by Peter Moore
The charges read, the 12-man jury was empanelled, all of them men between the ages of 21 and 60 holding the requisite property qualifications. They included an innkeeper, an ironmonger, a tailor, a mercer, a weaver, two farmers and a scythe manufacturer, and were headed by the foreman, James Allport, a cabinet maker from Stourport.
Before the case proceeded any further, Clewes’ counsel Ludlow enquired for a second time which of the indictments6 was to be tried first. He pointed out that Clewes had been charged twice, the other defendants only once. Littledale answered that it was customary to try the most serious case first, therefore it made sense to begin with the murder charge against Clewes. Curwood seconded this suggestion and Ludlow acquiesced. Banks and Barnett were then removed from the bar, leaving Clewes to hear the indictment a second time.
As with any criminal case, the prosecution was invited to lay its evidence before the jury first, and Curwood made his way to the front of the court. His opening speech had doubtless been carefully rehearsed. The aim was to set the scene and stroll through the facts of the case, introducing his argument as he went. Curwood’s effort was commendable, an equal mixture of flattery, persuasive rhetoric and lucidity that at times glowed with a mellifluous, rhythmic quality. He began by declaring the case ‘almost unparalleled in the legal annals and totally unparalleled in my recollection’.
‘On 24 June Mr Parker was murdered in one of his own fields, and I believe it will be proved without question that the murderer was Richard Heming, between whom and Mr Parker there was no enmity,’ Curwood observed. It was a strange crime, he went on. Heming and Parker belonged to different parishes; there was no quarrel between them. Only after a time, he explained, did it turn out that he ‘was hired by other persons to do the deed of horror’. Gaining a little momentum, Curwood shifted his attention to subsequent events and Heming’s disappearance.
Years, however, rolled away, and nothing was heard of him, until his remains were found in the barn; those were recognised; his shoes were remarkable; and the bones were identified by his wife. It appeared clear that Heming was the murderer of Mr Parker, and therefore, the inference was that Heming had been murdered by those who employed him, because it having been known that search was made for this man, it became of vital importance to those who instigated him to do the deed that he should be removed. With respect to the others, I will abstain from saying anything; I shall merely observe that Clewes, the prisoner, had a motive, and I shall prove that he used expressions of the most deadly hate to Mr Parker. He said he would give £50 to have him shot. In 1815 he had said he knew Heming would never appear again; and on Bromsgrove fair day, the very day of Mr Parker’s murder, he stated, he hoped he would find a dead parson before him at home. Gentlemen, he did find a dead parson before him at home, and I will produce a witness to show you he knew what became of Heming, and Heming was heard of no more.
Curwood now turned to the subject of Clewes’ confession. He picked up a copy of the document in his right hand, but before he could begin to read it, Ludlow sprang to his feet, objecting that it was unusual to mention a confession in an opening speech. Littledale submitted to the point: ‘Perhaps it would be as well to abstain as much as you can from referring to it, unless you consider it necessary,’ he advised.
But this was more a gentle warning than a stiff rebuke and did little to deter Curwood from his course. The confession was the most incriminating piece of evidence the prosecution possessed and its validity lay at the core of the case. The earlier Curwood could introduce it to the jury the better, but already the barrister was entering choppy legal waters. Ever since the eighteenth century involuntary confessions (those ‘got by promises or threats’) had been deemed inadmissible in court, and there was every danger Clewes’ confession would be regarded as such by Littledale. The judge would have to consider how Clewes had come to confess: whether he had been offered any inducements to do so, or had been pressured into making his statement. Being probed by a figure of authority (however gently) was considered unacceptable as a suspect might feel compelled to confess out of fear or duty. Some inducements, such as an offer to remove a pair of handcuffs or the promise of a meeting with a family member, were considered acceptable. But the line was thin. In 1833 a female prisoner’s confession would be declared inadmissible because an officer had stated that she had better speak, ‘otherwise the matter would lie on her8 and the guilty would go free’.
