s/gpdhlzfnba...Bull1.jpg?dl=0

                https://www.dropbox.com/s/0zozj4ja2x...Bull2.jpg?dl=0

                https://www.dropbox.com/s/vzgdvkl5cs...Bull3.jpg?dl=0

                https://www.dropbox.com/s/ssjpnxpu92...Bull4.jpg?dl=0

                https://www.dropbox.com/s/ti2brjcryx...Bull5.jpg?dl=0

                https://www.dropbox.com/s/4dd2cpqv1u...Bull6.jpg?dl=0

                https://www.dropbox.com/s/e134kvdrzh...Bull7.jpg?dl=0
                Regards

                Herlock






                "Crime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore it is upon the logic rather than upon the crime that you should dwell.”

                Comment


                • #9
                  Originally posted by MK114 View Post
                  What we are supposed to feel sorry for this ### clown. What a joke. Who writes all that about themselves after their wife has been murdered. What a narcissistic low life.

                  Respectfully
                  MK114
                  In fairness these articles are ghostwitten. I'm not 100% sure how ghostwriting works, but I assume the writer takes the general gist of what the person is saying and turns it into something that's a gripping read, rather than the person's actual words.

                  Comment


                  • #10
                    That would have saved me some time lol. I've been typing these out from the photos I took on my phone lmao. Well now I can move onto the bigger better stuff I guess.

                    Comment


                    • #11
                      Witness: Mr. Robert Carr, 18 Moss Grove, Lodge Lane, LIVERPOOL, 8:


                      ---


                      The Great Wallace Murder Mystery
                      Should The Murder Have Been Solved Certainly?

                      The Truth, The Whole Truth and Nothing But The Truth

                      By One Who Knows


                      I have reasons to remember the night when Mrs Wallace was found murdered because something very strange happened the same night in Scotland Road Liverpool.
                      A man in company with a woman stopped me and asked could I direct them to the landing stage.
                      I said you are going the wrong way and offered to put them on the tram at a stop close by.
                      The man turned to the woman and said
                      We. Must. Not. Go. On. The. Car.

                      She never replied to him but closed her eyes as though she was in great fear.
                      They realized I was weighing them up the man was shall I say abnormal because his brain seemed concentrated on something
                      he said they would walk and asked me the way
                      This man was carrying a newspaper rolled up length ways in the left hand
                      While they was crossing the road he took out his watch and also looked at a clock opposite it was 8-10 PM

                      I stood on the pavement wondering whether to follow them or not
                      the next day I read of the murder of Mrs Wallace and wondered if the persons I see in Scotland Road the night previous was in any way connected with it

                      After reading the Echo on the night of the coroner's inquest I came to the conclusion it was my duty to inform the Police of my experience and went round to ask a C.I.D. man to comer ound to my place and I would make a statement. He came and I told him all and also signed a statement for him. This officer done his duty.

                      At a later date Wallace was arrested and charged with the murder of his wife. During this trial I rang up on two occasions from Haymarket Liverpool the C.I.D. Office Dale St. to ask if my statement had any bearing.

                      I was told Inspector Moore was out and had not left any message. During the trial at St Georges Hall I went down to Dale St and stated I wanted to interview the Chief Constable regarding the Wallace Murder Mystery.

                      I was taken to the Chief C.I.D. Office and interviewed by Inspector Wallace of the C.I.D. we discussed the murder and I told him my statement had perhaps some bearing on the mystery. He agreed with me and asked would I go over to St Georges Hall and he would ring me through to Inspector Moore and Inspector Gould.

                      I went over straight away to St Georges Hall and was told that they was both in the witness box and could not see me, neither did either of them communicate with me after. Why? They must have known my address and statement.

                      After Mr Wallace was found Guilty by the judge and jury then I went round to see the police again because whilte the appeal was pending the Empire News gave a photograph of Wallace which I said favoured the man I spoke to in Scotland Road on the night of the murder.

                      It was a blurred photograph I told them so and asked to see a distinct one or better still an identification parade. I was told why worry we have got him. We now come to the day of Appeal when the Court of Appeal squashed the judge and jury verdict of Guilty and set Wallace free.

                      Now let me say the papers was full of photographs of Wallace the very man that spoke to me in Scotland Road Liverpool the night of the murder at 8-10 PM. A newspaper poster ad in big print something to the effect the then Chief Constable was not satisfied. I again went over to the C.I.D. Office and told Inspector Wallace that the photographs in the papers was the very man I spoke to in Scotland Yard on the night of the murder.

                      He replied "well bob they have made a ---- of it. I was under the impression that you gave evidence at the trial." I was told to wait they would get him again before long certain.

                      Wallace then wrote his story in John Bull, "The Man They Did Not Hand" and ended up his opening with next week "Women Are My Worst Enemies". The opening of the second John Bull revealed the tragedy. It gave three photographs. Mrs Wallace the murdered woman. Himself the man that spoke to me in Scotland Road the night of the murder. And also the sister-in-law the very woman with Wallace when I spoke to them and Wallace said We. Must. Not. Go. On. The. Car.

                      I read and study Wallaces story now in one passage he says: "I stood with my violin beside the piano above which hangs my wife's photograph. I closed my eyes and tried to make myself believe she was again occupying the piano seat. The chord quivered, broke, and was lost. Violing and bow dropped limp in my hands".

                      No wonder.

                      He completes his story with "I Know The Murderer".

                      I press again to try and bring the matter up but in vain I am told to wait. Result. Wallace dies and Chief Inspector Moore stated in the Empire News they never had any other clue to the murder, and although such a long time had elapsed, they would open the case again.

