CHAPTER III.

PROBLEMATICAL ERRORS.

Captain Donellan and the Poisoning of Sir Theodosius Boughton: Donellan's Suspicious Conduct: Evidence of John Hunter, the great Surgeon: Sir James Stephen's View: Corroborative Story from his Father--The Lafarge Case: Madame Lafarge and the Cakes: Doctors differ as to the Presence of Arsenic in the Remains: Possible Guilt of Denis Barbier: Madame Lafarge's Condemnation: Pardoned by Napoleon III.--Charge against Madame Lafarge of stealing a School Friend's Jewels: Her Defence: Conviction--Madeleine Smith charged with Poisoning her _Fiancé:_ "Not proven": the Latest Facts--the Wharton-Ketchum Case in Baltimore, U.S.A.--The Story of the Perrys.

CAPTAIN DONELLAN.

"Few cases," says Sir James Stephen,[8] "have given rise to more discussion than that of the alleged poisoning of Sir Theodosius Boughton by his brother-in-law, Captain Donellan, in 1781." It was long deemed a mystery, and even now the facts are not considered conclusive against the man who actually suffered for the crime. Donellan was found guilty, and in due course executed, but to this day the justice of the sentence is questioned, and the case, in the opinion of some, should be classed with judicial errors. This is not the view of Sir James Stephen, who has declared that the evidence would have satisfied him of Donellan's guilt. "Why should he not have been found guilty?" asks the eminent judge. "He had the motive, he had the means, he had the opportunity; his conduct, from first to last, was that of a guilty man."

Sir Theodosius Boughton was a young baronet who, on his majority, came into an estate of £2,000 a year. In 1780 he was living at Lawford Hall, Warwickshire, with his mother and sister, the latter having married Captain Donellan in 1777. Mrs. Donellan was her brother's heir; if he died childless everything would go to her. Donellan claimed afterwards to have been quite disinterested. He had all his wife's fortune settled on her and her children, and would not even keep a life interest in her property in case she predeceased him. This settlement extended not only to what she had but to what she expected, and his conduct in this matter was one of the points made by the defence in his favour.

Boughton was suffering from a slight specific disorder, but was otherwise well; Donellan wished to make it appear otherwise. Talking of him to a friend, he described his condition as such that the friend remarked the young man's life would not be worth a couple of years' purchase. "Not one," promptly corrected Donellan. On the 29th of August, 1780, a country practitioner who was called in pronounced Sir Theodosius in good health and spirits, but prescribed a draught for him: jalap, lavender water, nutmeg, and so forth. The remainder of the day was spent in fishing, and the baronet went to bed, having arranged that his mother should come to him and give him his medicine at seven o'clock next morning. He had been neglectful about taking it; it had been kept locked up in a cupboard, but, at his brother-in-law's suggestion, it was now left on the shelf in another room--where, as the prosecution declared, anyone, Captain Donellan in particular, might have access to it.

At six a.m. on the morning of the 30th a servant went in and saw Sir Theodosius about some business of mending a net. The young baronet then appeared quite well. At seven Lady Boughton came up with the medicine, which she found on the shelf. Sir Theodosius tasted and smelt it, complaining that it was very nauseous. His mother then smelt it, and noticed that it was like bitter almonds, but she persuaded her son to drink off a whole dose. "In about two minutes or less," she afterwards deposed, "he struggled violently and appeared convulsed, with a prodigious rattling in his throat and stomach." When he was a little better the mother left him, but returned in five minutes to find him with his eyes fixed, his teeth clenched, and froth running out of his mouth.

The doctor was forthwith summoned. Now Donellan came in, and Lady Boughton told him that she was afraid she had given her son something wrong instead of the medicine. Donellan asked for the bottle, took it, poured in some water, then emptied the contents into a basin. Lady Boughton protested, declaring that he ought not to have meddled with the bottle. Donellan's reply was that he wished to taste the stuff. Again, when a maid-servant came in he desired her to remove the basin and the bottles, while Lady Boughton directed her to let them alone. But now Sir Theodosius was in his death-throes, and while she was engaged with him the bottles disappeared.

Donellan, after the event, wrote to the baronet's guardian, Sir William Wheler, notifying the death, but giving none of the peculiar circumstances of the case. Three or four days later the guardian replied that as the death had been so sudden, and gossip was afloat concerning a possible mistake with the medicine, it was desirable to have a _post-mortem._ "The country will never be satisfied else, and we shall all be very much blamed," wrote Sir William Wheler. "Although it is late now it will appear from the stomach whether there is anything corrosive in it.... I assure you it is reported all over the country that he was killed either by medicine or by poison." The step was all the more necessary in the interest of the doctor who prescribed the draught. Donellan replied that Lady Boughton and he agreed "cheerfully" to the suggestion. Sir William wrote again, saying he was glad they approved, and gave the names of the doctors who should perform the autopsy.

When they came, Donellan showed them the second letter, not the first; the mere desire for a _post-mortem_, not the grounds for it, as set forth in the first, that poison was suspected. Decomposition was far advanced, the doctors were not pleased with the business, and, knowing no special reason for inquiry, made none. After this Donellan wrote to Sir William Wheler, conveying the impression that the _post-mortem_ had actually taken place. Later, another surgeon offered to open the body, but Donellan refused, on the plea that it would be disrespectful to the two first doctors. Sir William, too, having learnt that nothing had been done, reiterated his desire for a _post-mortem_, and two more doctors arrived at Lawford Hall on the very day of the funeral. Donellan took advantage of a misconstruction of a message, and the body was buried without being opened.

Three days afterwards it was exhumed in deference to growing suspicions of poison, but it was too late to verify foul play. But the doctors formed a strong opinion of the cause of death, and later, when it came to the trial, they agreed that the draught, after swallowing which Boughton died, was poison, and the immediate cause of death. One said that the nature of the poison was sufficiently clear from Lady Boughton's description of the smell. But the great surgeon, John Hunter, would not admit that the appearance of the body gave the least suspicion of poison. As to the smell, a mixture of the very same ingredients, but with laurel water added, was made up for Lady Boughton at the trial, and she declared it smelt of bitter almonds exactly like the draught.

The introduction of the laurel water followed the important discovery that Donellan had a private still in a room which he called his own, and that he distilled roses in it. A curious bit of evidence not mentioned in the report of the trial is preserved,[9] which shows how a single number of the "Philosophical Transactions" was found in Donellan's library, and the only leaves in the book that had been cut were those that gave an account of the making of laurel water by distillation. Donellan's still figured further in the case, for it was proved that he had taken it into the kitchen, and asked the cook to dry it in the oven. This was two or three days after the baronet's death, and the presumption was that he had desired to take the smell of laurel water off the still. It also appeared that Donellan was in the habit of keeping large quantities of arsenic in his room, which he used, seemingly with but little caution, for poisoning fish.

Donellan's defence did not help him greatly. It was written, after the custom of those days, and did not attempt to explain why

he had washed or made away with the bottles. He submitted that he had urged the doctors to the _post-mortem_ by producing Sir William Wheler's letter; but it was the second, not the first letter. On other points he maintained a significant silence. What went against him also were unguarded confidences made to a fellow-prisoner while he was awaiting trial. He said openly that he believed his brother-in-law had been poisoned, and that it lay among themselves: Lady Boughton, himself, the footman, and the doctor. Another curious story is preserved by Sir James Stephen, whose grandfather had long retained a strong belief in Donellan's innocence, and had written a pamphlet against the verdict which attracted much notice at the time. Mr. Stephen changed his opinion when he had been introduced to Donellan's attorney, who told him that he also had firmly believed in Donellan's innocence until one day he proposed to his client to retain Dunning, the eminent counsel, for his defence. Donellan agreed, and referred the attorney to Mrs. Donellan for authority to incur the expense of the heavy fee required. Mrs. Donellan demurred, thinking the outlay unnecessary, and when this was reported to the prisoner, Donellan burst into a rage, crying, "And who got it for her?" Then, seeing that he had committed himself, he stopped abruptly, and said no more.

