The Mystery of St. Dunstan's. A realistic and sensational story of Fleet Street in 1724

Preface

. The scenes of the following story are laid round about the old church of St. Dunstan's in Fleet Street, whose clock with moving figures of savages was one of the sights of bygone London. The story is in the main a perfectly true one, being founded on the " Account of a remarkable Trial for Murder" which long ago greatly astonished our ancestors, and which is recorded, among other places, in " The New London Magazine " for 1785. In order to adhere as closely as possible to the truth, moreover, I have, wherever convenient, given the actual words of prisoner, witnesses, and judge, but the exigencies of my story have compelled me to take liberties with dates. The second portion of the narrative is very largely indebted to the deeply interesting and touching seventeenth-century tract, " The Preface.

VI Poysoning of Sir Euseby Andrew," reprinted by Taylor and Son of the Dryden Press, North ampton. Among the characters, though he does not appear very prominently, is the distinguished novelist, Daniel Defoe. Having for many months been engaged upon an exhaustive biography of Defoe, and finding myself under tbe necessity of dealing with London at the beginning of the eighteenth century, I could not very well exclude him. It only remains to be said that the famous clock so often alluded to in this story is still to be seen at St. Dunstan's, a villa in Regent's Park ; that it is in excellent order ; and that the original savages strike the original bells much as they did in the reign of Queen Anne. Ask any one in St. John's Wood or thereabouts, and he will tell you that St. Dunstan's clock is still the best time-keeper in London. Thomas Wright. Cowper School, Olney. August 1st, 1892. CONTENTS. Ipart *.

— Weitten by Caleb in 1725.

Chapter I

at Trent's coffee-house in bolt court. My master, Mr. Nathaniel Dodson, and I were sitting on Saturday evening, the 29 th of May last year (1724), in Trent's Coffee-house, at the corner of Bolt Court, where we had met by ap pointment. I had been at Leytonstone all day and the previous night on business, and Mr. Dodson was anxious to know how I had got on. But we often resorted to Trent's, and for two reasons : first in order to get a sight of the news-sheets, and secondly to escape Mrs. Dodson's tongue. ' There is no hurry," said Mr. Dodson, " we B VOL. I. rarely have a customer between five and sis, and Thomas" — the other journeyman — "is in the shop." He then asked me how I had sped at Leyton stone, and on my telling him that I had brought the business to a successful issue, he thanked me for being so attentive to his interests.

Mr. Dodson was a shopkeeper of the good old-fashioned sort. From the day, thirty years previously, when he had finished his apprentice ship, right up to the present moment, he had gone on in the same steady, sober, diligent, thoughtful way ; and, in the hope that I should follow in his footsteps, he often gave himself the trouble of tendering advice. On the evening in question he was more free with his counsel than usual. "Be ruled by me, Tuffley," he said. "Do not marry until you are able to pay the charges," — meaning, of course, the expenses that inevi tably attend the state of wedlock. " Even when you have started in business for yourself, and things look promising, even then be not in a hurry. There is a chance that the wife thou shalt marry may be an extravagant liver, a squanderer. And even if it is not so, and she be a frugal, housewifely woman, and nothiug can be laid to her charge but tbe mere necessary addition of a family expense, yet, at the best, if she bring not a greater sum than a young be ginner usually can expect, thou wilt cripple thy fortune, stock-starve thy business, and bring great expense upon thyself before thou canst lay up a stock to support the charge."

Then turning away from me, " After you with tbe journal, sir," he said to an old fellow in a velvet coat, who had got his nose — a large one — and his spectacles with their circular eye pieces, very close to Mist's, which he was hold ing up with two hands. " Certainly," growled the old fellow, without taking his eyes off the sheet. " No, Mr. Tuffley," Mr. Dodson went on, " to marry early was not my way, I waited till by B diligence and frugality, joined to a small expense in housekeeping, I had increased both my stock in-trade and the trade itself, when, with tbe knowledge of my own importance to back me, I made a bid for a wife with a portion, in other words, sir, I married the first Mrs. Dodson. My poor wife succumbing, six years after, as, Mr. Tuffley, all must succumb, sooner or later, to the inevitable, I began to cast about — after a decent interval, of course — for a second wife, and I need hardly say that with the second Mrs. Dodson I insisted on a much larger fortune than with the first."

