 |
Project Gutenberg
Australia a treasure-trove of literature treasure found hidden with no evidence of ownership |
BROWSE the site for other works by this author (and our other authors) or get HELP Reading, Downloading and Converting files) or SEARCH the entire site with Google Site Search |
Title: The Holocaust of Manor Place Author: Arthur Conan Doyle * A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook * eBook No.: 0600451h.html Language: English Date first posted: July 2012 Most recent update: July 2012 This eBook was produced by: Roy Glashan Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular paper edition. Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this file. This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online at http://gutenberg.net.au/licence.html To contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.auGO TO Project Gutenberg Australia HOME PAGE
July the 29th of that year fell upon a Sunday, and Mary sat in the afternoon
in the window of the farm-house parlour, with her bundle of love- letters upon
her lap, reading them again and yet again. Outside was the little square of
green lawn, fringed with the homely luxuriance of an English country garden,
the high hollyhocks, the huge nodding sunflowers, the bushes of fuchsia, and
the fragrant clumps of sweet William. Through the open lattice came the faint,
delicate scent of the lilac and the long, low droning of the bees. The farmer
had lain down to the plethoric sleep of the Sunday afternoon, and Mary had the
room to herself. There were fifteen love-letters in all some shorter, some
longer, some wholly delightful, some with scattered business allusions, which
made her wrinkle her pretty brows. There was this matter of the insurance, for
example, which had cost her lover so much anxiety until she had settled it. No
doubt he knew more of the world than she, but still it was strange that she, so
young and so hale, should be asked and again asked to prepare herself for
death. Even in the flush of her love those scattered words struck a chill to
her heart. 'Dearest girl,' he had written, 'I have filled up the paper now, and
took it to the life insurance office, and they will write to Mrs. James Boric
today to get an answer on Saturday. So you can go to the office with me before
two o'clock on Monday.' And then again, only two days later, he had begun his
letter: 'You promised me faithfully over and over again, and I expect you to
keep your promise, that you would be mine, and that your friends would not know
it until we were married; but now, dearest Mary, if you will only let Mrs.
James Bone write to the insurance office at once and go with me to have your
life insured on Monday morning next!' So ran the extracts from the letters, and
they perplexed Mary as she read them. But it was all over now, and he should
mingle business no longer with his love, for she had yielded to his whim, and
the insurance for £100 had been duly effected. It had cost her a
quarterly payment of 10s. 4d., but it had seemed to please him, and so she
would think of it no more.
There was a click of the garden-gate, and looking up she saw the porter from
the station coming up the path with a note in his hand. Seeing her at the
window he handed it in and departed, slyly smiling, a curious messenger of
Cupid in his corduroys and clumping boots—a messenger of a grimmer god
than Cupid, had he but known it. She had eagerly torn it open, and this was the
message that she read:
'16, Manor Place, Newington, S.E. Saturday night, July
28th.
'My BELOVED POLLY,
'I have posted one letter to you this afternoon, but I find
that I shall not have to go to Brighton tomorrow as I have had a letter from
there with what I wanted inside of it, so, my dear girl, I have quite settled
my business now and I am quite ready to see you now, therefore I send this
letter to you. I will send this to London Bridge Station tomorrow morning by
6:30 o'clock and get the guard to take it to Wadhurst Station, to give it to
the porter there, who will take it to your place. I can only give the guard
something, so you can give the man who brings this a small sum. I shall expect
to see you, my dear girl, on Monday morning by the first train. I will await
your coming at London Bridge Station. I know the time the train arrives
—a quarter to ten o'clock. I have promised to go to my uncle's tomorrow,
so I cannot come down; but I will go with you home on Monday night or first
thing Tuesday morning, and so return here again Tuesday night, to be ready to
go anywhere on Wednesday; but you know all that I have told you, and I now
expect that you will come up on Monday morning, when I shall be able to manage
things as I expect to do. Excuse more now, my dearest Mary. I shall now go to
bed to be up early tomorrow to take this letter. Bring or burn all your
letters, my dear girl. Do not forget; and with kind love and respects to all I
now sum up, awaiting to see you Monday morning a quarter to ten o'clock.
Believe me, ever your loving, affectionate,
WILLIAM GODFREY YOUNGMAN.'
A very pressing invitation this to a merry day in town; but there were
certainly some curious phrases in it. What did he mean by saying that he would
manage things as he expected to do? And why should she burn or bring her
love-letters? There, at least, she was determined to disobey this masterful
suitor who always 'expected' in so authoritative a fashion that she would do
this or that. Her letters were much too precious to be disposed of in this
off-hand fashion. She packed them back, sixteen of them now, into the little
tin box in which she kept her simple treasures, and then ran to meet her
father, whose step she heard upon the stairs, to tell him of her invitation and
the treat which awaited her to-morrow.
At a quarter to ten next morning William Godfrey Youngman was waiting upon
the platform of London Bridge Station to meet the Wadhurst train which was
bringing his sweetheart up to town. No observer glancing down the straggling
line of loiterers would have picked him out as the man whose name and odious
fame would before another day was passed be household words to all the three
million dwellers in London. In person he was of a goodly height and build, but
commonplace in his appearance, and with a character which was only saved from
insignificance through the colossal selfishness, tainted with insanity, which
made him conceive that all things should bend before his needs and will. So
distorted was his outlook that it even seemed to him that if he wished people
to be deceived they must be deceived, and that the weakest device or excuse, if
it came from him, would pass unquestioned. He had been a journeyman tailor, as
his father was before him, but aspiring beyond this, he had sought and obtained
a situation as footman to Dr. Duncan, of Covent Garden. Here he had served with
credit for some time, but had finally resigned his post and had returned to his
father's house, where for some time he had been living upon the hospitality of
his hard-worked parents. He had talked vaguely of going into farming, and it
was doubtless his short experience of Wadhurst with its sweet-smelling kine and
Sussex breezes which had put the notion into his Cockney head.
But now the train rolls in, and there at a third-class window is Mary
Streeter with her pink country cheeks, the pinker at the sight of her waiting
lover. He takes her bag and they walk down the platform together amongst the
crinolined women and baggy-trousered men whose pictures make the London of this
date more strange to us than that of last century. He lives at Walworth, in
South London, and a straw-strewn omnibus outside the station conveys them
almost to the door. It was eleven o'clock when they arrived at Manor Place,
where Youngman's family resided.
The household arrangements at Manor Place were peculiar. The architect
having not yet evolved the flat in England, the people had attained the same
result in another fashion. The tenant of a two-storied house resided upon the
ground-floor, and then sub-let his first and second floors to other families.
Thus, in the present instance, Mr. James Bevan occupied the ground, Mr. and
Mrs. Beard the first, and the Youngman family the second, of the various floors
of No. 16. Manor Place. The ceilings were thin and the stairs were in common,
so it may be imagined that each family took a lively interest in the doings of
its neighbour. Thus Mr. and Mrs. Beard of the first floor were well aware that
young Youngman had brought his sweetheart home, and were even able through
half-closed doors to catch a glimpse of her, and to report that his manner
towards her was affectionate.
It was not a very large family to which he introduced her. The father
departed to his tailoring at five o'clock every morning and returned at ten at
night. There remained only the mother, a kindly, anxious, hard-working woman,
and two younger sons aged eleven and seven. At eleven o'clock the boys were at
school and the mother alone.She welcomed her country visitor, eyeing her
meanwhile and summing her up as a mother would do when first she met the woman
whom her son was likely to marry. They dined together, and then the two set
forth to see something of the sights of London.
No record has been left of what the amusements were to which this singular
couple turned: he with a savage, unrelenting purpose in his heart; she
wondering at his abstracted manner, and chattering country gossip with the
shadow of death already gathering thickly over her. One little incident has
survived. One Edward Spicer, a bluff, outspoken publican who kept the Green
Dragon in Bermondsey Street, knew Mary Streeter and her father. The couple
called together at the inn, and Mary presented her lover. We have no means of
knowing what repellent look mine host may have observed in the young man's
face, or what malign trait he may have detected in his character, but he drew
the girl aside and whispered that it was better for her to take a rope and hang
herself in his skittle-alley than to marry such a man as that—a warning
which seems to have met the same fate as most other warnings received by
maidens of their lovers. In the evening they went to the theatre together to
see one of Macready's tragedies.
How could she know as she sat in the crowded pit, with her silent lover at
her side, that her own tragedy was far grimmer than any upon the stage? It was
eleven o'clock before they were back once more at Manor Place.
The hard-working tailor had now returned, and the household all supped
together.Then they had to be divided for the night between the two bedrooms,
which were all the family possessed. The mother, Mary, and the boy of seven
occupied the front one. The father slept on his own board in the back one, and
in a bed beside him lay the young man and the boy of eleven. So they settled
down to sleep as commonplace a family as any in London, with little thought
that within a day the attention of all the great city would be centred upon
those two dingy rooms and upon the fates of their inmates.
