The Dead Witness: A Connoisseur's Collection of Victorian Detective Stories

by Michael Sims

  He also translated Balzac, barely evaded a libel suit after he satirized the popular actor Henry Irving, founded charities, raised bulldogs, marketed a hair-growing tonic, and quickly spent just about every shilling he earned. A friend of Arthur Conan Doyle’s, Sims was also interested in criminology and crime fiction. He wrote a magazine series about Scotland Yard detectives, as well as a couple of detective novels, The Case of George Candlemas and The Death Gamble. In 1897 Sims launched a series of stories about a female detective named Dorcas Dene. Formerly the actress Dorcas Lester, she married artist Paul Dene, but when he went blind, she needed work. A friend, a retired police superintendent, invites her to help him. “You want me to be a lady detective?” she gasps in fine Victorian fashion. He explains that he wants her to help him solve a problem that is tearing apart a family and adds, “That is surely a business transaction in which an angel could engage without soiling its wings.”

  She accepts and becomes quite good at her job, eventually evolving into, as she describes herself, “a professional lady detective.” One of the skills that Sherlock Holmes often emphasizes is the importance in a detective of employing disguises. George Sims took this idea to its logical extreme by making Dorcas Dene start out as an actress, so that disguise comes naturally to her. He brought to his Dene stories, with their abused wives and lost children, the same concern for the disadvantaged that marks his journalism and his nonfiction books. Sims had a light touch, but these stories were not lighthearted.

  The Haverstock Hill Murder

  The blinds had been down at the house in Elm Tree Road and the house shut for nearly six weeks. I had received a note from Dorcas saying that she was engaged on a case which would take her away for some little time, and that as Paul had not been very well lately she had arranged that he and her mother should accompany her. She would advise me as soon as they returned. I called once at Elm Tree Road and found it was in charge of the two servants and Toddlekins, the bulldog. The housemaid informed me that Mrs. Dene had not written, so that she did not know where she was or when she would be back, but that letters which arrived for her were forwarded by her instructions to Mr. Jackson of Penton Street, King’s Cross.

  Mr. Jackson, I remembered, was the ex-police-sergeant who was generally employed by Dorcas when she wanted a house watched or certain inquiries made among tradespeople. I felt that it would be unfair to go to Jackson. Had Dorcas wanted me to know where she was she would have told me in her letter.

  The departure had been a hurried one. I had gone to the North in connection with a business matter of my own on a Thursday evening, leaving Dorcas at Elm Tree Road, and when I returned on Monday afternoon I found Dorcas’s letter at my chambers. It was written on the Saturday, and evidently on the eve of departure.

  But something that Dorcas did not tell me I learned quite accidentally from my old friend Inspector Swanage, of Scotland Yard, whom met one cold February afternoon at Kempton Park Steeplechases.

  Inspector Swanage has a much greater acquaintance with the fraternity known as “the boys” than any other officer. He has attended race meetings for years, and the “boys” always greet him respectfully, though they wish him further. Many a prettily-planned coup of theirs has he nipped in the bud, and many an unsuspecting greenhorn has he saved from pillage by a timely whisper that the well-dressed young gentlemen who are putting their fivers on so merrily and coming out of the enclosure with their pockets stuffed full of bank-notes are men who get their living by clever swindling, and are far more dangerous than the ordinary vulgar pick-pocket.

  On one occasion not many years ago I found a well-known publisher at a race meeting in earnest conversation with a beautifully-dressed, grey-haired sportsman. The publisher informed me that his new acquaintance was the owner of a horse which was certain to win the next race, and that it would start at ten to one. Only in order not to shorten the price nobody was to know the name of the horse, as the stable had three in the race. He had obligingly taken a fiver off the publisher to put on with his own money.

  I told the publisher that he was the victim of a “tale-pitcher,” and that he would never see his fiver again. At that moment Inspector Swanage came on the scene, and the owner of racehorses disappeared as if by magic. Swanage recognized the man instantly, and having heard my publisher’s story said, “If I have the man taken will you prosecute?” The publisher shook his head. He didn’t want to send his authors mad with delight at the idea that somebody had eventually succeeded in getting a fiver the best of him. So Inspector Swanage strolled away. Half an hour later he came to us in the enclosure and said, “Your friend’s horse doesn’t run, so he’s given me that fiver back again for you.” And with a broad grin he handed my friend a bank-note.

  It was Inspector Swanage’s skill and kindness on this occasion that made me always eager to have a chat with him when I saw him at a race meeting, for his conversation was always interesting.

  The February afternoon had been a cold one, and soon after the commencement of racing there were signs of fog. Now a foggy afternoon is dear to the hearts of the “boys.” It conceals their operations, and helps to cover their retreat. As the fog came up the Inspector began to look anxious, and I went up to him.

  “You don’t like the look of things?” I said.

  “No, if this gets worse the band will begin to play—there are some very warm members of it here this afternoon. It was a day just like this last year that they held up a bookmaker going to the station, and eased him of over £500. Hullo?”

  As he uttered the exclamation the Inspector pulled out his race card and seemed to be anxiously studying it.

