by Gareth Rubin
When the train arrived at Hackney Wick station, two young clerks entered an empty first-class carriage. They noticed that the seats were wet, red and sticky in a worrying way; they spotted a silver-topped cane, a black leather bag and a battered black beaver hat in the carriage too.
The clerks raised the alarm, the train was halted and the police called. It wasn’t long before the driver of a nearby train complained about a hump on the tracks that was looking a bit corpsey.
In fact, Thomas Briggs was still just about alive. His son was sent for, and identified all the items in the carriage as belonging to his father. Except for the hat. His father’s hat, he said, was very special. It was a very tall top hat made by a city hatter. His father wouldn’t be seen dead in a black beaver, he insisted – especially not one that looked as if someone had sat on it. Also missing were his father’s gold watch and chain.
Briggs died the next day, setting the case in history as Britain’s first rail-borne murder. The nation was shocked that such a thing could take place on the new method of transport that was being hailed as a modern wonder. ‘Who is safe?’ asked the Telegraph. ‘It would be impossible to imagine circumstances of greater apparent security than those which seemed to surround Mr Briggs. Well known – expected at home. Travelling First Class … If we can be murdered thus we may be slain in our pew at church, or assassinated at our dinner table.’
Dinner-table-based assassination thus became a worry for all those who had such tables, and descriptions of Mr Briggs’s unusual topper were circulated far and wide, supplemented by an offer of £300 – around £25,000 today – for hat-related information.
Soon there was a suspect. A Mr Death informed the police that a man had come into his jeweller’s shop and asked for a valuation on a gold watch chain. The man had been disappointed by the figure but accepted it and exchanged it for another chain, which was put in a small cardboard box. The man had had a German accent.
Foreigners, it seemed, were going around murdering hat-wearing City clerks in first-class carriages for substandard watch chains, and understandably the press went ballistic. Reading one such report, a taxi driver, John Matthews, remembered a box marked ‘Death’, which his daughter had been given by a family friend, Franz Muller. And Muller had possessed a hat that fitted the description of the beaver. Matthews gave a full description of the 25-year-old killer; he also happened to have Muller’s address and photograph. Unfortunately, Muller had set sail for America four days beforehand – he had apparently wanted to go for some time, but had suddenly found the money to buy a ticket the day after Briggs was killed.
The game afoot, the police rushed to Muller’s lodgings, where his former landlords said yes, that was his hat (they remembered because foreigners ‘wore them funny’).
Scotland Yard was on the trail and sent three detectives, Matthews and Death to New York on a fast boat to apprehend Muller. Having arrived two weeks before their quarry – how they amused themselves during that time is unknown – they seized Muller. They knew him for certain because he was wearing Briggs’s topper, which he had cut down in an attempt to disguise its identity. He was taken straight back to Britain.
His subsequent trial at the Old Bailey, which began on 27 October, must go down in history as the most hat-obsessed murder trial in history. Much of the evidence was about hats and there were arguments as to how high the top hat should be and whether Muller would have had the skill to amend its height. The defence declared it was all piffle – Matthews had falsely accused Muller for the reward money and the murder must have taken two men to carry out, hat or no hat. They also argued the mass of hysterical newspaper stories meant a fair trial was impossible. In an unusual decision, the judge said that all the media reports and accusations against Muller had actually helped matters because they had acquainted the jury with the case – i.e. they had saved time on all that dreary presentation of evidence in the court.
The jury took a quarter of an hour to convict Muller. His last words before he was publicly hanged were ‘Ich habe es getan’ – ‘I did it’.
The hanging was such a popular affair, with more than 50,000 people coming to see it (many, ironically, arriving by special train services laid on by the railway companies due to popular demand), that there were constant drunken fights and robberies among the spectators – a shameful sight which resulted in the political pressure that ended public executions four years later. The murder itself also resulted in the invention of the emergency communication cord that train passengers could pull to slam on the brakes, and the introduction of windows between carriages, which were named ‘Muller lights’.