The father woke in the very early hours, and saw in the dim light of the
dawn the tall figure of his son standing in white beside his bed. To some
sleepy remark that he was stirring early the youth muttered an excuse and lay
down once more. At five the tailor rose to his endless task, and at twenty
minutes past he went down the stair and closed the hall door behind him. So
passed away the only witness, and all that remains is conjecture and
circumstantial evidence. No one will ever know the exact details of what
occurred, and for the purpose of the chronicler it is as well, for such details
will not bear to be too critically examined. The motives and mind of the
murderer are of perennial interest to every student of human nature, but the
vile record of his actual brutality may be allowed to pass away when the ends
of justice have once been served by their recital.
I have said that on the floor under the Youngman's there lived a couple
named Beard. At half-past five, a little after the time when the tailor had
closed the hall door behind him, Mrs. Beard was disturbed by a sound which she
took to be from children running up and down and playing. There was a light
patter of feet on the floor above. But as she listened it struck her that there
was something unusual in this romping at so early an hour, so she nudged her
husband and asked him for his opinion. Then, as the two sat up in bed,
straining their ears, there came from above them a gasping cry and the dull,
soft thud of a falling body. Beard sprang out of bed and rushed upstairs until
his head came upon the level of the Youngman's landing. He saw enough to send
him shrieking down to Mr. Bevan upon the ground-floor. 'For God's sake, come
here! There is murder!' he roared, fumbling with his shaking fingers at the
handle of the landlord's bedroom.
His summons did not find the landlord entirely unprepared. That ill- boding
thud had been loud enough to reach his ears. He sprang palpitating from his
bed, and the two men in their nightdresses ascended the creaking staircase,
their frightened faces lit up by the blaze of golden sunlight of a July
morning. Again they do not seem to have got farther than the point from which
they could see the landing. That confused huddle of white-clad figures littered
over the passage, with those glaring smears and blotches, were more than their
nerves could stand. They could count three lying there, stark dead upon the
landing. And there was someone moving in the bedroom. It was coming towards
them. With horror-dilated eyes they saw William Godfrey Youngman framed in the
open doorway, his white nightdress brilliant with ghastly streaks and the
sleeve hanging torn over his hand.
'Mr. Beard,' he cried, when he saw the two bloodless faces upon the stairs,
'for God's sake fetch a surgeon! I believe there is some alive yet!' Then, as
they turned and ran down stairs again, he called after them the singular
explanation to which he ever afterwards adhered. 'My mother has done all this,'
he cried; 'she murdered my two brothers and my sweetheart, and I in
self-defence believe that I have murdered her.'
The two men did not stop to discuss the question with him. They had both
rushed to their rooms and huddled on some clothes. Then they ran out of the
house in search of a surgeon and a policeman, leaving Youngman still standing
on the stair repeating his strange explanation. How sweet the morning air must
have seemed to them when they were once clear of the accursed house, and how
the honest milkmen, with their swinging tins, must have stared at those two
rushing and dishevelled figures. But they had not far to go. John Varney, of P
Division, as solid and unimaginative as the law which he represents, was
standing at the street corner, and he came clumping back with reassuring
slowness and dignity.
'Oh, policeman, here is a sight! What shall I do?' cried Youngman, as he saw
the glazed official hat coming up the stair.
Constable Varney is not shaken by that horrid cluster of death. His advice
is practical and to the point.
'Go and dress yourself!' said he.
'I struck my mother; but it was in self defence,' cried the other. 'Would
you not have done the same? It is the law.'
Constable Varney is not to be drawn into giving a legal opinion, but he is
quite convinced that the best thing for Youngman to do is to put on some
clothes.
And now a crowd had begun to assemble in the street, and another policeman
and an inspector had arrived. It was clear that, whether Youngman's story was
correct or not, he was a self-confessed homicide, and that the law must hold
her grip of him. But when a dagger-shaped knife, splintered by the force of
repeated blows, was found upon the floor, and Youngman had to confess that it
belonged to him; when also it was observed that ferocious strength and energy
were needed to produce the wounds inflicted, it became increasingly evident
that, instead of being a mere victim of circumstances, this man was one of the
criminals of a century. But all evidence must be circumstantial, for mother,
sweetheart, brothers—the mouths of all were closed in the one
indiscriminate butchery.
The horror and the apparent purposelessness of the deed roused public
excitement and indignation to the highest pitch. The miserable sum for which
poor Mary was insured appeared to be the sole motive of the crime; the
prisoner's eagerness to have the business concluded, and his desire to have the
letters destroyed in which he had urged it, forming the strongest evidence
against him. At the same time, his calm assumption that things would be
arranged as he wished them to be, and that the Argus Insurance Office would pay
over the money to one who was neither husband nor relative of the deceased,
pointed to an ignorance of the ways of business or a belief in his own powers
of managing, which in either case resembled insanity. When in addition it came
out at the trial that the family was sodden with lunacy upon both sides, that
the wife's mother and the husband's brother were in asylums, and that the
husband's father had been in an asylum, but had become 'tolerably sensible'
before his death, it is doubtful whether the case should not have been judged
upon medical rather than upon criminal grounds. In these more scientific and
more humanitarian days it is perhaps doubtful whether Youngman would have been
hanged, but there was never any doubt as to his fate in 1860.
The trial came off at the Central Criminal Court upon August 16th before Mr.
Justice Williams. Few fresh details came out, save that the knife had been in
prisoner's possession for some time. He had exhibited it once in a bar, upon
which a bystander, with the good British love of law and order, had remarked
that that was not a fit knife for any man to carry.
'Anybody,' said Youngman, in reply, 'has the right to carry such a knife if
he thinks proper in his own defence.'
Perhaps the objector did not realize how near he may have been at that
moment to getting its point between his ribs. Nothing serious against the
prisoner's previous character came out at the trial, and he adhered steadfastly
to his own account of the tragedy. In summing up, however, Justice Williams
pointed out that if the prisoner's story were true it meant that he had
disarmed his mother and got possession of the knife. What necessity was there,
then, for him to kill her? and why should he deal her repeated wounds? This
argument, and the fact that there were no stains upon the hands of the mother,
prevailed with the jury, and sentence was duly passed upon the prisoner.
Youngman had shown an unmoved demeanour in the dock, but he gave signs of an
irritable, and occasionally of a violent, temper in prison. His father visited
him, and the prisoner burst instantly into fierce reproaches against his
treatment of his family—reproaches for which there seem to have been no
justification. Another thing which appeared to have galled him to the quick was
the remark of the publican, which first reached his ears at the trial, to the
effect that Mary had better hang herself in the skittle-yard than marry such a
man. His self-esteem, the strongest trait in his nature, was cruelly wounded by
such a speech.
'Only one thing I wish,' he cried, furiously, 'that I could get hold of this
man Spicer, for I would strike his head off.' The unnatural and bloodthirsty
character of the threat is characteristic of the homicidal maniac. 'Do you
suppose,' he added, with a fine touch of vanity, 'that a man of my
determination and spirit would have heard these words used in my presence
without striking the man who used them to the ground?'
But in spite of exhortation and persuasion he carried his secret with him to
the grave. He never varied from the story which he had probably concocted
before the event.
'Do not leave the world with a lie on your lips.' said the chaplain, as they
walked to the scaffold.
'Well, if I wanted to tell a lie I would say that I did it.' was his retort.
He hoped to the end with his serene self-belief that the story which he had put
forward could not fail eventually to be accepted. Even on the scaffold he was
on the alert for a reprieve.
It was on the 4th of September, a little more than a month after the
commission of his crime, that he was led out in front of Horsemonger Gaol to
suffer his punishment. A concourse of 30,000 people, many of whom had waited
all night, raised a brutal howl at his appearance. It was remarked at the time
that it was one of the very few instances of capital punishment in which no
sympathizer or philanthropist of any sort could be found to raise a single
voice against the death penalty. The man died quietly and coolly.
'Thank you, Mr. Jessopp,' said he to the chaplain, 'for your great kindness.
See my brother and take my love to him, and all at home.'
And so, with the snick of a bolt and the jar of a rope, ended one of the
most sanguinary, and also one of the most unaccountable, incidents in English
criminal annals. That the man was guilty seems to admit no doubt, and yet it
must be confessed that circumstantial evidence can never be absolutely
convincing, and that it is only the critical student of such cases who realizes
how often a damning chain of evidence may, by some slight change, be made to
bear an entirely different interpretation.
Proceedings Of The
Old Bailey, 13th August 1860
723. WILLIAM GODFREY YOUNGMAN (25), was indicted for the
wilful murder of Mary Wells Streeter. He was also charged on the Coroner's
Inquisition with the like offence.
MESSRS. CLERK and BEASLEY conducted the
Prosecution.
