Remarkable rogues

There were plenty of girls and matrons in Camberwell who would not have objected to becoming Mrs. James Greenacre, but they all lacked the necessary qualification for the partner of the prosperous quack and politician, and their dreams of wealth soon faded. Greenacre, however, kept a sharp lookout, and one evening he casually made the acquaintance of a widow named Hannah Browne. She was between thirty-five and forty and ever since childhood had toiled laboriously. Even a short spell of married life had brought her no relief, for the late Mr. Browne had had an incurable objection to work, and his unfortunate wife had been the breadwinner for both of them. But Mrs. Browne was apparently a cheerful and free-from-care person when she was introduced to the avaricious rascal. If she was not exactly a beauty, she had features which were pleasing, and she possessed sufficient womanly tact to make the most of Greenacre's weak points. She flattered him as much as she could; dwelt on his popularity and his fearlessness as a politician—he was a stentor of the street-corner—and, doubtless, predicted that one day he would be a Member of Parliament. He swallowed the flattery, large as the doses were; but, while he liked Mrs. Browne for the sensible woman that she was, he did not forget the qualification he demanded from the person who aspired to become his wife. He had been particularly touched, however, by her references to his fame as a politician, for Greenacre was a self-styled champion of the people, and in Camberwell his voice was often raised in denunciation of those eminent statesmen with whose views he did not agree. It was a time of general unrest in home affairs, and four years previously the great Reform Bill of 1832 had started the movement which eventually was to give the electors the complete control of Parliament.

Mrs. Browne resolved to marry the grocer and share his savings, and to impress Greenacre she invented a story of house property which she, a helpless widow, found difficult to manage. She told him she had been left some houses by Mr. Browne and that these with her savings made her fairly well off. Greenacre succumbed to the temptation; proposed and was accepted.

It was now late autumn, Christmas was approaching, and Hannah Browne complained of feeling lonely. Her only relative, a brother, who lived near Tottenham Court Road, had his own interests, and she was without a real friend. The widow's object was to get the marriage ceremony over as quickly as possible, for every day's delay increased the danger of Greenacre's discovery of her lies. She was confident that once she was his wife she would be all right. He might be angry; perhaps threaten her; but his standing in Camberwell would compel him to accept her as his wife and give her the shelter of his house, and she and Time would do the rest. Anyhow, the risk was small compared with the benefits to be gained by a successful issue to her plot. She had had enough of hard work, poverty and loneliness. So all through the courtship she lied and lied, and the mercenary rogue believed her because he wanted those houses and meant to have them at any price.

Urged by him Hannah Browne named a day for the wedding—the last Wednesday of the year, 1836—and to celebrate her decision Greenacre invited her to dine with him on Christmas Eve at his own house. He promised her that his housekeeper, Sarah Gale, would prepare a meal which would do credit to the occasion, and Hannah gladly accepted, delighted as she was at the success of her scheme to secure a well-to-do husband.

What would her brother and his family say now? She glowed with gratification when she pictured their amazement when she told them that she was the wife of a prosperous trader and property-owner! The years of humiliation would be wiped out by her second marriage. Her first had been a failure, but the second would more than compensate for it.

In the early part of the day before Christmas she met several acquaintances, in whom she confided her secret, bubbling over with pride as she told it. They congratulated her and passed on, probably not giving the subject another thought. Hannah Browne had always been ambitious, and her tale of a rich husband was received with disbelief. Nevertheless, those casual meetings on Christmas Eve proved of more than ordinary interest some three months later. She had already intimated to her brother that James Greenacre was to be her husband, and the grocer had met his future brother-in-law once. Greenacre, however, was in a far better position than Gay, and did not trouble to cultivate his acquaintance. On his part, Gay was only too pleased to learn that some one was willing to take his sister off his hands, and he felt indebted to Greenacre and did not resent his indifference to him after their first meeting.

But something very important happened between the fixing of the date of the ceremony and the dinner at Carpenters Buildings, Camberwell, and that was the discovery by Greenacre that Hannah Browne was actually penniless. It came to him with all the force of a knock-down blow, and he perspired as he thought how near he had been to entering into a contract to provide another man's daughter with board and lodging for life. He trembled as he estimated how much that would have cost him; but when his surprise and nervousness went a fierce hatred of the deceiver took possession of his small and mean soul.

Hannah Browne had lied to him. She was penniless; indeed, she had been compelled to borrow small sums of money from casual acquaintances on the security of her forthcoming marriage to him. The respectable grocer and popular overseer went black with rage. His housekeeper, who had contemplated the marriage with dismay because it was certain that it would lead to the disinheritance of her child, of whom her employer was the father, fed his anger with the fuel of innuendo and jeers. She blackened Hannah's character, declared that the widow would make him the laughing-stock of Camberwell, and, if he declined to marry her, would most likely either try blackmail or sue him for damages.

The ambitious street-corner politician winced at the prospect of the public ridicule her disclosures would earn for him; the greedy grocer shrank from having to pay out real red gold for breach of promise.

"She's coming to dinner to-night," whispered Sarah Gale, the tight mouth and the small glittering eyes telling their own story of insensate hatred of the woman who had been selected to supplant her.

Greenacre looked into the face of his temptress, and instantly realized that if he wanted an accomplice in any crime here was one whom he could trust, even with his life.

"I don't want to see her," he said, turning away from the woman. "When she calls send her away. She'll guess by that that I've found everything out."

"She will not go away quietly," said Sarah Gale. "And if I give her a message like that she'll force her way in. What'll the neighbours say if they find a woman screaming outside your house on Christmas Eve? Better let her in. You can give her a good talking to. She deserves something for them lies she's been telling you."

He would have laughed to scorn the suggestion that he was a criminal, if the accusation had been made at that moment. Perhaps, he had been guilty in the past of giving short weight to his customers, and now and then in his anxiety to strike a bargain he may not have dealt fairly with his friends, but these were venial sins, and he believed himself to be a thoroughly respectable citizen; yet greed of gold was going to turn him into a calculating and cold-blooded criminal that very night.

When Hannah Browne arrived wearing her best clothes she was admitted by Sarah Gale, who must have smiled grimly when she saw the visitor's pleased expression.

The table was already prepared, and nothing remained but to serve up the banquet. But Greenacre, who had intended not to speak until after dinner, was unable to restrain himself, and Hannah had not been two minutes in the room when he burst into a torrent of angry words.

The widow started to her feet, listened for a few moments in silence, and then laughed mockingly. Now that the truth was known she only jeered at him, boasting of her success in having thrown dust in his eyes for so long. She answered him with threat for threat, and swore that she would make him keep his promise to marry her. Greenacre was provoked to madness, and, losing control of himself, he picked up a rolling-pin, and in a fury struck her with it. As she dropped to the floor Sarah Gale stole into the room on tiptoe, and, coming to the murderer's side, stood looking down at the corpse, elated by the knowledge that Greenacre would never be able to get rid of her now; in fact would be in her power all his life. He could not speak or move. The blood on the floor hypnotized him. He was a murderer, and if he were caught he would be hanged by the neck until he was dead. He shuddered convulsively at the thought.

