THE BLOOMSBURY MURDER. NO. III.

Te Aroha News, Volume VI, Issue 346, 27 February 1889, Page 6

THE BLOOMSBURY MURDER. NO. 111.

(CONCLUDED.) It was the eve of the trial of George Clowbury for the muider of his wife. The prisoner sat alone in his cell, a prey to the gloomiest thoughts. The close confinemeno and the anxiety had told upon his health, and he had of lafce fallen into a listless, hopeless state. The gaol officials noticed the change. Wow bury 's indignant protests of innocence and his outbursts of passionate grief had altogether ceased. Mr Bartram when he went abroad had bidden his friend be of good cheer and hope for the best, but the solicitor had returned, and had been bound to admit that he had failed to throw any new light on the affair which would be advantageous to the prisoner. In fact, he had an uneasy idea that in hunting down the Italian, instead of benefiting he had rather damaged his friend's case. The authorities in London, after having the facts of the case laid before them, had refused to authorise Moroni's arrest upon such a slender basis of suspicion as Mr Bartram and the detective were able to put forward. 16 would be too absurd to put the two men in the dock as 'accomplices,' and equally absurd to charge two men with committing the same murder unknown to each other. The theory of the prosecution was that the husband was the murderer, and they were not going to weaken that theory by ordering the arrest of another man for the same crime, especially a man against whom there was not a particle of evidence that could be substantiated. Moroni was shrewd enough to suspect very soon that things tvere not going exactly as the detective wished, and then he became more reticent. When the decision of the authorities in London was received, Messrs Bartram and Grimwade were at a loss what to do. The time was growing short, and the former would have to return to London to take charge of his client's interest there, and the detective was under orde s to toturn to town also. After a long discussion Mr Bartram agreed that the best thing to do was to leave the Italian where he was, and return to towi and tr}* and get stronger evidence against him there. But this plan was entirely upset by the signor him?elf, who in some mysterious way succeeded in satisfying the claim of Mdlle. Fontenay, and inducing her to withdraw the charge against him. When the solicitor and detective left Nice they were somewhat startled to find that one of the travellers by the express was the signor himself. On the platform he came up to them and raised his hat politely. ' Gentlemen,' he feaid, 'we are fellow travellers. 1 am going to London. Ife grieves me that you have not taken me into custody for this murder, as now I must pay my fare myself, and it is an expensive journey.' This unexpected move on the part of the Italian caused George Clowbury's solicitor to feel more uneasy on hi 3 client's account. If the Italian was the guilty man, the last place he would be going to, now he knew that he had been suspected and inquiries made about him, would be London. ' And if he is innocent,' Mr Bat tram said to himself, ' I can't for the life of me sec how that poor girl could have been killed by anyone but her husband.' The detective shook his head. ' I'm not going to give the case up as a bad job yet,' he said. * What more can you do V said the solicitor. • Something which will be very useful to me in tracing Moroni's movements on the morning of the crime. I am going to find the woman who was seen in the street at half-past six that morning by the constable.' ' She has been advertised for already,and ( withou t su ccess. ' 1 Yes, but we didn't know who she was then. We do now.' On the day before the trial, Mr Bartrara had a long interview with his client. Everything had been done that could be done for the defence, but the solicitor was almost in despair. Clovybury persisted in his statement that he couldn't tell where he lost the sword-stick on the journey ; all he could say was this, ' When he gathered his rugs and things together on arriving at Paris he missed it.' One other statement ■which the prisoner made to him caused the solicitor's uneasiness to be greater than ever. He had told his client of his j suspicions of Moroni, and of all that he had done both abroad and at home to try and fix the guilt on him ; and mentioning the woman who was said to have been in the street, he asked Clowbury if he noticed such a woman when he left the house. George Clowbury at once replied that he distinctly recollected seeing a woman in the street as he came out of the door. He didn't notice her face, which was turned away from him. By her figure he should think she was young. She \va3 on the opposite side of the road, and he didn't pass her, as he walked away in the other direction to which she appeared to be going.. This piece - of information filled the solicitor with terror. If this woman whom Grimwade was endeavouring to run down were to be found and put in the witness box, she would certainly be of service to his client, for he admitted that it was he whom she saw come out, and supposing she described him as appearing agitated or anything of that sort, it