  But under his voice he said to me, “Do you see that tall man in a fur coat talking to a bookmaker? See, he’s just handed him a bank-note?”

  “Where?—I don’t see him.”

  “Yonder. Do you see that old gipsy-looking woman with race cards? She has just thrust her hand through the railings and offered one to the man.”

  “Yes, yes—I see him now.”

  “That’s Flash George. I’ve missed him lately, and I heard he was broke, but he’s in funds again evidently by his get-up.”

  “One of the boys?”

  “Has been—but he’s been on another lay lately. He was mixed up in that big jewel case—£10,000 worth of diamonds stolen from a demimondaine. He got rid of some of the jewels for the thieves, but we could never bring it home to him. But he was watched for a long time afterwards and his game was stopped. The last we heard of him he was hard up and borrowing from some of his pals. He’s gone now. I’ll just go and ask the bookie what he’s betting to.”

  The Inspector stepped across to the bookmaker and presently returned.

  “He is in luck again,” he said. “He’s put a hundred ready on the favourite for this race. By the bye, how’s your friend Mrs. Dene getting on with her case?”

  I confessed my ignorance as to what Dorcas was doing at the present moment—all I knew was that she was away.

  “Oh, I thought you’d have known all about it,” said the Inspector. “She’s on the Hannaford case.”

  “What, the murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “But surely that was settled by the police? The husband was arrested immediately after the inquest.”

  “Yes, and the case against him was very strong, but we know that Dorcas Dene has been engaged by Mr. Hannaford’s family, who have made up their minds that the police, firmly believing him guilty, won’t look anywhere else for the murderer—of course they are convinced of his innocence. But you must excuse me—the fog looks like thickening, and may stop racing—I must go and put my men to work.”

  “One moment before you go—why did you suddenly ask me how Mrs. Dene was getting on? Was it anything to do with Flash George that put it in your head?”

  The Inspector looked at me curiously.

  “Yes,” he said, “though I didn’t expect you’d see the connection. It was a mere coincidence. On the night that Mrs. Hannafo
rd was murdered, Flash George, who had been lost sight of for some time by our people, was reported to have been seen by the Inspector who was going his rounds in the neighbourhood. He was seen about half-past two o’clock in the morning looking rather dilapidated and seedy. When the report of the murder came in, the Inspector at once remembered that he had seen Flash George in Haverstock Hill. But there was nothing in it—as the house hadn’t been broken into and there was nothing stolen. You understand now why seeing Flash George carried my train of thought on to the Hannaford murder and Dorcas Dene. Good-bye.”

  The Inspector hurried away and a few minutes afterwards the favourite came in alone for the second race on the card. The stewards immediately afterwards announced that racing would be abandoned on account of the fog increasing, and I made my way to the railway station and went home by the members’ train.

  Directly I reached home I turned eagerly to my newspaper file and read up the Hannaford murder. I knew the leading features, but every detail of it had now a special interest to me, seeing that Dorcas Dene had taken the case up.

  These were the facts as reported in the Press:

  Early in the morning of January 5 a maid-servant rushed out of the house, standing in its own grounds on Haverstock Hill, calling “Murder!” Several people who were passing instantly came to her and inquired what was the matter, but all she could gasp was, “Fetch a policeman.” When the policeman arrived he followed the terrified girl into the house and was conducted to the drawing-room, where he found a lady lying in her nightdress in the centre of the room covered with blood, but still alive. He sent one of the servants for a doctor, and another to the police-station to inform the superintendent. The doctor came immediately and declared that the woman was dying. He did everything that could be done for her, and presently she partially regained consciousness. The superintendent had by this time arrived, and in the presence of the doctor asked her who had injured her.

  She seemed anxious to say something, but the effort was too much for her, and presently she relapsed into unconsciousness. She died two hours later, without speaking.

  The woman’s injuries had been inflicted with some heavy instrument. On making a search of the room the poker was found lying between the fireplace and the body. The poker was found to have blood upon it, and some hair from the unfortunate lady’s head.

  The servants stated that their master and mistress, Mr. and Mrs. Hannaford, had retired to rest at their usual time, shortly before midnight. The housemaid had seen them go up together. She had been working at a dress which she wanted for next Sunday, and sat up late, using her sewing-machine in the kitchen. It was one o’clock in the morning when she passed her master and mistress’s door, and she judged by what she heard that they were quarrelling. Mr. Hannaford was not in the house when the murder was discovered. The house was searched thoroughly in every direction, the first idea of the police being that he had committed suicide. The telegraph was then set to work, and at ten o’clock a man answering Mr. Hannaford’s description was arrested at Paddington Station, where he was taking a ticket for Uxbridge.