Muller’s name lived on in the world of fashion too. As a result of accidentally picking up the wrong hat when he fled the scene of his crime, he started a national trend among young men for shortened toppers, which were known as ‘Muller cut-downs’. If you buy a top hat now, it’s almost certainly styled on Franz Muller’s.
A CASE TOO FAR – CHARLES DILKE EXCLUDES HIMSELF FROM GOVERNMENT, 1885
The sex lives of MPs never cease to amaze the British public and have been entertaining us for a very long time. Charles Dilke MP led the way in the Victorian era – his wife apparently put up with him conducting affairs but things went much more public than they had previously when his sister-in-law’s sister, Virginia Crawford, tearfully confessed to her husband that Dilke, the leading light of the Liberal Party, had ‘ruined’ her when she was a nineteen-year-old new bride, and that they had continued their affair for two years. Not only that, but he had taught her ‘every French vice’ and they had once had a threesome with the maid. What the maid had thought of it all she did not divulge.
Her husband, Donald Crawford MP, sued her for divorce and cited Dilke as a co-respondent. The case became terribly exciting – especially when Dilke claimed that he had never had an affair with Virginia, but he was conducting one with her mother. At the end of the trial, the judge gave one of the oddest decisions in English legal history – that Virginia had had an affair with Dilke, but there was no evidence that he had had one with her. As the public stood pondering this for a while, Dilke made a very foolish decision: he announced that he was going to sue to clear his name from the slur that he was the sort of man who would have an affair with his brother’s wife’s sister, when he was merely the sort of man to have an affair with his brother’s wife’s mother.
But he blundered in the legal application. Instead of bringing the case himself, he petitioned the Queen’s proctor to reopen the original case. This, ruled the judge, meant that he was not actually a party to the trial, merely a witness. So, throughout the week-long case, he was only allowed to sit mute while all sorts of allegations were made about him, and he was not allowed to dispute them one iota. His only chance to speak was when cross-examined about exactly what he had done with whom and where. He lost the case and Gladstone, who had been expected to name Dilke in the forthcoming Cabinet, made a single mark against his name: ‘unavailable’. The effect was far-reaching. Dilke had been the foremost of his generation in the Liberals. Without his leadership, the party ran out of steam and imploded, ensuring Tory governments for many years.
His decision might even have prevented Britain becoming a republic – Dilke was the last MP to suggest such a thing in the House of Commons, earning the eternal hatred of Queen Victoria – and had he gone on to become party leader and Prime Minister who knows what might have happened?
Years later, an inquiry was held. It decided that Virginia had been lying about the affair. Although nothing had happened after she had married, it is possible that she and Dilke had had an affair beforehand and he had reneged on his promise of matrimony. Virginia had therefore wanted revenge. So, when she needed a divorce from her husband because she had contracted syphilis from another lover, she decided to kill two birds with one stone.
THE WRONG DISGUISE – DR CRIPPEN HANGS HIMSELF, 1910
Hawley Harvey Crippen was an American homeopathic ‘doctor’ who practised in Lon
don with his wife, a music-hall singer named Cora, who apparently ‘had gentlemen friends’.
After a party on 31 January 1910, Cora disappeared. Her husband said she had returned home to the US, but later amended his story to say that she had died and been cremated. There was, of course, nothing in the least bit suspicious about his initially forgetting that his wife had died and been cremated but Cora’s music-hall chum Kate Williams, a strongwoman better known as ‘Vulcana’, informed the police that Cora was missing. Suspicions were further raised when Crippen’s mistress, Ethel Neave, moved into the family home and began wearing Cora’s clothes and jewellery. The Peelers thought it was a right rum ’un and no mistake so they searched the Crippens’ home and interviewed Crippen on 8 July.
