Criminal Liverpool

by Daniel K Longman

  The prisoner remained indifferent to the usual inquiry made by Judge Blackburn, asking whether he had anything to he wished to say which may persuade him from passing a sentence of death. Adopting the black cap, the judge uttered the ponderous words: ‘You have been found guilty of the crime of wilful murder upon evidence which admits of no alternative. I don’t think there was anything upon the evidence which could any way justify the jury in finding a verdict of manslaughter.’

  Mr Justice Blackburn was keen to point out that there was no promise that the jury’s recommendation of mercy would be brought into effect and that he should place no reliance upon it and savour his last moments of life. Thomas Edwards stood either ignorant or plainly unconcerned regarding the dire straits in which he was placed, showing no remorse until he heard the judge pronounce his sentence:

  It is that you be taken from this place in which you are to the prison from which you came, and from thence on a day appointed to the place of execution, and there be hanged by the neck until the body be dead, and that the body when taken down be buried within the precincts of the prison in which you have been last confined; and may God have mercy on your soul.

  Thomas’ face turned a wretched shade of white and he suddenly felt sickened like never before. He lost his rebellious demeanour and grasped the front rail in a spasmodic jolt. However, the condemned man soon regained his bravado. Looking around the court, Thomas stared coldly into the eyes of several onlookers, before walking briskly down to the cells to await his end.

  On 3 January 1863, Thomas Edwards’ wait was over. He was taken to Kirkdale gallows where he was publicly hanged for his vicious and vengeful crime.

  A SUSPICIOUS

  SON-IN-LAW

  On the night of Thursday 28 April 1870, James Singleton returned home from a heavy afternoon of drinking. He was in a most intoxicated state and – as usual when he had had a tipple – his mood was one of awful aggression. At about 4.45 p.m. James staggered up to the door of his home, 38 Letitia Street, just off Park Road. He shared the property with his wife and mother-in-law and it was the latter, Mrs Jane Gibson, who would face James’s drunken wrath.

  A map of Letitia Street from 1885.

  Looking up Letitia Street as it appears today.

  For reasons that remain unknown, James launched a fearful attack upon the terrified woman and struck her several times with a ship’s scraper. He brought the triangular weapon, made of heavy solid steel and a wooden handle, down hard onto the head of his elderly victim sending flecks of crimson splattering about the room. Ignoring her cries for mercy, Mr Singleton took out a razor and began slicing his mother-in-law’s wrinkled flesh open: by the end of this monstrous melee, Mrs Gibson was left bleeding from a number of lacerations to her neck and face, as well as suffering from three fractures of the skull.

  He left his victim lying pitifully in a pool of her own blood and headed towards the fields in nearby Warwick Street. It was there that a young boy witnessed the bloodstained spectre throw the blade into a pond. The lad at once went to find a policeman and told him what he had seen. The officer went to the spot described by the youth and found James Singleton covered in blood and obviously drunk. The officer immediately questioned him over the deeply unsettling circumstances that he had found himself in.

  ‘If you go to Hill Street you will know all about it,’ hiccupped James. The policeman took James to the street he had mentioned and he pointed out a certain house. The officer knocked on the door and went in. Inside resided Mrs Singleton, James’s mother, and she did not have the faintest idea of what her son was talking about. She was under the impression that he had gone to the Sailors Home, but this was not the case.

  ‘He lives with his wife at 38 Letitia Street,’ she informed the officer. As the man was drunk and his clothes speckled in blood, the constable told James he would have no choice but to take him to the Brunswick Dock Bridewell. The news did not go down well, and Mr Singleton became very violent and abusive. He refused to accompany the officer and had to be forcibly taken down with the assistance of two further lawmen.

  At the station James was booked into a cell for being drunk and riotous. Several officers were then dispatched to the prisoner’s house, where they discovered Mrs Gibson clinging on for dear life. Police were told by lodger Alfred Treby that at about 5 p.m. he had heard James Singleton return home under the severe influence of alcohol. Mrs Gibson related as best she could the outrage that was committed upon her and a car was procured for her removal to the Southern Hospital. Doctors ascertained the woman to be in a very dangerous state and police feared that they may soon have a case of murder on their hands.

