His first examination of the cloth in which the legs had been wrapped before being cast into the well had convinced him that the parcels had been made up by a tailor. They bore certain marks, and the string used as well as the cloth confirmed him in this opinion. He started at the house in the Rue Princesse, making diligent inquiries as to whether a tailor had ever resided there, but was informed that a tailor had never been one of the tenants. The detective was not satisfied, and he got the old woman who acted as concierge to chat to him about the tenants, past and present.
The woman, glad of an audience, entered into a minute account of the habits of the scores of men and women she had met in that house. Most men would have been bored to distraction, and would have ended the interview abruptly, but Macé listened patiently, only interrupting when the old woman casually mentioned a girl of the name of Dard, whose claim on fame was that, although she was now on the variety stage, she at one time lived in the house as a humble seamstress.
The detective looked up at the mention of the word "seamstress." Here, then, was somebody who had worked for a tailor. It was but a slight clue, yet it might be worth something.
The old woman gabbled on.
"She gave me a lot of trouble, monsieur," she said, in a croaking voice. "Some one was always bringing her work, and their dirty boots meant that I had to wash down the stairs after them. There was one man, too, who always carried water from the well upstairs for her. He used to spill it, making more work for me."
"What was the name of the man?" asked the officer quietly.
The woman did not know; but before he left the Rue Princesse the detective had established the facts, that Pierre Voirbo was the man's name, and that he had lived close by, and was a tailor by trade.
All trivial clues, and based on conjecture, but Macé considered them worth his trouble. He felt that he was getting on, and when he discovered that Pierre Voirbo had had a friend named Bodasse—Mademoiselle Dard told him this—who had not been seen for a long time, he congratulated himself, recalling the initial on the stocking.
But there yet remained the difficulty of identification. Step by step he delved into Voirbo's life, and simultaneously set going the inquiries that ended in the finding of an old lady who was Bodasse's aunt. She was instantly taken to the Morgue to view the stocking with the initial on it, and, greatly to the delight of the police, immediately identified it as belonging to her nephew. She had the best of reasons for her statement, for she had marked the stockings herself. It appeared that, as Bodasse suffered from cold legs, he had had the upper part of a woman's stockings joined to the feet of a man's socks. This accounted in a measure for the mistake of the doctors who had certified the human legs to be those of a woman.
The aunt said that she had not seen her nephew for a month, but had not felt alarmed on this account. She was used to his ways, and she illustrated them by relating how once when Bodasse had been unwell he had entered a hospital under a false name so that he might receive care and attention free of cost to himself.
Madame, however, was of further use, as she was able to describe the appearance of Bodasse's friend, Pierre Voirbo. She gave information as to his habits, and Macé quickly had the story of the marriage, the ten thousand francs, the change of address, and all else of importance that concerned Voirbo at his finger-ends. There only remained now the task of proving that Désiré Bodasse had disappeared on a certain date, and the detective went to the apartment house where Bodasse had lived.
Here he met with a most unexpected rebuff. The concierge actually informed him that Monsieur Bodasse was at home at that very moment! The night before she had seen a light in his room, and had noticed his shadow across the blind. If her word was doubted, she added the indisputable evidence that that very morning she had seen Bodasse in the street!
The witness was undeniably respectable, and Macé had to accept her word, and, now that Bodasse was not the victim, he had to pursue his investigations elsewhere; but before he left he deposited a letter with the concierge to be handed over to the old miser when he returned.
But Macé never forgot Pierre Voirbo. The man might be innocent, but there was suspicion enough to justify his being kept in sight. Even if Bodasse was not the man whose legs they had found in the well, it was just possible that Voirbo had got rid of the miser for the sake of his savings. For that reason he was shadowed, and, when, after a long wait and no sign of Bodasse's return, the police determined to break into his room they discovered that whoever had inhabited it recently it had not been the tenant, for a robbery had taken place.
The mystery became complicated, and yet simpler. Who was the mysterious person who had walked about Bodasse's room, and who had come every night to light the candle? The bed had not been slept in for weeks. It was, therefore, obvious that the thief had not remained there all night.
Macé had one answer only, and that was Pierre Voirbo. The fellow had a very bad record, and his association with the secret police did not earn for him any prestige in the eyes of the law. He was a dissipated loafer, ready to betray friend and foe alike, and Macé was well aware that Voirbo was quite equal to murdering Bodasse for much less than ten thousand francs.
Yet the detective hesitated and it was only after tracing Italian securities belonging to the murdered man to Voirbo's possession that Macé decided to arrest him. Time had been lost in investigating certain clues suggested by Voirbo himself, but there could be little doubt now that they had been merely blinds to distract suspicion from himself. Voirbo must have realized that his position was growing worse every day. He had begun by affecting to despise Macé, but by now he knew that the young officer had proved himself to be a past-master in the art of detection.
By a coincidence the very morning appointed by Macé for Voirbo's arrest saw the suspected man walk into the detective's office, apparently quite unconscious of his fate. He had come, as usual, to offer his opinion on the great mystery, and to accuse more innocent men. Macé kept him waiting for half an hour, and when he eventually turned to speak to him Voirbo dropped a card from his pocket-book. Macé picked it up for him, and as he did so saw at a single glance that Voirbo had booked a passage on a ship leaving France, and had given a false name.
Ten minutes later Voirbo was under arrest. He swore that he was innocent, and reviled Macé horribly. But the detective was unmoved, although there was much to be accomplished before legal proof was forthcoming.
A visit was paid to Voirbo's wife, an innocent girl, whose heart was broken when she learned the truth. She produced the box where her and her husband's marriage dots were kept. Macé opened it, and showed that it was empty. He had robbed his wife as well as Bodasse.
The officer, however, was determined to find the securities Voirbo had stolen from Bodasse's room, and he began a thorough search. When he reached the cellar he found two casks of wine. A strict examination of these revealed a piece of black string tied to a bung above the head of one of the casks. Macé drew it out, and at the end found a thin metal cylinder, neatly soldered. Inside were the missing securities.