The woman touched him on the shoulder.

"Why should anyone know?" she said, in a whisper that sounded like a croak. "Let us get rid of the body. Hannah had no real friends. There'll be no one to make awkward inquiries."

Her voice roused him and he pulled himself together. The fear of the hangman was the greatest terror of all, and now dread of the consequences transformed him into a cunning, calculating villain.

With the help of Sarah Gale he divided the body into three parts—head, trunk and legs. Each meant a separate journey to a different part of London, for he believed that if he hid the remains in three places far apart from each other discovery and identification would be impossible. One or possibly two of the ghastly parcels might be unearthed, but it was out of the question that all three would be found and put together. For several hours the guilty couple laboured to remove all traces of the crime, and Christmas Day dawned with the parcels ready for disposal.

Wrapping the head in a silk handkerchief, he journeyed by omnibus into the city; from there he went to Stepney, and, reaching the Regent's Canal, he took a walk along the bank until he came to a more than usually deserted spot. Here he flung the head into the water, taking care to retain the silk handkerchief, for even in the hour of danger and stress he could remember that it had cost him several shillings.

No murderer ever spent a more ghastly Christmas than James Greenacre did, but he was by now quite callous. The second journey enabled him to dispose of the legs by flinging them into a ditch in Coldharbour Lane, not very far from his house. The disposal of the trunk, however, was the most difficult of all. It made a very heavy parcel, and Greenacre, with extraordinary daring, did not pack it in a box and attempt to get rid of it that way. He wrapped it up in cloth and paper, and, carrying it himself into the street, found a passing carter, who gave him a lift until he was a couple of miles from Camberwell. Then the murderer took a cab, and, after two or three incidents which would have unnerved most men, he reached a lonely spot in Kilburn which he considered would make an ideal hiding-place.

The threefold task completed he returned home quite satisfied with himself. If the worst happened and the three parcels were found, the finder of the trunk at Kilburn would never dream of inquiring at Stepney for the head, or at Camberwell for the legs. He argued that the public would make three mysteries out of the three parts and never think of associating all with one crime.

Greenacre began the new year with a feeling of relief and security. His mistress, Sarah Gale, instead of being able to hold a threat over him, found herself compelled to keep silent for her own sake as well as his. She was his accomplice, and, therefore, equally guilty in the eyes of the law. Thus she had the best of reasons for forgetting the Christmas Eve tragedy, and the respectable grocer, quite unperturbed, went to reside in another London suburb and continued to deal out his "amalgamated candy" to the credulous and eloquently describe its healing qualities.

Despite his first mistake, however, Greenacre had not abandoned the idea of marriage, and he speculated in an advertisement in the "Times," taking precautions to disguise his real intentions. He advertised to the effect that he required a partner with at least three hundred pounds to help him to place on the market a new washing-machine, of which he was the sole inventor. Of course it was a lie. Greenacre wished to get into correspondence with a woman of means, and, in his opinion, this was the surest way, for any female who answered his advertisement would possess at least three hundred pounds, and the chances were that the majority of correspondents would make a more detailed reference to the means they possessed.

A lady with considerable savings did reply to the advertisement, and Greenacre promptly changed his letters from business communications into ardent protestations of respect and admiration. Encouraged by the lady's failure to resent the freedom of his language, he boldly asked her to marry him, but, fortunately for herself, she promptly rejected his offer.

But, meanwhile, something had occurred elsewhere which was to have a fatal result for the murderer. On December 28th, 1836, the trunk of Hannah Browne's body had been found at Kilburn. There was nothing to identify it, and it was ordered to be preserved for a certain time in case anyone with a missing friend or relation should come forward and recognize it. The only clue—and that a very tiny one—was that the remains were wrapped in a blue cotton frock, which had evidently been worn by a child.

Ten days afterwards a lock-keeper on the Regent's Canal pulled the head of a woman out of the water. A preliminary examination showed that it bore bruises which must have been inflicted before death. The most important discovery, however, was that the head had been roughly sawn from the body. Now, the trunk found at Kilburn bore similar traces of sawing, and that drew the attention of the Stepney police to the coincidence. They took the head to Kilburn, and there it was seen that it fitted the trunk exactly. It was now possible to have the body identified, but, although scores of persons came and viewed the legless corpse, it remained unnamed.

Two months were to pass before the body was to be completed. A basket-maker was cutting osiers in Coldharbour Lane when he saw a parcel floating in the ditch at his feet. He recovered it and examined the contents—two legs. These he conveyed to the police, who immediately placed them in the mortuary where the rest of Mrs. Browne's remains were.

In this way Greenacre's plans were confounded. He had staked everything against the possibility of the three parts ever finding their way into the same room, but within three months of the crime the complete body lay awaiting identification.

The police were not a highly-organized force in the year that witnessed the death of William IV and the accession of Queen Victoria. Out-of-date methods prevailed, and the most celebrated of the detectives were now old men, the remnants of a system that was soon to be swept away. But the treble discovery aroused the authorities. The mangled remains of the poor woman were proof positive that there was a dangerous beast at large in London, and the police concentrated their efforts on the task of finding someone who could identify the corpse, certain that once the woman's name was known the arrest of her murderer would follow speedily.

However, the days went, and failure seemed certain when Gay, Hannah Browne's brother, called to view the body. He had not seen his sister for over three months, and he was getting anxious about her. At first sight of the corpse he declared that it was his sister's and that when he had last seen her she was going to dine with James Greenacre on Christmas Eve.

"Did she keep that appointment?" asked the officer in charge of the case.

"No, she didn't," answered Gay. "At least, Mr. Greenacre came to me late on Christmas Eve and said that Hannah had not turned up. He explained that she probably had been afraid to call and dine with him because he had found her out in some lies."

"Then this Mr. Greenacre will be unable to help us to trace her movements last Christmas Eve?" said the detective.

"I suppose so," said the brother of the murdered woman. "He and Hannah quarrelled. He thought she had a lot of money, and when he learnt that she was penniless he told her he'd never see her again."

Gay's conduct hitherto had not been creditable. He had accepted with complacence Greenacre's account of his quarrel with his sister and had not troubled to confirm it by a little independent investigation, and his feeble excuse was that he was afraid that if he took too much interest in Hannah she would insist on his keeping her, and, as he found it difficult to provide for his own and his family's wants, he did not wish to be saddled with additional expense.

The detectives now turned their attention to James Greenacre, and several interesting facts instantly came to light. The people next door said that they had been disturbed on Christmas Eve by the sound of a scuffle in Greenacre's house, and the latter's unexpected removal had caused some talk. Then the tenants who had taken his old house had commented on the smell of brimstone when first looking over it. In their opinion it had been thoroughly fumigated, and this was confirmed by a woman who had seen Mrs. Gale giving the house a most drastic cleaning a few days after Christmas, an unusual devotion to work which had excited remarks.