The first confession – made orally to Clifton at the gaol – failed both of the legal tests. The defence was sure to argue that Clewes had been seduced by Clifton’s promise of a royal pardon, about as strong an inducement as could exist. They could also point out that Clifton was a figure of authority: he was not just the prison chaplain but also the magistrate who had committed Clewes to gaol just hours before. Clewes had genuine reason to respect or even fear what Clifton said, giving Ludlow a strong argument for having the confession dismissed as evidence. The only hope for the prosecution was to demonstrate clearly that Clewes had made two independent confessions: a first, to Clifton at the gaol, which had been rescinded and destroyed, and a second to the coroner’s inquest two days later, which was legally admissible. Such arguments would come later, but for now Curwood stuck to the matter in hand. He warned the jury to expect the defence to use the confession ‘as a means of escape’. He continued,
The whole of this confession must be given to you: but you are not bound to believe the whole of it. You may believe the prisoner when he says he was present, but you are not compelled to credit his statement when he attempts to explain away his presence. And gentlemen, I may here remark to you, that in the whole course of my practice, I never knew an accessory who did not, according to his statement, fill a very insignificant part in the transaction. He never confesses to being the person who struck the blow or gave the poison.
Unlike the relative informality of the coroner’s court, rule and form permeated grand jury cases. Questions had to be concise and relevant. The tone was formal, and almost every address was accompanied by flattering asides to the judge and the jury. Bad manners, uncouth language or any other solecism were not tolerated, and the judges and barristers – who often knew each other from other stops on the circuit – occasionally betrayed traces of familiarity, though they did their best not to show it. Describing a London courtroom in Sketches By Boz, Charles Dickens recorded, ‘Nothing is so likely to strike the person9 who enters them [criminal courts] for the first time, as the calm indifference with which the proceedings are conducted; every trial seems a mere matter of business. There is a good deal of form, but no compassion; considerable interest but no sympathy.’
Charles Burton, fresh from his month as a local celebrity, was the first witness called by the prosecution. He repeated his evidence, stating how he had come across the bones at Netherwood a month and a half earlier and describing how he had cooperated with Smith and Pierpoint in the exhumation of the skeleton and accompanying artefacts. Burton was subject to a light cross-examination from Ebenezer Ludlow, but no more. He admitted that two-foot rules such as the one found in the grave were also carried by masons and other workers as well as carpenters.
Surgeon Matthew Pierpoint also breezed through his evidence without trouble from Ludlow. He was a respected man, and questioning his evidence was unlikely to impress either the court or the judge. Like Burton, Pierpoint narrated his movements throughout January with careful precision; as did the next witness, Elizabeth Newbury. She told the jury about Richard’s disappearance, then proceeded to identify, as they were produced, his shoes (nailed on the heels, low and tied with string), his rule (‘witness examined the rule and put her finger on a mark near the rivet which did not quite close’) and the teeth of the skull. When confronted with the sight of Heming’s skull for a second time, Newbury was ready and composed. ‘He had very good teeth, sound, very strong and tolerably white,’ she said. ‘I will swear they are his teeth.’
An early photograph of Netherwood Farm and its
fenced fold-yard, from about 1910. The replacement barn can be seen on the left-hand side
‘Do you know Thomas Clewes?’ asked Curwood.
‘I know Thomas Clewes. He came to the house three times on pretence of work, before Mr Parker’s death,’ she replied.
The first of the prosecution’s points had been proved: the bones discovered in the barn at Netherwood were Heming’s. Curwood could now proceed to his second task – to demonstrate that Heming was a hired gun tempted into the parish to dispose of Parker. Shopkeeper Thomas Barber was the first to support this. He repeated his evidence from the coroner’s inquest, recalling that Clewes had promised ‘£50 for any man who would shoot the parson’ after brushing past Parker in his store. ‘Did he offer you any money?’ Ludlow enquired. ‘The £50 was not offered to me, it was only said in the way of conversation,’ he replied.