Another experiment remained. Voirbo was taken by the police to the room where it was suspected the crime had been committed. Here Macé had him forcibly seated in a chair, and in his presence the detective tested the slope of the floor by pouring water on it. The water instantly dribbled towards the bed, finally settling in a particular spot. The boards were taken up, and congealed blood found.
Macé had argued that during the murder of Bodasse much blood had been spilt, and that some of it must have sunk between the boards at a point where the slope had brought it to a standstill. Voirbo had washed the top of the boards, but had forgotten to wash underneath.
This simple experiment had such an effect upon Voirbo that he instantly confessed to the crime, telling everything without reservation. He did not, however, go to the guillotine, for before his trial, and after one abortive attempt to escape, he cut his throat in prison. The knife with which he took his own life was smuggled into the gaol concealed in a loaf, and although Macé strove valiantly to discover the person who had sent it to Voirbo he never succeeded.
CHAPTER XVII
EMANUEL BARTHÉLEMY
Emanuel Barthélemy was a villain of the melodramatic type. Throughout his stormy and adventurous life he appeared to be fully conscious of the fact that he was acting a part. He was theatrical in everything he did; yet the touch of realism was seldom lacking, and he lived and died without fear. He was tall, strongly-built, with a large head, thick hair, an expressive cast of countenance; dark, flashing eyes, and a mouth that was eloquent of the villain's vile, savage temper. Barthélemy was a revolutionary by profession, utterly unprincipled; killing because he loved it as a sport, and the times in which he lived provided him with numerous opportunities to gratify his propensity for murder. His luck was extraordinary until he ran counter to the English law, and, although he escaped the death penalty once in England, on the second occasion he stood his trial for murder he was sentenced and executed.
Barthélemy was a Frenchman, and in the early part of the nineteenth century he took part in many revolutions in France. Louis XVIII, who had been restored to his kingdom by the victory of Waterloo, was finding it difficult to maintain his dynasty, and Barthélemy was one of those who objected to his reign. His objection took the extreme form of shooting dead an unfortunate gendarme in cold blood. This was Barthélemy's first big venture, and he was sentenced to the galleys for life as a punishment, being lucky to escape with his life. But the murderer did not serve his sentence. In 1830 the political party he favoured succeeded in gaining the upper-hand, and Barthélemy's callous crime was duly considered to be a "political offence," and accordingly he was released, along with thousands of genuine victims of the ruthlessness of the Bourbons.
This was, indeed, a matter for much satisfaction and enjoyment, and Barthélemy, nothing daunted, threw himself into the fray again. He became a sort of unofficial police spy, and for years haunted the cafés where out-at-elbow politicians talked treason and other things.
When a new Chief of Police was appointed the spy lost his situation, and was compelled to join an active organization which was opposed to the ambitions of Louis Napoleon, but in 1848 there was again a revolution, and Louis Napoleon became Napoleon III. The new emperor treated his defeated opponents with ferocious cruelty, and with hundreds of other refugees Barthélemy fled to England to live in exile for the remainder of his life.
From the moment of his arrival in London he took a leading part in the counsels of the French colony. The refugees never abandoned their hope that Napoleon III would be driven from the throne of France. Day after day in poverty they fed on hope and ambition, and Barthélemy was ever the loudest and most swashbuckling of the optimists. It was observed that he was never without funds, although he came of a poor and humble family, but he was so outspoken against the new order of things in his native country that those who whispered that he was a paid spy in Napoleon's service were laughed to scorn.
In the course of time some of the refugees formed a small colony near Englefield Green, Egham, Middlesex, where they established a sort of country-house for the more respectable of the French exiles—men who really desired to serve their country, and who believed that Napoleon III was ruining it.
By some means Barthélemy found his way into the house at Egham, though his aggressive manner and somewhat uncouth ways were abhorrent to the majority, who were for the most part ex-officers of the French Army and Navy. However, his whole-souled hatred of the Emperor of the French was a passport to their society, and they tolerated him until he became intolerable.
Barthélemy was by nature and instinct a bully, and his favourite "argument" when anyone had the temerity to persist in contradicting him was a blow from his heavy fist. He had a powerful voice, too, and few persons could talk louder and longer than he, but, like all bullies, it was the easiest thing in the world for him to lose his temper.
His readiness to murder on sight, however, made him a hero in the eyes of the riff-raff amongst the refugees, but the better class regarded him with distrust, and only put up with his "eccentricities" because the movement was short of men.
Amongst the colony at Egham there was an ex-naval officer of the name of Cournet. He had served his country well without enriching himself, and in character and disposition he was the reverse of Barthélemy, though Cournet, when provoked, was fierce and short-tempered. Still, he was, as a rule, polite and courteous, and he never originated a quarrel. The numerous revolutions in France had involved him as principal in no fewer than fourteen duels, and on every occasion he had hit his man. He was, therefore, a duellist of renown, and his reputation amongst the exiles was second to none. Barthélemy did not like this, and he resolved to depose Cournet from his leadership. To do this he had to force a duel upon the ex-officer, and one night at Egham, when Cournet was in his mildest humour, Barthélemy sprang to his feet and swore that the older man had grossly insulted him. In the circumstances he considered that Cournet ought to give him the "usual satisfaction one gentleman owes to another," and that meant a duel. But Barthélemy had forgotten one thing. He had challenged Cournet, who, accordingly, had the right to name the weapons. Now, Cournet was an expert with the pistol, and Barthélemy considered himself equally expert with the sword. As the challenged party, however, Cournet selected pistols, and Barthélemy had to abide by his choice.
The duel was fixed for the following day, and Barthélemy passed a night of terror. He saw himself an easy target for the ex-officer's pistol. In fact, he was perfectly certain that he was going to his death, and he did not want to die.
His partisans meanwhile published abroad amongst the French colony in London the news of the quarrel. It divided them into two camps, each clamorous for its champion's superiority. Bets were made as to the result, and at about the time the duel was to take place a crowd of refugees assembled in Leicester Square to hear the result, just as in the past the race for the Derby has caused crowds to assemble outside the offices of sporting papers to await the name of the winner.
