In the meantime, Browne had gone on a binge of burglary, theft and stealing cars, making eight such criminal forays that winter with other villains, starting in October. Robbing railway station offices became a speciality. One of the cars he stole, a Vauxhall that was taken in Tooting in November, was sold a few days later by Browne to a butcher in Sheffield, Benjamin Stow, who gave him £100 and a grey Angus-Sanderson car, registration CW 3291, in part exchange. Browne used the car to drive down to Devon in the New Year. ‘I do a lot of driving,’ said Browne. ‘I do thousands of miles. I do more miles than the average man, because the average man will stop at night to put up and garage and I do not. I keep straight on.’
In Devon, he picked up Fred Counter, who had been released from Dartmoor on Friday, 20 January. Browne, who intended to employ Counter in the garage, had dressed himself up as a chauffeur in a blue coat and a peaked cap. He drove Counter the 200 miles back to London, dropping him off near New Scotland Yard, where Counter had to report to the Convict Registration Office. This done, Browne returned to his garage near Clapham Junction about 7.50 pm. The police, having traced the stolen Vauxhall car by now, were waiting for him in force.
The police version of what happened next, as related in court with the use of notebooks, was generally stilted and stiff. Browne was presented as a dangerous thug and the police as stern and silent. Browne’s version, substantially the same, is far more lively – and more likely. ‘I went into the garage,’ he said, ‘and saw a light in there, and found Mrs Browne there. She said: “I thought you would be back soon,” and I said: “I’ve brought the man’s luggage.” And I went out to get the luggage – that was a big case and a small case – and I put it in the office. I started talking to my wife, and – well, in rushed a man who was – I will tell you it was a detective. And behind him rushed a lot more.’ Said DS Miller: ‘I entered the inner office belonging to the garage with Inspector Barker, and I was present when Inspector Barker arrested Browne and searched him.’
Inspector Barker: ‘He seemed to be boiling inwardly, holding himself in … He went pale and gripped his hands tightly together, as though he was trying to master his feelings.’ Browne said: ‘I really do not know what happened, because I had my back to him, but anyhow he caught hold of me and said: “I am going to charge you with stealing a Vauxhall car.” I said: “I know nothing about a Vauxhall car,” and that is all I troubled.’ Barker continued: ‘He said: “What do I know about stealing a car?”’ Browne: ‘Then he went on to explain that I got a Vauxhall car and sold it, and then I knew the car he was referring to was a car I sold to a butcher at Sheffield. I then said to him: “Yes, I sold the car. But why say I stole it? I got the car and paid the price for it” – words very similar to that – “and I sold it.”’ Barker: ‘He said: “Well, you can’t prove I stole it.”’ Browne: ‘There was some argument about it and I said: “Well, anyhow, I was going to make myself some cocoa, because I have had a long run and I have had nothing.” He said: “Well, wait a minute, I’m going to search you.” I had these cartridges in my pocket, and I did not want him to see them. I made an excuse I wanted to go to the lavatory, and I did not want to – I wanted to get rid of the cartridges. He got the cartridges, and I said: “That’s done it now.”’ Barker: ‘He said: “That’s done it. Now you’ve found them, it’s all up with me.”’ Browne: ‘The atmosphere was changed … Presently this revolver was brought in.’ Barker: ‘Browne looked at it and said: “Ah, you’ve found that, have you? I am done for now.”’ Browne: ‘I said: “It’s all up now,” because I knew they would have me for having firearms and ammunition and no licence.’ He was escorted to the lavatory by four policemen. DS Miller: ‘He said: “Why all this precaution? I have never seen so many officers in my life!”’
He was then taken in a car – by two men, according to the police, by five, according to Browne – to Tooting police station. Nothing had yet been said about the murder of PC Gutteridge.
‘They were quite decent,’ said Browne. ‘They put me in a big room with a big table, and they were laughing about something about “You won’t go for a 200-mile run …” There was a lot of chatter. In the midst of it in comes another detective with a little revolver. He put it down on this table and he passed some remark … Anyway they were laughing about it and I said: “Oh yes, you can laugh about it. You think it’s a toy. But it wouldn’t only tickle you …” I knew there was something in it.’