There was no hurry on the part of the detectives to arrest Greenacre. They believed that he did not know that suspicion had fastened on him. His demeanour was one of unruffled confidence, and the semi-public life he led favoured those whose duty it was to shadow him and rendered it easy for them to carry out their instructions. But Greenacre was fully aware of their designs on his liberty, and with considerable cleverness he nearly succeeded in outwitting them, for the unruffled grocer by day spent his nights preparing for flight, and he was arrested only a few hours before he was on the point of leaving England for America. He had booked his passage, and already some of his luggage was on board the ship, but it was quickly recovered by the police, and a thorough examination was made of his property.

The investigation produced a plentiful crop of clues. Several incriminating articles were found, the principal one being the missing part of the blue cotton frock which had been used to cover the trunk of Hannah Browne's body. In addition to this and other unmistakable evidence, his sudden resolve to leave the country told against him. He was not the man to realize property at a heavy loss and decamp to America without a very strong reason. It was proved that when he had heard of the identification of the body of his victim he had hastily sold his property and his business, binding the purchasers to secrecy so that he might get away unobserved.

Greenacre did not waste time in denying that he was with Hannah Browne on the night she died. He knew that the evidence against him was very strong, and he thought it wiser to concoct a story of an accidental death, due to horseplay—an explanation, which was, of course, instantly rejected. Then he offered another version, which made the woman's death the result of an accidental blow by himself which was never meant to be fatal. This admission gradually led up to the truth, and then the whole story, as told here, was disclosed.

The most remarkable feature of Greenacre's conduct after his arrest was his concern for the woman who had been his mistress as well as his housekeeper. She was the mother of his four-year-old son, but, hitherto, Greenacre had treated neither with especial kindness, and it was her arrest which developed his latent love for her. When he was informed that she, too, had been taken into custody and would be placed in the dock with him to answer the capital charge, he swore that she was entirely innocent. When he was disbelieved he raved and carried on like a madman, expressing his willingness to take all the blame for the crime if the woman was set free; but the authorities were adamant. On no consideration would they agree to release Sarah Gale; the woman was held a prisoner; and when she and Greenacre met again they stood side by side in the dock.

The trial was one-sided, Greenacre's statement concerning the death of Hannah Browne constituting, in reality, a confession. The defence, such as it was, struggled feebly to win the sympathies of the jury. The male prisoner's alleged respectability was dwelt upon by his counsel, who endeavoured to prove that a man of his character and disposition could not have been guilty of such a horrible crime. As Greenacre, however, had admitted that he had dissected and disposed of the body this plea was rejected, for only the most hardened of criminals could have cut a human body up and carted it in sections about London. In the circumstances, he never had a chance of escaping, and the verdict of the jury was everybody's opinion, including that of the presiding judges, Tindal, Coleridge and Coltman.

The woman was found guilty of murder, too, but the law was satisfied with the execution of the actual murderer, and Sarah Gale's punishment was transportation beyond the seas for life. Undoubtedly she took a very prominent part in the crime, and but for her readiness to aid and abet Greenacre the latter would not have murdered the woman who had tried to trick him into marriage and paid for her failure with her life.

James Greenacre was executed publicly on May 2nd, 1837, and a contemporary account of the scene makes it difficult to believe that thirty-one years were to pass before such a spectacle became impossible.

"The Old Bailey and every spot which could command a view of the spot were crowded to excess," wrote an anonymous journalist. "From the hour of twelve on Monday night up to the moment the execution took place, the Old Bailey presented one living mass of human beings. Every house which commanded a view of the spot was filled by well-dressed men and women, who paid from five shillings to ten shillings for a seat. A great number of gentlemen were admitted within the walls of Newgate, by orders of the sheriffs, anxious to witness the last moments of the convict. During the whole of Monday night the area in front of Newgate was a crowded scene of bustle and confusion, and the public-houses and the coffee-shops were never closed. The local officers connected with the watch had plenty of business on their hands in consequence of the thefts that were committed, and the broils and pugilistic encounters of many a nocturnal adventurer. Divers windows were broken and many heads felt the force of a constable's truncheon. The language of the vast multitude was vile in the highest degree, and songs of a libidinous nature were chanted. At one period of the night the mob bid open defiance to the whole posse of watchmen and constables, and not only rescued thieves, but broke the watch-house windows. Vehicles of every description drove up in quick succession. The passengers, seemingly having their curiosity gratified by the gloomy aspect of the walls, retired to make way for another train. Occasionally a carriage full of gentlemen, and, we believe, in some instances accompanied by ladies, mingled for a moment amidst the eager crowd.... All who had procured places in the windows commanding a view of the place of execution made sure of their seats by occupying them several hours before the dismal preparations commenced. There was not at any time of the night less than two thousand persons in the street. Several persons remained all night clinging to the lamp-posts. The occupier of any house that had still a seat undisposed of informed the public of the vacancy by announcing the fact on large placards posted on the walls, and forthwith the rush of competitors was greater than on any former occasion."

Inside the gaol the condemned man was being exhibited to the curiosity-mongers who had sufficient influence with the sheriffs to obtain the right to inspect and torment the convict, and an hour before his death Greenacre was cross-examined by an amateur theologian and caused "great grief" to the company by hinting that Christ was not divine.

The contemporary report continues:

"The culprit having been pinioned, Mr. Cope handed him over, with the death-warrant, to the sheriffs to see execution done upon him. About five minutes before eight the procession was formed and began to move towards the gallows.... On his appearance outside he was greeted with a storm of terrific yells and hisses, mingled with groans, cheers and other expressions of reproach, revenge, hatred and contumely.... As the body hung quivering in mortal agonies, the eyes of the assembled thousands were riveted upon the swaying corpse with a kind of satisfaction, and all seemed pleased with the removal of such a blood-stained murderer from the land."

In the condemned cell Greenacre wrote a euphemistic autobiography and "An Essay on the Human Mind"—both these productions were added to the archives at Newgate—and between outbursts of piety and blasphemy he boasted of his popularity with the fair sex—he said he had been married four times—and seemed to be concerned for the future of Sarah Gale. She survived him by fifty-one years, eventually dying in 1888 in Australia, a venerable, white-haired matron who had outlived her sins.

CHAPTER XV
CATHERINE WILSON

Amongst female poisoners Catherine Wilson takes a leading place. She had an active career as a professional murderess extending to ten years, perhaps even longer than that, but we do know that she committed murder in 1853, and she was not brought to justice and executed until 1862. A very long career, indeed, for a woman whose ignorance was only equalled by her cunning, and whose gaunt and unfavourable exterior was in keeping with a black heart and a diseased brain.

The first time the public heard the name of this poisoner was in the month of April, 1862, when she stood in the dock in Marylebone Police Court, and was charged with having attempted to murder a Mrs. Connell by administering poison to her.