The duel was to determine who was the unofficial leader of the Frenchmen driven into exile by Napoleon III. Cournet's friends, however, were never uneasy as to the result. They knew that their man would and must win, but, unfortunately for their principal, they forgot to take measures to prevent his opponent fighting unfairly. Barthélemy and his intimates actually tampered with his pistol, the weapon which had won for him fourteen similar contests. To lessen the chances of discovery they arranged that Cournet's pistol should go off the moment the trigger was touched, but not in the direction intended by its owner, and then when Barthélemy presented his weapon at his opponent it would misfire, proving that his pistol was defective too. The misfiring, however, would not forfeit his turn to shoot, and at the second attempt Barthélemy would have no difficulty in making the pistol do his bidding. These were the final arrangements, and they were carried out without a single flaw.
The duellists assembled on Englefield Green, and Cournet won the right to the first shot. To his astonishment and anger the charge in his pistol exploded, and the bullet went harmlessly into the air. The ex-officer was not, however, afraid. He stood rigid whilst Barthélemy levelled his weapon. It misfired, and Barthélemy had to devote a little time to setting it right. Then he remembered that the episode provided him with a chance for a theatrical display. In the best manner of the stage hero he offered to forego his shot if Cournet would consent to continue the duel with swords. The ex-officer instantly rejected the offer, pointing out that if Barthélemy missed he would be entitled to another shot, and then, he grimly added, he would not miss again. Barthélemy knew quite well that his opponent spoke only the barest truth, and without another moment's delay he levelled his pistol and shot Cournet dead.
It was murder, and murder of the most brutal and disgraceful type, but none of the seconds realized that. From first to last they had treated the English law against duelling with the utmost contempt, although they knew that according to the law of the land they were all murderers.
But they regarded themselves as a French colony owning the laws of France only, and, leaving poor Cournet lying stark and stiff, the seconds and Barthélemy went off to London with the intention of celebrating the victory in the Soho Cafés frequented by their fellow-countrymen. However, they were not at liberty for long, for at Waterloo Station they were met by detectives who took them into custody.
That was in 1852, not many years after the abolition of duelling in England, and, in the circumstances, it was considered wiser by the authorities to place Barthélemy only on trial for the murder of Cournet.
When the case came on at Kingston-on-Thames all the facts mentioned above were cited by the prosecution. It was clearly proved that the contest had not been a duel at all, but a cold-blooded murder on the part of the prisoner and his accomplices. The tampered pistols were produced, and the whole of Barthélemy's villainy laid bare; indeed, Counsel for the prosecution had the easiest of tasks. When the jury retired there was considerable surprise in Court, for no sensible person having heard the evidence should have wished for time to consider his verdict.
The Surrey jury, however, were evidently of opinion that the case "wasn't so simple as it looked," and they spent some time in their private room, eventually returning to astound a packed Court by declaring their verdict to be one of manslaughter. Of course, there was no help for it, and instead of the scaffold Barthélemy received a nominal sentence, and was free again shortly afterwards.
The verdict of the jury—which in plain language meant that, in their opinion, the duel had been fairly fought—greatly enhanced Barthélemy's reputation amongst his countrymen. The better-disposed, however, avoided him, but in the purlieus of Soho it was considered an honour to stand the "hero" of Englefield Green a drink, or, when funds permitted, to offer him dinner. Barthélemy was undisputed king of the bullies now, and he thoroughly enjoyed his triumph. For some months he was lionized, and he did considerable entertaining in return, providing plenty of food and wine, particularly the latter.
It was said that his object was to make certain men speak freely and without thinking, and it was remarkable how well informed the Paris secret police were of the movements and doings of the principal members of the French colony in London about this time. But if Barthélemy was suspected of being their agent there was no proof against him, and the majority of those who knew him unreservedly accepted him as a pure-minded and high-souled patriot.
But gradually Barthélemy's funds ran out, and his borrowing powers showed signs of appreciable decline. The aggressive theatricalism of his manner remained, and he began to be something of a lady-killer. But most of the time he was vulgarly hard-up, and he detested poverty.
Some time in the year 1854 he came into the life of a tall, handsome girl who spoke French with an English accent. Who this girl was has never been discovered. She came on to the stage, as it were, with Barthélemy to take part in a tragedy that was to cost the villain his life, and when the drama was over she was never seen again, although the police of half a dozen countries devoted weeks to searching for her.
The girl was undoubtedly pretty, and she fell in love with Barthélemy, and, according to him, she told him a moving and pathetic story of neglect and ill-treatment by her own father. Her father, she declared, was Mr. George Moore, a well-to-do mineral water manufacturer, who lived at 73, Warren Street, Fitzroy Square, in the dull and dreary neighbourhood of Tottenham Court Road. She said he had promised to make her a comfortable allowance, but had failed to keep his word, and she implored Barthélemy to see that justice was done her.
Whether the murderer's statement was an invention or not we have no means of knowing, but he did call on Mr. Moore, and he took the girl with him, and the visit culminated in a terrible tragedy.
When the servant opened the door to the visitors she noticed that the lady wore a thick mantle and was heavily veiled. They passed upstairs to Mr. Moore's private room and were cordially received, for afterwards three siphons of lemonade were found on a table with three glasses. It may be mentioned that in addition to Mr. Moore and his female servant the only other resident in the house was a young grandchild of the tenant's.
For a few minutes Mr. Moore and his visitors chatted amicably—it was never known what passed between them—Barthélemy gave his version, but he was, amongst other things, a professional liar, and his word cannot be accepted. Mr. Moore undoubtedly received them in the friendliest manner, and he must have had a good reason for doing so. Who was the mysterious girl heavily veiled? What part did she take in the conversation that led up to the double murder?
Barthélemy's version was that he politely requested Mr. Moore to deal fairly by his own daughter, whom he intended to make his wife. Of course, as is the custom in France, the Frenchman pointed out that the bride must have a dowry. It was essential to the success of the matrimonial adventure that the wife should be in a position to support her husband. In this case the husband-to-be was the type that does not like work.