DS Miller: ‘Browne said: “Oh, you’ve found that, have you? That’s no good. It would only tickle you unless it hit you in a vital part.”’ Browne: ‘They explained they wanted to get me while I was in the car, and one said: “No. Wait until he’s in the garage!” I didn’t hear this – this was explained to me. And one said to me: “What would you have done, Browne, if we had stopped you in the car?” And I said: “I do not know.” He said: “Perhaps you would have stopped us.” And I said: “I have not been put to the test” … Then it came to my knowledge that there were ten men who had come to arrest me – ten! And all those ten men were armed. And they said had I tried it or something … they would have blown me to pieces, if I had shown any resistance. That is what it amounted to. But they were good-tempered … laughing about it.’ ‘No laughing at all,’ said DS Miller. Browne: ‘It was to this effect – “There would have been little left of you, Browne, if you had used it …” I said: “Good heavens! Ten! Why – it would take a man with a machine-gun to cope with you!” Those were the words.’ DS Miller: ‘What he did say was: “I shall have to have a machine-gun for you bastards next time.”’
The police searches discovered twelve .45 cartridges in the back hip-pocket of Browne’s trousers; a stockinette mask in his jacket pocket; a forceps, and a Webley revolver, fully loaded with six cartridges, in a pocket inside the driver’s door of the Angus-Sanderson; sixteen .45 cartridges wrapped in some paper in the inner office, as well as another forceps, several rolls of bandages, some gauze, lint and an ethylchloride spray. In the Brownes’ rooms off Lavender Hill were found a roll of plaster, a convex lens, an ear speculum, twenty-three .22 cartridges, a small nickel-plated revolver, loaded, and a fully loaded Smith and Wesson. A further search of the Angus-Sanderson revealed another fully loaded Webley revolver in a secret recess behind the driver’s seat. This was the gun that was later proved to have fired one at least of the fatal shots: its breech block had the peculiar fault that imprinted itself on every cartridge case fired by the gun.
Kennedy, ignorant of Browne’s arrest, arrived at the garage a day later, at 2 pm on Saturday, 21 January. Since his return to London he had been there twice before. Of these visits Browne said: ‘I was surprised to see him again, because I told him not to come near the place again on account of the drink … On the first occasion he insinuated he would come back to the garage, and I would not have anything to do with him. On the second occasion he wanted to know if he could come to Devon … and again I said: “I cannot have you for drink.” And he finished.’
On the day that Browne drove to Devon – Wednesday, 18 January – Kennedy got married in Liverpool. On the Saturday, finding the garage doors locked and two men who he thought were detectives inside the garage, Kennedy hurried back to his wife at 2 Huguenot Place and urged her to pack. They returned to Liverpool on the midnight train from Euston. The Kennedys had three more nights of married bliss before the police closed in. It was on Wednesday the 25th that Kennedy was arrested. That night, at about 11.40 pm, he was hurrying away from his home along St Andrew’s Street, hiding his face, when DS Bill Mattinson, who knew Kennedy of old, approached him from behind and said: ‘Come on, Bill. Now then, come on, Bill.’
Kennedy’s response was to swing around and pull a pistol out of his pocket. He recognised the policeman, said: ‘Stand back, Bill – or I’ll shoot you!’ and fired. There was a click. Mattinson seized Kennedy’s gun with his left hand, hit him with the other and wrenched the gun, a Savage, from the other man’s grasp. Shouting to his distant colleagues, Mattinson pr
opelled Kennedy back up St Andrew’s Street into Copperas Hill, where three other policemen came to his assistance. ‘It’s all right!’ cried Mattinson, raising the pistol. ‘I’ve got it!’ Realising now how close he had been to being shot, he collapsed and was sick. In fact, the safety catch was found to be in the safety position.
Kennedy was taken into custody. He had clearly left his digs in a hurry, for under his coat he wore no shirt, just a vest; his trousers were undone and his boots unlaced. Having heard some policemen arrive in a taxi in the street below – they gave the cabbie a clear instruction to drive around the corner – he had taken flight. ‘I had a premonition something was going to happen to me today,’ he said.
