The Supernatural Murders

by Jonathan Goodman

  Berry’s failure to hang Lee was the most markedly imperfect of his several imperfect performances. Three years after that debacle, on Tuesday, 10 January 1888, a superstition that he had inherited from his predecessor, William Marwood – that it was bad luck on someone, presumably other than a convicted murderer, for a murderer to be hanged when he was facing east – caused a breach of executional etiquette in the despatching of Philip Cross, an Army surgeon retired to the south of Ireland, who had used arsenic to murder his wife so as to be free to marry Effie Skinner, the governess of two of his five children. When Cross was brought to the gallows in Cork Prison, he insisted on facing the Governor and the rest of the witnesses, all of whom he knew socially – and who were gathered to the east of him. After two or three attempts to get him facing in any other direction, Berry scolded him: ‘This just won’t do, Dr Cross – you have to die facing the same way as anyone else.’ He turned him north or south; Cross at once turned back to the east; the Governor, not knowing what all the directional fuss was about, exclaimed: ‘Leave the doctor alone’ – and Berry, cross himself by now, didn’t wait for the chaplain to say anything before pulling the lever, letting Cross down with a lurch, and giving the chaplain, left teetering on the brink, a nasty shock. Not till the subsequent inquest, when the coroner said that he wanted to question Berry about his pre-prayer pulling of the lever, was it learned that he, with his wife and two minding detectives, had gone off in a huff. There was ‘something of a brawl’ between the coroner and the attending Deputy-Governor, a Mr Oxford, in which members of the jury who wanted Home Rule for Ireland joined in, and the inquest was adjourned till the next day – when, despite the prison surgeon’s reminder that Cross could not be buried while the inquest was ‘in continuance’, the coroner insisted that Berry be brought back from England, and adjourned the inquest indefinitely. A letter sent to Berry’s home in Bradford was posted on to where he was staying in London, and he retaliated with the letter reproduced above (its grammatical and spelling errors indicate that the letter to the Under-Sheriff of Devon re John Lee [page 131] was either composed on Berry’s behalf or copy-edited prior to its publication). The Governor had no power to issue a ‘supeona’, and no wish to increase the cost of the execution by paying Berry a second lot of ‘First Class Expenses to Cork and Back’. Though the Lord Lieutenant eventually gave an order for the burial, the inquest remained adjourned – and is still adjourned … which means that Dr Philip Cross, hanged impatiently more than a century ago, is, in the eyes of the law, not yet deceased.

  There is, I must say of course, another possibility: Divine Intervention. Though Berry stuck to his worldly explanation, other non-conforming preachers sermonised that God, in his mercy, had locked the jaws of death on behalf of Lee. But considering that Lee (who had served a sentence for theft) was undoubtedly guilty of the extremely brutal murder of an especially God-fearing old lady, it is hard to comprehend why He should have chosen to interfere, apparently uniquely, in this case. The ‘hand of God’ theory seems less credible than a ‘hand of Satan’ one.

  The Home Secretary, deciding that it would be unfair on Lee to put him through further attempts to hang him, granted a reprieve. In his case, ‘imprisonment for life’ amounted to twenty-three years. Following his release in December 1907, he did quite well from ‘The Man They Could Not Hang’ stories in newspapers, the longest of which was turned into a paperback.1

  Berry was only forty when he resigned in March 1892. He stated that his decision was solely ‘on account of Dr Barr interfering with my responsible duty at Kirkdale Gaol, Liverpool, on my last execution there’ (of a man named John Conway, who had been almost decapitated). As that unfortunate incident had occurred nearly seven months before, either Berry was in the throes of a delayed psychological reaction or he used the incident as an excuse for resigning. The latter possibility is strengthened by two facts: shortly after becoming an ex-executioner, he became the first such man to publish a book of memoirs2, and shortly after the book appeared, he embarked upon a long lecture-tour, for which he was very well paid. Though there was nothing in his book that suggested that he disapproved of capital punishment, his lecture was a mixture of the ‘Exciting Episodes’ promised on the billboards, and passages of abolitionist propaganda. I noted in the introduction to the facsimile edition of the book, published in 1972, that ‘when the lecture engagements petered out, Berry turned his hand to various jobs: as well as being an innkeeper, he was at another time a cloth salesman at north-country markets, at another a bacon salesman on commission. The last years of his life were devoted to evangelistic and temperance work, and he died at his home in Bradford in October 1913.’

