Criminal Liverpool

by Daniel K Longman

  The boy was then led away.

  A FIERY FELINE

  On 22 October 1896 Sarah Dawber was busy in the back yard of her home having finally found some time to deal with a few household chores. Much to her surprise, a ghastly screech broke the afternoon calmness and a flickering feline flew into full view. A scrawny cat, one Sarah had seen on a number of occasions strutting casually about the cobbles, seemed a lot more heated than usual – it was on fire! It ran past Mrs Dawber and through her kitchen door. She chased it and tried to shoo the cat back out to the less flammable back yard. The flames of its fur were reaching heights of about 2ft and the kitchen was in serious danger of catching alight as well. Mrs Dawber filled a bowl of water and poured it on the puss, but it did nothing but make the cat cry out louder. It fled through the living room and out the front door to die a slow, hot death.

  Kemble Street in 1891.

  A recent vista of Kemble Street.

  Inspector Osborn of the RSPCA was contacted and he examined the smouldering carcass. The cat was terribly burnt and it gave off an abnormal smell. As well as the morbid stench of death lingered the strong scent of paraffin oil. Mr Osborn spoke to Mrs Dawber and she related how the cat, all ablaze, had jumped into her back yard from a certain house in Kemble Street. Ann Coombes was the occupier and she was questioned by the inspector over her suspected involvement. On going into the parlour Mr Osborn spotted a container of paraffin oil precariously sitting by the fire grate. Thankfully, the fire was not lit. In the grate itself he discovered some burnt newspaper and some soot saturated with the same distinctive oil. ‘I put some paraffin on a piece of newspaper to drive a strange cat out of the chimney,’ said Mrs Coombes, unaware of the terrible outcome her actions brought about.

  Before Mr Stewart at the Liverpool Police Court, Ann Coombes was summoned by the RSPCA for cruelty. In answer the woman denied she had coated the cat in paraffin oil, but merely dowsed some paper and lit that. She only wanted to scare the cat out, not kill it. ‘Without paraffin oil the most inflammable newspaper would not have produced such conflagration upon the poor cat,’ said the magistrate. ‘However I don’t believe the oil had been put on the cat and would be sorry to think that any adult, much less this woman, would do such a thing.’ Considering this was not a deliberate act of cruelty, Mr Stewart dismissed the case from his court. Mrs Coombes had had no conception of the cruel consequences that would arise from her actions and was most sorry for what had happened.

  THE DIE-HARD

  MARKETERS

  Today Queen Square is a busy bus stop ferrying shoppers to every corner of the city and afar. This lively workplace of public transport was once an active centre for enterprising stallholders, but the late nineteenth century brought it all to an unwanted end.

  On 5 August 1878 approximately forty fruit, vegetable and fish sellers were summoned for causing an obstruction in Queen Square and Great Charlotte Street on various dates since July last. Magistrates Mr Picton and Mr Browning presided.

  A map of Queen Square from the late nineteenth century.

  Queen Square, now a busy bus station.

  Mr Picton asked whether or not Great Charlotte Street, situated on the west side of St John’s Market, was formerly used and generally recognised as part of the market itself. He was told that there were a great number of people who were in the habit of going there to take up their accustomed spots to trade their wares. The deputy town clerk Mr Atkinson supported this information and recounted the circumstances that had led up to this point. He spoke of how in 1786 under an act of King George III, the Liverpool Corporation had obtained an act through Parliament which allowed them to designate such public parts of the city to use as markets as they saw fit. In 1810, Queen Square and Great Charlotte Street had indeed been designated as such areas. It was not until July last that the market status of those two areas was revoked; a change of which ample notice was given through means of advertisements. ‘By this order of the council, Queen Square is no more a market than Bold Street or any other street in the town,’ exclaimed Mr Atkinson. ‘Anyone exposing goods there created an obstruction just as much as if they did so in Bold Street and were as much liability to penalty.’

  Queen Square in the year 1920.

