HISTORIC TRAGEDIES OF LONDON LIFE.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 7267, 30 November 1901, Page 1

HISTORIC TRAGEDIES OF LONDON LIFE.

(By W. W. HUTCHIXGS.) No. VII. , THE MURDER OF LORD WILLIAM_RUSS£LL. [All Eights Reserved.] On the morning of Wednesday, the 6th of May, 1840, all London was horrified to learn That during the night the venerable Lord William Russell, a scion of the ducal house of Bedford, and one of the bestknown figures in Society, had been murdered in his bed. It was only by -the tedious process of exhaustion that ihe police could iorm any theory as to the identity of the murderer, and when at last they succeeded in finding a clue to the mystery they were indebted for it not to any suggestion from outsiders, but entirely to their own keen observation and patient research. How by slow degrees they contrived to piece together their case against the culprit will presently appear. First, however, a word about the victim of this unhallowed deed and his mode of life. The "nobls deceased," as one writer politely if unelegantl^ t&ims ihiin, was tbe posthumous child of Francis, Marquis of Tavistock, eldest son of the fourth Duke of Bed-ford, his mother being Lady Elizabeth, Keppel, daughter of the second Earl j of Albemarle ; and he was uncle to Lord John (afterwards Earl) .Russell, who at this time was Colonial Secretary. Lord William had married Lady Charlotte Villiers, eldest daughter of the fourth Esrl of Jersey, who had 'borne him seven children. ' His wife, however, died^in 1806, and at the time of his death, therefore, at the age of j seventy-two, -he had for thirty years been ! a widower. Lord William Russell lived in a modest house in .Norfolk Street, Park Lane, his establishment consisting of his* Swiss valet, Francois Benjamin Courvoisier, who was a young man of twenty-three, a housemaid, and a cook, besides a coachman and a groom, who, however, did not sleep in the house. On Tuesday, the sth of May, in accordance with his custom, he left home about noon to go to Brooks's Club, and directed Courvoisier to send his carriage to bring him home at five o'clock. Courvoisier had only been in his service about five weeks, and by his remissness had more than once j during that time laid himself open to rebuke. On this occasion he forgot to send the carriage, and 'his master returned at half-past five in a cafe and naturally show- j ed some displeasure, without, however, losing his temper: He dined alone at seven o'clock, and about two hours later repaired to his library. . • During this evening there was no one in the house but Lord "William himself, Courvoisier, the cook and- the housemaid. The cook 'had occasion to go out, and when she. returned she was admitted by Courvoisier, who then locked and chained the street door. Between nine and ten .he-went-out to (fetch the : Supper ne'er, liut'lie'j left and returned by way of the area, and when he came 'back the kitchen door and gate were secured- by the cook. At halfpast ten the women went to bed, leaving Courvoisier to wait up to attend upon his master when the latter should choose to retire for the night. i Next morning, when between six and seven o'clock the housemaid went ! downstairs, knocking at Courvoisier's door as she pawed, in order to wake him, she was dismayed to find the rooms all topsy-turvy Drawers and boxes had been, ransacked and ■elt open, the furniture was all in disorder, a bundle of small articles, such as a gold opara-glass and a pair of spectacles, was lying on tlj& floor, and the street door had bsen unfastened, and was only on the latch .Nearly frightened. out of her wits, the woman ran upstairs, and told Courvoisier what had happened. To her surprise, for iie generally took half an hour to dress, she found him already dressed. He ran downstairs with her, and on seeing the state of things there, exclaimed, "Oh, God, somebody has been robbing us!" The; cook, who had joined them, now suggested that they ought to see if their master was safe, and they all made their way to his bedroom. They knocked, but there was no response : all was silent as the grave. At last they opened the door and went in. Courvoisier threw open the shutters, and :;s the light of a brilliant May morning streamed into the room the housemaid, who had advanced to ihe bedside, was terrified to see that the pillow was saturated with blowd, and that her master's head had, almost been severed from his body. His face was covered by a towel, and when this was removed his features were seen to be perfectly placid, while the body was in an attitude of natural repose. It was clear therefore that he had been taken completely unawares, and in all probability while asleep, and the assassin would seem to have done his work so quickly and so effectively that the poor gentleman was instantly killed, without perhaps even for an instant recovering consciousness. It is not to be supposed, however, that these or any other reflections occurred to the minds of the horrified women. No sooner bad they seen the dreadful sight than they ran screaming downstairs and out of the house, and akrmed the whole neighbourhood. When the police and others came they found Courvoificr leaning over his master's bed in a state of extreme, though, not unnatural, excitement. At first he jva-s too agitated to give any answer whatever to questions that were addressed to him, but in ;< few minutes he regained his self-control sufficiently to suggest that word should be sent to a son of the murdered man living in Belgrave Square. Then going d'ownstaini, he led tli£- housemaid into his pantry in the basement, showed her ' some marks on the doos, and said, " It was here they entered." As soon, however, as the police had finished their first examination of the premises they came to the conclusion that the house had not baen forced, that the signs of a frustrated robbery were only intended to mislead, and that tho crime was the work of some inmate or inmates of the house. They could find no indication whatever that anyone had entered either from back oe from front. Tho marks on the pantry door must-, they considered, have been made from within, and were just such marks as might have been made by a poker and a chisel belonging to the house which they found in the pantry. They, therefore, though not arresting Courvoisier and the women, held themselves justified in treating them all as suspected persons and confining them to the house. Although the confusion into which the lower part of the house had been thrown was only a blind, it was none- the less manifest that robbery was the motive, or nt any rate one of the motives, of the crime. It was the handiwork of some one who had no wish to carry oft" a parcel of booty, but who yet was anxious to possess himself of money and of valuables that could easily be secreted, for the ivory boxes in the murdered man's bedroom in which he kept his gold, and to which even his valet was never allowed access, had been forced and searched, only, however, to be found empty. His jewel box and note-case, too, had been opened, and some trinkets and a £10 note