He came face to face with DS Mattinson again at Warren Street police station, where he was charged with being concerned with Browne in stealing a Vauxhall motor car. He said to Mattinson: ‘I’m sorry. I’ve no grudge against the police. But you should be in heaven now. And there was one for me.’ Mattinson looked at him and said: ‘I did not expect that from you.’
The following evening, Chief Inspector Berrett visited Kennedy, now in custody in New Scotland Yard, and asked him if he had any information to give about the murder of PC Gutteridge. Kennedy asked to be allowed to think, and did so for several minutes, head in hand, elbows on a table. ‘Can I see my wife?’ he eventually asked. Mrs Kennedy, who had travelled with him from Liverpool, was fetched. She kissed him. Berrett made notes of what they said.
Kennedy said: ‘Well, my dear … These officers are making enquiries about that policeman murdered in Essex.’ She exclaimed: ‘Why? You didn’t murder him, did you?’ ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I didn’t. But I was there, and know who did. If I’m charged with murder and found guilty, I shall be hanged, and you will be a widow … If I’m charged and found guilty of being an accessory I shall receive a long sentence … and be a long time away from you. Will you wait for me?’ She said: ‘Yes, love. I’ll wait for you any time.’ Kennedy asked: ‘Well, what shall I do then?’ ‘Tell these gentlemen the truth of what took place,’ she said. He replied: ‘All right, I will.’
It took him over three hours to dictate his statement, which Browne derided later in court as ‘one pack of wilful or imaginative lies, either wilfully told or misled by some kink of the brain … It is a horribly concocted statement that has taken hours to consider. That is my opinion.’ However, what Kennedy said is probably largely true, although he naturally tried to minimise his involvement in the death of PC Gutteridge. It is quite possible that Browne and Kennedy were both armed – even that Kennedy fired the first or second pair of shots. Browne could make no counter-allegations, as his defence was that he was never in Essex that night; he had claimed that he was in bed with his wife.
On 6 February, Browne and Kennedy were both charged by CI Berrett with the murder of PC Gutteridge. ‘It’s absurd,’ said Browne. ‘I know nothing about it.’ Kennedy was silent.
Their trial began at the Old Bailey on Monday, 23 April 1928, before Mr Justice Avory. The Solicitor General, Sir Boyd Merriman, led for the Crown; Mr Lever defended Browne and Mr Powell appeared for Kennedy. Browne’s appearance in the witness box unleashed a torrent of verbosity. Generally impatient with the proceedings and indignant, one minute he muttered, the next he ranted. The barristers, including his own, intervened with difficulty. He even argued about taking the oath. ‘How can I tell the whole truth,’ he exclaimed, ‘of something I do not know?’
Kennedy elected to make a statement from the dock. He said that he had loaded the Webley after Gutteridge had been shot because he was terrified and did not know what he was doing. Browne also gave him the Savage, he said. And he had only intended to frighten Sergeant Mattinson. He concluded: ‘I can only now express my deep regret to Mrs Gutteridge that I should have been in the car on the night of the crime.’
The ballistics evidence, concerning the bullets, the cartridges, and the gun prints made by the breech-shield of the Webley, was damning – the first time such evidence had been used to such effect in a murder trial. Four firearms experts were called, including Robert Churchill, the Crown’s chief expert in this and other trials involving guns.
Both Browne and Kennedy were found guilty. Both made a speech, Browne repeating that he had had nothing to do with the murder, but was ‘quite content to leave it’, as penal servitude was worse than death. Kennedy said the verdict was preordained – it was fate – and they all were accessories of that fate. He said he wasn’t afraid to die, and asked if he could see his wife.
Their appeals were heard on 22 May and dismissed. On 31 May 1928, Browne was hanged at Wandsworth by Tom Pierrepoint and Kennedy by Robert Baxter at Pentonville. The year 1928 had begun well for Pierrepoint and Baxter financially – in January, they each carried out five executions – Tom performing five in four days, at Manchester, Lincoln, Durham, Leeds and Birmingham.
The night before his execution, Kennedy, who had been converted to Roman Catholicism while awaiting execution, wrote a long, eloquently passionate letter to his wife, urging her to join him soon in heaven – ‘Our word is au revoir.’