  Taken to the police-station and informed that he would be charged with murdering his wife, he appeared to be horrified, and for some time was a prey to the most violent emotion. When he had recovered himself and was made aware of the serious position in which he stood, he volunteered a statement. He was warned, but he insisted on making it. He declared that he and his wife had quarrelled violently after they had retired to rest. Their quarrel was about a purely domestic matter, but he was in an irritable, nervous condition, owing to his health, and at last he had worked himself up into such a state, that he had risen, dressed himself, and gone out into the street. That would be about two in the morning. He had wandered about in a state of nervous excitement until daybreak. At seven he had gone into a coffee-house and had breakfast, and had then gone into the park and sat on a seat and fallen asleep. When he woke up it was nine o’clock. He had taken a cab to Paddington, and had intended to go to Uxbridge to see his mother, who resided there. Quarrels between himself and his wife had been frequent of late, and he was ill and wanted to get away, and he thought perhaps if he went to his mother for a day or two he might get calmer and feel better. He had been very much worried lately over business matters. He was a stock-jobber, and the market in the securities in which he had been speculating was against him.

  At the conclusion of the statement, which was made in a nervous, excited manner, he broke down so completely that it was deemed desirable to send for the doctor and keep him under close observation.

  Police investigations of the premises failed to find any further clue. Everything pointed to the supposition that the result of the quarrel had been an attack by the husband—possibly in a sudden fit of homicidal mania—on the unfortunate woman. The police suggestion was that the lady, terrified by her husband’s behaviour, had risen in the night and run down the stairs to the drawing-room, and that he had followed her there, picked up the poker, and furiously attacked her. When she fell, apparently lifeless, he had run back to his bedroom, dressed himself, and made his escape quietly from the house. There was nothing missing so far as could be ascertained—nothing to suggest in any way that any third party, a burglar from outside or some person inside, had had anything to do with the matter.

  The coroner’s jury brought in a verdict of wilful murder, and the husband was charged before a magistrate and committed for trial. But in the interval his reason gave way, and, the doctors certifying that he was undoubtedly insane, he was sent to Broadmoor.

  Nobody had the slightest doubt of his guilt, and it was his mother who, broken-hearted, and absolutely refusing to believe in her son’s guilt, had come to Dorcas Dene and requested her to take up the case privately and investigate it. The poor old lady declared that she was perfectly certain that her son could not have been guilty of such a deed, but the police were satisfied, and would make no further investigation.

  This I learnt afterwards when I went to see Inspector Swanage. All I knew when I had finished reading up the case in the newspapers was that the husband of Mrs. Hannaford was in Broadmoor, practically condemned for the murder of his wife, and that Dorcas Dene had left home to try and prove his innocence.

  The history of the Hannafords as given in the public Press was as follows: Mrs. Hannaford was a widow when Mr. Hannaford, a man of six-and-thirty, married her. Her first husband was a Mr. Charles Drayson, a financier, who had been among the victims of the disastrous fire in Paris. His wife was with him in the rue Jean Goujon that fatal night. When the fire broke out they both tried to escape together. They became separated in the crush. She was only slightly injured, and succeeded in getting out; he was less fortunate. His gold watch, a presentation one, with an inscription, was found among a mass of charred unrecognizable remains when the ruins were searched.

  Three years after this tragedy the widow married Mr. Hannaford. The death of her first husband did not leave her well off. It was found that he was heavily in debt, and had he lived a serious charge of fraud would undoubtedly have been preferred against him. As it was, his partner, a Mr. Thomas Holmes, was arrested and sentenced to five years penal servitude in connection with a joint fraudulent transaction.

  The estate of Mr. Drayson went to satisfy the creditors, but Mrs. Drayson, the widow, retained the house at Haverstock Hill, which he had purchased and settled on her, with all the furniture and contents, some years previously. She wished to continue living in the house when she married again, and Mr. Hannaford consented, and they made it their home. Hannaford himself, though not a wealthy man, was a fairly successful stock-jobber, and until the crisis, which had brought on great anxiety and helped to break down his health, had had no financial worries. But the marriage, so it was alleged, had not been a very happy one and quarrels had been frequent. Old Mrs. Hannaford was against it from the first, and to her her son always turned in his later matrimonial troubles. Now that his life had probably been spared by this mental breakdo
wn, and he had been sent to Broadmoor, she had but one object in life—to set her son free, some day restored to reason, and with his innocence proved to the world.

  It was about a fortnight after my interview with Inspector Swanage, and my study of the details of the Haverstock Hill murder, that one morning I opened a telegram and to my intense delight found that it was from Dorcas Dene. It was from London, and informed me that in the evening they would be very pleased to see me at Elm Tree Road.

  In the evening I presented myself about eight o’clock. Paul was alone in the drawing-room when I entered, and his face and his voice when he greeted me showed me plainly that he had benefited greatly by the change.

  “Where have you been, to look so well?” I asked. “The South of Europe, I suppose—Nice or Monte Carlo?”

  “No,” said Paul smiling, “we haven’t been nearly so far as that. But I mustn’t tell tales out of school. You must ask Dorcas.”

  At that moment Dorcas came in and gave me a cordial greeting.

  “Well,” I said, after the first conversational preliminaries, “who committed the Haverstock Hill murder?”

  “Oh, so you know that I have taken that up, do you? I imagined it would get about through the Yard people. You see, Paul dear, how wise I was to give out that I had gone away.”

  “Give out!” I exclaimed. “Haven’t you been away then?”

  “No, Paul and mother have been staying at Hastings, and I have been down whenever I have been able to spare a day, but as a matter of fact I have been in London the greater part of the time.”