by J C Briggs
‘Why should he make his camp in a lonely cottage in the woods — and camp it was — if he were not fearful of discovery — if he did not know what he had done? You have heard the testimony of Doctor Mellor for the prosecution. He has told us that actions alleged to be symptomatic of mental derangement are motiveless in their origin — a man who is mad can have no motive. But the motives of the prisoner before you are as clear as daylight. He is an artist who promised to paint their portraits and when he found that they were not the women he wanted, he killed them. Doctor Winslow gives evidence of the painting of the dead girl’s face to show that the prisoner was deluded, but he knew she was dead. Else why would he attempt to bring her back to life? And if he knew she was dead, then he knew he had done it.
‘Doctor Winslow testifies that the prisoner is unable to comprehend what he has done. He answers no questions now; he has nothing to say about any of the young women whose names have been heard in this case; he merely asks: “Where is Caterina?”
‘Yet Superintendent Jones has testified that the prisoner heard him call out and turned in response to his name. Mr Dickens tells us that the prisoner understood him when he spoke to him about his painting.
‘Thus we can say that the prisoner can hear, understand and speak, but he will not speak now. He could speak to Mr Dickens then; he listened to him when Mr Dickens told him that his sister, Miss Ferrars, wished to see him, and he went willingly with Superintendent Jones. Mr Dickens’s attitude to the law may be somewhat cavalier, but he is known to be a most persuasive speaker. Doctor Winslow, alas, is not always so persuasive. We asked him how he could know that the prisoner was not feigning. Doctor Winslow tells us that it his by his long experience that he can distinguish shamming from genuine insanity. Doctor Mellor tells us by his long experience that the prisoner’s conduct reveals a man of most acute intelligence and cunning. The prisoner pretended to his victims that he wanted to paint their portraits — perhaps he is pretending again.
‘Whether the prisoner is now feigning madness, however, is not the pertinent question: the point to be decided is whether, according to the rules laid down by precedent, the prisoner was conscious that he was committing a crime against the laws of God and nature.
‘If so he is to be considered amenable to justice and must expiate his crime on the gallows. There is no doubting the prisoner’s guilty act — and, there is no doubting the prisoners’ guilty intentions, nor, indeed, his guilty knowledge. Mens rea, my Lord.’
Mr Justice Rightman addresses the jury: ‘You are not duty-bound to accept the experts’ opinions if they do not accord with your own common sense and experience. It is the defendant’s responsibility to demonstrate madness and if you should be satisfied there is proof that he was not able to distinguish a right from a wrong then you must acquit him. The question is one of fact. The question is, whether the prisoner, at the time he committed the fatal act, was not responsible for it, by reason of a deranged state of mind. I remind you that it is for the unlawful killing of Jianna Rizzo that the prisoner has been tried.
‘However, if you believe that the prisoner was not so afflicted then you must find him guilty of the charge. And you must bear in mind the deaths of all the other young women to which the police have adverted. If the prisoner knew that the killing of Miss Rizzo was against the laws of God and nature, then he will be arraigned for the murders of Miss Flora Lambert, Miss Violet Pout and Miss Jemima Curd.
‘In summary, if you believe that the prisoner was suffering from delusions and was not of sound mind when the act was committed, you must set him free. It is my duty as judge to decide his fate thenceforth…’
In a quiet corner of The Magpie and Stump, near The Old Bailey, Dickens gulped his brandy and warm, Rogers supped his pale ale and Superintendent Jones gazed into his drink as if the verdict might be read there.
‘Dadd was acquitted on the grounds of insanity.’ Dickens was thinking of Richard Dadd, also an artist, who had stabbed his father to death in 1844. He was in the Bethlehem Asylum and would be, he supposed, for the rest of his life.
‘One murder and plenty of witnesses to his irrational conduct. He attacked a man in France and they locked him up — he was so obviously deranged. The jury at the inquest could see that. He never came to trial.’ Jones remembered the case.