They found nothing untoward but Dr C panicked. When he and Ethel fled, the police searched the house again. Again they found nothing. They searched it once more but still found nothing. Finally, on the fourth search of the property, they found some loose bricks in the basement. Examining further, they discovered the abdomen of an adult buried under the floor, with the head and limbs missing. Suspecting foul play, the police started about the search for Crippen. As they did so, chemical tests also showed traces of the surgical drug scopolamine in the cellar.
By this time, Crippen had run away to Brussels, and had then boarded a steamship bound for Canada, with Ethel dressed as a boy and pretending to be his son.
It was bad luck for the doctor that the boat on which he was fleeing was captained by a man who was (a) struck by the fact that Crippen kept groping his son, who had large breasts and (b) a pioneer of ship-to-shore telegraphy who happened to be aboard a vessel that was one of only 60 in the world able to send a message back to Britain saying Crippen was aboard. Captain Henry George Kendall wired the authorities the message: ‘Have strong suspicions that Crippen London cellar murderer and accomplice are among saloon passengers. Moustache taken off growing beard. Accomplice dressed as boy. Manner and build undoubtedly a girl.’
Chief Inspector Dew of Scotland Yard jumped aboard a faster boat to beat Crippen to Canada, and arrested him as he docked. His first words were: ‘Good morning, Dr Crippen. Do you know me? I’m Chief Inspector Dew from Scotland Yard.’ Crippen’s reply surprised him: ‘Thank God it’s over. The suspense has been too great – I couldn’t stand it any longer.’
If Crippen had travelled in third class, the captain would probably never have seen him. Had Ethel dressed as a woman instead of a transvestite, the captain would probably not have been curious. If Crippen had sailed for his native land of America, Britain might never have been able to extradite him, but from the British dominion of Canada he was taken back to London, tried, convicted and hanged.
But hang on, there’s a twist. In 2007 a team at Michigan State University DNA tested the abdomen from the cellar and decided that it wasn’t Cora. It was, possibly, the body of a woman on whom Crippen had carried out an illegal abortion, which had gone wrong. Or, possibly, it had been buried there before the Crippens moved in. But all along, it had been the wrong body that had set the police on Crippen’s trail and started the saga of the most celebrated murder case of the early twentieth century.
AN EXPENSIVE KEY – SINKING THE TITANIC, 1912
In 2007, a key was put up for auction. Unexceptional in most regards, it was an ordinary locker key but it fetched £90,000. It was, after all, the key that sank the Titanic.
The key was sold by the descendants of David Blair, the liner’s second officer, who was supposed to be on the ship but was removed from the roster at the last minute. When that happened, it slipped his mind to give the key to his locker to his replacement. Understandable – it wouldn’t have seemed that important at the time. But the locker contained the binoculars for the look-out in the crow’s nest – had Blair handed over the key, the look-out might well have spotted something a bit iceberg-like on the horizon. In fact, during the American inquiry into the disaster that was responsible for the loss of 1,522 lives, the look-out, Fred Fleet, said if the crew had had binoculars they would have been able to warn the captain of the impending icy fate much earlier.
‘How much earlier?’ he was asked.
‘Well, enough to get out of the way,’ he replied.
Of course, there were a host of other blunders that sank the unsinkable ship. Perhaps the first was publicly describing it as unsinkable, because that sounded almost like a challenge to its crew.
Added to that, the boat was the largest in the world – more than twice the size of the largest battleships of the time, it was able to carry 3,000 passengers and almost as many crew. It also had seven miles of deck and the luxury of its state rooms rivalled the palaces of Europe. And because it was ‘unsinkable’, there was really no need for lifeboats – just the 16 necessary to comply with the law. These 16 could carry 1,178 people. Of course, that would mean, of the 2,207 people on the maiden voyage, more than 1,000 would drown even if every lifeboat was launched full, but of course the ship could not sink, so everything was fine. And the company didn’t like having lifeboats around – casually reminding the passengers that they could be drowned at any moment tended to make them nervous.