Donellan was convicted and executed, and to those who aver that the verdict was wrong Sir James Stephen replies that every item of evidence pointed to Donellan's guilt, and did, in fact, satisfy the jury. The want of complete proof is the chief basis of the argument in Donellan's favour, backed by the opinion of so eminent a scientist as Hunter. He deposed that he did not see the slightest indication of poisoning, and while he admitted that death following so soon after the draught had been swallowed was a curious fact, yet he could see no necessary connection between the two circumstances. The symptoms, as described to him, and the state of the internal organs, were perfectly compatible with death from epilepsy or apoplexy. Public opinion at the time was, no doubt, adverse to Donellan, and the jury may have been prejudiced against him. He was deemed an adventurer, a fortune-hunter, who had gained a footing in a good family by somewhat discreditable means, and it was assumed that he was prepared to go any length to feather his nest further.

This was a rather exaggerated view. Donellan was a gentleman. He had borne the king's commission, and was a son of a colonel in the army. To haunt fashionable society in London and the chief pleasure resorts in search of a rich _partie_ was a common enough proceeding, and implied self-seeking, but not necessarily criminal tendencies. He got his chance at Bath by doing a civil thing, and made the most of it. Lady Boughton was unable to find accommodation in the best hotel, and Donellan, who was there, promptly gave up his rooms. The acquaintance thus pleasantly begun grew into intimacy, and ended in his marrying Miss Boughton. So far the circumstances were not very strong against him. It was his conduct after the event that told, and, though there is an element of doubt in the case, most people, probably, who review the facts will come to the same conclusion as did Sir James Stephen.

MADAME LAFARGE.

One of the greatest poisoning trials on record in any country is that of Madame Lafarge, and its interest is undying, for to this day the case is surrounded by mystery. Although the guilt of the accused was proved to the satisfaction of the jury at the time of trial, strong doubts were then entertained, and still possess acute legal minds, as to the justice of her conviction. Long after the event, two eminent Prussian jurists, councillors of the criminal court of Berlin, closely studied the proceedings, and gave it as their unqualified opinion that, according to Prussian law, there was absence of proof. They published a report on the case, in which they gave their reasons for this opinion, but it will be best to give some account of the alleged poisoning before quoting the arguments of these independent authorities.

In the month of January, 1840, an iron-master, residing at Glandier, in the Limousin, died suddenly of an unknown malady. His family, friends, and immediate neighbours at once accused his wife of having poisoned him. This wife differed greatly in disposition and breeding from the deceased. Marie Fortunée Capelle was the daughter of a French artillery colonel, who had served in Napoleon's Guard. She was well connected, her grandmother having been a fellow-pupil of the Duchess of Orleans under Madame de Genlis; her aunts were well married, one to a Prussian diplomat, the other to M. Garat, the general secretary of the Bank of France. She had been delicately nurtured. Her father had held good military commands, and was intimate with the best people, many of them nobles of the First Empire, and the child was petted by the Duchess of Dalmatia (Madame Soult), the Princess of Echmuhl (Madame Ney), Madame de Cambacères, and so forth.

Colonel Capelle died early, and Marie's mother, having married again, also died. Marie was left to the care of distant relations; she had a small fortune of her own, which was applied to her education, and she was sent to one of the best schools in Paris. Here she made bosom friends, as schoolgirls do, and with one of them became involved in a foolish intrigue, which, in the days of her trouble, brought upon her another serious charge, that of theft. Marie grew up distinguished-looking if not absolutely pretty; tall, slim, with dead-white complexion, jet-black hair worn in straight shining pleats, fine dark eyes, and a sweet but somewhat sad smile. These are the chief features of contemporary portraits.

To marry her was now the wish of her people, and she was willing enough to become independent. Some say that a suitor was sought through the matrimonial agents, others positively deny it. In any case, a proposal came from a certain Charles Pouch Lafarge, a man of decent family but inferior to the Capelles, not much to look at, about thirty, and supposed to be prosperous in his business. The marriage was hastily arranged, and as quickly solemnised--in no more than five days. Lafarge drew a rosy picture of his house: a large mansion in a wide park, with beautiful views, where all were eager to welcome the bride and make her happy. As they travelled thither the scales quickly fell from Marie's eyes. Her new husband changed in tone; from beseeching he became rudely dictatorial, and he seems to have soon wounded the delicate susceptibilities of his wife.

The climax was reached on arrival at Glandier, a dirty, squalid place. Threading its dark, narrow streets, they reached the mansion--only a poor place, after all, surrounded with smoking chimneys: a cold, damp, dark house, dull without, bare within. The shock was terrible, and Madame Lafarge declared she had been cruelly deceived. Life in such surroundings, tied to such a man, seemed utterly impossible. She fled to her own room, and there indited a strange letter to her husband, a letter that was the starting-point of suspicion against her, and which she afterwards explained away as merely a first mad outburst of disappointment and despair. Her object was to get free at all costs from this hateful and unbearable marriage.

This letter, dated the 25th of August, 1839, began thus: "CHARLES,--I am about to implore pardon on my knees. I have betrayed you culpably. I love not you, but another...." And it continued in the same tone for several sheets. Then she implored her husband to release her and let her go that very evening. "Get two horses ready: I will ride to Bordeaux and then take ship to Smyrna. I will leave you all my possessions. May God turn them to your advantage--you deserve it. As for me, I will live by my own exertions. Let no one know that I ever existed.... If this does not satisfy you I will take arsenic--_I have some_.... Spare me, be the guardian angel of a poor orphan girl, or, if you choose, slay me, and say I have killed myself.--MARIE."

This strange effusion was read with consternation not only by Lafarge, but by his mother, his sister, and her husband. A stormy scene followed between Lafarge and his wife, but at length he won her over. She withdrew her letter, declaring that she did not mean what she wrote, and that she would do her best to make him happy. "I have accepted my position," she wrote to M. Garat, "although it is difficult. But with a little strength of mind, with patience, and my husband's love, I may grow contented. Charles adores me, and I cannot but be touched by the caresses lavished on me." To another she wrote that she struggled hard to be satisfied with her life. Her husband under a rough shell possessed a noble heart; her mother-in-law and sister-in-law overwhelmed her with attentions. Now she gradually settled down into domesticity, and busied herself with household affairs.

M. Lafarge made no secret of his wish to employ part of his wife's fortune in developing his works. He had come upon an important discovery in iron smelting, and only needed capital to make it highly profitable. His wife was so persuaded of the value of this invention that she lent him money, and used her influence with her relatives to secure a loan for him in addition. Husband and wife now made wills whereby they bequeathed their separate estates to each other. Lafarge, however, made a second will, almost immediately, in favour of his mother and sister, carefully concealing the fact from his wife. Then he started for Paris, to secure a patent for his new invention, taking with him a general power of attorney to raise money on his wife's property. During their separation many affectionate letters passed between them.

The first attempt to poison, according to the prosecution, was made at the time of this visit to Paris. Madame Lafarge now conceived the tender idea of having her portrait painted, and sending it to console her absent spouse. At the same time she asked her mother-in-law to make some small cakes to accompany the picture. They were made and sent, with a letter, written by the mother, at Marie Lafarge's request, begging Lafarge to eat _one_ of the cakes at a particular hour on a particular day. She would eat one also at Glandier at the same moment, and thus a mysterious affinity might be set up between them.