‘Three other girls dead, though,’ said Rogers, ‘that’ll be the stumbling block — and that girl in Venice. He’d been seen with her.’
‘And Susan Harvest — that did him no favours. The seduction of a clergyman’s innocent daughter — Mr Needle got that out of Miss Ferrars and Lilian Judd. The respectable jury will think of their innocent daughters.’
‘Or sons,’ suggested Rogers, ‘they might have sons.’
‘True, Alf. And I do wonder if Needle went too far with that bit about the gallows — over-dramatic, maybe. Juries of reasonable men — with sons, perhaps — are not so keen to send a man to the gallows.’
‘If they can spare his life and send him to Bedlam,’ Dickens said.
‘I know, yet, on the other hand, given the controversy surrounding the plea of insanity — you’ve seen the letters in the papers. There was one from someone calling himself “The Ropemaker”, fulminating about cheating the gallows.’
‘But his whole demeanour and his history — Winslow convinced me. And the fact that he doesn’t speak and he looks so —’
‘Mad,’ Rogers put in.
‘He may look mad, but I’m not so sure that Winslow was so convincing on the subject of feigning — that was a bad moment. I mean, how can you tell?’ Jones asked.
‘Any murder is a kind of madness, I suppose — all murderers are a horrible wonder apart.’
‘On that theory, all murderers should be acquitted. No, the main point is whether he knew what he was doing at the time.’
‘What about Winslow’s stuff on sleepwalking and trances?’ asked Rogers. ‘He could have been in some sort o’ trance, I daresay.’
‘As Mellor pointed out somnambulism is very common — it does not generally pose a threat to others —’
‘Not “generally” therefore it might,’ Dickens said. ‘I read that book Winslow spoke of, MacNish’s book on sleep. There are examples of murder done in sleep. If he was in a state of unconscious — unaware of the deed, he can’t be responsible.’
‘If the jury believes that.’
‘Knife-edge, then?’
Dickens returned to the Central Criminal Court to hear the verdict.
The clerk to the court asked, ‘Members of the Jury, have you reached a verdict?’
The foreman of the jury responded, ‘We have, my Lord. We find that from the derangement of his mind at the time he committed the act that the prisoner was not responsible for his actions.’
Mr Justice Rightman replied, ‘That is, in fact, a verdict of “Not Guilty” on the ground of insanity. Let it be so entered. The Court orders that the prisoner shall be detained until Her Majesty’s pleasure be known.’
Dickens went back to his office in Wellington Street. He stood looking out of the window. “Until Her Majesty’s pleasure be known” — that would be forever. Like Richard Dadd, for the rest of his life, sealed up in Bedlam. Then what dreams and visions might come? Would his beloved come in his dreams or would Caterina come to him transformed into that waxwork figure with the hideous lips? Would he then know what he had done? Would it have been better that Anthony Ferrars be hanged? He would be out of it then … out of his madness … safe in his grave. Nothing could touch him there, neither fear nor censure.
But what a grave — to be buried under the stones of Deadman’s Passage, that grim passage from the condemned cell to the scaffold. To have been displayed on that before the jeering, hissing crowd, the scaffold on which the last embrace would be of Calcraft, the hangman, upon whose stony breast his head would slump as he was cut down. That was monstrous to think of, too. What a mystery it all was. What madness it all was.
He felt profoundly
sorry for the man, but equally for his victims. Now that Anthony Ferrars was declared mad, he could not plead in any of the other cases, but the postponed inquests on Flora Lambert, Violet Pout and Jemima Curd would come on and the Coroner would have to accept that the accused person was insane. They would have justice of a kind. And Susan Harvest’s poor corpse would be exhumed and she would be sent home to lie with her mother. They would never know if Anthony Ferrars had killed her — perhaps it was better so for the Reverend Harvest.
And what of those other girls? It was too late. There was nothing to be done. God must look after them in his mercy. He prayed it would be so.
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
48: Dying Breath
A week later
Dickens put down his pen and looked at the words he had written: That old unhappy want of something. He had not signed his name. There was no need.
