The Lady in the Cellar

by Sinclair McKay

  Yet Hagen was now ever more certain that he had the killer before him. ‘In consequence of the information which has lately come into the hands of the police-officers who have been engaged in the elucidation of what is known as The Euston Square mystery,’ ran a report in the Daily News, ‘it was decided by the authorities of the Treasury Solicitor’s Department to prefer a charge of murder against Hannah Dobbs.’

  There was to be a form of pre-trial hearing, the purpose of which would be to determine if there was enough of a case to bring to full trial. This ‘examination’, was to be heard before a magistrate, Mr Vaughan, at Bow Street court. ‘She was brought to the court in a cab,’ ran the Daily News report, ‘accompanied by the chief warder of Tothill Fields prison, where she is serving her time, but owing to the extreme secrecy which has been preserved in the matter, there was scarcely anyone present to witness her arrival, and in fact she had been in the precincts of the court some considerable time … before it was generally known who she was.’5

  This meant that the court reporters, as well as public onlookers, were unaware at first; they soon realised. ‘On being placed in the dock,’ wrote one reporter, ‘the prisoner, who is a tall, good-looking woman, showed little sign of nervousness and during the whole time the examination lasted, she had a wonderful self-possession.’

  Also present in that small, square, white-walled court at Bow Street, looking on at the proceedings, were Severin and Mary Bastendorff.

  After a few minutes of preliminary business in the court, the formal charge was at last read out to the young woman at the stand: that of wilful murder.

  Hannah Dobbs’ crisp response to this was: ‘No, not me.’

  The prosecutor appointed by the Treasury was Mr Poland. Hannah, for this initial hearing, did not seem to have a defender in court. Looking after the legal interests of Severin Bastendorff was one Mr Jones. And also present were the police inspectors Lansdowne and Hagen.

  Mr Poland opened the proceedings, describing Matilda Hacker, her ‘eccentric habits’ and her adopted identity of ‘Miss Uish’. He outlined her tenancy at 4, Euston Square; and then he told the court of the day when it was supposed ‘Miss Uish’ had moved out, information supplied by Hagen.

  ‘[Hannah Dobbs] had been a servant in that house somewhere about August 1877, when she had left for a month’s holiday,’ said Mr Poland, ‘but she came back, and in October of that year, she was again in the service of Mr and Mrs Bastendorff … [Hannah Dobbs] about that time told Mrs Bastendorff that the lady, Miss Uish, was going to leave, and she brought downstairs to Mrs Bastendorff a 5l note, the bill having previously been made out, and Mrs Bastendorff gave the change for the note.

  ‘The bill was receipted and there was also a charge made of two shillings for a lamp glass, which it was said this lady had broken.’

  Mr Poland told the magistrate that the rent for the room was 12 shillings a week, and that change for the note was procured. ‘Mrs Bastendorff did not see Miss Uish leave the house,’ said Mr Poland, ‘and it was only from the statement of the prisoner that she became aware that the lady intended to give up these lodgings. Shortly after Miss Uish was supposed to have left the house, Mrs Bastendorff went up into the room on the second floor. She found that a lamp glass was broken and there was a stain on the floor, on the carpet, a patch which she describes, I think, as appearing to have been washed out, and she made the remark to the prisoner at the time that if she had noticed it before Miss Uish left, she would have made her pay for the damage done to the carpet.’6

  He seemed to be emphasising that the lady of the house had placed herself beyond any suspicion. He then moved to make the same point about her husband, Severin. It was Mr Poland’s contention that ‘Mr Bastendorff was not aware at all of what had become of the lady Miss Uish. He never suspected that anything was wrong, and the prisoner remained in his service up to September of last year.’

  Without intending to, Mr Poland had evoked a slightly puzzling image: that of a servant having murdered an old lady in cold blood, concealing the crime brilliantly – then brazenly continuing to work in the same house in which the deed had been committed; and doing so without giving either Mr or Mrs Bastendorff any sense that something might be wrong.

