Criminal Liverpool

by Daniel K Longman

  At Basnett Street Court the Aschcrofts were brought before magistrates to be tried for their offences. The pair of illegal measures were produced and the conduct of Mrs Ashcroft was recalled. In her defence, Charlotte said that when she was going to the ashpit she was merely going to empty the contents into it, not the vessels themselves. She further stated that the cans did not belong to her at all, but to her children – despite the obvious fact that there were about ten cans and only two children.

  Mr Myers corroborated with the inspector and affirmed that Mr Martin had been perfectly civil to the defendant, as did Sergeant Price. Mr James, barrister on behalf of the accused, raised the point that his clients were not bound to have their measures stamped unless they were liable to being deficient, and this was not the case. Mr James also called Miss Doubleday, sister of Charlotte, as a witness. She said that the so-called illegal cans had never been used as measures.

  The magistrates listened to her protective prose, but it was no use. They found Mr Ashcroft guilty of having two illegal measures in his possession and imposed a fine of 20s. Luckily for his wife, the summons laid against her was mercifully ignored.

  A QUESTION OF SANITY

  In the February of 1850, twenty-seven-year-old Mary Powell was brought to the Liverpool workhouse at Brownlow Hill. She was suffering from serious problems of the mind and was placed in the institution’s lunatic asylum. In time, she made excellent progress in recovering her senses and was allowed out of the asylum and into the main house. There staff put her to work in the nursery where Mary seemed most competent, conducting herself with the greatest decorum. She was the mother of three children herself, two of which, Mary and Edward, were eventually brought to live with her by Mrs Graham, Mary’s sister.

  The workhouse depicted in the early 1800s.

  An early twentieth-century aerial view of Brownlow Hill.

  Four months passed with Mrs Powell seeming quite compus mentis. There was little sign of the awful derangement that had first brought her into the asylum. One afternoon her husband visited and demanded Mary and the kids leave at once. She refused, screeching to nurses that he only wanted to ill use her and that she had to stay. She protested that she had run away from Mr Powell due to his abuse and that she and the children were not safe with him. Edward Gray, the assistant overseer, was called for, and he spoke to Mr Powell about the situation. He calmly told him that he had ordered the family be sent back into the house as it was in their best interests and that he was not to call again. The news sent Mary’s husband into a rage – in fact, he became so violent that a policeman had to forcibly remove him from the premises. ‘Gleeson Wilson has been hung,’ he told the constable with a glare. ‘Perhaps I’ll be next.’ Powell then threatened to break the officer’s neck, therefore landing himself a cell in the Bridewell. The next day he was brought before magistrates and sentenced to a month of imprisonment for his intimidating behaviour.

  On 10 June, Mr Powell returned to the workhouse and again asked to see his wife and children. This time he told officials that he was planning to head to America and wished to say goodbye. Mr Gray politely – but sternly – declined.

  A few days later Mary came to the assistant overseer’s office and begged to be let out to see her husband. She had heard of her husband’s transatlantic ambition and wanted to meet with him for one last time. It was a long while before she could be persuaded to stay put, and she was repeatedly reminded of the domestic hell that he had put her through. Mr Gray did not see Mrs Powell again until 17 July when she came into his office with house bookkeeper Mr Heathcoat’s errand boy. ‘Mr Heathcoat has sent me to be discharged for a few hours,’ said Mary. She needed Edward’s permission to be taken off the books and then to be re-admitted in the evening. Mr Gray sighed. ‘Please, don’t go out at all,’ he said. He knew her brute of a husband would still be in the city and was afraid that she would fall foul of his abusive ways again. This time though Mary could not be persuaded. She pleaded for a ticket to leave and, as she was adamant. She was allowed out. The inmate left the workhouse at about half-past three that afternoon, taking her children with her.