  1. There is a recording (Island: ILPS 9176) of an almost musical version of the Lee legend, mostly composed by a pop-group called Fairport Convention, who are entirely responsible for singing and playing it.

  2. My Experiences as an Executioner (Percy Lund & Co, Bradford and London, n.d.; facsimile edition [edited and introduced by Jonathan Goodman], David & Charles, Newton Abbot, and Gale Research, Detroit, 1972.)

  Postscript

  Here are five reports of public executions (three in London, one in Cork, and one in Columbia, Mississippi) which failed to meet the ‘hang by the neck till dead’ legal requirement.

  From the Gentleman’s Magazine, London, April 1733:

  Four of the seven malefactors who received sentence of death at the Old Bailey on the 7th were executed at Tyburn on the 27th, viz, W. Gordan, James Ward and W. Keys for robbery on the highway and W. Norman for a street robbery. The other three, viz, H. Harper and Samuel Elms for street robberies and Elizabeth Austen for robbing her mother, who pleaded her belly and was found pregnant, were ordered to be transported for fourteen years. ’Twas reported that Gordan cut his throat just before he was carried out of Newgate for execution and a surgeon sewed it up, but in the Daily Advertiser we have the following strange account:

  Mr Chovet, a surgeon, having by frequent experiments on dogs discovered that opening the windpipe would prevent the fatal consequences of the halter, undertook Mr Gordan and made an incision in his windpipe, the effect of which was that when Gordan stopped his mouth, nostrils and ears for some time, air enough came through the cavity to continue life. When he was hanged, he was perceived to be alive after all the rest were dead, and when he had hung three-quarters of an hour, being carried to a house in Tyburn road, he opened his mouth several times and groaned, and, a vein being opened, he bled freely but shortly died.

  ’Twas thought that if he had been cut down five minutes sooner, he might have recovered.

  From the Gentleman’s Magazine, July 1736:

  The grand jury for the county of Middlesex found a bill of indictment against James Bayley and Thomas Reynolds under the Black Act for going armed and disguised and cutting down Ledbury Turnpike. On 9 April 1736, William Bithell and William Morgan were tried for the same offence and hanged. During the trial their fellow turnpike levellers turned up and became so tumultuous that soldiers were called out to preserve order.

  Reynolds, a turnpike leveller, condemned with Bayley on 10 April, under the act against going armed and disguised, was hanged at Tyburn on 26 July. He was cut down by the executioner as usual, but as the coffin was being fastened, he thrust back the lid, upon which the executioner would have tied him up again, but the mob prevented it and carried him to a house. There he vomited three pints of blood, but when given a glass of wine he died. Bayley was reprieved.

  From the London Magazine, November 1740:

  Five malefactors were executed at Tyburn on 24 November, viz, Thomas Clark, William Meers, Margery Stanton, Eleanor Mumpman for several burglaries and felonies, and William Duell for ravishing, robbing and murdering Sarah Griffin at Acton. The body of Duell was brought to Surgeons Hall to be anatomised, but after it was stripped and laid on the board and one of the servants was washing him in order to be cut, he perceived life in him and found his breath to come quicker and quicker, on which a surg
eon took some two ounces of blood from him. In two hours he was able to sit up in his chair and groaned very much and seemed in great agitation but could not speak. He was kept at Surgeons Hall until twelve o’clock at night, the sheriff’s officers, who were sent for on this extraordinary occasion, attending. He was then conveyed to Newgate to remain there until he be proved to be the very identical person ordered for execution on the 24th. The next day he was in good health in Newgate, ate his victuals heartily, and asked for his mother. Great numbers of people resorted continually to see him. He did not recollect being hanged but said he had been in a dream.

  At the next session at the Old Bailey, he was ordered transported for life.