Mrs. Connell had been living apart from her husband, and, having found a lonely and companionless life irksome to her, she began to long for a reconciliation with the man who had wooed and won her not so many years previously. Of course, to effect this it was necessary to find a sympathetic woman who would be able to approach Mr. Connell and delicately and tactfully sound him as to his views regarding a reunion with his wife. For some unexplained reason Mrs. Connell asked Catherine Wilson to act as intermediary, and to prepare her for the task Mrs. Connell invited the widow to have tea with her. She opened her heart to her guest, did not conceal the fact that she had a little money of her own, and volunteered other information, while the hard-faced creature with the eyes of a tigress sat opposite and planned her death.

The conversation was abruptly ended by a cry of pain from Mrs. Connell. She had not noticed that although Mrs. Wilson was only a guest she had poured out the last cup of tea for her, and she thought that her illness was the result of worry and overstrain.

Of course Mrs. Wilson instantly became sympathetically attentive. The hard eyes even moistened as she helped Mrs. Connell upstairs and laid her gently and tenderly on her bed. Then she ran off to the nearest chemist's shop and brought back a bottle of medicine, but when Mrs. Connell took some of it her sufferings became intensified. Catherine Wilson soothingly offered some more of the "medicine" she had brought from the chemist's, and Mrs. Connell, writhing in her agony, again tried to drink it, but spilt a little of it on the bed-clothes. The "medicine" was so strong that it actually burnt holes in the linen!

Mrs. Connell did not die, though she suffered a great deal, and at one time nearly succumbed.

The matter was too serious to be allowed to rest, and, as she had been told by Mrs. Wilson that it was the chemist's fault for giving her such medicine, she called on him for an explanation. The chemist, astounded and angered by the charge, quickly proved that the medicine he had sold was perfectly harmless, and when the police were sent for he demonstrated conclusively that if anything noxious had been added to the contents of the bottle the only person who could have done it was the woman who had conveyed it from his shop to Mrs. Connell.

After that there was only one thing to do, and that was to arrest Catherine Wilson, who had disappeared a few days previously. Her flight was in itself almost a confession, and for six weeks she managed to evade the detectives who were searching for her, but by chance she was recognized by an officer when he was off duty, and he took her into custody.

After several appearances at the Marylebone Police Court she was committed for trial, and, under close supervision, she calmly awaited the day of the great ordeal.

And while she is in prison we can trace her history up to the spring of 1862.

It was towards the close of the summer of 1853 that a widower of the name of Mawer advertised for a housekeeper. He lived in the pleasant town of Boston, in Lincolnshire, was prosperous, and he would have been quite happy but for gout, an enemy with which he was daily fighting, using as his principal weapon a poison—colchicum—which, taken in small doses, is often prescribed by doctors. In large quantities it is, of course, fatal.

Catherine Wilson was one of the applicants for the post, and she was successful in obtaining it. She called herself a widow, and, perhaps, there had been a husband once who may have been her first victim. Mr. Mawer, however, thought her a respectable, hardworking woman, and she certainly proved unremitting in her attentions to him.

Within a few months they were intimate friends, and the housekeeper was so assiduous and helpful that Mr. Mawer's gout became much better. He told Catherine Wilson that it was entirely due to her, and to prove his gratitude he informed her that he had drawn up a will bequeathing everything to her. It was a fatal disclosure, for had he not disclosed to her his testamentary dispositions there can be little doubt but that he would have lived much longer than he did. The poisoner began her fell work at once, tempted by the prospect of gain, and as she had the poison already in the house there was no way of escape for the unfortunate man.

In October, 1854, he died, poisoned with colchicum, as the doctor discovered; but, as Mr. Mawer was known to have used that poison to counteract the gout, no suspicion was attached to the "heartbroken" housekeeper.

Mr. Mawer's fortune was not as large as the woman had imagined it to be. Still, it amounted to a few hundred pounds, and the murderess, who had good reasons for not wishing to remain too long in Boston, packed up and came to London.

She did not come alone, for when she took lodgings at the house of a Mrs. Soames, at 27 Alfred Street, Bedford Square, she was accompanied by a man of the name of Dixon, whom she described as her husband. And packed away in her trunk was a large packet of colchicum, which had been left over after Mr. Mawer had been disposed of. There was enough of the poison to kill half a dozen persons. Perhaps if Mr. Dixon had been aware of that he might not have been so anxious to caress this human tigress.

But Catherine Wilson soon discovered that she had very little use for Dixon. He did not make enough money to please her, and when the last of Mr. Mawer's legacy had been spent she began to look about her for a fresh victim. Dixon was clearly in the way, particularly so since that Saturday night when he had returned home intoxicated and had struck her. The wretched man had no money, and Wilson had grown tired of him. Besides, their landlady, Mrs. Soames was by now Wilson's intimate friend, and she had learned that Mrs. Soames was by no means dependent on letting lodgings and that she had moneyed relatives and friends. Before she could attack Mrs. Soames it was necessary Dixon should be removed.

One day Dixon was taken ill, a curious wasting illness accompanied by terrible pains in the chest. Wilson hastened to assure everybody she knew that her "husband" had always suffered from consumption, although, as she had to confess, outwardly he appeared to be very strong and healthy. After administering a few small doses of colchicum the monster finished off with a strong dose, and then the "widow" tearfully implored the doctor not to cut her "dear one" up because during his lifetime he had expressed a horror of that "indignity."

But the doctor would not give a death certificate without a post-mortem examination, for, Mrs. Wilson having insisted that the cause of Dixon's death was galloping consumption, the medical man was curious. His curiosity deepened when on opening the body he found the lungs absolutely perfect. Consumption then was not the reason. But what was? The doctors were puzzled, yet in some extraordinary manner Catherine Wilson wriggled out of danger, and Dixon was buried. No one accused her, and even if the doctor had his suspicions he never gave a hint of them.

The "widow" went about in mourning, and as she was quite alone in the world now Mrs. Soames was sweeter and more sympathetic than ever, and night after night the two women sat in the cosy little room Mrs. Wilson rented, and there exchanged confidences. The poisoner had a long series of skilful lies ready to impress her friend, but Mrs. Soames, who had nothing to conceal, disclosed the story of her life, and added particulars of her friends and relations.

When she told Mrs. Wilson after breakfast one morning that she was going out to receive from her step-brother a legacy which had been left her by an aunt the poisoner once again experienced that irresistible desire to take human life. But here there seemed to be no reason why she should run the risk of committing a cold-blooded crime. By killing Mrs. Soames she could not become possessed of her property, for the landlady had children, and she also had several male relatives who would have interfered at once had Mrs. Soames died and made a comparative stranger her sole heir.

Mrs. Soames was paid the money and returned home, where her married daughter had tea ready for her. They drank it alone, but as they were finishing Mrs. Wilson came to the door and asked the landlady to come upstairs with her. The request was complied with at once.

What happened at the interview we can only conjecture. Probably Mrs. Wilson first congratulated Mrs. Soames on the receipt of the legacy. Then she may have invited her to join her in a drink to her continued prosperity. Whatever did happen it is certain that from the time of that secret interview Mrs. Soames was never the same woman again.

The landlady could not get up next morning at her usual time. This was remarkable, because she was noted for her early rising, and she was not happy unless superintending the work of her house. Mrs. Wilson was, of course, deeply concerned for her friend, and she asked the daughter to be permitted to look after her mother.

