FDSD Islington

by John Eddleston

  Initially, details of the relationship of both the accused and his victim were given. Both had worked at the Lion Tavern for approximately two years and had, apparently, grown fond of each other. They had been walking out together for a few months but, the relationship had, apparently, cooled over the last few weeks. One day, a couple of weeks before Jane was killed, one of her cousins had visited her, at the public house. He had been a most affable fellow, and had enjoyed a pint with two of the male members of staff before he left. Ever since that time, Jane had behaved towards Bricknell in a much more offhanded manner, and he had managed to persuade himself that Jane was involved with her cousin. Indeed, at the time the cousin was enjoying his drink in the bar, Bricknell had remarked to a fellow worker: ‘That is the man that had taken my peace of mind.’

  The first witness was Henry Keeble. He confirmed that Jane had been a housemaid, whilst Bricknell had been employed as an under-waiter. Keeble claimed that he had been unaware, that there had been any relationship between Jane and the accused and, as far as he was concerned, they had merely been workmates.

  William Gardner was the head-waiter and, at the time of Jane’s scream, he was in the front bar, sweeping the floor. He had followed Henry Keeble up the stairs and saw him seize Bricknell. Gardner had then pushed past them, and continued on up to the landing, where he found Jane bleeding profusely from a wound in her left breast. As he watched, she quivered a little, and tried to draw a breath, but then sank back. As Gardner cradled her in his arms, he knew that she was already dead.

  In addition to attending to the victim at the scene, Dr Tate had also performed the post-mortem. He found a single incised wound on the upper part of her left breast, and measured it at almost two inches deep. The knife had passed through Jane’s left lung, and on into the heart. Death must have been almost instantaneous, and considerable force would have been needed to inflict the fatal wound.

  Thomas Charles Hill also worked at the Tavern. He stated that just a few minutes before the attack upon Jane, Bricknell had come into his bedroom. They had talked for a while, and then Charles had said good night. Bricknell had commented: ‘Oh, I might come down again.’ Minutes later he had stabbed Jane. It had been Hill, to whom Bricknell had made the remark, that Jane’s cousin had taken his peace of mind.

  Mary Platten, was another chambermaid at the Tavern, and she had shared a room with Jane Geary. A few weeks before, Jane had asked Mary’s advice, about walking out with Bricknell, and Mary had offered the opinion that she did not think it a good idea. This was not because she disapproved of Bricknell, but simply because she did not think Jane should be associating with someone she worked with.

  On the night of Jane’s death, she and Mary had gone up to bed together. On the landing, Mary remembered that one of the guests, who was staying at the Tavern, had not come in yet. She had told Jane that she would have to go downstairs, quickly, and tell the other staff members to expect him later. Jane said she would wait for her on the landing. Less than a minute later, just as Mary was at the foot of the stairs, that terrible scream rang out as Jane was stabbed.

  For the defence, Mr Sleigh tried to persuade the jury, that his client was so distressed, over the cooling of his relationship with the love of his life, that his mind was unbalanced at the time, and he should, therefore, only be found guilty of manslaughter. The jury did not agree with that argument and found Bricknell guilty of murder.

  Sentenced to death, Charles Frederick Bricknell was executed, outside the Old Bailey, at 8.00am on Tuesday 1 August 1864, by William Calcraft. The newspapers of the day described the crowd as largely well behaved. However, a nine-year-old girl was accidentally knocked down and trodden on by the mob. She suffered a broken leg and other more minor injuries.

  Chapter 13

  Mary Eliza Rorke

  1864

  On Friday 11 July 1863, Maria Harding left her lodgings at 4 Lempster Terrace, James Street, Islington, to move to a new address. As a result, the landlord of the property, George Moring, visited the house a number of times, to prepare her rooms for a new tenant.

  Moring’s first visit took place at around 10.00am on Saturday 12 July. It was whilst he was at Lempster Terrace, that he noticed, in one of the other rooms, a child, some six months old, lying on a pile of rags on the floor, in an absolutely filthy condition.