would be about the last straw in the weight of evidence that would break down the back of his case It was therefore a great relief to the anxious lawyer, when meeting Mr Grimwade by appointment that evening, he learnt that, in spite of every effort made, nob the slightest clue had yet been found to the whereabouts of the missing Margherita. ' George Clowbury, you stand indicted for that on the morning of the 4th of December last you did wilfully and of malice aforethought kill and slay Elizabeth Ann Clowbury, your wife. Do you plead guilty or not guilty ?' There was a silence in the court and every eye was turned towaids the prisoner. He had aged considerably since the magisterial examination. His datk hair was now tinged with grey and his face was thin and pile. In a firm, clear voice the prisoner replied ' Not guilty P | fThere was a moment's pause, and then the counsel for the prosecution opened his case. As the people in court listened to the plain, unvarnished tale, it seemed to them that there could be no defence. The only i task that the prosecution had was to account for the murderer going to Paris on his ordinary business immediately affcer the i

deed, when he musfe have known, fcha directly the murdor was discovered fcho continental train he travelled by would bo watched by the police This difficulty the counsel explained by suggesting that ib was part of the prisoner's pre-arranged scheme to oscape suspicion. He lefb his home on the previous night, saying he was going to an hotel, and he crept back when he thought no one was likely to see him in the small hours. He accomplished the deed and left the bouse again secretly before dawn. But for his latchkey being found in the bedroom, it was the theory that George Clowbury would i have set up an alibi. Commenting strongly on the fact of the missing sword-stick, the weapon with which the wonnd was probably inflicted, the counsel wound up an able speech by acknowledging that though the evidence was circumstantial it was frequently necessary in a secret murder of this desciiption to rely upon that evidence, and he ended by assuring the jury that after they had heard theevidenco which he should bring before them he feared it would be their painful duty to say that the unfortunate woman met with hex* death at the hunda of her husband, the prisoner in the dock. The police, the doctor, the servant, and other witnesses to certain facts were then called and sworn, and their evidence all supported the theory of the prosecution. Only one new piece of important evidence was elicited on the fh*st day of the trial. ' Call Mary Fulton,' said the counsel for the prosecution. Mary Fulton was called, and a young woman who looked like a servant entered the box. The prisoner looked afc her and an expression of surprise passed uver his face. It was evident that he wondered what on earth the girl was culled to prove. The examination commenced. ' What is your name ?' ' Mary Fulton. 5 ' You are chambermaid at the Hotel, Nottingham V ' Yes, sir. ' The counsel for the prosecutiion here drew from amonj; his paper» a letter which ho handed to the witness. ' Look at that letter — do you recognise it? 1 ' Yes, sir. It is the letter which I found in Mr C'owbury's fireplace after ho had left.' 'After he had left, when ?— give us the ate.' 'It was the 3rd of December.' A juryman here interrupted and a&kod how the witness fixed the date, and was informed by the counsel that the date of Mr Clowbury's leaving would be fixed by the books of the hotel. 'At any rate,' resumed the counsel, addressing the witness, ' you tound this letter in the fireplace ot Mr Clowbury's bedroom, after he had left the last time he stayed at the hotel, and that was the 3rd of December '!' ' Ye^, sir.' ' Now, what condition was the letter in when you found it ?' 'It was torn in halt and scrurapled together — it's been stuck together like this since.' ' Exactly ; but when you found it it was torn in half and " scrumpled' together, eh?' ' Yes, sir.' ' When you found it what did you do with it ?' 'I smootned it out and out the two Diece? together and read it.' < Why ?' ' I can't say wh\, sir, but I did.' ' Feminine curiosity, eh ? Exactly. ,Well, having read the letter, what did you do with it ?' 'I showed it to one of my fellow servants.' 1 And then ' ' Then I put it away in my box as a sort of curiosity, and forgot all about it.' ' Till when ?' ' Till there was a talk about the murder. I didn't like to tell the manageress I'd read the letter, because I might be taken for a pryer, but one day my fellow servant told of it. and the manageress came to me and asked me ahout it.' ' When was that ?' ' A few days ago, sir.' ' And the manageress told you to forward the letter with a statement to the Treasury ?' ' Yes, sir.' 