" And you recommend me to follow your example ? " " You might do worse, Mr. Tuffley," said he, and he cast another glance at the old fellow with the nose and spectacles. " But," said I, " it is not given to every man to lose his first wife." " Very true, and to the unobservant it would seem, at first sight, that Providence is more indulgent to some than to others, but . . . " At this moment the old gentleman who was keeping the journal so long, exclaimed suddenly, " Bless my heart alive ! Dear me ! How shocking ! " " What's the matter, sir ? " inquired Mr. Dodson, who was on thorns to get hold of the sheet. " Dear me ! " ejaculated the old gentleman again. " Anything serious, sir ? " " Listen," he said, and he proceeded to read aloud the following : — " A crime was committed early this morning, and in the very heart, too, of this great city, of so shocking a nature as to be almost unparalleled in the annals of diabolism.

To find anything at all like it of recent years we must look away from this country to the continent ; and the only deed even abroad that we remember at all akin to it was the barbarity practised by Cartouche on a defenceless old man in Vannes, a town of Brittany, some ten years ago. But in the case of the old man in Vannes there was a clear motive, which was robbery, moreover the name of the murdered and likewise that of the murderer were known withiu an hour or two after the committal of the crime, whilst in respect to the dastardly deed just perpetrated in our midst no motive whatever can be assigned, and the name of neither the murdered nor the murderer has been discovered. The surround ings, indeed, are all shrouded in mystery. The facts of the case, as at present known, are as follows : — "About half-past two this morning an unknown dog rushed into the Watch House in Brick Lane, and, notwithstanding the many endeavours used by the watchmen to force him from them, would not leave pulling them by the clothes, insomuch that the constable — being somewhat surprised at the dog's obstinacy — ordered some of the watchmen to follow its direction, which they did, and it led them to the shoemaker's shop just under the clock of St. Dunstan's-in-the-West.

Tbe door was open, and the watchmen entered, when what should meet their eyes but the dead body of a young and very beautiful lady. Her stomacher and left sleeve were saturated with blood, which flowed from a stiletto wound just above the heart ; and as if the death of the unfortunate victim had not sufficiently satisfied the murderer, there were at least a dozen other wounds done with the same instrument, in various parts of the body, apparently administered after death. That robbery had not been the origin of the action is patent, for on the lady's wrist was an exquisitely chased gold bangle of Persian work manship, and in the gypsire that was attached to her waist was a gold etui, filled with the cus tomary ' bright inhabitants ' so indispensable to the industrious fair. " Immediately on reaching the shop, the dog rushed to the poor lady and licked her hand, but a few minutes later it gave a loud howl and fell dead.

It had been poisoned. " The shop is that of a shoemaker named Silas Pound. There are no upper storeys to any of the shops in front of St. Dunstan's, and Pound slept that night as usual at his lodgings at the sign of the ' Three Keys ' in Long Acre. As may be supposed, the man was terribly shocked when he learnt what had taken place in his shop during the night. " Spite of abundant inquiry, everything con nected with the occurrence remains a mystery, but it must be remembered that the time that has elapsed since the committal of the crime is at present exceedingly short. The constabulary are putting forth every effort, and it is not at all improbable that the perpetrator or perpetrators of this dastardly deed may yet be found out and brought to justice. Meantime, we cannot forbear noting the remarkable case of the dog.

It is to be hoped that those gentlemen who hold all the motions of brutes to be as necessary as those of a clock, will give themselves time to consider whether this creature was actuated by nothing more than the bare power of mechanism." While the old gentleman was reading this account, there came such a feeling over me as I cannot possibly describe, and when he got to the description of the young lady with the Persian bangle and the gold etui, I felt so ill that my head dropped senseless on the table, and I heard the remainder of the story only in a sort of dream. In the middle of the whirl that my brain was in, I heard Mr. Dodson exclaim, " Why, Caleb, what's the matter ? " His attention having been so riveted on what the old gentleman was read ing, he had not noticed me at first. Then I felt some cold water on my forehead, and it seemed as if some one was supporting my head.

" Bless me, Caleb ! " said my master, when I had come to. " What's the cause of it all ? Were you so affected by this news in the journal ? An account of a murder is harrowing enough, but it doesn't often cause men to go off like that. Why, even a woman would hardly do it. There must be something else ? " I begged him to ask no questions. The old gentleman with the spectacles said feelingly that he hoped the lady murdered was no relation of mine. What I replied to him I do not know, and in order to avoid further questioning I bounded from the house. Striding along through the street, 1 speedily came to my master's shop, and a minute later I had gained my chamber in the attic, and had thrown myself upon my bed. " Oh, Myra, Myra," I groaned, " that it should come to this. Oh, that she whom I so devoutly loved should have come to such a terrible end.