  Mary headed off to her sister’s house, who was most surprised to see her. Mrs Powell spoke of her plans to meet with her husband to discuss looking after the children. Mary spoke quite rationally, but Mrs Graham still entertained some misgivings as to her state of mind. She left the house and was not seen again until eight o’clock that night, when Mary was spotted in Bath Street carrying a partially clothed baby in her arms. The passer-by called over to her and haughtily advised that she should take better care of the child. Mary just laughed, and appeared either drunk or insane. The good Samaritan attempted to follow her, but Mrs Powell was too quick and was out of sight in a matter of minutes.

  A short while afterwards the body of a small girl was found on some warehouse steps in Lancelot’s Hey. The child had been strangled with the string that still sat tight around its tiny neck. Mary, however, had run wildly through the streets, ending up at the ferry landing stage. She looked down towards the gushing waters of the Mersey. In an instant, witnesses watched as the woman hurled herself into the river in a hysterical bid for death. It was with great difficulty that she was rescued by plucky port staff and brought back to dry land. Mary was conveyed to the Northern Hospital where she at once raised concerns with her unusual conduct. She seemed very distressed and accused herself of being a murderer. Doctors ordered her to be sent back to the workhouse – where staff were horrified to learn of Mrs Powell’s gruesome self-allegations. She declared herself killer of her two children and sobbed that she had left one in a privy in Burlington Street. ‘I can’t remember what I did with the other.’

  Police Inspector Stephen Haines was contacted and he spoke with the accused regarding her statements. She told him her name and mentioned that she was a married woman who had left her husband due to his abusive attitude. Mary added that she had been living at the workhouse where the staff had been very good to her. In regards to her children, there was no doubt as to their fate. ‘I strangled them with a pinafore. My hands have done the deed.’

  The Metropolitan Cathedral now sits at location of the workhouse.

  Once tried and found guilty by magistrates, Mary Powell was brought before the next assizes. She climbed meekly into the dock and cried bitterly as she acknowledged her guilt. Mary was given a chair and sat tearfully before an expressionless judge and jury.

  The surgeon of the workhouse gave evidence about the prisoner’s state of mind upon entering the institution. He said that she would frequently complain of her husband’s appalling treatment and would burst into a frenzy whenever his name was mentioned.

  The doctor stated that on being taken back to the workhouse Mary made several attempts to escape – presumably to try and take her own life.

  Mr Thomas Chalmer, the gaol surgeon, had studied the prisoner’s mental state and he considered her sane at present; however, he added that there was no proof as to whether she was sane at the time of the deaths.

  Several further witnesses gave evidence, including workhouse nurse Catherine McCormick, workhouse inmate Eliza Pullard, Mrs Graham, Mr Heathcoat and Mr Gray. All truthfully related their experiences with the accused and each gave the impression that Mary was not well at all.

  The judge in summing up drew attention to the ultimate question. Was Mrs Powell insane at the time she murdered the two children or did she carry out the dreadful acts in sound mind? Mary Powell was found to be insane and was ordered to be to be detained indefinitely at her majesty’s pleasure.

  A REMARKABLE

  CAPTURE

  One morning in September 1877, an extraordinary incident took place at Liverpool’s famous landing stage. Early that month a teenager from a well-to-do family left his Shrewsbury home without a word of warning. Naturally, his mother was left inconsolable at his sudden departure and pleaded for her elder son to go off and find him.

  An Edwardian map showing the landing stag
e where the boy was remarkably captured.

  The brother first travelled to Manchester to visit some friends and asked if they had heard from the young wanderer. With no success, he ventured to nautical Liverpool. The lad had never shown an interest in a seafaring career, but there was always the possibility that he had fallen in with a crowd who did. If this was so, Liverpool was the place to be. 18 September saw the man search high and low, questioning all who may have caught even a fleeting glimpse of his lost sibling. Again his quest came to nothing, leaving the family at a loss as to what to do next.