JAMES BEVAN. I am a carman, and reside at 16, Manor-place, Walworth—I
am the landlord of the house—I occupy the ground floor—the house
consists of a first and second floor—the first floor is immediately above
my rooms—on 31st July last Mr. Beard occupied the first floor—that
consists of a front and a back room—there was Mr. Beard, his wife, and
one son—the floor above that was occupied by Mr. Youngman—I believe
his name to be John—he is the father of the prisoner—his family
consisted of his wife and two little boys—the second floor consisted of
two rooms, a front and a back one—I had known at that time that the
prisoner had been there for a few days; for a holiday, I understood—I had
seen him backwards and forwards before 31st July—I believed him to be
sleeping there—I remember the morning of 31st July—I was disturbed
about ten minutes to 6, or something like that—I was then in bed, in the
lower back room on the ground floor—I was disturbed by hearing a
lumbering, as I supposed, on the top of the house; a lumbering, or heavy fell
on the floor; a lumbering noise, as if something had fallen on the
floor—the noise proceeded from the top of the house, as I supposed at the
time, the second floor—as soon as I heard the noise I immediately jumped
out of bed to hear and see what was amiss, and, before I could get to the door,
Mr. Beard, who has the first floor, tapped at the door and said,﹃For God's
sake come up stairs, here is murder;﹄that was before I had got out of my
room—I immediately proceeded up stairs to see what was amiss—I went
on to the top landing, the landing of the seoond floor, and I turned my head
and saw the little boy—there is a staircase that ends with a landing, and
a door on each side of the landing—a door opens on to the landing from
each room; the doors front each other on the landing—I saw the little boy
lying dead on the top floor—I did not take very particular notice of
him—I believe him to be the eldest boy—I did not see any one else
about—I came down stairs and dressed as quickly as I could, to get
assistance—as I was about to proceed for the officer the prisoner was
standing on the first staircase—that was the first time I saw him that
morning—it was directly I came down stairs and dressed; after I had
dressed—I was then about to proceed for the officers—I should think
not two minutes had been occupied by my dressing—on coming out of my room
dressed I saw the prisoner standing three parts of the way on the first
staircase; the staircase leading from the ground floor to the first
floor—he was standing at that time looking downwards; looking down
stairs—that staircase does not face the front door—the stairs, face
the passage which leads to the door—at the bot-tom of the stairs there is
a long passage, quite through the house, and the staircase is in the middle of
the passage—he had got nothing on then, only his shirt—he told me
his mother had done all this.
COURT. Q. What were the words he used, as near as you can say? A. He
said, "My mother has done all this; she has murdered my two brothers and my
sweetheart, and I, in self-defence, believe I have murdered her."
MR. BEASLEY. Q. Was that all he said at the time? A. Yes—I then
went for the police—I believe I heard the prisoner's father go out that
morning about half-past five.
COURT. Q. You heard somebody go out? A. Yes; and believe it was
he.
Cross-examined by MR. BEST. Q. Had the Youngmans lived long in
your house? A. On 24th March they came to lodge with me—I am not
much at home in the day-time—I go out in the morning and come back in the
evening, calling in sometimes in the course of the day—I do not know but
what Youngman and his wife lived on pretty tolerable good terms—perhaps
occasionally I heard them have a word or two, but not enough for me to
interfere.
COURT. Q. They had a word or two occasionally, but nothing
particular? A. Nothing particular.
MR. BEST. Q. Did they seem to be pretty well off in the money way?
A. Well, the man always paid me his rent, and so far I had nothing more
to do with him; he paid me regularly 4s. a week—I was awoke by a
lumbering noise—the noise was like a heavy fall on the floor, as if
something heavy had fallen—I do not know how far the distance is from the
room where I was sleeping to the landing where I saw the body of the boy; I
never measured it—I cannot tell you—the floor of the second floor
was not so high as this Court—I lived on the ground floor—I never
measured the distance between the ground floor and this third floor where these
people were living—it is about three parts of the height of this Court, I
should say—when I went up to the landing the first time I saw no live
person there; I did not go up on to the top of the landing, as soon as I saw
the boy's body I turned down stairs—I saw the prisoner afterwards, not at
that time, some portion of the way down stairs—I cannot say much as to
his being collected and composed at the time—I should not think he was
very collected at that time; I did not stop long enough to make any particular
observation of the man.
FREDERICK HENRY CAIGER. I am a surveyor—I made this plan of the
premises.
COURT. Q. Is it made to a scale? A. It is; I have not measured
any heights, but I should say that from the floor of the ground floor to the
floor of the second floor was about from twenty to twenty-one feet.
MR. CLERK. Q. I see by the plan there is a door to each room opening
on to the landing? A. Opening inwards to the rooms from the
landing—I am speaking of the second floor—the doors are exactly
opposite each other—the two doors, when closed, are 5ft. 10 1/2 in. from
one another, across the landing—from that landing of 5ft. 10 1/2 in.
there is a narrow landing 2ft. 6in. wide—that goes toward the head of the
stairs—that goes from the landing that is between the two doors towards
the head of the stairs—2ft. 6in. is the width of each stair.
SUSANNAH BEARD. I am the wife of Philip Beard—I live with my husband
at 16 Manor-place—we occupy the first floor—I have one little boy
about 11 years old—I occupy the back room as a sleeping-room—the
little boy slept in the same room—on the morning of Tuesday, 31st July, I
should think it was nearly 6 o'clock when I awoke—a noise above my head
awoke me—it was a sort of scuffling on the boards—I thought it was
the children playing when I first awoke—I awoke my husband, thinking it
was late—I heard a sort of lumbering as if something fell on to the
boards after that; that was not till after I awoke my husband—I could not
say what it sounded like, falling—it appeared to be as if something heavy
had fallen on the boards—I thought it was in the bed-room; it seemed over
my head—I could not say whether what I heard fall fell on the landing or
in the room—my husband went to the bed-room door and went up the
stairs—he then called out the "Murder!" and came down—he afterwards
went up again with Mr. Bevan, the landlord—after he came down the second
time I went to the door of our room and saw the prisoner on the stairs between
the first and second floors—he either said, "Mr. Beard" or, "Mrs. Beard,
my mother has done all this, she has murdered my sweetheart and my two little
brothers, and, in seltdefence, I believe I have murdered her"—while my
husband was dressing the prisoner called out from the stairs, "Mr. Beard, for
God's sake fetch a surgeon, I believe there are some alive now"—when my
husband was dressed he left the house—he and I went down stairs into the
lower parlour—I locked my bed-room door, and locked my child in, and we
went down below to the landlord's room, and my husband directly went for a
doctor—I did not see the body of the young woman at all—I had seen
a young woman come to the house on the previous day, Monday, 30th July; I think
it was pretty well 11 o'clock in the morning when she came—she came with
the prisoner—I saw them again about 7 in the evening, going out, as I
thought for a walk; they went as if they were going to the
Walworth-road—I afterwards saw them return about 10 o'clock; they
returned together, by themselves—I saw them come down stairs again about
five minutes afterwards, that is I saw them outside the door as if they had
come down stairs—I saw them come into the house again about a quarter of
an hour afterwards; that would be about a quarter past 10.
Cross-examined. Q. Had you seen this young man before that
day? A. Oh, yes; he had been staying at the house for a short time
previously—he and the young woman seemed very friendly when they were at
the door together at 10 o'clock—they seemed on affectionate terms with
each other—when the prisoner addressed me on the stairs, and said,﹃This
is my mother's doing,﹄he seemed very much excited—on other occasions he
was generally calm and quiet in his manner.
PHILIP WILLIAM BEARD. I am a carpenter and joiner—I and my wife occupy
the first floor at 16 Manor-place—I remember the prisoner coming to the
house, but I cannot say exactly what time he came—I had seen him there
some days before 31st July—I had seen him in the house—I remember
Sunday the 29th—I had some conversation with the prisoner that day in the
yard—a little conversation passed on trivial affairs, and he told me that
he had been a valet and footman, but that he had left that, and was going into
the farming business—he did not say why he had left it—I did not
see the young woman on the Monday night—on the Tuesday morning I was
awoke by my wife early; it was about 5 minutes before 6, or something like
that—after she had awoke me I heard a sort of rumbling noise on the
stairs, it appeared to be on the landing over me, it was like children running
about, or something like that, I had heard the noise frequently before—I
was on my landing—it seemed to come from the top floor above
me—when I came out of my room I heard a slight scream, when I got to the
foot of the stain—I went up stairs—the first thing I saw was a spot
of blood on the stairs, on the fourth stair from the top, I did not notice any
on any other—I went a little higher, and the first thing I saw was the
little boy lying on the landing—I thought he was dead, he had his throat
cut, and was lying on his back with his head towards the stairs—I then
went a little higher and there saw the female lying on the landing—I did
not then know who she was—I found afterwards it was Mary
Streeter—she was also lying dead, a little beyond the dead body of the
boy—I did not observe any other body at that time—I was alarmed,
and went down, and called up Mr. Bevan, the landlord—I then went up again
with him, behind him; there was no one else with us; the inspector had not come
at that time—when I had called the landlord I went up stairs and began to
drees—I did not go up with him then, I went up to my own bed-room, I did
not go up to the second floor then, not till the inspector came—he did
not come till Mr. Bevan went for him—I did not go up any more till after
the police had been—I went for a surgeon—I saw a policeman at the
top of Manor-place, and I sent him down—I did not see anything more of
the prisoner—he called me out of my bed-room after I had began to dress,
he was then on the stain—he called me and said, "Mr. Beard, my mother has
done it all, she has murdered my two little brothers and my sweetheart, and, in
self-defence, I believe I have murdered her"—that was all he said
then—I then went into my bed-room again, and finished dressing and he
begged of me to go for a surgeon.