  The child was William Joseph Rorke, and of his mother, Mary Eliza, there was no sign. In all, Moring spent five or six hours at the house and it was not until late that afternoon that Mary Eliza returned, obviously the worse for drink. Rather surprisingly, Moring said nothing to her about leaving her young son alone for so many hours.

  On Monday 14 July, Moring was back at the house at 9.00am. This time, Mary Eliza Rorke was there, and appeared to be sober, but her child was still in the same dirty condition. Yet again, Moring did nothing, beyond telling Mary Rorke that he might well want her to find fresh lodgings.

  Another visit took place on the evening of Tuesday 15 July. Once again, the child was alone, and still in an apparently neglected condition, but Mary returned soon afterwards, again the worse for drink. George Moring had now made three visits to the house, and done nothing to report the state of the child to the authorities.

  Ann Molloy had been another of Moring’s tenants at 4 Lempster Terrace, but she had left the house on 10 July. On the afternoon of Wednesday 16 July, Ann returned to the house to collect some items she had left behind. She, for the first time, saw William Rorke alone on his bundle of filthy rags, and decided to do something about it. Ann wasted no time in finding a constable and told him that there was a neglected child, alone in Lempster Terrace.

  Constable Frederick White found the boy lying in the right hand corner of a back room, on a pillow made from a number of rags tied together. Not only was the child in a deplorable condition, having not been washed for some time, but it was also clear that he was very ill indeed. Dr John Bubbers Mather was sent for and, after seeing that the child was given some warm milk to nourish it, Dr Mather ordered William to be removed to the Islington workhouse. Unfortunately, it had all come too late. Though he was bathed, changed and taken care of, William Joseph Rorke died at the workhouse, at 4.00pm that same day. A warrant was now issued for the arrest of Mary Eliza Rorke, on a charge of manslaughter.

  In fact, Mary had seen a crowd of people around the house, as she had been returning to it. Convinced that the authorities were now looking for her, she turned on her heel, and vanished into the streets of Islington. Police officers on the beat were told to be on the look-out for her, but it was not until 29 February, of the following year, that she was finally found and taken into custody.

  Mary Rorke appeared at the Old Bailey, to answer the charge of manslaughter, on 11 April 1864. In addition to the witnesses already mentioned, the prosecution called Dr John Robert Ede.

  Dr Ede was the Medical Officer at the Islington workhouse. He testified that the child had been brought into his establishment at 1.30pm on 16 July of the previous year. The boy had been very emaciated and was suffering from diarrhoea. Despite being cleaned, and fed, William died a few hours later. Dr Ede had later performed the post-mortem and deduced that the cause of death was emaciation and neglect.

  Dr Arthur Henry Sanson practised from a surgery in Angel Terrace, and he testified that on 7 July 1863, William Rorke had been brought to him, by his mother. The child was suffering from very bad diarrhoea and he prescribed some medicine for it. This medicine had been found in the house at 4 Lempster Terrace, and about half of it had been used.

  There were, however, other witnesses, who seemed to show that Mary Rorke had not, in fact, neglected her son. Mary Ann Cooper was another lodger at Lempster Terrace, and she told the court that sometimes, she had helped Mary by taking care of William for her. The child was fed regularly and looked after, but he had been ill since birth. It was true that William was often left alone, and was in a dirty condition, but that was due to his illness. When she came home, Mary would feed and
change the child but he did not seem to thrive, and within hours of being bathed, was again covered in filth.

  This testimony was confirmed by Jesse Eliza Rorke, Mary’s seventeen-year-old daughter. Though Jesse did not live with her mother, she did visit her regularly. She told the court that William had been weak from birth, and indeed, had not been expected to survive when he was first born. Mary had done all she could for the child, and Jesse was surprised that he had even lived for six months.

  The verdict, when it came, was that Mary Eliza Rorke was not guilty of manslaughter and she walked from court a free woman. Perhaps the life of William Rorke might have been saved, had he received proper medical treatment weeks, or even days earlier. He might also have fared better had his mother’s landlord bothered to report the matter when he first saw the child in such a deplorable condition.