  But what of the sad fragments of Matilda Hacker’s life? Mr Poland told the court that after the rent money was received, and after ‘Miss Uish’ was supposed to have left, Hannah Dobbs ‘told Mr Bastendorff that the lady had left behind her dream book’. This book of predictions was ‘afterwards given to the children’. Added to this was ‘a cash box’, also given to the children; Hannah Dobbs had claimed that it was hers, but that she had lost the key. ‘Miss Hacker,’ said Mr Poland, ‘had a cash box and also a dream book, and there was no doubt that these were her property.’

  As the months passed, said Mr Poland, ‘Mrs Bastendorff had no suspicion that anything was wrong.’ The prosecutor seemed eager to press this point. It was only on that morning several weeks back, when it was decided to have the coal cellar cleared in readiness for the Brook, that the horrific truth was uncovered. Mr Poland described how the remains had ‘a rope round the neck’; he described the lace shawl, the brooch. He discussed possible witnesses, such as Matilda Hacker’s lawyer Mr Ward, who would help to identify her. He described how, on 10 October 1877, Matilda Hacker wrote to her informal Canterbury property manager Mr Cozens, instructing him in her usual cryptic fashion that his reply was to be addressed to: ‘MB, Post Office, 227 Oxford Street.’ And how Mr Cozens did, indeed, reply, enclosing a cheque for £9 and 14 shillings – the letter remained at the post office, ‘never having been called for’ and ultimately it was returned ‘through the Dead Letter Office’ to Mr Cozens in Canterbury.

  ‘So you have the fact,’ said the prosecutor, ‘that she was last seen alive on the 5th of October 1877.’

  Mr Poland, via the offices of Inspector Hagen, had been furnished with some intelligence concerning the movements of Hannah Dobbs in the weeks and months after the murder was supposed to have been committed. When she left the employment of the Bastendorffs in September 1878 – almost a year after the disappearance of ‘Miss Uish’ – Hannah Dobbs went to live in lodgings around the corner from Euston Square in George Street. ‘She left those lodgings in debt, and here she left behind some boxes,’ said Mr Poland, ‘and ultimately these boxes … were found to contain clothing belonging to the missing lady who lived at Euston Square, and also the eyeglass which will be identified as the property of Miss Hacker.’

  The trail of purloined possessions did not end there. ‘In November 1877,’ said Mr Poland, ‘a gold watch was pawned in the name of Rosina Bastendorff, at a pawn-broker’s shop in Drummond Street. Rosina is the name of a daughter of Mr Bastendorff. There was attached to the watch a chain and locket. These were pawned in the month of March of the following year in the same name of Bastendorff. The locket will be identified as that of Miss Hacker, and was pawned in March 1878.’ Again, this was some months after her disappearance.

  There was one more item which did not go to the pawn shop, but which instead ended up being passed around within the Bastendorff household. It was a basket trunk, also ‘the property of Miss Hacker’. ‘This,’ said Mr Poland, ‘was left behind and was afterwards given by Mr Bastendorff to his brother, and is now in the possession of the police. There is also a tray belonging to the basket, which was found some time afterward in the loft of 4, Euston Square.’ The trap door of the loft had apparently been ‘fastened down’ before Hannah Dobbs left her employment at the house. It was Mr Poland’s intention, he said, to demonstrate that so many of the old lady’s belongings had ended up nefariously in the possession of the servant girl.

  He also meant to ensure that the Bastendorff family themselves were considered completely respectable. ‘During the day,’ said Mr Poland, ‘Mr Bastendorff, who is a bamboo cabinet maker, usually works in the back shop. Mr and Mrs Bastendorff occupied the parlour and the kitchen. It would be difficult to believe,’ the prosecu
tor told the magistrate, ‘that this lady was murdered in the room during the week and the body removed down the stairs to the cellar. But on the Sunday, Mr Bastendorff is always away from home. He goes out to shoot small birds in the country.’ Equally on Sundays, he stated, ‘Mrs Bastendorff also goes out with the children.’ In other words, he said, ‘on such an occasion, the prisoner would be alone with the lodgers in the house.’ Mr Poland added that even though he could not quite fix the date, it certainly seemed that on one Sunday in the October of 1877, both Mr and Mrs Bastendorff were away from the house.

  He would also address the puzzling question of motive: why would anyone murder an eccentric old lady? He would, he said, ‘prove that Matilda Hacker was in the possession of certain means, and a person might have been murdered for them. The body was found with a rope around the neck. Whether this was the cause of death I cannot say, or whether there were some other acts of violence.’