Cross-examined. Q. Did he say to you,﹃For God's sake go to a
surgeon's, I think there is some of them alive now?﹄A. Yes—I was
about five minutes in my room dressing myself—I dressed as speedily as I
possibly could—I do not know whether my wife was present at this
conversation on the stain—she was present in one instance, I believe, I
did not see her—I have not known the prisoner for any time—I only
just saw him backwards and forwards in the house—I never had any
particular conversation with him—I was not at home most of the
day—I was always out at work from 6 in the morning till 8 or 9 at
night—I had no opportunity of observing how Mr. Youngman and his wife
lived towards each other.
MR. CLERK. Q. Your wife used to be at home? A. Yes.
JOHN YOUNGMAN. I am the father of the prisoner—I resided on the
second-floor of the house, 16, Manor-place, Wai worth—I can't say exactly
how long I had been there—my wife, Elizabeth Youngman, also lived there,
and my two sons, Thomas Neale Youngman, and Charles Youngman—Thomas was
eleven years of age, and Charles seven—in the month of July the prisoner
came to live with me—he had before that been at service at Dr. Duncan's;
that was the last place he had lived at—he was footman there—I do
not recollect on what, day it was that he came to my lodgings, but I should
suppose it was about a fortnight before the 31st July—he used to sleep in
the back room, the same room that I slept in—Thomas, the eldest of the
two boys, slept with him in the same bed—I slept on a bed made up on the
shop-board—I am a tailor, but I work away from home along with a son who
lives in the neighbourhood—my wife slept in the front room and the boy
Charles with her—I am frequently away from home at my work, during the
day; mostly all day—I go home to dinner very frequently; not at all
times—I was away from morning till night, except sometimes when I went
home to dinner—on Monday, 30th July, I came home about a quarter or
twenty minutes after 10 at night, as near as I can bring it to mind—I did
not see the young woman, Mary Streeter, at all that night—I saw my wife
before I went to bed—the prisoner went, to bed that night as usual, in
the room—I should think it wanted about twenty minutes to 11, at that
time—I told him when he was ready I would put the light out, and he said
he was all ready, and I put the light out and went to bed directly, and he at
the same time—my boy, Thomas, was in bed when I got into bed; he was in
the bed with the prisoner—I awoke in the morning, I consider, somewhere
about 4 o'clock; I did not know the time because I had not a clock in my room;
I imagine that was the time by the appearance of the morning—at that time
I saw the prisoner at the foot of his bed—it was daylight; just the break
of day—he was in the act of getting into bed—I supposed he had been
to look at the clock—I believe the door of the room was not closed; it
generally stood open, but I did not take that notice—I usually slept with
the door about an inch open—I took no notice of it then—the door of
the front room was always closed at night, to the best of my knowledge—I
fell asleep again—I got up at 5 o'clock that morning—it was about
twenty minutes after 5 when I left my room—I expected that the clock went
6, but in lien of that it was 5 I found when I got out—the prisoner and
Thomas were in bed at that time—I went to my son John's to work—I
did not go into the front room before I left; the door of that room was
closed—I was afterwards fetched from my son's—I should think it was
about twenty minutes after 6—I came back to the house—I saw the
body of the young woman, Mary Streeter—she was then dead—I had seen
her before, three or four times, I believe—the first time I saw her I
dare say might have been two years previous—she had not been in the habit
of coming to our house then—I saw her two or three times since—I
saw her once or twice in July; that was at Manor-place—I do not think I
saw her more than once in Manor-place—I saw her once at my son John's,
along with William, and once at Manorplace with him—the prisoner had
never said anything to me about his intended marriage—I understood it was
to be the case, but he never acquainted me with it—a knife was shown to
me on the morning of 31st July, by Lack the constable—this
(produced) is it—I had seen that knife before that day—I saw
it in my son John's shop—it was in the prisoner's possession—it was
then quite whole, to the best of my knowledge; not broken as it is
now—the prisoner was showing it to a man who was working at my son
John's, and the man said it was not a fit knife to carry—the prisoner
said anybody had a right to carry such a knife, if they thought proper, for
their own protection—I should think this was about nine days or a
fortnight before 31st July—I never saw him use the knife for any
purpose—I never saw him show it at home to my wife; not to my
recollection—as soon as I got back to the house on the morning in
question, I called out, "Where is William?" he was then brought down in to the
passage by the police; he was in custody—he said, "This is all mother's
doings, father"—that was all he said—to the best of my knowledge
the prisoner was not possessed of any property at this time; he had no money,
except what he had from service—I believe he had been in Dr. Duncan's
service for half a year—he was out of employment for some time before he
went there—I cannot say for how long—it was as long as a
year—I learnt so from him.
Q. Had he ever said anything to you about insuring the life of the
young woman? A. I had heard it talked of; I don't think he ever said
anything about it to me—I am not certain he did not; I have heard it
repeated and talked of at different times—I heard it talked about at my
son John's.
COURT. Q. You say he never mentioned it to you; but did you hear him
mention that he was about insuring the life? A. Oh, yes; at different
times—I heard him mention it at my son John's.
MR. CLERK. Q. Do you know the prisoner's handwriting? A. I
think I should know it, but I am not sure; I am a very little writer
myself—I saw the dead body of my wife and of my son Thomas, at the same
time I saw the dead body of the young woman—I also saw the dead body of
my youngest boy, Charles; I saw him last.
Cross-examined. Q. You say this insurance was talked about at
your son John's; was that in the presence of several persons? A. Yes,
openly—I should think that was something like nine days, or a fortnight,
or a week before 31st July, and perhaps a day or two before, but I cannot bring
it to mind—my wife's maiden name was Golden—I knew her mother quite
well—she was a lunatic at the latter part of her life—she died in
Peckham Asylum—a brother of my own also died'a lunatic in Norwich Thorpe
Asylum—none of my children have died in that way—my father, I
believe, died tolerably sensible, but he had been in an asylum two or three
times—I work for my son as a journeyman and receive journeyman's
wages—I receive a pound a week, on an average; I am sometimes short of
work—I was not short at this time; I had plenty doing just then—my
wife and I lived upon tolerably good terms; we used to have more words about
the children than anything else; I thought that she talked to them a good deal
more than there was any occasion for—we quarrelled occasionally about the
children—I thought she interfered with them too much—she used to
correct them more than I thought she had any occasion for—she did not
correct them particularly severely, but she corrected Thomas more than I
thought she ought, because I thought Charles was quite as much or more in fault
than Thomas—my wife and I did not sleep together at all times—we
had not slept together for the last week previous to William coming to the
house—that was because I wished to get to bed always when I got home of a
night; and not only that, my wife was troubled with an inward
complaint—she had a cancer in the womb; that was the reason why we did
not sleep together—I sometimes took my breakfast at my son John's—I
sometimes took my supper at home, not often—I supped at my son's, and
sometimes I had no supper at all—I always took my tea at my son's when I
was there—I did not go to any place of entertainment to spend my
evenings, or to any public-house; and had not done so for a long time—I
saw this knife when I was at my son John's house—I do not remember the
prisoner saying that it was a good sort of knife for eating meals with—I
cannot say that I ever heard him say that—I have seen him take his meals
in the house, but I never saw him use that knife at all—I did not sup in
the house the night before 31st July—the front room was used for supper
and meals; that was the room in which the family lived in the daytime—the
point of this knife is broken off and the guard is also broken.
MR. CLERK. Q. When was it that your wife's mother died? A. 15
years ago, in October—I never visited her in the asylum but once—I
can't say whether she was there 12 mouths or 2 years—I think she was
between sixty and seventy when she died—my wife had never been confined
in any asylnm—I cannot say that I ever perceived any appearance of an
unsound mind in her during our marriage—I never did—she was rather
more kind to Charles than to Thomas—that has been a cause of difference,
a cause of words between us—I have frequently told her that Charles was
most in fault.