  A friend suggested that a visit to Birkenhead’s Cathcart House might yield some information. He was told that runaway boys were known to sometimes seek refuge there. Next day the elder brother made his way down to the windy landing stage to sail to the peninsula. The boat to Woodside had not yet made its return trip so he waited patiently alongside a gathering of other would-be river-crossers. A conversation soon arose between him, the landing stage manager John King, and Police Constable Gradwell. They exchanged the usual pleasantries regarding the weather and such, but it was not long before the chat turned to the missing boy.

  ‘What sort of lad is he?’ prompted Mr King, stroking his chin.

  ‘He’s about seventeen and wears a round pilot reeting jacket and a billycock hat,’ answered the Shropshireman. ‘He has light brown hair and walks very upright.’

  ‘Indeed,’ mused Mr King. He turned his gaze from the water and casually looked towards a small bookstall a few yards back. ‘Officer,’ continued the stage master, ‘keep a lookout for such a lad as the one described’. Before the constable could reply to the somewhat high-handed order, a youth approached the book stall and began browsing through the day’s newspapers.

  ‘If we should see him, is that youth anything like him?’ interrupted Mr King. The man turned, quite unconcerned, and looked towards the boy now being pointed at. He did a double-take, and, shaking his head in disbelief, shouted, ‘It’s him! It’s him!’ Crowds were compelled to adopt cat-like reflexes as the elder brother darted through the mass to lay a firm pair of imprisoning hands upon the lad’s arm. The remarkable detection momentarily stunned him, but upon realising his capture he tried in vain to escape the tight-fisted hold. The truant struggled for several minutes before his strength finally faded. A hansom cab was hailed and the two brothers climbed inside. No doubt the boy’s forcible return to Shrewsbury was a relief to all but him.

  THE CHOCOLATE BOX

  In Liverpool’s Lime Street there once stood a certain café often frequented by young men and young ladies. The Chocolate Box, as it was known, was owned by John Canevali and his wife Maud. The café consisted of three rooms all fitted with the usual tables and chairs where customers would sit to grab a light snack, a cup of coffee or, as a shocked magistrate heard, a prostitute.

  One of Liverpool’s most recognised addresses: Lime Street, as shown on a map from 1924.

  Liverpool’s Lime Street approximately a century ago.

  At the police court on 22 October 1919, Mr and Mrs Canevali along with their manageress Ethel Taylor were charged with permitting lowly women to ply their trade at the establishment.

  The police had been keeping the property under close surveillance on the night of 22 September. Between eight and eleven o’clock, officers counted no less than sixty-five women aged between fifteen and twenty in the café. Among them were eleven ladies of a certain profession who were each seen to leave with a male in tow. It was unusual for these girls to stay and have anything to eat; they came for the transatlantic sailors who would drink at the American Bar just up the street. Detective Sergeant Alexander deposed in court to witnessing a steady stream of drunken lads falling in and out of the Chocolate Box and inside watching an unruly display of intoxicate dancing. The detective recalled how he made his way around to the rear of the café where he heard some disgustingly obscene language being spoken without shame. On another night of surveillance, he saw ‘customers’ openly kissing the girls and allowing them to sit on their knees. In three or four instances sailors were seen to commit indecent acts. It was nothing less than a vista of vulgarity. On exiting the shop he heard one fellow remark, ‘You can always get a girl if you go to the Chocolate Box.’

  Liverpool’s Lime Street as seen in 2008.

  In answer to the charges Mr Canevali protested that he was not at the premises on the nights described. Still, as the licence holder, the law stated that he was responsible for enforcing suitable conduct within his business.

  In all there were twenty-two members of the public who spoke against the immoral debauchery permitted to take place within the rooms. Conversely, the Canevalis usually bore an excellent character. John owned a second restaurant over on the Wirral which coupled as the family home and Maud often took over the running of the café when needed. It was she who was in charge on the nights in question, but she claimed to be unaware of any prostitutes on the premises.