Perhaps Barthélemy's statement was true except in one particular. The mysterious lady may not have been the daughter of the manufacturer, but it is credible that Barthélemy may have planned the whole affair in order to blackmail Mr. Moore. No doubt he induced the girl to pose as the injured daughter, and it is conceivable that he coached her into acting the part of the grief-stricken woman whose mother was betrayed and deserted.
Mr. Moore listened to the demand for a settlement on the girl who said she was his daughter and then curtly declined to pay a penny. Barthélemy threatened him with loss of reputation and its twin, respectability. What would his friends think of him? The older man laughed contemptuously. He was not going to yield to a pair of blackmailers, and he told them to clear out of his house as quickly as possible.
All three by now would be on their feet, Barthélemy and Mr. Moore face to face, the former's eyes flashing, his pose theatrical; and the girl in the background watching, her face hidden by the heavy folds of her veil. The two men would be exchanging angry words, their tempers rising every moment until it would seem that they must be overheard by anybody in the street. But the blackmailer did not wish matters to go as far as that, and he suddenly ended the altercation by smashing Mr. Moore's head in with a blow from a loaded stick.
The unfortunate merchant collapsed in a heap on the floor, but he was by no means unconscious, and he shouted for help until his servant realized that her master was in danger. Throwing open the front door, she screamed in terror until the whole street was roused. A policeman came running towards her, and she gasped out what she knew.
It was obvious that the murderer would not attempt to leave by the front door, and as the only other means of exit was by way of the backyard and over certain walls the officer—Collard by name—who had served in the army and was a very brave man, without thinking of the risk or waiting for assistance, dashed round to the back of the house to intercept the Frenchman and his female companion. A small crowd guarded the front of the building, all of them valiantly prepared to take any risk because there were fifty of them to share it.
Meanwhile Barthélemy, realizing that he had killed Moore, and that the whole neighbourhood was roused, sought desperately for a way of escape. In the crisis he thought only of himself, and, without a word to the girl, he rushed from the room, darted downstairs and into the yard, climbed a wall at the back and jumped over, to find himself in the arms of the policeman.
The two men rolled and struggled in the road, the officer undismayed by Barthélemy's superiority in height and strength. Collard more than held his own, but Barthélemy, as in the case of his duel with Cournet, was not going to fight fairly. He drew his pistol the moment he was able to release one hand, and with the greatest deliberation fired twice into the body of his opponent.
There were several eye-witnesses of the crime, but no one appears to have attempted to detain the murderer, and Barthélemy would have got away if, just as Collard had fallen back with a groan, more police had not arrived on the scene. The Frenchman was speedily overcome by them and disarmed.
It had been a breathlessly exciting time from beginning to end, and it was not until Barthélemy was being taken to prison that it occurred to his captors to search for his female companion. She had not left the house by the front door, for there had been some one on guard there all the time, and now the police entered, expecting to find her hiding in one of the rooms at the top. Every possible exit was closed before the search began, but despite the protracted efforts of the officers of the law to locate her she was not found. In the room where the interview with Mr. Moore had taken place they discovered lying near the body of the murdered man a woman's mantle, the very one which she had worn when admitted by the servant, as the latter confirmed.
How had she escaped? If she had gone by the back way she could not have failed to attract the attention of the crowd which had assembled when Collard had tackled Barthélemy. Besides it was almost impossible for a girl to climb the wall unaided.
The authorities quickly discounted the theory of escape by the back, and in the end it was generally believed that the girl had come prepared for the tragedy, and that she had dressed herself in such a way that by discarding her outer garment she would look absolutely different from the person who had entered with Barthélemy. She must, therefore, have slipped off her cloak, and mingled with the crowd in the hall, unobserved in the general excitement.
It was a most extraordinary feature of the case that the girl was never seen again. Not a trace of her could be found, and the united exertions of the English and Continental police failed to furnish a clue to her identity. It was conjectured that the girl had left England within a dozen hours of Barthélemy's arrest. As the only person who could have told the story of Mr. Moore's murder and the reasons which led up to it, she would have been a most valuable witness, but, as she did not come forward, the tragedy remained enveloped in mystery.
Collard, the brave policeman, was in a dying condition when taken to the hospital, and as his end was approaching it was deemed advisable that he should give his version of the struggle in the presence of Barthélemy. The prisoner was conveyed to the hospital where Collard, barely conscious, denounced him as his assassin.
The Frenchman stood with arms folded, and steadily surveyed Collard's face. It was merely a pose, of course, but it was a carefully prepared one, for Barthélemy never admitted that the unlucky officer had any ground for disliking him! He described the firing of his revolver as an accident, and declared that when a man is trying to make his escape he is justified in using any weapon to further his ends.
The policeman briefly told how he had tried to arrest Barthélemy, and when the statement had been taken down in writing and read over to the dying man Barthélemy was removed.
Collard died a couple of hours later, and when his death was notified the authorities decided to place Barthélemy on trial for the murder of the policeman, and not for the crime of having killed Mr. Moore. The reason for this was that no one except the girl who had vanished had seen the murder of Mr. Moore, whereas there were several persons who had been spectators of the second murder.
The police now began to investigate Barthélemy's life, and by the time the prisoner came to stand his trial at the Old Bailey were certain that the motive for the murder of Mr. Moore was robbery and nothing else. The mineral water manufacturer was in the habit of keeping a fairly large sum of money in the house, and Barthélemy had evidently brought his female companion with the object of using her as a bait to draw Mr. Moore's attention away from himself. If the merchant should become engrossed in the girl Barthélemy would be able to slip out of the room unobserved and commit the theft. This was what he intended should happen, but apparently Mr. Moore's suspicions had been unexpectedly aroused before Barthélemy could act, and in a vain effort to save himself, and also to obtain the plunder, Barthélemy had committed murder, only to find himself compelled to take a second human life. This was the official version of a tragic interview, but, as it was based entirely on conjecture, it was not universally accepted.