JOHN VARNEY (Policeman, P 333). I remember Beard speaking to me on
the morning of 31st July—I went by myself to 16, Manor-place, Walworth,
about 6 o'clock—I went into the house and went up stairs on to the second
floor landing—when I went up there I saw three dead bodies on the
landing; the first was a boy about 10 or 11 years old; the next was a female
lying on her face; and another female a little to the left of her—the
prisoner came to the door; he said, "Oh! policeman, here is a sight; what shall
I do?"—he made a step to come towards me on the landing—he was
standing at the back room door when he said that—he was stepping out on
to the landing, and I said," Go back into the room and put on your
clothes"—he was not dressed; he was in his night-shirt; I noticed the
right sleeve of the shirt was torn, and the wristband was hanging on his
hand—I noticed that when he was standing at the door—the wristband
appeared to hang on the back of his hand—the inspector arrived just
then—I then left the prisoner with him and went into the front
room—the prisoner did not say anything to me before the inspector came,
further than what I have stated; he said his mother had done all this—he
said that at the time that he said "Here is a sight; what shall I do?" he said,
"My mother has done all this;" and when in the back room he said, "I struck my
mother, but it was in self-defence, and would not you have done the same? that
is law."
Crosi-examined. Q. You told him to go into his room and dress
himself? A. Yes—at that time he was only in his shirt—I am
sure I saw the wristband hanging down—after my coming into the front room
he took off his shirt to put another one on, and at that time I missed the
wristband of it; I could not find it anywhere—I am quite sure it was on
when I saw him first—I have the shirt here.
JAMES DANN (Police Inspector, P). Shortly before 6 o'clock on the
morning of 31st July I heard of what had taken place at Manor-place—I
went to the house accompanied by a constable of the name of Lack—I went
up the stall's—I saw the prisoner standing on the landing on the second
floor—we were both on the landing—he said, "This is my mother's
doing; she came to the bedside where my brother and I were sleeping; killed
him, and made a stab at me, and I in my own defence wrenched the knife from her
hand and killed her, if she is dead"—upon that, the constable Lack,
pointing to the body of the young woman, said, "Was this young woman lying here
when you killed your mother?"—the prisoner hesitated a little and then
said, "I don't know"—at that time there were three bodies on the
landing—the boy, Thomas Neale Youngman, was lying on his back—his
head was close to the edge of the top stair—his feet were in a direction
away from the stairs; towards the wall of the house; the opposite wall—he
was in his night-shirt—the right leg was a little drawn up—there
was a great deal of blood where the body of the boy was lying—I then
observed the position of the young woman, Mary Streeter—she was lying on
the landing with her head inside the back room door—I should say that her
head was about a foot or thirteen inches inside the doorway—her feet were
towards the front room door—the body wag lying on the right
side—she was in her night-dress—there was nothing on her feet; no
slippers—there was a great deal of blood near where her head was
lying—the blood had flowed from near her head under the door of the back
room and under the foot of the bed in the back room; the Stream was about four
feet six or seven inches in length—the breadth at the commencement was
about fifteen inches, at the termination about six or seven—I then
observed the body of the elder woman, Elizabeth Youngman—she was lying on
the landing with her face downwards; on her stomach—her face was close to
the thighs of the young woman; resting on the floor—the right shoulder of
the elder woman rested on the legs of the young woman—the feet of Mrs.
Youngman were inside the front room door—she was also in her night-dress;
without slippers, or steckings, or anything on her feet—I observed a
great deal of blood where she was lying—most of it was close to her head
and throat; it had spread some distance; several inches away from
her—there was a pool of blood where she was lying; where her bead
was—I went into the front room and there saw the body of the youngest
child—it was on a bed in the front room, outside the bed-clothes, quite
dead—he was in his nightdress—he was lying move on the right side
than any other position—the feet were towards the head of the bed; and
the head towards the foot—there was a great deal of blood on the
bed—it had soaked through the counterpane, blanket, and sheet; and into
the bed—the blood was just underneath where the child was lying;
underneath the child's neck and shoulders—I observed the floor of that
room—there was not any pool of blood anywhere on the floor in that
room—I saw marks of blood in the room—some had been trodden into
the room with a naked foot—the footmark was sufficiently distinct for me
to be able to speak of its size—it appeared to be the foot of a grown-up
person—I saw two footmarks of blood; both in the same direction—I
mean that I saw two footsteps which had imprints of blood, which had left the
marks of blood, both going in the same direction, from the door towards the bed
where the child was lying—there was no smear of blood along the floor of
that room—there was no other blood in the bed except that which I have
mentioned as being underneath the head and shoulders of the child, and that
which had soaked through the clothes—I examined the bed in the back
room—there was an appearance of blood about that bed—there wen
three or four drops of blood on the sheet, and some smears of blood on the
sheet—it appeared to have been wiped off a person's hands—there was
no pool of blood about that bed—there was some blood that had run from
the door under the foot of the bed, and there was some blood that bad been
trampled about the floor of the room; but no pool of blood in any
part—when I first came to the house the prisoner was not dressed; he was
in his night-shirt—his bands and feet were bloody; his night-shirt was
very much stained with blood also—I did not see any wound about any part
of his person—I did not examine him particularly, but I stripped him, and
I did not see any wound—I saw the weapon after it was found—the
prisoner was taken into custody—I did not see any cut on him when he was
taken into custody; he did not complain of any—on the evening of the same
day I went down to Wadhurst, to the residence of Mr. Streeter the father of the
deceased—I received from Mr. Streeter a number of letters, which I have
here—I have fifteen in all—six of these letters were read before
the Magistrate—these (produced) are the six given in evidence, and
these (produced) are the nine—they are all here—on my return
to town I saw a box at the police-station, in the possession of Superintendent
Payne—I opened that box with a key which I found in the prisoner's
possession—I there found the paper which I now produce—it is a
policy of assurance—I have a piece of the guard of the knife which has
been produced—the prisoners brother John gave it to me.
Cross-examined. Q. You have told us there were two footmarks
leading into the front room? A. Two—the first I should say was
about two feet inside the door; that is, as near as I can remember—the
second was about two feet six inches further on; towards the bed—one was
the right, and the other was the left foot—there were no more footsteps
round the bed—there was too much blood just at the landing outside
between the two doors, to trace any footmark there—when the prisoner had
the conversation with Lack, myself, Lack, and Varney were present—when
the question was put to him he was a little confused—he was not so all
through—he was very little excited; not at all—he appeared confused
when Lack put the question—he hesitated, as I have said—he was not
confused during any other part of the time—he appeared to be quite
collected.
DAVID LACK (Policeman, P 132). On the morning of 31st July I went
with Mr. Dann to 16, Manor-place, Walworth, a few minutes before 6—I saw
three bodies lying on the second landing—I found this knife—it was
lying just between the two females; it was open as it is now, with the point
and a piece of the guard broken off, and smeared with blood just the same as it
is now—I picked it up—I saw the prisoner at this time—he
spoke to me first—he pulled his right shirt-sleeve up and said, "Here is
a job; my mother has done all this"—I said, "Where is your mother?" he
pointed down to the elder female and said, "There she lies; I struck her in my
own defence"—I said, "Was this young female lying here when you struck
your mother?"—he hesitated for a moment and then said, "I do not
know."
EDMUND PAYNE. I am superintendent of the P division of police—I
obtained the box which was opened by inspector Dann at the house, 16, Manor-
place—I found it in the back room on the top floor—I directed its
removal to my office and went with it—when the prisoner was brought to
the police-station on the morning of 31st July, I spoke to him about the knife
which has been produced here—I said, "Do you know anything about that
knife?"—Lack the constable had just shown the knife to me; I think that
was in the presence of the prisoner—the prisoner's reply was, "It is my
knife; it is what I had to cut my bread and cheese with"—I think I asked
how long he had had it, and he said, "A few days," or "about a
fortnight"—I did not expect at that time to be called as a witness, and I
do not recollect distinctly whether it was in reply to me or of his own accord,
but he said he had had it in his possession a few days or nearly a
fortnight—I believe he used both expressions; first, "a few days," and I
believe he afterwards said, "Nearly a fortnight."
JOHN VARNEY (re-examined). When I saw the prisoner on that morning at
the house in Manor-place, I asked him where the young woman slept the previous
night, and he said, "In the front room"—he said she had slept with his
mother and his little brother, and the elder boy slept with himself in the back
room
WILLIAM BARNARD BODDY. I am a surgeon, and practise at 3, Savillerow,
Walworth—on the morning of Tuesday, 31st July, I was called to go to the
house 16, Manor-place—that was, I should think, about 6
o'clock—Beard, the carpenter, the man who lives in the second floor, came
to me—I went to the house immediately—I there found the bodies of
four persons, who were dead—three were on the landing and the body of the
little boy was on the bed in the front room—the bodies were all quite
warm; as warm as if they had been alive; from animal heat—I examined the
body of the young woman, Mary Wells Streeter, which was lying on the
landing—I found a stab over her left breast which penetrated the cavity
of the chest—there was also a wound on the throat; it was literally cut
from ear to ear—that had been done with a very sharp and very strong
instrument—the carotid artery and jugular vein on each side were divided;
making a clean sweep through everything, down to the cervical vertebrae or
bones of the neck—the wound had severed the windpipe and the
gullet—such a wound would, I think, have caused instantaneous death; the
cutting through the windpipe and the gullet would prevent a person from calling
out; it would be quite impossible for a person to call out with such a
wound—I think it must have required a strong arm to have inflicted that
wound.