A great deal turned on this incident. The case containing the picture and the rest was despatched on the 16th of December, by _diligence_, and reached Paris on the 18th. But on opening the box, one large cake was found, not several small ones. How and when had the change been effected? The prosecution declared it was Marie's doing. The box had undoubtedly been tampered with; it left, or was supposed to leave, Glandier fastened down with small screws. On reaching Paris it was secured with long nails, and the articles inside were not placed as they had been on departure. Lafarge tore off a corner of the large cake, ate it, and the same night was seized with violent convulsions. It was presumably a poisoned cake, although the fact was never verified, but Marie Lafarge was held responsible for it, and eventually charged with an attempt to murder her husband.

In support of this grave charge it was found that on the 12th of December, two days before the box left, she had purchased a quantity of arsenic from a chemist in the neighbouring town. Her letter asking for it was produced at the trial, and it is worth reproducing. "Sir," she wrote, "I am overrun with rats. I have tried nux vomica quite without effect. Will you, and can you, trust me with a little arsenic? You may count upon my being most careful, and I shall only use it in a linen closet." At the same time she asked for other drugs, of a harmless character.

Further suspicious circumstances were adduced against her. It was urged that after the case had been despatched to Paris she was strangely agitated, her excitement increasing on the arrival of news that her husband was taken ill, that she expressed the gravest fears of a bad ending, and took it almost for granted that he must die. Yet, as the defence presently showed, there were points also in her favour. Would Marie have made her mother-in-law write referring to the small cakes, one of which the son was to eat, if she knew that no small cakes, but one large one, would be found within? How could she have substituted the large for the small? There was as much evidence to show that she could not have effected the exchange as that she had done so. Might not someone else have made the change? Here was the first importation of another possible agency into the murder, which never seems to have been investigated at the time, but to which I shall return presently to explain how Marie Lafarge may have borne the brunt of another person's crime. Again, if she wanted thus to poison her husband, it would have been at the risk of injuring her favourite sister also. For this sister lived in Paris, and Lafarge had written that she often called to see him. She might, then, have been present when the case was opened, and might have been poisoned too.

Lafarge so far recovered that he was able to return to Glandier, which he reached on the 5th of January, 1840. That same day Madame Lafarge wrote to the same chemist for more arsenic. It was a curious letter, and certainly calculated to prejudice people against her. She told the chemist that her servants had made the first lot into a clever paste which her doctor had seen, and for which he had given her a prescription; she said this "so as to quiet the chemist's conscience, and lest he should think she meant to poison the whole province of Limoges." She also informed the chemist that her husband was indisposed, but that this same doctor attributed it to the shaking of the journey, and that with rest he would soon be better.

But he got worse, rapidly worse. His symptoms were alarming, and pointed undoubtedly to arsenical poisoning, judged by our modern knowledge. Madame Lafarge, senior, now became strongly suspicious of her daughter-in-law, and insisted on remaining always by her son's bedside. Marie opposed this, and wished to be her husband's sole nurse, and, according to the prosecution, would have kept everyone else from him. She does not seem to have succeeded, for the relatives and servants were constantly in the sick-room. Some of the latter were very much on the mother's side, and one, a lady companion, Anna Brun, afterwards deposed that she had seen Marie go to a cupboard and take a white powder from it, which she mixed with the medicine and food given to Lafarge. Madame Lafarge, senior, again, and her daughter, showed the medical attendant a cup of chicken broth on the surface of which white powder was floating. The doctor said it was probably lime from the whitewashed wall. The ladies tried the experiment of mixing lime with broth, and did not obtain the same appearance. Yet more, Anna Brun, having seen Marie Lafarge mix powder as before in her husband's drink, heard him cry out, "What have you given me? It burns like fire." "I am not surprised," replied Marie quietly. "They let you have wine, although you are suffering from inflammation of the stomach."

Yet Marie Lafarge made no mystery of her having arsenic. Not only did she speak of it in the early days, but during the illness she received a quantity openly before them all. It was brought to her at Lafarge's bedside by one of his clerks, Denis Barbier (of whom more directly), and she put it into her pocket. She told her husband she had it. He had been complaining of the rats that disturbed him overhead, and the arsenic was to kill them. Lafarge took the poison from his wife, handed it over to a maid-servant, and desired her to use it in a paste as a vermin-killer. Here the facts were scarcely against Marie Lafarge.

As the husband did not improve, on the 13th his mother sent a special messenger to fetch a new doctor from a more distant town. On their way back to Glandier, this messenger, the above-mentioned Denis Barbier, confided to the doctor that he had often bought

arsenic for Marie Lafarge, but that she had begged him to say nothing about it. The doctor, Lespinasse by name, saw the patient, and immediately ordered antidotes, while some of the white powder was sent for examination to the chemist who had originally supplied the arsenic. The chemist does not seem to have detected poison, but he suggested that nothing more should be given Lafarge unless it had been prepared by a sure hand.

On this the mother denounced Marie to the now dying Lafarge as his murderess. The wife, who stood there with white face and streaming eyes, heard the terrible accusation, but made no protest. From this time till his last moments he could not bear the sight of his wife. Once, when she offered him a drink, he motioned, horror stricken, for her to leave him, and she was not present at his death, on the 14th of January. A painful scene followed between the mother and Marie by the side of the still warm corpse--high words, upbraidings, threats on the one side, indignant denials on the other. Then Marie's private letters were seized, the lock of her strong-box having been forced, and next day, the whole matter having been reported to the officers of the law, a _post-mortem_ was ordered, on suspicion of poisoning. "Impossible," cried the doctor who had regularly attended the deceased. "You must all be wrong. It would be abominable to suspect a crime without more to go upon." The _post-mortem_ was, however, made, yet with such strange carelessness that the result was valueless.

It may be stated at once that the presence of arsenic was never satisfactorily proved. There were several early examinations of the remains, but the experts never fully agreed. Orfila, the most eminent French toxicologist of his day, was called in to correct the first autopsy, and his opinion was accepted as final. He was convinced that there were traces of arsenic in the body. They were, however, infinitesimal; Orfila put it at half a milligramme. Raspail, another distinguished French doctor, called it the hundredth part of a milligramme, and for that reason declared against Orfila. His conclusion, arrived at long after her conviction, was in favour of the accused. The jury, he maintained, ought not to have found her guilty, because no definite proof was shown of the presence of arsenic in the corpse.

This point was not the only one in the poor woman's favour. Even supposing that Lafarge had been poisoned--which, in truth, is highly probable--the evidence against her was never conclusive, and there were many suspicious circumstances to incriminate another person. This was Denis Barbier, Lafarge's clerk, who lived in the house under a false name, and whose character was decidedly bad. Lafarge was not a man above suspicion himself, and he long used this Barbier to assist him in shady financial transactions--the manufacture of forged bills of exchange, which were negotiated for advances. Barbier had conceived a strong dislike to Marie Lafarge from the first; it was he who originated the adverse reports. At the trial he frequently contradicted himself, as when he said at one time that he had volunteered the information that he had been buying arsenic for Marie, and at another, a few minutes later, that he only confessed this when pressed.