  Superintendent Hutchinson of the markets deposed that Queen Square was not a market when he was a boy, but had subsequently been adopted as one and had been seen that way for many years. Mr Little, the manager of St John’s Market proved that due notice had been given by the council through advertisements and placards, examples of which were shown to the court. Mr Messenger, a market collector, stated that he had not collected any tolls from any traders from Queen Square or Great Charlotte Street since 5 July.

  Dr O’Feeley for the defence alleged that the council ought to have passed not only an order repealing the by-law in regards to the square, but a separate by-law to disband it all together. In response Mr Atkinson said that that course of action had already been taken earlier that year, when the council approved a recommendation from the Market Committee that both places should be discontinued from their previous uses as of 5 July.

  The magistrates had heard enough. There could be no excuse for the tradesmen continuing their crafts illegally in places clearly out of bounds. They enforced fines ranging from 5s, 2s and 6d to the forty or so die-hard marketers.

  A BIT ON THE SIDE

  It had only been a year since seventy-seven-year-old John Faraday wed his wife Mary, but their marital bliss had soon turned sour. In the year 1919, Mrs Faraday took a second bout of legal action against her once dearly beloved and on Thursday 12 June, the couple faced each other at Bootle’s Police Court. Mary told the court that a few weeks previously her husband had left her through an unfounded sense of jealously. John resented the fact that she was friends with a man by the name of Mr Lamb who in his opinion was a little too fond of calling.

  It was heard that a clock had recently been acquired at the Faraday household and there had been much disagreement over it. Mr Mills Roberts for the defence asked the plaintiff if she had told her husband that Mr Lamb had given her the clock, despite her husband previously giving her money to purchase one.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered idly.

  ‘Why did you tell him that?’

  ‘I only said it was a present. There was no harm in it,’ said Mrs Faraday.

  The magistrate’s clerk said that it looked as though Mary was trying to stir up trouble and asked why she would do such a thing.

  ‘Because he always wants to know where I get everything from,’ fumed the sixty-one-year-old.

  She spoke further about how she had pawned her engagement ring because her husband was always taking it. ‘I did it through spite,’ Mary admitted. She added that on one or two occasions she had left her husband all day without cooking him any food. Once, John had attempted to destroy the argument-causing clock and two vases, but Mrs Faraday said that she had physically prevented him, but denied kicking him.

  ‘When the case was before the court previously it was adjourned to see if you could not live together?’ enquired Mr Mills Roberts.

  ‘Yes, and I agreed,’ was her rather sharp reply.

  ‘And one condition made was that you gave Lamb up?’

  ‘Yes’

  ‘And drink?’

  ‘I don’t drink!’ retorted the elderly woman.

  Mrs Faraday then called a witness to support her, but on standing in the witness box, the woman didn’t know what to say.

  ‘You say I don’t go out at night. You know that very well,’ whispered Mary, after creeping to the foot of the stand.

  The courtroom laughed at this farcical turn of events.

  In his own evidence, John Faraday said that his wife was extravagant. ‘She wants me to go! She wants the place free for her fancy man Lamb!’

  Once the court managed to suppress their laughter, John continued his tirade upon his wife’s ‘friend’, saying that Lamb was the cause of most of their trouble. Of his wife�
��s first husband, he held deep sympathy.

  ‘I am sorry for the poor man who had to suffer by you for so long. I am afraid he went to his grave with a broken heart.’

  The magistrate’s clerk intervened. ‘You do know a man must keep his wife Mr Faraday?’

  ‘I agree that a man must keep his wife,’ replied John, ‘but there are exceptions!’

  Despite his spouse’s troublesome ways, the court ordered Mr Faraday to pay his wife 5s a week for his desertion.

  TRAGEDY AT UPHOLLAND

  Thirty-five-year-old Elizabeth Williams was a domestic servant from the town of Llanrwst in the Conwy Valley. Up until December 1918, she had lived with her husband, a horse trainer in Wales, but a change of situation had forced Mrs Williams to move to Upholland and take up a position at the Red Lion Hotel. In February she asked her employer, John Marsh, if she could bring her young son to live with her, as she recently had news that her husband had passed away and that there was no one left to care for him. John was rather taken aback at the news, as he was under the impression that Elizabeth was already widowed. The licensee was not normally a sympathetic man, but under the difficult circumstances, Mr Marsh was prepared to make an exception.