  At about 7 p.m. James, who was still secure in his cell, became incredibly violent, lashing out and screaming as loud as his lungs would allow. Concerned staff believed it necessary to secure the prisoner tight in irons. This was done, but, with seemingly superhuman strength, the psychopath tore the staples from the walls and broke free from his chains. Bridewell keeper Mr Wilson contacted several officers to help him restrain the fearsome inmate once again. A short time later Mr Wilson and the constables entered Singleton’s cell, which for several moments had been eerily silent. The men were horrified to discover him lying on the ground with his neckerchief twisted tightly around his throat. James had fastened the end of it to the bottom hinge of the cell door, a mere 2ft or 3ft from the floor. He had then dropped into a reclining position and slowly strangled himself. Medical attendance was immediately sought, but James Singleton’s life was already over and extinct.

  A CHARRED

  CONCEALMENT

  Late in the evening of 20 September 1895, the officers of E Division received suspicious information regarding a woman living at 68 Leyden Street in Kirkdale. Ann Burke was the wife of a nautical fireman whose husband was away from home. Neighbours of the woman had witnessed a disturbing change in her behaviour of late and noticed how the once relatively normal mother had been acting in a most extraordinary and often intoxicated manner. Worried residents informed police that Mrs Burke’s recent eccentricity might cause harm to her young children (who lived with her at the house).

  The scene of the baby burning, from a map dating from the late nineteenth century.

  The area of Kirkdale where Leyden Street once stood.

  At about nine o’clock Detective Sergeant Bailey, in the company of Detective Inspector Kneale, arrived at the property in Leyden Street and were at once bemused by the scene within. The windows reflected a very strong bright light as if the whole room was ablaze. They hammered hard on the front door and demanded to be let in.

  ‘You cannot come in!’ cried Ann. One of the officers left in haste to summon assistance and soon returned with two constables. With the additional manpower the door was charged down, causing a ghastly chill to sweep into the house.

  The commotion soon attracted a crowd and a large number of locals gathered outside the property to discover the cause of the disturbance. Many were anticipating something tragic; many women remarking that Mrs Burke had not been quite right lately. It was heard how a fortnight ago she had been far advanced in pregnancy and had uttered to various neighbours remarks which undoubtedly had aroused some suspicions.

  Indoors the sight which was revealed to the officers’ was of a most putrid and vile nature. The forty-year-old Ann stood in the middle of the room, a room so unfurnished and bare it was a wonder how the family coped. Her hair had fallen about her neck in a terribly disordered fashion, and her eyes gleamed with a look of pure hate and frenzy. Mrs Burke spat an evil torrent of expletives and insults at the police and wildly attempted to obstruct their entry to the room. This whole terrifying spectacle was witnessed by the woman’s eldest daughter. The eight-year-old was crying as she watched her mother’s woefully insane performance play out before her frightened eyes.

  The roaring fire was thankfully confined to its proper place, but the bright orange flames flew high half way up the blackened chimney breast. From this inferno stemmed
the nauseating stench of rotting flesh and within the scorching coals a constable spotted a peculiar outline. He sprang towards it but was scratched and grabbed by Ann who was adamant that the officer should stay back. Mrs Burke was vehemently restrained and the constable headed towards the searing heat to investigate.

  The object in the hearth was without doubt the body of a child. The constable bravely reached into the fire and placed his hands around the protruding head – but this proved too hot to handle, and the man recoiled back in pain. He next obtained a nearby poker and shovel and was carefully able to manoeuvre the roasting carcass out onto the floorboards.

  The body was that of a newly-born child, charred and burned beyond recognition. The trunk and legs had been almost entirely consumed, but the arms, legs and chest were sufficiently distinguishable to be that of a very young infant. The body was placed in a respectable position before being taken to the detective’s office and finally the Prince’s Mortuary.