Barbier, then, was Lafarge's confederate in forgery; had these frauds been discovered he would have shared Lafarge's fate. It came out that he had been in Paris when Lafarge was there, but secretly. Why? When the illness of the iron-master proved mortal, Barbier was heard to say, "Now I shall be master here!" All through that illness he had access to the sick-room, and he could easily have added poison to the various drinks given to Lafarge. Again, when the possibilities of murder were first discussed, he was suspiciously ready to declare that it was not _he_ who gave the poison. Finally, the German jurists, already quoted, wound up their argument against him by saying, "We do not actually accuse Barbier, but had we been the public prosecutors we should rather have formulated charges against him than against Madame Lafarge."

Summing up the whole question, they were of opinion that the case was full of mystery. There were suspicions that Lafarge had been poisoned, but so vague and uncertain that no conviction was justified. The proofs against the person accused were altogether insufficient. On the other hand, there were many conjectures favourable to her. Moreover, there was the very gravest circumstantial evidence against another person. The verdict should decidedly have been "Not proven." But public opinion, hastily formed, condemned Madame Lafarge in advance, and the machinery of the French criminal law helped to create a new judicial error, through obstinate reliance on a preconceived opinion.

Marie Lafarge was sentenced to hard labour for life, after exposure in the public pillory. The latter was remitted, but she went into the Montpelier prison and remained there many years. During her seclusion she received some six thousand letters from outside, the bulk of them sympathetic and kindly. Many in prose or verse, and in several languages, were signed by persons of the highest respectability. A large number offered marriage, some the opportunities for escape and the promise of happiness in another country. She replied to almost all with her own hand. Her pen was her chief solace during her long imprisonment, and several volumes of her work were eventually published, including her memoirs and prison thoughts. At last, having suffered seriously in health, she appealed to Napoleon III., the head of the Second Empire, and obtained a full pardon in 1852.

THE STOLEN JEWELS.

The sad story of Madame Lafarge would be incomplete without some account of another mysterious charge brought against her shortly after her arrest for murder. When her mother-in-law accused her of poisoning her husband, one of her old schoolmates declared that she had stolen her jewels. This second allegation raised the public interest to fever pitch. All France, from court to cottage, all classes, high and low, were concerned in this great _cause célèbre_, in which the supposed criminal, both thief and murderess, belonged to the best society, and was a young, engaging woman. The question of her guilt or innocence was keenly discussed. Each new fact or statement was taken as clear proof of one or the other, and each side found warm advocates in the public Press.

The charge of theft, although the lesser, took precedence of that of murder, and Madame Lafarge was tried by the Correctional Tribunal of Tulle before she appeared at the assizes to answer for her life. She was prosecuted by the Vicomte de Leautaud on behalf of his wife. The accusation was clear and precise. Madame de Leautaud's diamonds had disappeared for more than a year; the Vicomte believed that Madame Lafarge, when Marie Capelle, had stolen them when on a visit to his house, the Château de Busagny, and he prayed the court to authorise a search to be made at Glandier, Madame Lafarge's residence until her recent arrest.

When arraigned and interrogated, Marie at once admitted that the diamonds were in her possession. She readily indicated the place where they would be found at Glandier, and made no difficulty as to their restitution. But she long refused positively to explain how she had come by them, declaring it to be a secret she was bound in honour to keep inviolate. At last, under the urgent entreaties of her friends, she confided the secret to her two counsel, Maître Bac and Maître Lachaud (at that time on the threshold of his great and enduring renown), and sent them to Madame Leautaud beseeching her to allow a full revelation of the facts. The letters she then wrote her school friend have been preserved. The first was brief, and merely introduced Maître Bac as a noble and conscientious person, who had her full confidence, and on whom Madame de Leautaud might rely in discussing an affair that concerned them both so closely. The second was a pathetic appeal to tell the whole truth about the diamonds, and it is not easy to say on reading it whether it was inspired by extraordinary astuteness or by genuine emotion. It ran:

MARIE,--May God never visit upon you the evil you have done me. Alas, I know you to be really good, but weak. You have told yourself that as I am likely to be convicted of an atrocious crime I may as well take the blame of one which is only infamous. I kept our secret. I left my honour in your hands, and you have not chosen to absolve me.

The time has arrived for doing me justice. Marie, for your conscience' sake, for the sake of your past, save me!... Remember the facts; you cannot deny them. From the moment I knew you I was deep in your confidence, and I heard the story of that intrigue, begun at school and continued at Busagny by letters that passed through my hands.

You soon discovered that this handsome Spaniard had neither fortune nor family. You forbade him to love, although you had first sought his love, and then you entered into another love affair with M. de Leautaud.

...The man you flouted cried for vengeance.... The situation became intolerable, but money alone could end it. I came to Busagny, and it was arranged between us that you should entrust your diamonds to me, so that I might raise money on them, with which you could pay the price he demanded.

The letter proceeds in similar terms, and need not be reproduced at length. Marie Lafarge continues to implore her old friend to save her, reminding her that only thus can she save herself. Otherwise all the facts must come out.

Remember [and here we seem to get one glimpse of the cloven foot] I have all the proofs in my hands. Your letters to him and his to you, your letters to me.... Your letter, in which you tell me that he is singing in the chorus at the opera, and is of the stamp of man to extort blackmail.... There is one thing for you to do now. Acknowledge in writing under your own hand, dated June, that you consigned the diamonds to my care with authority to sell them if I thought it advisable. This will end the affair.

As Madame de Leautaud still positively denied the truth of these statements, Marie, in self-defence, made them to the judge. She told the whole story of how the diamonds had been given her to sell, that she might remit the amount to a young man in poor circumstances and of humble condition, whose revelations might prove inconvenient. Madame de Leautaud had assisted Marie to take the jewels out of their settings, so as to facilitate their sale. If they had not as yet been sold, it was because she had found it very difficult to dispose of them, both before and after her marriage. She still had them; and they were, in fact, found at Glandier, in the place she indicated. There was never any question as to the identity of the stones, which were recognised in court by the jeweller who had supplied them, and who spoke to their value, some £300, independently of certain pearls which were missing.

The prosecution certainly made out a strong case against Marie Lafarge. The jewels, it was stated, were first missed after a discussion between the two ladies on the difference between paste and real stones. At first Madame de Leautaud made little of her loss. She was careless of her things, and thought her husband or her mother had hidden her jewels somewhere to give her a fright. But they both denied having played her any such trick, and as the jewels were undoubtedly gone, the police were informed, and many of the servants suspected. Suspicion against Madame Lafarge had always rankled in Madame de Leautaud's mind, and it was soon strengthened by her strange antics with regard to the jewels. On one occasion she defended a servant who had been suspected, promising to find him a place if he were dismissed, as she knew he was innocent. One of her servants told the de Leautauds that her mistress said laughingly she had stolen the jewels and swallowed them. Again, Madame Lafarge had submitted to be mesmerised by Madame de Montbreton, Madame de Leautaud's sister, and had fallen into an evidently simulated magnetic trance; when, being questioned about the missing jewels, she said they had been removed by a Jew, who had sold them. Other circumstances were adduced as strongly indicating Marie's guilt. It was observed in Paris, before her marriage, that she had a quantity of fine stones, loose, and she explained that they had been given her at Busagny. Once after her marriage M. Lafarge had asked her for a diamond to cut a pane of glass, and, to his surprise, she produced a number, saying she had owned them from childhood, but that they had only been handed over to her lately by an old servant.

These contradictory explanations told greatly against Madame Lafarge. She made other statements also that were at variance. When first taxed with the theft she pretended that the diamonds had been sent her by an uncle in Toulouse, whose name and address she was, however, unable to give. Next she brought up the story contained in her appealing letter to Madame de Leautaud. It was the story of the young man, Félix Clavé, son of a schoolmaster, with whom the girls had made acquaintance. Having frequently met him when attending mass, they rashly wrote him an anonymous letter, giving him a rendezvous in the garden of the Tuileries. Marie Lafarge declared that the encouragement came from Madame de Leautaud, which the latter denied, and retorted that it was Marie Lafarge who had been the object of the young man's devotion.