  In summing up, the magistrate felt quite satisfied that the staff at the Chocolate Box were indeed quite oblivious to the prostitutes working inside. On the other hand, disorderly conduct had without doubt taken place, and for that a weighty fine of £16 was imposed. It is presumed Mr and Mrs Canevali began to keep a closer eye on the quality of their customers, and their antics, from then on.

  THE MUMMY OF

  HOPE PLACE

  Inspector Morgan was a sanitary official and at about 10.30 a.m. on 1 July 1884, he called at a house in Hope Place, just off Pilgrim Street. Number 22 was his destination and as was his usual custom for this address, he went around to the back to examine the water closet. He tried the door. It was locked. The man knocked hard and called out, but there was no answer. This was most odd, and Mr Morgan supposed something was amiss. Under the hustle and bustle of everyday commotion, the inspector could just about hear a quiet but baffling buzz. He gave one last shout in case the owner, the elderly Mrs Wallace, had perhaps been caught short and was using the toilet, before he decided to force the door. After some difficulty the inspector eventually managed to open the closet, and inside he found Frances Wallace. She was dead, and an awful sour scent enveloped the whole yard as a swarm of buzzing flies flew out towards him.

  Hope Place, where Mrs Wallace was discovered. Map, c. 1890.

  The charming façade of 22 Hope Place, 2008.

  Police Constable 1129 was sent for and he duly arrived at the property to investigate the pitifully ugly circumstance. Mrs Wallace was decomposing on the filthy urine-soaked floor of the closet with a small satchel left sitting on the seat. The constable contacted his colleagues back at the station and witnesses were sought to formally identity the body. Mrs Ernest, wife of an engine fitter living at 101 Cockburn Street, Toxteth had known Frances Wallace for about twelve years. She informed police that she was a widow and that she used to earn a small living serving. When not at work, Frances was said to indulge in a drop to drink, sometimes going on bouts lasting for several days. This testimony was backed up by a second acquaintance, Mrs Burgess, who further added that Mrs Wallace was in the habit of taking things that did not belong to her. The velvet jacket she was found wearing, and the unmistakable satchel located nearby, left no doubt to either of the women that the body was that of Frances Wallace. This was not the case for the deceased’s own unemployed son, who when asked whether the decayed deceased was in fact his mother, was unable to confirm.

  Dr Paull, a medical officer from the Royal Infirmary, made a thorough examination of the woman but he found it virtually impossible to ascertain an exact cause of death, not least due to the absence of internal organs. Mrs Wallace had deteriorated to nothing more than a mass of dried muscle and skin, practically mummified. On opening her skull Dr Paull found a horrific nest of dead but well-fed bluebottles. At an inquest the following Saturday an open verdict was returned. Dr Paull said that he was inclined to believe that Frances died from an apoplectic fit and had been dead for a considerable period of time.

  AN UNFOR
TUNATE HURRY

  June 18 1878 saw the inquest into the tragic death of Adline Alcide take place before Mr Aspinall, the Liverpool Coroner. Adline was the stepdaughter of John Boyle, a master mariner who along with the rest of his family resided at 141 Stanley Road. The girl was only ten years of age, and on Friday 14 June she was busy helping her mother by counting some copper coins saved in a cabinet. Her young, curious brother had decided not to help with the counting and instead scavenged the cabinet for more interesting items. A revolver, his father’s, was found, and he held the weapon with glee. ‘Adie I will shoot you,’ joked the child, and he pointed the gun towards his elder sister. Before Mrs Boyle had a chance to turn, the revolver was fired and Adline fell screaming into her arms. Amidst a chorus of crying Mrs Boyle contacted a doctor, but he said that he would not be able to attend in time. Indeed, with time being of the essence, the wounded girl was taken to the Stanley Hospital for immediate assistance. There doctors successfully removed a single bullet from Aldine’s neck, but it looked unlikely that there would be a happy ending. Professional opinion proved correct, and the girl passed away the following Saturday morning.