Without waiting for permission the depraved creature appointed herself the only nurse, and she would not allow anyone else to give the patient her medicines. All the special food, too, passed through her hands, and when compelled by sheer exhaustion to take a little rest Wilson did not return to her own bedroom, but snatched a couple of hours sleep in an arm-chair in Mrs. Soames's room.

On the fourth day of her illness Mrs. Soames had ceased to vomit, and was not suffering any pain. Catherine Wilson pretended to be delighted, though really she was puzzled by the marvellous recovery the landlady had made. By sheer luck she had managed to resist the poison her "nurse" had been giving her. Of course she did not suspect this, nor could she gather from the concerned look on Wilson's face that the truth was that the murderess of Mr. Mawer and Dixon was going to give her a large dose of colchicum that very day and kill her.

Bending over the patient, Wilson offered her another dose of medicine, and the trusting woman took it with gratitude, for she had told her "friend" that her recovery was due to her nursing. But within a few minutes the landlady was screaming in agony again, and an hour later Catherine Wilson was silently weeping by the window while the doctor, who had been summoned in haste, announced that Mrs. Soames was dead.

The same doctor had attended Dixon, and although the symptoms were similar in both cases he did not suspect Catherine Wilson of murder. Mr. Whidburn—that was his name—was studiously correct, and, as in the case of Dixon, he refused to give a medical certificate without a post-mortem examination. He made the examination himself, and then certified that death had occurred from natural causes. Mrs. Soames's nearest relation received the certificate, and the murderess was safe. She surprised the family, however, by a demand for the payment of ten pounds which she said her late landlady owed her, and when she adduced proof in the shape of a signed promise to pay by Mrs. Soames the money was handed over. Nothing was said as to anything Mrs. Wilson may have owed Mrs. Soames. Later it was known that she had borrowed a fairly large sum from the kind-hearted landlady, and it was suspected with good cause that the promissory note for ten pounds was a forgery. But these were of no importance when later the gravest of all charges was made against the poisoner.

The death of Mrs. Soames resulted in another change of address for Catherine Wilson, and she went some distance away from Bedford Square, engaging rooms in Loughborough Road, Brixton.

The poisoner was well off, and did not stint herself, and it was assumed by her new acquaintance that the late Mr. Wilson had dowered her with sufficient goods to enable her to live independently of the world.

It may be noted here that a few weeks before the death of Mrs. Soames, Wilson had spent nearly a fortnight shopping with a friend from the North, Mrs. Atkinson. One day Mrs. Atkinson had had the misfortune to lose a purse containing fifty-one pounds. It was a terrible blow, and Mrs. Wilson was so grieved for her that she offered to lend her all the spare cash she had. The offer was refused—as Wilson had known it would be—and Mrs. Atkinson had returned home without having breathed a word against her old friend. But when Catherine Wilson came back after seeing Mrs. Atkinson off from King's Cross she was in funds, and the following day she made an extensive purchase of clothes for herself. Picking the pocket of her best friend was the smallest of sins to a woman who could take human life without a moment's hesitation.

It was the custom of Mrs. Atkinson to come to London once a year, and generally during the month of October. She and her husband lived in Kirkby Lonsdale, in Cumberland. Mr. Atkinson was a tailor, while his wife ran a millinery and dressmaking establishment on her own account. Strict attention to business and frugal living were the sources of the prosperity of the Atkinsons, and, on her annual visits to London Mrs. Atkinson never came provided with less than a hundred pounds with which to buy stock. She carried the notes concealed about her person, and, of course, her severe loss in 1859 made her more careful than ever when she came to London in the October of 1860.

Mrs. Atkinson's visit to the Metropolis was exceedingly well-timed from Wilson's point of view. All the money she had obtained during the previous twelve months had vanished, and she was behind with her rent. Her new landlady, fiercely practical, was demanding payment every day, and her affairs were so bad that, beyond the paltry breakfast she extracted from the landlady, she often saw no food during a whole day. It would not have done to have disclosed the true state of affairs to her friend from the North. That might have frightened her away. She invited her to stay with her, and then she told her landlady that her prosperous friend would lend her the money to pay all her debts. In the circumstances the landlady was only too pleased to see Mrs. Atkinson in her house. Mrs. Atkinson left Kirkby Lonsdale in perfect health, and looking forward with zest to her stay in London. A keen business woman, she, nevertheless, knew how to combine business with pleasure, and, having said good-bye to her husband, she departed in excellent spirits. Mrs. Wilson met her at the terminus, and after a substantial tea—for which, of course, the visitor paid—they went by omnibus to Loughborough Road, Brixton, and, as the landlady afterwards testified, Mrs. Atkinson arrived there in the best of health, light-hearted and jolly. She must have been a sharp contrast to Catherine Wilson, whose countenance was repulsive, and whose manner was the secretive one of the poisoner.

The women went about everywhere together, Mrs. Atkinson paying all expenses. On this occasion the visitor had brought a hundred and ten pounds in notes with her, for business had been good and her customers were increasing. The hungry eyes of Catherine Wilson gleamed at the sight of the notes, and her bony fingers longed to clutch them. Every day saw the number of notes grow gradually less as Mrs. Atkinson was buying stock, and the poisoner knew that unless she hurried there would not be enough money left to make it worth her while to add to her list of crimes.

On the fourth day Mr. Atkinson was busy in his shop at Kirkby Lonsdale when a telegram was handed to him. He read it anxiously—for telegrams were a novelty—and nearly collapsed under the blow. The message was from Loughborough Road, Brixton, London, S.W., and it said that his wife was dangerously ill. Flinging all business on one side the unhappy man hastened to London, arriving only in time to watch her die. She was unconscious when he entered the room, and passed away without a word to him.

The broken-hearted husband was stunned by the blow, and his poor wife's "friend" was prostrated. Mrs. Wilson, he was informed, had taken to her bed upon being informed of her dearest friend's death, and her grief was so intense that she was with difficulty induced to give a brief account of Mrs. Atkinson's last day on earth.

The doctor assured Mr. Atkinson that no one could be more surprised than he was at the fatal termination of Mrs. Atkinson's illness. An extensive practice had brought him into contact with death in many shapes, but there was nothing like this in all his experience. He advised a post-mortem examination to ascertain the cause of death, and the husband of the murdered woman seemed inclined to sanction that course when Catherine Wilson came forward with a pathetic story of a dying request from Mrs. Atkinson that she, her best friend, would see to it that her body was not "cut up."

In the most natural manner the poisoner told her lie, and Mr. Atkinson, to whom every word of his wife was sacred, withheld his approval, and no examination took place.

Now, Mr. Atkinson was well aware that his wife had brought a hundred and ten pounds to London with her, and he searched for the notes amongst her effects. When he failed to discover a single one he turned to Mrs. Wilson for an explanation. Had his wife paid all the money away? It was most unlikely that she had. But he was even more astounded when Mrs. Wilson informed him that his wife had arrived in London with only her return ticket and a few shillings.