Then Clavé disappeared to Algeria, so Marie declared, as he had written to her from Algiers. Madame de Leautaud said this was impossible, as she had seen him on the stage of the opera. A few months later, Marie alleged, when her friend was with her at Busagny, Madame de Leautaud brought out the diamonds and implored Marie to sell them for her, as she must "absolutely" have money to buy Clavé's silence. What followed, according to Marie Lafarge, has already been told, except that Madame de Leautaud went through a number of devices to make it appear that the diamonds had been stolen from her, and that then M. de Leautaud was informed of the supposed theft. The gendarmes actually came to search the château and to investigate the robbery next day, although at that time the diamonds were safe in her possession, entrusted to her by Madame de Leautaud.

According to the prosecution, these statements were quite untrue. There had been a theft, and it was soon discovered. The chief of the Paris detective police, M. Allard, had been summoned to Busagny to investigate, and he was satisfied that the robbery had been committed by someone in the château; and, as the servants all bore unimpeachable characters, M. Allard had asked about the other inmates, and the guests. Then M. de Leautaud mentioned Marie Capelle (Lafarge), and hinted that there were several sinister rumours current concerning her, but would not make any distinct charge then. M. Allard now remembered that there had been another mysterious robbery at the house of Madame Garat, Marie Lafarge's aunt, in Paris, a couple of years before, when a 500 franc note had been stolen, and he had been called in to investigate, but without any result. What if Marie Capelle (Lafarge) had had something to do with this theft?

It must be admitted that these charges, if substantiated, made the case look black against Marie Lafarge. But one, at least, fell entirely to the ground when she was on her defence. It was clearly shown that she could not have stolen the banknote at her aunt's, Madame Garat's, for she was in Paris at the time. As regards the diamonds, her story, if she had stuck to one account only--that of the blackmail--would have been plausible, nay probable, enough. It was positively contradicted on oath by the lady most nearly concerned, Madame de Leautaud, and it was not believed by the court; and Marie Lafarge was finally convicted of having stolen the diamonds, and sentenced to two years' imprisonment. She appealed against this finding, and appeared no less than four times to seek redress, always without success. Meanwhile the graver charge of murder had been gone into and decided against her; so that the shorter sentence for theft was merged into the life sentence.

There were many who believed in Marie's entire innocence to the very last. Her own maid elected to go with her to prison, and remained by her side for a year. A young girl, cousin of the deceased M. Lafarge, was equally devoted, and also accompanied her to Montpelier gaol. Her advocate, the eminent Maître Lachaud, steadfastly denied her guilt, and years later, when the unfortunate woman died, he regularly sent flowers for her grave.

MADELEINE SMITH.

The eldest daughter of a Glasgow architect, Madeleine Smith was a girl of great beauty, bright, attractive, and much courted. But from all her suitors she singled out a certain Jersey man, Pierre Émile l'Angelier, an _employé_ in the firm of Huggins, in Glasgow--a small, insignificant creature, altogether unworthy of her in looks or position. The acquaintance ripened, and Madeleine seems to have become devotedly attached to her lover, whom she often addressed as her "own darling husband." They kept up a clandestine correspondence, and had many stolen interviews at a friend's house. In the spring of 1856 Madeleine's parents discovered the intimacy, and peremptorily insisted that it should end forthwith. But the lovers continued to meet secretly, and Madeleine threw off all restraint, and was ready to elope with her lover. The time was indeed fixed, but she suddenly changed her mind.

Then a rich Glasgow merchant, Mr. Minnock, saw Madeleine, and was greatly enamoured of her. Early in January, 1857, he offered her marriage, and she became engaged to him. It was necessary, now, to break with l'Angelier, and, mindful of the old adage to be off with the old love before she took on with the new, she wrote to him, begging him to return her letters and her portrait. L'Angelier positively refused to give them or her up. He had told many friends of his connection with Madeleine Smith, and some of them had now advised him to let her go. "No; I will never surrender the letters, nor, so long as I live, shall she marry another man." On the 9th of February he wrote her a letter, which must have been full of upbraiding, and probably of threats, but it has not been preserved. Madeleine must have been greatly terrified by it, too, for her reply was a frantic appeal for mercy, for a chivalrous silence as to their past relations which he was evidently incapable of preserving. She was in despair, entirely in the hands of this mean ruffian, who was determined not to spare her; she saw all hope of a good marriage fading away, and nothing but ignominious exposure before her.

As the result of the trial, when by-and-by she was arraigned for the murder of l'Angelier, was a verdict of "Not Proven," it is hardly right to say that she now resolved to rid herself of the man who possessed her guilty secret. But that was the case for the prosecution, the basis of the charge brought against her. She had made up her mind, as it seemed, to extreme measures. She appeared to be reconciled with l'Angelier, and had several interviews with him. What passed at these meetings of the 11th and 12th of February was never positively known, but on the 19th he was seized with a mysterious and terrible illness, being found lying on the floor of his bedroom writhing in pain, and likely to die. He did, in fact, recover, but those who knew him said he was never the same man again. He seems to have had some suspicion of Madeleine, for he told a friend that a cup of chocolate had made him sick, but said he was so much fascinated by her that he would forgive her even if she poisoned him, and that he would never willingly give her up.

Rumours of the engagement and approaching marriage now reached his ears, and called forth fresh protests and remonstrances. Madeleine replied, denying the rumours, and declaring that she loved him alone. About this time the Smith family went on a visit to Bridge of Allan, where Mr. Minnock followed them, and, at his urgent request, the day of marriage was fixed. Then they all returned to Glasgow, and missed l'Angelier, who also had followed Madeleine to Bridge of Allan. He remained at Stirling, but, on receiving a letter from her, he went on to Glasgow, being in good health at the time. This was the 22nd of February, a Sunday, on which night, about eight p.m., he reached his lodgings, had tea, and went out. As he left, he asked for a latchkey, saying he "might be late." He expressed his intention of going back to Stirling the following day.

That same night, or rather in the small hours of the morning, the landlady was roused by a violent ringing of the bell; and, going down to the front door, found l'Angelier there, half doubled up with pain. He described himself as exceedingly ill. A doctor was sent for, who put him to bed and prescribed remedies, but did not anticipate immediate danger. The patient, however, persisted in repeating that he was "worse than the doctor thought"; but he hoped if the curtains were drawn round his bed, and he were left in peace for five minutes, he would be better. These were his last words. When the doctor presently reappeared; l'Angelier was dead. He had passed away without giving a sign; without uttering one word to explain how he had spent his time during the evening.

A search was made in his pockets, but nothing of importance was found; but a letter addressed to him signed "M'eine," couched in passionate language, imploring him "to return." "Are you ill, my beloved? Adieu! with tender embraces." The handwriting of this letter was not identified, but a friend of l'Angelier's, M. de Mean, hearing of his sudden death, went at once to warn Madeleine Smith's father that l'Angelier had letters in his possession which should not be allowed to fall into strange hands. It was too late: the friends of the deceased had sealed up his effects and they refused to surrender the letters.