He added two postscripts, written a few hours before he died. ‘Perhaps the worst is to know the exact hour, and yet perhaps the best … Darling, my last word. I again assert that I had no previous knowledge of what was going to happen that night. I go to my death knowing that, and that my statement is true, and that my own darling believes me. B x x x x.’
Interviewed by a reporter from the Yorkshire Observer in February 1930, Tom Pierrepoint, who was now 59 and had been assistant or chief executioner since 1906, said: ‘Why should a murderer be nursed for the rest of his life? I think it would be encouraging people to murder if the death penalty were abolished. But it would make no difference to me either way.’
In 1930, executions reached another low, only five people being hanged – the same number as those executed in 1921. Convicted murderers tended now to be reprieved. And in the years before the Second World War some overdue reforms were made in the laws governing capital punishment. The Infanticide Act of 1922, which had abolished the execution of mothers who killed their newborn babies, was tardily followed in 1931 by the Sentence of Death (Expectant Mothers) Act, which decreed that pregnant women should not be hanged.
Then, in 1933, the Children and Young Persons Act raised the age of convicted persons who might be hanged. No one who was under the age of eighteen when murder was committed could henceforth be sentenced to death. They were to be detained during His Majesty’s pleasure.
26
SAMUEL FURNACE
THE MURDER OF WALTER SPATCHETT, 1933
There seems little doubt that various forms of mayhem, from mugging to murder, attract some imitators when sensationally and lengthily described by the press. For instance, a mentally unbalanced youth called Ernest Rhodes was so obsessed with the murderers Patrick Mahon and Norman Thorne that when the latter was awaiting execution, Rhodes went out on 9 April 1925 and cut the throat of a girl he thought he loved. He was found guilty but insane. The much-publicised murder committed by Alfred Rouse in November 1930 may have had a similar effect a few years later. He faked his own death by strangling a complete stranger and burning the body in his car so that he might assume a new identity. Two years after Rouse was sentenced to death, a man called Furnace tried the same fiery trick.
On the evening of Tuesday, 3 January 1933, Mr Wynne, of 30 Hawley Crescent, north of Camden Town underground station, was startled to see that a shed in his back yard was on fire. It had been rented from him by a builder and decorator, Sam Furnace. After firemen had extinguished the blaze they discovered the charred body of a man slumped on a high stool before what had been an office desk.
Furnace’s home was in Crogsland Road, Chalk Farm, about 500 yards to the north-west. A native of St Neot’s, he was married with children, the eldest being a ten-year-old boy. Earlier in life he had been a ship’s steward, and had served in the Rifle Brigade and with the Black and Tans. A tenant of
his, Mr Abbot, was able to identify the body as that of his late landlord. A note was found that said: ‘Goodbye all. No work. No money. Sam J Furnace.’
At the inquest, which began on 6 January in St Pancras coroner’s court before Mr Bentley Purchase, a life insurance claim was declared to be void as the person insured had committed suicide. The sympathetic insurance company agreed, however, to provide the widow with a generous grant.
The coroner, Mr Purchase, more suspicious than sympathetic, took it upon himself to examine the charred remains personally. He concluded that he was dealing with neither felo de se nor Furnace. For there was what appeared to be a bullet wound in the corpse’s back, and its teeth were those of a man much younger than forty-two-year-old Sam.
A full post mortem revealed that the burnt man had in fact been shot twice, and had probably been dead before he was set on fire. He was identified by a sodden post-office savings book found in an overcoat in the shed. Both coat and book belonged to Walter Spatchett, aged twenty-five, a rent collector for Messrs TB Westacott and Son of Camden Road, who lived with his parents in Dartmouth Park Road, Highgate. He was last seen on the evening of the Monday before the fire, when he had about £40 of rent on him. He and Furnace were known to have been acquainted.
A nationwide hunt for Furnace was instituted by the police. On 9 January, BBC Radio brashly announced that the missing man was wanted for murder. Furnace, said to have been sighted all over the country, was finally traced to Southend. There he made the not uncommon mistake of criminals on the run – he wrote a letter, in his case to his wife’s brother, Charles Tuckfield, who received it on Saturday, 15 January. It read:
Murder of the Black Museum 1875-1975: The Dark Secrets Behind a Hundred Years of the Most Notorious Crimes in England Page 32