taken. His gold watch also had disappeared, and with it a purse containing gold. So far there was nothing but the barest suspicion against Couryoisier. But on the Friday a sharp-eyed policeman thought the skirting-board of the pantry looked as though it had been tampered with,, and on its being removed five of Lord William's gold^ings were brought to light, together with five gold coins and his Waterloo medal. Here also was found the missing £10 note, a discovery which went to demonstrate that the police were right in their theory that the murder had not been committed by an intruder from without. Further search was rewarded by the unearthing of a split gold ring on which the unfortunate noblemaiv kept his keys. The next day (Saturday) Courvoisier was searched, «nd in one of his pockets wa& found a locket which was strongly suspected to be one that Lord William had missed while on a visit to Hampton a few days before. Courvoisier, however, stoutly claimed it as his own, and in the absence of. proof, it was returned to him. The day afterwards this same locket was found concealed in a Ihole under the ib^arfhstone of the pantry, the room occupied by Courvoisier since his detention. Upon this plain proof of his anxiety to get rid of 'what might prove to be an incriminating possession, he was taken into custody and removed to the police station. A yet more thorough search of the house was now prosecuted, and under the lead of the sink the officers cams upon Lord William's watch, which at night he had been wont to keep at the head of the bed. These, however, were alt the material circumstances that could be got together against Courvoisier, and strong as was the presumption of his guilt, it must ba allowed that thev, fell considerably short of proof. When, therefore, on Thursday, the Bth of June, a little more than a manth from the murder, he was brought to trial at the Old Bailey, before Lord Chief Justice Tindal and Baron Parke, the issue hung in t&e balance. The prisoner 'himself was full of confidence. Abie advocates had been provided for him by subscriptions raised among the foreign servants of London, and so assured was he of acquittal ithat. he waived his rights as an alien and elected to be tried before a jury made up wholly of Englishmen. But while the trial, was in progress a fuTt'her fact of pregcato significance was brought to light; In their examination of tihe 'house the police had found that some articles of plate were missing, and though no trace of them was to be found, on tie premises, they still held to their theory that no one had entered the house ttafc night, and were satisfied' that the plate must | have been removed some short time befc-re the murder. 7 The accuracy of their judgment was now proved by independent and ' unsolicited testimony. In the 'evening of ! the first -day's trial the attorney for the j prosecution was informed . that the missing plate was in the possession of Madame i Piolaine, a French lady, who with her hus- | bsnd kept, the Hotel, de Dieppe, off Leicester Square ; and the next day she voluntarily came forward as a witness. She explained that some four years bsfore this time the prisoner was in her service for a -few weeks- as a waiter. A few days prior to the murder be called ait the hotel and begged her to. take charge of a- sealed l>w>\vn \ paper parcel, which he said h© would' eall for on the following Tuesday. She consented, and put the parcel in the cupboard. He failed to call, and she saw no mo-re of him, and there the parcel lay unheeded. She had heard of the murder, but did not I dream that is was her old -servant who was in custody for the crime, because she had never known his surname, amd lie had now changed Iris Christian name, for at the hotel he had passed by the name of Jean. She therefore would never have suspectdd that the parcel left by him had any connection with this case but for something which, she read in a French newspaper. What the »statemen<t in the paper was the rules of/evidence, of course, prevented her from stating, but it was probably a description of the articles which the police were straining every nerve to recover. Whatever it was, it had the effect of awakening her suspicions, so having consulted some friends, among them an. English solicitor, she opened the parcel and found it to contain silver forks and spoons, a pair of gold auricles for assisting the hearing, andother | articles — the ' very things the police had vainly been endeavouring to trace. The parcel also contained a pair of stockings ; an-d these were now proved by a washerwoman to be the property of Courvoisier. Not a moment's reflection is necessary • to see the damaging effect of/tliis new evidence. Up till now, although the banknote and the rings and other objects had been found in the prisoner's pantry, it was conceivable that they had been secreted there by some other person employed in the house, one of the women sarvants, it might be, or the- couchm-aoi, or the groom. But Madame Piclaine's evidence proved that even before the murder Courvoisier had begun to filch bis master's property, and no reasonable doubt was left that he> ibad robbed Ms master before death, so it was he who, after the murder, possessed himself of these things and concealed them in his pantry. Although the- man's proceedings throughout sho-w him to ihave been of a low order of intelligence, he had sense enough to see that his position was very materially affected by Madame Piolaine's evidence. By ths morning of the second day of the trial, an appreciable change had come over his hearing ; by tie next and last d«.y he had sunk into a condition of abject despair. It appears, indeed, that when on the night of the first clay's trial the statement of Madame Piolaine was communicated to him, he at o-ncs avowed his guilt to his attorney. As a result his counsel found themselves face to faca with a very embarrassing question, of professional ethics. Was it ilheir duty to abandon their ciiemt to his fate now that he had thrown up the sponge, or to continue- to do their best to save him from the penalty which they knew he richly merited? Like true Englishmen they chose a compromise. The outrageous line of defence which they Lad been instructed to follow, and by which it was suggested that the cook and the housemaid h-ad entered into a conspiracy with the police to bring Courvrisier to the s-iffolrl, was virtually abandoned, and his counsel did little more* than seek 'to perMmde the jury that while the case was certainly one of suspicion, there was no actual proof against the prisoner at the bar. The jury, however, were satisfied of his> jrnilt. and found against him, and the Lord Chief Justice sentenced him to death, plainly warning him that he must mine no hope that the Jaw would not be allowed to take its course. As soon as Cmu.voisier had been removed to his coll in Newgate he confessed to the Governor that his sentence was a just one. At first his chief anxiety was to anticipate his doom, and he sought to destroy himself by cramming a towel down his throat, an attempt which was frustrated W one of the- warders. The nexc day he made a formal confession, in which he represented himself us having been betrayed into the crime- by his master's threat on the fatal Tuesday night, after the women servants had gone to bed, to discharge him the next morning, because he had found him in the dining-room, where at theifc time he had no business to be. Afterwards, however, Courvoisier corrected several of the statements in his firsr confession, and probably it was not till lie made- Lis final confession, two days befoiv his ?xe-