  Ann was charged with concealing the birth of a child before being taken to the station.

  ‘I did it. I put it in the fire just before you came in. I must ask you for mercy,’ she confessed with a fearful intensity.

  The strict examination she was forced to undergo seemed to calm her down, and for the most part told a story of credible coherency. She told police that the child had been born dead and that she had been attended to by a doctor and nurse from Boundary Street. She gave the names of both attendees, but on investigation the nurse and the doctor denied any knowledge of Mrs Burke. Her daughter was questioned but the girl could offer no explanation why her mother was behaving so erratically that evening.

  Mrs Burke was taken into custody and charged with the murder of her baby.

  ‘I suppose I shall have to suffer for what I have done,’ replied Ann knowingly. Her three remaining children were taken to the shelter to be cared for in Islington.

  At the Dale Street Police Court on 20 September, Ann Burke faced Stipendiary Magistrate Mr Stewart charged with the concealment of the birth of her child by secretly disposing of the body. The baby-burner was a fairly tall woman with a pale and drawn face and a mass of messy hair. Her outlandish appearance was completed by a long black cloak in which she was wrapped tight. After serious consideration, Ann was found guilty and sent to the assizes to face the higher court. It was there on 20 November that the prisoner was found not guilty by a learned jury. Mr Connell, on her behalf, successfully argued that the charge of concealment was unfounded. Ann had informed neighbours of her motherly condition and it was well known that she was expecting. There was no way of knowing whether the child was dead when born and without evidence to the contrary, Mr Connell urged the court to find his client innocent. Of course, the manner in which the baby’s body was dealt with was deeply unsettling and was an obvious sign that Mrs Burke was of unsound mind. The wise members of the jury consulted and acquitted the prisoner completely, and she was discharged. It is presumed Ann was ordered for psychiatric examination for the sake of her remaining, living children back at 68 Leyden Street.

  THE SOLICITOR

  SHOOTING

  In 1908, James Wilcox Alsop headed an eminent firm of solicitors in the centre of Liverpool. Messrs Alsop, Stevens, Crok and Armstrong conducted business from their premises at 14 Castle Street and were well known in the area for their celebrated legal successes. On the afternoon of Thursday 13 February, Mr Alsop was in his first-floor office when the telephone began to ring. He heaved himself up from his paper-ridden desk and made his way across the room to the telephone box. James took a hold of the door and reached forward to pick up the receiver.

  Liverpool’s Castle Street, c. 1900.

  The entrance to 14 Castle Street, the building where Mr Alsop was mortally wounded.

  Before he could even place it to his mouth, the office door burst open with heart-stopping energy. Mr Alsop barely had time to turn his head before a shot echoed throughout the room. In the doorway stood a crazed gunman. He fired a second time at the solicitor, who by now was clasping his arm in agony. The first bullet had struck his left limb and was now deep inside James’s steadily bleeding muscle. The second had missed and was now embedded in the splintered telephone box door. Those in the office wasted no time in chasing the assailant down the stairs and out into Castle Street. The man’s wild appearance and careless brandishing of the revolver caused members of the public to run in terror. In Exchange Street East, the running gunman turned and fired towards his pursuers. Luckily the bullet missed, and, shortly afterwards, PC Metcalf courageously knocked the revolver from the madman’s grasp and arrested him.

  A Victorian look up Castle Street.

  Back at the office, Mr Alsop had his arm bandaged and was soon sent to the David Lewis Northern Hospital in Great Howard Street for examination. It was there that Dr Barnes, house surgeon, successfully extracted the bullet and was optimistic of a full recovery. The wound was not serious, but the shock to someone of Mr Alsop’s advanced years could have been far worse. After an hour’s rest, James was conveyed home to Oxton by the seven-thirty luggage boat to recover.