"Didn't she write and tell you what happened?" said the poisoner, who was dressed in black, and carried a pocket handkerchief with which she dabbed her eyes every other moment.

"No, I didn't get a single letter from her," said Mr. Atkinson. "I was a bit surprised, but I thought she was too busy to write."

Catherine Wilson knew this, for she had destroyed two letters which Mrs. Atkinson had written to her husband, the unfortunate woman having entrusted them to her to post. She now pretended to fathom the reason for Mrs. Atkinson's silence.

"She was so tender-hearted, Mr. Atkinson," she said, with a catch in her voice, "that she wouldn't tell you the bad news. I'm sorry to say that she was robbed of all her money at Rugby."

"Rugby!" exclaimed Mr. Atkinson, in astonishment. "What was she doing at Rugby? I don't understand you."

"She was taken ill in the train," said the woman, lying glibly, "and when it stopped at Rugby she got out. Soon afterwards she became faint again, and when she recovered she found she had been robbed. Then she came on here and told me, and I've been lending her money to get about. She was hoping the money would be recovered before she had to tell you. Oh, she was goodness itself, and I have lost my dearest and only friend."

She sank into a chair, sobbing as though her heart was breaking, and Mr. Atkinson, who had been seized with a suspicion, engendered by a memory of the loss of the purse containing fifty-one pounds the year before, dismissed his thoughts as unfair to the woman who was mourning so whole-heartedly over the loss of the wife he loved. He did not dwell any longer on the disappearance of the notes. After all, his wife was dead, and all the money in the world could not bring her back to him.

He journeyed home again, and Catherine Wilson waited only for a week to go by before she paid her debts, added to her wardrobe, and proudly exhibited a diamond ring which she said Mr. Atkinson had given her as a small token of his gratitude for her care of his wife. It had been the property of the late Mrs. Atkinson, but the poisoner had stolen it before the body of her victim was cold.

It may well be asked how Catherine Wilson could commit so many cold-blooded murders unchecked. It seems to us that it ought to have been impossible for a healthy woman to die in agony and yet be buried without a coroner's inquest. But that is what happened sixty-one years ago, and we must be thankful that nowadays a person of the Catherine Wilson type would have an extremely brief career.

The cases described do not comprise all her crimes. There were two other persons she attacked with her poisons who happily escaped with their lives, and there was an old lady in Boston who died in such circumstances that it is practically certain Catherine Wilson poisoned her. She had been friendly with her, and her sudden death benefited Wilson to the extent of over a hundred pounds.

Such is the history of the woman who was arrested for attempting to poison Mrs. Connell. The period between committal for trial and the proceedings at the Old Bailey was a protracted one, but the prisoner maintained a sullen demeanour whilst under the care of the prison authorities.

Occasionally she protested her innocence, but she was crafty enough not to say much, and when she entered the dock at the Central Criminal Court she was still a human enigma to all who had come in contact with her.

That she appeared confident of a favourable verdict was obvious, and it had to be admitted that whilst the prosecution had plenty of surmise and suspicion they had very little legal proof. The defence relied almost entirely on the absence of motive and the fact that no one had actually seen the prisoner place the poison in Mrs. Connell's medicine. There were a great many suspicious circumstances which the prosecution rightly demanded an explanation of, but the prisoner's counsel pointed out that his client must be assumed to be innocent until her guilt was proved. It was no part of his duty to incriminate her or assist the prosecution. The judge summed up in a way which indicated that in his opinion the prosecution had not established beyond all doubt the guilt of the prisoner, and the jury, realizing that if they made a mistake and sent an innocent woman to the gallows they could not undo it, decided to be on the safe side. They, therefore, returned a verdict of "Not Guilty," and Catherine Wilson, poisoner, forger and thief, left the dock with a smile on her hard face and a glint of triumph in her eyes.

How she must have laughed in secret at her victory! What fools she must have thought the twelve good men and true were! Her character was vindicated, and she was safe. She was to suffer a severe shock, however.

A few days later an amiable-looking man stopped her just as she was leaving her lodgings.

"Excuse me," he said politely, one hand in his pocket wherein lay an important legal document, "but are you Mrs. Catherine Wilson?"

"Yes," said the poisoner, who feared no one after her Old Bailey triumph. "What do you want with me?"

"I am a police officer," he answered, producing the paper, "and I must ask you to accompany me to the station. I have a warrant for your arrest on a charge of murder."

"Murder?" she gasped, terrified for a moment. Then she laughed. "Whose murder?" She might well ask that question seeing that there were several with which she could have been charged.

"That of Mrs. Soames, of 27 Alfred Street, Bedford Square," he answered, glancing at the warrant.

The police had not been idle during that long remand following the mysterious poisoning of Mrs. Connell. They had delved completely into Catherine Wilson's past, and when they had compiled a list of her crimes the authorities decided that they would arrest her again and charge her with Mrs. Soames's death. They could have added others, but, knowing with whom they were dealing, they thought it better to keep the cases of Mr. Mawer and Mrs. Atkinson in reserve. Should her first trial for murder result in acquittal they would charge her with having caused the death of Mrs. Atkinson, and so on, until they had removed this danger to society.

But the prosecution made no mistake this time, and Catherine Wilson was in the coils from the moment she listened to the outline of the case against her at the Police Court.

Further facts were brought forward at the Old Bailey, and so skilfully did the authorities present their case that when the jury returned their verdict of guilty, and Mr. Justice Byles was passing sentence, he could say: "The result upon my mind is that I have no more doubt that you committed the crime than if I had seen it committed with my own eyes."

With a smile of contempt the poisoner left the dock and when she was led forth to die in public, and twenty thousand persons watched her last moments, she presented the same cool, sneering manner, absolutely indifferent to her fate, quite unafraid of death, and without a word of sorrow or repentance for her terrible crimes.

CHAPTER XVI
PIERRE VOIRBO

The case of Pierre Voirbo, the murderer of Désiré Bodasse, an old man who had been his friend, is one of the most remarkable of French crimes. It established the reputation of Macé, the famous detective, who devoted a book to explaining how he succeeded in tracing the murderer from the first clue—a pair of human legs—to the last, when, by a simple experiment, he located the very spot where the murder had been committed. If Macé had not been an exceedingly clever man Voirbo must have escaped, for he took every precaution to cover up his tracks, and was undoubtedly assisted by luck. But the strong arm of the law triumphed in the end.

Voirbo was by trade a tailor, and by inclination a devotee of pleasure. He worked when he felt inclined, and if he could borrow or steal he preferred either as a source of income to the small profits derived from the making and repairing of clothes. He frequented low-class cafés, and gambled whenever he could, and, in addition, he had a pretty taste in wines. Yet for all his laziness and dissipation it was often remarked that Pierre Voirbo seemed never to be without money. He neglected his work until customers became few and far between, but he was never behindhand with his rent, and he could afford to employ an old woman to keep his rooms tidy.