COURT. Q. That must, of course, depend upon the instrument? A.
It would depend upon the instrument.
MR. CLERK. Q. What sort of person was the deceased? A. A young
woman in good animal condition, I think—in no way emaciated, but
healthy—she was anything but weak; I think she was healthy and
strong—I then examined the body of the elder woman; she had three stabs
altogether, two over the left shoulder-blade, one over the sternum or breast-
bone, and a deep cut or stab behind the left side of the neck, which divided
the carotid artery and jugular vein on the left side down to the cervical
vertebra—that wound would have caused almost immediate death, perhaps not
so instantaneous as with the other, who had her throat cut—I should not
think it possible that the wounds either upon the young woman or the elder
woman could have been inflicted by themselves, particularly upon the elder
woman; it would be an impossibility—the elder woman seemed to be a person
in tolerably good health, not particularly bulky or muscular, but tolerably
healthy, I thought—she was not particularly strong certainly, rather
inclined to be stout than thin—I did not discover any injury about the
hands of either of the women—I then examined the body of the younger boy,
Charles, who was lying on the bed in the front room—I discovered one
wound over the chest-bone, and two small incised cuts on the left upper arm,
and there was one deep plunging cut or stab through the back of the neck, which
divided the bones of the neck and cut right through the spinal cord—that
wpund would have caused immediate death—a part of the gullet and windpipe
was likewise wounded in the sweep of the knife; that would have quite prevented
the child from crying out—I then examined the body of the elder boy,
which was lying on the stairs; he had two cuts, one on the right angle of the
lower lip, and one cut all round the throat, merely dividing the cutis, not the
skin positively, but the small enveloping membrane—there were six stabs
altogether, one on the right side of the neck and half way between the ear and
the right shoulder, one over the left breast, another over the left breast
about an inch and a half below the former, and more to the left side, and three
stabs on the left side over the ribs—the three first fingers of the right
hand at the extremities were cut through to the bone; the third finger of the
left hand was likewise cut at its extremity quite into the bone—those
were all the wounds—the one that entered the chest was the cause of
death—there wore two wounds on the chest; both were fatal wounds; one
entered the pericardium, the enveloping membrane of the heart, that would be
necessarily fatal, the other penetrated the lungs—both wounds entered the
lungs, the top as well as the bottom plunge, and both would be fatal—if
the child had grasped a sharp instrument, the hands would have presented
exactly the appearance that I discovered, if the weapon had been drawn through
the hands—I see the knife that has been produced; the marks I saw were
just such as I should have expected to find from such an instrument—all
the wounds upon all the four bodies were inflicted with a sharp instrument; it
must have been a very sharp, powerful instrument—I have seen this knife
before; the point of it is broken—I apprehend that it was originally a
sharp pointed instrument; such an instrument as that, if the point had been
sharp, might have inflicted all the wounds I saw upon all the
bodies—there was no mark upon any of the bodies of a struggle having
taken place during life, except upon that of the child that was lying near the
stairs; his were the only hands that were wounded.
Cross-examined, Q. If I understand you rightly the mother had
one wound in the chest? A. Yes—if that wound had been inflicted
first I think she would possibly have screamed; I think it is more than
probable she would—she had four wounds—I think the mischief that
was product on the boy's hand was from an attempt in struggling to relieve
himself from some injury that was being inflicted upon him; the cuts presented
the appearance as if they were inflicted when struggling with some person,
putting his hands up to prevent his throat being cut—if those wounds on
the boy had been inflicted with great rapidity he would have died almost
immediately—the two in the chest would have caused nearly instant
death—I think he might have had time to scream out; death would not have
followed so rapidly as that; there would have been some moments between the
infliction of the wound and death—I have had very little experience in
cases of cancer of the womb—I have never known it to create delirium; it
produces a great deal of emaciation if it is of long continuance—it is an
extremely painful disease—I should not think the pain would affect the
brain; it might occasionally, but not as a general rule—it is not taken
as a symptom or consequence of disease of the womb—supposing that Mrs.
Youngman had been in a state of delirium I think she was strong enough to have
inflicted these blows.
MR. CLERK. Q. Had there been an attempt to cut the throat of the boy
that was lying on the stairs? A. Yes.
COURT. Q. That was the wound on the throat you have described?
A. Yes, the superficial cut—that led me to suppose that there had
been an attempt to cut the throat; the mark was very defined all round the
throat—I did not distinguish much difference as to size and bulk between
Mrs. Youngman and Mary Streeter; the elder woman was the fatter of the two I
think—there was no appearance whatever of any struggle on the part of
Mary Streeter.
MARY ANN WOOTTON. I am in the service of Dr. Duncan, of Henriettastreet,
Covent-garden—I know the prisoner; he was there a week before me—he
left on 16th July last—he had been in Dr. Duncan's service three months,
I believe; during that time I have seen him writing frequently—he used to
write letters and poetry—the date of the letter I am looking at is the
21st June; I believe it is the prisoner's handwriting—this one of 18th
Juue is his writing, and this of the 21st—I believe this letter of 13th
July is in his handwriting; also these two on 16th, and this one of the
19th—to the best of my belief this one without a date is in his
haudwriting—this letter of 21st is his, and also the one of the 28th.
JAMES ANDREW DUNCAN. I am a physician, residing at Henrietta-street,
Covent-garden—the prisoner was in my service as a footman; he came to me
on 18th April last, and quitted on 16 th July—I was in the habit of
seeing him frequently; it was the greater part of his duty to wait on me.
Cross-examined. Q. Have you had any experience in cases of
cancer? A. Yes: cancer in the womb is a most painful disease; it
generally makes a patient very irritable—I should not set down delirium
as one of its symptoms; it may come up as an accidental symptom—if there
has been mania in a family and a disease is acting upon a person, it would be
more likely to bring it on—I know a mania, described as homicidal mania,
especially among women—one of the great features of that mania, is, that
persons afflicted by it, most frequently attack those to whom they have the
greatest affection—it generally occurs after confinement, where the
mother, although she has the greatest affection for her child, cannot resist
destroying it—I have read Dr. Taylor's work on homicidal mania—I
agree with him when he says that individuals are liable to be seized by a
sudden impulse, when they will destroy persons to whom they are most strongly
attached; but it is impossible to define what madness is; that is to say a
person may have reason and know the wickedness of what he is going to commit,
but yet be unable to resist the animal part of the functions, of the brain.
MR. CLERE. Q. Does cancer in the womb, where it exists, produce
emaciation of the body? A. Yes; that is how the patient dies, from being
completely worn out.
COURT. Q. Supposing a person not to be emaciated, does that indicate
anything with respect to the state of the disease? A. That would show it
was merely beginning, not advanced; that the disease had made but little
progress—it might or it might not be attended with pain, then it would
not necessarily follow the patient would be made more irritable—in my
judgment if the disease had not got so far as to emaciate the patient, I don't
think the pain would be such as to bring on delirium—the patient might,
possibly have taken opium as a remedy for it, which would perhaps cause it.
EDWARD SPICE. I keep the Green Dragon public-house, Bermondsey-street, in
the Borough—I knew the deceased Mary Streeter—on Monday, 23d July
last, she came to my house on a visit; she came with the prisoner—she
came in the afternoon and stayed there all night—on the next day, the
20th, the prisoner came, as near as I can recollect, about half-past 6 in the
morning—Mary Streeter stayed four days at my house on a visit—she
was an old friend of mine; I and her father Were brought up
together—after partaking of breakfast on that morning, they went away
together and returned again about 9 o'clock in the evening—he came down
at half-past 5 the next morning—it rained on that day, and they stopped
till 9 o'clock—on Thursday morning I called her out at 5 o'clock, and the
prisoner came in about five minutes past 5—I had some conversation with
him about the girl—I spoke to her first in the tap-room—I saw what
I did not like in the man, and said to her in his presence, "Mary, I would
sooner see you take a rope and hang yourself in the skittle ground, than marry
a man like that"—I said to the prisoner, "What means have you got to
support my girl? "I called her my girl—he said, "I am
independent"—I said, "What is your independency, was it left by a legacy?
have you got anything to show me, any paper?"—his reply was, "In
houses"—I then asked him if they were in the country or London? "Various
places in London—he said—I said, "Well, you must be a rich man,"
and said to deceased, "Now, Mary, take my advice, give him a total denial, have
no more to do with him; go and seat yourself in my bar parlour, and I will take
you home safe to your father"—the prisoner made no remark on
that—he said he intended to take her either to Hastings or Brighton; I
think it was Hastings he said.
Cross-examined. Q. He did not say to reside there? A.
He said he was going to take lodgings there to keep her independent—I
said, You must have a good income to support a young woman like this"—he
said, he was a retired tailor—I did not know anything about his being a
valet.