  From the Gentleman’s Magazine, February 1767:

  One Patrick Redmond, having been condemned at Cork in Ireland to be hanged for a street robbery, he was accordingly executed on 24 February, and hung upwards of twenty-eight minutes, when the mob carried off the body to a place appointed, where he was, after five or six hours, actually recovered by a surgeon who made an incision in his windpipe called bronchotomy, which produced the desired effect. The poor fellow has since received his pardon and a genteel collection has been made for him.

  The next account – of incidents in Columbia, Mississippi,1 on 7 February 1894 – needs an introduction, and that is well provided by August Mencken in his book By the Neck:1 ‘Some years after the original Ku Klux Klan went out of existence, a similar organisation called the White Caps was formed in the remoter parts of the South for the purpose of terrorising the Negroes. Its members rode round the country at night dressed in white sheets smeared with red paint to simulate blood, but for the most part they confined themselves to threats and resorted to violence only in what they considered extreme cases. Early in 1893, a Negro servant of Will Buckley, a member of the organisation, was selected for such treatment, and, in the absence of Buckley and without his knowledge, one of the bands seized the man and gave him a flogging. Buckley was enraged at this affront to his dignity, and for revenge decided to present the whole matter to the Grand Jury. As a result of his disclosures, three members of the gang were indicted. After completing his testimony, Buckley started for home accompanied by his brother Jim and the Negro, all mounted. When they came to a ford in a small stream, someone concealed in the underbush shot and killed Will Buckley. The other two were fired on also, but escaped. The scene of the killing was near the home of a family called Purvis, and as Will Purvis, one of the sons, was generally believed to be a member of the White Caps, a neighbour who had a grudge against the family had little difficulty arousing the neighbourhood against the boy. Purvis was arrested and lodged in jail. At his trial, he produced witnesses who testified that he was nowhere near the scene at the time of the murder, but Jim Buckley, who had witnessed the killing, was positive in his identification of Purvis as the man who had shot his brother, so Purvis was found guilty by the jury and sentenced to hang.’

  1. There seems to be uncertainty concerning the date of the last official public hanging in Mississippi. Though the hanging of Clyde Harveston, at Westville, in 1902, was not the last, it warrants being mentioned in this book because of a perhaps supernatural adjunct to it. Apparently, Harveston was found guilty of the murder of a merchant, Frank Ammons, solely because an erstwhile friend, Frank Beavers, implicated him when confessing to the crime; Beavers died naturally a few days after the trial. Harveston protested his innocence till the end, and went so far as to shout, as the noose was tightened: ‘God will give you a sign that I am telling the truth!’ Though the day is said to have been cloudless, rain started pelting down during the brief period between Harveston’s prophesy and his fall. Those who believe that the rain was a ‘sign’ rely upon a photograph of the execution, which shows a number of opened umbrellas above the crowd – but as the photograph also shows Harveston still erect, it may have been taken before his shout … and, of course, one is perplexed as to why so many spectators carried umbrellas on a cloudless day.

  Perhaps the last public hanging in Mississippi was of Will Mack, a negro, at Brandon, near the state capital of Jackson, on Thursday, 23 July 1909: a sweltering day, according to the Brandon News, ‘with a thrifty trucker selling large, juicy, red-meated watermelons to those who wished something cooling, and the peanut vendor, the ice cream cone seller and the pop-stand fellow doing a rushing business … to a crowd that had no reason to be other than good-humoured about the hanging of a criminal whose death every decent person in the world said should be the penalty of rape. Some ladies were present; many little children, some with parents – and others without, as they were large enough to keep from being mashed in the crowd; there were a few nursing infants who tugged at the mother’s breasts while the mother kept her eyes on the gallows – she didn’t want to lose any part of the programme she had come miles to see – to tell about to the neighbours at home who were unable to be on hand – to think about while awake; to doubtless see in horrible dreams when asleep, and to never want to see again.’ But Will Mack’s may not have been Mississippi’s ‘last necktie party’. That term headlined a letter from an Ernest Ishee that was published in the Jackson Clarion Leader of 6 August 1979: ‘… I wish to inform you that the execution of Will Mack at Brandon in 1909 was not the last public hanging in the state. There was one in Bay Springs in 1912 or 1913. My father and two older brothers went to the event.’