Oh, my love, my love, my bride, my wife ! bow can I live without thee ? Oh, thy cruel fate ! Horrible ! horrible ! horrible ! " But it is impossible to convey in words the extent of my terrible grief. In order that my case may be understood I will tell the remarkable story of my life, or rather of the previous six weeks. Before those six weeks my life was an uneventful one ; during those six weeks it was a perfect blaze — a paradise of enjoyment ; since the termination of that period — since the fatal night, or rather morning, when Myra met with her end it has been a hell. The origin of that all too short period of bliss was as follows : — On Monday evening, the 16th of April, soon after we had shut up shop, I took a stroll down by the river, when, just as I was passing White hall Stairs, I heard a cry for help, and running to the waterside, I saw a young lady struggling in the stream.

Without a moment's hesitation I jumped in and saved her, for, thanks to my fond ness for bathing in our river in the country when a boy, I could swim like a fish. On bringing her to the bank, where a little crowd got round us, I discovered that she was a young lady of most lovely countenance, and her dress, which was rich, but not showy, showed her to belong to some good family. When she had revived, I asked her whether I could have the honour of taking her anywhere, or what further I could do for her. And she replied, " Bid one run for my coach. It is waiting at the end of Villiers Street. Thank God I am saved. She said she would kill me some day, and she was within a little of keeping her word." I asked who had tried to kill her. But before an answer could come the coach had driven up, some one in the crowd having hastened to fetch it ; and the coachman — a tall, fine-looking fellow — horror-stricken at the news of what had occurred, leaped from his seat and helped his mistress inside.

" Thank you, a thousand times," said the lady, turning to me. " But for your courage and presence of mind I should certainly have been drowned. I can never sufficiently repay you. To offer you a reward at all, however, would, I can see, only be to offer an affront. But I should like, if you will allow me to do so, to increase my obligations to you. Will you do me tbe favour to call to-morrow evening at my house in Rope maker's Alley, Moorfields, next door to Mr. Hudson's ?" I assured the lady that in saving her life I considered I had been doing nothing more than my duty, but that if I could be of any further service to her, it would give me the greatest pleasure, and I promised to do as she had said, and call on her. The coachman gave his horses the whip, they plunged forward ; and the first scene in that eventful six weeks was a thing of the past.

I returned home all of a daze. The beauty and graciousness of the young lady, the extra ordinary accompanying circumstances, the pros pect of becoming further acquainted with her, lent a glamour to the event of such potency that I could not for a moment drive it from my mind — that rendered it indeed far and away the most memorable occurrence I had ever experienced. Who was the young lady ? who was the person that had endeavoured to destroy her ? A woman, doubtless, or she would not have been alluded to as " she." Why was the crime attempted ? For what has the young lady invited me to her house ? Which house, I wonder, does she live in? Ropemaker's Alley is a good part of the town, and there are at least six very large houses in it. Next to Mr. Hudson's, she said. Then probably it's the one on the left that belongs to Hudson.

I'll be bound it is. There was an advertisement in tbe Courant of last week regard ing it. I well remember reading it now. Per haps Trent still has the paper. I'll call and ask. Trent did have the paper, and I was able to refer again to the advertisement, which ran : — " In Ropemaker's Alley, in Little Moor Fields, is a very sweet and large house to be let. The drawing-room and parlour well wainscoted to the top. A good wash-house, and chamber over it, in case of sickness or other occasions. With a very large garden walled in and well planted, the walks well gravelled ; the house stands alone by itself, in the midst of pleasant gardens. In quire of Mr. Hudson, next door, in the said alley." " Yes, no doubt that is it. Probably she has only just come to town. If so, where did she come from ?

Why did she come ? How long does she intend to stay ? " And so I inquired of my self. I got very little sleep that night for thinking about her, and of all the days in my life, the very longest was the day that followed. It did, however, pass away, and precisely at the time appointed I presented myself at the house in Ropemaker's Alley, which was most certainly the one advertised, for the paper with "This house to let" had not yet been taken from the gate. I was received by the young lady with every possible kindness. She apologized for the confusion the place was in, saying that she bad only been in the house four days, and sbe did not expect to get straight for at least another week, though indeed she had not much furniture, and did not intend to get much. Then she asked me my name, and after I had told her and she had again thanked me for having saved her life, she said, " You will remember that I mentioned that it was possible for you to do me a great favour ?