The time came, however, when Voirbo thought of marriage. The hero of many conquests, he had not really been attracted by the opposite sex until he met a good-looking girl with a dowry of fifteen thousand francs. Then he found the good looks and the dowry irresistible attractions. He considered himself not wanting in appearance and ability, though he was actually below the medium height, had black hair and eyes, and a thin, cruel mouth. Eyes and mouth bore witness to his dissipation, but the girl evidently was blinded by love, for she agreed to marry Voirbo. When her parents were told they gave their consent on the condition that the bridegroom-to-be brought into the marriage settlements at least ten thousand francs. Voirbo instantly expressed his ability to provide that amount, and he was thereupon formally acknowledged to be the girl's fiancé by her parents, who did not know that, so far from being in possession of ten thousand francs, the tailor owed many thousands already, and had not a hundred francs to call his own. Voirbo, however, believed that he would be able to raise the money. Penury had sharpened his wits and endowed him with self-confidence.

A vague idea now occurred to him of borrowing the money, exhibiting it to the girl's parents, and then returning it when he got his hands on his wife's dot. It was a pretty scheme, but its weak point was that, owing to his reputation, there was no one in the country who would lend him a franc, and after a little consideration he abandoned the scheme.

But he was determined to have the girl's marriage dot no matter what the cost. Fifteen thousand francs meant a fortune to him. It would last a long time, and when it was gone it would be quite easy to desert his bride, and seek another elsewhere. It was, indeed, a pretty plan he conceived, though he knew that the first obstacle—raising that sum of ten thousand francs—would prove the most difficult of all.

Amongst his friends was an old man, Désiré Bodasse, a worker in tapestry, who had been Voirbo's companion in more than one midnight spree. Bodasse, however, had never opened his purse to pay. It was Voirbo who always paid for their food and drink, the spindle-legged little man, with the dry cough, chuckling to himself as he saw the young fool throw his money away. Bodasse boasted that for every franc he spent he saved three, and he naturally despised anyone who spent his money on others. Voirbo, however, had taken a fancy to Bodasse, and was very often seen in his society, while everybody marvelled at the strange partnership between two men who were so dissimilar.

It was to Désiré Bodasse that Voirbo went with the story that he must raise ten thousand francs at once. The younger man painted a glowing picture of the wealth of his future wife exaggerating her fifteen thousand francs until it became a dot four times as great. Bodasse listened with a thin smile on his thinner face, and when Voirbo's outburst was over congratulated him sarcastically.

The tailor ignored the sarcasm, and, after a pause, boldly asked Bodasse to lend him ten thousand francs. He knew that the old fellow had that sum and more in the box under his bed, for Bodasse had been saving for years, and was a rich man, and, Voirbo argued, the time had come when Bodasse could show that he was not ungrateful for the entertainment he had enjoyed for years at his expense.

The worker in tapestry, however, was not the man to part with his money. It was all he lived for; it was all he thought about; and in a few curt words he gave Voirbo to understand that if his marriage depended on the success of his application he had better forget all about it at once. In short, he would not lend him ten francs, much less ten thousand.

There was no one else to whom he could apply, and Bodasse's refusal filled Voirbo with dismay, but he had to pretend to be indifferent after the first shock of disappointment was over, and an hour later both men appeared to have forgotten the incident when they sat in a café and drank wine to one another's health. But Voirbo's brain was on fire. He had regarded the capture of the girl's fifteen thousand francs as a certainty, and he could not bear to admit to himself that he was going to lose her fortune after all. Where could he raise ten thousand francs? Besides his ostensible occupation of tailor he was one of the numerous agents of the Paris secret police. He had used his official position in the past to blackmail inoffensive citizens, but he knew that it would take him more than a year to raise ten thousand francs by that method.

Bodasse, unconscious of his companion's thoughts, continued to drink at Voirbo's expense, while the latter was rapidly summing up to himself the risks he would have to run if he murdered the man sitting opposite him. He knew all about Bodasse's life—the fellow's miserly habits; his lack of friends because he had been afraid that if he made many they might cost him money; his unpopularity in the neighbourhood in which he lived, and the well-known fact that his greatest wish was to be left alone. Voirbo recalled, too, that Bodasse was in the habit of disappearing from human sight for weeks at a time, when he either shut himself up in his room or went into the country. In the former case he was wont to provide himself with sufficient food to last out his spell of seclusion, and if letters came they were pushed under his door so that he might not be disturbed by having to open it. With murder in his heart, Voirbo thought over this, and came to the only possible conclusion—the murder of Désiré Bodasse would be about the easiest crime to commit and the chances of escape would favour him.

The bottle of wine finished, Voirbo suggested an adjournment to his rooms, where he had often provided Bodasse with food. The old miser agreed with alacrity, and shortly afterwards they were in an apartment at the top of a high house. From outside the murmur of traffic faintly reached their ears, and from the stairs came occasional voices, but, for all that, the two men were quite alone, and Bodasse was absolutely at the mercy of the younger and stronger man.

The temptation was irresistible. Voirbo looked at the small body and wizened face, the thin, scraggy neck and the lustreless eyes. Life seemed to be half-way out of his body already, and it would be easy to let the other half out too. Bodasse was sitting with his back towards Voirbo, who had risen and was walking irresolutely about the room.

Suddenly the fellow found the courage to put his thoughts into acts. A heavy flat-iron, such as tailors use, was lying handy. He picked it up, poised it for a moment, and then brought it down upon the old man's head with a fearful crash, which sent him in a heap on the floor. There he finished him by cutting his throat. The first act in the drama was accomplished.

Until the murder was done Voirbo had not thought of locking the door, but now he ran to it and turned the key. There were at least a dozen persons in the building at the time, for it was let out in apartments, but Voirbo, with extraordinary self-possession, proceeded to make arrangements for disposing of the body. He could not carry it out as it was, and, therefore, like many other murderers, he decided to divide it into several pieces. The head is, of course, the most important part of the body, because it is the easiest to identify. Get rid of the head and identification is rendered a hundred times more difficult. Voirbo gave it his special attention, and he disposed of it by filling the eyes and mouth with lead and dropping it into the Seine. The rest of the body was carted away in pieces, but on his second journey he had a very narrow escape, and disaster would have resulted early on had he not formed his plans with the utmost thoroughness. He undoubtedly proved himself efficient in small matters as well as in large, as his unexpected meeting with the police showed.

With a hamper and a large parcel, both containing portions of the murdered man's body, he left the house one dark December night, with the intention of pitching them into the Seine at a spot where there would be no one to notice him. The hamper and the parcel were heavy, cumbrous and conspicuous, but Voirbo knew that on such a night there would be few pedestrians, and any who noticed him would think that he had been doing his Christmas shopping, and was taking the Christmas dinner and some presents home to his family. Owing to the weight of his double burden progress was slow, but Voirbo was not nervous. Nobody gave him a second glance, and he had the satisfaction of meeting more than one late shopper carrying big parcels too.

But just as he was congratulating himself on complete success he was horrified to see two policemen coming straight towards him. His legs trembled, and for a moment he thought of dropping hamper and parcel and taking to flight, but before he could make up his mind the two officers of the law had stopped in front of him, and one was actually resting a hand on the hamper.