SAMUEL WELLS STREETER. I am a farmer in Essex—the deceased young woman
was my daughter—the prisoner came to my house on Sunday, 8th July last,
and stayed there one night; I had never seen him before—my daughter had
never mentioned to me that he was paying his addresses to her—the
prisoner had not mentioned it to me—when Inspector Dann came down to my
house I gave him some letters that were locked up in my daughter's
writing-desk.
Cross-examined. Q. I believe you had the misfortune to lose
another of your daughters some time before? A. Yes; in May
last—she was not married, she died of consumption—this girl had not
been subject to any disease of the chest or anything of that kind.
THOMAS TANNER. I am clerk in the office of the Argus Insurance
Company—on 19th July last I saw the prisoner at that office (he had had a
form previously)—he brought a form of application with him; I have it
here (produced)—this is one of the forms issued by our office; the
name of William Godfrey Youngman was signed in my presence by the
prisoner—he wrote the answer to question No. 18, it is "William Godfrey
Youngman, 16, Manor Place, Newington, London, retired from the business of a
tailor"—that is written opposite the question "Name and place of
residence"—before he signed it I asked him what he was—he said he
was no trade—he came again on the following day, the 24th, accompanied by
a young woman—she was examined by the medical officer, and a policy on
her life was prepared—that is the policy (produced)—there is
no attesting witness; that is the policy that was effected on that
day—the premium was paid on 25th, 10s. 1d. for three months—the
premiums are according to the wish of the parties; if they wish they can pay
quarterly or half-yearly—in this case the prisoner expressed a wish to
pay quarterly—I gave a receipt for the premium; I have it here, this is
the first receipt—I believe the young woman paid the money.
(The following letters from the prisoner to the deceased were read; the
first was dated 18th June, from Henrietta-street, Covent-garden; it contained
some allusions to his long silence, and expressed a desire to renew his former
intimacy with the deceased; the second was dated 21st June, acknowledging a
reply to his first letter, and expressing a wish to see her when she came to
town. Editor's note: Spelling errors in these letters are italicized.)
"8, Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, July 13th, 1860.
"My dearest Mary.—This comes with my kindest love to you, trusting you
are well and happy; myself I am pretty well in health. Now, come to London,
dear girl, on Monday next, the 23d, and stay till Mrs. Walker leaves her
situation, then go back home again and come up again on Friday morning, 10th
August, and I will come on 10th Augnst to meet you, and shall stay at the
lodgings I shall take for you and myself. I shall engage furnished lodgings for
a week only, when I shall be able to settle all things and go down to your
father and stay with him a day or two. You can lodge somewhere on the Friday
you come up, and I, at our lodgings, so be ready for Saturday morning, when we
will be married at St. Martin's, Charing Cross, on Saturday, August 11th next;
I have published the banns of our marriage, last Wednesday, and it will be
asked in church on Sunday next, and Sunday, 29th, for the third time. I gave
warning to leave on Wednesday hist, 11th, can leave on 10th ef next mouth
having a day's wages less; now you will have quite money enough, my dear, till
after we are married, when I shall have plenty, but not till then; but you need
only wear your black clothes, my dear girl, at our wedding. I shall only wear
black things and have no white gloves at all dearest; our coachman will stand
as father for you, and I shall not require a bridesmaid unless you like, if so,
our housemaid will come if she can, and we will go after we are married to Kew
Gardens or somewhere, and breakfast before we are married, by ourselves. I
think I want to assure your life when you come up on Monday week; it will be
settled in the time you are here, two or three days; bring all your things when
you come on 10th August; say to your mother you are going to stay with my Mends
a fortnight and then look for a situation in the time. After we are married you
can have all you wish for, so you will have enough money for the present time,
as you do not want to boy anything; all the clothes you have will do for the
present, till we are married, and on Wednesday, after we are man and wife for
life, I shall take money enough to supply all your wants and wishes, so rest
happy till then, my dearest girl. I will expect to see youthen in London on
Monday week, to assure your life and buy you the wedding-ring to give you to
keep till the day 1 put it on your finger; the 11th August next must be the
day, I cannot wait another day longer than that my dearest girl Buy nothing
except you want it very much indeed, as I will buy you all you want the
Wednesday after we are married on a certainty, but at the same time remember
all I have told you. I am now awaiting to hear from you again; say you will do
as I write by return of post—I am, dearest Mary, your ever affectionate
lover, W. G. YOUNGMAN.—Kind respects to all friends, remember, do not
forget what I have said; be careful keep all your letters looked up, so your
mother and no one can see them, and bring them when you come here."
"8, Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, July 16th, 1860. "My beloved
Polly.—I received your kind and most welcome letter this morning, and was
glad to hear you were enjoying good health, myself I am pretty well in health,
bnt am anxious to see you again; indeed I long for the 23d, Monday, to come to
see you. I suppose you will stay as you said before with Mrs. Walker, at
Gloucester-terrace, till she leaves, which you said would be on 26th of this
month, that would be on Thursday week, so you could stay three or four days
there, and I shall be, of course, there with you once a day at least, I have
made up my mind to get away from here this week, so I shall be with you next
week when you come. Since I gave notice to leave here last Wednesday, our
people have spoken to me in such a manner that has not suited me, and I am
certain to give Mrs. Duncan a good talking to next time she goes on at me
again, when I hope the Doctor will tell me to go at once, has then that is what
I want, when I shall be paid my wages the same up to 11th August, when I shall
go to my brother's and be able to do many things I want to do before we are
married, dearest girl. I know I shall have a job to get a holiday when I want
it if I stay here longer than this week, so I am in hopes of getting off from
here this week, to-day; tonight I want Mrs. Duncan or the Doctor to talk to me,
then I shall he ready to talk to them, and so be sent off. You understand, I am
a little sharp in this. Now, my dearest Polly, I have a form to be filled up to
take to the Life Assurance Company's office, that his, to answer all the
written questions as asked on the printed forms, which is necessary should be
done first. I know your name and address, but your occupation, I shall say you
have (none)—you understand? But I want to know your place of
birth, and date, and your certificate of birth is required to be taken to the
office, just to let them see your right age; then, of course, I shall say
single, and a spinster; then I want to know your father's and mother's ages,
and also to know if you have ever been abroad; if so, where, and for what
period of time; also, have you had the small-pox, or have you been vaccinated;
have you ever had the gout, or spitting of blood, asthma, rupture, convulsions,
fits of insanity, vertigo, habitual cough, disease of the lungs, complaint of
the liver, or any other disease which tends to the shortening of life; let me
know this, but I can say what I like, or you like, has any of these
complaints, of corse, would be against your having your life assured.
Then it's asked, has any member of the family died of consumption; I think you
said your sister died of that dreadful complaint; but I must say no to that
answer. Then they want to know the name and residence of your medical
attendant; you could say you had none, to that question; but the name and
residence of an intimate friend is required to be referred to for general
information, that is to say, they must have some one who knows you to write to,
to ask they how long they have known you and your family, and are they
healthy, and his your health been good, and his it so now, and to
ask if any member of the family have died of any bad disorder, such as I have
said; and you must tell the friend, whoever you get to do this for you, to make
it out in the best manner he or she can, has you will also do; and let
them say they are not a near relation, only a friend, if ever you are. You
understand that, dearest girl, has all must be done in the best possible
manner to have them assure your life, has they would not take you if
they thought you were unhealthy, or any of your family had died of anything
bad, or where any of them unhealthy, that would be, of corse,
against it, so, when they write to your friend, let them give a good letter to
them—he sure and manage that with them, and to answer the letter they
send by return of post; so, when you come up on Monday next, all you will have
to do will be to go with me to the Assurance Office, near the Bank of England,
city, and see the, medical man there, then I can give you the money to pay the
first premium upon your life, which will not be a large sum to assure
100l. in case you should die any death, which sum would be of use to
your children or me, in that case, dearest girl; but it his a very good
thing to do, and the duty of every mother, or wife, or father to assure their
lives, if they can but spare a little to pay every quarter; see what distress
often arises from friends not leaving any thing to their relations or dear
friends when they die! You know the benefit of all this, therefore you will, of
corse, just send me the information I require of you, that I may take
and fill up the form to take to the office, so they can write to your friend
has I tell you. Write has soon has you can, I am anxious
to get on with it before you come next Monday to London. Now, I am, with love
ever to you, your loving, affectiouate, WILLIAM GODFREY YOUNGMAN.—My
kindest remembrance to your friends, and quick answer I hope to have, my most
beloved girl; I am indeed anxious to get all these things settled, and look
forward for the happy day when you will be mine for life. Adieu, dearest."
"16, Manor-place, Newington, London, S.
"My most beloved Mary.—I received your affectionate note this morning,
but I must say I am very much hurt to find you state in your note that you do
not wish to have your life assured; why, my dearest girl, why do you alter your
mind? I have been to the office, have told them to write to your friend, Mrs.