As one witness followed another, Ludlow’s attempts to cast doubt on their testimony increased. When Joseph Colley recalled Heming talking about ‘a dirty job at Oddingley’ in the Red Lion, Ludlow suggested he might have been referring to getting the poles out of Evans’ muddy pond. During his cross-examination of Sarah Lloyd (now Sarah Rogers) he discovered there were no living witnesses to corroborate her account of the left-handed toasts and curses in the Pigeon House. ‘I told my father and sister of this the same night, but gave them no particulars,’ she said. ‘Both are now dead.’ Susan Surman was also challenged. Valentine Lee was Ludlow’s deputy and initially more combative. He attacked Surman’s claim that Clewes had said, ‘I shall be glad to find a dead parson in Oddingley when I come back [from Bromsgrove Fair]’ – an important part of the prosecution’s case and the key element of her testimony.
‘You say that two people, a servant of Mr Hardcourt and a friend of yours, heard Clewes make this statement. Could you tell me where these people are?’
‘The girl is dead, and, I believe, the man in whose presence Clewes made use of this expression.’
A break was timetabled for early afternoon, but before it arrived a string of further witnesses stood to verify – beyond all of the efforts of Valentine Lee and Ebenezer Ludlow – that Parker was killed by Heming. The Captain’s old dairymaid Elizabeth Fowler informed the court about finding the shotgun ‘which Heming called for a week after’; a man called Gore explained that he had repaired a gun of the very same description for Heming in May 1806; and John Lench remembered disturbing him in the glebe with Parker’s smouldering body just a few feet away.
As Lench concluded his evidence, the court was suddenly distracted by a curiously comic moment. A mysterious letter had been rushed into the room addressed to one of the jurors. Confused by the unexpected arrival Littledale supposed it must relate to a domestic emergency and ordered the juror to read the communication at once. The judge’s fears were allayed when the man admitted the message was nothing more than a love letter full of ‘tender enquiries’ from his wife, who hoped he was coping with the stresses of his responsibility. The incident amused the court and mortified the juror.
By early afternoon journalists from The Times and Morning Chronicle7 had already dispatched their copy on the midday express from Worcester to London. Those in the capital would have to wait a further day and a half before the first tidings of the result came. In court, however, the prosecution’s pace was quickening. Thomas Colwell, Richard Page, landlord of the Virgin Tavern, Reverend Pyndar and Richard Allen of Droitwich were all asked to recall events on Midsummer Day 1806. Pyndar, now in his mid-seventies, appeared to be suffering from that ailment that renders memory more colourful with age. ‘I found Parker seated on the grass in a field, and I heard him draw his last sigh. He was supported on a chair by poor persons,’ the old clergyman said. It was clearly a muddled account, a sign either that Pyndar was losing his faculties or that the occasion had got the better of him – in any case it did not much matter.
Next the prosecution introduced a new sighting of Richard Heming on Midsummer Day. Thomas Hill was a farmer from Newtown, and he had run into Heming at the Virgin Tavern shortly after Richard Page served him a drink. Hill said that Heming did not rush away from the hostelry or head off on the Worcester road; he simply stood for some time, almost inanimate, at a gate. Could this have been the moment Heming chose to return to Oddingley? ‘He was standing there with his coat on his left hand,’ Hill remembered. ‘He was drinking, it was a blue coat.’ Hill was followed by John Perkins, a clear target for the defence. Perkins had reason to dislike his peers and Ludlow was keen to expose this. After revealing all he remembered about the Easter meeting and the left-handed toasts at the Plough, he was cross-examined viciously by the sergeant.
‘How long before Mr Parker’s death did you say that Clewes was paying for Heming’s drinks in the Red Lion at Droitwich?’
‘This was about five or six weeks before Mr Parker’s death. It is about 23 years ago, but I recall that it was five or six weeks,’ Perkins replied.
‘Are you sure of this? You stated to the coroner that it was five or six months,’ Ludlow rejoined.
‘I will not swear I did not say five or six months before the coroner. If the coroner did put down six months, it was a mistake.’