  Chapter 14

  George Campbell

  1868

  On 25 December 1868, people all over London, and indeed the rest of the country, were celebrating Christmas. It was no different at 42 Alfred Street, in Islington, where a large number of people were enjoying each other’s company.

  The house was actually owned by the Wotherspoon family. Two of them, Alexander Ferguson Wotherspoon and his brother, Archibald, were present. Also there were two other brothers: John and James Moir and two friends of theirs, George Campbell and George Bell. Everyone was having a good time and, though alcohol was being consumed, nobody appeared to be the worse for its effects.

  The night drew on, and at one stage, Campbell sat down near James Moir, seemingly very depressed indeed. James did not really need to ask Campbell what was worrying him, for he had been present at the event, which was causing him so much misery.

  George Campbell and the Moir brothers all originally hailed from Largs, in Scotland, and all were now employed as upholsterers, in London. Some two weeks before Christmas, Campbell and James Moir had been out together and, after a night’s drinking, had brought two women back to the house in Alfred Street. The two men had paired off with the women, and both had had sex with their respective partners. For James, this was nothing more than a night of unrestrained pleasure, but for Campbell it meant much more. He had a girlfriend back in Scotland, to whom he had now been unfaithful. The guilt had been eating away at him ever since, and it did not help that James appeared to have a clear conscience over the events of that night.

  After sitting for a few minutes, Campbell rose and went out of the room. He was heading upstairs, when Alexander Wotherspoon saw him and asked him where he was going. Campbell replied: ‘Will you come upstairs and have a quiet drop of rum?’ Alexander agreed, and followed his friend up. Overhearing the comment, twenty-three-year-old John Moir, went with them.

  Inside one of the bedrooms, John Moir said that they should have a sing song, and he went to find his copy of the Christy Minstrel’s Song Book. When he returned, rather than have a song, Campbell said that he could wrestle Moir. A puzzled John Moir replied: ‘We did not come here to wrestle.’

  Not to be dissuaded, Campbell now offered to spar with Moir. John said, jokingly, that he could probably take Campbell with one hand, but added that they had not come there to fight either. At that, Campbell walked across to a cupboard, which had a rifle on the wall above it. He began to take the rifle down from its mounting and John Moir, growing ever concerned over his friend’s erratic behaviour, tried to prevent him. There was a brief struggle, and the bayonet fell off the muzzle of the weapon. As John Moir bent down to pick the bayonet up, Campbell left the room, taking the rifle with him.

  A few minutes later, Campbell returned, still carrying the rifle. He stood for a few moments, looking into the room from the doorway, until suddenly he shouldered the rifle and pointed it towards the window. John Moir asked him what he was going to do. Indicating an oil lamp with a nod of his head, Campbell replied: ‘I am going to put that lamp out.’

  The rifle was duly pointed towards the lamp, and it did not seem to bother Campbell that both Moir and Wotherspoon were in the direct line of fire. There was a flash and a loud report as Campbell pulled the trigger. Instantly, John Moir fell to the floor, the bullet striking him to the left side of his nose, just below his eye.

  Alexander Wotherspoon called for his brother, Archibald, and told him to run for a doctor. It being Christmas night, of course, Archibald had great difficulty in finding one who would come out. He visited two medical gentlemen, both of whom were at home, but both of whom refused to attend. It was not until he called on the third doctor, that Archibald found one who would come to the house, and attend to the man who had been shot.

  Dr Joseph Ricksby Donald confirmed that John Moir was dead, and saw that his brain was protruding from the wound. A cursory examination showed that the bullet had not penetrated his brain, but had fractured his skull and forced the broken bone into his head. Dr Donald was also able to confirm that no doctor would have been able to help, as Moir would have been dead before his body hit the floor. As for the bullet, it had apparently bounced off Moir’s head, then hit a wall, and had finally come to rest on a sofa.

  The first police officer to arrive at the house was Constable Jabez Jeanes who, going into the room, saw Moir lying on his left side in a large pool of blood. On the floor, close by the body, lay a rifle. Jeanes asked who had fired the fatal shot, whereupon the others in the house pointed out Campbell. Told that he would be charged with murder, Campbell replied: ‘I did not do it.’