Later M. de Mean plainly told Madeleine Smith, whom he saw in her mother's presence, that grave suspicion began to overshadow her. It was known that l'Angelier had come up from Bridge of Allan at her request, and he implored her to say whether or not he had been in her company that night. Her answer was a decided negative, and she stated positively that she had seen nothing of him for three weeks. She went farther and asserted that she had neither seen nor wanted to see him on the Sunday evening; she had given him an appointment for Saturday, but he had not

appeared, although she had waited for him some time. This appointment had been made that she might recover her letters. All through this painful interview with de Mean, Madeleine appeared in the greatest distress. Next morning she took to flight.

Madeleine was pursued, but by her family, not by the police, and was overtaken on board a steamer bound for Rowallan. Soon after her return to Glasgow the contents of her letters to l'Angelier were made public, and a _post-mortem_ had been made. The body had been exhumed, and the suspicious appearance of the mucous membrane of the stomach, together with the history of the case, pointed to death by poison. The various organs, carefully sealed, were handed over to experts for analysis, and it may be well to state here the result of the medical examination.

Dr. Penny stated in evidence that the quantity of arsenic found in the deceased amounted to eighty-eight grains, or about half a, teaspoonful, some of it in hard, gritty, colourless, crystalline particles. It was probable that this was no more than half the whole amount the deceased had swallowed, for under the peculiar action of arsenic a quantity, quite half a teaspoonful, must have been ejected.

The chief difficulties in the case were whether anyone could have taken so much as a whole teaspoonful of arsenic unknowingly, and how this amount could have been administered. The question was keenly debated, and it was generally admitted that the poison could have been given in chocolate, cocoa, gruel, or some thick liquid, or mixed with solid food in the shape of a cake. This was not inconsistent with the conjectures formed that l'Angelier had met Madeleine Smith on the Sunday night.

The case against her became more formidable when it was ascertained that she had been in the habit of buying arsenic, but with the alleged intention of taking it herself, for her complexion. She was now arrested and sent for trial at Edinburgh, on a charge of poisoning l'Angelier. Her purchases of arsenic were proved by the chemist's books under date of the 21st of February, and again on the 6th and 18th of March, this last date being four days before the murder.

It was also proved that she wanted to buy prussic acid a few weeks before her arrest. There was nothing to show that she had obtained or possessed any arsenic at the time of l'Angelier's first illness, on the 19th of February. But it was proved in evidence that, on the night of his death, Sunday, the 22nd of March, l'Angelier had been seen in the neighbourhood of Blythswood Square, where the Smiths lived; again, that he had himself bought no arsenic in Glasgow.

Madeleine's plucky demeanour in court gained her much sympathy; she never once gave way; only when her impassioned letters were being read aloud did she really lose her composure. She stepped into the dock as though she were entering a ballroom and although she was under grave suspicion of having committed a dastardly crime, the conduct of l'Angelier had set the public strongly against him, so that a vague feeling of "served him right" was present in the large crowd assembled to witness the trial. The case for the prosecution was strong, but it failed to prove the actual administration of poison, or, indeed, that the accused had met the deceased on the Sunday night.

The judge, in summing up, pointed out the grave doubts that surrounded the case, and the verdict of the jury was "Not proven," by a majority of votes.

This result was received with much applause in court, and generally throughout Glasgow, although a dispassionate review of all the facts in this somewhat mysterious case must surely point clearly to a failure of justice. However, Madeleine triumphed, and won great favour with the crowd. The money for her defence was subscribed in Glasgow twice over, and even before she left the court she received several offers of marriage.

Since writing the foregoing I have had an interesting communication from a lady, who has told me the impressions of one who was present in court during the whole of Madeleine Smith's trial. This gentleman was an advocate, trained and practised in the law, and according to his opinion, unhesitatingly expressed, there could be no shadow of doubt but that Madeleine was l'Angelier's wife, by the law of Scotland. As he has put it, in Scotland two people who ought to be married can generally be joined together, and there was little doubt that the sanction of matrimony was needed for this connection. Both Madeleine and l'Angelier were in the habit of addressing each other as husband and wife. This explains l'Angelier's insistence on the point that "so long as he lived Madeleine should never marry another man."

The verdict of "Not proven" was brought in by the jury on the grounds that it was not established that the two had actually met on the Sunday night preceding l'Angelier's last illness. Nevertheless, it is certain that a pocket-book of l'Angelier's was offered as evidence to the judge, Lord Fullerton, who examined it, but ruled it out because it was not a consecutive diary and the entries had been made in pencil. This book was placed, after the proceedings, in the hands of the legal gentleman above mentioned, and he saw in it an unmistakable entry made by l'Angelier to the effect that he had been in Madeleine's company on the Saturday night.

Full corroboration is given by my informant of the engaging and attractive appearance of Madeleine Smith. She was so excessively pretty and bewitching that, to use his own words, no one but a hard-hearted old married man could have resisted her fascinations. He had no doubt whatever in his own mind of her guilt.

THE WHARTON-KETCHUM CASE.

General W. E. Ketchum, of the United States army, was a man somewhat past the prime of life, but still sound and strong. Mrs. Wharton was the widow of an army man, and was upwards of fifty years of age. The two were intimate friends, and the General, who had amassed a modest competence, had lent various sums to Mrs. Wharton, amounting to some $2,600 (£520). She was not well off, as it was thought, and, just before the events about to be recorded, she was unable to pay an intended visit to Europe from insufficient funds and inability to obtain her letter of credit.

On the 23rd of June, 1871, General Ketchum came from Washington to her house in Baltimore, to see the last of her, believing her about to start on her long journey, and to collect his debt of $2,600. He was in excellent health when he left home, but very soon after arriving at Baltimore he was taken very ill. He rallied for a time, but again relapsed, and on the 28th of June he died. Suspicions were aroused by his sudden decease, and certainly the symptoms of his illness, as reported, were singular and obscure. Whilst he lay there sick unto death, another gentleman residing in the same house was also suddenly prostrated with a strange and unaccountable sickness, and narrowly escaped with his life.

After General Ketchum's death his waistcoat was not to be found, nor the note for $2,600. Mrs. Wharton declared that she had repaid him what she owed him and that he had then given her back the note of hand, which was destroyed there and then. She furthermore claimed from his estate a sum of $4,000 in United States Bonds, which, as she asserted, she had entrusted to the General's safe keeping; yet there was not the slightest mention of any such transaction in his papers--a strange omission, seeing that he was a man of unquestionable integrity, and most scrupulously exact in all matters of account.

Chemical analysis of the stomach of the deceased disclosed the presence of antimonial poison--one of the constituents of tartar emetic. The same poison had been found in a tumbler of milk punch prepared by Mrs. Wharton for General Ketchum, and in a tumbler of beer offered by Mrs. Wharton to the other invalid in her house, Mr. van Ness. Mrs. Wharton had been known to buy tartar emetic during the very week when these singular illnesses occurred among the guests under her roof.

In these suspicious facts people easily found materials for believing in a crime, and a story was soon spread to the effect that Mrs. Wharton had succeeded in poisoning General Ketchum, and had tried to poison Mr. van Ness. Meanwhile she resumed her preparations for her voyage to Europe; but on the very day of departure, the 10th of July, 1871, a warrant for her arrest was issued, and she was taken into custody. In the trial which followed, a great many of the known facts were ruled out as inadmissible. It was argued, and accepted in law, that an accusation of murdering one man could not be supported by evidence of an attempt to kill another, although almost at the same time and by the same means. The charge of poisoning General Ketchum was tried as if there had been no van Ness, as if no other person had been taken ill in Mrs. Wharton's house. But by reason of the predisposition of the public mind, the case was transferred from Baltimore to Annapolis, and there tried.