'And this is the letter ?' ' Yes, sir. ' I 'Listen ; you've read it, so you can tell me if this is what you read.' The counsel took the letter and read it aloud. ' Sir, — Your wife is a wicked woman. She encourages an Italian man to come into your house many times you i are away. Keep your eye? open or it will be very bad. Some day you may go home and find her gone away with the Italian man. | 'A. Friend.' ' That wa? what I read,' said the witness \ as soon as the banister had finished. Several other witnesses were called with regard to this letter, among them the fellow servant and the manageress of the hotel. The judge and the jury inspected the letter carefully, and so did the counsel for the defence, who handed itjto Mr Bartram. The latter looked at it and handed it back again ; but he drew out his notebook and commenced to write rapidly. He then tore the leaf out and gave it to his boy to take co Mr Gum wade, who was in another part of the court. The writing was that of a woman, the wording and the style of the writing pointing to the fact that it was the production of a foreign woman. That was the general idea in court when the adjournment for luncheon took piece and people were able to talk to each other. It was a very important letter, because it showed how grave was the chatge against his wife which George Clowbury had in his mind when he arrived at home and commenced the quarrel described by the servant. When the proceedings were resumed after luncheon, various witnesses were called, and then tho court adjourned, it being understood that Luigi * Moroni ' would be the first witness called in the morning, Luigi Moroni, it was understood by the spectators in court, was the Italian hinted at in the letter. He was going to explain his relations with the lady, and the prosecution w-is going to elicit from him that he had only just left tho house when the jealous husband arrived home from Nottingham. Immediately after the adjournment Mr Bartram joined Mr Grimwade. ' You got my note ?' said the former. ' Yes, and I quite agree with you. That letter was written by Margherita.' 'No doubt of it.' 'It's bad for us,' exclaimed Bartram, gloomily ; ' it tends to prove that the motive of the crime was jealousy.' ' So it was,' replied the detective ; ' but it wasn't the jealou&y of the husband — it was the jealousy of the Italian.' • You still think so ?' - ' Yes ; my only terror is that you won't be able to prove it.' About ten o'clock that evening the solicitor was sitting afc home in his study, going over his papers and trying to forget his nervous apprehension for GeorgeClowbury's fate which filled his mind. But the effort was vain, and pushing' the papers aside he lit a cigar, and leaning back '

in his arm-chair, gave himsolf up to the gloomy though fcfulness which cropfc over him, 1 He was disturbed by a knock at the door and the servant; entered. 'There's a Mr Grim wade in the hall, sir, and he says he must see you at once.' Mr O-rhmvade had nob stood on ceremony, but had followed on the servant's heels. He stepped into the room at once. ' Come along at once,' he said, excitedly. ' There isn't a moment to lose.' ' What's happened ?' ' The police worecommunicated with this afternoon. We've found Margherita. ' The solicitor and the detective enterod a hansom which was waiting at the door. i Mr Grimwadc gave some directions to tho man, who whipped his horse and drove off at a rapid pace. A drive of about five minutes brought them to tho door of a large building, and the two men alighted. The detective paid the man and dismissed him. Then he knocked at the door, and a man in pauper uniform oponed it. ' Why, this is a workhou&e,' exclaimed Mr Bartram. i 'Yes. I'm not going to tell you anything, j You shall learn all lor yourself.' \ Crossing the yard the two men were conducted to the master's hou?e, which stood , away from the main building. Tho master was expecting them, and they were admitted at once. In front of a comfortable fire in a laigc, handsomely furnished dining-room, sat the workhouse master and his wife, tho matron. 'This is Mr Barbram, Clowbnry's solicitor, 5 said Grimwade. 'Mr Bartram, this is Mr , ohe master of the workhouse, and Mrs , his wife, the matron. Now, if you please, madam, you can tell my fiiend the whole story.' The lady — a portly, good-looking woman I of about fifty, with a nice motherly look about her — bowed to Mr Bartram, and commenced her narrative. ' On tho ovoning of the 4th of December a young woman was brought to the workhouse by the police. A policeman passing by the canal which runs close to this house heard cries for help just as it was gobbing dark. Running down on to tho towpath, he saw a woman struggling in the water. He succeeded in getting her out, and as she said she had fallen in accidentally he did n't think it i\as right to charge her with trying bo commit suicide, and as she seemed vqiy ill he thought it best to bring her here. She stated that she was a governess out ot a situation, and liable to fits, and thah she must have been in a fit when she fell into the c\nal. The poor girl was vory ill, and had injured horsell, probably in falling on the towpath, for she had a cut across her face, and had evidently been bleeding very much. 1 saw her and had her wet thing 3 taken ofT and a bed prepared for her in the infirmary at once. ' The nsxfc day she was very feverish and ill, and I asked her where her friends wore. She stated that she was a foreigner and had no friends in London. She had been turned out of her lodgings and her boxes kept for rent, and having had nothing to eat for some time, that