The precise details of the night from then on are shrouded in mystery, but at about five o’clock a torturous scream was heard to ring out from the school building.
Early the next morning pupils gathered at the school gates anxious to get inside away from the bitter winter winds. It was unusual for the gates still to be locked at this hour, but the small crowd waited patiently expecting Miss Woods to come to greet them at any moment. It wasn’t long before a man named Mounsell started to lose his patience. He decided to venture to the side entrance to see what the delay was. ‘Miss Woods?’ he called out irritably. There was no reply. Mr Mounsell pushed open the unlocked side door and carefully walked up the stairs. ‘Miss Woods?’ he called out again. This was all very strange. The schoolmistress was never late and could only be described as a credit to her profession.
Mr Mounsell walked slowly into Miss Woods’ bedroom – where he finally discovered her. The woman was lying in bed with her throat sliced open. The blood which had once gushed forth in frenzy had dried hard. Next to her hand there sat a blood-stained razor and above the bed a large and bloody handprint was embossed onto the wall. Miss Jones was not the only victim amongst this vivid vista of death: also on the bed lay James Clitheroe. The twenty-two-year-old was not dead, but he had clearly attempted to take his own life. He had three grisly wounds upon his bristled neck which steadily trickled to his chest.
Mr Mounsell called for the police and officers were soon at the school.
‘We made it up to cut our throats. She told me that the razor was in the drawer under the looking glass,’ gasped James. ‘I fetched the razor, got into bed and first cut my throat.’
Mr Clitheroe was put into the care of a surgeon who treated his brutal self-mutilation. With careful care he was able to make a decent recovery and was forced to stand trial at the South Lancashire Assizes on 22 March. James was a man of small stature and had a pale look of nervousness about him as he stood before the court. The particulars of the events were read out and it seemed that some sort of suicide pact had been agreed between the prisoner and the deceased.
Mr Higgins for the prosecution submitted the view that if two persons agreed to kill themselves and one was unsuccessful the one who survived was, by law, guilty of murder. However, he had another view of the case. Miss Woods had saved and scraped together upwards of £30 worth of savings. Mr Clitheroe knew of this and knew where it was kept. The court also heard how when the prisoner was in the charge of an officer, he mentioned to a colleague that they had to purchase some milk. James happily directed the policemen to search Mary’s pockets, where he said that they would find three halfpence in copper. It seemed to Mr Higgins that James had a suspiciously good knowledge of Miss Woods’ finances.
Mr Lawton lived nearby to the scene of the crime. He took to the stand and recalled that he had left for work at about five o’clock on the Monday morning in question when he heard a female cry of ‘oh don’t!’
Mr Higgins further said that Mr Clitheroe’s statement that he and the deceased had agreed to kill themselves was untrue: it was his view that, in all probability, Clitheroe had cut Miss Woods’ throat at about five o’clock in the morning and that she must have been dead for some hours before he decided to cut his own throat.
Mr Torr then addressed the jury, but his rather weak defence was worthless. He could only suggest that the defendant lacked a motive.
Mr Justice Willes had heard enough. He directed the jury to retire and return a verdict. After a brief absence they returned from their consultation with the fate-sealing word of ‘guilty’.
His Lordship placed the black cap upon his head and, in tones scarcely audible over James Clitheroe’s hollowing, passed a sentence of death. The condemned man was removed from court in a most pitiful condition and felt the hangman’s rope on 16 April.
DEATH OF A SWEETHEART
In the year 1895 Sarah Jenkinson was employed as a domestic servant to a couple residing at 2 Godwin Street, Liverpool and had been for about three years. She was courting a man by the name of Edward O’Brien. He was a labourer and former member of the militia corps but had not long been discharged.
The vicinity of Upper Parliament Street, from a map, c. 1890.
On the afternoon of 29 July the couple, her employer and some neighbours descended on a beerhouse in Godwin Street for a few hours of alcoholic hilarity. Amongst the group of drinkers was Mrs Fitzsimmons. In her pocket sat a cased razorblade she had taken from her house to hide from her volatile husband. While taking a handkerchief out of her pocket, Mrs Fitzsimmons dropped the case onto the floor. Edward O’Brien was quick to bend down and pick up the shaving blade. ‘I’ll take care of this for you,’ remarked Edward politely. He looked over to his girlfriend and joked, in rather poor taste, ‘What would you say if I cut your throat?’ No notice was taken of Edward’s dark sense of humour and the day continued happily until five o’clock, when the money finally ran out.