The first witness was a Mrs. Chubb, who had accompanied General Ketchum to Baltimore, and who testified that he had fallen ill directly he arrived. He was seized with vomiting, giddiness, and general nausea, which lasted for three days. A doctor was then called in, who prescribed medicine, but Mrs. Wharton broke the bottle, whether by accident or intentionally it was impossible to say. Distinct evidence was first afforded of the possession of tartar emetic by Mrs. Wharton. Mrs. Chubb, who went out to get a fresh bottle of medicine for the General, was asked to buy the antimony also, which Mrs. Wharton said she wanted for herself.

The invalid's condition improved a little the next day, and arrangements were made to remove him to his own home. However, he relapsed and became worse than ever. The doctor prescribed medicine, which was to be given him at intervals, but before the time for taking the second dose, Mrs. Wharton appeared with it, or something like it, yet different, and more of it than was prescribed. This she strenuously urged the General to swallow, and succeeded in inducing him to do so. Within fifteen minutes he was racked with terrible pain. He tore with his fingers at his throat, chest, and stomach until he broke the skin, then followed fierce convulsions, at the end of which he died.

Fresh evidence was forthcoming, but not accepted, against Mrs. Wharton. At her suggestion Mrs. van Ness, who had been nursing her brother, had concocted some milk punch. This was made in two portions. One was given to Mr. van Ness, and produced symptoms very similar to those exhibited by the unfortunate General Ketchum; the other had been left in a refrigerator by the General's bedside, and when what was left had been examined by Mrs. van Ness, she declared it had been tampered with; there was a strange muddy deposit at the bottom of the tumbler, and when tasted it was metallic, leaving a curious grating sensation in the mouth. The original constituents had been no more than whisky, milk, and sugar. This testimony was ruled out of order, as belonging to an entirely different case.

The doctor who had attended the General gave evidence as to the symptoms he observed and the remedies applied. At first sight he thought him to be suffering from Asiatic cholera; but later developments were more those of apoplexy, and then again he feared paralysis. He at length had his suspicions aroused, and hinted at poison. The remains of the suspected tumbler were shown him, and his doubts became convictions. With regard to the poisonous action of tartar emetic, the doctor testified that he had noticed all its symptoms in the deceased, although there was a strong similarity between them and those of cholera. Other medical opinion was to the effect that death might have been due to cerebro-spinal meningitis, and some stress was laid upon the absence of antimonial poison in many of the internal organs, although it was contended it had been found in small quantities in the stomach. The same lethal drug had been also detected by analysis in the sediment at the bottom of the tumbler of milk punch.

The verdict of the jury was "Not guilty," but it did not satisfy public opinion, and it was generally felt that Wharton's counsel had by no means established her innocence; none of the incriminating facts had been entirely disproved, nor had the exact truth in regard to the money transactions been elicited. No doubt the accused escaped chiefly owing to the fact that chemical experts, called by her counsel, were not satisfied, beyond the possibility of all reasonable doubt, that antimony had been found in the vital organs of General Ketchum. At the time of this trial another indictment was also pending against Mrs. Wharton, charging her with an attempt to kill Mr. van Ness by administering poison. But some months later the counsel for the State entered a _nolle prosequi_, for what reasons was never generally or distinctly known.

THE STORY OF THE PERRYS.

Truth is stranger than fiction, as we have heard often enough, but in this extraordinary case we shall never know how much is fiction, how much truth. If justice failed, it was misled by a series of the strangest circumstances, some of which have remained a mystery to the present hour. The following details are taken from an account written by a magistrate resident near the scene of the occurrence, and by name Sir Thomas Overbury, the direct descendant of the unfortunate Overbury poisoned in the Tower.

The village of Campden, in Gloucestershire, some five-and-twenty minutes from the cathedral town and county seat, gave its name to the Viscountess Campden, the lady of the manor. Her steward and agent, a certain William Harrison, a man of seventy years, started from Campden on the 16th of August, 1660, to walk over to the neighbouring village of Charringworth, where he wished to collect rents due to his mistress. As he had not returned according to his wont between 8 and 9 p.m., Mrs. Harrison, his wife, despatched a servant named John Perry along the road to meet him and bring him safely home. Neither Perry nor his master returned that night. Next morning Edward Harrison, the son, proceeded to Charringworth to inquire for his father, and on his way met Perry, the servant, coming from that village. Perry told Edward Harrison that Mr. Harrison had not been heard of, and the two together visited another village, Ebrington, and there got some news. A villager stated that the elder Harrison had paid him a passing call the night before, but had made no stay.

They next went to Paxford, a mile thence, where further news met them. They heard that a poor woman had picked up, in the high road between Ebrington and Campden, a hat, a hat-band, and a comb, and seeking her out, they found her "leasing" or gleaning in a field, whereupon she delivered up the articles, and they were at once identified as Mr. Harrison's. The woman was forthwith desired to point out the spot where she had picked them up, and she showed it them on the road "near unto a great furze brake." As the hat-band was bloody and the comb all hacked and cut, it was reasonably concluded that their owner had been murdered.

Mr. Harrison's disappearance so greatly alarmed his wife that she conceived he had met with foul play at the hand of John Perry, the servant whom she had sent to convoy him home. At her instance, therefore, Perry was seized and carried before a justice, who straightway bade him explain why he had stayed absent the whole of the night he had been sent to look for his master. Perry's story was that he had not gone "a land's length" towards Charringworth when it came on so dark he was afraid to go forward, and he returned to the Harrisons' house, meaning to take out his young master's horse. But he did no more than make another false start, and then, without informing his mistress that he was still on the premises, he lay down to rest in the hen-roost, where he continued for an hour or more, "but slept not." About midnight he turned out again, and the moon having now risen he really started for Charringworth. Once more he was stopped; this time by a great mist, in which he lost his way, and finally he took refuge under a hedge, where he slept till daybreak. At last he reached Charringworth, and learning that his master had been there the previous day, followed his movements as he went from house to house receiving monies for rent. There were, however, no signs of the missing man in the village now.

Most of Perry's statements were verified by other witnesses; but the case was black against him, and he was detained by the law until something definite came out concerning Mr. Harrison. A week passed, during which Perry was lodged "sometimes in an inn in Campden, sometimes in the common prison," and all the time he was devising different stories to account for his master's disappearance. One was that a tinker had killed him; another that the servant of a neighbouring squire had robbed and murdered him; and thirdly, that he had been killed in Campden, where his body was hidden in a bean-rick, which was searched, but no body found. On further examination, being pressed to confess, he again insisted that Mr. Harrison had been murdered, "but not by him." Then the justice said if he knew of the murder he must know also the perpetrators, and this John Perry presently allowed by putting the whole blame on his own mother and brother.

He charged these near relatives with having constantly "lain at him" ever since he was in Mr. Harrison's service, urging him to help them with money, reminding him how poor they were, and how easy it was for him to relieve them; he need do no more than give them notice when his master went to receive his rents, and they could then waylay him and rob him. Perry went on to say that he met his brother Richard on the very morning that Mr. Harrison went to Charringworth, and that the brother, hearing of the rent collection, was resolved to have the money; that when he (John Perry) started by his mistress's order to bring Mr. Harrison safely home, he again met his brother Richard, who was lying in wait at a gateway leading from Campden Churchyard into the "Conygree," certain private grounds and gardens of Lady Campden's place. By-and-bye, having entered this "Conygree," which was possible only to those who had the key, he found that his master was being attacked; he was "on the ground, his brother upon him, and his mother standing by." He begged hard that they would not hurt his master, who was crying, "Ah, rogues, you will kill me!" but his brother Richard replied: "Peace, peace! you are a fool," and so strangled him, "which having done, he took a bag of money out of his (Mr. Harrison's) pocket, and threw it into his mother's lap," and then he and his mother consulted what to do with the body.