  PC Metcalf had since taken the prisoner to the Dale Street Bridewell. On searching the man, the police found he owned a second revolver. His identity was established as thirty-five-year-old William Stanley Vaughan, of Prescot Street, Liverpool, who until recently resided in Wallasey. William’s manner was so strange police sent for the prison surgeon to conduct an examination. He certified that Mr Vaughan was suffering from deranged hallucinations and ordered his removal to the Brownlow Hill workhouse hospital. Vaughn would have been charged with attempted murder under normal circumstances, but he was not currently medically fit to stand trial.

  Mr Vaughan made some extraordinary allegations. He told police his father held several farms at Haverfordwest, South Wales; in the previous year the prisoner had alleged in a periodical that he was the rightful owner of the valuable estates of Captain Vaughan, who died in 1875. He also alleged that a solicitor who was found dead in a ditch in Maghull in 1872, his mother, who was found with her throat cut there in 1875, and his father were all murdered. William chillingly related how anyone who had known about the gruesome killings died suddenly themselves, while he laid claim to a fortune of about £1 million.

  Furthermore, Mr Vaughan stated that he was brought up in Liverpool and was educated at Preston College. He had lived with his wife in two travelling caravans staying at Magazine Farm in Bromborough before taking up residence in Wallasey. At his current Prescot Street address, he had just opened a small curiosity shop. Despite all these outrageous claims, William did consider himself justified in his attempt to shoot Mr Alsop. The facts were heard before Judge Coleridge at the Liverpool Assizes on 16 May.

  Prosecuting for the Crown, Mr Sanderson stated that the prisoner’s father had employed Mr Alsop’s firm to represent him from 1869 to 1875. Before his death, he executed in favour of his only son, William, a settlement of about £1,000 and all of his property with the exception of a £100 legacy. In 1894, when Mr Vaughan came of age, the property of his father and of another relation of which he was bequeathed was handed over. For some time Mr Alsop’s firm acted on behalf of William with regard to certain sales of his new property without any problems whatsoever. It was heard that the last transaction took place in the year 1903, but in 1904 the prisoner began writing letters inquiring about his property and also began involving other solicitors who wrote to Mr Alsop. The firm answered satisfactorily in every way they could, but Mr Vaughan seemed to be fixated on the idea that Mr Alsop was holding papers to which he was entitled to. It was Mr Alsop’s view that as solicitors they must hold onto the documents on behalf of the executors, but promised to look into the matter to see if there were in fact any papers that did indeed belong to him. The court listened closely to the intricate details of the case.

  It seemed that Mr Vaughan’s actions were due to a serious misunderstanding. Mr Sanderson related how on 3 June 1904, the prisoner’s patience fina
lly reached its limit. It was on that day that William composed a letter penning what was a furtive death threat, with the sly suggestion that he would go to Mr Alsop’s office with the intention of murdering him. From that time until September 1907, James had no more contact with his former client, until one day meeting him by chance in the street.

  ‘What about Treboath Farm?’ snarled Mr Vaughan.

  ‘That matter has been explained to your solicitors over and over again,’ replied Mr Alsop.

  At that William said something to James which he could not now remember, but the words had left a deathly impression in his mind at the time. Mr Madden, for the defence, wished to remind the jury that William Vaughan was not one of the criminal classes, but was well educated and moved in respectable society. Unfortunately his client was a victim of his own delusions, but not so much to call him insane. Rather, his mind was diseased by brooding over trouble, believing he had been swindled out of properties which had been sold and were not of the acreage he thought they were.

  ‘You could reasonably think that Mr Vaughan merely intended to frighten Mr Alsop without hitting him, or to hit a part not vital in order to call attention to his case and get possession of the deeds, or in some way satisfy his brooding mind,’ said Mr Madden.

  His Lordship remarked that the law only recognised delusions if they prevented a man from knowing he was committing an offence. If the prisoner did not mean to hit Mr Alsop, then why did he fire a second shot?

  Mr Madden at this stage of the trial felt compelled to remind His Lordship that there was there was a lesser count against William, one of grievous bodily harm, and if it could be shown that the defendant aimed away from any vital part of Mr Alsop, then the jury had grounds to find a verdict on this charge.