To say that Emanuel Barthélemy enjoyed his trial for murder at the Old Bailey is not an exaggeration. He revelled in the role of first villain in a piece which drew all London. As the hero of the duel at Egham and the subsequent trial at Kingston, he was already something of a celebrity. His achievements in France as a revolutionary were the subject of common gossip, and that they did not belie the character of the man was obvious from the attitude of studied bravado he maintained throughout the trial. He always referred to the double murder as "the affair," and while he politely expressed regret that "the affair" should have caused inconvenience to the policeman Collard, yet he could not in justice to himself, admit that there was anything in his conduct deserving of censure. He had only fired in self-defence, and no one ought to blame him for that.
The decision of the authorities to make the murder of Collard the only charge provided the defence with their one chance. Counsel for the prisoner ingeniously argued that at the worst Barthélemy had been guilty of manslaughter only. He had fired at Collard with the object of facilitating his escape. There had been no quarrel between the prisoner and his victim; they were perfect strangers, and the policeman's death was really an accident, as Barthélemy had only intended to injure him.
Barthélemy held his head high all through the trial, and there was plenty of the "flashing eye" business and gesture of contempt interludes to enliven the proceedings. He took up the attitude of one who does not fear death, and, considering that this was his third trial for murder and that he had escaped twice, he had some reason for assuming that he was not meant to die upon the scaffold.
The Old Bailey jury, however, proved somewhat more sophisticated than the Kingston jury, and, without hesitation, they rejected the subtle theories of counsel for the defence. The fact could never be obscured that Collard had been murdered by Barthélemy, and their immediate and unanimous verdict was that the prisoner was guilty. The usual sentence of death followed, and Barthélemy received it with a mocking bow. He did not care, and he was not afraid.
He knew that there was no chance of a reprieve, and while he awaited execution he conducted himself quietly, giving no trouble to the prison authorities. He declared himself an atheist and declined to receive a priest of his own nationality. When the chaplain managed to speak a few words of admonition he answered with a laugh:
"I don't want God to save my soul. If there is a God let him save my body by opening the prison doors. That's all I ask."
As the time grew shorter, however, Barthélemy became anxious about something, but it was not his soul. Sending for the Governor he declared that the only cause of uneasiness was a fear lest after his death his clothes should be exhibited at Madame Tussaud's! The Governor reassured him by promising him that they would not, and once more the convict's mind was at rest, and he faced eternity calmly.
Calcraft was the executioner, and Barthélemy made his acquaintance with a cynical smile.
"I have one thing to ask of you—do it quickly," he said, on the morning of his execution, January 22nd, 1855.
The grim-visaged executioner nodded. Barthélemy was undoubtedly a type of murderer not often met with even by a man with Calcraft's experience.
When the Frenchman stepped on to the scaffold he surveyed the crowd with a cool stare, slightly contemptuous of their interest and excitement. In his opinion death was not worth all this display. He was treating it with the indifference it merited.
"Now I shall know the secret," he said, as the rope was placed around his neck. A few minutes later he was dead.
CHAPTER XVIII
WILLIAM PARSONS
The so-called "gentleman criminal" has flourished in all ages and in all climes, and there have been many remarkable scoundrels who have utilized their social position to rob their fellows. One of the most notorious was William Parsons, the son of a baronet, and the nephew of a duchess, who was educated at Eton, served as an officer both in the army and navy, and, after a career during which he experimented in every kind of fraud, ended on the gallows.
Parsons began early in life to plunder and swindle, and his first victim was his own brother. When the two boys set out for Eton each possessed a five-guinea piece, given them by their aunt, the Duchess of Northumberland, and when William had spent his he stole his brother's. The theft was discovered, and the thief received such a severe thrashing that he had to keep to his bed for a fortnight. It was a punishment which would have convinced most persons that "the way of transgressors is hard," but Parsons quickly forgot when the pain had gone and began to thieve again. The head master of Eton received many complaints from boys whose pockets had been picked. Gold and silver watches and other jewellery disappeared as if by magic, and despite the precautions taken to shadow Parsons the thefts continued. He was thrashed again and again, but all to no effect, and, finally, it was decided to remove him.
He had an uncle living at Epsom, named Captain Dutton, and to him he was sent. There was no publicity about the "removal"—which was really expulsion—for Sir William Parsons, the boy's father, was highly esteemed, and everything was done to spare his feelings. Captain Dutton received the young prodigal with much kindness, generously ascribing his escapades at the great public school to a boy's natural propensities for fun. "Boys will be boys," said the officer, and prepared to give his headstrong nephew the run of his house.
It was understood in the family that Parsons was to inherit the estate of his uncle, who was by no means a poor man. But Parsons was not one to wait for dead men's shoes.
From the moment he arrived at Epsom he plunged into every kind of vice. The gallant captain had an account at a jeweller's, and Parsons, learning this, ordered an immense quantity of plate, which he disposed of in London for a tenth of its value. If any money was left lying about the house the young thief's fingers immediately closed round it. In vain his uncle censured and forgave. Parsons was irreclaimable, and eventually Captain Dutton kicked him into the street, and closed his door against him for ever.
A family conference was now held, and it came to the conclusion that Parsons had better be sent to sea, and accordingly he took a voyage in H.M.S. Drake to the West Indies, holding the rank of a midshipman. As he was so well related, he was given a good time by his fellow-officers, and although there were rumours concerning him on board he managed to return home with his name still on the books of the ship, and without being in irons. This was, undoubtedly, a remarkable accomplishment for him. But long before his return he had decided that he did not care for the cramped life of a sailor. He wanted to live in the very best style, and have his fling in the gayest circles in London. He had already acquired a fondness for gambling, and on his arrival in England from the West Indies he took all his savings to a gambling hell in London, and in a few hours lost every penny.