So off sailed the Titanic on her maiden voyage, leaving Southampton on 14 April 1912 loaded with nobs – including Charles Ismay, chairman of the White Star line and owner of the ship. Soon it got a bit icy out there on the Atlantic. So icy, in fact, that the nearest ship to the Titanic, the Californian, actually shut down her engines and drifted through the pack ice in order to prevent major damage. But the Titanic needn’t do that: it was unsinkable.
Knowing it was unsinkable, Captain Edward Smith, who had been brought out of retirement for this special journey, ordered the ship to continue at 22 knots. He didn’t want to be late docking in New York on her maiden voyage – that would be embarrassing.
At 11pm on 14 April, the captain of the Californian saw the lights of the Titanic speeding through the darkness. He was concerned – he knew that the pack ice was dangerous and told his radio operator to send a signal to the other ship warning of the ice. But the wireless operator on the Titanic was too busy sending holiday telegrams on behalf of the passengers and sent a reply that read: ‘Keep out. You are jamming me.’
So on sped the Titanic through the dark waters. Visibility was good that night (it would have been better with binoculars, of course) and the Titanic received another warning, this time from the Mesaba. ‘We have seen much heavy pack ice and a great number of bergs also field ice,’ it stated. Once again, the Titanic’s operator ignored it and went back to the telegrams, failing to pass the message on to the captain.
The next person to see an iceberg was the Titanic’s first officer. By then, of course, it was too late. The liner hit the berg, tearing a hole 100m in length. In fact, the passengers were entranced – how exciting! – because the ship was ‘unsinkable’ so there was no reason for concern. One of those passengers, however, was Thomas Andrews, managing director of the firm that had built the ship. So, when the captain told him that the gushing water had filled three of the watertight compartments, he knew the Titanic could be best described as ‘sinking’.
The wireless operator decided that it was now time to set aside the telegrams about tennis games on Saturday and send out a distress signal, which brought all the ships in the area rushing to help. All except for the Californian – after the Titanic had been so rude to him, its wireless operator had turned off his set and he therefore had no idea what was going on. A junior member of its crew had spotted distress flares, but was told it must be a fireworks show for the passengers. This was unfortunate – the Californian was the only ship close enough to help. Back on the Titanic, as the women and children were selfishly pushing themselves to the front of the queue for the lifeboats, it became apparent that 16 were not enough after all.
Only 711 people survived the disaster. A later count noted that 63 per cent of first-class passengers had survived, 42 per cent of second class and 25 per cent of third
class. It led to questions being asked about how the life of a first-class passenger was given priority over that of someone travelling in third class.
Such considerations probably passed over the heads of the gentlemen left on deck as they waved goodbye, though. The band did play on, as it happens, but they were actually playing ragtime, not ‘Abide With Me’ as legend states. Drinks were still being served – you would presume it was a free bar.
As a result of this incident, the law was quickly changed to ensure that ships carry adequate numbers of lifeboats to provide places for everyone on board and lifeboat drills be carried out so that passengers know what to do in the event of an emergency. Ocean-going vessels had to carry a wireless set for emergency communication, which had to be manned around the clock.
One of the lesser-known facts about the Titanic is that it was actually on fire when it hit the iceberg. Coal in one of the bunkers had caught light some time beforehand and for hours the crew had been attempting to put it out.
So the iceberg might just have been the icing on the cake.
THE WRONG PASSPORT – LORD HAW-HAW HANGS HIMSELF, 1946
William Joyce, the most famous British collaborator with the Nazis, was not British. He was born in New York to Irish parents and the family moved back to Ireland when he was young. Although his father was a Catholic, they were staunch unionists and the young Joyce joined the Unionist special constables, the Black and Tans. After moving to mainland Britain in 1921, he became involved with Oswald Mosley’s Fascists and Mosley took a liking to Joyce, inviting him to join a group travelling to Nazi Germany in 1933 to see what Britain would be like if they were to come to power. Joyce jumped at the chance but, since he didn’t have a passport, he fraudulently applied for a British one, claiming to be a United Kingdom citizen. This petty crime would cost him his life.