  1. Hastings House, New York, 1942.

  From the New Orleans Item:

  Purvis’s hour approaches. The scaffold, firm and portentous, has been erected on the courtyard square; the rope has been secured, the knot tied and examined by a committee. The black cap, symbol of death, is ready. The people gather and struggle for points of vantage. The minister is praying and consoling the boy the best he can. The death march begins.

  With face bleached by confinement within prison walls, but with a firm step and steady eye, young Purvis ascends the scaffold. As he looks over that closely packed and vacuously yawping throng, the young man sees few friendly faces. Feeling against him has been intense and most people believe he is about to expiate a crime for which he should pay the extreme penalty. Everyone is waiting for one thing before the final drop. It is the confession of the boy that he did commit murder. But Purvis speaks simply these plain words which amaze them:

  ‘You are taking the life of an innocent man. There are people here who know who did commit the crime, and if they will come forward and confess, I will go free.’

  As Purvis finishes his simple plea, the sheriff and three deputies adjust the rope about his neck, his feet and arms are pinioned, and the black cap is placed over his face. All is ready, but the meticulous deputy who has tied the hangman’s knot sees an ungainly rope’s end sticking out. One must be neat at such functions, and he steps up and snips the end flush with the knot. ‘Tell me when you are ready,’ Purvis remarks, not knowing that the doomed is never given this information lest he brace himself.

  Nothing is heard save the persistent and importunate prayer of the minister. The executioner takes the hatchet. As he draws it back to sever the stay rope holding the trap on which Purvis stands, strong men tremble and a woman screams and faints. The blow descends, the trap falls, and the body of Will Purvis darts like a plummet towards the sharp jerk of a sudden death.

  Terror and awe gripped the throng as Purvis fell towards his death. Those few men who had watched others hang averted their faces. Others who had never witnessed a like event, and who could not appreciate the morbid horror of it, stared open-mouthed. But those who looked did not see the boy dangle and jerk and become motionless in death. The rope failed to perform the service ordained for it by law. Instead of tightening like a garroter’s bony fingers on the neck of the youth, the hangman’s knot untwisted and Purvis fell to the ground unhurt save for a few abrasions on his skin caused by the slipping of the rope.

  No tongue can describe and no pen can indite the feeling of horror that seized and held the vast throng. For a moment the watcher
s remained motionless; then, moved by an impelling wonder, they crowded forward, crushing one another with the force of their movement. In a moment the silence broke. Excited murmurs began to emanate from the crowd. ‘What’s the matter? Did the noose slip?’ someone asked. Others wondered if there had been some trick in tying the knot. But those charged with the duty of making it fast said there was not, and their statement was verified by a committee that had examined the rope and the knot just before its adjustment around the man’s neck.

  Besides, there could hardly have been a desire on the part of any of the officials to save Purvis. The organisation with which he was supposed to have been connected had given them too much trouble and his trial and conviction had cost the county too much money to warrant the belief that any means would have been used at that late hour to circumvent the execution of the death sentence.

  Somewhat dazed, Purvis staggered to his feet. The black cap slipped from his face and the large blue eyes of the boy blinked in the sunlight. Most of the crowd stood dumbfounded and the officials were aghast. Purvis realised the situation sooner than any of them and, turning to the sheriff, said, ‘Let’s have it over with.’ At the same time the boy, bound hand and feet as he was, began to hop towards the steps of the scaffold and had mounted the first step before the silence was broken.

  An uneasy tremor swept the crowd. The slight cleavage in opinion which before had been manifest concerning the boy’s guilt or innocence now seemed to widen into a real division. Many of those who had been most urgent that Purvis be hanged began to feel within themselves the first flutter of misgiving. This feeling might never have been crystallised into words had it not been for a simple little incident. One of the officials on the platform had reached for the rope but found it was just beyond his fingers’ ends. Stooping, he called out to Dr Ford, who was standing beneath, ‘Toss that rope up here, will you, Doctor?’ Dr Ford started mechanically to obey. He picked up the rope and looked at it. The crowd watched him intently. Here was a man who had been most bitter against the White Caps, a man who knew that Purvis had been a member of that notorious body, and yet everyone knew that he was one of the few who refused to believe the boy was guilty. Throwing the rope down, he said, ‘I won’t do any such damn thing. That boy’s been hung once too many times now.’