                      I went down again to the present Chief Constable with a note from a gentleman well connected in Liverpool over my statement and their Blunder. The Chief Constable was beyond doubt engaged and I was sent to the C.I.D. Office again. I was seen by Inspector Wallace and I signed a fresh statement which I was told would have to go through the Director of Public Prosecutions, and later I was told try and forget all about it Wallace is dead, therefore we cannot do anything now it is too late.

                      I said I would if only the police would keep these papers from continually referring to the Wallace case out because it always brought the thing back to me. They agreed.

                      Then I read of a book to be published
                      I Know The Murderer
                      History of the Trial of William Wallace

                      I replied to that with a letter as follows:

                      The Great Wallace Murder Mystery
                      I know the murder

                      Dear Editor why not publish the following and let the public know the whole truth, not only of the trial of William Wallace but also the blunder made by the police. If only I had been called as a witness the murder would of been solved beyond doubt and proved the judge and jury verdict to be one of Guilty. It was suggested at the trial Wallace planned the murder like a game of chess making every move very careful and sure of winning the game
                      "He Did and Won at the Finish."

                      If the police had only played the game and used all their men against him at the trial they would have trapped him. Why then under such circumstances should the publicbe guffed with a book called "The Trial of William Herbert Wallace"? This man has gone to his grave therefore either let him rest to receive judgement in the next Wworld or let us start the trial all over again. Not tomorrow, but today.

                      Signed,
                      Justice Wanted

                      I received a reply as follows:

                      "Dear Sir

                      The appeal court having decided as it did it is not possible to give your letter."

                      I again go round to the C.I.D. Office to see if they could prevent the book being published under the circumstances. I was told they could not, it was only a book, and again asked to forget all about it while he, Wallace, was dead.

                      Then I read in the Empire News, Sunday November 5th, 1933: "Wallace Accused Me!" (This is the letter to the press written by Gordon Parry that this man refers to).

                      What. A. Shame.

                      Now Mr Paul French and also the Editor of Empire News I beg of you to publish the whole story enclosed and help to clear the shadow from the man that William Herbert Wallace accused and prove his innocence.

                      Before I close would you please add the following.

                      My opinion is that had Inspector Wallace of the C.I.D. had full charge of the case from the beginning, the murder of Mrs Wallace would have been solved.

                      Signed,
                      By One Who knows

                      Robert Carr
                      18 Moss Grove
                      Lodge Lane
                      Liverpool. 8.
                      ---

                      It's written on 12 postcard sized letters but splitting it up into pages made it confusing.
                      Last edited by WallaceWackedHer; 01-16-2020, 10:03 PM.

                      Comment


                      • #12
                        Another correspondence from Robert Carr who claims to have sighted Wallace at Scotland Road:

                        Sir John Gilmore

                        Dear Sir

                        I sent documents to the Director of Public Prosecutions on the 17/11/33 asking for the "Wallace Murder Mystery" to be either reopened or failing that, for a Court of Inquiry to clear the matter up owing to negligence of the police in failing to call myself as a witness at the trial. I received a reply dated 20/11/33 to the effect he was unable to deal with it.

                        I now apply to you dear sir, asking you to get the documents from the Director of Public Prosecutions and that you will take the matter up without delay. I believe in justive, therefore I shall hope to hear from you by return of post.

                        I remain
                        Yours truly,

                        Robert Carr

                        Comment


                        • #13
                          Originally posted by WallaceWackedHer View Post

                          That would have saved me some time lol. I've been typing these out from the photos I took on my phone lmao. Well now I can move onto the bigger better stuff I guess.
                          Sorry WWH I assumed that you had them already.
                          Regards

                          Herlock






                          "Crime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore it is upon the logic rather than upon the crime that you should dwell.”

                          Comment


                          • #14
                            Medical Report, Royal Southern Hospital


                            ---

                            ABSTRACT OF REPORT FROM THE ROYAL SOUTHERN HOSPITAL ON MR. WALLACE

                            Admitted 9/6/30

                            Discharged 10/7/30


                            On admission he complained of dull pain in the right loin which was brought on by walking. Also frequency of micturition.

                            History:- 24 years ago he was operated on in Shanghai for what is said to be a "fixing-up" operation of the left kidney. Three weeks after this he had an abscess on the right kidney and again three weeks later his left kidney was operated on because of a urinary fistula.

                            23 years ago he was operated on at Guy's Hospital, London, when the left kidney was removed. Since this time every two or three years he has had attacks of acute pain on the rgiht side. These attacks were relieve by lying down.

                            On admission to the Royal Southern Hospital he complained that he had occasional headache and occasional nausea but no vomiting; also he had abnormal thirst.

                            On examination:- There was tenderness on deep palpation in ther ight loin and the right kidney was felt to be enlarged. There was also some tenderness along the line of the right ureter. There was a nodular enlargement of the right epididymis which may have been septic in origin.

                            On cystoscopy the left ureter orifice was not seen owing to Oedema and sloughs at the base of the bladder.

                            He was X-Rayed after being given Uroselectan. This showed "the presence of a large hydronephrotic kidney on the right side. There was also a shadow on the right side of the sacrum but as the ureter was not shown filled with the opaque solution, the remote possibility of this shadow being due to a stone could not be excluded".

                            Blood N.P.N. was 47 mgms% on 11/6/30.

                            The Urine contained very much pus but no red blood corpuscles and no casts.

                            There were numerous B.C.C.s and also some Staphylococci.

                            There was no pyroxia whilst he was in Hospital.

                            Comment


                            • #15
                              Interesting stuff WWH. Carr was certainly convinced and persistent. Did he really see William and Amy?

                              Just a thought. Wouldn’t it be easier for you to post these as attachments or links? It would save you having to type them all out?
                              Regards

                              Herlock






                              "Crime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore it is upon the logic rather than upon the crime that you should dwell.”

                              Comment

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