Ludlow continued to press the point, and Perkins, unnerved, managed to contradict himself several times. Finally, Ludlow demanded a straight answer. ‘I meant five or six weeks,’ Perkins stammered, displaying the first palpable emotion of the day. ‘Ah! Put your hat down and don’t be in a passion,’ Ludlow said, ‘for you won’t put me in one!’ Perkins was dismissed from the stand, still protesting.
The last witness connected to the first murder was Pennell Cole. Now almost 80 years old, the surgeon who had performed Parker’s autopsy had retired from Worcester Infirmary in 1815 and instantly re-enlisted in the army for the Waterloo campaign. Cole was a man of the old school, skilled and impressive. When his retirement eventually came he had settled in France on half-pay until in 1821 he had been appointed deputy inspector of British hospitals. Cole had travelled to Worcester that day from his house in Manchester. He provided a cogent and empirical description of Parker’s bloodied body and suggested that ‘a blunt instrument must have given the wound [on the head]’. There was no cross-examination – there seemed little point.
It was late afternoon. The court had heard about Burton’s discovery of the skeleton, the identification of the bones as Heming’s, the tithe dispute, the threats and the circumstances surrounding the first murder. Now the most important question lay before them. How had Heming been murdered and concealed in the barn at Netherwood? There was little evidence relating to this, and it was clear that Clewes’ confession would have to be raised soon. John Curwood relieved his deputies and took to the front of the courtroom. He called to the witness box a clerk from the firm of Parker and Smith in Worcester. Curwood asked the man to state his name.
‘I am James Hooper, a clerk to Messrs Parker and Smith. Mr Smith is the coroner.’
‘Were you present when Thomas Clewes made a confession?’ Curwood asked.
‘I was.’
‘And how was this confession made?’
‘Clewes was not brought before the coroner. He sent a request to Mr Smith and the jury to attend [at the gaol].’
Mr Lavender, governor of the gaol, was now called. He explained that he had written a note to Smith at Clewes’ instigation. The letter was produced and he testified that it was his hand. The note was read to the court.
Dear sir, – I have seen Thomas Clewes; he expresses a wish to see the Coroner and the Jury at the prison.
Respectfully yours,
J. N. Lavender.
Thereafter Lavender was cross-examined by Ludlow. He asked Lavender why the interview had taken place at the prison and not at the Talbot where the coroner’s inquest was ongoing. As governor, he had no contact with the prisoners, so who had passed the message between Clewes and himself? What was Reverend Clifton doing in the gaol? Had he interviewed Clewes before this note was written?
As befitting the governor of a gaol, Lavender’s answers were stark and to the point. He told Ludlow the note had been written at the express wish of Clewes. Reverend Clifton was at the gaol as a visiting magistrate, he explained, ‘coming with an understanding that if I wanted anything particular I was to apply to him’. And had there been any interviews? ‘I knew that previous to my writing that note to the coroner, an interview had taken place between Mr Clifton and Clewes,’ Lavender revealed. ‘I cannot tell exactly, but I think that it was more than one.’
Lavender had avoided explaining why the confession was taken at the prison instead of the Talbot, and Curwood, re-examining, offered him the opportunity to explain this decision. ‘The reason why the words at the prison are underlined is because I begged the coroner and jury to adjourn to the gaol. Mr Smith said he did not know that they could adjourn unless by the desire of Clewes. I went to Clewes and communicated this to him. He said it was all the same to him where he saw them.’
Curwood now sought to further underline why the confession was admissible. He had James Hooper recalled and asked him to explain the context in which Clewes’ statement was received.
Before the prisoner made any confession, Mr Smith addressed him in these words: ‘Thomas Clewes, it has been intimated to me that you wished to see myself and the Jury, and that you have something to communicate to us.’ Mr Clewes said ‘yes Sir.’ Mr Smith said, ‘it is my duty to inform you as one of His Majesty’s Coroners for this county that any confession, admission or deposition you make will be produced in evidence against you at the next Assizes, on a charge of the murder of Richard Heming, and that no hope or promise of pardon can be held out to you either by His Majesty’s Government or by any other person.’ Having been told this more than once by the coroner, he said, ‘well Sir, I shall state all I know about it,’ and then he made a confession which I took down in writing.