had made her weak, and she thought that was how the fib came on. She begged me to let her stay in the workhouse until she was better, and I consented. ' The poor girl was undoubtedly very ill and grew worse. The immersion in the cold water of the canal had had seiious results, and the doctor told me that without the greatest care he was afraid she would get worse instead of better: 1 1 was voi.y sorry for the poor" thing, for she seemed very ladylike and evidently had undergone some great trouble. She was very reticent as to her past life, but when she was well enough she liked me to come and sit beside her and talk to her. ' About a fortnight ago she grew rapidly worse, and it vva? evident fclmt sliowns elovly dying. Twice when she was very bad at night she sent the nurse for me, &aying that she wanted to tell me something, but when I got to her beside she apologised for disturbing me ancl said 'Nob now, not now; presently, presently.' Yesterday, after visiting her, the doctor told me that she could not la?t many days, that she was really dying horn exhaustion and the end might come at any time. As it was evident the poor girl had something on her mind, I thought it my duty to tell her plainly that all hope was o"\er, and to tiy and induce her to prepare for death. • Yes, madam,' she said, ' yon aro my good fiiend. You tell me the truth. I know that I am dying, that I am a wicked sinner and must &oon answer for my sins. Ah, madam, you do not know how wicked I have been ; if you did you would not sib by my bedside and smile ab me and be kind to me as you are. You would shrink from me as from a devil. ' ' Hush, hush, Bay dear,' I said, ' ib is nob I who have bo judge you for your ?ins. He who judges will also forgive if we tiuly repent.' 'Ah, madam, I do repent. I would give the world to have not this sin upon my soul. Look at me, madam ; you think 1 am a poor unhappy girl. Ah, lam a devil, a wicked devil.' ' She sat up in the bed, and gripping my arm with her wasted burning band fehe poured her confession into my ears. I was startled — terrified, bub 1 li&tencd to the and ' She told me that her real name was Margheriba Pasquati, that she was a Cicilian by birth, and was brought up bo sing on the stage and at concerts. After a chequered career &he came over to England through an Italian, to whom she paid a sum of money to procure her an engagement at one of the operas. The man took her money, and eventually induced her to live with him as his wife. She sang well and earned good money, which he spent. After an illness her voice left her, and then the man's conduct changed and he. neglected her, and ab last left her, saying that ib injured his prospects to be thought a married man. 'She bore with it for a time, bub she loved the man, and finding that he was paying attention to an English married lady, she watched him. She found out that he was trying to induce the lady to leave her husband and go abroad with him. Then sho went bo the man and threatened him, and wrote an anonymous letber bo the husband. ' The Italian came to her because she bhreabened him, and they had a quarrel, and she swore he should never go away with the Englishwoman. He told her it was all over, that he was nob going with the lady, but she still watched. One night she found he had packed all his things and was to leave by the train for abroad next morning with the English lady. She_ sent him a letter saying she would kill him if he did. He came to see her after he had read that letter and &aid she was a fool, and tried to make her ■believe ib was nob true. Bub she knew it was, so in the morning she went early to watch the English lady's house. She knew her husband was away, and she thought the lady> would come out, and by following her she would find out what sbation she went to to meeb the Italian. Then she would go there and stab him with her dagger rather than let him go away , with, the Englishwoman wh» had taken her ! place. ' While she was- watching, a man came j out. It was'dark,- but she thought it was

her lover. Before sho could recover herself he had gone up the &tieet. ' Ah/ she said, ' l\e has stayed in the house this night. He has gone to the station ; the Englishwoman is to join him there. Then she walked back past the lady's door, and she noticed it was ajar. Tho man in comingout had pulled it to, but the latch had not. caught, and it had swung back a little. ' ' Then,' said the unhappy woman, ' the devil put a drcaful thought into my head. There was nobody about. I pushed the door softly open, stole in on tiptoe, and crept upstairs, clutching my dagger. I knew where the lady was, for many a night had I seen the light burning in tho room when I had watched to see if my i lover came there. I pushed tho door open softly. i ' ' The Englishwoman lay on the bed. She was very beautiful, her eyes were closed. She must just have fallen asleep atter her lover left hei. Her beauty maddened me. ' You shall never bo hifc. You shall not take him from mo !' I hissed in hci eai-,.' 