It was then that a sense of dismay overcame the party. Where was the next drink going to come from? O’Brien had an idea: he left the pub in double-time and headed off to the nearest pawn shop. The man’s coat was soon pawned in return for some quick cash and Edward returned eagerly and triumphantly called for booze. The relationship between Mr O’Brien and Miss Jenkinson must have suffered a blow, as later that evening Sarah left the pub in anger. Edward followed her out and spotted her up the road near to her place of work. ‘If you don’t come down the street it will be worse for you!’ he shouted rather publicly. The irritated maid ignored her boyfriend’s threats and headed up to No. 2. Susannah Nesbitt let her in and led the slightly drunken woman to the staircase up to her room.
It was only a minute or two later that a hard knocking was delivered to the property’s front door.
‘Is ... is Sally there?’ Hiccupped Edward, supported by the doorpost.
‘I’m afraid not,’ answered Mrs Chesters, the homeowner, ‘she’s gone out.’
‘Just open the door and let me have a word with her,’ he pleaded.
‘Sorry, she went out.’
O’Brien was forced to accept this (somewhat basic) cover story and staggered off down the road. Ten minutes later he saw Mrs Chesters scurry across to a neighbour’s, so he headed back to the house once more to find his girlfriend. Again, he knocked on the front door – then finding it unlocked he ran up the stairs and broke down the door to Sarah’s room. The drunkard grabbed hold of the woman and roughly dragged her down the stairs in front of the whole household. By the torn neck of her dress he pulled Sarah into the hallway with one hand, while reaching into his pocket with the other.
Those inside shouted to Mrs Chesters to come back to the house at once, and she hurried into the crowded passage. She saw her servant clutching a ginger beer bottle in one hand and trying to shove Edward away, but he refused to release his hold. Mrs Chesters had had enough. She grabbed a tight hold of O’Brien’s wrist and turned her gaze to the kitchen to call for assistance. However, when she turned back she was greeted by a horrible sight: a stream of blood was spurting rhythmically from Sarah’s neck. Mrs Chesters watched in horror as Sarah staggered through the kitchen and out in the back yard. Two cuts had been inflicted upon her throat which had penetrated right down to the spinal column, severing the principal arteries, veins and windpipe. ‘My God! He has killed me,’ Sarah gasped softly, before collapsing to the concrete. The entire household fell silent; they could not believe what they had just witnessed. Even the stoic Edward, who left the house – followed by John Gillard – as if his feelings had been anesthetised was affected: once outside, the labourer broke down and he began to cry uncontrollably. ‘Oh Jack, what have I done?’
‘Sally’s dead!’ yelled Gillard.
‘Oh Lord, have mercy on me! Oh my mother!’ screamed Edward. He was very drunk, and beside himself with grief. O’Brien walked towards the corner of Embeldon Street where he spotted a blacksmith with whom he was acquainted. ‘I have done it Jack; stick to me,’ he cried
. O’Brien handed over the bloodied razor and a knife.
Suddenly the calmness of the night was broken by the sharp sounds of police whistles. Time was up. Detective Sergeant Morrison arrested the crimsoncovered man and directed him to the station. The snivelling was relentless. ‘Well, I have done it. I am very sorry. It is all through drink,’ Edward cried.
Mr O’Brien was ultimately sent to the assizes for his crime. At St George’s Hall on 25 November, the twenty-six-year-old pleaded not guilty to the murder of his sweetheart, Sarah Jenkinson.
Catherine Jenkinson of Harold Street, mother of the deceased, gave evidence as to the relationship between the accused and her daughter. She said that she had never heard Sarah utter one bad thing about Edward and as far as she knew, he was always very kind to her.
George Piggot stated he and the prisoner were members of the Liverpool Regiment of Militia and were discharged at Warrington on 27 July. Mr Piggot spoke of how he, Edward, Sarah and another woman were drinking on the day in question. Later, at about 10.30 p.m., the witness went to No. 2 Godwin Street and saw O’Brien grappling with the deceased before seeing blood shoot forth from her throat.