cution, thait he succeeded, after desperate struggles, in telling the truth. '

In this last confession thv miserable man admitted that !he was spurred ion w> Hha dastardly crime by cupidity. It was on the Monday night, he said, that lie waa first strongly tempted to shed his master's blood, but conscience barred his "way, and after standing irresolute for ten minutes* he thought better of it and went to bed. The next night the temptation returned, and without making any stand against it,, he armed 1 himself with a knife, and went! up to his master's room. " When," he pro* ceeds — and this part of bis story has all the look of truth — "when I opened the door I heard him asleep, and stopped for at while, thinking of what I was about to do; but. the evil disposition of my healt did not allow me to repent. I came near to the bed on the side of the window. There I heard a. cry of any canscieuca telling me ' Thou axe doing wrong ' ; but I •hardened 1 myself against this voice, and threw myself on, my victim, and murdered him with the knife which I held in my; right hand." I omit the i details of Ibis deed of Wood, for it 'is not the intentions of these narratives to pander to a mot-* bid state ; enough, to say, as some naiti^ gation of the horror of the deed, that Courvoisier was no. doubt speaking tie truth when in his first confession he saad thatl on being attacked his master " never spoke a ward" ; he " just moved 'his arm a little,, that was all.* , The greater part of tiba condemned man'a last day on earth was fittingly spent in praver. .At eight o'clock 'he Went to bed;' at twelve he awoke and asked to be called ab four. Getting up > at tlha* •toonr, \h& wrote letters in 'Ma own French tongue to various relatives until tihe chaplain came and 1 administered ghostly consolation. Atl half-past six foe neceived the Sacrament^ and at eight ihe was conducted ito the scaf* fold, outside Newgate. Had Courvoisier heeak a .vain man, whidH he does not seem to 'have "been, he would have found a good deal of gratification in the sensation created by his trial and execu-' tion. During the trial at the Old Bailey) the Court had been packed with great people. Royalty was represented by the Duka of Sussex, uncle of Queen Victoria. Even the dock was filled with chairs for aristocratic spectators. Now, when at two minutes after the clock had struck the hour of eight he emerged from the debtors' door of Newgate and climbed the scaffold, ho found! ihimself in the face of fully twenty thousand persons, who as soon as the bell of St Sepulchre's had! begun to toll, had reverently bared their heads. There were a few yells when 'he appeared, but the great majority of the crowd' had the de« cency to remain silent. The wretched culprit was pale as death, but he had himself! under control, and though he was no doubt tasting all the bitterness of death, he walked with unfaltering step amdi took Shin appointed station. Twice or thrice ha waved his pinioned hands, and when the noose was adjusted! he raised! them to his .breast, as though to enforce by gesture ftba supplications of his spirit. Then the drop fell, amd society was avenged for the wrong done to it in the person of one whose grey] hairs and 1 amiable nature had not availed him from the assassin's knife.