  There seemed at any rate to be one other sign of lethal struggle. There was, he said, a stain on the carpet of Miss Uish’s room. ‘A piece of the carpet was examined … there are patches of blood upon it,’ declared Mr Poland. ‘Whether death was the result of violence, or by strangulation, it is impossible for me to say. If this woman was murdered, then the rope may have been put round her neck and by these means she may have been dragged down the stairs through the kitchen, into the cellar, where the body would remain concealed to all persons except the person who would be in the daily habit of going into the cellars.’

  That person, he emphasised again, was not the lady of the house. ‘Mrs Bastendorff did not go into the cellars herself,’ he said. But Hannah Dobbs did. ‘The prisoner was in the daily habit of going to the cellar, and nobody else,’ said Mr Poland. Moreover, he added, it was ‘impossible for the prisoner, if she was in the habit of going there, not to have seen it’.

  This seemed a curious logical jump; for if Hannah Dobbs had concealed the body, then she would not have subsequently ‘seen’ it; and if she didn’t, she wouldn’t necessarily have seen it either. It all depended upon the disposition of the coals. Nor had Mr Poland completely established that Hannah Dobbs was the sole occupant of 4, Euston Square who somehow had access to the cellar.

  ‘They made inquiries of the prisoner in the House of Correction at Westminster,’ he continued, ‘… as to whether she could give them information relating to this matter.’ And it would appear that during this questioning, Hannah Dobbs was caught out in one key admission about the eccentric old lodger. ‘She stated at first that she could not recollect the lady’s name.’ But then, a little later when being interviewed by Inspector Hagen, she changed her account. ‘She said she had been thinking the matter over and she remembered the lady’s name which was Miss Hacker.’

  But the old lady had resided there under the pseudonym ‘Miss Uish’; how did Hannah Dobbs know her real name? ‘It may be that the name of Hacker was in the Dream Book because looking into that book we find that there are two or three front pages torn out, where the true name of Matilda Hacker might possibly have been,’ Mr Poland told the magistrate. ‘Whether she got it from that book or in any other way, there is at least the fact that she did state to the inspector that the name of this lady was Miss Hacker; and she also further said that (Miss Hacker) had gone to the country to collect her rents and left behind her a Dream Book which (Hannah Dobbs) took to her mistress after this lady had left.’

  Mr Poland was fixating on one particular Sunday in October 1877 being the day of the murder.

  Why? ‘I believe I shall be able to give evidence,’ he told the magistrate, ‘that on a Sunday about this date, a scream was heard by a lady living next door who has seen a photograph of the old lady, which she is able to identify as that of the lodger she had seen at the house … This scream, I am told, is not of an unimportant character because it alarmed the lady so much that it caused her to faint, and she was found in a fainting condition by her servant.’

  All that said, concluded Mr Poland, ‘I do not pretend, Sir, to have put before you all the facts I intend to prove. A great many important facts have been ascertained – but I give you a mere outline of them to show that the police are justified in bringing the prisoner before you and charging her with this very serious crime.’7

  Even though this was the pre-hearing to determine the need for a larger trial, Mr Poland was allowed to call one key witness: a curious proceeding when it is remembered that at this stage, Hannah Dobbs had no-one to represent her defence.

  And the witness seemed there not merely for the value of her testimony, but also to present a wholesome image of ordered domesticity, cruelly shattered by the horror brought upon her house. Mary Bastendorff took to the stand.

  Possibly it was because of the nervous way that she responded to pressure; but quite quickly, the proceedings – in laying bare the daily life of her household – would make it seem as if Mary Bastendorff was on a form of trial herself, for gross domestic negligence. She swore her oath and declared: ‘We went to live at Euston Square in March 1876. The prisoner Hannah Dobbs was in our service as general servant.

  ‘She first came to live with us in the summer of 1876,’ said Mrs Bastendorff. ‘She stayed with us until September of last year (1878). She had been away once, but had re-entered our service between those dates. She had the management of the place, and entirely attended to the lodgers.’

  Mr Poland’s first question was: ‘Do you remember a lodger named Uish?’