" Her person was so lovely, and she spoke so sweetly that, ridiculous as I knew it to be, I fell madly in love with her. And ridiculous in the highest degree I knew it to be, for I was only an ordinary journeyman — of respectable parent age truly — but an ordinary journeyman still, while she was a young lady of wealth, and possibly even of rank. But love was ever mad, and had she been a princess I should still have loved her. I did not believe then, however, that the time would ever come when I should dare to declare my love. " Yes, madam," I said with fervour, " and if I can do anything to assist you, it will, as I said before, give me unbounded pleasure." " Then listen to my story," she said. " You have a fine open face, and I feel I can trust you. My name is Myra Fransham, and I formerly lived at Norwich, where my father was a large manu facturer.

I am twenty-two, and I have a fortune in my own right. My father was entirely ruled by my step-mother ; my own dear mother, I may remark, died when I was very young; and, in obedience to my step-mother's wishes, my father urged me to marry a kinsman of hers, a certain Mr. Assbittern. My reasons for refusing I need not now enter into. It is enough for me to say that I loathed the very sight of him. Because of my refusal I suffered the cruellest persecution, and at length my life at Norwich became so in tolerable that I fled to my uncle, Sir Euseby Andrew's, at Charwelton in Northamptonshire. But I had hardly been there a month before there came tidings of the marriage of my sister, Sophia, VOL. I. C to Mr. Assbittern. Frustrated in his attempt to obtain me, he had sought, and with success, the hand of my sister, who by-the-bye is rather like me both in build and in features.

What makes it the more remarkable is that I know she dis liked him as much as I did. Following close on the marriage of my sister, occurred the death of my father. I attended his funeral, but at once returned to Charwelton. Less than six months after my father's death his widow married again, this time a person named Moyle. When their married life had lasted about a year Mr. Moyle was taken ill of a fever caught in France, and he died last January. All this while I had remained at Sir Euseby's, but a fortnight ago Sir Euseby's lady invited Mrs. Moyle to Charwelton. As soon as I heard what was to happen, I told my uncle that I could not stay with him any longer, and, shortly after, I departed for London, in which I arrived five days ago. I took this place because it has a coach-house and stables adjoining, aud 1 hired furniture and a coach.

This is, of course, only a temporary arrangement, but it will do for the present. Yesterday, having need to cross the river, I drove in my coach to Villiers Street, and after telling the coachman to wait for me, I pro ceeded on foot to Whitehall Stairs, where I took a boat, but I had not got many yards from the bank before the boat overturned, or partly over turned, and I was thrown into the water, whilst the scoundrelly waterman, deaf to my cries for help, promptly righted the boat, and rowed off up the river as fast as his oars could take him. What followed, you know. By whose instigation the fellow attempted to destroy me, it is impossible to say. At first, I wondered whether Mrs. Moyle was connected with the affair ; for in the old days she had often threatened to be the death of me. But it could not have been so, for it is eighteen months since I saw her.

She would never have borne malice all that time. Who my enemy is I do not know, nor can I conceive why I should have an enemy. What C I want you to do for me is nothing more than to show yourself here sometimes, and so be a kind of protection to me. I mean for a little while — for a few weeks. I am so dreadfully nervous on account of what has taken place that I do not know what to do, and I am acquainted with no one else in London. It is a strange request, I know; but I feel that you understand my position, and, if you have no objection, the strangeness of the request need not make any difference. I may never need your help, but the very fact of your sometimes calling will make me feel safer." I assured her that it would give me the greatest possible pleasure to do as she proposed, and that I would call every two or three days.

To make my story as short as possible, I did call upon her every two or three days ; her kindness to me increased with every visit, my passion for her increased also ; and at length, only a month after I Lad saved her life, I had the amazing boldness to ask her hand in marriage; and, to my delirious joy, she did not say me nay. On the contrary, she avowed her deep seated love for me, told me she had loved me from the beginning, and that she herself, and all she had, should be mine. We fixed on Friday, May 28th, for our wedding-day, but agreed to keep the matter secret till the following Monday, when we intended to have some festivities, to which Mr. and Mrs. Dodson, and other of my acquaintances were to be invited. Accordingly, on May 28th, we were married by licence at Esquire Aske's chapel at Hoxton ; but a few hours after our marriage business affairs, as I mentioned before, called me to Leytonstone, where I was obliged to stay all night and most of the following day — the day on which occurred the shocking tragedy of which I had the first intelligence in Trent's Coffee-house.

Thus, with in two days I was a husband and a widower — and a widower by one of the most dastardly crimes that have ever been chronicled. Is it to be wondered at that I almost went beside myself with grief?