He did not despair, for he was aware that there was an idea in his family that he had reformed. His period of service in the navy had convinced his relations that he had indeed turned over a new leaf. The Duchess of Northumberland was staying at her London mansion, and Parsons, utterly penniless, paid her a visit, hoping to induce his good-natured aunt to come to his financial rescue. With apparent contrition he apologized for the indiscretions of his youth, and swore that he now found virtue more attractive than vice. It ended, of course, in an appeal for funds, and the duchess handed him five hundred pounds so that he might appear in society as befitted his relationship to her. That night the five hundred pounds became nearly two thousand as the result of the most daring gambling on Parsons' part. He took the most reckless chances, and every time came out on top. He was naturally wildly delighted. Here was the quickest and easiest road to fortune, and he persuaded himself that in a few weeks he would be worth many thousands of pounds. But the sequel was absurdly conventional. Parson was cleaned out within a couple of days.
Each time he became "dead broke" he called on the Duchess of Northumberland, but with each succeeding visit her presents of money became uncomfortably less, and he had to supplement her grants in aid by purloining various small articles of jewellery which he found on her dressing-table. The duchess, however, possessed so much jewellery that the thefts passed unnoticed until one evening, whilst chatting confidentially with her in her boudoir, he slipped into his pocket a miniature set in gold, which her Grace valued highly—so highly, indeed, that when she discovered her loss she offered a reward of five hundred pounds for its recovery. It was a purely sentimental valuation, but it placed Parsons in a most awkward position. Five hundred pounds would have been a godsend to him, and yet he dared not surrender the miniature, for he was well aware that his aunt would never forgive the theft, and, accordingly the young thief was compelled to sell it to a jeweller of doubtful reputation, who gave him fifty pounds for it.
Having for the time being exhausted his resources in London, Parsons was driven to the desperate expedient of going home. The family seat was just outside the town of Nottingham, but he found it so dull that he became a regular frequenter of the assembly rooms at Buxton. A few minor thefts provided funds for a week, and the son of the well-known Nottinghamshire baronet was received everywhere. No one thought of suspecting him of being a thief, and when he stole a pair of shoes with gold buckles, and disposed of the gold to a jeweller in Nottingham, Sir William averted exposure when the gold buckles were traced to his son by negotiating in private with the original owner. For the sake of the heart-broken father the victim of the theft did not prosecute, and young Parsons was bundled off to London, Sir William having no further use for him.
Perhaps if Parsons had not been saved from punishment so often he would not have adopted crime as a profession. But to a person of his temperament the game must have appeared to be worth more than the proverbial candle, because when he won he was paid, and when he lost there was always a kind-hearted relative or friend to pay for him. He was not at all embarrassed by his narrow escape at Nottingham. It was only a minor episode in a career in which he had come unscathed out of many tight corners.
On his return to London he happened to meet a lady some ten years older than himself, but whose burden of years was eased by the possession of a considerable fortune. She was not bad-looking, and being without near relatives she was an easy victim to the unscrupulous fortune-hunter. When Parsons was introduced to her as the son of Sir William Parsons, and the nephew of the Duchess of Northumberland, the socially-ambitious lady simply "threw herself at him."
She longed to shine in high society, and the moment Parsons understood her weakness he played up to it for all he was worth. He promised to introduce her to his aunt, and swore that her Grace would instantly fall in love with her and chaperon her, for, of course, anyone who entered the charmed portals of society vouched for by the Duchess of Northumberland would encounter no difficulties in her way.
The lady accepted all his statements without demur, but she proved somewhat coy whenever money was mentioned, and Parsons had to ask her to marry him before she would consent to advance him a portion of her fortune.
They became engaged in secret, Parsons pointing out that it must be kept quiet until he had time to approach his aunt, the duchess, diplomatically and break the news to her, for the lady was the daughter of a man who had made his money in trade, and in those days that was considered a bar to entry into society. She was satisfied with his explanation, and she poured thousands of pounds into her "lover's" keeping to hold in trust for her. At the same time he was making love to a girl whom he had met at his aunt's house, and he actually bought her presents with the money he had extracted from the too-confiding lady who fondly imagined that she would soon be his wife.
When he had robbed her of every penny it was possible to obtain without arousing the suspicions of her guardians, Parsons, realizing that it would be better for his health and comfort to vanish from London for some months, returned to the navy and secured an appointment on H.M.S. Romney.
There were a gallant set of officers on board, not too well endowed with this world's goods, but quite willing to hazard what they possessed at the gaming-table. Well aware of this, Parsons, who deemed it only proper to combine business with pleasure, took with him some marked cards and loaded dice. Every evening the officers played, and from the very beginning Parsons won. Cynically contemptuous of the intelligence of his opponents, he did not condescend to the usual trick of allowing them to win now and then. He simply took all he could get until it became painfully obvious that the only man on board who never lost was William Parsons, and it was generally agreed that there could be only one reason for that.
The captain accordingly took Parsons aside and informed him that they all had decided not to play with him in future. The scoundrel shrugged his shoulders, but, of course, had to accept the decision, for the captain was the autocrat of the ship. But worse was to follow, for before the voyage was at an end the officers added to their first decision another one which prevented anyone addressing Parsons except when duty compelled.
The studied contempt of his brother-officers did not affect him. He had long since lost all sense of decency, and his only anxiety was that there might be unnecessary delay before he reached land again.
Once more he found himself in London, and determined never to enter the navy again. The standard of honour at sea was too high for him, and the blunt sailors had a way of expressing their opinions which was decidedly uncomfortable.
He plunged again into the life of a gambler, but with all his experience could not win except on those rare occasions when he was able to persuade the company to play with the dice or cards he produced. Whenever this occurred he swept the board, but he was by now too well known, and it happened that it was only in the semi-public gambling saloon where trickery was impossible that he was allowed to play, because his fellow-gamblers knew that the dice could not be loaded or the cards marked.
One night he lost five thousand pounds to an army officer, and as he had only fifteen hundred pounds on him paid that amount on account. The officer, who was somewhat the worse for drink, shortly afterwards left the house, and Parsons followed him, robbed him of the money, returned, and lost it again at cards. It was a favourite trick of his to rob those he paid, and the astonishing thing about it all is that he was never detected.
Gamblers were fond of drinking and few of them were sober by midnight. Parsons, however, kept his wits about him, for he owed so much that he could not afford to handicap himself as the others did. And yet when he won a considerable sum he never had the sense to stop. On three occasions his winnings exceeded two thousand pounds, and within twenty-four hours he was penniless again.