  ‘She occupied a front room on the second floor,’ replied Mrs Bastendorff. ‘I saw her on two occasions as she was going to church. Those were the only times I saw her.’ The rent she paid was 12 shillings a week.

  And how long did she live there? ‘I see by the rent book (which was produced in court) she stayed with us three weeks.’

  And when was this? ‘There is no date in the book,’ said Mrs Bastendorff, ‘and I cannot call to mind on what date Miss Uish came to us. A Mr Findlay lodged with me … before the deceased and before him there was a Mr Lefler … The last entry after Miss Uish is Mr Willoughby, 21st November to January following.’

  This established 4, Euston Square as a busy and well-used house; landlords and tenants alike apparently unaware of the hideous crime that had taken place. ‘Though I cannot fix the dates exactly,’ continued Mrs Bastendorff, ‘Miss Uish must have been with me between the 25th of July and the 21st of November.’

  And what then of these other lodgers? Did Mrs Bastendorff have many dealings with them? ‘Mr Lefler was an American,’ she said, ‘and went back to New York. I don’t know what Mr Findlay was.’

  The court heard of Mary Bastendorff’s detachment from day-today housekeeping; the fact that the tenants’ needs were met by others. ‘I have never seen Miss Uish’s luggage,’ said Mrs Bastendorff. ‘From what I saw of her, I should say she was about five feet 4 inches in height, and she wore her hair in curls. It was very light … the prisoner spoke of her as either Miss Uish or the old lady. At the time she was stopping with me, I had another lodger called Riggenbach. He was the only other lodger there when she was there.’

  Mr Poland wanted to know a little of her husband’s craft, and of the layout of the house. ‘My husband works in a back (work) shop on the dining room floor,’ said Mrs Bastendorff. ‘There are two cellars, and there is a passage from the kitchen into the cellars. One of the cellars was used for coke and some of my husband’s bamboo.’

  Was that the front cellar, she was asked? ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The other was always used by us for coals.’

  And was Hannah Dobbs in the habit of going there? ‘Always.’

  And could she recall ‘the prisoner’ speaking about the departure of Miss Uish? ‘Yes.’

  Was that at the end of the three weeks after she came? ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Bastendorff. ‘The prisoner asked for Miss Uish’s bill for £1 16 shillings, which was due, and gave it to the prisoner … As near as I can tell, (this was) between 11 and 12.’ But she could not remember which day of t
he week this was. Did Mrs Bastendorff have any prior indications that Miss Uish was going to leave? ‘Only by Hannah telling me,’ she said. ‘She came down and said Miss Uish was going away and then I made out the bill and gave it to the prisoner.’

  Shortly afterwards, ‘she brought me a £5 note and I took the £1 16 shillings out of it. I don’t remember how the change for the note was obtained. She brought the bill with the note and I receipted it.’ And that, she was asked, was about 12 in the day? ‘Yes, as well as I can make out.’

  ‘Now,’ said Mr Poland, ‘that day had you seen anything of Miss Uish?’ ‘No, I saw nothing of her.’

  ‘Did you see her leave?’ ‘No, I did not see her leave the house, nor did I see anything leave in the way of boxes.’

  It was established that it might have been several days before Mrs Bastendorff went into Miss Uish’s former room on the second floor. She could not recall exactly. But she did remember ‘perfectly’ going into the room one morning, accompanied by Hannah Dobbs. ‘She either followed me in or was there before me, I don’t remember.’

  There was the matter of a ‘broken lamp glass’; that is, an ornamental gaslight fitting that had been somehow smashed at some point in Miss Uish’s tenancy, for which the old lady had apparently given a small financial consideration to Hannah Dobbs in order to be passed on to the lady of the house.

  And when Mary Bastendorff entered the room, what did she notice? ‘A large stain on the carpet.’ Whereabouts? ‘Down by the side of the bed.’ And what sort of stain was it? ‘It appeared as though it had been scrubbed with water.’

  Was it, asked Mr Poland, ‘a felt carpet with a good deal of green in it, and had the colour been affected?’ ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Bastendorff, ‘for the colour had come out by the washing. When I saw the state of the carpet, I said, ‘you are a dreadful girl to trust things to. I would much rather have no lodgers at all than have my things destroyed so.’