He parcelled up the two volumes of David Copperfield and wrote the name and address on a label: Mrs Doireanne Marchant, Florence Cottage, St. John’s Wood Road, London.
The messenger boy came in with the letters. Dickens gave him the parcel before he could change his mind. The boy made to go.
‘Just a minute, Tommy —’ he fished in his pocket for some coins — ‘deliver it by hand — er — just leave it on the doorstep —’ It could take its chance, he thought.
‘But wot if the lady —’
‘She’ll know.’
Dickens looked at the rest of the letters. He recognised Mrs Carlyle’s hand and opened her letter. It was short. He skimmed the few lines. Then he picked up his hat and went out.
‘You’ve heard the news, I take it,’ said Jones, indicating the letter Dickens was holding out to him.
‘From Mrs Carlyle. Not unexpected, I suppose, after her heart attack.’
Jones looked at him thoughtfully. ‘I had a visitor.’
‘Someone came to tell you?’
‘Mr Pryor, who, incidentally, has resigned his post.’
‘What did he want?’
‘He has suspicions — something the nurse told him — the nurse engaged to look after Lady Fane.’
‘Phew!’ Dickens sat down. ‘Tell me.’
‘A mirror. There was a mirror on the Lady Fane’s bed — a silver hand mirror. The nurse had not held the mirror for Lady Fane. Lady Fane had no interest in what she looked like, but there was a mark on the glass as though someone had breathed on it —’
‘Her dying breath?’
‘The mirror was at the bottom of the bed. She would have to have tossed it there. If she had held it, she was so weak she would have just dropped where her hand lay.’
Dickens gaped at him. ‘Someone else put it there … someone who held it to her mouth to be sure that she was dead.’
‘The pillows were rumpled as well.’
‘Doctor?’
‘Sir William Gresty.’
‘Ah — brother of James Gresty, Conservative M.P. for Vauxhall.’
‘Just so — Sir William signed the death certificate. The nurse didn’t dare say anything. How could she? William Gresty appointed her. Mrs Pick was in and out of the room. She took the children in sometimes to see their mother. Sir Neptune visited each day, but never at the same time so she can’t be sure if he had been in the room, but he was in the house at the time.
‘The nurse went for a cup of tea and Mrs Pick took over. But when the nurse returned to the bedroom, there was no one there. She realised that Lady Fane was dead and went to call for Mrs Pick. While she was waiting she automatically picked up the mirror and returned it to the dressing table. She noticed the mark, but it wasn’t until afterwards that she thought about the strangeness of the mirror on the bed. She hadn’t left it there. Mrs Pick would hardly have put it there. Of course, she couldn’t say that room was empty — she would have been accused of neglect. She could hardly accuse Mrs Pick — or Sir Neptune. She told all this to Pryor. They got quite friendly, it seems.’
‘He did it,’ said Dickens flatly. ‘And he killed Violet Pout.’
‘I think so, but there is no evidence. He’ll have burnt Violet’s letter to Lady Fane — if there was one as Pryor thought. And there’s not a damned thing I can do about it. But there was never anything I could do about him. The Home Secretary made it perfectly clear to the Assistant Commissioner that Miss Fane was not to be mentioned at the trial. Sir Neptune insisted that a man called Sabatini is responsible for his daughter’s illness. I had to agree — how could I drag that poor girl into it? What she has suffered already. But it meant leaving Sir Neptune out of it — apart from the brief reference in connection with Jemima and Violet Pout.’
‘Wisdom of Solomon, eh?’
‘No choice, in reality. Imagine what the Home Secretary would have said if I had voiced my suspicions about Sir Neptune and Violet Pout.’
‘You’d have been in Bedlam, too. Will the nurse talk?’
‘Pryor says not. He’s a sharp fellow — he knew it would do no good. Challenging the verdict of Sir William Gresty, casting suspicion on the household, on Sir Neptune Fane, M.P.? Hardly — the poor woman would have been arrested — another case for Bedlam.’