It was decided that they should drop it into the Great Sink, behind certain mills near the garden, and this they did. John Perry told all this most circumstantially, making it agree with his own movements and the various facts that had come to light, describing how he had gone into the hen-roost but could not sleep; how he had taken with him the hat, band, and comb (and cut the latter with his knife), how he had cast them down upon the highway where they were found, giving as his reason that he hoped it might be believed that his master had been robbed and murdered.

The justices, on this confession, sent to search the Sink at the mill, but without success; "the fish pools likewise in Campden were drawn and searched, but nothing could be there found," so that "some were of opinion the body might be hid in the ruins of Campden House, burnt in the late wars, and not unfit for such concealment, where was likewise search made, but all in vain." No time was lost, however, in securing the other Perrys--Joan, the mother, and Richard, both of whom were informed of the accusation brought against them, which "they denied with many imprecations." John, nevertheless, persisted that he had spoken nothing but truth. Suspicion was strengthened against Richard Perry by his being seen to drop a ball of "inkle," which he declared was his wife's "hair lace," but which John, when it was shown to him, said he knew to his sorrow, for it was the string his brother had strangled Mr. Harrison with. Other significant evidence was quoted, as that Richard's nose "fell a-bleeding" when he met his children, being on his way to be admonished by the minister in church. Again, it was remembered that a year before there had been a robbery at Mr. Harrison's, when £140 was stolen from the house at noonday; and John Perry was now asked if he knew aught of the matter. His answer was that his brother Richard was the thief, that he, John Perry, had given him notice that the money was in a room that could be reached by a ladder to the window, and that Richard had stolen it while the master was in church with his whole family "at lecture."

The three Perrys, Joan, John, and Richard, were arraigned at the next assizes on two separate counts: house-breaking and robbery (of £140), and again robbery and the murder of William Harrison. The judge would not allow the second charge to be proceeded with, as no body had been found, but they acknowledged, indeed, pleaded guilty to it, begging for the king's pardon under the recent Act of Oblivion. The charge of murder was again advanced at the next assize before another judge, and allowed; it ended in a verdict of guilty, mainly on the strength of John's confession, although by this time John had gone out of his mind. This was enough to satisfy those who administered the law; and the three, Joan, John, and Richard Perry, were all sentenced to be hanged. The execution was carried out without delay on Broadway Hill, in sight of Campden, where John was also hung in chains.

The strangest part of this affair has yet to be told. William Harrison was not dead; he had been much misused, but had not been murdered, and three years later he reappeared in the flesh. His was a marvellous tale, and its veracity was questioned at the time, but we cannot discredit it entirely.

The account he gave of himself is found in a letter he addressed to Sir Thomas Overbury, whose narrative has been followed throughout.

On the day in question, Thursday, the 16th of August, 1660, he went to Charringworth to collect Lady Campden's rents, but as harvest was in progress the tenants did not come home from the fields till late, and he was kept at Charringworth till nightfall. He received no more than £23, although he had expected a very considerable sum. With this in his pocket he took his road home, and reached at length the Ebrington Furzes, where the tract passed through a narrow passage. Here he was suddenly faced by a man mounted on horseback, and fearing to be ridden down he struck the horse over the nose, whereupon the horseman drew his sword and attacked him, Harrison making what defence he could with his cane. Then came another behind him, who caught him by the collar and dragged him towards the hedge, and after him a third. They did not rob him of his money, but two of them lifted him into the saddle behind the third, and forcing his arms around the rider's middle, fastened the wrists together "with something that had a spring lock to it as I conceived by hearing it give a snap as they put it on." After this they threw a cloak over him, and carried him away, riding some distance till they halted at a stone pit, into which they tumbled him, having now taken all his money. An hour later they bade him come out of the pit, and when he asked what they would do with him they struck him, then mounted him again in the same manner; but before riding away they filled his pockets with a great quantity of money, which incommoded him much in riding, so that by next afternoon, when they again drew rein, he was sorely bruised.

They had come now to a lone house upon a heath, where he was carried upstairs, and they stayed the night. The woman of the house was told that he was much hurt, and was being carried to a surgeon; they laid him on cushions on the floor, and gave him some broth and strong waters. Next day, Saturday, they rode on as before and they lay that night at a place where there were two or three houses, where again he slept on cushions. The next day, Sunday, they reached Deal, and halted by the seaside. One of them kept guard over the prisoner while the two others entered into conference with a man who was awaiting them. This man, whose name he afterwards heard was Renshaw, was afraid that Harrison would die before he could be got on board, but he was put into a boat and carried to a ship, where his wounds were dressed, and in a week's time "he was indifferently recovered." Now the master of the ship came one day to say that they were chased by Turkish pirates, and when all offered to fight in defence of the ship he would not suffer it, but handed them over prisoners to the Turks. They were lodged in a dark hole, and remained there in wretched plight, not knowing how long it was before they landed, nor where they were put on shore, except that it was a great house or prison. Presently they were called up and viewed by persons who came to buy them, and Harrison, having said that he had some skill in physic, was taken by an aged physician who lived near Smyrna, and who had at one time resided in England, at Crowland, in Lincolnshire. Harrison was set to keep the still-room, and was fairly well treated, except on one occasion, when his master, being displeased, felled him to the ground, and would have stabbed him with his stiletto.

After nearly two years' captivity Harrison's master fell sick and died, but before the end he liberated his captive, and bade him shift for himself. Harrison made his way to a seaport about a day's journey distant, where he met two men belonging to a Hamburg ship, and now about to sail for Portugal. He implored them to give him passage, but they replied that they did not dare, nor would they yield for all his importunity. At last a third man from the same ship consented to take him on board provided he would lie down above the keel, and remain hidden till they got to sea. They carried him safely to Lisbon, where they put him on shore, penniless and friendless, as he thought, but he happened fortunately on three Englishmen, one of whom took compassion on him, provided him with lodging and diet, and at last procured him a passage home.

Harrison's story was published in 1676, together with the original narrative of Sir Thomas Overbury, and certain critical remarks were appended. It was said that many people doubted whether Harrison had ever been out of England. Nevertheless, it was certain that he had absented himself from his home and friends for a couple of years, and unless he was carried forcibly away there is no plausible

explanation of his disappearance. It seemed on the face of it highly improbable that a man who bore a good character, who was in comfortable circumstances, the esteemed servant of an honourable family for nearly fifty years, would have run away without the least warning, and apparently for no sort of reason. He was already seventy years of age, and he left behind him a very considerable sum of Lady Campden's money. That he was seized and sequestrated can hardly be doubted, but how or by whom, except so far as he himself describes, was never satisfactorily known. It was thought that his eldest son, hoping to succeed him in the stewardship to Lady Campden, might have compassed his father's removal. This view was supported by the fact that when he did become steward he betrayed his trust. Yet again, to suppose that the elder Harrison would allow the Perrys to suffer death for a crime of which he knew they must be innocent was to accuse him of the deepest turpitude.

The conclusion generally arrived at was that the facts actually did happen very much as they were related, yet the whole story is involved in mystery. The only solution, so far as Perry is concerned, is that he was mad, as the second judge indeed declared. But we cannot account for Harrison's conduct on any similar supposition. If his own story is rejected as too wild and improbable for credence, some other explanation must be found of his disappearance. Unless he was out of the country, or at least beyond all knowledge of events at Campden, it is difficult to understand what motive would have weighed with him when he heard that three persons were to be hanged as his murderers. The only possible conclusion, therefore, is that he was carried away, and kept away by force.