  George Campbell’s trial for murder took place on 11 January 1869. Archibald Wotherspoon told the court that he had seen his brother leave the front parlour at around 7.00pm, on Christmas Day. Some ten minutes later he heard a shot from upstairs and rushed up to investigate. Seeing John Moir lying on the floor, in a widening pool of blood, and Campbell sitting in a chair with the rifle propped up against it, Archibald said: ‘George, have you done this?’ Campbell, looking rather shocked, had replied: ‘No, I have not done it. I have done nothing.’ He then paused for a few seconds, before adding: ‘I liked Jack, and I don’t mind swinging for him.’

  Some of Campbell’s history was also detailed in court. Some years ago, Campbell had been in the Army, serving in the 5th Dragoons, but had bought himself out. Campbell had returned to Largs, and began working as an upholsterer. In September of 1867, James Moir had returned to Largs to visit some of his family. The two men had met up, and when James returned to London, Campbell had gone with him and shared his lodgings in Alfred Street. Indeed, all three men, the Moir brothers and Campbell, shared the same bedroom.

  Perhaps one of the most telling parts of the evidence, was a comment Campbell had made after his arrest. Referring to the woman he had slept with, and the shooting of John Moir he was reported to have said: ‘I did one foolish thing that night; I have now done a second; and I shall do a third, and then you will know about it.’ If the jury came to believe that this particular phrase showed any degree of premeditation on Campbell’s part, then he would be guilty of murder, and would face the hangman’s noose.

  The jury, however, came to believe that whilst Campbell had undoubtedly taken John Moir’s life, it had been an accidental shooting. Consequently, they found him not guilty of murder, but guilty of manslaughter. For that offence he received the rather light sentence of one year in prison.

  Chapter 15

  Susan King

  1871

  On 2 March 1871, Annie Butcher gave birth to a baby girl, who she named Alice. Annie was an unmarried mother and, although she did get a regular allowance from the baby’s father, she could not really afford to keep the child. As a result, she handed the baby over to a woman who already had five children of her own: Susan King.

  Forty-four-year-old Susan King lived in Arundel Grove, Kingsland Road, Islington and, for taking care of Alice, received the sum of six shillings per week. When Alice was handed over she was a healthy, robust child, and her mother visited her once every week.

  As time passed, Annie Butcher’s visits bec
ame less frequent. So much so that by early September, she had not seen her daughter for some three weeks. Still, she had no cause for concern. After all, Susan had already brought up five children and there could be little doubt that Alice was in good hands. Annie, however, was mistaken, and those people, who lodged at the same house as Susan King, saw a different side of things.

  Emma Mills was one of those fellow lodgers, and she saw little Alice on an almost daily basis. Susan was often out of the house, and left the baby in the care of her own children. They took no interest in Alice’s welfare, and the child was often heard crying for hours on end. There was also the fact that whenever Emma did see the baby, she seemed to be dirty and dishevelled.

  On Saturday 16 September, Emma Mills was home for most of the day. The sound of Alice crying loudly, seemed to go on for hours and hours until, finally, Emma had had enough. She went up to Susan’s rooms, intent on giving her a piece of her mind for neglecting the baby, but Susan was not at home.

  Some of Susan’s own children were there, and Emma demanded to see the baby. Taken to view her in her cot, Emma saw that she was absolutely filthy. Alice was dressed only in a thin nightdress, and was wet, right up to her neck. It was time to take this matter to the authorities. That same day, Emma walked into her local police station and reported the neglect of the child.

  It took two days for the report to filter through to the correct department, and on Monday 18 September, at 7.00pm, Edwin Leonard Merchan, one of the relieving officers for Islington, visited the house at Arundel Grove. He found Alice in a cradle in the corner of one of the rooms. She was, again, absolutely filthy, and had obviously not been changed for some time. There was excrement right up to the lower part of the baby’s neck. Mr Merchan then left the premises, to report the matter to Dr Duckett.