Chapter II

, the susncious disappearance of the coachman. I must now speak further of the events of that fearful evening on which I heard of the crime. About half-pp.st six, when the most terrible out bursts of my grief had passed away, I bathed my sorehead, pulled myself together as well as possible, and set out for St. Dunstan's. In front of the door of the shoemaker's shop stood a crowd of people. Some of them were attracted by the big wooden savages that were just going to strike, but most were drawn by curiosity to see the place that had all daylong been the talk of the town — the place where the crime had been committed. St. Dunstan's in the West, it is hardly necessary to say, is far and away the most famous church in London, not excepting even the Abbey and St. Paul's. Whether deservedly so is another question altogether ; but ask any countryman who has visited town what he has seen, and whether he hails from Cheshire, or Norfolk, Yorkshire or " Zummersetshire," the chances are ten to one that he will reply, " Oh, I've seed the savages, in course," or the equivalent to that in his particular dialect.

For fifty years, indeed, these two life-size figures of savages or Saracens — the offspring of the mind of old Tom Harry's, the horologer, had stood in their alcove over the south aisle of the church ; for fifty years when ever the clock that hung over the street indicated the quarters these punctual pagans had smitten the bells that hung between them with their knotted clubs ; for fifty years they had been one of the chiefest sights of London ; but never, I suppose, had the crowd below them gazed on the church and its appurtenances with such intense interest as at the present moment. Everyone expressed the tenderest pity for the young life so ruthlessly sacrificed, everyone expressed hopes that the murderer would be discovered and brought to justice, and many were the specula tions as to the motive for the crime.

In front of the shop in which the body lay, stood two watchmen armed with halberts, but on my mentioning who I was, and my connec tion with the deceased, they allowed me to go in. Words would fail to describe my feelings when I found myself in front of my beautiful dead Myra. It was an agonizing time such as few have experienced. She had been placed on a low truckle bed, but had not otherwise been touched. She had on the clothes she was murdered in, only some kindly hand had covered with a piece of linen the portions of the dress that were bloodstained. Her eyes were closed, her dishevelled hair hung over the pillow, and her hands were crossed. She was already much changed, having evidently, poor thing, died slowly and in great agony. But I had never seen death before, and she may not have changed much more tban has been the case with others who have met their end violently.

Her ineffable beauty, however, was still there, the sweetly moulded mouth, the beautiful smooth forehead, the soft cheek whose roses I had so often pressed to my lips, tbe delicately chiselled ears. A woman was standing in the room, and, seeing my emotion, she said some kind words, guessing that I was very nearly connected with the deceased, and in very sympathy her own eyes filled with tears. I kissed my lovely dead, I gazed long and fixedly at her, and I could not drag myself away until it got quite dark. Then I bade my be loved a heart-broken farewell, and returned, through the noisy street, home to my comfort less couch. God knows bow I spent the week that followed. On the afternoon of the next day, which was Sunday, a lady called on me. She was above the middle height, with dark hair and decent looks, and had a pleasing manner, but I judged from her mode of speech that she was rather hollow hearted.

She was dressed in widow's weeds. To my surprise and no small shock, she said she was Mrs. Moyle, and had come to condole with me on account of the sad event that bad just happened. In explanation of her knowing about me, I may mention that my connection with the deceased was by this time buzzed all over the town. Probably it got abroad through the coachman, for he often saw us together, and was not entirely innocent of eavesdropping. " You have heard of me, no doubt," said Mrs. Moyle, " from the lips of your late poor wife, and no doubt too she told you how greatly some time since we were at enmity." " She did," I remarked. " That is the very reason," said Mrs. Moyle, " why I have come here. I assure you that this affair has been a terrible blow to me. I cannot think of my unkindness to her in the past with out remorse ; I only wish I had made the quar rel up.

For at least twelve months I have felt no animosity against her whatever ; time after time I have been on the point of writing to her, or calling on her, to make it all up, but, for one reason or another, kept delaying. Whether it is good taste on my part to come here, or whether it is ill taste, I do not know, but I trust you will regard my coming in the proper light. I am more deeply grieved at what has taken place than I can possibly convey. I sympathize with you from the bottom of my heart, and I sincerely trust that the perpetrator of the dread ful deed will be brought to justice." The inquest was held on the following Tuesday. Being first called, I laid bare all the principal facts relating to my intimacy with Myra, from the day when I first met her to the day I last saw her ; and the romance of my story caused such a sensation as I suppose was never witnessed in a coroner's court before.