Under cross-examination, George said that O’Brien had been drinking more or less all day, and Miss Jenkinson had a drop or two as well.
Peter Brogan, Mary’s son Robert Chesters, and Ernest Parker also testified, with the latter remarking that he had heard Sarah call out that the prisoner had killed her. It was the opinion of the three men that Edward had always been on good terms with Sarah, who in fact had herself been known to become raucous under the influence of drink.
Emma Bunnett was next to take the stand, dressed in her Salvation Army uniform. She alleged that she visited the house on the Monday night at about 10 p.m. Emma confirmed that she had also seen the prisoner grab hold of Miss Jenkinson by the neck of her dress and act in a most brutal manner towards her.
Medical evidence showed that Sarah Jenkinson’s throat had been cut in two places and great violence must have been used. It would have been impossible for the woman to shout for help.
Dr Beamish was called to give evidence at the request of Edward O’Brien. He was the surgeon at Walton Gaol and he revealed that there were three depressions on the right side of the prisoner’s skull. ‘Such persons were more susceptible to alcohol than ordinary people,’ alleged the doctor.
After hearing all the evidence the judge began summing up the case. He reminded the jury that the razor was in the prisoner’s trouser pocket: how could the weapon have got out of his pocket if he had not taken it out himself? ‘And what did he take it out for?’ questioned His Lordship.
The jury – without even leaving their box to consider their verdict – found Edward O’Brien guilty of wilful murder.
‘Do you have anything to say?’ O’Brien was asked.
There was no answer.
‘Edward O’Brien, yours is one more melancholy instance of the effects of drink in this city. I will not be cruel enough to keep you in suspense before I pronounce upon you the sentence of the law.’
The death sentence was then passed upon O’Brien, who showed little emotion or feeling.
‘Can I speak?’ asked Edward unexpectedly. ‘May I have my body and head examined at the infirmary?’
His Lordship took no notice of this surprising request, forcing O’Brien to continue his bizarre demands. ‘When I am hanged and finished with, will you let my body and head be examined and put it in the paper what is to do with my head?’
The court remained in silence as the prisoner was led quietly down the steps to the cells to await his capital punishment.
MADAM BRENNAN
At about 7 p.m. of 9 October 1903, two women hurried to a house in Thomaston Street, just off Netherfield Road. They were keen not to be seen and gave a rapid knock on the door. After a few moments of anxious waiting a young girl answered.
‘Is the fortune teller in?’ asked one of the women, coyly. The noise of the latch being removed echoed in the hallway, and then the door creaked open. The ladies were shown into a dimly lit back room where they saw two other women were sitting at a small table. On the table were a number of cards, each one printed with various colourful images. Mary Brennan was a wellknown seer in the neighbourhood, and she invited her new guests to take a seat. Mary collected up the cards and handed them over to one of the women to shuffle. This she did, and the cards were carefully handed back to the mysterious Madam Brennan. She breathed heavily as she laid the cards out one by one. ‘You shall be a widow, but you will have two offers of marriage,’ Mary said with a marvellous air of intrigue. ‘Your husband is given to drink,’ was Mary’s next remarkable insight, ‘and you have nine children, one of whom will be soon be married.’
The mystic’s abode, Thomaston Street as seen on a map, c. 1900.
At that point three more women entered the room, while more waited in the lobby. Mary Brennan’s abilities certainly appeared to be in high demand. The thankful woman reached into her purse and paid the psychic 6d. ‘If it had been in Bold Street that would have been five shillings,’ smiled Mary, grateful for the payment. The second woman proceeded to have her fortune told. The cards were again shuffled and again laid out upon the table. ‘The cards say that you are single,’ said Mary. The lady shook her head, much to the bemusement of the fortune teller. ‘Then the young man you are with is no good. You are to give him up as there is a better one waiting for you.’ The woman looked slightly unsure, but nevertheless also paid Madam Brennan the sum of 6d and thanked her for her services.
On the night of the 16th, the two friends returned to Thomaston Street for a second reading. Just as before, the pair were shown into the back room to await their turn. Before them were three other women who each paid 3d for their divination. The trio soon left and it was not long before Madam Brennan got to work on her next set of visitors. The mystic foretold that one of the ladies would soon end up a widow and that a financial settlement would come to pass in the near future. She also predicted that her second husband was also to be a widower, that he was dark and that he had already purchased a ring to give to her. ‘You shall live long and die happy,’ exclaimed Mary.