1 ' The woman started up and opened her eyes. Sho would have cried out, but 1 plunged mv dagger into her heart, and sho fell back. ' ' Then a great terror camo over me. They do not nndei stand revengo in your country as they do in tho land I come from, and I knew it was murder 1 had done, and for murder they hang people, I crept down the s tails to the door. I opened it softly and looked out. The street was empty. I closed the door behind me, and it was not yet lijrht, only the beginning of dawn. I felt I was .sale, and so I walked rapidly away, never stopping till I found myself in the gteaC green uark. Then I sat down on a float and avUier tainted or fell aslcop, I know not which. When I came to myself it was broad daylight, and I arose and walked on. But everywhere 1 could see that Englishwoman's oyc looking into mine, and 1 could hear her crying ' Murder !' 1 ' I was afraid lest my look of tenor should betray me, and I walked on and on ; I don't know wheic I walked, but it was always in the pai k, away from the stieets and the people. When tho darkness came on I telt mere tcm'ied still. 1 daicd not go back to the house where 1 had been lodging ; 1 was in debt theie and had no money to pay, and they had fcold me they would turn mo out, and they would ht t,h>. first to notice how strange I looked. They would think that I div not come back hoc.ui<-o they told me not to. Wheie could i '-leep — wheic could I go to, as I \v.i», w ithout betia\ing mysolf'' I had still my daggei with me. It Wdb bloody, and my diess was stained with her blood — -a little — bpla&heof blood.' ' I was so terrified 1 dicw out my dagger to kill myself— then 1 was at raid to do it. I was. by the canal — I looked at iho Mater. That was an easier death, and quicker. If I missed my heart I might be found ali\c and hanged aftci all. I did not think. I jumped into the water. Then i felt that [ was going bcfoic Cod without i open ting, with blood on my hands. I c ci earned for help, I didn't want to die. You know the rest. I was rescued, and told the story that got me brought where 1 was safe — where nobody wovdd staic at mo. The dagger sank in the watei and the blood you saw on me you thought was wheie I had bled from Uiat cut on my face. Now you know me. lam a muideress. I ' Tho matron stopped in her narrative. Theie was a knock at the door. It was the head nurse. ' Oh, ma'am, bhe's gone — that Italian girl. I was sitting watching hoi when all at once she "started up and gave a scieam. ' Don't look at me,' the said, { don't look at me, woman !' Then she waved her hands as though to keep .some dreadful thing oiF, and fell back dead !' The no\l morning ulics com i, assembled hn proceed with the trial of (Jcoigo Clowbuiy tor the murder ot hit, wife, but it did not last long. Theie was a tremendous sensation in store foi the audience. The dying deposition of the Italian girl, Margheiitd, taken by a magistrate who had Lecn sent for in hot ? havto by the matron as soon as sho had heard the unhappy girl's confession was put in. And Moroni, knowing now that thy girl was dead, made a clean bicas6 of hi^ ->\iaic in tho transaction. He had suspected Maighcrita horn the nist, and loi the-.e reasons. She had told him he should nc\cr go away with the Englishwoman, and had threatened that some dreadful thing would happen if he did. On the night previous to the murdci ho received a threatening letter from her saying that she knew he was going away with the Englishwoman in the morning, and warning him not to. In the morning, when the servant thowed him the letter which had been covered up by the newspaper all night, he found it was from Mrs Clowbury, refusing to go away with him. His first impulse was to rush off with this to his former mistress and show it to her, as he fully believed she might do him an injury. When he got to the place at which sho lived he found that she was not at home. The servant then supposed she must ha-yo got up and gone out very early in the morning. Moroni guessed Margherita's destination at once. Sho had gone to watch the Englishwoman's house- He walked in that direction himself, and as he reached tho top ot the street ho saw her coming huniedly away. There was a look in her face w Inch terrified him. He avoided her and returned home, and went away by the ten o'clock train to the Continent. He heard of the murder the nexl day, and then that the husband had beon arrested. He was not sure that it was Margherita, and it would have been cowardly of him to say anything to incriminate her. That was the business of the police, not his. He was anxious to keep out of the alFah altogether. Now Margherita was dead it did not matter, and he could tell all he knew. George Clow bury, triumphantly acquitted, received tho congratulations ot his friends, and much public sympathy. But tho shock of his wife's murder and the terrible suspense through which he had passed, had shattered his health. He was recommended to go far away from everything that could remind him of the past, and his employers, interesting themselves in his case, obtained for him a good appointment in Australia. There, amid new scenes and new associations, he is gradually recovering his health and strength, and is beginning to look back upon the time when he was tried for his life on a charge of killing hiawife, asa nightmare that has vanished with the dawn of day. Next Week :