"Who are you, and what's inside your parcels?" said one of the policemen suspiciously.

There had been numerous robberies in the district lately, and the police had received special instructions to keep a sharp look out for midnight marauders. In fact, these two officers were looking for a burglar or a street robber. They never thought of aiming as high as a murderer.

With difficulty Voirbo found his voice.

"I—I couldn't get a cab at the station, messieurs," he said, with a smile, "and so I've been compelled to carry home my purchases. This parcel contains two hams. You can feel how heavy it is! The hamper—see the label. It arrived for me by train."

The officers examined the label on the hamper. It apparently had been addressed at a distant suburb and consigned to Paris. The label certainly looked genuine enough, and the explanation of hams in the parcel accounted for its unusual weight.

The policemen consulted in whispers. They had been impressed by Voirbo's frankness, and eventually they permitted him to pass on. Had they examined the contents of either hamper or parcel they would have been able to arrest there and then as cruel a murderer as France has ever known. It was characteristic of Voirbo's cleverness that he should have labelled the hamper before emerging into the open with it.

Gradually he got rid of the rest of the body, the last expedition being to the well of an apartment house close by, where he left the legs of his victim.

As an agent of the secret police Voirbo was conversant with police methods, and also had access to their offices. He knew that he would be one of the first to hear if the authorities had been advised of either Bodasse's disappearance or the discovery of any portion of his body. For some days after the crime he frequented the police offices, and what he saw there convinced him that he could never be brought to account for his crime. Discovery was impossible, and he was quite safe.

But so thorough was he in his methods that he did not stop at disposing of the body and robbing his victim. It was necessary to make the people in the house where Bodasse had lived believe that the old tapestry worker was still alive, though invisible behind the locked door. Accordingly, Voirbo, having filled his pockets with Bodasse's savings—they amounted to about thirty thousand francs, mainly in the form of Italian bonds payable to bearer—proceeded to impersonate his victim.

For days and nights after Bodasse was murdered the woman who lived in the room underneath heard footsteps over her and, well aware that Désiré Bodasse never received visitors, told her friends that the old man, though he had not been seen for some days, was hiding in his room as usual. Whenever letters came for him they were pushed under the door, and, of course, opened and read by Voirbo. The murderer, however, would not remain in the room all night, and when darkness fell he left, having first placed a lighted candle near the window so that anyone who looked up would say that Bodasse was at home. Each candle burned for three hours before spluttering feebly out.

Every night for a fortnight the lighted candle was seen and commented on, and, furthermore, the shadow of a man's head was occasionally seen across the blind. The neighbours gossipped about him, telling one another that Monsieur Bodasse was at home. No one expected to see him in the flesh for weeks, for it was understood that he had given way to one of his fits of solitude and would resent a call.

Voirbo, confident, triumphant, careless, and revelling in his own cleverness, went to his prospective father-in-law and told him that he was now ready to produce the ten thousand francs which he required as evidence of his position. This promise he carried out, and, the girl's dot being brought into the common fund, the marriage was fixed to take place a few days later.

"My rich friend, Père Bodasse, will attend me," he said proudly to the family into which he was marrying. He spoke, of course, after the murder of the old man. "He is a bit of a miser, but I expect a handsome present from him."

They little knew he had already murdered and robbed Bodasse.

The family, impressed by Voirbo's fortune, expressed themselves as most anxious to make the acquaintance of Monsieur Bodasse, and they were looking forward to that honour when, on the day of the wedding, Voirbo told them that Bodasse had meanly run off to the country to avoid buying him a wedding present.

"He will not get himself a new coat, the old miser!" he added in angry contempt. "And that is why he is not here. He knows his clothes are too shabby. I have spent much money on him in the past, but never again."

It was, however, a small incident, and in no way spoilt the happiness of all concerned. There was a banquet at an hotel, and afterwards the married couple left for a short honeymoon. They were not to return to Voirbo's apartments, for he had given them up and had taken a house elsewhere.

With his wife's fortune he had now over forty thousand francs and the newly married couple set up housekeeping on an ambitious scale, because Voirbo declared that he could earn quite a large income from his trade, so, when the honeymoon finished, realizing that it would be risky to parade his prosperity, he settled down to work. He had taken measures to conceal the stolen property, and, secure and confident, he lived from day to day, expecting that in time Bodasse's disappearance would lead to an inquiry, but utterly fearless of the consequences to himself. And all the time his young and pretty girl-wife never suspected that there was anything wrong.

The third week of that new year—1870—was drawing to a close when Voirbo heard that the legs he had thrown into the well belonging to the restaurant in the Rue Princesse had been found. He received the news calmly, and offered no comment until he was told that Macé, then in charge of the police department of the quarter where the remains had been discovered, was commissioned to unravel the mystery. Now Voirbo knew Macé, and had never had a good opinion of his ability.

"He'll never solve it," he said, with a laugh that reflected his own satisfaction.

He felt that he was lucky not to have one of the leading detectives on the case. He feared the proved, tried men who had unravelled the dark mysteries of the past. But as for Macé, well, he was young and inexperienced, and Voirbo was prepared to make him a present not only of the legs, but of the rest of the body, if it could be found. Nevertheless, curiosity, mingled with some anxiety, induced Voirbo to pay a visit to Macé's office. He was, of course, able to stroll in whenever he liked, because he was in the police service himself, and, naturally, his interest in the mystery of the Rue Princesse excited no suspicion. There was nothing remarkable about his inquiries. All Paris was roused by the discovery of the legs, and Voirbo was as anxious as anyone to hear the latest news.

On the occasion of his first visit he was told the result of the medical examination, and how he must have grinned in secret when he was informed that two doctors, experts in the art of identifying human remains, had given it as their opinion that the legs belonged to a woman. Their thinness, the size of the feet, and the fact that they were clothed in stockings, gave rise to this mistake, which caused the police to spend a long time looking for the body of a woman.

The one clue they had was the letter "B" marked between two crosses. That was all the detectives had to go upon, and for days the police inquired if anyone had missed a girl whose Christian or surname began with B. And Pierre Voirbo continued to laugh at them!

Macé worked day and night on the mystery. During the previous three months eighty-four women had been reported as missing, and after the most careful examination into each case the detective selected three as being most likely to help in the solution of the puzzle. Great was his amazement to discover all three alive and well!

Meanwhile other parts of the body of Bodasse were picked up, though, as Macé was searching for a woman, all these parts were not assumed to belong to the legs. Half a dozen mysteries seemed likely to be manufactured out of one, when Macé had the good fortune to think of submitting the legs to another expert. It was only by chance that he did this, but when Dr. Tardieu unhesitatingly affirmed the legs to be those of a man the detective realized that he had been working on the wrong lines altogether.

The fixing of the sex was a most important and valuable matter, although even now the mystery seemed quite unfathomable. Macé, however, was determined that the murderer should be brought to justice. He meant to devote all his time and ability to the task.