  He agreed, and Elizabeth and her little three-year-old son John stayed at the pub until July, when Mr Marsh’s patience finally ran out. He informed the woman that her services were no longer required, but it was not long before Mr Marsh offered Elizabeth a job working on the farm next door to the Red Lion – on the condition that she did not bring the child with her.

  This left Mrs Williams with a serious dilemma. She had no other relatives to turn to, nor could she afford to turn down the job offer. On 24 July she left Upholland taking her son with her. She returned the following day without the toddler, telling Mr Marsh that she had sent him to Oldham to be adopted. During a conversation with her friend Mrs Gaskell about the matter, Elizabeth broke down and began to cry.

  ‘I’m sorry to part with the boy, but he will be with very nice people,’ she sobbed. The maid gave a similar explanation to her employer, who was more than happy with the outcome. With no dependencies Elizabeth could work for him without any problems.

  However, just four short days later Elizabeth decided to pack her bags and left for Bangor, giving no reason for her sudden departure.

  The following day, William Lewis was taking a stroll around the banks of a disused quarry in Digmoor, not far from Upholland, when something horrendous caught his attention. The quarry was flooded to a depth of about 25ft and at the side Mr Lewis spotted the body of a young male floating limply.

  Police were informed and an inquest on the youthful corpse was carried out. It was revealed that the child had died from drowning and that he had been in the water for approximately four or five days.

  Mrs Williams was tracked down and arrested in Bangor. ‘I took off his cap and clogs and dropped him into the water last Thursday,’ she admitted tearfully upon arrest. ‘I thought of committing suicide but my heart failed me!’

  The cap, shoes and a pair of delicately small socks were found in her possession. She was taken to Walton prison, where she was to be incarcerated before her trial. Dr East, the medical officer, found the prisoner to be very depressed and indifferent to his questions. The whole tragic affair was clearly affecting Elizabeth. Nevertheless, she was soon able to relate to police her version of the events that led up to the death of her son in a quite rational manner with no indication of insanity or melancholia.

  On Halloween 1919, Elizabeth Williams was brought before Mr Justice Avory at the Liverpool Assizes on a charge of wilful murder. John Marsh, licensee of the Red Lion Hotel, said under cross-examination that he was a widower and admitted intimacy with the accused. He protested that he was under the impression that Mrs Williams was a widow at the time and that she had lied to him.

  Defence solicitor Mr Madden argued that Mrs Williams loved her child dearly and pleaded to the jury to find that, broken and overwrought as she was at the time of the tragedy, she was incapable of knowing exactly what she was doing.

  The judge stated that if the evidence satisfied the jury – that Mrs Williams had deliberately thrown the boy into the water intending to take away his life and to get rid of it – their duty was to find the accused guilty of murder. They duly returned a guilty verdict.

  ‘It is my painful duty to pass upon the prisoner the full sentence of the law. The recommendation of the jury will be forwarded to the proper quarter where it will receive every consideration,’ declared Judge Avory. A solemn sentence of death was then passed and Elizabeth was led below in a state of collapse.

  COPPERS IN THE DOCK

  The Saturday afternoon of 30 March 1850 witnessed a rather inverted spectacle take place within the city’s criminal justice system. John Sherridan and William Page, two Liverpool police officers, were brought to the dock to stand trial on charges of assault.

  It was alleged that in the January of that year, John Kilshaw, a timber dealer, had been having a few drinks with friends at a pub in Bankfield Crescent, North Shore. Those within were thoroughly enjoying themselves and the evening was getting merrier by the minute. As time passed the ever-flowing alcohol became too much for some and an unruly fraças duly developed. The police were contacted and soon Constables Sherridan and Page were on the scene with strict instructions to restore order.