‘He’s right, of course, but it’s no comfort.’
‘None at all.’
‘Well, as the Stratford man says: the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.’
‘Perhaps he’ll lose his seat.’
‘Or be shot by a disgruntled constituent — and that wouldn’t be your business.’
‘I’d be grateful for that … I wonder what his motive was — against his poor wife?’
‘Perhaps she knew about Violet Pout — he couldn’t risk her recovery.’
‘I wouldn’t put it past him.’
‘He’s probably got someone lined up to be the next Lady Fane.’
‘Not —’
‘Mrs Marchant? No, that’s all over, I imagine. I heard from Jack Marchant, they are all off to Ireland — for good. Mrs Sabatini is already there.’
‘Mr Rarx will be pleased — not that I care about him, either. Perhaps he’ll shoot himself with that blunderbuss. Anyway, I’ve got other matters to deal with. A young fellow, name of Horder, cut his wife’s throat while they were in bed. No known motive.’
‘Mad?’
‘Don’t.’ Jones shook his head wearily. ‘Are you off home?’
‘I’m going to the shop. I’ve something to tell Scrap.’
‘About his name? Elizabeth told me. She thought he’d been looking a bit down in the mouth. Mollie told her that she thought the baby was keeping him awake —’
‘Not sleuthing by midnight?’
‘I didn’t mention that. Anyway he came to us and stayed the night. Elizabeth got it all out of him. Charley Rogers was teething, Mollie told Scrap, and that sparked a memory — this happened on the night you went to meet Jack Marchant. It was a good thing he saw you because what he remembered upset him.’
‘What was it?’
‘He remembered his mother and a baby sister whom he called “Silly”. He told me about his mother once — when Mr Brim died and I didn’t want him at the funeral. He put me right about that. He never knew where his mother was buried and he wanted to be able to tell Eleanor about her father’s funeral — if she ever asked.’
‘And the sister?’
‘He had forgotten all about her and that upset him. He thought about little Tom Brim forgetting about Eleanor or anybody forgetting about anybody — himself for instance.’
‘He feels a bit lost, I think, not sure of his place in the world. “That Magpie fellow, he’s really Jack Marchant, and you’re Charles Dickens”, he said. “You know who you are.” I didn’t disabuse him of that notion. Who is it that can tell me who I am — so said King Lear, and he was mad at the time. Makes you think.’
‘I’ve had quite enough of madness,’ Jones said. ‘Tell me something I can get hold of. Did you find the father?’
‘I did. Scrap remembered where they lived — a one pair back in Finger Alley, off Compton Street. Needless to say he wasn’t there. Neither was his fancy woman. They both used to beat him which is why Scrap ran away. But I did find a neighbour who knew them. The father was known as “Knuckle”.’
‘Not very enlightening.’
‘Well, he’d done a bit of bare knuckle fighting — quite successful until the drink did for him. The neighbour dredged into the muddy shallows of her mind and came up with Kevin. Knuckle was Irish. I thought therefore Catholic and took myself to St Patrick’s in Soho Square. I thought Scrap must have been baptised, working on the assumption that Scrap’s mother had been a good Catholic girl. Scrap once quoted her as telling him “Waste not, want not, my lad, and don’t forget your prayers.” I saw her fully just for a moment in all her common sense and goodness.’
‘You found her?’
‘I think so — the dates fit. I found a boy born to Kevin and Mary Donnelly in 1837, baptised on June 20th, the day of the Queen’s accession and I found a little girl, baptised in 1842 as Cecilia Donnelly.’
‘Silly.’
‘Must be. And we think Scrap is about thirteen so —’
‘And the name?’
‘Hugh Donnelly.’
‘The mother’s death?’
‘Not in the register at St Patrick’s so I don’t know, and there’s no trace of the baby. Scrap couldn’t remember where they lived — only that his father turned up to take him from somewhere to the place he remembered. His mother and the child would have been buried by the parish — but what parish? I don’t know what to tell him about that…’