James Bone, for the information they require, they did so yesterday, and expect
her to send them answer by return of post; and I told them you would come with
me on Monday for the policy, so let Mrs. James Bone write to them has
they wish, and that you will go with me and assure your life on Monday next
has you said you would before. Why can you go from your word? You will
never lose anything by assuring your life; will not die any sooner, my dear
girl And as regards your father and mother not liken you to do so, you
can do has you like without them preventing. Now, say no more to them
about it, but come and do has I wish you to do. I shall, indeed, never
forgive you if you do not, has I, wish you to do so for a particular
purpose, which I will tell you of. I will always pay for it, of corse,
and you will never lose anything by it. I intend to get a house for you and
myself near or in Brighton next week, as it will, of corse, be foolish
for me to go there without you can go with me, even after you have assured your
life; but if you will not do this, and will rather mind what your friends say
to you about assuring your life, why I cannot think you would love me
has I wish you would. You will never find any one to love you so again,
and would you break my heart aud not do has I wish you in this little
thing? Why do you not do has you said? Can you cease to love me? Will
you now refuse to do this which is for the good of those you leave behind when
you should DIE? Surely, my dearest girl, you will still love me and do this, or
how can I think you do love me if you refuse? no, I cannot believe you love me.
Now, my dearest girl, I have nearly settled the assurance, I have left my
situation, I have look for a house for us to live in, and with your consent I
have published the bans of our marriage, and you have consented to be mine next
Monday week. Now, can you break my heart and act like-this? do has I
tell you, dearest girl, and I will do anything you wish to be done, only do
has you have agreed to do, let me assure your life on Monday next, and
be mine own dear wife the following Monday has you promised me in your
letter, and every thing you wish for shall be yours. I shall have money enough
to supply more than our wants. Next Wednesday or Thursday come and be mine, and
we will have all this settled, and we will go down and see all your friends in
a few days after things are Bettled. I want you to go to Brighton to get a
house, where I wish to live with you, my dearest Polly. Do you love me still 1
if so, do as I wish and keep your promise; be sure and bring the certificate of
your birth with you on Monday, and let Mrs. James Bone answer the letter to the
Assurance Company to-day, if she has not done so yesterday, so they will get
answer on Monday morning before you and I go there. They will not keep you a
moment, ray dear girl, only be mine and do this and be happy. You cannot do
wrong in this, you will never have cause to regret; pray do has I wish,
come and do this on Monday; come, come to me, and be mine, you will never want
for a thing while you live, believe me. I cannot but be hurt, hurt, indeed, if
you do not comply with my request; do make me happy, do this, it will be all
for your good. Write again so I can have a letter on Monday before you come up.
Oh, my dearest girl, I know you will not break my heart, I that love you more
than life; be mine and never will you want for anything, I swear; but say not a
word to your friends till we are married, then they shall be made glad, and we
will have a jolly day near home; they will not be sorry for your having me, one
that make a lady of you soon, and make you happy for life; one who loves you
more thau his life, and can you not do has he wished you to do I say
yes, dearest Mary.—I am,-with love to you, hoping you are well and happy,
your ever affectionate lover, and ever more I am your best Friend, believe me;
but I am hurt, pray heal me, say you will do has I wish, my dearest
girl, I am your dearest W. G. YOUNGMAN."
"16, Manor Place, Newington, July 19, 1860.
"My most beloved Mary.—I received your kind and most welcome letter
this morning about 11 o'clock; I was expecting to get it by 8 o'clock, but you
put Boro' in the address too much, so it was sent to the Boro' first, which
caused it to be late; put the address only as above, dearest girl. I have
filled up the paper now and took it to the Life Assurance Office, aud they will
write to Mrs. James Bone to-day to get answer on Saturday, so you can go with
me to the office before 2 o'clock on Monday; when you come up you will arrive
in London about half-past 9 o'clock on Monday morning, that was the time I
arrived last Monday week. Do not, my dearest girl, say anything to your mother
about what you are going to do, only say you are coming to see me and stay with
me and my friends till you get a situation here in London; and I think you had
better not bring all your things, only the most particular ones, the best you
has. You will not want many things till we are married, has you
will have some made or bought for you by me before we are married, but bring a
few of your best things only, and, above all things, bring all your letters and
papers, leave nothing of importance behind, has all little things you
have I want to see, And I shall, of corse, go to Brighton for a time
after we are married, if not before; but I shall see you on Monday morning. You
must bring the certificate of your birth with you, has it must be taken
to the office on Monday next, before the quarter's premium is paid, aud I wish
it to be done nest Monday morning. I will take lodgings for you and me when you
come up on Monday. You need not go to Mrs. Walker's at all; keep with me and I
will manage it all comfortable enough for you; don't bring all your things, you
understand, and only the best bring with you, and if you can borrow a little
money of your father, do so for a few days when I can give it you to send him
back, you understand, has money is short with me till about this day
week, Thursday. But I want to see you, dearest, and get your life assured, and
get many things settled before then; and we will both go down and see your
father and mother and friends, and surprise them, in about a week or eight days
after we are married; but I am now, even now, has much has
husband to you, dear girl, do has I tell you, and I am, with love, ever
and ever to you. Do not forget to bring your birth certificate, as you cannot
assure your life without it. I hope you will let me have answer by return of
post, my most beloved girl, and one on Monday as well, to meet you at the
station, London Bridge on Monday. I am your dear and most affectionate, W. G.
YOUNGMAN."—Kind remembrance to your frieuds. You might bring a little of
your home-made butter, and some things with you, only do not say I told you,
you understand, it will be for your good, my dearest girl, I am now waiting to
see you.
"16, Manor Place, London, July 21, 1860.
My dearest Mary.—I received your letter this morning. I am very much
hurt to find you say you will not have your life assured, after I have
troubled, and you had promised me faithfully to have it done, and to be my own
dear wife on Monday next, but Tuesday will do has well has
Monday, my dear girl, only your father, and mother, or any one must not know
it. You promised me faithfully, over and over again, and I expect you will keep
your promise that you would be mine, and that your frieuds would not know it
till we were married. But now, dearest Mary, if you will only let Mrs. James
Bone write to the Assurance Office at once, and go with me to have your life
assured on Monday morning next, I will settle with you, and after that his done
your friends may know that we are going to be married. I will arrange all
things, so you and myself can go down to your house, if possible, the same day
we are married, so you need not bring any of your things up with you. Keep to
your promise, my dear girl, and your friends shall know we are married the same
day that we are, next Tuesday week, but I must have you first assure your life,
has I have a great wish for you to do so, and cannot believe you love me
unless you do, so cannot certainly think you do love me now. I sent this in
haste that Mrs. James Bone may have time to write to them to-day, so the letter
will get in London on Monday morning, first post, if not, and you come, bring
the letter with you, and the certificate of your birth. Now, I am in earnest; I
am keeping my word; you have promised me, now if you love me do this. I am,
your affectionate lover, ever till death, WILLIAM GODFREY YOUNGMAN—For
your own sake, dearest girl, do has I say. Adieu."
"16, Manor Place, Newington, Saturday night, July 28th, 1860,
My beloved Polly.—I have posted one letter to you this afternoon, but
I find I shall not have to go to Brighton to-morrow, as X have had a letter
from them with what I wanted inside of it; so, my dear girl, I have quite
settled my business now, and I am quite ready to see you now, therefore I send
this letter to you. I will take this to London Bridge station to-morrow
morning, by a quarter past 6 o'clock, and get the guard to take it to Wadhurst
station, to give it to the porter there, who will get a man to take it to your
place. I can only give the guard something, so you can give the man who brings
this a small sum. I shall expect to see you, my dearest girl, on Monday
morning, by the first train. I will await your coming at London Bridge station.
I know the time the train arrives, a quarter to ten o'clock. I have promised to
go to my uncle's to-morrow, so I cannot come down, but I will go back home with
you on Monday night, or first thing Tuesday, so return here again Tuesday night
to be ready to go anywhere on Wednesday; but you know all I have told you, and
I now expect you will come up on Monday morning, when I shall be able to manage
things has I wish to do, Excuse more, my dearest Mary. I shall now go to
bed to be up early in the morning to take this letter. Bring or bum all your
letters, my dear girl; do not forget, and, with kind love to you and respects
to all, I now sum up, waiting to see you Monday morning, a quarter to 10
o'clock. Believe me ever your loving, affectionate, WILLIAM GODFREY
YOUNGMAN.—You know all I have told you, therefore come, dearest girl;
come, I am anxious now to see you. Adieu for the present."
The form of proposal was then put in, and the answer to question 13
"Has any member of your family died of consumption?" was "No"—The
policy of assurance was also put in, it was for 100l. effected by
William Godfrey Youngman, of 16, Manor-place, Newington, retired tailor, on the
life of Mary Wells Streeter, of Hunter's hall, Wadhurst, Sussex, commencing on
25th July, and renewable quarterly. The receipt for the first quarter's
premium 10s. 1d. was produced and read.
GUILTY— DEATH
This site is full of FREE ebooks - Project Gutenberg Australia