Meanwhile he could live fairly comfortable on credit as it was known that the Duchess of Northumberland had named him for a large sum in her will, and it was expected that her Grace's decease would free him from all his liabilities.
Now, Parsons had been disinherited once—by his uncle, Captain Dutton, of Epsom—and that ought to have been a warning to him, but he never learned even from his misfortunes, and he was destined to receive nothing from his aunt.
It all came about owing to the sudden necessity for him to pay a visit abroad. London was swarming with his creditors, and to avoid them he went to Jamaica. But money was scarce there, too, and he found the local traders had a not unnatural preference for cash when it came to bargaining, and Parsons accordingly forged a letter, purporting to be signed by his aunt, guaranteeing to be responsible for any sum up to seventy pounds which her nephew might borrow.
When he had raised the sum mentioned, Parsons decamped, and some time afterwards the duchess was rendered furious by a demand from the Jamaican merchant for repayment. She disowned the forgery at once, and cut Parsons' name out of her will. She had intended to bequeath him twenty-five thousand pounds, and now she transferred the legacy to his sister, well aware that her family would take every precaution to prevent the "black sheep" touching any of it.
But the disinherited rascal was unperturbed, and it seemed that he had checkmated misfortune when he met and married within a very short time a young lady with a fortune in her own right of twelve thousand pounds, with more to come.
The newly-married couple set up in a luxuriously-furnished house in Poland Street, in the West End of London, and Parsons, anxious to obtain a better standing in society, purchased a commission in a crack regiment. He did not, however, lose his fondness for the gaming-tables, and when his wife let him have four thousand pounds he gaily informed her a fortnight afterwards that he was without a penny. She came to the rescue by allowing him to mortgage her securities, which he did thoroughly, actually raising money twice on the same documents.
Parsons had purchased a commission in the army without any intention of ever doing any fighting, but greatly to his annoyance his regiment was ordered to Flanders, where there was every chance of his making the acquaintance of powder and shot. His family were delighted, hoping that active service would "steady" him. But the seasoned criminal disappointed them again, and in Flanders he perpetrated frauds specially suited to the situation he found himself in.
When it was necessary to reclothe the whole of his regiment, Parsons was fortunate enough to secure the contract, and on behalf of the regiment he bought a great quantity of cloth. By some means he managed to get it all to London, and there he disposed of it at about half the rate he had bought it at, and in a few days had spent all the money in riotous living.
This offence was, however, of too serious a nature to pass unnoticed, and in due course it was reported to the Commander-in-Chief. The Duke of Cumberland, who was then the head of the British Army, dismissed him from the service and confiscated the sum of money he had paid for his commission, ordering it to be devoted to replacing part of the losses sustained by his innumerable frauds.
It is astonishing that more drastic measures were not adopted, but no doubt the wealthy and powerful Northumberland family brought all their influence to bear. Besides, Sir William Parsons, the thief's father, was well known in Court circles, and it may have been that it was on his account that the career of his son was not brought to a swift conclusion at the hands of the common hangman.
Now that he was a cashiered officer he could no longer, of course, associate with decent people. His companions from henceforth were dishonest servants and professional criminals. The lowest class gambling-houses began to know him well, and he was addressed affectionately by individuals who would not have been tolerated by his father's domestics.
Mrs. Parsons had not unnaturally returned home to her parents, who had informed her husband that if he attempted to molest her they would shoot him like a dog, and, as Parsons knew that there was no more money to be had from her, he was only too glad to be saved the trouble and expense of keeping her.
But he was not the man to live meanly, and he formed many plans, the success of which would set him up again as a gentleman of means and leisure. Every decent door was closed against him, and he had to depend now wholly and solely on fraud to provide him with food and shelter.
Parsons took another house and furnished it entirely on credit. The plate was massive and costly, and of such value that the goldsmith who supplied it was the first of the tradesmen to get anxious about the payment of his account. But when, shortly after delivering it, he nervously called at the house in Panton Square, he was surprised to find it uninhabited. There was no sign of life about it, and inquiries confirmed his impression that the owner had gone away for a time. But he could see that the furniture remained, and, therefore, he was not greatly perturbed. The gentry were fond of going into the country, and as Parsons had boasted of his estate in Nottinghamshire the goldsmith returned to his shop satisfied that he would be paid one day.
Other creditors rang at the front door, and failed to gain admission, and when their suspicions were aroused they kept a watch on the house, but they never caught a glimpse of their debtor. Yet Parsons was actually living there. He used to enter and leave by a small door in the stable-yard, and he seldom went out unprovided with a piece of plate or some other portable article which was destined to find its way into a pawnbroker's shop.
The comedy was brought to a sudden termination by the impatience of the landlord, who was desirous of seeing his rent. The law, which kept the other creditors at bay, permitted him to force an entrance, but when he did he discovered that he was too late. Parsons had disposed of the furniture, leaving only the heavy curtains to act—in every sense of the word—as a blind. The creditors never received a single penny.
By now Parsons had a friend, a certain man named Wilson, who had been a footman until dishonesty led to his dismissal. Wilson had served for some years in a family of position, and he had managed to pick up some of their mannerisms, which he imagined justified him in thinking that he could pose as a gentleman himself. He was tall and good-looking, and could talk glibly of several well-known personages as though they were personal friends, whereas the truth was that he had only waited on them.
In conjunction with this scoundrel, Parsons devised a scheme whereby he would be able to recover some of the twenty-five thousand pounds which he had lost by the forgery of his aunt's name. The money was now bound to come to his sister, who was generally referred to as the "wealthy Miss Parsons," and, as at the time we are speaking of marriage gave the husband instant possession of his wife's fortune, Parsons suggested that Wilson should carry off his sister, forcibly marry her, and then pay over ten thousand pounds of his wife's fortune to him.
It was a pretty idea, and the ex-footman entered into it with enthusiasm. He knew that Miss Parsons' entire fortune was considerably more than twenty-five thousand pounds, and he would have paid double William Parsons' commission if the latter had insisted on more generous terms.