Now it was time for the second guest to be told her fate. In this reading the cards foresaw her meeting up with her boyfriend and settling a quarrel they had supposedly been having. Marriage would soon follow, but if he did not propose then she was to leave him, as marriage was to be with another who was waiting to wed.
‘What a load of nonsense,’ thought the woman. She had had her doubts about the first reading, but this was ridiculous. Her friend paid for the session at a cost of 1s 6d for herself and 6d for the other.
The now uninhabited area of land where Madam Brennan ‘foretold fortunes’.
‘I don’t do this for a living,’ remarked Madam Brennan. ‘There is no standard fee as such.’
The pair left, and, after discussing what they had been told, they considered themselves to have been conned. They contacted the police and Mary Brennan was brought before the City Police Court to face magistrates. The two women gave evidence of their dealings with Madam Brennan and damned her as nothing more than a clever con artist.
‘We only do it to oblige people!’ Brennan protested.
‘If you had been able to tell fortunes you would have been able to tell that you would have been here today,’ laughed Magistrate Steward, before fining her 40s plus costs.
A MEASURABLE OFFENCE
On 26 February 1869, Superintendent Martin, an inspector of weights and measures, made his way to a property in Princess Street, Waterloo. He was joined by his assistant Myers, and Sergeant Price, knocking on the door with a hard swift tap. After a few seconds of waiting, Miss Helen Doubleday opened the door. ‘We’ve come to inspect your measures,’ announced Mr Martin. ‘I’m sorry, she’s not in,’ replied Helen, with a slight tone of nervousness.
‘You can show the measures to me, I suppose.’
‘She’s not in s
ir. I’m sorry.’
The inspector was perplexed at the woman’s resistance, so asked her sternly, but politely, one final time.
‘Oh – the measures!’ exclaimed Miss Doubleday. ‘I thought you said the Mrs.’
Helen opened the door fully and stepped aside to let the men in. Immediately Mr Martin saw the lady of the house, Charlotte Ashcroft, get up from her seat and hurry to an adjoining room. ‘Go and see what she is up to, Myers,’ ordered the official, while he and the sergeant continued on to the kitchen. Not even a minute passed before sounds of verbal abuse could be heard coming from the next room.
‘You’re a scamp!’ raged Mrs Ashcroft. ‘I will not have such low rascals about my place!’ The young apprentice was soon saved from the furious female when Mr Martin bravely entered the room. ‘What’s the matter here?’ he asked, authoritatively.
Thomas Myers said he was trying to examine some measures but the woman was making a nuisance of herself. The inspector walked towards the counter where there stood between eight and twelve measures, each filled high with cream. ‘I’ll need to examine these, Mrs Ashcroft. Could you empty them please?’
‘I’ll do no such thing. You do it.’
Superintendent Martin reached over to grab a soup bowl from a rack and began to scoop the creamy contents out into the dish. Upon emptying the third measure, Mrs Ashcroft grabbed hold of the two he had emptied. ‘Before you look at these I shall throw them in the ashpit,’ she grimaced. Myers grabbed her hand and took one of the drained measures from the woman’s grasp before she had a chance to rush outside. Charlotte was soon in the back yard and was about to open the door to the ashpit when Mr Martin called out. ‘Don’t!’ he shouted, and he went over, knocking the can from her hand. At this point Henry Ashcroft, Charlotte’s husband, arrived home. The couple did not get on well at all, and amongst the mayhem Charlotte turned her attentions to her husband: ‘This is my house and you have no business here at all!’ screeched the livid wife. Mr Myers and Mr Martin carried on with their duty and managed to successfully inspect the measures. The former made hurriedly scribbled notes regarding the conduct of Charlotte Ashcroft which would form the basis of the prosecution that she would now face. When Mr Ashcroft, a milk dealer, was eventually allowed to enter the house, he was immediately spoken to by the superintendent. Mr Martin said he was sorry, but he would have to summon him for having two unstamped measures and his wife for obstructing him in the execution of his duty.
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