  Mr Kilshaw left the premises without causing any commotion and headed off towards his lodgings at Banfield Terrace in Kirkdale. He expected the rest of his night to be less eventful than his time at the inn, but John’s hopes were, alas, misplaced.

  Later that night another resident of Banfield Terrace was awoken by a loud knocking at the front door. Peering through a window and out into the street, the neighbour observed two impatient policemen who continued to hammer hard upon the entrance.

  ‘We are looking for Mr Kilshaw,’ an officer announced.

  They had reason to believe he had stolen a pocket watch from a sailor in the pub and were keen to investigate.

  A neighbour told them the man they were looking for had gone across to check on his timber yard, as he was accustomed to do before going to bed. The officers thanked the informant and left in search of Kilshaw.

  It wasn’t long before a terrible commotion was heard echoing out from the yard. The neighbour, still intrigued by the inquiry, sought out the origin of the noise and stumbled upon a most dreadful scene of brutality. In the timber yard PC Sherridan and PC Page were standing over Mr Kilshaw as he rolled about on the ground trying to defend himself from the blows which the officers were inflicting.

  ‘Stab the bugger!’ one hollered, as he brought a wooden stick down hard upon their suspect’s arm. Mr Kilshaw cried out in agony and the force of the blow broke the makeshift weapon. He suffered further still when the sharp edge of his assailant’s cutlass met his brow. That was enough.

  Gasps and hushed mutterings were heard from the jury as they listened to the alleged violence.

  It was heard how the officers left their victim and walked off heedlessly into the night. Mr Kilshaw was escorted back to his room by the watchful tenant who had seen everything, and soon John found himself under the medical care of Mr Gosling.

  The surgeon found the timber-dealer’s body to be terribly battered and bruised, and two bleeding scalp wounds bore further witness to the abominable atrocity which had taken place that evening. It would be several days before Mr Kilshaw could even attempt to resume carrying out his business.

  That was the case for the prosecution.

  Sergeant Wilkins disagreed. He told the court that his officers had visited the public house in Bankfield Crescent on the evening in question. They had received reports of a disturbance, and, sure enough, upon their arrival discovered a row in full flow. He deposed that Mr Kilshaw was dreadfully drunk and attacked the accused several times as they tried to calm the volatile situation. Nevertheless, he alleged that Sheridan and Page allowed him to leave in order to concentrate
on the more rowdy individuals.

  While carrying out their duty Sergeant Wilkins said that a sailor had informed the constables that he was missing his watch and that he suspected Mr Kilshaw to be the culprit. The officer explained that his men were legally obliged to visit the lodging house where the wanted man was known to reside.

  On finding the timber dealer nearby and in the company of a man named Dodd, they went over to ask about the missing watch. It was then, the sergeant stated, that Kilshaw again became violent and struck his officers, as did the man Dodd. It was Kilshaw who withdrew a knife and shouted to stab, the sergeant exclaimed. In consequence of this PC Page advised his colleague to use his cutlass in self-defence. The broken stick spoken of was caused by one of the constables warding off a blow aimed by Dodd, Mr Wilkins attested.

  In spite of one or two further witness statements supporting the sergeant’s account of Mr Kilshaw’s behaviour, the court found in favour of the timber dealer and sentenced the two constables to twelve months imprisonment.

  THE PACT

  Mary Woods was a hard-working schoolmistress from the town of St Helens. She had been the victim of a paralytic attack when she was very young, but her status of a cripple did not prevent her from living a full and happy life. With her crutch in hand, Mary taught many local children to read and write and made a further wage selling beer from a neighbouring brewery to their parents.

  On the night of 28 December 1864, a very close (and sometimes intimate) friend of Miss Woods, Mr James Clitheroe, was drinking at a public house in the area. The conversation there turned to the notorious ‘Townley’ case, which was the main subject of gossip at the time. ‘Next morning there’ll be greater bother than ever there had been about Townley,’ said James in a pitiful manner. Immediately afterwards witnesses watched him leave the pub and he went round to visit Miss Wood’s house.