The preliminary plans were settled in an old public-house in the Haymarket, not far from the lodgings occupied by the girl, who did not suspect that her own brother wished to sell her to a debased ruffian. Elopements were common enough in those days, and the forcible abduction of an heiress was considered legitimate sport in certain circles. William knew his sister's movements, and there seemed no reason to fear failure when he bought over Miss Parsons' maid with a promise to pay her five hundred pounds when the marriage had taken place. The sum offered was an immense fortune to a lady's maid, and she eagerly accepted the bribe.
All that remained now was to hire the coach and the swiftest horses, arrange for the unscrupulous clergyman to be ready at an out-of-the-way spot, and then to take the unsuspecting girl to her doom.
From first to last Parsons exhibited much cunning in this affair, and had it not been for the carelessness of his confederate his plan might have succeeded.
But Wilson lost his head when Parsons persuaded him to believe that marriage to his wealthy sister was certain. The ex-footman could not keep his mouth closed, and he drew attention to himself by his extravagant purchases for the great event. He was buying half a dozen expensive "ruffled shirts" in a West End shop one day when, in the presence of several customers, he boasted of his forthcoming marriage to "the great heiress, Miss Parsons."
The small audience stared when they heard this, and envied the well-dressed "gentleman" his good fortune, but, unhappily for him, just as he was speaking a lady had entered who knew him. She overheard his reference to Miss Parsons, and she glanced at him with more than ordinary interest. Great was her astonishment when she recognized her ex-footman, Wilson, the man she had discharged for dishonesty.
Steps were instantly taken to acquaint Miss Parsons with the statements Wilson was making about her, and she thought it prudent to change her lodgings, and to hire an ex-pugilist to follow and protect her wherever she went. But there was no danger from the moment Wilson had made that very stupid and incautious remark for the conspirators got frightened and separated, though not before Parsons had savagely attacked Wilson for his indiscretion. The result of the attack was the disfigurement of the footman's face for the rest of his life.
Although he was now always short of ready money, Parsons took good care to see that his wardrobe was in first-rate condition. He never dressed shabbily, always appearing as a man of fashion. London, however, was not so remunerative as it had been: his character was too well known, and the set he mixed in was too poor to be worth the robbing. He, therefore, decided on a sort of provincial tour, and he went down to Bath with the intention of finding a vain and silly girl with money, who would be attracted by his appearance and his titled relations.
The baronet's son speedily found a victim in the daughter of a well-to-do doctor. He represented himself to be a bachelor—of course, the truth was that his wife was still alive—anxious to marry and settle down in quiet luxury, as befitted his birth. The girl readily responded to his honeyed words, and in her father's house the engagement took place, and was approved of by the doctor, who had heard of Sir William Parsons, Bart., of Nottingham.
Parsons began to borrow. In hundreds at first and then in thousands, and very soon the girl's private fortune of three thousand pounds, which she had inherited from her mother, had been lent to Parsons, and lost by him in the gaming-houses.
Her father advanced more, and when he had drained the family dry Parsons announced that he was called away to see his father to arrange for his marriage, and he took his departure from Bath with the cordial good wishes of the doctor and his daughter, who were destined neither to see him nor their money again.
From Bath he went to Clifton. It was then a small village where a few of the wealthy Bristol merchants had country-houses. He arrived in the early summer, and speedily got an introduction to a rich shipowner who had two daughters. Parsons discovered that the two girls were wildly jealous of each other, and he thereupon made each one the object of his attentions without letting either know that she had a rival. There was plenty of money in the family, but on the first occasion Parsons delicately hinted that a loan of two hundred pounds would be acceptable the hard-headed old merchant only advised him to write to his father, offering to bear the expense of the communication.
This was not what Parsons wanted, and he determined to use the girls to extract the money from their father, whom he termed "the old miser." Accordingly, he took the elder girl out for a walk, and boldly explained that he was temporarily without means owing to a family lawsuit, and he hinted that if she wished to marry him she must help to relieve his pecuniary embarrassment. The girl promised to do her best, and, confident that she would keep her promise not to divulge to her father or sister what he had said, he met the younger girl, and put his situation before her in similar terms.
A few days later he found that the two girls were actually vying with one another as to which of them could find the most money for her lover, unaware that they were both referring to the same individual.
By some extraordinary means they got over five thousand pounds for him, and Parsons supplemented it with a forged order purporting to be signed by the girl's father, ordering his manager to pay the bearer a thousand pounds. Parsons presented the order in person, received the money, packed his belongings, and the same night left for London. When the fraud was discovered the old man was for instant exposure, but on reflection, and persuaded by his daughters, he decided that the disgrace and ridicule that would follow for them when Parsons was arrested was too big a price to pay for revenge, and they never published the story of their foolishness and gullibility.
But Parsons' end was approaching. His good fortune could not last for ever, and he met his match in a country girl, who resented his advances after she had found him with another woman and refused to act as his accomplice in the passing of counterfeit banknotes. She denounced him in a temper, and he was arrested. It was characteristic of the fellow that when in prison awaiting trial he should rob a fellow-prisoner of his small stock of cash.
For the offence of possessing imitation banknotes Parsons was transported, but he managed to earn the good graces of the governor of the colony whither he was sent, and he was back again in England within two years, paying the expenses of his journey by an audacious robbery at the expense of the official who had sheltered him in his house.
And now having tried nearly every variety and form of crime, and being without funds, Parsons turned highwayman as a last desperate resource.
It was the most precarious of all professions, but there was ever the temptation of netting a large sum of money. His first essay resulted in a gain of about eighty pounds, and his second ten pounds less. The money was not much use to Parsons, and he would have abandoned the profession there and then had he not heard that a certain nobleman intended to carry a thousand pounds from London to a house a few miles to the north of Turnham Green.
Parsons resolved to waylay the coach and capture the money, but his plans were upset by his own arrest, and after five months in prison at Newgate he was executed on February 11th, 1750, the king rejecting a petition presented to him by the prisoner's powerful and influential relations.